[{"text":"by Al Haines.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPersuasion\n\n\nby\n\nJane Austen\n\n(1818)\n\n\n\n\nChapter 1\n\n\nSir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who,\nfor his own amusement, never took up any book but the Baronetage; there\nhe found occupation for an idle hour, and consolation in a distressed\none; there his faculties were roused into admiration and respect, by\ncontemplating the limited remnant of the earliest patents; there any\nunwelcome sensations, arising from domestic affairs changed naturally\ninto pity and contempt as he turned over the almost endless creations\nof the last century; and there, if every other leaf were powerless, he\ncould read his own history with an interest which never failed.  This\nwas the page at which the favourite volume always opened:\n\n           \"ELLIOT OF KELLYNCH HALL.\n\n\"Walter Elliot, born March 1, 1760, married, July 15, 1784, Elizabeth,\ndaughter of James Stevenson, Esq. of South Park, in the county of\nGloucester, by which lady (who died 1800) he has issue Elizabeth, born\nJune 1, 1785; Anne, born August 9, 1787; a still-born son, November 5,\n1789; Mary, born November 20, 1791.\"\n\nPrecisely such had the paragraph originally stood from the printer's\nhands; but Sir Walter had improved it by adding, for the information of\nhimself and his family, these words, after the date of Mary's birth--\n\"Married, December 16, 1810, Charles, son and heir of Charles Musgrove,\nEsq. of Uppercross, in the county of Somerset,\" and by inserting most\naccurately the day of the month on which he had lost his wife.\n\nThen followed the history and rise of the ancient and respectable\nfamily, in the usual terms; how it had been first settled in Cheshire;\nhow mentioned in Dugdale, serving the office of high sheriff,\nrepresenting a borough in three successive parliaments, exertions of\nloyalty, and dignity of baronet, in the first year of Charles II, with\nall the Marys and Elizabeths they had married; forming altogether two\nhandsome duodecimo pages, and concluding with the arms and\nmotto:--\"Principal seat, Kellynch Hall, in the county of Somerset,\" and\nSir Walter's handwriting again in this finale:--\n\n\"Heir presumptive, William Walter Elliot, Esq., great grandson of the\nsecond Sir Walter.\"\n\nVanity was the beginning and the end of Sir Walter Elliot's character;\nvanity of person and of situation.  He had been remarkably handsome in\nhis youth; and, at fifty-four, was still a very fine man.  Few women\ncould think more of their personal appearance than he did, nor could\nthe valet of any new made lord be more delighted with the place he held\nin society.  He considered the blessing of beauty as inferior only to\nthe blessing of a baronetcy; and the Sir Walter Elliot, who united\nthese gifts, was the constant object of his warmest respect and\ndevotion.\n\nHis good looks and his rank had one fair claim on his attachment; since\nto them he must have owed a wife of very superior character to any\nthing deserved by his own.  Lady Elliot had been an excellent woman,\nsensible and amiable; whose judgement and conduct, if they might be\npardoned the youthful infatuation which made her Lady Elliot, had never\nrequired indulgence afterwards.--She had humoured, or softened, or\nconcealed his failings, and promoted his real respectability for\nseventeen years; and though not the very happiest being in the world\nherself, had found enough in her duties, her friends, and her children,\nto attach her to life, and make it no matter of indifference to her\nwhen she was called on to quit them.--Three girls, the two eldest\nsixteen and fourteen, was an awful legacy for a mother to bequeath, an\nawful charge rather, to confide to the authority and guidance of a\nconceited, silly father.  She had, however, one very intimate friend, a\nsensible, deserving woman, who had been brought, by strong attachment\nto herself, to settle close by her, in the village of Kellynch; and on\nher kindness and advice, Lady Elliot mainly relied for the best help\nand maintenance of the good principles and instruction which she had\nbeen anxiously giving her daughters.\n\nThis friend, and Sir Walter, did not marry, whatever might have been\nanticipated on that head by their acquaintance.  Thirteen years had\npassed away since Lady Elliot's death, and they were still near\nneighbours and intimate friends, and one remained a widower, the other\na widow.\n\nThat Lady Russell, of steady age and character, and extremely well\nprovided for, should have no thought of a second marriage, needs no\napology to the public, which is rather apt to be unreasonably\ndiscontented when a woman does marry again, than when she does not; but\nSir Walter's continuing in singleness requires explanation.  Be it\nknown then, that Sir Walter, like a good father, (having met with one\nor two private disappointments in very unreasonable applications),\nprided himself on remaining single for his dear daughters' sake.  For\none daughter, his eldest, he would really have given up any thing,\nwhich he had not been very much tempted to do.  Elizabeth had\nsucceeded, at sixteen, to all that was possible, of her mother's rights\nand consequence; and being very handsome, and very like himself, her\ninfluence had always been great, and they had gone on together most\nhappily.  His two other children were of very inferior value.  Mary had\nacquired a little artificial importance, by becoming Mrs Charles\nMusgrove; but Anne, with an elegance of mind and sweetness of\ncharacter, which must have placed her high with any people of real\nunderstanding, was nobody with either father or sister; her word had no\nweight, her convenience was always to give way--she was only Anne.\n\nTo Lady Russell, indeed, she was a most dear and highly valued\ngod-daughter, favourite, and friend.  Lady Russell loved them all; but\nit was only in Anne that she could fancy the mother to revive again.\n\nA few years before, Anne Elliot had been a very pretty girl, but her\nbloom had vanished early; and as even in its height, her father had\nfound little to admire in her, (so totally different were her delicate\nfeatures and mild dark eyes from his own), there could be nothing in\nthem, now that she was faded and thin, to excite his esteem. He had\nnever indulged much hope, he had now none, of ever reading her name in\nany other page of his favourite work.  All equality of alliance must\nrest with Elizabeth, for Mary had merely connected herself with an old\ncountry family of respectability and large fortune, and had therefore\ngiven all the honour and received none: Elizabeth would, one day or\nother, marry suitably.\n\nIt sometimes happens that a woman is handsomer at twenty-nine than she\nwas ten years before; and, generally speaking, if there has been\nneither ill health nor anxiety, it is a time of life at which scarcely\nany charm is lost.  It was so with Elizabeth, still the same handsome\nMiss Elliot that she had begun to be thirteen years ago, and Sir Walter\nmight be excused, therefore, in forgetting her age, or, at least, be\ndeemed only half a fool, for thinking himself and Elizabeth as blooming\nas ever, amidst the wreck of the good looks of everybody else; for he\ncould plainly see how old all the rest of his family and acquaintance\nwere growing.  Anne haggard, Mary coarse, every face in the\nneighbourhood worsting, and the rapid increase of the crow's foot about\nLady Russell's temples had long been a distress to him.\n\nElizabeth did not quite equal her father in personal contentment.\nThirteen years had seen her mistress of Kellynch Hall, presiding and\ndirecting with a self-possession and decision which could never have\ngiven the idea of her being younger than she was.  For thirteen years\nhad she been doing the honours, and laying down the domestic law at\nhome, and leading the way to the chaise and four, and walking\nimmediately after Lady Russell out of all the drawing-rooms and\ndining-rooms in the country.  Thirteen winters' revolving frosts had\nseen her opening every ball of credit which a scanty neighbourhood\nafforded, and thirteen springs shewn their blossoms, as she travelled\nup to London with her father, for a few weeks' annual enjoyment of the\ngreat world.  She had the remembrance of all this, she had the\nconsciousness of being nine-and-twenty to give her some regrets and\nsome apprehensions; she was fully satisfied of being still quite as\nhandsome as ever, but she felt her approach to the years of danger, and\nwould have rejoiced to be certain of being properly solicited by\nbaronet-blood within the next twelvemonth or two.  Then might she again\ntake up the book of books with as much enjoyment as in her early youth,\nbut now she liked it not.  Always to be presented with the date of her\nown birth and see no marriage follow but that of a youngest sister,\nmade the book an evil; and more than once, when her father had left it\nopen on the table near her, had she closed it, with averted eyes, and\npushed it away.\n\nShe had had a disappointment, moreover, which that book, and especially\nthe history of her own family, must ever present the remembrance of.\nThe heir presumptive, the very William Walter Elliot, Esq., whose\nrights had been so generously supported by her father, had disappointed\nher.\n\nShe had, while a very young girl, as soon as she had known him to be,\nin the event of her having no brother, the future baronet, meant to\nmarry him, and her father had always meant that she should.  He had not\nbeen known to them as a boy; but soon after Lady Elliot's death, Sir\nWalter had sought the acquaintance, and though his overtures had not\nbeen met with any warmth, he had persevered in seeking it, making\nallowance for the modest drawing-back of youth; and, in one of their\nspring excursions to London, when Elizabeth was in her first bloom, Mr\nElliot had been forced into the introduction.\n\nHe was at that time a very young man, just engaged in the study of the\nlaw; and Elizabeth found him extremely agreeable, and every plan in his\nfavour was confirmed.  He was invited to Kellynch Hall; he was talked\nof and expected all the rest of the year; but he never came.  The\nfollowing spring he was seen again in town, found equally agreeable,\nagain encouraged, invited, and expected, and again he did not come; and\nthe next tidings were that he was married.  Instead of pushing his\nfortune in the line marked out for the heir of the house of Elliot, he\nhad purchased independence by uniting himself to a rich woman of\ninferior birth.\n\nSir Walter has resented it.  As the head of the house, he felt that he\nought to have been consulted, especially after taking the young man so\npublicly by the hand; \"For they must have been seen together,\" he\nobserved, \"once at Tattersall's, and twice in the lobby of the House of\nCommons.\"  His disapprobation was expressed, but apparently very little\nregarded.  Mr Elliot had attempted no apology, and shewn himself as\nunsolicitous of being longer noticed by the family, as Sir Walter\nconsidered him unworthy of it:  all acquaintance between them had\nceased.\n\nThis very awkward history of Mr Elliot was still, after an interval of\nseveral years, felt with anger by Elizabeth, who had liked the man for\nhimself, and still more for being her father's heir, and whose strong\nfamily pride could see only in him a proper match for Sir Walter\nElliot's eldest daughter.  There was not a baronet from A to Z whom her\nfeelings could have so willingly acknowledged as an equal.  Yet so\nmiserably had he conducted himself, that though she was at this present\ntime (the summer of 1814) wearing black ribbons for his wife, she could\nnot admit him to be worth thinking of again.  The disgrace of his first\nmarriage might, perhaps, as there was no reason to suppose it\nperpetuated by offspring, have been got over, had he not done worse;\nbut he had, as by the accustomary intervention of kind friends, they\nhad been informed, spoken most disrespectfully of them all, most\nslightingly and contemptuously of the very blood he belonged to, and\nthe honours which were hereafter to be his own.  This could not be\npardoned.\n\nSuch were Elizabeth Elliot's sentiments and sensations; such the cares\nto alloy, the agitations to vary, the sameness and the elegance, the\nprosperity and the nothingness of her scene of life; such the feelings\nto give interest to a long, uneventful residence in one country circle,\nto fill the vacancies which there were no habits of utility abroad, no\ntalents or accomplishments for home, to occupy.\n\nBut now, another occupation and solicitude of mind was beginning to be\nadded to these.  Her father was growing distressed for money.  She\nknew, that when he now took up the Baronetage, it was to drive the\nheavy bills of his tradespeople, and the unwelcome hints of Mr\nShepherd, his agent, from his thoughts.  The Kellynch property was\ngood, but not equal to Sir Walter's apprehension of the state required\nin its possessor.  While Lady Elliot lived, there had been method,\nmoderation, and economy, which had just kept him within his income; but\nwith her had died all such right-mindedness, and from that period he\nhad been constantly exceeding it.  It had not been possible for him to\nspend less; he had done nothing but what Sir Walter Elliot was\nimperiously called on to do; but blameless as he was, he was not only\ngrowing dreadfully in debt, but was hearing of it so often, that it\nbecame vain to attempt concealing it longer, even partially, from his\ndaughter.  He had given her some hints of it the last spring in town;\nhe had gone so far even as to say, \"Can we retrench?  Does it occur to\nyou that there is any one article in which we can retrench?\" and\nElizabeth, to do her justice, had, in the first ardour of female alarm,\nset seriously to think what could be done, and had finally proposed\nthese two branches of economy, to cut off some unnecessary charities,\nand to refrain from new furnishing the drawing-room; to which\nexpedients she afterwards added the happy thought of their taking no\npresent down to Anne, as had been the usual yearly custom.  But these\nmeasures, however good in themselves, were insufficient for the real\nextent of the evil, the whole of which Sir Walter found himself obliged\nto confess to her soon afterwards.  Elizabeth had nothing to propose of\ndeeper efficacy.  She felt herself ill-used and unfortunate, as did her\nfather; and they were neither of them able to devise any means of\nlessening their expenses without compromising their dignity, or\nrelinquishing their comforts in a way not to be borne.\n\nThere was only a small part of his estate that Sir Walter could dispose\nof; but had every acre been alienable, it would have made no\ndifference.  He had condescended to mortgage as far as he had the\npower, but he would never condescend to sell.  No; he would never\ndisgrace his name so far.  The Kellynch estate should be transmitted\nwhole and entire, as he had received it.\n\nTheir two confidential friends, Mr Shepherd, who lived in the\nneighbouring market town, and Lady Russell, were called to advise them;\nand both father and daughter seemed to expect that something should be\nstruck out by one or the other to remove their embarrassments and\nreduce their expenditure, without involving the loss of any indulgence\nof taste or pride.\n\n\n\nChapter 2\n\n\nMr Shepherd, a civil, cautious lawyer, who, whatever might be his hold\nor his views on Sir Walter, would rather have the disagreeable prompted\nby anybody else, excused himself from offering the slightest hint, and\nonly begged leave to recommend an implicit reference to the excellent\njudgement of Lady Russell, from whose known good sense he fully\nexpected to have just such resolute measures advised as he meant to see\nfinally adopted.\n\nLady Russell was most anxiously zealous on the subject, and gave it\nmuch serious consideration.  She was a woman rather of sound than of\nquick abilities, whose difficulties in coming to any decision in this\ninstance were great, from the opposition of two leading principles.\nShe was of strict integrity herself, with a delicate sense of honour;\nbut she was as desirous of saving Sir Walter's feelings, as solicitous\nfor the credit of the family, as aristocratic in her ideas of what was\ndue to them, as anybody of sense and honesty could well be.  She was a\nbenevolent, charitable, good woman, and capable of strong attachments,\nmost correct in her conduct, strict in her notions of decorum, and with\nmanners that were held a standard of good-breeding.  She had a\ncultivated mind, and was, generally speaking, rational and consistent;\nbut she had prejudices on the side of ancestry; she had a value for\nrank and consequence, which blinded her a little to the faults of those\nwho possessed them.  Herself the widow of only a knight, she gave the\ndignity of a baronet all its due; and Sir Walter, independent of his\nclaims as an old acquaintance, an attentive neighbour, an obliging\nlandlord, the husband of her very dear friend, the father of Anne and\nher sisters, was, as being Sir Walter, in her apprehension, entitled to\na great deal of compassion and consideration under his present\ndifficulties.\n\nThey must retrench; that did not admit of a doubt.  But she was very\nanxious to have it done with the least possible pain to him and\nElizabeth. She drew up plans of economy, she made exact calculations,\nand she did what nobody else thought of doing:  she consulted Anne, who\nnever seemed considered by the others as having any interest in the\nquestion. She consulted, and in a degree was influenced by her in\nmarking out the scheme of retrenchment which was at last submitted to\nSir Walter. Every emendation of Anne's had been on the side of honesty\nagainst importance.  She wanted more vigorous measures, a more complete\nreformation, a quicker release from debt, a much higher tone of\nindifference for everything but justice and equity.\n\n\"If we can persuade your father to all this,\" said Lady Russell,\nlooking over her paper, \"much may be done.  If he will adopt these\nregulations, in seven years he will be clear; and I hope we may be able\nto convince him and Elizabeth, that Kellynch Hall has a respectability\nin itself which cannot be affected by these reductions; and that the\ntrue dignity of Sir Walter Elliot will be very far from lessened in the\neyes of sensible people, by acting like a man of principle.  What will\nhe be doing, in fact, but what very many of our first families have\ndone, or ought to do?  There will be nothing singular in his case; and\nit is singularity which often makes the worst part of our suffering, as\nit always does of our conduct.  I have great hope of prevailing.  We\nmust be serious and decided; for after all, the person who has\ncontracted debts must pay them; and though a great deal is due to the\nfeelings of the gentleman, and the head of a house, like your father,\nthere is still more due to the character of an honest man.\"\n\nThis was the principle on which Anne wanted her father to be\nproceeding, his friends to be urging him.  She considered it as an act\nof indispensable duty to clear away the claims of creditors with all\nthe expedition which the most comprehensive retrenchments could secure,\nand saw no dignity in anything short of it.  She wanted it to be\nprescribed, and felt as a duty.  She rated Lady Russell's influence\nhighly; and as to the severe degree of self-denial which her own\nconscience prompted, she believed there might be little more difficulty\nin persuading them to a complete, than to half a reformation.  Her\nknowledge of her father and Elizabeth inclined her to think that the\nsacrifice of one pair of horses would be hardly less painful than of\nboth, and so on, through the whole list of Lady Russell's too gentle\nreductions.\n\nHow Anne's more rigid requisitions might have been taken is of little\nconsequence.  Lady Russell's had no success at all: could not be put up\nwith, were not to be borne. \"What! every comfort of life knocked off!\nJourneys, London, servants, horses, table--contractions and\nrestrictions every where!  To live no longer with the decencies even of\na private gentleman!  No, he would sooner quit Kellynch Hall at once,\nthan remain in it on such disgraceful terms.\"\n\n\"Quit Kellynch Hall.\"  The hint was immediately taken up by Mr\nShepherd, whose interest was involved in the reality of Sir Walter's\nretrenching, and who was perfectly persuaded that nothing would be done\nwithout a change of abode.  \"Since the idea had been started in the\nvery quarter which ought to dictate, he had no scruple,\" he said, \"in\nconfessing his judgement to be entirely on that side.  It did not\nappear to him that Sir Walter could materially alter his style of\nliving in a house which had such a character of hospitality and ancient\ndignity to support.  In any other place Sir Walter might judge for\nhimself; and would be looked up to, as regulating the modes of life in\nwhatever way he might choose to model his household.\"\n\nSir Walter would quit Kellynch Hall; and after a very few days more of\ndoubt and indecision, the great question of whither he should go was\nsettled, and the first outline of this important change made out.\n\nThere had been three alternatives, London, Bath, or another house in\nthe country.  All Anne's wishes had been for the latter.  A small house\nin their own neighbourhood, where they might still have Lady Russell's\nsociety, still be near Mary, and still have the pleasure of sometimes\nseeing the lawns and groves of Kellynch, was the object of her\nambition.  But the usual fate of Anne attended her, in having something\nvery opposite from her inclination fixed on.  She disliked Bath, and\ndid not think it agreed with her; and Bath was to be her home.\n\nSir Walter had at first thought more of London; but Mr Shepherd felt\nthat he could not be trusted in London, and had been skilful enough to\ndissuade him from it, and make Bath preferred.  It was a much safer\nplace for a gentleman in his predicament:  he might there be important\nat comparatively little expense.  Two material advantages of Bath over\nLondon had of course been given all their weight:  its more convenient\ndistance from Kellynch, only fifty miles, and Lady Russell's spending\nsome part of every winter there; and to the very great satisfaction of\nLady Russell, whose first views on the projected change had been for\nBath, Sir Walter and Elizabeth were induced to believe that they should\nlose neither consequence nor enjoyment by settling there.\n\nLady Russell felt obliged to oppose her dear Anne's known wishes.  It\nwould be too much to expect Sir Walter to descend into a small house in\nhis own neighbourhood.  Anne herself would have found the\nmortifications of it more than she foresaw, and to Sir Walter's\nfeelings they must have been dreadful.  And with regard to Anne's\ndislike of Bath, she considered it as a prejudice and mistake arising,\nfirst, from the circumstance of her having been three years at school\nthere, after her mother's death; and secondly, from her happening to be\nnot in perfectly good spirits the only winter which she had afterwards\nspent there with herself.\n\nLady Russell was fond of Bath, in short, and disposed to think it must\nsuit them all; and as to her young friend's health, by passing all the\nwarm months with her at Kellynch Lodge, every danger would be avoided;\nand it was in fact, a change which must do both health and spirits\ngood.  Anne had been too little from home, too little seen. Her spirits\nwere not high.  A larger society would improve them.  She wanted her to\nbe more known.\n\nThe undesirableness of any other house in the same neighbourhood for\nSir Walter was certainly much strengthened by one part, and a very\nmaterial part of the scheme, which had been happily engrafted on the\nbeginning.  He was not only to quit his home, but to see it in the\nhands of others; a trial of fortitude, which stronger heads than Sir\nWalter's have found too much.  Kellynch Hall was to be let.  This,\nhowever, was a profound secret, not to be breathed beyond their own\ncircle.\n\nSir Walter could not have borne the degradation of being known to\ndesign letting his house.  Mr Shepherd had once mentioned the word\n\"advertise,\" but never dared approach it again.  Sir Walter spurned the\nidea of its being offered in any manner; forbad the slightest hint\nbeing dropped of his having such an intention; and it was only on the\nsupposition of his being spontaneously solicited by some most\nunexceptionable applicant, on his own terms, and as a great favour,\nthat he would let it at all.\n\nHow quick come the reasons for approving what we like!  Lady Russell\nhad another excellent one at hand, for being extremely glad that Sir\nWalter and his family were to remove from the country.  Elizabeth had\nbeen lately forming an intimacy, which she wished to see interrupted.\nIt was with the daughter of Mr Shepherd, who had returned, after an\nunprosperous marriage, to her father's house, with the additional\nburden of two children.  She was a clever young woman, who understood\nthe art of pleasing--the art of pleasing, at least, at Kellynch Hall;\nand who had made herself so acceptable to Miss Elliot, as to have been\nalready staying there more than once, in spite of all that Lady\nRussell, who thought it a friendship quite out of place, could hint of\ncaution and reserve.\n\nLady Russell, indeed, had scarcely any influence with Elizabeth, and\nseemed to love her, rather because she would love her, than because\nElizabeth deserved it.  She had never received from her more than\noutward attention, nothing beyond the observances of complaisance; had\nnever succeeded in any point which she wanted to carry, against\nprevious inclination.  She had been repeatedly very earnest in trying\nto get Anne included in the visit to London, sensibly open to all the\ninjustice and all the discredit of the selfish arrangements which shut\nher out, and on many lesser occasions had endeavoured to give Elizabeth\nthe advantage of her own better judgement and experience; but always in\nvain:  Elizabeth would go her own way; and never had she pursued it in\nmore decided opposition to Lady Russell than in this selection of Mrs\nClay; turning from the society of so deserving a sister, to bestow her\naffection and confidence on one who ought to have been nothing to her\nbut the object of distant civility.\n\nFrom situation, Mrs Clay was, in Lady Russell's estimate, a very\nunequal, and in her character she believed a very dangerous companion;\nand a removal that would leave Mrs Clay behind, and bring a choice of\nmore suitable intimates within Miss Elliot's reach, was therefore an\nobject of first-rate importance.\n\n\n\nChapter 3\n\n\n\"I must take leave to observe, Sir Walter,\" said Mr Shepherd one\nmorning at Kellynch Hall, as he laid down the newspaper, \"that the\npresent juncture is much in our favour.  This peace will be turning all\nour rich naval officers ashore.  They will be all wanting a home.\nCould not be a better time, Sir Walter, for having a choice of tenants,\nvery responsible tenants.  Many a noble fortune has been made during\nthe war.  If a rich admiral were to come in our way, Sir Walter--\"\n\n\"He would be a very lucky man, Shepherd,\" replied Sir Walter; \"that's\nall I have to remark.  A prize indeed would Kellynch Hall be to him;\nrather the greatest prize of all, let him have taken ever so many\nbefore; hey, Shepherd?\"\n\nMr Shepherd laughed, as he knew he must, at this wit, and then added--\n\n\"I presume to observe, Sir Walter, that, in the way of business,\ngentlemen of the navy are well to deal with.  I have had a little\nknowledge of their methods of doing business; and I am free to confess\nthat they have very liberal notions, and are as likely to make\ndesirable tenants as any set of people one should meet with.\nTherefore, Sir Walter, what I would take leave to suggest is, that if\nin consequence of any rumours getting abroad of your intention; which\nmust be contemplated as a possible thing, because we know how difficult\nit is to keep the actions and designs of one part of the world from the\nnotice and curiosity of the other; consequence has its tax; I, John\nShepherd, might conceal any family-matters that I chose, for nobody\nwould think it worth their while to observe me; but Sir Walter Elliot\nhas eyes upon him which it may be very difficult to elude; and\ntherefore, thus much I venture upon, that it will not greatly surprise\nme if, with all our caution, some rumour of the truth should get\nabroad; in the supposition of which, as I was going to observe, since\napplications will unquestionably follow, I should think any from our\nwealthy naval commanders particularly worth attending to; and beg leave\nto add, that two hours will bring me over at any time, to save you the\ntrouble of replying.\"\n\nSir Walter only nodded.  But soon afterwards, rising and pacing the\nroom, he observed sarcastically--\n\n\"There are few among the gentlemen of the navy, I imagine, who would\nnot be surprised to find themselves in a house of this description.\"\n\n\"They would look around them, no doubt, and bless their good fortune,\"\nsaid Mrs Clay, for Mrs Clay was present:  her father had driven her\nover, nothing being of so much use to Mrs Clay's health as a drive to\nKellynch: \"but I quite agree with my father in thinking a sailor might\nbe a very desirable tenant.  I have known a good deal of the\nprofession; and besides their liberality, they are so neat and careful\nin all their ways!  These valuable pictures of yours, Sir Walter, if\nyou chose to leave them, would be perfectly safe.  Everything in and\nabout the house would be taken such excellent care of!  The gardens and\nshrubberies would be kept in almost as high order as they are now.  You\nneed not be afraid, Miss Elliot, of your own sweet flower gardens being\nneglected.\"\n\n\"As to all that,\" rejoined Sir Walter coolly, \"supposing I were induced\nto let my house, I have by no means made up my mind as to the\nprivileges to be annexed to it.  I am not particularly disposed to\nfavour a tenant.  The park would be open to him of course, and few navy\nofficers, or men of any other description, can have had such a range;\nbut what restrictions I might impose on the use of the\npleasure-grounds, is another thing.  I am not fond of the idea of my\nshrubberies being always approachable; and I should recommend Miss\nElliot to be on her guard with respect to her flower garden.  I am very\nlittle disposed to grant a tenant of Kellynch Hall any extraordinary\nfavour, I assure you, be he sailor or soldier.\"\n\nAfter a short pause, Mr Shepherd presumed to say--\n\n\"In all these cases, there are established usages which make everything\nplain and easy between landlord and tenant.  Your interest, Sir Walter,\nis in pretty safe hands.  Depend upon me for taking care that no tenant\nhas more than his just rights.  I venture to hint, that Sir Walter\nElliot cannot be half so jealous for his own, as John Shepherd will be\nfor him.\"\n\nHere Anne spoke--\n\n\"The navy, I think, who have done so much for us, have at least an\nequal claim with any other set of men, for all the comforts and all the\nprivileges which any home can give.  Sailors work hard enough for their\ncomforts, we must all allow.\"\n\n\"Very true, very true.  What Miss Anne says, is very true,\" was Mr\nShepherd's rejoinder, and \"Oh! certainly,\" was his daughter's; but Sir\nWalter's remark was, soon afterwards--\n\n\"The profession has its utility, but I should be sorry to see any\nfriend of mine belonging to it.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" was the reply, and with a look of surprise.\n\n\"Yes; it is in two points offensive to me; I have two strong grounds of\nobjection to it.  First, as being the means of bringing persons of\nobscure birth into undue distinction, and raising men to honours which\ntheir fathers and grandfathers never dreamt of; and secondly, as it\ncuts up a man's youth and vigour most horribly; a sailor grows old\nsooner than any other man.  I have observed it all my life.  A man is\nin greater danger in the navy of being insulted by the rise of one\nwhose father, his father might have disdained to speak to, and of\nbecoming prematurely an object of disgust himself, than in any other\nline.  One day last spring, in town, I was in company with two men,\nstriking instances of what I am talking of; Lord St Ives, whose father\nwe all know to have been a country curate, without bread to eat; I was\nto give place to Lord St Ives, and a certain Admiral Baldwin, the most\ndeplorable-looking personage you can imagine; his face the colour of\nmahogany, rough and rugged to the last degree; all lines and wrinkles,\nnine grey hairs of a side, and nothing but a dab of powder at top.  'In\nthe name of heaven, who is that old fellow?' said I to a friend of mine\nwho was standing near, (Sir Basil Morley).  'Old fellow!' cried Sir\nBasil, 'it is Admiral Baldwin.  What do you take his age to be?'\n'Sixty,' said I, 'or perhaps sixty-two.' 'Forty,' replied Sir Basil,\n'forty, and no more.'  Picture to yourselves my amazement; I shall not\neasily forget Admiral Baldwin.  I never saw quite so wretched an\nexample of what a sea-faring life can do; but to a degree, I know it is\nthe same with them all:  they are all knocked about, and exposed to\nevery climate, and every weather, till they are not fit to be seen.  It\nis a pity they are not knocked on the head at once, before they reach\nAdmiral Baldwin's age.\"\n\n\"Nay, Sir Walter,\" cried Mrs Clay, \"this is being severe indeed.  Have\na little mercy on the poor men.  We are not all born to be handsome.\nThe sea is no beautifier, certainly; sailors do grow old betimes; I\nhave observed it; they soon lose the look of youth.  But then, is not\nit the same with many other professions, perhaps most other?  Soldiers,\nin active service, are not at all better off:  and even in the quieter\nprofessions, there is a toil and a labour of the mind, if not of the\nbody, which seldom leaves a man's looks to the natural effect of time.\nThe lawyer plods, quite care-worn; the physician is up at all hours,\nand travelling in all weather; and even the clergyman--\" she stopt a\nmoment to consider what might do for the clergyman;--\"and even the\nclergyman, you know is obliged to go into infected rooms, and expose\nhis health and looks to all the injury of a poisonous atmosphere.  In\nfact, as I have long been convinced, though every profession is\nnecessary and honourable in its turn, it is only the lot of those who\nare not obliged to follow any, who can live in a regular way, in the\ncountry, choosing their own hours, following their own pursuits, and\nliving on their own property, without the torment of trying for more;\nit is only their lot, I say, to hold the blessings of health and a good\nappearance to the utmost: I know no other set of men but what lose\nsomething of their personableness when they cease to be quite young.\"\n\nIt seemed as if Mr Shepherd, in this anxiety to bespeak Sir Walter's\ngood will towards a naval officer as tenant, had been gifted with\nforesight; for the very first application for the house was from an\nAdmiral Croft, with whom he shortly afterwards fell into company in\nattending the quarter sessions at Taunton; and indeed, he had received\na hint of the Admiral from a London correspondent.  By the report which\nhe hastened over to Kellynch to make, Admiral Croft was a native of\nSomersetshire, who having acquired a very handsome fortune, was wishing\nto settle in his own country, and had come down to Taunton in order to\nlook at some advertised places in that immediate neighbourhood, which,\nhowever, had not suited him; that accidentally hearing--(it was just as\nhe had foretold, Mr Shepherd observed, Sir Walter's concerns could not\nbe kept a secret,)--accidentally hearing of the possibility of\nKellynch Hall being to let, and understanding his (Mr Shepherd's)\nconnection with the owner, he had introduced himself to him in order to\nmake particular inquiries, and had, in the course of a pretty long\nconference, expressed as strong an inclination for the place as a man\nwho knew it only by description could feel; and given Mr Shepherd, in\nhis explicit account of himself, every proof of his being a most\nresponsible, eligible tenant.\n\n\"And who is Admiral Croft?\" was Sir Walter's cold suspicious inquiry.\n\nMr Shepherd answered for his being of a gentleman's family, and\nmentioned a place; and Anne, after the little pause which followed,\nadded--\n\n\"He is a rear admiral of the white.  He was in the Trafalgar action,\nand has been in the East Indies since; he was stationed there, I\nbelieve, several years.\"\n\n\"Then I take it for granted,\" observed Sir Walter, \"that his face is\nabout as orange as the cuffs and capes of my livery.\"\n\nMr Shepherd hastened to assure him, that Admiral Croft was a very hale,\nhearty, well-looking man, a little weather-beaten, to be sure, but not\nmuch, and quite the gentleman in all his notions and behaviour; not\nlikely to make the smallest difficulty about terms, only wanted a\ncomfortable home, and to get into it as soon as possible; knew he must\npay for his convenience; knew what rent a ready-furnished house of that\nconsequence might fetch; should not have been surprised if Sir Walter\nhad asked more; had inquired about the manor; would be glad of the\ndeputation, certainly, but made no great point of it; said he sometimes\ntook out a gun, but never killed; quite the gentleman.\n\nMr Shepherd was eloquent on the subject; pointing out all the\ncircumstances of the Admiral's family, which made him peculiarly\ndesirable as a tenant.  He was a married man, and without children; the\nvery state to be wished for.  A house was never taken good care of, Mr\nShepherd observed, without a lady: he did not know, whether furniture\nmight not be in danger of suffering as much where there was no lady, as\nwhere there were many children.  A lady, without a family, was the very\nbest preserver of furniture in the world.  He had seen Mrs Croft, too;\nshe was at Taunton with the admiral, and had been present almost all\nthe time they were talking the matter over.\n\n\"And a very well-spoken, genteel, shrewd lady, she seemed to be,\"\ncontinued he; \"asked more questions about the house, and terms, and\ntaxes, than the Admiral himself, and seemed more conversant with\nbusiness; and moreover, Sir Walter, I found she was not quite\nunconnected in this country, any more than her husband; that is to say,\nshe is sister to a gentleman who did live amongst us once; she told me\nso herself: sister to the gentleman who lived a few years back at\nMonkford. Bless me! what was his name? At this moment I cannot\nrecollect his name, though I have heard it so lately. Penelope, my\ndear, can you help me to the name of the gentleman who lived at\nMonkford: Mrs Croft's brother?\"\n\nBut Mrs Clay was talking so eagerly with Miss Elliot, that she did not\nhear the appeal.\n\n\"I have no conception whom you can mean, Shepherd; I remember no\ngentleman resident at Monkford since the time of old Governor Trent.\"\n\n\"Bless me! how very odd!  I shall forget my own name soon, I suppose.\nA name that I am so very well acquainted with; knew the gentleman so\nwell by sight; seen him a hundred times; came to consult me once, I\nremember, about a trespass of one of his neighbours; farmer's man\nbreaking into his orchard; wall torn down; apples stolen; caught in the\nfact; and afterwards, contrary to my judgement, submitted to an\namicable compromise.  Very odd indeed!\"\n\nAfter waiting another moment--\n\n\"You mean Mr Wentworth, I suppose?\" said Anne.\n\nMr Shepherd was all gratitude.\n\n\"Wentworth was the very name!  Mr Wentworth was the very man.  He had\nthe curacy of Monkford, you know, Sir Walter, some time back, for two\nor three years.  Came there about the year ---5, I take it.  You\nremember him, I am sure.\"\n\n\"Wentworth?  Oh! ay,--Mr Wentworth, the curate of Monkford.  You misled\nme by the term gentleman.  I thought you were speaking of some man of\nproperty:  Mr Wentworth was nobody, I remember; quite unconnected;\nnothing to do with the Strafford family.  One wonders how the names of\nmany of our nobility become so common.\"\n\nAs Mr Shepherd perceived that this connexion of the Crofts did them no\nservice with Sir Walter, he mentioned it no more; returning, with all\nhis zeal, to dwell on the circumstances more indisputably in their\nfavour; their age, and number, and fortune; the high idea they had\nformed of Kellynch Hall, and extreme solicitude for the advantage of\nrenting it; making it appear as if they ranked nothing beyond the\nhappiness of being the tenants of Sir Walter Elliot: an extraordinary\ntaste, certainly, could they have been supposed in the secret of Sir\nWalter's estimate of the dues of a tenant.\n\nIt succeeded, however; and though Sir Walter must ever look with an\nevil eye on anyone intending to inhabit that house, and think them\ninfinitely too well off in being permitted to rent it on the highest\nterms, he was talked into allowing Mr Shepherd to proceed in the\ntreaty, and authorising him to wait on Admiral Croft, who still\nremained at Taunton, and fix a day for the house being seen.\n\nSir Walter was not very wise; but still he had experience enough of the\nworld to feel, that a more unobjectionable tenant, in all essentials,\nthan Admiral Croft bid fair to be, could hardly offer.  So far went his\nunderstanding; and his vanity supplied a little additional soothing, in\nthe Admiral's situation in life, which was just high enough, and not\ntoo high.  \"I have let my house to Admiral Croft,\" would sound\nextremely well; very much better than to any mere Mr--; a Mr (save,\nperhaps, some half dozen in the nation,) always needs a note of\nexplanation.  An admiral speaks his own consequence, and, at the same\ntime, can never make a baronet look small.  In all their dealings and\nintercourse, Sir Walter Elliot must ever have the precedence.\n\nNothing could be done without a reference to Elizabeth: but her\ninclination was growing so strong for a removal, that she was happy to\nhave it fixed and expedited by a tenant at hand; and not a word to\nsuspend decision was uttered by her.\n\nMr Shepherd was completely empowered to act; and no sooner had such an\nend been reached, than Anne, who had been a most attentive listener to\nthe whole, left the room, to seek the comfort of cool air for her\nflushed cheeks; and as she walked along a favourite grove, said, with a\ngentle sigh, \"A few months more, and he, perhaps, may be walking here.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 4\n\n\nHe was not Mr Wentworth, the former curate of Monkford, however\nsuspicious appearances may be, but a Captain Frederick Wentworth, his\nbrother, who being made commander in consequence of the action off St\nDomingo, and not immediately employed, had come into Somersetshire, in\nthe summer of 1806; and having no parent living, found a home for half\na year at Monkford.  He was, at that time, a remarkably fine young man,\nwith a great deal of intelligence, spirit, and brilliancy; and Anne an\nextremely pretty girl, with gentleness, modesty, taste, and feeling.\nHalf the sum of attraction, on either side, might have been enough, for\nhe had nothing to do, and she had hardly anybody to love; but the\nencounter of such lavish recommendations could not fail.  They were\ngradually acquainted, and when acquainted, rapidly and deeply in love.\nIt would be difficult to say which had seen highest perfection in the\nother, or which had been the happiest: she, in receiving his\ndeclarations and proposals, or he in having them accepted.\n\nA short period of exquisite felicity followed, and but a short one.\nTroubles soon arose.  Sir Walter, on being applied to, without actually\nwithholding his consent, or saying it should never be, gave it all the\nnegative of great astonishment, great coldness, great silence, and a\nprofessed resolution of doing nothing for his daughter.  He thought it\na very degrading alliance; and Lady Russell, though with more tempered\nand pardonable pride, received it as a most unfortunate one.\n\nAnne Elliot, with all her claims of birth, beauty, and mind, to throw\nherself away at nineteen; involve herself at nineteen in an engagement\nwith a young man, who had nothing but himself to recommend him, and no\nhopes of attaining affluence, but in the chances of a most uncertain\nprofession, and no connexions to secure even his farther rise in the\nprofession, would be, indeed, a throwing away, which she grieved to\nthink of!  Anne Elliot, so young; known to so few, to be snatched off\nby a stranger without alliance or fortune; or rather sunk by him into a\nstate of most wearing, anxious, youth-killing dependence!  It must not\nbe, if by any fair interference of friendship, any representations from\none who had almost a mother's love, and mother's rights, it would be\nprevented.\n\nCaptain Wentworth had no fortune.  He had been lucky in his profession;\nbut spending freely, what had come freely, had realized nothing.  But\nhe was confident that he should soon be rich: full of life and ardour,\nhe knew that he should soon have a ship, and soon be on a station that\nwould lead to everything he wanted.  He had always been lucky; he knew\nhe should be so still.  Such confidence, powerful in its own warmth,\nand bewitching in the wit which often expressed it, must have been\nenough for Anne; but Lady Russell saw it very differently.  His\nsanguine temper, and fearlessness of mind, operated very differently on\nher.  She saw in it but an aggravation of the evil.  It only added a\ndangerous character to himself.  He was brilliant, he was headstrong.\nLady Russell had little taste for wit, and of anything approaching to\nimprudence a horror.  She deprecated the connexion in every light.\n\nSuch opposition, as these feelings produced, was more than Anne could\ncombat.  Young and gentle as she was, it might yet have been possible\nto withstand her father's ill-will, though unsoftened by one kind word\nor look on the part of her sister; but Lady Russell, whom she had\nalways loved and relied on, could not, with such steadiness of opinion,\nand such tenderness of manner, be continually advising her in vain.\nShe was persuaded to believe the engagement a wrong thing:  indiscreet,\nimproper, hardly capable of success, and not deserving it.  But it was\nnot a merely selfish caution, under which she acted, in putting an end\nto it.  Had she not imagined herself consulting his good, even more\nthan her own, she could hardly have given him up.  The belief of being\nprudent, and self-denying, principally for his advantage, was her chief\nconsolation, under the misery of a parting, a final parting; and every\nconsolation was required, for she had to encounter all the additional\npain of opinions, on his side, totally unconvinced and unbending, and\nof his feeling himself ill used by so forced a relinquishment.  He had\nleft the country in consequence.\n\nA few months had seen the beginning and the end of their acquaintance;\nbut not with a few months ended Anne's share of suffering from it.  Her\nattachment and regrets had, for a long time, clouded every enjoyment of\nyouth, and an early loss of bloom and spirits had been their lasting\neffect.\n\nMore than seven years were gone since this little history of sorrowful\ninterest had reached its close; and time had softened down much,\nperhaps nearly all of peculiar attachment to him, but she had been too\ndependent on time alone; no aid had been given in change of place\n(except in one visit to Bath soon after the rupture), or in any novelty\nor enlargement of society.  No one had ever come within the Kellynch\ncircle, who could bear a comparison with Frederick Wentworth, as he\nstood in her memory.  No second attachment, the only thoroughly\nnatural, happy, and sufficient cure, at her time of life, had been\npossible to the nice tone of her mind, the fastidiousness of her taste,\nin the small limits of the society around them.  She had been\nsolicited, when about two-and-twenty, to change her name, by the young\nman, who not long afterwards found a more willing mind in her younger\nsister; and Lady Russell had lamented her refusal; for Charles Musgrove\nwas the eldest son of a man, whose landed property and general\nimportance were second in that country, only to Sir Walter's, and of\ngood character and appearance; and however Lady Russell might have\nasked yet for something more, while Anne was nineteen, she would have\nrejoiced to see her at twenty-two so respectably removed from the\npartialities and injustice of her father's house, and settled so\npermanently near herself.  But in this case, Anne had left nothing for\nadvice to do; and though Lady Russell, as satisfied as ever with her\nown discretion, never wished the past undone, she began now to have the\nanxiety which borders on hopelessness for Anne's being tempted, by some\nman of talents and independence, to enter a state for which she held\nher to be peculiarly fitted by her warm affections and domestic habits.\n\nThey knew not each other's opinion, either its constancy or its change,\non the one leading point of Anne's conduct, for the subject was never\nalluded to; but Anne, at seven-and-twenty, thought very differently\nfrom what she had been made to think at nineteen.  She did not blame\nLady Russell, she did not blame herself for having been guided by her;\nbut she felt that were any young person, in similar circumstances, to\napply to her for counsel, they would never receive any of such certain\nimmediate wretchedness, such uncertain future good.  She was persuaded\nthat under every disadvantage of disapprobation at home, and every\nanxiety attending his profession, all their probable fears, delays, and\ndisappointments, she should yet have been a happier woman in\nmaintaining the engagement, than she had been in the sacrifice of it;\nand this, she fully believed, had the usual share, had even more than\nthe usual share of all such solicitudes and suspense been theirs,\nwithout reference to the actual results of their case, which, as it\nhappened, would have bestowed earlier prosperity than could be\nreasonably calculated on.  All his sanguine expectations, all his\nconfidence had been justified.  His genius and ardour had seemed to\nforesee and to command his prosperous path.  He had, very soon after\ntheir engagement ceased, got employ: and all that he had told her would\nfollow, had taken place.  He had distinguished himself, and early\ngained the other step in rank, and must now, by successive captures,\nhave made a handsome fortune.  She had only navy lists and newspapers\nfor her authority, but she could not doubt his being rich; and, in\nfavour of his constancy, she had no reason to believe him married.\n\nHow eloquent could Anne Elliot have been! how eloquent, at least, were\nher wishes on the side of early warm attachment, and a cheerful\nconfidence in futurity, against that over-anxious caution which seems\nto insult exertion and distrust Providence!  She had been forced into\nprudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older: the\nnatural sequel of an unnatural beginning.\n\nWith all these circumstances, recollections and feelings, she could not\nhear that Captain Wentworth's sister was likely to live at Kellynch\nwithout a revival of former pain; and many a stroll, and many a sigh,\nwere necessary to dispel the agitation of the idea.  She often told\nherself it was folly, before she could harden her nerves sufficiently\nto feel the continual discussion of the Crofts and their business no\nevil.  She was assisted, however, by that perfect indifference and\napparent unconsciousness, among the only three of her own friends in\nthe secret of the past, which seemed almost to deny any recollection of\nit.  She could do justice to the superiority of Lady Russell's motives\nin this, over those of her father and Elizabeth; she could honour all\nthe better feelings of her calmness; but the general air of oblivion\namong them was highly important from whatever it sprung; and in the\nevent of Admiral Croft's really taking Kellynch Hall, she rejoiced anew\nover the conviction which had always been most grateful to her, of the\npast being known to those three only among her connexions, by whom no\nsyllable, she believed, would ever be whispered, and in the trust that\namong his, the brother only with whom he had been residing, had\nreceived any information of their short-lived engagement.  That brother\nhad been long removed from the country and being a sensible man, and,\nmoreover, a single man at the time, she had a fond dependence on no\nhuman creature's having heard of it from him.\n\nThe sister, Mrs Croft, had then been out of England, accompanying her\nhusband on a foreign station, and her own sister, Mary, had been at\nschool while it all occurred; and never admitted by the pride of some,\nand the delicacy of others, to the smallest knowledge of it afterwards.\n\nWith these supports, she hoped that the acquaintance between herself\nand the Crofts, which, with Lady Russell, still resident in Kellynch,\nand Mary fixed only three miles off, must be anticipated, need not\ninvolve any particular awkwardness.\n\n\n\nChapter 5\n\n\nOn the morning appointed for Admiral and Mrs Croft's seeing Kellynch\nHall, Anne found it most natural to take her almost daily walk to Lady\nRussell's, and keep out of the way till all was over; when she found it\nmost natural to be sorry that she had missed the opportunity of seeing\nthem.\n\nThis meeting of the two parties proved highly satisfactory, and decided\nthe whole business at once.  Each lady was previously well disposed for\nan agreement, and saw nothing, therefore, but good manners in the\nother; and with regard to the gentlemen, there was such an hearty good\nhumour, such an open, trusting liberality on the Admiral's side, as\ncould not but influence Sir Walter, who had besides been flattered into\nhis very best and most polished behaviour by Mr Shepherd's assurances\nof his being known, by report, to the Admiral, as a model of good\nbreeding.\n\nThe house and grounds, and furniture, were approved, the Crofts were\napproved, terms, time, every thing, and every body, was right; and Mr\nShepherd's clerks were set to work, without there having been a single\npreliminary difference to modify of all that \"This indenture sheweth.\"\n\nSir Walter, without hesitation, declared the Admiral to be the\nbest-looking sailor he had ever met with, and went so far as to say,\nthat if his own man might have had the arranging of his hair, he should\nnot be ashamed of being seen with him any where; and the Admiral, with\nsympathetic cordiality, observed to his wife as they drove back through\nthe park, \"I thought we should soon come to a deal, my dear, in spite\nof what they told us at Taunton.  The Baronet will never set the Thames\non fire, but there seems to be no harm in him.\"--reciprocal\ncompliments, which would have been esteemed about equal.\n\nThe Crofts were to have possession at Michaelmas; and as Sir Walter\nproposed removing to Bath in the course of the preceding month, there\nwas no time to be lost in making every dependent arrangement.\n\nLady Russell, convinced that Anne would not be allowed to be of any\nuse, or any importance, in the choice of the house which they were\ngoing to secure, was very unwilling to have her hurried away so soon,\nand wanted to make it possible for her to stay behind till she might\nconvey her to Bath herself after Christmas; but having engagements of\nher own which must take her from Kellynch for several weeks, she was\nunable to give the full invitation she wished, and Anne though dreading\nthe possible heats of September in all the white glare of Bath, and\ngrieving to forego all the influence so sweet and so sad of the\nautumnal months in the country, did not think that, everything\nconsidered, she wished to remain.  It would be most right, and most\nwise, and, therefore must involve least suffering to go with the others.\n\nSomething occurred, however, to give her a different duty.  Mary, often\na little unwell, and always thinking a great deal of her own\ncomplaints, and always in the habit of claiming Anne when anything was\nthe matter, was indisposed; and foreseeing that she should not have a\nday's health all the autumn, entreated, or rather required her, for it\nwas hardly entreaty, to come to Uppercross Cottage, and bear her\ncompany as long as she should want her, instead of going to Bath.\n\n\"I cannot possibly do without Anne,\" was Mary's reasoning; and\nElizabeth's reply was, \"Then I am sure Anne had better stay, for nobody\nwill want her in Bath.\"\n\nTo be claimed as a good, though in an improper style, is at least\nbetter than being rejected as no good at all; and Anne, glad to be\nthought of some use, glad to have anything marked out as a duty, and\ncertainly not sorry to have the scene of it in the country, and her own\ndear country, readily agreed to stay.\n\nThis invitation of Mary's removed all Lady Russell's difficulties, and\nit was consequently soon settled that Anne should not go to Bath till\nLady Russell took her, and that all the intervening time should be\ndivided between Uppercross Cottage and Kellynch Lodge.\n\nSo far all was perfectly right; but Lady Russell was almost startled by\nthe wrong of one part of the Kellynch Hall plan, when it burst on her,\nwhich was, Mrs Clay's being engaged to go to Bath with Sir Walter and\nElizabeth, as a most important and valuable assistant to the latter in\nall the business before her.  Lady Russell was extremely sorry that\nsuch a measure should have been resorted to at all, wondered, grieved,\nand feared; and the affront it contained to Anne, in Mrs Clay's being\nof so much use, while Anne could be of none, was a very sore\naggravation.\n\nAnne herself was become hardened to such affronts; but she felt the\nimprudence of the arrangement quite as keenly as Lady Russell.  With a\ngreat deal of quiet observation, and a knowledge, which she often\nwished less, of her father's character, she was sensible that results\nthe most serious to his family from the intimacy were more than\npossible.  She did not imagine that her father had at present an idea\nof the kind.  Mrs Clay had freckles, and a projecting tooth, and a\nclumsy wrist, which he was continually making severe remarks upon, in\nher absence; but she was young, and certainly altogether well-looking,\nand possessed, in an acute mind and assiduous pleasing manners,\ninfinitely more dangerous attractions than any merely personal might\nhave been.  Anne was so impressed by the degree of their danger, that\nshe could not excuse herself from trying to make it perceptible to her\nsister.  She had little hope of success; but Elizabeth, who in the\nevent of such a reverse would be so much more to be pitied than\nherself, should never, she thought, have reason to reproach her for\ngiving no warning.\n\nShe spoke, and seemed only to offend.  Elizabeth could not conceive how\nsuch an absurd suspicion should occur to her, and indignantly answered\nfor each party's perfectly knowing their situation.\n\n\"Mrs Clay,\" said she, warmly, \"never forgets who she is; and as I am\nrather better acquainted with her sentiments than you can be, I can\nassure you, that upon the subject of marriage they are particularly\nnice, and that she reprobates all inequality of condition and rank more\nstrongly than most people.  And as to my father, I really should not\nhave thought that he, who has kept himself single so long for our\nsakes, need be suspected now.  If Mrs Clay were a very beautiful woman,\nI grant you, it might be wrong to have her so much with me; not that\nanything in the world, I am sure, would induce my father to make a\ndegrading match, but he might be rendered unhappy.  But poor Mrs Clay\nwho, with all her merits, can never have been reckoned tolerably\npretty, I really think poor Mrs Clay may be staying here in perfect\nsafety.  One would imagine you had never heard my father speak of her\npersonal misfortunes, though I know you must fifty times.  That tooth\nof her's and those freckles.  Freckles do not disgust me so very much\nas they do him.  I have known a face not materially disfigured by a\nfew, but he abominates them.  You must have heard him notice Mrs Clay's\nfreckles.\"\n\n\"There is hardly any personal defect,\" replied Anne, \"which an\nagreeable manner might not gradually reconcile one to.\"\n\n\"I think very differently,\" answered Elizabeth, shortly; \"an agreeable\nmanner may set off handsome features, but can never alter plain ones.\nHowever, at any rate, as I have a great deal more at stake on this\npoint than anybody else can have, I think it rather unnecessary in you\nto be advising me.\"\n\nAnne had done; glad that it was over, and not absolutely hopeless of\ndoing good.  Elizabeth, though resenting the suspicion, might yet be\nmade observant by it.\n\nThe last office of the four carriage-horses was to draw Sir Walter,\nMiss Elliot, and Mrs Clay to Bath. The party drove off in very good\nspirits; Sir Walter prepared with condescending bows for all the\nafflicted tenantry and cottagers who might have had a hint to show\nthemselves, and Anne walked up at the same time, in a sort of desolate\ntranquillity, to the Lodge, where she was to spend the first week.\n\nHer friend was not in better spirits than herself. Lady Russell felt\nthis break-up of the family exceedingly.  Their respectability was as\ndear to her as her own, and a daily intercourse had become precious by\nhabit.  It was painful to look upon their deserted grounds, and still\nworse to anticipate the new hands they were to fall into; and to escape\nthe solitariness and the melancholy of so altered a village, and be out\nof the way when Admiral and Mrs Croft first arrived, she had determined\nto make her own absence from home begin when she must give up Anne.\nAccordingly their removal was made together, and Anne was set down at\nUppercross Cottage, in the first stage of Lady Russell's journey.\n\nUppercross was a moderate-sized village, which a few years back had\nbeen completely in the old English style, containing only two houses\nsuperior in appearance to those of the yeomen and labourers; the\nmansion of the squire, with its high walls, great gates, and old trees,\nsubstantial and unmodernized, and the compact, tight parsonage,\nenclosed in its own neat garden, with a vine and a pear-tree trained\nround its casements; but upon the marriage of the young 'squire, it had\nreceived the improvement of a farm-house elevated into a cottage, for\nhis residence, and Uppercross Cottage, with its veranda, French\nwindows, and other prettiness, was quite as likely to catch the\ntraveller's eye as the more consistent and considerable aspect and\npremises of the Great House, about a quarter of a mile farther on.\n\nHere Anne had often been staying. She knew the ways of Uppercross as\nwell as those of Kellynch. The two families were so continually\nmeeting, so much in the habit of running in and out of each other's\nhouse at all hours, that it was rather a surprise to her to find Mary\nalone; but being alone, her being unwell and out of spirits was almost\na matter of course. Though better endowed than the elder sister, Mary\nhad not Anne's understanding nor temper. While well, and happy, and\nproperly attended to, she had great good humour and excellent spirits;\nbut any indisposition sunk her completely. She had no resources for\nsolitude; and inheriting a considerable share of the Elliot\nself-importance, was very prone to add to every other distress that of\nfancying herself neglected and ill-used. In person, she was inferior to\nboth sisters, and had, even in her bloom, only reached the dignity of\nbeing \"a fine girl.\" She was now lying on the faded sofa of the pretty\nlittle drawing-room, the once elegant furniture of which had been\ngradually growing shabby, under the influence of four summers and two\nchildren; and, on Anne's appearing, greeted her with--\n\n\"So, you are come at last!  I began to think I should never see you.  I\nam so ill I can hardly speak.  I have not seen a creature the whole\nmorning!\"\n\n\"I am sorry to find you unwell,\" replied Anne.  \"You sent me such a\ngood account of yourself on Thursday!\"\n\n\"Yes, I made the best of it; I always do:  but I was very far from well\nat the time; and I do not think I ever was so ill in my life as I have\nbeen all this morning:  very unfit to be left alone, I am sure.\nSuppose I were to be seized of a sudden in some dreadful way, and not\nable to ring the bell!  So, Lady Russell would not get out.  I do not\nthink she has been in this house three times this summer.\"\n\nAnne said what was proper, and enquired after her husband.  \"Oh!\nCharles is out shooting.  I have not seen him since seven o'clock.  He\nwould go, though I told him how ill I was.  He said he should not stay\nout long; but he has never come back, and now it is almost one.  I\nassure you, I have not seen a soul this whole long morning.\"\n\n\"You have had your little boys with you?\"\n\n\"Yes, as long as I could bear their noise; but they are so unmanageable\nthat they do me more harm than good.  Little Charles does not mind a\nword I say, and Walter is growing quite as bad.\"\n\n\"Well, you will soon be better now,\" replied Anne, cheerfully.  \"You\nknow I always cure you when I come.  How are your neighbours at the\nGreat House?\"\n\n\"I can give you no account of them.  I have not seen one of them\nto-day, except Mr Musgrove, who just stopped and spoke through the\nwindow, but without getting off his horse; and though I told him how\nill I was, not one of them have been near me.  It did not happen to\nsuit the Miss Musgroves, I suppose, and they never put themselves out\nof their way.\"\n\n\"You will see them yet, perhaps, before the morning is gone.  It is\nearly.\"\n\n\"I never want them, I assure you.  They talk and laugh a great deal too\nmuch for me.  Oh! Anne, I am so very unwell!  It was quite unkind of\nyou not to come on Thursday.\"\n\n\"My dear Mary, recollect what a comfortable account you sent me of\nyourself!  You wrote in the cheerfullest manner, and said you were\nperfectly well, and in no hurry for me; and that being the case, you\nmust be aware that my wish would be to remain with Lady Russell to the\nlast: and besides what I felt on her account, I have really been so\nbusy, have had so much to do, that I could not very conveniently have\nleft Kellynch sooner.\"\n\n\"Dear me! what can you possibly have to do?\"\n\n\"A great many things, I assure you.  More than I can recollect in a\nmoment; but I can tell you some.  I have been making a duplicate of the\ncatalogue of my father's books and pictures.  I have been several times\nin the garden with Mackenzie, trying to understand, and make him\nunderstand, which of Elizabeth's plants are for Lady Russell.  I have\nhad all my own little concerns to arrange, books and music to divide,\nand all my trunks to repack, from not having understood in time what\nwas intended as to the waggons: and one thing I have had to do, Mary,\nof a more trying nature: going to almost every house in the parish, as\na sort of take-leave.  I was told that they wished it.  But all these\nthings took up a great deal of time.\"\n\n\"Oh! well!\" and after a moment's pause, \"but you have never asked me\none word about our dinner at the Pooles yesterday.\"\n\n\"Did you go then?  I have made no enquiries, because I concluded you\nmust have been obliged to give up the party.\"\n\n\"Oh yes! I went.  I was very well yesterday; nothing at all the matter\nwith me till this morning.  It would have been strange if I had not\ngone.\"\n\n\"I am very glad you were well enough, and I hope you had a pleasant\nparty.\"\n\n\"Nothing remarkable.  One always knows beforehand what the dinner will\nbe, and who will be there; and it is so very uncomfortable not having a\ncarriage of one's own.  Mr and Mrs Musgrove took me, and we were so\ncrowded!  They are both so very large, and take up so much room; and Mr\nMusgrove always sits forward.  So, there was I, crowded into the back\nseat with Henrietta and Louise; and I think it very likely that my\nillness to-day may be owing to it.\"\n\nA little further perseverance in patience and forced cheerfulness on\nAnne's side produced nearly a cure on Mary's.  She could soon sit\nupright on the sofa, and began to hope she might be able to leave it by\ndinner-time.  Then, forgetting to think of it, she was at the other end\nof the room, beautifying a nosegay; then, she ate her cold meat; and\nthen she was well enough to propose a little walk.\n\n\"Where shall we go?\" said she, when they were ready.  \"I suppose you\nwill not like to call at the Great House before they have been to see\nyou?\"\n\n\"I have not the smallest objection on that account,\" replied Anne.  \"I\nshould never think of standing on such ceremony with people I know so\nwell as Mrs and the Miss Musgroves.\"\n\n\"Oh! but they ought to call upon you as soon as possible.  They ought\nto feel what is due to you as my sister.  However, we may as well go\nand sit with them a little  while, and when we have that over, we can\nenjoy our walk.\"\n\nAnne had always thought such a style of intercourse highly imprudent;\nbut she had ceased to endeavour to check it, from believing that,\nthough there were on each side continual subjects of offence, neither\nfamily could now do without it.  To the Great House accordingly they\nwent, to sit the full half hour in the old-fashioned square parlour,\nwith a small carpet and shining floor, to which the present daughters\nof the house were gradually giving the proper air of confusion by a\ngrand piano-forte and a harp, flower-stands and little tables placed in\nevery direction.  Oh! could the originals of the portraits against the\nwainscot, could the gentlemen in brown velvet and the ladies in blue\nsatin have seen what was going on, have been conscious of such an\noverthrow of all order and neatness!  The portraits themselves seemed\nto be staring in astonishment.\n\nThe Musgroves, like their houses, were in a state of alteration,\nperhaps of improvement.  The father and mother were in the old English\nstyle, and the young people in the new.  Mr and Mrs Musgrove were a\nvery good sort of people; friendly and hospitable, not much educated,\nand not at all elegant.  Their children had more modern minds and\nmanners.  There was a numerous family; but the only two grown up,\nexcepting Charles, were Henrietta and Louisa, young ladies of nineteen\nand twenty, who had brought from school at Exeter all the usual stock\nof accomplishments, and were now like thousands of other young ladies,\nliving to be fashionable, happy, and merry.  Their dress had every\nadvantage, their faces were rather pretty, their spirits extremely\ngood, their manner unembarrassed and pleasant; they were of consequence\nat home, and favourites abroad.  Anne always contemplated them as some\nof the happiest creatures of her acquaintance; but still, saved as we\nall are, by some comfortable feeling of superiority from wishing for\nthe possibility of exchange, she would not have given up her own more\nelegant and cultivated mind for all their enjoyments; and envied them\nnothing but that seemingly perfect good understanding and agreement\ntogether, that good-humoured mutual affection, of which she had known\nso little herself with either of her sisters.\n\nThey were received with great cordiality.  Nothing seemed amiss on the\nside of the Great House family, which was generally, as Anne very well\nknew, the least to blame.  The half hour was chatted away pleasantly\nenough; and she was not at all surprised at the end of it, to have\ntheir walking party joined by both the Miss Musgroves, at Mary's\nparticular invitation.\n\n\n\nChapter 6\n\n\nAnne had not wanted this visit to Uppercross, to learn that a removal\nfrom one set of people to another, though at a distance of only three\nmiles, will often include a total change of conversation, opinion, and\nidea.  She had never been staying there before, without being struck by\nit, or without wishing that other Elliots could have her advantage in\nseeing how unknown, or unconsidered there, were the affairs which at\nKellynch Hall were treated as of such general publicity and pervading\ninterest; yet, with all this experience, she believed she must now\nsubmit to feel that another lesson, in the art of knowing our own\nnothingness beyond our own circle, was become necessary for her; for\ncertainly, coming as she did, with a heart full of the subject which\nhad been completely occupying both houses in Kellynch for many weeks,\nshe had expected rather more curiosity and sympathy than she found in\nthe separate but very similar remark of Mr and Mrs Musgrove: \"So, Miss\nAnne, Sir Walter and your sister are gone; and what part of Bath do you\nthink they will settle in?\" and this, without much waiting for an\nanswer; or in the young ladies' addition of, \"I hope we shall be in\nBath in the winter; but remember, papa, if we do go, we must be in a\ngood situation:  none of your Queen Squares for us!\" or in the anxious\nsupplement from Mary, of--\"Upon my word, I shall be pretty well off,\nwhen you are all gone away to be happy at Bath!\"\n\nShe could only resolve to avoid such self-delusion in future, and think\nwith heightened gratitude of the extraordinary blessing of having one\nsuch truly sympathising friend as Lady Russell.\n\nThe Mr Musgroves had their own game to guard, and to destroy, their own\nhorses, dogs, and newspapers to engage them, and the females were fully\noccupied in all the other common subjects of housekeeping, neighbours,\ndress, dancing, and music.  She acknowledged it to be very fitting,\nthat every little social commonwealth should dictate its own matters of\ndiscourse; and hoped, ere long, to become a not unworthy member of the\none she was now transplanted into.  With the prospect of spending at\nleast two months at Uppercross, it was highly incumbent on her to\nclothe her imagination, her memory, and all her ideas in as much of\nUppercross as possible.\n\nShe had no dread of these two months.  Mary was not so repulsive and\nunsisterly as Elizabeth, nor so inaccessible to all influence of hers;\nneither was there anything among the other component parts of the\ncottage inimical to comfort.  She was always on friendly terms with her\nbrother-in-law; and in the children, who loved her nearly as well, and\nrespected her a great deal more than their mother, she had an object of\ninterest, amusement, and wholesome exertion.\n\nCharles Musgrove was civil and agreeable; in sense and temper he was\nundoubtedly superior to his wife, but not of powers, or conversation,\nor grace, to make the past, as they were connected together, at all a\ndangerous contemplation; though, at the same time, Anne could believe,\nwith Lady Russell, that a more equal match might have greatly improved\nhim; and that a woman of real understanding might have given more\nconsequence to his character, and more usefulness, rationality, and\nelegance to his habits and pursuits.  As it was, he did nothing with\nmuch zeal, but sport; and his time was otherwise trifled away, without\nbenefit from books or anything else.  He had very good spirits, which\nnever seemed much affected by his wife's occasional lowness, bore with\nher unreasonableness sometimes to Anne's admiration, and upon the\nwhole, though there was very often a little disagreement (in which she\nhad sometimes more share than she wished, being appealed to by both\nparties), they might pass for a happy couple.  They were always\nperfectly agreed in the want of more money, and a strong inclination\nfor a handsome present from his father; but here, as on most topics, he\nhad the superiority, for while Mary thought it a great shame that such\na present was not made, he always contended for his father's having\nmany other uses for his money, and a right to spend it as he liked.\n\nAs to the management of their children, his theory was much better than\nhis wife's, and his practice not so bad.  \"I could manage them very\nwell, if it were not for Mary's interference,\" was what Anne often\nheard him say, and had a good deal of faith in; but when listening in\nturn to Mary's reproach of \"Charles spoils the children so that I\ncannot get them into any order,\" she never had the smallest temptation\nto say, \"Very true.\"\n\nOne of the least agreeable circumstances of her residence there was her\nbeing treated with too much confidence by all parties, and being too\nmuch in the secret of the complaints of each house.  Known to have some\ninfluence with her sister, she was continually requested, or at least\nreceiving hints to exert it, beyond what was practicable.  \"I wish you\ncould persuade Mary not to be always fancying herself ill,\" was\nCharles's language; and, in an unhappy mood, thus spoke Mary: \"I do\nbelieve if Charles were to see me dying, he would not think there was\nanything the matter with me.  I am sure, Anne, if you would, you might\npersuade him that I really am very ill--a great deal worse than I ever\nown.\"\n\nMary's declaration was, \"I hate sending the children to the Great\nHouse, though their grandmamma is always wanting to see them, for she\nhumours and indulges them to such a degree, and gives them so much\ntrash and sweet things, that they are sure to come back sick and cross\nfor the rest of the day.\"  And Mrs Musgrove took the first opportunity\nof being alone with Anne, to say, \"Oh! Miss Anne, I cannot help wishing\nMrs Charles had a little of your method with those children.  They are\nquite different creatures with you!  But to be sure, in general they\nare so spoilt!  It is a pity you cannot put your sister in the way of\nmanaging them.  They are as fine healthy children as ever were seen,\npoor little dears! without partiality; but Mrs Charles knows no more\nhow they should be treated--!  Bless me! how troublesome they are\nsometimes.  I assure you, Miss Anne, it prevents my wishing to see them\nat our house so often as I otherwise should.  I believe Mrs Charles is\nnot quite pleased with my not inviting them oftener; but you know it is\nvery bad to have children with one that one is obligated to be checking\nevery moment; \"don't do this,\" and \"don't do that;\" or that one can\nonly keep in tolerable order by more cake than is good for them.\"\n\nShe had this communication, moreover, from Mary.  \"Mrs Musgrove thinks\nall her servants so steady, that it would be high treason to call it in\nquestion; but I am sure, without exaggeration, that her upper\nhouse-maid and laundry-maid, instead of being in their business, are\ngadding about the village, all day long.  I meet them wherever I go;\nand I declare, I never go twice into my nursery without seeing\nsomething of them.  If Jemima were not the trustiest, steadiest\ncreature in the world, it would be enough to spoil her; for she tells\nme, they are always tempting her to take a walk with them.\" And on Mrs\nMusgrove's side, it was, \"I make a rule of never interfering in any of\nmy daughter-in-law's concerns, for I know it would not do; but I shall\ntell you, Miss Anne, because you may be able to set things to rights,\nthat I have no very good opinion of Mrs Charles's nursery-maid: I hear\nstrange stories of her; she is always upon the gad; and from my own\nknowledge, I can declare, she is such a fine-dressing lady, that she is\nenough to ruin any servants she comes near.  Mrs Charles quite swears\nby her, I know; but I just give you this hint, that you may be upon the\nwatch; because, if you see anything amiss, you need not be afraid of\nmentioning it.\"\n\nAgain, it was Mary's complaint, that Mrs Musgrove was very apt not to\ngive her the precedence that was her due, when they dined at the Great\nHouse with other families; and she did not see any reason why she was\nto be considered so much at home as to lose her place.  And one day\nwhen Anne was walking with only the Musgroves, one of them after\ntalking of rank, people of rank, and jealousy of rank, said, \"I have no\nscruple of observing to you, how nonsensical some persons are about\ntheir place, because all the world knows how easy and indifferent you\nare about it; but I wish anybody could give Mary a hint that it would\nbe a great deal better if she were not so very tenacious, especially if\nshe would not be always putting herself forward to take place of mamma.\nNobody doubts her right to have precedence of mamma, but it would be\nmore becoming in her not to be always insisting on it.  It is not that\nmamma cares about it the least in the world, but I know it is taken\nnotice of by many persons.\"\n\nHow was Anne to set all these matters to rights?  She could do little\nmore than listen patiently, soften every grievance, and excuse each to\nthe other; give them all hints of the forbearance necessary between\nsuch near neighbours, and make those hints broadest which were meant\nfor her sister's benefit.\n\nIn all other respects, her visit began and proceeded very well.  Her\nown spirits improved by change of place and subject, by being removed\nthree miles from Kellynch; Mary's ailments lessened by having a\nconstant companion, and their daily intercourse with the other family,\nsince there was neither superior affection, confidence, nor employment\nin the cottage, to be interrupted by it, was rather an advantage.  It\nwas certainly carried nearly as far as possible, for they met every\nmorning, and hardly ever spent an evening asunder; but she believed\nthey should not have done so well without the sight of Mr and Mrs\nMusgrove's respectable forms in the usual places, or without the\ntalking, laughing, and singing of their daughters.\n\nShe played a great deal better than either of the Miss Musgroves, but\nhaving no voice, no knowledge of the harp, and no fond parents, to sit\nby and fancy themselves delighted, her performance was little thought\nof, only out of civility, or to refresh the others, as she was well\naware.  She knew that when she played she was giving pleasure only to\nherself; but this was no new sensation.  Excepting one short period of\nher life, she had never, since the age of fourteen, never since the\nloss of her dear mother, known the happiness of being listened to, or\nencouraged by any just appreciation or real taste.  In music she had\nbeen always used to feel alone in the world; and Mr and Mrs Musgrove's\nfond partiality for their own daughters' performance, and total\nindifference to any other person's, gave her much more pleasure for\ntheir sakes, than mortification for her own.\n\nThe party at the Great House was sometimes increased by other company.\nThe neighbourhood was not large, but the Musgroves were visited by\neverybody, and had more dinner-parties, and more callers, more visitors\nby invitation and by chance, than any other family.  There were more\ncompletely popular.\n\nThe girls were wild for dancing; and the evenings ended, occasionally,\nin an unpremeditated little ball.  There was a family of cousins within\na walk of Uppercross, in less affluent circumstances, who depended on\nthe Musgroves for all their pleasures:  they would come at any time,\nand help play at anything, or dance anywhere; and Anne, very much\npreferring the office of musician to a more active post, played country\ndances to them by the hour together; a kindness which always\nrecommended her musical powers to the notice of Mr and Mrs Musgrove\nmore than anything else, and often drew this compliment;--\"Well done,\nMiss Anne! very well done indeed!  Lord bless me!  how those little\nfingers of yours fly about!\"\n\nSo passed the first three weeks.  Michaelmas came; and now Anne's heart\nmust be in Kellynch again.  A beloved home made over to others; all the\nprecious rooms and furniture, groves, and prospects, beginning to own\nother eyes and other limbs!  She could not think of much else on the\n29th of September; and she had this sympathetic touch in the evening\nfrom Mary, who, on having occasion to note down the day of the month,\nexclaimed, \"Dear me, is not this the day the Crofts were to come to\nKellynch?  I am glad I did not think of it before.  How low it makes\nme!\"\n\nThe Crofts took possession with true naval alertness, and were to be\nvisited.  Mary deplored the necessity for herself.  \"Nobody knew how\nmuch she should suffer.  She should put it off as long as she could;\"\nbut was not easy till she had talked Charles into driving her over on\nan early day, and was in a very animated, comfortable state of\nimaginary agitation, when she came back.  Anne had very sincerely\nrejoiced in there being no means of her going.  She wished, however to\nsee the Crofts, and was glad to be within when the visit was returned.\nThey came:  the master of the house was not at home, but the two\nsisters were together; and as it chanced that Mrs Croft fell to the\nshare of Anne, while the Admiral sat by Mary, and made himself very\nagreeable by his good-humoured notice of her little boys, she was well\nable to watch for a likeness, and if it failed her in the features, to\ncatch it in the voice, or in the turn of sentiment and expression.\n\nMrs Croft, though neither tall nor fat, had a squareness, uprightness,\nand vigour of form, which gave importance to her person.  She had\nbright dark eyes, good teeth, and altogether an agreeable face; though\nher reddened and weather-beaten complexion, the consequence of her\nhaving been almost as much at sea as her husband, made her seem to have\nlived some years longer in the world than her real eight-and-thirty.\nHer manners were open, easy, and decided, like one who had no distrust\nof herself, and no doubts of what to do; without any approach to\ncoarseness, however, or any want of good humour.  Anne gave her credit,\nindeed, for feelings of great consideration towards herself, in all\nthat related to Kellynch, and it pleased her: especially, as she had\nsatisfied herself in the very first half minute, in the instant even of\nintroduction, that there was not the smallest symptom of any knowledge\nor suspicion on Mrs Croft's side, to give a bias of any sort.  She was\nquite easy on that head, and consequently full of strength and courage,\ntill for a moment electrified by Mrs Croft's suddenly saying,--\n\n\"It was you, and not your sister, I find, that my brother had the\npleasure of being acquainted with, when he was in this country.\"\n\nAnne hoped she had outlived the age of blushing; but the age of emotion\nshe certainly had not.\n\n\"Perhaps you may not have heard that he is married?\" added Mrs Croft.\n\nShe could now answer as she ought; and was happy to feel, when Mrs\nCroft's next words explained it to be Mr Wentworth of whom she spoke,\nthat she had said nothing which might not do for either brother. She\nimmediately felt how reasonable it was, that Mrs Croft should be\nthinking and speaking of Edward, and not of Frederick; and with shame\nat her own forgetfulness applied herself to the knowledge of their\nformer neighbour's present state with proper interest.\n\nThe rest was all tranquillity; till, just as they were moving, she\nheard the Admiral say to Mary--\n\n\"We are expecting a brother of Mrs Croft's here soon; I dare say you\nknow him by name.\"\n\nHe was cut short by the eager attacks of the little boys, clinging to\nhim like an old friend, and declaring he should not go; and being too\nmuch engrossed by proposals of carrying them away in his coat pockets,\n&c., to have another moment for finishing or recollecting what he had\nbegun, Anne was left to persuade herself, as well as she could, that\nthe same brother must still be in question.  She could not, however,\nreach such a degree of certainty, as not to be anxious to hear whether\nanything had been said on the subject at the other house, where the\nCrofts had previously been calling.\n\nThe folks of the Great House were to spend the evening of this day at\nthe Cottage; and it being now too late in the year for such visits to\nbe made on foot, the coach was beginning to be listened for, when the\nyoungest Miss Musgrove walked in.  That she was coming to apologize,\nand that they should have to spend the evening by themselves, was the\nfirst black idea; and Mary was quite ready to be affronted, when Louisa\nmade all right by saying, that she only came on foot, to leave more\nroom for the harp, which was bringing in the carriage.\n\n\"And I will tell you our reason,\" she added, \"and all about it.  I am\ncome on to give you notice, that papa and mamma are out of spirits this\nevening, especially mamma; she is thinking so much of poor Richard!\nAnd we agreed it would be best to have the harp, for it seems to amuse\nher more than the piano-forte.  I will tell you why she is out of\nspirits.  When the Crofts called this morning, (they called here\nafterwards, did not they?), they happened to say, that her brother,\nCaptain Wentworth, is just returned to England, or paid off, or\nsomething, and is coming to see them almost directly; and most\nunluckily it came into mamma's head, when they were gone, that\nWentworth, or something very like it, was the name of poor Richard's\ncaptain at one time; I do not know when or where, but a great while\nbefore he died, poor fellow!  And upon looking over his letters and\nthings, she found it was so, and is perfectly sure that this must be\nthe very man, and her head is quite full of it, and of poor Richard!\nSo we must be as merry as we can, that she may not be dwelling upon\nsuch gloomy things.\"\n\nThe real circumstances of this pathetic piece of family history were,\nthat the Musgroves had had the ill fortune of a very troublesome,\nhopeless son; and the good fortune to lose him before he reached his\ntwentieth year; that he had been sent to sea because he was stupid and\nunmanageable on shore; that he had been very little cared for at any\ntime by his family, though quite as much as he deserved; seldom heard\nof, and scarcely at all regretted, when the intelligence of his death\nabroad had worked its way to Uppercross, two years before.\n\nHe had, in fact, though his sisters were now doing all they could for\nhim, by calling him \"poor Richard,\" been nothing better than a\nthick-headed, unfeeling, unprofitable Dick Musgrove, who had never done\nanything to entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name,\nliving or dead.\n\nHe had been several years at sea, and had, in the course of those\nremovals to which all midshipmen are liable, and especially such\nmidshipmen as every captain wishes to get rid of, been six months on\nboard Captain Frederick Wentworth's frigate, the Laconia; and from the\nLaconia he had, under the influence of his captain, written the only\ntwo letters which his father and mother had ever received from him\nduring the whole of his absence; that is to say, the only two\ndisinterested letters; all the rest had been mere applications for\nmoney.\n\nIn each letter he had spoken well of his captain; but yet, so little\nwere they in the habit of attending to such matters, so unobservant and\nincurious were they as to the names of men or ships, that it had made\nscarcely any impression at the time; and that Mrs Musgrove should have\nbeen suddenly struck, this very day, with a recollection of the name of\nWentworth, as connected with her son, seemed one of those extraordinary\nbursts of mind which do sometimes occur.\n\nShe had gone to her letters, and found it all as she supposed; and the\nre-perusal of these letters, after so long an interval, her poor son\ngone for ever, and all the strength of his faults forgotten, had\naffected her spirits exceedingly, and thrown her into greater grief for\nhim than she had known on first hearing of his death.  Mr Musgrove was,\nin a lesser degree, affected likewise; and when they reached the\ncottage, they were evidently in want, first, of being listened to anew\non this subject, and afterwards, of all the relief which cheerful\ncompanions could give them.\n\nTo hear them talking so much of Captain Wentworth, repeating his name\nso often, puzzling over past years, and at last ascertaining that it\nmight, that it probably would, turn out to be the very same Captain\nWentworth whom they recollected meeting, once or twice, after their\ncoming back from Clifton--a very fine young man--but they could not say\nwhether it was seven or eight years ago, was a new sort of trial to\nAnne's nerves.  She found, however, that it was one to which she must\ninure herself.  Since he actually was expected in the country, she must\nteach herself to be insensible on such points.  And not only did it\nappear that he was expected, and speedily, but the Musgroves, in their\nwarm gratitude for the kindness he had shewn poor Dick, and very high\nrespect for his character, stamped as it was by poor Dick's having been\nsix months under his care, and mentioning him in strong, though not\nperfectly well-spelt praise, as \"a fine dashing felow, only two\nperticular about the schoolmaster,\" were bent on introducing\nthemselves, and seeking his acquaintance, as soon as they could hear of\nhis arrival.\n\nThe resolution of doing so helped to form the comfort of their evening.\n\n\n\nChapter 7\n\n\nA very few days more, and Captain Wentworth was known to be at\nKellynch, and Mr Musgrove had called on him, and come back warm in his\npraise, and he was engaged with the Crofts to dine at Uppercross, by\nthe end of another week.  It had been a great disappointment to Mr\nMusgrove to find that no earlier day could be fixed, so impatient was\nhe to shew his gratitude, by seeing Captain Wentworth under his own\nroof, and welcoming him to all that was strongest and best in his\ncellars.  But a week must pass; only a week, in Anne's reckoning, and\nthen, she supposed, they must meet; and soon she began to wish that she\ncould feel secure even for a week.\n\nCaptain Wentworth made a very early return to Mr Musgrove's civility,\nand she was all but calling there in the same half hour.  She and Mary\nwere actually setting forward for the Great House, where, as she\nafterwards learnt, they must inevitably have found him, when they were\nstopped by the eldest boy's being at that moment brought home in\nconsequence of a bad fall.  The child's situation put the visit\nentirely aside; but she could not hear of her escape with indifference,\neven in the midst of the serious anxiety which they afterwards felt on\nhis account.\n\nHis collar-bone was found to be dislocated, and such injury received in\nthe back, as roused the most alarming ideas.  It was an afternoon of\ndistress, and Anne had every thing to do at once; the apothecary to\nsend for, the father to have pursued and informed, the mother to\nsupport and keep from hysterics, the servants to control, the youngest\nchild to banish, and the poor suffering one to attend and soothe;\nbesides sending, as soon as she recollected it, proper notice to the\nother house, which brought her an accession rather of frightened,\nenquiring companions, than of very useful assistants.\n\nHer brother's return was the first comfort; he could take best care of\nhis wife; and the second blessing was the arrival of the apothecary.\nTill he came and had examined the child, their apprehensions were the\nworse for being vague; they suspected great injury, but knew not where;\nbut now the collar-bone was soon replaced, and though Mr Robinson felt\nand felt, and rubbed, and looked grave, and spoke low words both to the\nfather and the aunt, still they were all to hope the best, and to be\nable to part and eat their dinner in tolerable ease of mind; and then\nit was, just before they parted, that the two young aunts were able so\nfar to digress from their nephew's state, as to give the information of\nCaptain Wentworth's visit; staying five minutes behind their father and\nmother, to endeavour to express how perfectly delighted they were with\nhim, how much handsomer, how infinitely more agreeable they thought him\nthan any individual among their male acquaintance, who had been at all\na favourite before.  How glad they had been to hear papa invite him to\nstay dinner, how sorry when he said it was quite out of his power, and\nhow glad again when he had promised in reply to papa and mamma's\nfarther pressing invitations to come and dine with them on the\nmorrow--actually on the morrow; and he had promised it in so pleasant a\nmanner, as if he felt all the motive of their attention just as he\nought.  And in short, he had looked and said everything with such\nexquisite grace, that they could assure them all, their heads were both\nturned by him; and off they ran, quite as full of glee as of love, and\napparently more full of Captain Wentworth than of little Charles.\n\nThe same story and the same raptures were repeated, when the two girls\ncame with their father, through the gloom of the evening, to make\nenquiries; and Mr Musgrove, no longer under the first uneasiness about\nhis heir, could add his confirmation and praise, and hope there would\nbe now no occasion for putting Captain Wentworth off, and only be sorry\nto think that the cottage party, probably, would not like to leave the\nlittle boy, to give him the meeting.  \"Oh no; as to leaving the little\nboy,\" both father and mother were in much too strong and recent alarm\nto bear the thought; and Anne, in the joy of the escape, could not help\nadding her warm protestations to theirs.\n\nCharles Musgrove, indeed, afterwards, shewed more of inclination; \"the\nchild was going on so well, and he wished so much to be introduced to\nCaptain Wentworth, that, perhaps, he might join them in the evening; he\nwould not dine from home, but he might walk in for half an hour.\" But\nin this he was eagerly opposed by his wife, with \"Oh! no, indeed,\nCharles, I cannot bear to have you go away.  Only think if anything\nshould happen?\"\n\nThe child had a good night, and was going on well the next day.  It\nmust be a work of time to ascertain that no injury had been done to the\nspine; but Mr Robinson found nothing to increase alarm, and Charles\nMusgrove began, consequently, to feel no necessity for longer\nconfinement.  The child was to be kept in bed and amused as quietly as\npossible; but what was there for a father to do?  This was quite a\nfemale case, and it would be highly absurd in him, who could be of no\nuse at home, to shut himself up.  His father very much wished him to\nmeet Captain Wentworth, and there being no sufficient reason against\nit, he ought to go; and it ended in his making a bold, public\ndeclaration, when he came in from shooting, of his meaning to dress\ndirectly, and dine at the other house.\n\n\"Nothing can be going on better than the child,\" said he; \"so I told my\nfather, just now, that I would come, and he thought me quite right.\nYour sister being with you, my love, I have no scruple at all.  You\nwould not like to leave him yourself, but you see I can be of no use.\nAnne will send for me if anything is the matter.\"\n\nHusbands and wives generally understand when opposition will be vain.\nMary knew, from Charles's manner of speaking, that he was quite\ndetermined on going, and that it would be of no use to teaze him.  She\nsaid nothing, therefore, till he was out of the room, but as soon as\nthere was only Anne to hear--\n\n\"So you and I are to be left to shift by ourselves, with this poor sick\nchild; and not a creature coming near us all the evening!  I knew how\nit would be.  This is always my luck.  If there is anything\ndisagreeable going on men are always sure to get out of it, and Charles\nis as bad as any of them.  Very unfeeling!  I must say it is very\nunfeeling of him to be running away from his poor little boy.  Talks of\nhis being going on so well!  How does he know that he is going on well,\nor that there may not be a sudden change half an hour hence?  I did not\nthink Charles would have been so unfeeling.  So here he is to go away\nand enjoy himself, and because I am the poor mother, I am not to be\nallowed to stir; and yet, I am sure, I am more unfit than anybody else\nto be about the child.  My being the mother is the very reason why my\nfeelings should not be tried.  I am not at all equal to it.  You saw\nhow hysterical I was yesterday.\"\n\n\"But that was only the effect of the suddenness of your alarm--of the\nshock.  You will not be hysterical again.  I dare say we shall have\nnothing to distress us.  I perfectly understand Mr Robinson's\ndirections, and have no fears; and indeed, Mary, I cannot wonder at\nyour husband.  Nursing does not belong to a man; it is not his\nprovince.  A sick child is always the mother's property:  her own\nfeelings generally make it so.\"\n\n\"I hope I am as fond of my child as any mother, but I do not know that\nI am of any more use in the sick-room than Charles, for I cannot be\nalways scolding and teazing the poor child when it is ill; and you saw,\nthis morning, that if I told him to keep quiet, he was sure to begin\nkicking about.  I have not nerves for the sort of thing.\"\n\n\"But, could you be comfortable yourself, to be spending the whole\nevening away from the poor boy?\"\n\n\"Yes; you see his papa can, and why should not I?  Jemima is so\ncareful; and she could send us word every hour how he was.  I really\nthink Charles might as well have told his father we would all come.  I\nam not more alarmed about little Charles now than he is.  I was\ndreadfully alarmed yesterday, but the case is very different to-day.\"\n\n\"Well, if you do not think it too late to give notice for yourself,\nsuppose you were to go, as well as your husband.  Leave little Charles\nto my care.  Mr and Mrs Musgrove cannot think it wrong while I remain\nwith him.\"\n\n\"Are you serious?\" cried Mary, her eyes brightening.  \"Dear me!  that's\na very good thought, very good, indeed.  To be sure, I may just as well\ngo as not, for I am of no use at home--am I?  and it only harasses me.\nYou, who have not a mother's feelings, are a great deal the properest\nperson.  You can make little Charles do anything; he always minds you\nat a word.  It will be a great deal better than leaving him only with\nJemima.  Oh! I shall certainly go; I am sure I ought if I can, quite as\nmuch as Charles, for they want me excessively to be acquainted with\nCaptain Wentworth, and I know you do not mind being left alone.  An\nexcellent thought of yours, indeed, Anne.  I will go and tell Charles,\nand get ready directly.  You can send for us, you know, at a moment's\nnotice, if anything is the matter; but I dare say there will be nothing\nto alarm you.  I should not go, you may be sure, if I did not feel\nquite at ease about my dear child.\"\n\nThe next moment she was tapping at her husband's dressing-room door,\nand as Anne followed her up stairs, she was in time for the whole\nconversation, which began with Mary's saying, in a tone of great\nexultation--\n\n\"I mean to go with you, Charles, for I am of no more use at home than\nyou are.  If I were to shut myself up for ever with the child, I should\nnot be able to persuade him to do anything he did not like.  Anne will\nstay; Anne undertakes to stay at home and take care of him.  It is\nAnne's own proposal, and so I shall go with you, which will be a great\ndeal better, for I have not dined at the other house since Tuesday.\"\n\n\"This is very kind of Anne,\" was her husband's answer, \"and I should be\nvery glad to have you go; but it seems rather hard that she should be\nleft at home by herself, to nurse our sick child.\"\n\nAnne was now at hand to take up her own cause, and the sincerity of her\nmanner being soon sufficient to convince him, where conviction was at\nleast very agreeable, he had no farther scruples as to her being left\nto dine alone, though he still wanted her to join them in the evening,\nwhen the child might be at rest for the night, and kindly urged her to\nlet him come and fetch her, but she was quite unpersuadable; and this\nbeing the case, she had ere long the pleasure of seeing them set off\ntogether in high spirits.  They were gone, she hoped, to be happy,\nhowever oddly constructed such happiness might seem; as for herself,\nshe was left with as many sensations of comfort, as were, perhaps, ever\nlikely to be hers.  She knew herself to be of the first utility to the\nchild; and what was it to her if Frederick Wentworth were only half a\nmile distant, making himself agreeable to others?\n\nShe would have liked to know how he felt as to a meeting.  Perhaps\nindifferent, if indifference could exist under such circumstances.  He\nmust be either indifferent or unwilling.  Had he wished ever to see her\nagain, he need not have waited till this time; he would have done what\nshe could not but believe that in his place she should have done long\nago, when events had been early giving him the independence which alone\nhad been wanting.\n\nHer brother and sister came back delighted with their new acquaintance,\nand their visit in general.  There had been music, singing, talking,\nlaughing, all that was most agreeable; charming manners in Captain\nWentworth, no shyness or reserve; they seemed all to know each other\nperfectly, and he was coming the very next morning to shoot with\nCharles.  He was to come to breakfast, but not at the Cottage, though\nthat had been proposed at first; but then he had been pressed to come\nto the Great House instead, and he seemed afraid of being in Mrs\nCharles Musgrove's way, on account of the child, and therefore,\nsomehow, they hardly knew how, it ended in Charles's being to meet him\nto breakfast at his father's.\n\nAnne understood it.  He wished to avoid seeing her.  He had inquired\nafter her, she found, slightly, as might suit a former slight\nacquaintance, seeming to acknowledge such as she had acknowledged,\nactuated, perhaps, by the same view of escaping introduction when they\nwere to meet.\n\nThe morning hours of the Cottage were always later than those of the\nother house, and on the morrow the difference was so great that Mary\nand Anne were not more than beginning breakfast when Charles came in to\nsay that they were just setting off, that he was come for his dogs,\nthat his sisters were following with Captain Wentworth; his sisters\nmeaning to visit Mary and the child, and Captain Wentworth proposing\nalso to wait on her for a few minutes if not inconvenient; and though\nCharles had answered for the child's being in no such state as could\nmake it inconvenient, Captain Wentworth would not be satisfied without\nhis running on to give notice.\n\nMary, very much gratified by this attention, was delighted to receive\nhim, while a thousand feelings rushed on Anne, of which this was the\nmost consoling, that it would soon be over.  And it was soon over.  In\ntwo minutes after Charles's preparation, the others appeared; they were\nin the drawing-room.  Her eye half met Captain Wentworth's, a bow, a\ncurtsey passed; she heard his voice; he talked to Mary, said all that\nwas right, said something to the Miss Musgroves, enough to mark an easy\nfooting; the room seemed full, full of persons and voices, but a few\nminutes ended it.  Charles shewed himself at the window, all was ready,\ntheir visitor had bowed and was gone, the Miss Musgroves were gone too,\nsuddenly resolving to walk to the end of the village with the\nsportsmen:  the room was cleared, and Anne might finish her breakfast\nas she could.\n\n\"It is over! it is over!\" she repeated to herself again and again, in\nnervous gratitude.  \"The worst is over!\"\n\nMary talked, but she could not attend.  She had seen him.  They had\nmet.  They had been once more in the same room.\n\nSoon, however, she began to reason with herself, and try to be feeling\nless.  Eight years, almost eight years had passed, since all had been\ngiven up.  How absurd to be resuming the agitation which such an\ninterval had banished into distance and indistinctness!  What might not\neight years do?  Events of every description, changes, alienations,\nremovals--all, all must be comprised in it, and oblivion of the past--\nhow natural, how certain too!  It included nearly a third part of her\nown life.\n\nAlas! with all her reasoning, she found, that to retentive feelings\neight years may be little more than nothing.\n\nNow, how were his sentiments to be read?  Was this like wishing to\navoid her?  And the next moment she was hating herself for the folly\nwhich asked the question.\n\nOn one other question which perhaps her utmost wisdom might not have\nprevented, she was soon spared all suspense; for, after the Miss\nMusgroves had returned and finished their visit at the Cottage she had\nthis spontaneous information from Mary:--\n\n\"Captain Wentworth is not very gallant by you, Anne, though he was so\nattentive to me.  Henrietta asked him what he thought of you, when they\nwent away, and he said, 'You were so altered he should not have known\nyou again.'\"\n\nMary had no feelings to make her respect her sister's in a common way,\nbut she was perfectly unsuspicious of being inflicting any peculiar\nwound.\n\n\"Altered beyond his knowledge.\"  Anne fully submitted, in silent, deep\nmortification.  Doubtless it was so, and she could take no revenge, for\nhe was not altered, or not for the worse.  She had already acknowledged\nit to herself, and she could not think differently, let him think of\nher as he would.  No:  the years which had destroyed her youth and\nbloom had only given him a more glowing, manly, open look, in no\nrespect lessening his personal advantages.  She had seen the same\nFrederick Wentworth.\n\n\"So altered that he should not have known her again!\"  These were words\nwhich could not but dwell with her.  Yet she soon began to rejoice that\nshe had heard them.  They were of sobering tendency; they allayed\nagitation; they composed, and consequently must make her happier.\n\nFrederick Wentworth had used such words, or something like them, but\nwithout an idea that they would be carried round to her.  He had\nthought her wretchedly altered, and in the first moment of appeal, had\nspoken as he felt.  He had not forgiven Anne Elliot.  She had used him\nill, deserted and disappointed him; and worse, she had shewn a\nfeebleness of character in doing so, which his own decided, confident\ntemper could not endure.  She had given him up to oblige others.  It\nhad been the effect of over-persuasion.  It had been weakness and\ntimidity.\n\nHe had been most warmly attached to her, and had never seen a woman\nsince whom he thought her equal; but, except from some natural\nsensation of curiosity, he had no desire of meeting her again.  Her\npower with him was gone for ever.\n\nIt was now his object to marry.  He was rich, and being turned on\nshore, fully intended to settle as soon as he could be properly\ntempted; actually looking round, ready to fall in love with all the\nspeed which a clear head and a quick taste could allow.  He had a heart\nfor either of the Miss Musgroves, if they could catch it; a heart, in\nshort, for any pleasing young woman who came in his way, excepting Anne\nElliot.  This was his only secret exception, when he said to his\nsister, in answer to her suppositions:--\n\n\"Yes, here I am, Sophia, quite ready to make a foolish match.  Anybody\nbetween fifteen and thirty may have me for asking.  A little beauty,\nand a few smiles, and a few compliments to the navy, and I am a lost\nman.  Should not this be enough for a sailor, who has had no society\namong women to make him nice?\"\n\nHe said it, she knew, to be contradicted.  His bright proud eye spoke\nthe conviction that he was nice; and Anne Elliot was not out of his\nthoughts, when he more seriously described the woman he should wish to\nmeet with.  \"A strong mind, with sweetness of manner,\" made the first\nand the last of the description.\n\n\"That is the woman I want,\" said he.  \"Something a little inferior I\nshall of course put up with, but it must not be much.  If I am a fool,\nI shall be a fool indeed, for I have thought on the subject more than\nmost men.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 8\n\n\nFrom this time Captain Wentworth and Anne Elliot were repeatedly in the\nsame circle.  They were soon dining in company together at Mr\nMusgrove's, for the little boy's state could no longer supply his aunt\nwith a pretence for absenting herself; and this was but the beginning\nof other dinings and other meetings.\n\nWhether former feelings were to be renewed must be brought to the\nproof; former times must undoubtedly be brought to the recollection of\neach; they could not but be reverted to; the year of their engagement\ncould not but be named by him, in the little narratives or descriptions\nwhich conversation called forth.  His profession qualified him, his\ndisposition lead him, to talk; and \"That was in the year six;\" \"That\nhappened before I went to sea in the year six,\" occurred in the course\nof the first evening they spent together: and though his voice did not\nfalter, and though she had no reason to suppose his eye wandering\ntowards her while he spoke, Anne felt the utter impossibility, from her\nknowledge of his mind, that he could be unvisited by remembrance any\nmore than herself.  There must be the same immediate association of\nthought, though she was very far from conceiving it to be of equal pain.\n\nThey had no conversation together, no intercourse but what the\ncommonest civility required.  Once so much to each other!  Now nothing!\nThere had been a time, when of all the large party now filling the\ndrawing-room at Uppercross, they would have found it most difficult to\ncease to speak to one another.  With the exception, perhaps, of Admiral\nand Mrs Croft, who seemed particularly attached and happy, (Anne could\nallow no other exceptions even among the married couples), there could\nhave been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so\nin unison, no countenances so beloved.  Now they were as strangers;\nnay, worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted.  It\nwas a perpetual estrangement.\n\nWhen he talked, she heard the same voice, and discerned the same mind.\nThere was a very general ignorance of all naval matters throughout the\nparty; and he was very much questioned, and especially by the two Miss\nMusgroves, who seemed hardly to have any eyes but for him, as to the\nmanner of living on board, daily regulations, food, hours, &c., and\ntheir surprise at his accounts, at learning the degree of accommodation\nand arrangement which was practicable, drew from him some pleasant\nridicule, which reminded Anne of the early days when she too had been\nignorant, and she too had been accused of supposing sailors to be\nliving on board without anything to eat, or any cook to dress it if\nthere were, or any servant to wait, or any knife and fork to use.\n\nFrom thus listening and thinking, she was roused by a whisper of Mrs\nMusgrove's who, overcome by fond regrets, could not help saying--\n\n\"Ah! Miss Anne, if it had pleased Heaven to spare my poor son, I dare\nsay he would have been just such another by this time.\"\n\nAnne suppressed a smile, and listened kindly, while Mrs Musgrove\nrelieved her heart a little more; and for a few minutes, therefore,\ncould not keep pace with the conversation of the others.\n\nWhen she could let her attention take its natural course again, she\nfound the Miss Musgroves just fetching the Navy List (their own navy\nlist, the first that had ever been at Uppercross), and sitting down\ntogether to pore over it, with the professed view of finding out the\nships that Captain Wentworth had commanded.\n\n\"Your first was the Asp, I remember; we will look for the Asp.\"\n\n\"You will not find her there.  Quite worn out and broken up.  I was the\nlast man who commanded her.  Hardly fit for service then.  Reported fit\nfor home service for a year or two, and so I was sent off to the West\nIndies.\"\n\nThe girls looked all amazement.\n\n\"The Admiralty,\" he continued, \"entertain themselves now and then, with\nsending a few hundred men to sea, in a ship not fit to be employed.\nBut they have a great many to provide for; and among the thousands that\nmay just as well go to the bottom as not, it is impossible for them to\ndistinguish the very set who may be least missed.\"\n\n\"Phoo! phoo!\" cried the Admiral, \"what stuff these young fellows talk!\nNever was a better sloop than the Asp in her day.  For an old built\nsloop, you would not see her equal.  Lucky fellow to get her!  He knows\nthere must have been twenty better men than himself applying for her at\nthe same time.  Lucky fellow to get anything so soon, with no more\ninterest than his.\"\n\n\"I felt my luck, Admiral, I assure you;\" replied Captain Wentworth,\nseriously.  \"I was as well satisfied with my appointment as you can\ndesire.  It was a great object with me at that time to be at sea; a\nvery great object, I wanted to be doing something.\"\n\n\"To be sure you did.  What should a young fellow like you do ashore for\nhalf a year together?  If a man had not a wife, he soon wants to be\nafloat again.\"\n\n\"But, Captain Wentworth,\" cried Louisa, \"how vexed you must have been\nwhen you came to the Asp, to see what an old thing they had given you.\"\n\n\"I knew pretty well what she was before that day;\" said he, smiling.\n\"I had no more discoveries to make than you would have as to the\nfashion and strength of any old pelisse, which you had seen lent about\namong half your acquaintance ever since you could remember, and which\nat last, on some very wet day, is lent to yourself.  Ah! she was a dear\nold Asp to me.  She did all that I wanted.  I knew she would.  I knew\nthat we should either go to the bottom together, or that she would be\nthe making of me; and I never had two days of foul weather all the time\nI was at sea in her; and after taking privateers enough to be very\nentertaining, I had the good luck in my passage home the next autumn,\nto fall in with the very French frigate I wanted.  I brought her into\nPlymouth; and here another instance of luck.  We had not been six hours\nin the Sound, when a gale came on, which lasted four days and nights,\nand which would have done for poor old Asp in half the time; our touch\nwith the Great Nation not having much improved our condition.\nFour-and-twenty hours later, and I should only have been a gallant\nCaptain Wentworth, in a small paragraph at one corner of the\nnewspapers; and being lost in only a sloop, nobody would have thought\nabout me.\" Anne's shudderings were to herself alone; but the Miss\nMusgroves could be as open as they were sincere, in their exclamations\nof pity and horror.\n\n\"And so then, I suppose,\" said Mrs Musgrove, in a low voice, as if\nthinking aloud, \"so then he went away to the Laconia, and there he met\nwith our poor boy. Charles, my dear,\" (beckoning him to her), \"do ask\nCaptain Wentworth where it was he first met with your poor brother.  I\nalways forgot.\"\n\n\"It was at Gibraltar, mother, I know.  Dick had been left ill at\nGibraltar, with a recommendation from his former captain to Captain\nWentworth.\"\n\n\"Oh! but, Charles, tell Captain Wentworth, he need not be afraid of\nmentioning poor Dick before me, for it would be rather a pleasure to\nhear him talked of by such a good friend.\"\n\nCharles, being somewhat more mindful of the probabilities of the case,\nonly nodded in reply, and walked away.\n\nThe girls were now hunting for the Laconia; and Captain Wentworth could\nnot deny himself the pleasure of taking the precious volume into his\nown hands to save them the trouble, and once more read aloud the little\nstatement of her name and rate, and present non-commissioned class,\nobserving over it that she too had been one of the best friends man\never had.\n\n\"Ah! those were pleasant days when I had the Laconia!  How fast I made\nmoney in her.  A friend of mine and I had such a lovely cruise together\noff the Western Islands.  Poor Harville, sister!  You know how much he\nwanted money:  worse than myself.  He had a wife.  Excellent fellow.  I\nshall never forget his happiness.  He felt it all, so much for her\nsake.  I wished for him again the next summer, when I had still the\nsame luck in the Mediterranean.\"\n\n\"And I am sure, Sir,\" said Mrs Musgrove, \"it was a lucky day for us,\nwhen you were put captain into that ship.  We shall never forget what\nyou did.\"\n\nHer feelings made her speak low; and Captain Wentworth, hearing only in\npart, and probably not having Dick Musgrove at all near his thoughts,\nlooked rather in suspense, and as if waiting for more.\n\n\"My brother,\" whispered one of the girls; \"mamma is thinking of poor\nRichard.\"\n\n\"Poor dear fellow!\" continued Mrs Musgrove; \"he was grown so steady,\nand such an excellent correspondent, while he was under your care!  Ah!\nit would have been a happy thing, if he had never left you.  I assure\nyou, Captain Wentworth, we are very sorry he ever left you.\"\n\nThere was a momentary expression in Captain Wentworth's face at this\nspeech, a certain glance of his bright eye, and curl of his handsome\nmouth, which convinced Anne, that instead of sharing in Mrs Musgrove's\nkind wishes, as to her son, he had probably been at some pains to get\nrid of him; but it was too transient an indulgence of self-amusement to\nbe detected by any who understood him less than herself; in another\nmoment he was perfectly collected and serious, and almost instantly\nafterwards coming up to the sofa, on which she and Mrs Musgrove were\nsitting, took a place by the latter, and entered into conversation with\nher, in a low voice, about her son, doing it with so much sympathy and\nnatural grace, as shewed the kindest consideration for all that was\nreal and unabsurd in the parent's feelings.\n\nThey were actually on the same sofa, for Mrs Musgrove had most readily\nmade room for him; they were divided only by Mrs Musgrove.  It was no\ninsignificant barrier, indeed.  Mrs Musgrove was of a comfortable,\nsubstantial size, infinitely more fitted by nature to express good\ncheer and good humour, than tenderness and sentiment; and while the\nagitations of Anne's slender form, and pensive face, may be considered\nas very completely screened, Captain Wentworth should be allowed some\ncredit for the self-command with which he attended to her large fat\nsighings over the destiny of a son, whom alive nobody had cared for.\n\nPersonal size and mental sorrow have certainly no necessary\nproportions.  A large bulky figure has as good a right to be in deep\naffliction, as the most graceful set of limbs in the world.  But, fair\nor not fair, there are unbecoming conjunctions, which reason will\npatronize in vain--which taste cannot tolerate--which ridicule will\nseize.\n\nThe Admiral, after taking two or three refreshing turns about the room\nwith his hands behind him, being called to order by his wife, now came\nup to Captain Wentworth, and without any observation of what he might\nbe interrupting, thinking only of his own thoughts, began with--\n\n\"If you had been a week later at Lisbon, last spring, Frederick, you\nwould have been asked to give a passage to Lady Mary Grierson and her\ndaughters.\"\n\n\"Should I?  I am glad I was not a week later then.\"\n\nThe Admiral abused him for his want of gallantry.  He defended himself;\nthough professing that he would never willingly admit any ladies on\nboard a ship of his, excepting for a ball, or a visit, which a few\nhours might comprehend.\n\n\"But, if I know myself,\" said he, \"this is from no want of gallantry\ntowards them.  It is rather from feeling how impossible it is, with all\none's efforts, and all one's sacrifices, to make the accommodations on\nboard such as women ought to have.  There can be no want of gallantry,\nAdmiral, in rating the claims of women to every personal comfort high,\nand this is what I do.  I hate to hear of women on board, or to see\nthem on board; and no ship under my command shall ever convey a family\nof ladies anywhere, if I can help it.\"\n\nThis brought his sister upon him.\n\n\"Oh! Frederick!  But I cannot believe it of you.--All idle\nrefinement!--Women may be as comfortable on board, as in the best house\nin England.  I believe I have lived as much on board as most women, and\nI know nothing superior to the accommodations of a man-of-war.  I\ndeclare I have not a comfort or an indulgence about me, even at\nKellynch Hall,\" (with a kind bow to Anne), \"beyond what I always had in\nmost of the ships I have lived in; and they have been five altogether.\"\n\n\"Nothing to the purpose,\" replied her brother.  \"You were living with\nyour husband, and were the only woman on board.\"\n\n\"But you, yourself, brought Mrs Harville, her sister, her cousin, and\nthree children, round from Portsmouth to Plymouth.  Where was this\nsuperfine, extraordinary sort of gallantry of yours then?\"\n\n\"All merged in my friendship, Sophia.  I would assist any brother\nofficer's wife that I could, and I would bring anything of Harville's\nfrom the world's end, if he wanted it.  But do not imagine that I did\nnot feel it an evil in itself.\"\n\n\"Depend upon it, they were all perfectly comfortable.\"\n\n\"I might not like them the better for that perhaps.  Such a number of\nwomen and children have no right to be comfortable on board.\"\n\n\"My dear Frederick, you are talking quite idly.  Pray, what would\nbecome of us poor sailors' wives, who often want to be conveyed to one\nport or another, after our husbands, if everybody had your feelings?\"\n\n\"My feelings, you see, did not prevent my taking Mrs Harville and all\nher family to Plymouth.\"\n\n\"But I hate to hear you talking so like a fine gentleman, and as if\nwomen were all fine ladies, instead of rational creatures.  We none of\nus expect to be in smooth water all our days.\"\n\n\"Ah! my dear,\" said the Admiral, \"when he had got a wife, he will sing\na different tune.  When he is married, if we have the good luck to live\nto another war, we shall see him do as you and I, and a great many\nothers, have done.  We shall have him very thankful to anybody that\nwill bring him his wife.\"\n\n\"Ay, that we shall.\"\n\n\"Now I have done,\" cried Captain Wentworth.  \"When once married people\nbegin to attack me with,--'Oh! you will think very differently, when\nyou are married.'  I can only say, 'No, I shall not;' and then they say\nagain, 'Yes, you will,' and there is an end of it.\"\n\nHe got up and moved away.\n\n\"What a great traveller you must have been, ma'am!\" said Mrs Musgrove\nto Mrs Croft.\n\n\"Pretty well, ma'am in the fifteen years of my marriage; though many\nwomen have done more.  I have crossed the Atlantic four times, and have\nbeen once to the East Indies, and back again, and only once; besides\nbeing in different places about home: Cork, and Lisbon, and Gibraltar.\nBut I never went beyond the Streights, and never was in the West\nIndies.  We do not call Bermuda or Bahama, you know, the West Indies.\"\n\nMrs Musgrove had not a word to say in dissent; she could not accuse\nherself of having ever called them anything in the whole course of her\nlife.\n\n\"And I do assure you, ma'am,\" pursued Mrs Croft, \"that nothing can\nexceed the accommodations of a man-of-war; I speak, you know, of the\nhigher rates.  When you come to a frigate, of course, you are more\nconfined; though any reasonable woman may be perfectly happy in one of\nthem; and I can safely say, that the happiest part of my life has been\nspent on board a ship.  While we were together, you know, there was\nnothing to be feared.  Thank God!  I have always been blessed with\nexcellent health, and no climate disagrees with me.  A little\ndisordered always the first twenty-four hours of going to sea, but\nnever knew what sickness was afterwards.  The only time I ever really\nsuffered in body or mind, the only time that I ever fancied myself\nunwell, or had any ideas of danger, was the winter that I passed by\nmyself at Deal, when the Admiral (Captain Croft then) was in the North\nSeas.  I lived in perpetual fright at that time, and had all manner of\nimaginary complaints from not knowing what to do with myself, or when I\nshould hear from him next; but as long as we could be together, nothing\never ailed me, and I never met with the smallest inconvenience.\"\n\n\"Aye, to be sure.  Yes, indeed, oh yes!  I am quite of your opinion,\nMrs Croft,\" was Mrs Musgrove's hearty answer.  \"There is nothing so bad\nas a separation.  I am quite of your opinion.  I know what it is, for\nMr Musgrove always attends the assizes, and I am so glad when they are\nover, and he is safe back again.\"\n\nThe evening ended with dancing.  On its being proposed, Anne offered\nher services, as usual; and though her eyes would sometimes fill with\ntears as she sat at the instrument, she was extremely glad to be\nemployed, and desired nothing in return but to be unobserved.\n\nIt was a merry, joyous party, and no one seemed in higher spirits than\nCaptain Wentworth.  She felt that he had every thing to elevate him\nwhich general attention and deference, and especially the attention of\nall the young women, could do.  The Miss Hayters, the females of the\nfamily of cousins already mentioned, were apparently admitted to the\nhonour of being in love with him; and as for Henrietta and Louisa, they\nboth seemed so entirely occupied by him, that nothing but the continued\nappearance of the most perfect good-will between themselves could have\nmade it credible that they were not decided rivals.  If he were a\nlittle spoilt by such universal, such eager admiration, who could\nwonder?\n\nThese were some of the thoughts which occupied Anne, while her fingers\nwere mechanically at work, proceeding for half an hour together,\nequally without error, and without consciousness.  Once she felt that\nhe was looking at herself,  observing her altered features, perhaps,\ntrying to trace in them the ruins of the face which had once charmed\nhim; and once she knew that he must have spoken of her; she was hardly\naware of it, till she heard the answer; but then she was sure of his\nhaving asked his partner whether Miss Elliot never danced?  The answer\nwas, \"Oh, no; never; she has quite given up dancing.  She had rather\nplay.  She is never tired of playing.\"  Once, too, he spoke to her.\nShe had left the instrument on the dancing being over, and he had sat\ndown to try to make out an air which he wished to give the Miss\nMusgroves an idea of.  Unintentionally she returned to that part of the\nroom; he saw her, and, instantly rising, said, with studied politeness--\n\n\"I beg your pardon, madam, this is your seat;\" and though she\nimmediately drew back with a decided negative, he was not to be induced\nto sit down again.\n\nAnne did not wish for more of such looks and speeches.  His cold\npoliteness, his ceremonious grace, were worse than anything.\n\n\n\nChapter 9\n\n\nCaptain Wentworth was come to Kellynch as to a home, to stay as long as\nhe liked, being as thoroughly the object of the Admiral's fraternal\nkindness as of his wife's.  He had intended, on first arriving, to\nproceed very soon into Shropshire, and visit the brother settled in\nthat country, but the attractions of Uppercross induced him to put this\noff.  There was so much of friendliness, and of flattery, and of\neverything most bewitching in his reception there; the old were so\nhospitable, the young so agreeable, that he could not but resolve to\nremain where he was, and take all the charms and perfections of\nEdward's wife upon credit a little longer.\n\nIt was soon Uppercross with him almost every day.  The Musgroves could\nhardly be more ready to invite than he to come, particularly in the\nmorning, when he had no companion at home, for the Admiral and Mrs\nCroft were generally out of doors together, interesting themselves in\ntheir new possessions, their grass, and their sheep, and dawdling about\nin a way not endurable to a third person, or driving out in a gig,\nlately added to their establishment.\n\nHitherto there had been but one opinion of Captain Wentworth among the\nMusgroves and their dependencies.  It was unvarying, warm admiration\neverywhere; but this intimate footing was not more than established,\nwhen a certain Charles Hayter returned among them, to be a good deal\ndisturbed by it, and to think Captain Wentworth very much in the way.\n\nCharles Hayter was the eldest of all the cousins, and a very amiable,\npleasing young man, between whom and Henrietta there had been a\nconsiderable appearance of attachment previous to Captain Wentworth's\nintroduction.  He was in orders; and having a curacy in the\nneighbourhood, where residence was not required, lived at his father's\nhouse, only two miles from Uppercross.  A short absence from home had\nleft his fair one unguarded by his attentions at this critical period,\nand when he came back he had the pain of finding very altered manners,\nand of seeing Captain Wentworth.\n\nMrs Musgrove and Mrs Hayter were sisters.  They had each had money, but\ntheir marriages had made a material difference in their degree of\nconsequence.  Mr Hayter had some property of his own, but it was\ninsignificant compared with Mr Musgrove's; and while the Musgroves were\nin the first class of society in the country, the young Hayters would,\nfrom their parents' inferior, retired, and unpolished way of living,\nand their own defective education, have been hardly in any class at\nall, but for their connexion with Uppercross, this eldest son of course\nexcepted, who had chosen to be a scholar and a gentleman, and who was\nvery superior in cultivation and manners to all the rest.\n\nThe two families had always been on excellent terms, there being no\npride on one side, and no envy on the other, and only such a\nconsciousness of superiority in the Miss Musgroves, as made them\npleased to improve their cousins.  Charles's attentions to Henrietta\nhad been observed by her father and mother without any disapprobation.\n\"It would not be a great match for her; but if Henrietta liked him,\"--\nand Henrietta did seem to like him.\n\nHenrietta fully thought so herself, before Captain Wentworth came; but\nfrom that time Cousin Charles had been very much forgotten.\n\nWhich of the two sisters was preferred by Captain Wentworth was as yet\nquite doubtful, as far as Anne's observation reached.  Henrietta was\nperhaps the prettiest, Louisa had the higher spirits; and she knew not\nnow, whether the more gentle or the more lively character were most\nlikely to attract him.\n\nMr and Mrs Musgrove, either from seeing little, or from an entire\nconfidence in the discretion of both their daughters, and of all the\nyoung men who came near them, seemed to leave everything to take its\nchance.  There was not the smallest appearance of solicitude or remark\nabout them in the Mansion-house; but it was different at the Cottage:\nthe young couple there were more disposed to speculate and wonder; and\nCaptain Wentworth had not been above four or five times in the Miss\nMusgroves' company, and Charles Hayter had but just reappeared, when\nAnne had to listen to the opinions of her brother and sister, as to\nwhich was the one liked best.  Charles gave it for Louisa, Mary for\nHenrietta, but quite agreeing that to have him marry either could be\nextremely delightful.\n\nCharles \"had never seen a pleasanter man in his life; and from what he\nhad once heard Captain Wentworth himself say, was very sure that he had\nnot made less than twenty thousand pounds by the war.  Here was a\nfortune at once; besides which, there would be the chance of what might\nbe done in any future war; and he was sure Captain Wentworth was as\nlikely a man to distinguish himself as any officer in the navy.  Oh! it\nwould be a capital match for either of his sisters.\"\n\n\"Upon my word it would,\" replied Mary.  \"Dear me!  If he should rise to\nany very great honours!  If he should ever be made a baronet!  'Lady\nWentworth' sounds very well.  That would be a noble thing, indeed, for\nHenrietta!  She would take place of me then, and Henrietta would not\ndislike that.  Sir Frederick and Lady Wentworth!  It would be but a new\ncreation, however, and I never think much of your new creations.\"\n\nIt suited Mary best to think Henrietta the one preferred on the very\naccount of Charles Hayter, whose pretensions she wished to see put an\nend to.  She looked down very decidedly upon the Hayters, and thought\nit would be quite a misfortune to have the existing connection between\nthe families renewed--very sad for herself and her children.\n\n\"You know,\" said she, \"I cannot think him at all a fit match for\nHenrietta; and considering the alliances which the Musgroves have made,\nshe has no right to throw herself away.  I do not think any young woman\nhas a right to make a choice that may be disagreeable and inconvenient\nto the principal part of her family, and be giving bad connections to\nthose who have not been used to them.  And, pray, who is Charles\nHayter?  Nothing but a country curate.  A most improper match for Miss\nMusgrove of Uppercross.\"\n\nHer husband, however, would not agree with her here; for besides having\na regard for his cousin, Charles Hayter was an eldest son, and he saw\nthings as an eldest son himself.\n\n\"Now you are talking nonsense, Mary,\" was therefore his answer.  \"It\nwould not be a great match for Henrietta, but Charles has a very fair\nchance, through the Spicers, of getting something from the Bishop in\nthe course of a year or two; and you will please to remember, that he\nis the eldest son; whenever my uncle dies, he steps into very pretty\nproperty.  The estate at Winthrop is not less than two hundred and\nfifty acres, besides the farm near Taunton, which is some of the best\nland in the country.  I grant you, that any of them but Charles would\nbe a very shocking match for Henrietta, and indeed it could not be; he\nis the only one that could be possible; but he is a very good-natured,\ngood sort of a fellow; and whenever Winthrop comes into his hands, he\nwill make a different sort of place of it, and live in a very different\nsort of way; and with that property, he will never be a contemptible\nman--good, freehold property.  No, no; Henrietta might do worse than\nmarry Charles Hayter; and if she has him, and Louisa can get Captain\nWentworth, I shall be very well satisfied.\"\n\n\"Charles may say what he pleases,\" cried Mary to Anne, as soon as he\nwas out of the room, \"but it would be shocking to have Henrietta marry\nCharles Hayter; a very bad thing for her, and still worse for me; and\ntherefore it is very much to be wished that Captain Wentworth may soon\nput him quite out of her head, and I have very little doubt that he\nhas.  She took hardly any notice of Charles Hayter yesterday.  I wish\nyou had been there to see her behaviour.  And as to Captain Wentworth's\nliking Louisa as well as Henrietta, it is nonsense to say so; for he\ncertainly does like Henrietta a great deal the best.  But Charles is so\npositive!  I wish you had been with us yesterday, for then you might\nhave decided between us; and I am sure you would have thought as I did,\nunless you had been determined to give it against me.\"\n\nA dinner at Mr Musgrove's had been the occasion when all these things\nshould have been seen by Anne; but she had staid at home, under the\nmixed plea of a headache of her own, and some return of indisposition\nin little Charles.  She had thought only of avoiding Captain Wentworth;\nbut an escape from being appealed to as umpire was now added to the\nadvantages of a quiet evening.\n\nAs to Captain Wentworth's views, she deemed it of more consequence that\nhe should know his own mind early enough not to be endangering the\nhappiness of either sister, or impeaching his own honour, than that he\nshould prefer Henrietta to Louisa, or Louisa to Henrietta.  Either of\nthem would, in all probability, make him an affectionate, good-humoured\nwife.  With regard to Charles Hayter, she had delicacy which must be\npained by any lightness of conduct in a well-meaning young woman, and a\nheart to sympathize in any of the sufferings it occasioned; but if\nHenrietta found herself mistaken in the nature of her feelings, the\nalternation could not be understood too soon.\n\nCharles Hayter had met with much to disquiet and mortify him in his\ncousin's behaviour.  She had too old a regard for him to be so wholly\nestranged as might in two meetings extinguish every past hope, and\nleave him nothing to do but to keep away from Uppercross:  but there\nwas such a change as became very alarming, when such a man as Captain\nWentworth was to be regarded as the probable cause.  He had been absent\nonly two Sundays, and when they parted, had left her interested, even\nto the height of his wishes, in his prospect of soon quitting his\npresent curacy, and obtaining that of Uppercross instead.  It had then\nseemed the object nearest her heart, that Dr Shirley, the rector, who\nfor more than forty years had been zealously discharging all the duties\nof his office, but was now growing too infirm for many of them, should\nbe quite fixed on engaging a curate; should make his curacy quite as\ngood as he could afford, and should give Charles Hayter the promise of\nit.  The advantage of his having to come only to Uppercross, instead of\ngoing six miles another way; of his having, in every respect, a better\ncuracy; of his belonging to their dear Dr Shirley, and of dear, good Dr\nShirley's being relieved from the duty which he could no longer get\nthrough without most injurious fatigue, had been a great deal, even to\nLouisa, but had been almost everything to Henrietta.  When he came\nback, alas!  the zeal of the business was gone by.  Louisa could not\nlisten at all to his account of a conversation which he had just held\nwith Dr Shirley: she was at a window, looking out for Captain\nWentworth; and even Henrietta had at best only a divided attention to\ngive, and seemed to have forgotten all the former doubt and solicitude\nof the negotiation.\n\n\"Well, I am very glad indeed:  but I always thought you would have it;\nI always thought you sure.  It did not appear to me that--in short, you\nknow, Dr Shirley must have a curate, and you had secured his promise.\nIs he coming, Louisa?\"\n\nOne morning, very soon after the dinner at the Musgroves, at which Anne\nhad not been present, Captain Wentworth walked into the drawing-room at\nthe Cottage, where were only herself and the little invalid Charles,\nwho was lying on the sofa.\n\nThe surprise of finding himself almost alone with Anne Elliot, deprived\nhis manners of their usual composure:  he started, and could only say,\n\"I thought the Miss Musgroves had been here: Mrs Musgrove told me I\nshould find them here,\" before he walked to the window to recollect\nhimself, and feel how he ought to behave.\n\n\"They are up stairs with my sister:  they will be down in a few\nmoments, I dare say,\" had been Anne's reply, in all the confusion that\nwas natural; and if the child had not called her to come and do\nsomething for him, she would have been out of the room the next moment,\nand released Captain Wentworth as well as herself.\n\nHe continued at the window; and after calmly and politely saying, \"I\nhope the little boy is better,\" was silent.\n\nShe was obliged to kneel down by the sofa, and remain there to satisfy\nher patient; and thus they continued a few minutes, when, to her very\ngreat satisfaction, she heard some other person crossing the little\nvestibule.  She hoped, on turning her head, to see the master of the\nhouse; but it proved to be one much less calculated for making matters\neasy--Charles Hayter, probably not at all better pleased by the sight\nof Captain Wentworth than Captain Wentworth had been by the sight of\nAnne.\n\nShe only attempted to say, \"How do you do?  Will you not sit down?  The\nothers will be here presently.\"\n\nCaptain Wentworth, however, came from his window, apparently not\nill-disposed for conversation; but Charles Hayter soon put an end to\nhis attempts by seating himself near the table, and taking up the\nnewspaper; and Captain Wentworth returned to his window.\n\nAnother minute brought another addition.  The younger boy, a remarkable\nstout, forward child, of two years old, having got the door opened for\nhim by some one without, made his determined appearance among them, and\nwent straight to the sofa to see what was going on, and put in his\nclaim to anything good that might be giving away.\n\nThere being nothing to eat, he could only have some play; and as his\naunt would not let him tease his sick brother, he began to fasten\nhimself upon her, as she knelt, in such a way that, busy as she was\nabout Charles, she could not shake him off.  She spoke to him, ordered,\nentreated, and insisted in vain.  Once she did contrive to push him\naway, but the boy had the greater pleasure in getting upon her back\nagain directly.\n\n\"Walter,\" said she, \"get down this moment.  You are extremely\ntroublesome.  I am very angry with you.\"\n\n\"Walter,\" cried Charles Hayter, \"why do you not do as you are bid?  Do\nnot you hear your aunt speak?  Come to me, Walter, come to cousin\nCharles.\"\n\nBut not a bit did Walter stir.\n\nIn another moment, however, she found herself in the state of being\nreleased from him; some one was taking him from her, though he had bent\ndown her head so much, that his little sturdy hands were unfastened\nfrom around her neck, and he was resolutely borne away, before she knew\nthat Captain Wentworth had done it.\n\nHer sensations on the discovery made her perfectly speechless.  She\ncould not even thank him.  She could only hang over little Charles,\nwith most disordered feelings.  His kindness in stepping forward to her\nrelief, the manner, the silence in which it had passed, the little\nparticulars of the circumstance, with the conviction soon forced on her\nby the noise he was studiously making with the child, that he meant to\navoid hearing her thanks, and rather sought to testify that her\nconversation was the last of his wants, produced such a confusion of\nvarying, but very painful agitation, as she could not recover from,\ntill enabled by the entrance of Mary and the Miss Musgroves to make\nover her little patient to their cares, and leave the room.  She could\nnot stay.  It might have been an opportunity of watching the loves and\njealousies of the four--they were now altogether; but she could stay\nfor none of it.  It was evident that Charles Hayter was not well\ninclined towards Captain Wentworth.  She had a strong impression of his\nhaving said, in a vext tone of voice, after Captain Wentworth's\ninterference, \"You ought to have minded me, Walter; I told you not to\nteaze your aunt;\" and could comprehend his regretting that Captain\nWentworth should do what he ought to have done himself.  But neither\nCharles Hayter's feelings, nor anybody's feelings, could interest her,\ntill she had a little better arranged her own.  She was ashamed of\nherself, quite ashamed of being so nervous, so overcome by such a\ntrifle; but so it was, and it required a long application of solitude\nand reflection to recover her.\n\n\n\nChapter 10\n\n\nOther opportunities of making her observations could not fail to occur.\nAnne had soon been in company with all the four together often enough\nto have an opinion, though too wise to acknowledge as much at home,\nwhere she knew it would have satisfied neither husband nor wife; for\nwhile she considered Louisa to be rather the favourite, she could not\nbut think, as far as she might dare to judge from memory and\nexperience, that Captain Wentworth was not in love with either.  They\nwere more in love with him; yet there it was not love.  It was a little\nfever of admiration; but it might, probably must, end in love with\nsome.  Charles Hayter seemed aware of being slighted, and yet Henrietta\nhad sometimes the air of being divided between them.  Anne longed for\nthe power of representing to them all what they were about, and of\npointing out some of the evils they were exposing themselves to.  She\ndid not attribute guile to any.  It was the highest satisfaction to her\nto believe Captain Wentworth not in the least aware of the pain he was\noccasioning.  There was no triumph, no pitiful triumph in his manner.\nHe had, probably, never heard, and never thought of any claims of\nCharles Hayter.  He was only wrong in accepting the attentions (for\naccepting must be the word) of two young women at once.\n\nAfter a short struggle, however, Charles Hayter seemed to quit the\nfield.  Three days had passed without his coming once to Uppercross; a\nmost decided change.  He had even refused one regular invitation to\ndinner; and having been found on the occasion by Mr Musgrove with some\nlarge books before him, Mr and Mrs Musgrove were sure all could not be\nright, and talked, with grave faces, of his studying himself to death.\nIt was Mary's hope and belief that he had received a positive dismissal\nfrom Henrietta, and her husband lived under the constant dependence of\nseeing him to-morrow.  Anne could only feel that Charles Hayter was\nwise.\n\nOne morning, about this time Charles Musgrove and Captain Wentworth\nbeing gone a-shooting together, as the sisters in the Cottage were\nsitting quietly at work, they were visited at the window by the sisters\nfrom the Mansion-house.\n\nIt was a very fine November day, and the Miss Musgroves came through\nthe little grounds, and stopped for no other purpose than to say, that\nthey were going to take a long walk, and therefore concluded Mary could\nnot like to go with them; and when Mary immediately replied, with some\njealousy at not being supposed a good walker, \"Oh, yes, I should like\nto join you very much, I am very fond of a long walk;\" Anne felt\npersuaded, by the looks of the two girls, that it was precisely what\nthey did not wish, and admired again the sort of necessity which the\nfamily habits seemed to produce, of everything being to be\ncommunicated, and everything being to be done together, however\nundesired and inconvenient.  She tried to dissuade Mary from going, but\nin vain; and that being the case, thought it best to accept the Miss\nMusgroves' much more cordial invitation to herself to go likewise, as\nshe might be useful in turning back with her sister, and lessening the\ninterference in any plan of their own.\n\n\"I cannot imagine why they should suppose I should not like a long\nwalk,\" said Mary, as she went up stairs.  \"Everybody is always\nsupposing that I am not a good walker; and yet they would not have been\npleased, if we had refused to join them.  When people come in this\nmanner on purpose to ask us, how can one say no?\"\n\nJust as they were setting off, the gentlemen returned.  They had taken\nout a young dog, who had spoilt their sport, and sent them back early.\nTheir time and strength, and spirits, were, therefore, exactly ready\nfor this walk, and they entered into it with pleasure.  Could Anne have\nforeseen such a junction, she would have staid at home; but, from some\nfeelings of interest and curiosity, she fancied now that it was too\nlate to retract, and the whole six set forward together in the\ndirection chosen by the Miss Musgroves, who evidently considered the\nwalk as under their guidance.\n\nAnne's object was, not to be in the way of anybody; and where the\nnarrow paths across the fields made many separations necessary, to keep\nwith her brother and sister.  Her pleasure in the walk must arise from\nthe exercise and the day, from the view of the last smiles of the year\nupon the tawny leaves, and withered hedges, and from repeating to\nherself some few of the thousand poetical descriptions extant of\nautumn, that season of peculiar and inexhaustible influence on the mind\nof taste and tenderness, that season which had drawn from every poet,\nworthy of being read, some attempt at description, or some lines of\nfeeling.  She occupied her mind as much as possible in such like\nmusings and quotations; but it was not possible, that when within reach\nof Captain Wentworth's conversation with either of the Miss Musgroves,\nshe should not try to hear it; yet she caught little very remarkable.\nIt was mere lively chat, such as any young persons, on an intimate\nfooting, might fall into.  He was more engaged with Louisa than with\nHenrietta.  Louisa certainly put more forward for his notice than her\nsister.  This distinction appeared to increase, and there was one\nspeech of Louisa's which struck her.  After one of the many praises of\nthe day, which were continually bursting forth, Captain Wentworth\nadded:--\n\n\"What glorious weather for the Admiral and my sister!  They meant to\ntake a long drive this morning; perhaps we may hail them from some of\nthese hills.  They talked of coming into this side of the country.  I\nwonder whereabouts they will upset to-day.  Oh! it does happen very\noften, I assure you; but my sister makes nothing of it; she would as\nlieve be tossed out as not.\"\n\n\"Ah! You make the most of it, I know,\" cried Louisa, \"but if it were\nreally so, I should do just the same in her place.  If I loved a man,\nas she loves the Admiral, I would always be with him, nothing should\never separate us, and I would rather be overturned by him, than driven\nsafely by anybody else.\"\n\nIt was spoken with enthusiasm.\n\n\"Had you?\" cried he, catching the same tone; \"I honour you!\" And there\nwas silence between them for a little while.\n\nAnne could not immediately fall into a quotation again.  The sweet\nscenes of autumn were for a while put by, unless some tender sonnet,\nfraught with the apt analogy of the declining year, with declining\nhappiness, and the images of youth and hope, and spring, all gone\ntogether, blessed her memory.  She roused herself to say, as they\nstruck by order into another path, \"Is not this one of the ways to\nWinthrop?\" But nobody heard, or, at least, nobody answered her.\n\nWinthrop, however, or its environs--for young men are, sometimes to be\nmet with, strolling about near home--was their destination; and after\nanother half mile of gradual ascent through large enclosures, where the\nploughs at work, and the fresh made path spoke the farmer counteracting\nthe sweets of poetical despondence, and meaning to have spring again,\nthey gained the summit of the most considerable hill, which parted\nUppercross and Winthrop, and soon commanded a full view of the latter,\nat the foot of the hill on the other side.\n\nWinthrop, without beauty and without dignity, was stretched before them\nan indifferent house, standing low, and hemmed in by the barns and\nbuildings of a farm-yard.\n\nMary exclaimed, \"Bless me! here is Winthrop.  I declare I had no idea!\nWell now, I think we had better turn back; I am excessively tired.\"\n\nHenrietta, conscious and ashamed, and seeing no cousin Charles walking\nalong any path, or leaning against any gate, was ready to do as Mary\nwished; but \"No!\" said Charles Musgrove, and \"No, no!\" cried Louisa\nmore eagerly, and taking her sister aside, seemed to be arguing the\nmatter warmly.\n\nCharles, in the meanwhile, was very decidedly declaring his resolution\nof calling on his aunt, now that he was so near; and very evidently,\nthough more fearfully, trying to induce his wife to go too.  But this\nwas one of the points on which the lady shewed her strength; and when\nhe recommended the advantage of resting herself a quarter of an hour at\nWinthrop, as she felt so tired, she resolutely answered, \"Oh! no,\nindeed! walking up that hill again would do her more harm than any\nsitting down could do her good;\" and, in short, her look and manner\ndeclared, that go she would not.\n\nAfter a little succession of these sort of debates and consultations,\nit was settled between Charles and his two sisters, that he and\nHenrietta should just run down for a few minutes, to see their aunt and\ncousins, while the rest of the party waited for them at the top of the\nhill.  Louisa seemed the principal arranger of the plan; and, as she\nwent a little way with them, down the hill, still talking to Henrietta,\nMary took the opportunity of looking scornfully around her, and saying\nto Captain Wentworth--\n\n\"It is very unpleasant, having such connexions!  But, I assure you, I\nhave never been in the house above twice in my life.\"\n\nShe received no other answer, than an artificial, assenting smile,\nfollowed by a contemptuous glance, as he turned away, which Anne\nperfectly knew the meaning of.\n\nThe brow of the hill, where they remained, was a cheerful spot: Louisa\nreturned; and Mary, finding a comfortable seat for herself on the step\nof a stile, was very well satisfied so long as the others all stood\nabout her; but when Louisa drew Captain Wentworth away, to try for a\ngleaning of nuts in an adjoining hedge-row, and they were gone by\ndegrees quite out of sight and sound, Mary was happy no longer; she\nquarrelled with her own seat, was sure Louisa had got a much better\nsomewhere, and nothing could prevent her from going to look for a\nbetter also.  She turned through the same gate, but could not see them.\nAnne found a nice seat for her, on a dry sunny bank, under the\nhedge-row, in which she had no doubt of their still being, in some spot\nor other.  Mary sat down for a moment, but it would not do; she was\nsure Louisa had found a better seat somewhere else, and she would go on\ntill she overtook her.\n\nAnne, really tired herself, was glad to sit down; and she very soon\nheard Captain Wentworth and Louisa in the hedge-row, behind her, as if\nmaking their way back along the rough, wild sort of channel, down the\ncentre.  They were speaking as they drew near.  Louisa's voice was the\nfirst distinguished.  She seemed to be in the middle of some eager\nspeech.  What Anne first heard was--\n\n\"And so, I made her go.  I could not bear that she should be frightened\nfrom the visit by such nonsense.  What! would I be turned back from\ndoing a thing that I had determined to do, and that I knew to be right,\nby the airs and interference of such a person, or of any person I may\nsay?  No, I have no idea of being so easily persuaded.  When I have\nmade up my mind, I have made it; and Henrietta seemed entirely to have\nmade up hers to call at Winthrop to-day; and yet, she was as near\ngiving it up, out of nonsensical complaisance!\"\n\n\"She would have turned back then, but for you?\"\n\n\"She would indeed.  I am almost ashamed to say it.\"\n\n\"Happy for her, to have such a mind as yours at hand!  After the hints\nyou gave just now, which did but confirm my own observations, the last\ntime I was in company with him,  I need not affect to have no\ncomprehension of what is going on.  I see that more than a mere dutiful\nmorning visit to your aunt was in question; and woe betide him, and her\ntoo, when it comes to things of consequence, when they are placed in\ncircumstances requiring fortitude and strength of mind, if she have not\nresolution enough to resist idle interference in such a trifle as this.\nYour sister is an amiable creature; but yours is the character of\ndecision and firmness, I see.  If you value her conduct or happiness,\ninfuse as much of your own spirit into her as you can.  But this, no\ndoubt, you have been always doing.  It is the worst evil of too\nyielding and indecisive a character, that no influence over it can be\ndepended on.  You are never sure of a good impression being durable;\neverybody may sway it.  Let those who would be happy be firm.  Here is\na nut,\" said he, catching one down from an upper bough, \"to exemplify:\na beautiful glossy nut, which, blessed with original strength, has\noutlived all the storms of autumn.  Not a puncture, not a weak spot\nanywhere.  This nut,\" he continued, with playful solemnity, \"while so\nmany of his brethren have fallen and been trodden under foot, is still\nin possession of all the happiness that a hazel nut can be supposed\ncapable of.\"  Then returning to his former earnest tone--\"My first\nwish for all whom I am interested in, is that they should be firm.  If\nLouisa Musgrove would be beautiful and happy in her November of life,\nshe will cherish all her present powers of mind.\"\n\nHe had done, and was unanswered.  It would have surprised Anne if\nLouisa could have readily answered such a speech:  words of such\ninterest, spoken with such serious warmth!  She could imagine what\nLouisa was feeling.  For herself, she feared to move, lest she should\nbe seen.  While she remained, a bush of low rambling holly protected\nher, and they were moving on.  Before they were beyond her hearing,\nhowever, Louisa spoke again.\n\n\"Mary is good-natured enough in many respects,\" said she; \"but she does\nsometimes provoke me excessively, by her nonsense and pride--the Elliot\npride.  She has a great deal too much of the Elliot pride.  We do so\nwish that Charles had married Anne instead.  I suppose you know he\nwanted to marry Anne?\"\n\nAfter a moment's pause, Captain Wentworth said--\n\n\"Do you mean that she refused him?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes; certainly.\"\n\n\"When did that happen?\"\n\n\"I do not exactly know, for Henrietta and I were at school at the time;\nbut I believe about a year before he married Mary.  I wish she had\naccepted him.  We should all have liked her a great deal better; and\npapa and mamma always think it was her great friend Lady Russell's\ndoing, that she did not.  They think Charles might not be learned and\nbookish enough to please Lady Russell, and that therefore, she\npersuaded Anne to refuse him.\"\n\nThe sounds were retreating, and Anne distinguished no more.  Her own\nemotions still kept her fixed.  She had much to recover from, before\nshe could move.  The listener's proverbial fate was not absolutely\nhers; she had heard no evil of herself, but she had heard a great deal\nof very painful import.  She saw how her own character was considered\nby Captain Wentworth, and there had been just that degree of feeling\nand curiosity about her in his manner which must give her extreme\nagitation.\n\nAs soon as she could, she went after Mary, and having found, and walked\nback with her to their former station, by the stile, felt some comfort\nin their whole party being immediately afterwards collected, and once\nmore in motion together.  Her spirits wanted the solitude and silence\nwhich only numbers could give.\n\nCharles and Henrietta returned, bringing, as may be conjectured,\nCharles Hayter with them.  The minutiae of the business Anne could not\nattempt to understand; even Captain Wentworth did not seem admitted to\nperfect confidence here; but that there had been a withdrawing on the\ngentleman's side, and a relenting on the lady's, and that they were now\nvery glad to be together again, did not admit a doubt.  Henrietta\nlooked a little ashamed, but very well pleased;--Charles Hayter\nexceedingly happy:  and they were devoted to each other almost from the\nfirst instant of their all setting forward for Uppercross.\n\nEverything now marked out Louisa for Captain Wentworth; nothing could\nbe plainer; and where many divisions were necessary, or even where they\nwere not, they walked side by side nearly as much as the other two.  In\na long strip of meadow land, where there was ample space for all, they\nwere thus divided, forming three distinct parties; and to that party of\nthe three which boasted least animation, and least complaisance, Anne\nnecessarily belonged.  She joined Charles and Mary, and was tired\nenough to be very glad of Charles's other arm; but Charles, though in\nvery good humour with her, was out of temper with his wife.  Mary had\nshewn herself disobliging to him, and was now to reap the consequence,\nwhich consequence was his dropping her arm almost every moment to cut\noff the heads of some nettles in the hedge with his switch; and when\nMary began to complain of it, and lament her being ill-used, according\nto custom, in being on the hedge side, while Anne was never incommoded\non the other, he dropped the arms of both to hunt after a weasel which\nhe had a momentary glance of, and they could hardly get him along at\nall.\n\nThis long meadow bordered a lane, which their footpath, at the end of\nit was to cross, and when the party had all reached the gate of exit,\nthe carriage advancing in the same direction, which had been some time\nheard, was just coming up, and proved to be Admiral Croft's gig.  He\nand his wife had taken their intended drive, and were returning home.\nUpon hearing how long a walk the young people had engaged in, they\nkindly offered a seat to any lady who might be particularly tired; it\nwould save her a full mile, and they were going through Uppercross.\nThe invitation was general, and generally declined.  The Miss Musgroves\nwere not at all tired, and Mary was either offended, by not being asked\nbefore any of the others, or what Louisa called the Elliot pride could\nnot endure to make a third in a one horse chaise.\n\nThe walking party had crossed the lane, and were surmounting an\nopposite stile, and the Admiral was putting his horse in motion again,\nwhen Captain Wentworth cleared the hedge in a moment to say something\nto his sister.  The something might be guessed by its effects.\n\n\"Miss Elliot, I am sure you are tired,\" cried Mrs Croft.  \"Do let us\nhave the pleasure of taking you home.  Here is excellent room for\nthree, I assure you.  If we were all like you, I believe we might sit\nfour.  You must, indeed, you must.\"\n\nAnne was still in the lane; and though instinctively beginning to\ndecline, she was not allowed to proceed.  The Admiral's kind urgency\ncame in support of his wife's; they would not be refused; they\ncompressed themselves into the smallest possible space to leave her a\ncorner, and Captain Wentworth, without saying a word, turned to her,\nand quietly obliged her to be assisted into the carriage.\n\nYes; he had done it.  She was in the carriage, and felt that he had\nplaced her there, that his will and his hands had done it, that she\nowed it to his perception of her fatigue, and his resolution to give\nher rest.  She was very much affected by the view of his disposition\ntowards her, which all these things made apparent.  This little\ncircumstance seemed the completion of all that had gone before.  She\nunderstood him.  He could not forgive her, but he could not be\nunfeeling.  Though condemning her for the past, and considering it with\nhigh and unjust resentment, though perfectly careless of her, and\nthough becoming attached to another, still he could not see her suffer,\nwithout the desire of giving her relief.  It was a remainder of former\nsentiment; it was an impulse of pure, though unacknowledged friendship;\nit was a proof of his own warm and amiable heart, which she could not\ncontemplate without emotions so compounded of pleasure and pain, that\nshe knew not which prevailed.\n\nHer answers to the kindness and the remarks of her companions were at\nfirst unconsciously given.  They had travelled half their way along the\nrough lane, before she was quite awake to what they said.  She then\nfound them talking of \"Frederick.\"\n\n\"He certainly means to have one or other of those two girls, Sophy,\"\nsaid the Admiral; \"but there is no saying which.  He has been running\nafter them, too, long enough, one would think, to make up his mind.\nAy, this comes of the peace.  If it were war now, he would have settled\nit long ago.  We sailors, Miss Elliot, cannot afford to make long\ncourtships in time of war.  How many days was it, my dear, between the\nfirst time of my seeing you and our sitting down together in our\nlodgings at North Yarmouth?\"\n\n\"We had better not talk about it, my dear,\" replied Mrs Croft,\npleasantly; \"for if Miss Elliot were to hear how soon we came to an\nunderstanding, she would never be persuaded that we could be happy\ntogether.  I had known you by character, however, long before.\"\n\n\"Well, and I had heard of you as a very pretty girl, and what were we\nto wait for besides?  I do not like having such things so long in hand.\nI wish Frederick would spread a little more canvass, and bring us home\none of these young ladies to Kellynch.  Then there would always be\ncompany for them.  And very nice young ladies they both are; I hardly\nknow one from the other.\"\n\n\"Very good humoured, unaffected girls, indeed,\" said Mrs Croft, in a\ntone of calmer praise, such as made Anne suspect that her keener powers\nmight not consider either of them as quite worthy of her brother; \"and\na very respectable family.  One could not be connected with better\npeople.  My dear Admiral, that post!  we shall certainly take that\npost.\"\n\nBut by coolly giving the reins a better direction herself they happily\npassed the danger; and by once afterwards judiciously putting out her\nhand they neither fell into a rut, nor ran foul of a dung-cart; and\nAnne, with some amusement at their style of driving, which she imagined\nno bad representation of the general guidance of their affairs, found\nherself safely deposited by them at the Cottage.\n\n\n\nChapter 11\n\n\nThe time now approached for Lady Russell's return:  the day was even\nfixed; and Anne, being engaged to join her as soon as she was\nresettled, was looking forward to an early removal to Kellynch, and\nbeginning to think how her own comfort was likely to be affected by it.\n\nIt would place her in the same village with Captain Wentworth, within\nhalf a mile of him; they would have to frequent the same church, and\nthere must be intercourse between the two families.  This was against\nher; but on the other hand, he spent so much of his time at Uppercross,\nthat in removing thence she might be considered rather as leaving him\nbehind, than as going towards him; and, upon the whole, she believed\nshe must, on this interesting question, be the gainer, almost as\ncertainly as in her change of domestic society, in leaving poor Mary\nfor Lady Russell.\n\nShe wished it might be possible for her to avoid ever seeing Captain\nWentworth at the Hall:  those rooms had witnessed former meetings which\nwould be brought too painfully before her; but she was yet more anxious\nfor the possibility of Lady Russell and Captain Wentworth never meeting\nanywhere.  They did not like each other, and no renewal of acquaintance\nnow could do any good; and were Lady Russell to see them together, she\nmight think that he had too much self-possession, and she too little.\n\nThese points formed her chief solicitude in anticipating her removal\nfrom Uppercross, where she felt she had been stationed quite long\nenough.  Her usefulness to little Charles would always give some\nsweetness to the memory of her two months' visit there, but he was\ngaining strength apace, and she had nothing else to stay for.\n\nThe conclusion of her visit, however, was diversified in a way which\nshe had not at all imagined.  Captain Wentworth, after being unseen and\nunheard of at Uppercross for two whole days, appeared again among them\nto justify himself by a relation of what had kept him away.\n\nA letter from his friend, Captain Harville, having found him out at\nlast, had brought intelligence of Captain Harville's being settled with\nhis family at Lyme for the winter; of their being therefore, quite\nunknowingly, within twenty miles of each other.  Captain Harville had\nnever been in good health since a severe wound which he received two\nyears before, and Captain Wentworth's anxiety to see him had determined\nhim to go immediately to Lyme.  He had been there for four-and-twenty\nhours.  His acquittal was complete, his friendship warmly honoured, a\nlively interest excited for his friend, and his description of the fine\ncountry about Lyme so feelingly attended to by the party, that an\nearnest desire to see Lyme themselves, and a project for going thither\nwas the consequence.\n\nThe young people were all wild to see Lyme.  Captain Wentworth talked\nof going there again himself, it was only seventeen miles from\nUppercross; though November, the weather was by no means bad; and, in\nshort, Louisa, who was the most eager of the eager, having formed the\nresolution to go, and besides the pleasure of doing as she liked, being\nnow armed with the idea of merit in maintaining her own way, bore down\nall the wishes of her father and mother for putting it off till summer;\nand to Lyme they were to go--Charles, Mary, Anne, Henrietta, Louisa,\nand Captain Wentworth.\n\nThe first heedless scheme had been to go in the morning and return at\nnight; but to this Mr Musgrove, for the sake of his horses, would not\nconsent; and when it came to be rationally considered, a day in the\nmiddle of November would not leave much time for seeing a new place,\nafter deducting seven hours, as the nature of the country required, for\ngoing and returning.  They were, consequently, to stay the night there,\nand not to be expected back till the next day's dinner.  This was felt\nto be a considerable amendment; and though they all met at the Great\nHouse at rather an early breakfast hour, and set off very punctually,\nit was so much past noon before the two carriages, Mr Musgrove's coach\ncontaining the four ladies, and Charles's curricle, in which he drove\nCaptain Wentworth, were descending the long hill into Lyme, and\nentering upon the still steeper street of the town itself, that it was\nvery evident they would not have more than time for looking about them,\nbefore the light and warmth of the day were gone.\n\nAfter securing accommodations, and ordering a dinner at one of the\ninns, the next thing to be done was unquestionably to walk directly\ndown to the sea.  They were come too late in the year for any amusement\nor variety which Lyme, as a public place, might offer.  The rooms were\nshut up, the lodgers almost all gone, scarcely any family but of the\nresidents left; and, as there is nothing to admire in the buildings\nthemselves, the remarkable situation of the town, the principal street\nalmost hurrying into the water, the walk to the Cobb, skirting round\nthe pleasant little bay, which, in the season, is animated with bathing\nmachines and company; the Cobb itself, its old wonders and new\nimprovements, with the very beautiful line of cliffs stretching out to\nthe east of the town, are what the stranger's eye will seek; and a very\nstrange stranger it must be, who does not see charms in the immediate\nenvirons of Lyme, to make him wish to know it better.  The scenes in\nits neighbourhood, Charmouth, with its high grounds and extensive\nsweeps of country, and still more, its sweet, retired bay, backed by\ndark cliffs, where fragments of low rock among the sands, make it the\nhappiest spot for watching the flow of the tide, for sitting in\nunwearied contemplation; the woody varieties of the cheerful village of\nUp Lyme; and, above all, Pinny, with its green chasms between romantic\nrocks, where the scattered forest trees and orchards of luxuriant\ngrowth, declare that many a generation must have passed away since the\nfirst partial falling of the cliff prepared the ground for such a\nstate, where a scene so wonderful and so lovely is exhibited, as may\nmore than equal any of the resembling scenes of the far-famed Isle of\nWight:  these places must be visited, and visited again, to make the\nworth of Lyme understood.\n\nThe party from Uppercross passing down by the now deserted and\nmelancholy looking rooms, and still descending, soon found themselves\non the sea-shore; and lingering only, as all must linger and gaze on a\nfirst return to the sea, who ever deserved to look on it at all,\nproceeded towards the Cobb, equally their object in itself and on\nCaptain Wentworth's account:  for in a small house, near the foot of an\nold pier of unknown date, were the Harvilles settled.  Captain\nWentworth turned in to call on his friend; the others walked on, and he\nwas to join them on the Cobb.\n\nThey were by no means tired of wondering and admiring; and not even\nLouisa seemed to feel that they had parted with Captain Wentworth long,\nwhen they saw him coming after them, with three companions, all well\nknown already, by description, to be Captain and Mrs Harville, and a\nCaptain Benwick, who was staying with them.\n\nCaptain Benwick had some time ago been first lieutenant of the Laconia;\nand the account which Captain Wentworth had given of him, on his return\nfrom Lyme before, his warm praise of him as an excellent young man and\nan officer, whom he had always valued highly, which must have stamped\nhim well in the esteem of every listener, had been followed by a little\nhistory of his private life, which rendered him perfectly interesting\nin the eyes of all the ladies.  He had been engaged to Captain\nHarville's sister, and was now mourning her loss.  They had been a year\nor two waiting for fortune and promotion.  Fortune came, his\nprize-money as lieutenant being great; promotion, too, came at last;\nbut Fanny Harville did not live to know it.  She had died the preceding\nsummer while he was at sea.  Captain Wentworth believed it impossible\nfor man to be more attached to woman than poor Benwick had been to\nFanny Harville, or to be more deeply afflicted under the dreadful\nchange.  He considered his disposition as of the sort which must suffer\nheavily, uniting very strong feelings with quiet, serious, and retiring\nmanners, and a decided taste for reading, and sedentary pursuits.  To\nfinish the interest of the story, the friendship between him and the\nHarvilles seemed, if possible, augmented by the event which closed all\ntheir views of alliance, and Captain Benwick was now living with them\nentirely.  Captain Harville had taken his present house for half a\nyear; his taste, and his health, and his fortune, all directing him to\na residence inexpensive, and by the sea; and the grandeur of the\ncountry, and the retirement of Lyme in the winter, appeared exactly\nadapted to Captain Benwick's state of mind.  The sympathy and good-will\nexcited towards Captain Benwick was very great.\n\n\"And yet,\" said Anne to herself, as they now moved forward to meet the\nparty, \"he has not, perhaps, a more sorrowing heart than I have.  I\ncannot believe his prospects so blighted for ever.  He is younger than\nI am; younger in feeling, if not in fact; younger as a man.  He will\nrally again, and be happy with another.\"\n\nThey all met, and were introduced.  Captain Harville was a tall, dark\nman, with a sensible, benevolent countenance; a little lame; and from\nstrong features and want of health, looking much older than Captain\nWentworth.  Captain Benwick looked, and was, the youngest of the three,\nand, compared with either of them, a little man.  He had a pleasing\nface and a melancholy air, just as he ought to have, and drew back from\nconversation.\n\nCaptain Harville, though not equalling Captain Wentworth in manners,\nwas a perfect gentleman, unaffected, warm, and obliging.  Mrs Harville,\na degree less polished than her husband, seemed, however, to have the\nsame good feelings; and nothing could be more pleasant than their\ndesire of considering the whole party as friends of their own, because\nthe friends of Captain Wentworth, or more kindly hospitable than their\nentreaties for their all promising to dine with them.  The dinner,\nalready ordered at the inn, was at last, though unwillingly, accepted\nas a excuse; but they seemed almost hurt that Captain Wentworth should\nhave brought any such party to Lyme, without considering it as a thing\nof course that they should dine with them.\n\nThere was so much attachment to Captain Wentworth in all this, and such\na bewitching charm in a degree of hospitality so uncommon, so unlike\nthe usual style of give-and-take invitations, and dinners of formality\nand display, that Anne felt her spirits not likely to be benefited by\nan increasing acquaintance among his brother-officers.  \"These would\nhave been all my friends,\" was her thought; and she had to struggle\nagainst a great tendency to lowness.\n\nOn quitting the Cobb, they all went in-doors with their new friends,\nand found rooms so small as none but those who invite from the heart\ncould think capable of accommodating so many.  Anne had a moment's\nastonishment on the subject herself; but it was soon lost in the\npleasanter feelings which sprang from the sight of all the ingenious\ncontrivances and nice arrangements of Captain Harville, to turn the\nactual space to the best account, to supply the deficiencies of\nlodging-house furniture, and defend the windows and doors against the\nwinter storms to be expected.  The varieties in the fitting-up of the\nrooms, where the common necessaries provided by the owner, in the\ncommon indifferent plight, were contrasted with some few articles of a\nrare species of wood, excellently worked up, and with something curious\nand valuable from all the distant countries Captain Harville had\nvisited, were more than amusing to Anne; connected as it all was with\nhis profession, the fruit of its labours, the effect of its influence\non his habits, the picture of repose and domestic happiness it\npresented, made it to her a something more, or less, than gratification.\n\nCaptain Harville was no reader; but he had contrived excellent\naccommodations, and fashioned very pretty shelves, for a tolerable\ncollection of well-bound volumes, the property of Captain Benwick.  His\nlameness prevented him from taking much exercise; but a mind of\nusefulness and ingenuity seemed to furnish him with constant employment\nwithin.  He drew, he varnished, he carpentered, he glued; he made toys\nfor the children; he fashioned new netting-needles and pins with\nimprovements; and if everything else was done, sat down to his large\nfishing-net at one corner of the room.\n\nAnne thought she left great happiness behind her when they quitted the\nhouse; and Louisa, by whom she found herself walking, burst forth into\nraptures of admiration and delight on the character of the navy; their\nfriendliness, their brotherliness, their openness, their uprightness;\nprotesting that she was convinced of sailors having more worth and\nwarmth than any other set of men in England; that they only knew how to\nlive, and they only deserved to be respected and loved.\n\nThey went back to dress and dine; and so well had the scheme answered\nalready, that nothing was found amiss; though its being \"so entirely\nout of season,\" and the \"no thoroughfare of Lyme,\" and the \"no\nexpectation of company,\" had brought many apologies from the heads of\nthe inn.\n\nAnne found herself by this time growing so much more hardened to being\nin Captain Wentworth's company than she had at first imagined could\never be, that the sitting down to the same table with him now, and the\ninterchange of the common civilities attending on it (they never got\nbeyond), was become a mere nothing.\n\nThe nights were too dark for the ladies to meet again till the morrow,\nbut Captain Harville had promised them a visit in the evening; and he\ncame, bringing his friend also, which was more than had been expected,\nit having been agreed that Captain Benwick had all the appearance of\nbeing oppressed by the presence of so many strangers.  He ventured\namong them again, however, though his spirits certainly did not seem\nfit for the mirth of the party in general.\n\nWhile Captains Wentworth and Harville led the talk on one side of the\nroom, and by recurring to former days, supplied anecdotes in abundance\nto occupy and entertain the others, it fell to Anne's lot to be placed\nrather apart with Captain Benwick; and a very good impulse of her\nnature obliged her to begin an acquaintance with him.  He was shy, and\ndisposed to abstraction; but the engaging mildness of her countenance,\nand gentleness of her manners, soon had their effect; and Anne was well\nrepaid the first trouble of exertion.  He was evidently a young man of\nconsiderable taste in reading, though principally in poetry; and\nbesides the persuasion of having given him at least an evening's\nindulgence in the discussion of subjects, which his usual companions\nhad probably no concern in, she had the hope of being of real use to\nhim in some suggestions as to the duty and benefit of struggling\nagainst affliction, which had naturally grown out of their\nconversation.  For, though shy, he did not seem reserved; it had rather\nthe appearance of feelings glad to burst their usual restraints; and\nhaving talked of poetry, the richness of the present age, and gone\nthrough a brief comparison of opinion as to the first-rate poets,\ntrying to ascertain whether Marmion or The Lady of the Lake were to be\npreferred, and how ranked the Giaour and The Bride of Abydos; and\nmoreover, how the Giaour was to be pronounced, he showed himself so\nintimately acquainted with all the tenderest songs of the one poet, and\nall the impassioned descriptions of hopeless agony of the other; he\nrepeated, with such tremulous feeling, the various lines which imaged a\nbroken heart, or a mind destroyed by wretchedness, and looked so\nentirely as if he meant to be understood, that she ventured to hope he\ndid not always read only poetry, and to say, that she thought it was\nthe misfortune of poetry to be seldom safely enjoyed by those who\nenjoyed it completely; and that the strong feelings which alone could\nestimate it truly were the very feelings which ought to taste it but\nsparingly.\n\nHis looks shewing him not pained, but pleased with this allusion to his\nsituation, she was emboldened to go on; and feeling in herself the\nright of seniority of mind, she ventured to recommend a larger\nallowance of prose in his daily study; and on being requested to\nparticularize, mentioned such works of our best moralists, such\ncollections of the finest letters, such memoirs of characters of worth\nand suffering, as occurred to her at the moment as calculated to rouse\nand fortify the mind by the highest precepts, and the strongest\nexamples of moral and religious endurances.\n\nCaptain Benwick listened attentively, and seemed grateful for the\ninterest implied; and though with a shake of the head, and sighs which\ndeclared his little faith in the efficacy of any books on grief like\nhis, noted down the names of those she recommended, and promised to\nprocure and read them.\n\nWhen the evening was over, Anne could not but be amused at the idea of\nher coming to Lyme to preach patience and resignation to a young man\nwhom she had never seen before; nor could she help fearing, on more\nserious reflection, that, like many other great moralists and\npreachers, she had been eloquent on a point in which her own conduct\nwould ill bear examination.\n\n\n\nChapter 12\n\n\nAnne and Henrietta, finding themselves the earliest of the party the\nnext morning, agreed to stroll down to the sea before breakfast.  They\nwent to the sands, to watch the flowing of the tide, which a fine\nsouth-easterly breeze was bringing in with all the grandeur which so\nflat a shore admitted.  They praised the morning; gloried in the sea;\nsympathized in the delight of the fresh-feeling breeze--and were\nsilent; till Henrietta suddenly began again with--\n\n\"Oh! yes,--I am quite convinced that, with very few exceptions, the\nsea-air always does good.  There can be no doubt of its having been of\nthe greatest service to Dr Shirley, after his illness, last spring\ntwelve-month.  He declares himself, that coming to Lyme for a month,\ndid him more good than all the medicine he took; and, that being by the\nsea, always makes him feel young again.  Now, I cannot help thinking it\na pity that he does not live entirely by the sea.  I do think he had\nbetter leave Uppercross entirely, and fix at Lyme.  Do not you, Anne?\nDo not you agree with me, that it is the best thing he could do, both\nfor himself and Mrs Shirley?  She has cousins here, you know, and many\nacquaintance, which would make it cheerful for her, and I am sure she\nwould be glad to get to a place where she could have medical attendance\nat hand, in case of his having another seizure.  Indeed I think it\nquite melancholy to have such excellent people as Dr and Mrs Shirley,\nwho have been doing good all their lives, wearing out their last days\nin a place like Uppercross, where, excepting our family, they seem shut\nout from all the world.  I wish his friends would propose it to him.  I\nreally think they ought.  And, as to procuring a dispensation, there\ncould be no difficulty at his time of life, and with his character.  My\nonly doubt is, whether anything could persuade him to leave his parish.\nHe is so very strict and scrupulous in his notions; over-scrupulous I\nmust say.  Do not you think, Anne, it is being over-scrupulous?  Do not\nyou think it is quite a mistaken point of conscience, when a clergyman\nsacrifices his health for the sake of duties, which may be just as well\nperformed by another person?  And at Lyme too, only seventeen miles\noff, he would be near enough to hear, if people thought there was\nanything to complain of.\"\n\nAnne smiled more than once to herself during this speech, and entered\ninto the subject, as ready to do good by entering into the feelings of\na young lady as of a young man, though here it was good of a lower\nstandard, for what could be offered but general acquiescence?  She said\nall that was reasonable and proper on the business; felt the claims of\nDr Shirley to repose as she ought; saw how very desirable it was that\nhe should have some active, respectable young man, as a resident\ncurate, and was even courteous enough to hint at the advantage of such\nresident curate's being married.\n\n\"I wish,\" said Henrietta, very well pleased with her companion, \"I wish\nLady Russell lived at Uppercross, and were intimate with Dr Shirley.  I\nhave always heard of Lady Russell as a woman of the greatest influence\nwith everybody!  I always look upon her as able to persuade a person to\nanything!  I am afraid of her, as I have told you before, quite afraid\nof her, because she is so very clever; but I respect her amazingly, and\nwish we had such a neighbour at Uppercross.\"\n\nAnne was amused by Henrietta's manner of being grateful, and amused\nalso that the course of events and the new interests of Henrietta's\nviews should have placed her friend at all in favour with any of the\nMusgrove family; she had only time, however, for a general answer, and\na wish that such another woman were at Uppercross, before all subjects\nsuddenly ceased, on seeing Louisa and Captain Wentworth coming towards\nthem.  They came also for a stroll till breakfast was likely to be\nready; but Louisa recollecting, immediately afterwards that she had\nsomething to procure at a shop, invited them all to go back with her\ninto the town.  They were all at her disposal.\n\nWhen they came to the steps, leading upwards from the beach, a\ngentleman, at the same moment preparing to come down, politely drew\nback, and stopped to give them way.  They ascended and passed him; and\nas they passed, Anne's face caught his eye, and he looked at her with a\ndegree of earnest admiration, which she could not be insensible of.\nShe was looking remarkably well; her very regular, very pretty\nfeatures, having the bloom and freshness of youth restored by the fine\nwind which had been blowing on her complexion, and by the animation of\neye which it had also produced.  It was evident that the gentleman,\n(completely a gentleman in manner) admired her exceedingly.  Captain\nWentworth looked round at her instantly in a way which shewed his\nnoticing of it.  He gave her a momentary glance, a glance of\nbrightness, which seemed to say, \"That man is struck with you, and even\nI, at this moment, see something like Anne Elliot again.\"\n\nAfter attending Louisa through her business, and loitering about a\nlittle longer, they returned to the inn; and Anne, in passing\nafterwards quickly from her own chamber to their dining-room, had\nnearly run against the very same gentleman, as he came out of an\nadjoining apartment.  She had before conjectured him to be a stranger\nlike themselves, and determined that a well-looking groom, who was\nstrolling about near the two inns as they came back, should be his\nservant.  Both master and man being in mourning assisted the idea.  It\nwas now proved that he belonged to the same inn as themselves; and this\nsecond meeting, short as it was, also proved again by the gentleman's\nlooks, that he thought hers very lovely, and by the readiness and\npropriety of his apologies, that he was a man of exceedingly good\nmanners.  He seemed about thirty, and though not handsome, had an\nagreeable person.  Anne felt that she should like to know who he was.\n\nThey had nearly done breakfast, when the sound of a carriage, (almost\nthe first they had heard since entering Lyme) drew half the party to\nthe window.  It was a gentleman's carriage, a curricle, but only coming\nround from the stable-yard to the front door; somebody must be going\naway.  It was driven by a servant in mourning.\n\nThe word curricle made Charles Musgrove jump up that he might compare\nit with his own; the servant in mourning roused Anne's curiosity, and\nthe whole six were collected to look, by the time the owner of the\ncurricle was to be seen issuing from the door amidst the bows and\ncivilities of the household, and taking his seat, to drive off.\n\n\"Ah!\" cried Captain Wentworth, instantly, and with half a glance at\nAnne, \"it is the very man we passed.\"\n\nThe Miss Musgroves agreed to it; and having all kindly watched him as\nfar up the hill as they could, they returned to the breakfast table.\nThe waiter came into the room soon afterwards.\n\n\"Pray,\" said Captain Wentworth, immediately, \"can you tell us the name\nof the gentleman who is just gone away?\"\n\n\"Yes, Sir, a Mr Elliot, a gentleman of large fortune, came in last\nnight from Sidmouth.  Dare say you heard the carriage, sir, while you\nwere at dinner; and going on now for Crewkherne, in his way to Bath and\nLondon.\"\n\n\"Elliot!\"  Many had looked on each other, and many had repeated the\nname, before all this had been got through, even by the smart rapidity\nof a waiter.\n\n\"Bless me!\" cried Mary; \"it must be our cousin; it must be our Mr\nElliot, it must, indeed!  Charles, Anne, must not it?  In mourning, you\nsee, just as our Mr Elliot must be.  How very extraordinary!  In the\nvery same inn with us!  Anne, must not it be our Mr Elliot?  my\nfather's next heir?  Pray sir,\" turning to the waiter, \"did not you\nhear, did not his servant say whether he belonged to the Kellynch\nfamily?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am, he did not mention no particular family; but he said his\nmaster was a very rich gentleman, and would be a baronight some day.\"\n\n\"There! you see!\" cried Mary in an ecstasy, \"just as I said!  Heir to\nSir Walter Elliot!  I was sure that would come out, if it was so.\nDepend upon it, that is a circumstance which his servants take care to\npublish, wherever he goes.  But, Anne, only conceive how extraordinary!\nI wish I had looked at him more.  I wish we had been aware in time, who\nit was, that he might have been introduced to us.  What a pity that we\nshould not have been introduced to each other!  Do you think he had the\nElliot countenance?  I hardly looked at him, I was looking at the\nhorses; but I think he had something of the Elliot countenance, I\nwonder the arms did not strike me!  Oh! the great-coat was hanging over\nthe panel, and hid the arms, so it did; otherwise, I am sure, I should\nhave observed them, and the livery too; if the servant had not been in\nmourning, one should have known him by the livery.\"\n\n\"Putting all these very extraordinary circumstances together,\" said\nCaptain Wentworth, \"we must consider it to be the arrangement of\nProvidence, that you should not be introduced to your cousin.\"\n\nWhen she could command Mary's attention, Anne quietly tried to convince\nher that their father and Mr Elliot had not, for many years, been on\nsuch terms as to make the power of attempting an introduction at all\ndesirable.\n\nAt the same time, however, it was a secret gratification to herself to\nhave seen her cousin, and to know that the future owner of Kellynch was\nundoubtedly a gentleman, and had an air of good sense.  She would not,\nupon any account, mention her having met with him the second time;\nluckily Mary did not much attend to their having passed close by him in\ntheir earlier walk, but she would have felt quite ill-used by Anne's\nhaving actually run against him in the passage, and received his very\npolite excuses, while she had never been near him at all; no, that\ncousinly little interview must remain a perfect secret.\n\n\"Of course,\" said Mary, \"you will mention our seeing Mr Elliot, the\nnext time you write to Bath.  I think my father certainly ought to hear\nof it; do mention all about him.\"\n\nAnne avoided a direct reply, but it was just the circumstance which she\nconsidered as not merely unnecessary to be communicated, but as what\nought to be suppressed.  The offence which had been given her father,\nmany years back, she knew; Elizabeth's particular share in it she\nsuspected; and that Mr Elliot's idea always produced irritation in both\nwas beyond a doubt.  Mary never wrote to Bath herself; all the toil of\nkeeping up a slow and unsatisfactory correspondence with Elizabeth fell\non Anne.\n\nBreakfast had not been long over, when they were joined by Captain and\nMrs Harville and Captain Benwick; with whom they had appointed to take\ntheir last walk about Lyme.  They ought to be setting off for\nUppercross by one, and in the mean while were to be all together, and\nout of doors as long as they could.\n\nAnne found Captain Benwick getting near her, as soon as they were all\nfairly in the street.  Their conversation the preceding evening did not\ndisincline him to seek her again; and they walked together some time,\ntalking as before of Mr Scott and Lord Byron, and still as unable as\nbefore, and as unable as any other two readers, to think exactly alike\nof the merits of either, till something occasioned an almost general\nchange amongst their party, and instead of Captain Benwick, she had\nCaptain Harville by her side.\n\n\"Miss Elliot,\" said he, speaking rather low, \"you have done a good deed\nin making that poor fellow talk so much.  I wish he could have such\ncompany oftener.  It is bad for him, I know, to be shut up as he is;\nbut what can we do?  We cannot part.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Anne, \"that I can easily believe to be impossible; but in\ntime, perhaps--we know what time does in every case of affliction, and\nyou must remember, Captain Harville, that your friend may yet be called\na young mourner--only last summer, I understand.\"\n\n\"Ay, true enough,\" (with a deep sigh) \"only June.\"\n\n\"And not known to him, perhaps, so soon.\"\n\n\"Not till the first week of August, when he came home from the Cape,\njust made into the Grappler.  I was at Plymouth dreading to hear of\nhim; he sent in letters, but the Grappler was under orders for\nPortsmouth.  There the news must follow him, but who was to tell it?\nnot I.  I would as soon have been run up to the yard-arm.  Nobody could\ndo it, but that good fellow\" (pointing to Captain Wentworth.)  \"The\nLaconia had come into Plymouth the week before; no danger of her being\nsent to sea again.  He stood his chance for the rest; wrote up for\nleave of absence, but without waiting the return, travelled night and\nday till he got to Portsmouth, rowed off to the Grappler that instant,\nand never left the poor fellow for a week.  That's what he did, and\nnobody else could have saved poor James.  You may think, Miss Elliot,\nwhether he is dear to us!\"\n\nAnne did think on the question with perfect decision, and said as much\nin reply as her own feeling could accomplish, or as his seemed able to\nbear, for he was too much affected to renew the subject, and when he\nspoke again, it was of something totally different.\n\nMrs Harville's giving it as her opinion that her husband would have\nquite walking enough by the time he reached home, determined the\ndirection of all the party in what was to be their last walk; they\nwould accompany them to their door, and then return and set off\nthemselves.  By all their calculations there was just time for this;\nbut as they drew near the Cobb, there was such a general wish to walk\nalong it once more, all were so inclined, and Louisa soon grew so\ndetermined, that the difference of a quarter of an hour, it was found,\nwould be no difference at all; so with all the kind leave-taking, and\nall the kind interchange of invitations and promises which may be\nimagined, they parted from Captain and Mrs Harville at their own door,\nand still accompanied by Captain Benwick, who seemed to cling to them\nto the last, proceeded to make the proper adieus to the Cobb.\n\nAnne found Captain Benwick again drawing near her.  Lord Byron's \"dark\nblue seas\" could not fail of being brought forward by their present\nview, and she gladly gave him all her attention as long as attention\nwas possible.  It was soon drawn, perforce another way.\n\nThere was too much wind to make the high part of the new Cobb pleasant\nfor the ladies, and they agreed to get down the steps to the lower, and\nall were contented to pass quietly and carefully down the steep flight,\nexcepting Louisa; she must be jumped down them by Captain Wentworth.\nIn all their walks, he had had to jump her from the stiles; the\nsensation was delightful to her.  The hardness of the pavement for her\nfeet, made him less willing upon the present occasion; he did it,\nhowever.  She was safely down, and instantly, to show her enjoyment,\nran up the steps to be jumped down again.  He advised her against it,\nthought the jar too great; but no, he reasoned and talked in vain, she\nsmiled and said, \"I am determined I will:\" he put out his hands; she\nwas too precipitate by half a second, she fell on the pavement on the\nLower Cobb, and was taken up lifeless!  There was no wound, no blood,\nno visible bruise; but her eyes were closed, she breathed not, her face\nwas like death.  The horror of the moment to all who stood around!\n\nCaptain Wentworth, who had caught her up, knelt with her in his arms,\nlooking on her with a face as pallid as her own, in an agony of\nsilence.  \"She is dead! she is dead!\" screamed Mary, catching hold of\nher husband, and contributing with his own horror to make him\nimmoveable; and in another moment, Henrietta, sinking under the\nconviction, lost her senses too, and would have fallen on the steps,\nbut for Captain Benwick and Anne, who caught and supported her between\nthem.\n\n\"Is there no one to help me?\" were the first words which burst from\nCaptain Wentworth, in a tone of despair, and as if all his own strength\nwere gone.\n\n\"Go to him, go to him,\" cried Anne, \"for heaven's sake go to him.  I\ncan support her myself.  Leave me, and go to him.  Rub her hands, rub\nher temples; here are salts; take them, take them.\"\n\nCaptain Benwick obeyed, and Charles at the same moment, disengaging\nhimself from his wife, they were both with him; and Louisa was raised\nup and supported more firmly between them, and everything was done that\nAnne had prompted, but in vain; while Captain Wentworth, staggering\nagainst the wall for his support, exclaimed in the bitterest agony--\n\n\"Oh God! her father and mother!\"\n\n\"A surgeon!\" said Anne.\n\nHe caught the word; it seemed to rouse him at once, and saying only--\n\"True, true, a surgeon this instant,\" was darting away, when Anne\neagerly suggested--\n\n\"Captain Benwick, would not it be better for Captain Benwick?  He knows\nwhere a surgeon is to be found.\"\n\nEvery one capable of thinking felt the advantage of the idea, and in a\nmoment (it was all done in rapid moments) Captain Benwick had resigned\nthe poor corpse-like  figure entirely to the brother's care, and was\noff for the town with the utmost rapidity.\n\nAs to the wretched party left behind, it could scarcely be said which\nof the three, who were completely rational, was suffering most: Captain\nWentworth, Anne, or Charles, who, really a very affectionate brother,\nhung over Louisa with sobs of grief, and could only turn his eyes from\none sister, to see the other in a state as insensible, or to witness\nthe hysterical agitations of his wife, calling on him for help which he\ncould not give.\n\nAnne, attending with all the strength and zeal, and thought, which\ninstinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried, at intervals, to suggest\ncomfort to the others, tried to quiet Mary, to animate Charles, to\nassuage the feelings of Captain Wentworth.  Both seemed to look to her\nfor directions.\n\n\"Anne, Anne,\" cried Charles, \"What is to be done next?  What, in\nheaven's name, is to be done next?\"\n\nCaptain Wentworth's eyes were also turned towards her.\n\n\"Had not she better be carried to the inn?  Yes, I am sure: carry her\ngently to the inn.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, to the inn,\" repeated Captain Wentworth, comparatively\ncollected, and eager to be doing something.  \"I will carry her myself.\nMusgrove, take care of the others.\"\n\nBy this time the report of the accident had spread among the workmen\nand boatmen about the Cobb, and many were collected near them, to be\nuseful if wanted, at any rate, to enjoy the sight of a dead young lady,\nnay, two dead young ladies, for it proved twice as fine as the first\nreport.  To some of the best-looking of these good people Henrietta was\nconsigned, for, though partially revived, she was quite helpless; and\nin this manner, Anne walking by her side, and Charles attending to his\nwife, they set forward, treading back with feelings unutterable, the\nground, which so lately, so very lately, and so light of heart, they\nhad passed along.\n\nThey were not off the Cobb, before the Harvilles met them.  Captain\nBenwick had been seen flying by their house, with a countenance which\nshowed something to be wrong; and they had set off immediately,\ninformed and directed as they passed, towards the spot.  Shocked as\nCaptain Harville was, he brought senses and nerves that could be\ninstantly useful; and a look between him and his wife decided what was\nto be done.  She must be taken to their house; all must go to their\nhouse; and await the surgeon's arrival there.  They would not listen to\nscruples:  he was obeyed; they were all beneath his roof; and while\nLouisa, under Mrs Harville's direction, was conveyed up stairs, and\ngiven possession of her own bed, assistance, cordials, restoratives\nwere supplied by her husband to all who needed them.\n\nLouisa had once opened her eyes, but soon closed them again, without\napparent consciousness.  This had been a proof of life, however, of\nservice to her sister; and Henrietta, though perfectly incapable of\nbeing in the same room with Louisa, was kept, by the agitation of hope\nand fear, from a return of her own insensibility.  Mary, too, was\ngrowing calmer.\n\nThe surgeon was with them almost before it had seemed possible.  They\nwere sick with horror, while he examined; but he was not hopeless.  The\nhead had received a severe contusion, but he had seen greater injuries\nrecovered from:  he was by no means hopeless; he spoke cheerfully.\n\nThat he did not regard it as a desperate case, that he did not say a\nfew hours must end it, was at first felt, beyond the hope of most; and\nthe ecstasy of such a reprieve, the rejoicing, deep and silent, after a\nfew fervent ejaculations of gratitude to Heaven had been offered, may\nbe conceived.\n\nThe tone, the look, with which \"Thank God!\" was uttered by Captain\nWentworth, Anne was sure could never be forgotten by her; nor the sight\nof him afterwards, as he sat near a table, leaning over it with folded\narms and face concealed, as if overpowered by the various feelings of\nhis soul, and trying by prayer and reflection to calm them.\n\nLouisa's limbs had escaped.  There was no injury but to the head.\n\nIt now became necessary for the party to consider what was best to be\ndone, as to their general situation.  They were now able to speak to\neach other and consult.  That Louisa must remain where she was, however\ndistressing to her friends to be involving the Harvilles in such\ntrouble, did not admit a doubt.  Her removal was impossible.  The\nHarvilles silenced all scruples; and, as much as they could, all\ngratitude.  They had looked forward and arranged everything before the\nothers began to reflect.  Captain Benwick must give up his room to\nthem, and get another bed elsewhere; and the whole was settled.  They\nwere only concerned that the house could accommodate no more; and yet\nperhaps, by \"putting the children away in the maid's room, or swinging\na cot somewhere,\" they could hardly bear to think of not finding room\nfor two or three besides, supposing they might wish to stay; though,\nwith regard to any attendance on Miss Musgrove, there need not be the\nleast uneasiness in leaving her to Mrs Harville's care entirely.  Mrs\nHarville was a very experienced nurse, and her nursery-maid, who had\nlived with her long, and gone about with her everywhere, was just such\nanother.  Between these two, she could want no possible attendance by\nday or night.  And all this was said with a truth and sincerity of\nfeeling irresistible.\n\nCharles, Henrietta, and Captain Wentworth were the three in\nconsultation, and for a little while it was only an interchange of\nperplexity and terror.  \"Uppercross, the necessity of some one's going\nto Uppercross; the news to be conveyed; how it could be broken to Mr\nand Mrs Musgrove; the lateness of the morning; an hour already gone\nsince they ought to have been off; the impossibility of being in\ntolerable time.\" At first, they were capable of nothing more to the\npurpose than such exclamations; but, after a while, Captain Wentworth,\nexerting himself, said--\n\n\"We must be decided, and without the loss of another minute.  Every\nminute is valuable.  Some one must resolve on being off for Uppercross\ninstantly.  Musgrove, either you or I must go.\"\n\nCharles agreed, but declared his resolution of not going away.  He\nwould be as little incumbrance as possible to Captain and Mrs Harville;\nbut as to leaving his sister in such a state, he neither ought, nor\nwould.  So far it was decided; and Henrietta at first declared the\nsame.  She, however, was soon persuaded to think differently.  The\nusefulness of her staying!  She who had not been able to remain in\nLouisa's room, or to look at her, without sufferings which made her\nworse than helpless!  She was forced to acknowledge that she could do\nno good, yet was still unwilling to be away, till, touched by the\nthought of her father and mother, she gave it up; she consented, she\nwas anxious to be at home.\n\nThe plan had reached this point, when Anne, coming quietly down from\nLouisa's room, could not but hear what followed, for the parlour door\nwas open.\n\n\"Then it is settled, Musgrove,\" cried Captain Wentworth, \"that you\nstay, and that I take care of your sister home.  But as to the rest, as\nto the others, if one stays to assist Mrs Harville, I think it need be\nonly one.  Mrs Charles Musgrove will, of course, wish to get back to\nher children; but if Anne will stay, no one so proper, so capable as\nAnne.\"\n\nShe paused a moment to recover from the emotion of hearing herself so\nspoken of.  The other two warmly agreed with what he said, and she then\nappeared.\n\n\"You will stay, I am sure; you will stay and nurse her;\" cried he,\nturning to her and speaking with a glow, and yet a gentleness, which\nseemed almost restoring the past.  She coloured deeply, and he\nrecollected himself and moved away.  She expressed herself most\nwilling, ready, happy to remain.  \"It was what she had been thinking\nof, and wishing to be allowed to do.  A bed on the floor in Louisa's\nroom would be sufficient for her, if Mrs Harville would but think so.\"\n\nOne thing more, and all seemed arranged.  Though it was rather\ndesirable that Mr and Mrs Musgrove should be previously alarmed by some\nshare of delay; yet the time required by the Uppercross horses to take\nthem back, would be a dreadful extension of suspense; and Captain\nWentworth proposed, and Charles Musgrove agreed, that it would be much\nbetter for him to take a chaise from the inn, and leave Mr Musgrove's\ncarriage and horses to be sent home the next morning early, when there\nwould be the farther advantage of sending an account of Louisa's night.\n\nCaptain Wentworth now hurried off to get everything ready on his part,\nand to be soon followed by the two ladies.  When the plan was made\nknown to Mary, however, there was an end of all peace in it.  She was\nso wretched and so vehement, complained so much of injustice in being\nexpected to go away instead of Anne; Anne, who was nothing to Louisa,\nwhile she was her sister, and had the best right to stay in Henrietta's\nstead!  Why was not she to be as useful as Anne?  And to go home\nwithout Charles, too, without her husband!  No, it was too unkind.  And\nin short, she said more than her husband could long withstand, and as\nnone of the others could oppose when he gave way, there was no help for\nit; the change of Mary for Anne was inevitable.\n\nAnne had never submitted more reluctantly to the jealous and\nill-judging claims of Mary; but so it must be, and they set off for the\ntown, Charles taking care of his sister, and Captain Benwick attending\nto her.  She gave a moment's recollection, as they hurried along, to\nthe little circumstances which the same spots had witnessed earlier in\nthe morning.  There she had listened to Henrietta's schemes for Dr\nShirley's leaving Uppercross; farther on, she had first seen Mr Elliot;\na moment seemed all that could now be given to any one but Louisa, or\nthose who were wrapt up in her welfare.\n\nCaptain Benwick was most considerately attentive to her; and, united as\nthey all seemed by the distress of the day, she felt an increasing\ndegree of good-will towards him, and a pleasure even in thinking that\nit might, perhaps, be the occasion of continuing their acquaintance.\n\nCaptain Wentworth was on the watch for them, and a chaise and four in\nwaiting, stationed for their convenience in the lowest part of the\nstreet; but his evident surprise and vexation at the substitution of\none sister for the other, the change in his countenance, the\nastonishment, the expressions begun and suppressed, with which Charles\nwas listened to, made but a mortifying reception of Anne; or must at\nleast convince her that she was valued only as she could be useful to\nLouisa.\n\nShe endeavoured to be composed, and to be just.  Without emulating the\nfeelings of an Emma towards her Henry, she would have attended on\nLouisa with a zeal above the common claims of regard, for his sake; and\nshe hoped he would not long be so unjust as to suppose she would shrink\nunnecessarily from the office of a friend.\n\nIn the mean while she was in the carriage.  He had handed them both in,\nand placed himself between them; and in this manner, under these\ncircumstances, full of astonishment and emotion to Anne, she quitted\nLyme.  How the long stage would pass; how it was to affect their\nmanners; what was to be their sort of intercourse, she could not\nforesee.  It was all quite natural, however.  He was devoted to\nHenrietta; always turning towards her; and when he spoke at all, always\nwith the view of supporting her hopes and raising her spirits.  In\ngeneral, his voice and manner were studiously calm.  To spare Henrietta\nfrom agitation seemed the governing principle.  Once only, when she had\nbeen grieving over the last ill-judged, ill-fated walk to the Cobb,\nbitterly lamenting that it ever had been thought of, he burst forth, as\nif wholly overcome--\n\n\"Don't talk of it, don't talk of it,\" he cried.  \"Oh God! that I had\nnot given way to her at the fatal moment!  Had I done as I ought!  But\nso eager and so resolute! Dear, sweet Louisa!\"\n\nAnne wondered whether it ever occurred to him now, to question the\njustness of his own previous opinion as to the universal felicity and\nadvantage of firmness of character; and whether it might not strike him\nthat, like all other qualities of the mind, it should have its\nproportions and limits.  She thought it could scarcely escape him to\nfeel that a persuadable temper might sometimes be as much in favour of\nhappiness as a very resolute character.\n\nThey got on fast.  Anne was astonished to recognise the same hills and\nthe same objects so soon.  Their actual speed, heightened by some dread\nof the conclusion, made the road appear but half as long as on the day\nbefore.  It was growing quite dusk, however, before they were in the\nneighbourhood of Uppercross, and there had been total silence among\nthem for some time, Henrietta leaning back in the corner, with a shawl\nover her face, giving the hope of her having cried herself to sleep;\nwhen, as they were going up their last hill, Anne found herself all at\nonce addressed by Captain Wentworth.  In a low, cautious voice, he\nsaid:--\n\n\"I have been considering what we had best do.  She must not appear at\nfirst.  She could not stand it.  I have been thinking whether you had\nnot better remain in the carriage with her, while I go in and break it\nto Mr and Mrs Musgrove.  Do you think this is a good plan?\"\n\nShe did:  he was satisfied, and said no more.  But the remembrance of\nthe appeal remained a pleasure to her, as a proof of friendship, and of\ndeference for her judgement, a great pleasure; and when it became a\nsort of parting proof, its value did not lessen.\n\nWhen the distressing communication at Uppercross was over, and he had\nseen the father and mother quite as composed as could be hoped, and the\ndaughter all the better for being with them, he announced his intention\nof returning in the same carriage to Lyme; and when the horses were\nbaited, he was off.\n\n(End of volume one.)\n\n\n\nChapter 13\n\n\nThe remainder of Anne's time at Uppercross, comprehending only two\ndays, was spent entirely at the Mansion House; and she had the\nsatisfaction of knowing herself extremely useful there, both as an\nimmediate companion, and as assisting in all those arrangements for the\nfuture, which, in Mr and Mrs Musgrove's distressed state of spirits,\nwould have been difficulties.\n\nThey had an early account from Lyme the next morning.  Louisa was much\nthe same.  No symptoms worse than before had appeared.  Charles came a\nfew hours afterwards, to bring a later and more particular account.  He\nwas tolerably cheerful.  A speedy cure must not be hoped, but\neverything was going on as well as the nature of the case admitted.  In\nspeaking of the Harvilles, he seemed unable to satisfy his own sense of\ntheir kindness, especially of Mrs Harville's exertions as a nurse.\n\"She really left nothing for Mary to do.  He and Mary had been\npersuaded to go early to their inn last night.  Mary had been\nhysterical again this morning.  When he came away, she was going to\nwalk out with Captain Benwick, which, he hoped, would do her good.  He\nalmost wished she had been prevailed on to come home the day before;\nbut the truth was, that Mrs Harville left nothing for anybody to do.\"\n\nCharles was to return to Lyme the same afternoon, and his father had at\nfirst half a mind to go with him, but the ladies could not consent.  It\nwould be going only to multiply trouble to the others, and increase his\nown distress; and a much better scheme followed and was acted upon.  A\nchaise was sent for from Crewkherne, and Charles conveyed back a far\nmore useful person in the old nursery-maid of the family, one who\nhaving brought up all the children, and seen the very last, the\nlingering and long-petted Master Harry, sent to school after his\nbrothers, was now living in her deserted nursery to mend stockings and\ndress all the blains and bruises she could get near her, and who,\nconsequently, was only too happy in being allowed to go and help nurse\ndear Miss Louisa.  Vague wishes of getting Sarah thither, had occurred\nbefore to Mrs Musgrove and Henrietta; but without Anne, it would hardly\nhave been resolved on, and found practicable so soon.\n\nThey were indebted, the next day, to Charles Hayter, for all the minute\nknowledge of Louisa, which it was so essential to obtain every\ntwenty-four hours.  He made it his business to go to Lyme, and his\naccount was still encouraging.  The intervals of sense and\nconsciousness were believed to be stronger.  Every report agreed in\nCaptain Wentworth's appearing fixed in Lyme.\n\nAnne was to leave them on the morrow, an event which they all dreaded.\n\"What should they do without her?  They were wretched comforters for\none another.\"  And so much was said in this way, that Anne thought she\ncould not do better than impart among them the general inclination to\nwhich she was privy, and persuaded them all to go to Lyme at once.  She\nhad little difficulty; it was soon determined that they would go; go\nto-morrow, fix themselves at the inn, or get into lodgings, as it\nsuited, and there remain till dear Louisa could be moved.  They must be\ntaking off some trouble from the good people she was with; they might\nat least relieve Mrs Harville from the care of her own children; and in\nshort, they were so happy in the decision, that Anne was delighted with\nwhat she had done, and felt that she could not spend her last morning\nat Uppercross better than in assisting their preparations, and sending\nthem off at an early hour, though her being left to the solitary range\nof the house was the consequence.\n\nShe was the last, excepting the little boys at the cottage, she was the\nvery last, the only remaining one of all that had filled and animated\nboth houses, of all that had given Uppercross its cheerful character.\nA few days had made a change indeed!\n\nIf Louisa recovered, it would all be well again.  More than former\nhappiness would be restored.  There could not be a doubt, to her mind\nthere was none, of what would follow her recovery.  A few months hence,\nand the room now so deserted, occupied but by her silent, pensive self,\nmight be filled again with all that was happy and gay, all that was\nglowing and bright in prosperous love, all that was most unlike Anne\nElliot!\n\nAn hour's complete leisure for such reflections as these, on a dark\nNovember day, a small thick rain almost blotting out the very few\nobjects ever to be discerned from the windows, was enough to make the\nsound of Lady Russell's carriage exceedingly welcome; and yet, though\ndesirous to be gone, she could not quit the Mansion House, or look an\nadieu to the Cottage, with its black, dripping and comfortless veranda,\nor even notice through the misty glasses the last humble tenements of\nthe village, without a saddened heart.  Scenes had passed in Uppercross\nwhich made it precious.  It stood the record of many sensations of\npain, once severe, but now softened; and of some instances of relenting\nfeeling, some breathings of friendship and reconciliation, which could\nnever be looked for again, and which could never cease to be dear.  She\nleft it all behind her, all but the recollection that such things had\nbeen.\n\nAnne had never entered Kellynch since her quitting Lady Russell's house\nin September.  It had not been necessary, and the few occasions of its\nbeing possible for her to go to the Hall she had contrived to evade and\nescape from.  Her first return was to resume her place in the modern\nand elegant apartments of the Lodge, and to gladden the eyes of its\nmistress.\n\nThere was some anxiety mixed with Lady Russell's joy in meeting her.\nShe knew who had been frequenting Uppercross.  But happily, either Anne\nwas improved in plumpness and looks, or Lady Russell fancied her so;\nand Anne, in receiving her compliments on the occasion, had the\namusement of connecting them with the silent admiration of her cousin,\nand of hoping that she was to be blessed with a second spring of youth\nand beauty.\n\nWhen they came to converse, she was soon sensible of some mental\nchange.  The subjects of which her heart had been full on leaving\nKellynch, and which she had felt slighted, and been compelled to\nsmother among the Musgroves, were now become but of secondary interest.\nShe had lately lost sight even of her father and sister and Bath.\nTheir concerns had been sunk under those of Uppercross; and when Lady\nRussell reverted to their former hopes and fears, and spoke her\nsatisfaction in the house in Camden Place, which had been taken, and\nher regret that Mrs Clay should still be with them, Anne would have\nbeen ashamed to have it known how much more she was thinking of Lyme\nand Louisa Musgrove, and all her acquaintance there; how much more\ninteresting to her was the home and the friendship of the Harvilles and\nCaptain Benwick, than her own father's house in Camden Place, or her\nown sister's intimacy with Mrs Clay.  She was actually forced to exert\nherself to meet Lady Russell with anything like the appearance of equal\nsolicitude, on topics which had by nature the first claim on her.\n\nThere was a little awkwardness at first in their discourse on another\nsubject.  They must speak of the accident at Lyme.  Lady Russell had\nnot been arrived five minutes the day before, when a full account of\nthe whole had burst on her; but still it must be talked of, she must\nmake enquiries, she must regret the imprudence, lament the result, and\nCaptain Wentworth's name must be mentioned by both.  Anne was conscious\nof not doing it so well as Lady Russell.  She could not speak the name,\nand look straight forward to Lady Russell's eye, till she had adopted\nthe expedient of telling her briefly what she thought of the attachment\nbetween him and Louisa.  When this was told, his name distressed her no\nlonger.\n\nLady Russell had only to listen composedly, and wish them happy, but\ninternally her heart revelled in angry pleasure, in pleased contempt,\nthat the man who at twenty-three had seemed to understand somewhat of\nthe value of an Anne Elliot, should, eight years afterwards, be charmed\nby a Louisa Musgrove.\n\nThe first three or four days passed most quietly, with no circumstance\nto mark them excepting the receipt of a note or two from Lyme, which\nfound their way to Anne, she could not tell how, and brought a rather\nimproving account of Louisa.  At the end of that period, Lady Russell's\npoliteness could repose no longer, and the fainter self-threatenings of\nthe past became in a decided tone, \"I must call on Mrs Croft; I really\nmust call upon her soon.  Anne, have you courage to go with me, and pay\na visit in that house?  It will be some trial to us both.\"\n\nAnne did not shrink from it; on the contrary, she truly felt as she\nsaid, in observing--\n\n\"I think you are very likely to suffer the most of the two; your\nfeelings are less reconciled to the change than mine.  By remaining in\nthe neighbourhood, I am become inured to it.\"\n\nShe could have said more on the subject; for she had in fact so high an\nopinion of the Crofts, and considered her father so very fortunate in\nhis tenants, felt the parish to be so sure of a good example, and the\npoor of the best attention and relief, that however sorry and ashamed\nfor the necessity of the removal, she could not but in conscience feel\nthat they were gone who deserved not to stay, and that Kellynch Hall\nhad passed into better hands than its owners'.  These convictions must\nunquestionably have their own pain, and severe was its kind; but they\nprecluded that pain which Lady Russell would suffer in entering the\nhouse again, and returning through the well-known apartments.\n\nIn such moments Anne had no power of saying to herself, \"These rooms\nought to belong only to us.  Oh, how fallen in their destination!  How\nunworthily occupied!  An ancient family to be so driven away!\nStrangers filling their place!\" No, except when she thought of her\nmother, and remembered where she had been used to sit and preside, she\nhad no sigh of that description to heave.\n\nMrs Croft always met her with a kindness which gave her the pleasure of\nfancying herself a favourite, and on the present occasion, receiving\nher in that house, there was particular attention.\n\nThe sad accident at Lyme was soon the prevailing topic, and on\ncomparing their latest accounts of the invalid, it appeared that each\nlady dated her intelligence from the same hour of yestermorn; that\nCaptain Wentworth had been in Kellynch yesterday (the first time since\nthe accident), had brought Anne the last note, which she had not been\nable to trace the exact steps of; had staid a few hours and then\nreturned again to Lyme, and without any present intention of quitting\nit any more.  He had enquired after her, she found, particularly; had\nexpressed his hope of Miss Elliot's not being the worse for her\nexertions, and had spoken of those exertions as great.  This was\nhandsome, and gave her more pleasure than almost anything else could\nhave done.\n\nAs to the sad catastrophe itself, it could be canvassed only in one\nstyle by a couple of steady, sensible women, whose judgements had to\nwork on ascertained events; and it was perfectly decided that it had\nbeen the consequence of much thoughtlessness and much imprudence; that\nits effects were most alarming, and that it was frightful to think, how\nlong Miss Musgrove's recovery might yet be doubtful, and how liable she\nwould still remain to suffer from the concussion hereafter!  The\nAdmiral wound it up summarily by exclaiming--\n\n\"Ay, a very bad business indeed.  A new sort of way this, for a young\nfellow to be making love, by breaking his mistress's head, is not it,\nMiss Elliot?  This is breaking a head and giving a plaster, truly!\"\n\nAdmiral Croft's manners were not quite of the tone to suit Lady\nRussell, but they delighted Anne.  His goodness of heart and simplicity\nof character were irresistible.\n\n\"Now, this must be very bad for you,\" said he, suddenly rousing from a\nlittle reverie, \"to be coming and finding us here.  I had not\nrecollected it before, I declare, but it must be very bad.  But now, do\nnot stand upon ceremony.  Get up and go over all the rooms in the house\nif you like it.\"\n\n\"Another time, Sir, I thank you, not now.\"\n\n\"Well, whenever it suits you.  You can slip in from the shrubbery at\nany time; and there you will find we keep our umbrellas hanging up by\nthat door.  A good place is not it?  But,\" (checking himself), \"you\nwill not think it a good place, for yours were always kept in the\nbutler's room.  Ay, so it always is, I believe.  One man's ways may be\nas good as another's, but we all like our own best.  And so you must\njudge for yourself, whether it would be better for you to go about the\nhouse or not.\"\n\nAnne, finding she might decline it, did so, very gratefully.\n\n\"We have made very few changes either,\" continued the Admiral, after\nthinking a moment.  \"Very few.  We told you about the laundry-door, at\nUppercross.  That has been a very great improvement.  The wonder was,\nhow any family upon earth could bear with the inconvenience of its\nopening as it did, so long!  You will tell Sir Walter what we have\ndone, and that Mr Shepherd thinks it the greatest improvement the house\never had.  Indeed, I must do ourselves the justice to say, that the few\nalterations we have made have been all very much for the better.  My\nwife should have the credit of them, however.  I have done very little\nbesides sending away some of the large looking-glasses from my\ndressing-room, which was your father's.  A very good man, and very much\nthe gentleman I am sure: but I should think, Miss Elliot,\" (looking\nwith serious reflection), \"I should think he must be rather a dressy\nman for his time of life.  Such a number of looking-glasses! oh Lord!\nthere was no getting away from one's self.  So I got Sophy to lend me a\nhand, and we soon shifted their quarters; and now I am quite snug, with\nmy little shaving glass in one corner, and another great thing that I\nnever go near.\"\n\nAnne, amused in spite of herself, was rather distressed for an answer,\nand the Admiral, fearing he might not have been civil enough, took up\nthe subject again, to say--\n\n\"The next time you write to your good father, Miss Elliot, pray give\nhim my compliments and Mrs Croft's, and say that we are settled here\nquite to our liking, and have no fault at all to find with the place.\nThe breakfast-room chimney smokes a little, I grant you, but it is only\nwhen the wind is due north and blows hard, which may not happen three\ntimes a winter.  And take it altogether, now that we have been into\nmost of the houses hereabouts and can judge, there is not one that we\nlike better than this.  Pray say so, with my compliments.  He will be\nglad to hear it.\"\n\nLady Russell and Mrs Croft were very well pleased with each other: but\nthe acquaintance which this visit began was fated not to proceed far at\npresent; for when it was returned, the Crofts announced themselves to\nbe going away for a few weeks, to visit their connexions in the north\nof the county, and probably might not be at home again before Lady\nRussell would be removing to Bath.\n\nSo ended all danger to Anne of meeting Captain Wentworth at Kellynch\nHall, or of seeing him in company with her friend.  Everything was safe\nenough, and she smiled over the many anxious feelings she had wasted on\nthe subject.\n\n\n\nChapter 14\n\n\nThough Charles and Mary had remained at Lyme much longer after Mr and\nMrs Musgrove's going than Anne conceived they could have been at all\nwanted, they were yet the first of the family to be at home again; and\nas soon as possible after their return to Uppercross they drove over to\nthe Lodge.  They had left Louisa beginning to sit up; but her head,\nthough clear, was exceedingly weak, and her nerves susceptible to the\nhighest extreme of tenderness; and though she might be pronounced to be\naltogether doing very well, it was still impossible to say when she\nmight be able to bear the removal home; and her father and mother, who\nmust return in time to receive their younger children for the Christmas\nholidays, had hardly a hope of being allowed to bring her with them.\n\nThey had been all in lodgings together.  Mrs Musgrove had got Mrs\nHarville's children away as much as she could, every possible supply\nfrom Uppercross had been furnished, to lighten the inconvenience to the\nHarvilles, while the Harvilles had been wanting them to come to dinner\nevery day; and in short, it seemed to have been only a struggle on each\nside as to which should be most disinterested and hospitable.\n\nMary had had her evils; but upon the whole, as was evident by her\nstaying so long, she had found more to enjoy than to suffer.  Charles\nHayter had been at Lyme oftener than suited her; and when they dined\nwith the Harvilles there had been only a maid-servant to wait, and at\nfirst Mrs Harville had always given Mrs Musgrove precedence; but then,\nshe had received so very handsome an apology from her on finding out\nwhose daughter she was, and there had been so much going on every day,\nthere had been so many walks between their lodgings and the Harvilles,\nand she had got books from the library, and changed them so often, that\nthe balance had certainly been much in favour of Lyme.  She had been\ntaken to Charmouth too, and she had bathed, and she had gone to church,\nand there were a great many more people to look at in the church at\nLyme than at Uppercross; and all this, joined to the sense of being so\nvery useful, had made really an agreeable fortnight.\n\nAnne enquired after Captain Benwick, Mary's face was clouded directly.\nCharles laughed.\n\n\"Oh! Captain Benwick is very well, I believe, but he is a very odd\nyoung man.  I do not know what he would be at.  We asked him to come\nhome with us for a day or two:  Charles undertook to give him some\nshooting, and he seemed quite delighted, and, for my part, I thought it\nwas all settled; when behold! on Tuesday night, he made a very awkward\nsort of excuse; 'he never shot' and he had 'been quite misunderstood,'\nand he had promised this and he had promised that, and the end of it\nwas, I found, that he did not mean to come.  I suppose he was afraid of\nfinding it dull; but upon my word I should have thought we were lively\nenough at the Cottage for such a heart-broken man as Captain Benwick.\"\n\nCharles laughed again and said, \"Now Mary, you know very well how it\nreally was.  It was all your doing,\" (turning to Anne.) \"He fancied\nthat if he went with us, he should find you close by: he fancied\neverybody to be living in Uppercross; and when he discovered that Lady\nRussell lived three miles off, his heart failed him, and he had not\ncourage to come.  That is the fact, upon my honour, Mary knows it is.\"\n\nBut Mary did not give into it very graciously, whether from not\nconsidering Captain Benwick entitled by birth and situation to be in\nlove with an Elliot, or from not wanting to believe Anne a greater\nattraction to Uppercross than herself, must be left to be guessed.\nAnne's good-will, however, was not to be lessened by what she heard.\nShe boldly acknowledged herself flattered, and continued her enquiries.\n\n\"Oh! he talks of you,\" cried Charles, \"in such terms--\" Mary\ninterrupted him. \"I declare, Charles, I never heard him mention Anne\ntwice all the time I was there.  I declare, Anne, he never talks of you\nat all.\"\n\n\"No,\" admitted Charles, \"I do not know that he ever does, in a general\nway; but however, it is a very clear thing that he admires you\nexceedingly.  His head is full of some books that he is reading upon\nyour recommendation, and he wants to talk to you about them; he has\nfound out something or other in one of them which he thinks--oh! I\ncannot pretend to remember it, but it was something very fine--I\noverheard him telling Henrietta all about it; and then 'Miss Elliot'\nwas spoken of in the highest terms!  Now Mary, I declare it was so, I\nheard it myself, and you were in the other room.  'Elegance, sweetness,\nbeauty.' Oh! there was no end of Miss Elliot's charms.\"\n\n\"And I am sure,\" cried Mary, warmly, \"it was a very little to his\ncredit, if he did.  Miss Harville only died last June.  Such a heart is\nvery little worth having; is it, Lady Russell?  I am sure you will\nagree with me.\"\n\n\"I must see Captain Benwick before I decide,\" said Lady Russell,\nsmiling.\n\n\"And that you are very likely to do very soon, I can tell you, ma'am,\"\nsaid Charles.  \"Though he had not nerves for coming away with us, and\nsetting off again afterwards to pay a formal visit here, he will make\nhis way over to Kellynch one day by himself, you may depend on it.  I\ntold him the distance and the road, and I told him of the church's\nbeing so very well worth seeing; for as he has a taste for those sort\nof things, I thought that would be a good excuse, and he listened with\nall his understanding and soul; and I am sure from his manner that you\nwill have him calling here soon.  So, I give you notice, Lady Russell.\"\n\n\"Any acquaintance of Anne's will always be welcome to me,\" was Lady\nRussell's kind answer.\n\n\"Oh! as to being Anne's acquaintance,\" said Mary, \"I think he is rather\nmy acquaintance, for I have been seeing him every day this last\nfortnight.\"\n\n\"Well, as your joint acquaintance, then, I shall be very happy to see\nCaptain Benwick.\"\n\n\"You will not find anything very agreeable in him, I assure you, ma'am.\nHe is one of the dullest young men that ever lived.  He has walked with\nme, sometimes, from one end of the sands to the other, without saying a\nword.  He is not at all a well-bred young man.  I am sure you will not\nlike him.\"\n\n\"There we differ, Mary,\" said Anne.  \"I think Lady Russell would like\nhim.  I think she would be so much pleased with his mind, that she\nwould very soon see no deficiency in his manner.\"\n\n\"So do I, Anne,\" said Charles.  \"I am sure Lady Russell would like him.\nHe is just Lady Russell's sort.  Give him a book, and he will read all\nday long.\"\n\n\"Yes, that he will!\" exclaimed Mary, tauntingly.  \"He will sit poring\nover his book, and not know when a person speaks to him, or when one\ndrop's one's scissors, or anything that happens.  Do you think Lady\nRussell would like that?\"\n\nLady Russell could not help laughing.  \"Upon my word,\" said she, \"I\nshould not have supposed that my opinion of any one could have admitted\nof such difference of conjecture, steady and matter of fact as I may\ncall myself.  I have really a curiosity to see the person who can give\noccasion to such directly opposite notions.  I wish he may be induced\nto call here.  And when he does, Mary, you may depend upon hearing my\nopinion; but I am determined not to judge him beforehand.\"\n\n\"You will not like him, I will answer for it.\"\n\nLady Russell began talking of something else.  Mary spoke with\nanimation of their meeting with, or rather missing, Mr Elliot so\nextraordinarily.\n\n\"He is a man,\" said Lady Russell, \"whom I have no wish to see.  His\ndeclining to be on cordial terms with the head of his family, has left\na very strong impression in his disfavour with me.\"\n\nThis decision checked Mary's eagerness, and stopped her short in the\nmidst of the Elliot countenance.\n\nWith regard to Captain Wentworth, though Anne hazarded no enquiries,\nthere was voluntary communication sufficient.  His spirits had been\ngreatly recovering lately as might be expected.  As Louisa improved, he\nhad improved, and he was now quite a different creature from what he\nhad been the first week.  He had not seen Louisa; and was so extremely\nfearful of any ill consequence to her from an interview, that he did\nnot press for it at all; and, on the contrary, seemed to have a plan of\ngoing away for a week or ten days, till her head was stronger.  He had\ntalked of going down to Plymouth for a week, and wanted to persuade\nCaptain Benwick to go with him; but, as Charles maintained to the last,\nCaptain Benwick seemed much more disposed to ride over to Kellynch.\n\nThere can be no doubt that Lady Russell and Anne were both occasionally\nthinking of Captain Benwick, from this time.  Lady Russell could not\nhear the door-bell without feeling that it might be his herald; nor\ncould Anne return from any stroll of solitary indulgence in her\nfather's grounds, or any visit of charity in the village, without\nwondering whether she might see him or hear of him.  Captain Benwick\ncame not, however.  He was either less disposed for it than Charles had\nimagined, or he was too shy; and after giving him a week's indulgence,\nLady Russell determined him to be unworthy of the interest which he had\nbeen beginning to excite.\n\nThe Musgroves came back to receive their happy boys and girls from\nschool, bringing with them Mrs Harville's little children, to improve\nthe noise of Uppercross, and lessen that of Lyme.  Henrietta remained\nwith Louisa; but all the rest of the family were again in their usual\nquarters.\n\nLady Russell and Anne paid their compliments to them once, when Anne\ncould not but feel that Uppercross was already quite alive again.\nThough neither Henrietta, nor Louisa, nor Charles Hayter, nor Captain\nWentworth were there, the room presented as strong a contrast as could\nbe wished to the last state she had seen it in.\n\nImmediately surrounding Mrs Musgrove were the little Harvilles, whom\nshe was sedulously guarding from the tyranny of the two children from\nthe Cottage, expressly arrived to amuse them.  On one side was a table\noccupied by some chattering girls, cutting up silk and gold paper; and\non the other were tressels and trays, bending under the weight of brawn\nand cold pies, where riotous boys were holding high revel; the whole\ncompleted by a roaring Christmas fire, which seemed determined to be\nheard, in spite of all the noise of the others.  Charles and Mary also\ncame in, of course, during their visit, and Mr Musgrove made a point of\npaying his respects to Lady Russell, and sat down close to her for ten\nminutes, talking with a very raised voice, but from the clamour of the\nchildren on his knees, generally in vain.  It was a fine family-piece.\n\nAnne, judging from her own temperament, would have deemed such a\ndomestic hurricane a bad restorative of the nerves, which Louisa's\nillness must have so greatly shaken.  But Mrs Musgrove, who got Anne\nnear her on purpose to thank her most cordially, again and again, for\nall her attentions to them, concluded a short recapitulation of what\nshe had suffered herself by observing, with a happy glance round the\nroom, that after all she had gone through, nothing was so likely to do\nher good as a little quiet cheerfulness at home.\n\nLouisa was now recovering apace.  Her mother could even think of her\nbeing able to join their party at home, before her brothers and sisters\nwent to school again.  The Harvilles had promised to come with her and\nstay at Uppercross, whenever she returned.  Captain Wentworth was gone,\nfor the present, to see his brother in Shropshire.\n\n\"I hope I shall remember, in future,\" said Lady Russell, as soon as\nthey were reseated in the carriage, \"not to call at Uppercross in the\nChristmas holidays.\"\n\nEverybody has their taste in noises as well as in other matters; and\nsounds are quite innoxious, or most distressing, by their sort rather\nthan their quantity.  When Lady Russell not long afterwards, was\nentering Bath on a wet afternoon, and driving through the long course\nof streets from the Old Bridge to Camden Place, amidst the dash of\nother carriages, the heavy rumble of carts and drays, the bawling of\nnewspapermen, muffin-men and milkmen, and the ceaseless clink of\npattens, she made no complaint.  No, these were noises which belonged\nto the winter pleasures; her spirits rose under their influence; and\nlike Mrs Musgrove, she was feeling, though not saying, that after being\nlong in the country, nothing could be so good for her as a little quiet\ncheerfulness.\n\nAnne did not share these feelings.  She persisted in a very determined,\nthough very silent disinclination for Bath; caught the first dim view\nof the extensive buildings, smoking in rain, without any wish of seeing\nthem better; felt their progress through the streets to be, however\ndisagreeable, yet too rapid; for who would be glad to see her when she\narrived?  And looked back, with fond regret, to the bustles of\nUppercross and the seclusion of Kellynch.\n\nElizabeth's last letter had communicated a piece of news of some\ninterest.  Mr Elliot was in Bath.  He had called in Camden Place; had\ncalled a second time, a third; had been pointedly attentive.  If\nElizabeth and her father did not deceive themselves, had been taking\nmuch pains to seek the acquaintance, and proclaim the value of the\nconnection, as he had formerly taken pains to shew neglect.  This was\nvery wonderful if it were true; and Lady Russell was in a state of very\nagreeable curiosity and perplexity about Mr Elliot, already recanting\nthe sentiment she had so lately expressed to Mary, of his being \"a man\nwhom she had no wish to see.\"  She had a great wish to see him.  If he\nreally sought to reconcile himself like a dutiful branch, he must be\nforgiven for having dismembered himself from the paternal tree.\n\nAnne was not animated to an equal pitch by the circumstance, but she\nfelt that she would rather see Mr Elliot again than not, which was more\nthan she could say for many other persons in Bath.\n\nShe was put down in Camden Place; and Lady Russell then drove to her\nown lodgings, in Rivers Street.\n\n\n\nChapter 15\n\n\nSir Walter had taken a very good house in Camden Place, a lofty\ndignified situation, such as becomes a man of consequence; and both he\nand Elizabeth were settled there, much to their satisfaction.\n\nAnne entered it with a sinking heart, anticipating an imprisonment of\nmany months, and anxiously saying to herself, \"Oh! when shall I leave\nyou again?\"  A degree of unexpected cordiality, however, in the welcome\nshe received, did her good.  Her father and sister were glad to see\nher, for the sake of shewing her the house and furniture, and met her\nwith kindness.  Her making a fourth, when they sat down to dinner, was\nnoticed as an advantage.\n\nMrs Clay was very pleasant, and very smiling, but her courtesies and\nsmiles were more a matter of course.  Anne had always felt that she\nwould pretend what was proper on her arrival, but the complaisance of\nthe others was unlooked for.  They were evidently in excellent spirits,\nand she was soon to listen to the causes.  They had no inclination to\nlisten to her.  After laying out for some compliments of being deeply\nregretted in their old neighbourhood, which Anne could not pay, they\nhad only a few faint enquiries to make, before the talk must be all\ntheir own.  Uppercross excited no interest, Kellynch very little: it\nwas all Bath.\n\nThey had the pleasure of assuring her that Bath more than answered\ntheir expectations in every respect.  Their house was undoubtedly the\nbest in Camden Place; their drawing-rooms had many decided advantages\nover all the others which they had either seen or heard of, and the\nsuperiority was not less in the style of the fitting-up, or the taste\nof the furniture.  Their acquaintance was exceedingly sought after.\nEverybody was wanting to visit them.  They had drawn back from many\nintroductions, and still were perpetually having cards left by people\nof whom they knew nothing.\n\nHere were funds of enjoyment.  Could Anne wonder that her father and\nsister were happy?  She might not wonder, but she must sigh that her\nfather should feel no degradation in his change, should see nothing to\nregret in the duties and dignity of the resident landholder, should\nfind so much to be vain of in the littlenesses of a town; and she must\nsigh, and smile, and wonder too, as Elizabeth threw open the\nfolding-doors and walked with exultation from one drawing-room to the\nother, boasting of their space; at the possibility of that woman, who\nhad been mistress of Kellynch Hall, finding extent to be proud of\nbetween two walls, perhaps thirty feet asunder.\n\nBut this was not all which they had to make them happy.  They had Mr\nElliot too.  Anne had a great deal to hear of Mr Elliot.  He was not\nonly pardoned, they were delighted with him.  He had been in Bath about\na fortnight; (he had passed through Bath in November, in his way to\nLondon, when the intelligence of Sir Walter's being settled there had\nof course reached him, though only twenty-four hours in the place, but\nhe had not been able to avail himself of it;) but he had now been a\nfortnight in Bath, and his first object on arriving, had been to leave\nhis card in Camden Place, following it up by such assiduous endeavours\nto meet, and when they did meet, by such great openness of conduct,\nsuch readiness to apologize for the past, such solicitude to be\nreceived as a relation again, that their former good understanding was\ncompletely re-established.\n\nThey had not a fault to find in him.  He had explained away all the\nappearance of neglect on his own side.  It had originated in\nmisapprehension entirely.  He had never had an idea of throwing himself\noff; he had feared that he was thrown off, but knew not why, and\ndelicacy had kept him silent.  Upon the hint of having spoken\ndisrespectfully or carelessly of the family and the family honours, he\nwas quite indignant.  He, who had ever boasted of being an Elliot, and\nwhose feelings, as to connection, were only too strict to suit the\nunfeudal tone of the present day.  He was astonished, indeed, but his\ncharacter and general conduct must refute it.  He could refer Sir\nWalter to all who knew him; and certainly, the pains he had been taking\non this, the first opportunity of reconciliation, to be restored to the\nfooting of a relation and heir-presumptive, was a strong proof of his\nopinions on the subject.\n\nThe circumstances of his marriage, too, were found to admit of much\nextenuation.  This was an article not to be entered on by himself; but\na very intimate friend of his, a Colonel Wallis, a highly respectable\nman, perfectly the gentleman, (and not an ill-looking man, Sir Walter\nadded), who was living in very good style in Marlborough Buildings, and\nhad, at his own particular request, been admitted to their acquaintance\nthrough Mr Elliot, had mentioned one or two things relative to the\nmarriage, which made a material difference in the discredit of it.\n\nColonel Wallis had known Mr Elliot long, had been well acquainted also\nwith his wife, had perfectly understood the whole story.  She was\ncertainly not a woman of family, but well educated, accomplished, rich,\nand excessively in love with his friend.  There had been the charm.\nShe had sought him.  Without that attraction, not all her money would\nhave tempted Elliot, and Sir Walter was, moreover, assured of her\nhaving been a very fine woman.  Here was a great deal to soften the\nbusiness.  A very fine woman with a large fortune, in love with him!\nSir Walter seemed to admit it as complete apology; and though Elizabeth\ncould not see the circumstance in quite so favourable a light, she\nallowed it be a great extenuation.\n\nMr Elliot had called repeatedly, had dined with them once, evidently\ndelighted by the distinction of being asked, for they gave no dinners\nin general; delighted, in short, by every proof of cousinly notice, and\nplacing his whole happiness in being on intimate terms in Camden Place.\n\nAnne listened, but without quite understanding it.  Allowances, large\nallowances, she knew, must be made for the ideas of those who spoke.\nShe heard it all under embellishment.  All that sounded extravagant or\nirrational in the progress of the reconciliation might have no origin\nbut in the language of the relators.  Still, however, she had the\nsensation of there being something more than immediately appeared, in\nMr Elliot's wishing, after an interval of so many years, to be well\nreceived by them.  In a worldly view, he had nothing to gain by being\non terms with Sir Walter; nothing to risk by a state of variance.  In\nall probability he was already the richer of the two, and the Kellynch\nestate would as surely be his hereafter as the title.  A sensible man,\nand he had looked like a very sensible man, why should it be an object\nto him?  She could only offer one solution; it was, perhaps, for\nElizabeth's sake.  There might really have been a liking formerly,\nthough convenience and accident had drawn him a different way; and now\nthat he could afford to please himself, he might mean to pay his\naddresses to her.  Elizabeth was certainly very handsome, with\nwell-bred, elegant manners, and her character might never have been\npenetrated by Mr Elliot, knowing her but in public, and when very young\nhimself.  How her temper and understanding might bear the investigation\nof his present keener time of life was another concern and rather a\nfearful one.  Most earnestly did she wish that he might not be too\nnice, or too observant if Elizabeth were his object; and that Elizabeth\nwas disposed to believe herself so, and that her friend Mrs Clay was\nencouraging the idea, seemed apparent by a glance or two between them,\nwhile Mr Elliot's frequent visits were talked of.\n\nAnne mentioned the glimpses she had had of him at Lyme, but without\nbeing much attended to.  \"Oh! yes, perhaps, it had been Mr Elliot.\nThey did not know.  It might be him, perhaps.\"  They could not listen\nto her description of him.  They were describing him themselves; Sir\nWalter especially.  He did justice to his very gentlemanlike\nappearance, his air of elegance and fashion, his good shaped face, his\nsensible eye; but, at the same time, \"must lament his being very much\nunder-hung, a defect which time seemed to have increased; nor could he\npretend to say that ten years had not altered almost every feature for\nthe worse.  Mr Elliot appeared to think that he (Sir Walter) was\nlooking exactly as he had done when they last parted;\" but Sir Walter\nhad \"not been able to return the compliment entirely, which had\nembarrassed him.  He did not mean to complain, however.  Mr Elliot was\nbetter to look at than most men, and he had no objection to being seen\nwith him anywhere.\"\n\nMr Elliot, and his friends in Marlborough Buildings, were talked of the\nwhole evening.  \"Colonel Wallis had been so impatient to be introduced\nto them! and Mr Elliot so anxious that he should!\" and there was a Mrs\nWallis, at present known only to them by description, as she was in\ndaily expectation of her confinement; but Mr Elliot spoke of her as \"a\nmost charming woman, quite worthy of being known in Camden Place,\" and\nas soon as she recovered they were to be acquainted.  Sir Walter\nthought much of Mrs Wallis; she was said to be an excessively pretty\nwoman, beautiful.  \"He longed to see her.  He hoped she might make some\namends for the many very plain faces he was continually passing in the\nstreets.  The worst of Bath was the number of its plain women.  He did\nnot mean to say that there were no pretty women, but the number of the\nplain was out of all proportion.  He had frequently observed, as he\nwalked, that one handsome face would be followed by thirty, or\nfive-and-thirty frights; and once, as he had stood in a shop on Bond\nStreet, he had counted eighty-seven women go by, one after another,\nwithout there being a tolerable face among them.  It had been a frosty\nmorning, to be sure, a sharp frost, which hardly one woman in a\nthousand could stand the test of.  But still, there certainly were a\ndreadful multitude of ugly women in Bath; and as for the men!  they\nwere infinitely worse.  Such scarecrows as the streets were full of!\nIt was evident how little the women were used to the sight of anything\ntolerable, by the effect which a man of decent appearance produced.  He\nhad never walked anywhere arm-in-arm with Colonel Wallis (who was a\nfine military figure, though sandy-haired) without observing that every\nwoman's eye was upon him; every woman's eye was sure to be upon Colonel\nWallis.\"  Modest Sir Walter!  He was not allowed to escape, however.\nHis daughter and Mrs Clay united in hinting that Colonel Wallis's\ncompanion might have as good a figure as Colonel Wallis, and certainly\nwas not sandy-haired.\n\n\"How is Mary looking?\" said Sir Walter, in the height of his good\nhumour.  \"The last time I saw her she had a red nose, but I hope that\nmay not happen every day.\"\n\n\"Oh! no, that must have been quite accidental.  In general she has been\nin very good health and very good looks since Michaelmas.\"\n\n\"If I thought it would not tempt her to go out in sharp winds, and grow\ncoarse, I would send her a new hat and pelisse.\"\n\nAnne was considering whether she should venture to suggest that a gown,\nor a cap, would not be liable to any such misuse, when a knock at the\ndoor suspended everything.  \"A knock at the door! and so late!  It was\nten o'clock.  Could it be Mr Elliot?  They knew he was to dine in\nLansdown Crescent.  It was possible that he might stop in his way home\nto ask them how they did.  They could think of no one else.  Mrs Clay\ndecidedly thought it Mr Elliot's knock.\"  Mrs Clay was right.  With all\nthe state which a butler and foot-boy could give, Mr Elliot was ushered\ninto the room.\n\nIt was the same, the very same man, with no difference but of dress.\nAnne drew a little back, while the others received his compliments, and\nher sister his apologies for calling at so unusual an hour, but \"he\ncould not be so near without wishing to know that neither she nor her\nfriend had taken cold the day before,\" &c. &c; which was all as\npolitely done, and as politely taken, as possible, but her part must\nfollow then.  Sir Walter talked of his youngest daughter; \"Mr Elliot\nmust give him leave to present him to his youngest daughter\" (there was\nno occasion for remembering Mary); and Anne, smiling and blushing, very\nbecomingly shewed to Mr Elliot the pretty features which he had by no\nmeans forgotten, and instantly saw, with amusement at his little start\nof surprise, that he had not been at all aware of who she was.  He\nlooked completely astonished, but not more astonished than pleased; his\neyes brightened! and with the most perfect alacrity he welcomed the\nrelationship, alluded to the past, and entreated to be received as an\nacquaintance already.  He was quite as good-looking as he had appeared\nat Lyme, his countenance improved by speaking, and his manners were so\nexactly what they ought to be, so polished, so easy, so particularly\nagreeable, that she could compare them in excellence to only one\nperson's manners.  They were not the same, but they were, perhaps,\nequally good.\n\nHe sat down with them, and improved their conversation very much.\nThere could be no doubt of his being a sensible man.  Ten minutes were\nenough to certify that.  His tone, his expressions, his choice of\nsubject, his knowing where to stop; it was all the operation of a\nsensible, discerning mind.  As soon as he could, he began to talk to\nher of Lyme, wanting to compare opinions respecting the place, but\nespecially wanting to speak of the circumstance of their happening to\nbe guests in the same inn at the same time; to give his own route,\nunderstand something of hers, and regret that he should have lost such\nan opportunity of paying his respects to her.  She gave him a short\naccount of her party and business at Lyme.  His regret increased as he\nlistened.  He had spent his whole solitary evening in the room\nadjoining theirs; had heard voices, mirth continually; thought they\nmust be a most delightful set of people, longed to be with them, but\ncertainly without the smallest suspicion of his possessing the shadow\nof a right to introduce himself.  If he had but asked who the party\nwere!  The name of Musgrove would have told him enough.  \"Well, it\nwould serve to cure him of an absurd practice of never asking a\nquestion at an inn, which he had adopted, when quite a young man, on\nthe principal of its being very ungenteel to be curious.\n\n\"The notions of a young man of one or two and twenty,\" said he, \"as to\nwhat is necessary in manners to make him quite the thing, are more\nabsurd, I believe, than those of any other set of beings in the world.\nThe folly of the means they often employ is only to be equalled by the\nfolly of what they have in view.\"\n\nBut he must not be addressing his reflections to Anne alone: he knew\nit; he was soon diffused again among the others, and it was only at\nintervals that he could return to Lyme.\n\nHis enquiries, however, produced at length an account of the scene she\nhad been engaged in there, soon after his leaving the place.  Having\nalluded to \"an accident,\"  he must hear the whole.  When he questioned,\nSir Walter and Elizabeth began to question also, but the difference in\ntheir manner of doing it could not be unfelt.  She could only compare\nMr Elliot to Lady Russell, in the wish of really comprehending what had\npassed, and in the degree of concern for what she must have suffered in\nwitnessing it.\n\nHe staid an hour with them.  The elegant little clock on the mantel-piece\nhad struck \"eleven with its silver sounds,\" and the watchman was\nbeginning to be heard at a distance telling the same tale, before Mr\nElliot or any of them seemed to feel that he had been there long.\n\nAnne could not have supposed it possible that her first evening in\nCamden Place could have passed so well!\n\n\n\nChapter 16\n\n\nThere was one point which Anne, on returning to her family, would have\nbeen more thankful to ascertain even than Mr Elliot's being in love\nwith Elizabeth, which was, her father's not being in love with Mrs\nClay; and she was very far from easy about it, when she had been at\nhome a few hours.  On going down to breakfast the next morning, she\nfound there had just been a decent pretence on the lady's side of\nmeaning to leave them.  She could imagine Mrs Clay to have said, that\n\"now Miss Anne was come, she could not suppose herself at all wanted;\"\nfor Elizabeth was replying in a sort of whisper, \"That must not be any\nreason, indeed.  I assure you I feel it none.  She is nothing to me,\ncompared with you;\"  and she was in full time to hear her father say,\n\"My dear madam, this must not be.  As yet, you have seen nothing of\nBath.  You have been here only to be useful.  You must not run away\nfrom us now.  You must stay to be acquainted with Mrs Wallis, the\nbeautiful Mrs Wallis.  To your fine mind, I well know the sight of\nbeauty is a real gratification.\"\n\nHe spoke and looked so much in earnest, that Anne was not surprised to\nsee Mrs Clay stealing a glance at Elizabeth and herself.  Her\ncountenance, perhaps, might express some watchfulness; but the praise\nof the fine mind did not appear to excite a thought in her sister.  The\nlady could not but yield to such joint entreaties, and promise to stay.\n\nIn the course of the same morning, Anne and her father chancing to be\nalone together, he began to compliment her on her improved looks; he\nthought her \"less thin in her person, in her cheeks; her skin, her\ncomplexion, greatly improved; clearer, fresher.  Had she been using any\nthing in particular?\"  \"No, nothing.\"  \"Merely Gowland,\" he supposed.\n\"No, nothing at all.\"  \"Ha! he was surprised at that;\" and added,\n\"certainly you cannot do better than to continue as you are; you cannot\nbe better than well; or I should recommend Gowland, the constant use of\nGowland, during the spring months.  Mrs Clay has been using it at my\nrecommendation, and you see what it has done for her.  You see how it\nhas carried away her freckles.\"\n\nIf Elizabeth could but have heard this!  Such personal praise might\nhave struck her, especially as it did not appear to Anne that the\nfreckles were at all lessened.  But everything must take its chance.\nThe evil of a marriage would be much diminished, if Elizabeth were also\nto marry.  As for herself, she might always command a home with Lady\nRussell.\n\nLady Russell's composed mind and polite manners were put to some trial\non this point, in her intercourse in Camden Place.  The sight of Mrs\nClay in such favour, and of Anne so overlooked, was a perpetual\nprovocation to her there; and vexed her as much when she was away, as a\nperson in Bath who drinks the water, gets all the new publications, and\nhas a very large acquaintance, has time to be vexed.\n\nAs Mr Elliot became known to her, she grew more charitable, or more\nindifferent, towards the others.  His manners were an immediate\nrecommendation; and on conversing with him she found the solid so fully\nsupporting the superficial, that she was at first, as she told Anne,\nalmost ready to exclaim, \"Can this be Mr Elliot?\" and could not\nseriously picture to herself a more agreeable or estimable man.\nEverything united in him; good understanding, correct opinions,\nknowledge of the world, and a warm heart.  He had strong feelings of\nfamily attachment and family honour, without pride or weakness; he\nlived with the liberality of a man of fortune, without display; he\njudged for himself in everything essential, without defying public\nopinion in any point of worldly decorum.  He was steady, observant,\nmoderate, candid; never run away with by spirits or by selfishness,\nwhich fancied itself strong feeling; and yet, with a sensibility to\nwhat was amiable and lovely, and a value for all the felicities of\ndomestic life, which characters of fancied enthusiasm and violent\nagitation seldom really possess.  She was sure that he had not been\nhappy in marriage.  Colonel Wallis said it, and Lady Russell saw it;\nbut it had been no unhappiness to sour his mind, nor (she began pretty\nsoon to suspect) to prevent his thinking of a second choice.  Her\nsatisfaction in Mr Elliot outweighed all the plague of Mrs Clay.\n\nIt was now some years since Anne had begun to learn that she and her\nexcellent friend could sometimes think differently; and it did not\nsurprise her, therefore, that Lady Russell should see nothing\nsuspicious or inconsistent, nothing to require more motives than\nappeared, in Mr Elliot's great desire of a reconciliation.  In Lady\nRussell's view, it was perfectly natural that Mr Elliot, at a mature\ntime of life, should feel it a most desirable object, and what would\nvery generally recommend him among all sensible people, to be on good\nterms with the head of his family; the simplest process in the world of\ntime upon a head naturally clear, and only erring in the heyday of\nyouth.  Anne presumed, however, still to smile about it, and at last to\nmention \"Elizabeth.\"  Lady Russell listened, and looked, and made only\nthis cautious reply:--\"Elizabeth! very well; time will explain.\"\n\nIt was a reference to the future, which Anne, after a little\nobservation, felt she must submit to.  She could determine nothing at\npresent.  In that house Elizabeth must be first; and she was in the\nhabit of such general observance as \"Miss Elliot,\" that any\nparticularity of attention seemed almost impossible.  Mr Elliot, too,\nit must be remembered, had not been a widower seven months.  A little\ndelay on his side might be very excusable.  In fact, Anne could never\nsee the crape round his hat, without fearing that she was the\ninexcusable one, in attributing to him such imaginations; for though\nhis marriage had not been very happy, still it had existed so many\nyears that she could not comprehend a very rapid recovery from the\nawful impression of its being dissolved.\n\nHowever it might end, he was without any question their pleasantest\nacquaintance in Bath:  she saw nobody equal to him; and it was a great\nindulgence now and then to talk to him about Lyme, which he seemed to\nhave as lively a wish to see again, and to see more of, as herself.\nThey went through the particulars of their first meeting a great many\ntimes.  He gave her to understand that he had looked at her with some\nearnestness.  She knew it well; and she remembered another person's\nlook also.\n\nThey did not always think alike.  His value for rank and connexion she\nperceived was greater than hers.  It was not merely complaisance, it\nmust be a liking to the cause, which made him enter warmly into her\nfather and sister's solicitudes on a subject which she thought unworthy\nto excite them.  The Bath paper one morning announced the arrival of\nthe Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple, and her daughter, the Honourable\nMiss Carteret; and all the comfort of No. --, Camden Place, was swept\naway for many days; for the Dalrymples (in Anne's opinion, most\nunfortunately) were cousins of the Elliots; and the agony was how to\nintroduce themselves properly.\n\nAnne had never seen her father and sister before in contact with\nnobility, and she must acknowledge herself disappointed.  She had hoped\nbetter things from their high ideas of their own situation in life, and\nwas reduced to form a wish which she had never foreseen; a wish that\nthey had more pride; for \"our cousins Lady Dalrymple and Miss\nCarteret;\" \"our cousins, the Dalrymples,\" sounded in her ears all day\nlong.\n\nSir Walter had once been in company with the late viscount, but had\nnever seen any of the rest of the family; and the difficulties of the\ncase arose from there having been a suspension of all intercourse by\nletters of ceremony, ever since the death of that said late viscount,\nwhen, in consequence of a dangerous illness of Sir Walter's at the same\ntime, there had been an unlucky omission at Kellynch.  No letter of\ncondolence had been sent to Ireland.  The neglect had been visited on\nthe head of the sinner; for when poor Lady Elliot died herself, no\nletter of condolence was received at Kellynch, and, consequently, there\nwas but too much reason to apprehend that the Dalrymples considered the\nrelationship as closed.  How to have this anxious business set to\nrights, and be admitted as cousins again, was the question:  and it was\na question which, in a more rational manner, neither Lady Russell nor\nMr Elliot thought unimportant.  \"Family connexions were always worth\npreserving, good company always worth seeking; Lady Dalrymple had taken\na house, for three months, in Laura Place, and would be living in\nstyle.  She had been at Bath the year before, and Lady Russell had\nheard her spoken of as a charming woman.  It was very desirable that\nthe connexion should be renewed, if it could be done, without any\ncompromise of propriety on the side of the Elliots.\"\n\nSir Walter, however, would choose his own means, and at last wrote a\nvery fine letter of ample explanation, regret, and entreaty, to his\nright honourable cousin.  Neither Lady Russell nor Mr Elliot could\nadmire the letter; but it did all that was wanted, in bringing three\nlines of scrawl from the Dowager Viscountess.  \"She was very much\nhonoured, and should be happy in their acquaintance.\" The toils of the\nbusiness were over, the sweets began.  They visited in Laura Place,\nthey had the cards of Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple, and the Honourable\nMiss Carteret, to be arranged wherever they might be most visible:  and\n\"Our cousins in Laura Place,\"--\"Our cousin, Lady Dalrymple and Miss\nCarteret,\" were talked of to everybody.\n\nAnne was ashamed.  Had Lady Dalrymple and her daughter even been very\nagreeable, she would still have been ashamed of the agitation they\ncreated, but they were nothing.  There was no superiority of manner,\naccomplishment, or understanding.  Lady Dalrymple had acquired the name\nof \"a charming woman,\" because she had a smile and a civil answer for\neverybody.  Miss Carteret, with still less to say, was so plain and so\nawkward, that she would never have been tolerated in Camden Place but\nfor her birth.\n\nLady Russell confessed she had expected something better; but yet \"it\nwas an acquaintance worth having;\" and when Anne ventured to speak her\nopinion of them to Mr Elliot, he agreed to their being nothing in\nthemselves, but still maintained that, as a family connexion, as good\ncompany, as those who would collect good company around them, they had\ntheir value.  Anne smiled and said,\n\n\"My idea of good company, Mr Elliot, is the company of clever,\nwell-informed people, who have a great deal of conversation; that is\nwhat I call good company.\"\n\n\"You are mistaken,\" said he gently, \"that is not good company; that is\nthe best.  Good company requires only birth, education, and manners,\nand with regard to education is not very nice.  Birth and good manners\nare essential; but a little learning is by no means a dangerous thing\nin good company; on the contrary, it will do very well.  My cousin Anne\nshakes her head.  She is not satisfied.  She is fastidious.  My dear\ncousin\" (sitting down by her), \"you have a better right to be\nfastidious than almost any other woman I know; but will it answer?\nWill it make you happy?  Will it not be wiser to accept the society of\nthose good ladies in Laura Place, and enjoy all the advantages of the\nconnexion as far as possible?  You may depend upon it, that they will\nmove in the first set in Bath this winter, and as rank is rank, your\nbeing known to be related to them will have its use in fixing your\nfamily (our family let me say) in that degree of consideration which we\nmust all wish for.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" sighed Anne, \"we shall, indeed, be known to be related to them!\"\nthen recollecting herself, and not wishing to be answered, she added,\n\"I certainly do think there has been by far too much trouble taken to\nprocure the acquaintance.  I suppose\" (smiling) \"I have more pride than\nany of you; but I confess it does vex me, that we should be so\nsolicitous to have the relationship acknowledged, which we may be very\nsure is a matter of perfect indifference to them.\"\n\n\"Pardon me, dear cousin, you are unjust in your own claims.  In London,\nperhaps, in your present quiet style of living, it might be as you say:\nbut in Bath; Sir Walter Elliot and his family will always be worth\nknowing:  always acceptable as acquaintance.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Anne, \"I certainly am proud, too proud to enjoy a welcome\nwhich depends so entirely upon place.\"\n\n\"I love your indignation,\" said he; \"it is very natural.  But here you\nare in Bath, and the object is to be established here with all the\ncredit and dignity which ought to belong to Sir Walter Elliot.  You\ntalk of being proud; I am called proud, I know, and I shall not wish to\nbelieve myself otherwise; for our pride, if investigated, would have\nthe same object, I have no doubt, though the kind may seem a little\ndifferent.  In one point, I am sure, my dear cousin,\" (he continued,\nspeaking lower, though there was no one else in the room) \"in one\npoint, I am sure, we must feel alike.  We must feel that every addition\nto your father's society, among his equals or superiors, may be of use\nin diverting his thoughts from those who are beneath him.\"\n\nHe looked, as he spoke, to the seat which Mrs Clay had been lately\noccupying:  a sufficient explanation of what he particularly meant; and\nthough Anne could not believe in their having the same sort of pride,\nshe was pleased with him for not liking Mrs Clay; and her conscience\nadmitted that his wishing to promote her father's getting great\nacquaintance was more than excusable in the view of defeating her.\n\n\n\nChapter 17\n\n\nWhile Sir Walter and Elizabeth were assiduously pushing their good\nfortune in Laura Place, Anne was renewing an acquaintance of a very\ndifferent description.\n\nShe had called on her former governess, and had heard from her of there\nbeing an old school-fellow in Bath, who had the two strong claims on\nher attention of past kindness and present suffering.  Miss Hamilton,\nnow Mrs Smith, had shewn her kindness in one of those periods of her\nlife when it had been most valuable.  Anne had gone unhappy to school,\ngrieving for the loss of a mother whom she had dearly loved, feeling\nher separation from home, and suffering as a girl of fourteen, of\nstrong sensibility and not high spirits, must suffer at such a time;\nand Miss Hamilton, three years older than herself, but still from the\nwant of near relations and a settled home, remaining another year at\nschool, had been useful and good to her in a way which had considerably\nlessened her misery, and could never be remembered with indifference.\n\nMiss Hamilton had left school, had married not long afterwards, was\nsaid to have married a man of fortune, and this was all that Anne had\nknown of her, till now that their governess's account brought her\nsituation forward in a more decided but very different form.\n\nShe was a widow and poor.  Her husband had been extravagant; and at his\ndeath, about two years before, had left his affairs dreadfully\ninvolved.  She had had difficulties of every sort to contend with, and\nin addition to these distresses had been afflicted with a severe\nrheumatic fever, which, finally settling in her legs, had made her for\nthe present a cripple.  She had come to Bath on that account, and was\nnow in lodgings near the hot baths, living in a very humble way, unable\neven to afford herself the comfort of a servant, and of course almost\nexcluded from society.\n\nTheir mutual friend answered for the satisfaction which a visit from\nMiss Elliot would give Mrs Smith, and Anne therefore lost no time in\ngoing.  She mentioned nothing of what she had heard, or what she\nintended, at home.  It would excite no proper interest there.  She only\nconsulted Lady Russell, who entered thoroughly into her sentiments, and\nwas most happy to convey her as near to Mrs Smith's lodgings in\nWestgate Buildings, as Anne chose to be taken.\n\nThe visit was paid, their acquaintance re-established, their interest\nin each other more than re-kindled.  The first ten minutes had its\nawkwardness and its emotion.  Twelve years were gone since they had\nparted, and each presented a somewhat different person from what the\nother had imagined.  Twelve years had changed Anne from the blooming,\nsilent, unformed girl of fifteen, to the elegant little woman of\nseven-and-twenty, with every beauty except bloom, and with manners as\nconsciously right as they were invariably gentle; and twelve years had\ntransformed the fine-looking, well-grown Miss Hamilton, in all the glow\nof health and confidence of superiority, into a poor, infirm, helpless\nwidow, receiving the visit of her former protegee as a favour; but all\nthat was uncomfortable in the meeting had soon passed away, and left\nonly the interesting charm of remembering former partialities and\ntalking over old times.\n\nAnne found in Mrs Smith the good sense and agreeable manners which she\nhad almost ventured to depend on, and a disposition to converse and be\ncheerful beyond her expectation.  Neither the dissipations of the\npast--and she had lived very much in the world--nor the restrictions of\nthe present, neither sickness nor sorrow seemed to have closed her\nheart or ruined her spirits.\n\nIn the course of a second visit she talked with great openness, and\nAnne's astonishment increased.  She could scarcely imagine a more\ncheerless situation in itself than Mrs Smith's.  She had been very fond\nof her husband:  she had buried him.  She had been used to affluence:\nit was gone.  She had no child to connect her with life and happiness\nagain, no relations to assist in the arrangement of perplexed affairs,\nno health to make all the rest supportable.  Her accommodations were\nlimited to a noisy parlour, and a dark bedroom behind, with no\npossibility of moving from one to the other without assistance, which\nthere was only one servant in the house to afford, and she never\nquitted the house but to be conveyed into the warm bath.  Yet, in spite\nof all this, Anne had reason to believe that she had moments only of\nlanguor and depression, to hours of occupation and enjoyment.  How\ncould it be?  She watched, observed, reflected, and finally determined\nthat this was not a case of fortitude or of resignation only.  A\nsubmissive spirit might be patient, a strong understanding would supply\nresolution, but here was something more; here was that elasticity of\nmind, that disposition to be comforted, that power of turning readily\nfrom evil to good, and of finding employment which carried her out of\nherself, which was from nature alone.  It was the choicest gift of\nHeaven; and Anne viewed her friend as one of those instances in which,\nby a merciful appointment, it seems designed to counterbalance almost\nevery other want.\n\nThere had been a time, Mrs Smith told her, when her spirits had nearly\nfailed.  She could not call herself an invalid now, compared with her\nstate on first reaching Bath.  Then she had, indeed, been a pitiable\nobject; for she had caught cold on the journey, and had hardly taken\npossession of her lodgings before she was again confined to her bed and\nsuffering under severe and constant pain; and all this among strangers,\nwith the absolute necessity of having a regular nurse, and finances at\nthat moment particularly unfit to meet any extraordinary expense.  She\nhad weathered it, however, and could truly say that it had done her\ngood.  It had increased her comforts by making her feel herself to be\nin good hands.  She had seen too much of the world, to expect sudden or\ndisinterested attachment anywhere, but her illness had proved to her\nthat her landlady had a character to preserve, and would not use her\nill; and she had been particularly fortunate in her nurse, as a sister\nof her landlady, a nurse by profession, and who had always a home in\nthat house when unemployed, chanced to be at liberty just in time to\nattend her.  \"And she,\" said Mrs Smith, \"besides nursing me most\nadmirably, has really proved an invaluable acquaintance.  As soon as I\ncould use my hands she taught me to knit, which has been a great\namusement; and she put me in the way of making these little\nthread-cases, pin-cushions and card-racks, which you always find me so\nbusy about, and which supply me with the means of doing a little good\nto one or two very poor families in this neighbourhood.  She had a\nlarge acquaintance, of course professionally, among those who can\nafford to buy, and she disposes of my merchandise.  She always takes\nthe right time for applying.  Everybody's heart is open, you know, when\nthey have recently escaped from severe pain, or are recovering the\nblessing of health, and Nurse Rooke thoroughly understands when to\nspeak.  She is a shrewd, intelligent, sensible woman.  Hers is a line\nfor seeing human nature; and she has a fund of good sense and\nobservation, which, as a companion, make her infinitely superior to\nthousands of those who having only received 'the best education in the\nworld,' know nothing worth attending to.  Call it gossip, if you will,\nbut when Nurse Rooke has half an hour's leisure to bestow on me, she is\nsure to have something to relate that is entertaining and profitable:\nsomething that makes one know one's species better.  One likes to hear\nwhat is going on, to be au fait as to the newest modes of being\ntrifling and silly.  To me, who live so much alone, her conversation, I\nassure you, is a treat.\"\n\nAnne, far from wishing to cavil at the pleasure, replied, \"I can easily\nbelieve it.  Women of that class have great opportunities, and if they\nare intelligent may be well worth listening to.  Such varieties of\nhuman nature as they are in the habit of witnessing!  And it is not\nmerely in its follies, that they are well read; for they see it\noccasionally under every circumstance that can be most interesting or\naffecting.  What instances must pass before them of ardent,\ndisinterested, self-denying attachment, of heroism, fortitude,\npatience, resignation:  of all the conflicts and all the sacrifices\nthat ennoble us most.  A sick chamber may often furnish the worth of\nvolumes.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mrs Smith more doubtingly, \"sometimes it may, though I fear\nits lessons are not often in the elevated style you describe.  Here and\nthere, human nature may be great in times of trial; but generally\nspeaking, it is its weakness and not its strength that appears in a\nsick chamber:  it is selfishness and impatience rather than generosity\nand fortitude, that one hears of.  There is so little real friendship\nin the world! and unfortunately\" (speaking low and tremulously) \"there\nare so many who forget to think seriously till it is almost too late.\"\n\nAnne saw the misery of such feelings.  The husband had not been what he\nought, and the wife had been led among that part of mankind which made\nher think worse of the world than she hoped it deserved.  It was but a\npassing emotion however with Mrs Smith; she shook it off, and soon\nadded in a different tone--\n\n\"I do not suppose the situation my friend Mrs Rooke is in at present,\nwill furnish much either to interest or edify me.  She is only nursing\nMrs Wallis of Marlborough Buildings; a mere pretty, silly, expensive,\nfashionable woman, I believe; and of course will have nothing to report\nbut of lace and finery.  I mean to make my profit of Mrs Wallis,\nhowever.  She has plenty of money, and I intend she shall buy all the\nhigh-priced things I have in hand now.\"\n\nAnne had called several times on her friend, before the existence of\nsuch a person was known in Camden Place.  At last, it became necessary\nto speak of her. Sir Walter, Elizabeth and Mrs Clay, returned one\nmorning from Laura Place, with a sudden invitation from Lady Dalrymple\nfor the same evening, and Anne was already engaged, to spend that\nevening in Westgate Buildings.  She was not sorry for the excuse.  They\nwere only asked, she was sure, because Lady Dalrymple being kept at\nhome by a bad cold, was glad to make use of the relationship which had\nbeen so pressed on her; and she declined on her own account with great\nalacrity--\"She was engaged to spend the evening with an old\nschoolfellow.\"  They were not much interested in anything relative to\nAnne; but still there were questions enough asked, to make it\nunderstood what this old schoolfellow was; and Elizabeth was\ndisdainful, and Sir Walter severe.\n\n\"Westgate Buildings!\" said he, \"and who is Miss Anne Elliot to be\nvisiting in Westgate Buildings?  A Mrs Smith.  A widow Mrs Smith; and\nwho was her husband?  One of five thousand Mr Smiths whose names are to\nbe met with everywhere.  And what is her attraction?  That she is old\nand sickly.  Upon my word, Miss Anne Elliot, you have the most\nextraordinary taste!  Everything that revolts other people, low\ncompany, paltry rooms, foul air, disgusting associations are inviting\nto you.  But surely you may put off this old lady till to-morrow:  she\nis not so near her end, I presume, but that she may hope to see another\nday.  What is her age?  Forty?\"\n\n\"No, sir, she is not one-and-thirty; but I do not think I can put off\nmy engagement, because it is the only evening for some time which will\nat once suit her and myself.  She goes into the warm bath to-morrow,\nand for the rest of the week, you know, we are engaged.\"\n\n\"But what does Lady Russell think of this acquaintance?\" asked\nElizabeth.\n\n\"She sees nothing to blame in it,\" replied Anne; \"on the contrary, she\napproves it, and has generally taken me when I have called on Mrs\nSmith.\"\n\n\"Westgate Buildings must have been rather surprised by the appearance\nof a carriage drawn up near its pavement,\" observed Sir Walter.  \"Sir\nHenry Russell's widow, indeed, has no honours to distinguish her arms,\nbut still it is a handsome equipage, and no doubt is well known to\nconvey a Miss Elliot.  A widow Mrs Smith lodging in Westgate Buildings!\nA poor widow barely able to live, between thirty and forty; a mere Mrs\nSmith, an every-day Mrs Smith, of all people and all names in the\nworld, to be the chosen friend of Miss Anne Elliot, and to be preferred\nby her to her own family connections among the nobility of England and\nIreland!  Mrs Smith!  Such a name!\"\n\nMrs Clay, who had been present while all this passed, now thought it\nadvisable to leave the room, and Anne could have said much, and did\nlong to say a little in defence of her friend's not very dissimilar\nclaims to theirs, but her sense of personal respect to her father\nprevented her.  She made no reply.  She left it to himself to\nrecollect, that Mrs Smith was not the only widow in Bath between thirty\nand forty, with little to live on, and no surname of dignity.\n\nAnne kept her appointment; the others kept theirs, and of course she\nheard the next morning that they had had a delightful evening.  She had\nbeen the only one of the set absent, for Sir Walter and Elizabeth had\nnot only been quite at her ladyship's service themselves, but had\nactually been happy to be employed by her in collecting others, and had\nbeen at the trouble of inviting both Lady Russell and Mr Elliot; and Mr\nElliot had made a point of leaving Colonel Wallis early, and Lady\nRussell had fresh arranged all her evening engagements in order to wait\non her.  Anne had the whole history of all that such an evening could\nsupply from Lady Russell.  To her, its greatest interest must be, in\nhaving been very much talked of between her friend and Mr Elliot; in\nhaving been wished for, regretted, and at the same time honoured for\nstaying away in such a cause.  Her kind, compassionate visits to this\nold schoolfellow, sick and reduced, seemed to have quite delighted Mr\nElliot.  He thought her a most extraordinary young woman; in her\ntemper, manners, mind, a model of female excellence.  He could meet\neven Lady Russell in a discussion of her merits; and Anne could not be\ngiven to understand so much by her friend, could not know herself to be\nso highly rated by a sensible man, without many of those agreeable\nsensations which her friend meant to create.\n\nLady Russell was now perfectly decided in her opinion of Mr Elliot.\nShe was as much convinced of his meaning to gain Anne in time as of his\ndeserving her, and was beginning to calculate the number of weeks which\nwould free him from all the remaining restraints of widowhood, and\nleave him at liberty to exert his most open powers of pleasing.  She\nwould not speak to Anne with half the certainty she felt on the\nsubject, she would venture on little more than hints of what might be\nhereafter, of a possible attachment on his side, of the desirableness\nof the alliance, supposing such attachment to be real and returned.\nAnne heard her, and made no violent exclamations; she only smiled,\nblushed, and gently shook her head.\n\n\"I am no match-maker, as you well know,\" said Lady Russell, \"being much\ntoo well aware of the uncertainty of all human events and calculations.\nI only mean that if Mr Elliot should some time hence pay his addresses\nto you, and if you should be disposed to accept him, I think there\nwould be every possibility of your being happy together.  A most\nsuitable connection everybody must consider it, but I think it might be\na very happy one.\"\n\n\"Mr Elliot is an exceedingly agreeable man, and in many respects I\nthink highly of him,\" said Anne; \"but we should not suit.\"\n\nLady Russell let this pass, and only said in rejoinder, \"I own that to\nbe able to regard you as the future mistress of Kellynch, the future\nLady Elliot, to look forward and see you occupying your dear mother's\nplace, succeeding to all her rights, and all her popularity, as well as\nto all her virtues, would be the highest possible gratification to me.\nYou are your mother's self in countenance and disposition; and if I\nmight be allowed to fancy you such as she was, in situation and name,\nand home, presiding and blessing in the same spot, and only superior to\nher in being more highly valued!  My dearest Anne, it would give me\nmore delight than is often felt at my time of life!\"\n\nAnne was obliged to turn away, to rise, to walk to a distant table,\nand, leaning there in pretended employment, try to subdue the feelings\nthis picture excited.  For a few moments her imagination and her heart\nwere bewitched.  The idea of becoming what her mother had been; of\nhaving the precious name of \"Lady Elliot\" first revived in herself; of\nbeing restored to Kellynch, calling it her home again, her home for\never, was a charm which she could not immediately resist.  Lady Russell\nsaid not another word, willing to leave the matter to its own\noperation; and believing that, could Mr Elliot at that moment with\npropriety have spoken for himself!--she believed, in short, what Anne\ndid not believe.  The same image of Mr Elliot speaking for himself\nbrought Anne to composure again.  The charm of Kellynch and of \"Lady\nElliot\" all faded away.  She never could accept him.  And it was not\nonly that her feelings were still adverse to any man save one; her\njudgement, on a serious consideration of the possibilities of such a\ncase was against Mr Elliot.\n\nThough they had now been acquainted a month, she could not be satisfied\nthat she really knew his character.  That he was a sensible man, an\nagreeable man, that he talked well, professed good opinions, seemed to\njudge properly and as a man of principle, this was all clear enough.\nHe certainly knew what was right, nor could she fix on any one article\nof moral duty evidently transgressed; but yet she would have been\nafraid to answer for his conduct.  She distrusted the past, if not the\npresent.  The names which occasionally dropt of former associates, the\nallusions to former practices and pursuits, suggested suspicions not\nfavourable of what he had been.  She saw that there had been bad\nhabits; that Sunday travelling had been a common thing; that there had\nbeen a period of his life (and probably not a short one) when he had\nbeen, at least, careless in all serious matters; and, though he might\nnow think very differently, who could answer for the true sentiments of\na clever, cautious man, grown old enough to appreciate a fair\ncharacter?  How could it ever be ascertained that his mind was truly\ncleansed?\n\nMr Elliot was rational, discreet, polished, but he was not open.  There\nwas never any burst of feeling, any warmth of indignation or delight,\nat the evil or good of others.  This, to Anne, was a decided\nimperfection.  Her early impressions were incurable.  She prized the\nfrank, the open-hearted, the eager character beyond all others.  Warmth\nand enthusiasm did captivate her still.  She felt that she could so\nmuch more depend upon the sincerity of those who sometimes looked or\nsaid a careless or a hasty thing, than of those whose presence of mind\nnever varied, whose tongue never slipped.\n\nMr Elliot was too generally agreeable.  Various as were the tempers in\nher father's house, he pleased them all.  He endured too well, stood\ntoo well with every body.  He had spoken to her with some degree of\nopenness of Mrs Clay; had appeared completely to see what Mrs Clay was\nabout, and to hold her in contempt; and yet Mrs Clay found him as\nagreeable as any body.\n\nLady Russell saw either less or more than her young friend, for she saw\nnothing to excite distrust.  She could not imagine a man more exactly\nwhat he ought to be than Mr Elliot; nor did she ever enjoy a sweeter\nfeeling than the hope of seeing him receive the hand of her beloved\nAnne in Kellynch church, in the course of the following autumn.\n\n\n\nChapter 18\n\n\nIt was the beginning of February; and Anne, having been a month in\nBath, was growing very eager for news from Uppercross and Lyme.  She\nwanted to hear much more than Mary had communicated.  It was three\nweeks since she had heard at all.  She only knew that Henrietta was at\nhome again; and that Louisa, though considered to be recovering fast,\nwas still in Lyme; and she was thinking of them all very intently one\nevening, when a thicker letter than usual from Mary was delivered to\nher; and, to quicken the pleasure and surprise, with Admiral and Mrs\nCroft's compliments.\n\nThe Crofts must be in Bath!  A circumstance to interest her.  They were\npeople whom her heart turned to very naturally.\n\n\"What is this?\" cried Sir Walter.  \"The Crofts have arrived in Bath?\nThe Crofts who rent Kellynch?  What have they brought you?\"\n\n\"A letter from Uppercross Cottage, Sir.\"\n\n\"Oh! those letters are convenient passports.  They secure an\nintroduction.  I should have visited Admiral Croft, however, at any\nrate.  I know what is due to my tenant.\"\n\nAnne could listen no longer; she could not even have told how the poor\nAdmiral's complexion escaped; her letter engrossed her.  It had been\nbegun several days back.\n\n\n\"February 1st.\n\n\"My dear Anne,--I make no apology for my silence, because I know how\nlittle people think of letters in such a place as Bath.  You must be a\ngreat deal too happy to care for Uppercross, which, as you well know,\naffords little to write about.  We have had a very dull Christmas; Mr\nand Mrs Musgrove have not had one dinner party all the holidays.  I do\nnot reckon the Hayters as anybody.  The holidays, however, are over at\nlast:  I believe no children ever had such long ones.  I am sure I had\nnot.  The house was cleared yesterday, except of the little Harvilles;\nbut you will be surprised to hear they have never gone home.  Mrs\nHarville must be an odd mother to part with them so long.  I do not\nunderstand it.  They are not at all nice children, in my opinion; but\nMrs Musgrove seems to like them quite as well, if not better, than her\ngrandchildren.  What dreadful weather we have had!  It may not be felt\nin Bath, with your nice pavements; but in the country it is of some\nconsequence.  I have not had a creature call on me since the second\nweek in January, except Charles Hayter, who had been calling much\noftener than was welcome.  Between ourselves, I think it a great pity\nHenrietta did not remain at Lyme as long as Louisa; it would have kept\nher a little out of his way.  The carriage is gone to-day, to bring\nLouisa and the Harvilles to-morrow.  We are not asked to dine with\nthem, however, till the day after, Mrs Musgrove is so afraid of her\nbeing fatigued by the journey, which is not very likely, considering\nthe care that will be taken of her; and it would be much more\nconvenient to me to dine there to-morrow.  I am glad you find Mr Elliot\nso agreeable, and wish I could be acquainted with him too; but I have\nmy usual luck:  I am always out of the way when any thing desirable is\ngoing on; always the last of my family to be noticed.  What an immense\ntime Mrs Clay has been staying with Elizabeth!  Does she never mean to\ngo away?  But perhaps if she were to leave the room vacant, we might\nnot be invited.  Let me know what you think of this.  I do not expect\nmy children to be asked, you know.  I can leave them at the Great House\nvery well, for a month or six weeks.  I have this moment heard that the\nCrofts are going to Bath almost immediately; they think the Admiral\ngouty.  Charles heard it quite by chance; they have not had the\ncivility to give me any notice, or of offering to take anything.  I do\nnot think they improve at all as neighbours.  We see nothing of them,\nand this is really an instance of gross inattention.  Charles joins me\nin love, and everything proper.  Yours affectionately,\n\n\"Mary M---.\n\n\"I am sorry to say that I am very far from well; and Jemima has just\ntold me that the butcher says there is a bad sore-throat very much\nabout.  I dare say I shall catch it; and my sore-throats, you know, are\nalways worse than anybody's.\"\n\n\nSo ended the first part, which had been afterwards put into an\nenvelope, containing nearly as much more.\n\n\n\"I kept my letter open, that I might send you word how Louisa bore her\njourney, and now I am extremely glad I did, having a great deal to add.\nIn the first place, I had a note from Mrs Croft yesterday, offering to\nconvey anything to you; a very kind, friendly note indeed, addressed to\nme, just as it ought; I shall therefore be able to make my letter as\nlong as I like.  The Admiral does not seem very ill, and I sincerely\nhope Bath will do him all the good he wants.  I shall be truly glad to\nhave them back again.  Our neighbourhood cannot spare such a pleasant\nfamily.  But now for Louisa.  I have something to communicate that will\nastonish you not a little.  She and the Harvilles came on Tuesday very\nsafely, and in the evening we went to ask her how she did, when we were\nrather surprised not to find Captain Benwick of the party, for he had\nbeen invited as well as the Harvilles; and what do you think was the\nreason?  Neither more nor less than his being in love with Louisa, and\nnot choosing to venture to Uppercross till he had had an answer from Mr\nMusgrove; for it was all settled between him and her before she came\naway, and he had written to her father by Captain Harville.  True, upon\nmy honour!  Are not you astonished?  I shall be surprised at least if\nyou ever received a hint of it, for I never did.  Mrs Musgrove protests\nsolemnly that she knew nothing of the matter.  We are all very well\npleased, however, for though it is not equal to her marrying Captain\nWentworth, it is infinitely better than Charles Hayter; and Mr Musgrove\nhas written his consent, and Captain Benwick is expected to-day.  Mrs\nHarville says her husband feels a good deal on his poor sister's\naccount; but, however, Louisa is a great favourite with both.  Indeed,\nMrs Harville and I quite agree that we love her the better for having\nnursed her.  Charles wonders what Captain Wentworth will say; but if\nyou remember, I never thought him attached to Louisa; I never could see\nanything of it.  And this is the end, you see, of Captain Benwick's\nbeing supposed to be an admirer of yours.  How Charles could take such\na thing into his head was always incomprehensible to me.  I hope he\nwill be more agreeable now.  Certainly not a great match for Louisa\nMusgrove, but a million times better than marrying among the Hayters.\"\n\n\nMary need not have feared her sister's being in any degree prepared for\nthe news.  She had never in her life been more astonished.  Captain\nBenwick and Louisa Musgrove!  It was almost too wonderful for belief,\nand it was with the greatest effort that she could remain in the room,\npreserve an air of calmness, and answer the common questions of the\nmoment.  Happily for her, they were not many.  Sir Walter wanted to\nknow whether the Crofts travelled with four horses, and whether they\nwere likely to be situated in such a part of Bath as it might suit Miss\nElliot and himself to visit in; but had little curiosity beyond.\n\n\"How is Mary?\" said Elizabeth; and without waiting for an answer, \"And\npray what brings the Crofts to Bath?\"\n\n\"They come on the Admiral's account.  He is thought to be gouty.\"\n\n\"Gout and decrepitude!\" said Sir Walter.  \"Poor old gentleman.\"\n\n\"Have they any acquaintance here?\" asked Elizabeth.\n\n\"I do not know; but I can hardly suppose that, at Admiral Croft's time\nof life, and in his profession, he should not have many acquaintance in\nsuch a place as this.\"\n\n\"I suspect,\" said Sir Walter coolly, \"that Admiral Croft will be best\nknown in Bath as the renter of Kellynch Hall.  Elizabeth, may we\nventure to present him and his wife in Laura Place?\"\n\n\"Oh, no! I think not.  Situated as we are with Lady Dalrymple, cousins,\nwe ought to be very careful not to embarrass her with acquaintance she\nmight not approve.  If we were not related, it would not signify; but\nas cousins, she would feel scrupulous as to any proposal of ours.  We\nhad better leave the Crofts to find their own level.  There are several\nodd-looking men walking about here, who, I am told, are sailors.  The\nCrofts will associate with them.\"\n\nThis was Sir Walter and Elizabeth's share of interest in the letter;\nwhen Mrs Clay had paid her tribute of more decent attention, in an\nenquiry after Mrs Charles Musgrove, and her fine little boys, Anne was\nat liberty.\n\nIn her own room, she tried to comprehend it.  Well might Charles wonder\nhow Captain Wentworth would feel!  Perhaps he had quitted the field,\nhad given Louisa up, had ceased to love, had found he did not love her.\nShe could not endure the idea of treachery or levity, or anything akin\nto ill usage between him and his friend.  She could not endure that\nsuch a friendship as theirs should be severed unfairly.\n\nCaptain Benwick and Louisa Musgrove!  The high-spirited, joyous-talking\nLouisa Musgrove, and the dejected, thinking, feeling, reading, Captain\nBenwick, seemed each of them everything that would not suit the other.\nTheir minds most dissimilar!  Where could have been the attraction?\nThe answer soon presented itself.  It had been in situation.  They had\nbeen thrown together several weeks; they had been living in the same\nsmall family party:  since Henrietta's coming away, they must have been\ndepending almost entirely on each other, and Louisa, just recovering\nfrom illness, had been in an interesting state, and Captain Benwick was\nnot inconsolable.  That was a point which Anne had not been able to\navoid suspecting before; and instead of drawing the same conclusion as\nMary, from the present course of events, they served only to confirm\nthe idea of his having felt some dawning of tenderness toward herself.\nShe did not mean, however, to derive much more from it to gratify her\nvanity, than Mary might have allowed.  She was persuaded that any\ntolerably pleasing young woman who had listened and seemed to feel for\nhim would have received the same compliment.  He had an affectionate\nheart.  He must love somebody.\n\nShe saw no reason against their being happy.  Louisa had fine naval\nfervour to begin with, and they would soon grow more alike.  He would\ngain cheerfulness, and she would learn to be an enthusiast for Scott\nand Lord Byron; nay, that was probably learnt already; of course they\nhad fallen in love over poetry.  The idea of Louisa Musgrove turned\ninto a person of literary taste, and sentimental reflection was\namusing, but she had no doubt of its being so.  The day at Lyme, the\nfall from the Cobb, might influence her health, her nerves, her\ncourage, her character to the end of her life, as thoroughly as it\nappeared to have influenced her fate.\n\nThe conclusion of the whole was, that if the woman who had been\nsensible of Captain Wentworth's merits could be allowed to prefer\nanother man, there was nothing in the engagement to excite lasting\nwonder; and if Captain Wentworth lost no friend by it, certainly\nnothing to be regretted.  No, it was not regret which made Anne's heart\nbeat in spite of herself, and brought the colour into her cheeks when\nshe thought of Captain Wentworth unshackled and free.  She had some\nfeelings which she was ashamed to investigate.  They were too much like\njoy, senseless joy!\n\nShe longed to see the Crofts; but when the meeting took place, it was\nevident that no rumour of the news had yet reached them.  The visit of\nceremony was paid and returned; and Louisa Musgrove was mentioned, and\nCaptain Benwick, too, without even half a smile.\n\nThe Crofts had placed themselves in lodgings in Gay Street, perfectly\nto Sir Walter's satisfaction.  He was not at all ashamed of the\nacquaintance, and did, in fact, think and talk a great deal more about\nthe Admiral, than the Admiral ever thought or talked about him.\n\nThe Crofts knew quite as many people in Bath as they wished for, and\nconsidered their intercourse with the Elliots as a mere matter of form,\nand not in the least likely to afford them any pleasure.  They brought\nwith them their country habit of being almost always together.  He was\nordered to walk to keep off the gout, and Mrs Croft seemed to go shares\nwith him in everything, and to walk for her life to do him good.  Anne\nsaw them wherever she went.  Lady Russell took her out in her carriage\nalmost every morning, and she never failed to think of them, and never\nfailed to see them.  Knowing their feelings as she did, it was a most\nattractive picture of happiness to her.  She always watched them as\nlong as she could, delighted to fancy she understood what they might be\ntalking of, as they walked along in happy independence, or equally\ndelighted to see the Admiral's hearty shake of the hand when he\nencountered an old friend, and observe their eagerness of conversation\nwhen occasionally forming into a little knot of the navy, Mrs Croft\nlooking as intelligent and keen as any of the officers around her.\n\nAnne was too much engaged with Lady Russell to be often walking\nherself; but it so happened that one morning, about a week or ten days\nafter the Croft's arrival, it suited her best to leave her friend, or\nher friend's carriage, in the lower part of the town, and return alone\nto Camden Place, and in walking up Milsom Street she had the good\nfortune to meet with the Admiral.  He was standing by himself at a\nprintshop window, with his hands behind him, in earnest contemplation\nof some print, and she not only might have passed him unseen, but was\nobliged to touch as well as address him before she could catch his\nnotice.  When he did perceive and acknowledge her, however, it was done\nwith all his usual frankness and good humour.  \"Ha! is it you?  Thank\nyou, thank you.  This is treating me like a friend.  Here I am, you\nsee, staring at a picture.  I can never get by this shop without\nstopping.  But what a thing here is, by way of a boat!  Do look at it.\nDid you ever see the like?  What queer fellows your fine painters must\nbe, to think that anybody would venture their lives in such a shapeless\nold cockleshell as that?  And yet here are two gentlemen stuck up in it\nmightily at their ease, and looking about them at the rocks and\nmountains, as if they were not to be upset the next moment, which they\ncertainly must be.  I wonder where that boat was built!\" (laughing\nheartily); \"I would not venture over a horsepond in it.  Well,\"\n(turning away), \"now, where are you bound?  Can I go anywhere for you,\nor with you?  Can I be of any use?\"\n\n\"None, I thank you, unless you will give me the pleasure of your\ncompany the little way our road lies together.  I am going home.\"\n\n\n\"That I will, with all my heart, and farther, too.  Yes, yes we will\nhave a snug walk together, and I have something to tell you as we go\nalong.  There, take my arm; that's right; I do not feel comfortable if\nI have not a woman there.  Lord! what a boat it is!\" taking a last look\nat the picture, as they began to be in motion.\n\n\"Did you say that you had something to tell me, sir?\"\n\n\"Yes, I have, presently.  But here comes a friend, Captain Brigden; I\nshall only say, 'How d'ye do?' as we pass, however.  I shall not stop.\n'How d'ye do?'  Brigden stares to see anybody with me but my wife.\nShe, poor soul, is tied by the leg.  She has a blister on one of her\nheels, as large as a three-shilling piece.  If you look across the\nstreet, you will see Admiral Brand coming down and his brother.  Shabby\nfellows, both of them!  I am glad they are not on this side of the way.\nSophy cannot bear them.  They played me a pitiful trick once: got away\nwith some of my best men.  I will tell you the whole story another\ntime.  There comes old Sir Archibald Drew and his grandson.  Look, he\nsees us; he kisses his hand to you; he takes you for my wife.  Ah! the\npeace has come too soon for that younker.  Poor old Sir Archibald!  How\ndo you like Bath, Miss Elliot?  It suits us very well.  We are always\nmeeting with some old friend or other; the streets full of them every\nmorning; sure to have plenty of chat; and then we get away from them\nall, and shut ourselves in our lodgings, and draw in our chairs, and\nare snug as if we were at Kellynch, ay, or as we used to be even at\nNorth Yarmouth and Deal.  We do not like our lodgings here the worse, I\ncan tell you, for putting us in mind of those we first had at North\nYarmouth.  The wind blows through one of the cupboards just in the same\nway.\"\n\nWhen they were got a little farther, Anne ventured to press again for\nwhat he had to communicate.  She hoped when clear of Milsom Street to\nhave her curiosity gratified; but she was still obliged to wait, for\nthe Admiral had made up his mind not to begin till they had gained the\ngreater space and quiet of Belmont; and as she was not really Mrs\nCroft, she must let him have his own way.  As soon as they were fairly\nascending Belmont, he began--\n\n\"Well, now you shall hear something that will surprise you.  But first\nof all, you must tell me the name of the young lady I am going to talk\nabout.  That young lady, you know, that we have all been so concerned\nfor.  The Miss Musgrove, that all this has been happening to.  Her\nChristian name:  I always forget her Christian name.\"\n\nAnne had been ashamed to appear to comprehend so soon as she really\ndid; but now she could safely suggest the name of \"Louisa.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, Miss Louisa Musgrove, that is the name.  I wish young ladies\nhad not such a number of fine Christian names.  I should never be out\nif they were all Sophys, or something of that sort.  Well, this Miss\nLouisa, we all thought, you know, was to marry Frederick.  He was\ncourting her week after week.  The only wonder was, what they could be\nwaiting for, till the business at Lyme came; then, indeed, it was clear\nenough that they must wait till her brain was set to right.  But even\nthen there was something odd in their way of going on.  Instead of\nstaying at Lyme, he went off to Plymouth, and then he went off to see\nEdward.  When we came back from Minehead he was gone down to Edward's,\nand there he has been ever since.  We have seen nothing of him since\nNovember.  Even Sophy could not understand it.  But now, the matter has\ntaken the strangest turn of all; for this young lady, the same Miss\nMusgrove, instead of being to marry Frederick, is to marry James\nBenwick.  You know James Benwick.\"\n\n\"A little.  I am a little acquainted with Captain Benwick.\"\n\n\"Well, she is to marry him.  Nay, most likely they are married already,\nfor I do not know what they should wait for.\"\n\n\"I thought Captain Benwick a very pleasing young man,\" said Anne, \"and\nI understand that he bears an excellent character.\"\n\n\"Oh! yes, yes, there is not a word to be said against James Benwick.\nHe is only a commander, it is true, made last summer, and these are bad\ntimes for getting on, but he has not another fault that I know of.  An\nexcellent, good-hearted fellow, I assure you; a very active, zealous\nofficer too, which is more than you would think for, perhaps, for that\nsoft sort of manner does not do him justice.\"\n\n\"Indeed you are mistaken there, sir; I should never augur want of\nspirit from Captain Benwick's manners.  I thought them particularly\npleasing, and I will answer for it, they would generally please.\"\n\n\"Well, well, ladies are the best judges; but James Benwick is rather\ntoo piano for me; and though very likely it is all our partiality,\nSophy and I cannot help thinking Frederick's manners better than his.\nThere is something about Frederick more to our taste.\"\n\nAnne was caught.  She had only meant to oppose the too common idea of\nspirit and gentleness being incompatible with each other, not at all to\nrepresent Captain Benwick's manners as the very best that could\npossibly be; and, after a little hesitation, she was beginning to say,\n\"I was not entering into any comparison of the two friends,\" but the\nAdmiral interrupted her with--\n\n\"And the thing is certainly true.  It is not a mere bit of gossip.  We\nhave it from Frederick himself.  His sister had a letter from him\nyesterday, in which he tells us of it, and he had just had it in a\nletter from Harville, written upon the spot, from Uppercross.  I fancy\nthey are all at Uppercross.\"\n\nThis was an opportunity which Anne could not resist; she said,\ntherefore, \"I hope, Admiral, I hope there is nothing in the style of\nCaptain Wentworth's letter to make you and Mrs Croft particularly\nuneasy.  It did seem, last autumn, as if there were an attachment\nbetween him and Louisa Musgrove; but I hope it may be understood to\nhave worn out on each side equally, and without violence.  I hope his\nletter does not breathe the spirit of an ill-used man.\"\n\n\"Not at all, not at all; there is not an oath or a murmur from\nbeginning to end.\"\n\nAnne looked down to hide her smile.\n\n\"No, no; Frederick is not a man to whine and complain; he has too much\nspirit for that.  If the girl likes another man better, it is very fit\nshe should have him.\"\n\n\"Certainly.  But what I mean is, that I hope there is nothing in\nCaptain Wentworth's manner of writing to make you suppose he thinks\nhimself ill-used by his friend, which might appear, you know, without\nits being absolutely said.  I should be very sorry that such a\nfriendship as has subsisted between him and Captain Benwick should be\ndestroyed, or even wounded, by a circumstance of this sort.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, I understand you.  But there is nothing at all of that\nnature in the letter.  He does not give the least fling at Benwick;\ndoes not so much as say, 'I wonder at it, I have a reason of my own for\nwondering at it.'  No, you would not guess, from his way of writing,\nthat he had ever thought of this Miss (what's her name?) for himself.\nHe very handsomely hopes they will be happy together; and there is\nnothing very unforgiving in that, I think.\"\n\nAnne did not receive the perfect conviction which the Admiral meant to\nconvey, but it would have been useless to press the enquiry farther.\nShe therefore satisfied herself with common-place remarks or quiet\nattention, and the Admiral had it all his own way.\n\n\"Poor Frederick!\" said he at last.  \"Now he must begin all over again\nwith somebody else.  I think we must get him to Bath.  Sophy must\nwrite, and beg him to come to Bath.  Here are pretty girls enough, I am\nsure.  It would be of no use to go to Uppercross again, for that other\nMiss Musgrove, I find, is bespoke by her cousin, the young parson.  Do\nnot you think, Miss Elliot, we had better try to get him to Bath?\"\n\n\n\nChapter 19\n\n\nWhile Admiral Croft was taking this walk with Anne, and expressing his\nwish of getting Captain Wentworth to Bath, Captain Wentworth was\nalready on his way thither.  Before Mrs Croft had written, he was\narrived, and the very next time Anne walked out, she saw him.\n\nMr Elliot was attending his two cousins and Mrs Clay.  They were in\nMilsom Street.  It began to rain, not much, but enough to make shelter\ndesirable for women, and quite enough to make it very desirable for\nMiss Elliot to have the advantage of being conveyed home in Lady\nDalrymple's carriage, which was seen waiting at a little distance; she,\nAnne, and Mrs Clay, therefore, turned into Molland's, while Mr Elliot\nstepped to Lady Dalrymple, to request her assistance.  He soon joined\nthem again, successful, of course; Lady Dalrymple would be most happy\nto take them home, and would call for them in a few minutes.\n\nHer ladyship's carriage was a barouche, and did not hold more than four\nwith any comfort.  Miss Carteret was with her mother; consequently it\nwas not reasonable to expect accommodation for all the three Camden\nPlace ladies.  There could be no doubt as to Miss Elliot.  Whoever\nsuffered inconvenience, she must suffer none, but it occupied a little\ntime to settle the point of civility between the other two.  The rain\nwas a mere trifle, and Anne was most sincere in preferring a walk with\nMr Elliot.  But the rain was also a mere trifle to Mrs Clay; she would\nhardly allow it even to drop at all, and her boots were so thick! much\nthicker than Miss Anne's; and, in short, her civility rendered her\nquite as anxious to be left to walk with Mr Elliot as Anne could be,\nand it was discussed between them with a generosity so polite and so\ndetermined, that the others were obliged to settle it for them; Miss\nElliot maintaining that Mrs Clay had a little cold already, and Mr\nElliot deciding on appeal, that his cousin Anne's boots were rather the\nthickest.\n\nIt was fixed accordingly, that Mrs Clay should be of the party in the\ncarriage; and they had just reached this point, when Anne, as she sat\nnear the window, descried, most decidedly and distinctly, Captain\nWentworth walking down the street.\n\nHer start was perceptible only to herself; but she instantly felt that\nshe was the greatest simpleton in the world, the most unaccountable and\nabsurd!  For a few minutes she saw nothing before her; it was all\nconfusion.  She was lost, and when she had scolded back her senses, she\nfound the others still waiting for the carriage, and Mr Elliot (always\nobliging) just setting off for Union Street on a commission of Mrs\nClay's.\n\nShe now felt a great inclination to go to the outer door; she wanted to\nsee if it rained.  Why was she to suspect herself of another motive?\nCaptain Wentworth must be out of sight.  She left her seat, she would\ngo; one half of her should not be always so much wiser than the other\nhalf, or always suspecting the other of being worse than it was.  She\nwould see if it rained.  She was sent back, however, in a moment by the\nentrance of Captain Wentworth himself, among a party of gentlemen and\nladies, evidently his acquaintance, and whom he must have joined a\nlittle below Milsom Street.  He was more obviously struck and confused\nby the sight of her than she had ever observed before; he looked quite\nred.  For the first time, since their renewed acquaintance, she felt\nthat she was betraying the least sensibility of the two.  She had the\nadvantage of him in the preparation of the last few moments.  All the\noverpowering, blinding, bewildering, first effects of strong surprise\nwere over with her.  Still, however, she had enough to feel!  It was\nagitation, pain, pleasure, a something between delight and misery.\n\nHe spoke to her, and then turned away.  The character of his manner was\nembarrassment.  She could not have called it either cold or friendly,\nor anything so certainly as embarrassed.\n\nAfter a short interval, however, he came towards her, and spoke again.\nMutual enquiries on common subjects passed:  neither of them, probably,\nmuch the wiser for what they heard, and Anne continuing fully sensible\nof his being less at ease than formerly.  They had by dint of being so\nvery much together, got to speak to each other with a considerable\nportion of apparent indifference and calmness; but he could not do it\nnow.  Time had changed him, or Louisa had changed him.  There was\nconsciousness of some sort or other.  He looked very well, not as if he\nhad been suffering in health or spirits, and he talked of Uppercross,\nof the Musgroves, nay, even of Louisa, and had even a momentary look of\nhis own arch significance as he named her; but yet it was Captain\nWentworth not comfortable, not easy, not able to feign that he was.\n\nIt did not surprise, but it grieved Anne to observe that Elizabeth\nwould not know him.  She saw that he saw Elizabeth, that Elizabeth saw\nhim, that there was complete internal recognition on each side; she was\nconvinced that he was ready to be acknowledged as an acquaintance,\nexpecting it, and she had the pain of seeing her sister turn away with\nunalterable coldness.\n\nLady Dalrymple's carriage, for which Miss Elliot was growing very\nimpatient, now drew up; the servant came in to announce it.  It was\nbeginning to rain again, and altogether there was a delay, and a\nbustle, and a talking, which must make all the little crowd in the shop\nunderstand that Lady Dalrymple was calling to convey Miss Elliot.  At\nlast Miss Elliot and her friend, unattended but by the servant, (for\nthere was no cousin returned), were walking off; and Captain Wentworth,\nwatching them, turned again to Anne, and by manner, rather than words,\nwas offering his services to her.\n\n\"I am much obliged to you,\" was her answer, \"but I am not going with\nthem.  The carriage would not accommodate so many.  I walk:  I prefer\nwalking.\"\n\n\"But it rains.\"\n\n\"Oh! very little,  Nothing that I regard.\"\n\nAfter a moment's pause he said:  \"Though I came only yesterday, I have\nequipped myself properly for Bath already, you see,\" (pointing to a new\numbrella); \"I wish you would make use of it, if you are determined to\nwalk; though I think it would be more prudent to let me get you a\nchair.\"\n\nShe was very much obliged to him, but declined it all, repeating her\nconviction, that the rain would come to nothing at present, and adding,\n\"I am only waiting for Mr Elliot.  He will be here in a moment, I am\nsure.\"\n\nShe had hardly spoken the words when Mr Elliot walked in.  Captain\nWentworth recollected him perfectly.  There was no difference between\nhim and the man who had stood on the steps at Lyme, admiring Anne as\nshe passed, except in the air and look and manner of the privileged\nrelation and friend.  He came in with eagerness, appeared to see and\nthink only of her, apologised for his stay, was grieved to have kept\nher waiting, and anxious to get her away without further loss of time\nand before the rain increased; and in another moment they walked off\ntogether, her arm under his, a gentle and embarrassed glance, and a\n\"Good morning to you!\" being all that she had time for, as she passed\naway.\n\nAs soon as they were out of sight, the ladies of Captain Wentworth's\nparty began talking of them.\n\n\"Mr Elliot does not dislike his cousin, I fancy?\"\n\n\"Oh! no, that is clear enough.  One can guess what will happen there.\nHe is always with them; half lives in the family, I believe.  What a\nvery good-looking man!\"\n\n\"Yes, and Miss Atkinson, who dined with him once at the Wallises, says\nhe is the most agreeable man she ever was in company with.\"\n\n\"She is pretty, I think; Anne Elliot; very pretty, when one comes to\nlook at her.  It is not the fashion to say so, but I confess I admire\nher more than her sister.\"\n\n\"Oh! so do I.\"\n\n\"And so do I.  No comparison.  But the men are all wild after Miss\nElliot.  Anne is too delicate for them.\"\n\nAnne would have been particularly obliged to her cousin, if he would\nhave walked by her side all the way to Camden Place, without saying a\nword.  She had never found it so difficult to listen to him, though\nnothing could exceed his solicitude and care, and though his subjects\nwere principally such as were wont to be always interesting: praise,\nwarm, just, and discriminating, of Lady Russell, and insinuations\nhighly rational against Mrs Clay.  But just now she could think only of\nCaptain Wentworth.  She could not understand his present feelings,\nwhether he were really suffering much from disappointment or not; and\ntill that point were settled, she could not be quite herself.\n\nShe hoped to be wise and reasonable in time; but alas! alas!  she must\nconfess to herself that she was not wise yet.\n\nAnother circumstance very essential for her to know, was how long he\nmeant to be in Bath; he had not mentioned it, or she could not\nrecollect it.  He might be only passing through.  But it was more\nprobable that he should be come to stay.  In that case, so liable as\nevery body was to meet every body in Bath, Lady Russell would in all\nlikelihood see him somewhere.  Would she recollect him?  How would it\nall be?\n\nShe had already been obliged to tell Lady Russell that Louisa Musgrove\nwas to marry Captain Benwick.  It had cost her something to encounter\nLady Russell's surprise; and now, if she were by any chance to be\nthrown into company with Captain Wentworth, her imperfect knowledge of\nthe matter might add another shade of prejudice against him.\n\nThe following morning Anne was out with her friend, and for the first\nhour, in an incessant and fearful sort of watch for him in vain; but at\nlast, in returning down Pulteney Street, she distinguished him on the\nright hand pavement at such a distance as to have him in view the\ngreater part of the street.  There were many other men about him, many\ngroups walking the same way, but there was no mistaking him.  She\nlooked instinctively at Lady Russell; but not from any mad idea of her\nrecognising him so soon as she did herself.  No, it was not to be\nsupposed that Lady Russell would perceive him till they were nearly\nopposite.  She looked at her however, from time to time, anxiously; and\nwhen the moment approached which must point him out, though not daring\nto look again (for her own countenance she knew was unfit to be seen),\nshe was yet perfectly conscious of Lady Russell's eyes being turned\nexactly in the direction for him--of her being, in short, intently\nobserving him.  She could thoroughly comprehend the sort of fascination\nhe must possess over Lady Russell's mind, the difficulty it must be for\nher to withdraw her eyes, the astonishment she must be feeling that\neight or nine years should have passed over him, and in foreign climes\nand in active service too, without robbing him of one personal grace!\n\nAt last, Lady Russell drew back her head.  \"Now, how would she speak of\nhim?\"\n\n\"You will wonder,\" said she, \"what has been fixing my eye so long; but\nI was looking after some window-curtains, which Lady Alicia and Mrs\nFrankland were telling me of last night.  They described the\ndrawing-room window-curtains of one of the houses on this side of the\nway, and this part of the street, as being the handsomest and best hung\nof any in Bath, but could not recollect the exact number, and I have\nbeen trying to find out which it could be; but I confess I can see no\ncurtains hereabouts that answer their description.\"\n\nAnne sighed and blushed and smiled, in pity and disdain, either at her\nfriend or herself.  The part which provoked her most, was that in all\nthis waste of foresight and caution, she should have lost the right\nmoment for seeing whether he saw them.\n\nA day or two passed without producing anything.  The theatre or the\nrooms, where he was most likely to be, were not fashionable enough for\nthe Elliots, whose evening amusements were solely in the elegant\nstupidity of private parties, in which they were getting more and more\nengaged; and Anne, wearied of such a state of stagnation, sick of\nknowing nothing, and fancying herself stronger because her strength was\nnot tried, was quite impatient for the concert evening.  It was a\nconcert for the benefit of a person patronised by Lady Dalrymple.  Of\ncourse they must attend.  It was really expected to be a good one, and\nCaptain Wentworth was very fond of music.  If she could only have a few\nminutes conversation with him again, she fancied she should be\nsatisfied; and as to the power of addressing him, she felt all over\ncourage if the opportunity occurred.  Elizabeth had turned from him,\nLady Russell overlooked him; her nerves were strengthened by these\ncircumstances; she felt that she owed him attention.\n\nShe had once partly promised Mrs Smith to spend the evening with her;\nbut in a short hurried call she excused herself and put it off, with\nthe more decided promise of a longer visit on the morrow.  Mrs Smith\ngave a most good-humoured acquiescence.\n\n\"By all means,\" said she; \"only tell me all about it, when you do come.\nWho is your party?\"\n\nAnne named them all.  Mrs Smith made no reply; but when she was leaving\nher said, and with an expression half serious, half arch, \"Well, I\nheartily wish your concert may answer; and do not fail me to-morrow if\nyou can come; for I begin to have a foreboding that I may not have many\nmore visits from you.\"\n\nAnne was startled and confused; but after standing in a moment's\nsuspense, was obliged, and not sorry to be obliged, to hurry away.\n\n\n\nChapter 20\n\n\nSir Walter, his two daughters, and Mrs Clay, were the earliest of all\ntheir party at the rooms in the evening; and as Lady Dalrymple must be\nwaited for, they took their station by one of the fires in the Octagon\nRoom.  But hardly were they so settled, when the door opened again, and\nCaptain Wentworth walked in alone.  Anne was the nearest to him, and\nmaking yet a little advance, she instantly spoke.  He was preparing\nonly to bow and pass on, but her gentle \"How do you do?\" brought him\nout of the straight line to stand near her, and make enquiries in\nreturn, in spite of the formidable father and sister in the back\nground.  Their being in the back ground was a support to Anne; she knew\nnothing of their looks, and felt equal to everything which she believed\nright to be done.\n\nWhile they were speaking, a whispering between her father and Elizabeth\ncaught her ear.  She could not distinguish, but she must guess the\nsubject; and on Captain Wentworth's making a distant bow, she\ncomprehended that her father had judged so well as to give him that\nsimple acknowledgement of acquaintance, and she was just in time by a\nside glance to see a slight curtsey from Elizabeth herself.  This,\nthough late, and reluctant, and ungracious, was yet better than\nnothing, and her spirits improved.\n\nAfter talking, however, of the weather, and Bath, and the concert,\ntheir conversation began to flag, and so little was said at last, that\nshe was expecting him to go every moment, but he did not; he seemed in\nno hurry to leave her; and presently with renewed spirit, with a little\nsmile, a little glow, he said--\n\n\"I have hardly seen you since our day at Lyme.  I am afraid you must\nhave suffered from the shock, and the more from its not overpowering\nyou at the time.\"\n\nShe assured him that she had not.\n\n\"It was a frightful hour,\" said he, \"a frightful day!\" and he passed\nhis hand across his eyes, as if the remembrance were still too painful,\nbut in a moment, half smiling again, added, \"The day has produced some\neffects however; has had some consequences which must be considered as\nthe very reverse of frightful.  When you had the presence of mind to\nsuggest that Benwick would be the properest person to fetch a surgeon,\nyou could have little idea of his being eventually one of those most\nconcerned in her recovery.\"\n\n\"Certainly I could have none.  But it appears--I should hope it would\nbe a very happy match.  There are on both sides good principles and\ngood temper.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said he, looking not exactly forward; \"but there, I think, ends\nthe resemblance.  With all my soul I wish them happy, and rejoice over\nevery circumstance in favour of it.  They have no difficulties to\ncontend with at home, no opposition, no caprice, no delays.  The\nMusgroves are behaving like themselves, most honourably and kindly,\nonly anxious with true parental hearts to promote their daughter's\ncomfort.  All this is much, very much in favour of their happiness;\nmore than perhaps--\"\n\nHe stopped.  A sudden recollection seemed to occur, and to give him\nsome taste of that emotion which was reddening Anne's cheeks and fixing\nher eyes on the ground.  After clearing his throat, however, he\nproceeded thus--\n\n\"I confess that I do think there is a disparity, too great a disparity,\nand in a point no less essential than mind.  I regard Louisa Musgrove\nas a very amiable, sweet-tempered girl, and not deficient in\nunderstanding, but Benwick is something more.  He is a clever man, a\nreading man; and I confess, that I do consider his attaching himself to\nher with some surprise.  Had it been the effect of gratitude, had he\nlearnt to love her, because he believed her to be preferring him, it\nwould have been another thing.  But I have no reason to suppose it so.\nIt seems, on the contrary, to have been a perfectly spontaneous,\nuntaught feeling on his side, and this surprises me.  A man like him,\nin his situation! with a heart pierced, wounded, almost broken!  Fanny\nHarville was a very superior creature, and his attachment to her was\nindeed attachment.  A man does not recover from such a devotion of the\nheart to such a woman.  He ought not; he does not.\"\n\nEither from the consciousness, however, that his friend had recovered,\nor from other consciousness, he went no farther; and Anne who, in spite\nof the agitated voice in which the latter part had been uttered, and in\nspite of all the various noises of the room, the almost ceaseless slam\nof the door, and ceaseless buzz of persons walking through, had\ndistinguished every word, was struck, gratified, confused, and\nbeginning to breathe very quick, and feel an hundred things in a\nmoment.  It was impossible for her to enter on such a subject; and yet,\nafter a pause, feeling the necessity of speaking, and having not the\nsmallest wish for a total change, she only deviated so far as to say--\n\n\"You were a good while at Lyme, I think?\"\n\n\"About a fortnight.  I could not leave it till Louisa's doing well was\nquite ascertained.  I had been too deeply concerned in the mischief to\nbe soon at peace.  It had been my doing, solely mine.  She would not\nhave been obstinate if I had not been weak.  The country round Lyme is\nvery fine.  I walked and rode a great deal; and the more I saw, the\nmore I found to admire.\"\n\n\"I should very much like to see Lyme again,\" said Anne.\n\n\"Indeed!  I should not have supposed that you could have found anything\nin Lyme to inspire such a feeling.  The horror and distress you were\ninvolved in, the stretch of mind, the wear of spirits!  I should have\nthought your last impressions of Lyme must have been strong disgust.\"\n\n\"The last hours were certainly very painful,\" replied Anne; \"but when\npain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure.  One does\nnot love a place the less for having suffered in it, unless it has been\nall suffering, nothing but suffering, which was by no means the case at\nLyme.  We were only in anxiety and distress during the last two hours,\nand previously there had been a great deal of enjoyment.  So much\nnovelty and beauty! I have travelled so little, that every fresh place\nwould be interesting to me; but there is real beauty at Lyme; and in\nshort\" (with a faint blush at some recollections), \"altogether my\nimpressions of the place are very agreeable.\"\n\nAs she ceased, the entrance door opened again, and the very party\nappeared for whom they were waiting.  \"Lady Dalrymple, Lady Dalrymple,\"\nwas the rejoicing sound; and with all the eagerness compatible with\nanxious elegance, Sir Walter and his two ladies stepped forward to meet\nher.  Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret, escorted by Mr Elliot and\nColonel Wallis, who had happened to arrive nearly at the same instant,\nadvanced into the room.  The others joined them, and it was a group in\nwhich Anne found herself also necessarily included.  She was divided\nfrom Captain Wentworth.  Their interesting, almost too interesting\nconversation must be broken up for a time, but slight was the penance\ncompared with the happiness which brought it on!  She had learnt, in\nthe last ten minutes, more of his feelings towards Louisa, more of all\nhis feelings than she dared to think of; and she gave herself up to the\ndemands of the party, to the needful civilities of the moment, with\nexquisite, though agitated sensations.  She was in good humour with\nall.  She had received ideas which disposed her to be courteous and\nkind to all, and to pity every one, as being less happy than herself.\n\nThe delightful emotions were a little subdued, when on stepping back\nfrom the group, to be joined again by Captain Wentworth, she saw that\nhe was gone.  She was just in time to see him turn into the Concert\nRoom.  He was gone; he had disappeared, she felt a moment's regret.\nBut \"they should meet again.  He would look for her, he would find her\nout before the evening were over, and at present, perhaps, it was as\nwell to be asunder.  She was in need of a little interval for\nrecollection.\"\n\nUpon Lady Russell's appearance soon afterwards, the whole party was\ncollected, and all that remained was to marshal themselves, and proceed\ninto the Concert Room; and be of all the consequence in their power,\ndraw as many eyes, excite as many whispers, and disturb as many people\nas they could.\n\nVery, very happy were both Elizabeth and Anne Elliot as they walked in.\nElizabeth arm in arm with Miss Carteret, and looking on the broad back\nof the dowager Viscountess Dalrymple before her, had nothing to wish\nfor which did not seem within her reach; and Anne--but it would be an\ninsult to the nature of Anne's felicity, to draw any comparison between\nit and her sister's; the origin of one all selfish vanity, of the other\nall generous attachment.\n\nAnne saw nothing, thought nothing of the brilliancy of the room.  Her\nhappiness was from within.  Her eyes were bright and her cheeks glowed;\nbut she knew nothing about it.  She was thinking only of the last half\nhour, and as they passed to their seats, her mind took a hasty range\nover it.  His choice of subjects, his expressions, and still more his\nmanner and look, had been such as she could see in only one light.  His\nopinion of Louisa Musgrove's inferiority, an opinion which he had\nseemed solicitous to give, his wonder at Captain Benwick, his feelings\nas to a first, strong attachment; sentences begun which he could not\nfinish, his half averted eyes and more than half expressive glance,\nall, all declared that he had a heart returning to her at least; that\nanger, resentment, avoidance, were no more; and that they were\nsucceeded, not merely by friendship and regard, but by the tenderness\nof the past.  Yes, some share of the tenderness of the past.  She could\nnot contemplate the change as implying less.  He must love her.\n\nThese were thoughts, with their attendant visions, which occupied and\nflurried her too much to leave her any power of observation; and she\npassed along the room without having a glimpse of him, without even\ntrying to discern him.  When their places were determined on, and they\nwere all properly arranged, she looked round to see if he should happen\nto be in the same part of the room, but he was not; her eye could not\nreach him; and the concert being just opening, she must consent for a\ntime to be happy in a humbler way.\n\nThe party was divided and disposed of on two contiguous benches: Anne\nwas among those on the foremost, and Mr Elliot had manoeuvred so well,\nwith the assistance of his friend Colonel Wallis, as to have a seat by\nher.  Miss Elliot, surrounded by her cousins, and the principal object\nof Colonel Wallis's gallantry, was quite contented.\n\nAnne's mind was in a most favourable state for the entertainment of the\nevening; it was just occupation enough:  she had feelings for the\ntender, spirits for the gay, attention for the scientific, and patience\nfor the wearisome; and had never liked a concert better, at least\nduring the first act.  Towards the close of it, in the interval\nsucceeding an Italian song, she explained the words of the song to Mr\nElliot.  They had a concert bill between them.\n\n\"This,\" said she, \"is nearly the sense, or rather the meaning of the\nwords, for certainly the sense of an Italian love-song must not be\ntalked of, but it is as nearly the meaning as I can give; for I do not\npretend to understand the language.  I am a very poor Italian scholar.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, I see you are.  I see you know nothing of the matter.  You\nhave only knowledge enough of the language to translate at sight these\ninverted, transposed, curtailed Italian lines, into clear,\ncomprehensible, elegant English.  You need not say anything more of\nyour ignorance.  Here is complete proof.\"\n\n\"I will not oppose such kind politeness; but I should be sorry to be\nexamined by a real proficient.\"\n\n\"I have not had the pleasure of visiting in Camden Place so long,\"\nreplied he, \"without knowing something of Miss Anne Elliot; and I do\nregard her as one who is too modest for the world in general to be\naware of half her accomplishments, and too highly accomplished for\nmodesty to be natural in any other woman.\"\n\n\"For shame! for shame! this is too much flattery.  I forget what we are\nto have next,\" turning to the bill.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Mr Elliot, speaking low, \"I have had a longer\nacquaintance with your character than you are aware of.\"\n\n\"Indeed!  How so?  You can have been acquainted with it only since I\ncame to Bath, excepting as you might hear me previously spoken of in my\nown family.\"\n\n\"I knew you by report long before you came to Bath.  I had heard you\ndescribed by those who knew you intimately.  I have been acquainted\nwith you by character many years.  Your person, your disposition,\naccomplishments, manner; they were all present to me.\"\n\nMr Elliot was not disappointed in the interest he hoped to raise.  No\none can withstand the charm of such a mystery.  To have been described\nlong ago to a recent acquaintance, by nameless people, is irresistible;\nand Anne was all curiosity.  She wondered, and questioned him eagerly;\nbut in vain.  He delighted in being asked, but he would not tell.\n\n\"No, no, some time or other, perhaps, but not now.  He would mention no\nnames now; but such, he could assure her, had been the fact.  He had\nmany years ago received such a description of Miss Anne Elliot as had\ninspired him with the highest idea of her merit, and excited the\nwarmest curiosity to know her.\"\n\nAnne could think of no one so likely to have spoken with partiality of\nher many years ago as the Mr Wentworth of Monkford, Captain Wentworth's\nbrother.  He might have been in Mr Elliot's company, but she had not\ncourage to ask the question.\n\n\"The name of Anne Elliot,\" said he, \"has long had an interesting sound\nto me.  Very long has it possessed a charm over my fancy; and, if I\ndared, I would breathe my wishes that the name might never change.\"\n\nSuch, she believed, were his words; but scarcely had she received their\nsound, than her attention was caught by other sounds immediately behind\nher, which rendered every thing else trivial.  Her father and Lady\nDalrymple were speaking.\n\n\"A well-looking man,\" said Sir Walter, \"a very well-looking man.\"\n\n\"A very fine young man indeed!\" said Lady Dalrymple.  \"More air than\none often sees in Bath.  Irish, I dare say.\"\n\n\"No, I just know his name.  A bowing acquaintance.  Wentworth; Captain\nWentworth of the navy.  His sister married my tenant in Somersetshire,\nthe Croft, who rents Kellynch.\"\n\nBefore Sir Walter had reached this point, Anne's eyes had caught the\nright direction, and distinguished Captain Wentworth standing among a\ncluster of men at a little distance.  As her eyes fell on him, his\nseemed to be withdrawn from her.  It had that appearance.  It seemed as\nif she had been one moment too late; and as long as she dared observe,\nhe did not look again:  but the performance was recommencing, and she\nwas forced to seem to restore her attention to the orchestra and look\nstraight forward.\n\nWhen she could give another glance, he had moved away.  He could not\nhave come nearer to her if he would; she was so surrounded and shut in:\nbut she would rather have caught his eye.\n\nMr Elliot's speech, too, distressed her.  She had no longer any\ninclination to talk to him.  She wished him not so near her.\n\nThe first act was over.  Now she hoped for some beneficial change; and,\nafter a period of nothing-saying amongst the party, some of them did\ndecide on going in quest of tea.  Anne was one of the few who did not\nchoose to move.  She remained in her seat, and so did Lady Russell; but\nshe had the pleasure of getting rid of Mr Elliot; and she did not mean,\nwhatever she might feel on Lady Russell's account, to shrink from\nconversation with Captain Wentworth, if he gave her the opportunity.\nShe was persuaded by Lady Russell's countenance that she had seen him.\n\nHe did not come however.  Anne sometimes fancied she discerned him at a\ndistance, but he never came.  The anxious interval wore away\nunproductively.  The others returned, the room filled again, benches\nwere reclaimed and repossessed, and another hour of pleasure or of\npenance was to be sat out, another hour of music was to give delight or\nthe gapes, as real or affected taste for it prevailed.  To Anne, it\nchiefly wore the prospect of an hour of agitation.  She could not quit\nthat room in peace without seeing Captain Wentworth once more, without\nthe interchange of one friendly look.\n\nIn re-settling themselves there were now many changes, the result of\nwhich was favourable for her.  Colonel Wallis declined sitting down\nagain, and Mr Elliot was invited by Elizabeth and Miss Carteret, in a\nmanner not to be refused, to sit between them; and by some other\nremovals, and a little scheming of her own,  Anne was enabled to place\nherself much nearer the end of the bench than she had been before, much\nmore within reach of a passer-by.  She could not do so, without\ncomparing herself with Miss Larolles, the inimitable Miss Larolles; but\nstill she did it, and not with much happier effect; though by what\nseemed prosperity in the shape of an early abdication in her next\nneighbours, she found herself at the very end of the bench before the\nconcert closed.\n\nSuch was her situation, with a vacant space at hand, when Captain\nWentworth was again in sight.  She saw him not far off.  He saw her\ntoo; yet he looked grave, and seemed irresolute, and only by very slow\ndegrees came at last near enough to speak to her.  She felt that\nsomething must be the matter.  The change was indubitable.  The\ndifference between his present air and what it had been in the Octagon\nRoom was strikingly great.  Why was it?  She thought of her father, of\nLady Russell.  Could there have been any unpleasant glances?  He began\nby speaking of the concert gravely, more like the Captain Wentworth of\nUppercross; owned himself disappointed, had expected singing; and in\nshort, must confess that he should not be sorry when it was over.  Anne\nreplied, and spoke in defence of the performance so well, and yet in\nallowance for his feelings so pleasantly, that his countenance\nimproved, and he replied again with almost a smile.  They talked for a\nfew minutes more; the improvement held; he even looked down towards the\nbench, as if he saw a place on it well worth occupying; when at that\nmoment a touch on her shoulder obliged Anne to turn round.  It came\nfrom Mr Elliot.  He begged her pardon, but she must be applied to, to\nexplain Italian again.  Miss Carteret was very anxious to have a\ngeneral idea of what was next to be sung.  Anne could not refuse; but\nnever had she sacrificed to politeness with a more suffering spirit.\n\nA few minutes, though as few as possible, were inevitably consumed; and\nwhen her own mistress again, when able to turn and look as she had done\nbefore, she found herself accosted by Captain Wentworth, in a reserved\nyet hurried sort of farewell.  \"He must wish her good night; he was\ngoing; he should get home as fast as he could.\"\n\n\"Is not this song worth staying for?\" said Anne, suddenly struck by an\nidea which made her yet more anxious to be encouraging.\n\n\"No!\" he replied impressively, \"there is nothing worth my staying for;\"\nand he was gone directly.\n\nJealousy of Mr Elliot!  It was the only intelligible motive.  Captain\nWentworth jealous of her affection!  Could she have believed it a week\nago; three hours ago!  For a moment the gratification was exquisite.\nBut, alas! there were very different thoughts to succeed.  How was such\njealousy to be quieted?  How was the truth to reach him?  How, in all\nthe peculiar disadvantages of their respective situations, would he\never learn of her real sentiments?  It was misery to think of Mr\nElliot's attentions.  Their evil was incalculable.\n\n\n\nChapter 21\n\n\nAnne recollected with pleasure the next morning her promise of going to\nMrs Smith, meaning that it should engage her from home at the time when\nMr Elliot would be most likely to call; for to avoid Mr Elliot was\nalmost a first object.\n\nShe felt a great deal of good-will towards him.  In spite of the\nmischief of his attentions, she owed him gratitude and regard, perhaps\ncompassion.  She could not help thinking much of the extraordinary\ncircumstances attending their acquaintance, of the right which he\nseemed to have to interest her, by everything in situation, by his own\nsentiments, by his early prepossession.  It was altogether very\nextraordinary; flattering, but painful.  There was much to regret.  How\nshe might have felt had there been no Captain Wentworth in the case,\nwas not worth enquiry; for there was a Captain Wentworth; and be the\nconclusion of the present suspense good or bad, her affection would be\nhis for ever.  Their union, she believed, could not divide her more\nfrom other men, than their final separation.\n\nPrettier musings of high-wrought love and eternal constancy, could\nnever have passed along the streets of Bath, than Anne was sporting\nwith from Camden Place to Westgate Buildings.  It was almost enough to\nspread purification and perfume all the way.\n\nShe was sure of a pleasant reception; and her friend seemed this\nmorning particularly obliged to her for coming, seemed hardly to have\nexpected her, though it had been an appointment.\n\nAn account of the concert was immediately claimed; and Anne's\nrecollections of the concert were quite happy enough to animate her\nfeatures and make her rejoice to talk of it.  All that she could tell\nshe told most gladly, but the all was little for one who had been\nthere, and unsatisfactory for such an enquirer as Mrs Smith, who had\nalready heard, through the short cut of a laundress and a waiter,\nrather more of the general success and produce of the evening than Anne\ncould relate, and who now asked in vain for several particulars of the\ncompany.  Everybody of any consequence or notoriety in Bath was well\nknow by name to Mrs Smith.\n\n\"The little Durands were there, I conclude,\" said she, \"with their\nmouths open to catch the music, like unfledged sparrows ready to be\nfed.  They never miss a concert.\"\n\n\"Yes; I did not see them myself, but I heard Mr Elliot say they were in\nthe room.\"\n\n\"The Ibbotsons, were they there? and the two new beauties, with the\ntall Irish officer, who is talked of for one of them.\"\n\n\"I do not know.  I do not think they were.\"\n\n\"Old Lady Mary Maclean?  I need not ask after her.  She never misses, I\nknow; and you must have seen her.  She must have been in your own\ncircle; for as you went with Lady Dalrymple, you were in the seats of\ngrandeur, round the orchestra, of course.\"\n\n\"No, that was what I dreaded.  It would have been very unpleasant to me\nin every respect.  But happily Lady Dalrymple always chooses to be\nfarther off; and we were exceedingly well placed, that is, for hearing;\nI must not say for seeing, because I appear to have seen very little.\"\n\n\"Oh! you saw enough for your own amusement.  I can understand.  There\nis a sort of domestic enjoyment to be known even in a crowd, and this\nyou had.  You were a large party in yourselves, and you wanted nothing\nbeyond.\"\n\n\"But I ought to have looked about me more,\" said Anne, conscious while\nshe spoke that there had in fact been no want of looking about, that\nthe object only had been deficient.\n\n\"No, no; you were better employed.  You need not tell me that you had a\npleasant evening.  I see it in your eye.  I perfectly see how the hours\npassed:  that you had always something agreeable to listen to.  In the\nintervals of the concert it was conversation.\"\n\nAnne half smiled and said, \"Do you see that in my eye?\"\n\n\"Yes, I do.  Your countenance perfectly informs me that you were in\ncompany last night with the person whom you think the most agreeable in\nthe world, the person who interests you at this present time more than\nall the rest of the world put together.\"\n\nA blush overspread Anne's cheeks.  She could say nothing.\n\n\"And such being the case,\" continued Mrs Smith, after a short pause, \"I\nhope you believe that I do know how to value your kindness in coming to\nme this morning.  It is really very good of you to come and sit with\nme, when you must have so many pleasanter demands upon your time.\"\n\nAnne heard nothing of this.  She was still in the astonishment and\nconfusion excited by her friend's penetration, unable to imagine how\nany report of Captain Wentworth could have reached her.  After another\nshort silence--\n\n\"Pray,\" said Mrs Smith, \"is Mr Elliot aware of your acquaintance with\nme?  Does he know that I am in Bath?\"\n\n\"Mr Elliot!\" repeated Anne, looking up surprised.  A moment's\nreflection shewed her the mistake she had been under.  She caught it\ninstantaneously; and recovering her courage with the feeling of safety,\nsoon added, more composedly, \"Are you acquainted with Mr Elliot?\"\n\n\"I have been a good deal acquainted with him,\" replied Mrs Smith,\ngravely, \"but it seems worn out now.  It is a great while since we met.\"\n\n\"I was not at all aware of this.  You never mentioned it before.  Had I\nknown it, I would have had the pleasure of talking to him about you.\"\n\n\"To confess the truth,\" said Mrs Smith, assuming her usual air of\ncheerfulness, \"that is exactly the pleasure I want you to have.  I want\nyou to talk about me to Mr Elliot.  I want your interest with him.  He\ncan be of essential service to me; and if you would have the goodness,\nmy dear Miss Elliot, to make it an object to yourself, of course it is\ndone.\"\n\n\"I should be extremely happy; I hope you cannot doubt my willingness to\nbe of even the slightest use to you,\" replied Anne; \"but I suspect that\nyou are considering me as having a higher claim on Mr Elliot, a greater\nright to influence him, than is really the case.  I am sure you have,\nsomehow or other, imbibed such a notion.  You must consider me only as\nMr Elliot's relation.  If in that light there is anything which you\nsuppose his cousin might fairly ask of him, I beg you would not\nhesitate to employ me.\"\n\nMrs Smith gave her a penetrating glance, and then, smiling, said--\n\n\"I have been a little premature, I perceive; I beg your pardon.  I\nought to have waited for official information,  But now, my dear Miss\nElliot, as an old friend, do give me a hint as to when I may speak.\nNext week?  To be sure by next week I may be allowed to think it all\nsettled, and build my own selfish schemes on Mr Elliot's good fortune.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Anne, \"nor next week, nor next, nor next.  I assure you\nthat nothing of the sort you are thinking of will be settled any week.\nI am not going to marry Mr Elliot.  I should like to know why you\nimagine I am?\"\n\nMrs Smith looked at her again, looked earnestly, smiled, shook her\nhead, and exclaimed--\n\n\"Now, how I do wish I understood you!  How I do wish I knew what you\nwere at!  I have a great idea that you do not design to be cruel, when\nthe right moment occurs.  Till it does come, you know, we women never\nmean to have anybody.  It is a thing of course among us, that every man\nis refused, till he offers.  But why should you be cruel?  Let me plead\nfor my--present friend I cannot call him, but for my former friend.\nWhere can you look for a more suitable match?  Where could you expect a\nmore gentlemanlike, agreeable man?  Let me recommend Mr Elliot.  I am\nsure you hear nothing but good of him from Colonel Wallis; and who can\nknow him better than Colonel Wallis?\"\n\n\"My dear Mrs Smith, Mr Elliot's wife has not been dead much above half\na year.  He ought not to be supposed to be paying his addresses to any\none.\"\n\n\"Oh! if these are your only objections,\" cried Mrs Smith, archly, \"Mr\nElliot is safe, and I shall give myself no more trouble about him.  Do\nnot forget me when you are married, that's all.  Let him know me to be\na friend of yours, and then he will think little of the trouble\nrequired, which it is very natural for him now, with so many affairs\nand engagements of his own, to avoid and get rid of as he can; very\nnatural, perhaps.  Ninety-nine out of a hundred would do the same.  Of\ncourse, he cannot be aware of the importance to me.  Well, my dear Miss\nElliot, I hope and trust you will be very happy.  Mr Elliot has sense\nto understand the value of such a woman.  Your peace will not be\nshipwrecked as mine has been.  You are safe in all worldly matters, and\nsafe in his character.  He will not be led astray; he will not be\nmisled by others to his ruin.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Anne, \"I can readily believe all that of my cousin.  He\nseems to have a calm decided temper, not at all open to dangerous\nimpressions.  I consider him with great respect.  I have no reason,\nfrom any thing that has fallen within my observation, to do otherwise.\nBut I have not known him long; and he is not a man, I think, to be\nknown intimately soon.  Will not this manner of speaking of him, Mrs\nSmith, convince you that he is nothing to me?  Surely this must be calm\nenough.  And, upon my word, he is nothing to me.  Should he ever\npropose to me (which I have very little reason to imagine he has any\nthought of doing), I shall not accept him.  I assure you I shall not.\nI assure you, Mr Elliot had not the share which you have been\nsupposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford:\nnot Mr Elliot; it is not Mr Elliot that--\"\n\nShe stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had implied so much;\nbut less would hardly have been sufficient.  Mrs Smith would hardly\nhave believed so soon in Mr Elliot's failure, but from the perception\nof there being a somebody else.  As it was, she instantly submitted,\nand with all the semblance of seeing nothing beyond; and Anne, eager to\nescape farther notice, was impatient to know why Mrs Smith should have\nfancied she was to marry Mr Elliot; where she could have received the\nidea, or from whom she could have heard it.\n\n\"Do tell me how it first came into your head.\"\n\n\"It first came into my head,\" replied Mrs Smith, \"upon finding how much\nyou were together, and feeling it to be the most probable thing in the\nworld to be wished for by everybody belonging to either of you; and you\nmay depend upon it that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in\nthe same way.  But I never heard it spoken of till two days ago.\"\n\n\"And has it indeed been spoken of?\"\n\n\"Did you observe the woman who opened the door to you when you called\nyesterday?\"\n\n\"No.  Was not it Mrs Speed, as usual, or the maid?  I observed no one\nin particular.\"\n\n\"It was my friend Mrs Rooke; Nurse Rooke; who, by-the-bye, had a great\ncuriosity to see you, and was delighted to be in the way to let you in.\nShe came away from Marlborough Buildings only on Sunday; and she it was\nwho told me you were to marry Mr Elliot.  She had had it from Mrs\nWallis herself, which did not seem bad authority.  She sat an hour with\nme on Monday evening, and gave me the whole history.\" \"The whole\nhistory,\" repeated Anne, laughing.  \"She could not make a very long\nhistory, I think, of one such little article of unfounded news.\"\n\nMrs Smith said nothing.\n\n\"But,\" continued Anne, presently, \"though there is no truth in my\nhaving this claim on Mr Elliot, I should be extremely happy to be of\nuse to you in any way that I could.  Shall I mention to him your being\nin Bath?  Shall I take any message?\"\n\n\"No, I thank you:  no, certainly not.  In the warmth of the moment, and\nunder a mistaken impression, I might, perhaps, have endeavoured to\ninterest you in some circumstances; but not now.  No, I thank you, I\nhave nothing to trouble you with.\"\n\n\"I think you spoke of having known Mr Elliot many years?\"\n\n\"I did.\"\n\n\"Not before he was married, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Yes; he was not married when I knew him first.\"\n\n\"And--were you much acquainted?\"\n\n\"Intimately.\"\n\n\"Indeed!  Then do tell me what he was at that time of life.  I have a\ngreat curiosity to know what Mr Elliot was as a very young man.  Was he\nat all such as he appears now?\"\n\n\"I have not seen Mr Elliot these three years,\" was Mrs Smith's answer,\ngiven so gravely that it was impossible to pursue the subject farther;\nand Anne felt that she had gained nothing but an increase of curiosity.\nThey were both silent:  Mrs Smith very thoughtful.  At last--\n\n\"I beg your pardon, my dear Miss Elliot,\" she cried, in her natural\ntone of cordiality, \"I beg your pardon for the short answers I have\nbeen giving you, but I have been uncertain what I ought to do.  I have\nbeen doubting and considering as to what I ought to tell you.  There\nwere many things to be taken into the account.  One hates to be\nofficious, to be giving bad impressions, making mischief.  Even the\nsmooth surface of family-union seems worth preserving, though there may\nbe nothing durable beneath.  However, I have determined; I think I am\nright; I think you ought to be made acquainted with Mr Elliot's real\ncharacter.  Though I fully believe that, at present, you have not the\nsmallest intention of accepting him, there is no saying what may\nhappen.  You might, some time or other, be differently affected towards\nhim.  Hear the truth, therefore, now, while you are unprejudiced.  Mr\nElliot is a man without heart or conscience; a designing, wary,\ncold-blooded being, who thinks only of himself; whom for his own\ninterest or ease, would be guilty of any cruelty, or any treachery,\nthat could be perpetrated without risk of his general character.  He\nhas no feeling for others.  Those whom he has been the chief cause of\nleading into ruin, he can neglect and desert without the smallest\ncompunction.  He is totally beyond the reach of any sentiment of\njustice or compassion.  Oh! he is black at heart, hollow and black!\"\n\nAnne's astonished air, and exclamation of wonder, made her pause, and\nin a calmer manner, she added,\n\n\"My expressions startle you.  You must allow for an injured, angry\nwoman.  But I will try to command myself.  I will not abuse him.  I\nwill only tell you what I have found him.  Facts shall speak.  He was\nthe intimate friend of my dear husband, who trusted and loved him, and\nthought him as good as himself.  The intimacy had been formed before\nour marriage.  I found them most intimate friends; and I, too, became\nexcessively pleased with Mr Elliot, and entertained the highest opinion\nof him.  At nineteen, you know, one does not think very seriously; but\nMr Elliot appeared to me quite as good as others, and much more\nagreeable than most others, and we were almost always together.  We\nwere principally in town, living in very good style.  He was then the\ninferior in circumstances; he was then the poor one; he had chambers in\nthe Temple, and it was as much as he could do to support the appearance\nof a gentleman.  He had always a home with us whenever he chose it; he\nwas always welcome; he was like a brother.  My poor Charles, who had\nthe finest, most generous spirit in the world, would have divided his\nlast farthing with him; and I know that his purse was open to him; I\nknow that he often assisted him.\"\n\n\"This must have been about that very period of Mr Elliot's life,\" said\nAnne, \"which has always excited my particular curiosity.  It must have\nbeen about the same time that he became known to my father and sister.\nI never knew him myself; I only heard of him; but there was a something\nin his conduct then, with regard to my father and sister, and\nafterwards in the circumstances of his marriage, which I never could\nquite reconcile with present times.  It seemed to announce a different\nsort of man.\"\n\n\"I know it all, I know it all,\" cried Mrs Smith.  \"He had been\nintroduced to Sir Walter and your sister before I was acquainted with\nhim, but I heard him speak of them for ever.  I know he was invited and\nencouraged, and I know he did not choose to go.  I can satisfy you,\nperhaps, on points which you would little expect; and as to his\nmarriage, I knew all about it at the time.  I was privy to all the fors\nand againsts; I was the friend to whom he confided his hopes and plans;\nand though I did not know his wife previously, her inferior situation\nin society, indeed, rendered that impossible, yet I knew her all her\nlife afterwards, or at least till within the last two years of her\nlife, and can answer any question you may wish to put.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said Anne, \"I have no particular enquiry to make about her.  I\nhave always understood they were not a happy couple.  But I should like\nto know why, at that time of his life, he should slight my father's\nacquaintance as he did.  My father was certainly disposed to take very\nkind and proper notice of him.  Why did Mr Elliot draw back?\"\n\n\"Mr Elliot,\" replied Mrs Smith, \"at that period of his life, had one\nobject in view:  to make his fortune, and by a rather quicker process\nthan the law.  He was determined to make it by marriage.  He was\ndetermined, at least, not to mar it by an imprudent marriage; and I\nknow it was his belief (whether justly or not, of course I cannot\ndecide), that your father and sister, in their civilities and\ninvitations, were designing a match between the heir and the young\nlady, and it was impossible that such a match should have answered his\nideas of wealth and independence.  That was his motive for drawing\nback, I can assure you.  He told me the whole story.  He had no\nconcealments with me.  It was curious, that having just left you behind\nme in Bath, my first and principal acquaintance on marrying should be\nyour cousin; and that, through him, I should be continually hearing of\nyour father and sister.  He described one Miss Elliot, and I thought\nvery affectionately of the other.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" cried Anne, struck by a sudden idea, \"you sometimes spoke of\nme to Mr Elliot?\"\n\n\"To be sure I did; very often.  I used to boast of my own Anne Elliot,\nand vouch for your being a very different creature from--\"\n\nShe checked herself just in time.\n\n\"This accounts for something which Mr Elliot said last night,\" cried\nAnne.  \"This explains it.  I found he had been used to hear of me.  I\ncould not comprehend how.  What wild imaginations one forms where dear\nself is concerned!  How sure to be mistaken!  But I beg your pardon; I\nhave interrupted you.  Mr Elliot married then completely for money?\nThe circumstances, probably, which first opened your eyes to his\ncharacter.\"\n\nMrs Smith hesitated a little here.  \"Oh! those things are too common.\nWhen one lives in the world, a man or woman's marrying for money is too\ncommon to strike one as it ought.  I was very young, and associated\nonly with the young, and we were a thoughtless, gay set, without any\nstrict rules of conduct.  We lived for enjoyment.  I think differently\nnow; time and sickness and sorrow have given me other notions; but at\nthat period I must own I saw nothing reprehensible in what Mr Elliot\nwas doing.  'To do the best for himself,' passed as a duty.\"\n\n\"But was not she a very low woman?\"\n\n\"Yes; which I objected to, but he would not regard.  Money, money, was\nall that he wanted.  Her father was a grazier, her grandfather had been\na butcher, but that was all nothing.  She was a fine woman, had had a\ndecent education, was brought forward by some cousins, thrown by chance\ninto Mr Elliot's company, and fell in love with him; and not a\ndifficulty or a scruple was there on his side, with respect to her\nbirth.  All his caution was spent in being secured of the real amount\nof her fortune, before he committed himself.  Depend upon it, whatever\nesteem Mr Elliot may have for his own situation in life now, as a young\nman he had not the smallest value for it.  His chance for the Kellynch\nestate was something, but all the honour of the family he held as cheap\nas dirt.  I have often heard him declare, that if baronetcies were\nsaleable, anybody should have his for fifty pounds, arms and motto,\nname and livery included; but I will not pretend to repeat half that I\nused to hear him say on that subject.  It would not be fair; and yet\nyou ought to have proof, for what is all this but assertion, and you\nshall have proof.\"\n\n\"Indeed, my dear Mrs Smith, I want none,\" cried Anne.  \"You have\nasserted nothing contradictory to what Mr Elliot appeared to be some\nyears ago.  This is all in confirmation, rather, of what we used to\nhear and believe.  I am more curious to know why he should be so\ndifferent now.\"\n\n\"But for my satisfaction, if you will have the goodness to ring for\nMary; stay:  I am sure you will have the still greater goodness of\ngoing yourself into my bedroom, and bringing me the small inlaid box\nwhich you will find on the upper shelf of the closet.\"\n\nAnne, seeing her friend to be earnestly bent on it, did as she was\ndesired.  The box was brought and placed before her, and Mrs Smith,\nsighing over it as she unlocked it, said--\n\n\"This is full of papers belonging to him, to my husband; a small\nportion only of what I had to look over when I lost him.  The letter I\nam looking for was one written by Mr Elliot to him before our marriage,\nand happened to be saved; why, one can hardly imagine.  But he was\ncareless and immethodical, like other men, about those things; and when\nI came to examine his papers, I found it with others still more\ntrivial, from different people scattered here and there, while many\nletters and memorandums of real importance had been destroyed.  Here it\nis; I would not burn it, because being even then very little satisfied\nwith Mr Elliot, I was determined to preserve every document of former\nintimacy.  I have now another motive for being glad that I can produce\nit.\"\n\nThis was the letter, directed to \"Charles Smith, Esq. Tunbridge Wells,\"\nand dated from London, as far back as July, 1803:--\n\n\"Dear Smith,--I have received yours.  Your kindness almost overpowers\nme.  I wish nature had made such hearts as yours more common, but I\nhave lived three-and-twenty years in the world, and have seen none like\nit.  At present, believe me, I have no need of your services, being in\ncash again.  Give me joy:  I have got rid of Sir Walter and Miss.  They\nare gone back to Kellynch, and almost made me swear to visit them this\nsummer; but my first visit to Kellynch will be with a surveyor, to tell\nme how to bring it with best advantage to the hammer.  The baronet,\nnevertheless, is not unlikely to marry again; he is quite fool enough.\nIf he does, however, they will leave me in peace, which may be a decent\nequivalent  for the reversion.  He is worse than last year.\n\n\"I wish I had any name but Elliot.  I am sick of it.  The name of\nWalter I can drop, thank God! and I desire you will never insult me\nwith my second W. again, meaning, for the rest of my life, to be only\nyours truly,--Wm. Elliot.\"\n\nSuch a letter could not be read without putting Anne in a glow; and Mrs\nSmith, observing the high colour in her face, said--\n\n\"The language, I know, is highly disrespectful.  Though I have forgot\nthe exact terms, I have a perfect impression of the general meaning.\nBut it shows you the man.  Mark his professions to my poor husband.\nCan any thing be stronger?\"\n\nAnne could not immediately get over the shock and mortification of\nfinding such words applied to her father.  She was obliged to recollect\nthat her seeing the letter was a violation of the laws of honour, that\nno one ought to be judged or to be known by such testimonies, that no\nprivate correspondence could bear the eye of others, before she could\nrecover calmness enough to return the letter which she had been\nmeditating over, and say--\n\n\"Thank you.  This is full proof undoubtedly; proof of every thing you\nwere saying.  But why be acquainted with us now?\"\n\n\"I can explain this too,\" cried Mrs Smith, smiling.\n\n\"Can you really?\"\n\n\"Yes.  I have shewn you Mr Elliot as he was a dozen years ago, and I\nwill shew him as he is now.  I cannot produce written proof again, but\nI can give as authentic oral testimony as you can desire, of what he is\nnow wanting, and what he is now doing.  He is no hypocrite now.  He\ntruly wants to marry you.  His present attentions to your family are\nvery sincere:  quite from the heart.  I will give you my authority: his\nfriend Colonel Wallis.\"\n\n\"Colonel Wallis! you are acquainted with him?\"\n\n\"No.  It does not come to me in quite so direct a line as that; it\ntakes a bend or two, but nothing of consequence.  The stream is as good\nas at first; the little rubbish it collects in the turnings is easily\nmoved away.  Mr Elliot talks unreservedly to Colonel Wallis of his\nviews on you, which said Colonel Wallis, I imagine to be, in himself, a\nsensible, careful, discerning sort of character; but Colonel Wallis has\na very pretty silly wife, to whom he tells things which he had better\nnot, and he repeats it all to her.  She in the overflowing spirits of\nher recovery, repeats it all to her nurse; and the nurse  knowing my\nacquaintance with you, very naturally brings it all to me.  On Monday\nevening, my good friend Mrs Rooke let me thus much into the secrets of\nMarlborough Buildings.  When I talked of a whole history, therefore,\nyou see I was not romancing so much as you supposed.\"\n\n\"My dear Mrs Smith, your authority is deficient.  This will not do.  Mr\nElliot's having any views on me will not in the least account for the\nefforts he made towards a reconciliation with my father.  That was all\nprior to my coming to Bath.  I found them on the most friendly terms\nwhen I arrived.\"\n\n\"I know you did; I know it all perfectly, but--\"\n\n\"Indeed, Mrs Smith, we must not expect to get real information in such\na line.  Facts or opinions which are to pass through the hands of so\nmany, to be misconceived by folly in one, and ignorance in another, can\nhardly have much truth left.\"\n\n\"Only give me a hearing.  You will soon be able to judge of the general\ncredit due, by listening to some particulars which you can yourself\nimmediately contradict or confirm.  Nobody supposes that you were his\nfirst inducement.  He had seen you indeed, before he came to Bath, and\nadmired you, but without knowing it to be you.  So says my historian,\nat least.  Is this true?  Did he see you last summer or autumn,\n'somewhere down in the west,' to use her own words, without knowing it\nto be you?\"\n\n\"He certainly did.  So far it is very true.  At Lyme.  I happened to be\nat Lyme.\"\n\n\"Well,\" continued Mrs Smith, triumphantly, \"grant my friend the credit\ndue to the establishment of the first point asserted.  He saw you then\nat Lyme, and liked you so well as to be exceedingly pleased to meet\nwith you again in Camden Place, as Miss Anne Elliot, and from that\nmoment, I have no doubt, had a double motive in his visits there.  But\nthere was another, and an earlier, which I will now explain.  If there\nis anything in my story which you know to be either false or\nimprobable, stop me.  My account states, that your sister's friend, the\nlady now staying with you, whom I have heard you mention, came to Bath\nwith Miss Elliot and Sir Walter as long ago as September (in short when\nthey first came themselves), and has been staying there ever since;\nthat she is a clever, insinuating, handsome woman, poor and plausible,\nand altogether such in situation and manner, as to give a general idea,\namong Sir Walter's acquaintance, of her meaning to be Lady Elliot, and\nas general a surprise that Miss Elliot should be apparently, blind to\nthe danger.\"\n\nHere Mrs Smith paused a moment; but Anne had not a word to say, and she\ncontinued--\n\n\"This was the light in which it appeared to those who knew the family,\nlong before you returned to it; and Colonel Wallis had his eye upon\nyour father enough to be sensible of it, though he did not then visit\nin Camden Place; but his regard for Mr Elliot gave him an interest in\nwatching all that was going on there, and when Mr Elliot came to Bath\nfor a day or two, as he happened to do a little before Christmas,\nColonel Wallis made him acquainted with the appearance of things, and\nthe reports beginning to prevail.  Now you are to understand, that time\nhad worked a very material change in Mr Elliot's opinions as to the\nvalue of a baronetcy.  Upon all points of blood and connexion he is a\ncompletely altered man.  Having long had as much money as he could\nspend, nothing to wish for on the side of avarice or indulgence, he has\nbeen gradually learning to pin his happiness upon the consequence he is\nheir to.  I thought it coming on before our acquaintance ceased, but it\nis now a confirmed feeling.  He cannot bear the idea of not being Sir\nWilliam.  You may guess, therefore, that the news he heard from his\nfriend could not be very agreeable, and you may guess what it produced;\nthe resolution of coming back to Bath as soon as possible, and of\nfixing himself here for a time, with the view of renewing his former\nacquaintance, and recovering such a footing in the family as might give\nhim the means of ascertaining the degree of his danger, and of\ncircumventing the lady if he found it material.  This was agreed upon\nbetween the two friends as the only thing to be done; and Colonel\nWallis was to assist in every way that he could.  He was to be\nintroduced, and Mrs Wallis was to be introduced, and everybody was to\nbe introduced.  Mr Elliot came back accordingly; and on application was\nforgiven, as you know, and re-admitted into the family; and there it\nwas his constant object, and his only object (till your arrival added\nanother motive), to watch Sir Walter and Mrs Clay.  He omitted no\nopportunity of being with them, threw himself in their way, called at\nall hours; but I need not be particular on this subject.  You can\nimagine what an artful man would do; and with this guide, perhaps, may\nrecollect what you have seen him do.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Anne, \"you tell me nothing which does not accord with what\nI have known, or could imagine.  There is always something offensive in\nthe details of cunning.  The manoeuvres of selfishness and duplicity\nmust ever be revolting, but I have heard nothing which really surprises\nme.  I know those who would be shocked by such a representation of Mr\nElliot, who would have difficulty in believing it; but I have never\nbeen satisfied.  I have always wanted some other motive for his conduct\nthan appeared.  I should like to know his present opinion, as to the\nprobability of the event he has been in dread of; whether he considers\nthe danger to be lessening or not.\"\n\n\"Lessening, I understand,\" replied Mrs Smith.  \"He thinks Mrs Clay\nafraid of him, aware that he sees through her, and not daring to\nproceed as she might do in his absence.  But since he must be absent\nsome time or other, I do not perceive how he can ever be secure while\nshe holds her present influence.  Mrs Wallis has an amusing idea, as\nnurse tells me, that it is to be put into the marriage articles when\nyou and Mr Elliot marry, that your father is not to marry Mrs Clay.  A\nscheme, worthy of Mrs Wallis's understanding, by all accounts; but my\nsensible nurse Rooke sees the absurdity of it.  'Why, to be sure,\nma'am,' said she, 'it would not prevent his marrying anybody else.'\nAnd, indeed, to own the truth, I do not think nurse, in her heart, is a\nvery strenuous opposer of Sir Walter's making a second match.  She must\nbe allowed to be a favourer of matrimony, you know; and (since self\nwill intrude) who can say that she may not have some flying visions of\nattending the next Lady Elliot, through Mrs Wallis's recommendation?\"\n\n\"I am very glad to know all this,\" said Anne, after a little\nthoughtfulness.  \"It will be more painful to me in some respects to be\nin company with him, but I shall know better what to do.  My line of\nconduct will be more direct.  Mr Elliot is evidently a disingenuous,\nartificial, worldly man, who has never had any better principle to\nguide him than selfishness.\"\n\nBut Mr Elliot was not done with.  Mrs Smith had been carried away from\nher first direction, and Anne had forgotten, in the interest of her own\nfamily concerns, how much had been originally implied against him; but\nher attention was now called to the explanation of those first hints,\nand she listened to a recital which, if it did not perfectly justify\nthe unqualified bitterness of Mrs Smith, proved him to have been very\nunfeeling in his conduct towards her; very deficient both in justice\nand compassion.\n\nShe learned that (the intimacy between them continuing unimpaired by Mr\nElliot's marriage) they had been as before always together, and Mr\nElliot had led his friend into expenses much beyond his fortune.  Mrs\nSmith did not want to take blame to herself, and was most tender of\nthrowing any on her husband; but Anne could collect that their income\nhad never been equal to their style of living, and that from the first\nthere had been a great deal of general and joint extravagance.  From\nhis wife's account of him she could discern Mr Smith to have been a man\nof warm feelings, easy temper, careless habits, and not strong\nunderstanding, much more amiable than his friend, and very unlike him,\nled by him, and probably despised by him.  Mr Elliot, raised by his\nmarriage to great affluence, and disposed to every gratification of\npleasure and vanity which could be commanded without involving himself,\n(for with all his self-indulgence he had become a prudent man), and\nbeginning to be rich, just as his friend ought to have found himself to\nbe poor, seemed to have had no concern at all for that friend's\nprobable finances, but, on the contrary, had been prompting and\nencouraging expenses which could end only in ruin; and the Smiths\naccordingly had been ruined.\n\nThe husband had died just in time to be spared the full knowledge of\nit.  They had previously known embarrassments enough to try the\nfriendship of their friends, and to prove that Mr Elliot's had better\nnot be tried; but it was not till his death that the wretched state of\nhis affairs was fully known.  With a confidence in Mr Elliot's regard,\nmore creditable to his feelings than his judgement, Mr Smith had\nappointed him the executor of his will; but Mr Elliot would not act,\nand the difficulties and distress which this refusal had heaped on her,\nin addition to the inevitable sufferings of her situation, had been\nsuch as could not be related without anguish of spirit, or listened to\nwithout corresponding indignation.\n\nAnne was shewn some letters of his on the occasion, answers to urgent\napplications from Mrs Smith, which all breathed the same stern\nresolution of not engaging in a fruitless trouble, and, under a cold\ncivility, the same hard-hearted indifference to any of the evils it\nmight bring on her.  It was a dreadful picture of ingratitude and\ninhumanity; and Anne felt, at some moments, that no flagrant open crime\ncould have been worse.  She had a great deal to listen to; all the\nparticulars of past sad scenes, all the minutiae of distress upon\ndistress, which in former conversations had been merely hinted at, were\ndwelt on now with a natural indulgence.  Anne could perfectly\ncomprehend the exquisite relief, and was only the more inclined to\nwonder at the composure of her friend's usual state of mind.\n\nThere was one circumstance in the history of her grievances of\nparticular irritation.  She had good reason to believe that some\nproperty of her husband in the West Indies, which had been for many\nyears under a sort of sequestration for the payment of its own\nincumbrances, might be recoverable by proper measures; and this\nproperty, though not large, would be enough to make her comparatively\nrich.  But there was nobody to stir in it.  Mr Elliot would do nothing,\nand she could do nothing herself, equally disabled from personal\nexertion by her state of bodily weakness, and from employing others by\nher want of money.  She had no natural connexions to assist her even\nwith their counsel, and she could not afford to purchase the assistance\nof the law.  This was a cruel aggravation of actually straitened means.\nTo feel that she ought to be in better circumstances, that a little\ntrouble in the right place might do it, and to fear that delay might be\neven weakening her claims, was hard to bear.\n\nIt was on this point that she had hoped to engage Anne's good offices\nwith Mr Elliot.  She had previously, in the anticipation of their\nmarriage, been very apprehensive of losing her friend by it; but on\nbeing assured that he could have made no attempt of that nature, since\nhe did not even know her to be in Bath, it immediately occurred, that\nsomething might be done in her favour by the influence of the woman he\nloved, and she had been hastily preparing to interest Anne's feelings,\nas far as the observances due to Mr Elliot's character would allow,\nwhen Anne's refutation of the supposed engagement changed the face of\neverything; and while it took from her the new-formed hope of\nsucceeding in the object of her first anxiety, left her at least the\ncomfort of telling the whole story her own way.\n\nAfter listening to this full description of Mr Elliot, Anne could not\nbut express some surprise at Mrs Smith's having spoken of him so\nfavourably in the beginning of their conversation.  \"She had seemed to\nrecommend and praise him!\"\n\n\"My dear,\" was Mrs Smith's reply, \"there was nothing else to be done.\nI considered your marrying him as certain, though he might not yet have\nmade the offer, and I could no more speak the truth of him, than if he\nhad been your husband.  My heart bled for you, as I talked of\nhappiness; and yet he is sensible, he is agreeable, and with such a\nwoman as you, it was not absolutely hopeless.  He was very unkind to\nhis first wife.  They were wretched together.  But she was too ignorant\nand giddy for respect, and he had never loved her.  I was willing to\nhope that you must fare better.\"\n\nAnne could just acknowledge within herself such a possibility of having\nbeen induced to marry him, as made her shudder at the idea of the\nmisery which must have followed.  It was just possible that she might\nhave been persuaded by Lady Russell!  And under such a supposition,\nwhich would have been most miserable, when time had disclosed all, too\nlate?\n\nIt was very desirable that Lady Russell should be no longer deceived;\nand one of the concluding arrangements of this important conference,\nwhich carried them through the greater part of the morning, was, that\nAnne had full liberty to communicate to her friend everything relative\nto Mrs Smith, in which his conduct was involved.\n\n\n\nChapter 22\n\n\nAnne went home to think over all that she had heard.  In one point, her\nfeelings were relieved by this knowledge of Mr Elliot.  There was no\nlonger anything of tenderness due to him.  He stood as opposed to\nCaptain Wentworth, in all his own unwelcome obtrusiveness; and the evil\nof his attentions last night, the irremediable mischief he might have\ndone, was considered with sensations unqualified, unperplexed.  Pity\nfor him was all over.  But this was the only point of relief.  In every\nother respect, in looking around her, or penetrating forward, she saw\nmore to distrust and to apprehend.  She was concerned for the\ndisappointment and pain Lady Russell would be feeling; for the\nmortifications which must be hanging over her father and sister, and\nhad all the distress of foreseeing many evils, without knowing how to\navert any one of them.  She was most thankful for her own knowledge of\nhim.  She had never considered herself as entitled to reward for not\nslighting an old friend like Mrs Smith, but here was a reward indeed\nspringing from it!  Mrs Smith had been able to tell her what no one\nelse could have done.  Could the knowledge have been extended through\nher family?  But this was a vain idea.  She must talk to Lady Russell,\ntell her, consult with her, and having done her best, wait the event\nwith as much composure as possible; and after all, her greatest want of\ncomposure would be in that quarter of the mind which could not be\nopened to Lady Russell; in that flow of anxieties and fears which must\nbe all to herself.\n\n\nShe found, on reaching home, that she had, as she intended, escaped\nseeing Mr Elliot; that he had called and paid them a long morning\nvisit; but hardly had she congratulated herself, and felt safe, when\nshe heard that he was coming again in the evening.\n\n\"I had not the smallest intention of asking him,\" said Elizabeth, with\naffected carelessness, \"but he gave so many hints; so Mrs Clay says, at\nleast.\"\n\n\"Indeed, I do say it.  I never saw anybody in my life spell harder for\nan invitation.  Poor man!  I was really in pain for him; for your\nhard-hearted sister, Miss Anne, seems bent on cruelty.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" cried Elizabeth, \"I have been rather too much used to the game to\nbe soon overcome by a gentleman's hints.  However, when I found how\nexcessively he was regretting that he should miss my father this\nmorning, I gave way immediately, for I would never really omit an\nopportunity of bring him and Sir Walter together.  They appear to so\nmuch advantage in company with each other.  Each behaving so\npleasantly.  Mr Elliot looking up with so much respect.\"\n\n\"Quite delightful!\" cried Mrs Clay, not daring, however, to turn her\neyes towards Anne.  \"Exactly like father and son!  Dear Miss Elliot,\nmay I not say father and son?\"\n\n\"Oh! I lay no embargo on any body's words.  If you will have such\nideas!  But, upon my word, I am scarcely sensible of his attentions\nbeing beyond those of other men.\"\n\n\"My dear Miss Elliot!\" exclaimed Mrs Clay, lifting her hands and eyes,\nand sinking all the rest of her astonishment in a convenient silence.\n\n\"Well, my dear Penelope, you need not be so alarmed about him.  I did\ninvite him, you know.  I sent him away with smiles.  When I found he\nwas really going to his friends at Thornberry Park for the whole day\nto-morrow, I had compassion on him.\"\n\nAnne admired the good acting of the friend, in being able to shew such\npleasure as she did, in the expectation and in the actual arrival of\nthe very person whose presence must really be interfering with her\nprime object.  It was impossible but that Mrs Clay must hate the sight\nof Mr Elliot; and yet she could assume a most obliging, placid look,\nand appear quite satisfied with the curtailed license of devoting\nherself only half as much to Sir Walter as she would have done\notherwise.\n\nTo Anne herself it was most distressing to see Mr Elliot enter the\nroom; and quite painful to have him approach and speak to her.  She had\nbeen used before to feel that he could not be always quite sincere, but\nnow she saw insincerity in everything.  His attentive deference to her\nfather, contrasted with his former language, was odious; and when she\nthought of his cruel conduct towards Mrs Smith, she could hardly bear\nthe sight of his present smiles and mildness, or the sound of his\nartificial good sentiments.\n\nShe meant to avoid any such alteration of manners as might provoke a\nremonstrance on his side.  It was a great object to her to escape all\nenquiry or eclat; but it was her intention to be as decidedly cool to\nhim as might be compatible with their relationship; and to retrace, as\nquietly as she could, the few steps of unnecessary intimacy she had\nbeen gradually led along.  She was accordingly more guarded, and more\ncool, than she had been the night before.\n\nHe wanted to animate her curiosity again as to how and where he could\nhave heard her formerly praised; wanted very much to be gratified by\nmore solicitation; but the charm was broken: he found that the heat and\nanimation of a public room was necessary to kindle his modest cousin's\nvanity; he found, at least, that it was not to be done now, by any of\nthose attempts which he could hazard among the too-commanding claims of\nthe others.  He little surmised that it was a subject acting now\nexactly against his interest, bringing immediately to her thoughts all\nthose parts of his conduct which were least excusable.\n\nShe had some satisfaction in finding that he was really going out of\nBath the next morning, going early, and that he would be gone the\ngreater part of two days.  He was invited again to Camden Place the\nvery evening of his return; but from Thursday to Saturday evening his\nabsence was certain.  It was bad enough that a Mrs Clay should be\nalways before her; but that a deeper hypocrite should be added to their\nparty, seemed the destruction of everything like peace and comfort.  It\nwas so humiliating to reflect on the constant deception practised on\nher father and Elizabeth; to consider the various sources of\nmortification preparing for them!  Mrs Clay's selfishness was not so\ncomplicate nor so revolting as his; and Anne would have compounded for\nthe marriage at once, with all its evils, to be clear of Mr Elliot's\nsubtleties in endeavouring to prevent it.\n\nOn Friday morning she meant to go very early to Lady Russell, and\naccomplish the necessary communication; and she would have gone\ndirectly after breakfast, but that Mrs Clay was also going out on some\nobliging purpose of saving her sister trouble, which determined her to\nwait till she might be safe from such a companion.  She saw Mrs Clay\nfairly off, therefore, before she began to talk of spending the morning\nin Rivers Street.\n\n\"Very well,\" said Elizabeth, \"I have nothing to send but my love.  Oh!\nyou may as well take back that tiresome book she would lend me, and\npretend I have read it through.  I really cannot be plaguing myself for\never with all the new poems and states of the nation that come out.\nLady Russell quite bores one with her new publications.  You need not\ntell her so, but I thought her dress hideous the other night.  I used\nto think she had some taste in dress, but I was ashamed of her at the\nconcert.  Something so formal and arrange in her air!  and she sits so\nupright!  My best love, of course.\"\n\n\"And mine,\" added Sir Walter.  \"Kindest regards.  And you may say, that\nI mean to call upon her soon.  Make a civil message; but I shall only\nleave my card.  Morning visits are never fair by women at her time of\nlife, who make themselves up so little.  If she would only wear rouge\nshe would not be afraid of being seen; but last time I called, I\nobserved the blinds were let down immediately.\"\n\nWhile her father spoke, there was a knock at the door.  Who could it\nbe?  Anne, remembering the preconcerted visits, at all hours, of Mr\nElliot, would have expected him, but for his known engagement seven\nmiles off.  After the usual period of suspense, the usual sounds of\napproach were heard, and \"Mr and Mrs Charles Musgrove\" were ushered\ninto the room.\n\nSurprise was the strongest emotion raised by their appearance; but Anne\nwas really glad to see them; and the others were not so sorry but that\nthey could put on a decent air of welcome; and as soon as it became\nclear that these, their nearest relations, were not arrived with any\nviews of accommodation in that house, Sir Walter and Elizabeth were\nable to rise in cordiality, and do the honours of it very well.  They\nwere come to Bath for a few days with Mrs Musgrove, and were at the\nWhite Hart.  So much was pretty soon understood; but till Sir Walter\nand Elizabeth were walking Mary into the other drawing-room, and\nregaling themselves with her admiration, Anne could not draw upon\nCharles's brain for a regular history of their coming, or an\nexplanation of some smiling hints of particular business, which had\nbeen ostentatiously dropped by Mary, as well as of some apparent\nconfusion as to whom their party consisted of.\n\nShe then found that it consisted of Mrs Musgrove, Henrietta, and\nCaptain Harville, beside their two selves.  He gave her a very plain,\nintelligible account of the whole; a narration in which she saw a great\ndeal of most characteristic proceeding.  The scheme had received its\nfirst impulse by Captain Harville's wanting to come to Bath on\nbusiness.  He had begun to talk of it a week ago; and by way of doing\nsomething, as shooting was over, Charles had proposed coming with him,\nand Mrs Harville had seemed to like the idea of it very much, as an\nadvantage to her husband; but Mary could not bear to be left, and had\nmade herself so unhappy about it, that for a day or two everything\nseemed to be in suspense, or at an end.  But then, it had been taken up\nby his father and mother.  His mother had some old friends in Bath whom\nshe wanted to see; it was thought a good opportunity for Henrietta to\ncome and buy wedding-clothes for herself and her sister; and, in short,\nit ended in being his mother's party, that everything might be\ncomfortable and easy to Captain Harville; and he and Mary were included\nin it by way of general convenience.  They had arrived late the night\nbefore.  Mrs Harville, her children, and Captain Benwick, remained with\nMr Musgrove and Louisa at Uppercross.\n\nAnne's only surprise was, that affairs should be in forwardness enough\nfor Henrietta's wedding-clothes to be talked of.  She had imagined such\ndifficulties of fortune to exist there as must prevent the marriage\nfrom being near at hand; but she learned from Charles that, very\nrecently, (since Mary's last letter to herself), Charles Hayter had\nbeen applied to by a friend to hold a living for a youth who could not\npossibly claim it under many years; and that on the strength of his\npresent income, with almost a certainty of something more permanent\nlong before the term in question, the two families had consented to the\nyoung people's wishes, and that their marriage was likely to take place\nin a few months, quite as soon as Louisa's.  \"And a very good living it\nwas,\" Charles added:  \"only five-and-twenty miles from Uppercross, and\nin a very fine country: fine part of Dorsetshire.  In the centre of\nsome of the best preserves in the kingdom, surrounded by three great\nproprietors, each more careful and jealous than the other; and to two\nof the three at least, Charles Hayter might get a special\nrecommendation.  Not that he will value it as he ought,\" he observed,\n\"Charles is too cool about sporting. That's the worst of him.\"\n\n\"I am extremely glad, indeed,\" cried Anne, \"particularly glad that this\nshould happen; and that of two sisters, who both deserve equally well,\nand who have always been such good friends, the pleasant prospect of\none should not be dimming those of the other--that they should be so\nequal in their prosperity and comfort.  I hope your father and mother\nare quite happy with regard to both.\"\n\n\"Oh! yes.  My father would be well pleased if the gentlemen were\nricher, but he has no other fault to find.  Money, you know, coming\ndown with money--two daughters at once--it cannot be a very agreeable\noperation, and it streightens him as to many things.  However, I do not\nmean to say they have not a right to it.  It is very fit they should\nhave daughters' shares; and I am sure he has always been a very kind,\nliberal father to me.  Mary does not above half like Henrietta's match.\nShe never did, you know.  But she does not do him justice, nor think\nenough about Winthrop.  I cannot make her attend to the value of the\nproperty.  It is a very fair match, as times go; and I have liked\nCharles Hayter all my life, and I shall not leave off now.\"\n\n\"Such excellent parents as Mr and Mrs Musgrove,\" exclaimed Anne,\n\"should be happy in their children's marriages.  They do everything to\nconfer happiness, I am sure.  What a blessing to young people to be in\nsuch hands!  Your father and mother seem so totally free from all those\nambitious feelings which have led to so much misconduct and misery,\nboth in young and old.  I hope you think Louisa perfectly recovered\nnow?\"\n\nHe answered rather hesitatingly, \"Yes, I believe I do; very much\nrecovered; but she is altered; there is no running or jumping about, no\nlaughing or dancing; it is quite different.  If one happens only to\nshut the door a little hard, she starts and wriggles like a young\ndab-chick in the water; and Benwick sits at her elbow, reading verses,\nor whispering to her, all day long.\"\n\nAnne could not help laughing.  \"That cannot be much to your taste, I\nknow,\" said she; \"but I do believe him to be an excellent young man.\"\n\n\"To be sure he is.  Nobody doubts it; and I hope you do not think I am\nso illiberal as to want every man to have the same objects and\npleasures as myself.  I have a great value for Benwick; and when one\ncan but get him to talk, he has plenty to say.  His reading has done\nhim no harm, for he has fought as well as read.  He is a brave fellow.\nI got more acquainted with him last Monday than ever I did before.  We\nhad a famous set-to at rat-hunting all the morning in my father's great\nbarns; and he played his part so well that I have liked him the better\never since.\"\n\nHere they were interrupted by the absolute necessity of Charles's\nfollowing the others to admire mirrors and china; but Anne had heard\nenough to understand the present state of Uppercross, and rejoice in\nits happiness; and though she sighed as she rejoiced, her sigh had none\nof the ill-will of envy in it.  She would certainly have risen to their\nblessings if she could, but she did not want to lessen theirs.\n\nThe visit passed off altogether in high good humour.  Mary was in\nexcellent spirits, enjoying the gaiety and the change, and so well\nsatisfied with the journey in her mother-in-law's carriage with four\nhorses, and with her own complete independence of Camden Place, that\nshe was exactly in a temper to admire everything as she ought, and\nenter most readily into all the superiorities of the house, as they\nwere detailed to her.  She had no demands on her father or sister, and\nher consequence was just enough increased by their handsome\ndrawing-rooms.\n\nElizabeth was, for a short time, suffering a good deal.  She felt that\nMrs Musgrove and all her party ought to be asked to dine with them; but\nshe could not bear to have the difference of style, the reduction of\nservants, which a dinner must betray, witnessed by those who had been\nalways so inferior to the Elliots of Kellynch.  It was a struggle\nbetween propriety and vanity; but vanity got the better, and then\nElizabeth was happy again.  These were her internal persuasions: \"Old\nfashioned notions; country hospitality; we do not profess to give\ndinners; few people in Bath do; Lady Alicia never does; did not even\nask her own sister's family, though they were here a month: and I dare\nsay it would be very inconvenient to Mrs Musgrove; put her quite out of\nher way.  I am sure she would rather not come; she cannot feel easy\nwith us.  I will ask them all for an evening; that will be much better;\nthat will be a novelty and a treat.  They have not seen two such\ndrawing rooms before.  They will be delighted to come to-morrow\nevening.  It shall be a regular party, small, but most elegant.\"  And\nthis satisfied Elizabeth:  and when the invitation was given to the two\npresent, and promised for the absent, Mary was as completely satisfied.\nShe was particularly asked to meet Mr Elliot, and be introduced to Lady\nDalrymple and Miss Carteret, who were fortunately already engaged to\ncome; and she could not have received a more gratifying attention.\nMiss Elliot was to have the honour of calling on Mrs Musgrove in the\ncourse of the morning; and Anne walked off with Charles and Mary, to go\nand see her and Henrietta directly.\n\nHer plan of sitting with Lady Russell must give way for the present.\nThey all three called in Rivers Street for a couple of minutes; but\nAnne convinced herself that a day's delay of the intended communication\ncould be of no consequence, and hastened forward to the White Hart, to\nsee again the friends and companions of the last autumn, with an\neagerness of good-will which many associations contributed to form.\n\nThey found Mrs Musgrove and her daughter within, and by themselves, and\nAnne had the kindest welcome from each.  Henrietta was exactly in that\nstate of recently-improved views, of fresh-formed happiness, which made\nher full of regard and interest for everybody she had ever liked before\nat all; and Mrs Musgrove's real affection had been won by her\nusefulness when they were in distress.  It was a heartiness, and a\nwarmth, and a sincerity which Anne delighted in the more, from the sad\nwant of such blessings at home.  She was entreated to give them as much\nof her time as possible, invited for every day and all day long, or\nrather claimed as part of the family; and, in return, she naturally\nfell into all her wonted ways of attention and assistance, and on\nCharles's leaving them together, was listening to Mrs Musgrove's\nhistory of Louisa, and to Henrietta's of herself, giving opinions on\nbusiness, and recommendations to shops; with intervals of every help\nwhich Mary required, from altering her ribbon to settling her accounts;\nfrom finding her keys, and assorting her trinkets, to trying to\nconvince her that she was not ill-used by anybody; which Mary, well\namused as she generally was, in her station at a window overlooking the\nentrance to the Pump Room, could not but have her moments of imagining.\n\nA morning of thorough confusion was to be expected.  A large party in\nan hotel ensured a quick-changing, unsettled scene.  One five minutes\nbrought a note, the next a parcel; and Anne had not been there half an\nhour, when their dining-room, spacious as it was, seemed more than half\nfilled:  a party of steady old friends were seated around Mrs Musgrove,\nand Charles came back with Captains Harville and Wentworth.  The\nappearance of the latter could not be more than the surprise of the\nmoment.  It was impossible for her to have forgotten to feel that this\narrival of their common friends must be soon bringing them together\nagain.  Their last meeting had been most important in opening his\nfeelings; she had derived from it a delightful conviction; but she\nfeared from his looks, that the same unfortunate persuasion, which had\nhastened him away from the Concert Room, still governed.  He did not\nseem to want to be near enough for conversation.\n\nShe tried to be calm, and leave things to take their course, and tried\nto dwell much on this argument of rational dependence:--\"Surely, if\nthere be constant attachment on each side, our hearts must understand\neach other ere long.  We are not boy and girl, to be captiously\nirritable, misled by every moment's inadvertence, and wantonly playing\nwith our own happiness.\"  And yet, a few minutes afterwards, she felt\nas if their being in company with each other, under their present\ncircumstances, could only be exposing them to inadvertencies and\nmisconstructions of the most mischievous kind.\n\n\"Anne,\" cried Mary, still at her window, \"there is Mrs Clay, I am sure,\nstanding under the colonnade, and a gentleman with her.  I saw them\nturn the corner from Bath Street just now.  They seemed deep in talk.\nWho is it?  Come, and tell me.  Good heavens! I recollect.  It is Mr\nElliot himself.\"\n\n\"No,\" cried Anne, quickly, \"it cannot be Mr Elliot, I assure you.  He\nwas to leave Bath at nine this morning, and does not come back till\nto-morrow.\"\n\nAs she spoke, she felt that Captain Wentworth was looking at her, the\nconsciousness of which vexed and embarrassed her, and made her regret\nthat she had said so much, simple as it was.\n\nMary, resenting that she should be supposed not to know her own cousin,\nbegan talking very warmly about the family features, and protesting\nstill more positively that it was Mr Elliot, calling again upon Anne to\ncome and look for herself, but Anne did not mean to stir, and tried to\nbe cool and unconcerned.  Her distress returned, however, on perceiving\nsmiles and intelligent glances pass between two or three of the lady\nvisitors, as if they believed themselves quite in the secret.  It was\nevident that the report concerning her had spread, and a short pause\nsucceeded, which seemed to ensure that it would now spread farther.\n\n\"Do come, Anne\" cried Mary, \"come and look yourself.  You will be too\nlate if you do not make haste.  They are parting; they are shaking\nhands.  He is turning away.  Not know Mr Elliot, indeed!  You seem to\nhave forgot all about Lyme.\"\n\nTo pacify Mary, and perhaps screen her own embarrassment, Anne did move\nquietly to the window.  She was just in time to ascertain that it\nreally was Mr Elliot, which she had never believed, before he\ndisappeared on one side, as Mrs Clay walked quickly off on the other;\nand checking the surprise which she could not but feel at such an\nappearance of friendly conference between two persons of totally\nopposite interest, she calmly said, \"Yes, it is Mr Elliot, certainly.\nHe has changed his hour of going, I suppose, that is all, or I may be\nmistaken, I might not attend;\" and walked back to her chair,\nrecomposed, and with the comfortable hope of having acquitted herself\nwell.\n\nThe visitors took their leave; and Charles, having civilly seen them\noff, and then made a face at them, and abused them for coming, began\nwith--\n\n\"Well, mother, I have done something for you that you will like.  I\nhave been to the theatre, and secured a box for to-morrow night.  A'n't\nI a good boy?  I know you love a play; and there is room for us all.\nIt holds nine.  I have engaged Captain Wentworth.  Anne will not be\nsorry to join us, I am sure.  We all like a play.  Have not I done\nwell, mother?\"\n\nMrs Musgrove was good humouredly beginning to express her perfect\nreadiness for the play, if Henrietta and all the others liked it, when\nMary eagerly interrupted her by exclaiming--\n\n\"Good heavens, Charles! how can you think of such a thing?  Take a box\nfor to-morrow night!  Have you forgot that we are engaged to Camden\nPlace to-morrow night? and that we were most particularly asked to meet\nLady Dalrymple and her daughter, and Mr Elliot, and all the principal\nfamily connexions, on purpose to be introduced to them?  How can you be\nso forgetful?\"\n\n\"Phoo! phoo!\" replied Charles, \"what's an evening party?  Never worth\nremembering.  Your father might have asked us to dinner, I think, if he\nhad wanted to see us.  You may do as you like, but I shall go to the\nplay.\"\n\n\"Oh! Charles, I declare it will be too abominable if you do, when you\npromised to go.\"\n\n\"No, I did not promise.  I only smirked and bowed, and said the word\n'happy.'  There was no promise.\"\n\n\"But you must go, Charles.  It would be unpardonable to fail.  We were\nasked on purpose to be introduced.  There was always such a great\nconnexion between the Dalrymples and ourselves.  Nothing ever happened\non either side that was not announced immediately.  We are quite near\nrelations, you know; and Mr Elliot too, whom you ought so particularly\nto be acquainted with!  Every attention is due to Mr Elliot.  Consider,\nmy father's heir:  the future representative of the family.\"\n\n\"Don't talk to me about heirs and representatives,\" cried Charles.  \"I\nam not one of those who neglect the reigning power to bow to the rising\nsun.  If I would not go for the sake of your father, I should think it\nscandalous to go for the sake of his heir.  What is Mr Elliot to me?\"\nThe careless expression was life to Anne, who saw that Captain\nWentworth was all attention, looking and listening with his whole soul;\nand that the last words brought his enquiring eyes from Charles to\nherself.\n\nCharles and Mary still talked on in the same style; he, half serious\nand half jesting, maintaining the scheme for the play, and she,\ninvariably serious, most warmly opposing it, and not omitting to make\nit known that, however determined to go to Camden Place herself, she\nshould not think herself very well used, if they went to the play\nwithout her.  Mrs Musgrove interposed.\n\n\"We had better put it off.  Charles, you had much better go back and\nchange the box for Tuesday.  It would be a pity to be divided, and we\nshould be losing Miss Anne, too, if there is a party at her father's;\nand I am sure neither Henrietta nor I should care at all for the play,\nif Miss Anne could not be with us.\"\n\nAnne felt truly obliged to her for such kindness; and quite as much so\nfor the opportunity it gave her of decidedly saying--\n\n\"If it depended only on my inclination, ma'am, the party at home\n(excepting on Mary's account) would not be the smallest impediment.  I\nhave no pleasure in the sort of meeting, and should be too happy to\nchange it for a play, and with you.  But, it had better not be\nattempted, perhaps.\"  She had spoken it; but she trembled when it was\ndone, conscious that her words were listened to, and daring not even to\ntry to observe their effect.\n\nIt was soon generally agreed that Tuesday should be the day; Charles\nonly reserving the advantage of still teasing his wife, by persisting\nthat he would go to the play to-morrow if nobody else would.\n\nCaptain Wentworth left his seat, and walked to the fire-place; probably\nfor the sake of walking away from it soon afterwards, and taking a\nstation, with less bare-faced design, by Anne.\n\n\"You have not been long enough in Bath,\" said he, \"to enjoy the evening\nparties of the place.\"\n\n\"Oh! no.  The usual character of them has nothing for me.  I am no\ncard-player.\"\n\n\"You were not formerly, I know.  You did not use to like cards; but\ntime makes many changes.\"\n\n\"I am not yet so much changed,\" cried Anne, and stopped, fearing she\nhardly knew what misconstruction.  After waiting a few moments he said,\nand as if it were the result of immediate feeling, \"It is a period,\nindeed!  Eight years and a half is a period.\"\n\nWhether he would have proceeded farther was left to Anne's imagination\nto ponder over in a calmer hour; for while still hearing the sounds he\nhad uttered, she was startled to other subjects by Henrietta, eager to\nmake use of the present leisure for getting out, and calling on her\ncompanions to lose no time, lest somebody else should come in.\n\nThey were obliged to move.  Anne talked of being perfectly ready, and\ntried to look it; but she felt that could Henrietta have known the\nregret and reluctance of her heart in quitting that chair, in preparing\nto quit the room, she would have found, in all her own sensations for\nher cousin, in the very security of his affection, wherewith to pity\nher.\n\nTheir preparations, however, were stopped short.  Alarming sounds were\nheard; other visitors approached, and the door was thrown open for Sir\nWalter and Miss Elliot, whose entrance seemed to give a general chill.\nAnne felt an instant oppression, and wherever she looked saw symptoms\nof the same.  The comfort, the freedom, the gaiety of the room was\nover, hushed into cold composure, determined silence, or insipid talk,\nto meet the heartless elegance of her father and sister.  How\nmortifying to feel that it was so!\n\nHer jealous eye was satisfied in one particular.  Captain Wentworth was\nacknowledged again by each, by Elizabeth more graciously than before.\nShe even addressed him once, and looked at him more than once.\nElizabeth was, in fact, revolving a great measure.  The sequel\nexplained it.  After the waste of a few minutes in saying the proper\nnothings, she began to give the invitation which was to comprise all\nthe remaining dues of the Musgroves.  \"To-morrow evening, to meet a few\nfriends:  no formal party.\" It was all said very gracefully, and the\ncards with which she had provided herself, the \"Miss Elliot at home,\"\nwere laid on the table, with a courteous, comprehensive smile to all,\nand one smile and one card more decidedly for Captain Wentworth.  The\ntruth was, that Elizabeth had been long enough in Bath to understand\nthe importance of a man of such an air and appearance as his.  The past\nwas nothing.  The present was that Captain Wentworth would move about\nwell in her drawing-room.  The card was pointedly given, and Sir Walter\nand Elizabeth arose and disappeared.\n\nThe interruption had been short, though severe, and ease and animation\nreturned to most of those they left as the door shut them out, but not\nto Anne.  She could think only of the invitation she had with such\nastonishment witnessed, and of the manner in which it had been\nreceived; a manner of doubtful meaning, of surprise rather than\ngratification, of polite acknowledgement rather than acceptance.  She\nknew him; she saw disdain in his eye, and could not venture to believe\nthat he had determined to accept such an offering, as an atonement for\nall the insolence of the past.  Her spirits sank.  He held the card in\nhis hand after they were gone, as if deeply considering it.\n\n\"Only think of Elizabeth's including everybody!\" whispered Mary very\naudibly.  \"I do not wonder Captain Wentworth is delighted!  You see he\ncannot put the card out of his hand.\"\n\nAnne caught his eye, saw his cheeks glow, and his mouth form itself\ninto a momentary expression of contempt, and turned away, that she\nmight neither see nor hear more to vex her.\n\nThe party separated.  The gentlemen had their own pursuits, the ladies\nproceeded on their own business, and they met no more while Anne\nbelonged to them.  She was earnestly begged to return and dine, and\ngive them all the rest of the day, but her spirits had been so long\nexerted that at present she felt unequal to more, and fit only for\nhome, where she might be sure of being as silent as she chose.\n\nPromising to be with them the whole of the following morning,\ntherefore, she closed the fatigues of the present by a toilsome walk to\nCamden Place, there to spend the evening chiefly in listening to the\nbusy arrangements of Elizabeth and Mrs Clay for the morrow's party, the\nfrequent enumeration of the persons invited, and the continually\nimproving detail of all the embellishments which were to make it the\nmost completely elegant of its kind in Bath, while harassing herself\nwith the never-ending question, of whether Captain Wentworth would come\nor not?  They were reckoning him as certain, but with her it was a\ngnawing solicitude never appeased for five minutes together.  She\ngenerally thought he would come, because she generally thought he\nought; but it was a case which she could not so shape into any positive\nact of duty or discretion, as inevitably to defy the suggestions of\nvery opposite feelings.\n\nShe only roused herself from the broodings of this restless agitation,\nto let Mrs Clay know that she had been seen with Mr Elliot three hours\nafter his being supposed to be out of Bath, for having watched in vain\nfor some intimation of the interview from the lady herself, she\ndetermined to mention it, and it seemed to her there was guilt in Mrs\nClay's face as she listened.  It was transient: cleared away in an\ninstant; but Anne could imagine she read there the consciousness of\nhaving, by some complication of mutual trick, or some overbearing\nauthority of his, been obliged to attend (perhaps for half an hour) to\nhis lectures and restrictions on her designs on Sir Walter.  She\nexclaimed, however, with a very tolerable imitation of nature:--\n\n\"Oh! dear! very true.  Only think, Miss Elliot, to my great surprise I\nmet with Mr Elliot in Bath Street.  I was never more astonished.  He\nturned back and walked with me to the Pump Yard.  He had been prevented\nsetting off for Thornberry, but I really forget by what; for I was in a\nhurry, and could not much attend, and I can only answer for his being\ndetermined not to be delayed in his return.  He wanted to know how\nearly he might be admitted to-morrow.  He was full of 'to-morrow,' and\nit is very evident that I have been full of it too, ever since I\nentered the house, and learnt the extension of your plan and all that\nhad happened, or my seeing him could never have gone so entirely out of\nmy head.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 23\n\n\nOne day only had passed since Anne's conversation with Mrs Smith; but a\nkeener interest had succeeded, and she was now so little touched by Mr\nElliot's conduct, except by its effects in one quarter, that it became\na matter of course the next morning, still to defer her explanatory\nvisit in Rivers Street.  She had promised to be with the Musgroves from\nbreakfast to dinner.  Her faith was plighted, and Mr Elliot's\ncharacter, like the Sultaness Scheherazade's head, must live another\nday.\n\nShe could not keep her appointment punctually, however; the weather was\nunfavourable, and she had grieved over the rain on her friends'\naccount, and felt it very much on her own, before she was able to\nattempt the walk.  When she reached the White Hart, and made her way to\nthe proper apartment, she found herself neither arriving quite in time,\nnor the first to arrive.  The party before her were, Mrs Musgrove,\ntalking to Mrs Croft, and Captain Harville to Captain Wentworth; and\nshe immediately heard that Mary and Henrietta, too impatient to wait,\nhad gone out the moment it had cleared, but would be back again soon,\nand that the strictest injunctions had been left with Mrs Musgrove to\nkeep her there till they returned.  She had only to submit, sit down,\nbe outwardly composed, and feel herself plunged at once in all the\nagitations which she had merely laid her account of tasting a little\nbefore the morning closed.  There was no delay, no waste of time.  She\nwas deep in the happiness of such misery, or the misery of such\nhappiness, instantly.  Two minutes after her entering the room, Captain\nWentworth said--\n\n\"We will write the letter we were talking of, Harville, now, if you\nwill give me materials.\"\n\nMaterials were at hand, on a separate table; he went to it, and nearly\nturning his back to them all, was engrossed by writing.\n\nMrs Musgrove was giving Mrs Croft the history of her eldest daughter's\nengagement, and just in that inconvenient tone of voice which was\nperfectly audible while it pretended to be a whisper.  Anne felt that\nshe did not belong to the conversation, and yet, as Captain Harville\nseemed thoughtful and not disposed to talk, she could not avoid hearing\nmany undesirable particulars; such as, \"how Mr Musgrove and my brother\nHayter had met again and again to talk it over; what my brother Hayter\nhad said one day, and what Mr Musgrove had proposed the next, and what\nhad occurred to my sister Hayter, and what the young people had wished,\nand what I said at first I never could consent to, but was afterwards\npersuaded to think might do very well,\" and a great deal in the same\nstyle of open-hearted communication:  minutiae which, even with every\nadvantage of taste and delicacy, which good Mrs Musgrove could not\ngive, could be properly interesting only to the principals.  Mrs Croft\nwas attending with great good-humour, and whenever she spoke at all, it\nwas very sensibly.  Anne hoped the gentlemen might each be too much\nself-occupied to hear.\n\n\"And so, ma'am, all these thing considered,\" said Mrs Musgrove, in her\npowerful whisper, \"though we could have wished it different, yet,\naltogether, we did not think it fair to stand out any longer, for\nCharles Hayter was quite wild about it, and Henrietta was pretty near\nas bad; and so we thought they had better marry at once, and make the\nbest of it, as many others have done before them.  At any rate, said I,\nit will be better than a long engagement.\"\n\n\"That is precisely what I was going to observe,\" cried Mrs Croft.  \"I\nwould rather have young people settle on a small income at once, and\nhave to struggle with a few difficulties together, than be involved in\na long engagement.  I always think that no mutual--\"\n\n\"Oh! dear Mrs Croft,\" cried Mrs Musgrove, unable to let her finish her\nspeech, \"there is nothing I so abominate for young people as a long\nengagement.  It is what I always protested against for my children.  It\nis all very well, I used to say, for young people to be engaged, if\nthere is a certainty of their being able to marry in six months, or\neven in twelve; but a long engagement--\"\n\n\"Yes, dear ma'am,\" said Mrs Croft, \"or an uncertain engagement, an\nengagement which may be long.  To begin without knowing that at such a\ntime there will be the means of marrying, I hold to be very unsafe and\nunwise, and what I think all parents should prevent as far as they can.\"\n\nAnne found an unexpected interest here.  She felt its application to\nherself, felt it in a nervous thrill all over her; and at the same\nmoment that her eyes instinctively glanced towards the distant table,\nCaptain Wentworth's pen ceased to move, his head was raised, pausing,\nlistening, and he turned round the next instant to give a look, one\nquick, conscious look at her.\n\nThe two ladies continued to talk, to re-urge the same admitted truths,\nand enforce them with such examples of the ill effect of a contrary\npractice as had fallen within their observation, but Anne heard nothing\ndistinctly; it was only a buzz of words in her ear, her mind was in\nconfusion.\n\nCaptain Harville, who had in truth been hearing none of it, now left\nhis seat, and moved to a window, and Anne seeming to watch him, though\nit was from thorough absence of mind, became gradually sensible that he\nwas inviting her to join him where he stood.  He looked at her with a\nsmile, and a little motion of the head, which expressed, \"Come to me, I\nhave something to say;\" and the unaffected, easy kindness of manner\nwhich denoted the feelings of an older acquaintance than he really was,\nstrongly enforced the invitation.  She roused herself and went to him.\nThe window at which he stood was at the other end of the room from\nwhere the two ladies were sitting, and though nearer to Captain\nWentworth's table, not very near.  As she joined him, Captain\nHarville's countenance re-assumed the serious, thoughtful expression\nwhich seemed its natural character.\n\n\"Look here,\" said he, unfolding a parcel in his hand, and displaying a\nsmall miniature painting, \"do you know who that is?\"\n\n\"Certainly:  Captain Benwick.\"\n\n\"Yes, and you may guess who it is for.  But,\" (in a deep tone,) \"it was\nnot done for her.  Miss Elliot, do you remember our walking together at\nLyme, and grieving for him?  I little thought then--but no matter.\nThis was drawn at the Cape.  He met with a clever young German artist\nat the Cape, and in compliance with a promise to my poor sister, sat to\nhim, and was bringing it home for her; and I have now the charge of\ngetting it properly set for another!  It was a commission to me!  But\nwho else was there to employ?  I hope I can allow for him.  I am not\nsorry, indeed, to make it over to another.  He undertakes it;\" (looking\ntowards Captain Wentworth,) \"he is writing about it now.\"  And with a\nquivering lip he wound up the whole by adding, \"Poor Fanny! she would\nnot have forgotten him so soon!\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Anne, in a low, feeling voice. \"That I can easily\nbelieve.\"\n\n\"It was not in her nature.  She doted on him.\"\n\n\"It would not be the nature of any woman who truly loved.\"\n\nCaptain Harville smiled, as much as to say, \"Do you claim that for your\nsex?\" and she answered the question, smiling also, \"Yes.  We certainly\ndo not forget you as soon as you forget us.  It is, perhaps, our fate\nrather than our merit.  We cannot help ourselves.  We live at home,\nquiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us.  You are forced on\nexertion.  You have always a profession, pursuits, business of some\nsort or other, to take you back into the world immediately, and\ncontinual occupation and change soon weaken impressions.\"\n\n\"Granting your assertion that the world does all this so soon for men\n(which, however, I do not think I shall grant), it does not apply to\nBenwick.  He has not been forced upon any exertion.  The peace turned\nhim on shore at the very moment, and he has been living with us, in our\nlittle family circle, ever since.\"\n\n\"True,\" said Anne, \"very true; I did not recollect; but what shall we\nsay now, Captain Harville?  If the change be not from outward\ncircumstances, it must be from within; it must be nature, man's nature,\nwhich has done the business for Captain Benwick.\"\n\n\"No, no, it is not man's nature.  I will not allow it to be more man's\nnature than woman's to be inconstant and forget those they do love, or\nhave loved.  I believe the reverse.  I believe in a true analogy\nbetween our bodily frames and our mental; and that as our bodies are\nthe strongest, so are our feelings; capable of bearing most rough\nusage, and riding out the heaviest weather.\"\n\n\"Your feelings may be the strongest,\" replied Anne, \"but the same\nspirit of analogy will authorise me to assert that ours are the most\ntender.  Man is more robust than woman, but he is not longer lived;\nwhich exactly explains my view of the nature of their attachments.\nNay, it would be too hard upon you, if it were otherwise.  You have\ndifficulties, and privations, and dangers enough to struggle with.  You\nare always labouring and toiling, exposed to every risk and hardship.\nYour home, country, friends, all quitted.  Neither time, nor health,\nnor life, to be called your own.  It would be hard, indeed\" (with a\nfaltering voice), \"if woman's feelings were to be added to all this.\"\n\n\"We shall never agree upon this question,\" Captain Harville was\nbeginning to say, when a slight noise called their attention to Captain\nWentworth's hitherto perfectly quiet division of the room.  It was\nnothing more than that his pen had fallen down; but Anne was startled\nat finding him nearer than she had supposed, and half inclined to\nsuspect that the pen had only fallen because he had been occupied by\nthem, striving to catch sounds, which yet she did not think he could\nhave caught.\n\n\"Have you finished your letter?\" said Captain Harville.\n\n\"Not quite, a few lines more.  I shall have done in five minutes.\"\n\n\"There is no hurry on my side.  I am only ready whenever you are.  I am\nin very good anchorage here,\" (smiling at Anne,) \"well supplied, and\nwant for nothing.  No hurry for a signal at all.  Well, Miss Elliot,\"\n(lowering his voice,) \"as I was saying we shall never agree, I suppose,\nupon this point.  No man and woman, would, probably.  But let me\nobserve that all histories are against you--all stories, prose and\nverse.  If I had such a memory as Benwick, I could bring you fifty\nquotations in a moment on my side the argument, and I do not think I\never opened a book in my life which had not something to say upon\nwoman's inconstancy.  Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman's\nfickleness.  But perhaps you will say, these were all written by men.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I shall.  Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in\nbooks.  Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story.\nEducation has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been\nin their hands.  I will not allow books to prove anything.\"\n\n\"But how shall we prove anything?\"\n\n\"We never shall.  We never can expect to prove any thing upon such a\npoint.  It is a difference of opinion which does not admit of proof.\nWe each begin, probably, with a little bias towards our own sex; and\nupon that bias build every circumstance in favour of it which has\noccurred within our own circle; many of which circumstances (perhaps\nthose very cases which strike us the most) may be precisely such as\ncannot be brought forward without betraying a confidence, or in some\nrespect saying what should not be said.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" cried Captain Harville, in a tone of strong feeling, \"if I could\nbut make you comprehend what a man suffers when he takes a last look at\nhis wife and children, and watches the boat that he has sent them off\nin, as long as it is in sight, and then turns away and says, 'God knows\nwhether we ever meet again!' And then, if I could convey to you the\nglow of his soul when he does see them again; when, coming back after a\ntwelvemonth's absence, perhaps, and obliged to put into another port,\nhe calculates how soon it be possible to get them there, pretending to\ndeceive himself, and saying, 'They cannot be here till such a day,' but\nall the while hoping for them twelve hours sooner, and seeing them\narrive at last, as if Heaven had given them wings, by many hours sooner\nstill!  If I could explain to you all this, and all that a man can bear\nand do, and glories to do, for the sake of these treasures of his\nexistence!  I speak, you know, only of such men as have hearts!\"\npressing his own with emotion.\n\n\"Oh!\" cried Anne eagerly, \"I hope I do justice to all that is felt by\nyou, and by those who resemble you.  God forbid that I should\nundervalue the warm and faithful feelings of any of my\nfellow-creatures!  I should deserve utter contempt if I dared to\nsuppose that true attachment and constancy were known only by woman.\nNo, I believe you capable of everything great and good in your married\nlives.  I believe you equal to every important exertion, and to every\ndomestic forbearance, so long as--if I may be allowed the\nexpression--so long as you have an object.  I mean while the woman you\nlove lives, and lives for you.  All the privilege I claim for my own\nsex (it is not a very enviable one; you need not covet it), is that of\nloving longest, when existence or when hope is gone.\"\n\nShe could not immediately have uttered another sentence; her heart was\ntoo full, her breath too much oppressed.\n\n\"You are a good soul,\" cried Captain Harville, putting his hand on her\narm, quite affectionately.  \"There is no quarrelling with you.  And\nwhen I think of Benwick, my tongue is tied.\"\n\nTheir attention was called towards the others.  Mrs Croft was taking\nleave.\n\n\"Here, Frederick, you and I part company, I believe,\" said she.  \"I am\ngoing home, and you have an engagement with your friend.  To-night we\nmay have the pleasure of all meeting again at your party,\" (turning to\nAnne.)  \"We had your sister's card yesterday, and I understood\nFrederick had a card too, though I did not see it; and you are\ndisengaged, Frederick, are you not, as well as ourselves?\"\n\nCaptain Wentworth was folding up a letter in great haste, and either\ncould not or would not answer fully.\n\n\"Yes,\" said he, \"very true; here we separate, but Harville and I shall\nsoon be after you; that is, Harville, if you are ready, I am in half a\nminute.  I know you will not be sorry to be off.  I shall be at your\nservice in half a minute.\"\n\nMrs Croft left them, and Captain Wentworth, having sealed his letter\nwith great rapidity, was indeed ready, and had even a hurried, agitated\nair, which shewed impatience to be gone.  Anne knew not how to\nunderstand it.  She had the kindest \"Good morning, God bless you!\" from\nCaptain Harville, but from him not a word, nor a look!  He had passed\nout of the room without a look!\n\nShe had only time, however, to move closer to the table where he had\nbeen writing, when footsteps were heard returning; the door opened, it\nwas himself.  He begged their pardon, but he had forgotten his gloves,\nand instantly crossing the room to the writing table, he drew out a\nletter from under the scattered paper, placed it before Anne with eyes\nof glowing entreaty fixed on her for a time, and hastily collecting his\ngloves, was again out of the room, almost before Mrs Musgrove was aware\nof his being in it: the work of an instant!\n\nThe revolution which one instant had made in Anne, was almost beyond\nexpression.  The letter, with a direction hardly legible, to \"Miss A.\nE.--,\" was evidently the one which he had been folding so hastily.\nWhile supposed to be writing only to Captain Benwick, he had been also\naddressing her!  On the contents of that letter depended all which this\nworld could do for her.  Anything was possible, anything might be\ndefied rather than suspense.  Mrs Musgrove had little arrangements of\nher own at her own table; to their protection she must trust, and\nsinking into the chair which he had occupied, succeeding to the very\nspot where he had leaned and written, her eyes devoured the following\nwords:\n\n\n\"I can listen no longer in silence.  I must speak to you by such means\nas are within my reach.  You pierce my soul.  I am half agony, half\nhope.  Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are\ngone for ever.  I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your\nown than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago.  Dare\nnot say that man forgets sooner than  woman, that his love has an\nearlier death.  I have loved none but you.  Unjust I may have been,\nweak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.  You alone have\nbrought me to Bath.  For you alone, I think and plan.  Have you not\nseen this?  Can you fail to have understood my wishes?  I had not\nwaited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think\nyou must have penetrated mine.  I can hardly write.  I am every instant\nhearing something which overpowers me.  You sink your voice, but I can\ndistinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others.\nToo good, too excellent creature!  You do us justice, indeed.  You do\nbelieve that there is true attachment and constancy among men.  Believe\nit to be most fervent, most undeviating, in F. W.\n\n\"I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow\nyour party, as soon as possible.  A word, a look, will be enough to\ndecide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never.\"\n\n\nSuch a letter was not to be soon recovered from.  Half an hour's\nsolitude and reflection might have tranquillized her; but the ten\nminutes only which now passed before she was interrupted, with all the\nrestraints of her situation, could do nothing towards tranquillity.\nEvery moment rather brought fresh agitation.  It was overpowering\nhappiness.  And before she was beyond the first stage of full\nsensation, Charles, Mary, and Henrietta all came in.\n\nThe absolute necessity of seeming like herself produced then an\nimmediate struggle; but after a while she could do no more.  She began\nnot to understand a word they said, and was obliged to plead\nindisposition and excuse herself.  They could then see that she looked\nvery ill, were shocked and concerned, and would not stir without her\nfor the world.  This was dreadful.  Would they only have gone away, and\nleft her in the quiet possession of that room it would have been her\ncure; but to have them all standing or waiting around her was\ndistracting, and in desperation, she said she would go home.\n\n\"By all means, my dear,\" cried Mrs Musgrove, \"go home directly, and\ntake care of yourself, that you may be fit for the evening.  I wish\nSarah was here to doctor you, but I am no doctor myself.  Charles, ring\nand order a chair.  She must not walk.\"\n\nBut the chair would never do.  Worse than all!  To lose the possibility\nof speaking two words to Captain Wentworth in the course of her quiet,\nsolitary progress up the town (and she felt almost certain of meeting\nhim) could not be borne.  The chair was earnestly protested against,\nand Mrs Musgrove, who thought only of one sort of illness, having\nassured herself with some anxiety, that there had been no fall in the\ncase; that Anne had not at any time lately slipped down, and got a blow\non her head; that she was perfectly convinced of having had no fall;\ncould part with her cheerfully, and depend on finding her better at\nnight.\n\nAnxious to omit no possible precaution, Anne struggled, and said--\n\n\"I am afraid, ma'am, that it is not perfectly understood.  Pray be so\ngood as to mention to the other gentlemen that we hope to see your\nwhole party this evening.  I am afraid there had been some mistake; and\nI wish you particularly to assure Captain Harville and Captain\nWentworth, that we hope to see them both.\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear, it is quite understood, I give you my word.  Captain\nHarville has no thought but of going.\"\n\n\"Do you think so?  But I am afraid; and I should be so very sorry.\nWill you promise me to mention it, when you see them again?  You will\nsee them both this morning, I dare say.  Do promise me.\"\n\n\"To be sure I will, if you wish it.  Charles, if you see Captain\nHarville anywhere, remember to give Miss Anne's message.  But indeed,\nmy dear, you need not be uneasy.  Captain Harville holds himself quite\nengaged, I'll answer for it; and Captain Wentworth the same, I dare\nsay.\"\n\nAnne could do no more; but her heart prophesied some mischance to damp\nthe perfection of her felicity.  It could not be very lasting, however.\nEven if he did not come to Camden Place himself, it would be in her\npower to send an intelligible sentence by Captain Harville.  Another\nmomentary vexation occurred.  Charles, in his real concern and good\nnature, would go home with her; there was no preventing him.  This was\nalmost cruel.  But she could not be long ungrateful; he was sacrificing\nan engagement at a gunsmith's, to be of use to her; and she set off\nwith him, with no feeling but gratitude apparent.\n\nThey were on Union Street, when a quicker step behind, a something of\nfamiliar sound, gave her two moments' preparation for the sight of\nCaptain Wentworth.  He joined them; but, as if irresolute whether to\njoin or to pass on, said nothing, only looked.  Anne could command\nherself enough to receive that look, and not repulsively.  The cheeks\nwhich had been pale now glowed, and the movements which had hesitated\nwere decided.  He walked by her side.  Presently, struck by a sudden\nthought, Charles said--\n\n\"Captain Wentworth, which way are you going?  Only to Gay Street, or\nfarther up the town?\"\n\n\"I hardly know,\" replied Captain Wentworth, surprised.\n\n\"Are you going as high as Belmont?  Are you going near Camden Place?\nBecause, if you are, I shall have no scruple in asking you to take my\nplace, and give Anne your arm to her father's door.  She is rather done\nfor this morning, and must not go so far without help, and I ought to\nbe at that fellow's in the Market Place.  He promised me the sight of a\ncapital gun he is just going to send off; said he would keep it\nunpacked to the last possible moment, that I might see it; and if I do\nnot turn back now, I have no chance.  By his description, a good deal\nlike the second size double-barrel of mine, which you shot with one day\nround Winthrop.\"\n\nThere could not be an objection.  There could be only the most proper\nalacrity, a most obliging compliance for public view; and smiles reined\nin and spirits dancing in private rapture.  In half a minute Charles\nwas at the bottom of Union Street again, and the other two proceeding\ntogether:  and soon words enough had passed between them to decide\ntheir direction towards the comparatively quiet and retired gravel\nwalk, where the power of conversation would make the present hour a\nblessing indeed, and prepare it for all the immortality which the\nhappiest recollections of their own future lives could bestow.  There\nthey exchanged again those feelings and those promises which had once\nbefore seemed to secure everything, but which had been followed by so\nmany, many years of division and estrangement.  There they returned\nagain into the past, more exquisitely happy, perhaps, in their\nre-union, than when it had been first projected; more tender, more\ntried, more fixed in a knowledge of each other's character, truth, and\nattachment; more equal to act, more justified in acting.  And there, as\nthey slowly paced the gradual ascent, heedless of every group around\nthem, seeing neither sauntering politicians, bustling housekeepers,\nflirting girls, nor nursery-maids and children, they could indulge in\nthose retrospections and acknowledgements, and especially in those\nexplanations of what had directly preceded the present moment, which\nwere so poignant and so ceaseless in interest.  All the little\nvariations of the last week were gone through; and of yesterday and\ntoday there could scarcely be an end.\n\nShe had not mistaken him.  Jealousy of Mr Elliot had been the retarding\nweight, the doubt, the torment.  That had begun to operate in the very\nhour of first meeting her in Bath; that had returned, after a short\nsuspension, to ruin the concert; and that had influenced him in\neverything he had said and done, or omitted to say and do, in the last\nfour-and-twenty hours.  It had been gradually yielding to the better\nhopes which her looks, or words, or actions occasionally encouraged; it\nhad been vanquished at last by those sentiments and those tones which\nhad reached him while she talked with Captain Harville; and under the\nirresistible governance of which he had seized a sheet of paper, and\npoured out his feelings.\n\nOf what he had then written, nothing was to be retracted or qualified.\nHe persisted in having loved none but her.  She had never been\nsupplanted.  He never even believed himself to see her equal.  Thus\nmuch indeed he was obliged to acknowledge:  that he had been constant\nunconsciously, nay unintentionally; that he had meant to forget her,\nand believed it to be done.  He had imagined himself indifferent, when\nhe had only been angry; and he had been unjust to her merits, because\nhe had been a sufferer from them.  Her character was now fixed on his\nmind as perfection itself, maintaining the loveliest medium of\nfortitude and gentleness; but he was obliged to acknowledge that only\nat Uppercross had he learnt to do her justice, and only at Lyme had he\nbegun to understand himself.  At Lyme, he had received lessons of more\nthan one sort.  The passing admiration of Mr Elliot had at least roused\nhim, and the scenes on the Cobb and at Captain Harville's had fixed her\nsuperiority.\n\nIn his preceding attempts to attach himself to Louisa Musgrove (the\nattempts of angry pride), he protested that he had for ever felt it to\nbe impossible; that he had not cared, could not care, for Louisa;\nthough till that day, till the leisure for reflection which followed\nit, he had not understood the perfect excellence of the mind with which\nLouisa's could so ill bear a comparison, or the perfect unrivalled hold\nit possessed over his own.  There, he had learnt to distinguish between\nthe steadiness of principle and the obstinacy of self-will, between the\ndarings of heedlessness and the resolution of a collected mind.  There\nhe had seen everything to exalt in his estimation the woman he had\nlost; and there begun to deplore the pride, the folly, the madness of\nresentment, which had kept him from trying to regain her when thrown in\nhis way.\n\nFrom that period his penance had become severe.  He had no sooner been\nfree from the horror and remorse attending the first few days of\nLouisa's accident, no sooner begun to feel himself alive again, than he\nhad begun to feel himself, though alive, not at liberty.\n\n\"I found,\" said he, \"that I was considered by Harville an engaged man!\nThat neither Harville nor his wife entertained a doubt of our mutual\nattachment.  I was startled and shocked.  To a degree, I could\ncontradict this instantly; but, when I began to reflect that others\nmight have felt the same--her own family, nay, perhaps herself--I was\nno longer at my own disposal.  I was hers in honour if she wished it.\nI had been unguarded.  I had not thought seriously on this subject\nbefore.  I had not considered that my excessive intimacy must have its\ndanger of ill consequence in many ways; and that I had no right to be\ntrying whether I could attach myself to either of the girls, at the\nrisk of raising even an unpleasant report, were there no other ill\neffects.  I had been grossly wrong, and must abide the consequences.\"\n\nHe found too late, in short, that he had entangled himself; and that\nprecisely as he became fully satisfied of his not caring for Louisa at\nall, he must regard himself as bound to her, if her sentiments for him\nwere what the Harvilles supposed.  It determined him to leave Lyme, and\nawait her complete recovery elsewhere.  He would gladly weaken, by any\nfair means, whatever feelings or speculations concerning him might\nexist; and he went, therefore, to his brother's, meaning after a while\nto return to Kellynch, and act as circumstances might require.\n\n\"I was six weeks with Edward,\" said he, \"and saw him happy.  I could\nhave no other pleasure.  I deserved none.  He enquired after you very\nparticularly; asked even if you were personally altered, little\nsuspecting that to my eye you could never alter.\"\n\nAnne smiled, and let it pass.  It was too pleasing a blunder for a\nreproach.  It is something for a woman to be assured, in her\neight-and-twentieth year, that she has not lost one charm of earlier\nyouth; but the value of such homage was inexpressibly increased to\nAnne, by comparing it with former words, and feeling it to be the\nresult, not the cause of a revival of his warm attachment.\n\nHe had remained in Shropshire, lamenting the blindness of his own\npride, and the blunders of his own calculations, till at once released\nfrom Louisa by the astonishing and felicitous intelligence of her\nengagement with Benwick.\n\n\"Here,\" said he, \"ended the worst of my state; for now I could at least\nput myself in the way of happiness; I could exert myself; I could do\nsomething.  But to be waiting so long in inaction, and waiting only for\nevil, had been dreadful.  Within the first five minutes I said, 'I will\nbe at Bath on Wednesday,' and I was.  Was it unpardonable to think it\nworth my while to come? and to arrive with some degree of hope?  You\nwere single.  It was possible that you might retain the feelings of the\npast, as I did; and one encouragement happened to be mine.  I could\nnever doubt that you would be loved and sought by others, but I knew to\na certainty that you had refused one man, at least, of better\npretensions than myself; and I could not help often saying, 'Was this\nfor me?'\"\n\nTheir first meeting in Milsom Street afforded much to be said, but the\nconcert still more.  That evening seemed to be made up of exquisite\nmoments.  The moment of her stepping forward in the Octagon Room to\nspeak to him:  the moment of Mr Elliot's appearing and tearing her\naway, and one or two subsequent moments, marked by returning hope or\nincreasing despondency, were dwelt on with energy.\n\n\"To see you,\" cried he, \"in the midst of those who could not be my\nwell-wishers; to see your cousin close by you, conversing and smiling,\nand feel all the horrible eligibilities and proprieties of the match!\nTo consider it as the certain wish of every being who could hope to\ninfluence you!  Even if your own feelings were reluctant or\nindifferent, to consider what powerful supports would be his!  Was it\nnot enough to make the fool of me which I appeared?  How could I look\non without agony?  Was not the very sight of the friend who sat behind\nyou, was not the recollection of what had been, the knowledge of her\ninfluence, the indelible, immoveable impression of what persuasion had\nonce done--was it not all against me?\"\n\n\"You should have distinguished,\" replied Anne.  \"You should not have\nsuspected me now; the case is so different, and my age is so different.\nIf I was wrong in yielding to persuasion once, remember that it was to\npersuasion exerted on the side of safety, not of risk.  When I yielded,\nI thought it was to duty, but no duty could be called in aid here.  In\nmarrying a man indifferent to me, all risk would have been incurred,\nand all duty violated.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I ought to have reasoned thus,\" he replied, \"but I could not.\nI could not derive benefit from the late knowledge I had acquired of\nyour character.  I could not bring it into play; it was overwhelmed,\nburied, lost in those earlier feelings which I had been smarting under\nyear after year.  I could think of you only as one who had yielded, who\nhad given me up, who had been influenced by any one rather than by me.\nI saw you with the very person who had guided you in that year of\nmisery.  I had no reason to believe her of less authority now.  The\nforce of habit was to be added.\"\n\n\"I should have thought,\" said Anne, \"that my manner to yourself might\nhave spared you much or all of this.\"\n\n\"No, no! your manner might be only the ease which your engagement to\nanother man would give.  I left you in this belief; and yet, I was\ndetermined to see you again.  My spirits rallied with the morning, and\nI felt that I had still a motive for remaining here.\"\n\nAt last Anne was at home again, and happier than any one in that house\ncould have conceived.  All the surprise and suspense, and every other\npainful part of the morning dissipated by this conversation, she\nre-entered the house so happy as to be obliged to find an alloy in some\nmomentary apprehensions of its being impossible to last.  An interval\nof meditation, serious and grateful, was the best corrective of\neverything dangerous in such high-wrought felicity; and she went to her\nroom, and grew steadfast and fearless in the thankfulness of her\nenjoyment.\n\nThe evening came, the drawing-rooms were lighted up, the company\nassembled.  It was but a card party, it was but a mixture of those who\nhad never met before, and those who met too often; a commonplace\nbusiness, too numerous for intimacy, too small for variety; but Anne\nhad never found an evening shorter.  Glowing and lovely in sensibility\nand happiness, and more generally admired than she thought about or\ncared for, she had cheerful or forbearing feelings for every creature\naround her.  Mr Elliot was there; she avoided, but she could pity him.\nThe Wallises, she had amusement in understanding them.  Lady Dalrymple\nand Miss Carteret--they would soon be innoxious cousins to her.  She\ncared not for Mrs Clay, and had nothing to blush for in the public\nmanners of her father and sister.  With the Musgroves, there was the\nhappy chat of perfect ease; with Captain Harville, the kind-hearted\nintercourse of brother and sister; with Lady Russell, attempts at\nconversation, which a delicious consciousness cut short; with Admiral\nand Mrs Croft, everything of peculiar cordiality and fervent interest,\nwhich the same consciousness sought to conceal; and with Captain\nWentworth, some moments of communications continually occurring, and\nalways the hope of more, and always the knowledge of his being there.\n\nIt was in one of these short meetings, each apparently occupied in\nadmiring a fine display of greenhouse plants, that she said--\n\n\"I have been thinking over the past, and trying impartially to judge of\nthe right and wrong, I mean with regard to myself; and I must believe\nthat I was right, much as I suffered from it, that I was perfectly\nright in being guided by the friend whom you will love better than you\ndo now.  To me, she was in the place of a parent.  Do not mistake me,\nhowever.  I am not saying that she did not err in her advice.  It was,\nperhaps, one of those cases in which advice is good or bad only as the\nevent decides; and for myself, I certainly never should, in any\ncircumstance of tolerable similarity, give such advice.  But I mean,\nthat I was right in submitting to her, and that if I had done\notherwise, I should have suffered more in continuing the engagement\nthan I did even in giving it up, because I should have suffered in my\nconscience.  I have now, as far as such a sentiment is allowable in\nhuman nature, nothing to reproach myself with; and if I mistake not, a\nstrong sense of duty is no bad part of a woman's portion.\"\n\nHe looked at her, looked at Lady Russell, and looking again at her,\nreplied, as if in cool deliberation--\n\n\"Not yet.  But there are hopes of her being forgiven in time.  I trust\nto being in charity with her soon.  But I too have been thinking over\nthe past, and a  question has suggested itself, whether there may not\nhave been one person more my enemy even than that lady?  My own self.\nTell me if, when I returned to England in the year eight, with a few\nthousand pounds, and was posted into the Laconia, if I had then written\nto you, would you have answered my letter?  Would you, in short, have\nrenewed the engagement then?\"\n\n\"Would I!\" was all her answer; but the accent was decisive enough.\n\n\"Good God!\" he cried, \"you would!  It is not that I did not think of\nit, or desire it, as what could alone crown all my other success; but I\nwas proud, too proud to ask again.  I did not understand you.  I shut\nmy eyes, and would not understand you, or do you justice.  This is a\nrecollection which ought to make me forgive every one sooner than\nmyself.  Six years of separation and suffering might have been spared.\nIt is a sort of pain, too, which is new to me.  I have been used to the\ngratification of believing myself to earn every blessing that I\nenjoyed.  I have valued myself on honourable toils and just rewards.\nLike other great men under reverses,\" he added, with a smile. \"I must\nendeavour to subdue my mind to my fortune.  I must learn to brook being\nhappier than I deserve.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 24\n\n\nWho can be in doubt of what followed?  When any two young people take\nit into their heads to marry, they are pretty sure by perseverance to\ncarry their point, be they ever so poor, or ever so imprudent, or ever\nso little likely to be necessary to each other's ultimate comfort.\nThis may be bad morality to conclude with, but I believe it to be\ntruth; and if such parties succeed, how should a Captain Wentworth and\nan Anne Elliot, with the advantage of maturity of mind, consciousness\nof right, and one independent fortune between them, fail of bearing\ndown every opposition?  They might in fact, have borne down a great\ndeal more than they met with, for there was little to distress them\nbeyond the want of graciousness and warmth.  Sir Walter made no\nobjection, and Elizabeth did nothing worse than look cold and\nunconcerned.  Captain Wentworth, with five-and-twenty thousand pounds,\nand as high in his profession as merit and activity could place him,\nwas no longer nobody.  He was now esteemed quite worthy to address the\ndaughter of a foolish, spendthrift baronet, who had not had principle\nor sense enough to maintain himself in the situation in which\nProvidence had placed him, and who could give his daughter at present\nbut a small part of the share of ten thousand pounds which must be hers\nhereafter.\n\nSir Walter, indeed, though he had no affection for Anne, and no vanity\nflattered, to make him really happy on the occasion, was very far from\nthinking it a bad match for her.  On the contrary, when he saw more of\nCaptain Wentworth, saw him repeatedly by daylight, and eyed him well,\nhe was very much struck by his personal claims, and felt that his\nsuperiority of appearance might be not unfairly balanced against her\nsuperiority of rank; and all this, assisted by his well-sounding name,\nenabled Sir Walter at last to prepare his pen, with a very good grace,\nfor the insertion of the marriage in the volume of honour.\n\nThe only one among them, whose opposition of feeling could excite any\nserious anxiety was Lady Russell.  Anne knew that Lady Russell must be\nsuffering some pain in understanding and relinquishing Mr Elliot, and\nbe making some struggles to become truly acquainted with, and do\njustice to Captain Wentworth.  This however was what Lady Russell had\nnow to do.  She must learn to feel that she had been mistaken with\nregard to both; that she had been unfairly influenced by appearances in\neach; that because Captain Wentworth's manners had not suited her own\nideas, she had been too quick in suspecting them to indicate a\ncharacter of dangerous impetuosity; and that because Mr Elliot's\nmanners had precisely pleased her in their propriety and correctness,\ntheir general politeness and suavity, she had been too quick in\nreceiving them as the certain result of the most correct opinions and\nwell-regulated mind.  There was nothing less for Lady Russell to do,\nthan to admit that she had been pretty completely wrong, and to take up\na new set of opinions and of hopes.\n\nThere is a quickness of perception in some, a nicety in the discernment\nof character, a natural penetration, in short, which no experience in\nothers can equal, and Lady Russell had been less gifted in this part of\nunderstanding than her young friend.  But she was a very good woman,\nand if her second object was to be sensible and well-judging, her first\nwas to see Anne happy.  She loved Anne better than she loved her own\nabilities; and when the awkwardness of the beginning was over, found\nlittle hardship in attaching herself as a mother to the man who was\nsecuring the happiness of her other child.\n\nOf all the family, Mary was probably the one most immediately gratified\nby the circumstance.  It was creditable to have a sister married, and\nshe might flatter herself with having been greatly instrumental to the\nconnexion, by keeping Anne with her in the autumn; and as her own\nsister must be better than her husband's sisters, it was very agreeable\nthat Captain Wentworth should be a richer man than either Captain\nBenwick or Charles Hayter.  She had something to suffer, perhaps, when\nthey came into contact again, in seeing Anne restored to the rights of\nseniority, and the mistress of a very pretty landaulette; but she had a\nfuture to look forward to, of powerful consolation.  Anne had no\nUppercross Hall before her, no landed estate, no headship of a family;\nand if they could but keep Captain Wentworth from being made a baronet,\nshe would not change situations with Anne.\n\nIt would be well for the eldest sister if she were equally satisfied\nwith her situation, for a change is not very probable there.  She had\nsoon the mortification of seeing Mr Elliot withdraw, and no one of\nproper condition has since presented himself to raise even the\nunfounded hopes which sunk with him.\n\nThe news of his cousin Anne's engagement burst on Mr Elliot most\nunexpectedly.  It deranged his best plan of domestic happiness, his\nbest hope of keeping Sir Walter single by the watchfulness which a\nson-in-law's rights would have given.  But, though discomfited and\ndisappointed, he could still do something for his own interest and his\nown enjoyment.  He soon quitted Bath; and on Mrs Clay's quitting it\nsoon afterwards, and being next heard of as established under his\nprotection in London, it was evident how double a game he had been\nplaying, and how determined he was to save himself from being cut out\nby one artful woman, at least.\n\nMrs Clay's affections had overpowered her interest, and she had\nsacrificed, for the young man's sake, the possibility of scheming\nlonger for Sir Walter.  She has abilities, however, as well as\naffections; and it is now a doubtful point whether his cunning, or\nhers, may finally carry the day; whether, after preventing her from\nbeing the wife of Sir Walter, he may not be wheedled and caressed at\nlast into making her the wife of Sir William.\n\nIt cannot be doubted that Sir Walter and Elizabeth were shocked and\nmortified by the loss of their companion, and the discovery of their\ndeception in her.  They had their great cousins, to be sure, to resort\nto for comfort; but they must long feel that to flatter and follow\nothers, without being flattered and followed in turn, is but a state of\nhalf enjoyment.\n\nAnne, satisfied at a very early period of Lady Russell's meaning to\nlove Captain Wentworth as she ought, had no other alloy to the\nhappiness of her prospects than what arose from the consciousness of\nhaving no relations to bestow on him which a man of sense could value.\nThere she felt her own inferiority very keenly.  The disproportion in\ntheir fortune was nothing; it did not give her a moment's regret; but\nto have no family to receive and estimate him properly, nothing of\nrespectability, of harmony, of good will to offer in return for all the\nworth and all the prompt welcome which met her in his brothers and\nsisters, was a source of as lively pain as her mind could well be\nsensible of under circumstances of otherwise strong felicity.  She had\nbut two friends in the world to add to his list, Lady Russell and Mrs\nSmith.  To those, however, he was very well disposed to attach himself.\nLady Russell, in spite of all her former transgressions, he could now\nvalue from his heart.  While he was not obliged to say that he believed\nher to have been right in originally dividing them, he was ready to say\nalmost everything else in her favour, and as for Mrs Smith, she had\nclaims of various kinds to recommend her quickly and permanently.\n\nHer recent good offices by Anne had been enough in themselves, and\ntheir marriage, instead of depriving her of one friend, secured her\ntwo.  She was their earliest visitor in their settled life; and Captain\nWentworth, by putting her in the way of recovering her husband's\nproperty in the West Indies, by writing for her, acting for her, and\nseeing her through all the petty difficulties of the case with the\nactivity and exertion of a fearless man and a determined friend, fully\nrequited the services which she had rendered, or ever meant to render,\nto his wife.\n\nMrs Smith's enjoyments were not spoiled by this improvement of income,\nwith some improvement of health, and the acquisition of such friends to\nbe often with, for her cheerfulness and mental alacrity did not fail\nher; and while these prime supplies of good remained, she might have\nbid defiance even to greater accessions of worldly prosperity.  She\nmight have been absolutely rich and perfectly healthy, and yet be\nhappy.  Her spring of felicity was in the glow of her spirits, as her\nfriend Anne's was in the warmth of her heart.  Anne was tenderness\nitself, and she had the full worth of it in Captain Wentworth's\naffection.  His profession was all that could ever make her friends\nwish that tenderness less, the dread of a future war all that could dim\nher sunshine.  She gloried in being a sailor's wife, but she must pay\nthe tax of quick alarm for belonging to that profession which is, if\npossible, more distinguished in its domestic virtues than in its\nnational importance.\n\n\n\nFinis\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n","id":"105"},{"text":"\n\n\n\n\nNORTHANGER ABBEY\n\n\nby\n\nJane Austen (1803)\n\n\n\n\nADVERTISEMENT BY THE AUTHORESS, TO NORTHANGER ABBEY\n\nTHIS little work was finished in the year 1803, and intended for\nimmediate publication. It was disposed of to a bookseller, it was even\nadvertised, and why the business proceeded no farther, the author\nhas never been able to learn. That any bookseller should think it\nworth-while to purchase what he did not think it worth-while to publish\nseems extraordinary. But with this, neither the author nor the public\nhave any other concern than as some observation is necessary upon those\nparts of the work which thirteen years have made comparatively obsolete.\nThe public are entreated to bear in mind that thirteen years have passed\nsince it was finished, many more since it was begun, and that during\nthat period, places, manners, books, and opinions have undergone\nconsiderable changes.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 1\n\n\nNo one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have\nsupposed her born to be an heroine. Her situation in life, the character\nof her father and mother, her own person and disposition, were\nall equally against her. Her father was a clergyman, without being\nneglected, or poor, and a very respectable man, though his name\nwas Richard--and he had never been handsome. He had a considerable\nindependence besides two good livings--and he was not in the least\naddicted to locking up his daughters. Her mother was a woman of useful\nplain sense, with a good temper, and, what is more remarkable, with a\ngood constitution. She had three sons before Catherine was born; and\ninstead of dying in bringing the latter into the world, as anybody might\nexpect, she still lived on--lived to have six children more--to see them\ngrowing up around her, and to enjoy excellent health herself. A family\nof ten children will be always called a fine family, where there are\nheads and arms and legs enough for the number; but the Morlands had\nlittle other right to the word, for they were in general very plain, and\nCatherine, for many years of her life, as plain as any. She had a thin\nawkward figure, a sallow skin without colour, dark lank hair, and strong\nfeatures--so much for her person; and not less unpropitious for heroism\nseemed her mind. She was fond of all boy's plays, and greatly preferred\ncricket not merely to dolls, but to the more heroic enjoyments of\ninfancy, nursing a dormouse, feeding a canary-bird, or watering a\nrose-bush. Indeed she had no taste for a garden; and if she gathered\nflowers at all, it was chiefly for the pleasure of mischief--at least\nso it was conjectured from her always preferring those which she was\nforbidden to take. Such were her propensities--her abilities were quite\nas extraordinary. She never could learn or understand anything\nbefore she was taught; and sometimes not even then, for she was often\ninattentive, and occasionally stupid. Her mother was three months in\nteaching her only to repeat the \"Beggar's Petition\"; and after all, her\nnext sister, Sally, could say it better than she did. Not that Catherine\nwas always stupid--by no means; she learnt the fable of \"The Hare and\nMany Friends\" as quickly as any girl in England. Her mother wished her\nto learn music; and Catherine was sure she should like it, for she was\nvery fond of tinkling the keys of the old forlorn spinnet; so, at eight\nyears old she began. She learnt a year, and could not bear it; and Mrs.\nMorland, who did not insist on her daughters being accomplished in\nspite of incapacity or distaste, allowed her to leave off. The day which\ndismissed the music-master was one of the happiest of Catherine's life.\nHer taste for drawing was not superior; though whenever she could obtain\nthe outside of a letter from her mother or seize upon any other odd\npiece of paper, she did what she could in that way, by drawing houses\nand trees, hens and chickens, all very much like one another. Writing\nand accounts she was taught by her father; French by her mother: her\nproficiency in either was not remarkable, and she shirked her lessons in\nboth whenever she could. What a strange, unaccountable character!--for\nwith all these symptoms of profligacy at ten years old, she had neither\na bad heart nor a bad temper, was seldom stubborn, scarcely ever\nquarrelsome, and very kind to the little ones, with few interruptions\nof tyranny; she was moreover noisy and wild, hated confinement and\ncleanliness, and loved nothing so well in the world as rolling down the\ngreen slope at the back of the house.\n\nSuch was Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen, appearances were mending;\nshe began to curl her hair and long for balls; her complexion improved,\nher features were softened by plumpness and colour, her eyes gained more\nanimation, and her figure more consequence. Her love of dirt gave way to\nan inclination for finery, and she grew clean as she grew smart; she had\nnow the pleasure of sometimes hearing her father and mother remark\non her personal improvement. \"Catherine grows quite a good-looking\ngirl--she is almost pretty today,\" were words which caught her ears now\nand then; and how welcome were the sounds! To look almost pretty is an\nacquisition of higher delight to a girl who has been looking plain the\nfirst fifteen years of her life than a beauty from her cradle can ever\nreceive.\n\nMrs. Morland was a very good woman, and wished to see her children\neverything they ought to be; but her time was so much occupied in\nlying-in and teaching the little ones, that her elder daughters were\ninevitably left to shift for themselves; and it was not very wonderful\nthat Catherine, who had by nature nothing heroic about her, should\nprefer cricket, baseball, riding on horseback, and running about\nthe country at the age of fourteen, to books--or at least books of\ninformation--for, provided that nothing like useful knowledge could be\ngained from them, provided they were all story and no reflection, she\nhad never any objection to books at all. But from fifteen to seventeen\nshe was in training for a heroine; she read all such works as heroines\nmust read to supply their memories with those quotations which are so\nserviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful lives.\n\nFrom Pope, she learnt to censure those who\n\n   \"bear about the mockery of woe.\"\n\n\nFrom Gray, that\n\n   \"Many a flower is born to blush unseen,\n   \"And waste its fragrance on the desert air.\"\n\n\nFrom Thompson, that--\n\n   \"It is a delightful task\n   \"To teach the young idea how to shoot.\"\n\n\nAnd from Shakespeare she gained a great store of information--amongst\nthe rest, that--\n\n   \"Trifles light as air,\n   \"Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong,\n   \"As proofs of Holy Writ.\"\n\n\nThat\n\n   \"The poor beetle, which we tread upon,\n   \"In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great\n   \"As when a giant dies.\"\n\n\nAnd that a young woman in love always looks--\n\n   \"like Patience on a monument\n   \"Smiling at Grief.\"\n\n\nSo far her improvement was sufficient--and in many other points she came\non exceedingly well; for though she could not write sonnets, she brought\nherself to read them; and though there seemed no chance of her throwing\na whole party into raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte, of her own\ncomposition, she could listen to other people's performance with very\nlittle fatigue. Her greatest deficiency was in the pencil--she had no\nnotion of drawing--not enough even to attempt a sketch of her lover's\nprofile, that she might be detected in the design. There she fell\nmiserably short of the true heroic height. At present she did not know\nher own poverty, for she had no lover to portray. She had reached the\nage of seventeen, without having seen one amiable youth who could call\nforth her sensibility, without having inspired one real passion, and\nwithout having excited even any admiration but what was very moderate\nand very transient. This was strange indeed! But strange things may be\ngenerally accounted for if their cause be fairly searched out. There was\nnot one lord in the neighbourhood; no--not even a baronet. There was not\none family among their acquaintance who had reared and supported a boy\naccidentally found at their door--not one young man whose origin\nwas unknown. Her father had no ward, and the squire of the parish no\nchildren.\n\nBut when a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty\nsurrounding families cannot prevent her. Something must and will happen\nto throw a hero in her way.\n\nMr. Allen, who owned the chief of the property about Fullerton, the\nvillage in Wiltshire where the Morlands lived, was ordered to Bath\nfor the benefit of a gouty constitution--and his lady, a good-humoured\nwoman, fond of Miss Morland, and probably aware that if adventures will\nnot befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad,\ninvited her to go with them. Mr. and Mrs. Morland were all compliance,\nand Catherine all happiness.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 2\n\n\nIn addition to what has been already said of Catherine Morland's\npersonal and mental endowments, when about to be launched into all the\ndifficulties and dangers of a six weeks' residence in Bath, it may be\nstated, for the reader's more certain information, lest the following\npages should otherwise fail of giving any idea of what her character is\nmeant to be, that her heart was affectionate; her disposition cheerful\nand open, without conceit or affectation of any kind--her manners just\nremoved from the awkwardness and shyness of a girl; her person pleasing,\nand, when in good looks, pretty--and her mind about as ignorant and\nuninformed as the female mind at seventeen usually is.\n\nWhen the hour of departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs.\nMorland will be naturally supposed to be most severe. A thousand\nalarming presentiments of evil to her beloved Catherine from this\nterrific separation must oppress her heart with sadness, and drown her\nin tears for the last day or two of their being together; and advice of\nthe most important and applicable nature must of course flow from her\nwise lips in their parting conference in her closet. Cautions against\nthe violence of such noblemen and baronets as delight in forcing young\nladies away to some remote farm-house, must, at such a moment, relieve\nthe fulness of her heart. Who would not think so? But Mrs. Morland knew\nso little of lords and baronets, that she entertained no notion of their\ngeneral mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to her\ndaughter from their machinations. Her cautions were confined to the\nfollowing points. \"I beg, Catherine, you will always wrap yourself up\nvery warm about the throat, when you come from the rooms at night; and\nI wish you would try to keep some account of the money you spend; I will\ngive you this little book on purpose.\"\n\nSally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common gentility will\nreach the age of sixteen without altering her name as far as she can?),\nmust from situation be at this time the intimate friend and confidante\nof her sister. It is remarkable, however, that she neither insisted\non Catherine's writing by every post, nor exacted her promise of\ntransmitting the character of every new acquaintance, nor a detail\nof every interesting conversation that Bath might produce. Everything\nindeed relative to this important journey was done, on the part of the\nMorlands, with a degree of moderation and composure, which seemed\nrather consistent with the common feelings of common life, than with the\nrefined susceptibilities, the tender emotions which the first separation\nof a heroine from her family ought always to excite. Her father, instead\nof giving her an unlimited order on his banker, or even putting an\nhundred pounds bank-bill into her hands, gave her only ten guineas, and\npromised her more when she wanted it.\n\nUnder these unpromising auspices, the parting took place, and the\njourney began. It was performed with suitable quietness and uneventful\nsafety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor one lucky\noverturn to introduce them to the hero. Nothing more alarming occurred\nthan a fear, on Mrs. Allen's side, of having once left her clogs behind\nher at an inn, and that fortunately proved to be groundless.\n\nThey arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight--her eyes were\nhere, there, everywhere, as they approached its fine and striking\nenvirons, and afterwards drove through those streets which conducted\nthem to the hotel. She was come to be happy, and she felt happy already.\n\nThey were soon settled in comfortable lodgings in Pulteney Street.\n\nIt is now expedient to give some description of Mrs. Allen, that the\nreader may be able to judge in what manner her actions will hereafter\ntend to promote the general distress of the work, and how she will,\nprobably, contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate\nwretchedness of which a last volume is capable--whether by her\nimprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy--whether by intercepting her letters,\nruining her character, or turning her out of doors.\n\nMrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose society can\nraise no other emotion than surprise at there being any men in the world\nwho could like them well enough to marry them. She had neither beauty,\ngenius, accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a gentlewoman, a great\ndeal of quiet, inactive good temper, and a trifling turn of mind\nwere all that could account for her being the choice of a sensible,\nintelligent man like Mr. Allen. In one respect she was admirably fitted\nto introduce a young lady into public, being as fond of going everywhere\nand seeing everything herself as any young lady could be. Dress was\nher passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine; and our\nheroine's entree into life could not take place till after three or four\ndays had been spent in learning what was mostly worn, and her chaperone\nwas provided with a dress of the newest fashion. Catherine too made\nsome purchases herself, and when all these matters were arranged, the\nimportant evening came which was to usher her into the Upper Rooms. Her\nhair was cut and dressed by the best hand, her clothes put on with care,\nand both Mrs. Allen and her maid declared she looked quite as she should\ndo. With such encouragement, Catherine hoped at least to pass uncensured\nthrough the crowd. As for admiration, it was always very welcome when it\ncame, but she did not depend on it.\n\nMrs. Allen was so long in dressing that they did not enter the ballroom\ntill late. The season was full, the room crowded, and the two ladies\nsqueezed in as well as they could. As for Mr. Allen, he repaired\ndirectly to the card-room, and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves.\nWith more care for the safety of her new gown than for the comfort of\nher protegee, Mrs. Allen made her way through the throng of men by\nthe door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would allow; Catherine,\nhowever, kept close at her side, and linked her arm too firmly within\nher friend's to be torn asunder by any common effort of a struggling\nassembly. But to her utter amazement she found that to proceed along the\nroom was by no means the way to disengage themselves from the crowd; it\nseemed rather to increase as they went on, whereas she had imagined that\nwhen once fairly within the door, they should easily find seats and be\nable to watch the dances with perfect convenience. But this was far from\nbeing the case, and though by unwearied diligence they gained even the\ntop of the room, their situation was just the same; they saw nothing\nof the dancers but the high feathers of some of the ladies. Still they\nmoved on--something better was yet in view; and by a continued exertion\nof strength and ingenuity they found themselves at last in the passage\nbehind the highest bench. Here there was something less of crowd than\nbelow; and hence Miss Morland had a comprehensive view of all the\ncompany beneath her, and of all the dangers of her late passage through\nthem. It was a splendid sight, and she began, for the first time that\nevening, to feel herself at a ball: she longed to dance, but she had\nnot an acquaintance in the room. Mrs. Allen did all that she could do\nin such a case by saying very placidly, every now and then, \"I wish you\ncould dance, my dear--I wish you could get a partner.\" For some time\nher young friend felt obliged to her for these wishes; but they were\nrepeated so often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Catherine\ngrew tired at last, and would thank her no more.\n\nThey were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence\nthey had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for\ntea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel\nsomething of disappointment--she was tired of being continually pressed\nagainst by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to\ninterest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she\ncould not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a\nsyllable with any of her fellow captives; and when at last arrived in\nthe tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of having no party to\njoin, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist them. They saw\nnothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a more\neligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at\nwhich a large party were already placed, without having anything to do\nthere, or anybody to speak to, except each other.\n\nMrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having\npreserved her gown from injury. \"It would have been very shocking to\nhave it torn,\" said she, \"would not it? It is such a delicate muslin.\nFor my part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I\nassure you.\"\n\n\"How uncomfortable it is,\" whispered Catherine, \"not to have a single\nacquaintance here!\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear,\" replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, \"it is very\nuncomfortable indeed.\"\n\n\"What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if\nthey wondered why we came here--we seem forcing ourselves into their\nparty.\"\n\n\"Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large\nacquaintance here.\"\n\n\"I wish we had any--it would be somebody to go to.\"\n\n\"Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them directly.\nThe Skinners were here last year--I wish they were here now.\"\n\n\"Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you\nsee.\"\n\n\"No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I think we had\nbetter sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How is my\nhead, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure\nthere is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you\nmust know somebody.\"\n\n\"I don't, upon my word--I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance\nhere with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should be\nso glad to have you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! What an\nodd gown she has got on! How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back.\"\n\nAfter some time they received an offer of tea from one of their\nneighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light\nconversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time\nthat anybody spoke to them during the evening, till they were discovered\nand joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over.\n\n\"Well, Miss Morland,\" said he, directly, \"I hope you have had an\nagreeable ball.\"\n\n\"Very agreeable indeed,\" she replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a\ngreat yawn.\n\n\"I wish she had been able to dance,\" said his wife; \"I wish we could\nhave got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I should be if\nthe Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parrys had\ncome, as they talked of once, she might have danced with George Parry. I\nam so sorry she has not had a partner!\"\n\n\"We shall do better another evening I hope,\" was Mr. Allen's\nconsolation.\n\nThe company began to disperse when the dancing was over--enough to leave\nspace for the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and now was the\ntime for a heroine, who had not yet played a very distinguished part\nin the events of the evening, to be noticed and admired. Every five\nminutes, by removing some of the crowd, gave greater openings for her\ncharms. She was now seen by many young men who had not been near her\nbefore. Not one, however, started with rapturous wonder on beholding\nher, no whisper of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor was she once\ncalled a divinity by anybody. Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and\nhad the company only seen her three years before, they would now have\nthought her exceedingly handsome.\n\nShe was looked at, however, and with some admiration; for, in her own\nhearing, two gentlemen pronounced her to be a pretty girl. Such words\nhad their due effect; she immediately thought the evening pleasanter\nthan she had found it before--her humble vanity was contented--she\nfelt more obliged to the two young men for this simple praise than a\ntrue-quality heroine would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration\nof her charms, and went to her chair in good humour with everybody, and\nperfectly satisfied with her share of public attention.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 3\n\n\nEvery morning now brought its regular duties--shops were to be visited;\nsome new part of the town to be looked at; and the pump-room to be\nattended, where they paraded up and down for an hour, looking at\neverybody and speaking to no one. The wish of a numerous acquaintance\nin Bath was still uppermost with Mrs. Allen, and she repeated it after\nevery fresh proof, which every morning brought, of her knowing nobody at\nall.\n\nThey made their appearance in the Lower Rooms; and here fortune was more\nfavourable to our heroine. The master of the ceremonies introduced to\nher a very gentlemanlike young man as a partner; his name was Tilney.\nHe seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather tall, had a\npleasing countenance, a very intelligent and lively eye, and, if not\nquite handsome, was very near it. His address was good, and Catherine\nfelt herself in high luck. There was little leisure for speaking\nwhile they danced; but when they were seated at tea, she found him as\nagreeable as she had already given him credit for being. He talked with\nfluency and spirit--and there was an archness and pleasantry in his\nmanner which interested, though it was hardly understood by her. After\nchatting some time on such matters as naturally arose from the objects\naround them, he suddenly addressed her with--\"I have hitherto been very\nremiss, madam, in the proper attentions of a partner here; I have not\nyet asked you how long you have been in Bath; whether you were ever here\nbefore; whether you have been at the Upper Rooms, the theatre, and\nthe concert; and how you like the place altogether. I have been\nvery negligent--but are you now at leisure to satisfy me in these\nparticulars? If you are I will begin directly.\"\n\n\"You need not give yourself that trouble, sir.\"\n\n\"No trouble, I assure you, madam.\" Then forming his features into a set\nsmile, and affectedly softening his voice, he added, with a simpering\nair, \"Have you been long in Bath, madam?\"\n\n\"About a week, sir,\" replied Catherine, trying not to laugh.\n\n\"Really!\" with affected astonishment.\n\n\"Why should you be surprised, sir?\"\n\n\"Why, indeed!\" said he, in his natural tone. \"But some emotion must\nappear to be raised by your reply, and surprise is more easily assumed,\nand not less reasonable than any other. Now let us go on. Were you never\nhere before, madam?\"\n\n\"Never, sir.\"\n\n\"Indeed! Have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, I was there last Monday.\"\n\n\"Have you been to the theatre?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, I was at the play on Tuesday.\"\n\n\"To the concert?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, on Wednesday.\"\n\n\"And are you altogether pleased with Bath?\"\n\n\"Yes--I like it very well.\"\n\n\"Now I must give one smirk, and then we may be rational again.\"\nCatherine turned away her head, not knowing whether she might venture to\nlaugh. \"I see what you think of me,\" said he gravely--\"I shall make but\na poor figure in your journal tomorrow.\"\n\n\"My journal!\"\n\n\"Yes, I know exactly what you will say: Friday, went to the Lower\nRooms; wore my sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings--plain black\nshoes--appeared to much advantage; but was strangely harassed by a\nqueer, half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and distressed\nme by his nonsense.\"\n\n\"Indeed I shall say no such thing.\"\n\n\"Shall I tell you what you ought to say?\"\n\n\"If you please.\"\n\n\"I danced with a very agreeable young man, introduced by Mr. King; had\na great deal of conversation with him--seems a most extraordinary\ngenius--hope I may know more of him. That, madam, is what I wish you to\nsay.\"\n\n\"But, perhaps, I keep no journal.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you are not sitting in this room, and I am not sitting by\nyou. These are points in which a doubt is equally possible. Not keep a\njournal! How are your absent cousins to understand the tenour of your\nlife in Bath without one? How are the civilities and compliments of\nevery day to be related as they ought to be, unless noted down every\nevening in a journal? How are your various dresses to be remembered,\nand the particular state of your complexion, and curl of your hair to be\ndescribed in all their diversities, without having constant recourse to\na journal? My dear madam, I am not so ignorant of young ladies' ways as\nyou wish to believe me; it is this delightful habit of journaling which\nlargely contributes to form the easy style of writing for which ladies\nare so generally celebrated. Everybody allows that the talent of writing\nagreeable letters is peculiarly female. Nature may have done something,\nbut I am sure it must be essentially assisted by the practice of keeping\na journal.\"\n\n\"I have sometimes thought,\" said Catherine, doubtingly, \"whether ladies\ndo write so much better letters than gentlemen! That is--I should not\nthink the superiority was always on our side.\"\n\n\"As far as I have had opportunity of judging, it appears to me that the\nusual style of letter-writing among women is faultless, except in three\nparticulars.\"\n\n\"And what are they?\"\n\n\"A general deficiency of subject, a total inattention to stops, and a\nvery frequent ignorance of grammar.\"\n\n\"Upon my word! I need not have been afraid of disclaiming the\ncompliment. You do not think too highly of us in that way.\"\n\n\"I should no more lay it down as a general rule that women write better\nletters than men, than that they sing better duets, or draw better\nlandscapes. In every power, of which taste is the foundation, excellence\nis pretty fairly divided between the sexes.\"\n\nThey were interrupted by Mrs. Allen: \"My dear Catherine,\" said she, \"do\ntake this pin out of my sleeve; I am afraid it has torn a hole already;\nI shall be quite sorry if it has, for this is a favourite gown, though\nit cost but nine shillings a yard.\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I should have guessed it, madam,\" said Mr. Tilney,\nlooking at the muslin.\n\n\"Do you understand muslins, sir?\"\n\n\"Particularly well; I always buy my own cravats, and am allowed to be an\nexcellent judge; and my sister has often trusted me in the choice of a\ngown. I bought one for her the other day, and it was pronounced to be a\nprodigious bargain by every lady who saw it. I gave but five shillings a\nyard for it, and a true Indian muslin.\"\n\nMrs. Allen was quite struck by his genius. \"Men commonly take so little\nnotice of those things,\" said she; \"I can never get Mr. Allen to know\none of my gowns from another. You must be a great comfort to your\nsister, sir.\"\n\n\"I hope I am, madam.\"\n\n\"And pray, sir, what do you think of Miss Morland's gown?\"\n\n\"It is very pretty, madam,\" said he, gravely examining it; \"but I do not\nthink it will wash well; I am afraid it will fray.\"\n\n\"How can you,\" said Catherine, laughing, \"be so--\" She had almost said\n\"strange.\"\n\n\"I am quite of your opinion, sir,\" replied Mrs. Allen; \"and so I told\nMiss Morland when she bought it.\"\n\n\"But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some account or other;\nMiss Morland will get enough out of it for a handkerchief, or a cap, or\na cloak. Muslin can never be said to be wasted. I have heard my sister\nsay so forty times, when she has been extravagant in buying more than\nshe wanted, or careless in cutting it to pieces.\"\n\n\"Bath is a charming place, sir; there are so many good shops here. We\nare sadly off in the country; not but what we have very good shops in\nSalisbury, but it is so far to go--eight miles is a long way; Mr. Allen\nsays it is nine, measured nine; but I am sure it cannot be more than\neight; and it is such a fag--I come back tired to death. Now, here one\ncan step out of doors and get a thing in five minutes.\"\n\nMr. Tilney was polite enough to seem interested in what she said; and\nshe kept him on the subject of muslins till the dancing recommenced.\nCatherine feared, as she listened to their discourse, that he indulged\nhimself a little too much with the foibles of others. \"What are you\nthinking of so earnestly?\" said he, as they walked back to the ballroom;\n\"not of your partner, I hope, for, by that shake of the head, your\nmeditations are not satisfactory.\"\n\nCatherine coloured, and said, \"I was not thinking of anything.\"\n\n\"That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told at once\nthat you will not tell me.\"\n\n\"Well then, I will not.\"\n\n\"Thank you; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am authorized to\ntease you on this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the world\nadvances intimacy so much.\"\n\nThey danced again; and, when the assembly closed, parted, on the\nlady's side at least, with a strong inclination for continuing the\nacquaintance. Whether she thought of him so much, while she drank her\nwarm wine and water, and prepared herself for bed, as to dream of him\nwhen there, cannot be ascertained; but I hope it was no more than in\na slight slumber, or a morning doze at most; for if it be true, as a\ncelebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be justified\nin falling in love before the gentleman's love is declared,* it must be\nvery improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before the\ngentleman is first known to have dreamt of her. How proper Mr. Tilney\nmight be as a dreamer or a lover had not yet perhaps entered Mr. Allen's\nhead, but that he was not objectionable as a common acquaintance for\nhis young charge he was on inquiry satisfied; for he had early in the\nevening taken pains to know who her partner was, and had been assured\nof Mr. Tilney's being a clergyman, and of a very respectable family in\nGloucestershire.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 4\n\n\nWith more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room the\nnext day, secure within herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before the\nmorning were over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile\nwas demanded--Mr. Tilney did not appear. Every creature in Bath,\nexcept himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the\nfashionable hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and\nout, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody\nwanted to see; and he only was absent. \"What a delightful place Bath\nis,\" said Mrs. Allen as they sat down near the great clock, after\nparading the room till they were tired; \"and how pleasant it would be if\nwe had any acquaintance here.\"\n\nThis sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no\nparticular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now;\nbut we are told to \"despair of nothing we would attain,\" as \"unwearied\ndiligence our point would gain\"; and the unwearied diligence with which\nshe had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its\njust reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady of\nabout her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her\nattentively for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance\nin these words: \"I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time\nsince I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?\"\nThis question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers\nto be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of\na former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since\ntheir respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this\nmeeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented\nto know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments\non good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away\nsince they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in\nBath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to\nmake inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and\ncousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive\ninformation, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs.\nThorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen,\nin a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her\nsons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different\nsituations and views--that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant\nTaylors', and William at sea--and all of them more beloved and respected\nin their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs.\nAllen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press\non the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to\nsit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling\nherself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that\nthe lace on Mrs. Thorpe's pelisse was not half so handsome as that on\nher own.\n\n\"Here come my dear girls,\" cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three\nsmart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. \"My\ndear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted\nto see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine young\nwoman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe Isabella is\nthe handsomest.\"\n\nThe Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a\nshort time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike\nthem all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the eldest\nyoung lady observed aloud to the rest, \"How excessively like her brother\nMiss Morland is!\"\n\n\"The very picture of him indeed!\" cried the mother--and \"I should have\nknown her anywhere for his sister!\" was repeated by them all, two or\nthree times over. For a moment Catherine was surprised; but Mrs. Thorpe\nand her daughters had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance\nwith Mr. James Morland, before she remembered that her eldest brother\nhad lately formed an intimacy with a young man of his own college, of\nthe name of Thorpe; and that he had spent the last week of the Christmas\nvacation with his family, near London.\n\nThe whole being explained, many obliging things were said by the Miss\nThorpes of their wish of being better acquainted with her; of being\nconsidered as already friends, through the friendship of their brothers,\netc., which Catherine heard with pleasure, and answered with all the\npretty expressions she could command; and, as the first proof of amity,\nshe was soon invited to accept an arm of the eldest Miss Thorpe, and\ntake a turn with her about the room. Catherine was delighted with this\nextension of her Bath acquaintance, and almost forgot Mr. Tilney while\nshe talked to Miss Thorpe. Friendship is certainly the finest balm for\nthe pangs of disappointed love.\n\nTheir conversation turned upon those subjects, of which the free\ndiscussion has generally much to do in perfecting a sudden intimacy\nbetween two young ladies: such as dress, balls, flirtations, and\nquizzes. Miss Thorpe, however, being four years older than Miss Morland,\nand at least four years better informed, had a very decided advantage in\ndiscussing such points; she could compare the balls of Bath with those\nof Tunbridge, its fashions with the fashions of London; could rectify\nthe opinions of her new friend in many articles of tasteful attire;\ncould discover a flirtation between any gentleman and lady who only\nsmiled on each other; and point out a quiz through the thickness of a\ncrowd. These powers received due admiration from Catherine, to whom they\nwere entirely new; and the respect which they naturally inspired might\nhave been too great for familiarity, had not the easy gaiety of Miss\nThorpe's manners, and her frequent expressions of delight on this\nacquaintance with her, softened down every feeling of awe, and left\nnothing but tender affection. Their increasing attachment was not to be\nsatisfied with half a dozen turns in the pump-room, but required, when\nthey all quitted it together, that Miss Thorpe should accompany Miss\nMorland to the very door of Mr. Allen's house; and that they should\nthere part with a most affectionate and lengthened shake of hands, after\nlearning, to their mutual relief, that they should see each other across\nthe theatre at night, and say their prayers in the same chapel the next\nmorning. Catherine then ran directly upstairs, and watched Miss Thorpe's\nprogress down the street from the drawing-room window; admired the\ngraceful spirit of her walk, the fashionable air of her figure and\ndress; and felt grateful, as well she might, for the chance which had\nprocured her such a friend.\n\nMrs. Thorpe was a widow, and not a very rich one; she was a\ngood-humoured, well-meaning woman, and a very indulgent mother. Her\neldest daughter had great personal beauty, and the younger ones, by\npretending to be as handsome as their sister, imitating her air, and\ndressing in the same style, did very well.\n\nThis brief account of the family is intended to supersede the necessity\nof a long and minute detail from Mrs. Thorpe herself, of her past\nadventures and sufferings, which might otherwise be expected to occupy\nthe three or four following chapters; in which the worthlessness of\nlords and attorneys might be set forth, and conversations, which had\npassed twenty years before, be minutely repeated.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 5\n\n\nCatherine was not so much engaged at the theatre that evening, in\nreturning the nods and smiles of Miss Thorpe, though they certainly\nclaimed much of her leisure, as to forget to look with an inquiring eye\nfor Mr. Tilney in every box which her eye could reach; but she looked in\nvain. Mr. Tilney was no fonder of the play than the pump-room. She hoped\nto be more fortunate the next day; and when her wishes for fine weather\nwere answered by seeing a beautiful morning, she hardly felt a doubt of\nit; for a fine Sunday in Bath empties every house of its inhabitants,\nand all the world appears on such an occasion to walk about and tell\ntheir acquaintance what a charming day it is.\n\nAs soon as divine service was over, the Thorpes and Allens eagerly\njoined each other; and after staying long enough in the pump-room to\ndiscover that the crowd was insupportable, and that there was not\na genteel face to be seen, which everybody discovers every Sunday\nthroughout the season, they hastened away to the Crescent, to breathe\nthe fresh air of better company. Here Catherine and Isabella, arm\nin arm, again tasted the sweets of friendship in an unreserved\nconversation; they talked much, and with much enjoyment; but again\nwas Catherine disappointed in her hope of reseeing her partner. He was\nnowhere to be met with; every search for him was equally unsuccessful,\nin morning lounges or evening assemblies; neither at the Upper nor Lower\nRooms, at dressed or undressed balls, was he perceivable; nor among the\nwalkers, the horsemen, or the curricle-drivers of the morning. His name\nwas not in the pump-room book, and curiosity could do no more. He must\nbe gone from Bath. Yet he had not mentioned that his stay would be so\nshort! This sort of mysteriousness, which is always so becoming in a\nhero, threw a fresh grace in Catherine's imagination around his person\nand manners, and increased her anxiety to know more of him. From the\nThorpes she could learn nothing, for they had been only two days in Bath\nbefore they met with Mrs. Allen. It was a subject, however, in which\nshe often indulged with her fair friend, from whom she received every\npossible encouragement to continue to think of him; and his impression\non her fancy was not suffered therefore to weaken. Isabella was very\nsure that he must be a charming young man, and was equally sure that he\nmust have been delighted with her dear Catherine, and would therefore\nshortly return. She liked him the better for being a clergyman, \"for she\nmust confess herself very partial to the profession\"; and something like\na sigh escaped her as she said it. Perhaps Catherine was wrong in not\ndemanding the cause of that gentle emotion--but she was not experienced\nenough in the finesse of love, or the duties of friendship, to know when\ndelicate raillery was properly called for, or when a confidence should\nbe forced.\n\nMrs. Allen was now quite happy--quite satisfied with Bath. She had found\nsome acquaintance, had been so lucky too as to find in them the family\nof a most worthy old friend; and, as the completion of good fortune, had\nfound these friends by no means so expensively dressed as herself. Her\ndaily expressions were no longer, \"I wish we had some acquaintance in\nBath!\" They were changed into, \"How glad I am we have met with Mrs.\nThorpe!\" and she was as eager in promoting the intercourse of the two\nfamilies, as her young charge and Isabella themselves could be; never\nsatisfied with the day unless she spent the chief of it by the side of\nMrs. Thorpe, in what they called conversation, but in which there was\nscarcely ever any exchange of opinion, and not often any resemblance of\nsubject, for Mrs. Thorpe talked chiefly of her children, and Mrs. Allen\nof her gowns.\n\nThe progress of the friendship between Catherine and Isabella was quick\nas its beginning had been warm, and they passed so rapidly through every\ngradation of increasing tenderness that there was shortly no fresh proof\nof it to be given to their friends or themselves. They called each other\nby their Christian name, were always arm in arm when they walked, pinned\nup each other's train for the dance, and were not to be divided in the\nset; and if a rainy morning deprived them of other enjoyments, they\nwere still resolute in meeting in defiance of wet and dirt, and shut\nthemselves up, to read novels together. Yes, novels; for I will not\nadopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with novel-writers,\nof degrading by their contemptuous censure the very performances, to the\nnumber of which they are themselves adding--joining with their greatest\nenemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely\never permitting them to be read by their own heroine, who, if she\naccidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages\nwith disgust. Alas! If the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the\nheroine of another, from whom can she expect protection and regard? I\ncannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the reviewers to abuse such\neffusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in\nthreadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. Let us\nnot desert one another; we are an injured body. Although our productions\nhave afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any\nother literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has\nbeen so much decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes\nare almost as many as our readers. And while the abilities of the\nnine-hundredth abridger of the History of England, or of the man who\ncollects and publishes in a volume some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and\nPrior, with a paper from the Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne,\nare eulogized by a thousand pens--there seems almost a general wish of\ndecrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and\nof slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to\nrecommend them. \"I am no novel-reader--I seldom look into novels--Do not\nimagine that I often read novels--It is really very well for a novel.\"\nSuch is the common cant. \"And what are you reading, Miss--?\" \"Oh! It is\nonly a novel!\" replies the young lady, while she lays down her book\nwith affected indifference, or momentary shame. \"It is only Cecilia, or\nCamilla, or Belinda\"; or, in short, only some work in which the greatest\npowers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge\nof human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the\nliveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the\nbest-chosen language. Now, had the same young lady been engaged with a\nvolume of the Spectator, instead of such a work, how proudly would she\nhave produced the book, and told its name; though the chances must be\nagainst her being occupied by any part of that voluminous publication,\nof which either the matter or manner would not disgust a young person of\ntaste: the substance of its papers so often consisting in the statement\nof improbable circumstances, unnatural characters, and topics of\nconversation which no longer concern anyone living; and their language,\ntoo, frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable idea of the age\nthat could endure it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 6\n\n\nThe following conversation, which took place between the two friends in\nthe pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance of eight or nine\ndays, is given as a specimen of their very warm attachment, and of the\ndelicacy, discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste which\nmarked the reasonableness of that attachment.\n\nThey met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five\nminutes before her friend, her first address naturally was, \"My dearest\ncreature, what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at\nleast this age!\"\n\n\"Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was in\nvery good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here long?\"\n\n\"Oh! These ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this half hour.\nBut now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and enjoy\nourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first place,\nI was so afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to set off;\nit looked very showery, and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do\nyou know, I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop window in\nMilsom Street just now--very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons\ninstead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what\nhave you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on\nwith Udolpho?\"\n\n\"Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the\nblack veil.\"\n\n\"Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is\nbehind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?\"\n\n\"Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me--I would not be\ntold upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is\nLaurentina's skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like\nto spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been\nto meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world.\"\n\n\"Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished\nUdolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list\nof ten or twelve more of the same kind for you.\"\n\n\"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?\"\n\n\"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook.\nCastle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the\nBlack Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries.\nThose will last us some time.\"\n\n\"Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all\nhorrid?\"\n\n\"Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a\nsweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every\none of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with\nher. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think\nher as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not\nadmiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it.\"\n\n\"Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?\"\n\n\"Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are\nreally my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is\nnot my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told\nCaptain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to\ntease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow\nMiss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable\nof real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the\ndifference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I\nshould fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for you are\njust the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men.\"\n\n\"Oh, dear!\" cried Catherine, colouring. \"How can you say so?\"\n\n\"I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly\nwhat Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly\ninsipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted\nyesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly--I am sure he\nis in love with you.\" Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella\nlaughed. \"It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are\nindifferent to everybody's admiration, except that of one gentleman,\nwho shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you\"--speaking more\nseriously--\"your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is\nreally attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with the\nattention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting,\nthat does not relate to the beloved object! I can perfectly comprehend\nyour feelings.\"\n\n\"But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr.\nTilney, for perhaps I may never see him again.\"\n\n\"Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure\nyou would be miserable if you thought so!\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very\nmuch pleased with him; but while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if\nnobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! My dear\nIsabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina's skeleton behind it.\"\n\n\"It is so odd to me, that you should never have read Udolpho before; but\nI suppose Mrs. Morland objects to novels.\"\n\n\"No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles Grandison herself;\nbut new books do not fall in our way.\"\n\n\"Sir Charles Grandison! That is an amazing horrid book, is it not? I\nremember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume.\"\n\n\"It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it is very\nentertaining.\"\n\n\"Do you indeed! You surprise me; I thought it had not been readable.\nBut, my dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head\ntonight? I am determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you.\nThe men take notice of that sometimes, you know.\"\n\n\"But it does not signify if they do,\" said Catherine, very innocently.\n\n\"Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say.\nThey are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with\nspirit, and make them keep their distance.\"\n\n\"Are they? Well, I never observed that. They always behave very well to\nme.\"\n\n\"Oh! They give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited\ncreatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance!\nBy the by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always\nforgot to ask you what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you\nlike them best dark or fair?\"\n\n\"I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both, I\nthink. Brown--not fair, and--and not very dark.\"\n\n\"Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your\ndescription of Mr. Tilney--'a brown skin, with dark eyes, and rather\ndark hair.' Well, my taste is different. I prefer light eyes, and as to\ncomplexion--do you know--I like a sallow better than any other. You must\nnot betray me, if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintance\nanswering that description.\"\n\n\"Betray you! What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop\nthe subject.\"\n\nCatherine, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few\nmoments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her\nat that time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina's\nskeleton, when her friend prevented her, by saying, \"For heaven's sake!\nLet us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two\nodious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really\nput me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals.\nThey will hardly follow us there.\"\n\nAway they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names, it\nwas Catherine's employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming\nyoung men.\n\n\"They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so\nimpertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am\ndetermined I will not look up.\"\n\nIn a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her\nthat she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left the\npump-room.\n\n\"And which way are they gone?\" said Isabella, turning hastily round.\n\"One was a very good-looking young man.\"\n\n\"They went towards the church-yard.\"\n\n\"Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And now, what say you\nto going to Edgar's Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat? You\nsaid you should like to see it.\"\n\nCatherine readily agreed. \"Only,\" she added, \"perhaps we may overtake\nthe two young men.\"\n\n\"Oh! Never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them presently,\nand I am dying to show you my hat.\"\n\n\"But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no danger of our\nseeing them at all.\"\n\n\"I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you. I have no\nnotion of treating men with such respect. That is the way to spoil\nthem.\"\n\nCatherine had nothing to oppose against such reasoning; and therefore,\nto show the independence of Miss Thorpe, and her resolution of humbling\nthe sex, they set off immediately as fast as they could walk, in pursuit\nof the two young men.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 7\n\n\nHalf a minute conducted them through the pump-yard to the archway,\nopposite Union Passage; but here they were stopped. Everybody acquainted\nwith Bath may remember the difficulties of crossing Cheap Street at\nthis point; it is indeed a street of so impertinent a nature, so\nunfortunately connected with the great London and Oxford roads, and the\nprincipal inn of the city, that a day never passes in which parties of\nladies, however important their business, whether in quest of pastry,\nmillinery, or even (as in the present case) of young men, are not\ndetained on one side or other by carriages, horsemen, or carts. This\nevil had been felt and lamented, at least three times a day, by Isabella\nsince her residence in Bath; and she was now fated to feel and lament it\nonce more, for at the very moment of coming opposite to Union Passage,\nand within view of the two gentlemen who were proceeding through the\ncrowds, and threading the gutters of that interesting alley, they\nwere prevented crossing by the approach of a gig, driven along on bad\npavement by a most knowing-looking coachman with all the vehemence that\ncould most fitly endanger the lives of himself, his companion, and his\nhorse.\n\n\"Oh, these odious gigs!\" said Isabella, looking up. \"How I detest them.\"\nBut this detestation, though so just, was of short duration, for she\nlooked again and exclaimed, \"Delightful! Mr. Morland and my brother!\"\n\n\"Good heaven! 'Tis James!\" was uttered at the same moment by Catherine;\nand, on catching the young men's eyes, the horse was immediately checked\nwith a violence which almost threw him on his haunches, and the servant\nhaving now scampered up, the gentlemen jumped out, and the equipage was\ndelivered to his care.\n\nCatherine, by whom this meeting was wholly unexpected, received her\nbrother with the liveliest pleasure; and he, being of a very amiable\ndisposition, and sincerely attached to her, gave every proof on his\nside of equal satisfaction, which he could have leisure to do, while the\nbright eyes of Miss Thorpe were incessantly challenging his notice;\nand to her his devoirs were speedily paid, with a mixture of joy and\nembarrassment which might have informed Catherine, had she been more\nexpert in the development of other people's feelings, and less simply\nengrossed by her own, that her brother thought her friend quite as\npretty as she could do herself.\n\nJohn Thorpe, who in the meantime had been giving orders about the\nhorses, soon joined them, and from him she directly received the amends\nwhich were her due; for while he slightly and carelessly touched the\nhand of Isabella, on her he bestowed a whole scrape and half a short\nbow. He was a stout young man of middling height, who, with a plain face\nand ungraceful form, seemed fearful of being too handsome unless he wore\nthe dress of a groom, and too much like a gentleman unless he were easy\nwhere he ought to be civil, and impudent where he might be allowed to be\neasy. He took out his watch: \"How long do you think we have been running\nit from Tetbury, Miss Morland?\"\n\n\"I do not know the distance.\" Her brother told her that it was\ntwenty-three miles.\n\n\"Three and twenty!\" cried Thorpe. \"Five and twenty if it is an inch.\"\nMorland remonstrated, pleaded the authority of road-books, innkeepers,\nand milestones; but his friend disregarded them all; he had a surer test\nof distance. \"I know it must be five and twenty,\" said he, \"by the time\nwe have been doing it. It is now half after one; we drove out of the\ninn-yard at Tetbury as the town clock struck eleven; and I defy any man\nin England to make my horse go less than ten miles an hour in harness;\nthat makes it exactly twenty-five.\"\n\n\"You have lost an hour,\" said Morland; \"it was only ten o'clock when we\ncame from Tetbury.\"\n\n\"Ten o'clock! It was eleven, upon my soul! I counted every stroke. This\nbrother of yours would persuade me out of my senses, Miss Morland; do\nbut look at my horse; did you ever see an animal so made for speed in\nyour life?\" (The servant had just mounted the carriage and was driving\noff.) \"Such true blood! Three hours and and a half indeed coming only\nthree and twenty miles! Look at that creature, and suppose it possible\nif you can.\"\n\n\"He does look very hot, to be sure.\"\n\n\"Hot! He had not turned a hair till we came to Walcot Church; but look\nat his forehand; look at his loins; only see how he moves; that horse\ncannot go less than ten miles an hour: tie his legs and he will get on.\nWhat do you think of my gig, Miss Morland? A neat one, is not it?\nWell hung; town-built; I have not had it a month. It was built for a\nChristchurch man, a friend of mine, a very good sort of fellow; he ran\nit a few weeks, till, I believe, it was convenient to have done with it.\nI happened just then to be looking out for some light thing of the kind,\nthough I had pretty well determined on a curricle too; but I chanced to\nmeet him on Magdalen Bridge, as he was driving into Oxford, last term:\n'Ah! Thorpe,' said he, 'do you happen to want such a little thing as\nthis? It is a capital one of the kind, but I am cursed tired of it.'\n'Oh! D--,' said I; 'I am your man; what do you ask?' And how much do you\nthink he did, Miss Morland?\"\n\n\"I am sure I cannot guess at all.\"\n\n\"Curricle-hung, you see; seat, trunk, sword-case, splashing-board,\nlamps, silver moulding, all you see complete; the iron-work as good\nas new, or better. He asked fifty guineas; I closed with him directly,\nthrew down the money, and the carriage was mine.\"\n\n\"And I am sure,\" said Catherine, \"I know so little of such things that I\ncannot judge whether it was cheap or dear.\"\n\n\"Neither one nor t'other; I might have got it for less, I dare say; but\nI hate haggling, and poor Freeman wanted cash.\"\n\n\"That was very good-natured of you,\" said Catherine, quite pleased.\n\n\"Oh! D---- it, when one has the means of doing a kind thing by a friend,\nI hate to be pitiful.\"\n\nAn inquiry now took place into the intended movements of the young\nladies; and, on finding whither they were going, it was decided that\nthe gentlemen should accompany them to Edgar's Buildings, and pay their\nrespects to Mrs. Thorpe. James and Isabella led the way; and so\nwell satisfied was the latter with her lot, so contentedly was she\nendeavouring to ensure a pleasant walk to him who brought the double\nrecommendation of being her brother's friend, and her friend's brother,\nso pure and uncoquettish were her feelings, that, though they overtook\nand passed the two offending young men in Milsom Street, she was so far\nfrom seeking to attract their notice, that she looked back at them only\nthree times.\n\nJohn Thorpe kept of course with Catherine, and, after a few minutes'\nsilence, renewed the conversation about his gig. \"You will find,\nhowever, Miss Morland, it would be reckoned a cheap thing by some\npeople, for I might have sold it for ten guineas more the next day;\nJackson, of Oriel, bid me sixty at once; Morland was with me at the\ntime.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Morland, who overheard this; \"but you forget that your horse\nwas included.\"\n\n\"My horse! Oh, d---- it! I would not sell my horse for a hundred. Are\nyou fond of an open carriage, Miss Morland?\"\n\n\"Yes, very; I have hardly ever an opportunity of being in one; but I am\nparticularly fond of it.\"\n\n\"I am glad of it; I will drive you out in mine every day.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Catherine, in some distress, from a doubt of the\npropriety of accepting such an offer.\n\n\"I will drive you up Lansdown Hill tomorrow.\"\n\n\"Thank you; but will not your horse want rest?\"\n\n\"Rest! He has only come three and twenty miles today; all nonsense;\nnothing ruins horses so much as rest; nothing knocks them up so soon.\nNo, no; I shall exercise mine at the average of four hours every day\nwhile I am here.\"\n\n\"Shall you indeed!\" said Catherine very seriously. \"That will be forty\nmiles a day.\"\n\n\"Forty! Aye, fifty, for what I care. Well, I will drive you up Lansdown\ntomorrow; mind, I am engaged.\"\n\n\"How delightful that will be!\" cried Isabella, turning round. \"My\ndearest Catherine, I quite envy you; but I am afraid, brother, you will\nnot have room for a third.\"\n\n\"A third indeed! No, no; I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters\nabout; that would be a good joke, faith! Morland must take care of you.\"\n\nThis brought on a dialogue of civilities between the other two; but\nCatherine heard neither the particulars nor the result. Her companion's\ndiscourse now sunk from its hitherto animated pitch to nothing more than\na short decisive sentence of praise or condemnation on the face of every\nwoman they met; and Catherine, after listening and agreeing as long as\nshe could, with all the civility and deference of the youthful female\nmind, fearful of hazarding an opinion of its own in opposition to that\nof a self-assured man, especially where the beauty of her own sex is\nconcerned, ventured at length to vary the subject by a question which\nhad been long uppermost in her thoughts; it was, \"Have you ever read\nUdolpho, Mr. Thorpe?\"\n\n\"Udolpho! Oh, Lord! Not I; I never read novels; I have something else to\ndo.\"\n\nCatherine, humbled and ashamed, was going to apologize for her question,\nbut he prevented her by saying, \"Novels are all so full of nonsense\nand stuff; there has not been a tolerably decent one come out since\nTom Jones, except The Monk; I read that t'other day; but as for all the\nothers, they are the stupidest things in creation.\"\n\n\"I think you must like Udolpho, if you were to read it; it is so very\ninteresting.\"\n\n\"Not I, faith! No, if I read any, it shall be Mrs. Radcliffe's; her\nnovels are amusing enough; they are worth reading; some fun and nature\nin them.\"\n\n\"Udolpho was written by Mrs. Radcliffe,\" said Catherine, with some\nhesitation, from the fear of mortifying him.\n\n\"No sure; was it? Aye, I remember, so it was; I was thinking of that\nother stupid book, written by that woman they make such a fuss about,\nshe who married the French emigrant.\"\n\n\"I suppose you mean Camilla?\"\n\n\"Yes, that's the book; such unnatural stuff! An old man playing at\nsee-saw, I took up the first volume once and looked it over, but I soon\nfound it would not do; indeed I guessed what sort of stuff it must be\nbefore I saw it: as soon as I heard she had married an emigrant, I was\nsure I should never be able to get through it.\"\n\n\"I have never read it.\"\n\n\"You had no loss, I assure you; it is the horridest nonsense you can\nimagine; there is nothing in the world in it but an old man's playing at\nsee-saw and learning Latin; upon my soul there is not.\"\n\nThis critique, the justness of which was unfortunately lost on poor\nCatherine, brought them to the door of Mrs. Thorpe's lodgings, and the\nfeelings of the discerning and unprejudiced reader of Camilla gave way\nto the feelings of the dutiful and affectionate son, as they met Mrs.\nThorpe, who had descried them from above, in the passage. \"Ah, Mother!\nHow do you do?\" said he, giving her a hearty shake of the hand. \"Where\ndid you get that quiz of a hat? It makes you look like an old witch.\nHere is Morland and I come to stay a few days with you, so you must look\nout for a couple of good beds somewhere near.\" And this address seemed\nto satisfy all the fondest wishes of the mother's heart, for she\nreceived him with the most delighted and exulting affection. On his\ntwo younger sisters he then bestowed an equal portion of his fraternal\ntenderness, for he asked each of them how they did, and observed that\nthey both looked very ugly.\n\nThese manners did not please Catherine; but he was James's friend\nand Isabella's brother; and her judgment was further bought off by\nIsabella's assuring her, when they withdrew to see the new hat, that\nJohn thought her the most charming girl in the world, and by John's\nengaging her before they parted to dance with him that evening. Had she\nbeen older or vainer, such attacks might have done little; but, where\nyouth and diffidence are united, it requires uncommon steadiness of\nreason to resist the attraction of being called the most charming girl\nin the world, and of being so very early engaged as a partner; and the\nconsequence was that, when the two Morlands, after sitting an hour with\nthe Thorpes, set off to walk together to Mr. Allen's, and James, as\nthe door was closed on them, said, \"Well, Catherine, how do you like my\nfriend Thorpe?\" instead of answering, as she probably would have done,\nhad there been no friendship and no flattery in the case, \"I do not like\nhim at all,\" she directly replied, \"I like him very much; he seems very\nagreeable.\"\n\n\"He is as good-natured a fellow as ever lived; a little of a rattle; but\nthat will recommend him to your sex, I believe: and how do you like the\nrest of the family?\"\n\n\"Very, very much indeed: Isabella particularly.\"\n\n\"I am very glad to hear you say so; she is just the kind of young woman\nI could wish to see you attached to; she has so much good sense, and is\nso thoroughly unaffected and amiable; I always wanted you to know her;\nand she seems very fond of you. She said the highest things in your\npraise that could possibly be; and the praise of such a girl as Miss\nThorpe even you, Catherine,\" taking her hand with affection, \"may be\nproud of.\"\n\n\"Indeed I am,\" she replied; \"I love her exceedingly, and am delighted\nto find that you like her too. You hardly mentioned anything of her when\nyou wrote to me after your visit there.\"\n\n\"Because I thought I should soon see you myself. I hope you will be a\ngreat deal together while you are in Bath. She is a most amiable girl;\nsuch a superior understanding! How fond all the family are of her; she\nis evidently the general favourite; and how much she must be admired in\nsuch a place as this--is not she?\"\n\n\"Yes, very much indeed, I fancy; Mr. Allen thinks her the prettiest girl\nin Bath.\"\n\n\"I dare say he does; and I do not know any man who is a better judge of\nbeauty than Mr. Allen. I need not ask you whether you are happy here, my\ndear Catherine; with such a companion and friend as Isabella Thorpe, it\nwould be impossible for you to be otherwise; and the Allens, I am sure,\nare very kind to you?\"\n\n\"Yes, very kind; I never was so happy before; and now you are come it\nwill be more delightful than ever; how good it is of you to come so far\non purpose to see me.\"\n\nJames accepted this tribute of gratitude, and qualified his conscience\nfor accepting it too, by saying with perfect sincerity, \"Indeed,\nCatherine, I love you dearly.\"\n\nInquiries and communications concerning brothers and sisters, the\nsituation of some, the growth of the rest, and other family matters now\npassed between them, and continued, with only one small digression\non James's part, in praise of Miss Thorpe, till they reached Pulteney\nStreet, where he was welcomed with great kindness by Mr. and Mrs. Allen,\ninvited by the former to dine with them, and summoned by the latter\nto guess the price and weigh the merits of a new muff and tippet.\nA pre-engagement in Edgar's Buildings prevented his accepting the\ninvitation of one friend, and obliged him to hurry away as soon as he\nhad satisfied the demands of the other. The time of the two parties\nuniting in the Octagon Room being correctly adjusted, Catherine was then\nleft to the luxury of a raised, restless, and frightened imagination\nover the pages of Udolpho, lost from all worldly concerns of dressing\nand dinner, incapable of soothing Mrs. Allen's fears on the delay of an\nexpected dressmaker, and having only one minute in sixty to bestow even\non the reflection of her own felicity, in being already engaged for the\nevening.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 8\n\n\nIn spite of Udolpho and the dressmaker, however, the party from Pulteney\nStreet reached the Upper Rooms in very good time. The Thorpes and James\nMorland were there only two minutes before them; and Isabella having\ngone through the usual ceremonial of meeting her friend with the most\nsmiling and affectionate haste, of admiring the set of her gown, and\nenvying the curl of her hair, they followed their chaperones, arm in\narm, into the ballroom, whispering to each other whenever a thought\noccurred, and supplying the place of many ideas by a squeeze of the hand\nor a smile of affection.\n\nThe dancing began within a few minutes after they were seated; and\nJames, who had been engaged quite as long as his sister, was very\nimportunate with Isabella to stand up; but John was gone into the\ncard-room to speak to a friend, and nothing, she declared, should induce\nher to join the set before her dear Catherine could join it too. \"I\nassure you,\" said she, \"I would not stand up without your dear sister\nfor all the world; for if I did we should certainly be separated the\nwhole evening.\" Catherine accepted this kindness with gratitude, and\nthey continued as they were for three minutes longer, when Isabella, who\nhad been talking to James on the other side of her, turned again to his\nsister and whispered, \"My dear creature, I am afraid I must leave you,\nyour brother is so amazingly impatient to begin; I know you will not\nmind my going away, and I dare say John will be back in a moment,\nand then you may easily find me out.\" Catherine, though a little\ndisappointed, had too much good nature to make any opposition, and the\nothers rising up, Isabella had only time to press her friend's hand and\nsay, \"Good-bye, my dear love,\" before they hurried off. The younger\nMiss Thorpes being also dancing, Catherine was left to the mercy of Mrs.\nThorpe and Mrs. Allen, between whom she now remained. She could not help\nbeing vexed at the non-appearance of Mr. Thorpe, for she not only longed\nto be dancing, but was likewise aware that, as the real dignity of her\nsituation could not be known, she was sharing with the scores of other\nyoung ladies still sitting down all the discredit of wanting a partner.\nTo be disgraced in the eye of the world, to wear the appearance of\ninfamy while her heart is all purity, her actions all innocence, and the\nmisconduct of another the true source of her debasement, is one of those\ncircumstances which peculiarly belong to the heroine's life, and her\nfortitude under it what particularly dignifies her character. Catherine\nhad fortitude too; she suffered, but no murmur passed her lips.\n\nFrom this state of humiliation, she was roused, at the end of ten\nminutes, to a pleasanter feeling, by seeing, not Mr. Thorpe, but Mr.\nTilney, within three yards of the place where they sat; he seemed to be\nmoving that way, but he did not see her, and therefore the smile and the\nblush, which his sudden reappearance raised in Catherine, passed away\nwithout sullying her heroic importance. He looked as handsome and as\nlively as ever, and was talking with interest to a fashionable and\npleasing-looking young woman, who leant on his arm, and whom Catherine\nimmediately guessed to be his sister; thus unthinkingly throwing away\na fair opportunity of considering him lost to her forever, by being\nmarried already. But guided only by what was simple and probable, it\nhad never entered her head that Mr. Tilney could be married; he had not\nbehaved, he had not talked, like the married men to whom she had been\nused; he had never mentioned a wife, and he had acknowledged a sister.\nFrom these circumstances sprang the instant conclusion of his sister's\nnow being by his side; and therefore, instead of turning of a deathlike\npaleness and falling in a fit on Mrs. Allen's bosom, Catherine sat\nerect, in the perfect use of her senses, and with cheeks only a little\nredder than usual.\n\nMr. Tilney and his companion, who continued, though slowly, to approach,\nwere immediately preceded by a lady, an acquaintance of Mrs. Thorpe; and\nthis lady stopping to speak to her, they, as belonging to her, stopped\nlikewise, and Catherine, catching Mr. Tilney's eye, instantly received\nfrom him the smiling tribute of recognition. She returned it with\npleasure, and then advancing still nearer, he spoke both to her and Mrs.\nAllen, by whom he was very civilly acknowledged. \"I am very happy to see\nyou again, sir, indeed; I was afraid you had left Bath.\" He thanked her\nfor her fears, and said that he had quitted it for a week, on the very\nmorning after his having had the pleasure of seeing her.\n\n\"Well, sir, and I dare say you are not sorry to be back again, for it\nis just the place for young people--and indeed for everybody else too.\nI tell Mr. Allen, when he talks of being sick of it, that I am sure he\nshould not complain, for it is so very agreeable a place, that it is\nmuch better to be here than at home at this dull time of year. I tell\nhim he is quite in luck to be sent here for his health.\"\n\n\"And I hope, madam, that Mr. Allen will be obliged to like the place,\nfrom finding it of service to him.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir. I have no doubt that he will. A neighbour of ours,\nDr. Skinner, was here for his health last winter, and came away quite\nstout.\"\n\n\"That circumstance must give great encouragement.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir--and Dr. Skinner and his family were here three months; so I\ntell Mr. Allen he must not be in a hurry to get away.\"\n\nHere they were interrupted by a request from Mrs. Thorpe to Mrs. Allen,\nthat she would move a little to accommodate Mrs. Hughes and Miss Tilney\nwith seats, as they had agreed to join their party. This was accordingly\ndone, Mr. Tilney still continuing standing before them; and after a\nfew minutes' consideration, he asked Catherine to dance with him. This\ncompliment, delightful as it was, produced severe mortification to the\nlady; and in giving her denial, she expressed her sorrow on the occasion\nso very much as if she really felt it that had Thorpe, who joined her\njust afterwards, been half a minute earlier, he might have thought her\nsufferings rather too acute. The very easy manner in which he then told\nher that he had kept her waiting did not by any means reconcile her more\nto her lot; nor did the particulars which he entered into while they\nwere standing up, of the horses and dogs of the friend whom he had just\nleft, and of a proposed exchange of terriers between them, interest her\nso much as to prevent her looking very often towards that part of the\nroom where she had left Mr. Tilney. Of her dear Isabella, to whom she\nparticularly longed to point out that gentleman, she could see nothing.\nThey were in different sets. She was separated from all her party, and\naway from all her acquaintance; one mortification succeeded another,\nand from the whole she deduced this useful lesson, that to go previously\nengaged to a ball does not necessarily increase either the dignity or\nenjoyment of a young lady. From such a moralizing strain as this, she\nwas suddenly roused by a touch on the shoulder, and turning round,\nperceived Mrs. Hughes directly behind her, attended by Miss Tilney and\na gentleman. \"I beg your pardon, Miss Morland,\" said she, \"for this\nliberty--but I cannot anyhow get to Miss Thorpe, and Mrs. Thorpe said\nshe was sure you would not have the least objection to letting in this\nyoung lady by you.\" Mrs. Hughes could not have applied to any creature\nin the room more happy to oblige her than Catherine. The young ladies\nwere introduced to each other, Miss Tilney expressing a proper sense of\nsuch goodness, Miss Morland with the real delicacy of a generous mind\nmaking light of the obligation; and Mrs. Hughes, satisfied with having\nso respectably settled her young charge, returned to her party.\n\nMiss Tilney had a good figure, a pretty face, and a very agreeable\ncountenance; and her air, though it had not all the decided pretension,\nthe resolute stylishness of Miss Thorpe's, had more real elegance. Her\nmanners showed good sense and good breeding; they were neither shy nor\naffectedly open; and she seemed capable of being young, attractive, and\nat a ball without wanting to fix the attention of every man near her,\nand without exaggerated feelings of ecstatic delight or inconceivable\nvexation on every little trifling occurrence. Catherine, interested at\nonce by her appearance and her relationship to Mr. Tilney, was desirous\nof being acquainted with her, and readily talked therefore whenever she\ncould think of anything to say, and had courage and leisure for saying\nit. But the hindrance thrown in the way of a very speedy intimacy, by\nthe frequent want of one or more of these requisites, prevented their\ndoing more than going through the first rudiments of an acquaintance, by\ninforming themselves how well the other liked Bath, how much she admired\nits buildings and surrounding country, whether she drew, or played, or\nsang, and whether she was fond of riding on horseback.\n\nThe two dances were scarcely concluded before Catherine found her arm\ngently seized by her faithful Isabella, who in great spirits exclaimed,\n\"At last I have got you. My dearest creature, I have been looking for\nyou this hour. What could induce you to come into this set, when you\nknew I was in the other? I have been quite wretched without you.\"\n\n\"My dear Isabella, how was it possible for me to get at you? I could not\neven see where you were.\"\n\n\"So I told your brother all the time--but he would not believe me. Do go\nand see for her, Mr. Morland, said I--but all in vain--he would not stir\nan inch. Was not it so, Mr. Morland? But you men are all so immoderately\nlazy! I have been scolding him to such a degree, my dear Catherine, you\nwould be quite amazed. You know I never stand upon ceremony with such\npeople.\"\n\n\"Look at that young lady with the white beads round her head,\" whispered\nCatherine, detaching her friend from James. \"It is Mr. Tilney's sister.\"\n\n\"Oh! Heavens! You don't say so! Let me look at her this moment. What a\ndelightful girl! I never saw anything half so beautiful! But where is\nher all-conquering brother? Is he in the room? Point him out to me this\ninstant, if he is. I die to see him. Mr. Morland, you are not to listen.\nWe are not talking about you.\"\n\n\"But what is all this whispering about? What is going on?\"\n\n\"There now, I knew how it would be. You men have such restless\ncuriosity! Talk of the curiosity of women, indeed! 'Tis nothing. But be\nsatisfied, for you are not to know anything at all of the matter.\"\n\n\"And is that likely to satisfy me, do you think?\"\n\n\"Well, I declare I never knew anything like you. What can it signify to\nyou, what we are talking of. Perhaps we are talking about you; therefore\nI would advise you not to listen, or you may happen to hear something\nnot very agreeable.\"\n\nIn this commonplace chatter, which lasted some time, the original\nsubject seemed entirely forgotten; and though Catherine was very well\npleased to have it dropped for a while, she could not avoid a little\nsuspicion at the total suspension of all Isabella's impatient desire to\nsee Mr. Tilney. When the orchestra struck up a fresh dance, James would\nhave led his fair partner away, but she resisted. \"I tell you, Mr.\nMorland,\" she cried, \"I would not do such a thing for all the world.\nHow can you be so teasing; only conceive, my dear Catherine, what your\nbrother wants me to do. He wants me to dance with him again, though\nI tell him that it is a most improper thing, and entirely against the\nrules. It would make us the talk of the place, if we were not to change\npartners.\"\n\n\"Upon my honour,\" said James, \"in these public assemblies, it is as\noften done as not.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, how can you say so? But when you men have a point to carry,\nyou never stick at anything. My sweet Catherine, do support me; persuade\nyour brother how impossible it is. Tell him that it would quite shock\nyou to see me do such a thing; now would not it?\"\n\n\"No, not at all; but if you think it wrong, you had much better change.\"\n\n\"There,\" cried Isabella, \"you hear what your sister says, and yet you\nwill not mind her. Well, remember that it is not my fault, if we set all\nthe old ladies in Bath in a bustle. Come along, my dearest Catherine,\nfor heaven's sake, and stand by me.\" And off they went, to regain\ntheir former place. John Thorpe, in the meanwhile, had walked away; and\nCatherine, ever willing to give Mr. Tilney an opportunity of repeating\nthe agreeable request which had already flattered her once, made her\nway to Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Thorpe as fast as she could, in the hope\nof finding him still with them--a hope which, when it proved to be\nfruitless, she felt to have been highly unreasonable. \"Well, my dear,\"\nsaid Mrs. Thorpe, impatient for praise of her son, \"I hope you have had\nan agreeable partner.\"\n\n\"Very agreeable, madam.\"\n\n\"I am glad of it. John has charming spirits, has not he?\"\n\n\"Did you meet Mr. Tilney, my dear?\" said Mrs. Allen.\n\n\"No, where is he?\"\n\n\"He was with us just now, and said he was so tired of lounging about,\nthat he was resolved to go and dance; so I thought perhaps he would ask\nyou, if he met with you.\"\n\n\"Where can he be?\" said Catherine, looking round; but she had not looked\nround long before she saw him leading a young lady to the dance.\n\n\"Ah! He has got a partner; I wish he had asked you,\" said Mrs. Allen;\nand after a short silence, she added, \"he is a very agreeable young\nman.\"\n\n\"Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen,\" said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling complacently; \"I\nmust say it, though I am his mother, that there is not a more agreeable\nyoung man in the world.\"\n\nThis inapplicable answer might have been too much for the comprehension\nof many; but it did not puzzle Mrs. Allen, for after only a moment's\nconsideration, she said, in a whisper to Catherine, \"I dare say she\nthought I was speaking of her son.\"\n\nCatherine was disappointed and vexed. She seemed to have missed by so\nlittle the very object she had had in view; and this persuasion did not\nincline her to a very gracious reply, when John Thorpe came up to her\nsoon afterwards and said, \"Well, Miss Morland, I suppose you and I are\nto stand up and jig it together again.\"\n\n\"Oh, no; I am much obliged to you, our two dances are over; and,\nbesides, I am tired, and do not mean to dance any more.\"\n\n\"Do not you? Then let us walk about and quiz people. Come along with\nme, and I will show you the four greatest quizzers in the room; my two\nyounger sisters and their partners. I have been laughing at them this\nhalf hour.\"\n\nAgain Catherine excused herself; and at last he walked off to quiz his\nsisters by himself. The rest of the evening she found very dull; Mr.\nTilney was drawn away from their party at tea, to attend that of his\npartner; Miss Tilney, though belonging to it, did not sit near her, and\nJames and Isabella were so much engaged in conversing together that the\nlatter had no leisure to bestow more on her friend than one smile, one\nsqueeze, and one \"dearest Catherine.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 9\n\n\nThe progress of Catherine's unhappiness from the events of the evening\nwas as follows. It appeared first in a general dissatisfaction with\neverybody about her, while she remained in the rooms, which speedily\nbrought on considerable weariness and a violent desire to go home. This,\non arriving in Pulteney Street, took the direction of extraordinary\nhunger, and when that was appeased, changed into an earnest longing to\nbe in bed; such was the extreme point of her distress; for when there\nshe immediately fell into a sound sleep which lasted nine hours, and\nfrom which she awoke perfectly revived, in excellent spirits, with fresh\nhopes and fresh schemes. The first wish of her heart was to improve her\nacquaintance with Miss Tilney, and almost her first resolution, to seek\nher for that purpose, in the pump-room at noon. In the pump-room, one\nso newly arrived in Bath must be met with, and that building she had\nalready found so favourable for the discovery of female excellence,\nand the completion of female intimacy, so admirably adapted for secret\ndiscourses and unlimited confidence, that she was most reasonably\nencouraged to expect another friend from within its walls. Her plan\nfor the morning thus settled, she sat quietly down to her book after\nbreakfast, resolving to remain in the same place and the same employment\ntill the clock struck one; and from habitude very little incommoded by\nthe remarks and ejaculations of Mrs. Allen, whose vacancy of mind and\nincapacity for thinking were such, that as she never talked a great\ndeal, so she could never be entirely silent; and, therefore, while she\nsat at her work, if she lost her needle or broke her thread, if she\nheard a carriage in the street, or saw a speck upon her gown, she must\nobserve it aloud, whether there were anyone at leisure to answer her or\nnot. At about half past twelve, a remarkably loud rap drew her in haste\nto the window, and scarcely had she time to inform Catherine of there\nbeing two open carriages at the door, in the first only a servant,\nher brother driving Miss Thorpe in the second, before John Thorpe came\nrunning upstairs, calling out, \"Well, Miss Morland, here I am. Have\nyou been waiting long? We could not come before; the old devil of a\ncoachmaker was such an eternity finding out a thing fit to be got into,\nand now it is ten thousand to one but they break down before we are out\nof the street. How do you do, Mrs. Allen? A famous ball last night, was\nnot it? Come, Miss Morland, be quick, for the others are in a confounded\nhurry to be off. They want to get their tumble over.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" said Catherine. \"Where are you all going to?\"\n\n\"Going to? Why, you have not forgot our engagement! Did not we agree\ntogether to take a drive this morning? What a head you have! We are\ngoing up Claverton Down.\"\n\n\"Something was said about it, I remember,\" said Catherine, looking at\nMrs. Allen for her opinion; \"but really I did not expect you.\"\n\n\"Not expect me! That's a good one! And what a dust you would have made,\nif I had not come.\"\n\nCatherine's silent appeal to her friend, meanwhile, was entirely thrown\naway, for Mrs. Allen, not being at all in the habit of conveying any\nexpression herself by a look, was not aware of its being ever intended\nby anybody else; and Catherine, whose desire of seeing Miss Tilney again\ncould at that moment bear a short delay in favour of a drive, and who\nthought there could be no impropriety in her going with Mr. Thorpe, as\nIsabella was going at the same time with James, was therefore obliged to\nspeak plainer. \"Well, ma'am, what do you say to it? Can you spare me for\nan hour or two? Shall I go?\"\n\n\"Do just as you please, my dear,\" replied Mrs. Allen, with the most\nplacid indifference. Catherine took the advice, and ran off to get\nready. In a very few minutes she reappeared, having scarcely allowed\nthe two others time enough to get through a few short sentences in her\npraise, after Thorpe had procured Mrs. Allen's admiration of his gig;\nand then receiving her friend's parting good wishes, they both hurried\ndownstairs. \"My dearest creature,\" cried Isabella, to whom the duty\nof friendship immediately called her before she could get into the\ncarriage, \"you have been at least three hours getting ready. I was\nafraid you were ill. What a delightful ball we had last night. I have a\nthousand things to say to you; but make haste and get in, for I long to\nbe off.\"\n\nCatherine followed her orders and turned away, but not too soon to hear\nher friend exclaim aloud to James, \"What a sweet girl she is! I quite\ndote on her.\"\n\n\"You will not be frightened, Miss Morland,\" said Thorpe, as he handed\nher in, \"if my horse should dance about a little at first setting off.\nHe will, most likely, give a plunge or two, and perhaps take the rest\nfor a minute; but he will soon know his master. He is full of spirits,\nplayful as can be, but there is no vice in him.\"\n\nCatherine did not think the portrait a very inviting one, but it was too\nlate to retreat, and she was too young to own herself frightened; so,\nresigning herself to her fate, and trusting to the animal's boasted\nknowledge of its owner, she sat peaceably down, and saw Thorpe sit down\nby her. Everything being then arranged, the servant who stood at the\nhorse's head was bid in an important voice \"to let him go,\" and off they\nwent in the quietest manner imaginable, without a plunge or a caper, or\nanything like one. Catherine, delighted at so happy an escape, spoke\nher pleasure aloud with grateful surprise; and her companion immediately\nmade the matter perfectly simple by assuring her that it was entirely\nowing to the peculiarly judicious manner in which he had then held the\nreins, and the singular discernment and dexterity with which he had\ndirected his whip. Catherine, though she could not help wondering that\nwith such perfect command of his horse, he should think it necessary to\nalarm her with a relation of its tricks, congratulated herself sincerely\non being under the care of so excellent a coachman; and perceiving that\nthe animal continued to go on in the same quiet manner, without\nshowing the smallest propensity towards any unpleasant vivacity, and\n(considering its inevitable pace was ten miles an hour) by no means\nalarmingly fast, gave herself up to all the enjoyment of air and\nexercise of the most invigorating kind, in a fine mild day of February,\nwith the consciousness of safety. A silence of several minutes succeeded\ntheir first short dialogue; it was broken by Thorpe's saying very\nabruptly, \"Old Allen is as rich as a Jew--is not he?\" Catherine did not\nunderstand him--and he repeated his question, adding in explanation,\n\"Old Allen, the man you are with.\"\n\n\"Oh! Mr. Allen, you mean. Yes, I believe, he is very rich.\"\n\n\"And no children at all?\"\n\n\"No--not any.\"\n\n\"A famous thing for his next heirs. He is your godfather, is not he?\"\n\n\"My godfather! No.\"\n\n\"But you are always very much with them.\"\n\n\"Yes, very much.\"\n\n\"Aye, that is what I meant. He seems a good kind of old fellow enough,\nand has lived very well in his time, I dare say; he is not gouty for\nnothing. Does he drink his bottle a day now?\"\n\n\"His bottle a day! No. Why should you think of such a thing? He is a\nvery temperate man, and you could not fancy him in liquor last night?\"\n\n\"Lord help you! You women are always thinking of men's being in liquor.\nWhy, you do not suppose a man is overset by a bottle? I am sure of\nthis--that if everybody was to drink their bottle a day, there would not\nbe half the disorders in the world there are now. It would be a famous\ngood thing for us all.\"\n\n\"I cannot believe it.\"\n\n\"Oh! Lord, it would be the saving of thousands. There is not the\nhundredth part of the wine consumed in this kingdom that there ought to\nbe. Our foggy climate wants help.\"\n\n\"And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of wine drunk in\nOxford.\"\n\n\"Oxford! There is no drinking at Oxford now, I assure you. Nobody drinks\nthere. You would hardly meet with a man who goes beyond his four pints\nat the utmost. Now, for instance, it was reckoned a remarkable thing, at\nthe last party in my rooms, that upon an average we cleared about five\npints a head. It was looked upon as something out of the common way.\nMine is famous good stuff, to be sure. You would not often meet with\nanything like it in Oxford--and that may account for it. But this will\njust give you a notion of the general rate of drinking there.\"\n\n\"Yes, it does give a notion,\" said Catherine warmly, \"and that is, that\nyou all drink a great deal more wine than I thought you did. However, I\nam sure James does not drink so much.\"\n\nThis declaration brought on a loud and overpowering reply, of which\nno part was very distinct, except the frequent exclamations, amounting\nalmost to oaths, which adorned it, and Catherine was left, when it\nended, with rather a strengthened belief of there being a great deal\nof wine drunk in Oxford, and the same happy conviction of her brother's\ncomparative sobriety.\n\nThorpe's ideas then all reverted to the merits of his own equipage, and\nshe was called on to admire the spirit and freedom with which his horse\nmoved along, and the ease which his paces, as well as the excellence of\nthe springs, gave the motion of the carriage. She followed him in all\nhis admiration as well as she could. To go before or beyond him was\nimpossible. His knowledge and her ignorance of the subject, his rapidity\nof expression, and her diffidence of herself put that out of her power;\nshe could strike out nothing new in commendation, but she readily echoed\nwhatever he chose to assert, and it was finally settled between them\nwithout any difficulty that his equipage was altogether the most\ncomplete of its kind in England, his carriage the neatest, his horse the\nbest goer, and himself the best coachman. \"You do not really think,\nMr. Thorpe,\" said Catherine, venturing after some time to consider the\nmatter as entirely decided, and to offer some little variation on the\nsubject, \"that James's gig will break down?\"\n\n\"Break down! Oh! Lord! Did you ever see such a little tittuppy thing in\nyour life? There is not a sound piece of iron about it. The wheels have\nbeen fairly worn out these ten years at least--and as for the body! Upon\nmy soul, you might shake it to pieces yourself with a touch. It is the\nmost devilish little rickety business I ever beheld! Thank God! we\nhave got a better. I would not be bound to go two miles in it for fifty\nthousand pounds.\"\n\n\"Good heavens!\" cried Catherine, quite frightened. \"Then pray let us\nturn back; they will certainly meet with an accident if we go on. Do let\nus turn back, Mr. Thorpe; stop and speak to my brother, and tell him how\nvery unsafe it is.\"\n\n\"Unsafe! Oh, lord! What is there in that? They will only get a roll if\nit does break down; and there is plenty of dirt; it will be excellent\nfalling. Oh, curse it! The carriage is safe enough, if a man knows how\nto drive it; a thing of that sort in good hands will last above twenty\nyears after it is fairly worn out. Lord bless you! I would undertake for\nfive pounds to drive it to York and back again, without losing a nail.\"\n\nCatherine listened with astonishment; she knew not how to reconcile two\nsuch very different accounts of the same thing; for she had not been\nbrought up to understand the propensities of a rattle, nor to know to\nhow many idle assertions and impudent falsehoods the excess of vanity\nwill lead. Her own family were plain, matter-of-fact people who seldom\naimed at wit of any kind; her father, at the utmost, being contented\nwith a pun, and her mother with a proverb; they were not in the habit\ntherefore of telling lies to increase their importance, or of asserting\nat one moment what they would contradict the next. She reflected on the\naffair for some time in much perplexity, and was more than once on the\npoint of requesting from Mr. Thorpe a clearer insight into his real\nopinion on the subject; but she checked herself, because it appeared to\nher that he did not excel in giving those clearer insights, in making\nthose things plain which he had before made ambiguous; and, joining to\nthis, the consideration that he would not really suffer his sister and\nhis friend to be exposed to a danger from which he might easily preserve\nthem, she concluded at last that he must know the carriage to be in fact\nperfectly safe, and therefore would alarm herself no longer. By him\nthe whole matter seemed entirely forgotten; and all the rest of his\nconversation, or rather talk, began and ended with himself and his own\nconcerns. He told her of horses which he had bought for a trifle and\nsold for incredible sums; of racing matches, in which his judgment had\ninfallibly foretold the winner; of shooting parties, in which he had\nkilled more birds (though without having one good shot) than all his\ncompanions together; and described to her some famous day's sport, with\nthe fox-hounds, in which his foresight and skill in directing the dogs\nhad repaired the mistakes of the most experienced huntsman, and in which\nthe boldness of his riding, though it had never endangered his own life\nfor a moment, had been constantly leading others into difficulties,\nwhich he calmly concluded had broken the necks of many.\n\nLittle as Catherine was in the habit of judging for herself, and unfixed\nas were her general notions of what men ought to be, she could not\nentirely repress a doubt, while she bore with the effusions of his\nendless conceit, of his being altogether completely agreeable. It was a\nbold surmise, for he was Isabella's brother; and she had been assured by\nJames that his manners would recommend him to all her sex; but in spite\nof this, the extreme weariness of his company, which crept over her\nbefore they had been out an hour, and which continued unceasingly to\nincrease till they stopped in Pulteney Street again, induced her, in\nsome small degree, to resist such high authority, and to distrust his\npowers of giving universal pleasure.\n\nWhen they arrived at Mrs. Allen's door, the astonishment of Isabella was\nhardly to be expressed, on finding that it was too late in the day for\nthem to attend her friend into the house: \"Past three o'clock!\" It was\ninconceivable, incredible, impossible! And she would neither believe her\nown watch, nor her brother's, nor the servant's; she would believe no\nassurance of it founded on reason or reality, till Morland produced his\nwatch, and ascertained the fact; to have doubted a moment longer then\nwould have been equally inconceivable, incredible, and impossible; and\nshe could only protest, over and over again, that no two hours and a\nhalf had ever gone off so swiftly before, as Catherine was called on to\nconfirm; Catherine could not tell a falsehood even to please Isabella;\nbut the latter was spared the misery of her friend's dissenting voice,\nby not waiting for her answer. Her own feelings entirely engrossed\nher; her wretchedness was most acute on finding herself obliged to go\ndirectly home. It was ages since she had had a moment's conversation\nwith her dearest Catherine; and, though she had such thousands of things\nto say to her, it appeared as if they were never to be together again;\nso, with smiles of most exquisite misery, and the laughing eye of utter\ndespondency, she bade her friend adieu and went on.\n\nCatherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the busy idleness of\nthe morning, and was immediately greeted with, \"Well, my dear, here\nyou are,\" a truth which she had no greater inclination than power to\ndispute; \"and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day.\"\n\n\"So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going.\"\n\n\"You have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?\"\n\n\"Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met\nher, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there was hardly\nany veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce.\"\n\n\"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?\"\n\n\"Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs.\nHughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her.\"\n\n\"Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?\"\n\n\"Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem\nvery agreeable people. Miss Tilney was in a very pretty spotted\nmuslin, and I fancy, by what I can learn, that she always dresses very\nhandsomely. Mrs. Hughes talked to me a great deal about the family.\"\n\n\"And what did she tell you of them?\"\n\n\"Oh! A vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of anything else.\"\n\n\"Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they come from?\"\n\n\"Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now. But they are very good kind\nof people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss Drummond, and she\nand Mrs. Hughes were schoolfellows; and Miss Drummond had a very large\nfortune; and, when she married, her father gave her twenty thousand\npounds, and five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all the\nclothes after they came from the warehouse.\"\n\n\"And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath?\"\n\n\"Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite certain. Upon recollection,\nhowever, I have a notion they are both dead; at least the mother is;\nyes, I am sure Mrs. Tilney is dead, because Mrs. Hughes told me there\nwas a very beautiful set of pearls that Mr. Drummond gave his daughter\non her wedding-day and that Miss Tilney has got now, for they were put\nby for her when her mother died.\"\n\n\"And is Mr. Tilney, my partner, the only son?\"\n\n\"I cannot be quite positive about that, my dear; I have some idea he is;\nbut, however, he is a very fine young man, Mrs. Hughes says, and likely\nto do very well.\"\n\nCatherine inquired no further; she had heard enough to feel that\nMrs. Allen had no real intelligence to give, and that she was most\nparticularly unfortunate herself in having missed such a meeting with\nboth brother and sister. Could she have foreseen such a circumstance,\nnothing should have persuaded her to go out with the others; and, as\nit was, she could only lament her ill luck, and think over what she had\nlost, till it was clear to her that the drive had by no means been very\npleasant and that John Thorpe himself was quite disagreeable.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 10\n\n\nThe Allens, Thorpes, and Morlands all met in the evening at the\ntheatre; and, as Catherine and Isabella sat together, there was then an\nopportunity for the latter to utter some few of the many thousand\nthings which had been collecting within her for communication in the\nimmeasurable length of time which had divided them. \"Oh, heavens!\nMy beloved Catherine, have I got you at last?\" was her address on\nCatherine's entering the box and sitting by her. \"Now, Mr. Morland,\" for\nhe was close to her on the other side, \"I shall not speak another word\nto you all the rest of the evening; so I charge you not to expect it. My\nsweetest Catherine, how have you been this long age? But I need not ask\nyou, for you look delightfully. You really have done your hair in a\nmore heavenly style than ever; you mischievous creature, do you want to\nattract everybody? I assure you, my brother is quite in love with you\nalready; and as for Mr. Tilney--but that is a settled thing--even your\nmodesty cannot doubt his attachment now; his coming back to Bath makes\nit too plain. Oh! What would not I give to see him! I really am quite\nwild with impatience. My mother says he is the most delightful young man\nin the world; she saw him this morning, you know; you must introduce him\nto me. Is he in the house now? Look about, for heaven's sake! I assure\nyou, I can hardly exist till I see him.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Catherine, \"he is not here; I cannot see him anywhere.\"\n\n\"Oh, horrid! Am I never to be acquainted with him? How do you like my\ngown? I think it does not look amiss; the sleeves were entirely my own\nthought. Do you know, I get so immoderately sick of Bath; your brother\nand I were agreeing this morning that, though it is vastly well to be\nhere for a few weeks, we would not live here for millions. We soon found\nout that our tastes were exactly alike in preferring the country to\nevery other place; really, our opinions were so exactly the same, it was\nquite ridiculous! There was not a single point in which we differed; I\nwould not have had you by for the world; you are such a sly thing, I am\nsure you would have made some droll remark or other about it.\"\n\n\"No, indeed I should not.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes you would indeed; I know you better than you know yourself. You\nwould have told us that we seemed born for each other, or some nonsense\nof that kind, which would have distressed me beyond conception; my\ncheeks would have been as red as your roses; I would not have had you by\nfor the world.\"\n\n\"Indeed you do me injustice; I would not have made so improper a remark\nupon any account; and besides, I am sure it would never have entered my\nhead.\"\n\nIsabella smiled incredulously and talked the rest of the evening to\nJames.\n\nCatherine's resolution of endeavouring to meet Miss Tilney again\ncontinued in full force the next morning; and till the usual moment of\ngoing to the pump-room, she felt some alarm from the dread of a second\nprevention. But nothing of that kind occurred, no visitors appeared to\ndelay them, and they all three set off in good time for the pump-room,\nwhere the ordinary course of events and conversation took place; Mr.\nAllen, after drinking his glass of water, joined some gentlemen to\ntalk over the politics of the day and compare the accounts of their\nnewspapers; and the ladies walked about together, noticing every new\nface, and almost every new bonnet in the room. The female part of the\nThorpe family, attended by James Morland, appeared among the crowd in\nless than a quarter of an hour, and Catherine immediately took her\nusual place by the side of her friend. James, who was now in constant\nattendance, maintained a similar position, and separating themselves\nfrom the rest of their party, they walked in that manner for some\ntime, till Catherine began to doubt the happiness of a situation which,\nconfining her entirely to her friend and brother, gave her very\nlittle share in the notice of either. They were always engaged in\nsome sentimental discussion or lively dispute, but their sentiment was\nconveyed in such whispering voices, and their vivacity attended with\nso much laughter, that though Catherine's supporting opinion was not\nunfrequently called for by one or the other, she was never able to give\nany, from not having heard a word of the subject. At length however\nshe was empowered to disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed\nnecessity of speaking to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just\nentering the room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she instantly joined, with\na firmer determination to be acquainted, than she might have had courage\nto command, had she not been urged by the disappointment of the day\nbefore. Miss Tilney met her with great civility, returned her advances\nwith equal goodwill, and they continued talking together as long as\nboth parties remained in the room; and though in all probability not\nan observation was made, nor an expression used by either which had not\nbeen made and used some thousands of times before, under that roof, in\nevery Bath season, yet the merit of their being spoken with simplicity\nand truth, and without personal conceit, might be something uncommon.\n\n\"How well your brother dances!\" was an artless exclamation of\nCatherine's towards the close of their conversation, which at once\nsurprised and amused her companion.\n\n\"Henry!\" she replied with a smile. \"Yes, he does dance very well.\"\n\n\"He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other\nevening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been engaged\nthe whole day to Mr. Thorpe.\" Miss Tilney could only bow. \"You cannot\nthink,\" added Catherine after a moment's silence, \"how surprised I was\nto see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away.\"\n\n\"When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but\nfor a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us.\"\n\n\"That never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I\nthought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday\na Miss Smith?\"\n\n\"Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes.\"\n\n\"I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?\"\n\n\"Not very.\"\n\n\"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father.\"\n\nMrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to\ngo. \"I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon,\" said\nCatherine. \"Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?\"\n\n\"Perhaps we--Yes, I think we certainly shall.\"\n\n\"I am glad of it, for we shall all be there.\" This civility was duly\nreturned; and they parted--on Miss Tilney's side with some knowledge\nof her new acquaintance's feelings, and on Catherine's, without the\nsmallest consciousness of having explained them.\n\nShe went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and\nthe evening of the following day was now the object of expectation,\nthe future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the\noccasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress\nis at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about\nit often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her\ngreat aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas\nbefore; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating\nbetween her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the\nshortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening.\nThis would have been an error in judgment, great though not uncommon,\nfrom which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother rather\nthan a great aunt, might have warned her, for man only can be aware of\nthe insensibility of man towards a new gown. It would be mortifying to\nthe feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how little\nthe heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their attire;\nhow little it is biased by the texture of their muslin, and how\nunsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged,\nthe mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone.\nNo man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the better for\nit. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a something of\nshabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the latter. But not\none of these grave reflections troubled the tranquillity of Catherine.\n\nShe entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very different\nfrom what had attended her thither the Monday before. She had then been\nexulting in her engagement to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to\navoid his sight, lest he should engage her again; for though she could\nnot, dared not expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third time to\ndance, her wishes, hopes, and plans all centred in nothing less. Every\nyoung lady may feel for my heroine in this critical moment, for every\nyoung lady has at some time or other known the same agitation. All have\nbeen, or at least all have believed themselves to be, in danger from the\npursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid; and all have been anxious\nfor the attentions of someone whom they wished to please. As soon as\nthey were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine's agony began; she fidgeted\nabout if John Thorpe came towards her, hid herself as much as possible\nfrom his view, and when he spoke to her pretended not to hear him. The\ncotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning, and she saw nothing\nof the Tilneys.\n\n\"Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,\" whispered Isabella, \"but I am\nreally going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively it\nis quite shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but you\nand John must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear creature, and\ncome to us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a moment.\"\n\nCatherine had neither time nor inclination to answer. The others walked\naway, John Thorpe was still in view, and she gave herself up for lost.\nThat she might not appear, however, to observe or expect him, she kept\nher eyes intently fixed on her fan; and a self-condemnation for her\nfolly, in supposing that among such a crowd they should even meet with\nthe Tilneys in any reasonable time, had just passed through her mind,\nwhen she suddenly found herself addressed and again solicited to dance,\nby Mr. Tilney himself. With what sparkling eyes and ready motion she\ngranted his request, and with how pleasing a flutter of heart she went\nwith him to the set, may be easily imagined. To escape, and, as\nshe believed, so narrowly escape John Thorpe, and to be asked, so\nimmediately on his joining her, asked by Mr. Tilney, as if he had sought\nher on purpose!--it did not appear to her that life could supply any\ngreater felicity.\n\nScarcely had they worked themselves into the quiet possession of a\nplace, however, when her attention was claimed by John Thorpe, who stood\nbehind her. \"Heyday, Miss Morland!\" said he. \"What is the meaning of\nthis? I thought you and I were to dance together.\"\n\n\"I wonder you should think so, for you never asked me.\"\n\n\"That is a good one, by Jove! I asked you as soon as I came into the\nroom, and I was just going to ask you again, but when I turned round,\nyou were gone! This is a cursed shabby trick! I only came for the sake\nof dancing with you, and I firmly believe you were engaged to me ever\nsince Monday. Yes; I remember, I asked you while you were waiting in the\nlobby for your cloak. And here have I been telling all my acquaintance\nthat I was going to dance with the prettiest girl in the room; and\nwhen they see you standing up with somebody else, they will quiz me\nfamously.\"\n\n\"Oh, no; they will never think of me, after such a description as that.\"\n\n\"By heavens, if they do not, I will kick them out of the room for\nblockheads. What chap have you there?\" Catherine satisfied his\ncuriosity. \"Tilney,\" he repeated. \"Hum--I do not know him. A good figure\nof a man; well put together. Does he want a horse? Here is a friend\nof mine, Sam Fletcher, has got one to sell that would suit anybody. A\nfamous clever animal for the road--only forty guineas. I had fifty minds\nto buy it myself, for it is one of my maxims always to buy a good horse\nwhen I meet with one; but it would not answer my purpose, it would not\ndo for the field. I would give any money for a real good hunter. I\nhave three now, the best that ever were backed. I would not take\neight hundred guineas for them. Fletcher and I mean to get a house in\nLeicestershire, against the next season. It is so d--uncomfortable,\nliving at an inn.\"\n\nThis was the last sentence by which he could weary Catherine's\nattention, for he was just then borne off by the resistless pressure of\na long string of passing ladies. Her partner now drew near, and said,\n\"That gentleman would have put me out of patience, had he stayed with\nyou half a minute longer. He has no business to withdraw the attention\nof my partner from me. We have entered into a contract of mutual\nagreeableness for the space of an evening, and all our agreeableness\nbelongs solely to each other for that time. Nobody can fasten themselves\non the notice of one, without injuring the rights of the other.\nI consider a country-dance as an emblem of marriage. Fidelity and\ncomplaisance are the principal duties of both; and those men who do not\nchoose to dance or marry themselves, have no business with the partners\nor wives of their neighbours.\"\n\n\"But they are such very different things!\"\n\n\"--That you think they cannot be compared together.\"\n\n\"To be sure not. People that marry can never part, but must go and keep\nhouse together. People that dance only stand opposite each other in a\nlong room for half an hour.\"\n\n\"And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing. Taken in that\nlight certainly, their resemblance is not striking; but I think I could\nplace them in such a view. You will allow, that in both, man has the\nadvantage of choice, woman only the power of refusal; that in both,\nit is an engagement between man and woman, formed for the advantage of\neach; and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to each\nother till the moment of its dissolution; that it is their duty, each\nto endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that he or she had\nbestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best interest to keep their own\nimaginations from wandering towards the perfections of their neighbours,\nor fancying that they should have been better off with anyone else. You\nwill allow all this?\"\n\n\"Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds very well; but still\nthey are so very different. I cannot look upon them at all in the same\nlight, nor think the same duties belong to them.\"\n\n\"In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man\nis supposed to provide for the support of the woman, the woman to make\nthe home agreeable to the man; he is to purvey, and she is to smile.\nBut in dancing, their duties are exactly changed; the agreeableness, the\ncompliance are expected from him, while she furnishes the fan and the\nlavender water. That, I suppose, was the difference of duties which\nstruck you, as rendering the conditions incapable of comparison.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I never thought of that.\"\n\n\"Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however, I must observe. This\ndisposition on your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow any\nsimilarity in the obligations; and may I not thence infer that your\nnotions of the duties of the dancing state are not so strict as your\npartner might wish? Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman who\nspoke to you just now were to return, or if any other gentleman were to\naddress you, there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing with\nhim as long as you chose?\"\n\n\"Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother's, that if he\ntalks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three young\nmen in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with.\"\n\n\"And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!\"\n\n\"Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody,\nit is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not want to\ntalk to anybody.\"\n\n\"Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed\nwith courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of\nmaking the inquiry before?\"\n\n\"Yes, quite--more so, indeed.\"\n\n\"More so! Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper\ntime. You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks.\"\n\n\"I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months.\"\n\n\"Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds\nout every year. 'For six weeks, I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but\nbeyond that, it is the most tiresome place in the world.' You would be\ntold so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly every winter,\nlengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at last because\nthey can afford to stay no longer.\"\n\n\"Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to\nLondon may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired\nvillage in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place\nas this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a\nvariety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know\nnothing of there.\"\n\n\"You are not fond of the country.\"\n\n\"Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But\ncertainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath\nlife. One day in the country is exactly like another.\"\n\n\"But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country.\"\n\n\"Do I?\"\n\n\"Do you not?\"\n\n\"I do not believe there is much difference.\"\n\n\"Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long.\"\n\n\"And so I am at home--only I do not find so much of it. I walk about\nhere, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every\nstreet, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen.\"\n\nMr. Tilney was very much amused.\n\n\"Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!\" he repeated. \"What a picture of\nintellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you\nwill have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that\nyou did here.\"\n\n\"Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs.\nAllen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking of\nBath, when I am at home again--I do like it so very much. If I could but\nhave Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them here, I suppose I should be\ntoo happy! James's coming (my eldest brother) is quite delightful--and\nespecially as it turns out that the very family we are just got so\nintimate with are his intimate friends already. Oh! Who can ever be\ntired of Bath?\"\n\n\"Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do.\nBut papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are a good deal\ngone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath--and the honest relish of\nballs and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them.\" Here\ntheir conversation closed, the demands of the dance becoming now too\nimportunate for a divided attention.\n\nSoon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine perceived\nherself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the\nlookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He was a very handsome man,\nof a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour of\nlife; and with his eye still directed towards her, she saw him presently\naddress Mr. Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by his notice, and\nblushing from the fear of its being excited by something wrong in\nher appearance, she turned away her head. But while she did so, the\ngentleman retreated, and her partner, coming nearer, said, \"I see that\nyou guess what I have just been asked. That gentleman knows your name,\nand you have a right to know his. It is General Tilney, my father.\"\n\nCatherine's answer was only \"Oh!\"--but it was an \"Oh!\" expressing\neverything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance on\ntheir truth. With real interest and strong admiration did her eye now\nfollow the general, as he moved through the crowd, and \"How handsome a\nfamily they are!\" was her secret remark.\n\nIn chatting with Miss Tilney before the evening concluded, a new source\nof felicity arose to her. She had never taken a country walk since\nher arrival in Bath. Miss Tilney, to whom all the commonly frequented\nenvirons were familiar, spoke of them in terms which made her all\neagerness to know them too; and on her openly fearing that she might\nfind nobody to go with her, it was proposed by the brother and sister\nthat they should join in a walk, some morning or other. \"I shall like\nit,\" she cried, \"beyond anything in the world; and do not let us put\nit off--let us go tomorrow.\" This was readily agreed to, with only a\nproviso of Miss Tilney's, that it did not rain, which Catherine was sure\nit would not. At twelve o'clock, they were to call for her in Pulteney\nStreet; and \"Remember--twelve o'clock,\" was her parting speech to\nher new friend. Of her other, her older, her more established friend,\nIsabella, of whose fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a fortnight's\nexperience, she scarcely saw anything during the evening. Yet, though\nlonging to make her acquainted with her happiness, she cheerfully\nsubmitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them rather early away,\nand her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her chair all the\nway home.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 11\n\n\nThe morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only\na few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most\nfavourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year,\nshe allowed, would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold\nimprovement as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for\nconfirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and\nbarometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine.\nShe applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen's opinion was more positive.\n\"She had no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the\nclouds would only go off, and the sun keep out.\"\n\nAt about eleven o'clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the\nwindows caught Catherine's watchful eye, and \"Oh! dear, I do believe it\nwill be wet,\" broke from her in a most desponding tone.\n\n\"I thought how it would be,\" said Mrs. Allen.\n\n\"No walk for me today,\" sighed Catherine; \"but perhaps it may come to\nnothing, or it may hold up before twelve.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it may, but then, my dear, it will be so dirty.\"\n\n\"Oh! That will not signify; I never mind dirt.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied her friend very placidly, \"I know you never mind dirt.\"\n\nAfter a short pause, \"It comes on faster and faster!\" said Catherine, as\nshe stood watching at a window.\n\n\"So it does indeed. If it keeps raining, the streets will be very wet.\"\n\n\"There are four umbrellas up already. How I hate the sight of an\numbrella!\"\n\n\"They are disagreeable things to carry. I would much rather take a chair\nat any time.\"\n\n\"It was such a nice-looking morning! I felt so convinced it would be\ndry!\"\n\n\"Anybody would have thought so indeed. There will be very few people in\nthe pump-room, if it rains all the morning. I hope Mr. Allen will put\non his greatcoat when he goes, but I dare say he will not, for he had\nrather do anything in the world than walk out in a greatcoat; I wonder\nhe should dislike it, it must be so comfortable.\"\n\nThe rain continued--fast, though not heavy. Catherine went every five\nminutes to the clock, threatening on each return that, if it still\nkept on raining another five minutes, she would give up the matter as\nhopeless. The clock struck twelve, and it still rained. \"You will not be\nable to go, my dear.\"\n\n\"I do not quite despair yet. I shall not give it up till a quarter after\ntwelve. This is just the time of day for it to clear up, and I do think\nit looks a little lighter. There, it is twenty minutes after twelve, and\nnow I shall give it up entirely. Oh! That we had such weather here\nas they had at Udolpho, or at least in Tuscany and the south of\nFrance!--the night that poor St. Aubin died!--such beautiful weather!\"\n\nAt half past twelve, when Catherine's anxious attention to the weather\nwas over and she could no longer claim any merit from its amendment, the\nsky began voluntarily to clear. A gleam of sunshine took her quite by\nsurprise; she looked round; the clouds were parting, and she instantly\nreturned to the window to watch over and encourage the happy appearance.\nTen minutes more made it certain that a bright afternoon would succeed,\nand justified the opinion of Mrs. Allen, who had \"always thought it\nwould clear up.\" But whether Catherine might still expect her friends,\nwhether there had not been too much rain for Miss Tilney to venture,\nmust yet be a question.\n\nIt was too dirty for Mrs. Allen to accompany her husband to the\npump-room; he accordingly set off by himself, and Catherine had barely\nwatched him down the street when her notice was claimed by the approach\nof the same two open carriages, containing the same three people that\nhad surprised her so much a few mornings back.\n\n\"Isabella, my brother, and Mr. Thorpe, I declare! They are coming for\nme perhaps--but I shall not go--I cannot go indeed, for you know Miss\nTilney may still call.\" Mrs. Allen agreed to it. John Thorpe was soon\nwith them, and his voice was with them yet sooner, for on the stairs he\nwas calling out to Miss Morland to be quick. \"Make haste! Make haste!\"\nas he threw open the door. \"Put on your hat this moment--there is no\ntime to be lost--we are going to Bristol. How d'ye do, Mrs. Allen?\"\n\n\"To Bristol! Is not that a great way off? But, however, I cannot go with\nyou today, because I am engaged; I expect some friends every moment.\"\nThis was of course vehemently talked down as no reason at all; Mrs.\nAllen was called on to second him, and the two others walked in, to give\ntheir assistance. \"My sweetest Catherine, is not this delightful? We\nshall have a most heavenly drive. You are to thank your brother and me\nfor the scheme; it darted into our heads at breakfast-time, I verily\nbelieve at the same instant; and we should have been off two hours ago\nif it had not been for this detestable rain. But it does not signify,\nthe nights are moonlight, and we shall do delightfully. Oh! I am in such\necstasies at the thoughts of a little country air and quiet! So much\nbetter than going to the Lower Rooms. We shall drive directly to Clifton\nand dine there; and, as soon as dinner is over, if there is time for it,\ngo on to Kingsweston.\"\n\n\"I doubt our being able to do so much,\" said Morland.\n\n\"You croaking fellow!\" cried Thorpe. \"We shall be able to do ten times\nmore. Kingsweston! Aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can\nhear of; but here is your sister says she will not go.\"\n\n\"Blaize Castle!\" cried Catherine. \"What is that'?\"\n\n\"The finest place in England--worth going fifty miles at any time to\nsee.\"\n\n\"What, is it really a castle, an old castle?\"\n\n\"The oldest in the kingdom.\"\n\n\"But is it like what one reads of?\"\n\n\"Exactly--the very same.\"\n\n\"But now really--are there towers and long galleries?\"\n\n\"By dozens.\"\n\n\"Then I should like to see it; but I cannot--I cannot go.\n\n\"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean'?\"\n\n\"I cannot go, because\"--looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella's\nsmile--\"I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a\ncountry walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now,\nas it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon.\"\n\n\"Not they indeed,\" cried Thorpe; \"for, as we turned into Broad Street, I\nsaw them--does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?\"\n\n\"I do not know indeed.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced\nwith last night, are not you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\n\n\"Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a\nsmart-looking girl.\"\n\n\"Did you indeed?\"\n\n\"Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he seemed to have got\nsome very pretty cattle too.\"\n\n\"It is very odd! But I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for a\nwalk.\"\n\n\"And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life. Walk!\nYou could no more walk than you could fly! It has not been so dirty the\nwhole winter; it is ankle-deep everywhere.\"\n\nIsabella corroborated it: \"My dearest Catherine, you cannot form an idea\nof the dirt; come, you must go; you cannot refuse going now.\"\n\n\"I should like to see the castle; but may we go all over it? May we go\nup every staircase, and into every suite of rooms?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, every hole and corner.\"\n\n\"But then, if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is dryer,\nand call by and by?\"\n\n\"Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard Tilney\nhallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback, that they were\ngoing as far as Wick Rocks.\"\n\n\"Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen?\"\n\n\"Just as you please, my dear.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Allen, you must persuade her to go,\" was the general cry. Mrs.\nAllen was not inattentive to it: \"Well, my dear,\" said she, \"suppose you\ngo.\" And in two minutes they were off.\n\nCatherine's feelings, as she got into the carriage, were in a very\nunsettled state; divided between regret for the loss of one great\npleasure, and the hope of soon enjoying another, almost its equal in\ndegree, however unlike in kind. She could not think the Tilneys had\nacted quite well by her, in so readily giving up their engagement,\nwithout sending her any message of excuse. It was now but an hour later\nthan the time fixed on for the beginning of their walk; and, in spite of\nwhat she had heard of the prodigious accumulation of dirt in the course\nof that hour, she could not from her own observation help thinking that\nthey might have gone with very little inconvenience. To feel herself\nslighted by them was very painful. On the other hand, the delight of\nexploring an edifice like Udolpho, as her fancy represented Blaize\nCastle to be, was such a counterpoise of good as might console her for\nalmost anything.\n\nThey passed briskly down Pulteney Street, and through Laura Place,\nwithout the exchange of many words. Thorpe talked to his horse, and she\nmeditated, by turns, on broken promises and broken arches, phaetons\nand false hangings, Tilneys and trap-doors. As they entered Argyle\nBuildings, however, she was roused by this address from her companion,\n\"Who is that girl who looked at you so hard as she went by?\"\n\n\"Who? Where?\"\n\n\"On the right-hand pavement--she must be almost out of sight now.\"\nCatherine looked round and saw Miss Tilney leaning on her brother's arm,\nwalking slowly down the street. She saw them both looking back at her.\n\"Stop, stop, Mr. Thorpe,\" she impatiently cried; \"it is Miss Tilney; it\nis indeed. How could you tell me they were gone? Stop, stop, I will\nget out this moment and go to them.\" But to what purpose did she speak?\nThorpe only lashed his horse into a brisker trot; the Tilneys, who had\nsoon ceased to look after her, were in a moment out of sight round the\ncorner of Laura Place, and in another moment she was herself whisked\ninto the marketplace. Still, however, and during the length of another\nstreet, she entreated him to stop. \"Pray, pray stop, Mr. Thorpe. I\ncannot go on. I will not go on. I must go back to Miss Tilney.\" But Mr.\nThorpe only laughed, smacked his whip, encouraged his horse, made odd\nnoises, and drove on; and Catherine, angry and vexed as she was, having\nno power of getting away, was obliged to give up the point and submit.\nHer reproaches, however, were not spared. \"How could you deceive me so,\nMr. Thorpe? How could you say that you saw them driving up the Lansdown\nRoad? I would not have had it happen so for the world. They must think\nit so strange, so rude of me! To go by them, too, without saying a word!\nYou do not know how vexed I am; I shall have no pleasure at Clifton, nor\nin anything else. I had rather, ten thousand times rather, get out now,\nand walk back to them. How could you say you saw them driving out in a\nphaeton?\" Thorpe defended himself very stoutly, declared he had never\nseen two men so much alike in his life, and would hardly give up the\npoint of its having been Tilney himself.\n\nTheir drive, even when this subject was over, was not likely to be very\nagreeable. Catherine's complaisance was no longer what it had been in\ntheir former airing. She listened reluctantly, and her replies were\nshort. Blaize Castle remained her only comfort; towards that, she still\nlooked at intervals with pleasure; though rather than be disappointed of\nthe promised walk, and especially rather than be thought ill of by the\nTilneys, she would willingly have given up all the happiness which its\nwalls could supply--the happiness of a progress through a long suite of\nlofty rooms, exhibiting the remains of magnificent furniture, though\nnow for many years deserted--the happiness of being stopped in their way\nalong narrow, winding vaults, by a low, grated door; or even of having\ntheir lamp, their only lamp, extinguished by a sudden gust of wind, and\nof being left in total darkness. In the meanwhile, they proceeded on\ntheir journey without any mischance, and were within view of the town\nof Keynsham, when a halloo from Morland, who was behind them, made his\nfriend pull up, to know what was the matter. The others then came close\nenough for conversation, and Morland said, \"We had better go back,\nThorpe; it is too late to go on today; your sister thinks so as well as\nI. We have been exactly an hour coming from Pulteney Street, very little\nmore than seven miles; and, I suppose, we have at least eight more to\ngo. It will never do. We set out a great deal too late. We had much\nbetter put it off till another day, and turn round.\"\n\n\"It is all one to me,\" replied Thorpe rather angrily; and instantly\nturning his horse, they were on their way back to Bath.\n\n\"If your brother had not got such a d--beast to drive,\" said he soon\nafterwards, \"we might have done it very well. My horse would have\ntrotted to Clifton within the hour, if left to himself, and I have\nalmost broke my arm with pulling him in to that cursed broken-winded\njade's pace. Morland is a fool for not keeping a horse and gig of his\nown.\"\n\n\"No, he is not,\" said Catherine warmly, \"for I am sure he could not\nafford it.\"\n\n\"And why cannot he afford it?\"\n\n\"Because he has not money enough.\"\n\n\"And whose fault is that?\"\n\n\"Nobody's, that I know of.\" Thorpe then said something in the loud,\nincoherent way to which he had often recourse, about its being a\nd--thing to be miserly; and that if people who rolled in money could not\nafford things, he did not know who could, which Catherine did not even\nendeavour to understand. Disappointed of what was to have been the\nconsolation for her first disappointment, she was less and less disposed\neither to be agreeable herself or to find her companion so; and they\nreturned to Pulteney Street without her speaking twenty words.\n\nAs she entered the house, the footman told her that a gentleman and lady\nhad called and inquired for her a few minutes after her setting off;\nthat, when he told them she was gone out with Mr. Thorpe, the lady had\nasked whether any message had been left for her; and on his saying no,\nhad felt for a card, but said she had none about her, and went away.\nPondering over these heart-rending tidings, Catherine walked slowly\nupstairs. At the head of them she was met by Mr. Allen, who, on hearing\nthe reason of their speedy return, said, \"I am glad your brother had so\nmuch sense; I am glad you are come back. It was a strange, wild scheme.\"\n\nThey all spent the evening together at Thorpe's. Catherine was disturbed\nand out of spirits; but Isabella seemed to find a pool of commerce, in\nthe fate of which she shared, by private partnership with Morland, a\nvery good equivalent for the quiet and country air of an inn at Clifton.\nHer satisfaction, too, in not being at the Lower Rooms was spoken more\nthan once. \"How I pity the poor creatures that are going there! How glad\nI am that I am not amongst them! I wonder whether it will be a full ball\nor not! They have not begun dancing yet. I would not be there for\nall the world. It is so delightful to have an evening now and then\nto oneself. I dare say it will not be a very good ball. I know the\nMitchells will not be there. I am sure I pity everybody that is. But I\ndare say, Mr. Morland, you long to be at it, do not you? I am sure you\ndo. Well, pray do not let anybody here be a restraint on you. I dare say\nwe could do very well without you; but you men think yourselves of such\nconsequence.\"\n\nCatherine could almost have accused Isabella of being wanting in\ntenderness towards herself and her sorrows, so very little did they\nappear to dwell on her mind, and so very inadequate was the comfort she\noffered. \"Do not be so dull, my dearest creature,\" she whispered. \"You\nwill quite break my heart. It was amazingly shocking, to be sure; but\nthe Tilneys were entirely to blame. Why were not they more punctual?\nIt was dirty, indeed, but what did that signify? I am sure John and I\nshould not have minded it. I never mind going through anything, where a\nfriend is concerned; that is my disposition, and John is just the same;\nhe has amazing strong feelings. Good heavens! What a delightful hand you\nhave got! Kings, I vow! I never was so happy in my life! I would fifty\ntimes rather you should have them than myself.\"\n\nAnd now I may dismiss my heroine to the sleepless couch, which is the\ntrue heroine's portion; to a pillow strewed with thorns and wet with\ntears. And lucky may she think herself, if she get another good night's\nrest in the course of the next three months.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 12\n\n\n\"Mrs. Allen,\" said Catherine the next morning, \"will there be any harm\nin my calling on Miss Tilney today? I shall not be easy till I have\nexplained everything.\"\n\n\"Go, by all means, my dear; only put on a white gown; Miss Tilney always\nwears white.\"\n\nCatherine cheerfully complied, and being properly equipped, was more\nimpatient than ever to be at the pump-room, that she might inform\nherself of General Tilney's lodgings, for though she believed they were\nin Milsom Street, she was not certain of the house, and Mrs. Allen's\nwavering convictions only made it more doubtful. To Milsom Street she\nwas directed, and having made herself perfect in the number, hastened\naway with eager steps and a beating heart to pay her visit, explain her\nconduct, and be forgiven; tripping lightly through the church-yard, and\nresolutely turning away her eyes, that she might not be obliged to\nsee her beloved Isabella and her dear family, who, she had reason to\nbelieve, were in a shop hard by. She reached the house without any\nimpediment, looked at the number, knocked at the door, and inquired for\nMiss Tilney. The man believed Miss Tilney to be at home, but was not\nquite certain. Would she be pleased to send up her name? She gave her\ncard. In a few minutes the servant returned, and with a look which did\nnot quite confirm his words, said he had been mistaken, for that Miss\nTilney was walked out. Catherine, with a blush of mortification, left\nthe house. She felt almost persuaded that Miss Tilney was at home, and\ntoo much offended to admit her; and as she retired down the street,\ncould not withhold one glance at the drawing-room windows, in\nexpectation of seeing her there, but no one appeared at them. At the\nbottom of the street, however, she looked back again, and then, not at a\nwindow, but issuing from the door, she saw Miss Tilney herself. She was\nfollowed by a gentleman, whom Catherine believed to be her father,\nand they turned up towards Edgar's Buildings. Catherine, in deep\nmortification, proceeded on her way. She could almost be angry herself\nat such angry incivility; but she checked the resentful sensation; she\nremembered her own ignorance. She knew not how such an offence as hers\nmight be classed by the laws of worldly politeness, to what a degree\nof unforgivingness it might with propriety lead, nor to what rigours of\nrudeness in return it might justly make her amenable.\n\nDejected and humbled, she had even some thoughts of not going with the\nothers to the theatre that night; but it must be confessed that they\nwere not of long continuance, for she soon recollected, in the first\nplace, that she was without any excuse for staying at home; and, in the\nsecond, that it was a play she wanted very much to see. To the theatre\naccordingly they all went; no Tilneys appeared to plague or please her;\nshe feared that, amongst the many perfections of the family, a fondness\nfor plays was not to be ranked; but perhaps it was because they were\nhabituated to the finer performances of the London stage, which she\nknew, on Isabella's authority, rendered everything else of the kind\n\"quite horrid.\" She was not deceived in her own expectation of pleasure;\nthe comedy so well suspended her care that no one, observing her during\nthe first four acts, would have supposed she had any wretchedness about\nher. On the beginning of the fifth, however, the sudden view of Mr.\nHenry Tilney and his father, joining a party in the opposite box,\nrecalled her to anxiety and distress. The stage could no longer excite\ngenuine merriment--no longer keep her whole attention. Every other look\nupon an average was directed towards the opposite box; and, for the\nspace of two entire scenes, did she thus watch Henry Tilney, without\nbeing once able to catch his eye. No longer could he be suspected of\nindifference for a play; his notice was never withdrawn from the stage\nduring two whole scenes. At length, however, he did look towards her,\nand he bowed--but such a bow! No smile, no continued observance attended\nit; his eyes were immediately returned to their former direction.\nCatherine was restlessly miserable; she could almost have run round to\nthe box in which he sat and forced him to hear her explanation. Feelings\nrather natural than heroic possessed her; instead of considering her\nown dignity injured by this ready condemnation--instead of proudly\nresolving, in conscious innocence, to show her resentment towards him\nwho could harbour a doubt of it, to leave to him all the trouble\nof seeking an explanation, and to enlighten him on the past only by\navoiding his sight, or flirting with somebody else--she took to herself\nall the shame of misconduct, or at least of its appearance, and was only\neager for an opportunity of explaining its cause.\n\nThe play concluded--the curtain fell--Henry Tilney was no longer to be\nseen where he had hitherto sat, but his father remained, and perhaps he\nmight be now coming round to their box. She was right; in a few minutes\nhe appeared, and, making his way through the then thinning rows, spoke\nwith like calm politeness to Mrs. Allen and her friend. Not with such\ncalmness was he answered by the latter: \"Oh! Mr. Tilney, I have been\nquite wild to speak to you, and make my apologies. You must have thought\nme so rude; but indeed it was not my own fault, was it, Mrs. Allen?\nDid not they tell me that Mr. Tilney and his sister were gone out in a\nphaeton together? And then what could I do? But I had ten thousand times\nrather have been with you; now had not I, Mrs. Allen?\"\n\n\"My dear, you tumble my gown,\" was Mrs. Allen's reply.\n\nHer assurance, however, standing sole as it did, was not thrown away; it\nbrought a more cordial, more natural smile into his countenance, and\nhe replied in a tone which retained only a little affected reserve:\n\"We were much obliged to you at any rate for wishing us a pleasant walk\nafter our passing you in Argyle Street: you were so kind as to look back\non purpose.\"\n\n\"But indeed I did not wish you a pleasant walk; I never thought of such\na thing; but I begged Mr. Thorpe so earnestly to stop; I called out to\nhim as soon as ever I saw you; now, Mrs. Allen, did not--Oh! You were\nnot there; but indeed I did; and, if Mr. Thorpe would only have stopped,\nI would have jumped out and run after you.\"\n\nIs there a Henry in the world who could be insensible to such a\ndeclaration? Henry Tilney at least was not. With a yet sweeter smile, he\nsaid everything that need be said of his sister's concern, regret, and\ndependence on Catherine's honour. \"Oh! Do not say Miss Tilney was not\nangry,\" cried Catherine, \"because I know she was; for she would not see\nme this morning when I called; I saw her walk out of the house the next\nminute after my leaving it; I was hurt, but I was not affronted. Perhaps\nyou did not know I had been there.\"\n\n\"I was not within at the time; but I heard of it from Eleanor, and she\nhas been wishing ever since to see you, to explain the reason of such\nincivility; but perhaps I can do it as well. It was nothing more than\nthat my father--they were just preparing to walk out, and he being\nhurried for time, and not caring to have it put off--made a point of her\nbeing denied. That was all, I do assure you. She was very much vexed,\nand meant to make her apology as soon as possible.\"\n\nCatherine's mind was greatly eased by this information, yet a something\nof solicitude remained, from which sprang the following question,\nthoroughly artless in itself, though rather distressing to the\ngentleman: \"But, Mr. Tilney, why were you less generous than your\nsister? If she felt such confidence in my good intentions, and could\nsuppose it to be only a mistake, why should you be so ready to take\noffence?\"\n\n\"Me! I take offence!\"\n\n\"Nay, I am sure by your look, when you came into the box, you were\nangry.\"\n\n\"I angry! I could have no right.\"\n\n\"Well, nobody would have thought you had no right who saw your face.\" He\nreplied by asking her to make room for him, and talking of the play.\n\nHe remained with them some time, and was only too agreeable for\nCatherine to be contented when he went away. Before they parted,\nhowever, it was agreed that the projected walk should be taken as soon\nas possible; and, setting aside the misery of his quitting their box,\nshe was, upon the whole, left one of the happiest creatures in the\nworld.\n\nWhile talking to each other, she had observed with some surprise that\nJohn Thorpe, who was never in the same part of the house for ten minutes\ntogether, was engaged in conversation with General Tilney; and she felt\nsomething more than surprise when she thought she could perceive herself\nthe object of their attention and discourse. What could they have to say\nof her? She feared General Tilney did not like her appearance: she found\nit was implied in his preventing her admittance to his daughter, rather\nthan postpone his own walk a few minutes. \"How came Mr. Thorpe to know\nyour father?\" was her anxious inquiry, as she pointed them out to her\ncompanion. He knew nothing about it; but his father, like every military\nman, had a very large acquaintance.\n\nWhen the entertainment was over, Thorpe came to assist them in getting\nout. Catherine was the immediate object of his gallantry; and, while\nthey waited in the lobby for a chair, he prevented the inquiry which had\ntravelled from her heart almost to the tip of her tongue, by asking, in\na consequential manner, whether she had seen him talking with General\nTilney: \"He is a fine old fellow, upon my soul! Stout, active--looks\nas young as his son. I have a great regard for him, I assure you: a\ngentleman-like, good sort of fellow as ever lived.\"\n\n\"But how came you to know him?\"\n\n\"Know him! There are few people much about town that I do not know. I\nhave met him forever at the Bedford; and I knew his face again today the\nmoment he came into the billiard-room. One of the best players we have,\nby the by; and we had a little touch together, though I was almost\nafraid of him at first: the odds were five to four against me; and, if\nI had not made one of the cleanest strokes that perhaps ever was made in\nthis world--I took his ball exactly--but I could not make you understand\nit without a table; however, I did beat him. A very fine fellow; as rich\nas a Jew. I should like to dine with him; I dare say he gives famous\ndinners. But what do you think we have been talking of? You. Yes, by\nheavens! And the general thinks you the finest girl in Bath.\"\n\n\"Oh! Nonsense! How can you say so?\"\n\n\"And what do you think I said?\"--lowering his voice--\"well done,\ngeneral, said I; I am quite of your mind.\"\n\nHere Catherine, who was much less gratified by his admiration than by\nGeneral Tilney's, was not sorry to be called away by Mr. Allen. Thorpe,\nhowever, would see her to her chair, and, till she entered it, continued\nthe same kind of delicate flattery, in spite of her entreating him to\nhave done.\n\nThat General Tilney, instead of disliking, should admire her, was very\ndelightful; and she joyfully thought that there was not one of the\nfamily whom she need now fear to meet. The evening had done more, much\nmore, for her than could have been expected.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 13\n\n\nMonday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday have now\npassed in review before the reader; the events of each day, its hopes\nand fears, mortifications and pleasures, have been separately stated,\nand the pangs of Sunday only now remain to be described, and close the\nweek. The Clifton scheme had been deferred, not relinquished, and on\nthe afternoon's crescent of this day, it was brought forward again. In a\nprivate consultation between Isabella and James, the former of whom had\nparticularly set her heart upon going, and the latter no less anxiously\nplaced his upon pleasing her, it was agreed that, provided the weather\nwere fair, the party should take place on the following morning; and\nthey were to set off very early, in order to be at home in good time.\nThe affair thus determined, and Thorpe's approbation secured, Catherine\nonly remained to be apprised of it. She had left them for a few minutes\nto speak to Miss Tilney. In that interval the plan was completed, and as\nsoon as she came again, her agreement was demanded; but instead of the\ngay acquiescence expected by Isabella, Catherine looked grave, was very\nsorry, but could not go. The engagement which ought to have kept her\nfrom joining in the former attempt would make it impossible for her to\naccompany them now. She had that moment settled with Miss Tilney to take\ntheir proposed walk tomorrow; it was quite determined, and she would\nnot, upon any account, retract. But that she must and should retract\nwas instantly the eager cry of both the Thorpes; they must go to Clifton\ntomorrow, they would not go without her, it would be nothing to put off\na mere walk for one day longer, and they would not hear of a refusal.\nCatherine was distressed, but not subdued. \"Do not urge me, Isabella. I\nam engaged to Miss Tilney. I cannot go.\" This availed nothing. The same\narguments assailed her again; she must go, she should go, and they would\nnot hear of a refusal. \"It would be so easy to tell Miss Tilney that you\nhad just been reminded of a prior engagement, and must only beg to put\noff the walk till Tuesday.\"\n\n\"No, it would not be easy. I could not do it. There has been no prior\nengagement.\" But Isabella became only more and more urgent, calling\non her in the most affectionate manner, addressing her by the most\nendearing names. She was sure her dearest, sweetest Catherine would not\nseriously refuse such a trifling request to a friend who loved her so\ndearly. She knew her beloved Catherine to have so feeling a heart, so\nsweet a temper, to be so easily persuaded by those she loved. But all\nin vain; Catherine felt herself to be in the right, and though pained\nby such tender, such flattering supplication, could not allow it to\ninfluence her. Isabella then tried another method. She reproached her\nwith having more affection for Miss Tilney, though she had known her so\nlittle a while, than for her best and oldest friends, with being grown\ncold and indifferent, in short, towards herself. \"I cannot help being\njealous, Catherine, when I see myself slighted for strangers, I, who\nlove you so excessively! When once my affections are placed, it is not\nin the power of anything to change them. But I believe my feelings are\nstronger than anybody's; I am sure they are too strong for my own peace;\nand to see myself supplanted in your friendship by strangers does cut me\nto the quick, I own. These Tilneys seem to swallow up everything else.\"\n\nCatherine thought this reproach equally strange and unkind. Was it the\npart of a friend thus to expose her feelings to the notice of others?\nIsabella appeared to her ungenerous and selfish, regardless of\neverything but her own gratification. These painful ideas crossed her\nmind, though she said nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile, had applied\nher handkerchief to her eyes; and Morland, miserable at such a sight,\ncould not help saying, \"Nay, Catherine. I think you cannot stand out any\nlonger now. The sacrifice is not much; and to oblige such a friend--I\nshall think you quite unkind, if you still refuse.\"\n\nThis was the first time of her brother's openly siding against her, and\nanxious to avoid his displeasure, she proposed a compromise. If they\nwould only put off their scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily\ndo, as it depended only on themselves, she could go with them, and\neverybody might then be satisfied. But \"No, no, no!\" was the immediate\nanswer; \"that could not be, for Thorpe did not know that he might not\ngo to town on Tuesday.\" Catherine was sorry, but could do no more; and\na short silence ensued, which was broken by Isabella, who in a voice of\ncold resentment said, \"Very well, then there is an end of the party.\nIf Catherine does not go, I cannot. I cannot be the only woman. I would\nnot, upon any account in the world, do so improper a thing.\"\n\n\"Catherine, you must go,\" said James.\n\n\"But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters? I dare say\neither of them would like to go.\"\n\n\"Thank ye,\" cried Thorpe, \"but I did not come to Bath to drive my\nsisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d---- me if I\ndo. I only go for the sake of driving you.\"\n\n\"That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure.\" But her words were\nlost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away.\n\nThe three others still continued together, walking in a most\nuncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; sometimes not a word was said,\nsometimes she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and\nher arm was still linked within Isabella's, though their hearts were\nat war. At one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always\ndistressed, but always steady.\n\n\"I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine,\" said James;\n\"you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the kindest,\nbest-tempered of my sisters.\"\n\n\"I hope I am not less so now,\" she replied, very feelingly; \"but indeed\nI cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right.\"\n\n\"I suspect,\" said Isabella, in a low voice, \"there is no great\nstruggle.\"\n\nCatherine's heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no\nopposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined\nby Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, \"Well, I\nhave settled the matter, and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe\nconscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses.\"\n\n\"You have not!\" cried Catherine.\n\n\"I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me to\nsay that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to Clifton\nwith us tomorrow, you could not have the pleasure of walking with her\ntill Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as convenient to her;\nso there is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty good thought of\nmine--hey?\"\n\nIsabella's countenance was once more all smiles and good humour, and\nJames too looked happy again.\n\n\"A most heavenly thought indeed! Now, my sweet Catherine, all our\ndistresses are over; you are honourably acquitted, and we shall have a\nmost delightful party.\"\n\n\"This will not do,\" said Catherine; \"I cannot submit to this. I must run\nafter Miss Tilney directly and set her right.\"\n\nIsabella, however, caught hold of one hand, Thorpe of the other, and\nremonstrances poured in from all three. Even James was quite angry. When\neverything was settled, when Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday would\nsuit her as well, it was quite ridiculous, quite absurd, to make any\nfurther objection.\n\n\"I do not care. Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent any such message.\nIf I had thought it right to put it off, I could have spoken to Miss\nTilney myself. This is only doing it in a ruder way; and how do I know\nthat Mr. Thorpe has--He may be mistaken again perhaps; he led me into\none act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday. Let me go, Mr. Thorpe;\nIsabella, do not hold me.\"\n\nThorpe told her it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys; they were\nturning the corner into Brock Street, when he had overtaken them, and\nwere at home by this time.\n\n\"Then I will go after them,\" said Catherine; \"wherever they are I will\ngo after them. It does not signify talking. If I could not be persuaded\ninto doing what I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into it.\"\nAnd with these words she broke away and hurried off. Thorpe would have\ndarted after her, but Morland withheld him. \"Let her go, let her go, if\nshe will go. She is as obstinate as--\"\n\nThorpe never finished the simile, for it could hardly have been a proper\none.\n\nAway walked Catherine in great agitation, as fast as the crowd would\npermit her, fearful of being pursued, yet determined to persevere. As\nshe walked, she reflected on what had passed. It was painful to her to\ndisappoint and displease them, particularly to displease her brother;\nbut she could not repent her resistance. Setting her own inclination\napart, to have failed a second time in her engagement to Miss Tilney, to\nhave retracted a promise voluntarily made only five minutes before,\nand on a false pretence too, must have been wrong. She had not been\nwithstanding them on selfish principles alone, she had not consulted\nmerely her own gratification; that might have been ensured in some\ndegree by the excursion itself, by seeing Blaize Castle; no, she had\nattended to what was due to others, and to her own character in their\nopinion. Her conviction of being right, however, was not enough to\nrestore her composure; till she had spoken to Miss Tilney she could not\nbe at ease; and quickening her pace when she got clear of the Crescent,\nshe almost ran over the remaining ground till she gained the top of\nMilsom Street. So rapid had been her movements that in spite of the\nTilneys' advantage in the outset, they were but just turning into\ntheir lodgings as she came within view of them; and the servant still\nremaining at the open door, she used only the ceremony of saying\nthat she must speak with Miss Tilney that moment, and hurrying by him\nproceeded upstairs. Then, opening the first door before her, which\nhappened to be the right, she immediately found herself in the\ndrawing-room with General Tilney, his son, and daughter. Her\nexplanation, defective only in being--from her irritation of nerves and\nshortness of breath--no explanation at all, was instantly given. \"I am\ncome in a great hurry--It was all a mistake--I never promised to go--I\ntold them from the first I could not go.--I ran away in a great hurry\nto explain it.--I did not care what you thought of me.--I would not stay\nfor the servant.\"\n\nThe business, however, though not perfectly elucidated by this speech,\nsoon ceased to be a puzzle. Catherine found that John Thorpe had given\nthe message; and Miss Tilney had no scruple in owning herself greatly\nsurprised by it. But whether her brother had still exceeded her in\nresentment, Catherine, though she instinctively addressed herself as\nmuch to one as to the other in her vindication, had no means of knowing.\nWhatever might have been felt before her arrival, her eager declarations\nimmediately made every look and sentence as friendly as she could\ndesire.\n\nThe affair thus happily settled, she was introduced by Miss Tilney\nto her father, and received by him with such ready, such solicitous\npoliteness as recalled Thorpe's information to her mind, and made her\nthink with pleasure that he might be sometimes depended on. To such\nanxious attention was the general's civility carried, that not aware of\nher extraordinary swiftness in entering the house, he was quite angry\nwith the servant whose neglect had reduced her to open the door of the\napartment herself. \"What did William mean by it? He should make a point\nof inquiring into the matter.\" And if Catherine had not most warmly\nasserted his innocence, it seemed likely that William would lose the\nfavour of his master forever, if not his place, by her rapidity.\n\nAfter sitting with them a quarter of an hour, she rose to take leave,\nand was then most agreeably surprised by General Tilney's asking her if\nshe would do his daughter the honour of dining and spending the rest\nof the day with her. Miss Tilney added her own wishes. Catherine was\ngreatly obliged; but it was quite out of her power. Mr. and Mrs. Allen\nwould expect her back every moment. The general declared he could say no\nmore; the claims of Mr. and Mrs. Allen were not to be superseded; but on\nsome other day he trusted, when longer notice could be given, they would\nnot refuse to spare her to her friend. \"Oh, no; Catherine was sure they\nwould not have the least objection, and she should have great pleasure\nin coming.\" The general attended her himself to the street-door, saying\neverything gallant as they went downstairs, admiring the elasticity of\nher walk, which corresponded exactly with the spirit of her dancing, and\nmaking her one of the most graceful bows she had ever beheld, when they\nparted.\n\nCatherine, delighted by all that had passed, proceeded gaily to Pulteney\nStreet, walking, as she concluded, with great elasticity, though she\nhad never thought of it before. She reached home without seeing anything\nmore of the offended party; and now that she had been triumphant\nthroughout, had carried her point, and was secure of her walk, she began\n(as the flutter of her spirits subsided) to doubt whether she had been\nperfectly right. A sacrifice was always noble; and if she had given way\nto their entreaties, she should have been spared the distressing idea of\na friend displeased, a brother angry, and a scheme of great happiness\nto both destroyed, perhaps through her means. To ease her mind, and\nascertain by the opinion of an unprejudiced person what her own conduct\nhad really been, she took occasion to mention before Mr. Allen the\nhalf-settled scheme of her brother and the Thorpes for the following\nday. Mr. Allen caught at it directly. \"Well,\" said he, \"and do you think\nof going too?\"\n\n\"No; I had just engaged myself to walk with Miss Tilney before they told\nme of it; and therefore you know I could not go with them, could I?\"\n\n\"No, certainly not; and I am glad you do not think of it. These schemes\nare not at all the thing. Young men and women driving about the country\nin open carriages! Now and then it is very well; but going to inns and\npublic places together! It is not right; and I wonder Mrs. Thorpe should\nallow it. I am glad you do not think of going; I am sure Mrs. Morland\nwould not be pleased. Mrs. Allen, are not you of my way of thinking? Do\nnot you think these kind of projects objectionable?\"\n\n\"Yes, very much so indeed. Open carriages are nasty things. A clean\ngown is not five minutes' wear in them. You are splashed getting in\nand getting out; and the wind takes your hair and your bonnet in every\ndirection. I hate an open carriage myself.\"\n\n\"I know you do; but that is not the question. Do not you think it has an\nodd appearance, if young ladies are frequently driven about in them by\nyoung men, to whom they are not even related?\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear, a very odd appearance indeed. I cannot bear to see it.\"\n\n\"Dear madam,\" cried Catherine, \"then why did not you tell me so before?\nI am sure if I had known it to be improper, I would not have gone with\nMr. Thorpe at all; but I always hoped you would tell me, if you thought\nI was doing wrong.\"\n\n\"And so I should, my dear, you may depend on it; for as I told Mrs.\nMorland at parting, I would always do the best for you in my power. But\none must not be over particular. Young people will be young people,\nas your good mother says herself. You know I wanted you, when we first\ncame, not to buy that sprigged muslin, but you would. Young people do\nnot like to be always thwarted.\"\n\n\"But this was something of real consequence; and I do not think you\nwould have found me hard to persuade.\"\n\n\"As far as it has gone hitherto, there is no harm done,\" said Mr. Allen;\n\"and I would only advise you, my dear, not to go out with Mr. Thorpe any\nmore.\"\n\n\"That is just what I was going to say,\" added his wife.\n\nCatherine, relieved for herself, felt uneasy for Isabella, and after a\nmoment's thought, asked Mr. Allen whether it would not be both proper\nand kind in her to write to Miss Thorpe, and explain the indecorum of\nwhich she must be as insensible as herself; for she considered that\nIsabella might otherwise perhaps be going to Clifton the next day, in\nspite of what had passed. Mr. Allen, however, discouraged her from doing\nany such thing. \"You had better leave her alone, my dear; she is old\nenough to know what she is about, and if not, has a mother to advise\nher. Mrs. Thorpe is too indulgent beyond a doubt; but, however, you had\nbetter not interfere. She and your brother choose to go, and you will be\nonly getting ill will.\"\n\nCatherine submitted, and though sorry to think that Isabella should be\ndoing wrong, felt greatly relieved by Mr. Allen's approbation of her\nown conduct, and truly rejoiced to be preserved by his advice from the\ndanger of falling into such an error herself. Her escape from being one\nof the party to Clifton was now an escape indeed; for what would the\nTilneys have thought of her, if she had broken her promise to them in\norder to do what was wrong in itself, if she had been guilty of one\nbreach of propriety, only to enable her to be guilty of another?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 14\n\n\nThe next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected another attack\nfrom the assembled party. With Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no\ndread of the event: but she would gladly be spared a contest, where\nvictory itself was painful, and was heartily rejoiced therefore at\nneither seeing nor hearing anything of them. The Tilneys called for\nher at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden\nrecollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to\ndisconcert their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to\nfulfil her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself.\nThey determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose\nbeautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object\nfrom almost every opening in Bath.\n\n\"I never look at it,\" said Catherine, as they walked along the side of\nthe river, \"without thinking of the south of France.\"\n\n\"You have been abroad then?\" said Henry, a little surprised.\n\n\"Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind\nof the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The\nMysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Because they are not clever enough for you--gentlemen read better\nbooks.\"\n\n\"The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good\nnovel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe's\nworks, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho,\nwhen I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember\nfinishing it in two days--my hair standing on end the whole time.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" added Miss Tilney, \"and I remember that you undertook to read it\naloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to\nanswer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the\nHermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Eleanor--a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Morland,\nthe injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get on,\nrefusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise\nI had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most\ninteresting part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to\nobserve, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on\nit, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion.\"\n\n\"I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of\nliking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised\nnovels amazingly.\"\n\n\"It is amazingly; it may well suggest amazement if they do--for they\nread nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds.\nDo not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and\nLouisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing\ninquiry of 'Have you read this?' and 'Have you read that?' I shall soon\nleave you as far behind me as--what shall I say?--I want an appropriate\nsimile.--as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when\nshe went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had\nthe start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were\na good little girl working your sampler at home!\"\n\n\"Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho\nthe nicest book in the world?\"\n\n\"The nicest--by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend\nupon the binding.\"\n\n\"Henry,\" said Miss Tilney, \"you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he\nis treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding\nfault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking\nthe same liberty with you. The word 'nicest,' as you used it, did not\nsuit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall\nbe overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way.\"\n\n\"I am sure,\" cried Catherine, \"I did not mean to say anything wrong; but\nit is a nice book, and why should not I call it so?\"\n\n\"Very true,\" said Henry, \"and this is a very nice day, and we are taking\na very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a\nvery nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it\nwas applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or\nrefinement--people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or\ntheir choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised\nin that one word.\"\n\n\"While, in fact,\" cried his sister, \"it ought only to be applied to you,\nwithout any commendation at all. You are more nice than wise. Come,\nMiss Morland, let us leave him to meditate over our faults in the utmost\npropriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever terms we\nlike best. It is a most interesting work. You are fond of that kind of\nreading?\"\n\n\"To say the truth, I do not much like any other.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\"\n\n\"That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and\ndo not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be\ninterested in. Can you?\"\n\n\"Yes, I am fond of history.\"\n\n\"I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me\nnothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and\nkings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for\nnothing, and hardly any women at all--it is very tiresome: and yet I\noften think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it\nmust be invention. The speeches that are put into the heroes' mouths,\ntheir thoughts and designs--the chief of all this must be invention, and\ninvention is what delights me in other books.\"\n\n\"Historians, you think,\" said Miss Tilney, \"are not happy in their\nflights of fancy. They display imagination without raising interest. I\nam fond of history--and am very well contented to take the false with\nthe true. In the principal facts they have sources of intelligence\nin former histories and records, which may be as much depended on,\nI conclude, as anything that does not actually pass under one's own\nobservation; and as for the little embellishments you speak of, they are\nembellishments, and I like them as such. If a speech be well drawn up,\nI read it with pleasure, by whomsoever it may be made--and probably with\nmuch greater, if the production of Mr. Hume or Mr. Robertson, than if\nthe genuine words of Caractacus, Agricola, or Alfred the Great.\"\n\n\"You are fond of history! And so are Mr. Allen and my father; and I have\ntwo brothers who do not dislike it. So many instances within my small\ncircle of friends is remarkable! At this rate, I shall not pity the\nwriters of history any longer. If people like to read their books, it\nis all very well, but to be at so much trouble in filling great volumes,\nwhich, as I used to think, nobody would willingly ever look into, to be\nlabouring only for the torment of little boys and girls, always struck\nme as a hard fate; and though I know it is all very right and necessary,\nI have often wondered at the person's courage that could sit down on\npurpose to do it.\"\n\n\"That little boys and girls should be tormented,\" said Henry, \"is what\nno one at all acquainted with human nature in a civilized state can\ndeny; but in behalf of our most distinguished historians, I must observe\nthat they might well be offended at being supposed to have no higher\naim, and that by their method and style, they are perfectly well\nqualified to torment readers of the most advanced reason and mature\ntime of life. I use the verb 'to torment,' as I observed to be your own\nmethod, instead of 'to instruct,' supposing them to be now admitted as\nsynonymous.\"\n\n\"You think me foolish to call instruction a torment, but if you had been\nas much used as myself to hear poor little children first learning their\nletters and then learning to spell, if you had ever seen how stupid they\ncan be for a whole morning together, and how tired my poor mother is\nat the end of it, as I am in the habit of seeing almost every day of my\nlife at home, you would allow that 'to torment' and 'to instruct' might\nsometimes be used as synonymous words.\"\n\n\"Very probably. But historians are not accountable for the difficulty\nof learning to read; and even you yourself, who do not altogether seem\nparticularly friendly to very severe, very intense application, may\nperhaps be brought to acknowledge that it is very well worth-while to\nbe tormented for two or three years of one's life, for the sake of\nbeing able to read all the rest of it. Consider--if reading had not been\ntaught, Mrs. Radcliffe would have written in vain--or perhaps might not\nhave written at all.\"\n\nCatherine assented--and a very warm panegyric from her on that lady's\nmerits closed the subject. The Tilneys were soon engaged in another on\nwhich she had nothing to say. They were viewing the country with the\neyes of persons accustomed to drawing, and decided on its capability of\nbeing formed into pictures, with all the eagerness of real taste. Here\nCatherine was quite lost. She knew nothing of drawing--nothing of taste:\nand she listened to them with an attention which brought her little\nprofit, for they talked in phrases which conveyed scarcely any idea\nto her. The little which she could understand, however, appeared to\ncontradict the very few notions she had entertained on the matter\nbefore. It seemed as if a good view were no longer to be taken from the\ntop of an high hill, and that a clear blue sky was no longer a proof\nof a fine day. She was heartily ashamed of her ignorance. A misplaced\nshame. Where people wish to attach, they should always be ignorant.\nTo come with a well-informed mind is to come with an inability of\nadministering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person would\nalways wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of\nknowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.\n\nThe advantages of natural folly in a beautiful girl have been already\nset forth by the capital pen of a sister author; and to her treatment\nof the subject I will only add, in justice to men, that though to the\nlarger and more trifling part of the sex, imbecility in females is a\ngreat enhancement of their personal charms, there is a portion of them\ntoo reasonable and too well informed themselves to desire anything\nmore in woman than ignorance. But Catherine did not know her own\nadvantages--did not know that a good-looking girl, with an affectionate\nheart and a very ignorant mind, cannot fail of attracting a clever young\nman, unless circumstances are particularly untoward. In the present\ninstance, she confessed and lamented her want of knowledge, declared\nthat she would give anything in the world to be able to draw; and\na lecture on the picturesque immediately followed, in which his\ninstructions were so clear that she soon began to see beauty in\neverything admired by him, and her attention was so earnest that he\nbecame perfectly satisfied of her having a great deal of natural taste.\nHe talked of foregrounds, distances, and second distances--side-screens\nand perspectives--lights and shades; and Catherine was so hopeful a\nscholar that when they gained the top of Beechen Cliff, she voluntarily\nrejected the whole city of Bath as unworthy to make part of a landscape.\nDelighted with her progress, and fearful of wearying her with too much\nwisdom at once, Henry suffered the subject to decline, and by an easy\ntransition from a piece of rocky fragment and the withered oak which\nhe had placed near its summit, to oaks in general, to forests, the\nenclosure of them, waste lands, crown lands and government, he shortly\nfound himself arrived at politics; and from politics, it was an\neasy step to silence. The general pause which succeeded his short\ndisquisition on the state of the nation was put an end to by Catherine,\nwho, in rather a solemn tone of voice, uttered these words, \"I have\nheard that something very shocking indeed will soon come out in London.\"\n\nMiss Tilney, to whom this was chiefly addressed, was startled, and\nhastily replied, \"Indeed! And of what nature?\"\n\n\"That I do not know, nor who is the author. I have only heard that it is\nto be more horrible than anything we have met with yet.\"\n\n\"Good heaven! Where could you hear of such a thing?\"\n\n\"A particular friend of mine had an account of it in a letter from\nLondon yesterday. It is to be uncommonly dreadful. I shall expect murder\nand everything of the kind.\"\n\n\"You speak with astonishing composure! But I hope your friend's accounts\nhave been exaggerated; and if such a design is known beforehand, proper\nmeasures will undoubtedly be taken by government to prevent its coming\nto effect.\"\n\n\"Government,\" said Henry, endeavouring not to smile, \"neither desires\nnor dares to interfere in such matters. There must be murder; and\ngovernment cares not how much.\"\n\nThe ladies stared. He laughed, and added, \"Come, shall I make you\nunderstand each other, or leave you to puzzle out an explanation as\nyou can? No--I will be noble. I will prove myself a man, no less by the\ngenerosity of my soul than the clearness of my head. I have no patience\nwith such of my sex as disdain to let themselves sometimes down to the\ncomprehension of yours. Perhaps the abilities of women are neither sound\nnor acute--neither vigorous nor keen. Perhaps they may want observation,\ndiscernment, judgment, fire, genius, and wit.\"\n\n\"Miss Morland, do not mind what he says; but have the goodness to\nsatisfy me as to this dreadful riot.\"\n\n\"Riot! What riot?\"\n\n\"My dear Eleanor, the riot is only in your own brain. The confusion\nthere is scandalous. Miss Morland has been talking of nothing more\ndreadful than a new publication which is shortly to come out, in three\nduodecimo volumes, two hundred and seventy-six pages in each, with\na frontispiece to the first, of two tombstones and a lantern--do you\nunderstand? And you, Miss Morland--my stupid sister has mistaken all\nyour clearest expressions. You talked of expected horrors in London--and\ninstead of instantly conceiving, as any rational creature would have\ndone, that such words could relate only to a circulating library, she\nimmediately pictured to herself a mob of three thousand men assembling\nin St. George's Fields, the Bank attacked, the Tower threatened, the\nstreets of London flowing with blood, a detachment of the Twelfth Light\nDragoons (the hopes of the nation) called up from Northampton to quell\nthe insurgents, and the gallant Captain Frederick Tilney, in the\nmoment of charging at the head of his troop, knocked off his horse by a\nbrickbat from an upper window. Forgive her stupidity. The fears of the\nsister have added to the weakness of the woman; but she is by no means a\nsimpleton in general.\"\n\nCatherine looked grave. \"And now, Henry,\" said Miss Tilney, \"that you\nhave made us understand each other, you may as well make Miss Morland\nunderstand yourself--unless you mean to have her think you intolerably\nrude to your sister, and a great brute in your opinion of women in\ngeneral. Miss Morland is not used to your odd ways.\"\n\n\"I shall be most happy to make her better acquainted with them.\"\n\n\"No doubt; but that is no explanation of the present.\"\n\n\"What am I to do?\"\n\n\"You know what you ought to do. Clear your character handsomely before\nher. Tell her that you think very highly of the understanding of women.\"\n\n\"Miss Morland, I think very highly of the understanding of all the women\nin the world--especially of those--whoever they may be--with whom I\nhappen to be in company.\"\n\n\"That is not enough. Be more serious.\"\n\n\"Miss Morland, no one can think more highly of the understanding of\nwomen than I do. In my opinion, nature has given them so much that they\nnever find it necessary to use more than half.\"\n\n\"We shall get nothing more serious from him now, Miss Morland. He is\nnot in a sober mood. But I do assure you that he must be entirely\nmisunderstood, if he can ever appear to say an unjust thing of any woman\nat all, or an unkind one of me.\"\n\nIt was no effort to Catherine to believe that Henry Tilney could never\nbe wrong. His manner might sometimes surprise, but his meaning must\nalways be just: and what she did not understand, she was almost as ready\nto admire, as what she did. The whole walk was delightful, and though it\nended too soon, its conclusion was delightful too; her friends attended\nher into the house, and Miss Tilney, before they parted, addressing\nherself with respectful form, as much to Mrs. Allen as to Catherine,\npetitioned for the pleasure of her company to dinner on the day after\nthe next. No difficulty was made on Mrs. Allen's side, and the only\ndifficulty on Catherine's was in concealing the excess of her pleasure.\n\nThe morning had passed away so charmingly as to banish all her\nfriendship and natural affection, for no thought of Isabella or James\nhad crossed her during their walk. When the Tilneys were gone, she\nbecame amiable again, but she was amiable for some time to little\neffect; Mrs. Allen had no intelligence to give that could relieve her\nanxiety; she had heard nothing of any of them. Towards the end of the\nmorning, however, Catherine, having occasion for some indispensable yard\nof ribbon which must be bought without a moment's delay, walked out into\nthe town, and in Bond Street overtook the second Miss Thorpe as she was\nloitering towards Edgar's Buildings between two of the sweetest girls in\nthe world, who had been her dear friends all the morning. From her, she\nsoon learned that the party to Clifton had taken place. \"They set off at\neight this morning,\" said Miss Anne, \"and I am sure I do not envy\nthem their drive. I think you and I are very well off to be out of the\nscrape. It must be the dullest thing in the world, for there is not a\nsoul at Clifton at this time of year. Belle went with your brother, and\nJohn drove Maria.\"\n\nCatherine spoke the pleasure she really felt on hearing this part of the\narrangement.\n\n\"Oh! yes,\" rejoined the other, \"Maria is gone. She was quite wild to go.\nShe thought it would be something very fine. I cannot say I admire her\ntaste; and for my part, I was determined from the first not to go, if\nthey pressed me ever so much.\"\n\nCatherine, a little doubtful of this, could not help answering, \"I wish\nyou could have gone too. It is a pity you could not all go.\"\n\n\"Thank you; but it is quite a matter of indifference to me. Indeed, I\nwould not have gone on any account. I was saying so to Emily and Sophia\nwhen you overtook us.\"\n\nCatherine was still unconvinced; but glad that Anne should have the\nfriendship of an Emily and a Sophia to console her, she bade her adieu\nwithout much uneasiness, and returned home, pleased that the party had\nnot been prevented by her refusing to join it, and very heartily wishing\nthat it might be too pleasant to allow either James or Isabella to\nresent her resistance any longer.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 15\n\n\nEarly the next day, a note from Isabella, speaking peace and tenderness\nin every line, and entreating the immediate presence of her friend on\na matter of the utmost importance, hastened Catherine, in the happiest\nstate of confidence and curiosity, to Edgar's Buildings. The two\nyoungest Miss Thorpes were by themselves in the parlour; and, on Anne's\nquitting it to call her sister, Catherine took the opportunity of asking\nthe other for some particulars of their yesterday's party. Maria desired\nno greater pleasure than to speak of it; and Catherine immediately\nlearnt that it had been altogether the most delightful scheme in the\nworld, that nobody could imagine how charming it had been, and that\nit had been more delightful than anybody could conceive. Such was the\ninformation of the first five minutes; the second unfolded thus much in\ndetail--that they had driven directly to the York Hotel, ate some soup,\nand bespoke an early dinner, walked down to the pump-room, tasted the\nwater, and laid out some shillings in purses and spars; thence adjoined\nto eat ice at a pastry-cook's, and hurrying back to the hotel, swallowed\ntheir dinner in haste, to prevent being in the dark; and then had a\ndelightful drive back, only the moon was not up, and it rained a little,\nand Mr. Morland's horse was so tired he could hardly get it along.\n\nCatherine listened with heartfelt satisfaction. It appeared that Blaize\nCastle had never been thought of; and, as for all the rest, there was\nnothing to regret for half an instant. Maria's intelligence concluded\nwith a tender effusion of pity for her sister Anne, whom she represented\nas insupportably cross, from being excluded the party.\n\n\"She will never forgive me, I am sure; but, you know, how could I help\nit? John would have me go, for he vowed he would not drive her, because\nshe had such thick ankles. I dare say she will not be in good humour\nagain this month; but I am determined I will not be cross; it is not a\nlittle matter that puts me out of temper.\"\n\nIsabella now entered the room with so eager a step, and a look of such\nhappy importance, as engaged all her friend's notice. Maria was without\nceremony sent away, and Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began: \"Yes,\nmy dear Catherine, it is so indeed; your penetration has not deceived\nyou. Oh! That arch eye of yours! It sees through everything.\"\n\nCatherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance.\n\n\"Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,\" continued the other, \"compose\nyourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and\ntalk in comfort. Well, and so you guessed it the moment you had my note?\nSly creature! Oh! My dear Catherine, you alone, who know my heart, can\njudge of my present happiness. Your brother is the most charming of\nmen. I only wish I were more worthy of him. But what will your excellent\nfather and mother say? Oh! Heavens! When I think of them I am so\nagitated!\"\n\nCatherine's understanding began to awake: an idea of the truth suddenly\ndarted into her mind; and, with the natural blush of so new an emotion,\nshe cried out, \"Good heaven! My dear Isabella, what do you mean? Can\nyou--can you really be in love with James?\"\n\nThis bold surmise, however, she soon learnt comprehended but half the\nfact. The anxious affection, which she was accused of having continually\nwatched in Isabella's every look and action, had, in the course of their\nyesterday's party, received the delightful confession of an equal love.\nHer heart and faith were alike engaged to James. Never had Catherine\nlistened to anything so full of interest, wonder, and joy. Her brother\nand her friend engaged! New to such circumstances, the importance of\nit appeared unspeakably great, and she contemplated it as one of those\ngrand events, of which the ordinary course of life can hardly afford a\nreturn. The strength of her feelings she could not express; the nature\nof them, however, contented her friend. The happiness of having such a\nsister was their first effusion, and the fair ladies mingled in embraces\nand tears of joy.\n\nDelighting, however, as Catherine sincerely did in the prospect of the\nconnection, it must be acknowledged that Isabella far surpassed her\nin tender anticipations. \"You will be so infinitely dearer to me, my\nCatherine, than either Anne or Maria: I feel that I shall be so much\nmore attached to my dear Morland's family than to my own.\"\n\nThis was a pitch of friendship beyond Catherine.\n\n\"You are so like your dear brother,\" continued Isabella, \"that I quite\ndoted on you the first moment I saw you. But so it always is with me;\nthe first moment settles everything. The very first day that Morland\ncame to us last Christmas--the very first moment I beheld him--my heart\nwas irrecoverably gone. I remember I wore my yellow gown, with my hair\ndone up in braids; and when I came into the drawing-room, and John\nintroduced him, I thought I never saw anybody so handsome before.\"\n\nHere Catherine secretly acknowledged the power of love; for, though\nexceedingly fond of her brother, and partial to all his endowments, she\nhad never in her life thought him handsome.\n\n\"I remember too, Miss Andrews drank tea with us that evening, and wore\nher puce-coloured sarsenet; and she looked so heavenly that I thought\nyour brother must certainly fall in love with her; I could not sleep\na wink all right for thinking of it. Oh! Catherine, the many sleepless\nnights I have had on your brother's account! I would not have you suffer\nhalf what I have done! I am grown wretchedly thin, I know; but I will\nnot pain you by describing my anxiety; you have seen enough of it. I\nfeel that I have betrayed myself perpetually--so unguarded in speaking\nof my partiality for the church! But my secret I was always sure would\nbe safe with you.\"\n\nCatherine felt that nothing could have been safer; but ashamed of an\nignorance little expected, she dared no longer contest the point,\nnor refuse to have been as full of arch penetration and affectionate\nsympathy as Isabella chose to consider her. Her brother, she found,\nwas preparing to set off with all speed to Fullerton, to make known his\nsituation and ask consent; and here was a source of some real agitation\nto the mind of Isabella. Catherine endeavoured to persuade her, as she\nwas herself persuaded, that her father and mother would never oppose\ntheir son's wishes. \"It is impossible,\" said she, \"for parents to be\nmore kind, or more desirous of their children's happiness; I have no\ndoubt of their consenting immediately.\"\n\n\"Morland says exactly the same,\" replied Isabella; \"and yet I dare not\nexpect it; my fortune will be so small; they never can consent to it.\nYour brother, who might marry anybody!\"\n\nHere Catherine again discerned the force of love.\n\n\"Indeed, Isabella, you are too humble. The difference of fortune can be\nnothing to signify.\"\n\n\"Oh! My sweet Catherine, in your generous heart I know it would signify\nnothing; but we must not expect such disinterestedness in many. As for\nmyself, I am sure I only wish our situations were reversed. Had I the\ncommand of millions, were I mistress of the whole world, your brother\nwould be my only choice.\"\n\nThis charming sentiment, recommended as much by sense as novelty,\ngave Catherine a most pleasing remembrance of all the heroines of her\nacquaintance; and she thought her friend never looked more lovely than\nin uttering the grand idea. \"I am sure they will consent,\" was her\nfrequent declaration; \"I am sure they will be delighted with you.\"\n\n\"For my own part,\" said Isabella, \"my wishes are so moderate that the\nsmallest income in nature would be enough for me. Where people are\nreally attached, poverty itself is wealth; grandeur I detest: I would\nnot settle in London for the universe. A cottage in some retired village\nwould be ecstasy. There are some charming little villas about Richmond.\"\n\n\"Richmond!\" cried Catherine. \"You must settle near Fullerton. You must\nbe near us.\"\n\n\"I am sure I shall be miserable if we do not. If I can but be near you,\nI shall be satisfied. But this is idle talking! I will not allow myself\nto think of such things, till we have your father's answer. Morland\nsays that by sending it tonight to Salisbury, we may have it tomorrow.\nTomorrow? I know I shall never have courage to open the letter. I know\nit will be the death of me.\"\n\nA reverie succeeded this conviction--and when Isabella spoke again, it\nwas to resolve on the quality of her wedding-gown.\n\nTheir conference was put an end to by the anxious young lover himself,\nwho came to breathe his parting sigh before he set off for Wiltshire.\nCatherine wished to congratulate him, but knew not what to say, and her\neloquence was only in her eyes. From them, however, the eight parts of\nspeech shone out most expressively, and James could combine them with\nease. Impatient for the realization of all that he hoped at home, his\nadieus were not long; and they would have been yet shorter, had he not\nbeen frequently detained by the urgent entreaties of his fair one that\nhe would go. Twice was he called almost from the door by her eagerness\nto have him gone. \"Indeed, Morland, I must drive you away. Consider how\nfar you have to ride. I cannot bear to see you linger so. For heaven's\nsake, waste no more time. There, go, go--I insist on it.\"\n\nThe two friends, with hearts now more united than ever, were inseparable\nfor the day; and in schemes of sisterly happiness the hours flew along.\nMrs. Thorpe and her son, who were acquainted with everything, and\nwho seemed only to want Mr. Morland's consent, to consider Isabella's\nengagement as the most fortunate circumstance imaginable for their\nfamily, were allowed to join their counsels, and add their quota of\nsignificant looks and mysterious expressions to fill up the measure\nof curiosity to be raised in the unprivileged younger sisters. To\nCatherine's simple feelings, this odd sort of reserve seemed neither\nkindly meant, nor consistently supported; and its unkindness she would\nhardly have forborne pointing out, had its inconsistency been less their\nfriend; but Anne and Maria soon set her heart at ease by the sagacity of\ntheir \"I know what\"; and the evening was spent in a sort of war of wit,\na display of family ingenuity, on one side in the mystery of an affected\nsecret, on the other of undefined discovery, all equally acute.\n\nCatherine was with her friend again the next day, endeavouring to\nsupport her spirits and while away the many tedious hours before\nthe delivery of the letters; a needful exertion, for as the time\nof reasonable expectation drew near, Isabella became more and more\ndesponding, and before the letter arrived, had worked herself into a\nstate of real distress. But when it did come, where could distress\nbe found? \"I have had no difficulty in gaining the consent of my kind\nparents, and am promised that everything in their power shall be done to\nforward my happiness,\" were the first three lines, and in one moment\nall was joyful security. The brightest glow was instantly spread over\nIsabella's features, all care and anxiety seemed removed, her spirits\nbecame almost too high for control, and she called herself without\nscruple the happiest of mortals.\n\nMrs. Thorpe, with tears of joy, embraced her daughter, her son, her\nvisitor, and could have embraced half the inhabitants of Bath with\nsatisfaction. Her heart was overflowing with tenderness. It was \"dear\nJohn\" and \"dear Catherine\" at every word; \"dear Anne and dear Maria\"\nmust immediately be made sharers in their felicity; and two \"dears\" at\nonce before the name of Isabella were not more than that beloved child\nhad now well earned. John himself was no skulker in joy. He not only\nbestowed on Mr. Morland the high commendation of being one of the finest\nfellows in the world, but swore off many sentences in his praise.\n\nThe letter, whence sprang all this felicity, was short, containing\nlittle more than this assurance of success; and every particular was\ndeferred till James could write again. But for particulars Isabella\ncould well afford to wait. The needful was comprised in Mr. Morland's\npromise; his honour was pledged to make everything easy; and by what\nmeans their income was to be formed, whether landed property were to\nbe resigned, or funded money made over, was a matter in which her\ndisinterested spirit took no concern. She knew enough to feel secure of\nan honourable and speedy establishment, and her imagination took a rapid\nflight over its attendant felicities. She saw herself at the end of\na few weeks, the gaze and admiration of every new acquaintance at\nFullerton, the envy of every valued old friend in Putney, with a\ncarriage at her command, a new name on her tickets, and a brilliant\nexhibition of hoop rings on her finger.\n\nWhen the contents of the letter were ascertained, John Thorpe, who had\nonly waited its arrival to begin his journey to London, prepared to set\noff. \"Well, Miss Morland,\" said he, on finding her alone in the parlour,\n\"I am come to bid you good-bye.\" Catherine wished him a good journey.\nWithout appearing to hear her, he walked to the window, fidgeted about,\nhummed a tune, and seemed wholly self-occupied.\n\n\"Shall not you be late at Devizes?\" said Catherine. He made no answer;\nbut after a minute's silence burst out with, \"A famous good thing this\nmarrying scheme, upon my soul! A clever fancy of Morland's and Belle's.\nWhat do you think of it, Miss Morland? I say it is no bad notion.\"\n\n\"I am sure I think it a very good one.\"\n\n\"Do you? That's honest, by heavens! I am glad you are no enemy to\nmatrimony, however. Did you ever hear the old song 'Going to One Wedding\nBrings on Another?' I say, you will come to Belle's wedding, I hope.\"\n\n\"Yes; I have promised your sister to be with her, if possible.\"\n\n\"And then you know\"--twisting himself about and forcing a foolish\nlaugh--\"I say, then you know, we may try the truth of this same old\nsong.\"\n\n\"May we? But I never sing. Well, I wish you a good journey. I dine with\nMiss Tilney today, and must now be going home.\"\n\n\"Nay, but there is no such confounded hurry. Who knows when we may\nbe together again? Not but that I shall be down again by the end of a\nfortnight, and a devilish long fortnight it will appear to me.\"\n\n\"Then why do you stay away so long?\" replied Catherine--finding that he\nwaited for an answer.\n\n\"That is kind of you, however--kind and good-natured. I shall not forget\nit in a hurry. But you have more good nature and all that, than anybody\nliving, I believe. A monstrous deal of good nature, and it is not only\ngood nature, but you have so much, so much of everything; and then you\nhave such--upon my soul, I do not know anybody like you.\"\n\n\"Oh! dear, there are a great many people like me, I dare say, only a\ngreat deal better. Good morning to you.\"\n\n\"But I say, Miss Morland, I shall come and pay my respects at Fullerton\nbefore it is long, if not disagreeable.\"\n\n\"Pray do. My father and mother will be very glad to see you.\"\n\n\"And I hope--I hope, Miss Morland, you will not be sorry to see me.\"\n\n\"Oh! dear, not at all. There are very few people I am sorry to see.\nCompany is always cheerful.\"\n\n\"That is just my way of thinking. Give me but a little cheerful company,\nlet me only have the company of the people I love, let me only be where\nI like and with whom I like, and the devil take the rest, say I. And\nI am heartily glad to hear you say the same. But I have a notion, Miss\nMorland, you and I think pretty much alike upon most matters.\"\n\n\"Perhaps we may; but it is more than I ever thought of. And as to most\nmatters, to say the truth, there are not many that I know my own mind\nabout.\"\n\n\"By Jove, no more do I. It is not my way to bother my brains with what\ndoes not concern me. My notion of things is simple enough. Let me only\nhave the girl I like, say I, with a comfortable house over my head, and\nwhat care I for all the rest? Fortune is nothing. I am sure of a good\nincome of my own; and if she had not a penny, why, so much the better.\"\n\n\"Very true. I think like you there. If there is a good fortune on one\nside, there can be no occasion for any on the other. No matter which\nhas it, so that there is enough. I hate the idea of one great fortune\nlooking out for another. And to marry for money I think the wickedest\nthing in existence. Good day. We shall be very glad to see you at\nFullerton, whenever it is convenient.\" And away she went. It was not in\nthe power of all his gallantry to detain her longer. With such news to\ncommunicate, and such a visit to prepare for, her departure was not\nto be delayed by anything in his nature to urge; and she hurried away,\nleaving him to the undivided consciousness of his own happy address, and\nher explicit encouragement.\n\nThe agitation which she had herself experienced on first learning her\nbrother's engagement made her expect to raise no inconsiderable emotion\nin Mr. and Mrs. Allen, by the communication of the wonderful event. How\ngreat was her disappointment! The important affair, which many words of\npreparation ushered in, had been foreseen by them both ever since\nher brother's arrival; and all that they felt on the occasion was\ncomprehended in a wish for the young people's happiness, with a remark,\non the gentleman's side, in favour of Isabella's beauty, and on the\nlady's, of her great good luck. It was to Catherine the most surprising\ninsensibility. The disclosure, however, of the great secret of James's\ngoing to Fullerton the day before, did raise some emotion in Mrs. Allen.\nShe could not listen to that with perfect calmness, but repeatedly\nregretted the necessity of its concealment, wished she could have known\nhis intention, wished she could have seen him before he went, as she\nshould certainly have troubled him with her best regards to his father\nand mother, and her kind compliments to all the Skinners.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 16\n\n\nCatherine's expectations of pleasure from her visit in Milsom Street\nwere so very high that disappointment was inevitable; and accordingly,\nthough she was most politely received by General Tilney, and kindly\nwelcomed by his daughter, though Henry was at home, and no one else of\nthe party, she found, on her return, without spending many hours in\nthe examination of her feelings, that she had gone to her appointment\npreparing for happiness which it had not afforded. Instead of finding\nherself improved in acquaintance with Miss Tilney, from the intercourse\nof the day, she seemed hardly so intimate with her as before; instead\nof seeing Henry Tilney to greater advantage than ever, in the ease of a\nfamily party, he had never said so little, nor been so little agreeable;\nand, in spite of their father's great civilities to her--in spite of his\nthanks, invitations, and compliments--it had been a release to get\naway from him. It puzzled her to account for all this. It could not\nbe General Tilney's fault. That he was perfectly agreeable and\ngood-natured, and altogether a very charming man, did not admit of a\ndoubt, for he was tall and handsome, and Henry's father. He could not\nbe accountable for his children's want of spirits, or for her want of\nenjoyment in his company. The former she hoped at last might have\nbeen accidental, and the latter she could only attribute to her own\nstupidity. Isabella, on hearing the particulars of the visit, gave\na different explanation: \"It was all pride, pride, insufferable\nhaughtiness and pride! She had long suspected the family to be very\nhigh, and this made it certain. Such insolence of behaviour as Miss\nTilney's she had never heard of in her life! Not to do the honours of\nher house with common good breeding! To behave to her guest with such\nsuperciliousness! Hardly even to speak to her!\"\n\n\"But it was not so bad as that, Isabella; there was no superciliousness;\nshe was very civil.\"\n\n\"Oh! Don't defend her! And then the brother, he, who had appeared\nso attached to you! Good heavens! Well, some people's feelings are\nincomprehensible. And so he hardly looked once at you the whole day?\"\n\n\"I do not say so; but he did not seem in good spirits.\"\n\n\"How contemptible! Of all things in the world inconstancy is my\naversion. Let me entreat you never to think of him again, my dear\nCatherine; indeed he is unworthy of you.\"\n\n\"Unworthy! I do not suppose he ever thinks of me.\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I say; he never thinks of you. Such fickleness!\nOh! How different to your brother and to mine! I really believe John has\nthe most constant heart.\"\n\n\"But as for General Tilney, I assure you it would be impossible for\nanybody to behave to me with greater civility and attention; it seemed\nto be his only care to entertain and make me happy.\"\n\n\"Oh! I know no harm of him; I do not suspect him of pride. I believe he\nis a very gentleman-like man. John thinks very well of him, and John's\njudgment--\"\n\n\"Well, I shall see how they behave to me this evening; we shall meet\nthem at the rooms.\"\n\n\"And must I go?\"\n\n\"Do not you intend it? I thought it was all settled.\"\n\n\"Nay, since you make such a point of it, I can refuse you nothing. But\ndo not insist upon my being very agreeable, for my heart, you know, will\nbe some forty miles off. And as for dancing, do not mention it, I beg;\nthat is quite out of the question. Charles Hodges will plague me to\ndeath, I dare say; but I shall cut him very short. Ten to one but he\nguesses the reason, and that is exactly what I want to avoid, so I shall\ninsist on his keeping his conjecture to himself.\"\n\nIsabella's opinion of the Tilneys did not influence her friend; she was\nsure there had been no insolence in the manners either of brother or\nsister; and she did not credit there being any pride in their hearts.\nThe evening rewarded her confidence; she was met by one with the same\nkindness, and by the other with the same attention, as heretofore: Miss\nTilney took pains to be near her, and Henry asked her to dance.\n\nHaving heard the day before in Milsom Street that their elder brother,\nCaptain Tilney, was expected almost every hour, she was at no loss for\nthe name of a very fashionable-looking, handsome young man, whom she had\nnever seen before, and who now evidently belonged to their party. She\nlooked at him with great admiration, and even supposed it possible that\nsome people might think him handsomer than his brother, though, in her\neyes, his air was more assuming, and his countenance less prepossessing.\nHis taste and manners were beyond a doubt decidedly inferior; for,\nwithin her hearing, he not only protested against every thought of\ndancing himself, but even laughed openly at Henry for finding it\npossible. From the latter circumstance it may be presumed that, whatever\nmight be our heroine's opinion of him, his admiration of her was not\nof a very dangerous kind; not likely to produce animosities between the\nbrothers, nor persecutions to the lady. He cannot be the instigator of\nthe three villains in horsemen's greatcoats, by whom she will hereafter\nbe forced into a traveling-chaise and four, which will drive off with\nincredible speed. Catherine, meanwhile, undisturbed by presentiments of\nsuch an evil, or of any evil at all, except that of having but a short\nset to dance down, enjoyed her usual happiness with Henry Tilney,\nlistening with sparkling eyes to everything he said; and, in finding him\nirresistible, becoming so herself.\n\nAt the end of the first dance, Captain Tilney came towards them again,\nand, much to Catherine's dissatisfaction, pulled his brother away. They\nretired whispering together; and, though her delicate sensibility did\nnot take immediate alarm, and lay it down as fact, that Captain Tilney\nmust have heard some malevolent misrepresentation of her, which he now\nhastened to communicate to his brother, in the hope of separating them\nforever, she could not have her partner conveyed from her sight without\nvery uneasy sensations. Her suspense was of full five minutes' duration;\nand she was beginning to think it a very long quarter of an hour, when\nthey both returned, and an explanation was given, by Henry's requesting\nto know if she thought her friend, Miss Thorpe, would have any objection\nto dancing, as his brother would be most happy to be introduced to\nher. Catherine, without hesitation, replied that she was very sure Miss\nThorpe did not mean to dance at all. The cruel reply was passed on to\nthe other, and he immediately walked away.\n\n\"Your brother will not mind it, I know,\" said she, \"because I heard him\nsay before that he hated dancing; but it was very good-natured in him\nto think of it. I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down, and fancied she\nmight wish for a partner; but he is quite mistaken, for she would not\ndance upon any account in the world.\"\n\nHenry smiled, and said, \"How very little trouble it can give you to\nunderstand the motive of other people's actions.\"\n\n\"Why? What do you mean?\"\n\n\"With you, it is not, How is such a one likely to be influenced, What\nis the inducement most likely to act upon such a person's feelings, age,\nsituation, and probable habits of life considered--but, How should I be\ninfluenced, What would be my inducement in acting so and so?\"\n\n\"I do not understand you.\"\n\n\"Then we are on very unequal terms, for I understand you perfectly\nwell.\"\n\n\"Me? Yes; I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible.\"\n\n\"Bravo! An excellent satire on modern language.\"\n\n\"But pray tell me what you mean.\"\n\n\"Shall I indeed? Do you really desire it? But you are not aware of the\nconsequences; it will involve you in a very cruel embarrassment, and\ncertainly bring on a disagreement between us.\n\n\"No, no; it shall not do either; I am not afraid.\"\n\n\"Well, then, I only meant that your attributing my brother's wish of\ndancing with Miss Thorpe to good nature alone convinced me of your being\nsuperior in good nature yourself to all the rest of the world.\"\n\nCatherine blushed and disclaimed, and the gentleman's predictions were\nverified. There was a something, however, in his words which repaid her\nfor the pain of confusion; and that something occupied her mind so much\nthat she drew back for some time, forgetting to speak or to listen, and\nalmost forgetting where she was; till, roused by the voice of Isabella,\nshe looked up and saw her with Captain Tilney preparing to give them\nhands across.\n\nIsabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only explanation of this\nextraordinary change which could at that time be given; but as it\nwas not quite enough for Catherine's comprehension, she spoke her\nastonishment in very plain terms to her partner.\n\n\"I cannot think how it could happen! Isabella was so determined not to\ndance.\"\n\n\"And did Isabella never change her mind before?\"\n\n\"Oh! But, because--And your brother! After what you told him from me,\nhow could he think of going to ask her?\"\n\n\"I cannot take surprise to myself on that head. You bid me be surprised\non your friend's account, and therefore I am; but as for my brother, his\nconduct in the business, I must own, has been no more than I believed\nhim perfectly equal to. The fairness of your friend was an open\nattraction; her firmness, you know, could only be understood by\nyourself.\"\n\n\"You are laughing; but, I assure you, Isabella is very firm in general.\"\n\n\"It is as much as should be said of anyone. To be always firm must be\nto be often obstinate. When properly to relax is the trial of judgment;\nand, without reference to my brother, I really think Miss Thorpe has by\nno means chosen ill in fixing on the present hour.\"\n\nThe friends were not able to get together for any confidential discourse\ntill all the dancing was over; but then, as they walked about the room\narm in arm, Isabella thus explained herself: \"I do not wonder at your\nsurprise; and I am really fatigued to death. He is such a rattle!\nAmusing enough, if my mind had been disengaged; but I would have given\nthe world to sit still.\"\n\n\"Then why did not you?\"\n\n\"Oh! My dear! It would have looked so particular; and you know how I\nabhor doing that. I refused him as long as I possibly could, but he\nwould take no denial. You have no idea how he pressed me. I begged him\nto excuse me, and get some other partner--but no, not he; after aspiring\nto my hand, there was nobody else in the room he could bear to think of;\nand it was not that he wanted merely to dance, he wanted to be with\nme. Oh! Such nonsense! I told him he had taken a very unlikely way to\nprevail upon me; for, of all things in the world, I hated fine speeches\nand compliments; and so--and so then I found there would be no peace if\nI did not stand up. Besides, I thought Mrs. Hughes, who introduced him,\nmight take it ill if I did not: and your dear brother, I am sure he\nwould have been miserable if I had sat down the whole evening. I am\nso glad it is over! My spirits are quite jaded with listening to his\nnonsense: and then, being such a smart young fellow, I saw every eye was\nupon us.\"\n\n\"He is very handsome indeed.\"\n\n\"Handsome! Yes, I suppose he may. I dare say people would admire him\nin general; but he is not at all in my style of beauty. I hate a florid\ncomplexion and dark eyes in a man. However, he is very well. Amazingly\nconceited, I am sure. I took him down several times, you know, in my\nway.\"\n\nWhen the young ladies next met, they had a far more interesting subject\nto discuss. James Morland's second letter was then received, and the\nkind intentions of his father fully explained. A living, of which Mr.\nMorland was himself patron and incumbent, of about four hundred pounds\nyearly value, was to be resigned to his son as soon as he should be\nold enough to take it; no trifling deduction from the family income, no\nniggardly assignment to one of ten children. An estate of at least equal\nvalue, moreover, was assured as his future inheritance.\n\nJames expressed himself on the occasion with becoming gratitude; and\nthe necessity of waiting between two and three years before they could\nmarry, being, however unwelcome, no more than he had expected, was borne\nby him without discontent. Catherine, whose expectations had been as\nunfixed as her ideas of her father's income, and whose judgment was now\nentirely led by her brother, felt equally well satisfied, and heartily\ncongratulated Isabella on having everything so pleasantly settled.\n\n\"It is very charming indeed,\" said Isabella, with a grave face. \"Mr.\nMorland has behaved vastly handsome indeed,\" said the gentle Mrs.\nThorpe, looking anxiously at her daughter. \"I only wish I could do as\nmuch. One could not expect more from him, you know. If he finds he\ncan do more by and by, I dare say he will, for I am sure he must be an\nexcellent good-hearted man. Four hundred is but a small income to begin\non indeed, but your wishes, my dear Isabella, are so moderate, you do\nnot consider how little you ever want, my dear.\"\n\n\"It is not on my own account I wish for more; but I cannot bear to\nbe the means of injuring my dear Morland, making him sit down upon an\nincome hardly enough to find one in the common necessaries of life. For\nmyself, it is nothing; I never think of myself.\"\n\n\"I know you never do, my dear; and you will always find your reward in\nthe affection it makes everybody feel for you. There never was a young\nwoman so beloved as you are by everybody that knows you; and I dare say\nwhen Mr. Morland sees you, my dear child--but do not let us distress\nour dear Catherine by talking of such things. Mr. Morland has behaved so\nvery handsome, you know. I always heard he was a most excellent man;\nand you know, my dear, we are not to suppose but what, if you had had a\nsuitable fortune, he would have come down with something more, for I am\nsure he must be a most liberal-minded man.\"\n\n\"Nobody can think better of Mr. Morland than I do, I am sure. But\neverybody has their failing, you know, and everybody has a right to\ndo what they like with their own money.\" Catherine was hurt by these\ninsinuations. \"I am very sure,\" said she, \"that my father has promised\nto do as much as he can afford.\"\n\nIsabella recollected herself. \"As to that, my sweet Catherine, there\ncannot be a doubt, and you know me well enough to be sure that a much\nsmaller income would satisfy me. It is not the want of more money that\nmakes me just at present a little out of spirits; I hate money; and if\nour union could take place now upon only fifty pounds a year, I should\nnot have a wish unsatisfied. Ah! my Catherine, you have found me out.\nThere's the sting. The long, long, endless two years and half that are\nto pass before your brother can hold the living.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, my darling Isabella,\" said Mrs. Thorpe, \"we perfectly see\ninto your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly understand the\npresent vexation; and everybody must love you the better for such a\nnoble honest affection.\"\n\nCatherine's uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. She endeavoured to\nbelieve that the delay of the marriage was the only source of Isabella's\nregret; and when she saw her at their next interview as cheerful and\namiable as ever, endeavoured to forget that she had for a minute thought\notherwise. James soon followed his letter, and was received with the\nmost gratifying kindness.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 17\n\n\nThe Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath; and\nwhether it should be the last was for some time a question, to which\nCatherine listened with a beating heart. To have her acquaintance with\nthe Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance.\nHer whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense,\nand everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should\nbe taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight was to\nproduce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney made\nbut a small part of Catherine's speculation. Once or twice indeed, since\nJames's engagement had taught her what could be done, she had got so\nfar as to indulge in a secret \"perhaps,\" but in general the felicity of\nbeing with him for the present bounded her views: the present was now\ncomprised in another three weeks, and her happiness being certain for\nthat period, the rest of her life was at such a distance as to excite\nbut little interest. In the course of the morning which saw this\nbusiness arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured forth her\njoyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No sooner had she\nexpressed her delight in Mr. Allen's lengthened stay than Miss Tilney\ntold her of her father's having just determined upon quitting Bath\nby the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of\nthe morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment.\nCatherine's countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she\nechoed Miss Tilney's concluding words, \"By the end of another week!\"\n\n\"Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I\nthink a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends' arrival\nwhom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a\nhurry to get home.\"\n\n\"I am very sorry for it,\" said Catherine dejectedly; \"if I had known\nthis before--\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, \"you would be so\ngood--it would make me very happy if--\"\n\nThe entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine\nwas beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding.\nAfter addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his\ndaughter and said, \"Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being\nsuccessful in your application to your fair friend?\"\n\n\"I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in.\"\n\n\"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My\ndaughter, Miss Morland,\" he continued, without leaving his daughter time\nto speak, \"has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has\nperhaps told you, on Saturday se'nnight. A letter from my steward tells\nme that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope\nof seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of\nmy very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And\ncould we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a\nsingle regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene\nof public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in\nGloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its\npresumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath\nthan yourself. Modesty such as yours--but not for the world would I pain\nit by open praise. If you can be induced to honour us with a visit,\nyou will make us happy beyond expression. 'Tis true, we can offer you\nnothing like the gaieties of this lively place; we can tempt you neither\nby amusement nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you see, is plain\nand unpretending; yet no endeavours shall be wanting on our side to make\nNorthanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable.\"\n\nNorthanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound up Catherine's\nfeelings to the highest point of ecstasy. Her grateful and gratified\nheart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of\ntolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have her\ncompany so warmly solicited! Everything honourable and soothing, every\npresent enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her\nacceptance, with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma's approbation,\nwas eagerly given. \"I will write home directly,\" said she, \"and if they\ndo not object, as I dare say they will not--\"\n\nGeneral Tilney was not less sanguine, having already waited on her\nexcellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction of\nhis wishes. \"Since they can consent to part with you,\" said he, \"we may\nexpect philosophy from all the world.\"\n\nMiss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary civilities, and\nthe affair became in a few minutes as nearly settled as this necessary\nreference to Fullerton would allow.\n\nThe circumstances of the morning had led Catherine's feelings through\nthe varieties of suspense, security, and disappointment; but they were\nnow safely lodged in perfect bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture,\nwith Henry at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips, she\nhurried home to write her letter. Mr. and Mrs. Morland, relying on\nthe discretion of the friends to whom they had already entrusted their\ndaughter, felt no doubt of the propriety of an acquaintance which had\nbeen formed under their eye, and sent therefore by return of post their\nready consent to her visit in Gloucestershire. This indulgence, though\nnot more than Catherine had hoped for, completed her conviction of being\nfavoured beyond every other human creature, in friends and fortune,\ncircumstance and chance. Everything seemed to cooperate for her\nadvantage. By the kindness of her first friends, the Allens, she had\nbeen introduced into scenes where pleasures of every kind had met her.\nHer feelings, her preferences, had each known the happiness of a return.\nWherever she felt attachment, she had been able to create it. The\naffection of Isabella was to be secured to her in a sister. The Tilneys,\nthey, by whom, above all, she desired to be favourably thought of,\noutstripped even her wishes in the flattering measures by which their\nintimacy was to be continued. She was to be their chosen visitor, she\nwas to be for weeks under the same roof with the person whose society\nshe mostly prized--and, in addition to all the rest, this roof was to\nbe the roof of an abbey! Her passion for ancient edifices was next in\ndegree to her passion for Henry Tilney--and castles and abbeys made\nusually the charm of those reveries which his image did not fill. To see\nand explore either the ramparts and keep of the one, or the cloisters\nof the other, had been for many weeks a darling wish, though to be more\nthan the visitor of an hour had seemed too nearly impossible for desire.\nAnd yet, this was to happen. With all the chances against her of house,\nhall, place, park, court, and cottage, Northanger turned up an abbey,\nand she was to be its inhabitant. Its long, damp passages, its narrow\ncells and ruined chapel, were to be within her daily reach, and she\ncould not entirely subdue the hope of some traditional legends, some\nawful memorials of an injured and ill-fated nun.\n\nIt was wonderful that her friends should seem so little elated by the\npossession of such a home, that the consciousness of it should be so\nmeekly borne. The power of early habit only could account for it. A\ndistinction to which they had been born gave no pride. Their superiority\nof abode was no more to them than their superiority of person.\n\nMany were the inquiries she was eager to make of Miss Tilney; but so\nactive were her thoughts, that when these inquiries were answered, she\nwas hardly more assured than before, of Northanger Abbey having been\na richly endowed convent at the time of the Reformation, of its having\nfallen into the hands of an ancestor of the Tilneys on its dissolution,\nof a large portion of the ancient building still making a part of the\npresent dwelling although the rest was decayed, or of its standing low\nin a valley, sheltered from the north and east by rising woods of oak.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 18\n\n\nWith a mind thus full of happiness, Catherine was hardly aware that two\nor three days had passed away, without her seeing Isabella for more than\na few minutes together. She began first to be sensible of this, and\nto sigh for her conversation, as she walked along the pump-room one\nmorning, by Mrs. Allen's side, without anything to say or to hear; and\nscarcely had she felt a five minutes' longing of friendship, before the\nobject of it appeared, and inviting her to a secret conference, led the\nway to a seat. \"This is my favourite place,\" said she as they sat\ndown on a bench between the doors, which commanded a tolerable view of\neverybody entering at either; \"it is so out of the way.\"\n\nCatherine, observing that Isabella's eyes were continually bent towards\none door or the other, as in eager expectation, and remembering how\noften she had been falsely accused of being arch, thought the present a\nfine opportunity for being really so; and therefore gaily said, \"Do not\nbe uneasy, Isabella, James will soon be here.\"\n\n\"Psha! My dear creature,\" she replied, \"do not think me such a simpleton\nas to be always wanting to confine him to my elbow. It would be hideous\nto be always together; we should be the jest of the place. And so you\nare going to Northanger! I am amazingly glad of it. It is one of the\nfinest old places in England, I understand. I shall depend upon a most\nparticular description of it.\"\n\n\"You shall certainly have the best in my power to give. But who are you\nlooking for? Are your sisters coming?\"\n\n\"I am not looking for anybody. One's eyes must be somewhere, and you\nknow what a foolish trick I have of fixing mine, when my thoughts are an\nhundred miles off. I am amazingly absent; I believe I am the most absent\ncreature in the world. Tilney says it is always the case with minds of a\ncertain stamp.\"\n\n\"But I thought, Isabella, you had something in particular to tell me?\"\n\n\"Oh! Yes, and so I have. But here is a proof of what I was saying. My\npoor head, I had quite forgot it. Well, the thing is this: I have just\nhad a letter from John; you can guess the contents.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I cannot.\"\n\n\"My sweet love, do not be so abominably affected. What can he write\nabout, but yourself? You know he is over head and ears in love with\nyou.\"\n\n\"With me, dear Isabella!\"\n\n\"Nay, my sweetest Catherine, this is being quite absurd! Modesty, and\nall that, is very well in its way, but really a little common honesty is\nsometimes quite as becoming. I have no idea of being so overstrained!\nIt is fishing for compliments. His attentions were such as a child must\nhave noticed. And it was but half an hour before he left Bath that you\ngave him the most positive encouragement. He says so in this letter,\nsays that he as good as made you an offer, and that you received his\nadvances in the kindest way; and now he wants me to urge his suit,\nand say all manner of pretty things to you. So it is in vain to affect\nignorance.\"\n\nCatherine, with all the earnestness of truth, expressed her astonishment\nat such a charge, protesting her innocence of every thought of Mr.\nThorpe's being in love with her, and the consequent impossibility of\nher having ever intended to encourage him. \"As to any attentions on his\nside, I do declare, upon my honour, I never was sensible of them for a\nmoment--except just his asking me to dance the first day of his coming.\nAnd as to making me an offer, or anything like it, there must be some\nunaccountable mistake. I could not have misunderstood a thing of that\nkind, you know! And, as I ever wish to be believed, I solemnly protest\nthat no syllable of such a nature ever passed between us. The last half\nhour before he went away! It must be all and completely a mistake--for I\ndid not see him once that whole morning.\"\n\n\"But that you certainly did, for you spent the whole morning in Edgar's\nBuildings--it was the day your father's consent came--and I am pretty\nsure that you and John were alone in the parlour some time before you\nleft the house.\"\n\n\"Are you? Well, if you say it, it was so, I dare say--but for the life\nof me, I cannot recollect it. I do remember now being with you, and\nseeing him as well as the rest--but that we were ever alone for five\nminutes--However, it is not worth arguing about, for whatever might pass\non his side, you must be convinced, by my having no recollection of it,\nthat I never thought, nor expected, nor wished for anything of the kind\nfrom him. I am excessively concerned that he should have any regard for\nme--but indeed it has been quite unintentional on my side; I never had\nthe smallest idea of it. Pray undeceive him as soon as you can, and tell\nhim I beg his pardon--that is--I do not know what I ought to say--but\nmake him understand what I mean, in the properest way. I would not speak\ndisrespectfully of a brother of yours, Isabella, I am sure; but you know\nvery well that if I could think of one man more than another--he is not\nthe person.\" Isabella was silent. \"My dear friend, you must not be angry\nwith me. I cannot suppose your brother cares so very much about me. And,\nyou know, we shall still be sisters.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes\" (with a blush), \"there are more ways than one of our being\nsisters. But where am I wandering to? Well, my dear Catherine, the case\nseems to be that you are determined against poor John--is not it so?\"\n\n\"I certainly cannot return his affection, and as certainly never meant\nto encourage it.\"\n\n\"Since that is the case, I am sure I shall not tease you any further.\nJohn desired me to speak to you on the subject, and therefore I have.\nBut I confess, as soon as I read his letter, I thought it a very\nfoolish, imprudent business, and not likely to promote the good of\neither; for what were you to live upon, supposing you came together? You\nhave both of you something, to be sure, but it is not a trifle that will\nsupport a family nowadays; and after all that romancers may say, there\nis no doing without money. I only wonder John could think of it; he\ncould not have received my last.\"\n\n\"You do acquit me, then, of anything wrong?--You are convinced that I\nnever meant to deceive your brother, never suspected him of liking me\ntill this moment?\"\n\n\"Oh! As to that,\" answered Isabella laughingly, \"I do not pretend to\ndetermine what your thoughts and designs in time past may have been. All\nthat is best known to yourself. A little harmless flirtation or so will\noccur, and one is often drawn on to give more encouragement than one\nwishes to stand by. But you may be assured that I am the last person in\nthe world to judge you severely. All those things should be allowed for\nin youth and high spirits. What one means one day, you know, one may not\nmean the next. Circumstances change, opinions alter.\"\n\n\"But my opinion of your brother never did alter; it was always the same.\nYou are describing what never happened.\"\n\n\"My dearest Catherine,\" continued the other without at all listening to\nher, \"I would not for all the world be the means of hurrying you into an\nengagement before you knew what you were about. I do not think anything\nwould justify me in wishing you to sacrifice all your happiness merely\nto oblige my brother, because he is my brother, and who perhaps after\nall, you know, might be just as happy without you, for people seldom\nknow what they would be at, young men especially, they are so amazingly\nchangeable and inconstant. What I say is, why should a brother's\nhappiness be dearer to me than a friend's? You know I carry my notions\nof friendship pretty high. But, above all things, my dear Catherine, do\nnot be in a hurry. Take my word for it, that if you are in too great\na hurry, you will certainly live to repent it. Tilney says there is\nnothing people are so often deceived in as the state of their own\naffections, and I believe he is very right. Ah! Here he comes; never\nmind, he will not see us, I am sure.\"\n\nCatherine, looking up, perceived Captain Tilney; and Isabella,\nearnestly fixing her eye on him as she spoke, soon caught his notice. He\napproached immediately, and took the seat to which her movements invited\nhim. His first address made Catherine start. Though spoken low, she\ncould distinguish, \"What! Always to be watched, in person or by proxy!\"\n\n\"Psha, nonsense!\" was Isabella's answer in the same half whisper. \"Why\ndo you put such things into my head? If I could believe it--my spirit,\nyou know, is pretty independent.\"\n\n\"I wish your heart were independent. That would be enough for me.\"\n\n\"My heart, indeed! What can you have to do with hearts? You men have\nnone of you any hearts.\"\n\n\"If we have not hearts, we have eyes; and they give us torment enough.\"\n\n\"Do they? I am sorry for it; I am sorry they find anything so\ndisagreeable in me. I will look another way. I hope this pleases you\"\n(turning her back on him); \"I hope your eyes are not tormented now.\"\n\n\"Never more so; for the edge of a blooming cheek is still in view--at\nonce too much and too little.\"\n\nCatherine heard all this, and quite out of countenance, could listen\nno longer. Amazed that Isabella could endure it, and jealous for her\nbrother, she rose up, and saying she should join Mrs. Allen, proposed\ntheir walking. But for this Isabella showed no inclination. She was so\namazingly tired, and it was so odious to parade about the pump-room;\nand if she moved from her seat she should miss her sisters; she was\nexpecting her sisters every moment; so that her dearest Catherine must\nexcuse her, and must sit quietly down again. But Catherine could be\nstubborn too; and Mrs. Allen just then coming up to propose their\nreturning home, she joined her and walked out of the pump-room, leaving\nIsabella still sitting with Captain Tilney. With much uneasiness did\nshe thus leave them. It seemed to her that Captain Tilney was falling\nin love with Isabella, and Isabella unconsciously encouraging him;\nunconsciously it must be, for Isabella's attachment to James was as\ncertain and well acknowledged as her engagement. To doubt her truth\nor good intentions was impossible; and yet, during the whole of their\nconversation her manner had been odd. She wished Isabella had talked\nmore like her usual self, and not so much about money, and had not\nlooked so well pleased at the sight of Captain Tilney. How strange that\nshe should not perceive his admiration! Catherine longed to give her a\nhint of it, to put her on her guard, and prevent all the pain which\nher too lively behaviour might otherwise create both for him and her\nbrother.\n\nThe compliment of John Thorpe's affection did not make amends for this\nthoughtlessness in his sister. She was almost as far from believing as\nfrom wishing it to be sincere; for she had not forgotten that he\ncould mistake, and his assertion of the offer and of her encouragement\nconvinced her that his mistakes could sometimes be very egregious.\nIn vanity, therefore, she gained but little; her chief profit was in\nwonder. That he should think it worth his while to fancy himself in love\nwith her was a matter of lively astonishment. Isabella talked of his\nattentions; she had never been sensible of any; but Isabella had said\nmany things which she hoped had been spoken in haste, and would never\nbe said again; and upon this she was glad to rest altogether for present\nease and comfort.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 19\n\n\nA few days passed away, and Catherine, though not allowing herself to\nsuspect her friend, could not help watching her closely. The result of\nher observations was not agreeable. Isabella seemed an altered creature.\nWhen she saw her, indeed, surrounded only by their immediate friends\nin Edgar's Buildings or Pulteney Street, her change of manners was so\ntrifling that, had it gone no farther, it might have passed unnoticed.\nA something of languid indifference, or of that boasted absence of\nmind which Catherine had never heard of before, would occasionally come\nacross her; but had nothing worse appeared, that might only have spread\na new grace and inspired a warmer interest. But when Catherine saw her\nin public, admitting Captain Tilney's attentions as readily as they were\noffered, and allowing him almost an equal share with James in her notice\nand smiles, the alteration became too positive to be passed over. What\ncould be meant by such unsteady conduct, what her friend could be at,\nwas beyond her comprehension. Isabella could not be aware of the pain\nshe was inflicting; but it was a degree of wilful thoughtlessness which\nCatherine could not but resent. James was the sufferer. She saw him\ngrave and uneasy; and however careless of his present comfort the woman\nmight be who had given him her heart, to her it was always an object.\nFor poor Captain Tilney too she was greatly concerned. Though his looks\ndid not please her, his name was a passport to her goodwill, and she\nthought with sincere compassion of his approaching disappointment; for,\nin spite of what she had believed herself to overhear in the pump-room,\nhis behaviour was so incompatible with a knowledge of Isabella's\nengagement that she could not, upon reflection, imagine him aware of it.\nHe might be jealous of her brother as a rival, but if more had seemed\nimplied, the fault must have been in her misapprehension. She wished, by\na gentle remonstrance, to remind Isabella of her situation, and make\nher aware of this double unkindness; but for remonstrance, either\nopportunity or comprehension was always against her. If able to suggest\na hint, Isabella could never understand it. In this distress, the\nintended departure of the Tilney family became her chief consolation;\ntheir journey into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days,\nand Captain Tilney's removal would at least restore peace to every heart\nbut his own. But Captain Tilney had at present no intention of removing;\nhe was not to be of the party to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath.\nWhen Catherine knew this, her resolution was directly made. She spoke to\nHenry Tilney on the subject, regretting his brother's evident partiality\nfor Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known her prior engagement.\n\n\"My brother does know it,\" was Henry's answer.\n\n\"Does he? Then why does he stay here?\"\n\nHe made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she\neagerly continued, \"Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer\nhe stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his\nown sake, and for everybody's sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence will\nin time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it\nis only staying to be miserable.\"\n\nHenry smiled and said, \"I am sure my brother would not wish to do that.\"\n\n\"Then you will persuade him to go away?\"\n\n\"Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour\nto persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He\nknows what he is about, and must be his own master.\"\n\n\"No, he does not know what he is about,\" cried Catherine; \"he does not\nknow the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me\nso, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable.\"\n\n\"And are you sure it is my brother's doing?\"\n\n\"Yes, very sure.\"\n\n\"Is it my brother's attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe's\nadmission of them, that gives the pain?\"\n\n\"Is not it the same thing?\"\n\n\"I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended\nby another man's admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only\nwho can make it a torment.\"\n\nCatherine blushed for her friend, and said, \"Isabella is wrong. But I\nam sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my\nbrother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and\nwhile my father's consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into\na fever. You know she must be attached to him.\"\n\n\"I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick.\"\n\n\"Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with\nanother.\"\n\n\"It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so\nwell, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a\nlittle.\"\n\nAfter a short pause, Catherine resumed with, \"Then you do not believe\nIsabella so very much attached to my brother?\"\n\n\"I can have no opinion on that subject.\"\n\n\"But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he\nmean by his behaviour?\"\n\n\"You are a very close questioner.\"\n\n\"Am I? I only ask what I want to be told.\"\n\n\"But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?\"\n\n\"Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother's heart.\"\n\n\"My brother's heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure\nyou I can only guess at.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To\nbe guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before\nyou. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young\nman; he has had about a week's acquaintance with your friend, and he has\nknown her engagement almost as long as he has known her.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Catherine, after some moments' consideration, \"you may be\nable to guess at your brother's intentions from all this; but I am sure\nI cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he\nwant Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to\nhim, he would go.\"\n\n\"My dear Miss Morland,\" said Henry, \"in this amiable solicitude for your\nbrother's comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried\na little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or\nMiss Thorpe's, for supposing that her affection, or at least her good\nbehaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain\nTilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him\nonly when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this--and you may\nbe sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say, 'Do not\nbe uneasy,' because I know that you are so, at this moment; but be as\nlittle uneasy as you can. You have no doubt of the mutual attachment\nof your brother and your friend; depend upon it, therefore, that\nreal jealousy never can exist between them; depend upon it that no\ndisagreement between them can be of any duration. Their hearts are open\nto each other, as neither heart can be to you; they know exactly what\nis required and what can be borne; and you may be certain that one will\nnever tease the other beyond what is known to be pleasant.\"\n\nPerceiving her still to look doubtful and grave, he added, \"Though\nFrederick does not leave Bath with us, he will probably remain but a\nvery short time, perhaps only a few days behind us. His leave of absence\nwill soon expire, and he must return to his regiment. And what will then\nbe their acquaintance? The mess-room will drink Isabella Thorpe for\na fortnight, and she will laugh with your brother over poor Tilney's\npassion for a month.\"\n\nCatherine would contend no longer against comfort. She had resisted its\napproaches during the whole length of a speech, but it now carried her\ncaptive. Henry Tilney must know best. She blamed herself for the extent\nof her fears, and resolved never to think so seriously on the subject\nagain.\n\nHer resolution was supported by Isabella's behaviour in their parting\ninterview. The Thorpes spent the last evening of Catherine's stay in\nPulteney Street, and nothing passed between the lovers to excite\nher uneasiness, or make her quit them in apprehension. James was in\nexcellent spirits, and Isabella most engagingly placid. Her tenderness\nfor her friend seemed rather the first feeling of her heart; but that\nat such a moment was allowable; and once she gave her lover a flat\ncontradiction, and once she drew back her hand; but Catherine remembered\nHenry's instructions, and placed it all to judicious affection. The\nembraces, tears, and promises of the parting fair ones may be fancied.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 20\n\n\nMr. and Mrs. Allen were sorry to lose their young friend, whose good\nhumour and cheerfulness had made her a valuable companion, and in the\npromotion of whose enjoyment their own had been gently increased. Her\nhappiness in going with Miss Tilney, however, prevented their wishing\nit otherwise; and, as they were to remain only one more week in Bath\nthemselves, her quitting them now would not long be felt. Mr. Allen\nattended her to Milsom Street, where she was to breakfast, and saw her\nseated with the kindest welcome among her new friends; but so great was\nher agitation in finding herself as one of the family, and so fearful\nwas she of not doing exactly what was right, and of not being able to\npreserve their good opinion, that, in the embarrassment of the first\nfive minutes, she could almost have wished to return with him to\nPulteney Street.\n\nMiss Tilney's manners and Henry's smile soon did away some of her\nunpleasant feelings; but still she was far from being at ease; nor could\nthe incessant attentions of the general himself entirely reassure her.\nNay, perverse as it seemed, she doubted whether she might not have felt\nless, had she been less attended to. His anxiety for her comfort--his\ncontinual solicitations that she would eat, and his often-expressed\nfears of her seeing nothing to her taste--though never in her life\nbefore had she beheld half such variety on a breakfast-table--made it\nimpossible for her to forget for a moment that she was a visitor. She\nfelt utterly unworthy of such respect, and knew not how to reply to it.\nHer tranquillity was not improved by the general's impatience for the\nappearance of his eldest son, nor by the displeasure he expressed at his\nlaziness when Captain Tilney at last came down. She was quite pained by\nthe severity of his father's reproof, which seemed disproportionate to\nthe offence; and much was her concern increased when she found herself\nthe principal cause of the lecture, and that his tardiness was chiefly\nresented from being disrespectful to her. This was placing her in a\nvery uncomfortable situation, and she felt great compassion for Captain\nTilney, without being able to hope for his goodwill.\n\nHe listened to his father in silence, and attempted not any defence,\nwhich confirmed her in fearing that the inquietude of his mind, on\nIsabella's account, might, by keeping him long sleepless, have been\nthe real cause of his rising late. It was the first time of her being\ndecidedly in his company, and she had hoped to be now able to form\nher opinion of him; but she scarcely heard his voice while his father\nremained in the room; and even afterwards, so much were his spirits\naffected, she could distinguish nothing but these words, in a whisper to\nEleanor, \"How glad I shall be when you are all off.\"\n\nThe bustle of going was not pleasant. The clock struck ten while the\ntrunks were carrying down, and the general had fixed to be out of Milsom\nStreet by that hour. His greatcoat, instead of being brought for him\nto put on directly, was spread out in the curricle in which he was to\naccompany his son. The middle seat of the chaise was not drawn out,\nthough there were three people to go in it, and his daughter's maid had\nso crowded it with parcels that Miss Morland would not have room to sit;\nand, so much was he influenced by this apprehension when he handed her\nin, that she had some difficulty in saving her own new writing-desk from\nbeing thrown out into the street. At last, however, the door was closed\nupon the three females, and they set off at the sober pace in which\nthe handsome, highly fed four horses of a gentleman usually perform a\njourney of thirty miles: such was the distance of Northanger from Bath,\nto be now divided into two equal stages. Catherine's spirits revived as\nthey drove from the door; for with Miss Tilney she felt no restraint;\nand, with the interest of a road entirely new to her, of an abbey\nbefore, and a curricle behind, she caught the last view of Bath without\nany regret, and met with every milestone before she expected it. The\ntediousness of a two hours' wait at Petty France, in which there was\nnothing to be done but to eat without being hungry, and loiter about\nwithout anything to see, next followed--and her admiration of the style\nin which they travelled, of the fashionable chaise and four--postilions\nhandsomely liveried, rising so regularly in their stirrups, and\nnumerous outriders properly mounted, sunk a little under this consequent\ninconvenience. Had their party been perfectly agreeable, the delay would\nhave been nothing; but General Tilney, though so charming a man, seemed\nalways a check upon his children's spirits, and scarcely anything was\nsaid but by himself; the observation of which, with his discontent at\nwhatever the inn afforded, and his angry impatience at the waiters, made\nCatherine grow every moment more in awe of him, and appeared to lengthen\nthe two hours into four. At last, however, the order of release was\ngiven; and much was Catherine then surprised by the general's proposal\nof her taking his place in his son's curricle for the rest of the\njourney: \"the day was fine, and he was anxious for her seeing as much of\nthe country as possible.\"\n\nThe remembrance of Mr. Allen's opinion, respecting young men's open\ncarriages, made her blush at the mention of such a plan, and her first\nthought was to decline it; but her second was of greater deference for\nGeneral Tilney's judgment; he could not propose anything improper for\nher; and, in the course of a few minutes, she found herself with Henry\nin the curricle, as happy a being as ever existed. A very short trial\nconvinced her that a curricle was the prettiest equipage in the world;\nthe chaise and four wheeled off with some grandeur, to be sure, but it\nwas a heavy and troublesome business, and she could not easily forget\nits having stopped two hours at Petty France. Half the time would\nhave been enough for the curricle, and so nimbly were the light horses\ndisposed to move, that, had not the general chosen to have his own\ncarriage lead the way, they could have passed it with ease in half a\nminute. But the merit of the curricle did not all belong to the horses;\nHenry drove so well--so quietly--without making any disturbance,\nwithout parading to her, or swearing at them: so different from the only\ngentleman-coachman whom it was in her power to compare him with! And\nthen his hat sat so well, and the innumerable capes of his greatcoat\nlooked so becomingly important! To be driven by him, next to being\ndancing with him, was certainly the greatest happiness in the world. In\naddition to every other delight, she had now that of listening to her\nown praise; of being thanked at least, on his sister's account, for\nher kindness in thus becoming her visitor; of hearing it ranked as real\nfriendship, and described as creating real gratitude. His sister, he\nsaid, was uncomfortably circumstanced--she had no female companion--and,\nin the frequent absence of her father, was sometimes without any\ncompanion at all.\n\n\"But how can that be?\" said Catherine. \"Are not you with her?\"\n\n\"Northanger is not more than half my home; I have an establishment at\nmy own house in Woodston, which is nearly twenty miles from my father's,\nand some of my time is necessarily spent there.\"\n\n\"How sorry you must be for that!\"\n\n\"I am always sorry to leave Eleanor.\"\n\n\"Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must be so fond of\nthe abbey! After being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary\nparsonage-house must be very disagreeable.\"\n\nHe smiled, and said, \"You have formed a very favourable idea of the\nabbey.\"\n\n\"To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one\nreads about?\"\n\n\"And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such\nas 'what one reads about' may produce? Have you a stout heart? Nerves\nfit for sliding panels and tapestry?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes--I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there\nwould be so many people in the house--and besides, it has never been\nuninhabited and left deserted for years, and then the family come back\nto it unawares, without giving any notice, as generally happens.\"\n\n\"No, certainly. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly\nlighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire--nor be obliged to spread\nour beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture.\nBut you must be aware that when a young lady is (by whatever means)\nintroduced into a dwelling of this kind, she is always lodged apart from\nthe rest of the family. While they snugly repair to their own end of the\nhouse, she is formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper, up\na different staircase, and along many gloomy passages, into an apartment\nnever used since some cousin or kin died in it about twenty years\nbefore. Can you stand such a ceremony as this? Will not your mind\nmisgive you when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber--too lofty and\nextensive for you, with only the feeble rays of a single lamp to take\nin its size--its walls hung with tapestry exhibiting figures as large as\nlife, and the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet, presenting even\na funereal appearance? Will not your heart sink within you?\"\n\n\"Oh! But this will not happen to me, I am sure.\"\n\n\"How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! And\nwhat will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers,\nbut on one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a\nponderous chest which no efforts can open, and over the fireplace\nthe portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features will so\nincomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be able to withdraw your\neyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile, no less struck by your appearance,\ngazes on you in great agitation, and drops a few unintelligible hints.\nTo raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason to suppose that\nthe part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly haunted, and informs\nyou that you will not have a single domestic within call. With this\nparting cordial she curtsies off--you listen to the sound of her\nreceding footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you--and when,\nwith fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover,\nwith increased alarm, that it has no lock.\"\n\n\"Oh! Mr. Tilney, how frightful! This is just like a book! But it cannot\nreally happen to me. I am sure your housekeeper is not really Dorothy.\nWell, what then?\"\n\n\"Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the first night. After\nsurmounting your unconquerable horror of the bed, you will retire to\nrest, and get a few hours' unquiet slumber. But on the second, or at\nfarthest the third night after your arrival, you will probably have a\nviolent storm. Peals of thunder so loud as to seem to shake the edifice\nto its foundation will roll round the neighbouring mountains--and during\nthe frightful gusts of wind which accompany it, you will probably think\nyou discern (for your lamp is not extinguished) one part of the hanging\nmore violently agitated than the rest. Unable of course to repress your\ncuriosity in so favourable a moment for indulging it, you will instantly\narise, and throwing your dressing-gown around you, proceed to examine\nthis mystery. After a very short search, you will discover a division in\nthe tapestry so artfully constructed as to defy the minutest inspection,\nand on opening it, a door will immediately appear--which door, being\nonly secured by massy bars and a padlock, you will, after a few efforts,\nsucceed in opening--and, with your lamp in your hand, will pass through\nit into a small vaulted room.\"\n\n\"No, indeed; I should be too much frightened to do any such thing.\"\n\n\"What! Not when Dorothy has given you to understand that there is a\nsecret subterraneous communication between your apartment and the chapel\nof St. Anthony, scarcely two miles off? Could you shrink from so simple\nan adventure? No, no, you will proceed into this small vaulted room,\nand through this into several others, without perceiving anything very\nremarkable in either. In one perhaps there may be a dagger, in another\na few drops of blood, and in a third the remains of some instrument of\ntorture; but there being nothing in all this out of the common way,\nand your lamp being nearly exhausted, you will return towards your own\napartment. In repassing through the small vaulted room, however, your\neyes will be attracted towards a large, old-fashioned cabinet of ebony\nand gold, which, though narrowly examining the furniture before, you\nhad passed unnoticed. Impelled by an irresistible presentiment, you will\neagerly advance to it, unlock its folding doors, and search into\nevery drawer--but for some time without discovering anything of\nimportance--perhaps nothing but a considerable hoard of diamonds. At\nlast, however, by touching a secret spring, an inner compartment will\nopen--a roll of paper appears--you seize it--it contains many sheets of\nmanuscript--you hasten with the precious treasure into your own chamber,\nbut scarcely have you been able to decipher 'Oh! Thou--whomsoever thou\nmayst be, into whose hands these memoirs of the wretched Matilda may\nfall'--when your lamp suddenly expires in the socket, and leaves you in\ntotal darkness.\"\n\n\"Oh! No, no--do not say so. Well, go on.\"\n\nBut Henry was too much amused by the interest he had raised to be able\nto carry it farther; he could no longer command solemnity either of\nsubject or voice, and was obliged to entreat her to use her own fancy\nin the perusal of Matilda's woes. Catherine, recollecting herself, grew\nashamed of her eagerness, and began earnestly to assure him that her\nattention had been fixed without the smallest apprehension of really\nmeeting with what he related. \"Miss Tilney, she was sure, would never\nput her into such a chamber as he had described! She was not at all\nafraid.\"\n\nAs they drew near the end of their journey, her impatience for a sight\nof the abbey--for some time suspended by his conversation on subjects\nvery different--returned in full force, and every bend in the road was\nexpected with solemn awe to afford a glimpse of its massy walls of grey\nstone, rising amidst a grove of ancient oaks, with the last beams of the\nsun playing in beautiful splendour on its high Gothic windows. But so\nlow did the building stand, that she found herself passing through the\ngreat gates of the lodge into the very grounds of Northanger, without\nhaving discerned even an antique chimney.\n\nShe knew not that she had any right to be surprised, but there was a\nsomething in this mode of approach which she certainly had not expected.\nTo pass between lodges of a modern appearance, to find herself with such\nease in the very precincts of the abbey, and driven so rapidly along a\nsmooth, level road of fine gravel, without obstacle, alarm, or solemnity\nof any kind, struck her as odd and inconsistent. She was not long\nat leisure, however, for such considerations. A sudden scud of rain,\ndriving full in her face, made it impossible for her to observe anything\nfurther, and fixed all her thoughts on the welfare of her new straw\nbonnet; and she was actually under the abbey walls, was springing, with\nHenry's assistance, from the carriage, was beneath the shelter of the\nold porch, and had even passed on to the hall, where her friend and\nthe general were waiting to welcome her, without feeling one awful\nforeboding of future misery to herself, or one moment's suspicion of any\npast scenes of horror being acted within the solemn edifice. The breeze\nhad not seemed to waft the sighs of the murdered to her; it had wafted\nnothing worse than a thick mizzling rain; and having given a good shake\nto her habit, she was ready to be shown into the common drawing-room,\nand capable of considering where she was.\n\nAn abbey! Yes, it was delightful to be really in an abbey! But she\ndoubted, as she looked round the room, whether anything within her\nobservation would have given her the consciousness. The furniture was in\nall the profusion and elegance of modern taste. The fireplace, where she\nhad expected the ample width and ponderous carving of former times, was\ncontracted to a Rumford, with slabs of plain though handsome marble, and\nornaments over it of the prettiest English china. The windows, to which\nshe looked with peculiar dependence, from having heard the general talk\nof his preserving them in their Gothic form with reverential care, were\nyet less what her fancy had portrayed. To be sure, the pointed arch\nwas preserved--the form of them was Gothic--they might be even\ncasements--but every pane was so large, so clear, so light! To an\nimagination which had hoped for the smallest divisions, and the heaviest\nstone-work, for painted glass, dirt, and cobwebs, the difference was\nvery distressing.\n\nThe general, perceiving how her eye was employed, began to talk of the\nsmallness of the room and simplicity of the furniture, where everything,\nbeing for daily use, pretended only to comfort, etc.; flattering\nhimself, however, that there were some apartments in the Abbey not\nunworthy her notice--and was proceeding to mention the costly gilding\nof one in particular, when, taking out his watch, he stopped short to\npronounce it with surprise within twenty minutes of five! This seemed\nthe word of separation, and Catherine found herself hurried away by Miss\nTilney in such a manner as convinced her that the strictest punctuality\nto the family hours would be expected at Northanger.\n\nReturning through the large and lofty hall, they ascended a broad\nstaircase of shining oak, which, after many flights and many\nlanding-places, brought them upon a long, wide gallery. On one side it\nhad a range of doors, and it was lighted on the other by windows which\nCatherine had only time to discover looked into a quadrangle, before\nMiss Tilney led the way into a chamber, and scarcely staying to hope she\nwould find it comfortable, left her with an anxious entreaty that she\nwould make as little alteration as possible in her dress.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 21\n\n\nA moment's glance was enough to satisfy Catherine that her apartment\nwas very unlike the one which Henry had endeavoured to alarm her by the\ndescription of. It was by no means unreasonably large, and contained\nneither tapestry nor velvet. The walls were papered, the floor was\ncarpeted; the windows were neither less perfect nor more dim than those\nof the drawing-room below; the furniture, though not of the latest\nfashion, was handsome and comfortable, and the air of the room\naltogether far from uncheerful. Her heart instantaneously at ease on\nthis point, she resolved to lose no time in particular examination of\nanything, as she greatly dreaded disobliging the general by any delay.\nHer habit therefore was thrown off with all possible haste, and she was\npreparing to unpin the linen package, which the chaise-seat had conveyed\nfor her immediate accommodation, when her eye suddenly fell on a large\nhigh chest, standing back in a deep recess on one side of the fireplace.\nThe sight of it made her start; and, forgetting everything else, she\nstood gazing on it in motionless wonder, while these thoughts crossed\nher:\n\n\"This is strange indeed! I did not expect such a sight as this! An\nimmense heavy chest! What can it hold? Why should it be placed here?\nPushed back too, as if meant to be out of sight! I will look into\nit--cost me what it may, I will look into it--and directly too--by\ndaylight. If I stay till evening my candle may go out.\" She advanced and\nexamined it closely: it was of cedar, curiously inlaid with some darker\nwood, and raised, about a foot from the ground, on a carved stand of the\nsame. The lock was silver, though tarnished from age; at each end\nwere the imperfect remains of handles also of silver, broken perhaps\nprematurely by some strange violence; and, on the centre of the lid, was\na mysterious cipher, in the same metal. Catherine bent over it intently,\nbut without being able to distinguish anything with certainty. She could\nnot, in whatever direction she took it, believe the last letter to be\na T; and yet that it should be anything else in that house was\na circumstance to raise no common degree of astonishment. If not\noriginally theirs, by what strange events could it have fallen into the\nTilney family?\n\nHer fearful curiosity was every moment growing greater; and seizing,\nwith trembling hands, the hasp of the lock, she resolved at all hazards\nto satisfy herself at least as to its contents. With difficulty, for\nsomething seemed to resist her efforts, she raised the lid a few inches;\nbut at that moment a sudden knocking at the door of the room made her,\nstarting, quit her hold, and the lid closed with alarming violence. This\nill-timed intruder was Miss Tilney's maid, sent by her mistress to be of\nuse to Miss Morland; and though Catherine immediately dismissed her, it\nrecalled her to the sense of what she ought to be doing, and forced her,\nin spite of her anxious desire to penetrate this mystery, to proceed in\nher dressing without further delay. Her progress was not quick, for her\nthoughts and her eyes were still bent on the object so well calculated\nto interest and alarm; and though she dared not waste a moment upon\na second attempt, she could not remain many paces from the chest. At\nlength, however, having slipped one arm into her gown, her toilette\nseemed so nearly finished that the impatience of her curiosity might\nsafely be indulged. One moment surely might be spared; and, so desperate\nshould be the exertion of her strength, that, unless secured by\nsupernatural means, the lid in one moment should be thrown back. With\nthis spirit she sprang forward, and her confidence did not deceive her.\nHer resolute effort threw back the lid, and gave to her astonished eyes\nthe view of a white cotton counterpane, properly folded, reposing at one\nend of the chest in undisputed possession!\n\nShe was gazing on it with the first blush of surprise when Miss Tilney,\nanxious for her friend's being ready, entered the room, and to the\nrising shame of having harboured for some minutes an absurd expectation,\nwas then added the shame of being caught in so idle a search. \"That is\na curious old chest, is not it?\" said Miss Tilney, as Catherine hastily\nclosed it and turned away to the glass. \"It is impossible to say how\nmany generations it has been here. How it came to be first put in this\nroom I know not, but I have not had it moved, because I thought it might\nsometimes be of use in holding hats and bonnets. The worst of it is that\nits weight makes it difficult to open. In that corner, however, it is at\nleast out of the way.\"\n\nCatherine had no leisure for speech, being at once blushing, tying her\ngown, and forming wise resolutions with the most violent dispatch. Miss\nTilney gently hinted her fear of being late; and in half a minute they\nran downstairs together, in an alarm not wholly unfounded, for General\nTilney was pacing the drawing-room, his watch in his hand, and having,\non the very instant of their entering, pulled the bell with violence,\nordered \"Dinner to be on table directly!\"\n\nCatherine trembled at the emphasis with which he spoke, and sat pale\nand breathless, in a most humble mood, concerned for his children, and\ndetesting old chests; and the general, recovering his politeness as he\nlooked at her, spent the rest of his time in scolding his daughter for\nso foolishly hurrying her fair friend, who was absolutely out of breath\nfrom haste, when there was not the least occasion for hurry in the\nworld: but Catherine could not at all get over the double distress\nof having involved her friend in a lecture and been a great simpleton\nherself, till they were happily seated at the dinner-table, when the\ngeneral's complacent smiles, and a good appetite of her own, restored\nher to peace. The dining-parlour was a noble room, suitable in its\ndimensions to a much larger drawing-room than the one in common use, and\nfitted up in a style of luxury and expense which was almost lost on the\nunpractised eye of Catherine, who saw little more than its spaciousness\nand the number of their attendants. Of the former, she spoke aloud\nher admiration; and the general, with a very gracious countenance,\nacknowledged that it was by no means an ill-sized room, and further\nconfessed that, though as careless on such subjects as most people, he\ndid look upon a tolerably large eating-room as one of the necessaries\nof life; he supposed, however, \"that she must have been used to much\nbetter-sized apartments at Mr. Allen's?\"\n\n\"No, indeed,\" was Catherine's honest assurance; \"Mr. Allen's\ndining-parlour was not more than half as large,\" and she had never\nseen so large a room as this in her life. The general's good humour\nincreased. Why, as he had such rooms, he thought it would be simple not\nto make use of them; but, upon his honour, he believed there might be\nmore comfort in rooms of only half their size. Mr. Allen's house, he was\nsure, must be exactly of the true size for rational happiness.\n\nThe evening passed without any further disturbance, and, in the\noccasional absence of General Tilney, with much positive cheerfulness.\nIt was only in his presence that Catherine felt the smallest fatigue\nfrom her journey; and even then, even in moments of languor or\nrestraint, a sense of general happiness preponderated, and she could\nthink of her friends in Bath without one wish of being with them.\n\nThe night was stormy; the wind had been rising at intervals the whole\nafternoon; and by the time the party broke up, it blew and rained\nviolently. Catherine, as she crossed the hall, listened to the tempest\nwith sensations of awe; and, when she heard it rage round a corner of\nthe ancient building and close with sudden fury a distant door, felt\nfor the first time that she was really in an abbey. Yes, these were\ncharacteristic sounds; they brought to her recollection a countless\nvariety of dreadful situations and horrid scenes, which such buildings\nhad witnessed, and such storms ushered in; and most heartily did she\nrejoice in the happier circumstances attending her entrance within walls\nso solemn! She had nothing to dread from midnight assassins or drunken\ngallants. Henry had certainly been only in jest in what he had told her\nthat morning. In a house so furnished, and so guarded, she could have\nnothing to explore or to suffer, and might go to her bedroom as securely\nas if it had been her own chamber at Fullerton. Thus wisely fortifying\nher mind, as she proceeded upstairs, she was enabled, especially on\nperceiving that Miss Tilney slept only two doors from her, to enter\nher room with a tolerably stout heart; and her spirits were immediately\nassisted by the cheerful blaze of a wood fire. \"How much better is\nthis,\" said she, as she walked to the fender--\"how much better to find a\nfire ready lit, than to have to wait shivering in the cold till all the\nfamily are in bed, as so many poor girls have been obliged to do, and\nthen to have a faithful old servant frightening one by coming in with a\nfaggot! How glad I am that Northanger is what it is! If it had been like\nsome other places, I do not know that, in such a night as this, I could\nhave answered for my courage: but now, to be sure, there is nothing to\nalarm one.\"\n\nShe looked round the room. The window curtains seemed in motion. It\ncould be nothing but the violence of the wind penetrating through the\ndivisions of the shutters; and she stepped boldly forward, carelessly\nhumming a tune, to assure herself of its being so, peeped courageously\nbehind each curtain, saw nothing on either low window seat to scare her,\nand on placing a hand against the shutter, felt the strongest conviction\nof the wind's force. A glance at the old chest, as she turned away from\nthis examination, was not without its use; she scorned the causeless\nfears of an idle fancy, and began with a most happy indifference to\nprepare herself for bed. \"She should take her time; she should not hurry\nherself; she did not care if she were the last person up in the house.\nBut she would not make up her fire; that would seem cowardly, as if\nshe wished for the protection of light after she were in bed.\" The fire\ntherefore died away, and Catherine, having spent the best part of an\nhour in her arrangements, was beginning to think of stepping into bed,\nwhen, on giving a parting glance round the room, she was struck by the\nappearance of a high, old-fashioned black cabinet, which, though in\na situation conspicuous enough, had never caught her notice before.\nHenry's words, his description of the ebony cabinet which was to escape\nher observation at first, immediately rushed across her; and though\nthere could be nothing really in it, there was something whimsical, it\nwas certainly a very remarkable coincidence! She took her candle and\nlooked closely at the cabinet. It was not absolutely ebony and gold; but\nit was japan, black and yellow japan of the handsomest kind; and as she\nheld her candle, the yellow had very much the effect of gold. The key\nwas in the door, and she had a strange fancy to look into it; not,\nhowever, with the smallest expectation of finding anything, but it was\nso very odd, after what Henry had said. In short, she could not sleep\ntill she had examined it. So, placing the candle with great caution on\na chair, she seized the key with a very tremulous hand and tried to turn\nit; but it resisted her utmost strength. Alarmed, but not discouraged,\nshe tried it another way; a bolt flew, and she believed herself\nsuccessful; but how strangely mysterious! The door was still immovable.\nShe paused a moment in breathless wonder. The wind roared down the\nchimney, the rain beat in torrents against the windows, and everything\nseemed to speak the awfulness of her situation. To retire to bed,\nhowever, unsatisfied on such a point, would be vain, since sleep must be\nimpossible with the consciousness of a cabinet so mysteriously closed\nin her immediate vicinity. Again, therefore, she applied herself to the\nkey, and after moving it in every possible way for some instants with\nthe determined celerity of hope's last effort, the door suddenly yielded\nto her hand: her heart leaped with exultation at such a victory, and\nhaving thrown open each folding door, the second being secured only by\nbolts of less wonderful construction than the lock, though in that her\neye could not discern anything unusual, a double range of small drawers\nappeared in view, with some larger drawers above and below them; and in\nthe centre, a small door, closed also with a lock and key, secured in\nall probability a cavity of importance.\n\nCatherine's heart beat quick, but her courage did not fail her. With a\ncheek flushed by hope, and an eye straining with curiosity, her fingers\ngrasped the handle of a drawer and drew it forth. It was entirely empty.\nWith less alarm and greater eagerness she seized a second, a third, a\nfourth; each was equally empty. Not one was left unsearched, and in not\none was anything found. Well read in the art of concealing a treasure,\nthe possibility of false linings to the drawers did not escape her, and\nshe felt round each with anxious acuteness in vain. The place in the\nmiddle alone remained now unexplored; and though she had \"never from\nthe first had the smallest idea of finding anything in any part of the\ncabinet, and was not in the least disappointed at her ill success thus\nfar, it would be foolish not to examine it thoroughly while she was\nabout it.\" It was some time however before she could unfasten the door,\nthe same difficulty occurring in the management of this inner lock as of\nthe outer; but at length it did open; and not vain, as hitherto, was her\nsearch; her quick eyes directly fell on a roll of paper pushed back\ninto the further part of the cavity, apparently for concealment, and\nher feelings at that moment were indescribable. Her heart fluttered, her\nknees trembled, and her cheeks grew pale. She seized, with an unsteady\nhand, the precious manuscript, for half a glance sufficed to ascertain\nwritten characters; and while she acknowledged with awful sensations\nthis striking exemplification of what Henry had foretold, resolved\ninstantly to peruse every line before she attempted to rest.\n\nThe dimness of the light her candle emitted made her turn to it with\nalarm; but there was no danger of its sudden extinction; it had yet some\nhours to burn; and that she might not have any greater difficulty in\ndistinguishing the writing than what its ancient date might occasion,\nshe hastily snuffed it. Alas! It was snuffed and extinguished in one. A\nlamp could not have expired with more awful effect. Catherine, for a\nfew moments, was motionless with horror. It was done completely; not a\nremnant of light in the wick could give hope to the rekindling breath.\nDarkness impenetrable and immovable filled the room. A violent gust\nof wind, rising with sudden fury, added fresh horror to the moment.\nCatherine trembled from head to foot. In the pause which succeeded, a\nsound like receding footsteps and the closing of a distant door struck\non her affrighted ear. Human nature could support no more. A cold sweat\nstood on her forehead, the manuscript fell from her hand, and groping\nher way to the bed, she jumped hastily in, and sought some suspension of\nagony by creeping far underneath the clothes. To close her eyes in\nsleep that night, she felt must be entirely out of the question. With\na curiosity so justly awakened, and feelings in every way so agitated,\nrepose must be absolutely impossible. The storm too abroad so dreadful!\nShe had not been used to feel alarm from wind, but now every blast\nseemed fraught with awful intelligence. The manuscript so wonderfully\nfound, so wonderfully accomplishing the morning's prediction, how was it\nto be accounted for? What could it contain? To whom could it relate?\nBy what means could it have been so long concealed? And how singularly\nstrange that it should fall to her lot to discover it! Till she had made\nherself mistress of its contents, however, she could have neither repose\nnor comfort; and with the sun's first rays she was determined to peruse\nit. But many were the tedious hours which must yet intervene. She\nshuddered, tossed about in her bed, and envied every quiet sleeper. The\nstorm still raged, and various were the noises, more terrific even\nthan the wind, which struck at intervals on her startled ear. The very\ncurtains of her bed seemed at one moment in motion, and at another\nthe lock of her door was agitated, as if by the attempt of somebody to\nenter. Hollow murmurs seemed to creep along the gallery, and more than\nonce her blood was chilled by the sound of distant moans. Hour after\nhour passed away, and the wearied Catherine had heard three proclaimed\nby all the clocks in the house before the tempest subsided or she\nunknowingly fell fast asleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 22\n\n\nThe housemaid's folding back her window-shutters at eight o'clock the\nnext day was the sound which first roused Catherine; and she opened her\neyes, wondering that they could ever have been closed, on objects of\ncheerfulness; her fire was already burning, and a bright morning\nhad succeeded the tempest of the night. Instantaneously, with the\nconsciousness of existence, returned her recollection of the manuscript;\nand springing from the bed in the very moment of the maid's going away,\nshe eagerly collected every scattered sheet which had burst from the\nroll on its falling to the ground, and flew back to enjoy the luxury\nof their perusal on her pillow. She now plainly saw that she must not\nexpect a manuscript of equal length with the generality of what she had\nshuddered over in books, for the roll, seeming to consist entirely of\nsmall disjointed sheets, was altogether but of trifling size, and much\nless than she had supposed it to be at first.\n\nHer greedy eye glanced rapidly over a page. She started at its import.\nCould it be possible, or did not her senses play her false? An inventory\nof linen, in coarse and modern characters, seemed all that was before\nher! If the evidence of sight might be trusted, she held a washing-bill\nin her hand. She seized another sheet, and saw the same articles with\nlittle variation; a third, a fourth, and a fifth presented nothing\nnew. Shirts, stockings, cravats, and waistcoats faced her in each. Two\nothers, penned by the same hand, marked an expenditure scarcely more\ninteresting, in letters, hair-powder, shoe-string, and breeches-ball.\nAnd the larger sheet, which had enclosed the rest, seemed by its first\ncramp line, \"To poultice chestnut mare\"--a farrier's bill! Such was the\ncollection of papers (left perhaps, as she could then suppose, by the\nnegligence of a servant in the place whence she had taken them) which\nhad filled her with expectation and alarm, and robbed her of half her\nnight's rest! She felt humbled to the dust. Could not the adventure of\nthe chest have taught her wisdom? A corner of it, catching her eye as\nshe lay, seemed to rise up in judgment against her. Nothing could now\nbe clearer than the absurdity of her recent fancies. To suppose that a\nmanuscript of many generations back could have remained undiscovered in\na room such as that, so modern, so habitable!--Or that she should be the\nfirst to possess the skill of unlocking a cabinet, the key of which was\nopen to all!\n\nHow could she have so imposed on herself? Heaven forbid that Henry\nTilney should ever know her folly! And it was in a great measure his\nown doing, for had not the cabinet appeared so exactly to agree with his\ndescription of her adventures, she should never have felt the smallest\ncuriosity about it. This was the only comfort that occurred. Impatient\nto get rid of those hateful evidences of her folly, those detestable\npapers then scattered over the bed, she rose directly, and folding them\nup as nearly as possible in the same shape as before, returned them\nto the same spot within the cabinet, with a very hearty wish that no\nuntoward accident might ever bring them forward again, to disgrace her\neven with herself.\n\nWhy the locks should have been so difficult to open, however, was still\nsomething remarkable, for she could now manage them with perfect ease.\nIn this there was surely something mysterious, and she indulged in the\nflattering suggestion for half a minute, till the possibility of the\ndoor's having been at first unlocked, and of being herself its fastener,\ndarted into her head, and cost her another blush.\n\nShe got away as soon as she could from a room in which her conduct\nproduced such unpleasant reflections, and found her way with all speed\nto the breakfast-parlour, as it had been pointed out to her by Miss\nTilney the evening before. Henry was alone in it; and his immediate hope\nof her having been undisturbed by the tempest, with an arch reference\nto the character of the building they inhabited, was rather distressing.\nFor the world would she not have her weakness suspected, and yet,\nunequal to an absolute falsehood, was constrained to acknowledge that\nthe wind had kept her awake a little. \"But we have a charming morning\nafter it,\" she added, desiring to get rid of the subject; \"and storms\nand sleeplessness are nothing when they are over. What beautiful\nhyacinths! I have just learnt to love a hyacinth.\"\n\n\"And how might you learn? By accident or argument?\"\n\n\"Your sister taught me; I cannot tell how. Mrs. Allen used to take\npains, year after year, to make me like them; but I never could, till\nI saw them the other day in Milsom Street; I am naturally indifferent\nabout flowers.\"\n\n\"But now you love a hyacinth. So much the better. You have gained a new\nsource of enjoyment, and it is well to have as many holds upon happiness\nas possible. Besides, a taste for flowers is always desirable in your\nsex, as a means of getting you out of doors, and tempting you to more\nfrequent exercise than you would otherwise take. And though the love\nof a hyacinth may be rather domestic, who can tell, the sentiment once\nraised, but you may in time come to love a rose?\"\n\n\"But I do not want any such pursuit to get me out of doors. The pleasure\nof walking and breathing fresh air is enough for me, and in fine weather\nI am out more than half my time. Mamma says I am never within.\"\n\n\"At any rate, however, I am pleased that you have learnt to love\na hyacinth. The mere habit of learning to love is the thing; and a\nteachableness of disposition in a young lady is a great blessing. Has my\nsister a pleasant mode of instruction?\"\n\nCatherine was saved the embarrassment of attempting an answer by the\nentrance of the general, whose smiling compliments announced a happy\nstate of mind, but whose gentle hint of sympathetic early rising did not\nadvance her composure.\n\nThe elegance of the breakfast set forced itself on Catherine's notice\nwhen they were seated at table; and, lucidly, it had been the general's\nchoice. He was enchanted by her approbation of his taste, confessed it\nto be neat and simple, thought it right to encourage the manufacture of\nhis country; and for his part, to his uncritical palate, the tea was as\nwell flavoured from the clay of Staffordshire, as from that of Dresden\nor Save. But this was quite an old set, purchased two years ago.\nThe manufacture was much improved since that time; he had seen some\nbeautiful specimens when last in town, and had he not been perfectly\nwithout vanity of that kind, might have been tempted to order a new\nset. He trusted, however, that an opportunity might ere long occur of\nselecting one--though not for himself. Catherine was probably the only\none of the party who did not understand him.\n\nShortly after breakfast Henry left them for Woodston, where business\nrequired and would keep him two or three days. They all attended in\nthe hall to see him mount his horse, and immediately on re-entering the\nbreakfast-room, Catherine walked to a window in the hope of catching\nanother glimpse of his figure. \"This is a somewhat heavy call upon your\nbrother's fortitude,\" observed the general to Eleanor. \"Woodston will\nmake but a sombre appearance today.\"\n\n\"Is it a pretty place?\" asked Catherine.\n\n\"What say you, Eleanor? Speak your opinion, for ladies can best tell the\ntaste of ladies in regard to places as well as men. I think it would be\nacknowledged by the most impartial eye to have many recommendations. The\nhouse stands among fine meadows facing the south-east, with an excellent\nkitchen-garden in the same aspect; the walls surrounding which I built\nand stocked myself about ten years ago, for the benefit of my son. It\nis a family living, Miss Morland; and the property in the place being\nchiefly my own, you may believe I take care that it shall not be a bad\none. Did Henry's income depend solely on this living, he would not be\nill-provided for. Perhaps it may seem odd, that with only two younger\nchildren, I should think any profession necessary for him; and certainly\nthere are moments when we could all wish him disengaged from every tie\nof business. But though I may not exactly make converts of you young\nladies, I am sure your father, Miss Morland, would agree with me in\nthinking it expedient to give every young man some employment. The\nmoney is nothing, it is not an object, but employment is the thing.\nEven Frederick, my eldest son, you see, who will perhaps inherit as\nconsiderable a landed property as any private man in the county, has his\nprofession.\"\n\nThe imposing effect of this last argument was equal to his wishes. The\nsilence of the lady proved it to be unanswerable.\n\nSomething had been said the evening before of her being shown over the\nhouse, and he now offered himself as her conductor; and though Catherine\nhad hoped to explore it accompanied only by his daughter, it was a\nproposal of too much happiness in itself, under any circumstances, not\nto be gladly accepted; for she had been already eighteen hours in the\nabbey, and had seen only a few of its rooms. The netting-box, just\nleisurely drawn forth, was closed with joyful haste, and she was ready\nto attend him in a moment. \"And when they had gone over the house, he\npromised himself moreover the pleasure of accompanying her into the\nshrubberies and garden.\" She curtsied her acquiescence. \"But perhaps\nit might be more agreeable to her to make those her first object.\nThe weather was at present favourable, and at this time of year the\nuncertainty was very great of its continuing so. Which would she prefer?\nHe was equally at her service. Which did his daughter think would most\naccord with her fair friend's wishes? But he thought he could discern.\nYes, he certainly read in Miss Morland's eyes a judicious desire of\nmaking use of the present smiling weather. But when did she judge amiss?\nThe abbey would be always safe and dry. He yielded implicitly, and\nwould fetch his hat and attend them in a moment.\" He left the room,\nand Catherine, with a disappointed, anxious face, began to speak of her\nunwillingness that he should be taking them out of doors against his own\ninclination, under a mistaken idea of pleasing her; but she was stopped\nby Miss Tilney's saying, with a little confusion, \"I believe it will be\nwisest to take the morning while it is so fine; and do not be uneasy on\nmy father's account; he always walks out at this time of day.\"\n\nCatherine did not exactly know how this was to be understood. Why\nwas Miss Tilney embarrassed? Could there be any unwillingness on the\ngeneral's side to show her over the abbey? The proposal was his own. And\nwas not it odd that he should always take his walk so early? Neither her\nfather nor Mr. Allen did so. It was certainly very provoking. She was\nall impatience to see the house, and had scarcely any curiosity about\nthe grounds. If Henry had been with them indeed! But now she should not\nknow what was picturesque when she saw it. Such were her thoughts, but\nshe kept them to herself, and put on her bonnet in patient discontent.\n\nShe was struck, however, beyond her expectation, by the grandeur of\nthe abbey, as she saw it for the first time from the lawn. The whole\nbuilding enclosed a large court; and two sides of the quadrangle, rich\nin Gothic ornaments, stood forward for admiration. The remainder was\nshut off by knolls of old trees, or luxuriant plantations, and the steep\nwoody hills rising behind, to give it shelter, were beautiful even in\nthe leafless month of March. Catherine had seen nothing to compare with\nit; and her feelings of delight were so strong, that without waiting for\nany better authority, she boldly burst forth in wonder and praise. The\ngeneral listened with assenting gratitude; and it seemed as if his own\nestimation of Northanger had waited unfixed till that hour.\n\nThe kitchen-garden was to be next admired, and he led the way to it\nacross a small portion of the park.\n\nThe number of acres contained in this garden was such as Catherine could\nnot listen to without dismay, being more than double the extent of all\nMr. Allen's, as well her father's, including church-yard and orchard.\nThe walls seemed countless in number, endless in length; a village of\nhot-houses seemed to arise among them, and a whole parish to be at\nwork within the enclosure. The general was flattered by her looks of\nsurprise, which told him almost as plainly, as he soon forced her to\ntell him in words, that she had never seen any gardens at all equal to\nthem before; and he then modestly owned that, \"without any ambition of\nthat sort himself--without any solicitude about it--he did believe them\nto be unrivalled in the kingdom. If he had a hobby-horse, it was that.\nHe loved a garden. Though careless enough in most matters of eating, he\nloved good fruit--or if he did not, his friends and children did. There\nwere great vexations, however, attending such a garden as his. The\nutmost care could not always secure the most valuable fruits. The pinery\nhad yielded only one hundred in the last year. Mr. Allen, he supposed,\nmust feel these inconveniences as well as himself.\"\n\n\"No, not at all. Mr. Allen did not care about the garden, and never went\ninto it.\"\n\nWith a triumphant smile of self-satisfaction, the general wished he\ncould do the same, for he never entered his, without being vexed in some\nway or other, by its falling short of his plan.\n\n\"How were Mr. Allen's succession-houses worked?\" describing the nature\nof his own as they entered them.\n\n\"Mr. Allen had only one small hot-house, which Mrs. Allen had the use of\nfor her plants in winter, and there was a fire in it now and then.\"\n\n\"He is a happy man!\" said the general, with a look of very happy\ncontempt.\n\nHaving taken her into every division, and led her under every wall, till\nshe was heartily weary of seeing and wondering, he suffered the girls\nat last to seize the advantage of an outer door, and then expressing\nhis wish to examine the effect of some recent alterations about the\ntea-house, proposed it as no unpleasant extension of their walk, if Miss\nMorland were not tired. \"But where are you going, Eleanor? Why do you\nchoose that cold, damp path to it? Miss Morland will get wet. Our best\nway is across the park.\"\n\n\"This is so favourite a walk of mine,\" said Miss Tilney, \"that I always\nthink it the best and nearest way. But perhaps it may be damp.\"\n\nIt was a narrow winding path through a thick grove of old Scotch firs;\nand Catherine, struck by its gloomy aspect, and eager to enter it,\ncould not, even by the general's disapprobation, be kept from stepping\nforward. He perceived her inclination, and having again urged the plea\nof health in vain, was too polite to make further opposition. He excused\nhimself, however, from attending them: \"The rays of the sun were not too\ncheerful for him, and he would meet them by another course.\" He turned\naway; and Catherine was shocked to find how much her spirits were\nrelieved by the separation. The shock, however, being less real than the\nrelief, offered it no injury; and she began to talk with easy gaiety of\nthe delightful melancholy which such a grove inspired.\n\n\"I am particularly fond of this spot,\" said her companion, with a sigh.\n\"It was my mother's favourite walk.\"\n\nCatherine had never heard Mrs. Tilney mentioned in the family before,\nand the interest excited by this tender remembrance showed itself\ndirectly in her altered countenance, and in the attentive pause with\nwhich she waited for something more.\n\n\"I used to walk here so often with her!\" added Eleanor; \"though I never\nloved it then, as I have loved it since. At that time indeed I used to\nwonder at her choice. But her memory endears it now.\"\n\n\"And ought it not,\" reflected Catherine, \"to endear it to her husband?\nYet the general would not enter it.\" Miss Tilney continuing silent, she\nventured to say, \"Her death must have been a great affliction!\"\n\n\"A great and increasing one,\" replied the other, in a low voice. \"I was\nonly thirteen when it happened; and though I felt my loss perhaps as\nstrongly as one so young could feel it, I did not, I could not, then\nknow what a loss it was.\" She stopped for a moment, and then added, with\ngreat firmness, \"I have no sister, you know--and though Henry--though my\nbrothers are very affectionate, and Henry is a great deal here, which I\nam most thankful for, it is impossible for me not to be often solitary.\"\n\n\"To be sure you must miss him very much.\"\n\n\"A mother would have been always present. A mother would have been a\nconstant friend; her influence would have been beyond all other.\"\n\n\"Was she a very charming woman? Was she handsome? Was there any picture\nof her in the abbey? And why had she been so partial to that grove? Was\nit from dejection of spirits?\"--were questions now eagerly poured forth;\nthe first three received a ready affirmative, the two others were passed\nby; and Catherine's interest in the deceased Mrs. Tilney augmented with\nevery question, whether answered or not. Of her unhappiness in marriage,\nshe felt persuaded. The general certainly had been an unkind husband. He\ndid not love her walk: could he therefore have loved her? And besides,\nhandsome as he was, there was a something in the turn of his features\nwhich spoke his not having behaved well to her.\n\n\"Her picture, I suppose,\" blushing at the consummate art of her own\nquestion, \"hangs in your father's room?\"\n\n\"No; it was intended for the drawing-room; but my father was\ndissatisfied with the painting, and for some time it had no place.\nSoon after her death I obtained it for my own, and hung it in my\nbed-chamber--where I shall be happy to show it you; it is very like.\"\nHere was another proof. A portrait--very like--of a departed wife, not\nvalued by the husband! He must have been dreadfully cruel to her!\n\nCatherine attempted no longer to hide from herself the nature of the\nfeelings which, in spite of all his attentions, he had previously\nexcited; and what had been terror and dislike before, was now absolute\naversion. Yes, aversion! His cruelty to such a charming woman made him\nodious to her. She had often read of such characters, characters which\nMr. Allen had been used to call unnatural and overdrawn; but here was\nproof positive of the contrary.\n\nShe had just settled this point when the end of the path brought them\ndirectly upon the general; and in spite of all her virtuous indignation,\nshe found herself again obliged to walk with him, listen to him, and\neven to smile when he smiled. Being no longer able, however, to receive\npleasure from the surrounding objects, she soon began to walk with\nlassitude; the general perceived it, and with a concern for her health,\nwhich seemed to reproach her for her opinion of him, was most urgent\nfor returning with his daughter to the house. He would follow them in\na quarter of an hour. Again they parted--but Eleanor was called back in\nhalf a minute to receive a strict charge against taking her friend round\nthe abbey till his return. This second instance of his anxiety to delay\nwhat she so much wished for struck Catherine as very remarkable.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 23\n\n\nAn hour passed away before the general came in, spent, on the part of\nhis young guest, in no very favourable consideration of his character.\n\"This lengthened absence, these solitary rambles, did not speak a mind\nat ease, or a conscience void of reproach.\" At length he appeared; and,\nwhatever might have been the gloom of his meditations, he could still\nsmile with them. Miss Tilney, understanding in part her friend's\ncuriosity to see the house, soon revived the subject; and her father\nbeing, contrary to Catherine's expectations, unprovided with any\npretence for further delay, beyond that of stopping five minutes to\norder refreshments to be in the room by their return, was at last ready\nto escort them.\n\nThey set forward; and, with a grandeur of air, a dignified step,\nwhich caught the eye, but could not shake the doubts of the well-read\nCatherine, he led the way across the hall, through the common\ndrawing-room and one useless antechamber, into a room magnificent both\nin size and furniture--the real drawing-room, used only with company of\nconsequence. It was very noble--very grand--very charming!--was all that\nCatherine had to say, for her indiscriminating eye scarcely discerned\nthe colour of the satin; and all minuteness of praise, all praise\nthat had much meaning, was supplied by the general: the costliness or\nelegance of any room's fitting-up could be nothing to her; she cared for\nno furniture of a more modern date than the fifteenth century. When the\ngeneral had satisfied his own curiosity, in a close examination of every\nwell-known ornament, they proceeded into the library, an apartment, in\nits way, of equal magnificence, exhibiting a collection of books, on\nwhich an humble man might have looked with pride. Catherine heard,\nadmired, and wondered with more genuine feeling than before--gathered\nall that she could from this storehouse of knowledge, by running over\nthe titles of half a shelf, and was ready to proceed. But suites of\napartments did not spring up with her wishes. Large as was the building,\nshe had already visited the greatest part; though, on being told that,\nwith the addition of the kitchen, the six or seven rooms she had now\nseen surrounded three sides of the court, she could scarcely believe it,\nor overcome the suspicion of there being many chambers secreted. It was\nsome relief, however, that they were to return to the rooms in common\nuse, by passing through a few of less importance, looking into the\ncourt, which, with occasional passages, not wholly unintricate,\nconnected the different sides; and she was further soothed in her\nprogress by being told that she was treading what had once been a\ncloister, having traces of cells pointed out, and observing several\ndoors that were neither opened nor explained to her--by finding herself\nsuccessively in a billiard-room, and in the general's private apartment,\nwithout comprehending their connection, or being able to turn aright\nwhen she left them; and lastly, by passing through a dark little room,\nowning Henry's authority, and strewed with his litter of books, guns,\nand greatcoats.\n\nFrom the dining-room, of which, though already seen, and always to be\nseen at five o'clock, the general could not forgo the pleasure of pacing\nout the length, for the more certain information of Miss Morland, as\nto what she neither doubted nor cared for, they proceeded by quick\ncommunication to the kitchen--the ancient kitchen of the convent, rich\nin the massy walls and smoke of former days, and in the stoves and hot\nclosets of the present. The general's improving hand had not loitered\nhere: every modern invention to facilitate the labour of the cooks had\nbeen adopted within this, their spacious theatre; and, when the genius\nof others had failed, his own had often produced the perfection wanted.\nHis endowments of this spot alone might at any time have placed him high\namong the benefactors of the convent.\n\nWith the walls of the kitchen ended all the antiquity of the abbey; the\nfourth side of the quadrangle having, on account of its decaying state,\nbeen removed by the general's father, and the present erected in its\nplace. All that was venerable ceased here. The new building was not\nonly new, but declared itself to be so; intended only for offices, and\nenclosed behind by stable-yards, no uniformity of architecture had been\nthought necessary. Catherine could have raved at the hand which had\nswept away what must have been beyond the value of all the rest, for the\npurposes of mere domestic economy; and would willingly have been spared\nthe mortification of a walk through scenes so fallen, had the general\nallowed it; but if he had a vanity, it was in the arrangement of his\noffices; and as he was convinced that, to a mind like Miss Morland's,\na view of the accommodations and comforts, by which the labours of her\ninferiors were softened, must always be gratifying, he should make\nno apology for leading her on. They took a slight survey of all; and\nCatherine was impressed, beyond her expectation, by their multiplicity\nand their convenience. The purposes for which a few shapeless pantries\nand a comfortless scullery were deemed sufficient at Fullerton, were\nhere carried on in appropriate divisions, commodious and roomy. The\nnumber of servants continually appearing did not strike her less than\nthe number of their offices. Wherever they went, some pattened girl\nstopped to curtsy, or some footman in dishabille sneaked off. Yet this\nwas an abbey! How inexpressibly different in these domestic arrangements\nfrom such as she had read about--from abbeys and castles, in which,\nthough certainly larger than Northanger, all the dirty work of the house\nwas to be done by two pair of female hands at the utmost. How they could\nget through it all had often amazed Mrs. Allen; and, when Catherine saw\nwhat was necessary here, she began to be amazed herself.\n\nThey returned to the hall, that the chief staircase might be ascended,\nand the beauty of its wood, and ornaments of rich carving might be\npointed out: having gained the top, they turned in an opposite direction\nfrom the gallery in which her room lay, and shortly entered one on\nthe same plan, but superior in length and breadth. She was here shown\nsuccessively into three large bed-chambers, with their dressing-rooms,\nmost completely and handsomely fitted up; everything that money and\ntaste could do, to give comfort and elegance to apartments, had been\nbestowed on these; and, being furnished within the last five years, they\nwere perfect in all that would be generally pleasing, and wanting in all\nthat could give pleasure to Catherine. As they were surveying the last,\nthe general, after slightly naming a few of the distinguished characters\nby whom they had at times been honoured, turned with a smiling\ncountenance to Catherine, and ventured to hope that henceforward some of\ntheir earliest tenants might be \"our friends from Fullerton.\" She felt\nthe unexpected compliment, and deeply regretted the impossibility of\nthinking well of a man so kindly disposed towards herself, and so full\nof civility to all her family.\n\nThe gallery was terminated by folding doors, which Miss Tilney,\nadvancing, had thrown open, and passed through, and seemed on the point\nof doing the same by the first door to the left, in another long reach\nof gallery, when the general, coming forwards, called her hastily, and,\nas Catherine thought, rather angrily back, demanding whether she were\ngoing?--And what was there more to be seen?--Had not Miss Morland\nalready seen all that could be worth her notice?--And did she not\nsuppose her friend might be glad of some refreshment after so much\nexercise? Miss Tilney drew back directly, and the heavy doors were\nclosed upon the mortified Catherine, who, having seen, in a momentary\nglance beyond them, a narrower passage, more numerous openings, and\nsymptoms of a winding staircase, believed herself at last within the\nreach of something worth her notice; and felt, as she unwillingly paced\nback the gallery, that she would rather be allowed to examine that end\nof the house than see all the finery of all the rest. The general's\nevident desire of preventing such an examination was an additional\nstimulant. Something was certainly to be concealed; her fancy, though\nit had trespassed lately once or twice, could not mislead her here;\nand what that something was, a short sentence of Miss Tilney's, as they\nfollowed the general at some distance downstairs, seemed to point out:\n\"I was going to take you into what was my mother's room--the room\nin which she died--\" were all her words; but few as they were, they\nconveyed pages of intelligence to Catherine. It was no wonder that the\ngeneral should shrink from the sight of such objects as that room\nmust contain; a room in all probability never entered by him since the\ndreadful scene had passed, which released his suffering wife, and left\nhim to the stings of conscience.\n\nShe ventured, when next alone with Eleanor, to express her wish of being\npermitted to see it, as well as all the rest of that side of the house;\nand Eleanor promised to attend her there, whenever they should have a\nconvenient hour. Catherine understood her: the general must be watched\nfrom home, before that room could be entered. \"It remains as it was, I\nsuppose?\" said she, in a tone of feeling.\n\n\"Yes, entirely.\"\n\n\"And how long ago may it be that your mother died?\"\n\n\"She has been dead these nine years.\" And nine years, Catherine knew,\nwas a trifle of time, compared with what generally elapsed after the\ndeath of an injured wife, before her room was put to rights.\n\n\"You were with her, I suppose, to the last?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Miss Tilney, sighing; \"I was unfortunately from home. Her\nillness was sudden and short; and, before I arrived it was all over.\"\n\nCatherine's blood ran cold with the horrid suggestions which naturally\nsprang from these words. Could it be possible? Could Henry's father--?\nAnd yet how many were the examples to justify even the blackest\nsuspicions! And, when she saw him in the evening, while she worked\nwith her friend, slowly pacing the drawing-room for an hour together in\nsilent thoughtfulness, with downcast eyes and contracted brow, she felt\nsecure from all possibility of wronging him. It was the air and attitude\nof a Montoni! What could more plainly speak the gloomy workings of a\nmind not wholly dead to every sense of humanity, in its fearful review\nof past scenes of guilt? Unhappy man! And the anxiousness of her spirits\ndirected her eyes towards his figure so repeatedly, as to catch Miss\nTilney's notice. \"My father,\" she whispered, \"often walks about the room\nin this way; it is nothing unusual.\"\n\n\"So much the worse!\" thought Catherine; such ill-timed exercise was of a\npiece with the strange unseasonableness of his morning walks, and boded\nnothing good.\n\nAfter an evening, the little variety and seeming length of which made\nher peculiarly sensible of Henry's importance among them, she was\nheartily glad to be dismissed; though it was a look from the general not\ndesigned for her observation which sent his daughter to the bell.\nWhen the butler would have lit his master's candle, however, he was\nforbidden. The latter was not going to retire. \"I have many pamphlets to\nfinish,\" said he to Catherine, \"before I can close my eyes, and perhaps\nmay be poring over the affairs of the nation for hours after you are\nasleep. Can either of us be more meetly employed? My eyes will be\nblinding for the good of others, and yours preparing by rest for future\nmischief.\"\n\nBut neither the business alleged, nor the magnificent compliment,\ncould win Catherine from thinking that some very different object must\noccasion so serious a delay of proper repose. To be kept up for hours,\nafter the family were in bed, by stupid pamphlets was not very likely.\nThere must be some deeper cause: something was to be done which could\nbe done only while the household slept; and the probability that Mrs.\nTilney yet lived, shut up for causes unknown, and receiving from the\npitiless hands of her husband a nightly supply of coarse food, was the\nconclusion which necessarily followed. Shocking as was the idea, it\nwas at least better than a death unfairly hastened, as, in the natural\ncourse of things, she must ere long be released. The suddenness of her\nreputed illness, the absence of her daughter, and probably of her other\nchildren, at the time--all favoured the supposition of her imprisonment.\nIts origin--jealousy perhaps, or wanton cruelty--was yet to be\nunravelled.\n\nIn revolving these matters, while she undressed, it suddenly struck her\nas not unlikely that she might that morning have passed near the very\nspot of this unfortunate woman's confinement--might have been within\na few paces of the cell in which she languished out her days; for what\npart of the abbey could be more fitted for the purpose than that which\nyet bore the traces of monastic division? In the high-arched passage,\npaved with stone, which already she had trodden with peculiar awe, she\nwell remembered the doors of which the general had given no account. To\nwhat might not those doors lead? In support of the plausibility of this\nconjecture, it further occurred to her that the forbidden gallery, in\nwhich lay the apartments of the unfortunate Mrs. Tilney, must be, as\ncertainly as her memory could guide her, exactly over this suspected\nrange of cells, and the staircase by the side of those apartments of\nwhich she had caught a transient glimpse, communicating by some\nsecret means with those cells, might well have favoured the barbarous\nproceedings of her husband. Down that staircase she had perhaps been\nconveyed in a state of well-prepared insensibility!\n\nCatherine sometimes started at the boldness of her own surmises, and\nsometimes hoped or feared that she had gone too far; but they were\nsupported by such appearances as made their dismissal impossible.\n\nThe side of the quadrangle, in which she supposed the guilty scene to be\nacting, being, according to her belief, just opposite her own, it struck\nher that, if judiciously watched, some rays of light from the general's\nlamp might glimmer through the lower windows, as he passed to the prison\nof his wife; and, twice before she stepped into bed, she stole gently\nfrom her room to the corresponding window in the gallery, to see if it\nappeared; but all abroad was dark, and it must yet be too early. The\nvarious ascending noises convinced her that the servants must still be\nup. Till midnight, she supposed it would be in vain to watch; but then,\nwhen the clock had struck twelve, and all was quiet, she would, if not\nquite appalled by darkness, steal out and look once more. The clock\nstruck twelve--and Catherine had been half an hour asleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 24\n\n\nThe next day afforded no opportunity for the proposed examination of the\nmysterious apartments. It was Sunday, and the whole time between morning\nand afternoon service was required by the general in exercise abroad or\neating cold meat at home; and great as was Catherine's curiosity, her\ncourage was not equal to a wish of exploring them after dinner, either\nby the fading light of the sky between six and seven o'clock, or by the\nyet more partial though stronger illumination of a treacherous lamp.\nThe day was unmarked therefore by anything to interest her imagination\nbeyond the sight of a very elegant monument to the memory of Mrs.\nTilney, which immediately fronted the family pew. By that her eye\nwas instantly caught and long retained; and the perusal of the highly\nstrained epitaph, in which every virtue was ascribed to her by the\ninconsolable husband, who must have been in some way or other her\ndestroyer, affected her even to tears.\n\nThat the general, having erected such a monument, should be able to face\nit, was not perhaps very strange, and yet that he could sit so boldly\ncollected within its view, maintain so elevated an air, look so\nfearlessly around, nay, that he should even enter the church, seemed\nwonderful to Catherine. Not, however, that many instances of beings\nequally hardened in guilt might not be produced. She could remember\ndozens who had persevered in every possible vice, going on from crime to\ncrime, murdering whomsoever they chose, without any feeling of humanity\nor remorse; till a violent death or a religious retirement closed their\nblack career. The erection of the monument itself could not in the\nsmallest degree affect her doubts of Mrs. Tilney's actual decease. Were\nshe even to descend into the family vault where her ashes were supposed\nto slumber, were she to behold the coffin in which they were said to\nbe enclosed--what could it avail in such a case? Catherine had read too\nmuch not to be perfectly aware of the ease with which a waxen figure\nmight be introduced, and a supposititious funeral carried on.\n\nThe succeeding morning promised something better. The general's early\nwalk, ill-timed as it was in every other view, was favourable here; and\nwhen she knew him to be out of the house, she directly proposed to Miss\nTilney the accomplishment of her promise. Eleanor was ready to oblige\nher; and Catherine reminding her as they went of another promise, their\nfirst visit in consequence was to the portrait in her bed-chamber. It\nrepresented a very lovely woman, with a mild and pensive countenance,\njustifying, so far, the expectations of its new observer; but they were\nnot in every respect answered, for Catherine had depended upon meeting\nwith features, hair, complexion, that should be the very counterpart,\nthe very image, if not of Henry's, of Eleanor's--the only portraits of\nwhich she had been in the habit of thinking, bearing always an equal\nresemblance of mother and child. A face once taken was taken for\ngenerations. But here she was obliged to look and consider and study\nfor a likeness. She contemplated it, however, in spite of this drawback,\nwith much emotion, and, but for a yet stronger interest, would have left\nit unwillingly.\n\nHer agitation as they entered the great gallery was too much for any\nendeavour at discourse; she could only look at her companion. Eleanor's\ncountenance was dejected, yet sedate; and its composure spoke her inured\nto all the gloomy objects to which they were advancing. Again she passed\nthrough the folding doors, again her hand was upon the important lock,\nand Catherine, hardly able to breathe, was turning to close the former\nwith fearful caution, when the figure, the dreaded figure of the general\nhimself at the further end of the gallery, stood before her! The name of\n\"Eleanor\" at the same moment, in his loudest tone, resounded through the\nbuilding, giving to his daughter the first intimation of his presence,\nand to Catherine terror upon terror. An attempt at concealment had been\nher first instinctive movement on perceiving him, yet she could\nscarcely hope to have escaped his eye; and when her friend, who with an\napologizing look darted hastily by her, had joined and disappeared\nwith him, she ran for safety to her own room, and, locking herself\nin, believed that she should never have courage to go down again. She\nremained there at least an hour, in the greatest agitation, deeply\ncommiserating the state of her poor friend, and expecting a summons\nherself from the angry general to attend him in his own apartment. No\nsummons, however, arrived; and at last, on seeing a carriage drive up\nto the abbey, she was emboldened to descend and meet him under the\nprotection of visitors. The breakfast-room was gay with company; and\nshe was named to them by the general as the friend of his daughter, in\na complimentary style, which so well concealed his resentful ire, as to\nmake her feel secure at least of life for the present. And Eleanor,\nwith a command of countenance which did honour to her concern for his\ncharacter, taking an early occasion of saying to her, \"My father only\nwanted me to answer a note,\" she began to hope that she had either been\nunseen by the general, or that from some consideration of policy she\nshould be allowed to suppose herself so. Upon this trust she dared still\nto remain in his presence, after the company left them, and nothing\noccurred to disturb it.\n\nIn the course of this morning's reflections, she came to a resolution\nof making her next attempt on the forbidden door alone. It would be much\nbetter in every respect that Eleanor should know nothing of the matter.\nTo involve her in the danger of a second detection, to court her into\nan apartment which must wring her heart, could not be the office of a\nfriend. The general's utmost anger could not be to herself what it might\nbe to a daughter; and, besides, she thought the examination itself\nwould be more satisfactory if made without any companion. It would be\nimpossible to explain to Eleanor the suspicions, from which the other\nhad, in all likelihood, been hitherto happily exempt; nor could she\ntherefore, in her presence, search for those proofs of the general's\ncruelty, which however they might yet have escaped discovery, she felt\nconfident of somewhere drawing forth, in the shape of some fragmented\njournal, continued to the last gasp. Of the way to the apartment she was\nnow perfectly mistress; and as she wished to get it over before Henry's\nreturn, who was expected on the morrow, there was no time to be lost.\nThe day was bright, her courage high; at four o'clock, the sun was now\ntwo hours above the horizon, and it would be only her retiring to dress\nhalf an hour earlier than usual.\n\nIt was done; and Catherine found herself alone in the gallery before the\nclocks had ceased to strike. It was no time for thought; she hurried\non, slipped with the least possible noise through the folding doors,\nand without stopping to look or breathe, rushed forward to the one in\nquestion. The lock yielded to her hand, and, luckily, with no sullen\nsound that could alarm a human being. On tiptoe she entered; the room\nwas before her; but it was some minutes before she could advance another\nstep. She beheld what fixed her to the spot and agitated every feature.\nShe saw a large, well-proportioned apartment, an handsome dimity bed,\narranged as unoccupied with an housemaid's care, a bright Bath stove,\nmahogany wardrobes, and neatly painted chairs, on which the warm beams\nof a western sun gaily poured through two sash windows! Catherine had\nexpected to have her feelings worked, and worked they were. Astonishment\nand doubt first seized them; and a shortly succeeding ray of common\nsense added some bitter emotions of shame. She could not be mistaken\nas to the room; but how grossly mistaken in everything else!--in Miss\nTilney's meaning, in her own calculation! This apartment, to which she\nhad given a date so ancient, a position so awful, proved to be one end\nof what the general's father had built. There were two other doors in\nthe chamber, leading probably into dressing-closets; but she had no\ninclination to open either. Would the veil in which Mrs. Tilney had last\nwalked, or the volume in which she had last read, remain to tell what\nnothing else was allowed to whisper? No: whatever might have been the\ngeneral's crimes, he had certainly too much wit to let them sue for\ndetection. She was sick of exploring, and desired but to be safe in her\nown room, with her own heart only privy to its folly; and she was on\nthe point of retreating as softly as she had entered, when the sound of\nfootsteps, she could hardly tell where, made her pause and tremble.\nTo be found there, even by a servant, would be unpleasant; but by the\ngeneral (and he seemed always at hand when least wanted), much worse!\nShe listened--the sound had ceased; and resolving not to lose a\nmoment, she passed through and closed the door. At that instant a door\nunderneath was hastily opened; someone seemed with swift steps to ascend\nthe stairs, by the head of which she had yet to pass before she could\ngain the gallery. She had no power to move. With a feeling of terror\nnot very definable, she fixed her eyes on the staircase, and in a few\nmoments it gave Henry to her view. \"Mr. Tilney!\" she exclaimed in a\nvoice of more than common astonishment. He looked astonished too. \"Good\nGod!\" she continued, not attending to his address. \"How came you here?\nHow came you up that staircase?\"\n\n\"How came I up that staircase!\" he replied, greatly surprised. \"Because\nit is my nearest way from the stable-yard to my own chamber; and why\nshould I not come up it?\"\n\nCatherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and could say no more. He\nseemed to be looking in her countenance for that explanation which her\nlips did not afford. She moved on towards the gallery. \"And may I not,\nin my turn,\" said he, as he pushed back the folding doors, \"ask how you\ncame here? This passage is at least as extraordinary a road from the\nbreakfast-parlour to your apartment, as that staircase can be from the\nstables to mine.\"\n\n\"I have been,\" said Catherine, looking down, \"to see your mother's\nroom.\"\n\n\"My mother's room! Is there anything extraordinary to be seen there?\"\n\n\"No, nothing at all. I thought you did not mean to come back till\ntomorrow.\"\n\n\"I did not expect to be able to return sooner, when I went away; but\nthree hours ago I had the pleasure of finding nothing to detain me. You\nlook pale. I am afraid I alarmed you by running so fast up those stairs.\nPerhaps you did not know--you were not aware of their leading from the\noffices in common use?\"\n\n\"No, I was not. You have had a very fine day for your ride.\"\n\n\"Very; and does Eleanor leave you to find your way into all the rooms in\nthe house by yourself?\"\n\n\"Oh! No; she showed me over the greatest part on Saturday--and we were\ncoming here to these rooms--but only\"--dropping her voice--\"your father\nwas with us.\"\n\n\"And that prevented you,\" said Henry, earnestly regarding her. \"Have you\nlooked into all the rooms in that passage?\"\n\n\"No, I only wanted to see--Is not it very late? I must go and dress.\"\n\n\"It is only a quarter past four\" showing his watch--\"and you are not now\nin Bath. No theatre, no rooms to prepare for. Half an hour at Northanger\nmust be enough.\"\n\nShe could not contradict it, and therefore suffered herself to be\ndetained, though her dread of further questions made her, for the first\ntime in their acquaintance, wish to leave him. They walked slowly up the\ngallery. \"Have you had any letter from Bath since I saw you?\"\n\n\"No, and I am very much surprised. Isabella promised so faithfully to\nwrite directly.\"\n\n\"Promised so faithfully! A faithful promise! That puzzles me. I have\nheard of a faithful performance. But a faithful promise--the fidelity\nof promising! It is a power little worth knowing, however, since it can\ndeceive and pain you. My mother's room is very commodious, is it not?\nLarge and cheerful-looking, and the dressing-closets so well disposed!\nIt always strikes me as the most comfortable apartment in the house, and\nI rather wonder that Eleanor should not take it for her own. She sent\nyou to look at it, I suppose?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"It has been your own doing entirely?\" Catherine said nothing. After a\nshort silence, during which he had closely observed her, he added, \"As\nthere is nothing in the room in itself to raise curiosity, this must\nhave proceeded from a sentiment of respect for my mother's character,\nas described by Eleanor, which does honour to her memory. The world, I\nbelieve, never saw a better woman. But it is not often that virtue can\nboast an interest such as this. The domestic, unpretending merits of a\nperson never known do not often create that kind of fervent, venerating\ntenderness which would prompt a visit like yours. Eleanor, I suppose,\nhas talked of her a great deal?\"\n\n\"Yes, a great deal. That is--no, not much, but what she did say was very\ninteresting. Her dying so suddenly\" (slowly, and with hesitation it\nwas spoken), \"and you--none of you being at home--and your father, I\nthought--perhaps had not been very fond of her.\"\n\n\"And from these circumstances,\" he replied (his quick eye\nfixed on hers), \"you infer perhaps the probability of some\nnegligence--some\"--(involuntarily she shook her head)--\"or it may be--of\nsomething still less pardonable.\" She raised her eyes towards him\nmore fully than she had ever done before. \"My mother's illness,\" he\ncontinued, \"the seizure which ended in her death, was sudden. The malady\nitself, one from which she had often suffered, a bilious fever--its\ncause therefore constitutional. On the third day, in short, as soon as\nshe could be prevailed on, a physician attended her, a very respectable\nman, and one in whom she had always placed great confidence. Upon his\nopinion of her danger, two others were called in the next day, and\nremained in almost constant attendance for four and twenty hours. On the\nfifth day she died. During the progress of her disorder, Frederick and I\n(we were both at home) saw her repeatedly; and from our own observation\ncan bear witness to her having received every possible attention\nwhich could spring from the affection of those about her, or which her\nsituation in life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and at such a\ndistance as to return only to see her mother in her coffin.\"\n\n\"But your father,\" said Catherine, \"was he afflicted?\"\n\n\"For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attached\nto her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for him\nto--we have not all, you know, the same tenderness of disposition--and\nI will not pretend to say that while she lived, she might not often have\nhad much to bear, but though his temper injured her, his judgment never\ndid. His value of her was sincere; and, if not permanently, he was truly\nafflicted by her death.\"\n\n\"I am very glad of it,\" said Catherine; \"it would have been very\nshocking!\"\n\n\"If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as\nI have hardly words to--Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature\nof the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from?\nRemember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are\nEnglish, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding, your\nown sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing\naround you. Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our\nlaws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, in\na country like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a\nfooting, where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary\nspies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Miss\nMorland, what ideas have you been admitting?\"\n\nThey had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame she ran\noff to her own room.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 25\n\n\nThe visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened.\nHenry's address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened her\neyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their several\ndisappointments had done. Most grievously was she humbled. Most bitterly\ndid she cry. It was not only with herself that she was sunk--but with\nHenry. Her folly, which now seemed even criminal, was all exposed to\nhim, and he must despise her forever. The liberty which her imagination\nhad dared to take with the character of his father--could he ever\nforgive it? The absurdity of her curiosity and her fears--could they\never be forgotten? She hated herself more than she could express. He\nhad--she thought he had, once or twice before this fatal morning, shown\nsomething like affection for her. But now--in short, she made herself as\nmiserable as possible for about half an hour, went down when the\nclock struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give an\nintelligible answer to Eleanor's inquiry if she was well. The formidable\nHenry soon followed her into the room, and the only difference in his\nbehaviour to her was that he paid her rather more attention than usual.\nCatherine had never wanted comfort more, and he looked as if he was\naware of it.\n\nThe evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing politeness; and\nher spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquillity. She did not\nlearn either to forget or defend the past; but she learned to hope that\nit would never transpire farther, and that it might not cost her Henry's\nentire regard. Her thoughts being still chiefly fixed on what she had\nwith such causeless terror felt and done, nothing could shortly be\nclearer than that it had been all a voluntary, self-created delusion,\neach trifling circumstance receiving importance from an imagination\nresolved on alarm, and everything forced to bend to one purpose by\na mind which, before she entered the abbey, had been craving to be\nfrightened. She remembered with what feelings she had prepared for a\nknowledge of Northanger. She saw that the infatuation had been created,\nthe mischief settled, long before her quitting Bath, and it seemed as if\nthe whole might be traced to the influence of that sort of reading which\nshe had there indulged.\n\nCharming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and charming even as were\nthe works of all her imitators, it was not in them perhaps that human\nnature, at least in the Midland counties of England, was to be looked\nfor. Of the Alps and Pyrenees, with their pine forests and their vices,\nthey might give a faithful delineation; and Italy, Switzerland, and\nthe south of France might be as fruitful in horrors as they were there\nrepresented. Catherine dared not doubt beyond her own country, and even\nof that, if hard pressed, would have yielded the northern and western\nextremities. But in the central part of England there was surely some\nsecurity for the existence even of a wife not beloved, in the laws of\nthe land, and the manners of the age. Murder was not tolerated, servants\nwere not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping potions to be procured,\nlike rhubarb, from every druggist. Among the Alps and Pyrenees, perhaps,\nthere were no mixed characters. There, such as were not as spotless as\nan angel might have the dispositions of a fiend. But in England it was\nnot so; among the English, she believed, in their hearts and habits,\nthere was a general though unequal mixture of good and bad. Upon this\nconviction, she would not be surprised if even in Henry and Eleanor\nTilney, some slight imperfection might hereafter appear; and upon this\nconviction she need not fear to acknowledge some actual specks in\nthe character of their father, who, though cleared from the grossly\ninjurious suspicions which she must ever blush to have entertained, she\ndid believe, upon serious consideration, to be not perfectly amiable.\n\nHer mind made up on these several points, and her resolution formed, of\nalways judging and acting in future with the greatest good sense, she\nhad nothing to do but to forgive herself and be happier than ever; and\nthe lenient hand of time did much for her by insensible gradations in\nthe course of another day. Henry's astonishing generosity and nobleness\nof conduct, in never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed,\nwas of the greatest assistance to her; and sooner than she could have\nsupposed it possible in the beginning of her distress, her spirits\nbecame absolutely comfortable, and capable, as heretofore, of continual\nimprovement by anything he said. There were still some subjects, indeed,\nunder which she believed they must always tremble--the mention of a\nchest or a cabinet, for instance--and she did not love the sight of\njapan in any shape: but even she could allow that an occasional memento\nof past folly, however painful, might not be without use.\n\nThe anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to the alarms of\nromance. Her desire of hearing from Isabella grew every day greater.\nShe was quite impatient to know how the Bath world went on, and how the\nrooms were attended; and especially was she anxious to be assured of\nIsabella's having matched some fine netting-cotton, on which she had\nleft her intent; and of her continuing on the best terms with James. Her\nonly dependence for information of any kind was on Isabella. James had\nprotested against writing to her till his return to Oxford; and Mrs.\nAllen had given her no hopes of a letter till she had got back to\nFullerton. But Isabella had promised and promised again; and when she\npromised a thing, she was so scrupulous in performing it! This made it\nso particularly strange!\n\nFor nine successive mornings, Catherine wondered over the repetition\nof a disappointment, which each morning became more severe: but, on\nthe tenth, when she entered the breakfast-room, her first object was a\nletter, held out by Henry's willing hand. She thanked him as heartily\nas if he had written it himself. \"'Tis only from James, however,\" as she\nlooked at the direction. She opened it; it was from Oxford; and to this\npurpose:\n\n\n\"Dear Catherine,\n\n\"Though, God knows, with little inclination for writing, I think it my\nduty to tell you that everything is at an end between Miss Thorpe and\nme. I left her and Bath yesterday, never to see either again. I shall\nnot enter into particulars--they would only pain you more. You will soon\nhear enough from another quarter to know where lies the blame; and I\nhope will acquit your brother of everything but the folly of too easily\nthinking his affection returned. Thank God! I am undeceived in time!\nBut it is a heavy blow! After my father's consent had been so kindly\ngiven--but no more of this. She has made me miserable forever! Let me\nsoon hear from you, dear Catherine; you are my only friend; your love\nI do build upon. I wish your visit at Northanger may be over before\nCaptain Tilney makes his engagement known, or you will be uncomfortably\ncircumstanced. Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of him; his\nhonest heart would feel so much. I have written to him and my father.\nHer duplicity hurts me more than all; till the very last, if I reasoned\nwith her, she declared herself as much attached to me as ever, and\nlaughed at my fears. I am ashamed to think how long I bore with it;\nbut if ever man had reason to believe himself loved, I was that man. I\ncannot understand even now what she would be at, for there could be no\nneed of my being played off to make her secure of Tilney. We parted\nat last by mutual consent--happy for me had we never met! I can never\nexpect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, beware how you\ngive your heart.\n\n\"Believe me,\" &c.\n\n\nCatherine had not read three lines before her sudden change of\ncountenance, and short exclamations of sorrowing wonder, declared her to\nbe receiving unpleasant news; and Henry, earnestly watching her through\nthe whole letter, saw plainly that it ended no better than it began. He\nwas prevented, however, from even looking his surprise by his father's\nentrance. They went to breakfast directly; but Catherine could hardly\neat anything. Tears filled her eyes, and even ran down her cheeks as she\nsat. The letter was one moment in her hand, then in her lap, and then in\nher pocket; and she looked as if she knew not what she did. The general,\nbetween his cocoa and his newspaper, had luckily no leisure for noticing\nher; but to the other two her distress was equally visible. As soon\nas she dared leave the table she hurried away to her own room; but the\nhousemaids were busy in it, and she was obliged to come down again.\nShe turned into the drawing-room for privacy, but Henry and Eleanor had\nlikewise retreated thither, and were at that moment deep in consultation\nabout her. She drew back, trying to beg their pardon, but was, with\ngentle violence, forced to return; and the others withdrew, after\nEleanor had affectionately expressed a wish of being of use or comfort\nto her.\n\nAfter half an hour's free indulgence of grief and reflection, Catherine\nfelt equal to encountering her friends; but whether she should make\nher distress known to them was another consideration. Perhaps, if\nparticularly questioned, she might just give an idea--just distantly\nhint at it--but not more. To expose a friend, such a friend as Isabella\nhad been to her--and then their own brother so closely concerned in it!\nShe believed she must waive the subject altogether. Henry and Eleanor\nwere by themselves in the breakfast-room; and each, as she entered it,\nlooked at her anxiously. Catherine took her place at the table, and,\nafter a short silence, Eleanor said, \"No bad news from Fullerton, I\nhope? Mr. and Mrs. Morland--your brothers and sisters--I hope they are\nnone of them ill?\"\n\n\"No, I thank you\" (sighing as she spoke); \"they are all very well. My\nletter was from my brother at Oxford.\"\n\nNothing further was said for a few minutes; and then speaking through\nher tears, she added, \"I do not think I shall ever wish for a letter\nagain!\"\n\n\"I am sorry,\" said Henry, closing the book he had just opened; \"if I\nhad suspected the letter of containing anything unwelcome, I should have\ngiven it with very different feelings.\"\n\n\"It contained something worse than anybody could suppose! Poor James is\nso unhappy! You will soon know why.\"\n\n\"To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister,\" replied Henry\nwarmly, \"must be a comfort to him under any distress.\"\n\n\"I have one favour to beg,\" said Catherine, shortly afterwards, in an\nagitated manner, \"that, if your brother should be coming here, you will\ngive me notice of it, that I may go away.\"\n\n\"Our brother! Frederick!\"\n\n\"Yes; I am sure I should be very sorry to leave you so soon, but\nsomething has happened that would make it very dreadful for me to be in\nthe same house with Captain Tilney.\"\n\nEleanor's work was suspended while she gazed with increasing\nastonishment; but Henry began to suspect the truth, and something, in\nwhich Miss Thorpe's name was included, passed his lips.\n\n\"How quick you are!\" cried Catherine: \"you have guessed it, I declare!\nAnd yet, when we talked about it in Bath, you little thought of its\nending so. Isabella--no wonder now I have not heard from her--Isabella\nhas deserted my brother, and is to marry yours! Could you have believed\nthere had been such inconstancy and fickleness, and everything that is\nbad in the world?\"\n\n\"I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are misinformed. I hope\nhe has not had any material share in bringing on Mr. Morland's\ndisappointment. His marrying Miss Thorpe is not probable. I think you\nmust be deceived so far. I am very sorry for Mr. Morland--sorry that\nanyone you love should be unhappy; but my surprise would be greater at\nFrederick's marrying her than at any other part of the story.\"\n\n\"It is very true, however; you shall read James's letter yourself.\nStay--There is one part--\" recollecting with a blush the last line.\n\n\"Will you take the trouble of reading to us the passages which concern\nmy brother?\"\n\n\"No, read it yourself,\" cried Catherine, whose second thoughts were\nclearer. \"I do not know what I was thinking of\" (blushing again that she\nhad blushed before); \"James only means to give me good advice.\"\n\nHe gladly received the letter, and, having read it through, with close\nattention, returned it saying, \"Well, if it is to be so, I can only\nsay that I am sorry for it. Frederick will not be the first man who has\nchosen a wife with less sense than his family expected. I do not envy\nhis situation, either as a lover or a son.\"\n\nMiss Tilney, at Catherine's invitation, now read the letter likewise,\nand, having expressed also her concern and surprise, began to inquire\ninto Miss Thorpe's connections and fortune.\n\n\"Her mother is a very good sort of woman,\" was Catherine's answer.\n\n\"What was her father?\"\n\n\"A lawyer, I believe. They live at Putney.\"\n\n\"Are they a wealthy family?\"\n\n\"No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has any fortune at all: but\nthat will not signify in your family. Your father is so very liberal!\nHe told me the other day that he only valued money as it allowed him to\npromote the happiness of his children.\" The brother and sister looked\nat each other. \"But,\" said Eleanor, after a short pause, \"would it be to\npromote his happiness, to enable him to marry such a girl? She must be\nan unprincipled one, or she could not have used your brother so. And how\nstrange an infatuation on Frederick's side! A girl who, before his eyes,\nis violating an engagement voluntarily entered into with another man! Is\nnot it inconceivable, Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his heart so\nproudly! Who found no woman good enough to be loved!\"\n\n\"That is the most unpromising circumstance, the strongest presumption\nagainst him. When I think of his past declarations, I give him up.\nMoreover, I have too good an opinion of Miss Thorpe's prudence to\nsuppose that she would part with one gentleman before the other\nwas secured. It is all over with Frederick indeed! He is a deceased\nman--defunct in understanding. Prepare for your sister-in-law, Eleanor,\nand such a sister-in-law as you must delight in! Open, candid, artless,\nguileless, with affections strong but simple, forming no pretensions,\nand knowing no disguise.\"\n\n\"Such a sister-in-law, Henry, I should delight in,\" said Eleanor with a\nsmile.\n\n\"But perhaps,\" observed Catherine, \"though she has behaved so ill by our\nfamily, she may behave better by yours. Now she has really got the man\nshe likes, she may be constant.\"\n\n\"Indeed I am afraid she will,\" replied Henry; \"I am afraid she will\nbe very constant, unless a baronet should come in her way; that is\nFrederick's only chance. I will get the Bath paper, and look over the\narrivals.\"\n\n\"You think it is all for ambition, then? And, upon my word, there are\nsome things that seem very like it. I cannot forget that, when she first\nknew what my father would do for them, she seemed quite disappointed\nthat it was not more. I never was so deceived in anyone's character in\nmy life before.\"\n\n\"Among all the great variety that you have known and studied.\"\n\n\"My own disappointment and loss in her is very great; but, as for poor\nJames, I suppose he will hardly ever recover it.\"\n\n\"Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied at present; but we\nmust not, in our concern for his sufferings, undervalue yours. You feel,\nI suppose, that in losing Isabella, you lose half yourself: you feel a\nvoid in your heart which nothing else can occupy. Society is becoming\nirksome; and as for the amusements in which you were wont to share at\nBath, the very idea of them without her is abhorrent. You would not,\nfor instance, now go to a ball for the world. You feel that you have no\nlonger any friend to whom you can speak with unreserve, on whose regard\nyou can place dependence, or whose counsel, in any difficulty, you could\nrely on. You feel all this?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Catherine, after a few moments' reflection, \"I do not--ought\nI? To say the truth, though I am hurt and grieved, that I cannot still\nlove her, that I am never to hear from her, perhaps never to see her\nagain, I do not feel so very, very much afflicted as one would have\nthought.\"\n\n\"You feel, as you always do, what is most to the credit of human nature.\nSuch feelings ought to be investigated, that they may know themselves.\"\n\nCatherine, by some chance or other, found her spirits so very much\nrelieved by this conversation that she could not regret her being led\non, though so unaccountably, to mention the circumstance which had\nproduced it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 26\n\n\nFrom this time, the subject was frequently canvassed by the three young\npeople; and Catherine found, with some surprise, that her two young\nfriends were perfectly agreed in considering Isabella's want of\nconsequence and fortune as likely to throw great difficulties in the way\nof her marrying their brother. Their persuasion that the general would,\nupon this ground alone, independent of the objection that might be\nraised against her character, oppose the connection, turned her feelings\nmoreover with some alarm towards herself. She was as insignificant,\nand perhaps as portionless, as Isabella; and if the heir of the Tilney\nproperty had not grandeur and wealth enough in himself, at what point\nof interest were the demands of his younger brother to rest? The very\npainful reflections to which this thought led could only be dispersed by\na dependence on the effect of that particular partiality, which, as she\nwas given to understand by his words as well as his actions, she had\nfrom the first been so fortunate as to excite in the general; and by a\nrecollection of some most generous and disinterested sentiments on the\nsubject of money, which she had more than once heard him utter, and\nwhich tempted her to think his disposition in such matters misunderstood\nby his children.\n\nThey were so fully convinced, however, that their brother would not\nhave the courage to apply in person for his father's consent, and so\nrepeatedly assured her that he had never in his life been less likely to\ncome to Northanger than at the present time, that she suffered her mind\nto be at ease as to the necessity of any sudden removal of her own. But\nas it was not to be supposed that Captain Tilney, whenever he made his\napplication, would give his father any just idea of Isabella's conduct,\nit occurred to her as highly expedient that Henry should lay the whole\nbusiness before him as it really was, enabling the general by that means\nto form a cool and impartial opinion, and prepare his objections on\na fairer ground than inequality of situations. She proposed it to him\naccordingly; but he did not catch at the measure so eagerly as she had\nexpected. \"No,\" said he, \"my father's hands need not be strengthened,\nand Frederick's confession of folly need not be forestalled. He must\ntell his own story.\"\n\n\"But he will tell only half of it.\"\n\n\"A quarter would be enough.\"\n\nA day or two passed away and brought no tidings of Captain Tilney. His\nbrother and sister knew not what to think. Sometimes it appeared to\nthem as if his silence would be the natural result of the suspected\nengagement, and at others that it was wholly incompatible with it.\nThe general, meanwhile, though offended every morning by Frederick's\nremissness in writing, was free from any real anxiety about him, and had\nno more pressing solicitude than that of making Miss Morland's time at\nNorthanger pass pleasantly. He often expressed his uneasiness on this\nhead, feared the sameness of every day's society and employments would\ndisgust her with the place, wished the Lady Frasers had been in the\ncountry, talked every now and then of having a large party to dinner,\nand once or twice began even to calculate the number of young dancing\npeople in the neighbourhood. But then it was such a dead time of year,\nno wild-fowl, no game, and the Lady Frasers were not in the country.\nAnd it all ended, at last, in his telling Henry one morning that when he\nnext went to Woodston, they would take him by surprise there some day\nor other, and eat their mutton with him. Henry was greatly honoured and\nvery happy, and Catherine was quite delighted with the scheme. \"And when\ndo you think, sir, I may look forward to this pleasure? I must be at\nWoodston on Monday to attend the parish meeting, and shall probably be\nobliged to stay two or three days.\"\n\n\"Well, well, we will take our chance some one of those days. There is\nno need to fix. You are not to put yourself at all out of your way.\nWhatever you may happen to have in the house will be enough. I think I\ncan answer for the young ladies making allowance for a bachelor's table.\nLet me see; Monday will be a busy day with you, we will not come on\nMonday; and Tuesday will be a busy one with me. I expect my surveyor\nfrom Brockham with his report in the morning; and afterwards I cannot in\ndecency fail attending the club. I really could not face my acquaintance\nif I stayed away now; for, as I am known to be in the country, it would\nbe taken exceedingly amiss; and it is a rule with me, Miss Morland,\nnever to give offence to any of my neighbours, if a small sacrifice of\ntime and attention can prevent it. They are a set of very worthy men.\nThey have half a buck from Northanger twice a year; and I dine with them\nwhenever I can. Tuesday, therefore, we may say is out of the question.\nBut on Wednesday, I think, Henry, you may expect us; and we shall be\nwith you early, that we may have time to look about us. Two hours and\nthree quarters will carry us to Woodston, I suppose; we shall be in the\ncarriage by ten; so, about a quarter before one on Wednesday, you may\nlook for us.\"\n\nA ball itself could not have been more welcome to Catherine than\nthis little excursion, so strong was her desire to be acquainted with\nWoodston; and her heart was still bounding with joy when Henry, about an\nhour afterwards, came booted and greatcoated into the room where she\nand Eleanor were sitting, and said, \"I am come, young ladies, in a\nvery moralizing strain, to observe that our pleasures in this world\nare always to be paid for, and that we often purchase them at a great\ndisadvantage, giving ready-monied actual happiness for a draft on the\nfuture, that may not be honoured. Witness myself, at this present hour.\nBecause I am to hope for the satisfaction of seeing you at Woodston on\nWednesday, which bad weather, or twenty other causes, may prevent, I\nmust go away directly, two days before I intended it.\"\n\n\"Go away!\" said Catherine, with a very long face. \"And why?\"\n\n\"Why! How can you ask the question? Because no time is to be lost in\nfrightening my old housekeeper out of her wits, because I must go and\nprepare a dinner for you, to be sure.\"\n\n\"Oh! Not seriously!\"\n\n\"Aye, and sadly too--for I had much rather stay.\"\n\n\"But how can you think of such a thing, after what the general said?\nWhen he so particularly desired you not to give yourself any trouble,\nbecause anything would do.\"\n\nHenry only smiled. \"I am sure it is quite unnecessary upon your sister's\naccount and mine. You must know it to be so; and the general made such\na point of your providing nothing extraordinary: besides, if he had not\nsaid half so much as he did, he has always such an excellent dinner\nat home, that sitting down to a middling one for one day could not\nsignify.\"\n\n\"I wish I could reason like you, for his sake and my own. Good-bye. As\ntomorrow is Sunday, Eleanor, I shall not return.\"\n\nHe went; and, it being at any time a much simpler operation to Catherine\nto doubt her own judgment than Henry's, she was very soon obliged to\ngive him credit for being right, however disagreeable to her his going.\nBut the inexplicability of the general's conduct dwelt much on her\nthoughts. That he was very particular in his eating, she had, by her own\nunassisted observation, already discovered; but why he should say\none thing so positively, and mean another all the while, was most\nunaccountable! How were people, at that rate, to be understood? Who but\nHenry could have been aware of what his father was at?\n\nFrom Saturday to Wednesday, however, they were now to be without Henry.\nThis was the sad finale of every reflection: and Captain Tilney's letter\nwould certainly come in his absence; and Wednesday she was very sure\nwould be wet. The past, present, and future were all equally in gloom.\nHer brother so unhappy, and her loss in Isabella so great; and Eleanor's\nspirits always affected by Henry's absence! What was there to interest\nor amuse her? She was tired of the woods and the shrubberies--always so\nsmooth and so dry; and the abbey in itself was no more to her now than\nany other house. The painful remembrance of the folly it had helped\nto nourish and perfect was the only emotion which could spring from a\nconsideration of the building. What a revolution in her ideas! She, who\nhad so longed to be in an abbey! Now, there was nothing so charming\nto her imagination as the unpretending comfort of a well-connected\nparsonage, something like Fullerton, but better: Fullerton had its\nfaults, but Woodston probably had none. If Wednesday should ever come!\n\nIt did come, and exactly when it might be reasonably looked for. It\ncame--it was fine--and Catherine trod on air. By ten o'clock, the chaise\nand four conveyed the two from the abbey; and, after an agreeable drive\nof almost twenty miles, they entered Woodston, a large and populous\nvillage, in a situation not unpleasant. Catherine was ashamed to say\nhow pretty she thought it, as the general seemed to think an apology\nnecessary for the flatness of the country, and the size of the village;\nbut in her heart she preferred it to any place she had ever been at,\nand looked with great admiration at every neat house above the rank of\na cottage, and at all the little chandler's shops which they passed. At\nthe further end of the village, and tolerably disengaged from the rest\nof it, stood the parsonage, a new-built substantial stone house, with\nits semicircular sweep and green gates; and, as they drove up to the\ndoor, Henry, with the friends of his solitude, a large Newfoundland\npuppy and two or three terriers, was ready to receive and make much of\nthem.\n\nCatherine's mind was too full, as she entered the house, for her either\nto observe or to say a great deal; and, till called on by the general\nfor her opinion of it, she had very little idea of the room in which she\nwas sitting. Upon looking round it then, she perceived in a moment that\nit was the most comfortable room in the world; but she was too guarded\nto say so, and the coldness of her praise disappointed him.\n\n\"We are not calling it a good house,\" said he. \"We are not comparing\nit with Fullerton and Northanger--we are considering it as a mere\nparsonage, small and confined, we allow, but decent, perhaps, and\nhabitable; and altogether not inferior to the generality; or, in other\nwords, I believe there are few country parsonages in England half so\ngood. It may admit of improvement, however. Far be it from me to say\notherwise; and anything in reason--a bow thrown out, perhaps--though,\nbetween ourselves, if there is one thing more than another my aversion,\nit is a patched-on bow.\"\n\nCatherine did not hear enough of this speech to understand or be pained\nby it; and other subjects being studiously brought forward and supported\nby Henry, at the same time that a tray full of refreshments was\nintroduced by his servant, the general was shortly restored to his\ncomplacency, and Catherine to all her usual ease of spirits.\n\nThe room in question was of a commodious, well-proportioned size, and\nhandsomely fitted up as a dining-parlour; and on their quitting it to\nwalk round the grounds, she was shown, first into a smaller apartment,\nbelonging peculiarly to the master of the house, and made unusually tidy\non the occasion; and afterwards into what was to be the drawing-room,\nwith the appearance of which, though unfurnished, Catherine was\ndelighted enough even to satisfy the general. It was a prettily shaped\nroom, the windows reaching to the ground, and the view from them\npleasant, though only over green meadows; and she expressed her\nadmiration at the moment with all the honest simplicity with which she\nfelt it. \"Oh! Why do not you fit up this room, Mr. Tilney? What a pity\nnot to have it fitted up! It is the prettiest room I ever saw; it is the\nprettiest room in the world!\"\n\n\"I trust,\" said the general, with a most satisfied smile, \"that it will\nvery speedily be furnished: it waits only for a lady's taste!\"\n\n\"Well, if it was my house, I should never sit anywhere else. Oh! What a\nsweet little cottage there is among the trees--apple trees, too! It is\nthe prettiest cottage!\"\n\n\"You like it--you approve it as an object--it is enough. Henry, remember\nthat Robinson is spoken to about it. The cottage remains.\"\n\nSuch a compliment recalled all Catherine's consciousness, and silenced\nher directly; and, though pointedly applied to by the general for her\nchoice of the prevailing colour of the paper and hangings, nothing like\nan opinion on the subject could be drawn from her. The influence of\nfresh objects and fresh air, however, was of great use in dissipating\nthese embarrassing associations; and, having reached the ornamental part\nof the premises, consisting of a walk round two sides of a meadow, on\nwhich Henry's genius had begun to act about half a year ago, she was\nsufficiently recovered to think it prettier than any pleasure-ground she\nhad ever been in before, though there was not a shrub in it higher than\nthe green bench in the corner.\n\nA saunter into other meadows, and through part of the village, with a\nvisit to the stables to examine some improvements, and a charming game\nof play with a litter of puppies just able to roll about, brought them\nto four o'clock, when Catherine scarcely thought it could be three. At\nfour they were to dine, and at six to set off on their return. Never had\nany day passed so quickly!\n\nShe could not but observe that the abundance of the dinner did not seem\nto create the smallest astonishment in the general; nay, that he was\neven looking at the side-table for cold meat which was not there. His\nson and daughter's observations were of a different kind. They had\nseldom seen him eat so heartily at any table but his own, and never\nbefore known him so little disconcerted by the melted butter's being\noiled.\n\nAt six o'clock, the general having taken his coffee, the carriage again\nreceived them; and so gratifying had been the tenor of his conduct\nthroughout the whole visit, so well assured was her mind on the subject\nof his expectations, that, could she have felt equally confident of the\nwishes of his son, Catherine would have quitted Woodston with little\nanxiety as to the How or the When she might return to it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 27\n\n\nThe next morning brought the following very unexpected letter from\nIsabella:\n\n\nBath, April\n\nMy dearest Catherine, I received your two kind letters with the greatest\ndelight, and have a thousand apologies to make for not answering them\nsooner. I really am quite ashamed of my idleness; but in this horrid\nplace one can find time for nothing. I have had my pen in my hand to\nbegin a letter to you almost every day since you left Bath, but have\nalways been prevented by some silly trifler or other. Pray write to me\nsoon, and direct to my own home. Thank God, we leave this vile place\ntomorrow. Since you went away, I have had no pleasure in it--the dust\nis beyond anything; and everybody one cares for is gone. I believe if I\ncould see you I should not mind the rest, for you are dearer to me than\nanybody can conceive. I am quite uneasy about your dear brother, not\nhaving heard from him since he went to Oxford; and am fearful of some\nmisunderstanding. Your kind offices will set all right: he is the only\nman I ever did or could love, and I trust you will convince him of it.\nThe spring fashions are partly down; and the hats the most frightful you\ncan imagine. I hope you spend your time pleasantly, but am afraid you\nnever think of me. I will not say all that I could of the family you are\nwith, because I would not be ungenerous, or set you against those you\nesteem; but it is very difficult to know whom to trust, and young men\nnever know their minds two days together. I rejoice to say that the\nyoung man whom, of all others, I particularly abhor, has left Bath. You\nwill know, from this description, I must mean Captain Tilney, who, as\nyou may remember, was amazingly disposed to follow and tease me, before\nyou went away. Afterwards he got worse, and became quite my shadow. Many\ngirls might have been taken in, for never were such attentions; but I\nknew the fickle sex too well. He went away to his regiment two days ago,\nand I trust I shall never be plagued with him again. He is the greatest\ncoxcomb I ever saw, and amazingly disagreeable. The last two days he was\nalways by the side of Charlotte Davis: I pitied his taste, but took no\nnotice of him. The last time we met was in Bath Street, and I turned\ndirectly into a shop that he might not speak to me; I would not even\nlook at him. He went into the pump-room afterwards; but I would not have\nfollowed him for all the world. Such a contrast between him and your\nbrother! Pray send me some news of the latter--I am quite unhappy about\nhim; he seemed so uncomfortable when he went away, with a cold, or\nsomething that affected his spirits. I would write to him myself, but\nhave mislaid his direction; and, as I hinted above, am afraid he\ntook something in my conduct amiss. Pray explain everything to his\nsatisfaction; or, if he still harbours any doubt, a line from himself\nto me, or a call at Putney when next in town, might set all to rights.\nI have not been to the rooms this age, nor to the play, except going in\nlast night with the Hodges, for a frolic, at half price: they teased\nme into it; and I was determined they should not say I shut myself up\nbecause Tilney was gone. We happened to sit by the Mitchells, and they\npretended to be quite surprised to see me out. I knew their spite: at\none time they could not be civil to me, but now they are all friendship;\nbut I am not such a fool as to be taken in by them. You know I have a\npretty good spirit of my own. Anne Mitchell had tried to put on a\nturban like mine, as I wore it the week before at the concert, but made\nwretched work of it--it happened to become my odd face, I believe, at\nleast Tilney told me so at the time, and said every eye was upon me; but\nhe is the last man whose word I would take. I wear nothing but purple\nnow: I know I look hideous in it, but no matter--it is your dear\nbrother's favourite colour. Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest\nCatherine, in writing to him and to me, Who ever am, etc.\n\n\nSuch a strain of shallow artifice could not impose even upon Catherine.\nIts inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood struck her from the\nvery first. She was ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of having ever\nloved her. Her professions of attachment were now as disgusting as her\nexcuses were empty, and her demands impudent. \"Write to James on her\nbehalf! No, James should never hear Isabella's name mentioned by her\nagain.\"\n\nOn Henry's arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor\ntheir brother's safety, congratulating them with sincerity on it, and\nreading aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong\nindignation. When she had finished it--\"So much for Isabella,\" she\ncried, \"and for all our intimacy! She must think me an idiot, or she\ncould not have written so; but perhaps this has served to make her\ncharacter better known to me than mine is to her. I see what she has\nbeen about. She is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered. I\ndo not believe she had ever any regard either for James or for me, and I\nwish I had never known her.\"\n\n\"It will soon be as if you never had,\" said Henry.\n\n\"There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has\nhad designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I do not\nunderstand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should\nhe pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother, and\nthen fly off himself?\"\n\n\"I have very little to say for Frederick's motives, such as I believe\nthem to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the\nchief difference is, that, having a stronger head, they have not yet\ninjured himself. If the effect of his behaviour does not justify him\nwith you, we had better not seek after the cause.\"\n\n\"Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?\"\n\n\"I am persuaded that he never did.\"\n\n\"And only made believe to do so for mischief's sake?\"\n\nHenry bowed his assent.\n\n\"Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it has\nturned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it happens,\nthere is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any\nheart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him?\"\n\n\"But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to\nlose--consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that\ncase, she would have met with very different treatment.\"\n\n\"It is very right that you should stand by your brother.\"\n\n\"And if you would stand by yours, you would not be much distressed by\nthe disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate\nprinciple of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool\nreasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge.\"\n\nCatherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could\nnot be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She\nresolved on not answering Isabella's letter, and tried to think no more\nof it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 28\n\n\nSoon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London for\na week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity\nshould rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland's company, and anxiously\nrecommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his children\nas their chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the\nfirst experimental conviction that a loss may be sometimes a gain. The\nhappiness with which their time now passed, every employment voluntary,\nevery laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease and good humour,\nwalking where they liked and when they liked, their hours, pleasures,\nand fatigues at their own command, made her thoroughly sensible of the\nrestraint which the general's presence had imposed, and most thankfully\nfeel their present release from it. Such ease and such delights made her\nlove the place and the people more and more every day; and had it not\nbeen for a dread of its soon becoming expedient to leave the one, and\nan apprehension of not being equally beloved by the other, she would at\neach moment of each day have been perfectly happy; but she was now in\nthe fourth week of her visit; before the general came home, the fourth\nweek would be turned, and perhaps it might seem an intrusion if she\nstayed much longer. This was a painful consideration whenever it\noccurred; and eager to get rid of such a weight on her mind, she very\nsoon resolved to speak to Eleanor about it at once, propose going away,\nand be guided in her conduct by the manner in which her proposal might\nbe taken.\n\nAware that if she gave herself much time, she might feel it difficult to\nbring forward so unpleasant a subject, she took the first opportunity of\nbeing suddenly alone with Eleanor, and of Eleanor's being in the\nmiddle of a speech about something very different, to start forth her\nobligation of going away very soon. Eleanor looked and declared herself\nmuch concerned. She had \"hoped for the pleasure of her company for a\nmuch longer time--had been misled (perhaps by her wishes) to suppose\nthat a much longer visit had been promised--and could not but think that\nif Mr. and Mrs. Morland were aware of the pleasure it was to her to have\nher there, they would be too generous to hasten her return.\" Catherine\nexplained: \"Oh! As to that, Papa and Mamma were in no hurry at all. As\nlong as she was happy, they would always be satisfied.\"\n\n\"Then why, might she ask, in such a hurry herself to leave them?\"\n\n\"Oh! Because she had been there so long.\"\n\n\"Nay, if you can use such a word, I can urge you no farther. If you\nthink it long--\"\n\n\"Oh! No, I do not indeed. For my own pleasure, I could stay with you as\nlong again.\" And it was directly settled that, till she had, her leaving\nthem was not even to be thought of. In having this cause of uneasiness\nso pleasantly removed, the force of the other was likewise weakened. The\nkindness, the earnestness of Eleanor's manner in pressing her to stay,\nand Henry's gratified look on being told that her stay was determined,\nwere such sweet proofs of her importance with them, as left her only\njust so much solicitude as the human mind can never do comfortably\nwithout. She did--almost always--believe that Henry loved her, and quite\nalways that his father and sister loved and even wished her to belong\nto them; and believing so far, her doubts and anxieties were merely\nsportive irritations.\n\nHenry was not able to obey his father's injunction of remaining wholly\nat Northanger in attendance on the ladies, during his absence in London,\nthe engagements of his curate at Woodston obliging him to leave them on\nSaturday for a couple of nights. His loss was not now what it had been\nwhile the general was at home; it lessened their gaiety, but did not\nruin their comfort; and the two girls agreeing in occupation, and\nimproving in intimacy, found themselves so well sufficient for the time\nto themselves, that it was eleven o'clock, rather a late hour at\nthe abbey, before they quitted the supper-room on the day of Henry's\ndeparture. They had just reached the head of the stairs when it seemed,\nas far as the thickness of the walls would allow them to judge, that a\ncarriage was driving up to the door, and the next moment confirmed the\nidea by the loud noise of the house-bell. After the first perturbation\nof surprise had passed away, in a \"Good heaven! What can be the matter?\"\nit was quickly decided by Eleanor to be her eldest brother, whose\narrival was often as sudden, if not quite so unseasonable, and\naccordingly she hurried down to welcome him.\n\nCatherine walked on to her chamber, making up her mind as well as she\ncould, to a further acquaintance with Captain Tilney, and comforting\nherself under the unpleasant impression his conduct had given her, and\nthe persuasion of his being by far too fine a gentleman to approve of\nher, that at least they should not meet under such circumstances as\nwould make their meeting materially painful. She trusted he would never\nspeak of Miss Thorpe; and indeed, as he must by this time be ashamed of\nthe part he had acted, there could be no danger of it; and as long as\nall mention of Bath scenes were avoided, she thought she could behave\nto him very civilly. In such considerations time passed away, and it was\ncertainly in his favour that Eleanor should be so glad to see him, and\nhave so much to say, for half an hour was almost gone since his arrival,\nand Eleanor did not come up.\n\nAt that moment Catherine thought she heard her step in the gallery, and\nlistened for its continuance; but all was silent. Scarcely, however,\nhad she convicted her fancy of error, when the noise of something moving\nclose to her door made her start; it seemed as if someone was touching\nthe very doorway--and in another moment a slight motion of the lock\nproved that some hand must be on it. She trembled a little at the idea\nof anyone's approaching so cautiously; but resolving not to be again\novercome by trivial appearances of alarm, or misled by a raised\nimagination, she stepped quietly forward, and opened the door. Eleanor,\nand only Eleanor, stood there. Catherine's spirits, however, were\ntranquillized but for an instant, for Eleanor's cheeks were pale, and\nher manner greatly agitated. Though evidently intending to come in, it\nseemed an effort to enter the room, and a still greater to speak when\nthere. Catherine, supposing some uneasiness on Captain Tilney's account,\ncould only express her concern by silent attention, obliged her to be\nseated, rubbed her temples with lavender-water, and hung over her with\naffectionate solicitude. \"My dear Catherine, you must not--you must not\nindeed--\" were Eleanor's first connected words. \"I am quite well.\nThis kindness distracts me--I cannot bear it--I come to you on such an\nerrand!\"\n\n\"Errand! To me!\"\n\n\"How shall I tell you! Oh! How shall I tell you!\"\n\nA new idea now darted into Catherine's mind, and turning as pale as her\nfriend, she exclaimed, \"'Tis a messenger from Woodston!\"\n\n\"You are mistaken, indeed,\" returned Eleanor, looking at her most\ncompassionately; \"it is no one from Woodston. It is my father himself.\"\nHer voice faltered, and her eyes were turned to the ground as she\nmentioned his name. His unlooked-for return was enough in itself to make\nCatherine's heart sink, and for a few moments she hardly supposed\nthere were anything worse to be told. She said nothing; and Eleanor,\nendeavouring to collect herself and speak with firmness, but with eyes\nstill cast down, soon went on. \"You are too good, I am sure, to think\nthe worse of me for the part I am obliged to perform. I am indeed a most\nunwilling messenger. After what has so lately passed, so lately been\nsettled between us--how joyfully, how thankfully on my side!--as to your\ncontinuing here as I hoped for many, many weeks longer, how can I tell\nyou that your kindness is not to be accepted--and that the happiness\nyour company has hitherto given us is to be repaid by--But I must not\ntrust myself with words. My dear Catherine, we are to part. My father\nhas recollected an engagement that takes our whole family away on\nMonday. We are going to Lord Longtown's, near Hereford, for a fortnight.\nExplanation and apology are equally impossible. I cannot attempt\neither.\"\n\n\"My dear Eleanor,\" cried Catherine, suppressing her feelings as well as\nshe could, \"do not be so distressed. A second engagement must give\nway to a first. I am very, very sorry we are to part--so soon, and so\nsuddenly too; but I am not offended, indeed I am not. I can finish my\nvisit here, you know, at any time; or I hope you will come to me. Can\nyou, when you return from this lord's, come to Fullerton?\"\n\n\"It will not be in my power, Catherine.\"\n\n\"Come when you can, then.\"\n\nEleanor made no answer; and Catherine's thoughts recurring to something\nmore directly interesting, she added, thinking aloud, \"Monday--so soon\nas Monday; and you all go. Well, I am certain of--I shall be able to\ntake leave, however. I need not go till just before you do, you know. Do\nnot be distressed, Eleanor, I can go on Monday very well. My father\nand mother's having no notice of it is of very little consequence. The\ngeneral will send a servant with me, I dare say, half the way--and then\nI shall soon be at Salisbury, and then I am only nine miles from home.\"\n\n\"Ah, Catherine! Were it settled so, it would be somewhat less\nintolerable, though in such common attentions you would have received\nbut half what you ought. But--how can I tell you?--tomorrow morning is\nfixed for your leaving us, and not even the hour is left to your choice;\nthe very carriage is ordered, and will be here at seven o'clock, and no\nservant will be offered you.\"\n\nCatherine sat down, breathless and speechless. \"I could hardly believe\nmy senses, when I heard it; and no displeasure, no resentment that\nyou can feel at this moment, however justly great, can be more than I\nmyself--but I must not talk of what I felt. Oh! That I could suggest\nanything in extenuation! Good God! What will your father and mother say!\nAfter courting you from the protection of real friends to this--almost\ndouble distance from your home, to have you driven out of the house,\nwithout the considerations even of decent civility! Dear, dear\nCatherine, in being the bearer of such a message, I seem guilty myself\nof all its insult; yet, I trust you will acquit me, for you must have\nbeen long enough in this house to see that I am but a nominal mistress\nof it, that my real power is nothing.\"\n\n\"Have I offended the general?\" said Catherine in a faltering voice.\n\n\"Alas! For my feelings as a daughter, all that I know, all that I\nanswer for, is that you can have given him no just cause of offence. He\ncertainly is greatly, very greatly discomposed; I have seldom seen him\nmore so. His temper is not happy, and something has now occurred to\nruffle it in an uncommon degree; some disappointment, some vexation,\nwhich just at this moment seems important, but which I can hardly\nsuppose you to have any concern in, for how is it possible?\"\n\nIt was with pain that Catherine could speak at all; and it was only for\nEleanor's sake that she attempted it. \"I am sure,\" said she, \"I am very\nsorry if I have offended him. It was the last thing I would willingly\nhave done. But do not be unhappy, Eleanor. An engagement, you know, must\nbe kept. I am only sorry it was not recollected sooner, that I might\nhave written home. But it is of very little consequence.\"\n\n\"I hope, I earnestly hope, that to your real safety it will be of none;\nbut to everything else it is of the greatest consequence: to comfort,\nappearance, propriety, to your family, to the world. Were your friends,\nthe Allens, still in Bath, you might go to them with comparative ease;\na few hours would take you there; but a journey of seventy miles, to be\ntaken post by you, at your age, alone, unattended!\"\n\n\"Oh, the journey is nothing. Do not think about that. And if we are to\npart, a few hours sooner or later, you know, makes no difference. I\ncan be ready by seven. Let me be called in time.\" Eleanor saw that she\nwished to be alone; and believing it better for each that they should\navoid any further conversation, now left her with, \"I shall see you in\nthe morning.\"\n\nCatherine's swelling heart needed relief. In Eleanor's presence\nfriendship and pride had equally restrained her tears, but no sooner was\nshe gone than they burst forth in torrents. Turned from the house, and\nin such a way! Without any reason that could justify, any apology that\ncould atone for the abruptness, the rudeness, nay, the insolence of\nit. Henry at a distance--not able even to bid him farewell. Every hope,\nevery expectation from him suspended, at least, and who could say how\nlong? Who could say when they might meet again? And all this by such\na man as General Tilney, so polite, so well bred, and heretofore\nso particularly fond of her! It was as incomprehensible as it was\nmortifying and grievous. From what it could arise, and where it would\nend, were considerations of equal perplexity and alarm. The manner in\nwhich it was done so grossly uncivil, hurrying her away without any\nreference to her own convenience, or allowing her even the appearance\nof choice as to the time or mode of her travelling; of two days, the\nearliest fixed on, and of that almost the earliest hour, as if resolved\nto have her gone before he was stirring in the morning, that he\nmight not be obliged even to see her. What could all this mean but\nan intentional affront? By some means or other she must have had the\nmisfortune to offend him. Eleanor had wished to spare her from so\npainful a notion, but Catherine could not believe it possible that any\ninjury or any misfortune could provoke such ill will against a person\nnot connected, or, at least, not supposed to be connected with it.\n\nHeavily passed the night. Sleep, or repose that deserved the name\nof sleep, was out of the question. That room, in which her disturbed\nimagination had tormented her on her first arrival, was again the scene\nof agitated spirits and unquiet slumbers. Yet how different now the\nsource of her inquietude from what it had been then--how mournfully\nsuperior in reality and substance! Her anxiety had foundation in\nfact, her fears in probability; and with a mind so occupied in the\ncontemplation of actual and natural evil, the solitude of her situation,\nthe darkness of her chamber, the antiquity of the building, were felt\nand considered without the smallest emotion; and though the wind was\nhigh, and often produced strange and sudden noises throughout the house,\nshe heard it all as she lay awake, hour after hour, without curiosity or\nterror.\n\nSoon after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show attention or give\nassistance where it was possible; but very little remained to be done.\nCatherine had not loitered; she was almost dressed, and her packing\nalmost finished. The possibility of some conciliatory message from the\ngeneral occurred to her as his daughter appeared. What so natural, as\nthat anger should pass away and repentance succeed it? And she only\nwanted to know how far, after what had passed, an apology might properly\nbe received by her. But the knowledge would have been useless here;\nit was not called for; neither clemency nor dignity was put to the\ntrial--Eleanor brought no message. Very little passed between them on\nmeeting; each found her greatest safety in silence, and few and trivial\nwere the sentences exchanged while they remained upstairs, Catherine in\nbusy agitation completing her dress, and Eleanor with more goodwill than\nexperience intent upon filling the trunk. When everything was done they\nleft the room, Catherine lingering only half a minute behind her friend\nto throw a parting glance on every well-known, cherished object, and\nwent down to the breakfast-parlour, where breakfast was prepared. She\ntried to eat, as well to save herself from the pain of being urged as\nto make her friend comfortable; but she had no appetite, and could not\nswallow many mouthfuls. The contrast between this and her last breakfast\nin that room gave her fresh misery, and strengthened her distaste for\neverything before her. It was not four and twenty hours ago since they\nhad met there to the same repast, but in circumstances how different!\nWith what cheerful ease, what happy, though false, security, had she\nthen looked around her, enjoying everything present, and fearing little\nin future, beyond Henry's going to Woodston for a day! Happy, happy\nbreakfast! For Henry had been there; Henry had sat by her and helped\nher. These reflections were long indulged undisturbed by any address\nfrom her companion, who sat as deep in thought as herself; and the\nappearance of the carriage was the first thing to startle and recall\nthem to the present moment. Catherine's colour rose at the sight of it;\nand the indignity with which she was treated, striking at that instant\non her mind with peculiar force, made her for a short time sensible only\nof resentment. Eleanor seemed now impelled into resolution and speech.\n\n\"You must write to me, Catherine,\" she cried; \"you must let me hear from\nyou as soon as possible. Till I know you to be safe at home, I shall\nnot have an hour's comfort. For one letter, at all risks, all hazards, I\nmust entreat. Let me have the satisfaction of knowing that you are safe\nat Fullerton, and have found your family well, and then, till I can ask\nfor your correspondence as I ought to do, I will not expect more. Direct\nto me at Lord Longtown's, and, I must ask it, under cover to Alice.\"\n\n\"No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter from me, I am\nsure I had better not write. There can be no doubt of my getting home\nsafe.\"\n\nEleanor only replied, \"I cannot wonder at your feelings. I will not\nimportune you. I will trust to your own kindness of heart when I am at\na distance from you.\" But this, with the look of sorrow accompanying\nit, was enough to melt Catherine's pride in a moment, and she instantly\nsaid, \"Oh, Eleanor, I will write to you indeed.\"\n\nThere was yet another point which Miss Tilney was anxious to settle,\nthough somewhat embarrassed in speaking of. It had occurred to her that\nafter so long an absence from home, Catherine might not be provided with\nmoney enough for the expenses of her journey, and, upon suggesting it\nto her with most affectionate offers of accommodation, it proved to be\nexactly the case. Catherine had never thought on the subject till that\nmoment, but, upon examining her purse, was convinced that but for\nthis kindness of her friend, she might have been turned from the house\nwithout even the means of getting home; and the distress in which she\nmust have been thereby involved filling the minds of both, scarcely\nanother word was said by either during the time of their remaining\ntogether. Short, however, was that time. The carriage was soon announced\nto be ready; and Catherine, instantly rising, a long and affectionate\nembrace supplied the place of language in bidding each other adieu; and,\nas they entered the hall, unable to leave the house without some mention\nof one whose name had not yet been spoken by either, she paused a\nmoment, and with quivering lips just made it intelligible that she left\n\"her kind remembrance for her absent friend.\" But with this approach to\nhis name ended all possibility of restraining her feelings; and, hiding\nher face as well as she could with her handkerchief, she darted across\nthe hall, jumped into the chaise, and in a moment was driven from the\ndoor.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 29\n\n\nCatherine was too wretched to be fearful. The journey in itself had no\nterrors for her; and she began it without either dreading its length or\nfeeling its solitariness. Leaning back in one corner of the carriage, in\na violent burst of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond the walls\nof the abbey before she raised her head; and the highest point of ground\nwithin the park was almost closed from her view before she was capable\nof turning her eyes towards it. Unfortunately, the road she now\ntravelled was the same which only ten days ago she had so happily passed\nalong in going to and from Woodston; and, for fourteen miles, every\nbitter feeling was rendered more severe by the review of objects on\nwhich she had first looked under impressions so different. Every mile,\nas it brought her nearer Woodston, added to her sufferings, and when\nwithin the distance of five, she passed the turning which led to it, and\nthought of Henry, so near, yet so unconscious, her grief and agitation\nwere excessive.\n\nThe day which she had spent at that place had been one of the happiest\nof her life. It was there, it was on that day, that the general had made\nuse of such expressions with regard to Henry and herself, had so\nspoken and so looked as to give her the most positive conviction of his\nactually wishing their marriage. Yes, only ten days ago had he\nelated her by his pointed regard--had he even confused her by his too\nsignificant reference! And now--what had she done, or what had she\nomitted to do, to merit such a change?\n\nThe only offence against him of which she could accuse herself had been\nsuch as was scarcely possible to reach his knowledge. Henry and her own\nheart only were privy to the shocking suspicions which she had so idly\nentertained; and equally safe did she believe her secret with each.\nDesignedly, at least, Henry could not have betrayed her. If, indeed, by\nany strange mischance his father should have gained intelligence of\nwhat she had dared to think and look for, of her causeless fancies\nand injurious examinations, she could not wonder at any degree of his\nindignation. If aware of her having viewed him as a murderer, she could\nnot wonder at his even turning her from his house. But a justification\nso full of torture to herself, she trusted, would not be in his power.\n\nAnxious as were all her conjectures on this point, it was not, however,\nthe one on which she dwelt most. There was a thought yet nearer, a more\nprevailing, more impetuous concern. How Henry would think, and feel,\nand look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger and heard of\nher being gone, was a question of force and interest to rise over every\nother, to be never ceasing, alternately irritating and soothing; it\nsometimes suggested the dread of his calm acquiescence, and at others\nwas answered by the sweetest confidence in his regret and resentment. To\nthe general, of course, he would not dare to speak; but to Eleanor--what\nmight he not say to Eleanor about her?\n\nIn this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries, on any one article\nof which her mind was incapable of more than momentary repose, the hours\npassed away, and her journey advanced much faster than she looked for.\nThe pressing anxieties of thought, which prevented her from noticing\nanything before her, when once beyond the neighbourhood of Woodston,\nsaved her at the same time from watching her progress; and though no\nobject on the road could engage a moment's attention, she found no stage\nof it tedious. From this, she was preserved too by another cause, by\nfeeling no eagerness for her journey's conclusion; for to return in such\na manner to Fullerton was almost to destroy the pleasure of a meeting\nwith those she loved best, even after an absence such as hers--an eleven\nweeks' absence. What had she to say that would not humble herself and\npain her family, that would not increase her own grief by the confession\nof it, extend an useless resentment, and perhaps involve the innocent\nwith the guilty in undistinguishing ill will? She could never do justice\nto Henry and Eleanor's merit; she felt it too strongly for expression;\nand should a dislike be taken against them, should they be thought of\nunfavourably, on their father's account, it would cut her to the heart.\n\nWith these feelings, she rather dreaded than sought for the first view\nof that well-known spire which would announce her within twenty miles of\nhome. Salisbury she had known to be her point on leaving Northanger; but\nafter the first stage she had been indebted to the post-masters for the\nnames of the places which were then to conduct her to it; so great\nhad been her ignorance of her route. She met with nothing, however,\nto distress or frighten her. Her youth, civil manners, and liberal\npay procured her all the attention that a traveller like herself could\nrequire; and stopping only to change horses, she travelled on for\nabout eleven hours without accident or alarm, and between six and seven\no'clock in the evening found herself entering Fullerton.\n\nA heroine returning, at the close of her career, to her native village,\nin all the triumph of recovered reputation, and all the dignity of\na countess, with a long train of noble relations in their several\nphaetons, and three waiting-maids in a travelling chaise and four,\nbehind her, is an event on which the pen of the contriver may well\ndelight to dwell; it gives credit to every conclusion, and the author\nmust share in the glory she so liberally bestows. But my affair is\nwidely different; I bring back my heroine to her home in solitude and\ndisgrace; and no sweet elation of spirits can lead me into minuteness.\nA heroine in a hack post-chaise is such a blow upon sentiment, as no\nattempt at grandeur or pathos can withstand. Swiftly therefore shall her\npost-boy drive through the village, amid the gaze of Sunday groups, and\nspeedy shall be her descent from it.\n\nBut, whatever might be the distress of Catherine's mind, as she thus\nadvanced towards the parsonage, and whatever the humiliation of her\nbiographer in relating it, she was preparing enjoyment of no everyday\nnature for those to whom she went; first, in the appearance of her\ncarriage--and secondly, in herself. The chaise of a traveller being\na rare sight in Fullerton, the whole family were immediately at the\nwindow; and to have it stop at the sweep-gate was a pleasure to brighten\nevery eye and occupy every fancy--a pleasure quite unlooked for by all\nbut the two youngest children, a boy and girl of six and four years old,\nwho expected a brother or sister in every carriage. Happy the glance\nthat first distinguished Catherine! Happy the voice that proclaimed the\ndiscovery! But whether such happiness were the lawful property of George\nor Harriet could never be exactly understood.\n\nHer father, mother, Sarah, George, and Harriet, all assembled at the\ndoor to welcome her with affectionate eagerness, was a sight to awaken\nthe best feelings of Catherine's heart; and in the embrace of each, as\nshe stepped from the carriage, she found herself soothed beyond anything\nthat she had believed possible. So surrounded, so caressed, she was even\nhappy! In the joyfulness of family love everything for a short time was\nsubdued, and the pleasure of seeing her, leaving them at first little\nleisure for calm curiosity, they were all seated round the tea-table,\nwhich Mrs. Morland had hurried for the comfort of the poor traveller,\nwhose pale and jaded looks soon caught her notice, before any inquiry so\ndirect as to demand a positive answer was addressed to her.\n\nReluctantly, and with much hesitation, did she then begin what might\nperhaps, at the end of half an hour, be termed, by the courtesy of her\nhearers, an explanation; but scarcely, within that time, could they\nat all discover the cause, or collect the particulars, of her sudden\nreturn. They were far from being an irritable race; far from any\nquickness in catching, or bitterness in resenting, affronts: but here,\nwhen the whole was unfolded, was an insult not to be overlooked, nor,\nfor the first half hour, to be easily pardoned. Without suffering any\nromantic alarm, in the consideration of their daughter's long and lonely\njourney, Mr. and Mrs. Morland could not but feel that it might have been\nproductive of much unpleasantness to her; that it was what they could\nnever have voluntarily suffered; and that, in forcing her on such\na measure, General Tilney had acted neither honourably nor\nfeelingly--neither as a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he had done it,\nwhat could have provoked him to such a breach of hospitality, and so\nsuddenly turned all his partial regard for their daughter into actual\nill will, was a matter which they were at least as far from divining\nas Catherine herself; but it did not oppress them by any means so long;\nand, after a due course of useless conjecture, that \"it was a strange\nbusiness, and that he must be a very strange man,\" grew enough for all\ntheir indignation and wonder; though Sarah indeed still indulged in the\nsweets of incomprehensibility, exclaiming and conjecturing with youthful\nardour. \"My dear, you give yourself a great deal of needless trouble,\"\nsaid her mother at last; \"depend upon it, it is something not at all\nworth understanding.\"\n\n\"I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this\nengagement,\" said Sarah, \"but why not do it civilly?\"\n\n\"I am sorry for the young people,\" returned Mrs. Morland; \"they must\nhave a sad time of it; but as for anything else, it is no matter now;\nCatherine is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General\nTilney.\" Catherine sighed. \"Well,\" continued her philosophic mother, \"I\nam glad I did not know of your journey at the time; but now it is all\nover, perhaps there is no great harm done. It is always good for\nyoung people to be put upon exerting themselves; and you know, my dear\nCatherine, you always were a sad little scatter-brained creature; but\nnow you must have been forced to have your wits about you, with so much\nchanging of chaises and so forth; and I hope it will appear that you\nhave not left anything behind you in any of the pockets.\"\n\nCatherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in her own\namendment, but her spirits were quite worn down; and, to be silent and\nalone becoming soon her only wish, she readily agreed to her mother's\nnext counsel of going early to bed. Her parents, seeing nothing in\nher ill looks and agitation but the natural consequence of mortified\nfeelings, and of the unusual exertion and fatigue of such a journey,\nparted from her without any doubt of their being soon slept away; and\nthough, when they all met the next morning, her recovery was not equal\nto their hopes, they were still perfectly unsuspicious of there being\nany deeper evil. They never once thought of her heart, which, for the\nparents of a young lady of seventeen, just returned from her first\nexcursion from home, was odd enough!\n\nAs soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil her promise to\nMiss Tilney, whose trust in the effect of time and distance on her\nfriend's disposition was already justified, for already did Catherine\nreproach herself with having parted from Eleanor coldly, with\nhaving never enough valued her merits or kindness, and never enough\ncommiserated her for what she had been yesterday left to endure. The\nstrength of these feelings, however, was far from assisting her pen;\nand never had it been harder for her to write than in addressing Eleanor\nTilney. To compose a letter which might at once do justice to her\nsentiments and her situation, convey gratitude without servile regret,\nbe guarded without coldness, and honest without resentment--a letter\nwhich Eleanor might not be pained by the perusal of--and, above all,\nwhich she might not blush herself, if Henry should chance to see, was an\nundertaking to frighten away all her powers of performance; and, after\nlong thought and much perplexity, to be very brief was all that she\ncould determine on with any confidence of safety. The money therefore\nwhich Eleanor had advanced was enclosed with little more than grateful\nthanks, and the thousand good wishes of a most affectionate heart.\n\n\"This has been a strange acquaintance,\" observed Mrs. Morland, as the\nletter was finished; \"soon made and soon ended. I am sorry it happens\nso, for Mrs. Allen thought them very pretty kind of young people; and\nyou were sadly out of luck too in your Isabella. Ah! Poor James! Well,\nwe must live and learn; and the next new friends you make I hope will be\nbetter worth keeping.\"\n\nCatherine coloured as she warmly answered, \"No friend can be better\nworth keeping than Eleanor.\"\n\n\"If so, my dear, I dare say you will meet again some time or other; do\nnot be uneasy. It is ten to one but you are thrown together again in the\ncourse of a few years; and then what a pleasure it will be!\"\n\nMrs. Morland was not happy in her attempt at consolation. The hope\nof meeting again in the course of a few years could only put into\nCatherine's head what might happen within that time to make a meeting\ndreadful to her. She could never forget Henry Tilney, or think of him\nwith less tenderness than she did at that moment; but he might forget\nher; and in that case, to meet--! Her eyes filled with tears as she\npictured her acquaintance so renewed; and her mother, perceiving her\ncomfortable suggestions to have had no good effect, proposed, as another\nexpedient for restoring her spirits, that they should call on Mrs.\nAllen.\n\nThe two houses were only a quarter of a mile apart; and, as they walked,\nMrs. Morland quickly dispatched all that she felt on the score of\nJames's disappointment. \"We are sorry for him,\" said she; \"but otherwise\nthere is no harm done in the match going off; for it could not be\na desirable thing to have him engaged to a girl whom we had not the\nsmallest acquaintance with, and who was so entirely without fortune; and\nnow, after such behaviour, we cannot think at all well of her. Just at\npresent it comes hard to poor James; but that will not last forever; and\nI dare say he will be a discreeter man all his life, for the foolishness\nof his first choice.\"\n\nThis was just such a summary view of the affair as Catherine could\nlisten to; another sentence might have endangered her complaisance,\nand made her reply less rational; for soon were all her thinking powers\nswallowed up in the reflection of her own change of feelings and spirits\nsince last she had trodden that well-known road. It was not three months\nago since, wild with joyful expectation, she had there run backwards\nand forwards some ten times a day, with an heart light, gay, and\nindependent; looking forward to pleasures untasted and unalloyed, and\nfree from the apprehension of evil as from the knowledge of it. Three\nmonths ago had seen her all this; and now, how altered a being did she\nreturn!\n\nShe was received by the Allens with all the kindness which her\nunlooked-for appearance, acting on a steady affection, would naturally\ncall forth; and great was their surprise, and warm their displeasure,\non hearing how she had been treated--though Mrs. Morland's account of\nit was no inflated representation, no studied appeal to their passions.\n\"Catherine took us quite by surprise yesterday evening,\" said she. \"She\ntravelled all the way post by herself, and knew nothing of coming till\nSaturday night; for General Tilney, from some odd fancy or other, all\nof a sudden grew tired of having her there, and almost turned her out\nof the house. Very unfriendly, certainly; and he must be a very odd\nman; but we are so glad to have her amongst us again! And it is a great\ncomfort to find that she is not a poor helpless creature, but can shift\nvery well for herself.\"\n\nMr. Allen expressed himself on the occasion with the reasonable\nresentment of a sensible friend; and Mrs. Allen thought his expressions\nquite good enough to be immediately made use of again by herself. His\nwonder, his conjectures, and his explanations became in succession hers,\nwith the addition of this single remark--\"I really have not patience\nwith the general\"--to fill up every accidental pause. And, \"I really\nhave not patience with the general,\" was uttered twice after Mr.\nAllen left the room, without any relaxation of anger, or any material\ndigression of thought. A more considerable degree of wandering attended\nthe third repetition; and, after completing the fourth, she immediately\nadded, \"Only think, my dear, of my having got that frightful great rent\nin my best Mechlin so charmingly mended, before I left Bath, that one\ncan hardly see where it was. I must show it you some day or other. Bath\nis a nice place, Catherine, after all. I assure you I did not above half\nlike coming away. Mrs. Thorpe's being there was such a comfort to us,\nwas not it? You know, you and I were quite forlorn at first.\"\n\n\"Yes, but that did not last long,\" said Catherine, her eyes brightening\nat the recollection of what had first given spirit to her existence\nthere.\n\n\"Very true: we soon met with Mrs. Thorpe, and then we wanted for\nnothing. My dear, do not you think these silk gloves wear very well?\nI put them on new the first time of our going to the Lower Rooms, you\nknow, and I have worn them a great deal since. Do you remember that\nevening?\"\n\n\"Do I! Oh! Perfectly.\"\n\n\"It was very agreeable, was not it? Mr. Tilney drank tea with us, and I\nalways thought him a great addition, he is so very agreeable. I have a\nnotion you danced with him, but am not quite sure. I remember I had my\nfavourite gown on.\"\n\nCatherine could not answer; and, after a short trial of other subjects,\nMrs. Allen again returned to--\"I really have not patience with the\ngeneral! Such an agreeable, worthy man as he seemed to be! I do not\nsuppose, Mrs. Morland, you ever saw a better-bred man in your life. His\nlodgings were taken the very day after he left them, Catherine. But no\nwonder; Milsom Street, you know.\"\n\nAs they walked home again, Mrs. Morland endeavoured to impress on her\ndaughter's mind the happiness of having such steady well-wishers as Mr.\nand Mrs. Allen, and the very little consideration which the neglect or\nunkindness of slight acquaintance like the Tilneys ought to have with\nher, while she could preserve the good opinion and affection of her\nearliest friends. There was a great deal of good sense in all this; but\nthere are some situations of the human mind in which good sense has\nvery little power; and Catherine's feelings contradicted almost every\nposition her mother advanced. It was upon the behaviour of these very\nslight acquaintance that all her present happiness depended; and\nwhile Mrs. Morland was successfully confirming her own opinions by the\njustness of her own representations, Catherine was silently reflecting\nthat now Henry must have arrived at Northanger; now he must have heard\nof her departure; and now, perhaps, they were all setting off for\nHereford.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 30\n\n\nCatherine's disposition was not naturally sedentary, nor had her habits\nbeen ever very industrious; but whatever might hitherto have been her\ndefects of that sort, her mother could not but perceive them now to be\ngreatly increased. She could neither sit still nor employ herself for\nten minutes together, walking round the garden and orchard again and\nagain, as if nothing but motion was voluntary; and it seemed as if she\ncould even walk about the house rather than remain fixed for any time\nin the parlour. Her loss of spirits was a yet greater alteration. In her\nrambling and her idleness she might only be a caricature of herself; but\nin her silence and sadness she was the very reverse of all that she had\nbeen before.\n\nFor two days Mrs. Morland allowed it to pass even without a hint;\nbut when a third night's rest had neither restored her cheerfulness,\nimproved her in useful activity, nor given her a greater inclination for\nneedlework, she could no longer refrain from the gentle reproof of, \"My\ndear Catherine, I am afraid you are growing quite a fine lady. I do not\nknow when poor Richard's cravats would be done, if he had no friend\nbut you. Your head runs too much upon Bath; but there is a time for\neverything--a time for balls and plays, and a time for work. You have\nhad a long run of amusement, and now you must try to be useful.\"\n\nCatherine took up her work directly, saying, in a dejected voice, that\n\"her head did not run upon Bath--much.\"\n\n\"Then you are fretting about General Tilney, and that is very simple\nof you; for ten to one whether you ever see him again. You should never\nfret about trifles.\" After a short silence--\"I hope, my Catherine, you\nare not getting out of humour with home because it is not so grand\nas Northanger. That would be turning your visit into an evil indeed.\nWherever you are you should always be contented, but especially at home,\nbecause there you must spend the most of your time. I did not quite\nlike, at breakfast, to hear you talk so much about the French bread at\nNorthanger.\"\n\n\"I am sure I do not care about the bread. It is all the same to me what\nI eat.\"\n\n\"There is a very clever essay in one of the books upstairs upon much\nsuch a subject, about young girls that have been spoilt for home by\ngreat acquaintance--The Mirror, I think. I will look it out for you some\nday or other, because I am sure it will do you good.\"\n\nCatherine said no more, and, with an endeavour to do right, applied\nto her work; but, after a few minutes, sunk again, without knowing it\nherself, into languor and listlessness, moving herself in her chair,\nfrom the irritation of weariness, much oftener than she moved her\nneedle. Mrs. Morland watched the progress of this relapse; and seeing,\nin her daughter's absent and dissatisfied look, the full proof of that\nrepining spirit to which she had now begun to attribute her want of\ncheerfulness, hastily left the room to fetch the book in question,\nanxious to lose no time in attacking so dreadful a malady. It was some\ntime before she could find what she looked for; and other family matters\noccurring to detain her, a quarter of an hour had elapsed ere she\nreturned downstairs with the volume from which so much was hoped. Her\navocations above having shut out all noise but what she created herself,\nshe knew not that a visitor had arrived within the last few minutes,\ntill, on entering the room, the first object she beheld was a young\nman whom she had never seen before. With a look of much respect, he\nimmediately rose, and being introduced to her by her conscious daughter\nas \"Mr. Henry Tilney,\" with the embarrassment of real sensibility began\nto apologize for his appearance there, acknowledging that after what had\npassed he had little right to expect a welcome at Fullerton, and stating\nhis impatience to be assured of Miss Morland's having reached her home\nin safety, as the cause of his intrusion. He did not address himself to\nan uncandid judge or a resentful heart. Far from comprehending him or\nhis sister in their father's misconduct, Mrs. Morland had been always\nkindly disposed towards each, and instantly, pleased by his appearance,\nreceived him with the simple professions of unaffected benevolence;\nthanking him for such an attention to her daughter, assuring him that\nthe friends of her children were always welcome there, and entreating\nhim to say not another word of the past.\n\nHe was not ill-inclined to obey this request, for, though his heart was\ngreatly relieved by such unlooked-for mildness, it was not just at that\nmoment in his power to say anything to the purpose. Returning in silence\nto his seat, therefore, he remained for some minutes most civilly\nanswering all Mrs. Morland's common remarks about the weather and\nroads. Catherine meanwhile--the anxious, agitated, happy, feverish\nCatherine--said not a word; but her glowing cheek and brightened eye\nmade her mother trust that this good-natured visit would at least set\nher heart at ease for a time, and gladly therefore did she lay aside the\nfirst volume of The Mirror for a future hour.\n\nDesirous of Mr. Morland's assistance, as well in giving encouragement,\nas in finding conversation for her guest, whose embarrassment on his\nfather's account she earnestly pitied, Mrs. Morland had very early\ndispatched one of the children to summon him; but Mr. Morland was from\nhome--and being thus without any support, at the end of a quarter of\nan hour she had nothing to say. After a couple of minutes' unbroken\nsilence, Henry, turning to Catherine for the first time since her\nmother's entrance, asked her, with sudden alacrity, if Mr. and Mrs.\nAllen were now at Fullerton? And on developing, from amidst all her\nperplexity of words in reply, the meaning, which one short syllable\nwould have given, immediately expressed his intention of paying his\nrespects to them, and, with a rising colour, asked her if she would\nhave the goodness to show him the way. \"You may see the house from this\nwindow, sir,\" was information on Sarah's side, which produced only a\nbow of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and a silencing nod from\nher mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary\nconsideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy neighbours, that he\nmight have some explanation to give of his father's behaviour, which it\nmust be more pleasant for him to communicate only to Catherine, would\nnot on any account prevent her accompanying him. They began their walk,\nand Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in his object in wishing it.\nSome explanation on his father's account he had to give; but his first\npurpose was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr. Allen's\ngrounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think it could\never be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection; and that\nheart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally\nknew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now sincerely\nattached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies\nof her character and truly loved her society, I must confess that his\naffection originated in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other\nwords, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only\ncause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new circumstance in\nromance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an heroine's\ndignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a wild\nimagination will at least be all my own.\n\nA very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry talked at random,\nwithout sense or connection, and Catherine, rapt in the contemplation of\nher own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed them\nto the ecstasies of another tete-a-tete; and before it was suffered to\nclose, she was enabled to judge how far he was sanctioned by parental\nauthority in his present application. On his return from Woodston, two\ndays before, he had been met near the abbey by his impatient father,\nhastily informed in angry terms of Miss Morland's departure, and ordered\nto think of her no more.\n\nSuch was the permission upon which he had now offered her his hand.\nThe affrighted Catherine, amidst all the terrors of expectation, as she\nlistened to this account, could not but rejoice in the kind caution\nwith which Henry had saved her from the necessity of a conscientious\nrejection, by engaging her faith before he mentioned the subject; and\nas he proceeded to give the particulars, and explain the motives of\nhis father's conduct, her feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant\ndelight. The general had had nothing to accuse her of, nothing to lay\nto her charge, but her being the involuntary, unconscious object of a\ndeception which his pride could not pardon, and which a better pride\nwould have been ashamed to own. She was guilty only of being less rich\nthan he had supposed her to be. Under a mistaken persuasion of her\npossessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath,\nsolicited her company at Northanger, and designed her for his\ndaughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn her from the house\nseemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his\nresentment towards herself, and his contempt of her family.\n\nJohn Thorpe had first misled him. The general, perceiving his son\none night at the theatre to be paying considerable attention to Miss\nMorland, had accidentally inquired of Thorpe if he knew more of her\nthan her name. Thorpe, most happy to be on speaking terms with a man\nof General Tilney's importance, had been joyfully and proudly\ncommunicative; and being at that time not only in daily expectation\nof Morland's engaging Isabella, but likewise pretty well resolved upon\nmarrying Catherine himself, his vanity induced him to represent the\nfamily as yet more wealthy than his vanity and avarice had made him\nbelieve them. With whomsoever he was, or was likely to be connected, his\nown consequence always required that theirs should be great, and as his\nintimacy with any acquaintance grew, so regularly grew their fortune.\nThe expectations of his friend Morland, therefore, from the first\noverrated, had ever since his introduction to Isabella been gradually\nincreasing; and by merely adding twice as much for the grandeur of the\nmoment, by doubling what he chose to think the amount of Mr. Morland's\npreferment, trebling his private fortune, bestowing a rich aunt, and\nsinking half the children, he was able to represent the whole family\nto the general in a most respectable light. For Catherine, however, the\npeculiar object of the general's curiosity, and his own speculations,\nhe had yet something more in reserve, and the ten or fifteen thousand\npounds which her father could give her would be a pretty addition to Mr.\nAllen's estate. Her intimacy there had made him seriously determine on\nher being handsomely legacied hereafter; and to speak of her therefore\nas the almost acknowledged future heiress of Fullerton naturally\nfollowed. Upon such intelligence the general had proceeded; for never\nhad it occurred to him to doubt its authority. Thorpe's interest in the\nfamily, by his sister's approaching connection with one of its members,\nand his own views on another (circumstances of which he boasted with\nalmost equal openness), seemed sufficient vouchers for his truth; and\nto these were added the absolute facts of the Allens being wealthy and\nchildless, of Miss Morland's being under their care, and--as soon as his\nacquaintance allowed him to judge--of their treating her with parental\nkindness. His resolution was soon formed. Already had he discerned a\nliking towards Miss Morland in the countenance of his son; and thankful\nfor Mr. Thorpe's communication, he almost instantly determined to spare\nno pains in weakening his boasted interest and ruining his dearest\nhopes. Catherine herself could not be more ignorant at the time of all\nthis, than his own children. Henry and Eleanor, perceiving nothing in\nher situation likely to engage their father's particular respect, had\nseen with astonishment the suddenness, continuance, and extent of his\nattention; and though latterly, from some hints which had accompanied an\nalmost positive command to his son of doing everything in his power to\nattach her, Henry was convinced of his father's believing it to be\nan advantageous connection, it was not till the late explanation at\nNorthanger that they had the smallest idea of the false calculations\nwhich had hurried him on. That they were false, the general had learnt\nfrom the very person who had suggested them, from Thorpe himself, whom\nhe had chanced to meet again in town, and who, under the influence of\nexactly opposite feelings, irritated by Catherine's refusal, and\nyet more by the failure of a very recent endeavour to accomplish a\nreconciliation between Morland and Isabella, convinced that they were\nseparated forever, and spurning a friendship which could be no longer\nserviceable, hastened to contradict all that he had said before to\nthe advantage of the Morlands--confessed himself to have been totally\nmistaken in his opinion of their circumstances and character, misled by\nthe rhodomontade of his friend to believe his father a man of substance\nand credit, whereas the transactions of the two or three last weeks\nproved him to be neither; for after coming eagerly forward on the first\noverture of a marriage between the families, with the most liberal\nproposals, he had, on being brought to the point by the shrewdness of\nthe relator, been constrained to acknowledge himself incapable of\ngiving the young people even a decent support. They were, in fact, a\nnecessitous family; numerous, too, almost beyond example; by no means\nrespected in their own neighbourhood, as he had lately had particular\nopportunities of discovering; aiming at a style of life which their\nfortune could not warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy\nconnections; a forward, bragging, scheming race.\n\nThe terrified general pronounced the name of Allen with an inquiring\nlook; and here too Thorpe had learnt his error. The Allens, he believed,\nhad lived near them too long, and he knew the young man on whom the\nFullerton estate must devolve. The general needed no more. Enraged with\nalmost everybody in the world but himself, he set out the next day for\nthe abbey, where his performances have been seen.\n\nI leave it to my reader's sagacity to determine how much of all this\nit was possible for Henry to communicate at this time to Catherine, how\nmuch of it he could have learnt from his father, in what points his own\nconjectures might assist him, and what portion must yet remain to be\ntold in a letter from James. I have united for their case what they must\ndivide for mine. Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to feel that in\nsuspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his wife,\nshe had scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified his cruelty.\n\nHenry, in having such things to relate of his father, was almost\nas pitiable as in their first avowal to himself. He blushed for the\nnarrow-minded counsel which he was obliged to expose. The conversation\nbetween them at Northanger had been of the most unfriendly kind. Henry's\nindignation on hearing how Catherine had been treated, on comprehending\nhis father's views, and being ordered to acquiesce in them, had been\nopen and bold. The general, accustomed on every ordinary occasion to\ngive the law in his family, prepared for no reluctance but of feeling,\nno opposing desire that should dare to clothe itself in words, could ill\nbrook the opposition of his son, steady as the sanction of reason and\nthe dictate of conscience could make it. But, in such a cause, his\nanger, though it must shock, could not intimidate Henry, who was\nsustained in his purpose by a conviction of its justice. He felt himself\nbound as much in honour as in affection to Miss Morland, and believing\nthat heart to be his own which he had been directed to gain, no unworthy\nretraction of a tacit consent, no reversing decree of unjustifiable\nanger, could shake his fidelity, or influence the resolutions it\nprompted.\n\nHe steadily refused to accompany his father into Herefordshire, an\nengagement formed almost at the moment to promote the dismissal of\nCatherine, and as steadily declared his intention of offering her his\nhand. The general was furious in his anger, and they parted in dreadful\ndisagreement. Henry, in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours\nwere required to compose, had returned almost instantly to Woodston,\nand, on the afternoon of the following day, had begun his journey to\nFullerton.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 31\n\n\nMr. and Mrs. Morland's surprise on being applied to by Mr. Tilney for\ntheir consent to his marrying their daughter was, for a few minutes,\nconsiderable, it having never entered their heads to suspect an\nattachment on either side; but as nothing, after all, could be more\nnatural than Catherine's being beloved, they soon learnt to consider it\nwith only the happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far as they\nalone were concerned, had not a single objection to start. His pleasing\nmanners and good sense were self-evident recommendations; and having\nnever heard evil of him, it was not their way to suppose any evil could\nbe told. Goodwill supplying the place of experience, his character\nneeded no attestation. \"Catherine would make a sad, heedless young\nhousekeeper to be sure,\" was her mother's foreboding remark; but quick\nwas the consolation of there being nothing like practice.\n\nThere was but one obstacle, in short, to be mentioned; but till that one\nwas removed, it must be impossible for them to sanction the engagement.\nTheir tempers were mild, but their principles were steady, and while\nhis parent so expressly forbade the connection, they could not allow\nthemselves to encourage it. That the general should come forward to\nsolicit the alliance, or that he should even very heartily approve it,\nthey were not refined enough to make any parading stipulation; but\nthe decent appearance of consent must be yielded, and that once\nobtained--and their own hearts made them trust that it could not be\nvery long denied--their willing approbation was instantly to follow. His\nconsent was all that they wished for. They were no more inclined than\nentitled to demand his money. Of a very considerable fortune, his son\nwas, by marriage settlements, eventually secure; his present income was\nan income of independence and comfort, and under every pecuniary view,\nit was a match beyond the claims of their daughter.\n\nThe young people could not be surprised at a decision like this. They\nfelt and they deplored--but they could not resent it; and they parted,\nendeavouring to hope that such a change in the general, as each believed\nalmost impossible, might speedily take place, to unite them again in\nthe fullness of privileged affection. Henry returned to what was now\nhis only home, to watch over his young plantations, and extend his\nimprovements for her sake, to whose share in them he looked anxiously\nforward; and Catherine remained at Fullerton to cry. Whether the\ntorments of absence were softened by a clandestine correspondence, let\nus not inquire. Mr. and Mrs. Morland never did--they had been too kind\nto exact any promise; and whenever Catherine received a letter, as, at\nthat time, happened pretty often, they always looked another way.\n\nThe anxiety, which in this state of their attachment must be the portion\nof Henry and Catherine, and of all who loved either, as to its final\nevent, can hardly extend, I fear, to the bosom of my readers, who will\nsee in the tell-tale compression of the pages before them, that we are\nall hastening together to perfect felicity. The means by which their\nearly marriage was effected can be the only doubt: what probable\ncircumstance could work upon a temper like the general's? The\ncircumstance which chiefly availed was the marriage of his daughter with\na man of fortune and consequence, which took place in the course of\nthe summer--an accession of dignity that threw him into a fit of good\nhumour, from which he did not recover till after Eleanor had obtained\nhis forgiveness of Henry, and his permission for him \"to be a fool if he\nliked it!\"\n\nThe marriage of Eleanor Tilney, her removal from all the evils of such\na home as Northanger had been made by Henry's banishment, to the home of\nher choice and the man of her choice, is an event which I expect to\ngive general satisfaction among all her acquaintance. My own joy on the\noccasion is very sincere. I know no one more entitled, by unpretending\nmerit, or better prepared by habitual suffering, to receive and enjoy\nfelicity. Her partiality for this gentleman was not of recent origin;\nand he had been long withheld only by inferiority of situation from\naddressing her. His unexpected accession to title and fortune had\nremoved all his difficulties; and never had the general loved his\ndaughter so well in all her hours of companionship, utility, and patient\nendurance as when he first hailed her \"Your Ladyship!\" Her husband was\nreally deserving of her; independent of his peerage, his wealth, and\nhis attachment, being to a precision the most charming young man in the\nworld. Any further definition of his merits must be unnecessary; the\nmost charming young man in the world is instantly before the imagination\nof us all. Concerning the one in question, therefore, I have only to\nadd--aware that the rules of composition forbid the introduction of a\ncharacter not connected with my fable--that this was the very\ngentleman whose negligent servant left behind him that collection of\nwashing-bills, resulting from a long visit at Northanger, by which my\nheroine was involved in one of her most alarming adventures.\n\nThe influence of the viscount and viscountess in their brother's behalf\nwas assisted by that right understanding of Mr. Morland's circumstances\nwhich, as soon as the general would allow himself to be informed, they\nwere qualified to give. It taught him that he had been scarcely\nmore misled by Thorpe's first boast of the family wealth than by his\nsubsequent malicious overthrow of it; that in no sense of the word were\nthey necessitous or poor, and that Catherine would have three thousand\npounds. This was so material an amendment of his late expectations that\nit greatly contributed to smooth the descent of his pride; and by no\nmeans without its effect was the private intelligence, which he was at\nsome pains to procure, that the Fullerton estate, being entirely at\nthe disposal of its present proprietor, was consequently open to every\ngreedy speculation.\n\nOn the strength of this, the general, soon after Eleanor's marriage,\npermitted his son to return to Northanger, and thence made him the\nbearer of his consent, very courteously worded in a page full of empty\nprofessions to Mr. Morland. The event which it authorized soon followed:\nHenry and Catherine were married, the bells rang, and everybody smiled;\nand, as this took place within a twelvemonth from the first day of their\nmeeting, it will not appear, after all the dreadful delays occasioned by\nthe general's cruelty, that they were essentially hurt by it. To begin\nperfect happiness at the respective ages of twenty-six and eighteen is\nto do pretty well; and professing myself moreover convinced that the\ngeneral's unjust interference, so far from being really injurious to\ntheir felicity, was perhaps rather conducive to it, by improving their\nknowledge of each other, and adding strength to their attachment,\nI leave it to be settled, by whomsoever it may concern, whether the\ntendency of this work be altogether to recommend parental tyranny, or\nreward filial disobedience.\n\n\n\n*Vide a letter from Mr. Richardson, No. 97, Vol. II, Rambler.\n\n\n\n\nA NOTE ON THE TEXT\n\nNorthanger Abbey was written in 1797-98 under a different title. The\nmanuscript was revised around 1803 and sold to a London publisher,\nCrosbie & Co., who sold it back in 1816. The Signet Classic text\nis based on the first edition, published by John Murray, London, in\n1818--the year following Miss Austen's death. Spelling and punctuation\nhave been largely brought into conformity with modern British usage.\n\n\n\n\n\n","id":"121"},{"text":"\n\n\n\n\nMANSFIELD PARK\n\n(1814)\n\n\nBy Jane Austen\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nAbout thirty years ago Miss Maria Ward, of Huntingdon, with only seven\nthousand pounds, had the good luck to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of\nMansfield Park, in the county of Northampton, and to be thereby raised\nto the rank of a baronet's lady, with all the comforts and consequences\nof an handsome house and large income. All Huntingdon exclaimed on the\ngreatness of the match, and her uncle, the lawyer, himself, allowed her\nto be at least three thousand pounds short of any equitable claim to it.\nShe had two sisters to be benefited by her elevation; and such of their\nacquaintance as thought Miss Ward and Miss Frances quite as handsome as\nMiss Maria, did not scruple to predict their marrying with almost equal\nadvantage. But there certainly are not so many men of large fortune in\nthe world as there are pretty women to deserve them. Miss Ward, at the\nend of half a dozen years, found herself obliged to be attached to\nthe Rev. Mr. Norris, a friend of her brother-in-law, with scarcely any\nprivate fortune, and Miss Frances fared yet worse. Miss Ward's match,\nindeed, when it came to the point, was not contemptible: Sir Thomas\nbeing happily able to give his friend an income in the living of\nMansfield; and Mr. and Mrs. Norris began their career of conjugal\nfelicity with very little less than a thousand a year. But Miss Frances\nmarried, in the common phrase, to disoblige her family, and by fixing on\na lieutenant of marines, without education, fortune, or connexions, did\nit very thoroughly. She could hardly have made a more untoward choice.\nSir Thomas Bertram had interest, which, from principle as well as\npride--from a general wish of doing right, and a desire of seeing all\nthat were connected with him in situations of respectability, he would\nhave been glad to exert for the advantage of Lady Bertram's sister; but\nher husband's profession was such as no interest could reach; and before\nhe had time to devise any other method of assisting them, an absolute\nbreach between the sisters had taken place. It was the natural result of\nthe conduct of each party, and such as a very imprudent marriage almost\nalways produces. To save herself from useless remonstrance, Mrs. Price\nnever wrote to her family on the subject till actually married. Lady\nBertram, who was a woman of very tranquil feelings, and a temper\nremarkably easy and indolent, would have contented herself with merely\ngiving up her sister, and thinking no more of the matter; but Mrs.\nNorris had a spirit of activity, which could not be satisfied till she\nhad written a long and angry letter to Fanny, to point out the folly of\nher conduct, and threaten her with all its possible ill consequences.\nMrs. Price, in her turn, was injured and angry; and an answer, which\ncomprehended each sister in its bitterness, and bestowed such very\ndisrespectful reflections on the pride of Sir Thomas as Mrs. Norris\ncould not possibly keep to herself, put an end to all intercourse\nbetween them for a considerable period.\n\nTheir homes were so distant, and the circles in which they moved so\ndistinct, as almost to preclude the means of ever hearing of each\nother's existence during the eleven following years, or, at least, to\nmake it very wonderful to Sir Thomas that Mrs. Norris should ever have\nit in her power to tell them, as she now and then did, in an angry\nvoice, that Fanny had got another child. By the end of eleven years,\nhowever, Mrs. Price could no longer afford to cherish pride or\nresentment, or to lose one connexion that might possibly assist her.\nA large and still increasing family, an husband disabled for active\nservice, but not the less equal to company and good liquor, and a very\nsmall income to supply their wants, made her eager to regain the friends\nshe had so carelessly sacrificed; and she addressed Lady Bertram in\na letter which spoke so much contrition and despondence, such a\nsuperfluity of children, and such a want of almost everything else, as\ncould not but dispose them all to a reconciliation. She was preparing\nfor her ninth lying-in; and after bewailing the circumstance, and\nimploring their countenance as sponsors to the expected child, she\ncould not conceal how important she felt they might be to the future\nmaintenance of the eight already in being. Her eldest was a boy of ten\nyears old, a fine spirited fellow, who longed to be out in the world;\nbut what could she do? Was there any chance of his being hereafter\nuseful to Sir Thomas in the concerns of his West Indian property?\nNo situation would be beneath him; or what did Sir Thomas think of\nWoolwich? or how could a boy be sent out to the East?\n\nThe letter was not unproductive. It re-established peace and kindness.\nSir Thomas sent friendly advice and professions, Lady Bertram dispatched\nmoney and baby-linen, and Mrs. Norris wrote the letters.\n\nSuch were its immediate effects, and within a twelvemonth a more\nimportant advantage to Mrs. Price resulted from it. Mrs. Norris was\noften observing to the others that she could not get her poor sister and\nher family out of her head, and that, much as they had all done for her,\nshe seemed to be wanting to do more; and at length she could not but\nown it to be her wish that poor Mrs. Price should be relieved from the\ncharge and expense of one child entirely out of her great number. \"What\nif they were among them to undertake the care of her eldest daughter,\na girl now nine years old, of an age to require more attention than her\npoor mother could possibly give? The trouble and expense of it to them\nwould be nothing, compared with the benevolence of the action.\" Lady\nBertram agreed with her instantly. \"I think we cannot do better,\" said\nshe; \"let us send for the child.\"\n\nSir Thomas could not give so instantaneous and unqualified a consent. He\ndebated and hesitated;--it was a serious charge;--a girl so brought up\nmust be adequately provided for, or there would be cruelty instead\nof kindness in taking her from her family. He thought of his own four\nchildren, of his two sons, of cousins in love, etc.;--but no sooner\nhad he deliberately begun to state his objections, than Mrs. Norris\ninterrupted him with a reply to them all, whether stated or not.\n\n\"My dear Sir Thomas, I perfectly comprehend you, and do justice to the\ngenerosity and delicacy of your notions, which indeed are quite of a\npiece with your general conduct; and I entirely agree with you in\nthe main as to the propriety of doing everything one could by way of\nproviding for a child one had in a manner taken into one's own hands;\nand I am sure I should be the last person in the world to withhold my\nmite upon such an occasion. Having no children of my own, who should I\nlook to in any little matter I may ever have to bestow, but the children\nof my sisters?--and I am sure Mr. Norris is too just--but you know I am\na woman of few words and professions. Do not let us be frightened from\na good deed by a trifle. Give a girl an education, and introduce\nher properly into the world, and ten to one but she has the means of\nsettling well, without farther expense to anybody. A niece of ours, Sir\nThomas, I may say, or at least of _yours_, would not grow up in this\nneighbourhood without many advantages. I don't say she would be so\nhandsome as her cousins. I dare say she would not; but she would be\nintroduced into the society of this country under such very favourable\ncircumstances as, in all human probability, would get her a creditable\nestablishment. You are thinking of your sons--but do not you know that,\nof all things upon earth, _that_ is the least likely to happen, brought\nup as they would be, always together like brothers and sisters? It is\nmorally impossible. I never knew an instance of it. It is, in fact, the\nonly sure way of providing against the connexion. Suppose her a pretty\ngirl, and seen by Tom or Edmund for the first time seven years hence,\nand I dare say there would be mischief. The very idea of her having been\nsuffered to grow up at a distance from us all in poverty and neglect,\nwould be enough to make either of the dear, sweet-tempered boys in love\nwith her. But breed her up with them from this time, and suppose her\neven to have the beauty of an angel, and she will never be more to\neither than a sister.\"\n\n\"There is a great deal of truth in what you say,\" replied Sir Thomas,\n\"and far be it from me to throw any fanciful impediment in the way of a\nplan which would be so consistent with the relative situations of each.\nI only meant to observe that it ought not to be lightly engaged in,\nand that to make it really serviceable to Mrs. Price, and creditable to\nourselves, we must secure to the child, or consider ourselves engaged to\nsecure to her hereafter, as circumstances may arise, the provision of\na gentlewoman, if no such establishment should offer as you are so\nsanguine in expecting.\"\n\n\"I thoroughly understand you,\" cried Mrs. Norris, \"you are everything\nthat is generous and considerate, and I am sure we shall never disagree\non this point. Whatever I can do, as you well know, I am always ready\nenough to do for the good of those I love; and, though I could never\nfeel for this little girl the hundredth part of the regard I bear your\nown dear children, nor consider her, in any respect, so much my own,\nI should hate myself if I were capable of neglecting her. Is not she a\nsister's child? and could I bear to see her want while I had a bit of\nbread to give her? My dear Sir Thomas, with all my faults I have a warm\nheart; and, poor as I am, would rather deny myself the necessaries of\nlife than do an ungenerous thing. So, if you are not against it, I will\nwrite to my poor sister tomorrow, and make the proposal; and, as soon\nas matters are settled, _I_ will engage to get the child to Mansfield;\n_you_ shall have no trouble about it. My own trouble, you know, I never\nregard. I will send Nanny to London on purpose, and she may have a bed\nat her cousin the saddler's, and the child be appointed to meet her\nthere. They may easily get her from Portsmouth to town by the coach,\nunder the care of any creditable person that may chance to be going. I\ndare say there is always some reputable tradesman's wife or other going\nup.\"\n\nExcept to the attack on Nanny's cousin, Sir Thomas no longer made any\nobjection, and a more respectable, though less economical rendezvous\nbeing accordingly substituted, everything was considered as settled,\nand the pleasures of so benevolent a scheme were already enjoyed. The\ndivision of gratifying sensations ought not, in strict justice, to\nhave been equal; for Sir Thomas was fully resolved to be the real and\nconsistent patron of the selected child, and Mrs. Norris had not the\nleast intention of being at any expense whatever in her maintenance.\nAs far as walking, talking, and contriving reached, she was thoroughly\nbenevolent, and nobody knew better how to dictate liberality to others;\nbut her love of money was equal to her love of directing, and she knew\nquite as well how to save her own as to spend that of her friends.\nHaving married on a narrower income than she had been used to look\nforward to, she had, from the first, fancied a very strict line of\neconomy necessary; and what was begun as a matter of prudence, soon grew\ninto a matter of choice, as an object of that needful solicitude which\nthere were no children to supply. Had there been a family to provide\nfor, Mrs. Norris might never have saved her money; but having no care\nof that kind, there was nothing to impede her frugality, or lessen the\ncomfort of making a yearly addition to an income which they had never\nlived up to. Under this infatuating principle, counteracted by no real\naffection for her sister, it was impossible for her to aim at more than\nthe credit of projecting and arranging so expensive a charity; though\nperhaps she might so little know herself as to walk home to the\nParsonage, after this conversation, in the happy belief of being the\nmost liberal-minded sister and aunt in the world.\n\nWhen the subject was brought forward again, her views were more fully\nexplained; and, in reply to Lady Bertram's calm inquiry of \"Where shall\nthe child come to first, sister, to you or to us?\" Sir Thomas heard with\nsome surprise that it would be totally out of Mrs. Norris's power to\ntake any share in the personal charge of her. He had been considering\nher as a particularly welcome addition at the Parsonage, as a desirable\ncompanion to an aunt who had no children of her own; but he found\nhimself wholly mistaken. Mrs. Norris was sorry to say that the little\ngirl's staying with them, at least as things then were, was quite out of\nthe question. Poor Mr. Norris's indifferent state of health made it an\nimpossibility: he could no more bear the noise of a child than he could\nfly; if, indeed, he should ever get well of his gouty complaints, it\nwould be a different matter: she should then be glad to take her turn,\nand think nothing of the inconvenience; but just now, poor Mr. Norris\ntook up every moment of her time, and the very mention of such a thing\nshe was sure would distract him.\n\n\"Then she had better come to us,\" said Lady Bertram, with the utmost\ncomposure. After a short pause Sir Thomas added with dignity, \"Yes, let\nher home be in this house. We will endeavour to do our duty by her, and\nshe will, at least, have the advantage of companions of her own age, and\nof a regular instructress.\"\n\n\"Very true,\" cried Mrs. Norris, \"which are both very important\nconsiderations; and it will be just the same to Miss Lee whether she has\nthree girls to teach, or only two--there can be no difference. I only\nwish I could be more useful; but you see I do all in my power. I am not\none of those that spare their own trouble; and Nanny shall fetch her,\nhowever it may put me to inconvenience to have my chief counsellor away\nfor three days. I suppose, sister, you will put the child in the little\nwhite attic, near the old nurseries. It will be much the best place\nfor her, so near Miss Lee, and not far from the girls, and close by the\nhousemaids, who could either of them help to dress her, you know, and\ntake care of her clothes, for I suppose you would not think it fair to\nexpect Ellis to wait on her as well as the others. Indeed, I do not see\nthat you could possibly place her anywhere else.\"\n\nLady Bertram made no opposition.\n\n\"I hope she will prove a well-disposed girl,\" continued Mrs. Norris,\n\"and be sensible of her uncommon good fortune in having such friends.\"\n\n\"Should her disposition be really bad,\" said Sir Thomas, \"we must not,\nfor our own children's sake, continue her in the family; but there is\nno reason to expect so great an evil. We shall probably see much to wish\naltered in her, and must prepare ourselves for gross ignorance, some\nmeanness of opinions, and very distressing vulgarity of manner; but\nthese are not incurable faults; nor, I trust, can they be dangerous for\nher associates. Had my daughters been _younger_ than herself, I should\nhave considered the introduction of such a companion as a matter of very\nserious moment; but, as it is, I hope there can be nothing to fear for\n_them_, and everything to hope for _her_, from the association.\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I think,\" cried Mrs. Norris, \"and what I was\nsaying to my husband this morning. It will be an education for the\nchild, said I, only being with her cousins; if Miss Lee taught her\nnothing, she would learn to be good and clever from _them_.\"\n\n\"I hope she will not tease my poor pug,\" said Lady Bertram; \"I have but\njust got Julia to leave it alone.\"\n\n\"There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs. Norris,\" observed Sir\nThomas, \"as to the distinction proper to be made between the girls\nas they grow up: how to preserve in the minds of my _daughters_ the\nconsciousness of what they are, without making them think too lowly of\ntheir cousin; and how, without depressing her spirits too far, to make\nher remember that she is not a _Miss Bertram_. I should wish to see them\nvery good friends, and would, on no account, authorise in my girls the\nsmallest degree of arrogance towards their relation; but still they\ncannot be equals. Their rank, fortune, rights, and expectations will\nalways be different. It is a point of great delicacy, and you must\nassist us in our endeavours to choose exactly the right line of\nconduct.\"\n\nMrs. Norris was quite at his service; and though she perfectly agreed\nwith him as to its being a most difficult thing, encouraged him to hope\nthat between them it would be easily managed.\n\nIt will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris did not write to her sister\nin vain. Mrs. Price seemed rather surprised that a girl should be\nfixed on, when she had so many fine boys, but accepted the offer most\nthankfully, assuring them of her daughter's being a very well-disposed,\ngood-humoured girl, and trusting they would never have cause to throw\nher off. She spoke of her farther as somewhat delicate and puny, but was\nsanguine in the hope of her being materially better for change of air.\nPoor woman! she probably thought change of air might agree with many of\nher children.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nThe little girl performed her long journey in safety; and at Northampton\nwas met by Mrs. Norris, who thus regaled in the credit of being foremost\nto welcome her, and in the importance of leading her in to the others,\nand recommending her to their kindness.\n\nFanny Price was at this time just ten years old, and though there might\nnot be much in her first appearance to captivate, there was, at least,\nnothing to disgust her relations. She was small of her age, with no glow\nof complexion, nor any other striking beauty; exceedingly timid and shy,\nand shrinking from notice; but her air, though awkward, was not vulgar,\nher voice was sweet, and when she spoke her countenance was pretty. Sir\nThomas and Lady Bertram received her very kindly; and Sir Thomas,\nseeing how much she needed encouragement, tried to be all that was\nconciliating: but he had to work against a most untoward gravity of\ndeportment; and Lady Bertram, without taking half so much trouble, or\nspeaking one word where he spoke ten, by the mere aid of a good-humoured\nsmile, became immediately the less awful character of the two.\n\nThe young people were all at home, and sustained their share in the\nintroduction very well, with much good humour, and no embarrassment, at\nleast on the part of the sons, who, at seventeen and sixteen, and tall\nof their age, had all the grandeur of men in the eyes of their little\ncousin. The two girls were more at a loss from being younger and in\ngreater awe of their father, who addressed them on the occasion with\nrather an injudicious particularity. But they were too much used to\ncompany and praise to have anything like natural shyness; and their\nconfidence increasing from their cousin's total want of it, they were\nsoon able to take a full survey of her face and her frock in easy\nindifference.\n\nThey were a remarkably fine family, the sons very well-looking, the\ndaughters decidedly handsome, and all of them well-grown and forward of\ntheir age, which produced as striking a difference between the cousins\nin person, as education had given to their address; and no one would\nhave supposed the girls so nearly of an age as they really were. There\nwere in fact but two years between the youngest and Fanny. Julia\nBertram was only twelve, and Maria but a year older. The little visitor\nmeanwhile was as unhappy as possible. Afraid of everybody, ashamed of\nherself, and longing for the home she had left, she knew not how to look\nup, and could scarcely speak to be heard, or without crying. Mrs. Norris\nhad been talking to her the whole way from Northampton of her wonderful\ngood fortune, and the extraordinary degree of gratitude and good\nbehaviour which it ought to produce, and her consciousness of misery was\ntherefore increased by the idea of its being a wicked thing for her\nnot to be happy. The fatigue, too, of so long a journey, became soon no\ntrifling evil. In vain were the well-meant condescensions of Sir Thomas,\nand all the officious prognostications of Mrs. Norris that she would be\na good girl; in vain did Lady Bertram smile and make her sit on the sofa\nwith herself and pug, and vain was even the sight of a gooseberry tart\ntowards giving her comfort; she could scarcely swallow two mouthfuls\nbefore tears interrupted her, and sleep seeming to be her likeliest\nfriend, she was taken to finish her sorrows in bed.\n\n\"This is not a very promising beginning,\" said Mrs. Norris, when Fanny\nhad left the room. \"After all that I said to her as we came along, I\nthought she would have behaved better; I told her how much might depend\nupon her acquitting herself well at first. I wish there may not be a\nlittle sulkiness of temper--her poor mother had a good deal; but we must\nmake allowances for such a child--and I do not know that her being sorry\nto leave her home is really against her, for, with all its faults,\nit _was_ her home, and she cannot as yet understand how much she has\nchanged for the better; but then there is moderation in all things.\"\n\nIt required a longer time, however, than Mrs. Norris was inclined to\nallow, to reconcile Fanny to the novelty of Mansfield Park, and the\nseparation from everybody she had been used to. Her feelings were very\nacute, and too little understood to be properly attended to. Nobody\nmeant to be unkind, but nobody put themselves out of their way to secure\nher comfort.\n\nThe holiday allowed to the Miss Bertrams the next day, on purpose to\nafford leisure for getting acquainted with, and entertaining their young\ncousin, produced little union. They could not but hold her cheap on\nfinding that she had but two sashes, and had never learned French; and\nwhen they perceived her to be little struck with the duet they were so\ngood as to play, they could do no more than make her a generous present\nof some of their least valued toys, and leave her to herself, while\nthey adjourned to whatever might be the favourite holiday sport of the\nmoment, making artificial flowers or wasting gold paper.\n\nFanny, whether near or from her cousins, whether in the schoolroom, the\ndrawing-room, or the shrubbery, was equally forlorn, finding something\nto fear in every person and place. She was disheartened by Lady\nBertram's silence, awed by Sir Thomas's grave looks, and quite overcome\nby Mrs. Norris's admonitions. Her elder cousins mortified her by\nreflections on her size, and abashed her by noticing her shyness: Miss\nLee wondered at her ignorance, and the maid-servants sneered at her\nclothes; and when to these sorrows was added the idea of the brothers\nand sisters among whom she had always been important as playfellow,\ninstructress, and nurse, the despondence that sunk her little heart was\nsevere.\n\nThe grandeur of the house astonished, but could not console her. The\nrooms were too large for her to move in with ease: whatever she touched\nshe expected to injure, and she crept about in constant terror of\nsomething or other; often retreating towards her own chamber to cry; and\nthe little girl who was spoken of in the drawing-room when she left it\nat night as seeming so desirably sensible of her peculiar good fortune,\nended every day's sorrows by sobbing herself to sleep. A week had\npassed in this way, and no suspicion of it conveyed by her quiet\npassive manner, when she was found one morning by her cousin Edmund, the\nyoungest of the sons, sitting crying on the attic stairs.\n\n\"My dear little cousin,\" said he, with all the gentleness of an\nexcellent nature, \"what can be the matter?\" And sitting down by her,\nhe was at great pains to overcome her shame in being so surprised, and\npersuade her to speak openly. Was she ill? or was anybody angry with\nher? or had she quarrelled with Maria and Julia? or was she puzzled\nabout anything in her lesson that he could explain? Did she, in short,\nwant anything he could possibly get her, or do for her? For a long while\nno answer could be obtained beyond a \"no, no--not at all--no, thank\nyou\"; but he still persevered; and no sooner had he begun to revert\nto her own home, than her increased sobs explained to him where the\ngrievance lay. He tried to console her.\n\n\"You are sorry to leave Mama, my dear little Fanny,\" said he, \"which\nshows you to be a very good girl; but you must remember that you are\nwith relations and friends, who all love you, and wish to make you\nhappy. Let us walk out in the park, and you shall tell me all about your\nbrothers and sisters.\"\n\nOn pursuing the subject, he found that, dear as all these brothers and\nsisters generally were, there was one among them who ran more in her\nthoughts than the rest. It was William whom she talked of most, and\nwanted most to see. William, the eldest, a year older than herself, her\nconstant companion and friend; her advocate with her mother (of whom\nhe was the darling) in every distress. \"William did not like she should\ncome away; he had told her he should miss her very much indeed.\" \"But\nWilliam will write to you, I dare say.\" \"Yes, he had promised he would,\nbut he had told _her_ to write first.\" \"And when shall you do it?\" She\nhung her head and answered hesitatingly, \"she did not know; she had not\nany paper.\"\n\n\"If that be all your difficulty, I will furnish you with paper and every\nother material, and you may write your letter whenever you choose. Would\nit make you happy to write to William?\"\n\n\"Yes, very.\"\n\n\"Then let it be done now. Come with me into the breakfast-room, we shall\nfind everything there, and be sure of having the room to ourselves.\"\n\n\"But, cousin, will it go to the post?\"\n\n\"Yes, depend upon me it shall: it shall go with the other letters; and,\nas your uncle will frank it, it will cost William nothing.\"\n\n\"My uncle!\" repeated Fanny, with a frightened look.\n\n\"Yes, when you have written the letter, I will take it to my father to\nfrank.\"\n\nFanny thought it a bold measure, but offered no further resistance; and\nthey went together into the breakfast-room, where Edmund prepared her\npaper, and ruled her lines with all the goodwill that her brother\ncould himself have felt, and probably with somewhat more exactness. He\ncontinued with her the whole time of her writing, to assist her with his\npenknife or his orthography, as either were wanted; and added to these\nattentions, which she felt very much, a kindness to her brother which\ndelighted her beyond all the rest. He wrote with his own hand his\nlove to his cousin William, and sent him half a guinea under the seal.\nFanny's feelings on the occasion were such as she believed herself\nincapable of expressing; but her countenance and a few artless words\nfully conveyed all their gratitude and delight, and her cousin began\nto find her an interesting object. He talked to her more, and, from all\nthat she said, was convinced of her having an affectionate heart, and\na strong desire of doing right; and he could perceive her to be farther\nentitled to attention by great sensibility of her situation, and great\ntimidity. He had never knowingly given her pain, but he now felt that\nshe required more positive kindness; and with that view endeavoured,\nin the first place, to lessen her fears of them all, and gave her\nespecially a great deal of good advice as to playing with Maria and\nJulia, and being as merry as possible.\n\nFrom this day Fanny grew more comfortable. She felt that she had a\nfriend, and the kindness of her cousin Edmund gave her better spirits\nwith everybody else. The place became less strange, and the people less\nformidable; and if there were some amongst them whom she could not cease\nto fear, she began at least to know their ways, and to catch the best\nmanner of conforming to them. The little rusticities and awkwardnesses\nwhich had at first made grievous inroads on the tranquillity of all,\nand not least of herself, necessarily wore away, and she was no longer\nmaterially afraid to appear before her uncle, nor did her aunt Norris's\nvoice make her start very much. To her cousins she became occasionally\nan acceptable companion. Though unworthy, from inferiority of age and\nstrength, to be their constant associate, their pleasures and schemes\nwere sometimes of a nature to make a third very useful, especially when\nthat third was of an obliging, yielding temper; and they could not but\nown, when their aunt inquired into her faults, or their brother Edmund\nurged her claims to their kindness, that \"Fanny was good-natured\nenough.\"\n\nEdmund was uniformly kind himself; and she had nothing worse to endure\non the part of Tom than that sort of merriment which a young man of\nseventeen will always think fair with a child of ten. He was just\nentering into life, full of spirits, and with all the liberal\ndispositions of an eldest son, who feels born only for expense and\nenjoyment. His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his\nsituation and rights: he made her some very pretty presents, and laughed\nat her.\n\nAs her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris\nthought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan; and it\nwas pretty soon decided between them that, though far from clever, she\nshowed a tractable disposition, and seemed likely to give them little\ntrouble. A mean opinion of her abilities was not confined to _them_.\nFanny could read, work, and write, but she had been taught nothing more;\nand as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which they had\nbeen long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and for the\nfirst two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh report of\nit into the drawing-room. \"Dear mama, only think, my cousin cannot\nput the map of Europe together--or my cousin cannot tell the principal\nrivers in Russia--or, she never heard of Asia Minor--or she does\nnot know the difference between water-colours and crayons!--How\nstrange!--Did you ever hear anything so stupid?\"\n\n\"My dear,\" their considerate aunt would reply, \"it is very bad, but\nyou must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as\nyourself.\"\n\n\"But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant!--Do you know, we asked her\nlast night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she\nshould cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle of\nWight, and she calls it _the_ _Island_, as if there were no other island\nin the world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if I had\nnot known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot remember\nthe time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the least\nnotion of yet. How long ago it is, aunt, since we used to repeat the\nchronological order of the kings of England, with the dates of their\naccession, and most of the principal events of their reigns!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" added the other; \"and of the Roman emperors as low as Severus;\nbesides a great deal of the heathen mythology, and all the metals,\nsemi-metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers.\"\n\n\"Very true indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with wonderful\nmemories, and your poor cousin has probably none at all. There is a\nvast deal of difference in memories, as well as in everything else,\nand therefore you must make allowance for your cousin, and pity her\ndeficiency. And remember that, if you are ever so forward and clever\nyourselves, you should always be modest; for, much as you know already,\nthere is a great deal more for you to learn.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen. But I must tell you another\nthing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid. Do you know, she says she does not\nwant to learn either music or drawing.\"\n\n\"To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great\nwant of genius and emulation. But, all things considered, I do not know\nwhether it is not as well that it should be so, for, though you know\n(owing to me) your papa and mama are so good as to bring her up with\nyou, it is not at all necessary that she should be as accomplished as\nyou are;--on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there should\nbe a difference.\"\n\nSuch were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted to form her nieces'\nminds; and it is not very wonderful that, with all their promising\ntalents and early information, they should be entirely deficient in the\nless common acquirements of self-knowledge, generosity and humility. In\neverything but disposition they were admirably taught. Sir Thomas did\nnot know what was wanting, because, though a truly anxious father, he\nwas not outwardly affectionate, and the reserve of his manner repressed\nall the flow of their spirits before him.\n\nTo the education of her daughters Lady Bertram paid not the smallest\nattention. She had not time for such cares. She was a woman who spent\nher days in sitting, nicely dressed, on a sofa, doing some long piece of\nneedlework, of little use and no beauty, thinking more of her pug than\nher children, but very indulgent to the latter when it did not put\nherself to inconvenience, guided in everything important by Sir Thomas,\nand in smaller concerns by her sister. Had she possessed greater leisure\nfor the service of her girls, she would probably have supposed it\nunnecessary, for they were under the care of a governess, with proper\nmasters, and could want nothing more. As for Fanny's being stupid at\nlearning, \"she could only say it was very unlucky, but some people\n_were_ stupid, and Fanny must take more pains: she did not know what\nelse was to be done; and, except her being so dull, she must add she saw\nno harm in the poor little thing, and always found her very handy and\nquick in carrying messages, and fetching what she wanted.\"\n\nFanny, with all her faults of ignorance and timidity, was fixed at\nMansfield Park, and learning to transfer in its favour much of her\nattachment to her former home, grew up there not unhappily among her\ncousins. There was no positive ill-nature in Maria or Julia; and though\nFanny was often mortified by their treatment of her, she thought too\nlowly of her own claims to feel injured by it.\n\nFrom about the time of her entering the family, Lady Bertram, in\nconsequence of a little ill-health, and a great deal of indolence, gave\nup the house in town, which she had been used to occupy every spring,\nand remained wholly in the country, leaving Sir Thomas to attend his\nduty in Parliament, with whatever increase or diminution of comfort\nmight arise from her absence. In the country, therefore, the Miss\nBertrams continued to exercise their memories, practise their duets,\nand grow tall and womanly: and their father saw them becoming in person,\nmanner, and accomplishments, everything that could satisfy his anxiety.\nHis eldest son was careless and extravagant, and had already given him\nmuch uneasiness; but his other children promised him nothing but good.\nHis daughters, he felt, while they retained the name of Bertram, must\nbe giving it new grace, and in quitting it, he trusted, would extend\nits respectable alliances; and the character of Edmund, his strong good\nsense and uprightness of mind, bid most fairly for utility, honour, and\nhappiness to himself and all his connexions. He was to be a clergyman.\n\nAmid the cares and the complacency which his own children suggested,\nSir Thomas did not forget to do what he could for the children of Mrs.\nPrice: he assisted her liberally in the education and disposal of her\nsons as they became old enough for a determinate pursuit; and Fanny,\nthough almost totally separated from her family, was sensible of the\ntruest satisfaction in hearing of any kindness towards them, or of\nanything at all promising in their situation or conduct. Once, and once\nonly, in the course of many years, had she the happiness of being with\nWilliam. Of the rest she saw nothing: nobody seemed to think of her ever\ngoing amongst them again, even for a visit, nobody at home seemed to\nwant her; but William determining, soon after her removal, to be a\nsailor, was invited to spend a week with his sister in Northamptonshire\nbefore he went to sea. Their eager affection in meeting, their exquisite\ndelight in being together, their hours of happy mirth, and moments of\nserious conference, may be imagined; as well as the sanguine views and\nspirits of the boy even to the last, and the misery of the girl when he\nleft her. Luckily the visit happened in the Christmas holidays, when she\ncould directly look for comfort to her cousin Edmund; and he told her\nsuch charming things of what William was to do, and be hereafter, in\nconsequence of his profession, as made her gradually admit that the\nseparation might have some use. Edmund's friendship never failed her:\nhis leaving Eton for Oxford made no change in his kind dispositions, and\nonly afforded more frequent opportunities of proving them. Without any\ndisplay of doing more than the rest, or any fear of doing too much,\nhe was always true to her interests, and considerate of her feelings,\ntrying to make her good qualities understood, and to conquer the\ndiffidence which prevented their being more apparent; giving her advice,\nconsolation, and encouragement.\n\nKept back as she was by everybody else, his single support could not\nbring her forward; but his attentions were otherwise of the highest\nimportance in assisting the improvement of her mind, and extending its\npleasures. He knew her to be clever, to have a quick apprehension\nas well as good sense, and a fondness for reading, which, properly\ndirected, must be an education in itself. Miss Lee taught her French,\nand heard her read the daily portion of history; but he recommended\nthe books which charmed her leisure hours, he encouraged her taste, and\ncorrected her judgment: he made reading useful by talking to her of what\nshe read, and heightened its attraction by judicious praise. In return\nfor such services she loved him better than anybody in the world except\nWilliam: her heart was divided between the two.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nThe first event of any importance in the family was the death of Mr.\nNorris, which happened when Fanny was about fifteen, and necessarily\nintroduced alterations and novelties. Mrs. Norris, on quitting the\nParsonage, removed first to the Park, and afterwards to a small house\nof Sir Thomas's in the village, and consoled herself for the loss of her\nhusband by considering that she could do very well without him; and for\nher reduction of income by the evident necessity of stricter economy.\n\nThe living was hereafter for Edmund; and, had his uncle died a few years\nsooner, it would have been duly given to some friend to hold till he\nwere old enough for orders. But Tom's extravagance had, previous to\nthat event, been so great as to render a different disposal of the next\npresentation necessary, and the younger brother must help to pay for the\npleasures of the elder. There was another family living actually held\nfor Edmund; but though this circumstance had made the arrangement\nsomewhat easier to Sir Thomas's conscience, he could not but feel it to\nbe an act of injustice, and he earnestly tried to impress his eldest son\nwith the same conviction, in the hope of its producing a better effect\nthan anything he had yet been able to say or do.\n\n\"I blush for you, Tom,\" said he, in his most dignified manner; \"I blush\nfor the expedient which I am driven on, and I trust I may pity your\nfeelings as a brother on the occasion. You have robbed Edmund for ten,\ntwenty, thirty years, perhaps for life, of more than half the income\nwhich ought to be his. It may hereafter be in my power, or in yours\n(I hope it will), to procure him better preferment; but it must not\nbe forgotten that no benefit of that sort would have been beyond his\nnatural claims on us, and that nothing can, in fact, be an equivalent\nfor the certain advantage which he is now obliged to forego through the\nurgency of your debts.\"\n\nTom listened with some shame and some sorrow; but escaping as quickly as\npossible, could soon with cheerful selfishness reflect, firstly, that he\nhad not been half so much in debt as some of his friends; secondly, that\nhis father had made a most tiresome piece of work of it; and,\nthirdly, that the future incumbent, whoever he might be, would, in all\nprobability, die very soon.\n\nOn Mr. Norris's death the presentation became the right of a Dr. Grant,\nwho came consequently to reside at Mansfield; and on proving to be a\nhearty man of forty-five, seemed likely to disappoint Mr. Bertram's\ncalculations. But \"no, he was a short-necked, apoplectic sort of fellow,\nand, plied well with good things, would soon pop off.\"\n\nHe had a wife about fifteen years his junior, but no children; and\nthey entered the neighbourhood with the usual fair report of being very\nrespectable, agreeable people.\n\nThe time was now come when Sir Thomas expected his sister-in-law to\nclaim her share in their niece, the change in Mrs. Norris's situation,\nand the improvement in Fanny's age, seeming not merely to do away any\nformer objection to their living together, but even to give it the most\ndecided eligibility; and as his own circumstances were rendered less\nfair than heretofore, by some recent losses on his West India estate, in\naddition to his eldest son's extravagance, it became not undesirable\nto himself to be relieved from the expense of her support, and the\nobligation of her future provision. In the fullness of his belief that\nsuch a thing must be, he mentioned its probability to his wife; and the\nfirst time of the subject's occurring to her again happening to be when\nFanny was present, she calmly observed to her, \"So, Fanny, you are going\nto leave us, and live with my sister. How shall you like it?\"\n\nFanny was too much surprised to do more than repeat her aunt's words,\n\"Going to leave you?\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished? You have been five years\nwith us, and my sister always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died.\nBut you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same.\"\n\nThe news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She had\nnever received kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love her.\n\n\"I shall be very sorry to go away,\" said she, with a faltering voice.\n\n\"Yes, I dare say you will; _that's_ natural enough. I suppose you have\nhad as little to vex you since you came into this house as any creature\nin the world.\"\n\n\"I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt,\" said Fanny modestly.\n\n\"No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good girl.\"\n\n\"And am I never to live here again?\"\n\n\"Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make\nvery little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the\nother.\"\n\nFanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the\ndifference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt\nwith anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she told\nhim her distress.\n\n\"Cousin,\" said she, \"something is going to happen which I do not like\nat all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to\nthings that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I am\ngoing to live entirely with my aunt Norris.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\"\n\n\"Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to\nleave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as\nshe is removed there.\"\n\n\"Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call\nit an excellent one.\"\n\n\"Oh, cousin!\"\n\n\"It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a sensible\nwoman in wishing for you. She is choosing a friend and companion exactly\nwhere she ought, and I am glad her love of money does not interfere.\nYou will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does not distress you\nvery much, Fanny?\"\n\n\"Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and everything in\nit: I shall love nothing there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with\nher.\"\n\n\"I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child; but it was the\nsame with us all, or nearly so. She never knew how to be pleasant to\nchildren. But you are now of an age to be treated better; I think she is\nbehaving better already; and when you are her only companion, you _must_\nbe important to her.\"\n\n\"I can never be important to any one.\"\n\n\"What is to prevent you?\"\n\n\"Everything. My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness.\"\n\n\"As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you\nnever have a shadow of either, but in using the words so improperly.\nThere is no reason in the world why you should not be important where\nyou are known. You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure\nyou have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness without\nwishing to return it. I do not know any better qualifications for a\nfriend and companion.\"\n\n\"You are too kind,\" said Fanny, colouring at such praise; \"how shall I\never thank you as I ought, for thinking so well of me. Oh! cousin, if I\nam to go away, I shall remember your goodness to the last moment of my\nlife.\"\n\n\"Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at such a distance\nas the White House. You speak as if you were going two hundred miles\noff instead of only across the park; but you will belong to us almost\nas much as ever. The two families will be meeting every day in the\nyear. The only difference will be that, living with your aunt, you will\nnecessarily be brought forward as you ought to be. _Here_ there are\ntoo many whom you can hide behind; but with _her_ you will be forced to\nspeak for yourself.\"\n\n\"Oh! I do not say so.\"\n\n\"I must say it, and say it with pleasure. Mrs. Norris is much better\nfitted than my mother for having the charge of you now. She is of a\ntemper to do a great deal for anybody she really interests herself\nabout, and she will force you to do justice to your natural powers.\"\n\nFanny sighed, and said, \"I cannot see things as you do; but I ought to\nbelieve you to be right rather than myself, and I am very much obliged\nto you for trying to reconcile me to what must be. If I could suppose\nmy aunt really to care for me, it would be delightful to feel myself of\nconsequence to anybody. _Here_, I know, I am of none, and yet I love the\nplace so well.\"\n\n\"The place, Fanny, is what you will not quit, though you quit the house.\nYou will have as free a command of the park and gardens as ever. Even\n_your_ constant little heart need not take fright at such a nominal\nchange. You will have the same walks to frequent, the same library to\nchoose from, the same people to look at, the same horse to ride.\"\n\n\"Very true. Yes, dear old grey pony! Ah! cousin, when I remember how\nmuch I used to dread riding, what terrors it gave me to hear it talked\nof as likely to do me good (oh! how I have trembled at my uncle's\nopening his lips if horses were talked of), and then think of the kind\npains you took to reason and persuade me out of my fears, and convince\nme that I should like it after a little while, and feel how right you\nproved to be, I am inclined to hope you may always prophesy as well.\"\n\n\"And I am quite convinced that your being with Mrs. Norris will be as\ngood for your mind as riding has been for your health, and as much for\nyour ultimate happiness too.\"\n\nSo ended their discourse, which, for any very appropriate service it\ncould render Fanny, might as well have been spared, for Mrs. Norris had\nnot the smallest intention of taking her. It had never occurred to her,\non the present occasion, but as a thing to be carefully avoided. To\nprevent its being expected, she had fixed on the smallest habitation\nwhich could rank as genteel among the buildings of Mansfield parish,\nthe White House being only just large enough to receive herself and her\nservants, and allow a spare room for a friend, of which she made a\nvery particular point. The spare rooms at the Parsonage had never been\nwanted, but the absolute necessity of a spare room for a friend was now\nnever forgotten. Not all her precautions, however, could save her from\nbeing suspected of something better; or, perhaps, her very display of\nthe importance of a spare room might have misled Sir Thomas to suppose\nit really intended for Fanny. Lady Bertram soon brought the matter to a\ncertainty by carelessly observing to Mrs. Norris--\n\n\"I think, sister, we need not keep Miss Lee any longer, when Fanny goes\nto live with you.\"\n\nMrs. Norris almost started. \"Live with me, dear Lady Bertram! what do\nyou mean?\"\n\n\"Is she not to live with you? I thought you had settled it with Sir\nThomas.\"\n\n\"Me! never. I never spoke a syllable about it to Sir Thomas, nor he to\nme. Fanny live with me! the last thing in the world for me to think\nof, or for anybody to wish that really knows us both. Good heaven! what\ncould I do with Fanny? Me! a poor, helpless, forlorn widow, unfit for\nanything, my spirits quite broke down; what could I do with a girl at\nher time of life? A girl of fifteen! the very age of all others to need\nmost attention and care, and put the cheerfullest spirits to the test!\nSure Sir Thomas could not seriously expect such a thing! Sir Thomas is\ntoo much my friend. Nobody that wishes me well, I am sure, would propose\nit. How came Sir Thomas to speak to you about it?\"\n\n\"Indeed, I do not know. I suppose he thought it best.\"\n\n\"But what did he say? He could not say he _wished_ me to take Fanny. I\nam sure in his heart he could not wish me to do it.\"\n\n\"No; he only said he thought it very likely; and I thought so too. We\nboth thought it would be a comfort to you. But if you do not like it,\nthere is no more to be said. She is no encumbrance here.\"\n\n\"Dear sister, if you consider my unhappy state, how can she be any\ncomfort to me? Here am I, a poor desolate widow, deprived of the best of\nhusbands, my health gone in attending and nursing him, my spirits still\nworse, all my peace in this world destroyed, with hardly enough to\nsupport me in the rank of a gentlewoman, and enable me to live so as not\nto disgrace the memory of the dear departed--what possible comfort could\nI have in taking such a charge upon me as Fanny? If I could wish it for\nmy own sake, I would not do so unjust a thing by the poor girl. She\nis in good hands, and sure of doing well. I must struggle through my\nsorrows and difficulties as I can.\"\n\n\"Then you will not mind living by yourself quite alone?\"\n\n\"Lady Bertram, I do not complain. I know I cannot live as I have done,\nbut I must retrench where I can, and learn to be a better manager. I\n_have_ _been_ a liberal housekeeper enough, but I shall not be ashamed\nto practise economy now. My situation is as much altered as my income.\nA great many things were due from poor Mr. Norris, as clergyman of the\nparish, that cannot be expected from me. It is unknown how much was\nconsumed in our kitchen by odd comers and goers. At the White House,\nmatters must be better looked after. I _must_ live within my income, or\nI shall be miserable; and I own it would give me great satisfaction to\nbe able to do rather more, to lay by a little at the end of the year.\"\n\n\"I dare say you will. You always do, don't you?\"\n\n\"My object, Lady Bertram, is to be of use to those that come after me.\nIt is for your children's good that I wish to be richer. I have nobody\nelse to care for, but I should be very glad to think I could leave a\nlittle trifle among them worth their having.\"\n\n\"You are very good, but do not trouble yourself about them. They are\nsure of being well provided for. Sir Thomas will take care of that.\"\n\n\"Why, you know, Sir Thomas's means will be rather straitened if the\nAntigua estate is to make such poor returns.\"\n\n\"Oh! _that_ will soon be settled. Sir Thomas has been writing about it,\nI know.\"\n\n\"Well, Lady Bertram,\" said Mrs. Norris, moving to go, \"I can only say\nthat my sole desire is to be of use to your family: and so, if Sir\nThomas should ever speak again about my taking Fanny, you will be able\nto say that my health and spirits put it quite out of the question;\nbesides that, I really should not have a bed to give her, for I must\nkeep a spare room for a friend.\"\n\nLady Bertram repeated enough of this conversation to her husband to\nconvince him how much he had mistaken his sister-in-law's views; and\nshe was from that moment perfectly safe from all expectation, or the\nslightest allusion to it from him. He could not but wonder at her\nrefusing to do anything for a niece whom she had been so forward to\nadopt; but, as she took early care to make him, as well as Lady Bertram,\nunderstand that whatever she possessed was designed for their family,\nhe soon grew reconciled to a distinction which, at the same time that it\nwas advantageous and complimentary to them, would enable him better to\nprovide for Fanny himself.\n\nFanny soon learnt how unnecessary had been her fears of a removal;\nand her spontaneous, untaught felicity on the discovery, conveyed some\nconsolation to Edmund for his disappointment in what he had expected to\nbe so essentially serviceable to her. Mrs. Norris took possession of the\nWhite House, the Grants arrived at the Parsonage, and these events over,\neverything at Mansfield went on for some time as usual.\n\nThe Grants showing a disposition to be friendly and sociable, gave great\nsatisfaction in the main among their new acquaintance. They had their\nfaults, and Mrs. Norris soon found them out. The Doctor was very fond of\neating, and would have a good dinner every day; and Mrs. Grant, instead\nof contriving to gratify him at little expense, gave her cook as high\nwages as they did at Mansfield Park, and was scarcely ever seen in her\noffices. Mrs. Norris could not speak with any temper of such grievances,\nnor of the quantity of butter and eggs that were regularly consumed\nin the house. \"Nobody loved plenty and hospitality more than herself;\nnobody more hated pitiful doings; the Parsonage, she believed, had never\nbeen wanting in comforts of any sort, had never borne a bad character\nin _her_ _time_, but this was a way of going on that she could not\nunderstand. A fine lady in a country parsonage was quite out of place.\n_Her_ store-room, she thought, might have been good enough for Mrs.\nGrant to go into. Inquire where she would, she could not find out that\nMrs. Grant had ever had more than five thousand pounds.\"\n\nLady Bertram listened without much interest to this sort of invective.\nShe could not enter into the wrongs of an economist, but she felt all\nthe injuries of beauty in Mrs. Grant's being so well settled in life\nwithout being handsome, and expressed her astonishment on that point\nalmost as often, though not so diffusely, as Mrs. Norris discussed the\nother.\n\nThese opinions had been hardly canvassed a year before another event\narose of such importance in the family, as might fairly claim some place\nin the thoughts and conversation of the ladies. Sir Thomas found it\nexpedient to go to Antigua himself, for the better arrangement of his\naffairs, and he took his eldest son with him, in the hope of detaching\nhim from some bad connexions at home. They left England with the\nprobability of being nearly a twelvemonth absent.\n\nThe necessity of the measure in a pecuniary light, and the hope of its\nutility to his son, reconciled Sir Thomas to the effort of quitting the\nrest of his family, and of leaving his daughters to the direction of\nothers at their present most interesting time of life. He could not\nthink Lady Bertram quite equal to supply his place with them, or rather,\nto perform what should have been her own; but, in Mrs. Norris's watchful\nattention, and in Edmund's judgment, he had sufficient confidence to\nmake him go without fears for their conduct.\n\nLady Bertram did not at all like to have her husband leave her; but she\nwas not disturbed by any alarm for his safety, or solicitude for his\ncomfort, being one of those persons who think nothing can be dangerous,\nor difficult, or fatiguing to anybody but themselves.\n\nThe Miss Bertrams were much to be pitied on the occasion: not for their\nsorrow, but for their want of it. Their father was no object of love to\nthem; he had never seemed the friend of their pleasures, and his absence\nwas unhappily most welcome. They were relieved by it from all restraint;\nand without aiming at one gratification that would probably have been\nforbidden by Sir Thomas, they felt themselves immediately at their\nown disposal, and to have every indulgence within their reach. Fanny's\nrelief, and her consciousness of it, were quite equal to her cousins';\nbut a more tender nature suggested that her feelings were ungrateful,\nand she really grieved because she could not grieve. \"Sir Thomas, who\nhad done so much for her and her brothers, and who was gone perhaps\nnever to return! that she should see him go without a tear! it was a\nshameful insensibility.\" He had said to her, moreover, on the very last\nmorning, that he hoped she might see William again in the course of the\nensuing winter, and had charged her to write and invite him to Mansfield\nas soon as the squadron to which he belonged should be known to be\nin England. \"This was so thoughtful and kind!\" and would he only have\nsmiled upon her, and called her \"my dear Fanny,\" while he said it, every\nformer frown or cold address might have been forgotten. But he had ended\nhis speech in a way to sink her in sad mortification, by adding, \"If\nWilliam does come to Mansfield, I hope you may be able to convince him\nthat the many years which have passed since you parted have not been\nspent on your side entirely without improvement; though, I fear, he must\nfind his sister at sixteen in some respects too much like his sister at\nten.\" She cried bitterly over this reflection when her uncle was\ngone; and her cousins, on seeing her with red eyes, set her down as a\nhypocrite.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nTom Bertram had of late spent so little of his time at home that he\ncould be only nominally missed; and Lady Bertram was soon astonished\nto find how very well they did even without his father, how well Edmund\ncould supply his place in carving, talking to the steward, writing to\nthe attorney, settling with the servants, and equally saving her\nfrom all possible fatigue or exertion in every particular but that of\ndirecting her letters.\n\nThe earliest intelligence of the travellers' safe arrival at Antigua,\nafter a favourable voyage, was received; though not before Mrs. Norris\nhad been indulging in very dreadful fears, and trying to make Edmund\nparticipate them whenever she could get him alone; and as she depended\non being the first person made acquainted with any fatal catastrophe,\nshe had already arranged the manner of breaking it to all the others,\nwhen Sir Thomas's assurances of their both being alive and well made it\nnecessary to lay by her agitation and affectionate preparatory speeches\nfor a while.\n\nThe winter came and passed without their being called for; the accounts\ncontinued perfectly good; and Mrs. Norris, in promoting gaieties for her\nnieces, assisting their toilets, displaying their accomplishments,\nand looking about for their future husbands, had so much to do as, in\naddition to all her own household cares, some interference in those of\nher sister, and Mrs. Grant's wasteful doings to overlook, left her very\nlittle occasion to be occupied in fears for the absent.\n\nThe Miss Bertrams were now fully established among the belles of the\nneighbourhood; and as they joined to beauty and brilliant acquirements\na manner naturally easy, and carefully formed to general civility and\nobligingness, they possessed its favour as well as its admiration. Their\nvanity was in such good order that they seemed to be quite free from it,\nand gave themselves no airs; while the praises attending such behaviour,\nsecured and brought round by their aunt, served to strengthen them in\nbelieving they had no faults.\n\nLady Bertram did not go into public with her daughters. She was too\nindolent even to accept a mother's gratification in witnessing their\nsuccess and enjoyment at the expense of any personal trouble, and the\ncharge was made over to her sister, who desired nothing better than a\npost of such honourable representation, and very thoroughly relished\nthe means it afforded her of mixing in society without having horses to\nhire.\n\nFanny had no share in the festivities of the season; but she enjoyed\nbeing avowedly useful as her aunt's companion when they called away the\nrest of the family; and, as Miss Lee had left Mansfield, she naturally\nbecame everything to Lady Bertram during the night of a ball or a party.\nShe talked to her, listened to her, read to her; and the tranquillity\nof such evenings, her perfect security in such a _tete-a-tete_ from any\nsound of unkindness, was unspeakably welcome to a mind which had seldom\nknown a pause in its alarms or embarrassments. As to her cousins'\ngaieties, she loved to hear an account of them, especially of the\nballs, and whom Edmund had danced with; but thought too lowly of her\nown situation to imagine she should ever be admitted to the same, and\nlistened, therefore, without an idea of any nearer concern in them. Upon\nthe whole, it was a comfortable winter to her; for though it brought\nno William to England, the never-failing hope of his arrival was worth\nmuch.\n\nThe ensuing spring deprived her of her valued friend, the old grey pony;\nand for some time she was in danger of feeling the loss in her health as\nwell as in her affections; for in spite of the acknowledged importance\nof her riding on horse-back, no measures were taken for mounting her\nagain, \"because,\" as it was observed by her aunts, \"she might ride one\nof her cousin's horses at any time when they did not want them,\" and as\nthe Miss Bertrams regularly wanted their horses every fine day, and had\nno idea of carrying their obliging manners to the sacrifice of any real\npleasure, that time, of course, never came. They took their cheerful\nrides in the fine mornings of April and May; and Fanny either sat at\nhome the whole day with one aunt, or walked beyond her strength at\nthe instigation of the other: Lady Bertram holding exercise to be as\nunnecessary for everybody as it was unpleasant to herself; and Mrs.\nNorris, who was walking all day, thinking everybody ought to walk\nas much. Edmund was absent at this time, or the evil would have\nbeen earlier remedied. When he returned, to understand how Fanny was\nsituated, and perceived its ill effects, there seemed with him but one\nthing to be done; and that \"Fanny must have a horse\" was the resolute\ndeclaration with which he opposed whatever could be urged by the\nsupineness of his mother, or the economy of his aunt, to make it appear\nunimportant. Mrs. Norris could not help thinking that some steady old\nthing might be found among the numbers belonging to the Park that would\ndo vastly well; or that one might be borrowed of the steward; or that\nperhaps Dr. Grant might now and then lend them the pony he sent to the\npost. She could not but consider it as absolutely unnecessary, and even\nimproper, that Fanny should have a regular lady's horse of her own, in\nthe style of her cousins. She was sure Sir Thomas had never intended it:\nand she must say that, to be making such a purchase in his absence, and\nadding to the great expenses of his stable, at a time when a large part\nof his income was unsettled, seemed to her very unjustifiable. \"Fanny\nmust have a horse,\" was Edmund's only reply. Mrs. Norris could not see\nit in the same light. Lady Bertram did: she entirely agreed with her son\nas to the necessity of it, and as to its being considered necessary by\nhis father; she only pleaded against there being any hurry; she only\nwanted him to wait till Sir Thomas's return, and then Sir Thomas might\nsettle it all himself. He would be at home in September, and where would\nbe the harm of only waiting till September?\n\nThough Edmund was much more displeased with his aunt than with his\nmother, as evincing least regard for her niece, he could not help paying\nmore attention to what she said; and at length determined on a method of\nproceeding which would obviate the risk of his father's thinking he\nhad done too much, and at the same time procure for Fanny the immediate\nmeans of exercise, which he could not bear she should be without. He had\nthree horses of his own, but not one that would carry a woman. Two\nof them were hunters; the third, a useful road-horse: this third he\nresolved to exchange for one that his cousin might ride; he knew where\nsuch a one was to be met with; and having once made up his mind, the\nwhole business was soon completed. The new mare proved a treasure; with\na very little trouble she became exactly calculated for the purpose,\nand Fanny was then put in almost full possession of her. She had not\nsupposed before that anything could ever suit her like the old grey\npony; but her delight in Edmund's mare was far beyond any former\npleasure of the sort; and the addition it was ever receiving in the\nconsideration of that kindness from which her pleasure sprung, was\nbeyond all her words to express. She regarded her cousin as an example\nof everything good and great, as possessing worth which no one but\nherself could ever appreciate, and as entitled to such gratitude from\nher as no feelings could be strong enough to pay. Her sentiments towards\nhim were compounded of all that was respectful, grateful, confiding, and\ntender.\n\nAs the horse continued in name, as well as fact, the property of Edmund,\nMrs. Norris could tolerate its being for Fanny's use; and had Lady\nBertram ever thought about her own objection again, he might have\nbeen excused in her eyes for not waiting till Sir Thomas's return in\nSeptember, for when September came Sir Thomas was still abroad, and\nwithout any near prospect of finishing his business. Unfavourable\ncircumstances had suddenly arisen at a moment when he was beginning to\nturn all his thoughts towards England; and the very great uncertainty\nin which everything was then involved determined him on sending home his\nson, and waiting the final arrangement by himself. Tom arrived safely,\nbringing an excellent account of his father's health; but to very little\npurpose, as far as Mrs. Norris was concerned. Sir Thomas's sending away\nhis son seemed to her so like a parent's care, under the influence of a\nforeboding of evil to himself, that she could not help feeling dreadful\npresentiments; and as the long evenings of autumn came on, was so\nterribly haunted by these ideas, in the sad solitariness of her cottage,\nas to be obliged to take daily refuge in the dining-room of the Park.\nThe return of winter engagements, however, was not without its effect;\nand in the course of their progress, her mind became so pleasantly\noccupied in superintending the fortunes of her eldest niece, as\ntolerably to quiet her nerves. \"If poor Sir Thomas were fated never to\nreturn, it would be peculiarly consoling to see their dear Maria well\nmarried,\" she very often thought; always when they were in the company\nof men of fortune, and particularly on the introduction of a young man\nwho had recently succeeded to one of the largest estates and finest\nplaces in the country.\n\nMr. Rushworth was from the first struck with the beauty of Miss Bertram,\nand, being inclined to marry, soon fancied himself in love. He was\na heavy young man, with not more than common sense; but as there was\nnothing disagreeable in his figure or address, the young lady was well\npleased with her conquest. Being now in her twenty-first year, Maria\nBertram was beginning to think matrimony a duty; and as a marriage with\nMr. Rushworth would give her the enjoyment of a larger income than her\nfather's, as well as ensure her the house in town, which was now a prime\nobject, it became, by the same rule of moral obligation, her evident\nduty to marry Mr. Rushworth if she could. Mrs. Norris was most zealous\nin promoting the match, by every suggestion and contrivance likely to\nenhance its desirableness to either party; and, among other means, by\nseeking an intimacy with the gentleman's mother, who at present lived\nwith him, and to whom she even forced Lady Bertram to go through ten\nmiles of indifferent road to pay a morning visit. It was not long before\na good understanding took place between this lady and herself. Mrs.\nRushworth acknowledged herself very desirous that her son should marry,\nand declared that of all the young ladies she had ever seen, Miss\nBertram seemed, by her amiable qualities and accomplishments, the best\nadapted to make him happy. Mrs. Norris accepted the compliment,\nand admired the nice discernment of character which could so well\ndistinguish merit. Maria was indeed the pride and delight of them\nall--perfectly faultless--an angel; and, of course, so surrounded by\nadmirers, must be difficult in her choice: but yet, as far as Mrs.\nNorris could allow herself to decide on so short an acquaintance, Mr.\nRushworth appeared precisely the young man to deserve and attach her.\n\nAfter dancing with each other at a proper number of balls, the young\npeople justified these opinions, and an engagement, with a due reference\nto the absent Sir Thomas, was entered into, much to the satisfaction\nof their respective families, and of the general lookers-on of the\nneighbourhood, who had, for many weeks past, felt the expediency of Mr.\nRushworth's marrying Miss Bertram.\n\nIt was some months before Sir Thomas's consent could be received; but,\nin the meanwhile, as no one felt a doubt of his most cordial pleasure\nin the connexion, the intercourse of the two families was carried\non without restraint, and no other attempt made at secrecy than Mrs.\nNorris's talking of it everywhere as a matter not to be talked of at\npresent.\n\nEdmund was the only one of the family who could see a fault in the\nbusiness; but no representation of his aunt's could induce him to find\nMr. Rushworth a desirable companion. He could allow his sister to be\nthe best judge of her own happiness, but he was not pleased that her\nhappiness should centre in a large income; nor could he refrain from\noften saying to himself, in Mr. Rushworth's company--\"If this man had\nnot twelve thousand a year, he would be a very stupid fellow.\"\n\nSir Thomas, however, was truly happy in the prospect of an alliance\nso unquestionably advantageous, and of which he heard nothing but the\nperfectly good and agreeable. It was a connexion exactly of the right\nsort--in the same county, and the same interest--and his most hearty\nconcurrence was conveyed as soon as possible. He only conditioned that\nthe marriage should not take place before his return, which he was again\nlooking eagerly forward to. He wrote in April, and had strong hopes\nof settling everything to his entire satisfaction, and leaving Antigua\nbefore the end of the summer.\n\nSuch was the state of affairs in the month of July; and Fanny had just\nreached her eighteenth year, when the society of the village received\nan addition in the brother and sister of Mrs. Grant, a Mr. and Miss\nCrawford, the children of her mother by a second marriage. They were\nyoung people of fortune. The son had a good estate in Norfolk, the\ndaughter twenty thousand pounds. As children, their sister had been\nalways very fond of them; but, as her own marriage had been soon\nfollowed by the death of their common parent, which left them to the\ncare of a brother of their father, of whom Mrs. Grant knew nothing, she\nhad scarcely seen them since. In their uncle's house they had found a\nkind home. Admiral and Mrs. Crawford, though agreeing in nothing else,\nwere united in affection for these children, or, at least, were no\nfarther adverse in their feelings than that each had their favourite, to\nwhom they showed the greatest fondness of the two. The Admiral delighted\nin the boy, Mrs. Crawford doted on the girl; and it was the lady's death\nwhich now obliged her _protegee_, after some months' further trial at\nher uncle's house, to find another home. Admiral Crawford was a man of\nvicious conduct, who chose, instead of retaining his niece, to bring his\nmistress under his own roof; and to this Mrs. Grant was indebted for her\nsister's proposal of coming to her, a measure quite as welcome on one\nside as it could be expedient on the other; for Mrs. Grant, having by\nthis time run through the usual resources of ladies residing in the\ncountry without a family of children--having more than filled her\nfavourite sitting-room with pretty furniture, and made a choice\ncollection of plants and poultry--was very much in want of some variety\nat home. The arrival, therefore, of a sister whom she had always loved,\nand now hoped to retain with her as long as she remained single, was\nhighly agreeable; and her chief anxiety was lest Mansfield should not\nsatisfy the habits of a young woman who had been mostly used to London.\n\nMiss Crawford was not entirely free from similar apprehensions, though\nthey arose principally from doubts of her sister's style of living and\ntone of society; and it was not till after she had tried in vain to\npersuade her brother to settle with her at his own country house,\nthat she could resolve to hazard herself among her other relations. To\nanything like a permanence of abode, or limitation of society, Henry\nCrawford had, unluckily, a great dislike: he could not accommodate his\nsister in an article of such importance; but he escorted her, with the\nutmost kindness, into Northamptonshire, and as readily engaged to fetch\nher away again, at half an hour's notice, whenever she were weary of the\nplace.\n\nThe meeting was very satisfactory on each side. Miss Crawford found a\nsister without preciseness or rusticity, a sister's husband who looked\nthe gentleman, and a house commodious and well fitted up; and Mrs. Grant\nreceived in those whom she hoped to love better than ever a young man\nand woman of very prepossessing appearance. Mary Crawford was remarkably\npretty; Henry, though not handsome, had air and countenance; the manners\nof both were lively and pleasant, and Mrs. Grant immediately gave them\ncredit for everything else. She was delighted with each, but Mary was\nher dearest object; and having never been able to glory in beauty of her\nown, she thoroughly enjoyed the power of being proud of her sister's.\nShe had not waited her arrival to look out for a suitable match for her:\nshe had fixed on Tom Bertram; the eldest son of a baronet was not too\ngood for a girl of twenty thousand pounds, with all the elegance\nand accomplishments which Mrs. Grant foresaw in her; and being a\nwarm-hearted, unreserved woman, Mary had not been three hours in the\nhouse before she told her what she had planned.\n\nMiss Crawford was glad to find a family of such consequence so very near\nthem, and not at all displeased either at her sister's early care, or\nthe choice it had fallen on. Matrimony was her object, provided she\ncould marry well: and having seen Mr. Bertram in town, she knew that\nobjection could no more be made to his person than to his situation in\nlife. While she treated it as a joke, therefore, she did not forget to\nthink of it seriously. The scheme was soon repeated to Henry.\n\n\"And now,\" added Mrs. Grant, \"I have thought of something to make it\ncomplete. I should dearly love to settle you both in this country; and\ntherefore, Henry, you shall marry the youngest Miss Bertram, a nice,\nhandsome, good-humoured, accomplished girl, who will make you very\nhappy.\"\n\nHenry bowed and thanked her.\n\n\"My dear sister,\" said Mary, \"if you can persuade him into anything\nof the sort, it will be a fresh matter of delight to me to find myself\nallied to anybody so clever, and I shall only regret that you have\nnot half a dozen daughters to dispose of. If you can persuade Henry\nto marry, you must have the address of a Frenchwoman. All that English\nabilities can do has been tried already. I have three very particular\nfriends who have been all dying for him in their turn; and the pains\nwhich they, their mothers (very clever women), as well as my dear aunt\nand myself, have taken to reason, coax, or trick him into marrying, is\ninconceivable! He is the most horrible flirt that can be imagined. If\nyour Miss Bertrams do not like to have their hearts broke, let them\navoid Henry.\"\n\n\"My dear brother, I will not believe this of you.\"\n\n\"No, I am sure you are too good. You will be kinder than Mary. You\nwill allow for the doubts of youth and inexperience. I am of a cautious\ntemper, and unwilling to risk my happiness in a hurry. Nobody can\nthink more highly of the matrimonial state than myself. I consider the\nblessing of a wife as most justly described in those discreet lines of\nthe poet--'Heaven's _last_ best gift.'\"\n\n\"There, Mrs. Grant, you see how he dwells on one word, and only look\nat his smile. I assure you he is very detestable; the Admiral's lessons\nhave quite spoiled him.\"\n\n\"I pay very little regard,\" said Mrs. Grant, \"to what any young person\nsays on the subject of marriage. If they profess a disinclination for\nit, I only set it down that they have not yet seen the right person.\"\n\nDr. Grant laughingly congratulated Miss Crawford on feeling no\ndisinclination to the state herself.\n\n\"Oh yes! I am not at all ashamed of it. I would have everybody marry if\nthey can do it properly: I do not like to have people throw themselves\naway; but everybody should marry as soon as they can do it to\nadvantage.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nThe young people were pleased with each other from the first. On each\nside there was much to attract, and their acquaintance soon promised as\nearly an intimacy as good manners would warrant. Miss Crawford's beauty\ndid her no disservice with the Miss Bertrams. They were too handsome\nthemselves to dislike any woman for being so too, and were almost as\nmuch charmed as their brothers with her lively dark eye, clear brown\ncomplexion, and general prettiness. Had she been tall, full formed, and\nfair, it might have been more of a trial: but as it was, there could be\nno comparison; and she was most allowably a sweet, pretty girl, while\nthey were the finest young women in the country.\n\nHer brother was not handsome: no, when they first saw him he was\nabsolutely plain, black and plain; but still he was the gentleman, with\na pleasing address. The second meeting proved him not so very plain:\nhe was plain, to be sure, but then he had so much countenance, and his\nteeth were so good, and he was so well made, that one soon forgot he was\nplain; and after a third interview, after dining in company with him at\nthe Parsonage, he was no longer allowed to be called so by anybody. He\nwas, in fact, the most agreeable young man the sisters had ever known,\nand they were equally delighted with him. Miss Bertram's engagement made\nhim in equity the property of Julia, of which Julia was fully aware; and\nbefore he had been at Mansfield a week, she was quite ready to be fallen\nin love with.\n\nMaria's notions on the subject were more confused and indistinct. She\ndid not want to see or understand. \"There could be no harm in her liking\nan agreeable man--everybody knew her situation--Mr. Crawford must take\ncare of himself.\" Mr. Crawford did not mean to be in any danger! the\nMiss Bertrams were worth pleasing, and were ready to be pleased; and he\nbegan with no object but of making them like him. He did not want them\nto die of love; but with sense and temper which ought to have made him\njudge and feel better, he allowed himself great latitude on such points.\n\n\"I like your Miss Bertrams exceedingly, sister,\" said he, as he returned\nfrom attending them to their carriage after the said dinner visit; \"they\nare very elegant, agreeable girls.\"\n\n\"So they are indeed, and I am delighted to hear you say it. But you like\nJulia best.\"\n\n\"Oh yes! I like Julia best.\"\n\n\"But do you really? for Miss Bertram is in general thought the\nhandsomest.\"\n\n\"So I should suppose. She has the advantage in every feature, and I\nprefer her countenance; but I like Julia best; Miss Bertram is certainly\nthe handsomest, and I have found her the most agreeable, but I shall\nalways like Julia best, because you order me.\"\n\n\"I shall not talk to you, Henry, but I know you _will_ like her best at\nlast.\"\n\n\"Do not I tell you that I like her best _at_ _first_?\"\n\n\"And besides, Miss Bertram is engaged. Remember that, my dear brother.\nHer choice is made.\"\n\n\"Yes, and I like her the better for it. An engaged woman is always more\nagreeable than a disengaged. She is satisfied with herself. Her cares\nare over, and she feels that she may exert all her powers of pleasing\nwithout suspicion. All is safe with a lady engaged: no harm can be\ndone.\"\n\n\"Why, as to that, Mr. Rushworth is a very good sort of young man, and it\nis a great match for her.\"\n\n\"But Miss Bertram does not care three straws for him; _that_ is your\nopinion of your intimate friend. _I_ do not subscribe to it. I am sure\nMiss Bertram is very much attached to Mr. Rushworth. I could see it in\nher eyes, when he was mentioned. I think too well of Miss Bertram to\nsuppose she would ever give her hand without her heart.\"\n\n\"Mary, how shall we manage him?\"\n\n\"We must leave him to himself, I believe. Talking does no good. He will\nbe taken in at last.\"\n\n\"But I would not have him _taken_ _in_; I would not have him duped; I\nwould have it all fair and honourable.\"\n\n\"Oh dear! let him stand his chance and be taken in. It will do just as\nwell. Everybody is taken in at some period or other.\"\n\n\"Not always in marriage, dear Mary.\"\n\n\"In marriage especially. With all due respect to such of the present\ncompany as chance to be married, my dear Mrs. Grant, there is not one in\na hundred of either sex who is not taken in when they marry. Look where\nI will, I see that it _is_ so; and I feel that it _must_ be so, when I\nconsider that it is, of all transactions, the one in which people expect\nmost from others, and are least honest themselves.\"\n\n\"Ah! You have been in a bad school for matrimony, in Hill Street.\"\n\n\"My poor aunt had certainly little cause to love the state; but,\nhowever, speaking from my own observation, it is a manoeuvring business.\nI know so many who have married in the full expectation and confidence\nof some one particular advantage in the connexion, or accomplishment, or\ngood quality in the person, who have found themselves entirely deceived,\nand been obliged to put up with exactly the reverse. What is this but a\ntake in?\"\n\n\"My dear child, there must be a little imagination here. I beg your\npardon, but I cannot quite believe you. Depend upon it, you see but\nhalf. You see the evil, but you do not see the consolation. There will\nbe little rubs and disappointments everywhere, and we are all apt to\nexpect too much; but then, if one scheme of happiness fails, human\nnature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make\na second better: we find comfort somewhere--and those evil-minded\nobservers, dearest Mary, who make much of a little, are more taken in\nand deceived than the parties themselves.\"\n\n\"Well done, sister! I honour your _esprit_ _du_ _corps_. When I am a\nwife, I mean to be just as staunch myself; and I wish my friends in\ngeneral would be so too. It would save me many a heartache.\"\n\n\"You are as bad as your brother, Mary; but we will cure you both.\nMansfield shall cure you both, and without any taking in. Stay with us,\nand we will cure you.\"\n\nThe Crawfords, without wanting to be cured, were very willing to stay.\nMary was satisfied with the Parsonage as a present home, and Henry\nequally ready to lengthen his visit. He had come, intending to spend\nonly a few days with them; but Mansfield promised well, and there was\nnothing to call him elsewhere. It delighted Mrs. Grant to keep them both\nwith her, and Dr. Grant was exceedingly well contented to have it so: a\ntalking pretty young woman like Miss Crawford is always pleasant society\nto an indolent, stay-at-home man; and Mr. Crawford's being his guest was\nan excuse for drinking claret every day.\n\nThe Miss Bertrams' admiration of Mr. Crawford was more rapturous than\nanything which Miss Crawford's habits made her likely to feel. She\nacknowledged, however, that the Mr. Bertrams were very fine young men,\nthat two such young men were not often seen together even in London, and\nthat their manners, particularly those of the eldest, were very good.\n_He_ had been much in London, and had more liveliness and gallantry than\nEdmund, and must, therefore, be preferred; and, indeed, his being the\neldest was another strong claim. She had felt an early presentiment that\nshe _should_ like the eldest best. She knew it was her way.\n\nTom Bertram must have been thought pleasant, indeed, at any rate; he was\nthe sort of young man to be generally liked, his agreeableness was of\nthe kind to be oftener found agreeable than some endowments of a higher\nstamp, for he had easy manners, excellent spirits, a large acquaintance,\nand a great deal to say; and the reversion of Mansfield Park, and a\nbaronetcy, did no harm to all this. Miss Crawford soon felt that he and\nhis situation might do. She looked about her with due consideration, and\nfound almost everything in his favour: a park, a real park, five miles\nround, a spacious modern-built house, so well placed and well screened\nas to deserve to be in any collection of engravings of gentlemen's\nseats in the kingdom, and wanting only to be completely new\nfurnished--pleasant sisters, a quiet mother, and an agreeable man\nhimself--with the advantage of being tied up from much gaming at present\nby a promise to his father, and of being Sir Thomas hereafter. It\nmight do very well; she believed she should accept him; and she began\naccordingly to interest herself a little about the horse which he had to\nrun at the B---- races.\n\nThese races were to call him away not long after their acquaintance\nbegan; and as it appeared that the family did not, from his usual goings\non, expect him back again for many weeks, it would bring his passion to\nan early proof. Much was said on his side to induce her to attend the\nraces, and schemes were made for a large party to them, with all the\neagerness of inclination, but it would only do to be talked of.\n\nAnd Fanny, what was _she_ doing and thinking all this while? and what\nwas _her_ opinion of the newcomers? Few young ladies of eighteen could\nbe less called on to speak their opinion than Fanny. In a quiet way,\nvery little attended to, she paid her tribute of admiration to Miss\nCrawford's beauty; but as she still continued to think Mr. Crawford\nvery plain, in spite of her two cousins having repeatedly proved the\ncontrary, she never mentioned _him_. The notice, which she excited\nherself, was to this effect. \"I begin now to understand you all,\nexcept Miss Price,\" said Miss Crawford, as she was walking with the Mr.\nBertrams. \"Pray, is she out, or is she not? I am puzzled. She dined at\nthe Parsonage, with the rest of you, which seemed like being _out_; and\nyet she says so little, that I can hardly suppose she _is_.\"\n\nEdmund, to whom this was chiefly addressed, replied, \"I believe I know\nwhat you mean, but I will not undertake to answer the question. My\ncousin is grown up. She has the age and sense of a woman, but the outs\nand not outs are beyond me.\"\n\n\"And yet, in general, nothing can be more easily ascertained. The\ndistinction is so broad. Manners as well as appearance are, generally\nspeaking, so totally different. Till now, I could not have supposed it\npossible to be mistaken as to a girl's being out or not. A girl not out\nhas always the same sort of dress: a close bonnet, for instance; looks\nvery demure, and never says a word. You may smile, but it is so, I\nassure you; and except that it is sometimes carried a little too far,\nit is all very proper. Girls should be quiet and modest. The most\nobjectionable part is, that the alteration of manners on being\nintroduced into company is frequently too sudden. They sometimes pass in\nsuch very little time from reserve to quite the opposite--to confidence!\n_That_ is the faulty part of the present system. One does not like to\nsee a girl of eighteen or nineteen so immediately up to every thing--and\nperhaps when one has seen her hardly able to speak the year before. Mr.\nBertram, I dare say _you_ have sometimes met with such changes.\"\n\n\"I believe I have, but this is hardly fair; I see what you are at. You\nare quizzing me and Miss Anderson.\"\n\n\"No, indeed. Miss Anderson! I do not know who or what you mean. I am\nquite in the dark. But I _will_ quiz you with a great deal of pleasure,\nif you will tell me what about.\"\n\n\"Ah! you carry it off very well, but I cannot be quite so far imposed\non. You must have had Miss Anderson in your eye, in describing an\naltered young lady. You paint too accurately for mistake. It was exactly\nso. The Andersons of Baker Street. We were speaking of them the other\nday, you know. Edmund, you have heard me mention Charles Anderson.\nThe circumstance was precisely as this lady has represented it. When\nAnderson first introduced me to his family, about two years ago, his\nsister was not _out_, and I could not get her to speak to me. I sat\nthere an hour one morning waiting for Anderson, with only her and a\nlittle girl or two in the room, the governess being sick or run away,\nand the mother in and out every moment with letters of business, and I\ncould hardly get a word or a look from the young lady--nothing like a\ncivil answer--she screwed up her mouth, and turned from me with such an\nair! I did not see her again for a twelvemonth. She was then _out_. I\nmet her at Mrs. Holford's, and did not recollect her. She came up to me,\nclaimed me as an acquaintance, stared me out of countenance; and talked\nand laughed till I did not know which way to look. I felt that I must\nbe the jest of the room at the time, and Miss Crawford, it is plain, has\nheard the story.\"\n\n\"And a very pretty story it is, and with more truth in it, I dare say,\nthan does credit to Miss Anderson. It is too common a fault. Mothers\ncertainly have not yet got quite the right way of managing their\ndaughters. I do not know where the error lies. I do not pretend to set\npeople right, but I do see that they are often wrong.\"\n\n\"Those who are showing the world what female manners _should_ be,\" said\nMr. Bertram gallantly, \"are doing a great deal to set them right.\"\n\n\"The error is plain enough,\" said the less courteous Edmund; \"such girls\nare ill brought up. They are given wrong notions from the beginning.\nThey are always acting upon motives of vanity, and there is no more\nreal modesty in their behaviour _before_ they appear in public than\nafterwards.\"\n\n\"I do not know,\" replied Miss Crawford hesitatingly. \"Yes, I cannot\nagree with you there. It is certainly the modestest part of the\nbusiness. It is much worse to have girls not out give themselves the\nsame airs and take the same liberties as if they were, which I have seen\ndone. That is worse than anything--quite disgusting!\"\n\n\"Yes, _that_ is very inconvenient indeed,\" said Mr. Bertram. \"It leads\none astray; one does not know what to do. The close bonnet and demure\nair you describe so well (and nothing was ever juster), tell one what\nis expected; but I got into a dreadful scrape last year from the want of\nthem. I went down to Ramsgate for a week with a friend last September,\njust after my return from the West Indies. My friend Sneyd--you have\nheard me speak of Sneyd, Edmund--his father, and mother, and sisters,\nwere there, all new to me. When we reached Albion Place they were out;\nwe went after them, and found them on the pier: Mrs. and the two Miss\nSneyds, with others of their acquaintance. I made my bow in form; and\nas Mrs. Sneyd was surrounded by men, attached myself to one of her\ndaughters, walked by her side all the way home, and made myself as\nagreeable as I could; the young lady perfectly easy in her manners, and\nas ready to talk as to listen. I had not a suspicion that I could be\ndoing anything wrong. They looked just the same: both well-dressed, with\nveils and parasols like other girls; but I afterwards found that I had\nbeen giving all my attention to the youngest, who was not _out_, and\nhad most excessively offended the eldest. Miss Augusta ought not to have\nbeen noticed for the next six months; and Miss Sneyd, I believe, has\nnever forgiven me.\"\n\n\"That was bad indeed. Poor Miss Sneyd. Though I have no younger\nsister, I feel for her. To be neglected before one's time must be very\nvexatious; but it was entirely the mother's fault. Miss Augusta should\nhave been with her governess. Such half-and-half doings never prosper.\nBut now I must be satisfied about Miss Price. Does she go to balls? Does\nshe dine out every where, as well as at my sister's?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Edmund; \"I do not think she has ever been to a ball. My\nmother seldom goes into company herself, and dines nowhere but with Mrs.\nGrant, and Fanny stays at home with _her_.\"\n\n\"Oh! then the point is clear. Miss Price is not out.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nMr. Bertram set off for--------, and Miss Crawford was prepared to\nfind a great chasm in their society, and to miss him decidedly in the\nmeetings which were now becoming almost daily between the families;\nand on their all dining together at the Park soon after his going, she\nretook her chosen place near the bottom of the table, fully expecting to\nfeel a most melancholy difference in the change of masters. It would\nbe a very flat business, she was sure. In comparison with his brother,\nEdmund would have nothing to say. The soup would be sent round in a most\nspiritless manner, wine drank without any smiles or agreeable trifling,\nand the venison cut up without supplying one pleasant anecdote of any\nformer haunch, or a single entertaining story, about \"my friend such a\none.\" She must try to find amusement in what was passing at the upper\nend of the table, and in observing Mr. Rushworth, who was now making his\nappearance at Mansfield for the first time since the Crawfords' arrival.\nHe had been visiting a friend in the neighbouring county, and that\nfriend having recently had his grounds laid out by an improver, Mr.\nRushworth was returned with his head full of the subject, and very eager\nto be improving his own place in the same way; and though not saying\nmuch to the purpose, could talk of nothing else. The subject had\nbeen already handled in the drawing-room; it was revived in the\ndining-parlour. Miss Bertram's attention and opinion was evidently his\nchief aim; and though her deportment showed rather conscious superiority\nthan any solicitude to oblige him, the mention of Sotherton Court,\nand the ideas attached to it, gave her a feeling of complacency, which\nprevented her from being very ungracious.\n\n\"I wish you could see Compton,\" said he; \"it is the most complete thing!\nI never saw a place so altered in my life. I told Smith I did not know\nwhere I was. The approach _now_, is one of the finest things in the\ncountry: you see the house in the most surprising manner. I declare,\nwhen I got back to Sotherton yesterday, it looked like a prison--quite a\ndismal old prison.\"\n\n\"Oh, for shame!\" cried Mrs. Norris. \"A prison indeed? Sotherton Court is\nthe noblest old place in the world.\"\n\n\"It wants improvement, ma'am, beyond anything. I never saw a place that\nwanted so much improvement in my life; and it is so forlorn that I do\nnot know what can be done with it.\"\n\n\"No wonder that Mr. Rushworth should think so at present,\" said Mrs.\nGrant to Mrs. Norris, with a smile; \"but depend upon it, Sotherton will\nhave _every_ improvement in time which his heart can desire.\"\n\n\"I must try to do something with it,\" said Mr. Rushworth, \"but I do not\nknow what. I hope I shall have some good friend to help me.\"\n\n\"Your best friend upon such an occasion,\" said Miss Bertram calmly,\n\"would be Mr. Repton, I imagine.\"\n\n\"That is what I was thinking of. As he has done so well by Smith, I\nthink I had better have him at once. His terms are five guineas a day.\"\n\n\"Well, and if they were _ten_,\" cried Mrs. Norris, \"I am sure _you_ need\nnot regard it. The expense need not be any impediment. If I were you,\nI should not think of the expense. I would have everything done in the\nbest style, and made as nice as possible. Such a place as Sotherton\nCourt deserves everything that taste and money can do. You have space to\nwork upon there, and grounds that will well reward you. For my own part,\nif I had anything within the fiftieth part of the size of Sotherton, I\nshould be always planting and improving, for naturally I am excessively\nfond of it. It would be too ridiculous for me to attempt anything where\nI am now, with my little half acre. It would be quite a burlesque. But\nif I had more room, I should take a prodigious delight in improving and\nplanting. We did a vast deal in that way at the Parsonage: we made it\nquite a different place from what it was when we first had it. You young\nones do not remember much about it, perhaps; but if dear Sir Thomas were\nhere, he could tell you what improvements we made: and a great deal more\nwould have been done, but for poor Mr. Norris's sad state of health.\nHe could hardly ever get out, poor man, to enjoy anything, and _that_\ndisheartened me from doing several things that Sir Thomas and I used to\ntalk of. If it had not been for _that_, we should have carried on the\ngarden wall, and made the plantation to shut out the churchyard, just\nas Dr. Grant has done. We were always doing something as it was. It was\nonly the spring twelvemonth before Mr. Norris's death that we put in the\napricot against the stable wall, which is now grown such a noble tree,\nand getting to such perfection, sir,\" addressing herself then to Dr.\nGrant.\n\n\"The tree thrives well, beyond a doubt, madam,\" replied Dr. Grant. \"The\nsoil is good; and I never pass it without regretting that the fruit\nshould be so little worth the trouble of gathering.\"\n\n\"Sir, it is a Moor Park, we bought it as a Moor Park, and it cost\nus--that is, it was a present from Sir Thomas, but I saw the bill--and I\nknow it cost seven shillings, and was charged as a Moor Park.\"\n\n\"You were imposed on, ma'am,\" replied Dr. Grant: \"these potatoes have as\nmuch the flavour of a Moor Park apricot as the fruit from that tree. It\nis an insipid fruit at the best; but a good apricot is eatable, which\nnone from my garden are.\"\n\n\"The truth is, ma'am,\" said Mrs. Grant, pretending to whisper across\nthe table to Mrs. Norris, \"that Dr. Grant hardly knows what the natural\ntaste of our apricot is: he is scarcely ever indulged with one, for it\nis so valuable a fruit; with a little assistance, and ours is such a\nremarkably large, fair sort, that what with early tarts and preserves,\nmy cook contrives to get them all.\"\n\nMrs. Norris, who had begun to redden, was appeased; and, for a little\nwhile, other subjects took place of the improvements of Sotherton. Dr.\nGrant and Mrs. Norris were seldom good friends; their acquaintance had\nbegun in dilapidations, and their habits were totally dissimilar.\n\nAfter a short interruption Mr. Rushworth began again. \"Smith's place\nis the admiration of all the country; and it was a mere nothing before\nRepton took it in hand. I think I shall have Repton.\"\n\n\"Mr. Rushworth,\" said Lady Bertram, \"if I were you, I would have a\nvery pretty shrubbery. One likes to get out into a shrubbery in fine\nweather.\"\n\nMr. Rushworth was eager to assure her ladyship of his acquiescence, and\ntried to make out something complimentary; but, between his submission\nto _her_ taste, and his having always intended the same himself, with\nthe superadded objects of professing attention to the comfort of ladies\nin general, and of insinuating that there was one only whom he was\nanxious to please, he grew puzzled, and Edmund was glad to put an end\nto his speech by a proposal of wine. Mr. Rushworth, however, though not\nusually a great talker, had still more to say on the subject next his\nheart. \"Smith has not much above a hundred acres altogether in his\ngrounds, which is little enough, and makes it more surprising that the\nplace can have been so improved. Now, at Sotherton we have a good seven\nhundred, without reckoning the water meadows; so that I think, if so\nmuch could be done at Compton, we need not despair. There have been two\nor three fine old trees cut down, that grew too near the house, and\nit opens the prospect amazingly, which makes me think that Repton, or\nanybody of that sort, would certainly have the avenue at Sotherton down:\nthe avenue that leads from the west front to the top of the hill,\nyou know,\" turning to Miss Bertram particularly as he spoke. But Miss\nBertram thought it most becoming to reply--\n\n\"The avenue! Oh! I do not recollect it. I really know very little of\nSotherton.\"\n\nFanny, who was sitting on the other side of Edmund, exactly opposite\nMiss Crawford, and who had been attentively listening, now looked at\nhim, and said in a low voice--\n\n\"Cut down an avenue! What a pity! Does it not make you think of Cowper?\n'Ye fallen avenues, once more I mourn your fate unmerited.'\"\n\nHe smiled as he answered, \"I am afraid the avenue stands a bad chance,\nFanny.\"\n\n\"I should like to see Sotherton before it is cut down, to see the place\nas it is now, in its old state; but I do not suppose I shall.\"\n\n\"Have you never been there? No, you never can; and, unluckily, it is out\nof distance for a ride. I wish we could contrive it.\"\n\n\"Oh! it does not signify. Whenever I do see it, you will tell me how it\nhas been altered.\"\n\n\"I collect,\" said Miss Crawford, \"that Sotherton is an old place, and a\nplace of some grandeur. In any particular style of building?\"\n\n\"The house was built in Elizabeth's time, and is a large, regular, brick\nbuilding; heavy, but respectable looking, and has many good rooms. It\nis ill placed. It stands in one of the lowest spots of the park; in that\nrespect, unfavourable for improvement. But the woods are fine, and\nthere is a stream, which, I dare say, might be made a good deal of. Mr.\nRushworth is quite right, I think, in meaning to give it a modern dress,\nand I have no doubt that it will be all done extremely well.\"\n\nMiss Crawford listened with submission, and said to herself, \"He is a\nwell-bred man; he makes the best of it.\"\n\n\"I do not wish to influence Mr. Rushworth,\" he continued; \"but, had I\na place to new fashion, I should not put myself into the hands of an\nimprover. I would rather have an inferior degree of beauty, of my own\nchoice, and acquired progressively. I would rather abide by my own\nblunders than by his.\"\n\n\"_You_ would know what you were about, of course; but that would not\nsuit _me_. I have no eye or ingenuity for such matters, but as they are\nbefore me; and had I a place of my own in the country, I should be most\nthankful to any Mr. Repton who would undertake it, and give me as much\nbeauty as he could for my money; and I should never look at it till it\nwas complete.\"\n\n\"It would be delightful to _me_ to see the progress of it all,\" said\nFanny.\n\n\"Ay, you have been brought up to it. It was no part of my education; and\nthe only dose I ever had, being administered by not the first favourite\nin the world, has made me consider improvements _in_ _hand_ as the\ngreatest of nuisances. Three years ago the Admiral, my honoured uncle,\nbought a cottage at Twickenham for us all to spend our summers in;\nand my aunt and I went down to it quite in raptures; but it being\nexcessively pretty, it was soon found necessary to be improved, and for\nthree months we were all dirt and confusion, without a gravel walk to\nstep on, or a bench fit for use. I would have everything as complete\nas possible in the country, shrubberies and flower-gardens, and rustic\nseats innumerable: but it must all be done without my care. Henry is\ndifferent; he loves to be doing.\"\n\nEdmund was sorry to hear Miss Crawford, whom he was much disposed to\nadmire, speak so freely of her uncle. It did not suit his sense of\npropriety, and he was silenced, till induced by further smiles and\nliveliness to put the matter by for the present.\n\n\"Mr. Bertram,\" said she, \"I have tidings of my harp at last. I am\nassured that it is safe at Northampton; and there it has probably been\nthese ten days, in spite of the solemn assurances we have so often\nreceived to the contrary.\" Edmund expressed his pleasure and surprise.\n\"The truth is, that our inquiries were too direct; we sent a servant,\nwe went ourselves: this will not do seventy miles from London; but this\nmorning we heard of it in the right way. It was seen by some farmer, and\nhe told the miller, and the miller told the butcher, and the butcher's\nson-in-law left word at the shop.\"\n\n\"I am very glad that you have heard of it, by whatever means, and hope\nthere will be no further delay.\"\n\n\"I am to have it to-morrow; but how do you think it is to be conveyed?\nNot by a wagon or cart: oh no! nothing of that kind could be hired in\nthe village. I might as well have asked for porters and a handbarrow.\"\n\n\"You would find it difficult, I dare say, just now, in the middle of a\nvery late hay harvest, to hire a horse and cart?\"\n\n\"I was astonished to find what a piece of work was made of it! To want\na horse and cart in the country seemed impossible, so I told my maid to\nspeak for one directly; and as I cannot look out of my dressing-closet\nwithout seeing one farmyard, nor walk in the shrubbery without passing\nanother, I thought it would be only ask and have, and was rather grieved\nthat I could not give the advantage to all. Guess my surprise, when\nI found that I had been asking the most unreasonable, most impossible\nthing in the world; had offended all the farmers, all the labourers,\nall the hay in the parish! As for Dr. Grant's bailiff, I believe I had\nbetter keep out of _his_ way; and my brother-in-law himself, who is all\nkindness in general, looked rather black upon me when he found what I\nhad been at.\"\n\n\"You could not be expected to have thought on the subject before; but\nwhen you _do_ think of it, you must see the importance of getting in\nthe grass. The hire of a cart at any time might not be so easy as you\nsuppose: our farmers are not in the habit of letting them out; but, in\nharvest, it must be quite out of their power to spare a horse.\"\n\n\"I shall understand all your ways in time; but, coming down with the\ntrue London maxim, that everything is to be got with money, I was a\nlittle embarrassed at first by the sturdy independence of your country\ncustoms. However, I am to have my harp fetched to-morrow. Henry, who is\ngood-nature itself, has offered to fetch it in his barouche. Will it not\nbe honourably conveyed?\"\n\nEdmund spoke of the harp as his favourite instrument, and hoped to be\nsoon allowed to hear her. Fanny had never heard the harp at all, and\nwished for it very much.\n\n\"I shall be most happy to play to you both,\" said Miss Crawford; \"at\nleast as long as you can like to listen: probably much longer, for\nI dearly love music myself, and where the natural taste is equal the\nplayer must always be best off, for she is gratified in more ways than\none. Now, Mr. Bertram, if you write to your brother, I entreat you to\ntell him that my harp is come: he heard so much of my misery about it.\nAnd you may say, if you please, that I shall prepare my most plaintive\nairs against his return, in compassion to his feelings, as I know his\nhorse will lose.\"\n\n\"If I write, I will say whatever you wish me; but I do not, at present,\nforesee any occasion for writing.\"\n\n\"No, I dare say, nor if he were to be gone a twelvemonth, would you ever\nwrite to him, nor he to you, if it could be helped. The occasion would\nnever be foreseen. What strange creatures brothers are! You would not\nwrite to each other but upon the most urgent necessity in the world; and\nwhen obliged to take up the pen to say that such a horse is ill, or such\na relation dead, it is done in the fewest possible words. You have but\none style among you. I know it perfectly. Henry, who is in every other\nrespect exactly what a brother should be, who loves me, consults me,\nconfides in me, and will talk to me by the hour together, has never\nyet turned the page in a letter; and very often it is nothing more\nthan--'Dear Mary, I am just arrived. Bath seems full, and everything\nas usual. Yours sincerely.' That is the true manly style; that is a\ncomplete brother's letter.\"\n\n\"When they are at a distance from all their family,\" said Fanny,\ncolouring for William's sake, \"they can write long letters.\"\n\n\"Miss Price has a brother at sea,\" said Edmund, \"whose excellence as a\ncorrespondent makes her think you too severe upon us.\"\n\n\"At sea, has she? In the king's service, of course?\"\n\nFanny would rather have had Edmund tell the story, but his determined\nsilence obliged her to relate her brother's situation: her voice was\nanimated in speaking of his profession, and the foreign stations he had\nbeen on; but she could not mention the number of years that he had been\nabsent without tears in her eyes. Miss Crawford civilly wished him an\nearly promotion.\n\n\"Do you know anything of my cousin's captain?\" said Edmund; \"Captain\nMarshall? You have a large acquaintance in the navy, I conclude?\"\n\n\"Among admirals, large enough; but,\" with an air of grandeur, \"we know\nvery little of the inferior ranks. Post-captains may be very good sort\nof men, but they do not belong to _us_. Of various admirals I could tell\nyou a great deal: of them and their flags, and the gradation of their\npay, and their bickerings and jealousies. But, in general, I can assure\nyou that they are all passed over, and all very ill used. Certainly, my\nhome at my uncle's brought me acquainted with a circle of admirals. Of\n_Rears_ and _Vices_ I saw enough. Now do not be suspecting me of a pun,\nI entreat.\"\n\nEdmund again felt grave, and only replied, \"It is a noble profession.\"\n\n\"Yes, the profession is well enough under two circumstances: if it make\nthe fortune, and there be discretion in spending it; but, in short, it\nis not a favourite profession of mine. It has never worn an amiable form\nto _me_.\"\n\nEdmund reverted to the harp, and was again very happy in the prospect of\nhearing her play.\n\nThe subject of improving grounds, meanwhile, was still under\nconsideration among the others; and Mrs. Grant could not help addressing\nher brother, though it was calling his attention from Miss Julia\nBertram.\n\n\"My dear Henry, have _you_ nothing to say? You have been an improver\nyourself, and from what I hear of Everingham, it may vie with any place\nin England. Its natural beauties, I am sure, are great. Everingham,\nas it _used_ to be, was perfect in my estimation: such a happy fall of\nground, and such timber! What would I not give to see it again?\"\n\n\"Nothing could be so gratifying to me as to hear your opinion of it,\"\nwas his answer; \"but I fear there would be some disappointment: you\nwould not find it equal to your present ideas. In extent, it is a mere\nnothing; you would be surprised at its insignificance; and, as for\nimprovement, there was very little for me to do--too little: I should\nlike to have been busy much longer.\"\n\n\"You are fond of the sort of thing?\" said Julia.\n\n\"Excessively; but what with the natural advantages of the ground, which\npointed out, even to a very young eye, what little remained to be done,\nand my own consequent resolutions, I had not been of age three\nmonths before Everingham was all that it is now. My plan was laid\nat Westminster, a little altered, perhaps, at Cambridge, and at\none-and-twenty executed. I am inclined to envy Mr. Rushworth for having\nso much happiness yet before him. I have been a devourer of my own.\"\n\n\"Those who see quickly, will resolve quickly, and act quickly,\"\nsaid Julia. \"_You_ can never want employment. Instead of envying Mr.\nRushworth, you should assist him with your opinion.\"\n\nMrs. Grant, hearing the latter part of this speech, enforced it warmly,\npersuaded that no judgment could be equal to her brother's; and as\nMiss Bertram caught at the idea likewise, and gave it her full support,\ndeclaring that, in her opinion, it was infinitely better to consult\nwith friends and disinterested advisers, than immediately to throw the\nbusiness into the hands of a professional man, Mr. Rushworth was very\nready to request the favour of Mr. Crawford's assistance; and Mr.\nCrawford, after properly depreciating his own abilities, was quite at\nhis service in any way that could be useful. Mr. Rushworth then began to\npropose Mr. Crawford's doing him the honour of coming over to Sotherton,\nand taking a bed there; when Mrs. Norris, as if reading in her two\nnieces' minds their little approbation of a plan which was to take Mr.\nCrawford away, interposed with an amendment.\n\n\"There can be no doubt of Mr. Crawford's willingness; but why should not\nmore of us go? Why should not we make a little party? Here are many that\nwould be interested in your improvements, my dear Mr. Rushworth, and\nthat would like to hear Mr. Crawford's opinion on the spot, and that\nmight be of some small use to you with _their_ opinions; and, for my\nown part, I have been long wishing to wait upon your good mother again;\nnothing but having no horses of my own could have made me so remiss; but\nnow I could go and sit a few hours with Mrs. Rushworth, while the rest\nof you walked about and settled things, and then we could all return\nto a late dinner here, or dine at Sotherton, just as might be most\nagreeable to your mother, and have a pleasant drive home by moonlight.\nI dare say Mr. Crawford would take my two nieces and me in his barouche,\nand Edmund can go on horseback, you know, sister, and Fanny will stay at\nhome with you.\"\n\nLady Bertram made no objection; and every one concerned in the going\nwas forward in expressing their ready concurrence, excepting Edmund, who\nheard it all and said nothing.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\"Well, Fanny, and how do you like Miss Crawford _now_?\" said Edmund the\nnext day, after thinking some time on the subject himself. \"How did you\nlike her yesterday?\"\n\n\"Very well--very much. I like to hear her talk. She entertains me; and\nshe is so extremely pretty, that I have great pleasure in looking at\nher.\"\n\n\"It is her countenance that is so attractive. She has a wonderful play\nof feature! But was there nothing in her conversation that struck you,\nFanny, as not quite right?\"\n\n\"Oh yes! she ought not to have spoken of her uncle as she did. I was\nquite astonished. An uncle with whom she has been living so many years,\nand who, whatever his faults may be, is so very fond of her brother,\ntreating him, they say, quite like a son. I could not have believed it!\"\n\n\"I thought you would be struck. It was very wrong; very indecorous.\"\n\n\"And very ungrateful, I think.\"\n\n\"Ungrateful is a strong word. I do not know that her uncle has any claim\nto her _gratitude_; his wife certainly had; and it is the warmth of her\nrespect for her aunt's memory which misleads her here. She is awkwardly\ncircumstanced. With such warm feelings and lively spirits it must be\ndifficult to do justice to her affection for Mrs. Crawford, without\nthrowing a shade on the Admiral. I do not pretend to know which was most\nto blame in their disagreements, though the Admiral's present conduct\nmight incline one to the side of his wife; but it is natural and amiable\nthat Miss Crawford should acquit her aunt entirely. I do not censure her\n_opinions_; but there certainly _is_ impropriety in making them public.\"\n\n\"Do not you think,\" said Fanny, after a little consideration, \"that this\nimpropriety is a reflection itself upon Mrs. Crawford, as her niece has\nbeen entirely brought up by her? She cannot have given her right notions\nof what was due to the Admiral.\"\n\n\"That is a fair remark. Yes, we must suppose the faults of the niece\nto have been those of the aunt; and it makes one more sensible of the\ndisadvantages she has been under. But I think her present home must\ndo her good. Mrs. Grant's manners are just what they ought to be. She\nspeaks of her brother with a very pleasing affection.\"\n\n\"Yes, except as to his writing her such short letters. She made me\nalmost laugh; but I cannot rate so very highly the love or good-nature\nof a brother who will not give himself the trouble of writing anything\nworth reading to his sisters, when they are separated. I am sure William\nwould never have used _me_ so, under any circumstances. And what right\nhad she to suppose that _you_ would not write long letters when you were\nabsent?\"\n\n\"The right of a lively mind, Fanny, seizing whatever may contribute\nto its own amusement or that of others; perfectly allowable, when\nuntinctured by ill-humour or roughness; and there is not a shadow of\neither in the countenance or manner of Miss Crawford: nothing sharp, or\nloud, or coarse. She is perfectly feminine, except in the instances we\nhave been speaking of. There she cannot be justified. I am glad you saw\nit all as I did.\"\n\nHaving formed her mind and gained her affections, he had a good chance\nof her thinking like him; though at this period, and on this subject,\nthere began now to be some danger of dissimilarity, for he was in a line\nof admiration of Miss Crawford, which might lead him where Fanny\ncould not follow. Miss Crawford's attractions did not lessen. The harp\narrived, and rather added to her beauty, wit, and good-humour; for she\nplayed with the greatest obligingness, with an expression and taste\nwhich were peculiarly becoming, and there was something clever to be\nsaid at the close of every air. Edmund was at the Parsonage every day,\nto be indulged with his favourite instrument: one morning secured an\ninvitation for the next; for the lady could not be unwilling to have a\nlistener, and every thing was soon in a fair train.\n\nA young woman, pretty, lively, with a harp as elegant as herself, and\nboth placed near a window, cut down to the ground, and opening on a\nlittle lawn, surrounded by shrubs in the rich foliage of summer, was\nenough to catch any man's heart. The season, the scene, the air, were\nall favourable to tenderness and sentiment. Mrs. Grant and her tambour\nframe were not without their use: it was all in harmony; and as\neverything will turn to account when love is once set going, even the\nsandwich tray, and Dr. Grant doing the honours of it, were worth looking\nat. Without studying the business, however, or knowing what he was\nabout, Edmund was beginning, at the end of a week of such intercourse,\nto be a good deal in love; and to the credit of the lady it may be added\nthat, without his being a man of the world or an elder brother, without\nany of the arts of flattery or the gaieties of small talk, he began to\nbe agreeable to her. She felt it to be so, though she had not foreseen,\nand could hardly understand it; for he was not pleasant by any common\nrule: he talked no nonsense; he paid no compliments; his opinions\nwere unbending, his attentions tranquil and simple. There was a charm,\nperhaps, in his sincerity, his steadiness, his integrity, which Miss\nCrawford might be equal to feel, though not equal to discuss with\nherself. She did not think very much about it, however: he pleased her\nfor the present; she liked to have him near her; it was enough.\n\nFanny could not wonder that Edmund was at the Parsonage every morning;\nshe would gladly have been there too, might she have gone in uninvited\nand unnoticed, to hear the harp; neither could she wonder that, when the\nevening stroll was over, and the two families parted again, he should\nthink it right to attend Mrs. Grant and her sister to their home, while\nMr. Crawford was devoted to the ladies of the Park; but she thought it\na very bad exchange; and if Edmund were not there to mix the wine and\nwater for her, would rather go without it than not. She was a little\nsurprised that he could spend so many hours with Miss Crawford, and\nnot see more of the sort of fault which he had already observed, and of\nwhich _she_ was almost always reminded by a something of the same nature\nwhenever she was in her company; but so it was. Edmund was fond of\nspeaking to her of Miss Crawford, but he seemed to think it enough that\nthe Admiral had since been spared; and she scrupled to point out her own\nremarks to him, lest it should appear like ill-nature. The first actual\npain which Miss Crawford occasioned her was the consequence of an\ninclination to learn to ride, which the former caught, soon after her\nbeing settled at Mansfield, from the example of the young ladies at the\nPark, and which, when Edmund's acquaintance with her increased, led to\nhis encouraging the wish, and the offer of his own quiet mare for the\npurpose of her first attempts, as the best fitted for a beginner that\neither stable could furnish. No pain, no injury, however, was designed\nby him to his cousin in this offer: _she_ was not to lose a day's\nexercise by it. The mare was only to be taken down to the Parsonage half\nan hour before her ride were to begin; and Fanny, on its being first\nproposed, so far from feeling slighted, was almost over-powered with\ngratitude that he should be asking her leave for it.\n\nMiss Crawford made her first essay with great credit to herself, and no\ninconvenience to Fanny. Edmund, who had taken down the mare and presided\nat the whole, returned with it in excellent time, before either Fanny or\nthe steady old coachman, who always attended her when she rode without\nher cousins, were ready to set forward. The second day's trial was not\nso guiltless. Miss Crawford's enjoyment of riding was such that she did\nnot know how to leave off. Active and fearless, and though rather small,\nstrongly made, she seemed formed for a horsewoman; and to the pure\ngenuine pleasure of the exercise, something was probably added in\nEdmund's attendance and instructions, and something more in the\nconviction of very much surpassing her sex in general by her early\nprogress, to make her unwilling to dismount. Fanny was ready and\nwaiting, and Mrs. Norris was beginning to scold her for not being gone,\nand still no horse was announced, no Edmund appeared. To avoid her aunt,\nand look for him, she went out.\n\nThe houses, though scarcely half a mile apart, were not within sight of\neach other; but, by walking fifty yards from the hall door, she could\nlook down the park, and command a view of the Parsonage and all its\ndemesnes, gently rising beyond the village road; and in Dr. Grant's\nmeadow she immediately saw the group--Edmund and Miss Crawford both on\nhorse-back, riding side by side, Dr. and Mrs. Grant, and Mr. Crawford,\nwith two or three grooms, standing about and looking on. A happy party\nit appeared to her, all interested in one object: cheerful beyond a\ndoubt, for the sound of merriment ascended even to her. It was a sound\nwhich did not make _her_ cheerful; she wondered that Edmund should\nforget her, and felt a pang. She could not turn her eyes from the\nmeadow; she could not help watching all that passed. At first Miss\nCrawford and her companion made the circuit of the field, which was not\nsmall, at a foot's pace; then, at _her_ apparent suggestion, they rose\ninto a canter; and to Fanny's timid nature it was most astonishing to\nsee how well she sat. After a few minutes they stopped entirely. Edmund\nwas close to her; he was speaking to her; he was evidently directing her\nmanagement of the bridle; he had hold of her hand; she saw it, or the\nimagination supplied what the eye could not reach. She must not wonder\nat all this; what could be more natural than that Edmund should be\nmaking himself useful, and proving his good-nature by any one? She could\nnot but think, indeed, that Mr. Crawford might as well have saved him\nthe trouble; that it would have been particularly proper and becoming\nin a brother to have done it himself; but Mr. Crawford, with all his\nboasted good-nature, and all his coachmanship, probably knew nothing\nof the matter, and had no active kindness in comparison of Edmund. She\nbegan to think it rather hard upon the mare to have such double duty; if\nshe were forgotten, the poor mare should be remembered.\n\nHer feelings for one and the other were soon a little tranquillised\nby seeing the party in the meadow disperse, and Miss Crawford still on\nhorseback, but attended by Edmund on foot, pass through a gate into the\nlane, and so into the park, and make towards the spot where she stood.\nShe began then to be afraid of appearing rude and impatient; and walked\nto meet them with a great anxiety to avoid the suspicion.\n\n\"My dear Miss Price,\" said Miss Crawford, as soon as she was at all\nwithin hearing, \"I am come to make my own apologies for keeping you\nwaiting; but I have nothing in the world to say for myself--I knew it\nwas very late, and that I was behaving extremely ill; and therefore, if\nyou please, you must forgive me. Selfishness must always be forgiven,\nyou know, because there is no hope of a cure.\"\n\nFanny's answer was extremely civil, and Edmund added his conviction that\nshe could be in no hurry. \"For there is more than time enough for my\ncousin to ride twice as far as she ever goes,\" said he, \"and you have\nbeen promoting her comfort by preventing her from setting off half an\nhour sooner: clouds are now coming up, and she will not suffer from the\nheat as she would have done then. I wish _you_ may not be fatigued by so\nmuch exercise. I wish you had saved yourself this walk home.\"\n\n\"No part of it fatigues me but getting off this horse, I assure you,\"\nsaid she, as she sprang down with his help; \"I am very strong. Nothing\never fatigues me but doing what I do not like. Miss Price, I give way to\nyou with a very bad grace; but I sincerely hope you will have a pleasant\nride, and that I may have nothing but good to hear of this dear,\ndelightful, beautiful animal.\"\n\nThe old coachman, who had been waiting about with his own horse, now\njoining them, Fanny was lifted on hers, and they set off across another\npart of the park; her feelings of discomfort not lightened by seeing, as\nshe looked back, that the others were walking down the hill together to\nthe village; nor did her attendant do her much good by his comments on\nMiss Crawford's great cleverness as a horse-woman, which he had been\nwatching with an interest almost equal to her own.\n\n\"It is a pleasure to see a lady with such a good heart for riding!\"\nsaid he. \"I never see one sit a horse better. She did not seem to have\na thought of fear. Very different from you, miss, when you first began,\nsix years ago come next Easter. Lord bless you! how you did tremble when\nSir Thomas first had you put on!\"\n\nIn the drawing-room Miss Crawford was also celebrated. Her merit in\nbeing gifted by Nature with strength and courage was fully appreciated\nby the Miss Bertrams; her delight in riding was like their own; her\nearly excellence in it was like their own, and they had great pleasure\nin praising it.\n\n\"I was sure she would ride well,\" said Julia; \"she has the make for it.\nHer figure is as neat as her brother's.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" added Maria, \"and her spirits are as good, and she has the same\nenergy of character. I cannot but think that good horsemanship has a\ngreat deal to do with the mind.\"\n\nWhen they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny whether she meant to ride\nthe next day.\n\n\"No, I do not know--not if you want the mare,\" was her answer.\n\n\"I do not want her at all for myself,\" said he; \"but whenever you are\nnext inclined to stay at home, I think Miss Crawford would be glad to\nhave her a longer time--for a whole morning, in short. She has a great\ndesire to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has been telling\nher of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal\nto it. But any morning will do for this. She would be extremely sorry to\ninterfere with you. It would be very wrong if she did. _She_ rides only\nfor pleasure; _you_ for health.\"\n\n\"I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly,\" said Fanny; \"I have been out\nvery often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong\nenough now to walk very well.\"\n\nEdmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to\nMansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the\nyoung people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly\nenjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this\nsort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield\nCommon disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There\nwere many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there\nwere shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always\nprovided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent\nin this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the\nhonours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and\ngood-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked\nof with pleasure--till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of\nthe party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and\nJulia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was excluded.\nIt was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr.\nRushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day;\nbut it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were\nseverely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home.\nAs Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased, and she had\nnot even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be\nsullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as\npossible over their dinner and dessert.\n\nBetween ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room,\nfresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse\nof what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would\nscarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep;\nand even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having\nasked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately\nattended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes\nthe brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and\ntheir remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the\nfirst pause came, Edmund, looking around, said, \"But where is Fanny? Is\nshe gone to bed?\"\n\n\"No, not that I know of,\" replied Mrs. Norris; \"she was here a moment\nago.\"\n\nHer own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was\na very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began\nscolding.\n\n\"That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening\nupon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as\n_we_ do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the\npoor basket. There is all the new calico, that was bought last week,\nnot touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out. You\nshould learn to think of other people; and, take my word for it, it is a\nshocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa.\"\n\nBefore half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table,\nand had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high good-humour,\nfrom the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming, \"I\nmust say, ma'am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in the\nhouse.\"\n\n\"Fanny,\" said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, \"I am sure you\nhave the headache.\"\n\nShe could not deny it, but said it was not very bad.\n\n\"I can hardly believe you,\" he replied; \"I know your looks too well. How\nlong have you had it?\"\n\n\"Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat.\"\n\n\"Did you go out in the heat?\"\n\n\"Go out! to be sure she did,\" said Mrs. Norris: \"would you have her stay\nwithin such a fine day as this? Were not we _all_ out? Even your mother\nwas out to-day for above an hour.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed, Edmund,\" added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly\nawakened by Mrs. Norris's sharp reprimand to Fanny; \"I was out above an\nhour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny\ncut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It\nwas shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the coming\nhome again.\"\n\n\"Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?\"\n\n\"Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing! _She_\nfound it hot enough; but they were so full-blown that one could not\nwait.\"\n\n\"There was no help for it, certainly,\" rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a rather\nsoftened voice; \"but I question whether her headache might not be caught\n_then_, sister. There is nothing so likely to give it as standing and\nstooping in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well to-morrow. Suppose\nyou let her have your aromatic vinegar; I always forget to have mine\nfilled.\"\n\n\"She has got it,\" said Lady Bertram; \"she has had it ever since she came\nback from your house the second time.\"\n\n\"What!\" cried Edmund; \"has she been walking as well as cutting roses;\nwalking across the hot park to your house, and doing it twice, ma'am? No\nwonder her head aches.\"\n\nMrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not hear.\n\n\"I was afraid it would be too much for her,\" said Lady Bertram; \"but\nwhen the roses were gathered, your aunt wished to have them, and then\nyou know they must be taken home.\"\n\n\"But were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice?\"\n\n\"No; but they were to be put into the spare room to dry; and, unluckily,\nFanny forgot to lock the door of the room and bring away the key, so she\nwas obliged to go again.\"\n\nEdmund got up and walked about the room, saying, \"And could nobody be\nemployed on such an errand but Fanny? Upon my word, ma'am, it has been a\nvery ill-managed business.\"\n\n\"I am sure I do not know how it was to have been done better,\" cried\nMrs. Norris, unable to be longer deaf; \"unless I had gone myself,\nindeed; but I cannot be in two places at once; and I was talking to Mr.\nGreen at that very time about your mother's dairymaid, by _her_ desire,\nand had promised John Groom to write to Mrs. Jefferies about his son,\nand the poor fellow was waiting for me half an hour. I think nobody\ncan justly accuse me of sparing myself upon any occasion, but really I\ncannot do everything at once. And as for Fanny's just stepping down\nto my house for me--it is not much above a quarter of a mile--I cannot\nthink I was unreasonable to ask it. How often do I pace it three times a\nday, early and late, ay, and in all weathers too, and say nothing about\nit?\"\n\n\"I wish Fanny had half your strength, ma'am.\"\n\n\"If Fanny would be more regular in her exercise, she would not be\nknocked up so soon. She has not been out on horseback now this long\nwhile, and I am persuaded that, when she does not ride, she ought to\nwalk. If she had been riding before, I should not have asked it of her.\nBut I thought it would rather do her good after being stooping among the\nroses; for there is nothing so refreshing as a walk after a fatigue\nof that kind; and though the sun was strong, it was not so very hot.\nBetween ourselves, Edmund,\" nodding significantly at his mother, \"it was\ncutting the roses, and dawdling about in the flower-garden, that did the\nmischief.\"\n\n\"I am afraid it was, indeed,\" said the more candid Lady Bertram, who had\noverheard her; \"I am very much afraid she caught the headache there,\nfor the heat was enough to kill anybody. It was as much as I could bear\nmyself. Sitting and calling to Pug, and trying to keep him from the\nflower-beds, was almost too much for me.\"\n\nEdmund said no more to either lady; but going quietly to another table,\non which the supper-tray yet remained, brought a glass of Madeira to\nFanny, and obliged her to drink the greater part. She wished to be able\nto decline it; but the tears, which a variety of feelings created, made\nit easier to swallow than to speak.\n\nVexed as Edmund was with his mother and aunt, he was still more angry\nwith himself. His own forgetfulness of her was worse than anything which\nthey had done. Nothing of this would have happened had she been properly\nconsidered; but she had been left four days together without any choice\nof companions or exercise, and without any excuse for avoiding whatever\nher unreasonable aunts might require. He was ashamed to think that\nfor four days together she had not had the power of riding, and very\nseriously resolved, however unwilling he must be to check a pleasure of\nMiss Crawford's, that it should never happen again.\n\nFanny went to bed with her heart as full as on the first evening of her\narrival at the Park. The state of her spirits had probably had its\nshare in her indisposition; for she had been feeling neglected, and been\nstruggling against discontent and envy for some days past. As she leant\non the sofa, to which she had retreated that she might not be seen, the\npain of her mind had been much beyond that in her head; and the sudden\nchange which Edmund's kindness had then occasioned, made her hardly know\nhow to support herself.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nFanny's rides recommenced the very next day; and as it was a pleasant\nfresh-feeling morning, less hot than the weather had lately been, Edmund\ntrusted that her losses, both of health and pleasure, would be soon made\ngood. While she was gone Mr. Rushworth arrived, escorting his mother,\nwho came to be civil and to shew her civility especially, in urging the\nexecution of the plan for visiting Sotherton, which had been started a\nfortnight before, and which, in consequence of her subsequent absence\nfrom home, had since lain dormant. Mrs. Norris and her nieces were all\nwell pleased with its revival, and an early day was named and agreed\nto, provided Mr. Crawford should be disengaged: the young ladies did\nnot forget that stipulation, and though Mrs. Norris would willingly have\nanswered for his being so, they would neither authorise the liberty nor\nrun the risk; and at last, on a hint from Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth\ndiscovered that the properest thing to be done was for him to walk down\nto the Parsonage directly, and call on Mr. Crawford, and inquire whether\nWednesday would suit him or not.\n\nBefore his return Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford came in. Having been out\nsome time, and taken a different route to the house, they had not met\nhim. Comfortable hopes, however, were given that he would find Mr.\nCrawford at home. The Sotherton scheme was mentioned of course. It was\nhardly possible, indeed, that anything else should be talked of,\nfor Mrs. Norris was in high spirits about it; and Mrs. Rushworth, a\nwell-meaning, civil, prosing, pompous woman, who thought nothing of\nconsequence, but as it related to her own and her son's concerns,\nhad not yet given over pressing Lady Bertram to be of the party. Lady\nBertram constantly declined it; but her placid manner of refusal made\nMrs. Rushworth still think she wished to come, till Mrs. Norris's more\nnumerous words and louder tone convinced her of the truth.\n\n\"The fatigue would be too much for my sister, a great deal too much, I\nassure you, my dear Mrs. Rushworth. Ten miles there, and ten back, you\nknow. You must excuse my sister on this occasion, and accept of our\ntwo dear girls and myself without her. Sotherton is the only place that\ncould give her a _wish_ to go so far, but it cannot be, indeed. She will\nhave a companion in Fanny Price, you know, so it will all do very well;\nand as for Edmund, as he is not here to speak for himself, I will answer\nfor his being most happy to join the party. He can go on horseback, you\nknow.\"\n\nMrs. Rushworth being obliged to yield to Lady Bertram's staying at home,\ncould only be sorry. \"The loss of her ladyship's company would be a\ngreat drawback, and she should have been extremely happy to have seen\nthe young lady too, Miss Price, who had never been at Sotherton yet, and\nit was a pity she should not see the place.\"\n\n\"You are very kind, you are all kindness, my dear madam,\" cried Mrs.\nNorris; \"but as to Fanny, she will have opportunities in plenty of\nseeing Sotherton. She has time enough before her; and her going now is\nquite out of the question. Lady Bertram could not possibly spare her.\"\n\n\"Oh no! I cannot do without Fanny.\"\n\nMrs. Rushworth proceeded next, under the conviction that everybody must\nbe wanting to see Sotherton, to include Miss Crawford in the invitation;\nand though Mrs. Grant, who had not been at the trouble of visiting Mrs.\nRushworth, on her coming into the neighbourhood, civilly declined it on\nher own account, she was glad to secure any pleasure for her sister;\nand Mary, properly pressed and persuaded, was not long in accepting\nher share of the civility. Mr. Rushworth came back from the Parsonage\nsuccessful; and Edmund made his appearance just in time to learn\nwhat had been settled for Wednesday, to attend Mrs. Rushworth to her\ncarriage, and walk half-way down the park with the two other ladies.\n\nOn his return to the breakfast-room, he found Mrs. Norris trying to\nmake up her mind as to whether Miss Crawford's being of the party were\ndesirable or not, or whether her brother's barouche would not be full\nwithout her. The Miss Bertrams laughed at the idea, assuring her that\nthe barouche would hold four perfectly well, independent of the box, on\nwhich _one_ might go with him.\n\n\"But why is it necessary,\" said Edmund, \"that Crawford's carriage, or\nhis _only_, should be employed? Why is no use to be made of my mother's\nchaise? I could not, when the scheme was first mentioned the other\nday, understand why a visit from the family were not to be made in the\ncarriage of the family.\"\n\n\"What!\" cried Julia: \"go boxed up three in a postchaise in this weather,\nwhen we may have seats in a barouche! No, my dear Edmund, that will not\nquite do.\"\n\n\"Besides,\" said Maria, \"I know that Mr. Crawford depends upon taking us.\nAfter what passed at first, he would claim it as a promise.\"\n\n\"And, my dear Edmund,\" added Mrs. Norris, \"taking out _two_ carriages\nwhen _one_ will do, would be trouble for nothing; and, between\nourselves, coachman is not very fond of the roads between this and\nSotherton: he always complains bitterly of the narrow lanes scratching\nhis carriage, and you know one should not like to have dear Sir Thomas,\nwhen he comes home, find all the varnish scratched off.\"\n\n\"That would not be a very handsome reason for using Mr. Crawford's,\"\nsaid Maria; \"but the truth is, that Wilcox is a stupid old fellow, and\ndoes not know how to drive. I will answer for it that we shall find no\ninconvenience from narrow roads on Wednesday.\"\n\n\"There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing unpleasant,\" said Edmund, \"in\ngoing on the barouche box.\"\n\n\"Unpleasant!\" cried Maria: \"oh dear! I believe it would be generally\nthought the favourite seat. There can be no comparison as to one's view\nof the country. Probably Miss Crawford will choose the barouche-box\nherself.\"\n\n\"There can be no objection, then, to Fanny's going with you; there can\nbe no doubt of your having room for her.\"\n\n\"Fanny!\" repeated Mrs. Norris; \"my dear Edmund, there is no idea of her\ngoing with us. She stays with her aunt. I told Mrs. Rushworth so. She is\nnot expected.\"\n\n\"You can have no reason, I imagine, madam,\" said he, addressing his\nmother, \"for wishing Fanny _not_ to be of the party, but as it relates\nto yourself, to your own comfort. If you could do without her, you would\nnot wish to keep her at home?\"\n\n\"To be sure not, but I _cannot_ do without her.\"\n\n\"You can, if I stay at home with you, as I mean to do.\"\n\nThere was a general cry out at this. \"Yes,\" he continued, \"there is no\nnecessity for my going, and I mean to stay at home. Fanny has a great\ndesire to see Sotherton. I know she wishes it very much. She has not\noften a gratification of the kind, and I am sure, ma'am, you would be\nglad to give her the pleasure now?\"\n\n\"Oh yes! very glad, if your aunt sees no objection.\"\n\nMrs. Norris was very ready with the only objection which could\nremain--their having positively assured Mrs. Rushworth that Fanny could\nnot go, and the very strange appearance there would consequently be in\ntaking her, which seemed to her a difficulty quite impossible to be got\nover. It must have the strangest appearance! It would be something so\nvery unceremonious, so bordering on disrespect for Mrs. Rushworth, whose\nown manners were such a pattern of good-breeding and attention, that she\nreally did not feel equal to it. Mrs. Norris had no affection for Fanny,\nand no wish of procuring her pleasure at any time; but her opposition to\nEdmund _now_, arose more from partiality for her own scheme, because it\n_was_ her own, than from anything else. She felt that she had arranged\neverything extremely well, and that any alteration must be for the\nworse. When Edmund, therefore, told her in reply, as he did when she\nwould give him the hearing, that she need not distress herself on Mrs.\nRushworth's account, because he had taken the opportunity, as he walked\nwith her through the hall, of mentioning Miss Price as one who would\nprobably be of the party, and had directly received a very sufficient\ninvitation for his cousin, Mrs. Norris was too much vexed to submit with\na very good grace, and would only say, \"Very well, very well, just as\nyou chuse, settle it your own way, I am sure I do not care about it.\"\n\n\"It seems very odd,\" said Maria, \"that you should be staying at home\ninstead of Fanny.\"\n\n\"I am sure she ought to be very much obliged to you,\" added Julia,\nhastily leaving the room as she spoke, from a consciousness that she\nought to offer to stay at home herself.\n\n\"Fanny will feel quite as grateful as the occasion requires,\" was\nEdmund's only reply, and the subject dropt.\n\nFanny's gratitude, when she heard the plan, was, in fact, much greater\nthan her pleasure. She felt Edmund's kindness with all, and more than\nall, the sensibility which he, unsuspicious of her fond attachment,\ncould be aware of; but that he should forego any enjoyment on her\naccount gave her pain, and her own satisfaction in seeing Sotherton\nwould be nothing without him.\n\nThe next meeting of the two Mansfield families produced another\nalteration in the plan, and one that was admitted with general\napprobation. Mrs. Grant offered herself as companion for the day to Lady\nBertram in lieu of her son, and Dr. Grant was to join them at dinner.\nLady Bertram was very well pleased to have it so, and the young ladies\nwere in spirits again. Even Edmund was very thankful for an arrangement\nwhich restored him to his share of the party; and Mrs. Norris thought it\nan excellent plan, and had it at her tongue's end, and was on the point\nof proposing it, when Mrs. Grant spoke.\n\nWednesday was fine, and soon after breakfast the barouche arrived, Mr.\nCrawford driving his sisters; and as everybody was ready, there was\nnothing to be done but for Mrs. Grant to alight and the others to take\ntheir places. The place of all places, the envied seat, the post of\nhonour, was unappropriated. To whose happy lot was it to fall? While\neach of the Miss Bertrams were meditating how best, and with the most\nappearance of obliging the others, to secure it, the matter was settled\nby Mrs. Grant's saying, as she stepped from the carriage, \"As there are\nfive of you, it will be better that one should sit with Henry; and as\nyou were saying lately that you wished you could drive, Julia, I think\nthis will be a good opportunity for you to take a lesson.\"\n\nHappy Julia! Unhappy Maria! The former was on the barouche-box in a\nmoment, the latter took her seat within, in gloom and mortification; and\nthe carriage drove off amid the good wishes of the two remaining ladies,\nand the barking of Pug in his mistress's arms.\n\nTheir road was through a pleasant country; and Fanny, whose rides had\nnever been extensive, was soon beyond her knowledge, and was very happy\nin observing all that was new, and admiring all that was pretty. She was\nnot often invited to join in the conversation of the others, nor did\nshe desire it. Her own thoughts and reflections were habitually her\nbest companions; and, in observing the appearance of the country, the\nbearings of the roads, the difference of soil, the state of the harvest,\nthe cottages, the cattle, the children, she found entertainment that\ncould only have been heightened by having Edmund to speak to of what she\nfelt. That was the only point of resemblance between her and the lady\nwho sat by her: in everything but a value for Edmund, Miss Crawford was\nvery unlike her. She had none of Fanny's delicacy of taste, of mind, of\nfeeling; she saw Nature, inanimate Nature, with little observation;\nher attention was all for men and women, her talents for the light\nand lively. In looking back after Edmund, however, when there was any\nstretch of road behind them, or when he gained on them in ascending a\nconsiderable hill, they were united, and a \"there he is\" broke at the\nsame moment from them both, more than once.\n\nFor the first seven miles Miss Bertram had very little real comfort:\nher prospect always ended in Mr. Crawford and her sister sitting side by\nside, full of conversation and merriment; and to see only his expressive\nprofile as he turned with a smile to Julia, or to catch the laugh of\nthe other, was a perpetual source of irritation, which her own sense\nof propriety could but just smooth over. When Julia looked back, it was\nwith a countenance of delight, and whenever she spoke to them, it was in\nthe highest spirits: \"her view of the country was charming, she wished\nthey could all see it,\" etc.; but her only offer of exchange was\naddressed to Miss Crawford, as they gained the summit of a long hill,\nand was not more inviting than this: \"Here is a fine burst of country. I\nwish you had my seat, but I dare say you will not take it, let me press\nyou ever so much;\" and Miss Crawford could hardly answer before they\nwere moving again at a good pace.\n\nWhen they came within the influence of Sotherton associations, it was\nbetter for Miss Bertram, who might be said to have two strings to her\nbow. She had Rushworth feelings, and Crawford feelings, and in\nthe vicinity of Sotherton the former had considerable effect. Mr.\nRushworth's consequence was hers. She could not tell Miss Crawford that\n\"those woods belonged to Sotherton,\" she could not carelessly observe\nthat \"she believed that it was now all Mr. Rushworth's property on each\nside of the road,\" without elation of heart; and it was a pleasure\nto increase with their approach to the capital freehold mansion,\nand ancient manorial residence of the family, with all its rights of\ncourt-leet and court-baron.\n\n\"Now we shall have no more rough road, Miss Crawford; our difficulties\nare over. The rest of the way is such as it ought to be. Mr. Rushworth\nhas made it since he succeeded to the estate. Here begins the village.\nThose cottages are really a disgrace. The church spire is reckoned\nremarkably handsome. I am glad the church is not so close to the great\nhouse as often happens in old places. The annoyance of the bells must be\nterrible. There is the parsonage: a tidy-looking house, and I understand\nthe clergyman and his wife are very decent people. Those are almshouses,\nbuilt by some of the family. To the right is the steward's house; he\nis a very respectable man. Now we are coming to the lodge-gates; but we\nhave nearly a mile through the park still. It is not ugly, you see, at\nthis end; there is some fine timber, but the situation of the house is\ndreadful. We go down hill to it for half a mile, and it is a pity, for\nit would not be an ill-looking place if it had a better approach.\"\n\nMiss Crawford was not slow to admire; she pretty well guessed Miss\nBertram's feelings, and made it a point of honour to promote her\nenjoyment to the utmost. Mrs. Norris was all delight and volubility; and\neven Fanny had something to say in admiration, and might be heard with\ncomplacency. Her eye was eagerly taking in everything within her reach;\nand after being at some pains to get a view of the house, and observing\nthat \"it was a sort of building which she could not look at but with\nrespect,\" she added, \"Now, where is the avenue? The house fronts the\neast, I perceive. The avenue, therefore, must be at the back of it. Mr.\nRushworth talked of the west front.\"\n\n\"Yes, it is exactly behind the house; begins at a little distance, and\nascends for half a mile to the extremity of the grounds. You may see\nsomething of it here--something of the more distant trees. It is oak\nentirely.\"\n\nMiss Bertram could now speak with decided information of what she had\nknown nothing about when Mr. Rushworth had asked her opinion; and her\nspirits were in as happy a flutter as vanity and pride could furnish,\nwhen they drove up to the spacious stone steps before the principal\nentrance.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nMr. Rushworth was at the door to receive his fair lady; and the whole\nparty were welcomed by him with due attention. In the drawing-room they\nwere met with equal cordiality by the mother, and Miss Bertram had all\nthe distinction with each that she could wish. After the business of\narriving was over, it was first necessary to eat, and the doors were\nthrown open to admit them through one or two intermediate rooms into the\nappointed dining-parlour, where a collation was prepared with abundance\nand elegance. Much was said, and much was ate, and all went well. The\nparticular object of the day was then considered. How would Mr. Crawford\nlike, in what manner would he chuse, to take a survey of the grounds?\nMr. Rushworth mentioned his curricle. Mr. Crawford suggested the greater\ndesirableness of some carriage which might convey more than two. \"To be\ndepriving themselves of the advantage of other eyes and other judgments,\nmight be an evil even beyond the loss of present pleasure.\"\n\nMrs. Rushworth proposed that the chaise should be taken also; but this\nwas scarcely received as an amendment: the young ladies neither smiled\nnor spoke. Her next proposition, of shewing the house to such of them\nas had not been there before, was more acceptable, for Miss Bertram\nwas pleased to have its size displayed, and all were glad to be doing\nsomething.\n\nThe whole party rose accordingly, and under Mrs. Rushworth's guidance\nwere shewn through a number of rooms, all lofty, and many large, and\namply furnished in the taste of fifty years back, with shining floors,\nsolid mahogany, rich damask, marble, gilding, and carving, each handsome\nin its way. Of pictures there were abundance, and some few good, but\nthe larger part were family portraits, no longer anything to anybody\nbut Mrs. Rushworth, who had been at great pains to learn all that the\nhousekeeper could teach, and was now almost equally well qualified to\nshew the house. On the present occasion she addressed herself chiefly to\nMiss Crawford and Fanny, but there was no comparison in the willingness\nof their attention; for Miss Crawford, who had seen scores of great\nhouses, and cared for none of them, had only the appearance of civilly\nlistening, while Fanny, to whom everything was almost as interesting\nas it was new, attended with unaffected earnestness to all that Mrs.\nRushworth could relate of the family in former times, its rise and\ngrandeur, regal visits and loyal efforts, delighted to connect anything\nwith history already known, or warm her imagination with scenes of the\npast.\n\nThe situation of the house excluded the possibility of much prospect\nfrom any of the rooms; and while Fanny and some of the others were\nattending Mrs. Rushworth, Henry Crawford was looking grave and shaking\nhis head at the windows. Every room on the west front looked across\na lawn to the beginning of the avenue immediately beyond tall iron\npalisades and gates.\n\nHaving visited many more rooms than could be supposed to be of any\nother use than to contribute to the window-tax, and find employment for\nhousemaids, \"Now,\" said Mrs. Rushworth, \"we are coming to the chapel,\nwhich properly we ought to enter from above, and look down upon; but\nas we are quite among friends, I will take you in this way, if you will\nexcuse me.\"\n\nThey entered. Fanny's imagination had prepared her for something\ngrander than a mere spacious, oblong room, fitted up for the purpose of\ndevotion: with nothing more striking or more solemn than the profusion\nof mahogany, and the crimson velvet cushions appearing over the ledge of\nthe family gallery above. \"I am disappointed,\" said she, in a low voice,\nto Edmund. \"This is not my idea of a chapel. There is nothing awful\nhere, nothing melancholy, nothing grand. Here are no aisles, no arches,\nno inscriptions, no banners. No banners, cousin, to be 'blown by the\nnight wind of heaven.' No signs that a 'Scottish monarch sleeps below.'\"\n\n\"You forget, Fanny, how lately all this has been built, and for how\nconfined a purpose, compared with the old chapels of castles and\nmonasteries. It was only for the private use of the family. They have\nbeen buried, I suppose, in the parish church. _There_ you must look for\nthe banners and the achievements.\"\n\n\"It was foolish of me not to think of all that; but I am disappointed.\"\n\nMrs. Rushworth began her relation. \"This chapel was fitted up as you see\nit, in James the Second's time. Before that period, as I understand,\nthe pews were only wainscot; and there is some reason to think that\nthe linings and cushions of the pulpit and family seat were only purple\ncloth; but this is not quite certain. It is a handsome chapel, and was\nformerly in constant use both morning and evening. Prayers were always\nread in it by the domestic chaplain, within the memory of many; but the\nlate Mr. Rushworth left it off.\"\n\n\"Every generation has its improvements,\" said Miss Crawford, with a\nsmile, to Edmund.\n\nMrs. Rushworth was gone to repeat her lesson to Mr. Crawford; and\nEdmund, Fanny, and Miss Crawford remained in a cluster together.\n\n\"It is a pity,\" cried Fanny, \"that the custom should have been\ndiscontinued. It was a valuable part of former times. There is something\nin a chapel and chaplain so much in character with a great house,\nwith one's ideas of what such a household should be! A whole family\nassembling regularly for the purpose of prayer is fine!\"\n\n\"Very fine indeed,\" said Miss Crawford, laughing. \"It must do the heads\nof the family a great deal of good to force all the poor housemaids and\nfootmen to leave business and pleasure, and say their prayers here twice\na day, while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying away.\"\n\n\"_That_ is hardly Fanny's idea of a family assembling,\" said Edmund. \"If\nthe master and mistress do _not_ attend themselves, there must be more\nharm than good in the custom.\"\n\n\"At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own devices on such\nsubjects. Everybody likes to go their own way--to chuse their own time\nand manner of devotion. The obligation of attendance, the formality, the\nrestraint, the length of time--altogether it is a formidable thing, and\nwhat nobody likes; and if the good people who used to kneel and gape in\nthat gallery could have foreseen that the time would ever come when men\nand women might lie another ten minutes in bed, when they woke with a\nheadache, without danger of reprobation, because chapel was missed,\nthey would have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you imagine with what\nunwilling feelings the former belles of the house of Rushworth did\nmany a time repair to this chapel? The young Mrs. Eleanors and Mrs.\nBridgets--starched up into seeming piety, but with heads full of\nsomething very different--especially if the poor chaplain were not worth\nlooking at--and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very inferior even\nto what they are now.\"\n\nFor a few moments she was unanswered. Fanny coloured and looked\nat Edmund, but felt too angry for speech; and he needed a little\nrecollection before he could say, \"Your lively mind can hardly be\nserious even on serious subjects. You have given us an amusing sketch,\nand human nature cannot say it was not so. We must all feel _at_ _times_\nthe difficulty of fixing our thoughts as we could wish; but if you are\nsupposing it a frequent thing, that is to say, a weakness grown into a\nhabit from neglect, what could be expected from the _private_ devotions\nof such persons? Do you think the minds which are suffered, which\nare indulged in wanderings in a chapel, would be more collected in a\ncloset?\"\n\n\"Yes, very likely. They would have two chances at least in their favour.\nThere would be less to distract the attention from without, and it would\nnot be tried so long.\"\n\n\"The mind which does not struggle against itself under _one_\ncircumstance, would find objects to distract it in the _other_, I\nbelieve; and the influence of the place and of example may often rouse\nbetter feelings than are begun with. The greater length of the service,\nhowever, I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind. One\nwishes it were not so; but I have not yet left Oxford long enough to\nforget what chapel prayers are.\"\n\nWhile this was passing, the rest of the party being scattered about the\nchapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford's attention to her sister, by saying,\n\"Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side by side, exactly as\nif the ceremony were going to be performed. Have not they completely the\nair of it?\"\n\nMr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward to Maria,\nsaid, in a voice which she only could hear, \"I do not like to see Miss\nBertram so near the altar.\"\n\nStarting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering\nherself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him, in a tone not\nmuch louder, \"If he would give her away?\"\n\n\"I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly,\" was his reply, with a look\nof meaning.\n\nJulia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke.\n\n\"Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place\ndirectly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether,\nand nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant.\" And she\ntalked and laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the\ncomprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose her sister to\nthe whispered gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke\nwith proper smiles and dignity of its being a most happy event to her\nwhenever it took place.\n\n\"If Edmund were but in orders!\" cried Julia, and running to where he\nstood with Miss Crawford and Fanny: \"My dear Edmund, if you were but in\norders now, you might perform the ceremony directly. How unlucky that\nyou are not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready.\"\n\nMiss Crawford's countenance, as Julia spoke, might have amused a\ndisinterested observer. She looked almost aghast under the new idea she\nwas receiving. Fanny pitied her. \"How distressed she will be at what she\nsaid just now,\" passed across her mind.\n\n\"Ordained!\" said Miss Crawford; \"what, are you to be a clergyman?\"\n\n\"Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father's return--probably at\nChristmas.\"\n\nMiss Crawford, rallying her spirits, and recovering her complexion,\nreplied only, \"If I had known this before, I would have spoken of the\ncloth with more respect,\" and turned the subject.\n\nThe chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and stillness\nwhich reigned in it, with few interruptions, throughout the year. Miss\nBertram, displeased with her sister, led the way, and all seemed to feel\nthat they had been there long enough.\n\nThe lower part of the house had been now entirely shewn, and Mrs.\nRushworth, never weary in the cause, would have proceeded towards the\nprincipal staircase, and taken them through all the rooms above, if her\nson had not interposed with a doubt of there being time enough. \"For\nif,\" said he, with the sort of self-evident proposition which many a\nclearer head does not always avoid, \"we are _too_ long going over the\nhouse, we shall not have time for what is to be done out of doors. It is\npast two, and we are to dine at five.\"\n\nMrs. Rushworth submitted; and the question of surveying the grounds,\nwith the who and the how, was likely to be more fully agitated, and Mrs.\nNorris was beginning to arrange by what junction of carriages and horses\nmost could be done, when the young people, meeting with an outward door,\ntemptingly open on a flight of steps which led immediately to turf and\nshrubs, and all the sweets of pleasure-grounds, as by one impulse, one\nwish for air and liberty, all walked out.\n\n\"Suppose we turn down here for the present,\" said Mrs. Rushworth,\ncivilly taking the hint and following them. \"Here are the greatest\nnumber of our plants, and here are the curious pheasants.\"\n\n\"Query,\" said Mr. Crawford, looking round him, \"whether we may not find\nsomething to employ us here before we go farther? I see walls of great\npromise. Mr. Rushworth, shall we summon a council on this lawn?\"\n\n\"James,\" said Mrs. Rushworth to her son, \"I believe the wilderness\nwill be new to all the party. The Miss Bertrams have never seen the\nwilderness yet.\"\n\nNo objection was made, but for some time there seemed no inclination to\nmove in any plan, or to any distance. All were attracted at first by the\nplants or the pheasants, and all dispersed about in happy independence.\nMr. Crawford was the first to move forward to examine the capabilities\nof that end of the house. The lawn, bounded on each side by a high wall,\ncontained beyond the first planted area a bowling-green, and beyond\nthe bowling-green a long terrace walk, backed by iron palisades, and\ncommanding a view over them into the tops of the trees of the wilderness\nimmediately adjoining. It was a good spot for fault-finding. Mr.\nCrawford was soon followed by Miss Bertram and Mr. Rushworth; and when,\nafter a little time, the others began to form into parties, these three\nwere found in busy consultation on the terrace by Edmund, Miss Crawford,\nand Fanny, who seemed as naturally to unite, and who, after a short\nparticipation of their regrets and difficulties, left them and walked\non. The remaining three, Mrs. Rushworth, Mrs. Norris, and Julia, were\nstill far behind; for Julia, whose happy star no longer prevailed,\nwas obliged to keep by the side of Mrs. Rushworth, and restrain her\nimpatient feet to that lady's slow pace, while her aunt, having fallen\nin with the housekeeper, who was come out to feed the pheasants, was\nlingering behind in gossip with her. Poor Julia, the only one out of\nthe nine not tolerably satisfied with their lot, was now in a state of\ncomplete penance, and as different from the Julia of the barouche-box as\ncould well be imagined. The politeness which she had been brought up to\npractise as a duty made it impossible for her to escape; while the\nwant of that higher species of self-command, that just consideration of\nothers, that knowledge of her own heart, that principle of right, which\nhad not formed any essential part of her education, made her miserable\nunder it.\n\n\"This is insufferably hot,\" said Miss Crawford, when they had taken one\nturn on the terrace, and were drawing a second time to the door in the\nmiddle which opened to the wilderness. \"Shall any of us object to being\ncomfortable? Here is a nice little wood, if one can but get into it.\nWhat happiness if the door should not be locked! but of course it is;\nfor in these great places the gardeners are the only people who can go\nwhere they like.\"\n\nThe door, however, proved not to be locked, and they were all agreed in\nturning joyfully through it, and leaving the unmitigated glare of day\nbehind. A considerable flight of steps landed them in the wilderness,\nwhich was a planted wood of about two acres, and though chiefly of\nlarch and laurel, and beech cut down, and though laid out with too much\nregularity, was darkness and shade, and natural beauty, compared with\nthe bowling-green and the terrace. They all felt the refreshment of it,\nand for some time could only walk and admire. At length, after a short\npause, Miss Crawford began with, \"So you are to be a clergyman, Mr.\nBertram. This is rather a surprise to me.\"\n\n\"Why should it surprise you? You must suppose me designed for some\nprofession, and might perceive that I am neither a lawyer, nor a\nsoldier, nor a sailor.\"\n\n\"Very true; but, in short, it had not occurred to me. And you know there\nis generally an uncle or a grandfather to leave a fortune to the second\nson.\"\n\n\"A very praiseworthy practice,\" said Edmund, \"but not quite universal.\nI am one of the exceptions, and _being_ one, must do something for\nmyself.\"\n\n\"But why are you to be a clergyman? I thought _that_ was always the lot\nof the youngest, where there were many to chuse before him.\"\n\n\"Do you think the church itself never chosen, then?\"\n\n\"_Never_ is a black word. But yes, in the _never_ of conversation, which\nmeans _not_ _very_ _often_, I do think it. For what is to be done in the\nchurch? Men love to distinguish themselves, and in either of the other\nlines distinction may be gained, but not in the church. A clergyman is\nnothing.\"\n\n\"The _nothing_ of conversation has its gradations, I hope, as well as\nthe _never_. A clergyman cannot be high in state or fashion. He must\nnot head mobs, or set the ton in dress. But I cannot call that situation\nnothing which has the charge of all that is of the first importance\nto mankind, individually or collectively considered, temporally and\neternally, which has the guardianship of religion and morals, and\nconsequently of the manners which result from their influence. No one\nhere can call the _office_ nothing. If the man who holds it is so, it\nis by the neglect of his duty, by foregoing its just importance, and\nstepping out of his place to appear what he ought not to appear.\"\n\n\"_You_ assign greater consequence to the clergyman than one has been\nused to hear given, or than I can quite comprehend. One does not see\nmuch of this influence and importance in society, and how can it be\nacquired where they are so seldom seen themselves? How can two sermons a\nweek, even supposing them worth hearing, supposing the preacher to have\nthe sense to prefer Blair's to his own, do all that you speak of? govern\nthe conduct and fashion the manners of a large congregation for the rest\nof the week? One scarcely sees a clergyman out of his pulpit.\"\n\n\"_You_ are speaking of London, _I_ am speaking of the nation at large.\"\n\n\"The metropolis, I imagine, is a pretty fair sample of the rest.\"\n\n\"Not, I should hope, of the proportion of virtue to vice throughout the\nkingdom. We do not look in great cities for our best morality. It is not\nthere that respectable people of any denomination can do most good; and\nit certainly is not there that the influence of the clergy can be most\nfelt. A fine preacher is followed and admired; but it is not in fine\npreaching only that a good clergyman will be useful in his parish and\nhis neighbourhood, where the parish and neighbourhood are of a size\ncapable of knowing his private character, and observing his general\nconduct, which in London can rarely be the case. The clergy are lost\nthere in the crowds of their parishioners. They are known to the largest\npart only as preachers. And with regard to their influencing public\nmanners, Miss Crawford must not misunderstand me, or suppose I mean to\ncall them the arbiters of good-breeding, the regulators of refinement\nand courtesy, the masters of the ceremonies of life. The _manners_ I\nspeak of might rather be called _conduct_, perhaps, the result of good\nprinciples; the effect, in short, of those doctrines which it is their\nduty to teach and recommend; and it will, I believe, be everywhere\nfound, that as the clergy are, or are not what they ought to be, so are\nthe rest of the nation.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Fanny, with gentle earnestness.\n\n\"There,\" cried Miss Crawford, \"you have quite convinced Miss Price\nalready.\"\n\n\"I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too.\"\n\n\"I do not think you ever will,\" said she, with an arch smile; \"I am just\nas much surprised now as I was at first that you should intend to take\norders. You really are fit for something better. Come, do change your\nmind. It is not too late. Go into the law.\"\n\n\"Go into the law! With as much ease as I was told to go into this\nwilderness.\"\n\n\"Now you are going to say something about law being the worst wilderness\nof the two, but I forestall you; remember, I have forestalled you.\"\n\n\"You need not hurry when the object is only to prevent my saying a\n_bon_ _mot_, for there is not the least wit in my nature. I am a very\nmatter-of-fact, plain-spoken being, and may blunder on the borders of a\nrepartee for half an hour together without striking it out.\"\n\nA general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful. Fanny made the first\ninterruption by saying, \"I wonder that I should be tired with only\nwalking in this sweet wood; but the next time we come to a seat, if it\nis not disagreeable to you, I should be glad to sit down for a little\nwhile.\"\n\n\"My dear Fanny,\" cried Edmund, immediately drawing her arm within his,\n\"how thoughtless I have been! I hope you are not very tired. Perhaps,\"\nturning to Miss Crawford, \"my other companion may do me the honour of\ntaking an arm.\"\n\n\"Thank you, but I am not at all tired.\" She took it, however, as she\nspoke, and the gratification of having her do so, of feeling such a\nconnexion for the first time, made him a little forgetful of Fanny.\n\"You scarcely touch me,\" said he. \"You do not make me of any use. What a\ndifference in the weight of a woman's arm from that of a man! At Oxford\nI have been a good deal used to have a man lean on me for the length of\na street, and you are only a fly in the comparison.\"\n\n\"I am really not tired, which I almost wonder at; for we must have\nwalked at least a mile in this wood. Do not you think we have?\"\n\n\"Not half a mile,\" was his sturdy answer; for he was not yet so much in\nlove as to measure distance, or reckon time, with feminine lawlessness.\n\n\"Oh! you do not consider how much we have wound about. We have taken\nsuch a very serpentine course, and the wood itself must be half a mile\nlong in a straight line, for we have never seen the end of it yet since\nwe left the first great path.\"\n\n\"But if you remember, before we left that first great path, we saw\ndirectly to the end of it. We looked down the whole vista, and saw it\nclosed by iron gates, and it could not have been more than a furlong in\nlength.\"\n\n\"Oh! I know nothing of your furlongs, but I am sure it is a very long\nwood, and that we have been winding in and out ever since we came into\nit; and therefore, when I say that we have walked a mile in it, I must\nspeak within compass.\"\n\n\"We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here,\" said Edmund, taking\nout his watch. \"Do you think we are walking four miles an hour?\"\n\n\"Oh! do not attack me with your watch. A watch is always too fast or too\nslow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch.\"\n\nA few steps farther brought them out at the bottom of the very walk they\nhad been talking of; and standing back, well shaded and sheltered, and\nlooking over a ha-ha into the park, was a comfortable-sized bench, on\nwhich they all sat down.\n\n\"I am afraid you are very tired, Fanny,\" said Edmund, observing her;\n\"why would not you speak sooner? This will be a bad day's amusement for\nyou if you are to be knocked up. Every sort of exercise fatigues her so\nsoon, Miss Crawford, except riding.\"\n\n\"How abominable in you, then, to let me engross her horse as I did all\nlast week! I am ashamed of you and of myself, but it shall never happen\nagain.\"\n\n\"_Your_ attentiveness and consideration makes me more sensible of my own\nneglect. Fanny's interest seems in safer hands with you than with me.\"\n\n\"That she should be tired now, however, gives me no surprise; for there\nis nothing in the course of one's duties so fatiguing as what we have\nbeen doing this morning: seeing a great house, dawdling from one room to\nanother, straining one's eyes and one's attention, hearing what one does\nnot understand, admiring what one does not care for. It is generally\nallowed to be the greatest bore in the world, and Miss Price has found\nit so, though she did not know it.\"\n\n\"I shall soon be rested,\" said Fanny; \"to sit in the shade on a fine\nday, and look upon verdure, is the most perfect refreshment.\"\n\nAfter sitting a little while Miss Crawford was up again. \"I must move,\"\nsaid she; \"resting fatigues me. I have looked across the ha-ha till I\nam weary. I must go and look through that iron gate at the same view,\nwithout being able to see it so well.\"\n\nEdmund left the seat likewise. \"Now, Miss Crawford, if you will look up\nthe walk, you will convince yourself that it cannot be half a mile long,\nor half half a mile.\"\n\n\"It is an immense distance,\" said she; \"I see _that_ with a glance.\"\n\nHe still reasoned with her, but in vain. She would not calculate, she\nwould not compare. She would only smile and assert. The greatest degree\nof rational consistency could not have been more engaging, and they\ntalked with mutual satisfaction. At last it was agreed that they should\nendeavour to determine the dimensions of the wood by walking a little\nmore about it. They would go to one end of it, in the line they were\nthen in--for there was a straight green walk along the bottom by\nthe side of the ha-ha--and perhaps turn a little way in some other\ndirection, if it seemed likely to assist them, and be back in a few\nminutes. Fanny said she was rested, and would have moved too, but this\nwas not suffered. Edmund urged her remaining where she was with an\nearnestness which she could not resist, and she was left on the bench to\nthink with pleasure of her cousin's care, but with great regret that she\nwas not stronger. She watched them till they had turned the corner, and\nlistened till all sound of them had ceased.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nA quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed away, and Fanny was still\nthinking of Edmund, Miss Crawford, and herself, without interruption\nfrom any one. She began to be surprised at being left so long, and to\nlisten with an anxious desire of hearing their steps and their voices\nagain. She listened, and at length she heard; she heard voices and feet\napproaching; but she had just satisfied herself that it was not those\nshe wanted, when Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford issued\nfrom the same path which she had trod herself, and were before her.\n\n\"Miss Price all alone\" and \"My dear Fanny, how comes this?\" were the\nfirst salutations. She told her story. \"Poor dear Fanny,\" cried her\ncousin, \"how ill you have been used by them! You had better have staid\nwith us.\"\n\nThen seating herself with a gentleman on each side, she resumed\nthe conversation which had engaged them before, and discussed the\npossibility of improvements with much animation. Nothing was fixed\non; but Henry Crawford was full of ideas and projects, and, generally\nspeaking, whatever he proposed was immediately approved, first by her,\nand then by Mr. Rushworth, whose principal business seemed to be to\nhear the others, and who scarcely risked an original thought of his own\nbeyond a wish that they had seen his friend Smith's place.\n\nAfter some minutes spent in this way, Miss Bertram, observing the iron\ngate, expressed a wish of passing through it into the park, that their\nviews and their plans might be more comprehensive. It was the very thing\nof all others to be wished, it was the best, it was the only way of\nproceeding with any advantage, in Henry Crawford's opinion; and he\ndirectly saw a knoll not half a mile off, which would give them exactly\nthe requisite command of the house. Go therefore they must to that\nknoll, and through that gate; but the gate was locked. Mr. Rushworth\nwished he had brought the key; he had been very near thinking whether he\nshould not bring the key; he was determined he would never come without\nthe key again; but still this did not remove the present evil. They\ncould not get through; and as Miss Bertram's inclination for so doing\ndid by no means lessen, it ended in Mr. Rushworth's declaring outright\nthat he would go and fetch the key. He set off accordingly.\n\n\"It is undoubtedly the best thing we can do now, as we are so far from\nthe house already,\" said Mr. Crawford, when he was gone.\n\n\"Yes, there is nothing else to be done. But now, sincerely, do not you\nfind the place altogether worse than you expected?\"\n\n\"No, indeed, far otherwise. I find it better, grander, more complete in\nits style, though that style may not be the best. And to tell you the\ntruth,\" speaking rather lower, \"I do not think that _I_ shall ever see\nSotherton again with so much pleasure as I do now. Another summer will\nhardly improve it to me.\"\n\nAfter a moment's embarrassment the lady replied, \"You are too much a\nman of the world not to see with the eyes of the world. If other people\nthink Sotherton improved, I have no doubt that you will.\"\n\n\"I am afraid I am not quite so much the man of the world as might be\ngood for me in some points. My feelings are not quite so evanescent, nor\nmy memory of the past under such easy dominion as one finds to be the\ncase with men of the world.\"\n\nThis was followed by a short silence. Miss Bertram began again. \"You\nseemed to enjoy your drive here very much this morning. I was glad to\nsee you so well entertained. You and Julia were laughing the whole way.\"\n\n\"Were we? Yes, I believe we were; but I have not the least recollection\nat what. Oh! I believe I was relating to her some ridiculous stories of\nan old Irish groom of my uncle's. Your sister loves to laugh.\"\n\n\"You think her more light-hearted than I am?\"\n\n\"More easily amused,\" he replied; \"consequently, you know,\" smiling,\n\"better company. I could not have hoped to entertain you with Irish\nanecdotes during a ten miles' drive.\"\n\n\"Naturally, I believe, I am as lively as Julia, but I have more to think\nof now.\"\n\n\"You have, undoubtedly; and there are situations in which very high\nspirits would denote insensibility. Your prospects, however, are too\nfair to justify want of spirits. You have a very smiling scene before\nyou.\"\n\n\"Do you mean literally or figuratively? Literally, I conclude. Yes,\ncertainly, the sun shines, and the park looks very cheerful. But\nunluckily that iron gate, that ha-ha, give me a feeling of restraint and\nhardship. 'I cannot get out,' as the starling said.\" As she spoke, and\nit was with expression, she walked to the gate: he followed her. \"Mr.\nRushworth is so long fetching this key!\"\n\n\"And for the world you would not get out without the key and without Mr.\nRushworth's authority and protection, or I think you might with little\ndifficulty pass round the edge of the gate, here, with my assistance;\nI think it might be done, if you really wished to be more at large, and\ncould allow yourself to think it not prohibited.\"\n\n\"Prohibited! nonsense! I certainly can get out that way, and I will.\nMr. Rushworth will be here in a moment, you know; we shall not be out of\nsight.\"\n\n\"Or if we are, Miss Price will be so good as to tell him that he will\nfind us near that knoll: the grove of oak on the knoll.\"\n\nFanny, feeling all this to be wrong, could not help making an effort to\nprevent it. \"You will hurt yourself, Miss Bertram,\" she cried; \"you will\ncertainly hurt yourself against those spikes; you will tear your gown;\nyou will be in danger of slipping into the ha-ha. You had better not\ngo.\"\n\nHer cousin was safe on the other side while these words were spoken,\nand, smiling with all the good-humour of success, she said, \"Thank you,\nmy dear Fanny, but I and my gown are alive and well, and so good-bye.\"\n\nFanny was again left to her solitude, and with no increase of pleasant\nfeelings, for she was sorry for almost all that she had seen and heard,\nastonished at Miss Bertram, and angry with Mr. Crawford. By taking\na circuitous route, and, as it appeared to her, very unreasonable\ndirection to the knoll, they were soon beyond her eye; and for some\nminutes longer she remained without sight or sound of any companion.\nShe seemed to have the little wood all to herself. She could almost\nhave thought that Edmund and Miss Crawford had left it, but that it was\nimpossible for Edmund to forget her so entirely.\n\nShe was again roused from disagreeable musings by sudden footsteps:\nsomebody was coming at a quick pace down the principal walk. She\nexpected Mr. Rushworth, but it was Julia, who, hot and out of breath,\nand with a look of disappointment, cried out on seeing her, \"Heyday!\nWhere are the others? I thought Maria and Mr. Crawford were with you.\"\n\nFanny explained.\n\n\"A pretty trick, upon my word! I cannot see them anywhere,\" looking\neagerly into the park. \"But they cannot be very far off, and I think I\nam equal to as much as Maria, even without help.\"\n\n\"But, Julia, Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment with the key. Do\nwait for Mr. Rushworth.\"\n\n\"Not I, indeed. I have had enough of the family for one morning. Why,\nchild, I have but this moment escaped from his horrible mother. Such a\npenance as I have been enduring, while you were sitting here so composed\nand so happy! It might have been as well, perhaps, if you had been in my\nplace, but you always contrive to keep out of these scrapes.\"\n\nThis was a most unjust reflection, but Fanny could allow for it, and let\nit pass: Julia was vexed, and her temper was hasty; but she felt that it\nwould not last, and therefore, taking no notice, only asked her if she\nhad not seen Mr. Rushworth.\n\n\"Yes, yes, we saw him. He was posting away as if upon life and death,\nand could but just spare time to tell us his errand, and where you all\nwere.\"\n\n\"It is a pity he should have so much trouble for nothing.\"\n\n\"_That_ is Miss Maria's concern. I am not obliged to punish myself for\n_her_ sins. The mother I could not avoid, as long as my tiresome aunt\nwas dancing about with the housekeeper, but the son I _can_ get away\nfrom.\"\n\nAnd she immediately scrambled across the fence, and walked away, not\nattending to Fanny's last question of whether she had seen anything of\nMiss Crawford and Edmund. The sort of dread in which Fanny now sat of\nseeing Mr. Rushworth prevented her thinking so much of their continued\nabsence, however, as she might have done. She felt that he had been\nvery ill-used, and was quite unhappy in having to communicate what had\npassed. He joined her within five minutes after Julia's exit; and\nthough she made the best of the story, he was evidently mortified and\ndispleased in no common degree. At first he scarcely said anything; his\nlooks only expressed his extreme surprise and vexation, and he walked to\nthe gate and stood there, without seeming to know what to do.\n\n\"They desired me to stay--my cousin Maria charged me to say that you\nwould find them at that knoll, or thereabouts.\"\n\n\"I do not believe I shall go any farther,\" said he sullenly; \"I see\nnothing of them. By the time I get to the knoll they may be gone\nsomewhere else. I have had walking enough.\"\n\nAnd he sat down with a most gloomy countenance by Fanny.\n\n\"I am very sorry,\" said she; \"it is very unlucky.\" And she longed to be\nable to say something more to the purpose.\n\nAfter an interval of silence, \"I think they might as well have staid for\nme,\" said he.\n\n\"Miss Bertram thought you would follow her.\"\n\n\"I should not have had to follow her if she had staid.\"\n\nThis could not be denied, and Fanny was silenced. After another pause,\nhe went on--\"Pray, Miss Price, are you such a great admirer of this Mr.\nCrawford as some people are? For my part, I can see nothing in him.\"\n\n\"I do not think him at all handsome.\"\n\n\"Handsome! Nobody can call such an undersized man handsome. He is not\nfive foot nine. I should not wonder if he is not more than five foot\neight. I think he is an ill-looking fellow. In my opinion, these\nCrawfords are no addition at all. We did very well without them.\"\n\nA small sigh escaped Fanny here, and she did not know how to contradict\nhim.\n\n\"If I had made any difficulty about fetching the key, there might have\nbeen some excuse, but I went the very moment she said she wanted it.\"\n\n\"Nothing could be more obliging than your manner, I am sure, and I dare\nsay you walked as fast as you could; but still it is some distance, you\nknow, from this spot to the house, quite into the house; and when people\nare waiting, they are bad judges of time, and every half minute seems\nlike five.\"\n\nHe got up and walked to the gate again, and \"wished he had had the key\nabout him at the time.\" Fanny thought she discerned in his standing\nthere an indication of relenting, which encouraged her to another\nattempt, and she said, therefore, \"It is a pity you should not join\nthem. They expected to have a better view of the house from that part\nof the park, and will be thinking how it may be improved; and nothing of\nthat sort, you know, can be settled without you.\"\n\nShe found herself more successful in sending away than in retaining a\ncompanion. Mr. Rushworth was worked on. \"Well,\" said he, \"if you\nreally think I had better go: it would be foolish to bring the key\nfor nothing.\" And letting himself out, he walked off without farther\nceremony.\n\nFanny's thoughts were now all engrossed by the two who had left her so\nlong ago, and getting quite impatient, she resolved to go in search\nof them. She followed their steps along the bottom walk, and had just\nturned up into another, when the voice and the laugh of Miss Crawford\nonce more caught her ear; the sound approached, and a few more windings\nbrought them before her. They were just returned into the wilderness\nfrom the park, to which a sidegate, not fastened, had tempted them very\nsoon after their leaving her, and they had been across a portion of the\npark into the very avenue which Fanny had been hoping the whole morning\nto reach at last, and had been sitting down under one of the trees. This\nwas their history. It was evident that they had been spending their time\npleasantly, and were not aware of the length of their absence. Fanny's\nbest consolation was in being assured that Edmund had wished for her\nvery much, and that he should certainly have come back for her, had she\nnot been tired already; but this was not quite sufficient to do away\nwith the pain of having been left a whole hour, when he had talked of\nonly a few minutes, nor to banish the sort of curiosity she felt to know\nwhat they had been conversing about all that time; and the result of\nthe whole was to her disappointment and depression, as they prepared by\ngeneral agreement to return to the house.\n\nOn reaching the bottom of the steps to the terrace, Mrs. Rushworth\nand Mrs. Norris presented themselves at the top, just ready for the\nwilderness, at the end of an hour and a half from their leaving the\nhouse. Mrs. Norris had been too well employed to move faster. Whatever\ncross-accidents had occurred to intercept the pleasures of her nieces,\nshe had found a morning of complete enjoyment; for the housekeeper,\nafter a great many courtesies on the subject of pheasants, had taken her\nto the dairy, told her all about their cows, and given her the receipt\nfor a famous cream cheese; and since Julia's leaving them they had\nbeen met by the gardener, with whom she had made a most satisfactory\nacquaintance, for she had set him right as to his grandson's illness,\nconvinced him that it was an ague, and promised him a charm for it; and\nhe, in return, had shewn her all his choicest nursery of plants, and\nactually presented her with a very curious specimen of heath.\n\nOn this _rencontre_ they all returned to the house together, there\nto lounge away the time as they could with sofas, and chit-chat, and\nQuarterly Reviews, till the return of the others, and the arrival of\ndinner. It was late before the Miss Bertrams and the two gentlemen came\nin, and their ramble did not appear to have been more than partially\nagreeable, or at all productive of anything useful with regard to the\nobject of the day. By their own accounts they had been all walking after\neach other, and the junction which had taken place at last seemed, to\nFanny's observation, to have been as much too late for re-establishing\nharmony, as it confessedly had been for determining on any alteration.\nShe felt, as she looked at Julia and Mr. Rushworth, that hers was not\nthe only dissatisfied bosom amongst them: there was gloom on the face of\neach. Mr. Crawford and Miss Bertram were much more gay, and she thought\nthat he was taking particular pains, during dinner, to do away any\nlittle resentment of the other two, and restore general good-humour.\n\nDinner was soon followed by tea and coffee, a ten miles' drive home\nallowed no waste of hours; and from the time of their sitting down to\ntable, it was a quick succession of busy nothings till the carriage came\nto the door, and Mrs. Norris, having fidgeted about, and obtained a\nfew pheasants' eggs and a cream cheese from the housekeeper, and made\nabundance of civil speeches to Mrs. Rushworth, was ready to lead the\nway. At the same moment Mr. Crawford, approaching Julia, said, \"I hope I\nam not to lose my companion, unless she is afraid of the evening air\nin so exposed a seat.\" The request had not been foreseen, but was very\ngraciously received, and Julia's day was likely to end almost as well as\nit began. Miss Bertram had made up her mind to something different, and\nwas a little disappointed; but her conviction of being really the\none preferred comforted her under it, and enabled her to receive Mr.\nRushworth's parting attentions as she ought. He was certainly better\npleased to hand her into the barouche than to assist her in ascending\nthe box, and his complacency seemed confirmed by the arrangement.\n\n\"Well, Fanny, this has been a fine day for you, upon my word,\" said\nMrs. Norris, as they drove through the park. \"Nothing but pleasure from\nbeginning to end! I am sure you ought to be very much obliged to your\naunt Bertram and me for contriving to let you go. A pretty good day's\namusement you have had!\"\n\nMaria was just discontented enough to say directly, \"I think _you_ have\ndone pretty well yourself, ma'am. Your lap seems full of good things,\nand here is a basket of something between us which has been knocking my\nelbow unmercifully.\"\n\n\"My dear, it is only a beautiful little heath, which that nice old\ngardener would make me take; but if it is in your way, I will have it in\nmy lap directly. There, Fanny, you shall carry that parcel for me; take\ngreat care of it: do not let it fall; it is a cream cheese, just like\nthe excellent one we had at dinner. Nothing would satisfy that good old\nMrs. Whitaker, but my taking one of the cheeses. I stood out as long\nas I could, till the tears almost came into her eyes, and I knew it was\njust the sort that my sister would be delighted with. That Mrs. Whitaker\nis a treasure! She was quite shocked when I asked her whether wine was\nallowed at the second table, and she has turned away two housemaids for\nwearing white gowns. Take care of the cheese, Fanny. Now I can manage\nthe other parcel and the basket very well.\"\n\n\"What else have you been spunging?\" said Maria, half-pleased that\nSotherton should be so complimented.\n\n\"Spunging, my dear! It is nothing but four of those beautiful pheasants'\neggs, which Mrs. Whitaker would quite force upon me: she would not take\na denial. She said it must be such an amusement to me, as she understood\nI lived quite alone, to have a few living creatures of that sort; and\nso to be sure it will. I shall get the dairymaid to set them under the\nfirst spare hen, and if they come to good I can have them moved to my\nown house and borrow a coop; and it will be a great delight to me in\nmy lonely hours to attend to them. And if I have good luck, your mother\nshall have some.\"\n\nIt was a beautiful evening, mild and still, and the drive was as\npleasant as the serenity of Nature could make it; but when Mrs. Norris\nceased speaking, it was altogether a silent drive to those within. Their\nspirits were in general exhausted; and to determine whether the day had\nafforded most pleasure or pain, might occupy the meditations of almost\nall.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nThe day at Sotherton, with all its imperfections, afforded the Miss\nBertrams much more agreeable feelings than were derived from the letters\nfrom Antigua, which soon afterwards reached Mansfield. It was much\npleasanter to think of Henry Crawford than of their father; and to think\nof their father in England again within a certain period, which these\nletters obliged them to do, was a most unwelcome exercise.\n\nNovember was the black month fixed for his return. Sir Thomas wrote of\nit with as much decision as experience and anxiety could authorise. His\nbusiness was so nearly concluded as to justify him in proposing to take\nhis passage in the September packet, and he consequently looked forward\nwith the hope of being with his beloved family again early in November.\n\nMaria was more to be pitied than Julia; for to her the father brought a\nhusband, and the return of the friend most solicitous for her happiness\nwould unite her to the lover, on whom she had chosen that happiness\nshould depend. It was a gloomy prospect, and all she could do was to\nthrow a mist over it, and hope when the mist cleared away she should\nsee something else. It would hardly be _early_ in November, there\nwere generally delays, a bad passage or _something_; that favouring\n_something_ which everybody who shuts their eyes while they look, or\ntheir understandings while they reason, feels the comfort of. It would\nprobably be the middle of November at least; the middle of November\nwas three months off. Three months comprised thirteen weeks. Much might\nhappen in thirteen weeks.\n\nSir Thomas would have been deeply mortified by a suspicion of half that\nhis daughters felt on the subject of his return, and would hardly have\nfound consolation in a knowledge of the interest it excited in the\nbreast of another young lady. Miss Crawford, on walking up with her\nbrother to spend the evening at Mansfield Park, heard the good news; and\nthough seeming to have no concern in the affair beyond politeness, and\nto have vented all her feelings in a quiet congratulation, heard it with\nan attention not so easily satisfied. Mrs. Norris gave the particulars\nof the letters, and the subject was dropt; but after tea, as Miss\nCrawford was standing at an open window with Edmund and Fanny looking\nout on a twilight scene, while the Miss Bertrams, Mr. Rushworth,\nand Henry Crawford were all busy with candles at the pianoforte, she\nsuddenly revived it by turning round towards the group, and saying, \"How\nhappy Mr. Rushworth looks! He is thinking of November.\"\n\nEdmund looked round at Mr. Rushworth too, but had nothing to say.\n\n\"Your father's return will be a very interesting event.\"\n\n\"It will, indeed, after such an absence; an absence not only long, but\nincluding so many dangers.\"\n\n\"It will be the forerunner also of other interesting events: your\nsister's marriage, and your taking orders.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Don't be affronted,\" said she, laughing, \"but it does put me in mind of\nsome of the old heathen heroes, who, after performing great exploits in\na foreign land, offered sacrifices to the gods on their safe return.\"\n\n\"There is no sacrifice in the case,\" replied Edmund, with a serious\nsmile, and glancing at the pianoforte again; \"it is entirely her own\ndoing.\"\n\n\"Oh yes I know it is. I was merely joking. She has done no more than\nwhat every young woman would do; and I have no doubt of her being\nextremely happy. My other sacrifice, of course, you do not understand.\"\n\n\"My taking orders, I assure you, is quite as voluntary as Maria's\nmarrying.\"\n\n\"It is fortunate that your inclination and your father's convenience\nshould accord so well. There is a very good living kept for you, I\nunderstand, hereabouts.\"\n\n\"Which you suppose has biassed me?\"\n\n\"But _that_ I am sure it has not,\" cried Fanny.\n\n\"Thank you for your good word, Fanny, but it is more than I would affirm\nmyself. On the contrary, the knowing that there was such a provision for\nme probably did bias me. Nor can I think it wrong that it should. There\nwas no natural disinclination to be overcome, and I see no reason why\na man should make a worse clergyman for knowing that he will have a\ncompetence early in life. I was in safe hands. I hope I should not have\nbeen influenced myself in a wrong way, and I am sure my father was too\nconscientious to have allowed it. I have no doubt that I was biased, but\nI think it was blamelessly.\"\n\n\"It is the same sort of thing,\" said Fanny, after a short pause, \"as for\nthe son of an admiral to go into the navy, or the son of a general to be\nin the army, and nobody sees anything wrong in that. Nobody wonders that\nthey should prefer the line where their friends can serve them best, or\nsuspects them to be less in earnest in it than they appear.\"\n\n\"No, my dear Miss Price, and for reasons good. The profession, either\nnavy or army, is its own justification. It has everything in its favour:\nheroism, danger, bustle, fashion. Soldiers and sailors are always\nacceptable in society. Nobody can wonder that men are soldiers and\nsailors.\"\n\n\"But the motives of a man who takes orders with the certainty of\npreferment may be fairly suspected, you think?\" said Edmund. \"To be\njustified in your eyes, he must do it in the most complete uncertainty\nof any provision.\"\n\n\"What! take orders without a living! No; that is madness indeed;\nabsolute madness.\"\n\n\"Shall I ask you how the church is to be filled, if a man is neither to\ntake orders with a living nor without? No; for you certainly would not\nknow what to say. But I must beg some advantage to the clergyman from\nyour own argument. As he cannot be influenced by those feelings which\nyou rank highly as temptation and reward to the soldier and sailor in\ntheir choice of a profession, as heroism, and noise, and fashion, are\nall against him, he ought to be less liable to the suspicion of wanting\nsincerity or good intentions in the choice of his.\"\n\n\"Oh! no doubt he is very sincere in preferring an income ready made,\nto the trouble of working for one; and has the best intentions of doing\nnothing all the rest of his days but eat, drink, and grow fat. It is\nindolence, Mr. Bertram, indeed. Indolence and love of ease; a want of\nall laudable ambition, of taste for good company, or of inclination\nto take the trouble of being agreeable, which make men clergymen.\nA clergyman has nothing to do but be slovenly and selfish--read the\nnewspaper, watch the weather, and quarrel with his wife. His curate does\nall the work, and the business of his own life is to dine.\"\n\n\"There are such clergymen, no doubt, but I think they are not so common\nas to justify Miss Crawford in esteeming it their general character. I\nsuspect that in this comprehensive and (may I say) commonplace censure,\nyou are not judging from yourself, but from prejudiced persons, whose\nopinions you have been in the habit of hearing. It is impossible that\nyour own observation can have given you much knowledge of the clergy.\nYou can have been personally acquainted with very few of a set of men\nyou condemn so conclusively. You are speaking what you have been told at\nyour uncle's table.\"\n\n\"I speak what appears to me the general opinion; and where an opinion\nis general, it is usually correct. Though _I_ have not seen much of\nthe domestic lives of clergymen, it is seen by too many to leave any\ndeficiency of information.\"\n\n\"Where any one body of educated men, of whatever denomination, are\ncondemned indiscriminately, there must be a deficiency of information,\nor (smiling) of something else. Your uncle, and his brother admirals,\nperhaps knew little of clergymen beyond the chaplains whom, good or bad,\nthey were always wishing away.\"\n\n\"Poor William! He has met with great kindness from the chaplain of the\nAntwerp,\" was a tender apostrophe of Fanny's, very much to the purpose\nof her own feelings if not of the conversation.\n\n\"I have been so little addicted to take my opinions from my uncle,\"\nsaid Miss Crawford, \"that I can hardly suppose--and since you push me so\nhard, I must observe, that I am not entirely without the means of seeing\nwhat clergymen are, being at this present time the guest of my own\nbrother, Dr. Grant. And though Dr. Grant is most kind and obliging to\nme, and though he is really a gentleman, and, I dare say, a good scholar\nand clever, and often preaches good sermons, and is very respectable,\n_I_ see him to be an indolent, selfish _bon_ _vivant_, who must have\nhis palate consulted in everything; who will not stir a finger for the\nconvenience of any one; and who, moreover, if the cook makes a blunder,\nis out of humour with his excellent wife. To own the truth, Henry and\nI were partly driven out this very evening by a disappointment about a\ngreen goose, which he could not get the better of. My poor sister was\nforced to stay and bear it.\"\n\n\"I do not wonder at your disapprobation, upon my word. It is a great\ndefect of temper, made worse by a very faulty habit of self-indulgence;\nand to see your sister suffering from it must be exceedingly painful to\nsuch feelings as yours. Fanny, it goes against us. We cannot attempt to\ndefend Dr. Grant.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Fanny, \"but we need not give up his profession for all\nthat; because, whatever profession Dr. Grant had chosen, he would have\ntaken a--not a good temper into it; and as he must, either in the navy\nor army, have had a great many more people under his command than he\nhas now, I think more would have been made unhappy by him as a sailor or\nsoldier than as a clergyman. Besides, I cannot but suppose that whatever\nthere may be to wish otherwise in Dr. Grant would have been in a greater\ndanger of becoming worse in a more active and worldly profession, where\nhe would have had less time and obligation--where he might have escaped\nthat knowledge of himself, the _frequency_, at least, of that knowledge\nwhich it is impossible he should escape as he is now. A man--a sensible\nman like Dr. Grant, cannot be in the habit of teaching others their duty\nevery week, cannot go to church twice every Sunday, and preach such very\ngood sermons in so good a manner as he does, without being the better\nfor it himself. It must make him think; and I have no doubt that he\noftener endeavours to restrain himself than he would if he had been\nanything but a clergyman.\"\n\n\"We cannot prove to the contrary, to be sure; but I wish you a better\nfate, Miss Price, than to be the wife of a man whose amiableness\ndepends upon his own sermons; for though he may preach himself into a\ngood-humour every Sunday, it will be bad enough to have him quarrelling\nabout green geese from Monday morning till Saturday night.\"\n\n\"I think the man who could often quarrel with Fanny,\" said Edmund\naffectionately, \"must be beyond the reach of any sermons.\"\n\nFanny turned farther into the window; and Miss Crawford had only time\nto say, in a pleasant manner, \"I fancy Miss Price has been more used to\ndeserve praise than to hear it\"; when, being earnestly invited by the\nMiss Bertrams to join in a glee, she tripped off to the instrument,\nleaving Edmund looking after her in an ecstasy of admiration of all her\nmany virtues, from her obliging manners down to her light and graceful\ntread.\n\n\"There goes good-humour, I am sure,\" said he presently. \"There goes a\ntemper which would never give pain! How well she walks! and how readily\nshe falls in with the inclination of others! joining them the moment she\nis asked. What a pity,\" he added, after an instant's reflection, \"that\nshe should have been in such hands!\"\n\nFanny agreed to it, and had the pleasure of seeing him continue at the\nwindow with her, in spite of the expected glee; and of having his eyes\nsoon turned, like hers, towards the scene without, where all that was\nsolemn, and soothing, and lovely, appeared in the brilliancy of an\nunclouded night, and the contrast of the deep shade of the woods. Fanny\nspoke her feelings. \"Here's harmony!\" said she; \"here's repose! Here's\nwhat may leave all painting and all music behind, and what poetry only\ncan attempt to describe! Here's what may tranquillise every care, and\nlift the heart to rapture! When I look out on such a night as this, I\nfeel as if there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world;\nand there certainly would be less of both if the sublimity of Nature\nwere more attended to, and people were carried more out of themselves by\ncontemplating such a scene.\"\n\n\"I like to hear your enthusiasm, Fanny. It is a lovely night, and they\nare much to be pitied who have not been taught to feel, in some degree,\nas you do; who have not, at least, been given a taste for Nature in\nearly life. They lose a great deal.\"\n\n\"_You_ taught me to think and feel on the subject, cousin.\"\n\n\"I had a very apt scholar. There's Arcturus looking very bright.\"\n\n\"Yes, and the Bear. I wish I could see Cassiopeia.\"\n\n\"We must go out on the lawn for that. Should you be afraid?\"\n\n\"Not in the least. It is a great while since we have had any\nstar-gazing.\"\n\n\"Yes; I do not know how it has happened.\" The glee began. \"We will stay\ntill this is finished, Fanny,\" said he, turning his back on the window;\nand as it advanced, she had the mortification of seeing him advance too,\nmoving forward by gentle degrees towards the instrument, and when it\nceased, he was close by the singers, among the most urgent in requesting\nto hear the glee again.\n\nFanny sighed alone at the window till scolded away by Mrs. Norris's\nthreats of catching cold.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nSir Thomas was to return in November, and his eldest son had duties to\ncall him earlier home. The approach of September brought tidings of Mr.\nBertram, first in a letter to the gamekeeper and then in a letter\nto Edmund; and by the end of August he arrived himself, to be gay,\nagreeable, and gallant again as occasion served, or Miss Crawford\ndemanded; to tell of races and Weymouth, and parties and friends, to\nwhich she might have listened six weeks before with some interest, and\naltogether to give her the fullest conviction, by the power of actual\ncomparison, of her preferring his younger brother.\n\nIt was very vexatious, and she was heartily sorry for it; but so it was;\nand so far from now meaning to marry the elder, she did not even want\nto attract him beyond what the simplest claims of conscious beauty\nrequired: his lengthened absence from Mansfield, without anything but\npleasure in view, and his own will to consult, made it perfectly clear\nthat he did not care about her; and his indifference was so much more\nthan equalled by her own, that were he now to step forth the owner of\nMansfield Park, the Sir Thomas complete, which he was to be in time, she\ndid not believe she could accept him.\n\nThe season and duties which brought Mr. Bertram back to Mansfield took\nMr. Crawford into Norfolk. Everingham could not do without him in the\nbeginning of September. He went for a fortnight--a fortnight of such\ndullness to the Miss Bertrams as ought to have put them both on their\nguard, and made even Julia admit, in her jealousy of her sister, the\nabsolute necessity of distrusting his attentions, and wishing him not\nto return; and a fortnight of sufficient leisure, in the intervals of\nshooting and sleeping, to have convinced the gentleman that he ought\nto keep longer away, had he been more in the habit of examining his own\nmotives, and of reflecting to what the indulgence of his idle vanity was\ntending; but, thoughtless and selfish from prosperity and bad example,\nhe would not look beyond the present moment. The sisters, handsome,\nclever, and encouraging, were an amusement to his sated mind; and\nfinding nothing in Norfolk to equal the social pleasures of Mansfield,\nhe gladly returned to it at the time appointed, and was welcomed thither\nquite as gladly by those whom he came to trifle with further.\n\nMaria, with only Mr. Rushworth to attend to her, and doomed to the\nrepeated details of his day's sport, good or bad, his boast of his dogs,\nhis jealousy of his neighbours, his doubts of their qualifications,\nand his zeal after poachers, subjects which will not find their way to\nfemale feelings without some talent on one side or some attachment on\nthe other, had missed Mr. Crawford grievously; and Julia, unengaged and\nunemployed, felt all the right of missing him much more. Each sister\nbelieved herself the favourite. Julia might be justified in so doing by\nthe hints of Mrs. Grant, inclined to credit what she wished, and Maria\nby the hints of Mr. Crawford himself. Everything returned into the same\nchannel as before his absence; his manners being to each so animated and\nagreeable as to lose no ground with either, and just stopping short of\nthe consistence, the steadiness, the solicitude, and the warmth which\nmight excite general notice.\n\nFanny was the only one of the party who found anything to dislike; but\nsince the day at Sotherton, she could never see Mr. Crawford with either\nsister without observation, and seldom without wonder or censure; and\nhad her confidence in her own judgment been equal to her exercise of it\nin every other respect, had she been sure that she was seeing clearly,\nand judging candidly, she would probably have made some important\ncommunications to her usual confidant. As it was, however, she only\nhazarded a hint, and the hint was lost. \"I am rather surprised,\" said\nshe, \"that Mr. Crawford should come back again so soon, after being here\nso long before, full seven weeks; for I had understood he was so\nvery fond of change and moving about, that I thought something would\ncertainly occur, when he was once gone, to take him elsewhere. He is\nused to much gayer places than Mansfield.\"\n\n\"It is to his credit,\" was Edmund's answer; \"and I dare say it gives his\nsister pleasure. She does not like his unsettled habits.\"\n\n\"What a favourite he is with my cousins!\"\n\n\"Yes, his manners to women are such as must please. Mrs. Grant, I\nbelieve, suspects him of a preference for Julia; I have never seen much\nsymptom of it, but I wish it may be so. He has no faults but what a\nserious attachment would remove.\"\n\n\"If Miss Bertram were not engaged,\" said Fanny cautiously, \"I could\nsometimes almost think that he admired her more than Julia.\"\n\n\"Which is, perhaps, more in favour of his liking Julia best, than you,\nFanny, may be aware; for I believe it often happens that a man, before\nhe has quite made up his own mind, will distinguish the sister or\nintimate friend of the woman he is really thinking of more than the\nwoman herself. Crawford has too much sense to stay here if he found\nhimself in any danger from Maria; and I am not at all afraid for her,\nafter such a proof as she has given that her feelings are not strong.\"\n\nFanny supposed she must have been mistaken, and meant to think\ndifferently in future; but with all that submission to Edmund could\ndo, and all the help of the coinciding looks and hints which she\noccasionally noticed in some of the others, and which seemed to say that\nJulia was Mr. Crawford's choice, she knew not always what to think. She\nwas privy, one evening, to the hopes of her aunt Norris on the subject,\nas well as to her feelings, and the feelings of Mrs. Rushworth, on a\npoint of some similarity, and could not help wondering as she listened;\nand glad would she have been not to be obliged to listen, for it was\nwhile all the other young people were dancing, and she sitting,\nmost unwillingly, among the chaperons at the fire, longing for the\nre-entrance of her elder cousin, on whom all her own hopes of a partner\nthen depended. It was Fanny's first ball, though without the preparation\nor splendour of many a young lady's first ball, being the thought only\nof the afternoon, built on the late acquisition of a violin player in\nthe servants' hall, and the possibility of raising five couple with\nthe help of Mrs. Grant and a new intimate friend of Mr. Bertram's just\narrived on a visit. It had, however, been a very happy one to Fanny\nthrough four dances, and she was quite grieved to be losing even a\nquarter of an hour. While waiting and wishing, looking now at\nthe dancers and now at the door, this dialogue between the two\nabove-mentioned ladies was forced on her--\n\n\"I think, ma'am,\" said Mrs. Norris, her eyes directed towards Mr.\nRushworth and Maria, who were partners for the second time, \"we shall\nsee some happy faces again now.\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, indeed,\" replied the other, with a stately simper, \"there\nwill be some satisfaction in looking on _now_, and I think it was rather\na pity they should have been obliged to part. Young folks in their\nsituation should be excused complying with the common forms. I wonder my\nson did not propose it.\"\n\n\"I dare say he did, ma'am. Mr. Rushworth is never remiss. But dear Maria\nhas such a strict sense of propriety, so much of that true delicacy\nwhich one seldom meets with nowadays, Mrs. Rushworth--that wish of\navoiding particularity! Dear ma'am, only look at her face at this\nmoment; how different from what it was the two last dances!\"\n\nMiss Bertram did indeed look happy, her eyes were sparkling with\npleasure, and she was speaking with great animation, for Julia and her\npartner, Mr. Crawford, were close to her; they were all in a cluster\ntogether. How she had looked before, Fanny could not recollect, for she\nhad been dancing with Edmund herself, and had not thought about her.\n\nMrs. Norris continued, \"It is quite delightful, ma'am, to see young\npeople so properly happy, so well suited, and so much the thing! I\ncannot but think of dear Sir Thomas's delight. And what do you say,\nma'am, to the chance of another match? Mr. Rushworth has set a good\nexample, and such things are very catching.\"\n\nMrs. Rushworth, who saw nothing but her son, was quite at a loss.\n\n\"The couple above, ma'am. Do you see no symptoms there?\"\n\n\"Oh dear! Miss Julia and Mr. Crawford. Yes, indeed, a very pretty match.\nWhat is his property?\"\n\n\"Four thousand a year.\"\n\n\"Very well. Those who have not more must be satisfied with what they\nhave. Four thousand a year is a pretty estate, and he seems a very\ngenteel, steady young man, so I hope Miss Julia will be very happy.\"\n\n\"It is not a settled thing, ma'am, yet. We only speak of it among\nfriends. But I have very little doubt it _will_ be. He is growing\nextremely particular in his attentions.\"\n\nFanny could listen no farther. Listening and wondering were all\nsuspended for a time, for Mr. Bertram was in the room again; and though\nfeeling it would be a great honour to be asked by him, she thought it\nmust happen. He came towards their little circle; but instead of asking\nher to dance, drew a chair near her, and gave her an account of the\npresent state of a sick horse, and the opinion of the groom, from\nwhom he had just parted. Fanny found that it was not to be, and in the\nmodesty of her nature immediately felt that she had been unreasonable\nin expecting it. When he had told of his horse, he took a newspaper from\nthe table, and looking over it, said in a languid way, \"If you want to\ndance, Fanny, I will stand up with you.\" With more than equal civility\nthe offer was declined; she did not wish to dance. \"I am glad of it,\"\nsaid he, in a much brisker tone, and throwing down the newspaper again,\n\"for I am tired to death. I only wonder how the good people can keep\nit up so long. They had need be _all_ in love, to find any amusement in\nsuch folly; and so they are, I fancy. If you look at them you may see\nthey are so many couple of lovers--all but Yates and Mrs. Grant--and,\nbetween ourselves, she, poor woman, must want a lover as much as any one\nof them. A desperate dull life hers must be with the doctor,\" making\na sly face as he spoke towards the chair of the latter, who proving,\nhowever, to be close at his elbow, made so instantaneous a change of\nexpression and subject necessary, as Fanny, in spite of everything,\ncould hardly help laughing at. \"A strange business this in America, Dr.\nGrant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to know what I am to\nthink of public matters.\"\n\n\"My dear Tom,\" cried his aunt soon afterwards, \"as you are not dancing,\nI dare say you will have no objection to join us in a rubber; shall\nyou?\" Then leaving her seat, and coming to him to enforce the proposal,\nadded in a whisper, \"We want to make a table for Mrs. Rushworth, you\nknow. Your mother is quite anxious about it, but cannot very well spare\ntime to sit down herself, because of her fringe. Now, you and I and Dr.\nGrant will just do; and though _we_ play but half-crowns, you know, you\nmay bet half-guineas with _him_.\"\n\n\"I should be most happy,\" replied he aloud, and jumping up with\nalacrity, \"it would give me the greatest pleasure; but that I am\nthis moment going to dance.\" Come, Fanny, taking her hand, \"do not be\ndawdling any longer, or the dance will be over.\"\n\nFanny was led off very willingly, though it was impossible for her to\nfeel much gratitude towards her cousin, or distinguish, as he certainly\ndid, between the selfishness of another person and his own.\n\n\"A pretty modest request upon my word,\" he indignantly exclaimed as they\nwalked away. \"To want to nail me to a card-table for the next two hours\nwith herself and Dr. Grant, who are always quarrelling, and that poking\nold woman, who knows no more of whist than of algebra. I wish my good\naunt would be a little less busy! And to ask me in such a way too!\nwithout ceremony, before them all, so as to leave me no possibility\nof refusing. _That_ is what I dislike most particularly. It raises my\nspleen more than anything, to have the pretence of being asked, of\nbeing given a choice, and at the same time addressed in such a way as\nto oblige one to do the very thing, whatever it be! If I had not luckily\nthought of standing up with you I could not have got out of it. It is\na great deal too bad. But when my aunt has got a fancy in her head,\nnothing can stop her.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nThe Honourable John Yates, this new friend, had not much to recommend\nhim beyond habits of fashion and expense, and being the younger son of\na lord with a tolerable independence; and Sir Thomas would probably\nhave thought his introduction at Mansfield by no means desirable. Mr.\nBertram's acquaintance with him had begun at Weymouth, where they had\nspent ten days together in the same society, and the friendship, if\nfriendship it might be called, had been proved and perfected by Mr.\nYates's being invited to take Mansfield in his way, whenever he could,\nand by his promising to come; and he did come rather earlier than had\nbeen expected, in consequence of the sudden breaking-up of a large party\nassembled for gaiety at the house of another friend, which he had left\nWeymouth to join. He came on the wings of disappointment, and with his\nhead full of acting, for it had been a theatrical party; and the play\nin which he had borne a part was within two days of representation,\nwhen the sudden death of one of the nearest connexions of the family\nhad destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers. To be so near\nhappiness, so near fame, so near the long paragraph in praise of the\nprivate theatricals at Ecclesford, the seat of the Right Hon. Lord\nRavenshaw, in Cornwall, which would of course have immortalised the\nwhole party for at least a twelvemonth! and being so near, to lose\nit all, was an injury to be keenly felt, and Mr. Yates could talk of\nnothing else. Ecclesford and its theatre, with its arrangements and\ndresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing subject, and to\nboast of the past his only consolation.\n\nHappily for him, a love of the theatre is so general, an itch for acting\nso strong among young people, that he could hardly out-talk the interest\nof his hearers. From the first casting of the parts to the epilogue it\nwas all bewitching, and there were few who did not wish to have been a\nparty concerned, or would have hesitated to try their skill. The play\nhad been Lovers' Vows, and Mr. Yates was to have been Count Cassel. \"A\ntrifling part,\" said he, \"and not at all to my taste, and such a one\nas I certainly would not accept again; but I was determined to make no\ndifficulties. Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had appropriated the only two\ncharacters worth playing before I reached Ecclesford; and though Lord\nRavenshaw offered to resign his to me, it was impossible to take it, you\nknow. I was sorry for _him_ that he should have so mistaken his powers,\nfor he was no more equal to the Baron--a little man with a weak voice,\nalways hoarse after the first ten minutes. It must have injured the\npiece materially; but _I_ was resolved to make no difficulties. Sir\nHenry thought the duke not equal to Frederick, but that was because\nSir Henry wanted the part himself; whereas it was certainly in the best\nhands of the two. I was surprised to see Sir Henry such a stick. Luckily\nthe strength of the piece did not depend upon him. Our Agatha was\ninimitable, and the duke was thought very great by many. And upon the\nwhole, it would certainly have gone off wonderfully.\"\n\n\"It was a hard case, upon my word\"; and, \"I do think you were very much\nto be pitied,\" were the kind responses of listening sympathy.\n\n\"It is not worth complaining about; but to be sure the poor old dowager\ncould not have died at a worse time; and it is impossible to help\nwishing that the news could have been suppressed for just the three days\nwe wanted. It was but three days; and being only a grandmother, and all\nhappening two hundred miles off, I think there would have been no great\nharm, and it was suggested, I know; but Lord Ravenshaw, who I suppose is\none of the most correct men in England, would not hear of it.\"\n\n\"An afterpiece instead of a comedy,\" said Mr. Bertram. \"Lovers' Vows\nwere at an end, and Lord and Lady Ravenshaw left to act My Grandmother\nby themselves. Well, the jointure may comfort _him_; and perhaps,\nbetween friends, he began to tremble for his credit and his lungs in the\nBaron, and was not sorry to withdraw; and to make _you_ amends, Yates, I\nthink we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you to be our\nmanager.\"\n\nThis, though the thought of the moment, did not end with the moment; for\nthe inclination to act was awakened, and in no one more strongly than in\nhim who was now master of the house; and who, having so much leisure as\nto make almost any novelty a certain good, had likewise such a degree of\nlively talents and comic taste, as were exactly adapted to the novelty\nof acting. The thought returned again and again. \"Oh for the Ecclesford\ntheatre and scenery to try something with.\" Each sister could echo the\nwish; and Henry Crawford, to whom, in all the riot of his gratifications\nit was yet an untasted pleasure, was quite alive at the idea. \"I really\nbelieve,\" said he, \"I could be fool enough at this moment to undertake\nany character that ever was written, from Shylock or Richard III down to\nthe singing hero of a farce in his scarlet coat and cocked hat. I feel\nas if I could be anything or everything; as if I could rant and storm,\nor sigh or cut capers, in any tragedy or comedy in the English language.\nLet us be doing something. Be it only half a play, an act, a scene; what\nshould prevent us? Not these countenances, I am sure,\" looking towards\nthe Miss Bertrams; \"and for a theatre, what signifies a theatre? We\nshall be only amusing ourselves. Any room in this house might suffice.\"\n\n\"We must have a curtain,\" said Tom Bertram; \"a few yards of green baize\nfor a curtain, and perhaps that may be enough.\"\n\n\"Oh, quite enough,\" cried Mr. Yates, \"with only just a side wing or two\nrun up, doors in flat, and three or four scenes to be let down; nothing\nmore would be necessary on such a plan as this. For mere amusement among\nourselves we should want nothing more.\"\n\n\"I believe we must be satisfied with _less_,\" said Maria. \"There would\nnot be time, and other difficulties would arise. We must rather adopt\nMr. Crawford's views, and make the _performance_, not the _theatre_, our\nobject. Many parts of our best plays are independent of scenery.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said Edmund, who began to listen with alarm. \"Let us do nothing\nby halves. If we are to act, let it be in a theatre completely fitted\nup with pit, boxes, and gallery, and let us have a play entire from\nbeginning to end; so as it be a German play, no matter what, with a good\ntricking, shifting afterpiece, and a figure-dance, and a hornpipe, and a\nsong between the acts. If we do not outdo Ecclesford, we do nothing.\"\n\n\"Now, Edmund, do not be disagreeable,\" said Julia. \"Nobody loves a play\nbetter than you do, or can have gone much farther to see one.\"\n\n\"True, to see real acting, good hardened real acting; but I would hardly\nwalk from this room to the next to look at the raw efforts of those who\nhave not been bred to the trade: a set of gentlemen and ladies, who have\nall the disadvantages of education and decorum to struggle through.\"\n\nAfter a short pause, however, the subject still continued, and was\ndiscussed with unabated eagerness, every one's inclination increasing\nby the discussion, and a knowledge of the inclination of the rest; and\nthough nothing was settled but that Tom Bertram would prefer a comedy,\nand his sisters and Henry Crawford a tragedy, and that nothing in the\nworld could be easier than to find a piece which would please them all,\nthe resolution to act something or other seemed so decided as to\nmake Edmund quite uncomfortable. He was determined to prevent it, if\npossible, though his mother, who equally heard the conversation which\npassed at table, did not evince the least disapprobation.\n\nThe same evening afforded him an opportunity of trying his strength.\nMaria, Julia, Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates were in the billiard-room.\nTom, returning from them into the drawing-room, where Edmund was\nstanding thoughtfully by the fire, while Lady Bertram was on the sofa at\na little distance, and Fanny close beside her arranging her work, thus\nbegan as he entered--\"Such a horribly vile billiard-table as ours is not\nto be met with, I believe, above ground. I can stand it no longer, and I\nthink, I may say, that nothing shall ever tempt me to it again; but one\ngood thing I have just ascertained: it is the very room for a theatre,\nprecisely the shape and length for it; and the doors at the farther\nend, communicating with each other, as they may be made to do in five\nminutes, by merely moving the bookcase in my father's room, is the very\nthing we could have desired, if we had sat down to wish for it; and\nmy father's room will be an excellent greenroom. It seems to join the\nbilliard-room on purpose.\"\n\n\"You are not serious, Tom, in meaning to act?\" said Edmund, in a low\nvoice, as his brother approached the fire.\n\n\"Not serious! never more so, I assure you. What is there to surprise you\nin it?\"\n\n\"I think it would be very wrong. In a _general_ light, private\ntheatricals are open to some objections, but as _we_ are circumstanced,\nI must think it would be highly injudicious, and more than injudicious\nto attempt anything of the kind. It would shew great want of feeling\non my father's account, absent as he is, and in some degree of constant\ndanger; and it would be imprudent, I think, with regard to Maria, whose\nsituation is a very delicate one, considering everything, extremely\ndelicate.\"\n\n\"You take up a thing so seriously! as if we were going to act three\ntimes a week till my father's return, and invite all the country. But\nit is not to be a display of that sort. We mean nothing but a little\namusement among ourselves, just to vary the scene, and exercise our\npowers in something new. We want no audience, no publicity. We may be\ntrusted, I think, in chusing some play most perfectly unexceptionable;\nand I can conceive no greater harm or danger to any of us in conversing\nin the elegant written language of some respectable author than in\nchattering in words of our own. I have no fears and no scruples. And\nas to my father's being absent, it is so far from an objection, that I\nconsider it rather as a motive; for the expectation of his return must\nbe a very anxious period to my mother; and if we can be the means of\namusing that anxiety, and keeping up her spirits for the next few weeks,\nI shall think our time very well spent, and so, I am sure, will he. It\nis a _very_ anxious period for her.\"\n\nAs he said this, each looked towards their mother. Lady Bertram, sunk\nback in one corner of the sofa, the picture of health, wealth, ease,\nand tranquillity, was just falling into a gentle doze, while Fanny was\ngetting through the few difficulties of her work for her.\n\nEdmund smiled and shook his head.\n\n\"By Jove! this won't do,\" cried Tom, throwing himself into a chair with\na hearty laugh. \"To be sure, my dear mother, your anxiety--I was unlucky\nthere.\"\n\n\"What is the matter?\" asked her ladyship, in the heavy tone of one\nhalf-roused; \"I was not asleep.\"\n\n\"Oh dear, no, ma'am, nobody suspected you! Well, Edmund,\" he continued,\nreturning to the former subject, posture, and voice, as soon as Lady\nBertram began to nod again, \"but _this_ I _will_ maintain, that we shall\nbe doing no harm.\"\n\n\"I cannot agree with you; I am convinced that my father would totally\ndisapprove it.\"\n\n\"And I am convinced to the contrary. Nobody is fonder of the exercise\nof talent in young people, or promotes it more, than my father, and for\nanything of the acting, spouting, reciting kind, I think he has always a\ndecided taste. I am sure he encouraged it in us as boys. How many a time\nhave we mourned over the dead body of Julius Caesar, and to _be'd_ and\nnot _to_ _be'd_, in this very room, for his amusement? And I am sure,\n_my_ _name_ _was_ _Norval_, every evening of my life through one\nChristmas holidays.\"\n\n\"It was a very different thing. You must see the difference yourself. My\nfather wished us, as schoolboys, to speak well, but he would never\nwish his grown-up daughters to be acting plays. His sense of decorum is\nstrict.\"\n\n\"I know all that,\" said Tom, displeased. \"I know my father as well as\nyou do; and I'll take care that his daughters do nothing to distress\nhim. Manage your own concerns, Edmund, and I'll take care of the rest of\nthe family.\"\n\n\"If you are resolved on acting,\" replied the persevering Edmund, \"I must\nhope it will be in a very small and quiet way; and I think a theatre\nought not to be attempted. It would be taking liberties with my father's\nhouse in his absence which could not be justified.\"\n\n\"For everything of that nature I will be answerable,\" said Tom, in a\ndecided tone. \"His house shall not be hurt. I have quite as great an\ninterest in being careful of his house as you can have; and as to such\nalterations as I was suggesting just now, such as moving a bookcase, or\nunlocking a door, or even as using the billiard-room for the space of a\nweek without playing at billiards in it, you might just as well suppose\nhe would object to our sitting more in this room, and less in the\nbreakfast-room, than we did before he went away, or to my sister's\npianoforte being moved from one side of the room to the other. Absolute\nnonsense!\"\n\n\"The innovation, if not wrong as an innovation, will be wrong as an\nexpense.\"\n\n\"Yes, the expense of such an undertaking would be prodigious! Perhaps\nit might cost a whole twenty pounds. Something of a theatre we must have\nundoubtedly, but it will be on the simplest plan: a green curtain and a\nlittle carpenter's work, and that's all; and as the carpenter's work\nmay be all done at home by Christopher Jackson himself, it will be\ntoo absurd to talk of expense; and as long as Jackson is employed,\neverything will be right with Sir Thomas. Don't imagine that nobody in\nthis house can see or judge but yourself. Don't act yourself, if you do\nnot like it, but don't expect to govern everybody else.\"\n\n\"No, as to acting myself,\" said Edmund, \"_that_ I absolutely protest\nagainst.\"\n\nTom walked out of the room as he said it, and Edmund was left to sit\ndown and stir the fire in thoughtful vexation.\n\nFanny, who had heard it all, and borne Edmund company in every feeling\nthroughout the whole, now ventured to say, in her anxiety to suggest\nsome comfort, \"Perhaps they may not be able to find any play to suit\nthem. Your brother's taste and your sisters' seem very different.\"\n\n\"I have no hope there, Fanny. If they persist in the scheme, they will\nfind something. I shall speak to my sisters and try to dissuade _them_,\nand that is all I can do.\"\n\n\"I should think my aunt Norris would be on your side.\"\n\n\"I dare say she would, but she has no influence with either Tom or my\nsisters that could be of any use; and if I cannot convince them myself,\nI shall let things take their course, without attempting it through\nher. Family squabbling is the greatest evil of all, and we had better do\nanything than be altogether by the ears.\"\n\nHis sisters, to whom he had an opportunity of speaking the next morning,\nwere quite as impatient of his advice, quite as unyielding to his\nrepresentation, quite as determined in the cause of pleasure, as Tom.\nTheir mother had no objection to the plan, and they were not in the\nleast afraid of their father's disapprobation. There could be no harm in\nwhat had been done in so many respectable families, and by so many women\nof the first consideration; and it must be scrupulousness run mad that\ncould see anything to censure in a plan like theirs, comprehending only\nbrothers and sisters and intimate friends, and which would never be\nheard of beyond themselves. Julia _did_ seem inclined to admit that\nMaria's situation might require particular caution and delicacy--but\nthat could not extend to _her_--she was at liberty; and Maria evidently\nconsidered her engagement as only raising her so much more above\nrestraint, and leaving her less occasion than Julia to consult either\nfather or mother. Edmund had little to hope, but he was still urging the\nsubject when Henry Crawford entered the room, fresh from the Parsonage,\ncalling out, \"No want of hands in our theatre, Miss Bertram. No want\nof understrappers: my sister desires her love, and hopes to be admitted\ninto the company, and will be happy to take the part of any old duenna\nor tame confidante, that you may not like to do yourselves.\"\n\nMaria gave Edmund a glance, which meant, \"What say you now? Can we\nbe wrong if Mary Crawford feels the same?\" And Edmund, silenced,\nwas obliged to acknowledge that the charm of acting might well carry\nfascination to the mind of genius; and with the ingenuity of love, to\ndwell more on the obliging, accommodating purport of the message than on\nanything else.\n\nThe scheme advanced. Opposition was vain; and as to Mrs. Norris, he\nwas mistaken in supposing she would wish to make any. She started no\ndifficulties that were not talked down in five minutes by her eldest\nnephew and niece, who were all-powerful with her; and as the whole\narrangement was to bring very little expense to anybody, and none at all\nto herself, as she foresaw in it all the comforts of hurry, bustle,\nand importance, and derived the immediate advantage of fancying herself\nobliged to leave her own house, where she had been living a month at\nher own cost, and take up her abode in theirs, that every hour might be\nspent in their service, she was, in fact, exceedingly delighted with the\nproject.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nFanny seemed nearer being right than Edmund had supposed. The business\nof finding a play that would suit everybody proved to be no trifle; and\nthe carpenter had received his orders and taken his measurements, had\nsuggested and removed at least two sets of difficulties, and having made\nthe necessity of an enlargement of plan and expense fully evident, was\nalready at work, while a play was still to seek. Other preparations\nwere also in hand. An enormous roll of green baize had arrived from\nNorthampton, and been cut out by Mrs. Norris (with a saving by her good\nmanagement of full three-quarters of a yard), and was actually forming\ninto a curtain by the housemaids, and still the play was wanting; and\nas two or three days passed away in this manner, Edmund began almost to\nhope that none might ever be found.\n\nThere were, in fact, so many things to be attended to, so many people\nto be pleased, so many best characters required, and, above all, such a\nneed that the play should be at once both tragedy and comedy, that there\ndid seem as little chance of a decision as anything pursued by youth and\nzeal could hold out.\n\nOn the tragic side were the Miss Bertrams, Henry Crawford, and Mr.\nYates; on the comic, Tom Bertram, not _quite_ alone, because it was\nevident that Mary Crawford's wishes, though politely kept back, inclined\nthe same way: but his determinateness and his power seemed to make\nallies unnecessary; and, independent of this great irreconcilable\ndifference, they wanted a piece containing very few characters in the\nwhole, but every character first-rate, and three principal women. All\nthe best plays were run over in vain. Neither Hamlet, nor Macbeth, nor\nOthello, nor Douglas, nor The Gamester, presented anything that could\nsatisfy even the tragedians; and The Rivals, The School for Scandal,\nWheel of Fortune, Heir at Law, and a long et cetera, were successively\ndismissed with yet warmer objections. No piece could be proposed that\ndid not supply somebody with a difficulty, and on one side or the other\nit was a continual repetition of, \"Oh no, _that_ will never do! Let us\nhave no ranting tragedies. Too many characters. Not a tolerable\nwoman's part in the play. Anything but _that_, my dear Tom. It would be\nimpossible to fill it up. One could not expect anybody to take such a\npart. Nothing but buffoonery from beginning to end. _That_ might do,\nperhaps, but for the low parts. If I _must_ give my opinion, I have\nalways thought it the most insipid play in the English language. _I_ do\nnot wish to make objections; I shall be happy to be of any use, but I\nthink we could not chuse worse.\"\n\nFanny looked on and listened, not unamused to observe the selfishness\nwhich, more or less disguised, seemed to govern them all, and wondering\nhow it would end. For her own gratification she could have wished that\nsomething might be acted, for she had never seen even half a play, but\neverything of higher consequence was against it.\n\n\"This will never do,\" said Tom Bertram at last. \"We are wasting time\nmost abominably. Something must be fixed on. No matter what, so that\nsomething is chosen. We must not be so nice. A few characters too many\nmust not frighten us. We must _double_ them. We must descend a little.\nIf a part is insignificant, the greater our credit in making anything of\nit. From this moment I make no difficulties. I take any part you chuse\nto give me, so as it be comic. Let it but be comic, I condition for\nnothing more.\"\n\nFor about the fifth time he then proposed the Heir at Law, doubting only\nwhether to prefer Lord Duberley or Dr. Pangloss for himself; and very\nearnestly, but very unsuccessfully, trying to persuade the others that\nthere were some fine tragic parts in the rest of the dramatis personae.\n\nThe pause which followed this fruitless effort was ended by the same\nspeaker, who, taking up one of the many volumes of plays that lay on the\ntable, and turning it over, suddenly exclaimed--\"Lovers' Vows! And why\nshould not Lovers' Vows do for _us_ as well as for the Ravenshaws? How\ncame it never to be thought of before? It strikes me as if it would do\nexactly. What say you all? Here are two capital tragic parts for Yates\nand Crawford, and here is the rhyming Butler for me, if nobody else\nwants it; a trifling part, but the sort of thing I should not dislike,\nand, as I said before, I am determined to take anything and do my best.\nAnd as for the rest, they may be filled up by anybody. It is only Count\nCassel and Anhalt.\"\n\nThe suggestion was generally welcome. Everybody was growing weary of\nindecision, and the first idea with everybody was, that nothing had been\nproposed before so likely to suit them all. Mr. Yates was particularly\npleased: he had been sighing and longing to do the Baron at Ecclesford,\nhad grudged every rant of Lord Ravenshaw's, and been forced to re-rant\nit all in his own room. The storm through Baron Wildenheim was the\nheight of his theatrical ambition; and with the advantage of knowing\nhalf the scenes by heart already, he did now, with the greatest\nalacrity, offer his services for the part. To do him justice, however,\nhe did not resolve to appropriate it; for remembering that there was\nsome very good ranting-ground in Frederick, he professed an equal\nwillingness for that. Henry Crawford was ready to take either. Whichever\nMr. Yates did not chuse would perfectly satisfy him, and a short parley\nof compliment ensued. Miss Bertram, feeling all the interest of an\nAgatha in the question, took on her to decide it, by observing to Mr.\nYates that this was a point in which height and figure ought to\nbe considered, and that _his_ being the tallest, seemed to fit him\npeculiarly for the Baron. She was acknowledged to be quite right, and\nthe two parts being accepted accordingly, she was certain of the proper\nFrederick. Three of the characters were now cast, besides Mr. Rushworth,\nwho was always answered for by Maria as willing to do anything; when\nJulia, meaning, like her sister, to be Agatha, began to be scrupulous on\nMiss Crawford's account.\n\n\"This is not behaving well by the absent,\" said she. \"Here are not women\nenough. Amelia and Agatha may do for Maria and me, but here is nothing\nfor your sister, Mr. Crawford.\"\n\nMr. Crawford desired _that_ might not be thought of: he was very sure\nhis sister had no wish of acting but as she might be useful, and that\nshe would not allow herself to be considered in the present case. But\nthis was immediately opposed by Tom Bertram, who asserted the part of\nAmelia to be in every respect the property of Miss Crawford, if she\nwould accept it. \"It falls as naturally, as necessarily to her,\"\nsaid he, \"as Agatha does to one or other of my sisters. It can be no\nsacrifice on their side, for it is highly comic.\"\n\nA short silence followed. Each sister looked anxious; for each felt the\nbest claim to Agatha, and was hoping to have it pressed on her by the\nrest. Henry Crawford, who meanwhile had taken up the play, and with\nseeming carelessness was turning over the first act, soon settled the\nbusiness.\n\n\"I must entreat Miss _Julia_ Bertram,\" said he, \"not to engage in the\npart of Agatha, or it will be the ruin of all my solemnity. You must\nnot, indeed you must not\" (turning to her). \"I could not stand your\ncountenance dressed up in woe and paleness. The many laughs we have had\ntogether would infallibly come across me, and Frederick and his knapsack\nwould be obliged to run away.\"\n\nPleasantly, courteously, it was spoken; but the manner was lost in the\nmatter to Julia's feelings. She saw a glance at Maria which confirmed\nthe injury to herself: it was a scheme, a trick; she was slighted, Maria\nwas preferred; the smile of triumph which Maria was trying to suppress\nshewed how well it was understood; and before Julia could command\nherself enough to speak, her brother gave his weight against her too,\nby saying, \"Oh yes! Maria must be Agatha. Maria will be the best Agatha.\nThough Julia fancies she prefers tragedy, I would not trust her in it.\nThere is nothing of tragedy about her. She has not the look of it. Her\nfeatures are not tragic features, and she walks too quick, and speaks\ntoo quick, and would not keep her countenance. She had better do the old\ncountrywoman: the Cottager's wife; you had, indeed, Julia. Cottager's\nwife is a very pretty part, I assure you. The old lady relieves the\nhigh-flown benevolence of her husband with a good deal of spirit. You\nshall be Cottager's wife.\"\n\n\"Cottager's wife!\" cried Mr. Yates. \"What are you talking of? The most\ntrivial, paltry, insignificant part; the merest commonplace; not a\ntolerable speech in the whole. Your sister do that! It is an insult\nto propose it. At Ecclesford the governess was to have done it. We\nall agreed that it could not be offered to anybody else. A little more\njustice, Mr. Manager, if you please. You do not deserve the office, if\nyou cannot appreciate the talents of your company a little better.\"\n\n\"Why, as to _that_, my good friend, till I and my company have really\nacted there must be some guesswork; but I mean no disparagement to\nJulia. We cannot have two Agathas, and we must have one Cottager's\nwife; and I am sure I set her the example of moderation myself in being\nsatisfied with the old Butler. If the part is trifling she will have\nmore credit in making something of it; and if she is so desperately bent\nagainst everything humorous, let her take Cottager's speeches instead of\nCottager's wife's, and so change the parts all through; _he_ is solemn\nand pathetic enough, I am sure. It could make no difference in the play,\nand as for Cottager himself, when he has got his wife's speeches, _I_\nwould undertake him with all my heart.\"\n\n\"With all your partiality for Cottager's wife,\" said Henry Crawford, \"it\nwill be impossible to make anything of it fit for your sister, and we\nmust not suffer her good-nature to be imposed on. We must not _allow_\nher to accept the part. She must not be left to her own complaisance.\nHer talents will be wanted in Amelia. Amelia is a character more\ndifficult to be well represented than even Agatha. I consider Amelia\nis the most difficult character in the whole piece. It requires great\npowers, great nicety, to give her playfulness and simplicity without\nextravagance. I have seen good actresses fail in the part. Simplicity,\nindeed, is beyond the reach of almost every actress by profession.\nIt requires a delicacy of feeling which they have not. It requires a\ngentlewoman--a Julia Bertram. You _will_ undertake it, I hope?\" turning\nto her with a look of anxious entreaty, which softened her a little; but\nwhile she hesitated what to say, her brother again interposed with Miss\nCrawford's better claim.\n\n\"No, no, Julia must not be Amelia. It is not at all the part for her.\nShe would not like it. She would not do well. She is too tall and\nrobust. Amelia should be a small, light, girlish, skipping figure. It is\nfit for Miss Crawford, and Miss Crawford only. She looks the part, and I\nam persuaded will do it admirably.\"\n\nWithout attending to this, Henry Crawford continued his supplication.\n\"You must oblige us,\" said he, \"indeed you must. When you have studied\nthe character, I am sure you will feel it suit you. Tragedy may be your\nchoice, but it will certainly appear that comedy chuses _you_. You\nwill be to visit me in prison with a basket of provisions; you will\nnot refuse to visit me in prison? I think I see you coming in with your\nbasket.\"\n\nThe influence of his voice was felt. Julia wavered; but was he only\ntrying to soothe and pacify her, and make her overlook the previous\naffront? She distrusted him. The slight had been most determined. He\nwas, perhaps, but at treacherous play with her. She looked suspiciously\nat her sister; Maria's countenance was to decide it: if she were vexed\nand alarmed--but Maria looked all serenity and satisfaction, and Julia\nwell knew that on this ground Maria could not be happy but at her\nexpense. With hasty indignation, therefore, and a tremulous voice, she\nsaid to him, \"You do not seem afraid of not keeping your countenance\nwhen I come in with a basket of provisions--though one might have\nsupposed--but it is only as Agatha that I was to be so overpowering!\"\nShe stopped--Henry Crawford looked rather foolish, and as if he did not\nknow what to say. Tom Bertram began again--\n\n\"Miss Crawford must be Amelia. She will be an excellent Amelia.\"\n\n\"Do not be afraid of _my_ wanting the character,\" cried Julia, with\nangry quickness: \"I am _not_ to be Agatha, and I am sure I will do\nnothing else; and as to Amelia, it is of all parts in the world the\nmost disgusting to me. I quite detest her. An odious, little, pert,\nunnatural, impudent girl. I have always protested against comedy, and\nthis is comedy in its worst form.\" And so saying, she walked hastily\nout of the room, leaving awkward feelings to more than one, but exciting\nsmall compassion in any except Fanny, who had been a quiet auditor of\nthe whole, and who could not think of her as under the agitations of\n_jealousy_ without great pity.\n\nA short silence succeeded her leaving them; but her brother soon\nreturned to business and Lovers' Vows, and was eagerly looking over\nthe play, with Mr. Yates's help, to ascertain what scenery would be\nnecessary--while Maria and Henry Crawford conversed together in an\nunder-voice, and the declaration with which she began of, \"I am sure I\nwould give up the part to Julia most willingly, but that though I shall\nprobably do it very ill, I feel persuaded _she_ would do it worse,\" was\ndoubtless receiving all the compliments it called for.\n\nWhen this had lasted some time, the division of the party was completed\nby Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates walking off together to consult farther in\nthe room now beginning to be called _the_ _Theatre_, and Miss Bertram's\nresolving to go down to the Parsonage herself with the offer of Amelia\nto Miss Crawford; and Fanny remained alone.\n\nThe first use she made of her solitude was to take up the volume which\nhad been left on the table, and begin to acquaint herself with the play\nof which she had heard so much. Her curiosity was all awake, and she ran\nthrough it with an eagerness which was suspended only by intervals of\nastonishment, that it could be chosen in the present instance, that it\ncould be proposed and accepted in a private theatre! Agatha and Amelia\nappeared to her in their different ways so totally improper for home\nrepresentation--the situation of one, and the language of the other,\nso unfit to be expressed by any woman of modesty, that she could hardly\nsuppose her cousins could be aware of what they were engaging in; and\nlonged to have them roused as soon as possible by the remonstrance which\nEdmund would certainly make.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nMiss Crawford accepted the part very readily; and soon after Miss\nBertram's return from the Parsonage, Mr. Rushworth arrived, and another\ncharacter was consequently cast. He had the offer of Count Cassel\nand Anhalt, and at first did not know which to chuse, and wanted Miss\nBertram to direct him; but upon being made to understand the different\nstyle of the characters, and which was which, and recollecting that he\nhad once seen the play in London, and had thought Anhalt a very stupid\nfellow, he soon decided for the Count. Miss Bertram approved the\ndecision, for the less he had to learn the better; and though she could\nnot sympathise in his wish that the Count and Agatha might be to act\ntogether, nor wait very patiently while he was slowly turning over the\nleaves with the hope of still discovering such a scene, she very kindly\ntook his part in hand, and curtailed every speech that admitted being\nshortened; besides pointing out the necessity of his being very much\ndressed, and chusing his colours. Mr. Rushworth liked the idea of his\nfinery very well, though affecting to despise it; and was too much\nengaged with what his own appearance would be to think of the others,\nor draw any of those conclusions, or feel any of that displeasure which\nMaria had been half prepared for.\n\nThus much was settled before Edmund, who had been out all the morning,\nknew anything of the matter; but when he entered the drawing-room before\ndinner, the buzz of discussion was high between Tom, Maria, and Mr.\nYates; and Mr. Rushworth stepped forward with great alacrity to tell him\nthe agreeable news.\n\n\"We have got a play,\" said he. \"It is to be Lovers' Vows; and I am to be\nCount Cassel, and am to come in first with a blue dress and a pink satin\ncloak, and afterwards am to have another fine fancy suit, by way of a\nshooting-dress. I do not know how I shall like it.\"\n\nFanny's eyes followed Edmund, and her heart beat for him as she heard\nthis speech, and saw his look, and felt what his sensations must be.\n\n\"Lovers' Vows!\" in a tone of the greatest amazement, was his only reply\nto Mr. Rushworth, and he turned towards his brother and sisters as if\nhardly doubting a contradiction.\n\n\"Yes,\" cried Mr. Yates. \"After all our debatings and difficulties, we\nfind there is nothing that will suit us altogether so well, nothing so\nunexceptionable, as Lovers' Vows. The wonder is that it should not have\nbeen thought of before. My stupidity was abominable, for here we have\nall the advantage of what I saw at Ecclesford; and it is so useful to\nhave anything of a model! We have cast almost every part.\"\n\n\"But what do you do for women?\" said Edmund gravely, and looking at\nMaria.\n\nMaria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, \"I take the part\nwhich Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and\" (with a bolder eye) \"Miss\nCrawford is to be Amelia.\"\n\n\"I should not have thought it the sort of play to be so easily filled\nup, with _us_,\" replied Edmund, turning away to the fire, where sat\nhis mother, aunt, and Fanny, and seating himself with a look of great\nvexation.\n\nMr. Rushworth followed him to say, \"I come in three times, and have\ntwo-and-forty speeches. That's something, is not it? But I do not much\nlike the idea of being so fine. I shall hardly know myself in a blue\ndress and a pink satin cloak.\"\n\nEdmund could not answer him. In a few minutes Mr. Bertram was called\nout of the room to satisfy some doubts of the carpenter; and being\naccompanied by Mr. Yates, and followed soon afterwards by Mr. Rushworth,\nEdmund almost immediately took the opportunity of saying, \"I cannot,\nbefore Mr. Yates, speak what I feel as to this play, without reflecting\non his friends at Ecclesford; but I must now, my dear Maria, tell _you_,\nthat I think it exceedingly unfit for private representation, and that I\nhope you will give it up. I cannot but suppose you _will_ when you have\nread it carefully over. Read only the first act aloud to either your\nmother or aunt, and see how you can approve it. It will not be necessary\nto send you to your _father's_ judgment, I am convinced.\"\n\n\"We see things very differently,\" cried Maria. \"I am perfectly\nacquainted with the play, I assure you; and with a very few omissions,\nand so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothing\nobjectionable in it; and _I_ am not the _only_ young woman you find who\nthinks it very fit for private representation.\"\n\n\"I am sorry for it,\" was his answer; \"but in this matter it is _you_ who\nare to lead. _You_ must set the example. If others have blundered, it\nis your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacy is.\nIn all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law to the rest of the\nparty.\"\n\nThis picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better\nto lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered, \"I am\nmuch obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I still\nthink you see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake to\nharangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. _There_ would be the\ngreatest indecorum, I think.\"\n\n\"Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your\nconduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel\nyourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion and\nconfidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness, and\nit will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will understand your\nmotive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it\nought.\"\n\n\"Do not act anything improper, my dear,\" said Lady Bertram. \"Sir Thomas\nwould not like it.--Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner.--To be\nsure, Julia is dressed by this time.\"\n\n\"I am convinced, madam,\" said Edmund, preventing Fanny, \"that Sir Thomas\nwould not like it.\"\n\n\"There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?\"\n\n\"If I were to decline the part,\" said Maria, with renewed zeal, \"Julia\nwould certainly take it.\"\n\n\"What!\" cried Edmund, \"if she knew your reasons!\"\n\n\"Oh! she might think the difference between us--the difference in our\nsituations--that _she_ need not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel\nnecessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I\ncannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so\ndisappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we\nshall never act anything.\"\n\n\"I was just going to say the very same thing,\" said Mrs. Norris.\n\"If every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the\npreparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure _that_\nwould be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as Maria\nsays, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with most of\nthem) it can be easily left out. We must not be over-precise, Edmund. As\nMr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had\nknown his own mind when the carpenters began, for there was the loss\nof half a day's work about those side-doors. The curtain will be a good\njob, however. The maids do their work very well, and I think we shall be\nable to send back some dozens of the rings. There is no occasion to put\nthem so very close together. I _am_ of some use, I hope, in preventing\nwaste and making the most of things. There should always be one\nsteady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgot to tell Tom of\nsomething that happened to me this very day. I had been looking about me\nin the poultry-yard, and was just coming out, when who should I see but\nDick Jackson making up to the servants' hall-door with two bits of deal\nboard in his hand, bringing them to father, you may be sure; mother had\nchanced to send him of a message to father, and then father had bid\nhim bring up them two bits of board, for he could not no how do without\nthem. I knew what all this meant, for the servants' dinner-bell\nwas ringing at the very moment over our heads; and as I hate such\nencroaching people (the Jacksons are very encroaching, I have always\nsaid so: just the sort of people to get all they can), I said to the boy\ndirectly (a great lubberly fellow of ten years old, you know, who ought\nto be ashamed of himself), '_I'll_ take the boards to your father, Dick,\nso get you home again as fast as you can.' The boy looked very silly,\nand turned away without offering a word, for I believe I might speak\npretty sharp; and I dare say it will cure him of coming marauding about\nthe house for one while. I hate such greediness--so good as your father\nis to the family, employing the man all the year round!\"\n\nNobody was at the trouble of an answer; the others soon returned; and\nEdmund found that to have endeavoured to set them right must be his only\nsatisfaction.\n\nDinner passed heavily. Mrs. Norris related again her triumph over Dick\nJackson, but neither play nor preparation were otherwise much talked\nof, for Edmund's disapprobation was felt even by his brother, though\nhe would not have owned it. Maria, wanting Henry Crawford's animating\nsupport, thought the subject better avoided. Mr. Yates, who was trying\nto make himself agreeable to Julia, found her gloom less impenetrable on\nany topic than that of his regret at her secession from their company;\nand Mr. Rushworth, having only his own part and his own dress in his\nhead, had soon talked away all that could be said of either.\n\nBut the concerns of the theatre were suspended only for an hour or two:\nthere was still a great deal to be settled; and the spirits of evening\ngiving fresh courage, Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates, soon after their being\nreassembled in the drawing-room, seated themselves in committee at a\nseparate table, with the play open before them, and were just getting\ndeep in the subject when a most welcome interruption was given by the\nentrance of Mr. and Miss Crawford, who, late and dark and dirty as it\nwas, could not help coming, and were received with the most grateful\njoy.\n\n\"Well, how do you go on?\" and \"What have you settled?\" and \"Oh! we\ncan do nothing without you,\" followed the first salutations; and Henry\nCrawford was soon seated with the other three at the table, while his\nsister made her way to Lady Bertram, and with pleasant attention was\ncomplimenting _her_. \"I must really congratulate your ladyship,\" said\nshe, \"on the play being chosen; for though you have borne it with\nexemplary patience, I am sure you must be sick of all our noise and\ndifficulties. The actors may be glad, but the bystanders must be\ninfinitely more thankful for a decision; and I do sincerely give you\njoy, madam, as well as Mrs. Norris, and everybody else who is in the\nsame predicament,\" glancing half fearfully, half slyly, beyond Fanny to\nEdmund.\n\nShe was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram, but Edmund said nothing.\nHis being only a bystander was not disclaimed. After continuing in chat\nwith the party round the fire a few minutes, Miss Crawford returned\nto the party round the table; and standing by them, seemed to\ninterest herself in their arrangements till, as if struck by a sudden\nrecollection, she exclaimed, \"My good friends, you are most composedly\nat work upon these cottages and alehouses, inside and out; but pray let\nme know my fate in the meanwhile. Who is to be Anhalt? What gentleman\namong you am I to have the pleasure of making love to?\"\n\nFor a moment no one spoke; and then many spoke together to tell the same\nmelancholy truth, that they had not yet got any Anhalt. \"Mr. Rushworth\nwas to be Count Cassel, but no one had yet undertaken Anhalt.\"\n\n\"I had my choice of the parts,\" said Mr. Rushworth; \"but I thought I\nshould like the Count best, though I do not much relish the finery I am\nto have.\"\n\n\"You chose very wisely, I am sure,\" replied Miss Crawford, with a\nbrightened look; \"Anhalt is a heavy part.\"\n\n\"_The_ _Count_ has two-and-forty speeches,\" returned Mr. Rushworth,\n\"which is no trifle.\"\n\n\"I am not at all surprised,\" said Miss Crawford, after a short pause,\n\"at this want of an Anhalt. Amelia deserves no better. Such a forward\nyoung lady may well frighten the men.\"\n\n\"I should be but too happy in taking the part, if it were possible,\"\ncried Tom; \"but, unluckily, the Butler and Anhalt are in together. I\nwill not entirely give it up, however; I will try what can be done--I\nwill look it over again.\"\n\n\"Your _brother_ should take the part,\" said Mr. Yates, in a low voice.\n\"Do not you think he would?\"\n\n\"_I_ shall not ask him,\" replied Tom, in a cold, determined manner.\n\nMiss Crawford talked of something else, and soon afterwards rejoined the\nparty at the fire.\n\n\"They do not want me at all,\" said she, seating herself. \"I only puzzle\nthem, and oblige them to make civil speeches. Mr. Edmund Bertram, as\nyou do not act yourself, you will be a disinterested adviser; and,\ntherefore, I apply to _you_. What shall we do for an Anhalt? Is it\npracticable for any of the others to double it? What is your advice?\"\n\n\"My advice,\" said he calmly, \"is that you change the play.\"\n\n\"_I_ should have no objection,\" she replied; \"for though I should not\nparticularly dislike the part of Amelia if well supported, that is, if\neverything went well, I shall be sorry to be an inconvenience; but\nas they do not chuse to hear your advice at _that_ _table_\" (looking\nround), \"it certainly will not be taken.\"\n\nEdmund said no more.\n\n\"If _any_ part could tempt _you_ to act, I suppose it would be Anhalt,\"\nobserved the lady archly, after a short pause; \"for he is a clergyman,\nyou know.\"\n\n\"_That_ circumstance would by no means tempt me,\" he replied, \"for I\nshould be sorry to make the character ridiculous by bad acting. It\nmust be very difficult to keep Anhalt from appearing a formal, solemn\nlecturer; and the man who chuses the profession itself is, perhaps, one\nof the last who would wish to represent it on the stage.\"\n\nMiss Crawford was silenced, and with some feelings of resentment and\nmortification, moved her chair considerably nearer the tea-table, and\ngave all her attention to Mrs. Norris, who was presiding there.\n\n\"Fanny,\" cried Tom Bertram, from the other table, where the conference\nwas eagerly carrying on, and the conversation incessant, \"we want your\nservices.\"\n\nFanny was up in a moment, expecting some errand; for the habit of\nemploying her in that way was not yet overcome, in spite of all that\nEdmund could do.\n\n\"Oh! we do not want to disturb you from your seat. We do not want your\n_present_ services. We shall only want you in our play. You must be\nCottager's wife.\"\n\n\"Me!\" cried Fanny, sitting down again with a most frightened look.\n\"Indeed you must excuse me. I could not act anything if you were to give\nme the world. No, indeed, I cannot act.\"\n\n\"Indeed, but you must, for we cannot excuse you. It need not frighten\nyou: it is a nothing of a part, a mere nothing, not above half a dozen\nspeeches altogether, and it will not much signify if nobody hears a word\nyou say; so you may be as creep-mouse as you like, but we must have you\nto look at.\"\n\n\"If you are afraid of half a dozen speeches,\" cried Mr. Rushworth, \"what\nwould you do with such a part as mine? I have forty-two to learn.\"\n\n\"It is not that I am afraid of learning by heart,\" said Fanny, shocked\nto find herself at that moment the only speaker in the room, and to feel\nthat almost every eye was upon her; \"but I really cannot act.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, you can act well enough for _us_. Learn your part, and we\nwill teach you all the rest. You have only two scenes, and as I shall\nbe Cottager, I'll put you in and push you about, and you will do it very\nwell, I'll answer for it.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse me. You cannot have an idea.\nIt would be absolutely impossible for me. If I were to undertake it, I\nshould only disappoint you.\"\n\n\"Phoo! Phoo! Do not be so shamefaced. You'll do it very well. Every\nallowance will be made for you. We do not expect perfection. You must\nget a brown gown, and a white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make\nyou a few wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of your\neyes, and you will be a very proper, little old woman.\"\n\n\"You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me,\" cried Fanny, growing\nmore and more red from excessive agitation, and looking distressfully\nat Edmund, who was kindly observing her; but unwilling to exasperate\nhis brother by interference, gave her only an encouraging smile. Her\nentreaty had no effect on Tom: he only said again what he had said\nbefore; and it was not merely Tom, for the requisition was now backed by\nMaria, and Mr. Crawford, and Mr. Yates, with an urgency which differed\nfrom his but in being more gentle or more ceremonious, and which\naltogether was quite overpowering to Fanny; and before she could breathe\nafter it, Mrs. Norris completed the whole by thus addressing her in a\nwhisper at once angry and audible--\"What a piece of work here is about\nnothing: I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to make such a difficulty of\nobliging your cousins in a trifle of this sort--so kind as they are to\nyou! Take the part with a good grace, and let us hear no more of the\nmatter, I entreat.\"\n\n\"Do not urge her, madam,\" said Edmund. \"It is not fair to urge her\nin this manner. You see she does not like to act. Let her chuse for\nherself, as well as the rest of us. Her judgment may be quite as safely\ntrusted. Do not urge her any more.\"\n\n\"I am not going to urge her,\" replied Mrs. Norris sharply; \"but I shall\nthink her a very obstinate, ungrateful girl, if she does not do what her\naunt and cousins wish her--very ungrateful, indeed, considering who and\nwhat she is.\"\n\nEdmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Crawford, looking for a moment\nwith astonished eyes at Mrs. Norris, and then at Fanny, whose tears were\nbeginning to shew themselves, immediately said, with some keenness, \"I\ndo not like my situation: this _place_ is too hot for me,\" and moved\naway her chair to the opposite side of the table, close to Fanny, saying\nto her, in a kind, low whisper, as she placed herself, \"Never mind,\nmy dear Miss Price, this is a cross evening: everybody is cross and\nteasing, but do not let us mind them\"; and with pointed attention\ncontinued to talk to her and endeavour to raise her spirits, in spite of\nbeing out of spirits herself. By a look at her brother she prevented any\nfarther entreaty from the theatrical board, and the really good feelings\nby which she was almost purely governed were rapidly restoring her to\nall the little she had lost in Edmund's favour.\n\nFanny did not love Miss Crawford; but she felt very much obliged to her\nfor her present kindness; and when, from taking notice of her work,\nand wishing _she_ could work as well, and begging for the pattern, and\nsupposing Fanny was now preparing for her _appearance_, as of course she\nwould come out when her cousin was married, Miss Crawford proceeded to\ninquire if she had heard lately from her brother at sea, and said that\nshe had quite a curiosity to see him, and imagined him a very fine young\nman, and advised Fanny to get his picture drawn before he went to sea\nagain--she could not help admitting it to be very agreeable flattery, or\nhelp listening, and answering with more animation than she had intended.\n\nThe consultation upon the play still went on, and Miss Crawford's\nattention was first called from Fanny by Tom Bertram's telling her,\nwith infinite regret, that he found it absolutely impossible for him to\nundertake the part of Anhalt in addition to the Butler: he had been most\nanxiously trying to make it out to be feasible, but it would not do;\nhe must give it up. \"But there will not be the smallest difficulty in\nfilling it,\" he added. \"We have but to speak the word; we may pick and\nchuse. I could name, at this moment, at least six young men within six\nmiles of us, who are wild to be admitted into our company, and there are\none or two that would not disgrace us: I should not be afraid to trust\neither of the Olivers or Charles Maddox. Tom Oliver is a very clever\nfellow, and Charles Maddox is as gentlemanlike a man as you will see\nanywhere, so I will take my horse early to-morrow morning and ride over\nto Stoke, and settle with one of them.\"\n\nWhile he spoke, Maria was looking apprehensively round at Edmund in full\nexpectation that he must oppose such an enlargement of the plan as this:\nso contrary to all their first protestations; but Edmund said nothing.\nAfter a moment's thought, Miss Crawford calmly replied, \"As far as I\nam concerned, I can have no objection to anything that you all think\neligible. Have I ever seen either of the gentlemen? Yes, Mr. Charles\nMaddox dined at my sister's one day, did not he, Henry? A quiet-looking\nyoung man. I remember him. Let _him_ be applied to, if you please, for\nit will be less unpleasant to me than to have a perfect stranger.\"\n\nCharles Maddox was to be the man. Tom repeated his resolution of going\nto him early on the morrow; and though Julia, who had scarcely opened\nher lips before, observed, in a sarcastic manner, and with a glance\nfirst at Maria and then at Edmund, that \"the Mansfield theatricals would\nenliven the whole neighbourhood exceedingly,\" Edmund still held his\npeace, and shewed his feelings only by a determined gravity.\n\n\"I am not very sanguine as to our play,\" said Miss Crawford, in an\nundervoice to Fanny, after some consideration; \"and I can tell Mr.\nMaddox that I shall shorten some of _his_ speeches, and a great many of\n_my_ _own_, before we rehearse together. It will be very disagreeable,\nand by no means what I expected.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nIt was not in Miss Crawford's power to talk Fanny into any real\nforgetfulness of what had passed. When the evening was over, she went to\nbed full of it, her nerves still agitated by the shock of such an attack\nfrom her cousin Tom, so public and so persevered in, and her spirits\nsinking under her aunt's unkind reflection and reproach. To be called\ninto notice in such a manner, to hear that it was but the prelude to\nsomething so infinitely worse, to be told that she must do what was\nso impossible as to act; and then to have the charge of obstinacy and\ningratitude follow it, enforced with such a hint at the dependence\nof her situation, had been too distressing at the time to make the\nremembrance when she was alone much less so, especially with the\nsuperadded dread of what the morrow might produce in continuation of the\nsubject. Miss Crawford had protected her only for the time; and if\nshe were applied to again among themselves with all the authoritative\nurgency that Tom and Maria were capable of, and Edmund perhaps away,\nwhat should she do? She fell asleep before she could answer the\nquestion, and found it quite as puzzling when she awoke the next\nmorning. The little white attic, which had continued her sleeping-room\never since her first entering the family, proving incompetent to suggest\nany reply, she had recourse, as soon as she was dressed, to another\napartment more spacious and more meet for walking about in and thinking,\nand of which she had now for some time been almost equally mistress. It\nhad been their school-room; so called till the Miss Bertrams would not\nallow it to be called so any longer, and inhabited as such to a later\nperiod. There Miss Lee had lived, and there they had read and written,\nand talked and laughed, till within the last three years, when she had\nquitted them. The room had then become useless, and for some time was\nquite deserted, except by Fanny, when she visited her plants, or wanted\none of the books, which she was still glad to keep there, from the\ndeficiency of space and accommodation in her little chamber above: but\ngradually, as her value for the comforts of it increased, she had added\nto her possessions, and spent more of her time there; and having nothing\nto oppose her, had so naturally and so artlessly worked herself into it,\nthat it was now generally admitted to be hers. The East room, as it had\nbeen called ever since Maria Bertram was sixteen, was now considered\nFanny's, almost as decidedly as the white attic: the smallness of the\none making the use of the other so evidently reasonable that the Miss\nBertrams, with every superiority in their own apartments which their own\nsense of superiority could demand, were entirely approving it; and Mrs.\nNorris, having stipulated for there never being a fire in it on Fanny's\naccount, was tolerably resigned to her having the use of what nobody\nelse wanted, though the terms in which she sometimes spoke of the\nindulgence seemed to imply that it was the best room in the house.\n\nThe aspect was so favourable that even without a fire it was habitable\nin many an early spring and late autumn morning to such a willing mind\nas Fanny's; and while there was a gleam of sunshine she hoped not to be\ndriven from it entirely, even when winter came. The comfort of it in\nher hours of leisure was extreme. She could go there after anything\nunpleasant below, and find immediate consolation in some pursuit, or\nsome train of thought at hand. Her plants, her books--of which she had\nbeen a collector from the first hour of her commanding a shilling--her\nwriting-desk, and her works of charity and ingenuity, were all within\nher reach; or if indisposed for employment, if nothing but musing would\ndo, she could scarcely see an object in that room which had not an\ninteresting remembrance connected with it. Everything was a friend, or\nbore her thoughts to a friend; and though there had been sometimes much\nof suffering to her; though her motives had often been misunderstood,\nher feelings disregarded, and her comprehension undervalued; though she\nhad known the pains of tyranny, of ridicule, and neglect, yet almost\nevery recurrence of either had led to something consolatory: her aunt\nBertram had spoken for her, or Miss Lee had been encouraging, or, what\nwas yet more frequent or more dear, Edmund had been her champion and her\nfriend: he had supported her cause or explained her meaning, he had told\nher not to cry, or had given her some proof of affection which made\nher tears delightful; and the whole was now so blended together, so\nharmonised by distance, that every former affliction had its charm. The\nroom was most dear to her, and she would not have changed its furniture\nfor the handsomest in the house, though what had been originally plain\nhad suffered all the ill-usage of children; and its greatest elegancies\nand ornaments were a faded footstool of Julia's work, too ill done\nfor the drawing-room, three transparencies, made in a rage for\ntransparencies, for the three lower panes of one window, where Tintern\nAbbey held its station between a cave in Italy and a moonlight lake in\nCumberland, a collection of family profiles, thought unworthy of being\nanywhere else, over the mantelpiece, and by their side, and pinned\nagainst the wall, a small sketch of a ship sent four years ago from the\nMediterranean by William, with H.M.S. Antwerp at the bottom, in letters\nas tall as the mainmast.\n\nTo this nest of comforts Fanny now walked down to try its influence on\nan agitated, doubting spirit, to see if by looking at Edmund's profile\nshe could catch any of his counsel, or by giving air to her geraniums\nshe might inhale a breeze of mental strength herself. But she had more\nthan fears of her own perseverance to remove: she had begun to feel\nundecided as to what she _ought_ _to_ _do_; and as she walked round the\nroom her doubts were increasing. Was she _right_ in refusing what was\nso warmly asked, so strongly wished for--what might be so essential to a\nscheme on which some of those to whom she owed the greatest complaisance\nhad set their hearts? Was it not ill-nature, selfishness, and a fear of\nexposing herself? And would Edmund's judgment, would his persuasion of\nSir Thomas's disapprobation of the whole, be enough to justify her in a\ndetermined denial in spite of all the rest? It would be so horrible to\nher to act that she was inclined to suspect the truth and purity of her\nown scruples; and as she looked around her, the claims of her cousins\nto being obliged were strengthened by the sight of present upon present\nthat she had received from them. The table between the windows was\ncovered with work-boxes and netting-boxes which had been given her at\ndifferent times, principally by Tom; and she grew bewildered as to the\namount of the debt which all these kind remembrances produced. A tap at\nthe door roused her in the midst of this attempt to find her way to her\nduty, and her gentle \"Come in\" was answered by the appearance of one,\nbefore whom all her doubts were wont to be laid. Her eyes brightened at\nthe sight of Edmund.\n\n\"Can I speak with you, Fanny, for a few minutes?\" said he.\n\n\"Yes, certainly.\"\n\n\"I want to consult. I want your opinion.\"\n\n\"My opinion!\" she cried, shrinking from such a compliment, highly as it\ngratified her.\n\n\"Yes, your advice and opinion. I do not know what to do. This acting\nscheme gets worse and worse, you see. They have chosen almost as bad a\nplay as they could, and now, to complete the business, are going to ask\nthe help of a young man very slightly known to any of us. This is the\nend of all the privacy and propriety which was talked about at first.\nI know no harm of Charles Maddox; but the excessive intimacy which\nmust spring from his being admitted among us in this manner is highly\nobjectionable, the _more_ than intimacy--the familiarity. I cannot\nthink of it with any patience; and it does appear to me an evil of such\nmagnitude as must, _if_ _possible_, be prevented. Do not you see it in\nthe same light?\"\n\n\"Yes; but what can be done? Your brother is so determined.\"\n\n\"There is but _one_ thing to be done, Fanny. I must take Anhalt myself.\nI am well aware that nothing else will quiet Tom.\"\n\nFanny could not answer him.\n\n\"It is not at all what I like,\" he continued. \"No man can like being\ndriven into the _appearance_ of such inconsistency. After being known to\noppose the scheme from the beginning, there is absurdity in the face of\nmy joining them _now_, when they are exceeding their first plan in every\nrespect; but I can think of no other alternative. Can you, Fanny?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Fanny slowly, \"not immediately, but--\"\n\n\"But what? I see your judgment is not with me. Think it a little over.\nPerhaps you are not so much aware as I am of the mischief that _may_, of\nthe unpleasantness that _must_ arise from a young man's being received\nin this manner: domesticated among us; authorised to come at all hours,\nand placed suddenly on a footing which must do away all restraints. To\nthink only of the licence which every rehearsal must tend to create. It\nis all very bad! Put yourself in Miss Crawford's place, Fanny. Consider\nwhat it would be to act Amelia with a stranger. She has a right to be\nfelt for, because she evidently feels for herself. I heard enough of\nwhat she said to you last night to understand her unwillingness to be\nacting with a stranger; and as she probably engaged in the part with\ndifferent expectations--perhaps without considering the subject enough\nto know what was likely to be--it would be ungenerous, it would be\nreally wrong to expose her to it. Her feelings ought to be respected.\nDoes it not strike you so, Fanny? You hesitate.\"\n\n\"I am sorry for Miss Crawford; but I am more sorry to see you drawn in\nto do what you had resolved against, and what you are known to think\nwill be disagreeable to my uncle. It will be such a triumph to the\nothers!\"\n\n\"They will not have much cause of triumph when they see how infamously I\nact. But, however, triumph there certainly will be, and I must brave it.\nBut if I can be the means of restraining the publicity of the business,\nof limiting the exhibition, of concentrating our folly, I shall be\nwell repaid. As I am now, I have no influence, I can do nothing: I have\noffended them, and they will not hear me; but when I have put them in\ngood-humour by this concession, I am not without hopes of persuading\nthem to confine the representation within a much smaller circle than\nthey are now in the high road for. This will be a material gain. My\nobject is to confine it to Mrs. Rushworth and the Grants. Will not this\nbe worth gaining?\"\n\n\"Yes, it will be a great point.\"\n\n\"But still it has not your approbation. Can you mention any other\nmeasure by which I have a chance of doing equal good?\"\n\n\"No, I cannot think of anything else.\"\n\n\"Give me your approbation, then, Fanny. I am not comfortable without\nit.\"\n\n\"Oh, cousin!\"\n\n\"If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself, and yet--But it is\nabsolutely impossible to let Tom go on in this way, riding about the\ncountry in quest of anybody who can be persuaded to act--no matter whom:\nthe look of a gentleman is to be enough. I thought _you_ would have\nentered more into Miss Crawford's feelings.\"\n\n\"No doubt she will be very glad. It must be a great relief to her,\" said\nFanny, trying for greater warmth of manner.\n\n\"She never appeared more amiable than in her behaviour to you last\nnight. It gave her a very strong claim on my goodwill.\"\n\n\"She _was_ very kind, indeed, and I am glad to have her spared\"...\n\nShe could not finish the generous effusion. Her conscience stopt her in\nthe middle, but Edmund was satisfied.\n\n\"I shall walk down immediately after breakfast,\" said he, \"and am sure\nof giving pleasure there. And now, dear Fanny, I will not interrupt you\nany longer. You want to be reading. But I could not be easy till I had\nspoken to you, and come to a decision. Sleeping or waking, my head has\nbeen full of this matter all night. It is an evil, but I am certainly\nmaking it less than it might be. If Tom is up, I shall go to him\ndirectly and get it over, and when we meet at breakfast we shall be all\nin high good-humour at the prospect of acting the fool together with\nsuch unanimity. _You_, in the meanwhile, will be taking a trip into\nChina, I suppose. How does Lord Macartney go on?\"--opening a volume on\nthe table and then taking up some others. \"And here are Crabbe's Tales,\nand the Idler, at hand to relieve you, if you tire of your great book. I\nadmire your little establishment exceedingly; and as soon as I am\ngone, you will empty your head of all this nonsense of acting, and sit\ncomfortably down to your table. But do not stay here to be cold.\"\n\nHe went; but there was no reading, no China, no composure for Fanny. He\nhad told her the most extraordinary, the most inconceivable, the most\nunwelcome news; and she could think of nothing else. To be acting! After\nall his objections--objections so just and so public! After all that she\nhad heard him say, and seen him look, and known him to be feeling. Could\nit be possible? Edmund so inconsistent! Was he not deceiving himself?\nWas he not wrong? Alas! it was all Miss Crawford's doing. She had seen\nher influence in every speech, and was miserable. The doubts and alarms\nas to her own conduct, which had previously distressed her, and\nwhich had all slept while she listened to him, were become of little\nconsequence now. This deeper anxiety swallowed them up. Things should\ntake their course; she cared not how it ended. Her cousins might attack,\nbut could hardly tease her. She was beyond their reach; and if at last\nobliged to yield--no matter--it was all misery now.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nIt was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria. Such a\nvictory over Edmund's discretion had been beyond their hopes, and was\nmost delightful. There was no longer anything to disturb them in their\ndarling project, and they congratulated each other in private on the\njealous weakness to which they attributed the change, with all the glee\nof feelings gratified in every way. Edmund might still look grave, and\nsay he did not like the scheme in general, and must disapprove the play\nin particular; their point was gained: he was to act, and he was driven\nto it by the force of selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended\nfrom that moral elevation which he had maintained before, and they were\nboth as much the better as the happier for the descent.\n\nThey behaved very well, however, to _him_ on the occasion, betraying no\nexultation beyond the lines about the corners of the mouth, and seemed\nto think it as great an escape to be quit of the intrusion of Charles\nMaddox, as if they had been forced into admitting him against their\ninclination. \"To have it quite in their own family circle was what\nthey had particularly wished. A stranger among them would have been the\ndestruction of all their comfort\"; and when Edmund, pursuing that idea,\ngave a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the audience, they were\nready, in the complaisance of the moment, to promise anything. It was\nall good-humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his\ndress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt's last scene with the Baron\nadmitted a good deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth undertook\nto count his speeches.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Tom, \"Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now.\nPerhaps you may persuade _her_.\"\n\n\"No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act.\"\n\n\"Oh! very well.\" And not another word was said; but Fanny felt herself\nagain in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning to\nfail her already.\n\nThere were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park on this\nchange in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely in hers, and entered\nwith such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole\naffair as could have but one effect on him. \"He was certainly right in\nrespecting such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it.\" And the\nmorning wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if not very sound. One\nadvantage resulted from it to Fanny: at the earnest request of Miss\nCrawford, Mrs. Grant had, with her usual good-humour, agreed to\nundertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted; and this was all\nthat occurred to gladden _her_ heart during the day; and even this, when\nimparted by Edmund, brought a pang with it, for it was Miss Crawford to\nwhom she was obliged--it was Miss Crawford whose kind exertions were to\nexcite her gratitude, and whose merit in making them was spoken of\nwith a glow of admiration. She was safe; but peace and safety were\nunconnected here. Her mind had been never farther from peace. She could\nnot feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was disquieted\nin every other way. Her heart and her judgment were equally against\nEdmund's decision: she could not acquit his unsteadiness, and his\nhappiness under it made her wretched. She was full of jealousy and\nagitation. Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed an\ninsult, with friendly expressions towards herself which she could hardly\nanswer calmly. Everybody around her was gay and busy, prosperous and\nimportant; each had their object of interest, their part, their dress,\ntheir favourite scene, their friends and confederates: all were finding\nemployment in consultations and comparisons, or diversion in the playful\nconceits they suggested. She alone was sad and insignificant: she had\nno share in anything; she might go or stay; she might be in the midst\nof their noise, or retreat from it to the solitude of the East room,\nwithout being seen or missed. She could almost think anything would\nhave been preferable to this. Mrs. Grant was of consequence: _her_\ngood-nature had honourable mention; her taste and her time were\nconsidered; her presence was wanted; she was sought for, and attended,\nand praised; and Fanny was at first in some danger of envying her the\ncharacter she had accepted. But reflection brought better feelings, and\nshewed her that Mrs. Grant was entitled to respect, which could never\nhave belonged to _her_; and that, had she received even the greatest,\nshe could never have been easy in joining a scheme which, considering\nonly her uncle, she must condemn altogether.\n\nFanny's heart was not absolutely the only saddened one amongst them,\nas she soon began to acknowledge to herself. Julia was a sufferer too,\nthough not quite so blamelessly.\n\nHenry Crawford had trifled with her feelings; but she had very long\nallowed and even sought his attentions, with a jealousy of her sister so\nreasonable as ought to have been their cure; and now that the conviction\nof his preference for Maria had been forced on her, she submitted to it\nwithout any alarm for Maria's situation, or any endeavour at rational\ntranquillity for herself. She either sat in gloomy silence, wrapt in\nsuch gravity as nothing could subdue, no curiosity touch, no wit amuse;\nor allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates, was talking with forced gaiety\nto him alone, and ridiculing the acting of the others.\n\nFor a day or two after the affront was given, Henry Crawford had\nendeavoured to do it away by the usual attack of gallantry and\ncompliment, but he had not cared enough about it to persevere against a\nfew repulses; and becoming soon too busy with his play to have time for\nmore than one flirtation, he grew indifferent to the quarrel, or rather\nthought it a lucky occurrence, as quietly putting an end to what might\nere long have raised expectations in more than Mrs. Grant. She was not\npleased to see Julia excluded from the play, and sitting by disregarded;\nbut as it was not a matter which really involved her happiness, as Henry\nmust be the best judge of his own, and as he did assure her, with a\nmost persuasive smile, that neither he nor Julia had ever had a serious\nthought of each other, she could only renew her former caution as to\nthe elder sister, entreat him not to risk his tranquillity by too\nmuch admiration there, and then gladly take her share in anything that\nbrought cheerfulness to the young people in general, and that did so\nparticularly promote the pleasure of the two so dear to her.\n\n\"I rather wonder Julia is not in love with Henry,\" was her observation\nto Mary.\n\n\"I dare say she is,\" replied Mary coldly. \"I imagine both sisters are.\"\n\n\"Both! no, no, that must not be. Do not give him a hint of it. Think of\nMr. Rushworth!\"\n\n\"You had better tell Miss Bertram to think of Mr. Rushworth. It may\ndo _her_ some good. I often think of Mr. Rushworth's property and\nindependence, and wish them in other hands; but I never think of him. A\nman might represent the county with such an estate; a man might escape a\nprofession and represent the county.\"\n\n\"I dare say he _will_ be in parliament soon. When Sir Thomas comes, I\ndare say he will be in for some borough, but there has been nobody to\nput him in the way of doing anything yet.\"\n\n\"Sir Thomas is to achieve many mighty things when he comes home,\" said\nMary, after a pause. \"Do you remember Hawkins Browne's 'Address to\nTobacco,' in imitation of Pope?--\n\n     Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense\n     To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense.\n\nI will parody them--\n\n     Blest Knight! whose dictatorial looks dispense\n     To Children affluence, to Rushworth sense.\n\nWill not that do, Mrs. Grant? Everything seems to depend upon Sir\nThomas's return.\"\n\n\"You will find his consequence very just and reasonable when you see him\nin his family, I assure you. I do not think we do so well without him.\nHe has a fine dignified manner, which suits the head of such a house,\nand keeps everybody in their place. Lady Bertram seems more of a cipher\nnow than when he is at home; and nobody else can keep Mrs. Norris in\norder. But, Mary, do not fancy that Maria Bertram cares for Henry. I\nam sure _Julia_ does not, or she would not have flirted as she did last\nnight with Mr. Yates; and though he and Maria are very good friends, I\nthink she likes Sotherton too well to be inconstant.\"\n\n\"I would not give much for Mr. Rushworth's chance if Henry stept in\nbefore the articles were signed.\"\n\n\"If you have such a suspicion, something must be done; and as soon as\nthe play is all over, we will talk to him seriously and make him know\nhis own mind; and if he means nothing, we will send him off, though he\nis Henry, for a time.\"\n\nJulia _did_ suffer, however, though Mrs. Grant discerned it not, and\nthough it escaped the notice of many of her own family likewise. She had\nloved, she did love still, and she had all the suffering which a warm\ntemper and a high spirit were likely to endure under the disappointment\nof a dear, though irrational hope, with a strong sense of ill-usage.\nHer heart was sore and angry, and she was capable only of angry\nconsolations. The sister with whom she was used to be on easy terms was\nnow become her greatest enemy: they were alienated from each other;\nand Julia was not superior to the hope of some distressing end to the\nattentions which were still carrying on there, some punishment to\nMaria for conduct so shameful towards herself as well as towards Mr.\nRushworth. With no material fault of temper, or difference of opinion,\nto prevent their being very good friends while their interests were\nthe same, the sisters, under such a trial as this, had not affection or\nprinciple enough to make them merciful or just, to give them honour or\ncompassion. Maria felt her triumph, and pursued her purpose, careless of\nJulia; and Julia could never see Maria distinguished by Henry Crawford\nwithout trusting that it would create jealousy, and bring a public\ndisturbance at last.\n\nFanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia; but there was no outward\nfellowship between them. Julia made no communication, and Fanny took\nno liberties. They were two solitary sufferers, or connected only by\nFanny's consciousness.\n\nThe inattention of the two brothers and the aunt to Julia's\ndiscomposure, and their blindness to its true cause, must be imputed to\nthe fullness of their own minds. They were totally preoccupied. Tom was\nengrossed by the concerns of his theatre, and saw nothing that did not\nimmediately relate to it. Edmund, between his theatrical and his real\npart, between Miss Crawford's claims and his own conduct, between love\nand consistency, was equally unobservant; and Mrs. Norris was too busy\nin contriving and directing the general little matters of the company,\nsuperintending their various dresses with economical expedient, for\nwhich nobody thanked her, and saving, with delighted integrity, half\na crown here and there to the absent Sir Thomas, to have leisure for\nwatching the behaviour, or guarding the happiness of his daughters.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nEverything was now in a regular train: theatre, actors, actresses, and\ndresses, were all getting forward; but though no other great impediments\narose, Fanny found, before many days were past, that it was not all\nuninterrupted enjoyment to the party themselves, and that she had not to\nwitness the continuance of such unanimity and delight as had been almost\ntoo much for her at first. Everybody began to have their vexation.\nEdmund had many. Entirely against _his_ judgment, a scene-painter\narrived from town, and was at work, much to the increase of the\nexpenses, and, what was worse, of the eclat of their proceedings; and\nhis brother, instead of being really guided by him as to the privacy of\nthe representation, was giving an invitation to every family who came\nin his way. Tom himself began to fret over the scene-painter's slow\nprogress, and to feel the miseries of waiting. He had learned his\npart--all his parts, for he took every trifling one that could be united\nwith the Butler, and began to be impatient to be acting; and every day\nthus unemployed was tending to increase his sense of the insignificance\nof all his parts together, and make him more ready to regret that some\nother play had not been chosen.\n\nFanny, being always a very courteous listener, and often the only\nlistener at hand, came in for the complaints and the distresses of\nmost of them. _She_ knew that Mr. Yates was in general thought to rant\ndreadfully; that Mr. Yates was disappointed in Henry Crawford; that\nTom Bertram spoke so quick he would be unintelligible; that Mrs. Grant\nspoiled everything by laughing; that Edmund was behindhand with his\npart, and that it was misery to have anything to do with Mr. Rushworth,\nwho was wanting a prompter through every speech. She knew, also, that\npoor Mr. Rushworth could seldom get anybody to rehearse with him: _his_\ncomplaint came before her as well as the rest; and so decided to her\neye was her cousin Maria's avoidance of him, and so needlessly often the\nrehearsal of the first scene between her and Mr. Crawford, that she had\nsoon all the terror of other complaints from _him_. So far from being\nall satisfied and all enjoying, she found everybody requiring something\nthey had not, and giving occasion of discontent to the others. Everybody\nhad a part either too long or too short; nobody would attend as they\nought; nobody would remember on which side they were to come in; nobody\nbut the complainer would observe any directions.\n\nFanny believed herself to derive as much innocent enjoyment from the\nplay as any of them; Henry Crawford acted well, and it was a pleasure to\n_her_ to creep into the theatre, and attend the rehearsal of the first\nact, in spite of the feelings it excited in some speeches for Maria.\nMaria, she also thought, acted well, too well; and after the first\nrehearsal or two, Fanny began to be their only audience; and sometimes\nas prompter, sometimes as spectator, was often very useful. As far as\nshe could judge, Mr. Crawford was considerably the best actor of all: he\nhad more confidence than Edmund, more judgment than Tom, more talent and\ntaste than Mr. Yates. She did not like him as a man, but she must admit\nhim to be the best actor, and on this point there were not many who\ndiffered from her. Mr. Yates, indeed, exclaimed against his tameness and\ninsipidity; and the day came at last, when Mr. Rushworth turned to her\nwith a black look, and said, \"Do you think there is anything so very\nfine in all this? For the life and soul of me, I cannot admire him; and,\nbetween ourselves, to see such an undersized, little, mean-looking man,\nset up for a fine actor, is very ridiculous in my opinion.\"\n\nFrom this moment there was a return of his former jealousy, which Maria,\nfrom increasing hopes of Crawford, was at little pains to remove; and\nthe chances of Mr. Rushworth's ever attaining to the knowledge of his\ntwo-and-forty speeches became much less. As to his ever making anything\n_tolerable_ of them, nobody had the smallest idea of that except\nhis mother; _she_, indeed, regretted that his part was not more\nconsiderable, and deferred coming over to Mansfield till they were\nforward enough in their rehearsal to comprehend all his scenes; but the\nothers aspired at nothing beyond his remembering the catchword, and the\nfirst line of his speech, and being able to follow the prompter through\nthe rest. Fanny, in her pity and kindheartedness, was at great pains to\nteach him how to learn, giving him all the helps and directions in her\npower, trying to make an artificial memory for him, and learning every\nword of his part herself, but without his being much the forwarder.\n\nMany uncomfortable, anxious, apprehensive feelings she certainly had;\nbut with all these, and other claims on her time and attention, she was\nas far from finding herself without employment or utility amongst them,\nas without a companion in uneasiness; quite as far from having no\ndemand on her leisure as on her compassion. The gloom of her first\nanticipations was proved to have been unfounded. She was occasionally\nuseful to all; she was perhaps as much at peace as any.\n\nThere was a great deal of needlework to be done, moreover, in which her\nhelp was wanted; and that Mrs. Norris thought her quite as well off\nas the rest, was evident by the manner in which she claimed it--\"Come,\nFanny,\" she cried, \"these are fine times for you, but you must not be\nalways walking from one room to the other, and doing the lookings-on at\nyour ease, in this way; I want you here. I have been slaving myself till\nI can hardly stand, to contrive Mr. Rushworth's cloak without sending\nfor any more satin; and now I think you may give me your help in putting\nit together. There are but three seams; you may do them in a trice. It\nwould be lucky for me if I had nothing but the executive part to do.\n_You_ are best off, I can tell you: but if nobody did more than _you_,\nwe should not get on very fast.\"\n\nFanny took the work very quietly, without attempting any defence; but\nher kinder aunt Bertram observed on her behalf--\n\n\"One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny _should_ be delighted: it is\nall new to her, you know; you and I used to be very fond of a play\nourselves, and so am I still; and as soon as I am a little more at\nleisure, _I_ mean to look in at their rehearsals too. What is the play\nabout, Fanny? you have never told me.\"\n\n\"Oh! sister, pray do not ask her now; for Fanny is not one of those who\ncan talk and work at the same time. It is about Lovers' Vows.\"\n\n\"I believe,\" said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, \"there will be three acts\nrehearsed to-morrow evening, and that will give you an opportunity of\nseeing all the actors at once.\"\n\n\"You had better stay till the curtain is hung,\" interposed Mrs. Norris;\n\"the curtain will be hung in a day or two--there is very little sense in\na play without a curtain--and I am much mistaken if you do not find it\ndraw up into very handsome festoons.\"\n\nLady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. Fanny did not share her\naunt's composure: she thought of the morrow a great deal, for if the\nthree acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be acting\ntogether for the first time; the third act would bring a scene between\nthem which interested her most particularly, and which she was longing\nand dreading to see how they would perform. The whole subject of it was\nlove--a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman, and very\nlittle short of a declaration of love be made by the lady.\n\nShe had read and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering\nemotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a\ncircumstance almost too interesting. She did not _believe_ they had yet\nrehearsed it, even in private.\n\nThe morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny's\nconsideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very\ndiligently under her aunt's directions, but her diligence and her\nsilence concealed a very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she\nmade her escape with her work to the East room, that she might have no\nconcern in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal of\nthe first act, which Henry Crawford was just proposing, desirous at\nonce of having her time to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr.\nRushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two ladies\nwalking up from the Parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat, and\nshe worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed, for a quarter of\nan hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance of\nMiss Crawford.\n\n\"Am I right? Yes; this is the East room. My dear Miss Price, I beg your\npardon, but I have made my way to you on purpose to entreat your help.\"\n\nFanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to shew herself mistress of the room\nby her civilities, and looked at the bright bars of her empty grate with\nconcern.\n\n\"Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm. Allow me to stay here a little\nwhile, and do have the goodness to hear me my third act. I have brought\nmy book, and if you would but rehearse it with me, I should be _so_\nobliged! I came here to-day intending to rehearse it with Edmund--by\nourselves--against the evening, but he is not in the way; and if he\n_were_, I do not think I could go through it with _him_, till I have\nhardened myself a little; for really there is a speech or two. You will\nbe so good, won't you?\"\n\nFanny was most civil in her assurances, though she could not give them\nin a very steady voice.\n\n\"Have you ever happened to look at the part I mean?\" continued Miss\nCrawford, opening her book. \"Here it is. I did not think much of it at\nfirst--but, upon my word. There, look at _that_ speech, and _that_, and\n_that_. How am I ever to look him in the face and say such things? Could\nyou do it? But then he is your cousin, which makes all the difference.\nYou must rehearse it with me, that I may fancy _you_ him, and get on by\ndegrees. You _have_ a look of _his_ sometimes.\"\n\n\"Have I? I will do my best with the greatest readiness; but I must\n_read_ the part, for I can say very little of it.\"\n\n\"_None_ of it, I suppose. You are to have the book, of course. Now for\nit. We must have two chairs at hand for you to bring forward to the\nfront of the stage. There--very good school-room chairs, not made for a\ntheatre, I dare say; much more fitted for little girls to sit and kick\ntheir feet against when they are learning a lesson. What would your\ngoverness and your uncle say to see them used for such a purpose? Could\nSir Thomas look in upon us just now, he would bless himself, for we\nare rehearsing all over the house. Yates is storming away in the\ndining-room. I heard him as I came upstairs, and the theatre is engaged\nof course by those indefatigable rehearsers, Agatha and Frederick. If\n_they_ are not perfect, I _shall_ be surprised. By the bye, I looked in\nupon them five minutes ago, and it happened to be exactly at one of the\ntimes when they were trying _not_ to embrace, and Mr. Rushworth was with\nme. I thought he began to look a little queer, so I turned it off as\nwell as I could, by whispering to him, 'We shall have an excellent\nAgatha; there is something so _maternal_ in her manner, so completely\n_maternal_ in her voice and countenance.' Was not that well done of me?\nHe brightened up directly. Now for my soliloquy.\"\n\nShe began, and Fanny joined in with all the modest feeling which the\nidea of representing Edmund was so strongly calculated to inspire; but\nwith looks and voice so truly feminine as to be no very good picture of\na man. With such an Anhalt, however, Miss Crawford had courage enough;\nand they had got through half the scene, when a tap at the door brought\na pause, and the entrance of Edmund, the next moment, suspended it all.\n\nSurprise, consciousness, and pleasure appeared in each of the three\non this unexpected meeting; and as Edmund was come on the very same\nbusiness that had brought Miss Crawford, consciousness and pleasure were\nlikely to be more than momentary in _them_. He too had his book, and was\nseeking Fanny, to ask her to rehearse with him, and help him to prepare\nfor the evening, without knowing Miss Crawford to be in the house;\nand great was the joy and animation of being thus thrown together, of\ncomparing schemes, and sympathising in praise of Fanny's kind offices.\n\n_She_ could not equal them in their warmth. _Her_ spirits sank under the\nglow of theirs, and she felt herself becoming too nearly nothing to\nboth to have any comfort in having been sought by either. They must now\nrehearse together. Edmund proposed, urged, entreated it, till the lady,\nnot very unwilling at first, could refuse no longer, and Fanny was\nwanted only to prompt and observe them. She was invested, indeed, with\nthe office of judge and critic, and earnestly desired to exercise it and\ntell them all their faults; but from doing so every feeling within her\nshrank--she could not, would not, dared not attempt it: had she been\notherwise qualified for criticism, her conscience must have restrained\nher from venturing at disapprobation. She believed herself to feel too\nmuch of it in the aggregate for honesty or safety in particulars. To\nprompt them must be enough for her; and it was sometimes _more_ than\nenough; for she could not always pay attention to the book. In watching\nthem she forgot herself; and, agitated by the increasing spirit of\nEdmund's manner, had once closed the page and turned away exactly as he\nwanted help. It was imputed to very reasonable weariness, and she was\nthanked and pitied; but she deserved their pity more than she hoped they\nwould ever surmise. At last the scene was over, and Fanny forced herself\nto add her praise to the compliments each was giving the other; and when\nagain alone and able to recall the whole, she was inclined to believe\ntheir performance would, indeed, have such nature and feeling in it as\nmust ensure their credit, and make it a very suffering exhibition to\nherself. Whatever might be its effect, however, she must stand the brunt\nof it again that very day.\n\nThe first regular rehearsal of the three first acts was certainly to\ntake place in the evening: Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords were engaged to\nreturn for that purpose as soon as they could after dinner; and every\none concerned was looking forward with eagerness. There seemed a general\ndiffusion of cheerfulness on the occasion. Tom was enjoying such an\nadvance towards the end; Edmund was in spirits from the morning's\nrehearsal, and little vexations seemed everywhere smoothed away. All\nwere alert and impatient; the ladies moved soon, the gentlemen soon\nfollowed them, and with the exception of Lady Bertram, Mrs. Norris, and\nJulia, everybody was in the theatre at an early hour; and having lighted\nit up as well as its unfinished state admitted, were waiting only the\narrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords to begin.\n\nThey did not wait long for the Crawfords, but there was no Mrs. Grant.\nShe could not come. Dr. Grant, professing an indisposition, for which he\nhad little credit with his fair sister-in-law, could not spare his wife.\n\n\"Dr. Grant is ill,\" said she, with mock solemnity. \"He has been ill ever\nsince he did not eat any of the pheasant today. He fancied it tough,\nsent away his plate, and has been suffering ever since\".\n\nHere was disappointment! Mrs. Grant's non-attendance was sad indeed.\nHer pleasant manners and cheerful conformity made her always valuable\namongst them; but _now_ she was absolutely necessary. They could not\nact, they could not rehearse with any satisfaction without her. The\ncomfort of the whole evening was destroyed. What was to be done? Tom, as\nCottager, was in despair. After a pause of perplexity, some eyes began\nto be turned towards Fanny, and a voice or two to say, \"If Miss Price\nwould be so good as to _read_ the part.\" She was immediately surrounded\nby supplications; everybody asked it; even Edmund said, \"Do, Fanny, if\nit is not _very_ disagreeable to you.\"\n\nBut Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the idea of it. Why was\nnot Miss Crawford to be applied to as well? Or why had not she rather\ngone to her own room, as she had felt to be safest, instead of attending\nthe rehearsal at all? She had known it would irritate and distress her;\nshe had known it her duty to keep away. She was properly punished.\n\n\"You have only to _read_ the part,\" said Henry Crawford, with renewed\nentreaty.\n\n\"And I do believe she can say every word of it,\" added Maria, \"for she\ncould put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places. Fanny, I am\nsure you know the part.\"\n\nFanny could not say she did _not_; and as they all persevered, as\nEdmund repeated his wish, and with a look of even fond dependence on\nher good-nature, she must yield. She would do her best. Everybody was\nsatisfied; and she was left to the tremors of a most palpitating heart,\nwhile the others prepared to begin.\n\nThey _did_ begin; and being too much engaged in their own noise to be\nstruck by an unusual noise in the other part of the house, had proceeded\nsome way when the door of the room was thrown open, and Julia, appearing\nat it, with a face all aghast, exclaimed, \"My father is come! He is in\nthe hall at this moment.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nHow is the consternation of the party to be described? To the greater\nnumber it was a moment of absolute horror. Sir Thomas in the house! All\nfelt the instantaneous conviction. Not a hope of imposition or mistake\nwas harboured anywhere. Julia's looks were an evidence of the fact that\nmade it indisputable; and after the first starts and exclamations, not a\nword was spoken for half a minute: each with an altered countenance was\nlooking at some other, and almost each was feeling it a stroke the most\nunwelcome, most ill-timed, most appalling! Mr. Yates might consider\nit only as a vexatious interruption for the evening, and Mr. Rushworth\nmight imagine it a blessing; but every other heart was sinking under\nsome degree of self-condemnation or undefined alarm, every other heart\nwas suggesting, \"What will become of us? what is to be done now?\" It\nwas a terrible pause; and terrible to every ear were the corroborating\nsounds of opening doors and passing footsteps.\n\nJulia was the first to move and speak again. Jealousy and bitterness\nhad been suspended: selfishness was lost in the common cause; but at the\nmoment of her appearance, Frederick was listening with looks of devotion\nto Agatha's narrative, and pressing her hand to his heart; and as soon\nas she could notice this, and see that, in spite of the shock of her\nwords, he still kept his station and retained her sister's hand, her\nwounded heart swelled again with injury, and looking as red as she had\nbeen white before, she turned out of the room, saying, \"_I_ need not be\nafraid of appearing before him.\"\n\nHer going roused the rest; and at the same moment the two brothers\nstepped forward, feeling the necessity of doing something. A very few\nwords between them were sufficient. The case admitted no difference of\nopinion: they must go to the drawing-room directly. Maria joined them\nwith the same intent, just then the stoutest of the three; for the\nvery circumstance which had driven Julia away was to her the sweetest\nsupport. Henry Crawford's retaining her hand at such a moment, a moment\nof such peculiar proof and importance, was worth ages of doubt and\nanxiety. She hailed it as an earnest of the most serious determination,\nand was equal even to encounter her father. They walked off, utterly\nheedless of Mr. Rushworth's repeated question of, \"Shall I go too? Had\nnot I better go too? Will not it be right for me to go too?\" but they\nwere no sooner through the door than Henry Crawford undertook to answer\nthe anxious inquiry, and, encouraging him by all means to pay his\nrespects to Sir Thomas without delay, sent him after the others with\ndelighted haste.\n\nFanny was left with only the Crawfords and Mr. Yates. She had been quite\noverlooked by her cousins; and as her own opinion of her claims on Sir\nThomas's affection was much too humble to give her any idea of classing\nherself with his children, she was glad to remain behind and gain a\nlittle breathing-time. Her agitation and alarm exceeded all that was\nendured by the rest, by the right of a disposition which not even\ninnocence could keep from suffering. She was nearly fainting: all her\nformer habitual dread of her uncle was returning, and with it compassion\nfor him and for almost every one of the party on the development before\nhim, with solicitude on Edmund's account indescribable. She had found\na seat, where in excessive trembling she was enduring all these fearful\nthoughts, while the other three, no longer under any restraint, were\ngiving vent to their feelings of vexation, lamenting over such an\nunlooked-for premature arrival as a most untoward event, and without\nmercy wishing poor Sir Thomas had been twice as long on his passage, or\nwere still in Antigua.\n\nThe Crawfords were more warm on the subject than Mr. Yates, from better\nunderstanding the family, and judging more clearly of the mischief that\nmust ensue. The ruin of the play was to them a certainty: they felt\nthe total destruction of the scheme to be inevitably at hand; while Mr.\nYates considered it only as a temporary interruption, a disaster for the\nevening, and could even suggest the possibility of the rehearsal being\nrenewed after tea, when the bustle of receiving Sir Thomas were over,\nand he might be at leisure to be amused by it. The Crawfords laughed\nat the idea; and having soon agreed on the propriety of their walking\nquietly home and leaving the family to themselves, proposed Mr. Yates's\naccompanying them and spending the evening at the Parsonage. But Mr.\nYates, having never been with those who thought much of parental claims,\nor family confidence, could not perceive that anything of the kind was\nnecessary; and therefore, thanking them, said, \"he preferred remaining\nwhere he was, that he might pay his respects to the old gentleman\nhandsomely since he _was_ come; and besides, he did not think it would\nbe fair by the others to have everybody run away.\"\n\nFanny was just beginning to collect herself, and to feel that if she\nstaid longer behind it might seem disrespectful, when this point was\nsettled, and being commissioned with the brother and sister's apology,\nsaw them preparing to go as she quitted the room herself to perform the\ndreadful duty of appearing before her uncle.\n\nToo soon did she find herself at the drawing-room door; and after\npausing a moment for what she knew would not come, for a courage which\nthe outside of no door had ever supplied to her, she turned the lock in\ndesperation, and the lights of the drawing-room, and all the collected\nfamily, were before her. As she entered, her own name caught her ear.\nSir Thomas was at that moment looking round him, and saying, \"But where\nis Fanny? Why do not I see my little Fanny?\"--and on perceiving her,\ncame forward with a kindness which astonished and penetrated her,\ncalling her his dear Fanny, kissing her affectionately, and observing\nwith decided pleasure how much she was grown! Fanny knew not how to\nfeel, nor where to look. She was quite oppressed. He had never been so\nkind, so _very_ kind to her in his life. His manner seemed changed, his\nvoice was quick from the agitation of joy; and all that had been awful\nin his dignity seemed lost in tenderness. He led her nearer the light\nand looked at her again--inquired particularly after her health, and\nthen, correcting himself, observed that he need not inquire, for\nher appearance spoke sufficiently on that point. A fine blush having\nsucceeded the previous paleness of her face, he was justified in his\nbelief of her equal improvement in health and beauty. He inquired next\nafter her family, especially William: and his kindness altogether was\nsuch as made her reproach herself for loving him so little, and thinking\nhis return a misfortune; and when, on having courage to lift her eyes to\nhis face, she saw that he was grown thinner, and had the burnt, fagged,\nworn look of fatigue and a hot climate, every tender feeling was\nincreased, and she was miserable in considering how much unsuspected\nvexation was probably ready to burst on him.\n\nSir Thomas was indeed the life of the party, who at his suggestion\nnow seated themselves round the fire. He had the best right to be the\ntalker; and the delight of his sensations in being again in his own\nhouse, in the centre of his family, after such a separation, made him\ncommunicative and chatty in a very unusual degree; and he was ready to\ngive every information as to his voyage, and answer every question\nof his two sons almost before it was put. His business in Antigua had\nlatterly been prosperously rapid, and he came directly from Liverpool,\nhaving had an opportunity of making his passage thither in a private\nvessel, instead of waiting for the packet; and all the little\nparticulars of his proceedings and events, his arrivals and departures,\nwere most promptly delivered, as he sat by Lady Bertram and looked with\nheartfelt satisfaction on the faces around him--interrupting himself\nmore than once, however, to remark on his good fortune in finding them\nall at home--coming unexpectedly as he did--all collected together\nexactly as he could have wished, but dared not depend on. Mr. Rushworth\nwas not forgotten: a most friendly reception and warmth of hand-shaking\nhad already met him, and with pointed attention he was now included in\nthe objects most intimately connected with Mansfield. There was nothing\ndisagreeable in Mr. Rushworth's appearance, and Sir Thomas was liking\nhim already.\n\nBy not one of the circle was he listened to with such unbroken,\nunalloyed enjoyment as by his wife, who was really extremely happy to\nsee him, and whose feelings were so warmed by his sudden arrival as to\nplace her nearer agitation than she had been for the last twenty years.\nShe had been _almost_ fluttered for a few minutes, and still remained so\nsensibly animated as to put away her work, move Pug from her side, and\ngive all her attention and all the rest of her sofa to her husband. She\nhad no anxieties for anybody to cloud _her_ pleasure: her own time had\nbeen irreproachably spent during his absence: she had done a great\ndeal of carpet-work, and made many yards of fringe; and she would have\nanswered as freely for the good conduct and useful pursuits of all\nthe young people as for her own. It was so agreeable to her to see\nhim again, and hear him talk, to have her ear amused and her whole\ncomprehension filled by his narratives, that she began particularly\nto feel how dreadfully she must have missed him, and how impossible it\nwould have been for her to bear a lengthened absence.\n\nMrs. Norris was by no means to be compared in happiness to her\nsister. Not that _she_ was incommoded by many fears of Sir Thomas's\ndisapprobation when the present state of his house should be known, for\nher judgment had been so blinded that, except by the instinctive caution\nwith which she had whisked away Mr. Rushworth's pink satin cloak as her\nbrother-in-law entered, she could hardly be said to shew any sign of\nalarm; but she was vexed by the _manner_ of his return. It had left her\nnothing to do. Instead of being sent for out of the room, and seeing\nhim first, and having to spread the happy news through the house, Sir\nThomas, with a very reasonable dependence, perhaps, on the nerves of his\nwife and children, had sought no confidant but the butler, and had been\nfollowing him almost instantaneously into the drawing-room. Mrs. Norris\nfelt herself defrauded of an office on which she had always depended,\nwhether his arrival or his death were to be the thing unfolded; and was\nnow trying to be in a bustle without having anything to bustle about,\nand labouring to be important where nothing was wanted but tranquillity\nand silence. Would Sir Thomas have consented to eat, she might have gone\nto the housekeeper with troublesome directions, and insulted the footmen\nwith injunctions of despatch; but Sir Thomas resolutely declined all\ndinner: he would take nothing, nothing till tea came--he would rather\nwait for tea. Still Mrs. Norris was at intervals urging something\ndifferent; and in the most interesting moment of his passage to England,\nwhen the alarm of a French privateer was at the height, she burst\nthrough his recital with the proposal of soup. \"Sure, my dear Sir\nThomas, a basin of soup would be a much better thing for you than tea.\nDo have a basin of soup.\"\n\nSir Thomas could not be provoked. \"Still the same anxiety for\neverybody's comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris,\" was his answer. \"But indeed I\nwould rather have nothing but tea.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Lady Bertram, suppose you speak for tea directly; suppose\nyou hurry Baddeley a little; he seems behindhand to-night.\" She carried\nthis point, and Sir Thomas's narrative proceeded.\n\nAt length there was a pause. His immediate communications were\nexhausted, and it seemed enough to be looking joyfully around him, now\nat one, now at another of the beloved circle; but the pause was not\nlong: in the elation of her spirits Lady Bertram became talkative, and\nwhat were the sensations of her children upon hearing her say, \"How\ndo you think the young people have been amusing themselves lately, Sir\nThomas? They have been acting. We have been all alive with acting.\"\n\n\"Indeed! and what have you been acting?\"\n\n\"Oh! they'll tell you all about it.\"\n\n\"The _all_ will soon be told,\" cried Tom hastily, and with affected\nunconcern; \"but it is not worth while to bore my father with it now. You\nwill hear enough of it to-morrow, sir. We have just been trying, by way\nof doing something, and amusing my mother, just within the last week,\nto get up a few scenes, a mere trifle. We have had such incessant rains\nalmost since October began, that we have been nearly confined to the\nhouse for days together. I have hardly taken out a gun since the 3rd.\nTolerable sport the first three days, but there has been no attempting\nanything since. The first day I went over Mansfield Wood, and Edmund\ntook the copses beyond Easton, and we brought home six brace between\nus, and might each have killed six times as many, but we respect your\npheasants, sir, I assure you, as much as you could desire. I do not\nthink you will find your woods by any means worse stocked than they\nwere. _I_ never saw Mansfield Wood so full of pheasants in my life\nas this year. I hope you will take a day's sport there yourself, sir,\nsoon.\"\n\nFor the present the danger was over, and Fanny's sick feelings subsided;\nbut when tea was soon afterwards brought in, and Sir Thomas, getting up,\nsaid that he found that he could not be any longer in the house without\njust looking into his own dear room, every agitation was returning. He\nwas gone before anything had been said to prepare him for the change he\nmust find there; and a pause of alarm followed his disappearance. Edmund\nwas the first to speak--\n\n\"Something must be done,\" said he.\n\n\"It is time to think of our visitors,\" said Maria, still feeling her\nhand pressed to Henry Crawford's heart, and caring little for anything\nelse. \"Where did you leave Miss Crawford, Fanny?\"\n\nFanny told of their departure, and delivered their message.\n\n\"Then poor Yates is all alone,\" cried Tom. \"I will go and fetch him. He\nwill be no bad assistant when it all comes out.\"\n\nTo the theatre he went, and reached it just in time to witness the first\nmeeting of his father and his friend. Sir Thomas had been a good deal\nsurprised to find candles burning in his room; and on casting his eye\nround it, to see other symptoms of recent habitation and a general air\nof confusion in the furniture. The removal of the bookcase from before\nthe billiard-room door struck him especially, but he had scarcely more\nthan time to feel astonished at all this, before there were sounds from\nthe billiard-room to astonish him still farther. Some one was talking\nthere in a very loud accent; he did not know the voice--more than\ntalking--almost hallooing. He stepped to the door, rejoicing at that\nmoment in having the means of immediate communication, and, opening it,\nfound himself on the stage of a theatre, and opposed to a ranting young\nman, who appeared likely to knock him down backwards. At the very moment\nof Yates perceiving Sir Thomas, and giving perhaps the very best start\nhe had ever given in the whole course of his rehearsals, Tom Bertram\nentered at the other end of the room; and never had he found greater\ndifficulty in keeping his countenance. His father's looks of solemnity\nand amazement on this his first appearance on any stage, and the gradual\nmetamorphosis of the impassioned Baron Wildenheim into the well-bred and\neasy Mr. Yates, making his bow and apology to Sir Thomas Bertram, was\nsuch an exhibition, such a piece of true acting, as he would not have\nlost upon any account. It would be the last--in all probability--the\nlast scene on that stage; but he was sure there could not be a finer.\nThe house would close with the greatest eclat.\n\nThere was little time, however, for the indulgence of any images of\nmerriment. It was necessary for him to step forward, too, and assist\nthe introduction, and with many awkward sensations he did his best. Sir\nThomas received Mr. Yates with all the appearance of cordiality which\nwas due to his own character, but was really as far from pleased\nwith the necessity of the acquaintance as with the manner of its\ncommencement. Mr. Yates's family and connexions were sufficiently known\nto him to render his introduction as the \"particular friend,\" another of\nthe hundred particular friends of his son, exceedingly unwelcome; and it\nneeded all the felicity of being again at home, and all the forbearance\nit could supply, to save Sir Thomas from anger on finding himself thus\nbewildered in his own house, making part of a ridiculous exhibition in\nthe midst of theatrical nonsense, and forced in so untoward a moment to\nadmit the acquaintance of a young man whom he felt sure of disapproving,\nand whose easy indifference and volubility in the course of the first\nfive minutes seemed to mark him the most at home of the two.\n\nTom understood his father's thoughts, and heartily wishing he might be\nalways as well disposed to give them but partial expression, began to\nsee, more clearly than he had ever done before, that there might be some\nground of offence, that there might be some reason for the glance his\nfather gave towards the ceiling and stucco of the room; and that when he\ninquired with mild gravity after the fate of the billiard-table, he was\nnot proceeding beyond a very allowable curiosity. A few minutes were\nenough for such unsatisfactory sensations on each side; and Sir\nThomas having exerted himself so far as to speak a few words of\ncalm approbation in reply to an eager appeal of Mr. Yates, as to the\nhappiness of the arrangement, the three gentlemen returned to the\ndrawing-room together, Sir Thomas with an increase of gravity which was\nnot lost on all.\n\n\"I come from your theatre,\" said he composedly, as he sat down; \"I found\nmyself in it rather unexpectedly. Its vicinity to my own room--but in\nevery respect, indeed, it took me by surprise, as I had not the smallest\nsuspicion of your acting having assumed so serious a character. It\nappears a neat job, however, as far as I could judge by candlelight,\nand does my friend Christopher Jackson credit.\" And then he would\nhave changed the subject, and sipped his coffee in peace over domestic\nmatters of a calmer hue; but Mr. Yates, without discernment to catch Sir\nThomas's meaning, or diffidence, or delicacy, or discretion enough to\nallow him to lead the discourse while he mingled among the others with\nthe least obtrusiveness himself, would keep him on the topic of the\ntheatre, would torment him with questions and remarks relative to it,\nand finally would make him hear the whole history of his disappointment\nat Ecclesford. Sir Thomas listened most politely, but found much to\noffend his ideas of decorum, and confirm his ill-opinion of Mr. Yates's\nhabits of thinking, from the beginning to the end of the story; and when\nit was over, could give him no other assurance of sympathy than what a\nslight bow conveyed.\n\n\"This was, in fact, the origin of _our_ acting,\" said Tom, after\na moment's thought. \"My friend Yates brought the infection from\nEcclesford, and it spread--as those things always spread, you know,\nsir--the faster, probably, from _your_ having so often encouraged the\nsort of thing in us formerly. It was like treading old ground again.\"\n\nMr. Yates took the subject from his friend as soon as possible, and\nimmediately gave Sir Thomas an account of what they had done and were\ndoing: told him of the gradual increase of their views, the happy\nconclusion of their first difficulties, and present promising state of\naffairs; relating everything with so blind an interest as made him not\nonly totally unconscious of the uneasy movements of many of his\nfriends as they sat, the change of countenance, the fidget, the hem! of\nunquietness, but prevented him even from seeing the expression of the\nface on which his own eyes were fixed--from seeing Sir Thomas's dark\nbrow contract as he looked with inquiring earnestness at his daughters\nand Edmund, dwelling particularly on the latter, and speaking a\nlanguage, a remonstrance, a reproof, which _he_ felt at his heart. Not\nless acutely was it felt by Fanny, who had edged back her chair behind\nher aunt's end of the sofa, and, screened from notice herself, saw all\nthat was passing before her. Such a look of reproach at Edmund from his\nfather she could never have expected to witness; and to feel that it\nwas in any degree deserved was an aggravation indeed. Sir Thomas's\nlook implied, \"On your judgment, Edmund, I depended; what have you\nbeen about?\" She knelt in spirit to her uncle, and her bosom swelled to\nutter, \"Oh, not to _him_! Look so to all the others, but not to _him_!\"\n\nMr. Yates was still talking. \"To own the truth, Sir Thomas, we were in\nthe middle of a rehearsal when you arrived this evening. We were going\nthrough the three first acts, and not unsuccessfully upon the whole. Our\ncompany is now so dispersed, from the Crawfords being gone home, that\nnothing more can be done to-night; but if you will give us the honour of\nyour company to-morrow evening, I should not be afraid of the result. We\nbespeak your indulgence, you understand, as young performers; we bespeak\nyour indulgence.\"\n\n\"My indulgence shall be given, sir,\" replied Sir Thomas gravely, \"but\nwithout any other rehearsal.\" And with a relenting smile, he added, \"I\ncome home to be happy and indulgent.\" Then turning away towards any\nor all of the rest, he tranquilly said, \"Mr. and Miss Crawford were\nmentioned in my last letters from Mansfield. Do you find them agreeable\nacquaintance?\"\n\nTom was the only one at all ready with an answer, but he being entirely\nwithout particular regard for either, without jealousy either in love\nor acting, could speak very handsomely of both. \"Mr. Crawford was a\nmost pleasant, gentleman-like man; his sister a sweet, pretty, elegant,\nlively girl.\"\n\nMr. Rushworth could be silent no longer. \"I do not say he is not\ngentleman-like, considering; but you should tell your father he is not\nabove five feet eight, or he will be expecting a well-looking man.\"\n\nSir Thomas did not quite understand this, and looked with some surprise\nat the speaker.\n\n\"If I must say what I think,\" continued Mr. Rushworth, \"in my opinion it\nis very disagreeable to be always rehearsing. It is having too much of a\ngood thing. I am not so fond of acting as I was at first. I think we are\na great deal better employed, sitting comfortably here among ourselves,\nand doing nothing.\"\n\nSir Thomas looked again, and then replied with an approving smile, \"I am\nhappy to find our sentiments on this subject so much the same. It gives\nme sincere satisfaction. That I should be cautious and quick-sighted,\nand feel many scruples which my children do _not_ feel, is perfectly\nnatural; and equally so that my value for domestic tranquillity, for a\nhome which shuts out noisy pleasures, should much exceed theirs. But at\nyour time of life to feel all this, is a most favourable circumstance\nfor yourself, and for everybody connected with you; and I am sensible of\nthe importance of having an ally of such weight.\"\n\nSir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Rushworth's opinion in better words\nthan he could find himself. He was aware that he must not expect a\ngenius in Mr. Rushworth; but as a well-judging, steady young man, with\nbetter notions than his elocution would do justice to, he intended to\nvalue him very highly. It was impossible for many of the others not to\nsmile. Mr. Rushworth hardly knew what to do with so much meaning; but by\nlooking, as he really felt, most exceedingly pleased with Sir Thomas's\ngood opinion, and saying scarcely anything, he did his best towards\npreserving that good opinion a little longer.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nEdmund's first object the next morning was to see his father alone, and\ngive him a fair statement of the whole acting scheme, defending his own\nshare in it as far only as he could then, in a soberer moment, feel his\nmotives to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness, that\nhis concession had been attended with such partial good as to make his\njudgment in it very doubtful. He was anxious, while vindicating himself,\nto say nothing unkind of the others: but there was only one amongst\nthem whose conduct he could mention without some necessity of defence\nor palliation. \"We have all been more or less to blame,\" said he, \"every\none of us, excepting Fanny. Fanny is the only one who has judged rightly\nthroughout; who has been consistent. _Her_ feelings have been steadily\nagainst it from first to last. She never ceased to think of what was due\nto you. You will find Fanny everything you could wish.\"\n\nSir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among such a party,\nand at such a time, as strongly as his son had ever supposed he must; he\nfelt it too much, indeed, for many words; and having shaken hands with\nEdmund, meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression, and forget how\nmuch he had been forgotten himself as soon as he could, after the house\nhad been cleared of every object enforcing the remembrance, and restored\nto its proper state. He did not enter into any remonstrance with his\nother children: he was more willing to believe they felt their error\nthan to run the risk of investigation. The reproof of an immediate\nconclusion of everything, the sweep of every preparation, would be\nsufficient.\n\nThere was one person, however, in the house, whom he could not leave\nto learn his sentiments merely through his conduct. He could not help\ngiving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having hoped that her advice might\nhave been interposed to prevent what her judgment must certainly have\ndisapproved. The young people had been very inconsiderate in forming the\nplan; they ought to have been capable of a better decision themselves;\nbut they were young; and, excepting Edmund, he believed, of unsteady\ncharacters; and with greater surprise, therefore, he must regard her\nacquiescence in their wrong measures, her countenance of their unsafe\namusements, than that such measures and such amusements should have\nbeen suggested. Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as nearly\nbeing silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she was ashamed to\nconfess having never seen any of the impropriety which was so glaring\nto Sir Thomas, and would not have admitted that her influence was\ninsufficient--that she might have talked in vain. Her only resource was\nto get out of the subject as fast as possible, and turn the current\nof Sir Thomas's ideas into a happier channel. She had a great deal to\ninsinuate in her own praise as to _general_ attention to the interest\nand comfort of his family, much exertion and many sacrifices to glance\nat in the form of hurried walks and sudden removals from her own\nfireside, and many excellent hints of distrust and economy to Lady\nBertram and Edmund to detail, whereby a most considerable saving had\nalways arisen, and more than one bad servant been detected. But her\nchief strength lay in Sotherton. Her greatest support and glory was\nin having formed the connexion with the Rushworths. _There_ she\nwas impregnable. She took to herself all the credit of bringing Mr.\nRushworth's admiration of Maria to any effect. \"If I had not been\nactive,\" said she, \"and made a point of being introduced to his mother,\nand then prevailed on my sister to pay the first visit, I am as certain\nas I sit here that nothing would have come of it; for Mr. Rushworth\nis the sort of amiable modest young man who wants a great deal of\nencouragement, and there were girls enough on the catch for him if we\nhad been idle. But I left no stone unturned. I was ready to move heaven\nand earth to persuade my sister, and at last I did persuade her. You\nknow the distance to Sotherton; it was in the middle of winter, and the\nroads almost impassable, but I did persuade her.\"\n\n\"I know how great, how justly great, your influence is with Lady Bertram\nand her children, and am the more concerned that it should not have\nbeen.\"\n\n\"My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the state of the roads _that_ day!\nI thought we should never have got through them, though we had the four\nhorses of course; and poor old coachman would attend us, out of his\ngreat love and kindness, though he was hardly able to sit the box on\naccount of the rheumatism which I had been doctoring him for ever since\nMichaelmas. I cured him at last; but he was very bad all the winter--and\nthis was such a day, I could not help going to him up in his room before\nwe set off to advise him not to venture: he was putting on his wig; so\nI said, 'Coachman, you had much better not go; your Lady and I shall be\nvery safe; you know how steady Stephen is, and Charles has been upon the\nleaders so often now, that I am sure there is no fear.' But, however, I\nsoon found it would not do; he was bent upon going, and as I hate to be\nworrying and officious, I said no more; but my heart quite ached for him\nat every jolt, and when we got into the rough lanes about Stoke, where,\nwhat with frost and snow upon beds of stones, it was worse than anything\nyou can imagine, I was quite in an agony about him. And then the poor\nhorses too! To see them straining away! You know how I always feel for\nthe horses. And when we got to the bottom of Sandcroft Hill, what do you\nthink I did? You will laugh at me; but I got out and walked up. I did\nindeed. It might not be saving them much, but it was something, and I\ncould not bear to sit at my ease and be dragged up at the expense of\nthose noble animals. I caught a dreadful cold, but _that_ I did not\nregard. My object was accomplished in the visit.\"\n\n\"I hope we shall always think the acquaintance worth any trouble that\nmight be taken to establish it. There is nothing very striking in Mr.\nRushworth's manners, but I was pleased last night with what appeared to\nbe his opinion on one subject: his decided preference of a quiet family\nparty to the bustle and confusion of acting. He seemed to feel exactly\nas one could wish.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed, and the more you know of him the better you will like him.\nHe is not a shining character, but he has a thousand good qualities; and\nis so disposed to look up to you, that I am quite laughed at about it,\nfor everybody considers it as my doing. 'Upon my word, Mrs. Norris,'\nsaid Mrs. Grant the other day, 'if Mr. Rushworth were a son of your own,\nhe could not hold Sir Thomas in greater respect.'\"\n\nSir Thomas gave up the point, foiled by her evasions, disarmed by her\nflattery; and was obliged to rest satisfied with the conviction that\nwhere the present pleasure of those she loved was at stake, her kindness\ndid sometimes overpower her judgment.\n\nIt was a busy morning with him. Conversation with any of them occupied\nbut a small part of it. He had to reinstate himself in all the wonted\nconcerns of his Mansfield life: to see his steward and his bailiff; to\nexamine and compute, and, in the intervals of business, to walk into\nhis stables and his gardens, and nearest plantations; but active and\nmethodical, he had not only done all this before he resumed his seat as\nmaster of the house at dinner, he had also set the carpenter to work in\npulling down what had been so lately put up in the billiard-room,\nand given the scene-painter his dismissal long enough to justify the\npleasing belief of his being then at least as far off as Northampton.\nThe scene-painter was gone, having spoilt only the floor of one room,\nruined all the coachman's sponges, and made five of the under-servants\nidle and dissatisfied; and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another day or\ntwo would suffice to wipe away every outward memento of what had been,\neven to the destruction of every unbound copy of Lovers' Vows in the\nhouse, for he was burning all that met his eye.\n\nMr. Yates was beginning now to understand Sir Thomas's intentions,\nthough as far as ever from understanding their source. He and his friend\nhad been out with their guns the chief of the morning, and Tom had taken\nthe opportunity of explaining, with proper apologies for his father's\nparticularity, what was to be expected. Mr. Yates felt it as acutely as\nmight be supposed. To be a second time disappointed in the same way was\nan instance of very severe ill-luck; and his indignation was such,\nthat had it not been for delicacy towards his friend, and his friend's\nyoungest sister, he believed he should certainly attack the baronet\non the absurdity of his proceedings, and argue him into a little more\nrationality. He believed this very stoutly while he was in Mansfield\nWood, and all the way home; but there was a something in Sir Thomas,\nwhen they sat round the same table, which made Mr. Yates think it\nwiser to let him pursue his own way, and feel the folly of it without\nopposition. He had known many disagreeable fathers before, and often\nbeen struck with the inconveniences they occasioned, but never, in\nthe whole course of his life, had he seen one of that class so\nunintelligibly moral, so infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He was\nnot a man to be endured but for his children's sake, and he might be\nthankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. Yates did yet mean to stay\na few days longer under his roof.\n\nThe evening passed with external smoothness, though almost every\nmind was ruffled; and the music which Sir Thomas called for from his\ndaughters helped to conceal the want of real harmony. Maria was in a\ngood deal of agitation. It was of the utmost consequence to her that\nCrawford should now lose no time in declaring himself, and she was\ndisturbed that even a day should be gone by without seeming to advance\nthat point. She had been expecting to see him the whole morning, and\nall the evening, too, was still expecting him. Mr. Rushworth had set off\nearly with the great news for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped for\nsuch an immediate _eclaircissement_ as might save him the trouble of\never coming back again. But they had seen no one from the Parsonage,\nnot a creature, and had heard no tidings beyond a friendly note of\ncongratulation and inquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram. It was the\nfirst day for many, many weeks, in which the families had been wholly\ndivided. Four-and-twenty hours had never passed before, since August\nbegan, without bringing them together in some way or other. It was a\nsad, anxious day; and the morrow, though differing in the sort of evil,\ndid by no means bring less. A few moments of feverish enjoyment were\nfollowed by hours of acute suffering. Henry Crawford was again in the\nhouse: he walked up with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his respects\nto Sir Thomas, and at rather an early hour they were ushered into the\nbreakfast-room, where were most of the family. Sir Thomas soon appeared,\nand Maria saw with delight and agitation the introduction of the man she\nloved to her father. Her sensations were indefinable, and so were they\na few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford, who had a chair\nbetween herself and Tom, ask the latter in an undervoice whether\nthere were any plans for resuming the play after the present happy\ninterruption (with a courteous glance at Sir Thomas), because, in that\ncase, he should make a point of returning to Mansfield at any time\nrequired by the party: he was going away immediately, being to meet his\nuncle at Bath without delay; but if there were any prospect of a renewal\nof Lovers' Vows, he should hold himself positively engaged, he should\nbreak through every other claim, he should absolutely condition with his\nuncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted. The play should\nnot be lost by _his_ absence.\n\n\"From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be,\" said he; \"I will\nattend you from any place in England, at an hour's notice.\"\n\nIt was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not his sister. He\ncould immediately say with easy fluency, \"I am sorry you are going;\nbut as to our play, _that_ is all over--entirely at an end\" (looking\nsignificantly at his father). \"The painter was sent off yesterday, and\nvery little will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew how _that_\nwould be from the first. It is early for Bath. You will find nobody\nthere.\"\n\n\"It is about my uncle's usual time.\"\n\n\"When do you think of going?\"\n\n\"I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day.\"\n\n\"Whose stables do you use at Bath?\" was the next question; and while\nthis branch of the subject was under discussion, Maria, who wanted\nneither pride nor resolution, was preparing to encounter her share of it\nwith tolerable calmness.\n\nTo her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had already said, with\nonly a softened air and stronger expressions of regret. But what availed\nhis expressions or his air? He was going, and, if not voluntarily going,\nvoluntarily intending to stay away; for, excepting what might be due\nto his uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed. He might talk of\nnecessity, but she knew his independence. The hand which had so pressed\nhers to his heart! the hand and the heart were alike motionless and\npassive now! Her spirit supported her, but the agony of her mind was\nsevere. She had not long to endure what arose from listening to language\nwhich his actions contradicted, or to bury the tumult of her feelings\nunder the restraint of society; for general civilities soon called\nhis notice from her, and the farewell visit, as it then became openly\nacknowledged, was a very short one. He was gone--he had touched her\nhand for the last time, he had made his parting bow, and she might seek\ndirectly all that solitude could do for her. Henry Crawford was gone,\ngone from the house, and within two hours afterwards from the parish;\nand so ended all the hopes his selfish vanity had raised in Maria and\nJulia Bertram.\n\nJulia could rejoice that he was gone. His presence was beginning to be\nodious to her; and if Maria gained him not, she was now cool enough to\ndispense with any other revenge. She did not want exposure to be added\nto desertion. Henry Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister.\n\nWith a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the intelligence. She heard it\nat dinner, and felt it a blessing. By all the others it was mentioned\nwith regret; and his merits honoured with due gradation of feeling--from\nthe sincerity of Edmund's too partial regard, to the unconcern of his\nmother speaking entirely by rote. Mrs. Norris began to look about her,\nand wonder that his falling in love with Julia had come to nothing; and\ncould almost fear that she had been remiss herself in forwarding it; but\nwith so many to care for, how was it possible for even _her_ activity to\nkeep pace with her wishes?\n\nAnother day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone likewise. In _his_ departure\nSir Thomas felt the chief interest: wanting to be alone with his family,\nthe presence of a stranger superior to Mr. Yates must have been irksome;\nbut of him, trifling and confident, idle and expensive, it was every way\nvexatious. In himself he was wearisome, but as the friend of Tom and\nthe admirer of Julia he became offensive. Sir Thomas had been quite\nindifferent to Mr. Crawford's going or staying: but his good wishes\nfor Mr. Yates's having a pleasant journey, as he walked with him to the\nhall-door, were given with genuine satisfaction. Mr. Yates had staid to\nsee the destruction of every theatrical preparation at Mansfield, the\nremoval of everything appertaining to the play: he left the house in all\nthe soberness of its general character; and Sir Thomas hoped, in seeing\nhim out of it, to be rid of the worst object connected with the scheme,\nand the last that must be inevitably reminding him of its existence.\n\nMrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight that might\nhave distressed him. The curtain, over which she had presided with such\ntalent and such success, went off with her to her cottage, where she\nhappened to be particularly in want of green baize.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nSir Thomas's return made a striking change in the ways of the family,\nindependent of Lovers' Vows. Under his government, Mansfield was an\naltered place. Some members of their society sent away, and the spirits\nof many others saddened--it was all sameness and gloom compared with\nthe past--a sombre family party rarely enlivened. There was little\nintercourse with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back from intimacies\nin general, was particularly disinclined, at this time, for any\nengagements but in one quarter. The Rushworths were the only addition to\nhis own domestic circle which he could solicit.\n\nEdmund did not wonder that such should be his father's feelings, nor\ncould he regret anything but the exclusion of the Grants. \"But they,\" he\nobserved to Fanny, \"have a claim. They seem to belong to us; they seem\nto be part of ourselves. I could wish my father were more sensible of\ntheir very great attention to my mother and sisters while he was away. I\nam afraid they may feel themselves neglected. But the truth is, that my\nfather hardly knows them. They had not been here a twelvemonth when he\nleft England. If he knew them better, he would value their society as it\ndeserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort of people he would\nlike. We are sometimes a little in want of animation among ourselves: my\nsisters seem out of spirits, and Tom is certainly not at his ease. Dr.\nand Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and make our evenings pass away with\nmore enjoyment even to my father.\"\n\n\"Do you think so?\" said Fanny: \"in my opinion, my uncle would not like\n_any_ addition. I think he values the very quietness you speak of, and\nthat the repose of his own family circle is all he wants. And it does\nnot appear to me that we are more serious than we used to be--I mean\nbefore my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect, it was always\nmuch the same. There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if\nthere is any difference, it is not more, I think, than such an absence\nhas a tendency to produce at first. There must be a sort of shyness; but\nI cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry, except\nwhen my uncle was in town. No young people's are, I suppose, when those\nthey look up to are at home\".\n\n\"I believe you are right, Fanny,\" was his reply, after a short\nconsideration. \"I believe our evenings are rather returned to what they\nwere, than assuming a new character. The novelty was in their being\nlively. Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks will give!\nI have been feeling as if we had never lived so before.\"\n\n\"I suppose I am graver than other people,\" said Fanny. \"The evenings do\nnot appear long to me. I love to hear my uncle talk of the West Indies.\nI could listen to him for an hour together. It entertains _me_ more than\nmany other things have done; but then I am unlike other people, I dare\nsay.\"\n\n\"Why should you dare say _that_?\" (smiling). \"Do you want to be told\nthat you are only unlike other people in being more wise and discreet?\nBut when did you, or anybody, ever get a compliment from me, Fanny? Go\nto my father if you want to be complimented. He will satisfy you. Ask\nyour uncle what he thinks, and you will hear compliments enough: and\nthough they may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with it, and\ntrust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time.\"\n\nSuch language was so new to Fanny that it quite embarrassed her.\n\n\"Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny--and that is the long and\nthe short of the matter. Anybody but myself would have made something\nmore of it, and anybody but you would resent that you had not been\nthought very pretty before; but the truth is, that your uncle never\ndid admire you till now--and now he does. Your complexion is so\nimproved!--and you have gained so much countenance!--and your\nfigure--nay, Fanny, do not turn away about it--it is but an uncle. If\nyou cannot bear an uncle's admiration, what is to become of you? You\nmust really begin to harden yourself to the idea of being worth looking\nat. You must try not to mind growing up into a pretty woman.\"\n\n\"Oh! don't talk so, don't talk so,\" cried Fanny, distressed by more\nfeelings than he was aware of; but seeing that she was distressed, he\nhad done with the subject, and only added more seriously--\n\n\"Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in every respect; and I\nonly wish you would talk to him more. You are one of those who are too\nsilent in the evening circle.\"\n\n\"But I do talk to him more than I used. I am sure I do. Did not you hear\nme ask him about the slave-trade last night?\"\n\n\"I did--and was in hopes the question would be followed up by others. It\nwould have pleased your uncle to be inquired of farther.\"\n\n\"And I longed to do it--but there was such a dead silence! And while\nmy cousins were sitting by without speaking a word, or seeming at all\ninterested in the subject, I did not like--I thought it would appear as\nif I wanted to set myself off at their expense, by shewing a curiosity\nand pleasure in his information which he must wish his own daughters to\nfeel.\"\n\n\"Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you the other day:\nthat you seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women\nwere of neglect. We were talking of you at the Parsonage, and those were\nher words. She has great discernment. I know nobody who distinguishes\ncharacters better. For so young a woman it is remarkable! She certainly\nunderstands _you_ better than you are understood by the greater part of\nthose who have known you so long; and with regard to some others, I can\nperceive, from occasional lively hints, the unguarded expressions of\nthe moment, that she could define _many_ as accurately, did not delicacy\nforbid it. I wonder what she thinks of my father! She must admire him\nas a fine-looking man, with most gentlemanlike, dignified, consistent\nmanners; but perhaps, having seen him so seldom, his reserve may be\na little repulsive. Could they be much together, I feel sure of their\nliking each other. He would enjoy her liveliness and she has talents to\nvalue his powers. I wish they met more frequently! I hope she does not\nsuppose there is any dislike on his side.\"\n\n\"She must know herself too secure of the regard of all the rest of you,\"\nsaid Fanny, with half a sigh, \"to have any such apprehension. And Sir\nThomas's wishing just at first to be only with his family, is so very\nnatural, that she can argue nothing from that. After a little while, I\ndare say, we shall be meeting again in the same sort of way, allowing\nfor the difference of the time of year.\"\n\n\"This is the first October that she has passed in the country since her\ninfancy. I do not call Tunbridge or Cheltenham the country; and November\nis a still more serious month, and I can see that Mrs. Grant is very\nanxious for her not finding Mansfield dull as winter comes on.\"\n\nFanny could have said a great deal, but it was safer to say nothing, and\nleave untouched all Miss Crawford's resources--her accomplishments, her\nspirits, her importance, her friends, lest it should betray her into\nany observations seemingly unhandsome. Miss Crawford's kind opinion of\nherself deserved at least a grateful forbearance, and she began to talk\nof something else.\n\n\"To-morrow, I think, my uncle dines at Sotherton, and you and Mr.\nBertram too. We shall be quite a small party at home. I hope my uncle\nmay continue to like Mr. Rushworth.\"\n\n\"That is impossible, Fanny. He must like him less after to-morrow's\nvisit, for we shall be five hours in his company. I should dread\nthe stupidity of the day, if there were not a much greater evil to\nfollow--the impression it must leave on Sir Thomas. He cannot much\nlonger deceive himself. I am sorry for them all, and would give\nsomething that Rushworth and Maria had never met.\"\n\nIn this quarter, indeed, disappointment was impending over Sir Thomas.\nNot all his good-will for Mr. Rushworth, not all Mr. Rushworth's\ndeference for him, could prevent him from soon discerning some part of\nthe truth--that Mr. Rushworth was an inferior young man, as ignorant\nin business as in books, with opinions in general unfixed, and without\nseeming much aware of it himself.\n\nHe had expected a very different son-in-law; and beginning to feel\ngrave on Maria's account, tried to understand _her_ feelings. Little\nobservation there was necessary to tell him that indifference was the\nmost favourable state they could be in. Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth\nwas careless and cold. She could not, did not like him. Sir Thomas\nresolved to speak seriously to her. Advantageous as would be the\nalliance, and long standing and public as was the engagement, her\nhappiness must not be sacrificed to it. Mr. Rushworth had, perhaps, been\naccepted on too short an acquaintance, and, on knowing him better, she\nwas repenting.\n\nWith solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed her: told her his fears,\ninquired into her wishes, entreated her to be open and sincere, and\nassured her that every inconvenience should be braved, and the connexion\nentirely given up, if she felt herself unhappy in the prospect of it. He\nwould act for her and release her. Maria had a moment's struggle as she\nlistened, and only a moment's: when her father ceased, she was able to\ngive her answer immediately, decidedly, and with no apparent agitation.\nShe thanked him for his great attention, his paternal kindness, but he\nwas quite mistaken in supposing she had the smallest desire of breaking\nthrough her engagement, or was sensible of any change of opinion or\ninclination since her forming it. She had the highest esteem for Mr.\nRushworth's character and disposition, and could not have a doubt of her\nhappiness with him.\n\nSir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to be satisfied, perhaps, to urge the\nmatter quite so far as his judgment might have dictated to others. It\nwas an alliance which he could not have relinquished without pain;\nand thus he reasoned. Mr. Rushworth was young enough to improve. Mr.\nRushworth must and would improve in good society; and if Maria could now\nspeak so securely of her happiness with him, speaking certainly without\nthe prejudice, the blindness of love, she ought to be believed. Her\nfeelings, probably, were not acute; he had never supposed them to be\nso; but her comforts might not be less on that account; and if she could\ndispense with seeing her husband a leading, shining character, there\nwould certainly be everything else in her favour. A well-disposed young\nwoman, who did not marry for love, was in general but the more attached\nto her own family; and the nearness of Sotherton to Mansfield\nmust naturally hold out the greatest temptation, and would, in all\nprobability, be a continual supply of the most amiable and innocent\nenjoyments. Such and such-like were the reasonings of Sir Thomas,\nhappy to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture, the wonder,\nthe reflections, the reproach that must attend it; happy to secure a\nmarriage which would bring him such an addition of respectability\nand influence, and very happy to think anything of his daughter's\ndisposition that was most favourable for the purpose.\n\nTo her the conference closed as satisfactorily as to him. She was in a\nstate of mind to be glad that she had secured her fate beyond recall:\nthat she had pledged herself anew to Sotherton; that she was safe from\nthe possibility of giving Crawford the triumph of governing her actions,\nand destroying her prospects; and retired in proud resolve, determined\nonly to behave more cautiously to Mr. Rushworth in future, that her\nfather might not be again suspecting her.\n\nHad Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first three or four\ndays after Henry Crawford's leaving Mansfield, before her feelings were\nat all tranquillised, before she had given up every hope of him, or\nabsolutely resolved on enduring his rival, her answer might have been\ndifferent; but after another three or four days, when there was no\nreturn, no letter, no message, no symptom of a softened heart, no hope\nof advantage from separation, her mind became cool enough to seek all\nthe comfort that pride and self revenge could give.\n\nHenry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he should not know that\nhe had done it; he should not destroy her credit, her appearance, her\nprosperity, too. He should not have to think of her as pining in the\nretirement of Mansfield for _him_, rejecting Sotherton and London,\nindependence and splendour, for _his_ sake. Independence was more\nneedful than ever; the want of it at Mansfield more sensibly felt. She\nwas less and less able to endure the restraint which her father imposed.\nThe liberty which his absence had given was now become absolutely\nnecessary. She must escape from him and Mansfield as soon as possible,\nand find consolation in fortune and consequence, bustle and the world,\nfor a wounded spirit. Her mind was quite determined, and varied not.\n\nTo such feelings delay, even the delay of much preparation, would have\nbeen an evil, and Mr. Rushworth could hardly be more impatient for the\nmarriage than herself. In all the important preparations of the mind\nshe was complete: being prepared for matrimony by an hatred of home,\nrestraint, and tranquillity; by the misery of disappointed affection,\nand contempt of the man she was to marry. The rest might wait. The\npreparations of new carriages and furniture might wait for London and\nspring, when her own taste could have fairer play.\n\nThe principals being all agreed in this respect, it soon appeared that a\nvery few weeks would be sufficient for such arrangements as must precede\nthe wedding.\n\nMrs. Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and make way for the fortunate\nyoung woman whom her dear son had selected; and very early in November\nremoved herself, her maid, her footman, and her chariot, with true\ndowager propriety, to Bath, there to parade over the wonders of\nSotherton in her evening parties; enjoying them as thoroughly, perhaps,\nin the animation of a card-table, as she had ever done on the spot; and\nbefore the middle of the same month the ceremony had taken place which\ngave Sotherton another mistress.\n\nIt was a very proper wedding. The bride was elegantly dressed; the two\nbridesmaids were duly inferior; her father gave her away; her mother\nstood with salts in her hand, expecting to be agitated; her aunt tried\nto cry; and the service was impressively read by Dr. Grant. Nothing\ncould be objected to when it came under the discussion of the\nneighbourhood, except that the carriage which conveyed the bride and\nbridegroom and Julia from the church-door to Sotherton was the same\nchaise which Mr. Rushworth had used for a twelvemonth before. In\neverything else the etiquette of the day might stand the strictest\ninvestigation.\n\nIt was done, and they were gone. Sir Thomas felt as an anxious father\nmust feel, and was indeed experiencing much of the agitation which his\nwife had been apprehensive of for herself, but had fortunately escaped.\nMrs. Norris, most happy to assist in the duties of the day, by spending\nit at the Park to support her sister's spirits, and drinking the health\nof Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth in a supernumerary glass or two, was all\njoyous delight; for she had made the match; she had done everything;\nand no one would have supposed, from her confident triumph, that she\nhad ever heard of conjugal infelicity in her life, or could have the\nsmallest insight into the disposition of the niece who had been brought\nup under her eye.\n\nThe plan of the young couple was to proceed, after a few days, to\nBrighton, and take a house there for some weeks. Every public place was\nnew to Maria, and Brighton is almost as gay in winter as in summer. When\nthe novelty of amusement there was over, it would be time for the wider\nrange of London.\n\nJulia was to go with them to Brighton. Since rivalry between the sisters\nhad ceased, they had been gradually recovering much of their former good\nunderstanding; and were at least sufficiently friends to make each of\nthem exceedingly glad to be with the other at such a time. Some other\ncompanion than Mr. Rushworth was of the first consequence to his lady;\nand Julia was quite as eager for novelty and pleasure as Maria, though\nshe might not have struggled through so much to obtain them, and could\nbetter bear a subordinate situation.\n\nTheir departure made another material change at Mansfield, a chasm\nwhich required some time to fill up. The family circle became greatly\ncontracted; and though the Miss Bertrams had latterly added little to\nits gaiety, they could not but be missed. Even their mother missed them;\nand how much more their tenderhearted cousin, who wandered about\nthe house, and thought of them, and felt for them, with a degree of\naffectionate regret which they had never done much to deserve!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nFanny's consequence increased on the departure of her cousins. Becoming,\nas she then did, the only young woman in the drawing-room, the only\noccupier of that interesting division of a family in which she had\nhitherto held so humble a third, it was impossible for her not to be\nmore looked at, more thought of and attended to, than she had ever been\nbefore; and \"Where is Fanny?\" became no uncommon question, even without\nher being wanted for any one's convenience.\n\nNot only at home did her value increase, but at the Parsonage too. In\nthat house, which she had hardly entered twice a year since Mr. Norris's\ndeath, she became a welcome, an invited guest, and in the gloom and dirt\nof a November day, most acceptable to Mary Crawford. Her visits there,\nbeginning by chance, were continued by solicitation. Mrs. Grant,\nreally eager to get any change for her sister, could, by the easiest\nself-deceit, persuade herself that she was doing the kindest thing by\nFanny, and giving her the most important opportunities of improvement in\npressing her frequent calls.\n\nFanny, having been sent into the village on some errand by her aunt\nNorris, was overtaken by a heavy shower close to the Parsonage; and\nbeing descried from one of the windows endeavouring to find shelter\nunder the branches and lingering leaves of an oak just beyond their\npremises, was forced, though not without some modest reluctance on her\npart, to come in. A civil servant she had withstood; but when Dr. Grant\nhimself went out with an umbrella, there was nothing to be done but to\nbe very much ashamed, and to get into the house as fast as possible; and\nto poor Miss Crawford, who had just been contemplating the dismal rain\nin a very desponding state of mind, sighing over the ruin of all her\nplan of exercise for that morning, and of every chance of seeing a\nsingle creature beyond themselves for the next twenty-four hours, the\nsound of a little bustle at the front door, and the sight of Miss Price\ndripping with wet in the vestibule, was delightful. The value of an\nevent on a wet day in the country was most forcibly brought before her.\nShe was all alive again directly, and among the most active in being\nuseful to Fanny, in detecting her to be wetter than she would at first\nallow, and providing her with dry clothes; and Fanny, after being\nobliged to submit to all this attention, and to being assisted and\nwaited on by mistresses and maids, being also obliged, on returning\ndownstairs, to be fixed in their drawing-room for an hour while the rain\ncontinued, the blessing of something fresh to see and think of was thus\nextended to Miss Crawford, and might carry on her spirits to the period\nof dressing and dinner.\n\nThe two sisters were so kind to her, and so pleasant, that Fanny might\nhave enjoyed her visit could she have believed herself not in the way,\nand could she have foreseen that the weather would certainly clear at\nthe end of the hour, and save her from the shame of having Dr. Grant's\ncarriage and horses out to take her home, with which she was threatened.\nAs to anxiety for any alarm that her absence in such weather might\noccasion at home, she had nothing to suffer on that score; for as her\nbeing out was known only to her two aunts, she was perfectly aware that\nnone would be felt, and that in whatever cottage aunt Norris might chuse\nto establish her during the rain, her being in such cottage would be\nindubitable to aunt Bertram.\n\nIt was beginning to look brighter, when Fanny, observing a harp in the\nroom, asked some questions about it, which soon led to an acknowledgment\nof her wishing very much to hear it, and a confession, which could\nhardly be believed, of her having never yet heard it since its being\nin Mansfield. To Fanny herself it appeared a very simple and natural\ncircumstance. She had scarcely ever been at the Parsonage since the\ninstrument's arrival, there had been no reason that she should; but Miss\nCrawford, calling to mind an early expressed wish on the subject, was\nconcerned at her own neglect; and \"Shall I play to you now?\" and \"What\nwill you have?\" were questions immediately following with the readiest\ngood-humour.\n\nShe played accordingly; happy to have a new listener, and a listener who\nseemed so much obliged, so full of wonder at the performance, and who\nshewed herself not wanting in taste. She played till Fanny's eyes,\nstraying to the window on the weather's being evidently fair, spoke what\nshe felt must be done.\n\n\"Another quarter of an hour,\" said Miss Crawford, \"and we shall see how\nit will be. Do not run away the first moment of its holding up. Those\nclouds look alarming.\"\n\n\"But they are passed over,\" said Fanny. \"I have been watching them. This\nweather is all from the south.\"\n\n\"South or north, I know a black cloud when I see it; and you must not\nset forward while it is so threatening. And besides, I want to play\nsomething more to you--a very pretty piece--and your cousin Edmund's\nprime favourite. You must stay and hear your cousin's favourite.\"\n\nFanny felt that she must; and though she had not waited for that\nsentence to be thinking of Edmund, such a memento made her particularly\nawake to his idea, and she fancied him sitting in that room again\nand again, perhaps in the very spot where she sat now, listening with\nconstant delight to the favourite air, played, as it appeared to her,\nwith superior tone and expression; and though pleased with it herself,\nand glad to like whatever was liked by him, she was more sincerely\nimpatient to go away at the conclusion of it than she had been before;\nand on this being evident, she was so kindly asked to call again, to\ntake them in her walk whenever she could, to come and hear more of the\nharp, that she felt it necessary to be done, if no objection arose at\nhome.\n\nSuch was the origin of the sort of intimacy which took place between\nthem within the first fortnight after the Miss Bertrams' going away--an\nintimacy resulting principally from Miss Crawford's desire of something\nnew, and which had little reality in Fanny's feelings. Fanny went to her\nevery two or three days: it seemed a kind of fascination: she could not\nbe easy without going, and yet it was without loving her, without ever\nthinking like her, without any sense of obligation for being sought\nafter now when nobody else was to be had; and deriving no higher\npleasure from her conversation than occasional amusement, and _that_\noften at the expense of her judgment, when it was raised by pleasantry\non people or subjects which she wished to be respected. She went,\nhowever, and they sauntered about together many an half-hour in Mrs.\nGrant's shrubbery, the weather being unusually mild for the time of\nyear, and venturing sometimes even to sit down on one of the benches now\ncomparatively unsheltered, remaining there perhaps till, in the midst\nof some tender ejaculation of Fanny's on the sweets of so protracted\nan autumn, they were forced, by the sudden swell of a cold gust shaking\ndown the last few yellow leaves about them, to jump up and walk for\nwarmth.\n\n\"This is pretty, very pretty,\" said Fanny, looking around her as\nthey were thus sitting together one day; \"every time I come into this\nshrubbery I am more struck with its growth and beauty. Three years ago,\nthis was nothing but a rough hedgerow along the upper side of the field,\nnever thought of as anything, or capable of becoming anything; and now\nit is converted into a walk, and it would be difficult to say whether\nmost valuable as a convenience or an ornament; and perhaps, in another\nthree years, we may be forgetting--almost forgetting what it was before.\nHow wonderful, how very wonderful the operations of time, and the\nchanges of the human mind!\" And following the latter train of thought,\nshe soon afterwards added: \"If any one faculty of our nature may be\ncalled _more_ wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory. There\nseems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers,\nthe failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our\nintelligences. The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so\nobedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so\ntyrannic, so beyond control! We are, to be sure, a miracle every way;\nbut our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past\nfinding out.\"\n\nMiss Crawford, untouched and inattentive, had nothing to say; and\nFanny, perceiving it, brought back her own mind to what she thought must\ninterest.\n\n\"It may seem impertinent in _me_ to praise, but I must admire the taste\nMrs. Grant has shewn in all this. There is such a quiet simplicity in\nthe plan of the walk! Not too much attempted!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Miss Crawford carelessly, \"it does very well for a\nplace of this sort. One does not think of extent _here_; and between\nourselves, till I came to Mansfield, I had not imagined a country parson\never aspired to a shrubbery, or anything of the kind.\"\n\n\"I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive!\" said Fanny, in reply. \"My\nuncle's gardener always says the soil here is better than his own, and\nso it appears from the growth of the laurels and evergreens in general.\nThe evergreen! How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the evergreen!\nWhen one thinks of it, how astonishing a variety of nature! In some\ncountries we know the tree that sheds its leaf is the variety, but that\ndoes not make it less amazing that the same soil and the same sun should\nnurture plants differing in the first rule and law of their existence.\nYou will think me rhapsodising; but when I am out of doors, especially\nwhen I am sitting out of doors, I am very apt to get into this sort of\nwondering strain. One cannot fix one's eyes on the commonest natural\nproduction without finding food for a rambling fancy.\"\n\n\"To say the truth,\" replied Miss Crawford, \"I am something like the\nfamous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV.; and may declare that I see no\nwonder in this shrubbery equal to seeing myself in it. If anybody had\ntold me a year ago that this place would be my home, that I should be\nspending month after month here, as I have done, I certainly should\nnot have believed them. I have now been here nearly five months; and,\nmoreover, the quietest five months I ever passed.\"\n\n\"_Too_ quiet for you, I believe.\"\n\n\"I should have thought so _theoretically_ myself, but,\" and her eyes\nbrightened as she spoke, \"take it all and all, I never spent so happy a\nsummer. But then,\" with a more thoughtful air and lowered voice, \"there\nis no saying what it may lead to.\"\n\nFanny's heart beat quick, and she felt quite unequal to surmising\nor soliciting anything more. Miss Crawford, however, with renewed\nanimation, soon went on--\n\n\"I am conscious of being far better reconciled to a country residence\nthan I had ever expected to be. I can even suppose it pleasant to\nspend _half_ the year in the country, under certain circumstances,\nvery pleasant. An elegant, moderate-sized house in the centre of family\nconnexions; continual engagements among them; commanding the first\nsociety in the neighbourhood; looked up to, perhaps, as leading it even\nmore than those of larger fortune, and turning from the cheerful round\nof such amusements to nothing worse than a _tete-a-tete_ with the person\none feels most agreeable in the world. There is nothing frightful in\nsuch a picture, is there, Miss Price? One need not envy the new Mrs.\nRushworth with such a home as _that_.\"\n\n\"Envy Mrs. Rushworth!\" was all that Fanny attempted to say. \"Come, come,\nit would be very un-handsome in us to be severe on Mrs. Rushworth, for I\nlook forward to our owing her a great many gay, brilliant, happy hours.\nI expect we shall be all very much at Sotherton another year. Such\na match as Miss Bertram has made is a public blessing; for the first\npleasures of Mr. Rushworth's wife must be to fill her house, and give\nthe best balls in the country.\"\n\nFanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed into thoughtfulness, till\nsuddenly looking up at the end of a few minutes, she exclaimed, \"Ah!\nhere he is.\" It was not Mr. Rushworth, however, but Edmund, who then\nappeared walking towards them with Mrs. Grant. \"My sister and Mr.\nBertram. I am so glad your eldest cousin is gone, that he may be Mr.\nBertram again. There is something in the sound of Mr. _Edmund_ Bertram\nso formal, so pitiful, so younger-brother-like, that I detest it.\"\n\n\"How differently we feel!\" cried Fanny. \"To me, the sound of _Mr._\nBertram is so cold and nothing-meaning, so entirely without warmth or\ncharacter! It just stands for a gentleman, and that's all. But there is\nnobleness in the name of Edmund. It is a name of heroism and renown; of\nkings, princes, and knights; and seems to breathe the spirit of chivalry\nand warm affections.\"\n\n\"I grant you the name is good in itself, and _Lord_ Edmund or _Sir_\nEdmund sound delightfully; but sink it under the chill, the annihilation\nof a Mr., and Mr. Edmund is no more than Mr. John or Mr. Thomas. Well,\nshall we join and disappoint them of half their lecture upon sitting\ndown out of doors at this time of year, by being up before they can\nbegin?\"\n\nEdmund met them with particular pleasure. It was the first time of his\nseeing them together since the beginning of that better acquaintance\nwhich he had been hearing of with great satisfaction. A friendship\nbetween two so very dear to him was exactly what he could have wished:\nand to the credit of the lover's understanding, be it stated, that he\ndid not by any means consider Fanny as the only, or even as the greater\ngainer by such a friendship.\n\n\"Well,\" said Miss Crawford, \"and do you not scold us for our imprudence?\nWhat do you think we have been sitting down for but to be talked to\nabout it, and entreated and supplicated never to do so again?\"\n\n\"Perhaps I might have scolded,\" said Edmund, \"if either of you had been\nsitting down alone; but while you do wrong together, I can overlook a\ngreat deal.\"\n\n\"They cannot have been sitting long,\" cried Mrs. Grant, \"for when I went\nup for my shawl I saw them from the staircase window, and then they were\nwalking.\"\n\n\"And really,\" added Edmund, \"the day is so mild, that your sitting down\nfor a few minutes can be hardly thought imprudent. Our weather must\nnot always be judged by the calendar. We may sometimes take greater\nliberties in November than in May.\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" cried Miss Crawford, \"you are two of the most\ndisappointing and unfeeling kind friends I ever met with! There is no\ngiving you a moment's uneasiness. You do not know how much we have been\nsuffering, nor what chills we have felt! But I have long thought Mr.\nBertram one of the worst subjects to work on, in any little manoeuvre\nagainst common sense, that a woman could be plagued with. I had very\nlittle hope of _him_ from the first; but you, Mrs. Grant, my sister, my\nown sister, I think I had a right to alarm you a little.\"\n\n\"Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary. You have not the smallest\nchance of moving me. I have my alarms, but they are quite in a different\nquarter; and if I could have altered the weather, you would have had a\ngood sharp east wind blowing on you the whole time--for here are some of\nmy plants which Robert _will_ leave out because the nights are so mild,\nand I know the end of it will be, that we shall have a sudden change of\nweather, a hard frost setting in all at once, taking everybody (at least\nRobert) by surprise, and I shall lose every one; and what is worse, cook\nhas just been telling me that the turkey, which I particularly wished\nnot to be dressed till Sunday, because I know how much more Dr. Grant\nwould enjoy it on Sunday after the fatigues of the day, will not keep\nbeyond to-morrow. These are something like grievances, and make me think\nthe weather most unseasonably close.\"\n\n\"The sweets of housekeeping in a country village!\" said Miss Crawford\narchly. \"Commend me to the nurseryman and the poulterer.\"\n\n\"My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the deanery of Westminster or St.\nPaul's, and I should be as glad of your nurseryman and poulterer as you\ncould be. But we have no such people in Mansfield. What would you have\nme do?\"\n\n\"Oh! you can do nothing but what you do already: be plagued very often,\nand never lose your temper.\"\n\n\"Thank you; but there is no escaping these little vexations, Mary, live\nwhere we may; and when you are settled in town and I come to see you, I\ndare say I shall find you with yours, in spite of the nurseryman and\nthe poulterer, perhaps on their very account. Their remoteness and\nunpunctuality, or their exorbitant charges and frauds, will be drawing\nforth bitter lamentations.\"\n\n\"I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything of the sort.\nA large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of. It\ncertainly may secure all the myrtle and turkey part of it.\"\n\n\"You intend to be very rich?\" said Edmund, with a look which, to Fanny's\neye, had a great deal of serious meaning.\n\n\"To be sure. Do not you? Do not we all?\"\n\n\"I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely beyond my power\nto command. Miss Crawford may chuse her degree of wealth. She has only\nto fix on her number of thousands a year, and there can be no doubt of\ntheir coming. My intentions are only not to be poor.\"\n\n\"By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants to your income,\nand all that. I understand you--and a very proper plan it is for a\nperson at your time of life, with such limited means and indifferent\nconnexions. What can _you_ want but a decent maintenance? You have\nnot much time before you; and your relations are in no situation to do\nanything for you, or to mortify you by the contrast of their own wealth\nand consequence. Be honest and poor, by all means--but I shall not envy\nyou; I do not much think I shall even respect you. I have a much greater\nrespect for those that are honest and rich.\"\n\n\"Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor, is precisely what\nI have no manner of concern with. I do not mean to be poor. Poverty\nis exactly what I have determined against. Honesty, in the something\nbetween, in the middle state of worldly circumstances, is all that I am\nanxious for your not looking down on.\"\n\n\"But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher. I must\nlook down upon anything contented with obscurity when it might rise to\ndistinction.\"\n\n\"But how may it rise? How may my honesty at least rise to any\ndistinction?\"\n\nThis was not so very easy a question to answer, and occasioned an \"Oh!\"\nof some length from the fair lady before she could add, \"You ought to be\nin parliament, or you should have gone into the army ten years ago.\"\n\n\"_That_ is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being in\nparliament, I believe I must wait till there is an especial assembly for\nthe representation of younger sons who have little to live on. No, Miss\nCrawford,\" he added, in a more serious tone, \"there _are_ distinctions\nwhich I should be miserable if I thought myself without any\nchance--absolutely without chance or possibility of obtaining--but they\nare of a different character.\"\n\nA look of consciousness as he spoke, and what seemed a consciousness\nof manner on Miss Crawford's side as she made some laughing answer,\nwas sorrowfull food for Fanny's observation; and finding herself quite\nunable to attend as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose side she was now\nfollowing the others, she had nearly resolved on going home immediately,\nand only waited for courage to say so, when the sound of the great clock\nat Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel that she had\nreally been much longer absent than usual, and brought the previous\nself-inquiry of whether she should take leave or not just then, and how,\nto a very speedy issue. With undoubting decision she directly began her\nadieus; and Edmund began at the same time to recollect that his mother\nhad been inquiring for her, and that he had walked down to the Parsonage\non purpose to bring her back.\n\nFanny's hurry increased; and without in the least expecting Edmund's\nattendance, she would have hastened away alone; but the general pace was\nquickened, and they all accompanied her into the house, through which it\nwas necessary to pass. Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as they stopt\nto speak to him she found, from Edmund's manner, that he _did_ mean to\ngo with her. He too was taking leave. She could not but be thankful. In\nthe moment of parting, Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant to eat his mutton\nwith him the next day; and Fanny had barely time for an unpleasant\nfeeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant, with sudden recollection,\nturned to her and asked for the pleasure of her company too. This was\nso new an attention, so perfectly new a circumstance in the events of\nFanny's life, that she was all surprise and embarrassment; and while\nstammering out her great obligation, and her \"but she did not suppose it\nwould be in her power,\" was looking at Edmund for his opinion and help.\nBut Edmund, delighted with her having such an happiness offered, and\nascertaining with half a look, and half a sentence, that she had no\nobjection but on her aunt's account, could not imagine that his mother\nwould make any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore gave his decided\nopen advice that the invitation should be accepted; and though Fanny\nwould not venture, even on his encouragement, to such a flight of\naudacious independence, it was soon settled, that if nothing were heard\nto the contrary, Mrs. Grant might expect her.\n\n\"And you know what your dinner will be,\" said Mrs. Grant, smiling--\"the\nturkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear,\" turning to her\nhusband, \"cook insists upon the turkey's being dressed to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Very well, very well,\" cried Dr. Grant, \"all the better; I am glad\nto hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr.\nEdmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We none of us want\nto hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner,\nis all we have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or\nwhatever you and your cook chuse to give us.\"\n\nThe two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate\ndiscussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest\nsatisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy which\nhe saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk; for\nhaving finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for any\nother.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\n\"But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?\" said Lady Bertram. \"How came she\nto think of asking Fanny? Fanny never dines there, you know, in this\nsort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go.\nFanny, you do not want to go, do you?\"\n\n\"If you put such a question to her,\" cried Edmund, preventing his\ncousin's speaking, \"Fanny will immediately say No; but I am sure, my\ndear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why she\nshould not.\"\n\n\"I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? She never\ndid before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never\nasked Fanny.\"\n\n\"If you cannot do without me, ma'am--\" said Fanny, in a self-denying\ntone.\n\n\"But my mother will have my father with her all the evening.\"\n\n\"To be sure, so I shall.\"\n\n\"Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am.\"\n\n\"That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as\nsoon as he comes in, whether I can do without her.\"\n\n\"As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my father's opinion\nas to the _propriety_ of the invitation's being accepted or not; and\nI think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by\nFanny, that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted.\"\n\n\"I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised that\nMrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all.\"\n\nThere was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any purpose,\ntill Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it did,\nher own evening's comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady\nBertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in for a\nminute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she called\nhim back again, when he had almost closed the door, with \"Sir Thomas,\nstop a moment--I have something to say to you.\"\n\nHer tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her\nvoice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her\nstory began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear\nherself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her\nnerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew--more anxious perhaps than\nshe ought to be--for what was it after all whether she went or staid?\nbut if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and\nwith very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and\nat last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly\nsubmissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It\nbegan, on Lady Bertram's part, with--\"I have something to tell you that\nwill surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise.\n\n\"Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?\"\n\n\"She will be late,\" said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; \"but what is\nyour difficulty?\"\n\nEdmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his\nmother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, \"So strange!\nfor Mrs. Grant never used to ask her.\"\n\n\"But is it not very natural,\" observed Edmund, \"that Mrs. Grant should\nwish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?\"\n\n\"Nothing can be more natural,\" said Sir Thomas, after a short\ndeliberation; \"nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything,\nin my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss\nPrice, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only\nsurprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its\nbeing paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional\nanswer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she\nmust wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see\nno reason why she should be denied the indulgence.\"\n\n\"But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?\"\n\n\"Indeed I think you may.\"\n\n\"She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here.\"\n\n\"Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and\nI shall certainly be at home.\"\n\n\"Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund.\"\n\nThe good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way\nto his own.\n\n\"Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest\nhesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go.\"\n\n\"Thank you, I am _so_ glad,\" was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when\nshe had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,\n\"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing\nsomething there to pain me?\"\n\nIn spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an\nengagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in\nhers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined\nout before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three\npeople, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of\npreparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor\nassistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and\ndirected her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to\nanybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence of\nan early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill humour,\nand seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure, both present\nand future, as much as possible.\n\n\"Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention\nand indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for\nthinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to\nlook upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that\nthere is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of\nway, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon\never being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is\nmeant as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment is intended\nto your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to\n_us_ to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come\ninto her head, and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia\nhad been at home, you would not have been asked at all.\"\n\nMrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant's part of\nthe favour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only\nsay that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her,\nand that she was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening work in such a\nstate as to prevent her being missed.\n\n\"Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you\nwould not be allowed to go. _I_ shall be here, so you may be quite easy\nabout your aunt. And I hope you will have a very _agreeable_ day, and\nfind it all mighty _delightful_. But I must observe that five is the\nvery awkwardest of all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I\ncannot but be surprised that such an _elegant_ lady as Mrs. Grant should\nnot contrive better! And round their enormous great wide table, too,\nwhich fills up the room so dreadfully! Had the doctor been contented to\ntake my dining-table when I came away, as anybody in their senses would\nhave done, instead of having that absurd new one of his own, which is\nwider, literally wider than the dinner-table here, how infinitely better\nit would have been! and how much more he would have been respected! for\npeople are never respected when they step out of their proper sphere.\nRemember that, Fanny. Five--only five to be sitting round that table.\nHowever, you will have dinner enough on it for ten, I dare say.\"\n\nMrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again.\n\n\"The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their rank and\ntrying to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to give _you_\na hint, Fanny, now that you are going into company without any of us;\nand I do beseech and entreat you not to be putting yourself forward, and\ntalking and giving your opinion as if you were one of your cousins--as\nif you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia. _That_ will never do, believe\nme. Remember, wherever you are, you must be the lowest and last; and\nthough Miss Crawford is in a manner at home at the Parsonage, you are\nnot to be taking place of her. And as to coming away at night, you are\nto stay just as long as Edmund chuses. Leave him to settle _that_.\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, I should not think of anything else.\"\n\n\"And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely, for I never\nsaw it more threatening for a wet evening in my life, you must manage as\nwell as you can, and not be expecting the carriage to be sent for you. I\ncertainly do not go home to-night, and, therefore, the carriage will not\nbe out on my account; so you must make up your mind to what may happen,\nand take your things accordingly.\"\n\nHer niece thought it perfectly reasonable. She rated her own claims\nto comfort as low even as Mrs. Norris could; and when Sir Thomas soon\nafterwards, just opening the door, said, \"Fanny, at what time would you\nhave the carriage come round?\" she felt a degree of astonishment which\nmade it impossible for her to speak.\n\n\"My dear Sir Thomas!\" cried Mrs. Norris, red with anger, \"Fanny can\nwalk.\"\n\n\"Walk!\" repeated Sir Thomas, in a tone of most unanswerable dignity, and\ncoming farther into the room. \"My niece walk to a dinner engagement at\nthis time of the year! Will twenty minutes after four suit you?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" was Fanny's humble answer, given with the feelings almost\nof a criminal towards Mrs. Norris; and not bearing to remain with her\nin what might seem a state of triumph, she followed her uncle out of\nthe room, having staid behind him only long enough to hear these words\nspoken in angry agitation--\n\n\"Quite unnecessary! a great deal too kind! But Edmund goes; true, it is\nupon Edmund's account. I observed he was hoarse on Thursday night.\"\n\nBut this could not impose on Fanny. She felt that the carriage was for\nherself, and herself alone: and her uncle's consideration of her, coming\nimmediately after such representations from her aunt, cost her some\ntears of gratitude when she was alone.\n\nThe coachman drove round to a minute; another minute brought down the\ngentleman; and as the lady had, with a most scrupulous fear of being\nlate, been many minutes seated in the drawing-room, Sir Thomas saw them\noff in as good time as his own correctly punctual habits required.\n\n\"Now I must look at you, Fanny,\" said Edmund, with the kind smile of an\naffectionate brother, \"and tell you how I like you; and as well as I can\njudge by this light, you look very nicely indeed. What have you got on?\"\n\n\"The new dress that my uncle was so good as to give me on my cousin's\nmarriage. I hope it is not too fine; but I thought I ought to wear it as\nsoon as I could, and that I might not have such another opportunity all\nthe winter. I hope you do not think me too fine.\"\n\n\"A woman can never be too fine while she is all in white. No, I see no\nfinery about you; nothing but what is perfectly proper. Your gown seems\nvery pretty. I like these glossy spots. Has not Miss Crawford a gown\nsomething the same?\"\n\nIn approaching the Parsonage they passed close by the stable-yard and\ncoach-house.\n\n\"Heyday!\" said Edmund, \"here's company, here's a carriage! who have they\ngot to meet us?\" And letting down the side-glass to distinguish, \"'Tis\nCrawford's, Crawford's barouche, I protest! There are his own two men\npushing it back into its old quarters. He is here, of course. This is\nquite a surprise, Fanny. I shall be very glad to see him.\"\n\nThere was no occasion, there was no time for Fanny to say how very\ndifferently she felt; but the idea of having such another to observe\nher was a great increase of the trepidation with which she performed the\nvery awful ceremony of walking into the drawing-room.\n\nIn the drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly was, having been just long\nenough arrived to be ready for dinner; and the smiles and pleased looks\nof the three others standing round him, shewed how welcome was his\nsudden resolution of coming to them for a few days on leaving Bath.\nA very cordial meeting passed between him and Edmund; and with the\nexception of Fanny, the pleasure was general; and even to _her_ there\nmight be some advantage in his presence, since every addition to the\nparty must rather forward her favourite indulgence of being suffered to\nsit silent and unattended to. She was soon aware of this herself; for\nthough she must submit, as her own propriety of mind directed, in spite\nof her aunt Norris's opinion, to being the principal lady in company,\nand to all the little distinctions consequent thereon, she found, while\nthey were at table, such a happy flow of conversation prevailing, in\nwhich she was not required to take any part--there was so much to be\nsaid between the brother and sister about Bath, so much between the two\nyoung men about hunting, so much of politics between Mr. Crawford and\nDr. Grant, and of everything and all together between Mr. Crawford\nand Mrs. Grant, as to leave her the fairest prospect of having only\nto listen in quiet, and of passing a very agreeable day. She could not\ncompliment the newly arrived gentleman, however, with any appearance of\ninterest, in a scheme for extending his stay at Mansfield, and sending\nfor his hunters from Norfolk, which, suggested by Dr. Grant, advised by\nEdmund, and warmly urged by the two sisters, was soon in possession of\nhis mind, and which he seemed to want to be encouraged even by her to\nresolve on. Her opinion was sought as to the probable continuance of the\nopen weather, but her answers were as short and indifferent as civility\nallowed. She could not wish him to stay, and would much rather not have\nhim speak to her.\n\nHer two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in her thoughts on\nseeing him; but no embarrassing remembrance affected _his_ spirits.\nHere he was again on the same ground where all had passed before, and\napparently as willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams,\nas if he had never known Mansfield in any other state. She heard them\nspoken of by him only in a general way, till they were all re-assembled\nin the drawing-room, when Edmund, being engaged apart in some matter of\nbusiness with Dr. Grant, which seemed entirely to engross them, and\nMrs. Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began talking of them with more\nparticularity to his other sister. With a significant smile, which made\nFanny quite hate him, he said, \"So! Rushworth and his fair bride are at\nBrighton, I understand; happy man!\"\n\n\"Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have they not?\nAnd Julia is with them.\"\n\n\"And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not far off.\"\n\n\"Mr. Yates! Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates. I do not imagine he\nfigures much in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price? I\nthink my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father with Mr.\nYates.\"\n\n\"Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!\" continued Crawford.\n\"Nobody can ever forget them. Poor fellow! I see him now--his toil and\nhis despair. Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever want\nhim to make two-and-forty speeches to her\"; adding, with a momentary\nseriousness, \"She is too good for him--much too good.\" And then changing\nhis tone again to one of gentle gallantry, and addressing Fanny, he\nsaid, \"You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend. Your kindness and patience\ncan never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in trying to make it\npossible for him to learn his part--in trying to give him a brain\nwhich nature had denied--to mix up an understanding for him out of the\nsuperfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough himself to\nestimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honour from\nall the rest of the party.\"\n\nFanny coloured, and said nothing.\n\n\"It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!\" he exclaimed, breaking forth\nagain, after a few minutes' musing. \"I shall always look back on our\ntheatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such an\nanimation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all alive.\nThere was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour of\nthe day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some little\nanxiety to be got over. I never was happier.\"\n\nWith silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, \"Never\nhappier!--never happier than when doing what you must know was not\njustifiable!--never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and\nunfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!\"\n\n\"We were unlucky, Miss Price,\" he continued, in a lower tone, to avoid\nthe possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of her\nfeelings, \"we certainly were very unlucky. Another week, only one other\nweek, would have been enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal\nof events--if Mansfield Park had had the government of the winds\njust for a week or two, about the equinox, there would have been\na difference. Not that we would have endangered his safety by any\ntremendous weather--but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm. I\nthink, Miss Price, we would have indulged ourselves with a week's calm\nin the Atlantic at that season.\"\n\nHe seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting her face, said,\nwith a firmer tone than usual, \"As far as _I_ am concerned, sir, I would\nnot have delayed his return for a day. My uncle disapproved it all so\nentirely when he did arrive, that in my opinion everything had gone\nquite far enough.\"\n\nShe had never spoken so much at once to him in her life before, and\nnever so angrily to any one; and when her speech was over, she trembled\nand blushed at her own daring. He was surprised; but after a few\nmoments' silent consideration of her, replied in a calmer, graver tone,\nand as if the candid result of conviction, \"I believe you are right.\nIt was more pleasant than prudent. We were getting too noisy.\" And\nthen turning the conversation, he would have engaged her on some other\nsubject, but her answers were so shy and reluctant that he could not\nadvance in any.\n\nMiss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Edmund,\nnow observed, \"Those gentlemen must have some very interesting point to\ndiscuss.\"\n\n\"The most interesting in the world,\" replied her brother--\"how to make\nmoney; how to turn a good income into a better. Dr. Grant is giving\nBertram instructions about the living he is to step into so soon. I find\nhe takes orders in a few weeks. They were at it in the dining-parlour. I\nam glad to hear Bertram will be so well off. He will have a very pretty\nincome to make ducks and drakes with, and earned without much trouble. I\napprehend he will not have less than seven hundred a year. Seven hundred\na year is a fine thing for a younger brother; and as of course he will\nstill live at home, it will be all for his _menus_ _plaisirs_; and a\nsermon at Christmas and Easter, I suppose, will be the sum total of\nsacrifice.\"\n\nHis sister tried to laugh off her feelings by saying, \"Nothing amuses me\nmore than the easy manner with which everybody settles the abundance of\nthose who have a great deal less than themselves. You would look rather\nblank, Henry, if your _menus_ _plaisirs_ were to be limited to seven\nhundred a year.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I might; but all _that_ you know is entirely comparative.\nBirthright and habit must settle the business. Bertram is certainly well\noff for a cadet of even a baronet's family. By the time he is four or\nfive and twenty he will have seven hundred a year, and nothing to do for\nit.\"\n\nMiss Crawford _could_ have said that there would be a something to do\nand to suffer for it, which she could not think lightly of; but she\nchecked herself and let it pass; and tried to look calm and unconcerned\nwhen the two gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them.\n\n\"Bertram,\" said Henry Crawford, \"I shall make a point of coming to\nMansfield to hear you preach your first sermon. I shall come on purpose\nto encourage a young beginner. When is it to be? Miss Price, will not\nyou join me in encouraging your cousin? Will not you engage to attend\nwith your eyes steadily fixed on him the whole time--as I shall do--not\nto lose a word; or only looking off just to note down any sentence\npreeminently beautiful? We will provide ourselves with tablets and a\npencil. When will it be? You must preach at Mansfield, you know, that\nSir Thomas and Lady Bertram may hear you.\"\n\n\"I shall keep clear of you, Crawford, as long as I can,\" said Edmund;\n\"for you would be more likely to disconcert me, and I should be more\nsorry to see you trying at it than almost any other man.\"\n\n\"Will he not feel this?\" thought Fanny. \"No, he can feel nothing as he\nought.\"\n\nThe party being now all united, and the chief talkers attracting each\nother, she remained in tranquillity; and as a whist-table was formed\nafter tea--formed really for the amusement of Dr. Grant, by his\nattentive wife, though it was not to be supposed so--and Miss Crawford\ntook her harp, she had nothing to do but to listen; and her tranquillity\nremained undisturbed the rest of the evening, except when Mr. Crawford\nnow and then addressed to her a question or observation, which she could\nnot avoid answering. Miss Crawford was too much vexed by what had passed\nto be in a humour for anything but music. With that she soothed herself\nand amused her friend.\n\nThe assurance of Edmund's being so soon to take orders, coming upon her\nlike a blow that had been suspended, and still hoped uncertain and at a\ndistance, was felt with resentment and mortification. She was very angry\nwith him. She had thought her influence more. She _had_ begun to think\nof him; she felt that she had, with great regard, with almost decided\nintentions; but she would now meet him with his own cool feelings. It\nwas plain that he could have no serious views, no true attachment, by\nfixing himself in a situation which he must know she would never\nstoop to. She would learn to match him in his indifference. She would\nhenceforth admit his attentions without any idea beyond immediate\namusement. If _he_ could so command his affections, _hers_ should do her\nno harm.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nHenry Crawford had quite made up his mind by the next morning to give\nanother fortnight to Mansfield, and having sent for his hunters, and\nwritten a few lines of explanation to the Admiral, he looked round at\nhis sister as he sealed and threw the letter from him, and seeing the\ncoast clear of the rest of the family, said, with a smile, \"And how do\nyou think I mean to amuse myself, Mary, on the days that I do not hunt?\nI am grown too old to go out more than three times a week; but I have a\nplan for the intermediate days, and what do you think it is?\"\n\n\"To walk and ride with me, to be sure.\"\n\n\"Not exactly, though I shall be happy to do both, but _that_ would be\nexercise only to my body, and I must take care of my mind. Besides,\n_that_ would be all recreation and indulgence, without the wholesome\nalloy of labour, and I do not like to eat the bread of idleness. No, my\nplan is to make Fanny Price in love with me.\"\n\n\"Fanny Price! Nonsense! No, no. You ought to be satisfied with her two\ncousins.\"\n\n\"But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny Price, without making a small\nhole in Fanny Price's heart. You do not seem properly aware of her\nclaims to notice. When we talked of her last night, you none of you\nseemed sensible of the wonderful improvement that has taken place in her\nlooks within the last six weeks. You see her every day, and therefore do\nnot notice it; but I assure you she is quite a different creature from\nwhat she was in the autumn. She was then merely a quiet, modest, not\nplain-looking girl, but she is now absolutely pretty. I used to think\nshe had neither complexion nor countenance; but in that soft skin of\nhers, so frequently tinged with a blush as it was yesterday, there is\ndecided beauty; and from what I observed of her eyes and mouth, I do\nnot despair of their being capable of expression enough when she\nhas anything to express. And then, her air, her manner, her _tout_\n_ensemble_, is so indescribably improved! She must be grown two inches,\nat least, since October.\"\n\n\"Phoo! phoo! This is only because there were no tall women to compare\nher with, and because she has got a new gown, and you never saw her so\nwell dressed before. She is just what she was in October, believe me.\nThe truth is, that she was the only girl in company for you to notice,\nand you must have a somebody. I have always thought her pretty--not\nstrikingly pretty--but 'pretty enough,' as people say; a sort of beauty\nthat grows on one. Her eyes should be darker, but she has a sweet smile;\nbut as for this wonderful degree of improvement, I am sure it may all\nbe resolved into a better style of dress, and your having nobody else to\nlook at; and therefore, if you do set about a flirtation with her, you\nnever will persuade me that it is in compliment to her beauty, or that\nit proceeds from anything but your own idleness and folly.\"\n\nHer brother gave only a smile to this accusation, and soon afterwards\nsaid, \"I do not quite know what to make of Miss Fanny. I do not\nunderstand her. I could not tell what she would be at yesterday. What is\nher character? Is she solemn? Is she queer? Is she prudish? Why did she\ndraw back and look so grave at me? I could hardly get her to speak. I\nnever was so long in company with a girl in my life, trying to entertain\nher, and succeed so ill! Never met with a girl who looked so grave on\nme! I must try to get the better of this. Her looks say, 'I will not\nlike you, I am determined not to like you'; and I say she shall.\"\n\n\"Foolish fellow! And so this is her attraction after all! This it is,\nher not caring about you, which gives her such a soft skin, and makes\nher so much taller, and produces all these charms and graces! I do\ndesire that you will not be making her really unhappy; a _little_ love,\nperhaps, may animate and do her good, but I will not have you plunge\nher deep, for she is as good a little creature as ever lived, and has a\ngreat deal of feeling.\"\n\n\"It can be but for a fortnight,\" said Henry; \"and if a fortnight can\nkill her, she must have a constitution which nothing could save. No, I\nwill not do her any harm, dear little soul! only want her to look kindly\non me, to give me smiles as well as blushes, to keep a chair for me by\nherself wherever we are, and be all animation when I take it and talk\nto her; to think as I think, be interested in all my possessions and\npleasures, try to keep me longer at Mansfield, and feel when I go away\nthat she shall be never happy again. I want nothing more.\"\n\n\"Moderation itself!\" said Mary. \"I can have no scruples now. Well, you\nwill have opportunities enough of endeavouring to recommend yourself,\nfor we are a great deal together.\"\n\nAnd without attempting any farther remonstrance, she left Fanny to\nher fate, a fate which, had not Fanny's heart been guarded in a way\nunsuspected by Miss Crawford, might have been a little harder than she\ndeserved; for although there doubtless are such unconquerable young\nladies of eighteen (or one should not read about them) as are never\nto be persuaded into love against their judgment by all that talent,\nmanner, attention, and flattery can do, I have no inclination to\nbelieve Fanny one of them, or to think that with so much tenderness\nof disposition, and so much taste as belonged to her, she could have\nescaped heart-whole from the courtship (though the courtship only of\na fortnight) of such a man as Crawford, in spite of there being some\nprevious ill opinion of him to be overcome, had not her affection been\nengaged elsewhere. With all the security which love of another and\ndisesteem of him could give to the peace of mind he was attacking,\nhis continued attentions--continued, but not obtrusive, and adapting\nthemselves more and more to the gentleness and delicacy of her\ncharacter--obliged her very soon to dislike him less than formerly. She\nhad by no means forgotten the past, and she thought as ill of him as\never; but she felt his powers: he was entertaining; and his manners were\nso improved, so polite, so seriously and blamelessly polite, that it was\nimpossible not to be civil to him in return.\n\nA very few days were enough to effect this; and at the end of those few\ndays, circumstances arose which had a tendency rather to forward his\nviews of pleasing her, inasmuch as they gave her a degree of happiness\nwhich must dispose her to be pleased with everybody. William, her\nbrother, the so long absent and dearly loved brother, was in England\nagain. She had a letter from him herself, a few hurried happy lines,\nwritten as the ship came up Channel, and sent into Portsmouth with\nthe first boat that left the Antwerp at anchor in Spithead; and when\nCrawford walked up with the newspaper in his hand, which he had hoped\nwould bring the first tidings, he found her trembling with joy over this\nletter, and listening with a glowing, grateful countenance to the kind\ninvitation which her uncle was most collectedly dictating in reply.\n\nIt was but the day before that Crawford had made himself thoroughly\nmaster of the subject, or had in fact become at all aware of her having\nsuch a brother, or his being in such a ship, but the interest then\nexcited had been very properly lively, determining him on his return to\ntown to apply for information as to the probable period of the Antwerp's\nreturn from the Mediterranean, etc.; and the good luck which attended\nhis early examination of ship news the next morning seemed the reward of\nhis ingenuity in finding out such a method of pleasing her, as well as\nof his dutiful attention to the Admiral, in having for many years\ntaken in the paper esteemed to have the earliest naval intelligence. He\nproved, however, to be too late. All those fine first feelings, of which\nhe had hoped to be the exciter, were already given. But his intention,\nthe kindness of his intention, was thankfully acknowledged: quite\nthankfully and warmly, for she was elevated beyond the common timidity\nof her mind by the flow of her love for William.\n\nThis dear William would soon be amongst them. There could be no doubt\nof his obtaining leave of absence immediately, for he was still only a\nmidshipman; and as his parents, from living on the spot, must already\nhave seen him, and be seeing him perhaps daily, his direct holidays\nmight with justice be instantly given to the sister, who had been his\nbest correspondent through a period of seven years, and the uncle who\nhad done most for his support and advancement; and accordingly the reply\nto her reply, fixing a very early day for his arrival, came as soon as\npossible; and scarcely ten days had passed since Fanny had been in\nthe agitation of her first dinner-visit, when she found herself in an\nagitation of a higher nature, watching in the hall, in the lobby, on\nthe stairs, for the first sound of the carriage which was to bring her a\nbrother.\n\nIt came happily while she was thus waiting; and there being neither\nceremony nor fearfulness to delay the moment of meeting, she was with\nhim as he entered the house, and the first minutes of exquisite feeling\nhad no interruption and no witnesses, unless the servants chiefly intent\nupon opening the proper doors could be called such. This was exactly\nwhat Sir Thomas and Edmund had been separately conniving at, as each\nproved to the other by the sympathetic alacrity with which they both\nadvised Mrs. Norris's continuing where she was, instead of rushing out\ninto the hall as soon as the noises of the arrival reached them.\n\nWilliam and Fanny soon shewed themselves; and Sir Thomas had the\npleasure of receiving, in his protege, certainly a very different person\nfrom the one he had equipped seven years ago, but a young man of an\nopen, pleasant countenance, and frank, unstudied, but feeling and\nrespectful manners, and such as confirmed him his friend.\n\nIt was long before Fanny could recover from the agitating happiness of\nsuch an hour as was formed by the last thirty minutes of expectation,\nand the first of fruition; it was some time even before her happiness\ncould be said to make her happy, before the disappointment inseparable\nfrom the alteration of person had vanished, and she could see in him the\nsame William as before, and talk to him, as her heart had been yearning\nto do through many a past year. That time, however, did gradually come,\nforwarded by an affection on his side as warm as her own, and much less\nencumbered by refinement or self-distrust. She was the first object\nof his love, but it was a love which his stronger spirits, and bolder\ntemper, made it as natural for him to express as to feel. On the\nmorrow they were walking about together with true enjoyment, and every\nsucceeding morrow renewed a _tete-a-tete_ which Sir Thomas could not but\nobserve with complacency, even before Edmund had pointed it out to him.\n\nExcepting the moments of peculiar delight, which any marked or\nunlooked-for instance of Edmund's consideration of her in the last few\nmonths had excited, Fanny had never known so much felicity in her life,\nas in this unchecked, equal, fearless intercourse with the brother and\nfriend who was opening all his heart to her, telling her all his hopes\nand fears, plans, and solicitudes respecting that long thought of,\ndearly earned, and justly valued blessing of promotion; who could give\nher direct and minute information of the father and mother, brothers and\nsisters, of whom she very seldom heard; who was interested in all the\ncomforts and all the little hardships of her home at Mansfield; ready to\nthink of every member of that home as she directed, or differing only\nby a less scrupulous opinion, and more noisy abuse of their aunt Norris,\nand with whom (perhaps the dearest indulgence of the whole) all the evil\nand good of their earliest years could be gone over again, and every\nformer united pain and pleasure retraced with the fondest recollection.\nAn advantage this, a strengthener of love, in which even the conjugal\ntie is beneath the fraternal. Children of the same family, the same\nblood, with the same first associations and habits, have some means of\nenjoyment in their power, which no subsequent connexions can supply; and\nit must be by a long and unnatural estrangement, by a divorce which\nno subsequent connexion can justify, if such precious remains of the\nearliest attachments are ever entirely outlived. Too often, alas! it is\nso. Fraternal love, sometimes almost everything, is at others worse than\nnothing. But with William and Fanny Price it was still a sentiment\nin all its prime and freshness, wounded by no opposition of interest,\ncooled by no separate attachment, and feeling the influence of time and\nabsence only in its increase.\n\nAn affection so amiable was advancing each in the opinion of all who had\nhearts to value anything good. Henry Crawford was as much struck with\nit as any. He honoured the warm-hearted, blunt fondness of the young\nsailor, which led him to say, with his hands stretched towards Fanny's\nhead, \"Do you know, I begin to like that queer fashion already, though\nwhen I first heard of such things being done in England, I could\nnot believe it; and when Mrs. Brown, and the other women at the\nCommissioner's at Gibraltar, appeared in the same trim, I thought they\nwere mad; but Fanny can reconcile me to anything\"; and saw, with lively\nadmiration, the glow of Fanny's cheek, the brightness of her eye, the\ndeep interest, the absorbed attention, while her brother was describing\nany of the imminent hazards, or terrific scenes, which such a period at\nsea must supply.\n\nIt was a picture which Henry Crawford had moral taste enough to value.\nFanny's attractions increased--increased twofold; for the sensibility\nwhich beautified her complexion and illumined her countenance was an\nattraction in itself. He was no longer in doubt of the capabilities of\nher heart. She had feeling, genuine feeling. It would be something to\nbe loved by such a girl, to excite the first ardours of her young\nunsophisticated mind! She interested him more than he had foreseen. A\nfortnight was not enough. His stay became indefinite.\n\nWilliam was often called on by his uncle to be the talker. His recitals\nwere amusing in themselves to Sir Thomas, but the chief object in\nseeking them was to understand the reciter, to know the young man by his\nhistories; and he listened to his clear, simple, spirited details\nwith full satisfaction, seeing in them the proof of good principles,\nprofessional knowledge, energy, courage, and cheerfulness, everything\nthat could deserve or promise well. Young as he was, William had already\nseen a great deal. He had been in the Mediterranean; in the West Indies;\nin the Mediterranean again; had been often taken on shore by the favour\nof his captain, and in the course of seven years had known every variety\nof danger which sea and war together could offer. With such means in\nhis power he had a right to be listened to; and though Mrs. Norris could\nfidget about the room, and disturb everybody in quest of two needlefuls\nof thread or a second-hand shirt button, in the midst of her nephew's\naccount of a shipwreck or an engagement, everybody else was attentive;\nand even Lady Bertram could not hear of such horrors unmoved, or\nwithout sometimes lifting her eyes from her work to say, \"Dear me! how\ndisagreeable! I wonder anybody can ever go to sea.\"\n\nTo Henry Crawford they gave a different feeling. He longed to have been\nat sea, and seen and done and suffered as much. His heart was warmed,\nhis fancy fired, and he felt the highest respect for a lad who, before\nhe was twenty, had gone through such bodily hardships and given such\nproofs of mind. The glory of heroism, of usefulness, of exertion, of\nendurance, made his own habits of selfish indulgence appear in shameful\ncontrast; and he wished he had been a William Price, distinguishing\nhimself and working his way to fortune and consequence with so much\nself-respect and happy ardour, instead of what he was!\n\nThe wish was rather eager than lasting. He was roused from the reverie\nof retrospection and regret produced by it, by some inquiry from Edmund\nas to his plans for the next day's hunting; and he found it was as well\nto be a man of fortune at once with horses and grooms at his command.\nIn one respect it was better, as it gave him the means of conferring a\nkindness where he wished to oblige. With spirits, courage, and curiosity\nup to anything, William expressed an inclination to hunt; and Crawford\ncould mount him without the slightest inconvenience to himself, and with\nonly some scruples to obviate in Sir Thomas, who knew better than his\nnephew the value of such a loan, and some alarms to reason away in\nFanny. She feared for William; by no means convinced by all that he\ncould relate of his own horsemanship in various countries, of the\nscrambling parties in which he had been engaged, the rough horses and\nmules he had ridden, or his many narrow escapes from dreadful falls,\nthat he was at all equal to the management of a high-fed hunter in an\nEnglish fox-chase; nor till he returned safe and well, without accident\nor discredit, could she be reconciled to the risk, or feel any of that\nobligation to Mr. Crawford for lending the horse which he had fully\nintended it should produce. When it was proved, however, to have done\nWilliam no harm, she could allow it to be a kindness, and even reward\nthe owner with a smile when the animal was one minute tendered to his\nuse again; and the next, with the greatest cordiality, and in a manner\nnot to be resisted, made over to his use entirely so long as he remained\nin Northamptonshire.\n\n                        [End volume one of this edition.\n                        Printed by T. and A. Constable,\n                        Printers to Her Majesty at\n                        the Edinburgh University Press]\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nThe intercourse of the two families was at this period more nearly\nrestored to what it had been in the autumn, than any member of the\nold intimacy had thought ever likely to be again. The return of Henry\nCrawford, and the arrival of William Price, had much to do with it,\nbut much was still owing to Sir Thomas's more than toleration of the\nneighbourly attempts at the Parsonage. His mind, now disengaged from\nthe cares which had pressed on him at first, was at leisure to find\nthe Grants and their young inmates really worth visiting; and though\ninfinitely above scheming or contriving for any the most advantageous\nmatrimonial establishment that could be among the apparent possibilities\nof any one most dear to him, and disdaining even as a littleness the\nbeing quick-sighted on such points, he could not avoid perceiving, in\na grand and careless way, that Mr. Crawford was somewhat distinguishing\nhis niece--nor perhaps refrain (though unconsciously) from giving a more\nwilling assent to invitations on that account.\n\nHis readiness, however, in agreeing to dine at the Parsonage, when the\ngeneral invitation was at last hazarded, after many debates and many\ndoubts as to whether it were worth while, \"because Sir Thomas seemed\nso ill inclined, and Lady Bertram was so indolent!\" proceeded from\ngood-breeding and goodwill alone, and had nothing to do with Mr.\nCrawford, but as being one in an agreeable group: for it was in the\ncourse of that very visit that he first began to think that any one in\nthe habit of such idle observations _would_ _have_ _thought_ that Mr.\nCrawford was the admirer of Fanny Price.\n\nThe meeting was generally felt to be a pleasant one, being composed in a\ngood proportion of those who would talk and those who would listen;\nand the dinner itself was elegant and plentiful, according to the usual\nstyle of the Grants, and too much according to the usual habits of\nall to raise any emotion except in Mrs. Norris, who could never behold\neither the wide table or the number of dishes on it with patience, and\nwho did always contrive to experience some evil from the passing of the\nservants behind her chair, and to bring away some fresh conviction of\nits being impossible among so many dishes but that some must be cold.\n\nIn the evening it was found, according to the predetermination of Mrs.\nGrant and her sister, that after making up the whist-table there would\nremain sufficient for a round game, and everybody being as perfectly\ncomplying and without a choice as on such occasions they always are,\nspeculation was decided on almost as soon as whist; and Lady Bertram\nsoon found herself in the critical situation of being applied to for her\nown choice between the games, and being required either to draw a card\nfor whist or not. She hesitated. Luckily Sir Thomas was at hand.\n\n\"What shall I do, Sir Thomas? Whist and speculation; which will amuse me\nmost?\"\n\nSir Thomas, after a moment's thought, recommended speculation. He was\na whist player himself, and perhaps might feel that it would not much\namuse him to have her for a partner.\n\n\"Very well,\" was her ladyship's contented answer; \"then speculation, if\nyou please, Mrs. Grant. I know nothing about it, but Fanny must teach\nme.\"\n\nHere Fanny interposed, however, with anxious protestations of her own\nequal ignorance; she had never played the game nor seen it played in\nher life; and Lady Bertram felt a moment's indecision again; but upon\neverybody's assuring her that nothing could be so easy, that it was the\neasiest game on the cards, and Henry Crawford's stepping forward with a\nmost earnest request to be allowed to sit between her ladyship and Miss\nPrice, and teach them both, it was so settled; and Sir Thomas, Mrs.\nNorris, and Dr. and Mrs. Grant being seated at the table of prime\nintellectual state and dignity, the remaining six, under Miss Crawford's\ndirection, were arranged round the other. It was a fine arrangement\nfor Henry Crawford, who was close to Fanny, and with his hands full of\nbusiness, having two persons' cards to manage as well as his own; for\nthough it was impossible for Fanny not to feel herself mistress of the\nrules of the game in three minutes, he had yet to inspirit her play,\nsharpen her avarice, and harden her heart, which, especially in any\ncompetition with William, was a work of some difficulty; and as for Lady\nBertram, he must continue in charge of all her fame and fortune through\nthe whole evening; and if quick enough to keep her from looking at her\ncards when the deal began, must direct her in whatever was to be done\nwith them to the end of it.\n\nHe was in high spirits, doing everything with happy ease, and preeminent\nin all the lively turns, quick resources, and playful impudence that\ncould do honour to the game; and the round table was altogether a very\ncomfortable contrast to the steady sobriety and orderly silence of the\nother.\n\nTwice had Sir Thomas inquired into the enjoyment and success of his\nlady, but in vain; no pause was long enough for the time his measured\nmanner needed; and very little of her state could be known till Mrs.\nGrant was able, at the end of the first rubber, to go to her and pay her\ncompliments.\n\n\"I hope your ladyship is pleased with the game.\"\n\n\"Oh dear, yes! very entertaining indeed. A very odd game. I do not know\nwhat it is all about. I am never to see my cards; and Mr. Crawford does\nall the rest.\"\n\n\"Bertram,\" said Crawford, some time afterwards, taking the opportunity\nof a little languor in the game, \"I have never told you what happened to\nme yesterday in my ride home.\" They had been hunting together, and were\nin the midst of a good run, and at some distance from Mansfield, when\nhis horse being found to have flung a shoe, Henry Crawford had been\nobliged to give up, and make the best of his way back. \"I told you I\nlost my way after passing that old farmhouse with the yew-trees, because\nI can never bear to ask; but I have not told you that, with my usual\nluck--for I never do wrong without gaining by it--I found myself in due\ntime in the very place which I had a curiosity to see. I was suddenly,\nupon turning the corner of a steepish downy field, in the midst of\na retired little village between gently rising hills; a small stream\nbefore me to be forded, a church standing on a sort of knoll to my\nright--which church was strikingly large and handsome for the place, and\nnot a gentleman or half a gentleman's house to be seen excepting one--to\nbe presumed the Parsonage--within a stone's throw of the said knoll and\nchurch. I found myself, in short, in Thornton Lacey.\"\n\n\"It sounds like it,\" said Edmund; \"but which way did you turn after\npassing Sewell's farm?\"\n\n\"I answer no such irrelevant and insidious questions; though were I to\nanswer all that you could put in the course of an hour, you would never\nbe able to prove that it was _not_ Thornton Lacey--for such it certainly\nwas.\"\n\n\"You inquired, then?\"\n\n\"No, I never inquire. But I _told_ a man mending a hedge that it was\nThornton Lacey, and he agreed to it.\"\n\n\"You have a good memory. I had forgotten having ever told you half so\nmuch of the place.\"\n\nThornton Lacey was the name of his impending living, as Miss Crawford\nwell knew; and her interest in a negotiation for William Price's knave\nincreased.\n\n\"Well,\" continued Edmund, \"and how did you like what you saw?\"\n\n\"Very much indeed. You are a lucky fellow. There will be work for five\nsummers at least before the place is liveable.\"\n\n\"No, no, not so bad as that. The farmyard must be moved, I grant you;\nbut I am not aware of anything else. The house is by no means bad, and\nwhen the yard is removed, there may be a very tolerable approach to it.\"\n\n\"The farmyard must be cleared away entirely, and planted up to shut\nout the blacksmith's shop. The house must be turned to front the east\ninstead of the north--the entrance and principal rooms, I mean, must be\non that side, where the view is really very pretty; I am sure it may be\ndone. And _there_ must be your approach, through what is at present the\ngarden. You must make a new garden at what is now the back of the house;\nwhich will be giving it the best aspect in the world, sloping to the\nsouth-east. The ground seems precisely formed for it. I rode fifty yards\nup the lane, between the church and the house, in order to look about\nme; and saw how it might all be. Nothing can be easier. The meadows\nbeyond what _will_ _be_ the garden, as well as what now _is_, sweeping\nround from the lane I stood in to the north-east, that is, to the\nprincipal road through the village, must be all laid together, of\ncourse; very pretty meadows they are, finely sprinkled with timber. They\nbelong to the living, I suppose; if not, you must purchase them. Then\nthe stream--something must be done with the stream; but I could not\nquite determine what. I had two or three ideas.\"\n\n\"And I have two or three ideas also,\" said Edmund, \"and one of them is,\nthat very little of your plan for Thornton Lacey will ever be put in\npractice. I must be satisfied with rather less ornament and beauty. I\nthink the house and premises may be made comfortable, and given the air\nof a gentleman's residence, without any very heavy expense, and that\nmust suffice me; and, I hope, may suffice all who care about me.\"\n\nMiss Crawford, a little suspicious and resentful of a certain tone of\nvoice, and a certain half-look attending the last expression of his\nhope, made a hasty finish of her dealings with William Price; and\nsecuring his knave at an exorbitant rate, exclaimed, \"There, I will\nstake my last like a woman of spirit. No cold prudence for me. I am not\nborn to sit still and do nothing. If I lose the game, it shall not be\nfrom not striving for it.\"\n\nThe game was hers, and only did not pay her for what she had given\nto secure it. Another deal proceeded, and Crawford began again about\nThornton Lacey.\n\n\"My plan may not be the best possible: I had not many minutes to form\nit in; but you must do a good deal. The place deserves it, and you\nwill find yourself not satisfied with much less than it is capable of.\n(Excuse me, your ladyship must not see your cards. There, let them lie\njust before you.) The place deserves it, Bertram. You talk of giving it\nthe air of a gentleman's residence. _That_ will be done by the removal\nof the farmyard; for, independent of that terrible nuisance, I never saw\na house of the kind which had in itself so much the air of a\ngentleman's residence, so much the look of a something above a mere\nparsonage-house--above the expenditure of a few hundreds a year. It is\nnot a scrambling collection of low single rooms, with as many roofs\nas windows; it is not cramped into the vulgar compactness of a square\nfarmhouse: it is a solid, roomy, mansion-like looking house, such as\none might suppose a respectable old country family had lived in from\ngeneration to generation, through two centuries at least, and were now\nspending from two to three thousand a year in.\" Miss Crawford listened,\nand Edmund agreed to this. \"The air of a gentleman's residence,\ntherefore, you cannot but give it, if you do anything. But it is capable\nof much more. (Let me see, Mary; Lady Bertram bids a dozen for that\nqueen; no, no, a dozen is more than it is worth. Lady Bertram does not\nbid a dozen. She will have nothing to say to it. Go on, go on.) By some\nsuch improvements as I have suggested (I do not really require you to\nproceed upon my plan, though, by the bye, I doubt anybody's striking out\na better) you may give it a higher character. You may raise it into\na _place_. From being the mere gentleman's residence, it becomes, by\njudicious improvement, the residence of a man of education, taste,\nmodern manners, good connexions. All this may be stamped on it; and that\nhouse receive such an air as to make its owner be set down as the\ngreat landholder of the parish by every creature travelling the road;\nespecially as there is no real squire's house to dispute the point--a\ncircumstance, between ourselves, to enhance the value of such a\nsituation in point of privilege and independence beyond all calculation.\n_You_ think with me, I hope\" (turning with a softened voice to Fanny).\n\"Have you ever seen the place?\"\n\nFanny gave a quick negative, and tried to hide her interest in the\nsubject by an eager attention to her brother, who was driving as hard a\nbargain, and imposing on her as much as he could; but Crawford pursued\nwith \"No, no, you must not part with the queen. You have bought her too\ndearly, and your brother does not offer half her value. No, no, sir,\nhands off, hands off. Your sister does not part with the queen. She is\nquite determined. The game will be yours,\" turning to her again; \"it\nwill certainly be yours.\"\n\n\"And Fanny had much rather it were William's,\" said Edmund, smiling at\nher. \"Poor Fanny! not allowed to cheat herself as she wishes!\"\n\n\"Mr. Bertram,\" said Miss Crawford, a few minutes afterwards, \"you know\nHenry to be such a capital improver, that you cannot possibly engage in\nanything of the sort at Thornton Lacey without accepting his help. Only\nthink how useful he was at Sotherton! Only think what grand things were\nproduced there by our all going with him one hot day in August to drive\nabout the grounds, and see his genius take fire. There we went, and\nthere we came home again; and what was done there is not to be told!\"\n\nFanny's eyes were turned on Crawford for a moment with an expression\nmore than grave--even reproachful; but on catching his, were instantly\nwithdrawn. With something of consciousness he shook his head at his\nsister, and laughingly replied, \"I cannot say there was much done at\nSotherton; but it was a hot day, and we were all walking after each\nother, and bewildered.\" As soon as a general buzz gave him shelter, he\nadded, in a low voice, directed solely at Fanny, \"I should be sorry to\nhave my powers of _planning_ judged of by the day at Sotherton. I see\nthings very differently now. Do not think of me as I appeared then.\"\n\nSotherton was a word to catch Mrs. Norris, and being just then in the\nhappy leisure which followed securing the odd trick by Sir Thomas's\ncapital play and her own against Dr. and Mrs. Grant's great hands,\nshe called out, in high good-humour, \"Sotherton! Yes, that is a place,\nindeed, and we had a charming day there. William, you are quite out of\nluck; but the next time you come, I hope dear Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth\nwill be at home, and I am sure I can answer for your being kindly\nreceived by both. Your cousins are not of a sort to forget their\nrelations, and Mr. Rushworth is a most amiable man. They are at Brighton\nnow, you know; in one of the best houses there, as Mr. Rushworth's fine\nfortune gives them a right to be. I do not exactly know the distance,\nbut when you get back to Portsmouth, if it is not very far off, you\nought to go over and pay your respects to them; and I could send a\nlittle parcel by you that I want to get conveyed to your cousins.\"\n\n\"I should be very happy, aunt; but Brighton is almost by Beachey Head;\nand if I could get so far, I could not expect to be welcome in such a\nsmart place as that--poor scrubby midshipman as I am.\"\n\nMrs. Norris was beginning an eager assurance of the affability he might\ndepend on, when she was stopped by Sir Thomas's saying with authority,\n\"I do not advise your going to Brighton, William, as I trust you may\nsoon have more convenient opportunities of meeting; but my daughters\nwould be happy to see their cousins anywhere; and you will find Mr.\nRushworth most sincerely disposed to regard all the connexions of our\nfamily as his own.\"\n\n\"I would rather find him private secretary to the First Lord than\nanything else,\" was William's only answer, in an undervoice, not meant\nto reach far, and the subject dropped.\n\nAs yet Sir Thomas had seen nothing to remark in Mr. Crawford's\nbehaviour; but when the whist-table broke up at the end of the second\nrubber, and leaving Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris to dispute over their last\nplay, he became a looker-on at the other, he found his niece the\nobject of attentions, or rather of professions, of a somewhat pointed\ncharacter.\n\nHenry Crawford was in the first glow of another scheme about Thornton\nLacey; and not being able to catch Edmund's ear, was detailing it to his\nfair neighbour with a look of considerable earnestness. His scheme was\nto rent the house himself the following winter, that he might have a\nhome of his own in that neighbourhood; and it was not merely for the use\nof it in the hunting-season (as he was then telling her), though _that_\nconsideration had certainly some weight, feeling as he did that, in\nspite of all Dr. Grant's very great kindness, it was impossible for him\nand his horses to be accommodated where they now were without material\ninconvenience; but his attachment to that neighbourhood did not depend\nupon one amusement or one season of the year: he had set his heart upon\nhaving a something there that he could come to at any time, a little\nhomestall at his command, where all the holidays of his year might be\nspent, and he might find himself continuing, improving, and _perfecting_\nthat friendship and intimacy with the Mansfield Park family which was\nincreasing in value to him every day. Sir Thomas heard and was not\noffended. There was no want of respect in the young man's address;\nand Fanny's reception of it was so proper and modest, so calm and\nuninviting, that he had nothing to censure in her. She said little,\nassented only here and there, and betrayed no inclination either of\nappropriating any part of the compliment to herself, or of strengthening\nhis views in favour of Northamptonshire. Finding by whom he was\nobserved, Henry Crawford addressed himself on the same subject to Sir\nThomas, in a more everyday tone, but still with feeling.\n\n\"I want to be your neighbour, Sir Thomas, as you have, perhaps, heard me\ntelling Miss Price. May I hope for your acquiescence, and for your not\ninfluencing your son against such a tenant?\"\n\nSir Thomas, politely bowing, replied, \"It is the only way, sir, in which\nI could _not_ wish you established as a permanent neighbour; but I hope,\nand believe, that Edmund will occupy his own house at Thornton Lacey.\nEdmund, am I saying too much?\"\n\nEdmund, on this appeal, had first to hear what was going on; but, on\nunderstanding the question, was at no loss for an answer.\n\n\"Certainly, sir, I have no idea but of residence. But, Crawford, though\nI refuse you as a tenant, come to me as a friend. Consider the house as\nhalf your own every winter, and we will add to the stables on your own\nimproved plan, and with all the improvements of your improved plan that\nmay occur to you this spring.\"\n\n\"We shall be the losers,\" continued Sir Thomas. \"His going, though only\neight miles, will be an unwelcome contraction of our family circle; but\nI should have been deeply mortified if any son of mine could reconcile\nhimself to doing less. It is perfectly natural that you should not have\nthought much on the subject, Mr. Crawford. But a parish has wants and\nclaims which can be known only by a clergyman constantly resident, and\nwhich no proxy can be capable of satisfying to the same extent. Edmund\nmight, in the common phrase, do the duty of Thornton, that is, he might\nread prayers and preach, without giving up Mansfield Park: he might ride\nover every Sunday, to a house nominally inhabited, and go through divine\nservice; he might be the clergyman of Thornton Lacey every seventh day,\nfor three or four hours, if that would content him. But it will not.\nHe knows that human nature needs more lessons than a weekly sermon can\nconvey; and that if he does not live among his parishioners, and prove\nhimself, by constant attention, their well-wisher and friend, he does\nvery little either for their good or his own.\"\n\nMr. Crawford bowed his acquiescence.\n\n\"I repeat again,\" added Sir Thomas, \"that Thornton Lacey is the only\nhouse in the neighbourhood in which I should _not_ be happy to wait on\nMr. Crawford as occupier.\"\n\nMr. Crawford bowed his thanks.\n\n\"Sir Thomas,\" said Edmund, \"undoubtedly understands the duty of a parish\npriest. We must hope his son may prove that _he_ knows it too.\"\n\nWhatever effect Sir Thomas's little harangue might really produce on Mr.\nCrawford, it raised some awkward sensations in two of the others, two\nof his most attentive listeners--Miss Crawford and Fanny. One of\nwhom, having never before understood that Thornton was so soon and so\ncompletely to be his home, was pondering with downcast eyes on what it\nwould be _not_ to see Edmund every day; and the other, startled from the\nagreeable fancies she had been previously indulging on the strength of\nher brother's description, no longer able, in the picture she had\nbeen forming of a future Thornton, to shut out the church, sink the\nclergyman, and see only the respectable, elegant, modernised, and\noccasional residence of a man of independent fortune, was considering\nSir Thomas, with decided ill-will, as the destroyer of all this, and\nsuffering the more from that involuntary forbearance which his character\nand manner commanded, and from not daring to relieve herself by a single\nattempt at throwing ridicule on his cause.\n\nAll the agreeable of _her_ speculation was over for that hour. It was\ntime to have done with cards, if sermons prevailed; and she was glad to\nfind it necessary to come to a conclusion, and be able to refresh her\nspirits by a change of place and neighbour.\n\nThe chief of the party were now collected irregularly round the\nfire, and waiting the final break-up. William and Fanny were the most\ndetached. They remained together at the otherwise deserted card-table,\ntalking very comfortably, and not thinking of the rest, till some of the\nrest began to think of them. Henry Crawford's chair was the first to be\ngiven a direction towards them, and he sat silently observing them for a\nfew minutes; himself, in the meanwhile, observed by Sir Thomas, who was\nstanding in chat with Dr. Grant.\n\n\"This is the assembly night,\" said William. \"If I were at Portsmouth I\nshould be at it, perhaps.\"\n\n\"But you do not wish yourself at Portsmouth, William?\"\n\n\"No, Fanny, that I do not. I shall have enough of Portsmouth and of\ndancing too, when I cannot have you. And I do not know that there would\nbe any good in going to the assembly, for I might not get a partner.\nThe Portsmouth girls turn up their noses at anybody who has not a\ncommission. One might as well be nothing as a midshipman. One _is_\nnothing, indeed. You remember the Gregorys; they are grown up amazing\nfine girls, but they will hardly speak to _me_, because Lucy is courted\nby a lieutenant.\"\n\n\"Oh! shame, shame! But never mind it, William\" (her own cheeks in a\nglow of indignation as she spoke). \"It is not worth minding. It is no\nreflection on _you_; it is no more than what the greatest admirals have\nall experienced, more or less, in their time. You must think of that,\nyou must try to make up your mind to it as one of the hardships which\nfall to every sailor's share, like bad weather and hard living, only\nwith this advantage, that there will be an end to it, that there will\ncome a time when you will have nothing of that sort to endure. When you\nare a lieutenant! only think, William, when you are a lieutenant, how\nlittle you will care for any nonsense of this kind.\"\n\n\"I begin to think I shall never be a lieutenant, Fanny. Everybody gets\nmade but me.\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear William, do not talk so; do not be so desponding. My uncle\nsays nothing, but I am sure he will do everything in his power to get\nyou made. He knows, as well as you do, of what consequence it is.\"\n\nShe was checked by the sight of her uncle much nearer to them than she\nhad any suspicion of, and each found it necessary to talk of something\nelse.\n\n\"Are you fond of dancing, Fanny?\"\n\n\"Yes, very; only I am soon tired.\"\n\n\"I should like to go to a ball with you and see you dance. Have you\nnever any balls at Northampton? I should like to see you dance, and I'd\ndance with you if you _would_, for nobody would know who I was here,\nand I should like to be your partner once more. We used to jump about\ntogether many a time, did not we? when the hand-organ was in the street?\nI am a pretty good dancer in my way, but I dare say you are a better.\"\nAnd turning to his uncle, who was now close to them, \"Is not Fanny a\nvery good dancer, sir?\"\n\nFanny, in dismay at such an unprecedented question, did not know which\nway to look, or how to be prepared for the answer. Some very grave\nreproof, or at least the coldest expression of indifference, must be\ncoming to distress her brother, and sink her to the ground. But, on the\ncontrary, it was no worse than, \"I am sorry to say that I am unable\nto answer your question. I have never seen Fanny dance since she was a\nlittle girl; but I trust we shall both think she acquits herself like\na gentlewoman when we do see her, which, perhaps, we may have an\nopportunity of doing ere long.\"\n\n\"I have had the pleasure of seeing your sister dance, Mr. Price,\"\nsaid Henry Crawford, leaning forward, \"and will engage to answer every\ninquiry which you can make on the subject, to your entire satisfaction.\nBut I believe\" (seeing Fanny looked distressed) \"it must be at some\nother time. There is _one_ person in company who does not like to have\nMiss Price spoken of.\"\n\nTrue enough, he had once seen Fanny dance; and it was equally true\nthat he would now have answered for her gliding about with quiet, light\nelegance, and in admirable time; but, in fact, he could not for the life\nof him recall what her dancing had been, and rather took it for granted\nthat she had been present than remembered anything about her.\n\nHe passed, however, for an admirer of her dancing; and Sir Thomas, by no\nmeans displeased, prolonged the conversation on dancing in general, and\nwas so well engaged in describing the balls of Antigua, and listening to\nwhat his nephew could relate of the different modes of dancing which\nhad fallen within his observation, that he had not heard his carriage\nannounced, and was first called to the knowledge of it by the bustle of\nMrs. Norris.\n\n\"Come, Fanny, Fanny, what are you about? We are going. Do not you see\nyour aunt is going? Quick, quick! I cannot bear to keep good old Wilcox\nwaiting. You should always remember the coachman and horses. My dear Sir\nThomas, we have settled it that the carriage should come back for you,\nand Edmund and William.\"\n\nSir Thomas could not dissent, as it had been his own arrangement,\npreviously communicated to his wife and sister; but _that_ seemed\nforgotten by Mrs. Norris, who must fancy that she settled it all\nherself.\n\nFanny's last feeling in the visit was disappointment: for the shawl\nwhich Edmund was quietly taking from the servant to bring and put round\nher shoulders was seized by Mr. Crawford's quicker hand, and she was\nobliged to be indebted to his more prominent attention.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\nWilliam's desire of seeing Fanny dance made more than a momentary\nimpression on his uncle. The hope of an opportunity, which Sir Thomas\nhad then given, was not given to be thought of no more. He remained\nsteadily inclined to gratify so amiable a feeling; to gratify anybody\nelse who might wish to see Fanny dance, and to give pleasure to the\nyoung people in general; and having thought the matter over, and taken\nhis resolution in quiet independence, the result of it appeared the\nnext morning at breakfast, when, after recalling and commending what\nhis nephew had said, he added, \"I do not like, William, that you\nshould leave Northamptonshire without this indulgence. It would give me\npleasure to see you both dance. You spoke of the balls at Northampton.\nYour cousins have occasionally attended them; but they would not\naltogether suit us now. The fatigue would be too much for your aunt. I\nbelieve we must not think of a Northampton ball. A dance at home would\nbe more eligible; and if--\"\n\n\"Ah, my dear Sir Thomas!\" interrupted Mrs. Norris, \"I knew what was\ncoming. I knew what you were going to say. If dear Julia were at home,\nor dearest Mrs. Rushworth at Sotherton, to afford a reason, an occasion\nfor such a thing, you would be tempted to give the young people a dance\nat Mansfield. I know you would. If _they_ were at home to grace the\nball, a ball you would have this very Christmas. Thank your uncle,\nWilliam, thank your uncle!\"\n\n\"My daughters,\" replied Sir Thomas, gravely interposing, \"have their\npleasures at Brighton, and I hope are very happy; but the dance which I\nthink of giving at Mansfield will be for their cousins. Could we be all\nassembled, our satisfaction would undoubtedly be more complete, but the\nabsence of some is not to debar the others of amusement.\"\n\nMrs. Norris had not another word to say. She saw decision in his looks,\nand her surprise and vexation required some minutes' silence to be\nsettled into composure. A ball at such a time! His daughters absent and\nherself not consulted! There was comfort, however, soon at hand. _She_\nmust be the doer of everything: Lady Bertram would of course be spared\nall thought and exertion, and it would all fall upon _her_. She should\nhave to do the honours of the evening; and this reflection quickly\nrestored so much of her good-humour as enabled her to join in with the\nothers, before their happiness and thanks were all expressed.\n\nEdmund, William, and Fanny did, in their different ways, look and speak\nas much grateful pleasure in the promised ball as Sir Thomas could\ndesire. Edmund's feelings were for the other two. His father had never\nconferred a favour or shewn a kindness more to his satisfaction.\n\nLady Bertram was perfectly quiescent and contented, and had no\nobjections to make. Sir Thomas engaged for its giving her very little\ntrouble; and she assured him \"that she was not at all afraid of the\ntrouble; indeed, she could not imagine there would be any.\"\n\nMrs. Norris was ready with her suggestions as to the rooms he would\nthink fittest to be used, but found it all prearranged; and when she\nwould have conjectured and hinted about the day, it appeared that the\nday was settled too. Sir Thomas had been amusing himself with shaping a\nvery complete outline of the business; and as soon as she would listen\nquietly, could read his list of the families to be invited, from whom\nhe calculated, with all necessary allowance for the shortness of the\nnotice, to collect young people enough to form twelve or fourteen\ncouple: and could detail the considerations which had induced him to\nfix on the 22nd as the most eligible day. William was required to be at\nPortsmouth on the 24th; the 22nd would therefore be the last day of his\nvisit; but where the days were so few it would be unwise to fix on any\nearlier. Mrs. Norris was obliged to be satisfied with thinking just the\nsame, and with having been on the point of proposing the 22nd herself,\nas by far the best day for the purpose.\n\nThe ball was now a settled thing, and before the evening a proclaimed\nthing to all whom it concerned. Invitations were sent with despatch,\nand many a young lady went to bed that night with her head full of happy\ncares as well as Fanny. To her the cares were sometimes almost beyond\nthe happiness; for young and inexperienced, with small means of choice\nand no confidence in her own taste, the \"how she should be dressed\" was\na point of painful solicitude; and the almost solitary ornament in her\npossession, a very pretty amber cross which William had brought her from\nSicily, was the greatest distress of all, for she had nothing but a bit\nof ribbon to fasten it to; and though she had worn it in that manner\nonce, would it be allowable at such a time in the midst of all the rich\nornaments which she supposed all the other young ladies would appear in?\nAnd yet not to wear it! William had wanted to buy her a gold chain too,\nbut the purchase had been beyond his means, and therefore not to wear\nthe cross might be mortifying him. These were anxious considerations;\nenough to sober her spirits even under the prospect of a ball given\nprincipally for her gratification.\n\nThe preparations meanwhile went on, and Lady Bertram continued to sit on\nher sofa without any inconvenience from them. She had some extra visits\nfrom the housekeeper, and her maid was rather hurried in making up a new\ndress for her: Sir Thomas gave orders, and Mrs. Norris ran about; but\nall this gave _her_ no trouble, and as she had foreseen, \"there was, in\nfact, no trouble in the business.\"\n\nEdmund was at this time particularly full of cares: his mind being\ndeeply occupied in the consideration of two important events now\nat hand, which were to fix his fate in life--ordination and\nmatrimony--events of such a serious character as to make the ball, which\nwould be very quickly followed by one of them, appear of less moment in\nhis eyes than in those of any other person in the house. On the 23rd\nhe was going to a friend near Peterborough, in the same situation\nas himself, and they were to receive ordination in the course of the\nChristmas week. Half his destiny would then be determined, but the\nother half might not be so very smoothly wooed. His duties would be\nestablished, but the wife who was to share, and animate, and reward\nthose duties, might yet be unattainable. He knew his own mind, but he\nwas not always perfectly assured of knowing Miss Crawford's. There were\npoints on which they did not quite agree; there were moments in which\nshe did not seem propitious; and though trusting altogether to her\naffection, so far as to be resolved--almost resolved--on bringing it to\na decision within a very short time, as soon as the variety of business\nbefore him were arranged, and he knew what he had to offer her, he\nhad many anxious feelings, many doubting hours as to the result. His\nconviction of her regard for him was sometimes very strong; he could\nlook back on a long course of encouragement, and she was as perfect in\ndisinterested attachment as in everything else. But at other times\ndoubt and alarm intermingled with his hopes; and when he thought of\nher acknowledged disinclination for privacy and retirement, her decided\npreference of a London life, what could he expect but a determined\nrejection? unless it were an acceptance even more to be deprecated,\ndemanding such sacrifices of situation and employment on his side as\nconscience must forbid.\n\nThe issue of all depended on one question. Did she love him well enough\nto forego what had used to be essential points? Did she love him well\nenough to make them no longer essential? And this question, which he was\ncontinually repeating to himself, though oftenest answered with a \"Yes,\"\nhad sometimes its \"No.\"\n\nMiss Crawford was soon to leave Mansfield, and on this circumstance the\n\"no\" and the \"yes\" had been very recently in alternation. He had seen\nher eyes sparkle as she spoke of the dear friend's letter, which claimed\na long visit from her in London, and of the kindness of Henry, in\nengaging to remain where he was till January, that he might convey her\nthither; he had heard her speak of the pleasure of such a journey with\nan animation which had \"no\" in every tone. But this had occurred on the\nfirst day of its being settled, within the first hour of the burst of\nsuch enjoyment, when nothing but the friends she was to visit was before\nher. He had since heard her express herself differently, with other\nfeelings, more chequered feelings: he had heard her tell Mrs. Grant that\nshe should leave her with regret; that she began to believe neither the\nfriends nor the pleasures she was going to were worth those she left\nbehind; and that though she felt she must go, and knew she should enjoy\nherself when once away, she was already looking forward to being at\nMansfield again. Was there not a \"yes\" in all this?\n\nWith such matters to ponder over, and arrange, and re-arrange, Edmund\ncould not, on his own account, think very much of the evening which the\nrest of the family were looking forward to with a more equal degree of\nstrong interest. Independent of his two cousins' enjoyment in it, the\nevening was to him of no higher value than any other appointed meeting\nof the two families might be. In every meeting there was a hope of\nreceiving farther confirmation of Miss Crawford's attachment; but the\nwhirl of a ballroom, perhaps, was not particularly favourable to the\nexcitement or expression of serious feelings. To engage her early for\nthe two first dances was all the command of individual happiness which\nhe felt in his power, and the only preparation for the ball which he\ncould enter into, in spite of all that was passing around him on the\nsubject, from morning till night.\n\nThursday was the day of the ball; and on Wednesday morning Fanny, still\nunable to satisfy herself as to what she ought to wear, determined to\nseek the counsel of the more enlightened, and apply to Mrs. Grant and\nher sister, whose acknowledged taste would certainly bear her blameless;\nand as Edmund and William were gone to Northampton, and she had reason\nto think Mr. Crawford likewise out, she walked down to the Parsonage\nwithout much fear of wanting an opportunity for private discussion;\nand the privacy of such a discussion was a most important part of it to\nFanny, being more than half-ashamed of her own solicitude.\n\nShe met Miss Crawford within a few yards of the Parsonage, just setting\nout to call on her, and as it seemed to her that her friend, though\nobliged to insist on turning back, was unwilling to lose her walk, she\nexplained her business at once, and observed, that if she would be so\nkind as to give her opinion, it might be all talked over as well without\ndoors as within. Miss Crawford appeared gratified by the application,\nand after a moment's thought, urged Fanny's returning with her in a much\nmore cordial manner than before, and proposed their going up into her\nroom, where they might have a comfortable coze, without disturbing Dr.\nand Mrs. Grant, who were together in the drawing-room. It was just the\nplan to suit Fanny; and with a great deal of gratitude on her side for\nsuch ready and kind attention, they proceeded indoors, and upstairs, and\nwere soon deep in the interesting subject. Miss Crawford, pleased with\nthe appeal, gave her all her best judgment and taste, made everything\neasy by her suggestions, and tried to make everything agreeable by her\nencouragement. The dress being settled in all its grander parts--\"But\nwhat shall you have by way of necklace?\" said Miss Crawford. \"Shall not\nyou wear your brother's cross?\" And as she spoke she was undoing a\nsmall parcel, which Fanny had observed in her hand when they met. Fanny\nacknowledged her wishes and doubts on this point: she did not know\nhow either to wear the cross, or to refrain from wearing it. She was\nanswered by having a small trinket-box placed before her, and being\nrequested to chuse from among several gold chains and necklaces. Such\nhad been the parcel with which Miss Crawford was provided, and such the\nobject of her intended visit: and in the kindest manner she now urged\nFanny's taking one for the cross and to keep for her sake, saying\neverything she could think of to obviate the scruples which were making\nFanny start back at first with a look of horror at the proposal.\n\n\"You see what a collection I have,\" said she; \"more by half than I ever\nuse or think of. I do not offer them as new. I offer nothing but an old\nnecklace. You must forgive the liberty, and oblige me.\"\n\nFanny still resisted, and from her heart. The gift was too valuable. But\nMiss Crawford persevered, and argued the case with so much affectionate\nearnestness through all the heads of William and the cross, and the\nball, and herself, as to be finally successful. Fanny found\nherself obliged to yield, that she might not be accused of pride\nor indifference, or some other littleness; and having with modest\nreluctance given her consent, proceeded to make the selection. She\nlooked and looked, longing to know which might be least valuable; and\nwas determined in her choice at last, by fancying there was one necklace\nmore frequently placed before her eyes than the rest. It was of gold,\nprettily worked; and though Fanny would have preferred a longer and a\nplainer chain as more adapted for her purpose, she hoped, in fixing\non this, to be chusing what Miss Crawford least wished to keep. Miss\nCrawford smiled her perfect approbation; and hastened to complete the\ngift by putting the necklace round her, and making her see how well\nit looked. Fanny had not a word to say against its becomingness, and,\nexcepting what remained of her scruples, was exceedingly pleased with\nan acquisition so very apropos. She would rather, perhaps, have been\nobliged to some other person. But this was an unworthy feeling. Miss\nCrawford had anticipated her wants with a kindness which proved her a\nreal friend. \"When I wear this necklace I shall always think of you,\"\nsaid she, \"and feel how very kind you were.\"\n\n\"You must think of somebody else too, when you wear that necklace,\"\nreplied Miss Crawford. \"You must think of Henry, for it was his choice\nin the first place. He gave it to me, and with the necklace I make over\nto you all the duty of remembering the original giver. It is to be\na family remembrancer. The sister is not to be in your mind without\nbringing the brother too.\"\n\nFanny, in great astonishment and confusion, would have returned the\npresent instantly. To take what had been the gift of another person,\nof a brother too, impossible! it must not be! and with an eagerness\nand embarrassment quite diverting to her companion, she laid down the\nnecklace again on its cotton, and seemed resolved either to take another\nor none at all. Miss Crawford thought she had never seen a prettier\nconsciousness. \"My dear child,\" said she, laughing, \"what are you afraid\nof? Do you think Henry will claim the necklace as mine, and fancy you\ndid not come honestly by it? or are you imagining he would be too much\nflattered by seeing round your lovely throat an ornament which his money\npurchased three years ago, before he knew there was such a throat in the\nworld? or perhaps\"--looking archly--\"you suspect a confederacy between\nus, and that what I am now doing is with his knowledge and at his\ndesire?\"\n\nWith the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a thought.\n\n\"Well, then,\" replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without at all\nbelieving her, \"to convince me that you suspect no trick, and are as\nunsuspicious of compliment as I have always found you, take the necklace\nand say no more about it. Its being a gift of my brother's need not make\nthe smallest difference in your accepting it, as I assure you it makes\nnone in my willingness to part with it. He is always giving me something\nor other. I have such innumerable presents from him that it is quite\nimpossible for me to value or for him to remember half. And as for this\nnecklace, I do not suppose I have worn it six times: it is very pretty,\nbut I never think of it; and though you would be most heartily welcome\nto any other in my trinket-box, you have happened to fix on the very\none which, if I have a choice, I would rather part with and see in your\npossession than any other. Say no more against it, I entreat you. Such a\ntrifle is not worth half so many words.\"\n\nFanny dared not make any farther opposition; and with renewed but less\nhappy thanks accepted the necklace again, for there was an expression in\nMiss Crawford's eyes which she could not be satisfied with.\n\nIt was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford's change of\nmanners. She had long seen it. He evidently tried to please her: he was\ngallant, he was attentive, he was something like what he had been to her\ncousins: he wanted, she supposed, to cheat her of her tranquillity as\nhe had cheated them; and whether he might not have some concern in this\nnecklace--she could not be convinced that he had not, for Miss Crawford,\ncomplaisant as a sister, was careless as a woman and a friend.\n\nReflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession of what she had\nso much wished for did not bring much satisfaction, she now walked\nhome again, with a change rather than a diminution of cares since her\ntreading that path before.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\nOn reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs to deposit this\nunexpected acquisition, this doubtful good of a necklace, in some\nfavourite box in the East room, which held all her smaller treasures;\nbut on opening the door, what was her surprise to find her cousin Edmund\nthere writing at the table! Such a sight having never occurred before,\nwas almost as wonderful as it was welcome.\n\n\"Fanny,\" said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen, and meeting her\nwith something in his hand, \"I beg your pardon for being here. I came\nto look for you, and after waiting a little while in hope of your coming\nin, was making use of your inkstand to explain my errand. You will find\nthe beginning of a note to yourself; but I can now speak my business,\nwhich is merely to beg your acceptance of this little trifle--a chain\nfor William's cross. You ought to have had it a week ago, but there has\nbeen a delay from my brother's not being in town by several days so soon\nas I expected; and I have only just now received it at Northampton. I\nhope you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I endeavoured to consult the\nsimplicity of your taste; but, at any rate, I know you will be kind to\nmy intentions, and consider it, as it really is, a token of the love of\none of your oldest friends.\"\n\nAnd so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, overpowered by a\nthousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could attempt to speak; but\nquickened by one sovereign wish, she then called out, \"Oh! cousin, stop\na moment, pray stop!\"\n\nHe turned back.\n\n\"I cannot attempt to thank you,\" she continued, in a very agitated\nmanner; \"thanks are out of the question. I feel much more than I can\npossibly express. Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is\nbeyond--\"\n\n\"If that is all you have to say, Fanny\" smiling and turning away again.\n\n\"No, no, it is not. I want to consult you.\"\n\nAlmost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he had just put\ninto her hand, and seeing before her, in all the niceness of jewellers'\npacking, a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not\nhelp bursting forth again, \"Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is the\nvery thing, precisely what I wished for! This is the only ornament I\nhave ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly suit my cross. They\nmust and shall be worn together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable\nmoment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is.\"\n\n\"My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I am most\nhappy that you like the chain, and that it should be here in time for\nto-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I\nhave no pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to yours.\nNo, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It\nis without a drawback.\"\n\nUpon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour\nwithout saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged\nher to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying, \"But what\nis it that you want to consult me about?\"\n\nIt was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to\nreturn, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave the\nhistory of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over;\nfor Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what\nMiss Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence of conduct\nbetween them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior power of one\npleasure over his own mind, though it might have its drawback. It was\nsome time before she could get his attention to her plan, or any answer\nto her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverie of fond reflection,\nuttering only now and then a few half-sentences of praise; but when\nhe did awake and understand, he was very decided in opposing what she\nwished.\n\n\"Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. It would be\nmortifying her severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant sensation\nthan the having anything returned on our hands which we have given with\na reasonable hope of its contributing to the comfort of a friend. Why\nshould she lose a pleasure which she has shewn herself so deserving of?\"\n\n\"If it had been given to me in the first instance,\" said Fanny, \"I\nshould not have thought of returning it; but being her brother's\npresent, is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not part with\nit, when it is not wanted?\"\n\n\"She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at least: and its\nhaving been originally her brother's gift makes no difference; for as\nshe was not prevented from offering, nor you from taking it on that\naccount, it ought not to prevent you from keeping it. No doubt it is\nhandsomer than mine, and fitter for a ballroom.\"\n\n\"No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer in its way, and, for\nmy purpose, not half so fit. The chain will agree with William's cross\nbeyond all comparison better than the necklace.\"\n\n\"For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it _be_ a sacrifice; I am\nsure you will, upon consideration, make that sacrifice rather than give\npain to one who has been so studious of your comfort. Miss Crawford's\nattentions to you have been--not more than you were justly entitled\nto--I am the last person to think that _could_ _be_, but they have been\ninvariable; and to be returning them with what must have something the\n_air_ of ingratitude, though I know it could never have the _meaning_,\nis not in your nature, I am sure. Wear the necklace, as you are engaged\nto do, to-morrow evening, and let the chain, which was not ordered with\nany reference to the ball, be kept for commoner occasions. This is my\nadvice. I would not have the shadow of a coolness between the two whose\nintimacy I have been observing with the greatest pleasure, and in whose\ncharacters there is so much general resemblance in true generosity\nand natural delicacy as to make the few slight differences, resulting\nprincipally from situation, no reasonable hindrance to a perfect\nfriendship. I would not have the shadow of a coolness arise,\" he\nrepeated, his voice sinking a little, \"between the two dearest objects I\nhave on earth.\"\n\nHe was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained to tranquillise herself as\nshe could. She was one of his two dearest--that must support her. But\nthe other: the first! She had never heard him speak so openly before,\nand though it told her no more than what she had long perceived, it was\na stab, for it told of his own convictions and views. They were\ndecided. He would marry Miss Crawford. It was a stab, in spite of every\nlong-standing expectation; and she was obliged to repeat again and\nagain, that she was one of his two dearest, before the words gave her\nany sensation. Could she believe Miss Crawford to deserve him, it would\nbe--oh, how different would it be--how far more tolerable! But he was\ndeceived in her: he gave her merits which she had not; her faults were\nwhat they had ever been, but he saw them no longer. Till she had shed\nmany tears over this deception, Fanny could not subdue her agitation;\nand the dejection which followed could only be relieved by the influence\nof fervent prayers for his happiness.\n\nIt was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty, to try to overcome\nall that was excessive, all that bordered on selfishness, in her\naffection for Edmund. To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment,\nwould be a presumption for which she had not words strong enough to\nsatisfy her own humility. To think of him as Miss Crawford might be\njustified in thinking, would in her be insanity. To her he could be\nnothing under any circumstances; nothing dearer than a friend. Why did\nsuch an idea occur to her even enough to be reprobated and forbidden? It\nought not to have touched on the confines of her imagination. She would\nendeavour to be rational, and to deserve the right of judging of Miss\nCrawford's character, and the privilege of true solicitude for him by a\nsound intellect and an honest heart.\n\nShe had all the heroism of principle, and was determined to do her duty;\nbut having also many of the feelings of youth and nature, let her not\nbe much wondered at, if, after making all these good resolutions on the\nside of self-government, she seized the scrap of paper on which Edmund\nhad begun writing to her, as a treasure beyond all her hopes, and\nreading with the tenderest emotion these words, \"My very dear Fanny,\nyou must do me the favour to accept\" locked it up with the chain, as the\ndearest part of the gift. It was the only thing approaching to a letter\nwhich she had ever received from him; she might never receive another;\nit was impossible that she ever should receive another so perfectly\ngratifying in the occasion and the style. Two lines more prized had\nnever fallen from the pen of the most distinguished author--never\nmore completely blessed the researches of the fondest biographer. The\nenthusiasm of a woman's love is even beyond the biographer's. To her,\nthe handwriting itself, independent of anything it may convey, is a\nblessedness. Never were such characters cut by any other human being as\nEdmund's commonest handwriting gave! This specimen, written in haste\nas it was, had not a fault; and there was a felicity in the flow of the\nfirst four words, in the arrangement of \"My very dear Fanny,\" which she\ncould have looked at for ever.\n\nHaving regulated her thoughts and comforted her feelings by this happy\nmixture of reason and weakness, she was able in due time to go down\nand resume her usual employments near her aunt Bertram, and pay her the\nusual observances without any apparent want of spirits.\n\nThursday, predestined to hope and enjoyment, came; and opened with\nmore kindness to Fanny than such self-willed, unmanageable days often\nvolunteer, for soon after breakfast a very friendly note was brought\nfrom Mr. Crawford to William, stating that as he found himself obliged\nto go to London on the morrow for a few days, he could not help trying\nto procure a companion; and therefore hoped that if William could\nmake up his mind to leave Mansfield half a day earlier than had been\nproposed, he would accept a place in his carriage. Mr. Crawford meant to\nbe in town by his uncle's accustomary late dinner-hour, and William\nwas invited to dine with him at the Admiral's. The proposal was a very\npleasant one to William himself, who enjoyed the idea of travelling post\nwith four horses, and such a good-humoured, agreeable friend; and, in\nlikening it to going up with despatches, was saying at once everything\nin favour of its happiness and dignity which his imagination could\nsuggest; and Fanny, from a different motive, was exceedingly pleased;\nfor the original plan was that William should go up by the mail from\nNorthampton the following night, which would not have allowed him an\nhour's rest before he must have got into a Portsmouth coach; and though\nthis offer of Mr. Crawford's would rob her of many hours of his company,\nshe was too happy in having William spared from the fatigue of such\na journey, to think of anything else. Sir Thomas approved of it for\nanother reason. His nephew's introduction to Admiral Crawford might be\nof service. The Admiral, he believed, had interest. Upon the whole, it\nwas a very joyous note. Fanny's spirits lived on it half the morning,\nderiving some accession of pleasure from its writer being himself to go\naway.\n\nAs for the ball, so near at hand, she had too many agitations and fears\nto have half the enjoyment in anticipation which she ought to have had,\nor must have been supposed to have by the many young ladies looking\nforward to the same event in situations more at ease, but under\ncircumstances of less novelty, less interest, less peculiar\ngratification, than would be attributed to her. Miss Price, known\nonly by name to half the people invited, was now to make her first\nappearance, and must be regarded as the queen of the evening. Who could\nbe happier than Miss Price? But Miss Price had not been brought up to\nthe trade of _coming_ _out_; and had she known in what light this ball\nwas, in general, considered respecting her, it would very much have\nlessened her comfort by increasing the fears she already had of doing\nwrong and being looked at. To dance without much observation or any\nextraordinary fatigue, to have strength and partners for about half the\nevening, to dance a little with Edmund, and not a great deal with Mr.\nCrawford, to see William enjoy himself, and be able to keep away\nfrom her aunt Norris, was the height of her ambition, and seemed to\ncomprehend her greatest possibility of happiness. As these were the best\nof her hopes, they could not always prevail; and in the course of a long\nmorning, spent principally with her two aunts, she was often under the\ninfluence of much less sanguine views. William, determined to make this\nlast day a day of thorough enjoyment, was out snipe-shooting; Edmund,\nshe had too much reason to suppose, was at the Parsonage; and left\nalone to bear the worrying of Mrs. Norris, who was cross because the\nhousekeeper would have her own way with the supper, and whom _she_ could\nnot avoid though the housekeeper might, Fanny was worn down at last to\nthink everything an evil belonging to the ball, and when sent off with\na parting worry to dress, moved as languidly towards her own room, and\nfelt as incapable of happiness as if she had been allowed no share in\nit.\n\nAs she walked slowly upstairs she thought of yesterday; it had been\nabout the same hour that she had returned from the Parsonage, and\nfound Edmund in the East room. \"Suppose I were to find him there again\nto-day!\" said she to herself, in a fond indulgence of fancy.\n\n\"Fanny,\" said a voice at that moment near her. Starting and looking up,\nshe saw, across the lobby she had just reached, Edmund himself, standing\nat the head of a different staircase. He came towards her. \"You look\ntired and fagged, Fanny. You have been walking too far.\"\n\n\"No, I have not been out at all.\"\n\n\"Then you have had fatigues within doors, which are worse. You had\nbetter have gone out.\"\n\nFanny, not liking to complain, found it easiest to make no answer; and\nthough he looked at her with his usual kindness, she believed he had\nsoon ceased to think of her countenance. He did not appear in spirits:\nsomething unconnected with her was probably amiss. They proceeded\nupstairs together, their rooms being on the same floor above.\n\n\"I come from Dr. Grant's,\" said Edmund presently. \"You may guess my\nerrand there, Fanny.\" And he looked so conscious, that Fanny could think\nbut of one errand, which turned her too sick for speech. \"I wished to\nengage Miss Crawford for the two first dances,\" was the explanation that\nfollowed, and brought Fanny to life again, enabling her, as she found\nshe was expected to speak, to utter something like an inquiry as to the\nresult.\n\n\"Yes,\" he answered, \"she is engaged to me; but\" (with a smile that did\nnot sit easy) \"she says it is to be the last time that she ever will\ndance with me. She is not serious. I think, I hope, I am sure she is\nnot serious; but I would rather not hear it. She never has danced with a\nclergyman, she says, and she never _will_. For my own sake, I could wish\nthere had been no ball just at--I mean not this very week, this very\nday; to-morrow I leave home.\"\n\nFanny struggled for speech, and said, \"I am very sorry that anything has\noccurred to distress you. This ought to be a day of pleasure. My uncle\nmeant it so.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, yes! and it will be a day of pleasure. It will all end right. I\nam only vexed for a moment. In fact, it is not that I consider the ball\nas ill-timed; what does it signify? But, Fanny,\" stopping her, by taking\nher hand, and speaking low and seriously, \"you know what all this means.\nYou see how it is; and could tell me, perhaps better than I could tell\nyou, how and why I am vexed. Let me talk to you a little. You are a\nkind, kind listener. I have been pained by her manner this morning, and\ncannot get the better of it. I know her disposition to be as sweet and\nfaultless as your own, but the influence of her former companions\nmakes her seem--gives to her conversation, to her professed opinions,\nsometimes a tinge of wrong. She does not _think_ evil, but she speaks\nit, speaks it in playfulness; and though I know it to be playfulness, it\ngrieves me to the soul.\"\n\n\"The effect of education,\" said Fanny gently.\n\nEdmund could not but agree to it. \"Yes, that uncle and aunt! They have\ninjured the finest mind; for sometimes, Fanny, I own to you, it does\nappear more than manner: it appears as if the mind itself was tainted.\"\n\nFanny imagined this to be an appeal to her judgment, and therefore,\nafter a moment's consideration, said, \"If you only want me as a\nlistener, cousin, I will be as useful as I can; but I am not qualified\nfor an adviser. Do not ask advice of _me_. I am not competent.\"\n\n\"You are right, Fanny, to protest against such an office, but you need\nnot be afraid. It is a subject on which I should never ask advice; it\nis the sort of subject on which it had better never be asked; and few,\nI imagine, do ask it, but when they want to be influenced against their\nconscience. I only want to talk to you.\"\n\n\"One thing more. Excuse the liberty; but take care _how_ you talk to me.\nDo not tell me anything now, which hereafter you may be sorry for. The\ntime may come--\"\n\nThe colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke.\n\n\"Dearest Fanny!\" cried Edmund, pressing her hand to his lips with\nalmost as much warmth as if it had been Miss Crawford's, \"you are all\nconsiderate thought! But it is unnecessary here. The time will never\ncome. No such time as you allude to will ever come. I begin to think it\nmost improbable: the chances grow less and less; and even if it should,\nthere will be nothing to be remembered by either you or me that we need\nbe afraid of, for I can never be ashamed of my own scruples; and if they\nare removed, it must be by changes that will only raise her character\nthe more by the recollection of the faults she once had. You are the\nonly being upon earth to whom I should say what I have said; but you\nhave always known my opinion of her; you can bear me witness, Fanny,\nthat I have never been blinded. How many a time have we talked over\nher little errors! You need not fear me; I have almost given up every\nserious idea of her; but I must be a blockhead indeed, if, whatever\nbefell me, I could think of your kindness and sympathy without the\nsincerest gratitude.\"\n\nHe had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen. He had said\nenough to give Fanny some happier feelings than she had lately known,\nand with a brighter look, she answered, \"Yes, cousin, I am convinced\nthat _you_ would be incapable of anything else, though perhaps some\nmight not. I cannot be afraid of hearing anything you wish to say. Do\nnot check yourself. Tell me whatever you like.\"\n\nThey were now on the second floor, and the appearance of a housemaid\nprevented any farther conversation. For Fanny's present comfort it was\nconcluded, perhaps, at the happiest moment: had he been able to talk\nanother five minutes, there is no saying that he might not have talked\naway all Miss Crawford's faults and his own despondence. But as it was,\nthey parted with looks on his side of grateful affection, and with\nsome very precious sensations on hers. She had felt nothing like it for\nhours. Since the first joy from Mr. Crawford's note to William had worn\naway, she had been in a state absolutely the reverse; there had been\nno comfort around, no hope within her. Now everything was smiling.\nWilliam's good fortune returned again upon her mind, and seemed of\ngreater value than at first. The ball, too--such an evening of pleasure\nbefore her! It was now a real animation; and she began to dress for it\nwith much of the happy flutter which belongs to a ball. All went well:\nshe did not dislike her own looks; and when she came to the necklaces\nagain, her good fortune seemed complete, for upon trial the one given\nher by Miss Crawford would by no means go through the ring of the cross.\nShe had, to oblige Edmund, resolved to wear it; but it was too large for\nthe purpose. His, therefore, must be worn; and having, with delightful\nfeelings, joined the chain and the cross--those memorials of the two\nmost beloved of her heart, those dearest tokens so formed for each other\nby everything real and imaginary--and put them round her neck, and seen\nand felt how full of William and Edmund they were, she was able, without\nan effort, to resolve on wearing Miss Crawford's necklace too. She\nacknowledged it to be right. Miss Crawford had a claim; and when it was\nno longer to encroach on, to interfere with the stronger claims, the\ntruer kindness of another, she could do her justice even with pleasure\nto herself. The necklace really looked very well; and Fanny left her\nroom at last, comfortably satisfied with herself and all about her.\n\nHer aunt Bertram had recollected her on this occasion with an unusual\ndegree of wakefulness. It had really occurred to her, unprompted, that\nFanny, preparing for a ball, might be glad of better help than the upper\nhousemaid's, and when dressed herself, she actually sent her own maid to\nassist her; too late, of course, to be of any use. Mrs. Chapman had just\nreached the attic floor, when Miss Price came out of her room completely\ndressed, and only civilities were necessary; but Fanny felt her aunt's\nattention almost as much as Lady Bertram or Mrs. Chapman could do\nthemselves.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\nHer uncle and both her aunts were in the drawing-room when Fanny went\ndown. To the former she was an interesting object, and he saw with\npleasure the general elegance of her appearance, and her being in\nremarkably good looks. The neatness and propriety of her dress was all\nthat he would allow himself to commend in her presence, but upon her\nleaving the room again soon afterwards, he spoke of her beauty with very\ndecided praise.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Lady Bertram, \"she looks very well. I sent Chapman to her.\"\n\n\"Look well! Oh, yes!\" cried Mrs. Norris, \"she has good reason to look\nwell with all her advantages: brought up in this family as she has been,\nwith all the benefit of her cousins' manners before her. Only think, my\ndear Sir Thomas, what extraordinary advantages you and I have been the\nmeans of giving her. The very gown you have been taking notice of is\nyour own generous present to her when dear Mrs. Rushworth married. What\nwould she have been if we had not taken her by the hand?\"\n\nSir Thomas said no more; but when they sat down to table the eyes of\nthe two young men assured him that the subject might be gently touched\nagain, when the ladies withdrew, with more success. Fanny saw that she\nwas approved; and the consciousness of looking well made her look still\nbetter. From a variety of causes she was happy, and she was soon made\nstill happier; for in following her aunts out of the room, Edmund, who\nwas holding open the door, said, as she passed him, \"You must dance\nwith me, Fanny; you must keep two dances for me; any two that you like,\nexcept the first.\" She had nothing more to wish for. She had hardly\never been in a state so nearly approaching high spirits in her life. Her\ncousins' former gaiety on the day of a ball was no longer surprising to\nher; she felt it to be indeed very charming, and was actually practising\nher steps about the drawing-room as long as she could be safe from the\nnotice of her aunt Norris, who was entirely taken up at first in fresh\narranging and injuring the noble fire which the butler had prepared.\n\nHalf an hour followed that would have been at least languid under any\nother circumstances, but Fanny's happiness still prevailed. It was but\nto think of her conversation with Edmund, and what was the restlessness\nof Mrs. Norris? What were the yawns of Lady Bertram?\n\nThe gentlemen joined them; and soon after began the sweet expectation of\na carriage, when a general spirit of ease and enjoyment seemed diffused,\nand they all stood about and talked and laughed, and every moment had\nits pleasure and its hope. Fanny felt that there must be a struggle\nin Edmund's cheerfulness, but it was delightful to see the effort so\nsuccessfully made.\n\nWhen the carriages were really heard, when the guests began really to\nassemble, her own gaiety of heart was much subdued: the sight of so\nmany strangers threw her back into herself; and besides the gravity and\nformality of the first great circle, which the manners of neither Sir\nThomas nor Lady Bertram were of a kind to do away, she found herself\noccasionally called on to endure something worse. She was introduced\nhere and there by her uncle, and forced to be spoken to, and to curtsey,\nand speak again. This was a hard duty, and she was never summoned to\nit without looking at William, as he walked about at his ease in the\nbackground of the scene, and longing to be with him.\n\nThe entrance of the Grants and Crawfords was a favourable epoch. The\nstiffness of the meeting soon gave way before their popular manners and\nmore diffused intimacies: little groups were formed, and everybody grew\ncomfortable. Fanny felt the advantage; and, drawing back from the toils\nof civility, would have been again most happy, could she have kept her\neyes from wandering between Edmund and Mary Crawford. _She_ looked all\nloveliness--and what might not be the end of it? Her own musings\nwere brought to an end on perceiving Mr. Crawford before her, and\nher thoughts were put into another channel by his engaging her almost\ninstantly for the first two dances. Her happiness on this occasion was\nvery much _a_ _la_ _mortal_, finely chequered. To be secure of a partner\nat first was a most essential good--for the moment of beginning was now\ngrowing seriously near; and she so little understood her own claims as\nto think that if Mr. Crawford had not asked her, she must have been the\nlast to be sought after, and should have received a partner only through\na series of inquiry, and bustle, and interference, which would have been\nterrible; but at the same time there was a pointedness in his manner of\nasking her which she did not like, and she saw his eye glancing for\na moment at her necklace, with a smile--she thought there was a\nsmile--which made her blush and feel wretched. And though there was no\nsecond glance to disturb her, though his object seemed then to be only\nquietly agreeable, she could not get the better of her embarrassment,\nheightened as it was by the idea of his perceiving it, and had no\ncomposure till he turned away to some one else. Then she could gradually\nrise up to the genuine satisfaction of having a partner, a voluntary\npartner, secured against the dancing began.\n\nWhen the company were moving into the ballroom, she found herself\nfor the first time near Miss Crawford, whose eyes and smiles were\nimmediately and more unequivocally directed as her brother's had been,\nand who was beginning to speak on the subject, when Fanny, anxious\nto get the story over, hastened to give the explanation of the second\nnecklace: the real chain. Miss Crawford listened; and all her intended\ncompliments and insinuations to Fanny were forgotten: she felt only one\nthing; and her eyes, bright as they had been before, shewing they could\nyet be brighter, she exclaimed with eager pleasure, \"Did he? Did Edmund?\nThat was like himself. No other man would have thought of it. I honour\nhim beyond expression.\" And she looked around as if longing to tell him\nso. He was not near, he was attending a party of ladies out of the room;\nand Mrs. Grant coming up to the two girls, and taking an arm of each,\nthey followed with the rest.\n\nFanny's heart sunk, but there was no leisure for thinking long even of\nMiss Crawford's feelings. They were in the ballroom, the violins were\nplaying, and her mind was in a flutter that forbade its fixing on\nanything serious. She must watch the general arrangements, and see how\neverything was done.\n\nIn a few minutes Sir Thomas came to her, and asked if she were engaged;\nand the \"Yes, sir; to Mr. Crawford,\" was exactly what he had intended\nto hear. Mr. Crawford was not far off; Sir Thomas brought him to her,\nsaying something which discovered to Fanny, that _she_ was to lead the\nway and open the ball; an idea that had never occurred to her before.\nWhenever she had thought of the minutiae of the evening, it had been as\na matter of course that Edmund would begin with Miss Crawford; and the\nimpression was so strong, that though _her_ _uncle_ spoke the contrary,\nshe could not help an exclamation of surprise, a hint of her unfitness,\nan entreaty even to be excused. To be urging her opinion against Sir\nThomas's was a proof of the extremity of the case; but such was her\nhorror at the first suggestion, that she could actually look him in\nthe face and say that she hoped it might be settled otherwise; in vain,\nhowever: Sir Thomas smiled, tried to encourage her, and then looked too\nserious, and said too decidedly, \"It must be so, my dear,\" for her to\nhazard another word; and she found herself the next moment conducted by\nMr. Crawford to the top of the room, and standing there to be joined by\nthe rest of the dancers, couple after couple, as they were formed.\n\nShe could hardly believe it. To be placed above so many elegant young\nwomen! The distinction was too great. It was treating her like her\ncousins! And her thoughts flew to those absent cousins with most\nunfeigned and truly tender regret, that they were not at home to take\ntheir own place in the room, and have their share of a pleasure which\nwould have been so very delightful to them. So often as she had heard\nthem wish for a ball at home as the greatest of all felicities! And\nto have them away when it was given--and for _her_ to be opening the\nball--and with Mr. Crawford too! She hoped they would not envy her that\ndistinction _now_; but when she looked back to the state of things in\nthe autumn, to what they had all been to each other when once dancing\nin that house before, the present arrangement was almost more than she\ncould understand herself.\n\nThe ball began. It was rather honour than happiness to Fanny, for the\nfirst dance at least: her partner was in excellent spirits, and tried to\nimpart them to her; but she was a great deal too much frightened to have\nany enjoyment till she could suppose herself no longer looked at. Young,\npretty, and gentle, however, she had no awkwardnesses that were not\nas good as graces, and there were few persons present that were not\ndisposed to praise her. She was attractive, she was modest, she was Sir\nThomas's niece, and she was soon said to be admired by Mr. Crawford. It\nwas enough to give her general favour. Sir Thomas himself was watching\nher progress down the dance with much complacency; he was proud of his\nniece; and without attributing all her personal beauty, as Mrs. Norris\nseemed to do, to her transplantation to Mansfield, he was pleased with\nhimself for having supplied everything else: education and manners she\nowed to him.\n\nMiss Crawford saw much of Sir Thomas's thoughts as he stood, and having,\nin spite of all his wrongs towards her, a general prevailing desire of\nrecommending herself to him, took an opportunity of stepping aside to\nsay something agreeable of Fanny. Her praise was warm, and he\nreceived it as she could wish, joining in it as far as discretion, and\npoliteness, and slowness of speech would allow, and certainly appearing\nto greater advantage on the subject than his lady did soon afterwards,\nwhen Mary, perceiving her on a sofa very near, turned round before she\nbegan to dance, to compliment her on Miss Price's looks.\n\n\"Yes, she does look very well,\" was Lady Bertram's placid reply.\n\"Chapman helped her to dress. I sent Chapman to her.\" Not but that\nshe was really pleased to have Fanny admired; but she was so much more\nstruck with her own kindness in sending Chapman to her, that she could\nnot get it out of her head.\n\nMiss Crawford knew Mrs. Norris too well to think of gratifying _her_\nby commendation of Fanny; to her, it was as the occasion offered--\"Ah!\nma'am, how much we want dear Mrs. Rushworth and Julia to-night!\" and\nMrs. Norris paid her with as many smiles and courteous words as she had\ntime for, amid so much occupation as she found for herself in making\nup card-tables, giving hints to Sir Thomas, and trying to move all the\nchaperons to a better part of the room.\n\nMiss Crawford blundered most towards Fanny herself in her intentions\nto please. She meant to be giving her little heart a happy flutter,\nand filling her with sensations of delightful self-consequence; and,\nmisinterpreting Fanny's blushes, still thought she must be doing so when\nshe went to her after the two first dances, and said, with a significant\nlook, \"Perhaps _you_ can tell me why my brother goes to town to-morrow?\nHe says he has business there, but will not tell me what. The first time\nhe ever denied me his confidence! But this is what we all come to.\nAll are supplanted sooner or later. Now, I must apply to you for\ninformation. Pray, what is Henry going for?\"\n\nFanny protested her ignorance as steadily as her embarrassment allowed.\n\n\"Well, then,\" replied Miss Crawford, laughing, \"I must suppose it to be\npurely for the pleasure of conveying your brother, and of talking of you\nby the way.\"\n\nFanny was confused, but it was the confusion of discontent; while Miss\nCrawford wondered she did not smile, and thought her over-anxious,\nor thought her odd, or thought her anything rather than insensible of\npleasure in Henry's attentions. Fanny had a good deal of enjoyment in\nthe course of the evening; but Henry's attentions had very little to\ndo with it. She would much rather _not_ have been asked by him again so\nvery soon, and she wished she had not been obliged to suspect that his\nprevious inquiries of Mrs. Norris, about the supper hour, were all for\nthe sake of securing her at that part of the evening. But it was not to\nbe avoided: he made her feel that she was the object of all; though she\ncould not say that it was unpleasantly done, that there was indelicacy\nor ostentation in his manner; and sometimes, when he talked of William,\nhe was really not unagreeable, and shewed even a warmth of heart\nwhich did him credit. But still his attentions made no part of her\nsatisfaction. She was happy whenever she looked at William, and saw how\nperfectly he was enjoying himself, in every five minutes that she could\nwalk about with him and hear his account of his partners; she was happy\nin knowing herself admired; and she was happy in having the two dances\nwith Edmund still to look forward to, during the greatest part of the\nevening, her hand being so eagerly sought after that her indefinite\nengagement with _him_ was in continual perspective. She was happy even\nwhen they did take place; but not from any flow of spirits on his side,\nor any such expressions of tender gallantry as had blessed the morning.\nHis mind was fagged, and her happiness sprung from being the friend with\nwhom it could find repose. \"I am worn out with civility,\" said he. \"I\nhave been talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say. But\nwith _you_, Fanny, there may be peace. You will not want to be talked\nto. Let us have the luxury of silence.\" Fanny would hardly even speak\nher agreement. A weariness, arising probably, in great measure, from the\nsame feelings which he had acknowledged in the morning, was peculiarly\nto be respected, and they went down their two dances together with such\nsober tranquillity as might satisfy any looker-on that Sir Thomas had\nbeen bringing up no wife for his younger son.\n\nThe evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure. Miss Crawford had\nbeen in gay spirits when they first danced together, but it was not her\ngaiety that could do him good: it rather sank than raised his comfort;\nand afterwards, for he found himself still impelled to seek her\nagain, she had absolutely pained him by her manner of speaking of the\nprofession to which he was now on the point of belonging. They had\ntalked, and they had been silent; he had reasoned, she had ridiculed;\nand they had parted at last with mutual vexation. Fanny, not able to\nrefrain entirely from observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably\nsatisfied. It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering. Yet\nsome happiness must and would arise from the very conviction that he did\nsuffer.\n\nWhen her two dances with him were over, her inclination and strength for\nmore were pretty well at an end; and Sir Thomas, having seen her walk\nrather than dance down the shortening set, breathless, and with her hand\nat her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely. From that\ntime Mr. Crawford sat down likewise.\n\n\"Poor Fanny!\" cried William, coming for a moment to visit her, and\nworking away his partner's fan as if for life, \"how soon she is knocked\nup! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall keep it up these\ntwo hours. How can you be tired so soon?\"\n\n\"So soon! my good friend,\" said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with all\nnecessary caution; \"it is three o'clock, and your sister is not used to\nthese sort of hours.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep as\nlong as you can, and never mind me.\"\n\n\"Oh! William.\"\n\n\"What! Did she think of being up before you set off?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes, sir,\" cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer\nher uncle; \"I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last\ntime, you know; the last morning.\"\n\n\"You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-past\nnine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past nine?\"\n\nFanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for\ndenial; and it ended in a gracious \"Well, well!\" which was permission.\n\n\"Yes, half-past nine,\" said Crawford to William as the latter was\nleaving them, \"and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind sister\nto get up for _me_.\" And in a lower tone to Fanny, \"I shall have only\na desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of time\nand his own very different to-morrow.\"\n\nAfter a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the early\nbreakfast party in that house instead of eating alone: he should himself\nbe of it; and the readiness with which his invitation was accepted\nconvinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess to himself,\nthis very ball had in great measure sprung, were well founded. Mr.\nCrawford was in love with Fanny. He had a pleasing anticipation of what\nwould be. His niece, meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had just\ndone. She had hoped to have William all to herself the last morning. It\nwould have been an unspeakable indulgence. But though her wishes\nwere overthrown, there was no spirit of murmuring within her. On the\ncontrary, she was so totally unused to have her pleasure consulted, or\nto have anything take place at all in the way she could desire, that she\nwas more disposed to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point so\nfar, than to repine at the counteraction which followed.\n\nShortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering a little with her\ninclination, by advising her to go immediately to bed. \"Advise\" was his\nword, but it was the advice of absolute power, and she had only to\nrise, and, with Mr. Crawford's very cordial adieus, pass quietly away;\nstopping at the entrance-door, like the Lady of Branxholm Hall, \"one\nmoment and no more,\" to view the happy scene, and take a last look at\nthe five or six determined couple who were still hard at work; and then,\ncreeping slowly up the principal staircase, pursued by the ceaseless\ncountry-dance, feverish with hopes and fears, soup and negus,\nsore-footed and fatigued, restless and agitated, yet feeling, in spite\nof everything, that a ball was indeed delightful.\n\nIn thus sending her away, Sir Thomas perhaps might not be thinking\nmerely of her health. It might occur to him that Mr. Crawford had been\nsitting by her long enough, or he might mean to recommend her as a wife\nby shewing her persuadableness.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\nThe ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too; the last kiss\nwas given, and William was gone. Mr. Crawford had, as he foretold, been\nvery punctual, and short and pleasant had been the meal.\n\nAfter seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back to the\nbreakfast-room with a very saddened heart to grieve over the melancholy\nchange; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace, conceiving,\nperhaps, that the deserted chair of each young man might exercise her\ntender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork bones and mustard in\nWilliam's plate might but divide her feelings with the broken egg-shells\nin Mr. Crawford's. She sat and cried _con_ _amore_ as her uncle\nintended, but it was _con_ _amore_ fraternal and no other. William was\ngone, and she now felt as if she had wasted half his visit in idle cares\nand selfish solicitudes unconnected with him.\n\nFanny's disposition was such that she could never even think of her\naunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness of her own small house,\nwithout reproaching herself for some little want of attention to her\nwhen they had been last together; much less could her feelings acquit\nher of having done and said and thought everything by William that was\ndue to him for a whole fortnight.\n\nIt was a heavy, melancholy day. Soon after the second breakfast, Edmund\nbade them good-bye for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterborough,\nand then all were gone. Nothing remained of last night but remembrances,\nwhich she had nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt Bertram--she\nmust talk to somebody of the ball; but her aunt had seen so little of\nwhat had passed, and had so little curiosity, that it was heavy work.\nLady Bertram was not certain of anybody's dress or anybody's place at\nsupper but her own. \"She could not recollect what it was that she had\nheard about one of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it was that Lady Prescott\nhad noticed in Fanny: she was not sure whether Colonel Harrison had been\ntalking of Mr. Crawford or of William when he said he was the finest\nyoung man in the room--somebody had whispered something to her; she had\nforgot to ask Sir Thomas what it could be.\" And these were her longest\nspeeches and clearest communications: the rest was only a languid \"Yes,\nyes; very well; did you? did he? I did not see _that_; I should not know\none from the other.\" This was very bad. It was only better than Mrs.\nNorris's sharp answers would have been; but she being gone home with\nall the supernumerary jellies to nurse a sick maid, there was peace\nand good-humour in their little party, though it could not boast much\nbeside.\n\nThe evening was heavy like the day. \"I cannot think what is the matter\nwith me,\" said Lady Bertram, when the tea-things were removed. \"I feel\nquite stupid. It must be sitting up so late last night. Fanny, you must\ndo something to keep me awake. I cannot work. Fetch the cards; I feel so\nvery stupid.\"\n\nThe cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage with her aunt till\nbedtime; and as Sir Thomas was reading to himself, no sounds were\nheard in the room for the next two hours beyond the reckonings of the\ngame--\"And _that_ makes thirty-one; four in hand and eight in crib. You\nare to deal, ma'am; shall I deal for you?\" Fanny thought and thought\nagain of the difference which twenty-four hours had made in that room,\nand all that part of the house. Last night it had been hope and smiles,\nbustle and motion, noise and brilliancy, in the drawing-room, and out\nof the drawing-room, and everywhere. Now it was languor, and all but\nsolitude.\n\nA good night's rest improved her spirits. She could think of William the\nnext day more cheerfully; and as the morning afforded her an opportunity\nof talking over Thursday night with Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, in a\nvery handsome style, with all the heightenings of imagination, and\nall the laughs of playfulness which are so essential to the shade of a\ndeparted ball, she could afterwards bring her mind without much effort\ninto its everyday state, and easily conform to the tranquillity of the\npresent quiet week.\n\nThey were indeed a smaller party than she had ever known there for\na whole day together, and _he_ was gone on whom the comfort and\ncheerfulness of every family meeting and every meal chiefly depended.\nBut this must be learned to be endured. He would soon be always gone;\nand she was thankful that she could now sit in the same room with her\nuncle, hear his voice, receive his questions, and even answer them,\nwithout such wretched feelings as she had formerly known.\n\n\"We miss our two young men,\" was Sir Thomas's observation on both the\nfirst and second day, as they formed their very reduced circle after\ndinner; and in consideration of Fanny's swimming eyes, nothing more was\nsaid on the first day than to drink their good health; but on the\nsecond it led to something farther. William was kindly commended and\nhis promotion hoped for. \"And there is no reason to suppose,\" added Sir\nThomas, \"but that his visits to us may now be tolerably frequent. As to\nEdmund, we must learn to do without him. This will be the last winter of\nhis belonging to us, as he has done.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Lady Bertram, \"but I wish he was not going away. They are\nall going away, I think. I wish they would stay at home.\"\n\nThis wish was levelled principally at Julia, who had just applied for\npermission to go to town with Maria; and as Sir Thomas thought it best\nfor each daughter that the permission should be granted, Lady Bertram,\nthough in her own good-nature she would not have prevented it, was\nlamenting the change it made in the prospect of Julia's return, which\nwould otherwise have taken place about this time. A great deal of good\nsense followed on Sir Thomas's side, tending to reconcile his wife to\nthe arrangement. Everything that a considerate parent _ought_ to feel\nwas advanced for her use; and everything that an affectionate mother\n_must_ feel in promoting her children's enjoyment was attributed to her\nnature. Lady Bertram agreed to it all with a calm \"Yes\"; and at the end\nof a quarter of an hour's silent consideration spontaneously observed,\n\"Sir Thomas, I have been thinking--and I am very glad we took Fanny as\nwe did, for now the others are away we feel the good of it.\"\n\nSir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding, \"Very true.\nWe shew Fanny what a good girl we think her by praising her to her face,\nshe is now a very valuable companion. If we have been kind to _her_, she\nis now quite as necessary to _us_.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Lady Bertram presently; \"and it is a comfort to think that\nwe shall always have _her_.\"\n\nSir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece, and then gravely\nreplied, \"She will never leave us, I hope, till invited to some other\nhome that may reasonably promise her greater happiness than she knows\nhere.\"\n\n\"And _that_ is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas. Who should invite her?\nMaria might be very glad to see her at Sotherton now and then, but she\nwould not think of asking her to live there; and I am sure she is better\noff here; and besides, I cannot do without her.\"\n\nThe week which passed so quietly and peaceably at the great house in\nMansfield had a very different character at the Parsonage. To the young\nlady, at least, in each family, it brought very different feelings. What\nwas tranquillity and comfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation to\nMary. Something arose from difference of disposition and habit: one so\neasily satisfied, the other so unused to endure; but still more might be\nimputed to difference of circumstances. In some points of interest they\nwere exactly opposed to each other. To Fanny's mind, Edmund's absence\nwas really, in its cause and its tendency, a relief. To Mary it was\nevery way painful. She felt the want of his society every day, almost\nevery hour, and was too much in want of it to derive anything but\nirritation from considering the object for which he went. He could not\nhave devised anything more likely to raise his consequence than this\nweek's absence, occurring as it did at the very time of her brother's\ngoing away, of William Price's going too, and completing the sort of\ngeneral break-up of a party which had been so animated. She felt it\nkeenly. They were now a miserable trio, confined within doors by a\nseries of rain and snow, with nothing to do and no variety to hope for.\nAngry as she was with Edmund for adhering to his own notions, and acting\non them in defiance of her (and she had been so angry that they had\nhardly parted friends at the ball), she could not help thinking of\nhim continually when absent, dwelling on his merit and affection, and\nlonging again for the almost daily meetings they lately had. His absence\nwas unnecessarily long. He should not have planned such an absence--he\nshould not have left home for a week, when her own departure from\nMansfield was so near. Then she began to blame herself. She wished she\nhad not spoken so warmly in their last conversation. She was afraid she\nhad used some strong, some contemptuous expressions in speaking of the\nclergy, and that should not have been. It was ill-bred; it was wrong.\nShe wished such words unsaid with all her heart.\n\nHer vexation did not end with the week. All this was bad, but she had\nstill more to feel when Friday came round again and brought no Edmund;\nwhen Saturday came and still no Edmund; and when, through the slight\ncommunication with the other family which Sunday produced, she learned\nthat he had actually written home to defer his return, having promised\nto remain some days longer with his friend.\n\nIf she had felt impatience and regret before--if she had been sorry for\nwhat she said, and feared its too strong effect on him--she now felt\nand feared it all tenfold more. She had, moreover, to contend with one\ndisagreeable emotion entirely new to her--jealousy. His friend Mr.\nOwen had sisters; he might find them attractive. But, at any rate, his\nstaying away at a time when, according to all preceding plans, she was\nto remove to London, meant something that she could not bear. Had Henry\nreturned, as he talked of doing, at the end of three or four days, she\nshould now have been leaving Mansfield. It became absolutely necessary\nfor her to get to Fanny and try to learn something more. She could not\nlive any longer in such solitary wretchedness; and she made her way\nto the Park, through difficulties of walking which she had deemed\nunconquerable a week before, for the chance of hearing a little in\naddition, for the sake of at least hearing his name.\n\nThe first half-hour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertram were together,\nand unless she had Fanny to herself she could hope for nothing. But\nat last Lady Bertram left the room, and then almost immediately Miss\nCrawford thus began, with a voice as well regulated as she could--\"And\nhow do _you_ like your cousin Edmund's staying away so long? Being the\nonly young person at home, I consider _you_ as the greatest sufferer.\nYou must miss him. Does his staying longer surprise you?\"\n\n\"I do not know,\" said Fanny hesitatingly. \"Yes; I had not particularly\nexpected it.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of. It is the general\nway all young men do.\"\n\n\"He did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before.\"\n\n\"He finds the house more agreeable _now_. He is a very--a very pleasing\nyoung man himself, and I cannot help being rather concerned at not\nseeing him again before I go to London, as will now undoubtedly be the\ncase. I am looking for Henry every day, and as soon as he comes there\nwill be nothing to detain me at Mansfield. I should like to have seen\nhim once more, I confess. But you must give my compliments to him. Yes;\nI think it must be compliments. Is not there a something wanted,\nMiss Price, in our language--a something between compliments and--and\nlove--to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had together? So\nmany months' acquaintance! But compliments may be sufficient here.\nWas his letter a long one? Does he give you much account of what he is\ndoing? Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?\"\n\n\"I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I believe\nit was very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines. All that I\nheard was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer, and that he\nhad agreed to do so. A _few_ days longer, or _some_ days longer; I am\nnot quite sure which.\"\n\n\"Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have been to Lady\nBertram or you. But if he wrote to his father, no wonder he was concise.\nWho could write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there\nwould have been more particulars. You would have heard of balls\nand parties. He would have sent you a description of everything and\neverybody. How many Miss Owens are there?\"\n\n\"Three grown up.\"\n\n\"Are they musical?\"\n\n\"I do not at all know. I never heard.\"\n\n\"That is the first question, you know,\" said Miss Crawford, trying to\nappear gay and unconcerned, \"which every woman who plays herself is sure\nto ask about another. But it is very foolish to ask questions about\nany young ladies--about any three sisters just grown up; for one knows,\nwithout being told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished and\npleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty in every family; it is\na regular thing. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp; and\nall sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing all the better for\nnot being taught; or something like it.\"\n\n\"I know nothing of the Miss Owens,\" said Fanny calmly.\n\n\"You know nothing and you care less, as people say. Never did tone\nexpress indifference plainer. Indeed, how can one care for those one has\nnever seen? Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find Mansfield\nvery quiet; all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine and myself. I\ndo not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the time draws near. She\ndoes not like my going.\"\n\nFanny felt obliged to speak. \"You cannot doubt your being missed by\nmany,\" said she. \"You will be very much missed.\"\n\nMiss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or see more,\nand then laughingly said, \"Oh yes! missed as every noisy evil is missed\nwhen it is taken away; that is, there is a great difference felt. But I\nam not fishing; don't compliment me. If I _am_ missed, it will appear.\nI may be discovered by those who want to see me. I shall not be in any\ndoubtful, or distant, or unapproachable region.\"\n\nNow Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss Crawford was\ndisappointed; for she had hoped to hear some pleasant assurance of her\npower from one who she thought must know, and her spirits were clouded\nagain.\n\n\"The Miss Owens,\" said she, soon afterwards; \"suppose you were to have\none of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey; how should you like it?\nStranger things have happened. I dare say they are trying for it. And\nthey are quite in the light, for it would be a very pretty establishment\nfor them. I do not at all wonder or blame them. It is everybody's duty\nto do as well for themselves as they can. Sir Thomas Bertram's son is\nsomebody; and now he is in their own line. Their father is a clergyman,\nand their brother is a clergyman, and they are all clergymen together.\nHe is their lawful property; he fairly belongs to them. You don't speak,\nFanny; Miss Price, you don't speak. But honestly now, do not you rather\nexpect it than otherwise?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Fanny stoutly, \"I do not expect it at all.\"\n\n\"Not at all!\" cried Miss Crawford with alacrity. \"I wonder at that. But\nI dare say you know exactly--I always imagine you are--perhaps you do\nnot think him likely to marry at all--or not at present.\"\n\n\"No, I do not,\" said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err either in the\nbelief or the acknowledgment of it.\n\nHer companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater spirit from\nthe blush soon produced from such a look, only said, \"He is best off as\nhe is,\" and turned the subject.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\nMiss Crawford's uneasiness was much lightened by this conversation, and\nshe walked home again in spirits which might have defied almost another\nweek of the same small party in the same bad weather, had they been put\nto the proof; but as that very evening brought her brother down from\nLondon again in quite, or more than quite, his usual cheerfulness, she\nhad nothing farther to try her own. His still refusing to tell her what\nhe had gone for was but the promotion of gaiety; a day before it might\nhave irritated, but now it was a pleasant joke--suspected only of\nconcealing something planned as a pleasant surprise to herself. And the\nnext day _did_ bring a surprise to her. Henry had said he should just\ngo and ask the Bertrams how they did, and be back in ten minutes, but\nhe was gone above an hour; and when his sister, who had been waiting for\nhim to walk with her in the garden, met him at last most impatiently in\nthe sweep, and cried out, \"My dear Henry, where can you have been\nall this time?\" he had only to say that he had been sitting with Lady\nBertram and Fanny.\n\n\"Sitting with them an hour and a half!\" exclaimed Mary.\n\nBut this was only the beginning of her surprise.\n\n\"Yes, Mary,\" said he, drawing her arm within his, and walking along\nthe sweep as if not knowing where he was: \"I could not get away sooner;\nFanny looked so lovely! I am quite determined, Mary. My mind is entirely\nmade up. Will it astonish you? No: you must be aware that I am quite\ndetermined to marry Fanny Price.\"\n\nThe surprise was now complete; for, in spite of whatever his\nconsciousness might suggest, a suspicion of his having any such views\nhad never entered his sister's imagination; and she looked so truly the\nastonishment she felt, that he was obliged to repeat what he had said,\nand more fully and more solemnly. The conviction of his determination\nonce admitted, it was not unwelcome. There was even pleasure with the\nsurprise. Mary was in a state of mind to rejoice in a connexion with the\nBertram family, and to be not displeased with her brother's marrying a\nlittle beneath him.\n\n\"Yes, Mary,\" was Henry's concluding assurance. \"I am fairly caught.\nYou know with what idle designs I began; but this is the end of them.\nI have, I flatter myself, made no inconsiderable progress in her\naffections; but my own are entirely fixed.\"\n\n\"Lucky, lucky girl!\" cried Mary, as soon as she could speak; \"what a\nmatch for her! My dearest Henry, this must be my _first_ feeling; but\nmy _second_, which you shall have as sincerely, is, that I approve your\nchoice from my soul, and foresee your happiness as heartily as I wish\nand desire it. You will have a sweet little wife; all gratitude and\ndevotion. Exactly what you deserve. What an amazing match for her! Mrs.\nNorris often talks of her luck; what will she say now? The delight\nof all the family, indeed! And she has some _true_ friends in it! How\n_they_ will rejoice! But tell me all about it! Talk to me for ever. When\ndid you begin to think seriously about her?\"\n\nNothing could be more impossible than to answer such a question, though\nnothing could be more agreeable than to have it asked. \"How the pleasing\nplague had stolen on him\" he could not say; and before he had expressed\nthe same sentiment with a little variation of words three times over,\nhis sister eagerly interrupted him with, \"Ah, my dear Henry, and this\nis what took you to London! This was your business! You chose to consult\nthe Admiral before you made up your mind.\"\n\nBut this he stoutly denied. He knew his uncle too well to consult him on\nany matrimonial scheme. The Admiral hated marriage, and thought it never\npardonable in a young man of independent fortune.\n\n\"When Fanny is known to him,\" continued Henry, \"he will doat on her.\nShe is exactly the woman to do away every prejudice of such a man as\nthe Admiral, for she he would describe, if indeed he has now delicacy\nof language enough to embody his own ideas. But till it is absolutely\nsettled--settled beyond all interference, he shall know nothing of the\nmatter. No, Mary, you are quite mistaken. You have not discovered my\nbusiness yet.\"\n\n\"Well, well, I am satisfied. I know now to whom it must relate, and am\nin no hurry for the rest. Fanny Price! wonderful, quite wonderful! That\nMansfield should have done so much for--that _you_ should have found\nyour fate in Mansfield! But you are quite right; you could not have\nchosen better. There is not a better girl in the world, and you do not\nwant for fortune; and as to her connexions, they are more than good. The\nBertrams are undoubtedly some of the first people in this country. She\nis niece to Sir Thomas Bertram; that will be enough for the world. But\ngo on, go on. Tell me more. What are your plans? Does she know her own\nhappiness?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"What are you waiting for?\"\n\n\"For--for very little more than opportunity. Mary, she is not like her\ncousins; but I think I shall not ask in vain.\"\n\n\"Oh no! you cannot. Were you even less pleasing--supposing her not to\nlove you already (of which, however, I can have little doubt)--you would\nbe safe. The gentleness and gratitude of her disposition would secure\nher all your own immediately. From my soul I do not think she would\nmarry you _without_ love; that is, if there is a girl in the world\ncapable of being uninfluenced by ambition, I can suppose it her; but ask\nher to love you, and she will never have the heart to refuse.\"\n\nAs soon as her eagerness could rest in silence, he was as happy to tell\nas she could be to listen; and a conversation followed almost as deeply\ninteresting to her as to himself, though he had in fact nothing to\nrelate but his own sensations, nothing to dwell on but Fanny's charms.\nFanny's beauty of face and figure, Fanny's graces of manner and goodness\nof heart, were the exhaustless theme. The gentleness, modesty, and\nsweetness of her character were warmly expatiated on; that sweetness\nwhich makes so essential a part of every woman's worth in the judgment\nof man, that though he sometimes loves where it is not, he can never\nbelieve it absent. Her temper he had good reason to depend on and\nto praise. He had often seen it tried. Was there one of the family,\nexcepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other continually exercised\nher patience and forbearance? Her affections were evidently strong. To\nsee her with her brother! What could more delightfully prove that the\nwarmth of her heart was equal to its gentleness? What could be more\nencouraging to a man who had her love in view? Then, her understanding\nwas beyond every suspicion, quick and clear; and her manners were the\nmirror of her own modest and elegant mind. Nor was this all. Henry\nCrawford had too much sense not to feel the worth of good principles\nin a wife, though he was too little accustomed to serious reflection to\nknow them by their proper name; but when he talked of her having such a\nsteadiness and regularity of conduct, such a high notion of honour, and\nsuch an observance of decorum as might warrant any man in the fullest\ndependence on her faith and integrity, he expressed what was inspired by\nthe knowledge of her being well principled and religious.\n\n\"I could so wholly and absolutely confide in her,\" said he; \"and _that_\nis what I want.\"\n\nWell might his sister, believing as she really did that his opinion of\nFanny Price was scarcely beyond her merits, rejoice in her prospects.\n\n\"The more I think of it,\" she cried, \"the more am I convinced that you\nare doing quite right; and though I should never have selected Fanny\nPrice as the girl most likely to attach you, I am now persuaded she is\nthe very one to make you happy. Your wicked project upon her peace turns\nout a clever thought indeed. You will both find your good in it.\"\n\n\"It was bad, very bad in me against such a creature; but I did not know\nher then; and she shall have no reason to lament the hour that first put\nit into my head. I will make her very happy, Mary; happier than she has\never yet been herself, or ever seen anybody else. I will not take her\nfrom Northamptonshire. I shall let Everingham, and rent a place in this\nneighbourhood; perhaps Stanwix Lodge. I shall let a seven years' lease\nof Everingham. I am sure of an excellent tenant at half a word. I could\nname three people now, who would give me my own terms and thank me.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" cried Mary; \"settle in Northamptonshire! That is pleasant! Then we\nshall be all together.\"\n\nWhen she had spoken it, she recollected herself, and wished it unsaid;\nbut there was no need of confusion; for her brother saw her only as the\nsupposed inmate of Mansfield parsonage, and replied but to invite her in\nthe kindest manner to his own house, and to claim the best right in her.\n\n\"You must give us more than half your time,\" said he. \"I cannot admit\nMrs. Grant to have an equal claim with Fanny and myself, for we shall\nboth have a right in you. Fanny will be so truly your sister!\"\n\nMary had only to be grateful and give general assurances; but she was\nnow very fully purposed to be the guest of neither brother nor sister\nmany months longer.\n\n\"You will divide your year between London and Northamptonshire?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"That's right; and in London, of course, a house of your own: no longer\nwith the Admiral. My dearest Henry, the advantage to you of getting away\nfrom the Admiral before your manners are hurt by the contagion of his,\nbefore you have contracted any of his foolish opinions, or learned to\nsit over your dinner as if it were the best blessing of life! _You_ are\nnot sensible of the gain, for your regard for him has blinded you; but,\nin my estimation, your marrying early may be the saving of you. To have\nseen you grow like the Admiral in word or deed, look or gesture, would\nhave broken my heart.\"\n\n\"Well, well, we do not think quite alike here. The Admiral has his\nfaults, but he is a very good man, and has been more than a father to\nme. Few fathers would have let me have my own way half so much. You must\nnot prejudice Fanny against him. I must have them love one another.\"\n\nMary refrained from saying what she felt, that there could not be two\npersons in existence whose characters and manners were less accordant:\ntime would discover it to him; but she could not help _this_ reflection\non the Admiral. \"Henry, I think so highly of Fanny Price, that if I\ncould suppose the next Mrs. Crawford would have half the reason which\nmy poor ill-used aunt had to abhor the very name, I would prevent the\nmarriage, if possible; but I know you: I know that a wife you _loved_\nwould be the happiest of women, and that even when you ceased to\nlove, she would yet find in you the liberality and good-breeding of a\ngentleman.\"\n\nThe impossibility of not doing everything in the world to make Fanny\nPrice happy, or of ceasing to love Fanny Price, was of course the\ngroundwork of his eloquent answer.\n\n\"Had you seen her this morning, Mary,\" he continued, \"attending with\nsuch ineffable sweetness and patience to all the demands of her aunt's\nstupidity, working with her, and for her, her colour beautifully\nheightened as she leant over the work, then returning to her seat to\nfinish a note which she was previously engaged in writing for that\nstupid woman's service, and all this with such unpretending gentleness,\nso much as if it were a matter of course that she was not to have a\nmoment at her own command, her hair arranged as neatly as it always is,\nand one little curl falling forward as she wrote, which she now and then\nshook back, and in the midst of all this, still speaking at intervals to\n_me_, or listening, and as if she liked to listen, to what I said. Had\nyou seen her so, Mary, you would not have implied the possibility of her\npower over my heart ever ceasing.\"\n\n\"My dearest Henry,\" cried Mary, stopping short, and smiling in his face,\n\"how glad I am to see you so much in love! It quite delights me. But\nwhat will Mrs. Rushworth and Julia say?\"\n\n\"I care neither what they say nor what they feel. They will now see what\nsort of woman it is that can attach me, that can attach a man of sense.\nI wish the discovery may do them any good. And they will now see their\ncousin treated as she ought to be, and I wish they may be heartily\nashamed of their own abominable neglect and unkindness. They will be\nangry,\" he added, after a moment's silence, and in a cooler tone; \"Mrs.\nRushworth will be very angry. It will be a bitter pill to her; that is,\nlike other bitter pills, it will have two moments' ill flavour, and then\nbe swallowed and forgotten; for I am not such a coxcomb as to suppose\nher feelings more lasting than other women's, though _I_ was the object\nof them. Yes, Mary, my Fanny will feel a difference indeed: a daily,\nhourly difference, in the behaviour of every being who approaches her;\nand it will be the completion of my happiness to know that I am the doer\nof it, that I am the person to give the consequence so justly her due.\nNow she is dependent, helpless, friendless, neglected, forgotten.\"\n\n\"Nay, Henry, not by all; not forgotten by all; not friendless or\nforgotten. Her cousin Edmund never forgets her.\"\n\n\"Edmund! True, I believe he is, generally speaking, kind to her, and\nso is Sir Thomas in his way; but it is the way of a rich, superior,\nlong-worded, arbitrary uncle. What can Sir Thomas and Edmund together\ndo, what do they _do_ for her happiness, comfort, honour, and dignity in\nthe world, to what I _shall_ do?\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\nHenry Crawford was at Mansfield Park again the next morning, and at an\nearlier hour than common visiting warrants. The two ladies were together\nin the breakfast-room, and, fortunately for him, Lady Bertram was on the\nvery point of quitting it as he entered. She was almost at the door, and\nnot chusing by any means to take so much trouble in vain, she still went\non, after a civil reception, a short sentence about being waited for,\nand a \"Let Sir Thomas know\" to the servant.\n\nHenry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and watched her off, and without\nlosing another moment, turned instantly to Fanny, and, taking out some\nletters, said, with a most animated look, \"I must acknowledge myself\ninfinitely obliged to any creature who gives me such an opportunity\nof seeing you alone: I have been wishing it more than you can have any\nidea. Knowing as I do what your feelings as a sister are, I could hardly\nhave borne that any one in the house should share with you in the\nfirst knowledge of the news I now bring. He is made. Your brother is a\nlieutenant. I have the infinite satisfaction of congratulating you on\nyour brother's promotion. Here are the letters which announce it, this\nmoment come to hand. You will, perhaps, like to see them.\"\n\nFanny could not speak, but he did not want her to speak. To see the\nexpression of her eyes, the change of her complexion, the progress of\nher feelings, their doubt, confusion, and felicity, was enough. She took\nthe letters as he gave them. The first was from the Admiral to inform\nhis nephew, in a few words, of his having succeeded in the object he had\nundertaken, the promotion of young Price, and enclosing two more, one\nfrom the Secretary of the First Lord to a friend, whom the Admiral had\nset to work in the business, the other from that friend to himself,\nby which it appeared that his lordship had the very great happiness of\nattending to the recommendation of Sir Charles; that Sir Charles was\nmuch delighted in having such an opportunity of proving his regard\nfor Admiral Crawford, and that the circumstance of Mr. William Price's\ncommission as Second Lieutenant of H.M. Sloop Thrush being made out was\nspreading general joy through a wide circle of great people.\n\nWhile her hand was trembling under these letters, her eye running from\none to the other, and her heart swelling with emotion, Crawford thus\ncontinued, with unfeigned eagerness, to express his interest in the\nevent--\n\n\"I will not talk of my own happiness,\" said he, \"great as it is, for I\nthink only of yours. Compared with you, who has a right to be happy? I\nhave almost grudged myself my own prior knowledge of what you ought to\nhave known before all the world. I have not lost a moment, however.\nThe post was late this morning, but there has not been since a moment's\ndelay. How impatient, how anxious, how wild I have been on the subject,\nI will not attempt to describe; how severely mortified, how cruelly\ndisappointed, in not having it finished while I was in London! I was\nkept there from day to day in the hope of it, for nothing less dear\nto me than such an object would have detained me half the time from\nMansfield. But though my uncle entered into my wishes with all the\nwarmth I could desire, and exerted himself immediately, there were\ndifficulties from the absence of one friend, and the engagements of\nanother, which at last I could no longer bear to stay the end of, and\nknowing in what good hands I left the cause, I came away on Monday,\ntrusting that many posts would not pass before I should be followed by\nsuch very letters as these. My uncle, who is the very best man in\nthe world, has exerted himself, as I knew he would, after seeing your\nbrother. He was delighted with him. I would not allow myself yesterday\nto say how delighted, or to repeat half that the Admiral said in his\npraise. I deferred it all till his praise should be proved the praise of\na friend, as this day _does_ prove it. _Now_ I may say that even I could\nnot require William Price to excite a greater interest, or be followed\nby warmer wishes and higher commendation, than were most voluntarily\nbestowed by my uncle after the evening they had passed together.\"\n\n\"Has this been all _your_ doing, then?\" cried Fanny. \"Good heaven! how\nvery, very kind! Have you really--was it by _your_ desire? I beg your\npardon, but I am bewildered. Did Admiral Crawford apply? How was it? I\nam stupefied.\"\n\nHenry was most happy to make it more intelligible, by beginning at an\nearlier stage, and explaining very particularly what he had done. His\nlast journey to London had been undertaken with no other view than that\nof introducing her brother in Hill Street, and prevailing on the Admiral\nto exert whatever interest he might have for getting him on. This had\nbeen his business. He had communicated it to no creature: he had not\nbreathed a syllable of it even to Mary; while uncertain of the issue,\nhe could not have borne any participation of his feelings, but this had\nbeen his business; and he spoke with such a glow of what his solicitude\nhad been, and used such strong expressions, was so abounding in the\n_deepest_ _interest_, in _twofold_ _motives_, in _views_ _and_ _wishes_\n_more_ _than_ _could_ _be_ _told_, that Fanny could not have remained\ninsensible of his drift, had she been able to attend; but her heart was\nso full and her senses still so astonished, that she could listen but\nimperfectly even to what he told her of William, and saying only when\nhe paused, \"How kind! how very kind! Oh, Mr. Crawford, we are infinitely\nobliged to you! Dearest, dearest William!\" She jumped up and moved in\nhaste towards the door, crying out, \"I will go to my uncle. My uncle\nought to know it as soon as possible.\" But this could not be suffered.\nThe opportunity was too fair, and his feelings too impatient. He was\nafter her immediately. \"She must not go, she must allow him five minutes\nlonger,\" and he took her hand and led her back to her seat, and was in\nthe middle of his farther explanation, before she had suspected for what\nshe was detained. When she did understand it, however, and found herself\nexpected to believe that she had created sensations which his heart had\nnever known before, and that everything he had done for William was to\nbe placed to the account of his excessive and unequalled attachment\nto her, she was exceedingly distressed, and for some moments unable\nto speak. She considered it all as nonsense, as mere trifling and\ngallantry, which meant only to deceive for the hour; she could not but\nfeel that it was treating her improperly and unworthily, and in such a\nway as she had not deserved; but it was like himself, and entirely of a\npiece with what she had seen before; and she would not allow herself to\nshew half the displeasure she felt, because he had been conferring an\nobligation, which no want of delicacy on his part could make a trifle\nto her. While her heart was still bounding with joy and gratitude on\nWilliam's behalf, she could not be severely resentful of anything that\ninjured only herself; and after having twice drawn back her hand, and\ntwice attempted in vain to turn away from him, she got up, and said\nonly, with much agitation, \"Don't, Mr. Crawford, pray don't! I beg you\nwould not. This is a sort of talking which is very unpleasant to me. I\nmust go away. I cannot bear it.\" But he was still talking on, describing\nhis affection, soliciting a return, and, finally, in words so plain as\nto bear but one meaning even to her, offering himself, hand, fortune,\neverything, to her acceptance. It was so; he had said it. Her\nastonishment and confusion increased; and though still not knowing\nhow to suppose him serious, she could hardly stand. He pressed for an\nanswer.\n\n\"No, no, no!\" she cried, hiding her face. \"This is all nonsense. Do not\ndistress me. I can hear no more of this. Your kindness to William makes\nme more obliged to you than words can express; but I do not want, I\ncannot bear, I must not listen to such--No, no, don't think of me. But\nyou are _not_ thinking of me. I know it is all nothing.\"\n\nShe had burst away from him, and at that moment Sir Thomas was heard\nspeaking to a servant in his way towards the room they were in. It was\nno time for farther assurances or entreaty, though to part with her at\na moment when her modesty alone seemed, to his sanguine and preassured\nmind, to stand in the way of the happiness he sought, was a cruel\nnecessity. She rushed out at an opposite door from the one her uncle\nwas approaching, and was walking up and down the East room in the\nutmost confusion of contrary feeling, before Sir Thomas's politeness\nor apologies were over, or he had reached the beginning of the joyful\nintelligence which his visitor came to communicate.\n\nShe was feeling, thinking, trembling about everything; agitated, happy,\nmiserable, infinitely obliged, absolutely angry. It was all beyond\nbelief! He was inexcusable, incomprehensible! But such were his habits\nthat he could do nothing without a mixture of evil. He had previously\nmade her the happiest of human beings, and now he had insulted--she knew\nnot what to say, how to class, or how to regard it. She would not have\nhim be serious, and yet what could excuse the use of such words and\noffers, if they meant but to trifle?\n\nBut William was a lieutenant. _That_ was a fact beyond a doubt, and\nwithout an alloy. She would think of it for ever and forget all the\nrest. Mr. Crawford would certainly never address her so again: he must\nhave seen how unwelcome it was to her; and in that case, how gratefully\nshe could esteem him for his friendship to William!\n\nShe would not stir farther from the East room than the head of the great\nstaircase, till she had satisfied herself of Mr. Crawford's having left\nthe house; but when convinced of his being gone, she was eager to go\ndown and be with her uncle, and have all the happiness of his joy\nas well as her own, and all the benefit of his information or his\nconjectures as to what would now be William's destination. Sir Thomas\nwas as joyful as she could desire, and very kind and communicative; and\nshe had so comfortable a talk with him about William as to make her\nfeel as if nothing had occurred to vex her, till she found, towards the\nclose, that Mr. Crawford was engaged to return and dine there that\nvery day. This was a most unwelcome hearing, for though he might think\nnothing of what had passed, it would be quite distressing to her to see\nhim again so soon.\n\nShe tried to get the better of it; tried very hard, as the dinner hour\napproached, to feel and appear as usual; but it was quite impossible for\nher not to look most shy and uncomfortable when their visitor entered\nthe room. She could not have supposed it in the power of any concurrence\nof circumstances to give her so many painful sensations on the first day\nof hearing of William's promotion.\n\nMr. Crawford was not only in the room--he was soon close to her. He\nhad a note to deliver from his sister. Fanny could not look at him, but\nthere was no consciousness of past folly in his voice. She opened her\nnote immediately, glad to have anything to do, and happy, as she read\nit, to feel that the fidgetings of her aunt Norris, who was also to dine\nthere, screened her a little from view.\n\n\"My dear Fanny,--for so I may now always call you, to the infinite\nrelief of a tongue that has been stumbling at _Miss_ _Price_ for at\nleast the last six weeks--I cannot let my brother go without sending you\na few lines of general congratulation, and giving my most joyful consent\nand approval. Go on, my dear Fanny, and without fear; there can be no\ndifficulties worth naming. I chuse to suppose that the assurance of my\nconsent will be something; so you may smile upon him with your sweetest\nsmiles this afternoon, and send him back to me even happier than he\ngoes.--Yours affectionately, M. C.\"\n\nThese were not expressions to do Fanny any good; for though she read\nin too much haste and confusion to form the clearest judgment of Miss\nCrawford's meaning, it was evident that she meant to compliment her on\nher brother's attachment, and even to _appear_ to believe it serious.\nShe did not know what to do, or what to think. There was wretchedness in\nthe idea of its being serious; there was perplexity and agitation every\nway. She was distressed whenever Mr. Crawford spoke to her, and he spoke\nto her much too often; and she was afraid there was a something in his\nvoice and manner in addressing her very different from what they were\nwhen he talked to the others. Her comfort in that day's dinner was\nquite destroyed: she could hardly eat anything; and when Sir Thomas\ngood-humouredly observed that joy had taken away her appetite, she\nwas ready to sink with shame, from the dread of Mr. Crawford's\ninterpretation; for though nothing could have tempted her to turn\nher eyes to the right hand, where he sat, she felt that _his_ were\nimmediately directed towards her.\n\nShe was more silent than ever. She would hardly join even when William\nwas the subject, for his commission came all from the right hand too,\nand there was pain in the connexion.\n\nShe thought Lady Bertram sat longer than ever, and began to be in\ndespair of ever getting away; but at last they were in the drawing-room,\nand she was able to think as she would, while her aunts finished the\nsubject of William's appointment in their own style.\n\nMrs. Norris seemed as much delighted with the saving it would be to\nSir Thomas as with any part of it. \"_Now_ William would be able to keep\nhimself, which would make a vast difference to his uncle, for it was\nunknown how much he had cost his uncle; and, indeed, it would make some\ndifference in _her_ presents too. She was very glad that she had given\nWilliam what she did at parting, very glad, indeed, that it had been in\nher power, without material inconvenience, just at that time to give him\nsomething rather considerable; that is, for _her_, with _her_ limited\nmeans, for now it would all be useful in helping to fit up his cabin.\nShe knew he must be at some expense, that he would have many things to\nbuy, though to be sure his father and mother would be able to put him in\nthe way of getting everything very cheap; but she was very glad she had\ncontributed her mite towards it.\"\n\n\"I am glad you gave him something considerable,\" said Lady Bertram, with\nmost unsuspicious calmness, \"for _I_ gave him only 10 pounds.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" cried Mrs. Norris, reddening. \"Upon my word, he must have gone\noff with his pockets well lined, and at no expense for his journey to\nLondon either!\"\n\n\"Sir Thomas told me 10 pounds would be enough.\"\n\nMrs. Norris, being not at all inclined to question its sufficiency,\nbegan to take the matter in another point.\n\n\"It is amazing,\" said she, \"how much young people cost their friends,\nwhat with bringing them up and putting them out in the world! They\nlittle think how much it comes to, or what their parents, or their\nuncles and aunts, pay for them in the course of the year. Now, here are\nmy sister Price's children; take them all together, I dare say nobody\nwould believe what a sum they cost Sir Thomas every year, to say nothing\nof what _I_ do for them.\"\n\n\"Very true, sister, as you say. But, poor things! they cannot help\nit; and you know it makes very little difference to Sir Thomas. Fanny,\nWilliam must not forget my shawl if he goes to the East Indies; and I\nshall give him a commission for anything else that is worth having. I\nwish he may go to the East Indies, that I may have my shawl. I think I\nwill have two shawls, Fanny.\"\n\nFanny, meanwhile, speaking only when she could not help it, was very\nearnestly trying to understand what Mr. and Miss Crawford were at. There\nwas everything in the world _against_ their being serious but his words\nand manner. Everything natural, probable, reasonable, was against it;\nall their habits and ways of thinking, and all her own demerits. How\ncould _she_ have excited serious attachment in a man who had seen so\nmany, and been admired by so many, and flirted with so many, infinitely\nher superiors; who seemed so little open to serious impressions, even\nwhere pains had been taken to please him; who thought so slightly, so\ncarelessly, so unfeelingly on all such points; who was everything to\neverybody, and seemed to find no one essential to him? And farther,\nhow could it be supposed that his sister, with all her high and worldly\nnotions of matrimony, would be forwarding anything of a serious nature\nin such a quarter? Nothing could be more unnatural in either. Fanny\nwas ashamed of her own doubts. Everything might be possible rather than\nserious attachment, or serious approbation of it toward her. She had\nquite convinced herself of this before Sir Thomas and Mr. Crawford\njoined them. The difficulty was in maintaining the conviction quite so\nabsolutely after Mr. Crawford was in the room; for once or twice a\nlook seemed forced on her which she did not know how to class among the\ncommon meaning; in any other man, at least, she would have said that\nit meant something very earnest, very pointed. But she still tried to\nbelieve it no more than what he might often have expressed towards her\ncousins and fifty other women.\n\nShe thought he was wishing to speak to her unheard by the rest. She\nfancied he was trying for it the whole evening at intervals, whenever\nSir Thomas was out of the room, or at all engaged with Mrs. Norris, and\nshe carefully refused him every opportunity.\n\nAt last--it seemed an at last to Fanny's nervousness, though not\nremarkably late--he began to talk of going away; but the comfort of the\nsound was impaired by his turning to her the next moment, and saying,\n\"Have you nothing to send to Mary? No answer to her note? She will be\ndisappointed if she receives nothing from you. Pray write to her, if it\nbe only a line.\"\n\n\"Oh yes! certainly,\" cried Fanny, rising in haste, the haste of\nembarrassment and of wanting to get away--\"I will write directly.\"\n\nShe went accordingly to the table, where she was in the habit of writing\nfor her aunt, and prepared her materials without knowing what in the\nworld to say. She had read Miss Crawford's note only once, and how to\nreply to anything so imperfectly understood was most distressing.\nQuite unpractised in such sort of note-writing, had there been time for\nscruples and fears as to style she would have felt them in abundance:\nbut something must be instantly written; and with only one decided\nfeeling, that of wishing not to appear to think anything really\nintended, she wrote thus, in great trembling both of spirits and hand--\n\n\"I am very much obliged to you, my dear Miss Crawford, for your kind\ncongratulations, as far as they relate to my dearest William. The rest\nof your note I know means nothing; but I am so unequal to anything of\nthe sort, that I hope you will excuse my begging you to take no farther\nnotice. I have seen too much of Mr. Crawford not to understand his\nmanners; if he understood me as well, he would, I dare say, behave\ndifferently. I do not know what I write, but it would be a great favour\nof you never to mention the subject again. With thanks for the honour of\nyour note, I remain, dear Miss Crawford, etc., etc.\"\n\nThe conclusion was scarcely intelligible from increasing fright, for\nshe found that Mr. Crawford, under pretence of receiving the note, was\ncoming towards her.\n\n\"You cannot think I mean to hurry you,\" said he, in an undervoice,\nperceiving the amazing trepidation with which she made up the note, \"you\ncannot think I have any such object. Do not hurry yourself, I entreat.\"\n\n\"Oh! I thank you; I have quite done, just done; it will be ready in a\nmoment; I am very much obliged to you; if you will be so good as to give\n_that_ to Miss Crawford.\"\n\nThe note was held out, and must be taken; and as she instantly and with\naverted eyes walked towards the fireplace, where sat the others, he had\nnothing to do but to go in good earnest.\n\nFanny thought she had never known a day of greater agitation, both of\npain and pleasure; but happily the pleasure was not of a sort to die\nwith the day; for every day would restore the knowledge of William's\nadvancement, whereas the pain, she hoped, would return no more. She had\nno doubt that her note must appear excessively ill-written, that\nthe language would disgrace a child, for her distress had allowed no\narrangement; but at least it would assure them both of her being neither\nimposed on nor gratified by Mr. Crawford's attentions.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\nFanny had by no means forgotten Mr. Crawford when she awoke the next\nmorning; but she remembered the purport of her note, and was not less\nsanguine as to its effect than she had been the night before. If Mr.\nCrawford would but go away! That was what she most earnestly desired:\ngo and take his sister with him, as he was to do, and as he returned to\nMansfield on purpose to do. And why it was not done already she could\nnot devise, for Miss Crawford certainly wanted no delay. Fanny had\nhoped, in the course of his yesterday's visit, to hear the day named;\nbut he had only spoken of their journey as what would take place ere\nlong.\n\nHaving so satisfactorily settled the conviction her note would convey,\nshe could not but be astonished to see Mr. Crawford, as she accidentally\ndid, coming up to the house again, and at an hour as early as the day\nbefore. His coming might have nothing to do with her, but she must avoid\nseeing him if possible; and being then on her way upstairs, she resolved\nthere to remain, during the whole of his visit, unless actually sent\nfor; and as Mrs. Norris was still in the house, there seemed little\ndanger of her being wanted.\n\nShe sat some time in a good deal of agitation, listening, trembling, and\nfearing to be sent for every moment; but as no footsteps approached the\nEast room, she grew gradually composed, could sit down, and be able to\nemploy herself, and able to hope that Mr. Crawford had come and would go\nwithout her being obliged to know anything of the matter.\n\nNearly half an hour had passed, and she was growing very comfortable,\nwhen suddenly the sound of a step in regular approach was heard; a heavy\nstep, an unusual step in that part of the house: it was her uncle's; she\nknew it as well as his voice; she had trembled at it as often, and began\nto tremble again, at the idea of his coming up to speak to her, whatever\nmight be the subject. It was indeed Sir Thomas who opened the door and\nasked if she were there, and if he might come in. The terror of his\nformer occasional visits to that room seemed all renewed, and she felt\nas if he were going to examine her again in French and English.\n\nShe was all attention, however, in placing a chair for him, and trying\nto appear honoured; and, in her agitation, had quite overlooked the\ndeficiencies of her apartment, till he, stopping short as he entered,\nsaid, with much surprise, \"Why have you no fire to-day?\"\n\nThere was snow on the ground, and she was sitting in a shawl. She\nhesitated.\n\n\"I am not cold, sir: I never sit here long at this time of year.\"\n\n\"But you have a fire in general?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\n\"How comes this about? Here must be some mistake. I understood that you\nhad the use of this room by way of making you perfectly comfortable.\nIn your bedchamber I know you _cannot_ have a fire. Here is some great\nmisapprehension which must be rectified. It is highly unfit for you to\nsit, be it only half an hour a day, without a fire. You are not strong.\nYou are chilly. Your aunt cannot be aware of this.\"\n\nFanny would rather have been silent; but being obliged to speak, she\ncould not forbear, in justice to the aunt she loved best, from saying\nsomething in which the words \"my aunt Norris\" were distinguishable.\n\n\"I understand,\" cried her uncle, recollecting himself, and not wanting\nto hear more: \"I understand. Your aunt Norris has always been an\nadvocate, and very judiciously, for young people's being brought up\nwithout unnecessary indulgences; but there should be moderation in\neverything. She is also very hardy herself, which of course will\ninfluence her in her opinion of the wants of others. And on another\naccount, too, I can perfectly comprehend. I know what her sentiments\nhave always been. The principle was good in itself, but it may have\nbeen, and I believe _has_ _been_, carried too far in your case. I\nam aware that there has been sometimes, in some points, a misplaced\ndistinction; but I think too well of you, Fanny, to suppose you will\never harbour resentment on that account. You have an understanding\nwhich will prevent you from receiving things only in part, and judging\npartially by the event. You will take in the whole of the past, you\nwill consider times, persons, and probabilities, and you will feel that\n_they_ were not least your friends who were educating and preparing you\nfor that mediocrity of condition which _seemed_ to be your lot. Though\ntheir caution may prove eventually unnecessary, it was kindly meant; and\nof this you may be assured, that every advantage of affluence will be\ndoubled by the little privations and restrictions that may have been\nimposed. I am sure you will not disappoint my opinion of you, by failing\nat any time to treat your aunt Norris with the respect and attention\nthat are due to her. But enough of this. Sit down, my dear. I must speak\nto you for a few minutes, but I will not detain you long.\"\n\nFanny obeyed, with eyes cast down and colour rising. After a moment's\npause, Sir Thomas, trying to suppress a smile, went on.\n\n\"You are not aware, perhaps, that I have had a visitor this morning. I\nhad not been long in my own room, after breakfast, when Mr. Crawford was\nshewn in. His errand you may probably conjecture.\"\n\nFanny's colour grew deeper and deeper; and her uncle, perceiving that\nshe was embarrassed to a degree that made either speaking or looking\nup quite impossible, turned away his own eyes, and without any farther\npause proceeded in his account of Mr. Crawford's visit.\n\nMr. Crawford's business had been to declare himself the lover of Fanny,\nmake decided proposals for her, and entreat the sanction of the uncle,\nwho seemed to stand in the place of her parents; and he had done it all\nso well, so openly, so liberally, so properly, that Sir Thomas, feeling,\nmoreover, his own replies, and his own remarks to have been very much\nto the purpose, was exceedingly happy to give the particulars of their\nconversation; and little aware of what was passing in his niece's mind,\nconceived that by such details he must be gratifying her far more than\nhimself. He talked, therefore, for several minutes without Fanny's\ndaring to interrupt him. She had hardly even attained the wish to do it.\nHer mind was in too much confusion. She had changed her position; and,\nwith her eyes fixed intently on one of the windows, was listening to her\nuncle in the utmost perturbation and dismay. For a moment he ceased, but\nshe had barely become conscious of it, when, rising from his chair, he\nsaid, \"And now, Fanny, having performed one part of my commission,\nand shewn you everything placed on a basis the most assured and\nsatisfactory, I may execute the remainder by prevailing on you to\naccompany me downstairs, where, though I cannot but presume on having\nbeen no unacceptable companion myself, I must submit to your finding\none still better worth listening to. Mr. Crawford, as you have perhaps\nforeseen, is yet in the house. He is in my room, and hoping to see you\nthere.\"\n\nThere was a look, a start, an exclamation on hearing this, which\nastonished Sir Thomas; but what was his increase of astonishment on\nhearing her exclaim--\"Oh! no, sir, I cannot, indeed I cannot go down to\nhim. Mr. Crawford ought to know--he must know that: I told him enough\nyesterday to convince him; he spoke to me on this subject yesterday,\nand I told him without disguise that it was very disagreeable to me, and\nquite out of my power to return his good opinion.\"\n\n\"I do not catch your meaning,\" said Sir Thomas, sitting down again. \"Out\nof your power to return his good opinion? What is all this? I know he\nspoke to you yesterday, and (as far as I understand) received as much\nencouragement to proceed as a well-judging young woman could permit\nherself to give. I was very much pleased with what I collected to have\nbeen your behaviour on the occasion; it shewed a discretion highly to\nbe commended. But now, when he has made his overtures so properly, and\nhonourably--what are your scruples _now_?\"\n\n\"You are mistaken, sir,\" cried Fanny, forced by the anxiety of the\nmoment even to tell her uncle that he was wrong; \"you are quite\nmistaken. How could Mr. Crawford say such a thing? I gave him no\nencouragement yesterday. On the contrary, I told him, I cannot recollect\nmy exact words, but I am sure I told him that I would not listen to him,\nthat it was very unpleasant to me in every respect, and that I begged\nhim never to talk to me in that manner again. I am sure I said as much\nas that and more; and I should have said still more, if I had been quite\ncertain of his meaning anything seriously; but I did not like to be, I\ncould not bear to be, imputing more than might be intended. I thought it\nmight all pass for nothing with _him_.\"\n\nShe could say no more; her breath was almost gone.\n\n\"Am I to understand,\" said Sir Thomas, after a few moments' silence,\n\"that you mean to _refuse_ Mr. Crawford?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Refuse him?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Refuse Mr. Crawford! Upon what plea? For what reason?\"\n\n\"I--I cannot like him, sir, well enough to marry him.\"\n\n\"This is very strange!\" said Sir Thomas, in a voice of calm displeasure.\n\"There is something in this which my comprehension does not reach. Here\nis a young man wishing to pay his addresses to you, with everything to\nrecommend him: not merely situation in life, fortune, and character,\nbut with more than common agreeableness, with address and conversation\npleasing to everybody. And he is not an acquaintance of to-day; you have\nnow known him some time. His sister, moreover, is your intimate friend,\nand he has been doing _that_ for your brother, which I should suppose\nwould have been almost sufficient recommendation to you, had there been\nno other. It is very uncertain when my interest might have got William\non. He has done it already.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Fanny, in a faint voice, and looking down with fresh shame;\nand she did feel almost ashamed of herself, after such a picture as her\nuncle had drawn, for not liking Mr. Crawford.\n\n\"You must have been aware,\" continued Sir Thomas presently, \"you must\nhave been some time aware of a particularity in Mr. Crawford's manners\nto you. This cannot have taken you by surprise. You must have observed\nhis attentions; and though you always received them very properly (I\nhave no accusation to make on that head), I never perceived them to be\nunpleasant to you. I am half inclined to think, Fanny, that you do not\nquite know your own feelings.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, sir! indeed I do. His attentions were always--what I did not\nlike.\"\n\nSir Thomas looked at her with deeper surprise. \"This is beyond me,\"\nsaid he. \"This requires explanation. Young as you are, and having seen\nscarcely any one, it is hardly possible that your affections--\"\n\nHe paused and eyed her fixedly. He saw her lips formed into a _no_,\nthough the sound was inarticulate, but her face was like scarlet. That,\nhowever, in so modest a girl, might be very compatible with innocence;\nand chusing at least to appear satisfied, he quickly added, \"No, no, I\nknow _that_ is quite out of the question; quite impossible. Well, there\nis nothing more to be said.\"\n\nAnd for a few minutes he did say nothing. He was deep in thought. His\nniece was deep in thought likewise, trying to harden and prepare herself\nagainst farther questioning. She would rather die than own the truth;\nand she hoped, by a little reflection, to fortify herself beyond\nbetraying it.\n\n\"Independently of the interest which Mr. Crawford's _choice_ seemed to\njustify\" said Sir Thomas, beginning again, and very composedly, \"his\nwishing to marry at all so early is recommendatory to me. I am an\nadvocate for early marriages, where there are means in proportion, and\nwould have every young man, with a sufficient income, settle as soon\nafter four-and-twenty as he can. This is so much my opinion, that I am\nsorry to think how little likely my own eldest son, your cousin, Mr.\nBertram, is to marry early; but at present, as far as I can judge,\nmatrimony makes no part of his plans or thoughts. I wish he were more\nlikely to fix.\" Here was a glance at Fanny. \"Edmund, I consider, from\nhis dispositions and habits, as much more likely to marry early than\nhis brother. _He_, indeed, I have lately thought, has seen the woman he\ncould love, which, I am convinced, my eldest son has not. Am I right? Do\nyou agree with me, my dear?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nIt was gently, but it was calmly said, and Sir Thomas was easy on the\nscore of the cousins. But the removal of his alarm did his niece\nno service: as her unaccountableness was confirmed his displeasure\nincreased; and getting up and walking about the room with a frown, which\nFanny could picture to herself, though she dared not lift up her eyes,\nhe shortly afterwards, and in a voice of authority, said, \"Have you any\nreason, child, to think ill of Mr. Crawford's temper?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\nShe longed to add, \"But of his principles I have\"; but her heart sunk\nunder the appalling prospect of discussion, explanation, and probably\nnon-conviction. Her ill opinion of him was founded chiefly on\nobservations, which, for her cousins' sake, she could scarcely dare\nmention to their father. Maria and Julia, and especially Maria, were so\nclosely implicated in Mr. Crawford's misconduct, that she could not give\nhis character, such as she believed it, without betraying them. She had\nhoped that, to a man like her uncle, so discerning, so honourable, so\ngood, the simple acknowledgment of settled _dislike_ on her side would\nhave been sufficient. To her infinite grief she found it was not.\n\nSir Thomas came towards the table where she sat in trembling\nwretchedness, and with a good deal of cold sternness, said, \"It is of no\nuse, I perceive, to talk to you. We had better put an end to this most\nmortifying conference. Mr. Crawford must not be kept longer waiting. I\nwill, therefore, only add, as thinking it my duty to mark my opinion of\nyour conduct, that you have disappointed every expectation I had formed,\nand proved yourself of a character the very reverse of what I had\nsupposed. For I _had_, Fanny, as I think my behaviour must have shewn,\nformed a very favourable opinion of you from the period of my return to\nEngland. I had thought you peculiarly free from wilfulness of temper,\nself-conceit, and every tendency to that independence of spirit which\nprevails so much in modern days, even in young women, and which in young\nwomen is offensive and disgusting beyond all common offence. But you\nhave now shewn me that you can be wilful and perverse; that you can and\nwill decide for yourself, without any consideration or deference for\nthose who have surely some right to guide you, without even asking their\nadvice. You have shewn yourself very, very different from anything that\nI had imagined. The advantage or disadvantage of your family, of your\nparents, your brothers and sisters, never seems to have had a moment's\nshare in your thoughts on this occasion. How _they_ might be benefited,\nhow _they_ must rejoice in such an establishment for you, is nothing to\n_you_. You think only of yourself, and because you do not feel for Mr.\nCrawford exactly what a young heated fancy imagines to be necessary for\nhappiness, you resolve to refuse him at once, without wishing even for\na little time to consider of it, a little more time for cool\nconsideration, and for really examining your own inclinations; and are,\nin a wild fit of folly, throwing away from you such an opportunity of\nbeing settled in life, eligibly, honourably, nobly settled, as will,\nprobably, never occur to you again. Here is a young man of sense, of\ncharacter, of temper, of manners, and of fortune, exceedingly attached\nto you, and seeking your hand in the most handsome and disinterested\nway; and let me tell you, Fanny, that you may live eighteen years longer\nin the world without being addressed by a man of half Mr. Crawford's\nestate, or a tenth part of his merits. Gladly would I have bestowed\neither of my own daughters on him. Maria is nobly married; but had\nMr. Crawford sought Julia's hand, I should have given it to him with\nsuperior and more heartfelt satisfaction than I gave Maria's to Mr.\nRushworth.\" After half a moment's pause: \"And I should have been very\nmuch surprised had either of my daughters, on receiving a proposal\nof marriage at any time which might carry with it only _half_ the\neligibility of _this_, immediately and peremptorily, and without paying\nmy opinion or my regard the compliment of any consultation, put a\ndecided negative on it. I should have been much surprised and much hurt\nby such a proceeding. I should have thought it a gross violation of duty\nand respect. _You_ are not to be judged by the same rule. You do not\nowe me the duty of a child. But, Fanny, if your heart can acquit you of\n_ingratitude_--\"\n\nHe ceased. Fanny was by this time crying so bitterly that, angry as he\nwas, he would not press that article farther. Her heart was almost broke\nby such a picture of what she appeared to him; by such accusations,\nso heavy, so multiplied, so rising in dreadful gradation! Self-willed,\nobstinate, selfish, and ungrateful. He thought her all this. She had\ndeceived his expectations; she had lost his good opinion. What was to\nbecome of her?\n\n\"I am very sorry,\" said she inarticulately, through her tears, \"I am\nvery sorry indeed.\"\n\n\"Sorry! yes, I hope you are sorry; and you will probably have reason to\nbe long sorry for this day's transactions.\"\n\n\"If it were possible for me to do otherwise\" said she, with another\nstrong effort; \"but I am so perfectly convinced that I could never make\nhim happy, and that I should be miserable myself.\"\n\nAnother burst of tears; but in spite of that burst, and in spite of that\ngreat black word _miserable_, which served to introduce it, Sir Thomas\nbegan to think a little relenting, a little change of inclination, might\nhave something to do with it; and to augur favourably from the personal\nentreaty of the young man himself. He knew her to be very timid, and\nexceedingly nervous; and thought it not improbable that her mind\nmight be in such a state as a little time, a little pressing, a little\npatience, and a little impatience, a judicious mixture of all on the\nlover's side, might work their usual effect on. If the gentleman would\nbut persevere, if he had but love enough to persevere, Sir Thomas began\nto have hopes; and these reflections having passed across his mind and\ncheered it, \"Well,\" said he, in a tone of becoming gravity, but of less\nanger, \"well, child, dry up your tears. There is no use in these tears;\nthey can do no good. You must now come downstairs with me. Mr. Crawford\nhas been kept waiting too long already. You must give him your own\nanswer: we cannot expect him to be satisfied with less; and you only\ncan explain to him the grounds of that misconception of your sentiments,\nwhich, unfortunately for himself, he certainly has imbibed. I am totally\nunequal to it.\"\n\nBut Fanny shewed such reluctance, such misery, at the idea of going down\nto him, that Sir Thomas, after a little consideration, judged it better\nto indulge her. His hopes from both gentleman and lady suffered a small\ndepression in consequence; but when he looked at his niece, and saw the\nstate of feature and complexion which her crying had brought her\ninto, he thought there might be as much lost as gained by an immediate\ninterview. With a few words, therefore, of no particular meaning, he\nwalked off by himself, leaving his poor niece to sit and cry over what\nhad passed, with very wretched feelings.\n\nHer mind was all disorder. The past, present, future, everything was\nterrible. But her uncle's anger gave her the severest pain of all.\nSelfish and ungrateful! to have appeared so to him! She was miserable\nfor ever. She had no one to take her part, to counsel, or speak for her.\nHer only friend was absent. He might have softened his father; but all,\nperhaps all, would think her selfish and ungrateful. She might have to\nendure the reproach again and again; she might hear it, or see it, or\nknow it to exist for ever in every connexion about her. She could not\nbut feel some resentment against Mr. Crawford; yet, if he really loved\nher, and were unhappy too! It was all wretchedness together.\n\nIn about a quarter of an hour her uncle returned; she was almost\nready to faint at the sight of him. He spoke calmly, however, without\nausterity, without reproach, and she revived a little. There was\ncomfort, too, in his words, as well as his manner, for he began with,\n\"Mr. Crawford is gone: he has just left me. I need not repeat what has\npassed. I do not want to add to anything you may now be feeling, by an\naccount of what he has felt. Suffice it, that he has behaved in the\nmost gentlemanlike and generous manner, and has confirmed me in a most\nfavourable opinion of his understanding, heart, and temper. Upon my\nrepresentation of what you were suffering, he immediately, and with the\ngreatest delicacy, ceased to urge to see you for the present.\"\n\nHere Fanny, who had looked up, looked down again. \"Of course,\" continued\nher uncle, \"it cannot be supposed but that he should request to speak\nwith you alone, be it only for five minutes; a request too natural,\na claim too just to be denied. But there is no time fixed; perhaps\nto-morrow, or whenever your spirits are composed enough. For the present\nyou have only to tranquillise yourself. Check these tears; they do but\nexhaust you. If, as I am willing to suppose, you wish to shew me any\nobservance, you will not give way to these emotions, but endeavour to\nreason yourself into a stronger frame of mind. I advise you to go out:\nthe air will do you good; go out for an hour on the gravel; you will\nhave the shrubbery to yourself, and will be the better for air and\nexercise. And, Fanny\" (turning back again for a moment), \"I shall make\nno mention below of what has passed; I shall not even tell your aunt\nBertram. There is no occasion for spreading the disappointment; say\nnothing about it yourself.\"\n\nThis was an order to be most joyfully obeyed; this was an act of\nkindness which Fanny felt at her heart. To be spared from her aunt\nNorris's interminable reproaches! he left her in a glow of gratitude.\nAnything might be bearable rather than such reproaches. Even to see Mr.\nCrawford would be less overpowering.\n\nShe walked out directly, as her uncle recommended, and followed his\nadvice throughout, as far as she could; did check her tears; did\nearnestly try to compose her spirits and strengthen her mind. She wished\nto prove to him that she did desire his comfort, and sought to regain\nhis favour; and he had given her another strong motive for exertion, in\nkeeping the whole affair from the knowledge of her aunts. Not to excite\nsuspicion by her look or manner was now an object worth attaining; and\nshe felt equal to almost anything that might save her from her aunt\nNorris.\n\nShe was struck, quite struck, when, on returning from her walk and going\ninto the East room again, the first thing which caught her eye was a\nfire lighted and burning. A fire! it seemed too much; just at that time\nto be giving her such an indulgence was exciting even painful gratitude.\nShe wondered that Sir Thomas could have leisure to think of such a\ntrifle again; but she soon found, from the voluntary information of the\nhousemaid, who came in to attend it, that so it was to be every day. Sir\nThomas had given orders for it.\n\n\"I must be a brute, indeed, if I can be really ungrateful!\" said she, in\nsoliloquy. \"Heaven defend me from being ungrateful!\"\n\nShe saw nothing more of her uncle, nor of her aunt Norris, till they met\nat dinner. Her uncle's behaviour to her was then as nearly as possible\nwhat it had been before; she was sure he did not mean there should be\nany change, and that it was only her own conscience that could fancy\nany; but her aunt was soon quarrelling with her; and when she found how\nmuch and how unpleasantly her having only walked out without her aunt's\nknowledge could be dwelt on, she felt all the reason she had to bless\nthe kindness which saved her from the same spirit of reproach, exerted\non a more momentous subject.\n\n\"If I had known you were going out, I should have got you just to go\nas far as my house with some orders for Nanny,\" said she, \"which I have\nsince, to my very great inconvenience, been obliged to go and carry\nmyself. I could very ill spare the time, and you might have saved me the\ntrouble, if you would only have been so good as to let us know you were\ngoing out. It would have made no difference to you, I suppose, whether\nyou had walked in the shrubbery or gone to my house.\"\n\n\"I recommended the shrubbery to Fanny as the driest place,\" said Sir\nThomas.\n\n\"Oh!\" said Mrs. Norris, with a moment's check, \"that was very kind of\nyou, Sir Thomas; but you do not know how dry the path is to my house.\nFanny would have had quite as good a walk there, I assure you, with the\nadvantage of being of some use, and obliging her aunt: it is all her\nfault. If she would but have let us know she was going out but there is\na something about Fanny, I have often observed it before--she likes to\ngo her own way to work; she does not like to be dictated to; she takes\nher own independent walk whenever she can; she certainly has a little\nspirit of secrecy, and independence, and nonsense, about her, which I\nwould advise her to get the better of.\"\n\nAs a general reflection on Fanny, Sir Thomas thought nothing could be\nmore unjust, though he had been so lately expressing the same sentiments\nhimself, and he tried to turn the conversation: tried repeatedly\nbefore he could succeed; for Mrs. Norris had not discernment enough to\nperceive, either now, or at any other time, to what degree he thought\nwell of his niece, or how very far he was from wishing to have his own\nchildren's merits set off by the depreciation of hers. She was talking\n_at_ Fanny, and resenting this private walk half through the dinner.\n\nIt was over, however, at last; and the evening set in with more\ncomposure to Fanny, and more cheerfulness of spirits than she could\nhave hoped for after so stormy a morning; but she trusted, in the first\nplace, that she had done right: that her judgment had not misled her.\nFor the purity of her intentions she could answer; and she was willing\nto hope, secondly, that her uncle's displeasure was abating, and would\nabate farther as he considered the matter with more impartiality, and\nfelt, as a good man must feel, how wretched, and how unpardonable, how\nhopeless, and how wicked it was to marry without affection.\n\nWhen the meeting with which she was threatened for the morrow was past,\nshe could not but flatter herself that the subject would be finally\nconcluded, and Mr. Crawford once gone from Mansfield, that everything\nwould soon be as if no such subject had existed. She would not, could\nnot believe, that Mr. Crawford's affection for her could distress him\nlong; his mind was not of that sort. London would soon bring its cure.\nIn London he would soon learn to wonder at his infatuation, and be\nthankful for the right reason in her which had saved him from its evil\nconsequences.\n\nWhile Fanny's mind was engaged in these sort of hopes, her uncle was,\nsoon after tea, called out of the room; an occurrence too common to\nstrike her, and she thought nothing of it till the butler reappeared ten\nminutes afterwards, and advancing decidedly towards herself, said,\n\"Sir Thomas wishes to speak with you, ma'am, in his own room.\" Then it\noccurred to her what might be going on; a suspicion rushed over her mind\nwhich drove the colour from her cheeks; but instantly rising, she was\npreparing to obey, when Mrs. Norris called out, \"Stay, stay, Fanny! what\nare you about? where are you going? don't be in such a hurry. Depend\nupon it, it is not you who are wanted; depend upon it, it is me\"\n(looking at the butler); \"but you are so very eager to put yourself\nforward. What should Sir Thomas want you for? It is me, Baddeley, you\nmean; I am coming this moment. You mean me, Baddeley, I am sure; Sir\nThomas wants me, not Miss Price.\"\n\nBut Baddeley was stout. \"No, ma'am, it is Miss Price; I am certain of\nits being Miss Price.\" And there was a half-smile with the words, which\nmeant, \"I do not think you would answer the purpose at all.\"\n\nMrs. Norris, much discontented, was obliged to compose herself to work\nagain; and Fanny, walking off in agitating consciousness, found herself,\nas she anticipated, in another minute alone with Mr. Crawford.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\nThe conference was neither so short nor so conclusive as the lady had\ndesigned. The gentleman was not so easily satisfied. He had all the\ndisposition to persevere that Sir Thomas could wish him. He had vanity,\nwhich strongly inclined him in the first place to think she did love\nhim, though she might not know it herself; and which, secondly, when\nconstrained at last to admit that she did know her own present feelings,\nconvinced him that he should be able in time to make those feelings what\nhe wished.\n\nHe was in love, very much in love; and it was a love which, operating\non an active, sanguine spirit, of more warmth than delicacy, made her\naffection appear of greater consequence because it was withheld, and\ndetermined him to have the glory, as well as the felicity, of forcing\nher to love him.\n\nHe would not despair: he would not desist. He had every well-grounded\nreason for solid attachment; he knew her to have all the worth that\ncould justify the warmest hopes of lasting happiness with her; her\nconduct at this very time, by speaking the disinterestedness and\ndelicacy of her character (qualities which he believed most rare\nindeed), was of a sort to heighten all his wishes, and confirm all his\nresolutions. He knew not that he had a pre-engaged heart to attack.\nOf _that_ he had no suspicion. He considered her rather as one who\nhad never thought on the subject enough to be in danger; who had been\nguarded by youth, a youth of mind as lovely as of person; whose modesty\nhad prevented her from understanding his attentions, and who was still\noverpowered by the suddenness of addresses so wholly unexpected, and the\nnovelty of a situation which her fancy had never taken into account.\n\nMust it not follow of course, that, when he was understood, he should\nsucceed? He believed it fully. Love such as his, in a man like himself,\nmust with perseverance secure a return, and at no great distance; and\nhe had so much delight in the idea of obliging her to love him in a very\nshort time, that her not loving him now was scarcely regretted. A little\ndifficulty to be overcome was no evil to Henry Crawford. He rather\nderived spirits from it. He had been apt to gain hearts too easily. His\nsituation was new and animating.\n\nTo Fanny, however, who had known too much opposition all her life to\nfind any charm in it, all this was unintelligible. She found that he did\nmean to persevere; but how he could, after such language from her as she\nfelt herself obliged to use, was not to be understood. She told him that\nshe did not love him, could not love him, was sure she never should love\nhim; that such a change was quite impossible; that the subject was most\npainful to her; that she must entreat him never to mention it again, to\nallow her to leave him at once, and let it be considered as concluded\nfor ever. And when farther pressed, had added, that in her opinion their\ndispositions were so totally dissimilar as to make mutual affection\nincompatible; and that they were unfitted for each other by nature,\neducation, and habit. All this she had said, and with the earnestness\nof sincerity; yet this was not enough, for he immediately denied there\nbeing anything uncongenial in their characters, or anything unfriendly\nin their situations; and positively declared, that he would still love,\nand still hope!\n\nFanny knew her own meaning, but was no judge of her own manner. Her\nmanner was incurably gentle; and she was not aware how much it concealed\nthe sternness of her purpose. Her diffidence, gratitude, and softness\nmade every expression of indifference seem almost an effort of\nself-denial; seem, at least, to be giving nearly as much pain to herself\nas to him. Mr. Crawford was no longer the Mr. Crawford who, as the\nclandestine, insidious, treacherous admirer of Maria Bertram, had been\nher abhorrence, whom she had hated to see or to speak to, in whom she\ncould believe no good quality to exist, and whose power, even of being\nagreeable, she had barely acknowledged. He was now the Mr. Crawford who\nwas addressing herself with ardent, disinterested love; whose feelings\nwere apparently become all that was honourable and upright, whose views\nof happiness were all fixed on a marriage of attachment; who was\npouring out his sense of her merits, describing and describing again his\naffection, proving as far as words could prove it, and in the language,\ntone, and spirit of a man of talent too, that he sought her for her\ngentleness and her goodness; and to complete the whole, he was now the\nMr. Crawford who had procured William's promotion!\n\nHere was a change, and here were claims which could not but operate!\nShe might have disdained him in all the dignity of angry virtue, in\nthe grounds of Sotherton, or the theatre at Mansfield Park; but he\napproached her now with rights that demanded different treatment.\nShe must be courteous, and she must be compassionate. She must have\na sensation of being honoured, and whether thinking of herself or her\nbrother, she must have a strong feeling of gratitude. The effect of the\nwhole was a manner so pitying and agitated, and words intermingled with\nher refusal so expressive of obligation and concern, that to a temper of\nvanity and hope like Crawford's, the truth, or at least the strength\nof her indifference, might well be questionable; and he was not so\nirrational as Fanny considered him, in the professions of persevering,\nassiduous, and not desponding attachment which closed the interview.\n\nIt was with reluctance that he suffered her to go; but there was no look\nof despair in parting to belie his words, or give her hopes of his being\nless unreasonable than he professed himself.\n\nNow she was angry. Some resentment did arise at a perseverance so\nselfish and ungenerous. Here was again a want of delicacy and regard for\nothers which had formerly so struck and disgusted her. Here was again\na something of the same Mr. Crawford whom she had so reprobated before.\nHow evidently was there a gross want of feeling and humanity where his\nown pleasure was concerned; and alas! how always known no principle to\nsupply as a duty what the heart was deficient in! Had her own affections\nbeen as free as perhaps they ought to have been, he never could have\nengaged them.\n\nSo thought Fanny, in good truth and sober sadness, as she sat musing\nover that too great indulgence and luxury of a fire upstairs: wondering\nat the past and present; wondering at what was yet to come, and in a\nnervous agitation which made nothing clear to her but the persuasion of\nher being never under any circumstances able to love Mr. Crawford, and\nthe felicity of having a fire to sit over and think of it.\n\nSir Thomas was obliged, or obliged himself, to wait till the morrow for\na knowledge of what had passed between the young people. He then saw\nMr. Crawford, and received his account. The first feeling was\ndisappointment: he had hoped better things; he had thought that an\nhour's entreaty from a young man like Crawford could not have worked so\nlittle change on a gentle-tempered girl like Fanny; but there was speedy\ncomfort in the determined views and sanguine perseverance of the lover;\nand when seeing such confidence of success in the principal, Sir Thomas\nwas soon able to depend on it himself.\n\nNothing was omitted, on his side, of civility, compliment, or kindness,\nthat might assist the plan. Mr. Crawford's steadiness was honoured, and\nFanny was praised, and the connexion was still the most desirable in the\nworld. At Mansfield Park Mr. Crawford would always be welcome; he had\nonly to consult his own judgment and feelings as to the frequency of his\nvisits, at present or in future. In all his niece's family and friends,\nthere could be but one opinion, one wish on the subject; the influence\nof all who loved her must incline one way.\n\nEverything was said that could encourage, every encouragement received\nwith grateful joy, and the gentlemen parted the best of friends.\n\nSatisfied that the cause was now on a footing the most proper and\nhopeful, Sir Thomas resolved to abstain from all farther importunity\nwith his niece, and to shew no open interference. Upon her disposition\nhe believed kindness might be the best way of working. Entreaty should\nbe from one quarter only. The forbearance of her family on a point,\nrespecting which she could be in no doubt of their wishes, might be\ntheir surest means of forwarding it. Accordingly, on this principle, Sir\nThomas took the first opportunity of saying to her, with a mild gravity,\nintended to be overcoming, \"Well, Fanny, I have seen Mr. Crawford again,\nand learn from him exactly how matters stand between you. He is a most\nextraordinary young man, and whatever be the event, you must feel that\nyou have created an attachment of no common character; though, young\nas you are, and little acquainted with the transient, varying, unsteady\nnature of love, as it generally exists, you cannot be struck as I\nam with all that is wonderful in a perseverance of this sort against\ndiscouragement. With him it is entirely a matter of feeling: he claims\nno merit in it; perhaps is entitled to none. Yet, having chosen so\nwell, his constancy has a respectable stamp. Had his choice been less\nunexceptionable, I should have condemned his persevering.\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir,\" said Fanny, \"I am very sorry that Mr. Crawford should\ncontinue to know that it is paying me a very great compliment, and I\nfeel most undeservedly honoured; but I am so perfectly convinced, and I\nhave told him so, that it never will be in my power--\"\n\n\"My dear,\" interrupted Sir Thomas, \"there is no occasion for this. Your\nfeelings are as well known to me as my wishes and regrets must be\nto you. There is nothing more to be said or done. From this hour the\nsubject is never to be revived between us. You will have nothing to\nfear, or to be agitated about. You cannot suppose me capable of trying\nto persuade you to marry against your inclinations. Your happiness and\nadvantage are all that I have in view, and nothing is required of you\nbut to bear with Mr. Crawford's endeavours to convince you that they may\nnot be incompatible with his. He proceeds at his own risk. You are on\nsafe ground. I have engaged for your seeing him whenever he calls, as\nyou might have done had nothing of this sort occurred. You will see\nhim with the rest of us, in the same manner, and, as much as you\ncan, dismissing the recollection of everything unpleasant. He leaves\nNorthamptonshire so soon, that even this slight sacrifice cannot be\noften demanded. The future must be very uncertain. And now, my dear\nFanny, this subject is closed between us.\"\n\nThe promised departure was all that Fanny could think of with much\nsatisfaction. Her uncle's kind expressions, however, and forbearing\nmanner, were sensibly felt; and when she considered how much of the\ntruth was unknown to him, she believed she had no right to wonder at\nthe line of conduct he pursued. He, who had married a daughter to Mr.\nRushworth: romantic delicacy was certainly not to be expected from him.\nShe must do her duty, and trust that time might make her duty easier\nthan it now was.\n\nShe could not, though only eighteen, suppose Mr. Crawford's attachment\nwould hold out for ever; she could not but imagine that steady,\nunceasing discouragement from herself would put an end to it in time.\nHow much time she might, in her own fancy, allot for its dominion, is\nanother concern. It would not be fair to inquire into a young lady's\nexact estimate of her own perfections.\n\nIn spite of his intended silence, Sir Thomas found himself once more\nobliged to mention the subject to his niece, to prepare her briefly for\nits being imparted to her aunts; a measure which he would still have\navoided, if possible, but which became necessary from the totally\nopposite feelings of Mr. Crawford as to any secrecy of proceeding. He\nhad no idea of concealment. It was all known at the Parsonage, where\nhe loved to talk over the future with both his sisters, and it would be\nrather gratifying to him to have enlightened witnesses of the progress\nof his success. When Sir Thomas understood this, he felt the necessity\nof making his own wife and sister-in-law acquainted with the business\nwithout delay; though, on Fanny's account, he almost dreaded the\neffect of the communication to Mrs. Norris as much as Fanny herself. He\ndeprecated her mistaken but well-meaning zeal. Sir Thomas, indeed, was,\nby this time, not very far from classing Mrs. Norris as one of those\nwell-meaning people who are always doing mistaken and very disagreeable\nthings.\n\nMrs. Norris, however, relieved him. He pressed for the strictest\nforbearance and silence towards their niece; she not only promised, but\ndid observe it. She only looked her increased ill-will. Angry she was:\nbitterly angry; but she was more angry with Fanny for having received\nsuch an offer than for refusing it. It was an injury and affront to\nJulia, who ought to have been Mr. Crawford's choice; and, independently\nof that, she disliked Fanny, because she had neglected her; and she\nwould have grudged such an elevation to one whom she had been always\ntrying to depress.\n\nSir Thomas gave her more credit for discretion on the occasion than she\ndeserved; and Fanny could have blessed her for allowing her only to see\nher displeasure, and not to hear it.\n\nLady Bertram took it differently. She had been a beauty, and a\nprosperous beauty, all her life; and beauty and wealth were all that\nexcited her respect. To know Fanny to be sought in marriage by a man of\nfortune, raised her, therefore, very much in her opinion. By convincing\nher that Fanny _was_ very pretty, which she had been doubting about\nbefore, and that she would be advantageously married, it made her feel a\nsort of credit in calling her niece.\n\n\"Well, Fanny,\" said she, as soon as they were alone together afterwards,\nand she really had known something like impatience to be alone with her,\nand her countenance, as she spoke, had extraordinary animation; \"Well,\nFanny, I have had a very agreeable surprise this morning. I must just\nspeak of it _once_, I told Sir Thomas I must _once_, and then I\nshall have done. I give you joy, my dear niece.\" And looking at her\ncomplacently, she added, \"Humph, we certainly are a handsome family!\"\n\nFanny coloured, and doubted at first what to say; when, hoping to assail\nher on her vulnerable side, she presently answered--\n\n\"My dear aunt, _you_ cannot wish me to do differently from what I have\ndone, I am sure. _You_ cannot wish me to marry; for you would miss me,\nshould not you? Yes, I am sure you would miss me too much for that.\"\n\n\"No, my dear, I should not think of missing you, when such an offer as\nthis comes in your way. I could do very well without you, if you were\nmarried to a man of such good estate as Mr. Crawford. And you must be\naware, Fanny, that it is every young woman's duty to accept such a very\nunexceptionable offer as this.\"\n\nThis was almost the only rule of conduct, the only piece of advice,\nwhich Fanny had ever received from her aunt in the course of eight years\nand a half. It silenced her. She felt how unprofitable contention would\nbe. If her aunt's feelings were against her, nothing could be hoped from\nattacking her understanding. Lady Bertram was quite talkative.\n\n\"I will tell you what, Fanny,\" said she, \"I am sure he fell in love with\nyou at the ball; I am sure the mischief was done that evening. You did\nlook remarkably well. Everybody said so. Sir Thomas said so. And you\nknow you had Chapman to help you to dress. I am very glad I sent\nChapman to you. I shall tell Sir Thomas that I am sure it was done\nthat evening.\" And still pursuing the same cheerful thoughts, she soon\nafterwards added, \"And will tell you what, Fanny, which is more than I\ndid for Maria: the next time Pug has a litter you shall have a puppy.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV\n\nEdmund had great things to hear on his return. Many surprises were\nawaiting him. The first that occurred was not least in interest: the\nappearance of Henry Crawford and his sister walking together through the\nvillage as he rode into it. He had concluded--he had meant them to be\nfar distant. His absence had been extended beyond a fortnight purposely\nto avoid Miss Crawford. He was returning to Mansfield with spirits ready\nto feed on melancholy remembrances, and tender associations, when her\nown fair self was before him, leaning on her brother's arm, and he found\nhimself receiving a welcome, unquestionably friendly, from the woman\nwhom, two moments before, he had been thinking of as seventy miles off,\nand as farther, much farther, from him in inclination than any distance\ncould express.\n\nHer reception of him was of a sort which he could not have hoped\nfor, had he expected to see her. Coming as he did from such a purport\nfulfilled as had taken him away, he would have expected anything rather\nthan a look of satisfaction, and words of simple, pleasant meaning.\nIt was enough to set his heart in a glow, and to bring him home in the\nproperest state for feeling the full value of the other joyful surprises\nat hand.\n\nWilliam's promotion, with all its particulars, he was soon master of;\nand with such a secret provision of comfort within his own breast to\nhelp the joy, he found in it a source of most gratifying sensation and\nunvarying cheerfulness all dinner-time.\n\nAfter dinner, when he and his father were alone, he had Fanny's history;\nand then all the great events of the last fortnight, and the present\nsituation of matters at Mansfield were known to him.\n\nFanny suspected what was going on. They sat so much longer than usual in\nthe dining-parlour, that she was sure they must be talking of her; and\nwhen tea at last brought them away, and she was to be seen by Edmund\nagain, she felt dreadfully guilty. He came to her, sat down by her, took\nher hand, and pressed it kindly; and at that moment she thought that,\nbut for the occupation and the scene which the tea-things afforded, she\nmust have betrayed her emotion in some unpardonable excess.\n\nHe was not intending, however, by such action, to be conveying to her\nthat unqualified approbation and encouragement which her hopes drew\nfrom it. It was designed only to express his participation in all that\ninterested her, and to tell her that he had been hearing what quickened\nevery feeling of affection. He was, in fact, entirely on his father's\nside of the question. His surprise was not so great as his father's at\nher refusing Crawford, because, so far from supposing her to consider\nhim with anything like a preference, he had always believed it to\nbe rather the reverse, and could imagine her to be taken perfectly\nunprepared, but Sir Thomas could not regard the connexion as more\ndesirable than he did. It had every recommendation to him; and while\nhonouring her for what she had done under the influence of her present\nindifference, honouring her in rather stronger terms than Sir Thomas\ncould quite echo, he was most earnest in hoping, and sanguine in\nbelieving, that it would be a match at last, and that, united by mutual\naffection, it would appear that their dispositions were as exactly\nfitted to make them blessed in each other, as he was now beginning\nseriously to consider them. Crawford had been too precipitate. He had\nnot given her time to attach herself. He had begun at the wrong end.\nWith such powers as his, however, and such a disposition as hers, Edmund\ntrusted that everything would work out a happy conclusion. Meanwhile,\nhe saw enough of Fanny's embarrassment to make him scrupulously guard\nagainst exciting it a second time, by any word, or look, or movement.\n\nCrawford called the next day, and on the score of Edmund's return, Sir\nThomas felt himself more than licensed to ask him to stay dinner; it was\nreally a necessary compliment. He staid of course, and Edmund had then\nample opportunity for observing how he sped with Fanny, and what degree\nof immediate encouragement for him might be extracted from her manners;\nand it was so little, so very, very little--every chance, every\npossibility of it, resting upon her embarrassment only; if there was\nnot hope in her confusion, there was hope in nothing else--that he was\nalmost ready to wonder at his friend's perseverance. Fanny was worth it\nall; he held her to be worth every effort of patience, every exertion of\nmind, but he did not think he could have gone on himself with any woman\nbreathing, without something more to warm his courage than his eyes\ncould discern in hers. He was very willing to hope that Crawford saw\nclearer, and this was the most comfortable conclusion for his friend\nthat he could come to from all that he observed to pass before, and at,\nand after dinner.\n\nIn the evening a few circumstances occurred which he thought more\npromising. When he and Crawford walked into the drawing-room, his mother\nand Fanny were sitting as intently and silently at work as if there\nwere nothing else to care for. Edmund could not help noticing their\napparently deep tranquillity.\n\n\"We have not been so silent all the time,\" replied his mother. \"Fanny\nhas been reading to me, and only put the book down upon hearing you\ncoming.\" And sure enough there was a book on the table which had the air\nof being very recently closed: a volume of Shakespeare. \"She often\nreads to me out of those books; and she was in the middle of a very\nfine speech of that man's--what's his name, Fanny?--when we heard your\nfootsteps.\"\n\nCrawford took the volume. \"Let me have the pleasure of finishing that\nspeech to your ladyship,\" said he. \"I shall find it immediately.\" And by\ncarefully giving way to the inclination of the leaves, he did find it,\nor within a page or two, quite near enough to satisfy Lady Bertram, who\nassured him, as soon as he mentioned the name of Cardinal Wolsey, that\nhe had got the very speech. Not a look or an offer of help had Fanny\ngiven; not a syllable for or against. All her attention was for her\nwork. She seemed determined to be interested by nothing else. But taste\nwas too strong in her. She could not abstract her mind five minutes: she\nwas forced to listen; his reading was capital, and her pleasure in good\nreading extreme. To _good_ reading, however, she had been long used:\nher uncle read well, her cousins all, Edmund very well, but in Mr.\nCrawford's reading there was a variety of excellence beyond what she had\never met with. The King, the Queen, Buckingham, Wolsey, Cromwell, all\nwere given in turn; for with the happiest knack, the happiest power of\njumping and guessing, he could always alight at will on the best scene,\nor the best speeches of each; and whether it were dignity, or pride, or\ntenderness, or remorse, or whatever were to be expressed, he could do\nit with equal beauty. It was truly dramatic. His acting had first taught\nFanny what pleasure a play might give, and his reading brought all his\nacting before her again; nay, perhaps with greater enjoyment, for it\ncame unexpectedly, and with no such drawback as she had been used to\nsuffer in seeing him on the stage with Miss Bertram.\n\nEdmund watched the progress of her attention, and was amused and\ngratified by seeing how she gradually slackened in the needlework, which\nat the beginning seemed to occupy her totally: how it fell from her hand\nwhile she sat motionless over it, and at last, how the eyes which had\nappeared so studiously to avoid him throughout the day were turned and\nfixed on Crawford--fixed on him for minutes, fixed on him, in short,\ntill the attraction drew Crawford's upon her, and the book was closed,\nand the charm was broken. Then she was shrinking again into herself,\nand blushing and working as hard as ever; but it had been enough to give\nEdmund encouragement for his friend, and as he cordially thanked him, he\nhoped to be expressing Fanny's secret feelings too.\n\n\"That play must be a favourite with you,\" said he; \"you read as if you\nknew it well.\"\n\n\"It will be a favourite, I believe, from this hour,\" replied Crawford;\n\"but I do not think I have had a volume of Shakespeare in my hand before\nsince I was fifteen. I once saw Henry the Eighth acted, or I have heard\nof it from somebody who did, I am not certain which. But Shakespeare\none gets acquainted with without knowing how. It is a part of an\nEnglishman's constitution. His thoughts and beauties are so spread\nabroad that one touches them everywhere; one is intimate with him by\ninstinct. No man of any brain can open at a good part of one of his\nplays without falling into the flow of his meaning immediately.\"\n\n\"No doubt one is familiar with Shakespeare in a degree,\" said Edmund,\n\"from one's earliest years. His celebrated passages are quoted\nby everybody; they are in half the books we open, and we all talk\nShakespeare, use his similes, and describe with his descriptions; but\nthis is totally distinct from giving his sense as you gave it. To know\nhim in bits and scraps is common enough; to know him pretty thoroughly\nis, perhaps, not uncommon; but to read him well aloud is no everyday\ntalent.\"\n\n\"Sir, you do me honour,\" was Crawford's answer, with a bow of mock\ngravity.\n\nBoth gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant\npraise could be extorted from her; yet both feeling that it could not\nbe. Her praise had been given in her attention; _that_ must content\nthem.\n\nLady Bertram's admiration was expressed, and strongly too. \"It was\nreally like being at a play,\" said she. \"I wish Sir Thomas had been\nhere.\"\n\nCrawford was excessively pleased. If Lady Bertram, with all her\nincompetency and languor, could feel this, the inference of what her\nniece, alive and enlightened as she was, must feel, was elevating.\n\n\"You have a great turn for acting, I am sure, Mr. Crawford,\" said her\nladyship soon afterwards; \"and I will tell you what, I think you will\nhave a theatre, some time or other, at your house in Norfolk. I mean\nwhen you are settled there. I do indeed. I think you will fit up a\ntheatre at your house in Norfolk.\"\n\n\"Do you, ma'am?\" cried he, with quickness. \"No, no, that will never be.\nYour ladyship is quite mistaken. No theatre at Everingham! Oh no!\" And\nhe looked at Fanny with an expressive smile, which evidently meant,\n\"That lady will never allow a theatre at Everingham.\"\n\nEdmund saw it all, and saw Fanny so determined _not_ to see it, as to\nmake it clear that the voice was enough to convey the full meaning of\nthe protestation; and such a quick consciousness of compliment, such a\nready comprehension of a hint, he thought, was rather favourable than\nnot.\n\nThe subject of reading aloud was farther discussed. The two young men\nwere the only talkers, but they, standing by the fire, talked over the\ntoo common neglect of the qualification, the total inattention to it,\nin the ordinary school-system for boys, the consequently natural, yet in\nsome instances almost unnatural, degree of ignorance and uncouthness\nof men, of sensible and well-informed men, when suddenly called to the\nnecessity of reading aloud, which had fallen within their notice, giving\ninstances of blunders, and failures with their secondary causes, the\nwant of management of the voice, of proper modulation and emphasis, of\nforesight and judgment, all proceeding from the first cause: want of\nearly attention and habit; and Fanny was listening again with great\nentertainment.\n\n\"Even in my profession,\" said Edmund, with a smile, \"how little the\nart of reading has been studied! how little a clear manner, and good\ndelivery, have been attended to! I speak rather of the past, however,\nthan the present. There is now a spirit of improvement abroad; but among\nthose who were ordained twenty, thirty, forty years ago, the larger\nnumber, to judge by their performance, must have thought reading was\nreading, and preaching was preaching. It is different now. The subject\nis more justly considered. It is felt that distinctness and energy may\nhave weight in recommending the most solid truths; and besides, there is\nmore general observation and taste, a more critical knowledge diffused\nthan formerly; in every congregation there is a larger proportion who\nknow a little of the matter, and who can judge and criticise.\"\n\nEdmund had already gone through the service once since his ordination;\nand upon this being understood, he had a variety of questions from\nCrawford as to his feelings and success; questions, which being made,\nthough with the vivacity of friendly interest and quick taste, without\nany touch of that spirit of banter or air of levity which Edmund knew to\nbe most offensive to Fanny, he had true pleasure in satisfying; and\nwhen Crawford proceeded to ask his opinion and give his own as to the\nproperest manner in which particular passages in the service should be\ndelivered, shewing it to be a subject on which he had thought before,\nand thought with judgment, Edmund was still more and more pleased. This\nwould be the way to Fanny's heart. She was not to be won by all that\ngallantry and wit and good-nature together could do; or, at least,\nshe would not be won by them nearly so soon, without the assistance of\nsentiment and feeling, and seriousness on serious subjects.\n\n\"Our liturgy,\" observed Crawford, \"has beauties, which not even a\ncareless, slovenly style of reading can destroy; but it has also\nredundancies and repetitions which require good reading not to be felt.\nFor myself, at least, I must confess being not always so attentive as I\nought to be\" (here was a glance at Fanny); \"that nineteen times out of\ntwenty I am thinking how such a prayer ought to be read, and longing to\nhave it to read myself. Did you speak?\" stepping eagerly to Fanny, and\naddressing her in a softened voice; and upon her saying \"No,\" he added,\n\"Are you sure you did not speak? I saw your lips move. I fancied you\nmight be going to tell me I ought to be more attentive, and not _allow_\nmy thoughts to wander. Are not you going to tell me so?\"\n\n\"No, indeed, you know your duty too well for me to--even supposing--\"\n\nShe stopt, felt herself getting into a puzzle, and could not be\nprevailed on to add another word, not by dint of several minutes of\nsupplication and waiting. He then returned to his former station, and\nwent on as if there had been no such tender interruption.\n\n\"A sermon, well delivered, is more uncommon even than prayers well read.\nA sermon, good in itself, is no rare thing. It is more difficult\nto speak well than to compose well; that is, the rules and trick of\ncomposition are oftener an object of study. A thoroughly good sermon,\nthoroughly well delivered, is a capital gratification. I can never hear\nsuch a one without the greatest admiration and respect, and more than\nhalf a mind to take orders and preach myself. There is something in the\neloquence of the pulpit, when it is really eloquence, which is entitled\nto the highest praise and honour. The preacher who can touch and affect\nsuch an heterogeneous mass of hearers, on subjects limited, and long\nworn threadbare in all common hands; who can say anything new or\nstriking, anything that rouses the attention without offending the\ntaste, or wearing out the feelings of his hearers, is a man whom one\ncould not, in his public capacity, honour enough. I should like to be\nsuch a man.\"\n\nEdmund laughed.\n\n\"I should indeed. I never listened to a distinguished preacher in my\nlife without a sort of envy. But then, I must have a London audience.\nI could not preach but to the educated; to those who were capable of\nestimating my composition. And I do not know that I should be fond of\npreaching often; now and then, perhaps once or twice in the spring,\nafter being anxiously expected for half a dozen Sundays together; but\nnot for a constancy; it would not do for a constancy.\"\n\nHere Fanny, who could not but listen, involuntarily shook her head,\nand Crawford was instantly by her side again, entreating to know her\nmeaning; and as Edmund perceived, by his drawing in a chair, and sitting\ndown close by her, that it was to be a very thorough attack, that looks\nand undertones were to be well tried, he sank as quietly as possible\ninto a corner, turned his back, and took up a newspaper, very sincerely\nwishing that dear little Fanny might be persuaded into explaining away\nthat shake of the head to the satisfaction of her ardent lover; and as\nearnestly trying to bury every sound of the business from himself in\nmurmurs of his own, over the various advertisements of \"A most desirable\nEstate in South Wales\"; \"To Parents and Guardians\"; and a \"Capital\nseason'd Hunter.\"\n\nFanny, meanwhile, vexed with herself for not having been as motionless\nas she was speechless, and grieved to the heart to see Edmund's\narrangements, was trying by everything in the power of her modest,\ngentle nature, to repulse Mr. Crawford, and avoid both his looks and\ninquiries; and he, unrepulsable, was persisting in both.\n\n\"What did that shake of the head mean?\" said he. \"What was it meant to\nexpress? Disapprobation, I fear. But of what? What had I been saying\nto displease you? Did you think me speaking improperly, lightly,\nirreverently on the subject? Only tell me if I was. Only tell me if\nI was wrong. I want to be set right. Nay, nay, I entreat you; for one\nmoment put down your work. What did that shake of the head mean?\"\n\nIn vain was her \"Pray, sir, don't; pray, Mr. Crawford,\" repeated twice\nover; and in vain did she try to move away. In the same low, eager\nvoice, and the same close neighbourhood, he went on, reurging the same\nquestions as before. She grew more agitated and displeased.\n\n\"How can you, sir? You quite astonish me; I wonder how you can--\"\n\n\"Do I astonish you?\" said he. \"Do you wonder? Is there anything in\nmy present entreaty that you do not understand? I will explain to you\ninstantly all that makes me urge you in this manner, all that gives me\nan interest in what you look and do, and excites my present curiosity. I\nwill not leave you to wonder long.\"\n\nIn spite of herself, she could not help half a smile, but she said\nnothing.\n\n\"You shook your head at my acknowledging that I should not like to\nengage in the duties of a clergyman always for a constancy. Yes, that\nwas the word. Constancy: I am not afraid of the word. I would spell it,\nread it, write it with anybody. I see nothing alarming in the word. Did\nyou think I ought?\"\n\n\"Perhaps, sir,\" said Fanny, wearied at last into speaking--\"perhaps,\nsir, I thought it was a pity you did not always know yourself as well as\nyou seemed to do at that moment.\"\n\nCrawford, delighted to get her to speak at any rate, was determined\nto keep it up; and poor Fanny, who had hoped to silence him by such an\nextremity of reproof, found herself sadly mistaken, and that it was only\na change from one object of curiosity and one set of words to another.\nHe had always something to entreat the explanation of. The opportunity\nwas too fair. None such had occurred since his seeing her in her uncle's\nroom, none such might occur again before his leaving Mansfield. Lady\nBertram's being just on the other side of the table was a trifle,\nfor she might always be considered as only half-awake, and Edmund's\nadvertisements were still of the first utility.\n\n\"Well,\" said Crawford, after a course of rapid questions and reluctant\nanswers; \"I am happier than I was, because I now understand more clearly\nyour opinion of me. You think me unsteady: easily swayed by the whim of\nthe moment, easily tempted, easily put aside. With such an opinion, no\nwonder that. But we shall see. It is not by protestations that I shall\nendeavour to convince you I am wronged; it is not by telling you that my\naffections are steady. My conduct shall speak for me; absence, distance,\ntime shall speak for me. _They_ shall prove that, as far as you can be\ndeserved by anybody, I do deserve you. You are infinitely my superior\nin merit; all _that_ I know. You have qualities which I had not before\nsupposed to exist in such a degree in any human creature. You have some\ntouches of the angel in you beyond what--not merely beyond what one\nsees, because one never sees anything like it--but beyond what one\nfancies might be. But still I am not frightened. It is not by equality\nof merit that you can be won. That is out of the question. It is he\nwho sees and worships your merit the strongest, who loves you most\ndevotedly, that has the best right to a return. There I build my\nconfidence. By that right I do and will deserve you; and when once\nconvinced that my attachment is what I declare it, I know you too well\nnot to entertain the warmest hopes. Yes, dearest, sweetest Fanny. Nay\"\n(seeing her draw back displeased), \"forgive me. Perhaps I have as yet\nno right; but by what other name can I call you? Do you suppose you are\never present to my imagination under any other? No, it is 'Fanny' that\nI think of all day, and dream of all night. You have given the name such\nreality of sweetness, that nothing else can now be descriptive of you.\"\n\nFanny could hardly have kept her seat any longer, or have refrained from\nat least trying to get away in spite of all the too public opposition\nshe foresaw to it, had it not been for the sound of approaching relief,\nthe very sound which she had been long watching for, and long thinking\nstrangely delayed.\n\nThe solemn procession, headed by Baddeley, of tea-board, urn, and\ncake-bearers, made its appearance, and delivered her from a grievous\nimprisonment of body and mind. Mr. Crawford was obliged to move. She was\nat liberty, she was busy, she was protected.\n\nEdmund was not sorry to be admitted again among the number of those who\nmight speak and hear. But though the conference had seemed full long to\nhim, and though on looking at Fanny he saw rather a flush of vexation,\nhe inclined to hope that so much could not have been said and listened\nto without some profit to the speaker.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV\n\nEdmund had determined that it belonged entirely to Fanny to chuse\nwhether her situation with regard to Crawford should be mentioned\nbetween them or not; and that if she did not lead the way, it should\nnever be touched on by him; but after a day or two of mutual reserve, he\nwas induced by his father to change his mind, and try what his influence\nmight do for his friend.\n\nA day, and a very early day, was actually fixed for the Crawfords'\ndeparture; and Sir Thomas thought it might be as well to make one\nmore effort for the young man before he left Mansfield, that all his\nprofessions and vows of unshaken attachment might have as much hope to\nsustain them as possible.\n\nSir Thomas was most cordially anxious for the perfection of Mr.\nCrawford's character in that point. He wished him to be a model of\nconstancy; and fancied the best means of effecting it would be by not\ntrying him too long.\n\nEdmund was not unwilling to be persuaded to engage in the business; he\nwanted to know Fanny's feelings. She had been used to consult him in\nevery difficulty, and he loved her too well to bear to be denied her\nconfidence now; he hoped to be of service to her, he thought he must be\nof service to her; whom else had she to open her heart to? If she did\nnot need counsel, she must need the comfort of communication. Fanny\nestranged from him, silent and reserved, was an unnatural state of\nthings; a state which he must break through, and which he could easily\nlearn to think she was wanting him to break through.\n\n\"I will speak to her, sir: I will take the first opportunity of speaking\nto her alone,\" was the result of such thoughts as these; and upon Sir\nThomas's information of her being at that very time walking alone in the\nshrubbery, he instantly joined her.\n\n\"I am come to walk with you, Fanny,\" said he. \"Shall I?\" Drawing her\narm within his. \"It is a long while since we have had a comfortable walk\ntogether.\"\n\nShe assented to it all rather by look than word. Her spirits were low.\n\n\"But, Fanny,\" he presently added, \"in order to have a comfortable walk,\nsomething more is necessary than merely pacing this gravel together. You\nmust talk to me. I know you have something on your mind. I know what you\nare thinking of. You cannot suppose me uninformed. Am I to hear of it\nfrom everybody but Fanny herself?\"\n\nFanny, at once agitated and dejected, replied, \"If you hear of it from\neverybody, cousin, there can be nothing for me to tell.\"\n\n\"Not of facts, perhaps; but of feelings, Fanny. No one but you can tell\nme them. I do not mean to press you, however. If it is not what you wish\nyourself, I have done. I had thought it might be a relief.\"\n\n\"I am afraid we think too differently for me to find any relief in\ntalking of what I feel.\"\n\n\"Do you suppose that we think differently? I have no idea of it. I dare\nsay that, on a comparison of our opinions, they would be found as much\nalike as they have been used to be: to the point--I consider Crawford's\nproposals as most advantageous and desirable, if you could return his\naffection. I consider it as most natural that all your family should\nwish you could return it; but that, as you cannot, you have done exactly\nas you ought in refusing him. Can there be any disagreement between us\nhere?\"\n\n\"Oh no! But I thought you blamed me. I thought you were against me. This\nis such a comfort!\"\n\n\"This comfort you might have had sooner, Fanny, had you sought it. But\nhow could you possibly suppose me against you? How could you imagine me\nan advocate for marriage without love? Were I even careless in general\non such matters, how could you imagine me so where your happiness was at\nstake?\"\n\n\"My uncle thought me wrong, and I knew he had been talking to you.\"\n\n\"As far as you have gone, Fanny, I think you perfectly right. I may be\nsorry, I may be surprised--though hardly _that_, for you had not had\ntime to attach yourself--but I think you perfectly right. Can it admit\nof a question? It is disgraceful to us if it does. You did not love him;\nnothing could have justified your accepting him.\"\n\nFanny had not felt so comfortable for days and days.\n\n\"So far your conduct has been faultless, and they were quite mistaken\nwho wished you to do otherwise. But the matter does not end here.\nCrawford's is no common attachment; he perseveres, with the hope of\ncreating that regard which had not been created before. This, we know,\nmust be a work of time. But\" (with an affectionate smile) \"let him\nsucceed at last, Fanny, let him succeed at last. You have proved\nyourself upright and disinterested, prove yourself grateful and\ntender-hearted; and then you will be the perfect model of a woman which\nI have always believed you born for.\"\n\n\"Oh! never, never, never! he never will succeed with me.\" And she spoke\nwith a warmth which quite astonished Edmund, and which she blushed at\nthe recollection of herself, when she saw his look, and heard him\nreply, \"Never! Fanny!--so very determined and positive! This is not like\nyourself, your rational self.\"\n\n\"I mean,\" she cried, sorrowfully correcting herself, \"that I _think_ I\nnever shall, as far as the future can be answered for; I think I never\nshall return his regard.\"\n\n\"I must hope better things. I am aware, more aware than Crawford can be,\nthat the man who means to make you love him (you having due notice of\nhis intentions) must have very uphill work, for there are all your early\nattachments and habits in battle array; and before he can get your heart\nfor his own use he has to unfasten it from all the holds upon things\nanimate and inanimate, which so many years' growth have confirmed, and\nwhich are considerably tightened for the moment by the very idea\nof separation. I know that the apprehension of being forced to quit\nMansfield will for a time be arming you against him. I wish he had not\nbeen obliged to tell you what he was trying for. I wish he had known you\nas well as I do, Fanny. Between us, I think we should have won you. My\ntheoretical and his practical knowledge together could not have failed.\nHe should have worked upon my plans. I must hope, however, that time,\nproving him (as I firmly believe it will) to deserve you by his steady\naffection, will give him his reward. I cannot suppose that you have not\nthe _wish_ to love him--the natural wish of gratitude. You must have\nsome feeling of that sort. You must be sorry for your own indifference.\"\n\n\"We are so totally unlike,\" said Fanny, avoiding a direct answer, \"we\nare so very, very different in all our inclinations and ways, that\nI consider it as quite impossible we should ever be tolerably happy\ntogether, even if I _could_ like him. There never were two people more\ndissimilar. We have not one taste in common. We should be miserable.\"\n\n\"You are mistaken, Fanny. The dissimilarity is not so strong. You are\nquite enough alike. You _have_ tastes in common. You have moral and\nliterary tastes in common. You have both warm hearts and benevolent\nfeelings; and, Fanny, who that heard him read, and saw you listen to\nShakespeare the other night, will think you unfitted as companions? You\nforget yourself: there is a decided difference in your tempers, I allow.\nHe is lively, you are serious; but so much the better: his spirits will\nsupport yours. It is your disposition to be easily dejected and to fancy\ndifficulties greater than they are. His cheerfulness will counteract\nthis. He sees difficulties nowhere: and his pleasantness and gaiety will\nbe a constant support to you. Your being so far unlike, Fanny, does not\nin the smallest degree make against the probability of your happiness\ntogether: do not imagine it. I am myself convinced that it is rather a\nfavourable circumstance. I am perfectly persuaded that the tempers\nhad better be unlike: I mean unlike in the flow of the spirits, in\nthe manners, in the inclination for much or little company, in the\npropensity to talk or to be silent, to be grave or to be gay. Some\nopposition here is, I am thoroughly convinced, friendly to matrimonial\nhappiness. I exclude extremes, of course; and a very close resemblance\nin all those points would be the likeliest way to produce an extreme.\nA counteraction, gentle and continual, is the best safeguard of manners\nand conduct.\"\n\nFull well could Fanny guess where his thoughts were now: Miss Crawford's\npower was all returning. He had been speaking of her cheerfully from the\nhour of his coming home. His avoiding her was quite at an end. He had\ndined at the Parsonage only the preceding day.\n\nAfter leaving him to his happier thoughts for some minutes, Fanny,\nfeeling it due to herself, returned to Mr. Crawford, and said, \"It\nis not merely in _temper_ that I consider him as totally unsuited to\nmyself; though, in _that_ respect, I think the difference between us too\ngreat, infinitely too great: his spirits often oppress me; but there is\nsomething in him which I object to still more. I must say, cousin, that\nI cannot approve his character. I have not thought well of him from the\ntime of the play. I then saw him behaving, as it appeared to me, so\nvery improperly and unfeelingly--I may speak of it now because it is all\nover--so improperly by poor Mr. Rushworth, not seeming to care how he\nexposed or hurt him, and paying attentions to my cousin Maria, which--in\nshort, at the time of the play, I received an impression which will\nnever be got over.\"\n\n\"My dear Fanny,\" replied Edmund, scarcely hearing her to the end, \"let\nus not, any of us, be judged by what we appeared at that period of\ngeneral folly. The time of the play is a time which I hate to recollect.\nMaria was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong together; but\nnone so wrong as myself. Compared with me, all the rest were blameless.\nI was playing the fool with my eyes open.\"\n\n\"As a bystander,\" said Fanny, \"perhaps I saw more than you did; and I do\nthink that Mr. Rushworth was sometimes very jealous.\"\n\n\"Very possibly. No wonder. Nothing could be more improper than the whole\nbusiness. I am shocked whenever I think that Maria could be capable of\nit; but, if she could undertake the part, we must not be surprised at\nthe rest.\"\n\n\"Before the play, I am much mistaken if _Julia_ did not think he was\npaying her attentions.\"\n\n\"Julia! I have heard before from some one of his being in love with\nJulia; but I could never see anything of it. And, Fanny, though I hope I\ndo justice to my sisters' good qualities, I think it very possible that\nthey might, one or both, be more desirous of being admired by Crawford,\nand might shew that desire rather more unguardedly than was perfectly\nprudent. I can remember that they were evidently fond of his society;\nand with such encouragement, a man like Crawford, lively, and it may\nbe, a little unthinking, might be led on to--there could be nothing very\nstriking, because it is clear that he had no pretensions: his heart was\nreserved for you. And I must say, that its being for you has raised him\ninconceivably in my opinion. It does him the highest honour; it shews\nhis proper estimation of the blessing of domestic happiness and pure\nattachment. It proves him unspoilt by his uncle. It proves him, in\nshort, everything that I had been used to wish to believe him, and\nfeared he was not.\"\n\n\"I am persuaded that he does not think, as he ought, on serious\nsubjects.\"\n\n\"Say, rather, that he has not thought at all upon serious subjects,\nwhich I believe to be a good deal the case. How could it be otherwise,\nwith such an education and adviser? Under the disadvantages, indeed,\nwhich both have had, is it not wonderful that they should be what they\nare? Crawford's _feelings_, I am ready to acknowledge, have hitherto\nbeen too much his guides. Happily, those feelings have generally been\ngood. You will supply the rest; and a most fortunate man he is to attach\nhimself to such a creature--to a woman who, firm as a rock in her own\nprinciples, has a gentleness of character so well adapted to recommend\nthem. He has chosen his partner, indeed, with rare felicity. He will\nmake you happy, Fanny; I know he will make you happy; but you will make\nhim everything.\"\n\n\"I would not engage in such a charge,\" cried Fanny, in a shrinking\naccent; \"in such an office of high responsibility!\"\n\n\"As usual, believing yourself unequal to anything! fancying everything\ntoo much for you! Well, though I may not be able to persuade you into\ndifferent feelings, you will be persuaded into them, I trust. I confess\nmyself sincerely anxious that you may. I have no common interest in\nCrawford's well-doing. Next to your happiness, Fanny, his has the first\nclaim on me. You are aware of my having no common interest in Crawford.\"\n\nFanny was too well aware of it to have anything to say; and they walked\non together some fifty yards in mutual silence and abstraction. Edmund\nfirst began again--\n\n\"I was very much pleased by her manner of speaking of it yesterday,\nparticularly pleased, because I had not depended upon her seeing\neverything in so just a light. I knew she was very fond of you; but yet\nI was afraid of her not estimating your worth to her brother quite as\nit deserved, and of her regretting that he had not rather fixed on\nsome woman of distinction or fortune. I was afraid of the bias of those\nworldly maxims, which she has been too much used to hear. But it was\nvery different. She spoke of you, Fanny, just as she ought. She desires\nthe connexion as warmly as your uncle or myself. We had a long talk\nabout it. I should not have mentioned the subject, though very anxious\nto know her sentiments; but I had not been in the room five minutes\nbefore she began introducing it with all that openness of heart, and\nsweet peculiarity of manner, that spirit and ingenuousness which are so\nmuch a part of herself. Mrs. Grant laughed at her for her rapidity.\"\n\n\"Was Mrs. Grant in the room, then?\"\n\n\"Yes, when I reached the house I found the two sisters together by\nthemselves; and when once we had begun, we had not done with you, Fanny,\ntill Crawford and Dr. Grant came in.\"\n\n\"It is above a week since I saw Miss Crawford.\"\n\n\"Yes, she laments it; yet owns it may have been best. You will see her,\nhowever, before she goes. She is very angry with you, Fanny; you must be\nprepared for that. She calls herself very angry, but you can imagine her\nanger. It is the regret and disappointment of a sister, who thinks her\nbrother has a right to everything he may wish for, at the first moment.\nShe is hurt, as you would be for William; but she loves and esteems you\nwith all her heart.\"\n\n\"I knew she would be very angry with me.\"\n\n\"My dearest Fanny,\" cried Edmund, pressing her arm closer to him, \"do\nnot let the idea of her anger distress you. It is anger to be talked\nof rather than felt. Her heart is made for love and kindness, not for\nresentment. I wish you could have overheard her tribute of praise;\nI wish you could have seen her countenance, when she said that you\n_should_ be Henry's wife. And I observed that she always spoke of you\nas 'Fanny,' which she was never used to do; and it had a sound of most\nsisterly cordiality.\"\n\n\"And Mrs. Grant, did she say--did she speak; was she there all the\ntime?\"\n\n\"Yes, she was agreeing exactly with her sister. The surprise of your\nrefusal, Fanny, seems to have been unbounded. That you could refuse such\na man as Henry Crawford seems more than they can understand. I said what\nI could for you; but in good truth, as they stated the case--you must\nprove yourself to be in your senses as soon as you can by a different\nconduct; nothing else will satisfy them. But this is teasing you. I have\ndone. Do not turn away from me.\"\n\n\"I _should_ have thought,\" said Fanny, after a pause of recollection and\nexertion, \"that every woman must have felt the possibility of a man's\nnot being approved, not being loved by some one of her sex at least, let\nhim be ever so generally agreeable. Let him have all the perfections\nin the world, I think it ought not to be set down as certain that a man\nmust be acceptable to every woman he may happen to like himself. But,\neven supposing it is so, allowing Mr. Crawford to have all the claims\nwhich his sisters think he has, how was I to be prepared to meet him\nwith any feeling answerable to his own? He took me wholly by surprise.\nI had not an idea that his behaviour to me before had any meaning; and\nsurely I was not to be teaching myself to like him only because he was\ntaking what seemed very idle notice of me. In my situation, it would\nhave been the extreme of vanity to be forming expectations on Mr.\nCrawford. I am sure his sisters, rating him as they do, must have\nthought it so, supposing he had meant nothing. How, then, was I to\nbe--to be in love with him the moment he said he was with me? How was I\nto have an attachment at his service, as soon as it was asked for? His\nsisters should consider me as well as him. The higher his deserts, the\nmore improper for me ever to have thought of him. And, and--we think\nvery differently of the nature of women, if they can imagine a woman so\nvery soon capable of returning an affection as this seems to imply.\"\n\n\"My dear, dear Fanny, now I have the truth. I know this to be the truth;\nand most worthy of you are such feelings. I had attributed them to you\nbefore. I thought I could understand you. You have now given exactly\nthe explanation which I ventured to make for you to your friend and Mrs.\nGrant, and they were both better satisfied, though your warm-hearted\nfriend was still run away with a little by the enthusiasm of her\nfondness for Henry. I told them that you were of all human creatures the\none over whom habit had most power and novelty least; and that the very\ncircumstance of the novelty of Crawford's addresses was against him.\nTheir being so new and so recent was all in their disfavour; that you\ncould tolerate nothing that you were not used to; and a great deal more\nto the same purpose, to give them a knowledge of your character. Miss\nCrawford made us laugh by her plans of encouragement for her brother.\nShe meant to urge him to persevere in the hope of being loved in time,\nand of having his addresses most kindly received at the end of about ten\nyears' happy marriage.\"\n\nFanny could with difficulty give the smile that was here asked for. Her\nfeelings were all in revolt. She feared she had been doing wrong: saying\ntoo much, overacting the caution which she had been fancying necessary;\nin guarding against one evil, laying herself open to another; and to\nhave Miss Crawford's liveliness repeated to her at such a moment, and on\nsuch a subject, was a bitter aggravation.\n\nEdmund saw weariness and distress in her face, and immediately resolved\nto forbear all farther discussion; and not even to mention the name\nof Crawford again, except as it might be connected with what _must_ be\nagreeable to her. On this principle, he soon afterwards observed--\"They\ngo on Monday. You are sure, therefore, of seeing your friend either\nto-morrow or Sunday. They really go on Monday; and I was within a trifle\nof being persuaded to stay at Lessingby till that very day! I had almost\npromised it. What a difference it might have made! Those five or six\ndays more at Lessingby might have been felt all my life.\"\n\n\"You were near staying there?\"\n\n\"Very. I was most kindly pressed, and had nearly consented. Had I\nreceived any letter from Mansfield, to tell me how you were all going\non, I believe I should certainly have staid; but I knew nothing that\nhad happened here for a fortnight, and felt that I had been away long\nenough.\"\n\n\"You spent your time pleasantly there?\"\n\n\"Yes; that is, it was the fault of my own mind if I did not. They were\nall very pleasant. I doubt their finding me so. I took uneasiness with\nme, and there was no getting rid of it till I was in Mansfield again.\"\n\n\"The Miss Owens--you liked them, did not you?\"\n\n\"Yes, very well. Pleasant, good-humoured, unaffected girls. But I am\nspoilt, Fanny, for common female society. Good-humoured, unaffected\ngirls will not do for a man who has been used to sensible women. They\nare two distinct orders of being. You and Miss Crawford have made me too\nnice.\"\n\nStill, however, Fanny was oppressed and wearied; he saw it in her looks,\nit could not be talked away; and attempting it no more, he led her\ndirectly, with the kind authority of a privileged guardian, into the\nhouse.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI\n\nEdmund now believed himself perfectly acquainted with all that Fanny\ncould tell, or could leave to be conjectured of her sentiments, and he\nwas satisfied. It had been, as he before presumed, too hasty a measure\non Crawford's side, and time must be given to make the idea first\nfamiliar, and then agreeable to her. She must be used to the\nconsideration of his being in love with her, and then a return of\naffection might not be very distant.\n\nHe gave this opinion as the result of the conversation to his father;\nand recommended there being nothing more said to her: no farther\nattempts to influence or persuade; but that everything should be left to\nCrawford's assiduities, and the natural workings of her own mind.\n\nSir Thomas promised that it should be so. Edmund's account of Fanny's\ndisposition he could believe to be just; he supposed she had all those\nfeelings, but he must consider it as very unfortunate that she _had_;\nfor, less willing than his son to trust to the future, he could not\nhelp fearing that if such very long allowances of time and habit were\nnecessary for her, she might not have persuaded herself into receiving\nhis addresses properly before the young man's inclination for paying\nthem were over. There was nothing to be done, however, but to submit\nquietly and hope the best.\n\nThe promised visit from \"her friend,\" as Edmund called Miss Crawford,\nwas a formidable threat to Fanny, and she lived in continual terror of\nit. As a sister, so partial and so angry, and so little scrupulous of\nwhat she said, and in another light so triumphant and secure, she was in\nevery way an object of painful alarm. Her displeasure, her penetration,\nand her happiness were all fearful to encounter; and the dependence of\nhaving others present when they met was Fanny's only support in looking\nforward to it. She absented herself as little as possible from Lady\nBertram, kept away from the East room, and took no solitary walk in the\nshrubbery, in her caution to avoid any sudden attack.\n\nShe succeeded. She was safe in the breakfast-room, with her aunt, when\nMiss Crawford did come; and the first misery over, and Miss Crawford\nlooking and speaking with much less particularity of expression than she\nhad anticipated, Fanny began to hope there would be nothing worse to be\nendured than a half-hour of moderate agitation. But here she hoped too\nmuch; Miss Crawford was not the slave of opportunity. She was determined\nto see Fanny alone, and therefore said to her tolerably soon, in a low\nvoice, \"I must speak to you for a few minutes somewhere\"; words that\nFanny felt all over her, in all her pulses and all her nerves. Denial\nwas impossible. Her habits of ready submission, on the contrary, made\nher almost instantly rise and lead the way out of the room. She did it\nwith wretched feelings, but it was inevitable.\n\nThey were no sooner in the hall than all restraint of countenance was\nover on Miss Crawford's side. She immediately shook her head at Fanny\nwith arch, yet affectionate reproach, and taking her hand, seemed hardly\nable to help beginning directly. She said nothing, however, but, \"Sad,\nsad girl! I do not know when I shall have done scolding you,\" and had\ndiscretion enough to reserve the rest till they might be secure of\nhaving four walls to themselves. Fanny naturally turned upstairs, and\ntook her guest to the apartment which was now always fit for comfortable\nuse; opening the door, however, with a most aching heart, and feeling\nthat she had a more distressing scene before her than ever that spot had\nyet witnessed. But the evil ready to burst on her was at least delayed\nby the sudden change in Miss Crawford's ideas; by the strong effect on\nher mind which the finding herself in the East room again produced.\n\n\"Ha!\" she cried, with instant animation, \"am I here again? The East\nroom! Once only was I in this room before\"; and after stopping to look\nabout her, and seemingly to retrace all that had then passed, she added,\n\"Once only before. Do you remember it? I came to rehearse. Your cousin\ncame too; and we had a rehearsal. You were our audience and prompter.\nA delightful rehearsal. I shall never forget it. Here we were, just in\nthis part of the room: here was your cousin, here was I, here were the\nchairs. Oh! why will such things ever pass away?\"\n\nHappily for her companion, she wanted no answer. Her mind was entirely\nself-engrossed. She was in a reverie of sweet remembrances.\n\n\"The scene we were rehearsing was so very remarkable! The subject of\nit so very--very--what shall I say? He was to be describing and\nrecommending matrimony to me. I think I see him now, trying to be as\ndemure and composed as Anhalt ought, through the two long speeches.\n'When two sympathetic hearts meet in the marriage state, matrimony\nmay be called a happy life.' I suppose no time can ever wear out the\nimpression I have of his looks and voice as he said those words. It was\ncurious, very curious, that we should have such a scene to play! If I\nhad the power of recalling any one week of my existence, it should be\nthat week--that acting week. Say what you would, Fanny, it should be\n_that_; for I never knew such exquisite happiness in any other. His\nsturdy spirit to bend as it did! Oh! it was sweet beyond expression. But\nalas, that very evening destroyed it all. That very evening brought your\nmost unwelcome uncle. Poor Sir Thomas, who was glad to see you? Yet,\nFanny, do not imagine I would now speak disrespectfully of Sir Thomas,\nthough I certainly did hate him for many a week. No, I do him justice\nnow. He is just what the head of such a family should be. Nay, in sober\nsadness, I believe I now love you all.\" And having said so, with a\ndegree of tenderness and consciousness which Fanny had never seen in her\nbefore, and now thought only too becoming, she turned away for a moment\nto recover herself. \"I have had a little fit since I came into this\nroom, as you may perceive,\" said she presently, with a playful smile,\n\"but it is over now; so let us sit down and be comfortable; for as to\nscolding you, Fanny, which I came fully intending to do, I have not\nthe heart for it when it comes to the point.\" And embracing her very\naffectionately, \"Good, gentle Fanny! when I think of this being the\nlast time of seeing you for I do not know how long, I feel it quite\nimpossible to do anything but love you.\"\n\nFanny was affected. She had not foreseen anything of this, and her\nfeelings could seldom withstand the melancholy influence of the word\n\"last.\" She cried as if she had loved Miss Crawford more than she\npossibly could; and Miss Crawford, yet farther softened by the sight of\nsuch emotion, hung about her with fondness, and said, \"I hate to leave\nyou. I shall see no one half so amiable where I am going. Who says we\nshall not be sisters? I know we shall. I feel that we are born to\nbe connected; and those tears convince me that you feel it too, dear\nFanny.\"\n\nFanny roused herself, and replying only in part, said, \"But you are\nonly going from one set of friends to another. You are going to a very\nparticular friend.\"\n\n\"Yes, very true. Mrs. Fraser has been my intimate friend for years. But\nI have not the least inclination to go near her. I can think only of the\nfriends I am leaving: my excellent sister, yourself, and the Bertrams in\ngeneral. You have all so much more _heart_ among you than one finds in\nthe world at large. You all give me a feeling of being able to trust and\nconfide in you, which in common intercourse one knows nothing of. I wish\nI had settled with Mrs. Fraser not to go to her till after Easter, a\nmuch better time for the visit, but now I cannot put her off. And when\nI have done with her I must go to her sister, Lady Stornaway, because\n_she_ was rather my most particular friend of the two, but I have not\ncared much for _her_ these three years.\"\n\nAfter this speech the two girls sat many minutes silent, each\nthoughtful: Fanny meditating on the different sorts of friendship in the\nworld, Mary on something of less philosophic tendency. _She_ first spoke\nagain.\n\n\"How perfectly I remember my resolving to look for you upstairs, and\nsetting off to find my way to the East room, without having an idea\nwhereabouts it was! How well I remember what I was thinking of as I came\nalong, and my looking in and seeing you here sitting at this table at\nwork; and then your cousin's astonishment, when he opened the door, at\nseeing me here! To be sure, your uncle's returning that very evening!\nThere never was anything quite like it.\"\n\nAnother short fit of abstraction followed, when, shaking it off, she\nthus attacked her companion.\n\n\"Why, Fanny, you are absolutely in a reverie. Thinking, I hope, of one\nwho is always thinking of you. Oh! that I could transport you for a\nshort time into our circle in town, that you might understand how your\npower over Henry is thought of there! Oh! the envyings and heartburnings\nof dozens and dozens; the wonder, the incredulity that will be felt at\nhearing what you have done! For as to secrecy, Henry is quite the hero\nof an old romance, and glories in his chains. You should come to London\nto know how to estimate your conquest. If you were to see how he is\ncourted, and how I am courted for his sake! Now, I am well aware that\nI shall not be half so welcome to Mrs. Fraser in consequence of his\nsituation with you. When she comes to know the truth she will, very\nlikely, wish me in Northamptonshire again; for there is a daughter of\nMr. Fraser, by a first wife, whom she is wild to get married, and\nwants Henry to take. Oh! she has been trying for him to such a degree.\nInnocent and quiet as you sit here, you cannot have an idea of the\n_sensation_ that you will be occasioning, of the curiosity there will\nbe to see you, of the endless questions I shall have to answer! Poor\nMargaret Fraser will be at me for ever about your eyes and your teeth,\nand how you do your hair, and who makes your shoes. I wish Margaret were\nmarried, for my poor friend's sake, for I look upon the Frasers to be\nabout as unhappy as most other married people. And yet it was a most\ndesirable match for Janet at the time. We were all delighted. She could\nnot do otherwise than accept him, for he was rich, and she had nothing;\nbut he turns out ill-tempered and _exigeant_, and wants a young woman,\na beautiful young woman of five-and-twenty, to be as steady as himself.\nAnd my friend does not manage him well; she does not seem to know how\nto make the best of it. There is a spirit of irritation which, to say\nnothing worse, is certainly very ill-bred. In their house I shall call\nto mind the conjugal manners of Mansfield Parsonage with respect. Even\nDr. Grant does shew a thorough confidence in my sister, and a certain\nconsideration for her judgment, which makes one feel there _is_\nattachment; but of that I shall see nothing with the Frasers. I shall\nbe at Mansfield for ever, Fanny. My own sister as a wife, Sir Thomas\nBertram as a husband, are my standards of perfection. Poor Janet has\nbeen sadly taken in, and yet there was nothing improper on her side:\nshe did not run into the match inconsiderately; there was no want of\nforesight. She took three days to consider of his proposals, and during\nthose three days asked the advice of everybody connected with her whose\nopinion was worth having, and especially applied to my late dear aunt,\nwhose knowledge of the world made her judgment very generally and\ndeservedly looked up to by all the young people of her acquaintance, and\nshe was decidedly in favour of Mr. Fraser. This seems as if nothing were\na security for matrimonial comfort. I have not so much to say for my\nfriend Flora, who jilted a very nice young man in the Blues for the sake\nof that horrid Lord Stornaway, who has about as much sense, Fanny, as\nMr. Rushworth, but much worse-looking, and with a blackguard character.\nI _had_ my doubts at the time about her being right, for he has not even\nthe air of a gentleman, and now I am sure she was wrong. By the bye,\nFlora Ross was dying for Henry the first winter she came out. But were I\nto attempt to tell you of all the women whom I have known to be in love\nwith him, I should never have done. It is you, only you, insensible\nFanny, who can think of him with anything like indifference. But are you\nso insensible as you profess yourself? No, no, I see you are not.\"\n\nThere was, indeed, so deep a blush over Fanny's face at that moment as\nmight warrant strong suspicion in a predisposed mind.\n\n\"Excellent creature! I will not tease you. Everything shall take its\ncourse. But, dear Fanny, you must allow that you were not so absolutely\nunprepared to have the question asked as your cousin fancies. It is not\npossible but that you must have had some thoughts on the subject, some\nsurmises as to what might be. You must have seen that he was trying to\nplease you by every attention in his power. Was not he devoted to you\nat the ball? And then before the ball, the necklace! Oh! you received\nit just as it was meant. You were as conscious as heart could desire. I\nremember it perfectly.\"\n\n\"Do you mean, then, that your brother knew of the necklace beforehand?\nOh! Miss Crawford, _that_ was not fair.\"\n\n\"Knew of it! It was his own doing entirely, his own thought. I am\nashamed to say that it had never entered my head, but I was delighted to\nact on his proposal for both your sakes.\"\n\n\"I will not say,\" replied Fanny, \"that I was not half afraid at the time\nof its being so, for there was something in your look that frightened\nme, but not at first; I was as unsuspicious of it at first--indeed,\nindeed I was. It is as true as that I sit here. And had I had an idea\nof it, nothing should have induced me to accept the necklace. As to your\nbrother's behaviour, certainly I was sensible of a particularity: I had\nbeen sensible of it some little time, perhaps two or three weeks; but\nthen I considered it as meaning nothing: I put it down as simply being\nhis way, and was as far from supposing as from wishing him to have any\nserious thoughts of me. I had not, Miss Crawford, been an inattentive\nobserver of what was passing between him and some part of this family in\nthe summer and autumn. I was quiet, but I was not blind. I could not\nbut see that Mr. Crawford allowed himself in gallantries which did mean\nnothing.\"\n\n\"Ah! I cannot deny it. He has now and then been a sad flirt, and\ncared very little for the havoc he might be making in young ladies'\naffections. I have often scolded him for it, but it is his only fault;\nand there is this to be said, that very few young ladies have any\naffections worth caring for. And then, Fanny, the glory of fixing one\nwho has been shot at by so many; of having it in one's power to pay off\nthe debts of one's sex! Oh! I am sure it is not in woman's nature to\nrefuse such a triumph.\"\n\nFanny shook her head. \"I cannot think well of a man who sports with any\nwoman's feelings; and there may often be a great deal more suffered than\na stander-by can judge of.\"\n\n\"I do not defend him. I leave him entirely to your mercy, and when he\nhas got you at Everingham, I do not care how much you lecture him. But\nthis I will say, that his fault, the liking to make girls a little\nin love with him, is not half so dangerous to a wife's happiness as a\ntendency to fall in love himself, which he has never been addicted to.\nAnd I do seriously and truly believe that he is attached to you in a way\nthat he never was to any woman before; that he loves you with all his\nheart, and will love you as nearly for ever as possible. If any man ever\nloved a woman for ever, I think Henry will do as much for you.\"\n\nFanny could not avoid a faint smile, but had nothing to say.\n\n\"I cannot imagine Henry ever to have been happier,\" continued Mary\npresently, \"than when he had succeeded in getting your brother's\ncommission.\"\n\nShe had made a sure push at Fanny's feelings here.\n\n\"Oh! yes. How very, very kind of him.\"\n\n\"I know he must have exerted himself very much, for I know the parties\nhe had to move. The Admiral hates trouble, and scorns asking favours;\nand there are so many young men's claims to be attended to in the same\nway, that a friendship and energy, not very determined, is easily put\nby. What a happy creature William must be! I wish we could see him.\"\n\nPoor Fanny's mind was thrown into the most distressing of all its\nvarieties. The recollection of what had been done for William was always\nthe most powerful disturber of every decision against Mr. Crawford; and\nshe sat thinking deeply of it till Mary, who had been first watching\nher complacently, and then musing on something else, suddenly called\nher attention by saying: \"I should like to sit talking with you here all\nday, but we must not forget the ladies below, and so good-bye, my dear,\nmy amiable, my excellent Fanny, for though we shall nominally part in\nthe breakfast-parlour, I must take leave of you here. And I do take\nleave, longing for a happy reunion, and trusting that when we meet\nagain, it will be under circumstances which may open our hearts to each\nother without any remnant or shadow of reserve.\"\n\nA very, very kind embrace, and some agitation of manner, accompanied\nthese words.\n\n\"I shall see your cousin in town soon: he talks of being there tolerably\nsoon; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the course of the spring; and your\neldest cousin, and the Rushworths, and Julia, I am sure of meeting again\nand again, and all but you. I have two favours to ask, Fanny: one is\nyour correspondence. You must write to me. And the other, that you will\noften call on Mrs. Grant, and make her amends for my being gone.\"\n\nThe first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not have been\nasked; but it was impossible for her to refuse the correspondence; it\nwas impossible for her even not to accede to it more readily than\nher own judgment authorised. There was no resisting so much apparent\naffection. Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond\ntreatment, and from having hitherto known so little of it, she was the\nmore overcome by Miss Crawford's. Besides, there was gratitude towards\nher, for having made their _tete-a-tete_ so much less painful than her\nfears had predicted.\n\nIt was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without\ndetection. Her secret was still her own; and while that was the case,\nshe thought she could resign herself to almost everything.\n\nIn the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and\nsat some time with them; and her spirits not being previously in the\nstrongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him, because\nhe really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said\nanything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him,\nthough hoping she might never see him again till he were the husband of\nsome other woman.\n\nWhen it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand, he would\nnot be denied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing that she heard,\nand when he had left the room, she was better pleased that such a token\nof friendship had passed.\n\nOn the morrow the Crawfords were gone.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII\n\nMr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas's next object was that he should be\nmissed; and he entertained great hope that his niece would find a blank\nin the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt, or\nfancied, an evil. She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering\nform; and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into\nnothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched her\nwith this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success. He hardly\nknew whether there were any difference in her spirits or not. She\nwas always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond his\ndiscrimination. He did not understand her: he felt that he did not; and\ntherefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on the\npresent occasion, and whether she were more or less happy than she had\nbeen.\n\nEdmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his father\na little unreasonable in supposing the first three or four days could\nproduce any.\n\nWhat chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford's sister, the friend\nand companion who had been so much to her, should not be more visibly\nregretted. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of _her_, and had so\nlittle voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation.\n\nAlas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the\nchief bane of Fanny's comfort. If she could have believed Mary's future\nfate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the brother's\nshould be, if she could have hoped her return thither to be as distant\nas she was much inclined to think his, she would have been light of\nheart indeed; but the more she recollected and observed, the more deeply\nwas she convinced that everything was now in a fairer train for Miss\nCrawford's marrying Edmund than it had ever been before. On his side the\ninclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal. His objections, the\nscruples of his integrity, seemed all done away, nobody could tell\nhow; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition were equally got\nover--and equally without apparent reason. It could only be imputed to\nincreasing attachment. His good and her bad feelings yielded to love,\nand such love must unite them. He was to go to town as soon as some\nbusiness relative to Thornton Lacey were completed--perhaps within a\nfortnight; he talked of going, he loved to talk of it; and when once\nwith her again, Fanny could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be\nas certain as his offer; and yet there were bad feelings still remaining\nwhich made the prospect of it most sorrowful to her, independently, she\nbelieved, independently of self.\n\nIn their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some amiable\nsensations, and much personal kindness, had still been Miss Crawford;\nstill shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any suspicion\nof being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. She might love, but\nshe did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. Fanny believed there\nwas scarcely a second feeling in common between them; and she may be\nforgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of Miss Crawford's\nfuture improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking that if Edmund's\ninfluence in this season of love had already done so little in clearing\nher judgment, and regulating her notions, his worth would be finally\nwasted on her even in years of matrimony.\n\nExperience might have hoped more for any young people so circumstanced,\nand impartiality would not have denied to Miss Crawford's nature that\nparticipation of the general nature of women which would lead her to\nadopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own. But\nas such were Fanny's persuasions, she suffered very much from them, and\ncould never speak of Miss Crawford without pain.\n\nSir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes and his own\nobservations, still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of human\nnature, to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and consequence\non his niece's spirits, and the past attentions of the lover producing a\ncraving for their return; and he was soon afterwards able to account for\nhis not yet completely and indubitably seeing all this, by the prospect\nof another visitor, whose approach he could allow to be quite enough to\nsupport the spirits he was watching. William had obtained a ten days'\nleave of absence, to be given to Northamptonshire, and was coming, the\nhappiest of lieutenants, because the latest made, to shew his happiness\nand describe his uniform.\n\nHe came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there too,\nhad not cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty. So the\nuniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before Fanny\nhad any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the freshness\nof its wearer's feelings must be worn away. It would be sunk into a\nbadge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming, or more worthless,\nthan the uniform of a lieutenant, who has been a lieutenant a year or\ntwo, and sees others made commanders before him? So reasoned Edmund,\ntill his father made him the confidant of a scheme which placed Fanny's\nchance of seeing the second lieutenant of H.M.S. Thrush in all his glory\nin another light.\n\nThis scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to\nPortsmouth, and spend a little time with her own family. It had occurred\nto Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and desirable\nmeasure; but before he absolutely made up his mind, he consulted his\nson. Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing but what was right.\nThe thing was good in itself, and could not be done at a better time;\nand he had no doubt of it being highly agreeable to Fanny. This was\nenough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive \"then so it shall be\"\nclosed that stage of the business; Sir Thomas retiring from it with some\nfeelings of satisfaction, and views of good over and above what he had\ncommunicated to his son; for his prime motive in sending her away had\nvery little to do with the propriety of her seeing her parents again,\nand nothing at all with any idea of making her happy. He certainly\nwished her to go willingly, but he as certainly wished her to be\nheartily sick of home before her visit ended; and that a little\nabstinence from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield Park would\nbring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a juster estimate\nof the value of that home of greater permanence, and equal comfort, of\nwhich she had the offer.\n\nIt was a medicinal project upon his niece's understanding, which he must\nconsider as at present diseased. A residence of eight or nine years in\nthe abode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered her powers of\ncomparing and judging. Her father's house would, in all probability,\nteach her the value of a good income; and he trusted that she would be\nthe wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the experiment he had\ndevised.\n\nHad Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong\nattack of them when she first understood what was intended, when her\nuncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers,\nand sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life; of\nreturning for a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy, with\nWilliam for the protector and companion of her journey, and the\ncertainty of continuing to see William to the last hour of his remaining\non land. Had she ever given way to bursts of delight, it must have been\nthen, for she was delighted, but her happiness was of a quiet, deep,\nheart-swelling sort; and though never a great talker, she was always\nmore inclined to silence when feeling most strongly. At the moment she\ncould only thank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarised with the\nvisions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak more largely\nto William and Edmund of what she felt; but still there were emotions\nof tenderness that could not be clothed in words. The remembrance of all\nher earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered in being torn from\nthem, came over her with renewed strength, and it seemed as if to be\nat home again would heal every pain that had since grown out of the\nseparation. To be in the centre of such a circle, loved by so many,\nand more loved by all than she had ever been before; to feel affection\nwithout fear or restraint; to feel herself the equal of those who\nsurrounded her; to be at peace from all mention of the Crawfords, safe\nfrom every look which could be fancied a reproach on their account. This\nwas a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness that could be but half\nacknowledged.\n\nEdmund, too--to be two months from _him_ (and perhaps she might be\nallowed to make her absence three) must do her good. At a distance,\nunassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual\nirritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence,\nshe should be able to reason herself into a properer state; she should\nbe able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there,\nwithout wretchedness. What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield was\nto become a slight evil at Portsmouth.\n\nThe only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram's being comfortable\nwithout her. She was of use to no one else; but _there_ she might be\nmissed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and that part of\nthe arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish,\nand what only _he_ could have accomplished at all.\n\nBut he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on\nany measure, he could always carry it through; and now by dint of long\ntalking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny's\nsometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go;\nobtaining it rather from submission, however, than conviction, for Lady\nBertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought\nFanny ought to go, and therefore that she must. In the calmness of\nher own dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations,\nunbiassed by his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any\nnecessity for Fanny's ever going near a father and mother who had done\nwithout her so long, while she was so useful to herself. And as to the\nnot missing her, which under Mrs. Norris's discussion was the point\nattempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily against admitting\nany such thing.\n\nSir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. He\ncalled it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and self-command\nas such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be very\nwell spared--_she_ being ready to give up all her own time to her as\nrequested--and, in short, could not really be wanted or missed.\n\n\"That may be, sister,\" was all Lady Bertram's reply. \"I dare say you are\nvery right; but I am sure I shall miss her very much.\"\n\nThe next step was to communicate with Portsmouth. Fanny wrote to offer\nherself; and her mother's answer, though short, was so kind--a few\nsimple lines expressed so natural and motherly a joy in the prospect\nof seeing her child again, as to confirm all the daughter's views of\nhappiness in being with her--convincing her that she should now find a\nwarm and affectionate friend in the \"mama\" who had certainly shewn no\nremarkable fondness for her formerly; but this she could easily suppose\nto have been her own fault or her own fancy. She had probably alienated\nlove by the helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper, or been\nunreasonable in wanting a larger share than any one among so many could\ndeserve. Now, when she knew better how to be useful, and how to forbear,\nand when her mother could be no longer occupied by the incessant\ndemands of a house full of little children, there would be leisure and\ninclination for every comfort, and they should soon be what mother and\ndaughter ought to be to each other.\n\nWilliam was almost as happy in the plan as his sister. It would be the\ngreatest pleasure to him to have her there to the last moment before he\nsailed, and perhaps find her there still when he came in from his first\ncruise. And besides, he wanted her so very much to see the Thrush before\nshe went out of harbour--the Thrush was certainly the finest sloop in\nthe service--and there were several improvements in the dockyard, too,\nwhich he quite longed to shew her.\n\nHe did not scruple to add that her being at home for a while would be a\ngreat advantage to everybody.\n\n\"I do not know how it is,\" said he; \"but we seem to want some of\nyour nice ways and orderliness at my father's. The house is always in\nconfusion. You will set things going in a better way, I am sure. You\nwill tell my mother how it all ought to be, and you will be so useful to\nSusan, and you will teach Betsey, and make the boys love and mind you.\nHow right and comfortable it will all be!\"\n\nBy the time Mrs. Price's answer arrived, there remained but a very few\ndays more to be spent at Mansfield; and for part of one of those days\nthe young travellers were in a good deal of alarm on the subject of\ntheir journey, for when the mode of it came to be talked of, and Mrs.\nNorris found that all her anxiety to save her brother-in-law's money\nwas vain, and that in spite of her wishes and hints for a less expensive\nconveyance of Fanny, they were to travel post; when she saw Sir Thomas\nactually give William notes for the purpose, she was struck with the\nidea of there being room for a third in the carriage, and suddenly\nseized with a strong inclination to go with them, to go and see her poor\ndear sister Price. She proclaimed her thoughts. She must say that she\nhad more than half a mind to go with the young people; it would be such\nan indulgence to her; she had not seen her poor dear sister Price for\nmore than twenty years; and it would be a help to the young people in\ntheir journey to have her older head to manage for them; and she could\nnot help thinking her poor dear sister Price would feel it very unkind\nof her not to come by such an opportunity.\n\nWilliam and Fanny were horror-struck at the idea.\n\nAll the comfort of their comfortable journey would be destroyed at\nonce. With woeful countenances they looked at each other. Their suspense\nlasted an hour or two. No one interfered to encourage or dissuade. Mrs.\nNorris was left to settle the matter by herself; and it ended, to the\ninfinite joy of her nephew and niece, in the recollection that she could\nnot possibly be spared from Mansfield Park at present; that she was a\ngreat deal too necessary to Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram for her to\nbe able to answer it to herself to leave them even for a week, and\ntherefore must certainly sacrifice every other pleasure to that of being\nuseful to them.\n\nIt had, in fact, occurred to her, that though taken to Portsmouth for\nnothing, it would be hardly possible for her to avoid paying her own\nexpenses back again. So her poor dear sister Price was left to all the\ndisappointment of her missing such an opportunity, and another twenty\nyears' absence, perhaps, begun.\n\nEdmund's plans were affected by this Portsmouth journey, this absence of\nFanny's. He too had a sacrifice to make to Mansfield Park as well as his\naunt. He had intended, about this time, to be going to London; but he\ncould not leave his father and mother just when everybody else of most\nimportance to their comfort was leaving them; and with an effort, felt\nbut not boasted of, he delayed for a week or two longer a journey which\nhe was looking forward to with the hope of its fixing his happiness for\never.\n\nHe told Fanny of it. She knew so much already, that she must know\neverything. It made the substance of one other confidential discourse\nabout Miss Crawford; and Fanny was the more affected from feeling it to\nbe the last time in which Miss Crawford's name would ever be mentioned\nbetween them with any remains of liberty. Once afterwards she was\nalluded to by him. Lady Bertram had been telling her niece in the\nevening to write to her soon and often, and promising to be a good\ncorrespondent herself; and Edmund, at a convenient moment, then added\nin a whisper, \"And _I_ shall write to you, Fanny, when I have anything\nworth writing about, anything to say that I think you will like to hear,\nand that you will not hear so soon from any other quarter.\" Had she\ndoubted his meaning while she listened, the glow in his face, when she\nlooked up at him, would have been decisive.\n\nFor this letter she must try to arm herself. That a letter from Edmund\nshould be a subject of terror! She began to feel that she had not yet\ngone through all the changes of opinion and sentiment which the progress\nof time and variation of circumstances occasion in this world of\nchanges. The vicissitudes of the human mind had not yet been exhausted\nby her.\n\nPoor Fanny! though going as she did willingly and eagerly, the last\nevening at Mansfield Park must still be wretchedness. Her heart was\ncompletely sad at parting. She had tears for every room in the house,\nmuch more for every beloved inhabitant. She clung to her aunt, because\nshe would miss her; she kissed the hand of her uncle with struggling\nsobs, because she had displeased him; and as for Edmund, she could\nneither speak, nor look, nor think, when the last moment came with\n_him_; and it was not till it was over that she knew he was giving her\nthe affectionate farewell of a brother.\n\nAll this passed overnight, for the journey was to begin very early in\nthe morning; and when the small, diminished party met at breakfast,\nWilliam and Fanny were talked of as already advanced one stage.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII\n\nThe novelty of travelling, and the happiness of being with William, soon\nproduced their natural effect on Fanny's spirits, when Mansfield Park\nwas fairly left behind; and by the time their first stage was ended, and\nthey were to quit Sir Thomas's carriage, she was able to take leave of\nthe old coachman, and send back proper messages, with cheerful looks.\n\nOf pleasant talk between the brother and sister there was no end.\nEverything supplied an amusement to the high glee of William's mind, and\nhe was full of frolic and joke in the intervals of their higher-toned\nsubjects, all of which ended, if they did not begin, in praise of the\nThrush, conjectures how she would be employed, schemes for an action\nwith some superior force, which (supposing the first lieutenant out of\nthe way, and William was not very merciful to the first lieutenant) was\nto give himself the next step as soon as possible, or speculations upon\nprize-money, which was to be generously distributed at home, with only\nthe reservation of enough to make the little cottage comfortable,\nin which he and Fanny were to pass all their middle and later life\ntogether.\n\nFanny's immediate concerns, as far as they involved Mr. Crawford, made\nno part of their conversation. William knew what had passed, and from\nhis heart lamented that his sister's feelings should be so cold towards\na man whom he must consider as the first of human characters; but he was\nof an age to be all for love, and therefore unable to blame; and knowing\nher wish on the subject, he would not distress her by the slightest\nallusion.\n\nShe had reason to suppose herself not yet forgotten by Mr. Crawford. She\nhad heard repeatedly from his sister within the three weeks which had\npassed since their leaving Mansfield, and in each letter there had been\na few lines from himself, warm and determined like his speeches. It\nwas a correspondence which Fanny found quite as unpleasant as she had\nfeared. Miss Crawford's style of writing, lively and affectionate, was\nitself an evil, independent of what she was thus forced into reading\nfrom the brother's pen, for Edmund would never rest till she had read\nthe chief of the letter to him; and then she had to listen to his\nadmiration of her language, and the warmth of her attachments. There\nhad, in fact, been so much of message, of allusion, of recollection, so\nmuch of Mansfield in every letter, that Fanny could not but suppose it\nmeant for him to hear; and to find herself forced into a purpose of\nthat kind, compelled into a correspondence which was bringing her the\naddresses of the man she did not love, and obliging her to administer\nto the adverse passion of the man she did, was cruelly mortifying. Here,\ntoo, her present removal promised advantage. When no longer under the\nsame roof with Edmund, she trusted that Miss Crawford would have no\nmotive for writing strong enough to overcome the trouble, and that at\nPortsmouth their correspondence would dwindle into nothing.\n\nWith such thoughts as these, among ten hundred others, Fanny proceeded\nin her journey safely and cheerfully, and as expeditiously as could\nrationally be hoped in the dirty month of February. They entered Oxford,\nbut she could take only a hasty glimpse of Edmund's college as they\npassed along, and made no stop anywhere till they reached Newbury, where\na comfortable meal, uniting dinner and supper, wound up the enjoyments\nand fatigues of the day.\n\nThe next morning saw them off again at an early hour; and with no\nevents, and no delays, they regularly advanced, and were in the environs\nof Portsmouth while there was yet daylight for Fanny to look around her,\nand wonder at the new buildings. They passed the drawbridge, and\nentered the town; and the light was only beginning to fail as, guided\nby William's powerful voice, they were rattled into a narrow street,\nleading from the High Street, and drawn up before the door of a small\nhouse now inhabited by Mr. Price.\n\nFanny was all agitation and flutter; all hope and apprehension. The\nmoment they stopped, a trollopy-looking maidservant, seemingly in\nwaiting for them at the door, stepped forward, and more intent on\ntelling the news than giving them any help, immediately began with, \"The\nThrush is gone out of harbour, please sir, and one of the officers has\nbeen here to--\" She was interrupted by a fine tall boy of eleven years\nold, who, rushing out of the house, pushed the maid aside, and while\nWilliam was opening the chaise-door himself, called out, \"You are just\nin time. We have been looking for you this half-hour. The Thrush went\nout of harbour this morning. I saw her. It was a beautiful sight. And\nthey think she will have her orders in a day or two. And Mr. Campbell\nwas here at four o'clock to ask for you: he has got one of the Thrush's\nboats, and is going off to her at six, and hoped you would be here in\ntime to go with him.\"\n\nA stare or two at Fanny, as William helped her out of the carriage, was\nall the voluntary notice which this brother bestowed; but he made no\nobjection to her kissing him, though still entirely engaged in detailing\nfarther particulars of the Thrush's going out of harbour, in which\nhe had a strong right of interest, being to commence his career of\nseamanship in her at this very time.\n\nAnother moment and Fanny was in the narrow entrance-passage of the\nhouse, and in her mother's arms, who met her there with looks of true\nkindness, and with features which Fanny loved the more, because they\nbrought her aunt Bertram's before her, and there were her two sisters:\nSusan, a well-grown fine girl of fourteen, and Betsey, the youngest of\nthe family, about five--both glad to see her in their way, though with\nno advantage of manner in receiving her. But manner Fanny did not want.\nWould they but love her, she should be satisfied.\n\nShe was then taken into a parlour, so small that her first conviction\nwas of its being only a passage-room to something better, and she stood\nfor a moment expecting to be invited on; but when she saw there was\nno other door, and that there were signs of habitation before her, she\ncalled back her thoughts, reproved herself, and grieved lest they should\nhave been suspected. Her mother, however, could not stay long enough\nto suspect anything. She was gone again to the street-door, to welcome\nWilliam. \"Oh! my dear William, how glad I am to see you. But have you\nheard about the Thrush? She is gone out of harbour already; three days\nbefore we had any thought of it; and I do not know what I am to do about\nSam's things, they will never be ready in time; for she may have her\norders to-morrow, perhaps. It takes me quite unawares. And now you must\nbe off for Spithead too. Campbell has been here, quite in a worry about\nyou; and now what shall we do? I thought to have had such a comfortable\nevening with you, and here everything comes upon me at once.\"\n\nHer son answered cheerfully, telling her that everything was always for\nthe best; and making light of his own inconvenience in being obliged to\nhurry away so soon.\n\n\"To be sure, I had much rather she had stayed in harbour, that I might\nhave sat a few hours with you in comfort; but as there is a boat ashore,\nI had better go off at once, and there is no help for it. Whereabouts\ndoes the Thrush lay at Spithead? Near the Canopus? But no matter; here's\nFanny in the parlour, and why should we stay in the passage? Come,\nmother, you have hardly looked at your own dear Fanny yet.\"\n\nIn they both came, and Mrs. Price having kindly kissed her daughter\nagain, and commented a little on her growth, began with very natural\nsolicitude to feel for their fatigues and wants as travellers.\n\n\"Poor dears! how tired you must both be! and now, what will you have? I\nbegan to think you would never come. Betsey and I have been watching for\nyou this half-hour. And when did you get anything to eat? And what would\nyou like to have now? I could not tell whether you would be for some\nmeat, or only a dish of tea, after your journey, or else I would have\ngot something ready. And now I am afraid Campbell will be here before\nthere is time to dress a steak, and we have no butcher at hand. It is\nvery inconvenient to have no butcher in the street. We were better off\nin our last house. Perhaps you would like some tea as soon as it can be\ngot.\"\n\nThey both declared they should prefer it to anything. \"Then, Betsey, my\ndear, run into the kitchen and see if Rebecca has put the water on; and\ntell her to bring in the tea-things as soon as she can. I wish we could\nget the bell mended; but Betsey is a very handy little messenger.\"\n\nBetsey went with alacrity, proud to shew her abilities before her fine\nnew sister.\n\n\"Dear me!\" continued the anxious mother, \"what a sad fire we have got,\nand I dare say you are both starved with cold. Draw your chair nearer,\nmy dear. I cannot think what Rebecca has been about. I am sure I told\nher to bring some coals half an hour ago. Susan, you should have taken\ncare of the fire.\"\n\n\"I was upstairs, mama, moving my things,\" said Susan, in a fearless,\nself-defending tone, which startled Fanny. \"You know you had but just\nsettled that my sister Fanny and I should have the other room; and I\ncould not get Rebecca to give me any help.\"\n\nFarther discussion was prevented by various bustles: first, the driver\ncame to be paid; then there was a squabble between Sam and Rebecca about\nthe manner of carrying up his sister's trunk, which he would manage all\nhis own way; and lastly, in walked Mr. Price himself, his own loud voice\npreceding him, as with something of the oath kind he kicked away his\nson's port-manteau and his daughter's bandbox in the passage, and called\nout for a candle; no candle was brought, however, and he walked into the\nroom.\n\nFanny with doubting feelings had risen to meet him, but sank down again\non finding herself undistinguished in the dusk, and unthought of. With\na friendly shake of his son's hand, and an eager voice, he instantly\nbegan--\"Ha! welcome back, my boy. Glad to see you. Have you heard the\nnews? The Thrush went out of harbour this morning. Sharp is the\nword, you see! By G--, you are just in time! The doctor has been here\ninquiring for you: he has got one of the boats, and is to be off for\nSpithead by six, so you had better go with him. I have been to Turner's\nabout your mess; it is all in a way to be done. I should not wonder if\nyou had your orders to-morrow: but you cannot sail with this wind, if\nyou are to cruise to the westward; and Captain Walsh thinks you will\ncertainly have a cruise to the westward, with the Elephant. By G--, I\nwish you may! But old Scholey was saying, just now, that he thought you\nwould be sent first to the Texel. Well, well, we are ready, whatever\nhappens. But by G--, you lost a fine sight by not being here in the\nmorning to see the Thrush go out of harbour! I would not have been out\nof the way for a thousand pounds. Old Scholey ran in at breakfast-time,\nto say she had slipped her moorings and was coming out, I jumped up, and\nmade but two steps to the platform. If ever there was a perfect beauty\nafloat, she is one; and there she lays at Spithead, and anybody in\nEngland would take her for an eight-and-twenty. I was upon the platform\ntwo hours this afternoon looking at her. She lays close to the Endymion,\nbetween her and the Cleopatra, just to the eastward of the sheer hulk.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" cried William, \"_that's_ just where I should have put her myself.\nIt's the best berth at Spithead. But here is my sister, sir; here is\nFanny,\" turning and leading her forward; \"it is so dark you do not see\nher.\"\n\nWith an acknowledgment that he had quite forgot her, Mr. Price now\nreceived his daughter; and having given her a cordial hug, and observed\nthat she was grown into a woman, and he supposed would be wanting a\nhusband soon, seemed very much inclined to forget her again. Fanny\nshrunk back to her seat, with feelings sadly pained by his language and\nhis smell of spirits; and he talked on only to his son, and only of the\nThrush, though William, warmly interested as he was in that subject,\nmore than once tried to make his father think of Fanny, and her long\nabsence and long journey.\n\nAfter sitting some time longer, a candle was obtained; but as there was\nstill no appearance of tea, nor, from Betsey's reports from the kitchen,\nmuch hope of any under a considerable period, William determined to\ngo and change his dress, and make the necessary preparations for\nhis removal on board directly, that he might have his tea in comfort\nafterwards.\n\nAs he left the room, two rosy-faced boys, ragged and dirty, about eight\nand nine years old, rushed into it just released from school, and coming\neagerly to see their sister, and tell that the Thrush was gone out of\nharbour; Tom and Charles. Charles had been born since Fanny's going\naway, but Tom she had often helped to nurse, and now felt a particular\npleasure in seeing again. Both were kissed very tenderly, but Tom she\nwanted to keep by her, to try to trace the features of the baby she had\nloved, and talked to, of his infant preference of herself. Tom, however,\nhad no mind for such treatment: he came home not to stand and be talked\nto, but to run about and make a noise; and both boys had soon burst from\nher, and slammed the parlour-door till her temples ached.\n\nShe had now seen all that were at home; there remained only two brothers\nbetween herself and Susan, one of whom was a clerk in a public office\nin London, and the other midshipman on board an Indiaman. But though she\nhad _seen_ all the members of the family, she had not yet _heard_ all\nthe noise they could make. Another quarter of an hour brought her a\ngreat deal more. William was soon calling out from the landing-place of\nthe second story for his mother and for Rebecca. He was in distress\nfor something that he had left there, and did not find again. A key was\nmislaid, Betsey accused of having got at his new hat, and some slight,\nbut essential alteration of his uniform waistcoat, which he had been\npromised to have done for him, entirely neglected.\n\nMrs. Price, Rebecca, and Betsey all went up to defend themselves, all\ntalking together, but Rebecca loudest, and the job was to be done as\nwell as it could in a great hurry; William trying in vain to send Betsey\ndown again, or keep her from being troublesome where she was; the whole\nof which, as almost every door in the house was open, could be plainly\ndistinguished in the parlour, except when drowned at intervals by the\nsuperior noise of Sam, Tom, and Charles chasing each other up and down\nstairs, and tumbling about and hallooing.\n\nFanny was almost stunned. The smallness of the house and thinness of the\nwalls brought everything so close to her, that, added to the fatigue of\nher journey, and all her recent agitation, she hardly knew how to\nbear it. _Within_ the room all was tranquil enough, for Susan having\ndisappeared with the others, there were soon only her father and herself\nremaining; and he, taking out a newspaper, the accustomary loan of a\nneighbour, applied himself to studying it, without seeming to recollect\nher existence. The solitary candle was held between himself and the\npaper, without any reference to her possible convenience; but she had\nnothing to do, and was glad to have the light screened from her aching\nhead, as she sat in bewildered, broken, sorrowful contemplation.\n\nShe was at home. But, alas! it was not such a home, she had not such a\nwelcome, as--she checked herself; she was unreasonable. What right had\nshe to be of importance to her family? She could have none, so long lost\nsight of! William's concerns must be dearest, they always had been, and\nhe had every right. Yet to have so little said or asked about herself,\nto have scarcely an inquiry made after Mansfield! It did pain her to\nhave Mansfield forgotten; the friends who had done so much--the dear,\ndear friends! But here, one subject swallowed up all the rest. Perhaps\nit must be so. The destination of the Thrush must be now preeminently\ninteresting. A day or two might shew the difference. _She_ only was to\nblame. Yet she thought it would not have been so at Mansfield. No, in\nher uncle's house there would have been a consideration of times and\nseasons, a regulation of subject, a propriety, an attention towards\neverybody which there was not here.\n\nThe only interruption which thoughts like these received for nearly half\nan hour was from a sudden burst of her father's, not at all calculated\nto compose them. At a more than ordinary pitch of thumping and hallooing\nin the passage, he exclaimed, \"Devil take those young dogs! How they are\nsinging out! Ay, Sam's voice louder than all the rest! That boy is fit\nfor a boatswain. Holla, you there! Sam, stop your confounded pipe, or I\nshall be after you.\"\n\nThis threat was so palpably disregarded, that though within five minutes\nafterwards the three boys all burst into the room together and sat down,\nFanny could not consider it as a proof of anything more than their\nbeing for the time thoroughly fagged, which their hot faces and panting\nbreaths seemed to prove, especially as they were still kicking each\nother's shins, and hallooing out at sudden starts immediately under\ntheir father's eye.\n\nThe next opening of the door brought something more welcome: it was for\nthe tea-things, which she had begun almost to despair of seeing that\nevening. Susan and an attendant girl, whose inferior appearance informed\nFanny, to her great surprise, that she had previously seen the upper\nservant, brought in everything necessary for the meal; Susan looking, as\nshe put the kettle on the fire and glanced at her sister, as if divided\nbetween the agreeable triumph of shewing her activity and usefulness,\nand the dread of being thought to demean herself by such an office. \"She\nhad been into the kitchen,\" she said, \"to hurry Sally and help make the\ntoast, and spread the bread and butter, or she did not know when they\nshould have got tea, and she was sure her sister must want something\nafter her journey.\"\n\nFanny was very thankful. She could not but own that she should be very\nglad of a little tea, and Susan immediately set about making it, as if\npleased to have the employment all to herself; and with only a little\nunnecessary bustle, and some few injudicious attempts at keeping her\nbrothers in better order than she could, acquitted herself very well.\nFanny's spirit was as much refreshed as her body; her head and heart\nwere soon the better for such well-timed kindness. Susan had an open,\nsensible countenance; she was like William, and Fanny hoped to find her\nlike him in disposition and goodwill towards herself.\n\nIn this more placid state of things William reentered, followed not\nfar behind by his mother and Betsey. He, complete in his lieutenant's\nuniform, looking and moving all the taller, firmer, and more graceful\nfor it, and with the happiest smile over his face, walked up directly\nto Fanny, who, rising from her seat, looked at him for a moment in\nspeechless admiration, and then threw her arms round his neck to sob out\nher various emotions of pain and pleasure.\n\nAnxious not to appear unhappy, she soon recovered herself; and wiping\naway her tears, was able to notice and admire all the striking parts\nof his dress; listening with reviving spirits to his cheerful hopes of\nbeing on shore some part of every day before they sailed, and even of\ngetting her to Spithead to see the sloop.\n\nThe next bustle brought in Mr. Campbell, the surgeon of the Thrush, a\nvery well-behaved young man, who came to call for his friend, and for\nwhom there was with some contrivance found a chair, and with some hasty\nwashing of the young tea-maker's, a cup and saucer; and after another\nquarter of an hour of earnest talk between the gentlemen, noise rising\nupon noise, and bustle upon bustle, men and boys at last all in motion\ntogether, the moment came for setting off; everything was ready, William\ntook leave, and all of them were gone; for the three boys, in spite\nof their mother's entreaty, determined to see their brother and Mr.\nCampbell to the sally-port; and Mr. Price walked off at the same time to\ncarry back his neighbour's newspaper.\n\nSomething like tranquillity might now be hoped for; and accordingly,\nwhen Rebecca had been prevailed on to carry away the tea-things,\nand Mrs. Price had walked about the room some time looking for a\nshirt-sleeve, which Betsey at last hunted out from a drawer in the\nkitchen, the small party of females were pretty well composed, and the\nmother having lamented again over the impossibility of getting Sam ready\nin time, was at leisure to think of her eldest daughter and the friends\nshe had come from.\n\nA few inquiries began: but one of the earliest--\"How did sister Bertram\nmanage about her servants?\" \"Was she as much plagued as herself to get\ntolerable servants?\"--soon led her mind away from Northamptonshire, and\nfixed it on her own domestic grievances, and the shocking character of\nall the Portsmouth servants, of whom she believed her own two were the\nvery worst, engrossed her completely. The Bertrams were all forgotten\nin detailing the faults of Rebecca, against whom Susan had also much\nto depose, and little Betsey a great deal more, and who did seem so\nthoroughly without a single recommendation, that Fanny could not help\nmodestly presuming that her mother meant to part with her when her year\nwas up.\n\n\"Her year!\" cried Mrs. Price; \"I am sure I hope I shall be rid of her\nbefore she has staid a year, for that will not be up till November.\nServants are come to such a pass, my dear, in Portsmouth, that it is\nquite a miracle if one keeps them more than half a year. I have no hope\nof ever being settled; and if I was to part with Rebecca, I should\nonly get something worse. And yet I do not think I am a very difficult\nmistress to please; and I am sure the place is easy enough, for there is\nalways a girl under her, and I often do half the work myself.\"\n\nFanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there might not be a\nremedy found for some of these evils. As she now sat looking at Betsey,\nshe could not but think particularly of another sister, a very pretty\nlittle girl, whom she had left there not much younger when she went into\nNorthamptonshire, who had died a few years afterwards. There had been\nsomething remarkably amiable about her. Fanny in those early days had\npreferred her to Susan; and when the news of her death had at last\nreached Mansfield, had for a short time been quite afflicted. The sight\nof Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, but she would\nnot have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. While\nconsidering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance, was\nholding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at the\nsame time from Susan's.\n\n\"What have you got there, my love?\" said Fanny; \"come and shew it to\nme.\"\n\nIt was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and\ntrying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother's protection,\nand Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently\nhoping to interest Fanny on her side. \"It was very hard that she was not\nto have her _own_ knife; it was her own knife; little sister Mary had\nleft it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to have had it to keep\nherself long ago. But mama kept it from her, and was always letting\nBetsey get hold of it; and the end of it would be that Betsey would\nspoil it, and get it for her own, though mama had _promised_ her that\nBetsey should not have it in her own hands.\"\n\nFanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty, honour, and tenderness\nwas wounded by her sister's speech and her mother's reply.\n\n\"Now, Susan,\" cried Mrs. Price, in a complaining voice, \"now, how can\nyou be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish you\nwould not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is to\nyou! But you should not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you to\nthe drawer. You know I told you not to touch it, because Susan is so\ncross about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little\nthought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it me to\nkeep, only two hours before she died. Poor little soul! she could but\njust speak to be heard, and she said so prettily, 'Let sister Susan have\nmy knife, mama, when I am dead and buried.' Poor little dear! she was so\nfond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by her in bed, all through\nher illness. It was the gift of her good godmother, old Mrs. Admiral\nMaxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death. Poor little\nsweet creature! Well, she was taken away from evil to come. My own\nBetsey\" (fondling her), \"_you_ have not the luck of such a good\ngodmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to think of such little people\nas you.\"\n\nFanny had indeed nothing to convey from aunt Norris, but a message to\nsay she hoped that her god-daughter was a good girl, and learnt her\nbook. There had been at one moment a slight murmur in the drawing-room\nat Mansfield Park about sending her a prayer-book; but no second sound\nhad been heard of such a purpose. Mrs. Norris, however, had gone home\nand taken down two old prayer-books of her husband with that idea; but,\nupon examination, the ardour of generosity went off. One was found\nto have too small a print for a child's eyes, and the other to be too\ncumbersome for her to carry about.\n\nFanny, fatigued and fatigued again, was thankful to accept the first\ninvitation of going to bed; and before Betsey had finished her cry at\nbeing allowed to sit up only one hour extraordinary in honour of sister,\nshe was off, leaving all below in confusion and noise again; the boys\nbegging for toasted cheese, her father calling out for his rum and\nwater, and Rebecca never where she ought to be.\n\nThere was nothing to raise her spirits in the confined and scantily\nfurnished chamber that she was to share with Susan. The smallness of\nthe rooms above and below, indeed, and the narrowness of the passage and\nstaircase, struck her beyond her imagination. She soon learned to think\nwith respect of her own little attic at Mansfield Park, in _that_ house\nreckoned too small for anybody's comfort.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX\n\nCould Sir Thomas have seen all his niece's feelings, when she wrote her\nfirst letter to her aunt, he would not have despaired; for though a good\nnight's rest, a pleasant morning, the hope of soon seeing William again,\nand the comparatively quiet state of the house, from Tom and Charles\nbeing gone to school, Sam on some project of his own, and her father\non his usual lounges, enabled her to express herself cheerfully on the\nsubject of home, there were still, to her own perfect consciousness,\nmany drawbacks suppressed. Could he have seen only half that she felt\nbefore the end of a week, he would have thought Mr. Crawford sure of\nher, and been delighted with his own sagacity.\n\nBefore the week ended, it was all disappointment. In the first place,\nWilliam was gone. The Thrush had had her orders, the wind had changed,\nand he was sailed within four days from their reaching Portsmouth; and\nduring those days she had seen him only twice, in a short and\nhurried way, when he had come ashore on duty. There had been no free\nconversation, no walk on the ramparts, no visit to the dockyard, no\nacquaintance with the Thrush, nothing of all that they had planned and\ndepended on. Everything in that quarter failed her, except William's\naffection. His last thought on leaving home was for her. He stepped back\nagain to the door to say, \"Take care of Fanny, mother. She is tender,\nand not used to rough it like the rest of us. I charge you, take care of\nFanny.\"\n\nWilliam was gone: and the home he had left her in was, Fanny could not\nconceal it from herself, in almost every respect the very reverse of\nwhat she could have wished. It was the abode of noise, disorder, and\nimpropriety. Nobody was in their right place, nothing was done as it\nought to be. She could not respect her parents as she had hoped. On her\nfather, her confidence had not been sanguine, but he was more negligent\nof his family, his habits were worse, and his manners coarser, than\nshe had been prepared for. He did not want abilities but he had no\ncuriosity, and no information beyond his profession; he read only\nthe newspaper and the navy-list; he talked only of the dockyard, the\nharbour, Spithead, and the Motherbank; he swore and he drank, he was\ndirty and gross. She had never been able to recall anything approaching\nto tenderness in his former treatment of herself. There had remained\nonly a general impression of roughness and loudness; and now he scarcely\never noticed her, but to make her the object of a coarse joke.\n\nHer disappointment in her mother was greater: _there_ she had hoped\nmuch, and found almost nothing. Every flattering scheme of being of\nconsequence to her soon fell to the ground. Mrs. Price was not unkind;\nbut, instead of gaining on her affection and confidence, and becoming\nmore and more dear, her daughter never met with greater kindness from\nher than on the first day of her arrival. The instinct of nature was\nsoon satisfied, and Mrs. Price's attachment had no other source. Her\nheart and her time were already quite full; she had neither leisure nor\naffection to bestow on Fanny. Her daughters never had been much to her.\nShe was fond of her sons, especially of William, but Betsey was the\nfirst of her girls whom she had ever much regarded. To her she was most\ninjudiciously indulgent. William was her pride; Betsey her darling;\nand John, Richard, Sam, Tom, and Charles occupied all the rest of her\nmaternal solicitude, alternately her worries and her comforts. These\nshared her heart: her time was given chiefly to her house and her\nservants. Her days were spent in a kind of slow bustle; all was busy\nwithout getting on, always behindhand and lamenting it, without altering\nher ways; wishing to be an economist, without contrivance or regularity;\ndissatisfied with her servants, without skill to make them better, and\nwhether helping, or reprimanding, or indulging them, without any power\nof engaging their respect.\n\nOf her two sisters, Mrs. Price very much more resembled Lady Bertram\nthan Mrs. Norris. She was a manager by necessity, without any of Mrs.\nNorris's inclination for it, or any of her activity. Her disposition\nwas naturally easy and indolent, like Lady Bertram's; and a situation of\nsimilar affluence and do-nothingness would have been much more suited\nto her capacity than the exertions and self-denials of the one which her\nimprudent marriage had placed her in. She might have made just as good a\nwoman of consequence as Lady Bertram, but Mrs. Norris would have been a\nmore respectable mother of nine children on a small income.\n\nMuch of all this Fanny could not but be sensible of. She might scruple\nto make use of the words, but she must and did feel that her mother was\na partial, ill-judging parent, a dawdle, a slattern, who neither taught\nnor restrained her children, whose house was the scene of mismanagement\nand discomfort from beginning to end, and who had no talent, no\nconversation, no affection towards herself; no curiosity to know her\nbetter, no desire of her friendship, and no inclination for her company\nthat could lessen her sense of such feelings.\n\nFanny was very anxious to be useful, and not to appear above her home,\nor in any way disqualified or disinclined, by her foreign education,\nfrom contributing her help to its comforts, and therefore set about\nworking for Sam immediately; and by working early and late, with\nperseverance and great despatch, did so much that the boy was shipped\noff at last, with more than half his linen ready. She had great pleasure\nin feeling her usefulness, but could not conceive how they would have\nmanaged without her.\n\nSam, loud and overbearing as he was, she rather regretted when he went,\nfor he was clever and intelligent, and glad to be employed in any errand\nin the town; and though spurning the remonstrances of Susan, given as\nthey were, though very reasonable in themselves, with ill-timed and\npowerless warmth, was beginning to be influenced by Fanny's services\nand gentle persuasions; and she found that the best of the three younger\nones was gone in him: Tom and Charles being at least as many years as\nthey were his juniors distant from that age of feeling and reason, which\nmight suggest the expediency of making friends, and of endeavouring to\nbe less disagreeable. Their sister soon despaired of making the smallest\nimpression on _them_; they were quite untameable by any means of address\nwhich she had spirits or time to attempt. Every afternoon brought a\nreturn of their riotous games all over the house; and she very early\nlearned to sigh at the approach of Saturday's constant half-holiday.\n\nBetsey, too, a spoiled child, trained up to think the alphabet her\ngreatest enemy, left to be with the servants at her pleasure, and\nthen encouraged to report any evil of them, she was almost as ready to\ndespair of being able to love or assist; and of Susan's temper she\nhad many doubts. Her continual disagreements with her mother, her rash\nsquabbles with Tom and Charles, and petulance with Betsey, were at least\nso distressing to Fanny that, though admitting they were by no means\nwithout provocation, she feared the disposition that could push them to\nsuch length must be far from amiable, and from affording any repose to\nherself.\n\nSuch was the home which was to put Mansfield out of her head, and\nteach her to think of her cousin Edmund with moderated feelings. On the\ncontrary, she could think of nothing but Mansfield, its beloved inmates,\nits happy ways. Everything where she now was in full contrast to it. The\nelegance, propriety, regularity, harmony, and perhaps, above all, the\npeace and tranquillity of Mansfield, were brought to her remembrance\nevery hour of the day, by the prevalence of everything opposite to them\n_here_.\n\nThe living in incessant noise was, to a frame and temper delicate and\nnervous like Fanny's, an evil which no superadded elegance or harmony\ncould have entirely atoned for. It was the greatest misery of all. At\nMansfield, no sounds of contention, no raised voice, no abrupt bursts,\nno tread of violence, was ever heard; all proceeded in a regular course\nof cheerful orderliness; everybody had their due importance; everybody's\nfeelings were consulted. If tenderness could be ever supposed wanting,\ngood sense and good breeding supplied its place; and as to the little\nirritations sometimes introduced by aunt Norris, they were short, they\nwere trifling, they were as a drop of water to the ocean, compared with\nthe ceaseless tumult of her present abode. Here everybody was noisy,\nevery voice was loud (excepting, perhaps, her mother's, which resembled\nthe soft monotony of Lady Bertram's, only worn into fretfulness).\nWhatever was wanted was hallooed for, and the servants hallooed out\ntheir excuses from the kitchen. The doors were in constant banging, the\nstairs were never at rest, nothing was done without a clatter, nobody\nsat still, and nobody could command attention when they spoke.\n\nIn a review of the two houses, as they appeared to her before the end\nof a week, Fanny was tempted to apply to them Dr. Johnson's celebrated\njudgment as to matrimony and celibacy, and say, that though Mansfield\nPark might have some pains, Portsmouth could have no pleasures.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL\n\nFanny was right enough in not expecting to hear from Miss Crawford now\nat the rapid rate in which their correspondence had begun; Mary's next\nletter was after a decidedly longer interval than the last, but she\nwas not right in supposing that such an interval would be felt a great\nrelief to herself. Here was another strange revolution of mind! She was\nreally glad to receive the letter when it did come. In her present exile\nfrom good society, and distance from everything that had been wont to\ninterest her, a letter from one belonging to the set where her heart\nlived, written with affection, and some degree of elegance, was\nthoroughly acceptable. The usual plea of increasing engagements was made\nin excuse for not having written to her earlier; \"And now that I have\nbegun,\" she continued, \"my letter will not be worth your reading, for\nthere will be no little offering of love at the end, no three or four\nlines _passionnees_ from the most devoted H. C. in the world, for\nHenry is in Norfolk; business called him to Everingham ten days ago, or\nperhaps he only pretended to call, for the sake of being travelling\nat the same time that you were. But there he is, and, by the bye, his\nabsence may sufficiently account for any remissness of his sister's in\nwriting, for there has been no 'Well, Mary, when do you write to Fanny?\nIs not it time for you to write to Fanny?' to spur me on. At last, after\nvarious attempts at meeting, I have seen your cousins, 'dear Julia and\ndearest Mrs. Rushworth'; they found me at home yesterday, and we were\nglad to see each other again. We _seemed_ _very_ glad to see each other,\nand I do really think we were a little. We had a vast deal to say. Shall\nI tell you how Mrs. Rushworth looked when your name was mentioned? I did\nnot use to think her wanting in self-possession, but she had not quite\nenough for the demands of yesterday. Upon the whole, Julia was in the\nbest looks of the two, at least after you were spoken of. There was no\nrecovering the complexion from the moment that I spoke of 'Fanny,' and\nspoke of her as a sister should. But Mrs. Rushworth's day of good looks\nwill come; we have cards for her first party on the 28th. Then she\nwill be in beauty, for she will open one of the best houses in Wimpole\nStreet. I was in it two years ago, when it was Lady Lascelle's, and\nprefer it to almost any I know in London, and certainly she will then\nfeel, to use a vulgar phrase, that she has got her pennyworth for her\npenny. Henry could not have afforded her such a house. I hope she will\nrecollect it, and be satisfied, as well as she may, with moving the\nqueen of a palace, though the king may appear best in the background;\nand as I have no desire to tease her, I shall never _force_ your name\nupon her again. She will grow sober by degrees. From all that I hear\nand guess, Baron Wildenheim's attentions to Julia continue, but I do not\nknow that he has any serious encouragement. She ought to do better.\nA poor honourable is no catch, and I cannot imagine any liking in the\ncase, for take away his rants, and the poor baron has nothing. What a\ndifference a vowel makes! If his rents were but equal to his rants! Your\ncousin Edmund moves slowly; detained, perchance, by parish duties. There\nmay be some old woman at Thornton Lacey to be converted. I am unwilling\nto fancy myself neglected for a _young_ one. Adieu! my dear sweet Fanny,\nthis is a long letter from London: write me a pretty one in reply to\ngladden Henry's eyes, when he comes back, and send me an account of all\nthe dashing young captains whom you disdain for his sake.\"\n\nThere was great food for meditation in this letter, and chiefly for\nunpleasant meditation; and yet, with all the uneasiness it supplied, it\nconnected her with the absent, it told her of people and things about\nwhom she had never felt so much curiosity as now, and she would\nhave been glad to have been sure of such a letter every week. Her\ncorrespondence with her aunt Bertram was her only concern of higher\ninterest.\n\nAs for any society in Portsmouth, that could at all make amends for\ndeficiencies at home, there were none within the circle of her father's\nand mother's acquaintance to afford her the smallest satisfaction: she\nsaw nobody in whose favour she could wish to overcome her own shyness\nand reserve. The men appeared to her all coarse, the women all pert,\neverybody underbred; and she gave as little contentment as she received\nfrom introductions either to old or new acquaintance. The young ladies\nwho approached her at first with some respect, in consideration of her\ncoming from a baronet's family, were soon offended by what they termed\n\"airs\"; for, as she neither played on the pianoforte nor wore fine\npelisses, they could, on farther observation, admit no right of\nsuperiority.\n\nThe first solid consolation which Fanny received for the evils of home,\nthe first which her judgment could entirely approve, and which gave any\npromise of durability, was in a better knowledge of Susan, and a hope of\nbeing of service to her. Susan had always behaved pleasantly to herself,\nbut the determined character of her general manners had astonished\nand alarmed her, and it was at least a fortnight before she began to\nunderstand a disposition so totally different from her own. Susan saw\nthat much was wrong at home, and wanted to set it right. That a girl of\nfourteen, acting only on her own unassisted reason, should err in the\nmethod of reform, was not wonderful; and Fanny soon became more disposed\nto admire the natural light of the mind which could so early distinguish\njustly, than to censure severely the faults of conduct to which it led.\nSusan was only acting on the same truths, and pursuing the same system,\nwhich her own judgment acknowledged, but which her more supine and\nyielding temper would have shrunk from asserting. Susan tried to be\nuseful, where _she_ could only have gone away and cried; and that Susan\nwas useful she could perceive; that things, bad as they were, would\nhave been worse but for such interposition, and that both her mother and\nBetsey were restrained from some excesses of very offensive indulgence\nand vulgarity.\n\nIn every argument with her mother, Susan had in point of reason the\nadvantage, and never was there any maternal tenderness to buy her off.\nThe blind fondness which was for ever producing evil around her she had\nnever known. There was no gratitude for affection past or present to\nmake her better bear with its excesses to the others.\n\nAll this became gradually evident, and gradually placed Susan before her\nsister as an object of mingled compassion and respect. That her manner\nwas wrong, however, at times very wrong, her measures often ill-chosen\nand ill-timed, and her looks and language very often indefensible, Fanny\ncould not cease to feel; but she began to hope they might be rectified.\nSusan, she found, looked up to her and wished for her good opinion; and\nnew as anything like an office of authority was to Fanny, new as it\nwas to imagine herself capable of guiding or informing any one, she did\nresolve to give occasional hints to Susan, and endeavour to exercise for\nher advantage the juster notions of what was due to everybody, and what\nwould be wisest for herself, which her own more favoured education had\nfixed in her.\n\nHer influence, or at least the consciousness and use of it, originated\nin an act of kindness by Susan, which, after many hesitations of\ndelicacy, she at last worked herself up to. It had very early occurred\nto her that a small sum of money might, perhaps, restore peace for\never on the sore subject of the silver knife, canvassed as it now was\ncontinually, and the riches which she was in possession of herself,\nher uncle having given her 10 pounds at parting, made her as able as she was\nwilling to be generous. But she was so wholly unused to confer favours,\nexcept on the very poor, so unpractised in removing evils, or bestowing\nkindnesses among her equals, and so fearful of appearing to elevate\nherself as a great lady at home, that it took some time to determine\nthat it would not be unbecoming in her to make such a present. It\nwas made, however, at last: a silver knife was bought for Betsey, and\naccepted with great delight, its newness giving it every advantage\nover the other that could be desired; Susan was established in the full\npossession of her own, Betsey handsomely declaring that now she had got\none so much prettier herself, she should never want _that_ again; and\nno reproach seemed conveyed to the equally satisfied mother, which Fanny\nhad almost feared to be impossible. The deed thoroughly answered: a\nsource of domestic altercation was entirely done away, and it was the\nmeans of opening Susan's heart to her, and giving her something more to\nlove and be interested in. Susan shewed that she had delicacy: pleased\nas she was to be mistress of property which she had been struggling for\nat least two years, she yet feared that her sister's judgment had been\nagainst her, and that a reproof was designed her for having so struggled\nas to make the purchase necessary for the tranquillity of the house.\n\nHer temper was open. She acknowledged her fears, blamed herself for\nhaving contended so warmly; and from that hour Fanny, understanding the\nworth of her disposition and perceiving how fully she was inclined to\nseek her good opinion and refer to her judgment, began to feel again the\nblessing of affection, and to entertain the hope of being useful to a\nmind so much in need of help, and so much deserving it. She gave advice,\nadvice too sound to be resisted by a good understanding, and given so\nmildly and considerately as not to irritate an imperfect temper, and she\nhad the happiness of observing its good effects not unfrequently.\nMore was not expected by one who, while seeing all the obligation and\nexpediency of submission and forbearance, saw also with sympathetic\nacuteness of feeling all that must be hourly grating to a girl like\nSusan. Her greatest wonder on the subject soon became--not that Susan\nshould have been provoked into disrespect and impatience against her\nbetter knowledge--but that so much better knowledge, so many good\nnotions should have been hers at all; and that, brought up in the midst\nof negligence and error, she should have formed such proper opinions\nof what ought to be; she, who had had no cousin Edmund to direct her\nthoughts or fix her principles.\n\nThe intimacy thus begun between them was a material advantage to\neach. By sitting together upstairs, they avoided a great deal of the\ndisturbance of the house; Fanny had peace, and Susan learned to think it\nno misfortune to be quietly employed. They sat without a fire; but\nthat was a privation familiar even to Fanny, and she suffered the\nless because reminded by it of the East room. It was the only point of\nresemblance. In space, light, furniture, and prospect, there was\nnothing alike in the two apartments; and she often heaved a sigh at the\nremembrance of all her books and boxes, and various comforts there. By\ndegrees the girls came to spend the chief of the morning upstairs, at\nfirst only in working and talking, but after a few days, the remembrance\nof the said books grew so potent and stimulative that Fanny found it\nimpossible not to try for books again. There were none in her father's\nhouse; but wealth is luxurious and daring, and some of hers found its\nway to a circulating library. She became a subscriber; amazed at being\nanything _in propria persona_, amazed at her own doings in every way, to\nbe a renter, a chuser of books! And to be having any one's improvement\nin view in her choice! But so it was. Susan had read nothing, and Fanny\nlonged to give her a share in her own first pleasures, and inspire a\ntaste for the biography and poetry which she delighted in herself.\n\nIn this occupation she hoped, moreover, to bury some of the\nrecollections of Mansfield, which were too apt to seize her mind if her\nfingers only were busy; and, especially at this time, hoped it might\nbe useful in diverting her thoughts from pursuing Edmund to London,\nwhither, on the authority of her aunt's last letter, she knew he was\ngone. She had no doubt of what would ensue. The promised notification\nwas hanging over her head. The postman's knock within the neighbourhood\nwas beginning to bring its daily terrors, and if reading could banish\nthe idea for even half an hour, it was something gained.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI\n\nA week was gone since Edmund might be supposed in town, and Fanny had\nheard nothing of him. There were three different conclusions to be drawn\nfrom his silence, between which her mind was in fluctuation; each of\nthem at times being held the most probable. Either his going had been\nagain delayed, or he had yet procured no opportunity of seeing Miss\nCrawford alone, or he was too happy for letter-writing!\n\nOne morning, about this time, Fanny having now been nearly four weeks\nfrom Mansfield, a point which she never failed to think over and\ncalculate every day, as she and Susan were preparing to remove, as\nusual, upstairs, they were stopped by the knock of a visitor, whom they\nfelt they could not avoid, from Rebecca's alertness in going to the\ndoor, a duty which always interested her beyond any other.\n\nIt was a gentleman's voice; it was a voice that Fanny was just turning\npale about, when Mr. Crawford walked into the room.\n\nGood sense, like hers, will always act when really called upon; and she\nfound that she had been able to name him to her mother, and recall her\nremembrance of the name, as that of \"William's friend,\" though she could\nnot previously have believed herself capable of uttering a syllable\nat such a moment. The consciousness of his being known there only as\nWilliam's friend was some support. Having introduced him, however, and\nbeing all reseated, the terrors that occurred of what this visit might\nlead to were overpowering, and she fancied herself on the point of\nfainting away.\n\nWhile trying to keep herself alive, their visitor, who had at first\napproached her with as animated a countenance as ever, was wisely and\nkindly keeping his eyes away, and giving her time to recover, while he\ndevoted himself entirely to her mother, addressing her, and attending\nto her with the utmost politeness and propriety, at the same time with\na degree of friendliness, of interest at least, which was making his\nmanner perfect.\n\nMrs. Price's manners were also at their best. Warmed by the sight of\nsuch a friend to her son, and regulated by the wish of appearing to\nadvantage before him, she was overflowing with gratitude--artless,\nmaternal gratitude--which could not be unpleasing. Mr. Price was out,\nwhich she regretted very much. Fanny was just recovered enough to\nfeel that _she_ could not regret it; for to her many other sources of\nuneasiness was added the severe one of shame for the home in which he\nfound her. She might scold herself for the weakness, but there was no\nscolding it away. She was ashamed, and she would have been yet more\nashamed of her father than of all the rest.\n\nThey talked of William, a subject on which Mrs. Price could never tire;\nand Mr. Crawford was as warm in his commendation as even her heart could\nwish. She felt that she had never seen so agreeable a man in her life;\nand was only astonished to find that, so great and so agreeable as he\nwas, he should be come down to Portsmouth neither on a visit to the\nport-admiral, nor the commissioner, nor yet with the intention of going\nover to the island, nor of seeing the dockyard. Nothing of all that she\nhad been used to think of as the proof of importance, or the employment\nof wealth, had brought him to Portsmouth. He had reached it late the\nnight before, was come for a day or two, was staying at the Crown, had\naccidentally met with a navy officer or two of his acquaintance since\nhis arrival, but had no object of that kind in coming.\n\nBy the time he had given all this information, it was not unreasonable\nto suppose that Fanny might be looked at and spoken to; and she was\ntolerably able to bear his eye, and hear that he had spent half an hour\nwith his sister the evening before his leaving London; that she had\nsent her best and kindest love, but had had no time for writing; that he\nthought himself lucky in seeing Mary for even half an hour, having spent\nscarcely twenty-four hours in London, after his return from Norfolk,\nbefore he set off again; that her cousin Edmund was in town, had been in\ntown, he understood, a few days; that he had not seen him himself, but\nthat he was well, had left them all well at Mansfield, and was to dine,\nas yesterday, with the Frasers.\n\nFanny listened collectedly, even to the last-mentioned circumstance;\nnay, it seemed a relief to her worn mind to be at any certainty; and the\nwords, \"then by this time it is all settled,\" passed internally, without\nmore evidence of emotion than a faint blush.\n\nAfter talking a little more about Mansfield, a subject in which her\ninterest was most apparent, Crawford began to hint at the expediency of\nan early walk. \"It was a lovely morning, and at that season of the year\na fine morning so often turned off, that it was wisest for everybody\nnot to delay their exercise\"; and such hints producing nothing, he soon\nproceeded to a positive recommendation to Mrs. Price and her\ndaughters to take their walk without loss of time. Now they came to an\nunderstanding. Mrs. Price, it appeared, scarcely ever stirred out of\ndoors, except of a Sunday; she owned she could seldom, with her large\nfamily, find time for a walk. \"Would she not, then, persuade her\ndaughters to take advantage of such weather, and allow him the pleasure\nof attending them?\" Mrs. Price was greatly obliged and very complying.\n\"Her daughters were very much confined; Portsmouth was a sad place; they\ndid not often get out; and she knew they had some errands in the town,\nwhich they would be very glad to do.\" And the consequence was, that\nFanny, strange as it was--strange, awkward, and distressing--found\nherself and Susan, within ten minutes, walking towards the High Street\nwith Mr. Crawford.\n\nIt was soon pain upon pain, confusion upon confusion; for they were\nhardly in the High Street before they met her father, whose\nappearance was not the better from its being Saturday. He stopt; and,\nungentlemanlike as he looked, Fanny was obliged to introduce him to Mr.\nCrawford. She could not have a doubt of the manner in which Mr. Crawford\nmust be struck. He must be ashamed and disgusted altogether. He must\nsoon give her up, and cease to have the smallest inclination for the\nmatch; and yet, though she had been so much wanting his affection to\nbe cured, this was a sort of cure that would be almost as bad as the\ncomplaint; and I believe there is scarcely a young lady in the United\nKingdoms who would not rather put up with the misfortune of being sought\nby a clever, agreeable man, than have him driven away by the vulgarity\nof her nearest relations.\n\nMr. Crawford probably could not regard his future father-in-law with any\nidea of taking him for a model in dress; but (as Fanny instantly, and to\nher great relief, discerned) her father was a very different man, a\nvery different Mr. Price in his behaviour to this most highly respected\nstranger, from what he was in his own family at home. His manners\nnow, though not polished, were more than passable: they were grateful,\nanimated, manly; his expressions were those of an attached father, and\na sensible man; his loud tones did very well in the open air, and there\nwas not a single oath to be heard. Such was his instinctive compliment\nto the good manners of Mr. Crawford; and, be the consequence what it\nmight, Fanny's immediate feelings were infinitely soothed.\n\nThe conclusion of the two gentlemen's civilities was an offer of Mr.\nPrice's to take Mr. Crawford into the dockyard, which Mr. Crawford,\ndesirous of accepting as a favour what was intended as such, though\nhe had seen the dockyard again and again, and hoping to be so much the\nlonger with Fanny, was very gratefully disposed to avail himself of, if\nthe Miss Prices were not afraid of the fatigue; and as it was somehow or\nother ascertained, or inferred, or at least acted upon, that they were\nnot at all afraid, to the dockyard they were all to go; and but for\nMr. Crawford, Mr. Price would have turned thither directly, without the\nsmallest consideration for his daughters' errands in the High Street. He\ntook care, however, that they should be allowed to go to the shops they\ncame out expressly to visit; and it did not delay them long, for Fanny\ncould so little bear to excite impatience, or be waited for, that before\nthe gentlemen, as they stood at the door, could do more than begin upon\nthe last naval regulations, or settle the number of three-deckers now in\ncommission, their companions were ready to proceed.\n\nThey were then to set forward for the dockyard at once, and the walk\nwould have been conducted--according to Mr. Crawford's opinion--in a\nsingular manner, had Mr. Price been allowed the entire regulation of it,\nas the two girls, he found, would have been left to follow, and keep up\nwith them or not, as they could, while they walked on together at their\nown hasty pace. He was able to introduce some improvement occasionally,\nthough by no means to the extent he wished; he absolutely would not walk\naway from them; and at any crossing or any crowd, when Mr. Price was\nonly calling out, \"Come, girls; come, Fan; come, Sue, take care of\nyourselves; keep a sharp lookout!\" he would give them his particular\nattendance.\n\nOnce fairly in the dockyard, he began to reckon upon some happy\nintercourse with Fanny, as they were very soon joined by a brother\nlounger of Mr. Price's, who was come to take his daily survey of how\nthings went on, and who must prove a far more worthy companion than\nhimself; and after a time the two officers seemed very well satisfied\ngoing about together, and discussing matters of equal and never-failing\ninterest, while the young people sat down upon some timbers in the yard,\nor found a seat on board a vessel in the stocks which they all went to\nlook at. Fanny was most conveniently in want of rest. Crawford could not\nhave wished her more fatigued or more ready to sit down; but he could\nhave wished her sister away. A quick-looking girl of Susan's age was the\nvery worst third in the world: totally different from Lady Bertram, all\neyes and ears; and there was no introducing the main point before her.\nHe must content himself with being only generally agreeable, and letting\nSusan have her share of entertainment, with the indulgence, now and\nthen, of a look or hint for the better-informed and conscious Fanny.\nNorfolk was what he had mostly to talk of: there he had been some time,\nand everything there was rising in importance from his present schemes.\nSuch a man could come from no place, no society, without importing\nsomething to amuse; his journeys and his acquaintance were all of use,\nand Susan was entertained in a way quite new to her. For Fanny, somewhat\nmore was related than the accidental agreeableness of the parties he had\nbeen in. For her approbation, the particular reason of his going into\nNorfolk at all, at this unusual time of year, was given. It had been\nreal business, relative to the renewal of a lease in which the welfare\nof a large and--he believed--industrious family was at stake. He had\nsuspected his agent of some underhand dealing; of meaning to bias\nhim against the deserving; and he had determined to go himself, and\nthoroughly investigate the merits of the case. He had gone, had done\neven more good than he had foreseen, had been useful to more than his\nfirst plan had comprehended, and was now able to congratulate himself\nupon it, and to feel that in performing a duty, he had secured agreeable\nrecollections for his own mind. He had introduced himself to some\ntenants whom he had never seen before; he had begun making acquaintance\nwith cottages whose very existence, though on his own estate, had been\nhitherto unknown to him. This was aimed, and well aimed, at Fanny. It\nwas pleasing to hear him speak so properly; here he had been acting as\nhe ought to do. To be the friend of the poor and the oppressed! Nothing\ncould be more grateful to her; and she was on the point of giving him an\napproving look, when it was all frightened off by his adding a something\ntoo pointed of his hoping soon to have an assistant, a friend, a guide\nin every plan of utility or charity for Everingham: a somebody that\nwould make Everingham and all about it a dearer object than it had ever\nbeen yet.\n\nShe turned away, and wished he would not say such things. She was\nwilling to allow he might have more good qualities than she had been\nwont to suppose. She began to feel the possibility of his turning out\nwell at last; but he was and must ever be completely unsuited to her,\nand ought not to think of her.\n\nHe perceived that enough had been said of Everingham, and that it would\nbe as well to talk of something else, and turned to Mansfield. He could\nnot have chosen better; that was a topic to bring back her attention and\nher looks almost instantly. It was a real indulgence to her to hear or\nto speak of Mansfield. Now so long divided from everybody who knew the\nplace, she felt it quite the voice of a friend when he mentioned it,\nand led the way to her fond exclamations in praise of its beauties and\ncomforts, and by his honourable tribute to its inhabitants allowed her\nto gratify her own heart in the warmest eulogium, in speaking of her\nuncle as all that was clever and good, and her aunt as having the\nsweetest of all sweet tempers.\n\nHe had a great attachment to Mansfield himself; he said so; he looked\nforward with the hope of spending much, very much, of his time there;\nalways there, or in the neighbourhood. He particularly built upon a very\nhappy summer and autumn there this year; he felt that it would be so: he\ndepended upon it; a summer and autumn infinitely superior to the last.\nAs animated, as diversified, as social, but with circumstances of\nsuperiority undescribable.\n\n\"Mansfield, Sotherton, Thornton Lacey,\" he continued; \"what a society\nwill be comprised in those houses! And at Michaelmas, perhaps, a fourth\nmay be added: some small hunting-box in the vicinity of everything so\ndear; for as to any partnership in Thornton Lacey, as Edmund Bertram\nonce good-humouredly proposed, I hope I foresee two objections: two\nfair, excellent, irresistible objections to that plan.\"\n\nFanny was doubly silenced here; though when the moment was passed,\ncould regret that she had not forced herself into the acknowledged\ncomprehension of one half of his meaning, and encouraged him to say\nsomething more of his sister and Edmund. It was a subject which she must\nlearn to speak of, and the weakness that shrunk from it would soon be\nquite unpardonable.\n\nWhen Mr. Price and his friend had seen all that they wished, or had time\nfor, the others were ready to return; and in the course of their walk\nback, Mr. Crawford contrived a minute's privacy for telling Fanny that\nhis only business in Portsmouth was to see her; that he was come down\nfor a couple of days on her account, and hers only, and because he could\nnot endure a longer total separation. She was sorry, really sorry; and\nyet in spite of this and the two or three other things which she wished\nhe had not said, she thought him altogether improved since she had seen\nhim; he was much more gentle, obliging, and attentive to other people's\nfeelings than he had ever been at Mansfield; she had never seen him so\nagreeable--so _near_ being agreeable; his behaviour to her father could\nnot offend, and there was something particularly kind and proper in the\nnotice he took of Susan. He was decidedly improved. She wished the next\nday over, she wished he had come only for one day; but it was not\nso very bad as she would have expected: the pleasure of talking of\nMansfield was so very great!\n\nBefore they parted, she had to thank him for another pleasure, and one\nof no trivial kind. Her father asked him to do them the honour of taking\nhis mutton with them, and Fanny had time for only one thrill of horror,\nbefore he declared himself prevented by a prior engagement. He was\nengaged to dinner already both for that day and the next; he had met\nwith some acquaintance at the Crown who would not be denied; he should\nhave the honour, however, of waiting on them again on the morrow, etc.,\nand so they parted--Fanny in a state of actual felicity from escaping so\nhorrible an evil!\n\nTo have had him join their family dinner-party, and see all their\ndeficiencies, would have been dreadful! Rebecca's cookery and Rebecca's\nwaiting, and Betsey's eating at table without restraint, and pulling\neverything about as she chose, were what Fanny herself was not yet\nenough inured to for her often to make a tolerable meal. _She_ was nice\nonly from natural delicacy, but _he_ had been brought up in a school of\nluxury and epicurism.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII\n\nThe Prices were just setting off for church the next day when Mr.\nCrawford appeared again. He came, not to stop, but to join them; he was\nasked to go with them to the Garrison chapel, which was exactly what he\nhad intended, and they all walked thither together.\n\nThe family were now seen to advantage. Nature had given them no\ninconsiderable share of beauty, and every Sunday dressed them in their\ncleanest skins and best attire. Sunday always brought this comfort to\nFanny, and on this Sunday she felt it more than ever. Her poor mother\nnow did not look so very unworthy of being Lady Bertram's sister as she\nwas but too apt to look. It often grieved her to the heart to think of\nthe contrast between them; to think that where nature had made so little\ndifference, circumstances should have made so much, and that her mother,\nas handsome as Lady Bertram, and some years her junior, should have an\nappearance so much more worn and faded, so comfortless, so slatternly,\nso shabby. But Sunday made her a very creditable and tolerably\ncheerful-looking Mrs. Price, coming abroad with a fine family of\nchildren, feeling a little respite of her weekly cares, and only\ndiscomposed if she saw her boys run into danger, or Rebecca pass by with\na flower in her hat.\n\nIn chapel they were obliged to divide, but Mr. Crawford took care not to\nbe divided from the female branch; and after chapel he still continued\nwith them, and made one in the family party on the ramparts.\n\nMrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts every fine Sunday\nthroughout the year, always going directly after morning service and\nstaying till dinner-time. It was her public place: there she met her\nacquaintance, heard a little news, talked over the badness of the\nPortsmouth servants, and wound up her spirits for the six days ensuing.\n\nThither they now went; Mr. Crawford most happy to consider the Miss\nPrices as his peculiar charge; and before they had been there long,\nsomehow or other, there was no saying how, Fanny could not have believed\nit, but he was walking between them with an arm of each under his,\nand she did not know how to prevent or put an end to it. It made her\nuncomfortable for a time, but yet there were enjoyments in the day and\nin the view which would be felt.\n\nThe day was uncommonly lovely. It was really March; but it was April in\nits mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun, occasionally clouded for\na minute; and everything looked so beautiful under the influence of such\na sky, the effects of the shadows pursuing each other on the ships at\nSpithead and the island beyond, with the ever-varying hues of the sea,\nnow at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing against the ramparts\nwith so fine a sound, produced altogether such a combination of charms\nfor Fanny, as made her gradually almost careless of the circumstances\nunder which she felt them. Nay, had she been without his arm, she would\nsoon have known that she needed it, for she wanted strength for a two\nhours' saunter of this kind, coming, as it generally did, upon a week's\nprevious inactivity. Fanny was beginning to feel the effect of being\ndebarred from her usual regular exercise; she had lost ground as to\nhealth since her being in Portsmouth; and but for Mr. Crawford and the\nbeauty of the weather would soon have been knocked up now.\n\nThe loveliness of the day, and of the view, he felt like herself. They\noften stopt with the same sentiment and taste, leaning against the wall,\nsome minutes, to look and admire; and considering he was not Edmund,\nFanny could not but allow that he was sufficiently open to the charms\nof nature, and very well able to express his admiration. She had a few\ntender reveries now and then, which he could sometimes take advantage\nof to look in her face without detection; and the result of these looks\nwas, that though as bewitching as ever, her face was less blooming than\nit ought to be. She _said_ she was very well, and did not like to be\nsupposed otherwise; but take it all in all, he was convinced that her\npresent residence could not be comfortable, and therefore could not\nbe salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for her being again at\nMansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her, must be so\nmuch greater.\n\n\"You have been here a month, I think?\" said he.\n\n\"No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks to-morrow since I left\nMansfield.\"\n\n\"You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that a\nmonth.\"\n\n\"I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening.\"\n\n\"And it is to be a two months' visit, is not?\"\n\n\"Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less.\"\n\n\"And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?\"\n\n\"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps\nI may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched\nexactly at the two months' end.\"\n\nAfter a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, \"I know Mansfield, I\nknow its way, I know its faults towards _you_. I know the danger of\nyour being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the\nimaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware\nthat you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle\neverything for coming himself, or sending your aunt's maid for you,\nwithout involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he\nmay have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do. Two\nmonths is an ample allowance; I should think six weeks quite enough.\nI am considering your sister's health,\" said he, addressing himself to\nSusan, \"which I think the confinement of Portsmouth unfavourable to. She\nrequires constant air and exercise. When you know her as well as I do,\nI am sure you will agree that she does, and that she ought never to\nbe long banished from the free air and liberty of the country. If,\ntherefore\" (turning again to Fanny), \"you find yourself growing unwell,\nand any difficulties arise about your returning to Mansfield, without\nwaiting for the two months to be ended, _that_ must not be regarded\nas of any consequence, if you feel yourself at all less strong or\ncomfortable than usual, and will only let my sister know it, give her\nonly the slightest hint, she and I will immediately come down, and take\nyou back to Mansfield. You know the ease and the pleasure with which\nthis would be done. You know all that would be felt on the occasion.\"\n\nFanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off.\n\n\"I am perfectly serious,\" he replied, \"as you perfectly know. And I\nhope you will not be cruelly concealing any tendency to indisposition.\nIndeed, you shall _not_; it shall not be in your power; for so long only\nas you positively say, in every letter to Mary, 'I am well,' and I\nknow you cannot speak or write a falsehood, so long only shall you be\nconsidered as well.\"\n\nFanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a degree\nthat made it impossible for her to say much, or even to be certain of\nwhat she ought to say. This was towards the close of their walk. He\nattended them to the last, and left them only at the door of their own\nhouse, when he knew them to be going to dinner, and therefore pretended\nto be waited for elsewhere.\n\n\"I wish you were not so tired,\" said he, still detaining Fanny after all\nthe others were in the house--\"I wish I left you in stronger health. Is\nthere anything I can do for you in town? I have half an idea of going\ninto Norfolk again soon. I am not satisfied about Maddison. I am sure\nhe still means to impose on me if possible, and get a cousin of his own\ninto a certain mill, which I design for somebody else. I must come to an\nunderstanding with him. I must make him know that I will not be tricked\non the south side of Everingham, any more than on the north: that I will\nbe master of my own property. I was not explicit enough with him before.\nThe mischief such a man does on an estate, both as to the credit of his\nemployer and the welfare of the poor, is inconceivable. I have a great\nmind to go back into Norfolk directly, and put everything at once on\nsuch a footing as cannot be afterwards swerved from. Maddison is a\nclever fellow; I do not wish to displace him, provided he does not try\nto displace _me_; but it would be simple to be duped by a man who has no\nright of creditor to dupe me, and worse than simple to let him give me a\nhard-hearted, griping fellow for a tenant, instead of an honest man,\nto whom I have given half a promise already. Would it not be worse than\nsimple? Shall I go? Do you advise it?\"\n\n\"I advise! You know very well what is right.\"\n\n\"Yes. When you give me your opinion, I always know what is right. Your\njudgment is my rule of right.\"\n\n\"Oh, no! do not say so. We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we\nwould attend to it, than any other person can be. Good-bye; I wish you a\npleasant journey to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Is there nothing I can do for you in town?\"\n\n\"Nothing; I am much obliged to you.\"\n\n\"Have you no message for anybody?\"\n\n\"My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin, my\ncousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good as to say that I suppose I\nshall soon hear from him.\"\n\n\"Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will write his excuses\nmyself.\"\n\nHe could say no more, for Fanny would be no longer detained. He pressed\nher hand, looked at her, and was gone. _He_ went to while away the next\nthree hours as he could, with his other acquaintance, till the best\ndinner that a capital inn afforded was ready for their enjoyment, and\n_she_ turned in to her more simple one immediately.\n\nTheir general fare bore a very different character; and could he have\nsuspected how many privations, besides that of exercise, she endured in\nher father's house, he would have wondered that her looks were not much\nmore affected than he found them. She was so little equal to Rebecca's\npuddings and Rebecca's hashes, brought to table, as they all were, with\nsuch accompaniments of half-cleaned plates, and not half-cleaned knives\nand forks, that she was very often constrained to defer her heartiest\nmeal till she could send her brothers in the evening for biscuits and\nbuns. After being nursed up at Mansfield, it was too late in the day\nto be hardened at Portsmouth; and though Sir Thomas, had he known all,\nmight have thought his niece in the most promising way of being starved,\nboth mind and body, into a much juster value for Mr. Crawford's good\ncompany and good fortune, he would probably have feared to push his\nexperiment farther, lest she might die under the cure.\n\nFanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day. Though tolerably\nsecure of not seeing Mr. Crawford again, she could not help being low.\nIt was parting with somebody of the nature of a friend; and though, in\none light, glad to have him gone, it seemed as if she was now deserted\nby everybody; it was a sort of renewed separation from Mansfield; and\nshe could not think of his returning to town, and being frequently with\nMary and Edmund, without feelings so near akin to envy as made her hate\nherself for having them.\n\nHer dejection had no abatement from anything passing around her; a\nfriend or two of her father's, as always happened if he was not with\nthem, spent the long, long evening there; and from six o'clock till\nhalf-past nine, there was little intermission of noise or grog. She\nwas very low. The wonderful improvement which she still fancied in Mr.\nCrawford was the nearest to administering comfort of anything within the\ncurrent of her thoughts. Not considering in how different a circle she\nhad been just seeing him, nor how much might be owing to contrast, she\nwas quite persuaded of his being astonishingly more gentle and regardful\nof others than formerly. And, if in little things, must it not be so in\ngreat? So anxious for her health and comfort, so very feeling as he now\nexpressed himself, and really seemed, might not it be fairly supposed\nthat he would not much longer persevere in a suit so distressing to her?\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII\n\nIt was presumed that Mr. Crawford was travelling back, to London, on the\nmorrow, for nothing more was seen of him at Mr. Price's; and two days\nafterwards, it was a fact ascertained to Fanny by the following letter\nfrom his sister, opened and read by her, on another account, with the\nmost anxious curiosity:--\n\n\"I have to inform you, my dearest Fanny, that Henry has been down to\nPortsmouth to see you; that he had a delightful walk with you to the\ndockyard last Saturday, and one still more to be dwelt on the next day,\non the ramparts; when the balmy air, the sparkling sea, and your sweet\nlooks and conversation were altogether in the most delicious harmony,\nand afforded sensations which are to raise ecstasy even in retrospect.\nThis, as well as I understand, is to be the substance of my information.\nHe makes me write, but I do not know what else is to be communicated,\nexcept this said visit to Portsmouth, and these two said walks, and his\nintroduction to your family, especially to a fair sister of yours, a\nfine girl of fifteen, who was of the party on the ramparts, taking her\nfirst lesson, I presume, in love. I have not time for writing much, but\nit would be out of place if I had, for this is to be a mere letter of\nbusiness, penned for the purpose of conveying necessary information,\nwhich could not be delayed without risk of evil. My dear, dear Fanny,\nif I had you here, how I would talk to you! You should listen to me till\nyou were tired, and advise me till you were still tired more; but it is\nimpossible to put a hundredth part of my great mind on paper, so I will\nabstain altogether, and leave you to guess what you like. I have no news\nfor you. You have politics, of course; and it would be too bad to plague\nyou with the names of people and parties that fill up my time. I ought\nto have sent you an account of your cousin's first party, but I was\nlazy, and now it is too long ago; suffice it, that everything was just\nas it ought to be, in a style that any of her connexions must have been\ngratified to witness, and that her own dress and manners did her the\ngreatest credit. My friend, Mrs. Fraser, is mad for such a house, and it\nwould not make _me_ miserable. I go to Lady Stornaway after Easter;\nshe seems in high spirits, and very happy. I fancy Lord S. is very\ngood-humoured and pleasant in his own family, and I do not think him so\nvery ill-looking as I did--at least, one sees many worse. He will not\ndo by the side of your cousin Edmund. Of the last-mentioned hero, what\nshall I say? If I avoided his name entirely, it would look suspicious.\nI will say, then, that we have seen him two or three times, and that\nmy friends here are very much struck with his gentlemanlike appearance.\nMrs. Fraser (no bad judge) declares she knows but three men in town\nwho have so good a person, height, and air; and I must confess, when he\ndined here the other day, there were none to compare with him, and\nwe were a party of sixteen. Luckily there is no distinction of dress\nnowadays to tell tales, but--but--but Yours affectionately.\"\n\n\"I had almost forgot (it was Edmund's fault: he gets into my head more\nthan does me good) one very material thing I had to say from Henry and\nmyself--I mean about our taking you back into Northamptonshire. My dear\nlittle creature, do not stay at Portsmouth to lose your pretty looks.\nThose vile sea-breezes are the ruin of beauty and health. My poor aunt\nalways felt affected if within ten miles of the sea, which the Admiral\nof course never believed, but I know it was so. I am at your service\nand Henry's, at an hour's notice. I should like the scheme, and we would\nmake a little circuit, and shew you Everingham in our way, and perhaps\nyou would not mind passing through London, and seeing the inside of St.\nGeorge's, Hanover Square. Only keep your cousin Edmund from me at such\na time: I should not like to be tempted. What a long letter! one word\nmore. Henry, I find, has some idea of going into Norfolk again upon\nsome business that _you_ approve; but this cannot possibly be permitted\nbefore the middle of next week; that is, he cannot anyhow be spared till\nafter the 14th, for _we_ have a party that evening. The value of a man\nlike Henry, on such an occasion, is what you can have no conception\nof; so you must take it upon my word to be inestimable. He will see the\nRushworths, which own I am not sorry for--having a little curiosity, and\nso I think has he--though he will not acknowledge it.\"\n\nThis was a letter to be run through eagerly, to be read deliberately,\nto supply matter for much reflection, and to leave everything in greater\nsuspense than ever. The only certainty to be drawn from it was, that\nnothing decisive had yet taken place. Edmund had not yet spoken. How\nMiss Crawford really felt, how she meant to act, or might act without\nor against her meaning; whether his importance to her were quite what\nit had been before the last separation; whether, if lessened, it were\nlikely to lessen more, or to recover itself, were subjects for endless\nconjecture, and to be thought of on that day and many days to come,\nwithout producing any conclusion. The idea that returned the oftenest\nwas that Miss Crawford, after proving herself cooled and staggered by\na return to London habits, would yet prove herself in the end too much\nattached to him to give him up. She would try to be more ambitious than\nher heart would allow. She would hesitate, she would tease, she would\ncondition, she would require a great deal, but she would finally accept.\n\nThis was Fanny's most frequent expectation. A house in town--that, she\nthought, must be impossible. Yet there was no saying what Miss Crawford\nmight not ask. The prospect for her cousin grew worse and worse. The\nwoman who could speak of him, and speak only of his appearance! What an\nunworthy attachment! To be deriving support from the commendations of\nMrs. Fraser! _She_ who had known him intimately half a year! Fanny was\nashamed of her. Those parts of the letter which related only to Mr.\nCrawford and herself, touched her, in comparison, slightly. Whether Mr.\nCrawford went into Norfolk before or after the 14th was certainly no\nconcern of hers, though, everything considered, she thought he _would_\ngo without delay. That Miss Crawford should endeavour to secure a\nmeeting between him and Mrs. Rushworth, was all in her worst line of\nconduct, and grossly unkind and ill-judged; but she hoped _he_ would\nnot be actuated by any such degrading curiosity. He acknowledged no such\ninducement, and his sister ought to have given him credit for better\nfeelings than her own.\n\nShe was yet more impatient for another letter from town after receiving\nthis than she had been before; and for a few days was so unsettled by\nit altogether, by what had come, and what might come, that her usual\nreadings and conversation with Susan were much suspended. She could\nnot command her attention as she wished. If Mr. Crawford remembered her\nmessage to her cousin, she thought it very likely, most likely, that he\nwould write to her at all events; it would be most consistent with his\nusual kindness; and till she got rid of this idea, till it gradually\nwore off, by no letters appearing in the course of three or four days\nmore, she was in a most restless, anxious state.\n\nAt length, a something like composure succeeded. Suspense must be\nsubmitted to, and must not be allowed to wear her out, and make her\nuseless. Time did something, her own exertions something more, and she\nresumed her attentions to Susan, and again awakened the same interest in\nthem.\n\nSusan was growing very fond of her, and though without any of the early\ndelight in books which had been so strong in Fanny, with a disposition\nmuch less inclined to sedentary pursuits, or to information for\ninformation's sake, she had so strong a desire of not _appearing_\nignorant, as, with a good clear understanding, made her a most\nattentive, profitable, thankful pupil. Fanny was her oracle. Fanny's\nexplanations and remarks were a most important addition to every essay,\nor every chapter of history. What Fanny told her of former times dwelt\nmore on her mind than the pages of Goldsmith; and she paid her sister\nthe compliment of preferring her style to that of any printed author.\nThe early habit of reading was wanting.\n\nTheir conversations, however, were not always on subjects so high as\nhistory or morals. Others had their hour; and of lesser matters, none\nreturned so often, or remained so long between them, as Mansfield Park,\na description of the people, the manners, the amusements, the ways\nof Mansfield Park. Susan, who had an innate taste for the genteel and\nwell-appointed, was eager to hear, and Fanny could not but indulge\nherself in dwelling on so beloved a theme. She hoped it was not wrong;\nthough, after a time, Susan's very great admiration of everything\nsaid or done in her uncle's house, and earnest longing to go into\nNorthamptonshire, seemed almost to blame her for exciting feelings which\ncould not be gratified.\n\nPoor Susan was very little better fitted for home than her elder sister;\nand as Fanny grew thoroughly to understand this, she began to feel that\nwhen her own release from Portsmouth came, her happiness would have a\nmaterial drawback in leaving Susan behind. That a girl so capable of\nbeing made everything good should be left in such hands, distressed her\nmore and more. Were _she_ likely to have a home to invite her to, what\na blessing it would be! And had it been possible for her to return Mr.\nCrawford's regard, the probability of his being very far from objecting\nto such a measure would have been the greatest increase of all her own\ncomforts. She thought he was really good-tempered, and could fancy his\nentering into a plan of that sort most pleasantly.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV\n\nSeven weeks of the two months were very nearly gone, when the one\nletter, the letter from Edmund, so long expected, was put into Fanny's\nhands. As she opened, and saw its length, she prepared herself for a\nminute detail of happiness and a profusion of love and praise towards\nthe fortunate creature who was now mistress of his fate. These were the\ncontents--\n\n\"My Dear Fanny,--Excuse me that I have not written before. Crawford told\nme that you were wishing to hear from me, but I found it impossible to\nwrite from London, and persuaded myself that you would understand my\nsilence. Could I have sent a few happy lines, they should not have been\nwanting, but nothing of that nature was ever in my power. I am returned\nto Mansfield in a less assured state than when I left it. My hopes are\nmuch weaker. You are probably aware of this already. So very fond of you\nas Miss Crawford is, it is most natural that she should tell you enough\nof her own feelings to furnish a tolerable guess at mine. I will not be\nprevented, however, from making my own communication. Our confidences in\nyou need not clash. I ask no questions. There is something soothing\nin the idea that we have the same friend, and that whatever unhappy\ndifferences of opinion may exist between us, we are united in our love\nof you. It will be a comfort to me to tell you how things now are, and\nwhat are my present plans, if plans I can be said to have. I have been\nreturned since Saturday. I was three weeks in London, and saw her (for\nLondon) very often. I had every attention from the Frasers that could be\nreasonably expected. I dare say I was not reasonable in carrying with\nme hopes of an intercourse at all like that of Mansfield. It was her\nmanner, however, rather than any unfrequency of meeting. Had she been\ndifferent when I did see her, I should have made no complaint, but from\nthe very first she was altered: my first reception was so unlike what I\nhad hoped, that I had almost resolved on leaving London again directly.\nI need not particularise. You know the weak side of her character, and\nmay imagine the sentiments and expressions which were torturing me. She\nwas in high spirits, and surrounded by those who were giving all the\nsupport of their own bad sense to her too lively mind. I do not like\nMrs. Fraser. She is a cold-hearted, vain woman, who has married entirely\nfrom convenience, and though evidently unhappy in her marriage,\nplaces her disappointment not to faults of judgment, or temper, or\ndisproportion of age, but to her being, after all, less affluent than\nmany of her acquaintance, especially than her sister, Lady Stornaway,\nand is the determined supporter of everything mercenary and ambitious,\nprovided it be only mercenary and ambitious enough. I look upon her\nintimacy with those two sisters as the greatest misfortune of her life\nand mine. They have been leading her astray for years. Could she be\ndetached from them!--and sometimes I do not despair of it, for the\naffection appears to me principally on their side. They are very fond of\nher; but I am sure she does not love them as she loves you. When I think\nof her great attachment to you, indeed, and the whole of her judicious,\nupright conduct as a sister, she appears a very different creature,\ncapable of everything noble, and I am ready to blame myself for a too\nharsh construction of a playful manner. I cannot give her up, Fanny. She\nis the only woman in the world whom I could ever think of as a wife. If\nI did not believe that she had some regard for me, of course I should\nnot say this, but I do believe it. I am convinced that she is not\nwithout a decided preference. I have no jealousy of any individual. It\nis the influence of the fashionable world altogether that I am jealous\nof. It is the habits of wealth that I fear. Her ideas are not higher\nthan her own fortune may warrant, but they are beyond what our incomes\nunited could authorise. There is comfort, however, even here. I could\nbetter bear to lose her because not rich enough, than because of my\nprofession. That would only prove her affection not equal to sacrifices,\nwhich, in fact, I am scarcely justified in asking; and, if I am refused,\nthat, I think, will be the honest motive. Her prejudices, I trust, are\nnot so strong as they were. You have my thoughts exactly as they arise,\nmy dear Fanny; perhaps they are sometimes contradictory, but it will\nnot be a less faithful picture of my mind. Having once begun, it is a\npleasure to me to tell you all I feel. I cannot give her up. Connected\nas we already are, and, I hope, are to be, to give up Mary Crawford\nwould be to give up the society of some of those most dear to me; to\nbanish myself from the very houses and friends whom, under any other\ndistress, I should turn to for consolation. The loss of Mary I must\nconsider as comprehending the loss of Crawford and of Fanny. Were it a\ndecided thing, an actual refusal, I hope I should know how to bear it,\nand how to endeavour to weaken her hold on my heart, and in the course\nof a few years--but I am writing nonsense. Were I refused, I must bear\nit; and till I am, I can never cease to try for her. This is the truth.\nThe only question is _how_? What may be the likeliest means? I have\nsometimes thought of going to London again after Easter, and sometimes\nresolved on doing nothing till she returns to Mansfield. Even now, she\nspeaks with pleasure of being in Mansfield in June; but June is at\na great distance, and I believe I shall write to her. I have nearly\ndetermined on explaining myself by letter. To be at an early certainty\nis a material object. My present state is miserably irksome. Considering\neverything, I think a letter will be decidedly the best method of\nexplanation. I shall be able to write much that I could not say, and\nshall be giving her time for reflection before she resolves on her\nanswer, and I am less afraid of the result of reflection than of an\nimmediate hasty impulse; I think I am. My greatest danger would lie in\nher consulting Mrs. Fraser, and I at a distance unable to help my own\ncause. A letter exposes to all the evil of consultation, and where\nthe mind is anything short of perfect decision, an adviser may, in an\nunlucky moment, lead it to do what it may afterwards regret. I must\nthink this matter over a little. This long letter, full of my own\nconcerns alone, will be enough to tire even the friendship of a Fanny.\nThe last time I saw Crawford was at Mrs. Fraser's party. I am more\nand more satisfied with all that I see and hear of him. There is not a\nshadow of wavering. He thoroughly knows his own mind, and acts up to his\nresolutions: an inestimable quality. I could not see him and my eldest\nsister in the same room without recollecting what you once told me,\nand I acknowledge that they did not meet as friends. There was\nmarked coolness on her side. They scarcely spoke. I saw him draw back\nsurprised, and I was sorry that Mrs. Rushworth should resent any former\nsupposed slight to Miss Bertram. You will wish to hear my opinion\nof Maria's degree of comfort as a wife. There is no appearance of\nunhappiness. I hope they get on pretty well together. I dined twice in\nWimpole Street, and might have been there oftener, but it is mortifying\nto be with Rushworth as a brother. Julia seems to enjoy London\nexceedingly. I had little enjoyment there, but have less here. We are\nnot a lively party. You are very much wanted. I miss you more than I\ncan express. My mother desires her best love, and hopes to hear from\nyou soon. She talks of you almost every hour, and I am sorry to find\nhow many weeks more she is likely to be without you. My father means\nto fetch you himself, but it will not be till after Easter, when he has\nbusiness in town. You are happy at Portsmouth, I hope, but this must\nnot be a yearly visit. I want you at home, that I may have your opinion\nabout Thornton Lacey. I have little heart for extensive improvements\ntill I know that it will ever have a mistress. I think I shall certainly\nwrite. It is quite settled that the Grants go to Bath; they leave\nMansfield on Monday. I am glad of it. I am not comfortable enough to be\nfit for anybody; but your aunt seems to feel out of luck that such an\narticle of Mansfield news should fall to my pen instead of hers.--Yours\never, my dearest Fanny.\"\n\n\"I never will, no, I certainly never will wish for a letter again,\" was\nFanny's secret declaration as she finished this. \"What do they bring but\ndisappointment and sorrow? Not till after Easter! How shall I bear it?\nAnd my poor aunt talking of me every hour!\"\n\nFanny checked the tendency of these thoughts as well as she could, but\nshe was within half a minute of starting the idea that Sir Thomas was\nquite unkind, both to her aunt and to herself. As for the main subject\nof the letter, there was nothing in that to soothe irritation. She was\nalmost vexed into displeasure and anger against Edmund. \"There is no\ngood in this delay,\" said she. \"Why is not it settled? He is blinded,\nand nothing will open his eyes; nothing can, after having had truths\nbefore him so long in vain. He will marry her, and be poor and\nmiserable. God grant that her influence do not make him cease to be\nrespectable!\" She looked over the letter again. \"'So very fond of me!'\n'tis nonsense all. She loves nobody but herself and her brother. Her\nfriends leading her astray for years! She is quite as likely to have led\n_them_ astray. They have all, perhaps, been corrupting one another; but\nif they are so much fonder of her than she is of them, she is the less\nlikely to have been hurt, except by their flattery. 'The only woman in\nthe world whom he could ever think of as a wife.' I firmly believe it.\nIt is an attachment to govern his whole life. Accepted or refused, his\nheart is wedded to her for ever. 'The loss of Mary I must consider as\ncomprehending the loss of Crawford and Fanny.' Edmund, you do not know\nme. The families would never be connected if you did not connect\nthem! Oh! write, write. Finish it at once. Let there be an end of this\nsuspense. Fix, commit, condemn yourself.\"\n\nSuch sensations, however, were too near akin to resentment to be long\nguiding Fanny's soliloquies. She was soon more softened and sorrowful.\nHis warm regard, his kind expressions, his confidential treatment,\ntouched her strongly. He was only too good to everybody. It was a\nletter, in short, which she would not but have had for the world, and\nwhich could never be valued enough. This was the end of it.\n\nEverybody at all addicted to letter-writing, without having much to say,\nwhich will include a large proportion of the female world at least, must\nfeel with Lady Bertram that she was out of luck in having such a capital\npiece of Mansfield news as the certainty of the Grants going to Bath,\noccur at a time when she could make no advantage of it, and will admit\nthat it must have been very mortifying to her to see it fall to the\nshare of her thankless son, and treated as concisely as possible at the\nend of a long letter, instead of having it to spread over the largest\npart of a page of her own. For though Lady Bertram rather shone in the\nepistolary line, having early in her marriage, from the want of other\nemployment, and the circumstance of Sir Thomas's being in Parliament,\ngot into the way of making and keeping correspondents, and formed for\nherself a very creditable, common-place, amplifying style, so that a\nvery little matter was enough for her: she could not do entirely without\nany; she must have something to write about, even to her niece; and\nbeing so soon to lose all the benefit of Dr. Grant's gouty symptoms and\nMrs. Grant's morning calls, it was very hard upon her to be deprived of\none of the last epistolary uses she could put them to.\n\nThere was a rich amends, however, preparing for her. Lady Bertram's\nhour of good luck came. Within a few days from the receipt of Edmund's\nletter, Fanny had one from her aunt, beginning thus--\n\n\"My Dear Fanny,--I take up my pen to communicate some very alarming\nintelligence, which I make no doubt will give you much concern\".\n\nThis was a great deal better than to have to take up the pen to acquaint\nher with all the particulars of the Grants' intended journey, for the\npresent intelligence was of a nature to promise occupation for the pen\nfor many days to come, being no less than the dangerous illness of her\neldest son, of which they had received notice by express a few hours\nbefore.\n\nTom had gone from London with a party of young men to Newmarket, where\na neglected fall and a good deal of drinking had brought on a fever; and\nwhen the party broke up, being unable to move, had been left by himself\nat the house of one of these young men to the comforts of sickness and\nsolitude, and the attendance only of servants. Instead of being soon\nwell enough to follow his friends, as he had then hoped, his disorder\nincreased considerably, and it was not long before he thought so ill of\nhimself as to be as ready as his physician to have a letter despatched\nto Mansfield.\n\n\"This distressing intelligence, as you may suppose,\" observed\nher ladyship, after giving the substance of it, \"has agitated us\nexceedingly, and we cannot prevent ourselves from being greatly alarmed\nand apprehensive for the poor invalid, whose state Sir Thomas fears\nmay be very critical; and Edmund kindly proposes attending his brother\nimmediately, but I am happy to add that Sir Thomas will not leave me on\nthis distressing occasion, as it would be too trying for me. We shall\ngreatly miss Edmund in our small circle, but I trust and hope he\nwill find the poor invalid in a less alarming state than might be\napprehended, and that he will be able to bring him to Mansfield shortly,\nwhich Sir Thomas proposes should be done, and thinks best on every\naccount, and I flatter myself the poor sufferer will soon be able to\nbear the removal without material inconvenience or injury. As I\nhave little doubt of your feeling for us, my dear Fanny, under these\ndistressing circumstances, I will write again very soon.\"\n\nFanny's feelings on the occasion were indeed considerably more warm and\ngenuine than her aunt's style of writing. She felt truly for them all.\nTom dangerously ill, Edmund gone to attend him, and the sadly small\nparty remaining at Mansfield, were cares to shut out every other care,\nor almost every other. She could just find selfishness enough to wonder\nwhether Edmund _had_ written to Miss Crawford before this summons came,\nbut no sentiment dwelt long with her that was not purely affectionate\nand disinterestedly anxious. Her aunt did not neglect her: she wrote\nagain and again; they were receiving frequent accounts from Edmund,\nand these accounts were as regularly transmitted to Fanny, in the same\ndiffuse style, and the same medley of trusts, hopes, and fears, all\nfollowing and producing each other at haphazard. It was a sort of\nplaying at being frightened. The sufferings which Lady Bertram did not\nsee had little power over her fancy; and she wrote very comfortably\nabout agitation, and anxiety, and poor invalids, till Tom was actually\nconveyed to Mansfield, and her own eyes had beheld his altered\nappearance. Then a letter which she had been previously preparing for\nFanny was finished in a different style, in the language of real feeling\nand alarm; then she wrote as she might have spoken. \"He is just come, my\ndear Fanny, and is taken upstairs; and I am so shocked to see him, that\nI do not know what to do. I am sure he has been very ill. Poor Tom! I am\nquite grieved for him, and very much frightened, and so is Sir Thomas;\nand how glad I should be if you were here to comfort me. But Sir\nThomas hopes he will be better to-morrow, and says we must consider his\njourney.\"\n\nThe real solicitude now awakened in the maternal bosom was not\nsoon over. Tom's extreme impatience to be removed to Mansfield, and\nexperience those comforts of home and family which had been little\nthought of in uninterrupted health, had probably induced his being\nconveyed thither too early, as a return of fever came on, and for a week\nhe was in a more alarming state than ever. They were all very seriously\nfrightened. Lady Bertram wrote her daily terrors to her niece, who\nmight now be said to live upon letters, and pass all her time between\nsuffering from that of to-day and looking forward to to-morrow's.\nWithout any particular affection for her eldest cousin, her tenderness\nof heart made her feel that she could not spare him, and the purity of\nher principles added yet a keener solicitude, when she considered how\nlittle useful, how little self-denying his life had (apparently) been.\n\nSusan was her only companion and listener on this, as on more common\noccasions. Susan was always ready to hear and to sympathise. Nobody else\ncould be interested in so remote an evil as illness in a family above an\nhundred miles off; not even Mrs. Price, beyond a brief question or two,\nif she saw her daughter with a letter in her hand, and now and then the\nquiet observation of, \"My poor sister Bertram must be in a great deal of\ntrouble.\"\n\nSo long divided and so differently situated, the ties of blood were\nlittle more than nothing. An attachment, originally as tranquil as their\ntempers, was now become a mere name. Mrs. Price did quite as much for\nLady Bertram as Lady Bertram would have done for Mrs. Price. Three or\nfour Prices might have been swept away, any or all except Fanny and\nWilliam, and Lady Bertram would have thought little about it; or perhaps\nmight have caught from Mrs. Norris's lips the cant of its being a very\nhappy thing and a great blessing to their poor dear sister Price to have\nthem so well provided for.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLV\n\nAt about the week's end from his return to Mansfield, Tom's immediate\ndanger was over, and he was so far pronounced safe as to make his mother\nperfectly easy; for being now used to the sight of him in his suffering,\nhelpless state, and hearing only the best, and never thinking beyond\nwhat she heard, with no disposition for alarm and no aptitude at a hint,\nLady Bertram was the happiest subject in the world for a little medical\nimposition. The fever was subdued; the fever had been his complaint;\nof course he would soon be well again. Lady Bertram could think nothing\nless, and Fanny shared her aunt's security, till she received a few\nlines from Edmund, written purposely to give her a clearer idea of his\nbrother's situation, and acquaint her with the apprehensions which\nhe and his father had imbibed from the physician with respect to some\nstrong hectic symptoms, which seemed to seize the frame on the departure\nof the fever. They judged it best that Lady Bertram should not be\nharassed by alarms which, it was to be hoped, would prove unfounded;\nbut there was no reason why Fanny should not know the truth. They were\napprehensive for his lungs.\n\nA very few lines from Edmund shewed her the patient and the sickroom\nin a juster and stronger light than all Lady Bertram's sheets of paper\ncould do. There was hardly any one in the house who might not have\ndescribed, from personal observation, better than herself; not one who\nwas not more useful at times to her son. She could do nothing but glide\nin quietly and look at him; but when able to talk or be talked to, or\nread to, Edmund was the companion he preferred. His aunt worried him by\nher cares, and Sir Thomas knew not how to bring down his conversation or\nhis voice to the level of irritation and feebleness. Edmund was all in\nall. Fanny would certainly believe him so at least, and must find that\nher estimation of him was higher than ever when he appeared as the\nattendant, supporter, cheerer of a suffering brother. There was not only\nthe debility of recent illness to assist: there was also, as she now\nlearnt, nerves much affected, spirits much depressed to calm and raise,\nand her own imagination added that there must be a mind to be properly\nguided.\n\nThe family were not consumptive, and she was more inclined to hope than\nfear for her cousin, except when she thought of Miss Crawford; but Miss\nCrawford gave her the idea of being the child of good luck, and to her\nselfishness and vanity it would be good luck to have Edmund the only\nson.\n\nEven in the sick chamber the fortunate Mary was not forgotten. Edmund's\nletter had this postscript. \"On the subject of my last, I had actually\nbegun a letter when called away by Tom's illness, but I have now changed\nmy mind, and fear to trust the influence of friends. When Tom is better,\nI shall go.\"\n\nSuch was the state of Mansfield, and so it continued, with scarcely any\nchange, till Easter. A line occasionally added by Edmund to his\nmother's letter was enough for Fanny's information. Tom's amendment was\nalarmingly slow.\n\nEaster came particularly late this year, as Fanny had most sorrowfully\nconsidered, on first learning that she had no chance of leaving\nPortsmouth till after it. It came, and she had yet heard nothing of her\nreturn--nothing even of the going to London, which was to precede\nher return. Her aunt often expressed a wish for her, but there was no\nnotice, no message from the uncle on whom all depended. She supposed\nhe could not yet leave his son, but it was a cruel, a terrible delay\nto her. The end of April was coming on; it would soon be almost three\nmonths, instead of two, that she had been absent from them all, and that\nher days had been passing in a state of penance, which she loved them\ntoo well to hope they would thoroughly understand; and who could yet say\nwhen there might be leisure to think of or fetch her?\n\nHer eagerness, her impatience, her longings to be with them, were such\nas to bring a line or two of Cowper's Tirocinium for ever before her.\n\"With what intense desire she wants her home,\" was continually on her\ntongue, as the truest description of a yearning which she could not\nsuppose any schoolboy's bosom to feel more keenly.\n\nWhen she had been coming to Portsmouth, she had loved to call it her\nhome, had been fond of saying that she was going home; the word had\nbeen very dear to her, and so it still was, but it must be applied to\nMansfield. _That_ was now the home. Portsmouth was Portsmouth; Mansfield\nwas home. They had been long so arranged in the indulgence of her secret\nmeditations, and nothing was more consolatory to her than to find her\naunt using the same language: \"I cannot but say I much regret your being\nfrom home at this distressing time, so very trying to my spirits. I\ntrust and hope, and sincerely wish you may never be absent from home so\nlong again,\" were most delightful sentences to her. Still, however, it\nwas her private regale. Delicacy to her parents made her careful not to\nbetray such a preference of her uncle's house. It was always: \"When I go\nback into Northamptonshire, or when I return to Mansfield, I shall do\nso and so.\" For a great while it was so, but at last the longing grew\nstronger, it overthrew caution, and she found herself talking of what\nshe should do when she went home before she was aware. She reproached\nherself, coloured, and looked fearfully towards her father and mother.\nShe need not have been uneasy. There was no sign of displeasure, or even\nof hearing her. They were perfectly free from any jealousy of Mansfield.\nShe was as welcome to wish herself there as to be there.\n\nIt was sad to Fanny to lose all the pleasures of spring. She had not\nknown before what pleasures she _had_ to lose in passing March and April\nin a town. She had not known before how much the beginnings and progress\nof vegetation had delighted her. What animation, both of body and mind,\nshe had derived from watching the advance of that season which cannot,\nin spite of its capriciousness, be unlovely, and seeing its increasing\nbeauties from the earliest flowers in the warmest divisions of her\naunt's garden, to the opening of leaves of her uncle's plantations, and\nthe glory of his woods. To be losing such pleasures was no trifle; to\nbe losing them, because she was in the midst of closeness and noise,\nto have confinement, bad air, bad smells, substituted for liberty,\nfreshness, fragrance, and verdure, was infinitely worse: but even these\nincitements to regret were feeble, compared with what arose from the\nconviction of being missed by her best friends, and the longing to be\nuseful to those who were wanting her!\n\nCould she have been at home, she might have been of service to every\ncreature in the house. She felt that she must have been of use to all.\nTo all she must have saved some trouble of head or hand; and were it\nonly in supporting the spirits of her aunt Bertram, keeping her from\nthe evil of solitude, or the still greater evil of a restless, officious\ncompanion, too apt to be heightening danger in order to enhance her own\nimportance, her being there would have been a general good. She loved to\nfancy how she could have read to her aunt, how she could have talked to\nher, and tried at once to make her feel the blessing of what was, and\nprepare her mind for what might be; and how many walks up and down\nstairs she might have saved her, and how many messages she might have\ncarried.\n\nIt astonished her that Tom's sisters could be satisfied with remaining\nin London at such a time, through an illness which had now, under\ndifferent degrees of danger, lasted several weeks. _They_ might return\nto Mansfield when they chose; travelling could be no difficulty to\n_them_, and she could not comprehend how both could still keep away.\nIf Mrs. Rushworth could imagine any interfering obligations, Julia was\ncertainly able to quit London whenever she chose. It appeared from one\nof her aunt's letters that Julia had offered to return if wanted, but\nthis was all. It was evident that she would rather remain where she was.\n\nFanny was disposed to think the influence of London very much at war\nwith all respectable attachments. She saw the proof of it in Miss\nCrawford, as well as in her cousins; _her_ attachment to Edmund had been\nrespectable, the most respectable part of her character; her friendship\nfor herself had at least been blameless. Where was either sentiment now?\nIt was so long since Fanny had had any letter from her, that she had\nsome reason to think lightly of the friendship which had been so dwelt\non. It was weeks since she had heard anything of Miss Crawford or of\nher other connexions in town, except through Mansfield, and she was\nbeginning to suppose that she might never know whether Mr. Crawford had\ngone into Norfolk again or not till they met, and might never hear from\nhis sister any more this spring, when the following letter was received\nto revive old and create some new sensations--\n\n\"Forgive me, my dear Fanny, as soon as you can, for my long silence, and\nbehave as if you could forgive me directly. This is my modest request\nand expectation, for you are so good, that I depend upon being treated\nbetter than I deserve, and I write now to beg an immediate answer. I\nwant to know the state of things at Mansfield Park, and you, no doubt,\nare perfectly able to give it. One should be a brute not to feel for the\ndistress they are in; and from what I hear, poor Mr. Bertram has a bad\nchance of ultimate recovery. I thought little of his illness at first.\nI looked upon him as the sort of person to be made a fuss with, and to\nmake a fuss himself in any trifling disorder, and was chiefly concerned\nfor those who had to nurse him; but now it is confidently asserted that\nhe is really in a decline, that the symptoms are most alarming, and that\npart of the family, at least, are aware of it. If it be so, I am sure\nyou must be included in that part, that discerning part, and therefore\nentreat you to let me know how far I have been rightly informed. I need\nnot say how rejoiced I shall be to hear there has been any mistake, but\nthe report is so prevalent that I confess I cannot help trembling. To\nhave such a fine young man cut off in the flower of his days is most\nmelancholy. Poor Sir Thomas will feel it dreadfully. I really am quite\nagitated on the subject. Fanny, Fanny, I see you smile and look cunning,\nbut, upon my honour, I never bribed a physician in my life. Poor young\nman! If he is to die, there will be _two_ poor young men less in the\nworld; and with a fearless face and bold voice would I say to any one,\nthat wealth and consequence could fall into no hands more deserving of\nthem. It was a foolish precipitation last Christmas, but the evil of\na few days may be blotted out in part. Varnish and gilding hide many\nstains. It will be but the loss of the Esquire after his name. With real\naffection, Fanny, like mine, more might be overlooked. Write to me by\nreturn of post, judge of my anxiety, and do not trifle with it. Tell me\nthe real truth, as you have it from the fountainhead. And now, do\nnot trouble yourself to be ashamed of either my feelings or your own.\nBelieve me, they are not only natural, they are philanthropic and\nvirtuous. I put it to your conscience, whether 'Sir Edmund' would not do\nmore good with all the Bertram property than any other possible 'Sir.'\nHad the Grants been at home I would not have troubled you, but you are\nnow the only one I can apply to for the truth, his sisters not being\nwithin my reach. Mrs. R. has been spending the Easter with the Aylmers\nat Twickenham (as to be sure you know), and is not yet returned; and\nJulia is with the cousins who live near Bedford Square, but I forget\ntheir name and street. Could I immediately apply to either, however, I\nshould still prefer you, because it strikes me that they have all along\nbeen so unwilling to have their own amusements cut up, as to shut their\neyes to the truth. I suppose Mrs. R.'s Easter holidays will not last\nmuch longer; no doubt they are thorough holidays to her. The Aylmers\nare pleasant people; and her husband away, she can have nothing but\nenjoyment. I give her credit for promoting his going dutifully down to\nBath, to fetch his mother; but how will she and the dowager agree in one\nhouse? Henry is not at hand, so I have nothing to say from him. Do not\nyou think Edmund would have been in town again long ago, but for this\nillness?--Yours ever, Mary.\"\n\n\"I had actually begun folding my letter when Henry walked in, but he\nbrings no intelligence to prevent my sending it. Mrs. R. knows a decline\nis apprehended; he saw her this morning: she returns to Wimpole Street\nto-day; the old lady is come. Now do not make yourself uneasy with any\nqueer fancies because he has been spending a few days at Richmond. He\ndoes it every spring. Be assured he cares for nobody but you. At this\nvery moment he is wild to see you, and occupied only in contriving the\nmeans for doing so, and for making his pleasure conduce to yours. In\nproof, he repeats, and more eagerly, what he said at Portsmouth about\nour conveying you home, and I join him in it with all my soul. Dear\nFanny, write directly, and tell us to come. It will do us all good.\nHe and I can go to the Parsonage, you know, and be no trouble to our\nfriends at Mansfield Park. It would really be gratifying to see them\nall again, and a little addition of society might be of infinite use to\nthem; and as to yourself, you must feel yourself to be so wanted there,\nthat you cannot in conscience--conscientious as you are--keep away, when\nyou have the means of returning. I have not time or patience to give\nhalf Henry's messages; be satisfied that the spirit of each and every\none is unalterable affection.\"\n\nFanny's disgust at the greater part of this letter, with her extreme\nreluctance to bring the writer of it and her cousin Edmund together,\nwould have made her (as she felt) incapable of judging impartially\nwhether the concluding offer might be accepted or not. To herself,\nindividually, it was most tempting. To be finding herself, perhaps\nwithin three days, transported to Mansfield, was an image of the\ngreatest felicity, but it would have been a material drawback to be\nowing such felicity to persons in whose feelings and conduct, at the\npresent moment, she saw so much to condemn: the sister's feelings,\nthe brother's conduct, _her_ cold-hearted ambition, _his_ thoughtless\nvanity. To have him still the acquaintance, the flirt perhaps, of Mrs.\nRushworth! She was mortified. She had thought better of him. Happily,\nhowever, she was not left to weigh and decide between opposite\ninclinations and doubtful notions of right; there was no occasion to\ndetermine whether she ought to keep Edmund and Mary asunder or not. She\nhad a rule to apply to, which settled everything. Her awe of her uncle,\nand her dread of taking a liberty with him, made it instantly plain to\nher what she had to do. She must absolutely decline the proposal. If he\nwanted, he would send for her; and even to offer an early return was\na presumption which hardly anything would have seemed to justify. She\nthanked Miss Crawford, but gave a decided negative. \"Her uncle,\nshe understood, meant to fetch her; and as her cousin's illness had\ncontinued so many weeks without her being thought at all necessary,\nshe must suppose her return would be unwelcome at present, and that she\nshould be felt an encumbrance.\"\n\nHer representation of her cousin's state at this time was exactly\naccording to her own belief of it, and such as she supposed would convey\nto the sanguine mind of her correspondent the hope of everything she was\nwishing for. Edmund would be forgiven for being a clergyman, it seemed,\nunder certain conditions of wealth; and this, she suspected, was all\nthe conquest of prejudice which he was so ready to congratulate himself\nupon. She had only learnt to think nothing of consequence but money.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVI\n\nAs Fanny could not doubt that her answer was conveying a real\ndisappointment, she was rather in expectation, from her knowledge of\nMiss Crawford's temper, of being urged again; and though no second\nletter arrived for the space of a week, she had still the same feeling\nwhen it did come.\n\nOn receiving it, she could instantly decide on its containing little\nwriting, and was persuaded of its having the air of a letter of haste\nand business. Its object was unquestionable; and two moments were enough\nto start the probability of its being merely to give her notice that\nthey should be in Portsmouth that very day, and to throw her into all\nthe agitation of doubting what she ought to do in such a case. If two\nmoments, however, can surround with difficulties, a third can disperse\nthem; and before she had opened the letter, the possibility of Mr. and\nMiss Crawford's having applied to her uncle and obtained his permission\nwas giving her ease. This was the letter--\n\n\"A most scandalous, ill-natured rumour has just reached me, and I write,\ndear Fanny, to warn you against giving the least credit to it, should it\nspread into the country. Depend upon it, there is some mistake, and that\na day or two will clear it up; at any rate, that Henry is blameless, and\nin spite of a moment's _etourderie_, thinks of nobody but you. Say not a\nword of it; hear nothing, surmise nothing, whisper nothing till I\nwrite again. I am sure it will be all hushed up, and nothing proved but\nRushworth's folly. If they are gone, I would lay my life they are only\ngone to Mansfield Park, and Julia with them. But why would not you let\nus come for you? I wish you may not repent it.--Yours, etc.\"\n\nFanny stood aghast. As no scandalous, ill-natured rumour had reached\nher, it was impossible for her to understand much of this strange\nletter. She could only perceive that it must relate to Wimpole Street\nand Mr. Crawford, and only conjecture that something very imprudent had\njust occurred in that quarter to draw the notice of the world, and to\nexcite her jealousy, in Miss Crawford's apprehension, if she heard it.\nMiss Crawford need not be alarmed for her. She was only sorry for the\nparties concerned and for Mansfield, if the report should spread so far;\nbut she hoped it might not. If the Rushworths were gone themselves to\nMansfield, as was to be inferred from what Miss Crawford said, it was\nnot likely that anything unpleasant should have preceded them, or at\nleast should make any impression.\n\nAs to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it might give him a knowledge of his own\ndisposition, convince him that he was not capable of being steadily\nattached to any one woman in the world, and shame him from persisting\nany longer in addressing herself.\n\nIt was very strange! She had begun to think he really loved her, and to\nfancy his affection for her something more than common; and his sister\nstill said that he cared for nobody else. Yet there must have been some\nmarked display of attentions to her cousin, there must have been some\nstrong indiscretion, since her correspondent was not of a sort to regard\na slight one.\n\nVery uncomfortable she was, and must continue, till she heard from\nMiss Crawford again. It was impossible to banish the letter from her\nthoughts, and she could not relieve herself by speaking of it to any\nhuman being. Miss Crawford need not have urged secrecy with so much\nwarmth; she might have trusted to her sense of what was due to her\ncousin.\n\nThe next day came and brought no second letter. Fanny was disappointed.\nShe could still think of little else all the morning; but, when her\nfather came back in the afternoon with the daily newspaper as usual, she\nwas so far from expecting any elucidation through such a channel that\nthe subject was for a moment out of her head.\n\nShe was deep in other musing. The remembrance of her first evening in\nthat room, of her father and his newspaper, came across her. No candle\nwas now wanted. The sun was yet an hour and half above the horizon. She\nfelt that she had, indeed, been three months there; and the sun's rays\nfalling strongly into the parlour, instead of cheering, made her still\nmore melancholy, for sunshine appeared to her a totally different\nthing in a town and in the country. Here, its power was only a glare:\na stifling, sickly glare, serving but to bring forward stains and dirt\nthat might otherwise have slept. There was neither health nor gaiety in\nsunshine in a town. She sat in a blaze of oppressive heat, in a cloud\nof moving dust, and her eyes could only wander from the walls, marked by\nher father's head, to the table cut and notched by her brothers, where\nstood the tea-board never thoroughly cleaned, the cups and saucers wiped\nin streaks, the milk a mixture of motes floating in thin blue, and the\nbread and butter growing every minute more greasy than even Rebecca's\nhands had first produced it. Her father read his newspaper, and her\nmother lamented over the ragged carpet as usual, while the tea was\nin preparation, and wished Rebecca would mend it; and Fanny was first\nroused by his calling out to her, after humphing and considering over\na particular paragraph: \"What's the name of your great cousins in town,\nFan?\"\n\nA moment's recollection enabled her to say, \"Rushworth, sir.\"\n\n\"And don't they live in Wimpole Street?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Then, there's the devil to pay among them, that's all! There\" (holding\nout the paper to her); \"much good may such fine relations do you. I\ndon't know what Sir Thomas may think of such matters; he may be too much\nof the courtier and fine gentleman to like his daughter the less. But,\nby G--! if she belonged to _me_, I'd give her the rope's end as long as\nI could stand over her. A little flogging for man and woman too would be\nthe best way of preventing such things.\"\n\nFanny read to herself that \"it was with infinite concern the newspaper\nhad to announce to the world a matrimonial _fracas_ in the family of\nMr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R., whose name had not long\nbeen enrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had promised to become\nso brilliant a leader in the fashionable world, having quitted her\nhusband's roof in company with the well-known and captivating Mr. C.,\nthe intimate friend and associate of Mr. R., and it was not known even\nto the editor of the newspaper whither they were gone.\"\n\n\"It is a mistake, sir,\" said Fanny instantly; \"it must be a mistake, it\ncannot be true; it must mean some other people.\"\n\nShe spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with\na resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what she did not,\ncould not believe herself. It had been the shock of conviction as she\nread. The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all,\nhow she could even have breathed, was afterwards matter of wonder to\nherself.\n\nMr. Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer.\n\"It might be all a lie,\" he acknowledged; \"but so many fine ladies were\ngoing to the devil nowadays that way, that there was no answering for\nanybody.\"\n\n\"Indeed, I hope it is not true,\" said Mrs. Price plaintively; \"it would\nbe so very shocking! If I have spoken once to Rebecca about that carpet,\nI am sure I have spoke at least a dozen times; have not I, Betsey? And\nit would not be ten minutes' work.\"\n\nThe horror of a mind like Fanny's, as it received the conviction of such\nguilt, and began to take in some part of the misery that must ensue, can\nhardly be described. At first, it was a sort of stupefaction; but every\nmoment was quickening her perception of the horrible evil. She could not\ndoubt, she dared not indulge a hope, of the paragraph being false. Miss\nCrawford's letter, which she had read so often as to make every line\nher own, was in frightful conformity with it. Her eager defence of her\nbrother, her hope of its being _hushed_ _up_, her evident agitation,\nwere all of a piece with something very bad; and if there was a woman\nof character in existence, who could treat as a trifle this sin of the\nfirst magnitude, who would try to gloss it over, and desire to have it\nunpunished, she could believe Miss Crawford to be the woman! Now she\ncould see her own mistake as to _who_ were gone, or _said_ to be\ngone. It was not Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth; it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr.\nCrawford.\n\nFanny seemed to herself never to have been shocked before. There was no\npossibility of rest. The evening passed without a pause of misery, the\nnight was totally sleepless. She passed only from feelings of sickness\nto shudderings of horror; and from hot fits of fever to cold. The event\nwas so shocking, that there were moments even when her heart revolted\nfrom it as impossible: when she thought it could not be. A woman married\nonly six months ago; a man professing himself devoted, even _engaged_ to\nanother; that other her near relation; the whole family, both families\nconnected as they were by tie upon tie; all friends, all intimate\ntogether! It was too horrible a confusion of guilt, too gross a\ncomplication of evil, for human nature, not in a state of utter\nbarbarism, to be capable of! yet her judgment told her it was so.\n_His_ unsettled affections, wavering with his vanity, _Maria's_\ndecided attachment, and no sufficient principle on either side, gave it\npossibility: Miss Crawford's letter stampt it a fact.\n\nWhat would be the consequence? Whom would it not injure? Whose views\nmight it not affect? Whose peace would it not cut up for ever? Miss\nCrawford, herself, Edmund; but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tread\nsuch ground. She confined herself, or tried to confine herself, to the\nsimple, indubitable family misery which must envelop all, if it were\nindeed a matter of certified guilt and public exposure. The mother's\nsufferings, the father's; there she paused. Julia's, Tom's, Edmund's;\nthere a yet longer pause. They were the two on whom it would fall most\nhorribly. Sir Thomas's parental solicitude and high sense of honour and\ndecorum, Edmund's upright principles, unsuspicious temper, and genuine\nstrength of feeling, made her think it scarcely possible for them to\nsupport life and reason under such disgrace; and it appeared to her\nthat, as far as this world alone was concerned, the greatest blessing to\nevery one of kindred with Mrs. Rushworth would be instant annihilation.\n\nNothing happened the next day, or the next, to weaken her terrors. Two\nposts came in, and brought no refutation, public or private. There was\nno second letter to explain away the first from Miss Crawford; there was\nno intelligence from Mansfield, though it was now full time for her\nto hear again from her aunt. This was an evil omen. She had, indeed,\nscarcely the shadow of a hope to soothe her mind, and was reduced to so\nlow and wan and trembling a condition, as no mother, not unkind, except\nMrs. Price could have overlooked, when the third day did bring the\nsickening knock, and a letter was again put into her hands. It bore the\nLondon postmark, and came from Edmund.\n\n\"Dear Fanny,--You know our present wretchedness. May God support you\nunder your share! We have been here two days, but there is nothing to\nbe done. They cannot be traced. You may not have heard of the last\nblow--Julia's elopement; she is gone to Scotland with Yates. She left\nLondon a few hours before we entered it. At any other time this would\nhave been felt dreadfully. Now it seems nothing; yet it is an heavy\naggravation. My father is not overpowered. More cannot be hoped. He is\nstill able to think and act; and I write, by his desire, to propose your\nreturning home. He is anxious to get you there for my mother's sake. I\nshall be at Portsmouth the morning after you receive this, and hope to\nfind you ready to set off for Mansfield. My father wishes you to invite\nSusan to go with you for a few months. Settle it as you like; say what\nis proper; I am sure you will feel such an instance of his kindness at\nsuch a moment! Do justice to his meaning, however I may confuse it. You\nmay imagine something of my present state. There is no end of the evil\nlet loose upon us. You will see me early by the mail.--Yours, etc.\"\n\nNever had Fanny more wanted a cordial. Never had she felt such a one\nas this letter contained. To-morrow! to leave Portsmouth to-morrow!\nShe was, she felt she was, in the greatest danger of being exquisitely\nhappy, while so many were miserable. The evil which brought such good\nto her! She dreaded lest she should learn to be insensible of it. To be\ngoing so soon, sent for so kindly, sent for as a comfort, and with leave\nto take Susan, was altogether such a combination of blessings as set her\nheart in a glow, and for a time seemed to distance every pain, and\nmake her incapable of suitably sharing the distress even of those\nwhose distress she thought of most. Julia's elopement could affect her\ncomparatively but little; she was amazed and shocked; but it could not\noccupy her, could not dwell on her mind. She was obliged to call herself\nto think of it, and acknowledge it to be terrible and grievous, or it\nwas escaping her, in the midst of all the agitating pressing joyful\ncares attending this summons to herself.\n\nThere is nothing like employment, active indispensable employment, for\nrelieving sorrow. Employment, even melancholy, may dispel melancholy,\nand her occupations were hopeful. She had so much to do, that not even\nthe horrible story of Mrs. Rushworth--now fixed to the last point of\ncertainty could affect her as it had done before. She had not time to\nbe miserable. Within twenty-four hours she was hoping to be gone; her\nfather and mother must be spoken to, Susan prepared, everything got\nready. Business followed business; the day was hardly long enough. The\nhappiness she was imparting, too, happiness very little alloyed by the\nblack communication which must briefly precede it--the joyful consent\nof her father and mother to Susan's going with her--the general\nsatisfaction with which the going of both seemed regarded, and the\necstasy of Susan herself, was all serving to support her spirits.\n\nThe affliction of the Bertrams was little felt in the family. Mrs. Price\ntalked of her poor sister for a few minutes, but how to find anything to\nhold Susan's clothes, because Rebecca took away all the boxes and spoilt\nthem, was much more in her thoughts: and as for Susan, now unexpectedly\ngratified in the first wish of her heart, and knowing nothing personally\nof those who had sinned, or of those who were sorrowing--if she could\nhelp rejoicing from beginning to end, it was as much as ought to be\nexpected from human virtue at fourteen.\n\nAs nothing was really left for the decision of Mrs. Price, or the good\noffices of Rebecca, everything was rationally and duly accomplished,\nand the girls were ready for the morrow. The advantage of much sleep\nto prepare them for their journey was impossible. The cousin who was\ntravelling towards them could hardly have less than visited their\nagitated spirits--one all happiness, the other all varying and\nindescribable perturbation.\n\nBy eight in the morning Edmund was in the house. The girls heard his\nentrance from above, and Fanny went down. The idea of immediately seeing\nhim, with the knowledge of what he must be suffering, brought back all\nher own first feelings. He so near her, and in misery. She was ready to\nsink as she entered the parlour. He was alone, and met her instantly;\nand she found herself pressed to his heart with only these words, just\narticulate, \"My Fanny, my only sister; my only comfort now!\" She could\nsay nothing; nor for some minutes could he say more.\n\nHe turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again, though his\nvoice still faltered, his manner shewed the wish of self-command, and\nthe resolution of avoiding any farther allusion. \"Have you breakfasted?\nWhen shall you be ready? Does Susan go?\" were questions following each\nother rapidly. His great object was to be off as soon as possible. When\nMansfield was considered, time was precious; and the state of his own\nmind made him find relief only in motion. It was settled that he should\norder the carriage to the door in half an hour. Fanny answered for their\nhaving breakfasted and being quite ready in half an hour. He had already\nate, and declined staying for their meal. He would walk round the\nramparts, and join them with the carriage. He was gone again; glad to\nget away even from Fanny.\n\nHe looked very ill; evidently suffering under violent emotions, which he\nwas determined to suppress. She knew it must be so, but it was terrible\nto her.\n\nThe carriage came; and he entered the house again at the same\nmoment, just in time to spend a few minutes with the family, and be a\nwitness--but that he saw nothing--of the tranquil manner in which the\ndaughters were parted with, and just in time to prevent their sitting\ndown to the breakfast-table, which, by dint of much unusual activity,\nwas quite and completely ready as the carriage drove from the door.\nFanny's last meal in her father's house was in character with her first:\nshe was dismissed from it as hospitably as she had been welcomed.\n\nHow her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as she passed the barriers\nof Portsmouth, and how Susan's face wore its broadest smiles, may be\neasily conceived. Sitting forwards, however, and screened by her bonnet,\nthose smiles were unseen.\n\nThe journey was likely to be a silent one. Edmund's deep sighs often\nreached Fanny. Had he been alone with her, his heart must have opened\nin spite of every resolution; but Susan's presence drove him quite into\nhimself, and his attempts to talk on indifferent subjects could never be\nlong supported.\n\nFanny watched him with never-failing solicitude, and sometimes catching\nhis eye, revived an affectionate smile, which comforted her; but the\nfirst day's journey passed without her hearing a word from him on the\nsubjects that were weighing him down. The next morning produced a\nlittle more. Just before their setting out from Oxford, while Susan was\nstationed at a window, in eager observation of the departure of a\nlarge family from the inn, the other two were standing by the fire; and\nEdmund, particularly struck by the alteration in Fanny's looks, and from\nhis ignorance of the daily evils of her father's house, attributing an\nundue share of the change, attributing _all_ to the recent event, took\nher hand, and said in a low, but very expressive tone, \"No wonder--you\nmust feel it--you must suffer. How a man who had once loved, could\ndesert you! But _yours_--your regard was new compared with----Fanny,\nthink of _me_!\"\n\nThe first division of their journey occupied a long day, and brought\nthem, almost knocked up, to Oxford; but the second was over at a much\nearlier hour. They were in the environs of Mansfield long before the\nusual dinner-time, and as they approached the beloved place, the hearts\nof both sisters sank a little. Fanny began to dread the meeting with her\naunts and Tom, under so dreadful a humiliation; and Susan to feel\nwith some anxiety, that all her best manners, all her lately acquired\nknowledge of what was practised here, was on the point of being called\ninto action. Visions of good and ill breeding, of old vulgarisms and new\ngentilities, were before her; and she was meditating much upon silver\nforks, napkins, and finger-glasses. Fanny had been everywhere awake to\nthe difference of the country since February; but when they entered the\nPark her perceptions and her pleasures were of the keenest sort. It was\nthree months, full three months, since her quitting it, and the\nchange was from winter to summer. Her eye fell everywhere on lawns\nand plantations of the freshest green; and the trees, though not fully\nclothed, were in that delightful state when farther beauty is known to\nbe at hand, and when, while much is actually given to the sight, more\nyet remains for the imagination. Her enjoyment, however, was for herself\nalone. Edmund could not share it. She looked at him, but he was leaning\nback, sunk in a deeper gloom than ever, and with eyes closed, as if the\nview of cheerfulness oppressed him, and the lovely scenes of home must\nbe shut out.\n\nIt made her melancholy again; and the knowledge of what must be enduring\nthere, invested even the house, modern, airy, and well situated as it\nwas, with a melancholy aspect.\n\nBy one of the suffering party within they were expected with such\nimpatience as she had never known before. Fanny had scarcely passed the\nsolemn-looking servants, when Lady Bertram came from the drawing-room\nto meet her; came with no indolent step; and falling on her neck, said,\n\"Dear Fanny! now I shall be comfortable.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVII\n\nIt had been a miserable party, each of the three believing themselves\nmost miserable. Mrs. Norris, however, as most attached to Maria, was\nreally the greatest sufferer. Maria was her first favourite, the dearest\nof all; the match had been her own contriving, as she had been wont with\nsuch pride of heart to feel and say, and this conclusion of it almost\noverpowered her.\n\nShe was an altered creature, quieted, stupefied, indifferent to\neverything that passed. The being left with her sister and nephew, and\nall the house under her care, had been an advantage entirely thrown\naway; she had been unable to direct or dictate, or even fancy herself\nuseful. When really touched by affliction, her active powers had been\nall benumbed; and neither Lady Bertram nor Tom had received from her the\nsmallest support or attempt at support. She had done no more for them\nthan they had done for each other. They had been all solitary, helpless,\nand forlorn alike; and now the arrival of the others only established\nher superiority in wretchedness. Her companions were relieved, but there\nwas no good for _her_. Edmund was almost as welcome to his brother\nas Fanny to her aunt; but Mrs. Norris, instead of having comfort from\neither, was but the more irritated by the sight of the person whom, in\nthe blindness of her anger, she could have charged as the daemon of the\npiece. Had Fanny accepted Mr. Crawford this could not have happened.\n\nSusan too was a grievance. She had not spirits to notice her in more\nthan a few repulsive looks, but she felt her as a spy, and an intruder,\nand an indigent niece, and everything most odious. By her other aunt,\nSusan was received with quiet kindness. Lady Bertram could not give her\nmuch time, or many words, but she felt her, as Fanny's sister, to have\na claim at Mansfield, and was ready to kiss and like her; and Susan\nwas more than satisfied, for she came perfectly aware that nothing but\nill-humour was to be expected from aunt Norris; and was so provided\nwith happiness, so strong in that best of blessings, an escape from\nmany certain evils, that she could have stood against a great deal more\nindifference than she met with from the others.\n\nShe was now left a good deal to herself, to get acquainted with the\nhouse and grounds as she could, and spent her days very happily in so\ndoing, while those who might otherwise have attended to her were shut\nup, or wholly occupied each with the person quite dependent on them, at\nthis time, for everything like comfort; Edmund trying to bury his own\nfeelings in exertions for the relief of his brother's, and Fanny devoted\nto her aunt Bertram, returning to every former office with more than\nformer zeal, and thinking she could never do enough for one who seemed\nso much to want her.\n\nTo talk over the dreadful business with Fanny, talk and lament, was all\nLady Bertram's consolation. To be listened to and borne with, and hear\nthe voice of kindness and sympathy in return, was everything that could\nbe done for her. To be otherwise comforted was out of the question. The\ncase admitted of no comfort. Lady Bertram did not think deeply, but,\nguided by Sir Thomas, she thought justly on all important points; and\nshe saw, therefore, in all its enormity, what had happened, and neither\nendeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise her, to think little\nof guilt and infamy.\n\nHer affections were not acute, nor was her mind tenacious. After a time,\nFanny found it not impossible to direct her thoughts to other subjects,\nand revive some interest in the usual occupations; but whenever Lady\nBertram _was_ fixed on the event, she could see it only in one light, as\ncomprehending the loss of a daughter, and a disgrace never to be wiped\noff.\n\nFanny learnt from her all the particulars which had yet transpired. Her\naunt was no very methodical narrator, but with the help of some letters\nto and from Sir Thomas, and what she already knew herself, and could\nreasonably combine, she was soon able to understand quite as much as she\nwished of the circumstances attending the story.\n\nMrs. Rushworth had gone, for the Easter holidays, to Twickenham, with\na family whom she had just grown intimate with: a family of lively,\nagreeable manners, and probably of morals and discretion to suit, for to\n_their_ house Mr. Crawford had constant access at all times. His having\nbeen in the same neighbourhood Fanny already knew. Mr. Rushworth had\nbeen gone at this time to Bath, to pass a few days with his mother, and\nbring her back to town, and Maria was with these friends without any\nrestraint, without even Julia; for Julia had removed from Wimpole Street\ntwo or three weeks before, on a visit to some relations of Sir Thomas;\na removal which her father and mother were now disposed to attribute\nto some view of convenience on Mr. Yates's account. Very soon after the\nRushworths' return to Wimpole Street, Sir Thomas had received a letter\nfrom an old and most particular friend in London, who hearing and\nwitnessing a good deal to alarm him in that quarter, wrote to recommend\nSir Thomas's coming to London himself, and using his influence with his\ndaughter to put an end to the intimacy which was already exposing her to\nunpleasant remarks, and evidently making Mr. Rushworth uneasy.\n\nSir Thomas was preparing to act upon this letter, without communicating\nits contents to any creature at Mansfield, when it was followed by\nanother, sent express from the same friend, to break to him the almost\ndesperate situation in which affairs then stood with the young people.\nMrs. Rushworth had left her husband's house: Mr. Rushworth had been\nin great anger and distress to _him_ (Mr. Harding) for his advice; Mr.\nHarding feared there had been _at_ _least_ very flagrant indiscretion.\nThe maidservant of Mrs. Rushworth, senior, threatened alarmingly. He\nwas doing all in his power to quiet everything, with the hope of Mrs.\nRushworth's return, but was so much counteracted in Wimpole Street by\nthe influence of Mr. Rushworth's mother, that the worst consequences\nmight be apprehended.\n\nThis dreadful communication could not be kept from the rest of the\nfamily. Sir Thomas set off, Edmund would go with him, and the others had\nbeen left in a state of wretchedness, inferior only to what followed\nthe receipt of the next letters from London. Everything was by that time\npublic beyond a hope. The servant of Mrs. Rushworth, the mother, had\nexposure in her power, and supported by her mistress, was not to be\nsilenced. The two ladies, even in the short time they had been\ntogether, had disagreed; and the bitterness of the elder against her\ndaughter-in-law might perhaps arise almost as much from the personal\ndisrespect with which she had herself been treated as from sensibility\nfor her son.\n\nHowever that might be, she was unmanageable. But had she been less\nobstinate, or of less weight with her son, who was always guided by the\nlast speaker, by the person who could get hold of and shut him up, the\ncase would still have been hopeless, for Mrs. Rushworth did not appear\nagain, and there was every reason to conclude her to be concealed\nsomewhere with Mr. Crawford, who had quitted his uncle's house, as for a\njourney, on the very day of her absenting herself.\n\nSir Thomas, however, remained yet a little longer in town, in the hope\nof discovering and snatching her from farther vice, though all was lost\non the side of character.\n\n_His_ present state Fanny could hardly bear to think of. There was but\none of his children who was not at this time a source of misery to\nhim. Tom's complaints had been greatly heightened by the shock of his\nsister's conduct, and his recovery so much thrown back by it, that even\nLady Bertram had been struck by the difference, and all her alarms were\nregularly sent off to her husband; and Julia's elopement, the additional\nblow which had met him on his arrival in London, though its force had\nbeen deadened at the moment, must, she knew, be sorely felt. She saw\nthat it was. His letters expressed how much he deplored it. Under any\ncircumstances it would have been an unwelcome alliance; but to have it\nso clandestinely formed, and such a period chosen for its completion,\nplaced Julia's feelings in a most unfavourable light, and severely\naggravated the folly of her choice. He called it a bad thing, done in\nthe worst manner, and at the worst time; and though Julia was yet as\nmore pardonable than Maria as folly than vice, he could not but\nregard the step she had taken as opening the worst probabilities of a\nconclusion hereafter like her sister's. Such was his opinion of the set\ninto which she had thrown herself.\n\nFanny felt for him most acutely. He could have no comfort but in Edmund.\nEvery other child must be racking his heart. His displeasure against\nherself she trusted, reasoning differently from Mrs. Norris, would now\nbe done away. _She_ should be justified. Mr. Crawford would have fully\nacquitted her conduct in refusing him; but this, though most material\nto herself, would be poor consolation to Sir Thomas. Her uncle's\ndispleasure was terrible to her; but what could her justification or her\ngratitude and attachment do for him? His stay must be on Edmund alone.\n\nShe was mistaken, however, in supposing that Edmund gave his father no\npresent pain. It was of a much less poignant nature than what the others\nexcited; but Sir Thomas was considering his happiness as very deeply\ninvolved in the offence of his sister and friend; cut off by it, as\nhe must be, from the woman whom he had been pursuing with undoubted\nattachment and strong probability of success; and who, in everything but\nthis despicable brother, would have been so eligible a connexion. He was\naware of what Edmund must be suffering on his own behalf, in addition\nto all the rest, when they were in town: he had seen or conjectured\nhis feelings; and, having reason to think that one interview with Miss\nCrawford had taken place, from which Edmund derived only increased\ndistress, had been as anxious on that account as on others to get him\nout of town, and had engaged him in taking Fanny home to her aunt, with\na view to his relief and benefit, no less than theirs. Fanny was not in\nthe secret of her uncle's feelings, Sir Thomas not in the secret of Miss\nCrawford's character. Had he been privy to her conversation with his\nson, he would not have wished her to belong to him, though her twenty\nthousand pounds had been forty.\n\nThat Edmund must be for ever divided from Miss Crawford did not admit\nof a doubt with Fanny; and yet, till she knew that he felt the same, her\nown conviction was insufficient. She thought he did, but she wanted to\nbe assured of it. If he would now speak to her with the unreserve which\nhad sometimes been too much for her before, it would be most consoling;\nbut _that_ she found was not to be. She seldom saw him: never alone. He\nprobably avoided being alone with her. What was to be inferred? That\nhis judgment submitted to all his own peculiar and bitter share of this\nfamily affliction, but that it was too keenly felt to be a subject of\nthe slightest communication. This must be his state. He yielded, but it\nwas with agonies which did not admit of speech. Long, long would it be\nere Miss Crawford's name passed his lips again, or she could hope for a\nrenewal of such confidential intercourse as had been.\n\nIt _was_ long. They reached Mansfield on Thursday, and it was not till\nSunday evening that Edmund began to talk to her on the subject. Sitting\nwith her on Sunday evening--a wet Sunday evening--the very time of\nall others when, if a friend is at hand, the heart must be opened, and\neverything told; no one else in the room, except his mother, who,\nafter hearing an affecting sermon, had cried herself to sleep, it was\nimpossible not to speak; and so, with the usual beginnings, hardly to\nbe traced as to what came first, and the usual declaration that if she\nwould listen to him for a few minutes, he should be very brief, and\ncertainly never tax her kindness in the same way again; she need not\nfear a repetition; it would be a subject prohibited entirely: he entered\nupon the luxury of relating circumstances and sensations of the first\ninterest to himself, to one of whose affectionate sympathy he was quite\nconvinced.\n\nHow Fanny listened, with what curiosity and concern, what pain and what\ndelight, how the agitation of his voice was watched, and how carefully\nher own eyes were fixed on any object but himself, may be imagined. The\nopening was alarming. He had seen Miss Crawford. He had been invited to\nsee her. He had received a note from Lady Stornaway to beg him to call;\nand regarding it as what was meant to be the last, last interview\nof friendship, and investing her with all the feelings of shame and\nwretchedness which Crawford's sister ought to have known, he had gone to\nher in such a state of mind, so softened, so devoted, as made it for a\nfew moments impossible to Fanny's fears that it should be the last. But\nas he proceeded in his story, these fears were over. She had met him,\nhe said, with a serious--certainly a serious--even an agitated air;\nbut before he had been able to speak one intelligible sentence, she had\nintroduced the subject in a manner which he owned had shocked him. \"'I\nheard you were in town,' said she; 'I wanted to see you. Let us talk\nover this sad business. What can equal the folly of our two relations?'\nI could not answer, but I believe my looks spoke. She felt reproved.\nSometimes how quick to feel! With a graver look and voice she then\nadded, 'I do not mean to defend Henry at your sister's expense.' So\nshe began, but how she went on, Fanny, is not fit, is hardly fit to be\nrepeated to you. I cannot recall all her words. I would not dwell upon\nthem if I could. Their substance was great anger at the _folly_ of each.\nShe reprobated her brother's folly in being drawn on by a woman whom he\nhad never cared for, to do what must lose him the woman he adored; but\nstill more the folly of poor Maria, in sacrificing such a situation,\nplunging into such difficulties, under the idea of being really loved\nby a man who had long ago made his indifference clear. Guess what I must\nhave felt. To hear the woman whom--no harsher name than folly given!\nSo voluntarily, so freely, so coolly to canvass it! No reluctance, no\nhorror, no feminine, shall I say, no modest loathings? This is what the\nworld does. For where, Fanny, shall we find a woman whom nature had so\nrichly endowed? Spoilt, spoilt!\"\n\nAfter a little reflection, he went on with a sort of desperate calmness.\n\"I will tell you everything, and then have done for ever. She saw it\nonly as folly, and that folly stamped only by exposure. The want of\ncommon discretion, of caution: his going down to Richmond for the whole\ntime of her being at Twickenham; her putting herself in the power of\na servant; it was the detection, in short--oh, Fanny! it was the\ndetection, not the offence, which she reprobated. It was the imprudence\nwhich had brought things to extremity, and obliged her brother to give\nup every dearer plan in order to fly with her.\"\n\nHe stopt. \"And what,\" said Fanny (believing herself required to speak),\n\"what could you say?\"\n\n\"Nothing, nothing to be understood. I was like a man stunned. She\nwent on, began to talk of you; yes, then she began to talk of you,\nregretting, as well she might, the loss of such a--. There she spoke\nvery rationally. But she has always done justice to you. 'He has thrown\naway,' said she, 'such a woman as he will never see again. She would\nhave fixed him; she would have made him happy for ever.' My dearest\nFanny, I am giving you, I hope, more pleasure than pain by this\nretrospect of what might have been--but what never can be now. You do\nnot wish me to be silent? If you do, give me but a look, a word, and I\nhave done.\"\n\nNo look or word was given.\n\n\"Thank God,\" said he. \"We were all disposed to wonder, but it seems to\nhave been the merciful appointment of Providence that the heart which\nknew no guile should not suffer. She spoke of you with high praise and\nwarm affection; yet, even here, there was alloy, a dash of evil; for in\nthe midst of it she could exclaim, 'Why would not she have him? It is\nall her fault. Simple girl! I shall never forgive her. Had she accepted\nhim as she ought, they might now have been on the point of marriage, and\nHenry would have been too happy and too busy to want any other object.\nHe would have taken no pains to be on terms with Mrs. Rushworth again.\nIt would have all ended in a regular standing flirtation, in yearly\nmeetings at Sotherton and Everingham.' Could you have believed it\npossible? But the charm is broken. My eyes are opened.\"\n\n\"Cruel!\" said Fanny, \"quite cruel. At such a moment to give way to\ngaiety, to speak with lightness, and to you! Absolute cruelty.\"\n\n\"Cruelty, do you call it? We differ there. No, hers is not a cruel\nnature. I do not consider her as meaning to wound my feelings. The evil\nlies yet deeper: in her total ignorance, unsuspiciousness of there being\nsuch feelings; in a perversion of mind which made it natural to her to\ntreat the subject as she did. She was speaking only as she had been used\nto hear others speak, as she imagined everybody else would speak. Hers\nare not faults of temper. She would not voluntarily give unnecessary\npain to any one, and though I may deceive myself, I cannot but think\nthat for me, for my feelings, she would--Hers are faults of principle,\nFanny; of blunted delicacy and a corrupted, vitiated mind. Perhaps it\nis best for me, since it leaves me so little to regret. Not so, however.\nGladly would I submit to all the increased pain of losing her, rather\nthan have to think of her as I do. I told her so.\"\n\n\"Did you?\"\n\n\"Yes; when I left her I told her so.\"\n\n\"How long were you together?\"\n\n\"Five-and-twenty minutes. Well, she went on to say that what remained\nnow to be done was to bring about a marriage between them. She spoke of\nit, Fanny, with a steadier voice than I can.\" He was obliged to pause\nmore than once as he continued. \"'We must persuade Henry to marry\nher,' said she; 'and what with honour, and the certainty of having shut\nhimself out for ever from Fanny, I do not despair of it. Fanny he must\ngive up. I do not think that even _he_ could now hope to succeed with\none of her stamp, and therefore I hope we may find no insuperable\ndifficulty. My influence, which is not small shall all go that way; and\nwhen once married, and properly supported by her own family, people of\nrespectability as they are, she may recover her footing in society to a\ncertain degree. In some circles, we know, she would never be admitted,\nbut with good dinners, and large parties, there will always be those\nwho will be glad of her acquaintance; and there is, undoubtedly, more\nliberality and candour on those points than formerly. What I advise\nis, that your father be quiet. Do not let him injure his own cause by\ninterference. Persuade him to let things take their course. If by any\nofficious exertions of his, she is induced to leave Henry's protection,\nthere will be much less chance of his marrying her than if she remain\nwith him. I know how he is likely to be influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust\nto his honour and compassion, and it may all end well; but if he get his\ndaughter away, it will be destroying the chief hold.'\"\n\nAfter repeating this, Edmund was so much affected that Fanny, watching\nhim with silent, but most tender concern, was almost sorry that the\nsubject had been entered on at all. It was long before he could speak\nagain. At last, \"Now, Fanny,\" said he, \"I shall soon have done. I have\ntold you the substance of all that she said. As soon as I could speak,\nI replied that I had not supposed it possible, coming in such a state of\nmind into that house as I had done, that anything could occur to make\nme suffer more, but that she had been inflicting deeper wounds in almost\nevery sentence. That though I had, in the course of our acquaintance,\nbeen often sensible of some difference in our opinions, on points,\ntoo, of some moment, it had not entered my imagination to conceive the\ndifference could be such as she had now proved it. That the manner in\nwhich she treated the dreadful crime committed by her brother and my\nsister (with whom lay the greater seduction I pretended not to say),\nbut the manner in which she spoke of the crime itself, giving it every\nreproach but the right; considering its ill consequences only as they\nwere to be braved or overborne by a defiance of decency and impudence in\nwrong; and last of all, and above all, recommending to us a compliance,\na compromise, an acquiescence in the continuance of the sin, on the\nchance of a marriage which, thinking as I now thought of her brother,\nshould rather be prevented than sought; all this together most\ngrievously convinced me that I had never understood her before, and\nthat, as far as related to mind, it had been the creature of my own\nimagination, not Miss Crawford, that I had been too apt to dwell on\nfor many months past. That, perhaps, it was best for me; I had less to\nregret in sacrificing a friendship, feelings, hopes which must, at any\nrate, have been torn from me now. And yet, that I must and would confess\nthat, could I have restored her to what she had appeared to me before,\nI would infinitely prefer any increase of the pain of parting, for the\nsake of carrying with me the right of tenderness and esteem. This is\nwhat I said, the purport of it; but, as you may imagine, not spoken\nso collectedly or methodically as I have repeated it to you. She was\nastonished, exceedingly astonished--more than astonished. I saw her\nchange countenance. She turned extremely red. I imagined I saw a\nmixture of many feelings: a great, though short struggle; half a wish of\nyielding to truths, half a sense of shame, but habit, habit carried\nit. She would have laughed if she could. It was a sort of laugh, as she\nanswered, 'A pretty good lecture, upon my word. Was it part of your last\nsermon? At this rate you will soon reform everybody at Mansfield and\nThornton Lacey; and when I hear of you next, it may be as a celebrated\npreacher in some great society of Methodists, or as a missionary into\nforeign parts.' She tried to speak carelessly, but she was not so\ncareless as she wanted to appear. I only said in reply, that from my\nheart I wished her well, and earnestly hoped that she might soon learn\nto think more justly, and not owe the most valuable knowledge we could\nany of us acquire, the knowledge of ourselves and of our duty, to the\nlessons of affliction, and immediately left the room. I had gone a few\nsteps, Fanny, when I heard the door open behind me. 'Mr. Bertram,' said\nshe. I looked back. 'Mr. Bertram,' said she, with a smile; but it was\na smile ill-suited to the conversation that had passed, a saucy playful\nsmile, seeming to invite in order to subdue me; at least it appeared so\nto me. I resisted; it was the impulse of the moment to resist, and still\nwalked on. I have since, sometimes, for a moment, regretted that I did\nnot go back, but I know I was right, and such has been the end of our\nacquaintance. And what an acquaintance has it been! How have I been\ndeceived! Equally in brother and sister deceived! I thank you for your\npatience, Fanny. This has been the greatest relief, and now we will have\ndone.\"\n\nAnd such was Fanny's dependence on his words, that for five minutes\nshe thought they _had_ done. Then, however, it all came on again, or\nsomething very like it, and nothing less than Lady Bertram's rousing\nthoroughly up could really close such a conversation. Till that\nhappened, they continued to talk of Miss Crawford alone, and how she had\nattached him, and how delightful nature had made her, and how excellent\nshe would have been, had she fallen into good hands earlier. Fanny, now\nat liberty to speak openly, felt more than justified in adding to\nhis knowledge of her real character, by some hint of what share his\nbrother's state of health might be supposed to have in her wish for a\ncomplete reconciliation. This was not an agreeable intimation. Nature\nresisted it for a while. It would have been a vast deal pleasanter to\nhave had her more disinterested in her attachment; but his vanity was\nnot of a strength to fight long against reason. He submitted to believe\nthat Tom's illness had influenced her, only reserving for himself this\nconsoling thought, that considering the many counteractions of opposing\nhabits, she had certainly been _more_ attached to him than could have\nbeen expected, and for his sake been more near doing right. Fanny\nthought exactly the same; and they were also quite agreed in their\nopinion of the lasting effect, the indelible impression, which such\na disappointment must make on his mind. Time would undoubtedly abate\nsomewhat of his sufferings, but still it was a sort of thing which he\nnever could get entirely the better of; and as to his ever meeting with\nany other woman who could--it was too impossible to be named but with\nindignation. Fanny's friendship was all that he had to cling to.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVIII\n\nLet other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious subjects\nas soon as I can, impatient to restore everybody, not greatly in fault\nthemselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the rest.\n\nMy Fanny, indeed, at this very time, I have the satisfaction of knowing,\nmust have been happy in spite of everything. She must have been a happy\ncreature in spite of all that she felt, or thought she felt, for the\ndistress of those around her. She had sources of delight that must force\ntheir way. She was returned to Mansfield Park, she was useful, she was\nbeloved; she was safe from Mr. Crawford; and when Sir Thomas came back\nshe had every proof that could be given in his then melancholy state of\nspirits, of his perfect approbation and increased regard; and happy as\nall this must make her, she would still have been happy without any of\nit, for Edmund was no longer the dupe of Miss Crawford.\n\nIt is true that Edmund was very far from happy himself. He was suffering\nfrom disappointment and regret, grieving over what was, and wishing for\nwhat could never be. She knew it was so, and was sorry; but it was with\na sorrow so founded on satisfaction, so tending to ease, and so much in\nharmony with every dearest sensation, that there are few who might not\nhave been glad to exchange their greatest gaiety for it.\n\nSir Thomas, poor Sir Thomas, a parent, and conscious of errors in his\nown conduct as a parent, was the longest to suffer. He felt that he\nought not to have allowed the marriage; that his daughter's sentiments\nhad been sufficiently known to him to render him culpable in authorising\nit; that in so doing he had sacrificed the right to the expedient, and\nbeen governed by motives of selfishness and worldly wisdom. These were\nreflections that required some time to soften; but time will do almost\neverything; and though little comfort arose on Mrs. Rushworth's side for\nthe misery she had occasioned, comfort was to be found greater than\nhe had supposed in his other children. Julia's match became a less\ndesperate business than he had considered it at first. She was humble,\nand wishing to be forgiven; and Mr. Yates, desirous of being really\nreceived into the family, was disposed to look up to him and be guided.\nHe was not very solid; but there was a hope of his becoming less\ntrifling, of his being at least tolerably domestic and quiet; and at any\nrate, there was comfort in finding his estate rather more, and his debts\nmuch less, than he had feared, and in being consulted and treated as\nthe friend best worth attending to. There was comfort also in Tom, who\ngradually regained his health, without regaining the thoughtlessness and\nselfishness of his previous habits. He was the better for ever for his\nillness. He had suffered, and he had learned to think: two advantages\nthat he had never known before; and the self-reproach arising from the\ndeplorable event in Wimpole Street, to which he felt himself accessory\nby all the dangerous intimacy of his unjustifiable theatre, made an\nimpression on his mind which, at the age of six-and-twenty, with no want\nof sense or good companions, was durable in its happy effects. He became\nwhat he ought to be: useful to his father, steady and quiet, and not\nliving merely for himself.\n\nHere was comfort indeed! and quite as soon as Sir Thomas could place\ndependence on such sources of good, Edmund was contributing to his\nfather's ease by improvement in the only point in which he had given\nhim pain before--improvement in his spirits. After wandering about and\nsitting under trees with Fanny all the summer evenings, he had so well\ntalked his mind into submission as to be very tolerably cheerful again.\n\nThese were the circumstances and the hopes which gradually brought their\nalleviation to Sir Thomas, deadening his sense of what was lost, and\nin part reconciling him to himself; though the anguish arising from the\nconviction of his own errors in the education of his daughters was never\nto be entirely done away.\n\nToo late he became aware how unfavourable to the character of any young\npeople must be the totally opposite treatment which Maria and Julia had\nbeen always experiencing at home, where the excessive indulgence and\nflattery of their aunt had been continually contrasted with his own\nseverity. He saw how ill he had judged, in expecting to counteract what\nwas wrong in Mrs. Norris by its reverse in himself; clearly saw that he\nhad but increased the evil by teaching them to repress their spirits in\nhis presence so as to make their real disposition unknown to him, and\nsending them for all their indulgences to a person who had been able to\nattach them only by the blindness of her affection, and the excess of\nher praise.\n\nHere had been grievous mismanagement; but, bad as it was, he gradually\ngrew to feel that it had not been the most direful mistake in his plan\nof education. Something must have been wanting _within_, or time would\nhave worn away much of its ill effect. He feared that principle, active\nprinciple, had been wanting; that they had never been properly taught\nto govern their inclinations and tempers by that sense of duty which can\nalone suffice. They had been instructed theoretically in their religion,\nbut never required to bring it into daily practice. To be distinguished\nfor elegance and accomplishments, the authorised object of their youth,\ncould have had no useful influence that way, no moral effect on the\nmind. He had meant them to be good, but his cares had been directed to\nthe understanding and manners, not the disposition; and of the necessity\nof self-denial and humility, he feared they had never heard from any\nlips that could profit them.\n\nBitterly did he deplore a deficiency which now he could scarcely\ncomprehend to have been possible. Wretchedly did he feel, that with all\nthe cost and care of an anxious and expensive education, he had brought\nup his daughters without their understanding their first duties, or his\nbeing acquainted with their character and temper.\n\nThe high spirit and strong passions of Mrs. Rushworth, especially, were\nmade known to him only in their sad result. She was not to be prevailed\non to leave Mr. Crawford. She hoped to marry him, and they continued\ntogether till she was obliged to be convinced that such hope was vain,\nand till the disappointment and wretchedness arising from the conviction\nrendered her temper so bad, and her feelings for him so like hatred,\nas to make them for a while each other's punishment, and then induce a\nvoluntary separation.\n\nShe had lived with him to be reproached as the ruin of all his happiness\nin Fanny, and carried away no better consolation in leaving him than\nthat she _had_ divided them. What can exceed the misery of such a mind\nin such a situation?\n\nMr. Rushworth had no difficulty in procuring a divorce; and so ended a\nmarriage contracted under such circumstances as to make any better end\nthe effect of good luck not to be reckoned on. She had despised him,\nand loved another; and he had been very much aware that it was so. The\nindignities of stupidity, and the disappointments of selfish passion,\ncan excite little pity. His punishment followed his conduct, as did a\ndeeper punishment the deeper guilt of his wife. _He_ was released from\nthe engagement to be mortified and unhappy, till some other pretty girl\ncould attract him into matrimony again, and he might set forward on a\nsecond, and, it is to be hoped, more prosperous trial of the state: if\nduped, to be duped at least with good humour and good luck; while she\nmust withdraw with infinitely stronger feelings to a retirement and\nreproach which could allow no second spring of hope or character.\n\nWhere she could be placed became a subject of most melancholy and\nmomentous consultation. Mrs. Norris, whose attachment seemed to augment\nwith the demerits of her niece, would have had her received at home\nand countenanced by them all. Sir Thomas would not hear of it; and Mrs.\nNorris's anger against Fanny was so much the greater, from considering\n_her_ residence there as the motive. She persisted in placing his\nscruples to _her_ account, though Sir Thomas very solemnly assured her\nthat, had there been no young woman in question, had there been no young\nperson of either sex belonging to him, to be endangered by the society\nor hurt by the character of Mrs. Rushworth, he would never have offered\nso great an insult to the neighbourhood as to expect it to notice her.\nAs a daughter, he hoped a penitent one, she should be protected by him,\nand secured in every comfort, and supported by every encouragement to do\nright, which their relative situations admitted; but farther than _that_\nhe could not go. Maria had destroyed her own character, and he would\nnot, by a vain attempt to restore what never could be restored, by\naffording his sanction to vice, or in seeking to lessen its disgrace, be\nanywise accessory to introducing such misery in another man's family as\nhe had known himself.\n\nIt ended in Mrs. Norris's resolving to quit Mansfield and devote herself\nto her unfortunate Maria, and in an establishment being formed for them\nin another country, remote and private, where, shut up together with\nlittle society, on one side no affection, on the other no judgment,\nit may be reasonably supposed that their tempers became their mutual\npunishment.\n\nMrs. Norris's removal from Mansfield was the great supplementary comfort\nof Sir Thomas's life. His opinion of her had been sinking from the day\nof his return from Antigua: in every transaction together from that\nperiod, in their daily intercourse, in business, or in chat, she had\nbeen regularly losing ground in his esteem, and convincing him that\neither time had done her much disservice, or that he had considerably\nover-rated her sense, and wonderfully borne with her manners before. He\nhad felt her as an hourly evil, which was so much the worse, as there\nseemed no chance of its ceasing but with life; she seemed a part of\nhimself that must be borne for ever. To be relieved from her, therefore,\nwas so great a felicity that, had she not left bitter remembrances\nbehind her, there might have been danger of his learning almost to\napprove the evil which produced such a good.\n\nShe was regretted by no one at Mansfield. She had never been able to\nattach even those she loved best; and since Mrs. Rushworth's elopement,\nher temper had been in a state of such irritation as to make her\neverywhere tormenting. Not even Fanny had tears for aunt Norris, not\neven when she was gone for ever.\n\nThat Julia escaped better than Maria was owing, in some measure, to a\nfavourable difference of disposition and circumstance, but in a greater\nto her having been less the darling of that very aunt, less flattered\nand less spoilt. Her beauty and acquirements had held but a second\nplace. She had been always used to think herself a little inferior to\nMaria. Her temper was naturally the easiest of the two; her feelings,\nthough quick, were more controllable, and education had not given her so\nvery hurtful a degree of self-consequence.\n\nShe had submitted the best to the disappointment in Henry Crawford.\nAfter the first bitterness of the conviction of being slighted was over,\nshe had been tolerably soon in a fair way of not thinking of him again;\nand when the acquaintance was renewed in town, and Mr. Rushworth's house\nbecame Crawford's object, she had had the merit of withdrawing herself\nfrom it, and of chusing that time to pay a visit to her other friends,\nin order to secure herself from being again too much attracted. This had\nbeen her motive in going to her cousin's. Mr. Yates's convenience had\nhad nothing to do with it. She had been allowing his attentions some\ntime, but with very little idea of ever accepting him; and had not her\nsister's conduct burst forth as it did, and her increased dread of her\nfather and of home, on that event, imagining its certain consequence\nto herself would be greater severity and restraint, made her hastily\nresolve on avoiding such immediate horrors at all risks, it is probable\nthat Mr. Yates would never have succeeded. She had not eloped with any\nworse feelings than those of selfish alarm. It had appeared to her the\nonly thing to be done. Maria's guilt had induced Julia's folly.\n\nHenry Crawford, ruined by early independence and bad domestic example,\nindulged in the freaks of a cold-blooded vanity a little too long. Once\nit had, by an opening undesigned and unmerited, led him into the way of\nhappiness. Could he have been satisfied with the conquest of one\namiable woman's affections, could he have found sufficient exultation\nin overcoming the reluctance, in working himself into the esteem and\ntenderness of Fanny Price, there would have been every probability of\nsuccess and felicity for him. His affection had already done something.\nHer influence over him had already given him some influence over her.\nWould he have deserved more, there can be no doubt that more would have\nbeen obtained, especially when that marriage had taken place, which\nwould have given him the assistance of her conscience in subduing her\nfirst inclination, and brought them very often together. Would he have\npersevered, and uprightly, Fanny must have been his reward, and a reward\nvery voluntarily bestowed, within a reasonable period from Edmund's\nmarrying Mary.\n\nHad he done as he intended, and as he knew he ought, by going down to\nEveringham after his return from Portsmouth, he might have been deciding\nhis own happy destiny. But he was pressed to stay for Mrs. Fraser's\nparty; his staying was made of flattering consequence, and he was to\nmeet Mrs. Rushworth there. Curiosity and vanity were both engaged, and\nthe temptation of immediate pleasure was too strong for a mind unused to\nmake any sacrifice to right: he resolved to defer his Norfolk journey,\nresolved that writing should answer the purpose of it, or that its\npurpose was unimportant, and staid. He saw Mrs. Rushworth, was received\nby her with a coldness which ought to have been repulsive, and have\nestablished apparent indifference between them for ever; but he was\nmortified, he could not bear to be thrown off by the woman whose smiles\nhad been so wholly at his command: he must exert himself to subdue so\nproud a display of resentment; it was anger on Fanny's account; he must\nget the better of it, and make Mrs. Rushworth Maria Bertram again in her\ntreatment of himself.\n\nIn this spirit he began the attack, and by animated perseverance had\nsoon re-established the sort of familiar intercourse, of gallantry,\nof flirtation, which bounded his views; but in triumphing over the\ndiscretion which, though beginning in anger, might have saved them both,\nhe had put himself in the power of feelings on her side more strong\nthan he had supposed. She loved him; there was no withdrawing attentions\navowedly dear to her. He was entangled by his own vanity, with as little\nexcuse of love as possible, and without the smallest inconstancy of mind\ntowards her cousin. To keep Fanny and the Bertrams from a knowledge of\nwhat was passing became his first object. Secrecy could not have been\nmore desirable for Mrs. Rushworth's credit than he felt it for his own.\nWhen he returned from Richmond, he would have been glad to see Mrs.\nRushworth no more. All that followed was the result of her imprudence;\nand he went off with her at last, because he could not help it,\nregretting Fanny even at the moment, but regretting her infinitely more\nwhen all the bustle of the intrigue was over, and a very few months had\ntaught him, by the force of contrast, to place a yet higher value on the\nsweetness of her temper, the purity of her mind, and the excellence of\nher principles.\n\nThat punishment, the public punishment of disgrace, should in a just\nmeasure attend _his_ share of the offence is, we know, not one of the\nbarriers which society gives to virtue. In this world the penalty is\nless equal than could be wished; but without presuming to look forward\nto a juster appointment hereafter, we may fairly consider a man of\nsense, like Henry Crawford, to be providing for himself no small\nportion of vexation and regret: vexation that must rise sometimes\nto self-reproach, and regret to wretchedness, in having so requited\nhospitality, so injured family peace, so forfeited his best, most\nestimable, and endeared acquaintance, and so lost the woman whom he had\nrationally as well as passionately loved.\n\nAfter what had passed to wound and alienate the two families, the\ncontinuance of the Bertrams and Grants in such close neighbourhood would\nhave been most distressing; but the absence of the latter, for some\nmonths purposely lengthened, ended very fortunately in the necessity, or\nat least the practicability, of a permanent removal. Dr. Grant, through\nan interest on which he had almost ceased to form hopes, succeeded to\na stall in Westminster, which, as affording an occasion for leaving\nMansfield, an excuse for residence in London, and an increase of income\nto answer the expenses of the change, was highly acceptable to those who\nwent and those who staid.\n\nMrs. Grant, with a temper to love and be loved, must have gone with some\nregret from the scenes and people she had been used to; but the same\nhappiness of disposition must in any place, and any society, secure her\na great deal to enjoy, and she had again a home to offer Mary; and Mary\nhad had enough of her own friends, enough of vanity, ambition, love, and\ndisappointment in the course of the last half-year, to be in need of the\ntrue kindness of her sister's heart, and the rational tranquillity\nof her ways. They lived together; and when Dr. Grant had brought on\napoplexy and death, by three great institutionary dinners in one week,\nthey still lived together; for Mary, though perfectly resolved against\never attaching herself to a younger brother again, was long in finding\namong the dashing representatives, or idle heir-apparents, who were at\nthe command of her beauty, and her 20,000, any one who could satisfy the\nbetter taste she had acquired at Mansfield, whose character and manners\ncould authorise a hope of the domestic happiness she had there learned\nto estimate, or put Edmund Bertram sufficiently out of her head.\n\nEdmund had greatly the advantage of her in this respect. He had not to\nwait and wish with vacant affections for an object worthy to succeed her\nin them. Scarcely had he done regretting Mary Crawford, and observing to\nFanny how impossible it was that he should ever meet with such another\nwoman, before it began to strike him whether a very different kind of\nwoman might not do just as well, or a great deal better: whether Fanny\nherself were not growing as dear, as important to him in all her smiles\nand all her ways, as Mary Crawford had ever been; and whether it might\nnot be a possible, an hopeful undertaking to persuade her that her warm\nand sisterly regard for him would be foundation enough for wedded love.\n\nI purposely abstain from dates on this occasion, that every one may\nbe at liberty to fix their own, aware that the cure of unconquerable\npassions, and the transfer of unchanging attachments, must vary much as\nto time in different people. I only entreat everybody to believe that\nexactly at the time when it was quite natural that it should be so, and\nnot a week earlier, Edmund did cease to care about Miss Crawford, and\nbecame as anxious to marry Fanny as Fanny herself could desire.\n\nWith such a regard for her, indeed, as his had long been, a regard\nfounded on the most endearing claims of innocence and helplessness, and\ncompleted by every recommendation of growing worth, what could be more\nnatural than the change? Loving, guiding, protecting her, as he had been\ndoing ever since her being ten years old, her mind in so great a degree\nformed by his care, and her comfort depending on his kindness, an\nobject to him of such close and peculiar interest, dearer by all his own\nimportance with her than any one else at Mansfield, what was there now\nto add, but that he should learn to prefer soft light eyes to sparkling\ndark ones. And being always with her, and always talking confidentially,\nand his feelings exactly in that favourable state which a recent\ndisappointment gives, those soft light eyes could not be very long in\nobtaining the pre-eminence.\n\nHaving once set out, and felt that he had done so on this road to\nhappiness, there was nothing on the side of prudence to stop him or make\nhis progress slow; no doubts of her deserving, no fears of opposition of\ntaste, no need of drawing new hopes of happiness from dissimilarity\nof temper. Her mind, disposition, opinions, and habits wanted no\nhalf-concealment, no self-deception on the present, no reliance on\nfuture improvement. Even in the midst of his late infatuation, he had\nacknowledged Fanny's mental superiority. What must be his sense of it\nnow, therefore? She was of course only too good for him; but as nobody\nminds having what is too good for them, he was very steadily earnest in\nthe pursuit of the blessing, and it was not possible that encouragement\nfrom her should be long wanting. Timid, anxious, doubting as she was, it\nwas still impossible that such tenderness as hers should not, at times,\nhold out the strongest hope of success, though it remained for a later\nperiod to tell him the whole delightful and astonishing truth. His\nhappiness in knowing himself to have been so long the beloved of such a\nheart, must have been great enough to warrant any strength of language\nin which he could clothe it to her or to himself; it must have been\na delightful happiness. But there was happiness elsewhere which no\ndescription can reach. Let no one presume to give the feelings of a\nyoung woman on receiving the assurance of that affection of which she\nhas scarcely allowed herself to entertain a hope.\n\nTheir own inclinations ascertained, there were no difficulties behind,\nno drawback of poverty or parent. It was a match which Sir Thomas's\nwishes had even forestalled. Sick of ambitious and mercenary connexions,\nprizing more and more the sterling good of principle and temper, and\nchiefly anxious to bind by the strongest securities all that remained to\nhim of domestic felicity, he had pondered with genuine satisfaction on\nthe more than possibility of the two young friends finding their natural\nconsolation in each other for all that had occurred of disappointment to\neither; and the joyful consent which met Edmund's application, the high\nsense of having realised a great acquisition in the promise of Fanny for\na daughter, formed just such a contrast with his early opinion on the\nsubject when the poor little girl's coming had been first agitated, as\ntime is for ever producing between the plans and decisions of mortals,\nfor their own instruction, and their neighbours' entertainment.\n\nFanny was indeed the daughter that he wanted. His charitable kindness\nhad been rearing a prime comfort for himself. His liberality had a rich\nrepayment, and the general goodness of his intentions by her deserved\nit. He might have made her childhood happier; but it had been an error\nof judgment only which had given him the appearance of harshness, and\ndeprived him of her early love; and now, on really knowing each other,\ntheir mutual attachment became very strong. After settling her at\nThornton Lacey with every kind attention to her comfort, the object of\nalmost every day was to see her there, or to get her away from it.\n\nSelfishly dear as she had long been to Lady Bertram, she could not be\nparted with willingly by _her_. No happiness of son or niece could make\nher wish the marriage. But it was possible to part with her, because\nSusan remained to supply her place. Susan became the stationary niece,\ndelighted to be so; and equally well adapted for it by a readiness of\nmind, and an inclination for usefulness, as Fanny had been by sweetness\nof temper, and strong feelings of gratitude. Susan could never be\nspared. First as a comfort to Fanny, then as an auxiliary, and last as\nher substitute, she was established at Mansfield, with every appearance\nof equal permanency. Her more fearless disposition and happier nerves\nmade everything easy to her there. With quickness in understanding\nthe tempers of those she had to deal with, and no natural timidity to\nrestrain any consequent wishes, she was soon welcome and useful to all;\nand after Fanny's removal succeeded so naturally to her influence over\nthe hourly comfort of her aunt, as gradually to become, perhaps, the\nmost beloved of the two. In _her_ usefulness, in Fanny's excellence,\nin William's continued good conduct and rising fame, and in the general\nwell-doing and success of the other members of the family, all assisting\nto advance each other, and doing credit to his countenance and aid, Sir\nThomas saw repeated, and for ever repeated, reason to rejoice in what he\nhad done for them all, and acknowledge the advantages of early hardship\nand discipline, and the consciousness of being born to struggle and\nendure.\n\nWith so much true merit and true love, and no want of fortune and\nfriends, the happiness of the married cousins must appear as secure as\nearthly happiness can be. Equally formed for domestic life, and attached\nto country pleasures, their home was the home of affection and comfort;\nand to complete the picture of good, the acquisition of Mansfield\nliving, by the death of Dr. Grant, occurred just after they had been\nmarried long enough to begin to want an increase of income, and feel\ntheir distance from the paternal abode an inconvenience.\n\nOn that event they removed to Mansfield; and the Parsonage there,\nwhich, under each of its two former owners, Fanny had never been able\nto approach but with some painful sensation of restraint or alarm, soon\ngrew as dear to her heart, and as thoroughly perfect in her eyes, as\neverything else within the view and patronage of Mansfield Park had long\nbeen.\n\n\nTHE END\n\n\n\n\n\n","id":"141"},{"text":"\n\n\n\n\nEMMA\n\nBy Jane Austen\n\n\n\n\nVOLUME I\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nEmma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home\nand happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of\nexistence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very\nlittle to distress or vex her.\n\nShe was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate,\nindulgent father; and had, in consequence of her sister's marriage, been\nmistress of his house from a very early period. Her mother had died\ntoo long ago for her to have more than an indistinct remembrance of\nher caresses; and her place had been supplied by an excellent woman as\ngoverness, who had fallen little short of a mother in affection.\n\nSixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse's family, less as a\ngoverness than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularly\nof Emma. Between _them_ it was more the intimacy of sisters. Even before\nMiss Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office of governess, the\nmildness of her temper had hardly allowed her to impose any restraint;\nand the shadow of authority being now long passed away, they had been\nliving together as friend and friend very mutually attached, and Emma\ndoing just what she liked; highly esteeming Miss Taylor's judgment, but\ndirected chiefly by her own.\n\nThe real evils, indeed, of Emma's situation were the power of having\nrather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too\nwell of herself; these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to\nher many enjoyments. The danger, however, was at present so unperceived,\nthat they did not by any means rank as misfortunes with her.\n\nSorrow came--a gentle sorrow--but not at all in the shape of any\ndisagreeable consciousness.--Miss Taylor married. It was Miss Taylor's\nloss which first brought grief. It was on the wedding-day of this\nbeloved friend that Emma first sat in mournful thought of any\ncontinuance. The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her father and\nherself were left to dine together, with no prospect of a third to cheer\na long evening. Her father composed himself to sleep after dinner, as\nusual, and she had then only to sit and think of what she had lost.\n\nThe event had every promise of happiness for her friend. Mr. Weston\nwas a man of unexceptionable character, easy fortune, suitable age, and\npleasant manners; and there was some satisfaction in considering\nwith what self-denying, generous friendship she had always wished and\npromoted the match; but it was a black morning's work for her. The want\nof Miss Taylor would be felt every hour of every day. She recalled her\npast kindness--the kindness, the affection of sixteen years--how she had\ntaught and how she had played with her from five years old--how she had\ndevoted all her powers to attach and amuse her in health--and how\nnursed her through the various illnesses of childhood. A large debt of\ngratitude was owing here; but the intercourse of the last seven\nyears, the equal footing and perfect unreserve which had soon followed\nIsabella's marriage, on their being left to each other, was yet a\ndearer, tenderer recollection. She had been a friend and companion such\nas few possessed: intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing\nall the ways of the family, interested in all its concerns, and\npeculiarly interested in herself, in every pleasure, every scheme of\nhers--one to whom she could speak every thought as it arose, and who had\nsuch an affection for her as could never find fault.\n\nHow was she to bear the change?--It was true that her friend was going\nonly half a mile from them; but Emma was aware that great must be the\ndifference between a Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and a Miss\nTaylor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural and domestic,\nshe was now in great danger of suffering from intellectual solitude. She\ndearly loved her father, but he was no companion for her. He could not\nmeet her in conversation, rational or playful.\n\nThe evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr. Woodhouse had\nnot married early) was much increased by his constitution and habits;\nfor having been a valetudinarian all his life, without activity of\nmind or body, he was a much older man in ways than in years; and though\neverywhere beloved for the friendliness of his heart and his amiable\ntemper, his talents could not have recommended him at any time.\n\nHer sister, though comparatively but little removed by matrimony, being\nsettled in London, only sixteen miles off, was much beyond her daily\nreach; and many a long October and November evening must be struggled\nthrough at Hartfield, before Christmas brought the next visit from\nIsabella and her husband, and their little children, to fill the house,\nand give her pleasant society again.\n\nHighbury, the large and populous village, almost amounting to a town,\nto which Hartfield, in spite of its separate lawn, and shrubberies, and\nname, did really belong, afforded her no equals. The Woodhouses\nwere first in consequence there. All looked up to them. She had many\nacquaintance in the place, for her father was universally civil, but\nnot one among them who could be accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor for even\nhalf a day. It was a melancholy change; and Emma could not but sigh over\nit, and wish for impossible things, till her father awoke, and made it\nnecessary to be cheerful. His spirits required support. He was a nervous\nman, easily depressed; fond of every body that he was used to, and\nhating to part with them; hating change of every kind. Matrimony, as the\norigin of change, was always disagreeable; and he was by no means yet\nreconciled to his own daughter's marrying, nor could ever speak of her\nbut with compassion, though it had been entirely a match of affection,\nwhen he was now obliged to part with Miss Taylor too; and from his\nhabits of gentle selfishness, and of being never able to suppose that\nother people could feel differently from himself, he was very much\ndisposed to think Miss Taylor had done as sad a thing for herself as for\nthem, and would have been a great deal happier if she had spent all the\nrest of her life at Hartfield. Emma smiled and chatted as cheerfully\nas she could, to keep him from such thoughts; but when tea came, it was\nimpossible for him not to say exactly as he had said at dinner,\n\n\"Poor Miss Taylor!--I wish she were here again. What a pity it is that\nMr. Weston ever thought of her!\"\n\n\"I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot. Mr. Weston is such\na good-humoured, pleasant, excellent man, that he thoroughly deserves\na good wife;--and you would not have had Miss Taylor live with us for\never, and bear all my odd humours, when she might have a house of her\nown?\"\n\n\"A house of her own!--But where is the advantage of a house of her own?\nThis is three times as large.--And you have never any odd humours, my\ndear.\"\n\n\"How often we shall be going to see them, and they coming to see us!--We\nshall be always meeting! _We_ must begin; we must go and pay wedding\nvisit very soon.\"\n\n\"My dear, how am I to get so far? Randalls is such a distance. I could\nnot walk half so far.\"\n\n\"No, papa, nobody thought of your walking. We must go in the carriage,\nto be sure.\"\n\n\"The carriage! But James will not like to put the horses to for such a\nlittle way;--and where are the poor horses to be while we are paying our\nvisit?\"\n\n\"They are to be put into Mr. Weston's stable, papa. You know we have\nsettled all that already. We talked it all over with Mr. Weston last\nnight. And as for James, you may be very sure he will always like going\nto Randalls, because of his daughter's being housemaid there. I only\ndoubt whether he will ever take us anywhere else. That was your doing,\npapa. You got Hannah that good place. Nobody thought of Hannah till you\nmentioned her--James is so obliged to you!\"\n\n\"I am very glad I did think of her. It was very lucky, for I would not\nhave had poor James think himself slighted upon any account; and I am\nsure she will make a very good servant: she is a civil, pretty-spoken\ngirl; I have a great opinion of her. Whenever I see her, she always\ncurtseys and asks me how I do, in a very pretty manner; and when you\nhave had her here to do needlework, I observe she always turns the lock\nof the door the right way and never bangs it. I am sure she will be an\nexcellent servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylor\nto have somebody about her that she is used to see. Whenever James goes\nover to see his daughter, you know, she will be hearing of us. He will\nbe able to tell her how we all are.\"\n\nEmma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of ideas, and\nhoped, by the help of backgammon, to get her father tolerably\nthrough the evening, and be attacked by no regrets but her own. The\nbackgammon-table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards walked\nin and made it unnecessary.\n\nMr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-and-thirty, was not\nonly a very old and intimate friend of the family, but particularly\nconnected with it, as the elder brother of Isabella's husband. He lived\nabout a mile from Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome,\nand at this time more welcome than usual, as coming directly from their\nmutual connexions in London. He had returned to a late dinner, after\nsome days' absence, and now walked up to Hartfield to say that all were\nwell in Brunswick Square. It was a happy circumstance, and animated\nMr. Woodhouse for some time. Mr. Knightley had a cheerful manner, which\nalways did him good; and his many inquiries after \"poor Isabella\" and\nher children were answered most satisfactorily. When this was over, Mr.\nWoodhouse gratefully observed, \"It is very kind of you, Mr. Knightley,\nto come out at this late hour to call upon us. I am afraid you must have\nhad a shocking walk.\"\n\n\"Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that I\nmust draw back from your great fire.\"\n\n\"But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish you may not\ncatch cold.\"\n\n\"Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them.\"\n\n\"Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain\nhere. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at\nbreakfast. I wanted them to put off the wedding.\"\n\n\"By the bye--I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware of what\nsort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my\ncongratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well. How did you\nall behave? Who cried most?\"\n\n\"Ah! poor Miss Taylor! 'Tis a sad business.\"\n\n\"Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly say\n'poor Miss Taylor.' I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it\ncomes to the question of dependence or independence!--At any rate, it\nmust be better to have only one to please than two.\"\n\n\"Especially when _one_ of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome\ncreature!\" said Emma playfully. \"That is what you have in your head, I\nknow--and what you would certainly say if my father were not by.\"\n\n\"I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed,\" said Mr. Woodhouse, with a\nsigh. \"I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome.\"\n\n\"My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean _you_, or suppose Mr.\nKnightley to mean _you_. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only\nmyself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know--in a\njoke--it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another.\"\n\nMr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults\nin Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and\nthough this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew\nit would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him\nreally suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by\nevery body.\n\n\"Emma knows I never flatter her,\" said Mr. Knightley, \"but I meant no\nreflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons\nto please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a\ngainer.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Emma, willing to let it pass--\"you want to hear about\nthe wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved\ncharmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not\na tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we\nwere going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every\nday.\"\n\n\"Dear Emma bears every thing so well,\" said her father. \"But, Mr.\nKnightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am\nsure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for.\"\n\nEmma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. \"It\nis impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion,\" said Mr.\nKnightley. \"We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could\nsuppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's\nadvantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's\ntime of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to\nher to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow\nherself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor\nmust be glad to have her so happily married.\"\n\n\"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me,\" said Emma, \"and a very\nconsiderable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you\nknow, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the\nright, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may\ncomfort me for any thing.\"\n\nMr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, \"Ah!\nmy dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for\nwhatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more\nmatches.\"\n\n\"I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for\nother people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such\nsuccess, you know!--Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry\nagain. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who\nseemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied\neither in his business in town or among his friends here, always\nacceptable wherever he went, always cheerful--Mr. Weston need not spend\na single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr.\nWeston certainly would never marry again. Some people even talked of a\npromise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the\nuncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the\nsubject, but I believed none of it.\n\n\"Ever since the day--about four years ago--that Miss Taylor and I met\nwith him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted\naway with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from\nFarmer Mitchell's, I made up my mind on the subject. I planned the match\nfrom that hour; and when such success has blessed me in this instance,\ndear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave off match-making.\"\n\n\"I do not understand what you mean by 'success,'\" said Mr. Knightley.\n\"Success supposes endeavour. Your time has been properly and delicately\nspent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four years to bring\nabout this marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady's mind! But\nif, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as you call it, means\nonly your planning it, your saying to yourself one idle day, 'I think it\nwould be a very good thing for Miss Taylor if Mr. Weston were to marry\nher,' and saying it again to yourself every now and then afterwards, why\ndo you talk of success? Where is your merit? What are you proud of? You\nmade a lucky guess; and _that_ is all that can be said.\"\n\n\"And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a lucky guess?--I\npity you.--I thought you cleverer--for, depend upon it a lucky guess is\nnever merely luck. There is always some talent in it. And as to my\npoor word 'success,' which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am so\nentirely without any claim to it. You have drawn two pretty pictures;\nbut I think there may be a third--a something between the do-nothing and\nthe do-all. If I had not promoted Mr. Weston's visits here, and given\nmany little encouragements, and smoothed many little matters, it might\nnot have come to any thing after all. I think you must know Hartfield\nenough to comprehend that.\"\n\n\"A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and a rational,\nunaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage their\nown concerns. You are more likely to have done harm to yourself, than\ngood to them, by interference.\"\n\n\"Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others,\" rejoined\nMr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part. \"But, my dear, pray do not\nmake any more matches; they are silly things, and break up one's family\ncircle grievously.\"\n\n\"Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton. Poor Mr. Elton! You like Mr.\nElton, papa,--I must look about for a wife for him. There is nobody in\nHighbury who deserves him--and he has been here a whole year, and has\nfitted up his house so comfortably, that it would be a shame to have him\nsingle any longer--and I thought when he was joining their hands to-day,\nhe looked so very much as if he would like to have the same kind office\ndone for him! I think very well of Mr. Elton, and this is the only way I\nhave of doing him a service.\"\n\n\"Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a very good young\nman, and I have a great regard for him. But if you want to shew him any\nattention, my dear, ask him to come and dine with us some day. That will\nbe a much better thing. I dare say Mr. Knightley will be so kind as to\nmeet him.\"\n\n\"With a great deal of pleasure, sir, at any time,\" said Mr. Knightley,\nlaughing, \"and I agree with you entirely, that it will be a much better\nthing. Invite him to dinner, Emma, and help him to the best of the fish\nand the chicken, but leave him to chuse his own wife. Depend upon it, a\nman of six or seven-and-twenty can take care of himself.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nMr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family,\nwhich for the last two or three generations had been rising into\ngentility and property. He had received a good education, but, on\nsucceeding early in life to a small independence, had become indisposed\nfor any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged,\nand had satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social temper by entering\ninto the militia of his county, then embodied.\n\nCaptain Weston was a general favourite; and when the chances of his\nmilitary life had introduced him to Miss Churchill, of a great Yorkshire\nfamily, and Miss Churchill fell in love with him, nobody was surprized,\nexcept her brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and who were\nfull of pride and importance, which the connexion would offend.\n\nMiss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command of her\nfortune--though her fortune bore no proportion to the family-estate--was\nnot to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it took place, to the\ninfinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her off with\ndue decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce much\nhappiness. Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in it, for she had a\nhusband whose warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing due\nto her in return for the great goodness of being in love with him;\nbut though she had one sort of spirit, she had not the best. She had\nresolution enough to pursue her own will in spite of her brother,\nbut not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that brother's\nunreasonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former home.\nThey lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing in comparison\nof Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but she wanted at\nonce to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe.\n\nCaptain Weston, who had been considered, especially by the Churchills,\nas making such an amazing match, was proved to have much the worst of\nthe bargain; for when his wife died, after a three years' marriage, he\nwas rather a poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain.\nFrom the expense of the child, however, he was soon relieved. The boy\nhad, with the additional softening claim of a lingering illness of his\nmother's, been the means of a sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs.\nChurchill, having no children of their own, nor any other young creature\nof equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge of the\nlittle Frank soon after her decease. Some scruples and some reluctance\nthe widower-father may be supposed to have felt; but as they were\novercome by other considerations, the child was given up to the care and\nthe wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort to seek,\nand his own situation to improve as he could.\n\nA complete change of life became desirable. He quitted the militia and\nengaged in trade, having brothers already established in a good way in\nLondon, which afforded him a favourable opening. It was a concern which\nbrought just employment enough. He had still a small house in Highbury,\nwhere most of his leisure days were spent; and between useful occupation\nand the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty years of his\nlife passed cheerfully away. He had, by that time, realised an easy\ncompetence--enough to secure the purchase of a little estate adjoining\nHighbury, which he had always longed for--enough to marry a woman as\nportionless even as Miss Taylor, and to live according to the wishes of\nhis own friendly and social disposition.\n\nIt was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his\nschemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth,\nit had not shaken his determination of never settling till he could\npurchase Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward to;\nbut he had gone steadily on, with these objects in view, till they were\naccomplished. He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained\nhis wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every\nprobability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through. He had\nnever been an unhappy man; his own temper had secured him from that,\neven in his first marriage; but his second must shew him how delightful\na well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must give him the\npleasantest proof of its being a great deal better to choose than to be\nchosen, to excite gratitude than to feel it.\n\nHe had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own;\nfor as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his\nuncle's heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume\nthe name of Churchill on coming of age. It was most unlikely, therefore,\nthat he should ever want his father's assistance. His father had no\napprehension of it. The aunt was a capricious woman, and governed her\nhusband entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston's nature to imagine that\nany caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear, and, as he\nbelieved, so deservedly dear. He saw his son every year in London, and\nwas proud of him; and his fond report of him as a very fine young man\nhad made Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too. He was looked on as\nsufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and prospects a\nkind of common concern.\n\nMr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively\ncuriosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little\nreturned that he had never been there in his life. His coming to visit\nhis father had been often talked of but never achieved.\n\nNow, upon his father's marriage, it was very generally proposed, as a\nmost proper attention, that the visit should take place. There was not a\ndissentient voice on the subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea with\nMrs. and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the visit. Now\nwas the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and the hope\nstrengthened when it was understood that he had written to his new\nmother on the occasion. For a few days, every morning visit in Highbury\nincluded some mention of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had received.\n\"I suppose you have heard of the handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill\nhas written to Mrs. Weston? I understand it was a very handsome letter,\nindeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse saw the letter, and\nhe says he never saw such a handsome letter in his life.\"\n\nIt was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had, of course,\nformed a very favourable idea of the young man; and such a pleasing\nattention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense, and a most\nwelcome addition to every source and every expression of congratulation\nwhich her marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most\nfortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know how fortunate\nshe might well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial\nseparation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled, and\nwho could ill bear to part with her.\n\nShe knew that at times she must be missed; and could not think, without\npain, of Emma's losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour's ennui,\nfrom the want of her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble\ncharacter; she was more equal to her situation than most girls would\nhave been, and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped\nwould bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and\nprivations. And then there was such comfort in the very easy distance of\nRandalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female walking,\nand in Mr. Weston's disposition and circumstances, which would make the\napproaching season no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in\nthe week together.\n\nHer situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude to Mrs.\nWeston, and of moments only of regret; and her satisfaction--her more\nthan satisfaction--her cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent,\nthat Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprize\nat his being still able to pity 'poor Miss Taylor,' when they left her\nat Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away\nin the evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her\nown. But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse's giving a gentle sigh,\nand saying, \"Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would be very glad to stay.\"\n\nThere was no recovering Miss Taylor--nor much likelihood of ceasing to\npity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse.\nThe compliments of his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by\nbeing wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which\nhad been a great distress to him, was all eat up. His own stomach\ncould bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be\ndifferent from himself. What was unwholesome to him he regarded as unfit\nfor any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade them\nfrom having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as\nearnestly tried to prevent any body's eating it. He had been at the\npains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr. Perry\nwas an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were one\nof the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse's life; and upon being applied to, he\ncould not but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against the bias\nof inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with\nmany--perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately. With such an\nopinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence\nevery visitor of the newly married pair; but still the cake was eaten;\nand there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone.\n\nThere was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being\nseen with a slice of Mrs. Weston's wedding-cake in their hands: but Mr.\nWoodhouse would never believe it.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nMr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way. He liked very much to\nhave his friends come and see him; and from various united causes, from\nhis long residence at Hartfield, and his good nature, from his fortune,\nhis house, and his daughter, he could command the visits of his\nown little circle, in a great measure, as he liked. He had not much\nintercourse with any families beyond that circle; his horror of late\nhours, and large dinner-parties, made him unfit for any acquaintance but\nsuch as would visit him on his own terms. Fortunately for him, Highbury,\nincluding Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell Abbey in the parish\nadjoining, the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended many such. Not\nunfrequently, through Emma's persuasion, he had some of the chosen and\nthe best to dine with him: but evening parties were what he preferred;\nand, unless he fancied himself at any time unequal to company, there\nwas scarcely an evening in the week in which Emma could not make up a\ncard-table for him.\n\nReal, long-standing regard brought the Westons and Mr. Knightley; and by\nMr. Elton, a young man living alone without liking it, the privilege\nof exchanging any vacant evening of his own blank solitude for the\nelegancies and society of Mr. Woodhouse's drawing-room, and the smiles\nof his lovely daughter, was in no danger of being thrown away.\n\nAfter these came a second set; among the most come-at-able of whom were\nMrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, three ladies almost always at\nthe service of an invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and\ncarried home so often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no hardship for\neither James or the horses. Had it taken place only once a year, it\nwould have been a grievance.\n\nMrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a very old\nlady, almost past every thing but tea and quadrille. She lived with her\nsingle daughter in a very small way, and was considered with all the\nregard and respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward\ncircumstances, can excite. Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree\nof popularity for a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor married.\nMiss Bates stood in the very worst predicament in the world for having\nmuch of the public favour; and she had no intellectual superiority to\nmake atonement to herself, or frighten those who might hate her into\noutward respect. She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her\nyouth had passed without distinction, and her middle of life was devoted\nto the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a small\nincome go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman, and a woman\nwhom no one named without good-will. It was her own universal good-will\nand contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved every body,\nwas interested in every body's happiness, quicksighted to every body's\nmerits; thought herself a most fortunate creature, and surrounded with\nblessings in such an excellent mother, and so many good neighbours\nand friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. The simplicity and\ncheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful spirit, were a\nrecommendation to every body, and a mine of felicity to herself. She was\na great talker upon little matters, which exactly suited Mr. Woodhouse,\nfull of trivial communications and harmless gossip.\n\nMrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School--not of a seminary, or an\nestablishment, or any thing which professed, in long sentences of\nrefined nonsense, to combine liberal acquirements with elegant morality,\nupon new principles and new systems--and where young ladies for enormous\npay might be screwed out of health and into vanity--but a real,\nhonest, old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a reasonable quantity of\naccomplishments were sold at a reasonable price, and where girls might\nbe sent to be out of the way, and scramble themselves into a little\neducation, without any danger of coming back prodigies. Mrs. Goddard's\nschool was in high repute--and very deservedly; for Highbury was\nreckoned a particularly healthy spot: she had an ample house and garden,\ngave the children plenty of wholesome food, let them run about a great\ndeal in the summer, and in winter dressed their chilblains with her own\nhands. It was no wonder that a train of twenty young couple now walked\nafter her to church. She was a plain, motherly kind of woman, who\nhad worked hard in her youth, and now thought herself entitled to the\noccasional holiday of a tea-visit; and having formerly owed much to Mr.\nWoodhouse's kindness, felt his particular claim on her to leave her neat\nparlour, hung round with fancy-work, whenever she could, and win or lose\na few sixpences by his fireside.\n\nThese were the ladies whom Emma found herself very frequently able to\ncollect; and happy was she, for her father's sake, in the power; though,\nas far as she was herself concerned, it was no remedy for the absence of\nMrs. Weston. She was delighted to see her father look comfortable, and\nvery much pleased with herself for contriving things so well; but the\nquiet prosings of three such women made her feel that every evening so\nspent was indeed one of the long evenings she had fearfully anticipated.\n\nAs she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such a close of the\npresent day, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in most\nrespectful terms, to be allowed to bring Miss Smith with her; a most\nwelcome request: for Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom Emma knew\nvery well by sight, and had long felt an interest in, on account of\nher beauty. A very gracious invitation was returned, and the evening no\nlonger dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion.\n\nHarriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody. Somebody had placed\nher, several years back, at Mrs. Goddard's school, and somebody\nhad lately raised her from the condition of scholar to that of\nparlour-boarder. This was all that was generally known of her history.\nShe had no visible friends but what had been acquired at Highbury, and\nwas now just returned from a long visit in the country to some young\nladies who had been at school there with her.\n\nShe was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be of a sort\nwhich Emma particularly admired. She was short, plump, and fair, with a\nfine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, regular features, and a look of great\nsweetness, and, before the end of the evening, Emma was as much pleased\nwith her manners as her person, and quite determined to continue the\nacquaintance.\n\nShe was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in Miss Smith's\nconversation, but she found her altogether very engaging--not\ninconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk--and yet so far from pushing,\nshewing so proper and becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly\ngrateful for being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed\nby the appearance of every thing in so superior a style to what she had\nbeen used to, that she must have good sense, and deserve encouragement.\nEncouragement should be given. Those soft blue eyes, and all those\nnatural graces, should not be wasted on the inferior society of Highbury\nand its connexions. The acquaintance she had already formed were\nunworthy of her. The friends from whom she had just parted, though very\ngood sort of people, must be doing her harm. They were a family of the\nname of Martin, whom Emma well knew by character, as renting a large\nfarm of Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of Donwell--very\ncreditably, she believed--she knew Mr. Knightley thought highly of\nthem--but they must be coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be the\nintimates of a girl who wanted only a little more knowledge and elegance\nto be quite perfect. _She_ would notice her; she would improve her; she\nwould detach her from her bad acquaintance, and introduce her into good\nsociety; she would form her opinions and her manners. It would be an\ninteresting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highly becoming her\nown situation in life, her leisure, and powers.\n\nShe was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talking and\nlistening, and forming all these schemes in the in-betweens, that the\nevening flew away at a very unusual rate; and the supper-table, which\nalways closed such parties, and for which she had been used to sit and\nwatch the due time, was all set out and ready, and moved forwards to the\nfire, before she was aware. With an alacrity beyond the common impulse\nof a spirit which yet was never indifferent to the credit of doing every\nthing well and attentively, with the real good-will of a mind delighted\nwith its own ideas, did she then do all the honours of the meal, and\nhelp and recommend the minced chicken and scalloped oysters, with an\nurgency which she knew would be acceptable to the early hours and civil\nscruples of their guests.\n\nUpon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouses feelings were in sad warfare.\nHe loved to have the cloth laid, because it had been the fashion of his\nyouth, but his conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him\nrather sorry to see any thing put on it; and while his hospitality would\nhave welcomed his visitors to every thing, his care for their health\nmade him grieve that they would eat.\n\nSuch another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all that he could,\nwith thorough self-approbation, recommend; though he might constrain\nhimself, while the ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer things, to\nsay:\n\n\"Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of these eggs. An egg\nboiled very soft is not unwholesome. Serle understands boiling an egg\nbetter than any body. I would not recommend an egg boiled by any body\nelse; but you need not be afraid, they are very small, you see--one of\nour small eggs will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let Emma help you to a\n_little_ bit of tart--a _very_ little bit. Ours are all apple-tarts. You\nneed not be afraid of unwholesome preserves here. I do not advise the\ncustard. Mrs. Goddard, what say you to _half_ a glass of wine? A\n_small_ half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do not think it could\ndisagree with you.\"\n\nEmma allowed her father to talk--but supplied her visitors in a much\nmore satisfactory style, and on the present evening had particular\npleasure in sending them away happy. The happiness of Miss Smith was\nquite equal to her intentions. Miss Woodhouse was so great a personage\nin Highbury, that the prospect of the introduction had given as much\npanic as pleasure; but the humble, grateful little girl went off with\nhighly gratified feelings, delighted with the affability with which Miss\nWoodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually shaken hands\nwith her at last!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nHarriet Smith's intimacy at Hartfield was soon a settled thing. Quick\nand decided in her ways, Emma lost no time in inviting, encouraging, and\ntelling her to come very often; and as their acquaintance increased, so\ndid their satisfaction in each other. As a walking companion, Emma had\nvery early foreseen how useful she might find her. In that respect\nMrs. Weston's loss had been important. Her father never went beyond the\nshrubbery, where two divisions of the ground sufficed him for his long\nwalk, or his short, as the year varied; and since Mrs. Weston's marriage\nher exercise had been too much confined. She had ventured once alone to\nRandalls, but it was not pleasant; and a Harriet Smith, therefore,\none whom she could summon at any time to a walk, would be a valuable\naddition to her privileges. But in every respect, as she saw more of\nher, she approved her, and was confirmed in all her kind designs.\n\nHarriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet, docile, grateful\ndisposition, was totally free from conceit, and only desiring to be\nguided by any one she looked up to. Her early attachment to herself\nwas very amiable; and her inclination for good company, and power of\nappreciating what was elegant and clever, shewed that there was no\nwant of taste, though strength of understanding must not be expected.\nAltogether she was quite convinced of Harriet Smith's being exactly the\nyoung friend she wanted--exactly the something which her home required.\nSuch a friend as Mrs. Weston was out of the question. Two such could\nnever be granted. Two such she did not want. It was quite a different\nsort of thing, a sentiment distinct and independent. Mrs. Weston was the\nobject of a regard which had its basis in gratitude and esteem. Harriet\nwould be loved as one to whom she could be useful. For Mrs. Weston there\nwas nothing to be done; for Harriet every thing.\n\nHer first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to find out who\nwere the parents, but Harriet could not tell. She was ready to tell\nevery thing in her power, but on this subject questions were vain. Emma\nwas obliged to fancy what she liked--but she could never believe that in\nthe same situation _she_ should not have discovered the truth. Harriet\nhad no penetration. She had been satisfied to hear and believe just what\nMrs. Goddard chose to tell her; and looked no farther.\n\nMrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the affairs of\nthe school in general, formed naturally a great part of the\nconversation--and but for her acquaintance with the Martins of\nAbbey-Mill Farm, it must have been the whole. But the Martins occupied\nher thoughts a good deal; she had spent two very happy months with them,\nand now loved to talk of the pleasures of her visit, and describe\nthe many comforts and wonders of the place. Emma encouraged her\ntalkativeness--amused by such a picture of another set of beings,\nand enjoying the youthful simplicity which could speak with so much\nexultation of Mrs. Martin's having \"_two_ parlours, two very good\nparlours, indeed; one of them quite as large as Mrs. Goddard's\ndrawing-room; and of her having an upper maid who had lived\nfive-and-twenty years with her; and of their having eight cows, two of\nthem Alderneys, and one a little Welch cow, a very pretty little Welch\ncow indeed; and of Mrs. Martin's saying as she was so fond of it,\nit should be called _her_ cow; and of their having a very handsome\nsummer-house in their garden, where some day next year they were all to\ndrink tea:--a very handsome summer-house, large enough to hold a dozen\npeople.\"\n\nFor some time she was amused, without thinking beyond the immediate\ncause; but as she came to understand the family better, other feelings\narose. She had taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and\ndaughter, a son and son's wife, who all lived together; but when it\nappeared that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was\nalways mentioned with approbation for his great good-nature in doing\nsomething or other, was a single man; that there was no young Mrs.\nMartin, no wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her poor little\nfriend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she were not\ntaken care of, she might be required to sink herself forever.\n\nWith this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number and\nmeaning; and she particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin,\nand there was evidently no dislike to it. Harriet was very ready to\nspeak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry evening\ngames; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very good-humoured and\nobliging. He had gone three miles round one day in order to bring her\nsome walnuts, because she had said how fond she was of them, and in\nevery thing else he was so very obliging. He had his shepherd's son into\nthe parlour one night on purpose to sing to her. She was very fond\nof singing. He could sing a little himself. She believed he was very\nclever, and understood every thing. He had a very fine flock, and, while\nshe was with them, he had been bid more for his wool than any body in\nthe country. She believed every body spoke well of him. His mother and\nsisters were very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and\nthere was a blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any body\nto be a better son, and therefore she was sure, whenever he married, he\nwould make a good husband. Not that she _wanted_ him to marry. She was\nin no hurry at all.\n\n\"Well done, Mrs. Martin!\" thought Emma. \"You know what you are about.\"\n\n\"And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send\nMrs. Goddard a beautiful goose--the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever\nseen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three\nteachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with\nher.\"\n\n\"Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of\nhis own business? He does not read?\"\n\n\"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a\ngood deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the\nAgricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window\nseats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening,\nbefore we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the\nElegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of\nWakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of\nthe Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but\nhe is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can.\"\n\nThe next question was--\n\n\"What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?\"\n\n\"Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at\nfirst, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know,\nafter a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now and\nthen, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston.\nHe has passed you very often.\"\n\n\"That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having\nany idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot,\nis the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are\nprecisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do.\nA degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest me;\nI might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other. But\na farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as\nmuch above my notice as in every other he is below it.\"\n\n\"To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have observed him;\nbut he knows you very well indeed--I mean by sight.\"\n\n\"I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man. I know,\nindeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well. What do you imagine\nhis age to be?\"\n\n\"He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the\n23rd just a fortnight and a day's difference--which is very odd.\"\n\n\"Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His mother is\nperfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem very comfortable as they\nare, and if she were to take any pains to marry him, she would probably\nrepent it. Six years hence, if he could meet with a good sort of young\nwoman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it might be very\ndesirable.\"\n\n\"Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old!\"\n\n\"Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are not\nborn to an independence. Mr. Martin, I imagine, has his fortune entirely\nto make--cannot be at all beforehand with the world. Whatever money he\nmight come into when his father died, whatever his share of the family\nproperty, it is, I dare say, all afloat, all employed in his stock, and\nso forth; and though, with diligence and good luck, he may be rich in\ntime, it is next to impossible that he should have realised any thing\nyet.\"\n\n\"To be sure, so it is. But they live very comfortably. They have no\nindoors man, else they do not want for any thing; and Mrs. Martin talks\nof taking a boy another year.\"\n\n\"I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet, whenever he does\nmarry;--I mean, as to being acquainted with his wife--for though his\nsisters, from a superior education, are not to be altogether objected\nto, it does not follow that he might marry any body at all fit for you\nto notice. The misfortune of your birth ought to make you particularly\ncareful as to your associates. There can be no doubt of your being a\ngentleman's daughter, and you must support your claim to that station by\nevery thing within your own power, or there will be plenty of people who\nwould take pleasure in degrading you.\"\n\n\"Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are. But while I visit at Hartfield,\nand you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I am not afraid of what any\nbody can do.\"\n\n\"You understand the force of influence pretty well, Harriet; but I would\nhave you so firmly established in good society, as to be independent\neven of Hartfield and Miss Woodhouse. I want to see you permanently\nwell connected, and to that end it will be advisable to have as few odd\nacquaintance as may be; and, therefore, I say that if you should still\nbe in this country when Mr. Martin marries, I wish you may not be drawn\nin by your intimacy with the sisters, to be acquainted with the wife,\nwho will probably be some mere farmer's daughter, without education.\"\n\n\"To be sure. Yes. Not that I think Mr. Martin would ever marry any body\nbut what had had some education--and been very well brought up. However,\nI do not mean to set up my opinion against yours--and I am sure I shall\nnot wish for the acquaintance of his wife. I shall always have a great\nregard for the Miss Martins, especially Elizabeth, and should be very\nsorry to give them up, for they are quite as well educated as me. But\nif he marries a very ignorant, vulgar woman, certainly I had better not\nvisit her, if I can help it.\"\n\nEmma watched her through the fluctuations of this speech, and saw no\nalarming symptoms of love. The young man had been the first admirer, but\nshe trusted there was no other hold, and that there would be no serious\ndifficulty, on Harriet's side, to oppose any friendly arrangement of her\nown.\n\nThey met Mr. Martin the very next day, as they were walking on the\nDonwell road. He was on foot, and after looking very respectfully at\nher, looked with most unfeigned satisfaction at her companion. Emma was\nnot sorry to have such an opportunity of survey; and walking a few\nyards forward, while they talked together, soon made her quick eye\nsufficiently acquainted with Mr. Robert Martin. His appearance was very\nneat, and he looked like a sensible young man, but his person had no\nother advantage; and when he came to be contrasted with gentlemen,\nshe thought he must lose all the ground he had gained in Harriet's\ninclination. Harriet was not insensible of manner; she had voluntarily\nnoticed her father's gentleness with admiration as well as wonder. Mr.\nMartin looked as if he did not know what manner was.\n\nThey remained but a few minutes together, as Miss Woodhouse must not be\nkept waiting; and Harriet then came running to her with a smiling face,\nand in a flutter of spirits, which Miss Woodhouse hoped very soon to\ncompose.\n\n\"Only think of our happening to meet him!--How very odd! It was quite\na chance, he said, that he had not gone round by Randalls. He did not\nthink we ever walked this road. He thought we walked towards Randalls\nmost days. He has not been able to get the Romance of the Forest yet.\nHe was so busy the last time he was at Kingston that he quite forgot it,\nbut he goes again to-morrow. So very odd we should happen to meet! Well,\nMiss Woodhouse, is he like what you expected? What do you think of him?\nDo you think him so very plain?\"\n\n\"He is very plain, undoubtedly--remarkably plain:--but that is nothing\ncompared with his entire want of gentility. I had no right to expect\nmuch, and I did not expect much; but I had no idea that he could be so\nvery clownish, so totally without air. I had imagined him, I confess, a\ndegree or two nearer gentility.\"\n\n\"To be sure,\" said Harriet, in a mortified voice, \"he is not so genteel\nas real gentlemen.\"\n\n\"I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you have been\nrepeatedly in the company of some such very real gentlemen, that you\nmust yourself be struck with the difference in Mr. Martin. At Hartfield,\nyou have had very good specimens of well educated, well bred men. I\nshould be surprized if, after seeing them, you could be in company\nwith Mr. Martin again without perceiving him to be a very inferior\ncreature--and rather wondering at yourself for having ever thought him\nat all agreeable before. Do not you begin to feel that now? Were not\nyou struck? I am sure you must have been struck by his awkward look and\nabrupt manner, and the uncouthness of a voice which I heard to be wholly\nunmodulated as I stood here.\"\n\n\"Certainly, he is not like Mr. Knightley. He has not such a fine air and\nway of walking as Mr. Knightley. I see the difference plain enough. But\nMr. Knightley is so very fine a man!\"\n\n\"Mr. Knightley's air is so remarkably good that it is not fair to\ncompare Mr. Martin with _him_. You might not see one in a hundred with\n_gentleman_ so plainly written as in Mr. Knightley. But he is not the\nonly gentleman you have been lately used to. What say you to Mr. Weston\nand Mr. Elton? Compare Mr. Martin with either of _them_. Compare their\nmanner of carrying themselves; of walking; of speaking; of being silent.\nYou must see the difference.\"\n\n\"Oh yes!--there is a great difference. But Mr. Weston is almost an old\nman. Mr. Weston must be between forty and fifty.\"\n\n\"Which makes his good manners the more valuable. The older a person\ngrows, Harriet, the more important it is that their manners should not\nbe bad; the more glaring and disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or\nawkwardness becomes. What is passable in youth is detestable in later\nage. Mr. Martin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at Mr.\nWeston's time of life?\"\n\n\"There is no saying, indeed,\" replied Harriet rather solemnly.\n\n\"But there may be pretty good guessing. He will be a completely gross,\nvulgar farmer, totally inattentive to appearances, and thinking of\nnothing but profit and loss.\"\n\n\"Will he, indeed? That will be very bad.\"\n\n\"How much his business engrosses him already is very plain from the\ncircumstance of his forgetting to inquire for the book you recommended.\nHe was a great deal too full of the market to think of any thing\nelse--which is just as it should be, for a thriving man. What has he to\ndo with books? And I have no doubt that he _will_ thrive, and be a very\nrich man in time--and his being illiterate and coarse need not disturb\n_us_.\"\n\n\"I wonder he did not remember the book\"--was all Harriet's answer, and\nspoken with a degree of grave displeasure which Emma thought might be\nsafely left to itself. She, therefore, said no more for some time. Her\nnext beginning was,\n\n\"In one respect, perhaps, Mr. Elton's manners are superior to Mr.\nKnightley's or Mr. Weston's. They have more gentleness. They might be\nmore safely held up as a pattern. There is an openness, a quickness,\nalmost a bluntness in Mr. Weston, which every body likes in _him_,\nbecause there is so much good-humour with it--but that would not do to\nbe copied. Neither would Mr. Knightley's downright, decided, commanding\nsort of manner, though it suits _him_ very well; his figure, and look,\nand situation in life seem to allow it; but if any young man were to set\nabout copying him, he would not be sufferable. On the contrary, I think\na young man might be very safely recommended to take Mr. Elton as a\nmodel. Mr. Elton is good-humoured, cheerful, obliging, and gentle.\nHe seems to me to be grown particularly gentle of late. I do not know\nwhether he has any design of ingratiating himself with either of us,\nHarriet, by additional softness, but it strikes me that his manners are\nsofter than they used to be. If he means any thing, it must be to please\nyou. Did not I tell you what he said of you the other day?\"\n\nShe then repeated some warm personal praise which she had drawn from Mr.\nElton, and now did full justice to; and Harriet blushed and smiled, and\nsaid she had always thought Mr. Elton very agreeable.\n\nMr. Elton was the very person fixed on by Emma for driving the young\nfarmer out of Harriet's head. She thought it would be an excellent\nmatch; and only too palpably desirable, natural, and probable, for her\nto have much merit in planning it. She feared it was what every body\nelse must think of and predict. It was not likely, however, that any\nbody should have equalled her in the date of the plan, as it had\nentered her brain during the very first evening of Harriet's coming to\nHartfield. The longer she considered it, the greater was her sense\nof its expediency. Mr. Elton's situation was most suitable, quite the\ngentleman himself, and without low connexions; at the same time, not of\nany family that could fairly object to the doubtful birth of Harriet.\nHe had a comfortable home for her, and Emma imagined a very sufficient\nincome; for though the vicarage of Highbury was not large, he was known\nto have some independent property; and she thought very highly of him\nas a good-humoured, well-meaning, respectable young man, without any\ndeficiency of useful understanding or knowledge of the world.\n\nShe had already satisfied herself that he thought Harriet a beautiful\ngirl, which she trusted, with such frequent meetings at Hartfield, was\nfoundation enough on his side; and on Harriet's there could be little\ndoubt that the idea of being preferred by him would have all the usual\nweight and efficacy. And he was really a very pleasing young man, a\nyoung man whom any woman not fastidious might like. He was reckoned very\nhandsome; his person much admired in general, though not by her,\nthere being a want of elegance of feature which she could not dispense\nwith:--but the girl who could be gratified by a Robert Martin's riding\nabout the country to get walnuts for her might very well be conquered by\nMr. Elton's admiration.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\n\"I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston,\" said Mr.\nKnightley, \"of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, but I\nthink it a bad thing.\"\n\n\"A bad thing! Do you really think it a bad thing?--why so?\"\n\n\"I think they will neither of them do the other any good.\"\n\n\"You surprize me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by supplying her with a\nnew object of interest, Harriet may be said to do Emma good. I have been\nseeing their intimacy with the greatest pleasure. How very differently\nwe feel!--Not think they will do each other any good! This will\ncertainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels about Emma, Mr.\nKnightley.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you think I am come on purpose to quarrel with you, knowing\nWeston to be out, and that you must still fight your own battle.\"\n\n\"Mr. Weston would undoubtedly support me, if he were here, for he thinks\nexactly as I do on the subject. We were speaking of it only yesterday,\nand agreeing how fortunate it was for Emma, that there should be such a\ngirl in Highbury for her to associate with. Mr. Knightley, I shall not\nallow you to be a fair judge in this case. You are so much used to live\nalone, that you do not know the value of a companion; and, perhaps no\nman can be a good judge of the comfort a woman feels in the society of\none of her own sex, after being used to it all her life. I can imagine\nyour objection to Harriet Smith. She is not the superior young woman\nwhich Emma's friend ought to be. But on the other hand, as Emma wants\nto see her better informed, it will be an inducement to her to read more\nherself. They will read together. She means it, I know.\"\n\n\"Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she was twelve years old.\nI have seen a great many lists of her drawing-up at various times of\nbooks that she meant to read regularly through--and very good lists\nthey were--very well chosen, and very neatly arranged--sometimes\nalphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule. The list she drew\nup when only fourteen--I remember thinking it did her judgment so much\ncredit, that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she may have made\nout a very good list now. But I have done with expecting any course of\nsteady reading from Emma. She will never submit to any thing\nrequiring industry and patience, and a subjection of the fancy to the\nunderstanding. Where Miss Taylor failed to stimulate, I may safely\naffirm that Harriet Smith will do nothing.--You never could persuade her\nto read half so much as you wished.--You know you could not.\"\n\n\"I dare say,\" replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, \"that I thought so\n_then_;--but since we have parted, I can never remember Emma's omitting\nto do any thing I wished.\"\n\n\"There is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory as _that_,\"--said\nMr. Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment or two he had done. \"But I,\"\nhe soon added, \"who have had no such charm thrown over my senses, must\nstill see, hear, and remember. Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest\nof her family. At ten years old, she had the misfortune of being able to\nanswer questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen. She was always\nquick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And ever since she\nwas twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you all. In her\nmother she lost the only person able to cope with her. She inherits her\nmother's talents, and must have been under subjection to her.\"\n\n\"I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley, to be dependent on _your_\nrecommendation, had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse's family and wanted another\nsituation; I do not think you would have spoken a good word for me to\nany body. I am sure you always thought me unfit for the office I held.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said he, smiling. \"You are better placed _here_; very fit for a\nwife, but not at all for a governess. But you were preparing yourself to\nbe an excellent wife all the time you were at Hartfield. You might\nnot give Emma such a complete education as your powers would seem to\npromise; but you were receiving a very good education from _her_, on the\nvery material matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and doing\nas you were bid; and if Weston had asked me to recommend him a wife, I\nshould certainly have named Miss Taylor.\"\n\n\"Thank you. There will be very little merit in making a good wife to\nsuch a man as Mr. Weston.\"\n\n\"Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown away, and that\nwith every disposition to bear, there will be nothing to be borne. We\nwill not despair, however. Weston may grow cross from the wantonness of\ncomfort, or his son may plague him.\"\n\n\"I hope not _that_.--It is not likely. No, Mr. Knightley, do not\nforetell vexation from that quarter.\"\n\n\"Not I, indeed. I only name possibilities. I do not pretend to Emma's\ngenius for foretelling and guessing. I hope, with all my heart, the\nyoung man may be a Weston in merit, and a Churchill in fortune.--But\nHarriet Smith--I have not half done about Harriet Smith. I think her the\nvery worst sort of companion that Emma could possibly have. She knows\nnothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing every thing. She is a\nflatterer in all her ways; and so much the worse, because undesigned.\nHer ignorance is hourly flattery. How can Emma imagine she has any\nthing to learn herself, while Harriet is presenting such a delightful\ninferiority? And as for Harriet, I will venture to say that _she_ cannot\ngain by the acquaintance. Hartfield will only put her out of conceit\nwith all the other places she belongs to. She will grow just refined\nenough to be uncomfortable with those among whom birth and circumstances\nhave placed her home. I am much mistaken if Emma's doctrines give any\nstrength of mind, or tend at all to make a girl adapt herself rationally\nto the varieties of her situation in life.--They only give a little\npolish.\"\n\n\"I either depend more upon Emma's good sense than you do, or am more\nanxious for her present comfort; for I cannot lament the acquaintance.\nHow well she looked last night!\"\n\n\"Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her mind, would you? Very\nwell; I shall not attempt to deny Emma's being pretty.\"\n\n\"Pretty! say beautiful rather. Can you imagine any thing nearer perfect\nbeauty than Emma altogether--face and figure?\"\n\n\"I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that I have seldom\nseen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers. But I am a partial\nold friend.\"\n\n\"Such an eye!--the true hazle eye--and so brilliant! regular features,\nopen countenance, with a complexion! oh! what a bloom of full health,\nand such a pretty height and size; such a firm and upright figure!\nThere is health, not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her\nglance. One hears sometimes of a child being 'the picture of health;'\nnow, Emma always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of\ngrown-up health. She is loveliness itself. Mr. Knightley, is not she?\"\n\n\"I have not a fault to find with her person,\" he replied. \"I think her\nall you describe. I love to look at her; and I will add this praise,\nthat I do not think her personally vain. Considering how very handsome\nshe is, she appears to be little occupied with it; her vanity lies\nanother way. Mrs. Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of\nHarriet Smith, or my dread of its doing them both harm.\"\n\n\"And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence of its not\ndoing them any harm. With all dear Emma's little faults, she is an\nexcellent creature. Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder\nsister, or a truer friend? No, no; she has qualities which may be\ntrusted; she will never lead any one really wrong; she will make no\nlasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred\ntimes.\"\n\n\"Very well; I will not plague you any more. Emma shall be an angel, and\nI will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas brings John and Isabella.\nJohn loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not a blind affection,\nand Isabella always thinks as he does; except when he is not quite\nfrightened enough about the children. I am sure of having their opinions\nwith me.\"\n\n\"I know that you all love her really too well to be unjust or unkind;\nbut excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if I take the liberty (I consider myself,\nyou know, as having somewhat of the privilege of speech that Emma's\nmother might have had) the liberty of hinting that I do not think any\npossible good can arise from Harriet Smith's intimacy being made a\nmatter of much discussion among you. Pray excuse me; but supposing any\nlittle inconvenience may be apprehended from the intimacy, it cannot be\nexpected that Emma, accountable to nobody but her father, who perfectly\napproves the acquaintance, should put an end to it, so long as it is a\nsource of pleasure to herself. It has been so many years my province to\ngive advice, that you cannot be surprized, Mr. Knightley, at this little\nremains of office.\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" cried he; \"I am much obliged to you for it. It is very\ngood advice, and it shall have a better fate than your advice has often\nfound; for it shall be attended to.\"\n\n\"Mrs. John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be made unhappy about\nher sister.\"\n\n\"Be satisfied,\" said he, \"I will not raise any outcry. I will keep my\nill-humour to myself. I have a very sincere interest in Emma. Isabella\ndoes not seem more my sister; has never excited a greater interest;\nperhaps hardly so great. There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one\nfeels for Emma. I wonder what will become of her!\"\n\n\"So do I,\" said Mrs. Weston gently, \"very much.\"\n\n\"She always declares she will never marry, which, of course, means just\nnothing at all. But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she\ncared for. It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love\nwith a proper object. I should like to see Emma in love, and in some\ndoubt of a return; it would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts\nto attach her; and she goes so seldom from home.\"\n\n\"There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break her resolution\nat present,\" said Mrs. Weston, \"as can well be; and while she is so\nhappy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be forming any attachment which\nwould be creating such difficulties on poor Mr. Woodhouse's account. I\ndo not recommend matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no slight\nto the state, I assure you.\"\n\nPart of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts of her own\nand Mr. Weston's on the subject, as much as possible. There were wishes\nat Randalls respecting Emma's destiny, but it was not desirable to\nhave them suspected; and the quiet transition which Mr. Knightley soon\nafterwards made to \"What does Weston think of the weather; shall we have\nrain?\" convinced her that he had nothing more to say or surmise about\nHartfield.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nEmma could not feel a doubt of having given Harriet's fancy a proper\ndirection and raised the gratitude of her young vanity to a very good\npurpose, for she found her decidedly more sensible than before of Mr.\nElton's being a remarkably handsome man, with most agreeable manners;\nand as she had no hesitation in following up the assurance of his\nadmiration by agreeable hints, she was soon pretty confident of creating\nas much liking on Harriet's side, as there could be any occasion for.\nShe was quite convinced of Mr. Elton's being in the fairest way of\nfalling in love, if not in love already. She had no scruple with regard\nto him. He talked of Harriet, and praised her so warmly, that she could\nnot suppose any thing wanting which a little time would not add. His\nperception of the striking improvement of Harriet's manner, since her\nintroduction at Hartfield, was not one of the least agreeable proofs of\nhis growing attachment.\n\n\"You have given Miss Smith all that she required,\" said he; \"you have\nmade her graceful and easy. She was a beautiful creature when she\ncame to you, but, in my opinion, the attractions you have added are\ninfinitely superior to what she received from nature.\"\n\n\"I am glad you think I have been useful to her; but Harriet only wanted\ndrawing out, and receiving a few, very few hints. She had all the\nnatural grace of sweetness of temper and artlessness in herself. I have\ndone very little.\"\n\n\"If it were admissible to contradict a lady,\" said the gallant Mr.\nElton--\n\n\"I have perhaps given her a little more decision of character, have\ntaught her to think on points which had not fallen in her way before.\"\n\n\"Exactly so; that is what principally strikes me. So much superadded\ndecision of character! Skilful has been the hand!\"\n\n\"Great has been the pleasure, I am sure. I never met with a disposition\nmore truly amiable.\"\n\n\"I have no doubt of it.\" And it was spoken with a sort of sighing\nanimation, which had a vast deal of the lover. She was not less pleased\nanother day with the manner in which he seconded a sudden wish of hers,\nto have Harriet's picture.\n\n\"Did you ever have your likeness taken, Harriet?\" said she: \"did you\never sit for your picture?\"\n\nHarriet was on the point of leaving the room, and only stopt to say,\nwith a very interesting naivete,\n\n\"Oh! dear, no, never.\"\n\nNo sooner was she out of sight, than Emma exclaimed,\n\n\"What an exquisite possession a good picture of her would be! I would\ngive any money for it. I almost long to attempt her likeness myself.\nYou do not know it I dare say, but two or three years ago I had a great\npassion for taking likenesses, and attempted several of my friends, and\nwas thought to have a tolerable eye in general. But from one cause or\nanother, I gave it up in disgust. But really, I could almost venture,\nif Harriet would sit to me. It would be such a delight to have her\npicture!\"\n\n\"Let me entreat you,\" cried Mr. Elton; \"it would indeed be a delight!\nLet me entreat you, Miss Woodhouse, to exercise so charming a talent\nin favour of your friend. I know what your drawings are. How could\nyou suppose me ignorant? Is not this room rich in specimens of your\nlandscapes and flowers; and has not Mrs. Weston some inimitable\nfigure-pieces in her drawing-room, at Randalls?\"\n\nYes, good man!--thought Emma--but what has all that to do with taking\nlikenesses? You know nothing of drawing. Don't pretend to be in raptures\nabout mine. Keep your raptures for Harriet's face. \"Well, if you give me\nsuch kind encouragement, Mr. Elton, I believe I shall try what I can do.\nHarriet's features are very delicate, which makes a likeness difficult;\nand yet there is a peculiarity in the shape of the eye and the lines\nabout the mouth which one ought to catch.\"\n\n\"Exactly so--The shape of the eye and the lines about the mouth--I have\nnot a doubt of your success. Pray, pray attempt it. As you will do it,\nit will indeed, to use your own words, be an exquisite possession.\"\n\n\"But I am afraid, Mr. Elton, Harriet will not like to sit. She thinks\nso little of her own beauty. Did not you observe her manner of answering\nme? How completely it meant, 'why should my picture be drawn?'\"\n\n\"Oh! yes, I observed it, I assure you. It was not lost on me. But still\nI cannot imagine she would not be persuaded.\"\n\nHarriet was soon back again, and the proposal almost immediately made;\nand she had no scruples which could stand many minutes against the\nearnest pressing of both the others. Emma wished to go to work directly,\nand therefore produced the portfolio containing her various attempts at\nportraits, for not one of them had ever been finished, that they might\ndecide together on the best size for Harriet. Her many beginnings were\ndisplayed. Miniatures, half-lengths, whole-lengths, pencil, crayon, and\nwater-colours had been all tried in turn. She had always wanted to do\nevery thing, and had made more progress both in drawing and music than\nmany might have done with so little labour as she would ever submit to.\nShe played and sang;--and drew in almost every style; but steadiness\nhad always been wanting; and in nothing had she approached the degree of\nexcellence which she would have been glad to command, and ought not to\nhave failed of. She was not much deceived as to her own skill either\nas an artist or a musician, but she was not unwilling to have others\ndeceived, or sorry to know her reputation for accomplishment often\nhigher than it deserved.\n\nThere was merit in every drawing--in the least finished, perhaps the\nmost; her style was spirited; but had there been much less, or had there\nbeen ten times more, the delight and admiration of her two companions\nwould have been the same. They were both in ecstasies. A likeness\npleases every body; and Miss Woodhouse's performances must be capital.\n\n\"No great variety of faces for you,\" said Emma. \"I had only my own\nfamily to study from. There is my father--another of my father--but the\nidea of sitting for his picture made him so nervous, that I could only\ntake him by stealth; neither of them very like therefore. Mrs. Weston\nagain, and again, and again, you see. Dear Mrs. Weston! always my\nkindest friend on every occasion. She would sit whenever I asked her.\nThere is my sister; and really quite her own little elegant figure!--and\nthe face not unlike. I should have made a good likeness of her, if she\nwould have sat longer, but she was in such a hurry to have me draw\nher four children that she would not be quiet. Then, here come all my\nattempts at three of those four children;--there they are, Henry and\nJohn and Bella, from one end of the sheet to the other, and any one of\nthem might do for any one of the rest. She was so eager to have them\ndrawn that I could not refuse; but there is no making children of three\nor four years old stand still you know; nor can it be very easy to take\nany likeness of them, beyond the air and complexion, unless they are\ncoarser featured than any of mama's children ever were. Here is my\nsketch of the fourth, who was a baby. I took him as he was sleeping on\nthe sofa, and it is as strong a likeness of his cockade as you would\nwish to see. He had nestled down his head most conveniently. That's very\nlike. I am rather proud of little George. The corner of the sofa is very\ngood. Then here is my last,\"--unclosing a pretty sketch of a gentleman\nin small size, whole-length--\"my last and my best--my brother, Mr. John\nKnightley.--This did not want much of being finished, when I put it away\nin a pet, and vowed I would never take another likeness. I could not\nhelp being provoked; for after all my pains, and when I had really made\na very good likeness of it--(Mrs. Weston and I were quite agreed in\nthinking it _very_ like)--only too handsome--too flattering--but\nthat was a fault on the right side\"--after all this, came poor dear\nIsabella's cold approbation of--\"Yes, it was a little like--but to be\nsure it did not do him justice. We had had a great deal of trouble\nin persuading him to sit at all. It was made a great favour of; and\naltogether it was more than I could bear; and so I never would finish\nit, to have it apologised over as an unfavourable likeness, to every\nmorning visitor in Brunswick Square;--and, as I said, I did then\nforswear ever drawing any body again. But for Harriet's sake, or rather\nfor my own, and as there are no husbands and wives in the case _at_\n_present_, I will break my resolution now.\"\n\nMr. Elton seemed very properly struck and delighted by the idea, and was\nrepeating, \"No husbands and wives in the case at present indeed, as\nyou observe. Exactly so. No husbands and wives,\" with so interesting a\nconsciousness, that Emma began to consider whether she had not better\nleave them together at once. But as she wanted to be drawing, the\ndeclaration must wait a little longer.\n\nShe had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait. It was to be\na whole-length in water-colours, like Mr. John Knightley's, and was\ndestined, if she could please herself, to hold a very honourable station\nover the mantelpiece.\n\nThe sitting began; and Harriet, smiling and blushing, and afraid of not\nkeeping her attitude and countenance, presented a very sweet mixture of\nyouthful expression to the steady eyes of the artist. But there was no\ndoing any thing, with Mr. Elton fidgeting behind her and watching every\ntouch. She gave him credit for stationing himself where he might gaze\nand gaze again without offence; but was really obliged to put an end to\nit, and request him to place himself elsewhere. It then occurred to her\nto employ him in reading.\n\n\"If he would be so good as to read to them, it would be a kindness\nindeed! It would amuse away the difficulties of her part, and lessen the\nirksomeness of Miss Smith's.\"\n\nMr. Elton was only too happy. Harriet listened, and Emma drew in peace.\nShe must allow him to be still frequently coming to look; any thing less\nwould certainly have been too little in a lover; and he was ready at the\nsmallest intermission of the pencil, to jump up and see the progress,\nand be charmed.--There was no being displeased with such an encourager,\nfor his admiration made him discern a likeness almost before it\nwas possible. She could not respect his eye, but his love and his\ncomplaisance were unexceptionable.\n\nThe sitting was altogether very satisfactory; she was quite enough\npleased with the first day's sketch to wish to go on. There was no want\nof likeness, she had been fortunate in the attitude, and as she meant\nto throw in a little improvement to the figure, to give a little more\nheight, and considerably more elegance, she had great confidence of\nits being in every way a pretty drawing at last, and of its filling\nits destined place with credit to them both--a standing memorial of the\nbeauty of one, the skill of the other, and the friendship of both;\nwith as many other agreeable associations as Mr. Elton's very promising\nattachment was likely to add.\n\nHarriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Elton, just as he ought,\nentreated for the permission of attending and reading to them again.\n\n\"By all means. We shall be most happy to consider you as one of the\nparty.\"\n\nThe same civilities and courtesies, the same success and satisfaction,\ntook place on the morrow, and accompanied the whole progress of the\npicture, which was rapid and happy. Every body who saw it was pleased,\nbut Mr. Elton was in continual raptures, and defended it through every\ncriticism.\n\n\"Miss Woodhouse has given her friend the only beauty she\nwanted,\"--observed Mrs. Weston to him--not in the least suspecting that\nshe was addressing a lover.--\"The expression of the eye is most correct,\nbut Miss Smith has not those eyebrows and eyelashes. It is the fault of\nher face that she has them not.\"\n\n\"Do you think so?\" replied he. \"I cannot agree with you. It appears\nto me a most perfect resemblance in every feature. I never saw such a\nlikeness in my life. We must allow for the effect of shade, you know.\"\n\n\"You have made her too tall, Emma,\" said Mr. Knightley.\n\nEmma knew that she had, but would not own it; and Mr. Elton warmly\nadded,\n\n\"Oh no! certainly not too tall; not in the least too tall. Consider, she\nis sitting down--which naturally presents a different--which in short\ngives exactly the idea--and the proportions must be preserved, you know.\nProportions, fore-shortening.--Oh no! it gives one exactly the idea of\nsuch a height as Miss Smith's. Exactly so indeed!\"\n\n\"It is very pretty,\" said Mr. Woodhouse. \"So prettily done! Just as your\ndrawings always are, my dear. I do not know any body who draws so well\nas you do. The only thing I do not thoroughly like is, that she seems\nto be sitting out of doors, with only a little shawl over her\nshoulders--and it makes one think she must catch cold.\"\n\n\"But, my dear papa, it is supposed to be summer; a warm day in summer.\nLook at the tree.\"\n\n\"But it is never safe to sit out of doors, my dear.\"\n\n\"You, sir, may say any thing,\" cried Mr. Elton, \"but I must confess that\nI regard it as a most happy thought, the placing of Miss Smith out of\ndoors; and the tree is touched with such inimitable spirit! Any other\nsituation would have been much less in character. The naivete of Miss\nSmith's manners--and altogether--Oh, it is most admirable! I cannot keep\nmy eyes from it. I never saw such a likeness.\"\n\nThe next thing wanted was to get the picture framed; and here were a few\ndifficulties. It must be done directly; it must be done in London; the\norder must go through the hands of some intelligent person whose taste\ncould be depended on; and Isabella, the usual doer of all commissions,\nmust not be applied to, because it was December, and Mr. Woodhouse\ncould not bear the idea of her stirring out of her house in the fogs of\nDecember. But no sooner was the distress known to Mr. Elton, than it\nwas removed. His gallantry was always on the alert. \"Might he be trusted\nwith the commission, what infinite pleasure should he have in executing\nit! he could ride to London at any time. It was impossible to say how\nmuch he should be gratified by being employed on such an errand.\"\n\n\"He was too good!--she could not endure the thought!--she would not give\nhim such a troublesome office for the world,\"--brought on the desired\nrepetition of entreaties and assurances,--and a very few minutes settled\nthe business.\n\nMr. Elton was to take the drawing to London, chuse the frame, and give\nthe directions; and Emma thought she could so pack it as to ensure its\nsafety without much incommoding him, while he seemed mostly fearful of\nnot being incommoded enough.\n\n\"What a precious deposit!\" said he with a tender sigh, as he received\nit.\n\n\"This man is almost too gallant to be in love,\" thought Emma. \"I should\nsay so, but that I suppose there may be a hundred different ways of\nbeing in love. He is an excellent young man, and will suit Harriet\nexactly; it will be an 'Exactly so,' as he says himself; but he does\nsigh and languish, and study for compliments rather more than I could\nendure as a principal. I come in for a pretty good share as a second.\nBut it is his gratitude on Harriet's account.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nThe very day of Mr. Elton's going to London produced a fresh occasion\nfor Emma's services towards her friend. Harriet had been at Hartfield,\nas usual, soon after breakfast; and, after a time, had gone home to\nreturn again to dinner: she returned, and sooner than had been\ntalked of, and with an agitated, hurried look, announcing something\nextraordinary to have happened which she was longing to tell. Half a\nminute brought it all out. She had heard, as soon as she got back to\nMrs. Goddard's, that Mr. Martin had been there an hour before, and\nfinding she was not at home, nor particularly expected, had left a\nlittle parcel for her from one of his sisters, and gone away; and on\nopening this parcel, she had actually found, besides the two songs which\nshe had lent Elizabeth to copy, a letter to herself; and this letter was\nfrom him, from Mr. Martin, and contained a direct proposal of marriage.\n\"Who could have thought it? She was so surprized she did not know what\nto do. Yes, quite a proposal of marriage; and a very good letter,\nat least she thought so. And he wrote as if he really loved her very\nmuch--but she did not know--and so, she was come as fast as she could to\nask Miss Woodhouse what she should do.--\" Emma was half-ashamed of her\nfriend for seeming so pleased and so doubtful.\n\n\"Upon my word,\" she cried, \"the young man is determined not to lose any\nthing for want of asking. He will connect himself well if he can.\"\n\n\"Will you read the letter?\" cried Harriet. \"Pray do. I'd rather you\nwould.\"\n\nEmma was not sorry to be pressed. She read, and was surprized. The style\nof the letter was much above her expectation. There were not merely no\ngrammatical errors, but as a composition it would not have disgraced a\ngentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and unaffected, and\nthe sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of the writer. It was\nshort, but expressed good sense, warm attachment, liberality, propriety,\neven delicacy of feeling. She paused over it, while Harriet stood\nanxiously watching for her opinion, with a \"Well, well,\" and was at last\nforced to add, \"Is it a good letter? or is it too short?\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed, a very good letter,\" replied Emma rather slowly--\"so\ngood a letter, Harriet, that every thing considered, I think one of his\nsisters must have helped him. I can hardly imagine the young man whom\nI saw talking with you the other day could express himself so well, if\nleft quite to his own powers, and yet it is not the style of a woman;\nno, certainly, it is too strong and concise; not diffuse enough for a\nwoman. No doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose may have a natural\ntalent for--thinks strongly and clearly--and when he takes a pen in\nhand, his thoughts naturally find proper words. It is so with some men.\nYes, I understand the sort of mind. Vigorous, decided, with sentiments\nto a certain point, not coarse. A better written letter, Harriet\n(returning it,) than I had expected.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the still waiting Harriet;--\"well--and--and what shall I\ndo?\"\n\n\"What shall you do! In what respect? Do you mean with regard to this\nletter?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"But what are you in doubt of? You must answer it of course--and\nspeedily.\"\n\n\"Yes. But what shall I say? Dear Miss Woodhouse, do advise me.\"\n\n\"Oh no, no! the letter had much better be all your own. You will express\nyourself very properly, I am sure. There is no danger of your not\nbeing intelligible, which is the first thing. Your meaning must be\nunequivocal; no doubts or demurs: and such expressions of gratitude\nand concern for the pain you are inflicting as propriety requires, will\npresent themselves unbidden to _your_ mind, I am persuaded. You need\nnot be prompted to write with the appearance of sorrow for his\ndisappointment.\"\n\n\"You think I ought to refuse him then,\" said Harriet, looking down.\n\n\"Ought to refuse him! My dear Harriet, what do you mean? Are you in any\ndoubt as to that? I thought--but I beg your pardon, perhaps I have been\nunder a mistake. I certainly have been misunderstanding you, if you feel\nin doubt as to the _purport_ of your answer. I had imagined you were\nconsulting me only as to the wording of it.\"\n\nHarriet was silent. With a little reserve of manner, Emma continued:\n\n\"You mean to return a favourable answer, I collect.\"\n\n\"No, I do not; that is, I do not mean--What shall I do? What would you\nadvise me to do? Pray, dear Miss Woodhouse, tell me what I ought to do.\"\n\n\"I shall not give you any advice, Harriet. I will have nothing to do\nwith it. This is a point which you must settle with your feelings.\"\n\n\"I had no notion that he liked me so very much,\" said Harriet,\ncontemplating the letter. For a little while Emma persevered in her\nsilence; but beginning to apprehend the bewitching flattery of that\nletter might be too powerful, she thought it best to say,\n\n\"I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman _doubts_ as\nto whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to refuse\nhim. If she can hesitate as to 'Yes,' she ought to say 'No' directly.\nIt is not a state to be safely entered into with doubtful feelings, with\nhalf a heart. I thought it my duty as a friend, and older than yourself,\nto say thus much to you. But do not imagine that I want to influence\nyou.\"\n\n\"Oh! no, I am sure you are a great deal too kind to--but if you would\njust advise me what I had best do--No, no, I do not mean that--As\nyou say, one's mind ought to be quite made up--One should not be\nhesitating--It is a very serious thing.--It will be safer to say 'No,'\nperhaps.--Do you think I had better say 'No?'\"\n\n\"Not for the world,\" said Emma, smiling graciously, \"would I advise you\neither way. You must be the best judge of your own happiness. If you\nprefer Mr. Martin to every other person; if you think him the most\nagreeable man you have ever been in company with, why should you\nhesitate? You blush, Harriet.--Does any body else occur to you at\nthis moment under such a definition? Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive\nyourself; do not be run away with by gratitude and compassion. At this\nmoment whom are you thinking of?\"\n\nThe symptoms were favourable.--Instead of answering, Harriet turned away\nconfused, and stood thoughtfully by the fire; and though the letter was\nstill in her hand, it was now mechanically twisted about without regard.\nEmma waited the result with impatience, but not without strong hopes. At\nlast, with some hesitation, Harriet said--\n\n\"Miss Woodhouse, as you will not give me your opinion, I must do as well\nas I can by myself; and I have now quite determined, and really almost\nmade up my mind--to refuse Mr. Martin. Do you think I am right?\"\n\n\"Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are doing just\nwhat you ought. While you were at all in suspense I kept my feelings to\nmyself, but now that you are so completely decided I have no hesitation\nin approving. Dear Harriet, I give myself joy of this. It would\nhave grieved me to lose your acquaintance, which must have been the\nconsequence of your marrying Mr. Martin. While you were in the smallest\ndegree wavering, I said nothing about it, because I would not influence;\nbut it would have been the loss of a friend to me. I could not have\nvisited Mrs. Robert Martin, of Abbey-Mill Farm. Now I am secure of you\nfor ever.\"\n\nHarriet had not surmised her own danger, but the idea of it struck her\nforcibly.\n\n\"You could not have visited me!\" she cried, looking aghast. \"No, to be\nsure you could not; but I never thought of that before. That would have\nbeen too dreadful!--What an escape!--Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would not\ngive up the pleasure and honour of being intimate with you for any thing\nin the world.\"\n\n\"Indeed, Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to lose you; but it\nmust have been. You would have thrown yourself out of all good society.\nI must have given you up.\"\n\n\"Dear me!--How should I ever have borne it! It would have killed me\nnever to come to Hartfield any more!\"\n\n\"Dear affectionate creature!--_You_ banished to Abbey-Mill Farm!--_You_\nconfined to the society of the illiterate and vulgar all your life! I\nwonder how the young man could have the assurance to ask it. He must\nhave a pretty good opinion of himself.\"\n\n\"I do not think he is conceited either, in general,\" said Harriet, her\nconscience opposing such censure; \"at least, he is very good natured,\nand I shall always feel much obliged to him, and have a great regard\nfor--but that is quite a different thing from--and you know, though\nhe may like me, it does not follow that I should--and certainly I must\nconfess that since my visiting here I have seen people--and if one comes\nto compare them, person and manners, there is no comparison at all,\n_one_ is so very handsome and agreeable. However, I do really think Mr.\nMartin a very amiable young man, and have a great opinion of him; and\nhis being so much attached to me--and his writing such a letter--but as\nto leaving you, it is what I would not do upon any consideration.\"\n\n\"Thank you, thank you, my own sweet little friend. We will not be\nparted. A woman is not to marry a man merely because she is asked, or\nbecause he is attached to her, and can write a tolerable letter.\"\n\n\"Oh no;--and it is but a short letter too.\"\n\nEmma felt the bad taste of her friend, but let it pass with a \"very\ntrue; and it would be a small consolation to her, for the clownish\nmanner which might be offending her every hour of the day, to know that\nher husband could write a good letter.\"\n\n\"Oh! yes, very. Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is, to be always\nhappy with pleasant companions. I am quite determined to refuse him. But\nhow shall I do? What shall I say?\"\n\nEmma assured her there would be no difficulty in the answer, and advised\nits being written directly, which was agreed to, in the hope of her\nassistance; and though Emma continued to protest against any assistance\nbeing wanted, it was in fact given in the formation of every sentence.\nThe looking over his letter again, in replying to it, had such a\nsoftening tendency, that it was particularly necessary to brace her up\nwith a few decisive expressions; and she was so very much concerned at\nthe idea of making him unhappy, and thought so much of what his mother\nand sisters would think and say, and was so anxious that they should not\nfancy her ungrateful, that Emma believed if the young man had come in\nher way at that moment, he would have been accepted after all.\n\nThis letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent. The business\nwas finished, and Harriet safe. She was rather low all the evening, but\nEmma could allow for her amiable regrets, and sometimes relieved them by\nspeaking of her own affection, sometimes by bringing forward the idea of\nMr. Elton.\n\n\"I shall never be invited to Abbey-Mill again,\" was said in rather a\nsorrowful tone.\n\n\"Nor, if you were, could I ever bear to part with you, my Harriet. You\nare a great deal too necessary at Hartfield to be spared to Abbey-Mill.\"\n\n\"And I am sure I should never want to go there; for I am never happy but\nat Hartfield.\"\n\nSome time afterwards it was, \"I think Mrs. Goddard would be very much\nsurprized if she knew what had happened. I am sure Miss Nash would--for\nMiss Nash thinks her own sister very well married, and it is only a\nlinen-draper.\"\n\n\"One should be sorry to see greater pride or refinement in the teacher\nof a school, Harriet. I dare say Miss Nash would envy you such an\nopportunity as this of being married. Even this conquest would appear\nvaluable in her eyes. As to any thing superior for you, I suppose she\nis quite in the dark. The attentions of a certain person can hardly be\namong the tittle-tattle of Highbury yet. Hitherto I fancy you and I\nare the only people to whom his looks and manners have explained\nthemselves.\"\n\nHarriet blushed and smiled, and said something about wondering that\npeople should like her so much. The idea of Mr. Elton was certainly\ncheering; but still, after a time, she was tender-hearted again towards\nthe rejected Mr. Martin.\n\n\"Now he has got my letter,\" said she softly. \"I wonder what they are all\ndoing--whether his sisters know--if he is unhappy, they will be unhappy\ntoo. I hope he will not mind it so very much.\"\n\n\"Let us think of those among our absent friends who are more cheerfully\nemployed,\" cried Emma. \"At this moment, perhaps, Mr. Elton is shewing\nyour picture to his mother and sisters, telling how much more beautiful\nis the original, and after being asked for it five or six times,\nallowing them to hear your name, your own dear name.\"\n\n\"My picture!--But he has left my picture in Bond-street.\"\n\n\"Has he so!--Then I know nothing of Mr. Elton. No, my dear little modest\nHarriet, depend upon it the picture will not be in Bond-street till\njust before he mounts his horse to-morrow. It is his companion all this\nevening, his solace, his delight. It opens his designs to his family,\nit introduces you among them, it diffuses through the party those\npleasantest feelings of our nature, eager curiosity and warm\nprepossession. How cheerful, how animated, how suspicious, how busy\ntheir imaginations all are!\"\n\nHarriet smiled again, and her smiles grew stronger.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nHarriet slept at Hartfield that night. For some weeks past she had been\nspending more than half her time there, and gradually getting to have\na bed-room appropriated to herself; and Emma judged it best in every\nrespect, safest and kindest, to keep her with them as much as possible\njust at present. She was obliged to go the next morning for an hour or\ntwo to Mrs. Goddard's, but it was then to be settled that she should\nreturn to Hartfield, to make a regular visit of some days.\n\nWhile she was gone, Mr. Knightley called, and sat some time with Mr.\nWoodhouse and Emma, till Mr. Woodhouse, who had previously made up his\nmind to walk out, was persuaded by his daughter not to defer it, and was\ninduced by the entreaties of both, though against the scruples of his\nown civility, to leave Mr. Knightley for that purpose. Mr. Knightley,\nwho had nothing of ceremony about him, was offering by his short,\ndecided answers, an amusing contrast to the protracted apologies and\ncivil hesitations of the other.\n\n\"Well, I believe, if you will excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if you will not\nconsider me as doing a very rude thing, I shall take Emma's advice and\ngo out for a quarter of an hour. As the sun is out, I believe I had\nbetter take my three turns while I can. I treat you without ceremony,\nMr. Knightley. We invalids think we are privileged people.\"\n\n\"My dear sir, do not make a stranger of me.\"\n\n\"I leave an excellent substitute in my daughter. Emma will be happy to\nentertain you. And therefore I think I will beg your excuse and take my\nthree turns--my winter walk.\"\n\n\"You cannot do better, sir.\"\n\n\"I would ask for the pleasure of your company, Mr. Knightley, but I am a\nvery slow walker, and my pace would be tedious to you; and, besides, you\nhave another long walk before you, to Donwell Abbey.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir, thank you; I am going this moment myself; and I think\nthe sooner _you_ go the better. I will fetch your greatcoat and open the\ngarden door for you.\"\n\nMr. Woodhouse at last was off; but Mr. Knightley, instead of being\nimmediately off likewise, sat down again, seemingly inclined for more\nchat. He began speaking of Harriet, and speaking of her with more\nvoluntary praise than Emma had ever heard before.\n\n\"I cannot rate her beauty as you do,\" said he; \"but she is a\npretty little creature, and I am inclined to think very well of her\ndisposition. Her character depends upon those she is with; but in good\nhands she will turn out a valuable woman.\"\n\n\"I am glad you think so; and the good hands, I hope, may not be\nwanting.\"\n\n\"Come,\" said he, \"you are anxious for a compliment, so I will tell you\nthat you have improved her. You have cured her of her school-girl's\ngiggle; she really does you credit.\"\n\n\"Thank you. I should be mortified indeed if I did not believe I had been\nof some use; but it is not every body who will bestow praise where they\nmay. _You_ do not often overpower me with it.\"\n\n\"You are expecting her again, you say, this morning?\"\n\n\"Almost every moment. She has been gone longer already than she\nintended.\"\n\n\"Something has happened to delay her; some visitors perhaps.\"\n\n\"Highbury gossips!--Tiresome wretches!\"\n\n\"Harriet may not consider every body tiresome that you would.\"\n\nEmma knew this was too true for contradiction, and therefore said\nnothing. He presently added, with a smile,\n\n\"I do not pretend to fix on times or places, but I must tell you that\nI have good reason to believe your little friend will soon hear of\nsomething to her advantage.\"\n\n\"Indeed! how so? of what sort?\"\n\n\"A very serious sort, I assure you;\" still smiling.\n\n\"Very serious! I can think of but one thing--Who is in love with her?\nWho makes you their confidant?\"\n\nEmma was more than half in hopes of Mr. Elton's having dropt a hint.\nMr. Knightley was a sort of general friend and adviser, and she knew Mr.\nElton looked up to him.\n\n\"I have reason to think,\" he replied, \"that Harriet Smith will soon have\nan offer of marriage, and from a most unexceptionable quarter:--Robert\nMartin is the man. Her visit to Abbey-Mill, this summer, seems to have\ndone his business. He is desperately in love and means to marry her.\"\n\n\"He is very obliging,\" said Emma; \"but is he sure that Harriet means to\nmarry him?\"\n\n\"Well, well, means to make her an offer then. Will that do? He came to\nthe Abbey two evenings ago, on purpose to consult me about it. He knows\nI have a thorough regard for him and all his family, and, I believe,\nconsiders me as one of his best friends. He came to ask me whether\nI thought it would be imprudent in him to settle so early; whether\nI thought her too young: in short, whether I approved his choice\naltogether; having some apprehension perhaps of her being considered\n(especially since _your_ making so much of her) as in a line of society\nabove him. I was very much pleased with all that he said. I never hear\nbetter sense from any one than Robert Martin. He always speaks to the\npurpose; open, straightforward, and very well judging. He told me every\nthing; his circumstances and plans, and what they all proposed doing in\nthe event of his marriage. He is an excellent young man, both as son and\nbrother. I had no hesitation in advising him to marry. He proved to me\nthat he could afford it; and that being the case, I was convinced he\ncould not do better. I praised the fair lady too, and altogether sent\nhim away very happy. If he had never esteemed my opinion before, he\nwould have thought highly of me then; and, I dare say, left the house\nthinking me the best friend and counsellor man ever had. This happened\nthe night before last. Now, as we may fairly suppose, he would not allow\nmuch time to pass before he spoke to the lady, and as he does not appear\nto have spoken yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be at Mrs.\nGoddard's to-day; and she may be detained by a visitor, without thinking\nhim at all a tiresome wretch.\"\n\n\"Pray, Mr. Knightley,\" said Emma, who had been smiling to herself\nthrough a great part of this speech, \"how do you know that Mr. Martin\ndid not speak yesterday?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" replied he, surprized, \"I do not absolutely know it; but it\nmay be inferred. Was not she the whole day with you?\"\n\n\"Come,\" said she, \"I will tell you something, in return for what\nyou have told me. He did speak yesterday--that is, he wrote, and was\nrefused.\"\n\nThis was obliged to be repeated before it could be believed; and Mr.\nKnightley actually looked red with surprize and displeasure, as he stood\nup, in tall indignation, and said,\n\n\"Then she is a greater simpleton than I ever believed her. What is the\nfoolish girl about?\"\n\n\"Oh! to be sure,\" cried Emma, \"it is always incomprehensible to a man\nthat a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage. A man always\nimagines a woman to be ready for any body who asks her.\"\n\n\"Nonsense! a man does not imagine any such thing. But what is the\nmeaning of this? Harriet Smith refuse Robert Martin? madness, if it is\nso; but I hope you are mistaken.\"\n\n\"I saw her answer!--nothing could be clearer.\"\n\n\"You saw her answer!--you wrote her answer too. Emma, this is your\ndoing. You persuaded her to refuse him.\"\n\n\"And if I did, (which, however, I am far from allowing) I should not\nfeel that I had done wrong. Mr. Martin is a very respectable young man,\nbut I cannot admit him to be Harriet's equal; and am rather surprized\nindeed that he should have ventured to address her. By your account, he\ndoes seem to have had some scruples. It is a pity that they were ever\ngot over.\"\n\n\"Not Harriet's equal!\" exclaimed Mr. Knightley loudly and warmly; and\nwith calmer asperity, added, a few moments afterwards, \"No, he is\nnot her equal indeed, for he is as much her superior in sense as in\nsituation. Emma, your infatuation about that girl blinds you. What are\nHarriet Smith's claims, either of birth, nature or education, to any\nconnexion higher than Robert Martin? She is the natural daughter of\nnobody knows whom, with probably no settled provision at all, and\ncertainly no respectable relations. She is known only as parlour-boarder\nat a common school. She is not a sensible girl, nor a girl of any\ninformation. She has been taught nothing useful, and is too young and\ntoo simple to have acquired any thing herself. At her age she can have\nno experience, and with her little wit, is not very likely ever to have\nany that can avail her. She is pretty, and she is good tempered, and\nthat is all. My only scruple in advising the match was on his account,\nas being beneath his deserts, and a bad connexion for him. I felt that,\nas to fortune, in all probability he might do much better; and that as\nto a rational companion or useful helpmate, he could not do worse. But I\ncould not reason so to a man in love, and was willing to trust to there\nbeing no harm in her, to her having that sort of disposition, which, in\ngood hands, like his, might be easily led aright and turn out very well.\nThe advantage of the match I felt to be all on her side; and had not the\nsmallest doubt (nor have I now) that there would be a general cry-out\nupon her extreme good luck. Even _your_ satisfaction I made sure of.\nIt crossed my mind immediately that you would not regret your friend's\nleaving Highbury, for the sake of her being settled so well. I remember\nsaying to myself, 'Even Emma, with all her partiality for Harriet, will\nthink this a good match.'\"\n\n\"I cannot help wondering at your knowing so little of Emma as to say any\nsuch thing. What! think a farmer, (and with all his sense and all his\nmerit Mr. Martin is nothing more,) a good match for my intimate friend!\nNot regret her leaving Highbury for the sake of marrying a man whom\nI could never admit as an acquaintance of my own! I wonder you should\nthink it possible for me to have such feelings. I assure you mine are\nvery different. I must think your statement by no means fair. You are\nnot just to Harriet's claims. They would be estimated very differently\nby others as well as myself; Mr. Martin may be the richest of the two,\nbut he is undoubtedly her inferior as to rank in society.--The sphere in\nwhich she moves is much above his.--It would be a degradation.\"\n\n\"A degradation to illegitimacy and ignorance, to be married to a\nrespectable, intelligent gentleman-farmer!\"\n\n\"As to the circumstances of her birth, though in a legal sense she may\nbe called Nobody, it will not hold in common sense. She is not to pay\nfor the offence of others, by being held below the level of those with\nwhom she is brought up.--There can scarcely be a doubt that her father\nis a gentleman--and a gentleman of fortune.--Her allowance is\nvery liberal; nothing has ever been grudged for her improvement or\ncomfort.--That she is a gentleman's daughter, is indubitable to me; that\nshe associates with gentlemen's daughters, no one, I apprehend, will\ndeny.--She is superior to Mr. Robert Martin.\"\n\n\"Whoever might be her parents,\" said Mr. Knightley, \"whoever may have\nhad the charge of her, it does not appear to have been any part of\ntheir plan to introduce her into what you would call good society. After\nreceiving a very indifferent education she is left in Mrs. Goddard's\nhands to shift as she can;--to move, in short, in Mrs. Goddard's line,\nto have Mrs. Goddard's acquaintance. Her friends evidently thought\nthis good enough for her; and it _was_ good enough. She desired nothing\nbetter herself. Till you chose to turn her into a friend, her mind had\nno distaste for her own set, nor any ambition beyond it. She was as\nhappy as possible with the Martins in the summer. She had no sense of\nsuperiority then. If she has it now, you have given it. You have been no\nfriend to Harriet Smith, Emma. Robert Martin would never have proceeded\nso far, if he had not felt persuaded of her not being disinclined to\nhim. I know him well. He has too much real feeling to address any\nwoman on the haphazard of selfish passion. And as to conceit, he is\nthe farthest from it of any man I know. Depend upon it he had\nencouragement.\"\n\nIt was most convenient to Emma not to make a direct reply to this\nassertion; she chose rather to take up her own line of the subject\nagain.\n\n\"You are a very warm friend to Mr. Martin; but, as I said before,\nare unjust to Harriet. Harriet's claims to marry well are not so\ncontemptible as you represent them. She is not a clever girl, but she\nhas better sense than you are aware of, and does not deserve to have her\nunderstanding spoken of so slightingly. Waiving that point, however, and\nsupposing her to be, as you describe her, only pretty and good-natured,\nlet me tell you, that in the degree she possesses them, they are not\ntrivial recommendations to the world in general, for she is, in fact, a\nbeautiful girl, and must be thought so by ninety-nine people out of an\nhundred; and till it appears that men are much more philosophic on the\nsubject of beauty than they are generally supposed; till they do fall\nin love with well-informed minds instead of handsome faces, a girl, with\nsuch loveliness as Harriet, has a certainty of being admired and sought\nafter, of having the power of chusing from among many, consequently a\nclaim to be nice. Her good-nature, too, is not so very slight a claim,\ncomprehending, as it does, real, thorough sweetness of temper and\nmanner, a very humble opinion of herself, and a great readiness to\nbe pleased with other people. I am very much mistaken if your sex in\ngeneral would not think such beauty, and such temper, the highest claims\na woman could possess.\"\n\n\"Upon my word, Emma, to hear you abusing the reason you have, is almost\nenough to make me think so too. Better be without sense, than misapply\nit as you do.\"\n\n\"To be sure!\" cried she playfully. \"I know _that_ is the feeling of\nyou all. I know that such a girl as Harriet is exactly what every\nman delights in--what at once bewitches his senses and satisfies his\njudgment. Oh! Harriet may pick and chuse. Were you, yourself, ever to\nmarry, she is the very woman for you. And is she, at seventeen, just\nentering into life, just beginning to be known, to be wondered at\nbecause she does not accept the first offer she receives? No--pray let\nher have time to look about her.\"\n\n\"I have always thought it a very foolish intimacy,\" said Mr. Knightley\npresently, \"though I have kept my thoughts to myself; but I now perceive\nthat it will be a very unfortunate one for Harriet. You will puff her up\nwith such ideas of her own beauty, and of what she has a claim to, that,\nin a little while, nobody within her reach will be good enough for her.\nVanity working on a weak head, produces every sort of mischief. Nothing\nso easy as for a young lady to raise her expectations too high. Miss\nHarriet Smith may not find offers of marriage flow in so fast, though\nshe is a very pretty girl. Men of sense, whatever you may chuse to\nsay, do not want silly wives. Men of family would not be very fond of\nconnecting themselves with a girl of such obscurity--and most prudent\nmen would be afraid of the inconvenience and disgrace they might be\ninvolved in, when the mystery of her parentage came to be revealed. Let\nher marry Robert Martin, and she is safe, respectable, and happy for\never; but if you encourage her to expect to marry greatly, and teach her\nto be satisfied with nothing less than a man of consequence and large\nfortune, she may be a parlour-boarder at Mrs. Goddard's all the rest\nof her life--or, at least, (for Harriet Smith is a girl who will marry\nsomebody or other,) till she grow desperate, and is glad to catch at the\nold writing-master's son.\"\n\n\"We think so very differently on this point, Mr. Knightley, that there\ncan be no use in canvassing it. We shall only be making each other more\nangry. But as to my _letting_ her marry Robert Martin, it is impossible;\nshe has refused him, and so decidedly, I think, as must prevent any\nsecond application. She must abide by the evil of having refused him,\nwhatever it may be; and as to the refusal itself, I will not pretend to\nsay that I might not influence her a little; but I assure you there\nwas very little for me or for any body to do. His appearance is so much\nagainst him, and his manner so bad, that if she ever were disposed to\nfavour him, she is not now. I can imagine, that before she had seen\nany body superior, she might tolerate him. He was the brother of her\nfriends, and he took pains to please her; and altogether, having seen\nnobody better (that must have been his great assistant) she might not,\nwhile she was at Abbey-Mill, find him disagreeable. But the case\nis altered now. She knows now what gentlemen are; and nothing but a\ngentleman in education and manner has any chance with Harriet.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, errant nonsense, as ever was talked!\" cried Mr.\nKnightley.--\"Robert Martin's manners have sense, sincerity, and\ngood-humour to recommend them; and his mind has more true gentility than\nHarriet Smith could understand.\"\n\nEmma made no answer, and tried to look cheerfully unconcerned, but was\nreally feeling uncomfortable and wanting him very much to be gone. She\ndid not repent what she had done; she still thought herself a better\njudge of such a point of female right and refinement than he could be;\nbut yet she had a sort of habitual respect for his judgment in general,\nwhich made her dislike having it so loudly against her; and to have him\nsitting just opposite to her in angry state, was very disagreeable.\nSome minutes passed in this unpleasant silence, with only one attempt\non Emma's side to talk of the weather, but he made no answer. He was\nthinking. The result of his thoughts appeared at last in these words.\n\n\"Robert Martin has no great loss--if he can but think so; and I hope it\nwill not be long before he does. Your views for Harriet are best known\nto yourself; but as you make no secret of your love of match-making, it\nis fair to suppose that views, and plans, and projects you have;--and as\na friend I shall just hint to you that if Elton is the man, I think it\nwill be all labour in vain.\"\n\nEmma laughed and disclaimed. He continued,\n\n\"Depend upon it, Elton will not do. Elton is a very good sort of man,\nand a very respectable vicar of Highbury, but not at all likely to make\nan imprudent match. He knows the value of a good income as well as any\nbody. Elton may talk sentimentally, but he will act rationally. He is\nas well acquainted with his own claims, as you can be with Harriet's.\nHe knows that he is a very handsome young man, and a great favourite\nwherever he goes; and from his general way of talking in unreserved\nmoments, when there are only men present, I am convinced that he does\nnot mean to throw himself away. I have heard him speak with great\nanimation of a large family of young ladies that his sisters are\nintimate with, who have all twenty thousand pounds apiece.\"\n\n\"I am very much obliged to you,\" said Emma, laughing again. \"If I had\nset my heart on Mr. Elton's marrying Harriet, it would have been very\nkind to open my eyes; but at present I only want to keep Harriet to\nmyself. I have done with match-making indeed. I could never hope to\nequal my own doings at Randalls. I shall leave off while I am well.\"\n\n\"Good morning to you,\"--said he, rising and walking off abruptly. He was\nvery much vexed. He felt the disappointment of the young man, and was\nmortified to have been the means of promoting it, by the sanction he had\ngiven; and the part which he was persuaded Emma had taken in the affair,\nwas provoking him exceedingly.\n\nEmma remained in a state of vexation too; but there was more\nindistinctness in the causes of her's, than in his. She did not always\nfeel so absolutely satisfied with herself, so entirely convinced that\nher opinions were right and her adversary's wrong, as Mr. Knightley. He\nwalked off in more complete self-approbation than he left for her. She\nwas not so materially cast down, however, but that a little time and\nthe return of Harriet were very adequate restoratives. Harriet's staying\naway so long was beginning to make her uneasy. The possibility of the\nyoung man's coming to Mrs. Goddard's that morning, and meeting with\nHarriet and pleading his own cause, gave alarming ideas. The dread\nof such a failure after all became the prominent uneasiness; and when\nHarriet appeared, and in very good spirits, and without having any\nsuch reason to give for her long absence, she felt a satisfaction which\nsettled her with her own mind, and convinced her, that let Mr.\nKnightley think or say what he would, she had done nothing which woman's\nfriendship and woman's feelings would not justify.\n\nHe had frightened her a little about Mr. Elton; but when she considered\nthat Mr. Knightley could not have observed him as she had done, neither\nwith the interest, nor (she must be allowed to tell herself, in spite of\nMr. Knightley's pretensions) with the skill of such an observer on such\na question as herself, that he had spoken it hastily and in anger, she\nwas able to believe, that he had rather said what he wished resentfully\nto be true, than what he knew any thing about. He certainly might have\nheard Mr. Elton speak with more unreserve than she had ever done, and\nMr. Elton might not be of an imprudent, inconsiderate disposition as to\nmoney matters; he might naturally be rather attentive than otherwise\nto them; but then, Mr. Knightley did not make due allowance for the\ninfluence of a strong passion at war with all interested motives. Mr.\nKnightley saw no such passion, and of course thought nothing of its\neffects; but she saw too much of it to feel a doubt of its overcoming\nany hesitations that a reasonable prudence might originally suggest; and\nmore than a reasonable, becoming degree of prudence, she was very sure\ndid not belong to Mr. Elton.\n\nHarriet's cheerful look and manner established hers: she came back, not\nto think of Mr. Martin, but to talk of Mr. Elton. Miss Nash had been\ntelling her something, which she repeated immediately with great\ndelight. Mr. Perry had been to Mrs. Goddard's to attend a sick child,\nand Miss Nash had seen him, and he had told Miss Nash, that as he was\ncoming back yesterday from Clayton Park, he had met Mr. Elton, and\nfound to his great surprize, that Mr. Elton was actually on his road\nto London, and not meaning to return till the morrow, though it was the\nwhist-club night, which he had been never known to miss before; and Mr.\nPerry had remonstrated with him about it, and told him how shabby it\nwas in him, their best player, to absent himself, and tried very much to\npersuade him to put off his journey only one day; but it would not\ndo; Mr. Elton had been determined to go on, and had said in a _very_\n_particular_ way indeed, that he was going on business which he would\nnot put off for any inducement in the world; and something about a\nvery enviable commission, and being the bearer of something exceedingly\nprecious. Mr. Perry could not quite understand him, but he was very sure\nthere must be a _lady_ in the case, and he told him so; and Mr. Elton\nonly looked very conscious and smiling, and rode off in great spirits.\nMiss Nash had told her all this, and had talked a great deal more about\nMr. Elton; and said, looking so very significantly at her, \"that she did\nnot pretend to understand what his business might be, but she only\nknew that any woman whom Mr. Elton could prefer, she should think the\nluckiest woman in the world; for, beyond a doubt, Mr. Elton had not his\nequal for beauty or agreeableness.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nMr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could not quarrel with\nherself. He was so much displeased, that it was longer than usual before\nhe came to Hartfield again; and when they did meet, his grave looks\nshewed that she was not forgiven. She was sorry, but could not repent.\nOn the contrary, her plans and proceedings were more and more justified\nand endeared to her by the general appearances of the next few days.\n\nThe Picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon after Mr.\nElton's return, and being hung over the mantelpiece of the common\nsitting-room, he got up to look at it, and sighed out his half sentences\nof admiration just as he ought; and as for Harriet's feelings, they were\nvisibly forming themselves into as strong and steady an attachment as\nher youth and sort of mind admitted. Emma was soon perfectly satisfied\nof Mr. Martin's being no otherwise remembered, than as he furnished a\ncontrast with Mr. Elton, of the utmost advantage to the latter.\n\nHer views of improving her little friend's mind, by a great deal of\nuseful reading and conversation, had never yet led to more than a few\nfirst chapters, and the intention of going on to-morrow. It was much\neasier to chat than to study; much pleasanter to let her imagination\nrange and work at Harriet's fortune, than to be labouring to enlarge\nher comprehension or exercise it on sober facts; and the only literary\npursuit which engaged Harriet at present, the only mental provision she\nwas making for the evening of life, was the collecting and transcribing\nall the riddles of every sort that she could meet with, into a thin\nquarto of hot-pressed paper, made up by her friend, and ornamented with\nciphers and trophies.\n\nIn this age of literature, such collections on a very grand scale are\nnot uncommon. Miss Nash, head-teacher at Mrs. Goddard's, had written out\nat least three hundred; and Harriet, who had taken the first hint of it\nfrom her, hoped, with Miss Woodhouse's help, to get a great many more.\nEmma assisted with her invention, memory and taste; and as Harriet wrote\na very pretty hand, it was likely to be an arrangement of the first\norder, in form as well as quantity.\n\nMr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the business as the\ngirls, and tried very often to recollect something worth their putting\nin. \"So many clever riddles as there used to be when he was young--he\nwondered he could not remember them! but he hoped he should in time.\"\nAnd it always ended in \"Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.\"\n\nHis good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the subject,\ndid not at present recollect any thing of the riddle kind; but he\nhad desired Perry to be upon the watch, and as he went about so much,\nsomething, he thought, might come from that quarter.\n\nIt was by no means his daughter's wish that the intellects of Highbury\nin general should be put under requisition. Mr. Elton was the only one\nwhose assistance she asked. He was invited to contribute any really good\nenigmas, charades, or conundrums that he might recollect; and she had\nthe pleasure of seeing him most intently at work with his recollections;\nand at the same time, as she could perceive, most earnestly careful that\nnothing ungallant, nothing that did not breathe a compliment to the\nsex should pass his lips. They owed to him their two or three politest\npuzzles; and the joy and exultation with which at last he recalled, and\nrather sentimentally recited, that well-known charade,\n\n    My first doth affliction denote,\n      Which my second is destin'd to feel\n    And my whole is the best antidote\n      That affliction to soften and heal.--\n\nmade her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed it some\npages ago already.\n\n\"Why will not you write one yourself for us, Mr. Elton?\" said she; \"that\nis the only security for its freshness; and nothing could be easier to\nyou.\"\n\n\"Oh no! he had never written, hardly ever, any thing of the kind in his\nlife. The stupidest fellow! He was afraid not even Miss Woodhouse\"--he\nstopt a moment--\"or Miss Smith could inspire him.\"\n\nThe very next day however produced some proof of inspiration. He\ncalled for a few moments, just to leave a piece of paper on the table\ncontaining, as he said, a charade, which a friend of his had addressed\nto a young lady, the object of his admiration, but which, from his\nmanner, Emma was immediately convinced must be his own.\n\n\"I do not offer it for Miss Smith's collection,\" said he. \"Being my\nfriend's, I have no right to expose it in any degree to the public eye,\nbut perhaps you may not dislike looking at it.\"\n\nThe speech was more to Emma than to Harriet, which Emma could\nunderstand. There was deep consciousness about him, and he found\nit easier to meet her eye than her friend's. He was gone the next\nmoment:--after another moment's pause,\n\n\"Take it,\" said Emma, smiling, and pushing the paper towards\nHarriet--\"it is for you. Take your own.\"\n\nBut Harriet was in a tremor, and could not touch it; and Emma, never\nloth to be first, was obliged to examine it herself.\n\n        To Miss--\n\n          CHARADE.\n\n    My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,\n      Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.\n    Another view of man, my second brings,\n      Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!\n\n    But ah! united, what reverse we have!\n      Man's boasted power and freedom, all are flown;\n    Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,\n      And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.\n\n      Thy ready wit the word will soon supply,\n      May its approval beam in that soft eye!\n\nShe cast her eye over it, pondered, caught the meaning, read it through\nagain to be quite certain, and quite mistress of the lines, and then\npassing it to Harriet, sat happily smiling, and saying to herself, while\nHarriet was puzzling over the paper in all the confusion of hope and\ndulness, \"Very well, Mr. Elton, very well indeed. I have read worse\ncharades. _Courtship_--a very good hint. I give you credit for it. This\nis feeling your way. This is saying very plainly--'Pray, Miss Smith,\ngive me leave to pay my addresses to you. Approve my charade and my\nintentions in the same glance.'\n\n      May its approval beam in that soft eye!\n\nHarriet exactly. Soft is the very word for her eye--of all epithets, the\njustest that could be given.\n\n      Thy ready wit the word will soon supply.\n\nHumph--Harriet's ready wit! All the better. A man must be very much in\nlove, indeed, to describe her so. Ah! Mr. Knightley, I wish you had the\nbenefit of this; I think this would convince you. For once in your life\nyou would be obliged to own yourself mistaken. An excellent charade\nindeed! and very much to the purpose. Things must come to a crisis soon\nnow.\"\n\nShe was obliged to break off from these very pleasant observations,\nwhich were otherwise of a sort to run into great length, by the\neagerness of Harriet's wondering questions.\n\n\"What can it be, Miss Woodhouse?--what can it be? I have not an idea--I\ncannot guess it in the least. What can it possibly be? Do try to find\nit out, Miss Woodhouse. Do help me. I never saw any thing so hard. Is it\nkingdom? I wonder who the friend was--and who could be the young lady.\nDo you think it is a good one? Can it be woman?\n\n      And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.\n\nCan it be Neptune?\n\n      Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!\n\nOr a trident? or a mermaid? or a shark? Oh, no! shark is only one\nsyllable. It must be very clever, or he would not have brought it. Oh!\nMiss Woodhouse, do you think we shall ever find it out?\"\n\n\"Mermaids and sharks! Nonsense! My dear Harriet, what are you thinking\nof? Where would be the use of his bringing us a charade made by a friend\nupon a mermaid or a shark? Give me the paper and listen.\n\nFor Miss ------, read Miss Smith.\n\n    My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,\n      Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.\n\nThat is _court_.\n\n    Another view of man, my second brings;\n      Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!\n\nThat is _ship_;--plain as it can be.--Now for the cream.\n\n    But ah! united, (_courtship_, you know,) what reverse we have!\n      Man's boasted power and freedom, all are flown.\n    Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,\n      And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.\n\nA very proper compliment!--and then follows the application, which\nI think, my dear Harriet, you cannot find much difficulty in\ncomprehending. Read it in comfort to yourself. There can be no doubt of\nits being written for you and to you.\"\n\nHarriet could not long resist so delightful a persuasion. She read\nthe concluding lines, and was all flutter and happiness. She could not\nspeak. But she was not wanted to speak. It was enough for her to feel.\nEmma spoke for her.\n\n\"There is so pointed, and so particular a meaning in this compliment,\"\nsaid she, \"that I cannot have a doubt as to Mr. Elton's intentions. You\nare his object--and you will soon receive the completest proof of it. I\nthought it must be so. I thought I could not be so deceived; but now, it\nis clear; the state of his mind is as clear and decided, as my wishes on\nthe subject have been ever since I knew you. Yes, Harriet, just so long\nhave I been wanting the very circumstance to happen what has happened.\nI could never tell whether an attachment between you and Mr. Elton were\nmost desirable or most natural. Its probability and its eligibility have\nreally so equalled each other! I am very happy. I congratulate you, my\ndear Harriet, with all my heart. This is an attachment which a woman may\nwell feel pride in creating. This is a connexion which offers nothing\nbut good. It will give you every thing that you want--consideration,\nindependence, a proper home--it will fix you in the centre of all your\nreal friends, close to Hartfield and to me, and confirm our intimacy\nfor ever. This, Harriet, is an alliance which can never raise a blush in\neither of us.\"\n\n\"Dear Miss Woodhouse!\"--and \"Dear Miss Woodhouse,\" was all that Harriet,\nwith many tender embraces could articulate at first; but when they did\narrive at something more like conversation, it was sufficiently clear to\nher friend that she saw, felt, anticipated, and remembered just as she\nought. Mr. Elton's superiority had very ample acknowledgment.\n\n\"Whatever you say is always right,\" cried Harriet, \"and therefore I\nsuppose, and believe, and hope it must be so; but otherwise I could not\nhave imagined it. It is so much beyond any thing I deserve. Mr. Elton,\nwho might marry any body! There cannot be two opinions about _him_. He\nis so very superior. Only think of those sweet verses--'To Miss ------.'\nDear me, how clever!--Could it really be meant for me?\"\n\n\"I cannot make a question, or listen to a question about that. It is a\ncertainty. Receive it on my judgment. It is a sort of prologue to\nthe play, a motto to the chapter; and will be soon followed by\nmatter-of-fact prose.\"\n\n\"It is a sort of thing which nobody could have expected. I am sure,\na month ago, I had no more idea myself!--The strangest things do take\nplace!\"\n\n\"When Miss Smiths and Mr. Eltons get acquainted--they do indeed--and\nreally it is strange; it is out of the common course that what is so\nevidently, so palpably desirable--what courts the pre-arrangement of\nother people, should so immediately shape itself into the proper form.\nYou and Mr. Elton are by situation called together; you belong to one\nanother by every circumstance of your respective homes. Your marrying\nwill be equal to the match at Randalls. There does seem to be a\nsomething in the air of Hartfield which gives love exactly the right\ndirection, and sends it into the very channel where it ought to flow.\n\n      The course of true love never did run smooth--\n\nA Hartfield edition of Shakespeare would have a long note on that\npassage.\"\n\n\"That Mr. Elton should really be in love with me,--me, of all people,\nwho did not know him, to speak to him, at Michaelmas! And he, the very\nhandsomest man that ever was, and a man that every body looks up to,\nquite like Mr. Knightley! His company so sought after, that every body\nsays he need not eat a single meal by himself if he does not chuse it;\nthat he has more invitations than there are days in the week. And so\nexcellent in the Church! Miss Nash has put down all the texts he has\never preached from since he came to Highbury. Dear me! When I look back\nto the first time I saw him! How little did I think!--The two Abbots and\nI ran into the front room and peeped through the blind when we heard he\nwas going by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us away, and staid to look\nthrough herself; however, she called me back presently, and let me\nlook too, which was very good-natured. And how beautiful we thought he\nlooked! He was arm-in-arm with Mr. Cole.\"\n\n\"This is an alliance which, whoever--whatever your friends may be, must\nbe agreeable to them, provided at least they have common sense; and we\nare not to be addressing our conduct to fools. If they are anxious to\nsee you _happily_ married, here is a man whose amiable character gives\nevery assurance of it;--if they wish to have you settled in the same\ncountry and circle which they have chosen to place you in, here it will\nbe accomplished; and if their only object is that you should, in the\ncommon phrase, be _well_ married, here is the comfortable fortune, the\nrespectable establishment, the rise in the world which must satisfy\nthem.\"\n\n\"Yes, very true. How nicely you talk; I love to hear you. You understand\nevery thing. You and Mr. Elton are one as clever as the other. This\ncharade!--If I had studied a twelvemonth, I could never have made any\nthing like it.\"\n\n\"I thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of declining it\nyesterday.\"\n\n\"I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I ever read.\"\n\n\"I never read one more to the purpose, certainly.\"\n\n\"It is as long again as almost all we have had before.\"\n\n\"I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour. Such things\nin general cannot be too short.\"\n\nHarriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most satisfactory\ncomparisons were rising in her mind.\n\n\"It is one thing,\" said she, presently--her cheeks in a glow--\"to have\nvery good sense in a common way, like every body else, and if there is\nany thing to say, to sit down and write a letter, and say just what you\nmust, in a short way; and another, to write verses and charades like\nthis.\"\n\nEmma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin's\nprose.\n\n\"Such sweet lines!\" continued Harriet--\"these two last!--But how shall I\never be able to return the paper, or say I have found it out?--Oh! Miss\nWoodhouse, what can we do about that?\"\n\n\"Leave it to me. You do nothing. He will be here this evening, I dare\nsay, and then I will give it him back, and some nonsense or other will\npass between us, and you shall not be committed.--Your soft eyes shall\nchuse their own time for beaming. Trust to me.\"\n\n\"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not write this beautiful\ncharade into my book! I am sure I have not got one half so good.\"\n\n\"Leave out the two last lines, and there is no reason why you should not\nwrite it into your book.\"\n\n\"Oh! but those two lines are\"--\n\n--\"The best of all. Granted;--for private enjoyment; and for private\nenjoyment keep them. They are not at all the less written you know,\nbecause you divide them. The couplet does not cease to be, nor does its\nmeaning change. But take it away, and all _appropriation_ ceases, and a\nvery pretty gallant charade remains, fit for any collection. Depend upon\nit, he would not like to have his charade slighted, much better than his\npassion. A poet in love must be encouraged in both capacities, or\nneither. Give me the book, I will write it down, and then there can be\nno possible reflection on you.\"\n\nHarriet submitted, though her mind could hardly separate the parts,\nso as to feel quite sure that her friend were not writing down a\ndeclaration of love. It seemed too precious an offering for any degree\nof publicity.\n\n\"I shall never let that book go out of my own hands,\" said she.\n\n\"Very well,\" replied Emma; \"a most natural feeling; and the longer it\nlasts, the better I shall be pleased. But here is my father coming: you\nwill not object to my reading the charade to him. It will be giving him\nso much pleasure! He loves any thing of the sort, and especially any\nthing that pays woman a compliment. He has the tenderest spirit of\ngallantry towards us all!--You must let me read it to him.\"\n\nHarriet looked grave.\n\n\"My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon this charade.--You\nwill betray your feelings improperly, if you are too conscious and too\nquick, and appear to affix more meaning, or even quite all the meaning\nwhich may be affixed to it. Do not be overpowered by such a little\ntribute of admiration. If he had been anxious for secrecy, he would not\nhave left the paper while I was by; but he rather pushed it towards me\nthan towards you. Do not let us be too solemn on the business. He has\nencouragement enough to proceed, without our sighing out our souls over\nthis charade.\"\n\n\"Oh! no--I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it. Do as you please.\"\n\nMr. Woodhouse came in, and very soon led to the subject again, by the\nrecurrence of his very frequent inquiry of \"Well, my dears, how does\nyour book go on?--Have you got any thing fresh?\"\n\n\"Yes, papa; we have something to read you, something quite fresh. A\npiece of paper was found on the table this morning--(dropt, we suppose,\nby a fairy)--containing a very pretty charade, and we have just copied\nit in.\"\n\nShe read it to him, just as he liked to have any thing read, slowly and\ndistinctly, and two or three times over, with explanations of every\npart as she proceeded--and he was very much pleased, and, as she had\nforeseen, especially struck with the complimentary conclusion.\n\n\"Aye, that's very just, indeed, that's very properly said. Very true.\n'Woman, lovely woman.' It is such a pretty charade, my dear, that I\ncan easily guess what fairy brought it.--Nobody could have written so\nprettily, but you, Emma.\"\n\nEmma only nodded, and smiled.--After a little thinking, and a very\ntender sigh, he added,\n\n\"Ah! it is no difficulty to see who you take after! Your dear mother\nwas so clever at all those things! If I had but her memory! But I can\nremember nothing;--not even that particular riddle which you have\nheard me mention; I can only recollect the first stanza; and there are\nseveral.\n\n    Kitty, a fair but frozen maid,\n      Kindled a flame I yet deplore,\n    The hood-wink'd boy I called to aid,\n    Though of his near approach afraid,\n      So fatal to my suit before.\n\nAnd that is all that I can recollect of it--but it is very clever all\nthe way through. But I think, my dear, you said you had got it.\"\n\n\"Yes, papa, it is written out in our second page. We copied it from the\nElegant Extracts. It was Garrick's, you know.\"\n\n\"Aye, very true.--I wish I could recollect more of it.\n\n    Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.\n\nThe name makes me think of poor Isabella; for she was very near being\nchristened Catherine after her grandmama. I hope we shall have her here\nnext week. Have you thought, my dear, where you shall put her--and what\nroom there will be for the children?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes--she will have her own room, of course; the room she always\nhas;--and there is the nursery for the children,--just as usual, you\nknow. Why should there be any change?\"\n\n\"I do not know, my dear--but it is so long since she was here!--not\nsince last Easter, and then only for a few days.--Mr. John Knightley's\nbeing a lawyer is very inconvenient.--Poor Isabella!--she is sadly taken\naway from us all!--and how sorry she will be when she comes, not to see\nMiss Taylor here!\"\n\n\"She will not be surprized, papa, at least.\"\n\n\"I do not know, my dear. I am sure I was very much surprized when I\nfirst heard she was going to be married.\"\n\n\"We must ask Mr. and Mrs. Weston to dine with us, while Isabella is\nhere.\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear, if there is time.--But--(in a very depressed tone)--she\nis coming for only one week. There will not be time for any thing.\"\n\n\"It is unfortunate that they cannot stay longer--but it seems a case of\nnecessity. Mr. John Knightley must be in town again on the 28th, and we\nought to be thankful, papa, that we are to have the whole of the time\nthey can give to the country, that two or three days are not to be taken\nout for the Abbey. Mr. Knightley promises to give up his claim this\nChristmas--though you know it is longer since they were with him, than\nwith us.\"\n\n\"It would be very hard, indeed, my dear, if poor Isabella were to be\nanywhere but at Hartfield.\"\n\nMr. Woodhouse could never allow for Mr. Knightley's claims on his\nbrother, or any body's claims on Isabella, except his own. He sat musing\na little while, and then said,\n\n\"But I do not see why poor Isabella should be obliged to go back so\nsoon, though he does. I think, Emma, I shall try and persuade her to\nstay longer with us. She and the children might stay very well.\"\n\n\"Ah! papa--that is what you never have been able to accomplish, and I\ndo not think you ever will. Isabella cannot bear to stay behind her\nhusband.\"\n\nThis was too true for contradiction. Unwelcome as it was, Mr. Woodhouse\ncould only give a submissive sigh; and as Emma saw his spirits affected\nby the idea of his daughter's attachment to her husband, she immediately\nled to such a branch of the subject as must raise them.\n\n\"Harriet must give us as much of her company as she can while my brother\nand sister are here. I am sure she will be pleased with the children.\nWe are very proud of the children, are not we, papa? I wonder which she\nwill think the handsomest, Henry or John?\"\n\n\"Aye, I wonder which she will. Poor little dears, how glad they will be\nto come. They are very fond of being at Hartfield, Harriet.\"\n\n\"I dare say they are, sir. I am sure I do not know who is not.\"\n\n\"Henry is a fine boy, but John is very like his mama. Henry is the\neldest, he was named after me, not after his father. John, the second,\nis named after his father. Some people are surprized, I believe, that\nthe eldest was not, but Isabella would have him called Henry, which I\nthought very pretty of her. And he is a very clever boy, indeed. They\nare all remarkably clever; and they have so many pretty ways. They will\ncome and stand by my chair, and say, 'Grandpapa, can you give me a bit\nof string?' and once Henry asked me for a knife, but I told him knives\nwere only made for grandpapas. I think their father is too rough with\nthem very often.\"\n\n\"He appears rough to you,\" said Emma, \"because you are so very gentle\nyourself; but if you could compare him with other papas, you would not\nthink him rough. He wishes his boys to be active and hardy; and if\nthey misbehave, can give them a sharp word now and then; but he is an\naffectionate father--certainly Mr. John Knightley is an affectionate\nfather. The children are all fond of him.\"\n\n\"And then their uncle comes in, and tosses them up to the ceiling in a\nvery frightful way!\"\n\n\"But they like it, papa; there is nothing they like so much. It is such\nenjoyment to them, that if their uncle did not lay down the rule of\ntheir taking turns, whichever began would never give way to the other.\"\n\n\"Well, I cannot understand it.\"\n\n\"That is the case with us all, papa. One half of the world cannot\nunderstand the pleasures of the other.\"\n\nLater in the morning, and just as the girls were going to separate\nin preparation for the regular four o'clock dinner, the hero of this\ninimitable charade walked in again. Harriet turned away; but Emma could\nreceive him with the usual smile, and her quick eye soon discerned in\nhis the consciousness of having made a push--of having thrown a die;\nand she imagined he was come to see how it might turn up. His ostensible\nreason, however, was to ask whether Mr. Woodhouse's party could be made\nup in the evening without him, or whether he should be in the smallest\ndegree necessary at Hartfield. If he were, every thing else must give\nway; but otherwise his friend Cole had been saying so much about his\ndining with him--had made such a point of it, that he had promised him\nconditionally to come.\n\nEmma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappointing his friend\non their account; her father was sure of his rubber. He re-urged--she\nre-declined; and he seemed then about to make his bow, when taking the\npaper from the table, she returned it--\n\n\"Oh! here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave with us; thank\nyou for the sight of it. We admired it so much, that I have ventured\nto write it into Miss Smith's collection. Your friend will not take it\namiss I hope. Of course I have not transcribed beyond the first eight\nlines.\"\n\nMr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say. He looked rather\ndoubtingly--rather confused; said something about \"honour,\"--glanced at\nEmma and at Harriet, and then seeing the book open on the table, took\nit up, and examined it very attentively. With the view of passing off an\nawkward moment, Emma smilingly said,\n\n\"You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good a charade\nmust not be confined to one or two. He may be sure of every woman's\napprobation while he writes with such gallantry.\"\n\n\"I have no hesitation in saying,\" replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating\na good deal while he spoke; \"I have no hesitation in saying--at least\nif my friend feels at all as _I_ do--I have not the smallest doubt that,\ncould he see his little effusion honoured as _I_ see it, (looking at the\nbook again, and replacing it on the table), he would consider it as the\nproudest moment of his life.\"\n\nAfter this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma could not think\nit too soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was\na sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to\nlaugh. She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and\nthe sublime of pleasure to Harriet's share.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nThough now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to\nprevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the\nmorrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who\nlived a little way out of Highbury.\n\nTheir road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane\nleading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street of\nthe place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of Mr.\nElton. A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then, about\na quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not\nvery good house, almost as close to the road as it could be. It had\nno advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened up by the\npresent proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no possibility\nof the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing\neyes.--Emma's remark was--\n\n\"There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these\ndays.\"--Harriet's was--\n\n\"Oh, what a sweet house!--How very beautiful!--There are the yellow\ncurtains that Miss Nash admires so much.\"\n\n\"I do not often walk this way _now_,\" said Emma, as they proceeded, \"but\n_then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get intimately\nacquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this part\nof Highbury.\"\n\nHarriet, she found, had never in her life been within side the Vicarage,\nand her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors\nand probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with\nMr. Elton's seeing ready wit in her.\n\n\"I wish we could contrive it,\" said she; \"but I cannot think of any\ntolerable pretence for going in;--no servant that I want to inquire\nabout of his housekeeper--no message from my father.\"\n\nShe pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual silence of some\nminutes, Harriet thus began again--\n\n\"I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or\ngoing to be married! so charming as you are!\"--\n\nEmma laughed, and replied,\n\n\"My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry;\nI must find other people charming--one other person at least. And I\nam not only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little\nintention of ever marrying at all.\"\n\n\"Ah!--so you say; but I cannot believe it.\"\n\n\"I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be\ntempted; Mr. Elton, you know, (recollecting herself,) is out of the\nquestion: and I do _not_ wish to see any such person. I would rather not\nbe tempted. I cannot really change for the better. If I were to marry, I\nmust expect to repent it.\"\n\n\"Dear me!--it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!\"--\n\n\"I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Were I to fall\nin love, indeed, it would be a different thing! but I never have been in\nlove; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever shall.\nAnd, without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a\nsituation as mine. Fortune I do not want; employment I do not want;\nconsequence I do not want: I believe few married women are half as much\nmistress of their husband's house as I am of Hartfield; and never, never\ncould I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always first and\nalways right in any man's eyes as I am in my father's.\"\n\n\"But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!\"\n\n\"That is as formidable an image as you could present, Harriet; and if\nI thought I should ever be like Miss Bates! so silly--so satisfied--so\nsmiling--so prosing--so undistinguishing and unfastidious--and so apt\nto tell every thing relative to every body about me, I would marry\nto-morrow. But between _us_, I am convinced there never can be any\nlikeness, except in being unmarried.\"\n\n\"But still, you will be an old maid! and that's so dreadful!\"\n\n\"Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; and it is poverty\nonly which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public! A single\nwoman, with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable old\nmaid! the proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of good\nfortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant\nas any body else. And the distinction is not quite so much against the\ncandour and common sense of the world as appears at first; for a very\nnarrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour the temper.\nThose who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very small, and\ngenerally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and cross. This\ndoes not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too good natured and\ntoo silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very much to the taste\nof every body, though single and though poor. Poverty certainly has not\ncontracted her mind: I really believe, if she had only a shilling in the\nworld, she would be very likely to give away sixpence of it; and nobody\nis afraid of her: that is a great charm.\"\n\n\"Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself when you\ngrow old?\"\n\n\"If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great\nmany independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more\nin want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman's\nusual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they\nare now; or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read\nmore; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for\nobjects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the\ngreat point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil\nto be avoided in _not_ marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the\nchildren of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be enough\nof them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that\ndeclining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and every\nfear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it\nsuits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My\nnephews and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me.\"\n\n\"Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I know you must have seen her\na hundred times--but are you acquainted?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to\nHighbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit\nwith a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people\nhalf so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane\nFairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from\nher is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round\nand round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a\nstomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of\nnothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires\nme to death.\"\n\nThey were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were\nsuperseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor\nwere as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her\ncounsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways,\ncould allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic\nexpectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had\ndone so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and\nalways gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In\nthe present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she\ncame to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give\ncomfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of\nthe scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away,\n\n\"These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make\nevery thing else appear!--I feel now as if I could think of nothing but\nthese poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how\nsoon it may all vanish from my mind?\"\n\n\"Very true,\" said Harriet. \"Poor creatures! one can think of nothing\nelse.\"\n\n\"And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over,\" said\nEmma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep which ended\nthe narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden, and brought them\ninto the lane again. \"I do not think it will,\" stopping to look once\nmore at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still\ngreater within.\n\n\"Oh! dear, no,\" said her companion.\n\nThey walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was\npassed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma\ntime only to say farther,\n\n\"Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good\nthoughts. Well, (smiling,) I hope it may be allowed that if compassion\nhas produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that\nis truly important. If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we can\nfor them, the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to ourselves.\"\n\nHarriet could just answer, \"Oh! dear, yes,\" before the gentleman joined\nthem. The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the\nfirst subject on meeting. He had been going to call on them. His visit\nhe would now defer; but they had a very interesting parley about\nwhat could be done and should be done. Mr. Elton then turned back to\naccompany them.\n\n\"To fall in with each other on such an errand as this,\" thought Emma;\n\"to meet in a charitable scheme; this will bring a great increase\nof love on each side. I should not wonder if it were to bring on the\ndeclaration. It must, if I were not here. I wish I were anywhere else.\"\n\nAnxious to separate herself from them as far as she could, she soon\nafterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a little raised on one\nside of the lane, leaving them together in the main road. But she had\nnot been there two minutes when she found that Harriet's habits of\ndependence and imitation were bringing her up too, and that, in short,\nthey would both be soon after her. This would not do; she immediately\nstopped, under pretence of having some alteration to make in the lacing\nof her half-boot, and stooping down in complete occupation of the\nfootpath, begged them to have the goodness to walk on, and she would\nfollow in half a minute. They did as they were desired; and by the time\nshe judged it reasonable to have done with her boot, she had the comfort\nof farther delay in her power, being overtaken by a child from the\ncottage, setting out, according to orders, with her pitcher, to fetch\nbroth from Hartfield. To walk by the side of this child, and talk to\nand question her, was the most natural thing in the world, or would have\nbeen the most natural, had she been acting just then without design;\nand by this means the others were still able to keep ahead, without\nany obligation of waiting for her. She gained on them, however,\ninvoluntarily: the child's pace was quick, and theirs rather slow;\nand she was the more concerned at it, from their being evidently in\na conversation which interested them. Mr. Elton was speaking with\nanimation, Harriet listening with a very pleased attention; and Emma,\nhaving sent the child on, was beginning to think how she might draw back\na little more, when they both looked around, and she was obliged to join\nthem.\n\nMr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some interesting detail;\nand Emma experienced some disappointment when she found that he was only\ngiving his fair companion an account of the yesterday's party at his\nfriend Cole's, and that she was come in herself for the Stilton cheese,\nthe north Wiltshire, the butter, the celery, the beet-root, and all the\ndessert.\n\n\"This would soon have led to something better, of course,\" was her\nconsoling reflection; \"any thing interests between those who love; and\nany thing will serve as introduction to what is near the heart. If I\ncould but have kept longer away!\"\n\nThey now walked on together quietly, till within view of the vicarage\npales, when a sudden resolution, of at least getting Harriet into the\nhouse, made her again find something very much amiss about her boot, and\nfall behind to arrange it once more. She then broke the lace off short,\nand dexterously throwing it into a ditch, was presently obliged to\nentreat them to stop, and acknowledged her inability to put herself to\nrights so as to be able to walk home in tolerable comfort.\n\n\"Part of my lace is gone,\" said she, \"and I do not know how I am to\ncontrive. I really am a most troublesome companion to you both, but I\nhope I am not often so ill-equipped. Mr. Elton, I must beg leave to stop\nat your house, and ask your housekeeper for a bit of ribband or string,\nor any thing just to keep my boot on.\"\n\nMr. Elton looked all happiness at this proposition; and nothing could\nexceed his alertness and attention in conducting them into his house and\nendeavouring to make every thing appear to advantage. The room they were\ntaken into was the one he chiefly occupied, and looking forwards; behind\nit was another with which it immediately communicated; the door between\nthem was open, and Emma passed into it with the housekeeper to receive\nher assistance in the most comfortable manner. She was obliged to leave\nthe door ajar as she found it; but she fully intended that Mr. Elton\nshould close it. It was not closed, however, it still remained ajar; but\nby engaging the housekeeper in incessant conversation, she hoped to make\nit practicable for him to chuse his own subject in the adjoining\nroom. For ten minutes she could hear nothing but herself. It could be\nprotracted no longer. She was then obliged to be finished, and make her\nappearance.\n\nThe lovers were standing together at one of the windows. It had a most\nfavourable aspect; and, for half a minute, Emma felt the glory of having\nschemed successfully. But it would not do; he had not come to the point.\nHe had been most agreeable, most delightful; he had told Harriet that\nhe had seen them go by, and had purposely followed them; other little\ngallantries and allusions had been dropt, but nothing serious.\n\n\"Cautious, very cautious,\" thought Emma; \"he advances inch by inch, and\nwill hazard nothing till he believes himself secure.\"\n\nStill, however, though every thing had not been accomplished by her\ningenious device, she could not but flatter herself that it had been\nthe occasion of much present enjoyment to both, and must be leading them\nforward to the great event.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\nMr. Elton must now be left to himself. It was no longer in Emma's power\nto superintend his happiness or quicken his measures. The coming of her\nsister's family was so very near at hand, that first in anticipation,\nand then in reality, it became henceforth her prime object of interest;\nand during the ten days of their stay at Hartfield it was not to be\nexpected--she did not herself expect--that any thing beyond occasional,\nfortuitous assistance could be afforded by her to the lovers. They might\nadvance rapidly if they would, however; they must advance somehow or\nother whether they would or no. She hardly wished to have more leisure\nfor them. There are people, who the more you do for them, the less they\nwill do for themselves.\n\nMr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer than usual absent\nfrom Surry, were exciting of course rather more than the usual interest.\nTill this year, every long vacation since their marriage had been\ndivided between Hartfield and Donwell Abbey; but all the holidays of\nthis autumn had been given to sea-bathing for the children, and it was\ntherefore many months since they had been seen in a regular way by their\nSurry connexions, or seen at all by Mr. Woodhouse, who could not be\ninduced to get so far as London, even for poor Isabella's sake; and\nwho consequently was now most nervously and apprehensively happy in\nforestalling this too short visit.\n\nHe thought much of the evils of the journey for her, and not a little\nof the fatigues of his own horses and coachman who were to bring some\nof the party the last half of the way; but his alarms were needless;\nthe sixteen miles being happily accomplished, and Mr. and Mrs. John\nKnightley, their five children, and a competent number of nursery-maids,\nall reaching Hartfield in safety. The bustle and joy of such an arrival,\nthe many to be talked to, welcomed, encouraged, and variously dispersed\nand disposed of, produced a noise and confusion which his nerves could\nnot have borne under any other cause, nor have endured much longer even\nfor this; but the ways of Hartfield and the feelings of her father\nwere so respected by Mrs. John Knightley, that in spite of maternal\nsolicitude for the immediate enjoyment of her little ones, and for their\nhaving instantly all the liberty and attendance, all the eating and\ndrinking, and sleeping and playing, which they could possibly wish for,\nwithout the smallest delay, the children were never allowed to be long\na disturbance to him, either in themselves or in any restless attendance\non them.\n\nMrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman, of gentle, quiet\nmanners, and a disposition remarkably amiable and affectionate; wrapt\nup in her family; a devoted wife, a doating mother, and so tenderly\nattached to her father and sister that, but for these higher ties, a\nwarmer love might have seemed impossible. She could never see a fault\nin any of them. She was not a woman of strong understanding or any\nquickness; and with this resemblance of her father, she inherited also\nmuch of his constitution; was delicate in her own health, over-careful\nof that of her children, had many fears and many nerves, and was as fond\nof her own Mr. Wingfield in town as her father could be of Mr. Perry.\nThey were alike too, in a general benevolence of temper, and a strong\nhabit of regard for every old acquaintance.\n\nMr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very clever man;\nrising in his profession, domestic, and respectable in his private\ncharacter; but with reserved manners which prevented his being generally\npleasing; and capable of being sometimes out of humour. He was not an\nill-tempered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to deserve such a\nreproach; but his temper was not his great perfection; and, indeed, with\nsuch a worshipping wife, it was hardly possible that any natural defects\nin it should not be increased. The extreme sweetness of her temper\nmust hurt his. He had all the clearness and quickness of mind which she\nwanted, and he could sometimes act an ungracious, or say a severe thing.\n\nHe was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing wrong\nin him escaped her. She was quick in feeling the little injuries to\nIsabella, which Isabella never felt herself. Perhaps she might have\npassed over more had his manners been flattering to Isabella's sister,\nbut they were only those of a calmly kind brother and friend, without\npraise and without blindness; but hardly any degree of personal\ncompliment could have made her regardless of that greatest fault of\nall in her eyes which he sometimes fell into, the want of respectful\nforbearance towards her father. There he had not always the patience\nthat could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse's peculiarities and\nfidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance or\nsharp retort equally ill-bestowed. It did not often happen; for Mr. John\nKnightley had really a great regard for his father-in-law, and generally\na strong sense of what was due to him; but it was too often for Emma's\ncharity, especially as there was all the pain of apprehension frequently\nto be endured, though the offence came not. The beginning, however, of\nevery visit displayed none but the properest feelings, and this being of\nnecessity so short might be hoped to pass away in unsullied cordiality.\nThey had not been long seated and composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a\nmelancholy shake of the head and a sigh, called his daughter's attention\nto the sad change at Hartfield since she had been there last.\n\n\"Ah, my dear,\" said he, \"poor Miss Taylor--It is a grievous business.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, sir,\" cried she with ready sympathy, \"how you must miss her!\nAnd dear Emma, too!--What a dreadful loss to you both!--I have been so\ngrieved for you.--I could not imagine how you could possibly do without\nher.--It is a sad change indeed.--But I hope she is pretty well, sir.\"\n\n\"Pretty well, my dear--I hope--pretty well.--I do not know but that the\nplace agrees with her tolerably.\"\n\nMr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any doubts\nof the air of Randalls.\n\n\"Oh! no--none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my\nlife--never looking so well. Papa is only speaking his own regret.\"\n\n\"Very much to the honour of both,\" was the handsome reply.\n\n\"And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?\" asked Isabella in the\nplaintive tone which just suited her father.\n\nMr. Woodhouse hesitated.--\"Not near so often, my dear, as I could wish.\"\n\n\"Oh! papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they\nmarried. Either in the morning or evening of every day, excepting one,\nhave we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both,\neither at Randalls or here--and as you may suppose, Isabella, most\nfrequently here. They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston\nis really as kind as herself. Papa, if you speak in that melancholy way,\nyou will be giving Isabella a false idea of us all. Every body must be\naware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but every body ought also to be\nassured that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent our missing her by\nany means to the extent we ourselves anticipated--which is the exact\ntruth.\"\n\n\"Just as it should be,\" said Mr. John Knightley, \"and just as I hoped\nit was from your letters. Her wish of shewing you attention could not be\ndoubted, and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all easy. I\nhave been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of the change\nbeing so very material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and now you have\nEmma's account, I hope you will be satisfied.\"\n\n\"Why, to be sure,\" said Mr. Woodhouse--\"yes, certainly--I cannot\ndeny that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, does come and see us pretty\noften--but then--she is always obliged to go away again.\"\n\n\"It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, papa.--You quite\nforget poor Mr. Weston.\"\n\n\"I think, indeed,\" said John Knightley pleasantly, \"that Mr. Weston has\nsome little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of the\npoor husband. I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the claims\nof the man may very likely strike us with equal force. As for Isabella,\nshe has been married long enough to see the convenience of putting all\nthe Mr. Westons aside as much as she can.\"\n\n\"Me, my love,\" cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in part.--\n\"Are you talking about me?--I am sure nobody ought to be, or can be, a\ngreater advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not been for\nthe misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of Miss\nTaylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and as to slighting\nMr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think there is nothing he does\nnot deserve. I believe he is one of the very best-tempered men that ever\nexisted. Excepting yourself and your brother, I do not know his equal\nfor temper. I shall never forget his flying Henry's kite for him that\nvery windy day last Easter--and ever since his particular kindness last\nSeptember twelvemonth in writing that note, at twelve o'clock at night,\non purpose to assure me that there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I\nhave been convinced there could not be a more feeling heart nor a better\nman in existence.--If any body can deserve him, it must be Miss Taylor.\"\n\n\"Where is the young man?\" said John Knightley. \"Has he been here on this\noccasion--or has he not?\"\n\n\"He has not been here yet,\" replied Emma. \"There was a strong\nexpectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but it ended in\nnothing; and I have not heard him mentioned lately.\"\n\n\"But you should tell them of the letter, my dear,\" said her father.\n\"He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate her, and a very\nproper, handsome letter it was. She shewed it to me. I thought it very\nwell done of him indeed. Whether it was his own idea you know, one\ncannot tell. He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps--\"\n\n\"My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how time passes.\"\n\n\"Three-and-twenty!--is he indeed?--Well, I could not have thought\nit--and he was but two years old when he lost his poor mother! Well,\ntime does fly indeed!--and my memory is very bad. However, it was an\nexceeding good, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal\nof pleasure. I remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated Sept.\n28th--and began, 'My dear Madam,' but I forget how it went on; and it\nwas signed 'F. C. Weston Churchill.'--I remember that perfectly.\"\n\n\"How very pleasing and proper of him!\" cried the good-hearted Mrs. John\nKnightley. \"I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man. But\nhow sad it is that he should not live at home with his father! There is\nsomething so shocking in a child's being taken away from his parents and\nnatural home! I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part with\nhim. To give up one's child! I really never could think well of any body\nwho proposed such a thing to any body else.\"\n\n\"Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy,\" observed Mr.\nJohn Knightley coolly. \"But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have felt\nwhat you would feel in giving up Henry or John. Mr. Weston is rather\nan easy, cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong feelings; he takes\nthings as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow or other,\ndepending, I suspect, much more upon what is called society for his\ncomforts, that is, upon the power of eating and drinking, and playing\nwhist with his neighbours five times a week, than upon family affection,\nor any thing that home affords.\"\n\nEmma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and had\nhalf a mind to take it up; but she struggled, and let it pass. She\nwould keep the peace if possible; and there was something honourable and\nvaluable in the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home to\nhimself, whence resulted her brother's disposition to look down on\nthe common rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was\nimportant.--It had a high claim to forbearance.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nMr. Knightley was to dine with them--rather against the inclination of\nMr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any one should share with him in\nIsabella's first day. Emma's sense of right however had decided it;\nand besides the consideration of what was due to each brother, she had\nparticular pleasure, from the circumstance of the late disagreement\nbetween Mr. Knightley and herself, in procuring him the proper\ninvitation.\n\nShe hoped they might now become friends again. She thought it was time\nto make up. Making-up indeed would not do. _She_ certainly had not been\nin the wrong, and _he_ would never own that he had. Concession must be\nout of the question; but it was time to appear to forget that they had\never quarrelled; and she hoped it might rather assist the restoration of\nfriendship, that when he came into the room she had one of the children\nwith her--the youngest, a nice little girl about eight months old, who\nwas now making her first visit to Hartfield, and very happy to be danced\nabout in her aunt's arms. It did assist; for though he began with grave\nlooks and short questions, he was soon led on to talk of them all in\nthe usual way, and to take the child out of her arms with all the\nunceremoniousness of perfect amity. Emma felt they were friends again;\nand the conviction giving her at first great satisfaction, and then\na little sauciness, she could not help saying, as he was admiring the\nbaby,\n\n\"What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our nephews and nieces.\nAs to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different; but with\nregard to these children, I observe we never disagree.\"\n\n\"If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of men and women,\nand as little under the power of fancy and whim in your dealings with\nthem, as you are where these children are concerned, we might always\nthink alike.\"\n\n\"To be sure--our discordancies must always arise from my being in the\nwrong.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said he, smiling--\"and reason good. I was sixteen years old when\nyou were born.\"\n\n\"A material difference then,\" she replied--\"and no doubt you were much\nmy superior in judgment at that period of our lives; but does not the\nlapse of one-and-twenty years bring our understandings a good deal\nnearer?\"\n\n\"Yes--a good deal _nearer_.\"\n\n\"But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right, if we\nthink differently.\"\n\n\"I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years' experience, and by\nnot being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child. Come, my dear Emma,\nlet us be friends, and say no more about it. Tell your aunt, little\nEmma, that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing old\ngrievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is now.\"\n\n\"That's true,\" she cried--\"very true. Little Emma, grow up a better\nwoman than your aunt. Be infinitely cleverer and not half so conceited.\nNow, Mr. Knightley, a word or two more, and I have done. As far as good\nintentions went, we were _both_ right, and I must say that no effects on\nmy side of the argument have yet proved wrong. I only want to know that\nMr. Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed.\"\n\n\"A man cannot be more so,\" was his short, full answer.\n\n\"Ah!--Indeed I am very sorry.--Come, shake hands with me.\"\n\nThis had just taken place and with great cordiality, when John Knightley\nmade his appearance, and \"How d'ye do, George?\" and \"John, how are\nyou?\" succeeded in the true English style, burying under a calmness that\nseemed all but indifference, the real attachment which would have led\neither of them, if requisite, to do every thing for the good of the\nother.\n\nThe evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Woodhouse declined cards\nentirely for the sake of comfortable talk with his dear Isabella, and\nthe little party made two natural divisions; on one side he and his\ndaughter; on the other the two Mr. Knightleys; their subjects totally\ndistinct, or very rarely mixing--and Emma only occasionally joining in\none or the other.\n\nThe brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits, but principally\nof those of the elder, whose temper was by much the most communicative,\nand who was always the greater talker. As a magistrate, he had generally\nsome point of law to consult John about, or, at least, some curious\nanecdote to give; and as a farmer, as keeping in hand the home-farm at\nDonwell, he had to tell what every field was to bear next year, and to\ngive all such local information as could not fail of being interesting\nto a brother whose home it had equally been the longest part of his\nlife, and whose attachments were strong. The plan of a drain, the change\nof a fence, the felling of a tree, and the destination of every acre for\nwheat, turnips, or spring corn, was entered into with as much equality\nof interest by John, as his cooler manners rendered possible; and if his\nwilling brother ever left him any thing to inquire about, his inquiries\neven approached a tone of eagerness.\n\nWhile they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying a\nfull flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter.\n\n\"My poor dear Isabella,\" said he, fondly taking her hand, and\ninterrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for some one of her\nfive children--\"How long it is, how terribly long since you were here!\nAnd how tired you must be after your journey! You must go to bed early,\nmy dear--and I recommend a little gruel to you before you go.--You and\nI will have a nice basin of gruel together. My dear Emma, suppose we all\nhave a little gruel.\"\n\nEmma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did, that both the\nMr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as herself;--and\ntwo basins only were ordered. After a little more discourse in praise of\ngruel, with some wondering at its not being taken every evening by every\nbody, he proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection,\n\n\"It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the autumn at South\nEnd instead of coming here. I never had much opinion of the sea air.\"\n\n\"Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir--or we should not\nhave gone. He recommended it for all the children, but particularly for\nthe weakness in little Bella's throat,--both sea air and bathing.\"\n\n\"Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her any\ngood; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, though\nperhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use\nto any body. I am sure it almost killed me once.\"\n\n\"Come, come,\" cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject, \"I must\nbeg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me envious and miserable;--I\nwho have never seen it! South End is prohibited, if you please. My dear\nIsabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet; and\nhe never forgets you.\"\n\n\"Oh! good Mr. Perry--how is he, sir?\"\n\n\"Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he has\nnot time to take care of himself--he tells me he has not time to take\ncare of himself--which is very sad--but he is always wanted all round\nthe country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere. But\nthen there is not so clever a man any where.\"\n\n\"And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the children grow?\nI have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon. He\nwill be so pleased to see my little ones.\"\n\n\"I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask\nhim about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes,\nyou had better let him look at little Bella's throat.\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any\nuneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the greatest service to\nher, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation of Mr.\nWingfield's, which we have been applying at times ever since August.\"\n\n\"It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been of use\nto her--and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation, I would have\nspoken to--\n\n\"You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates,\" said Emma, \"I\nhave not heard one inquiry after them.\"\n\n\"Oh! the good Bateses--I am quite ashamed of myself--but you mention\nthem in most of your letters. I hope they are quite well. Good old Mrs.\nBates--I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my children.--They\nare always so pleased to see my children.--And that excellent Miss\nBates!--such thorough worthy people!--How are they, sir?\"\n\n\"Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs. Bates had a\nbad cold about a month ago.\"\n\n\"How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as they have been\nthis autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them more\ngeneral or heavy--except when it has been quite an influenza.\"\n\n\"That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree you\nmention. Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavy\nas he has very often known them in November. Perry does not call it\naltogether a sickly season.\"\n\n\"No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it _very_ sickly\nexcept--\n\n\"Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always\na sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is a\ndreadful thing to have you forced to live there! so far off!--and the\nair so bad!\"\n\n\"No, indeed--_we_ are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is\nvery superior to most others!--You must not confound us with London\nin general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very\ndifferent from almost all the rest. We are so very airy! I should be\nunwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;--there is\nhardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children in:\nbut _we_ are so remarkably airy!--Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of\nBrunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air.\"\n\n\"Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best of it--but\nafter you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you different\ncreatures; you do not look like the same. Now I cannot say, that I think\nyou are any of you looking well at present.\"\n\n\"I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting those\nlittle nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never entirely\nfree from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were\nrather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were a\nlittle more tired than usual, from their journey and the happiness of\ncoming. I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow; for I\nassure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not believe he had ever\nsent us off altogether, in such good case. I trust, at least, that\nyou do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill,\" turning her eyes with\naffectionate anxiety towards her husband.\n\n\"Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John Knightley\nvery far from looking well.\"\n\n\"What is the matter, sir?--Did you speak to me?\" cried Mr. John\nKnightley, hearing his own name.\n\n\"I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you looking\nwell--but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued. I could have\nwished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before you\nleft home.\"\n\n\"My dear Isabella,\"--exclaimed he hastily--\"pray do not concern yourself\nabout my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and\nthe children, and let me look as I chuse.\"\n\n\"I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother,\"\ncried Emma, \"about your friend Mr. Graham's intending to have a bailiff\nfrom Scotland, to look after his new estate. What will it answer? Will\nnot the old prejudice be too strong?\"\n\nAnd she talked in this way so long and successfully that, when forced to\ngive her attention again to her father and sister, she had nothing\nworse to hear than Isabella's kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax; and Jane\nFairfax, though no great favourite with her in general, she was at that\nmoment very happy to assist in praising.\n\n\"That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!\" said Mrs. John Knightley.--\"It\nis so long since I have seen her, except now and then for a moment\naccidentally in town! What happiness it must be to her good old\ngrandmother and excellent aunt, when she comes to visit them! I always\nregret excessively on dear Emma's account that she cannot be more at\nHighbury; but now their daughter is married, I suppose Colonel and Mrs.\nCampbell will not be able to part with her at all. She would be such a\ndelightful companion for Emma.\"\n\nMr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added,\n\n\"Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another pretty\nkind of young person. You will like Harriet. Emma could not have a\nbetter companion than Harriet.\"\n\n\"I am most happy to hear it--but only Jane Fairfax one knows to be so\nvery accomplished and superior!--and exactly Emma's age.\"\n\nThis topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of similar\nmoment, and passed away with similar harmony; but the evening did not\nclose without a little return of agitation. The gruel came and supplied\na great deal to be said--much praise and many comments--undoubting\ndecision of its wholesomeness for every constitution, and pretty\nsevere Philippics upon the many houses where it was never met with\ntolerable;--but, unfortunately, among the failures which the daughter\nhad to instance, the most recent, and therefore most prominent, was in\nher own cook at South End, a young woman hired for the time, who never\nhad been able to understand what she meant by a basin of nice smooth\ngruel, thin, but not too thin. Often as she had wished for and ordered\nit, she had never been able to get any thing tolerable. Here was a\ndangerous opening.\n\n\"Ah!\" said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing his eyes on her\nwith tender concern.--The ejaculation in Emma's ear expressed, \"Ah!\nthere is no end of the sad consequences of your going to South End. It\ndoes not bear talking of.\" And for a little while she hoped he would not\ntalk of it, and that a silent rumination might suffice to restore him to\nthe relish of his own smooth gruel. After an interval of some minutes,\nhowever, he began with,\n\n\"I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this autumn,\ninstead of coming here.\"\n\n\"But why should you be sorry, sir?--I assure you, it did the children a\ngreat deal of good.\"\n\n\"And, moreover, if you must go to the sea, it had better not have been\nto South End. South End is an unhealthy place. Perry was surprized to\nhear you had fixed upon South End.\"\n\n\"I know there is such an idea with many people, but indeed it is quite\na mistake, sir.--We all had our health perfectly well there, never\nfound the least inconvenience from the mud; and Mr. Wingfield says it is\nentirely a mistake to suppose the place unhealthy; and I am sure he may\nbe depended on, for he thoroughly understands the nature of the air, and\nhis own brother and family have been there repeatedly.\"\n\n\"You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went anywhere.--Perry\nwas a week at Cromer once, and he holds it to be the best of all the\nsea-bathing places. A fine open sea, he says, and very pure air. And, by\nwhat I understand, you might have had lodgings there quite away from\nthe sea--a quarter of a mile off--very comfortable. You should have\nconsulted Perry.\"\n\n\"But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey;--only consider how\ngreat it would have been.--An hundred miles, perhaps, instead of forty.\"\n\n\"Ah! my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing else\nshould be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not much to\nchuse between forty miles and an hundred.--Better not move at all,\nbetter stay in London altogether than travel forty miles to get into\na worse air. This is just what Perry said. It seemed to him a very\nill-judged measure.\"\n\nEmma's attempts to stop her father had been vain; and when he\nhad reached such a point as this, she could not wonder at her\nbrother-in-law's breaking out.\n\n\"Mr. Perry,\" said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure, \"would do\nas well to keep his opinion till it is asked for. Why does he make it\nany business of his, to wonder at what I do?--at my taking my family to\none part of the coast or another?--I may be allowed, I hope, the use of\nmy judgment as well as Mr. Perry.--I want his directions no more than\nhis drugs.\" He paused--and growing cooler in a moment, added, with only\nsarcastic dryness, \"If Mr. Perry can tell me how to convey a wife and\nfive children a distance of an hundred and thirty miles with no greater\nexpense or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be as\nwilling to prefer Cromer to South End as he could himself.\"\n\n\"True, true,\" cried Mr. Knightley, with most ready interposition--\"very\ntrue. That's a consideration indeed.--But John, as to what I was telling\nyou of my idea of moving the path to Langham, of turning it more to the\nright that it may not cut through the home meadows, I cannot conceive\nany difficulty. I should not attempt it, if it were to be the means of\ninconvenience to the Highbury people, but if you call to mind exactly\nthe present line of the path.... The only way of proving it, however,\nwill be to turn to our maps. I shall see you at the Abbey to-morrow\nmorning I hope, and then we will look them over, and you shall give me\nyour opinion.\"\n\nMr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflections on his\nfriend Perry, to whom he had, in fact, though unconsciously, been\nattributing many of his own feelings and expressions;--but the soothing\nattentions of his daughters gradually removed the present evil, and\nthe immediate alertness of one brother, and better recollections of the\nother, prevented any renewal of it.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nThere could hardly be a happier creature in the world than Mrs. John\nKnightley, in this short visit to Hartfield, going about every morning\namong her old acquaintance with her five children, and talking over what\nshe had done every evening with her father and sister. She had nothing\nto wish otherwise, but that the days did not pass so swiftly. It was a\ndelightful visit;--perfect, in being much too short.\n\nIn general their evenings were less engaged with friends than their\nmornings; but one complete dinner engagement, and out of the house too,\nthere was no avoiding, though at Christmas. Mr. Weston would take no\ndenial; they must all dine at Randalls one day;--even Mr. Woodhouse was\npersuaded to think it a possible thing in preference to a division of\nthe party.\n\nHow they were all to be conveyed, he would have made a difficulty if he\ncould, but as his son and daughter's carriage and horses were actually\nat Hartfield, he was not able to make more than a simple question on\nthat head; it hardly amounted to a doubt; nor did it occupy Emma long\nto convince him that they might in one of the carriages find room for\nHarriet also.\n\nHarriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own especial set, were the\nonly persons invited to meet them;--the hours were to be early, as\nwell as the numbers few; Mr. Woodhouse's habits and inclination being\nconsulted in every thing.\n\nThe evening before this great event (for it was a very great event that\nMr. Woodhouse should dine out, on the 24th of December) had been spent\nby Harriet at Hartfield, and she had gone home so much indisposed with\na cold, that, but for her own earnest wish of being nursed by Mrs.\nGoddard, Emma could not have allowed her to leave the house. Emma called\non her the next day, and found her doom already signed with regard to\nRandalls. She was very feverish and had a bad sore throat: Mrs. Goddard\nwas full of care and affection, Mr. Perry was talked of, and Harriet\nherself was too ill and low to resist the authority which excluded her\nfrom this delightful engagement, though she could not speak of her loss\nwithout many tears.\n\nEmma sat with her as long as she could, to attend her in Mrs. Goddard's\nunavoidable absences, and raise her spirits by representing how much Mr.\nElton's would be depressed when he knew her state; and left her at last\ntolerably comfortable, in the sweet dependence of his having a most\ncomfortless visit, and of their all missing her very much. She had not\nadvanced many yards from Mrs. Goddard's door, when she was met by Mr.\nElton himself, evidently coming towards it, and as they walked on slowly\ntogether in conversation about the invalid--of whom he, on the rumour\nof considerable illness, had been going to inquire, that he might\ncarry some report of her to Hartfield--they were overtaken by Mr. John\nKnightley returning from the daily visit to Donwell, with his two eldest\nboys, whose healthy, glowing faces shewed all the benefit of a country\nrun, and seemed to ensure a quick despatch of the roast mutton and rice\npudding they were hastening home for. They joined company and\nproceeded together. Emma was just describing the nature of her friend's\ncomplaint;--\"a throat very much inflamed, with a great deal of heat\nabout her, a quick, low pulse, &c. and she was sorry to find from Mrs.\nGoddard that Harriet was liable to very bad sore-throats, and had often\nalarmed her with them.\" Mr. Elton looked all alarm on the occasion, as\nhe exclaimed,\n\n\"A sore-throat!--I hope not infectious. I hope not of a putrid\ninfectious sort. Has Perry seen her? Indeed you should take care of\nyourself as well as of your friend. Let me entreat you to run no risks.\nWhy does not Perry see her?\"\n\nEmma, who was not really at all frightened herself, tranquillised this\nexcess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs. Goddard's experience and\ncare; but as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness which she\ncould not wish to reason away, which she would rather feed and assist\nthan not, she added soon afterwards--as if quite another subject,\n\n\"It is so cold, so very cold--and looks and feels so very much like\nsnow, that if it were to any other place or with any other party, I\nshould really try not to go out to-day--and dissuade my father from\nventuring; but as he has made up his mind, and does not seem to feel the\ncold himself, I do not like to interfere, as I know it would be so great\na disappointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But, upon my word, Mr. Elton,\nin your case, I should certainly excuse myself. You appear to me a\nlittle hoarse already, and when you consider what demand of voice and\nwhat fatigues to-morrow will bring, I think it would be no more than\ncommon prudence to stay at home and take care of yourself to-night.\"\n\nMr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make;\nwhich was exactly the case; for though very much gratified by the kind\ncare of such a fair lady, and not liking to resist any advice of her's,\nhe had not really the least inclination to give up the visit;--but Emma,\ntoo eager and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear him\nimpartially, or see him with clear vision, was very well satisfied with\nhis muttering acknowledgment of its being \"very cold, certainly very\ncold,\" and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him from Randalls,\nand secured him the power of sending to inquire after Harriet every hour\nof the evening.\n\n\"You do quite right,\" said she;--\"we will make your apologies to Mr. and\nMrs. Weston.\"\n\nBut hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly\noffering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton's only\nobjection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt\nsatisfaction. It was a done thing; Mr. Elton was to go, and never had\nhis broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this moment;\nnever had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes more exulting than when\nhe next looked at her.\n\n\"Well,\" said she to herself, \"this is most strange!--After I had got\nhim off so well, to chuse to go into company, and leave Harriet ill\nbehind!--Most strange indeed!--But there is, I believe, in many men,\nespecially single men, such an inclination--such a passion for dining\nout--a dinner engagement is so high in the class of their pleasures,\ntheir employments, their dignities, almost their duties, that any\nthing gives way to it--and this must be the case with Mr. Elton; a most\nvaluable, amiable, pleasing young man undoubtedly, and very much in love\nwith Harriet; but still, he cannot refuse an invitation, he must dine\nout wherever he is asked. What a strange thing love is! he can see ready\nwit in Harriet, but will not dine alone for her.\"\n\nSoon afterwards Mr. Elton quitted them, and she could not but do him\nthe justice of feeling that there was a great deal of sentiment in his\nmanner of naming Harriet at parting; in the tone of his voice while\nassuring her that he should call at Mrs. Goddard's for news of her fair\nfriend, the last thing before he prepared for the happiness of meeting\nher again, when he hoped to be able to give a better report; and\nhe sighed and smiled himself off in a way that left the balance of\napprobation much in his favour.\n\nAfter a few minutes of entire silence between them, John Knightley began\nwith--\n\n\"I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agreeable than Mr.\nElton. It is downright labour to him where ladies are concerned. With\nmen he can be rational and unaffected, but when he has ladies to please,\nevery feature works.\"\n\n\"Mr. Elton's manners are not perfect,\" replied Emma; \"but where there is\na wish to please, one ought to overlook, and one does overlook a great\ndeal. Where a man does his best with only moderate powers, he will\nhave the advantage over negligent superiority. There is such perfect\ngood-temper and good-will in Mr. Elton as one cannot but value.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mr. John Knightley presently, with some slyness, \"he seems\nto have a great deal of good-will towards you.\"\n\n\"Me!\" she replied with a smile of astonishment, \"are you imagining me to\nbe Mr. Elton's object?\"\n\n\"Such an imagination has crossed me, I own, Emma; and if it never\noccurred to you before, you may as well take it into consideration now.\"\n\n\"Mr. Elton in love with me!--What an idea!\"\n\n\"I do not say it is so; but you will do well to consider whether it\nis so or not, and to regulate your behaviour accordingly. I think your\nmanners to him encouraging. I speak as a friend, Emma. You had better\nlook about you, and ascertain what you do, and what you mean to do.\"\n\n\"I thank you; but I assure you you are quite mistaken. Mr. Elton and\nI are very good friends, and nothing more;\" and she walked on, amusing\nherself in the consideration of the blunders which often arise from a\npartial knowledge of circumstances, of the mistakes which people of high\npretensions to judgment are for ever falling into; and not very well\npleased with her brother for imagining her blind and ignorant, and in\nwant of counsel. He said no more.\n\nMr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to the visit, that in\nspite of the increasing coldness, he seemed to have no idea of shrinking\nfrom it, and set forward at last most punctually with his eldest\ndaughter in his own carriage, with less apparent consciousness of the\nweather than either of the others; too full of the wonder of his own\ngoing, and the pleasure it was to afford at Randalls to see that it was\ncold, and too well wrapt up to feel it. The cold, however, was severe;\nand by the time the second carriage was in motion, a few flakes of snow\nwere finding their way down, and the sky had the appearance of being so\novercharged as to want only a milder air to produce a very white world\nin a very short time.\n\nEmma soon saw that her companion was not in the happiest humour. The\npreparing and the going abroad in such weather, with the sacrifice of\nhis children after dinner, were evils, were disagreeables at least,\nwhich Mr. John Knightley did not by any means like; he anticipated\nnothing in the visit that could be at all worth the purchase; and the\nwhole of their drive to the vicarage was spent by him in expressing his\ndiscontent.\n\n\"A man,\" said he, \"must have a very good opinion of himself when he asks\npeople to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a day as\nthis, for the sake of coming to see him. He must think himself a most\nagreeable fellow; I could not do such a thing. It is the greatest\nabsurdity--Actually snowing at this moment!--The folly of not allowing\npeople to be comfortable at home--and the folly of people's not staying\ncomfortably at home when they can! If we were obliged to go out such\nan evening as this, by any call of duty or business, what a hardship we\nshould deem it;--and here are we, probably with rather thinner clothing\nthan usual, setting forward voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of\nthe voice of nature, which tells man, in every thing given to his view\nor his feelings, to stay at home himself, and keep all under shelter\nthat he can;--here are we setting forward to spend five dull hours in\nanother man's house, with nothing to say or to hear that was not said\nand heard yesterday, and may not be said and heard again to-morrow.\nGoing in dismal weather, to return probably in worse;--four horses and\nfour servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering\ncreatures into colder rooms and worse company than they might have had\nat home.\"\n\nEmma did not find herself equal to give the pleased assent, which no\ndoubt he was in the habit of receiving, to emulate the \"Very true,\nmy love,\" which must have been usually administered by his travelling\ncompanion; but she had resolution enough to refrain from making\nany answer at all. She could not be complying, she dreaded being\nquarrelsome; her heroism reached only to silence. She allowed him to\ntalk, and arranged the glasses, and wrapped herself up, without opening\nher lips.\n\nThey arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let down, and Mr. Elton,\nspruce, black, and smiling, was with them instantly. Emma thought with\npleasure of some change of subject. Mr. Elton was all obligation and\ncheerfulness; he was so very cheerful in his civilities indeed, that she\nbegan to think he must have received a different account of Harriet from\nwhat had reached her. She had sent while dressing, and the answer had\nbeen, \"Much the same--not better.\"\n\n\"_My_ report from Mrs. Goddard's,\" said she presently, \"was not so\npleasant as I had hoped--'Not better' was _my_ answer.\"\n\nHis face lengthened immediately; and his voice was the voice of\nsentiment as he answered.\n\n\"Oh! no--I am grieved to find--I was on the point of telling you that\nwhen I called at Mrs. Goddard's door, which I did the very last thing\nbefore I returned to dress, I was told that Miss Smith was not better,\nby no means better, rather worse. Very much grieved and concerned--I\nhad flattered myself that she must be better after such a cordial as I\nknew had been given her in the morning.\"\n\nEmma smiled and answered--\"My visit was of use to the nervous part of\nher complaint, I hope; but not even I can charm away a sore throat;\nit is a most severe cold indeed. Mr. Perry has been with her, as you\nprobably heard.\"\n\n\"Yes--I imagined--that is--I did not--\"\n\n\"He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope to-morrow\nmorning will bring us both a more comfortable report. But it is\nimpossible not to feel uneasiness. Such a sad loss to our party to-day!\"\n\n\"Dreadful!--Exactly so, indeed.--She will be missed every moment.\"\n\nThis was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it was really\nestimable; but it should have lasted longer. Emma was rather in dismay\nwhen only half a minute afterwards he began to speak of other things,\nand in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment.\n\n\"What an excellent device,\" said he, \"the use of a sheepskin for\ncarriages. How very comfortable they make it;--impossible to feel cold\nwith such precautions. The contrivances of modern days indeed have\nrendered a gentleman's carriage perfectly complete. One is so fenced\nand guarded from the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way\nunpermitted. Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a very\ncold afternoon--but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter.--Ha!\nsnows a little I see.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said John Knightley, \"and I think we shall have a good deal of\nit.\"\n\n\"Christmas weather,\" observed Mr. Elton. \"Quite seasonable; and\nextremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin\nyesterday, and prevent this day's party, which it might very possibly\nhave done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been\nmuch snow on the ground; but now it is of no consequence. This is quite\nthe season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas every body invites\ntheir friends about them, and people think little of even the worst\nweather. I was snowed up at a friend's house once for a week. Nothing\ncould be pleasanter. I went for only one night, and could not get away\ntill that very day se'nnight.\"\n\nMr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure, but\nsaid only, coolly,\n\n\"I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls.\"\n\nAt another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too much\nastonished now at Mr. Elton's spirits for other feelings. Harriet seemed\nquite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party.\n\n\"We are sure of excellent fires,\" continued he, \"and every thing in the\ngreatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston;--Mrs. Weston\nindeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so\nhospitable, and so fond of society;--it will be a small party, but where\nsmall parties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any.\nMr. Weston's dining-room does not accommodate more than ten comfortably;\nand for my part, I would rather, under such circumstances, fall short by\ntwo than exceed by two. I think you will agree with me, (turning with\na soft air to Emma,) I think I shall certainly have your approbation,\nthough Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large parties of\nLondon, may not quite enter into our feelings.\"\n\n\"I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir--I never dine with\nany body.\"\n\n\"Indeed! (in a tone of wonder and pity,) I had no idea that the law had\nbeen so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will\nbe paid for all this, when you will have little labour and great\nenjoyment.\"\n\n\"My first enjoyment,\" replied John Knightley, as they passed through the\nsweep-gate, \"will be to find myself safe at Hartfield again.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nSome change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they\nwalked into Mrs. Weston's drawing-room;--Mr. Elton must compose his\njoyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr.\nElton must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the\nplace.--Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as\nhappy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons.\nMr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the\nworld to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any\none, to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and\nunderstood, of being always interesting and always intelligible, the\nlittle affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father\nand herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston\nhad not a lively concern; and half an hour's uninterrupted communication\nof all those little matters on which the daily happiness of private life\ndepends, was one of the first gratifications of each.\n\nThis was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day's visit might not\nafford, which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but the\nvery sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was grateful\nto Emma, and she determined to think as little as possible of Mr.\nElton's oddities, or of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all that\nwas enjoyable to the utmost.\n\nThe misfortune of Harriet's cold had been pretty well gone through\nbefore her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough\nto give the history of it, besides all the history of his own and\nIsabella's coming, and of Emma's being to follow, and had indeed just\ngot to the end of his satisfaction that James should come and see his\ndaughter, when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been almost\nwholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able to turn away and\nwelcome her dear Emma.\n\nEmma's project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather sorry\nto find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close to her.\nThe difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility towards\nHarriet, from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but\nwas continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and\nsolicitously addressing her upon every occasion. Instead of forgetting\nhim, his behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal\nsuggestion of \"Can it really be as my brother imagined? can it be\npossible for this man to be beginning to transfer his affections from\nHarriet to me?--Absurd and insufferable!\"--Yet he would be so anxious\nfor her being perfectly warm, would be so interested about her father,\nand so delighted with Mrs. Weston; and at last would begin admiring her\ndrawings with so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed terribly\nlike a would-be lover, and made it some effort with her to preserve her\ngood manners. For her own sake she could not be rude; and for Harriet's,\nin the hope that all would yet turn out right, she was even positively\ncivil; but it was an effort; especially as something was going on\namongst the others, in the most overpowering period of Mr. Elton's\nnonsense, which she particularly wished to listen to. She heard enough\nto know that Mr. Weston was giving some information about his son; she\nheard the words \"my son,\" and \"Frank,\" and \"my son,\" repeated several\ntimes over; and, from a few other half-syllables very much suspected\nthat he was announcing an early visit from his son; but before she could\nquiet Mr. Elton, the subject was so completely past that any reviving\nquestion from her would have been awkward.\n\nNow, it so happened that in spite of Emma's resolution of never\nmarrying, there was something in the name, in the idea of Mr.\nFrank Churchill, which always interested her. She had frequently\nthought--especially since his father's marriage with Miss Taylor--that\nif she _were_ to marry, he was the very person to suit her in age,\ncharacter and condition. He seemed by this connexion between the\nfamilies, quite to belong to her. She could not but suppose it to be\na match that every body who knew them must think of. That Mr. and Mrs.\nWeston did think of it, she was very strongly persuaded; and though\nnot meaning to be induced by him, or by any body else, to give up a\nsituation which she believed more replete with good than any she could\nchange it for, she had a great curiosity to see him, a decided intention\nof finding him pleasant, of being liked by him to a certain degree, and\na sort of pleasure in the idea of their being coupled in their friends'\nimaginations.\n\nWith such sensations, Mr. Elton's civilities were dreadfully ill-timed;\nbut she had the comfort of appearing very polite, while feeling very\ncross--and of thinking that the rest of the visit could not possibly\npass without bringing forward the same information again, or the\nsubstance of it, from the open-hearted Mr. Weston.--So it proved;--for\nwhen happily released from Mr. Elton, and seated by Mr. Weston,\nat dinner, he made use of the very first interval in the cares of\nhospitality, the very first leisure from the saddle of mutton, to say to\nher,\n\n\"We want only two more to be just the right number. I should like to see\ntwo more here,--your pretty little friend, Miss Smith, and my son--and\nthen I should say we were quite complete. I believe you did not hear me\ntelling the others in the drawing-room that we are expecting Frank.\nI had a letter from him this morning, and he will be with us within a\nfortnight.\"\n\nEmma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure; and fully assented to\nhis proposition of Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Smith making their party\nquite complete.\n\n\"He has been wanting to come to us,\" continued Mr. Weston, \"ever since\nSeptember: every letter has been full of it; but he cannot command his\nown time. He has those to please who must be pleased, and who (between\nourselves) are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices.\nBut now I have no doubt of seeing him here about the second week in\nJanuary.\"\n\n\"What a very great pleasure it will be to you! and Mrs. Weston is so\nanxious to be acquainted with him, that she must be almost as happy as\nyourself.\"\n\n\"Yes, she would be, but that she thinks there will be another put-off.\nShe does not depend upon his coming so much as I do: but she does not\nknow the parties so well as I do. The case, you see, is--(but this is\nquite between ourselves: I did not mention a syllable of it in the other\nroom. There are secrets in all families, you know)--The case is, that a\nparty of friends are invited to pay a visit at Enscombe in January; and\nthat Frank's coming depends upon their being put off. If they are not\nput off, he cannot stir. But I know they will, because it is a family\nthat a certain lady, of some consequence, at Enscombe, has a particular\ndislike to: and though it is thought necessary to invite them once in\ntwo or three years, they always are put off when it comes to the point.\nI have not the smallest doubt of the issue. I am as confident of seeing\nFrank here before the middle of January, as I am of being here myself:\nbut your good friend there (nodding towards the upper end of the table)\nhas so few vagaries herself, and has been so little used to them at\nHartfield, that she cannot calculate on their effects, as I have been\nlong in the practice of doing.\"\n\n\"I am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the case,\" replied\nEmma; \"but am disposed to side with you, Mr. Weston. If you think he\nwill come, I shall think so too; for you know Enscombe.\"\n\n\"Yes--I have some right to that knowledge; though I have never been at\nthe place in my life.--She is an odd woman!--But I never allow myself\nto speak ill of her, on Frank's account; for I do believe her to be very\nfond of him. I used to think she was not capable of being fond of\nany body, except herself: but she has always been kind to him (in her\nway--allowing for little whims and caprices, and expecting every thing\nto be as she likes). And it is no small credit, in my opinion, to him,\nthat he should excite such an affection; for, though I would not say\nit to any body else, she has no more heart than a stone to people in\ngeneral; and the devil of a temper.\"\n\nEmma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it, to Mrs. Weston,\nvery soon after their moving into the drawing-room: wishing her joy--yet\nobserving, that she knew the first meeting must be rather alarming.--\nMrs. Weston agreed to it; but added, that she should be very glad to be\nsecure of undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time talked\nof: \"for I cannot depend upon his coming. I cannot be so sanguine as\nMr. Weston. I am very much afraid that it will all end in nothing. Mr.\nWeston, I dare say, has been telling you exactly how the matter stands?\"\n\n\"Yes--it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-humour of Mrs.\nChurchill, which I imagine to be the most certain thing in the world.\"\n\n\"My Emma!\" replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, \"what is the certainty\nof caprice?\" Then turning to Isabella, who had not been attending\nbefore--\"You must know, my dear Mrs. Knightley, that we are by no means\nso sure of seeing Mr. Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father\nthinks. It depends entirely upon his aunt's spirits and pleasure; in\nshort, upon her temper. To you--to my two daughters--I may venture on\nthe truth. Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is a very odd-tempered\nwoman; and his coming now, depends upon her being willing to spare him.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mrs. Churchill; every body knows Mrs. Churchill,\" replied Isabella:\n\"and I am sure I never think of that poor young man without the greatest\ncompassion. To be constantly living with an ill-tempered person, must\nbe dreadful. It is what we happily have never known any thing of; but\nit must be a life of misery. What a blessing, that she never had any\nchildren! Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would have made them!\"\n\nEmma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston. She should then have\nheard more: Mrs. Weston would speak to her, with a degree of unreserve\nwhich she would not hazard with Isabella; and, she really believed,\nwould scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills\nfrom her, excepting those views on the young man, of which her own\nimagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge. But at\npresent there was nothing more to be said. Mr. Woodhouse very soon\nfollowed them into the drawing-room. To be sitting long after\ndinner, was a confinement that he could not endure. Neither wine nor\nconversation was any thing to him; and gladly did he move to those with\nwhom he was always comfortable.\n\nWhile he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an opportunity of\nsaying,\n\n\"And so you do not consider this visit from your son as by any means\ncertain. I am sorry for it. The introduction must be unpleasant,\nwhenever it takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better.\"\n\n\"Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays. Even\nif this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that\nsome excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine\nany reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on\nthe Churchills' to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They\nare jealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no\ndependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine.\"\n\n\"He ought to come,\" said Emma. \"If he could stay only a couple of days,\nhe ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man's not having\nit in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_, if she fall into\nbad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she wants\nto be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_'s being under such\nrestraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he\nlikes it.\"\n\n\"One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before\none decides upon what he can do,\" replied Mrs. Weston. \"One ought to\nuse the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one\nindividual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must\nnot be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every\nthing gives way to her.\"\n\n\"But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now,\naccording to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that\nwhile she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she\nowes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards _him_,\nshe should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes\nnothing at all.\"\n\n\"My dearest Emma, do not pretend, with your sweet temper, to understand\na bad one, or to lay down rules for it: you must let it go its own way.\nI have no doubt of his having, at times, considerable influence; but it\nmay be perfectly impossible for him to know beforehand _when_ it will\nbe.\"\n\nEmma listened, and then coolly said, \"I shall not be satisfied, unless\nhe comes.\"\n\n\"He may have a great deal of influence on some points,\" continued Mrs.\nWeston, \"and on others, very little: and among those, on which she is\nbeyond his reach, it is but too likely, may be this very circumstance of\nhis coming away from them to visit us.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\nMr. Woodhouse was soon ready for his tea; and when he had drank his\ntea he was quite ready to go home; and it was as much as his three\ncompanions could do, to entertain away his notice of the lateness of\nthe hour, before the other gentlemen appeared. Mr. Weston was chatty and\nconvivial, and no friend to early separations of any sort; but at last\nthe drawing-room party did receive an augmentation. Mr. Elton, in very\ngood spirits, was one of the first to walk in. Mrs. Weston and Emma\nwere sitting together on a sofa. He joined them immediately, and, with\nscarcely an invitation, seated himself between them.\n\nEmma, in good spirits too, from the amusement afforded her mind by\nthe expectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was willing to forget his late\nimproprieties, and be as well satisfied with him as before, and on his\nmaking Harriet his very first subject, was ready to listen with most\nfriendly smiles.\n\nHe professed himself extremely anxious about her fair friend--her fair,\nlovely, amiable friend. \"Did she know?--had she heard any thing about\nher, since their being at Randalls?--he felt much anxiety--he must\nconfess that the nature of her complaint alarmed him considerably.\"\nAnd in this style he talked on for some time very properly, not much\nattending to any answer, but altogether sufficiently awake to the terror\nof a bad sore throat; and Emma was quite in charity with him.\n\nBut at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed all at once as if he\nwere more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on her account, than on\nHarriet's--more anxious that she should escape the infection, than\nthat there should be no infection in the complaint. He began with great\nearnestness to entreat her to refrain from visiting the sick-chamber\nagain, for the present--to entreat her to _promise_ _him_ not to venture\ninto such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry and learnt his opinion; and\nthough she tried to laugh it off and bring the subject back into its\nproper course, there was no putting an end to his extreme solicitude\nabout her. She was vexed. It did appear--there was no concealing\nit--exactly like the pretence of being in love with her, instead of\nHarriet; an inconstancy, if real, the most contemptible and abominable!\nand she had difficulty in behaving with temper. He turned to Mrs. Weston\nto implore her assistance, \"Would not she give him her support?--would\nnot she add her persuasions to his, to induce Miss Woodhouse not to go\nto Mrs. Goddard's till it were certain that Miss Smith's disorder had\nno infection? He could not be satisfied without a promise--would not she\ngive him her influence in procuring it?\"\n\n\"So scrupulous for others,\" he continued, \"and yet so careless for\nherself! She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home to-day, and\nyet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore\nthroat herself. Is this fair, Mrs. Weston?--Judge between us. Have not I\nsome right to complain? I am sure of your kind support and aid.\"\n\nEmma saw Mrs. Weston's surprize, and felt that it must be great, at an\naddress which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself the right of\nfirst interest in her; and as for herself, she was too much provoked and\noffended to have the power of directly saying any thing to the purpose.\nShe could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she thought\nmust restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa, removing to a\nseat by her sister, and giving her all her attention.\n\nShe had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did\nanother subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room\nfrom examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information\nof the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing\nfast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr.\nWoodhouse:\n\n\"This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements,\nsir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way\nthrough a storm of snow.\"\n\nPoor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else\nhad something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized,\nand had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston\nand Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his\nson-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly.\n\n\"I admired your resolution very much, sir,\" said he, \"in venturing out\nin such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon.\nEvery body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit; and\nI dare say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two's snow can\nhardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is\nblown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the other\nat hand. I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight.\"\n\nMr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he\nhad known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest\nit should make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his\nhurrying away. As to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely\nto fall to impede their return, that was a mere joke; he was afraid they\nwould find no difficulty. He wished the road might be impassable, that\nhe might be able to keep them all at Randalls; and with the utmost\ngood-will was sure that accommodation might be found for every body,\ncalling on his wife to agree with him, that with a little contrivance,\nevery body might be lodged, which she hardly knew how to do, from the\nconsciousness of there being but two spare rooms in the house.\n\n\"What is to be done, my dear Emma?--what is to be done?\" was Mr.\nWoodhouse's first exclamation, and all that he could say for some\ntime. To her he looked for comfort; and her assurances of safety, her\nrepresentation of the excellence of the horses, and of James, and of\ntheir having so many friends about them, revived him a little.\n\nHis eldest daughter's alarm was equal to his own. The horror of being\nblocked up at Randalls, while her children were at Hartfield, was full\nin her imagination; and fancying the road to be now just passable for\nadventurous people, but in a state that admitted no delay, she was eager\nto have it settled, that her father and Emma should remain at Randalls,\nwhile she and her husband set forward instantly through all the possible\naccumulations of drifted snow that might impede them.\n\n\"You had better order the carriage directly, my love,\" said she; \"I dare\nsay we shall be able to get along, if we set off directly; and if we\ndo come to any thing very bad, I can get out and walk. I am not at all\nafraid. I should not mind walking half the way. I could change my shoes,\nyou know, the moment I got home; and it is not the sort of thing that\ngives me cold.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" replied he. \"Then, my dear Isabella, it is the most\nextraordinary sort of thing in the world, for in general every thing\ndoes give you cold. Walk home!--you are prettily shod for walking home,\nI dare say. It will be bad enough for the horses.\"\n\nIsabella turned to Mrs. Weston for her approbation of the plan. Mrs.\nWeston could only approve. Isabella then went to Emma; but Emma could\nnot so entirely give up the hope of their being all able to get away;\nand they were still discussing the point, when Mr. Knightley, who had\nleft the room immediately after his brother's first report of the snow,\ncame back again, and told them that he had been out of doors to examine,\nand could answer for there not being the smallest difficulty in their\ngetting home, whenever they liked it, either now or an hour hence. He\nhad gone beyond the sweep--some way along the Highbury road--the snow\nwas nowhere above half an inch deep--in many places hardly enough to\nwhiten the ground; a very few flakes were falling at present, but the\nclouds were parting, and there was every appearance of its being soon\nover. He had seen the coachmen, and they both agreed with him in there\nbeing nothing to apprehend.\n\nTo Isabella, the relief of such tidings was very great, and they were\nscarcely less acceptable to Emma on her father's account, who\nwas immediately set as much at ease on the subject as his nervous\nconstitution allowed; but the alarm that had been raised could not be\nappeased so as to admit of any comfort for him while he continued at\nRandalls. He was satisfied of there being no present danger in returning\nhome, but no assurances could convince him that it was safe to stay; and\nwhile the others were variously urging and recommending, Mr. Knightley\nand Emma settled it in a few brief sentences: thus--\n\n\"Your father will not be easy; why do not you go?\"\n\n\"I am ready, if the others are.\"\n\n\"Shall I ring the bell?\"\n\n\"Yes, do.\"\n\nAnd the bell was rung, and the carriages spoken for. A few minutes more,\nand Emma hoped to see one troublesome companion deposited in his own\nhouse, to get sober and cool, and the other recover his temper and\nhappiness when this visit of hardship were over.\n\nThe carriage came: and Mr. Woodhouse, always the first object on such\noccasions, was carefully attended to his own by Mr. Knightley and Mr.\nWeston; but not all that either could say could prevent some renewal\nof alarm at the sight of the snow which had actually fallen, and the\ndiscovery of a much darker night than he had been prepared for. \"He was\nafraid they should have a very bad drive. He was afraid poor Isabella\nwould not like it. And there would be poor Emma in the carriage behind.\nHe did not know what they had best do. They must keep as much together\nas they could;\" and James was talked to, and given a charge to go very\nslow and wait for the other carriage.\n\nIsabella stept in after her father; John Knightley, forgetting that he\ndid not belong to their party, stept in after his wife very naturally;\nso that Emma found, on being escorted and followed into the second\ncarriage by Mr. Elton, that the door was to be lawfully shut on them,\nand that they were to have a tete-a-tete drive. It would not have been\nthe awkwardness of a moment, it would have been rather a pleasure,\nprevious to the suspicions of this very day; she could have talked to\nhim of Harriet, and the three-quarters of a mile would have seemed but\none. But now, she would rather it had not happened. She believed he had\nbeen drinking too much of Mr. Weston's good wine, and felt sure that he\nwould want to be talking nonsense.\n\nTo restrain him as much as might be, by her own manners, she was\nimmediately preparing to speak with exquisite calmness and gravity of\nthe weather and the night; but scarcely had she begun, scarcely had they\npassed the sweep-gate and joined the other carriage, than she found her\nsubject cut up--her hand seized--her attention demanded, and Mr. Elton\nactually making violent love to her: availing himself of the precious\nopportunity, declaring sentiments which must be already well known,\nhoping--fearing--adoring--ready to die if she refused him; but\nflattering himself that his ardent attachment and unequalled love and\nunexampled passion could not fail of having some effect, and in short,\nvery much resolved on being seriously accepted as soon as possible. It\nreally was so. Without scruple--without apology--without much apparent\ndiffidence, Mr. Elton, the lover of Harriet, was professing himself\n_her_ lover. She tried to stop him; but vainly; he would go on, and say\nit all. Angry as she was, the thought of the moment made her resolve to\nrestrain herself when she did speak. She felt that half this folly must\nbe drunkenness, and therefore could hope that it might belong only to\nthe passing hour. Accordingly, with a mixture of the serious and the\nplayful, which she hoped would best suit his half and half state, she\nreplied,\n\n\"I am very much astonished, Mr. Elton. This to _me_! you forget\nyourself--you take me for my friend--any message to Miss Smith I shall\nbe happy to deliver; but no more of this to _me_, if you please.\"\n\n\"Miss Smith!--message to Miss Smith!--What could she possibly\nmean!\"--And he repeated her words with such assurance of accent, such\nboastful pretence of amazement, that she could not help replying with\nquickness,\n\n\"Mr. Elton, this is the most extraordinary conduct! and I can account\nfor it only in one way; you are not yourself, or you could not speak\neither to me, or of Harriet, in such a manner. Command yourself enough\nto say no more, and I will endeavour to forget it.\"\n\nBut Mr. Elton had only drunk wine enough to elevate his spirits, not at\nall to confuse his intellects. He perfectly knew his own meaning; and\nhaving warmly protested against her suspicion as most injurious, and\nslightly touched upon his respect for Miss Smith as her friend,--but\nacknowledging his wonder that Miss Smith should be mentioned at all,--he\nresumed the subject of his own passion, and was very urgent for a\nfavourable answer.\n\nAs she thought less of his inebriety, she thought more of his\ninconstancy and presumption; and with fewer struggles for politeness,\nreplied,\n\n\"It is impossible for me to doubt any longer. You have made yourself\ntoo clear. Mr. Elton, my astonishment is much beyond any thing I can\nexpress. After such behaviour, as I have witnessed during the last\nmonth, to Miss Smith--such attentions as I have been in the daily\nhabit of observing--to be addressing me in this manner--this is an\nunsteadiness of character, indeed, which I had not supposed possible!\nBelieve me, sir, I am far, very far, from gratified in being the object\nof such professions.\"\n\n\"Good Heaven!\" cried Mr. Elton, \"what can be the meaning of this?--Miss\nSmith!--I never thought of Miss Smith in the whole course of my\nexistence--never paid her any attentions, but as your friend: never\ncared whether she were dead or alive, but as your friend. If she\nhas fancied otherwise, her own wishes have misled her, and I am very\nsorry--extremely sorry--But, Miss Smith, indeed!--Oh! Miss Woodhouse!\nwho can think of Miss Smith, when Miss Woodhouse is near! No, upon my\nhonour, there is no unsteadiness of character. I have thought only of\nyou. I protest against having paid the smallest attention to any one\nelse. Every thing that I have said or done, for many weeks past, has\nbeen with the sole view of marking my adoration of yourself. You\ncannot really, seriously, doubt it. No!--(in an accent meant to be\ninsinuating)--I am sure you have seen and understood me.\"\n\nIt would be impossible to say what Emma felt, on hearing this--which\nof all her unpleasant sensations was uppermost. She was too completely\noverpowered to be immediately able to reply: and two moments of silence\nbeing ample encouragement for Mr. Elton's sanguine state of mind, he\ntried to take her hand again, as he joyously exclaimed--\n\n\"Charming Miss Woodhouse! allow me to interpret this interesting\nsilence. It confesses that you have long understood me.\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" cried Emma, \"it confesses no such thing. So far from having\nlong understood you, I have been in a most complete error with respect\nto your views, till this moment. As to myself, I am very sorry that you\nshould have been giving way to any feelings--Nothing could be farther\nfrom my wishes--your attachment to my friend Harriet--your pursuit of\nher, (pursuit, it appeared,) gave me great pleasure, and I have been\nvery earnestly wishing you success: but had I supposed that she were not\nyour attraction to Hartfield, I should certainly have thought you judged\nill in making your visits so frequent. Am I to believe that you have\nnever sought to recommend yourself particularly to Miss Smith?--that you\nhave never thought seriously of her?\"\n\n\"Never, madam,\" cried he, affronted in his turn: \"never, I assure you.\n_I_ think seriously of Miss Smith!--Miss Smith is a very good sort of\ngirl; and I should be happy to see her respectably settled. I wish\nher extremely well: and, no doubt, there are men who might not object\nto--Every body has their level: but as for myself, I am not, I think,\nquite so much at a loss. I need not so totally despair of an equal\nalliance, as to be addressing myself to Miss Smith!--No, madam, my\nvisits to Hartfield have been for yourself only; and the encouragement I\nreceived--\"\n\n\"Encouragement!--I give you encouragement!--Sir, you have been entirely\nmistaken in supposing it. I have seen you only as the admirer of my\nfriend. In no other light could you have been more to me than a common\nacquaintance. I am exceedingly sorry: but it is well that the mistake\nends where it does. Had the same behaviour continued, Miss Smith might\nhave been led into a misconception of your views; not being aware,\nprobably, any more than myself, of the very great inequality which you\nare so sensible of. But, as it is, the disappointment is single, and, I\ntrust, will not be lasting. I have no thoughts of matrimony at present.\"\n\nHe was too angry to say another word; her manner too decided to invite\nsupplication; and in this state of swelling resentment, and mutually\ndeep mortification, they had to continue together a few minutes longer,\nfor the fears of Mr. Woodhouse had confined them to a foot-pace. If\nthere had not been so much anger, there would have been desperate\nawkwardness; but their straightforward emotions left no room for the\nlittle zigzags of embarrassment. Without knowing when the carriage\nturned into Vicarage Lane, or when it stopped, they found themselves,\nall at once, at the door of his house; and he was out before another\nsyllable passed.--Emma then felt it indispensable to wish him a good\nnight. The compliment was just returned, coldly and proudly; and, under\nindescribable irritation of spirits, she was then conveyed to Hartfield.\n\nThere she was welcomed, with the utmost delight, by her father, who\nhad been trembling for the dangers of a solitary drive from Vicarage\nLane--turning a corner which he could never bear to think of--and in\nstrange hands--a mere common coachman--no James; and there it seemed as\nif her return only were wanted to make every thing go well: for Mr.\nJohn Knightley, ashamed of his ill-humour, was now all kindness and\nattention; and so particularly solicitous for the comfort of her\nfather, as to seem--if not quite ready to join him in a basin of\ngruel--perfectly sensible of its being exceedingly wholesome; and the\nday was concluding in peace and comfort to all their little party,\nexcept herself.--But her mind had never been in such perturbation; and\nit needed a very strong effort to appear attentive and cheerful till the\nusual hour of separating allowed her the relief of quiet reflection.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nThe hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to think\nand be miserable.--It was a wretched business indeed!--Such an overthrow\nof every thing she had been wishing for!--Such a development of every\nthing most unwelcome!--Such a blow for Harriet!--that was the worst\nof all. Every part of it brought pain and humiliation, of some sort or\nother; but, compared with the evil to Harriet, all was light; and\nshe would gladly have submitted to feel yet more mistaken--more in\nerror--more disgraced by mis-judgment, than she actually was, could the\neffects of her blunders have been confined to herself.\n\n\"If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I could have\nborne any thing. He might have doubled his presumption to me--but poor\nHarriet!\"\n\nHow she could have been so deceived!--He protested that he had never\nthought seriously of Harriet--never! She looked back as well as\nshe could; but it was all confusion. She had taken up the idea, she\nsupposed, and made every thing bend to it. His manners, however, must\nhave been unmarked, wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so\nmisled.\n\nThe picture!--How eager he had been about the picture!--and the\ncharade!--and an hundred other circumstances;--how clearly they had\nseemed to point at Harriet. To be sure, the charade, with its \"ready\nwit\"--but then the \"soft eyes\"--in fact it suited neither; it was\na jumble without taste or truth. Who could have seen through such\nthick-headed nonsense?\n\nCertainly she had often, especially of late, thought his manners to\nherself unnecessarily gallant; but it had passed as his way, as a mere\nerror of judgment, of knowledge, of taste, as one proof among others\nthat he had not always lived in the best society, that with all the\ngentleness of his address, true elegance was sometimes wanting; but,\ntill this very day, she had never, for an instant, suspected it to mean\nany thing but grateful respect to her as Harriet's friend.\n\nTo Mr. John Knightley was she indebted for her first idea on the\nsubject, for the first start of its possibility. There was no denying\nthat those brothers had penetration. She remembered what Mr. Knightley\nhad once said to her about Mr. Elton, the caution he had given,\nthe conviction he had professed that Mr. Elton would never marry\nindiscreetly; and blushed to think how much truer a knowledge of his\ncharacter had been there shewn than any she had reached herself. It\nwas dreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton was proving himself, in many\nrespects, the very reverse of what she had meant and believed him;\nproud, assuming, conceited; very full of his own claims, and little\nconcerned about the feelings of others.\n\nContrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton's wanting to pay his\naddresses to her had sunk him in her opinion. His professions and his\nproposals did him no service. She thought nothing of his attachment,\nand was insulted by his hopes. He wanted to marry well, and having the\narrogance to raise his eyes to her, pretended to be in love; but she was\nperfectly easy as to his not suffering any disappointment that need be\ncared for. There had been no real affection either in his language or\nmanners. Sighs and fine words had been given in abundance; but she could\nhardly devise any set of expressions, or fancy any tone of voice, less\nallied with real love. She need not trouble herself to pity him. He\nonly wanted to aggrandise and enrich himself; and if Miss Woodhouse\nof Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so\neasily obtained as he had fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody\nelse with twenty, or with ten.\n\nBut--that he should talk of encouragement, should consider her as aware\nof his views, accepting his attentions, meaning (in short), to marry\nhim!--should suppose himself her equal in connexion or mind!--look down\nupon her friend, so well understanding the gradations of rank below\nhim, and be so blind to what rose above, as to fancy himself shewing no\npresumption in addressing her!--It was most provoking.\n\nPerhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very much he was her\ninferior in talent, and all the elegancies of mind. The very want of\nsuch equality might prevent his perception of it; but he must know that\nin fortune and consequence she was greatly his superior. He must\nknow that the Woodhouses had been settled for several generations at\nHartfield, the younger branch of a very ancient family--and that the\nEltons were nobody. The landed property of Hartfield certainly was\ninconsiderable, being but a sort of notch in the Donwell Abbey estate,\nto which all the rest of Highbury belonged; but their fortune, from\nother sources, was such as to make them scarcely secondary to Donwell\nAbbey itself, in every other kind of consequence; and the Woodhouses had\nlong held a high place in the consideration of the neighbourhood which\nMr. Elton had first entered not two years ago, to make his way as he\ncould, without any alliances but in trade, or any thing to recommend him\nto notice but his situation and his civility.--But he had fancied her\nin love with him; that evidently must have been his dependence; and\nafter raving a little about the seeming incongruity of gentle manners\nand a conceited head, Emma was obliged in common honesty to stop\nand admit that her own behaviour to him had been so complaisant and\nobliging, so full of courtesy and attention, as (supposing her real\nmotive unperceived) might warrant a man of ordinary observation and\ndelicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fancying himself a very decided favourite.\nIf _she_ had so misinterpreted his feelings, she had little right to\nwonder that _he_, with self-interest to blind him, should have mistaken\nhers.\n\nThe first error and the worst lay at her door. It was foolish, it was\nwrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two people together. It\nwas adventuring too far, assuming too much, making light of what\nought to be serious, a trick of what ought to be simple. She was quite\nconcerned and ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more.\n\n\"Here have I,\" said she, \"actually talked poor Harriet into being very\nmuch attached to this man. She might never have thought of him but for\nme; and certainly never would have thought of him with hope, if I had\nnot assured her of his attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I\nused to think him. Oh! that I had been satisfied with persuading her not\nto accept young Martin. There I was quite right. That was well done\nof me; but there I should have stopped, and left the rest to time and\nchance. I was introducing her into good company, and giving her the\nopportunity of pleasing some one worth having; I ought not to have\nattempted more. But now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time.\nI have been but half a friend to her; and if she were _not_ to feel this\ndisappointment so very much, I am sure I have not an idea of any body\nelse who would be at all desirable for her;--William Coxe--Oh! no, I\ncould not endure William Coxe--a pert young lawyer.\"\n\nShe stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then resumed a more\nserious, more dispiriting cogitation upon what had been, and might be,\nand must be. The distressing explanation she had to make to Harriet, and\nall that poor Harriet would be suffering, with the awkwardness of\nfuture meetings, the difficulties of continuing or discontinuing the\nacquaintance, of subduing feelings, concealing resentment, and avoiding\neclat, were enough to occupy her in most unmirthful reflections some\ntime longer, and she went to bed at last with nothing settled but the\nconviction of her having blundered most dreadfully.\n\nTo youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma's, though under temporary\ngloom at night, the return of day will hardly fail to bring return of\nspirits. The youth and cheerfulness of morning are in happy analogy,\nand of powerful operation; and if the distress be not poignant enough\nto keep the eyes unclosed, they will be sure to open to sensations of\nsoftened pain and brighter hope.\n\nEmma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort than she had gone\nto bed, more ready to see alleviations of the evil before her, and to\ndepend on getting tolerably out of it.\n\nIt was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be really in\nlove with her, or so particularly amiable as to make it shocking to\ndisappoint him--that Harriet's nature should not be of that superior\nsort in which the feelings are most acute and retentive--and that there\ncould be no necessity for any body's knowing what had passed except the\nthree principals, and especially for her father's being given a moment's\nuneasiness about it.\n\nThese were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a great deal of snow\non the ground did her further service, for any thing was welcome that\nmight justify their all three being quite asunder at present.\n\nThe weather was most favourable for her; though Christmas Day, she\ncould not go to church. Mr. Woodhouse would have been miserable had his\ndaughter attempted it, and she was therefore safe from either exciting\nor receiving unpleasant and most unsuitable ideas. The ground covered\nwith snow, and the atmosphere in that unsettled state between frost and\nthaw, which is of all others the most unfriendly for exercise, every\nmorning beginning in rain or snow, and every evening setting in to\nfreeze, she was for many days a most honourable prisoner. No intercourse\nwith Harriet possible but by note; no church for her on Sunday any\nmore than on Christmas Day; and no need to find excuses for Mr. Elton's\nabsenting himself.\n\nIt was weather which might fairly confine every body at home; and though\nshe hoped and believed him to be really taking comfort in some society\nor other, it was very pleasant to have her father so well satisfied with\nhis being all alone in his own house, too wise to stir out; and to\nhear him say to Mr. Knightley, whom no weather could keep entirely from\nthem,--\n\n\"Ah! Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home like poor Mr. Elton?\"\n\nThese days of confinement would have been, but for her private\nperplexities, remarkably comfortable, as such seclusion exactly suited\nher brother, whose feelings must always be of great importance to\nhis companions; and he had, besides, so thoroughly cleared off his\nill-humour at Randalls, that his amiableness never failed him during the\nrest of his stay at Hartfield. He was always agreeable and obliging,\nand speaking pleasantly of every body. But with all the hopes of\ncheerfulness, and all the present comfort of delay, there was still such\nan evil hanging over her in the hour of explanation with Harriet, as\nmade it impossible for Emma to be ever perfectly at ease.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nMr. and Mrs. John Knightley were not detained long at Hartfield. The\nweather soon improved enough for those to move who must move; and Mr.\nWoodhouse having, as usual, tried to persuade his daughter to stay\nbehind with all her children, was obliged to see the whole party\nset off, and return to his lamentations over the destiny of poor\nIsabella;--which poor Isabella, passing her life with those she doated\non, full of their merits, blind to their faults, and always innocently\nbusy, might have been a model of right feminine happiness.\n\nThe evening of the very day on which they went brought a note from Mr.\nElton to Mr. Woodhouse, a long, civil, ceremonious note, to say, with\nMr. Elton's best compliments, \"that he was proposing to leave Highbury\nthe following morning in his way to Bath; where, in compliance with\nthe pressing entreaties of some friends, he had engaged to spend a few\nweeks, and very much regretted the impossibility he was under, from\nvarious circumstances of weather and business, of taking a personal\nleave of Mr. Woodhouse, of whose friendly civilities he should ever\nretain a grateful sense--and had Mr. Woodhouse any commands, should be\nhappy to attend to them.\"\n\nEmma was most agreeably surprized.--Mr. Elton's absence just at this\ntime was the very thing to be desired. She admired him for contriving\nit, though not able to give him much credit for the manner in which it\nwas announced. Resentment could not have been more plainly spoken than\nin a civility to her father, from which she was so pointedly excluded.\nShe had not even a share in his opening compliments.--Her name was not\nmentioned;--and there was so striking a change in all this, and such an\nill-judged solemnity of leave-taking in his graceful acknowledgments, as\nshe thought, at first, could not escape her father's suspicion.\n\nIt did, however.--Her father was quite taken up with the surprize of so\nsudden a journey, and his fears that Mr. Elton might never get safely to\nthe end of it, and saw nothing extraordinary in his language. It was a\nvery useful note, for it supplied them with fresh matter for thought\nand conversation during the rest of their lonely evening. Mr. Woodhouse\ntalked over his alarms, and Emma was in spirits to persuade them away\nwith all her usual promptitude.\n\nShe now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark. She had reason\nto believe her nearly recovered from her cold, and it was desirable that\nshe should have as much time as possible for getting the better of\nher other complaint before the gentleman's return. She went to Mrs.\nGoddard's accordingly the very next day, to undergo the necessary\npenance of communication; and a severe one it was.--She had to destroy\nall the hopes which she had been so industriously feeding--to appear in\nthe ungracious character of the one preferred--and acknowledge herself\ngrossly mistaken and mis-judging in all her ideas on one subject, all\nher observations, all her convictions, all her prophecies for the last\nsix weeks.\n\nThe confession completely renewed her first shame--and the sight of\nHarriet's tears made her think that she should never be in charity with\nherself again.\n\nHarriet bore the intelligence very well--blaming nobody--and in every\nthing testifying such an ingenuousness of disposition and lowly opinion\nof herself, as must appear with particular advantage at that moment to\nher friend.\n\nEmma was in the humour to value simplicity and modesty to the utmost;\nand all that was amiable, all that ought to be attaching, seemed on\nHarriet's side, not her own. Harriet did not consider herself as having\nany thing to complain of. The affection of such a man as Mr. Elton\nwould have been too great a distinction.--She never could have deserved\nhim--and nobody but so partial and kind a friend as Miss Woodhouse would\nhave thought it possible.\n\nHer tears fell abundantly--but her grief was so truly artless, that\nno dignity could have made it more respectable in Emma's eyes--and\nshe listened to her and tried to console her with all her heart and\nunderstanding--really for the time convinced that Harriet was the\nsuperior creature of the two--and that to resemble her would be more for\nher own welfare and happiness than all that genius or intelligence could\ndo.\n\nIt was rather too late in the day to set about being simple-minded and\nignorant; but she left her with every previous resolution confirmed of\nbeing humble and discreet, and repressing imagination all the rest of\nher life. Her second duty now, inferior only to her father's claims, was\nto promote Harriet's comfort, and endeavour to prove her own affection\nin some better method than by match-making. She got her to Hartfield,\nand shewed her the most unvarying kindness, striving to occupy and\namuse her, and by books and conversation, to drive Mr. Elton from her\nthoughts.\n\nTime, she knew, must be allowed for this being thoroughly done; and\nshe could suppose herself but an indifferent judge of such matters in\ngeneral, and very inadequate to sympathise in an attachment to Mr. Elton\nin particular; but it seemed to her reasonable that at Harriet's age,\nand with the entire extinction of all hope, such a progress might be\nmade towards a state of composure by the time of Mr. Elton's return, as\nto allow them all to meet again in the common routine of acquaintance,\nwithout any danger of betraying sentiments or increasing them.\n\nHarriet did think him all perfection, and maintained the non-existence\nof any body equal to him in person or goodness--and did, in truth,\nprove herself more resolutely in love than Emma had foreseen; but yet\nit appeared to her so natural, so inevitable to strive against an\ninclination of that sort _unrequited_, that she could not comprehend its\ncontinuing very long in equal force.\n\nIf Mr. Elton, on his return, made his own indifference as evident and\nindubitable as she could not doubt he would anxiously do, she could not\nimagine Harriet's persisting to place her happiness in the sight or the\nrecollection of him.\n\nTheir being fixed, so absolutely fixed, in the same place, was bad for\neach, for all three. Not one of them had the power of removal, or of\neffecting any material change of society. They must encounter each\nother, and make the best of it.\n\nHarriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her companions at Mrs.\nGoddard's; Mr. Elton being the adoration of all the teachers and great\ngirls in the school; and it must be at Hartfield only that she could\nhave any chance of hearing him spoken of with cooling moderation or\nrepellent truth. Where the wound had been given, there must the cure be\nfound if anywhere; and Emma felt that, till she saw her in the way of\ncure, there could be no true peace for herself.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\nMr. Frank Churchill did not come. When the time proposed drew near, Mrs.\nWeston's fears were justified in the arrival of a letter of excuse. For\nthe present, he could not be spared, to his \"very great mortification\nand regret; but still he looked forward with the hope of coming to\nRandalls at no distant period.\"\n\nMrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed--much more disappointed, in\nfact, than her husband, though her dependence on seeing the young man\nhad been so much more sober: but a sanguine temper, though for ever\nexpecting more good than occurs, does not always pay for its hopes by\nany proportionate depression. It soon flies over the present failure,\nand begins to hope again. For half an hour Mr. Weston was surprized and\nsorry; but then he began to perceive that Frank's coming two or three\nmonths later would be a much better plan; better time of year;\nbetter weather; and that he would be able, without any doubt, to stay\nconsiderably longer with them than if he had come sooner.\n\nThese feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs. Weston, of\na more apprehensive disposition, foresaw nothing but a repetition of\nexcuses and delays; and after all her concern for what her husband was\nto suffer, suffered a great deal more herself.\n\nEmma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care really about Mr.\nFrank Churchill's not coming, except as a disappointment at Randalls.\nThe acquaintance at present had no charm for her. She wanted, rather, to\nbe quiet, and out of temptation; but still, as it was desirable that she\nshould appear, in general, like her usual self, she took care to express\nas much interest in the circumstance, and enter as warmly into Mr.\nand Mrs. Weston's disappointment, as might naturally belong to their\nfriendship.\n\nShe was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley; and exclaimed quite\nas much as was necessary, (or, being acting a part, perhaps rather\nmore,) at the conduct of the Churchills, in keeping him away. She then\nproceeded to say a good deal more than she felt, of the advantage of\nsuch an addition to their confined society in Surry; the pleasure of\nlooking at somebody new; the gala-day to Highbury entire, which the\nsight of him would have made; and ending with reflections on the\nChurchills again, found herself directly involved in a disagreement\nwith Mr. Knightley; and, to her great amusement, perceived that she was\ntaking the other side of the question from her real opinion, and making\nuse of Mrs. Weston's arguments against herself.\n\n\"The Churchills are very likely in fault,\" said Mr. Knightley, coolly;\n\"but I dare say he might come if he would.\"\n\n\"I do not know why you should say so. He wishes exceedingly to come; but\nhis uncle and aunt will not spare him.\"\n\n\"I cannot believe that he has not the power of coming, if he made a\npoint of it. It is too unlikely, for me to believe it without proof.\"\n\n\"How odd you are! What has Mr. Frank Churchill done, to make you suppose\nhim such an unnatural creature?\"\n\n\"I am not supposing him at all an unnatural creature, in suspecting that\nhe may have learnt to be above his connexions, and to care very little\nfor any thing but his own pleasure, from living with those who have\nalways set him the example of it. It is a great deal more natural than\none could wish, that a young man, brought up by those who are proud,\nluxurious, and selfish, should be proud, luxurious, and selfish too. If\nFrank Churchill had wanted to see his father, he would have contrived it\nbetween September and January. A man at his age--what is he?--three or\nfour-and-twenty--cannot be without the means of doing as much as that.\nIt is impossible.\"\n\n\"That's easily said, and easily felt by you, who have always been your\nown master. You are the worst judge in the world, Mr. Knightley, of the\ndifficulties of dependence. You do not know what it is to have tempers\nto manage.\"\n\n\"It is not to be conceived that a man of three or four-and-twenty\nshould not have liberty of mind or limb to that amount. He cannot want\nmoney--he cannot want leisure. We know, on the contrary, that he has so\nmuch of both, that he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest haunts in\nthe kingdom. We hear of him for ever at some watering-place or other. A\nlittle while ago, he was at Weymouth. This proves that he can leave the\nChurchills.\"\n\n\"Yes, sometimes he can.\"\n\n\"And those times are whenever he thinks it worth his while; whenever\nthere is any temptation of pleasure.\"\n\n\"It is very unfair to judge of any body's conduct, without an intimate\nknowledge of their situation. Nobody, who has not been in the interior\nof a family, can say what the difficulties of any individual of that\nfamily may be. We ought to be acquainted with Enscombe, and with Mrs.\nChurchill's temper, before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew\ncan do. He may, at times, be able to do a great deal more than he can at\nothers.\"\n\n\"There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always do, if he chuses, and\nthat is, his duty; not by manoeuvring and finessing, but by vigour and\nresolution. It is Frank Churchill's duty to pay this attention to his\nfather. He knows it to be so, by his promises and messages; but if he\nwished to do it, it might be done. A man who felt rightly would say at\nonce, simply and resolutely, to Mrs. Churchill--'Every sacrifice of\nmere pleasure you will always find me ready to make to your convenience;\nbut I must go and see my father immediately. I know he would be hurt by\nmy failing in such a mark of respect to him on the present occasion.\nI shall, therefore, set off to-morrow.'--If he would say so to her\nat once, in the tone of decision becoming a man, there would be no\nopposition made to his going.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Emma, laughing; \"but perhaps there might be some made to his\ncoming back again. Such language for a young man entirely dependent, to\nuse!--Nobody but you, Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible. But you\nhave not an idea of what is requisite in situations directly opposite to\nyour own. Mr. Frank Churchill to be making such a speech as that to\nthe uncle and aunt, who have brought him up, and are to provide for\nhim!--Standing up in the middle of the room, I suppose, and speaking as\nloud as he could!--How can you imagine such conduct practicable?\"\n\n\"Depend upon it, Emma, a sensible man would find no difficulty in it. He\nwould feel himself in the right; and the declaration--made, of course,\nas a man of sense would make it, in a proper manner--would do him more\ngood, raise him higher, fix his interest stronger with the people he\ndepended on, than all that a line of shifts and expedients can ever do.\nRespect would be added to affection. They would feel that they could\ntrust him; that the nephew who had done rightly by his father, would do\nrightly by them; for they know, as well as he does, as well as all the\nworld must know, that he ought to pay this visit to his father; and\nwhile meanly exerting their power to delay it, are in their hearts not\nthinking the better of him for submitting to their whims. Respect for\nright conduct is felt by every body. If he would act in this sort of\nmanner, on principle, consistently, regularly, their little minds would\nbend to his.\"\n\n\"I rather doubt that. You are very fond of bending little minds; but\nwhere little minds belong to rich people in authority, I think they have\na knack of swelling out, till they are quite as unmanageable as great\nones. I can imagine, that if you, as you are, Mr. Knightley, were to be\ntransported and placed all at once in Mr. Frank Churchill's situation,\nyou would be able to say and do just what you have been recommending for\nhim; and it might have a very good effect. The Churchills might not have\na word to say in return; but then, you would have no habits of early\nobedience and long observance to break through. To him who has, it might\nnot be so easy to burst forth at once into perfect independence, and set\nall their claims on his gratitude and regard at nought. He may have as\nstrong a sense of what would be right, as you can have, without being so\nequal, under particular circumstances, to act up to it.\"\n\n\"Then it would not be so strong a sense. If it failed to produce equal\nexertion, it could not be an equal conviction.\"\n\n\"Oh, the difference of situation and habit! I wish you would try to\nunderstand what an amiable young man may be likely to feel in directly\nopposing those, whom as child and boy he has been looking up to all his\nlife.\"\n\n\"Our amiable young man is a very weak young man, if this be the first\noccasion of his carrying through a resolution to do right against the\nwill of others. It ought to have been a habit with him by this time, of\nfollowing his duty, instead of consulting expediency. I can allow for\nthe fears of the child, but not of the man. As he became rational, he\nought to have roused himself and shaken off all that was unworthy in\ntheir authority. He ought to have opposed the first attempt on their\nside to make him slight his father. Had he begun as he ought, there\nwould have been no difficulty now.\"\n\n\"We shall never agree about him,\" cried Emma; \"but that is nothing\nextraordinary. I have not the least idea of his being a weak young man:\nI feel sure that he is not. Mr. Weston would not be blind to folly,\nthough in his own son; but he is very likely to have a more yielding,\ncomplying, mild disposition than would suit your notions of man's\nperfection. I dare say he has; and though it may cut him off from some\nadvantages, it will secure him many others.\"\n\n\"Yes; all the advantages of sitting still when he ought to move, and\nof leading a life of mere idle pleasure, and fancying himself extremely\nexpert in finding excuses for it. He can sit down and write a fine\nflourishing letter, full of professions and falsehoods, and persuade\nhimself that he has hit upon the very best method in the world of\npreserving peace at home and preventing his father's having any right to\ncomplain. His letters disgust me.\"\n\n\"Your feelings are singular. They seem to satisfy every body else.\"\n\n\"I suspect they do not satisfy Mrs. Weston. They hardly can satisfy\na woman of her good sense and quick feelings: standing in a mother's\nplace, but without a mother's affection to blind her. It is on her\naccount that attention to Randalls is doubly due, and she must doubly\nfeel the omission. Had she been a person of consequence herself, he\nwould have come I dare say; and it would not have signified whether\nhe did or no. Can you think your friend behindhand in these sort of\nconsiderations? Do you suppose she does not often say all this to\nherself? No, Emma, your amiable young man can be amiable only in French,\nnot in English. He may be very 'amiable,' have very good manners, and be\nvery agreeable; but he can have no English delicacy towards the feelings\nof other people: nothing really amiable about him.\"\n\n\"You seem determined to think ill of him.\"\n\n\"Me!--not at all,\" replied Mr. Knightley, rather displeased; \"I do not\nwant to think ill of him. I should be as ready to acknowledge his merits\nas any other man; but I hear of none, except what are merely personal;\nthat he is well-grown and good-looking, with smooth, plausible manners.\"\n\n\"Well, if he have nothing else to recommend him, he will be a treasure\nat Highbury. We do not often look upon fine young men, well-bred and\nagreeable. We must not be nice and ask for all the virtues into the\nbargain. Cannot you imagine, Mr. Knightley, what a _sensation_ his\ncoming will produce? There will be but one subject throughout the\nparishes of Donwell and Highbury; but one interest--one object of\ncuriosity; it will be all Mr. Frank Churchill; we shall think and speak\nof nobody else.\"\n\n\"You will excuse my being so much over-powered. If I find him\nconversable, I shall be glad of his acquaintance; but if he is only a\nchattering coxcomb, he will not occupy much of my time or thoughts.\"\n\n\"My idea of him is, that he can adapt his conversation to the taste of\nevery body, and has the power as well as the wish of being universally\nagreeable. To you, he will talk of farming; to me, of drawing or music;\nand so on to every body, having that general information on all subjects\nwhich will enable him to follow the lead, or take the lead, just as\npropriety may require, and to speak extremely well on each; that is my\nidea of him.\"\n\n\"And mine,\" said Mr. Knightley warmly, \"is, that if he turn out any\nthing like it, he will be the most insufferable fellow breathing! What!\nat three-and-twenty to be the king of his company--the great man--the\npractised politician, who is to read every body's character, and make\nevery body's talents conduce to the display of his own superiority; to\nbe dispensing his flatteries around, that he may make all appear like\nfools compared with himself! My dear Emma, your own good sense could not\nendure such a puppy when it came to the point.\"\n\n\"I will say no more about him,\" cried Emma, \"you turn every thing to\nevil. We are both prejudiced; you against, I for him; and we have no\nchance of agreeing till he is really here.\"\n\n\"Prejudiced! I am not prejudiced.\"\n\n\"But I am very much, and without being at all ashamed of it. My love for\nMr. and Mrs. Weston gives me a decided prejudice in his favour.\"\n\n\"He is a person I never think of from one month's end to another,\" said\nMr. Knightley, with a degree of vexation, which made Emma immediately\ntalk of something else, though she could not comprehend why he should be\nangry.\n\nTo take a dislike to a young man, only because he appeared to be of a\ndifferent disposition from himself, was unworthy the real liberality of\nmind which she was always used to acknowledge in him; for with all the\nhigh opinion of himself, which she had often laid to his charge, she had\nnever before for a moment supposed it could make him unjust to the merit\nof another.\n\n\n\n\nVOLUME II\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nEmma and Harriet had been walking together one morning, and, in Emma's\nopinion, had been talking enough of Mr. Elton for that day. She could\nnot think that Harriet's solace or her own sins required more; and\nshe was therefore industriously getting rid of the subject as they\nreturned;--but it burst out again when she thought she had succeeded,\nand after speaking some time of what the poor must suffer in winter, and\nreceiving no other answer than a very plaintive--\"Mr. Elton is so good\nto the poor!\" she found something else must be done.\n\nThey were just approaching the house where lived Mrs. and Miss Bates.\nShe determined to call upon them and seek safety in numbers. There was\nalways sufficient reason for such an attention; Mrs. and Miss Bates\nloved to be called on, and she knew she was considered by the very few\nwho presumed ever to see imperfection in her, as rather negligent in\nthat respect, and as not contributing what she ought to the stock of\ntheir scanty comforts.\n\nShe had had many a hint from Mr. Knightley and some from her own heart,\nas to her deficiency--but none were equal to counteract the persuasion\nof its being very disagreeable,--a waste of time--tiresome women--and\nall the horror of being in danger of falling in with the second-rate and\nthird-rate of Highbury, who were calling on them for ever, and therefore\nshe seldom went near them. But now she made the sudden resolution of not\npassing their door without going in--observing, as she proposed it to\nHarriet, that, as well as she could calculate, they were just now quite\nsafe from any letter from Jane Fairfax.\n\nThe house belonged to people in business. Mrs. and Miss Bates occupied\nthe drawing-room floor; and there, in the very moderate-sized apartment,\nwhich was every thing to them, the visitors were most cordially and even\ngratefully welcomed; the quiet neat old lady, who with her knitting was\nseated in the warmest corner, wanting even to give up her place to\nMiss Woodhouse, and her more active, talking daughter, almost ready\nto overpower them with care and kindness, thanks for their visit,\nsolicitude for their shoes, anxious inquiries after Mr. Woodhouse's\nhealth, cheerful communications about her mother's, and sweet-cake from\nthe beaufet--\"Mrs. Cole had just been there, just called in for ten\nminutes, and had been so good as to sit an hour with them, and _she_ had\ntaken a piece of cake and been so kind as to say she liked it very much;\nand, therefore, she hoped Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith would do them\nthe favour to eat a piece too.\"\n\nThe mention of the Coles was sure to be followed by that of Mr. Elton.\nThere was intimacy between them, and Mr. Cole had heard from Mr. Elton\nsince his going away. Emma knew what was coming; they must have the\nletter over again, and settle how long he had been gone, and how much\nhe was engaged in company, and what a favourite he was wherever he went,\nand how full the Master of the Ceremonies' ball had been; and she went\nthrough it very well, with all the interest and all the commendation\nthat could be requisite, and always putting forward to prevent Harriet's\nbeing obliged to say a word.\n\nThis she had been prepared for when she entered the house; but meant,\nhaving once talked him handsomely over, to be no farther incommoded by\nany troublesome topic, and to wander at large amongst all the Mistresses\nand Misses of Highbury, and their card-parties. She had not been\nprepared to have Jane Fairfax succeed Mr. Elton; but he was actually\nhurried off by Miss Bates, she jumped away from him at last abruptly to\nthe Coles, to usher in a letter from her niece.\n\n\"Oh! yes--Mr. Elton, I understand--certainly as to dancing--Mrs. Cole\nwas telling me that dancing at the rooms at Bath was--Mrs. Cole was so\nkind as to sit some time with us, talking of Jane; for as soon as\nshe came in, she began inquiring after her, Jane is so very great a\nfavourite there. Whenever she is with us, Mrs. Cole does not know how to\nshew her kindness enough; and I must say that Jane deserves it as much\nas any body can. And so she began inquiring after her directly, saying,\n'I know you cannot have heard from Jane lately, because it is not her\ntime for writing;' and when I immediately said, 'But indeed we have, we\nhad a letter this very morning,' I do not know that I ever saw any body\nmore surprized. 'Have you, upon your honour?' said she; 'well, that is\nquite unexpected. Do let me hear what she says.'\"\n\nEmma's politeness was at hand directly, to say, with smiling interest--\n\n\"Have you heard from Miss Fairfax so lately? I am extremely happy. I\nhope she is well?\"\n\n\"Thank you. You are so kind!\" replied the happily deceived aunt, while\neagerly hunting for the letter.--\"Oh! here it is. I was sure it could\nnot be far off; but I had put my huswife upon it, you see, without being\naware, and so it was quite hid, but I had it in my hand so very lately\nthat I was almost sure it must be on the table. I was reading it to Mrs.\nCole, and since she went away, I was reading it again to my mother, for\nit is such a pleasure to her--a letter from Jane--that she can never\nhear it often enough; so I knew it could not be far off, and here it is,\nonly just under my huswife--and since you are so kind as to wish to hear\nwhat she says;--but, first of all, I really must, in justice to\nJane, apologise for her writing so short a letter--only two pages you\nsee--hardly two--and in general she fills the whole paper and crosses\nhalf. My mother often wonders that I can make it out so well. She often\nsays, when the letter is first opened, 'Well, Hetty, now I think\nyou will be put to it to make out all that checker-work'--don't you,\nma'am?--And then I tell her, I am sure she would contrive to make it out\nherself, if she had nobody to do it for her--every word of it--I am sure\nshe would pore over it till she had made out every word. And, indeed,\nthough my mother's eyes are not so good as they were, she can see\namazingly well still, thank God! with the help of spectacles. It is such\na blessing! My mother's are really very good indeed. Jane often says,\nwhen she is here, 'I am sure, grandmama, you must have had very strong\neyes to see as you do--and so much fine work as you have done too!--I\nonly wish my eyes may last me as well.'\"\n\nAll this spoken extremely fast obliged Miss Bates to stop for breath;\nand Emma said something very civil about the excellence of Miss\nFairfax's handwriting.\n\n\"You are extremely kind,\" replied Miss Bates, highly gratified; \"you who\nare such a judge, and write so beautifully yourself. I am sure there is\nnobody's praise that could give us so much pleasure as Miss Woodhouse's.\nMy mother does not hear; she is a little deaf you know. Ma'am,\"\naddressing her, \"do you hear what Miss Woodhouse is so obliging to say\nabout Jane's handwriting?\"\n\nAnd Emma had the advantage of hearing her own silly compliment repeated\ntwice over before the good old lady could comprehend it. She was\npondering, in the meanwhile, upon the possibility, without seeming very\nrude, of making her escape from Jane Fairfax's letter, and had almost\nresolved on hurrying away directly under some slight excuse, when Miss\nBates turned to her again and seized her attention.\n\n\"My mother's deafness is very trifling you see--just nothing at all. By\nonly raising my voice, and saying any thing two or three times over,\nshe is sure to hear; but then she is used to my voice. But it is very\nremarkable that she should always hear Jane better than she does me.\nJane speaks so distinct! However, she will not find her grandmama at all\ndeafer than she was two years ago; which is saying a great deal at my\nmother's time of life--and it really is full two years, you know, since\nshe was here. We never were so long without seeing her before, and as\nI was telling Mrs. Cole, we shall hardly know how to make enough of her\nnow.\"\n\n\"Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon?\"\n\n\"Oh yes; next week.\"\n\n\"Indeed!--that must be a very great pleasure.\"\n\n\"Thank you. You are very kind. Yes, next week. Every body is so\nsurprized; and every body says the same obliging things. I am sure she\nwill be as happy to see her friends at Highbury, as they can be to see\nher. Yes, Friday or Saturday; she cannot say which, because Colonel\nCampbell will be wanting the carriage himself one of those days. So very\ngood of them to send her the whole way! But they always do, you know. Oh\nyes, Friday or Saturday next. That is what she writes about. That is\nthe reason of her writing out of rule, as we call it; for, in the\ncommon course, we should not have heard from her before next Tuesday or\nWednesday.\"\n\n\"Yes, so I imagined. I was afraid there could be little chance of my\nhearing any thing of Miss Fairfax to-day.\"\n\n\"So obliging of you! No, we should not have heard, if it had not been\nfor this particular circumstance, of her being to come here so soon. My\nmother is so delighted!--for she is to be three months with us at\nleast. Three months, she says so, positively, as I am going to have the\npleasure of reading to you. The case is, you see, that the Campbells are\ngoing to Ireland. Mrs. Dixon has persuaded her father and mother to come\nover and see her directly. They had not intended to go over till the\nsummer, but she is so impatient to see them again--for till she married,\nlast October, she was never away from them so much as a week, which must\nmake it very strange to be in different kingdoms, I was going to say,\nbut however different countries, and so she wrote a very urgent letter\nto her mother--or her father, I declare I do not know which it was, but\nwe shall see presently in Jane's letter--wrote in Mr. Dixon's name as\nwell as her own, to press their coming over directly, and they would\ngive them the meeting in Dublin, and take them back to their country\nseat, Baly-craig, a beautiful place, I fancy. Jane has heard a great\ndeal of its beauty; from Mr. Dixon, I mean--I do not know that she ever\nheard about it from any body else; but it was very natural, you know,\nthat he should like to speak of his own place while he was paying his\naddresses--and as Jane used to be very often walking out with them--for\nColonel and Mrs. Campbell were very particular about their daughter's\nnot walking out often with only Mr. Dixon, for which I do not at all\nblame them; of course she heard every thing he might be telling Miss\nCampbell about his own home in Ireland; and I think she wrote us word\nthat he had shewn them some drawings of the place, views that he had\ntaken himself. He is a most amiable, charming young man, I believe. Jane\nwas quite longing to go to Ireland, from his account of things.\"\n\nAt this moment, an ingenious and animating suspicion entering Emma's\nbrain with regard to Jane Fairfax, this charming Mr. Dixon, and the\nnot going to Ireland, she said, with the insidious design of farther\ndiscovery,\n\n\"You must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax should be allowed to\ncome to you at such a time. Considering the very particular friendship\nbetween her and Mrs. Dixon, you could hardly have expected her to be\nexcused from accompanying Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.\"\n\n\"Very true, very true, indeed. The very thing that we have always been\nrather afraid of; for we should not have liked to have her at such a\ndistance from us, for months together--not able to come if any thing was\nto happen. But you see, every thing turns out for the best. They want\nher (Mr. and Mrs. Dixon) excessively to come over with Colonel and Mrs.\nCampbell; quite depend upon it; nothing can be more kind or pressing\nthan their _joint_ invitation, Jane says, as you will hear presently;\nMr. Dixon does not seem in the least backward in any attention. He is\na most charming young man. Ever since the service he rendered Jane at\nWeymouth, when they were out in that party on the water, and she, by the\nsudden whirling round of something or other among the sails, would have\nbeen dashed into the sea at once, and actually was all but gone, if he\nhad not, with the greatest presence of mind, caught hold of her habit--\n(I can never think of it without trembling!)--But ever since we had the\nhistory of that day, I have been so fond of Mr. Dixon!\"\n\n\"But, in spite of all her friends' urgency, and her own wish of seeing\nIreland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the time to you and Mrs. Bates?\"\n\n\"Yes--entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice; and Colonel\nand Mrs. Campbell think she does quite right, just what they should\nrecommend; and indeed they particularly _wish_ her to try her native\nair, as she has not been quite so well as usual lately.\"\n\n\"I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wisely. But Mrs.\nDixon must be very much disappointed. Mrs. Dixon, I understand, has\nno remarkable degree of personal beauty; is not, by any means, to be\ncompared with Miss Fairfax.\"\n\n\"Oh! no. You are very obliging to say such things--but certainly not.\nThere is no comparison between them. Miss Campbell always was absolutely\nplain--but extremely elegant and amiable.\"\n\n\"Yes, that of course.\"\n\n\"Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing! so long ago as the 7th of November,\n(as I am going to read to you,) and has never been well since. A long\ntime, is not it, for a cold to hang upon her? She never mentioned\nit before, because she would not alarm us. Just like her! so\nconsiderate!--But however, she is so far from well, that her kind\nfriends the Campbells think she had better come home, and try an air\nthat always agrees with her; and they have no doubt that three or four\nmonths at Highbury will entirely cure her--and it is certainly a great\ndeal better that she should come here, than go to Ireland, if she is\nunwell. Nobody could nurse her, as we should do.\"\n\n\"It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world.\"\n\n\"And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, and the Campbells\nleave town in their way to Holyhead the Monday following--as you will\nfind from Jane's letter. So sudden!--You may guess, dear Miss Woodhouse,\nwhat a flurry it has thrown me in! If it was not for the drawback of\nher illness--but I am afraid we must expect to see her grown thin, and\nlooking very poorly. I must tell you what an unlucky thing happened to\nme, as to that. I always make a point of reading Jane's letters through\nto myself first, before I read them aloud to my mother, you know, for\nfear of there being any thing in them to distress her. Jane desired me\nto do it, so I always do: and so I began to-day with my usual caution;\nbut no sooner did I come to the mention of her being unwell, than I\nburst out, quite frightened, with 'Bless me! poor Jane is ill!'--which\nmy mother, being on the watch, heard distinctly, and was sadly alarmed\nat. However, when I read on, I found it was not near so bad as I had\nfancied at first; and I make so light of it now to her, that she does\nnot think much about it. But I cannot imagine how I could be so off my\nguard. If Jane does not get well soon, we will call in Mr. Perry. The\nexpense shall not be thought of; and though he is so liberal, and so\nfond of Jane that I dare say he would not mean to charge any thing for\nattendance, we could not suffer it to be so, you know. He has a wife and\nfamily to maintain, and is not to be giving away his time. Well, now I\nhave just given you a hint of what Jane writes about, we will turn to\nher letter, and I am sure she tells her own story a great deal better\nthan I can tell it for her.\"\n\n\"I am afraid we must be running away,\" said Emma, glancing at Harriet,\nand beginning to rise--\"My father will be expecting us. I had no\nintention, I thought I had no power of staying more than five minutes,\nwhen I first entered the house. I merely called, because I would not\npass the door without inquiring after Mrs. Bates; but I have been so\npleasantly detained! Now, however, we must wish you and Mrs. Bates good\nmorning.\"\n\nAnd not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded. She regained\nthe street--happy in this, that though much had been forced on her\nagainst her will, though she had in fact heard the whole substance of\nJane Fairfax's letter, she had been able to escape the letter itself.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nJane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates's youngest\ndaughter.\n\nThe marriage of Lieut. Fairfax of the ----regiment of infantry,\nand Miss Jane Bates, had had its day of fame and pleasure, hope\nand interest; but nothing now remained of it, save the melancholy\nremembrance of him dying in action abroad--of his widow sinking under\nconsumption and grief soon afterwards--and this girl.\n\nBy birth she belonged to Highbury: and when at three years old, on\nlosing her mother, she became the property, the charge, the consolation,\nthe fondling of her grandmother and aunt, there had seemed every\nprobability of her being permanently fixed there; of her being taught\nonly what very limited means could command, and growing up with no\nadvantages of connexion or improvement, to be engrafted on what\nnature had given her in a pleasing person, good understanding, and\nwarm-hearted, well-meaning relations.\n\nBut the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave a change\nto her destiny. This was Colonel Campbell, who had very highly regarded\nFairfax, as an excellent officer and most deserving young man; and\nfarther, had been indebted to him for such attentions, during a severe\ncamp-fever, as he believed had saved his life. These were claims which\nhe did not learn to overlook, though some years passed away from the\ndeath of poor Fairfax, before his own return to England put any thing in\nhis power. When he did return, he sought out the child and took notice\nof her. He was a married man, with only one living child, a girl, about\nJane's age: and Jane became their guest, paying them long visits and\ngrowing a favourite with all; and before she was nine years old, his\ndaughter's great fondness for her, and his own wish of being a real\nfriend, united to produce an offer from Colonel Campbell of undertaking\nthe whole charge of her education. It was accepted; and from that period\nJane had belonged to Colonel Campbell's family, and had lived with them\nentirely, only visiting her grandmother from time to time.\n\nThe plan was that she should be brought up for educating others; the\nvery few hundred pounds which she inherited from her father making\nindependence impossible. To provide for her otherwise was out of Colonel\nCampbell's power; for though his income, by pay and appointments, was\nhandsome, his fortune was moderate and must be all his daughter's;\nbut, by giving her an education, he hoped to be supplying the means of\nrespectable subsistence hereafter.\n\nSuch was Jane Fairfax's history. She had fallen into good hands, known\nnothing but kindness from the Campbells, and been given an excellent\neducation. Living constantly with right-minded and well-informed people,\nher heart and understanding had received every advantage of discipline\nand culture; and Colonel Campbell's residence being in London, every\nlighter talent had been done full justice to, by the attendance of\nfirst-rate masters. Her disposition and abilities were equally worthy\nof all that friendship could do; and at eighteen or nineteen she was,\nas far as such an early age can be qualified for the care of children,\nfully competent to the office of instruction herself; but she was too\nmuch beloved to be parted with. Neither father nor mother could promote,\nand the daughter could not endure it. The evil day was put off. It was\neasy to decide that she was still too young; and Jane remained with\nthem, sharing, as another daughter, in all the rational pleasures of\nan elegant society, and a judicious mixture of home and amusement, with\nonly the drawback of the future, the sobering suggestions of her own\ngood understanding to remind her that all this might soon be over.\n\nThe affection of the whole family, the warm attachment of Miss\nCampbell in particular, was the more honourable to each party from\nthe circumstance of Jane's decided superiority both in beauty and\nacquirements. That nature had given it in feature could not be unseen\nby the young woman, nor could her higher powers of mind be unfelt by the\nparents. They continued together with unabated regard however, till the\nmarriage of Miss Campbell, who by that chance, that luck which so often\ndefies anticipation in matrimonial affairs, giving attraction to what is\nmoderate rather than to what is superior, engaged the affections of\nMr. Dixon, a young man, rich and agreeable, almost as soon as they were\nacquainted; and was eligibly and happily settled, while Jane Fairfax had\nyet her bread to earn.\n\nThis event had very lately taken place; too lately for any thing to be\nyet attempted by her less fortunate friend towards entering on her path\nof duty; though she had now reached the age which her own judgment had\nfixed on for beginning. She had long resolved that one-and-twenty\nshould be the period. With the fortitude of a devoted novitiate, she had\nresolved at one-and-twenty to complete the sacrifice, and retire from\nall the pleasures of life, of rational intercourse, equal society, peace\nand hope, to penance and mortification for ever.\n\nThe good sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could not oppose such\na resolution, though their feelings did. As long as they lived, no\nexertions would be necessary, their home might be hers for ever; and for\ntheir own comfort they would have retained her wholly; but this would\nbe selfishness:--what must be at last, had better be soon. Perhaps they\nbegan to feel it might have been kinder and wiser to have resisted the\ntemptation of any delay, and spared her from a taste of such enjoyments\nof ease and leisure as must now be relinquished. Still, however,\naffection was glad to catch at any reasonable excuse for not hurrying\non the wretched moment. She had never been quite well since the time of\ntheir daughter's marriage; and till she should have completely recovered\nher usual strength, they must forbid her engaging in duties, which, so\nfar from being compatible with a weakened frame and varying spirits,\nseemed, under the most favourable circumstances, to require something\nmore than human perfection of body and mind to be discharged with\ntolerable comfort.\n\nWith regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland, her account to her\naunt contained nothing but truth, though there might be some truths\nnot told. It was her own choice to give the time of their absence to\nHighbury; to spend, perhaps, her last months of perfect liberty with\nthose kind relations to whom she was so very dear: and the Campbells,\nwhatever might be their motive or motives, whether single, or double, or\ntreble, gave the arrangement their ready sanction, and said, that they\ndepended more on a few months spent in her native air, for the recovery\nof her health, than on any thing else. Certain it was that she was to\ncome; and that Highbury, instead of welcoming that perfect novelty which\nhad been so long promised it--Mr. Frank Churchill--must put up for the\npresent with Jane Fairfax, who could bring only the freshness of a two\nyears' absence.\n\nEmma was sorry;--to have to pay civilities to a person she did not like\nthrough three long months!--to be always doing more than she wished,\nand less than she ought! Why she did not like Jane Fairfax might be a\ndifficult question to answer; Mr. Knightley had once told her it was\nbecause she saw in her the really accomplished young woman, which she\nwanted to be thought herself; and though the accusation had been eagerly\nrefuted at the time, there were moments of self-examination in which\nher conscience could not quite acquit her. But \"she could never get\nacquainted with her: she did not know how it was, but there was such\ncoldness and reserve--such apparent indifference whether she pleased or\nnot--and then, her aunt was such an eternal talker!--and she was made\nsuch a fuss with by every body!--and it had been always imagined that\nthey were to be so intimate--because their ages were the same, every\nbody had supposed they must be so fond of each other.\" These were her\nreasons--she had no better.\n\nIt was a dislike so little just--every imputed fault was so magnified\nby fancy, that she never saw Jane Fairfax the first time after any\nconsiderable absence, without feeling that she had injured her; and\nnow, when the due visit was paid, on her arrival, after a two years'\ninterval, she was particularly struck with the very appearance and\nmanners, which for those two whole years she had been depreciating. Jane\nFairfax was very elegant, remarkably elegant; and she had herself the\nhighest value for elegance. Her height was pretty, just such as almost\nevery body would think tall, and nobody could think very tall; her\nfigure particularly graceful; her size a most becoming medium, between\nfat and thin, though a slight appearance of ill-health seemed to point\nout the likeliest evil of the two. Emma could not but feel all this; and\nthen, her face--her features--there was more beauty in them altogether\nthan she had remembered; it was not regular, but it was very pleasing\nbeauty. Her eyes, a deep grey, with dark eye-lashes and eyebrows, had\nnever been denied their praise; but the skin, which she had been used to\ncavil at, as wanting colour, had a clearness and delicacy which really\nneeded no fuller bloom. It was a style of beauty, of which elegance was\nthe reigning character, and as such, she must, in honour, by all her\nprinciples, admire it:--elegance, which, whether of person or of mind,\nshe saw so little in Highbury. There, not to be vulgar, was distinction,\nand merit.\n\nIn short, she sat, during the first visit, looking at Jane Fairfax with\ntwofold complacency; the sense of pleasure and the sense of rendering\njustice, and was determining that she would dislike her no longer. When\nshe took in her history, indeed, her situation, as well as her beauty;\nwhen she considered what all this elegance was destined to, what she was\ngoing to sink from, how she was going to live, it seemed impossible\nto feel any thing but compassion and respect; especially, if to every\nwell-known particular entitling her to interest, were added the highly\nprobable circumstance of an attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had\nso naturally started to herself. In that case, nothing could be more\npitiable or more honourable than the sacrifices she had resolved on.\nEmma was very willing now to acquit her of having seduced Mr. Dixon's\nactions from his wife, or of any thing mischievous which her imagination\nhad suggested at first. If it were love, it might be simple, single,\nsuccessless love on her side alone. She might have been unconsciously\nsucking in the sad poison, while a sharer of his conversation with her\nfriend; and from the best, the purest of motives, might now be\ndenying herself this visit to Ireland, and resolving to divide herself\neffectually from him and his connexions by soon beginning her career of\nlaborious duty.\n\nUpon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings,\nas made her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury\nafforded no young man worthy of giving her independence; nobody that she\ncould wish to scheme about for her.\n\nThese were charming feelings--but not lasting. Before she had committed\nherself by any public profession of eternal friendship for Jane Fairfax,\nor done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and errors, than\nsaying to Mr. Knightley, \"She certainly is handsome; she is better than\nhandsome!\" Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield with her grandmother\nand aunt, and every thing was relapsing much into its usual state.\nFormer provocations reappeared. The aunt was as tiresome as ever; more\ntiresome, because anxiety for her health was now added to admiration\nof her powers; and they had to listen to the description of exactly how\nlittle bread and butter she ate for breakfast, and how small a slice\nof mutton for dinner, as well as to see exhibitions of new caps and new\nworkbags for her mother and herself; and Jane's offences rose again.\nThey had music; Emma was obliged to play; and the thanks and praise\nwhich necessarily followed appeared to her an affectation of candour, an\nair of greatness, meaning only to shew off in higher style her own very\nsuperior performance. She was, besides, which was the worst of all, so\ncold, so cautious! There was no getting at her real opinion. Wrapt up in\na cloak of politeness, she seemed determined to hazard nothing. She was\ndisgustingly, was suspiciously reserved.\n\nIf any thing could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved on\nthe subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than any thing. She seemed bent\non giving no real insight into Mr. Dixon's character, or her own value\nfor his company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match. It was all\ngeneral approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated or distinguished.\nIt did her no service however. Her caution was thrown away. Emma saw\nits artifice, and returned to her first surmises. There probably _was_\nsomething more to conceal than her own preference; Mr. Dixon, perhaps,\nhad been very near changing one friend for the other, or been fixed only\nto Miss Campbell, for the sake of the future twelve thousand pounds.\n\nThe like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr. Frank Churchill\nhad been at Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they were a\nlittle acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma\nprocure as to what he truly was. \"Was he handsome?\"--\"She believed\nhe was reckoned a very fine young man.\" \"Was he agreeable?\"--\"He was\ngenerally thought so.\" \"Did he appear a sensible young man; a young\nman of information?\"--\"At a watering-place, or in a common London\nacquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were\nall that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than\nthey had yet had of Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his\nmanners pleasing.\" Emma could not forgive her.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nEmma could not forgive her;--but as neither provocation nor resentment\nwere discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party, and had\nseen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was\nexpressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with\nMr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might\nhave done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain enough\nto be very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her unjust to\nJane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement.\n\n\"A very pleasant evening,\" he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been\ntalked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers\nswept away;--\"particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some\nvery good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting\nat one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women;\nsometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss\nFairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing\nundone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument\nat her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence.\"\n\n\"I am happy you approved,\" said Emma, smiling; \"but I hope I am not\noften deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield.\"\n\n\"No, my dear,\" said her father instantly; \"_that_ I am sure you are not.\nThere is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing,\nyou are too attentive. The muffin last night--if it had been handed\nround once, I think it would have been enough.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; \"you are not often\ndeficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I\nthink you understand me, therefore.\"\n\nAn arch look expressed--\"I understand you well enough;\" but she said\nonly, \"Miss Fairfax is reserved.\"\n\n\"I always told you she was--a little; but you will soon overcome all\nthat part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its\nfoundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured.\"\n\n\"You think her diffident. I do not see it.\"\n\n\"My dear Emma,\" said he, moving from his chair into one close by her,\n\"you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant\nevening.\"\n\n\"Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions; and\namused to think how little information I obtained.\"\n\n\"I am disappointed,\" was his only answer.\n\n\"I hope every body had a pleasant evening,\" said Mr. Woodhouse, in his\nquiet way. \"I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I\nmoved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me.\nMiss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though\nshe speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs.\nBates too, in a different way. I like old friends; and Miss Jane\nFairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a\nvery well-behaved young lady indeed. She must have found the evening\nagreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma.\"\n\n\"True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax.\"\n\nEmma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least for the\npresent, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question--\n\n\"She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one's eyes from.\nI am always watching her to admire; and I do pity her from my heart.\"\n\nMr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to\nexpress; and before he could make any reply, Mr. Woodhouse, whose\nthoughts were on the Bates's, said--\n\n\"It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined! a\ngreat pity indeed! and I have often wished--but it is so little one can\nventure to do--small, trifling presents, of any thing uncommon--Now we\nhave killed a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg;\nit is very small and delicate--Hartfield pork is not like any other\npork--but still it is pork--and, my dear Emma, unless one could be sure\nof their making it into steaks, nicely fried, as ours are fried, without\nthe smallest grease, and not roast it, for no stomach can bear roast\npork--I think we had better send the leg--do not you think so, my dear?\"\n\n\"My dear papa, I sent the whole hind-quarter. I knew you would wish it.\nThere will be the leg to be salted, you know, which is so very nice, and\nthe loin to be dressed directly in any manner they like.\"\n\n\"That's right, my dear, very right. I had not thought of it before, but\nthat is the best way. They must not over-salt the leg; and then, if it\nis not over-salted, and if it is very thoroughly boiled, just as Serle\nboils ours, and eaten very moderately of, with a boiled turnip, and a\nlittle carrot or parsnip, I do not consider it unwholesome.\"\n\n\"Emma,\" said Mr. Knightley presently, \"I have a piece of news for you.\nYou like news--and I heard an article in my way hither that I think will\ninterest you.\"\n\n\"News! Oh! yes, I always like news. What is it?--why do you smile\nso?--where did you hear it?--at Randalls?\"\n\nHe had time only to say,\n\n\"No, not at Randalls; I have not been near Randalls,\" when the door was\nthrown open, and Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax walked into the room. Full\nof thanks, and full of news, Miss Bates knew not which to give quickest.\nMr. Knightley soon saw that he had lost his moment, and that not another\nsyllable of communication could rest with him.\n\n\"Oh! my dear sir, how are you this morning? My dear Miss Woodhouse--I\ncome quite over-powered. Such a beautiful hind-quarter of pork! You\nare too bountiful! Have you heard the news? Mr. Elton is going to be\nmarried.\"\n\nEmma had not had time even to think of Mr. Elton, and she was so\ncompletely surprized that she could not avoid a little start, and a\nlittle blush, at the sound.\n\n\"There is my news:--I thought it would interest you,\" said Mr.\nKnightley, with a smile which implied a conviction of some part of what\nhad passed between them.\n\n\"But where could _you_ hear it?\" cried Miss Bates. \"Where could you\npossibly hear it, Mr. Knightley? For it is not five minutes since I\nreceived Mrs. Cole's note--no, it cannot be more than five--or at least\nten--for I had got my bonnet and spencer on, just ready to come out--I\nwas only gone down to speak to Patty again about the pork--Jane was\nstanding in the passage--were not you, Jane?--for my mother was so\nafraid that we had not any salting-pan large enough. So I said I would\ngo down and see, and Jane said, 'Shall I go down instead? for I think\nyou have a little cold, and Patty has been washing the kitchen.'--'Oh!\nmy dear,' said I--well, and just then came the note. A Miss\nHawkins--that's all I know. A Miss Hawkins of Bath. But, Mr. Knightley,\nhow could you possibly have heard it? for the very moment Mr. Cole told\nMrs. Cole of it, she sat down and wrote to me. A Miss Hawkins--\"\n\n\"I was with Mr. Cole on business an hour and a half ago. He had just\nread Elton's letter as I was shewn in, and handed it to me directly.\"\n\n\"Well! that is quite--I suppose there never was a piece of news more\ngenerally interesting. My dear sir, you really are too bountiful. My\nmother desires her very best compliments and regards, and a thousand\nthanks, and says you really quite oppress her.\"\n\n\"We consider our Hartfield pork,\" replied Mr. Woodhouse--\"indeed it\ncertainly is, so very superior to all other pork, that Emma and I cannot\nhave a greater pleasure than--\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear sir, as my mother says, our friends are only too good\nto us. If ever there were people who, without having great wealth\nthemselves, had every thing they could wish for, I am sure it is us.\nWe may well say that 'our lot is cast in a goodly heritage.' Well, Mr.\nKnightley, and so you actually saw the letter; well--\"\n\n\"It was short--merely to announce--but cheerful, exulting, of course.\"--\nHere was a sly glance at Emma. \"He had been so fortunate as to--I forget\nthe precise words--one has no business to remember them. The information\nwas, as you state, that he was going to be married to a Miss Hawkins. By\nhis style, I should imagine it just settled.\"\n\n\"Mr. Elton going to be married!\" said Emma, as soon as she could speak.\n\"He will have every body's wishes for his happiness.\"\n\n\"He is very young to settle,\" was Mr. Woodhouse's observation. \"He had\nbetter not be in a hurry. He seemed to me very well off as he was. We\nwere always glad to see him at Hartfield.\"\n\n\"A new neighbour for us all, Miss Woodhouse!\" said Miss Bates, joyfully;\n\"my mother is so pleased!--she says she cannot bear to have the poor old\nVicarage without a mistress. This is great news, indeed. Jane, you have\nnever seen Mr. Elton!--no wonder that you have such a curiosity to see\nhim.\"\n\nJane's curiosity did not appear of that absorbing nature as wholly to\noccupy her.\n\n\"No--I have never seen Mr. Elton,\" she replied, starting on this appeal;\n\"is he--is he a tall man?\"\n\n\"Who shall answer that question?\" cried Emma. \"My father would say\n'yes,' Mr. Knightley 'no;' and Miss Bates and I that he is just the\nhappy medium. When you have been here a little longer, Miss Fairfax,\nyou will understand that Mr. Elton is the standard of perfection in\nHighbury, both in person and mind.\"\n\n\"Very true, Miss Woodhouse, so she will. He is the very best young\nman--But, my dear Jane, if you remember, I told you yesterday he\nwas precisely the height of Mr. Perry. Miss Hawkins,--I dare say, an\nexcellent young woman. His extreme attention to my mother--wanting\nher to sit in the vicarage pew, that she might hear the better, for my\nmother is a little deaf, you know--it is not much, but she does not\nhear quite quick. Jane says that Colonel Campbell is a little deaf. He\nfancied bathing might be good for it--the warm bath--but she says it did\nhim no lasting benefit. Colonel Campbell, you know, is quite our angel.\nAnd Mr. Dixon seems a very charming young man, quite worthy of him. It\nis such a happiness when good people get together--and they always do.\nNow, here will be Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins; and there are the Coles,\nsuch very good people; and the Perrys--I suppose there never was a\nhappier or a better couple than Mr. and Mrs. Perry. I say, sir,\" turning\nto Mr. Woodhouse, \"I think there are few places with such society as\nHighbury. I always say, we are quite blessed in our neighbours.--My dear\nsir, if there is one thing my mother loves better than another, it is\npork--a roast loin of pork--\"\n\n\"As to who, or what Miss Hawkins is, or how long he has been acquainted\nwith her,\" said Emma, \"nothing I suppose can be known. One feels that it\ncannot be a very long acquaintance. He has been gone only four weeks.\"\n\nNobody had any information to give; and, after a few more wonderings,\nEmma said,\n\n\"You are silent, Miss Fairfax--but I hope you mean to take an interest\nin this news. You, who have been hearing and seeing so much of late\non these subjects, who must have been so deep in the business on Miss\nCampbell's account--we shall not excuse your being indifferent about Mr.\nElton and Miss Hawkins.\"\n\n\"When I have seen Mr. Elton,\" replied Jane, \"I dare say I shall be\ninterested--but I believe it requires _that_ with me. And as it is some\nmonths since Miss Campbell married, the impression may be a little worn\noff.\"\n\n\"Yes, he has been gone just four weeks, as you observe, Miss Woodhouse,\"\nsaid Miss Bates, \"four weeks yesterday.--A Miss Hawkins!--Well, I had\nalways rather fancied it would be some young lady hereabouts; not that\nI ever--Mrs. Cole once whispered to me--but I immediately said, 'No, Mr.\nElton is a most worthy young man--but'--In short, I do not think I am\nparticularly quick at those sort of discoveries. I do not pretend to it.\nWhat is before me, I see. At the same time, nobody could wonder if\nMr. Elton should have aspired--Miss Woodhouse lets me chatter on, so\ngood-humouredly. She knows I would not offend for the world. How does\nMiss Smith do? She seems quite recovered now. Have you heard from Mrs.\nJohn Knightley lately? Oh! those dear little children. Jane, do you\nknow I always fancy Mr. Dixon like Mr. John Knightley. I mean in\nperson--tall, and with that sort of look--and not very talkative.\"\n\n\"Quite wrong, my dear aunt; there is no likeness at all.\"\n\n\"Very odd! but one never does form a just idea of any body beforehand.\nOne takes up a notion, and runs away with it. Mr. Dixon, you say, is\nnot, strictly speaking, handsome?\"\n\n\"Handsome! Oh! no--far from it--certainly plain. I told you he was\nplain.\"\n\n\"My dear, you said that Miss Campbell would not allow him to be plain,\nand that you yourself--\"\n\n\"Oh! as for me, my judgment is worth nothing. Where I have a regard,\nI always think a person well-looking. But I gave what I believed the\ngeneral opinion, when I called him plain.\"\n\n\"Well, my dear Jane, I believe we must be running away. The weather does\nnot look well, and grandmama will be uneasy. You are too obliging, my\ndear Miss Woodhouse; but we really must take leave. This has been a most\nagreeable piece of news indeed. I shall just go round by Mrs. Cole's;\nbut I shall not stop three minutes: and, Jane, you had better go home\ndirectly--I would not have you out in a shower!--We think she is the\nbetter for Highbury already. Thank you, we do indeed. I shall not\nattempt calling on Mrs. Goddard, for I really do not think she cares for\nany thing but _boiled_ pork: when we dress the leg it will be another\nthing. Good morning to you, my dear sir. Oh! Mr. Knightley is coming\ntoo. Well, that is so very!--I am sure if Jane is tired, you will be\nso kind as to give her your arm.--Mr. Elton, and Miss Hawkins!--Good\nmorning to you.\"\n\nEmma, alone with her father, had half her attention wanted by him while\nhe lamented that young people would be in such a hurry to marry--and to\nmarry strangers too--and the other half she could give to her own view\nof the subject. It was to herself an amusing and a very welcome piece\nof news, as proving that Mr. Elton could not have suffered long; but she\nwas sorry for Harriet: Harriet must feel it--and all that she could hope\nwas, by giving the first information herself, to save her from hearing\nit abruptly from others. It was now about the time that she was likely\nto call. If she were to meet Miss Bates in her way!--and upon its\nbeginning to rain, Emma was obliged to expect that the weather would\nbe detaining her at Mrs. Goddard's, and that the intelligence would\nundoubtedly rush upon her without preparation.\n\nThe shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been over five minutes,\nwhen in came Harriet, with just the heated, agitated look which\nhurrying thither with a full heart was likely to give; and the \"Oh! Miss\nWoodhouse, what do you think has happened!\" which instantly burst forth,\nhad all the evidence of corresponding perturbation. As the blow was\ngiven, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater kindness than in\nlistening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had to\ntell. \"She had set out from Mrs. Goddard's half an hour ago--she had\nbeen afraid it would rain--she had been afraid it would pour down\nevery moment--but she thought she might get to Hartfield first--she\nhad hurried on as fast as possible; but then, as she was passing by the\nhouse where a young woman was making up a gown for her, she thought she\nwould just step in and see how it went on; and though she did not seem\nto stay half a moment there, soon after she came out it began to rain,\nand she did not know what to do; so she ran on directly, as fast as\nshe could, and took shelter at Ford's.\"--Ford's was the principal\nwoollen-draper, linen-draper, and haberdasher's shop united; the shop\nfirst in size and fashion in the place.--\"And so, there she had\nset, without an idea of any thing in the world, full ten minutes,\nperhaps--when, all of a sudden, who should come in--to be sure it was\nso very odd!--but they always dealt at Ford's--who should come in, but\nElizabeth Martin and her brother!--Dear Miss Woodhouse! only think. I\nthought I should have fainted. I did not know what to do. I was sitting\nnear the door--Elizabeth saw me directly; but he did not; he was busy\nwith the umbrella. I am sure she saw me, but she looked away directly,\nand took no notice; and they both went to quite the farther end of the\nshop; and I kept sitting near the door!--Oh! dear; I was so miserable!\nI am sure I must have been as white as my gown. I could not go away\nyou know, because of the rain; but I did so wish myself anywhere in the\nworld but there.--Oh! dear, Miss Woodhouse--well, at last, I fancy, he\nlooked round and saw me; for instead of going on with her buyings, they\nbegan whispering to one another. I am sure they were talking of me; and\nI could not help thinking that he was persuading her to speak to me--(do\nyou think he was, Miss Woodhouse?)--for presently she came forward--came\nquite up to me, and asked me how I did, and seemed ready to shake hands,\nif I would. She did not do any of it in the same way that she used; I\ncould see she was altered; but, however, she seemed to _try_ to be very\nfriendly, and we shook hands, and stood talking some time; but I know no\nmore what I said--I was in such a tremble!--I remember she said she\nwas sorry we never met now; which I thought almost too kind! Dear, Miss\nWoodhouse, I was absolutely miserable! By that time, it was beginning to\nhold up, and I was determined that nothing should stop me from getting\naway--and then--only think!--I found he was coming up towards me\ntoo--slowly you know, and as if he did not quite know what to do; and\nso he came and spoke, and I answered--and I stood for a minute, feeling\ndreadfully, you know, one can't tell how; and then I took courage, and\nsaid it did not rain, and I must go; and so off I set; and I had not got\nthree yards from the door, when he came after me, only to say, if I was\ngoing to Hartfield, he thought I had much better go round by Mr. Cole's\nstables, for I should find the near way quite floated by this rain. Oh!\ndear, I thought it would have been the death of me! So I said, I was\nvery much obliged to him: you know I could not do less; and then he went\nback to Elizabeth, and I came round by the stables--I believe I did--but\nI hardly knew where I was, or any thing about it. Oh! Miss Woodhouse,\nI would rather done any thing than have it happen: and yet, you know,\nthere was a sort of satisfaction in seeing him behave so pleasantly and\nso kindly. And Elizabeth, too. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do talk to me and\nmake me comfortable again.\"\n\nVery sincerely did Emma wish to do so; but it was not immediately in\nher power. She was obliged to stop and think. She was not thoroughly\ncomfortable herself. The young man's conduct, and his sister's, seemed\nthe result of real feeling, and she could not but pity them. As Harriet\ndescribed it, there had been an interesting mixture of wounded affection\nand genuine delicacy in their behaviour. But she had believed them to be\nwell-meaning, worthy people before; and what difference did this make\nin the evils of the connexion? It was folly to be disturbed by it. Of\ncourse, he must be sorry to lose her--they must be all sorry. Ambition,\nas well as love, had probably been mortified. They might all have hoped\nto rise by Harriet's acquaintance: and besides, what was the value of\nHarriet's description?--So easily pleased--so little discerning;--what\nsignified her praise?\n\nShe exerted herself, and did try to make her comfortable, by considering\nall that had passed as a mere trifle, and quite unworthy of being dwelt\non,\n\n\"It might be distressing, for the moment,\" said she; \"but you seem to\nhave behaved extremely well; and it is over--and may never--can never,\nas a first meeting, occur again, and therefore you need not think about\nit.\"\n\nHarriet said, \"very true,\" and she \"would not think about it;\" but still\nshe talked of it--still she could talk of nothing else; and Emma, at\nlast, in order to put the Martins out of her head, was obliged to hurry\non the news, which she had meant to give with so much tender caution;\nhardly knowing herself whether to rejoice or be angry, ashamed or only\namused, at such a state of mind in poor Harriet--such a conclusion of\nMr. Elton's importance with her!\n\nMr. Elton's rights, however, gradually revived. Though she did not feel\nthe first intelligence as she might have done the day before, or an hour\nbefore, its interest soon increased; and before their first conversation\nwas over, she had talked herself into all the sensations of curiosity,\nwonder and regret, pain and pleasure, as to this fortunate Miss Hawkins,\nwhich could conduce to place the Martins under proper subordination in\nher fancy.\n\nEmma learned to be rather glad that there had been such a meeting. It\nhad been serviceable in deadening the first shock, without retaining any\ninfluence to alarm. As Harriet now lived, the Martins could not get\nat her, without seeking her, where hitherto they had wanted either the\ncourage or the condescension to seek her; for since her refusal of the\nbrother, the sisters never had been at Mrs. Goddard's; and a twelvemonth\nmight pass without their being thrown together again, with any\nnecessity, or even any power of speech.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nHuman nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting\nsituations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of\nbeing kindly spoken of.\n\nA week had not passed since Miss Hawkins's name was first mentioned in\nHighbury, before she was, by some means or other, discovered to have\nevery recommendation of person and mind; to be handsome, elegant, highly\naccomplished, and perfectly amiable: and when Mr. Elton himself arrived\nto triumph in his happy prospects, and circulate the fame of her merits,\nthere was very little more for him to do, than to tell her Christian\nname, and say whose music she principally played.\n\nMr. Elton returned, a very happy man. He had gone away rejected and\nmortified--disappointed in a very sanguine hope, after a series of what\nappeared to him strong encouragement; and not only losing the right\nlady, but finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong one. He\nhad gone away deeply offended--he came back engaged to another--and\nto another as superior, of course, to the first, as under such\ncircumstances what is gained always is to what is lost. He came back gay\nand self-satisfied, eager and busy, caring nothing for Miss Woodhouse,\nand defying Miss Smith.\n\nThe charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the usual advantages of\nperfect beauty and merit, was in possession of an independent fortune,\nof so many thousands as would always be called ten; a point of some\ndignity, as well as some convenience: the story told well; he had not\nthrown himself away--he had gained a woman of 10,000 l. or thereabouts;\nand he had gained her with such delightful rapidity--the first hour of\nintroduction had been so very soon followed by distinguishing notice;\nthe history which he had to give Mrs. Cole of the rise and progress\nof the affair was so glorious--the steps so quick, from the accidental\nrencontre, to the dinner at Mr. Green's, and the party at Mrs.\nBrown's--smiles and blushes rising in importance--with consciousness and\nagitation richly scattered--the lady had been so easily impressed--so\nsweetly disposed--had in short, to use a most intelligible phrase,\nbeen so very ready to have him, that vanity and prudence were equally\ncontented.\n\nHe had caught both substance and shadow--both fortune and affection, and\nwas just the happy man he ought to be; talking only of himself and\nhis own concerns--expecting to be congratulated--ready to be laughed\nat--and, with cordial, fearless smiles, now addressing all the young\nladies of the place, to whom, a few weeks ago, he would have been more\ncautiously gallant.\n\nThe wedding was no distant event, as the parties had only themselves to\nplease, and nothing but the necessary preparations to wait for; and\nwhen he set out for Bath again, there was a general expectation, which\na certain glance of Mrs. Cole's did not seem to contradict, that when he\nnext entered Highbury he would bring his bride.\n\nDuring his present short stay, Emma had barely seen him; but just enough\nto feel that the first meeting was over, and to give her the impression\nof his not being improved by the mixture of pique and pretension, now\nspread over his air. She was, in fact, beginning very much to wonder\nthat she had ever thought him pleasing at all; and his sight was so\ninseparably connected with some very disagreeable feelings, that,\nexcept in a moral light, as a penance, a lesson, a source of profitable\nhumiliation to her own mind, she would have been thankful to be assured\nof never seeing him again. She wished him very well; but he gave\nher pain, and his welfare twenty miles off would administer most\nsatisfaction.\n\nThe pain of his continued residence in Highbury, however, must\ncertainly be lessened by his marriage. Many vain solicitudes would be\nprevented--many awkwardnesses smoothed by it. A _Mrs._ _Elton_ would\nbe an excuse for any change of intercourse; former intimacy might sink\nwithout remark. It would be almost beginning their life of civility\nagain.\n\nOf the lady, individually, Emma thought very little. She was good enough\nfor Mr. Elton, no doubt; accomplished enough for Highbury--handsome\nenough--to look plain, probably, by Harriet's side. As to connexion,\nthere Emma was perfectly easy; persuaded, that after all his own vaunted\nclaims and disdain of Harriet, he had done nothing. On that article,\ntruth seemed attainable. _What_ she was, must be uncertain; but _who_\nshe was, might be found out; and setting aside the 10,000 l., it did not\nappear that she was at all Harriet's superior. She brought no name, no\nblood, no alliance. Miss Hawkins was the youngest of the two daughters\nof a Bristol--merchant, of course, he must be called; but, as the whole\nof the profits of his mercantile life appeared so very moderate, it\nwas not unfair to guess the dignity of his line of trade had been very\nmoderate also. Part of every winter she had been used to spend in Bath;\nbut Bristol was her home, the very heart of Bristol; for though the\nfather and mother had died some years ago, an uncle remained--in the law\nline--nothing more distinctly honourable was hazarded of him, than\nthat he was in the law line; and with him the daughter had lived. Emma\nguessed him to be the drudge of some attorney, and too stupid to rise.\nAnd all the grandeur of the connexion seemed dependent on the elder\nsister, who was _very_ _well_ _married_, to a gentleman in a _great_\n_way_, near Bristol, who kept two carriages! That was the wind-up of the\nhistory; that was the glory of Miss Hawkins.\n\nCould she but have given Harriet her feelings about it all! She had\ntalked her into love; but, alas! she was not so easily to be talked out\nof it. The charm of an object to occupy the many vacancies of Harriet's\nmind was not to be talked away. He might be superseded by another; he\ncertainly would indeed; nothing could be clearer; even a Robert Martin\nwould have been sufficient; but nothing else, she feared, would cure\nher. Harriet was one of those, who, having once begun, would be always\nin love. And now, poor girl! she was considerably worse from this\nreappearance of Mr. Elton. She was always having a glimpse of him\nsomewhere or other. Emma saw him only once; but two or three times every\nday Harriet was sure _just_ to meet with him, or _just_ to miss him,\n_just_ to hear his voice, or see his shoulder, _just_ to have something\noccur to preserve him in her fancy, in all the favouring warmth of\nsurprize and conjecture. She was, moreover, perpetually hearing about\nhim; for, excepting when at Hartfield, she was always among those who\nsaw no fault in Mr. Elton, and found nothing so interesting as\nthe discussion of his concerns; and every report, therefore, every\nguess--all that had already occurred, all that might occur in the\narrangement of his affairs, comprehending income, servants, and\nfurniture, was continually in agitation around her. Her regard was\nreceiving strength by invariable praise of him, and her regrets kept\nalive, and feelings irritated by ceaseless repetitions of Miss\nHawkins's happiness, and continual observation of, how much he seemed\nattached!--his air as he walked by the house--the very sitting of his\nhat, being all in proof of how much he was in love!\n\nHad it been allowable entertainment, had there been no pain to her\nfriend, or reproach to herself, in the waverings of Harriet's mind,\nEmma would have been amused by its variations. Sometimes Mr. Elton\npredominated, sometimes the Martins; and each was occasionally useful\nas a check to the other. Mr. Elton's engagement had been the cure of\nthe agitation of meeting Mr. Martin. The unhappiness produced by the\nknowledge of that engagement had been a little put aside by Elizabeth\nMartin's calling at Mrs. Goddard's a few days afterwards. Harriet had\nnot been at home; but a note had been prepared and left for her, written\nin the very style to touch; a small mixture of reproach, with a great\ndeal of kindness; and till Mr. Elton himself appeared, she had been much\noccupied by it, continually pondering over what could be done in return,\nand wishing to do more than she dared to confess. But Mr. Elton, in\nperson, had driven away all such cares. While he staid, the Martins were\nforgotten; and on the very morning of his setting off for Bath again,\nEmma, to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned, judged it best\nfor her to return Elizabeth Martin's visit.\n\nHow that visit was to be acknowledged--what would be necessary--and\nwhat might be safest, had been a point of some doubtful consideration.\nAbsolute neglect of the mother and sisters, when invited to come, would\nbe ingratitude. It must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of the\nacquaintance--!\n\nAfter much thinking, she could determine on nothing better, than\nHarriet's returning the visit; but in a way that, if they had\nunderstanding, should convince them that it was to be only a formal\nacquaintance. She meant to take her in the carriage, leave her at the\nAbbey Mill, while she drove a little farther, and call for her again\nso soon, as to allow no time for insidious applications or dangerous\nrecurrences to the past, and give the most decided proof of what degree\nof intimacy was chosen for the future.\n\nShe could think of nothing better: and though there was something in it\nwhich her own heart could not approve--something of ingratitude, merely\nglossed over--it must be done, or what would become of Harriet?\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nSmall heart had Harriet for visiting. Only half an hour before her\nfriend called for her at Mrs. Goddard's, her evil stars had led her\nto the very spot where, at that moment, a trunk, directed to _The Rev.\nPhilip Elton, White-Hart, Bath_, was to be seen under the operation of\nbeing lifted into the butcher's cart, which was to convey it to where\nthe coaches past; and every thing in this world, excepting that trunk\nand the direction, was consequently a blank.\n\nShe went, however; and when they reached the farm, and she was to be\nput down, at the end of the broad, neat gravel walk, which led between\nespalier apple-trees to the front door, the sight of every thing which\nhad given her so much pleasure the autumn before, was beginning to\nrevive a little local agitation; and when they parted, Emma observed her\nto be looking around with a sort of fearful curiosity, which determined\nher not to allow the visit to exceed the proposed quarter of an hour.\nShe went on herself, to give that portion of time to an old servant who\nwas married, and settled in Donwell.\n\nThe quarter of an hour brought her punctually to the white gate again;\nand Miss Smith receiving her summons, was with her without delay, and\nunattended by any alarming young man. She came solitarily down the\ngravel walk--a Miss Martin just appearing at the door, and parting with\nher seemingly with ceremonious civility.\n\nHarriet could not very soon give an intelligible account. She was\nfeeling too much; but at last Emma collected from her enough to\nunderstand the sort of meeting, and the sort of pain it was creating.\nShe had seen only Mrs. Martin and the two girls. They had received her\ndoubtingly, if not coolly; and nothing beyond the merest commonplace had\nbeen talked almost all the time--till just at last, when Mrs. Martin's\nsaying, all of a sudden, that she thought Miss Smith was grown, had\nbrought on a more interesting subject, and a warmer manner. In that very\nroom she had been measured last September, with her two friends. There\nwere the pencilled marks and memorandums on the wainscot by the window.\n_He_ had done it. They all seemed to remember the day, the hour,\nthe party, the occasion--to feel the same consciousness, the same\nregrets--to be ready to return to the same good understanding; and they\nwere just growing again like themselves, (Harriet, as Emma must suspect,\nas ready as the best of them to be cordial and happy,) when the carriage\nreappeared, and all was over. The style of the visit, and the shortness\nof it, were then felt to be decisive. Fourteen minutes to be given\nto those with whom she had thankfully passed six weeks not six months\nago!--Emma could not but picture it all, and feel how justly they might\nresent, how naturally Harriet must suffer. It was a bad business. She\nwould have given a great deal, or endured a great deal, to have had\nthe Martins in a higher rank of life. They were so deserving, that a\n_little_ higher should have been enough: but as it was, how could she\nhave done otherwise?--Impossible!--She could not repent. They must be\nseparated; but there was a great deal of pain in the process--so much\nto herself at this time, that she soon felt the necessity of a little\nconsolation, and resolved on going home by way of Randalls to\nprocure it. Her mind was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins. The\nrefreshment of Randalls was absolutely necessary.\n\nIt was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they heard that neither\n\"master nor mistress was at home;\" they had both been out some time; the\nman believed they were gone to Hartfield.\n\n\"This is too bad,\" cried Emma, as they turned away. \"And now we shall\njust miss them; too provoking!--I do not know when I have been so\ndisappointed.\" And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge her\nmurmurs, or to reason them away; probably a little of both--such being\nthe commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind. Presently the carriage\nstopt; she looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were\nstanding to speak to her. There was instant pleasure in the sight of\nthem, and still greater pleasure was conveyed in sound--for Mr. Weston\nimmediately accosted her with,\n\n\"How d'ye do?--how d'ye do?--We have been sitting with your father--glad\nto see him so well. Frank comes to-morrow--I had a letter this\nmorning--we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a certainty--he is at\nOxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be\nso. If he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days; I\nwas always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going to have\njust the right weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather. We shall\nenjoy him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could\nwish.\"\n\nThere was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the\ninfluence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston's, confirmed as it all was\nby the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not\nless to the purpose. To know that _she_ thought his coming certain was\nenough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in\ntheir joy. It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted spirits.\nThe worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was coming; and in\nthe rapidity of half a moment's thought, she hoped Mr. Elton would now\nbe talked of no more.\n\nMr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which\nallowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command,\nas well as the route and the method of his journey; and she listened,\nand smiled, and congratulated.\n\n\"I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield,\" said he, at the conclusion.\n\nEmma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his\nwife.\n\n\"We had better move on, Mr. Weston,\" said she, \"we are detaining the\ngirls.\"\n\n\"Well, well, I am ready;\"--and turning again to Emma, \"but you must\nnot be expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only\nhad _my_ account you know; I dare say he is really nothing\nextraordinary:\"--though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were\nspeaking a very different conviction.\n\nEmma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a\nmanner that appropriated nothing.\n\n\"Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o'clock,\" was Mrs.\nWeston's parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant only\nfor her.\n\n\"Four o'clock!--depend upon it he will be here by three,\" was Mr.\nWeston's quick amendment; and so ended a most satisfactory meeting.\nEmma's spirits were mounted quite up to happiness; every thing wore\na different air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as\nbefore. When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least\nmust soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw\nsomething like a look of spring, a tender smile even there.\n\n\"Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Oxford?\"--was a\nquestion, however, which did not augur much.\n\nBut neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once, and Emma\nwas now in a humour to resolve that they should both come in time.\n\nThe morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston's faithful\npupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, or twelve o'clock, that\nshe was to think of her at four.\n\n\"My dear, dear anxious friend,\"--said she, in mental soliloquy, while\nwalking downstairs from her own room, \"always overcareful for every\nbody's comfort but your own; I see you now in all your little fidgets,\ngoing again and again into his room, to be sure that all is right.\"\nThe clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall. \"'Tis twelve;\nI shall not forget to think of you four hours hence; and by this\ntime to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the\npossibility of their all calling here. I am sure they will bring him\nsoon.\"\n\nShe opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her\nfather--Mr. Weston and his son. They had been arrived only a few\nminutes, and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation of Frank's\nbeing a day before his time, and her father was yet in the midst of his\nvery civil welcome and congratulations, when she appeared, to have her\nshare of surprize, introduction, and pleasure.\n\nThe Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in interest, was actually\nbefore her--he was presented to her, and she did not think too much had\nbeen said in his praise; he was a _very_ good looking young man; height,\nair, address, all were unexceptionable, and his countenance had a great\ndeal of the spirit and liveliness of his father's; he looked quick and\nsensible. She felt immediately that she should like him; and there was\na well-bred ease of manner, and a readiness to talk, which convinced her\nthat he came intending to be acquainted with her, and that acquainted\nthey soon must be.\n\nHe had reached Randalls the evening before. She was pleased with the\neagerness to arrive which had made him alter his plan, and travel\nearlier, later, and quicker, that he might gain half a day.\n\n\"I told you yesterday,\" cried Mr. Weston with exultation, \"I told you\nall that he would be here before the time named. I remembered what I\nused to do myself. One cannot creep upon a journey; one cannot help\ngetting on faster than one has planned; and the pleasure of coming in\nupon one's friends before the look-out begins, is worth a great deal\nmore than any little exertion it needs.\"\n\n\"It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it,\" said the young\nman, \"though there are not many houses that I should presume on so far;\nbut in coming _home_ I felt I might do any thing.\"\n\nThe word _home_ made his father look on him with fresh complacency.\nEmma was directly sure that he knew how to make himself agreeable; the\nconviction was strengthened by what followed. He was very much pleased\nwith Randalls, thought it a most admirably arranged house, would hardly\nallow it even to be very small, admired the situation, the walk to\nHighbury, Highbury itself, Hartfield still more, and professed himself\nto have always felt the sort of interest in the country which none but\none's _own_ country gives, and the greatest curiosity to visit it. That\nhe should never have been able to indulge so amiable a feeling before,\npassed suspiciously through Emma's brain; but still, if it were a\nfalsehood, it was a pleasant one, and pleasantly handled. His manner had\nno air of study or exaggeration. He did really look and speak as if in a\nstate of no common enjoyment.\n\nTheir subjects in general were such as belong to an opening\nacquaintance. On his side were the inquiries,--\"Was she a\nhorsewoman?--Pleasant rides?--Pleasant walks?--Had they a large\nneighbourhood?--Highbury, perhaps, afforded society enough?--There were\nseveral very pretty houses in and about it.--Balls--had they balls?--Was\nit a musical society?\"\n\nBut when satisfied on all these points, and their acquaintance\nproportionably advanced, he contrived to find an opportunity, while\ntheir two fathers were engaged with each other, of introducing his\nmother-in-law, and speaking of her with so much handsome praise, so much\nwarm admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured to his\nfather, and her very kind reception of himself, as was an additional\nproof of his knowing how to please--and of his certainly thinking it\nworth while to try to please her. He did not advance a word of praise\nbeyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs. Weston; but,\nundoubtedly he could know very little of the matter. He understood\nwhat would be welcome; he could be sure of little else. \"His father's\nmarriage,\" he said, \"had been the wisest measure, every friend must\nrejoice in it; and the family from whom he had received such a blessing\nmust be ever considered as having conferred the highest obligation on\nhim.\"\n\nHe got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor's merits,\nwithout seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it\nwas to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse's\ncharacter, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor's. And at last, as if\nresolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its\nobject, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of\nher person.\n\n\"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,\" said he; \"but I\nconfess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a\nvery tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that\nI was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston.\"\n\n\"You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings,\"\nsaid Emma; \"were you to guess her to be _eighteen_, I should listen with\npleasure; but _she_ would be ready to quarrel with you for using such\nwords. Don't let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty\nyoung woman.\"\n\n\"I hope I should know better,\" he replied; \"no, depend upon it, (with a\ngallant bow,) that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand whom\nI might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my\nterms.\"\n\nEmma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from\ntheir knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her mind,\nhad ever crossed his; and whether his compliments were to be considered\nas marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must see more\nof him to understand his ways; at present she only felt they were\nagreeable.\n\nShe had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about. His quick\neye she detected again and again glancing towards them with a happy\nexpression; and even, when he might have determined not to look, she was\nconfident that he was often listening.\n\nHer own father's perfect exemption from any thought of the kind, the\nentire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion,\nwas a most comfortable circumstance. Happily he was not farther from\napproving matrimony than from foreseeing it.--Though always objecting\nto every marriage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand from\nthe apprehension of any; it seemed as if he could not think so ill of\nany two persons' understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it\nwere proved against them. She blessed the favouring blindness. He could\nnow, without the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise, without a\nglance forward at any possible treachery in his guest, give way to all\nhis natural kind-hearted civility in solicitous inquiries after Mr.\nFrank Churchill's accommodation on his journey, through the sad evils\nof sleeping two nights on the road, and express very genuine unmixed\nanxiety to know that he had certainly escaped catching cold--which,\nhowever, he could not allow him to feel quite assured of himself till\nafter another night.\n\nA reasonable visit paid, Mr. Weston began to move.--\"He must be going.\nHe had business at the Crown about his hay, and a great many errands for\nMrs. Weston at Ford's, but he need not hurry any body else.\" His son,\ntoo well bred to hear the hint, rose immediately also, saying,\n\n\"As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the opportunity\nof paying a visit, which must be paid some day or other, and therefore\nmay as well be paid now. I have the honour of being acquainted with\na neighbour of yours, (turning to Emma,) a lady residing in or near\nHighbury; a family of the name of Fairfax. I shall have no difficulty,\nI suppose, in finding the house; though Fairfax, I believe, is not\nthe proper name--I should rather say Barnes, or Bates. Do you know any\nfamily of that name?\"\n\n\"To be sure we do,\" cried his father; \"Mrs. Bates--we passed her\nhouse--I saw Miss Bates at the window. True, true, you are acquainted\nwith Miss Fairfax; I remember you knew her at Weymouth, and a fine girl\nshe is. Call upon her, by all means.\"\n\n\"There is no necessity for my calling this morning,\" said the young man;\n\"another day would do as well; but there was that degree of acquaintance\nat Weymouth which--\"\n\n\"Oh! go to-day, go to-day. Do not defer it. What is right to be done\ncannot be done too soon. And, besides, I must give you a hint, Frank;\nany want of attention to her _here_ should be carefully avoided. You saw\nher with the Campbells, when she was the equal of every body she mixed\nwith, but here she is with a poor old grandmother, who has barely enough\nto live on. If you do not call early it will be a slight.\"\n\nThe son looked convinced.\n\n\"I have heard her speak of the acquaintance,\" said Emma; \"she is a very\nelegant young woman.\"\n\nHe agreed to it, but with so quiet a \"Yes,\" as inclined her almost to\ndoubt his real concurrence; and yet there must be a very distinct sort\nof elegance for the fashionable world, if Jane Fairfax could be thought\nonly ordinarily gifted with it.\n\n\"If you were never particularly struck by her manners before,\" said she,\n\"I think you will to-day. You will see her to advantage; see her and\nhear her--no, I am afraid you will not hear her at all, for she has an\naunt who never holds her tongue.\"\n\n\"You are acquainted with Miss Jane Fairfax, sir, are you?\" said Mr.\nWoodhouse, always the last to make his way in conversation; \"then give\nme leave to assure you that you will find her a very agreeable young\nlady. She is staying here on a visit to her grandmama and aunt, very\nworthy people; I have known them all my life. They will be extremely\nglad to see you, I am sure; and one of my servants shall go with you to\nshew you the way.\"\n\n\"My dear sir, upon no account in the world; my father can direct me.\"\n\n\"But your father is not going so far; he is only going to the Crown,\nquite on the other side of the street, and there are a great many\nhouses; you might be very much at a loss, and it is a very dirty walk,\nunless you keep on the footpath; but my coachman can tell you where you\nhad best cross the street.\"\n\nMr. Frank Churchill still declined it, looking as serious as he could,\nand his father gave his hearty support by calling out, \"My good friend,\nthis is quite unnecessary; Frank knows a puddle of water when he sees\nit, and as to Mrs. Bates's, he may get there from the Crown in a hop,\nstep, and jump.\"\n\nThey were permitted to go alone; and with a cordial nod from one, and a\ngraceful bow from the other, the two gentlemen took leave. Emma remained\nvery well pleased with this beginning of the acquaintance, and could now\nengage to think of them all at Randalls any hour of the day, with full\nconfidence in their comfort.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nThe next morning brought Mr. Frank Churchill again. He came with Mrs.\nWeston, to whom and to Highbury he seemed to take very cordially. He had\nbeen sitting with her, it appeared, most companionably at home, till\nher usual hour of exercise; and on being desired to chuse their walk,\nimmediately fixed on Highbury.--\"He did not doubt there being very\npleasant walks in every direction, but if left to him, he should always\nchuse the same. Highbury, that airy, cheerful, happy-looking Highbury,\nwould be his constant attraction.\"--Highbury, with Mrs. Weston, stood\nfor Hartfield; and she trusted to its bearing the same construction with\nhim. They walked thither directly.\n\nEmma had hardly expected them: for Mr. Weston, who had called in for\nhalf a minute, in order to hear that his son was very handsome, knew\nnothing of their plans; and it was an agreeable surprize to her,\ntherefore, to perceive them walking up to the house together, arm in\narm. She was wanting to see him again, and especially to see him in\ncompany with Mrs. Weston, upon his behaviour to whom her opinion of him\nwas to depend. If he were deficient there, nothing should make amends\nfor it. But on seeing them together, she became perfectly satisfied. It\nwas not merely in fine words or hyperbolical compliment that he paid his\nduty; nothing could be more proper or pleasing than his whole manner to\nher--nothing could more agreeably denote his wish of considering her as\na friend and securing her affection. And there was time enough for Emma\nto form a reasonable judgment, as their visit included all the rest of\nthe morning. They were all three walking about together for an hour\nor two--first round the shrubberies of Hartfield, and afterwards\nin Highbury. He was delighted with every thing; admired Hartfield\nsufficiently for Mr. Woodhouse's ear; and when their going farther was\nresolved on, confessed his wish to be made acquainted with the whole\nvillage, and found matter of commendation and interest much oftener than\nEmma could have supposed.\n\nSome of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable feelings. He\nbegged to be shewn the house which his father had lived in so long, and\nwhich had been the home of his father's father; and on recollecting that\nan old woman who had nursed him was still living, walked in quest of\nher cottage from one end of the street to the other; and though in\nsome points of pursuit or observation there was no positive merit, they\nshewed, altogether, a good-will towards Highbury in general, which must\nbe very like a merit to those he was with.\n\nEmma watched and decided, that with such feelings as were now shewn, it\ncould not be fairly supposed that he had been ever voluntarily absenting\nhimself; that he had not been acting a part, or making a parade of\ninsincere professions; and that Mr. Knightley certainly had not done him\njustice.\n\nTheir first pause was at the Crown Inn, an inconsiderable house, though\nthe principal one of the sort, where a couple of pair of post-horses\nwere kept, more for the convenience of the neighbourhood than from any\nrun on the road; and his companions had not expected to be detained by\nany interest excited there; but in passing it they gave the history of\nthe large room visibly added; it had been built many years ago for\na ball-room, and while the neighbourhood had been in a particularly\npopulous, dancing state, had been occasionally used as such;--but such\nbrilliant days had long passed away, and now the highest purpose for\nwhich it was ever wanted was to accommodate a whist club established\namong the gentlemen and half-gentlemen of the place. He was immediately\ninterested. Its character as a ball-room caught him; and instead of\npassing on, he stopt for several minutes at the two superior sashed\nwindows which were open, to look in and contemplate its capabilities,\nand lament that its original purpose should have ceased. He saw no fault\nin the room, he would acknowledge none which they suggested. No, it\nwas long enough, broad enough, handsome enough. It would hold the\nvery number for comfort. They ought to have balls there at least every\nfortnight through the winter. Why had not Miss Woodhouse revived\nthe former good old days of the room?--She who could do any thing in\nHighbury! The want of proper families in the place, and the conviction\nthat none beyond the place and its immediate environs could be tempted\nto attend, were mentioned; but he was not satisfied. He could not be\npersuaded that so many good-looking houses as he saw around him, could\nnot furnish numbers enough for such a meeting; and even when particulars\nwere given and families described, he was still unwilling to admit that\nthe inconvenience of such a mixture would be any thing, or that there\nwould be the smallest difficulty in every body's returning into their\nproper place the next morning. He argued like a young man very much bent\non dancing; and Emma was rather surprized to see the constitution of\nthe Weston prevail so decidedly against the habits of the Churchills.\nHe seemed to have all the life and spirit, cheerful feelings, and social\ninclinations of his father, and nothing of the pride or reserve of\nEnscombe. Of pride, indeed, there was, perhaps, scarcely enough; his\nindifference to a confusion of rank, bordered too much on inelegance of\nmind. He could be no judge, however, of the evil he was holding cheap.\nIt was but an effusion of lively spirits.\n\nAt last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the Crown;\nand being now almost facing the house where the Bateses lodged, Emma\nrecollected his intended visit the day before, and asked him if he had\npaid it.\n\n\"Yes, oh! yes\"--he replied; \"I was just going to mention it. A very\nsuccessful visit:--I saw all the three ladies; and felt very much\nobliged to you for your preparatory hint. If the talking aunt had taken\nme quite by surprize, it must have been the death of me. As it was, I\nwas only betrayed into paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes\nwould have been all that was necessary, perhaps all that was proper; and\nI had told my father I should certainly be at home before him--but there\nwas no getting away, no pause; and, to my utter astonishment, I found,\nwhen he (finding me nowhere else) joined me there at last, that I had\nbeen actually sitting with them very nearly three-quarters of an hour.\nThe good lady had not given me the possibility of escape before.\"\n\n\"And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?\"\n\n\"Ill, very ill--that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look\nill. But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it? Ladies\ncan never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so\npale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health.--A most\ndeplorable want of complexion.\"\n\nEmma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss Fairfax's\ncomplexion. \"It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not\nallow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness and\ndelicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of\nher face.\" He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he had\nheard many people say the same--but yet he must confess, that to him\nnothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health. Where\nfeatures were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them all;\nand where they were good, the effect was--fortunately he need not\nattempt to describe what the effect was.\n\n\"Well,\" said Emma, \"there is no disputing about taste.--At least you\nadmire her except her complexion.\"\n\nHe shook his head and laughed.--\"I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her\ncomplexion.\"\n\n\"Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same society?\"\n\nAt this moment they were approaching Ford's, and he hastily exclaimed,\n\"Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of\ntheir lives, as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he\nsays, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford's.\nIf it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove\nmyself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must\nbuy something at Ford's. It will be taking out my freedom.--I dare say\nthey sell gloves.\"\n\n\"Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will\nbe adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because\nyou were Mr. Weston's son--but lay out half a guinea at Ford's, and your\npopularity will stand upon your own virtues.\"\n\nThey went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of \"Men's Beavers\"\nand \"York Tan\" were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he\nsaid--\"But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me,\nyou were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my _amor_\n_patriae_. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of\npublic fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in\nprivate life.\"\n\n\"I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her\nparty at Weymouth.\"\n\n\"And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a\nvery unfair one. It is always the lady's right to decide on the degree\nof acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.--I\nshall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow.\"\n\n\"Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But\nher account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very\nreserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any\nbody, that I really think you may say what you like of your acquaintance\nwith her.\"\n\n\"May I, indeed?--Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so\nwell. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a\nlittle in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set.\nColonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly,\nwarm-hearted woman. I like them all.\"\n\n\"You know Miss Fairfax's situation in life, I conclude; what she is\ndestined to be?\"\n\n\"Yes--(rather hesitatingly)--I believe I do.\"\n\n\"You get upon delicate subjects, Emma,\" said Mrs. Weston smiling;\n\"remember that I am here.--Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say\nwhen you speak of Miss Fairfax's situation in life. I will move a little\nfarther off.\"\n\n\"I certainly do forget to think of _her_,\" said Emma, \"as having ever\nbeen any thing but my friend and my dearest friend.\"\n\nHe looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment.\n\nWhen the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again, \"Did\nyou ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?\" said Frank\nChurchill.\n\n\"Ever hear her!\" repeated Emma. \"You forget how much she belongs to\nHighbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began.\nShe plays charmingly.\"\n\n\"You think so, do you?--I wanted the opinion of some one who\ncould really judge. She appeared to me to play well, that is, with\nconsiderable taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself.--I am\nexcessively fond of music, but without the smallest skill or right\nof judging of any body's performance.--I have been used to hear her's\nadmired; and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:--a\nman, a very musical man, and in love with another woman--engaged to\nher--on the point of marriage--would yet never ask that other woman\nto sit down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit down\ninstead--never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other.\nThat, I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some proof.\"\n\n\"Proof indeed!\" said Emma, highly amused.--\"Mr. Dixon is very musical,\nis he? We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you,\nthan Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year.\"\n\n\"Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a\nvery strong proof.\"\n\n\"Certainly--very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger\nthan, if _I_ had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable\nto me. I could not excuse a man's having more music than love--more ear\nthan eye--a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings.\nHow did Miss Campbell appear to like it?\"\n\n\"It was her very particular friend, you know.\"\n\n\"Poor comfort!\" said Emma, laughing. \"One would rather have a stranger\npreferred than one's very particular friend--with a stranger it might\nnot recur again--but the misery of having a very particular friend\nalways at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!--Poor\nMrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland.\"\n\n\"You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she\nreally did not seem to feel it.\"\n\n\"So much the better--or so much the worse:--I do not know which. But\nbe it sweetness or be it stupidity in her--quickness of friendship, or\ndulness of feeling--there was one person, I think, who must have felt\nit: Miss Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous\ndistinction.\"\n\n\"As to that--I do not--\"\n\n\"Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax's\nsensations from you, or from any body else. They are known to no human\nbeing, I guess, but herself. But if she continued to play whenever she\nwas asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chuses.\"\n\n\"There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all--\"\nhe began rather quickly, but checking himself, added, \"however, it is\nimpossible for me to say on what terms they really were--how it might\nall be behind the scenes. I can only say that there was smoothness\noutwardly. But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must be\na better judge of her character, and of how she is likely to conduct\nherself in critical situations, than I can be.\"\n\n\"I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have been children\nand women together; and it is natural to suppose that we should be\nintimate,--that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited\nher friends. But we never did. I hardly know how it has happened; a\nlittle, perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to take\ndisgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always was,\nby her aunt and grandmother, and all their set. And then, her reserve--I\nnever could attach myself to any one so completely reserved.\"\n\n\"It is a most repulsive quality, indeed,\" said he. \"Oftentimes very\nconvenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There is safety in reserve,\nbut no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person.\"\n\n\"Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then the attraction\nmay be the greater. But I must be more in want of a friend, or an\nagreeable companion, than I have yet been, to take the trouble of\nconquering any body's reserve to procure one. Intimacy between Miss\nFairfax and me is quite out of the question. I have no reason to think\nill of her--not the least--except that such extreme and perpetual\ncautiousness of word and manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea\nabout any body, is apt to suggest suspicions of there being something to\nconceal.\"\n\nHe perfectly agreed with her: and after walking together so long, and\nthinking so much alike, Emma felt herself so well acquainted with him,\nthat she could hardly believe it to be only their second meeting. He was\nnot exactly what she had expected; less of the man of the world in some\nof his notions, less of the spoiled child of fortune, therefore better\nthan she had expected. His ideas seemed more moderate--his feelings\nwarmer. She was particularly struck by his manner of considering Mr.\nElton's house, which, as well as the church, he would go and look at,\nand would not join them in finding much fault with. No, he could not\nbelieve it a bad house; not such a house as a man was to be pitied for\nhaving. If it were to be shared with the woman he loved, he could not\nthink any man to be pitied for having that house. There must be ample\nroom in it for every real comfort. The man must be a blockhead who\nwanted more.\n\nMrs. Weston laughed, and said he did not know what he was talking about.\nUsed only to a large house himself, and without ever thinking how many\nadvantages and accommodations were attached to its size, he could be no\njudge of the privations inevitably belonging to a small one. But Emma,\nin her own mind, determined that he _did_ know what he was talking\nabout, and that he shewed a very amiable inclination to settle early in\nlife, and to marry, from worthy motives. He might not be aware of the\ninroads on domestic peace to be occasioned by no housekeeper's room, or\na bad butler's pantry, but no doubt he did perfectly feel that Enscombe\ncould not make him happy, and that whenever he were attached, he would\nwillingly give up much of wealth to be allowed an early establishment.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nEmma's very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a little shaken the\nfollowing day, by hearing that he was gone off to London, merely to have\nhis hair cut. A sudden freak seemed to have seized him at breakfast, and\nhe had sent for a chaise and set off, intending to return to dinner,\nbut with no more important view that appeared than having his hair cut.\nThere was certainly no harm in his travelling sixteen miles twice over\non such an errand; but there was an air of foppery and nonsense in it\nwhich she could not approve. It did not accord with the rationality of\nplan, the moderation in expense, or even the unselfish warmth of heart,\nwhich she had believed herself to discern in him yesterday. Vanity,\nextravagance, love of change, restlessness of temper, which must be\ndoing something, good or bad; heedlessness as to the pleasure of his\nfather and Mrs. Weston, indifferent as to how his conduct might appear\nin general; he became liable to all these charges. His father only\ncalled him a coxcomb, and thought it a very good story; but that Mrs.\nWeston did not like it, was clear enough, by her passing it over as\nquickly as possible, and making no other comment than that \"all young\npeople would have their little whims.\"\n\nWith the exception of this little blot, Emma found that his visit\nhitherto had given her friend only good ideas of him. Mrs. Weston\nwas very ready to say how attentive and pleasant a companion he made\nhimself--how much she saw to like in his disposition altogether. He\nappeared to have a very open temper--certainly a very cheerful and\nlively one; she could observe nothing wrong in his notions, a great deal\ndecidedly right; he spoke of his uncle with warm regard, was fond of\ntalking of him--said he would be the best man in the world if he were\nleft to himself; and though there was no being attached to the aunt, he\nacknowledged her kindness with gratitude, and seemed to mean always to\nspeak of her with respect. This was all very promising; and, but for\nsuch an unfortunate fancy for having his hair cut, there was nothing to\ndenote him unworthy of the distinguished honour which her imagination\nhad given him; the honour, if not of being really in love with her,\nof being at least very near it, and saved only by her own\nindifference--(for still her resolution held of never marrying)--the\nhonour, in short, of being marked out for her by all their joint\nacquaintance.\n\nMr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account which must\nhave some weight. He gave her to understand that Frank admired her\nextremely--thought her very beautiful and very charming; and with so\nmuch to be said for him altogether, she found she must not judge him\nharshly. As Mrs. Weston observed, \"all young people would have their\nlittle whims.\"\n\nThere was one person among his new acquaintance in Surry, not so\nleniently disposed. In general he was judged, throughout the parishes of\nDonwell and Highbury, with great candour; liberal allowances were made\nfor the little excesses of such a handsome young man--one who smiled so\noften and bowed so well; but there was one spirit among them not to be\nsoftened, from its power of censure, by bows or smiles--Mr. Knightley.\nThe circumstance was told him at Hartfield; for the moment, he was\nsilent; but Emma heard him almost immediately afterwards say to himself,\nover a newspaper he held in his hand, \"Hum! just the trifling, silly\nfellow I took him for.\" She had half a mind to resent; but an instant's\nobservation convinced her that it was really said only to relieve his\nown feelings, and not meant to provoke; and therefore she let it pass.\n\nAlthough in one instance the bearers of not good tidings, Mr. and\nMrs. Weston's visit this morning was in another respect particularly\nopportune. Something occurred while they were at Hartfield, to make Emma\nwant their advice; and, which was still more lucky, she wanted exactly\nthe advice they gave.\n\nThis was the occurrence:--The Coles had been settled some years in\nHighbury, and were very good sort of people--friendly, liberal, and\nunpretending; but, on the other hand, they were of low origin, in trade,\nand only moderately genteel. On their first coming into the country,\nthey had lived in proportion to their income, quietly, keeping little\ncompany, and that little unexpensively; but the last year or two had\nbrought them a considerable increase of means--the house in town had\nyielded greater profits, and fortune in general had smiled on them. With\ntheir wealth, their views increased; their want of a larger house, their\ninclination for more company. They added to their house, to their number\nof servants, to their expenses of every sort; and by this time were,\nin fortune and style of living, second only to the family at Hartfield.\nTheir love of society, and their new dining-room, prepared every body\nfor their keeping dinner-company; and a few parties, chiefly among the\nsingle men, had already taken place. The regular and best families Emma\ncould hardly suppose they would presume to invite--neither Donwell, nor\nHartfield, nor Randalls. Nothing should tempt _her_ to go, if they did;\nand she regretted that her father's known habits would be giving\nher refusal less meaning than she could wish. The Coles were very\nrespectable in their way, but they ought to be taught that it was not\nfor them to arrange the terms on which the superior families would visit\nthem. This lesson, she very much feared, they would receive only from\nherself; she had little hope of Mr. Knightley, none of Mr. Weston.\n\nBut she had made up her mind how to meet this presumption so many weeks\nbefore it appeared, that when the insult came at last, it found her\nvery differently affected. Donwell and Randalls had received their\ninvitation, and none had come for her father and herself; and Mrs.\nWeston's accounting for it with \"I suppose they will not take the\nliberty with you; they know you do not dine out,\" was not quite\nsufficient. She felt that she should like to have had the power of\nrefusal; and afterwards, as the idea of the party to be assembled there,\nconsisting precisely of those whose society was dearest to her, occurred\nagain and again, she did not know that she might not have been tempted\nto accept. Harriet was to be there in the evening, and the Bateses. They\nhad been speaking of it as they walked about Highbury the day before,\nand Frank Churchill had most earnestly lamented her absence. Might\nnot the evening end in a dance? had been a question of his. The bare\npossibility of it acted as a farther irritation on her spirits; and\nher being left in solitary grandeur, even supposing the omission to be\nintended as a compliment, was but poor comfort.\n\nIt was the arrival of this very invitation while the Westons were at\nHartfield, which made their presence so acceptable; for though her first\nremark, on reading it, was that \"of course it must be declined,\" she so\nvery soon proceeded to ask them what they advised her to do, that their\nadvice for her going was most prompt and successful.\n\nShe owned that, considering every thing, she was not absolutely\nwithout inclination for the party. The Coles expressed themselves so\nproperly--there was so much real attention in the manner of it--so much\nconsideration for her father. \"They would have solicited the honour\nearlier, but had been waiting the arrival of a folding-screen from\nLondon, which they hoped might keep Mr. Woodhouse from any draught of\nair, and therefore induce him the more readily to give them the honour\nof his company.\" Upon the whole, she was very persuadable; and it being\nbriefly settled among themselves how it might be done without neglecting\nhis comfort--how certainly Mrs. Goddard, if not Mrs. Bates, might be\ndepended on for bearing him company--Mr. Woodhouse was to be talked\ninto an acquiescence of his daughter's going out to dinner on a day now\nnear at hand, and spending the whole evening away from him. As for _his_\ngoing, Emma did not wish him to think it possible, the hours would be\ntoo late, and the party too numerous. He was soon pretty well resigned.\n\n\"I am not fond of dinner-visiting,\" said he--\"I never was. No more is\nEmma. Late hours do not agree with us. I am sorry Mr. and Mrs. Cole\nshould have done it. I think it would be much better if they would come\nin one afternoon next summer, and take their tea with us--take us\nin their afternoon walk; which they might do, as our hours are so\nreasonable, and yet get home without being out in the damp of the\nevening. The dews of a summer evening are what I would not expose any\nbody to. However, as they are so very desirous to have dear Emma dine\nwith them, and as you will both be there, and Mr. Knightley too, to take\ncare of her, I cannot wish to prevent it, provided the weather be what\nit ought, neither damp, nor cold, nor windy.\" Then turning to Mrs.\nWeston, with a look of gentle reproach--\"Ah! Miss Taylor, if you had not\nmarried, you would have staid at home with me.\"\n\n\"Well, sir,\" cried Mr. Weston, \"as I took Miss Taylor away, it is\nincumbent on me to supply her place, if I can; and I will step to Mrs.\nGoddard in a moment, if you wish it.\"\n\nBut the idea of any thing to be done in a _moment_, was increasing,\nnot lessening, Mr. Woodhouse's agitation. The ladies knew better how\nto allay it. Mr. Weston must be quiet, and every thing deliberately\narranged.\n\nWith this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon composed enough for talking\nas usual. \"He should be happy to see Mrs. Goddard. He had a great regard\nfor Mrs. Goddard; and Emma should write a line, and invite her. James\ncould take the note. But first of all, there must be an answer written\nto Mrs. Cole.\"\n\n\"You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as possible. You will say\nthat I am quite an invalid, and go no where, and therefore must decline\ntheir obliging invitation; beginning with my _compliments_, of course.\nBut you will do every thing right. I need not tell you what is to be\ndone. We must remember to let James know that the carriage will be\nwanted on Tuesday. I shall have no fears for you with him. We have never\nbeen there above once since the new approach was made; but still I have\nno doubt that James will take you very safely. And when you get there,\nyou must tell him at what time you would have him come for you again;\nand you had better name an early hour. You will not like staying late.\nYou will get very tired when tea is over.\"\n\n\"But you would not wish me to come away before I am tired, papa?\"\n\n\"Oh! no, my love; but you will soon be tired. There will be a great many\npeople talking at once. You will not like the noise.\"\n\n\"But, my dear sir,\" cried Mr. Weston, \"if Emma comes away early, it will\nbe breaking up the party.\"\n\n\"And no great harm if it does,\" said Mr. Woodhouse. \"The sooner every\nparty breaks up, the better.\"\n\n\"But you do not consider how it may appear to the Coles. Emma's going\naway directly after tea might be giving offence. They are good-natured\npeople, and think little of their own claims; but still they must\nfeel that any body's hurrying away is no great compliment; and Miss\nWoodhouse's doing it would be more thought of than any other person's in\nthe room. You would not wish to disappoint and mortify the Coles, I am\nsure, sir; friendly, good sort of people as ever lived, and who have\nbeen your neighbours these _ten_ years.\"\n\n\"No, upon no account in the world, Mr. Weston; I am much obliged to\nyou for reminding me. I should be extremely sorry to be giving them any\npain. I know what worthy people they are. Perry tells me that Mr. Cole\nnever touches malt liquor. You would not think it to look at him, but\nhe is bilious--Mr. Cole is very bilious. No, I would not be the means\nof giving them any pain. My dear Emma, we must consider this. I am sure,\nrather than run the risk of hurting Mr. and Mrs. Cole, you would stay a\nlittle longer than you might wish. You will not regard being tired. You\nwill be perfectly safe, you know, among your friends.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, papa. I have no fears at all for myself; and I should have no\nscruples of staying as late as Mrs. Weston, but on your account. I am\nonly afraid of your sitting up for me. I am not afraid of your not being\nexceedingly comfortable with Mrs. Goddard. She loves piquet, you\nknow; but when she is gone home, I am afraid you will be sitting up by\nyourself, instead of going to bed at your usual time--and the idea of\nthat would entirely destroy my comfort. You must promise me not to sit\nup.\"\n\nHe did, on the condition of some promises on her side: such as that,\nif she came home cold, she would be sure to warm herself thoroughly; if\nhungry, that she would take something to eat; that her own maid should\nsit up for her; and that Serle and the butler should see that every\nthing were safe in the house, as usual.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nFrank Churchill came back again; and if he kept his father's dinner\nwaiting, it was not known at Hartfield; for Mrs. Weston was too anxious\nfor his being a favourite with Mr. Woodhouse, to betray any imperfection\nwhich could be concealed.\n\nHe came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at himself with a very\ngood grace, but without seeming really at all ashamed of what he had\ndone. He had no reason to wish his hair longer, to conceal any confusion\nof face; no reason to wish the money unspent, to improve his spirits.\nHe was quite as undaunted and as lively as ever; and, after seeing him,\nEmma thus moralised to herself:--\n\n\"I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly silly things\ndo cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent\nway. Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not always folly.--It\ndepends upon the character of those who handle it. Mr. Knightley, he is\n_not_ a trifling, silly young man. If he were, he would have done this\ndifferently. He would either have gloried in the achievement, or\nbeen ashamed of it. There would have been either the ostentation of\na coxcomb, or the evasions of a mind too weak to defend its own\nvanities.--No, I am perfectly sure that he is not trifling or silly.\"\n\nWith Tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing him again, and for\na longer time than hitherto; of judging of his general manners, and by\ninference, of the meaning of his manners towards herself; of guessing\nhow soon it might be necessary for her to throw coldness into her air;\nand of fancying what the observations of all those might be, who were\nnow seeing them together for the first time.\n\nShe meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being laid at Mr.\nCole's; and without being able to forget that among the failings of Mr.\nElton, even in the days of his favour, none had disturbed her more than\nhis propensity to dine with Mr. Cole.\n\nHer father's comfort was amply secured, Mrs. Bates as well as Mrs.\nGoddard being able to come; and her last pleasing duty, before she left\nthe house, was to pay her respects to them as they sat together after\ndinner; and while her father was fondly noticing the beauty of her\ndress, to make the two ladies all the amends in her power, by helping\nthem to large slices of cake and full glasses of wine, for whatever\nunwilling self-denial his care of their constitution might have obliged\nthem to practise during the meal.--She had provided a plentiful dinner\nfor them; she wished she could know that they had been allowed to eat\nit.\n\nShe followed another carriage to Mr. Cole's door; and was pleased to see\nthat it was Mr. Knightley's; for Mr. Knightley keeping no horses,\nhaving little spare money and a great deal of health, activity, and\nindependence, was too apt, in Emma's opinion, to get about as he could,\nand not use his carriage so often as became the owner of Donwell Abbey.\nShe had an opportunity now of speaking her approbation while warm from\nher heart, for he stopped to hand her out.\n\n\"This is coming as you should do,\" said she; \"like a gentleman.--I am\nquite glad to see you.\"\n\nHe thanked her, observing, \"How lucky that we should arrive at the same\nmoment! for, if we had met first in the drawing-room, I doubt whether\nyou would have discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usual.--You\nmight not have distinguished how I came, by my look or manner.\"\n\n\"Yes I should, I am sure I should. There is always a look of\nconsciousness or bustle when people come in a way which they know to be\nbeneath them. You think you carry it off very well, I dare say, but\nwith you it is a sort of bravado, an air of affected unconcern; I always\nobserve it whenever I meet you under those circumstances. _Now_ you have\nnothing to try for. You are not afraid of being supposed ashamed. You\nare not striving to look taller than any body else. _Now_ I shall really\nbe very happy to walk into the same room with you.\"\n\n\"Nonsensical girl!\" was his reply, but not at all in anger.\n\nEmma had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest of the party as\nwith Mr. Knightley. She was received with a cordial respect which could\nnot but please, and given all the consequence she could wish for.\nWhen the Westons arrived, the kindest looks of love, the strongest of\nadmiration were for her, from both husband and wife; the son approached\nher with a cheerful eagerness which marked her as his peculiar object,\nand at dinner she found him seated by her--and, as she firmly believed,\nnot without some dexterity on his side.\n\nThe party was rather large, as it included one other family, a proper\nunobjectionable country family, whom the Coles had the advantage of\nnaming among their acquaintance, and the male part of Mr. Cox's family,\nthe lawyer of Highbury. The less worthy females were to come in the\nevening, with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Smith; but already,\nat dinner, they were too numerous for any subject of conversation to be\ngeneral; and, while politics and Mr. Elton were talked over, Emma could\nfairly surrender all her attention to the pleasantness of her neighbour.\nThe first remote sound to which she felt herself obliged to attend, was\nthe name of Jane Fairfax. Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating something of\nher that was expected to be very interesting. She listened, and found\nit well worth listening to. That very dear part of Emma, her fancy,\nreceived an amusing supply. Mrs. Cole was telling that she had been\ncalling on Miss Bates, and as soon as she entered the room had\nbeen struck by the sight of a pianoforte--a very elegant looking\ninstrument--not a grand, but a large-sized square pianoforte; and the\nsubstance of the story, the end of all the dialogue which ensued of\nsurprize, and inquiry, and congratulations on her side, and explanations\non Miss Bates's, was, that this pianoforte had arrived from\nBroadwood's the day before, to the great astonishment of both aunt and\nniece--entirely unexpected; that at first, by Miss Bates's account,\nJane herself was quite at a loss, quite bewildered to think who could\npossibly have ordered it--but now, they were both perfectly satisfied\nthat it could be from only one quarter;--of course it must be from\nColonel Campbell.\n\n\"One can suppose nothing else,\" added Mrs. Cole, \"and I was only\nsurprized that there could ever have been a doubt. But Jane, it seems,\nhad a letter from them very lately, and not a word was said about it.\nShe knows their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as\nany reason for their not meaning to make the present. They might chuse\nto surprize her.\"\n\nMrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the\nsubject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell,\nand equally rejoiced that such a present had been made; and there were\nenough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and still\nlisten to Mrs. Cole.\n\n\"I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has given me\nmore satisfaction!--It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who\nplays so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed quite\na shame, especially considering how many houses there are where fine\ninstruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like giving ourselves\na slap, to be sure! and it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole,\nI really was ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in the\ndrawing-room, while I do not know one note from another, and our little\ngirls, who are but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing of\nit; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not\nany thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old\nspinet in the world, to amuse herself with.--I was saying this to\nMr. Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so\nparticularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself\nin the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so\nobliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and that\nreally is the reason why the instrument was bought--or else I am sure\nwe ought to be ashamed of it.--We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse\nmay be prevailed with to try it this evening.\"\n\nMiss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing\nmore was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole's, turned\nto Frank Churchill.\n\n\"Why do you smile?\" said she.\n\n\"Nay, why do you?\"\n\n\"Me!--I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell's being so rich\nand so liberal.--It is a handsome present.\"\n\n\"Very.\"\n\n\"I rather wonder that it was never made before.\"\n\n\"Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before.\"\n\n\"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must\nnow be shut up in London, untouched by any body.\"\n\n\"That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs.\nBates's house.\"\n\n\"You may _say_ what you chuse--but your countenance testifies that your\n_thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine.\"\n\n\"I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for\nacuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably\nsuspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what\nthere is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can\nbe?\"\n\n\"What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon. She must\nknow as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be; and\nperhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a young\nwoman's scheme than an elderly man's. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare say. I\ntold you that your suspicions would guide mine.\"\n\n\"If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend _Mr_. Dixon in\nthem.\"\n\n\"Mr. Dixon.--Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the\njoint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the other day, you\nknow, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance.\"\n\n\"Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an idea which I had\nentertained before.--I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions\nof either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting either\nthat, after making his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune\nto fall in love with _her_, or that he became conscious of a little\nattachment on her side. One might guess twenty things without guessing\nexactly the right; but I am sure there must be a particular cause for\nher chusing to come to Highbury instead of going with the Campbells\nto Ireland. Here, she must be leading a life of privation and penance;\nthere it would have been all enjoyment. As to the pretence of trying her\nnative air, I look upon that as a mere excuse.--In the summer it might\nhave passed; but what can any body's native air do for them in the\nmonths of January, February, and March? Good fires and carriages would\nbe much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and I dare\nsay in her's. I do not require you to adopt all my suspicions, though\nyou make so noble a profession of doing it, but I honestly tell you what\nthey are.\"\n\n\"And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability. Mr. Dixon's\npreference of her music to her friend's, I can answer for being very\ndecided.\"\n\n\"And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that?--A water\nparty; and by some accident she was falling overboard. He caught her.\"\n\n\"He did. I was there--one of the party.\"\n\n\"Were you really?--Well!--But you observed nothing of course, for it\nseems to be a new idea to you.--If I had been there, I think I should\nhave made some discoveries.\"\n\n\"I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but the fact, that\nMiss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and that Mr. Dixon caught\nher.--It was the work of a moment. And though the consequent shock and\nalarm was very great and much more durable--indeed I believe it was\nhalf an hour before any of us were comfortable again--yet that was too\ngeneral a sensation for any thing of peculiar anxiety to be\nobservable. I do not mean to say, however, that you might not have made\ndiscoveries.\"\n\nThe conversation was here interrupted. They were called on to share\nin the awkwardness of a rather long interval between the courses, and\nobliged to be as formal and as orderly as the others; but when the table\nwas again safely covered, when every corner dish was placed exactly\nright, and occupation and ease were generally restored, Emma said,\n\n\"The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me. I wanted to know\na little more, and this tells me quite enough. Depend upon it, we shall\nsoon hear that it is a present from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon.\"\n\n\"And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge of it we must\nconclude it to come from the Campbells.\"\n\n\"No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells. Miss Fairfax knows it is\nnot from the Campbells, or they would have been guessed at first. She\nwould not have been puzzled, had she dared fix on them. I may not have\nconvinced you perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced myself that Mr.\nDixon is a principal in the business.\"\n\n\"Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced. Your reasonings\ncarry my judgment along with them entirely. At first, while I supposed\nyou satisfied that Colonel Campbell was the giver, I saw it only as\npaternal kindness, and thought it the most natural thing in the world.\nBut when you mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how much more probable that it\nshould be the tribute of warm female friendship. And now I can see it in\nno other light than as an offering of love.\"\n\nThere was no occasion to press the matter farther. The conviction seemed\nreal; he looked as if he felt it. She said no more, other subjects\ntook their turn; and the rest of the dinner passed away; the dessert\nsucceeded, the children came in, and were talked to and admired amid the\nusual rate of conversation; a few clever things said, a few downright\nsilly, but by much the larger proportion neither the one nor the\nother--nothing worse than everyday remarks, dull repetitions, old news,\nand heavy jokes.\n\nThe ladies had not been long in the drawing-room, before the other\nladies, in their different divisions, arrived. Emma watched the entree\nof her own particular little friend; and if she could not exult in her\ndignity and grace, she could not only love the blooming sweetness and\nthe artless manner, but could most heartily rejoice in that light,\ncheerful, unsentimental disposition which allowed her so many\nalleviations of pleasure, in the midst of the pangs of disappointed\naffection. There she sat--and who would have guessed how many tears she\nhad been lately shedding? To be in company, nicely dressed herself and\nseeing others nicely dressed, to sit and smile and look pretty, and say\nnothing, was enough for the happiness of the present hour. Jane Fairfax\ndid look and move superior; but Emma suspected she might have been\nglad to change feelings with Harriet, very glad to have purchased the\nmortification of having loved--yes, of having loved even Mr. Elton in\nvain--by the surrender of all the dangerous pleasure of knowing herself\nbeloved by the husband of her friend.\n\nIn so large a party it was not necessary that Emma should approach her.\nShe did not wish to speak of the pianoforte, she felt too much in the\nsecret herself, to think the appearance of curiosity or interest fair,\nand therefore purposely kept at a distance; but by the others, the\nsubject was almost immediately introduced, and she saw the blush of\nconsciousness with which congratulations were received, the blush\nof guilt which accompanied the name of \"my excellent friend Colonel\nCampbell.\"\n\nMrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was particularly interested\nby the circumstance, and Emma could not help being amused at her\nperseverance in dwelling on the subject; and having so much to ask and\nto say as to tone, touch, and pedal, totally unsuspicious of that wish\nof saying as little about it as possible, which she plainly read in the\nfair heroine's countenance.\n\nThey were soon joined by some of the gentlemen; and the very first\nof the early was Frank Churchill. In he walked, the first and the\nhandsomest; and after paying his compliments en passant to Miss Bates\nand her niece, made his way directly to the opposite side of the circle,\nwhere sat Miss Woodhouse; and till he could find a seat by her, would\nnot sit at all. Emma divined what every body present must be thinking.\nShe was his object, and every body must perceive it. She introduced him\nto her friend, Miss Smith, and, at convenient moments afterwards, heard\nwhat each thought of the other. \"He had never seen so lovely a face, and\nwas delighted with her naivete.\" And she, \"Only to be sure it was paying\nhim too great a compliment, but she did think there were some looks a\nlittle like Mr. Elton.\" Emma restrained her indignation, and only turned\nfrom her in silence.\n\nSmiles of intelligence passed between her and the gentleman on first\nglancing towards Miss Fairfax; but it was most prudent to avoid speech.\nHe told her that he had been impatient to leave the dining-room--hated\nsitting long--was always the first to move when he could--that his\nfather, Mr. Knightley, Mr. Cox, and Mr. Cole, were left very busy over\nparish business--that as long as he had staid, however, it had been\npleasant enough, as he had found them in general a set of gentlemanlike,\nsensible men; and spoke so handsomely of Highbury altogether--thought it\nso abundant in agreeable families--that Emma began to feel she had been\nused to despise the place rather too much. She questioned him as to the\nsociety in Yorkshire--the extent of the neighbourhood about Enscombe,\nand the sort; and could make out from his answers that, as far as\nEnscombe was concerned, there was very little going on, that their\nvisitings were among a range of great families, none very near; and\nthat even when days were fixed, and invitations accepted, it was an even\nchance that Mrs. Churchill were not in health and spirits for going;\nthat they made a point of visiting no fresh person; and that, though\nhe had his separate engagements, it was not without difficulty, without\nconsiderable address _at_ _times_, that he could get away, or introduce\nan acquaintance for a night.\n\nShe saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that Highbury, taken at\nits best, might reasonably please a young man who had more retirement at\nhome than he liked. His importance at Enscombe was very evident. He did\nnot boast, but it naturally betrayed itself, that he had persuaded his\naunt where his uncle could do nothing, and on her laughing and noticing\nit, he owned that he believed (excepting one or two points) he could\n_with_ _time_ persuade her to any thing. One of those points on which\nhis influence failed, he then mentioned. He had wanted very much to\ngo abroad--had been very eager indeed to be allowed to travel--but she\nwould not hear of it. This had happened the year before. _Now_, he said,\nhe was beginning to have no longer the same wish.\n\nThe unpersuadable point, which he did not mention, Emma guessed to be\ngood behaviour to his father.\n\n\"I have made a most wretched discovery,\" said he, after a short pause.--\n\"I have been here a week to-morrow--half my time. I never knew days fly\nso fast. A week to-morrow!--And I have hardly begun to enjoy myself.\nBut just got acquainted with Mrs. Weston, and others!--I hate the\nrecollection.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent one whole day, out\nof so few, in having your hair cut.\"\n\n\"No,\" said he, smiling, \"that is no subject of regret at all. I have\nno pleasure in seeing my friends, unless I can believe myself fit to be\nseen.\"\n\nThe rest of the gentlemen being now in the room, Emma found herself\nobliged to turn from him for a few minutes, and listen to Mr. Cole. When\nMr. Cole had moved away, and her attention could be restored as before,\nshe saw Frank Churchill looking intently across the room at Miss\nFairfax, who was sitting exactly opposite.\n\n\"What is the matter?\" said she.\n\nHe started. \"Thank you for rousing me,\" he replied. \"I believe I have\nbeen very rude; but really Miss Fairfax has done her hair in so odd a\nway--so very odd a way--that I cannot keep my eyes from her. I never saw\nany thing so outree!--Those curls!--This must be a fancy of her own. I\nsee nobody else looking like her!--I must go and ask her whether it\nis an Irish fashion. Shall I?--Yes, I will--I declare I will--and you\nshall see how she takes it;--whether she colours.\"\n\nHe was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him standing before Miss\nFairfax, and talking to her; but as to its effect on the young lady,\nas he had improvidently placed himself exactly between them, exactly in\nfront of Miss Fairfax, she could absolutely distinguish nothing.\n\nBefore he could return to his chair, it was taken by Mrs. Weston.\n\n\"This is the luxury of a large party,\" said she:--\"one can get near\nevery body, and say every thing. My dear Emma, I am longing to talk\nto you. I have been making discoveries and forming plans, just like\nyourself, and I must tell them while the idea is fresh. Do you know how\nMiss Bates and her niece came here?\"\n\n\"How?--They were invited, were not they?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes--but how they were conveyed hither?--the manner of their\ncoming?\"\n\n\"They walked, I conclude. How else could they come?\"\n\n\"Very true.--Well, a little while ago it occurred to me how very sad\nit would be to have Jane Fairfax walking home again, late at night, and\ncold as the nights are now. And as I looked at her, though I never saw\nher appear to more advantage, it struck me that she was heated, and\nwould therefore be particularly liable to take cold. Poor girl! I could\nnot bear the idea of it; so, as soon as Mr. Weston came into the room,\nand I could get at him, I spoke to him about the carriage. You may guess\nhow readily he came into my wishes; and having his approbation, I made\nmy way directly to Miss Bates, to assure her that the carriage would be\nat her service before it took us home; for I thought it would be making\nher comfortable at once. Good soul! she was as grateful as possible, you\nmay be sure. 'Nobody was ever so fortunate as herself!'--but with many,\nmany thanks--'there was no occasion to trouble us, for Mr. Knightley's\ncarriage had brought, and was to take them home again.' I was quite\nsurprized;--very glad, I am sure; but really quite surprized. Such a\nvery kind attention--and so thoughtful an attention!--the sort of thing\nthat so few men would think of. And, in short, from knowing his\nusual ways, I am very much inclined to think that it was for their\naccommodation the carriage was used at all. I do suspect he would not\nhave had a pair of horses for himself, and that it was only as an excuse\nfor assisting them.\"\n\n\"Very likely,\" said Emma--\"nothing more likely. I know no man more\nlikely than Mr. Knightley to do the sort of thing--to do any thing\nreally good-natured, useful, considerate, or benevolent. He is not a\ngallant man, but he is a very humane one; and this, considering Jane\nFairfax's ill-health, would appear a case of humanity to him;--and for\nan act of unostentatious kindness, there is nobody whom I would fix on\nmore than on Mr. Knightley. I know he had horses to-day--for we arrived\ntogether; and I laughed at him about it, but he said not a word that\ncould betray.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Mrs. Weston, smiling, \"you give him credit for more simple,\ndisinterested benevolence in this instance than I do; for while Miss\nBates was speaking, a suspicion darted into my head, and I have never\nbeen able to get it out again. The more I think of it, the more probable\nit appears. In short, I have made a match between Mr. Knightley and Jane\nFairfax. See the consequence of keeping you company!--What do you say to\nit?\"\n\n\"Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax!\" exclaimed Emma. \"Dear Mrs. Weston, how\ncould you think of such a thing?--Mr. Knightley!--Mr. Knightley must not\nmarry!--You would not have little Henry cut out from Donwell?--Oh! no,\nno, Henry must have Donwell. I cannot at all consent to Mr. Knightley's\nmarrying; and I am sure it is not at all likely. I am amazed that you\nshould think of such a thing.\"\n\n\"My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think of it. I do not want\nthe match--I do not want to injure dear little Henry--but the idea has\nbeen given me by circumstances; and if Mr. Knightley really wished to\nmarry, you would not have him refrain on Henry's account, a boy of six\nyears old, who knows nothing of the matter?\"\n\n\"Yes, I would. I could not bear to have Henry supplanted.--Mr.\nKnightley marry!--No, I have never had such an idea, and I cannot adopt\nit now. And Jane Fairfax, too, of all women!\"\n\n\"Nay, she has always been a first favourite with him, as you very well\nknow.\"\n\n\"But the imprudence of such a match!\"\n\n\"I am not speaking of its prudence; merely its probability.\"\n\n\"I see no probability in it, unless you have any better foundation than\nwhat you mention. His good-nature, his humanity, as I tell you, would\nbe quite enough to account for the horses. He has a great regard for the\nBateses, you know, independent of Jane Fairfax--and is always glad to\nshew them attention. My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take to match-making.\nYou do it very ill. Jane Fairfax mistress of the Abbey!--Oh! no,\nno;--every feeling revolts. For his own sake, I would not have him do so\nmad a thing.\"\n\n\"Imprudent, if you please--but not mad. Excepting inequality of fortune,\nand perhaps a little disparity of age, I can see nothing unsuitable.\"\n\n\"But Mr. Knightley does not want to marry. I am sure he has not the\nleast idea of it. Do not put it into his head. Why should he marry?--He\nis as happy as possible by himself; with his farm, and his sheep, and\nhis library, and all the parish to manage; and he is extremely fond of\nhis brother's children. He has no occasion to marry, either to fill up\nhis time or his heart.\"\n\n\"My dear Emma, as long as he thinks so, it is so; but if he really loves\nJane Fairfax--\"\n\n\"Nonsense! He does not care about Jane Fairfax. In the way of love, I am\nsure he does not. He would do any good to her, or her family; but--\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Mrs. Weston, laughing, \"perhaps the greatest good he could\ndo them, would be to give Jane such a respectable home.\"\n\n\"If it would be good to her, I am sure it would be evil to himself; a\nvery shameful and degrading connexion. How would he bear to have Miss\nBates belonging to him?--To have her haunting the Abbey, and thanking\nhim all day long for his great kindness in marrying Jane?--'So very\nkind and obliging!--But he always had been such a very kind neighbour!'\nAnd then fly off, through half a sentence, to her mother's old\npetticoat. 'Not that it was such a very old petticoat either--for still\nit would last a great while--and, indeed, she must thankfully say that\ntheir petticoats were all very strong.'\"\n\n\"For shame, Emma! Do not mimic her. You divert me against my conscience.\nAnd, upon my word, I do not think Mr. Knightley would be much disturbed\nby Miss Bates. Little things do not irritate him. She might talk on; and\nif he wanted to say any thing himself, he would only talk louder, and\ndrown her voice. But the question is not, whether it would be a bad\nconnexion for him, but whether he wishes it; and I think he does. I have\nheard him speak, and so must you, so very highly of Jane Fairfax! The\ninterest he takes in her--his anxiety about her health--his concern that\nshe should have no happier prospect! I have heard him express himself\nso warmly on those points!--Such an admirer of her performance on the\npianoforte, and of her voice! I have heard him say that he could listen\nto her for ever. Oh! and I had almost forgotten one idea that occurred\nto me--this pianoforte that has been sent here by somebody--though\nwe have all been so well satisfied to consider it a present from the\nCampbells, may it not be from Mr. Knightley? I cannot help suspecting\nhim. I think he is just the person to do it, even without being in\nlove.\"\n\n\"Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in love. But I do not\nthink it is at all a likely thing for him to do. Mr. Knightley does\nnothing mysteriously.\"\n\n\"I have heard him lamenting her having no instrument repeatedly; oftener\nthan I should suppose such a circumstance would, in the common course of\nthings, occur to him.\"\n\n\"Very well; and if he had intended to give her one, he would have told\nher so.\"\n\n\"There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma. I have a very strong\nnotion that it comes from him. I am sure he was particularly silent when\nMrs. Cole told us of it at dinner.\"\n\n\"You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with it; as you have\nmany a time reproached me with doing. I see no sign of attachment--I\nbelieve nothing of the pianoforte--and proof only shall convince me that\nMr. Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax.\"\n\nThey combated the point some time longer in the same way; Emma rather\ngaining ground over the mind of her friend; for Mrs. Weston was the most\nused of the two to yield; till a little bustle in the room shewed them\nthat tea was over, and the instrument in preparation;--and at the same\nmoment Mr. Cole approaching to entreat Miss Woodhouse would do them the\nhonour of trying it. Frank Churchill, of whom, in the eagerness of her\nconversation with Mrs. Weston, she had been seeing nothing, except that\nhe had found a seat by Miss Fairfax, followed Mr. Cole, to add his very\npressing entreaties; and as, in every respect, it suited Emma best to\nlead, she gave a very proper compliance.\n\nShe knew the limitations of her own powers too well to attempt more than\nshe could perform with credit; she wanted neither taste nor spirit in\nthe little things which are generally acceptable, and could accompany\nher own voice well. One accompaniment to her song took her agreeably by\nsurprize--a second, slightly but correctly taken by Frank Churchill. Her\npardon was duly begged at the close of the song, and every thing usual\nfollowed. He was accused of having a delightful voice, and a perfect\nknowledge of music; which was properly denied; and that he knew nothing\nof the matter, and had no voice at all, roundly asserted. They sang\ntogether once more; and Emma would then resign her place to Miss\nFairfax, whose performance, both vocal and instrumental, she never could\nattempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely superior to her own.\n\nWith mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the\nnumbers round the instrument, to listen. Frank Churchill sang again.\nThey had sung together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth. But the\nsight of Mr. Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away half\nEmma's mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of\nMrs. Weston's suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united voices\ngave only momentary interruptions. Her objections to Mr. Knightley's\nmarrying did not in the least subside. She could see nothing but evil\nin it. It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John Knightley;\nconsequently to Isabella. A real injury to the children--a most\nmortifying change, and material loss to them all;--a very great\ndeduction from her father's daily comfort--and, as to herself, she could\nnot at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs.\nKnightley for them all to give way to!--No--Mr. Knightley must never\nmarry. Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell.\n\nPresently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her. They\ntalked at first only of the performance. His admiration was certainly\nvery warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have\nstruck her. As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his\nkindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was in\nthe spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate only\nhis disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own.\n\n\"I often feel concern,\" said she, \"that I dare not make our carriage\nmore useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish; but\nyou know how impossible my father would deem it that James should put-to\nfor such a purpose.\"\n\n\"Quite out of the question, quite out of the question,\" he\nreplied;--\"but you must often wish it, I am sure.\" And he smiled with\nsuch seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another\nstep.\n\n\"This present from the Campbells,\" said she--\"this pianoforte is very\nkindly given.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he replied, and without the smallest apparent\nembarrassment.--\"But they would have done better had they given\nher notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not\nenhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have\nexpected better judgment in Colonel Campbell.\"\n\nFrom that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had\nhad no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were\nentirely free from peculiar attachment--whether there were no actual\npreference--remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane's\nsecond song, her voice grew thick.\n\n\"That will do,\" said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud--\"you have\nsung quite enough for one evening--now be quiet.\"\n\nAnother song, however, was soon begged for. \"One more;--they would not\nfatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more.\"\nAnd Frank Churchill was heard to say, \"I think you could manage this\nwithout effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength of the\nsong falls on the second.\"\n\nMr. Knightley grew angry.\n\n\"That fellow,\" said he, indignantly, \"thinks of nothing but shewing off\nhis own voice. This must not be.\" And touching Miss Bates, who at that\nmoment passed near--\"Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing\nherself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no mercy on\nher.\"\n\nMiss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to\nbe grateful, before she stept forward and put an end to all farther\nsinging. Here ceased the concert part of the evening, for Miss Woodhouse\nand Miss Fairfax were the only young lady performers; but soon (within\nfive minutes) the proposal of dancing--originating nobody exactly knew\nwhere--was so effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole, that every\nthing was rapidly clearing away, to give proper space. Mrs. Weston,\ncapital in her country-dances, was seated, and beginning an irresistible\nwaltz; and Frank Churchill, coming up with most becoming gallantry to\nEmma, had secured her hand, and led her up to the top.\n\nWhile waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off,\nEmma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on\nher voice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr.\nKnightley. This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he\nwere to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur\nsomething. There was no immediate appearance. No; he was talking to Mrs.\nCole--he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody else,\nand he was still talking to Mrs. Cole.\n\nEmma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest was yet safe; and\nshe led off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment. Not more than\nfive couple could be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness of\nit made it very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a\npartner. They were a couple worth looking at.\n\nTwo dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed. It was\ngrowing late, and Miss Bates became anxious to get home, on her mother's\naccount. After some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to begin again,\nthey were obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful, and have done.\n\n\"Perhaps it is as well,\" said Frank Churchill, as he attended Emma to\nher carriage. \"I must have asked Miss Fairfax, and her languid dancing\nwould not have agreed with me, after yours.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nEmma did not repent her condescension in going to the Coles. The visit\nafforded her many pleasant recollections the next day; and all that she\nmight be supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion, must\nbe amply repaid in the splendour of popularity. She must have delighted\nthe Coles--worthy people, who deserved to be made happy!--And left a\nname behind her that would not soon die away.\n\nPerfect happiness, even in memory, is not common; and there were two\npoints on which she was not quite easy. She doubted whether she had not\ntransgressed the duty of woman by woman, in betraying her suspicions of\nJane Fairfax's feelings to Frank Churchill. It was hardly right; but it\nhad been so strong an idea, that it would escape her, and his submission\nto all that she told, was a compliment to her penetration, which made\nit difficult for her to be quite certain that she ought to have held her\ntongue.\n\nThe other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax; and\nthere she had no doubt. She did unfeignedly and unequivocally regret the\ninferiority of her own playing and singing. She did most heartily\ngrieve over the idleness of her childhood--and sat down and practised\nvigorously an hour and a half.\n\nShe was then interrupted by Harriet's coming in; and if Harriet's praise\ncould have satisfied her, she might soon have been comforted.\n\n\"Oh! if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax!\"\n\n\"Don't class us together, Harriet. My playing is no more like her's,\nthan a lamp is like sunshine.\"\n\n\"Oh! dear--I think you play the best of the two. I think you play quite\nas well as she does. I am sure I had much rather hear you. Every body\nlast night said how well you played.\"\n\n\"Those who knew any thing about it, must have felt the difference. The\ntruth is, Harriet, that my playing is just good enough to be praised,\nbut Jane Fairfax's is much beyond it.\"\n\n\"Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as she does, or\nthat if there is any difference nobody would ever find it out. Mr. Cole\nsaid how much taste you had; and Mr. Frank Churchill talked a great deal\nabout your taste, and that he valued taste much more than execution.\"\n\n\"Ah! but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet.\"\n\n\"Are you sure? I saw she had execution, but I did not know she had any\ntaste. Nobody talked about it. And I hate Italian singing.--There is no\nunderstanding a word of it. Besides, if she does play so very well, you\nknow, it is no more than she is obliged to do, because she will have to\nteach. The Coxes were wondering last night whether she would get into\nany great family. How did you think the Coxes looked?\"\n\n\"Just as they always do--very vulgar.\"\n\n\"They told me something,\" said Harriet rather hesitatingly; \"but it is\nnothing of any consequence.\"\n\nEmma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though fearful of its\nproducing Mr. Elton.\n\n\"They told me--that Mr. Martin dined with them last Saturday.\"\n\n\"Oh!\"\n\n\"He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to stay to\ndinner.\"\n\n\"Oh!\"\n\n\"They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox. I do not know\nwhat she meant, but she asked me if I thought I should go and stay there\nagain next summer.\"\n\n\"She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an Anne Cox should\nbe.\"\n\n\"She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there. He sat by her at\ndinner. Miss Nash thinks either of the Coxes would be very glad to marry\nhim.\"\n\n\"Very likely.--I think they are, without exception, the most vulgar\ngirls in Highbury.\"\n\nHarriet had business at Ford's.--Emma thought it most prudent to go with\nher. Another accidental meeting with the Martins was possible, and in\nher present state, would be dangerous.\n\nHarriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a word, was always\nvery long at a purchase; and while she was still hanging over muslins\nand changing her mind, Emma went to the door for amusement.--Much could\nnot be hoped from the traffic of even the busiest part of Highbury;--Mr.\nPerry walking hastily by, Mr. William Cox letting himself in at the\noffice-door, Mr. Cole's carriage-horses returning from exercise, or a\nstray letter-boy on an obstinate mule, were the liveliest objects she\ncould presume to expect; and when her eyes fell only on the butcher with\nhis tray, a tidy old woman travelling homewards from shop with her full\nbasket, two curs quarrelling over a dirty bone, and a string of dawdling\nchildren round the baker's little bow-window eyeing the gingerbread, she\nknew she had no reason to complain, and was amused enough; quite enough\nstill to stand at the door. A mind lively and at ease, can do with\nseeing nothing, and can see nothing that does not answer.\n\nShe looked down the Randalls road. The scene enlarged; two persons\nappeared; Mrs. Weston and her son-in-law; they were walking into\nHighbury;--to Hartfield of course. They were stopping, however, in the\nfirst place at Mrs. Bates's; whose house was a little nearer\nRandalls than Ford's; and had all but knocked, when Emma caught their\neye.--Immediately they crossed the road and came forward to her; and the\nagreeableness of yesterday's engagement seemed to give fresh pleasure to\nthe present meeting. Mrs. Weston informed her that she was going to call\non the Bateses, in order to hear the new instrument.\n\n\"For my companion tells me,\" said she, \"that I absolutely promised Miss\nBates last night, that I would come this morning. I was not aware of it\nmyself. I did not know that I had fixed a day, but as he says I did, I\nam going now.\"\n\n\"And while Mrs. Weston pays her visit, I may be allowed, I hope,\" said\nFrank Churchill, \"to join your party and wait for her at Hartfield--if\nyou are going home.\"\n\nMrs. Weston was disappointed.\n\n\"I thought you meant to go with me. They would be very much pleased.\"\n\n\"Me! I should be quite in the way. But, perhaps--I may be equally in the\nway here. Miss Woodhouse looks as if she did not want me. My aunt always\nsends me off when she is shopping. She says I fidget her to death; and\nMiss Woodhouse looks as if she could almost say the same. What am I to\ndo?\"\n\n\"I am here on no business of my own,\" said Emma; \"I am only waiting for\nmy friend. She will probably have soon done, and then we shall go home.\nBut you had better go with Mrs. Weston and hear the instrument.\"\n\n\"Well--if you advise it.--But (with a smile) if Colonel Campbell should\nhave employed a careless friend, and if it should prove to have an\nindifferent tone--what shall I say? I shall be no support to Mrs.\nWeston. She might do very well by herself. A disagreeable truth would be\npalatable through her lips, but I am the wretchedest being in the world\nat a civil falsehood.\"\n\n\"I do not believe any such thing,\" replied Emma.--\"I am persuaded that\nyou can be as insincere as your neighbours, when it is necessary; but\nthere is no reason to suppose the instrument is indifferent. Quite\notherwise indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax's opinion last night.\"\n\n\"Do come with me,\" said Mrs. Weston, \"if it be not very disagreeable to\nyou. It need not detain us long. We will go to Hartfield afterwards.\nWe will follow them to Hartfield. I really wish you to call with me. It\nwill be felt so great an attention! and I always thought you meant it.\"\n\nHe could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield to reward him,\nreturned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates's door. Emma watched them in,\nand then joined Harriet at the interesting counter,--trying, with all\nthe force of her own mind, to convince her that if she wanted plain\nmuslin it was of no use to look at figured; and that a blue ribbon, be\nit ever so beautiful, would still never match her yellow pattern. At\nlast it was all settled, even to the destination of the parcel.\n\n\"Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard's, ma'am?\" asked Mrs.\nFord.--\"Yes--no--yes, to Mrs. Goddard's. Only my pattern gown is at\nHartfield. No, you shall send it to Hartfield, if you please. But then,\nMrs. Goddard will want to see it.--And I could take the pattern gown\nhome any day. But I shall want the ribbon directly--so it had better go\nto Hartfield--at least the ribbon. You could make it into two parcels,\nMrs. Ford, could not you?\"\n\n\"It is not worth while, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the trouble of two\nparcels.\"\n\n\"No more it is.\"\n\n\"No trouble in the world, ma'am,\" said the obliging Mrs. Ford.\n\n\"Oh! but indeed I would much rather have it only in one. Then, if you\nplease, you shall send it all to Mrs. Goddard's--I do not know--No, I\nthink, Miss Woodhouse, I may just as well have it sent to Hartfield, and\ntake it home with me at night. What do you advise?\"\n\n\"That you do not give another half-second to the subject. To Hartfield,\nif you please, Mrs. Ford.\"\n\n\"Aye, that will be much best,\" said Harriet, quite satisfied, \"I should\nnot at all like to have it sent to Mrs. Goddard's.\"\n\nVoices approached the shop--or rather one voice and two ladies: Mrs.\nWeston and Miss Bates met them at the door.\n\n\"My dear Miss Woodhouse,\" said the latter, \"I am just run across to\nentreat the favour of you to come and sit down with us a little while,\nand give us your opinion of our new instrument; you and Miss Smith. How\ndo you do, Miss Smith?--Very well I thank you.--And I begged Mrs. Weston\nto come with me, that I might be sure of succeeding.\"\n\n\"I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are--\"\n\n\"Very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother is delightfully well;\nand Jane caught no cold last night. How is Mr. Woodhouse?--I am so glad\nto hear such a good account. Mrs. Weston told me you were here.--Oh!\nthen, said I, I must run across, I am sure Miss Woodhouse will allow me\njust to run across and entreat her to come in; my mother will be so\nvery happy to see her--and now we are such a nice party, she cannot\nrefuse.--'Aye, pray do,' said Mr. Frank Churchill, 'Miss Woodhouse's\nopinion of the instrument will be worth having.'--But, said I, I shall\nbe more sure of succeeding if one of you will go with me.--'Oh,' said\nhe, 'wait half a minute, till I have finished my job;'--For, would you\nbelieve it, Miss Woodhouse, there he is, in the most obliging manner in\nthe world, fastening in the rivet of my mother's spectacles.--The rivet\ncame out, you know, this morning.--So very obliging!--For my mother had\nno use of her spectacles--could not put them on. And, by the bye, every\nbody ought to have two pair of spectacles; they should indeed. Jane said\nso. I meant to take them over to John Saunders the first thing I did,\nbut something or other hindered me all the morning; first one thing,\nthen another, there is no saying what, you know. At one time Patty came\nto say she thought the kitchen chimney wanted sweeping. Oh, said I,\nPatty do not come with your bad news to me. Here is the rivet of your\nmistress's spectacles out. Then the baked apples came home, Mrs. Wallis\nsent them by her boy; they are extremely civil and obliging to us, the\nWallises, always--I have heard some people say that Mrs. Wallis can be\nuncivil and give a very rude answer, but we have never known any thing\nbut the greatest attention from them. And it cannot be for the value\nof our custom now, for what is our consumption of bread, you know?\nOnly three of us.--besides dear Jane at present--and she really eats\nnothing--makes such a shocking breakfast, you would be quite frightened\nif you saw it. I dare not let my mother know how little she eats--so I\nsay one thing and then I say another, and it passes off. But about the\nmiddle of the day she gets hungry, and there is nothing she likes so\nwell as these baked apples, and they are extremely wholesome, for I took\nthe opportunity the other day of asking Mr. Perry; I happened to meet\nhim in the street. Not that I had any doubt before--I have so often\nheard Mr. Woodhouse recommend a baked apple. I believe it is the only\nway that Mr. Woodhouse thinks the fruit thoroughly wholesome. We\nhave apple-dumplings, however, very often. Patty makes an excellent\napple-dumpling. Well, Mrs. Weston, you have prevailed, I hope, and these\nladies will oblige us.\"\n\nEmma would be \"very happy to wait on Mrs. Bates, &c.,\" and they did at\nlast move out of the shop, with no farther delay from Miss Bates than,\n\n\"How do you do, Mrs. Ford? I beg your pardon. I did not see you before.\nI hear you have a charming collection of new ribbons from town. Jane\ncame back delighted yesterday. Thank ye, the gloves do very well--only a\nlittle too large about the wrist; but Jane is taking them in.\"\n\n\"What was I talking of?\" said she, beginning again when they were all in\nthe street.\n\nEmma wondered on what, of all the medley, she would fix.\n\n\"I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of.--Oh! my mother's\nspectacles. So very obliging of Mr. Frank Churchill! 'Oh!' said he,\n'I do think I can fasten the rivet; I like a job of this kind\nexcessively.'--Which you know shewed him to be so very.... Indeed I must\nsay that, much as I had heard of him before and much as I had expected,\nhe very far exceeds any thing.... I do congratulate you, Mrs. Weston,\nmost warmly. He seems every thing the fondest parent could....\n'Oh!' said he, 'I can fasten the rivet. I like a job of that sort\nexcessively.' I never shall forget his manner. And when I brought out\nthe baked apples from the closet, and hoped our friends would be so very\nobliging as to take some, 'Oh!' said he directly, 'there is nothing\nin the way of fruit half so good, and these are the finest-looking\nhome-baked apples I ever saw in my life.' That, you know, was so\nvery.... And I am sure, by his manner, it was no compliment. Indeed they\nare very delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallis does them full justice--only\nwe do not have them baked more than twice, and Mr. Woodhouse made us\npromise to have them done three times--but Miss Woodhouse will be so\ngood as not to mention it. The apples themselves are the very finest\nsort for baking, beyond a doubt; all from Donwell--some of Mr.\nKnightley's most liberal supply. He sends us a sack every year; and\ncertainly there never was such a keeping apple anywhere as one of his\ntrees--I believe there is two of them. My mother says the orchard was\nalways famous in her younger days. But I was really quite shocked the\nother day--for Mr. Knightley called one morning, and Jane was eating\nthese apples, and we talked about them and said how much she enjoyed\nthem, and he asked whether we were not got to the end of our stock. 'I\nam sure you must be,' said he, 'and I will send you another supply; for\nI have a great many more than I can ever use. William Larkins let me\nkeep a larger quantity than usual this year. I will send you some more,\nbefore they get good for nothing.' So I begged he would not--for really\nas to ours being gone, I could not absolutely say that we had a great\nmany left--it was but half a dozen indeed; but they should be all kept\nfor Jane; and I could not at all bear that he should be sending us more,\nso liberal as he had been already; and Jane said the same. And when\nhe was gone, she almost quarrelled with me--No, I should not say\nquarrelled, for we never had a quarrel in our lives; but she was quite\ndistressed that I had owned the apples were so nearly gone; she wished\nI had made him believe we had a great many left. Oh, said I, my dear,\nI did say as much as I could. However, the very same evening William\nLarkins came over with a large basket of apples, the same sort of\napples, a bushel at least, and I was very much obliged, and went down\nand spoke to William Larkins and said every thing, as you may suppose.\nWilliam Larkins is such an old acquaintance! I am always glad to see\nhim. But, however, I found afterwards from Patty, that William said it\nwas all the apples of _that_ sort his master had; he had brought them\nall--and now his master had not one left to bake or boil. William did\nnot seem to mind it himself, he was so pleased to think his master had\nsold so many; for William, you know, thinks more of his master's profit\nthan any thing; but Mrs. Hodges, he said, was quite displeased at their\nbeing all sent away. She could not bear that her master should not be\nable to have another apple-tart this spring. He told Patty this, but bid\nher not mind it, and be sure not to say any thing to us about it, for\nMrs. Hodges _would_ be cross sometimes, and as long as so many sacks\nwere sold, it did not signify who ate the remainder. And so Patty told\nme, and I was excessively shocked indeed! I would not have Mr. Knightley\nknow any thing about it for the world! He would be so very.... I wanted\nto keep it from Jane's knowledge; but, unluckily, I had mentioned it\nbefore I was aware.\"\n\nMiss Bates had just done as Patty opened the door; and her visitors\nwalked upstairs without having any regular narration to attend to,\npursued only by the sounds of her desultory good-will.\n\n\"Pray take care, Mrs. Weston, there is a step at the turning. Pray take\ncare, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a dark staircase--rather darker\nand narrower than one could wish. Miss Smith, pray take care. Miss\nWoodhouse, I am quite concerned, I am sure you hit your foot. Miss\nSmith, the step at the turning.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nThe appearance of the little sitting-room as they entered, was\ntranquillity itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usual employment,\nslumbering on one side of the fire, Frank Churchill, at a table near\nher, most deedily occupied about her spectacles, and Jane Fairfax,\nstanding with her back to them, intent on her pianoforte.\n\nBusy as he was, however, the young man was yet able to shew a most happy\ncountenance on seeing Emma again.\n\n\"This is a pleasure,\" said he, in rather a low voice, \"coming at least\nten minutes earlier than I had calculated. You find me trying to be\nuseful; tell me if you think I shall succeed.\"\n\n\"What!\" said Mrs. Weston, \"have not you finished it yet? you would not\nearn a very good livelihood as a working silversmith at this rate.\"\n\n\"I have not been working uninterruptedly,\" he replied, \"I have been\nassisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her instrument stand steadily,\nit was not quite firm; an unevenness in the floor, I believe. You see\nwe have been wedging one leg with paper. This was very kind of you to be\npersuaded to come. I was almost afraid you would be hurrying home.\"\n\nHe contrived that she should be seated by him; and was sufficiently\nemployed in looking out the best baked apple for her, and trying to make\nher help or advise him in his work, till Jane Fairfax was quite ready\nto sit down to the pianoforte again. That she was not immediately ready,\nEmma did suspect to arise from the state of her nerves; she had not yet\npossessed the instrument long enough to touch it without emotion; she\nmust reason herself into the power of performance; and Emma could not\nbut pity such feelings, whatever their origin, and could not but resolve\nnever to expose them to her neighbour again.\n\nAt last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly given, the\npowers of the instrument were gradually done full justice to. Mrs.\nWeston had been delighted before, and was delighted again; Emma\njoined her in all her praise; and the pianoforte, with every proper\ndiscrimination, was pronounced to be altogether of the highest promise.\n\n\"Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ,\" said Frank Churchill, with a\nsmile at Emma, \"the person has not chosen ill. I heard a good deal of\nColonel Campbell's taste at Weymouth; and the softness of the upper\nnotes I am sure is exactly what he and _all_ _that_ _party_ would\nparticularly prize. I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either gave his\nfriend very minute directions, or wrote to Broadwood himself. Do not you\nthink so?\"\n\nJane did not look round. She was not obliged to hear. Mrs. Weston had\nbeen speaking to her at the same moment.\n\n\"It is not fair,\" said Emma, in a whisper; \"mine was a random guess. Do\nnot distress her.\"\n\nHe shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had very little\ndoubt and very little mercy. Soon afterwards he began again,\n\n\"How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your pleasure on this\noccasion, Miss Fairfax. I dare say they often think of you, and wonder\nwhich will be the day, the precise day of the instrument's coming to\nhand. Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to be going\nforward just at this time?--Do you imagine it to be the consequence\nof an immediate commission from him, or that he may have sent only\na general direction, an order indefinite as to time, to depend upon\ncontingencies and conveniences?\"\n\nHe paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid answering,\n\n\"Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell,\" said she, in a voice of\nforced calmness, \"I can imagine nothing with any confidence. It must be\nall conjecture.\"\n\n\"Conjecture--aye, sometimes one conjectures right, and sometimes one\nconjectures wrong. I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall make this\nrivet quite firm. What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard\nat work, if one talks at all;--your real workmen, I suppose, hold their\ntongues; but we gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a word--Miss\nFairfax said something about conjecturing. There, it is done. I have the\npleasure, madam, (to Mrs. Bates,) of restoring your spectacles, healed\nfor the present.\"\n\nHe was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter; to escape a\nlittle from the latter, he went to the pianoforte, and begged Miss\nFairfax, who was still sitting at it, to play something more.\n\n\"If you are very kind,\" said he, \"it will be one of the waltzes we\ndanced last night;--let me live them over again. You did not enjoy them\nas I did; you appeared tired the whole time. I believe you were glad we\ndanced no longer; but I would have given worlds--all the worlds one ever\nhas to give--for another half-hour.\"\n\nShe played.\n\n\"What felicity it is to hear a tune again which _has_ made one\nhappy!--If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth.\"\n\nShe looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played something\nelse. He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte, and turning\nto Emma, said,\n\n\"Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?--Cramer.--And here\nare a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one might\nexpect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of\nColonel Campbell, was not it?--He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music\nhere. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to\nhave been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing\nincomplete. True affection only could have prompted it.\"\n\nEmma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused;\nand when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the remains\nof a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness,\nthere had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in the\namusement, and much less compunction with respect to her.--This\namiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing very\nreprehensible feelings.\n\nHe brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.--Emma\ntook the opportunity of whispering,\n\n\"You speak too plain. She must understand you.\"\n\n\"I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least\nashamed of my meaning.\"\n\n\"But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea.\"\n\n\"I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now\na key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does\nwrong, she ought to feel it.\"\n\n\"She is not entirely without it, I think.\"\n\n\"I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this\nmoment--_his_ favourite.\"\n\nShortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr.\nKnightley on horse-back not far off.\n\n\"Mr. Knightley I declare!--I must speak to him if possible, just to\nthank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold;\nbut I can go into my mother's room you know. I dare say he will come\nin when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet\nso!--Our little room so honoured!\"\n\nShe was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the\ncasement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley's attention, and every\nsyllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as\nif it had passed within the same apartment.\n\n\"How d' ye do?--how d'ye do?--Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you\nfor the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready\nfor us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here.\"\n\nSo began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in\nhis turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say,\n\n\"How is your niece, Miss Bates?--I want to inquire after you all, but\nparticularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?--I hope she caught no cold\nlast night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is.\"\n\nAnd Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear\nher in any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave\nEmma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in\nsteady scepticism.\n\n\"So obliged to you!--so very much obliged to you for the carriage,\"\nresumed Miss Bates.\n\nHe cut her short with,\n\n\"I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you?\"\n\n\"Oh! dear, Kingston--are you?--Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she\nwanted something from Kingston.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for _you_?\"\n\n\"No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here?--Miss\nWoodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new pianoforte.\nDo put up your horse at the Crown, and come in.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said he, in a deliberating manner, \"for five minutes, perhaps.\"\n\n\"And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!--Quite delightful;\nso many friends!\"\n\n\"No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on\nto Kingston as fast as I can.\"\n\n\"Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see you.\"\n\n\"No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day, and hear the\npianoforte.\"\n\n\"Well, I am so sorry!--Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last\nnight; how extremely pleasant.--Did you ever see such dancing?--Was not\nit delightful?--Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any\nthing equal to it.\"\n\n\"Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss\nWoodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing that passes.\nAnd (raising his voice still more) I do not see why Miss Fairfax should\nnot be mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs.\nWeston is the very best country-dance player, without exception,\nin England. Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say\nsomething pretty loud about you and me in return; but I cannot stay to\nhear it.\"\n\n\"Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence--so\nshocked!--Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!\"\n\n\"What is the matter now?\"\n\n\"To think of your sending us all your store apples. You said you had\na great many, and now you have not one left. We really are so shocked!\nMrs. Hodges may well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here. You\nshould not have done it, indeed you should not. Ah! he is off. He never\ncan bear to be thanked. But I thought he would have staid now, and it\nwould have been a pity not to have mentioned.... Well, (returning to the\nroom,) I have not been able to succeed. Mr. Knightley cannot stop. He is\ngoing to Kingston. He asked me if he could do any thing....\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Jane, \"we heard his kind offers, we heard every thing.\"\n\n\"Oh! yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you know, the door was\nopen, and the window was open, and Mr. Knightley spoke loud. You must\nhave heard every thing to be sure. 'Can I do any thing for you at\nKingston?' said he; so I just mentioned.... Oh! Miss Woodhouse, must you\nbe going?--You seem but just come--so very obliging of you.\"\n\nEmma found it really time to be at home; the visit had already lasted\nlong; and on examining watches, so much of the morning was perceived\nto be gone, that Mrs. Weston and her companion taking leave also, could\nallow themselves only to walk with the two young ladies to Hartfield\ngates, before they set off for Randalls.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\nIt may be possible to do without dancing entirely. Instances have been\nknown of young people passing many, many months successively, without\nbeing at any ball of any description, and no material injury accrue\neither to body or mind;--but when a beginning is made--when the\nfelicities of rapid motion have once been, though slightly, felt--it\nmust be a very heavy set that does not ask for more.\n\nFrank Churchill had danced once at Highbury, and longed to dance again;\nand the last half-hour of an evening which Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded\nto spend with his daughter at Randalls, was passed by the two young\npeople in schemes on the subject. Frank's was the first idea; and his\nthe greatest zeal in pursuing it; for the lady was the best judge of the\ndifficulties, and the most solicitous for accommodation and appearance.\nBut still she had inclination enough for shewing people again how\ndelightfully Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse danced--for\ndoing that in which she need not blush to compare herself with Jane\nFairfax--and even for simple dancing itself, without any of the wicked\naids of vanity--to assist him first in pacing out the room they were in\nto see what it could be made to hold--and then in taking the dimensions\nof the other parlour, in the hope of discovering, in spite of all that\nMr. Weston could say of their exactly equal size, that it was a little\nthe largest.\n\nHis first proposition and request, that the dance begun at Mr. Cole's\nshould be finished there--that the same party should be collected,\nand the same musician engaged, met with the readiest acquiescence. Mr.\nWeston entered into the idea with thorough enjoyment, and Mrs. Weston\nmost willingly undertook to play as long as they could wish to dance;\nand the interesting employment had followed, of reckoning up exactly who\nthere would be, and portioning out the indispensable division of space\nto every couple.\n\n\"You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss\nCoxes five,\" had been repeated many times over. \"And there will be the\ntwo Gilberts, young Cox, my father, and myself, besides Mr. Knightley.\nYes, that will be quite enough for pleasure. You and Miss Smith, and\nMiss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss Coxes five; and for five\ncouple there will be plenty of room.\"\n\nBut soon it came to be on one side,\n\n\"But will there be good room for five couple?--I really do not think\nthere will.\"\n\nOn another,\n\n\"And after all, five couple are not enough to make it worth while to\nstand up. Five couple are nothing, when one thinks seriously about it.\nIt will not do to _invite_ five couple. It can be allowable only as the\nthought of the moment.\"\n\nSomebody said that _Miss_ Gilbert was expected at her brother's, and\nmust be invited with the rest. Somebody else believed _Mrs_. Gilbert\nwould have danced the other evening, if she had been asked. A word was\nput in for a second young Cox; and at last, Mr. Weston naming one family\nof cousins who must be included, and another of very old acquaintance\nwho could not be left out, it became a certainty that the five couple\nwould be at least ten, and a very interesting speculation in what\npossible manner they could be disposed of.\n\nThe doors of the two rooms were just opposite each other. \"Might not\nthey use both rooms, and dance across the passage?\" It seemed the\nbest scheme; and yet it was not so good but that many of them wanted a\nbetter. Emma said it would be awkward; Mrs. Weston was in distress about\nthe supper; and Mr. Woodhouse opposed it earnestly, on the score of\nhealth. It made him so very unhappy, indeed, that it could not be\npersevered in.\n\n\"Oh! no,\" said he; \"it would be the extreme of imprudence. I could not\nbear it for Emma!--Emma is not strong. She would catch a dreadful cold.\nSo would poor little Harriet. So you would all. Mrs. Weston, you would\nbe quite laid up; do not let them talk of such a wild thing. Pray do\nnot let them talk of it. That young man (speaking lower) is very\nthoughtless. Do not tell his father, but that young man is not quite\nthe thing. He has been opening the doors very often this evening,\nand keeping them open very inconsiderately. He does not think of the\ndraught. I do not mean to set you against him, but indeed he is not\nquite the thing!\"\n\nMrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge. She knew the importance of\nit, and said every thing in her power to do it away. Every door was now\nclosed, the passage plan given up, and the first scheme of dancing only\nin the room they were in resorted to again; and with such good-will on\nFrank Churchill's part, that the space which a quarter of an hour before\nhad been deemed barely sufficient for five couple, was now endeavoured\nto be made out quite enough for ten.\n\n\"We were too magnificent,\" said he. \"We allowed unnecessary room. Ten\ncouple may stand here very well.\"\n\nEmma demurred. \"It would be a crowd--a sad crowd; and what could be\nworse than dancing without space to turn in?\"\n\n\"Very true,\" he gravely replied; \"it was very bad.\" But still he went on\nmeasuring, and still he ended with,\n\n\"I think there will be very tolerable room for ten couple.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said she, \"you are quite unreasonable. It would be dreadful\nto be standing so close! Nothing can be farther from pleasure than to be\ndancing in a crowd--and a crowd in a little room!\"\n\n\"There is no denying it,\" he replied. \"I agree with you exactly. A crowd\nin a little room--Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of giving pictures\nin a few words. Exquisite, quite exquisite!--Still, however, having\nproceeded so far, one is unwilling to give the matter up. It would be\na disappointment to my father--and altogether--I do not know that--I am\nrather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very well.\"\n\nEmma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little\nself-willed, and that he would rather oppose than lose the pleasure of\ndancing with her; but she took the compliment, and forgave the rest.\nHad she intended ever to _marry_ him, it might have been worth while to\npause and consider, and try to understand the value of his preference,\nand the character of his temper; but for all the purposes of their\nacquaintance, he was quite amiable enough.\n\nBefore the middle of the next day, he was at Hartfield; and he entered\nthe room with such an agreeable smile as certified the continuance of\nthe scheme. It soon appeared that he came to announce an improvement.\n\n\"Well, Miss Woodhouse,\" he almost immediately began, \"your inclination\nfor dancing has not been quite frightened away, I hope, by the terrors\nof my father's little rooms. I bring a new proposal on the subject:--a\nthought of my father's, which waits only your approbation to be acted\nupon. May I hope for the honour of your hand for the two first dances\nof this little projected ball, to be given, not at Randalls, but at the\nCrown Inn?\"\n\n\"The Crown!\"\n\n\"Yes; if you and Mr. Woodhouse see no objection, and I trust you cannot,\nmy father hopes his friends will be so kind as to visit him there.\nBetter accommodations, he can promise them, and not a less grateful\nwelcome than at Randalls. It is his own idea. Mrs. Weston sees no\nobjection to it, provided you are satisfied. This is what we all feel.\nOh! you were perfectly right! Ten couple, in either of the Randalls\nrooms, would have been insufferable!--Dreadful!--I felt how right you\nwere the whole time, but was too anxious for securing _any_ _thing_\nto like to yield. Is not it a good exchange?--You consent--I hope you\nconsent?\"\n\n\"It appears to me a plan that nobody can object to, if Mr. and Mrs.\nWeston do not. I think it admirable; and, as far as I can answer for\nmyself, shall be most happy--It seems the only improvement that could\nbe. Papa, do you not think it an excellent improvement?\"\n\nShe was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was fully\ncomprehended; and then, being quite new, farther representations were\nnecessary to make it acceptable.\n\n\"No; he thought it very far from an improvement--a very bad plan--much\nworse than the other. A room at an inn was always damp and dangerous;\nnever properly aired, or fit to be inhabited. If they must dance, they\nhad better dance at Randalls. He had never been in the room at the Crown\nin his life--did not know the people who kept it by sight.--Oh! no--a\nvery bad plan. They would catch worse colds at the Crown than anywhere.\"\n\n\"I was going to observe, sir,\" said Frank Churchill, \"that one of the\ngreat recommendations of this change would be the very little danger\nof any body's catching cold--so much less danger at the Crown than at\nRandalls! Mr. Perry might have reason to regret the alteration, but\nnobody else could.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said Mr. Woodhouse, rather warmly, \"you are very much mistaken\nif you suppose Mr. Perry to be that sort of character. Mr. Perry is\nextremely concerned when any of us are ill. But I do not understand how\nthe room at the Crown can be safer for you than your father's house.\"\n\n\"From the very circumstance of its being larger, sir. We shall have no\noccasion to open the windows at all--not once the whole evening; and it\nis that dreadful habit of opening the windows, letting in cold air upon\nheated bodies, which (as you well know, sir) does the mischief.\"\n\n\"Open the windows!--but surely, Mr. Churchill, nobody would think of\nopening the windows at Randalls. Nobody could be so imprudent! I never\nheard of such a thing. Dancing with open windows!--I am sure, neither\nyour father nor Mrs. Weston (poor Miss Taylor that was) would suffer\nit.\"\n\n\"Ah! sir--but a thoughtless young person will sometimes step behind a\nwindow-curtain, and throw up a sash, without its being suspected. I have\noften known it done myself.\"\n\n\"Have you indeed, sir?--Bless me! I never could have supposed it. But I\nlive out of the world, and am often astonished at what I hear. However,\nthis does make a difference; and, perhaps, when we come to talk it\nover--but these sort of things require a good deal of consideration. One\ncannot resolve upon them in a hurry. If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be so\nobliging as to call here one morning, we may talk it over, and see what\ncan be done.\"\n\n\"But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited--\"\n\n\"Oh!\" interrupted Emma, \"there will be plenty of time for talking every\nthing over. There is no hurry at all. If it can be contrived to be at\nthe Crown, papa, it will be very convenient for the horses. They will be\nso near their own stable.\"\n\n\"So they will, my dear. That is a great thing. Not that James ever\ncomplains; but it is right to spare our horses when we can. If I could\nbe sure of the rooms being thoroughly aired--but is Mrs. Stokes to be\ntrusted? I doubt it. I do not know her, even by sight.\"\n\n\"I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because it will be\nunder Mrs. Weston's care. Mrs. Weston undertakes to direct the whole.\"\n\n\"There, papa!--Now you must be satisfied--Our own dear Mrs. Weston, who\nis carefulness itself. Do not you remember what Mr. Perry said, so many\nyears ago, when I had the measles? 'If _Miss_ _Taylor_ undertakes to\nwrap Miss Emma up, you need not have any fears, sir.' How often have I\nheard you speak of it as such a compliment to her!\"\n\n\"Aye, very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never forget it. Poor\nlittle Emma! You were very bad with the measles; that is, you would have\nbeen very bad, but for Perry's great attention. He came four times a day\nfor a week. He said, from the first, it was a very good sort--which\nwas our great comfort; but the measles are a dreadful complaint. I hope\nwhenever poor Isabella's little ones have the measles, she will send for\nPerry.\"\n\n\"My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment,\" said Frank\nChurchill, \"examining the capabilities of the house. I left them there\nand came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion, and hoping you\nmight be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot. I was\ndesired to say so from both. It would be the greatest pleasure to\nthem, if you could allow me to attend you there. They can do nothing\nsatisfactorily without you.\"\n\nEmma was most happy to be called to such a council; and her father,\nengaging to think it all over while she was gone, the two young people\nset off together without delay for the Crown. There were Mr. and Mrs.\nWeston; delighted to see her and receive her approbation, very busy and\nvery happy in their different way; she, in some little distress; and he,\nfinding every thing perfect.\n\n\"Emma,\" said she, \"this paper is worse than I expected. Look! in places\nyou see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot is more yellow and\nforlorn than any thing I could have imagined.\"\n\n\"My dear, you are too particular,\" said her husband. \"What does all that\nsignify? You will see nothing of it by candlelight. It will be as\nclean as Randalls by candlelight. We never see any thing of it on our\nclub-nights.\"\n\nThe ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant, \"Men never know\nwhen things are dirty or not;\" and the gentlemen perhaps thought each to\nhimself, \"Women will have their little nonsenses and needless cares.\"\n\nOne perplexity, however, arose, which the gentlemen did not disdain.\nIt regarded a supper-room. At the time of the ballroom's being built,\nsuppers had not been in question; and a small card-room adjoining, was\nthe only addition. What was to be done? This card-room would be wanted\nas a card-room now; or, if cards were conveniently voted unnecessary\nby their four selves, still was it not too small for any comfortable\nsupper? Another room of much better size might be secured for the\npurpose; but it was at the other end of the house, and a long awkward\npassage must be gone through to get at it. This made a difficulty. Mrs.\nWeston was afraid of draughts for the young people in that passage;\nand neither Emma nor the gentlemen could tolerate the prospect of being\nmiserably crowded at supper.\n\nMrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; merely sandwiches,\n&c., set out in the little room; but that was scouted as a wretched\nsuggestion. A private dance, without sitting down to supper, was\npronounced an infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women; and\nMrs. Weston must not speak of it again. She then took another line of\nexpediency, and looking into the doubtful room, observed,\n\n\"I do not think it _is_ so very small. We shall not be many, you know.\"\n\nAnd Mr. Weston at the same time, walking briskly with long steps through\nthe passage, was calling out,\n\n\"You talk a great deal of the length of this passage, my dear. It is a\nmere nothing after all; and not the least draught from the stairs.\"\n\n\"I wish,\" said Mrs. Weston, \"one could know which arrangement our guests\nin general would like best. To do what would be most generally pleasing\nmust be our object--if one could but tell what that would be.\"\n\n\"Yes, very true,\" cried Frank, \"very true. You want your neighbours'\nopinions. I do not wonder at you. If one could ascertain what the chief\nof them--the Coles, for instance. They are not far off. Shall I call\nupon them? Or Miss Bates? She is still nearer.--And I do not know\nwhether Miss Bates is not as likely to understand the inclinations of\nthe rest of the people as any body. I think we do want a larger council.\nSuppose I go and invite Miss Bates to join us?\"\n\n\"Well--if you please,\" said Mrs. Weston rather hesitating, \"if you think\nshe will be of any use.\"\n\n\"You will get nothing to the purpose from Miss Bates,\" said Emma. \"She\nwill be all delight and gratitude, but she will tell you nothing. She\nwill not even listen to your questions. I see no advantage in consulting\nMiss Bates.\"\n\n\"But she is so amusing, so extremely amusing! I am very fond of hearing\nMiss Bates talk. And I need not bring the whole family, you know.\"\n\nHere Mr. Weston joined them, and on hearing what was proposed, gave it\nhis decided approbation.\n\n\"Aye, do, Frank.--Go and fetch Miss Bates, and let us end the matter at\nonce. She will enjoy the scheme, I am sure; and I do not know a properer\nperson for shewing us how to do away difficulties. Fetch Miss Bates.\nWe are growing a little too nice. She is a standing lesson of how to be\nhappy. But fetch them both. Invite them both.\"\n\n\"Both sir! Can the old lady?\"...\n\n\"The old lady! No, the young lady, to be sure. I shall think you a great\nblockhead, Frank, if you bring the aunt without the niece.\"\n\n\"Oh! I beg your pardon, sir. I did not immediately recollect.\nUndoubtedly if you wish it, I will endeavour to persuade them both.\" And\naway he ran.\n\nLong before he reappeared, attending the short, neat, brisk-moving aunt,\nand her elegant niece,--Mrs. Weston, like a sweet-tempered woman and\na good wife, had examined the passage again, and found the evils of it\nmuch less than she had supposed before--indeed very trifling; and here\nended the difficulties of decision. All the rest, in speculation at\nleast, was perfectly smooth. All the minor arrangements of table and\nchair, lights and music, tea and supper, made themselves; or were left\nas mere trifles to be settled at any time between Mrs. Weston and Mrs.\nStokes.--Every body invited, was certainly to come; Frank had already\nwritten to Enscombe to propose staying a few days beyond his fortnight,\nwhich could not possibly be refused. And a delightful dance it was to\nbe.\n\nMost cordially, when Miss Bates arrived, did she agree that it must.\nAs a counsellor she was not wanted; but as an approver, (a much safer\ncharacter,) she was truly welcome. Her approbation, at once general\nand minute, warm and incessant, could not but please; and for another\nhalf-hour they were all walking to and fro, between the different rooms,\nsome suggesting, some attending, and all in happy enjoyment of the\nfuture. The party did not break up without Emma's being positively\nsecured for the two first dances by the hero of the evening, nor without\nher overhearing Mr. Weston whisper to his wife, \"He has asked her, my\ndear. That's right. I knew he would!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nOne thing only was wanting to make the prospect of the ball completely\nsatisfactory to Emma--its being fixed for a day within the granted\nterm of Frank Churchill's stay in Surry; for, in spite of Mr. Weston's\nconfidence, she could not think it so very impossible that the\nChurchills might not allow their nephew to remain a day beyond his\nfortnight. But this was not judged feasible. The preparations must take\ntheir time, nothing could be properly ready till the third week were\nentered on, and for a few days they must be planning, proceeding and\nhoping in uncertainty--at the risk--in her opinion, the great risk, of\nits being all in vain.\n\nEnscombe however was gracious, gracious in fact, if not in word. His\nwish of staying longer evidently did not please; but it was not opposed.\nAll was safe and prosperous; and as the removal of one solicitude\ngenerally makes way for another, Emma, being now certain of her\nball, began to adopt as the next vexation Mr. Knightley's provoking\nindifference about it. Either because he did not dance himself, or\nbecause the plan had been formed without his being consulted, he\nseemed resolved that it should not interest him, determined against its\nexciting any present curiosity, or affording him any future amusement.\nTo her voluntary communications Emma could get no more approving reply,\nthan,\n\n\"Very well. If the Westons think it worth while to be at all this\ntrouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say\nagainst it, but that they shall not chuse pleasures for me.--Oh! yes,\nI must be there; I could not refuse; and I will keep as much awake as\nI can; but I would rather be at home, looking over William Larkins's\nweek's account; much rather, I confess.--Pleasure in seeing\ndancing!--not I, indeed--I never look at it--I do not know who\ndoes.--Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward.\nThose who are standing by are usually thinking of something very\ndifferent.\"\n\nThis Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite angry. It was not\nin compliment to Jane Fairfax however that he was so indifferent, or so\nindignant; he was not guided by _her_ feelings in reprobating the ball,\nfor _she_ enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree. It made\nher animated--open hearted--she voluntarily said;--\n\n\"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball.\nWhat a disappointment it would be! I do look forward to it, I own, with\n_very_ great pleasure.\"\n\nIt was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would have preferred\nthe society of William Larkins. No!--she was more and more convinced\nthat Mrs. Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise. There was a great\ndeal of friendly and of compassionate attachment on his side--but no\nlove.\n\nAlas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. Knightley. Two\ndays of joyful security were immediately followed by the over-throw of\nevery thing. A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew's\ninstant return. Mrs. Churchill was unwell--far too unwell to do without\nhim; she had been in a very suffering state (so said her husband)\nwhen writing to her nephew two days before, though from her usual\nunwillingness to give pain, and constant habit of never thinking of\nherself, she had not mentioned it; but now she was too ill to trifle,\nand must entreat him to set off for Enscombe without delay.\n\nThe substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a note from Mrs.\nWeston, instantly. As to his going, it was inevitable. He must be gone\nwithin a few hours, though without feeling any real alarm for his aunt,\nto lessen his repugnance. He knew her illnesses; they never occurred but\nfor her own convenience.\n\nMrs. Weston added, \"that he could only allow himself time to hurry to\nHighbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there\nwhom he could suppose to feel any interest in him; and that he might be\nexpected at Hartfield very soon.\"\n\nThis wretched note was the finale of Emma's breakfast. When once it had\nbeen read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim. The\nloss of the ball--the loss of the young man--and all that the young man\nmight be feeling!--It was too wretched!--Such a delightful evening as\nit would have been!--Every body so happy! and she and her partner the\nhappiest!--\"I said it would be so,\" was the only consolation.\n\nHer father's feelings were quite distinct. He thought principally of\nMrs. Churchill's illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and as\nfor the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but they\nwould all be safer at home.\n\nEmma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if this\nreflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total want\nof spirits when he did come might redeem him. He felt the going away\nalmost too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He\nsat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing\nhimself, it was only to say,\n\n\"Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst.\"\n\n\"But you will come again,\" said Emma. \"This will not be your only visit\nto Randalls.\"\n\n\"Ah!--(shaking his head)--the uncertainty of when I may be able to\nreturn!--I shall try for it with a zeal!--It will be the object of\nall my thoughts and cares!--and if my uncle and aunt go to town this\nspring--but I am afraid--they did not stir last spring--I am afraid it\nis a custom gone for ever.\"\n\n\"Our poor ball must be quite given up.\"\n\n\"Ah! that ball!--why did we wait for any thing?--why not seize the\npleasure at once?--How often is happiness destroyed by preparation,\nfoolish preparation!--You told us it would be so.--Oh! Miss Woodhouse,\nwhy are you always so right?\"\n\n\"Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I would much\nrather have been merry than wise.\"\n\n\"If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father depends\non it. Do not forget your engagement.\"\n\nEmma looked graciously.\n\n\"Such a fortnight as it has been!\" he continued; \"every day more\nprecious and more delightful than the day before!--every day making\nme less fit to bear any other place. Happy those, who can remain at\nHighbury!\"\n\n\"As you do us such ample justice now,\" said Emma, laughing, \"I will\nventure to ask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first?\nDo not we rather surpass your expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure\nyou did not much expect to like us. You would not have been so long in\ncoming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury.\"\n\nHe laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment, Emma\nwas convinced that it had been so.\n\n\"And you must be off this very morning?\"\n\n\"Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back together, and I\nmust be off immediately. I am almost afraid that every moment will bring\nhim.\"\n\n\"Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss Fairfax and Miss\nBates? How unlucky! Miss Bates's powerful, argumentative mind might have\nstrengthened yours.\"\n\n\"Yes--I _have_ called there; passing the door, I thought it better. It\nwas a right thing to do. I went in for three minutes, and was detained\nby Miss Bates's being absent. She was out; and I felt it impossible not\nto wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one _must_\nlaugh at; but that one would not wish to slight. It was better to pay my\nvisit, then\"--\n\nHe hesitated, got up, walked to a window.\n\n\"In short,\" said he, \"perhaps, Miss Woodhouse--I think you can hardly be\nquite without suspicion\"--\n\nHe looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts. She hardly knew\nwhat to say. It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely\nserious, which she did not wish. Forcing herself to speak, therefore, in\nthe hope of putting it by, she calmly said,\n\n\"You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit,\nthen\"--\n\nHe was silent. She believed he was looking at her; probably reflecting\non what she had said, and trying to understand the manner. She heard\nhim sigh. It was natural for him to feel that he had _cause_ to sigh.\nHe could not believe her to be encouraging him. A few awkward moments\npassed, and he sat down again; and in a more determined manner said,\n\n\"It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given to\nHartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most warm\"--\n\nHe stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed.--He was more\nin love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say how it might\nhave ended, if his father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse\nsoon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him composed.\n\nA very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial. Mr.\nWeston, always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of\nprocrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that\nwas doubtful, said, \"It was time to go;\" and the young man, though he\nmight and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave.\n\n\"I shall hear about you all,\" said he; \"that is my chief consolation.\nI shall hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have engaged\nMrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise\nit. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really\ninterested in the absent!--she will tell me every thing. In her letters\nI shall be at dear Highbury again.\"\n\nA very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest \"Good-bye,\" closed the\nspeech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had been\nthe notice--short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry\nto part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his\nabsence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too\nmuch.\n\nIt was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his\narrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to\nthe last two weeks--indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation\nof seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his\nattentions, his liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy\nfortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common\ncourse of Hartfield days. To complete every other recommendation, he had\n_almost_ told her that he loved her. What strength, or what constancy of\naffection he might be subject to, was another point; but at present\nshe could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious\npreference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all the rest,\nmade her think that she _must_ be a little in love with him, in spite of\nevery previous determination against it.\n\n\"I certainly must,\" said she. \"This sensation of listlessness,\nweariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself,\nthis feeling of every thing's being dull and insipid about the house!--\nI must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world if I\nwere not--for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good to\nothers. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank\nChurchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening\nwith his dear William Larkins now if he likes.\"\n\nMr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not say\nthat he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have\ncontradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he\nwas sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable\nkindness added,\n\n\"You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out\nof luck; you are very much out of luck!\"\n\nIt was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest\nregret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure\nwas odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from\nheadache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball\ntaken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was\ncharity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of\nill-health.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nEmma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas\nonly varied as to the how much. At first, she thought it was a good\ndeal; and afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in hearing\nFrank Churchill talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever\nin seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him, and\nquite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was, how were\nhis spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his coming to\nRandalls again this spring. But, on the other hand, she could not admit\nherself to be unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be less disposed\nfor employment than usual; she was still busy and cheerful; and,\npleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have faults; and\nfarther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat drawing or\nworking, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress and close\nof their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing\nelegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his\nside was that she _refused_ _him_. Their affection was always to subside\ninto friendship. Every thing tender and charming was to mark their\nparting; but still they were to part. When she became sensible of this,\nit struck her that she could not be very much in love; for in spite of\nher previous and fixed determination never to quit her father, never\nto marry, a strong attachment certainly must produce more of a struggle\nthan she could foresee in her own feelings.\n\n\"I do not find myself making any use of the word _sacrifice_,\" said\nshe.--\"In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is\nthere any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not\nreally necessary to my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will\nnot persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am quite enough in love. I\nshould be sorry to be more.\"\n\nUpon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his feelings.\n\n\"_He_ is undoubtedly very much in love--every thing denotes it--very\nmuch in love indeed!--and when he comes again, if his affection\ncontinue, I must be on my guard not to encourage it.--It would be most\ninexcusable to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not that I\nimagine he can think I have been encouraging him hitherto. No, if he\nhad believed me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been\nso wretched. Could he have thought himself encouraged, his looks and\nlanguage at parting would have been different.--Still, however, I must\nbe on my guard. This is in the supposition of his attachment continuing\nwhat it now is; but I do not know that I expect it will; I do not look\nupon him to be quite the sort of man--I do not altogether build upon\nhis steadiness or constancy.--His feelings are warm, but I can imagine\nthem rather changeable.--Every consideration of the subject, in short,\nmakes me thankful that my happiness is not more deeply involved.--I\nshall do very well again after a little while--and then, it will be a\ngood thing over; for they say every body is in love once in their lives,\nand I shall have been let off easily.\"\n\nWhen his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it; and\nshe read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made her\nat first shake her head over her own sensations, and think she had\nundervalued their strength. It was a long, well-written letter, giving\nthe particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all the\naffection, gratitude, and respect which was natural and honourable,\nand describing every thing exterior and local that could be supposed\nattractive, with spirit and precision. No suspicious flourishes now of\napology or concern; it was the language of real feeling towards Mrs.\nWeston; and the transition from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast\nbetween the places in some of the first blessings of social life was\njust enough touched on to shew how keenly it was felt, and how much more\nmight have been said but for the restraints of propriety.--The charm\nof her own name was not wanting. _Miss_ _Woodhouse_ appeared more than\nonce, and never without a something of pleasing connexion, either a\ncompliment to her taste, or a remembrance of what she had said; and in\nthe very last time of its meeting her eye, unadorned as it was by any\nsuch broad wreath of gallantry, she yet could discern the effect of\nher influence and acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps of all\nconveyed. Compressed into the very lowest vacant corner were these\nwords--\"I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as you know, for Miss\nWoodhouse's beautiful little friend. Pray make my excuses and adieus\nto her.\" This, Emma could not doubt, was all for herself. Harriet was\nremembered only from being _her_ friend. His information and prospects\nas to Enscombe were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated;\nMrs. Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even in his own\nimagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls again.\n\nGratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the material\npart, its sentiments, she yet found, when it was folded up and returned\nto Mrs. Weston, that it had not added any lasting warmth, that she could\nstill do without the writer, and that he must learn to do without her.\nHer intentions were unchanged. Her resolution of refusal only grew more\ninteresting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent consolation\nand happiness. His recollection of Harriet, and the words which\nclothed it, the \"beautiful little friend,\" suggested to her the\nidea of Harriet's succeeding her in his affections. Was it\nimpossible?--No.--Harriet undoubtedly was greatly his inferior in\nunderstanding; but he had been very much struck with the loveliness\nof her face and the warm simplicity of her manner; and all the\nprobabilities of circumstance and connexion were in her favour.--For\nHarriet, it would be advantageous and delightful indeed.\n\n\"I must not dwell upon it,\" said she.--\"I must not think of it. I know\nthe danger of indulging such speculations. But stranger things have\nhappened; and when we cease to care for each other as we do now, it\nwill be the means of confirming us in that sort of true disinterested\nfriendship which I can already look forward to with pleasure.\"\n\nIt was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet's behalf, though it\nmight be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom; for evil in that quarter\nwas at hand. As Frank Churchill's arrival had succeeded Mr. Elton's\nengagement in the conversation of Highbury, as the latest interest\nhad entirely borne down the first, so now upon Frank Churchill's\ndisappearance, Mr. Elton's concerns were assuming the most irresistible\nform.--His wedding-day was named. He would soon be among them again; Mr.\nElton and his bride. There was hardly time to talk over the first letter\nfrom Enscombe before \"Mr. Elton and his bride\" was in every body's\nmouth, and Frank Churchill was forgotten. Emma grew sick at the sound.\nShe had had three weeks of happy exemption from Mr. Elton; and Harriet's\nmind, she had been willing to hope, had been lately gaining strength.\nWith Mr. Weston's ball in view at least, there had been a great deal of\ninsensibility to other things; but it was now too evident that she had\nnot attained such a state of composure as could stand against the actual\napproach--new carriage, bell-ringing, and all.\n\nPoor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the\nreasonings and soothings and attentions of every kind that Emma could\ngive. Emma felt that she could not do too much for her, that Harriet had\na right to all her ingenuity and all her patience; but it was heavy work\nto be for ever convincing without producing any effect, for ever agreed\nto, without being able to make their opinions the same. Harriet listened\nsubmissively, and said \"it was very true--it was just as Miss Woodhouse\ndescribed--it was not worth while to think about them--and she would not\nthink about them any longer\" but no change of subject could avail, and\nthe next half-hour saw her as anxious and restless about the Eltons as\nbefore. At last Emma attacked her on another ground.\n\n\"Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about Mr.\nElton's marrying, Harriet, is the strongest reproach you can make _me_.\nYou could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into.\nIt was all my doing, I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure\nyou.--Deceived myself, I did very miserably deceive you--and it will\nbe a painful reflection to me for ever. Do not imagine me in danger of\nforgetting it.\"\n\nHarriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager\nexclamation. Emma continued,\n\n\"I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake; think less, talk\nless of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for your own sake rather, I\nwould wish it to be done, for the sake of what is more important than my\ncomfort, a habit of self-command in you, a consideration of what is your\nduty, an attention to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the suspicions of\nothers, to save your health and credit, and restore your tranquillity.\nThese are the motives which I have been pressing on you. They are very\nimportant--and sorry I am that you cannot feel them sufficiently to act\nupon them. My being saved from pain is a very secondary consideration.\nI want you to save yourself from greater pain. Perhaps I may sometimes\nhave felt that Harriet would not forget what was due--or rather what\nwould be kind by me.\"\n\nThis appeal to her affections did more than all the rest. The idea of\nwanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she really\nloved extremely, made her wretched for a while, and when the violence\nof grief was comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt to\nwhat was right and support her in it very tolerably.\n\n\"You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life--Want\ngratitude to you!--Nobody is equal to you!--I care for nobody as I do\nfor you!--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been!\"\n\nSuch expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and\nmanner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so\nwell, nor valued her affection so highly before.\n\n\"There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart,\" said she afterwards to\nherself. \"There is nothing to be compared to it. Warmth and tenderness\nof heart, with an affectionate, open manner, will beat all the\nclearness of head in the world, for attraction, I am sure it will. It\nis tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so generally\nbeloved--which gives Isabella all her popularity.--I have it not--but\nI know how to prize and respect it.--Harriet is my superior in all the\ncharm and all the felicity it gives. Dear Harriet!--I would not change\nyou for the clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging female\nbreathing. Oh! the coldness of a Jane Fairfax!--Harriet is worth a\nhundred such--And for a wife--a sensible man's wife--it is invaluable. I\nmention no names; but happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nMrs. Elton was first seen at church: but though devotion might be\ninterrupted, curiosity could not be satisfied by a bride in a pew, and\nit must be left for the visits in form which were then to be paid, to\nsettle whether she were very pretty indeed, or only rather pretty, or\nnot pretty at all.\n\nEmma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or propriety, to make\nher resolve on not being the last to pay her respects; and she made a\npoint of Harriet's going with her, that the worst of the business might\nbe gone through as soon as possible.\n\nShe could not enter the house again, could not be in the same room to\nwhich she had with such vain artifice retreated three months ago, to\nlace up her boot, without _recollecting_. A thousand vexatious thoughts\nwould recur. Compliments, charades, and horrible blunders; and it was\nnot to be supposed that poor Harriet should not be recollecting too; but\nshe behaved very well, and was only rather pale and silent. The visit\nwas of course short; and there was so much embarrassment and occupation\nof mind to shorten it, that Emma would not allow herself entirely to\nform an opinion of the lady, and on no account to give one, beyond the\nnothing-meaning terms of being \"elegantly dressed, and very pleasing.\"\n\nShe did not really like her. She would not be in a hurry to find fault,\nbut she suspected that there was no elegance;--ease, but not elegance.--\nShe was almost sure that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride, there\nwas too much ease. Her person was rather good; her face not unpretty;\nbut neither feature, nor air, nor voice, nor manner, were elegant. Emma\nthought at least it would turn out so.\n\nAs for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear--but no, she would not\npermit a hasty or a witty word from herself about his manners. It was an\nawkward ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits, and a man\nhad need be all grace to acquit himself well through it. The woman\nwas better off; she might have the assistance of fine clothes, and the\nprivilege of bashfulness, but the man had only his own good sense to\ndepend on; and when she considered how peculiarly unlucky poor Mr.\nElton was in being in the same room at once with the woman he had just\nmarried, the woman he had wanted to marry, and the woman whom he had\nbeen expected to marry, she must allow him to have the right to look as\nlittle wise, and to be as much affectedly, and as little really easy as\ncould be.\n\n\"Well, Miss Woodhouse,\" said Harriet, when they had quitted the\nhouse, and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin; \"Well, Miss\nWoodhouse, (with a gentle sigh,) what do you think of her?--Is not she\nvery charming?\"\n\nThere was a little hesitation in Emma's answer.\n\n\"Oh! yes--very--a very pleasing young woman.\"\n\n\"I think her beautiful, quite beautiful.\"\n\n\"Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown.\"\n\n\"I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love.\"\n\n\"Oh! no--there is nothing to surprize one at all.--A pretty fortune; and\nshe came in his way.\"\n\n\"I dare say,\" returned Harriet, sighing again, \"I dare say she was very\nmuch attached to him.\"\n\n\"Perhaps she might; but it is not every man's fate to marry the woman\nwho loves him best. Miss Hawkins perhaps wanted a home, and thought this\nthe best offer she was likely to have.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Harriet earnestly, \"and well she might, nobody could ever\nhave a better. Well, I wish them happy with all my heart. And now, Miss\nWoodhouse, I do not think I shall mind seeing them again. He is just as\nsuperior as ever;--but being married, you know, it is quite a different\nthing. No, indeed, Miss Woodhouse, you need not be afraid; I can sit and\nadmire him now without any great misery. To know that he has not thrown\nhimself away, is such a comfort!--She does seem a charming young woman,\njust what he deserves. Happy creature! He called her 'Augusta.' How\ndelightful!\"\n\nWhen the visit was returned, Emma made up her mind. She could then see\nmore and judge better. From Harriet's happening not to be at Hartfield,\nand her father's being present to engage Mr. Elton, she had a quarter\nof an hour of the lady's conversation to herself, and could composedly\nattend to her; and the quarter of an hour quite convinced her that\nMrs. Elton was a vain woman, extremely well satisfied with herself, and\nthinking much of her own importance; that she meant to shine and be very\nsuperior, but with manners which had been formed in a bad school, pert\nand familiar; that all her notions were drawn from one set of people,\nand one style of living; that if not foolish she was ignorant, and that\nher society would certainly do Mr. Elton no good.\n\nHarriet would have been a better match. If not wise or refined herself,\nshe would have connected him with those who were; but Miss Hawkins, it\nmight be fairly supposed from her easy conceit, had been the best of\nher own set. The rich brother-in-law near Bristol was the pride of the\nalliance, and his place and his carriages were the pride of him.\n\nThe very first subject after being seated was Maple Grove, \"My brother\nMr. Suckling's seat;\"--a comparison of Hartfield to Maple Grove. The\ngrounds of Hartfield were small, but neat and pretty; and the house was\nmodern and well-built. Mrs. Elton seemed most favourably impressed\nby the size of the room, the entrance, and all that she could see or\nimagine. \"Very like Maple Grove indeed!--She was quite struck by the\nlikeness!--That room was the very shape and size of the morning-room\nat Maple Grove; her sister's favourite room.\"--Mr. Elton was appealed\nto.--\"Was not it astonishingly like?--She could really almost fancy\nherself at Maple Grove.\"\n\n\"And the staircase--You know, as I came in, I observed how very like the\nstaircase was; placed exactly in the same part of the house. I really\ncould not help exclaiming! I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, it is very\ndelightful to me, to be reminded of a place I am so extremely partial to\nas Maple Grove. I have spent so many happy months there! (with a little\nsigh of sentiment). A charming place, undoubtedly. Every body who\nsees it is struck by its beauty; but to me, it has been quite a home.\nWhenever you are transplanted, like me, Miss Woodhouse, you will\nunderstand how very delightful it is to meet with any thing at all like\nwhat one has left behind. I always say this is quite one of the evils of\nmatrimony.\"\n\nEmma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was fully sufficient\nfor Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be talking herself.\n\n\"So extremely like Maple Grove! And it is not merely the house--the\ngrounds, I assure you, as far as I could observe, are strikingly like.\nThe laurels at Maple Grove are in the same profusion as here, and stand\nvery much in the same way--just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse\nof a fine large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so exactly in\nmind! My brother and sister will be enchanted with this place. People\nwho have extensive grounds themselves are always pleased with any thing\nin the same style.\"\n\nEmma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a great idea that\npeople who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for the\nextensive grounds of any body else; but it was not worth while to attack\nan error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply,\n\n\"When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will think you\nhave overrated Hartfield. Surry is full of beauties.\"\n\n\"Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of England, you\nknow. Surry is the garden of England.\"\n\n\"Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many\ncounties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as\nSurry.\"\n\n\"No, I fancy not,\" replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile.\n\"I never heard any county but Surry called so.\"\n\nEmma was silenced.\n\n\"My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring, or summer\nat farthest,\" continued Mrs. Elton; \"and that will be our time for\nexploring. While they are with us, we shall explore a great deal, I dare\nsay. They will have their barouche-landau, of course, which holds four\nperfectly; and therefore, without saying any thing of _our_ carriage,\nwe should be able to explore the different beauties extremely well. They\nwould hardly come in their chaise, I think, at that season of the\nyear. Indeed, when the time draws on, I shall decidedly recommend their\nbringing the barouche-landau; it will be so very much preferable.\nWhen people come into a beautiful country of this sort, you know, Miss\nWoodhouse, one naturally wishes them to see as much as possible; and Mr.\nSuckling is extremely fond of exploring. We explored to King's-Weston\ntwice last summer, in that way, most delightfully, just after their\nfirst having the barouche-landau. You have many parties of that kind\nhere, I suppose, Miss Woodhouse, every summer?\"\n\n\"No; not immediately here. We are rather out of distance of the very\nstriking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of; and we\nare a very quiet set of people, I believe; more disposed to stay at home\nthan engage in schemes of pleasure.\"\n\n\"Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort. Nobody can\nbe more devoted to home than I am. I was quite a proverb for it at Maple\nGrove. Many a time has Selina said, when she has been going to Bristol,\n'I really cannot get this girl to move from the house. I absolutely must\ngo in by myself, though I hate being stuck up in the barouche-landau\nwithout a companion; but Augusta, I believe, with her own good-will,\nwould never stir beyond the park paling.' Many a time has she said so;\nand yet I am no advocate for entire seclusion. I think, on the contrary,\nwhen people shut themselves up entirely from society, it is a very\nbad thing; and that it is much more advisable to mix in the world in\na proper degree, without living in it either too much or too little. I\nperfectly understand your situation, however, Miss Woodhouse--(looking\ntowards Mr. Woodhouse), Your father's state of health must be a great\ndrawback. Why does not he try Bath?--Indeed he should. Let me recommend\nBath to you. I assure you I have no doubt of its doing Mr. Woodhouse\ngood.\"\n\n\"My father tried it more than once, formerly; but without receiving any\nbenefit; and Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare say, is not unknown to you,\ndoes not conceive it would be at all more likely to be useful now.\"\n\n\"Ah! that's a great pity; for I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, where the\nwaters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they give. In my Bath\nlife, I have seen such instances of it! And it is so cheerful a place,\nthat it could not fail of being of use to Mr. Woodhouse's spirits,\nwhich, I understand, are sometimes much depressed. And as to its\nrecommendations to _you_, I fancy I need not take much pains to dwell\non them. The advantages of Bath to the young are pretty generally\nunderstood. It would be a charming introduction for you, who have lived\nso secluded a life; and I could immediately secure you some of the best\nsociety in the place. A line from me would bring you a little host of\nacquaintance; and my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have\nalways resided with when in Bath, would be most happy to shew you any\nattentions, and would be the very person for you to go into public\nwith.\"\n\nIt was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite. The idea\nof her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an\n_introduction_--of her going into public under the auspices of a friend\nof Mrs. Elton's--probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the\nhelp of a boarder, just made a shift to live!--The dignity of Miss\nWoodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed!\n\nShe restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could have\ngiven, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; \"but their going to Bath was\nquite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced that\nthe place might suit her better than her father.\" And then, to prevent\nfarther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.\n\n\"I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon these occasions,\na lady's character generally precedes her; and Highbury has long known\nthat you are a superior performer.\"\n\n\"Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A superior\nperformer!--very far from it, I assure you. Consider from how partial\na quarter your information came. I am doatingly fond of\nmusic--passionately fond;--and my friends say I am not entirely devoid\nof taste; but as to any thing else, upon my honour my performance is\n_mediocre_ to the last degree. You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play\ndelightfully. I assure you it has been the greatest satisfaction,\ncomfort, and delight to me, to hear what a musical society I am got\ninto. I absolutely cannot do without music. It is a necessary of life to\nme; and having always been used to a very musical society, both at\nMaple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most serious sacrifice. I\nhonestly said as much to Mr. E. when he was speaking of my future\nhome, and expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should be\ndisagreeable; and the inferiority of the house too--knowing what I had\nbeen accustomed to--of course he was not wholly without apprehension.\nWhen he was speaking of it in that way, I honestly said that _the_\n_world_ I could give up--parties, balls, plays--for I had no fear of\nretirement. Blessed with so many resources within myself, the world was\nnot necessary to _me_. I could do very well without it. To those who had\nno resources it was a different thing; but my resources made me quite\nindependent. And as to smaller-sized rooms than I had been used to, I\nreally could not give it a thought. I hoped I was perfectly equal to any\nsacrifice of that description. Certainly I had been accustomed to every\nluxury at Maple Grove; but I did assure him that two carriages were not\nnecessary to my happiness, nor were spacious apartments. 'But,' said I,\n'to be quite honest, I do not think I can live without something of a\nmusical society. I condition for nothing else; but without music, life\nwould be a blank to me.'\"\n\n\"We cannot suppose,\" said Emma, smiling, \"that Mr. Elton would hesitate\nto assure you of there being a _very_ musical society in Highbury; and\nI hope you will not find he has outstepped the truth more than may be\npardoned, in consideration of the motive.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I have no doubts at all on that head. I am delighted to\nfind myself in such a circle. I hope we shall have many sweet little\nconcerts together. I think, Miss Woodhouse, you and I must establish a\nmusical club, and have regular weekly meetings at your house, or ours.\nWill not it be a good plan? If _we_ exert ourselves, I think we shall\nnot be long in want of allies. Something of that nature would be\nparticularly desirable for _me_, as an inducement to keep me in\npractice; for married women, you know--there is a sad story against\nthem, in general. They are but too apt to give up music.\"\n\n\"But you, who are so extremely fond of it--there can be no danger,\nsurely?\"\n\n\"I should hope not; but really when I look around among my acquaintance,\nI tremble. Selina has entirely given up music--never touches the\ninstrument--though she played sweetly. And the same may be said of Mrs.\nJeffereys--Clara Partridge, that was--and of the two Milmans, now Mrs.\nBird and Mrs. James Cooper; and of more than I can enumerate. Upon my\nword it is enough to put one in a fright. I used to be quite angry with\nSelina; but really I begin now to comprehend that a married woman has\nmany things to call her attention. I believe I was half an hour this\nmorning shut up with my housekeeper.\"\n\n\"But every thing of that kind,\" said Emma, \"will soon be in so regular a\ntrain--\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Mrs. Elton, laughing, \"we shall see.\"\n\nEmma, finding her so determined upon neglecting her music, had nothing\nmore to say; and, after a moment's pause, Mrs. Elton chose another\nsubject.\n\n\"We have been calling at Randalls,\" said she, \"and found them both at\nhome; and very pleasant people they seem to be. I like them extremely.\nMr. Weston seems an excellent creature--quite a first-rate favourite\nwith me already, I assure you. And _she_ appears so truly good--there is\nsomething so motherly and kind-hearted about her, that it wins upon one\ndirectly. She was your governess, I think?\"\n\nEmma was almost too much astonished to answer; but Mrs. Elton hardly\nwaited for the affirmative before she went on.\n\n\"Having understood as much, I was rather astonished to find her so very\nlady-like! But she is really quite the gentlewoman.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Weston's manners,\" said Emma, \"were always particularly good.\nTheir propriety, simplicity, and elegance, would make them the safest\nmodel for any young woman.\"\n\n\"And who do you think came in while we were there?\"\n\nEmma was quite at a loss. The tone implied some old acquaintance--and\nhow could she possibly guess?\n\n\"Knightley!\" continued Mrs. Elton; \"Knightley himself!--Was not it\nlucky?--for, not being within when he called the other day, I had never\nseen him before; and of course, as so particular a friend of Mr. E.'s,\nI had a great curiosity. 'My friend Knightley' had been so often\nmentioned, that I was really impatient to see him; and I must do my\ncaro sposo the justice to say that he need not be ashamed of his friend.\nKnightley is quite the gentleman. I like him very much. Decidedly, I\nthink, a very gentleman-like man.\"\n\nHappily, it was now time to be gone. They were off; and Emma could\nbreathe.\n\n\"Insufferable woman!\" was her immediate exclamation. \"Worse than I had\nsupposed. Absolutely insufferable! Knightley!--I could not have\nbelieved it. Knightley!--never seen him in her life before, and call\nhim Knightley!--and discover that he is a gentleman! A little upstart,\nvulgar being, with her Mr. E., and her _caro_ _sposo_, and her\nresources, and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery.\nActually to discover that Mr. Knightley is a gentleman! I doubt whether\nhe will return the compliment, and discover her to be a lady. I could\nnot have believed it! And to propose that she and I should unite to\nform a musical club! One would fancy we were bosom friends! And Mrs.\nWeston!--Astonished that the person who had brought me up should be a\ngentlewoman! Worse and worse. I never met with her equal. Much beyond\nmy hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any comparison. Oh! what would Frank\nChurchill say to her, if he were here? How angry and how diverted he\nwould be! Ah! there I am--thinking of him directly. Always the first\nperson to be thought of! How I catch myself out! Frank Churchill comes\nas regularly into my mind!\"--\n\nAll this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her father\nhad arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons' departure, and was\nready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending.\n\n\"Well, my dear,\" he deliberately began, \"considering we never saw her\nbefore, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she\nwas very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little\nquickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe\nI am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and\npoor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved\nyoung lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think\nhe had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not\nhaving been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I\nsaid that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought to\nhave gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews\nwhat a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage\nLane.\"\n\n\"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you.\"\n\n\"Yes: but a young lady--a bride--I ought to have paid my respects to her\nif possible. It was being very deficient.\"\n\n\"But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why\nshould you be so anxious to pay your respects to a _bride_? It ought to\nbe no recommendation to _you_. It is encouraging people to marry if you\nmake so much of them.\"\n\n\"No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would always\nwish to pay every proper attention to a lady--and a bride, especially,\nis never to be neglected. More is avowedly due to _her_. A bride, you\nknow, my dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who\nthey may.\"\n\n\"Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not know what\nis. And I should never have expected you to be lending your sanction to\nsuch vanity-baits for poor young ladies.\"\n\n\"My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter of mere\ncommon politeness and good-breeding, and has nothing to do with any\nencouragement to people to marry.\"\n\nEmma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and could not understand\n_her_. Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton's offences, and long, very long,\ndid they occupy her.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\nEmma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill\nopinion of Mrs. Elton. Her observation had been pretty correct. Such as\nMrs. Elton appeared to her on this second interview, such she appeared\nwhenever they met again,--self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant,\nand ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a little accomplishment,\nbut so little judgment that she thought herself coming with superior\nknowledge of the world, to enliven and improve a country neighbourhood;\nand conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in society as Mrs.\nElton's consequence only could surpass.\n\nThere was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at all differently from\nhis wife. He seemed not merely happy with her, but proud. He had the air\nof congratulating himself on having brought such a woman to Highbury,\nas not even Miss Woodhouse could equal; and the greater part of her\nnew acquaintance, disposed to commend, or not in the habit of judging,\nfollowing the lead of Miss Bates's good-will, or taking it for granted\nthat the bride must be as clever and as agreeable as she professed\nherself, were very well satisfied; so that Mrs. Elton's praise\npassed from one mouth to another as it ought to do, unimpeded by Miss\nWoodhouse, who readily continued her first contribution and talked with\na good grace of her being \"very pleasant and very elegantly dressed.\"\n\nIn one respect Mrs. Elton grew even worse than she had appeared at\nfirst. Her feelings altered towards Emma.--Offended, probably, by the\nlittle encouragement which her proposals of intimacy met with, she drew\nback in her turn and gradually became much more cold and distant; and\nthough the effect was agreeable, the ill-will which produced it was\nnecessarily increasing Emma's dislike. Her manners, too--and Mr.\nElton's, were unpleasant towards Harriet. They were sneering and\nnegligent. Emma hoped it must rapidly work Harriet's cure; but the\nsensations which could prompt such behaviour sunk them both very\nmuch.--It was not to be doubted that poor Harriet's attachment had been\nan offering to conjugal unreserve, and her own share in the story, under\na colouring the least favourable to her and the most soothing to him,\nhad in all likelihood been given also. She was, of course, the object\nof their joint dislike.--When they had nothing else to say, it must be\nalways easy to begin abusing Miss Woodhouse; and the enmity which\nthey dared not shew in open disrespect to her, found a broader vent in\ncontemptuous treatment of Harriet.\n\nMrs. Elton took a great fancy to Jane Fairfax; and from the first. Not\nmerely when a state of warfare with one young lady might be supposed to\nrecommend the other, but from the very first; and she was not satisfied\nwith expressing a natural and reasonable admiration--but without\nsolicitation, or plea, or privilege, she must be wanting to assist and\nbefriend her.--Before Emma had forfeited her confidence, and about the\nthird time of their meeting, she heard all Mrs. Elton's knight-errantry\non the subject.--\n\n\"Jane Fairfax is absolutely charming, Miss Woodhouse.--I quite rave\nabout Jane Fairfax.--A sweet, interesting creature. So mild and\nladylike--and with such talents!--I assure you I think she has very\nextraordinary talents. I do not scruple to say that she plays extremely\nwell. I know enough of music to speak decidedly on that point. Oh! she\nis absolutely charming! You will laugh at my warmth--but, upon my word,\nI talk of nothing but Jane Fairfax.--And her situation is so calculated\nto affect one!--Miss Woodhouse, we must exert ourselves and endeavour\nto do something for her. We must bring her forward. Such talent as hers\nmust not be suffered to remain unknown.--I dare say you have heard those\ncharming lines of the poet,\n\n        'Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,\n          'And waste its fragrance on the desert air.'\n\nWe must not allow them to be verified in sweet Jane Fairfax.\"\n\n\"I cannot think there is any danger of it,\" was Emma's calm answer--\"and\nwhen you are better acquainted with Miss Fairfax's situation and\nunderstand what her home has been, with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell, I\nhave no idea that you will suppose her talents can be unknown.\"\n\n\"Oh! but dear Miss Woodhouse, she is now in such retirement, such\nobscurity, so thrown away.--Whatever advantages she may have enjoyed\nwith the Campbells are so palpably at an end! And I think she feels it.\nI am sure she does. She is very timid and silent. One can see that she\nfeels the want of encouragement. I like her the better for it. I\nmust confess it is a recommendation to me. I am a great advocate for\ntimidity--and I am sure one does not often meet with it.--But in those\nwho are at all inferior, it is extremely prepossessing. Oh! I assure\nyou, Jane Fairfax is a very delightful character, and interests me more\nthan I can express.\"\n\n\"You appear to feel a great deal--but I am not aware how you or any of\nMiss Fairfax's acquaintance here, any of those who have known her longer\nthan yourself, can shew her any other attention than\"--\n\n\"My dear Miss Woodhouse, a vast deal may be done by those who dare to\nact. You and I need not be afraid. If _we_ set the example, many will\nfollow it as far as they can; though all have not our situations. _We_\nhave carriages to fetch and convey her home, and _we_ live in a style\nwhich could not make the addition of Jane Fairfax, at any time, the\nleast inconvenient.--I should be extremely displeased if Wright were to\nsend us up such a dinner, as could make me regret having asked _more_\nthan Jane Fairfax to partake of it. I have no idea of that sort of\nthing. It is not likely that I _should_, considering what I have been\nused to. My greatest danger, perhaps, in housekeeping, may be quite the\nother way, in doing too much, and being too careless of expense. Maple\nGrove will probably be my model more than it ought to be--for we do not\nat all affect to equal my brother, Mr. Suckling, in income.--However, my\nresolution is taken as to noticing Jane Fairfax.--I shall certainly have\nher very often at my house, shall introduce her wherever I can, shall\nhave musical parties to draw out her talents, and shall be constantly\non the watch for an eligible situation. My acquaintance is so very\nextensive, that I have little doubt of hearing of something to suit\nher shortly.--I shall introduce her, of course, very particularly to my\nbrother and sister when they come to us. I am sure they will like her\nextremely; and when she gets a little acquainted with them, her fears\nwill completely wear off, for there really is nothing in the manners\nof either but what is highly conciliating.--I shall have her very often\nindeed while they are with me, and I dare say we shall sometimes find a\nseat for her in the barouche-landau in some of our exploring parties.\"\n\n\"Poor Jane Fairfax!\"--thought Emma.--\"You have not deserved this. You\nmay have done wrong with regard to Mr. Dixon, but this is a punishment\nbeyond what you can have merited!--The kindness and protection of Mrs.\nElton!--'Jane Fairfax and Jane Fairfax.' Heavens! Let me not suppose\nthat she dares go about, Emma Woodhouse-ing me!--But upon my honour,\nthere seems no limits to the licentiousness of that woman's tongue!\"\n\nEmma had not to listen to such paradings again--to any so exclusively\naddressed to herself--so disgustingly decorated with a \"dear Miss\nWoodhouse.\" The change on Mrs. Elton's side soon afterwards appeared,\nand she was left in peace--neither forced to be the very particular\nfriend of Mrs. Elton, nor, under Mrs. Elton's guidance, the very active\npatroness of Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with others in a general\nway, in knowing what was felt, what was meditated, what was done.\n\nShe looked on with some amusement.--Miss Bates's gratitude for\nMrs. Elton's attentions to Jane was in the first style of guileless\nsimplicity and warmth. She was quite one of her worthies--the\nmost amiable, affable, delightful woman--just as accomplished and\ncondescending as Mrs. Elton meant to be considered. Emma's only surprize\nwas that Jane Fairfax should accept those attentions and tolerate Mrs.\nElton as she seemed to do. She heard of her walking with the Eltons,\nsitting with the Eltons, spending a day with the Eltons! This was\nastonishing!--She could not have believed it possible that the taste or\nthe pride of Miss Fairfax could endure such society and friendship as\nthe Vicarage had to offer.\n\n\"She is a riddle, quite a riddle!\" said she.--\"To chuse to remain here\nmonth after month, under privations of every sort! And now to chuse the\nmortification of Mrs. Elton's notice and the penury of her conversation,\nrather than return to the superior companions who have always loved her\nwith such real, generous affection.\"\n\nJane had come to Highbury professedly for three months; the Campbells\nwere gone to Ireland for three months; but now the Campbells had\npromised their daughter to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh\ninvitations had arrived for her to join them there. According to Miss\nBates--it all came from her--Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly.\nWould Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends\ncontrived--no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had\ndeclined it!\n\n\"She must have some motive, more powerful than appears, for refusing\nthis invitation,\" was Emma's conclusion. \"She must be under some sort\nof penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is great\nfear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.--She is _not_ to be\nwith the _Dixons_. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must she\nconsent to be with the Eltons?--Here is quite a separate puzzle.\"\n\nUpon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before\nthe few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this\napology for Jane.\n\n\"We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the Vicarage,\nmy dear Emma--but it is better than being always at home. Her aunt is a\ngood creature, but, as a constant companion, must be very tiresome. We\nmust consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for\nwhat she goes to.\"\n\n\"You are right, Mrs. Weston,\" said Mr. Knightley warmly, \"Miss Fairfax\nis as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of Mrs. Elton.\nCould she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have chosen\nher. But (with a reproachful smile at Emma) she receives attentions from\nMrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her.\"\n\nEmma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance; and she\nwas herself struck by his warmth. With a faint blush, she presently\nreplied,\n\n\"Such attentions as Mrs. Elton's, I should have imagined, would rather\ndisgust than gratify Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton's invitations I should\nhave imagined any thing but inviting.\"\n\n\"I should not wonder,\" said Mrs. Weston, \"if Miss Fairfax were to have\nbeen drawn on beyond her own inclination, by her aunt's eagerness in\naccepting Mrs. Elton's civilities for her. Poor Miss Bates may\nvery likely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater\nappearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in\nspite of the very natural wish of a little change.\"\n\nBoth felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a few\nminutes silence, he said,\n\n\"Another thing must be taken into consideration too--Mrs. Elton does\nnot talk _to_ Miss Fairfax as she speaks _of_ her. We all know the\ndifference between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest spoken\namongst us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond common\ncivility in our personal intercourse with each other--a something more\nearly implanted. We cannot give any body the disagreeable hints that we\nmay have been very full of the hour before. We feel things differently.\nAnd besides the operation of this, as a general principle, you may be\nsure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by her superiority both of mind\nand manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton treats her with all the\nrespect which she has a claim to. Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably\nnever fell in Mrs. Elton's way before--and no degree of vanity can\nprevent her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action, if\nnot in consciousness.\"\n\n\"I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax,\" said Emma. Little Henry\nwas in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her\nirresolute what else to say.\n\n\"Yes,\" he replied, \"any body may know how highly I think of her.\"\n\n\"And yet,\" said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch look, but soon\nstopping--it was better, however, to know the worst at once--she hurried\non--\"And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it\nis. The extent of your admiration may take you by surprize some day or\nother.\"\n\nMr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick\nleather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together, or\nsome other cause, brought the colour into his face, as he answered,\n\n\"Oh! are you there?--But you are miserably behindhand. Mr. Cole gave me\na hint of it six weeks ago.\"\n\nHe stopped.--Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston, and did not\nherself know what to think. In a moment he went on--\n\n\"That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss Fairfax, I dare\nsay, would not have me if I were to ask her--and I am very sure I shall\nnever ask her.\"\n\nEmma returned her friend's pressure with interest; and was pleased\nenough to exclaim,\n\n\"You are not vain, Mr. Knightley. I will say that for you.\"\n\nHe seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful--and in a manner which\nshewed him not pleased, soon afterwards said,\n\n\"So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fairfax?\"\n\n\"No indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much for match-making,\nfor me to presume to take such a liberty with you. What I said just now,\nmeant nothing. One says those sort of things, of course, without any\nidea of a serious meaning. Oh! no, upon my word I have not the smallest\nwish for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane any body. You would not come\nin and sit with us in this comfortable way, if you were married.\"\n\nMr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his reverie was, \"No,\nEmma, I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever take\nme by surprize.--I never had a thought of her in that way, I assure\nyou.\" And soon afterwards, \"Jane Fairfax is a very charming young\nwoman--but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault. She has\nnot the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife.\"\n\nEmma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault. \"Well,\" said\nshe, \"and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he was mistaken;\nhe asked my pardon and said no more. Cole does not want to be wiser or\nwittier than his neighbours.\"\n\n\"In that respect how unlike dear Mrs. Elton, who wants to be wiser and\nwittier than all the world! I wonder how she speaks of the Coles--what\nshe calls them! How can she find any appellation for them, deep enough\nin familiar vulgarity? She calls you, Knightley--what can she do for\nMr. Cole? And so I am not to be surprized that Jane Fairfax accepts\nher civilities and consents to be with her. Mrs. Weston, your argument\nweighs most with me. I can much more readily enter into the temptation\nof getting away from Miss Bates, than I can believe in the triumph of\nMiss Fairfax's mind over Mrs. Elton. I have no faith in Mrs. Elton's\nacknowledging herself the inferior in thought, word, or deed; or in her\nbeing under any restraint beyond her own scanty rule of good-breeding.\nI cannot imagine that she will not be continually insulting her visitor\nwith praise, encouragement, and offers of service; that she will not be\ncontinually detailing her magnificent intentions, from the procuring her\na permanent situation to the including her in those delightful exploring\nparties which are to take place in the barouche-landau.\"\n\n\"Jane Fairfax has feeling,\" said Mr. Knightley--\"I do not accuse her\nof want of feeling. Her sensibilities, I suspect, are strong--and her\ntemper excellent in its power of forbearance, patience, self-control;\nbut it wants openness. She is reserved, more reserved, I think, than\nshe used to be--And I love an open temper. No--till Cole alluded to my\nsupposed attachment, it had never entered my head. I saw Jane Fairfax\nand conversed with her, with admiration and pleasure always--but with no\nthought beyond.\"\n\n\"Well, Mrs. Weston,\" said Emma triumphantly when he left them, \"what do\nyou say now to Mr. Knightley's marrying Jane Fairfax?\"\n\n\"Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very much occupied by the\nidea of _not_ being in love with her, that I should not wonder if it\nwere to end in his being so at last. Do not beat me.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nEvery body in and about Highbury who had ever visited Mr. Elton, was\ndisposed to pay him attention on his marriage. Dinner-parties and\nevening-parties were made for him and his lady; and invitations flowed\nin so fast that she had soon the pleasure of apprehending they were\nnever to have a disengaged day.\n\n\"I see how it is,\" said she. \"I see what a life I am to lead among you.\nUpon my word we shall be absolutely dissipated. We really seem quite\nthe fashion. If this is living in the country, it is nothing very\nformidable. From Monday next to Saturday, I assure you we have not a\ndisengaged day!--A woman with fewer resources than I have, need not have\nbeen at a loss.\"\n\nNo invitation came amiss to her. Her Bath habits made evening-parties\nperfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove had given her a taste for\ndinners. She was a little shocked at the want of two drawing rooms, at\nthe poor attempt at rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury\ncard-parties. Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard and others, were a\ngood deal behind-hand in knowledge of the world, but she would soon shew\nthem how every thing ought to be arranged. In the course of the spring\nshe must return their civilities by one very superior party--in which\nher card-tables should be set out with their separate candles and\nunbroken packs in the true style--and more waiters engaged for the\nevening than their own establishment could furnish, to carry round the\nrefreshments at exactly the proper hour, and in the proper order.\n\nEmma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied without a dinner at\nHartfield for the Eltons. They must not do less than others, or she\nshould be exposed to odious suspicions, and imagined capable of pitiful\nresentment. A dinner there must be. After Emma had talked about it for\nten minutes, Mr. Woodhouse felt no unwillingness, and only made the\nusual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom of the table himself,\nwith the usual regular difficulty of deciding who should do it for him.\n\nThe persons to be invited, required little thought. Besides the\nEltons, it must be the Westons and Mr. Knightley; so far it was all of\ncourse--and it was hardly less inevitable that poor little Harriet must\nbe asked to make the eighth:--but this invitation was not given with\nequal satisfaction, and on many accounts Emma was particularly pleased\nby Harriet's begging to be allowed to decline it. \"She would rather not\nbe in his company more than she could help. She was not yet quite\nable to see him and his charming happy wife together, without feeling\nuncomfortable. If Miss Woodhouse would not be displeased, she would\nrather stay at home.\" It was precisely what Emma would have wished, had\nshe deemed it possible enough for wishing. She was delighted with the\nfortitude of her little friend--for fortitude she knew it was in her to\ngive up being in company and stay at home; and she could now invite the\nvery person whom she really wanted to make the eighth, Jane Fairfax.--\nSince her last conversation with Mrs. Weston and Mr. Knightley, she\nwas more conscience-stricken about Jane Fairfax than she had often\nbeen.--Mr. Knightley's words dwelt with her. He had said that Jane\nFairfax received attentions from Mrs. Elton which nobody else paid her.\n\n\"This is very true,\" said she, \"at least as far as relates to me, which\nwas all that was meant--and it is very shameful.--Of the same age--and\nalways knowing her--I ought to have been more her friend.--She will\nnever like me now. I have neglected her too long. But I will shew her\ngreater attention than I have done.\"\n\nEvery invitation was successful. They were all disengaged and all\nhappy.--The preparatory interest of this dinner, however, was not yet\nover. A circumstance rather unlucky occurred. The two eldest little\nKnightleys were engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of some\nweeks in the spring, and their papa now proposed bringing them, and\nstaying one whole day at Hartfield--which one day would be the very day\nof this party.--His professional engagements did not allow of his being\nput off, but both father and daughter were disturbed by its happening\nso. Mr. Woodhouse considered eight persons at dinner together as the\nutmost that his nerves could bear--and here would be a ninth--and Emma\napprehended that it would be a ninth very much out of humour at not\nbeing able to come even to Hartfield for forty-eight hours without\nfalling in with a dinner-party.\n\nShe comforted her father better than she could comfort herself, by\nrepresenting that though he certainly would make them nine, yet\nhe always said so little, that the increase of noise would be very\nimmaterial. She thought it in reality a sad exchange for herself, to\nhave him with his grave looks and reluctant conversation opposed to her\ninstead of his brother.\n\nThe event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse than to Emma. John\nKnightley came; but Mr. Weston was unexpectedly summoned to town and\nmust be absent on the very day. He might be able to join them in the\nevening, but certainly not to dinner. Mr. Woodhouse was quite at ease;\nand the seeing him so, with the arrival of the little boys and the\nphilosophic composure of her brother on hearing his fate, removed the\nchief of even Emma's vexation.\n\nThe day came, the party were punctually assembled, and Mr. John\nKnightley seemed early to devote himself to the business of being\nagreeable. Instead of drawing his brother off to a window while they\nwaited for dinner, he was talking to Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton,\nas elegant as lace and pearls could make her, he looked at in\nsilence--wanting only to observe enough for Isabella's information--but\nMiss Fairfax was an old acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could talk\nto her. He had met her before breakfast as he was returning from a walk\nwith his little boys, when it had been just beginning to rain. It was\nnatural to have some civil hopes on the subject, and he said,\n\n\"I hope you did not venture far, Miss Fairfax, this morning, or I am\nsure you must have been wet.--We scarcely got home in time. I hope you\nturned directly.\"\n\n\"I went only to the post-office,\" said she, \"and reached home before the\nrain was much. It is my daily errand. I always fetch the letters when\nI am here. It saves trouble, and is a something to get me out. A walk\nbefore breakfast does me good.\"\n\n\"Not a walk in the rain, I should imagine.\"\n\n\"No, but it did not absolutely rain when I set out.\"\n\nMr. John Knightley smiled, and replied,\n\n\"That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you were not six yards\nfrom your own door when I had the pleasure of meeting you; and Henry\nand John had seen more drops than they could count long before. The\npost-office has a great charm at one period of our lives. When you have\nlived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth going\nthrough the rain for.\"\n\nThere was a little blush, and then this answer,\n\n\"I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the midst of every\ndearest connexion, and therefore I cannot expect that simply growing\nolder should make me indifferent about letters.\"\n\n\"Indifferent! Oh! no--I never conceived you could become indifferent.\nLetters are no matter of indifference; they are generally a very\npositive curse.\"\n\n\"You are speaking of letters of business; mine are letters of\nfriendship.\"\n\n\"I have often thought them the worst of the two,\" replied he coolly.\n\"Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does.\"\n\n\"Ah! you are not serious now. I know Mr. John Knightley too well--I am\nvery sure he understands the value of friendship as well as any body. I\ncan easily believe that letters are very little to you, much less than\nto me, but it is not your being ten years older than myself which\nmakes the difference, it is not age, but situation. You have every\nbody dearest to you always at hand, I, probably, never shall again;\nand therefore till I have outlived all my affections, a post-office,\nI think, must always have power to draw me out, in worse weather than\nto-day.\"\n\n\"When I talked of your being altered by time, by the progress of years,\"\nsaid John Knightley, \"I meant to imply the change of situation which\ntime usually brings. I consider one as including the other. Time will\ngenerally lessen the interest of every attachment not within the daily\ncircle--but that is not the change I had in view for you. As an old\nfriend, you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten years hence\nyou may have as many concentrated objects as I have.\"\n\nIt was kindly said, and very far from giving offence. A pleasant \"thank\nyou\" seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quivering lip, a tear\nin the eye, shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh. Her attention was\nnow claimed by Mr. Woodhouse, who being, according to his custom on such\noccasions, making the circle of his guests, and paying his particular\ncompliments to the ladies, was ending with her--and with all his mildest\nurbanity, said,\n\n\"I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out this morning\nin the rain. Young ladies should take care of themselves.--Young ladies\nare delicate plants. They should take care of their health and their\ncomplexion. My dear, did you change your stockings?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, I did indeed; and I am very much obliged by your kind\nsolicitude about me.\"\n\n\"My dear Miss Fairfax, young ladies are very sure to be cared for.--I\nhope your good grand-mama and aunt are well. They are some of my very\nold friends. I wish my health allowed me to be a better neighbour. You\ndo us a great deal of honour to-day, I am sure. My daughter and I\nare both highly sensible of your goodness, and have the greatest\nsatisfaction in seeing you at Hartfield.\"\n\nThe kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down and feel that he\nhad done his duty, and made every fair lady welcome and easy.\n\nBy this time, the walk in the rain had reached Mrs. Elton, and her\nremonstrances now opened upon Jane.\n\n\"My dear Jane, what is this I hear?--Going to the post-office in the\nrain!--This must not be, I assure you.--You sad girl, how could you do\nsuch a thing?--It is a sign I was not there to take care of you.\"\n\nJane very patiently assured her that she had not caught any cold.\n\n\"Oh! do not tell _me_. You really are a very sad girl, and do not know\nhow to take care of yourself.--To the post-office indeed! Mrs. Weston,\ndid you ever hear the like? You and I must positively exert our\nauthority.\"\n\n\"My advice,\" said Mrs. Weston kindly and persuasively, \"I certainly do\nfeel tempted to give. Miss Fairfax, you must not run such risks.--Liable\nas you have been to severe colds, indeed you ought to be particularly\ncareful, especially at this time of year. The spring I always think\nrequires more than common care. Better wait an hour or two, or even\nhalf a day for your letters, than run the risk of bringing on your cough\nagain. Now do not you feel that you had? Yes, I am sure you are much too\nreasonable. You look as if you would not do such a thing again.\"\n\n\"Oh! she _shall_ _not_ do such a thing again,\" eagerly rejoined Mrs.\nElton. \"We will not allow her to do such a thing again:\"--and nodding\nsignificantly--\"there must be some arrangement made, there must indeed.\nI shall speak to Mr. E. The man who fetches our letters every morning\n(one of our men, I forget his name) shall inquire for yours too and\nbring them to you. That will obviate all difficulties you know; and from\n_us_ I really think, my dear Jane, you can have no scruple to accept\nsuch an accommodation.\"\n\n\"You are extremely kind,\" said Jane; \"but I cannot give up my early\nwalk. I am advised to be out of doors as much as I can, I must walk\nsomewhere, and the post-office is an object; and upon my word, I have\nscarcely ever had a bad morning before.\"\n\n\"My dear Jane, say no more about it. The thing is determined, that is\n(laughing affectedly) as far as I can presume to determine any thing\nwithout the concurrence of my lord and master. You know, Mrs. Weston,\nyou and I must be cautious how we express ourselves. But I do flatter\nmyself, my dear Jane, that my influence is not entirely worn out. If I\nmeet with no insuperable difficulties therefore, consider that point as\nsettled.\"\n\n\"Excuse me,\" said Jane earnestly, \"I cannot by any means consent to such\nan arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to your servant. If the errand\nwere not a pleasure to me, it could be done, as it always is when I am\nnot here, by my grandmama's.\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear; but so much as Patty has to do!--And it is a kindness to\nemploy our men.\"\n\nJane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered; but instead of\nanswering, she began speaking again to Mr. John Knightley.\n\n\"The post-office is a wonderful establishment!\" said she.--\"The\nregularity and despatch of it! If one thinks of all that it has to do,\nand all that it does so well, it is really astonishing!\"\n\n\"It is certainly very well regulated.\"\n\n\"So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears! So seldom that\na letter, among the thousands that are constantly passing about the\nkingdom, is even carried wrong--and not one in a million, I suppose,\nactually lost! And when one considers the variety of hands, and of bad\nhands too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the wonder.\"\n\n\"The clerks grow expert from habit.--They must begin with some quickness\nof sight and hand, and exercise improves them. If you want any farther\nexplanation,\" continued he, smiling, \"they are paid for it. That is\nthe key to a great deal of capacity. The public pays and must be served\nwell.\"\n\nThe varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and the usual\nobservations made.\n\n\"I have heard it asserted,\" said John Knightley, \"that the same sort\nof handwriting often prevails in a family; and where the same master\nteaches, it is natural enough. But for that reason, I should imagine\nthe likeness must be chiefly confined to the females, for boys have very\nlittle teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand they can\nget. Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I have not\nalways known their writing apart.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said his brother hesitatingly, \"there is a likeness. I know what\nyou mean--but Emma's hand is the strongest.\"\n\n\"Isabella and Emma both write beautifully,\" said Mr. Woodhouse; \"and\nalways did. And so does poor Mrs. Weston\"--with half a sigh and half a\nsmile at her.\n\n\"I never saw any gentleman's handwriting\"--Emma began, looking also at\nMrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending\nto some one else--and the pause gave her time to reflect, \"Now, how am\nI going to introduce him?--Am I unequal to speaking his name at once\nbefore all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout\nphrase?--Your Yorkshire friend--your correspondent in Yorkshire;--that\nwould be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.--No, I can pronounce\nhis name without the smallest distress. I certainly get better and\nbetter.--Now for it.\"\n\nMrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again--\"Mr. Frank Churchill\nwrites one of the best gentleman's hands I ever saw.\"\n\n\"I do not admire it,\" said Mr. Knightley. \"It is too small--wants\nstrength. It is like a woman's writing.\"\n\nThis was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against\nthe base aspersion. \"No, it by no means wanted strength--it was not a\nlarge hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any\nletter about her to produce?\" No, she had heard from him very lately,\nbut having answered the letter, had put it away.\n\n\"If we were in the other room,\" said Emma, \"if I had my writing-desk, I\nam sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of his.--Do not you\nremember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day?\"\n\n\"He chose to say he was employed\"--\n\n\"Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner to convince\nMr. Knightley.\"\n\n\"Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill,\" said Mr.\nKnightley dryly, \"writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will, of\ncourse, put forth his best.\"\n\nDinner was on table.--Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to, was\nready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be\nallowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying--\n\n\"Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading the way.\"\n\nJane's solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma.\nShe had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether\nthe wet walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected that it\n_had_; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in full\nexpectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had not been\nin vain. She thought there was an air of greater happiness than usual--a\nglow both of complexion and spirits.\n\nShe could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition and the\nexpense of the Irish mails;--it was at her tongue's end--but she\nabstained. She was quite determined not to utter a word that should hurt\nJane Fairfax's feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of the\nroom, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming to the\nbeauty and grace of each.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nWhen the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found it\nhardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;--with so\nmuch perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross\nJane Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to\nbe almost always either talking together or silent together. Mrs. Elton\nleft them no choice. If Jane repressed her for a little time, she\nsoon began again; and though much that passed between them was in a\nhalf-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton's side, there was no avoiding\na knowledge of their principal subjects: The post-office--catching\ncold--fetching letters--and friendship, were long under discussion;\nand to them succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant\nto Jane--inquiries whether she had yet heard of any situation likely to\nsuit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton's meditated activity.\n\n\"Here is April come!\" said she, \"I get quite anxious about you. June\nwill soon be here.\"\n\n\"But I have never fixed on June or any other month--merely looked\nforward to the summer in general.\"\n\n\"But have you really heard of nothing?\"\n\n\"I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet.\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the\ndifficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing.\"\n\n\"I not aware!\" said Jane, shaking her head; \"dear Mrs. Elton, who can\nhave thought of it as I have done?\"\n\n\"But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not know\nhow many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations. I saw\na vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of\nMr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every\nbody was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle.\nWax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all\nhouses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see\nyou in.\"\n\n\"Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer,\"\nsaid Jane. \"I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want\nit;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would\nnot wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present.\"\n\n\"Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me\ntrouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be\nmore interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in\na day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out\nfor any thing eligible.\"\n\n\"Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to\nher; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body\ntrouble.\"\n\n\"But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June,\nor say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before\nus. Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as you deserve,\nand your friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence,\nis not obtained at a moment's notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin\ninquiring directly.\"\n\n\"Excuse me, ma'am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no\ninquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends. When\nI am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of being\nlong unemployed. There are places in town, offices, where inquiry\nwould soon produce something--Offices for the sale--not quite of human\nflesh--but of human intellect.\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at\nthe slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend to\nthe abolition.\"\n\n\"I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade,\" replied Jane;\n\"governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely\ndifferent certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to\nthe greater misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies. But\nI only mean to say that there are advertising offices, and that by\napplying to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting with\nsomething that would do.\"\n\n\"Something that would do!\" repeated Mrs. Elton. \"Aye, _that_ may suit\nyour humble ideas of yourself;--I know what a modest creature you are;\nbut it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any\nthing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family\nnot moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of\nlife.\"\n\n\"You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent;\nit would be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications, I\nthink, would only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison.\nA gentleman's family is all that I should condition for.\"\n\n\"I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but I shall\nbe a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will be quite\non my side; with your superior talents, you have a right to move in the\nfirst circle. Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name\nyour own terms, have as many rooms as you like, and mix in the family\nas much as you chose;--that is--I do not know--if you knew the harp, you\nmight do all that, I am very sure; but you sing as well as play;--yes, I\nreally believe you might, even without the harp, stipulate for what\nyou chose;--and you must and shall be delightfully, honourably and\ncomfortably settled before the Campbells or I have any rest.\"\n\n\"You may well class the delight, the honour, and the comfort of such\na situation together,\" said Jane, \"they are pretty sure to be equal;\nhowever, I am very serious in not wishing any thing to be attempted\nat present for me. I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am\nobliged to any body who feels for me, but I am quite serious in wishing\nnothing to be done till the summer. For two or three months longer I\nshall remain where I am, and as I am.\"\n\n\"And I am quite serious too, I assure you,\" replied Mrs. Elton gaily,\n\"in resolving to be always on the watch, and employing my friends to\nwatch also, that nothing really unexceptionable may pass us.\"\n\nIn this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any thing till Mr.\nWoodhouse came into the room; her vanity had then a change of object,\nand Emma heard her saying in the same half-whisper to Jane,\n\n\"Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest!--Only think of his\ngallantry in coming away before the other men!--what a dear creature\nhe is;--I assure you I like him excessively. I admire all that quaint,\nold-fashioned politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease;\nmodern ease often disgusts me. But this good old Mr. Woodhouse, I wish\nyou had heard his gallant speeches to me at dinner. Oh! I assure you I\nbegan to think my caro sposo would be absolutely jealous. I fancy I\nam rather a favourite; he took notice of my gown. How do you like\nit?--Selina's choice--handsome, I think, but I do not know whether it\nis not over-trimmed; I have the greatest dislike to the idea of being\nover-trimmed--quite a horror of finery. I must put on a few ornaments\nnow, because it is expected of me. A bride, you know, must appear like\na bride, but my natural taste is all for simplicity; a simple style\nof dress is so infinitely preferable to finery. But I am quite in the\nminority, I believe; few people seem to value simplicity of dress,--show\nand finery are every thing. I have some notion of putting such a\ntrimming as this to my white and silver poplin. Do you think it will\nlook well?\"\n\nThe whole party were but just reassembled in the drawing-room when Mr.\nWeston made his appearance among them. He had returned to a late dinner,\nand walked to Hartfield as soon as it was over. He had been too much\nexpected by the best judges, for surprize--but there was great joy. Mr.\nWoodhouse was almost as glad to see him now, as he would have been sorry\nto see him before. John Knightley only was in mute astonishment.--That\na man who might have spent his evening quietly at home after a day\nof business in London, should set off again, and walk half a mile\nto another man's house, for the sake of being in mixed company till\nbed-time, of finishing his day in the efforts of civility and the noise\nof numbers, was a circumstance to strike him deeply. A man who had been\nin motion since eight o'clock in the morning, and might now have been\nstill, who had been long talking, and might have been silent, who had\nbeen in more than one crowd, and might have been alone!--Such a man, to\nquit the tranquillity and independence of his own fireside, and on the\nevening of a cold sleety April day rush out again into the world!--Could\nhe by a touch of his finger have instantly taken back his wife, there\nwould have been a motive; but his coming would probably prolong rather\nthan break up the party. John Knightley looked at him with amazement,\nthen shrugged his shoulders, and said, \"I could not have believed it\neven of _him_.\"\n\nMr. Weston meanwhile, perfectly unsuspicious of the indignation he was\nexciting, happy and cheerful as usual, and with all the right of being\nprincipal talker, which a day spent anywhere from home confers, was\nmaking himself agreeable among the rest; and having satisfied the\ninquiries of his wife as to his dinner, convincing her that none of all\nher careful directions to the servants had been forgotten, and spread\nabroad what public news he had heard, was proceeding to a family\ncommunication, which, though principally addressed to Mrs. Weston, he\nhad not the smallest doubt of being highly interesting to every body in\nthe room. He gave her a letter, it was from Frank, and to herself; he\nhad met with it in his way, and had taken the liberty of opening it.\n\n\"Read it, read it,\" said he, \"it will give you pleasure; only a few\nlines--will not take you long; read it to Emma.\"\n\nThe two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling and talking\nto them the whole time, in a voice a little subdued, but very audible to\nevery body.\n\n\"Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well, what do you say\nto it?--I always told you he would be here again soon, did not I?--Anne,\nmy dear, did not I always tell you so, and you would not believe me?--In\ntown next week, you see--at the latest, I dare say; for _she_ is as\nimpatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to be done; most\nlikely they will be there to-morrow or Saturday. As to her illness, all\nnothing of course. But it is an excellent thing to have Frank among us\nagain, so near as town. They will stay a good while when they do come,\nand he will be half his time with us. This is precisely what I wanted.\nWell, pretty good news, is not it? Have you finished it? Has Emma read\nit all? Put it up, put it up; we will have a good talk about it some\nother time, but it will not do now. I shall only just mention the\ncircumstance to the others in a common way.\"\n\nMrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion. Her looks\nand words had nothing to restrain them. She was happy, she knew she was\nhappy, and knew she ought to be happy. Her congratulations were warm and\nopen; but Emma could not speak so fluently. _She_ was a little occupied\nin weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand the degree of her\nagitation, which she rather thought was considerable.\n\nMr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too communicative\nto want others to talk, was very well satisfied with what she did say,\nand soon moved away to make the rest of his friends happy by a partial\ncommunication of what the whole room must have overheard already.\n\nIt was well that he took every body's joy for granted, or he might\nnot have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly\ndelighted. They were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to\nbe made happy;--from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but\nshe was so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would have\nbeen too positive an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs.\nElton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the subject\nwith her.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\n\"I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son to you,\"\nsaid Mr. Weston.\n\nMrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compliment intended her\nby such a hope, smiled most graciously.\n\n\"You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I presume,\" he\ncontinued--\"and know him to be my son, though he does not bear my name.\"\n\n\"Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance. I am sure Mr.\nElton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall both have great\npleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage.\"\n\n\"You are very obliging.--Frank will be extremely happy, I am sure.--\nHe is to be in town next week, if not sooner. We have notice of it in a\nletter to-day. I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my\nson's hand, presumed to open it--though it was not directed to me--it\nwas to Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent, I assure you. I\nhardly ever get a letter.\"\n\n\"And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr.\nWeston--(laughing affectedly) I must protest against that.--A most\ndangerous precedent indeed!--I beg you will not let your neighbours\nfollow your example.--Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we\nmarried women must begin to exert ourselves!--Oh! Mr. Weston, I could\nnot have believed it of you!\"\n\n\"Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of yourself, Mrs.\nElton.--This letter tells us--it is a short letter--written in a hurry,\nmerely to give us notice--it tells us that they are all coming up to\ntown directly, on Mrs. Churchill's account--she has not been well the\nwhole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her--so they are all to\nmove southward without loss of time.\"\n\n\"Indeed!--from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire?\"\n\n\"Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London, a\nconsiderable journey.\"\n\n\"Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than\nfrom Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people\nof large fortune?--You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr.\nSuckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me--but twice\nin one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four\nhorses.\"\n\n\"The evil of the distance from Enscombe,\" said Mr. Weston, \"is, that\nMrs. Churchill, _as_ _we_ _understand_, has not been able to leave the\nsofa for a week together. In Frank's last letter she complained, he\nsaid, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having\nboth his arm and his uncle's! This, you know, speaks a great degree of\nweakness--but now she is so impatient to be in town, that she means to\nsleep only two nights on the road.--So Frank writes word. Certainly,\ndelicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. You\nmust grant me that.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I always take the part of my\nown sex. I do indeed. I give you notice--You will find me a formidable\nantagonist on that point. I always stand up for women--and I assure you,\nif you knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn, you\nwould not wonder at Mrs. Churchill's making incredible exertions to\navoid it. Selina says it is quite horror to her--and I believe I have\ncaught a little of her nicety. She always travels with her own sheets;\nan excellent precaution. Does Mrs. Churchill do the same?\"\n\n\"Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that any other fine\nlady ever did. Mrs. Churchill will not be second to any lady in the land\nfor\"--\n\nMrs. Elton eagerly interposed with,\n\n\"Oh! Mr. Weston, do not mistake me. Selina is no fine lady, I assure\nyou. Do not run away with such an idea.\"\n\n\"Is not she? Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill, who is as thorough\na fine lady as any body ever beheld.\"\n\nMrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong in disclaiming so warmly.\nIt was by no means her object to have it believed that her sister was\n_not_ a fine lady; perhaps there was want of spirit in the pretence of\nit;--and she was considering in what way she had best retract, when Mr.\nWeston went on.\n\n\"Mrs. Churchill is not much in my good graces, as you may suspect--but\nthis is quite between ourselves. She is very fond of Frank, and\ntherefore I would not speak ill of her. Besides, she is out of health\nnow; but _that_ indeed, by her own account, she has always been. I would\nnot say so to every body, Mrs. Elton, but I have not much faith in Mrs.\nChurchill's illness.\"\n\n\"If she is really ill, why not go to Bath, Mr. Weston?--To Bath, or to\nClifton?\" \"She has taken it into her head that Enscombe is too cold for\nher. The fact is, I suppose, that she is tired of Enscombe. She has now\nbeen a longer time stationary there, than she ever was before, and she\nbegins to want change. It is a retired place. A fine place, but very\nretired.\"\n\n\"Aye--like Maple Grove, I dare say. Nothing can stand more retired from\nthe road than Maple Grove. Such an immense plantation all round it! You\nseem shut out from every thing--in the most complete retirement.--And\nMrs. Churchill probably has not health or spirits like Selina to enjoy\nthat sort of seclusion. Or, perhaps she may not have resources enough in\nherself to be qualified for a country life. I always say a woman cannot\nhave too many resources--and I feel very thankful that I have so many\nmyself as to be quite independent of society.\"\n\n\"Frank was here in February for a fortnight.\"\n\n\"So I remember to have heard. He will find an _addition_ to the society\nof Highbury when he comes again; that is, if I may presume to call\nmyself an addition. But perhaps he may never have heard of there being\nsuch a creature in the world.\"\n\nThis was too loud a call for a compliment to be passed by, and Mr.\nWeston, with a very good grace, immediately exclaimed,\n\n\"My dear madam! Nobody but yourself could imagine such a thing possible.\nNot heard of you!--I believe Mrs. Weston's letters lately have been full\nof very little else than Mrs. Elton.\"\n\nHe had done his duty and could return to his son.\n\n\"When Frank left us,\" continued he, \"it was quite uncertain when we\nmight see him again, which makes this day's news doubly welcome. It has\nbeen completely unexpected. That is, _I_ always had a strong persuasion\nhe would be here again soon, I was sure something favourable would turn\nup--but nobody believed me. He and Mrs. Weston were both dreadfully\ndesponding. 'How could he contrive to come? And how could it be supposed\nthat his uncle and aunt would spare him again?' and so forth--I always\nfelt that something would happen in our favour; and so it has, you see.\nI have observed, Mrs. Elton, in the course of my life, that if things\nare going untowardly one month, they are sure to mend the next.\"\n\n\"Very true, Mr. Weston, perfectly true. It is just what I used to say to\na certain gentleman in company in the days of courtship, when, because\nthings did not go quite right, did not proceed with all the rapidity\nwhich suited his feelings, he was apt to be in despair, and exclaim that\nhe was sure at this rate it would be _May_ before Hymen's saffron robe\nwould be put on for us. Oh! the pains I have been at to dispel those\ngloomy ideas and give him cheerfuller views! The carriage--we had\ndisappointments about the carriage;--one morning, I remember, he came to\nme quite in despair.\"\n\nShe was stopped by a slight fit of coughing, and Mr. Weston instantly\nseized the opportunity of going on.\n\n\"You were mentioning May. May is the very month which Mrs. Churchill\nis ordered, or has ordered herself, to spend in some warmer place than\nEnscombe--in short, to spend in London; so that we have the agreeable\nprospect of frequent visits from Frank the whole spring--precisely the\nseason of the year which one should have chosen for it: days almost at\nthe longest; weather genial and pleasant, always inviting one out, and\nnever too hot for exercise. When he was here before, we made the best\nof it; but there was a good deal of wet, damp, cheerless weather;\nthere always is in February, you know, and we could not do half that we\nintended. Now will be the time. This will be complete enjoyment; and I\ndo not know, Mrs. Elton, whether the uncertainty of our meetings, the\nsort of constant expectation there will be of his coming in to-day or\nto-morrow, and at any hour, may not be more friendly to happiness than\nhaving him actually in the house. I think it is so. I think it is the\nstate of mind which gives most spirit and delight. I hope you will be\npleased with my son; but you must not expect a prodigy. He is generally\nthought a fine young man, but do not expect a prodigy. Mrs. Weston's\npartiality for him is very great, and, as you may suppose, most\ngratifying to me. She thinks nobody equal to him.\"\n\n\"And I assure you, Mr. Weston, I have very little doubt that my opinion\nwill be decidedly in his favour. I have heard so much in praise of Mr.\nFrank Churchill.--At the same time it is fair to observe, that I am one\nof those who always judge for themselves, and are by no means implicitly\nguided by others. I give you notice that as I find your son, so I shall\njudge of him.--I am no flatterer.\"\n\nMr. Weston was musing.\n\n\"I hope,\" said he presently, \"I have not been severe upon poor Mrs.\nChurchill. If she is ill I should be sorry to do her injustice; but\nthere are some traits in her character which make it difficult for me to\nspeak of her with the forbearance I could wish. You cannot be ignorant,\nMrs. Elton, of my connexion with the family, nor of the treatment I have\nmet with; and, between ourselves, the whole blame of it is to be laid\nto her. She was the instigator. Frank's mother would never have been\nslighted as she was but for her. Mr. Churchill has pride; but his pride\nis nothing to his wife's: his is a quiet, indolent, gentlemanlike sort\nof pride that would harm nobody, and only make himself a little helpless\nand tiresome; but her pride is arrogance and insolence! And what\ninclines one less to bear, she has no fair pretence of family or blood.\nShe was nobody when he married her, barely the daughter of a gentleman;\nbut ever since her being turned into a Churchill she has out-Churchill'd\nthem all in high and mighty claims: but in herself, I assure you, she is\nan upstart.\"\n\n\"Only think! well, that must be infinitely provoking! I have quite\na horror of upstarts. Maple Grove has given me a thorough disgust to\npeople of that sort; for there is a family in that neighbourhood who\nare such an annoyance to my brother and sister from the airs they give\nthemselves! Your description of Mrs. Churchill made me think of them\ndirectly. People of the name of Tupman, very lately settled there, and\nencumbered with many low connexions, but giving themselves immense airs,\nand expecting to be on a footing with the old established families.\nA year and a half is the very utmost that they can have lived at West\nHall; and how they got their fortune nobody knows. They came from\nBirmingham, which is not a place to promise much, you know, Mr. Weston.\nOne has not great hopes from Birmingham. I always say there is something\ndireful in the sound: but nothing more is positively known of the\nTupmans, though a good many things I assure you are suspected; and\nyet by their manners they evidently think themselves equal even to\nmy brother, Mr. Suckling, who happens to be one of their nearest\nneighbours. It is infinitely too bad. Mr. Suckling, who has been eleven\nyears a resident at Maple Grove, and whose father had it before him--I\nbelieve, at least--I am almost sure that old Mr. Suckling had completed\nthe purchase before his death.\"\n\nThey were interrupted. Tea was carrying round, and Mr. Weston, having\nsaid all that he wanted, soon took the opportunity of walking away.\n\nAfter tea, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Elton sat down with Mr.\nWoodhouse to cards. The remaining five were left to their own powers,\nand Emma doubted their getting on very well; for Mr. Knightley seemed\nlittle disposed for conversation; Mrs. Elton was wanting notice, which\nnobody had inclination to pay, and she was herself in a worry of spirits\nwhich would have made her prefer being silent.\n\nMr. John Knightley proved more talkative than his brother. He was to\nleave them early the next day; and he soon began with--\n\n\"Well, Emma, I do not believe I have any thing more to say about the\nboys; but you have your sister's letter, and every thing is down at full\nlength there we may be sure. My charge would be much more concise than\nher's, and probably not much in the same spirit; all that I have to\nrecommend being comprised in, do not spoil them, and do not physic\nthem.\"\n\n\"I rather hope to satisfy you both,\" said Emma, \"for I shall do all\nin my power to make them happy, which will be enough for Isabella; and\nhappiness must preclude false indulgence and physic.\"\n\n\"And if you find them troublesome, you must send them home again.\"\n\n\"That is very likely. You think so, do not you?\"\n\n\"I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your father--or even\nmay be some encumbrance to you, if your visiting engagements continue to\nincrease as much as they have done lately.\"\n\n\"Increase!\"\n\n\"Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half-year has made a\ngreat difference in your way of life.\"\n\n\"Difference! No indeed I am not.\"\n\n\"There can be no doubt of your being much more engaged with company than\nyou used to be. Witness this very time. Here am I come down for only\none day, and you are engaged with a dinner-party!--When did it happen\nbefore, or any thing like it? Your neighbourhood is increasing, and you\nmix more with it. A little while ago, every letter to Isabella brought\nan account of fresh gaieties; dinners at Mr. Cole's, or balls at the\nCrown. The difference which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in your\ngoings-on, is very great.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said his brother quickly, \"it is Randalls that does it all.\"\n\n\"Very well--and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to have less\ninfluence than heretofore, it strikes me as a possible thing, Emma, that\nHenry and John may be sometimes in the way. And if they are, I only beg\nyou to send them home.\"\n\n\"No,\" cried Mr. Knightley, \"that need not be the consequence. Let them\nbe sent to Donwell. I shall certainly be at leisure.\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" exclaimed Emma, \"you amuse me! I should like to know how\nmany of all my numerous engagements take place without your being of\nthe party; and why I am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure to\nattend to the little boys. These amazing engagements of mine--what have\nthey been? Dining once with the Coles--and having a ball talked of,\nwhich never took place. I can understand you--(nodding at Mr. John\nKnightley)--your good fortune in meeting with so many of your friends at\nonce here, delights you too much to pass unnoticed. But you, (turning to\nMr. Knightley,) who know how very, very seldom I am ever two hours from\nHartfield, why you should foresee such a series of dissipation for me, I\ncannot imagine. And as to my dear little boys, I must say, that if Aunt\nEmma has not time for them, I do not think they would fare much better\nwith Uncle Knightley, who is absent from home about five hours where she\nis absent one--and who, when he is at home, is either reading to himself\nor settling his accounts.\"\n\nMr. Knightley seemed to be trying not to smile; and succeeded without\ndifficulty, upon Mrs. Elton's beginning to talk to him.\n\n\n\n\nVOLUME III\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nA very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy Emma as to the\nnature of her agitation on hearing this news of Frank Churchill. She\nwas soon convinced that it was not for herself she was feeling at all\napprehensive or embarrassed; it was for him. Her own attachment had\nreally subsided into a mere nothing; it was not worth thinking of;--but\nif he, who had undoubtedly been always so much the most in love of the\ntwo, were to be returning with the same warmth of sentiment which he had\ntaken away, it would be very distressing. If a separation of two\nmonths should not have cooled him, there were dangers and evils before\nher:--caution for him and for herself would be necessary. She did\nnot mean to have her own affections entangled again, and it would be\nincumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his.\n\nShe wished she might be able to keep him from an absolute declaration.\nThat would be so very painful a conclusion of their present\nacquaintance! and yet, she could not help rather anticipating something\ndecisive. She felt as if the spring would not pass without bringing a\ncrisis, an event, a something to alter her present composed and tranquil\nstate.\n\nIt was not very long, though rather longer than Mr. Weston had foreseen,\nbefore she had the power of forming some opinion of Frank Churchill's\nfeelings. The Enscombe family were not in town quite so soon as had been\nimagined, but he was at Highbury very soon afterwards. He rode down\nfor a couple of hours; he could not yet do more; but as he came from\nRandalls immediately to Hartfield, she could then exercise all her quick\nobservation, and speedily determine how he was influenced, and how she\nmust act. They met with the utmost friendliness. There could be no doubt\nof his great pleasure in seeing her. But she had an almost instant doubt\nof his caring for her as he had done, of his feeling the same tenderness\nin the same degree. She watched him well. It was a clear thing he was\nless in love than he had been. Absence, with the conviction probably\nof her indifference, had produced this very natural and very desirable\neffect.\n\nHe was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as ever, and seemed\ndelighted to speak of his former visit, and recur to old stories: and he\nwas not without agitation. It was not in his calmness that she read\nhis comparative difference. He was not calm; his spirits were evidently\nfluttered; there was restlessness about him. Lively as he was, it seemed\na liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but what decided her belief\non the subject, was his staying only a quarter of an hour, and hurrying\naway to make other calls in Highbury. \"He had seen a group of old\nacquaintance in the street as he passed--he had not stopped, he would\nnot stop for more than a word--but he had the vanity to think they would\nbe disappointed if he did not call, and much as he wished to stay longer\nat Hartfield, he must hurry off.\" She had no doubt as to his being less\nin love--but neither his agitated spirits, nor his hurrying away, seemed\nlike a perfect cure; and she was rather inclined to think it implied a\ndread of her returning power, and a discreet resolution of not trusting\nhimself with her long.\n\nThis was the only visit from Frank Churchill in the course of ten days.\nHe was often hoping, intending to come--but was always prevented. His\naunt could not bear to have him leave her. Such was his own account at\nRandall's. If he were quite sincere, if he really tried to come, it was\nto be inferred that Mrs. Churchill's removal to London had been of no\nservice to the wilful or nervous part of her disorder. That she was\nreally ill was very certain; he had declared himself convinced of it, at\nRandalls. Though much might be fancy, he could not doubt, when he looked\nback, that she was in a weaker state of health than she had been half a\nyear ago. He did not believe it to proceed from any thing that care\nand medicine might not remove, or at least that she might not have many\nyears of existence before her; but he could not be prevailed on, by all\nhis father's doubts, to say that her complaints were merely imaginary,\nor that she was as strong as ever.\n\nIt soon appeared that London was not the place for her. She could\nnot endure its noise. Her nerves were under continual irritation and\nsuffering; and by the ten days' end, her nephew's letter to Randalls\ncommunicated a change of plan. They were going to remove immediately to\nRichmond. Mrs. Churchill had been recommended to the medical skill of\nan eminent person there, and had otherwise a fancy for the place. A\nready-furnished house in a favourite spot was engaged, and much benefit\nexpected from the change.\n\nEmma heard that Frank wrote in the highest spirits of this arrangement,\nand seemed most fully to appreciate the blessing of having two months\nbefore him of such near neighbourhood to many dear friends--for the\nhouse was taken for May and June. She was told that now he wrote with\nthe greatest confidence of being often with them, almost as often as he\ncould even wish.\n\nEmma saw how Mr. Weston understood these joyous prospects. He was\nconsidering her as the source of all the happiness they offered. She\nhoped it was not so. Two months must bring it to the proof.\n\nMr. Weston's own happiness was indisputable. He was quite delighted.\nIt was the very circumstance he could have wished for. Now, it would be\nreally having Frank in their neighbourhood. What were nine miles to\na young man?--An hour's ride. He would be always coming over. The\ndifference in that respect of Richmond and London was enough to make\nthe whole difference of seeing him always and seeing him never. Sixteen\nmiles--nay, eighteen--it must be full eighteen to Manchester-street--was\na serious obstacle. Were he ever able to get away, the day would be\nspent in coming and returning. There was no comfort in having him in\nLondon; he might as well be at Enscombe; but Richmond was the very\ndistance for easy intercourse. Better than nearer!\n\nOne good thing was immediately brought to a certainty by this\nremoval,--the ball at the Crown. It had not been forgotten before,\nbut it had been soon acknowledged vain to attempt to fix a day. Now,\nhowever, it was absolutely to be; every preparation was resumed, and\nvery soon after the Churchills had removed to Richmond, a few lines from\nFrank, to say that his aunt felt already much better for the change, and\nthat he had no doubt of being able to join them for twenty-four hours at\nany given time, induced them to name as early a day as possible.\n\nMr. Weston's ball was to be a real thing. A very few to-morrows stood\nbetween the young people of Highbury and happiness.\n\nMr. Woodhouse was resigned. The time of year lightened the evil to him.\nMay was better for every thing than February. Mrs. Bates was engaged to\nspend the evening at Hartfield, James had due notice, and he sanguinely\nhoped that neither dear little Henry nor dear little John would have any\nthing the matter with them, while dear Emma were gone.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nNo misfortune occurred, again to prevent the ball. The day approached,\nthe day arrived; and after a morning of some anxious watching, Frank\nChurchill, in all the certainty of his own self, reached Randalls before\ndinner, and every thing was safe.\n\nNo second meeting had there yet been between him and Emma. The room\nat the Crown was to witness it;--but it would be better than a\ncommon meeting in a crowd. Mr. Weston had been so very earnest in his\nentreaties for her arriving there as soon as possible after themselves,\nfor the purpose of taking her opinion as to the propriety and comfort of\nthe rooms before any other persons came, that she could not refuse him,\nand must therefore spend some quiet interval in the young man's company.\nShe was to convey Harriet, and they drove to the Crown in good time, the\nRandalls party just sufficiently before them.\n\nFrank Churchill seemed to have been on the watch; and though he did not\nsay much, his eyes declared that he meant to have a delightful evening.\nThey all walked about together, to see that every thing was as it should\nbe; and within a few minutes were joined by the contents of another\ncarriage, which Emma could not hear the sound of at first, without great\nsurprize. \"So unreasonably early!\" she was going to exclaim; but she\npresently found that it was a family of old friends, who were coming,\nlike herself, by particular desire, to help Mr. Weston's judgment; and\nthey were so very closely followed by another carriage of cousins,\nwho had been entreated to come early with the same distinguishing\nearnestness, on the same errand, that it seemed as if half the company\nmight soon be collected together for the purpose of preparatory\ninspection.\n\nEmma perceived that her taste was not the only taste on which Mr. Weston\ndepended, and felt, that to be the favourite and intimate of a man\nwho had so many intimates and confidantes, was not the very first\ndistinction in the scale of vanity. She liked his open manners, but\na little less of open-heartedness would have made him a higher\ncharacter.--General benevolence, but not general friendship, made a\nman what he ought to be.--She could fancy such a man. The whole party\nwalked about, and looked, and praised again; and then, having nothing\nelse to do, formed a sort of half-circle round the fire, to observe\nin their various modes, till other subjects were started, that, though\n_May_, a fire in the evening was still very pleasant.\n\nEmma found that it was not Mr. Weston's fault that the number of privy\ncouncillors was not yet larger. They had stopped at Mrs. Bates's door\nto offer the use of their carriage, but the aunt and niece were to be\nbrought by the Eltons.\n\nFrank was standing by her, but not steadily; there was a restlessness,\nwhich shewed a mind not at ease. He was looking about, he was going to\nthe door, he was watching for the sound of other carriages,--impatient\nto begin, or afraid of being always near her.\n\nMrs. Elton was spoken of. \"I think she must be here soon,\" said he. \"I\nhave a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I have heard so much of her.\nIt cannot be long, I think, before she comes.\"\n\nA carriage was heard. He was on the move immediately; but coming back,\nsaid,\n\n\"I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her. I have never seen\neither Mr. or Mrs. Elton. I have no business to put myself forward.\"\n\nMr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the proprieties\npassed.\n\n\"But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!\" said Mr. Weston, looking about. \"We\nthought you were to bring them.\"\n\nThe mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for them now. Emma\nlonged to know what Frank's first opinion of Mrs. Elton might be; how\nhe was affected by the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of\ngraciousness. He was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion,\nby giving her very proper attention, after the introduction had passed.\n\nIn a few minutes the carriage returned.--Somebody talked of rain.--\"I\nwill see that there are umbrellas, sir,\" said Frank to his father:\n\"Miss Bates must not be forgotten:\" and away he went. Mr. Weston was\nfollowing; but Mrs. Elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion\nof his son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young man himself,\nthough by no means moving slowly, could hardly be out of hearing.\n\n\"A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston. You know I candidly told you\nI should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that I am extremely\npleased with him.--You may believe me. I never compliment. I think him\na very handsome young man, and his manners are precisely what I like and\napprove--so truly the gentleman, without the least conceit or puppyism.\nYou must know I have a vast dislike to puppies--quite a horror of them.\nThey were never tolerated at Maple Grove. Neither Mr. Suckling nor\nme had ever any patience with them; and we used sometimes to say very\ncutting things! Selina, who is mild almost to a fault, bore with them\nmuch better.\"\n\nWhile she talked of his son, Mr. Weston's attention was chained; but\nwhen she got to Maple Grove, he could recollect that there were ladies\njust arriving to be attended to, and with happy smiles must hurry away.\n\nMrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston. \"I have no doubt of its being our\ncarriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our coachman and horses are so\nextremely expeditious!--I believe we drive faster than any body.--What\na pleasure it is to send one's carriage for a friend!--I understand you\nwere so kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite unnecessary.\nYou may be very sure I shall always take care of _them_.\"\n\nMiss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentlemen, walked into\nthe room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to think it as much her duty as Mrs.\nWeston's to receive them. Her gestures and movements might be understood\nby any one who looked on like Emma; but her words, every body's words,\nwere soon lost under the incessant flow of Miss Bates, who came in\ntalking, and had not finished her speech under many minutes after her\nbeing admitted into the circle at the fire. As the door opened she was\nheard,\n\n\"So very obliging of you!--No rain at all. Nothing to signify. I do not\ncare for myself. Quite thick shoes. And Jane declares--Well!--(as soon\nas she was within the door) Well! This is brilliant indeed!--This is\nadmirable!--Excellently contrived, upon my word. Nothing wanting. Could\nnot have imagined it.--So well lighted up!--Jane, Jane, look!--did you\never see any thing? Oh! Mr. Weston, you must really have had Aladdin's\nlamp. Good Mrs. Stokes would not know her own room again. I saw her as\nI came in; she was standing in the entrance. 'Oh! Mrs. Stokes,' said\nI--but I had not time for more.\" She was now met by Mrs. Weston.--\"Very\nwell, I thank you, ma'am. I hope you are quite well. Very happy to hear\nit. So afraid you might have a headache!--seeing you pass by so often,\nand knowing how much trouble you must have. Delighted to hear it indeed.\nAh! dear Mrs. Elton, so obliged to you for the carriage!--excellent\ntime. Jane and I quite ready. Did not keep the horses a moment. Most\ncomfortable carriage.--Oh! and I am sure our thanks are due to you,\nMrs. Weston, on that score. Mrs. Elton had most kindly sent Jane a note,\nor we should have been.--But two such offers in one day!--Never were\nsuch neighbours. I said to my mother, 'Upon my word, ma'am--.' Thank\nyou, my mother is remarkably well. Gone to Mr. Woodhouse's. I made her\ntake her shawl--for the evenings are not warm--her large new shawl--\nMrs. Dixon's wedding-present.--So kind of her to think of my mother!\nBought at Weymouth, you know--Mr. Dixon's choice. There were three\nothers, Jane says, which they hesitated about some time. Colonel\nCampbell rather preferred an olive. My dear Jane, are you sure you did\nnot wet your feet?--It was but a drop or two, but I am so afraid:--but\nMr. Frank Churchill was so extremely--and there was a mat to step\nupon--I shall never forget his extreme politeness.--Oh! Mr. Frank\nChurchill, I must tell you my mother's spectacles have never been in\nfault since; the rivet never came out again. My mother often talks of\nyour good-nature. Does not she, Jane?--Do not we often talk of Mr. Frank\nChurchill?--Ah! here's Miss Woodhouse.--Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do\nyou do?--Very well I thank you, quite well. This is meeting quite\nin fairy-land!--Such a transformation!--Must not compliment, I know\n(eyeing Emma most complacently)--that would be rude--but upon my word,\nMiss Woodhouse, you do look--how do you like Jane's hair?--You are\na judge.--She did it all herself. Quite wonderful how she does her\nhair!--No hairdresser from London I think could.--Ah! Dr. Hughes I\ndeclare--and Mrs. Hughes. Must go and speak to Dr. and Mrs. Hughes for a\nmoment.--How do you do? How do you do?--Very well, I thank you. This\nis delightful, is not it?--Where's dear Mr. Richard?--Oh! there he is.\nDon't disturb him. Much better employed talking to the young ladies. How\ndo you do, Mr. Richard?--I saw you the other day as you rode through\nthe town--Mrs. Otway, I protest!--and good Mr. Otway, and Miss Otway\nand Miss Caroline.--Such a host of friends!--and Mr. George and Mr.\nArthur!--How do you do? How do you all do?--Quite well, I am much\nobliged to you. Never better.--Don't I hear another carriage?--Who can\nthis be?--very likely the worthy Coles.--Upon my word, this is charming\nto be standing about among such friends! And such a noble fire!--I am\nquite roasted. No coffee, I thank you, for me--never take coffee.--A\nlittle tea if you please, sir, by and bye,--no hurry--Oh! here it comes.\nEvery thing so good!\"\n\nFrank Churchill returned to his station by Emma; and as soon as Miss\nBates was quiet, she found herself necessarily overhearing the discourse\nof Mrs. Elton and Miss Fairfax, who were standing a little way behind\nher.--He was thoughtful. Whether he were overhearing too, she could not\ndetermine. After a good many compliments to Jane on her dress and look,\ncompliments very quietly and properly taken, Mrs. Elton was evidently\nwanting to be complimented herself--and it was, \"How do you like\nmy gown?--How do you like my trimming?--How has Wright done my\nhair?\"--with many other relative questions, all answered with patient\npoliteness. Mrs. Elton then said, \"Nobody can think less of dress in\ngeneral than I do--but upon such an occasion as this, when every body's\neyes are so much upon me, and in compliment to the Westons--who I have\nno doubt are giving this ball chiefly to do me honour--I would not wish\nto be inferior to others. And I see very few pearls in the room except\nmine.--So Frank Churchill is a capital dancer, I understand.--We shall\nsee if our styles suit.--A fine young man certainly is Frank Churchill.\nI like him very well.\"\n\nAt this moment Frank began talking so vigorously, that Emma could not\nbut imagine he had overheard his own praises, and did not want to hear\nmore;--and the voices of the ladies were drowned for a while, till\nanother suspension brought Mrs. Elton's tones again distinctly\nforward.--Mr. Elton had just joined them, and his wife was exclaiming,\n\n\"Oh! you have found us out at last, have you, in our seclusion?--I was\nthis moment telling Jane, I thought you would begin to be impatient for\ntidings of us.\"\n\n\"Jane!\"--repeated Frank Churchill, with a look of surprize and\ndispleasure.--\"That is easy--but Miss Fairfax does not disapprove it, I\nsuppose.\"\n\n\"How do you like Mrs. Elton?\" said Emma in a whisper.\n\n\"Not at all.\"\n\n\"You are ungrateful.\"\n\n\"Ungrateful!--What do you mean?\" Then changing from a frown to a\nsmile--\"No, do not tell me--I do not want to know what you mean.--Where\nis my father?--When are we to begin dancing?\"\n\nEmma could hardly understand him; he seemed in an odd humour. He walked\noff to find his father, but was quickly back again with both Mr. and\nMrs. Weston. He had met with them in a little perplexity, which must be\nlaid before Emma. It had just occurred to Mrs. Weston that Mrs. Elton\nmust be asked to begin the ball; that she would expect it; which\ninterfered with all their wishes of giving Emma that distinction.--Emma\nheard the sad truth with fortitude.\n\n\"And what are we to do for a proper partner for her?\" said Mr. Weston.\n\"She will think Frank ought to ask her.\"\n\nFrank turned instantly to Emma, to claim her former promise; and\nboasted himself an engaged man, which his father looked his most perfect\napprobation of--and it then appeared that Mrs. Weston was wanting _him_\nto dance with Mrs. Elton himself, and that their business was to help to\npersuade him into it, which was done pretty soon.--Mr. Weston and Mrs.\nElton led the way, Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse followed.\nEmma must submit to stand second to Mrs. Elton, though she had always\nconsidered the ball as peculiarly for her. It was almost enough to make\nher think of marrying. Mrs. Elton had undoubtedly the advantage, at this\ntime, in vanity completely gratified; for though she had intended to\nbegin with Frank Churchill, she could not lose by the change. Mr. Weston\nmight be his son's superior.--In spite of this little rub, however,\nEmma was smiling with enjoyment, delighted to see the respectable length\nof the set as it was forming, and to feel that she had so many hours\nof unusual festivity before her.--She was more disturbed by Mr.\nKnightley's not dancing than by any thing else.--There he was, among\nthe standers-by, where he ought not to be; he ought to be dancing,--not\nclassing himself with the husbands, and fathers, and whist-players, who\nwere pretending to feel an interest in the dance till their rubbers were\nmade up,--so young as he looked!--He could not have appeared to greater\nadvantage perhaps anywhere, than where he had placed himself. His tall,\nfirm, upright figure, among the bulky forms and stooping shoulders of\nthe elderly men, was such as Emma felt must draw every body's eyes;\nand, excepting her own partner, there was not one among the whole row of\nyoung men who could be compared with him.--He moved a few steps nearer,\nand those few steps were enough to prove in how gentlemanlike a manner,\nwith what natural grace, he must have danced, would he but take the\ntrouble.--Whenever she caught his eye, she forced him to smile; but\nin general he was looking grave. She wished he could love a ballroom\nbetter, and could like Frank Churchill better.--He seemed often\nobserving her. She must not flatter herself that he thought of her\ndancing, but if he were criticising her behaviour, she did not feel\nafraid. There was nothing like flirtation between her and her partner.\nThey seemed more like cheerful, easy friends, than lovers. That Frank\nChurchill thought less of her than he had done, was indubitable.\n\nThe ball proceeded pleasantly. The anxious cares, the incessant\nattentions of Mrs. Weston, were not thrown away. Every body seemed\nhappy; and the praise of being a delightful ball, which is seldom\nbestowed till after a ball has ceased to be, was repeatedly given in\nthe very beginning of the existence of this. Of very important, very\nrecordable events, it was not more productive than such meetings usually\nare. There was one, however, which Emma thought something of.--The two\nlast dances before supper were begun, and Harriet had no partner;--the\nonly young lady sitting down;--and so equal had been hitherto the\nnumber of dancers, that how there could be any one disengaged was the\nwonder!--But Emma's wonder lessened soon afterwards, on seeing Mr. Elton\nsauntering about. He would not ask Harriet to dance if it were possible\nto be avoided: she was sure he would not--and she was expecting him\nevery moment to escape into the card-room.\n\nEscape, however, was not his plan. He came to the part of the room where\nthe sitters-by were collected, spoke to some, and walked about in front\nof them, as if to shew his liberty, and his resolution of maintaining\nit. He did not omit being sometimes directly before Miss Smith, or\nspeaking to those who were close to her.--Emma saw it. She was not yet\ndancing; she was working her way up from the bottom, and had therefore\nleisure to look around, and by only turning her head a little she saw\nit all. When she was half-way up the set, the whole group were exactly\nbehind her, and she would no longer allow her eyes to watch; but Mr.\nElton was so near, that she heard every syllable of a dialogue which\njust then took place between him and Mrs. Weston; and she perceived that\nhis wife, who was standing immediately above her, was not only\nlistening also, but even encouraging him by significant glances.--The\nkind-hearted, gentle Mrs. Weston had left her seat to join him and say,\n\"Do not you dance, Mr. Elton?\" to which his prompt reply was, \"Most\nreadily, Mrs. Weston, if you will dance with me.\"\n\n\"Me!--oh! no--I would get you a better partner than myself. I am no\ndancer.\"\n\n\"If Mrs. Gilbert wishes to dance,\" said he, \"I shall have great\npleasure, I am sure--for, though beginning to feel myself rather an old\nmarried man, and that my dancing days are over, it would give me very\ngreat pleasure at any time to stand up with an old friend like Mrs.\nGilbert.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a young lady\ndisengaged whom I should be very glad to see dancing--Miss Smith.\" \"Miss\nSmith!--oh!--I had not observed.--You are extremely obliging--and if I\nwere not an old married man.--But my dancing days are over, Mrs. Weston.\nYou will excuse me. Any thing else I should be most happy to do, at your\ncommand--but my dancing days are over.\"\n\nMrs. Weston said no more; and Emma could imagine with what surprize and\nmortification she must be returning to her seat. This was Mr. Elton! the\namiable, obliging, gentle Mr. Elton.--She looked round for a moment; he\nhad joined Mr. Knightley at a little distance, and was arranging himself\nfor settled conversation, while smiles of high glee passed between him\nand his wife.\n\nShe would not look again. Her heart was in a glow, and she feared her\nface might be as hot.\n\nIn another moment a happier sight caught her;--Mr. Knightley leading\nHarriet to the set!--Never had she been more surprized, seldom more\ndelighted, than at that instant. She was all pleasure and gratitude,\nboth for Harriet and herself, and longed to be thanking him; and though\ntoo distant for speech, her countenance said much, as soon as she could\ncatch his eye again.\n\nHis dancing proved to be just what she had believed it, extremely good;\nand Harriet would have seemed almost too lucky, if it had not been for\nthe cruel state of things before, and for the very complete enjoyment\nand very high sense of the distinction which her happy features\nannounced. It was not thrown away on her, she bounded higher than ever,\nflew farther down the middle, and was in a continual course of smiles.\n\nMr. Elton had retreated into the card-room, looking (Emma trusted) very\nfoolish. She did not think he was quite so hardened as his wife, though\ngrowing very like her;--_she_ spoke some of her feelings, by observing\naudibly to her partner,\n\n\"Knightley has taken pity on poor little Miss Smith!--Very good-natured,\nI declare.\"\n\nSupper was announced. The move began; and Miss Bates might be heard from\nthat moment, without interruption, till her being seated at table and\ntaking up her spoon.\n\n\"Jane, Jane, my dear Jane, where are you?--Here is your tippet. Mrs.\nWeston begs you to put on your tippet. She says she is afraid there will\nbe draughts in the passage, though every thing has been done--One door\nnailed up--Quantities of matting--My dear Jane, indeed you must.\nMr. Churchill, oh! you are too obliging! How well you put it on!--so\ngratified! Excellent dancing indeed!--Yes, my dear, I ran home, as I\nsaid I should, to help grandmama to bed, and got back again, and\nnobody missed me.--I set off without saying a word, just as I told you.\nGrandmama was quite well, had a charming evening with Mr. Woodhouse, a\nvast deal of chat, and backgammon.--Tea was made downstairs, biscuits\nand baked apples and wine before she came away: amazing luck in some\nof her throws: and she inquired a great deal about you, how you were\namused, and who were your partners. 'Oh!' said I, 'I shall not forestall\nJane; I left her dancing with Mr. George Otway; she will love to tell\nyou all about it herself to-morrow: her first partner was Mr. Elton,\nI do not know who will ask her next, perhaps Mr. William Cox.' My dear\nsir, you are too obliging.--Is there nobody you would not rather?--I am\nnot helpless. Sir, you are most kind. Upon my word, Jane on one arm, and\nme on the other!--Stop, stop, let us stand a little back, Mrs. Elton is\ngoing; dear Mrs. Elton, how elegant she looks!--Beautiful lace!--Now we\nall follow in her train. Quite the queen of the evening!--Well, here we\nare at the passage. Two steps, Jane, take care of the two steps. Oh! no,\nthere is but one. Well, I was persuaded there were two. How very odd!\nI was convinced there were two, and there is but one. I never saw any\nthing equal to the comfort and style--Candles everywhere.--I was telling\nyou of your grandmama, Jane,--There was a little disappointment.--The\nbaked apples and biscuits, excellent in their way, you know; but there\nwas a delicate fricassee of sweetbread and some asparagus brought in at\nfirst, and good Mr. Woodhouse, not thinking the asparagus quite boiled\nenough, sent it all out again. Now there is nothing grandmama loves\nbetter than sweetbread and asparagus--so she was rather disappointed,\nbut we agreed we would not speak of it to any body, for fear of\nits getting round to dear Miss Woodhouse, who would be so very much\nconcerned!--Well, this is brilliant! I am all amazement! could not have\nsupposed any thing!--Such elegance and profusion!--I have seen nothing\nlike it since--Well, where shall we sit? where shall we sit? Anywhere,\nso that Jane is not in a draught. Where _I_ sit is of no consequence.\nOh! do you recommend this side?--Well, I am sure, Mr. Churchill--only\nit seems too good--but just as you please. What you direct in this house\ncannot be wrong. Dear Jane, how shall we ever recollect half the dishes\nfor grandmama? Soup too! Bless me! I should not be helped so soon, but\nit smells most excellent, and I cannot help beginning.\"\n\nEmma had no opportunity of speaking to Mr. Knightley till after supper;\nbut, when they were all in the ballroom again, her eyes invited\nhim irresistibly to come to her and be thanked. He was warm in his\nreprobation of Mr. Elton's conduct; it had been unpardonable rudeness;\nand Mrs. Elton's looks also received the due share of censure.\n\n\"They aimed at wounding more than Harriet,\" said he. \"Emma, why is it\nthat they are your enemies?\"\n\nHe looked with smiling penetration; and, on receiving no answer, added,\n\"_She_ ought not to be angry with you, I suspect, whatever he may\nbe.--To that surmise, you say nothing, of course; but confess, Emma,\nthat you did want him to marry Harriet.\"\n\n\"I did,\" replied Emma, \"and they cannot forgive me.\"\n\nHe shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence with it, and he\nonly said,\n\n\"I shall not scold you. I leave you to your own reflections.\"\n\n\"Can you trust me with such flatterers?--Does my vain spirit ever tell\nme I am wrong?\"\n\n\"Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit.--If one leads you wrong,\nI am sure the other tells you of it.\"\n\n\"I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in Mr. Elton. There is\na littleness about him which you discovered, and which I did not: and I\nwas fully convinced of his being in love with Harriet. It was through a\nseries of strange blunders!\"\n\n\"And, in return for your acknowledging so much, I will do you the\njustice to say, that you would have chosen for him better than he has\nchosen for himself.--Harriet Smith has some first-rate qualities, which\nMrs. Elton is totally without. An unpretending, single-minded, artless\ngirl--infinitely to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to such a\nwoman as Mrs. Elton. I found Harriet more conversable than I expected.\"\n\nEmma was extremely gratified.--They were interrupted by the bustle of\nMr. Weston calling on every body to begin dancing again.\n\n\"Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what are you all\ndoing?--Come Emma, set your companions the example. Every body is lazy!\nEvery body is asleep!\"\n\n\"I am ready,\" said Emma, \"whenever I am wanted.\"\n\n\"Whom are you going to dance with?\" asked Mr. Knightley.\n\nShe hesitated a moment, and then replied, \"With you, if you will ask\nme.\"\n\n\"Will you?\" said he, offering his hand.\n\n\"Indeed I will. You have shewn that you can dance, and you know we are\nnot really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper.\"\n\n\"Brother and sister! no, indeed.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nThis little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma considerable\npleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball, which\nshe walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoy.--She was extremely\nglad that they had come to so good an understanding respecting the\nEltons, and that their opinions of both husband and wife were so much\nalike; and his praise of Harriet, his concession in her favour, was\npeculiarly gratifying. The impertinence of the Eltons, which for a few\nminutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been the\noccasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked forward\nto another happy result--the cure of Harriet's infatuation.--From\nHarriet's manner of speaking of the circumstance before they quitted the\nballroom, she had strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were suddenly\nopened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not the superior\ncreature she had believed him. The fever was over, and Emma could\nharbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by injurious\ncourtesy. She depended on the evil feelings of the Eltons for\nsupplying all the discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther\nrequisite.--Harriet rational, Frank Churchill not too much in love, and\nMr. Knightley not wanting to quarrel with her, how very happy a summer\nmust be before her!\n\nShe was not to see Frank Churchill this morning. He had told her that he\ncould not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at Hartfield, as he was\nto be at home by the middle of the day. She did not regret it.\n\nHaving arranged all these matters, looked them through, and put them all\nto rights, she was just turning to the house with spirits freshened up\nfor the demands of the two little boys, as well as of their grandpapa,\nwhen the great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons entered whom she\nhad never less expected to see together--Frank Churchill, with Harriet\nleaning on his arm--actually Harriet!--A moment sufficed to convince\nher that something extraordinary had happened. Harriet looked white\nand frightened, and he was trying to cheer her.--The iron gates and the\nfront-door were not twenty yards asunder;--they were all three soon in\nthe hall, and Harriet immediately sinking into a chair fainted away.\n\nA young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered,\nand surprizes be explained. Such events are very interesting, but the\nsuspense of them cannot last long. A few minutes made Emma acquainted\nwith the whole.\n\nMiss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour boarder at Mrs.\nGoddard's, who had been also at the ball, had walked out together, and\ntaken a road, the Richmond road, which, though apparently public enough\nfor safety, had led them into alarm.--About half a mile beyond Highbury,\nmaking a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each side, it became\nfor a considerable stretch very retired; and when the young ladies\nhad advanced some way into it, they had suddenly perceived at a small\ndistance before them, on a broader patch of greensward by the side, a\nparty of gipsies. A child on the watch, came towards them to beg; and\nMiss Bickerton, excessively frightened, gave a great scream, and calling\non Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight hedge at\nthe top, and made the best of her way by a short cut back to Highbury.\nBut poor Harriet could not follow. She had suffered very much from cramp\nafter dancing, and her first attempt to mount the bank brought on such\na return of it as made her absolutely powerless--and in this state, and\nexceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain.\n\nHow the trampers might have behaved, had the young ladies been more\ncourageous, must be doubtful; but such an invitation for attack could\nnot be resisted; and Harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen children,\nheaded by a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and impertinent\nin look, though not absolutely in word.--More and more frightened, she\nimmediately promised them money, and taking out her purse, gave them a\nshilling, and begged them not to want more, or to use her ill.--She\nwas then able to walk, though but slowly, and was moving away--but her\nterror and her purse were too tempting, and she was followed, or rather\nsurrounded, by the whole gang, demanding more.\n\nIn this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling and\nconditioning, they loud and insolent. By a most fortunate chance his\nleaving Highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance\nat this critical moment. The pleasantness of the morning had induced\nhim to walk forward, and leave his horses to meet him by another road,\na mile or two beyond Highbury--and happening to have borrowed a pair\nof scissors the night before of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to\nrestore them, he had been obliged to stop at her door, and go in for a\nfew minutes: he was therefore later than he had intended; and being\non foot, was unseen by the whole party till almost close to them. The\nterror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then\ntheir own portion. He had left them completely frightened; and Harriet\neagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength\nenough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were quite overcome.\nIt was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other\nplace.\n\nThis was the amount of the whole story,--of his communication and of\nHarriet's as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.--He dared\nnot stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him\nnot another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of her\nsafety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people\nin the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the grateful\nblessings that she could utter for her friend and herself.\n\nSuch an adventure as this,--a fine young man and a lovely young woman\nthrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain\nideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at\nleast. Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a mathematician\nhave seen what she did, have witnessed their appearance together, and\nheard their history of it, without feeling that circumstances had been\nat work to make them peculiarly interesting to each other?--How much\nmore must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with speculation and\nforesight!--especially with such a groundwork of anticipation as her\nmind had already made.\n\nIt was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had ever\noccurred before to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no\nrencontre, no alarm of the kind;--and now it had happened to the very\nperson, and at the very hour, when the other very person was chancing\nto pass by to rescue her!--It certainly was very extraordinary!--And\nknowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind of each at this\nperiod, it struck her the more. He was wishing to get the better of his\nattachment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr. Elton.\nIt seemed as if every thing united to promise the most interesting\nconsequences. It was not possible that the occurrence should not be\nstrongly recommending each to the other.\n\nIn the few minutes' conversation which she had yet had with him, while\nHarriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her terror,\nher naivete, her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm, with a\nsensibility amused and delighted; and just at last, after Harriet's\nown account had been given, he had expressed his indignation at the\nabominable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every thing was\nto take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted.\nShe would not stir a step, nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of\ninterference. There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive scheme.\nIt was no more than a wish. Beyond it she would on no account proceed.\n\nEmma's first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of\nwhat had passed,--aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion: but\nshe soon felt that concealment must be impossible. Within half an hour\nit was known all over Highbury. It was the very event to engage those\nwho talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and servants in\nthe place were soon in the happiness of frightful news. The last night's\nball seemed lost in the gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as he sat,\nand, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without their\npromising never to go beyond the shrubbery again. It was some comfort\nto him that many inquiries after himself and Miss Woodhouse (for his\nneighbours knew that he loved to be inquired after), as well as Miss\nSmith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and he had\nthe pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all very\nindifferent--which, though not exactly true, for she was perfectly well,\nand Harriet not much otherwise, Emma would not interfere with. She had\nan unhappy state of health in general for the child of such a man,\nfor she hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not invent\nillnesses for her, she could make no figure in a message.\n\nThe gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took\nthemselves off in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury might have\nwalked again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history\ndwindled soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her\nnephews:--in her imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and\nJohn were still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the\ngipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the\nslightest particular from the original recital.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nA very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one\nmorning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down\nand hesitating, thus began:\n\n\"Miss Woodhouse--if you are at leisure--I have something that I should\nlike to tell you--a sort of confession to make--and then, you know, it\nwill be over.\"\n\nEmma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak. There was a\nseriousness in Harriet's manner which prepared her, quite as much as her\nwords, for something more than ordinary.\n\n\"It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish,\" she continued, \"to have\nno reserves with you on this subject. As I am happily quite an altered\ncreature in _one_ _respect_, it is very fit that you should have\nthe satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say more than is\nnecessary--I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and\nI dare say you understand me.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Emma, \"I hope I do.\"\n\n\"How I could so long a time be fancying myself!...\" cried Harriet,\nwarmly. \"It seems like madness! I can see nothing at all extraordinary\nin him now.--I do not care whether I meet him or not--except that of the\ntwo I had rather not see him--and indeed I would go any distance round\nto avoid him--but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire\nher nor envy her, as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, and\nall that, but I think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable--I shall\nnever forget her look the other night!--However, I assure you, Miss\nWoodhouse, I wish her no evil.--No, let them be ever so happy together,\nit will not give me another moment's pang: and to convince you that I\nhave been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy--what I ought to\nhave destroyed long ago--what I ought never to have kept--I know that\nvery well (blushing as she spoke).--However, now I will destroy it\nall--and it is my particular wish to do it in your presence, that you\nmay see how rational I am grown. Cannot you guess what this parcel\nholds?\" said she, with a conscious look.\n\n\"Not the least in the world.--Did he ever give you any thing?\"\n\n\"No--I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have valued\nvery much.\"\n\nShe held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words _Most_\n_precious_ _treasures_ on the top. Her curiosity was greatly excited.\nHarriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience. Within\nabundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box,\nwhich Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but,\nexcepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister.\n\n\"Now,\" said Harriet, \"you _must_ recollect.\"\n\n\"No, indeed I do not.\"\n\n\"Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could forget what\npassed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very last\ntimes we ever met in it!--It was but a very few days before I had my\nsore throat--just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came--I think the\nvery evening.--Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new\npenknife, and your recommending court-plaister?--But, as you had none\nabout you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took\nmine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he\ncut it smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left, before he\ngave it back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making\na treasure of it--so I put it by never to be used, and looked at it now\nand then as a great treat.\"\n\n\"My dearest Harriet!\" cried Emma, putting her hand before her face,\nand jumping up, \"you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear.\nRemember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this\nrelic--I knew nothing of that till this moment--but the cutting the\nfinger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none\nabout me!--Oh! my sins, my sins!--And I had plenty all the while in my\npocket!--One of my senseless tricks!--I deserve to be under a continual\nblush all the rest of my life.--Well--(sitting down again)--go on--what\nelse?\"\n\n\"And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected\nit, you did it so naturally.\"\n\n\"And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!\"\nsaid Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided\nbetween wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, \"Lord\nbless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a\npiece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I\nnever was equal to this.\"\n\n\"Here,\" resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, \"here is something\nstill more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because\nthis is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister\nnever did.\"\n\nEmma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of an\nold pencil,--the part without any lead.\n\n\"This was really his,\" said Harriet.--\"Do not you remember one\nmorning?--no, I dare say you do not. But one morning--I forget exactly\nthe day--but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_\n_evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was\nabout spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about\nbrewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out\nhis pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and\nit would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the\ntable as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I\ndared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment.\"\n\n\"I do remember it,\" cried Emma; \"I perfectly remember it.--Talking\nabout spruce-beer.--Oh! yes--Mr. Knightley and I both saying we\nliked it, and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I\nperfectly remember it.--Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was\nnot he? I have an idea he was standing just here.\"\n\n\"Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.--It is very odd, but I cannot\nrecollect.--Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I\nam now.\"--\n\n\"Well, go on.\"\n\n\"Oh! that's all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say--except that\nI am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to see\nme do it.\"\n\n\"My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in\ntreasuring up these things?\"\n\n\"Yes, simpleton as I was!--but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I\ncould forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you\nknow, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was--but\nhad not resolution enough to part with them.\"\n\n\"But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?--I have not\na word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be\nuseful.\"\n\n\"I shall be happier to burn it,\" replied Harriet. \"It has a disagreeable\nlook to me. I must get rid of every thing.--There it goes, and there is\nan end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton.\"\n\n\"And when,\" thought Emma, \"will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill?\"\n\nShe had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was already\nmade, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had _told_ no\nfortune, might be proved to have made Harriet's.--About a fortnight\nafter the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite\nundesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the\ninformation she received more valuable. She merely said, in the course\nof some trivial chat, \"Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise\nyou to do so and so\"--and thought no more of it, till after a minute's\nsilence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, \"I shall never\nmarry.\"\n\nEmma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a\nmoment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied,\n\n\"Never marry!--This is a new resolution.\"\n\n\"It is one that I shall never change, however.\"\n\nAfter another short hesitation, \"I hope it does not proceed from--I hope\nit is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?\"\n\n\"Mr. Elton indeed!\" cried Harriet indignantly.--\"Oh! no\"--and Emma could\njust catch the words, \"so superior to Mr. Elton!\"\n\nShe then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no\nfarther?--should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?--Perhaps\nHarriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she were\ntotally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear too\nmuch; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been, such\nan open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly\nresolved.--She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at\nonce, all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always\nbest. She had previously determined how far she would proceed, on any\napplication of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the\njudicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.--She was decided,\nand thus spoke--\n\n\"Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your\nresolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from\nan idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly your\nsuperior in situation to think of you. Is not it so?\"\n\n\"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to suppose--\nIndeed I am not so mad.--But it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a\ndistance--and to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of\nthe world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so\nproper, in me especially.\"\n\n\"I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he rendered you\nwas enough to warm your heart.\"\n\n\"Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!--The very\nrecollection of it, and all that I felt at the time--when I saw him\ncoming--his noble look--and my wretchedness before. Such a change! In\none moment such a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness!\"\n\n\"It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.--Yes,\nhonourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.--But that\nit will be a fortunate preference is more than I can promise. I do not\nadvise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage\nfor its being returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be\nwisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any rate do not\nlet them carry you far, unless you are persuaded of his liking you. Be\nobservant of him. Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I\ngive you this caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on\nthe subject. I am determined against all interference. Henceforward I\nknow nothing of the matter. Let no name ever pass our lips. We were very\nwrong before; we will be cautious now.--He is your superior, no doubt,\nand there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature; but\nyet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there have been\nmatches of greater disparity. But take care of yourself. I would not\nhave you too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured your\nraising your thoughts to _him_, is a mark of good taste which I shall\nalways know how to value.\"\n\nHarriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was\nvery decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her friend.\nIts tendency would be to raise and refine her mind--and it must be\nsaving her from the danger of degradation.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nIn this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance, June opened upon\nHartfield. To Highbury in general it brought no material change. The\nEltons were still talking of a visit from the Sucklings, and of the use\nto be made of their barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax was still at her\ngrandmother's; and as the return of the Campbells from Ireland was again\ndelayed, and August, instead of Midsummer, fixed for it, she was likely\nto remain there full two months longer, provided at least she were able\nto defeat Mrs. Elton's activity in her service, and save herself from\nbeing hurried into a delightful situation against her will.\n\nMr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to himself, had certainly\ntaken an early dislike to Frank Churchill, was only growing to dislike\nhim more. He began to suspect him of some double dealing in his pursuit\nof Emma. That Emma was his object appeared indisputable. Every thing\ndeclared it; his own attentions, his father's hints, his mother-in-law's\nguarded silence; it was all in unison; words, conduct, discretion, and\nindiscretion, told the same story. But while so many were devoting him\nto Emma, and Emma herself making him over to Harriet, Mr. Knightley\nbegan to suspect him of some inclination to trifle with Jane Fairfax. He\ncould not understand it; but there were symptoms of intelligence between\nthem--he thought so at least--symptoms of admiration on his side, which,\nhaving once observed, he could not persuade himself to think entirely\nvoid of meaning, however he might wish to escape any of Emma's errors\nof imagination. _She_ was not present when the suspicion first arose.\nHe was dining with the Randalls family, and Jane, at the Eltons'; and he\nhad seen a look, more than a single look, at Miss Fairfax, which, from\nthe admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed somewhat out of place. When he was\nagain in their company, he could not help remembering what he had seen;\nnor could he avoid observations which, unless it were like Cowper and\nhis fire at twilight,\n\n\"Myself creating what I saw,\"\n\nbrought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of private\nliking, of private understanding even, between Frank Churchill and Jane.\n\nHe had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend\nhis evening at Hartfield. Emma and Harriet were going to walk; he joined\nthem; and, on returning, they fell in with a larger party, who, like\nthemselves, judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as the\nweather threatened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates\nand her niece, who had accidentally met. They all united; and, on\nreaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of\nvisiting that would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in\nand drink tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to it immediately; and\nafter a pretty long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons listened\nto, she also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse's most\nobliging invitation.\n\nAs they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on horseback.\nThe gentlemen spoke of his horse.\n\n\"By the bye,\" said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently, \"what\nbecame of Mr. Perry's plan of setting up his carriage?\"\n\nMrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, \"I did not know that he ever had\nany such plan.\"\n\n\"Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months ago.\"\n\n\"Me! impossible!\"\n\n\"Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as what\nwas certainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was\nextremely happy about it. It was owing to _her_ persuasion, as she\nthought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You\nmust remember it now?\"\n\n\"Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment.\"\n\n\"Never! really, never!--Bless me! how could it be?--Then I must have\ndreamt it--but I was completely persuaded--Miss Smith, you walk as if\nyou were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home.\"\n\n\"What is this?--What is this?\" cried Mr. Weston, \"about Perry and a\ncarriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad he can\nafford it. You had it from himself, had you?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" replied his son, laughing, \"I seem to have had it from\nnobody.--Very odd!--I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston's having\nmentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all\nthese particulars--but as she declares she never heard a syllable of\nit before, of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer.\nI dream of every body at Highbury when I am away--and when I have gone\nthrough my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs.\nPerry.\"\n\n\"It is odd though,\" observed his father, \"that you should have had such\na regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you\nshould be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry's setting up his carriage! and\nhis wife's persuading him to it, out of care for his health--just\nwhat will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a little\npremature. What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream!\nAnd at others, what a heap of absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your dream\ncertainly shews that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent.\nEmma, you are a great dreamer, I think?\"\n\nEmma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before her guests to\nprepare her father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach of Mr.\nWeston's hint.\n\n\"Why, to own the truth,\" cried Miss Bates, who had been trying in vain\nto be heard the last two minutes, \"if I must speak on this subject,\nthere is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have--I do not mean\nto say that he did not dream it--I am sure I have sometimes the oddest\ndreams in the world--but if I am questioned about it, I must acknowledge\nthat there was such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry herself\nmentioned it to my mother, and the Coles knew of it as well as\nourselves--but it was quite a secret, known to nobody else, and only\nthought of about three days. Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should\nhave a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one morning\nbecause she thought she had prevailed. Jane, don't you remember\ngrandmama's telling us of it when we got home? I forget where we\nhad been walking to--very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to\nRandalls. Mrs. Perry was always particularly fond of my mother--indeed\nI do not know who is not--and she had mentioned it to her in confidence;\nshe had no objection to her telling us, of course, but it was not to go\nbeyond: and, from that day to this, I never mentioned it to a soul that\nI know of. At the same time, I will not positively answer for my having\nnever dropt a hint, because I know I do sometimes pop out a thing before\nI am aware. I am a talker, you know; I am rather a talker; and now and\nthen I have let a thing escape me which I should not. I am not like\nJane; I wish I were. I will answer for it _she_ never betrayed the least\nthing in the world. Where is she?--Oh! just behind. Perfectly remember\nMrs. Perry's coming.--Extraordinary dream, indeed!\"\n\nThey were entering the hall. Mr. Knightley's eyes had preceded Miss\nBates's in a glance at Jane. From Frank Churchill's face, where\nhe thought he saw confusion suppressed or laughed away, he had\ninvoluntarily turned to hers; but she was indeed behind, and too busy\nwith her shawl. Mr. Weston had walked in. The two other gentlemen waited\nat the door to let her pass. Mr. Knightley suspected in Frank\nChurchill the determination of catching her eye--he seemed watching her\nintently--in vain, however, if it were so--Jane passed between them\ninto the hall, and looked at neither.\n\nThere was no time for farther remark or explanation. The dream must be\nborne with, and Mr. Knightley must take his seat with the rest round the\nlarge modern circular table which Emma had introduced at Hartfield, and\nwhich none but Emma could have had power to place there and persuade her\nfather to use, instead of the small-sized Pembroke, on which two of his\ndaily meals had, for forty years been crowded. Tea passed pleasantly,\nand nobody seemed in a hurry to move.\n\n\"Miss Woodhouse,\" said Frank Churchill, after examining a table behind\nhim, which he could reach as he sat, \"have your nephews taken away their\nalphabets--their box of letters? It used to stand here. Where is it?\nThis is a sort of dull-looking evening, that ought to be treated rather\nas winter than summer. We had great amusement with those letters one\nmorning. I want to puzzle you again.\"\n\nEmma was pleased with the thought; and producing the box, the table\nwas quickly scattered over with alphabets, which no one seemed so much\ndisposed to employ as their two selves. They were rapidly forming words\nfor each other, or for any body else who would be puzzled. The quietness\nof the game made it particularly eligible for Mr. Woodhouse, who had\noften been distressed by the more animated sort, which Mr. Weston had\noccasionally introduced, and who now sat happily occupied in lamenting,\nwith tender melancholy, over the departure of the \"poor little boys,\"\nor in fondly pointing out, as he took up any stray letter near him, how\nbeautifully Emma had written it.\n\nFrank Churchill placed a word before Miss Fairfax. She gave a slight\nglance round the table, and applied herself to it. Frank was next to\nEmma, Jane opposite to them--and Mr. Knightley so placed as to see them\nall; and it was his object to see as much as he could, with as little\napparent observation. The word was discovered, and with a faint smile\npushed away. If meant to be immediately mixed with the others, and\nburied from sight, she should have looked on the table instead of\nlooking just across, for it was not mixed; and Harriet, eager after\nevery fresh word, and finding out none, directly took it up, and fell to\nwork. She was sitting by Mr. Knightley, and turned to him for help. The\nword was _blunder_; and as Harriet exultingly proclaimed it, there was a\nblush on Jane's cheek which gave it a meaning not otherwise ostensible.\nMr. Knightley connected it with the dream; but how it could all be,\nwas beyond his comprehension. How the delicacy, the discretion of his\nfavourite could have been so lain asleep! He feared there must be some\ndecided involvement. Disingenuousness and double dealing seemed to meet\nhim at every turn. These letters were but the vehicle for gallantry and\ntrick. It was a child's play, chosen to conceal a deeper game on Frank\nChurchill's part.\n\nWith great indignation did he continue to observe him; with great alarm\nand distrust, to observe also his two blinded companions. He saw a short\nword prepared for Emma, and given to her with a look sly and demure. He\nsaw that Emma had soon made it out, and found it highly entertaining,\nthough it was something which she judged it proper to appear to censure;\nfor she said, \"Nonsense! for shame!\" He heard Frank Churchill next say,\nwith a glance towards Jane, \"I will give it to her--shall I?\"--and as\nclearly heard Emma opposing it with eager laughing warmth. \"No, no, you\nmust not; you shall not, indeed.\"\n\nIt was done however. This gallant young man, who seemed to love without\nfeeling, and to recommend himself without complaisance, directly handed\nover the word to Miss Fairfax, and with a particular degree of sedate\ncivility entreated her to study it. Mr. Knightley's excessive curiosity\nto know what this word might be, made him seize every possible moment\nfor darting his eye towards it, and it was not long before he saw it\nto be _Dixon_. Jane Fairfax's perception seemed to accompany his;\nher comprehension was certainly more equal to the covert meaning,\nthe superior intelligence, of those five letters so arranged. She was\nevidently displeased; looked up, and seeing herself watched, blushed\nmore deeply than he had ever perceived her, and saying only, \"I did not\nknow that proper names were allowed,\" pushed away the letters with even\nan angry spirit, and looked resolved to be engaged by no other word\nthat could be offered. Her face was averted from those who had made the\nattack, and turned towards her aunt.\n\n\"Aye, very true, my dear,\" cried the latter, though Jane had not spoken\na word--\"I was just going to say the same thing. It is time for us to be\ngoing indeed. The evening is closing in, and grandmama will be looking\nfor us. My dear sir, you are too obliging. We really must wish you good\nnight.\"\n\nJane's alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt had\npreconceived. She was immediately up, and wanting to quit the table; but\nso many were also moving, that she could not get away; and Mr. Knightley\nthought he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed towards\nher, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined. She was afterwards\nlooking for her shawl--Frank Churchill was looking also--it was growing\ndusk, and the room was in confusion; and how they parted, Mr. Knightley\ncould not tell.\n\nHe remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of\nwhat he had seen; so full, that when the candles came to assist his\nobservations, he must--yes, he certainly must, as a friend--an anxious\nfriend--give Emma some hint, ask her some question. He could not see her\nin a situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her. It was\nhis duty.\n\n\"Pray, Emma,\" said he, \"may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the\npoignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw the\nword, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the\none, and so very distressing to the other.\"\n\nEmma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true\nexplanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she was\nreally ashamed of having ever imparted them.\n\n\"Oh!\" she cried in evident embarrassment, \"it all meant nothing; a mere\njoke among ourselves.\"\n\n\"The joke,\" he replied gravely, \"seemed confined to you and Mr.\nChurchill.\"\n\nHe had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather\nbusy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in\ndoubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference--fruitless\ninterference. Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to\ndeclare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her,\nto risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference,\nrather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the\nremembrance of neglect in such a cause.\n\n\"My dear Emma,\" said he at last, with earnest kindness, \"do you\nthink you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the\ngentleman and lady we have been speaking of?\"\n\n\"Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why\ndo you make a doubt of it?\"\n\n\"Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or\nthat she admired him?\"\n\n\"Never, never!\" she cried with a most open eagerness--\"Never, for the\ntwentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could\nit possibly come into your head?\"\n\n\"I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between\nthem--certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be\npublic.\"\n\n\"Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can\nvouchsafe to let your imagination wander--but it will not do--very sorry\nto check you in your first essay--but indeed it will not do. There is no\nadmiration between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which\nhave caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances--feelings\nrather of a totally different nature--it is impossible exactly to\nexplain:--there is a good deal of nonsense in it--but the part which is\ncapable of being communicated, which is sense, is, that they are as far\nfrom any attachment or admiration for one another, as any two beings in\nthe world can be. That is, I _presume_ it to be so on her side, and I\ncan _answer_ for its being so on his. I will answer for the gentleman's\nindifference.\"\n\nShe spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satisfaction\nwhich silenced, Mr. Knightley. She was in gay spirits, and would have\nprolonged the conversation, wanting to hear the particulars of his\nsuspicions, every look described, and all the wheres and hows of a\ncircumstance which highly entertained her: but his gaiety did not meet\nhers. He found he could not be useful, and his feelings were too much\nirritated for talking. That he might not be irritated into an absolute\nfever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse's tender habits required almost\nevery evening throughout the year, he soon afterwards took a hasty\nleave, and walked home to the coolness and solitude of Donwell Abbey.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nAfter being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs.\nSuckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification\nof hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn. No such\nimportation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at\npresent. In the daily interchange of news, they must be again restricted\nto the other topics with which for a while the Sucklings' coming had\nbeen united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill, whose health\nseemed every day to supply a different report, and the situation of Mrs.\nWeston, whose happiness it was to be hoped might eventually be as much\nincreased by the arrival of a child, as that of all her neighbours was\nby the approach of it.\n\nMrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the delay of a great deal\nof pleasure and parade. Her introductions and recommendations must all\nwait, and every projected party be still only talked of. So she thought\nat first;--but a little consideration convinced her that every thing\nneed not be put off. Why should not they explore to Box Hill though\nthe Sucklings did not come? They could go there again with them in the\nautumn. It was settled that they should go to Box Hill. That there was\nto be such a party had been long generally known: it had even given the\nidea of another. Emma had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see what\nevery body found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had agreed\nto chuse some fine morning and drive thither. Two or three more of the\nchosen only were to be admitted to join them, and it was to be done in a\nquiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior to the bustle and\npreparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic parade of the\nEltons and the Sucklings.\n\nThis was so very well understood between them, that Emma could not but\nfeel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing from Mr. Weston\nthat he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and sister had\nfailed her, that the two parties should unite, and go together; and that\nas Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it was to be, if she\nhad no objection. Now, as her objection was nothing but her very great\ndislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must already be perfectly\naware, it was not worth bringing forward again:--it could not be done\nwithout a reproof to him, which would be giving pain to his wife; and\nshe found herself therefore obliged to consent to an arrangement which\nshe would have done a great deal to avoid; an arrangement which would\nprobably expose her even to the degradation of being said to be of Mrs.\nElton's party! Every feeling was offended; and the forbearance of her\noutward submission left a heavy arrear due of secret severity in her\nreflections on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr. Weston's temper.\n\n\"I am glad you approve of what I have done,\" said he very comfortably.\n\"But I thought you would. Such schemes as these are nothing without\nnumbers. One cannot have too large a party. A large party secures its\nown amusement. And she is a good-natured woman after all. One could not\nleave her out.\"\n\nEmma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private.\n\nIt was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and Mrs. Elton\nwas growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as to\npigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every thing\ninto sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be only a few days,\nbefore the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured\non, and it was all melancholy stagnation. Mrs. Elton's resources were\ninadequate to such an attack.\n\n\"Is not this most vexatious, Knightley?\" she cried.--\"And such weather\nfor exploring!--These delays and disappointments are quite odious. What\nare we to do?--The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing\ndone. Before this time last year I assure you we had had a delightful\nexploring party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston.\"\n\n\"You had better explore to Donwell,\" replied Mr. Knightley. \"That may\nbe done without horses. Come, and eat my strawberries. They are ripening\nfast.\"\n\nIf Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed so,\nfor his proposal was caught at with delight; and the \"Oh! I should like\nit of all things,\" was not plainer in words than manner. Donwell was\nfamous for its strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the invitation:\nbut no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have been enough to tempt\nthe lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere. She promised him again\nand again to come--much oftener than he doubted--and was extremely\ngratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing compliment\nas she chose to consider it.\n\n\"You may depend upon me,\" said she. \"I certainly will come. Name your\nday, and I will come. You will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax?\"\n\n\"I cannot name a day,\" said he, \"till I have spoken to some others whom\nI would wish to meet you.\"\n\n\"Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carte-blanche.--I am Lady\nPatroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring friends with me.\"\n\n\"I hope you will bring Elton,\" said he: \"but I will not trouble you to\ngive any other invitations.\"\n\n\"Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider--you need not be afraid\nof delegating power to _me_. I am no young lady on her preferment.\nMarried women, you know, may be safely authorised. It is my party. Leave\nit all to me. I will invite your guests.\"\n\n\"No,\"--he calmly replied,--\"there is but one married woman in the world\nwhom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell, and\nthat one is--\"\n\n\"--Mrs. Weston, I suppose,\" interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.\n\n\"No--Mrs. Knightley;--and till she is in being, I will manage such\nmatters myself.\"\n\n\"Ah! you are an odd creature!\" she cried, satisfied to have no one\npreferred to herself.--\"You are a humourist, and may say what you\nlike. Quite a humourist. Well, I shall bring Jane with me--Jane and her\naunt.--The rest I leave to you. I have no objections at all to meeting\nthe Hartfield family. Don't scruple. I know you are attached to them.\"\n\n\"You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call on Miss\nBates in my way home.\"\n\n\"That's quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:--but as you like. It\nis to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing. I\nshall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging\non my arm. Here,--probably this basket with pink ribbon. Nothing can be\nmore simple, you see. And Jane will have such another. There is to be\nno form or parade--a sort of gipsy party. We are to walk about\nyour gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under\ntrees;--and whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out\nof doors--a table spread in the shade, you know. Every thing as natural\nand simple as possible. Is not that your idea?\"\n\n\"Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will be to have\nthe table spread in the dining-room. The nature and the simplicity of\ngentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think is\nbest observed by meals within doors. When you are tired of eating\nstrawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house.\"\n\n\"Well--as you please; only don't have a great set out. And, by the bye,\ncan I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion?--Pray be\nsincere, Knightley. If you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to inspect\nanything--\"\n\n\"I have not the least wish for it, I thank you.\"\n\n\"Well--but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper is extremely\nclever.\"\n\n\"I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clever, and\nwould spurn any body's assistance.\"\n\n\"I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all to come on\ndonkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me--and my caro sposo walking by. I\nreally must talk to him about purchasing a donkey. In a country life\nI conceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman have ever\nso many resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut up at\nhome;--and very long walks, you know--in summer there is dust, and in\nwinter there is dirt.\"\n\n\"You will not find either, between Donwell and Highbury. Donwell Lane is\nnever dusty, and now it is perfectly dry. Come on a donkey, however, if\nyou prefer it. You can borrow Mrs. Cole's. I would wish every thing to\nbe as much to your taste as possible.\"\n\n\"That I am sure you would. Indeed I do you justice, my good friend.\nUnder that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner, I know you have the\nwarmest heart. As I tell Mr. E., you are a thorough humourist.--Yes,\nbelieve me, Knightley, I am fully sensible of your attention to me in\nthe whole of this scheme. You have hit upon the very thing to please\nme.\"\n\nMr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade. He\nwished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as well as Emma, to join the party;\nand he knew that to have any of them sitting down out of doors to\neat would inevitably make him ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not, under the\nspecious pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or two spent at\nDonwell, be tempted away to his misery.\n\nHe was invited on good faith. No lurking horrors were to upbraid him for\nhis easy credulity. He did consent. He had not been at Donwell for two\nyears. \"Some very fine morning, he, and Emma, and Harriet, could go\nvery well; and he could sit still with Mrs. Weston, while the dear girls\nwalked about the gardens. He did not suppose they could be damp now,\nin the middle of the day. He should like to see the old house again\nexceedingly, and should be very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton, and\nany other of his neighbours.--He could not see any objection at all to\nhis, and Emma's, and Harriet's going there some very fine morning. He\nthought it very well done of Mr. Knightley to invite them--very kind\nand sensible--much cleverer than dining out.--He was not fond of dining\nout.\"\n\nMr. Knightley was fortunate in every body's most ready concurrence. The\ninvitation was everywhere so well received, that it seemed as if, like\nMrs. Elton, they were all taking the scheme as a particular compliment\nto themselves.--Emma and Harriet professed very high expectations of\npleasure from it; and Mr. Weston, unasked, promised to get Frank over to\njoin them, if possible; a proof of approbation and gratitude which could\nhave been dispensed with.--Mr. Knightley was then obliged to say that\nhe should be glad to see him; and Mr. Weston engaged to lose no time in\nwriting, and spare no arguments to induce him to come.\n\nIn the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that the party to\nBox Hill was again under happy consideration; and at last Donwell was\nsettled for one day, and Box Hill for the next,--the weather appearing\nexactly right.\n\nUnder a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer, Mr. Woodhouse was\nsafely conveyed in his carriage, with one window down, to partake of\nthis al-fresco party; and in one of the most comfortable rooms in the\nAbbey, especially prepared for him by a fire all the morning, he was\nhappily placed, quite at his ease, ready to talk with pleasure of what\nhad been achieved, and advise every body to come and sit down, and not\nto heat themselves.--Mrs. Weston, who seemed to have walked there on\npurpose to be tired, and sit all the time with him, remained, when\nall the others were invited or persuaded out, his patient listener and\nsympathiser.\n\nIt was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that as soon as she was\nsatisfied of her father's comfort, she was glad to leave him, and look\naround her; eager to refresh and correct her memory with more particular\nobservation, more exact understanding of a house and grounds which must\never be so interesting to her and all her family.\n\nShe felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance with\nthe present and future proprietor could fairly warrant, as she viewed\nthe respectable size and style of the building, its suitable, becoming,\ncharacteristic situation, low and sheltered--its ample gardens\nstretching down to meadows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey, with\nall the old neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight--and its abundance\nof timber in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance\nhad rooted up.--The house was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike\nit, covering a good deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many\ncomfortable, and one or two handsome rooms.--It was just what it ought\nto be, and it looked what it was--and Emma felt an increasing respect\nfor it, as the residence of a family of such true gentility, untainted\nin blood and understanding.--Some faults of temper John Knightley had;\nbut Isabella had connected herself unexceptionably. She had given them\nneither men, nor names, nor places, that could raise a blush. These were\npleasant feelings, and she walked about and indulged them till it\nwas necessary to do as the others did, and collect round the\nstrawberry-beds.--The whole party were assembled, excepting Frank\nChurchill, who was expected every moment from Richmond; and Mrs. Elton,\nin all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and her basket,\nwas very ready to lead the way in gathering, accepting, or\ntalking--strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be thought or\nspoken of.--\"The best fruit in England--every body's favourite--always\nwholesome.--These the finest beds and finest sorts.--Delightful to\ngather for one's self--the only way of really enjoying them.--Morning\ndecidedly the best time--never tired--every sort good--hautboy\ninfinitely superior--no comparison--the others hardly eatable--hautboys\nvery scarce--Chili preferred--white wood finest flavour of all--price\nof strawberries in London--abundance about Bristol--Maple\nGrove--cultivation--beds when to be renewed--gardeners thinking exactly\ndifferent--no general rule--gardeners never to be put out of their\nway--delicious fruit--only too rich to be eaten much of--inferior\nto cherries--currants more refreshing--only objection to gathering\nstrawberries the stooping--glaring sun--tired to death--could bear it no\nlonger--must go and sit in the shade.\"\n\nSuch, for half an hour, was the conversation--interrupted only once by\nMrs. Weston, who came out, in her solicitude after her son-in-law, to\ninquire if he were come--and she was a little uneasy.--She had some\nfears of his horse.\n\nSeats tolerably in the shade were found; and now Emma was obliged\nto overhear what Mrs. Elton and Jane Fairfax were talking of.--A\nsituation, a most desirable situation, was in question. Mrs. Elton had\nreceived notice of it that morning, and was in raptures. It was not\nwith Mrs. Suckling, it was not with Mrs. Bragge, but in felicity and\nsplendour it fell short only of them: it was with a cousin of Mrs.\nBragge, an acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a lady known at Maple Grove.\nDelightful, charming, superior, first circles, spheres, lines, ranks,\nevery thing--and Mrs. Elton was wild to have the offer closed with\nimmediately.--On her side, all was warmth, energy, and triumph--and she\npositively refused to take her friend's negative, though Miss Fairfax\ncontinued to assure her that she would not at present engage in any\nthing, repeating the same motives which she had been heard to urge\nbefore.--Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being authorised to write an\nacquiescence by the morrow's post.--How Jane could bear it at all, was\nastonishing to Emma.--She did look vexed, she did speak pointedly--and\nat last, with a decision of action unusual to her, proposed a\nremoval.--\"Should not they walk? Would not Mr. Knightley shew them the\ngardens--all the gardens?--She wished to see the whole extent.\"--The\npertinacity of her friend seemed more than she could bear.\n\nIt was hot; and after walking some time over the gardens in a scattered,\ndispersed way, scarcely any three together, they insensibly followed one\nanother to the delicious shade of a broad short avenue of limes, which\nstretching beyond the garden at an equal distance from the river, seemed\nthe finish of the pleasure grounds.--It led to nothing; nothing but a\nview at the end over a low stone wall with high pillars, which seemed\nintended, in their erection, to give the appearance of an approach to\nthe house, which never had been there. Disputable, however, as might be\nthe taste of such a termination, it was in itself a charming walk, and\nthe view which closed it extremely pretty.--The considerable slope, at\nnearly the foot of which the Abbey stood, gradually acquired a steeper\nform beyond its grounds; and at half a mile distant was a bank of\nconsiderable abruptness and grandeur, well clothed with wood;--and at\nthe bottom of this bank, favourably placed and sheltered, rose the\nAbbey Mill Farm, with meadows in front, and the river making a close and\nhandsome curve around it.\n\nIt was a sweet view--sweet to the eye and the mind. English verdure,\nEnglish culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright, without being\noppressive.\n\nIn this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the others assembled; and\ntowards this view she immediately perceived Mr. Knightley and Harriet\ndistinct from the rest, quietly leading the way. Mr. Knightley and\nHarriet!--It was an odd tete-a-tete; but she was glad to see it.--There\nhad been a time when he would have scorned her as a companion, and\nturned from her with little ceremony. Now they seemed in pleasant\nconversation. There had been a time also when Emma would have been sorry\nto see Harriet in a spot so favourable for the Abbey Mill Farm; but now\nshe feared it not. It might be safely viewed with all its appendages of\nprosperity and beauty, its rich pastures, spreading flocks, orchard in\nblossom, and light column of smoke ascending.--She joined them at the\nwall, and found them more engaged in talking than in looking around. He\nwas giving Harriet information as to modes of agriculture, etc. and Emma\nreceived a smile which seemed to say, \"These are my own concerns. I have\na right to talk on such subjects, without being suspected of\nintroducing Robert Martin.\"--She did not suspect him. It was too old\na story.--Robert Martin had probably ceased to think of Harriet.--They\ntook a few turns together along the walk.--The shade was most\nrefreshing, and Emma found it the pleasantest part of the day.\n\nThe next remove was to the house; they must all go in and eat;--and they\nwere all seated and busy, and still Frank Churchill did not come. Mrs.\nWeston looked, and looked in vain. His father would not own himself\nuneasy, and laughed at her fears; but she could not be cured of wishing\nthat he would part with his black mare. He had expressed himself as to\ncoming, with more than common certainty. \"His aunt was so much better,\nthat he had not a doubt of getting over to them.\"--Mrs. Churchill's\nstate, however, as many were ready to remind her, was liable to such\nsudden variation as might disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable\ndependence--and Mrs. Weston was at last persuaded to believe, or to say,\nthat it must be by some attack of Mrs. Churchill that he was\nprevented coming.--Emma looked at Harriet while the point was under\nconsideration; she behaved very well, and betrayed no emotion.\n\nThe cold repast was over, and the party were to go out once more to see\nwhat had not yet been seen, the old Abbey fish-ponds; perhaps get as far\nas the clover, which was to be begun cutting on the morrow, or, at\nany rate, have the pleasure of being hot, and growing cool again.--Mr.\nWoodhouse, who had already taken his little round in the highest part\nof the gardens, where no damps from the river were imagined even by him,\nstirred no more; and his daughter resolved to remain with him, that\nMrs. Weston might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise and\nvariety which her spirits seemed to need.\n\nMr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr. Woodhouse's\nentertainment. Books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos, corals,\nshells, and every other family collection within his cabinets, had been\nprepared for his old friend, to while away the morning; and the kindness\nhad perfectly answered. Mr. Woodhouse had been exceedingly well amused.\nMrs. Weston had been shewing them all to him, and now he would shew them\nall to Emma;--fortunate in having no other resemblance to a child, than\nin a total want of taste for what he saw, for he was slow, constant, and\nmethodical.--Before this second looking over was begun, however, Emma\nwalked into the hall for the sake of a few moments' free observation of\nthe entrance and ground-plot of the house--and was hardly there, when\nJane Fairfax appeared, coming quickly in from the garden, and with a\nlook of escape.--Little expecting to meet Miss Woodhouse so soon, there\nwas a start at first; but Miss Woodhouse was the very person she was in\nquest of.\n\n\"Will you be so kind,\" said she, \"when I am missed, as to say that I am\ngone home?--I am going this moment.--My aunt is not aware how late it\nis, nor how long we have been absent--but I am sure we shall be wanted,\nand I am determined to go directly.--I have said nothing about it to any\nbody. It would only be giving trouble and distress. Some are gone to the\nponds, and some to the lime walk. Till they all come in I shall not be\nmissed; and when they do, will you have the goodness to say that I am\ngone?\"\n\n\"Certainly, if you wish it;--but you are not going to walk to Highbury\nalone?\"\n\n\"Yes--what should hurt me?--I walk fast. I shall be at home in twenty\nminutes.\"\n\n\"But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone. Let my\nfather's servant go with you.--Let me order the carriage. It can be\nround in five minutes.\"\n\n\"Thank you, thank you--but on no account.--I would rather walk.--And\nfor _me_ to be afraid of walking alone!--I, who may so soon have to\nguard others!\"\n\nShe spoke with great agitation; and Emma very feelingly replied, \"That\ncan be no reason for your being exposed to danger now. I must order the\ncarriage. The heat even would be danger.--You are fatigued already.\"\n\n\"I am,\"--she answered--\"I am fatigued; but it is not the sort of\nfatigue--quick walking will refresh me.--Miss Woodhouse, we all know\nat times what it is to be wearied in spirits. Mine, I confess, are\nexhausted. The greatest kindness you can shew me, will be to let me have\nmy own way, and only say that I am gone when it is necessary.\"\n\nEmma had not another word to oppose. She saw it all; and entering into\nher feelings, promoted her quitting the house immediately, and\nwatched her safely off with the zeal of a friend. Her parting look was\ngrateful--and her parting words, \"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of\nbeing sometimes alone!\"--seemed to burst from an overcharged heart, and\nto describe somewhat of the continual endurance to be practised by her,\neven towards some of those who loved her best.\n\n\"Such a home, indeed! such an aunt!\" said Emma, as she turned back into\nthe hall again. \"I do pity you. And the more sensibility you betray of\ntheir just horrors, the more I shall like you.\"\n\nJane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had only\naccomplished some views of St. Mark's Place, Venice, when Frank\nChurchill entered the room. Emma had not been thinking of him, she had\nforgotten to think of him--but she was very glad to see him. Mrs. Weston\nwould be at ease. The black mare was blameless; _they_ were right\nwho had named Mrs. Churchill as the cause. He had been detained by\na temporary increase of illness in her; a nervous seizure, which had\nlasted some hours--and he had quite given up every thought of coming,\ntill very late;--and had he known how hot a ride he should have, and\nhow late, with all his hurry, he must be, he believed he should not have\ncome at all. The heat was excessive; he had never suffered any thing\nlike it--almost wished he had staid at home--nothing killed him\nlike heat--he could bear any degree of cold, etc., but heat was\nintolerable--and he sat down, at the greatest possible distance from the\nslight remains of Mr. Woodhouse's fire, looking very deplorable.\n\n\"You will soon be cooler, if you sit still,\" said Emma.\n\n\"As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again. I could very ill be\nspared--but such a point had been made of my coming! You will all be\ngoing soon I suppose; the whole party breaking up. I met _one_ as I\ncame--Madness in such weather!--absolute madness!\"\n\nEmma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that Frank Churchill's\nstate might be best defined by the expressive phrase of being out of\nhumour. Some people were always cross when they were hot. Such might be\nhis constitution; and as she knew that eating and drinking were often\nthe cure of such incidental complaints, she recommended his taking\nsome refreshment; he would find abundance of every thing in the\ndining-room--and she humanely pointed out the door.\n\n\"No--he should not eat. He was not hungry; it would only make him\nhotter.\" In two minutes, however, he relented in his own favour; and\nmuttering something about spruce-beer, walked off. Emma returned all her\nattention to her father, saying in secret--\n\n\"I am glad I have done being in love with him. I should not like a man\nwho is so soon discomposed by a hot morning. Harriet's sweet easy temper\nwill not mind it.\"\n\nHe was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable meal, and came\nback all the better--grown quite cool--and, with good manners, like\nhimself--able to draw a chair close to them, take an interest in their\nemployment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he should be so late.\nHe was not in his best spirits, but seemed trying to improve them; and,\nat last, made himself talk nonsense very agreeably. They were looking\nover views in Swisserland.\n\n\"As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad,\" said he. \"I shall\nnever be easy till I have seen some of these places. You will have my\nsketches, some time or other, to look at--or my tour to read--or my\npoem. I shall do something to expose myself.\"\n\n\"That may be--but not by sketches in Swisserland. You will never go to\nSwisserland. Your uncle and aunt will never allow you to leave England.\"\n\n\"They may be induced to go too. A warm climate may be prescribed for\nher. I have more than half an expectation of our all going abroad. I\nassure you I have. I feel a strong persuasion, this morning, that I\nshall soon be abroad. I ought to travel. I am tired of doing nothing. I\nwant a change. I am serious, Miss Woodhouse, whatever your penetrating\neyes may fancy--I am sick of England--and would leave it to-morrow, if\nI could.\"\n\n\"You are sick of prosperity and indulgence. Cannot you invent a few\nhardships for yourself, and be contented to stay?\"\n\n\"_I_ sick of prosperity and indulgence! You are quite mistaken. I do\nnot look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged. I am thwarted\nin every thing material. I do not consider myself at all a fortunate\nperson.\"\n\n\"You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first came. Go and\neat and drink a little more, and you will do very well. Another slice of\ncold meat, another draught of Madeira and water, will make you nearly on\na par with the rest of us.\"\n\n\"No--I shall not stir. I shall sit by you. You are my best cure.\"\n\n\"We are going to Box Hill to-morrow;--you will join us. It is not\nSwisserland, but it will be something for a young man so much in want of\na change. You will stay, and go with us?\"\n\n\"No, certainly not; I shall go home in the cool of the evening.\"\n\n\"But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow morning.\"\n\n\"No--It will not be worth while. If I come, I shall be cross.\"\n\n\"Then pray stay at Richmond.\"\n\n\"But if I do, I shall be crosser still. I can never bear to think of you\nall there without me.\"\n\n\"These are difficulties which you must settle for yourself. Chuse your\nown degree of crossness. I shall press you no more.\"\n\nThe rest of the party were now returning, and all were soon collected.\nWith some there was great joy at the sight of Frank Churchill; others\ntook it very composedly; but there was a very general distress and\ndisturbance on Miss Fairfax's disappearance being explained. That it was\ntime for every body to go, concluded the subject; and with a short final\narrangement for the next day's scheme, they parted. Frank Churchill's\nlittle inclination to exclude himself increased so much, that his last\nwords to Emma were,\n\n\"Well;--if _you_ wish me to stay and join the party, I will.\"\n\nShe smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a summons from Richmond\nwas to take him back before the following evening.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nThey had a very fine day for Box Hill; and all the other outward\ncircumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and punctuality, were in\nfavour of a pleasant party. Mr. Weston directed the whole, officiating\nsafely between Hartfield and the Vicarage, and every body was in good\ntime. Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates and her niece, with\nthe Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback. Mrs. Weston remained with Mr.\nWoodhouse. Nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got there.\nSeven miles were travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and every body\nhad a burst of admiration on first arriving; but in the general amount\nof the day there was deficiency. There was a languor, a want of spirits,\na want of union, which could not be got over. They separated too much\ninto parties. The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley took charge of\nMiss Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank Churchill.\nAnd Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make them harmonise better. It seemed\nat first an accidental division, but it never materially varied. Mr. and\nMrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no unwillingness to mix, and be as agreeable\nas they could; but during the two whole hours that were spent on the\nhill, there seemed a principle of separation, between the other parties,\ntoo strong for any fine prospects, or any cold collation, or any\ncheerful Mr. Weston, to remove.\n\nAt first it was downright dulness to Emma. She had never seen Frank\nChurchill so silent and stupid. He said nothing worth hearing--looked\nwithout seeing--admired without intelligence--listened without knowing\nwhat she said. While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet\nshould be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable.\n\nWhen they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great deal better,\nfor Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first object.\nEvery distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to her.\nTo amuse her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he cared\nfor--and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered, was gay\nand easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the admission\nto be gallant, which she had ever given in the first and most animating\nperiod of their acquaintance; but which now, in her own estimation,\nmeant nothing, though in the judgment of most people looking on it must\nhave had such an appearance as no English word but flirtation could very\nwell describe. \"Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse flirted together\nexcessively.\" They were laying themselves open to that very phrase--and\nto having it sent off in a letter to Maple Grove by one lady, to\nIreland by another. Not that Emma was gay and thoughtless from any\nreal felicity; it was rather because she felt less happy than she had\nexpected. She laughed because she was disappointed; and though she liked\nhim for his attentions, and thought them all, whether in friendship,\nadmiration, or playfulness, extremely judicious, they were not winning\nback her heart. She still intended him for her friend.\n\n\"How much I am obliged to you,\" said he, \"for telling me to come\nto-day!--If it had not been for you, I should certainly have lost all\nthe happiness of this party. I had quite determined to go away again.\"\n\n\"Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what about, except that you\nwere too late for the best strawberries. I was a kinder friend than you\ndeserved. But you were humble. You begged hard to be commanded to come.\"\n\n\"Don't say I was cross. I was fatigued. The heat overcame me.\"\n\n\"It is hotter to-day.\"\n\n\"Not to my feelings. I am perfectly comfortable to-day.\"\n\n\"You are comfortable because you are under command.\"\n\n\"Your command?--Yes.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self-command. You had,\nsomehow or other, broken bounds yesterday, and run away from your own\nmanagement; but to-day you are got back again--and as I cannot be always\nwith you, it is best to believe your temper under your own command\nrather than mine.\"\n\n\"It comes to the same thing. I can have no self-command without a\nmotive. You order me, whether you speak or not. And you can be always\nwith me. You are always with me.\"\n\n\"Dating from three o'clock yesterday. My perpetual influence could not\nbegin earlier, or you would not have been so much out of humour before.\"\n\n\"Three o'clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I had seen you\nfirst in February.\"\n\n\"Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But (lowering her voice)--nobody\nspeaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be talking\nnonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people.\"\n\n\"I say nothing of which I am ashamed,\" replied he, with lively\nimpudence. \"I saw you first in February. Let every body on the Hill\nhear me if they can. Let my accents swell to Mickleham on one side,\nand Dorking on the other. I saw you first in February.\" And then\nwhispering--\"Our companions are excessively stupid. What shall we do\nto rouse them? Any nonsense will serve. They _shall_ talk. Ladies\nand gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is,\npresides) to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking\nof?\"\n\nSome laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss Bates said a great\ndeal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse's presiding; Mr.\nKnightley's answer was the most distinct.\n\n\"Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all\nthinking of?\"\n\n\"Oh! no, no\"--cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she could--\"Upon no\naccount in the world. It is the very last thing I would stand the brunt\nof just now. Let me hear any thing rather than what you are all thinking\nof. I will not say quite all. There are one or two, perhaps, (glancing\nat Mr. Weston and Harriet,) whose thoughts I might not be afraid of\nknowing.\"\n\n\"It is a sort of thing,\" cried Mrs. Elton emphatically, \"which _I_\nshould not have thought myself privileged to inquire into. Though,\nperhaps, as the _Chaperon_ of the party--_I_ never was in any\ncircle--exploring parties--young ladies--married women--\"\n\nHer mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he murmured, in reply,\n\n\"Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed--quite unheard\nof--but some ladies say any thing. Better pass it off as a joke. Every\nbody knows what is due to _you_.\"\n\n\"It will not do,\" whispered Frank to Emma; \"they are most of them\naffronted. I will attack them with more address. Ladies and gentlemen--I\nam ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of\nknowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires\nsomething very entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here\nare seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very\nentertaining already,) and she only demands from each of you either one\nthing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated--or two\nthings moderately clever--or three things very dull indeed, and she\nengages to laugh heartily at them all.\"\n\n\"Oh! very well,\" exclaimed Miss Bates, \"then I need not be uneasy.\n'Three things very dull indeed.' That will just do for me, you know. I\nshall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth,\nshan't I? (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on every\nbody's assent)--Do not you all think I shall?\"\n\nEmma could not resist.\n\n\"Ah! ma'am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me--but you will be\nlimited as to number--only three at once.\"\n\nMiss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not\nimmediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not\nanger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her.\n\n\"Ah!--well--to be sure. Yes, I see what she means, (turning to Mr.\nKnightley,) and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very\ndisagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend.\"\n\n\"I like your plan,\" cried Mr. Weston. \"Agreed, agreed. I will do my\nbest. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?\"\n\n\"Low, I am afraid, sir, very low,\" answered his son;--\"but we shall be\nindulgent--especially to any one who leads the way.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said Emma, \"it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr.\nWeston's shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me\nhear it.\"\n\n\"I doubt its being very clever myself,\" said Mr. Weston. \"It is too much\na matter of fact, but here it is.--What two letters of the alphabet are\nthere, that express perfection?\"\n\n\"What two letters!--express perfection! I am sure I do not know.\"\n\n\"Ah! you will never guess. You, (to Emma), I am certain, will never\nguess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?\"\n\nUnderstanding and gratification came together. It might be a very\nindifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and\nenjoy in it--and so did Frank and Harriet.--It did not seem to touch\nthe rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr.\nKnightley gravely said,\n\n\"This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston\nhas done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body\nelse. _Perfection_ should not have come quite so soon.\"\n\n\"Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused,\" said Mrs. Elton; \"_I_\nreally cannot attempt--I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had\nan acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all\npleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy!--You know\nwho I mean (nodding to her husband). These kind of things are very\nwell at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of\nplace, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country in summer.\nMiss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have witty\nthings at every body's service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I have a\ngreat deal of vivacity in my own way, but I really must be allowed to\njudge when to speak and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please,\nMr. Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself. We have nothing\nclever to say--not one of us.\n\n\"Yes, yes, pray pass _me_,\" added her husband, with a sort of sneering\nconsciousness; \"_I_ have nothing to say that can entertain Miss\nWoodhouse, or any other young lady. An old married man--quite good for\nnothing. Shall we walk, Augusta?\"\n\n\"With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so long on one spot.\nCome, Jane, take my other arm.\"\n\nJane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off.\n\"Happy couple!\" said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out of\nhearing:--\"How well they suit one another!--Very lucky--marrying as they\ndid, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place!--They only knew\neach other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly lucky!--for as to\nany real knowledge of a person's disposition that Bath, or any public\nplace, can give--it is all nothing; there can be no knowledge. It is\nonly by seeing women in their own homes, among their own set, just as\nthey always are, that you can form any just judgment. Short of that, it\nis all guess and luck--and will generally be ill-luck. How many a man\nhas committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest\nof his life!\"\n\nMiss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her own\nconfederates, spoke now.\n\n\"Such things do occur, undoubtedly.\"--She was stopped by a cough. Frank\nChurchill turned towards her to listen.\n\n\"You were speaking,\" said he, gravely. She recovered her voice.\n\n\"I was only going to observe, that though such unfortunate circumstances\ndo sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot imagine them to be\nvery frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may arise--but there is\ngenerally time to recover from it afterwards. I would be understood to\nmean, that it can be only weak, irresolute characters, (whose happiness\nmust be always at the mercy of chance,) who will suffer an unfortunate\nacquaintance to be an inconvenience, an oppression for ever.\"\n\nHe made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in submission; and soon\nafterwards said, in a lively tone,\n\n\"Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever I\nmarry, I hope some body will chuse my wife for me. Will you? (turning to\nEmma.) Will you chuse a wife for me?--I am sure I should like any body\nfixed on by you. You provide for the family, you know, (with a smile at\nhis father). Find some body for me. I am in no hurry. Adopt her, educate\nher.\"\n\n\"And make her like myself.\"\n\n\"By all means, if you can.\"\n\n\"Very well. I undertake the commission. You shall have a charming wife.\"\n\n\"She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes. I care for nothing else.\nI shall go abroad for a couple of years--and when I return, I shall come\nto you for my wife. Remember.\"\n\nEmma was in no danger of forgetting. It was a commission to touch every\nfavourite feeling. Would not Harriet be the very creature described?\nHazle eyes excepted, two years more might make her all that he wished.\nHe might even have Harriet in his thoughts at the moment; who could say?\nReferring the education to her seemed to imply it.\n\n\"Now, ma'am,\" said Jane to her aunt, \"shall we join Mrs. Elton?\"\n\n\"If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready. I was\nready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. We shall\nsoon overtake her. There she is--no, that's somebody else. That's one\nof the ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her.--Well, I\ndeclare--\"\n\nThey walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. Knightley. Mr. Weston,\nhis son, Emma, and Harriet, only remained; and the young man's spirits\nnow rose to a pitch almost unpleasant. Even Emma grew tired at last of\nflattery and merriment, and wished herself rather walking quietly about\nwith any of the others, or sitting almost alone, and quite unattended\nto, in tranquil observation of the beautiful views beneath her. The\nappearance of the servants looking out for them to give notice of the\ncarriages was a joyful sight; and even the bustle of collecting and\npreparing to depart, and the solicitude of Mrs. Elton to have _her_\ncarriage first, were gladly endured, in the prospect of the quiet drive\nhome which was to close the very questionable enjoyments of this day of\npleasure. Such another scheme, composed of so many ill-assorted people,\nshe hoped never to be betrayed into again.\n\nWhile waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Knightley by her side. He\nlooked around, as if to see that no one were near, and then said,\n\n\"Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do: a\nprivilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps, but I must still use it.\nI cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance. How could you be\nso unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in your wit to\na woman of her character, age, and situation?--Emma, I had not thought\nit possible.\"\n\nEmma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off.\n\n\"Nay, how could I help saying what I did?--Nobody could have helped it.\nIt was not so very bad. I dare say she did not understand me.\"\n\n\"I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She has talked of\nit since. I wish you could have heard how she talked of it--with what\ncandour and generosity. I wish you could have heard her honouring your\nforbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions, as she was for\never receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be\nso irksome.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" cried Emma, \"I know there is not a better creature in the world:\nbut you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculous are most\nunfortunately blended in her.\"\n\n\"They are blended,\" said he, \"I acknowledge; and, were she prosperous,\nI could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over\nthe good. Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless\nabsurdity to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you for any\nliberties of manner. Were she your equal in situation--but, Emma,\nconsider how far this is from being the case. She is poor; she has sunk\nfrom the comforts she was born to; and, if she live to old age, must\nprobably sink more. Her situation should secure your compassion. It was\nbadly done, indeed! You, whom she had known from an infant, whom she had\nseen grow up from a period when her notice was an honour, to have you\nnow, in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at her,\nhumble her--and before her niece, too--and before others, many of whom\n(certainly _some_,) would be entirely guided by _your_ treatment\nof her.--This is not pleasant to you, Emma--and it is very far from\npleasant to me; but I must, I will,--I will tell you truths while I can;\nsatisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel, and\ntrusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice than you\ncan do now.\"\n\nWhile they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage; it was\nready; and, before she could speak again, he had handed her in. He had\nmisinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted, and her\ntongue motionless. They were combined only of anger against herself,\nmortification, and deep concern. She had not been able to speak; and, on\nentering the carriage, sunk back for a moment overcome--then reproaching\nherself for having taken no leave, making no acknowledgment, parting in\napparent sullenness, she looked out with voice and hand eager to shew a\ndifference; but it was just too late. He had turned away, and the horses\nwere in motion. She continued to look back, but in vain; and soon, with\nwhat appeared unusual speed, they were half way down the hill, and\nevery thing left far behind. She was vexed beyond what could have been\nexpressed--almost beyond what she could conceal. Never had she felt so\nagitated, mortified, grieved, at any circumstance in her life. She was\nmost forcibly struck. The truth of this representation there was no\ndenying. She felt it at her heart. How could she have been so brutal,\nso cruel to Miss Bates! How could she have exposed herself to such ill\nopinion in any one she valued! And how suffer him to leave her without\nsaying one word of gratitude, of concurrence, of common kindness!\n\nTime did not compose her. As she reflected more, she seemed but to feel\nit more. She never had been so depressed. Happily it was not necessary\nto speak. There was only Harriet, who seemed not in spirits herself,\nfagged, and very willing to be silent; and Emma felt the tears running\ndown her cheeks almost all the way home, without being at any trouble to\ncheck them, extraordinary as they were.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nThe wretchedness of a scheme to Box Hill was in Emma's thoughts all the\nevening. How it might be considered by the rest of the party, she could\nnot tell. They, in their different homes, and their different ways,\nmight be looking back on it with pleasure; but in her view it was\na morning more completely misspent, more totally bare of rational\nsatisfaction at the time, and more to be abhorred in recollection, than\nany she had ever passed. A whole evening of back-gammon with her father,\nwas felicity to it. _There_, indeed, lay real pleasure, for there she\nwas giving up the sweetest hours of the twenty-four to his comfort; and\nfeeling that, unmerited as might be the degree of his fond affection and\nconfiding esteem, she could not, in her general conduct, be open to any\nsevere reproach. As a daughter, she hoped she was not without a heart.\nShe hoped no one could have said to her, \"How could you be so unfeeling\nto your father?--I must, I will tell you truths while I can.\" Miss\nBates should never again--no, never! If attention, in future, could do\naway the past, she might hope to be forgiven. She had been often remiss,\nher conscience told her so; remiss, perhaps, more in thought than fact;\nscornful, ungracious. But it should be so no more. In the warmth of true\ncontrition, she would call upon her the very next morning, and it should\nbe the beginning, on her side, of a regular, equal, kindly intercourse.\n\nShe was just as determined when the morrow came, and went early, that\nnothing might prevent her. It was not unlikely, she thought, that she\nmight see Mr. Knightley in her way; or, perhaps, he might come in\nwhile she were paying her visit. She had no objection. She would not be\nashamed of the appearance of the penitence, so justly and truly hers.\nHer eyes were towards Donwell as she walked, but she saw him not.\n\n\"The ladies were all at home.\" She had never rejoiced at the sound\nbefore, nor ever before entered the passage, nor walked up the stairs,\nwith any wish of giving pleasure, but in conferring obligation, or of\nderiving it, except in subsequent ridicule.\n\nThere was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of moving and talking.\nShe heard Miss Bates's voice, something was to be done in a hurry; the\nmaid looked frightened and awkward; hoped she would be pleased to wait a\nmoment, and then ushered her in too soon. The aunt and niece seemed both\nescaping into the adjoining room. Jane she had a distinct glimpse of,\nlooking extremely ill; and, before the door had shut them out, she heard\nMiss Bates saying, \"Well, my dear, I shall _say_ you are laid down upon\nthe bed, and I am sure you are ill enough.\"\n\nPoor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as if she did not\nquite understand what was going on.\n\n\"I am afraid Jane is not very well,\" said she, \"but I do not know; they\n_tell_ me she is well. I dare say my daughter will be here presently,\nMiss Woodhouse. I hope you find a chair. I wish Hetty had not gone. I am\nvery little able--Have you a chair, ma'am? Do you sit where you like? I\nam sure she will be here presently.\"\n\nEmma seriously hoped she would. She had a moment's fear of Miss Bates\nkeeping away from her. But Miss Bates soon came--\"Very happy and\nobliged\"--but Emma's conscience told her that there was not the same\ncheerful volubility as before--less ease of look and manner. A very\nfriendly inquiry after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead the way to a\nreturn of old feelings. The touch seemed immediate.\n\n\"Ah! Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are!--I suppose you have heard--and\nare come to give us joy. This does not seem much like joy, indeed, in\nme--(twinkling away a tear or two)--but it will be very trying for us\nto part with her, after having had her so long, and she has a dreadful\nheadache just now, writing all the morning:--such long letters, you\nknow, to be written to Colonel Campbell, and Mrs. Dixon. 'My dear,' said\nI, 'you will blind yourself'--for tears were in her eyes perpetually.\nOne cannot wonder, one cannot wonder. It is a great change; and though\nshe is amazingly fortunate--such a situation, I suppose, as no\nyoung woman before ever met with on first going out--do not think us\nungrateful, Miss Woodhouse, for such surprising good fortune--(again\ndispersing her tears)--but, poor dear soul! if you were to see what a\nheadache she has. When one is in great pain, you know one cannot feel\nany blessing quite as it may deserve. She is as low as possible. To\nlook at her, nobody would think how delighted and happy she is to have\nsecured such a situation. You will excuse her not coming to you--she is\nnot able--she is gone into her own room--I want her to lie down upon the\nbed. 'My dear,' said I, 'I shall say you are laid down upon the bed:'\nbut, however, she is not; she is walking about the room. But, now that\nshe has written her letters, she says she shall soon be well. She will\nbe extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, but your\nkindness will excuse her. You were kept waiting at the door--I was quite\nashamed--but somehow there was a little bustle--for it so happened that\nwe had not heard the knock, and till you were on the stairs, we did not\nknow any body was coming. 'It is only Mrs. Cole,' said I, 'depend upon\nit. Nobody else would come so early.' 'Well,' said she, 'it must be\nborne some time or other, and it may as well be now.' But then Patty\ncame in, and said it was you. 'Oh!' said I, 'it is Miss Woodhouse: I am\nsure you will like to see her.'--'I can see nobody,' said she; and\nup she got, and would go away; and that was what made us keep you\nwaiting--and extremely sorry and ashamed we were. 'If you must go, my\ndear,' said I, 'you must, and I will say you are laid down upon the\nbed.'\"\n\nEmma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had been long growing\nkinder towards Jane; and this picture of her present sufferings acted\nas a cure of every former ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing but\npity; and the remembrance of the less just and less gentle sensations of\nthe past, obliged her to admit that Jane might very naturally resolve on\nseeing Mrs. Cole or any other steady friend, when she might not bear\nto see herself. She spoke as she felt, with earnest regret and\nsolicitude--sincerely wishing that the circumstances which she collected\nfrom Miss Bates to be now actually determined on, might be as much for\nMiss Fairfax's advantage and comfort as possible. \"It must be a severe\ntrial to them all. She had understood it was to be delayed till Colonel\nCampbell's return.\"\n\n\"So very kind!\" replied Miss Bates. \"But you are always kind.\"\n\nThere was no bearing such an \"always;\" and to break through her dreadful\ngratitude, Emma made the direct inquiry of--\n\n\"Where--may I ask?--is Miss Fairfax going?\"\n\n\"To a Mrs. Smallridge--charming woman--most superior--to have the charge\nof her three little girls--delightful children. Impossible that any\nsituation could be more replete with comfort; if we except, perhaps,\nMrs. Suckling's own family, and Mrs. Bragge's; but Mrs. Smallridge is\nintimate with both, and in the very same neighbourhood:--lives only four\nmiles from Maple Grove. Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom Miss Fairfax owes--\"\n\n\"Yes, our good Mrs. Elton. The most indefatigable, true friend. She\nwould not take a denial. She would not let Jane say, 'No;' for when Jane\nfirst heard of it, (it was the day before yesterday, the very morning\nwe were at Donwell,) when Jane first heard of it, she was quite decided\nagainst accepting the offer, and for the reasons you mention; exactly\nas you say, she had made up her mind to close with nothing till Colonel\nCampbell's return, and nothing should induce her to enter into any\nengagement at present--and so she told Mrs. Elton over and over\nagain--and I am sure I had no more idea that she would change her\nmind!--but that good Mrs. Elton, whose judgment never fails her, saw\nfarther than I did. It is not every body that would have stood out in\nsuch a kind way as she did, and refuse to take Jane's answer; but she\npositively declared she would _not_ write any such denial yesterday, as\nJane wished her; she would wait--and, sure enough, yesterday evening it\nwas all settled that Jane should go. Quite a surprize to me! I had not\nthe least idea!--Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and told her at once, that\nupon thinking over the advantages of Mrs. Smallridge's situation, she\nhad come to the resolution of accepting it.--I did not know a word of it\ntill it was all settled.\"\n\n\"You spent the evening with Mrs. Elton?\"\n\n\"Yes, all of us; Mrs. Elton would have us come. It was settled so, upon\nthe hill, while we were walking about with Mr. Knightley. 'You _must_\n_all_ spend your evening with us,' said she--'I positively must have you\n_all_ come.'\"\n\n\"Mr. Knightley was there too, was he?\"\n\n\"No, not Mr. Knightley; he declined it from the first; and though I\nthought he would come, because Mrs. Elton declared she would not let him\noff, he did not;--but my mother, and Jane, and I, were all there, and\na very agreeable evening we had. Such kind friends, you know, Miss\nWoodhouse, one must always find agreeable, though every body seemed\nrather fagged after the morning's party. Even pleasure, you know, is\nfatiguing--and I cannot say that any of them seemed very much to have\nenjoyed it. However, _I_ shall always think it a very pleasant party,\nand feel extremely obliged to the kind friends who included me in it.\"\n\n\"Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of it, had been\nmaking up her mind the whole day?\"\n\n\"I dare say she had.\"\n\n\"Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome to her and all her\nfriends--but I hope her engagement will have every alleviation that is\npossible--I mean, as to the character and manners of the family.\"\n\n\"Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse. Yes, indeed, there is every thing\nin the world that can make her happy in it. Except the Sucklings and\nBragges, there is not such another nursery establishment, so liberal\nand elegant, in all Mrs. Elton's acquaintance. Mrs. Smallridge, a most\ndelightful woman!--A style of living almost equal to Maple Grove--and as\nto the children, except the little Sucklings and little Bragges, there\nare not such elegant sweet children anywhere. Jane will be treated with\nsuch regard and kindness!--It will be nothing but pleasure, a life of\npleasure.--And her salary!--I really cannot venture to name her salary\nto you, Miss Woodhouse. Even you, used as you are to great sums, would\nhardly believe that so much could be given to a young person like Jane.\"\n\n\"Ah! madam,\" cried Emma, \"if other children are at all like what I\nremember to have been myself, I should think five times the amount of\nwhat I have ever yet heard named as a salary on such occasions, dearly\nearned.\"\n\n\"You are so noble in your ideas!\"\n\n\"And when is Miss Fairfax to leave you?\"\n\n\"Very soon, very soon, indeed; that's the worst of it. Within a\nfortnight. Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry. My poor mother does not\nknow how to bear it. So then, I try to put it out of her thoughts, and\nsay, Come ma'am, do not let us think about it any more.\"\n\n\"Her friends must all be sorry to lose her; and will not Colonel and\nMrs. Campbell be sorry to find that she has engaged herself before their\nreturn?\"\n\n\"Yes; Jane says she is sure they will; but yet, this is such a situation\nas she cannot feel herself justified in declining. I was so astonished\nwhen she first told me what she had been saying to Mrs. Elton, and when\nMrs. Elton at the same moment came congratulating me upon it! It was\nbefore tea--stay--no, it could not be before tea, because we were\njust going to cards--and yet it was before tea, because I remember\nthinking--Oh! no, now I recollect, now I have it; something happened\nbefore tea, but not that. Mr. Elton was called out of the room before\ntea, old John Abdy's son wanted to speak with him. Poor old John, I\nhave a great regard for him; he was clerk to my poor father twenty-seven\nyears; and now, poor old man, he is bed-ridden, and very poorly with the\nrheumatic gout in his joints--I must go and see him to-day; and so will\nJane, I am sure, if she gets out at all. And poor John's son came to\ntalk to Mr. Elton about relief from the parish; he is very well to do\nhimself, you know, being head man at the Crown, ostler, and every thing\nof that sort, but still he cannot keep his father without some help;\nand so, when Mr. Elton came back, he told us what John ostler had been\ntelling him, and then it came out about the chaise having been sent to\nRandalls to take Mr. Frank Churchill to Richmond. That was what happened\nbefore tea. It was after tea that Jane spoke to Mrs. Elton.\"\n\nMiss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how perfectly new this\ncircumstance was to her; but as without supposing it possible that she\ncould be ignorant of any of the particulars of Mr. Frank Churchill's\ngoing, she proceeded to give them all, it was of no consequence.\n\nWhat Mr. Elton had learned from the ostler on the subject, being the\naccumulation of the ostler's own knowledge, and the knowledge of the\nservants at Randalls, was, that a messenger had come over from Richmond\nsoon after the return of the party from Box Hill--which messenger,\nhowever, had been no more than was expected; and that Mr. Churchill had\nsent his nephew a few lines, containing, upon the whole, a tolerable\naccount of Mrs. Churchill, and only wishing him not to delay coming\nback beyond the next morning early; but that Mr. Frank Churchill having\nresolved to go home directly, without waiting at all, and his horse\nseeming to have got a cold, Tom had been sent off immediately for the\nCrown chaise, and the ostler had stood out and seen it pass by, the boy\ngoing a good pace, and driving very steady.\n\nThere was nothing in all this either to astonish or interest, and it\ncaught Emma's attention only as it united with the subject which already\nengaged her mind. The contrast between Mrs. Churchill's importance in\nthe world, and Jane Fairfax's, struck her; one was every thing, the\nother nothing--and she sat musing on the difference of woman's destiny,\nand quite unconscious on what her eyes were fixed, till roused by Miss\nBates's saying,\n\n\"Aye, I see what you are thinking of, the pianoforte. What is to become\nof that?--Very true. Poor dear Jane was talking of it just now.--'You\nmust go,' said she. 'You and I must part. You will have no business\nhere.--Let it stay, however,' said she; 'give it houseroom till Colonel\nCampbell comes back. I shall talk about it to him; he will settle for\nme; he will help me out of all my difficulties.'--And to this day, I do\nbelieve, she knows not whether it was his present or his daughter's.\"\n\nNow Emma was obliged to think of the pianoforte; and the remembrance of\nall her former fanciful and unfair conjectures was so little pleasing,\nthat she soon allowed herself to believe her visit had been long enough;\nand, with a repetition of every thing that she could venture to say of\nthe good wishes which she really felt, took leave.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nEmma's pensive meditations, as she walked home, were not interrupted;\nbut on entering the parlour, she found those who must rouse her. Mr.\nKnightley and Harriet had arrived during her absence, and were sitting\nwith her father.--Mr. Knightley immediately got up, and in a manner\ndecidedly graver than usual, said,\n\n\"I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare,\nand therefore must now be gone directly. I am going to London, to spend\na few days with John and Isabella. Have you any thing to send or say,\nbesides the 'love,' which nobody carries?\"\n\n\"Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden scheme?\"\n\n\"Yes--rather--I have been thinking of it some little time.\"\n\nEmma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked unlike himself. Time,\nhowever, she thought, would tell him that they ought to be friends\nagain. While he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going--her father\nbegan his inquiries.\n\n\"Well, my dear, and did you get there safely?--And how did you find my\nworthy old friend and her daughter?--I dare say they must have been very\nmuch obliged to you for coming. Dear Emma has been to call on Mrs.\nand Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before. She is always so\nattentive to them!\"\n\nEmma's colour was heightened by this unjust praise; and with a\nsmile, and shake of the head, which spoke much, she looked at Mr.\nKnightley.--It seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in\nher favour, as if his eyes received the truth from hers, and all that\nhad passed of good in her feelings were at once caught and honoured.--\nHe looked at her with a glow of regard. She was warmly gratified--and in\nanother moment still more so, by a little movement of more than common\nfriendliness on his part.--He took her hand;--whether she had not\nherself made the first motion, she could not say--she might, perhaps,\nhave rather offered it--but he took her hand, pressed it, and certainly\nwas on the point of carrying it to his lips--when, from some fancy or\nother, he suddenly let it go.--Why he should feel such a scruple, why\nhe should change his mind when it was all but done, she could not\nperceive.--He would have judged better, she thought, if he had not\nstopped.--The intention, however, was indubitable; and whether it was\nthat his manners had in general so little gallantry, or however else it\nhappened, but she thought nothing became him more.--It was with him,\nof so simple, yet so dignified a nature.--She could not but recall the\nattempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect amity.--He left\nthem immediately afterwards--gone in a moment. He always moved with the\nalertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but\nnow he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance.\n\nEmma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished she\nhad left her ten minutes earlier;--it would have been a great pleasure\nto talk over Jane Fairfax's situation with Mr. Knightley.--Neither\nwould she regret that he should be going to Brunswick Square, for she\nknew how much his visit would be enjoyed--but it might have happened\nat a better time--and to have had longer notice of it, would have been\npleasanter.--They parted thorough friends, however; she could not\nbe deceived as to the meaning of his countenance, and his unfinished\ngallantry;--it was all done to assure her that she had fully recovered\nhis good opinion.--He had been sitting with them half an hour, she\nfound. It was a pity that she had not come back earlier!\n\nIn the hope of diverting her father's thoughts from the disagreeableness\nof Mr. Knightley's going to London; and going so suddenly; and going on\nhorseback, which she knew would be all very bad; Emma communicated her\nnews of Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the effect was justified;\nit supplied a very useful check,--interested, without disturbing him. He\nhad long made up his mind to Jane Fairfax's going out as governess, and\ncould talk of it cheerfully, but Mr. Knightley's going to London had\nbeen an unexpected blow.\n\n\"I am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so comfortably\nsettled. Mrs. Elton is very good-natured and agreeable, and I dare say\nher acquaintance are just what they ought to be. I hope it is a dry\nsituation, and that her health will be taken good care of. It ought to\nbe a first object, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor's always was with me.\nYou know, my dear, she is going to be to this new lady what Miss Taylor\nwas to us. And I hope she will be better off in one respect, and not be\ninduced to go away after it has been her home so long.\"\n\nThe following day brought news from Richmond to throw every thing else\ninto the background. An express arrived at Randalls to announce the\ndeath of Mrs. Churchill! Though her nephew had had no particular reason\nto hasten back on her account, she had not lived above six-and-thirty\nhours after his return. A sudden seizure of a different nature from any\nthing foreboded by her general state, had carried her off after a short\nstruggle. The great Mrs. Churchill was no more.\n\nIt was felt as such things must be felt. Every body had a degree of\ngravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for the\nsurviving friends; and, in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where\nshe would be buried. Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops\nto folly, she has nothing to do but to die; and when she stoops to be\ndisagreeable, it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame.\nMrs. Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was\nnow spoken of with compassionate allowances. In one point she was fully\njustified. She had never been admitted before to be seriously ill. The\nevent acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and all the selfishness of\nimaginary complaints.\n\n\"Poor Mrs. Churchill! no doubt she had been suffering a great deal:\nmore than any body had ever supposed--and continual pain would try the\ntemper. It was a sad event--a great shock--with all her faults, what\nwould Mr. Churchill do without her? Mr. Churchill's loss would be\ndreadful indeed. Mr. Churchill would never get over it.\"--Even Mr.\nWeston shook his head, and looked solemn, and said, \"Ah! poor woman,\nwho would have thought it!\" and resolved, that his mourning should be as\nhandsome as possible; and his wife sat sighing and moralising over her\nbroad hems with a commiseration and good sense, true and steady. How it\nwould affect Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both. It was also\na very early speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs. Churchill,\nthe grief of her husband--her mind glanced over them both with awe and\ncompassion--and then rested with lightened feelings on how Frank might\nbe affected by the event, how benefited, how freed. She saw in a moment\nall the possible good. Now, an attachment to Harriet Smith would have\nnothing to encounter. Mr. Churchill, independent of his wife, was feared\nby nobody; an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into any thing by his\nnephew. All that remained to be wished was, that the nephew should form\nthe attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the cause, Emma could feel\nno certainty of its being already formed.\n\nHarriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with great self-command.\nWhat ever she might feel of brighter hope, she betrayed nothing. Emma\nwas gratified, to observe such a proof in her of strengthened character,\nand refrained from any allusion that might endanger its maintenance.\nThey spoke, therefore, of Mrs. Churchill's death with mutual\nforbearance.\n\nShort letters from Frank were received at Randalls, communicating all\nthat was immediately important of their state and plans. Mr. Churchill\nwas better than could be expected; and their first removal, on the\ndeparture of the funeral for Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a very\nold friend in Windsor, to whom Mr. Churchill had been promising a\nvisit the last ten years. At present, there was nothing to be done for\nHarriet; good wishes for the future were all that could yet be possible\non Emma's side.\n\nIt was a more pressing concern to shew attention to Jane Fairfax, whose\nprospects were closing, while Harriet's opened, and whose engagements\nnow allowed of no delay in any one at Highbury, who wished to shew her\nkindness--and with Emma it was grown into a first wish. She had scarcely\na stronger regret than for her past coldness; and the person, whom she\nhad been so many months neglecting, was now the very one on whom she\nwould have lavished every distinction of regard or sympathy. She wanted\nto be of use to her; wanted to shew a value for her society, and testify\nrespect and consideration. She resolved to prevail on her to spend a day\nat Hartfield. A note was written to urge it. The invitation was refused,\nand by a verbal message. \"Miss Fairfax was not well enough to write;\"\nand when Mr. Perry called at Hartfield, the same morning, it appeared\nthat she was so much indisposed as to have been visited, though against\nher own consent, by himself, and that she was suffering under severe\nheadaches, and a nervous fever to a degree, which made him doubt the\npossibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge's at the time proposed.\nHer health seemed for the moment completely deranged--appetite quite\ngone--and though there were no absolutely alarming symptoms, nothing\ntouching the pulmonary complaint, which was the standing apprehension\nof the family, Mr. Perry was uneasy about her. He thought she had\nundertaken more than she was equal to, and that she felt it so herself,\nthough she would not own it. Her spirits seemed overcome. Her\npresent home, he could not but observe, was unfavourable to a nervous\ndisorder:--confined always to one room;--he could have wished it\notherwise--and her good aunt, though his very old friend, he must\nacknowledge to be not the best companion for an invalid of that\ndescription. Her care and attention could not be questioned; they were,\nin fact, only too great. He very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived\nmore evil than good from them. Emma listened with the warmest concern;\ngrieved for her more and more, and looked around eager to discover some\nway of being useful. To take her--be it only an hour or two--from\nher aunt, to give her change of air and scene, and quiet rational\nconversation, even for an hour or two, might do her good; and the\nfollowing morning she wrote again to say, in the most feeling language\nshe could command, that she would call for her in the carriage at any\nhour that Jane would name--mentioning that she had Mr. Perry's decided\nopinion, in favour of such exercise for his patient. The answer was only\nin this short note:\n\n\"Miss Fairfax's compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any\nexercise.\"\n\nEmma felt that her own note had deserved something better; but it was\nimpossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality shewed\nindisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might best\ncounteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the\nanswer, therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. Bates's,\nin the hope that Jane would be induced to join her--but it would not\ndo;--Miss Bates came to the carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing\nwith her most earnestly in thinking an airing might be of the greatest\nservice--and every thing that message could do was tried--but all in\nvain. Miss Bates was obliged to return without success; Jane was\nquite unpersuadable; the mere proposal of going out seemed to make her\nworse.--Emma wished she could have seen her, and tried her own powers;\nbut, almost before she could hint the wish, Miss Bates made it appear\nthat she had promised her niece on no account to let Miss Woodhouse in.\n\"Indeed, the truth was, that poor dear Jane could not bear to see any\nbody--any body at all--Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be denied--and\nMrs. Cole had made such a point--and Mrs. Perry had said so much--but,\nexcept them, Jane would really see nobody.\"\n\nEmma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the Mrs. Perrys,\nand the Mrs. Coles, who would force themselves anywhere; neither could\nshe feel any right of preference herself--she submitted, therefore, and\nonly questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece's appetite and diet,\nwhich she longed to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates\nwas very unhappy, and very communicative; Jane would hardly eat any\nthing:--Mr. Perry recommended nourishing food; but every thing\nthey could command (and never had any body such good neighbours) was\ndistasteful.\n\nEmma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly, to an\nexamination of her stores; and some arrowroot of very superior quality\nwas speedily despatched to Miss Bates with a most friendly note. In half\nan hour the arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from Miss\nBates, but \"dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being sent\nback; it was a thing she could not take--and, moreover, she insisted on\nher saying, that she was not at all in want of any thing.\"\n\nWhen Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen wandering\nabout the meadows, at some distance from Highbury, on the afternoon of\nthe very day on which she had, under the plea of being unequal to any\nexercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in the carriage,\nshe could have no doubt--putting every thing together--that Jane was\nresolved to receive no kindness from _her_. She was sorry, very sorry.\nHer heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more pitiable\nfrom this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action, and\ninequality of powers; and it mortified her that she was given so little\ncredit for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend: but\nshe had the consolation of knowing that her intentions were good, and of\nbeing able to say to herself, that could Mr. Knightley have been privy\nto all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even have seen\ninto her heart, he would not, on this occasion, have found any thing to\nreprove.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nOne morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill's decease, Emma was\ncalled downstairs to Mr. Weston, who \"could not stay five minutes,\nand wanted particularly to speak with her.\"--He met her at the\nparlour-door, and hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of\nhis voice, sunk it immediately, to say, unheard by her father,\n\n\"Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning?--Do, if it be\npossible. Mrs. Weston wants to see you. She must see you.\"\n\n\"Is she unwell?\"\n\n\"No, no, not at all--only a little agitated. She would have ordered the\ncarriage, and come to you, but she must see you _alone_, and that you\nknow--(nodding towards her father)--Humph!--Can you come?\"\n\n\"Certainly. This moment, if you please. It is impossible to refuse what\nyou ask in such a way. But what can be the matter?--Is she really not\nill?\"\n\n\"Depend upon me--but ask no more questions. You will know it all in\ntime. The most unaccountable business! But hush, hush!\"\n\nTo guess what all this meant, was impossible even for Emma. Something\nreally important seemed announced by his looks; but, as her friend was\nwell, she endeavoured not to be uneasy, and settling it with her father,\nthat she would take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon out of\nthe house together and on their way at a quick pace for Randalls.\n\n\"Now,\"--said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the sweep gates,--\"now\nMr. Weston, do let me know what has happened.\"\n\n\"No, no,\"--he gravely replied.--\"Don't ask me. I promised my wife to\nleave it all to her. She will break it to you better than I can. Do not\nbe impatient, Emma; it will all come out too soon.\"\n\n\"Break it to me,\" cried Emma, standing still with terror.--\"Good\nGod!--Mr. Weston, tell me at once.--Something has happened in Brunswick\nSquare. I know it has. Tell me, I charge you tell me this moment what it\nis.\"\n\n\"No, indeed you are mistaken.\"--\n\n\"Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.--Consider how many of my dearest\nfriends are now in Brunswick Square. Which of them is it?--I charge you\nby all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment.\"\n\n\"Upon my word, Emma.\"--\n\n\"Your word!--why not your honour!--why not say upon your honour, that\nit has nothing to do with any of them? Good Heavens!--What can be to be\n_broke_ to me, that does not relate to one of that family?\"\n\n\"Upon my honour,\" said he very seriously, \"it does not. It is not in\nthe smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of\nKnightley.\"\n\nEmma's courage returned, and she walked on.\n\n\"I was wrong,\" he continued, \"in talking of its being _broke_ to you.\nI should not have used the expression. In fact, it does not concern\nyou--it concerns only myself,--that is, we hope.--Humph!--In short, my\ndear Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don't\nsay that it is not a disagreeable business--but things might be much\nworse.--If we walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls.\"\n\nEmma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort. She\nasked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and\nthat soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money\nconcern--something just come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the\ncircumstances of the family,--something which the late event at Richmond\nhad brought forward. Her fancy was very active. Half a dozen natural\nchildren, perhaps--and poor Frank cut off!--This, though very\nundesirable, would be no matter of agony to her. It inspired little more\nthan an animating curiosity.\n\n\"Who is that gentleman on horseback?\" said she, as they\nproceeded--speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret,\nthan with any other view.\n\n\"I do not know.--One of the Otways.--Not Frank;--it is not Frank, I\nassure you. You will not see him. He is half way to Windsor by this\ntime.\"\n\n\"Has your son been with you, then?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes--did not you know?--Well, well, never mind.\"\n\nFor a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone much more guarded\nand demure,\n\n\"Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did.\"\n\nThey hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.--\"Well, my dear,\" said\nhe, as they entered the room--\"I have brought her, and now I hope you\nwill soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in\ndelay. I shall not be far off, if you want me.\"--And Emma distinctly\nheard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room,--\"I have\nbeen as good as my word. She has not the least idea.\"\n\nMrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation,\nthat Emma's uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she\neagerly said,\n\n\"What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I\nfind, has occurred;--do let me know directly what it is. I have been\nwalking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense.\nDo not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your\ndistress, whatever it may be.\"\n\n\"Have you indeed no idea?\" said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice.\n\"Cannot you, my dear Emma--cannot you form a guess as to what you are to\nhear?\"\n\n\"So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess.\"\n\n\"You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;\"\n(resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.) \"He has\nbeen here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand. It is\nimpossible to express our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a\nsubject,--to announce an attachment--\"\n\nShe stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, and then of\nHarriet.\n\n\"More than an attachment, indeed,\" resumed Mrs. Weston; \"an\nengagement--a positive engagement.--What will you say, Emma--what will\nany body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are\nengaged;--nay, that they have been long engaged!\"\n\nEmma even jumped with surprize;--and, horror-struck, exclaimed,\n\n\"Jane Fairfax!--Good God! You are not serious? You do not mean it?\"\n\n\"You may well be amazed,\" returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her eyes,\nand talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to recover--\n\"You may well be amazed. But it is even so. There has been a solemn\nengagement between them ever since October--formed at Weymouth, and\nkept a secret from every body. Not a creature knowing it but\nthemselves--neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.--It is so\nwonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost\nincredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.--I thought I knew him.\"\n\nEmma scarcely heard what was said.--Her mind was divided between two\nideas--her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and\npoor Harriet;--and for some time she could only exclaim, and require\nconfirmation, repeated confirmation.\n\n\"Well,\" said she at last, trying to recover herself; \"this is a\ncircumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at\nall comprehend it. What!--engaged to her all the winter--before either\nof them came to Highbury?\"\n\n\"Engaged since October,--secretly engaged.--It has hurt me, Emma, very\nmuch. It has hurt his father equally. _Some_ _part_ of his conduct we\ncannot excuse.\"\n\nEmma pondered a moment, and then replied, \"I will not pretend _not_ to\nunderstand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured\nthat no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are\napprehensive of.\"\n\nMrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma's countenance was as\nsteady as her words.\n\n\"That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my\npresent perfect indifference,\" she continued, \"I will farther tell you,\nthat there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I\ndid like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him--nay,\nwas attached--and how it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder.\nFortunately, however, it did cease. I have really for some time past,\nfor at least these three months, cared nothing about him. You may\nbelieve me, Mrs. Weston. This is the simple truth.\"\n\nMrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find\nutterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her more good\nthan any thing else in the world could do.\n\n\"Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself,\" said she. \"On\nthis point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you\nmight be attached to each other--and we were persuaded that it was so.--\nImagine what we have been feeling on your account.\"\n\n\"I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a matter of grateful\nwonder to you and myself. But this does not acquit _him_, Mrs. Weston;\nand I must say, that I think him greatly to blame. What right had he\nto come among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners\nso _very_ disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to please, as\nhe certainly did--to distinguish any one young woman with persevering\nattention, as he certainly did--while he really belonged to\nanother?--How could he tell what mischief he might be doing?--How could\nhe tell that he might not be making me in love with him?--very wrong,\nvery wrong indeed.\"\n\n\"From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather imagine--\"\n\n\"And how could _she_ bear such behaviour! Composure with a witness!\nto look on, while repeated attentions were offering to another woman,\nbefore her face, and not resent it.--That is a degree of placidity,\nwhich I can neither comprehend nor respect.\"\n\n\"There were misunderstandings between them, Emma; he said so expressly.\nHe had not time to enter into much explanation. He was here only a\nquarter of an hour, and in a state of agitation which did not allow\nthe full use even of the time he could stay--but that there had been\nmisunderstandings he decidedly said. The present crisis, indeed,\nseemed to be brought on by them; and those misunderstandings might very\npossibly arise from the impropriety of his conduct.\"\n\n\"Impropriety! Oh! Mrs. Weston--it is too calm a censure. Much, much\nbeyond impropriety!--It has sunk him, I cannot say how it has sunk him\nin my opinion. So unlike what a man should be!--None of that upright\nintegrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that disdain of\ntrick and littleness, which a man should display in every transaction of\nhis life.\"\n\n\"Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part; for though he has been wrong\nin this instance, I have known him long enough to answer for his having\nmany, very many, good qualities; and--\"\n\n\"Good God!\" cried Emma, not attending to her.--\"Mrs. Smallridge, too!\nJane actually on the point of going as governess! What could he mean by\nsuch horrible indelicacy? To suffer her to engage herself--to suffer her\neven to think of such a measure!\"\n\n\"He knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I can fully acquit\nhim. It was a private resolution of hers, not communicated to him--or at\nleast not communicated in a way to carry conviction.--Till yesterday, I\nknow he said he was in the dark as to her plans. They burst on him, I do\nnot know how, but by some letter or message--and it was the discovery of\nwhat she was doing, of this very project of hers, which determined him\nto come forward at once, own it all to his uncle, throw himself on\nhis kindness, and, in short, put an end to the miserable state of\nconcealment that had been carrying on so long.\"\n\nEmma began to listen better.\n\n\"I am to hear from him soon,\" continued Mrs. Weston. \"He told me at\nparting, that he should soon write; and he spoke in a manner which\nseemed to promise me many particulars that could not be given now. Let\nus wait, therefore, for this letter. It may bring many extenuations. It\nmay make many things intelligible and excusable which now are not to\nbe understood. Don't let us be severe, don't let us be in a hurry to\ncondemn him. Let us have patience. I must love him; and now that I am\nsatisfied on one point, the one material point, I am sincerely anxious\nfor its all turning out well, and ready to hope that it may. They must\nboth have suffered a great deal under such a system of secresy and\nconcealment.\"\n\n\"_His_ sufferings,\" replied Emma dryly, \"do not appear to have done him\nmuch harm. Well, and how did Mr. Churchill take it?\"\n\n\"Most favourably for his nephew--gave his consent with scarcely a\ndifficulty. Conceive what the events of a week have done in that family!\nWhile poor Mrs. Churchill lived, I suppose there could not have been a\nhope, a chance, a possibility;--but scarcely are her remains at rest in\nthe family vault, than her husband is persuaded to act exactly opposite\nto what she would have required. What a blessing it is, when undue\ninfluence does not survive the grave!--He gave his consent with very\nlittle persuasion.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" thought Emma, \"he would have done as much for Harriet.\"\n\n\"This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the light this\nmorning. He stopped at Highbury, at the Bates's, I fancy, some time--and\nthen came on hither; but was in such a hurry to get back to his uncle,\nto whom he is just now more necessary than ever, that, as I tell you,\nhe could stay with us but a quarter of an hour.--He was very much\nagitated--very much, indeed--to a degree that made him appear quite\na different creature from any thing I had ever seen him before.--In\naddition to all the rest, there had been the shock of finding her so\nvery unwell, which he had had no previous suspicion of--and there was\nevery appearance of his having been feeling a great deal.\"\n\n\"And do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on with such\nperfect secresy?--The Campbells, the Dixons, did none of them know of\nthe engagement?\"\n\nEmma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little blush.\n\n\"None; not one. He positively said that it had been known to no being in\nthe world but their two selves.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Emma, \"I suppose we shall gradually grow reconciled to the\nidea, and I wish them very happy. But I shall always think it a\nvery abominable sort of proceeding. What has it been but a system of\nhypocrisy and deceit,--espionage, and treachery?--To come among us with\nprofessions of openness and simplicity; and such a league in secret\nto judge us all!--Here have we been, the whole winter and spring,\ncompletely duped, fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of truth\nand honour, with two people in the midst of us who may have been\ncarrying round, comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments and\nwords that were never meant for both to hear.--They must take the\nconsequence, if they have heard each other spoken of in a way not\nperfectly agreeable!\"\n\n\"I am quite easy on that head,\" replied Mrs. Weston. \"I am very sure\nthat I never said any thing of either to the other, which both might not\nhave heard.\"\n\n\"You are in luck.--Your only blunder was confined to my ear, when you\nimagined a certain friend of ours in love with the lady.\"\n\n\"True. But as I have always had a thoroughly good opinion of Miss\nFairfax, I never could, under any blunder, have spoken ill of her; and\nas to speaking ill of him, there I must have been safe.\"\n\nAt this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little distance from the window,\nevidently on the watch. His wife gave him a look which invited him\nin; and, while he was coming round, added, \"Now, dearest Emma, let me\nintreat you to say and look every thing that may set his heart at ease,\nand incline him to be satisfied with the match. Let us make the best of\nit--and, indeed, almost every thing may be fairly said in her favour. It\nis not a connexion to gratify; but if Mr. Churchill does not feel that,\nwhy should we? and it may be a very fortunate circumstance for him, for\nFrank, I mean, that he should have attached himself to a girl of such\nsteadiness of character and good judgment as I have always given her\ncredit for--and still am disposed to give her credit for, in spite of\nthis one great deviation from the strict rule of right. And how much may\nbe said in her situation for even that error!\"\n\n\"Much, indeed!\" cried Emma feelingly. \"If a woman can ever be\nexcused for thinking only of herself, it is in a situation like Jane\nFairfax's.--Of such, one may almost say, that 'the world is not their's,\nnor the world's law.'\"\n\nShe met Mr. Weston on his entrance, with a smiling countenance,\nexclaiming,\n\n\"A very pretty trick you have been playing me, upon my word! This was a\ndevice, I suppose, to sport with my curiosity, and exercise my talent of\nguessing. But you really frightened me. I thought you had lost half\nyour property, at least. And here, instead of its being a matter of\ncondolence, it turns out to be one of congratulation.--I congratulate\nyou, Mr. Weston, with all my heart, on the prospect of having one of the\nmost lovely and accomplished young women in England for your daughter.\"\n\nA glance or two between him and his wife, convinced him that all was as\nright as this speech proclaimed; and its happy effect on his spirits was\nimmediate. His air and voice recovered their usual briskness: he shook\nher heartily and gratefully by the hand, and entered on the subject in\na manner to prove, that he now only wanted time and persuasion to think\nthe engagement no very bad thing. His companions suggested only what\ncould palliate imprudence, or smooth objections; and by the time they\nhad talked it all over together, and he had talked it all over again\nwith Emma, in their walk back to Hartfield, he was become perfectly\nreconciled, and not far from thinking it the very best thing that Frank\ncould possibly have done.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\n\"Harriet, poor Harriet!\"--Those were the words; in them lay the\ntormenting ideas which Emma could not get rid of, and which constituted\nthe real misery of the business to her. Frank Churchill had behaved very\nill by herself--very ill in many ways,--but it was not so much _his_\nbehaviour as her _own_, which made her so angry with him. It was the\nscrape which he had drawn her into on Harriet's account, that gave the\ndeepest hue to his offence.--Poor Harriet! to be a second time the\ndupe of her misconceptions and flattery. Mr. Knightley had spoken\nprophetically, when he once said, \"Emma, you have been no friend\nto Harriet Smith.\"--She was afraid she had done her nothing but\ndisservice.--It was true that she had not to charge herself, in this\ninstance as in the former, with being the sole and original author of\nthe mischief; with having suggested such feelings as might otherwise\nnever have entered Harriet's imagination; for Harriet had acknowledged\nher admiration and preference of Frank Churchill before she had ever\ngiven her a hint on the subject; but she felt completely guilty\nof having encouraged what she might have repressed. She might have\nprevented the indulgence and increase of such sentiments. Her influence\nwould have been enough. And now she was very conscious that she ought\nto have prevented them.--She felt that she had been risking her friend's\nhappiness on most insufficient grounds. Common sense would have directed\nher to tell Harriet, that she must not allow herself to think of him,\nand that there were five hundred chances to one against his ever caring\nfor her.--\"But, with common sense,\" she added, \"I am afraid I have had\nlittle to do.\"\n\nShe was extremely angry with herself. If she could not have been angry\nwith Frank Churchill too, it would have been dreadful.--As for Jane\nFairfax, she might at least relieve her feelings from any present\nsolicitude on her account. Harriet would be anxiety enough; she need\nno longer be unhappy about Jane, whose troubles and whose ill-health\nhaving, of course, the same origin, must be equally under cure.--Her\ndays of insignificance and evil were over.--She would soon be well, and\nhappy, and prosperous.--Emma could now imagine why her own attentions\nhad been slighted. This discovery laid many smaller matters open. No\ndoubt it had been from jealousy.--In Jane's eyes she had been a rival;\nand well might any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be\nrepulsed. An airing in the Hartfield carriage would have been the rack,\nand arrowroot from the Hartfield storeroom must have been poison. She\nunderstood it all; and as far as her mind could disengage itself from\nthe injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she acknowledged that\nJane Fairfax would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond her\ndesert. But poor Harriet was such an engrossing charge! There was little\nsympathy to be spared for any body else. Emma was sadly fearful\nthat this second disappointment would be more severe than the first.\nConsidering the very superior claims of the object, it ought; and\njudging by its apparently stronger effect on Harriet's mind, producing\nreserve and self-command, it would.--She must communicate the painful\ntruth, however, and as soon as possible. An injunction of secresy had\nbeen among Mr. Weston's parting words. \"For the present, the whole\naffair was to be completely a secret. Mr. Churchill had made a point of\nit, as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently lost;\nand every body admitted it to be no more than due decorum.\"--Emma had\npromised; but still Harriet must be excepted. It was her superior duty.\n\nIn spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it almost\nridiculous, that she should have the very same distressing and delicate\noffice to perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through by\nherself. The intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to her,\nshe was now to be anxiously announcing to another. Her heart beat quick\non hearing Harriet's footstep and voice; so, she supposed, had poor Mrs.\nWeston felt when _she_ was approaching Randalls. Could the event of\nthe disclosure bear an equal resemblance!--But of that, unfortunately,\nthere could be no chance.\n\n\"Well, Miss Woodhouse!\" cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room--\"is\nnot this the oddest news that ever was?\"\n\n\"What news do you mean?\" replied Emma, unable to guess, by look or\nvoice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint.\n\n\"About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so strange? Oh!--you\nneed not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has told me\nhimself. I met him just now. He told me it was to be a great secret;\nand, therefore, I should not think of mentioning it to any body but you,\nbut he said you knew it.\"\n\n\"What did Mr. Weston tell you?\"--said Emma, still perplexed.\n\n\"Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank Churchill\nare to be married, and that they have been privately engaged to one\nanother this long while. How very odd!\"\n\nIt was, indeed, so odd; Harriet's behaviour was so extremely odd,\nthat Emma did not know how to understand it. Her character appeared\nabsolutely changed. She seemed to propose shewing no agitation, or\ndisappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery. Emma looked at\nher, quite unable to speak.\n\n\"Had you any idea,\" cried Harriet, \"of his being in love with her?--You,\nperhaps, might.--You (blushing as she spoke) who can see into every\nbody's heart; but nobody else--\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" said Emma, \"I begin to doubt my having any such talent.\nCan you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached\nto another woman at the very time that I was--tacitly, if not\nopenly--encouraging you to give way to your own feelings?--I never\nhad the slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank\nChurchill's having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You may be very\nsure that if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly.\"\n\n\"Me!\" cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished. \"Why should you caution\nme?--You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill.\"\n\n\"I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject,\" replied\nEmma, smiling; \"but you do not mean to deny that there was a time--and\nnot very distant either--when you gave me reason to understand that you\ndid care about him?\"\n\n\"Him!--never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake me?\"\nturning away distressed.\n\n\"Harriet!\" cried Emma, after a moment's pause--\"What do you mean?--Good\nHeaven! what do you mean?--Mistake you!--Am I to suppose then?--\"\n\nShe could not speak another word.--Her voice was lost; and she sat down,\nwaiting in great terror till Harriet should answer.\n\nHarriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned from\nher, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it was\nin a voice nearly as agitated as Emma's.\n\n\"I should not have thought it possible,\" she began, \"that you could have\nmisunderstood me! I know we agreed never to name him--but considering\nhow infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should not have\nthought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other person.\nMr. Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would ever look at him in\nthe company of the other. I hope I have a better taste than to think of\nMr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And that you should\nhave been so mistaken, is amazing!--I am sure, but for believing that\nyou entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I\nshould have considered it at first too great a presumption almost,\nto dare to think of him. At first, if you had not told me that more\nwonderful things had happened; that there had been matches of greater\ndisparity (those were your very words);--I should not have dared to\ngive way to--I should not have thought it possible--But if _you_, who\nhad been always acquainted with him--\"\n\n\"Harriet!\" cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely--\"Let us understand\neach other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you\nspeaking of--Mr. Knightley?\"\n\n\"To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else--and so\nI thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as\npossible.\"\n\n\"Not quite,\" returned Emma, with forced calmness, \"for all that you then\nsaid, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost\nassert that you had _named_ Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service\nMr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the\ngipsies, was spoken of.\"\n\n\"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!\"\n\n\"My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on\nthe occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment;\nthat considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely\nnatural:--and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to\nyour sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations had\nbeen in seeing him come forward to your rescue.--The impression of it is\nstrong on my memory.\"\n\n\"Oh, dear,\" cried Harriet, \"now I recollect what you mean; but I\nwas thinking of something very different at the time. It was not the\ngipsies--it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No! (with some\nelevation) I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance--of Mr.\nKnightley's coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not\nstand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room. That\nwas the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that\nwas the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to every\nother being upon earth.\"\n\n\"Good God!\" cried Emma, \"this has been a most unfortunate--most\ndeplorable mistake!--What is to be done?\"\n\n\"You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? At\nleast, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the\nother had been the person; and now--it _is_ possible--\"\n\nShe paused a few moments. Emma could not speak.\n\n\"I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse,\" she resumed, \"that you should feel a\ngreat difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You must\nthink one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But\nI hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing--that if--strange as it may\nappear--. But you know they were your own words, that _more_ wonderful\nthings had happened, matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place than\nbetween Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such\na thing even as this, may have occurred before--and if I should be so\nfortunate, beyond expression, as to--if Mr. Knightley should really--if\n_he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will\nnot set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But\nyou are too good for that, I am sure.\"\n\nHarriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look at\nher in consternation, and hastily said,\n\n\"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully--\"I must say that I\nhave.\"\n\nEmma's eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating,\nin a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient\nfor making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers,\nonce opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched--she\nadmitted--she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse\nthat Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank\nChurchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet's having\nsome hope of a return? It darted through her, with the speed of an\narrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself!\n\nHer own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same\nfew minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed\nher before. How improperly had she been acting by Harriet! How\ninconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been\nher conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on! It struck her\nwith dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in the\nworld. Some portion of respect for herself, however, in spite of all\nthese demerits--some concern for her own appearance, and a strong sense\nof justice by Harriet--(there would be no need of _compassion_ to the\ngirl who believed herself loved by Mr. Knightley--but justice required\nthat she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave Emma the\nresolution to sit and endure farther with calmness, with even apparent\nkindness.--For her own advantage indeed, it was fit that the utmost\nextent of Harriet's hopes should be enquired into; and Harriet had done\nnothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had been so voluntarily\nformed and maintained--or to deserve to be slighted by the person, whose\ncounsels had never led her right.--Rousing from reflection, therefore,\nand subduing her emotion, she turned to Harriet again, and, in a more\ninviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as to the subject which\nhad first introduced it, the wonderful story of Jane Fairfax, that was\nquite sunk and lost.--Neither of them thought but of Mr. Knightley and\nthemselves.\n\nHarriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad\nto be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge, and\nsuch a friend as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to give\nthe history of her hopes with great, though trembling delight.--Emma's\ntremblings as she asked, and as she listened, were better concealed than\nHarriet's, but they were not less. Her voice was not unsteady; but her\nmind was in all the perturbation that such a development of self, such\na burst of threatening evil, such a confusion of sudden and perplexing\nemotions, must create.--She listened with much inward suffering, but\nwith great outward patience, to Harriet's detail.--Methodical, or well\narranged, or very well delivered, it could not be expected to be; but it\ncontained, when separated from all the feebleness and tautology of\nthe narration, a substance to sink her spirit--especially with the\ncorroborating circumstances, which her own memory brought in favour of\nMr. Knightley's most improved opinion of Harriet.\n\nHarriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since\nthose two decisive dances.--Emma knew that he had, on that occasion,\nfound her much superior to his expectation. From that evening, or at\nleast from the time of Miss Woodhouse's encouraging her to think of him,\nHarriet had begun to be sensible of his talking to her much more than he\nhad been used to do, and of his having indeed quite a different manner\ntowards her; a manner of kindness and sweetness!--Latterly she had been\nmore and more aware of it. When they had been all walking together,\nhe had so often come and walked by her, and talked so very\ndelightfully!--He seemed to want to be acquainted with her. Emma knew it\nto have been very much the case. She had often observed the change, to\nalmost the same extent.--Harriet repeated expressions of approbation\nand praise from him--and Emma felt them to be in the closest agreement\nwith what she had known of his opinion of Harriet. He praised her for\nbeing without art or affectation, for having simple, honest, generous,\nfeelings.--She knew that he saw such recommendations in Harriet; he\nhad dwelt on them to her more than once.--Much that lived in Harriet's\nmemory, many little particulars of the notice she had received from\nhim, a look, a speech, a removal from one chair to another, a compliment\nimplied, a preference inferred, had been unnoticed, because unsuspected,\nby Emma. Circumstances that might swell to half an hour's relation,\nand contained multiplied proofs to her who had seen them, had passed\nundiscerned by her who now heard them; but the two latest occurrences to\nbe mentioned, the two of strongest promise to Harriet, were not without\nsome degree of witness from Emma herself.--The first, was his walking\nwith her apart from the others, in the lime-walk at Donwell, where they\nhad been walking some time before Emma came, and he had taken pains (as\nshe was convinced) to draw her from the rest to himself--and at first,\nhe had talked to her in a more particular way than he had ever done\nbefore, in a very particular way indeed!--(Harriet could not recall\nit without a blush.) He seemed to be almost asking her, whether her\naffections were engaged.--But as soon as she (Miss Woodhouse) appeared\nlikely to join them, he changed the subject, and began talking about\nfarming:--The second, was his having sat talking with her nearly half\nan hour before Emma came back from her visit, the very last morning of\nhis being at Hartfield--though, when he first came in, he had said that\nhe could not stay five minutes--and his having told her, during their\nconversation, that though he must go to London, it was very much against\nhis inclination that he left home at all, which was much more (as\nEmma felt) than he had acknowledged to _her_. The superior degree of\nconfidence towards Harriet, which this one article marked, gave her\nsevere pain.\n\nOn the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she did, after a\nlittle reflection, venture the following question. \"Might he not?--Is\nnot it possible, that when enquiring, as you thought, into the state of\nyour affections, he might be alluding to Mr. Martin--he might have\nMr. Martin's interest in view? But Harriet rejected the suspicion with\nspirit.\n\n\"Mr. Martin! No indeed!--There was not a hint of Mr. Martin. I hope I\nknow better now, than to care for Mr. Martin, or to be suspected of it.\"\n\nWhen Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to her dear Miss\nWoodhouse, to say whether she had not good ground for hope.\n\n\"I never should have presumed to think of it at first,\" said she, \"but\nfor you. You told me to observe him carefully, and let his behaviour\nbe the rule of mine--and so I have. But now I seem to feel that I may\ndeserve him; and that if he does chuse me, it will not be any thing so\nvery wonderful.\"\n\nThe bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many bitter feelings,\nmade the utmost exertion necessary on Emma's side, to enable her to say\non reply,\n\n\"Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr. Knightley is the last\nman in the world, who would intentionally give any woman the idea of his\nfeeling for her more than he really does.\"\n\nHarriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a sentence so\nsatisfactory; and Emma was only saved from raptures and fondness, which\nat that moment would have been dreadful penance, by the sound of her\nfather's footsteps. He was coming through the hall. Harriet was too\nmuch agitated to encounter him. \"She could not compose herself--\nMr. Woodhouse would be alarmed--she had better go;\"--with most ready\nencouragement from her friend, therefore, she passed off through another\ndoor--and the moment she was gone, this was the spontaneous burst of\nEmma's feelings: \"Oh God! that I had never seen her!\"\n\nThe rest of the day, the following night, were hardly enough for her\nthoughts.--She was bewildered amidst the confusion of all that had\nrushed on her within the last few hours. Every moment had brought a\nfresh surprize; and every surprize must be matter of humiliation to\nher.--How to understand it all! How to understand the deceptions she had\nbeen thus practising on herself, and living under!--The blunders, the\nblindness of her own head and heart!--she sat still, she walked about,\nshe tried her own room, she tried the shrubbery--in every place, every\nposture, she perceived that she had acted most weakly; that she had\nbeen imposed on by others in a most mortifying degree; that she had\nbeen imposing on herself in a degree yet more mortifying; that she\nwas wretched, and should probably find this day but the beginning of\nwretchedness.\n\nTo understand, thoroughly understand her own heart, was the first\nendeavour. To that point went every leisure moment which her father's\nclaims on her allowed, and every moment of involuntary absence of mind.\n\nHow long had Mr. Knightley been so dear to her, as every feeling\ndeclared him now to be? When had his influence, such influence begun?--\nWhen had he succeeded to that place in her affection, which Frank\nChurchill had once, for a short period, occupied?--She looked back;\nshe compared the two--compared them, as they had always stood in her\nestimation, from the time of the latter's becoming known to her--and as\nthey must at any time have been compared by her, had it--oh! had it, by\nany blessed felicity, occurred to her, to institute the comparison.--She\nsaw that there never had been a time when she did not consider Mr.\nKnightley as infinitely the superior, or when his regard for her had not\nbeen infinitely the most dear. She saw, that in persuading herself,\nin fancying, in acting to the contrary, she had been entirely under a\ndelusion, totally ignorant of her own heart--and, in short, that she had\nnever really cared for Frank Churchill at all!\n\nThis was the conclusion of the first series of reflection. This was\nthe knowledge of herself, on the first question of inquiry, which\nshe reached; and without being long in reaching it.--She was most\nsorrowfully indignant; ashamed of every sensation but the one revealed\nto her--her affection for Mr. Knightley.--Every other part of her mind\nwas disgusting.\n\nWith insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the secret of every\nbody's feelings; with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange every\nbody's destiny. She was proved to have been universally mistaken; and\nshe had not quite done nothing--for she had done mischief. She had\nbrought evil on Harriet, on herself, and she too much feared, on Mr.\nKnightley.--Were this most unequal of all connexions to take place, on\nher must rest all the reproach of having given it a beginning; for his\nattachment, she must believe to be produced only by a consciousness of\nHarriet's;--and even were this not the case, he would never have known\nHarriet at all but for her folly.\n\nMr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!--It was a union to distance every\nwonder of the kind.--The attachment of Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax\nbecame commonplace, threadbare, stale in the comparison, exciting no\nsurprize, presenting no disparity, affording nothing to be said or\nthought.--Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!--Such an elevation on her\nside! Such a debasement on his! It was horrible to Emma to think how it\nmust sink him in the general opinion, to foresee the smiles, the sneers,\nthe merriment it would prompt at his expense; the mortification and\ndisdain of his brother, the thousand inconveniences to himself.--Could\nit be?--No; it was impossible. And yet it was far, very far, from\nimpossible.--Was it a new circumstance for a man of first-rate abilities\nto be captivated by very inferior powers? Was it new for one, perhaps\ntoo busy to seek, to be the prize of a girl who would seek him?--Was\nit new for any thing in this world to be unequal, inconsistent,\nincongruous--or for chance and circumstance (as second causes) to direct\nthe human fate?\n\nOh! had she never brought Harriet forward! Had she left her where she\nought, and where he had told her she ought!--Had she not, with a\nfolly which no tongue could express, prevented her marrying the\nunexceptionable young man who would have made her happy and respectable\nin the line of life to which she ought to belong--all would have been\nsafe; none of this dreadful sequel would have been.\n\nHow Harriet could ever have had the presumption to raise her thoughts to\nMr. Knightley!--How she could dare to fancy herself the chosen of such\na man till actually assured of it!--But Harriet was less humble, had\nfewer scruples than formerly.--Her inferiority, whether of mind or\nsituation, seemed little felt.--She had seemed more sensible of Mr.\nElton's being to stoop in marrying her, than she now seemed of Mr.\nKnightley's.--Alas! was not that her own doing too? Who had been at\npains to give Harriet notions of self-consequence but herself?--Who but\nherself had taught her, that she was to elevate herself if possible,\nand that her claims were great to a high worldly establishment?--If\nHarriet, from being humble, were grown vain, it was her doing too.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nTill now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma had never known\nhow much of her happiness depended on being _first_ with Mr. Knightley,\nfirst in interest and affection.--Satisfied that it was so, and feeling\nit her due, she had enjoyed it without reflection; and only in the\ndread of being supplanted, found how inexpressibly important it had\nbeen.--Long, very long, she felt she had been first; for, having no\nfemale connexions of his own, there had been only Isabella whose claims\ncould be compared with hers, and she had always known exactly how far\nhe loved and esteemed Isabella. She had herself been first with him for\nmany years past. She had not deserved it; she had often been negligent\nor perverse, slighting his advice, or even wilfully opposing him,\ninsensible of half his merits, and quarrelling with him because he would\nnot acknowledge her false and insolent estimate of her own--but still,\nfrom family attachment and habit, and thorough excellence of mind, he\nhad loved her, and watched over her from a girl, with an endeavour to\nimprove her, and an anxiety for her doing right, which no other creature\nhad at all shared. In spite of all her faults, she knew she was dear\nto him; might she not say, very dear?--When the suggestions of hope,\nhowever, which must follow here, presented themselves, she could not\npresume to indulge them. Harriet Smith might think herself not unworthy\nof being peculiarly, exclusively, passionately loved by Mr. Knightley.\n_She_ could not. She could not flatter herself with any idea of\nblindness in his attachment to _her_. She had received a very recent\nproof of its impartiality.--How shocked had he been by her behaviour to\nMiss Bates! How directly, how strongly had he expressed himself to her\non the subject!--Not too strongly for the offence--but far, far too\nstrongly to issue from any feeling softer than upright justice and\nclear-sighted goodwill.--She had no hope, nothing to deserve the name\nof hope, that he could have that sort of affection for herself which was\nnow in question; but there was a hope (at times a slight one, at\ntimes much stronger,) that Harriet might have deceived herself, and be\noverrating his regard for _her_.--Wish it she must, for his sake--be the\nconsequence nothing to herself, but his remaining single all his life.\nCould she be secure of that, indeed, of his never marrying at all, she\nbelieved she should be perfectly satisfied.--Let him but continue the\nsame Mr. Knightley to her and her father, the same Mr. Knightley to\nall the world; let Donwell and Hartfield lose none of their precious\nintercourse of friendship and confidence, and her peace would be\nfully secured.--Marriage, in fact, would not do for her. It would be\nincompatible with what she owed to her father, and with what she felt\nfor him. Nothing should separate her from her father. She would not\nmarry, even if she were asked by Mr. Knightley.\n\nIt must be her ardent wish that Harriet might be disappointed; and she\nhoped, that when able to see them together again, she might at least\nbe able to ascertain what the chances for it were.--She should see them\nhenceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedly as she had\nhitherto misunderstood even those she was watching, she did not know how\nto admit that she could be blinded here.--He was expected back every\nday. The power of observation would be soon given--frightfully soon it\nappeared when her thoughts were in one course. In the meanwhile, she\nresolved against seeing Harriet.--It would do neither of them good,\nit would do the subject no good, to be talking of it farther.--She was\nresolved not to be convinced, as long as she could doubt, and yet had\nno authority for opposing Harriet's confidence. To talk would be only to\nirritate.--She wrote to her, therefore, kindly, but decisively, to beg\nthat she would not, at present, come to Hartfield; acknowledging it to\nbe her conviction, that all farther confidential discussion of _one_\ntopic had better be avoided; and hoping, that if a few days were allowed\nto pass before they met again, except in the company of others--she\nobjected only to a tete-a-tete--they might be able to act as if they\nhad forgotten the conversation of yesterday.--Harriet submitted, and\napproved, and was grateful.\n\nThis point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to tear Emma's\nthoughts a little from the one subject which had engrossed them,\nsleeping or waking, the last twenty-four hours--Mrs. Weston, who had\nbeen calling on her daughter-in-law elect, and took Hartfield in her\nway home, almost as much in duty to Emma as in pleasure to herself, to\nrelate all the particulars of so interesting an interview.\n\nMr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates's, and gone through his\nshare of this essential attention most handsomely; but she having then\ninduced Miss Fairfax to join her in an airing, was now returned with\nmuch more to say, and much more to say with satisfaction, than a quarter\nof an hour spent in Mrs. Bates's parlour, with all the encumbrance of\nawkward feelings, could have afforded.\n\nA little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of it while her\nfriend related. Mrs. Weston had set off to pay the visit in a good deal\nof agitation herself; and in the first place had wished not to go at all\nat present, to be allowed merely to write to Miss Fairfax instead, and\nto defer this ceremonious call till a little time had passed, and Mr.\nChurchill could be reconciled to the engagement's becoming known; as,\nconsidering every thing, she thought such a visit could not be paid\nwithout leading to reports:--but Mr. Weston had thought differently; he\nwas extremely anxious to shew his approbation to Miss Fairfax and her\nfamily, and did not conceive that any suspicion could be excited by it;\nor if it were, that it would be of any consequence; for \"such things,\"\nhe observed, \"always got about.\" Emma smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston\nhad very good reason for saying so. They had gone, in short--and very\ngreat had been the evident distress and confusion of the lady. She had\nhardly been able to speak a word, and every look and action had shewn\nhow deeply she was suffering from consciousness. The quiet, heart-felt\nsatisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her\ndaughter--who proved even too joyous to talk as usual, had been a\ngratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene. They were both so truly\nrespectable in their happiness, so disinterested in every sensation;\nthought so much of Jane; so much of every body, and so little of\nthemselves, that every kindly feeling was at work for them. Miss\nFairfax's recent illness had offered a fair plea for Mrs. Weston to\ninvite her to an airing; she had drawn back and declined at first, but,\non being pressed had yielded; and, in the course of their drive,\nMrs. Weston had, by gentle encouragement, overcome so much of her\nembarrassment, as to bring her to converse on the important subject.\nApologies for her seemingly ungracious silence in their first reception,\nand the warmest expressions of the gratitude she was always feeling\ntowards herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily open the cause; but\nwhen these effusions were put by, they had talked a good deal of the\npresent and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs. Weston was\nconvinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief to her\ncompanion, pent up within her own mind as every thing had so long been,\nand was very much pleased with all that she had said on the subject.\n\n\"On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment of so\nmany months,\" continued Mrs. Weston, \"she was energetic. This was one\nof her expressions. 'I will not say, that since I entered into the\nengagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have\nnever known the blessing of one tranquil hour:'--and the quivering lip,\nEmma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my heart.\"\n\n\"Poor girl!\" said Emma. \"She thinks herself wrong, then, for having\nconsented to a private engagement?\"\n\n\"Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed\nto blame herself. 'The consequence,' said she, 'has been a state of\nperpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all the punishment\nthat misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct. Pain is no\nexpiation. I never can be blameless. I have been acting contrary to all\nmy sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken,\nand the kindness I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me\nought not to be.' 'Do not imagine, madam,' she continued, 'that I was\ntaught wrong. Do not let any reflection fall on the principles or the\ncare of the friends who brought me up. The error has been all my own;\nand I do assure you that, with all the excuse that present circumstances\nmay appear to give, I shall yet dread making the story known to Colonel\nCampbell.'\"\n\n\"Poor girl!\" said Emma again. \"She loves him then excessively, I\nsuppose. It must have been from attachment only, that she could be\nled to form the engagement. Her affection must have overpowered her\njudgment.\"\n\n\"Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him.\"\n\n\"I am afraid,\" returned Emma, sighing, \"that I must often have\ncontributed to make her unhappy.\"\n\n\"On your side, my love, it was very innocently done. But she\nprobably had something of that in her thoughts, when alluding to the\nmisunderstandings which he had given us hints of before. One natural\nconsequence of the evil she had involved herself in,\" she said, \"was\nthat of making her _unreasonable_. The consciousness of having done\namiss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious\nand irritable to a degree that must have been--that had been--hard for\nhim to bear. 'I did not make the allowances,' said she, 'which I ought\nto have done, for his temper and spirits--his delightful spirits, and\nthat gaiety, that playfulness of disposition, which, under any other\ncircumstances, would, I am sure, have been as constantly bewitching to\nme, as they were at first.' She then began to speak of you, and of the\ngreat kindness you had shewn her during her illness; and with a blush\nwhich shewed me how it was all connected, desired me, whenever I had\nan opportunity, to thank you--I could not thank you too much--for every\nwish and every endeavour to do her good. She was sensible that you had\nnever received any proper acknowledgment from herself.\"\n\n\"If I did not know her to be happy now,\" said Emma, seriously, \"which,\nin spite of every little drawback from her scrupulous conscience, she\nmust be, I could not bear these thanks;--for, oh! Mrs. Weston, if there\nwere an account drawn up of the evil and the good I have done Miss\nFairfax!--Well (checking herself, and trying to be more lively), this\nis all to be forgotten. You are very kind to bring me these interesting\nparticulars. They shew her to the greatest advantage. I am sure she is\nvery good--I hope she will be very happy. It is fit that the fortune\nshould be on his side, for I think the merit will be all on hers.\"\n\nSuch a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs. Weston. She thought\nwell of Frank in almost every respect; and, what was more, she loved him\nvery much, and her defence was, therefore, earnest. She talked with a\ngreat deal of reason, and at least equal affection--but she had too much\nto urge for Emma's attention; it was soon gone to Brunswick Square or\nto Donwell; she forgot to attempt to listen; and when Mrs. Weston ended\nwith, \"We have not yet had the letter we are so anxious for, you know,\nbut I hope it will soon come,\" she was obliged to pause before she\nanswered, and at last obliged to answer at random, before she could at\nall recollect what letter it was which they were so anxious for.\n\n\"Are you well, my Emma?\" was Mrs. Weston's parting question.\n\n\"Oh! perfectly. I am always well, you know. Be sure to give me\nintelligence of the letter as soon as possible.\"\n\nMrs. Weston's communications furnished Emma with more food for\nunpleasant reflection, by increasing her esteem and compassion, and her\nsense of past injustice towards Miss Fairfax. She bitterly regretted\nnot having sought a closer acquaintance with her, and blushed for the\nenvious feelings which had certainly been, in some measure, the cause.\nHad she followed Mr. Knightley's known wishes, in paying that attention\nto Miss Fairfax, which was every way her due; had she tried to know her\nbetter; had she done her part towards intimacy; had she endeavoured\nto find a friend there instead of in Harriet Smith; she must, in all\nprobability, have been spared from every pain which pressed on her\nnow.--Birth, abilities, and education, had been equally marking one as\nan associate for her, to be received with gratitude; and the other--what\nwas she?--Supposing even that they had never become intimate friends;\nthat she had never been admitted into Miss Fairfax's confidence on this\nimportant matter--which was most probable--still, in knowing her as\nshe ought, and as she might, she must have been preserved from the\nabominable suspicions of an improper attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she\nhad not only so foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but had so\nunpardonably imparted; an idea which she greatly feared had been made a\nsubject of material distress to the delicacy of Jane's feelings, by the\nlevity or carelessness of Frank Churchill's. Of all the sources of evil\nsurrounding the former, since her coming to Highbury, she was persuaded\nthat she must herself have been the worst. She must have been a\nperpetual enemy. They never could have been all three together, without\nher having stabbed Jane Fairfax's peace in a thousand instances; and on\nBox Hill, perhaps, it had been the agony of a mind that would bear no\nmore.\n\nThe evening of this day was very long, and melancholy, at Hartfield.\nThe weather added what it could of gloom. A cold stormy rain set in, and\nnothing of July appeared but in the trees and shrubs, which the wind was\ndespoiling, and the length of the day, which only made such cruel sights\nthe longer visible.\n\nThe weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could only be kept tolerably\ncomfortable by almost ceaseless attention on his daughter's side, and by\nexertions which had never cost her half so much before. It reminded\nher of their first forlorn tete-a-tete, on the evening of Mrs. Weston's\nwedding-day; but Mr. Knightley had walked in then, soon after tea,\nand dissipated every melancholy fancy. Alas! such delightful proofs of\nHartfield's attraction, as those sort of visits conveyed, might shortly\nbe over. The picture which she had then drawn of the privations of the\napproaching winter, had proved erroneous; no friends had deserted them,\nno pleasures had been lost.--But her present forebodings she feared\nwould experience no similar contradiction. The prospect before her now,\nwas threatening to a degree that could not be entirely dispelled--that\nmight not be even partially brightened. If all took place that\nmight take place among the circle of her friends, Hartfield must be\ncomparatively deserted; and she left to cheer her father with the\nspirits only of ruined happiness.\n\nThe child to be born at Randalls must be a tie there even dearer than\nherself; and Mrs. Weston's heart and time would be occupied by it.\nThey should lose her; and, probably, in great measure, her husband\nalso.--Frank Churchill would return among them no more; and Miss\nFairfax, it was reasonable to suppose, would soon cease to belong to\nHighbury. They would be married, and settled either at or near Enscombe.\nAll that were good would be withdrawn; and if to these losses, the\nloss of Donwell were to be added, what would remain of cheerful or\nof rational society within their reach? Mr. Knightley to be no longer\ncoming there for his evening comfort!--No longer walking in at all\nhours, as if ever willing to change his own home for their's!--How was\nit to be endured? And if he were to be lost to them for Harriet's sake;\nif he were to be thought of hereafter, as finding in Harriet's society\nall that he wanted; if Harriet were to be the chosen, the first,\nthe dearest, the friend, the wife to whom he looked for all the best\nblessings of existence; what could be increasing Emma's wretchedness but\nthe reflection never far distant from her mind, that it had been all her\nown work?\n\nWhen it came to such a pitch as this, she was not able to refrain from\na start, or a heavy sigh, or even from walking about the room for a\nfew seconds--and the only source whence any thing like consolation\nor composure could be drawn, was in the resolution of her own better\nconduct, and the hope that, however inferior in spirit and gaiety might\nbe the following and every future winter of her life to the past, it\nwould yet find her more rational, more acquainted with herself, and\nleave her less to regret when it were gone.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nThe weather continued much the same all the following morning; and\nthe same loneliness, and the same melancholy, seemed to reign at\nHartfield--but in the afternoon it cleared; the wind changed into a\nsofter quarter; the clouds were carried off; the sun appeared; it was\nsummer again. With all the eagerness which such a transition gives, Emma\nresolved to be out of doors as soon as possible. Never had the exquisite\nsight, smell, sensation of nature, tranquil, warm, and brilliant after\na storm, been more attractive to her. She longed for the serenity they\nmight gradually introduce; and on Mr. Perry's coming in soon after\ndinner, with a disengaged hour to give her father, she lost no time\nin hurrying into the shrubbery.--There, with spirits freshened, and\nthoughts a little relieved, she had taken a few turns, when she saw Mr.\nKnightley passing through the garden door, and coming towards her.--It\nwas the first intimation of his being returned from London. She had\nbeen thinking of him the moment before, as unquestionably sixteen miles\ndistant.--There was time only for the quickest arrangement of mind. She\nmust be collected and calm. In half a minute they were together. The\n\"How d'ye do's\" were quiet and constrained on each side. She asked after\ntheir mutual friends; they were all well.--When had he left them?--Only\nthat morning. He must have had a wet ride.--Yes.--He meant to walk with\nher, she found. \"He had just looked into the dining-room, and as he was\nnot wanted there, preferred being out of doors.\"--She thought he neither\nlooked nor spoke cheerfully; and the first possible cause for it,\nsuggested by her fears, was, that he had perhaps been communicating his\nplans to his brother, and was pained by the manner in which they had\nbeen received.\n\nThey walked together. He was silent. She thought he was often looking\nat her, and trying for a fuller view of her face than it suited her to\ngive. And this belief produced another dread. Perhaps he wanted to\nspeak to her, of his attachment to Harriet; he might be watching for\nencouragement to begin.--She did not, could not, feel equal to lead the\nway to any such subject. He must do it all himself. Yet she could\nnot bear this silence. With him it was most unnatural. She\nconsidered--resolved--and, trying to smile, began--\n\n\"You have some news to hear, now you are come back, that will rather\nsurprize you.\"\n\n\"Have I?\" said he quietly, and looking at her; \"of what nature?\"\n\n\"Oh! the best nature in the world--a wedding.\"\n\nAfter waiting a moment, as if to be sure she intended to say no more, he\nreplied,\n\n\"If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have heard that\nalready.\"\n\n\"How is it possible?\" cried Emma, turning her glowing cheeks towards\nhim; for, while she spoke, it occurred to her that he might have called\nat Mrs. Goddard's in his way.\n\n\"I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston this morning, and\nat the end of them he gave me a brief account of what had happened.\"\n\nEmma was quite relieved, and could presently say, with a little more\ncomposure,\n\n\"_You_ probably have been less surprized than any of us, for you have\nhad your suspicions.--I have not forgotten that you once tried to give\nme a caution.--I wish I had attended to it--but--(with a sinking voice\nand a heavy sigh) I seem to have been doomed to blindness.\"\n\nFor a moment or two nothing was said, and she was unsuspicious of having\nexcited any particular interest, till she found her arm drawn within\nhis, and pressed against his heart, and heard him thus saying, in a tone\nof great sensibility, speaking low,\n\n\"Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound.--Your own excellent\nsense--your exertions for your father's sake--I know you will not allow\nyourself--.\" Her arm was pressed again, as he added, in a more\nbroken and subdued accent, \"The feelings of the warmest\nfriendship--Indignation--Abominable scoundrel!\"--And in a louder,\nsteadier tone, he concluded with, \"He will soon be gone. They will soon\nbe in Yorkshire. I am sorry for _her_. She deserves a better fate.\"\n\nEmma understood him; and as soon as she could recover from the flutter\nof pleasure, excited by such tender consideration, replied,\n\n\"You are very kind--but you are mistaken--and I must set you right.--\nI am not in want of that sort of compassion. My blindness to what was\ngoing on, led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed\nof, and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things which may\nwell lay me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other reason\nto regret that I was not in the secret earlier.\"\n\n\"Emma!\" cried he, looking eagerly at her, \"are you, indeed?\"--but\nchecking himself--\"No, no, I understand you--forgive me--I am pleased\nthat you can say even so much.--He is no object of regret, indeed! and\nit will not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the acknowledgment\nof more than your reason.--Fortunate that your affections were not\nfarther entangled!--I could never, I confess, from your manners, assure\nmyself as to the degree of what you felt--I could only be certain that\nthere was a preference--and a preference which I never believed him to\ndeserve.--He is a disgrace to the name of man.--And is he to be rewarded\nwith that sweet young woman?--Jane, Jane, you will be a miserable\ncreature.\"\n\n\"Mr. Knightley,\" said Emma, trying to be lively, but really confused--\"I\nam in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot let you continue in your\nerror; and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such an impression, I\nhave as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that I never have been\nat all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might be natural\nfor a woman to feel in confessing exactly the reverse.--But I never\nhave.\"\n\nHe listened in perfect silence. She wished him to speak, but he would\nnot. She supposed she must say more before she were entitled to his\nclemency; but it was a hard case to be obliged still to lower herself in\nhis opinion. She went on, however.\n\n\"I have very little to say for my own conduct.--I was tempted by his\nattentions, and allowed myself to appear pleased.--An old story,\nprobably--a common case--and no more than has happened to hundreds of my\nsex before; and yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets up\nas I do for Understanding. Many circumstances assisted the temptation.\nHe was the son of Mr. Weston--he was continually here--I always found\nhim very pleasant--and, in short, for (with a sigh) let me swell out the\ncauses ever so ingeniously, they all centre in this at last--my vanity\nwas flattered, and I allowed his attentions. Latterly, however--for some\ntime, indeed--I have had no idea of their meaning any thing.--I thought\nthem a habit, a trick, nothing that called for seriousness on my side.\nHe has imposed on me, but he has not injured me. I have never been\nattached to him. And now I can tolerably comprehend his behaviour. He\nnever wished to attach me. It was merely a blind to conceal his real\nsituation with another.--It was his object to blind all about him; and\nno one, I am sure, could be more effectually blinded than myself--except\nthat I was _not_ blinded--that it was my good fortune--that, in short, I\nwas somehow or other safe from him.\"\n\nShe had hoped for an answer here--for a few words to say that her\nconduct was at least intelligible; but he was silent; and, as far as she\ncould judge, deep in thought. At last, and tolerably in his usual tone,\nhe said,\n\n\"I have never had a high opinion of Frank Churchill.--I can suppose,\nhowever, that I may have underrated him. My acquaintance with him has\nbeen but trifling.--And even if I have not underrated him hitherto, he\nmay yet turn out well.--With such a woman he has a chance.--I have no\nmotive for wishing him ill--and for her sake, whose happiness will be\ninvolved in his good character and conduct, I shall certainly wish him\nwell.\"\n\n\"I have no doubt of their being happy together,\" said Emma; \"I believe\nthem to be very mutually and very sincerely attached.\"\n\n\"He is a most fortunate man!\" returned Mr. Knightley, with energy. \"So\nearly in life--at three-and-twenty--a period when, if a man chuses a\nwife, he generally chuses ill. At three-and-twenty to have drawn such\na prize! What years of felicity that man, in all human calculation,\nhas before him!--Assured of the love of such a woman--the disinterested\nlove, for Jane Fairfax's character vouches for her disinterestedness;\nevery thing in his favour,--equality of situation--I mean, as far as\nregards society, and all the habits and manners that are important;\nequality in every point but one--and that one, since the purity of her\nheart is not to be doubted, such as must increase his felicity, for it\nwill be his to bestow the only advantages she wants.--A man would always\nwish to give a woman a better home than the one he takes her from;\nand he who can do it, where there is no doubt of _her_ regard, must,\nI think, be the happiest of mortals.--Frank Churchill is, indeed, the\nfavourite of fortune. Every thing turns out for his good.--He meets\nwith a young woman at a watering-place, gains her affection, cannot even\nweary her by negligent treatment--and had he and all his family sought\nround the world for a perfect wife for him, they could not have found\nher superior.--His aunt is in the way.--His aunt dies.--He has only to\nspeak.--His friends are eager to promote his happiness.--He had used\nevery body ill--and they are all delighted to forgive him.--He is a\nfortunate man indeed!\"\n\n\"You speak as if you envied him.\"\n\n\"And I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the object of my envy.\"\n\nEmma could say no more. They seemed to be within half a sentence\nof Harriet, and her immediate feeling was to avert the subject, if\npossible. She made her plan; she would speak of something totally\ndifferent--the children in Brunswick Square; and she only waited for\nbreath to begin, when Mr. Knightley startled her, by saying,\n\n\"You will not ask me what is the point of envy.--You are determined, I\nsee, to have no curiosity.--You are wise--but _I_ cannot be wise. Emma,\nI must tell you what you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the\nnext moment.\"\n\n\"Oh! then, don't speak it, don't speak it,\" she eagerly cried. \"Take a\nlittle time, consider, do not commit yourself.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said he, in an accent of deep mortification, and not\nanother syllable followed.\n\nEmma could not bear to give him pain. He was wishing to confide in\nher--perhaps to consult her;--cost her what it would, she would listen.\nShe might assist his resolution, or reconcile him to it; she might give\njust praise to Harriet, or, by representing to him his own independence,\nrelieve him from that state of indecision, which must be more\nintolerable than any alternative to such a mind as his.--They had\nreached the house.\n\n\"You are going in, I suppose?\" said he.\n\n\"No,\"--replied Emma--quite confirmed by the depressed manner in which\nhe still spoke--\"I should like to take another turn. Mr. Perry is not\ngone.\" And, after proceeding a few steps, she added--\"I stopped you\nungraciously, just now, Mr. Knightley, and, I am afraid, gave you\npain.--But if you have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or\nto ask my opinion of any thing that you may have in contemplation--as\na friend, indeed, you may command me.--I will hear whatever you like. I\nwill tell you exactly what I think.\"\n\n\"As a friend!\"--repeated Mr. Knightley.--\"Emma, that I fear is a\nword--No, I have no wish--Stay, yes, why should I hesitate?--I\nhave gone too far already for concealment.--Emma, I accept your\noffer--Extraordinary as it may seem, I accept it, and refer myself to\nyou as a friend.--Tell me, then, have I no chance of ever succeeding?\"\n\nHe stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and the expression\nof his eyes overpowered her.\n\n\"My dearest Emma,\" said he, \"for dearest you will always be, whatever\nthe event of this hour's conversation, my dearest, most beloved\nEmma--tell me at once. Say 'No,' if it is to be said.\"--She could\nreally say nothing.--\"You are silent,\" he cried, with great animation;\n\"absolutely silent! at present I ask no more.\"\n\nEmma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment. The\ndread of being awakened from the happiest dream, was perhaps the most\nprominent feeling.\n\n\"I cannot make speeches, Emma:\" he soon resumed; and in a tone of\nsuch sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably\nconvincing.--\"If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it\nmore. But you know what I am.--You hear nothing but truth from me.--I\nhave blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other\nwoman in England would have borne it.--Bear with the truths I would\ntell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. The\nmanner, perhaps, may have as little to recommend them. God knows, I have\nbeen a very indifferent lover.--But you understand me.--Yes, you see,\nyou understand my feelings--and will return them if you can. At present,\nI ask only to hear, once to hear your voice.\"\n\nWhile he spoke, Emma's mind was most busy, and, with all the wonderful\nvelocity of thought, had been able--and yet without losing a word--to\ncatch and comprehend the exact truth of the whole; to see that Harriet's\nhopes had been entirely groundless, a mistake, a delusion, as complete a\ndelusion as any of her own--that Harriet was nothing; that she was every\nthing herself; that what she had been saying relative to Harriet\nhad been all taken as the language of her own feelings; and that her\nagitation, her doubts, her reluctance, her discouragement, had been all\nreceived as discouragement from herself.--And not only was there time\nfor these convictions, with all their glow of attendant happiness; there\nwas time also to rejoice that Harriet's secret had not escaped her, and\nto resolve that it need not, and should not.--It was all the service\nshe could now render her poor friend; for as to any of that heroism of\nsentiment which might have prompted her to entreat him to transfer his\naffection from herself to Harriet, as infinitely the most worthy of the\ntwo--or even the more simple sublimity of resolving to refuse him at\nonce and for ever, without vouchsafing any motive, because he could not\nmarry them both, Emma had it not. She felt for Harriet, with pain and\nwith contrition; but no flight of generosity run mad, opposing all that\ncould be probable or reasonable, entered her brain. She had led her\nfriend astray, and it would be a reproach to her for ever; but her\njudgment was as strong as her feelings, and as strong as it had ever\nbeen before, in reprobating any such alliance for him, as most unequal\nand degrading. Her way was clear, though not quite smooth.--She spoke\nthen, on being so entreated.--What did she say?--Just what she ought,\nof course. A lady always does.--She said enough to shew there need not\nbe despair--and to invite him to say more himself. He _had_ despaired at\none period; he had received such an injunction to caution and silence,\nas for the time crushed every hope;--she had begun by refusing to hear\nhim.--The change had perhaps been somewhat sudden;--her proposal of\ntaking another turn, her renewing the conversation which she had\njust put an end to, might be a little extraordinary!--She felt its\ninconsistency; but Mr. Knightley was so obliging as to put up with it,\nand seek no farther explanation.\n\nSeldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure;\nseldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a\nlittle mistaken; but where, as in this case, though the conduct is\nmistaken, the feelings are not, it may not be very material.--Mr.\nKnightley could not impute to Emma a more relenting heart than she\npossessed, or a heart more disposed to accept of his.\n\nHe had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own influence. He had\nfollowed her into the shrubbery with no idea of trying it. He had come,\nin his anxiety to see how she bore Frank Churchill's engagement, with no\nselfish view, no view at all, but of endeavouring, if she allowed him an\nopening, to soothe or to counsel her.--The rest had been the work of\nthe moment, the immediate effect of what he heard, on his feelings. The\ndelightful assurance of her total indifference towards Frank Churchill,\nof her having a heart completely disengaged from him, had given birth\nto the hope, that, in time, he might gain her affection himself;--but\nit had been no present hope--he had only, in the momentary conquest of\neagerness over judgment, aspired to be told that she did not forbid his\nattempt to attach her.--The superior hopes which gradually opened were\nso much the more enchanting.--The affection, which he had been asking\nto be allowed to create, if he could, was already his!--Within half\nan hour, he had passed from a thoroughly distressed state of mind, to\nsomething so like perfect happiness, that it could bear no other name.\n\n_Her_ change was equal.--This one half-hour had given to each the same\nprecious certainty of being beloved, had cleared from each the same\ndegree of ignorance, jealousy, or distrust.--On his side, there had been\na long-standing jealousy, old as the arrival, or even the expectation,\nof Frank Churchill.--He had been in love with Emma, and jealous of Frank\nChurchill, from about the same period, one sentiment having probably\nenlightened him as to the other. It was his jealousy of Frank Churchill\nthat had taken him from the country.--The Box Hill party had decided\nhim on going away. He would save himself from witnessing again\nsuch permitted, encouraged attentions.--He had gone to learn to be\nindifferent.--But he had gone to a wrong place. There was too much\ndomestic happiness in his brother's house; woman wore too amiable a form\nin it; Isabella was too much like Emma--differing only in those striking\ninferiorities, which always brought the other in brilliancy before\nhim, for much to have been done, even had his time been longer.--He had\nstayed on, however, vigorously, day after day--till this very morning's\npost had conveyed the history of Jane Fairfax.--Then, with the gladness\nwhich must be felt, nay, which he did not scruple to feel, having never\nbelieved Frank Churchill to be at all deserving Emma, was there so much\nfond solicitude, so much keen anxiety for her, that he could stay no\nlonger. He had ridden home through the rain; and had walked up directly\nafter dinner, to see how this sweetest and best of all creatures,\nfaultless in spite of all her faults, bore the discovery.\n\nHe had found her agitated and low.--Frank Churchill was a villain.--\nHe heard her declare that she had never loved him. Frank Churchill's\ncharacter was not desperate.--She was his own Emma, by hand and word,\nwhen they returned into the house; and if he could have thought of Frank\nChurchill then, he might have deemed him a very good sort of fellow.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nWhat totally different feelings did Emma take back into the house from\nwhat she had brought out!--she had then been only daring to hope for\na little respite of suffering;--she was now in an exquisite flutter of\nhappiness, and such happiness moreover as she believed must still be\ngreater when the flutter should have passed away.\n\nThey sat down to tea--the same party round the same table--how often\nit had been collected!--and how often had her eyes fallen on the same\nshrubs in the lawn, and observed the same beautiful effect of the\nwestern sun!--But never in such a state of spirits, never in any thing\nlike it; and it was with difficulty that she could summon enough of her\nusual self to be the attentive lady of the house, or even the attentive\ndaughter.\n\nPoor Mr. Woodhouse little suspected what was plotting against him in the\nbreast of that man whom he was so cordially welcoming, and so anxiously\nhoping might not have taken cold from his ride.--Could he have seen the\nheart, he would have cared very little for the lungs; but without the\nmost distant imagination of the impending evil, without the slightest\nperception of any thing extraordinary in the looks or ways of either,\nhe repeated to them very comfortably all the articles of news he had\nreceived from Mr. Perry, and talked on with much self-contentment,\ntotally unsuspicious of what they could have told him in return.\n\nAs long as Mr. Knightley remained with them, Emma's fever continued;\nbut when he was gone, she began to be a little tranquillised and\nsubdued--and in the course of the sleepless night, which was the tax\nfor such an evening, she found one or two such very serious points\nto consider, as made her feel, that even her happiness must have some\nalloy. Her father--and Harriet. She could not be alone without feeling\nthe full weight of their separate claims; and how to guard the comfort\nof both to the utmost, was the question. With respect to her father,\nit was a question soon answered. She hardly knew yet what Mr. Knightley\nwould ask; but a very short parley with her own heart produced the most\nsolemn resolution of never quitting her father.--She even wept over\nthe idea of it, as a sin of thought. While he lived, it must be only an\nengagement; but she flattered herself, that if divested of the danger of\ndrawing her away, it might become an increase of comfort to him.--How\nto do her best by Harriet, was of more difficult decision;--how to spare\nher from any unnecessary pain; how to make her any possible atonement;\nhow to appear least her enemy?--On these subjects, her perplexity\nand distress were very great--and her mind had to pass again and\nagain through every bitter reproach and sorrowful regret that had ever\nsurrounded it.--She could only resolve at last, that she would still\navoid a meeting with her, and communicate all that need be told by\nletter; that it would be inexpressibly desirable to have her removed\njust now for a time from Highbury, and--indulging in one scheme\nmore--nearly resolve, that it might be practicable to get an invitation\nfor her to Brunswick Square.--Isabella had been pleased with Harriet;\nand a few weeks spent in London must give her some amusement.--She did\nnot think it in Harriet's nature to escape being benefited by novelty\nand variety, by the streets, the shops, and the children.--At any rate,\nit would be a proof of attention and kindness in herself, from whom\nevery thing was due; a separation for the present; an averting of the\nevil day, when they must all be together again.\n\nShe rose early, and wrote her letter to Harriet; an employment which\nleft her so very serious, so nearly sad, that Mr. Knightley, in walking\nup to Hartfield to breakfast, did not arrive at all too soon; and half\nan hour stolen afterwards to go over the same ground again with him,\nliterally and figuratively, was quite necessary to reinstate her in a\nproper share of the happiness of the evening before.\n\nHe had not left her long, by no means long enough for her to have the\nslightest inclination for thinking of any body else, when a letter was\nbrought her from Randalls--a very thick letter;--she guessed what it\nmust contain, and deprecated the necessity of reading it.--She was now\nin perfect charity with Frank Churchill; she wanted no explanations, she\nwanted only to have her thoughts to herself--and as for understanding\nany thing he wrote, she was sure she was incapable of it.--It must be\nwaded through, however. She opened the packet; it was too surely so;--a\nnote from Mrs. Weston to herself, ushered in the letter from Frank to\nMrs. Weston.\n\n\"I have the greatest pleasure, my dear Emma, in forwarding to you the\nenclosed. I know what thorough justice you will do it, and have scarcely\na doubt of its happy effect.--I think we shall never materially disagree\nabout the writer again; but I will not delay you by a long preface.--We\nare quite well.--This letter has been the cure of all the little\nnervousness I have been feeling lately.--I did not quite like your looks\non Tuesday, but it was an ungenial morning; and though you will never\nown being affected by weather, I think every body feels a north-east\nwind.--I felt for your dear father very much in the storm of Tuesday\nafternoon and yesterday morning, but had the comfort of hearing last\nnight, by Mr. Perry, that it had not made him ill.\n\n                              \"Yours ever,\n                                                       \"A. W.\"\n\n                       [To Mrs. Weston.]\n\n\n                                                       WINDSOR-JULY.\nMY DEAR MADAM,\n\n\"If I made myself intelligible yesterday, this letter will be\nexpected; but expected or not, I know it will be read with candour and\nindulgence.--You are all goodness, and I believe there will be need of\neven all your goodness to allow for some parts of my past conduct.--But\nI have been forgiven by one who had still more to resent. My courage\nrises while I write. It is very difficult for the prosperous to be\nhumble. I have already met with such success in two applications for\npardon, that I may be in danger of thinking myself too sure of yours,\nand of those among your friends who have had any ground of offence.--You\nmust all endeavour to comprehend the exact nature of my situation when I\nfirst arrived at Randalls; you must consider me as having a secret which\nwas to be kept at all hazards. This was the fact. My right to place\nmyself in a situation requiring such concealment, is another question.\nI shall not discuss it here. For my temptation to _think_ it a right,\nI refer every caviller to a brick house, sashed windows below, and\ncasements above, in Highbury. I dared not address her openly; my\ndifficulties in the then state of Enscombe must be too well known to\nrequire definition; and I was fortunate enough to prevail, before we\nparted at Weymouth, and to induce the most upright female mind in the\ncreation to stoop in charity to a secret engagement.--Had she refused, I\nshould have gone mad.--But you will be ready to say, what was your\nhope in doing this?--What did you look forward to?--To any thing, every\nthing--to time, chance, circumstance, slow effects, sudden bursts,\nperseverance and weariness, health and sickness. Every possibility of\ngood was before me, and the first of blessings secured, in obtaining her\npromises of faith and correspondence. If you need farther explanation,\nI have the honour, my dear madam, of being your husband's son, and\nthe advantage of inheriting a disposition to hope for good, which no\ninheritance of houses or lands can ever equal the value of.--See\nme, then, under these circumstances, arriving on my first visit to\nRandalls;--and here I am conscious of wrong, for that visit might have\nbeen sooner paid. You will look back and see that I did not come till\nMiss Fairfax was in Highbury; and as _you_ were the person slighted, you\nwill forgive me instantly; but I must work on my father's compassion, by\nreminding him, that so long as I absented myself from his house, so long\nI lost the blessing of knowing you. My behaviour, during the very\nhappy fortnight which I spent with you, did not, I hope, lay me open to\nreprehension, excepting on one point. And now I come to the principal,\nthe only important part of my conduct while belonging to you, which\nexcites my own anxiety, or requires very solicitous explanation. With\nthe greatest respect, and the warmest friendship, do I mention Miss\nWoodhouse; my father perhaps will think I ought to add, with the deepest\nhumiliation.--A few words which dropped from him yesterday spoke his\nopinion, and some censure I acknowledge myself liable to.--My behaviour\nto Miss Woodhouse indicated, I believe, more than it ought.--In order to\nassist a concealment so essential to me, I was led on to make more than\nan allowable use of the sort of intimacy into which we were immediately\nthrown.--I cannot deny that Miss Woodhouse was my ostensible object--but\nI am sure you will believe the declaration, that had I not been\nconvinced of her indifference, I would not have been induced by any\nselfish views to go on.--Amiable and delightful as Miss Woodhouse is,\nshe never gave me the idea of a young woman likely to be attached; and\nthat she was perfectly free from any tendency to being attached to me,\nwas as much my conviction as my wish.--She received my attentions with\nan easy, friendly, goodhumoured playfulness, which exactly suited me.\nWe seemed to understand each other. From our relative situation, those\nattentions were her due, and were felt to be so.--Whether Miss Woodhouse\nbegan really to understand me before the expiration of that fortnight,\nI cannot say;--when I called to take leave of her, I remember that I was\nwithin a moment of confessing the truth, and I then fancied she was not\nwithout suspicion; but I have no doubt of her having since detected me,\nat least in some degree.--She may not have surmised the whole, but her\nquickness must have penetrated a part. I cannot doubt it. You will find,\nwhenever the subject becomes freed from its present restraints, that it\ndid not take her wholly by surprize. She frequently gave me hints of it.\nI remember her telling me at the ball, that I owed Mrs. Elton gratitude\nfor her attentions to Miss Fairfax.--I hope this history of my conduct\ntowards her will be admitted by you and my father as great extenuation\nof what you saw amiss. While you considered me as having sinned against\nEmma Woodhouse, I could deserve nothing from either. Acquit me here, and\nprocure for me, when it is allowable, the acquittal and good wishes\nof that said Emma Woodhouse, whom I regard with so much brotherly\naffection, as to long to have her as deeply and as happily in love as\nmyself.--Whatever strange things I said or did during that fortnight,\nyou have now a key to. My heart was in Highbury, and my business was to\nget my body thither as often as might be, and with the least suspicion.\nIf you remember any queernesses, set them all to the right account.--Of\nthe pianoforte so much talked of, I feel it only necessary to say, that\nits being ordered was absolutely unknown to Miss F--, who would never\nhave allowed me to send it, had any choice been given her.--The\ndelicacy of her mind throughout the whole engagement, my dear madam,\nis much beyond my power of doing justice to. You will soon, I earnestly\nhope, know her thoroughly yourself.--No description can describe her.\nShe must tell you herself what she is--yet not by word, for never\nwas there a human creature who would so designedly suppress her own\nmerit.--Since I began this letter, which will be longer than I foresaw,\nI have heard from her.--She gives a good account of her own health; but\nas she never complains, I dare not depend. I want to have your opinion\nof her looks. I know you will soon call on her; she is living in dread\nof the visit. Perhaps it is paid already. Let me hear from you without\ndelay; I am impatient for a thousand particulars. Remember how few\nminutes I was at Randalls, and in how bewildered, how mad a state: and\nI am not much better yet; still insane either from happiness or\nmisery. When I think of the kindness and favour I have met with, of her\nexcellence and patience, and my uncle's generosity, I am mad with joy:\nbut when I recollect all the uneasiness I occasioned her, and how little\nI deserve to be forgiven, I am mad with anger. If I could but see her\nagain!--But I must not propose it yet. My uncle has been too good for me\nto encroach.--I must still add to this long letter. You have not heard\nall that you ought to hear. I could not give any connected detail\nyesterday; but the suddenness, and, in one light, the unseasonableness\nwith which the affair burst out, needs explanation; for though the event\nof the 26th ult., as you will conclude, immediately opened to me the\nhappiest prospects, I should not have presumed on such early measures,\nbut from the very particular circumstances, which left me not an hour to\nlose. I should myself have shrunk from any thing so hasty, and she\nwould have felt every scruple of mine with multiplied strength and\nrefinement.--But I had no choice. The hasty engagement she had entered\ninto with that woman--Here, my dear madam, I was obliged to leave off\nabruptly, to recollect and compose myself.--I have been walking over\nthe country, and am now, I hope, rational enough to make the rest of\nmy letter what it ought to be.--It is, in fact, a most mortifying\nretrospect for me. I behaved shamefully. And here I can admit, that\nmy manners to Miss W., in being unpleasant to Miss F., were highly\nblameable. _She_ disapproved them, which ought to have been enough.--My\nplea of concealing the truth she did not think sufficient.--She was\ndispleased; I thought unreasonably so: I thought her, on a thousand\noccasions, unnecessarily scrupulous and cautious: I thought her even\ncold. But she was always right. If I had followed her judgment, and\nsubdued my spirits to the level of what she deemed proper, I should have\nescaped the greatest unhappiness I have ever known.--We quarrelled.--\nDo you remember the morning spent at Donwell?--_There_ every little\ndissatisfaction that had occurred before came to a crisis. I was late;\nI met her walking home by herself, and wanted to walk with her, but she\nwould not suffer it. She absolutely refused to allow me, which I then\nthought most unreasonable. Now, however, I see nothing in it but a very\nnatural and consistent degree of discretion. While I, to blind the\nworld to our engagement, was behaving one hour with objectionable\nparticularity to another woman, was she to be consenting the next to a\nproposal which might have made every previous caution useless?--Had we\nbeen met walking together between Donwell and Highbury, the truth must\nhave been suspected.--I was mad enough, however, to resent.--I doubted\nher affection. I doubted it more the next day on Box Hill; when,\nprovoked by such conduct on my side, such shameful, insolent neglect\nof her, and such apparent devotion to Miss W., as it would have been\nimpossible for any woman of sense to endure, she spoke her resentment in\na form of words perfectly intelligible to me.--In short, my dear\nmadam, it was a quarrel blameless on her side, abominable on mine; and\nI returned the same evening to Richmond, though I might have staid with\nyou till the next morning, merely because I would be as angry with\nher as possible. Even then, I was not such a fool as not to mean to\nbe reconciled in time; but I was the injured person, injured by her\ncoldness, and I went away determined that she should make the first\nadvances.--I shall always congratulate myself that you were not of\nthe Box Hill party. Had you witnessed my behaviour there, I can hardly\nsuppose you would ever have thought well of me again. Its effect upon\nher appears in the immediate resolution it produced: as soon as she\nfound I was really gone from Randalls, she closed with the offer of that\nofficious Mrs. Elton; the whole system of whose treatment of her, by the\nbye, has ever filled me with indignation and hatred. I must not quarrel\nwith a spirit of forbearance which has been so richly extended towards\nmyself; but, otherwise, I should loudly protest against the share of it\nwhich that woman has known.--'Jane,' indeed!--You will observe that I\nhave not yet indulged myself in calling her by that name, even to you.\nThink, then, what I must have endured in hearing it bandied between\nthe Eltons with all the vulgarity of needless repetition, and all the\ninsolence of imaginary superiority. Have patience with me, I shall soon\nhave done.--She closed with this offer, resolving to break with me\nentirely, and wrote the next day to tell me that we never were to meet\nagain.--_She_ _felt_ _the_ _engagement_ _to_ _be_ _a_ _source_ _of_\n_repentance_ _and_ _misery_ _to_ _each_: _she_ _dissolved_ _it_.--This\nletter reached me on the very morning of my poor aunt's death. I\nanswered it within an hour; but from the confusion of my mind, and the\nmultiplicity of business falling on me at once, my answer, instead of\nbeing sent with all the many other letters of that day, was locked up in\nmy writing-desk; and I, trusting that I had written enough, though but\na few lines, to satisfy her, remained without any uneasiness.--I was\nrather disappointed that I did not hear from her again speedily; but I\nmade excuses for her, and was too busy, and--may I add?--too cheerful\nin my views to be captious.--We removed to Windsor; and two\ndays afterwards I received a parcel from her, my own letters all\nreturned!--and a few lines at the same time by the post, stating her\nextreme surprize at not having had the smallest reply to her last; and\nadding, that as silence on such a point could not be misconstrued,\nand as it must be equally desirable to both to have every subordinate\narrangement concluded as soon as possible, she now sent me, by a safe\nconveyance, all my letters, and requested, that if I could not directly\ncommand hers, so as to send them to Highbury within a week, I would\nforward them after that period to her at--: in short, the full direction\nto Mr. Smallridge's, near Bristol, stared me in the face. I knew the\nname, the place, I knew all about it, and instantly saw what she had\nbeen doing. It was perfectly accordant with that resolution of character\nwhich I knew her to possess; and the secrecy she had maintained, as to\nany such design in her former letter, was equally descriptive of its\nanxious delicacy. For the world would not she have seemed to threaten\nme.--Imagine the shock; imagine how, till I had actually detected my\nown blunder, I raved at the blunders of the post.--What was to be\ndone?--One thing only.--I must speak to my uncle. Without his sanction I\ncould not hope to be listened to again.--I spoke; circumstances were\nin my favour; the late event had softened away his pride, and he was,\nearlier than I could have anticipated, wholly reconciled and complying;\nand could say at last, poor man! with a deep sigh, that he wished I\nmight find as much happiness in the marriage state as he had done.--I\nfelt that it would be of a different sort.--Are you disposed to pity\nme for what I must have suffered in opening the cause to him, for my\nsuspense while all was at stake?--No; do not pity me till I reached\nHighbury, and saw how ill I had made her. Do not pity me till I saw her\nwan, sick looks.--I reached Highbury at the time of day when, from my\nknowledge of their late breakfast hour, I was certain of a good chance\nof finding her alone.--I was not disappointed; and at last I was not\ndisappointed either in the object of my journey. A great deal of very\nreasonable, very just displeasure I had to persuade away. But it is\ndone; we are reconciled, dearer, much dearer, than ever, and no moment's\nuneasiness can ever occur between us again. Now, my dear madam, I will\nrelease you; but I could not conclude before. A thousand and a thousand\nthanks for all the kindness you have ever shewn me, and ten thousand for\nthe attentions your heart will dictate towards her.--If you think me in\na way to be happier than I deserve, I am quite of your opinion.--Miss\nW. calls me the child of good fortune. I hope she is right.--In one\nrespect, my good fortune is undoubted, that of being able to subscribe\nmyself,\n\n                    Your obliged and affectionate Son,\n\n                                          F. C. WESTON CHURCHILL.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\nThis letter must make its way to Emma's feelings. She was obliged, in\nspite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the\njustice that Mrs. Weston foretold. As soon as she came to her own name,\nit was irresistible; every line relating to herself was interesting,\nand almost every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the subject\ncould still maintain itself, by the natural return of her former regard\nfor the writer, and the very strong attraction which any picture of\nlove must have for her at that moment. She never stopt till she had gone\nthrough the whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he had\nbeen wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had supposed--and he had\nsuffered, and was very sorry--and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and\nso much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that\nthere was no being severe; and could he have entered the room, she must\nhave shaken hands with him as heartily as ever.\n\nShe thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again,\nshe desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston's wishing it to\nbe communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so\nmuch to blame in his conduct.\n\n\"I shall be very glad to look it over,\" said he; \"but it seems long. I\nwill take it home with me at night.\"\n\nBut that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she\nmust return it by him.\n\n\"I would rather be talking to you,\" he replied; \"but as it seems a\nmatter of justice, it shall be done.\"\n\nHe began--stopping, however, almost directly to say, \"Had I been offered\nthe sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his mother-in-law a few\nmonths ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference.\"\n\nHe proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a\nsmile, observed, \"Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his\nway. One man's style must not be the rule of another's. We will not be\nsevere.\"\n\n\"It will be natural for me,\" he added shortly afterwards, \"to speak my\nopinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you.\nIt will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it--\"\n\n\"Not at all. I should wish it.\"\n\nMr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity.\n\n\"He trifles here,\" said he, \"as to the temptation. He knows he is wrong,\nand has nothing rational to urge.--Bad.--He ought not to have formed the\nengagement.--'His father's disposition:'--he is unjust, however, to his\nfather. Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright\nand honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort\nbefore he endeavoured to gain it.--Very true; he did not come till Miss\nFairfax was here.\"\n\n\"And I have not forgotten,\" said Emma, \"how sure you were that he might\nhave come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely--but you\nwere perfectly right.\"\n\n\"I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--had\n_you_ not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him.\"\n\nWhen he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it\naloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the\nhead; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as\nthe subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady\nreflection, thus--\n\n\"Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous\ngame. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.--No judge of\nhis own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and\nregardless of little besides his own convenience.--Fancying you to have\nfathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue,\nthat he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert\nthe understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more\nand more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each\nother?\"\n\nEmma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account,\nwhich she could not give any sincere explanation of.\n\n\"You had better go on,\" said she.\n\nHe did so, but very soon stopt again to say, \"the pianoforte! Ah! That\nwas the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether\nthe inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A\nboyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a\nwoman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense\nwith; and he did know that she would have prevented the instrument's\ncoming if she could.\"\n\nAfter this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill's\nconfession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for\nmore than a word in passing.\n\n\"I perfectly agree with you, sir,\"--was then his remark. \"You did behave\nvery shamefully. You never wrote a truer line.\" And having gone through\nwhat immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his\npersisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax's sense of right,\nhe made a fuller pause to say, \"This is very bad.--He had induced her\nto place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme difficulty and\nuneasiness, and it should have been his first object to prevent her from\nsuffering unnecessarily.--She must have had much more to contend\nwith, in carrying on the correspondence, than he could. He should have\nrespected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such; but hers were\nall reasonable. We must look to her one fault, and remember that she\nhad done a wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that she\nshould have been in such a state of punishment.\"\n\nEmma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew\nuncomfortable. Her own behaviour had been so very improper! She was\ndeeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look. It was all read,\nhowever, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and,\nexcepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear\nof giving pain--no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist.\n\n\"There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the\nEltons,\" was his next observation.--\"His feelings are natural.--What!\nactually resolve to break with him entirely!--She felt the engagement to\nbe a source of repentance and misery to each--she dissolved it.--What a\nview this gives of her sense of his behaviour!--Well, he must be a most\nextraordinary--\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, read on.--You will find how very much he suffers.\"\n\n\"I hope he does,\" replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resuming the letter.\n\"'Smallridge!'--What does this mean? What is all this?\"\n\n\"She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge's children--a\ndear friend of Mrs. Elton's--a neighbour of Maple Grove; and, by the\nbye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton bears the disappointment?\"\n\n\"Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to read--not even of\nMrs. Elton. Only one page more. I shall soon have done. What a letter\nthe man writes!\"\n\n\"I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him.\"\n\n\"Well, there _is_ feeling here.--He does seem to have suffered in\nfinding her ill.--Certainly, I can have no doubt of his being fond of\nher. 'Dearer, much dearer than ever.' I hope he may long continue to\nfeel all the value of such a reconciliation.--He is a very liberal\nthanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands.--'Happier than I\ndeserve.' Come, he knows himself there. 'Miss Woodhouse calls me the\nchild of good fortune.'--Those were Miss Woodhouse's words, were they?--\nAnd a fine ending--and there is the letter. The child of good fortune!\nThat was your name for him, was it?\"\n\n\"You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I am; but still\nyou must, at least I hope you must, think the better of him for it. I\nhope it does him some service with you.\"\n\n\"Yes, certainly it does. He has had great faults, faults of\ninconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his opinion\nin thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves: but still as he\nis, beyond a doubt, really attached to Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it\nmay be hoped, have the advantage of being constantly with her, I am very\nready to believe his character will improve, and acquire from hers the\nsteadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants. And now, let me talk\nto you of something else. I have another person's interest at present\nso much at heart, that I cannot think any longer about Frank Churchill.\nEver since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been hard at work\non one subject.\"\n\nThe subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected, gentlemanlike\nEnglish, such as Mr. Knightley used even to the woman he was in love\nwith, how to be able to ask her to marry him, without attacking the\nhappiness of her father. Emma's answer was ready at the first word.\n\"While her dear father lived, any change of condition must be impossible\nfor her. She could never quit him.\" Part only of this answer, however,\nwas admitted. The impossibility of her quitting her father, Mr.\nKnightley felt as strongly as herself; but the inadmissibility of any\nother change, he could not agree to. He had been thinking it over most\ndeeply, most intently; he had at first hoped to induce Mr. Woodhouse to\nremove with her to Donwell; he had wanted to believe it feasible, but\nhis knowledge of Mr. Woodhouse would not suffer him to deceive himself\nlong; and now he confessed his persuasion, that such a transplantation\nwould be a risk of her father's comfort, perhaps even of his life, which\nmust not be hazarded. Mr. Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!--No, he felt\nthat it ought not to be attempted. But the plan which had arisen on the\nsacrifice of this, he trusted his dearest Emma would not find in any\nrespect objectionable; it was, that he should be received at Hartfield;\nthat so long as her father's happiness in other words his life--required\nHartfield to continue her home, it should be his likewise.\n\nOf their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already had her own passing\nthoughts. Like him, she had tried the scheme and rejected it; but such\nan alternative as this had not occurred to her. She was sensible of all\nthe affection it evinced. She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must\nbe sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; that\nin living constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there\nwould be much, very much, to be borne with. She promised to think of it,\nand advised him to think of it more; but he was fully convinced, that no\nreflection could alter his wishes or his opinion on the subject. He had\ngiven it, he could assure her, very long and calm consideration; he had\nbeen walking away from William Larkins the whole morning, to have his\nthoughts to himself.\n\n\"Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for,\" cried Emma. \"I am sure\nWilliam Larkins will not like it. You must get his consent before you\nask mine.\"\n\nShe promised, however, to think of it; and pretty nearly promised,\nmoreover, to think of it, with the intention of finding it a very good\nscheme.\n\nIt is remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many, points of view in\nwhich she was now beginning to consider Donwell Abbey, was never\nstruck with any sense of injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as\nheir-expectant had formerly been so tenaciously regarded. Think she must\nof the possible difference to the poor little boy; and yet she only\ngave herself a saucy conscious smile about it, and found amusement in\ndetecting the real cause of that violent dislike of Mr. Knightley's\nmarrying Jane Fairfax, or any body else, which at the time she had\nwholly imputed to the amiable solicitude of the sister and the aunt.\n\nThis proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continuing at\nHartfield--the more she contemplated it, the more pleasing it became.\nHis evils seemed to lessen, her own advantages to increase, their mutual\ngood to outweigh every drawback. Such a companion for herself in the\nperiods of anxiety and cheerlessness before her!--Such a partner in\nall those duties and cares to which time must be giving increase of\nmelancholy!\n\nShe would have been too happy but for poor Harriet; but every blessing\nof her own seemed to involve and advance the sufferings of her friend,\nwho must now be even excluded from Hartfield. The delightful family\nparty which Emma was securing for herself, poor Harriet must, in mere\ncharitable caution, be kept at a distance from. She would be a loser in\nevery way. Emma could not deplore her future absence as any deduction\nfrom her own enjoyment. In such a party, Harriet would be rather a\ndead weight than otherwise; but for the poor girl herself, it seemed a\npeculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing her in such a state of\nunmerited punishment.\n\nIn time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten, that is,\nsupplanted; but this could not be expected to happen very early. Mr.\nKnightley himself would be doing nothing to assist the cure;--not\nlike Mr. Elton. Mr. Knightley, always so kind, so feeling, so truly\nconsiderate for every body, would never deserve to be less worshipped\nthan now; and it really was too much to hope even of Harriet, that she\ncould be in love with more than _three_ men in one year.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nIt was a very great relief to Emma to find Harriet as desirous as\nherself to avoid a meeting. Their intercourse was painful enough by\nletter. How much worse, had they been obliged to meet!\n\nHarriet expressed herself very much as might be supposed, without\nreproaches, or apparent sense of ill-usage; and yet Emma fancied there\nwas a something of resentment, a something bordering on it in her style,\nwhich increased the desirableness of their being separate.--It might be\nonly her own consciousness; but it seemed as if an angel only could have\nbeen quite without resentment under such a stroke.\n\nShe had no difficulty in procuring Isabella's invitation; and she was\nfortunate in having a sufficient reason for asking it, without resorting\nto invention.--There was a tooth amiss. Harriet really wished, and\nhad wished some time, to consult a dentist. Mrs. John Knightley was\ndelighted to be of use; any thing of ill health was a recommendation to\nher--and though not so fond of a dentist as of a Mr. Wingfield, she was\nquite eager to have Harriet under her care.--When it was thus settled\non her sister's side, Emma proposed it to her friend, and found her\nvery persuadable.--Harriet was to go; she was invited for at least a\nfortnight; she was to be conveyed in Mr. Woodhouse's carriage.--It was\nall arranged, it was all completed, and Harriet was safe in Brunswick\nSquare.\n\nNow Emma could, indeed, enjoy Mr. Knightley's visits; now she could\ntalk, and she could listen with true happiness, unchecked by that sense\nof injustice, of guilt, of something most painful, which had haunted her\nwhen remembering how disappointed a heart was near her, how much might\nat that moment, and at a little distance, be enduring by the feelings\nwhich she had led astray herself.\n\nThe difference of Harriet at Mrs. Goddard's, or in London, made perhaps\nan unreasonable difference in Emma's sensations; but she could not think\nof her in London without objects of curiosity and employment, which must\nbe averting the past, and carrying her out of herself.\n\nShe would not allow any other anxiety to succeed directly to the place\nin her mind which Harriet had occupied. There was a communication before\nher, one which _she_ only could be competent to make--the confession of\nher engagement to her father; but she would have nothing to do with it\nat present.--She had resolved to defer the disclosure till Mrs. Weston\nwere safe and well. No additional agitation should be thrown at this\nperiod among those she loved--and the evil should not act on herself\nby anticipation before the appointed time.--A fortnight, at least, of\nleisure and peace of mind, to crown every warmer, but more agitating,\ndelight, should be hers.\n\nShe soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure, to employ half an\nhour of this holiday of spirits in calling on Miss Fairfax.--She ought\nto go--and she was longing to see her; the resemblance of their present\nsituations increasing every other motive of goodwill. It would be a\n_secret_ satisfaction; but the consciousness of a similarity of prospect\nwould certainly add to the interest with which she should attend to any\nthing Jane might communicate.\n\nShe went--she had driven once unsuccessfully to the door, but had not\nbeen into the house since the morning after Box Hill, when poor Jane had\nbeen in such distress as had filled her with compassion, though all the\nworst of her sufferings had been unsuspected.--The fear of being still\nunwelcome, determined her, though assured of their being at home, to\nwait in the passage, and send up her name.--She heard Patty announcing\nit; but no such bustle succeeded as poor Miss Bates had before made so\nhappily intelligible.--No; she heard nothing but the instant reply of,\n\"Beg her to walk up;\"--and a moment afterwards she was met on the stairs\nby Jane herself, coming eagerly forward, as if no other reception of her\nwere felt sufficient.--Emma had never seen her look so well, so lovely,\nso engaging. There was consciousness, animation, and warmth; there was\nevery thing which her countenance or manner could ever have wanted.--\nShe came forward with an offered hand; and said, in a low, but very\nfeeling tone,\n\n\"This is most kind, indeed!--Miss Woodhouse, it is impossible for me\nto express--I hope you will believe--Excuse me for being so entirely\nwithout words.\"\n\nEmma was gratified, and would soon have shewn no want of words, if the\nsound of Mrs. Elton's voice from the sitting-room had not checked\nher, and made it expedient to compress all her friendly and all her\ncongratulatory sensations into a very, very earnest shake of the hand.\n\nMrs. Bates and Mrs. Elton were together. Miss Bates was out, which\naccounted for the previous tranquillity. Emma could have wished Mrs.\nElton elsewhere; but she was in a humour to have patience with every\nbody; and as Mrs. Elton met her with unusual graciousness, she hoped the\nrencontre would do them no harm.\n\nShe soon believed herself to penetrate Mrs. Elton's thoughts, and\nunderstand why she was, like herself, in happy spirits; it was being in\nMiss Fairfax's confidence, and fancying herself acquainted with what was\nstill a secret to other people. Emma saw symptoms of it immediately in\nthe expression of her face; and while paying her own compliments to Mrs.\nBates, and appearing to attend to the good old lady's replies, she saw\nher with a sort of anxious parade of mystery fold up a letter which she\nhad apparently been reading aloud to Miss Fairfax, and return it into\nthe purple and gold reticule by her side, saying, with significant nods,\n\n\"We can finish this some other time, you know. You and I shall not want\nopportunities. And, in fact, you have heard all the essential already. I\nonly wanted to prove to you that Mrs. S. admits our apology, and is\nnot offended. You see how delightfully she writes. Oh! she is a sweet\ncreature! You would have doated on her, had you gone.--But not a word\nmore. Let us be discreet--quite on our good behaviour.--Hush!--You\nremember those lines--I forget the poem at this moment:\n\n        \"For when a lady's in the case,\n        \"You know all other things give place.\"\n\nNow I say, my dear, in _our_ case, for _lady_, read----mum! a word to\nthe wise.--I am in a fine flow of spirits, an't I? But I want to set\nyour heart at ease as to Mrs. S.--_My_ representation, you see, has\nquite appeased her.\"\n\nAnd again, on Emma's merely turning her head to look at Mrs. Bates's\nknitting, she added, in a half whisper,\n\n\"I mentioned no _names_, you will observe.--Oh! no; cautious as a\nminister of state. I managed it extremely well.\"\n\nEmma could not doubt. It was a palpable display, repeated on every\npossible occasion. When they had all talked a little while in harmony of\nthe weather and Mrs. Weston, she found herself abruptly addressed with,\n\n\"Do not you think, Miss Woodhouse, our saucy little friend here is\ncharmingly recovered?--Do not you think her cure does Perry the highest\ncredit?--(here was a side-glance of great meaning at Jane.) Upon my\nword, Perry has restored her in a wonderful short time!--Oh! if you had\nseen her, as I did, when she was at the worst!\"--And when Mrs. Bates\nwas saying something to Emma, whispered farther, \"We do not say a word\nof any _assistance_ that Perry might have; not a word of a certain young\nphysician from Windsor.--Oh! no; Perry shall have all the credit.\"\n\n\"I have scarce had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Woodhouse,\" she\nshortly afterwards began, \"since the party to Box Hill. Very pleasant\nparty. But yet I think there was something wanting. Things did not\nseem--that is, there seemed a little cloud upon the spirits of some.--So\nit appeared to me at least, but I might be mistaken. However, I think\nit answered so far as to tempt one to go again. What say you both to our\ncollecting the same party, and exploring to Box Hill again, while the\nfine weather lasts?--It must be the same party, you know, quite the\nsame party, not _one_ exception.\"\n\nSoon after this Miss Bates came in, and Emma could not help being\ndiverted by the perplexity of her first answer to herself, resulting,\nshe supposed, from doubt of what might be said, and impatience to say\nevery thing.\n\n\"Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, you are all kindness.--It is impossible\nto say--Yes, indeed, I quite understand--dearest Jane's prospects--that\nis, I do not mean.--But she is charmingly recovered.--How is Mr.\nWoodhouse?--I am so glad.--Quite out of my power.--Such a happy little\ncircle as you find us here.--Yes, indeed.--Charming young man!--that\nis--so very friendly; I mean good Mr. Perry!--such attention to\nJane!\"--And from her great, her more than commonly thankful delight\ntowards Mrs. Elton for being there, Emma guessed that there had been a\nlittle show of resentment towards Jane, from the vicarage quarter,\nwhich was now graciously overcome.--After a few whispers, indeed, which\nplaced it beyond a guess, Mrs. Elton, speaking louder, said,\n\n\"Yes, here I am, my good friend; and here I have been so long, that\nanywhere else I should think it necessary to apologise; but, the truth\nis, that I am waiting for my lord and master. He promised to join me\nhere, and pay his respects to you.\"\n\n\"What! are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr. Elton?--That will\nbe a favour indeed! for I know gentlemen do not like morning visits, and\nMr. Elton's time is so engaged.\"\n\n\"Upon my word it is, Miss Bates.--He really is engaged from morning to\nnight.--There is no end of people's coming to him, on some pretence or\nother.--The magistrates, and overseers, and churchwardens, are always\nwanting his opinion. They seem not able to do any thing without\nhim.--'Upon my word, Mr. E.,' I often say, 'rather you than I.--I do\nnot know what would become of my crayons and my instrument, if I had\nhalf so many applicants.'--Bad enough as it is, for I absolutely neglect\nthem both to an unpardonable degree.--I believe I have not played a bar\nthis fortnight.--However, he is coming, I assure you: yes, indeed, on\npurpose to wait on you all.\" And putting up her hand to screen her\nwords from Emma--\"A congratulatory visit, you know.--Oh! yes, quite\nindispensable.\"\n\nMiss Bates looked about her, so happily--!\n\n\"He promised to come to me as soon as he could disengage himself\nfrom Knightley; but he and Knightley are shut up together in deep\nconsultation.--Mr. E. is Knightley's right hand.\"\n\nEmma would not have smiled for the world, and only said, \"Is Mr. Elton\ngone on foot to Donwell?--He will have a hot walk.\"\n\n\"Oh! no, it is a meeting at the Crown, a regular meeting. Weston and\nCole will be there too; but one is apt to speak only of those who\nlead.--I fancy Mr. E. and Knightley have every thing their own way.\"\n\n\"Have not you mistaken the day?\" said Emma. \"I am almost certain that\nthe meeting at the Crown is not till to-morrow.--Mr. Knightley was at\nHartfield yesterday, and spoke of it as for Saturday.\"\n\n\"Oh! no, the meeting is certainly to-day,\" was the abrupt answer, which\ndenoted the impossibility of any blunder on Mrs. Elton's side.--\"I do\nbelieve,\" she continued, \"this is the most troublesome parish that ever\nwas. We never heard of such things at Maple Grove.\"\n\n\"Your parish there was small,\" said Jane.\n\n\"Upon my word, my dear, I do not know, for I never heard the subject\ntalked of.\"\n\n\"But it is proved by the smallness of the school, which I have heard\nyou speak of, as under the patronage of your sister and Mrs. Bragge; the\nonly school, and not more than five-and-twenty children.\"\n\n\"Ah! you clever creature, that's very true. What a thinking brain you\nhave! I say, Jane, what a perfect character you and I should make, if we\ncould be shaken together. My liveliness and your solidity would produce\nperfection.--Not that I presume to insinuate, however, that _some_\npeople may not think _you_ perfection already.--But hush!--not a word,\nif you please.\"\n\nIt seemed an unnecessary caution; Jane was wanting to give her words,\nnot to Mrs. Elton, but to Miss Woodhouse, as the latter plainly saw.\nThe wish of distinguishing her, as far as civility permitted, was very\nevident, though it could not often proceed beyond a look.\n\nMr. Elton made his appearance. His lady greeted him with some of her\nsparkling vivacity.\n\n\"Very pretty, sir, upon my word; to send me on here, to be an\nencumbrance to my friends, so long before you vouchsafe to come!--But\nyou knew what a dutiful creature you had to deal with. You knew I should\nnot stir till my lord and master appeared.--Here have I been sitting\nthis hour, giving these young ladies a sample of true conjugal\nobedience--for who can say, you know, how soon it may be wanted?\"\n\nMr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed thrown away.\nHis civilities to the other ladies must be paid; but his subsequent\nobject was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and the\nwalk he had had for nothing.\n\n\"When I got to Donwell,\" said he, \"Knightley could not be found. Very\nodd! very unaccountable! after the note I sent him this morning, and the\nmessage he returned, that he should certainly be at home till one.\"\n\n\"Donwell!\" cried his wife.--\"My dear Mr. E., you have not been to\nDonwell!--You mean the Crown; you come from the meeting at the Crown.\"\n\n\"No, no, that's to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knightley\nto-day on that very account.--Such a dreadful broiling morning!--I went\nover the fields too--(speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,) which made\nit so much the worse. And then not to find him at home! I assure you\nI am not at all pleased. And no apology left, no message for me. The\nhousekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being expected.--Very\nextraordinary!--And nobody knew at all which way he was gone. Perhaps\nto Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps into his woods.--Miss\nWoodhouse, this is not like our friend Knightley!--Can you explain it?\"\n\nEmma amused herself by protesting that it was very extraordinary,\nindeed, and that she had not a syllable to say for him.\n\n\"I cannot imagine,\" said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indignity as a wife\nought to do,) \"I cannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you, of\nall people in the world! The very last person whom one should expect to\nbe forgotten!--My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I am\nsure he must.--Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric;--and his\nservants forgot it. Depend upon it, that was the case: and very likely\nto happen with the Donwell servants, who are all, I have often observed,\nextremely awkward and remiss.--I am sure I would not have such a\ncreature as his Harry stand at our sideboard for any consideration. And\nas for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds her very cheap indeed.--She promised\nWright a receipt, and never sent it.\"\n\n\"I met William Larkins,\" continued Mr. Elton, \"as I got near the house,\nand he told me I should not find his master at home, but I did not\nbelieve him.--William seemed rather out of humour. He did not know what\nwas come to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly ever get the\nspeech of him. I have nothing to do with William's wants, but it really\nis of very great importance that _I_ should see Knightley to-day; and it\nbecomes a matter, therefore, of very serious inconvenience that I should\nhave had this hot walk to no purpose.\"\n\nEmma felt that she could not do better than go home directly. In\nall probability she was at this very time waited for there; and Mr.\nKnightley might be preserved from sinking deeper in aggression towards\nMr. Elton, if not towards William Larkins.\n\nShe was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax determined to\nattend her out of the room, to go with her even downstairs; it gave her\nan opportunity which she immediately made use of, to say,\n\n\"It is as well, perhaps, that I have not had the possibility. Had you\nnot been surrounded by other friends, I might have been tempted to\nintroduce a subject, to ask questions, to speak more openly than might\nhave been strictly correct.--I feel that I should certainly have been\nimpertinent.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" cried Jane, with a blush and an hesitation which Emma thought\ninfinitely more becoming to her than all the elegance of all her usual\ncomposure--\"there would have been no danger. The danger would have\nbeen of my wearying you. You could not have gratified me more than\nby expressing an interest--. Indeed, Miss Woodhouse, (speaking more\ncollectedly,) with the consciousness which I have of misconduct, very\ngreat misconduct, it is particularly consoling to me to know that those\nof my friends, whose good opinion is most worth preserving, are not\ndisgusted to such a degree as to--I have not time for half that I could\nwish to say. I long to make apologies, excuses, to urge something for\nmyself. I feel it so very due. But, unfortunately--in short, if your\ncompassion does not stand my friend--\"\n\n\"Oh! you are too scrupulous, indeed you are,\" cried Emma warmly, and\ntaking her hand. \"You owe me no apologies; and every body to whom you\nmight be supposed to owe them, is so perfectly satisfied, so delighted\neven--\"\n\n\"You are very kind, but I know what my manners were to you.--So\ncold and artificial!--I had always a part to act.--It was a life of\ndeceit!--I know that I must have disgusted you.\"\n\n\"Pray say no more. I feel that all the apologies should be on my side.\nLet us forgive each other at once. We must do whatever is to be done\nquickest, and I think our feelings will lose no time there. I hope you\nhave pleasant accounts from Windsor?\"\n\n\"Very.\"\n\n\"And the next news, I suppose, will be, that we are to lose you--just as\nI begin to know you.\"\n\n\"Oh! as to all that, of course nothing can be thought of yet. I am here\ntill claimed by Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.\"\n\n\"Nothing can be actually settled yet, perhaps,\" replied Emma,\nsmiling--\"but, excuse me, it must be thought of.\"\n\nThe smile was returned as Jane answered,\n\n\"You are very right; it has been thought of. And I will own to you, (I\nam sure it will be safe), that so far as our living with Mr. Churchill\nat Enscombe, it is settled. There must be three months, at least, of\ndeep mourning; but when they are over, I imagine there will be nothing\nmore to wait for.\"\n\n\"Thank you, thank you.--This is just what I wanted to be assured\nof.--Oh! if you knew how much I love every thing that is decided and\nopen!--Good-bye, good-bye.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nMrs. Weston's friends were all made happy by her safety; and if the\nsatisfaction of her well-doing could be increased to Emma, it was by\nknowing her to be the mother of a little girl. She had been decided in\nwishing for a Miss Weston. She would not acknowledge that it was with\nany view of making a match for her, hereafter, with either of Isabella's\nsons; but she was convinced that a daughter would suit both father\nand mother best. It would be a great comfort to Mr. Weston, as he grew\nolder--and even Mr. Weston might be growing older ten years hence--to\nhave his fireside enlivened by the sports and the nonsense, the freaks\nand the fancies of a child never banished from home; and Mrs. Weston--no\none could doubt that a daughter would be most to her; and it would be\nquite a pity that any one who so well knew how to teach, should not have\ntheir powers in exercise again.\n\n\"She has had the advantage, you know, of practising on me,\" she\ncontinued--\"like La Baronne d'Almane on La Comtesse d'Ostalis, in Madame\nde Genlis' Adelaide and Theodore, and we shall now see her own little\nAdelaide educated on a more perfect plan.\"\n\n\"That is,\" replied Mr. Knightley, \"she will indulge her even more than\nshe did you, and believe that she does not indulge her at all. It will\nbe the only difference.\"\n\n\"Poor child!\" cried Emma; \"at that rate, what will become of her?\"\n\n\"Nothing very bad.--The fate of thousands. She will be disagreeable\nin infancy, and correct herself as she grows older. I am losing all my\nbitterness against spoilt children, my dearest Emma. I, who am owing all\nmy happiness to _you_, would not it be horrible ingratitude in me to be\nsevere on them?\"\n\nEmma laughed, and replied: \"But I had the assistance of all your\nendeavours to counteract the indulgence of other people. I doubt whether\nmy own sense would have corrected me without it.\"\n\n\"Do you?--I have no doubt. Nature gave you understanding:--Miss Taylor\ngave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite\nas likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what\nright has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to\nfeel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did\nyou any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the\ntenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without\ndoating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors,\nhave been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least.\"\n\n\"I am sure you were of use to me,\" cried Emma. \"I was very often\ninfluenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I\nam very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be\nspoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her\nas you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is\nthirteen.\"\n\n\"How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your\nsaucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I\nmay, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I\ndid not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad\nfeelings instead of one.\"\n\n\"What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches\nin such affectionate remembrance.\"\n\n\"'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from\nhabit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want\nyou to call me something else, but I do not know what.\"\n\n\"I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about\nten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as\nyou made no objection, I never did it again.\"\n\n\"And cannot you call me 'George' now?\"\n\n\"Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I\nwill not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by\ncalling you Mr. K.--But I will promise,\" she added presently, laughing\nand blushing--\"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name.\nI do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in\nwhich N. takes M. for better, for worse.\"\n\nEmma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important\nservice which his better sense would have rendered her, to the\nadvice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly\nfollies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a\nsubject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned\nbetween them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being\nthought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy,\nand a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were\ndeclining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other\ncircumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that\nher intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on\nIsabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being\nobliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to\nthe pain of having made Harriet unhappy.\n\nIsabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be\nexpected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which\nappeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but,\nsince that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet\ndifferent from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure,\nwas no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing\nwith the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and\nhopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer;\nher fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John\nKnightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain\ntill they could bring her back.\n\n\"John does not even mention your friend,\" said Mr. Knightley. \"Here is\nhis answer, if you like to see it.\"\n\nIt was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma\naccepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know\nwhat he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her\nfriend was unmentioned.\n\n\"John enters like a brother into my happiness,\" continued Mr. Knightley,\n\"but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have,\nlikewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making\nflourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in\nher praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes.\"\n\n\"He writes like a sensible man,\" replied Emma, when she had read the\nletter. \"I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the\ngood fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not\nwithout hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as\nyou think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different\nconstruction, I should not have believed him.\"\n\n\"My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--\"\n\n\"He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two,\"\ninterrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--\"much less, perhaps, than\nhe is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the\nsubject.\"\n\n\"Emma, my dear Emma--\"\n\n\"Oh!\" she cried with more thorough gaiety, \"if you fancy your brother\ndoes not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret,\nand hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing\n_you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on\nyour side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not\nsink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards\noppressed worth can go no farther.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" he cried, \"I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as\nJohn will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be\nhappy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice\nit?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by\nsurprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the\nkind.\"\n\n\"If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having\nsome thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly\nunprepared for that.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my\nfeelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any\ndifference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at\nthis time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I\nsuppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them\nthe other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much\nas usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems\nalways tired now.'\"\n\nThe time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other\npersons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently\nrecovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that\nher gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to\nannounce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her\nfather at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr.\nKnightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have\nfailed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come\nat such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was\nforced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a\nmore decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself.\nShe must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she\ncould command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then,\nin a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be\nobtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty,\nsince it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr.\nKnightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the\nconstant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next\nto his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world.\n\nPoor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried\nearnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of\nhaving always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be\na great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella,\nand poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him\naffectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must\nnot class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them\nfrom Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not\ngoing from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing\nno change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she\nwas very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr.\nKnightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did\nhe not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did,\nshe was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr.\nKnightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters,\nwho so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached\nto him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That\nwas all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should\nbe glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it\nwas.--Why could not they go on as they had done?\n\nMr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome,\nthe idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To\nEmma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond\npraise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon\nused to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all\nthe assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest\napprobation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to\nconsider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled,\nand, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance\nof the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed\nupon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be\nguided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some\nfeelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some\ntime or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very\nbad if the marriage did take place.\n\nMrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she\nsaid to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized,\nnever more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she\nsaw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in\nurging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as\nto think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect\nso proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one\nrespect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible,\nso singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely\nhave attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself\nbeen the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it\nlong ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma\nwould have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr.\nKnightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such\nan arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr.\nWoodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for\na marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe\nand Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr.\nWeston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish\nthe subject better than by saying--\"Those matters will take care of\nthemselves; the young people will find a way.\" But here there was\nnothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was\nall right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name.\nIt was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without\none real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it.\n\nMrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections\nas these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could\nincrease her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have\noutgrown its first set of caps.\n\nThe news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston\nhad his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to\nfamiliarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages\nof the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife;\nbut the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he\nwas not far from believing that he had always foreseen it.\n\n\"It is to be a secret, I conclude,\" said he. \"These matters are always a\nsecret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be\ntold when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion.\"\n\nHe went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that\npoint. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest\ndaughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed,\nof course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately\nafterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they\nhad calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it\nwould be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening\nwonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity.\n\nIn general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and\nothers might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their\nall removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys;\nand another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet,\nupon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one\nhabitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any\nsatisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife;\nhe only hoped \"the young lady's pride would now be contented;\" and\nsupposed \"she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;\" and,\non the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, \"Rather\nhe than I!\"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--\"Poor\nKnightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him.\"--She was extremely\nconcerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good\nqualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in\nlove--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all\npleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine\nwith them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor\nfellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh!\nno; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every\nthing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that\nshe had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living\ntogether. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who\nhad tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first\nquarter.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\nTime passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would\nbe arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one\nmorning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when\nMr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the\nfirst chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began\nwith,\n\n\"I have something to tell you, Emma; some news.\"\n\n\"Good or bad?\" said she, quickly, looking up in his face.\n\n\"I do not know which it ought to be called.\"\n\n\"Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not\nto smile.\"\n\n\"I am afraid,\" said he, composing his features, \"I am very much afraid,\nmy dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it.\"\n\n\"Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases\nor amuses you, should not please and amuse me too.\"\n\n\"There is one subject,\" he replied, \"I hope but one, on which we do not\nthink alike.\" He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on\nher face. \"Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet\nSmith.\"\n\nHer cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though\nshe knew not what.\n\n\"Have you heard from her yourself this morning?\" cried he. \"You have, I\nbelieve, and know the whole.\"\n\n\"No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me.\"\n\n\"You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet\nSmith marries Robert Martin.\"\n\nEmma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes,\nin eager gaze, said, \"No, this is impossible!\" but her lips were closed.\n\n\"It is so, indeed,\" continued Mr. Knightley; \"I have it from Robert\nMartin himself. He left me not half an hour ago.\"\n\nShe was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement.\n\n\"You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were\nthe same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one\nor the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not\ntalk much on the subject.\"\n\n\"You mistake me, you quite mistake me,\" she replied, exerting herself.\n\"It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I\ncannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say,\nthat Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he\nhas even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it.\"\n\n\"I mean that he has done it,\" answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but\ndetermined decision, \"and been accepted.\"\n\n\"Good God!\" she cried.--\"Well!\"--Then having recourse to her workbasket,\nin excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite\nfeelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be\nexpressing, she added, \"Well, now tell me every thing; make this\nintelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was\nmore surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how\nhas it been possible?\"\n\n\"It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago,\nand I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send\nto John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was\nasked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were\ngoing to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our\nbrother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could\nnot resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused;\nand my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he\ndid--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an\nopportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak\nin vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is\ndeserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this\nmorning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first\non my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of\nthe how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much\nlonger history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute\nparticulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our\ncommunications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that\nRobert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing;\nand that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that\non quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John\nKnightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry;\nand that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith\nrather uneasy.\"\n\nHe stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she\nwas sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness.\nShe must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed\nhim; and after observing her a little while, he added,\n\n\"Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you\nunhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His\nsituation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your\nfriend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him\nas you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight\nyou.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend\nin better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is\nsaying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William\nLarkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin.\"\n\nHe wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not\nto smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering,\n\n\"You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think\nHarriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than\n_his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they\nare. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You\ncannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared\nI was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined\nagainst him, much more, than she was before.\"\n\n\"You ought to know your friend best,\" replied Mr. Knightley; \"but I\nshould say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be\nvery, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her.\"\n\nEmma could not help laughing as she answered, \"Upon my word, I believe\nyou know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you\nperfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him.\nI could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you\nmisunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business,\nshows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of\nso many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was\ncertain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox.\"\n\nThe contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert\nMartin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong\nwas the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's\nside, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis,\n\"No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin,\" that she was\nreally expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature.\nIt could not be otherwise.\n\n\"Do you dare say this?\" cried Mr. Knightley. \"Do you dare to suppose me\nso great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do\nyou deserve?\"\n\n\"Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with\nany other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are\nyou quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and\nHarriet now are?\"\n\n\"I am quite sure,\" he replied, speaking very distinctly, \"that he\ntold me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing\ndoubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that\nit must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew\nof no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of\nher relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done,\nthan to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he\nsaid, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day.\"\n\n\"I am perfectly satisfied,\" replied Emma, with the brightest smiles,\n\"and most sincerely wish them happy.\"\n\n\"You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before.\"\n\n\"I hope so--for at that time I was a fool.\"\n\n\"And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all\nHarriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for\nRobert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much\nin love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often\ntalked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes,\nindeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor\nMartin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations,\nI am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good\nnotions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in\nthe affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no\ndoubt, she may thank you for.\"\n\n\"Me!\" cried Emma, shaking her head.--\"Ah! poor Harriet!\"\n\nShe checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more\npraise than she deserved.\n\nTheir conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her\nfather. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a\nstate of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be\ncollected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she\nhad moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she\ncould be fit for nothing rational.\n\nHer father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the\nhorses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she\nhad, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing.\n\nThe joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be\nimagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of\nHarriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for\nsecurity.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of\nhim, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own.\nNothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility\nand circumspection in future.\n\nSerious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her\nresolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the\nvery midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the\ndoleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet!\n\nNow there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a\npleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin.\n\nHigh in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the\nreflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would\nsoon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to\npractise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him\nthat full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to\nwelcome as a duty.\n\nIn the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not\nalways listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in\nspeech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his\nbeing obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be\ndisappointed.\n\nThey arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly\nhad they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks\nfor coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the\nblind, of two figures passing near the window.\n\n\"It is Frank and Miss Fairfax,\" said Mrs. Weston. \"I was just going to\ntell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He\nstays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the\nday with us.--They are coming in, I hope.\"\n\nIn half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to\nsee him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing\nrecollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a\nconsciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all\nsat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that\nEmma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long\nfelt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane,\nwould yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the\nparty, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a\nwant of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank\nChurchill to draw near her and say,\n\n\"I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message\nin one of Mrs. Weston's letters. I hope time has not made you less\nwilling to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said.\"\n\n\"No, indeed,\" cried Emma, most happy to begin, \"not in the least. I am\nparticularly glad to see and shake hands with you--and to give you joy\nin person.\"\n\nHe thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak with\nserious feeling of his gratitude and happiness.\n\n\"Is not she looking well?\" said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.\n\"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs. Weston\ndoat upon her.\"\n\nBut his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after\nmentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of\nDixon.--Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing.\n\n\"I can never think of it,\" she cried, \"without extreme shame.\"\n\n\"The shame,\" he answered, \"is all mine, or ought to be. But is it\npossible that you had no suspicion?--I mean of late. Early, I know, you\nhad none.\"\n\n\"I never had the smallest, I assure you.\"\n\n\"That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near--and I wish I\nhad--it would have been better. But though I was always doing wrong\nthings, they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no\nservice.--It would have been a much better transgression had I broken\nthe bond of secrecy and told you every thing.\"\n\n\"It is not now worth a regret,\" said Emma.\n\n\"I have some hope,\" resumed he, \"of my uncle's being persuaded to pay a\nvisit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her. When the Campbells\nare returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue there, I trust,\ntill we may carry her northward.--But now, I am at such a distance from\nher--is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?--Till this morning, we have not\nonce met since the day of reconciliation. Do not you pity me?\"\n\nEmma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden accession of gay\nthought, he cried,\n\n\"Ah! by the bye,\" then sinking his voice, and looking demure for the\nmoment--\"I hope Mr. Knightley is well?\" He paused.--She coloured and\nlaughed.--\"I know you saw my letter, and think you may remember my wish\nin your favour. Let me return your congratulations.--I assure you that\nI have heard the news with the warmest interest and satisfaction.--He is\na man whom I cannot presume to praise.\"\n\nEmma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in the same style; but\nhis mind was the next moment in his own concerns and with his own Jane,\nand his next words were,\n\n\"Did you ever see such a skin?--such smoothness! such delicacy!--and\nyet without being actually fair.--One cannot call her fair. It is a\nmost uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair--a most\ndistinguishing complexion! So peculiarly the lady in it.--Just colour\nenough for beauty.\"\n\n\"I have always admired her complexion,\" replied Emma, archly; \"but\ndo not I remember the time when you found fault with her for being so\npale?--When we first began to talk of her.--Have you quite forgotten?\"\n\n\"Oh! no--what an impudent dog I was!--How could I dare--\"\n\nBut he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma could not help\nsaying,\n\n\"I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at that time, you\nhad very great amusement in tricking us all.--I am sure you had.--I am\nsure it was a consolation to you.\"\n\n\"Oh! no, no, no--how can you suspect me of such a thing? I was the most\nmiserable wretch!\"\n\n\"Not quite so miserable as to be insensible to mirth. I am sure it was a\nsource of high entertainment to you, to feel that you were taking us\nall in.--Perhaps I am the readier to suspect, because, to tell you the\ntruth, I think it might have been some amusement to myself in the same\nsituation. I think there is a little likeness between us.\"\n\nHe bowed.\n\n\"If not in our dispositions,\" she presently added, with a look of true\nsensibility, \"there is a likeness in our destiny; the destiny which bids\nfair to connect us with two characters so much superior to our own.\"\n\n\"True, true,\" he answered, warmly. \"No, not true on your side. You can\nhave no superior, but most true on mine.--She is a complete angel. Look\nat her. Is not she an angel in every gesture? Observe the turn of her\nthroat. Observe her eyes, as she is looking up at my father.--You will\nbe glad to hear (inclining his head, and whispering seriously) that my\nuncle means to give her all my aunt's jewels. They are to be new set.\nI am resolved to have some in an ornament for the head. Will not it be\nbeautiful in her dark hair?\"\n\n\"Very beautiful, indeed,\" replied Emma; and she spoke so kindly, that he\ngratefully burst out,\n\n\"How delighted I am to see you again! and to see you in such excellent\nlooks!--I would not have missed this meeting for the world. I should\ncertainly have called at Hartfield, had you failed to come.\"\n\nThe others had been talking of the child, Mrs. Weston giving an account\nof a little alarm she had been under, the evening before, from the\ninfant's appearing not quite well. She believed she had been foolish,\nbut it had alarmed her, and she had been within half a minute of sending\nfor Mr. Perry. Perhaps she ought to be ashamed, but Mr. Weston had been\nalmost as uneasy as herself.--In ten minutes, however, the child had\nbeen perfectly well again. This was her history; and particularly\ninteresting it was to Mr. Woodhouse, who commended her very much for\nthinking of sending for Perry, and only regretted that she had not done\nit. \"She should always send for Perry, if the child appeared in the\nslightest degree disordered, were it only for a moment. She could not be\ntoo soon alarmed, nor send for Perry too often. It was a pity, perhaps,\nthat he had not come last night; for, though the child seemed well now,\nvery well considering, it would probably have been better if Perry had\nseen it.\"\n\nFrank Churchill caught the name.\n\n\"Perry!\" said he to Emma, and trying, as he spoke, to catch Miss\nFairfax's eye. \"My friend Mr. Perry! What are they saying about Mr.\nPerry?--Has he been here this morning?--And how does he travel now?--Has\nhe set up his carriage?\"\n\nEmma soon recollected, and understood him; and while she joined in the\nlaugh, it was evident from Jane's countenance that she too was really\nhearing him, though trying to seem deaf.\n\n\"Such an extraordinary dream of mine!\" he cried. \"I can never think of\nit without laughing.--She hears us, she hears us, Miss Woodhouse. I see\nit in her cheek, her smile, her vain attempt to frown. Look at her. Do\nnot you see that, at this instant, the very passage of her own letter,\nwhich sent me the report, is passing under her eye--that the whole\nblunder is spread before her--that she can attend to nothing else,\nthough pretending to listen to the others?\"\n\nJane was forced to smile completely, for a moment; and the smile partly\nremained as she turned towards him, and said in a conscious, low, yet\nsteady voice,\n\n\"How you can bear such recollections, is astonishing to me!--They\n_will_ sometimes obtrude--but how you can court them!\"\n\nHe had a great deal to say in return, and very entertainingly; but\nEmma's feelings were chiefly with Jane, in the argument; and on leaving\nRandalls, and falling naturally into a comparison of the two men, she\nfelt, that pleased as she had been to see Frank Churchill, and really\nregarding him as she did with friendship, she had never been more\nsensible of Mr. Knightley's high superiority of character. The happiness\nof this most happy day, received its completion, in the animated\ncontemplation of his worth which this comparison produced.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\n\nIf Emma had still, at intervals, an anxious feeling for Harriet, a\nmomentary doubt of its being possible for her to be really cured of her\nattachment to Mr. Knightley, and really able to accept another man from\nunbiased inclination, it was not long that she had to suffer from the\nrecurrence of any such uncertainty. A very few days brought the party\nfrom London, and she had no sooner an opportunity of being one hour\nalone with Harriet, than she became perfectly satisfied--unaccountable\nas it was!--that Robert Martin had thoroughly supplanted Mr. Knightley,\nand was now forming all her views of happiness.\n\nHarriet was a little distressed--did look a little foolish at first:\nbut having once owned that she had been presumptuous and silly, and\nself-deceived, before, her pain and confusion seemed to die away with\nthe words, and leave her without a care for the past, and with the\nfullest exultation in the present and future; for, as to her friend's\napprobation, Emma had instantly removed every fear of that nature, by\nmeeting her with the most unqualified congratulations.--Harriet was\nmost happy to give every particular of the evening at Astley's, and the\ndinner the next day; she could dwell on it all with the utmost delight.\nBut what did such particulars explain?--The fact was, as Emma could now\nacknowledge, that Harriet had always liked Robert Martin; and that his\ncontinuing to love her had been irresistible.--Beyond this, it must ever\nbe unintelligible to Emma.\n\nThe event, however, was most joyful; and every day was giving her fresh\nreason for thinking so.--Harriet's parentage became known. She proved\nto be the daughter of a tradesman, rich enough to afford her the\ncomfortable maintenance which had ever been hers, and decent enough to\nhave always wished for concealment.--Such was the blood of gentility\nwhich Emma had formerly been so ready to vouch for!--It was likely to\nbe as untainted, perhaps, as the blood of many a gentleman: but what\na connexion had she been preparing for Mr. Knightley--or for the\nChurchills--or even for Mr. Elton!--The stain of illegitimacy,\nunbleached by nobility or wealth, would have been a stain indeed.\n\nNo objection was raised on the father's side; the young man was treated\nliberally; it was all as it should be: and as Emma became acquainted\nwith Robert Martin, who was now introduced at Hartfield, she fully\nacknowledged in him all the appearance of sense and worth which could\nbid fairest for her little friend. She had no doubt of Harriet's\nhappiness with any good-tempered man; but with him, and in the home he\noffered, there would be the hope of more, of security, stability, and\nimprovement. She would be placed in the midst of those who loved her,\nand who had better sense than herself; retired enough for safety,\nand occupied enough for cheerfulness. She would be never led into\ntemptation, nor left for it to find her out. She would be respectable\nand happy; and Emma admitted her to be the luckiest creature in the\nworld, to have created so steady and persevering an affection in such a\nman;--or, if not quite the luckiest, to yield only to herself.\n\nHarriet, necessarily drawn away by her engagements with the Martins,\nwas less and less at Hartfield; which was not to be regretted.--The\nintimacy between her and Emma must sink; their friendship must change\ninto a calmer sort of goodwill; and, fortunately, what ought to be,\nand must be, seemed already beginning, and in the most gradual, natural\nmanner.\n\nBefore the end of September, Emma attended Harriet to church, and saw\nher hand bestowed on Robert Martin with so complete a satisfaction, as\nno remembrances, even connected with Mr. Elton as he stood before them,\ncould impair.--Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely saw Mr. Elton,\nbut as the clergyman whose blessing at the altar might next fall on\nherself.--Robert Martin and Harriet Smith, the latest couple engaged of\nthe three, were the first to be married.\n\nJane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was restored to the\ncomforts of her beloved home with the Campbells.--The Mr. Churchills\nwere also in town; and they were only waiting for November.\n\nThe intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as they dared, by\nEmma and Mr. Knightley.--They had determined that their marriage ought\nto be concluded while John and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to\nallow them the fortnight's absence in a tour to the seaside, which was\nthe plan.--John and Isabella, and every other friend, were agreed in\napproving it. But Mr. Woodhouse--how was Mr. Woodhouse to be induced\nto consent?--he, who had never yet alluded to their marriage but as a\ndistant event.\n\nWhen first sounded on the subject, he was so miserable, that they were\nalmost hopeless.--A second allusion, indeed, gave less pain.--He\nbegan to think it was to be, and that he could not prevent it--a very\npromising step of the mind on its way to resignation. Still, however, he\nwas not happy. Nay, he appeared so much otherwise, that his daughter's\ncourage failed. She could not bear to see him suffering, to know\nhim fancying himself neglected; and though her understanding almost\nacquiesced in the assurance of both the Mr. Knightleys, that when\nonce the event were over, his distress would be soon over too, she\nhesitated--she could not proceed.\n\nIn this state of suspense they were befriended, not by any sudden\nillumination of Mr. Woodhouse's mind, or any wonderful change of his\nnervous system, but by the operation of the same system in another\nway.--Mrs. Weston's poultry-house was robbed one night of all her\nturkeys--evidently by the ingenuity of man. Other poultry-yards in\nthe neighbourhood also suffered.--Pilfering was _housebreaking_ to Mr.\nWoodhouse's fears.--He was very uneasy; and but for the sense of his\nson-in-law's protection, would have been under wretched alarm every\nnight of his life. The strength, resolution, and presence of mind of the\nMr. Knightleys, commanded his fullest dependence. While either of them\nprotected him and his, Hartfield was safe.--But Mr. John Knightley must\nbe in London again by the end of the first week in November.\n\nThe result of this distress was, that, with a much more voluntary,\ncheerful consent than his daughter had ever presumed to hope for at the\nmoment, she was able to fix her wedding-day--and Mr. Elton was called\non, within a month from the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin, to\njoin the hands of Mr. Knightley and Miss Woodhouse.\n\nThe wedding was very much like other weddings, where the parties have\nno taste for finery or parade; and Mrs. Elton, from the particulars\ndetailed by her husband, thought it all extremely shabby, and very\ninferior to her own.--\"Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a\nmost pitiful business!--Selina would stare when she heard of it.\"--But,\nin spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence,\nthe predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the\nceremony, were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union.\n\n\n\nFINIS\n\n\n\n\n\n","id":"158"},{"text":"\nSpecial thanks are due to Sharon Partridge for extensive\nproofreading and correction of this etext.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSENSE AND SENSIBILITY\n\nby Jane Austen\n\n(1811)\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 1\n\n\nThe family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex.  Their estate\nwas large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of\ntheir property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so\nrespectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their\nsurrounding acquaintance.  The late owner of this estate was a single\nman, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his\nlife, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister.  But her\ndeath, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great\nalteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and received\ninto his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal\ninheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to\nbequeath it.  In the society of his nephew and niece, and their\nchildren, the old Gentleman's days were comfortably spent.  His\nattachment to them all increased.  The constant attention of Mr. and\nMrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from\ninterest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid\ncomfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the\nchildren added a relish to his existence.\n\nBy a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son: by his present\nlady, three daughters.  The son, a steady respectable young man, was\namply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large,\nand half of which devolved on him on his coming of age.  By his own\nmarriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his\nwealth.  To him therefore the succession to the Norland estate was not\nso really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent\nof what might arise to them from their father's inheriting that\nproperty, could be but small.  Their mother had nothing, and their\nfather only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the\nremaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her\nchild, and he had only a life-interest in it.\n\nThe old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every other\nwill, gave as much disappointment as pleasure.  He was neither so\nunjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew;--but\nhe left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the\nbequest.  Mr. Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife\nand daughters than for himself or his son;--but to his son, and his\nson's son, a child of four years old, it was secured, in such a way, as\nto leave to himself no power of providing for those who were most dear\nto him, and who most needed a provision by any charge on the estate, or\nby any sale of its valuable woods.  The whole was tied up for the\nbenefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his father and\nmother at Norland, had so far gained on the affections of his uncle, by\nsuch attractions as are by no means unusual in children of two or three\nyears old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his\nown way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, as to outweigh\nall the value of all the attention which, for years, he had received\nfrom his niece and her daughters.  He meant not to be unkind, however,\nand, as a mark of his affection for the three girls, he left them a\nthousand pounds a-piece.\n\nMr. Dashwood's disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper was\ncheerful and sanguine; and he might reasonably hope to live many years,\nand by living economically, lay by a considerable sum from the produce\nof an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate\nimprovement.  But the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was\nhis only one twelvemonth.  He survived his uncle no longer; and ten\nthousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained for\nhis widow and daughters.\n\nHis son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him Mr.\nDashwood recommended, with all the strength and urgency which illness\ncould command, the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters.\n\nMr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the\nfamily; but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at\nsuch a time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to make\nthem comfortable.  His father was rendered easy by such an assurance,\nand Mr. John Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there might\nprudently be in his power to do for them.\n\nHe was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted\nand rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well\nrespected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of\nhis ordinary duties.  Had he married a more amiable woman, he might\nhave been made still more respectable than he was:--he might even have\nbeen made amiable himself; for he was very young when he married, and\nvery fond of his wife.  But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature\nof himself;--more narrow-minded and selfish.\n\nWhen he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to\nincrease the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand\npounds a-piece.  He then really thought himself equal to it.  The\nprospect of four thousand a-year, in addition to his present income,\nbesides the remaining half of his own mother's fortune, warmed his\nheart, and made him feel capable of generosity.-- \"Yes, he would give\nthem three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome! It would\nbe enough to make them completely easy.  Three thousand pounds! he\ncould spare so considerable a sum with little inconvenience.\"-- He\nthought of it all day long, and for many days successively, and he did\nnot repent.\n\nNo sooner was his father's funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood,\nwithout sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law,\narrived with her child and their attendants.  No one could dispute her\nright to come; the house was her husband's from the moment of his\nfather's decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the\ngreater, and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's situation, with only common\nfeelings, must have been highly unpleasing;--but in HER mind there was\na sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any offence of\nthe kind, by whomsoever given or received, was to her a source of\nimmovable disgust.  Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a favourite with\nany of her husband's family; but she had had no opportunity, till the\npresent, of shewing them with how little attention to the comfort of\nother people she could act when occasion required it.\n\nSo acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so\nearnestly did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the\narrival of the latter, she would have quitted the house for ever, had\nnot the entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on the\npropriety of going, and her own tender love for all her three children\ndetermined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid a breach\nwith their brother.\n\nElinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed\na strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified\nher, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother, and\nenabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all,\nthat eagerness of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led\nto imprudence.  She had an excellent heart;--her disposition was\naffectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern\nthem: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn; and which\none of her sisters had resolved never to be taught.\n\nMarianne's abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to Elinor's.\nShe was sensible and clever; but eager in everything: her sorrows, her\njoys, could have no moderation.  She was generous, amiable,\ninteresting: she was everything but prudent.  The resemblance between\nher and her mother was strikingly great.\n\nElinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister's sensibility; but\nby Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cherished.  They encouraged each\nother now in the violence of their affliction.  The agony of grief\nwhich overpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought\nfor, was created again and again.  They gave themselves up wholly to\ntheir sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection that\ncould afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation in\nfuture.  Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could\nstruggle, she could exert herself.  She could consult with her brother,\ncould receive her sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with\nproper attention; and could strive to rouse her mother to similar\nexertion, and encourage her to similar forbearance.\n\nMargaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl; but\nas she had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne's romance, without\nhaving much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal\nher sisters at a more advanced period of life.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 2\n\n\nMrs. John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of Norland; and her\nmother and sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors.\nAs such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; and by\nher husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody\nbeyond himself, his wife, and their child.  He really pressed them,\nwith some earnestness, to consider Norland as their home; and, as no\nplan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as remaining there till she\ncould accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his\ninvitation was accepted.\n\nA continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former\ndelight, was exactly what suited her mind.  In seasons of cheerfulness,\nno temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater\ndegree, that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness\nitself.  But in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy,\nand as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy.\n\nMrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband intended\nto do for his sisters.  To take three thousand pounds from the fortune\nof their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most\ndreadful degree.  She begged him to think again on the subject.  How\ncould he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too,\nof so large a sum?  And what possible claim could the Miss Dashwoods,\nwho were related to him only by half blood, which she considered as no\nrelationship at all, have on his generosity to so large an amount.  It\nwas very well known that no affection was ever supposed to exist\nbetween the children of any man by different marriages; and why was he\nto ruin himself, and their poor little Harry, by giving away all his\nmoney to his half sisters?\n\n\"It was my father's last request to me,\" replied her husband, \"that I\nshould assist his widow and daughters.\"\n\n\"He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say; ten to one but he\nwas light-headed at the time.  Had he been in his right senses, he\ncould not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half\nyour fortune from your own child.\"\n\n\"He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he only\nrequested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their\nsituation more comfortable than it was in his power to do.  Perhaps it\nwould have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself.  He could\nhardly suppose I should neglect them.  But as he required the promise,\nI could not do less than give it; at least I thought so at the time.\nThe promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed.  Something\nmust be done for them whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new\nhome.\"\n\n\"Well, then, LET something be done for them; but THAT something need\nnot be three thousand pounds.  Consider,\" she added, \"that when the\nmoney is once parted with, it never can return.  Your sisters will\nmarry, and it will be gone for ever.  If, indeed, it could be restored\nto our poor little boy--\"\n\n\"Why, to be sure,\" said her husband, very gravely, \"that would make\ngreat difference.  The time may come when Harry will regret that so\nlarge a sum was parted with.  If he should have a numerous family, for\ninstance, it would be a very convenient addition.\"\n\n\"To be sure it would.\"\n\n\"Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were\ndiminished one half.--Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious\nincrease to their fortunes!\"\n\n\"Oh! beyond anything great!  What brother on earth would do half so\nmuch for his sisters, even if REALLY his sisters!  And as it is--only\nhalf blood!--But you have such a generous spirit!\"\n\n\"I would not wish to do any thing mean,\" he replied.  \"One had rather,\non such occasions, do too much than too little.  No one, at least, can\nthink I have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can hardly\nexpect more.\"\n\n\"There is no knowing what THEY may expect,\" said the lady, \"but we are\nnot to think of their expectations: the question is, what you can\nafford to do.\"\n\n\"Certainly--and I think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds\na-piece.  As it is, without any addition of mine, they will each have\nabout three thousand pounds on their mother's death--a very comfortable\nfortune for any young woman.\"\n\n\"To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no\naddition at all.  They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst\nthem.  If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do\nnot, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of ten\nthousand pounds.\"\n\n\"That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the\nwhole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother\nwhile she lives, rather than for them--something of the annuity kind I\nmean.--My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself.\nA hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable.\"\n\nHis wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this\nplan.\n\n\"To be sure,\" said she, \"it is better than parting with fifteen hundred\npounds at once.  But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live fifteen years\nwe shall be completely taken in.\"\n\n\"Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that\npurchase.\"\n\n\"Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when\nthere is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and healthy,\nand hardly forty.  An annuity is a very serious business; it comes over\nand over every year, and there is no getting rid of it.  You are not\naware of what you are doing.  I have known a great deal of the trouble\nof annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment of three to\nold superannuated servants by my father's will, and it is amazing how\ndisagreeable she found it.  Twice every year these annuities were to be\npaid; and then there was the trouble of getting it to them; and then\none of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be\nno such thing.  My mother was quite sick of it.  Her income was not her\nown, she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it was the more\nunkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money would have been\nentirely at my mother's disposal, without any restriction whatever.  It\nhas given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would\nnot pin myself down to the payment of one for all the world.\"\n\n\"It is certainly an unpleasant thing,\" replied Mr. Dashwood, \"to have\nthose kind of yearly drains on one's income.  One's fortune, as your\nmother justly says, is NOT one's own.  To be tied down to the regular\npayment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it\ntakes away one's independence.\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it.  They think\nthemselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises\nno gratitude at all.  If I were you, whatever I did should be done at\nmy own discretion entirely.  I would not bind myself to allow them any\nthing yearly.  It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a\nhundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses.\"\n\n\"I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should\nbe no annuity in the case; whatever I may give them occasionally will\nbe of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they\nwould only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger\nincome, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the\nyear.  It will certainly be much the best way.  A present of fifty\npounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for\nmoney, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my father.\"\n\n\"To be sure it will.  Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within\nmyself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at\nall.  The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might\nbe reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a\ncomfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things,\nand sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever they\nare in season.  I'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed,\nit would be very strange and unreasonable if he did.  Do but consider,\nmy dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law\nand her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand pounds,\nbesides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which\nbrings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of course, they will\npay their mother for their board out of it.  Altogether, they will have\nfive hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want\nfor more than that?--They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will\nbe nothing at all.  They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly\nany servants; they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of\nany kind!  Only conceive how comfortable they will be!  Five hundred a\nyear! I am sure I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as\nto your giving them more, it is quite absurd to think of it.  They will\nbe much more able to give YOU something.\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" said Mr. Dashwood, \"I believe you are perfectly right.\nMy father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than\nwhat you say.  I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil\nmy engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you\nhave described.  When my mother removes into another house my services\nshall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can.  Some little\npresent of furniture too may be acceptable then.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" returned Mrs. John Dashwood.  \"But, however, ONE thing\nmust be considered.  When your father and mother moved to Norland,\nthough the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and\nlinen was saved, and is now left to your mother.  Her house will\ntherefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it.\"\n\n\"That is a material consideration undoubtedly.  A valuable legacy\nindeed! And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant\naddition to our own stock here.\"\n\n\"Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what\nbelongs to this house.  A great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for\nany place THEY can ever afford to live in.  But, however, so it is.\nYour father thought only of THEM.  And I must say this: that you owe no\nparticular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we very\nwell know that if he could, he would have left almost everything in the\nworld to THEM.\"\n\nThis argument was irresistible.  It gave to his intentions whatever of\ndecision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be\nabsolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the\nwidow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as\nhis own wife pointed out.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 3\n\n\nMrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months; not from any\ndisinclination to move when the sight of every well known spot ceased\nto raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while; for when\nher spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other\nexertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy\nremembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her\ninquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for\nto remove far from that beloved spot was impossible.  But she could\nhear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and\nease, and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier\njudgment rejected several houses as too large for their income, which\nher mother would have approved.\n\nMrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on\nthe part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last\nearthly reflections.  She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no\nmore than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her\ndaughters' sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was\npersuaded that a much smaller provision than 7000L would support her in\naffluence.  For their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his own\nheart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to his\nmerit before, in believing him incapable of generosity.  His attentive\nbehaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that their welfare\nwas dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the\nliberality of his intentions.\n\nThe contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for\nher daughter-in-law, was very much increased by the farther knowledge\nof her character, which half a year's residence in her family afforded;\nand perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or maternal\naffection on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it\nimpossible to have lived together so long, had not a particular\ncircumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to\nthe opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters' continuance at Norland.\n\nThis circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and\nthe brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentleman-like and pleasing young\nman, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister's\nestablishment at Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of\nhis time there.\n\nSome mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of\ninterest, for Edward Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died\nvery rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence,\nfor, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the\nwill of his mother.  But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either\nconsideration.  It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable,\nthat he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the partiality.\nIt was contrary to every doctrine of hers that difference of fortune\nshould keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of\ndisposition; and that Elinor's merit should not be acknowledged by\nevery one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.\n\nEdward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any\npeculiar graces of person or address.  He was not handsome, and his\nmanners required intimacy to make them pleasing.  He was too diffident\nto do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome,\nhis behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart.\nHis understanding was good, and his education had given it solid\nimprovement.  But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to\nanswer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him\ndistinguished--as--they hardly knew what.  They wanted him to make a\nfine figure in the world in some manner or other.  His mother wished to\ninterest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to\nsee him connected with some of the great men of the day.  Mrs. John\nDashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these\nsuperior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her\nambition to see him driving a barouche.  But Edward had no turn for\ngreat men or barouches.  All his wishes centered in domestic comfort\nand the quiet of private life.  Fortunately he had a younger brother\nwho was more promising.\n\nEdward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged\nmuch of Mrs. Dashwood's attention; for she was, at that time, in such\naffliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects.  She saw\nonly that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it.  He\ndid not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation.\nShe was first called to observe and approve him farther, by a\nreflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on the difference\nbetween him and his sister.  It was a contrast which recommended him\nmost forcibly to her mother.\n\n\"It is enough,\" said she; \"to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough.\nIt implies everything amiable.  I love him already.\"\n\n\"I think you will like him,\" said Elinor, \"when you know more of him.\"\n\n\"Like him!\" replied her mother with a smile.  \"I feel no sentiment of\napprobation inferior to love.\"\n\n\"You may esteem him.\"\n\n\"I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him.  Her manners\nwere attaching, and soon banished his reserve.  She speedily\ncomprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for Elinor\nperhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his\nworth: and even that quietness of manner, which militated against all\nher established ideas of what a young man's address ought to be, was no\nlonger uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper\naffectionate.\n\nNo sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to\nElinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and\nlooked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching.\n\n\"In a few months, my dear Marianne.\" said she, \"Elinor will, in all\nprobability be settled for life.  We shall miss her; but SHE will be\nhappy.\"\n\n\"Oh! Mama, how shall we do without her?\"\n\n\"My love, it will be scarcely a separation.  We shall live within a few\nmiles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives.  You will\ngain a brother, a real, affectionate brother.  I have the highest\nopinion in the world of Edward's heart.  But you look grave, Marianne;\ndo you disapprove your sister's choice?\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Marianne, \"I may consider it with some surprise.\nEdward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly.  But yet--he is not\nthe kind of young man--there is something wanting--his figure is not\nstriking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man\nwho could seriously attach my sister.  His eyes want all that spirit,\nthat fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence.  And besides\nall this, I am afraid, Mama, he has no real taste.  Music seems\nscarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor's drawings very\nmuch, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their\nworth.  It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while\nshe draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter.  He admires as\na lover, not as a connoisseur.  To satisfy me, those characters must be\nunited.  I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every\npoint coincide with my own.  He must enter into all my feelings; the\nsame books, the same music must charm us both.  Oh! mama, how\nspiritless, how tame was Edward's manner in reading to us last night!\nI felt for my sister most severely.  Yet she bore it with so much\ncomposure, she seemed scarcely to notice it.  I could hardly keep my\nseat.  To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost\ndriven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such\ndreadful indifference!\"-- \"He would certainly have done more justice to\nsimple and elegant prose.  I thought so at the time; but you WOULD give\nhim Cowper.\"\n\n\"Nay, Mama, if he is not to be animated by Cowper!--but we must allow\nfor difference of taste.  Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she\nmay overlook it, and be happy with him.  But it would have broke MY\nheart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility.\nMama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I\nshall never see a man whom I can really love.  I require so much!  He\nmust have all Edward's virtues, and his person and manners must\nornament his goodness with every possible charm.\"\n\n\"Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen.  It is yet too early in\nlife to despair of such a happiness.  Why should you be less fortunate\nthan your mother?  In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your\ndestiny be different from hers!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 4\n\n\n\"What a pity it is, Elinor,\" said Marianne, \"that Edward should have no\ntaste for drawing.\"\n\n\"No taste for drawing!\" replied Elinor, \"why should you think so? He\ndoes not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the\nperformances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means\ndeficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of\nimproving it.  Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he\nwould have drawn very well.  He distrusts his own judgment in such\nmatters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any\npicture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which\nin general direct him perfectly right.\"\n\nMarianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but\nthe kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the\ndrawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight,\nwhich, in her opinion, could alone be called taste.  Yet, though\nsmiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that\nblind partiality to Edward which produced it.\n\n\"I hope, Marianne,\" continued Elinor, \"you do not consider him as\ndeficient in general taste.  Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot,\nfor your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if THAT were your\nopinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him.\"\n\nMarianne hardly knew what to say.  She would not wound the feelings of\nher sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was\nimpossible.  At length she replied:\n\n\"Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing\nequal to your sense of his merits.  I have not had so many\nopportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his\ninclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in\nthe world of his goodness and sense.  I think him every thing that is\nworthy and amiable.\"\n\n\"I am sure,\" replied Elinor, with a smile, \"that his dearest friends\ncould not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that.  I do not\nperceive how you could express yourself more warmly.\"\n\nMarianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.\n\n\"Of his sense and his goodness,\" continued Elinor, \"no one can, I\nthink, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in\nunreserved conversation.  The excellence of his understanding and his\nprinciples can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps\nhim silent.  You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth.\nBut of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from\npeculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself.  He and I\nhave been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been\nwholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother.  I\nhave seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard\nhis opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I\nventure to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books\nexceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and\ncorrect, and his taste delicate and pure.  His abilities in every\nrespect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person.\nAt first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person\ncan hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which\nare uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is\nperceived.  At present, I know him so well, that I think him really\nhandsome; or at least, almost so.  What say you, Marianne?\"\n\n\"I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now.  When\nyou tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection\nin his face, than I now do in his heart.\"\n\nElinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she\nhad been betrayed into, in speaking of him.  She felt that Edward stood\nvery high in her opinion.  She believed the regard to be mutual; but\nshe required greater certainty of it to make Marianne's conviction of\ntheir attachment agreeable to her.  She knew that what Marianne and her\nmother conjectured one moment, they believed the next--that with them,\nto wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect.  She tried to explain\nthe real state of the case to her sister.\n\n\"I do not attempt to deny,\" said she, \"that I think very highly of\nhim--that I greatly esteem, that I like him.\"\n\nMarianne here burst forth with indignation--\n\n\"Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh!  worse than\ncold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise.  Use those words again, and I\nwill leave the room this moment.\"\n\nElinor could not help laughing.  \"Excuse me,\" said she; \"and be assured\nthat I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my\nown feelings.  Believe them to be stronger than I have declared;\nbelieve them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion--the\nhope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly.\nBut farther than this you must not believe.  I am by no means assured\nof his regard for me.  There are moments when the extent of it seems\ndoubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at\nmy wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by\nbelieving or calling it more than it is.  In my heart I feel\nlittle--scarcely any doubt of his preference.  But there are other\npoints to be considered besides his inclination.  He is very far from\nbeing independent.  What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from\nFanny's occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never\nbeen disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if\nEdward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in\nhis way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great\nfortune or high rank.\"\n\nMarianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother\nand herself had outstripped the truth.\n\n\"And you really are not engaged to him!\" said she.  \"Yet it certainly\nsoon will happen.  But two advantages will proceed from this delay.  I\nshall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity of\nimproving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be\nso indispensably necessary to your future felicity.  Oh! if he should\nbe so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how\ndelightful it would be!\"\n\nElinor had given her real opinion to her sister.  She could not\nconsider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne\nhad believed it.  There was, at times, a want of spirits about him\nwhich, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as\nunpromising.  A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not\ngive him more than inquietude.  It would not be likely to produce that\ndejection of mind which frequently attended him.  A more reasonable\ncause might be found in the dependent situation which forbade the\nindulgence of his affection.  She knew that his mother neither behaved\nto him so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him\nany assurance that he might form a home for himself, without strictly\nattending to her views for his aggrandizement.  With such a knowledge\nas this, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on the subject.  She\nwas far from depending on that result of his preference of her, which\nher mother and sister still considered as certain.  Nay, the longer\nthey were together the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard;\nand sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no more\nthan friendship.\n\nBut, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived\nby his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time, (which was\nstill more common,) to make her uncivil.  She took the first\nopportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to\nher so expressively of her brother's great expectations, of Mrs.\nFerrars's resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the\ndanger attending any young woman who attempted to DRAW HIM IN; that\nMrs. Dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to\nbe calm.  She gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and\ninstantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the\ninconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor\nshould not be exposed another week to such insinuations.\n\nIn this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the\npost, which contained a proposal particularly well timed.  It was the\noffer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of\nher own, a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire.  The\nletter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit\nof friendly accommodation.  He understood that she was in need of a\ndwelling; and though the house he now offered her was merely a cottage,\nhe assured her that everything should be done to it which she might\nthink necessary, if the situation pleased her.  He earnestly pressed\nher, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to come with\nher daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own residence, from\nwhence she might judge, herself, whether Barton Cottage, for the houses\nwere in the same parish, could, by any alteration, be made comfortable\nto her.  He seemed really anxious to accommodate them and the whole of\nhis letter was written in so friendly a style as could not fail of\ngiving pleasure to his cousin; more especially at a moment when she was\nsuffering under the cold and unfeeling behaviour of her nearer\nconnections.  She needed no time for deliberation or inquiry.  Her\nresolution was formed as she read.  The situation of Barton, in a\ncounty so far distant from Sussex as Devonshire, which, but a few hours\nbefore, would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every\npossible advantage belonging to the place, was now its first\nrecommendation.  To quit the neighbourhood of Norland was no longer an\nevil; it was an object of desire; it was a blessing, in comparison of\nthe misery of continuing her daughter-in-law's guest; and to remove for\never from that beloved place would be less painful than to inhabit or\nvisit it while such a woman was its mistress.  She instantly wrote Sir\nJohn Middleton her acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance\nof his proposal; and then hastened to shew both letters to her\ndaughters, that she might be secure of their approbation before her\nanswer were sent.\n\nElinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle\nat some distance from Norland, than immediately amongst their present\nacquaintance.  On THAT head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose\nher mother's intention of removing into Devonshire.  The house, too, as\ndescribed by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so\nuncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on either\npoint; and, therefore, though it was not a plan which brought any charm\nto her fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of Norland\nbeyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother from\nsending a letter of acquiescence.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 5\n\n\nNo sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged herself\nin the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife that she\nwas provided with a house, and should incommode them no longer than till\nevery thing were ready for her inhabiting it. They heard her with\nsurprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her husband civilly hoped\nthat she would not be settled far from Norland. She had great\nsatisfaction in replying that she was going into Devonshire.--Edward\nturned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and, in a voice of surprise\nand concern, which required no explanation to her, repeated,\n\"Devonshire! Are you, indeed, going there? So far from hence! And to\nwhat part of it?\" She explained the situation. It was within four miles\nnorthward of Exeter.\n\n\"It is but a cottage,\" she continued, \"but I hope to see many of my\nfriends in it.  A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends\nfind no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will\nfind none in accommodating them.\"\n\nShe concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood\nto visit her at Barton; and to Edward she gave one with still greater\naffection.  Though her late conversation with her daughter-in-law had\nmade her resolve on remaining at Norland no longer than was\nunavoidable, it had not produced the smallest effect on her in that\npoint to which it principally tended.  To separate Edward and Elinor\nwas as far from being her object as ever; and she wished to show Mrs.\nJohn Dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her brother, how totally\nshe disregarded her disapprobation of the match.\n\nMr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly sorry\nhe was that she had taken a house at such a distance from Norland as to\nprevent his being of any service to her in removing her furniture.  He\nreally felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for the very\nexertion to which he had limited the performance of his promise to his\nfather was by this arrangement rendered impracticable.-- The furniture\nwas all sent around by water.  It chiefly consisted of household linen,\nplate, china, and books, with a handsome pianoforte of Marianne's.\nMrs. John Dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh: she could not\nhelp feeling it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood's income would be so\ntrifling in comparison with their own, she should have any handsome\narticle of furniture.\n\nMrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready furnished,\nand she might have immediate possession.  No difficulty arose on either\nside in the agreement; and she waited only for the disposal of her\neffects at Norland, and to determine her future household, before she\nset off for the west; and this, as she was exceedingly rapid in the\nperformance of everything that interested her, was soon done.--The\nhorses which were left her by her husband had been sold soon after his\ndeath, and an opportunity now offering of disposing of her carriage,\nshe agreed to sell that likewise at the earnest advice of her eldest\ndaughter.  For the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her\nown wishes, she would have kept it; but the discretion of Elinor\nprevailed.  HER wisdom too limited the number of their servants to\nthree; two maids and a man, with whom they were speedily provided from\namongst those who had formed their establishment at Norland.\n\nThe man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into Devonshire,\nto prepare the house for their mistress's arrival; for as Lady\nMiddleton was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred going\ndirectly to the cottage to being a visitor at Barton Park; and she\nrelied so undoubtingly on Sir John's description of the house, as to\nfeel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her own.\nHer eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from diminution by\nthe evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the prospect of her\nremoval; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted to be concealed\nunder a cold invitation to her to defer her departure.  Now was the\ntime when her son-in-law's promise to his father might with particular\npropriety be fulfilled.  Since he had neglected to do it on first\ncoming to the estate, their quitting his house might be looked on as\nthe most suitable period for its accomplishment.  But Mrs. Dashwood\nbegan shortly to give over every hope of the kind, and to be convinced,\nfrom the general drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended\nno farther than their maintenance for six months at Norland.  He so\nfrequently talked of the increasing expenses of housekeeping, and of\nthe perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man of any consequence in\nthe world was beyond calculation exposed to, that he seemed rather to\nstand in need of more money himself than to have any design of giving\nmoney away.\n\nIn a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir John Middleton's\nfirst letter to Norland, every thing was so far settled in their future\nabode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters to begin their\njourney.\n\nMany were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so\nmuch beloved.  \"Dear, dear Norland!\" said Marianne, as she wandered\nalone before the house, on the last evening of their being there; \"when\nshall I cease to regret you!--when learn to feel a home elsewhere!--Oh!\nhappy house, could you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this\nspot, from whence perhaps I may view you no more!--And you, ye\nwell-known trees!--but you will continue the same.--No leaf will decay\nbecause we are removed, nor any branch become motionless although we\ncan observe you no longer!--No; you will continue the same; unconscious\nof the pleasure or the regret you occasion, and insensible of any\nchange in those who walk under your shade!--But who will remain to\nenjoy you?\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 6\n\n\nThe first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a\ndisposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant.  But as they\ndrew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a\ncountry which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view\nof Barton Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness.  It was a\npleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture.  After winding\nalong it for more than a mile, they reached their own house.  A small\ngreen court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat wicket\ngate admitted them into it.\n\nAs a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact;\nbut as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the\nroof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were\nthe walls covered with honeysuckles.  A narrow passage led directly\nthrough the house into the garden behind.  On each side of the entrance\nwas a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the\noffices and the stairs.  Four bed-rooms and two garrets formed the rest\nof the house.  It had not been built many years and was in good repair.\nIn comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed!--but the tears\nwhich recollection called forth as they entered the house were soon\ndried away.  They were cheered by the joy of the servants on their\narrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy.\nIt was very early in September; the season was fine, and from first\nseeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they received an\nimpression in its favour which was of material service in recommending\nit to their lasting approbation.\n\nThe situation of the house was good.  High hills rose immediately\nbehind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open\ndowns, the others cultivated and woody.  The village of Barton was\nchiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the\ncottage windows.  The prospect in front was more extensive; it\ncommanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond.\nThe hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley in that\ndirection; under another name, and in another course, it branched out\nagain between two of the steepest of them.\n\nWith the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the\nwhole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered many\nadditions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was a\ndelight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to supply\nall that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments.  \"As for the\nhouse itself, to be sure,\" said she, \"it is too small for our family,\nbut we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the present, as it\nis too late in the year for improvements.  Perhaps in the spring, if I\nhave plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we may think about\nbuilding.  These parlors are both too small for such parties of our\nfriends as I hope to see often collected here; and I have some thoughts\nof throwing the passage into one of them with perhaps a part of the\nother, and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance; this,\nwith a new drawing room which may be easily added, and a bed-chamber\nand garret above, will make it a very snug little cottage.  I could\nwish the stairs were handsome.  But one must not expect every thing;\nthough I suppose it would be no difficult matter to widen them.  I\nshall see how much I am before-hand with the world in the spring, and\nwe will plan our improvements accordingly.\"\n\nIn the mean time, till all these alterations could be made from the\nsavings of an income of five hundred a-year by a woman who never saved\nin her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the house as it\nwas; and each of them was busy in arranging their particular concerns,\nand endeavoring, by placing around them books and other possessions, to\nform themselves a home.  Marianne's pianoforte was unpacked and\nproperly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were affixed to the walls\nof their sitting room.\n\nIn such employments as these they were interrupted soon after breakfast\nthe next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome\nthem to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation from his own\nhouse and garden in which theirs might at present be deficient.  Sir\nJohn Middleton was a good looking man about forty.  He had formerly\nvisited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins to\nremember him.  His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his\nmanners were as friendly as the style of his letter.  Their arrival\nseemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an\nobject of real solicitude to him.  He said much of his earnest desire\nof their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed\nthem so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they were\nbetter settled at home, that, though his entreaties were carried to a\npoint of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give offence.\nHis kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour after he\nleft them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit arrived from\nthe park, which was followed before the end of the day by a present of\ngame.  He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their letters to and\nfrom the post for them, and would not be denied the satisfaction of\nsending them his newspaper every day.\n\nLady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her\nintention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon as she could be assured\nthat her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was\nanswered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced\nto them the next day.\n\nThey were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of\ntheir comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance\nwas favourable to their wishes.  Lady Middleton was not more than six\nor seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and\nstriking, and her address graceful.  Her manners had all the elegance\nwhich her husband's wanted.  But they would have been improved by some\nshare of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to\ndetract something from their first admiration, by shewing that, though\nperfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for\nherself beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark.\n\nConversation however was not wanted, for Sir John was very chatty, and\nLady Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her their\neldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which means\nthere was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of\nextremity, for they had to enquire his name and age, admire his beauty,\nand ask him questions which his mother answered for him, while he hung\nabout her and held down his head, to the great surprise of her\nladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as he could\nmake noise enough at home.  On every formal visit a child ought to be\nof the party, by way of provision for discourse.  In the present case\nit took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like his\nfather or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of\ncourse every body differed, and every body was astonished at the\nopinion of the others.\n\nAn opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods of debating on the\nrest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house without\nsecuring their promise of dining at the park the next day.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 7\n\n\nBarton Park was about half a mile from the cottage.  The ladies had\npassed near it in their way along the valley, but it was screened from\ntheir view at home by the projection of a hill.  The house was large\nand handsome; and the Middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality\nand elegance.  The former was for Sir John's gratification, the latter\nfor that of his lady.  They were scarcely ever without some friends\nstaying with them in the house, and they kept more company of every\nkind than any other family in the neighbourhood.  It was necessary to\nthe happiness of both; for however dissimilar in temper and outward\nbehaviour, they strongly resembled each other in that total want of\ntalent and taste which confined their employments, unconnected with\nsuch as society produced, within a very narrow compass.  Sir John was a\nsportsman, Lady Middleton a mother.  He hunted and shot, and she\nhumoured her children; and these were their only resources.  Lady\nMiddleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all the\nyear round, while Sir John's independent employments were in existence\nonly half the time.  Continual engagements at home and abroad, however,\nsupplied all the deficiencies of nature and education; supported the\ngood spirits of Sir John, and gave exercise to the good breeding of his\nwife.\n\nLady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and of\nall her domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her\ngreatest enjoyment in any of their parties.  But Sir John's\nsatisfaction in society was much more real; he delighted in collecting\nabout him more young people than his house would hold, and the noisier\nthey were the better was he pleased.  He was a blessing to all the\njuvenile part of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever\nforming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in winter\nhis private balls were numerous enough for any young lady who was not\nsuffering under the unsatiable appetite of fifteen.\n\nThe arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy\nto him, and in every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants\nhe had now procured for his cottage at Barton.  The Miss Dashwoods were\nyoung, pretty, and unaffected.  It was enough to secure his good\nopinion; for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to\nmake her mind as captivating as her person.  The friendliness of his\ndisposition made him happy in accommodating those, whose situation\nmight be considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate.  In\nshowing kindness to his cousins therefore he had the real satisfaction\nof a good heart; and in settling a family of females only in his\ncottage, he had all the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a sportsman,\nthough he esteems only those of his sex who are sportsmen likewise, is\nnot often desirous of encouraging their taste by admitting them to a\nresidence within his own manor.\n\nMrs. Dashwood and her daughters were met at the door of the house by\nSir John, who welcomed them to Barton Park with unaffected sincerity;\nand as he attended them to the drawing room repeated to the young\nladies the concern which the same subject had drawn from him the day\nbefore, at being unable to get any smart young men to meet them.  They\nwould see, he said, only one gentleman there besides himself; a\nparticular friend who was staying at the park, but who was neither very\nyoung nor very gay.  He hoped they would all excuse the smallness of\nthe party, and could assure them it should never happen so again.  He\nhad been to several families that morning in hopes of procuring some\naddition to their number, but it was moonlight and every body was full\nof engagements.  Luckily Lady Middleton's mother had arrived at Barton\nwithin the last hour, and as she was a very cheerful agreeable woman,\nhe hoped the young ladies would not find it so very dull as they might\nimagine.  The young ladies, as well as their mother, were perfectly\nsatisfied with having two entire strangers of the party, and wished for\nno more.\n\nMrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton's mother, was a good-humoured, merry,\nfat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and\nrather vulgar.  She was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner\nwas over had said many witty things on the subject of lovers and\nhusbands; hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex,\nand pretended to see them blush whether they did or not.  Marianne was\nvexed at it for her sister's sake, and turned her eyes towards Elinor\nto see how she bore these attacks, with an earnestness which gave\nElinor far more pain than could arise from such common-place raillery\nas Mrs. Jennings's.\n\nColonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed no more adapted by\nresemblance of manner to be his friend, than Lady Middleton was to be\nhis wife, or Mrs. Jennings to be Lady Middleton's mother.  He was\nsilent and grave.  His appearance however was not unpleasing, in spite\nof his being in the opinion of Marianne and Margaret an absolute old\nbachelor, for he was on the wrong side of five and thirty; but though\nhis face was not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his\naddress was particularly gentlemanlike.\n\nThere was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them as\ncompanions to the Dashwoods; but the cold insipidity of Lady Middleton\nwas so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity of\nColonel Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir John and his\nmother-in-law was interesting.  Lady Middleton seemed to be roused to\nenjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children after dinner,\nwho pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to every kind of\ndiscourse except what related to themselves.\n\nIn the evening, as Marianne was discovered to be musical, she was\ninvited to play.  The instrument was unlocked, every body prepared to\nbe charmed, and Marianne, who sang very well, at their request went\nthrough the chief of the songs which Lady Middleton had brought into\nthe family on her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since in\nthe same position on the pianoforte, for her ladyship had celebrated\nthat event by giving up music, although by her mother's account, she\nhad played extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it.\n\nMarianne's performance was highly applauded.  Sir John was loud in his\nadmiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation\nwith the others while every song lasted.  Lady Middleton frequently\ncalled him to order, wondered how any one's attention could be diverted\nfrom music for a moment, and asked Marianne to sing a particular song\nwhich Marianne had just finished.  Colonel Brandon alone, of all the\nparty, heard her without being in raptures.  He paid her only the\ncompliment of attention; and she felt a respect for him on the\noccasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by their shameless\nwant of taste.  His pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that\necstatic delight which alone could sympathize with her own, was\nestimable when contrasted against the horrible insensibility of the\nothers; and she was reasonable enough to allow that a man of five and\nthirty might well have outlived all acuteness of feeling and every\nexquisite power of enjoyment.  She was perfectly disposed to make every\nallowance for the colonel's advanced state of life which humanity\nrequired.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 8\n\n\nMrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure.  She had only two\ndaughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and\nshe had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the\nworld.  In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as\nfar as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting\nweddings among all the young people of her acquaintance.  She was\nremarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the\nadvantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by\ninsinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind of\ndiscernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton decisively to\npronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne\nDashwood.  She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening\nof their being together, from his listening so attentively while she\nsang to them; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons' dining\nat the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again.\nIt must be so.  She was perfectly convinced of it.  It would be an\nexcellent match, for HE was rich, and SHE was handsome.  Mrs. Jennings\nhad been anxious to see Colonel Brandon well married, ever since her\nconnection with Sir John first brought him to her knowledge; and she\nwas always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl.\n\nThe immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for\nit supplied her with endless jokes against them both.  At the park she\nlaughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne.  To the former\nher raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself,\nperfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first\nincomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew\nwhether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence,\nfor she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel's\nadvanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor.\n\nMrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than\nherself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of\nher daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of\nwishing to throw ridicule on his age.\n\n\"But at least, Mama, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation,\nthough you may not think it intentionally ill-natured.  Colonel Brandon\nis certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be MY\nfather; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have\nlong outlived every sensation of the kind.  It is too ridiculous!  When\nis a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not\nprotect him?\"\n\n\"Infirmity!\" said Elinor, \"do you call Colonel Brandon infirm?  I can\neasily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my\nmother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of\nhis limbs!\"\n\n\"Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism?  and is not that the\ncommonest infirmity of declining life?\"\n\n\"My dearest child,\" said her mother, laughing, \"at this rate you must\nbe in continual terror of MY decay; and it must seem to you a miracle\nthat my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty.\"\n\n\"Mama, you are not doing me justice.  I know very well that Colonel\nBrandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of\nlosing him in the course of nature.  He may live twenty years longer.\nBut thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Elinor, \"thirty-five and seventeen had better not have\nany thing to do with matrimony together.  But if there should by any\nchance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should\nnot think Colonel Brandon's being thirty-five any objection to his\nmarrying HER.\"\n\n\"A woman of seven and twenty,\" said Marianne, after pausing a moment,\n\"can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be\nuncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring\nherself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the\nprovision and security of a wife.  In his marrying such a woman\ntherefore there would be nothing unsuitable.  It would be a compact of\nconvenience, and the world would be satisfied.  In my eyes it would be\nno marriage at all, but that would be nothing.  To me it would seem\nonly a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the\nexpense of the other.\"\n\n\"It would be impossible, I know,\" replied Elinor, \"to convince you that\na woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five\nanything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her.\nBut I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the\nconstant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to\ncomplain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in\none of his shoulders.\"\n\n\"But he talked of flannel waistcoats,\" said Marianne; \"and with me a\nflannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps,\nrheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and\nthe feeble.\"\n\n\"Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him\nhalf so much.  Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to\nyou in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?\"\n\nSoon after this, upon Elinor's leaving the room, \"Mama,\" said\nMarianne, \"I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot\nconceal from you.  I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well.  We have now\nbeen here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come.  Nothing but\nreal indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay.  What else\ncan detain him at Norland?\"\n\n\"Had you any idea of his coming so soon?\" said Mrs. Dashwood.  \"I had\nnone.  On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the\nsubject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of\npleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his\ncoming to Barton.  Does Elinor expect him already?\"\n\n\"I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must.\"\n\n\"I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her\nyesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed\nthat there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the\nroom would be wanted for some time.\"\n\n\"How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it!  But the whole of\ntheir behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how\ncomposed were their last adieus! How languid their conversation the\nlast evening of their being together! In Edward's farewell there was no\ndistinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an\naffectionate brother to both.  Twice did I leave them purposely\ntogether in the course of the last morning, and each time did he most\nunaccountably follow me out of the room.  And Elinor, in quitting\nNorland and Edward, cried not as I did.  Even now her self-command is\ninvariable.  When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try to\navoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 9\n\n\nThe Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to\nthemselves.  The house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding\nthem, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had\ngiven to Norland half its charms were engaged in again with far greater\nenjoyment than Norland had been able to afford, since the loss of their\nfather.  Sir John Middleton, who called on them every day for the first\nfortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much occupation at\nhome, could not conceal his amazement on finding them always employed.\n\nTheir visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for, in\nspite of Sir John's urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the\nneighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at\ntheir service, the independence of Mrs. Dashwood's spirit overcame the\nwish of society for her children; and she was resolute in declining to\nvisit any family beyond the distance of a walk.  There were but few who\ncould be so classed; and it was not all of them that were attainable.\nAbout a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding\nvalley of Allenham, which issued from that of Barton, as formerly\ndescribed, the girls had, in one of their earliest walks, discovered an\nancient respectable looking mansion which, by reminding them a little\nof Norland, interested their imagination and made them wish to be\nbetter acquainted with it.  But they learnt, on enquiry, that its\npossessor, an elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately\ntoo infirm to mix with the world, and never stirred from home.\n\nThe whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks.  The high\ndowns which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to\nseek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy\nalternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their superior\nbeauties; and towards one of these hills did Marianne and Margaret one\nmemorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the partial sunshine\nof a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the confinement which the\nsettled rain of the two preceding days had occasioned.  The weather was\nnot tempting enough to draw the two others from their pencil and their\nbook, in spite of Marianne's declaration that the day would be\nlastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud would be drawn off\nfrom their hills; and the two girls set off together.\n\nThey gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at\nevery glimpse of blue sky; and when they caught in their faces the\nanimating gales of a high south-westerly wind, they pitied the fears\nwhich had prevented their mother and Elinor from sharing such\ndelightful sensations.\n\n\"Is there a felicity in the world,\" said Marianne, \"superior to\nthis?--Margaret, we will walk here at least two hours.\"\n\nMargaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind, resisting\nit with laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer, when suddenly\nthe clouds united over their heads, and a driving rain set full in\ntheir face.-- Chagrined and surprised, they were obliged, though\nunwillingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their own\nhouse.  One consolation however remained for them, to which the\nexigence of the moment gave more than usual propriety; it was that of\nrunning with all possible speed down the steep side of the hill which\nled immediately to their garden gate.\n\nThey set off.  Marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step\nbrought her suddenly to the ground; and Margaret, unable to stop\nherself to assist her, was involuntarily hurried along, and reached the\nbottom in safety.\n\nA gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was\npassing up the hill and within a few yards of Marianne, when her\naccident happened.  He put down his gun and ran to her assistance.  She\nhad raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in\nher fall, and she was scarcely able to stand.  The gentleman offered\nhis services; and perceiving that her modesty declined what her\nsituation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without farther\ndelay, and carried her down the hill.  Then passing through the garden,\nthe gate of which had been left open by Margaret, he bore her directly\ninto the house, whither Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his\nhold till he had seated her in a chair in the parlour.\n\nElinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and while\nthe eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a secret\nadmiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he apologized for\nhis intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so frank and so\ngraceful that his person, which was uncommonly handsome, received\nadditional charms from his voice and expression.  Had he been even old,\nugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs. Dashwood would\nhave been secured by any act of attention to her child; but the\ninfluence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the\naction which came home to her feelings.\n\nShe thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address which\nalways attended her, invited him to be seated.  But this he declined,\nas he was dirty and wet.  Mrs. Dashwood then begged to know to whom she\nwas obliged.  His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his present\nhome was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him the\nhonour of calling tomorrow to enquire after Miss Dashwood.  The honour\nwas readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself still more\ninteresting, in the midst of a heavy rain.\n\nHis manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the\ntheme of general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised\nagainst Marianne received particular spirit from his exterior\nattractions.-- Marianne herself had seen less of his Mama the\nrest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting\nher up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their\nentering the house.  But she had seen enough of him to join in all the\nadmiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her\npraise.  His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn\nfor the hero of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the\nhouse with so little previous formality, there was a rapidity of\nthought which particularly recommended the action to her.  Every\ncircumstance belonging to him was interesting.  His name was good, his\nresidence was in their favourite village, and she soon found out that\nof all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming.  Her\nimagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a\nsprained ankle was disregarded.\n\nSir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather\nthat morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne's accident\nbeing related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any\ngentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allenham.\n\n\"Willoughby!\" cried Sir John; \"what, is HE in the country? That is good\nnews however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on\nThursday.\"\n\n\"You know him then,\" said Mrs. Dashwood.\n\n\"Know him! to be sure I do.  Why, he is down here every year.\"\n\n\"And what sort of a young man is he?\"\n\n\"As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you.  A very decent\nshot, and there is not a bolder rider in England.\"\n\n\"And is that all you can say for him?\" cried Marianne, indignantly.\n\"But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his\npursuits, his talents, and genius?\"\n\nSir John was rather puzzled.\n\n\"Upon my soul,\" said he, \"I do not know much about him as to all THAT.\nBut he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the nicest\nlittle black bitch of a pointer I ever saw.  Was she out with him\ntoday?\"\n\nBut Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr.\nWilloughby's pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his\nmind.\n\n\"But who is he?\" said Elinor.  \"Where does he come from?  Has he a\nhouse at Allenham?\"\n\nOn this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he\ntold them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the\ncountry; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady\nat Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was\nto inherit; adding, \"Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can\ntell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in\nSomersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my\nyounger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills.  Miss\nMarianne must not expect to have all the men to herself.  Brandon will\nbe jealous, if she does not take care.\"\n\n\"I do not believe,\" said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile,\n\"that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of MY\ndaughters towards what you call CATCHING him.  It is not an employment\nto which they have been brought up.  Men are very safe with us, let\nthem be ever so rich.  I am glad to find, however, from what you say,\nthat he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not\nbe ineligible.\"\n\n\"He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived,\" repeated\nSir John.  \"I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he\ndanced from eight o'clock till four, without once sitting down.\"\n\n\"Did he indeed?\" cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, \"and with\nelegance, with spirit?\"\n\n\"Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert.\"\n\n\"That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be.  Whatever\nbe his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and\nleave him no sense of fatigue.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye, I see how it will be,\" said Sir John, \"I see how it will be.\nYou will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor\nBrandon.\"\n\n\"That is an expression, Sir John,\" said Marianne, warmly, \"which I\nparticularly dislike.  I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit\nis intended; and 'setting one's cap at a man,' or 'making a conquest,'\nare the most odious of all.  Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and\nif their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago\ndestroyed all its ingenuity.\"\n\nSir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as\nheartily as if he did, and then replied,\n\n\"Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other.\nPoor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth\nsetting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling\nabout and spraining of ankles.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 10\n\n\nMarianne's preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision,\nstyled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make\nhis personal enquiries.  He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with more\nthan politeness; with a kindness which Sir John's account of him and\nher own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the\nvisit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection,\nand domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced\nhim.  Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview\nto be convinced.\n\nMiss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a\nremarkably pretty figure.  Marianne was still handsomer.  Her form,\nthough not so correct as her sister's, in having the advantage of\nheight, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the\ncommon cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less\nviolently outraged than usually happens.  Her skin was very brown, but,\nfrom its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her\nfeatures were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her\neyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness,\nwhich could hardily be seen without delight.  From Willoughby their\nexpression was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the\nremembrance of his assistance created.  But when this passed away, when\nher spirits became collected, when she saw that to the perfect\ngood-breeding of the gentleman, he united frankness and vivacity, and\nabove all, when she heard him declare, that of music and dancing he was\npassionately fond, she gave him such a look of approbation as secured\nthe largest share of his discourse to herself for the rest of his stay.\n\nIt was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her\nto talk.  She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and\nshe had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion.  They speedily\ndiscovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and\nthat it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related\nto either.  Encouraged by this to a further examination of his\nopinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her\nfavourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous\na delight, that any young man of five and twenty must have been\ninsensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence\nof such works, however disregarded before.  Their taste was strikingly\nalike.  The same books, the same passages were idolized by each--or if\nany difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than\ntill the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be\ndisplayed.  He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her\nenthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they conversed with\nthe familiarity of a long-established acquaintance.\n\n\"Well, Marianne,\" said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, \"for ONE\nmorning I think you have done pretty well.  You have already\nascertained Mr. Willoughby's opinion in almost every matter of\nimportance.  You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are\ncertain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have\nreceived every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper.\nBut how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such\nextraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse?  You will soon\nhave exhausted each favourite topic.  Another meeting will suffice to\nexplain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and\nthen you can have nothing farther to ask.\"--\n\n\"Elinor,\" cried Marianne, \"is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so\nscanty?  But I see what you mean.  I have been too much at my ease, too\nhappy, too frank.  I have erred against every common-place notion of\ndecorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been\nreserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful--had I talked only of the\nweather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this\nreproach would have been spared.\"\n\n\"My love,\" said her mother, \"you must not be offended with Elinor--she\nwas only in jest.  I should scold her myself, if she were capable of\nwishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new\nfriend.\"-- Marianne was softened in a moment.\n\nWilloughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their\nacquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer.  He\ncame to them every day.  To enquire after Marianne was at first his\nexcuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave\ngreater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased\nto be possible, by Marianne's perfect recovery.  She was confined for\nsome days to the house; but never had any confinement been less\nirksome.  Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick\nimagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners.  He was\nexactly formed to engage Marianne's heart, for with all this, he joined\nnot only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was\nnow roused and increased by the example of her own, and which\nrecommended him to her affection beyond every thing else.\n\nHis society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment.  They read,\nthey talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable;\nand he read with all the sensibility and spirit which Edward had\nunfortunately wanted.\n\nIn Mrs. Dashwood's estimation he was as faultless as in Marianne's; and\nElinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he\nstrongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too\nmuch what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons or\ncircumstances.  In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other\npeople, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided\nattention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too easily the\nforms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which Elinor\ncould not approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne could say in\nits support.\n\nMarianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized\nher at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her\nideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable.  Willoughby was\nall that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour and in every\nbrighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour\ndeclared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his abilities\nwere strong.\n\nHer mother too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their\nmarriage had been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led before the\nend of a week to hope and expect it; and secretly to congratulate\nherself on having gained two such sons-in-law as Edward and Willoughby.\n\nColonel Brandon's partiality for Marianne, which had so early been\ndiscovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to Elinor, when\nit ceased to be noticed by them.  Their attention and wit were drawn\noff to his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which the other had\nincurred before any partiality arose, was removed when his feelings\nbegan really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to sensibility.\nElinor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that the sentiments\nwhich Mrs. Jennings had assigned him for her own satisfaction, were now\nactually excited by her sister; and that however a general resemblance\nof disposition between the parties might forward the affection of Mr.\nWilloughby, an equally striking opposition of character was no\nhindrance to the regard of Colonel Brandon.  She saw it with concern;\nfor what could a silent man of five and thirty hope, when opposed to a\nvery lively one of five and twenty? and as she could not even wish him\nsuccessful, she heartily wished him indifferent.  She liked him--in\nspite of his gravity and reserve, she beheld in him an object of\ninterest.  His manners, though serious, were mild; and his reserve\nappeared rather the result of some oppression of spirits than of any\nnatural gloominess of temper.  Sir John had dropped hints of past\ninjuries and disappointments, which justified her belief of his being\nan unfortunate man, and she regarded him with respect and compassion.\n\nPerhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted by\nWilloughby and Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for being neither\nlively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits.\n\n\"Brandon is just the kind of man,\" said Willoughby one day, when they\nwere talking of him together, \"whom every body speaks well of, and\nnobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers\nto talk to.\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I think of him,\" cried Marianne.\n\n\"Do not boast of it, however,\" said Elinor, \"for it is injustice in\nboth of you.  He is highly esteemed by all the family at the park, and\nI never see him myself without taking pains to converse with him.\"\n\n\"That he is patronised by YOU,\" replied Willoughby, \"is certainly in\nhis favour; but as for the esteem of the others, it is a reproach in\nitself.  Who would submit to the indignity of being approved by such a\nwoman as Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, that could command the\nindifference of any body else?\"\n\n\"But perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and Marianne will\nmake amends for the regard of Lady Middleton and her mother.  If their\npraise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are not more\nundiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust.\"\n\n\"In defence of your protege you can even be saucy.\"\n\n\"My protege, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense will always\nhave attractions for me.  Yes, Marianne, even in a man between thirty\nand forty.  He has seen a great deal of the world; has been abroad, has\nread, and has a thinking mind.  I have found him capable of giving me\nmuch information on various subjects; and he has always answered my\ninquiries with readiness of good-breeding and good nature.\"\n\n\"That is to say,\" cried Marianne contemptuously, \"he has told you, that\nin the East Indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are\ntroublesome.\"\n\n\"He WOULD have told me so, I doubt not, had I made any such inquiries,\nbut they happened to be points on which I had been previously informed.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Willoughby, \"his observations may have extended to the\nexistence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins.\"\n\n\"I may venture to say that HIS observations have stretched much further\nthan your candour.  But why should you dislike him?\"\n\n\"I do not dislike him.  I consider him, on the contrary, as a very\nrespectable man, who has every body's good word, and nobody's notice;\nwho, has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to\nemploy, and two new coats every year.\"\n\n\"Add to which,\" cried Marianne, \"that he has neither genius, taste, nor\nspirit.  That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no\nardour, and his voice no expression.\"\n\n\"You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass,\" replied Elinor,\n\"and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the\ncommendation I am able to give of him is comparatively cold and\ninsipid.  I can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred,\nwell-informed, of gentle address, and, I believe, possessing an amiable\nheart.\"\n\n\"Miss Dashwood,\" cried Willoughby, \"you are now using me unkindly.  You\nare endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me against my\nwill.  But it will not do.  You shall find me as stubborn as you can be\nartful.  I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel\nBrandon; he threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine; he has\nfound fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I cannot persuade him\nto buy my brown mare.  If it will be any satisfaction to you, however,\nto be told, that I believe his character to be in other respects\nirreproachable, I am ready to confess it.  And in return for an\nacknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me the\nprivilege of disliking him as much as ever.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 11\n\n\nLittle had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined when they first came\ninto Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy their\ntime as shortly presented themselves, or that they should have such\nfrequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them little\nleisure for serious employment.  Yet such was the case.  When Marianne\nwas recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad, which Sir\nJohn had been previously forming, were put into execution.  The private\nballs at the park then began; and parties on the water were made and\naccomplished as often as a showery October would allow.  In every\nmeeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and\nfamiliarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly\ncalculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the\nDashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of\nMarianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving,\nin her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her\naffection.\n\nElinor could not be surprised at their attachment.  She only wished\nthat it were less openly shewn; and once or twice did venture to\nsuggest the propriety of some self-command to Marianne.  But Marianne\nabhorred all concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve;\nand to aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves\nillaudable, appeared to her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a\ndisgraceful subjection of reason to common-place and mistaken notions.\nWilloughby thought the same; and their behaviour at all times, was an\nillustration of their opinions.\n\nWhen he was present she had no eyes for any one else.  Every thing he\ndid, was right.  Every thing he said, was clever.  If their evenings at\nthe park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest\nof the party to get her a good hand.  If dancing formed the amusement\nof the night, they were partners for half the time; and when obliged to\nseparate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together and\nscarcely spoke a word to any body else.  Such conduct made them of\ncourse most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and\nseemed hardly to provoke them.\n\nMrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left\nher no inclination for checking this excessive display of them.  To her\nit was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and\nardent mind.\n\nThis was the season of happiness to Marianne.  Her heart was devoted to\nWilloughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she brought with\nher from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought it\npossible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her\npresent home.\n\nElinor's happiness was not so great.  Her heart was not so much at\nease, nor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure.  They afforded\nher no companion that could make amends for what she had left behind,\nnor that could teach her to think of Norland with less regret than\never.  Neither Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the\nconversation she missed; although the latter was an everlasting talker,\nand from the first had regarded her with a kindness which ensured her a\nlarge share of her discourse.  She had already repeated her own history\nto Elinor three or four times; and had Elinor's memory been equal to\nher means of improvement, she might have known very early in their\nacquaintance all the particulars of Mr. Jennings's last illness, and\nwhat he said to his wife a few minutes before he died.  Lady Middleton\nwas more agreeable than her mother only in being more silent.  Elinor\nneeded little observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere\ncalmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do.  Towards her\nhusband and mother she was the same as to them; and intimacy was\ntherefore neither to be looked for nor desired.  She had nothing to say\none day that she had not said the day before.  Her insipidity was\ninvariable, for even her spirits were always the same; and though she\ndid not oppose the parties arranged by her husband, provided every\nthing were conducted in style and her two eldest children attended her,\nshe never appeared to receive more enjoyment from them than she might\nhave experienced in sitting at home;--and so little did her presence\nadd to the pleasure of the others, by any share in their conversation,\nthat they were sometimes only reminded of her being amongst them by her\nsolicitude about her troublesome boys.\n\nIn Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find\na person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite\nthe interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion.\nWilloughby was out of the question.  Her admiration and regard, even\nher sisterly regard, was all his own; but he was a lover; his\nattentions were wholly Marianne's, and a far less agreeable man might\nhave been more generally pleasing.  Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for\nhimself, had no such encouragement to think only of Marianne, and in\nconversing with Elinor he found the greatest consolation for the\nindifference of her sister.\n\nElinor's compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect\nthat the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him.\nThis suspicion was given by some words which accidently dropped from\nhim one evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by\nmutual consent, while the others were dancing.  His eyes were fixed on\nMarianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint\nsmile, \"Your sister, I understand, does not approve of second\nattachments.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Elinor, \"her opinions are all romantic.\"\n\n\"Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist.\"\n\n\"I believe she does.  But how she contrives it without reflecting on\nthe character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know not.\nA few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of\ncommon sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to define\nand to justify than they now are, by any body but herself.\"\n\n\"This will probably be the case,\" he replied; \"and yet there is\nsomething so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is\nsorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions.\"\n\n\"I cannot agree with you there,\" said Elinor.  \"There are\ninconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne's, which all the\ncharms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for.  Her\nsystems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at\nnought; and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward\nto as her greatest possible advantage.\"\n\nAfter a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying,--\n\n\"Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a\nsecond attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body?  Are those\nwho have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the\ninconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be\nequally indifferent during the rest of their lives?\"\n\n\"Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiae of her principles.\nI only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a second\nattachment's being pardonable.\"\n\n\"This,\" said he, \"cannot hold; but a change, a total change of\nsentiments--No, no, do not desire it; for when the romantic refinements\nof a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they\nsucceeded by such opinions as are but too common, and too dangerous!  I\nspeak from experience.  I once knew a lady who in temper and mind\ngreatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like her, but who\nfrom an inforced change--from a series of unfortunate circumstances\"--\nHere he stopt suddenly; appeared to think that he had said too much,\nand by his countenance gave rise to conjectures, which might not\notherwise have entered Elinor's head.  The lady would probably have\npassed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what\nconcerned her ought not to escape his lips.  As it was, it required but\na slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender\nrecollection of past regard.  Elinor attempted no more.  But Marianne,\nin her place, would not have done so little.  The whole story would\nhave been speedily formed under her active imagination; and every thing\nestablished in the most melancholy order of disastrous love.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 12\n\n\nAs Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning the\nlatter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of\nall that she knew before of Marianne's imprudence and want of thought,\nsurprised her by its extravagant testimony of both.  Marianne told her,\nwith the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a horse, one\nthat he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was\nexactly calculated to carry a woman.  Without considering that it was\nnot in her mother's plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter\nher resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the\nservant, and keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable\nto receive them, she had accepted the present without hesitation, and\ntold her sister of it in raptures.\n\n\"He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it,\"\nshe added, \"and when it arrives we will ride every day.  You shall\nshare its use with me.  Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the\ndelight of a gallop on some of these downs.\"\n\nMost unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to\ncomprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for\nsome time she refused to submit to them.  As to an additional servant,\nthe expense would be a trifle; Mama she was sure would never object to\nit; and any horse would do for HIM; he might always get one at the\npark; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient.  Elinor then\nventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present from a\nman so little, or at least so lately known to her.  This was too much.\n\n\"You are mistaken, Elinor,\" said she warmly, \"in supposing I know very\nlittle of Willoughby.  I have not known him long indeed, but I am much\nbetter acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the\nworld, except yourself and mama.  It is not time or opportunity that is\nto determine intimacy;--it is disposition alone.  Seven years would be\ninsufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven\ndays are more than enough for others.  I should hold myself guilty of\ngreater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from\nWilloughby.  Of John I know very little, though we have lived together\nfor years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed.\"\n\nElinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more.  She knew her\nsister's temper.  Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach\nher the more to her own opinion.  But by an appeal to her affection for\nher mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent\nmother must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she\nconsented to this increase of establishment, Marianne was shortly\nsubdued; and she promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent\nkindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby when she saw\nhim next, that it must be declined.\n\nShe was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the\ncottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to\nhim in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his\npresent.  The reasons for this alteration were at the same time\nrelated, and they were such as to make further entreaty on his side\nimpossible.  His concern however was very apparent; and after\nexpressing it with earnestness, he added, in the same low voice,--\"But,\nMarianne, the horse is still yours, though you cannot use it now.  I\nshall keep it only till you can claim it.  When you leave Barton to\nform your own establishment in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall\nreceive you.\"\n\nThis was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the\nsentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her\nsister by her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so\ndecided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between\nthem.  From that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each\nother; and the belief of it created no other surprise than that she, or\nany of their friends, should be left by tempers so frank, to discover\nit by accident.\n\nMargaret related something to her the next day, which placed this\nmatter in a still clearer light.  Willoughby had spent the preceding\nevening with them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the parlour\nwith only him and Marianne, had had opportunity for observations,\nwhich, with a most important face, she communicated to her eldest\nsister, when they were next by themselves.\n\n\"Oh, Elinor!\" she cried, \"I have such a secret to tell you about\nMarianne.  I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon.\"\n\n\"You have said so,\" replied Elinor, \"almost every day since they first\nmet on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I\nbelieve, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round\nher neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great\nuncle.\"\n\n\"But indeed this is quite another thing.  I am sure they will be\nmarried very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair.\"\n\n\"Take care, Margaret.  It may be only the hair of some great uncle of\nHIS.\"\n\n\"But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne's. I am almost sure it is, for I\nsaw him cut it off.  Last night after tea, when you and mama went out\nof the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could\nbe, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took\nup her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all\ntumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of\nwhite paper; and put it into his pocket-book.\"\n\nFor such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not\nwithhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance\nwas in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself.\n\nMargaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory\nto her sister.  When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the\npark, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor's particular\nfavourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her,\nMargaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, \"I must not\ntell, may I, Elinor?\"\n\nThis of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too.\nBut the effort was painful.  She was convinced that Margaret had fixed\non a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a\nstanding joke with Mrs. Jennings.\n\nMarianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good\nto the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to\nMargaret,\n\n\"Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to\nrepeat them.\"\n\n\"I never had any conjectures about it,\" replied Margaret; \"it was you\nwho told me of it yourself.\"\n\nThis increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly\npressed to say something more.\n\n\"Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it,\" said Mrs.\nJennings.  \"What is the gentleman's name?\"\n\n\"I must not tell, ma'am. But I know very well what it is; and I know\nwhere he is too.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be\nsure.  He is the curate of the parish I dare say.\"\n\n\"No, THAT he is not.  He is of no profession at all.\"\n\n\"Margaret,\" said Marianne with great warmth, \"you know that all this is\nan invention of your own, and that there is no such person in\nexistence.\"\n\n\"Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such\na man once, and his name begins with an F.\"\n\nMost grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this\nmoment, \"that it rained very hard,\" though she believed the\ninterruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her\nladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as\ndelighted her husband and mother.  The idea however started by her, was\nimmediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion\nmindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of\nrain by both of them.  Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked\nMarianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of\ndifferent people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground.  But not so\neasily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her.\n\nA party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a\nvery fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a\nbrother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not\nbe seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders\non that head.  The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and\nSir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed\nto be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at\nleast, twice every summer for the last ten years.  They contained a\nnoble piece of water; a sail on which was to a form a great part of the\nmorning's amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages\nonly to be employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a\ncomplete party of pleasure.\n\nTo some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking,\nconsidering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the\nlast fortnight;--and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was\npersuaded by Elinor to stay at home.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 13\n\n\nTheir intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from\nwhat Elinor had expected.  She was prepared to be wet through,\nfatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for\nthey did not go at all.\n\nBy ten o'clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they\nwere to breakfast.  The morning was rather favourable, though it had\nrained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky,\nand the sun frequently appeared.  They were all in high spirits and\ngood humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the\ngreatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise.\n\nWhile they were at breakfast the letters were brought in.  Among the\nrest there was one for Colonel Brandon;--he took it, looked at the\ndirection, changed colour, and immediately left the room.\n\n\"What is the matter with Brandon?\" said Sir John.\n\nNobody could tell.\n\n\"I hope he has had no bad news,\" said Lady Middleton.  \"It must be\nsomething extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my\nbreakfast table so suddenly.\"\n\nIn about five minutes he returned.\n\n\"No bad news, Colonel, I hope;\" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he\nentered the room.\n\n\"None at all, ma'am, I thank you.\"\n\n\"Was it from Avignon?  I hope it is not to say that your sister is\nworse.\"\n\n\"No, ma'am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business.\"\n\n\"But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a\nletter of business?  Come, come, this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear\nthe truth of it.\"\n\n\"My dear madam,\" said Lady Middleton, \"recollect what you are saying.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?\" said\nMrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter's reproof.\n\n\"No, indeed, it is not.\"\n\n\"Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel.  And I hope she is well.\"\n\n\"Whom do you mean, ma'am?\" said he, colouring a little.\n\n\"Oh! you know who I mean.\"\n\n\"I am particularly sorry, ma'am,\" said he, addressing Lady Middleton,\n\"that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which\nrequires my immediate attendance in town.\"\n\n\"In town!\" cried Mrs. Jennings.  \"What can you have to do in town at\nthis time of year?\"\n\n\"My own loss is great,\" he continued, \"in being obliged to leave so\nagreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence\nis necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell.\"\n\nWhat a blow upon them all was this!\n\n\"But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon,\" said\nMarianne, eagerly, \"will it not be sufficient?\"\n\nHe shook his head.\n\n\"We must go,\" said Sir John.--\"It shall not be put off when we are so\nnear it.  You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all.\"\n\n\"I wish it could be so easily settled.  But it is not in my power to\ndelay my journey for one day!\"\n\n\"If you would but let us know what your business is,\" said Mrs.\nJennings, \"we might see whether it could be put off or not.\"\n\n\"You would not be six hours later,\" said Willoughby, \"if you were to\ndefer your journey till our return.\"\n\n\"I cannot afford to lose ONE hour.\"--\n\nElinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, \"There\nare some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure.  Brandon is one of\nthem.  He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this\ntrick for getting out of it.  I would lay fifty guineas the letter was\nof his own writing.\"\n\n\"I have no doubt of it,\" replied Marianne.\n\n\"There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of\nold,\" said Sir John, \"when once you are determined on anything.  But,\nhowever, I hope you will think better of it.  Consider, here are the\ntwo Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked\nup from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his\nusual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell.\"\n\nColonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of\ndisappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be\nunavoidable.\n\n\"Well, then, when will you come back again?\"\n\n\"I hope we shall see you at Barton,\" added her ladyship, \"as soon as\nyou can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to\nWhitwell till you return.\"\n\n\"You are very obliging.  But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in\nmy power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all.\"\n\n\"Oh! he must and shall come back,\" cried Sir John.  \"If he is not here\nby the end of the week, I shall go after him.\"\n\n\"Ay, so do, Sir John,\" cried Mrs. Jennings, \"and then perhaps you may\nfind out what his business is.\"\n\n\"I do not want to pry into other men's concerns.  I suppose it is\nsomething he is ashamed of.\"\n\nColonel Brandon's horses were announced.\n\n\"You do not go to town on horseback, do you?\" added Sir John.\n\n\"No. Only to Honiton.  I shall then go post.\"\n\n\"Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey.  But you\nhad better change your mind.\"\n\n\"I assure you it is not in my power.\"\n\nHe then took leave of the whole party.\n\n\"Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this\nwinter, Miss Dashwood?\"\n\n\"I am afraid, none at all.\"\n\n\"Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to\ndo.\"\n\nTo Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.\n\n\"Come Colonel,\" said Mrs. Jennings, \"before you go, do let us know what\nyou are going about.\"\n\nHe wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room.\n\nThe complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto\nrestrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and\nagain how provoking it was to be so disappointed.\n\n\"I can guess what his business is, however,\" said Mrs. Jennings\nexultingly.\n\n\"Can you, ma'am?\" said almost every body.\n\n\"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure.\"\n\n\"And who is Miss Williams?\" asked Marianne.\n\n\"What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have\nheard of her before.  She is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear; a\nvery near relation.  We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the\nyoung ladies.\" Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor,\n\"She is his natural daughter.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\"\n\n\"Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare.  I dare say the Colonel\nwill leave her all his fortune.\"\n\nWhen Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret\non so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as\nthey were all got together, they must do something by way of being\nhappy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although\nhappiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a\ntolerable composure of mind by driving about the country.  The\ncarriages were then ordered; Willoughby's was first, and Marianne never\nlooked happier than when she got into it.  He drove through the park\nvery fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them\nwas seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return\nof all the rest.  They both seemed delighted with their drive; but said\nonly in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others\nwent on the downs.\n\nIt was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that\nevery body should be extremely merry all day long.  Some more of the\nCareys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly\ntwenty to table, which Sir John observed with great contentment.\nWilloughby took his usual place between the two elder Miss Dashwoods.\nMrs. Jennings sat on Elinor's right hand; and they had not been long\nseated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and said to\nMarianne, loud enough for them both to hear, \"I have found you out in\nspite of all your tricks.  I know where you spent the morning.\"\n\nMarianne coloured, and replied very hastily, \"Where, pray?\"--\n\n\"Did not you know,\" said Willoughby, \"that we had been out in my\ncurricle?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined\nto find out WHERE you had been to.-- I hope you like your house, Miss\nMarianne.  It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you,\nI hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when\nI was there six years ago.\"\n\nMarianne turned away in great confusion.  Mrs. Jennings laughed\nheartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they\nhad been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr.\nWilloughby's groom; and that she had by that method been informed that\nthey had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in\nwalking about the garden and going all over the house.\n\nElinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely\nthat Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter the house\nwhile Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the smallest\nacquaintance.\n\nAs soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about it;\nand great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance\nrelated by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true.  Marianne was quite angry\nwith her for doubting it.\n\n\"Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that we\ndid not see the house?  Is not it what you have often wished to do\nyourself?\"\n\n\"Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and with\nno other companion than Mr. Willoughby.\"\n\n\"Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to shew\nthat house; and as he went in an open carriage, it was impossible to\nhave any other companion.  I never spent a pleasanter morning in my\nlife.\"\n\n\"I am afraid,\" replied Elinor, \"that the pleasantness of an employment\ndoes not always evince its propriety.\"\n\n\"On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for if\nthere had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been\nsensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting\nwrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure.\"\n\n\"But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very\nimpertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of\nyour own conduct?\"\n\n\"If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of\nimpropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our lives.\nI value not her censure any more than I should do her commendation.  I\nam not sensible of having done anything wrong in walking over Mrs.\nSmith's grounds, or in seeing her house.  They will one day be Mr.\nWilloughby's, and--\"\n\n\"If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be\njustified in what you have done.\"\n\nShe blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her;\nand after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her\nsister again, and said with great good humour, \"Perhaps, Elinor, it WAS\nrather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby wanted\nparticularly to shew me the place; and it is a charming house, I assure\nyou.--There is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs; of a nice\ncomfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture it would\nbe delightful.  It is a corner room, and has windows on two sides.  On\none side you look across the bowling-green, behind the house, to a\nbeautiful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view of the church\nand village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we have so\noften admired.  I did not see it to advantage, for nothing could be\nmore forlorn than the furniture,--but if it were newly fitted up--a\ncouple of hundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it one of the\npleasantest summer-rooms in England.\"\n\nCould Elinor have listened to her without interruption from the others,\nshe would have described every room in the house with equal delight.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 14\n\n\nThe sudden termination of Colonel Brandon's visit at the park, with his\nsteadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind, and raised the\nwonder of Mrs. Jennings for two or three days; she was a great\nwonderer, as every one must be who takes a very lively interest in all\nthe comings and goings of all their acquaintance.  She wondered, with\nlittle intermission what could be the reason of it; was sure there must\nbe some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that could\nhave befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not escape\nthem all.\n\n\"Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure,\" said she.\n\"I could see it in his face.  Poor man!  I am afraid his circumstances\nmay be bad.  The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two\nthousand a year, and his brother left everything sadly involved.  I do\nthink he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else can\nit be?  I wonder whether it is so.  I would give anything to know the\ntruth of it.  Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I dare\nsay it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her.  May be\nshe is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I have a\nnotion she is always rather sickly.  I would lay any wager it is about\nMiss Williams.  It is not so very likely he should be distressed in his\ncircumstances NOW, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure must\nhave cleared the estate by this time.  I wonder what it can be!  May be\nhis sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over.  His setting\noff in such a hurry seems very like it.  Well, I wish him out of all\nhis trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain.\"\n\nSo wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings.  Her opinion varying with every\nfresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose.\nElinor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel\nBrandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away,\nwhich Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides that the\ncircumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting amazement or\nvariety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise disposed of.  It was\nengrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby on\nthe subject, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them\nall.  As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange\nand more incompatible with the disposition of both.  Why they should\nnot openly acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant\nbehaviour to each other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not\nimagine.\n\nShe could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in\ntheir power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason\nto believe him rich.  His estate had been rated by Sir John at about\nsix or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that\nincome could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of\nhis poverty.  But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them\nrelative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all,\nshe could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to their\ngeneral opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind\nof their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her\nmaking any inquiry of Marianne.\n\nNothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than\nWilloughby's behaviour.  To Marianne it had all the distinguishing\ntenderness which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of the\nfamily it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother.  The\ncottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more\nof his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general\nengagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him\nout in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest\nof the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his\nfavourite pointer at her feet.\n\nOne evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the\ncountry, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of\nattachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood's happening\nto mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly\nopposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as\nperfect with him.\n\n\"What!\" he exclaimed--\"Improve this dear cottage!  No. THAT I will\nnever consent to.  Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch\nto its size, if my feelings are regarded.\"\n\n\"Do not be alarmed,\" said Miss Dashwood, \"nothing of the kind will be\ndone; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it.\"\n\n\"I am heartily glad of it,\" he cried.  \"May she always be poor, if she\ncan employ her riches no better.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Willoughby.  But you may be assured that I would not\nsacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one\nwhom I loved, for all the improvements in the world.  Depend upon it\nthat whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in\nthe spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it\nin a manner so painful to you.  But are you really so attached to this\nplace as to see no defect in it?\"\n\n\"I am,\" said he.  \"To me it is faultless.  Nay, more, I consider it as\nthe only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I\nrich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in\nthe exact plan of this cottage.\"\n\n\"With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose,\" said\nElinor.\n\n\"Yes,\" cried he in the same eager tone, \"with all and every thing\nbelonging to it;--in no one convenience or INconvenience about it,\nshould the least variation be perceptible.  Then, and then only, under\nsuch a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at\nBarton.\"\n\n\"I flatter myself,\" replied Elinor, \"that even under the disadvantage\nof better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your\nown house as faultless as you now do this.\"\n\n\"There certainly are circumstances,\" said Willoughby, \"which might\ngreatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of\nmy affection, which no other can possibly share.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were\nfixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she\nunderstood him.\n\n\"How often did I wish,\" added he, \"when I was at Allenham this time\ntwelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited!  I never passed within\nview of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one\nshould live in it.  How little did I then think that the very first\nnews I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country,\nwould be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate\nsatisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of\nprescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account\nfor.  Must it not have been so, Marianne?\" speaking to her in a lowered\nvoice.  Then continuing his former tone, he said, \"And yet this house\nyou would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood?  You would rob it of its simplicity by\nimaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance\nfirst began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by\nus together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance,\nand every body would be eager to pass through the room which has\nhitherto contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort\nthan any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world\ncould possibly afford.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should\nbe attempted.\n\n\"You are a good woman,\" he warmly replied.  \"Your promise makes me\neasy.  Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy.  Tell me\nthat not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever\nfind you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will\nalways consider me with the kindness which has made everything\nbelonging to you so dear to me.\"\n\nThe promise was readily given, and Willoughby's behaviour during the\nwhole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness.\n\n\"Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?\" said Mrs. Dashwood, when he was\nleaving them.  \"I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must\nwalk to the park, to call on Lady Middleton.\"\n\nHe engaged to be with them by four o'clock.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 15\n\n\nMrs. Dashwood's visit to Lady Middleton took place the next day, and\ntwo of her daughters went with her; but Marianne excused herself from\nbeing of the party, under some trifling pretext of employment; and her\nmother, who concluded that a promise had been made by Willoughby the\nnight before of calling on her while they were absent, was perfectly\nsatisfied with her remaining at home.\n\nOn their return from the park they found Willoughby's curricle and\nservant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that\nher conjecture had been just.  So far it was all as she had foreseen;\nbut on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had taught her\nto expect.  They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne came\nhastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with her\nhandkerchief at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs.\nSurprised and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had\njust quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning against\nthe mantel-piece with his back towards them.  He turned round on their\ncoming in, and his countenance shewed that he strongly partook of the\nemotion which over-powered Marianne.\n\n\"Is anything the matter with her?\" cried Mrs. Dashwood as she\nentered--\"is she ill?\"\n\n\"I hope not,\" he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a forced\nsmile presently added, \"It is I who may rather expect to be ill--for I\nam now suffering under a very heavy disappointment!\"\n\n\"Disappointment?\"\n\n\"Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with you.  Mrs. Smith has\nthis morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent\ncousin, by sending me on business to London.  I have just received my\ndispatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham; and by way of\nexhilaration I am now come to take my farewell of you.\"\n\n\"To London!--and are you going this morning?\"\n\n\"Almost this moment.\"\n\n\"This is very unfortunate.  But Mrs. Smith must be obliged;--and her\nbusiness will not detain you from us long I hope.\"\n\nHe coloured as he replied, \"You are very kind, but I have no idea of\nreturning into Devonshire immediately.  My visits to Mrs. Smith are\nnever repeated within the twelvemonth.\"\n\n\"And is Mrs. Smith your only friend?  Is Allenham the only house in the\nneighbourhood to which you will be welcome?  For shame, Willoughby, can\nyou wait for an invitation here?\"\n\nHis colour increased; and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only\nreplied, \"You are too good.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise.  Elinor felt equal\namazement.  For a few moments every one was silent.  Mrs. Dashwood\nfirst spoke.\n\n\"I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton cottage you\nwill always be welcome; for I will not press you to return here\nimmediately, because you only can judge how far THAT might be pleasing\nto Mrs. Smith; and on this head I shall be no more disposed to question\nyour judgment than to doubt your inclination.\"\n\n\"My engagements at present,\" replied Willoughby, confusedly, \"are of\nsuch a nature--that--I dare not flatter myself\"--\n\nHe stopt.  Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and another\npause succeeded.  This was broken by Willoughby, who said with a faint\nsmile, \"It is folly to linger in this manner.  I will not torment\nmyself any longer by remaining among friends whose society it is\nimpossible for me now to enjoy.\"\n\nHe then hastily took leave of them all and left the room.  They saw him\nstep into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight.\n\nMrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the\nparlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this\nsudden departure occasioned.\n\nElinor's uneasiness was at least equal to her mother's.  She thought of\nwhat had just passed with anxiety and distrust.  Willoughby's behaviour\nin taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of\ncheerfulness, and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother's\ninvitation, a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike himself,\ngreatly disturbed her.  One moment she feared that no serious design\nhad ever been formed on his side; and the next that some unfortunate\nquarrel had taken place between him and her sister;--the distress in\nwhich Marianne had quitted the room was such as a serious quarrel could\nmost reasonably account for, though when she considered what Marianne's\nlove for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible.\n\nBut whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her sister's\naffliction was indubitable; and she thought with the tenderest\ncompassion of that violent sorrow which Marianne was in all probability\nnot merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and encouraging as a\nduty.\n\nIn about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were\nred, her countenance was not uncheerful.\n\n\"Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor,\" said she,\nas she sat down to work, \"and with how heavy a heart does he travel?\"\n\n\"It is all very strange.  So suddenly to be gone! It seems but the work\nof a moment.  And last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so\naffectionate?  And now, after only ten minutes notice--Gone too without\nintending to return!--Something more than what he owned to us must have\nhappened.  He did not speak, he did not behave like himself.  YOU must\nhave seen the difference as well as I.  What can it be?  Can they have\nquarrelled?  Why else should he have shewn such unwillingness to accept\nyour invitation here?\"--\n\n\"It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see\nTHAT.  He had not the power of accepting it.  I have thought it all\nover I assure you, and I can perfectly account for every thing that at\nfirst seemed strange to me as well as to you.\"\n\n\"Can you, indeed!\"\n\n\"Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way;--but\nyou, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can--it will not satisfy YOU,\nI know; but you shall not talk ME out of my trust in it.  I am\npersuaded that Mrs. Smith suspects his regard for Marianne, disapproves\nof it, (perhaps because she has other views for him,) and on that\naccount is eager to get him away;--and that the business which she\nsends him off to transact is invented as an excuse to dismiss him.\nThis is what I believe to have happened.  He is, moreover, aware that\nshe DOES disapprove the connection, he dares not therefore at present\nconfess to her his engagement with Marianne, and he feels himself\nobliged, from his dependent situation, to give into her schemes, and\nabsent himself from Devonshire for a while.  You will tell me, I know,\nthat this may or may NOT have happened; but I will listen to no cavil,\nunless you can point out any other method of understanding the affair\nas satisfactory at this.  And now, Elinor, what have you to say?\"\n\n\"Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer.\"\n\n\"Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have happened.\nOh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings!  You had rather\ntake evil upon credit than good.  You had rather look out for misery\nfor Marianne, and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the\nlatter.  You are resolved to think him blameable, because he took leave\nof us with less affection than his usual behaviour has shewn.  And is\nno allowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits depressed by\nrecent disappointment?  Are no probabilities to be accepted, merely\nbecause they are not certainties?  Is nothing due to the man whom we\nhave all such reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill\nof?  To the possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though\nunavoidably secret for a while?  And, after all, what is it you suspect\nhim of?\"\n\n\"I can hardly tell myself.  But suspicion of something unpleasant is\nthe inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed\nin him.  There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of\nthe allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be\ncandid in my judgment of every body.  Willoughby may undoubtedly have\nvery sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that he has.\nBut it would have been more like Willoughby to acknowledge them at\nonce.  Secrecy may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at\nits being practiced by him.\"\n\n\"Do not blame him, however, for departing from his character, where the\ndeviation is necessary.  But you really do admit the justice of what I\nhave said in his defence?--I am happy--and he is acquitted.\"\n\n\"Not entirely.  It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they\nARE engaged) from Mrs. Smith--and if that is the case, it must be\nhighly expedient for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at\npresent.  But this is no excuse for their concealing it from us.\"\n\n\"Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and\nMarianne of concealment? This is strange indeed, when your eyes have\nbeen reproaching them every day for incautiousness.\"\n\n\"I want no proof of their affection,\" said Elinor; \"but of their\nengagement I do.\"\n\n\"I am perfectly satisfied of both.\"\n\n\"Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of\nthem.\"\n\n\"I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly.  Has\nnot his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last\nfortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future\nwife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation?\nHave we not perfectly understood each other?  Has not my consent been\ndaily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate\nrespect?  My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement?  How\ncould such a thought occur to you?  How is it to be supposed that\nWilloughby, persuaded as he must be of your sister's love, should leave\nher, and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of his\naffection;--that they should part without a mutual exchange of\nconfidence?\"\n\n\"I confess,\" replied Elinor, \"that every circumstance except ONE is in\nfavour of their engagement; but that ONE is the total silence of both\non the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other.\"\n\n\"How strange this is!  You must think wretchedly indeed of Willoughby,\nif, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the\nnature of the terms on which they are together.  Has he been acting a\npart in his behaviour to your sister all this time?  Do you suppose him\nreally indifferent to her?\"\n\n\"No, I cannot think that.  He must and does love her I am sure.\"\n\n\"But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such\nindifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to him.\"\n\n\"You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this\nmatter as certain.  I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are\nfainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away.  If we\nfind they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed.\"\n\n\"A mighty concession indeed!  If you were to see them at the altar, you\nwould suppose they were going to be married.  Ungracious girl!  But I\nrequire no such proof.  Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to\njustify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly\nopen and unreserved.  You cannot doubt your sister's wishes.  It must\nbe Willoughby therefore whom you suspect.  But why?  Is he not a man of\nhonour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to\ncreate alarm? can he be deceitful?\"\n\n\"I hope not, I believe not,\" cried Elinor.  \"I love Willoughby,\nsincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more\npainful to yourself than to me.  It has been involuntary, and I will\nnot encourage it.  I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his\nmanners this morning;--he did not speak like himself, and did not\nreturn your kindness with any cordiality.  But all this may be\nexplained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed.  He\nhad just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest\naffliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs.\nSmith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware\nthat by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for\nsome time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by\nour family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed.  In such a\ncase, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more\nto his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general\ncharacter;--but I will not raise objections against any one's conduct\non so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself,\nor a deviation from what I may think right and consistent.\"\n\n\"You speak very properly.  Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be\nsuspected.  Though WE have not known him long, he is no stranger in\nthis part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage?\nHad he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately,\nit might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging\neverything to me at once: but this is not the case.  It is an\nengagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage\nmust be at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it\ncan be observed, may now be very advisable.\"\n\nThey were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was then\nat liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to\nacknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all.\n\nThey saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the\nroom and took her place at the table without saying a word.  Her eyes\nwere red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then\nrestrained with difficulty.  She avoided the looks of them all, could\nneither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother's silently\npressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree of fortitude\nwas quite overcome, she burst into tears and left the room.\n\nThis violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening.  She\nwas without any power, because she was without any desire of command\nover herself.  The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby\noverpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most\nanxiously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if they\nspoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings\nconnected with him.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 16\n\n\nMarianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able\nto sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby.  She\nwould have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next\nmorning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than\nwhen she lay down in it.  But the feelings which made such composure a\ndisgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it.  She was awake the\nwhole night, and she wept the greatest part of it.  She got up with a\nheadache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment;\ngiving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all\nattempt at consolation from either.  Her sensibility was potent enough!\n\nWhen breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered about\nthe village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment\nand crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.\n\nThe evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling.  She played\nover every favourite song that she had been used to play to Willoughby,\nevery air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at\nthe instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out\nfor her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be\ngained; and this nourishment of grief was every day applied.  She spent\nwhole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing and crying; her voice\noften totally suspended by her tears.  In books too, as well as in\nmusic, she courted the misery which a contrast between the past and\npresent was certain of giving.  She read nothing but what they had been\nused to read together.\n\nSuch violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it\nsunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these employments,\nto which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and silent meditations,\nstill produced occasional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever.\n\nNo letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by Marianne.\nHer mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy.  But Mrs.\nDashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at\nleast satisfied herself.\n\n\"Remember, Elinor,\" said she, \"how very often Sir John fetches our\nletters himself from the post, and carries them to it.  We have already\nagreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it\ncould not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through\nSir John's hands.\"\n\nElinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a\nmotive sufficient for their silence.  But there was one method so\ndirect, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real\nstate of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she\ncould not help suggesting it to her mother.\n\n\"Why do you not ask Marianne at once,\" said she, \"whether she is or she\nis not engaged to Willoughby?  From you, her mother, and so kind, so\nindulgent a mother, the question could not give offence.  It would be\nthe natural result of your affection for her.  She used to be all\nunreserve, and to you more especially.\"\n\n\"I would not ask such a question for the world.  Supposing it possible\nthat they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry\ninflict!  At any rate it would be most ungenerous.  I should never\ndeserve her confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of\nwhat is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one.  I know\nMarianne's heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall not\nbe the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances make\nthe revealment of it eligible.  I would not attempt to force the\nconfidence of any one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty\nwould prevent the denial which her wishes might direct.\"\n\nElinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister's\nyouth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common\ncare, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic\ndelicacy.\n\nIt was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned before\nMarianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed, were\nnot so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour;--but\none evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of\nShakespeare, exclaimed,\n\n\"We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went away\nbefore we could get through it.  We will put it by, that when he comes\nagain...But it may be months, perhaps, before THAT happens.\"\n\n\"Months!\" cried Marianne, with strong surprise.  \"No--nor many weeks.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave Elinor\npleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of\nconfidence in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions.\n\nOne morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne was\nprevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of\nwandering away by herself.  Hitherto she had carefully avoided every\ncompanion in her rambles.  If her sisters intended to walk on the\ndowns, she directly stole away towards the lanes; if they talked of the\nvalley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never be\nfound when the others set off.  But at length she was secured by the\nexertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion.\nThey walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence,\nfor Marianne's MIND could not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied with\ngaining one point, would not then attempt more.  Beyond the entrance of\nthe valley, where the country, though still rich, was less wild and\nmore open, a long stretch of the road which they had travelled on first\ncoming to Barton, lay before them; and on reaching that point, they\nstopped to look around them, and examine a prospect which formed the\ndistance of their view from the cottage, from a spot which they had\nnever happened to reach in any of their walks before.\n\nAmongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated one;\nit was a man on horseback riding towards them.  In a few minutes they\ncould distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment afterwards\nMarianne rapturously exclaimed,\n\n\"It is he; it is indeed;--I know it is!\"--and was hastening to meet\nhim, when Elinor cried out,\n\n\"Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken.  It is not Willoughby.\nThe person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air.\"\n\n\"He has, he has,\" cried Marianne, \"I am sure he has.  His air, his\ncoat, his horse.  I knew how soon he would come.\"\n\nShe walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne from\nparticularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being Willoughby,\nquickened her pace and kept up with her.  They were soon within thirty\nyards of the gentleman.  Marianne looked again; her heart sunk within\nher; and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying back, when the voices\nof both her sisters were raised to detain her; a third, almost as well\nknown as Willoughby's, joined them in begging her to stop, and she\nturned round with surprise to see and welcome Edward Ferrars.\n\nHe was the only person in the world who could at that moment be\nforgiven for not being Willoughby; the only one who could have gained a\nsmile from her; but she dispersed her tears to smile on HIM, and in her\nsister's happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment.\n\nHe dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with\nthem to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them.\n\nHe was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by\nMarianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him than\neven Elinor herself.  To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between Edward\nand her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness\nwhich she had often observed at Norland in their mutual behaviour.  On\nEdward's side, more particularly, there was a deficiency of all that a\nlover ought to look and say on such an occasion.  He was confused,\nseemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked neither\nrapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by\nquestions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection.  Marianne\nsaw and listened with increasing surprise.  She began almost to feel a\ndislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by\ncarrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a\ncontrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother elect.\n\nAfter a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and enquiries\nof meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London.  No,\nhe had been in Devonshire a fortnight.\n\n\"A fortnight!\" she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the same\ncounty with Elinor without seeing her before.\n\nHe looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying with\nsome friends near Plymouth.\n\n\"Have you been lately in Sussex?\" said Elinor.\n\n\"I was at Norland about a month ago.\"\n\n\"And how does dear, dear Norland look?\" cried Marianne.\n\n\"Dear, dear Norland,\" said Elinor, \"probably looks much as it always\ndoes at this time of the year.  The woods and walks thickly covered\nwith dead leaves.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" cried Marianne, \"with what transporting sensation have I formerly\nseen them fall!  How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them driven\nin showers about me by the wind!  What feelings have they, the season,\nthe air altogether inspired!  Now there is no one to regard them.  They\nare seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as\npossible from the sight.\"\n\n\"It is not every one,\" said Elinor, \"who has your passion for dead\nleaves.\"\n\n\"No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood.  But\nSOMETIMES they are.\"--As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a\nfew moments;--but rousing herself again, \"Now, Edward,\" said she,\ncalling his attention to the prospect, \"here is Barton valley.  Look up\nto it, and be tranquil if you can.  Look at those hills!  Did you ever\nsee their equals?  To the left is Barton park, amongst those woods and\nplantations.  You may see the end of the house.  And there, beneath\nthat farthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage.\"\n\n\"It is a beautiful country,\" he replied; \"but these bottoms must be\ndirty in winter.\"\n\n\"How can you think of dirt, with such objects before you?\"\n\n\"Because,\" replied he, smiling, \"among the rest of the objects before\nme, I see a very dirty lane.\"\n\n\"How strange!\" said Marianne to herself as she walked on.\n\n\"Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here?  Are the Middletons pleasant\npeople?\"\n\n\"No, not all,\" answered Marianne; \"we could not be more unfortunately\nsituated.\"\n\n\"Marianne,\" cried her sister, \"how can you say so? How can you be so\nunjust?  They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars; and towards\nus have behaved in the friendliest manner.  Have you forgot, Marianne,\nhow many pleasant days we have owed to them?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Marianne, in a low voice, \"nor how many painful moments.\"\n\nElinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention to their\nvisitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by\ntalking of their present residence, its conveniences, &c. extorting\nfrom him occasional questions and remarks.  His coldness and reserve\nmortified her severely; she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to\nregulate her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present, she\navoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated him\nas she thought he ought to be treated from the family connection.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 17\n\n\nMrs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his\ncoming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural.\nHer joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder.  He received\nthe kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not\nstand against such a reception.  They had begun to fail him before he\nentered the house, and they were quite overcome by the captivating\nmanners of Mrs. Dashwood.  Indeed a man could not very well be in love\nwith either of her daughters, without extending the passion to her; and\nElinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like\nhimself.  His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his\ninterest in their welfare again became perceptible.  He was not in\nspirits, however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was\nattentive, and kind; but still he was not in spirits.  The whole family\nperceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of\nliberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all\nselfish parents.\n\n\"What are Mrs. Ferrars's views for you at present, Edward?\" said she,\nwhen dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire; \"are you still\nto be a great orator in spite of yourself?\"\n\n\"No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents than\ninclination for a public life!\"\n\n\"But how is your fame to be established? for famous you must be to\nsatisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no\naffection for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may find\nit a difficult matter.\"\n\n\"I shall not attempt it.  I have no wish to be distinguished; and have\nevery reason to hope I never shall.  Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced\ninto genius and eloquence.\"\n\n\"You have no ambition, I well know.  Your wishes are all moderate.\"\n\n\"As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe.  I wish as\nwell as every body else to be perfectly happy; but, like every body\nelse it must be in my own way.  Greatness will not make me so.\"\n\n\"Strange that it would!\" cried Marianne.  \"What have wealth or grandeur\nto do with happiness?\"\n\n\"Grandeur has but little,\" said Elinor, \"but wealth has much to do with\nit.\"\n\n\"Elinor, for shame!\" said Marianne, \"money can only give happiness\nwhere there is nothing else to give it.  Beyond a competence, it can\nafford no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Elinor, smiling, \"we may come to the same point.  YOUR\ncompetence and MY wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and without\nthem, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every kind of\nexternal comfort must be wanting.  Your ideas are only more noble than\nmine.  Come, what is your competence?\"\n\n\"About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than THAT.\"\n\nElinor laughed.  \"TWO thousand a year! ONE is my wealth! I guessed how\nit would end.\"\n\n\"And yet two thousand a-year is a very moderate income,\" said Marianne.\n\"A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller.  I am sure I am not\nextravagant in my demands.  A proper establishment of servants, a\ncarriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less.\"\n\nElinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their\nfuture expenses at Combe Magna.\n\n\"Hunters!\" repeated Edward--\"but why must you have hunters?  Every body\ndoes not hunt.\"\n\nMarianne coloured as she replied, \"But most people do.\"\n\n\"I wish,\" said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, \"that somebody\nwould give us all a large fortune apiece!\"\n\n\"Oh that they would!\" cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with\nanimation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary\nhappiness.\n\n\"We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose,\" said Elinor, \"in spite\nof the insufficiency of wealth.\"\n\n\"Oh dear!\" cried Margaret, \"how happy I should be!  I wonder what I\nshould do with it!\"\n\nMarianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.\n\n\"I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself,\" said Mrs.\nDashwood, \"if my children were all to be rich without my help.\"\n\n\"You must begin your improvements on this house,\" observed Elinor, \"and\nyour difficulties will soon vanish.\"\n\n\"What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London,\" said\nEdward, \"in such an event!  What a happy day for booksellers,\nmusic-sellers, and print-shops!  You, Miss Dashwood, would give a\ngeneral commission for every new print of merit to be sent you--and as\nfor Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music\nenough in London to content her.  And books!--Thomson, Cowper,\nScott--she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up\nevery copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands;\nand she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old\ntwisted tree.  Should not you, Marianne?  Forgive me, if I am very\nsaucy.  But I was willing to shew you that I had not forgot our old\ndisputes.\"\n\n\"I love to be reminded of the past, Edward--whether it be melancholy or\ngay, I love to recall it--and you will never offend me by talking of\nformer times.  You are very right in supposing how my money would be\nspent--some of it, at least--my loose cash would certainly be employed\nin improving my collection of music and books.\"\n\n\"And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the\nauthors or their heirs.\"\n\n\"No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it.\"\n\n\"Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who\nwrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever\nbe in love more than once in their life--your opinion on that point is\nunchanged, I presume?\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed.  It is\nnot likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them.\"\n\n\"Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see,\" said Elinor, \"she is not\nat all altered.\"\n\n\"She is only grown a little more grave than she was.\"\n\n\"Nay, Edward,\" said Marianne, \"you need not reproach me.  You are not\nvery gay yourself.\"\n\n\"Why should you think so!\" replied he, with a sigh.  \"But gaiety never\nwas a part of MY character.\"\n\n\"Nor do I think it a part of Marianne's,\" said Elinor; \"I should hardly\ncall her a lively girl--she is very earnest, very eager in all she\ndoes--sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation--but she\nis not often really merry.\"\n\n\"I believe you are right,\" he replied, \"and yet I have always set her\ndown as a lively girl.\"\n\n\"I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes,\" said\nElinor, \"in a total misapprehension of character in some point or\nother: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or\nstupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the\ndeception originated.  Sometimes one is guided by what they say of\nthemselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them,\nwithout giving oneself time to deliberate and judge.\"\n\n\"But I thought it was right, Elinor,\" said Marianne, \"to be guided\nwholly by the opinion of other people.  I thought our judgments were\ngiven us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours.  This has\nalways been your doctrine, I am sure.\"\n\n\"No, Marianne, never.  My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of\nthe understanding.  All I have ever attempted to influence has been the\nbehaviour.  You must not confound my meaning.  I am guilty, I confess,\nof having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with\ngreater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their\nsentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?\"\n\n\"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of\ngeneral civility,\" said Edward to Elinor.  \"Do you gain no ground?\"\n\n\"Quite the contrary,\" replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne.\n\n\"My judgment,\" he returned, \"is all on your side of the question; but I\nam afraid my practice is much more on your sister's.  I never wish to\noffend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I\nam only kept back by my natural awkwardness.  I have frequently thought\nthat I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I\nam so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!\"\n\n\"Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers,\" said\nElinor.\n\n\"She knows her own worth too well for false shame,\" replied Edward.\n\"Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or\nother.  If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy\nand graceful, I should not be shy.\"\n\n\"But you would still be reserved,\" said Marianne, \"and that is worse.\"\n\nEdward started--\"Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?\"\n\n\"Yes, very.\"\n\n\"I do not understand you,\" replied he, colouring.  \"Reserved!--how, in\nwhat manner?  What am I to tell you?  What can you suppose?\"\n\nElinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the\nsubject, she said to him, \"Do not you know my sister well enough to\nunderstand what she means?  Do not you know she calls every one\nreserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as\nrapturously as herself?\"\n\nEdward made no answer.  His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him\nin their fullest extent--and he sat for some time silent and dull.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 18\n\n\nElinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend.  His\nvisit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own\nenjoyment in it appeared so imperfect.  It was evident that he was\nunhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished\nher by the same affection which once she had felt no doubt of\ninspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very\nuncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted\none moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one.\n\nHe joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning\nbefore the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to\npromote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to\nthemselves.  But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour\ndoor open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself\ncome out.\n\n\"I am going into the village to see my horses,\" said he, \"as you are\nnot yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently.\"\n\n                    ***\n\nEdward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding\ncountry; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the\nvalley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation\nthan the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had\nexceedingly pleased him.  This was a subject which ensured Marianne's\nattention, and she was beginning to describe her own admiration of\nthese scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had\nparticularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her by saying, \"You\nmust not enquire too far, Marianne--remember I have no knowledge in the\npicturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste\nif we come to particulars.  I shall call hills steep, which ought to be\nbold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and\nrugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be\nindistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere.  You must be\nsatisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give.  I call it a\nvery fine country--the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine\ntimber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug--with rich meadows\nand several neat farm houses scattered here and there.  It exactly\nanswers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with\nutility--and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you admire\nit; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey\nmoss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me.  I know nothing of\nthe picturesque.\"\n\n\"I am afraid it is but too true,\" said Marianne; \"but why should you\nboast of it?\"\n\n\"I suspect,\" said Elinor, \"that to avoid one kind of affectation,\nEdward here falls into another.  Because he believes many people\npretend to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really\nfeel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater\nindifference and less discrimination in viewing them himself than he\npossesses.  He is fastidious and will have an affectation of his own.\"\n\n\"It is very true,\" said Marianne, \"that admiration of landscape scenery\nis become a mere jargon.  Every body pretends to feel and tries to\ndescribe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what\npicturesque beauty was.  I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I\nhave kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to\ndescribe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and\nmeaning.\"\n\n\"I am convinced,\" said Edward, \"that you really feel all the delight in\na fine prospect which you profess to feel.  But, in return, your sister\nmust allow me to feel no more than I profess.  I like a fine prospect,\nbut not on picturesque principles.  I do not like crooked, twisted,\nblasted trees.  I admire them much more if they are tall, straight, and\nflourishing.  I do not like ruined, tattered cottages.  I am not fond\nof nettles or thistles, or heath blossoms.  I have more pleasure in a\nsnug farm-house than a watch-tower--and a troop of tidy, happy villages\nplease me better than the finest banditti in the world.\"\n\nMarianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her\nsister.  Elinor only laughed.\n\nThe subject was continued no farther; and Marianne remained\nthoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention.\nShe was sitting by Edward, and in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood,\nhis hand passed so directly before her, as to make a ring, with a plait\nof hair in the centre, very conspicuous on one of his fingers.\n\n\"I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward,\" she cried.  \"Is that\nFanny's hair? I remember her promising to give you some.  But I should\nhave thought her hair had been darker.\"\n\nMarianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt--but when she saw\nhow much she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of thought\ncould not be surpassed by his.  He coloured very deeply, and giving a\nmomentary glance at Elinor, replied, \"Yes; it is my sister's hair.  The\nsetting always casts a different shade on it, you know.\"\n\nElinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise.  That the hair\nwas her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne;\nthe only difference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne\nconsidered as a free gift from her sister, Elinor was conscious must\nhave been procured by some theft or contrivance unknown to herself.\nShe was not in a humour, however, to regard it as an affront, and\naffecting to take no notice of what passed, by instantly talking of\nsomething else, she internally resolved henceforward to catch every\nopportunity of eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyond all\ndoubt, that it was exactly the shade of her own.\n\nEdward's embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an absence of\nmind still more settled.  He was particularly grave the whole morning.\nMarianne severely censured herself for what she had said; but her own\nforgiveness might have been more speedy, had she known how little\noffence it had given her sister.\n\nBefore the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir John and Mrs.\nJennings, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the\ncottage, came to take a survey of the guest.  With the assistance of\nhis mother-in-law, Sir John was not long in discovering that the name\nof Ferrars began with an F. and this prepared a future mine of raillery\nagainst the devoted Elinor, which nothing but the newness of their\nacquaintance with Edward could have prevented from being immediately\nsprung.  But, as it was, she only learned, from some very significant\nlooks, how far their penetration, founded on Margaret's instructions,\nextended.\n\nSir John never came to the Dashwoods without either inviting them to\ndine at the park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening.\nOn the present occasion, for the better entertainment of their visitor,\ntowards whose amusement he felt himself bound to contribute, he wished\nto engage them for both.\n\n\"You MUST drink tea with us to night,\" said he, \"for we shall be quite\nalone--and tomorrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we shall be a\nlarge party.\"\n\nMrs. Jennings enforced the necessity.  \"And who knows but you may raise\na dance,\" said she.  \"And that will tempt YOU, Miss Marianne.\"\n\n\"A dance!\" cried Marianne.  \"Impossible! Who is to dance?\"\n\n\"Who! why yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers to be sure.--What!\nyou thought nobody could dance because a certain person that shall be\nnameless is gone!\"\n\n\"I wish with all my soul,\" cried Sir John, \"that Willoughby were among\nus again.\"\n\nThis, and Marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward.  \"And who\nis Willoughby?\" said he, in a low voice, to Miss Dashwood, by whom he\nwas sitting.\n\nShe gave him a brief reply.  Marianne's countenance was more\ncommunicative.  Edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning\nof others, but such of Marianne's expressions as had puzzled him\nbefore; and when their visitors left them, he went immediately round\nher, and said, in a whisper, \"I have been guessing.  Shall I tell you\nmy guess?\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Shall I tell you.\"\n\n\"Certainly.\"\n\n\"Well then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts.\"\n\nMarianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling at\nthe quiet archness of his manner, and after a moment's silence, said,\n\n\"Oh, Edward! How can you?--But the time will come I hope...I am sure\nyou will like him.\"\n\n\"I do not doubt it,\" replied he, rather astonished at her earnestness\nand warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of her\nacquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing\nbetween Mr. Willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to\nmention it.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 19\n\n\nEdward remained a week at the cottage; he was earnestly pressed by Mrs.\nDashwood to stay longer; but, as if he were bent only on\nself-mortification, he seemed resolved to be gone when his enjoyment\namong his friends was at the height.  His spirits, during the last two\nor three days, though still very unequal, were greatly improved--he\ngrew more and more partial to the house and environs--never spoke of\ngoing away without a sigh--declared his time to be wholly\ndisengaged--even doubted to what place he should go when he left\nthem--but still, go he must.  Never had any week passed so quickly--he\ncould hardly believe it to be gone.  He said so repeatedly; other\nthings he said too, which marked the turn of his feelings and gave the\nlie to his actions.  He had no pleasure at Norland; he detested being\nin town; but either to Norland or London, he must go.  He valued their\nkindness beyond any thing, and his greatest happiness was in being with\nthem.  Yet, he must leave them at the end of a week, in spite of their\nwishes and his own, and without any restraint on his time.\n\nElinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to his\nmother's account; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whose\ncharacter was so imperfectly known to her, as to be the general excuse\nfor every thing strange on the part of her son.  Disappointed, however,\nand vexed as she was, and sometimes displeased with his uncertain\nbehaviour to herself, she was very well disposed on the whole to regard\nhis actions with all the candid allowances and generous qualifications,\nwhich had been rather more painfully extorted from her, for\nWilloughby's service, by her mother.  His want of spirits, of openness,\nand of consistency, were most usually attributed to his want of\nindependence, and his better knowledge of Mrs. Ferrars's disposition\nand designs.  The shortness of his visit, the steadiness of his purpose\nin leaving them, originated in the same fettered inclination, the same\ninevitable necessity of temporizing with his mother.  The old\nwell-established grievance of duty against will, parent against child,\nwas the cause of all.  She would have been glad to know when these\ndifficulties were to cease, this opposition was to yield,--when Mrs.\nFerrars would be reformed, and her son be at liberty to be happy.  But\nfrom such vain wishes she was forced to turn for comfort to the renewal\nof her confidence in Edward's affection, to the remembrance of every\nmark of regard in look or word which fell from him while at Barton, and\nabove all to that flattering proof of it which he constantly wore round\nhis finger.\n\n\"I think, Edward,\" said Mrs. Dashwood, as they were at breakfast the\nlast morning, \"you would be a happier man if you had any profession to\nengage your time and give an interest to your plans and actions.  Some\ninconvenience to your friends, indeed, might result from it--you would\nnot be able to give them so much of your time.  But (with a smile) you\nwould be materially benefited in one particular at least--you would\nknow where to go when you left them.\"\n\n\"I do assure you,\" he replied, \"that I have long thought on this point,\nas you think now.  It has been, and is, and probably will always be a\nheavy misfortune to me, that I have had no necessary business to engage\nme, no profession to give me employment, or afford me any thing like\nindependence.  But unfortunately my own nicety, and the nicety of my\nfriends, have made me what I am, an idle, helpless being.  We never\ncould agree in our choice of a profession.  I always preferred the\nchurch, as I still do.  But that was not smart enough for my family.\nThey recommended the army.  That was a great deal too smart for me.\nThe law was allowed to be genteel enough; many young men, who had\nchambers in the Temple, made a very good appearance in the first\ncircles, and drove about town in very knowing gigs.  But I had no\ninclination for the law, even in this less abstruse study of it, which\nmy family approved.  As for the navy, it had fashion on its side, but I\nwas too old when the subject was first started to enter it--and, at\nlength, as there was no necessity for my having any profession at all,\nas I might be as dashing and expensive without a red coat on my back as\nwith one, idleness was pronounced on the whole to be most advantageous\nand honourable, and a young man of eighteen is not in general so\nearnestly bent on being busy as to resist the solicitations of his\nfriends to do nothing.  I was therefore entered at Oxford and have been\nproperly idle ever since.\"\n\n\"The consequence of which, I suppose, will be,\" said Mrs. Dashwood,\n\"since leisure has not promoted your own happiness, that your sons will\nbe brought up to as many pursuits, employments, professions, and trades\nas Columella's.\"\n\n\"They will be brought up,\" said he, in a serious accent, \"to be as\nunlike myself as is possible.  In feeling, in action, in condition, in\nevery thing.\"\n\n\"Come, come; this is all an effusion of immediate want of spirits,\nEdward.  You are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that any one unlike\nyourself must be happy.  But remember that the pain of parting from\nfriends will be felt by every body at times, whatever be their\neducation or state.  Know your own happiness.  You want nothing but\npatience--or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope.  Your\nmother will secure to you, in time, that independence you are so\nanxious for; it is her duty, and it will, it must ere long become her\nhappiness to prevent your whole youth from being wasted in discontent.\nHow much may not a few months do?\"\n\n\"I think,\" replied Edward, \"that I may defy many months to produce any\ngood to me.\"\n\nThis desponding turn of mind, though it could not be communicated to\nMrs. Dashwood, gave additional pain to them all in the parting, which\nshortly took place, and left an uncomfortable impression on Elinor's\nfeelings especially, which required some trouble and time to subdue.\nBut as it was her determination to subdue it, and to prevent herself\nfrom appearing to suffer more than what all her family suffered on his\ngoing away, she did not adopt the method so judiciously employed by\nMarianne, on a similar occasion, to augment and fix her sorrow, by\nseeking silence, solitude and idleness.  Their means were as different\nas their objects, and equally suited to the advancement of each.\n\nElinor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as he was out of the\nhouse, busily employed herself the whole day, neither sought nor\navoided the mention of his name, appeared to interest herself almost as\nmuch as ever in the general concerns of the family, and if, by this\nconduct, she did not lessen her own grief, it was at least prevented\nfrom unnecessary increase, and her mother and sisters were spared much\nsolicitude on her account.\n\nSuch behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared no\nmore meritorious to Marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her.\nThe business of self-command she settled very easily;--with strong\naffections it was impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit.\nThat her sister's affections WERE calm, she dared not deny, though she\nblushed to acknowledge it; and of the strength of her own, she gave a\nvery striking proof, by still loving and respecting that sister, in\nspite of this mortifying conviction.\n\nWithout shutting herself up from her family, or leaving the house in\ndetermined solitude to avoid them, or lying awake the whole night to\nindulge meditation, Elinor found every day afforded her leisure enough\nto think of Edward, and of Edward's behaviour, in every possible\nvariety which the different state of her spirits at different times\ncould produce,--with tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and doubt.\nThere were moments in abundance, when, if not by the absence of her\nmother and sisters, at least by the nature of their employments,\nconversation was forbidden among them, and every effect of solitude was\nproduced.  Her mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts could not\nbe chained elsewhere; and the past and the future, on a subject so\ninteresting, must be before her, must force her attention, and engross\nher memory, her reflection, and her fancy.\n\nFrom a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she was\nroused one morning, soon after Edward's leaving them, by the arrival of\ncompany.  She happened to be quite alone.  The closing of the little\ngate, at the entrance of the green court in front of the house, drew\nher eyes to the window, and she saw a large party walking up to the\ndoor.  Amongst them were Sir John and Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings,\nbut there were two others, a gentleman and lady, who were quite unknown\nto her.  She was sitting near the window, and as soon as Sir John\nperceived her, he left the rest of the party to the ceremony of\nknocking at the door, and stepping across the turf, obliged her to open\nthe casement to speak to him, though the space was so short between the\ndoor and the window, as to make it hardly possible to speak at one\nwithout being heard at the other.\n\n\"Well,\" said he, \"we have brought you some strangers.  How do you like\nthem?\"\n\n\"Hush! they will hear you.\"\n\n\"Never mind if they do.  It is only the Palmers.  Charlotte is very\npretty, I can tell you.  You may see her if you look this way.\"\n\nAs Elinor was certain of seeing her in a couple of minutes, without\ntaking that liberty, she begged to be excused.\n\n\"Where is Marianne? Has she run away because we are come? I see her\ninstrument is open.\"\n\n\"She is walking, I believe.\"\n\nThey were now joined by Mrs. Jennings, who had not patience enough to\nwait till the door was opened before she told HER story.  She came\nhallooing to the window, \"How do you do, my dear?  How does Mrs.\nDashwood do?  And where are your sisters?  What! all alone! you will be\nglad of a little company to sit with you.  I have brought my other son\nand daughter to see you.  Only think of their coming so suddenly!  I\nthought I heard a carriage last night, while we were drinking our tea,\nbut it never entered my head that it could be them.  I thought of\nnothing but whether it might not be Colonel Brandon come back again; so\nI said to Sir John, I do think I hear a carriage; perhaps it is Colonel\nBrandon come back again\"--\n\nElinor was obliged to turn from her, in the middle of her story, to\nreceive the rest of the party; Lady Middleton introduced the two\nstrangers; Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret came down stairs at the same\ntime, and they all sat down to look at one another, while Mrs. Jennings\ncontinued her story as she walked through the passage into the parlour,\nattended by Sir John.\n\nMrs. Palmer was several years younger than Lady Middleton, and totally\nunlike her in every respect.  She was short and plump, had a very\npretty face, and the finest expression of good humour in it that could\npossibly be.  Her manners were by no means so elegant as her sister's,\nbut they were much more prepossessing.  She came in with a smile,\nsmiled all the time of her visit, except when she laughed, and smiled\nwhen she went away.  Her husband was a grave looking young man of five\nor six and twenty, with an air of more fashion and sense than his wife,\nbut of less willingness to please or be pleased.  He entered the room\nwith a look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies, without\nspeaking a word, and, after briefly surveying them and their\napartments, took up a newspaper from the table, and continued to read\nit as long as he staid.\n\nMrs. Palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature with a\nturn for being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before her\nadmiration of the parlour and every thing in it burst forth.\n\n\"Well! what a delightful room this is! I never saw anything so\ncharming!  Only think, Mama, how it is improved since I was here last!\nI always thought it such a sweet place, ma'am! (turning to Mrs.\nDashwood) but you have made it so charming!  Only look, sister, how\ndelightful every thing is! How I should like such a house for myself!\nShould not you, Mr. Palmer?\"\n\nMr. Palmer made her no answer, and did not even raise his eyes from the\nnewspaper.\n\n\"Mr. Palmer does not hear me,\" said she, laughing; \"he never does\nsometimes.  It is so ridiculous!\"\n\nThis was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood; she had never been used to\nfind wit in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking with\nsurprise at them both.\n\nMrs. Jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and\ncontinued her account of their surprise, the evening before, on seeing\ntheir friends, without ceasing till every thing was told.  Mrs. Palmer\nlaughed heartily at the recollection of their astonishment, and every\nbody agreed, two or three times over, that it had been quite an\nagreeable surprise.\n\n\"You may believe how glad we all were to see them,\" added Mrs.\nJennings, leaning forward towards Elinor, and speaking in a low voice\nas if she meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on\ndifferent sides of the room; \"but, however, I can't help wishing they\nhad not travelled quite so fast, nor made such a long journey of it,\nfor they came all round by London upon account of some business, for\nyou know (nodding significantly and pointing to her daughter) it was\nwrong in her situation.  I wanted her to stay at home and rest this\nmorning, but she would come with us; she longed so much to see you all!\"\n\nMrs. Palmer laughed, and said it would not do her any harm.\n\n\"She expects to be confined in February,\" continued Mrs. Jennings.\n\nLady Middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and\ntherefore exerted herself to ask Mr. Palmer if there was any news in\nthe paper.\n\n\"No, none at all,\" he replied, and read on.\n\n\"Here comes Marianne,\" cried Sir John.  \"Now, Palmer, you shall see a\nmonstrous pretty girl.\"\n\nHe immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and\nushered her in himself.  Mrs. Jennings asked her, as soon as she\nappeared, if she had not been to Allenham; and Mrs. Palmer laughed so\nheartily at the question, as to show she understood it.  Mr. Palmer\nlooked up on her entering the room, stared at her some minutes, and\nthen returned to his newspaper.  Mrs. Palmer's eye was now caught by\nthe drawings which hung round the room.  She got up to examine them.\n\n\"Oh! dear, how beautiful these are!  Well! how delightful!  Do but\nlook, mama, how sweet! I declare they are quite charming; I could look\nat them for ever.\" And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot\nthat there were any such things in the room.\n\nWhen Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid down\nthe newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all around.\n\n\"My love, have you been asleep?\" said his wife, laughing.\n\nHe made her no answer; and only observed, after again examining the\nroom, that it was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked.\nHe then made his bow, and departed with the rest.\n\nSir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at\nthe park.  Mrs. Dashwood, who did not chuse to dine with them oftener\nthan they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account;\nher daughters might do as they pleased.  But they had no curiosity to\nsee how Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of\npleasure from them in any other way.  They attempted, therefore,\nlikewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was uncertain, and not\nlikely to be good.  But Sir John would not be satisfied--the carriage\nshould be sent for them and they must come.  Lady Middleton too, though\nshe did not press their mother, pressed them.  Mrs. Jennings and Mrs.\nPalmer joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a\nfamily party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield.\n\n\"Why should they ask us?\" said Marianne, as soon as they were gone.\n\"The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very\nhard terms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying\neither with them, or with us.\"\n\n\"They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now,\" said Elinor, \"by\nthese frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them a\nfew weeks ago.  The alteration is not in them, if their parties are\ngrown tedious and dull.  We must look for the change elsewhere.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 20\n\n\nAs the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next\nday, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as\ngood humoured and merry as before.  She took them all most\naffectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them\nagain.\n\n\"I am so glad to see you!\" said she, seating herself between Elinor and\nMarianne, \"for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come,\nwhich would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. We must\ngo, for the Westons come to us next week you know.  It was quite a\nsudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the\ncarriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I\nwould go with him to Barton.  He is so droll! He never tells me any\nthing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again\nin town very soon, I hope.\"\n\nThey were obliged to put an end to such an expectation.\n\n\"Not go to town!\" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, \"I shall be quite\ndisappointed if you do not.  I could get the nicest house in the world for\nyou, next door to ours, in Hanover-square.  You must come, indeed.  I\nam sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am\nconfined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public.\"\n\nThey thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties.\n\n\"Oh, my love,\" cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered\nthe room--\"you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to\ntown this winter.\"\n\nHer love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began\ncomplaining of the weather.\n\n\"How horrid all this is!\" said he.  \"Such weather makes every thing and\nevery body disgusting.  Dullness is as much produced within doors as\nwithout, by rain.  It makes one detest all one's acquaintance.  What\nthe devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his\nhouse?  How few people know what comfort is!  Sir John is as stupid as\nthe weather.\"\n\nThe rest of the company soon dropt in.\n\n\"I am afraid, Miss Marianne,\" said Sir John, \"you have not been able to\ntake your usual walk to Allenham today.\"\n\nMarianne looked very grave and said nothing.\n\n\"Oh, don't be so sly before us,\" said Mrs. Palmer; \"for we know all\nabout it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think\nhe is extremely handsome.  We do not live a great way from him in the\ncountry, you know.  Not above ten miles, I dare say.\"\n\n\"Much nearer thirty,\" said her husband.\n\n\"Ah, well! there is not much difference.  I never was at his house; but\nthey say it is a sweet pretty place.\"\n\n\"As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life,\" said Mr. Palmer.\n\nMarianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her\ninterest in what was said.\n\n\"Is it very ugly?\" continued Mrs. Palmer--\"then it must be some other\nplace that is so pretty I suppose.\"\n\nWhen they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with regret\nthat they were only eight all together.\n\n\"My dear,\" said he to his lady, \"it is very provoking that we should be\nso few.  Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?\"\n\n\"Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before,\nthat it could not be done?  They dined with us last.\"\n\n\"You and I, Sir John,\" said Mrs. Jennings, \"should not stand upon such\nceremony.\"\n\n\"Then you would be very ill-bred,\" cried Mr. Palmer.\n\n\"My love you contradict every body,\" said his wife with her usual\nlaugh.  \"Do you know that you are quite rude?\"\n\n\"I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother\nill-bred.\"\n\n\"Ay, you may abuse me as you please,\" said the good-natured old lady,\n\"you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again.\nSo there I have the whip hand of you.\"\n\nCharlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid\nof her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her,\nas they must live together.  It was impossible for any one to be more\nthoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs.\nPalmer.  The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her\nhusband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was\nhighly diverted.\n\n\"Mr. Palmer is so droll!\" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor.  \"He is\nalways out of humour.\"\n\nElinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit\nfor being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he\nwished to appear.  His temper might perhaps be a little soured by\nfinding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable\nbias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly\nwoman,--but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any\nsensible man to be lastingly hurt by it.-- It was rather a wish of\ndistinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of\nevery body, and his general abuse of every thing before him.  It was\nthe desire of appearing superior to other people.  The motive was too\ncommon to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by\nestablishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach\nany one to him except his wife.\n\n\"Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood,\" said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, \"I have\ngot such a favour to ask of you and your sister.  Will you come and\nspend some time at Cleveland this Christmas?  Now, pray do,--and come\nwhile the Westons are with us.  You cannot think how happy I shall be!\nIt will be quite delightful!--My love,\" applying to her husband, \"don't\nyou long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" he replied, with a sneer--\"I came into Devonshire with no\nother view.\"\n\n\"There now,\"--said his lady, \"you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you\ncannot refuse to come.\"\n\nThey both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation.\n\n\"But indeed you must and shall come.  I am sure you will like it of all\nthings.  The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful.\nYou cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay\nnow, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing\nagainst the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I\nnever saw before, it is quite charming!  But, poor fellow! it is very\nfatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him.\"\n\nElinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the\nhardship of such an obligation.\n\n\"How charming it will be,\" said Charlotte, \"when he is in\nParliament!--won't it? How I shall laugh!  It will be so ridiculous to\nsee all his letters directed to him with an M.P.--But do you know, he\nsays, he will never frank for me?  He declares he won't.  Don't you,\nMr. Palmer?\"\n\nMr. Palmer took no notice of her.\n\n\"He cannot bear writing, you know,\" she continued--\"he says it is quite\nshocking.\"\n\n\"No,\" said he, \"I never said any thing so irrational.  Don't palm all\nyour abuses of languages upon me.\"\n\n\"There now; you see how droll he is.  This is always the way with him!\nSometimes he won't speak to me for half a day together, and then he\ncomes out with something so droll--all about any thing in the world.\"\n\nShe surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room,\nby asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively.\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Elinor; \"he seems very agreeable.\"\n\n\"Well--I am so glad you do.  I thought you would, he is so pleasant;\nand Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can\ntell you, and you can't think how disappointed he will be if you don't\ncome to Cleveland.--I can't imagine why you should object to it.\"\n\nElinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the\nsubject, put a stop to her entreaties.  She thought it probable that as\nthey lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some\nmore particular account of Willoughby's general character, than could\nbe gathered from the Middletons' partial acquaintance with him; and she\nwas eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as\nmight remove the possibility of fear from Marianne.  She began by\ninquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether\nthey were intimately acquainted with him.\n\n\"Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well,\" replied Mrs. Palmer;--\"Not\nthat I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town.\nSomehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was\nat Allenham.  Mama saw him here once before;--but I was with my uncle\nat Weymouth.  However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of\nhim in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we\nshould never have been in the country together.  He is very little at\nCombe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr.\nPalmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and\nbesides it is such a way off.  I know why you inquire about him, very\nwell; your sister is to marry him.  I am monstrous glad of it, for then\nI shall have her for a neighbour you know.\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" replied Elinor, \"you know much more of the matter than\nI do, if you have any reason to expect such a match.\"\n\n\"Don't pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks\nof.  I assure you I heard of it in my way through town.\"\n\n\"My dear Mrs. Palmer!\"\n\n\"Upon my honour I did.--I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in\nBond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly.\"\n\n\"You surprise me very much.  Colonel Brandon tell you of it!  Surely\nyou must be mistaken.  To give such intelligence to a person who could\nnot be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should\nexpect Colonel Brandon to do.\"\n\n\"But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how\nit happened.  When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and\nso we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and\nanother, and I said to him, 'So, Colonel, there is a new family come to\nBarton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty,\nand that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby of Combe\nMagna.  Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have been\nin Devonshire so lately.'\"\n\n\"And what did the Colonel say?\"\n\n\"Oh--he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so\nfrom that moment I set it down as certain.  It will be quite\ndelightful, I declare!  When is it to take place?\"\n\n\"Mr. Brandon was very well I hope?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but\nsay fine things of you.\"\n\n\"I am flattered by his commendation.  He seems an excellent man; and I\nthink him uncommonly pleasing.\"\n\n\"So do I.--He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should\nbe so grave and so dull.  Mama says HE was in love with your sister\ntoo.-- I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly\never falls in love with any body.\"\n\n\"Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?\" said\nElinor.\n\n\"Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are\nacquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all\nthink him extremely agreeable I assure you.  Nobody is more liked than\nMr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister.  She\nis a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he\nis much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and\nagreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her.  However, I don't\nthink her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you; for I think\nyou both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too I am sure,\nthough we could not get him to own it last night.\"\n\nMrs. Palmer's information respecting Willoughby was not very material;\nbut any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to her.\n\n\"I am so glad we are got acquainted at last,\" continued\nCharlotte.--\"And now I hope we shall always be great friends.  You\ncan't think how much I longed to see you!  It is so delightful that you\nshould live at the cottage!  Nothing can be like it, to be sure!  And I\nam so glad your sister is going to be well married!  I hope you will be\na great deal at Combe Magna.  It is a sweet place, by all accounts.\"\n\n\"You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have not you?\"\n\n\"Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married.-- He was a\nparticular friend of Sir John's. I believe,\" she added in a low voice,\n\"he would have been very glad to have had me, if he could.  Sir John\nand Lady Middleton wished it very much.  But mama did not think the\nmatch good enough for me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to\nthe Colonel, and we should have been married immediately.\"\n\n\"Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John's proposal to your mother\nbefore it was made?  Had he never owned his affection to yourself?\"\n\n\"Oh, no; but if mama had not objected to it, I dare say he would have\nliked it of all things.  He had not seen me then above twice, for it\nwas before I left school.  However, I am much happier as I am.  Mr.\nPalmer is the kind of man I like.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 21\n\n\nThe Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two families at\nBarton were again left to entertain each other.  But this did not last\nlong; Elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her head, had\nhardly done wondering at Charlotte's being so happy without a cause, at\nMr. Palmer's acting so simply, with good abilities, and at the strange\nunsuitableness which often existed between husband and wife, before Sir\nJohn's and Mrs. Jennings's active zeal in the cause of society,\nprocured her some other new acquaintance to see and observe.\n\nIn a morning's excursion to Exeter, they had met with two young ladies,\nwhom Mrs. Jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be her\nrelations, and this was enough for Sir John to invite them directly to\nthe park, as soon as their present engagements at Exeter were over.\nTheir engagements at Exeter instantly gave way before such an\ninvitation, and Lady Middleton was thrown into no little alarm on the\nreturn of Sir John, by hearing that she was very soon to receive a\nvisit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, and of whose\nelegance,--whose tolerable gentility even, she could have no proof; for\nthe assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for\nnothing at all.  Their being her relations too made it so much the\nworse; and Mrs. Jennings's attempts at consolation were therefore\nunfortunately founded, when she advised her daughter not to care about\ntheir being so fashionable; because they were all cousins and must put\nup with one another.  As it was impossible, however, now to prevent\ntheir coming, Lady Middleton resigned herself to the idea of it, with\nall the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting herself with merely\ngiving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or six times\nevery day.\n\nThe young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no means ungenteel or\nunfashionable.  Their dress was very smart, their manners very civil,\nthey were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the furniture,\nand they happened to be so doatingly fond of children that Lady\nMiddleton's good opinion was engaged in their favour before they had\nbeen an hour at the Park.  She declared them to be very agreeable girls\nindeed, which for her ladyship was enthusiastic admiration.  Sir John's\nconfidence in his own judgment rose with this animated praise, and he\nset off directly for the cottage to tell the Miss Dashwoods of the Miss\nSteeles' arrival, and to assure them of their being the sweetest girls\nin the world.  From such commendation as this, however, there was not\nmuch to be learned; Elinor well knew that the sweetest girls in the\nworld were to be met with in every part of England, under every\npossible variation of form, face, temper and understanding.  Sir John\nwanted the whole family to walk to the Park directly and look at his\nguests.  Benevolent, philanthropic man!  It was painful to him even to\nkeep a third cousin to himself.\n\n\"Do come now,\" said he--\"pray come--you must come--I declare you shall\ncome--You can't think how you will like them.  Lucy is monstrous\npretty, and so good humoured and agreeable!  The children are all\nhanging about her already, as if she was an old acquaintance.  And they\nboth long to see you of all things, for they have heard at Exeter that\nyou are the most beautiful creatures in the world; and I have told them\nit is all very true, and a great deal more.  You will be delighted with\nthem I am sure.  They have brought the whole coach full of playthings\nfor the children.  How can you be so cross as not to come?  Why they\nare your cousins, you know, after a fashion.  YOU are my cousins, and\nthey are my wife's, so you must be related.\"\n\nBut Sir John could not prevail.  He could only obtain a promise of\ntheir calling at the Park within a day or two, and then left them in\namazement at their indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their\nattractions to the Miss Steeles, as he had been already boasting of the\nMiss Steeles to them.\n\nWhen their promised visit to the Park and consequent introduction to\nthese young ladies took place, they found in the appearance of the\neldest, who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible\nface, nothing to admire; but in the other, who was not more than two or\nthree and twenty, they acknowledged considerable beauty; her features\nwere pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a smartness of air,\nwhich though it did not give actual elegance or grace, gave distinction\nto her person.-- Their manners were particularly civil, and Elinor soon\nallowed them credit for some kind of sense, when she saw with what\nconstant and judicious attention they were making themselves agreeable\nto Lady Middleton.  With her children they were in continual raptures,\nextolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring their\nwhims; and such of their time as could be spared from the importunate\ndemands which this politeness made on it, was spent in admiration of\nwhatever her ladyship was doing, if she happened to be doing any thing,\nor in taking patterns of some elegant new dress, in which her\nappearance the day before had thrown them into unceasing delight.\nFortunately for those who pay their court through such foibles, a fond\nmother, though, in pursuit of praise for her children, the most\nrapacious of human beings, is likewise the most credulous; her demands\nare exorbitant; but she will swallow any thing; and the excessive\naffection and endurance of the Miss Steeles towards her offspring were\nviewed therefore by Lady Middleton without the smallest surprise or\ndistrust.  She saw with maternal complacency all the impertinent\nencroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins submitted.\nShe saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their ears, their\nwork-bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen away, and felt\nno doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment.  It suggested no other\nsurprise than that Elinor and Marianne should sit so composedly by,\nwithout claiming a share in what was passing.\n\n\"John is in such spirits today!\" said she, on his taking Miss Steeles's\npocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window--\"He is full of\nmonkey tricks.\"\n\nAnd soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one of the\nsame lady's fingers, she fondly observed, \"How playful William is!\"\n\n\"And here is my sweet little Annamaria,\" she added, tenderly caressing\na little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the last\ntwo minutes; \"And she is always so gentle and quiet--Never was there\nsuch a quiet little thing!\"\n\nBut unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship's\nhead dress slightly scratching the child's neck, produced from this\npattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone\nby any creature professedly noisy.  The mother's consternation was\nexcessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and\nevery thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which\naffection could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little\nsufferer.  She was seated in her mother's lap, covered with kisses, her\nwound bathed with lavender-water, by one of the Miss Steeles, who was\non her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by\nthe other.  With such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to\ncease crying.  She still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two\nbrothers for offering to touch her, and all their united soothings were\nineffectual till Lady Middleton luckily remembering that in a scene of\nsimilar distress last week, some apricot marmalade had been\nsuccessfully applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly\nproposed for this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of\nscreams in the young lady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that\nit would not be rejected.-- She was carried out of the room therefore\nin her mother's arms, in quest of this medicine, and as the two boys\nchose to follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay\nbehind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room\nhad not known for many hours.\n\n\"Poor little creatures!\" said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone.\n\"It might have been a very sad accident.\"\n\n\"Yet I hardly know how,\" cried Marianne, \"unless it had been under\ntotally different circumstances.  But this is the usual way of\nheightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality.\"\n\n\"What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!\" said Lucy Steele.\n\nMarianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not\nfeel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor therefore the whole\ntask of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell.  She did\nher best when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with more\nwarmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy.\n\n\"And Sir John too,\" cried the elder sister, \"what a charming man he is!\"\n\nHere too, Miss Dashwood's commendation, being only simple and just,\ncame in without any eclat.  She merely observed that he was perfectly\ngood humoured and friendly.\n\n\"And what a charming little family they have!  I never saw such fine\nchildren in my life.--I declare I quite doat upon them already, and\nindeed I am always distractedly fond of children.\"\n\n\"I should guess so,\" said Elinor, with a smile, \"from what I have\nwitnessed this morning.\"\n\n\"I have a notion,\" said Lucy, \"you think the little Middletons rather\ntoo much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is\nso natural in Lady Middleton; and for my part, I love to see children\nfull of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame and\nquiet.\"\n\n\"I confess,\" replied Elinor, \"that while I am at Barton Park, I never\nthink of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence.\"\n\nA short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss\nSteele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now\nsaid rather abruptly, \"And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood?\nI suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex.\"\n\nIn some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of\nthe manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was.\n\n\"Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?\" added Miss Steele.\n\n\"We have heard Sir John admire it excessively,\" said Lucy, who seemed\nto think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister.\n\n\"I think every one MUST admire it,\" replied Elinor, \"who ever saw the\nplace; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its\nbeauties as we do.\"\n\n\"And had you a great many smart beaux there?  I suppose you have not so\nmany in this part of the world; for my part, I think they are a vast\naddition always.\"\n\n\"But why should you think,\" said Lucy, looking ashamed of her sister,\n\"that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as Sussex?\"\n\n\"Nay, my dear, I'm sure I don't pretend to say that there an't.  I'm\nsure there's a vast many smart beaux in Exeter; but you know, how could\nI tell what smart beaux there might be about Norland; and I was only\nafraid the Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they had not\nso many as they used to have.  But perhaps you young ladies may not\ncare about the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with them.\nFor my part, I think they are vastly agreeable, provided they dress\nsmart and behave civil.  But I can't bear to see them dirty and nasty.\nNow there's Mr. Rose at Exeter, a prodigious smart young man, quite a\nbeau, clerk to Mr. Simpson, you know, and yet if you do but meet him of\na morning, he is not fit to be seen.-- I suppose your brother was quite\na beau, Miss Dashwood, before he married, as he was so rich?\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" replied Elinor, \"I cannot tell you, for I do not\nperfectly comprehend the meaning of the word.  But this I can say, that\nif he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still for there is\nnot the smallest alteration in him.\"\n\n\"Oh! dear! one never thinks of married men's being beaux--they have\nsomething else to do.\"\n\n\"Lord! Anne,\" cried her sister, \"you can talk of nothing but\nbeaux;--you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing else.\"\nAnd then to turn the discourse, she began admiring the house and the\nfurniture.\n\nThis specimen of the Miss Steeles was enough.  The vulgar freedom and\nfolly of the eldest left her no recommendation, and as Elinor was not\nblinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want\nof real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish\nof knowing them better.\n\nNot so the Miss Steeles.--They came from Exeter, well provided with\nadmiration for the use of Sir John Middleton, his family, and all his\nrelations, and no niggardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair\ncousins, whom they declared to be the most beautiful, elegant,\naccomplished, and agreeable girls they had ever beheld, and with whom\nthey were particularly anxious to be better acquainted.-- And to be\nbetter acquainted therefore, Elinor soon found was their inevitable\nlot, for as Sir John was entirely on the side of the Miss Steeles,\ntheir party would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of\nintimacy must be submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or two\ntogether in the same room almost every day.  Sir John could do no more;\nbut he did not know that any more was required: to be together was, in\nhis opinion, to be intimate, and while his continual schemes for their\nmeeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of their being established\nfriends.\n\nTo do him justice, he did every thing in his power to promote their\nunreserve, by making the Miss Steeles acquainted with whatever he knew\nor supposed of his cousins' situations in the most delicate\nparticulars,--and Elinor had not seen them more than twice, before the\neldest of them wished her joy on her sister's having been so lucky as\nto make a conquest of a very smart beau since she came to Barton.\n\n\"'Twill be a fine thing to have her married so young to be sure,\" said\nshe, \"and I hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious handsome.  And I\nhope you may have as good luck yourself soon,--but perhaps you may have\na friend in the corner already.\"\n\nElinor could not suppose that Sir John would be more nice in\nproclaiming his suspicions of her regard for Edward, than he had been\nwith respect to Marianne; indeed it was rather his favourite joke of\nthe two, as being somewhat newer and more conjectural; and since\nEdward's visit, they had never dined together without his drinking to\nher best affections with so much significancy and so many nods and\nwinks, as to excite general attention.  The letter F--had been likewise\ninvariably brought forward, and found productive of such countless\njokes, that its character as the wittiest letter in the alphabet had\nbeen long established with Elinor.\n\nThe Miss Steeles, as she expected, had now all the benefit of these\njokes, and in the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know the\nname of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often impertinently\nexpressed, was perfectly of a piece with her general inquisitiveness\ninto the concerns of their family.  But Sir John did not sport long\nwith the curiosity which he delighted to raise, for he had at least as\nmuch pleasure in telling the name, as Miss Steele had in hearing it.\n\n\"His name is Ferrars,\" said he, in a very audible whisper; \"but pray do\nnot tell it, for it's a great secret.\"\n\n\"Ferrars!\" repeated Miss Steele; \"Mr. Ferrars is the happy man, is he?\nWhat! your sister-in-law's brother, Miss Dashwood? a very agreeable\nyoung man to be sure; I know him very well.\"\n\n\"How can you say so, Anne?\" cried Lucy, who generally made an amendment\nto all her sister's assertions.  \"Though we have seen him once or twice\nat my uncle's, it is rather too much to pretend to know him very well.\"\n\nElinor heard all this with attention and surprise.  \"And who was this\nuncle?  Where did he live?  How came they acquainted?\"  She wished very\nmuch to have the subject continued, though she did not chuse to join in\nit herself; but nothing more of it was said, and for the first time in\nher life, she thought Mrs. Jennings deficient either in curiosity after\npetty information, or in a disposition to communicate it.  The manner\nin which Miss Steele had spoken of Edward, increased her curiosity; for\nit struck her as being rather ill-natured, and suggested the suspicion\nof that lady's knowing, or fancying herself to know something to his\ndisadvantage.--But her curiosity was unavailing, for no farther notice\nwas taken of Mr. Ferrars's name by Miss Steele when alluded to, or even\nopenly mentioned by Sir John.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 22\n\n\nMarianne, who had never much toleration for any thing like\nimpertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of\ntaste from herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from\nthe state of her spirits, to be pleased with the Miss Steeles, or to\nencourage their advances; and to the invariable coldness of her\nbehaviour towards them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on\ntheir side, Elinor principally attributed that preference of herself\nwhich soon became evident in the manners of both, but especially of\nLucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation, or of\nstriving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank\ncommunication of her sentiments.\n\nLucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing; and\nas a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her agreeable;\nbut her powers had received no aid from education: she was ignorant and\nilliterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want of\ninformation in the most common particulars, could not be concealed from\nMiss Dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to appear to\nadvantage.  Elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of abilities\nwhich education might have rendered so respectable; but she saw, with\nless tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of\nrectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her\nassiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have no\nlasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insincerity\nwith ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in\nconversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made\nevery shew of attention and deference towards herself perfectly\nvalueless.\n\n\"You will think my question an odd one, I dare say,\" said Lucy to her\none day, as they were walking together from the park to the\ncottage--\"but pray, are you personally acquainted with your\nsister-in-law's mother, Mrs. Ferrars?\"\n\nElinor DID think the question a very odd one, and her countenance\nexpressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars.\n\n\"Indeed!\" replied Lucy; \"I wonder at that, for I thought you must have\nseen her at Norland sometimes.  Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what\nsort of a woman she is?\"\n\n\"No,\" returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward's\nmother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent\ncuriosity-- \"I know nothing of her.\"\n\n\"I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a\nway,\" said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; \"but perhaps\nthere may be reasons--I wish I might venture; but however I hope you\nwill do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be\nimpertinent.\"\n\nElinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in\nsilence.  It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by\nsaying, with some hesitation,\n\n\"I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious.  I am sure I\nwould rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person\nwhose good opinion is so well worth having as yours.  And I am sure I\nshould not have the smallest fear of trusting YOU; indeed, I should be\nvery glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable\nsituation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble YOU.\nI am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars.\"\n\n\"I am sorry I do NOT,\" said Elinor, in great astonishment, \"if it could\nbe of any use to YOU to know my opinion of her.  But really I never\nunderstood that you were at all connected with that family, and\ntherefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry\ninto her character.\"\n\n\"I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it.  But\nif I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised.  Mrs.\nFerrars is certainly nothing to me at present--but the time MAY\ncome--how soon it will come must depend upon herself--when we may be\nvery intimately connected.\"\n\nShe looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side\nglance at her companion to observe its effect on her.\n\n\"Good heavens!\" cried Elinor, \"what do you mean?  Are you acquainted\nwith Mr. Robert Ferrars?  Can you be?\" And she did not feel much\ndelighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law.\n\n\"No,\" replied Lucy, \"not to Mr. ROBERT Ferrars--I never saw him in my\nlife; but,\" fixing her eyes upon Elinor, \"to his eldest brother.\"\n\nWhat felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as\npainful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the\nassertion attended it.  She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement,\nunable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though\nher complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no\ndanger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.\n\n\"You may well be surprised,\" continued Lucy; \"for to be sure you could\nhave had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the\nsmallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always\nmeant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so\nby me to this hour.  Not a soul of all my relations know of it but\nAnne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt\nthe greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really\nthought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars\nmust seem so odd, that it ought to be explained.  And I do not think\nMr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you,\nbecause I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your\nfamily, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as\nhis own sisters.\"--She paused.\n\nElinor for a few moments remained silent.  Her astonishment at what she\nheard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself\nto speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner,\nwhich tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude-- \"May I ask\nif your engagement is of long standing?\"\n\n\"We have been engaged these four years.\"\n\n\"Four years!\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nElinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it.\n\n\"I did not know,\" said she, \"that you were even acquainted till the\nother day.\"\n\n\"Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date.  He was under my\nuncle's care, you know, a considerable while.\"\n\n\"Your uncle!\"\n\n\"Yes; Mr. Pratt.  Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?\"\n\n\"I think I have,\" replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which\nincreased with her increase of emotion.\n\n\"He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near\nPlymouth.  It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me\nwas often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was\nformed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he\nwas almost always with us afterwards.  I was very unwilling to enter\ninto it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of\nhis mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so\nprudent as I ought to have been.-- Though you do not know him so well\nas me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible\nhe is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but after\na moment's reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward's\nhonour and love, and her companion's falsehood--\"Engaged to Mr. Edward\nFerrars!--I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me,\nthat really--I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake\nof person or name.  We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars.\"\n\n\"We can mean no other,\" cried Lucy, smiling.  \"Mr. Edward Ferrars, the\neldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your\nsister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must allow\nthat I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who\nall my happiness depends.\"\n\n\"It is strange,\" replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity, \"that I\nshould never have heard him even mention your name.\"\n\n\"No; considering our situation, it was not strange.  Our first care has\nbeen to keep the matter secret.-- You knew nothing of me, or my family,\nand, therefore, there could be no OCCASION for ever mentioning my name\nto you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister's\nsuspecting any thing, THAT was reason enough for his not mentioning it.\"\n\nShe was silent.--Elinor's security sunk; but her self-command did not\nsink with it.\n\n\"Four years you have been engaged,\" said she with a firm voice.\n\n\"Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait.  Poor\nEdward!  It puts him quite out of heart.\" Then taking a small miniature\nfrom her pocket, she added, \"To prevent the possibility of mistake, be\nso good as to look at this face.  It does not do him justice, to be\nsure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was\ndrew for.--I have had it above these three years.\"\n\nShe put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the\npainting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or\nher wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she\ncould have none of its being Edward's face.  She returned it almost\ninstantly, acknowledging the likeness.\n\n\"I have never been able,\" continued Lucy, \"to give him my picture in\nreturn, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so\nanxious to get it!  But I am determined to set for it the very first\nopportunity.\"\n\n\"You are quite in the right,\" replied Elinor calmly.  They then\nproceeded a few paces in silence.  Lucy spoke first.\n\n\"I am sure,\" said she, \"I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully\nkeeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to\nus, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it,\nI dare say.  I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding\nproud woman.\"\n\n\"I certainly did not seek your confidence,\" said Elinor; \"but you do me\nno more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on.  Your\nsecret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so\nunnecessary a communication.  You must at least have felt that my being\nacquainted with it could not add to its safety.\"\n\nAs she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover\nsomething in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest\npart of what she had been saying; but Lucy's countenance suffered no\nchange.\n\n\"I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you,\"\nsaid she, \"in telling you all this.  I have not known you long to be\nsure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by\ndescription a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as\nif you was an old acquaintance.  Besides in the present case, I really\nthought some explanation was due to you after my making such particular\ninquiries about Edward's mother; and I am so unfortunate, that I have\nnot a creature whose advice I can ask.  Anne is the only person that\nknows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a\ngreat deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her\nbetraying me.  She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must\nperceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world\nt'other day, when Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she\nshould out with it all.  You can't think how much I go through in my\nmind from it altogether.  I only wonder that I am alive after what I\nhave suffered for Edward's sake these last four years.  Every thing in\nsuch suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom--we can hardly\nmeet above twice a-year.  I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite\nbroke.\"\n\nHere she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very\ncompassionate.\n\n\"Sometimes.\" continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, \"I think whether it\nwould not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely.\"  As\nshe said this, she looked directly at her companion.  \"But then at\nother times I have not resolution enough for it.-- I cannot bear the\nthoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of such\na thing would do.  And on my own account too--so dear as he is to me--I\ndon't think I could be equal to it.  What would you advise me to do in\nsuch a case, Miss Dashwood?  What would you do yourself?\"\n\n\"Pardon me,\" replied Elinor, startled by the question; \"but I can give\nyou no advice under such circumstances.  Your own judgment must direct\nyou.\"\n\n\"To be sure,\" continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on both\nsides, \"his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor\nEdward is so cast down by it!  Did you not think him dreadful\nlow-spirited when he was at Barton?  He was so miserable when he left\nus at Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him\nquite ill.\"\n\n\"Did he come from your uncle's, then, when he visited us?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us.  Did you think he\ncame directly from town?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh\ncircumstance in favour of Lucy's veracity; \"I remember he told us, that\nhe had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth.\" She\nremembered too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing\nfarther of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to\ntheir names.\n\n\"Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?\" repeated Lucy.\n\n\"We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived.\"\n\n\"I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was the\nmatter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than\na fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected.-- Poor fellow!--I\nam afraid it is just the same with him now; for he writes in wretched\nspirits.  I heard from him just before I left Exeter;\" taking a letter\nfrom her pocket and carelessly showing the direction to Elinor.  \"You\nknow his hand, I dare say, a charming one it is; but that is not\nwritten so well as usual.--He was tired, I dare say, for he had just\nfilled the sheet to me as full as possible.\"\n\nElinor saw that it WAS his hand, and she could doubt no longer.  This\npicture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been\naccidentally obtained; it might not have been Edward's gift; but a\ncorrespondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a\npositive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else; for a few\nmoments, she was almost overcome--her heart sunk within her, and she\ncould hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably necessary; and she\nstruggled so resolutely against the oppression of her feelings, that\nher success was speedy, and for the time complete.\n\n\"Writing to each other,\" said Lucy, returning the letter into her\npocket, \"is the only comfort we have in such long separations.  Yes, I\nhave one other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even\nTHAT.  If he had but my picture, he says he should be easy.  I gave him\na lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at Longstaple last, and\nthat was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture.\nPerhaps you might notice the ring when you saw him?\"\n\n\"I did,\" said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was\nconcealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt\nbefore.  She was mortified, shocked, confounded.\n\nFortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the\nconversation could be continued no farther.  After sitting with them a\nfew minutes, the Miss Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was then\nat liberty to think and be wretched.\n\n\n\n\n\n[At this point in the first and second editions, Volume 1 ends.]\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 23\n\n\nHowever small Elinor's general dependence on Lucy's veracity might be,\nit was impossible for her on serious reflection to suspect it in the\npresent case, where no temptation could be answerable to the folly of\ninventing a falsehood of such a description.  What Lucy had asserted to\nbe true, therefore, Elinor could not, dared not longer doubt; supported\nas it was too on every side by such probabilities and proofs, and\ncontradicted by nothing but her own wishes.  Their opportunity of\nacquaintance in the house of Mr. Pratt was a foundation for the rest,\nat once indisputable and alarming; and Edward's visit near Plymouth,\nhis melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at his own prospects,\nhis uncertain behaviour towards herself, the intimate knowledge of the\nMiss Steeles as to Norland and their family connections, which had\noften surprised her, the picture, the letter, the ring, formed\naltogether such a body of evidence, as overcame every fear of\ncondemning him unfairly, and established as a fact, which no partiality\ncould set aside, his ill-treatment of herself.--Her resentment of such\nbehaviour, her indignation at having been its dupe, for a short time\nmade her feel only for herself; but other ideas, other considerations,\nsoon arose.  Had Edward been intentionally deceiving her?  Had he\nfeigned a regard for her which he did not feel?  Was his engagement to\nLucy an engagement of the heart?  No; whatever it might once have been,\nshe could not believe it such at present.  His affection was all her\nown.  She could not be deceived in that.  Her mother, sisters, Fanny,\nall had been conscious of his regard for her at Norland; it was not an\nillusion of her own vanity.  He certainly loved her.  What a softener\nof the heart was this persuasion!  How much could it not tempt her to\nforgive!  He had been blamable, highly blamable, in remaining at\nNorland after he first felt her influence over him to be more than it\nought to be.  In that, he could not be defended; but if he had injured\nher, how much more had he injured himself; if her case were pitiable,\nhis was hopeless.  His imprudence had made her miserable for a while;\nbut it seemed to have deprived himself of all chance of ever being\notherwise.  She might in time regain tranquillity; but HE, what had he\nto look forward to?  Could he ever be tolerably happy with Lucy Steele;\ncould he, were his affection for herself out of the question, with his\nintegrity, his delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a\nwife like her--illiterate, artful, and selfish?\n\nThe youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to every\nthing but her beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding\nyears--years, which if rationally spent, give such improvement to the\nunderstanding, must have opened his eyes to her defects of education,\nwhile the same period of time, spent on her side in inferior society\nand more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps robbed her of that simplicity\nwhich might once have given an interesting character to her beauty.\n\nIf in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself, his difficulties\nfrom his mother had seemed great, how much greater were they now likely\nto be, when the object of his engagement was undoubtedly inferior in\nconnections, and probably inferior in fortune to herself.  These\ndifficulties, indeed, with a heart so alienated from Lucy, might not\npress very hard upon his patience; but melancholy was the state of the\nperson by whom the expectation of family opposition and unkindness,\ncould be felt as a relief!\n\nAs these considerations occurred to her in painful succession, she wept\nfor him, more than for herself.  Supported by the conviction of having\ndone nothing to merit her present unhappiness, and consoled by the\nbelief that Edward had done nothing to forfeit her esteem, she thought\nshe could even now, under the first smart of the heavy blow, command\nherself enough to guard every suspicion of the truth from her mother\nand sisters.  And so well was she able to answer her own expectations,\nthat when she joined them at dinner only two hours after she had first\nsuffered the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one would have\nsupposed from the appearance of the sisters, that Elinor was mourning\nin secret over obstacles which must divide her for ever from the object\nof her love, and that Marianne was internally dwelling on the\nperfections of a man, of whose whole heart she felt thoroughly\npossessed, and whom she expected to see in every carriage which drove\nnear their house.\n\nThe necessity of concealing from her mother and Marianne, what had been\nentrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to unceasing\nexertion, was no aggravation of Elinor's distress.  On the contrary it\nwas a relief to her, to be spared the communication of what would give\nsuch affliction to them, and to be saved likewise from hearing that\ncondemnation of Edward, which would probably flow from the excess of\ntheir partial affection for herself, and which was more than she felt\nequal to support.\n\nFrom their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could receive\nno assistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress,\nwhile her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their\nexample nor from their praise.  She was stronger alone, and her own\ngood sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken,\nher appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as with regrets so\npoignant and so fresh, it was possible for them to be.\n\nMuch as she had suffered from her first conversation with Lucy on the\nsubject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this for\nmore reasons than one.  She wanted to hear many particulars of their\nengagement repeated again, she wanted more clearly to understand what\nLucy really felt for Edward, whether there were any sincerity in her\ndeclaration of tender regard for him, and she particularly wanted to\nconvince Lucy, by her readiness to enter on the matter again, and her\ncalmness in conversing on it, that she was no otherwise interested in\nit than as a friend, which she very much feared her involuntary\nagitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least\ndoubtful.  That Lucy was disposed to be jealous of her appeared very\nprobable: it was plain that Edward had always spoken highly in her\npraise, not merely from Lucy's assertion, but from her venturing to\ntrust her on so short a personal acquaintance, with a secret so\nconfessedly and evidently important.  And even Sir John's joking\nintelligence must have had some weight.  But indeed, while Elinor\nremained so well assured within herself of being really beloved by\nEdward, it required no other consideration of probabilities to make it\nnatural that Lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her very\nconfidence was a proof.  What other reason for the disclosure of the\naffair could there be, but that Elinor might be informed by it of\nLucy's superior claims on Edward, and be taught to avoid him in future?\nShe had little difficulty in understanding thus much of her rival's\nintentions, and while she was firmly resolved to act by her as every\nprinciple of honour and honesty directed, to combat her own affection\nfor Edward and to see him as little as possible; she could not deny\nherself the comfort of endeavouring to convince Lucy that her heart was\nunwounded.  And as she could now have nothing more painful to hear on\nthe subject than had already been told, she did not mistrust her own\nability of going through a repetition of particulars with composure.\n\nBut it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could be\ncommanded, though Lucy was as well disposed as herself to take\nadvantage of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine\nenough to allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most\neasily separate themselves from the others; and though they met at\nleast every other evening either at the park or cottage, and chiefly at\nthe former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake of\nconversation.  Such a thought would never enter either Sir John or Lady\nMiddleton's head; and therefore very little leisure was ever given for\na general chat, and none at all for particular discourse.  They met for\nthe sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards,\nor consequences, or any other game that was sufficiently noisy.\n\nOne or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording\nElinor any chance of engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John called at\nthe cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they\nwould all dine with Lady Middleton that day, as he was obliged to\nattend the club at Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone,\nexcept her mother and the two Miss Steeles.  Elinor, who foresaw a\nfairer opening for the point she had in view, in such a party as this\nwas likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil\nand well-bred direction of Lady Middleton than when her husband united\nthem together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the\ninvitation; Margaret, with her mother's permission, was equally\ncompliant, and Marianne, though always unwilling to join any of their\nparties, was persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to have her\nseclude herself from any chance of amusement, to go likewise.\n\nThe young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved from\nthe frightful solitude which had threatened her.  The insipidity of the\nmeeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected; it produced not one\nnovelty of thought or expression, and nothing could be less interesting\nthan the whole of their discourse both in the dining parlour and\ndrawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied them, and while\nthey remained there, she was too well convinced of the impossibility of\nengaging Lucy's attention to attempt it.  They quitted it only with the\nremoval of the tea-things.  The card-table was then placed, and Elinor\nbegan to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a hope of\nfinding time for conversation at the park.  They all rose up in\npreparation for a round game.\n\n\"I am glad,\" said Lady Middleton to Lucy, \"you are not going to finish\npoor little Annamaria's basket this evening; for I am sure it must hurt\nyour eyes to work filigree by candlelight.  And we will make the dear\nlittle love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and then I\nhope she will not much mind it.\"\n\nThis hint was enough, Lucy recollected herself instantly and replied,\n\"Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only waiting\nto know whether you can make your party without me, or I should have\nbeen at my filigree already.  I would not disappoint the little angel\nfor all the world: and if you want me at the card-table now, I am\nresolved to finish the basket after supper.\"\n\n\"You are very good, I hope it won't hurt your eyes--will you ring the\nbell for some working candles?  My poor little girl would be sadly\ndisappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow, for\nthough I told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon\nhaving it done.\"\n\nLucy directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with an\nalacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to infer that she could taste no\ngreater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt child.\n\nLady Middleton proposed a rubber of Casino to the others.  No one made\nany objection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to the forms\nof general civility, exclaimed, \"Your Ladyship will have the goodness\nto excuse ME--you know I detest cards.  I shall go to the piano-forte;\nI have not touched it since it was tuned.\"  And without farther\nceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument.\n\nLady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that SHE had never made\nso rude a speech.\n\n\"Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma'am,\"\nsaid Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; \"and I do not\nmuch wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever\nheard.\"\n\nThe remaining five were now to draw their cards.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" continued Elinor, \"if I should happen to cut out, I may be\nof some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and\nthere is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be\nimpossible I think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening.  I\nshould like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it.\"\n\n\"Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help,\" cried Lucy,\n\"for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there was;\nand it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Annamaria after\nall.\"\n\n\"Oh! that would be terrible, indeed,\" said Miss Steele-- \"Dear little\nsoul, how I do love her!\"\n\n\"You are very kind,\" said Lady Middleton to Elinor; \"and as you really\nlike the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut in till\nanother rubber, or will you take your chance now?\"\n\nElinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by a\nlittle of that address which Marianne could never condescend to\npractise, gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same\ntime.  Lucy made room for her with ready attention, and the two fair\nrivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and, with the\nutmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work.  The pianoforte at\nwhich Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her own thoughts, had\nby this time forgotten that any body was in the room besides herself,\nwas luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now judged she might\nsafely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting\nsubject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 24\n\n\nIn a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began.\n\n\"I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with,\nif I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its\nsubject.  I will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward again.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" cried Lucy warmly, \"for breaking the ice; you have set my\nheart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid I had offended\nyou by what I told you that Monday.\"\n\n\"Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me,\" and Elinor spoke\nit with the truest sincerity, \"nothing could be farther from my\nintention than to give you such an idea.  Could you have a motive for\nthe trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?\"\n\n\"And yet I do assure you,\" replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes full of\nmeaning, \"there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your\nmanner that made me quite uncomfortable.  I felt sure that you was\nangry with me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for\nhaving took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs.  But I am\nvery glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not\nblame me.  If you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my\nheart speaking to you of what I am always thinking of every moment of\nmy life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing else I am\nsure.\"\n\n\"Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you,\nto acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall\nnever have reason to repent it.  Your case is a very unfortunate one;\nyou seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have\nneed of all your mutual affection to support you under them.  Mr.\nFerrars, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother.\"\n\n\"He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to\nmarry upon that, though for my own part, I could give up every prospect\nof more without a sigh.  I have been always used to a very small\nincome, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love him too\nwell to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his\nmother might give him if he married to please her.  We must wait, it\nmay be for many years.  With almost every other man in the world, it\nwould be an alarming prospect; but Edward's affection and constancy\nnothing can deprive me of I know.\"\n\n\"That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly\nsupported by the same trust in your's.  If the strength of your\nreciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under\nmany circumstances it naturally would during a four years' engagement,\nyour situation would have been pitiable, indeed.\"\n\nLucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her countenance\nfrom every expression that could give her words a suspicious tendency.\n\n\"Edward's love for me,\" said Lucy, \"has been pretty well put to the\ntest, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and\nit has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt\nit now.  I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment's alarm\non that account from the first.\"\n\nElinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion.\n\nLucy went on.  \"I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from\nour different situations in life, from his being so much more in the\nworld than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for\nsuspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been\nthe slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any\nlowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had talked\nmore of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less happy at\nLongstaple than he used to be.  I do not mean to say that I am\nparticularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case\nI am sure I could not be deceived.\"\n\n\"All this,\" thought Elinor, \"is very pretty; but it can impose upon\nneither of us.\"\n\n\"But what,\" said she after a short silence, \"are your views? or have\nyou none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars's death, which is a\nmelancholy and shocking extremity?--Is her son determined to submit to\nthis, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which\nit may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a\nwhile by owning the truth?\"\n\n\"If we could be certain that it would be only for a while!  But Mrs.\nFerrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of anger\nupon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to Robert, and\nthe idea of that, for Edward's sake, frightens away all my inclination\nfor hasty measures.\"\n\n\"And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness\nbeyond reason.\"\n\nLucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.\n\n\"Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?\" asked Elinor.\n\n\"Not at all--I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his\nbrother--silly and a great coxcomb.\"\n\n\"A great coxcomb!\" repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those\nwords by a sudden pause in Marianne's music.-- \"Oh, they are talking of\ntheir favourite beaux, I dare say.\"\n\n\"No sister,\" cried Lucy, \"you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux\nare NOT great coxcombs.\"\n\n\"I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood's is not,\" said Mrs. Jennings,\nlaughing heartily; \"for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved\nyoung men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly little\ncreature, there is no finding out who SHE likes.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them, \"I dare\nsay Lucy's beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss\nDashwood's.\"\n\nElinor blushed in spite of herself.  Lucy bit her lip, and looked\nangrily at her sister.  A mutual silence took place for some time.\nLucy first put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though Marianne\nwas then giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent\nconcerto--\n\n\"I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into my\nhead, for bringing matters to bear; indeed I am bound to let you into\nthe secret, for you are a party concerned.  I dare say you have seen\nenough of Edward to know that he would prefer the church to every other\nprofession; now my plan is that he should take orders as soon as he\ncan, and then through your interest, which I am sure you would be kind\nenough to use out of friendship for him, and I hope out of some regard\nto me, your brother might be persuaded to give him Norland living;\nwhich I understand is a very good one, and the present incumbent not\nlikely to live a great while.  That would be enough for us to marry\nupon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest.\"\n\n\"I should always be happy,\" replied Elinor, \"to show any mark of my\nesteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do you not perceive that my\ninterest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary?  He is\nbrother to Mrs. John Dashwood--THAT must be recommendation enough to\nher husband.\"\n\n\"But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward's going into\norders.\"\n\n\"Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very little.\"\n\nThey were again silent for many minutes.  At length Lucy exclaimed with\na deep sigh,\n\n\"I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at\nonce by dissolving the engagement.  We seem so beset with difficulties\non every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we\nshould be happier perhaps in the end.  But you will not give me your\nadvice, Miss Dashwood?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated\nfeelings, \"on such a subject I certainly will not.  You know very well\nthat my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the\nside of your wishes.\"\n\n\"Indeed you wrong me,\" replied Lucy, with great solemnity; \"I know\nnobody of whose judgment I think so highly as I do of yours; and I do\nreally believe, that if you was to say to me, 'I advise you by all\nmeans to put an end to your engagement with Edward Ferrars, it will be\nmore for the happiness of both of you,' I should resolve upon doing it\nimmediately.\"\n\nElinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward's future wife, and\nreplied, \"This compliment would effectually frighten me from giving any\nopinion on the subject had I formed one.  It raises my influence much\ntoo high; the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too\nmuch for an indifferent person.\"\n\n\"'Tis because you are an indifferent person,\" said Lucy, with some\npique, and laying a particular stress on those words, \"that your\njudgment might justly have such weight with me.  If you could be\nsupposed to be biased in any respect by your own feelings, your opinion\nwould not be worth having.\"\n\nElinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might\nprovoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve; and\nwas even partly determined never to mention the subject again.  Another\npause therefore of many minutes' duration, succeeded this speech, and\nLucy was still the first to end it.\n\n\"Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?\" said she with all\nher accustomary complacency.\n\n\"Certainly not.\"\n\n\"I am sorry for that,\" returned the other, while her eyes brightened at\nthe information, \"it would have gave me such pleasure to meet you\nthere!  But I dare say you will go for all that.  To be sure, your\nbrother and sister will ask you to come to them.\"\n\n\"It will not be in my power to accept their invitation if they do.\"\n\n\"How unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meeting you there.\nAnne and me are to go the latter end of January to some relations who\nhave been wanting us to visit them these several years!  But I only go\nfor the sake of seeing Edward.  He will be there in February, otherwise\nLondon would have no charms for me; I have not spirits for it.\"\n\nElinor was soon called to the card-table by the conclusion of the first\nrubber, and the confidential discourse of the two ladies was therefore\nat an end, to which both of them submitted without any reluctance, for\nnothing had been said on either side to make them dislike each other\nless than they had done before; and Elinor sat down to the card table\nwith the melancholy persuasion that Edward was not only without\naffection for the person who was to be his wife; but that he had not\neven the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which sincere\naffection on HER side would have given, for self-interest alone could\ninduce a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which she seemed so\nthoroughly aware that he was weary.\n\nFrom this time the subject was never revived by Elinor, and when\nentered on by Lucy, who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing it,\nand was particularly careful to inform her confidante, of her happiness\nwhenever she received a letter from Edward, it was treated by the\nformer with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon as civility\nwould allow; for she felt such conversations to be an indulgence which\nLucy did not deserve, and which were dangerous to herself.\n\nThe visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was lengthened far beyond\nwhat the first invitation implied.  Their favour increased; they could\nnot be spared; Sir John would not hear of their going; and in spite of\ntheir numerous and long arranged engagements in Exeter, in spite of the\nabsolute necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately, which was\nin full force at the end of every week, they were prevailed on to stay\nnearly two months at the park, and to assist in the due celebration of\nthat festival which requires a more than ordinary share of private\nballs and large dinners to proclaim its importance.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 25\n\n\nThough Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion of\nthe year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not without\na settled habitation of her own.  Since the death of her husband, who\nhad traded with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had\nresided every winter in a house in one of the streets near Portman\nSquare.  Towards this home, she began on the approach of January to\nturn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and very\nunexpectedly by them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood to accompany her.\nElinor, without observing the varying complexion of her sister, and the\nanimated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave\na grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself\nto be speaking their united inclinations.  The reason alleged was their\ndetermined resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the\nyear.  Mrs. Jennings received the refusal with some surprise, and\nrepeated her invitation immediately.\n\n\"Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I DO beg\nyou will favour me with your company, for I've quite set my heart upon\nit.  Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I shan't\nput myself at all out of my way for you.  It will only be sending Betty\nby the coach, and I hope I can afford THAT.  We three shall be able to\ngo very well in my chaise; and when we are in town, if you do not like\nto go wherever I do, well and good, you may always go with one of my\ndaughters.  I am sure your mother will not object to it; for I have had\nsuch good luck in getting my own children off my hands that she will\nthink me a very fit person to have the charge of you; and if I don't\nget one of you at least well married before I have done with you, it\nshall not be my fault.  I shall speak a good word for you to all the\nyoung men, you may depend upon it.\"\n\n\"I have a notion,\" said Sir John, \"that Miss Marianne would not object\nto such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it.  It is very\nhard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss\nDashwood does not wish it.  So I would advise you two, to set off for\ntown, when you are tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss\nDashwood about it.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" cried Mrs. Jennings, \"I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of\nMiss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only the\nmore the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable for\nthem to be together; because, if they got tired of me, they might talk\nto one another, and laugh at my old ways behind my back.  But one or\nthe other, if not both of them, I must have.  Lord bless me! how do you\nthink I can live poking by myself, I who have been always used till\nthis winter to have Charlotte with me.  Come, Miss Marianne, let us\nstrike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change her\nmind by and bye, why so much the better.\"\n\n\"I thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you,\" said Marianne, with warmth:\n\"your invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and it would give\nme such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable of,\nto be able to accept it.  But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother,--I\nfeel the justice of what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made\nless happy, less comfortable by our absence--Oh! no, nothing should\ntempt me to leave her.  It should not, must not be a struggle.\"\n\nMrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could spare\nthem perfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her sister, and saw\nto what indifference to almost every thing else she was carried by her\neagerness to be with Willoughby again, made no farther direct\nopposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother's\ndecision, from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any\nsupport in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not\napprove of for Marianne, and which on her own account she had\nparticular reasons to avoid.  Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her\nmother would be eager to promote--she could not expect to influence the\nlatter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which she had\nnever been able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared not explain\nthe motive of her own disinclination for going to London.  That\nMarianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs.\nJennings' manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should overlook\nevery inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be\nmost wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object,\nwas such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object\nto her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to\nwitness.\n\nOn being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that such\nan excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her\ndaughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to\nherself, how much the heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of\ntheir declining the offer upon HER account; insisted on their both\naccepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with her usual\ncheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to them all,\nfrom this separation.\n\n\"I am delighted with the plan,\" she cried, \"it is exactly what I could\nwish.  Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves.\nWhen you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and\nhappily together with our books and our music! You will find Margaret\nso improved when you come back again!  I have a little plan of\nalteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without\nany inconvenience to any one.  It is very right that you SHOULD go to\ntown; I would have every young woman of your condition in life\nacquainted with the manners and amusements of London.  You will be\nunder the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to\nyou I can have no doubt.  And in all probability you will see your\nbrother, and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife,\nwhen I consider whose son he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly\nestranged from each other.\"\n\n\"Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness,\" said Elinor, \"you\nhave been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which\noccurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion,\ncannot be so easily removed.\"\n\nMarianne's countenance sunk.\n\n\"And what,\" said Mrs. Dashwood, \"is my dear prudent Elinor going to\nsuggest?  What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward?  Do let\nme hear a word about the expense of it.\"\n\n\"My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings's\nheart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or\nwhose protection will give us consequence.\"\n\n\"That is very true,\" replied her mother, \"but of her society,\nseparately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing\nat all, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady\nMiddleton.\"\n\n\"If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings,\" said\nMarianne, \"at least it need not prevent MY accepting her invitation.  I\nhave no such scruples, and I am sure I could put up with every\nunpleasantness of that kind with very little effort.\"\n\nElinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards\nthe manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in\npersuading Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved\nwithin herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go\nlikewise, as she did not think it proper that Marianne should be left\nto the sole guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should\nbe abandoned to the mercy of Marianne for all the comfort of her\ndomestic hours.  To this determination she was the more easily\nreconciled, by recollecting that Edward Ferrars, by Lucy's account, was\nnot to be in town before February; and that their visit, without any\nunreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished.\n\n\"I will have you BOTH go,\" said Mrs. Dashwood; \"these objections are\nnonsensical.  You will have much pleasure in being in London, and\nespecially in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to\nanticipate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of\nsources; she would, perhaps, expect some from improving her\nacquaintance with her sister-in-law's family.\"\n\nElinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken her\nmother's dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that the\nshock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on this\nattack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to begin\nher design by saying, as calmly as she could, \"I like Edward Ferrars\nvery much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the rest of\nthe family, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, whether I am\never known to them or not.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood smiled, and said nothing.  Marianne lifted up her eyes in\nastonishment, and Elinor conjectured that she might as well have held\nher tongue.\n\nAfter very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the\ninvitation should be fully accepted.  Mrs. Jennings received the\ninformation with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness\nand care; nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her.  Sir John was\ndelighted; for to a man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of\nbeing alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in\nLondon, was something.  Even Lady Middleton took the trouble of being\ndelighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as for\nthe Miss Steeles, especially Lucy, they had never been so happy in\ntheir lives as this intelligence made them.\n\nElinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with\nless reluctance than she had expected to feel.  With regard to herself,\nit was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not, and\nwhen she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her\nsister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all\nher usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she\ncould not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow\nherself to distrust the consequence.\n\nMarianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the\nperturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone.  Her\nunwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness;\nand at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive.\nHer mother's affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was the only one of\nthe three, who seemed to consider the separation as any thing short of\neternal.\n\nTheir departure took place in the first week in January.  The\nMiddletons were to follow in about a week.  The Miss Steeles kept their\nstation at the park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the\nfamily.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 26\n\n\nElinor could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings, and\nbeginning a journey to London under her protection, and as her guest,\nwithout wondering at her own situation, so short had their acquaintance\nwith that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age and\ndisposition, and so many had been her objections against such a measure\nonly a few days before! But these objections had all, with that happy\nardour of youth which Marianne and her mother equally shared, been\novercome or overlooked; and Elinor, in spite of every occasional doubt\nof Willoughby's constancy, could not witness the rapture of delightful\nexpectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the eyes of\nMarianne, without feeling how blank was her own prospect, how cheerless\nher own state of mind in the comparison, and how gladly she would\nengage in the solicitude of Marianne's situation to have the same\nanimating object in view, the same possibility of hope.  A short, a\nvery short time however must now decide what Willoughby's intentions\nwere; in all probability he was already in town.  Marianne's eagerness\nto be gone declared her dependence on finding him there; and Elinor was\nresolved not only upon gaining every new light as to his character\nwhich her own observation or the intelligence of others could give her,\nbut likewise upon watching his behaviour to her sister with such\nzealous attention, as to ascertain what he was and what he meant,\nbefore many meetings had taken place.  Should the result of her\nobservations be unfavourable, she was determined at all events to open\nthe eyes of her sister; should it be otherwise, her exertions would be\nof a different nature--she must then learn to avoid every selfish\ncomparison, and banish every regret which might lessen her satisfaction\nin the happiness of Marianne.\n\nThey were three days on their journey, and Marianne's behaviour as they\ntravelled was a happy specimen of what future complaisance and\ncompanionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be expected to be.  She sat in\nsilence almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely\never voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque beauty\nwithin their view drew from her an exclamation of delight exclusively\naddressed to her sister.  To atone for this conduct therefore, Elinor\ntook immediate possession of the post of civility which she had\nassigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to Mrs. Jennings,\ntalked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever she\ncould; and Mrs. Jennings on her side treated them both with all\npossible kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their ease and\nenjoyment, and only disturbed that she could not make them choose their\nown dinners at the inn, nor extort a confession of their preferring\nsalmon to cod, or boiled fowls to veal cutlets.  They reached town by\nthree o'clock the third day, glad to be released, after such a journey,\nfrom the confinement of a carriage, and ready to enjoy all the luxury\nof a good fire.\n\nThe house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up, and the young ladies\nwere immediately put in possession of a very comfortable apartment.  It\nhad formerly been Charlotte's, and over the mantelpiece still hung a\nlandscape in coloured silks of her performance, in proof of her having\nspent seven years at a great school in town to some effect.\n\nAs dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their\narrival, Elinor determined to employ the interval in writing to her\nmother, and sat down for that purpose.  In a few moments Marianne did\nthe same.  \"I am writing home, Marianne,\" said Elinor; \"had not you\nbetter defer your letter for a day or two?\"\n\n\"I am NOT going to write to my mother,\" replied Marianne, hastily, and\nas if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry.  Elinor said no more; it\nimmediately struck her that she must then be writing to Willoughby; and\nthe conclusion which as instantly followed was, that, however\nmysteriously they might wish to conduct the affair, they must be\nengaged.  This conviction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave her\npleasure, and she continued her letter with greater alacrity.\nMarianne's was finished in a very few minutes; in length it could be no\nmore than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, and directed with\neager rapidity.  Elinor thought she could distinguish a large W in the\ndirection; and no sooner was it complete than Marianne, ringing the\nbell, requested the footman who answered it to get that letter conveyed\nfor her to the two-penny post.  This decided the matter at once.\n\nHer spirits still continued very high; but there was a flutter in them\nwhich prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this\nagitation increased as the evening drew on.  She could scarcely eat any\ndinner, and when they afterwards returned to the drawing room, seemed\nanxiously listening to the sound of every carriage.\n\nIt was a great satisfaction to Elinor that Mrs. Jennings, by being much\nengaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing.  The tea\nthings were brought in, and already had Marianne been disappointed more\nthan once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a loud one was suddenly\nheard which could not be mistaken for one at any other house, Elinor\nfelt secure of its announcing Willoughby's approach, and Marianne,\nstarting up, moved towards the door.  Every thing was silent; this\ncould not be borne many seconds; she opened the door, advanced a few\nsteps towards the stairs, and after listening half a minute, returned\ninto the room in all the agitation which a conviction of having heard\nhim would naturally produce; in the ecstasy of her feelings at that\ninstant she could not help exclaiming, \"Oh, Elinor, it is Willoughby,\nindeed it is!\" and seemed almost ready to throw herself into his arms,\nwhen Colonel Brandon appeared.\n\nIt was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she immediately\nleft the room.  Elinor was disappointed too; but at the same time her\nregard for Colonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her; and she felt\nparticularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister should perceive\nthat she experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in seeing\nhim.  She instantly saw that it was not unnoticed by him, that he even\nobserved Marianne as she quitted the room, with such astonishment and\nconcern, as hardly left him the recollection of what civility demanded\ntowards herself.\n\n\"Is your sister ill?\" said he.\n\nElinor answered in some distress that she was, and then talked of\nhead-aches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of every thing to which\nshe could decently attribute her sister's behaviour.\n\nHe heard her with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect\nhimself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of\nhis pleasure at seeing them in London, making the usual inquiries about\ntheir journey, and the friends they had left behind.\n\nIn this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side,\nthey continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts\nof both engaged elsewhere.  Elinor wished very much to ask whether\nWilloughby were then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by\nany enquiry after his rival; and at length, by way of saying something,\nshe asked if he had been in London ever since she had seen him last.\n\"Yes,\" he replied, with some embarrassment, \"almost ever since; I have\nbeen once or twice at Delaford for a few days, but it has never been in\nmy power to return to Barton.\"\n\nThis, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back to\nher remembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with\nthe uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to Mrs. Jennings, and she\nwas fearful that her question had implied much more curiosity on the\nsubject than she had ever felt.\n\nMrs. Jennings soon came in.  \"Oh! Colonel,\" said she, with her usual\nnoisy cheerfulness, \"I am monstrous glad to see you--sorry I could not\ncome before--beg your pardon, but I have been forced to look about me a\nlittle, and settle my matters; for it is a long while since I have been\nat home, and you know one has always a world of little odd things to do\nafter one has been away for any time; and then I have had Cartwright to\nsettle with-- Lord, I have been as busy as a bee ever since dinner!\nBut pray, Colonel, how came you to conjure out that I should be in town\ntoday?\"\n\n\"I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Palmer's, where I have been\ndining.\"\n\n\"Oh, you did; well, and how do they all do at their house?  How does\nCharlotte do?  I warrant you she is a fine size by this time.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well, and I am commissioned to tell you,\nthat you will certainly see her to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Ay, to be sure, I thought as much.  Well, Colonel, I have brought two\nyoung ladies with me, you see--that is, you see but one of them now,\nbut there is another somewhere.  Your friend, Miss Marianne, too--which\nyou will not be sorry to hear.  I do not know what you and Mr.\nWilloughby will do between you about her.  Ay, it is a fine thing to be\nyoung and handsome.  Well! I was young once, but I never was very\nhandsome--worse luck for me.  However, I got a very good husband, and I\ndon't know what the greatest beauty can do more.  Ah! poor man! he has\nbeen dead these eight years and better.  But Colonel, where have you\nbeen to since we parted?  And how does your business go on?  Come,\ncome, let's have no secrets among friends.\"\n\nHe replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but\nwithout satisfying her in any.  Elinor now began to make the tea, and\nMarianne was obliged to appear again.\n\nAfter her entrance, Colonel Brandon became more thoughtful and silent\nthan he had been before, and Mrs. Jennings could not prevail on him to\nstay long.  No other visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies were\nunanimous in agreeing to go early to bed.\n\nMarianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy looks.\nThe disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the\nexpectation of what was to happen that day.  They had not long finished\ntheir breakfast before Mrs. Palmer's barouche stopped at the door, and\nin a few minutes she came laughing into the room: so delighted to see\nthem all, that it was hard to say whether she received most pleasure\nfrom meeting her mother or the Miss Dashwoods again.  So surprised at\ntheir coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all\nalong; so angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after having\ndeclined her own, though at the same time she would never have forgiven\nthem if they had not come!\n\n\"Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see you,\" said she; \"What do you think\nhe said when he heard of your coming with Mama?  I forget what it was\nnow, but it was something so droll!\"\n\nAfter an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable chat,\nor in other words, in every variety of inquiry concerning all their\nacquaintance on Mrs. Jennings's side, and in laughter without cause on\nMrs. Palmer's, it was proposed by the latter that they should all\naccompany her to some shops where she had business that morning, to\nwhich Mrs. Jennings and Elinor readily consented, as having likewise\nsome purchases to make themselves; and Marianne, though declining it at\nfirst was induced to go likewise.\n\nWherever they went, she was evidently always on the watch.  In Bond\nStreet especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were in\nconstant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her mind\nwas equally abstracted from every thing actually before them, from all\nthat interested and occupied the others.  Restless and dissatisfied\nevery where, her sister could never obtain her opinion of any article\nof purchase, however it might equally concern them both: she received\nno pleasure from anything; was only impatient to be at home again, and\ncould with difficulty govern her vexation at the tediousness of Mrs.\nPalmer, whose eye was caught by every thing pretty, expensive, or new;\nwho was wild to buy all, could determine on none, and dawdled away her\ntime in rapture and indecision.\n\nIt was late in the morning before they returned home; and no sooner had\nthey entered the house than Marianne flew eagerly up stairs, and when\nElinor followed, she found her turning from the table with a sorrowful\ncountenance, which declared that no Willoughby had been there.\n\n\"Has no letter been left here for me since we went out?\" said she to\nthe footman who then entered with the parcels.  She was answered in the\nnegative.  \"Are you quite sure of it?\" she replied.  \"Are you certain\nthat no servant, no porter has left any letter or note?\"\n\nThe man replied that none had.\n\n\"How very odd!\" said she, in a low and disappointed voice, as she\nturned away to the window.\n\n\"How odd, indeed!\" repeated Elinor within herself, regarding her sister\nwith uneasiness.  \"If she had not known him to be in town she would not\nhave written to him, as she did; she would have written to Combe Magna;\nand if he is in town, how odd that he should neither come nor write!\nOh! my dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting an engagement\nbetween a daughter so young, a man so little known, to be carried on in\nso doubtful, so mysterious a manner!  I long to inquire; and how will\nMY interference be borne.\"\n\nShe determined, after some consideration, that if appearances continued\nmany days longer as unpleasant as they now were, she would represent in\nthe strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some serious\nenquiry into the affair.\n\nMrs. Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jennings's intimate\nacquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with\nthem.  The former left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening\nengagements; and Elinor was obliged to assist in making a whist table\nfor the others.  Marianne was of no use on these occasions, as she\nwould never learn the game; but though her time was therefore at her\nown disposal, the evening was by no means more productive of pleasure\nto her than to Elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of\nexpectation and the pain of disappointment.  She sometimes endeavoured\nfor a few minutes to read; but the book was soon thrown aside, and she\nreturned to the more interesting employment of walking backwards and\nforwards across the room, pausing for a moment whenever she came to the\nwindow, in hopes of distinguishing the long-expected rap.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 27\n\n\n\"If this open weather holds much longer,\" said Mrs. Jennings, when they\nmet at breakfast the following morning, \"Sir John will not like leaving\nBarton next week; 'tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a day's\npleasure.  Poor souls!  I always pity them when they do; they seem to\ntake it so much to heart.\"\n\n\"That is true,\" cried Marianne, in a cheerful voice, and walking to the\nwindow as she spoke, to examine the day.  \"I had not thought of that.\nThis weather will keep many sportsmen in the country.\"\n\nIt was a lucky recollection, all her good spirits were restored by it.\n\"It is charming weather for THEM indeed,\" she continued, as she sat\ndown to the breakfast table with a happy countenance.  \"How much they\nmust enjoy it! But\" (with a little return of anxiety) \"it cannot be\nexpected to last long.  At this time of the year, and after such a\nseries of rain, we shall certainly have very little more of it.  Frosts\nwill soon set in, and in all probability with severity.  In another day\nor two perhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly last longer--nay,\nperhaps it may freeze tonight!\"\n\n\"At any rate,\" said Elinor, wishing to prevent Mrs. Jennings from\nseeing her sister's thoughts as clearly as she did, \"I dare say we\nshall have Sir John and Lady Middleton in town by the end of next week.\"\n\n\"Ay, my dear, I'll warrant you we do.  Mary always has her own way.\"\n\n\"And now,\" silently conjectured Elinor, \"she will write to Combe by\nthis day's post.\"\n\nBut if she DID, the letter was written and sent away with a privacy\nwhich eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact.  Whatever the\ntruth of it might be, and far as Elinor was from feeling thorough\ncontentment about it, yet while she saw Marianne in spirits, she could\nnot be very uncomfortable herself.  And Marianne was in spirits; happy\nin the mildness of the weather, and still happier in her expectation of\na frost.\n\nThe morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the houses of Mrs.\nJennings's acquaintance to inform them of her being in town; and\nMarianne was all the time busy in observing the direction of the wind,\nwatching the variations of the sky and imagining an alteration in the\nair.\n\n\"Don't you find it colder than it was in the morning, Elinor? There\nseems to me a very decided difference.  I can hardly keep my hands warm\neven in my muff.  It was not so yesterday, I think.  The clouds seem\nparting too, the sun will be out in a moment, and we shall have a clear\nafternoon.\"\n\nElinor was alternately diverted and pained; but Marianne persevered,\nand saw every night in the brightness of the fire, and every morning in\nthe appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symptoms of approaching\nfrost.\n\nThe Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs.\nJennings's style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her\nbehaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind.  Every thing in her\nhousehold arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and\nexcepting a few old city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton's regret, she\nhad never dropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction could at\nall discompose the feelings of her young companions.  Pleased to find\nherself more comfortably situated in that particular than she had\nexpected, Elinor was very willing to compound for the want of much real\nenjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, whether at home or\nabroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her.\n\nColonel Brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was with\nthem almost every day; he came to look at Marianne and talk to Elinor,\nwho often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him than from\nany other daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time with much\nconcern his continued regard for her sister.  She feared it was a\nstrengthening regard.  It grieved her to see the earnestness with which\nhe often watched Marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse than\nwhen at Barton.\n\nAbout a week after their arrival, it became certain that Willoughby was\nalso arrived.  His card was on the table when they came in from the\nmorning's drive.\n\n\"Good God!\" cried Marianne, \"he has been here while we were out.\"\nElinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ventured to\nsay, \"Depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow.\"  But Marianne\nseemed hardly to hear her, and on Mrs. Jennings's entrance, escaped with\nthe precious card.\n\nThis event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor, restored to those of\nher sister all, and more than all, their former agitation.  From this\nmoment her mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him every\nhour of the day, made her unfit for any thing.  She insisted on being\nleft behind, the next morning, when the others went out.\n\nElinor's thoughts were full of what might be passing in Berkeley Street\nduring their absence; but a moment's glance at her sister when they\nreturned was enough to inform her, that Willoughby had paid no second\nvisit there.  A note was just then brought in, and laid on the table.\n\n\"For me!\" cried Marianne, stepping hastily forward.\n\n\"No, ma'am, for my mistress.\"\n\nBut Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up.\n\n\"It is indeed for Mrs. Jennings; how provoking!\"\n\n\"You are expecting a letter, then?\" said Elinor, unable to be longer\nsilent.\n\n\"Yes, a little--not much.\"\n\nAfter a short pause.  \"You have no confidence in me, Marianne.\"\n\n\"Nay, Elinor, this reproach from YOU--you who have confidence in no\none!\"\n\n\"Me!\" returned Elinor in some confusion; \"indeed, Marianne, I have\nnothing to tell.\"\n\n\"Nor I,\" answered Marianne with energy, \"our situations then are alike.\nWe have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you do not\ncommunicate, and I, because I conceal nothing.\"\n\nElinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she was\nnot at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to\npress for greater openness in Marianne.\n\nMrs. Jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read it\naloud.  It was from Lady Middleton, announcing their arrival in Conduit\nStreet the night before, and requesting the company of her mother and\ncousins the following evening.  Business on Sir John's part, and a\nviolent cold on her own, prevented their calling in Berkeley Street.\nThe invitation was accepted; but when the hour of appointment drew\nnear, necessary as it was in common civility to Mrs. Jennings, that\nthey should both attend her on such a visit, Elinor had some difficulty\nin persuading her sister to go, for still she had seen nothing of\nWilloughby; and therefore was not more indisposed for amusement abroad,\nthan unwilling to run the risk of his calling again in her absence.\n\nElinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not\nmaterially altered by a change of abode, for although scarcely settled\nin town, Sir John had contrived to collect around him, nearly twenty\nyoung people, and to amuse them with a ball.  This was an affair,\nhowever, of which Lady Middleton did not approve.  In the country, an\nunpremeditated dance was very allowable; but in London, where the\nreputation of elegance was more important and less easily attained, it\nwas risking too much for the gratification of a few girls, to have it\nknown that Lady Middleton had given a small dance of eight or nine\ncouple, with two violins, and a mere side-board collation.\n\nMr. and Mrs. Palmer were of the party; from the former, whom they had\nnot seen before since their arrival in town, as he was careful to avoid\nthe appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and therefore\nnever came near her, they received no mark of recognition on their\nentrance.  He looked at them slightly, without seeming to know who they\nwere, and merely nodded to Mrs. Jennings from the other side of the\nroom.  Marianne gave one glance round the apartment as she entered: it\nwas enough--HE was not there--and she sat down, equally ill-disposed to\nreceive or communicate pleasure.  After they had been assembled about\nan hour, Mr. Palmer sauntered towards the Miss Dashwoods to express his\nsurprise on seeing them in town, though Colonel Brandon had been first\ninformed of their arrival at his house, and he had himself said\nsomething very droll on hearing that they were to come.\n\n\"I thought you were both in Devonshire,\" said he.\n\n\"Did you?\" replied Elinor.\n\n\"When do you go back again?\"\n\n\"I do not know.\" And thus ended their discourse.\n\nNever had Marianne been so unwilling to dance in her life, as she was\nthat evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise.  She\ncomplained of it as they returned to Berkeley Street.\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" said Mrs. Jennings, \"we know the reason of all that very\nwell; if a certain person who shall be nameless, had been there, you\nwould not have been a bit tired: and to say the truth it was not very\npretty of him not to give you the meeting when he was invited.\"\n\n\"Invited!\" cried Marianne.\n\n\"So my daughter Middleton told me, for it seems Sir John met him\nsomewhere in the street this morning.\" Marianne said no more, but\nlooked exceedingly hurt.  Impatient in this situation to be doing\nsomething that might lead to her sister's relief, Elinor resolved to\nwrite the next morning to her mother, and hoped by awakening her fears\nfor the health of Marianne, to procure those inquiries which had been\nso long delayed; and she was still more eagerly bent on this measure by\nperceiving after breakfast on the morrow, that Marianne was again\nwriting to Willoughby, for she could not suppose it to be to any other\nperson.\n\nAbout the middle of the day, Mrs. Jennings went out by herself on\nbusiness, and Elinor began her letter directly, while Marianne, too\nrestless for employment, too anxious for conversation, walked from one\nwindow to the other, or sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation.\nElinor was very earnest in her application to her mother, relating all\nthat had passed, her suspicions of Willoughby's inconstancy, urging her\nby every plea of duty and affection to demand from Marianne an account\nof her real situation with respect to him.\n\nHer letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and\nColonel Brandon was announced.  Marianne, who had seen him from the\nwindow, and who hated company of any kind, left the room before he\nentered it.  He looked more than usually grave, and though expressing\nsatisfaction at finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat in\nparticular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a word.\nElinor, persuaded that he had some communication to make in which her\nsister was concerned, impatiently expected its opening.  It was not the\nfirst time of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for, more than\nonce before, beginning with the observation of \"your sister looks\nunwell to-day,\" or \"your sister seems out of spirits,\" he had appeared\non the point, either of disclosing, or of inquiring, something\nparticular about her.  After a pause of several minutes, their silence\nwas broken, by his asking her in a voice of some agitation, when he was\nto congratulate her on the acquisition of a brother?  Elinor was not\nprepared for such a question, and having no answer ready, was obliged\nto adopt the simple and common expedient, of asking what he meant?  He\ntried to smile as he replied, \"your sister's engagement to Mr.\nWilloughby is very generally known.\"\n\n\"It cannot be generally known,\" returned Elinor, \"for her own family do\nnot know it.\"\n\nHe looked surprised and said, \"I beg your pardon, I am afraid my\ninquiry has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secrecy\nintended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally\ntalked of.\"\n\n\"How can that be? By whom can you have heard it mentioned?\"\n\n\"By many--by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom you are\nmost intimate, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons.  But\nstill I might not have believed it, for where the mind is perhaps\nrather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to\nsupport its doubts, if I had not, when the servant let me in today,\naccidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to Mr. Willoughby in\nyour sister's writing.  I came to inquire, but I was convinced before I\ncould ask the question.  Is every thing finally settled?  Is it\nimpossible to-?  But I have no right, and I could have no chance of\nsucceeding.  Excuse me, Miss Dashwood.  I believe I have been wrong in\nsaying so much, but I hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I\nhave the strongest dependence.  Tell me that it is all absolutely\nresolved on, that any attempt, that in short concealment, if\nconcealment be possible, is all that remains.\"\n\nThese words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct avowal of his love for\nher sister, affected her very much.  She was not immediately able to\nsay anything, and even when her spirits were recovered, she debated for\na short time, on the answer it would be most proper to give.  The real\nstate of things between Willoughby and her sister was so little known\nto herself, that in endeavouring to explain it, she might be as liable\nto say too much as too little.  Yet as she was convinced that\nMarianne's affection for Willoughby, could leave no hope of Colonel\nBrandon's success, whatever the event of that affection might be, and\nat the same time wished to shield her conduct from censure, she thought\nit most prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say more than\nshe really knew or believed.  She acknowledged, therefore, that though\nshe had never been informed by themselves of the terms on which they\nstood with each other, of their mutual affection she had no doubt, and\nof their correspondence she was not astonished to hear.\n\nHe listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak,\nrose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion,\n\"to your sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he\nmay endeavour to deserve her,\"--took leave, and went away.\n\nElinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation, to\nlessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points; she was left, on the\ncontrary, with a melancholy impression of Colonel Brandon's\nunhappiness, and was prevented even from wishing it removed, by her\nanxiety for the very event that must confirm it.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 28\n\n\nNothing occurred during the next three or four days, to make Elinor\nregret what she had done, in applying to her mother; for Willoughby\nneither came nor wrote.  They were engaged about the end of that time\nto attend Lady Middleton to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept\naway by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this party,\nMarianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and seeming\nequally indifferent whether she went or staid, prepared, without one\nlook of hope or one expression of pleasure.  She sat by the\ndrawing-room fire after tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton's\narrival, without once stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude,\nlost in her own thoughts, and insensible of her sister's presence; and\nwhen at last they were told that Lady Middleton waited for them at the\ndoor, she started as if she had forgotten that any one was expected.\n\nThey arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as\nthe string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the\nstairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to another\nin an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full\nof company, and insufferably hot.  When they had paid their tribute of\npoliteness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were permitted\nto mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and\ninconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add.  After some\ntime spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to\nCassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and\nElinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great\ndistance from the table.\n\nThey had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived\nWilloughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest\nconversation with a very fashionable looking young woman.  She soon\ncaught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to\nspeak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her;\nand then continued his discourse with the same lady.  Elinor turned\ninvoluntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by\nher.  At that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance\nglowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him\ninstantly, had not her sister caught hold of her.\n\n\"Good heavens!\" she exclaimed, \"he is there--he is there--Oh! why does\nhe not look at me? why cannot I speak to him?\"\n\n\"Pray, pray be composed,\" cried Elinor, \"and do not betray what you\nfeel to every body present.  Perhaps he has not observed you yet.\"\n\nThis however was more than she could believe herself; and to be\ncomposed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it\nwas beyond her wish.  She sat in an agony of impatience which affected\nevery feature.\n\nAt last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up,\nand pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to\nhim.  He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than\nMarianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe\nher attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and\nasked how long they had been in town.  Elinor was robbed of all\npresence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word.  But\nthe feelings of her sister were instantly expressed.  Her face was\ncrimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion,\n\"Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this?  Have you not\nreceived my letters?  Will you not shake hands with me?\"\n\nHe could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he\nheld her hand only for a moment.  During all this time he was evidently\nstruggling for composure.  Elinor watched his countenance and saw its\nexpression becoming more tranquil.  After a moment's pause, he spoke\nwith calmness.\n\n\"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday,\nand very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find\nyourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home.  My card was not lost, I hope.\"\n\n\"But have you not received my notes?\" cried Marianne in the wildest\nanxiety.  \"Here is some mistake I am sure--some dreadful mistake.  What\ncan be the meaning of it?  Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven's sake tell\nme, what is the matter?\"\n\nHe made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment\nreturned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he\nhad been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion,\nhe recovered himself again, and after saying, \"Yes, I had the pleasure\nof receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so\ngood as to send me,\" turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined\nhis friend.\n\nMarianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into\nher chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried\nto screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with\nlavender water.\n\n\"Go to him, Elinor,\" she cried, as soon as she could speak, \"and force\nhim to come to me.  Tell him I must see him again--must speak to him\ninstantly.-- I cannot rest--I shall not have a moment's peace till this\nis explained--some dreadful misapprehension or other.-- Oh go to him\nthis moment.\"\n\n\"How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait.  This is\nnot the place for explanations.  Wait only till tomorrow.\"\n\nWith difficulty however could she prevent her from following him\nherself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least,\nwith the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more\nprivacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued\nincessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings,\nby exclamations of wretchedness.  In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby\nquit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne\nthat he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that\nevening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm.  She instantly begged\nher sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was\ntoo miserable to stay a minute longer.\n\nLady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed\nthat Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her\nwish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they\ndeparted as soon the carriage could be found.  Scarcely a word was\nspoken during their return to Berkeley Street.  Marianne was in a\nsilent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings\nwas luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room,\nwhere hartshorn restored her a little to herself.  She was soon\nundressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her\nsister then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings,\nhad leisure enough for thinking over the past.\n\nThat some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and\nMarianne she could not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of it,\nseemed equally clear; for however Marianne might still feed her own\nwishes, SHE could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or\nmisapprehension of any kind.  Nothing but a thorough change of\nsentiment could account for it.  Her indignation would have been still\nstronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which\nseemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented\nher from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with\nthe affections of her sister from the first, without any design that\nwould bear investigation.  Absence might have weakened his regard, and\nconvenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a\nregard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt.\n\nAs for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already\nhave given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in\nits probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest\nconcern.  Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she\ncould ESTEEM Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in\nfuture, her mind might be always supported.  But every circumstance\nthat could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery\nof Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby--in an immediate and\nirreconcilable rupture with him.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 29\n\n\nBefore the house-maid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun\ngained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne, only\nhalf dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake\nof all the little light she could command from it, and writing as fast\nas a continual flow of tears would permit her.  In this situation,\nElinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived\nher; and after observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety,\nsaid, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness,\n\n\"Marianne, may I ask-?\"\n\n\"No, Elinor,\" she replied, \"ask nothing; you will soon know all.\"\n\nThe sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no\nlonger than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return\nof the same excessive affliction.  It was some minutes before she could\ngo on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still\nobliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of\nher feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the\nlast time to Willoughby.\n\nElinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; and\nshe would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had not\nMarianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous\nirritability, not to speak to her for the world.  In such\ncircumstances, it was better for both that they should not be long\ntogether; and the restless state of Marianne's mind not only prevented\nher from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but\nrequiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her\nwander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of every\nbody.\n\nAt breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and\nElinor's attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in\npitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to\nengage Mrs. Jennings's notice entirely to herself.\n\nAs this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a\nconsiderable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it,\nround the common working table, when a letter was delivered to\nMarianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a\ndeath-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room.  Elinor, who saw as\nplainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must come\nfrom Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her\nhardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour as\nmade her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings's notice.  That good\nlady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from\nWilloughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she\ntreated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to\nher liking.  Of Elinor's distress, she was too busily employed in\nmeasuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and\ncalmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she said,\n\n\"Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my\nlife!  MY girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish\nenough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature.  I\nhope, from the bottom of my heart, he won't keep her waiting much\nlonger, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn.\nPray, when are they to be married?\"\n\nElinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment,\nobliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore,\ntrying to smile, replied, \"And have you really, Ma'am, talked yourself\ninto a persuasion of my sister's being engaged to Mr. Willoughby?  I\nthought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to\nimply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive\nyourself any longer.  I do assure you that nothing would surprise me\nmore than to hear of their being going to be married.\"\n\n\"For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so?  Don't we\nall know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in\nlove with each other from the first moment they met?  Did not I see\nthem together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I\nknow that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding\nclothes?  Come, come, this won't do.  Because you are so sly about it\nyourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such\nthing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever so\nlong.  I tell every body of it and so does Charlotte.\"\n\n\"Indeed, Ma'am,\" said Elinor, very seriously, \"you are mistaken.\nIndeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and\nyou will find that you have though you will not believe me now.\"\n\nMrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more,\nand eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried\naway to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne\nstretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand,\nand two or three others laying by her.  Elinor drew near, but without\nsaying a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed\nher affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of\ntears, which at first was scarcely less violent than Marianne's. The\nlatter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of\nthis behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she\nput all the letters into Elinor's hands; and then covering her face\nwith her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony.  Elinor, who knew\nthat such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its\ncourse, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat spent\nitself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby's letter, read as\nfollows:\n\n                              \"Bond Street, January.\n     \"MY DEAR MADAM,\n\n     \"I have just had the honour of receiving your\n     letter, for which I beg to return my sincere\n     acknowledgments.  I am much concerned to find there\n     was anything in my behaviour last night that did\n     not meet your approbation; and though I am quite at\n     a loss to discover in what point I could be so\n     unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat your\n     forgiveness of what I can assure you to have been\n     perfectly unintentional.  I shall never reflect on\n     my former acquaintance with your family in Devonshire\n     without the most grateful pleasure, and flatter\n     myself it will not be broken by any mistake or\n     misapprehension of my actions.  My esteem for your\n     whole family is very sincere; but if I have been so\n     unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than\n     I felt, or meant to express, I shall reproach myself\n     for not having been more guarded in my professions\n     of that esteem.  That I should ever have meant more\n     you will allow to be impossible, when you understand\n     that my affections have been long engaged elsewhere,\n     and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before\n     this engagement is fulfilled.  It is with great\n     regret that I obey your commands in returning the\n     letters with which I have been honoured from you,\n     and the lock of hair, which you so obligingly bestowed\n     on me.\n\n     \"I am, dear Madam,\n               \"Your most obedient\n                    \"humble servant,\n                                        \"JOHN WILLOUGHBY.\"\n\n\nWith what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss\nDashwood, may be imagined.  Though aware, before she began it, that it\nmust bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their\nseparation for ever, she was not aware that such language could be\nsuffered to announce it; nor could she have supposed Willoughby capable\nof departing so far from the appearance of every honourable and\ndelicate feeling--so far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as to\nsend a letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of bringing\nwith his desire of a release any professions of regret, acknowledged no\nbreach of faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever--a letter of\nwhich every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be\ndeep in hardened villainy.\n\nShe paused over it for some time with indignant astonishment; then read\nit again and again; but every perusal only served to increase her\nabhorrence of the man, and so bitter were her feelings against him,\nthat she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might wound\nMarianne still deeper by treating their disengagement, not as a loss to\nher of any possible good but as an escape from the worst and most\nirremediable of all evils, a connection, for life, with an unprincipled\nman, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the most important.\n\nIn her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the\ndepravity of that mind which could dictate it, and probably, on the\nvery different mind of a very different person, who had no other\nconnection whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him with\nevery thing that passed, Elinor forgot the immediate distress of her\nsister, forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and so\nentirely forgot how long she had been in the room, that when on hearing\na carriage drive up to the door, she went to the window to see who\ncould be coming so unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to\nperceive Mrs. Jennings's chariot, which she knew had not been ordered\ntill one.  Determined not to quit Marianne, though hopeless of\ncontributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away to excuse\nherself from attending Mrs. Jennings, on account of her sister being\nindisposed.  Mrs. Jennings, with a thoroughly good-humoured concern for\nits cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and Elinor, after seeing\nher safe off, returned to Marianne, whom she found attempting to rise\nfrom the bed, and whom she reached just in time to prevent her from\nfalling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want of proper rest\nand food; for it was many days since she had any appetite, and many\nnights since she had really slept; and now, when her mind was no longer\nsupported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this was\nfelt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous\nfaintness.  A glass of wine, which Elinor procured for her directly,\nmade her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express some\nsense of her kindness, by saying,\n\n\"Poor Elinor! how unhappy I make you!\"\n\n\"I only wish,\" replied her sister, \"there were any thing I COULD do,\nwhich might be of comfort to you.\"\n\nThis, as every thing else would have been, was too much for Marianne,\nwho could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, \"Oh! Elinor, I am\nmiserable, indeed,\" before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.\n\nElinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in\nsilence.\n\n\"Exert yourself, dear Marianne,\" she cried, \"if you would not kill\nyourself and all who love you.  Think of your mother; think of her\nmisery while YOU suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself.\"\n\n\"I cannot, I cannot,\" cried Marianne; \"leave me, leave me, if I\ndistress you; leave me, hate me, forget me!  but do not torture me so.\nOh! how easy for those, who have no sorrow of their own to talk of\nexertion!  Happy, happy Elinor, YOU cannot have an idea of what I\nsuffer.\"\n\n\"Do you call ME happy, Marianne?  Ah! if you knew!--And can you believe\nme to be so, while I see you so wretched!\"\n\n\"Forgive me, forgive me,\" throwing her arms round her sister's neck; \"I\nknow you feel for me; I know what a heart you have; but yet you\nare--you must be happy; Edward loves you--what, oh what, can do away\nsuch happiness as that?\"\n\n\"Many, many circumstances,\" said Elinor, solemnly.\n\n\"No, no, no,\" cried Marianne wildly, \"he loves you, and only you.  You\nCAN have no grief.\"\n\n\"I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state.\"\n\n\"And you will never see me otherwise.  Mine is a misery which nothing\ncan do away.\"\n\n\"You must not talk so, Marianne.  Have you no comforts? no friends?  Is\nyour loss such as leaves no opening for consolation?  Much as you\nsuffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of\nhis character had been delayed to a later period--if your engagement\nhad been carried on for months and months, as it might have been,\nbefore he chose to put an end to it.  Every additional day of unhappy\nconfidence, on your side, would have made the blow more dreadful.\"\n\n\"Engagement!\" cried Marianne, \"there has been no engagement.\"\n\n\"No engagement!\"\n\n\"No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him.  He has broken no faith\nwith me.\"\n\n\"But he told you that he loved you.\"\n\n\"Yes--no--never absolutely.  It was every day implied, but never\nprofessedly declared.  Sometimes I thought it had been--but it never\nwas.\"\n\n\"Yet you wrote to him?\"--\n\n\"Yes--could that be wrong after all that had passed?-- But I cannot\ntalk.\"\n\nElinor said no more, and turning again to the three letters which now\nraised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over the\ncontents of all.  The first, which was what her sister had sent him on\ntheir arrival in town, was to this effect.\n\n                         Berkeley Street, January.\n\n     \"How surprised you will be, Willoughby, on\n     receiving this; and I think you will feel something\n     more than surprise, when you know that I am in town.\n     An opportunity of coming hither, though with Mrs.\n     Jennings, was a temptation we could not resist.\n     I wish you may receive this in time to come here\n     to-night, but I will not depend on it.  At any rate\n     I shall expect you to-morrow. For the present, adieu.\n\n                                             \"M.D.\"\n\nHer second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance\nat the Middletons', was in these words:--\n\n     \"I cannot express my disappointment in having\n     missed you the day before yesterday, nor my astonishment\n     at not having received any answer to a note which\n     I sent you above a week ago.  I have been expecting\n     to hear from you, and still more to see you, every\n     hour of the day.  Pray call again as soon as possible,\n     and explain the reason of my having expected this\n     in vain.  You had better come earlier another time,\n     because we are generally out by one.  We were last\n     night at Lady Middleton's, where there was a dance.\n     I have been told that you were asked to be of the\n     party.  But could it be so?  You must be very much\n     altered indeed since we parted, if that could be\n     the case, and you not there.  But I will not suppose\n     this possible, and I hope very soon to receive your\n     personal assurance of its being otherwise.\n\n                                            \"M.D.\"\n\nThe contents of her last note to him were these:--\n\n     \"What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by your\n     behaviour last night?  Again I demand an explanation\n     of it.  I was prepared to meet you with the pleasure\n     which our separation naturally produced, with the\n     familiarity which our intimacy at Barton appeared\n     to me to justify.  I was repulsed indeed! I have\n     passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse\n     a conduct which can scarcely be called less than\n     insulting; but though I have not yet been able to\n     form any reasonable apology for your behaviour,\n     I am perfectly ready to hear your justification of\n     it.  You have perhaps been misinformed, or purposely\n     deceived, in something concerning me, which may have\n     lowered me in your opinion.  Tell me what it is,\n     explain the grounds on which you acted, and I shall\n     be satisfied, in being able to satisfy you.  It\n     would grieve me indeed to be obliged to think ill\n     of you; but if I am to do it, if I am to learn that\n     you are not what we have hitherto believed you, that\n     your regard for us all was insincere, that your\n     behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let\n     it be told as soon as possible.  My feelings are at\n     present in a state of dreadful indecision; I wish\n     to acquit you, but certainty on either side will be\n     ease to what I now suffer.  If your sentiments are\n     no longer what they were, you will return my notes,\n     and the lock of my hair which is in your possession.\n\n                                             \"M.D.\"\n\nThat such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have been\nso answered, Elinor, for Willoughby's sake, would have been unwilling\nto believe.  But her condemnation of him did not blind her to the\nimpropriety of their having been written at all; and she was silently\ngrieving over the imprudence which had hazarded such unsolicited proofs\nof tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding, and most severely\ncondemned by the event, when Marianne, perceiving that she had finished\nthe letters, observed to her that they contained nothing but what any\none would have written in the same situation.\n\n\"I felt myself,\" she added, \"to be as solemnly engaged to him, as if\nthe strictest legal covenant had bound us to each other.\"\n\n\"I can believe it,\" said Elinor; \"but unfortunately he did not feel the\nsame.\"\n\n\"He DID feel the same, Elinor--for weeks and weeks he felt it.  I know\nhe did.  Whatever may have changed him now, (and nothing but the\nblackest art employed against me can have done it), I was once as dear\nto him as my own soul could wish.  This lock of hair, which now he can\nso readily give up, was begged of me with the most earnest\nsupplication.  Had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard his\nvoice at that moment!  Have you forgot the last evening of our being\ntogether at Barton?  The morning that we parted too!  When he told me\nthat it might be many weeks before we met again--his distress--can I\never forget his distress?\"\n\nFor a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion had\npassed away, she added, in a firmer tone,\n\n\"Elinor, I have been cruelly used; but not by Willoughby.\"\n\n\"Dearest Marianne, who but himself?  By whom can he have been\ninstigated?\"\n\n\"By all the world, rather than by his own heart.  I could rather\nbelieve every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me\nin his opinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty.  This\nwoman of whom he writes--whoever she be--or any one, in short, but your\nown dear self, mama, and Edward, may have been so barbarous to bely me.\nBeyond you three, is there a creature in the world whom I would not\nrather suspect of evil than Willoughby, whose heart I know so well?\"\n\nElinor would not contend, and only replied, \"Whoever may have been so\ndetestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph,\nmy dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own\ninnocence and good intentions supports your spirits.  It is a\nreasonable and laudable pride which resists such malevolence.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" cried Marianne, \"misery such as mine has no pride.  I care\nnot who knows that I am wretched.  The triumph of seeing me so may be\nopen to all the world.  Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer little may be\nproud and independent as they like--may resist insult, or return\nmortification--but I cannot.  I must feel--I must be wretched--and they\nare welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can.\"\n\n\"But for my mother's sake and mine--\"\n\n\"I would do more than for my own.  But to appear happy when I am so\nmiserable--Oh! who can require it?\"\n\nAgain they were both silent.  Elinor was employed in walking\nthoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire,\nwithout knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerning\nobjects through the other; and Marianne, seated at the foot of the bed,\nwith her head leaning against one of its posts, again took up\nWilloughby's letter, and, after shuddering over every sentence,\nexclaimed--\n\n\"It is too much! Oh, Willoughby, Willoughby, could this be yours!\nCruel, cruel--nothing can acquit you.  Elinor, nothing can.  Whatever\nhe might have heard against me--ought he not to have suspended his\nbelief? ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power\nof clearing myself? 'The lock of hair, (repeating it from the letter,)\nwhich you so obligingly bestowed on me'--That is unpardonable.\nWilloughby, where was your heart when you wrote those words?  Oh,\nbarbarously insolent!--Elinor, can he be justified?\"\n\n\"No, Marianne, in no possible way.\"\n\n\"And yet this woman--who knows what her art may have been?--how long it\nmay have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her!--Who is\nshe?--Who can she be?--Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young and\nattractive among his female acquaintance?--Oh! no one, no one--he\ntalked to me only of myself.\"\n\nAnother pause ensued; Marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended thus.\n\n\"Elinor, I must go home.  I must go and comfort mama.  Can not we be\ngone to-morrow?\"\n\n\"To-morrow, Marianne!\"\n\n\"Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby's sake--and\nnow who cares for me? Who regards me?\"\n\n\"It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings much more\nthan civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent such a\nhasty removal as that.\"\n\n\"Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannot stay here long, I\ncannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people.\nThe Middletons and Palmers--how am I to bear their pity?  The pity of\nsuch a woman as Lady Middleton!  Oh, what would HE say to that!\"\n\nElinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so; but\nno attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and body\nshe moved from one posture to another, till growing more and more\nhysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at\nall, and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for\nassistance.  Some lavender drops, however, which she was at length\npersuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till Mrs. Jennings\nreturned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 30\n\n\nMrs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and without\nwaiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the door and\nwalked in with a look of real concern.\n\n\"How do you do my dear?\"--said she in a voice of great compassion to\nMarianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer.\n\n\"How is she, Miss Dashwood?--Poor thing! she looks very bad.-- No\nwonder.  Ay, it is but too true.  He is to be married very soon--a\ngood-for-nothing fellow!  I have no patience with him.  Mrs. Taylor\ntold me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular\nfriend of Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed\nit; and I was almost ready to sink as it was.  Well, said I, all I can\nsay is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my\nacquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may\nplague his heart out.  And so I shall always say, my dear, you may\ndepend on it.  I have no notion of men's going on in this way; and if\never I meet him again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not\nhad this many a day.  But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne;\nhe is not the only young man in the world worth having; and with your\npretty face you will never want admirers.  Well, poor thing!  I won't\ndisturb her any longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and\nhave done with.  The Parrys and Sandersons luckily are coming tonight\nyou know, and that will amuse her.\"\n\nShe then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she\nsupposed her young friend's affliction could be increased by noise.\n\nMarianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with\nthem.  Elinor even advised her against it.  But \"no, she would go down;\nshe could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less.\"\nElinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive,\nthough believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner,\nsaid no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could,\nwhile Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into\nthe dining room as soon as they were summoned to it.\n\nWhen there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was calmer\nthan her sister had expected.  Had she tried to speak, or had she been\nconscious of half Mrs. Jennings's well-meant but ill-judged attentions\nto her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but not a\nsyllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts\npreserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before her.\n\nElinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings's kindness, though its\neffusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made\nher those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her\nsister could not make or return for herself.  Their good friend saw\nthat Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her\nwhich might make her at all less so.  She treated her therefore, with\nall the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the\nlast day of its holidays.  Marianne was to have the best place by the\nfire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to\nbe amused by the relation of all the news of the day.  Had not Elinor,\nin the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she\ncould have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings's endeavours to cure a\ndisappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a\ngood fire.  As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was\nforced by continual repetition on Marianne, she could stay no longer.\nWith a hasty exclamation of Misery, and a sign to her sister not to\nfollow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room.\n\n\"Poor soul!\" cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, \"how it\ngrieves me to see her!  And I declare if she is not gone away without\nfinishing her wine!  And the dried cherries too!  Lord! nothing seems\nto do her any good.  I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I\nwould send all over the town for it.  Well, it is the oddest thing to\nme, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill!  But when there is\nplenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord bless\nyou! they care no more about such things!--\"\n\n\"The lady then--Miss Grey I think you called her--is very rich?\"\n\n\"Fifty thousand pounds, my dear.  Did you ever see her? a smart,\nstylish girl they say, but not handsome.  I remember her aunt very\nwell, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man.  But the family\nare all rich together.  Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it\nwon't come before it's wanted; for they say he is all to pieces.  No\nwonder! dashing about with his curricle and hunters!  Well, it don't\nsignify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes\nlove to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly\noff from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is\nready to have him.  Why don't he, in such a case, sell his horses, let\nhis house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once? I\nwarrant you, Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till matters\ncame round.  But that won't do now-a-days; nothing in the way of\npleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age.\"\n\n\"Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is?  Is she said to be\namiable?\"\n\n\"I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her\nmentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day\nMiss Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would\nnot be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could\nnever agree.\"--\n\n\"And who are the Ellisons?\"\n\n\"Her guardians, my dear.  But now she is of age and may choose for\nherself; and a pretty choice she has made!--What now,\" after pausing a\nmoment--\"your poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan\nby herself.  Is there nothing one can get to comfort her?  Poor dear,\nit seems quite cruel to let her be alone.  Well, by-and-by we shall\nhave a few friends, and that will amuse her a little.  What shall we\nplay at?  She hates whist I know; but is there no round game she cares\nfor?\"\n\n\"Dear ma'am, this kindness is quite unnecessary.  Marianne, I dare say,\nwill not leave her room again this evening.  I shall persuade her if I\ncan to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest.\"\n\n\"Aye, I believe that will be best for her.  Let her name her own\nsupper, and go to bed.  Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and\nso cast down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been\nhanging over her head as long as that.  And so the letter that came\ntoday finished it!  Poor soul!  I am sure if I had had a notion of it,\nI would not have joked her about it for all my money.  But then you\nknow, how should I guess such a thing?  I made sure of its being\nnothing but a common love letter, and you know young people like to be\nlaughed at about them.  Lord!  how concerned Sir John and my daughters\nwill be when they hear it!  If I had my senses about me I might have\ncalled in Conduit Street in my way home, and told them of it.  But I\nshall see them tomorrow.\"\n\n\"It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer and\nSir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slightest\nallusion to what has passed, before my sister.  Their own good-nature\nmust point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing\nabout it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to\nmyself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my\ndear madam will easily believe.\"\n\n\"Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed.  It must be terrible for you to hear\nit talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a\nword about it to her for the world.  You saw I did not all dinner time.\nNo more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very\nthoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I\ncertainly will.  For my part, I think the less that is said about such\nthings, the better, the sooner 'tis blown over and forgot.  And what\ndoes talking ever do you know?\"\n\n\"In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases\nof a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for\nthe sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the\npublic conversation.  I must do THIS justice to Mr. Willoughby--he has\nbroken no positive engagement with my sister.\"\n\n\"Law, my dear!  Don't pretend to defend him.  No positive engagement\nindeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the\nvery rooms they were to live in hereafter!\"\n\nElinor, for her sister's sake, could not press the subject farther, and\nshe hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby's; since, though\nMarianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement\nof the real truth.  After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings,\nwith all her natural hilarity, burst forth again.\n\n\"Well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be\nall the better for Colonel Brandon.  He will have her at last; aye,\nthat he will.  Mind me, now, if they an't married by Mid-summer.  Lord!\nhow he'll chuckle over this news!  I hope he will come tonight.  It\nwill be all to one a better match for your sister.  Two thousand a year\nwithout debt or drawback--except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I\nhad forgot her; but she may be 'prenticed out at a small cost, and then\nwhat does it signify?  Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you;\nexactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and\nconveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered\nwith the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in\none corner!  Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were\nthere!  Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a\nvery pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for;\nand, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile\nfrom the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, for if you only go and sit\nup in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages\nthat pass along.  Oh! 'tis a nice place!  A butcher hard by in the\nvillage, and the parsonage-house within a stone's throw.  To my fancy,\na thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are forced to\nsend three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than\nyour mother.  Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon as I can.\nOne shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down.  If we CAN but\nput Willoughby out of her head!\"\n\n\"Ay, if we can do THAT, Ma'am,\" said Elinor, \"we shall do very well\nwith or without Colonel Brandon.\" And then rising, she went away to\njoin Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room,\nleaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which,\ntill Elinor's entrance, had been her only light.\n\n\"You had better leave me,\" was all the notice that her sister received\nfrom her.\n\n\"I will leave you,\" said Elinor, \"if you will go to bed.\" But this,\nfrom the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first\nrefused to do.  Her sister's earnest, though gentle persuasion,\nhowever, soon softened her to compliance, and Elinor saw her lay her\naching head on the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some quiet\nrest before she left her.\n\nIn the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined by\nMrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand.\n\n\"My dear,\" said she, entering, \"I have just recollected that I have\nsome of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that ever was\ntasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister.  My poor\nhusband! how fond he was of it!  Whenever he had a touch of his old\ncolicky gout, he said it did him more good than any thing else in the\nworld.  Do take it to your sister.\"\n\n\"Dear Ma'am,\" replied Elinor, smiling at the difference of the\ncomplaints for which it was recommended, \"how good you are!  But I have\njust left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I think\nnothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me\nleave, I will drink the wine myself.\"\n\nMrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes\nearlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and Elinor, as she\nswallowed the chief of it, reflected, that though its effects on a\ncolicky gout were, at present, of little importance to her, its healing\npowers, on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried on herself\nas on her sister.\n\nColonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner\nof looking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied that\nhe neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in short, that he\nwas already aware of what occasioned her absence.  Mrs. Jennings was\nnot struck by the same thought; for soon after his entrance, she walked\nacross the room to the tea-table where Elinor presided, and whispered--\n\"The Colonel looks as grave as ever you see.  He knows nothing of it;\ndo tell him, my dear.\"\n\nHe shortly afterwards drew a chair close to hers, and, with a look\nwhich perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after her\nsister.\n\n\"Marianne is not well,\" said she.  \"She has been indisposed all day,\nand we have persuaded her to go to bed.\"\n\n\"Perhaps, then,\" he hesitatingly replied, \"what I heard this morning\nmay be--there may be more truth in it than I could believe possible at\nfirst.\"\n\n\"What did you hear?\"\n\n\"That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think--in short, that a man,\nwhom I KNEW to be engaged--but how shall I tell you?  If you know it\nalready, as surely you must, I may be spared.\"\n\n\"You mean,\" answered Elinor, with forced calmness, \"Mr. Willoughby's\nmarriage with Miss Grey.  Yes, we DO know it all.  This seems to have\nbeen a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first unfolded\nit to us.  Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable!  Where did you hear it?\"\n\n\"In a stationer's shop in Pall Mall, where I had business.  Two ladies\nwere waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other\nan account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting\nconcealment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all.  The name\nof Willoughby, John Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my\nattention; and what followed was a positive assertion that every thing\nwas now finally settled respecting his marriage with Miss Grey--it was\nno longer to be a secret--it would take place even within a few weeks,\nwith many particulars of preparations and other matters.  One thing,\nespecially, I remember, because it served to identify the man still\nmore:--as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe\nMagna, his seat in Somersetshire.  My astonishment!--but it would be\nimpossible to describe what I felt.  The communicative lady I learnt,\non inquiry, for I stayed in the shop till they were gone, was a Mrs.\nEllison, and that, as I have been since informed, is the name of Miss\nGrey's guardian.\"\n\n\"It is.  But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty thousand\npounds?  In that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation.\"\n\n\"It may be so; but Willoughby is capable--at least I think\"--he stopped\na moment; then added in a voice which seemed to distrust itself, \"And\nyour sister--how did she--\"\n\n\"Her sufferings have been very severe.  I have only to hope that they\nmay be proportionately short.  It has been, it is a most cruel\naffliction.  Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard;\nand even now, perhaps--but I am almost convinced that he never was\nreally attached to her.  He has been very deceitful! and, in some\npoints, there seems a hardness of heart about him.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Colonel Brandon, \"there is, indeed!  But your sister does\nnot--I think you said so--she does not consider quite as you do?\"\n\n\"You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would still\njustify him if she could.\"\n\nHe made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the\ntea-things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was\nnecessarily dropped.  Mrs. Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure\nwhile they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of Miss\nDashwood's communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel\nBrandon's side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of\nhope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening\nmore serious and thoughtful than usual.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 31\n\n\nFrom a night of more sleep than she had expected, Marianne awoke the\nnext morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had\nclosed her eyes.\n\nElinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt; and\nbefore breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject again and\nagain; and with the same steady conviction and affectionate counsel on\nElinor's side, the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions on\nMarianne's, as before.  Sometimes she could believe Willoughby to be as\nunfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at others, lost every\nconsolation in the impossibility of acquitting him.  At one moment she\nwas absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the world, at\nanother she would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a third\ncould resist it with energy.  In one thing, however, she was uniform,\nwhen it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the\npresence of Mrs. Jennings, and in a determined silence when obliged to\nendure it.  Her heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs.\nJennings's entering into her sorrows with any compassion.\n\n\"No, no, no, it cannot be,\" she cried; \"she cannot feel.  Her kindness\nis not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness.  All that she wants\nis gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it.\"\n\nElinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which her\nsister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable\nrefinement of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her\non the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a polished\nmanner.  Like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be\nthat are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities and an\nexcellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid.  She expected\nfrom other people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she\njudged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on\nherself.  Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together\nin their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs.\nJennings still lower in her estimation; because, through her own\nweakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself, though\nMrs. Jennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost goodwill.\n\nWith a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling,\nfrom the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room, saying,\n\n\"Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do you good.\"\n\nMarianne heard enough.  In one moment her imagination placed before her\na letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition,\nexplanatory of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and\ninstantly followed by Willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room\nto inforce, at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances\nof his letter.  The work of one moment was destroyed by the next.  The\nhand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was before her;\nand, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such an\necstasy of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she had\nnever suffered.\n\nThe cruelty of Mrs. Jennings no language, within her reach in her\nmoments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could\nreproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with\npassionate violence--a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its\nobject, that after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still\nreferring her to the letter of comfort.  But the letter, when she was\ncalm enough to read it, brought little comfort.  Willoughby filled\nevery page.  Her mother, still confident of their engagement, and\nrelying as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by\nElinor's application, to intreat from Marianne greater openness towards\nthem both; and this, with such tenderness towards her, such affection\nfor Willoughby, and such a conviction of their future happiness in each\nother, that she wept with agony through the whole of it.\n\nAll her impatience to be at home again now returned; her mother was\ndearer to her than ever; dearer through the very excess of her mistaken\nconfidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be gone.\nElinor, unable herself to determine whether it were better for Marianne\nto be in London or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own except of\npatience till their mother's wishes could be known; and at length she\nobtained her sister's consent to wait for that knowledge.\n\nMrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could not be easy\ntill the Middletons and Palmers were able to grieve as much as herself;\nand positively refusing Elinor's offered attendance, went out alone for\nthe rest of the morning.  Elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the\npain she was going to communicate, and perceiving, by Marianne's\nletter, how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation for it, then\nsat down to write her mother an account of what had passed, and entreat\nher directions for the future; while Marianne, who came into the\ndrawing-room on Mrs. Jennings's going away, remained fixed at the table\nwhere Elinor wrote, watching the advancement of her pen, grieving over\nher for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still more fondly\nover its effect on her mother.\n\nIn this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when\nMarianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was\nstartled by a rap at the door.\n\n\"Who can this be?\" cried Elinor.  \"So early too! I thought we HAD been\nsafe.\"\n\nMarianne moved to the window--\n\n\"It is Colonel Brandon!\" said she, with vexation.  \"We are never safe\nfrom HIM.\"\n\n\"He will not come in, as Mrs. Jennings is from home.\"\n\n\"I will not trust to THAT,\" retreating to her own room.  \"A man who has\nnothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion on\nthat of others.\"\n\nThe event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on\ninjustice and error; for Colonel Brandon DID come in; and Elinor, who\nwas convinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither, and who\nsaw THAT solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his\nanxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive her sister\nfor esteeming him so lightly.\n\n\"I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street,\" said he, after the first\nsalutation, \"and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more\neasily encouraged, because I thought it probable that I might find you\nalone, which I was very desirous of doing.  My object--my wish--my sole\nwish in desiring it--I hope, I believe it is--is to be a means of\ngiving comfort;--no, I must not say comfort--not present comfort--but\nconviction, lasting conviction to your sister's mind.  My regard for\nher, for yourself, for your mother--will you allow me to prove it, by\nrelating some circumstances which nothing but a VERY sincere\nregard--nothing but an earnest desire of being useful--I think I am\njustified--though where so many hours have been spent in convincing\nmyself that I am right, is there not some reason to fear I may be\nwrong?\" He stopped.\n\n\"I understand you,\" said Elinor.  \"You have something to tell me of Mr.\nWilloughby, that will open his character farther.  Your telling it will\nbe the greatest act of friendship that can be shewn Marianne.  MY\ngratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to\nthat end, and HERS must be gained by it in time.  Pray, pray let me\nhear it.\"\n\n\"You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last October,--but\nthis will give you no idea--I must go farther back.  You will find me a\nvery awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to begin.  A\nshort account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it SHALL be\na short one.  On such a subject,\" sighing heavily, \"can I have little\ntemptation to be diffuse.\"\n\nHe stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went\non.\n\n\"You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation--(it is not to be\nsupposed that it could make any impression on you)--a conversation\nbetween us one evening at Barton Park--it was the evening of a\ndance--in which I alluded to a lady I had once known, as resembling, in\nsome measure, your sister Marianne.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" answered Elinor, \"I have NOT forgotten it.\" He looked pleased\nby this remembrance, and added,\n\n\"If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender\nrecollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well\nin mind as person.  The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of\nfancy and spirits.  This lady was one of my nearest relations, an\norphan from her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father.  Our\nages were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were\nplayfellows and friends.  I cannot remember the time when I did not\nlove Eliza; and my affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as\nperhaps, judging from my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you\nmight think me incapable of having ever felt.  Hers, for me, was, I\nbelieve, fervent as the attachment of your sister to Mr. Willoughby and\nit was, though from a different cause, no less unfortunate.  At\nseventeen she was lost to me for ever.  She was married--married\nagainst her inclination to my brother.  Her fortune was large, and our\nfamily estate much encumbered.  And this, I fear, is all that can be\nsaid for the conduct of one, who was at once her uncle and guardian.\nMy brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her.  I had hoped\nthat her regard for me would support her under any difficulty, and for\nsome time it did; but at last the misery of her situation, for she\nexperienced great unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and though\nshe had promised me that nothing--but how blindly I relate!  I have\nnever told you how this was brought on.  We were within a few hours of\neloping together for Scotland.  The treachery, or the folly, of my\ncousin's maid betrayed us.  I was banished to the house of a relation\nfar distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement,\ntill my father's point was gained.  I had depended on her fortitude too\nfar, and the blow was a severe one--but had her marriage been happy, so\nyoung as I then was, a few months must have reconciled me to it, or at\nleast I should not have now to lament it.  This however was not the\ncase.  My brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not what\nthey ought to have been, and from the first he treated her unkindly.\nThe consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so\ninexperienced as Mrs. Brandon's, was but too natural.  She resigned\nherself at first to all the misery of her situation; and happy had it\nbeen if she had not lived to overcome those regrets which the\nremembrance of me occasioned.  But can we wonder that, with such a\nhusband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to advise or\nrestrain her (for my father lived only a few months after their\nmarriage, and I was with my regiment in the East Indies) she should\nfall?  Had I remained in England, perhaps--but I meant to promote the\nhappiness of both by removing from her for years, and for that purpose\nhad procured my exchange.  The shock which her marriage had given me,\"\nhe continued, in a voice of great agitation, \"was of trifling\nweight--was nothing to what I felt when I heard, about two years\nafterwards, of her divorce.  It was THAT which threw this gloom,--even\nnow the recollection of what I suffered--\"\n\nHe could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes about\nthe room.  Elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by his\ndistress, could not speak.  He saw her concern, and coming to her, took\nher hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect.  A few\nminutes more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure.\n\n\"It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I returned\nto England.  My first care, when I DID arrive, was of course to seek\nfor her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy.  I could\nnot trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to\nfear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of\nsin.  Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor\nsufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from my\nbrother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months\nbefore to another person.  He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it,\nthat her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to\ndispose of it for some immediate relief.  At last, however, and after I\nhad been six months in England, I DID find her.  Regard for a former\nservant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me to\nvisit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and\nthere, in the same house, under a similar confinement, was my unfortunate\nsister.  So altered--so faded--worn down by acute suffering of every\nkind! hardly could I believe the melancholy and sickly figure before\nme, to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl, on whom\nI had once doted.  What I endured in so beholding her--but I have no\nright to wound your feelings by attempting to describe it--I have\npained you too much already.  That she was, to all appearance, in the\nlast stage of a consumption, was--yes, in such a situation it was my\ngreatest comfort.  Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time\nfor a better preparation for death; and that was given.  I saw her\nplaced in comfortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; I visited\nher every day during the rest of her short life: I was with her in her\nlast moments.\"\n\nAgain he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor spoke her feelings in\nan exclamation of tender concern, at the fate of his unfortunate friend.\n\n\"Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended,\" said he, \"by the resemblance\nI have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation.  Their\nfates, their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural sweet\ndisposition of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a happier\nmarriage, she might have been all that you will live to see the other\nbe.  But to what does all this lead?  I seem to have been distressing\nyou for nothing.  Ah! Miss Dashwood--a subject such as this--untouched\nfor fourteen years--it is dangerous to handle it at all!  I WILL be\nmore collected--more concise.  She left to my care her only child, a\nlittle girl, the offspring of her first guilty connection, who was then\nabout three years old.  She loved the child, and had always kept it\nwith her.  It was a valued, a precious trust to me; and gladly would I\nhave discharged it in the strictest sense, by watching over her\neducation myself, had the nature of our situations allowed it; but I\nhad no family, no home; and my little Eliza was therefore placed at\nschool.  I saw her there whenever I could, and after the death of my\nbrother, (which happened about five years ago, and which left to me the\npossession of the family property,) she visited me at Delaford.  I\ncalled her a distant relation; but I am well aware that I have in\ngeneral been suspected of a much nearer connection with her.  It is now\nthree years ago (she had just reached her fourteenth year,) that I\nremoved her from school, to place her under the care of a very\nrespectable woman, residing in Dorsetshire, who had the charge of four\nor five other girls of about the same time of life; and for two years I\nhad every reason to be pleased with her situation.  But last February,\nalmost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly disappeared.  I had allowed\nher, (imprudently, as it has since turned out,) at her earnest desire,\nto go to Bath with one of her young friends, who was attending her\nfather there for his health.  I knew him to be a very good sort of man,\nand I thought well of his daughter--better than she deserved, for, with\na most obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would\ngive no clue, though she certainly knew all.  He, her father, a\nwell-meaning, but not a quick-sighted man, could really, I believe,\ngive no information; for he had been generally confined to the house,\nwhile the girls were ranging over the town and making what acquaintance\nthey chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was\nconvinced himself, of his daughter's being entirely unconcerned in the\nbusiness.  In short, I could learn nothing but that she was gone; all\nthe rest, for eight long months, was left to conjecture.  What I\nthought, what I feared, may be imagined; and what I suffered too.\"\n\n\"Good heavens!\" cried Elinor, \"could it be--could Willoughby!\"--\n\n\"The first news that reached me of her,\" he continued, \"came in a\nletter from herself, last October.  It was forwarded to me from\nDelaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended party\nto Whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly,\nwhich I am sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body,\nand which I believe gave offence to some.  Little did Mr. Willoughby\nimagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in\nbreaking up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one whom\nhe had made poor and miserable; but HAD he known it, what would it have\navailed?  Would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of\nyour sister?  No, he had already done that, which no man who CAN feel\nfor another would do.  He had left the girl whose youth and innocence\nhe had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with no\ncreditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address!  He had\nleft her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor\nrelieved her.\"\n\n\"This is beyond every thing!\" exclaimed Elinor.\n\n\"His character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, and worse than\nboth.  Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess what\nI must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on\nbeing assured that she was to marry him: guess what I must have felt\nfor all your sakes.  When I came to you last week and found you alone,\nI came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to do when\nit WAS known.  My behaviour must have seemed strange to you then; but\nnow you will comprehend it.  To suffer you all to be so deceived; to\nsee your sister--but what could I do?  I had no hope of interfering\nwith success; and sometimes I thought your sister's influence might yet\nreclaim him.  But now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what\nwere his designs on her.  Whatever they may have been, however, she may\nnow, and hereafter doubtless WILL turn with gratitude towards her own\ncondition, when she compares it with that of my poor Eliza, when she\nconsiders the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and\npictures her to herself, with an affection for him so strong, still as\nstrong as her own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which\nmust attend her through life.  Surely this comparison must have its use\nwith her.  She will feel her own sufferings to be nothing.  They\nproceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace.  On the\ncontrary, every friend must be made still more her friend by them.\nConcern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it,\nmust strengthen every attachment.  Use your own discretion, however, in\ncommunicating to her what I have told you.  You must know best what\nwill be its effect; but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed\nit might be of service, might lessen her regrets, I would not have\nsuffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family\nafflictions, with a recital which may seem to have been intended to\nraise myself at the expense of others.\"\n\nElinor's thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness;\nattended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to\nMarianne, from the communication of what had passed.\n\n\"I have been more pained,\" said she, \"by her endeavors to acquit him\nthan by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most\nperfect conviction of his unworthiness can do.  Now, though at first\nshe will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier.  Have\nyou,\" she continued, after a short silence, \"ever seen Mr. Willoughby\nsince you left him at Barton?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he replied gravely, \"once I have.  One meeting was unavoidable.\"\n\nElinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying,\n\n\"What? have you met him to--\"\n\n\"I could meet him no other way.  Eliza had confessed to me, though most\nreluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which\nwas within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to\ndefend, I to punish his conduct.  We returned unwounded, and the\nmeeting, therefore, never got abroad.\"\n\nElinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a\nsoldier she presumed not to censure it.\n\n\"Such,\" said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, \"has been the unhappy\nresemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly\nhave I discharged my trust!\"\n\n\"Is she still in town?\"\n\n\"No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near\nher delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there\nshe remains.\"\n\nRecollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor\nfrom her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again\nthe same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion\nand esteem for him.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 32\n\n\nWhen the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss\nDashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was\nnot entirely such as the former had hoped to see.  Not that Marianne\nappeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to\nit all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither\nobjection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and\nseemed to shew by her tears that she felt it to be impossible.  But\nthough this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt\nWAS carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the\neffect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called,\nin her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of\ncompassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently\nirritated than before, she did not see her less wretched.  Her mind did\nbecome settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection.  She felt the\nloss of Willoughby's character yet more heavily than she had felt the\nloss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the\nmisery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might ONCE\nhave been on herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits, that\nshe could not bring herself to speak of what she felt even to Elinor;\nand, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her sister\nthan could have been communicated by the most open and most frequent\nconfession of them.\n\nTo give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and\nanswering Elinor's letter would be only to give a repetition of what\nher daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly\nless painful than Marianne's, and an indignation even greater than\nElinor's.  Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other,\narrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her\nanxious solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would bear up with\nfortitude under this misfortune.  Bad indeed must the nature of\nMarianne's affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude!\nmortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which\nSHE could wish her not to indulge!\n\nAgainst the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had\ndetermined that it would be better for Marianne to be any where, at\nthat time, than at Barton, where every thing within her view would be\nbringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by\nconstantly placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen\nhim there.  She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all\nmeans not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length of which,\nthough never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at\nleast five or six weeks.  A variety of occupations, of objects, and of\ncompany, which could not be procured at Barton, would be inevitable\nthere, and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at times, into some\ninterest beyond herself, and even into some amusement, much as the\nideas of both might now be spurned by her.\n\nFrom all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered her\nto be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his\nacquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her\nfriends.  Design could never bring them in each other's way: negligence\ncould never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in\nits favour in the crowd of London than even in the retirement of\nBarton, where it might force him before her while paying that visit at\nAllenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from foreseeing at first\nas a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain one.\n\nShe had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where\nthey were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his\nwife were to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged\nit right that they should sometimes see their brother.\n\nMarianne had promised to be guided by her mother's opinion, and she\nsubmitted to it therefore without opposition, though it proved\nperfectly different from what she wished and expected, though she felt\nit to be entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by\nrequiring her longer continuance in London it deprived her of the only\npossible alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal sympathy of her\nmother, and doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent\nher ever knowing a moment's rest.\n\nBut it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought evil\nto herself would bring good to her sister; and Elinor, on the other\nhand, suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid Edward\nentirely, comforted herself by thinking, that though their longer stay\nwould therefore militate against her own happiness, it would be better\nfor Marianne than an immediate return into Devonshire.\n\nHer carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing Willoughby's\nname mentioned, was not thrown away.  Marianne, though without knowing\nit herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor\nSir John, nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her.\nElinor wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards\nherself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day\nafter day to the indignation of them all.\n\nSir John, could not have thought it possible.  \"A man of whom he had\nalways had such reason to think well!  Such a good-natured fellow!  He\ndid not believe there was a bolder rider in England!  It was an\nunaccountable business.  He wished him at the devil with all his heart.\nHe would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for\nall the world!  No, not if it were to be by the side of Barton covert,\nand they were kept watching for two hours together.  Such a scoundrel\nof a fellow! such a deceitful dog!  It was only the last time they met\nthat he had offered him one of Folly's puppies! and this was the end of\nit!\"\n\nMrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry.  \"She was determined to\ndrop his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she\nhad never been acquainted with him at all.  She wished with all her\nheart Combe Magna was not so near Cleveland; but it did not signify,\nfor it was a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much\nthat she was resolved never to mention his name again, and she should\ntell everybody she saw, how good-for-nothing he was.\"\n\nThe rest of Mrs. Palmer's sympathy was shewn in procuring all the\nparticulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and communicating\nthem to Elinor.  She could soon tell at what coachmaker's the new\ncarriage was building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby's portrait was\ndrawn, and at what warehouse Miss Grey's clothes might be seen.\n\nThe calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was a\nhappy relief to Elinor's spirits, oppressed as they often were by the\nclamorous kindness of the others.  It was a great comfort to her to be\nsure of exciting no interest in ONE person at least among their circle\nof friends: a great comfort to know that there was ONE who would meet\nher without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for\nher sister's health.\n\nEvery qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the\nmoment, to more than its real value; and she was sometimes worried down\nby officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more indispensable to\ncomfort than good-nature.\n\nLady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day,\nor twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, \"It is very\nshocking, indeed!\" and by the means of this continual though gentle\nvent, was able not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from the first\nwithout the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them without\nrecollecting a word of the matter; and having thus supported the\ndignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was\nwrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend to the\ninterest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (though rather\nagainst the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs. Willoughby would at once\nbe a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her as soon\nas she married.\n\nColonel Brandon's delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome\nto Miss Dashwood.  He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate\ndiscussion of her sister's disappointment, by the friendly zeal with\nwhich he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with\nconfidence.  His chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing\npast sorrows and present humiliations, was given in the pitying eye\nwith which Marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of her\nvoice whenever (though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or\ncould oblige herself to speak to him.  THESE assured him that his\nexertion had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and\nTHESE gave Elinor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter; but\nMrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that the\nColonel continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither prevail\non him to make the offer himself, nor commission her to make it for\nhim, began, at the end of two days, to think that, instead of\nMidsummer, they would not be married till Michaelmas, and by the end of\na week that it would not be a match at all.  The good understanding\nbetween the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather to declare that the\nhonours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would all\nbe made over to HER; and Mrs. Jennings had, for some time ceased to\nthink at all of Mrs. Ferrars.\n\nEarly in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby's\nletter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he\nwas married.  She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to\nherself, as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she was\ndesirous that Marianne should not receive the first notice of it from\nthe public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every morning.\n\nShe received the news with resolute composure; made no observation on\nit, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would burst\nout, and for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly less\npitiable than when she first learnt to expect the event.\n\nThe Willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and Elinor now\nhoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to\nprevail on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow\nfirst fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before.\n\nAbout this time the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at their cousin's\nhouse in Bartlett's Buildings, Holburn, presented themselves again\nbefore their more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley Streets; and\nwere welcomed by them all with great cordiality.\n\nElinor only was sorry to see them.  Their presence always gave her\npain, and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the\noverpowering delight of Lucy in finding her STILL in town.\n\n\"I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here\nSTILL,\" said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word.  \"But\nI always thought I SHOULD.  I was almost sure you would not leave\nLondon yet awhile; though you TOLD me, you know, at Barton, that you\nshould not stay above a MONTH.  But I thought, at the time, that you\nwould most likely change your mind when it came to the point.  It would\nhave been such a great pity to have went away before your brother and\nsister came.  And now to be sure you will be in no hurry to be gone.  I\nam amazingly glad you did not keep to YOUR WORD.\"\n\nElinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her\nself-command to make it appear that she did NOT.\n\n\"Well, my dear,\" said Mrs. Jennings, \"and how did you travel?\"\n\n\"Not in the stage, I assure you,\" replied Miss Steele, with quick\nexultation; \"we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to\nattend us.  Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we'd join\nhim in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or\ntwelve shillings more than we did.\"\n\n\"Oh, oh!\" cried Mrs. Jennings; \"very pretty, indeed! and the Doctor is\na single man, I warrant you.\"\n\n\"There now,\" said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering, \"everybody laughs\nat me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why.  My cousins say they\nare sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare I never\nthink about him from one hour's end to another.  'Lord! here comes your\nbeau, Nancy,' my cousin said t'other day, when she saw him crossing the\nstreet to the house.  My beau, indeed! said I--I cannot think who you\nmean.  The Doctor is no beau of mine.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking--but it won't do--the Doctor is\nthe man, I see.\"\n\n\"No, indeed!\" replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, \"and I beg\nyou will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of.\"\n\nMrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she\ncertainly would NOT, and Miss Steele was made completely happy.\n\n\"I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss\nDashwood, when they come to town,\" said Lucy, returning, after a\ncessation of hostile hints, to the charge.\n\n\"No, I do not think we shall.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I dare say you will.\"\n\nElinor would not humour her by farther opposition.\n\n\"What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for\nso long a time together!\"\n\n\"Long a time, indeed!\" interposed Mrs. Jennings.  \"Why, their visit is\nbut just begun!\"\n\nLucy was silenced.\n\n\"I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood,\" said Miss\nSteele.  \"I am sorry she is not well--\" for Marianne had left the room\non their arrival.\n\n\"You are very good.  My sister will be equally sorry to miss the\npleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with\nnervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation.\"\n\n\"Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and\nme!--I think she might see US; and I am sure we would not speak a word.\"\n\nElinor, with great civility, declined the proposal.  Her sister was\nperhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore\nnot able to come to them.\n\n\"Oh, if that's all,\" cried Miss Steele, \"we can just as well go and see\nHER.\"\n\nElinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but she\nwas saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy's sharp reprimand, which\nnow, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness to the\nmanners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of the other.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 33\n\n\nAfter some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister's entreaties, and\nconsented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for half an\nhour. She expressly conditioned, however, for paying no visits, and\nwould do no more than accompany them to Gray's in Sackville Street,\nwhere Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few\nold-fashioned jewels of her mother.\n\nWhen they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there was\na lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call; and as\nshe had no business at Gray's, it was resolved, that while her young\nfriends transacted their's, she should pay her visit and return for\nthem.\n\nOn ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people before\nthem in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to tend to\ntheir orders; and they were obliged to wait.  All that could be done\nwas, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to promise the\nquickest succession; one gentleman only was standing there, and it is\nprobable that Elinor was not without hope of exciting his politeness to\na quicker despatch.  But the correctness of his eye, and the delicacy\nof his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness.  He was giving orders\nfor a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size, shape, and\nornaments were determined, all of which, after examining and debating\nfor a quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were\nfinally arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to\nbestow any other attention on the two ladies, than what was comprised\nin three or four very broad stares; a kind of notice which served to\nimprint on Elinor the remembrance of a person and face, of strong,\nnatural, sterling insignificance, though adorned in the first style of\nfashion.\n\nMarianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and\nresentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and on\nthe puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of\nthe different toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining\nunconscious of it all; for she was as well able to collect her thoughts\nwithin herself, and be as ignorant of what was passing around her, in\nMr. Gray's shop, as in her own bedroom.\n\nAt last the affair was decided.  The ivory, the gold, and the pearls,\nall received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the last\nday on which his existence could be continued without the possession of\nthe toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and\nbestowing another glance on the Miss Dashwoods, but such a one as\nseemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off with a\nhappy air of real conceit and affected indifference.\n\nElinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point\nof concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her side.\nShe turned her eyes towards his face, and found him with some surprise\nto be her brother.\n\nTheir affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a very\ncreditable appearance in Mr. Gray's shop.  John Dashwood was really far\nfrom being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave them\nsatisfaction; and his inquiries after their mother were respectful and\nattentive.\n\nElinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two days.\n\n\"I wished very much to call upon you yesterday,\" said he, \"but it was\nimpossible, for we were obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts at\nExeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs. Ferrars.\nHarry was vastly pleased.  THIS morning I had fully intended to call on\nyou, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always so\nmuch to do on first coming to town.  I am come here to bespeak Fanny a\nseal.  But tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in\nBerkeley Street, and be introduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings.  I\nunderstand she is a woman of very good fortune.  And the Middletons\ntoo, you must introduce me to THEM.  As my mother-in-law's relations, I\nshall be happy to show them every respect.  They are excellent\nneighbours to you in the country, I understand.\"\n\n\"Excellent indeed.  Their attention to our comfort, their friendliness\nin every particular, is more than I can express.\"\n\n\"I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed.\nBut so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they are\nrelated to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to\nmake your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected.  And so you\nare most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for\nnothing!  Edward brought us a most charming account of the place: the\nmost complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all\nseemed to enjoy it beyond any thing.  It was a great satisfaction to us\nto hear it, I assure you.\"\n\nElinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to\nbe spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs.\nJennings's servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for\nthem at the door.\n\nMr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs. Jennings\nat the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to\ncall on them the next day, took leave.\n\nHis visit was duly paid.  He came with a pretence at an apology from\ntheir sister-in-law, for not coming too; \"but she was so much engaged\nwith her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where.\"\nMrs. Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not stand\nupon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she\nshould certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and bring her\nsisters to see her.  His manners to THEM, though calm, were perfectly\nkind; to Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil; and on Colonel\nBrandon's coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity\nwhich seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be\nequally civil to HIM.\n\nAfter staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him\nto Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton.\nThe weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented.  As soon as\nthey were out of the house, his enquiries began.\n\n\"Who is Colonel Brandon?  Is he a man of fortune?\"\n\n\"Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire.\"\n\n\"I am glad of it.  He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think,\nElinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable\nestablishment in life.\"\n\n\"Me, brother! what do you mean?\"\n\n\"He likes you.  I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it.  What\nis the amount of his fortune?\"\n\n\"I believe about two thousand a year.\"\n\n\"Two thousand a-year;\" and then working himself up to a pitch of\nenthusiastic generosity, he added, \"Elinor, I wish with all my heart it\nwere TWICE as much, for your sake.\"\n\n\"Indeed I believe you,\" replied Elinor; \"but I am very sure that\nColonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying ME.\"\n\n\"You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken.  A very little\ntrouble on your side secures him.  Perhaps just at present he may be\nundecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his\nfriends may all advise him against it.  But some of those little\nattentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix\nhim, in spite of himself.  And there can be no reason why you should\nnot try for him.  It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on\nyour side--in short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is\nquite out of the question, the objections are insurmountable--you have\ntoo much sense not to see all that.  Colonel Brandon must be the man;\nand no civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with\nyou and your family.  It is a match that must give universal\nsatisfaction.  In short, it is a kind of thing that\"--lowering his\nvoice to an important whisper--\"will be exceedingly welcome to ALL\nPARTIES.\" Recollecting himself, however, he added, \"That is, I mean to\nsay--your friends are all truly anxious to see you well settled; Fanny\nparticularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, I assure\nyou.  And her mother too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured woman, I am\nsure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much the other day.\"\n\nElinor would not vouchsafe any answer.\n\n\"It would be something remarkable, now,\" he continued, \"something\ndroll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling at the\nsame time.  And yet it is not very unlikely.\"\n\n\"Is Mr. Edward Ferrars,\" said Elinor, with resolution, \"going to be\nmarried?\"\n\n\"It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation.\nHe has a most excellent mother.  Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost\nliberality, will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if\nthe match takes place.  The lady is the Hon. Miss Morton, only daughter\nof the late Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds.  A very desirable\nconnection on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking place in\ntime.  A thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away, to\nmake over for ever; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble spirit.  To give you\nanother instance of her liberality:--The other day, as soon as we came\nto town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us just now,\nshe put bank-notes into Fanny's hands to the amount of two hundred\npounds.  And extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a great\nexpense while we are here.\"\n\nHe paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to say,\n\n\"Your expenses both in town and country must certainly be considerable;\nbut your income is a large one.\"\n\n\"Not so large, I dare say, as many people suppose.  I do not mean to\ncomplain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope will\nin time be better.  The enclosure of Norland Common, now carrying on,\nis a most serious drain.  And then I have made a little purchase within\nthis half year; East Kingham Farm, you must remember the place, where\nold Gibson used to live.  The land was so very desirable for me in\nevery respect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that I felt it\nmy duty to buy it.  I could not have answered it to my conscience to\nlet it fall into any other hands.  A man must pay for his convenience;\nand it HAS cost me a vast deal of money.\"\n\n\"More than you think it really and intrinsically worth.\"\n\n\"Why, I hope not that.  I might have sold it again, the next day, for\nmore than I gave: but, with regard to the purchase-money, I might have\nbeen very unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were at that time so low,\nthat if I had not happened to have the necessary sum in my banker's\nhands, I must have sold out to very great loss.\"\n\nElinor could only smile.\n\n\"Other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first coming to\nNorland.  Our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the\nStanhill effects that remained at Norland (and very valuable they were)\nto your mother.  Far be it from me to repine at his doing so; he had an\nundoubted right to dispose of his own property as he chose, but, in\nconsequence of it, we have been obliged to make large purchases of\nlinen, china, &c. to supply the place of what was taken away.  You may\nguess, after all these expenses, how very far we must be from being\nrich, and how acceptable Mrs. Ferrars's kindness is.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Elinor; \"and assisted by her liberality, I hope you\nmay yet live to be in easy circumstances.\"\n\n\"Another year or two may do much towards it,\" he gravely replied; \"but\nhowever there is still a great deal to be done.  There is not a stone\nlaid of Fanny's green-house, and nothing but the plan of the\nflower-garden marked out.\"\n\n\"Where is the green-house to be?\"\n\n\"Upon the knoll behind the house.  The old walnut trees are all come\ndown to make room for it.  It will be a very fine object from many\nparts of the park, and the flower-garden will slope down just before\nit, and be exceedingly pretty.  We have cleared away all the old thorns\nthat grew in patches over the brow.\"\n\nElinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very\nthankful that Marianne was not present, to share the provocation.\n\nHaving now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away the\nnecessity of buying a pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters, in his\nnext visit at Gray's his thoughts took a cheerfuller turn, and he began\nto congratulate Elinor on having such a friend as Mrs. Jennings.\n\n\"She seems a most valuable woman indeed--Her house, her style of\nliving, all bespeak an exceeding good income; and it is an acquaintance\nthat has not only been of great use to you hitherto, but in the end may\nprove materially advantageous.--Her inviting you to town is certainly a\nvast thing in your favour; and indeed, it speaks altogether so great a\nregard for you, that in all probability when she dies you will not be\nforgotten.-- She must have a great deal to leave.\"\n\n\"Nothing at all, I should rather suppose; for she has only her\njointure, which will descend to her children.\"\n\n\"But it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income.  Few\npeople of common prudence will do THAT; and whatever she saves, she\nwill be able to dispose of.\"\n\n\"And do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to her\ndaughters, than to us?\"\n\n\"Her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore I\ncannot perceive the necessity of her remembering them farther.\nWhereas, in my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and\ntreating you in this kind of way, she has given you a sort of claim on\nher future consideration, which a conscientious woman would not\ndisregard.  Nothing can be kinder than her behaviour; and she can\nhardly do all this, without being aware of the expectation it raises.\"\n\n\"But she raises none in those most concerned.  Indeed, brother, your\nanxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far.\"\n\n\"Why, to be sure,\" said he, seeming to recollect himself, \"people have\nlittle, have very little in their power.  But, my dear Elinor, what is\nthe matter with Marianne?-- she looks very unwell, has lost her colour,\nand is grown quite thin.  Is she ill?\"\n\n\"She is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her for several\nweeks.\"\n\n\"I am sorry for that.  At her time of life, any thing of an illness\ndestroys the bloom for ever!  Hers has been a very short one!  She was\nas handsome a girl last September, as I ever saw; and as likely to\nattract the man.  There was something in her style of beauty, to please\nthem particularly.  I remember Fanny used to say that she would marry\nsooner and better than you did; not but what she is exceedingly fond of\nYOU, but so it happened to strike her.  She will be mistaken, however.\nI question whether Marianne NOW, will marry a man worth more than five\nor six hundred a-year, at the utmost, and I am very much deceived if\nYOU do not do better.  Dorsetshire!  I know very little of Dorsetshire;\nbut, my dear Elinor, I shall be exceedingly glad to know more of it;\nand I think I can answer for your having Fanny and myself among the\nearliest and best pleased of your visitors.\"\n\nElinor tried very seriously to convince him that there was no\nlikelihood of her marrying Colonel Brandon; but it was an expectation\nof too much pleasure to himself to be relinquished, and he was really\nresolved on seeking an intimacy with that gentleman, and promoting the\nmarriage by every possible attention.  He had just compunction enough\nfor having done nothing for his sisters himself, to be exceedingly\nanxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an offer from\nColonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means\nof atoning for his own neglect.\n\nThey were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton at home, and Sir John\ncame in before their visit ended.  Abundance of civilities passed on\nall sides.  Sir John was ready to like anybody, and though Mr. Dashwood\ndid not seem to know much about horses, he soon set him down as a very\ngood-natured fellow: while Lady Middleton saw enough of fashion in his\nappearance to think his acquaintance worth having; and Mr. Dashwood\nwent away delighted with both.\n\n\"I shall have a charming account to carry to Fanny,\" said he, as he\nwalked back with his sister.  \"Lady Middleton is really a most elegant\nwoman!  Such a woman as I am sure Fanny will be glad to know.  And Mrs.\nJennings too, an exceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so elegant\nas her daughter.  Your sister need not have any scruple even of\nvisiting HER, which, to say the truth, has been a little the case, and\nvery naturally; for we only knew that Mrs. Jennings was the widow of a\nman who had got all his money in a low way; and Fanny and Mrs. Ferrars\nwere both strongly prepossessed, that neither she nor her daughters\nwere such kind of women as Fanny would like to associate with.  But now\nI can carry her a most satisfactory account of both.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 34\n\n\nMrs. John Dashwood had so much confidence in her husband's judgment,\nthat she waited the very next day both on Mrs. Jennings and her\ndaughter; and her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former,\neven the woman with whom her sisters were staying, by no means unworthy\nher notice; and as for Lady Middleton, she found her one of the most\ncharming women in the world!\n\nLady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs. Dashwood.  There was a\nkind of cold hearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually\nattracted them; and they sympathised with each other in an insipid\npropriety of demeanor, and a general want of understanding.\n\nThe same manners, however, which recommended Mrs. John Dashwood to the\ngood opinion of Lady Middleton did not suit the fancy of Mrs. Jennings,\nand to HER she appeared nothing more than a little proud-looking woman\nof uncordial address, who met her husband's sisters without any\naffection, and almost without having anything to say to them; for of\nthe quarter of an hour bestowed on Berkeley Street, she sat at least\nseven minutes and a half in silence.\n\nElinor wanted very much to know, though she did not chuse to ask,\nwhether Edward was then in town; but nothing would have induced Fanny\nvoluntarily to mention his name before her, till able to tell her that\nhis marriage with Miss Morton was resolved on, or till her husband's\nexpectations on Colonel Brandon were answered; because she believed\nthem still so very much attached to each other, that they could not be\ntoo sedulously divided in word and deed on every occasion.  The\nintelligence however, which SHE would not give, soon flowed from\nanother quarter.  Lucy came very shortly to claim Elinor's compassion\non being unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in town with Mr.\nand Mrs. Dashwood.  He dared not come to Bartlett's Buildings for fear\nof detection, and though their mutual impatience to meet, was not to be\ntold, they could do nothing at present but write.\n\nEdward assured them himself of his being in town, within a very short\ntime, by twice calling in Berkeley Street.  Twice was his card found on\nthe table, when they returned from their morning's engagements.  Elinor\nwas pleased that he had called; and still more pleased that she had\nmissed him.\n\nThe Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the Middletons, that,\nthough not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined to\ngive them--a dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began, invited\nthem to dine in Harley Street, where they had taken a very good house\nfor three months.  Their sisters and Mrs. Jennings were invited\nlikewise, and John Dashwood was careful to secure Colonel Brandon, who,\nalways glad to be where the Miss Dashwoods were, received his eager\ncivilities with some surprise, but much more pleasure.  They were to\nmeet Mrs. Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn whether her sons were to\nbe of the party.  The expectation of seeing HER, however, was enough to\nmake her interested in the engagement; for though she could now meet\nEdward's mother without that strong anxiety which had once promised to\nattend such an introduction, though she could now see her with perfect\nindifference as to her opinion of herself, her desire of being in\ncompany with Mrs. Ferrars, her curiosity to know what she was like, was\nas lively as ever.\n\nThe interest with which she thus anticipated the party, was soon\nafterwards increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing\nthat the Miss Steeles were also to be at it.\n\nSo well had they recommended themselves to Lady Middleton, so agreeable\nhad their assiduities made them to her, that though Lucy was certainly\nnot so elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as ready as\nSir John to ask them to spend a week or two in Conduit Street; and it\nhappened to be particularly convenient to the Miss Steeles, as soon as\nthe Dashwoods' invitation was known, that their visit should begin a\nfew days before the party took place.\n\nTheir claims to the notice of Mrs. John Dashwood, as the nieces of the\ngentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother, might not\nhave done much, however, towards procuring them seats at her table; but\nas Lady Middleton's guests they must be welcome; and Lucy, who had long\nwanted to be personally known to the family, to have a nearer view of\ntheir characters and her own difficulties, and to have an opportunity\nof endeavouring to please them, had seldom been happier in her life,\nthan she was on receiving Mrs. John Dashwood's card.\n\nOn Elinor its effect was very different.  She began immediately to\ndetermine, that Edward who lived with his mother, must be asked as his\nmother was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for the\nfirst time, after all that passed, in the company of Lucy!--she hardly\nknew how she could bear it!\n\nThese apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, and\ncertainly not at all on truth.  They were relieved however, not by her\nown recollection, but by the good will of Lucy, who believed herself to\nbe inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that Edward\ncertainly would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped to\nbe carrying the pain still farther by persuading her that he was kept\naway by the extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal\nwhen they were together.\n\nThe important Tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies\nto this formidable mother-in-law.\n\n\"Pity me, dear Miss Dashwood!\" said Lucy, as they walked up the stairs\ntogether--for the Middletons arrived so directly after Mrs. Jennings,\nthat they all followed the servant at the same time--\"There is nobody\nhere but you, that can feel for me.--I declare I can hardly stand.\nGood gracious!--In a moment I shall see the person that all my\nhappiness depends on--that is to be my mother!\"--\n\nElinor could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the\npossibility of its being Miss Morton's mother, rather than her own,\nwhom they were about to behold; but instead of doing that, she assured\nher, and with great sincerity, that she did pity her--to the utter\namazement of Lucy, who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at\nleast to be an object of irrepressible envy to Elinor.\n\nMrs. Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality, in\nher figure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect.  Her\ncomplexion was sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and\nnaturally without expression; but a lucky contraction of the brow had\nrescued her countenance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it\nthe strong characters of pride and ill nature.  She was not a woman of\nmany words; for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to the\nnumber of her ideas; and of the few syllables that did escape her, not\none fell to the share of Miss Dashwood, whom she eyed with the spirited\ndetermination of disliking her at all events.\n\nElinor could not NOW be made unhappy by this behaviour.-- A few months\nago it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs. Ferrars'\npower to distress her by it now;--and the difference of her manners to\nthe Miss Steeles, a difference which seemed purposely made to humble\nher more, only amused her.  She could not but smile to see the\ngraciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very person-- for\nLucy was particularly distinguished--whom of all others, had they known\nas much as she did, they would have been most anxious to mortify; while\nshe herself, who had comparatively no power to wound them, sat\npointedly slighted by both.  But while she smiled at a graciousness so\nmisapplied, she could not reflect on the mean-spirited folly from which\nit sprung, nor observe the studied attentions with which the Miss\nSteeles courted its continuance, without thoroughly despising them all\nfour.\n\nLucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and Miss\nSteele wanted only to be teazed about Dr. Davies to be perfectly happy.\n\nThe dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every thing\nbespoke the Mistress's inclination for show, and the Master's ability\nto support it.  In spite of the improvements and additions which were\nmaking to the Norland estate, and in spite of its owner having once\nbeen within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell out at a\nloss, nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which he had tried to\ninfer from it;--no poverty of any kind, except of conversation,\nappeared--but there, the deficiency was considerable.  John Dashwood\nhad not much to say for himself that was worth hearing, and his wife\nhad still less.  But there was no peculiar disgrace in this; for it was\nvery much the case with the chief of their visitors, who almost all\nlaboured under one or other of these disqualifications for being\nagreeable--Want of sense, either natural or improved--want of\nelegance--want of spirits--or want of temper.\n\nWhen the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this poverty\nwas particularly evident, for the gentlemen HAD supplied the discourse\nwith some variety--the variety of politics, inclosing land, and\nbreaking horses--but then it was all over; and one subject only engaged\nthe ladies till coffee came in, which was the comparative heights of\nHarry Dashwood, and Lady Middleton's second son William, who were\nnearly of the same age.\n\nHad both the children been there, the affair might have been determined\ntoo easily by measuring them at once; but as Harry only was present, it\nwas all conjectural assertion on both sides; and every body had a right\nto be equally positive in their opinion, and to repeat it over and over\nagain as often as they liked.\n\nThe parties stood thus:\n\nThe two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the\ntallest, politely decided in favour of the other.\n\nThe two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity,\nwere equally earnest in support of their own descendant.\n\nLucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other,\nthought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could not\nconceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world\nbetween them; and Miss Steele, with yet greater address gave it, as\nfast as she could, in favour of each.\n\nElinor, having once delivered her opinion on William's side, by which\nshe offended Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny still more, did not see the\nnecessity of enforcing it by any farther assertion; and Marianne, when\ncalled on for hers, offended them all, by declaring that she had no\nopinion to give, as she had never thought about it.\n\nBefore her removing from Norland, Elinor had painted a very pretty pair\nof screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted and\nbrought home, ornamented her present drawing room; and these screens,\ncatching the eye of John Dashwood on his following the other gentlemen\ninto the room, were officiously handed by him to Colonel Brandon for\nhis admiration.\n\n\"These are done by my eldest sister,\" said he; \"and you, as a man of\ntaste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them.  I do not know whether\nyou have ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she\nis in general reckoned to draw extremely well.\"\n\nThe Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship,\nwarmly admired the screens, as he would have done any thing painted by\nMiss Dashwood; and on the curiosity of the others being of course\nexcited, they were handed round for general inspection.  Mrs. Ferrars,\nnot aware of their being Elinor's work, particularly requested to look\nat them; and after they had received gratifying testimony of Lady\nMiddletons's approbation, Fanny presented them to her mother,\nconsiderately informing her, at the same time, that they were done by\nMiss Dashwood.\n\n\"Hum\"--said Mrs. Ferrars--\"very pretty,\"--and without regarding them at\nall, returned them to her daughter.\n\nPerhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude\nenough,--for, colouring a little, she immediately said,\n\n\"They are very pretty, ma'am--an't they?\" But then again, the dread of\nhaving been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over her,\nfor she presently added,\n\n\"Do you not think they are something in Miss Morton's style of\npainting, Ma'am?--She DOES paint most delightfully!--How beautifully\nher last landscape is done!\"\n\n\"Beautifully indeed!  But SHE does every thing well.\"\n\nMarianne could not bear this.--She was already greatly displeased with\nMrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor's\nexpense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by\nit, provoked her immediately to say with warmth,\n\n\"This is admiration of a very particular kind!--what is Miss Morton to\nus?--who knows, or who cares, for her?--it is Elinor of whom WE think\nand speak.\"\n\nAnd so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law's hands,\nto admire them herself as they ought to be admired.\n\nMrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more\nstiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, \"Miss\nMorton is Lord Morton's daughter.\"\n\nFanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at his\nsister's audacity.  Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne's warmth than\nshe had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon's eyes, as they\nwere fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was amiable\nin it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister\nslighted in the smallest point.\n\nMarianne's feelings did not stop here.  The cold insolence of Mrs.\nFerrars's general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretell\nsuch difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart\ntaught her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of\naffectionate sensibility, she moved after a moment, to her sister's\nchair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to hers,\nsaid in a low, but eager, voice,\n\n\"Dear, dear Elinor, don't mind them.  Don't let them make YOU unhappy.\"\n\nShe could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her\nface on Elinor's shoulder, she burst into tears.  Every body's\nattention was called, and almost every body was concerned.--Colonel\nBrandon rose up and went to them without knowing what he did.--Mrs.\nJennings, with a very intelligent \"Ah! poor dear,\" immediately gave her\nher salts; and Sir John felt so desperately enraged against the author\nof this nervous distress, that he instantly changed his seat to one\nclose by Lucy Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of\nthe whole shocking affair.\n\nIn a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to put an end\nto the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits retained\nthe impression of what had passed, the whole evening.\n\n\"Poor Marianne!\" said her brother to Colonel Brandon, in a low voice,\nas soon as he could secure his attention,-- \"She has not such good\nhealth as her sister,--she is very nervous,--she has not Elinor's\nconstitution;--and one must allow that there is something very trying\nto a young woman who HAS BEEN a beauty in the loss of her personal\nattractions.  You would not think it perhaps, but Marianne WAS\nremarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as Elinor.--\nNow you see it is all gone.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 35\n\n\nElinor's curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars was satisfied.-- She had found\nin her every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between\nthe families undesirable.-- She had seen enough of her pride, her\nmeanness, and her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend\nall the difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and\nretarded the marriage, of Edward and herself, had he been otherwise\nfree;--and she had seen almost enough to be thankful for her OWN sake,\nthat one greater obstacle preserved her from suffering under any other\nof Mrs. Ferrars's creation, preserved her from all dependence upon her\ncaprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion.  Or at least, if she\ndid not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward's being fettered to\nLucy, she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, she OUGHT to\nhave rejoiced.\n\nShe wondered that Lucy's spirits could be so very much elevated by the\ncivility of Mrs. Ferrars;--that her interest and her vanity should so\nvery much blind her as to make the attention which seemed only paid her\nbecause she was NOT ELINOR, appear a compliment to herself--or to allow\nher to derive encouragement from a preference only given her, because\nher real situation was unknown.  But that it was so, had not only been\ndeclared by Lucy's eyes at the time, but was declared over again the\nnext morning more openly, for at her particular desire, Lady Middleton\nset her down in Berkeley Street on the chance of seeing Elinor alone,\nto tell her how happy she was.\n\nThe chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon\nafter she arrived, carried Mrs. Jennings away.\n\n\"My dear friend,\" cried Lucy, as soon as they were by themselves, \"I\ncome to talk to you of my happiness.  Could anything be so flattering\nas Mrs. Ferrars's way of treating me yesterday?  So exceeding affable\nas she was!--You know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her;--but\nthe very moment I was introduced, there was such an affability in her\nbehaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to\nme.  Now was not it so?-- You saw it all; and was not you quite struck\nwith it?\"\n\n\"She was certainly very civil to you.\"\n\n\"Civil!--Did you see nothing but only civility?-- I saw a vast deal\nmore.  Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me!--No pride,\nno hauteur, and your sister just the same--all sweetness and\naffability!\"\n\nElinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her to\nown that she had reason for her happiness; and Elinor was obliged to go\non.--\n\n\"Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement,\" said she, \"nothing\ncould be more flattering than their treatment of you;--but as that was\nnot the case\"--\n\n\"I guessed you would say so,\"--replied Lucy quickly--\"but there was no\nreason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she did\nnot, and her liking me is every thing.  You shan't talk me out of my\nsatisfaction.  I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no\ndifficulties at all, to what I used to think.  Mrs. Ferrars is a\ncharming woman, and so is your sister.  They are both delightful women,\nindeed!--I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs.\nDashwood was!\"\n\nTo this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.\n\n\"Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?--you seem low--you don't speak;--sure you\nan't well.\"\n\n\"I never was in better health.\"\n\n\"I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it.  I\nshould be sorry to have YOU ill; you, that have been the greatest\ncomfort to me in the world!--Heaven knows what I should have done\nwithout your friendship.\"--\n\nElinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success.\nBut it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied,\n\n\"Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to\nEdward's love, it is the greatest comfort I have.--Poor Edward!--But\nnow there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty\noften, for Lady Middleton's delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall\nbe a good deal in Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half his\ntime with his sister--besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will\nvisit now;--and Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so good to say\nmore than once, they should always be glad to see me.-- They are such\ncharming women!--I am sure if ever you tell your sister what I think of\nher, you cannot speak too high.\"\n\nBut Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she SHOULD\ntell her sister.  Lucy continued.\n\n\"I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took\na dislike to me.  If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for\ninstance, without saying a word, and never after had took any notice of\nme, and never looked at me in a pleasant way--you know what I mean--if\nI had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should have gave\nit all up in despair.  I could not have stood it.  For where she DOES\ndislike, I know it is most violent.\"\n\nElinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by\nthe door's being thrown open, the servant's announcing Mr. Ferrars, and\nEdward's immediately walking in.\n\nIt was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each shewed that\nit was so.  They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to\nhave as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to\nadvance farther into it.  The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest\nform, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen\non them.--They were not only all three together, but were together\nwithout the relief of any other person.  The ladies recovered\nthemselves first.  It was not Lucy's business to put herself forward,\nand the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up.  She could\ntherefore only LOOK her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him,\nsaid no more.\n\nBut Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and her\nown, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment's\nrecollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost\neasy, and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still\nimproved them.  She would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the\nconsciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from\nsaying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much\nregretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley Street.\nShe would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as\na friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of\nLucy, though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her.\n\nHer manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage enough\nto sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in\na proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might\nmake it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy's, nor\ncould his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor's.\n\nLucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no\ncontribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word;\nand almost every thing that WAS said, proceeded from Elinor, who was\nobliged to volunteer all the information about her mother's health,\ntheir coming to town, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about,\nbut never did.\n\nHer exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself\nso heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching\nMarianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and\nTHAT in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on\nthe landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she went\nto her sister.  When that was once done, however, it was time for the\nraptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne's joy hurried her into the\ndrawing-room immediately.  Her pleasure in seeing him was like every\nother of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken.  She met\nhim with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the\naffection of a sister.\n\n\"Dear Edward!\" she cried, \"this is a moment of great happiness!--This\nwould almost make amends for every thing?\"\n\nEdward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such\nwitnesses he dared not say half what he really felt.  Again they all\nsat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was\nlooking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and\nsometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other\nshould be checked by Lucy's unwelcome presence.  Edward was the first\nto speak, and it was to notice Marianne's altered looks, and express\nhis fear of her not finding London agree with her.\n\n\"Oh, don't think of me!\" she replied with spirited earnestness, though\nher eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, \"don't think of MY\nhealth.  Elinor is well, you see.  That must be enough for us both.\"\n\nThis remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor\nto conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no\nvery benignant expression.\n\n\"Do you like London?\" said Edward, willing to say any thing that might\nintroduce another subject.\n\n\"Not at all.  I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none.\nThe sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and\nthank Heaven! you are what you always were!\"\n\nShe paused--no one spoke.\n\n\"I think, Elinor,\" she presently added, \"we must employ Edward to take\ncare of us in our return to Barton.  In a week or two, I suppose, we\nshall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to\naccept the charge.\"\n\nPoor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even\nhimself.  But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace\nit to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and\nsoon talked of something else.\n\n\"We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday!  So dull, so\nwretchedly dull!--But I have much to say to you on that head, which\ncannot be said now.\"\n\nAnd with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her\nfinding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her\nbeing particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in\nprivate.\n\n\"But why were you not there, Edward?--Why did you not come?\"\n\n\"I was engaged elsewhere.\"\n\n\"Engaged!  But what was that, when such friends were to be met?\"\n\n\"Perhaps, Miss Marianne,\" cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on\nher, \"you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no\nmind to keep them, little as well as great.\"\n\nElinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the\nsting; for she calmly replied,\n\n\"Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that\nconscience only kept Edward from Harley Street.  And I really believe\nhe HAS the most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous\nin performing every engagement, however minute, and however it may make\nagainst his interest or pleasure.  He is the most fearful of giving\npain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish,\nof any body I ever saw.  Edward, it is so, and I will say it.  What!\nare you never to hear yourself praised!--Then you must be no friend of\nmine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem, must submit to\nmy open commendation.\"\n\nThe nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened\nto be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her\nauditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon\ngot up to go away.\n\n\"Going so soon!\" said Marianne; \"my dear Edward, this must not be.\"\n\nAnd drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy\ncould not stay much longer.  But even this encouragement failed, for he\nwould go; and Lucy, who would have outstaid him, had his visit lasted\ntwo hours, soon afterwards went away.\n\n\"What can bring her here so often?\" said Marianne, on her leaving them.\n\"Could not she see that we wanted her gone!--how teazing to Edward!\"\n\n\"Why so?--we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest known\nto him of any.  It is but natural that he should like to see her as\nwell as ourselves.\"\n\nMarianne looked at her steadily, and said, \"You know, Elinor, that this\nis a kind of talking which I cannot bear.  If you only hope to have\nyour assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you\nought to recollect that I am the last person in the world to do it.  I\ncannot descend to be tricked out of assurances, that are not really\nwanted.\"\n\nShe then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more,\nfor bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give\nno information that would convince Marianne; and painful as the\nconsequences of her still continuing in an error might be, she was\nobliged to submit to it.  All that she could hope, was that Edward\nwould not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing\nMarianne's mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of\nthe pain that had attended their recent meeting--and this she had every\nreason to expect.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 36\n\n\nWithin a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to the\nworld, that the lady of Thomas Palmer, Esq. was safely delivered of a\nson and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least\nto all those intimate connections who knew it before.\n\nThis event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings's happiness, produced a\ntemporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a\nlike degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to\nbe as much as possible with Charlotte, she went thither every morning as\nsoon as she was dressed, and did not return till late in the evening;\nand the Miss Dashwoods, at the particular request of the Middletons,\nspent the whole of every day in Conduit Street. For their own comfort\nthey would much rather have remained, at least all the morning, in Mrs.\nJennings's house; but it was not a thing to be urged against the wishes\nof everybody. Their hours were therefore made over to Lady Middleton and\nthe two Miss Steeles, by whom their company, in fact was as little\nvalued, as it was professedly sought.\n\nThey had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former; and\nby the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on\nTHEIR ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to monopolize.\nThough nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton's behaviour to\nElinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at all.  Because they\nneither flattered herself nor her children, she could not believe them\ngood-natured; and because they were fond of reading, she fancied them\nsatirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was to be satirical;\nbut THAT did not signify.  It was censure in common use, and easily\ngiven.\n\nTheir presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy.  It checked the\nidleness of one, and the business of the other.  Lady Middleton was\nashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was\nproud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they would\ndespise her for offering.  Miss Steele was the least discomposed of the\nthree, by their presence; and it was in their power to reconcile her to\nit entirely.  Would either of them only have given her a full and\nminute account of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr. Willoughby,\nshe would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of the\nbest place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned.\nBut this conciliation was not granted; for though she often threw out\nexpressions of pity for her sister to Elinor, and more than once dropt\na reflection on the inconstancy of beaux before Marianne, no effect was\nproduced, but a look of indifference from the former, or of disgust in\nthe latter.  An effort even yet lighter might have made her their\nfriend.  Would they only have laughed at her about the Doctor!  But so\nlittle were they, anymore than the others, inclined to oblige her, that\nif Sir John dined from home, she might spend a whole day without\nhearing any other raillery on the subject, than what she was kind\nenough to bestow on herself.\n\nAll these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally\nunsuspected by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing\nfor the girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young\nfriends every night, on having escaped the company of a stupid old\nwoman so long.  She joined them sometimes at Sir John's, sometimes at\nher own house; but wherever it was, she always came in excellent\nspirits, full of delight and importance, attributing Charlotte's well\ndoing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail\nof her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough to desire.\nOne thing DID disturb her; and of that she made her daily complaint.\nMr. Palmer maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among his sex,\nof all infants being alike; and though she could plainly perceive, at\ndifferent times, the most striking resemblance between this baby and\nevery one of his relations on both sides, there was no convincing his\nfather of it; no persuading him to believe that it was not exactly like\nevery other baby of the same age; nor could he even be brought to\nacknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child in the\nworld.\n\nI come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time\nbefell Mrs. John Dashwood.  It so happened that while her two sisters\nwith Mrs. Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another\nof her acquaintance had dropt in--a circumstance in itself not\napparently likely to produce evil to her.  But while the imaginations\nof other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our\nconduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's happiness\nmust in some measure be always at the mercy of chance.  In the present\ninstance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun\ntruth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Miss\nDashwoods, and understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood's sisters, she\nimmediately concluded them to be staying in Harley Street; and this\nmisconstruction produced within a day or two afterwards, cards of\ninvitation for them as well as for their brother and sister, to a small\nmusical party at her house.  The consequence of which was, that Mrs.\nJohn Dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly great\ninconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Dashwoods, but, what\nwas still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing\nto treat them with attention: and who could tell that they might not\nexpect to go out with her a second time?  The power of disappointing\nthem, it was true, must always be hers.  But that was not enough; for\nwhen people are determined on a mode of conduct which they know to be\nwrong, they feel injured by the expectation of any thing better from\nthem.\n\nMarianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit of\ngoing out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to\nher, whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and mechanically\nfor every evening's engagement, though without expecting the smallest\namusement from any, and very often without knowing, till the last\nmoment, where it was to take her.\n\nTo her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent, as\nnot to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her\ntoilet, which it received from Miss Steele in the first five minutes of\ntheir being together, when it was finished.  Nothing escaped HER minute\nobservation and general curiosity; she saw every thing, and asked every\nthing; was never easy till she knew the price of every part of\nMarianne's dress; could have guessed the number of her gowns altogether\nwith better judgment than Marianne herself, and was not without hopes\nof finding out before they parted, how much her washing cost per week,\nand how much she had every year to spend upon herself.  The\nimpertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally\nconcluded with a compliment, which though meant as its douceur, was\nconsidered by Marianne as the greatest impertinence of all; for after\nundergoing an examination into the value and make of her gown, the\ncolour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she was almost\nsure of being told that upon \"her word she looked vastly smart, and she\ndared to say she would make a great many conquests.\"\n\nWith such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present\noccasion, to her brother's carriage; which they were ready to enter\nfive minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very\nagreeable to their sister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house of\nher acquaintance, and was there hoping for some delay on their part\nthat might inconvenience either herself or her coachman.\n\nThe events of this evening were not very remarkable.  The party, like\nother musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real\ntaste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all;\nand the performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation,\nand that of their immediate friends, the first private performers in\nEngland.\n\nAs Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no\nscruple of turning her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it\nsuited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and\nvioloncello, would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the\nroom.  In one of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of\nyoung men, the very he, who had given them a lecture on toothpick-cases\nat Gray's.  She perceived him soon afterwards looking at herself, and\nspeaking familiarly to her brother; and had just determined to find out\nhis name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and Mr.\nDashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert Ferrars.\n\nHe addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow\nwhich assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was\nexactly the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by Lucy.  Happy\nhad it been for her, if her regard for Edward had depended less on his\nown merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations!  For then his\nbrother's bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the\nill-humour of his mother and sister would have begun.  But while she\nwondered at the difference of the two young men, she did not find that\nthe emptiness of conceit of the one, put her out of all charity with\nthe modesty and worth of the other.  Why they WERE different, Robert\nexclaimed to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour's\nconversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme\nGAUCHERIE which he really believed kept him from mixing in proper\nsociety, he candidly and generously attributed it much less to any\nnatural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education;\nwhile he himself, though probably without any particular, any material\nsuperiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school,\nwas as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man.\n\n\"Upon my soul,\" he added, \"I believe it is nothing more; and so I often\ntell my mother, when she is grieving about it.  'My dear Madam,' I\nalways say to her, 'you must make yourself easy.  The evil is now\nirremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing.  Why would you\nbe persuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to\nplace Edward under private tuition, at the most critical time of his\nlife?  If you had only sent him to Westminster as well as myself,\ninstead of sending him to Mr. Pratt's, all this would have been\nprevented.' This is the way in which I always consider the matter, and\nmy mother is perfectly convinced of her error.\"\n\nElinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her\ngeneral estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not\nthink of Edward's abode in Mr. Pratt's family, with any satisfaction.\n\n\"You reside in Devonshire, I think,\"--was his next observation, \"in a\ncottage near Dawlish.\"\n\nElinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather\nsurprising to him that anybody could live in Devonshire, without living\nnear Dawlish.  He bestowed his hearty approbation however on their\nspecies of house.\n\n\"For my own part,\" said he, \"I am excessively fond of a cottage; there\nis always so much comfort, so much elegance about them.  And I protest,\nif I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and build one\nmyself, within a short distance of London, where I might drive myself\ndown at any time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy.  I\nadvise every body who is going to build, to build a cottage.  My friend\nLord Courtland came to me the other day on purpose to ask my advice,\nand laid before me three different plans of Bonomi's.  I was to decide\non the best of them.  'My dear Courtland,' said I, immediately throwing\nthem all into the fire, 'do not adopt either of them, but by all means\nbuild a cottage.' And that I fancy, will be the end of it.\n\n\"Some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space in a\ncottage; but this is all a mistake.  I was last month at my friend\nElliott's, near Dartford.  Lady Elliott wished to give a dance.  'But\nhow can it be done?' said she; 'my dear Ferrars, do tell me how it is\nto be managed.  There is not a room in this cottage that will hold ten\ncouple, and where can the supper be?' I immediately saw that there\ncould be no difficulty in it, so I said, 'My dear Lady Elliott, do not\nbe uneasy.  The dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease;\ncard-tables may be placed in the drawing-room; the library may be open\nfor tea and other refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the\nsaloon.'  Lady Elliott was delighted with the thought.  We measured the\ndining-room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen couple, and the\naffair was arranged precisely after my plan.  So that, in fact, you\nsee, if people do but know how to set about it, every comfort may be as\nwell enjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious dwelling.\"\n\nElinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the\ncompliment of rational opposition.\n\nAs John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister,\nhis mind was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a thought\nstruck him during the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for\nher approbation, when they got home.  The consideration of Mrs.\nDennison's mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had\nsuggested the propriety of their being really invited to become such,\nwhile Mrs. Jennings's engagements kept her from home.  The expense would\nbe nothing, the inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an\nattention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be\nrequisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his\nfather.  Fanny was startled at the proposal.\n\n\"I do not see how it can be done,\" said she, \"without affronting Lady\nMiddleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise I should be\nexceedingly glad to do it.  You know I am always ready to pay them any\nattention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shews.  But\nthey are Lady Middleton's visitors.  How can I ask them away from her?\"\n\nHer husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her\nobjection.  \"They had already spent a week in this manner in Conduit\nStreet, and Lady Middleton could not be displeased at their giving the\nsame number of days to such near relations.\"\n\nFanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said,\n\n\"My love I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power.\nBut I had just settled within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend a\nfew days with us.  They are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and\nI think the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well\nby Edward.  We can ask your sisters some other year, you know; but the\nMiss Steeles may not be in town any more.  I am sure you will like\nthem; indeed, you DO like them, you know, very much already, and so\ndoes my mother; and they are such favourites with Harry!\"\n\nMr. Dashwood was convinced.  He saw the necessity of inviting the Miss\nSteeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution\nof inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly\nsuspecting that another year would make the invitation needless, by\nbringing Elinor to town as Colonel Brandon's wife, and Marianne as\nTHEIR visitor.\n\nFanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had\nprocured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company and\nher sister's, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady\nMiddleton could spare them.  This was enough to make Lucy really and\nreasonably happy.  Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her,\nherself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views!  Such\nan opportunity of being with Edward and his family was, above all\nthings, the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the\nmost gratifying to her feelings!  It was an advantage that could not be\ntoo gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the\nvisit to Lady Middleton, which had not before had any precise limits,\nwas instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days'\ntime.\n\nWhen the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within ten minutes after\nits arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the\nexpectations of Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed\non so short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will\ntowards her arose from something more than merely malice against\nherself; and might be brought, by time and address, to do every thing\nthat Lucy wished.  Her flattery had already subdued the pride of Lady\nMiddleton, and made an entry into the close heart of Mrs. John\nDashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of\ngreater.\n\nThe Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor\nof their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event.\nSir John, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts\nof the favour they were in, as must be universally striking.  Mrs.\nDashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in her\nlife, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book made\nby some emigrant; called Lucy by her Christian name; and did not know\nwhether she should ever be able to part with them.\n\n\n\n\n\n[At this point in the first and second editions, Volume II ended.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 37\n\n\nMrs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother felt\nit no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and,\ncontenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from\nthat period to her own home, and her own habits, in which she found the\nMiss Dashwoods very ready to resume their former share.\n\nAbout the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in\nBerkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to\nMrs. Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by\nherself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to\nhear something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea,\nbegan directly to justify it, by saying,\n\n\"Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am.  What is it?\"\n\n\"Something so strange!  But you shall hear it all.-- When I got to Mr.\nPalmer's, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child.  She was\nsure it was very ill--it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples.\nSo I looked at it directly, and, 'Lord! my dear,' says I, 'it is\nnothing in the world, but the red gum--' and nurse said just the same.\nBut Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for;\nand luckily he happened to just come in from Harley Street, so he\nstepped over directly, and as soon as ever Mama, he said\njust as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and\nthen Charlotte was easy.  And so, just as he was going away again, it\ncame into my head, I am sure I do not know how I happened to think of\nit, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any news.  So upon\nthat, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know\nsomething or other, and at last he said in a whisper, 'For fear any\nunpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to\ntheir sister's indisposition, I think it advisable to say, that I\nbelieve there is no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will\ndo very well.'\"\n\n\"What! is Fanny ill?\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I said, my dear.  'Lord!' says I, 'is Mrs.\nDashwood ill?' So then it all came out; and the long and the short of\nthe matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this.  Mr. Edward Ferrars,\nthe very young man I used to joke with you about (but however, as it\nturns out, I am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), Mr.\nEdward Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to my\ncousin Lucy!--There's for you, my dear!--And not a creature knowing a\nsyllable of the matter, except Nancy!--Could you have believed such a\nthing possible?-- There is no great wonder in their liking one another;\nbut that matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody\nsuspect it!--THAT is strange!--I never happened to see them together,\nor I am sure I should have found it out directly.  Well, and so this\nwas kept a great secret, for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, and neither she nor\nyour brother or sister suspected a word of the matter;--till this very\nmorning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, but no\nconjurer, popt it all out.  'Lord!' thinks she to herself, 'they are\nall so fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about it;'\nand so, away she went to your sister, who was sitting all alone at her\ncarpet-work, little suspecting what was to come--for she had just been\nsaying to your brother, only five minutes before, that she thought to\nmake a match between Edward and some Lord's daughter or other, I forget\nwho.  So you may think what a blow it was to all her vanity and pride.\nShe fell into violent hysterics immediately, with such screams as\nreached your brother's ears, as he was sitting in his own dressing-room\ndown stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his steward in the\ncountry.  So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place, for\nLucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming what was going on.\nPoor soul!  I pity HER.  And I must say, I think she was used very\nhardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and soon drove her into\na fainting fit.  Nancy, she fell upon her knees, and cried bitterly;\nand your brother, he walked about the room, and said he did not know\nwhat to do.  Mrs. Dashwood declared they should not stay a minute\nlonger in the house, and your brother was forced to go down upon HIS\nknees too, to persuade her to let them stay till they had packed up\ntheir clothes.  THEN she fell into hysterics again, and he was so\nfrightened that he would send for Mr. Donavan, and Mr. Donavan found\nthe house in all this uproar.  The carriage was at the door ready to\ntake my poor cousins away, and they were just stepping in as he came\noff; poor Lucy in such a condition, he says, she could hardly walk; and\nNancy, she was almost as bad.  I declare, I have no patience with your\nsister; and I hope, with all my heart, it will be a match in spite of\nher.  Lord! what a taking poor Mr. Edward will be in when he hears of\nit!  To have his love used so scornfully! for they say he is monstrous\nfond of her, as well he may.  I should not wonder, if he was to be in\nthe greatest passion!--and Mr. Donavan thinks just the same.  He and I\nhad a great deal of talk about it; and the best of all is, that he is\ngone back again to Harley Street, that he may be within call when Mrs.\nFerrars is told of it, for she was sent for as soon as ever my cousins\nleft the house, for your sister was sure SHE would be in hysterics too;\nand so she may, for what I care.  I have no pity for either of them.  I\nhave no notion of people's making such a to-do about money and\ngreatness.  There is no reason on earth why Mr. Edward and Lucy should\nnot marry; for I am sure Mrs. Ferrars may afford to do very well by her\nson, and though Lucy has next to nothing herself, she knows better than\nany body how to make the most of every thing; I dare say, if Mrs.\nFerrars would only allow him five hundred a-year, she would make as\ngood an appearance with it as any body else would with eight.  Lord!\nhow snug they might live in such another cottage as yours--or a little\nbigger--with two maids, and two men; and I believe I could help them to\na housemaid, for my Betty has a sister out of place, that would fit\nthem exactly.\"\n\nHere Mrs. Jennings ceased, and as Elinor had had time enough to collect\nher thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make such\nobservations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to produce.\nHappy to find that she was not suspected of any extraordinary interest\nin it; that Mrs. Jennings (as she had of late often hoped might be the\ncase) had ceased to imagine her at all attached to Edward; and happy\nabove all the rest, in the absence of Marianne, she felt very well able\nto speak of the affair without embarrassment, and to give her judgment,\nas she believed, with impartiality on the conduct of every one\nconcerned in it.\n\nShe could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event really\nwas; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its being\npossible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of Edward and\nLucy.  What Mrs. Ferrars would say and do, though there could not be a\ndoubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still more anxious to\nknow how Edward would conduct himself.  For HIM she felt much\ncompassion;--for Lucy very little--and it cost her some pains to\nprocure that little;--for the rest of the party none at all.\n\nAs Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor soon saw the\nnecessity of preparing Marianne for its discussion.  No time was to be\nlost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth,\nand in endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others,\nwithout betraying that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any\nresentment against Edward.\n\nElinor's office was a painful one.--She was going to remove what she\nreally believed to be her sister's chief consolation,--to give such\nparticulars of Edward as she feared would ruin him for ever in her good\nopinion,-and to make Marianne, by a resemblance in their situations,\nwhich to HER fancy would seem strong, feel all her own disappointment\nover again.  But unwelcome as such a task must be, it was necessary to\nbe done, and Elinor therefore hastened to perform it.\n\nShe was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to\nrepresent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the\nself-command she had practised since her first knowledge of Edward's\nengagement, might suggest a hint of what was practicable to Marianne.\nHer narration was clear and simple; and though it could not be given\nwithout emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agitation, nor\nimpetuous grief.--THAT belonged rather to the hearer, for Marianne\nlistened with horror, and cried excessively.  Elinor was to be the\ncomforter of others in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and\nall the comfort that could be given by assurances of her own composure\nof mind, and a very earnest vindication of Edward from every charge but\nof imprudence, was readily offered.\n\nBut Marianne for some time would give credit to neither.  Edward seemed\na second Willoughby; and acknowledging as Elinor did, that she HAD\nloved him most sincerely, could she feel less than herself!  As for\nLucy Steele, she considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely\nincapable of attaching a sensible man, that she could not be persuaded\nat first to believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former affection of\nEdward for her.  She would not even admit it to have been natural; and\nElinor left her to be convinced that it was so, by that which only\ncould convince her, a better knowledge of mankind.\n\nHer first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact\nof the engagement, and the length of time it had existed.--Marianne's\nfeelings had then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of\ndetail; and for some time all that could be done was to soothe her\ndistress, lessen her alarms, and combat her resentment.  The first\nquestion on her side, which led to farther particulars, was,--\n\n\"How long has this been known to you, Elinor? has he written to you?\"\n\n\"I have known it these four months.  When Lucy first came to Barton\nPark last November, she told me in confidence of her engagement.\"\n\nAt these words, Marianne's eyes expressed the astonishment which her\nlips could not utter.  After a pause of wonder, she exclaimed--\n\n\"Four months!--Have you known of this four months?\"\n\nElinor confirmed it.\n\n\"What!--while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your\nheart?--And I have reproached you for being happy!\"--\n\n\"It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the reverse!\"\n\n\"Four months!\"--cried Marianne again.--\"So calm!--so cheerful!--how\nhave you been supported?\"--\n\n\"By feeling that I was doing my duty.--My promise to Lucy, obliged me\nto be secret.  I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of\nthe truth; and I owed it to my family and friends, not to create in\nthem a solicitude about me, which it could not be in my power to\nsatisfy.\"\n\nMarianne seemed much struck.\n\n\"I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother,\" added\nElinor; \"and once or twice I have attempted it;--but without betraying\nmy trust, I never could have convinced you.\"\n\n\"Four months!--and yet you loved him!\"--\n\n\"Yes. But I did not love only him;--and while the comfort of others was\ndear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt.\nNow, I can think and speak of it with little emotion.  I would not have\nyou suffer on my account; for I assure you I no longer suffer\nmaterially myself.  I have many things to support me.  I am not\nconscious of having provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of my\nown, I have borne it as much as possible without spreading it farther.\nI acquit Edward of essential misconduct.  I wish him very happy; and I\nam so sure of his always doing his duty, that though now he may harbour\nsome regret, in the end he must become so.  Lucy does not want sense,\nand that is the foundation on which every thing good may be built.--And\nafter all, Marianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a\nsingle and constant attachment, and all that can be said of one's\nhappiness depending entirely on any particular person, it is not\nmeant--it is not fit--it is not possible that it should be so.-- Edward\nwill marry Lucy; he will marry a woman superior in person and\nunderstanding to half her sex; and time and habit will teach him to\nforget that he ever thought another superior to HER.\"--\n\n\"If such is your way of thinking,\" said Marianne, \"if the loss of what\nis most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your\nresolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be\nwondered at.--They are brought more within my comprehension.\"\n\n\"I understand you.--You do not suppose that I have ever felt much.--For\nfour months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind, without\nbeing at liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it\nwould make you and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to\nyou, yet unable to prepare you for it in the least.-- It was told\nme,--it was in a manner forced on me by the very person herself, whose\nprior engagement ruined all my prospects; and told me, as I thought,\nwith triumph.-- This person's suspicions, therefore, I have had to\noppose, by endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most\ndeeply interested;--and it has not been only once;--I have had her\nhopes and exultation to listen to again and again.-- I have known\nmyself to be divided from Edward for ever, without hearing one\ncircumstance that could make me less desire the connection.--Nothing\nhas proved him unworthy; nor has anything declared him indifferent to\nme.-- I have had to contend against the unkindness of his sister, and\nthe insolence of his mother; and have suffered the punishment of an\nattachment, without enjoying its advantages.-- And all this has been\ngoing on at a time, when, as you know too well, it has not been my only\nunhappiness.-- If you can think me capable of ever feeling--surely you\nmay suppose that I have suffered NOW.  The composure of mind with which\nI have brought myself at present to consider the matter, the\nconsolation that I have been willing to admit, have been the effect of\nconstant and painful exertion;--they did not spring up of\nthemselves;--they did not occur to relieve my spirits at first.-- No,\nMarianne.--THEN, if I had not been bound to silence, perhaps nothing\ncould have kept me entirely--not even what I owed to my dearest\nfriends--from openly shewing that I was VERY unhappy.\"--\n\nMarianne was quite subdued.--\n\n\"Oh! Elinor,\" she cried, \"you have made me hate myself for ever.--How\nbarbarous have I been to you!--you, who have been my only comfort, who\nhave borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only\nsuffering for me!--Is this my gratitude?--Is this the only return I can\nmake you?--Because your merit cries out upon myself, I have been trying\nto do it away.\"\n\nThe tenderest caresses followed this confession.  In such a frame of\nmind as she was now in, Elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from her\nwhatever promise she required; and at her request, Marianne engaged\nnever to speak of the affair to any one with the least appearance of\nbitterness;--to meet Lucy without betraying the smallest increase of\ndislike to her;--and even to see Edward himself, if chance should bring\nthem together, without any diminution of her usual cordiality.-- These\nwere great concessions;--but where Marianne felt that she had injured,\nno reparation could be too much for her to make.\n\nShe performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration.--She\nattended to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say upon the subject, with an\nunchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard\nthree times to say, \"Yes, ma'am.\"--She listened to her praise of Lucy\nwith only moving from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings\ntalked of Edward's affection, it cost her only a spasm in her\nthroat.--Such advances towards heroism in her sister, made Elinor feel\nequal to any thing herself.\n\nThe next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from their\nbrother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful\naffair, and bring them news of his wife.\n\n\"You have heard, I suppose,\" said he with great solemnity, as soon as\nhe was seated, \"of the very shocking discovery that took place under\nour roof yesterday.\"\n\nThey all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech.\n\n\"Your sister,\" he continued, \"has suffered dreadfully.  Mrs. Ferrars\ntoo--in short it has been a scene of such complicated distress--but I\nwill hope that the storm may be weathered without our being any of us\nquite overcome.  Poor Fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday.  But I\nwould not alarm you too much.  Donavan says there is nothing materially\nto be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her resolution\nequal to any thing.  She has borne it all, with the fortitude of an\nangel!  She says she never shall think well of anybody again; and one\ncannot wonder at it, after being so deceived!--meeting with such\ningratitude, where so much kindness had been shewn, so much confidence\nhad been placed!  It was quite out of the benevolence of her heart,\nthat she had asked these young women to her house; merely because she\nthought they deserved some attention, were harmless, well-behaved\ngirls, and would be pleasant companions; for otherwise we both wished\nvery much to have invited you and Marianne to be with us, while your\nkind friend there, was attending her daughter.  And now to be so\nrewarded!  'I wish, with all my heart,' says poor Fanny in her\naffectionate way, 'that we had asked your sisters instead of them.'\"\n\nHere he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on.\n\n\"What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered, when first Fanny broke it to her, is\nnot to be described.  While she with the truest affection had been\nplanning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that\nhe could be all the time secretly engaged to another person!--such a\nsuspicion could never have entered her head!  If she suspected ANY\nprepossession elsewhere, it could not be in THAT quarter.  'THERE, to\nbe sure,' said she, 'I might have thought myself safe.' She was quite\nin an agony.  We consulted together, however, as to what should be\ndone, and at last she determined to send for Edward.  He came.  But I\nam sorry to relate what ensued.  All that Mrs. Ferrars could say to\nmake him put an end to the engagement, assisted too as you may well\nsuppose by my arguments, and Fanny's entreaties, was of no avail.\nDuty, affection, every thing was disregarded.  I never thought Edward\nso stubborn, so unfeeling before.  His mother explained to him her\nliberal designs, in case of his marrying Miss Morton; told him she\nwould settle on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of land-tax,\nbrings in a good thousand a-year; offered even, when matters grew\ndesperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he\nstill persisted in this low connection, represented to him the certain\npenury that must attend the match.  His own two thousand pounds she\nprotested should be his all; she would never see him again; and so far\nwould she be from affording him the smallest assistance, that if he\nwere to enter into any profession with a view of better support, she\nwould do all in her power to prevent him advancing in it.\"\n\nHere Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands\ntogether, and cried, \"Gracious God!  can this be possible!\"\n\n\"Well may you wonder, Marianne,\" replied her brother, \"at the obstinacy\nwhich could resist such arguments as these.  Your exclamation is very\nnatural.\"\n\nMarianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and\nforbore.\n\n\"All this, however,\" he continued, \"was urged in vain.  Edward said\nvery little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner.\nNothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement.  He would\nstand to it, cost him what it might.\"\n\n\"Then,\" cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be\nsilent, \"he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr.\nDashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a\nrascal.  I have some little concern in the business, as well as\nyourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not a\nbetter kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good\nhusband.\"\n\nJohn Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not open\nto provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially\nanybody of good fortune.  He therefore replied, without any resentment,\n\n\"I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours,\nmadam.  Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman,\nbut in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible.\nAnd to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under her\nuncle's care, the son of a woman especially of such very large fortune\nas Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little extraordinary. In\nshort, I do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any person whom\nyou have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings.  We all wish her extremely happy;\nand Mrs. Ferrars's conduct throughout the whole, has been such as every\nconscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would adopt.  It has\nbeen dignified and liberal.  Edward has drawn his own lot, and I fear\nit will be a bad one.\"\n\nMarianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor's heart wrung\nfor the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother's threats, for a\nwoman who could not reward him.\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said Mrs. Jennings, \"and how did it end?\"\n\n\"I am sorry to say, ma'am, in a most unhappy rupture:-- Edward is\ndismissed for ever from his mother's notice.  He left her house\nyesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do\nnot know; for WE of course can make no inquiry.\"\n\n\"Poor young man!--and what is to become of him?\"\n\n\"What, indeed, ma'am!  It is a melancholy consideration.  Born to the\nprospect of such affluence!  I cannot conceive a situation more\ndeplorable.  The interest of two thousand pounds--how can a man live on\nit?--and when to that is added the recollection, that he might, but for\nhis own folly, within three months have been in the receipt of two\nthousand, five hundred a-year (for Miss Morton has thirty thousand\npounds,) I cannot picture to myself a more wretched condition.  We must\nall feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally out of our\npower to assist him.\"\n\n\"Poor young man!\" cried Mrs. Jennings, \"I am sure he should be very\nwelcome to bed and board at my house; and so I would tell him if I\ncould see him.  It is not fit that he should be living about at his own\ncharge now, at lodgings and taverns.\"\n\nElinor's heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward, though she\ncould not forbear smiling at the form of it.\n\n\"If he would only have done as well by himself,\" said John Dashwood,\n\"as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have been\nin his proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing.  But as it\nis, it must be out of anybody's power to assist him.  And there is one\nthing more preparing against him, which must be worse than all--his\nmother has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle\nTHAT estate upon Robert immediately, which might have been Edward's, on\nproper conditions.  I left her this morning with her lawyer, talking\nover the business.\"\n\n\"Well!\" said Mrs. Jennings, \"that is HER revenge.  Everybody has a way\nof their own.  But I don't think mine would be, to make one son\nindependent, because another had plagued me.\"\n\nMarianne got up and walked about the room.\n\n\"Can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man,\" continued John,\n\"than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which might\nhave been his own?  Poor Edward!  I feel for him sincerely.\"\n\nA few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded his\nvisit; and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really\nbelieved there was no material danger in Fanny's indisposition, and\nthat they need not therefore be very uneasy about it, he went away;\nleaving the three ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present\noccasion, as far at least as it regarded Mrs. Ferrars's conduct, the\nDashwoods', and Edward's.\n\nMarianne's indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room; and\nas her vehemence made reserve impossible in Elinor, and unnecessary in\nMrs. Jennings, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon the\nparty.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 38\n\n\nMrs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward's conduct, but only\nElinor and Marianne understood its true merit.  THEY only knew how\nlittle he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small was the\nconsolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could remain\nto him in the loss of friends and fortune.  Elinor gloried in his\nintegrity; and Marianne forgave all his offences in compassion for his\npunishment.  But though confidence between them was, by this public\ndiscovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a subject on which\neither of them were fond of dwelling when alone.  Elinor avoided it\nupon principle, as tending to fix still more upon her thoughts, by the\ntoo warm, too positive assurances of Marianne, that belief of Edward's\ncontinued affection for herself which she rather wished to do away; and\nMarianne's courage soon failed her, in trying to converse upon a topic\nwhich always left her more dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the\ncomparison it necessarily produced between Elinor's conduct and her own.\n\nShe felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sister had\nhoped, to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain of\ncontinual self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never\nexerted herself before; but it brought only the torture of penitence,\nwithout the hope of amendment.  Her mind was so much weakened that she\nstill fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only\ndispirited her more.\n\nNothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs\nin Harley Street, or Bartlett's Buildings.  But though so much of the\nmatter was known to them already, that Mrs. Jennings might have had\nenough to do in spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking after\nmore, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort and\ninquiry to her cousins as soon as she could; and nothing but the\nhindrance of more visitors than usual, had prevented her going to them\nwithin that time.\n\nThe third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so\nfine, so beautiful a Sunday as to draw many to Kensington Gardens,\nthough it was only the second week in March.  Mrs. Jennings and Elinor\nwere of the number; but Marianne, who knew that the Willoughbys were\nagain in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose rather\nto stay at home, than venture into so public a place.\n\nAn intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them soon after they\nentered the Gardens, and Elinor was not sorry that by her continuing\nwith them, and engaging all Mrs. Jennings's conversation, she was\nherself left to quiet reflection.  She saw nothing of the Willoughbys,\nnothing of Edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could by\nany chance whether grave or gay, be interesting to her.  But at last\nshe found herself with some surprise, accosted by Miss Steele, who,\nthough looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting\nthem, and on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of\nMrs. Jennings, left her own party for a short time, to join their's.\nMrs. Jennings immediately whispered to Elinor,\n\n\"Get it all out of her, my dear.  She will tell you any thing if you\nask.  You see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke.\"\n\nIt was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings's curiosity and Elinor's too,\nthat she would tell any thing WITHOUT being asked; for nothing would\notherwise have been learnt.\n\n\"I am so glad to meet you;\" said Miss Steele, taking her familiarly by\nthe arm--\"for I wanted to see you of all things in the world.\"  And\nthen lowering her voice, \"I suppose Mrs. Jennings has heard all about\nit.  Is she angry?\"\n\n\"Not at all, I believe, with you.\"\n\n\"That is a good thing.  And Lady Middleton, is SHE angry?\"\n\n\"I cannot suppose it possible that she should.\"\n\n\"I am monstrous glad of it.  Good gracious!  I have had such a time of\nit!  I never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life.  She vowed at first\nshe would never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me\nagain, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are\nas good friends as ever.  Look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put\nin the feather last night.  There now, YOU are going to laugh at me\ntoo.  But why should not I wear pink ribbons?  I do not care if it IS\nthe Doctor's favourite colour.  I am sure, for my part, I should never\nhave known he DID like it better than any other colour, if he had not\nhappened to say so.  My cousins have been so plaguing me!  I declare\nsometimes I do not know which way to look before them.\"\n\nShe had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to say,\nand therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to\nthe first.\n\n\"Well, but Miss Dashwood,\" speaking triumphantly, \"people may say what\nthey chuse about Mr. Ferrars's declaring he would not have Lucy, for it\nis no such thing I can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such\nill-natured reports to be spread abroad.  Whatever Lucy might think\nabout it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set\nit down for certain.\"\n\n\"I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assure you,\"\nsaid Elinor.\n\n\"Oh, did not you?  But it WAS said, I know, very well, and by more than\none; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses could\nexpect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with thirty\nthousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had nothing at\nall; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself.  And besides that, my cousin\nRichard said himself, that when it came to the point he was afraid Mr.\nFerrars would be off; and when Edward did not come near us for three\ndays, I could not tell what to think myself; and I believe in my heart\nLucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away from your brother's\nWednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all Thursday, Friday, and\nSaturday, and did not know what was become of him.  Once Lucy thought\nto write to him, but then her spirits rose against that.  However this\nmorning he came just as we came home from church; and then it all came\nout, how he had been sent for Wednesday to Harley Street, and been\ntalked to by his mother and all of them, and how he had declared before\nthem all that he loved nobody but Lucy, and nobody but Lucy would he\nhave.  And how he had been so worried by what passed, that as soon as\nhe had went away from his mother's house, he had got upon his horse,\nand rid into the country, some where or other; and how he had stayed\nabout at an inn all Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get the better\nof it.  And after thinking it all over and over again, he said, it\nseemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at all, it\nwould be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because it must\nbe for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no\nhope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he had some\nthoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live\nupon that?--He could not bear to think of her doing no better, and so\nhe begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the\nmatter directly, and leave him shift for himself.  I heard him say all\nthis as plain as could possibly be.  And it was entirely for HER sake,\nand upon HER account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon\nhis own.  I will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of being tired\nof her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or any thing like it.  But,\nto be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of talking; so she\ntold him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, you know,\nand all that--Oh, la! one can't repeat such kind of things you\nknow)--she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world\nto be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so\never he might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know,\nor something of the kind.  So then he was monstrous happy, and talked\non some time about what they should do, and they agreed he should take\norders directly, and they must wait to be married till he got a living.\nAnd just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin called from\nbelow to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would take\none of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room\nand interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but she did\nnot care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of\nsilk stockings and came off with the Richardsons.\"\n\n\"I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them,\" said Elinor;\n\"you were all in the same room together, were not you?\"\n\n\"No, indeed, not us.  La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love\nwhen any body else is by?  Oh, for shame!--To be sure you must know\nbetter than that.  (Laughing affectedly.)--No, no; they were shut up in\nthe drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the\ndoor.\"\n\n\"How!\" cried Elinor; \"have you been repeating to me what you only\nlearnt yourself by listening at the door?  I am sorry I did not know it\nbefore; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me\nparticulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known\nyourself.  How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?\"\n\n\"Oh, la! there is nothing in THAT.  I only stood at the door, and heard\nwhat I could.  And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by me;\nfor a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets\ntogether, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a\nchimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said.\"\n\nElinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be\nkept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind.\n\n\"Edward talks of going to Oxford soon,\" said she; \"but now he is\nlodging at No. --, Pall Mall.  What an ill-natured woman his mother is,\nan't she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I\nshan't say anything against them to YOU; and to be sure they did send\nus home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for.  And\nfor my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us\nfor the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however,\nnothing was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight.\nEdward have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there\nfor a time; and after THAT, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he\nwill be ordained.  I wonder what curacy he will get!--Good gracious!\n(giggling as she spoke) I'd lay my life I know what my cousins will\nsay, when they hear of it.  They will tell me I should write to the\nDoctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new living.  I know they will;\nbut I am sure I would not do such a thing for all the world.-- 'La!' I\nshall say directly, 'I wonder how you could think of such a thing?  I\nwrite to the Doctor, indeed!'\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Elinor, \"it is a comfort to be prepared against the worst.\nYou have got your answer ready.\"\n\nMiss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach of\nher own party made another more necessary.\n\n\"Oh, la! here come the Richardsons.  I had a vast deal more to say to\nyou, but I must not stay away from them not any longer.  I assure you\nthey are very genteel people.  He makes a monstrous deal of money, and\nthey keep their own coach.  I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings\nabout it myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear she is not\nin anger against us, and Lady Middleton the same; and if anything\nshould happen to take you and your sister away, and Mrs. Jennings\nshould want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and stay\nwith her for as long a time as she likes.  I suppose Lady Middleton\nwon't ask us any more this bout.  Good-by; I am sorry Miss Marianne was\nnot here.  Remember me kindly to her.  La! if you have not got your\nspotted muslin on!--I wonder you was not afraid of its being torn.\"\n\nSuch was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to pay\nher farewell compliments to Mrs. Jennings, before her company was\nclaimed by Mrs. Richardson; and Elinor was left in possession of\nknowledge which might feed her powers of reflection some time, though\nshe had learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen and\nforeplanned in her own mind.  Edward's marriage with Lucy was as firmly\ndetermined on, and the time of its taking place remained as absolutely\nuncertain, as she had concluded it would be;--every thing depended,\nexactly after her expectation, on his getting that preferment, of\nwhich, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance.\n\nAs soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings was eager for\ninformation; but as Elinor wished to spread as little as possible\nintelligence that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained, she\nconfined herself to the brief repetition of such simple particulars, as\nshe felt assured that Lucy, for the sake of her own consequence, would\nchoose to have known.  The continuance of their engagement, and the\nmeans that were able to be taken for promoting its end, was all her\ncommunication; and this produced from Mrs. Jennings the following\nnatural remark.\n\n\"Wait for his having a living!--ay, we all know how THAT will\nend:--they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it,\nwill set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest\nof his two thousand pounds, and what little matter Mr. Steele and Mr.\nPratt can give her.--Then they will have a child every year! and Lord\nhelp 'em! how poor they will be!--I must see what I can give them\ntowards furnishing their house.  Two maids and two men, indeed!--as I\ntalked of t'other day.--No, no, they must get a stout girl of all\nworks.-- Betty's sister would never do for them NOW.\"\n\nThe next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from\nLucy herself.  It was as follows:\n\n                    \"Bartlett's Building, March.\n\n     \"I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the\n     liberty I take of writing to her; but I know your\n     friendship for me will make you pleased to hear such\n     a good account of myself and my dear Edward, after\n     all the troubles we have went through lately,\n     therefore will make no more apologies, but proceed\n     to say that, thank God! though we have suffered\n     dreadfully, we are both quite well now, and as happy\n     as we must always be in one another's love.  We have\n     had great trials, and great persecutions, but\n     however, at the same time, gratefully acknowledge\n     many friends, yourself not the least among them,\n     whose great kindness I shall always thankfully\n     remember, as will Edward too, who I have told of\n     it.  I am sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise\n     dear Mrs. Jennings, I spent two happy hours with\n     him yesterday afternoon, he would not hear of our\n     parting, though earnestly did I, as I thought my\n     duty required, urge him to it for prudence sake,\n     and would have parted for ever on the spot, would\n     he consent to it; but he said it should never be,\n     he did not regard his mother's anger, while he could\n     have my affections; our prospects are not very\n     bright, to be sure, but we must wait, and hope for\n     the best; he will be ordained shortly; and should\n     it ever be in your power to recommend him to any\n     body that has a living to bestow, am very sure you\n     will not forget us, and dear Mrs. Jennings too,\n     trust she will speak a good word for us to Sir John,\n     or Mr. Palmer, or any friend that may be able to\n     assist us.--Poor Anne was much to blame for what\n     she did, but she did it for the best, so I say\n     nothing; hope Mrs. Jennings won't think it too much\n     trouble to give us a call, should she come this way\n     any morning, 'twould be a great kindness, and my\n     cousins would be proud to know her.--My paper reminds\n     me to conclude; and begging to be most gratefully\n     and respectfully remembered to her, and to Sir John,\n     and Lady Middleton, and the dear children, when you\n     chance to see them, and love to Miss Marianne,\n\n                                      \"I am, &c.\"\n\nAs soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded to\nbe its writer's real design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs.\nJennings, who read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and\npraise.\n\n\"Very well indeed!--how prettily she writes!--aye, that was quite\nproper to let him be off if he would.  That was just like Lucy.--Poor\nsoul! I wish I COULD get him a living, with all my heart.--She calls me\ndear Mrs. Jennings, you see.  She is a good-hearted girl as ever\nlived.--Very well upon my word.  That sentence is very prettily turned.\nYes, yes, I will go and see her, sure enough.  How attentive she is, to\nthink of every body!--Thank you, my dear, for shewing it me.  It is as\npretty a letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy's head and heart great\ncredit.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 39\n\n\nThe Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town,\nand Marianne's impatience to be gone increased every day.  She sighed\nfor the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that if\nany place could give her ease, Barton must do it.  Elinor was hardly\nless anxious than herself for their removal, and only so much less bent\non its being effected immediately, as that she was conscious of the\ndifficulties of so long a journey, which Marianne could not be brought\nto acknowledge.  She began, however, seriously to turn her thoughts\ntowards its accomplishment, and had already mentioned their wishes to\ntheir kind hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence of her\ngood-will, when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining them from\nhome yet a few weeks longer, appeared to Elinor altogether much more\neligible than any other. The Palmers were to remove to Cleveland about\nthe end of March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs. Jennings, with both\nher friends, received a very warm invitation from Charlotte to go with\nthem.  This would not, in itself, have been sufficient for the delicacy\nof Miss Dashwood;--but it was inforced with so much real politeness by\nMr. Palmer himself, as, joined to the very great amendment of his\nmanners towards them since her sister had been known to be unhappy,\ninduced her to accept it with pleasure.\n\nWhen she told Marianne what she had done, however, her first reply was\nnot very auspicious.\n\n\"Cleveland!\"--she cried, with great agitation.  \"No, I cannot go to\nCleveland.\"--\n\n\"You forget,\" said Elinor gently, \"that its situation is not...that it\nis not in the neighbourhood of...\"\n\n\"But it is in Somersetshire.--I cannot go into Somersetshire.--There,\nwhere I looked forward to going...No, Elinor, you cannot expect me to\ngo there.\"\n\nElinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such\nfeelings;--she only endeavoured to counteract them by working on\nothers;--represented it, therefore, as a measure which would fix the\ntime of her returning to that dear mother, whom she so much wished to\nsee, in a more eligible, more comfortable manner, than any other plan\ncould do, and perhaps without any greater delay.  From Cleveland, which\nwas within a few miles of Bristol, the distance to Barton was not\nbeyond one day, though a long day's journey; and their mother's servant\nmight easily come there to attend them down; and as there could be no\noccasion of their staying above a week at Cleveland, they might now be\nat home in little more than three weeks' time.  As Marianne's affection\nfor her mother was sincere, it must triumph with little difficulty,\nover the imaginary evils she had started.\n\nMrs. Jennings was so far from being weary of her guests, that she\npressed them very earnestly to return with her again from Cleveland.\nElinor was grateful for the attention, but it could not alter her\ndesign; and their mother's concurrence being readily gained, every\nthing relative to their return was arranged as far as it could be;--and\nMarianne found some relief in drawing up a statement of the hours that\nwere yet to divide her from Barton.\n\n\"Ah! Colonel, I do not know what you and I shall do without the Miss\nDashwoods;\"--was Mrs. Jennings's address to him when he first called on\nher, after their leaving her was settled--\"for they are quite resolved\nupon going home from the Palmers;--and how forlorn we shall be, when I\ncome back!--Lord! we shall sit and gape at one another as dull as two\ncats.\"\n\nPerhaps Mrs. Jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their\nfuture ennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give\nhimself an escape from it;--and if so, she had soon afterwards good\nreason to think her object gained; for, on Elinor's moving to the\nwindow to take more expeditiously the dimensions of a print, which she\nwas going to copy for her friend, he followed her to it with a look of\nparticular meaning, and conversed with her there for several minutes.\nThe effect of his discourse on the lady too, could not escape her\nobservation, for though she was too honorable to listen, and had even\nchanged her seat, on purpose that she might NOT hear, to one close by\nthe piano forte on which Marianne was playing, she could not keep\nherself from seeing that Elinor changed colour, attended with\nagitation, and was too intent on what he said to pursue her\nemployment.-- Still farther in confirmation of her hopes, in the\ninterval of Marianne's turning from one lesson to another, some words\nof the Colonel's inevitably reached her ear, in which he seemed to be\napologising for the badness of his house.  This set the matter beyond a\ndoubt.  She wondered, indeed, at his thinking it necessary to do so;\nbut supposed it to be the proper etiquette.  What Elinor said in reply\nshe could not distinguish, but judged from the motion of her lips, that\nshe did not think THAT any material objection;--and Mrs. Jennings\ncommended her in her heart for being so honest.  They then talked on\nfor a few minutes longer without her catching a syllable, when another\nlucky stop in Marianne's performance brought her these words in the\nColonel's calm voice,--\n\n\"I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.\"\n\nAstonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost\nready to cry out, \"Lord! what should hinder it?\"--but checking her\ndesire, confined herself to this silent ejaculation.\n\n\"This is very strange!--sure he need not wait to be older.\"\n\nThis delay on the Colonel's side, however, did not seem to offend or\nmortify his fair companion in the least, for on their breaking up the\nconference soon afterwards, and moving different ways, Mrs. Jennings\nvery plainly heard Elinor say, and with a voice which shewed her to\nfeel what she said,\n\n\"I shall always think myself very much obliged to you.\"\n\nMrs. Jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only wondered that\nafter hearing such a sentence, the Colonel should be able to take leave\nof them, as he immediately did, with the utmost sang-froid, and go away\nwithout making her any reply!--She had not thought her old friend could\nhave made so indifferent a suitor.\n\nWhat had really passed between them was to this effect.\n\n\"I have heard,\" said he, with great compassion, \"of the injustice your\nfriend Mr. Ferrars has suffered from his family; for if I understand\nthe matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them for persevering\nin his engagement with a very deserving young woman.-- Have I been\nrightly informed?--Is it so?--\"\n\nElinor told him that it was.\n\n\"The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,\"--he replied, with great\nfeeling,--\"of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people long\nattached to each other, is terrible.-- Mrs. Ferrars does not know what\nshe may be doing--what she may drive her son to.  I have seen Mr.\nFerrars two or three times in Harley Street, and am much pleased with\nhim.  He is not a young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted\nin a short time, but I have seen enough of him to wish him well for his\nown sake, and as a friend of yours, I wish it still more.  I understand\nthat he intends to take orders.  Will you be so good as to tell him\nthat the living of Delaford, now just vacant, as I am informed by this\nday's post, is his, if he think it worth his acceptance--but THAT,\nperhaps, so unfortunately circumstanced as he is now, it may be\nnonsense to appear to doubt; I only wish it were more  valuable.-- It\nis a rectory, but a small one; the late incumbent, I believe, did not\nmake more than 200 L per annum, and though it is certainly capable of\nimprovement, I fear, not to such an amount as to afford him a very\ncomfortable income.  Such as it is, however, my pleasure in presenting\nhim to it, will be very great.  Pray assure him of it.\"\n\nElinor's astonishment at this commission could hardly have been\ngreater, had the Colonel been really making her an offer of his hand.\nThe preferment, which only two days before she had considered as\nhopeless for Edward, was already provided to enable him to marry;--and\nSHE, of all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it!--Her\nemotion was such as Mrs. Jennings had attributed to a very different\ncause;--but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might\nhave a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence,\nand her gratitude for the particular friendship, which together\nprompted Colonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly\nexpressed.  She thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of\nEdward's principles and disposition with that praise which she knew\nthem to deserve; and promised to undertake the commission with\npleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an office\nto another.  But at the same time, she could not help thinking that no\none could so well perform it as himself.  It was an office in short,\nfrom which, unwilling to give Edward the pain of receiving an\nobligation from HER, she would have been very glad to be spared\nherself;-- but Colonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining\nit likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through her\nmeans, that she would not on any account make farther opposition.\nEdward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had heard\nhis address from Miss Steele.  She could undertake therefore to inform\nhim of it, in the course of the day.  After this had been settled,\nColonel Brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so\nrespectable and agreeable a neighbour, and THEN it was that he\nmentioned with regret, that the house was small and indifferent;--an\nevil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed her to do, made very\nlight of, at least as far as regarded its size.\n\n\"The smallness of the house,\" said she, \"I cannot imagine any\ninconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and\nincome.\"\n\nBy which the Colonel was surprised to find that SHE was considering Mr.\nFerrars's marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for\nhe did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply such\nan income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle\non--and he said so.\n\n\"This little rectory CAN do no more than make Mr. Ferrars comfortable\nas a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry.  I am sorry to say that\nmy patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive.\nIf, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve\nhim farther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do,\nif I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I\ncould be at present.  What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all,\nsince it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal,\nhis only object of happiness.  His marriage must still be a distant\ngood;--at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.--\"\n\nSuch was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the\ndelicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what\nreally passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at\nthe window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may\nperhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less\nproperly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 40\n\n\n\"Well, Miss Dashwood,\" said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon\nas the gentleman had withdrawn, \"I do not ask you what the Colonel has\nbeen saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I TRIED to keep out of\nhearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his business.\nAnd I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I wish you\njoy of it with all my heart.\"\n\n\"Thank you, ma'am,\" said Elinor.  \"It is a matter of great joy to me;\nand I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly.  There are\nnot many men who would act as he has done.  Few people who have so\ncompassionate a heart!  I never was more astonished in my life.\"\n\n\"Lord! my dear, you are very modest.  I an't the least astonished at it\nin the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more\nlikely to happen.\"\n\n\"You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel's general benevolence;\nbut at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very\nsoon occur.\"\n\n\"Opportunity!\" repeated Mrs. Jennings--\"Oh! as to that, when a man has\nonce made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon\nfind an opportunity.  Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and\nagain; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I\nshall soon know where to look for them.\"\n\n\"You mean to go to Delaford after them I suppose,\" said Elinor, with a\nfaint smile.\n\n\"Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed.  And as to the house being a bad one,\nI do not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as\never I saw.\"\n\n\"He spoke of its being out of repair.\"\n\n\"Well, and whose fault is that? why don't he repair it?--who should do\nit but himself?\"\n\nThey were interrupted by the servant's coming in to announce the\ncarriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to\ngo, said,--\n\n\"Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out.\nBut, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be\nquite alone.  I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind\nis too full of the matter to care for company; and besides, you must\nlong to tell your sister all about it.\"\n\nMarianne had left the room before the conversation began.\n\n\"Certainly, ma'am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall not mention\nit at present to any body else.\"\n\n\"Oh! very well,\" said Mrs. Jennings rather disappointed.  \"Then you\nwould not have me tell it to Lucy, for I think of going as far as\nHolborn to-day.\"\n\n\"No, ma'am, not even Lucy if you please.  One day's delay will not be\nvery material; and till I have written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it ought\nnot to be mentioned to any body else.  I shall do THAT directly.  It is\nof importance that no time should be lost with him, for he will of\ncourse have much to do relative to his ordination.\"\n\nThis speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly.  Why Mr.\nFerrars was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she could\nnot immediately comprehend.  A few moments' reflection, however,\nproduced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed;--\n\n\"Oh, ho!--I understand you.  Mr. Ferrars is to be the man.  Well, so\nmuch the better for him.  Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in\nreadiness; and I am very glad to find things are so forward between\nyou.  But, my dear, is not this rather out of character?  Should not\nthe Colonel write himself?--sure, he is the proper person.\"\n\nElinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings's\nspeech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore\nonly replied to its conclusion.\n\n\"Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to\nannounce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself.\"\n\n\"And so YOU are forced to do it.  Well THAT is an odd kind of delicacy!\nHowever, I will not disturb you (seeing her preparing to write.)  You\nknow your own concerns best.  So goodby, my dear.  I have not heard of\nany thing to please me so well since Charlotte was brought to bed.\"\n\nAnd away she went; but returning again in a moment,\n\n\"I have just been thinking of Betty's sister, my dear.  I should be\nvery glad to get her so good a mistress.  But whether she would do for\na lady's maid, I am sure I can't tell.  She is an excellent housemaid,\nand works very well at her needle.  However, you will think of all that\nat your leisure.\"\n\n\"Certainly, ma'am,\" replied Elinor, not hearing much of what she said,\nand more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of the subject.\n\nHow she should begin--how she should express herself in her note to\nEdward, was now all her concern.  The particular circumstances between\nthem made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have\nbeen the easiest thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too\nmuch or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with the pen\nin her hand, till broken in on by the entrance of Edward himself.\n\nHe had met Mrs. Jennings at the door in her way to the carriage, as he\ncame to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising for not\nreturning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that Miss\nDashwood was above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular\nbusiness.\n\nElinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her\nperplexity, that however difficult it might be to express herself\nproperly by letter, it was at least preferable to giving the\ninformation by word of mouth, when her visitor entered, to force her\nupon this greatest exertion of all.  Her astonishment and confusion\nwere very great on his so sudden appearance.  She had not seen him\nbefore since his engagement became public, and therefore not since his\nknowing her to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of\nwhat she had been thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her\nfeel particularly uncomfortable for some minutes.  He too was much\ndistressed; and they sat down together in a most promising state of\nembarrassment.--Whether he had asked her pardon for his intrusion on\nfirst coming into the room, he could not recollect; but determining to\nbe on the safe side, he made his apology in form as soon as he could\nsay any thing, after taking a chair.\n\n\"Mrs. Jennings told me,\" said he, \"that you wished to speak with me, at\nleast I understood her so--or I certainly should not have intruded on\nyou in such a manner; though at the same time, I should have been\nextremely sorry to leave London without seeing you and your sister;\nespecially as it will most likely be some time--it is not probable that\nI should soon have the pleasure of meeting you again.  I go to Oxford\ntomorrow.\"\n\n\"You would not have gone, however,\" said Elinor, recovering herself,\nand determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon as\npossible, \"without receiving our good wishes, even if we had not been\nable to give them in person.  Mrs. Jennings was quite right in what she\nsaid.  I have something of consequence to inform you of, which I was on\nthe point of communicating by paper.  I am charged with a most\nagreeable office (breathing rather faster than usual as she spoke.)\nColonel Brandon, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me to\nsay, that understanding you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure\nin offering you the living of Delaford now just vacant, and only wishes\nit were more valuable.  Allow me to congratulate you on having so\nrespectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in his wish that the\nliving--it is about two hundred a-year--were much more considerable,\nand such as might better enable you to--as might be more than a\ntemporary accommodation to yourself--such, in short, as might establish\nall your views of happiness.\"\n\nWhat Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected\nthat any one else should say for him.  He LOOKED all the astonishment\nwhich such unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail of\nexciting; but he said only these two words,\n\n\"Colonel Brandon!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the\nworst was over, \"Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his concern\nfor what has lately passed--for the cruel situation in which the\nunjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you--a concern which I\nam sure Marianne, myself, and all your friends, must share; and\nlikewise as a proof of his high esteem for your general character, and\nhis particular approbation of your behaviour on the present occasion.\"\n\n\"Colonel Brandon give ME a living!--Can it be possible?\"\n\n\"The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find\nfriendship any where.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied he, with sudden consciousness, \"not to find it in YOU;\nfor I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe it\nall.--I feel it--I would express it if I could--but, as you well know,\nI am no orator.\"\n\n\"You are very much mistaken.  I do assure you that you owe it entirely,\nat least almost entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon's\ndiscernment of it.  I have had no hand in it.  I did not even know,\ntill I understood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it\never occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift.\nAs a friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps--indeed I know he\nHAS, still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe\nnothing to my solicitation.\"\n\nTruth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but\nshe was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of\nEdward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably\ncontributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently\nentered it.  For a short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had\nceased to speak;--at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said,\n\n\"Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability.  I have\nalways heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems him\nhighly.  He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly\nthe gentleman.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" replied Elinor, \"I believe that you will find him, on farther\nacquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you will be\nsuch very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is almost\nclose to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he\nSHOULD be all this.\"\n\nEdward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her\na look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he\nmight hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the\nmansion-house much greater.\n\n\"Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street,\" said he, soon\nafterwards, rising from his chair.\n\nElinor told him the number of the house.\n\n\"I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not\nallow me to give YOU; to assure him that he has made me a very--an\nexceedingly happy man.\"\n\nElinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very\nearnest assurance on HER side of her unceasing good wishes for his\nhappiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on HIS,\nwith rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of\nexpressing it.\n\n\"When I see him again,\" said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him\nout, \"I shall see him the husband of Lucy.\"\n\nAnd with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the\npast, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of\nEdward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent.\n\nWhen Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people\nwhom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a\ngreat deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important\nsecret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to\nit again as soon as Elinor appeared.\n\n\"Well, my dear,\" she cried, \"I sent you up the young man.  Did not I\ndo right?--And I suppose you had no great difficulty--You did not find\nhim very unwilling to accept your proposal?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am; THAT was not very likely.\"\n\n\"Well, and how soon will he be ready?--For it seems all to depend upon\nthat.\"\n\n\"Really,\" said Elinor, \"I know so little of these kind of forms, that I\ncan hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation\nnecessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his\nordination.\"\n\n\"Two or three months!\" cried Mrs. Jennings; \"Lord! my dear, how calmly\nyou talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord\nbless me!--I am sure it would put ME quite out of patience!--And though\none would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think\nit is not worth while to wait two or three months for him.  Sure\nsomebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in\norders already.\"\n\n\"My dear ma'am,\" said Elinor, \"what can you be thinking of?-- Why,\nColonel Brandon's only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars.\"\n\n\"Lord bless you, my dear!--Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the\nColonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr.\nFerrars!\"\n\nThe deception could not continue after this; and an explanation\nimmediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for\nthe moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs.\nJennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still\nwithout forfeiting her expectation of the first.\n\n\"Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one,\" said she, after the first\nebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, \"and very likely MAY\nbe out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I thought, for a\nhouse that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the ground-floor,\nand I think the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds!--and to\nyou too, that had been used to live in Barton cottage!-- It seems quite\nridiculous.  But, my dear, we must touch up the Colonel to do some\nthing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them, before Lucy\ngoes to it.\"\n\n\"But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living's\nbeing enough to allow them to marry.\"\n\n\"The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year\nhimself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less.  Take my word\nfor it, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at Delaford\nParsonage before Michaelmas; and I am sure I shan't go if Lucy an't\nthere.\"\n\nElinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not\nwaiting for any thing more.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 41\n\n\nEdward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with\nhis happiness to Lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he\nreached Bartlett's Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs.\nJennings, who called on her again the next day with her\ncongratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in\nher life.\n\nHer own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and\nshe joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their\nbeing all comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas.\nSo far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to give Elinor\nthat credit which Edward WOULD give her, that she spoke of her\nfriendship for them both with the most grateful warmth, was ready to\nown all their obligation to her, and openly declared that no exertion\nfor their good on Miss Dashwood's part, either present or future, would\never surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing any thing in\nthe world for those she really valued.  As for Colonel Brandon, she was\nnot only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover truly\nanxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly concerns;\nanxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and scarcely\nresolved to avail herself, at Delaford, as far as she possibly could,\nof his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poultry.\n\nIt was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley\nStreet, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his\nwife's indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, Elinor began to feel\nit necessary to pay her a visit.--This was an obligation, however,\nwhich not only opposed her own inclination, but which had not the\nassistance of any encouragement from her companions.  Marianne, not\ncontented with absolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent to\nprevent her sister's going at all; and Mrs. Jennings, though her\ncarriage was always at Elinor's service, so very much disliked Mrs.\nJohn Dashwood, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after\nthe late discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking\nEdward's part, could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company\nagain.  The consequence was, that Elinor set out by herself to pay a\nvisit, for which no one could really have less inclination, and to run\nthe risk of a tete-a-tete with a woman, whom neither of the others had\nso much reason to dislike.\n\nMrs. Dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from the\nhouse, her husband accidentally came out.  He expressed great pleasure\nin meeting Elinor, told her that he had been just going to call in\nBerkeley Street, and, assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to see\nher, invited her to come in.\n\nThey walked up stairs in to the drawing-room.--Nobody was there.\n\n\"Fanny is in her own room, I suppose,\" said he:--\"I will go to her\npresently, for I am sure she will not have the least objection in the\nworld to seeing YOU.-- Very far from it, indeed.  NOW especially there\ncannot be--but however, you and Marianne were always great\nfavourites.--Why would not Marianne come?\"--\n\nElinor made what excuse she could for her.\n\n\"I am not sorry to see you alone,\" he replied, \"for I have a good deal\nto say to you.  This living of Colonel Brandon's--can it be true?--has\nhe really given it to Edward?--I heard it yesterday by chance, and was\ncoming to you on purpose to enquire farther about it.\"\n\n\"It is perfectly true.--Colonel Brandon has given the living of\nDelaford to Edward.\"\n\n\"Really!--Well, this is very astonishing!--no relationship!--no\nconnection between them!--and now that livings fetch such a\nprice!--what was the value of this?\"\n\n\"About two hundred a year.\"\n\n\"Very well--and for the next presentation to a living of that\nvalue--supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly, and\nlikely to vacate it soon--he might have got I dare say--fourteen\nhundred pounds.  And how came he not to have settled that matter before\nthis person's death?--NOW indeed it would be too late to sell it, but a\nman of Colonel Brandon's sense!--I wonder he should be so improvident\nin a point of such common, such natural, concern!--Well, I am convinced\nthat there is a vast deal of inconsistency in almost every human\ncharacter.  I suppose, however--on recollection--that the case may\nprobably be THIS.  Edward is only to hold the living till the person to\nwhom the Colonel has really sold the presentation, is old enough to\ntake it.--Aye, aye, that is the fact, depend upon it.\"\n\nElinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating that\nshe had herself been employed in conveying the offer from Colonel\nBrandon to Edward, and, therefore, must understand the terms on which\nit was given, obliged him to submit to her authority.\n\n\"It is truly astonishing!\"--he cried, after hearing what she\nsaid--\"what could be the Colonel's motive?\"\n\n\"A very simple one--to be of use to Mr. Ferrars.\"\n\n\"Well, well; whatever Colonel Brandon may be, Edward is a very lucky\nman.--You will not mention the matter to Fanny, however, for though I\nhave broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well,--she will not like\nto hear it much talked of.\"\n\nElinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that she\nthought Fanny might have borne with composure, an acquisition of wealth\nto her brother, by which neither she nor her child could be possibly\nimpoverished.\n\n\"Mrs. Ferrars,\" added he, lowering his voice to the tone becoming so\nimportant a subject, \"knows nothing about it at present, and I believe\nit will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as may\nbe.-- When the marriage takes place, I fear she must hear of it all.\"\n\n\"But why should such precaution be used?--Though it is not to be\nsupposed that Mrs. Ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in\nknowing that her son has money enough to live upon,--for THAT must be\nquite out of the question; yet why, upon her late behaviour, is she\nsupposed to feel at all?--She has done with her son, she cast him off\nfor ever, and has made all those over whom she had any influence, cast\nhim off likewise.  Surely, after doing so, she cannot be imagined\nliable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account--she cannot\nbe interested in any thing that befalls him.-- She would not be so weak\nas to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the anxiety of\na parent!\"\n\n\"Ah! Elinor,\" said John, \"your reasoning is very good, but it is\nfounded on ignorance of human nature.  When Edward's unhappy match\ntakes place, depend upon it his mother will feel as much as if she had\nnever discarded him; and, therefore every circumstance that may\naccelerate that dreadful event, must be concealed from her as much as\npossible.  Mrs. Ferrars can never forget that Edward is her son.\"\n\n\"You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have escaped her memory\nby THIS time.\"\n\n\"You wrong her exceedingly.  Mrs. Ferrars is one of the most\naffectionate mothers in the world.\"\n\nElinor was silent.\n\n\"We think NOW,\"--said Mr. Dashwood, after a short pause, \"of ROBERT'S\nmarrying Miss Morton.\"\n\nElinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother's\ntone, calmly replied,\n\n\"The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair.\"\n\n\"Choice!--how do you mean?\"\n\n\"I only mean that I suppose, from your manner of speaking, it must be\nthe same to Miss Morton whether she marry Edward or Robert.\"\n\n\"Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert will now to all\nintents and purposes be considered as the eldest son;--and as to any\nthing else, they are both very agreeable young men: I do not know that\none is superior to the other.\"\n\nElinor said no more, and John was also for a short time silent.--His\nreflections ended thus.\n\n\"Of ONE thing, my dear sister,\" kindly taking her hand, and speaking in\nan awful whisper,--\"I may assure you;--and I WILL do it, because I know\nit must gratify you.  I have good reason to think--indeed I have it\nfrom the best authority, or I should not repeat it, for otherwise it\nwould be very wrong to say any thing about it--but I have it from the\nvery best authority--not that I ever precisely heard Mrs. Ferrars say\nit herself--but her daughter DID, and I have it from her--That in\nshort, whatever objections there might be against a certain--a certain\nconnection--you understand me--it would have been far preferable to\nher, it would not have given her half the vexation that THIS does.  I\nwas exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferrars considered it in that\nlight--a very gratifying circumstance you know to us all.  'It would\nhave been beyond comparison,' she said, 'the least evil of the two, and\nshe would be glad to compound NOW for nothing worse.' But however, all\nthat is quite out of the question--not to be thought of or\nmentioned--as to any attachment you know--it never could be--all that\nis gone by.  But I thought I would just tell you of this, because I\nknew how much it must please you.  Not that you have any reason to\nregret, my dear Elinor.  There is no doubt of your doing exceedingly\nwell--quite as well, or better, perhaps, all things considered.  Has\nColonel Brandon been with you lately?\"\n\nElinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity, and raise her\nself-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind;--and she was\ntherefore glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much in reply\nherself, and from the danger of hearing any thing more from her\nbrother, by the entrance of Mr. Robert Ferrars.  After a few moments'\nchat, John Dashwood, recollecting that Fanny was yet uninformed of her\nsister's being there, quitted the room in quest of her; and Elinor was\nleft to improve her acquaintance with Robert, who, by the gay\nunconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner while enjoying so\nunfair a division of his mother's love and liberality, to the prejudice\nof his banished brother, earned only by his own dissipated course of\nlife, and that brother's integrity, was confirming her most\nunfavourable opinion of his head and heart.\n\nThey had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before he began to\nspeak of Edward; for he, too, had heard of the living, and was very\ninquisitive on the subject.  Elinor repeated the particulars of it, as\nshe had given them to John; and their effect on Robert, though very\ndifferent, was not less striking than it had been on HIM.  He laughed\nmost immoderately.  The idea of Edward's being a clergyman, and living\nin a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure;--and when to\nthat was added the fanciful imagery of Edward reading prayers in a\nwhite surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage between John Smith\nand Mary Brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous.\n\nElinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity, the\nconclusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed\non him with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited.  It was a\nlook, however, very well bestowed, for it relieved her own feelings,\nand gave no intelligence to him.  He was recalled from wit to wisdom,\nnot by any reproof of hers, but by his own sensibility.\n\n\"We may treat it as a joke,\" said he, at last, recovering from the\naffected laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine gaiety\nof the moment--\"but, upon my soul, it is a most serious business.  Poor\nEdward!  he is ruined for ever.  I am extremely sorry for it--for I\nknow him to be a very good-hearted creature; as well-meaning a fellow\nperhaps, as any in the world.  You must not judge of him, Miss\nDashwood, from YOUR slight acquaintance.--Poor Edward!--His manners are\ncertainly not the happiest in nature.--But we are not all born, you\nknow, with the same powers,--the same address.-- Poor fellow!--to see\nhim in a circle of strangers!--to be sure it was pitiable enough!--but\nupon my soul, I believe he has as good a heart as any in the kingdom;\nand I declare and protest to you I never was so shocked in my life, as\nwhen it all burst forth.  I could not believe it.-- My mother was the\nfirst person who told me of it; and I, feeling myself called on to act\nwith resolution, immediately said to her, 'My dear madam, I do not know\nwhat you may intend to do on the occasion, but as for myself, I must\nsay, that if Edward does marry this young woman, I never will see him\nagain.' That was what I said immediately.-- I was most uncommonly\nshocked, indeed!--Poor Edward!--he has done for himself\ncompletely--shut himself out for ever from all decent society!--but, as\nI directly said to my mother, I am not in the least surprised at it;\nfrom his style of education, it was always to be expected.  My poor\nmother was half frantic.\"\n\n\"Have you ever seen the lady?\"\n\n\"Yes; once, while she was staying in this house, I happened to drop in\nfor ten minutes; and I saw quite enough of her.  The merest awkward\ncountry girl, without style, or elegance, and almost without beauty.--\nI remember her perfectly.  Just the kind of girl I should suppose\nlikely to captivate poor Edward.  I offered immediately, as soon as my\nmother related the affair to me, to talk to him myself, and dissuade\nhim from the match; but it was too late THEN, I found, to do any thing,\nfor unluckily, I was not in the way at first, and knew nothing of it\ntill after the breach had taken place, when it was not for me, you\nknow, to interfere.  But had I been informed of it a few hours\nearlier--I think it is most probable--that something might have been\nhit on.  I certainly should have represented it to Edward in a very\nstrong light.  'My dear fellow,' I should have said, 'consider what you\nare doing.  You are making a most disgraceful connection, and such a\none as your family are unanimous in disapproving.' I cannot help\nthinking, in short, that means might have been found.  But now it is\nall too late.  He must be starved, you know;--that is certain;\nabsolutely starved.\"\n\nHe had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance\nof Mrs. John Dashwood put an end to the subject.  But though SHE never\nspoke of it out of her own family, Elinor could see its influence on\nher mind, in the something like confusion of countenance with which she\nentered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour to herself.  She\neven proceeded so far as to be concerned to find that Elinor and her\nsister were so soon to leave town, as she had hoped to see more of\nthem;--an exertion in which her husband, who attended her into the\nroom, and hung enamoured over her accents, seemed to distinguish every\nthing that was most affectionate and graceful.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 42\n\n\nOne other short call in Harley Street, in which Elinor received her\nbrother's congratulations on their travelling so far towards Barton\nwithout any expense, and on Colonel Brandon's being to follow them to\nCleveland in a day or two, completed the intercourse of the brother and\nsisters in town;--and a faint invitation from Fanny, to come to Norland\nwhenever it should happen to be in their way, which of all things was\nthe most unlikely to occur, with a more warm, though less public,\nassurance, from John to Elinor, of the promptitude with which he should\ncome to see her at Delaford, was all that foretold any meeting in the\ncountry.\n\nIt amused her to observe that all her friends seemed determined to send\nher to Delaford;--a place, in which, of all others, she would now least\nchuse to visit, or wish to reside; for not only was it considered as\nher future home by her brother and Mrs. Jennings, but even Lucy, when\nthey parted, gave her a pressing invitation to visit her there.\n\nVery early in April, and tolerably early in the day, the two parties\nfrom Hanover Square and Berkeley Street set out from their respective\nhomes, to meet, by appointment, on the road.  For the convenience of\nCharlotte and her child, they were to be more than two days on their\njourney, and Mr. Palmer, travelling more expeditiously with Colonel\nBrandon, was to join them at Cleveland soon after their arrival.\n\nMarianne, few as had been her hours of comfort in London, and eager as\nshe had long been to quit it, could not, when it came to the point, bid\nadieu to the house in which she had for the last time enjoyed those\nhopes, and that confidence, in Willoughby, which were now extinguished\nfor ever, without great pain.  Nor could she leave the place in which\nWilloughby remained, busy in new engagements, and new schemes, in which\nSHE could have no share, without shedding many tears.\n\nElinor's satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was more positive.\nShe had no such object for her lingering thoughts to fix on, she left\nno creature behind, from whom it would give her a moment's regret to be\ndivided for ever, she was pleased to be free herself from the\npersecution of Lucy's friendship, she was grateful for bringing her\nsister away unseen by Willoughby since his marriage, and she looked\nforward with hope to what a few months of tranquility at Barton might\ndo towards restoring Marianne's peace of mind, and confirming her own.\n\nTheir journey was safely performed.  The second day brought them into\nthe cherished, or the prohibited, county of Somerset, for as such was\nit dwelt on by turns in Marianne's imagination; and in the forenoon of\nthe third they drove up to Cleveland.\n\nCleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated on a sloping\nlawn.  It had no park, but the pleasure-grounds were tolerably\nextensive; and like every other place of the same degree of importance,\nit had its open shrubbery, and closer wood walk, a road of smooth\ngravel winding round a plantation, led to the front, the lawn was\ndotted over with timber, the house itself was under the guardianship of\nthe fir, the mountain-ash, and the acacia, and a thick screen of them\naltogether, interspersed with tall Lombardy poplars, shut out the\noffices.\n\nMarianne entered the house with a heart swelling with emotion from the\nconsciousness of being only eighty miles from Barton, and not thirty\nfrom Combe Magna; and before she had been five minutes within its\nwalls, while the others were busily helping Charlotte to show her child\nto the housekeeper, she quitted it again, stealing away through the\nwinding shrubberies, now just beginning to be in beauty, to gain a\ndistant eminence; where, from its Grecian temple, her eye, wandering\nover a wide tract of country to the south-east, could fondly rest on\nthe farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and fancy that from their\nsummits Combe Magna might be seen.\n\nIn such moments of precious, invaluable misery, she rejoiced in tears\nof agony to be at Cleveland; and as she returned by a different circuit\nto the house, feeling all the happy privilege of country liberty, of\nwandering from place to place in free and luxurious solitude, she\nresolved to spend almost every hour of every day while she remained\nwith the Palmers, in the indulgence of such solitary rambles.\n\nShe returned just in time to join the others as they quitted the house,\non an excursion through its more immediate premises; and the rest of\nthe morning was easily whiled away, in lounging round the kitchen\ngarden, examining the bloom upon its walls, and listening to the\ngardener's lamentations upon blights, in dawdling through the\ngreen-house, where the loss of her favourite plants, unwarily exposed,\nand nipped by the lingering frost, raised the laughter of\nCharlotte,--and in visiting her poultry-yard, where, in the\ndisappointed hopes of her dairy-maid, by hens forsaking their nests, or\nbeing stolen by a fox, or in the rapid decrease of a promising young\nbrood, she found fresh sources of merriment.\n\nThe morning was fine and dry, and Marianne, in her plan of employment\nabroad, had not calculated for any change of weather during their stay\nat Cleveland.  With great surprise therefore, did she find herself\nprevented by a settled rain from going out again after dinner.  She had\ndepended on a twilight walk to the Grecian temple, and perhaps all over\nthe grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp would not have deterred\nher from it; but a heavy and settled rain even SHE could not fancy dry\nor pleasant weather for walking.\n\nTheir party was small, and the hours passed quietly away.  Mrs. Palmer\nhad her child, and Mrs. Jennings her carpet-work; they talked of the\nfriends they had left behind, arranged Lady Middleton's engagements,\nand wondered whether Mr. Palmer and Colonel Brandon would get farther\nthan Reading that night.  Elinor, however little concerned in it,\njoined in their discourse; and Marianne, who had the knack of finding\nher way in every house to the library, however it might be avoided by\nthe family in general, soon procured herself a book.\n\nNothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer's side that constant and friendly\ngood humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome.  The\nopenness and heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that want of\nrecollection and elegance which made her often deficient in the forms\nof politeness; her kindness, recommended by so pretty a face, was\nengaging; her folly, though evident was not disgusting, because it was\nnot conceited; and Elinor could have forgiven every thing but her laugh.\n\nThe two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner, affording\na pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome variety to\ntheir conversation, which a long morning of the same continued rain had\nreduced very low.\n\nElinor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer, and in that little had seen so\nmuch variety in his address to her sister and herself, that she knew\nnot what to expect to find him in his own family.  She found him,\nhowever, perfectly the gentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors,\nand only occasionally rude to his wife and her mother; she found him\nvery capable of being a pleasant companion, and only prevented from\nbeing so always, by too great an aptitude to fancy himself as much\nsuperior to people in general, as he must feel himself to be to Mrs.\nJennings and Charlotte.  For the rest of his character and habits, they\nwere marked, as far as Elinor could perceive, with no traits at all\nunusual in his sex and time of life.  He was nice in his eating,\nuncertain in his hours; fond of his child, though affecting to slight\nit; and idled away the mornings at billiards, which ought to have been\ndevoted to business.  She liked him, however, upon the whole, much\nbetter than she had expected, and in her heart was not sorry that she\ncould like him no more;--not sorry to be driven by the observation of\nhis Epicurism, his selfishness, and his conceit, to rest with\ncomplacency on the remembrance of Edward's generous temper, simple\ntaste, and diffident feelings.\n\nOf Edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now received\nintelligence from Colonel Brandon, who had been into Dorsetshire\nlately; and who, treating her at once as the disinterested friend of\nMr. Ferrars, and the kind of confidant of himself, talked to her a\ngreat deal of the parsonage at Delaford, described its deficiencies,\nand told her what he meant to do himself towards removing them.--His\nbehaviour to her in this, as well as in every other particular, his\nopen pleasure in meeting her after an absence of only ten days, his\nreadiness to converse with her, and his deference for her opinion,\nmight very well justify Mrs. Jennings's persuasion of his attachment,\nand would have been enough, perhaps, had not Elinor still, as from the\nfirst, believed Marianne his real favourite, to make her suspect it\nherself.  But as it was, such a notion had scarcely ever entered her\nhead, except by Mrs. Jennings's suggestion; and she could not help\nbelieving herself the nicest observer of the two;--she watched his\neyes, while Mrs. Jennings thought only of his behaviour;--and while his\nlooks of anxious solicitude on Marianne's feeling, in her head and\nthroat, the beginning of a heavy cold, because unexpressed by words,\nentirely escaped the latter lady's observation;--SHE could discover in\nthem the quick feelings, and needless alarm of a lover.\n\nTwo delightful twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of her\nbeing there, not merely on the dry gravel of the shrubbery, but all\nover the grounds, and especially in the most distant parts of them,\nwhere there was something more of wildness than in the rest, where the\ntrees were the oldest, and the grass was the longest and wettest,\nhad--assisted by the still greater imprudence of sitting in her wet\nshoes and stockings--given Marianne a cold so violent as, though for a\nday or two trifled with or denied, would force itself by increasing\nailments on the concern of every body, and the notice of herself.\nPrescriptions poured in from all quarters, and as usual, were all\ndeclined.  Though heavy and feverish, with a pain in her limbs, and a\ncough, and a sore throat, a good night's rest was to cure her entirely;\nand it was with difficulty that Elinor prevailed on her, when she went\nto bed, to try one or two of the simplest of the remedies.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 43\n\n\nMarianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry\nreplied that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by engaging\nin her accustomary employments.  But a day spent in sitting shivering\nover the fire with a book in her hand, which she was unable to read, or\nin lying, weary and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of\nher amendment; and when, at last, she went early to bed, more and more\nindisposed, Colonel Brandon was only astonished at her sister's\ncomposure, who, though attending and nursing her the whole day, against\nMarianne's inclination, and forcing proper medicines on her at night,\ntrusted, like Marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and\nfelt no real alarm.\n\nA very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the\nexpectation of both; and when Marianne, after persisting in rising,\nconfessed herself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to her\nbed, Elinor was very ready to adopt Mrs. Jennings's advice, of sending\nfor the Palmers' apothecary.\n\nHe came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood to\nexpect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet, by\npronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing the\nword \"infection\" to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs. Palmer,\non her baby's account.  Mrs. Jennings, who had been inclined from the\nfirst to think Marianne's complaint more serious than Elinor, now\nlooked very grave on Mr. Harris's report, and confirming Charlotte's\nfears and caution, urged the necessity of her immediate removal with\nher infant; and Mr. Palmer, though treating their apprehensions as\nidle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife too great to be\nwithstood.  Her departure, therefore, was fixed on; and within an hour\nafter Mr. Harris's arrival, she set off, with her little boy and his\nnurse, for the house of a near relation of Mr. Palmer's, who lived a\nfew miles on the other side of Bath; whither her husband promised, at\nher earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two; and whither she was\nalmost equally urgent with her mother to accompany her.  Mrs. Jennings,\nhowever, with a kindness of heart which made Elinor really love her,\ndeclared her resolution of not stirring from Cleveland as long as\nMarianne remained ill, and of endeavouring, by her own attentive care,\nto supply to her the place of the mother she had taken her from; and\nElinor found her on every occasion a most willing and active helpmate,\ndesirous to share in all her fatigues, and often by her better\nexperience in nursing, of material use.\n\nPoor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and\nfeeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope that tomorrow\nwould find her recovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have\nproduced, but for this unlucky illness, made every ailment severe; for\non that day they were to have begun their journey home; and, attended\nthe whole way by a servant of Mrs. Jennings, were to have taken their\nmother by surprise on the following forenoon.  The little she said was\nall in lamentation of this inevitable delay; though Elinor tried to\nraise her spirits, and make her believe, as she THEN really believed\nherself, that it would be a very short one.\n\nThe next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the\npatient; she certainly was not better, and, except that there was no\namendment, did not appear worse.  Their party was now farther reduced;\nfor Mr. Palmer, though very unwilling to go as well from real humanity\nand good-nature, as from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away\nby his wife, was persuaded at last by Colonel Brandon to perform his\npromise of following her; and while he was preparing to go, Colonel\nBrandon himself, with a much greater exertion, began to talk of going\nlikewise.--Here, however, the kindness of Mrs. Jennings interposed most\nacceptably; for to send the Colonel away while his love was in so much\nuneasiness on her sister's account, would be to deprive them both, she\nthought, of every comfort; and therefore telling him at once that his\nstay at Cleveland was necessary to herself, that she should want him to\nplay at piquet of an evening, while Miss Dashwood was above with her\nsister, &c. she urged him so strongly to remain, that he, who was\ngratifying the first wish of his own heart by a compliance, could not\nlong even affect to demur; especially as Mrs. Jennings's entreaty was\nwarmly seconded by Mr. Palmer, who seemed to feel a relief to himself,\nin leaving behind him a person so well able to assist or advise Miss\nDashwood in any emergence.\n\nMarianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these arrangements.\nShe knew not that she had been the means of sending the owners of\nCleveland away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival.  It\ngave her no surprise that she saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer; and as it\ngave her likewise no concern, she never mentioned her name.\n\nTwo days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer's departure, and her\nsituation continued, with little variation, the same.  Mr. Harris, who\nattended her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and\nMiss Dashwood was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others\nwas by no means so cheerful.  Mrs. Jennings had determined very early\nin the seizure that Marianne would never get over it, and Colonel\nBrandon, who was chiefly of use in listening to Mrs. Jennings's\nforebodings, was not in a state of mind to resist their influence.  He\ntried to reason himself out of fears, which the different judgment of\nthe apothecary seemed to render absurd; but the many hours of each day\nin which he was left entirely alone, were but too favourable for the\nadmission of every melancholy idea, and he could not expel from his\nmind the persuasion that he should see Marianne no more.\n\nOn the morning of the third day however, the gloomy anticipations of\nboth were almost done away; for when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared\nhis patient materially better.  Her pulse was much stronger, and every\nsymptom more favourable than on the preceding visit.  Elinor, confirmed\nin every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her\nletters to her mother, she had pursued her own judgment rather than her\nfriend's, in making very light of the indisposition which delayed them\nat Cleveland; and almost fixing on the time when Marianne would be able\nto travel.\n\nBut the day did not close so auspiciously as it began.-- Towards the\nevening Marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and\nuncomfortable than before.  Her sister, however, still sanguine, was\nwilling to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of\nhaving sat up to have her bed made; and carefully administering the\ncordials prescribed, saw her, with satisfaction, sink at last into a\nslumber, from which she expected the most beneficial effects.  Her\nsleep, though not so quiet as Elinor wished to see it, lasted a\nconsiderable time; and anxious to observe the result of it herself, she\nresolved to sit with her during the whole of it.  Mrs. Jennings,\nknowing nothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to\nbed; her maid, who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating\nherself in the housekeeper's room, and Elinor remained alone with\nMarianne.\n\nThe repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and her\nsister, who watched, with unremitting attention her continual change of\nposture, and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint\nwhich passed her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from so painful\na slumber, when Marianne, suddenly awakened by some accidental noise in\nthe house, started hastily up, and, with feverish wildness, cried out,--\n\n\"Is mama coming?--\"\n\n\"Not yet,\" cried the other, concealing her terror, and assisting\nMarianne to lie down again, \"but she will be here, I hope, before it is\nlong.  It is a great way, you know, from hence to Barton.\"\n\n\"But she must not go round by London,\" cried Marianne, in the same\nhurried manner.  \"I shall never see her, if she goes by London.\"\n\nElinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and, while\nattempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse.  It was lower and\nquicker than ever!  and Marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her\nalarm increased so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly\nfor Mr. Harris, and despatching a messenger to Barton for her mother.\nTo consult with Colonel Brandon on the best means of effecting the\nlatter, was a thought which immediately followed the resolution of its\nperformance; and as soon she had rung up the maid to take her place by\nher sister, she hastened down to the drawing-room, where she knew he\nwas generally to be found at a much later hour than the present.\n\nIt was no time for hesitation.  Her fears and her difficulties were\nimmediately before him.  Her fears, he had no courage, no confidence to\nattempt the removal of:--he listened to them in silent despondence;--but\nher difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that\nseemed to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his mind,\nhe offered himself as the messenger who should fetch Mrs. Dashwood.\nElinor made no resistance that was not easily overcome. She thanked him\nwith brief, though fervent gratitude, and while he went to hurry off his\nservant with a message to Mr. Harris, and an order for post-horses\ndirectly, she wrote a few lines to her mother.\n\nThe comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon--or such\na companion for her mother,--how gratefully was it felt!--a companion\nwhose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose\nfriendship might soothe her!--as far as the shock of such a summons\nCOULD be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his assistance,\nwould lessen it.\n\nHE, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness of a\ncollected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost\ndespatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which she might\nlook for his return.  Not a moment was lost in delay of any kind.  The\nhorses arrived, even before they were expected, and Colonel Brandon\nonly pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words spoken\ntoo low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage.  It was then about\ntwelve o'clock, and she returned to her sister's apartment to wait for\nthe arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the rest of the\nnight.  It was a night of almost equal suffering to both.  Hour after\nhour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium on Marianne's side, and\nin the most cruel anxiety on Elinor's, before Mr. Harris appeared.  Her\napprehensions once raised, paid by their excess for all her former\nsecurity; and the servant who sat up with her, for she would not allow\nMrs. Jennings to be called, only tortured her more, by hints of what\nher mistress had always thought.\n\nMarianne's ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on her\nmother, and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the\nheart of poor Elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled with\nso many days of illness, and wretched for some immediate relief,\nfancied that all relief might soon be in vain, that every thing had\nbeen delayed too long, and pictured to herself her suffering mother\narriving too late to see this darling child, or to see her rational.\n\nShe was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if HE could\nnot come, for some other advice, when the former--but not till after\nfive o'clock--arrived.  His opinion, however, made some little amends\nfor his delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected and\nunpleasant alteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger to\nbe material, and talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treatment\nmust procure, with a confidence which, in a lesser degree, was\ncommunicated to Elinor.  He promised to call again in the course of\nthree or four hours, and left both the patient and her anxious\nattendant more composed than he had found them.\n\nWith strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to\ntheir aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the morning of what had passed.\nHer former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her no\ndoubt of the event; and though trying to speak comfort to Elinor, her\nconviction of her sister's danger would not allow her to offer the\ncomfort of hope.  Her heart was really grieved.  The rapid decay, the\nearly death of a girl so young, so lovely as Marianne, must have struck\na less interested person with concern.  On Mrs. Jennings's compassion\nshe had other claims.  She had been for three months her companion, was\nstill under her care, and she was known to have been greatly injured,\nand long unhappy.  The distress of her sister too, particularly a\nfavourite, was before her;--and as for their mother, when Mrs. Jennings\nconsidered that Marianne might probably be to HER what Charlotte was to\nherself, her sympathy in HER sufferings was very sincere.\n\nMr. Harris was punctual in his second visit;--but he came to be\ndisappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce.  His\nmedicines had failed;--the fever was unabated; and Marianne only more\nquiet--not more herself--remained in a heavy stupor.  Elinor, catching\nall, and more than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in\nfurther advice.  But he judged it unnecessary: he had still something\nmore to try, some more fresh application, of whose success he was as\nconfident as the last, and his visit concluded with encouraging\nassurances which reached the ear, but could not enter the heart of Miss\nDashwood.  She was calm, except when she thought of her mother; but she\nwas almost hopeless; and in this state she continued till noon,\nscarcely stirring from her sister's bed, her thoughts wandering from\none image of grief, one suffering friend to another, and her spirits\noppressed to the utmost by the conversation of Mrs. Jennings, who\nscrupled not to attribute the severity and danger of this attack to the\nmany weeks of previous indisposition which Marianne's disappointment\nhad brought on.  Elinor felt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it\ngave fresh misery to her reflections.\n\nAbout noon, however, she began--but with a caution--a dread of\ndisappointment which for some time kept her silent, even to her\nfriend--to fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her\nsister's pulse;--she waited, watched, and examined it again and\nagain;--and at last, with an agitation more difficult to bury under\nexterior calmness, than all her foregoing distress, ventured to\ncommunicate her hopes.  Mrs. Jennings, though forced, on examination,\nto acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to keep her young friend from\nindulging a thought of its continuance;--and Elinor, conning over every\ninjunction of distrust, told herself likewise not to hope.  But it was\ntoo late.  Hope had already entered; and feeling all its anxious\nflutter, she bent over her sister to watch--she hardly knew for what.\nHalf an hour passed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed her.\nOthers even arose to confirm it.  Her breath, her skin, her lips, all\nflattered Elinor with signs of amendment; and Marianne fixed her eyes\non her with a rational, though languid, gaze.  Anxiety and hope now\noppressed her in equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity\ntill the arrival of Mr. Harris at four o'clock;--when his assurances,\nhis felicitations on a recovery in her sister even surpassing his\nexpectation, gave her confidence, comfort, and tears of joy.\n\nMarianne was in every respect materially better, and he declared her\nentirely out of danger.  Mrs. Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the\npartial justification of her forebodings which had been found in their\nlate alarm, allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted,\nwith unfeigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the\nprobability of an entire recovery.\n\nElinor could not be cheerful.  Her joy was of a different kind, and led\nto any thing rather than to gaiety.  Marianne restored to life, health,\nfriends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with\nsensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent\ngratitude;--but it led to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words,\nno smiles.  All within Elinor's breast was satisfaction, silent and\nstrong.\n\nShe continued by the side of her sister, with little intermission the\nwhole afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her\nenfeebled spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every\nlook and every breath.  The possibility of a relapse would of course,\nin some moments, occur to remind her of what anxiety was--but when she\nsaw, on her frequent and minute examination, that every symptom of\nrecovery continued, and saw Marianne at six o'clock sink into a quiet,\nsteady, and to all appearance comfortable, sleep, she silenced every\ndoubt.\n\nThe time was now drawing on, when Colonel Brandon might be expected\nback.  At ten o'clock, she trusted, or at least not much later her\nmother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must\nnow be travelling towards them.  The Colonel, too!--perhaps scarcely\nless an object of pity!--Oh!--how slow was the progress of time which\nyet kept them in ignorance!\n\nAt seven o'clock, leaving Marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined\nMrs. Jennings in the drawing-room to tea.  Of breakfast she had been\nkept by her fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating\nmuch;--and the present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of\ncontent as she brought to it, was particularly welcome.  Mrs. Jennings\nwould have persuaded her, at its conclusion, to take some rest before\nher mother's arrival, and allow HER to take her place by Marianne; but\nElinor had no sense of fatigue, no capability of sleep at that moment\nabout her, and she was not to be kept away from her sister an\nunnecessary instant.  Mrs. Jennings therefore attending her up stairs\ninto the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right,\nleft her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to her\nown room to write letters and sleep.\n\nThe night was cold and stormy.  The wind roared round the house, and\nthe rain beat against the windows; but Elinor, all happiness within,\nregarded it not.  Marianne slept through every blast; and the\ntravellers--they had a rich reward in store, for every present\ninconvenience.\n\nThe clock struck eight.  Had it been ten, Elinor would have been\nconvinced that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the\nhouse; and so strong was the persuasion that she DID, in spite of the\nALMOST impossibility of their being already come, that she moved into\nthe adjoining dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to be\nsatisfied of the truth.  She instantly saw that her ears had not\ndeceived her.  The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in\nview.  By their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be\ndrawn by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poor\nmother's alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity.\n\nNever in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as at\nthat moment.  The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the\ncarriage stopt at the door--of her doubt--her dread--perhaps her\ndespair!--and of what SHE had to tell!--with such knowledge it was\nimpossible to be calm.  All that remained to be done was to be speedy;\nand, therefore staying only till she could leave Mrs. Jennings's maid\nwith her sister, she hurried down stairs.\n\nThe bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby,\nassured her that they were already in the house.  She rushed to the\ndrawing-room,--she entered it,--and saw only Willoughby.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 44\n\n\nElinor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed\nthe first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the room,\nand her hand was already on the lock, when its action was suspended by\nhis hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command than\nsupplication,\n\n\"Miss Dashwood, for half an hour--for ten minutes--I entreat you to\nstay.\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" she replied with firmness, \"I shall NOT stay.  Your business\ncannot be with ME.  The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell you that\nMr. Palmer was not in the house.\"\n\n\"Had they told me,\" he cried with vehemence, \"that Mr. Palmer and all\nhis relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the\ndoor.  My business is with you, and only you.\"\n\n\"With me!\"--in the utmost amazement--\"well, sir,--be quick--and if you\ncan--less violent.\"\n\n\"Sit down, and I will be both.\"\n\nShe hesitated; she knew not what to do.  The possibility of Colonel\nBrandon's arriving and finding her there, came across her.  But she had\npromised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor was\nengaged.  After a moment's recollection, therefore, concluding that\nprudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best\npromote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down.  He\ntook the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said by\neither.\n\n\"Pray be quick, sir,\"--said Elinor, impatiently;--\"I have no time to\nspare.\"\n\nHe was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to\nhear her.\n\n\"Your sister,\" said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards--\"is out\nof danger.  I heard it from the servant.  God be praised!--But is it\ntrue? is it really true?\"\n\nElinor would not speak.  He repeated the inquiry with yet greater\neagerness.\n\n\"For God's sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?\"\n\n\"We hope she is.\"\n\nHe rose up, and walked across the room.\n\n\"Had I known as much half an hour ago--But since I AM here,\"--speaking\nwith a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat--\"what does it\nsignify?--For once, Miss Dashwood--it will be the last time,\nperhaps--let us be cheerful together.--I am in a fine mood for\ngaiety.-- Tell me honestly\"--a deeper glow overspreading his\ncheeks--\"do you think me most a knave or a fool?\"\n\nElinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever.  She began to\nthink that he must be in liquor;--the strangeness of such a visit, and\nof such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this\nimpression she immediately rose, saying,\n\n\"Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe--I am not\nat leisure to remain with you longer.-- Whatever your business may be\nwith me, will it be better recollected and explained to-morrow.\"\n\n\"I understand you,\" he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice\nperfectly calm; \"yes, I am very drunk.-- A pint of porter with my cold\nbeef at Marlborough was enough to over-set me.\"\n\n\"At Marlborough!\"--cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to understand\nwhat he would be at.\n\n\"Yes,--I left London this morning at eight o'clock, and the only ten\nminutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a\nnuncheon at Marlborough.\"\n\nThe steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he\nspoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might\nbring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she\nsaid, after a moment's recollection,\n\n\"Mr. Willoughby, you OUGHT to feel, and I certainly DO--that after what\nhas passed--your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon\nmy notice, requires a very particular excuse.--What is it, that you\nmean by it?\"--\n\n\"I mean,\"--said he, with serious energy--\"if I can, to make you hate me\none degree less than you do NOW.  I mean to offer some kind of\nexplanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart\nto you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a\nblockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like\nforgiveness from Ma--from your sister.\"\n\n\"Is this the real reason of your coming?\"\n\n\"Upon my soul it is,\"--was his answer, with a warmth which brought all\nthe former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made\nher think him sincere.\n\n\"If that is all, you may be satisfied already,--for Marianne DOES--she\nhas LONG forgiven you.\"\n\n\"Has she?\"--he cried, in the same eager tone.-- \"Then she has forgiven\nme before she ought to have done it.  But she shall forgive me again,\nand on more reasonable grounds.--NOW will you listen to me?\"\n\nElinor bowed her assent.\n\n\"I do not know,\" said he, after a pause of expectation on her side, and\nthoughtfulness on his own,--\"how YOU may have accounted for my\nbehaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have\nimputed to me.-- Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me,--it is\nworth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing.  When I first\nbecame intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other view\nin the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged\nto remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before.\nYour sister's lovely person and interesting manners could not but\nplease me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a\nkind--It is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what SHE\nwas, that my heart should have been so insensible!  But at first I must\nconfess, my vanity only was elevated by it.  Careless of her happiness,\nthinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had\nalways been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by every\nmeans in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design\nof returning her affection.\"\n\nMiss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most\nangry contempt, stopped him, by saying,\n\n\"It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me\nto listen any longer.  Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by\nany thing.-- Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the\nsubject.\"\n\n\"I insist on you hearing the whole of it,\" he replied, \"My fortune was\nnever large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of\nassociating with people of better income than myself.  Every year since\nmy coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts; and\nthough the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free; yet\nthat event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for\nsome time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying a\nwoman of fortune.  To attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not\na thing to be thought of;--and with a meanness, selfishness,\ncruelty--which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, Miss\nDashwood, can ever reprobate too much--I was acting in this manner,\ntrying to engage her regard, without a thought of returning it.--But\none thing may be said for me: even in that horrid state of selfish\nvanity, I did not know the extent of the injury I meditated, because I\ndid not THEN know what it was to love.  But have I ever known it?--Well\nmay it be doubted; for, had I really loved, could I have sacrificed my\nfeelings to vanity, to avarice?--or, what is more, could I have\nsacrificed hers?-- But I have done it.  To avoid a comparative poverty,\nwhich her affection and her society would have deprived of all its\nhorrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence, lost every thing that\ncould make it a blessing.\"\n\n\"You did then,\" said Elinor, a little softened, \"believe yourself at\none time attached to her?\"\n\n\"To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such\ntenderness!--Is there a man on earth who could have done it?--Yes, I\nfound myself, by insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the\nhappiest hours of my life were what I spent with her when I felt my\nintentions were strictly honourable, and my feelings blameless.  Even\nTHEN, however, when fully determined on paying my addresses to her, I\nallowed myself most improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment\nof doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my\ncircumstances were so greatly embarrassed.  I will not reason here--nor\nwill I stop for YOU to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than\nabsurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already\nbound.  The event has proved, that I was a cunning fool, providing with\ngreat circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself\ncontemptible and wretched for ever.  At last, however, my resolution\nwas taken, and I had determined, as soon as I could engage her alone,\nto justify the attentions I had so invariably paid her, and openly\nassure her of an affection which I had already taken such pains to\ndisplay.  But in the interim--in the interim of the very few hours that\nwere to pass, before I could have an opportunity of speaking with her\nin private--a circumstance occurred--an unlucky circumstance, to ruin\nall my resolution, and with it all my comfort.  A discovery took\nplace,\"--here he hesitated and looked down.--\"Mrs. Smith had somehow or\nother been informed, I imagine by some distant relation, whose interest\nit was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a connection--but I\nneed not explain myself farther,\" he added, looking at her with an\nheightened colour and an enquiring eye--\"your particular intimacy--you\nhave probably heard the whole story long ago.\"\n\n\"I have,\" returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heart\nanew against any compassion for him, \"I have heard it all.  And how you\nwill explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, I\nconfess is beyond my comprehension.\"\n\n\"Remember,\" cried Willoughby, \"from whom you received the account.\nCould it be an impartial one?  I acknowledge that her situation and her\ncharacter ought to have been respected by me.  I do not mean to justify\nmyself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have\nnothing to urge--that because she was injured she was irreproachable,\nand because I was a libertine, SHE must be a saint.  If the violence of\nher passions, the weakness of her understanding--I do not mean,\nhowever, to defend myself.  Her affection for me deserved better\ntreatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness\nwhich, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return.  I\nwish--I heartily wish it had never been.  But I have injured more than\nherself; and I have injured one, whose affection for me--(may I say\nit?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind--Oh! how\ninfinitely superior!\"--\n\n\"Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl--I must say\nit, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well\nbe--your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her.  Do\nnot think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of\nunderstanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours.\nYou must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in\nDevonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was\nreduced to the extremest indigence.\"\n\n\"But, upon my soul, I did NOT know it,\" he warmly replied; \"I did not\nrecollect that I had omitted to give her my direction; and common sense\nmight have told her how to find it out.\"\n\n\"Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?\"\n\n\"She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be\nguessed.  The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her\nignorance of the world--every thing was against me.  The matter itself\nI could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it.  She was\npreviously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in\ngeneral, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention,\nthe very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on her, in my\npresent visit.  In short, it ended in a total breach.  By one measure I\nmight have saved myself.  In the height of her morality, good woman!\nshe offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza.  That could\nnot be--and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house.\nThe night following this affair--I was to go the next morning--was\nspent by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be.  The\nstruggle was great--but it ended too soon.  My affection for Marianne,\nmy thorough conviction of her attachment to me--it was all insufficient\nto outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of those false\nideas of the necessity of riches, which I was naturally inclined to\nfeel, and expensive society had increased.  I had reason to believe\nmyself secure of my present wife, if I chose to address her, and I\npersuaded myself to think that nothing else in common prudence remained\nfor me to do.  A heavy scene however awaited me, before I could leave\nDevonshire;--I was engaged to dine with you on that very day; some\napology was therefore necessary for my breaking this engagement.  But\nwhether I should write this apology, or deliver it in person, was a\npoint of long debate.  To see Marianne, I felt, would be dreadful, and\nI even doubted whether I could see her again, and keep to my\nresolution.  In that point, however, I undervalued my own magnanimity,\nas the event declared; for I went, I saw her, and saw her miserable,\nand left her miserable--and left her hoping never to see her again.\"\n\n\"Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby?\" said Elinor, reproachfully; \"a note\nwould have answered every purpose.-- Why was it necessary to call?\"\n\n\"It was necessary to my own pride.  I could not bear to leave the\ncountry in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the\nneighbourhood, to suspect any part of what had really passed between\nMrs. Smith and myself--and I resolved therefore on calling at the\ncottage, in my way to Honiton.  The sight of your dear sister, however,\nwas really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, I found her alone.\nYou were all gone I do not know where.  I had left her only the evening\nbefore, so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right!  A\nfew hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and I remember how\nhappy, how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage to\nAllenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with every body!  But in\nthis, our last interview of friendship, I approached her with a sense\nof guilt that almost took from me the power of dissembling.  Her\nsorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret, when I told her that I was\nobliged to leave Devonshire so immediately--I never shall forget\nit--united too with such reliance, such confidence in me!--Oh,\nGod!--what a hard-hearted rascal I was!\"\n\nThey were both silent for a few moments.  Elinor first spoke.\n\n\"Did you tell her that you should soon return?\"\n\n\"I do not know what I told her,\" he replied, impatiently; \"less than\nwas due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more\nthan was justified by the future.  I cannot think of it.--It won't\ndo.--Then came your dear mother to torture me farther, with all her\nkindness and confidence.  Thank Heaven! it DID torture me.  I was\nmiserable.  Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it\ngives me to look back on my own misery.  I owe such a grudge to myself\nfor the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past\nsufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now.  Well, I\nwent, left all that I loved, and went to those to whom, at best, I was\nonly indifferent.  My journey to town--travelling with my own horses,\nand therefore so tediously--no creature to speak to--my own reflections\nso cheerful--when I looked forward every thing so inviting!--when I\nlooked back at Barton, the picture so soothing!--oh, it was a blessed\njourney!\"\n\nHe stopped.\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient for\nhis departure, \"and this is all?\"\n\n\"Ah!--no,--have you forgot what passed in town?-- That infamous\nletter--Did she shew it you?\"\n\n\"Yes, I saw every note that passed.\"\n\n\"When the first of hers reached me (as it immediately did, for I was in\ntown the whole time,) what I felt is--in the common phrase, not to be\nexpressed; in a more simple one--perhaps too simple to raise any\nemotion--my feelings were very, very painful.--Every line, every word\nwas--in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here,\nwould forbid--a dagger to my heart.  To know that Marianne was in town\nwas--in the same language--a thunderbolt.--Thunderbolts and\ndaggers!--what a reproof would she have given me!--her taste, her\nopinions--I believe they are better known to me than my own,--and I am\nsure they are dearer.\"\n\nElinor's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this\nextraordinary conversation, was now softened again;--yet she felt it\nher duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last.\n\n\"This is not right, Mr. Willoughby.--Remember that you are married.\nRelate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to hear.\"\n\n\"Marianne's note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as in\nformer days, that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been\nseparated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of\nfaith in the constancy of mine as ever, awakened all my remorse.  I say\nawakened, because time and London, business and dissipation, had in\nsome measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine hardened\nvillain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and chusing to fancy that\nshe too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself of our\npast attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my\nshoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach,\novercoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, 'I shall be\nheartily glad to hear she is well married.'-- But this note made me\nknow myself better.  I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than\nany other woman in the world, and that I was using her infamously.  But\nevery thing was then just settled between Miss Grey and me.  To retreat\nwas impossible.  All that I had to do, was to avoid you both.  I sent\nno answer to Marianne, intending by that to preserve myself from her\nfarther notice; and for some time I was even determined not to call in\nBerkeley Street;--but at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a\ncool, common acquaintance than anything else, I watched you all safely\nout of the house one morning, and left my name.\"\n\n\"Watched us out of the house!\"\n\n\"Even so.  You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, how\noften I was on the point of falling in with you.  I have entered many a\nshop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by.  Lodging as I did\nin Bond Street, there was hardly a day in which I did not catch a\nglimpse of one or other of you; and nothing but the most constant\nwatchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep\nout of your sight, could have separated us so long.  I avoided the\nMiddletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was\nlikely to prove an acquaintance in common.  Not aware of their being in\ntown, however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of his\ncoming, and the day after I had called at Mrs. Jennings's.  He asked me\nto a party, a dance at his house in the evening.--Had he NOT told me as\nan inducement that you and your sister were to be there, I should have\nfelt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near him.  The next\nmorning brought another short note from Marianne--still affectionate,\nopen, artless, confiding--everything that could make MY conduct most\nhateful.  I could not answer it.  I tried--but could not frame a\nsentence.  But I thought of her, I believe, every moment of the day.\nIf you CAN pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was THEN.\nWith my head and heart full of your sister, I was forced to play the\nhappy lover to another woman!--Those three or four weeks were worse\nthan all.  Well, at last, as I need not tell you, you were forced on\nme; and what a sweet figure I cut!--what an evening of agony it was!--\nMarianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me Willoughby in\nsuch a tone!--Oh, God!--holding out her hand to me, asking me for an\nexplanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking\nsolicitude on my face!--and Sophia, jealous as the devil on the other\nhand, looking all that was--Well, it does not signify; it is over\nnow.-- Such an evening!--I ran away from you all as soon as I could;\nbut not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face as white as\ndeath.--THAT was the last, last look I ever had of her;--the last\nmanner in which she appeared to me.  It was a horrid sight!--yet when I\nthought of her to-day as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me\nto imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those, who saw\nher last in this world.  She was before me, constantly before me, as I\ntravelled, in the same look and hue.\"\n\nA short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded.  Willoughby first\nrousing himself, broke it thus:\n\n\"Well, let me make haste and be gone.  Your sister is certainly better,\ncertainly out of danger?\"\n\n\"We are assured of it.\"\n\n\"Your poor mother, too!--doting on Marianne.\"\n\n\"But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter; have you any thing to\nsay about that?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, THAT in particular.  Your sister wrote to me again, you\nknow, the very next morning.  You saw what she said.  I was\nbreakfasting at the Ellisons,--and her letter, with some others, was\nbrought to me there from my lodgings.  It happened to catch Sophia's\neye before it caught mine--and its size, the elegance of the paper, the\nhand-writing altogether, immediately gave her a suspicion.  Some vague\nreport had reached her before of my attachment to some young lady in\nDevonshire, and what had passed within her observation the preceding\nevening had marked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous\nthan ever.  Affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is\ndelightful in a woman one loves, she opened the letter directly,\nand read its contents.  She was well paid for her impudence.\nShe read what made her wretched.  Her wretchedness I could have\nborne, but her passion--her malice--At all events it must be appeased.\nAnd, in short--what do you think of my wife's style of\nletter-writing?--delicate--tender--truly feminine--was it not?\"\n\n\"Your wife!--The letter was in your own hand-writing.\"\n\n\"Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as\nI was ashamed to put my name to.  The original was all her own--her own\nhappy thoughts and gentle diction.  But what could I do!--we were\nengaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed--But I am\ntalking like a fool.  Preparation!--day!--In honest words, her money\nwas necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to be\ndone to prevent a rupture.  And after all, what did it signify to my\ncharacter in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what language\nmy answer was couched?--It must have been only to one end.  My business\nwas to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow or a\nbluster was of little importance.-- 'I am ruined for ever in their\nopinion--' said I to myself--'I am shut out for ever from their\nsociety, they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter will\nonly make them think me a blackguard one.' Such were my reasonings, as,\nin a sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my wife's words, and\nparted with the last relics of Marianne.  Her three notes--unluckily\nthey were all in my pocketbook, or I should have denied their\nexistence, and hoarded them for ever--I was forced to put them up, and\ncould not even kiss them.  And the lock of hair--that too I had always\ncarried about me in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by\nMadam with the most ingratiating virulence,--the dear lock--all, every\nmemento was torn from me.\"\n\n\"You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable,\" said Elinor, while\nher voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion;\n\"you ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my\nsister.  You had made your own choice.  It was not forced on you.  Your\nwife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least.  She\nmust be attached to you, or she would not have married you.  To treat\nher with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly is no atonement to\nMarianne--nor can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience.\"\n\n\"Do not talk to me of my wife,\" said he with a heavy sigh.-- \"She does\nnot deserve your compassion.--She knew I had no regard for her when we\nmarried.--Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be\nhappy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay.--And now do you pity\nme, Miss Dashwood?--or have I said all this to no purpose?-- Am I--be\nit only one degree--am I less guilty in your opinion than I was\nbefore?--My intentions were not always wrong.  Have I explained away\nany part of my guilt?\"\n\n\"Yes, you have certainly removed something--a little.-- You have proved\nyourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you.  You have\nproved your heart less wicked, much less wicked.  But I hardly\nknow--the misery that you have inflicted--I hardly know what could have\nmade it worse.\"\n\n\"Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what I have been\ntelling you?--Let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as well\nas in yours.  You tell me that she has forgiven me already.  Let me be\nable to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present\nfeelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more\ngentle, less dignified, forgiveness.  Tell her of my misery and my\npenitence--tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if\nyou will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever.\"\n\n\"I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be\ncalled, your justification.  But you have not explained to me the\nparticular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness.\"\n\n\"Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton, and\nwhen he saw who I was--for the first time these two months--he spoke to\nme.--That he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen without\nsurprise or resentment.  Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid\nsoul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your sister,\ncould not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought\nto--though probably he did not think it WOULD--vex me horridly.  As\nbluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that Marianne\nDashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland--a letter that\nmorning received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most\nimminent--the Palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c.--I was too much\nshocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even to the\nundiscerning Sir John.  His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer;\nand so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he\nalmost shook me by the hand while he reminded me of an old promise\nabout a pointer puppy.  What I felt on hearing that your sister was\ndying--and dying too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth,\nscorning, hating me in her latest moments--for how could I tell what\nhorrid projects might not have been imputed?  ONE person I was sure\nwould represent me as capable of any thing-- What I felt was\ndreadful!--My resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock this\nmorning I was in my carriage.  Now you know all.\"\n\nElinor made no answer.  Her thoughts were silently fixed on the\nirreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent\nhabits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the\ncharacter, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person\nand talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a\nfeeling, affectionate temper.  The world had made him extravagant and\nvain--Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish.\nVanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another,\nhad involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least\nits offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed.  Each faulty\npropensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment.\nThe attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, against\nevery better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no\nlonger allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for the\nsake of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to misery,\nwas likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more\nincurable nature.  From a reverie of this kind she was recalled at the\nend of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing himself from a reverie\nat least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and\nsaid--\n\n\"There is no use in staying here; I must be off.\"\n\n\"Are you going back to town?\"\n\n\"No--to Combe Magna.  I have business there; from thence to town in a\nday or two.  Good bye.\"\n\nHe held out his hand.  She could not refuse to give him hers;--he\npressed it with affection.\n\n\"And you DO think something better of me than you did?\"--said he,\nletting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgetting\nhe was to go.\n\nElinor assured him that she did;--that she forgave, pitied, wished him\nwell--was even interested in his happiness--and added some gentle\ncounsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it.  His answer was\nnot very encouraging.\n\n\"As to that,\" said he, \"I must rub through the world as well as I can.\nDomestic happiness is out of the question.  If, however, I am allowed\nto think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it\nmay be the means--it may put me on my guard--at least, it may be\nsomething to live for.  Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever.\nWere I even by any blessed chance at liberty again--\"\n\nElinor stopped him with a reproof.\n\n\"Well,\"--he replied--\"once more good bye. I shall now go away and live\nin dread of one event.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Your sister's marriage.\"\n\n\"You are very wrong.  She can never be more lost to you than she is\nnow.\"\n\n\"But she will be gained by some one else.  And if that some one should\nbe the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear--but I will not\nstay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by shewing that\nwhere I have most injured I can least forgive.  Good bye,--God bless\nyou!\"\n\nAnd with these words, he almost ran out of the room.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 45\n\n\nElinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the\nsound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a\ncrowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness\nwas the general result, to think even of her sister.\n\nWilloughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most\nworthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a\ndegree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made\nher think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a\ntenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged\nwithin herself--to his wishes than to his merits.  She felt that his\ninfluence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not\nin reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that\nopen, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess;\nand by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even\ninnocent to indulge.  But she felt that it was so, long, long before\nshe could feel his influence less.\n\nWhen at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her\njust awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of\nher hopes.  Elinor's heart was full.  The past, the present, the\nfuture, Willoughby's visit, Marianne's safety, and her mother's\nexpected arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits\nwhich kept off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful\nof betraying herself to her sister.  Short was the time, however, in\nwhich that fear could affect her, for within half an hour after\nWilloughby's leaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the\nsound of another carriage.--Eager to save her mother from every\nunnecessary moment's horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the\nhall, and reached the outward door just in time to receive and support\nher as she entered it.\n\nMrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced\nalmost the conviction of Marianne's being no more, had no voice to\ninquire after her, no voice even for Elinor; but SHE, waiting neither\nfor salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief;--and her\nmother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much\novercome by her happiness, as she had been before by her fears.  She\nwas supported into the drawing-room between her daughter and her\nfriend;--and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable to\nspeak, embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals\nto press Colonel Brandon's hand, with a look which spoke at once her\ngratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss\nof the moment.  He shared it, however, in a silence even greater than\nher own.\n\nAs soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was her\nfirst desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child,\nrendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger.\nElinor's delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only\nchecked by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther\nsleep;--but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when\nthe life of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in knowing\nher mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for\nconversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by\nevery nurse around her.  Mrs. Dashwood WOULD sit up with her all night;\nand Elinor, in compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to bed.  But\nthe rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the\nmost wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by\nirritation of spirits.  Willoughby, \"poor Willoughby,\" as she now\nallowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would\nnot but have heard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now\nacquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before.  But her\npromise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful.  She\ndreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne\nmight be; doubted whether after such an explanation she could ever be\nhappy with another; and for a moment wished Willoughby a widower.\nThen, remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved herself, felt that to HIS\nsufferings and his constancy far more than to his rival's, the reward\nof her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than Mrs.\nWilloughby's death.\n\nThe shock of Colonel Brandon's errand at Barton had been much softened\nto Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her\nuneasiness about Marianne, that she had already determined to set out\nfor Cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any further\nintelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival,\nthat the Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret away,\nas her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be infection.\n\nMarianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of\nMrs. Dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly\ndeclared herself, one of the happiest women in the world.  Elinor could\nnot hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes\nwondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward.  But Mrs.\nDashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment\nwhich Elinor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to\nthink only of what would increase it.  Marianne was restored to her\nfrom a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken\njudgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby, had\ncontributed to place her;--and in her recovery she had yet another\nsource of joy unthought of by Elinor.  It was thus imparted to her, as\nsoon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred.\n\n\"At last we are alone.  My Elinor, you do not yet know all my\nhappiness.  Colonel Brandon loves Marianne.  He has told me so himself.\"\n\nHer daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and\nnot surprised, was all silent attention.\n\n\"You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your\ncomposure now.  Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my\nfamily, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's marrying one of you as\nthe object most desirable.  And I believe Marianne will be the most\nhappy with him of the two.\"\n\nElinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because\nsatisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their age,\ncharacters, or feelings, could be given;--but her mother must always be\ncarried away by her imagination on any interesting subject, and\ntherefore instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.\n\n\"He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled.  It came\nout quite unawares, quite undesignedly.  I, you may well believe, could\ntalk of nothing but my child;--he could not conceal his distress; I saw\nthat it equalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere friendship,\nas the world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy--or rather,\nnot thinking at all, I suppose--giving way to irresistible feelings,\nmade me acquainted with his earnest, tender, constant, affection for\nMarianne.  He has loved her, my Elinor, ever since the first moment of\nseeing her.\"\n\nHere, however, Elinor perceived,--not the language, not the professions\nof Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother's\nactive fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it chose.\n\n\"His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby\never felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or\nconstant--which ever we are to call it--has subsisted through all the\nknowledge of dear Marianne's unhappy prepossession for that worthless\nyoung man!--and without selfishness--without encouraging a hope!--could\nhe have seen her happy with another--Such a noble mind!--such openness,\nsuch sincerity!--no one can be deceived in HIM.\"\n\n\"Colonel Brandon's character,\" said Elinor, \"as an excellent man, is\nwell established.\"\n\n\"I know it is,\"--replied her mother seriously, \"or after such a warning,\nI should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be pleased\nby it.  But his coming for me as he did, with such active, such ready\nfriendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men.\"\n\n\"His character, however,\" answered Elinor, \"does not rest on ONE act of\nkindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of the\ncase, would have prompted him.  To Mrs. Jennings, to the Middletons, he\nhas been long and intimately known; they equally love and respect him;\nand even my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very\nconsiderable; and so highly do I value and esteem him, that if Marianne\ncan be happy with him, I shall be as ready as yourself to think our\nconnection the greatest blessing to us in the world.  What answer did\nyou give him?--Did you allow him to hope?\"\n\n\"Oh! my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself.\nMarianne might at that moment be dying.  But he did not ask for hope or\nencouragement.  His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible\neffusion to a soothing friend--not an application to a parent.  Yet\nafter a time I DID say, for at first I was quite overcome--that if she\nlived, as I trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in\npromoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful\nsecurity, I have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every\nencouragement in my power.  Time, a very little time, I tell him, will\ndo everything;--Marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a\nman as Willoughby.-- His own merits must soon secure it.\"\n\n\"To judge from the Colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet made\nhim equally sanguine.\"\n\n\"No.--He thinks Marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any change\nin it under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again\nfree, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a\ndifference of age and disposition he could ever attach her.  There,\nhowever, he is quite mistaken.  His age is only so much beyond hers as\nto be an advantage, as to make his character and principles fixed;--and\nhis disposition, I am well convinced, is exactly the very one to make\nyour sister happy.  And his person, his manners too, are all in his\nfavour.  My partiality does not blind me; he certainly is not so\nhandsome as Willoughby--but at the same time, there is something much\nmore pleasing in his countenance.-- There was always a something,--if\nyou remember,--in Willoughby's eyes at times, which I did not like.\"\n\nElinor could NOT remember it;--but her mother, without waiting for her\nassent, continued,\n\n\"And his manners, the Colonel's manners are not only more pleasing to\nme than Willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to\nbe more solidly attaching to Marianne.  Their gentleness, their genuine\nattention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much\nmore accordant with her real disposition, than the liveliness--often\nartificial, and often ill-timed of the other.  I am very sure myself,\nthat had Willoughby turned out as really amiable, as he has proved\nhimself the contrary, Marianne would yet never have been so happy with\nHIM, as she will be with Colonel Brandon.\"\n\nShe paused.--Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her\ndissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence.\n\n\"At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me,\" added Mrs.\nDashwood, \"even if I remain at Barton; and in all probability,--for I\nhear it is a large village,--indeed there certainly MUST be some small\nhouse or cottage close by, that would suit us quite as well as our\npresent situation.\"\n\nPoor Elinor!--here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford!--but\nher spirit was stubborn.\n\n\"His fortune too!--for at my time of life you know, everybody cares\nabout THAT;--and though I neither know nor desire to know, what it\nreally is, I am sure it must be a good one.\"\n\nHere they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and\nElinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her\nfriend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 46\n\n\nMarianne's illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long\nenough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength, and\nher mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her\nto remove, within four days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs.\nPalmer's dressing-room.  When there, at her own particular request, for\nshe was impatient to pour forth her thanks to him for fetching her\nmother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit her.\n\nHis emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and in\nreceiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was\nsuch, as, in Elinor's conjecture, must arise from something more than\nhis affection for Marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to\nothers; and she soon discovered in his melancholy eye and varying\ncomplexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many\npast scenes of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblance\nbetween Marianne and Eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened\nby the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness,\nand the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.\n\nMrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, but\nwith a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to very\ndifferent effect, saw nothing in the Colonel's behaviour but what arose\nfrom the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions\nand words of Marianne she persuaded herself to think that something\nmore than gratitude already dawned.\n\nAt the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger\nevery twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her\ndaughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton.  On HER\nmeasures depended those of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could not\nquit Cleveland during the Dashwoods' stay; and Colonel Brandon was soon\nbrought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there as\nequally determinate, if not equally indispensable.  At his and Mrs.\nJennings's united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to\naccept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better\naccommodation of her sick child; and the Colonel, at the joint\ninvitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-nature\nmade her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself,\nengaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the cottage, in the\ncourse of a few weeks.\n\nThe day of separation and departure arrived; and Marianne, after taking\nso particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so earnestly\ngrateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her own\nheart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding\nColonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was carefully\nassisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed anxious that she\nshould engross at least half.  Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor then followed,\nand the others were left by themselves, to talk of the travellers, and\nfeel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings was summoned to her chaise\nto take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two young\ncompanions; and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took his\nsolitary way to Delaford.\n\nThe Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journey\non both, without essential fatigue.  Every thing that the most zealous\naffection, the most solicitous care could do to render her comfortable,\nwas the office of each watchful companion, and each found their reward\nin her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits.  To Elinor, the\nobservation of the latter was particularly grateful.  She, who had seen\nher week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of\nheart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude to\nconceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally share, an\napparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as she trusted\nof serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and\ncheerfulness.\n\nAs they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which every\nfield and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection,\nshe grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their\nnotice, sat earnestly gazing through the window.  But here, Elinor\ncould neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she assisted\nMarianne from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only an\nemotion too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender than pity,\nand in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise.  In the whole of her\nsubsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened to\nreasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common\nsitting-room, than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of\nresolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the\nsight of every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could be\nconnected.--She said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness,\nand though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed away without\nthe atonement of a smile.  After dinner she would try her piano-forte.\nShe went to it; but the music on which her eye first rested was an\nopera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some of their\nfavourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his\nhand-writing.--That would not do.--She shook her head, put the music\naside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of\nfeebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaring\nhowever with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practice\nmuch.\n\nThe next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms.  On the\ncontrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked\nand spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of\nMargaret's return, and talking of the dear family party which would\nthen be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the\nonly happiness worth a wish.\n\n\"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength,\" said\nshe, \"we will take long walks together every day.  We will walk to the\nfarm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will\nwalk to Sir John's new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland;\nand we will often go the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its\nfoundations as far as we are told they once reached.  I know we shall\nbe happy.  I know the summer will pass happily away.  I mean never to\nbe later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall\ndivide every moment between music and reading.  I have formed my plan,\nand am determined to enter on a course of serious study.  Our own\nlibrary is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond\nmere amusement.  But there are many works well worth reading at the\nPark; and there are others of more modern production which I know I can\nborrow of Colonel Brandon.  By reading only six hours a-day, I shall\ngain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which\nI now feel myself to want.\"\n\nElinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this;\nthough smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her\nto the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work\nin introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and\nvirtuous self-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh when she\nremembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared\nshe had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of\nMarianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy\ntranquillity.  Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved\nto wait till her sister's health were more secure, before she appointed\nit.  But the resolution was made only to be broken.\n\nMarianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was\nfine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out.  But at last a\nsoft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter's\nwishes and the mother's confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor's\narm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in\nthe lane before the house.\n\nThe sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne in an\nexercise hitherto untried since her illness required;--and they had\nadvanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the\nhill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned\ntowards it, Marianne calmly said,\n\n\"There, exactly there,\"--pointing with one hand, \"on that projecting\nmound,--there I fell; and there I first saw Willoughby.\"\n\nHer voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added,\n\n\"I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the\nspot!--shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?\"--hesitatingly it\nwas said.--\"Or will it be wrong?--I can talk of it now, I hope, as I\nought to do.\"--\n\nElinor tenderly invited her to be open.\n\n\"As for regret,\" said Marianne, \"I have done with that, as far as HE is\nconcerned.  I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been\nfor him, but what they are NOW.--At present, if I could be satisfied on\none point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not ALWAYS acting\na part, not ALWAYS deceiving me;--but above all, if I could be assured\nthat he never was so VERY wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied\nhim, since the story of that unfortunate girl\"--\n\nShe stopt.  Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered,\n\n\"If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy.\"\n\n\"Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it;--for not only is it\nhorrible to suspect a person, who has been what HE has been to ME, of\nsuch designs,--but what must it make me appear to myself?--What in a\nsituation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could\nexpose me to\"--\n\n\"How then,\" asked her sister, \"would you account for his behaviour?\"\n\n\"I would suppose him,--Oh, how gladly would I suppose him, only fickle,\nvery, very fickle.\"\n\nElinor said no more.  She was debating within herself on the\neligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till\nMarianne were in stronger health;--and they crept on for a few minutes\nin silence.\n\n\"I am not wishing him too much good,\" said Marianne at last with a\nsigh, \"when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant\nthan my own.  He will suffer enough in them.\"\n\n\"Do you compare your conduct with his?\"\n\n\"No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with\nyours.\"\n\n\"Our situations have borne little resemblance.\"\n\n\"They have borne more than our conduct.--Do not, my dearest Elinor, let\nyour kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure.  My\nillness has made me think-- It has given me leisure and calmness for\nserious recollection.  Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I\nwas perfectly able to reflect.  I considered the past: I saw in my own\nbehaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last\nautumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of\nkindness to others.  I saw that my own feelings had prepared my\nsufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me\nto the grave.  My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by\nmyself by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the\ntime to be wrong.  Had I died,--it would have been self-destruction. I\ndid not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with such\nfeelings as these reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery,--wonder\nthat the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for\natonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once.  Had I\ndied,--in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse, my\nfriend, my sister!--You, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my\nlatter days; who had known all the murmurings of my heart!--How should\nI have lived in YOUR remembrance!--My mother too! How could you have\nconsoled her!--I cannot express my own abhorrence of myself.  Whenever\nI looked towards the past, I saw some duty neglected, or some failing\nindulged.  Every body seemed injured by me.  The kindness, the\nunceasing kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I had repaid with ungrateful\ncontempt.  To the Middletons, to the Palmers, the Steeles, to every\ncommon acquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust; with a heart\nhardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very\nattention.--To John, to Fanny,--yes, even to them, little as they\ndeserve, I had given less than their due.  But you,--you above all,\nabove my mother, had been wronged by me.  I, and only I, knew your\nheart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?--not to any\ncompassion that could benefit you or myself.--Your example was before\nme; but to what avail?--Was I more considerate of you and your comfort?\nDid I imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking\nany part in those offices of general complaisance or particular\ngratitude which you had hitherto been left to discharge\nalone?--No;--not less when I knew you to be unhappy, than when I had\nbelieved you at ease, did I turn away from every exertion of duty or\nfriendship; scarcely allowing sorrow to exist but with me, regretting\nonly THAT heart which had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you, for\nwhom I professed an unbounded affection, to be miserable for my sake.\"\n\nHere ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor,\nimpatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly\nthat praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well\ndeserved.  Marianne pressed her hand and replied,\n\n\"You are very good.--The future must be my proof.  I have laid down my\nplan, and if I am capable of adhering to it--my feelings shall be\ngoverned and my temper improved.  They shall no longer worry others,\nnor torture myself.  I shall now live solely for my family.  You, my\nmother, and Margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you will\nshare my affections entirely between you.  From you, from my home, I\nshall never again have the smallest incitement to move; and if I do mix\nin other society, it will be only to shew that my spirit is humbled, my\nheart amended, and that I can practise the civilities, the lesser\nduties of life, with gentleness and forbearance.  As for Willoughby--to\nsay that I shall soon or that I shall ever forget him, would be idle.\nHis remembrance can be overcome by no change of circumstances or\nopinions.  But it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion,\nby reason, by constant employment.\"\n\nShe paused--and added in a low voice, \"If I could but know HIS heart,\neverything would become easy.\"\n\nElinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or\nimpropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at all\nnearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as\nreflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself\nleading to the fact.\n\nShe managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her\nanxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief\npoints on which Willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his\nrepentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard.\nMarianne said not a word.--She trembled, her eyes were fixed on the\nground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them.  A\nthousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge\none.  She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand,\nunknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears covered\nher cheeks.\n\nElinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they\nreached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her curiosity\nmust be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing\nbut Willoughby, and their conversation together; and was carefully\nminute in every particular of speech and look, where minuteness could\nbe safely indulged.  As soon as they entered the house, Marianne with a\nkiss of gratitude and these two words just articulate through her\ntears, \"Tell mama,\" withdrew from her sister and walked slowly up\nstairs.  Elinor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable\nas what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its\nresult, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should Marianne\nfail to do it, she turned into the parlour to fulfill her parting\ninjunction.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 47\n\n\nMrs. Dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former\nfavourite.  She rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his\nimputed guilt;--she was sorry for him;--she wished him happy.  But the\nfeelings of the past could not be recalled.--Nothing could restore him\nwith a faith unbroken--a character unblemished, to Marianne.  Nothing\ncould do away the knowledge of what the latter had suffered through his\nmeans, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza.  Nothing\ncould replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the\ninterests of Colonel Brandon.\n\nHad Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby's story from\nhimself--had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence\nof his countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion\nwould have been greater.  But it was neither in Elinor's power, nor in\nher wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her retailed\nexplanation, as had at first been called forth in herself.  Reflection\nhad given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own opinion of\nWilloughby's deserts;--she wished, therefore, to declare only the\nsimple truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his\ncharacter, without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy\nastray.\n\nIn the evening, when they were all three together, Marianne began\nvoluntarily to speak of him again;--but that it was not without an\neffort, the restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for\nsome time previously sitting--her rising colour, as she spoke,--and her\nunsteady voice, plainly shewed.\n\n\"I wish to assure you both,\" said she, \"that I see every thing--as you\ncan desire me to do.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing\ntenderness, had not Elinor, who really wished to hear her sister's\nunbiased opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence.  Marianne\nslowly continued--\n\n\"It is a great relief to me--what Elinor told me this morning--I have\nnow heard exactly what I wished to hear.\"--For some moments her voice\nwas lost; but recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness\nthan before--\"I am now perfectly satisfied, I wish for no change.  I\nnever could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or later\nI must have known, all this.--I should have had no confidence, no\nesteem.  Nothing could have done it away to my feelings.\"\n\n\"I know it--I know it,\" cried her mother.  \"Happy with a man of\nlibertine practices!--With one who so injured the peace of the dearest\nof our friends, and the best of men!--No--my Marianne has not a heart\nto be made happy with such a man!--Her conscience, her sensitive\nconscience, would have felt all that the conscience of her husband\nought to have felt.\"\n\nMarianne sighed, and repeated, \"I wish for no change.\"\n\n\"You consider the matter,\" said Elinor, \"exactly as a good mind and a\nsound understanding must consider it; and I dare say you perceive, as\nwell as myself, not only in this, but in many other circumstances,\nreason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved you\nin many certain troubles and disappointments, in which you would have\nbeen poorly supported by an affection, on his side, much less certain.\nHad you married, you must have been always poor.  His expensiveness is\nacknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct declares that\nself-denial is a word hardly understood by him.  His demands and your\ninexperience together, on a small, very small income, must have brought\non distresses which would not be the LESS grievous to you, from having\nbeen entirely unknown and unthought of before.  YOUR sense of honour\nand honesty would have led you, I know, when aware of your situation,\nto attempt all the economy that would appear to you possible: and,\nperhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched only on your own comfort,\nyou might have been suffered to practice it, but beyond that--and how\nlittle could the utmost of your single management do to stop the ruin\nwhich had begun before your marriage?-- Beyond THAT, had you\nendeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge HIS enjoyments, is it not\nto be feared, that instead of prevailing on feelings so selfish to\nconsent to it, you would have lessened your own influence on his heart,\nand made him regret the connection which had involved him in such\ndifficulties?\"\n\nMarianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the word \"Selfish?\" in a\ntone that implied--\"do you really think him selfish?\"\n\n\"The whole of his behaviour,\" replied Elinor, \"from the beginning to\nthe end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness.  It was\nselfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which\nafterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession of\nit, and which finally carried him from Barton.  His own enjoyment, or\nhis own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle.\"\n\n\"It is very true.  MY happiness never was his object.\"\n\n\"At present,\" continued Elinor, \"he regrets what he has done.  And why\ndoes he regret it?--Because he finds it has not answered towards\nhimself.  It has not made him happy.  His circumstances are now\nunembarrassed--he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks only\nthat he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than yourself.\nBut does it follow that had he married you, he would have been\nhappy?--The inconveniences would have been different.  He would then\nhave suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are\nremoved, he now reckons as nothing.  He would have had a wife of whose\ntemper he could make no complaint, but he would have been always\nnecessitous--always poor; and probably would soon have learned to rank\nthe innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far\nmore importance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a\nwife.\"\n\n\"I have not a doubt of it,\" said Marianne; \"and I have nothing to\nregret--nothing but my own folly.\"\n\n\"Rather say your mother's imprudence, my child,\" said Mrs. Dashwood;\n\"SHE must be answerable.\"\n\nMarianne would not let her proceed;--and Elinor, satisfied that each\nfelt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that might\nweaken her sister's spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first\nsubject, immediately continued,\n\n\"One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the\nstory--that all Willoughby's difficulties have arisen from the first\noffence against virtue, in his behaviour to Eliza Williams.  That crime\nhas been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present\ndiscontents.\"\n\nMarianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led\nby it to an enumeration of Colonel Brandon's injuries and merits, warm\nas friendship and design could unitedly dictate.  Her daughter did not\nlook, however, as if much of it were heard by her.\n\nElinor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or three following\ndays, that Marianne did not continue to gain strength as she had done;\nbut while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried to appear\ncheerful and easy, her sister could safely trust to the effect of time\nupon her health.\n\nMargaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each\nother, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if not pursuing their\nusual studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to\nBarton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future.\n\nElinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward.  She had heard\nnothing of him since her leaving London, nothing new of his plans,\nnothing certain even of his present abode.  Some letters had passed\nbetween her and her brother, in consequence of Marianne's illness; and\nin the first of John's, there had been this sentence:-- \"We know\nnothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so\nprohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford;\" which\nwas all the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence,\nfor his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters.\nShe was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures.\n\nTheir man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business; and\nwhen, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his\nmistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary\ncommunication--\n\n\"I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is married.\"\n\nMarianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her\nturning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics.  Mrs. Dashwood,\nwhose eyes, as she answered the servant's inquiry, had intuitively\ntaken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by Elinor's\ncountenance how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards,\nalike distressed by Marianne's situation, knew not on which child to\nbestow her principal attention.\n\nThe servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense\nenough to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood's assistance,\nsupported her into the other room.  By that time, Marianne was rather\nbetter, and her mother leaving her to the care of Margaret and the\nmaid, returned to Elinor, who, though still much disordered, had so far\nrecovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just beginning an\ninquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his intelligence.  Mrs. Dashwood\nimmediately took all that trouble on herself; and Elinor had the\nbenefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it.\n\n\"Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas?\"\n\n\"I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma'am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady\ntoo, Miss Steele as was.  They was stopping in a chaise at the door of\nthe New London Inn, as I went there with a message from Sally at the\nPark to her brother, who is one of the post-boys. I happened to look up\nas I went by the chaise, and so I see directly it was the youngest Miss\nSteele; so I took off my hat, and she knew me and called to me, and\ninquired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies, especially Miss\nMarianne, and bid me I should give her compliments and Mr. Ferrars's,\ntheir best compliments and service, and how sorry they was they had not\ntime to come on and see you, but they was in a great hurry to go\nforwards, for they was going further down for a little while, but\nhowsever, when they come back, they'd make sure to come and see you.\"\n\n\"But did she tell you she was married, Thomas?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am. She smiled, and said how she had changed her name since\nshe was in these parts.  She was always a very affable and free-spoken\nyoung lady, and very civil behaved.  So, I made free to wish her joy.\"\n\n\"Was Mr. Ferrars in the carriage with her?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look\nup;--he never was a gentleman much for talking.\"\n\nElinor's heart could easily account for his not putting himself\nforward; and Mrs. Dashwood probably found the same explanation.\n\n\"Was there no one else in the carriage?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am, only they two.\"\n\n\"Do you know where they came from?\"\n\n\"They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy--Mrs. Ferrars told me.\"\n\n\"And are they going farther westward?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am--but not to bide long.  They will soon be back again, and\nthen they'd be sure and call here.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but Elinor knew better than\nto expect them.  She recognised the whole of Lucy in the message, and\nwas very confident that Edward would never come near them.  She\nobserved in a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably going\ndown to Mr. Pratt's, near Plymouth.\n\nThomas's intelligence seemed over.  Elinor looked as if she wished to\nhear more.\n\n\"Did you see them off, before you came away?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am--the horses were just coming out, but I could not bide any\nlonger; I was afraid of being late.\"\n\n\"Did Mrs. Ferrars look well?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was\nalways a very handsome young lady--and she seemed vastly contented.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood could think of no other question, and Thomas and the\ntablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed.\nMarianne had already sent to say, that she should eat nothing more.\nMrs. Dashwood's and Elinor's appetites were equally lost, and Margaret\nmight think herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness as both\nher sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had often\nhad to be careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to go\nwithout her dinner before.\n\nWhen the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and\nElinor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a\nsimilarity of thoughtfulness and silence.  Mrs. Dashwood feared to\nhazard any remark, and ventured not to offer consolation.  She now\nfound that she had erred in relying on Elinor's representation of\nherself; and justly concluded that every thing had been expressly\nsoftened at the time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness,\nsuffering as she then had suffered for Marianne.  She found that she\nhad been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her\ndaughter, to think the attachment, which once she had so well\nunderstood, much slighter in reality, than she had been wont to\nbelieve, or than it was now proved to be.  She feared that under this\npersuasion she had been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to her\nElinor;--that Marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged, more\nimmediately before her, had too much engrossed her tenderness, and led\nher away to forget that in Elinor she might have a daughter suffering\nalmost as much, certainly with less self-provocation, and greater\nfortitude.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 48\n\n\nElinor now found the difference between the expectation of an\nunpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it,\nand certainty itself.  She now found, that in spite of herself, she had\nalways admitted a hope, while Edward remained single, that something\nwould occur to prevent his marrying Lucy; that some resolution of his\nown, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of\nestablishment for the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of all.\nBut he was now married; and she condemned her heart for the lurking\nflattery, which so much heightened the pain of the intelligence.\n\nThat he should be married soon, before (as she imagined) he could be in\norders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the\nliving, surprised her a little at first.  But she soon saw how likely\nit was that Lucy, in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure\nhim, should overlook every thing but the risk of delay.  They were\nmarried, married in town, and now hastening down to her uncle's.  What\nhad Edward felt on being within four miles from Barton, on seeing her\nmother's servant, on hearing Lucy's message!\n\nThey would soon, she supposed, be settled at Delaford.--Delaford,--that\nplace in which so much conspired to give her an interest; which she\nwished to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid.  She saw them\nin an instant in their parsonage-house; saw in Lucy, the active,\ncontriving manager, uniting at once a desire of smart appearance with\nthe utmost frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of half her\neconomical practices;--pursuing her own interest in every thought,\ncourting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs. Jennings, and of every\nwealthy friend.  In Edward--she knew not what she saw, nor what she\nwished to see;--happy or unhappy,--nothing pleased her; she turned away\nher head from every sketch of him.\n\nElinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in London\nwould write to them to announce the event, and give farther\nparticulars,--but day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no\ntidings.  Though uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault\nwith every absent friend.  They were all thoughtless or indolent.\n\n\"When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma'am?\" was an inquiry which\nsprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on.\n\n\"I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see, than to\nhear from him again.  I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should\nnot be surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day.\"\n\nThis was gaining something, something to look forward to.  Colonel\nBrandon must have some information to give.\n\nScarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on\nhorseback drew her eyes to the window.  He stopt at their gate.  It was\na gentleman, it was Colonel Brandon himself.  Now she could hear more;\nand she trembled in expectation of it.  But--it was NOT Colonel\nBrandon--neither his air--nor his height.  Were it possible, she must\nsay it must be Edward.  She looked again.  He had just dismounted;--she\ncould not be mistaken,--it WAS Edward.  She moved away and sat down.\n\"He comes from Mr. Pratt's purposely to see us.  I WILL be calm; I WILL\nbe mistress of myself.\"\n\nIn a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the\nmistake.  She saw her mother and Marianne change colour; saw them look\nat herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other.  She would have\ngiven the world to be able to speak--and to make them understand that\nshe hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to\nhim;--but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their\nown discretion.\n\nNot a syllable passed aloud.  They all waited in silence for the\nappearance of their visitor.  His footsteps were heard along the gravel\npath; in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before\nthem.\n\nHis countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for\nElinor.  His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if\nfearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one.\nMrs. Dashwood, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of\nthat daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be\nguided in every thing, met with a look of forced complacency, gave him\nher hand, and wished him joy.\n\nHe coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply.  Elinor's lips\nhad moved with her mother's, and, when the moment of action was over,\nshe wished that she had shaken hands with him too.  But it was then too\nlate, and with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again and\ntalked of the weather.\n\nMarianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal her\ndistress; and Margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole of\nthe case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and therefore\ntook a seat as far from him as she could, and maintained a strict\nsilence.\n\nWhen Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very\nawful pause took place.  It was put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who\nfelt obliged to hope that he had left Mrs. Ferrars very well.  In a\nhurried manner, he replied in the affirmative.\n\nAnother pause.\n\nElinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own\nvoice, now said,\n\n\"Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple?\"\n\n\"At Longstaple!\" he replied, with an air of surprise.-- \"No, my mother\nis in town.\"\n\n\"I meant,\" said Elinor, taking up some work from the table, \"to inquire\nfor Mrs. EDWARD Ferrars.\"\n\nShe dared not look up;--but her mother and Marianne both turned their\neyes on him.  He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and,\nafter some hesitation, said,--\n\n\"Perhaps you mean--my brother--you mean Mrs.--Mrs. ROBERT Ferrars.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Robert Ferrars!\"--was repeated by Marianne and her mother in an\naccent of the utmost amazement;--and though Elinor could not speak,\neven HER eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder.  He\nrose from his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not\nknowing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and\nwhile spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to\npieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice,\n\n\"Perhaps you do not know--you may not have heard that my brother is\nlately married to--to the youngest--to Miss Lucy Steele.\"\n\nHis words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but Elinor,\nwho sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of such\nagitation as made her hardly know where she was.\n\n\"Yes,\" said he, \"they were married last week, and are now at Dawlish.\"\n\nElinor could sit it no longer.  She almost ran out of the room, and as\nsoon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first\nshe thought would never cease.  Edward, who had till then looked any\nwhere, rather than at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw--or even\nheard, her emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie,\nwhich no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of Mrs.\nDashwood could penetrate, and at last, without saying a word, quitted\nthe room, and walked out towards the village--leaving the others in the\ngreatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his situation, so\nwonderful and so sudden;--a perplexity which they had no means of\nlessening but by their own conjectures.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 49\n\n\nUnaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might\nappear to the whole family, it was certain that Edward was free; and to\nwhat purpose that freedom would be employed was easily pre-determined\nby all;--for after experiencing the blessings of ONE imprudent\nengagement, contracted without his mother's consent, as he had already\ndone for more than four years, nothing less could be expected of him in\nthe failure of THAT, than the immediate contraction of another.\n\nHis errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one.  It was only to ask\nElinor to marry him;--and considering that he was not altogether\ninexperienced in such a question, it might be strange that he should\nfeel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much in\nneed of encouragement and fresh air.\n\nHow soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however, how\nsoon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he\nexpressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly\ntold.  This only need be said;--that when they all sat down to table at\nfour o'clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his\nlady, engaged her mother's consent, and was not only in the rapturous\nprofession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason and truth, one\nof the happiest of men.  His situation indeed was more than commonly\njoyful.  He had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to\nswell his heart, and raise his spirits.  He was released without any\nreproach to himself, from an entanglement which had long formed his\nmisery, from a woman whom he had long ceased to love;--and elevated at\nonce to that security with another, which he must have thought of\nalmost with despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with\ndesire.  He was brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to\nhappiness;--and the change was openly spoken in such a genuine,\nflowing, grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in\nhim before.\n\nHis heart was now open to Elinor, all its weaknesses, all its errors\nconfessed, and his first boyish attachment to Lucy treated with all the\nphilosophic dignity of twenty-four.\n\n\"It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side,\" said he, \"the\nconsequence of ignorance of the world--and want of employment.  Had my\nmother given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen\nfrom the care of Mr. Pratt, I think--nay, I am sure, it would never\nhave happened; for though I left Longstaple with what I thought, at the\ntime, a most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had I then had\nany pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at a distance\nfrom her for a few months, I should very soon have outgrown the fancied\nattachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as in such case I\nmust have done.  But instead of having any thing to do, instead of\nhaving any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to chuse any\nmyself, I returned home to be completely idle; and for the first\ntwelvemonth afterwards I had not even the nominal employment, which\nbelonging to the university would have given me; for I was not entered\nat Oxford till I was nineteen.  I had therefore nothing in the world to\ndo, but to fancy myself in love; and as my mother did not make my home\nin every respect comfortable, as I had no friend, no companion in my\nbrother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to\nbe very often at Longstaple, where I always felt myself at home, and\nwas always sure of a welcome; and accordingly I spent the greatest part\nof my time there from eighteen to nineteen: Lucy appeared everything\nthat was amiable and obliging.  She was pretty too--at least I thought\nso THEN; and I had seen so little of other women, that I could make no\ncomparisons, and see no defects.  Considering everything, therefore, I\nhope, foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in every\nway been proved, it was not at the time an unnatural or an inexcusable\npiece of folly.\"\n\nThe change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the happiness\nof the Dashwoods, was such--so great--as promised them all, the\nsatisfaction of a sleepless night.  Mrs. Dashwood, too happy to be\ncomfortable, knew not how to love Edward, nor praise Elinor enough, how\nto be enough thankful for his release without wounding his delicacy,\nnor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained conversation\ntogether, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and society of both.\n\nMarianne could speak HER happiness only by tears.  Comparisons would\noccur--regrets would arise;--and her joy, though sincere as her love\nfor her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language.\n\nBut Elinor--how are HER feelings to be described?--From the moment of\nlearning that Lucy was married to another, that Edward was free, to the\nmoment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she\nwas every thing by turns but tranquil.  But when the second moment had\npassed, when she found every doubt, every solicitude removed, compared\nher situation with what so lately it had been,--saw him honourably\nreleased from his former engagement, saw him instantly profiting by the\nrelease, to address herself and declare an affection as tender, as\nconstant as she had ever supposed it to be,--she was oppressed, she was\novercome by her own felicity;--and happily disposed as is the human\nmind to be easily familiarized with any change for the better, it\nrequired several hours to give sedateness to her spirits, or any degree\nof tranquillity to her heart.\n\nEdward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week;--for whatever\nother claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a\nweek should be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor's company, or\nsuffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and\nthe future;--for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of\nincessant talking will despatch more subjects than can really be in\ncommon between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it is\ndifferent.  Between THEM no subject is finished, no communication is\neven made, till it has been made at least twenty times over.\n\nLucy's marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all,\nformed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers;--and\nElinor's particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her in\nevery view, as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable\ncircumstances she had ever heard.  How they could be thrown together,\nand by what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of\nwhose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any admiration,--a\ngirl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose account that\nbrother had been thrown off by his family--it was beyond her\ncomprehension to make out.  To her own heart it was a delightful\naffair, to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her\nreason, her judgment, it was completely a puzzle.\n\nEdward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that, perhaps,\nat first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked\non by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the rest.\nElinor remembered what Robert had told her in Harley Street, of his\nopinion of what his own mediation in his brother's affairs might have\ndone, if applied to in time.  She repeated it to Edward.\n\n\"THAT was exactly like Robert,\"--was his immediate observation.--\"And\nTHAT,\" he presently added, \"might perhaps be in HIS head when the\nacquaintance between them first began.  And Lucy perhaps at first might\nthink only of procuring his good offices in my favour.  Other designs\nmight afterward arise.\"\n\nHow long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally\nat a loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had\nremained for choice ever since his quitting London, he had had no means\nof hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very last\nwere neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual.  Not the\nsmallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him for\nwhat followed;--and when at last it burst on him in a letter from Lucy\nherself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified between\nthe wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance.  He put the\nletter into Elinor's hands.\n\n     \"DEAR SIR,\n\n     \"Being very sure I have long lost your affections,\n     I have thought myself at liberty to bestow my own\n     on another, and have no doubt of being as happy with\n     him as I once used to think I might be with you;\n     but I scorn to accept a hand while the heart was\n     another's.  Sincerely wish you happy in your choice,\n     and it shall not be my fault if we are not always\n     good friends, as our near relationship now makes\n     proper.  I can safely say I owe you no ill-will,\n     and am sure you will be too generous to do us any\n     ill offices.  Your brother has gained my affections\n     entirely, and as we could not live without one\n     another, we are just returned from the altar, and\n     are now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks, which\n     place your dear brother has great curiosity to see,\n     but thought I would first trouble you with these\n     few lines, and shall always remain,\n\n     \"Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister,\n                                        \"LUCY FERRARS.\n\n     \"I have burnt all your letters, and will return\n     your picture the first opportunity.  Please to destroy\n     my scrawls--but the ring with my hair you are very\n     welcome to keep.\"\n\nElinor read and returned it without any comment.\n\n\"I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition,\" said\nEdward.--\"For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by YOU\nin former days.--In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife!--how I\nhave blushed over the pages of her writing!--and I believe I may say\nthat since the first half year of our foolish--business--this is the\nonly letter I ever received from her, of which the substance made me\nany amends for the defect of the style.\"\n\n\"However it may have come about,\" said Elinor, after a pause,--\"they\nare certainly married.  And your mother has brought on herself a most\nappropriate punishment.  The independence she settled on Robert,\nthrough resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own\nchoice; and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand\na-year, to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for\nintending to do.  She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert's\nmarrying Lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her.\"\n\n\"She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite.--She\nwill be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him\nmuch sooner.\"\n\nIn what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew\nnot, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted\nby him.  He had quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours after\nLucy's letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest\nroad to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct, with\nwhich that road did not hold the most intimate connection.  He could do\nnothing till he were assured of his fate with Miss Dashwood; and by his\nrapidity in seeking THAT fate, it is to be supposed, in spite of the\njealousy with which he had once thought of Colonel Brandon, in spite of\nthe modesty with which he rated his own deserts, and the politeness\nwith which he talked of his doubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect\na very cruel reception.  It was his business, however, to say that he\nDID, and he said it very prettily.  What he might say on the subject a\ntwelvemonth after, must be referred to the imagination of husbands and\nwives.\n\nThat Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of\nmalice against him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to\nElinor; and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her\ncharacter, had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost\nmeanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his eyes had been long opened,\neven before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her ignorance and a\nwant of liberality in some of her opinions--they had been equally\nimputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter\nreached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed,\ngood-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself.  Nothing but\nsuch a persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an\nengagement, which, long before the discovery of it laid him open to his\nmother's anger, had been a continual source of disquiet and regret to\nhim.\n\n\"I thought it my duty,\" said he, \"independent of my feelings, to give\nher the option of continuing the engagement or not, when I was\nrenounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend in\nthe world to assist me.  In such a situation as that, where there\nseemed nothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living\ncreature, how could I suppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly\ninsisted on sharing my fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but\nthe most disinterested affection was her inducement?  And even now, I\ncannot comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage\nit could be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the\nsmallest regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world.\nShe could not foresee that Colonel Brandon would give me a living.\"\n\n\"No; but she might suppose that something would occur in your favour;\nthat your own family might in time relent.  And at any rate, she lost\nnothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it\nfettered neither her inclination nor her actions.  The connection was\ncertainly a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration\namong her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred, it would\nbe better for her to marry YOU than be single.\"\n\nEdward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have\nbeen more natural than Lucy's conduct, nor more self-evident than the\nmotive of it.\n\nElinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence which\ncompliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them at\nNorland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy.\n\n\"Your behaviour was certainly very wrong,\" said she; \"because--to say\nnothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to\nfancy and expect WHAT, as you were THEN situated, could never be.\"\n\nHe could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken\nconfidence in the force of his engagement.\n\n\"I was simple enough to think, that because my FAITH was plighted to\nanother, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that the\nconsciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred\nas my honour.  I felt that I admired you, but I told myself it was only\nfriendship; and till I began to make comparisons between yourself and\nLucy, I did not know how far I was got.  After that, I suppose, I WAS\nwrong in remaining so much in Sussex, and the arguments with which I\nreconciled myself to the expediency of it, were no better than\nthese:--The danger is my own; I am doing no injury to anybody but\nmyself.\"\n\nElinor smiled, and shook her head.\n\nEdward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon's being expected at the\nCottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted with him,\nbut to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer resented\nhis giving him the living of Delaford--\"Which, at present,\" said he,\n\"after thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occasion,\nhe must think I have never forgiven him for offering.\"\n\nNOW he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the place.\nBut so little interest had he taken in the matter, that he owed all his\nknowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the parish,\ncondition of the land, and rate of the tithes, to Elinor herself, who\nhad heard so much of it from Colonel Brandon, and heard it with so much\nattention, as to be entirely mistress of the subject.\n\nOne question after this only remained undecided, between them, one\ndifficulty only was to be overcome.  They were brought together by\nmutual affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends;\ntheir intimate knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness\ncertain--and they only wanted something to live upon.  Edward had two\nthousand pounds, and Elinor one, which, with Delaford living, was all\nthat they could call their own; for it was impossible that Mrs.\nDashwood should advance anything; and they were neither of them quite\nenough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a-year\nwould supply them with the comforts of life.\n\nEdward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in his\nmother towards him; and on THAT he rested for the residue of their\nincome.  But Elinor had no such dependence; for since Edward would\nstill be unable to marry Miss Morton, and his chusing herself had been\nspoken of in Mrs. Ferrars's flattering language as only a lesser evil\nthan his chusing Lucy Steele, she feared that Robert's offence would\nserve no other purpose than to enrich Fanny.\n\nAbout four days after Edward's arrival Colonel Brandon appeared, to\ncomplete Mrs. Dashwood's satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of\nhaving, for the first time since her living at Barton, more company\nwith her than her house would hold.  Edward was allowed to retain the\nprivilege of first comer, and Colonel Brandon therefore walked every\nnight to his old quarters at the Park; from whence he usually returned\nin the morning, early enough to interrupt the lovers' first tete-a-tete\nbefore breakfast.\n\nA three weeks' residence at Delaford, where, in his evening hours at\nleast, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between\nthirty-six and seventeen, brought him to Barton in a temper of mind\nwhich needed all the improvement in Marianne's looks, all the kindness\nof her welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother's language, to\nmake it cheerful.  Among such friends, however, and such flattery, he\ndid revive.  No rumour of Lucy's marriage had yet reached him:--he knew\nnothing of what had passed; and the first hours of his visit were\nconsequently spent in hearing and in wondering.  Every thing was\nexplained to him by Mrs. Dashwood, and he found fresh reason to rejoice\nin what he had done for Mr. Ferrars, since eventually it promoted the\ninterest of Elinor.\n\nIt would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the good\nopinion of each other, as they advanced in each other's acquaintance,\nfor it could not be otherwise.  Their resemblance in good principles\nand good sense, in disposition and manner of thinking, would probably\nhave been sufficient to unite them in friendship, without any other\nattraction; but their being in love with two sisters, and two sisters\nfond of each other, made that mutual regard inevitable and immediate,\nwhich might otherwise have waited the effect of time and judgment.\n\nThe letters from town, which a few days before would have made every\nnerve in Elinor's body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read\nwith less emotion than mirth.  Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the\nwonderful tale, to vent her honest indignation against the jilting\ngirl, and pour forth her compassion towards poor Mr. Edward, who, she\nwas sure, had quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by all\naccounts, almost broken-hearted, at Oxford.-- \"I do think,\" she\ncontinued, \"nothing was ever carried on so sly; for it was but two days\nbefore Lucy called and sat a couple of hours with me.  Not a soul\nsuspected anything of the matter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul!  came\ncrying to me the day after, in a great fright for fear of Mrs. Ferrars,\nas well as not knowing how to get to Plymouth; for Lucy it seems\nborrowed all her money before she went off to be married, on purpose we\nsuppose to make a show with, and poor Nancy had not seven shillings in\nthe world;--so I was very glad to give her five guineas to take her\ndown to Exeter, where she thinks of staying three or four weeks with\nMrs. Burgess, in hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with the Doctor\nagain.  And I must say that Lucy's crossness not to take them along\nwith them in the chaise is worse than all.  Poor Mr. Edward! I cannot\nget him out of my head, but you must send for him to Barton, and Miss\nMarianne must try to comfort him.\"\n\nMr. Dashwood's strains were more solemn.  Mrs. Ferrars was the most\nunfortunate of women--poor Fanny had suffered agonies of\nsensibility--and he considered the existence of each, under such a\nblow, with grateful wonder.  Robert's offence was unpardonable, but\nLucy's was infinitely worse.  Neither of them were ever again to be\nmentioned to Mrs. Ferrars; and even, if she might hereafter be induced\nto forgive her son, his wife should never be acknowledged as her\ndaughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence.  The secrecy with\nwhich everything had been carried on between them, was rationally\ntreated as enormously heightening the crime, because, had any suspicion\nof it occurred to the others, proper measures would have been taken to\nprevent the marriage; and he called on Elinor to join with him in\nregretting that Lucy's engagement with Edward had not rather been\nfulfilled, than that she should thus be the means of spreading misery\nfarther in the family.-- He thus continued:\n\n\"Mrs. Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward's name, which does not\nsurprise us; but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been\nreceived from him on the occasion.  Perhaps, however, he is kept silent\nby his fear of offending, and I shall, therefore, give him a hint, by a\nline to Oxford, that his sister and I both think a letter of proper\nsubmission from him, addressed perhaps to Fanny, and by her shewn to\nher mother, might not be taken amiss; for we all know the tenderness of\nMrs. Ferrars's heart, and that she wishes for nothing so much as to be\non good terms with her children.\"\n\nThis paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct of\nEdward.  It determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not\nexactly in the manner pointed out by their brother and sister.\n\n\"A letter of proper submission!\" repeated he; \"would they have me beg\nmy mother's pardon for Robert's ingratitude to HER, and breach of\nhonour to ME?--I can make no submission--I am grown neither humble nor\npenitent by what has passed.--I am grown very happy; but that would not\ninterest.--I know of no submission that IS proper for me to make.\"\n\n\"You may certainly ask to be forgiven,\" said Elinor, \"because you have\noffended;--and I should think you might NOW venture so far as to\nprofess some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew\non you your mother's anger.\"\n\nHe agreed that he might.\n\n\"And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be\nconvenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as imprudent\nin HER eyes as the first.\"\n\nHe had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the idea of a\nletter of proper submission; and therefore, to make it easier to him,\nas he declared a much greater willingness to make mean concessions by\nword of mouth than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing\nto Fanny, he should go to London, and personally intreat her good\noffices in his favour.-- \"And if they really DO interest themselves,\"\nsaid Marianne, in her new character of candour, \"in bringing about a\nreconciliation, I shall think that even John and Fanny are not entirely\nwithout merit.\"\n\nAfter a visit on Colonel Brandon's side of only three or four days, the\ntwo gentlemen quitted Barton together.-- They were to go immediately to\nDelaford, that Edward might have some personal knowledge of his future\nhome, and assist his patron and friend in deciding on what improvements\nwere needed to it; and from thence, after staying there a couple of\nnights, he was to proceed on his journey to town.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 50\n\n\nAfter a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferrars, just so violent\nand so steady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always\nseemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, Edward\nwas admitted to her presence, and pronounced to be again her son.\n\nHer family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating.  For many years of\nher life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of Edward\na few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the similar annihilation of\nRobert had left her for a fortnight without any; and now, by the\nresuscitation of Edward, she had one again.\n\nIn spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did not\nfeel the continuance of his existence secure, till he had revealed his\npresent engagement; for the publication of that circumstance, he\nfeared, might give a sudden turn to his constitution, and carry him off\nas rapidly as before.  With apprehensive caution therefore it was\nrevealed, and he was listened to with unexpected calmness.  Mrs.\nFerrars at first reasonably endeavoured to dissuade him from marrying\nMiss Dashwood, by every argument in her power;--told him, that in Miss\nMorton he would have a woman of higher rank and larger fortune;--and\nenforced the assertion, by observing that Miss Morton was the daughter\nof a nobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while Miss Dashwood was only\nthe daughter of a private gentleman with no more than THREE; but when\nshe found that, though perfectly admitting the truth of her\nrepresentation, he was by no means inclined to be guided by it, she\njudged it wisest, from the experience of the past, to submit--and\ntherefore, after such an ungracious delay as she owed to her own\ndignity, and as served to prevent every suspicion of good-will, she\nissued her decree of consent to the marriage of Edward and Elinor.\n\nWhat she would engage to do towards augmenting their income was next to\nbe considered; and here it plainly appeared, that though Edward was now\nher only son, he was by no means her eldest; for while Robert was\ninevitably endowed with a thousand pounds a-year, not the smallest\nobjection was made against Edward's taking orders for the sake of two\nhundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was anything promised either for\nthe present or in future, beyond the ten thousand pounds, which had\nbeen given with Fanny.\n\nIt was as much, however, as was desired, and more than was expected, by\nEdward and Elinor; and Mrs. Ferrars herself, by her shuffling excuses,\nseemed the only person surprised at her not giving more.\n\nWith an income quite sufficient to their wants thus secured to them,\nthey had nothing to wait for after Edward was in possession of the\nliving, but the readiness of the house, to which Colonel Brandon, with\nan eager desire for the accommodation of Elinor, was making\nconsiderable improvements; and after waiting some time for their\ncompletion, after experiencing, as usual, a thousand disappointments\nand delays from the unaccountable dilatoriness of the workmen, Elinor,\nas usual, broke through the first positive resolution of not marrying\ntill every thing was ready, and the ceremony took place in Barton\nchurch early in the autumn.\n\nThe first month after their marriage was spent with their friend at the\nMansion-house; from whence they could superintend the progress of the\nParsonage, and direct every thing as they liked on the spot;--could\nchuse papers, project shrubberies, and invent a sweep.  Mrs. Jennings's\nprophecies, though rather jumbled together, were chiefly fulfilled; for\nshe was able to visit Edward and his wife in their Parsonage by\nMichaelmas, and she found in Elinor and her husband, as she really\nbelieved, one of the happiest couples in the world.  They had in fact\nnothing to wish for, but the marriage of Colonel Brandon and Marianne,\nand rather better pasturage for their cows.\n\nThey were visited on their first settling by almost all their relations\nand friends.  Mrs. Ferrars came to inspect the happiness which she was\nalmost ashamed of having authorised; and even the Dashwoods were at the\nexpense of a journey from Sussex to do them honour.\n\n\"I will not say that I am disappointed, my dear sister,\" said John, as\nthey were walking together one morning before the gates of Delaford\nHouse, \"THAT would be saying too much, for certainly you have been one\nof the most fortunate young women in the world, as it is.  But, I\nconfess, it would give me great pleasure to call Colonel Brandon\nbrother.  His property here, his place, his house, every thing is in\nsuch respectable and excellent condition!--and his woods!--I have not\nseen such timber any where in Dorsetshire, as there is now standing in\nDelaford Hanger!--And though, perhaps, Marianne may not seem exactly\nthe person to attract him--yet I think it would altogether be advisable\nfor you to have them now frequently staying with you, for as Colonel\nBrandon seems a great deal at home, nobody can tell what may\nhappen--for, when people are much thrown together, and see little of\nanybody else--and it will always be in your power to set her off to\nadvantage, and so forth;--in short, you may as well give her a\nchance--You understand me.\"--\n\nBut though Mrs. Ferrars DID come to see them, and always treated them\nwith the make-believe of decent affection, they were never insulted by\nher real favour and preference.  THAT was due to the folly of Robert,\nand the cunning of his wife; and it was earned by them before many\nmonths had passed away.  The selfish sagacity of the latter, which had\nat first drawn Robert into the scrape, was the principal instrument of\nhis deliverance from it; for her respectful humility, assiduous\nattentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as the smallest opening was\ngiven for their exercise, reconciled Mrs. Ferrars to his choice, and\nre-established him completely in her favour.\n\nThe whole of Lucy's behaviour in the affair, and the prosperity which\ncrowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a most encouraging instance\nof what an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest, however\nits progress may be apparently obstructed, will do in securing every\nadvantage of fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time and\nconscience.  When Robert first sought her acquaintance, and privately\nvisited her in Bartlett's Buildings, it was only with the view imputed\nto him by his brother.  He merely meant to persuade her to give up the\nengagement; and as there could be nothing to overcome but the affection\nof both, he naturally expected that one or two interviews would settle\nthe matter.  In that point, however, and that only, he erred;--for\nthough Lucy soon gave him hopes that his eloquence would convince her\nin TIME, another visit, another conversation, was always wanted to\nproduce this conviction.  Some doubts always lingered in her mind when\nthey parted, which could only be removed by another half hour's\ndiscourse with himself.  His attendance was by this means secured, and\nthe rest followed in course.  Instead of talking of Edward, they came\ngradually to talk only of Robert,--a subject on which he had always\nmore to say than on any other, and in which she soon betrayed an\ninterest even equal to his own; and in short, it became speedily\nevident to both, that he had entirely supplanted his brother.  He was\nproud of his conquest, proud of tricking Edward, and very proud of\nmarrying privately without his mother's consent.  What immediately\nfollowed is known.  They passed some months in great happiness at\nDawlish; for she had many relations and old acquaintances to cut--and\nhe drew several plans for magnificent cottages;--and from thence\nreturning to town, procured the forgiveness of Mrs. Ferrars, by the\nsimple expedient of asking it, which, at Lucy's instigation, was\nadopted.  The forgiveness, at first, indeed, as was reasonable,\ncomprehended only Robert; and Lucy, who had owed his mother no duty and\ntherefore could have transgressed none, still remained some weeks\nlonger unpardoned.  But perseverance in humility of conduct and\nmessages, in self-condemnation for Robert's offence, and gratitude for\nthe unkindness she was treated with, procured her in time the haughty\nnotice which overcame her by its graciousness, and led soon afterwards,\nby rapid degrees, to the highest state of affection and influence.\nLucy became as necessary to Mrs. Ferrars, as either Robert or Fanny;\nand while Edward was never cordially forgiven for having once intended\nto marry her, and Elinor, though superior to her in fortune and birth,\nwas spoken of as an intruder, SHE was in every thing considered, and\nalways openly acknowledged, to be a favourite child.  They settled in\ntown, received very liberal assistance from Mrs. Ferrars, were on the\nbest terms imaginable with the Dashwoods; and setting aside the\njealousies and ill-will continually subsisting between Fanny and Lucy,\nin which their husbands of course took a part, as well as the frequent\ndomestic disagreements between Robert and Lucy themselves, nothing\ncould exceed the harmony in which they all lived together.\n\nWhat Edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, might have\npuzzled many people to find out; and what Robert had done to succeed to\nit, might have puzzled them still more.  It was an arrangement,\nhowever, justified in its effects, if not in its cause; for nothing\never appeared in Robert's style of living or of talking to give a\nsuspicion of his regretting the extent of his income, as either leaving\nhis brother too little, or bringing himself too much;--and if Edward\nmight be judged from the ready discharge of his duties in every\nparticular, from an increasing attachment to his wife and his home, and\nfrom the regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be supposed no\nless contented with his lot, no less free from every wish of an\nexchange.\n\nElinor's marriage divided her as little from her family as could well\nbe contrived, without rendering the cottage at Barton entirely useless,\nfor her mother and sisters spent much more than half their time with\nher.  Mrs. Dashwood was acting on motives of policy as well as pleasure\nin the frequency of her visits at Delaford; for her wish of bringing\nMarianne and Colonel Brandon together was hardly less earnest, though\nrather more liberal than what John had expressed.  It was now her\ndarling object.  Precious as was the company of her daughter to her,\nshe desired nothing so much as to give up its constant enjoyment to her\nvalued friend; and to see Marianne settled at the mansion-house was\nequally the wish of Edward and Elinor.  They each felt his sorrows, and\ntheir own obligations, and Marianne, by general consent, was to be the\nreward of all.\n\nWith such a confederacy against her--with a knowledge so intimate of\nhis goodness--with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself,\nwhich at last, though long after it was observable to everybody\nelse--burst on her--what could she do?\n\nMarianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate.  She was born to\ndiscover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her\nconduct, her most favourite maxims.  She was born to overcome an\naffection formed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no sentiment\nsuperior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily to give\nher hand to another!--and THAT other, a man who had suffered no less\nthan herself under the event of a former attachment, whom, two years\nbefore, she had considered too old to be married,--and who still sought\nthe constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat!\n\nBut so it was.  Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible\npassion, as once she had fondly flattered herself with expecting,--instead\nof remaining even for ever with her mother, and finding her only\npleasures in retirement and study, as afterwards in her more calm and\nsober judgment she had determined on,--she found herself at nineteen,\nsubmitting to new attachments, entering on new duties, placed in a new\nhome, a wife, the mistress of a family, and the patroness of a village.\n\nColonel Brandon was now as happy, as all those who best loved him,\nbelieved he deserved to be;--in Marianne he was consoled for every past\naffliction;--her regard and her society restored his mind to animation,\nand his spirits to cheerfulness; and that Marianne found her own\nhappiness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and delight of\neach observing friend.  Marianne could never love by halves; and her\nwhole heart became, in time, as much devoted to her husband, as it had\nonce been to Willoughby.\n\nWilloughby could not hear of her marriage without a pang; and his\npunishment was soon afterwards complete in the voluntary forgiveness of\nMrs. Smith, who, by stating his marriage with a woman of character, as\nthe source of her clemency, gave him reason for believing that had he\nbehaved with honour towards Marianne, he might at once have been happy\nand rich.  That his repentance of misconduct, which thus brought its\nown punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted;--nor that he long\nthought of Colonel Brandon with envy, and of Marianne with regret.  But\nthat he was for ever inconsolable, that he fled from society, or\ncontracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died of a broken heart, must\nnot be depended on--for he did neither.  He lived to exert, and\nfrequently to enjoy himself.  His wife was not always out of humour,\nnor his home always uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses and dogs,\nand in sporting of every kind, he found no inconsiderable degree of\ndomestic felicity.\n\nFor Marianne, however--in spite of his incivility in surviving her\nloss--he always retained that decided regard which interested him in\nevery thing that befell her, and made her his secret standard of\nperfection in woman;--and many a rising beauty would be slighted by him\nin after-days as bearing no comparison with Mrs. Brandon.\n\nMrs. Dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the cottage, without\nattempting a removal to Delaford; and fortunately for Sir John and Mrs.\nJennings, when Marianne was taken from them, Margaret had reached an\nage highly suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible for being\nsupposed to have a lover.\n\nBetween Barton and Delaford, there was that constant communication\nwhich strong family affection would naturally dictate;--and among the\nmerits and the happiness of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked\nas the least considerable, that though sisters, and living almost\nwithin sight of each other, they could live without disagreement\nbetween themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands.\n\n\n\nTHE END\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n","id":"161"},{"text":"\n\n\n\n\nLADY SUSAN\n\nby Jane Austen\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nLADY SUSAN VERNON TO MR. VERNON\n\n\nLangford, Dec.\n\nMY DEAR BROTHER,--I can no longer refuse myself the pleasure of\nprofiting by your kind invitation when we last parted of spending some\nweeks with you at Churchhill, and, therefore, if quite convenient to you\nand Mrs. Vernon to receive me at present, I shall hope within a few\ndays to be introduced to a sister whom I have so long desired to be\nacquainted with. My kind friends here are most affectionately\nurgent with me to prolong my stay, but their hospitable and cheerful\ndispositions lead them too much into society for my present situation\nand state of mind; and I impatiently look forward to the hour when I\nshall be admitted into your delightful retirement.\n\nI long to be made known to your dear little children, in whose hearts I\nshall be very eager to secure an interest I shall soon have need for all\nmy fortitude, as I am on the point of separation from my own daughter.\nThe long illness of her dear father prevented my paying her that\nattention which duty and affection equally dictated, and I have too\nmuch reason to fear that the governess to whose care I consigned her was\nunequal to the charge. I have therefore resolved on placing her at one\nof the best private schools in town, where I shall have an opportunity\nof leaving her myself in my way to you. I am determined, you see, not to\nbe denied admittance at Churchhill. It would indeed give me most painful\nsensations to know that it were not in your power to receive me.\n\nYour most obliged and affectionate sister,\n\nS. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nLADY SUSAN VERNON TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nLangford.\n\n\nYou were mistaken, my dear Alicia, in supposing me fixed at this place\nfor the rest of the winter: it grieves me to say how greatly you were\nmistaken, for I have seldom spent three months more agreeably than\nthose which have just flown away. At present, nothing goes smoothly; the\nfemales of the family are united against me. You foretold how it would\nbe when I first came to Langford, and Mainwaring is so uncommonly\npleasing that I was not without apprehensions for myself. I remember\nsaying to myself, as I drove to the house, \"I like this man, pray Heaven\nno harm come of it!\" But I was determined to be discreet, to bear in\nmind my being only four months a widow, and to be as quiet as possible:\nand I have been so, my dear creature; I have admitted no one's\nattentions but Mainwaring's. I have avoided all general flirtation\nwhatever; I have distinguished no creature besides, of all the numbers\nresorting hither, except Sir James Martin, on whom I bestowed a little\nnotice, in order to detach him from Miss Mainwaring; but, if the world\ncould know my motive THERE they would honour me. I have been called an\nunkind mother, but it was the sacred impulse of maternal affection, it\nwas the advantage of my daughter that led me on; and if that daughter\nwere not the greatest simpleton on earth, I might have been rewarded for\nmy exertions as I ought.\n\nSir James did make proposals to me for Frederica; but Frederica, who\nwas born to be the torment of my life, chose to set herself so violently\nagainst the match that I thought it better to lay aside the scheme for\nthe present. I have more than once repented that I did not marry him\nmyself; and were he but one degree less contemptibly weak I certainly\nshould: but I must own myself rather romantic in that respect, and\nthat riches only will not satisfy me. The event of all this is very\nprovoking: Sir James is gone, Maria highly incensed, and Mrs. Mainwaring\ninsupportably jealous; so jealous, in short, and so enraged against\nme, that, in the fury of her temper, I should not be surprized at her\nappealing to her guardian, if she had the liberty of addressing him:\nbut there your husband stands my friend; and the kindest, most amiable\naction of his life was his throwing her off for ever on her marriage.\nKeep up his resentment, therefore, I charge you. We are now in a sad\nstate; no house was ever more altered; the whole party are at war, and\nMainwaring scarcely dares speak to me. It is time for me to be gone; I\nhave therefore determined on leaving them, and shall spend, I hope, a\ncomfortable day with you in town within this week. If I am as little\nin favour with Mr. Johnson as ever, you must come to me at 10 Wigmore\nstreet; but I hope this may not be the case, for as Mr. Johnson, with\nall his faults, is a man to whom that great word \"respectable\" is always\ngiven, and I am known to be so intimate with his wife, his slighting me\nhas an awkward look.\n\nI take London in my way to that insupportable spot, a country village;\nfor I am really going to Churchhill. Forgive me, my dear friend, it is\nmy last resource. Were there another place in England open to me I would\nprefer it. Charles Vernon is my aversion; and I am afraid of his wife.\nAt Churchhill, however, I must remain till I have something better in\nview. My young lady accompanies me to town, where I shall deposit her\nunder the care of Miss Summers, in Wigmore street, till she becomes a\nlittle more reasonable. She will made good connections there, as the\ngirls are all of the best families. The price is immense, and much\nbeyond what I can ever attempt to pay.\n\nAdieu, I will send you a line as soon as I arrive in town.\n\nYours ever,\n\nS. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nMRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nMy dear Mother,--I am very sorry to tell you that it will not be in our\npower to keep our promise of spending our Christmas with you; and we are\nprevented that happiness by a circumstance which is not likely to\nmake us any amends. Lady Susan, in a letter to her brother-in-law, has\ndeclared her intention of visiting us almost immediately; and as such\na visit is in all probability merely an affair of convenience, it is\nimpossible to conjecture its length. I was by no means prepared for such\nan event, nor can I now account for her ladyship's conduct; Langford\nappeared so exactly the place for her in every respect, as well from\nthe elegant and expensive style of living there, as from her particular\nattachment to Mr. Mainwaring, that I was very far from expecting so\nspeedy a distinction, though I always imagined from her increasing\nfriendship for us since her husband's death that we should, at some\nfuture period, be obliged to receive her. Mr. Vernon, I think, was a\ngreat deal too kind to her when he was in Staffordshire; her behaviour\nto him, independent of her general character, has been so inexcusably\nartful and ungenerous since our marriage was first in agitation that no\none less amiable and mild than himself could have overlooked it all;\nand though, as his brother's widow, and in narrow circumstances, it was\nproper to render her pecuniary assistance, I cannot help thinking\nhis pressing invitation to her to visit us at Churchhill perfectly\nunnecessary. Disposed, however, as he always is to think the best of\neveryone, her display of grief, and professions of regret, and general\nresolutions of prudence, were sufficient to soften his heart and make\nhim really confide in her sincerity; but, as for myself, I am still\nunconvinced, and plausibly as her ladyship has now written, I cannot\nmake up my mind till I better understand her real meaning in coming to\nus. You may guess, therefore, my dear madam, with what feelings I look\nforward to her arrival. She will have occasion for all those attractive\npowers for which she is celebrated to gain any share of my regard; and\nI shall certainly endeavour to guard myself against their influence,\nif not accompanied by something more substantial. She expresses a\nmost eager desire of being acquainted with me, and makes very gracious\nmention of my children but I am not quite weak enough to suppose a woman\nwho has behaved with inattention, if not with unkindness, to her own\nchild, should be attached to any of mine. Miss Vernon is to be placed at\na school in London before her mother comes to us which I am glad of, for\nher sake and my own. It must be to her advantage to be separated from\nher mother, and a girl of sixteen who has received so wretched an\neducation, could not be a very desirable companion here. Reginald has\nlong wished, I know, to see the captivating Lady Susan, and we shall\ndepend on his joining our party soon. I am glad to hear that my father\ncontinues so well; and am, with best love, &c.,\n\nCATHERINE VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nMR. DE COURCY TO MRS. VERNON\n\n\nParklands.\n\n\nMy dear Sister,--I congratulate you and Mr. Vernon on being about to\nreceive into your family the most accomplished coquette in England. As a\nvery distinguished flirt I have always been taught to consider her, but\nit has lately fallen in my way to hear some particulars of her conduct\nat Langford: which prove that she does not confine herself to that sort\nof honest flirtation which satisfies most people, but aspires to the\nmore delicious gratification of making a whole family miserable. By her\nbehaviour to Mr. Mainwaring she gave jealousy and wretchedness to his\nwife, and by her attentions to a young man previously attached to Mr.\nMainwaring's sister deprived an amiable girl of her lover.\n\nI learnt all this from Mr. Smith, now in this neighbourhood (I have\ndined with him, at Hurst and Wilford), who is just come from Langford\nwhere he was a fortnight with her ladyship, and who is therefore well\nqualified to make the communication.\n\nWhat a woman she must be! I long to see her, and shall certainly accept\nyour kind invitation, that I may form some idea of those bewitching\npowers which can do so much--engaging at the same time, and in the same\nhouse, the affections of two men, who were neither of them at liberty to\nbestow them--and all this without the charm of youth! I am glad to find\nMiss Vernon does not accompany her mother to Churchhill, as she has not\neven manners to recommend her; and, according to Mr. Smith's account, is\nequally dull and proud. Where pride and stupidity unite there can be\nno dissimulation worthy notice, and Miss Vernon shall be consigned to\nunrelenting contempt; but by all that I can gather Lady Susan possesses\na degree of captivating deceit which it must be pleasing to witness and\ndetect. I shall be with you very soon, and am ever,\n\nYour affectionate brother,\n\nR. DE COURCY.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\n\nLADY SUSAN VERNON TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nI received your note, my dear Alicia, just before I left town, and\nrejoice to be assured that Mr. Johnson suspected nothing of your\nengagement the evening before. It is undoubtedly better to deceive him\nentirely, and since he will be stubborn he must be tricked. I arrived\nhere in safety, and have no reason to complain of my reception from Mr.\nVernon; but I confess myself not equally satisfied with the behaviour of\nhis lady. She is perfectly well-bred, indeed, and has the air of a woman\nof fashion, but her manners are not such as can persuade me of her being\nprepossessed in my favour. I wanted her to be delighted at seeing me.\nI was as amiable as possible on the occasion, but all in vain. She does\nnot like me. To be sure when we consider that I DID take some pains to\nprevent my brother-in-law's marrying her, this want of cordiality is not\nvery surprizing, and yet it shows an illiberal and vindictive spirit\nto resent a project which influenced me six years ago, and which never\nsucceeded at last.\n\nI am sometimes disposed to repent that I did not let Charles buy\nVernon Castle, when we were obliged to sell it; but it was a trying\ncircumstance, especially as the sale took place exactly at the time\nof his marriage; and everybody ought to respect the delicacy of those\nfeelings which could not endure that my husband's dignity should be\nlessened by his younger brother's having possession of the family\nestate. Could matters have been so arranged as to prevent the necessity\nof our leaving the castle, could we have lived with Charles and kept\nhim single, I should have been very far from persuading my husband to\ndispose of it elsewhere; but Charles was on the point of marrying\nMiss De Courcy, and the event has justified me. Here are children in\nabundance, and what benefit could have accrued to me from his purchasing\nVernon? My having prevented it may perhaps have given his wife an\nunfavourable impression, but where there is a disposition to dislike,\na motive will never be wanting; and as to money matters it has not\nwithheld him from being very useful to me. I really have a regard\nfor him, he is so easily imposed upon! The house is a good one, the\nfurniture fashionable, and everything announces plenty and elegance.\nCharles is very rich I am sure; when a man has once got his name in a\nbanking-house he rolls in money; but they do not know what to do with\nit, keep very little company, and never go to London but on business. We\nshall be as stupid as possible. I mean to win my sister-in-law's heart\nthrough the children; I know all their names already, and am going to\nattach myself with the greatest sensibility to one in particular, a\nyoung Frederic, whom I take on my lap and sigh over for his dear uncle's\nsake.\n\nPoor Mainwaring! I need not tell you how much I miss him, how\nperpetually he is in my thoughts. I found a dismal letter from him on\nmy arrival here, full of complaints of his wife and sister, and\nlamentations on the cruelty of his fate. I passed off the letter as his\nwife's, to the Vernons, and when I write to him it must be under cover\nto you.\n\nEver yours, S. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n\nMRS. VERNON TO MR. DE COURCY\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nWell, my dear Reginald, I have seen this dangerous creature, and must\ngive you some description of her, though I hope you will soon be able to\nform your own judgment. She is really excessively pretty; however you may\nchoose to question the allurements of a lady no longer young, I must,\nfor my own part, declare that I have seldom seen so lovely a woman\nas Lady Susan. She is delicately fair, with fine grey eyes and dark\neyelashes; and from her appearance one would not suppose her more than\nfive and twenty, though she must in fact be ten years older, I was\ncertainly not disposed to admire her, though always hearing she was\nbeautiful; but I cannot help feeling that she possesses an uncommon\nunion of symmetry, brilliancy, and grace. Her address to me was so\ngentle, frank, and even affectionate, that, if I had not known how much\nshe has always disliked me for marrying Mr. Vernon, and that we had\nnever met before, I should have imagined her an attached friend. One\nis apt, I believe, to connect assurance of manner with coquetry, and to\nexpect that an impudent address will naturally attend an impudent mind;\nat least I was myself prepared for an improper degree of confidence in\nLady Susan; but her countenance is absolutely sweet, and her voice and\nmanner winningly mild. I am sorry it is so, for what is this but deceit?\nUnfortunately, one knows her too well. She is clever and agreeable, has\nall that knowledge of the world which makes conversation easy, and talks\nvery well, with a happy command of language, which is too often used, I\nbelieve, to make black appear white. She has already almost persuaded me\nof her being warmly attached to her daughter, though I have been so long\nconvinced to the contrary. She speaks of her with so much tenderness and\nanxiety, lamenting so bitterly the neglect of her education, which she\nrepresents however as wholly unavoidable, that I am forced to recollect\nhow many successive springs her ladyship spent in town, while her\ndaughter was left in Staffordshire to the care of servants, or a\ngoverness very little better, to prevent my believing what she says.\n\nIf her manners have so great an influence on my resentful heart, you\nmay judge how much more strongly they operate on Mr. Vernon's generous\ntemper. I wish I could be as well satisfied as he is, that it was really\nher choice to leave Langford for Churchhill; and if she had not stayed\nthere for months before she discovered that her friend's manner of\nliving did not suit her situation or feelings, I might have believed\nthat concern for the loss of such a husband as Mr. Vernon, to whom her\nown behaviour was far from unexceptionable, might for a time make her\nwish for retirement. But I cannot forget the length of her visit to the\nMainwarings, and when I reflect on the different mode of life which she\nled with them from that to which she must now submit, I can only suppose\nthat the wish of establishing her reputation by following though late\nthe path of propriety, occasioned her removal from a family where she\nmust in reality have been particularly happy. Your friend Mr. Smith's\nstory, however, cannot be quite correct, as she corresponds regularly\nwith Mrs. Mainwaring. At any rate it must be exaggerated. It is scarcely\npossible that two men should be so grossly deceived by her at once.\n\nYours, &c.,\n\nCATHERINE VERNON\n\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\n\nLADY SUSAN VERNON TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nMy dear Alicia,--You are very good in taking notice of Frederica, and\nI am grateful for it as a mark of your friendship; but as I cannot have\nany doubt of the warmth of your affection, I am far from exacting so\nheavy a sacrifice. She is a stupid girl, and has nothing to recommend\nher. I would not, therefore, on my account, have you encumber one moment\nof your precious time by sending for her to Edward Street, especially\nas every visit is so much deducted from the grand affair of education,\nwhich I really wish to have attended to while she remains at Miss\nSummers's. I want her to play and sing with some portion of taste and\na good deal of assurance, as she has my hand and arm and a tolerable\nvoice. I was so much indulged in my infant years that I was never\nobliged to attend to anything, and consequently am without the\naccomplishments which are now necessary to finish a pretty woman. Not\nthat I am an advocate for the prevailing fashion of acquiring a perfect\nknowledge of all languages, arts, and sciences. It is throwing time\naway to be mistress of French, Italian, and German: music, singing,\nand drawing, &c., will gain a woman some applause, but will not add\none lover to her list--grace and manner, after all, are of the greatest\nimportance. I do not mean, therefore, that Frederica's acquirements\nshould be more than superficial, and I flatter myself that she will not\nremain long enough at school to understand anything thoroughly. I hope\nto see her the wife of Sir James within a twelvemonth. You know on what\nI ground my hope, and it is certainly a good foundation, for school must\nbe very humiliating to a girl of Frederica's age. And, by-the-by, you\nhad better not invite her any more on that account, as I wish her to\nfind her situation as unpleasant as possible. I am sure of Sir James at\nany time, and could make him renew his application by a line. I shall\ntrouble you meanwhile to prevent his forming any other attachment when\nhe comes to town. Ask him to your house occasionally, and talk to him of\nFrederica, that he may not forget her. Upon the whole, I commend my own\nconduct in this affair extremely, and regard it as a very happy instance\nof circumspection and tenderness. Some mothers would have insisted on\ntheir daughter's accepting so good an offer on the first overture; but I\ncould not reconcile it to myself to force Frederica into a marriage from\nwhich her heart revolted, and instead of adopting so harsh a measure\nmerely propose to make it her own choice, by rendering her thoroughly\nuncomfortable till she does accept him--but enough of this tiresome\ngirl. You may well wonder how I contrive to pass my time here, and for\nthe first week it was insufferably dull. Now, however, we begin to mend,\nour party is enlarged by Mrs. Vernon's brother, a handsome young man,\nwho promises me some amusement. There is something about him which\nrather interests me, a sort of sauciness and familiarity which I shall\nteach him to correct. He is lively, and seems clever, and when I have\ninspired him with greater respect for me than his sister's kind offices\nhave implanted, he may be an agreeable flirt. There is exquisite\npleasure in subduing an insolent spirit, in making a person\npredetermined to dislike acknowledge one's superiority. I have\ndisconcerted him already by my calm reserve, and it shall be my\nendeavour to humble the pride of these self important De Courcys still\nlower, to convince Mrs. Vernon that her sisterly cautions have been\nbestowed in vain, and to persuade Reginald that she has scandalously\nbelied me. This project will serve at least to amuse me, and prevent\nmy feeling so acutely this dreadful separation from you and all whom I\nlove.\n\nYours ever,\n\nS. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\n\nMRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nMy dear Mother,--You must not expect Reginald back again for some time.\nHe desires me to tell you that the present open weather induces him to\naccept Mr. Vernon's invitation to prolong his stay in Sussex, that\nthey may have some hunting together. He means to send for his horses\nimmediately, and it is impossible to say when you may see him in Kent. I\nwill not disguise my sentiments on this change from you, my dear mother,\nthough I think you had better not communicate them to my father, whose\nexcessive anxiety about Reginald would subject him to an alarm which\nmight seriously affect his health and spirits. Lady Susan has certainly\ncontrived, in the space of a fortnight, to make my brother like her.\nIn short, I am persuaded that his continuing here beyond the time\noriginally fixed for his return is occasioned as much by a degree of\nfascination towards her, as by the wish of hunting with Mr. Vernon, and\nof course I cannot receive that pleasure from the length of his visit\nwhich my brother's company would otherwise give me. I am, indeed,\nprovoked at the artifice of this unprincipled woman; what stronger\nproof of her dangerous abilities can be given than this perversion of\nReginald's judgment, which when he entered the house was so decidedly\nagainst her! In his last letter he actually gave me some particulars of\nher behaviour at Langford, such as he received from a gentleman who knew\nher perfectly well, which, if true, must raise abhorrence against her,\nand which Reginald himself was entirely disposed to credit. His opinion\nof her, I am sure, was as low as of any woman in England; and when he\nfirst came it was evident that he considered her as one entitled neither\nto delicacy nor respect, and that he felt she would be delighted with\nthe attentions of any man inclined to flirt with her. Her behaviour, I\nconfess, has been calculated to do away with such an idea; I have\nnot detected the smallest impropriety in it--nothing of vanity, of\npretension, of levity; and she is altogether so attractive that I should\nnot wonder at his being delighted with her, had he known nothing of her\nprevious to this personal acquaintance; but, against reason, against\nconviction, to be so well pleased with her, as I am sure he is, does\nreally astonish me. His admiration was at first very strong, but no more\nthan was natural, and I did not wonder at his being much struck by the\ngentleness and delicacy of her manners; but when he has mentioned her of\nlate it has been in terms of more extraordinary praise; and yesterday he\nactually said that he could not be surprised at any effect produced\non the heart of man by such loveliness and such abilities; and when I\nlamented, in reply, the badness of her disposition, he observed that\nwhatever might have been her errors they were to be imputed to her\nneglected education and early marriage, and that she was altogether a\nwonderful woman. This tendency to excuse her conduct or to forget it, in\nthe warmth of admiration, vexes me; and if I did not know that Reginald\nis too much at home at Churchhill to need an invitation for lengthening\nhis visit, I should regret Mr. Vernon's giving him any. Lady Susan's\nintentions are of course those of absolute coquetry, or a desire\nof universal admiration; I cannot for a moment imagine that she has\nanything more serious in view; but it mortifies me to see a young man of\nReginald's sense duped by her at all.\n\nI am, &c.,\n\nCATHERINE VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\n\nMRS. JOHNSON TO LADY S. VERNON\n\n\nEdward Street.\n\n\nMy dearest Friend,--I congratulate you on Mr. De Courcy's arrival, and\nI advise you by all means to marry him; his father's estate is, we know,\nconsiderable, and I believe certainly entailed. Sir Reginald is very\ninfirm, and not likely to stand in your way long. I hear the young man\nwell spoken of; and though no one can really deserve you, my dearest\nSusan, Mr. De Courcy may be worth having. Mainwaring will storm of\ncourse, but you easily pacify him; besides, the most scrupulous point of\nhonour could not require you to wait for HIS emancipation. I have seen\nSir James; he came to town for a few days last week, and called several\ntimes in Edward Street. I talked to him about you and your daughter, and\nhe is so far from having forgotten you, that I am sure he would marry\neither of you with pleasure. I gave him hopes of Frederica's relenting,\nand told him a great deal of her improvements. I scolded him for making\nlove to Maria Mainwaring; he protested that he had been only in joke,\nand we both laughed heartily at her disappointment; and, in short, were\nvery agreeable. He is as silly as ever.\n\nYours faithfully,\n\nALICIA.\n\n\n\n\n\nX\n\n\nLADY SUSAN VERNON TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nI am much obliged to you, my dear Friend, for your advice respecting\nMr. De Courcy, which I know was given with the full conviction of its\nexpediency, though I am not quite determined on following it. I cannot\neasily resolve on anything so serious as marriage; especially as I\nam not at present in want of money, and might perhaps, till the old\ngentleman's death, be very little benefited by the match. It is true\nthat I am vain enough to believe it within my reach. I have made him\nsensible of my power, and can now enjoy the pleasure of triumphing\nover a mind prepared to dislike me, and prejudiced against all my\npast actions. His sister, too, is, I hope, convinced how little the\nungenerous representations of anyone to the disadvantage of another will\navail when opposed by the immediate influence of intellect and manner. I\nsee plainly that she is uneasy at my progress in the good opinion of\nher brother, and conclude that nothing will be wanting on her part to\ncounteract me; but having once made him doubt the justice of her opinion\nof me, I think I may defy her. It has been delightful to me to watch\nhis advances towards intimacy, especially to observe his altered manner\nin consequence of my repressing by the cool dignity of my deportment\nhis insolent approach to direct familiarity. My conduct has been equally\nguarded from the first, and I never behaved less like a coquette in the\nwhole course of my life, though perhaps my desire of dominion was never\nmore decided. I have subdued him entirely by sentiment and serious\nconversation, and made him, I may venture to say, at least half in love\nwith me, without the semblance of the most commonplace flirtation. Mrs.\nVernon's consciousness of deserving every sort of revenge that it can\nbe in my power to inflict for her ill-offices could alone enable her\nto perceive that I am actuated by any design in behaviour so gentle\nand unpretending. Let her think and act as she chooses, however. I have\nnever yet found that the advice of a sister could prevent a young\nman's being in love if he chose. We are advancing now to some kind of\nconfidence, and in short are likely to be engaged in a sort of platonic\nfriendship. On my side you may be sure of its never being more, for if\nI were not attached to another person as much as I can be to anyone, I\nshould make a point of not bestowing my affection on a man who had dared\nto think so meanly of me. Reginald has a good figure and is not unworthy\nthe praise you have heard given him, but is still greatly inferior\nto our friend at Langford. He is less polished, less insinuating than\nMainwaring, and is comparatively deficient in the power of saying those\ndelightful things which put one in good humour with oneself and all the\nworld. He is quite agreeable enough, however, to afford me amusement,\nand to make many of those hours pass very pleasantly which would\notherwise be spent in endeavouring to overcome my sister-in-law's\nreserve, and listening to the insipid talk of her husband. Your account\nof Sir James is most satisfactory, and I mean to give Miss Frederica a\nhint of my intentions very soon.\n\nYours, &c.,\n\nS. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXI\n\n\nMRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY\n\n\nChurchhill\n\n\nI really grow quite uneasy, my dearest mother, about Reginald, from\nwitnessing the very rapid increase of Lady Susan's influence. They are\nnow on terms of the most particular friendship, frequently engaged in\nlong conversations together; and she has contrived by the most artful\ncoquetry to subdue his judgment to her own purposes. It is impossible\nto see the intimacy between them so very soon established without some\nalarm, though I can hardly suppose that Lady Susan's plans extend to\nmarriage. I wish you could get Reginald home again on any plausible\npretence; he is not at all disposed to leave us, and I have given him as\nmany hints of my father's precarious state of health as common decency\nwill allow me to do in my own house. Her power over him must now be\nboundless, as she has entirely effaced all his former ill-opinion,\nand persuaded him not merely to forget but to justify her conduct. Mr.\nSmith's account of her proceedings at Langford, where he accused her of\nhaving made Mr. Mainwaring and a young man engaged to Miss Mainwaring\ndistractedly in love with her, which Reginald firmly believed when he\ncame here, is now, he is persuaded, only a scandalous invention. He\nhas told me so with a warmth of manner which spoke his regret at having\nbelieved the contrary himself. How sincerely do I grieve that she\never entered this house! I always looked forward to her coming with\nuneasiness; but very far was it from originating in anxiety for\nReginald. I expected a most disagreeable companion for myself, but could\nnot imagine that my brother would be in the smallest danger of being\ncaptivated by a woman with whose principles he was so well acquainted,\nand whose character he so heartily despised. If you can get him away it\nwill be a good thing.\n\nYours, &c.,\n\nCATHERINE VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXII\n\n\nSIR REGINALD DE COURCY TO HIS SON\n\n\nParklands.\n\n\nI know that young men in general do not admit of any enquiry even from\ntheir nearest relations into affairs of the heart, but I hope, my dear\nReginald, that you will be superior to such as allow nothing for a\nfather's anxiety, and think themselves privileged to refuse him their\nconfidence and slight his advice. You must be sensible that as an only\nson, and the representative of an ancient family, your conduct in life\nis most interesting to your connections; and in the very important\nconcern of marriage especially, there is everything at stake--your own\nhappiness, that of your parents, and the credit of your name. I do not\nsuppose that you would deliberately form an absolute engagement of that\nnature without acquainting your mother and myself, or at least, without\nbeing convinced that we should approve of your choice; but I cannot help\nfearing that you may be drawn in, by the lady who has lately attached\nyou, to a marriage which the whole of your family, far and near, must\nhighly reprobate. Lady Susan's age is itself a material objection, but\nher want of character is one so much more serious, that the difference\nof even twelve years becomes in comparison of small amount. Were you not\nblinded by a sort of fascination, it would be ridiculous in me to repeat\nthe instances of great misconduct on her side so very generally known.\n\nHer neglect of her husband, her encouragement of other men, her\nextravagance and dissipation, were so gross and notorious that no one\ncould be ignorant of them at the time, nor can now have forgotten them.\nTo our family she has always been represented in softened colours by\nthe benevolence of Mr. Charles Vernon, and yet, in spite of his generous\nendeavours to excuse her, we know that she did, from the most selfish\nmotives, take all possible pains to prevent his marriage with Catherine.\n\nMy years and increasing infirmities make me very desirous of seeing you\nsettled in the world. To the fortune of a wife, the goodness of my own\nwill make me indifferent, but her family and character must be equally\nunexceptionable. When your choice is fixed so that no objection can be\nmade to it, then I can promise you a ready and cheerful consent; but it\nis my duty to oppose a match which deep art only could render possible,\nand must in the end make wretched. It is possible her behaviour may\narise only from vanity, or the wish of gaining the admiration of a man\nwhom she must imagine to be particularly prejudiced against her; but it\nis more likely that she should aim at something further. She is poor,\nand may naturally seek an alliance which must be advantageous to\nherself; you know your own rights, and that it is out of my power to\nprevent your inheriting the family estate. My ability of distressing\nyou during my life would be a species of revenge to which I could hardly\nstoop under any circumstances.\n\nI honestly tell you my sentiments and intentions: I do not wish to work\non your fears, but on your sense and affection. It would destroy every\ncomfort of my life to know that you were married to Lady Susan Vernon;\nit would be the death of that honest pride with which I have hitherto\nconsidered my son; I should blush to see him, to hear of him, to think\nof him. I may perhaps do no good but that of relieving my own mind by\nthis letter, but I felt it my duty to tell you that your partiality for\nLady Susan is no secret to your friends, and to warn you against her.\nI should be glad to hear your reasons for disbelieving Mr. Smith's\nintelligence; you had no doubt of its authenticity a month ago. If\nyou can give me your assurance of having no design beyond enjoying\nthe conversation of a clever woman for a short period, and of yielding\nadmiration only to her beauty and abilities, without being blinded by\nthem to her faults, you will restore me to happiness; but, if you cannot\ndo this, explain to me, at least, what has occasioned so great an\nalteration in your opinion of her.\n\nI am, &c., &c,\n\nREGINALD DE COURCY\n\n\n\n\n\nXIII\n\n\nLADY DE COURCY TO MRS. VERNON\n\n\nParklands.\n\n\nMy dear Catherine,--Unluckily I was confined to my room when your last\nletter came, by a cold which affected my eyes so much as to prevent my\nreading it myself, so I could not refuse your father when he offered\nto read it to me, by which means he became acquainted, to my great\nvexation, with all your fears about your brother. I had intended to\nwrite to Reginald myself as soon as my eyes would let me, to point out,\nas well as I could, the danger of an intimate acquaintance, with so\nartful a woman as Lady Susan, to a young man of his age, and high\nexpectations. I meant, moreover, to have reminded him of our being quite\nalone now, and very much in need of him to keep up our spirits these\nlong winter evenings. Whether it would have done any good can never be\nsettled now, but I am excessively vexed that Sir Reginald should know\nanything of a matter which we foresaw would make him so uneasy. He\ncaught all your fears the moment he had read your letter, and I am sure\nhe has not had the business out of his head since. He wrote by the same\npost to Reginald a long letter full of it all, and particularly asking\nan explanation of what he may have heard from Lady Susan to contradict\nthe late shocking reports. His answer came this morning, which I shall\nenclose to you, as I think you will like to see it. I wish it was more\nsatisfactory; but it seems written with such a determination to think\nwell of Lady Susan, that his assurances as to marriage, &c., do not set\nmy heart at ease. I say all I can, however, to satisfy your father, and\nhe is certainly less uneasy since Reginald's letter. How provoking it\nis, my dear Catherine, that this unwelcome guest of yours should not\nonly prevent our meeting this Christmas, but be the occasion of so much\nvexation and trouble! Kiss the dear children for me.\n\nYour affectionate mother,\n\nC. DE COURCY.\n\n\n\n\n\nXIV\n\n\nMR. DE COURCY TO SIR REGINALD\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nMy dear Sir,--I have this moment received your letter, which has given\nme more astonishment than I ever felt before. I am to thank my sister,\nI suppose, for having represented me in such a light as to injure me\nin your opinion, and give you all this alarm. I know not why she should\nchoose to make herself and her family uneasy by apprehending an\nevent which no one but herself, I can affirm, would ever have thought\npossible. To impute such a design to Lady Susan would be taking from her\nevery claim to that excellent understanding which her bitterest enemies\nhave never denied her; and equally low must sink my pretensions to\ncommon sense if I am suspected of matrimonial views in my behaviour\nto her. Our difference of age must be an insuperable objection, and I\nentreat you, my dear father, to quiet your mind, and no longer harbour\na suspicion which cannot be more injurious to your own peace than to our\nunderstandings. I can have no other view in remaining with Lady Susan,\nthan to enjoy for a short time (as you have yourself expressed it) the\nconversation of a woman of high intellectual powers. If Mrs. Vernon\nwould allow something to my affection for herself and her husband in the\nlength of my visit, she would do more justice to us all; but my sister\nis unhappily prejudiced beyond the hope of conviction against Lady\nSusan. From an attachment to her husband, which in itself does honour to\nboth, she cannot forgive the endeavours at preventing their union, which\nhave been attributed to selfishness in Lady Susan; but in this case, as\nwell as in many others, the world has most grossly injured that lady, by\nsupposing the worst where the motives of her conduct have been doubtful.\nLady Susan had heard something so materially to the disadvantage of my\nsister as to persuade her that the happiness of Mr. Vernon, to whom she\nwas always much attached, would be wholly destroyed by the marriage. And\nthis circumstance, while it explains the true motives of Lady Susan's\nconduct, and removes all the blame which has been so lavished on her,\nmay also convince us how little the general report of anyone ought to\nbe credited; since no character, however upright, can escape the\nmalevolence of slander. If my sister, in the security of retirement,\nwith as little opportunity as inclination to do evil, could not avoid\ncensure, we must not rashly condemn those who, living in the world and\nsurrounded with temptations, should be accused of errors which they are\nknown to have the power of committing.\n\nI blame myself severely for having so easily believed the slanderous\ntales invented by Charles Smith to the prejudice of Lady Susan, as I\nam now convinced how greatly they have traduced her. As to Mrs.\nMainwaring's jealousy it was totally his own invention, and his account\nof her attaching Miss Mainwaring's lover was scarcely better founded.\nSir James Martin had been drawn in by that young lady to pay her some\nattention; and as he is a man of fortune, it was easy to see HER views\nextended to marriage. It is well known that Miss M. is absolutely on the\ncatch for a husband, and no one therefore can pity her for losing, by\nthe superior attractions of another woman, the chance of being able to\nmake a worthy man completely wretched. Lady Susan was far from intending\nsuch a conquest, and on finding how warmly Miss Mainwaring resented her\nlover's defection, determined, in spite of Mr. and Mrs. Mainwaring's\nmost urgent entreaties, to leave the family. I have reason to imagine\nshe did receive serious proposals from Sir James, but her removing to\nLangford immediately on the discovery of his attachment, must acquit her\non that article with any mind of common candour. You will, I am sure, my\ndear Sir, feel the truth of this, and will hereby learn to do justice to\nthe character of a very injured woman. I know that Lady Susan in coming\nto Churchhill was governed only by the most honourable and amiable\nintentions; her prudence and economy are exemplary, her regard for Mr.\nVernon equal even to HIS deserts; and her wish of obtaining my sister's\ngood opinion merits a better return than it has received. As a mother\nshe is unexceptionable; her solid affection for her child is shown by\nplacing her in hands where her education will be properly attended to;\nbut because she has not the blind and weak partiality of most mothers,\nshe is accused of wanting maternal tenderness. Every person of sense,\nhowever, will know how to value and commend her well-directed affection,\nand will join me in wishing that Frederica Vernon may prove more worthy\nthan she has yet done of her mother's tender care. I have now, my dear\nfather, written my real sentiments of Lady Susan; you will know from\nthis letter how highly I admire her abilities, and esteem her character;\nbut if you are not equally convinced by my full and solemn assurance\nthat your fears have been most idly created, you will deeply mortify and\ndistress me.\n\nI am, &c., &c.,\n\nR. DE COURCY.\n\n\n\n\n\nXV\n\n\nMRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY\n\n\nChurchhill\n\n\nMy dear Mother,--I return you Reginald's letter, and rejoice with all\nmy heart that my father is made easy by it: tell him so, with my\ncongratulations; but, between ourselves, I must own it has only\nconvinced ME of my brother's having no PRESENT intention of marrying\nLady Susan, not that he is in no danger of doing so three months hence.\nHe gives a very plausible account of her behaviour at Langford; I wish\nit may be true, but his intelligence must come from herself, and I\nam less disposed to believe it than to lament the degree of intimacy\nsubsisting between them, implied by the discussion of such a subject. I\nam sorry to have incurred his displeasure, but can expect nothing better\nwhile he is so very eager in Lady Susan's justification. He is very\nsevere against me indeed, and yet I hope I have not been hasty in\nmy judgment of her. Poor woman! though I have reasons enough for\nmy dislike, I cannot help pitying her at present, as she is in real\ndistress, and with too much cause. She had this morning a letter from\nthe lady with whom she has placed her daughter, to request that Miss\nVernon might be immediately removed, as she had been detected in an\nattempt to run away. Why, or whither she intended to go, does not\nappear; but, as her situation seems to have been unexceptionable, it is\na sad thing, and of course highly distressing to Lady Susan. Frederica\nmust be as much as sixteen, and ought to know better; but from what\nher mother insinuates, I am afraid she is a perverse girl. She has\nbeen sadly neglected, however, and her mother ought to remember it. Mr.\nVernon set off for London as soon as she had determined what should be\ndone. He is, if possible, to prevail on Miss Summers to let Frederica\ncontinue with her; and if he cannot succeed, to bring her to Churchhill\nfor the present, till some other situation can be found for her.\nHer ladyship is comforting herself meanwhile by strolling along the\nshrubbery with Reginald, calling forth all his tender feelings, I\nsuppose, on this distressing occasion. She has been talking a great deal\nabout it to me. She talks vastly well; I am afraid of being ungenerous,\nor I should say, TOO well to feel so very deeply; but I will not look\nfor her faults; she may be Reginald's wife! Heaven forbid it! but why\nshould I be quicker-sighted than anyone else? Mr. Vernon declares that\nhe never saw deeper distress than hers, on the receipt of the letter;\nand is his judgment inferior to mine? She was very unwilling that\nFrederica should be allowed to come to Churchhill, and justly enough, as\nit seems a sort of reward to behaviour deserving very differently; but\nit was impossible to take her anywhere else, and she is not to remain\nhere long. \"It will be absolutely necessary,\" said she, \"as you, my dear\nsister, must be sensible, to treat my daughter with some severity while\nshe is here; a most painful necessity, but I will ENDEAVOUR to submit to\nit. I am afraid I have often been too indulgent, but my poor Frederica's\ntemper could never bear opposition well: you must support and encourage\nme; you must urge the necessity of reproof if you see me too lenient.\"\nAll this sounds very reasonable. Reginald is so incensed against the\npoor silly girl. Surely it is not to Lady Susan's credit that he should\nbe so bitter against her daughter; his idea of her must be drawn from\nthe mother's description. Well, whatever may be his fate, we have the\ncomfort of knowing that we have done our utmost to save him. We must\ncommit the event to a higher power.\n\nYours ever, &c.,\n\nCATHERINE VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXVI\n\n\nLADY SUSAN TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nNever, my dearest Alicia, was I so provoked in my life as by a letter\nthis morning from Miss Summers. That horrid girl of mine has been trying\nto run away. I had not a notion of her being such a little devil before,\nshe seemed to have all the Vernon milkiness; but on receiving the letter\nin which I declared my intention about Sir James, she actually attempted\nto elope; at least, I cannot otherwise account for her doing it. She\nmeant, I suppose, to go to the Clarkes in Staffordshire, for she has no\nother acquaintances. But she shall be punished, she shall have him. I\nhave sent Charles to town to make matters up if he can, for I do not\nby any means want her here. If Miss Summers will not keep her, you must\nfind me out another school, unless we can get her married immediately.\nMiss S. writes word that she could not get the young lady to assign\nany cause for her extraordinary conduct, which confirms me in my own\nprevious explanation of it. Frederica is too shy, I think, and too much\nin awe of me to tell tales, but if the mildness of her uncle should get\nanything out of her, I am not afraid. I trust I shall be able to make my\nstory as good as hers. If I am vain of anything, it is of my eloquence.\nConsideration and esteem as surely follow command of language as\nadmiration waits on beauty, and here I have opportunity enough for the\nexercise of my talent, as the chief of my time is spent in conversation.\n\nReginald is never easy unless we are by ourselves, and when the weather\nis tolerable, we pace the shrubbery for hours together. I like him on\nthe whole very well; he is clever and has a good deal to say, but he\nis sometimes impertinent and troublesome. There is a sort of ridiculous\ndelicacy about him which requires the fullest explanation of whatever he\nmay have heard to my disadvantage, and is never satisfied till he thinks\nhe has ascertained the beginning and end of everything. This is one sort\nof love, but I confess it does not particularly recommend itself to me.\nI infinitely prefer the tender and liberal spirit of Mainwaring, which,\nimpressed with the deepest conviction of my merit, is satisfied that\nwhatever I do must be right; and look with a degree of contempt on\nthe inquisitive and doubtful fancies of that heart which seems always\ndebating on the reasonableness of its emotions. Mainwaring is indeed,\nbeyond all compare, superior to Reginald--superior in everything but the\npower of being with me! Poor fellow! he is much distracted by jealousy,\nwhich I am not sorry for, as I know no better support of love. He has\nbeen teazing me to allow of his coming into this country, and lodging\nsomewhere near INCOG.; but I forbade everything of the kind. Those women\nare inexcusable who forget what is due to themselves, and the opinion of\nthe world.\n\nYours ever, S. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXVII\n\n\nMRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nMy dear Mother,--Mr. Vernon returned on Thursday night, bringing his\nniece with him. Lady Susan had received a line from him by that day's\npost, informing her that Miss Summers had absolutely refused to allow of\nMiss Vernon's continuance in her academy; we were therefore prepared for\nher arrival, and expected them impatiently the whole evening. They came\nwhile we were at tea, and I never saw any creature look so frightened as\nFrederica when she entered the room. Lady Susan, who had been shedding\ntears before, and showing great agitation at the idea of the meeting,\nreceived her with perfect self-command, and without betraying the\nleast tenderness of spirit. She hardly spoke to her, and on Frederica's\nbursting into tears as soon as we were seated, took her out of the room,\nand did not return for some time. When she did, her eyes looked very red\nand she was as much agitated as before. We saw no more of her daughter.\nPoor Reginald was beyond measure concerned to see his fair friend in\nsuch distress, and watched her with so much tender solicitude, that I,\nwho occasionally caught her observing his countenance with exultation,\nwas quite out of patience. This pathetic representation lasted the whole\nevening, and so ostentatious and artful a display has entirely convinced\nme that she did in fact feel nothing. I am more angry with her than ever\nsince I have seen her daughter; the poor girl looks so unhappy that my\nheart aches for her. Lady Susan is surely too severe, for Frederica\ndoes not seem to have the sort of temper to make severity necessary.\nShe looks perfectly timid, dejected, and penitent. She is very\npretty, though not so handsome as her mother, nor at all like her. Her\ncomplexion is delicate, but neither so fair nor so blooming as Lady\nSusan's, and she has quite the Vernon cast of countenance, the oval face\nand mild dark eyes, and there is peculiar sweetness in her look when she\nspeaks either to her uncle or me, for as we behave kindly to her we have\nof course engaged her gratitude.\n\nHer mother has insinuated that her temper is intractable, but I never\nsaw a face less indicative of any evil disposition than hers; and from\nwhat I can see of the behaviour of each to the other, the invariable\nseverity of Lady Susan and the silent dejection of Frederica, I am\nled to believe as heretofore that the former has no real love for her\ndaughter, and has never done her justice or treated her affectionately.\nI have not been able to have any conversation with my niece; she is shy,\nand I think I can see that some pains are taken to prevent her being\nmuch with me. Nothing satisfactory transpires as to her reason for\nrunning away. Her kind-hearted uncle, you may be sure, was too fearful\nof distressing her to ask many questions as they travelled. I wish it\nhad been possible for me to fetch her instead of him. I think I should\nhave discovered the truth in the course of a thirty-mile journey. The\nsmall pianoforte has been removed within these few days, at Lady Susan's\nrequest, into her dressing-room, and Frederica spends great part of the\nday there, practising as it is called; but I seldom hear any noise when\nI pass that way; what she does with herself there I do not know. There\nare plenty of books, but it is not every girl who has been running\nwild the first fifteen years of her life, that can or will read. Poor\ncreature! the prospect from her window is not very instructive, for that\nroom overlooks the lawn, you know, with the shrubbery on one side,\nwhere she may see her mother walking for an hour together in earnest\nconversation with Reginald. A girl of Frederica's age must be childish\nindeed, if such things do not strike her. Is it not inexcusable to give\nsuch an example to a daughter? Yet Reginald still thinks Lady Susan the\nbest of mothers, and still condemns Frederica as a worthless girl! He\nis convinced that her attempt to run away proceeded from no, justifiable\ncause, and had no provocation. I am sure I cannot say that it HAD,\nbut while Miss Summers declares that Miss Vernon showed no signs of\nobstinacy or perverseness during her whole stay in Wigmore Street, till\nshe was detected in this scheme, I cannot so readily credit what Lady\nSusan has made him, and wants to make me believe, that it was merely\nan impatience of restraint and a desire of escaping from the tuition of\nmasters which brought on the plan of an elopement. O Reginald, how is\nyour judgment enslaved! He scarcely dares even allow her to be handsome,\nand when I speak of her beauty, replies only that her eyes have no\nbrilliancy! Sometimes he is sure she is deficient in understanding, and\nat others that her temper only is in fault. In short, when a person is\nalways to deceive, it is impossible to be consistent. Lady Susan\nfinds it necessary that Frederica should be to blame, and probably has\nsometimes judged it expedient to excuse her of ill-nature and sometimes\nto lament her want of sense. Reginald is only repeating after her\nladyship.\n\nI remain, &c., &c.,\n\nCATHERINE VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXVIII\n\n\nFROM THE SAME TO THE SAME\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nMy dear Mother,--I am very glad to find that my description of Frederica\nVernon has interested you, for I do believe her truly deserving of your\nregard; and when I have communicated a notion which has recently struck\nme, your kind impressions in her favour will, I am sure, be heightened.\nI cannot help fancying that she is growing partial to my brother. I so\nvery often see her eyes fixed on his face with a remarkable expression\nof pensive admiration. He is certainly very handsome; and yet more,\nthere is an openness in his manner that must be highly prepossessing,\nand I am sure she feels it so. Thoughtful and pensive in general, her\ncountenance always brightens into a smile when Reginald says anything\namusing; and, let the subject be ever so serious that he may be\nconversing on, I am much mistaken if a syllable of his uttering escapes\nher. I want to make him sensible of all this, for we know the power\nof gratitude on such a heart as his; and could Frederica's artless\naffection detach him from her mother, we might bless the day which\nbrought her to Churchhill. I think, my dear mother, you would not\ndisapprove of her as a daughter. She is extremely young, to be sure,\nhas had a wretched education, and a dreadful example of levity in her\nmother; but yet I can pronounce her disposition to be excellent, and her\nnatural abilities very good. Though totally without accomplishments, she\nis by no means so ignorant as one might expect to find her, being fond\nof books and spending the chief of her time in reading. Her mother\nleaves her more to herself than she did, and I have her with me as much\nas possible, and have taken great pains to overcome her timidity. We\nare very good friends, and though she never opens her lips before her\nmother, she talks enough when alone with me to make it clear that, if\nproperly treated by Lady Susan, she would always appear to much greater\nadvantage. There cannot be a more gentle, affectionate heart; or more\nobliging manners, when acting without restraint; and her little cousins\nare all very fond of her.\n\nYour affectionate daughter,\n\nC. VERNON\n\n\n\n\n\nXIX\n\n\nLADY SUSAN TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nYou will be eager, I know, to hear something further of Frederica, and\nperhaps may think me negligent for not writing before. She arrived with\nher uncle last Thursday fortnight, when, of course, I lost no time in\ndemanding the cause of her behaviour; and soon found myself to have been\nperfectly right in attributing it to my own letter. The prospect of\nit frightened her so thoroughly, that, with a mixture of true girlish\nperverseness and folly, she resolved on getting out of the house and\nproceeding directly by the stage to her friends, the Clarkes; and had\nreally got as far as the length of two streets in her journey when\nshe was fortunately missed, pursued, and overtaken. Such was the first\ndistinguished exploit of Miss Frederica Vernon; and, if we consider that\nit was achieved at the tender age of sixteen, we shall have room for\nthe most flattering prognostics of her future renown. I am excessively\nprovoked, however, at the parade of propriety which prevented Miss\nSummers from keeping the girl; and it seems so extraordinary a piece of\nnicety, considering my daughter's family connections, that I can only\nsuppose the lady to be governed by the fear of never getting her money.\nBe that as it may, however, Frederica is returned on my hands; and,\nhaving nothing else to employ her, is busy in pursuing the plan of\nromance begun at Langford. She is actually falling in love with Reginald\nDe Courcy! To disobey her mother by refusing an unexceptionable offer\nis not enough; her affections must also be given without her mother's\napprobation. I never saw a girl of her age bid fairer to be the sport\nof mankind. Her feelings are tolerably acute, and she is so charmingly\nartless in their display as to afford the most reasonable hope of her\nbeing ridiculous, and despised by every man who sees her.\n\nArtlessness will never do in love matters; and that girl is born a\nsimpleton who has it either by nature or affectation. I am not yet\ncertain that Reginald sees what she is about, nor is it of much\nconsequence. She is now an object of indifference to him, and she would\nbe one of contempt were he to understand her emotions. Her beauty is\nmuch admired by the Vernons, but it has no effect on him. She is in high\nfavour with her aunt altogether, because she is so little like myself,\nof course. She is exactly the companion for Mrs. Vernon, who dearly\nloves to be firm, and to have all the sense and all the wit of the\nconversation to herself: Frederica will never eclipse her. When she\nfirst came I was at some pains to prevent her seeing much of her aunt;\nbut I have relaxed, as I believe I may depend on her observing the rules\nI have laid down for their discourse. But do not imagine that with all\nthis lenity I have for a moment given up my plan of her marriage. No; I\nam unalterably fixed on this point, though I have not yet quite decided\non the manner of bringing it about. I should not chuse to have the\nbusiness brought on here, and canvassed by the wise heads of Mr. and\nMrs. Vernon; and I cannot just now afford to go to town. Miss Frederica\nmust therefore wait a little.\n\nYours ever,\n\nS. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXX\n\n\nMRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY\n\n\nChurchhill\n\n\nWe have a very unexpected guest with us at present, my dear Mother: he\narrived yesterday. I heard a carriage at the door, as I was sitting with\nmy children while they dined; and supposing I should be wanted, left the\nnursery soon afterwards, and was half-way downstairs, when Frederica,\nas pale as ashes, came running up, and rushed by me into her own room.\nI instantly followed, and asked her what was the matter. \"Oh!\" said\nshe, \"he is come--Sir James is come, and what shall I do?\" This was no\nexplanation; I begged her to tell me what she meant. At that moment we\nwere interrupted by a knock at the door: it was Reginald, who came, by\nLady Susan's direction, to call Frederica down. \"It is Mr. De Courcy!\"\nsaid she, colouring violently. \"Mamma has sent for me; I must go.\"\nWe all three went down together; and I saw my brother examining the\nterrified face of Frederica with surprize. In the breakfast-room we\nfound Lady Susan, and a young man of gentlemanlike appearance, whom she\nintroduced by the name of Sir James Martin--the very person, as you may\nremember, whom it was said she had been at pains to detach from Miss\nMainwaring; but the conquest, it seems, was not designed for herself,\nor she has since transferred it to her daughter; for Sir James is now\ndesperately in love with Frederica, and with full encouragement from\nmamma. The poor girl, however, I am sure, dislikes him; and though his\nperson and address are very well, he appears, both to Mr. Vernon and\nme, a very weak young man. Frederica looked so shy, so confused, when\nwe entered the room, that I felt for her exceedingly. Lady Susan behaved\nwith great attention to her visitor; and yet I thought I could perceive\nthat she had no particular pleasure in seeing him. Sir James talked a\ngreat deal, and made many civil excuses to me for the liberty he had\ntaken in coming to Churchhill--mixing more frequent laughter with his\ndiscourse than the subject required--said many things over and over\nagain, and told Lady Susan three times that he had seen Mrs. Johnson\na few evenings before. He now and then addressed Frederica, but more\nfrequently her mother. The poor girl sat all this time without opening\nher lips--her eyes cast down, and her colour varying every instant;\nwhile Reginald observed all that passed in perfect silence. At length\nLady Susan, weary, I believe, of her situation, proposed walking; and\nwe left the two gentlemen together, to put on our pelisses. As we went\nupstairs Lady Susan begged permission to attend me for a few moments in\nmy dressing-room, as she was anxious to speak with me in private. I led\nher thither accordingly, and as soon as the door was closed, she said:\n\"I was never more surprized in my life than by Sir James's arrival,\nand the suddenness of it requires some apology to you, my dear sister;\nthough to ME, as a mother, it is highly flattering. He is so extremely\nattached to my daughter that he could not exist longer without seeing\nher. Sir James is a young man of an amiable disposition and excellent\ncharacter; a little too much of the rattle, perhaps, but a year or two\nwill rectify THAT: and he is in other respects so very eligible a match\nfor Frederica, that I have always observed his attachment with the\ngreatest pleasure; and am persuaded that you and my brother will give\nthe alliance your hearty approbation. I have never before mentioned the\nlikelihood of its taking place to anyone, because I thought that whilst\nFrederica continued at school it had better not be known to exist;\nbut now, as I am convinced that Frederica is too old ever to submit to\nschool confinement, and have, therefore, begun to consider her union\nwith Sir James as not very distant, I had intended within a few days to\nacquaint yourself and Mr. Vernon with the whole business. I am sure, my\ndear sister, you will excuse my remaining silent so long, and agree\nwith me that such circumstances, while they continue from any cause\nin suspense, cannot be too cautiously concealed. When you have the\nhappiness of bestowing your sweet little Catherine, some years hence, on\na man who in connection and character is alike unexceptionable, you\nwill know what I feel now; though, thank Heaven, you cannot have all my\nreasons for rejoicing in such an event. Catherine will be amply provided\nfor, and not, like my Frederica, indebted to a fortunate\nestablishment for the comforts of life.\" She concluded by demanding\nmy congratulations. I gave them somewhat awkwardly, I believe; for, in\nfact, the sudden disclosure of so important a matter took from me the\npower of speaking with any clearness. She thanked me, however, most\naffectionately, for my kind concern in the welfare of herself and\ndaughter; and then said: \"I am not apt to deal in professions, my\ndear Mrs. Vernon, and I never had the convenient talent of affecting\nsensations foreign to my heart; and therefore I trust you will believe\nme when I declare, that much as I had heard in your praise before I knew\nyou, I had no idea that I should ever love you as I now do; and I\nmust further say that your friendship towards me is more particularly\ngratifying because I have reason to believe that some attempts were made\nto prejudice you against me. I only wish that they, whoever they are,\nto whom I am indebted for such kind intentions, could see the terms on\nwhich we now are together, and understand the real affection we feel\nfor each other; but I will not detain you any longer. God bless you, for\nyour goodness to me and my girl, and continue to you all your present\nhappiness.\" What can one say of such a woman, my dear mother? Such\nearnestness such solemnity of expression! and yet I cannot help\nsuspecting the truth of everything she says. As for Reginald, I believe\nhe does not know what to make of the matter. When Sir James came, he\nappeared all astonishment and perplexity; the folly of the young man and\nthe confusion of Frederica entirely engrossed him; and though a little\nprivate discourse with Lady Susan has since had its effect, he is still\nhurt, I am sure, at her allowing of such a man's attentions to her\ndaughter. Sir James invited himself with great composure to remain here\na few days--hoped we would not think it odd, was aware of its being very\nimpertinent, but he took the liberty of a relation; and concluded by\nwishing, with a laugh, that he might be really one very soon. Even Lady\nSusan seemed a little disconcerted by this forwardness; in her heart I\nam persuaded she sincerely wished him gone. But something must be done\nfor this poor girl, if her feelings are such as both I and her uncle\nbelieve them to be. She must not be sacrificed to policy or ambition,\nand she must not be left to suffer from the dread of it. The girl whose\nheart can distinguish Reginald De Courcy, deserves, however he may\nslight her, a better fate than to be Sir James Martin's wife. As soon\nas I can get her alone, I will discover the real truth; but she seems to\nwish to avoid me. I hope this does not proceed from anything wrong, and\nthat I shall not find out I have thought too well of her. Her\nbehaviour to Sir James certainly speaks the greatest consciousness and\nembarrassment, but I see nothing in it more like encouragement. Adieu,\nmy dear mother.\n\nYours, &c.,\n\nC. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXI\n\n\nMISS VERNON TO MR DE COURCY\n\n\nSir,--I hope you will excuse this liberty; I am forced upon it by the\ngreatest distress, or I should be ashamed to trouble you. I am very\nmiserable about Sir James Martin, and have no other way in the world of\nhelping myself but by writing to you, for I am forbidden even speaking\nto my uncle and aunt on the subject; and this being the case, I am\nafraid my applying to you will appear no better than equivocation, and\nas if I attended to the letter and not the spirit of mamma's commands.\nBut if you do not take my part and persuade her to break it off, I shall\nbe half distracted, for I cannot bear him. No human being but YOU could\nhave any chance of prevailing with her. If you will, therefore, have the\nunspeakably great kindness of taking my part with her, and persuading\nher to send Sir James away, I shall be more obliged to you than it is\npossible for me to express. I always disliked him from the first: it is\nnot a sudden fancy, I assure you, sir; I always thought him silly and\nimpertinent and disagreeable, and now he is grown worse than ever. I\nwould rather work for my bread than marry him. I do not know how\nto apologize enough for this letter; I know it is taking so great a\nliberty. I am aware how dreadfully angry it will make mamma, but I\nremember the risk.\n\nI am, Sir, your most humble servant,\n\nF. S. V.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXII\n\n\nLADY SUSAN TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nThis is insufferable! My dearest friend, I was never so enraged before,\nand must relieve myself by writing to you, who I know will enter into\nall my feelings. Who should come on Tuesday but Sir James Martin! Guess\nmy astonishment, and vexation--for, as you well know, I never wished him\nto be seen at Churchhill. What a pity that you should not have known\nhis intentions! Not content with coming, he actually invited himself to\nremain here a few days. I could have poisoned him! I made the best of\nit, however, and told my story with great success to Mrs. Vernon, who,\nwhatever might be her real sentiments, said nothing in opposition to\nmine. I made a point also of Frederica's behaving civilly to Sir James,\nand gave her to understand that I was absolutely determined on her\nmarrying him. She said something of her misery, but that was all. I have\nfor some time been more particularly resolved on the match from seeing\nthe rapid increase of her affection for Reginald, and from not feeling\nsecure that a knowledge of such affection might not in the end awaken\na return. Contemptible as a regard founded only on compassion must make\nthem both in my eyes, I felt by no means assured that such might not be\nthe consequence. It is true that Reginald had not in any degree grown\ncool towards me; but yet he has lately mentioned Frederica spontaneously\nand unnecessarily, and once said something in praise of her person.\nHE was all astonishment at the appearance of my visitor, and at first\nobserved Sir James with an attention which I was pleased to see not\nunmixed with jealousy; but unluckily it was impossible for me really\nto torment him, as Sir James, though extremely gallant to me, very\nsoon made the whole party understand that his heart was devoted to my\ndaughter. I had no great difficulty in convincing De Courcy, when we\nwere alone, that I was perfectly justified, all things considered,\nin desiring the match; and the whole business seemed most comfortably\narranged. They could none of them help perceiving that Sir James was no\nSolomon; but I had positively forbidden Frederica complaining to Charles\nVernon or his wife, and they had therefore no pretence for interference;\nthough my impertinent sister, I believe, wanted only opportunity for\ndoing so. Everything, however, was going on calmly and quietly; and,\nthough I counted the hours of Sir James's stay, my mind was entirely\nsatisfied with the posture of affairs. Guess, then, what I must feel at\nthe sudden disturbance of all my schemes; and that, too, from a quarter\nwhere I had least reason to expect it. Reginald came this morning into\nmy dressing-room with a very unusual solemnity of countenance, and after\nsome preface informed me in so many words that he wished to reason with\nme on the impropriety and unkindness of allowing Sir James Martin to\naddress my daughter contrary to her inclinations. I was all amazement.\nWhen I found that he was not to be laughed out of his design, I calmly\nbegged an explanation, and desired to know by what he was impelled, and\nby whom commissioned, to reprimand me. He then told me, mixing in\nhis speech a few insolent compliments and ill-timed expressions of\ntenderness, to which I listened with perfect indifference, that my\ndaughter had acquainted him with some circumstances concerning herself,\nSir James, and me which had given him great uneasiness. In short, I\nfound that she had in the first place actually written to him to request\nhis interference, and that, on receiving her letter, he had conversed\nwith her on the subject of it, in order to understand the particulars,\nand to assure himself of her real wishes. I have not a doubt but that\nthe girl took this opportunity of making downright love to him. I am\nconvinced of it by the manner in which he spoke of her. Much good may\nsuch love do him! I shall ever despise the man who can be gratified by\nthe passion which he never wished to inspire, nor solicited the avowal\nof. I shall always detest them both. He can have no true regard for\nme, or he would not have listened to her; and SHE, with her little\nrebellious heart and indelicate feelings, to throw herself into the\nprotection of a young man with whom she has scarcely ever exchanged\ntwo words before! I am equally confounded at HER impudence and HIS\ncredulity. How dared he believe what she told him in my disfavour! Ought\nhe not to have felt assured that I must have unanswerable motives for\nall that I had done? Where was his reliance on my sense and goodness\nthen? Where the resentment which true love would have dictated against\nthe person defaming me--that person, too, a chit, a child, without\ntalent or education, whom he had been always taught to despise? I\nwas calm for some time; but the greatest degree of forbearance may be\novercome, and I hope I was afterwards sufficiently keen. He endeavoured,\nlong endeavoured, to soften my resentment; but that woman is a\nfool indeed who, while insulted by accusation, can be worked on by\ncompliments. At length he left me, as deeply provoked as myself; and\nhe showed his anger more. I was quite cool, but he gave way to the most\nviolent indignation; I may therefore expect it will the sooner subside,\nand perhaps his may be vanished for ever, while mine will be found still\nfresh and implacable. He is now shut up in his apartment, whither I\nheard him go on leaving mine. How unpleasant, one would think, must be\nhis reflections! but some people's feelings are incomprehensible. I have\nnot yet tranquillised myself enough to see Frederica. SHE shall not soon\nforget the occurrences of this day; she shall find that she has poured\nforth her tender tale of love in vain, and exposed herself for ever\nto the contempt of the whole world, and the severest resentment of her\ninjured mother.\n\nYour affectionate\n\nS. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\nXXIII\n\n\nMRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nLet me congratulate you, my dearest Mother! The affair which has given\nus so much anxiety is drawing to a happy conclusion. Our prospect is\nmost delightful, and since matters have now taken so favourable a turn,\nI am quite sorry that I ever imparted my apprehensions to you; for the\npleasure of learning that the danger is over is perhaps dearly purchased\nby all that you have previously suffered. I am so much agitated by\ndelight that I can scarcely hold a pen; but am determined to send you\na few short lines by James, that you may have some explanation of what\nmust so greatly astonish you, as that Reginald should be returning to\nParklands. I was sitting about half an hour ago with Sir James in\nthe breakfast parlour, when my brother called me out of the room. I\ninstantly saw that something was the matter; his complexion was raised,\nand he spoke with great emotion; you know his eager manner, my dear\nmother, when his mind is interested. \"Catherine,\" said he, \"I am going\nhome to-day; I am sorry to leave you, but I must go: it is a great while\nsince I have seen my father and mother. I am going to send James forward\nwith my hunters immediately; if you have any letter, therefore, he can\ntake it. I shall not be at home myself till Wednesday or Thursday, as I\nshall go through London, where I have business; but before I leave you,\"\nhe continued, speaking in a lower tone, and with still greater energy,\n\"I must warn you of one thing--do not let Frederica Vernon be made\nunhappy by that Martin. He wants to marry her; her mother promotes the\nmatch, but she cannot endure the idea of it. Be assured that I speak\nfrom the fullest conviction of the truth of what I say; I know that\nFrederica is made wretched by Sir James's continuing here. She is a\nsweet girl, and deserves a better fate. Send him away immediately; he is\nonly a fool: but what her mother can mean, Heaven only knows! Good bye,\"\nhe added, shaking my hand with earnestness; \"I do not know when you will\nsee me again; but remember what I tell you of Frederica; you MUST make\nit your business to see justice done her. She is an amiable girl, and\nhas a very superior mind to what we have given her credit for.\" He then\nleft me, and ran upstairs. I would not try to stop him, for I know what\nhis feelings must be. The nature of mine, as I listened to him, I need\nnot attempt to describe; for a minute or two I remained in the same\nspot, overpowered by wonder of a most agreeable sort indeed; yet it\nrequired some consideration to be tranquilly happy. In about ten minutes\nafter my return to the parlour Lady Susan entered the room. I concluded,\nof course, that she and Reginald had been quarrelling; and looked with\nanxious curiosity for a confirmation of my belief in her face. Mistress\nof deceit, however, she appeared perfectly unconcerned, and after\nchatting on indifferent subjects for a short time, said to me, \"I find\nfrom Wilson that we are going to lose Mr. De Courcy--is it true that\nhe leaves Churchhill this morning?\" I replied that it was. \"He told\nus nothing of all this last night,\" said she, laughing, \"or even this\nmorning at breakfast; but perhaps he did not know it himself. Young men\nare often hasty in their resolutions, and not more sudden in forming\nthan unsteady in keeping them. I should not be surprised if he were to\nchange his mind at last, and not go.\" She soon afterwards left the room.\nI trust, however, my dear mother, that we have no reason to fear an\nalteration of his present plan; things have gone too far. They must have\nquarrelled, and about Frederica, too. Her calmness astonishes me. What\ndelight will be yours in seeing him again; in seeing him still worthy\nyour esteem, still capable of forming your happiness! When I next\nwrite I shall be able to tell you that Sir James is gone, Lady Susan\nvanquished, and Frederica at peace. We have much to do, but it shall\nbe done. I am all impatience to hear how this astonishing change was\neffected. I finish as I began, with the warmest congratulations.\n\nYours ever, &c.,\n\nCATH. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXIV\n\n\nFROM THE SAME TO THE SAME\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nLittle did I imagine, my dear Mother, when I sent off my last letter,\nthat the delightful perturbation of spirits I was then in would undergo\nso speedy, so melancholy a reverse. I never can sufficiently regret that\nI wrote to you at all. Yet who could have foreseen what has happened?\nMy dear mother, every hope which made me so happy only two hours ago has\nvanished. The quarrel between Lady Susan and Reginald is made up, and we\nare all as we were before. One point only is gained. Sir James Martin is\ndismissed. What are we now to look forward to? I am indeed disappointed;\nReginald was all but gone, his horse was ordered and all but brought\nto the door; who would not have felt safe? For half an hour I was in\nmomentary expectation of his departure. After I had sent off my letter\nto you, I went to Mr. Vernon, and sat with him in his room talking over\nthe whole matter, and then determined to look for Frederica, whom I had\nnot seen since breakfast. I met her on the stairs, and saw that she was\ncrying. \"My dear aunt,\" said she, \"he is going--Mr. De Courcy is going,\nand it is all my fault. I am afraid you will be very angry with me, but\nindeed I had no idea it would end so.\" \"My love,\" I replied, \"do not\nthink it necessary to apologize to me on that account. I shall feel\nmyself under an obligation to anyone who is the means of sending my\nbrother home, because,\" recollecting myself, \"I know my father wants\nvery much to see him. But what is it you have done to occasion all\nthis?\" She blushed deeply as she answered: \"I was so unhappy about Sir\nJames that I could not help--I have done something very wrong, I know;\nbut you have not an idea of the misery I have been in: and mamma had\nordered me never to speak to you or my uncle about it, and--\" \"You\ntherefore spoke to my brother to engage his interference,\" said I, to\nsave her the explanation. \"No, but I wrote to him--I did indeed, I got\nup this morning before it was light, and was two hours about it; and\nwhen my letter was done I thought I never should have courage to give\nit. After breakfast however, as I was going to my room, I met him in the\npassage, and then, as I knew that everything must depend on that moment,\nI forced myself to give it. He was so good as to take it immediately. I\ndared not look at him, and ran away directly. I was in such a fright I\ncould hardly breathe. My dear aunt, you do not know how miserable I\nhave been.\" \"Frederica\" said I, \"you ought to have told me all your\ndistresses. You would have found in me a friend always ready to assist\nyou. Do you think that your uncle or I should not have espoused your\ncause as warmly as my brother?\" \"Indeed, I did not doubt your kindness,\"\nsaid she, colouring again, \"but I thought Mr. De Courcy could do\nanything with my mother; but I was mistaken: they have had a dreadful\nquarrel about it, and he is going away. Mamma will never forgive me,\nand I shall be worse off than ever.\" \"No, you shall not,\" I replied;\n\"in such a point as this your mother's prohibition ought not to have\nprevented your speaking to me on the subject. She has no right to\nmake you unhappy, and she shall NOT do it. Your applying, however, to\nReginald can be productive only of good to all parties. I believe it\nis best as it is. Depend upon it that you shall not be made unhappy any\nlonger.\" At that moment how great was my astonishment at seeing Reginald\ncome out of Lady Susan's dressing-room. My heart misgave me instantly.\nHis confusion at seeing me was very evident. Frederica immediately\ndisappeared. \"Are you going?\" I said; \"you will find Mr. Vernon in his\nown room.\" \"No, Catherine,\" he replied, \"I am not going. Will you let\nme speak to you a moment?\" We went into my room. \"I find,\" he continued,\nhis confusion increasing as he spoke, \"that I have been acting with my\nusual foolish impetuosity. I have entirely misunderstood Lady Susan, and\nwas on the point of leaving the house under a false impression of\nher conduct. There has been some very great mistake; we have been all\nmistaken, I fancy. Frederica does not know her mother. Lady Susan means\nnothing but her good, but she will not make a friend of her. Lady Susan\ndoes not always know, therefore, what will make her daughter happy.\nBesides, I could have no right to interfere. Miss Vernon was mistaken in\napplying to me. In short, Catherine, everything has gone wrong, but it\nis now all happily settled. Lady Susan, I believe, wishes to speak to\nyou about it, if you are at leisure.\" \"Certainly,\" I replied, deeply\nsighing at the recital of so lame a story. I made no comments, however,\nfor words would have been vain.\n\nReginald was glad to get away, and I went to Lady Susan, curious,\nindeed, to hear her account of it. \"Did I not tell you,\" said she with\na smile, \"that your brother would not leave us after all?\" \"You did,\nindeed,\" replied I very gravely; \"but I flattered myself you would be\nmistaken.\" \"I should not have hazarded such an opinion,\" returned she,\n\"if it had not at that moment occurred to me that his resolution of\ngoing might be occasioned by a conversation in which we had been this\nmorning engaged, and which had ended very much to his dissatisfaction,\nfrom our not rightly understanding each other's meaning. This idea\nstruck me at the moment, and I instantly determined that an accidental\ndispute, in which I might probably be as much to blame as himself,\nshould not deprive you of your brother. If you remember, I left the room\nalmost immediately. I was resolved to lose no time in clearing up those\nmistakes as far as I could. The case was this--Frederica had set herself\nviolently against marrying Sir James.\" \"And can your ladyship wonder\nthat she should?\" cried I with some warmth; \"Frederica has an excellent\nunderstanding, and Sir James has none.\" \"I am at least very far from\nregretting it, my dear sister,\" said she; \"on the contrary, I am\ngrateful for so favourable a sign of my daughter's sense. Sir James is\ncertainly below par (his boyish manners make him appear worse); and had\nFrederica possessed the penetration and the abilities which I could have\nwished in my daughter, or had I even known her to possess as much as she\ndoes, I should not have been anxious for the match.\" \"It is odd that\nyou should alone be ignorant of your daughter's sense!\" \"Frederica never\ndoes justice to herself; her manners are shy and childish, and besides\nshe is afraid of me. During her poor father's life she was a spoilt\nchild; the severity which it has since been necessary for me to show\nhas alienated her affection; neither has she any of that brilliancy\nof intellect, that genius or vigour of mind which will force itself\nforward.\" \"Say rather that she has been unfortunate in her education!\"\n\"Heaven knows, my dearest Mrs. Vernon, how fully I am aware of that; but\nI would wish to forget every circumstance that might throw blame on the\nmemory of one whose name is sacred with me.\" Here she pretended to cry;\nI was out of patience with her. \"But what,\" said I, \"was your ladyship\ngoing to tell me about your disagreement with my brother?\" \"It\noriginated in an action of my daughter's, which equally marks her want\nof judgment and the unfortunate dread of me I have been mentioning--she\nwrote to Mr. De Courcy.\" \"I know she did; you had forbidden her speaking\nto Mr. Vernon or to me on the cause of her distress; what could she do,\ntherefore, but apply to my brother?\" \"Good God!\" she exclaimed, \"what an\nopinion you must have of me! Can you possibly suppose that I was\naware of her unhappiness! that it was my object to make my own child\nmiserable, and that I had forbidden her speaking to you on the subject\nfrom a fear of your interrupting the diabolical scheme? Do you think\nme destitute of every honest, every natural feeling? Am I capable of\nconsigning HER to everlasting misery whose welfare it is my first\nearthly duty to promote? The idea is horrible!\" \"What, then, was your\nintention when you insisted on her silence?\" \"Of what use, my dear\nsister, could be any application to you, however the affair might stand?\nWhy should I subject you to entreaties which I refused to attend to\nmyself? Neither for your sake nor for hers, nor for my own, could such\na thing be desirable. When my own resolution was taken I could not\nwish for the interference, however friendly, of another person. I was\nmistaken, it is true, but I believed myself right.\" \"But what was this\nmistake to which your ladyship so often alludes! from whence arose so\nastonishing a misconception of your daughter's feelings! Did you not\nknow that she disliked Sir James?\" \"I knew that he was not absolutely\nthe man she would have chosen, but I was persuaded that her objections\nto him did not arise from any perception of his deficiency. You must\nnot question me, however, my dear sister, too minutely on this point,\"\ncontinued she, taking me affectionately by the hand; \"I honestly own\nthat there is something to conceal. Frederica makes me very unhappy! Her\napplying to Mr. De Courcy hurt me particularly.\" \"What is it you mean\nto infer,\" said I, \"by this appearance of mystery? If you think your\ndaughter at all attached to Reginald, her objecting to Sir James could\nnot less deserve to be attended to than if the cause of her objecting\nhad been a consciousness of his folly; and why should your ladyship,\nat any rate, quarrel with my brother for an interference which, you must\nknow, it is not in his nature to refuse when urged in such a manner?\"\n\n\"His disposition, you know, is warm, and he came to expostulate with\nme; his compassion all alive for this ill-used girl, this heroine in\ndistress! We misunderstood each other: he believed me more to blame than\nI really was; I considered his interference less excusable than I\nnow find it. I have a real regard for him, and was beyond expression\nmortified to find it, as I thought, so ill bestowed. We were both warm,\nand of course both to blame. His resolution of leaving Churchhill is\nconsistent with his general eagerness. When I understood his intention,\nhowever, and at the same time began to think that we had been perhaps\nequally mistaken in each other's meaning, I resolved to have an\nexplanation before it was too late. For any member of your family I must\nalways feel a degree of affection, and I own it would have sensibly hurt\nme if my acquaintance with Mr. De Courcy had ended so gloomily. I have\nnow only to say further, that as I am convinced of Frederica's having\na reasonable dislike to Sir James, I shall instantly inform him that he\nmust give up all hope of her. I reproach myself for having, even though\ninnocently, made her unhappy on that score. She shall have all the\nretribution in my power to make; if she value her own happiness as much\nas I do, if she judge wisely, and command herself as she ought, she may\nnow be easy. Excuse me, my dearest sister, for thus trespassing on your\ntime, but I owe it to my own character; and after this explanation I\ntrust I am in no danger of sinking in your opinion.\" I could have\nsaid, \"Not much, indeed!\" but I left her almost in silence. It was\nthe greatest stretch of forbearance I could practise. I could not have\nstopped myself had I begun. Her assurance! her deceit! but I will not\nallow myself to dwell on them; they will strike you sufficiently. My\nheart sickens within me. As soon as I was tolerably composed I returned\nto the parlour. Sir James's carriage was at the door, and he, merry\nas usual, soon afterwards took his leave. How easily does her ladyship\nencourage or dismiss a lover! In spite of this release, Frederica still\nlooks unhappy: still fearful, perhaps, of her mother's anger; and though\ndreading my brother's departure, jealous, it may be, of his staying. I\nsee how closely she observes him and Lady Susan, poor girl! I have now\nno hope for her. There is not a chance of her affection being returned.\nHe thinks very differently of her from what he used to do; he does her\nsome justice, but his reconciliation with her mother precludes every\ndearer hope. Prepare, my dear mother, for the worst! The probability of\ntheir marrying is surely heightened! He is more securely hers than ever.\nWhen that wretched event takes place, Frederica must belong wholly to\nus. I am thankful that my last letter will precede this by so little, as\nevery moment that you can be saved from feeling a joy which leads only\nto disappointment is of consequence.\n\nYours ever, &c.,\n\nCATHERINE VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXV\n\n\nLADY SUSAN TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nI call on you, dear Alicia, for congratulations: I am my own self, gay\nand triumphant! When I wrote to you the other day I was, in truth, in\nhigh irritation, and with ample cause. Nay, I know not whether I ought\nto be quite tranquil now, for I have had more trouble in restoring\npeace than I ever intended to submit to--a spirit, too, resulting from\na fancied sense of superior integrity, which is peculiarly insolent! I\nshall not easily forgive him, I assure you. He was actually on the point\nof leaving Churchhill! I had scarcely concluded my last, when Wilson\nbrought me word of it. I found, therefore, that something must be done;\nfor I did not choose to leave my character at the mercy of a man whose\npassions are so violent and so revengeful. It would have been trifling\nwith my reputation to allow of his departing with such an impression in\nmy disfavour; in this light, condescension was necessary. I sent\nWilson to say that I desired to speak with him before he went; he came\nimmediately. The angry emotions which had marked every feature when we\nlast parted were partially subdued. He seemed astonished at the summons,\nand looked as if half wishing and half fearing to be softened by what I\nmight say. If my countenance expressed what I aimed at, it was composed\nand dignified; and yet, with a degree of pensiveness which might\nconvince him that I was not quite happy. \"I beg your pardon, sir, for\nthe liberty I have taken in sending for you,\" said I; \"but as I have\njust learnt your intention of leaving this place to-day, I feel it my\nduty to entreat that you will not on my account shorten your visit here\neven an hour. I am perfectly aware that after what has passed between\nus it would ill suit the feelings of either to remain longer in the same\nhouse: so very great, so total a change from the intimacy of friendship\nmust render any future intercourse the severest punishment; and your\nresolution of quitting Churchhill is undoubtedly in unison with our\nsituation, and with those lively feelings which I know you to possess.\nBut, at the same time, it is not for me to suffer such a sacrifice as it\nmust be to leave relations to whom you are so much attached, and are so\ndear. My remaining here cannot give that pleasure to Mr. and Mrs. Vernon\nwhich your society must; and my visit has already perhaps been too long.\nMy removal, therefore, which must, at any rate, take place soon, may,\nwith perfect convenience, be hastened; and I make it my particular\nrequest that I may not in any way be instrumental in separating a\nfamily so affectionately attached to each other. Where I go is of\nno consequence to anyone; of very little to myself; but you are of\nimportance to all your connections.\" Here I concluded, and I hope you\nwill be satisfied with my speech. Its effect on Reginald justifies some\nportion of vanity, for it was no less favourable than instantaneous. Oh,\nhow delightful it was to watch the variations of his countenance while I\nspoke! to see the struggle between returning tenderness and the remains\nof displeasure. There is something agreeable in feelings so easily\nworked on; not that I envy him their possession, nor would, for the\nworld, have such myself; but they are very convenient when one wishes\nto influence the passions of another. And yet this Reginald, whom a\nvery few words from me softened at once into the utmost submission, and\nrendered more tractable, more attached, more devoted than ever, would\nhave left me in the first angry swelling of his proud heart without\ndeigning to seek an explanation. Humbled as he now is, I cannot forgive\nhim such an instance of pride, and am doubtful whether I ought not to\npunish him by dismissing him at once after this reconciliation, or\nby marrying and teazing him for ever. But these measures are each too\nviolent to be adopted without some deliberation; at present my thoughts\nare fluctuating between various schemes. I have many things to compass:\nI must punish Frederica, and pretty severely too, for her application to\nReginald; I must punish him for receiving it so favourably, and for the\nrest of his conduct. I must torment my sister-in-law for the insolent\ntriumph of her look and manner since Sir James has been dismissed; for,\nin reconciling Reginald to me, I was not able to save that ill-fated\nyoung man; and I must make myself amends for the humiliation to which\nI have stooped within these few days. To effect all this I have various\nplans. I have also an idea of being soon in town; and whatever may be\nmy determination as to the rest, I shall probably put THAT project\nin execution; for London will be always the fairest field of action,\nhowever my views may be directed; and at any rate I shall there be\nrewarded by your society, and a little dissipation, for a ten weeks'\npenance at Churchhill. I believe I owe it to my character to complete\nthe match between my daughter and Sir James after having so long\nintended it. Let me know your opinion on this point. Flexibility of\nmind, a disposition easily biassed by others, is an attribute which you\nknow I am not very desirous of obtaining; nor has Frederica any claim\nto the indulgence of her notions at the expense of her mother's\ninclinations. Her idle love for Reginald, too! It is surely my duty to\ndiscourage such romantic nonsense. All things considered, therefore, it\nseems incumbent on me to take her to town and marry her immediately to\nSir James. When my own will is effected contrary to his, I shall have\nsome credit in being on good terms with Reginald, which at present, in\nfact, I have not; for though he is still in my power, I have given up\nthe very article by which our quarrel was produced, and at best the\nhonour of victory is doubtful. Send me your opinion on all these\nmatters, my dear Alicia, and let me know whether you can get lodgings to\nsuit me within a short distance of you.\n\nYour most attached\n\nS. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXVI\n\n\nMRS. JOHNSON TO LADY SUSAN\n\n\nEdward Street.\n\n\nI am gratified by your reference, and this is my advice: that you come\nto town yourself, without loss of time, but that you leave Frederica\nbehind. It would surely be much more to the purpose to get yourself well\nestablished by marrying Mr. De Courcy, than to irritate him and the rest\nof his family by making her marry Sir James. You should think more of\nyourself and less of your daughter. She is not of a disposition to do\nyou credit in the world, and seems precisely in her proper place at\nChurchhill, with the Vernons. But you are fitted for society, and it\nis shameful to have you exiled from it. Leave Frederica, therefore,\nto punish herself for the plague she has given you, by indulging that\nromantic tender-heartedness which will always ensure her misery enough,\nand come to London as soon as you can. I have another reason for urging\nthis: Mainwaring came to town last week, and has contrived, in spite\nof Mr. Johnson, to make opportunities of seeing me. He is absolutely\nmiserable about you, and jealous to such a degree of De Courcy that it\nwould be highly unadvisable for them to meet at present. And yet, if you\ndo not allow him to see you here, I cannot answer for his not committing\nsome great imprudence--such as going to Churchhill, for instance, which\nwould be dreadful! Besides, if you take my advice, and resolve to marry\nDe Courcy, it will be indispensably necessary to you to get Mainwaring\nout of the way; and you only can have influence enough to send him back\nto his wife. I have still another motive for your coming: Mr. Johnson\nleaves London next Tuesday; he is going for his health to Bath, where,\nif the waters are favourable to his constitution and my wishes, he will\nbe laid up with the gout many weeks. During his absence we shall be able\nto chuse our own society, and to have true enjoyment. I would ask you to\nEdward Street, but that once he forced from me a kind of promise never\nto invite you to my house; nothing but my being in the utmost distress\nfor money should have extorted it from me. I can get you, however,\na nice drawing-room apartment in Upper Seymour Street, and we may be\nalways together there or here; for I consider my promise to Mr. Johnson\nas comprehending only (at least in his absence) your not sleeping in the\nhouse. Poor Mainwaring gives me such histories of his wife's jealousy.\nSilly woman to expect constancy from so charming a man! but she always\nwas silly--intolerably so in marrying him at all, she the heiress of a\nlarge fortune and he without a shilling: one title, I know, she might\nhave had, besides baronets. Her folly in forming the connection was so\ngreat that, though Mr. Johnson was her guardian, and I do not in general\nshare HIS feelings, I never can forgive her.\n\nAdieu. Yours ever,\n\nALICIA.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXVII\n\n\nMRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nThis letter, my dear Mother, will be brought you by Reginald. His long\nvisit is about to be concluded at last, but I fear the separation takes\nplace too late to do us any good. She is going to London to see her\nparticular friend, Mrs. Johnson. It was at first her intention that\nFrederica should accompany her, for the benefit of masters, but we\noverruled her there. Frederica was wretched in the idea of going, and\nI could not bear to have her at the mercy of her mother; not all the\nmasters in London could compensate for the ruin of her comfort. I\nshould have feared, too, for her health, and for everything but her\nprinciples--there I believe she is not to be injured by her mother, or\nher mother's friends; but with those friends she must have mixed (a very\nbad set, I doubt not), or have been left in total solitude, and I can\nhardly tell which would have been worse for her. If she is with her\nmother, moreover, she must, alas! in all probability be with Reginald,\nand that would be the greatest evil of all. Here we shall in time be in\npeace, and our regular employments, our books and conversations, with\nexercise, the children, and every domestic pleasure in my power to\nprocure her, will, I trust, gradually overcome this youthful attachment.\nI should not have a doubt of it were she slighted for any other woman in\nthe world than her own mother. How long Lady Susan will be in town, or\nwhether she returns here again, I know not. I could not be cordial in my\ninvitation, but if she chuses to come no want of cordiality on my part\nwill keep her away. I could not help asking Reginald if he intended\nbeing in London this winter, as soon as I found her ladyship's\nsteps would be bent thither; and though he professed himself quite\nundetermined, there was something in his look and voice as he spoke\nwhich contradicted his words. I have done with lamentation; I look upon\nthe event as so far decided that I resign myself to it in despair. If he\nleaves you soon for London everything will be concluded.\n\nYour affectionate, &c.,\n\nC. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXVIII\n\n\nMRS. JOHNSON TO LADY SUSAN\n\n\nEdward Street.\n\n\nMy dearest Friend,--I write in the greatest distress; the most\nunfortunate event has just taken place. Mr. Johnson has hit on the most\neffectual manner of plaguing us all. He had heard, I imagine, by some\nmeans or other, that you were soon to be in London, and immediately\ncontrived to have such an attack of the gout as must at least delay his\njourney to Bath, if not wholly prevent it. I am persuaded the gout is\nbrought on or kept off at pleasure; it was the same when I wanted to\njoin the Hamiltons to the Lakes; and three years ago, when I had a fancy\nfor Bath, nothing could induce him to have a gouty symptom.\n\nI am pleased to find that my letter had so much effect on you, and that\nDe Courcy is certainly your own. Let me hear from you as soon as you\narrive, and in particular tell me what you mean to do with Mainwaring.\nIt is impossible to say when I shall be able to come to you; my\nconfinement must be great. It is such an abominable trick to be ill here\ninstead of at Bath that I can scarcely command myself at all. At Bath\nhis old aunts would have nursed him, but here it all falls upon me; and\nhe bears pain with such patience that I have not the common excuse for\nlosing my temper.\n\nYours ever,\n\nALICIA.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXIX\n\n\nLADY SUSAN VERNON TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nUpper Seymour Street.\n\n\nMy dear Alicia,--There needed not this last fit of the gout to make\nme detest Mr. Johnson, but now the extent of my aversion is not to\nbe estimated. To have you confined as nurse in his apartment! My dear\nAlicia, of what a mistake were you guilty in marrying a man of his age!\njust old enough to be formal, ungovernable, and to have the gout; too\nold to be agreeable, too young to die. I arrived last night about five,\nhad scarcely swallowed my dinner when Mainwaring made his appearance.\nI will not dissemble what real pleasure his sight afforded me, nor how\nstrongly I felt the contrast between his person and manners and those of\nReginald, to the infinite disadvantage of the latter. For an hour or two\nI was even staggered in my resolution of marrying him, and though this\nwas too idle and nonsensical an idea to remain long on my mind, I do not\nfeel very eager for the conclusion of my marriage, nor look forward with\nmuch impatience to the time when Reginald, according to our agreement,\nis to be in town. I shall probably put off his arrival under some\npretence or other. He must not come till Mainwaring is gone. I am still\ndoubtful at times as to marrying; if the old man would die I might not\nhesitate, but a state of dependance on the caprice of Sir Reginald will\nnot suit the freedom of my spirit; and if I resolve to wait for that\nevent, I shall have excuse enough at present in having been scarcely ten\nmonths a widow. I have not given Mainwaring any hint of my intention, or\nallowed him to consider my acquaintance with Reginald as more than the\ncommonest flirtation, and he is tolerably appeased. Adieu, till we meet;\nI am enchanted with my lodgings.\n\nYours ever,\n\nS. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXX\n\n\nLADY SUSAN VERNON TO MR. DE COURCY\n\n\nUpper Seymour Street.\n\n\nI have received your letter, and though I do not attempt to conceal that\nI am gratified by your impatience for the hour of meeting, I yet\nfeel myself under the necessity of delaying that hour beyond the time\noriginally fixed. Do not think me unkind for such an exercise of my\npower, nor accuse me of instability without first hearing my reasons.\nIn the course of my journey from Churchhill I had ample leisure for\nreflection on the present state of our affairs, and every review has\nserved to convince me that they require a delicacy and cautiousness of\nconduct to which we have hitherto been too little attentive. We have\nbeen hurried on by our feelings to a degree of precipitation which ill\naccords with the claims of our friends or the opinion of the world. We\nhave been unguarded in forming this hasty engagement, but we must not\ncomplete the imprudence by ratifying it while there is so much reason\nto fear the connection would be opposed by those friends on whom you\ndepend. It is not for us to blame any expectations on your father's side\nof your marrying to advantage; where possessions are so extensive as\nthose of your family, the wish of increasing them, if not strictly\nreasonable, is too common to excite surprize or resentment. He has a\nright to require; a woman of fortune in his daughter-in-law, and I am\nsometimes quarrelling with myself for suffering you to form a connection\nso imprudent; but the influence of reason is often acknowledged too late\nby those who feel like me. I have now been but a few months a widow,\nand, however little indebted to my husband's memory for any happiness\nderived from him during a union of some years, I cannot forget that the\nindelicacy of so early a second marriage must subject me to the censure\nof the world, and incur, what would be still more insupportable, the\ndispleasure of Mr. Vernon. I might perhaps harden myself in time against\nthe injustice of general reproach, but the loss of HIS valued esteem\nI am, as you well know, ill-fitted to endure; and when to this may be\nadded the consciousness of having injured you with your family, how am I\nto support myself? With feelings so poignant as mine, the conviction of\nhaving divided the son from his parents would make me, even with you,\nthe most miserable of beings. It will surely, therefore, be advisable to\ndelay our union--to delay it till appearances are more promising--till\naffairs have taken a more favourable turn. To assist us in such a\nresolution I feel that absence will be necessary. We must not meet.\nCruel as this sentence may appear, the necessity of pronouncing it,\nwhich can alone reconcile it to myself, will be evident to you when you\nhave considered our situation in the light in which I have found myself\nimperiously obliged to place it. You may be--you must be--well assured\nthat nothing but the strongest conviction of duty could induce me\nto wound my own feelings by urging a lengthened separation, and of\ninsensibility to yours you will hardly suspect me. Again, therefore,\nI say that we ought not, we must not, yet meet. By a removal for some\nmonths from each other we shall tranquillise the sisterly fears of Mrs.\nVernon, who, accustomed herself to the enjoyment of riches, considers\nfortune as necessary everywhere, and whose sensibilities are not of a\nnature to comprehend ours. Let me hear from you soon--very soon. Tell me\nthat you submit to my arguments, and do not reproach me for using such.\nI cannot bear reproaches: my spirits are not so high as to need being\nrepressed. I must endeavour to seek amusement, and fortunately many\nof my friends are in town; amongst them the Mainwarings; you know how\nsincerely I regard both husband and wife.\n\nI am, very faithfully yours,\n\nS. VERNON\n\n\n\n\n\nXXXI\n\n\nLADY SUSAN TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nUpper Seymour Street.\n\n\nMy dear Friend,--That tormenting creature, Reginald, is here. My letter,\nwhich was intended to keep him longer in the country, has hastened him\nto town. Much as I wish him away, however, I cannot help being pleased\nwith such a proof of attachment. He is devoted to me, heart and soul.\nHe will carry this note himself, which is to serve as an introduction to\nyou, with whom he longs to be acquainted. Allow him to spend the evening\nwith you, that I may be in no danger of his returning here. I have told\nhim that I am not quite well, and must be alone; and should he call\nagain there might be confusion, for it is impossible to be sure of\nservants. Keep him, therefore, I entreat you, in Edward Street. You will\nnot find him a heavy companion, and I allow you to flirt with him as\nmuch as you like. At the same time, do not forget my real interest; say\nall that you can to convince him that I shall be quite wretched if he\nremains here; you know my reasons--propriety, and so forth. I would\nurge them more myself, but that I am impatient to be rid of him, as\nMainwaring comes within half an hour. Adieu!\n\nS VERNON\n\n\n\n\n\nXXXII\n\n\nMRS. JOHNSON TO LADY SUSAN\n\n\nEdward Street.\n\n\nMy dear Creature,--I am in agonies, and know not what to do. Mr. De\nCourcy arrived just when he should not. Mrs. Mainwaring had that instant\nentered the house, and forced herself into her guardian's presence,\nthough I did not know a syllable of it till afterwards, for I was out\nwhen both she and Reginald came, or I should have sent him away at all\nevents; but she was shut up with Mr. Johnson, while he waited in the\ndrawing-room for me. She arrived yesterday in pursuit of her husband,\nbut perhaps you know this already from himself. She came to this house\nto entreat my husband's interference, and before I could be aware of\nit, everything that you could wish to be concealed was known to him, and\nunluckily she had wormed out of Mainwaring's servant that he had visited\nyou every day since your being in town, and had just watched him to your\ndoor herself! What could I do! Facts are such horrid things! All is by\nthis time known to De Courcy, who is now alone with Mr. Johnson. Do not\naccuse me; indeed, it was impossible to prevent it. Mr. Johnson has for\nsome time suspected De Courcy of intending to marry you, and would\nspeak with him alone as soon as he knew him to be in the house. That\ndetestable Mrs. Mainwaring, who, for your comfort, has fretted herself\nthinner and uglier than ever, is still here, and they have been all\ncloseted together. What can be done? At any rate, I hope he will plague\nhis wife more than ever. With anxious wishes, Yours faithfully,\n\nALICIA.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXXIII\n\n\nLADY SUSAN TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nUpper Seymour Street.\n\n\nThis eclaircissement is rather provoking. How unlucky that you should\nhave been from home! I thought myself sure of you at seven! I am\nundismayed however. Do not torment yourself with fears on my account;\ndepend on it, I can make my story good with Reginald. Mainwaring is just\ngone; he brought me the news of his wife's arrival. Silly woman, what\ndoes she expect by such manoeuvres? Yet I wish she had stayed quietly\nat Langford. Reginald will be a little enraged at first, but by\nto-morrow's dinner, everything will be well again.\n\nAdieu!\n\nS. V.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXXIV\n\n\nMR. DE COURCY TO LADY SUSAN\n\n\n--Hotel\n\n\nI write only to bid you farewell, the spell is removed; I see you as\nyou are. Since we parted yesterday, I have received from indisputable\nauthority such a history of you as must bring the most mortifying\nconviction of the imposition I have been under, and the absolute\nnecessity of an immediate and eternal separation from you. You\ncannot doubt to what I allude. Langford! Langford! that word will be\nsufficient. I received my information in Mr. Johnson's house, from Mrs.\nMainwaring herself. You know how I have loved you; you can intimately\njudge of my present feelings, but I am not so weak as to find indulgence\nin describing them to a woman who will glory in having excited their\nanguish, but whose affection they have never been able to gain.\n\nR. DE COURCY.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXXV\n\n\nLADY SUSAN TO MR. DE COURCY\n\n\nUpper Seymour Street.\n\n\nI will not attempt to describe my astonishment in reading the note this\nmoment received from you. I am bewildered in my endeavours to form\nsome rational conjecture of what Mrs. Mainwaring can have told you\nto occasion so extraordinary a change in your sentiments. Have I not\nexplained everything to you with respect to myself which could bear a\ndoubtful meaning, and which the ill-nature of the world had interpreted\nto my discredit? What can you now have heard to stagger your esteem for\nme? Have I ever had a concealment from you? Reginald, you agitate\nme beyond expression, I cannot suppose that the old story of Mrs.\nMainwaring's jealousy can be revived again, or at least be LISTENED to\nagain. Come to me immediately, and explain what is at present absolutely\nincomprehensible. Believe me the single word of Langford is not of such\npotent intelligence as to supersede the necessity of more. If we ARE to\npart, it will at least be handsome to take your personal leave--but\nI have little heart to jest; in truth, I am serious enough; for to be\nsunk, though but for an hour, in your esteem is a humiliation to which I\nknow not how to submit. I shall count every minute till your arrival.\n\nS. V.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXXVI\n\n\nMR. DE COURCY TO LADY SUSAN\n\n\n----Hotel.\n\n\nWhy would you write to me? Why do you require particulars? But, since\nit must be so, I am obliged to declare that all the accounts of your\nmisconduct during the life, and since the death of Mr. Vernon, which had\nreached me, in common with the world in general, and gained my entire\nbelief before I saw you, but which you, by the exertion of your\nperverted abilities, had made me resolved to disallow, have been\nunanswerably proved to me; nay more, I am assured that a connection,\nof which I had never before entertained a thought, has for some time\nexisted, and still continues to exist, between you and the man whose\nfamily you robbed of its peace in return for the hospitality with which\nyou were received into it; that you have corresponded with him ever\nsince your leaving Langford; not with his wife, but with him, and that\nhe now visits you every day. Can you, dare you deny it? and all this at\nthe time when I was an encouraged, an accepted lover! From what have I\nnot escaped! I have only to be grateful. Far from me be all complaint,\nevery sigh of regret. My own folly had endangered me, my preservation I\nowe to the kindness, the integrity of another; but the unfortunate Mrs.\nMainwaring, whose agonies while she related the past seemed to threaten\nher reason, how is SHE to be consoled! After such a discovery as this,\nyou will scarcely affect further wonder at my meaning in bidding you\nadieu. My understanding is at length restored, and teaches no less to\nabhor the artifices which had subdued me than to despise myself for the\nweakness on which their strength was founded.\n\nR. DE COURCY.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXXVII\n\n\nLADY SUSAN TO MR. DE COURCY\n\n\nUpper Seymour Street.\n\n\nI am satisfied, and will trouble you no more when these few lines are\ndismissed. The engagement which you were eager to form a fortnight ago\nis no longer compatible with your views, and I rejoice to find that\nthe prudent advice of your parents has not been given in vain. Your\nrestoration to peace will, I doubt not, speedily follow this act of\nfilial obedience, and I flatter myself with the hope of surviving my\nshare in this disappointment.\n\nS. V.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXXVIII\n\n\nMRS. JOHNSON TO LADY SUSAN VERNON\n\n\nEdward Street\n\n\nI am grieved, though I cannot be astonished at your rupture with Mr.\nDe Courcy; he has just informed Mr. Johnson of it by letter. He leaves\nLondon, he says, to-day. Be assured that I partake in all your feelings,\nand do not be angry if I say that our intercourse, even by letter, must\nsoon be given up. It makes me miserable; but Mr. Johnson vows that if I\npersist in the connection, he will settle in the country for the rest of\nhis life, and you know it is impossible to submit to such an extremity\nwhile any other alternative remains. You have heard of course that the\nMainwarings are to part, and I am afraid Mrs. M. will come home to us\nagain; but she is still so fond of her husband, and frets so much about\nhim, that perhaps she may not live long. Miss Mainwaring is just come to\ntown to be with her aunt, and they say that she declares she will have\nSir James Martin before she leaves London again. If I were you, I would\ncertainly get him myself. I had almost forgot to give you my opinion of\nMr. De Courcy; I am really delighted with him; he is full as handsome, I\nthink, as Mainwaring, and with such an open, good-humoured countenance,\nthat one cannot help loving him at first sight. Mr. Johnson and he\nare the greatest friends in the world. Adieu, my dearest Susan, I wish\nmatters did not go so perversely. That unlucky visit to Langford! but I\ndare say you did all for the best, and there is no defying destiny.\n\nYour sincerely attached\n\nALICIA.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXXIX\n\n\nLADY SUSAN TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nUpper Seymour Street.\n\nMy dear Alicia,--I yield to the necessity which parts us. Under\ncircumstances you could not act otherwise. Our friendship cannot\nbe impaired by it, and in happier times, when your situation is as\nindependent as mine, it will unite us again in the same intimacy as\never. For this I shall impatiently wait, and meanwhile can safely assure\nyou that I never was more at ease, or better satisfied with myself and\neverything about me than at the present hour. Your husband I abhor,\nReginald I despise, and I am secure of never seeing either again. Have\nI not reason to rejoice? Mainwaring is more devoted to me than ever; and\nwere we at liberty, I doubt if I could resist even matrimony offered by\nHIM. This event, if his wife live with you, it may be in your power to\nhasten. The violence of her feelings, which must wear her out, may be\neasily kept in irritation. I rely on your friendship for this. I am now\nsatisfied that I never could have brought myself to marry Reginald, and\nam equally determined that Frederica never shall. To-morrow, I shall\nfetch her from Churchhill, and let Maria Mainwaring tremble for the\nconsequence. Frederica shall be Sir James's wife before she quits my\nhouse, and she may whimper, and the Vernons may storm, I regard them\nnot. I am tired of submitting my will to the caprices of others; of\nresigning my own judgment in deference to those to whom I owe no duty,\nand for whom I feel no respect. I have given up too much, have been too\neasily worked on, but Frederica shall now feel the difference. Adieu,\ndearest of friends; may the next gouty attack be more favourable! and\nmay you always regard me as unalterably yours,\n\nS. VERNON\n\n\n\n\n\nXL\n\n\nLADY DE COURCY TO MRS. VERNON\n\n\nMy dear Catherine,--I have charming news for you, and if I had not sent\noff my letter this morning you might have been spared the vexation of\nknowing of Reginald's being gone to London, for he is returned. Reginald\nis returned, not to ask our consent to his marrying Lady Susan, but to\ntell us they are parted for ever. He has been only an hour in the house,\nand I have not been able to learn particulars, for he is so very low\nthat I have not the heart to ask questions, but I hope we shall soon\nknow all. This is the most joyful hour he has ever given us since the\nday of his birth. Nothing is wanting but to have you here, and it is our\nparticular wish and entreaty that you would come to us as soon as you\ncan. You have owed us a visit many long weeks; I hope nothing will make\nit inconvenient to Mr. Vernon; and pray bring all my grand-children; and\nyour dear niece is included, of course; I long to see her. It has been\na sad, heavy winter hitherto, without Reginald, and seeing nobody from\nChurchhill. I never found the season so dreary before; but this happy\nmeeting will make us young again. Frederica runs much in my thoughts,\nand when Reginald has recovered his usual good spirits (as I trust he\nsoon will) we will try to rob him of his heart once more, and I am full\nof hopes of seeing their hands joined at no great distance.\n\nYour affectionate mother,\n\nC. DE COURCY\n\n\n\n\n\nXLI\n\n\nMRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nMy dear Mother,--Your letter has surprized me beyond measure! Can it be\ntrue that they are really separated--and for ever? I should be overjoyed\nif I dared depend on it, but after all that I have seen how can one be\nsecure. And Reginald really with you! My surprize is the greater because\non Wednesday, the very day of his coming to Parklands, we had a most\nunexpected and unwelcome visit from Lady Susan, looking all cheerfulness\nand good-humour, and seeming more as if she were to marry him when she\ngot to London than as if parted from him for ever. She stayed nearly two\nhours, was as affectionate and agreeable as ever, and not a syllable,\nnot a hint was dropped, of any disagreement or coolness between them.\nI asked her whether she had seen my brother since his arrival in town;\nnot, as you may suppose, with any doubt of the fact, but merely to see\nhow she looked. She immediately answered, without any embarrassment,\nthat he had been kind enough to call on her on Monday; but she believed\nhe had already returned home, which I was very far from crediting. Your\nkind invitation is accepted by us with pleasure, and on Thursday next we\nand our little ones will be with you. Pray heaven, Reginald may not be\nin town again by that time! I wish we could bring dear Frederica too,\nbut I am sorry to say that her mother's errand hither was to fetch her\naway; and, miserable as it made the poor girl, it was impossible to\ndetain her. I was thoroughly unwilling to let her go, and so was her\nuncle; and all that could be urged we did urge; but Lady Susan declared\nthat as she was now about to fix herself in London for several months,\nshe could not be easy if her daughter were not with her for masters,\n&c. Her manner, to be sure, was very kind and proper, and Mr. Vernon\nbelieves that Frederica will now be treated with affection. I wish I\ncould think so too. The poor girl's heart was almost broke at taking\nleave of us. I charged her to write to me very often, and to remember\nthat if she were in any distress we should be always her friends. I took\ncare to see her alone, that I might say all this, and I hope made her a\nlittle more comfortable; but I shall not be easy till I can go to town\nand judge of her situation myself. I wish there were a better prospect\nthan now appears of the match which the conclusion of your letter\ndeclares your expectations of. At present, it is not very likely,\n\nYours ever, &c.,\n\nC. VERNON\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCONCLUSION\n\n\nThis correspondence, by a meeting between some of the parties, and a\nseparation between the others, could not, to the great detriment of the\nPost Office revenue, be continued any longer. Very little assistance\nto the State could be derived from the epistolary intercourse of Mrs.\nVernon and her niece; for the former soon perceived, by the style\nof Frederica's letters, that they were written under her mother's\ninspection! and therefore, deferring all particular enquiry till she\ncould make it personally in London, ceased writing minutely or often.\nHaving learnt enough, in the meanwhile, from her open-hearted brother,\nof what had passed between him and Lady Susan to sink the latter lower\nthan ever in her opinion, she was proportionably more anxious to get\nFrederica removed from such a mother, and placed under her own care;\nand, though with little hope of success, was resolved to leave nothing\nunattempted that might offer a chance of obtaining her sister-in-law's\nconsent to it. Her anxiety on the subject made her press for an early\nvisit to London; and Mr. Vernon, who, as it must already have appeared,\nlived only to do whatever he was desired, soon found some accommodating\nbusiness to call him thither. With a heart full of the matter, Mrs.\nVernon waited on Lady Susan shortly after her arrival in town, and was\nmet with such an easy and cheerful affection, as made her almost turn\nfrom her with horror. No remembrance of Reginald, no consciousness of\nguilt, gave one look of embarrassment; she was in excellent spirits, and\nseemed eager to show at once by ever possible attention to her brother\nand sister her sense of their kindness, and her pleasure in their\nsociety. Frederica was no more altered than Lady Susan; the same\nrestrained manners, the same timid look in the presence of her mother as\nheretofore, assured her aunt of her situation being uncomfortable, and\nconfirmed her in the plan of altering it. No unkindness, however, on the\npart of Lady Susan appeared. Persecution on the subject of Sir James was\nentirely at an end; his name merely mentioned to say that he was not in\nLondon; and indeed, in all her conversation, she was solicitous only for\nthe welfare and improvement of her daughter, acknowledging, in terms of\ngrateful delight, that Frederica was now growing every day more and more\nwhat a parent could desire. Mrs. Vernon, surprized and incredulous,\nknew not what to suspect, and, without any change in her own views,\nonly feared greater difficulty in accomplishing them. The first hope\nof anything better was derived from Lady Susan's asking her whether she\nthought Frederica looked quite as well as she had done at Churchhill, as\nshe must confess herself to have sometimes an anxious doubt of London's\nperfectly agreeing with her. Mrs. Vernon, encouraging the doubt,\ndirectly proposed her niece's returning with them into the country. Lady\nSusan was unable to express her sense of such kindness, yet knew not,\nfrom a variety of reasons, how to part with her daughter; and as, though\nher own plans were not yet wholly fixed, she trusted it would ere long\nbe in her power to take Frederica into the country herself, concluded by\ndeclining entirely to profit by such unexampled attention. Mrs. Vernon\npersevered, however, in the offer of it, and though Lady Susan continued\nto resist, her resistance in the course of a few days seemed somewhat\nless formidable. The lucky alarm of an influenza decided what might not\nhave been decided quite so soon. Lady Susan's maternal fears were then\ntoo much awakened for her to think of anything but Frederica's removal\nfrom the risk of infection; above all disorders in the world she most\ndreaded the influenza for her daughter's constitution!\n\nFrederica returned to Churchhill with her uncle and aunt; and three\nweeks afterwards, Lady Susan announced her being married to Sir James\nMartin. Mrs. Vernon was then convinced of what she had only suspected\nbefore, that she might have spared herself all the trouble of urging\na removal which Lady Susan had doubtless resolved on from the first.\nFrederica's visit was nominally for six weeks, but her mother, though\ninviting her to return in one or two affectionate letters, was very\nready to oblige the whole party by consenting to a prolongation of her\nstay, and in the course of two months ceased to write of her absence,\nand in the course of two or more to write to her at all. Frederica was\ntherefore fixed in the family of her uncle and aunt till such time as\nReginald De Courcy could be talked, flattered, and finessed into an\naffection for her which, allowing leisure for the conquest of his\nattachment to her mother, for his abjuring all future attachments, and\ndetesting the sex, might be reasonably looked for in the course of a\ntwelvemonth. Three months might have done it in general, but Reginald's\nfeelings were no less lasting than lively. Whether Lady Susan was or\nwas not happy in her second choice, I do not see how it can ever be\nascertained; for who would take her assurance of it on either side of\nthe question? The world must judge from probabilities; she had nothing\nagainst her but her husband, and her conscience. Sir James may seem to\nhave drawn a harder lot than mere folly merited; I leave him, therefore,\nto all the pity that anybody can give him. For myself, I confess that I\ncan pity only Miss Mainwaring; who, coming to town, and putting herself\nto an expense in clothes which impoverished her for two years, on\npurpose to secure him, was defrauded of her due by a woman ten years\nolder than herself.\n\n\n\n\n","id":"946"},{"text":"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLOVE AND FREINDSHIP AND OTHER EARLY WORKS\n\n(Love And Friendship And Other Early Works)\n\nA Collection of Juvenile Writings\n\nBy Jane Austen\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Note: A few very small changes have been made to this\nversion: Italics have been converted to capitals. The British 'pound'\nsymbol has been converted to 'L'; but in general the author's erratic\nspelling, punctuation and capitalisations have been retained.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n     Love and Freindship\n     Lesley Castle\n     The History of England\n     Collection of Letters\n     Scraps\n\n\n\n\n\nLOVE AND FREINDSHIP\n\n\n\n  TO MADAME LA COMTESSE DE FEUILLIDE THIS NOVEL\n  IS INSCRIBED BY HER\n  OBLIGED HUMBLE SERVANT\n\n  THE AUTHOR.\n\n\n  \"Deceived in Freindship and Betrayed in Love.\"\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the FIRST From ISABEL to LAURA\n\nHow often, in answer to my repeated intreaties that you would give my\nDaughter a regular detail of the Misfortunes and Adventures of your\nLife, have you said \"No, my freind never will I comply with your request\ntill I may be no longer in Danger of again experiencing such dreadful\nones.\"\n\nSurely that time is now at hand. You are this day 55. If a woman\nmay ever be said to be in safety from the determined Perseverance of\ndisagreeable Lovers and the cruel Persecutions of obstinate Fathers,\nsurely it must be at such a time of Life. Isabel\n\n\n\n\nLETTER 2nd LAURA to ISABEL\n\nAltho' I cannot agree with you in supposing that I shall never again be\nexposed to Misfortunes as unmerited as those I have already experienced,\nyet to avoid the imputation of Obstinacy or ill-nature, I will gratify\nthe curiosity of your daughter; and may the fortitude with which I have\nsuffered the many afflictions of my past Life, prove to her a useful\nlesson for the support of those which may befall her in her own. Laura\n\n\n\n\nLETTER 3rd LAURA to MARIANNE\n\nAs the Daughter of my most intimate freind I think you entitled to that\nknowledge of my unhappy story, which your Mother has so often solicited\nme to give you.\n\nMy Father was a native of Ireland and an inhabitant of Wales; my Mother\nwas the natural Daughter of a Scotch Peer by an italian Opera-girl--I\nwas born in Spain and received my Education at a Convent in France.\n\nWhen I had reached my eighteenth Year I was recalled by my Parents to\nmy paternal roof in Wales. Our mansion was situated in one of the most\nromantic parts of the Vale of Uske. Tho' my Charms are now considerably\nsoftened and somewhat impaired by the Misfortunes I have undergone, I\nwas once beautiful. But lovely as I was the Graces of my Person were the\nleast of my Perfections. Of every accomplishment accustomary to my sex,\nI was Mistress. When in the Convent, my progress had always exceeded my\ninstructions, my Acquirements had been wonderfull for my age, and I had\nshortly surpassed my Masters.\n\nIn my Mind, every Virtue that could adorn it was centered; it was the\nRendez-vous of every good Quality and of every noble sentiment.\n\nA sensibility too tremblingly alive to every affliction of my Freinds,\nmy Acquaintance and particularly to every affliction of my own, was my\nonly fault, if a fault it could be called. Alas! how altered now! Tho'\nindeed my own Misfortunes do not make less impression on me than they\never did, yet now I never feel for those of an other. My accomplishments\ntoo, begin to fade--I can neither sing so well nor Dance so gracefully\nas I once did--and I have entirely forgot the MINUET DELA COUR. Adeiu.\nLaura.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER 4th Laura to MARIANNE\n\nOur neighbourhood was small, for it consisted only of your Mother. She\nmay probably have already told you that being left by her Parents\nin indigent Circumstances she had retired into Wales on eoconomical\nmotives. There it was our freindship first commenced. Isobel was then\none and twenty. Tho' pleasing both in her Person and Manners (between\nourselves) she never possessed the hundredth part of my Beauty or\nAccomplishments. Isabel had seen the World. She had passed 2 Years at\none of the first Boarding-schools in London; had spent a fortnight in\nBath and had supped one night in Southampton.\n\n\"Beware my Laura (she would often say) Beware of the insipid Vanities\nand idle Dissipations of the Metropolis of England; Beware of the\nunmeaning Luxuries of Bath and of the stinking fish of Southampton.\"\n\n\"Alas! (exclaimed I) how am I to avoid those evils I shall never\nbe exposed to? What probability is there of my ever tasting the\nDissipations of London, the Luxuries of Bath, or the stinking Fish of\nSouthampton? I who am doomed to waste my Days of Youth and Beauty in an\nhumble Cottage in the Vale of Uske.\"\n\nAh! little did I then think I was ordained so soon to quit that humble\nCottage for the Deceitfull Pleasures of the World. Adeiu Laura.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER 5th LAURA to MARIANNE\n\nOne Evening in December as my Father, my Mother and myself, were\narranged in social converse round our Fireside, we were on a sudden\ngreatly astonished, by hearing a violent knocking on the outward door of\nour rustic Cot.\n\nMy Father started--\"What noise is that,\" (said he.) \"It sounds like a\nloud rapping at the door\"--(replied my Mother.) \"it does indeed.\" (cried\nI.) \"I am of your opinion; (said my Father) it certainly does appear\nto proceed from some uncommon violence exerted against our unoffending\ndoor.\" \"Yes (exclaimed I) I cannot help thinking it must be somebody who\nknocks for admittance.\"\n\n\"That is another point (replied he;) We must not pretend to determine\non what motive the person may knock--tho' that someone DOES rap at the\ndoor, I am partly convinced.\"\n\nHere, a 2d tremendous rap interrupted my Father in his speech, and\nsomewhat alarmed my Mother and me.\n\n\"Had we better not go and see who it is? (said she) the servants are\nout.\" \"I think we had.\" (replied I.) \"Certainly, (added my Father)\nby all means.\" \"Shall we go now?\" (said my Mother,) \"The sooner the\nbetter.\" (answered he.) \"Oh! let no time be lost\" (cried I.)\n\nA third more violent Rap than ever again assaulted our ears. \"I am\ncertain there is somebody knocking at the Door.\" (said my Mother.)\n\"I think there must,\" (replied my Father) \"I fancy the servants are\nreturned; (said I) I think I hear Mary going to the Door.\" \"I'm glad of\nit (cried my Father) for I long to know who it is.\"\n\nI was right in my conjecture; for Mary instantly entering the Room,\ninformed us that a young Gentleman and his Servant were at the door, who\nhad lossed their way, were very cold and begged leave to warm themselves\nby our fire.\n\n\"Won't you admit them?\" (said I.) \"You have no objection, my Dear?\"\n(said my Father.) \"None in the World.\" (replied my Mother.)\n\nMary, without waiting for any further commands immediately left the room\nand quickly returned introducing the most beauteous and amiable Youth, I\nhad ever beheld. The servant she kept to herself.\n\nMy natural sensibility had already been greatly affected by the\nsufferings of the unfortunate stranger and no sooner did I first behold\nhim, than I felt that on him the happiness or Misery of my future Life\nmust depend. Adeiu Laura.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER 6th LAURA to MARIANNE\n\nThe noble Youth informed us that his name was Lindsay--for particular\nreasons however I shall conceal it under that of Talbot. He told us that\nhe was the son of an English Baronet, that his Mother had been for many\nyears no more and that he had a Sister of the middle size. \"My Father\n(he continued) is a mean and mercenary wretch--it is only to such\nparticular freinds as this Dear Party that I would thus betray his\nfailings. Your Virtues my amiable Polydore (addressing himself to my\nfather) yours Dear Claudia and yours my Charming Laura call on me to\nrepose in you, my confidence.\" We bowed. \"My Father seduced by the false\nglare of Fortune and the Deluding Pomp of Title, insisted on my giving\nmy hand to Lady Dorothea. No never exclaimed I. Lady Dorothea is lovely\nand Engaging; I prefer no woman to her; but know Sir, that I scorn to\nmarry her in compliance with your Wishes. No! Never shall it be said\nthat I obliged my Father.\"\n\nWe all admired the noble Manliness of his reply. He continued.\n\n\"Sir Edward was surprised; he had perhaps little expected to meet with\nso spirited an opposition to his will. \"Where, Edward in the name of\nwonder (said he) did you pick up this unmeaning gibberish? You have\nbeen studying Novels I suspect.\" I scorned to answer: it would have\nbeen beneath my dignity. I mounted my Horse and followed by my faithful\nWilliam set forth for my Aunts.\"\n\n\"My Father's house is situated in Bedfordshire, my Aunt's in Middlesex,\nand tho' I flatter myself with being a tolerable proficient in\nGeography, I know not how it happened, but I found myself entering this\nbeautifull Vale which I find is in South Wales, when I had expected to\nhave reached my Aunts.\"\n\n\"After having wandered some time on the Banks of the Uske without\nknowing which way to go, I began to lament my cruel Destiny in the\nbitterest and most pathetic Manner. It was now perfectly dark, not a\nsingle star was there to direct my steps, and I know not what might have\nbefallen me had I not at length discerned thro' the solemn Gloom that\nsurrounded me a distant light, which as I approached it, I discovered\nto be the chearfull Blaze of your fire. Impelled by the combination\nof Misfortunes under which I laboured, namely Fear, Cold and Hunger I\nhesitated not to ask admittance which at length I have gained; and\nnow my Adorable Laura (continued he taking my Hand) when may I hope\nto receive that reward of all the painfull sufferings I have undergone\nduring the course of my attachment to you, to which I have ever aspired.\nOh! when will you reward me with Yourself?\"\n\n\"This instant, Dear and Amiable Edward.\" (replied I.). We were\nimmediately united by my Father, who tho' he had never taken orders had\nbeen bred to the Church. Adeiu Laura\n\n\n\n\nLETTER 7th LAURA to MARIANNE\n\nWe remained but a few days after our Marriage, in the Vale of Uske.\nAfter taking an affecting Farewell of my Father, my Mother and my\nIsabel, I accompanied Edward to his Aunt's in Middlesex. Philippa\nreceived us both with every expression of affectionate Love. My arrival\nwas indeed a most agreable surprise to her as she had not only been\ntotally ignorant of my Marriage with her Nephew, but had never even had\nthe slightest idea of there being such a person in the World.\n\nAugusta, the sister of Edward was on a visit to her when we arrived.\nI found her exactly what her Brother had described her to be--of the\nmiddle size. She received me with equal surprise though not with equal\nCordiality, as Philippa. There was a disagreable coldness and Forbidding\nReserve in her reception of me which was equally distressing and\nUnexpected. None of that interesting Sensibility or amiable simpathy\nin her manners and Address to me when we first met which should have\ndistinguished our introduction to each other. Her Language was neither\nwarm, nor affectionate, her expressions of regard were neither animated\nnor cordial; her arms were not opened to receive me to her Heart, tho'\nmy own were extended to press her to mine.\n\nA short Conversation between Augusta and her Brother, which I\naccidentally overheard encreased my dislike to her, and convinced me\nthat her Heart was no more formed for the soft ties of Love than for the\nendearing intercourse of Freindship.\n\n\"But do you think that my Father will ever be reconciled to this\nimprudent connection?\" (said Augusta.)\n\n\"Augusta (replied the noble Youth) I thought you had a better opinion of\nme, than to imagine I would so abjectly degrade myself as to consider\nmy Father's Concurrence in any of my affairs, either of Consequence\nor concern to me. Tell me Augusta with sincerity; did you ever know\nme consult his inclinations or follow his Advice in the least trifling\nParticular since the age of fifteen?\"\n\n\"Edward (replied she) you are surely too diffident in your own praise.\nSince you were fifteen only! My Dear Brother since you were five years\nold, I entirely acquit you of ever having willingly contributed to the\nsatisfaction of your Father. But still I am not without apprehensions\nof your being shortly obliged to degrade yourself in your own eyes by\nseeking a support for your wife in the Generosity of Sir Edward.\"\n\n\"Never, never Augusta will I so demean myself. (said Edward). Support!\nWhat support will Laura want which she can receive from him?\"\n\n\"Only those very insignificant ones of Victuals and Drink.\" (answered\nshe.)\n\n\"Victuals and Drink! (replied my Husband in a most nobly contemptuous\nManner) and dost thou then imagine that there is no other support for\nan exalted mind (such as is my Laura's) than the mean and indelicate\nemployment of Eating and Drinking?\"\n\n\"None that I know of, so efficacious.\" (returned Augusta).\n\n\"And did you then never feel the pleasing Pangs of Love, Augusta?\n(replied my Edward). Does it appear impossible to your vile and\ncorrupted Palate, to exist on Love? Can you not conceive the Luxury of\nliving in every distress that Poverty can inflict, with the object of\nyour tenderest affection?\"\n\n\"You are too ridiculous (said Augusta) to argue with; perhaps however\nyou may in time be convinced that...\"\n\nHere I was prevented from hearing the remainder of her speech, by the\nappearance of a very Handsome young Woman, who was ushured into the Room\nat the Door of which I had been listening. On hearing her announced by\nthe Name of \"Lady Dorothea,\" I instantly quitted my Post and followed\nher into the Parlour, for I well remembered that she was the Lady,\nproposed as a Wife for my Edward by the Cruel and Unrelenting Baronet.\n\nAltho' Lady Dorothea's visit was nominally to Philippa and Augusta, yet\nI have some reason to imagine that (acquainted with the Marriage and\narrival of Edward) to see me was a principal motive to it.\n\nI soon perceived that tho' Lovely and Elegant in her Person and tho'\nEasy and Polite in her Address, she was of that inferior order of\nBeings with regard to Delicate Feeling, tender Sentiments, and refined\nSensibility, of which Augusta was one.\n\nShe staid but half an hour and neither in the Course of her Visit,\nconfided to me any of her secret thoughts, nor requested me to confide\nin her, any of Mine. You will easily imagine therefore my Dear Marianne\nthat I could not feel any ardent affection or very sincere Attachment\nfor Lady Dorothea. Adeiu Laura.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER 8th LAURA to MARIANNE, in continuation\n\nLady Dorothea had not left us long before another visitor as unexpected\na one as her Ladyship, was announced. It was Sir Edward, who informed\nby Augusta of her Brother's marriage, came doubtless to reproach him for\nhaving dared to unite himself to me without his Knowledge. But Edward\nforeseeing his design, approached him with heroic fortitude as soon as\nhe entered the Room, and addressed him in the following Manner.\n\n\"Sir Edward, I know the motive of your Journey here--You come with the\nbase Design of reproaching me for having entered into an indissoluble\nengagement with my Laura without your Consent. But Sir, I glory in the\nAct--. It is my greatest boast that I have incurred the displeasure of\nmy Father!\"\n\nSo saying, he took my hand and whilst Sir Edward, Philippa, and Augusta\nwere doubtless reflecting with admiration on his undaunted Bravery, led\nme from the Parlour to his Father's Carriage which yet remained at the\nDoor and in which we were instantly conveyed from the pursuit of Sir\nEdward.\n\nThe Postilions had at first received orders only to take the London\nroad; as soon as we had sufficiently reflected However, we ordered them\nto Drive to M----. the seat of Edward's most particular freind, which\nwas but a few miles distant.\n\nAt M----. we arrived in a few hours; and on sending in our names were\nimmediately admitted to Sophia, the Wife of Edward's freind. After\nhaving been deprived during the course of 3 weeks of a real freind (for\nsuch I term your Mother) imagine my transports at beholding one, most\ntruly worthy of the Name. Sophia was rather above the middle size; most\nelegantly formed. A soft languor spread over her lovely features, but\nincreased their Beauty--. It was the Charectarestic of her Mind--. She\nwas all sensibility and Feeling. We flew into each others arms and after\nhaving exchanged vows of mutual Freindship for the rest of our Lives,\ninstantly unfolded to each other the most inward secrets of our\nHearts--. We were interrupted in the delightfull Employment by the\nentrance of Augustus, (Edward's freind) who was just returned from a\nsolitary ramble.\n\nNever did I see such an affecting Scene as was the meeting of Edward and\nAugustus.\n\n\"My Life! my Soul!\" (exclaimed the former) \"My adorable angel!\" (replied\nthe latter) as they flew into each other's arms. It was too pathetic\nfor the feelings of Sophia and myself--We fainted alternately on a sofa.\nAdeiu Laura.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the 9th From the same to the same\n\nTowards the close of the day we received the following Letter from\nPhilippa.\n\n\"Sir Edward is greatly incensed by your abrupt departure; he has\ntaken back Augusta to Bedfordshire. Much as I wish to enjoy again your\ncharming society, I cannot determine to snatch you from that, of such\ndear and deserving Freinds--When your Visit to them is terminated, I\ntrust you will return to the arms of your\" \"Philippa.\"\n\nWe returned a suitable answer to this affectionate Note and after\nthanking her for her kind invitation assured her that we would certainly\navail ourselves of it, whenever we might have no other place to go to.\nTho' certainly nothing could to any reasonable Being, have appeared more\nsatisfactory, than so gratefull a reply to her invitation, yet I know\nnot how it was, but she was certainly capricious enough to be displeased\nwith our behaviour and in a few weeks after, either to revenge our\nConduct, or releive her own solitude, married a young and illiterate\nFortune-hunter. This imprudent step (tho' we were sensible that it would\nprobably deprive us of that fortune which Philippa had ever taught us to\nexpect) could not on our own accounts, excite from our exalted minds a\nsingle sigh; yet fearfull lest it might prove a source of endless misery\nto the deluded Bride, our trembling Sensibility was greatly affected\nwhen we were first informed of the Event. The affectionate Entreaties of\nAugustus and Sophia that we would for ever consider their House as our\nHome, easily prevailed on us to determine never more to leave them, In\nthe society of my Edward and this Amiable Pair, I passed the happiest\nmoments of my Life; Our time was most delightfully spent, in mutual\nProtestations of Freindship, and in vows of unalterable Love, in which\nwe were secure from being interrupted, by intruding and disagreable\nVisitors, as Augustus and Sophia had on their first Entrance in the\nNeighbourhood, taken due care to inform the surrounding Families, that\nas their happiness centered wholly in themselves, they wished for no\nother society. But alas! my Dear Marianne such Happiness as I then\nenjoyed was too perfect to be lasting. A most severe and unexpected Blow\nat once destroyed every sensation of Pleasure. Convinced as you must be\nfrom what I have already told you concerning Augustus and Sophia, that\nthere never were a happier Couple, I need not I imagine, inform you that\ntheir union had been contrary to the inclinations of their Cruel\nand Mercenery Parents; who had vainly endeavoured with obstinate\nPerseverance to force them into a Marriage with those whom they had ever\nabhorred; but with a Heroic Fortitude worthy to be related and admired,\nthey had both, constantly refused to submit to such despotic Power.\n\nAfter having so nobly disentangled themselves from the shackles of\nParental Authority, by a Clandestine Marriage, they were determined\nnever to forfeit the good opinion they had gained in the World, in\nso doing, by accepting any proposals of reconciliation that might be\noffered them by their Fathers--to this farther tryal of their noble\nindependance however they never were exposed.\n\nThey had been married but a few months when our visit to them commenced\nduring which time they had been amply supported by a considerable sum of\nmoney which Augustus had gracefully purloined from his unworthy father's\nEscritoire, a few days before his union with Sophia.\n\nBy our arrival their Expenses were considerably encreased tho' their\nmeans for supplying them were then nearly exhausted. But they, Exalted\nCreatures! scorned to reflect a moment on their pecuniary Distresses and\nwould have blushed at the idea of paying their Debts.--Alas! what was\ntheir Reward for such disinterested Behaviour! The beautifull Augustus\nwas arrested and we were all undone. Such perfidious Treachery in the\nmerciless perpetrators of the Deed will shock your gentle nature Dearest\nMarianne as much as it then affected the Delicate sensibility of\nEdward, Sophia, your Laura, and of Augustus himself. To compleat such\nunparalelled Barbarity we were informed that an Execution in the House\nwould shortly take place. Ah! what could we do but what we did! We\nsighed and fainted on the sofa. Adeiu Laura.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER 10th LAURA in continuation\n\nWhen we were somewhat recovered from the overpowering Effusions of our\ngrief, Edward desired that we would consider what was the most prudent\nstep to be taken in our unhappy situation while he repaired to his\nimprisoned freind to lament over his misfortunes. We promised that we\nwould, and he set forwards on his journey to Town. During his absence\nwe faithfully complied with his Desire and after the most mature\nDeliberation, at length agreed that the best thing we could do was\nto leave the House; of which we every moment expected the officers\nof Justice to take possession. We waited therefore with the greatest\nimpatience, for the return of Edward in order to impart to him the\nresult of our Deliberations. But no Edward appeared. In vain did we\ncount the tedious moments of his absence--in vain did we weep--in\nvain even did we sigh--no Edward returned--. This was too cruel, too\nunexpected a Blow to our Gentle Sensibility--we could not support it--we\ncould only faint. At length collecting all the Resolution I was Mistress\nof, I arose and after packing up some necessary apparel for Sophia and\nmyself, I dragged her to a Carriage I had ordered and we instantly set\nout for London. As the Habitation of Augustus was within twelve miles\nof Town, it was not long e'er we arrived there, and no sooner had we\nentered Holboun than letting down one of the Front Glasses I enquired of\nevery decent-looking Person that we passed \"If they had seen my Edward?\"\n\nBut as we drove too rapidly to allow them to answer my repeated\nEnquiries, I gained little, or indeed, no information concerning him.\n\"Where am I to drive?\" said the Postilion. \"To Newgate Gentle Youth\n(replied I), to see Augustus.\" \"Oh! no, no, (exclaimed Sophia) I cannot\ngo to Newgate; I shall not be able to support the sight of my Augustus\nin so cruel a confinement--my feelings are sufficiently shocked by\nthe RECITAL, of his Distress, but to behold it will overpower my\nSensibility.\" As I perfectly agreed with her in the Justice of her\nSentiments the Postilion was instantly directed to return into the\nCountry. You may perhaps have been somewhat surprised my Dearest\nMarianne, that in the Distress I then endured, destitute of any support,\nand unprovided with any Habitation, I should never once have remembered\nmy Father and Mother or my paternal Cottage in the Vale of Uske. To\naccount for this seeming forgetfullness I must inform you of a trifling\ncircumstance concerning them which I have as yet never mentioned. The\ndeath of my Parents a few weeks after my Departure, is the circumstance\nI allude to. By their decease I became the lawfull Inheritress of their\nHouse and Fortune. But alas! the House had never been their own and\ntheir Fortune had only been an Annuity on their own Lives. Such is\nthe Depravity of the World! To your Mother I should have returned with\nPleasure, should have been happy to have introduced to her, my charming\nSophia and should with Chearfullness have passed the remainder of my\nLife in their dear Society in the Vale of Uske, had not one obstacle\nto the execution of so agreable a scheme, intervened; which was the\nMarriage and Removal of your Mother to a distant part of Ireland. Adeiu\nLaura.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER 11th LAURA in continuation\n\n\"I have a Relation in Scotland (said Sophia to me as we left London) who\nI am certain would not hesitate in receiving me.\" \"Shall I order the Boy\nto drive there?\" said I--but instantly recollecting myself, exclaimed,\n\"Alas I fear it will be too long a Journey for the Horses.\" Unwilling\nhowever to act only from my own inadequate Knowledge of the Strength and\nAbilities of Horses, I consulted the Postilion, who was entirely of my\nOpinion concerning the Affair. We therefore determined to change Horses\nat the next Town and to travel Post the remainder of the Journey--. When\nwe arrived at the last Inn we were to stop at, which was but a few miles\nfrom the House of Sophia's Relation, unwilling to intrude our Society on\nhim unexpected and unthought of, we wrote a very elegant and well\npenned Note to him containing an account of our Destitute and melancholy\nSituation, and of our intention to spend some months with him in\nScotland. As soon as we had dispatched this Letter, we immediately\nprepared to follow it in person and were stepping into the Carriage\nfor that Purpose when our attention was attracted by the Entrance of\na coroneted Coach and 4 into the Inn-yard. A Gentleman considerably\nadvanced in years descended from it. At his first Appearance my\nSensibility was wonderfully affected and e'er I had gazed at him a 2d\ntime, an instinctive sympathy whispered to my Heart, that he was my\nGrandfather. Convinced that I could not be mistaken in my conjecture I\ninstantly sprang from the Carriage I had just entered, and following the\nVenerable Stranger into the Room he had been shewn to, I threw myself\non my knees before him and besought him to acknowledge me as his Grand\nChild. He started, and having attentively examined my features, raised\nme from the Ground and throwing his Grand-fatherly arms around my Neck,\nexclaimed, \"Acknowledge thee! Yes dear resemblance of my Laurina and\nLaurina's Daughter, sweet image of my Claudia and my Claudia's Mother,\nI do acknowledge thee as the Daughter of the one and the Grandaughter of\nthe other.\" While he was thus tenderly embracing me, Sophia astonished\nat my precipitate Departure, entered the Room in search of me. No sooner\nhad she caught the eye of the venerable Peer, than he exclaimed with\nevery mark of Astonishment--\"Another Grandaughter! Yes, yes, I see you\nare the Daughter of my Laurina's eldest Girl; your resemblance to the\nbeauteous Matilda sufficiently proclaims it. \"Oh!\" replied Sophia, \"when\nI first beheld you the instinct of Nature whispered me that we were in\nsome degree related--But whether Grandfathers, or Grandmothers, I could\nnot pretend to determine.\" He folded her in his arms, and whilst they\nwere tenderly embracing, the Door of the Apartment opened and a most\nbeautifull young Man appeared. On perceiving him Lord St. Clair started\nand retreating back a few paces, with uplifted Hands, said, \"Another\nGrand-child! What an unexpected Happiness is this! to discover in the\nspace of 3 minutes, as many of my Descendants! This I am certain is\nPhilander the son of my Laurina's 3d girl the amiable Bertha; there\nwants now but the presence of Gustavus to compleat the Union of my\nLaurina's Grand-Children.\"\n\n\"And here he is; (said a Gracefull Youth who that instant entered the\nroom) here is the Gustavus you desire to see. I am the son of Agatha\nyour Laurina's 4th and youngest Daughter,\" \"I see you are indeed;\nreplied Lord St. Clair--But tell me (continued he looking fearfully\ntowards the Door) tell me, have I any other Grand-children in the\nHouse.\" \"None my Lord.\" \"Then I will provide for you all without farther\ndelay--Here are 4 Banknotes of 50L each--Take them and remember I\nhave done the Duty of a Grandfather.\" He instantly left the Room and\nimmediately afterwards the House. Adeiu, Laura.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the 12th LAURA in continuation\n\nYou may imagine how greatly we were surprised by the sudden departure\nof Lord St Clair. \"Ignoble Grand-sire!\" exclaimed Sophia. \"Unworthy\nGrandfather!\" said I, and instantly fainted in each other's arms. How\nlong we remained in this situation I know not; but when we recovered\nwe found ourselves alone, without either Gustavus, Philander, or the\nBanknotes. As we were deploring our unhappy fate, the Door of the\nApartment opened and \"Macdonald\" was announced. He was Sophia's cousin.\nThe haste with which he came to our releif so soon after the receipt\nof our Note, spoke so greatly in his favour that I hesitated not to\npronounce him at first sight, a tender and simpathetic Freind. Alas!\nhe little deserved the name--for though he told us that he was much\nconcerned at our Misfortunes, yet by his own account it appeared that\nthe perusal of them, had neither drawn from him a single sigh, nor\ninduced him to bestow one curse on our vindictive stars--. He told\nSophia that his Daughter depended on her returning with him to\nMacdonald-Hall, and that as his Cousin's freind he should be happy\nto see me there also. To Macdonald-Hall, therefore we went, and were\nreceived with great kindness by Janetta the Daughter of Macdonald, and\nthe Mistress of the Mansion. Janetta was then only fifteen; naturally\nwell disposed, endowed with a susceptible Heart, and a simpathetic\nDisposition, she might, had these amiable qualities been properly\nencouraged, have been an ornament to human Nature; but unfortunately her\nFather possessed not a soul sufficiently exalted to admire so promising\na Disposition, and had endeavoured by every means on his power\nto prevent it encreasing with her Years. He had actually so far\nextinguished the natural noble Sensibility of her Heart, as to prevail\non her to accept an offer from a young Man of his Recommendation. They\nwere to be married in a few months, and Graham, was in the House when\nwe arrived. WE soon saw through his character. He was just such a Man as\none might have expected to be the choice of Macdonald. They said he was\nSensible, well-informed, and Agreable; we did not pretend to Judge of\nsuch trifles, but as we were convinced he had no soul, that he had\nnever read the sorrows of Werter, and that his Hair bore not the least\nresemblance to auburn, we were certain that Janetta could feel no\naffection for him, or at least that she ought to feel none. The very\ncircumstance of his being her father's choice too, was so much in his\ndisfavour, that had he been deserving her, in every other respect yet\nTHAT of itself ought to have been a sufficient reason in the Eyes of\nJanetta for rejecting him. These considerations we were determined to\nrepresent to her in their proper light and doubted not of meeting with\nthe desired success from one naturally so well disposed; whose errors in\nthe affair had only arisen from a want of proper confidence in her own\nopinion, and a suitable contempt of her father's. We found her indeed\nall that our warmest wishes could have hoped for; we had no difficulty\nto convince her that it was impossible she could love Graham, or that it\nwas her Duty to disobey her Father; the only thing at which she rather\nseemed to hesitate was our assertion that she must be attached to some\nother Person. For some time, she persevered in declaring that she knew\nno other young man for whom she had the the smallest Affection; but upon\nexplaining the impossibility of such a thing she said that she beleived\nshe DID LIKE Captain M'Kenrie better than any one she knew besides. This\nconfession satisfied us and after having enumerated the good Qualities\nof M'Kenrie and assured her that she was violently in love with him, we\ndesired to know whether he had ever in any wise declared his affection\nto her.\n\n\"So far from having ever declared it, I have no reason to imagine that\nhe has ever felt any for me.\" said Janetta. \"That he certainly adores\nyou (replied Sophia) there can be no doubt--. The Attachment must be\nreciprocal. Did he never gaze on you with admiration--tenderly press\nyour hand--drop an involantary tear--and leave the room abruptly?\"\n\"Never (replied she) that I remember--he has always left the room indeed\nwhen his visit has been ended, but has never gone away particularly\nabruptly or without making a bow.\" Indeed my Love (said I) you must be\nmistaken--for it is absolutely impossible that he should ever have left\nyou but with Confusion, Despair, and Precipitation. Consider but for a\nmoment Janetta, and you must be convinced how absurd it is to suppose\nthat he could ever make a Bow, or behave like any other Person.\"\nHaving settled this Point to our satisfaction, the next we took into\nconsideration was, to determine in what manner we should inform M'Kenrie\nof the favourable Opinion Janetta entertained of him.... We at length\nagreed to acquaint him with it by an anonymous Letter which Sophia drew\nup in the following manner.\n\n\"Oh! happy Lover of the beautifull Janetta, oh! amiable Possessor of\nHER Heart whose hand is destined to another, why do you thus delay a\nconfession of your attachment to the amiable Object of it? Oh! consider\nthat a few weeks will at once put an end to every flattering Hope that\nyou may now entertain, by uniting the unfortunate Victim of her father's\nCruelty to the execrable and detested Graham.\"\n\n\"Alas! why do you thus so cruelly connive at the projected Misery of\nher and of yourself by delaying to communicate that scheme which had\ndoubtless long possessed your imagination? A secret Union will at once\nsecure the felicity of both.\"\n\nThe amiable M'Kenrie, whose modesty as he afterwards assured us had\nbeen the only reason of his having so long concealed the violence of\nhis affection for Janetta, on receiving this Billet flew on the wings of\nLove to Macdonald-Hall, and so powerfully pleaded his Attachment to her\nwho inspired it, that after a few more private interveiws, Sophia and\nI experienced the satisfaction of seeing them depart for Gretna-Green,\nwhich they chose for the celebration of their Nuptials, in preference\nto any other place although it was at a considerable distance from\nMacdonald-Hall. Adeiu Laura.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the 13th LAURA in continuation\n\nThey had been gone nearly a couple of Hours, before either Macdonald or\nGraham had entertained any suspicion of the affair. And they might not\neven then have suspected it, but for the following little Accident.\nSophia happening one day to open a private Drawer in Macdonald's Library\nwith one of her own keys, discovered that it was the Place where he\nkept his Papers of consequence and amongst them some bank notes of\nconsiderable amount. This discovery she imparted to me; and having\nagreed together that it would be a proper treatment of so vile a Wretch\nas Macdonald to deprive him of money, perhaps dishonestly gained, it was\ndetermined that the next time we should either of us happen to go that\nway, we would take one or more of the Bank notes from the drawer. This\nwell meant Plan we had often successfully put in Execution; but alas!\non the very day of Janetta's Escape, as Sophia was majestically removing\nthe 5th Bank-note from the Drawer to her own purse, she was suddenly\nmost impertinently interrupted in her employment by the entrance of\nMacdonald himself, in a most abrupt and precipitate Manner. Sophia (who\nthough naturally all winning sweetness could when occasions demanded it\ncall forth the Dignity of her sex) instantly put on a most forbidding\nlook, and darting an angry frown on the undaunted culprit, demanded in\na haughty tone of voice \"Wherefore her retirement was thus insolently\nbroken in on?\" The unblushing Macdonald, without even endeavouring to\nexculpate himself from the crime he was charged with, meanly endeavoured\nto reproach Sophia with ignobly defrauding him of his money... The\ndignity of Sophia was wounded; \"Wretch (exclaimed she, hastily replacing\nthe Bank-note in the Drawer) how darest thou to accuse me of an Act,\nof which the bare idea makes me blush?\" The base wretch was still\nunconvinced and continued to upbraid the justly-offended Sophia in such\nopprobious Language, that at length he so greatly provoked the gentle\nsweetness of her Nature, as to induce her to revenge herself on him by\ninforming him of Janetta's Elopement, and of the active Part we had\nboth taken in the affair. At this period of their Quarrel I entered the\nLibrary and was as you may imagine equally offended as Sophia at the\nill-grounded accusations of the malevolent and contemptible Macdonald.\n\"Base Miscreant! (cried I) how canst thou thus undauntedly endeavour to\nsully the spotless reputation of such bright Excellence? Why dost thou\nnot suspect MY innocence as soon?\" \"Be satisfied Madam (replied he) I\nDO suspect it, and therefore must desire that you will both leave this\nHouse in less than half an hour.\"\n\n\"We shall go willingly; (answered Sophia) our hearts have long detested\nthee, and nothing but our freindship for thy Daughter could have induced\nus to remain so long beneath thy roof.\"\n\n\"Your Freindship for my Daughter has indeed been most powerfully exerted\nby throwing her into the arms of an unprincipled Fortune-hunter.\"\n(replied he)\n\n\"Yes, (exclaimed I) amidst every misfortune, it will afford us some\nconsolation to reflect that by this one act of Freindship to Janetta,\nwe have amply discharged every obligation that we have received from her\nfather.\"\n\n\"It must indeed be a most gratefull reflection, to your exalted minds.\"\n(said he.)\n\nAs soon as we had packed up our wardrobe and valuables, we left\nMacdonald Hall, and after having walked about a mile and a half we\nsate down by the side of a clear limpid stream to refresh our exhausted\nlimbs. The place was suited to meditation. A grove of full-grown Elms\nsheltered us from the East--. A Bed of full-grown Nettles from the\nWest--. Before us ran the murmuring brook and behind us ran the\nturn-pike road. We were in a mood for contemplation and in a Disposition\nto enjoy so beautifull a spot. A mutual silence which had for some time\nreigned between us, was at length broke by my exclaiming--\"What a lovely\nscene! Alas why are not Edward and Augustus here to enjoy its Beauties\nwith us?\"\n\n\"Ah! my beloved Laura (cried Sophia) for pity's sake forbear recalling\nto my remembrance the unhappy situation of my imprisoned Husband. Alas,\nwhat would I not give to learn the fate of my Augustus! to know if he is\nstill in Newgate, or if he is yet hung. But never shall I be able so far\nto conquer my tender sensibility as to enquire after him. Oh! do not\nI beseech you ever let me again hear you repeat his beloved name--. It\naffects me too deeply--. I cannot bear to hear him mentioned it wounds\nmy feelings.\"\n\n\"Excuse me my Sophia for having thus unwillingly offended you--\" replied\nI--and then changing the conversation, desired her to admire the noble\nGrandeur of the Elms which sheltered us from the Eastern Zephyr. \"Alas!\nmy Laura (returned she) avoid so melancholy a subject, I intreat you.\nDo not again wound my Sensibility by observations on those elms. They\nremind me of Augustus. He was like them, tall, magestic--he possessed\nthat noble grandeur which you admire in them.\"\n\nI was silent, fearfull lest I might any more unwillingly distress her by\nfixing on any other subject of conversation which might again remind her\nof Augustus.\n\n\"Why do you not speak my Laura? (said she after a short pause) \"I cannot\nsupport this silence you must not leave me to my own reflections; they\never recur to Augustus.\"\n\n\"What a beautifull sky! (said I) How charmingly is the azure varied by\nthose delicate streaks of white!\"\n\n\"Oh! my Laura (replied she hastily withdrawing her Eyes from a momentary\nglance at the sky) do not thus distress me by calling my Attention to\nan object which so cruelly reminds me of my Augustus's blue sattin\nwaistcoat striped in white! In pity to your unhappy freind avoid a\nsubject so distressing.\" What could I do? The feelings of Sophia were\nat that time so exquisite, and the tenderness she felt for Augustus so\npoignant that I had not power to start any other topic, justly fearing\nthat it might in some unforseen manner again awaken all her sensibility\nby directing her thoughts to her Husband. Yet to be silent would be\ncruel; she had intreated me to talk.\n\nFrom this Dilemma I was most fortunately releived by an accident truly\napropos; it was the lucky overturning of a Gentleman's Phaeton, on the\nroad which ran murmuring behind us. It was a most fortunate accident\nas it diverted the attention of Sophia from the melancholy reflections\nwhich she had been before indulging. We instantly quitted our seats and\nran to the rescue of those who but a few moments before had been in so\nelevated a situation as a fashionably high Phaeton, but who were\nnow laid low and sprawling in the Dust. \"What an ample subject for\nreflection on the uncertain Enjoyments of this World, would not that\nPhaeton and the Life of Cardinal Wolsey afford a thinking Mind!\" said I\nto Sophia as we were hastening to the field of Action.\n\nShe had not time to answer me, for every thought was now engaged by the\nhorrid spectacle before us. Two Gentlemen most elegantly attired\nbut weltering in their blood was what first struck our Eyes--we\napproached--they were Edward and Augustus--. Yes dearest Marianne they\nwere our Husbands. Sophia shreiked and fainted on the ground--I screamed\nand instantly ran mad--. We remained thus mutually deprived of our\nsenses, some minutes, and on regaining them were deprived of them\nagain. For an Hour and a Quarter did we continue in this unfortunate\nsituation--Sophia fainting every moment and I running mad as often. At\nlength a groan from the hapless Edward (who alone retained any share\nof life) restored us to ourselves. Had we indeed before imagined that\neither of them lived, we should have been more sparing of our Greif--but\nas we had supposed when we first beheld them that they were no more,\nwe knew that nothing could remain to be done but what we were about.\nNo sooner did we therefore hear my Edward's groan than postponing our\nlamentations for the present, we hastily ran to the Dear Youth and\nkneeling on each side of him implored him not to die--. \"Laura (said He\nfixing his now languid Eyes on me) I fear I have been overturned.\"\n\nI was overjoyed to find him yet sensible.\n\n\"Oh! tell me Edward (said I) tell me I beseech you before you die, what\nhas befallen you since that unhappy Day in which Augustus was arrested\nand we were separated--\"\n\n\"I will\" (said he) and instantly fetching a deep sigh, Expired--. Sophia\nimmediately sank again into a swoon--. MY greif was more audible. My\nVoice faltered, My Eyes assumed a vacant stare, my face became as pale\nas Death, and my senses were considerably impaired--.\n\n\"Talk not to me of Phaetons (said I, raving in a frantic, incoherent\nmanner)--Give me a violin--. I'll play to him and sooth him in his\nmelancholy Hours--Beware ye gentle Nymphs of Cupid's Thunderbolts, avoid\nthe piercing shafts of Jupiter--Look at that grove of Firs--I see a Leg\nof Mutton--They told me Edward was not Dead; but they deceived me--they\ntook him for a cucumber--\" Thus I continued wildly exclaiming on my\nEdward's Death--. For two Hours did I rave thus madly and should not\nthen have left off, as I was not in the least fatigued, had not Sophia\nwho was just recovered from her swoon, intreated me to consider that\nNight was now approaching and that the Damps began to fall. \"And\nwhither shall we go (said I) to shelter us from either?\" \"To that white\nCottage.\" (replied she pointing to a neat Building which rose up amidst\nthe grove of Elms and which I had not before observed--) I agreed and we\ninstantly walked to it--we knocked at the door--it was opened by an old\nwoman; on being requested to afford us a Night's Lodging, she informed\nus that her House was but small, that she had only two Bedrooms, but\nthat However we should be wellcome to one of them. We were satisfied and\nfollowed the good woman into the House where we were greatly cheered\nby the sight of a comfortable fire--. She was a widow and had only one\nDaughter, who was then just seventeen--One of the best of ages; but\nalas! she was very plain and her name was Bridget..... Nothing therfore\ncould be expected from her--she could not be supposed to possess either\nexalted Ideas, Delicate Feelings or refined Sensibilities--. She was\nnothing more than a mere good-tempered, civil and obliging young woman;\nas such we could scarcely dislike here--she was only an Object of\nContempt--. Adeiu Laura.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the 14th LAURA in continuation\n\nArm yourself my amiable young Freind with all the philosophy you are\nMistress of; summon up all the fortitude you possess, for alas! in the\nperusal of the following Pages your sensibility will be most severely\ntried. Ah! what were the misfortunes I had before experienced and which\nI have already related to you, to the one I am now going to inform you\nof. The Death of my Father and my Mother and my Husband though almost\nmore than my gentle Nature could support, were trifles in comparison\nto the misfortune I am now proceeding to relate. The morning after\nour arrival at the Cottage, Sophia complained of a violent pain in her\ndelicate limbs, accompanied with a disagreable Head-ake She attributed\nit to a cold caught by her continued faintings in the open air as the\nDew was falling the Evening before. This I feared was but too probably\nthe case; since how could it be otherwise accounted for that I should\nhave escaped the same indisposition, but by supposing that the\nbodily Exertions I had undergone in my repeated fits of frenzy had so\neffectually circulated and warmed my Blood as to make me proof against\nthe chilling Damps of Night, whereas, Sophia lying totally inactive\non the ground must have been exposed to all their severity. I was most\nseriously alarmed by her illness which trifling as it may appear to\nyou, a certain instinctive sensibility whispered me, would in the End be\nfatal to her.\n\nAlas! my fears were but too fully justified; she grew gradually\nworse--and I daily became more alarmed for her. At length she was\nobliged to confine herself solely to the Bed allotted us by our worthy\nLandlady--. Her disorder turned to a galloping Consumption and in a few\ndays carried her off. Amidst all my Lamentations for her (and violent\nyou may suppose they were) I yet received some consolation in the\nreflection of my having paid every attention to her, that could be\noffered, in her illness. I had wept over her every Day--had bathed her\nsweet face with my tears and had pressed her fair Hands continually in\nmine--. \"My beloved Laura (said she to me a few Hours before she died)\ntake warning from my unhappy End and avoid the imprudent conduct which\nhad occasioned it... Beware of fainting-fits... Though at the time they\nmay be refreshing and agreable yet beleive me they will in the end, if\ntoo often repeated and at improper seasons, prove destructive to your\nConstitution... My fate will teach you this.. I die a Martyr to my greif\nfor the loss of Augustus.. One fatal swoon has cost me my Life.. Beware\nof swoons Dear Laura.... A frenzy fit is not one quarter so pernicious;\nit is an exercise to the Body and if not too violent, is I dare say\nconducive to Health in its consequences--Run mad as often as you chuse;\nbut do not faint--\"\n\nThese were the last words she ever addressed to me.. It was her dieing\nAdvice to her afflicted Laura, who has ever most faithfully adhered to\nit.\n\nAfter having attended my lamented freind to her Early Grave, I\nimmediately (tho' late at night) left the detested Village in which\nshe died, and near which had expired my Husband and Augustus. I had not\nwalked many yards from it before I was overtaken by a stage-coach,\nin which I instantly took a place, determined to proceed in it to\nEdinburgh, where I hoped to find some kind some pitying Freind who would\nreceive and comfort me in my afflictions.\n\nIt was so dark when I entered the Coach that I could not distinguish\nthe Number of my Fellow-travellers; I could only perceive that they were\nmany. Regardless however of anything concerning them, I gave myself up\nto my own sad Reflections. A general silence prevailed--A silence, which\nwas by nothing interrupted but by the loud and repeated snores of one of\nthe Party.\n\n\"What an illiterate villain must that man be! (thought I to myself) What\na total want of delicate refinement must he have, who can thus shock our\nsenses by such a brutal noise! He must I am certain be capable of every\nbad action! There is no crime too black for such a Character!\" Thus\nreasoned I within myself, and doubtless such were the reflections of my\nfellow travellers.\n\nAt length, returning Day enabled me to behold the unprincipled Scoundrel\nwho had so violently disturbed my feelings. It was Sir Edward the father\nof my Deceased Husband. By his side sate Augusta, and on the same seat\nwith me were your Mother and Lady Dorothea. Imagine my surprise at\nfinding myself thus seated amongst my old Acquaintance. Great as was my\nastonishment, it was yet increased, when on looking out of Windows,\nI beheld the Husband of Philippa, with Philippa by his side, on the\nCoachbox and when on looking behind I beheld, Philander and Gustavus in\nthe Basket. \"Oh! Heavens, (exclaimed I) is it possible that I should\nso unexpectedly be surrounded by my nearest Relations and Connections?\"\nThese words roused the rest of the Party, and every eye was directed to\nthe corner in which I sat. \"Oh! my Isabel (continued I throwing myself\nacross Lady Dorothea into her arms) receive once more to your Bosom the\nunfortunate Laura. Alas! when we last parted in the Vale of Usk, I was\nhappy in being united to the best of Edwards; I had then a Father and\na Mother, and had never known misfortunes--But now deprived of every\nfreind but you--\"\n\n\"What! (interrupted Augusta) is my Brother dead then? Tell us I intreat\nyou what is become of him?\" \"Yes, cold and insensible Nymph, (replied I)\nthat luckless swain your Brother, is no more, and you may now glory in\nbeing the Heiress of Sir Edward's fortune.\"\n\nAlthough I had always despised her from the Day I had overheard her\nconversation with my Edward, yet in civility I complied with hers and\nSir Edward's intreaties that I would inform them of the whole melancholy\naffair. They were greatly shocked--even the obdurate Heart of Sir Edward\nand the insensible one of Augusta, were touched with sorrow, by the\nunhappy tale. At the request of your Mother I related to them every\nother misfortune which had befallen me since we parted. Of the\nimprisonment of Augustus and the absence of Edward--of our arrival\nin Scotland--of our unexpected Meeting with our Grand-father and our\ncousins--of our visit to Macdonald-Hall--of the singular service we\nthere performed towards Janetta--of her Fathers ingratitude for it.. of\nhis inhuman Behaviour, unaccountable suspicions, and barbarous treatment\nof us, in obliging us to leave the House.. of our lamentations on the\nloss of Edward and Augustus and finally of the melancholy Death of my\nbeloved Companion.\n\nPity and surprise were strongly depictured in your Mother's countenance,\nduring the whole of my narration, but I am sorry to say, that to the\neternal reproach of her sensibility, the latter infinitely predominated.\nNay, faultless as my conduct had certainly been during the whole course\nof my late misfortunes and adventures, she pretended to find fault with\nmy behaviour in many of the situations in which I had been placed. As\nI was sensible myself, that I had always behaved in a manner which\nreflected Honour on my Feelings and Refinement, I paid little attention\nto what she said, and desired her to satisfy my Curiosity by informing\nme how she came there, instead of wounding my spotless reputation with\nunjustifiable Reproaches. As soon as she had complyed with my wishes in\nthis particular and had given me an accurate detail of every thing that\nhad befallen her since our separation (the particulars of which if you\nare not already acquainted with, your Mother will give you) I applied to\nAugusta for the same information respecting herself, Sir Edward and Lady\nDorothea.\n\nShe told me that having a considerable taste for the Beauties of Nature,\nher curiosity to behold the delightful scenes it exhibited in that part\nof the World had been so much raised by Gilpin's Tour to the Highlands,\nthat she had prevailed on her Father to undertake a Tour to Scotland and\nhad persuaded Lady Dorothea to accompany them. That they had arrived at\nEdinburgh a few Days before and from thence had made daily Excursions\ninto the Country around in the Stage Coach they were then in, from one\nof which Excursions they were at that time returning. My next enquiries\nwere concerning Philippa and her Husband, the latter of whom I learned\nhaving spent all her fortune, had recourse for subsistence to the talent\nin which, he had always most excelled, namely, Driving, and that\nhaving sold every thing which belonged to them except their Coach, had\nconverted it into a Stage and in order to be removed from any of his\nformer Acquaintance, had driven it to Edinburgh from whence he went to\nSterling every other Day. That Philippa still retaining her affection\nfor her ungratefull Husband, had followed him to Scotland and generally\naccompanied him in his little Excursions to Sterling. \"It has only been\nto throw a little money into their Pockets (continued Augusta) that my\nFather has always travelled in their Coach to veiw the beauties of the\nCountry since our arrival in Scotland--for it would certainly have been\nmuch more agreable to us, to visit the Highlands in a Postchaise\nthan merely to travel from Edinburgh to Sterling and from Sterling\nto Edinburgh every other Day in a crowded and uncomfortable Stage.\" I\nperfectly agreed with her in her sentiments on the affair, and secretly\nblamed Sir Edward for thus sacrificing his Daughter's Pleasure for the\nsake of a ridiculous old woman whose folly in marrying so young a man\nought to be punished. His Behaviour however was entirely of a peice\nwith his general Character; for what could be expected from a man who\npossessed not the smallest atom of Sensibility, who scarcely knew the\nmeaning of simpathy, and who actually snored--. Adeiu Laura.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the 15th LAURA in continuation.\n\nWhen we arrived at the town where we were to Breakfast, I was determined\nto speak with Philander and Gustavus, and to that purpose as soon as\nI left the Carriage, I went to the Basket and tenderly enquired after\ntheir Health, expressing my fears of the uneasiness of their situation.\nAt first they seemed rather confused at my appearance dreading no doubt\nthat I might call them to account for the money which our Grandfather\nhad left me and which they had unjustly deprived me of, but finding\nthat I mentioned nothing of the Matter, they desired me to step into\nthe Basket as we might there converse with greater ease. Accordingly I\nentered and whilst the rest of the party were devouring green tea and\nbuttered toast, we feasted ourselves in a more refined and sentimental\nManner by a confidential Conversation. I informed them of every thing\nwhich had befallen me during the course of my life, and at my request\nthey related to me every incident of theirs.\n\n\"We are the sons as you already know, of the two youngest Daughters\nwhich Lord St Clair had by Laurina an italian opera girl. Our mothers\ncould neither of them exactly ascertain who were our Father, though it\nis generally beleived that Philander, is the son of one Philip Jones\na Bricklayer and that my Father was one Gregory Staves a Staymaker of\nEdinburgh. This is however of little consequence for as our Mothers were\ncertainly never married to either of them it reflects no Dishonour on\nour Blood, which is of a most ancient and unpolluted kind. Bertha (the\nMother of Philander) and Agatha (my own Mother) always lived together.\nThey were neither of them very rich; their united fortunes had\noriginally amounted to nine thousand Pounds, but as they had always\nlived on the principal of it, when we were fifteen it was diminished to\nnine Hundred. This nine Hundred they always kept in a Drawer in one\nof the Tables which stood in our common sitting Parlour, for the\nconvenience of having it always at Hand. Whether it was from this\ncircumstance, of its being easily taken, or from a wish of being\nindependant, or from an excess of sensibility (for which we were always\nremarkable) I cannot now determine, but certain it is that when we had\nreached our 15th year, we took the nine Hundred Pounds and ran away.\nHaving obtained this prize we were determined to manage it with eoconomy\nand not to spend it either with folly or Extravagance. To this purpose\nwe therefore divided it into nine parcels, one of which we devoted to\nVictuals, the 2d to Drink, the 3d to Housekeeping, the 4th to Carriages,\nthe 5th to Horses, the 6th to Servants, the 7th to Amusements, the 8th\nto Cloathes and the 9th to Silver Buckles. Having thus arranged our\nExpences for two months (for we expected to make the nine Hundred Pounds\nlast as long) we hastened to London and had the good luck to spend it in\n7 weeks and a Day which was 6 Days sooner than we had intended. As soon\nas we had thus happily disencumbered ourselves from the weight of\nso much money, we began to think of returning to our Mothers, but\naccidentally hearing that they were both starved to Death, we gave over\nthe design and determined to engage ourselves to some strolling Company\nof Players, as we had always a turn for the Stage. Accordingly we\noffered our services to one and were accepted; our Company was\nindeed rather small, as it consisted only of the Manager his wife\nand ourselves, but there were fewer to pay and the only inconvenience\nattending it was the Scarcity of Plays which for want of People to fill\nthe Characters, we could perform. We did not mind trifles however--.\nOne of our most admired Performances was MACBETH, in which we were\ntruly great. The Manager always played BANQUO himself, his Wife my LADY\nMACBETH. I did the THREE WITCHES and Philander acted ALL THE REST. To\nsay the truth this tragedy was not only the Best, but the only Play\nthat we ever performed; and after having acted it all over England, and\nWales, we came to Scotland to exhibit it over the remainder of Great\nBritain. We happened to be quartered in that very Town, where you came\nand met your Grandfather--. We were in the Inn-yard when his Carriage\nentered and perceiving by the arms to whom it belonged, and knowing\nthat Lord St Clair was our Grandfather, we agreed to endeavour to get\nsomething from him by discovering the Relationship--. You know how well\nit succeeded--. Having obtained the two Hundred Pounds, we instantly\nleft the Town, leaving our Manager and his Wife to act MACBETH by\nthemselves, and took the road to Sterling, where we spent our little\nfortune with great ECLAT. We are now returning to Edinburgh in order to\nget some preferment in the Acting way; and such my Dear Cousin is our\nHistory.\"\n\nI thanked the amiable Youth for his entertaining narration, and after\nexpressing my wishes for their Welfare and Happiness, left them in\ntheir little Habitation and returned to my other Freinds who impatiently\nexpected me.\n\nMy adventures are now drawing to a close my dearest Marianne; at least\nfor the present.\n\nWhen we arrived at Edinburgh Sir Edward told me that as the Widow of his\nson, he desired I would accept from his Hands of four Hundred a year. I\ngraciously promised that I would, but could not help observing that the\nunsimpathetic Baronet offered it more on account of my being the Widow\nof Edward than in being the refined and amiable Laura.\n\nI took up my Residence in a Romantic Village in the Highlands\nof Scotland where I have ever since continued, and where I can\nuninterrupted by unmeaning Visits, indulge in a melancholy solitude, my\nunceasing Lamentations for the Death of my Father, my Mother, my Husband\nand my Freind.\n\nAugusta has been for several years united to Graham the Man of all\nothers most suited to her; she became acquainted with him during her\nstay in Scotland.\n\nSir Edward in hopes of gaining an Heir to his Title and Estate, at the\nsame time married Lady Dorothea--. His wishes have been answered.\n\nPhilander and Gustavus, after having raised their reputation by their\nPerformances in the Theatrical Line at Edinburgh, removed to Covent\nGarden, where they still exhibit under the assumed names of LUVIS and\nQUICK.\n\nPhilippa has long paid the Debt of Nature, Her Husband however still\ncontinues to drive the Stage-Coach from Edinburgh to Sterling:--Adeiu my\nDearest Marianne. Laura.\n\nFinis\n\nJune 13th 1790.\n\n\n\n\n*****\n\n\n\n\nAN UNFINISHED NOVEL IN LETTERS\n\n\nTo HENRY THOMAS AUSTEN Esqre.\n\nSir\n\nI am now availing myself of the Liberty you have frequently honoured\nme with of dedicating one of my Novels to you. That it is unfinished, I\ngreive; yet fear that from me, it will always remain so; that as far\nas it is carried, it should be so trifling and so unworthy of you, is\nanother concern to your obliged humble Servant\n\nThe Author\n\n\nMessrs Demand and Co--please to pay Jane Austen Spinster the sum of one\nhundred guineas on account of your Humble Servant.\n\nH. T. Austen\n\nL105. 0. 0.\n\n*****\n\n\n\n\nLESLEY CASTLE\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the FIRST is from Miss MARGARET LESLEY to Miss CHARLOTTE\nLUTTERELL. Lesley Castle Janry 3rd--1792.\n\nMy Brother has just left us. \"Matilda (said he at parting) you and\nMargaret will I am certain take all the care of my dear little one, that\nshe might have received from an indulgent, and affectionate and amiable\nMother.\" Tears rolled down his cheeks as he spoke these words--the\nremembrance of her, who had so wantonly disgraced the Maternal character\nand so openly violated the conjugal Duties, prevented his adding\nanything farther; he embraced his sweet Child and after saluting Matilda\nand Me hastily broke from us and seating himself in his Chaise, pursued\nthe road to Aberdeen. Never was there a better young Man! Ah! how little\ndid he deserve the misfortunes he has experienced in the Marriage state.\nSo good a Husband to so bad a Wife! for you know my dear Charlotte that\nthe Worthless Louisa left him, her Child and reputation a few weeks ago\nin company with Danvers and dishonour. Never was there a sweeter face, a\nfiner form, or a less amiable Heart than Louisa owned! Her child already\npossesses the personal Charms of her unhappy Mother! May she inherit\nfrom her Father all his mental ones! Lesley is at present but five and\ntwenty, and has already given himself up to melancholy and Despair;\nwhat a difference between him and his Father! Sir George is 57 and still\nremains the Beau, the flighty stripling, the gay Lad, and sprightly\nYoungster, that his Son was really about five years back, and that HE\nhas affected to appear ever since my remembrance. While our father is\nfluttering about the streets of London, gay, dissipated, and Thoughtless\nat the age of 57, Matilda and I continue secluded from Mankind in our\nold and Mouldering Castle, which is situated two miles from Perth on a\nbold projecting Rock, and commands an extensive veiw of the Town and its\ndelightful Environs. But tho' retired from almost all the World, (for\nwe visit no one but the M'Leods, The M'Kenzies, the M'Phersons, the\nM'Cartneys, the M'Donalds, The M'kinnons, the M'lellans, the M'kays,\nthe Macbeths and the Macduffs) we are neither dull nor unhappy; on the\ncontrary there never were two more lively, more agreable or more witty\ngirls, than we are; not an hour in the Day hangs heavy on our Hands. We\nread, we work, we walk, and when fatigued with these Employments releive\nour spirits, either by a lively song, a graceful Dance, or by some smart\nbon-mot, and witty repartee. We are handsome my dear Charlotte, very\nhandsome and the greatest of our Perfections is, that we are entirely\ninsensible of them ourselves. But why do I thus dwell on myself! Let me\nrather repeat the praise of our dear little Neice the innocent Louisa,\nwho is at present sweetly smiling in a gentle Nap, as she reposes on the\nsofa. The dear Creature is just turned of two years old; as handsome as\ntho' 2 and 20, as sensible as tho' 2 and 30, and as prudent as tho' 2\nand 40. To convince you of this, I must inform you that she has a very\nfine complexion and very pretty features, that she already knows the two\nfirst letters in the Alphabet, and that she never tears her frocks--. If\nI have not now convinced you of her Beauty, Sense and Prudence, I have\nnothing more to urge in support of my assertion, and you will therefore\nhave no way of deciding the Affair but by coming to Lesley-Castle, and\nby a personal acquaintance with Louisa, determine for yourself. Ah! my\ndear Freind, how happy should I be to see you within these venerable\nWalls! It is now four years since my removal from School has separated\nme from you; that two such tender Hearts, so closely linked together by\nthe ties of simpathy and Freindship, should be so widely removed from\neach other, is vastly moving. I live in Perthshire, You in Sussex. We\nmight meet in London, were my Father disposed to carry me there, and\nwere your Mother to be there at the same time. We might meet at Bath,\nat Tunbridge, or anywhere else indeed, could we but be at the same place\ntogether. We have only to hope that such a period may arrive. My Father\ndoes not return to us till Autumn; my Brother will leave Scotland in a\nfew Days; he is impatient to travel. Mistaken Youth! He vainly flatters\nhimself that change of Air will heal the Wounds of a broken Heart! You\nwill join with me I am certain my dear Charlotte, in prayers for the\nrecovery of the unhappy Lesley's peace of Mind, which must ever be\nessential to that of your sincere freind M. Lesley.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the SECOND From Miss C. LUTTERELL to Miss M. LESLEY in answer.\nGlenford Febry 12\n\nI have a thousand excuses to beg for having so long delayed thanking you\nmy dear Peggy for your agreable Letter, which beleive me I should not\nhave deferred doing, had not every moment of my time during the last\nfive weeks been so fully employed in the necessary arrangements for\nmy sisters wedding, as to allow me no time to devote either to you or\nmyself. And now what provokes me more than anything else is that the\nMatch is broke off, and all my Labour thrown away. Imagine how great\nthe Dissapointment must be to me, when you consider that after having\nlaboured both by Night and by Day, in order to get the Wedding dinner\nready by the time appointed, after having roasted Beef, Broiled Mutton,\nand Stewed Soup enough to last the new-married Couple through the\nHoney-moon, I had the mortification of finding that I had been Roasting,\nBroiling and Stewing both the Meat and Myself to no purpose. Indeed my\ndear Freind, I never remember suffering any vexation equal to what I\nexperienced on last Monday when my sister came running to me in the\nstore-room with her face as White as a Whipt syllabub, and told me that\nHervey had been thrown from his Horse, had fractured his Scull and was\npronounced by his surgeon to be in the most emminent Danger. \"Good God!\n(said I) you dont say so? Why what in the name of Heaven will become\nof all the Victuals! We shall never be able to eat it while it is good.\nHowever, we'll call in the Surgeon to help us. I shall be able to manage\nthe Sir-loin myself, my Mother will eat the soup, and You and the Doctor\nmust finish the rest.\" Here I was interrupted, by seeing my poor Sister\nfall down to appearance Lifeless upon one of the Chests, where we keep\nour Table linen. I immediately called my Mother and the Maids, and at\nlast we brought her to herself again; as soon as ever she was sensible,\nshe expressed a determination of going instantly to Henry, and was so\nwildly bent on this Scheme, that we had the greatest Difficulty in the\nWorld to prevent her putting it in execution; at last however more by\nForce than Entreaty we prevailed on her to go into her room; we laid\nher upon the Bed, and she continued for some Hours in the most dreadful\nConvulsions. My Mother and I continued in the room with her, and when\nany intervals of tolerable Composure in Eloisa would allow us, we joined\nin heartfelt lamentations on the dreadful Waste in our provisions which\nthis Event must occasion, and in concerting some plan for getting rid of\nthem. We agreed that the best thing we could do was to begin eating them\nimmediately, and accordingly we ordered up the cold Ham and Fowls, and\ninstantly began our Devouring Plan on them with great Alacrity. We would\nhave persuaded Eloisa to have taken a Wing of a Chicken, but she would\nnot be persuaded. She was however much quieter than she had been;\nthe convulsions she had before suffered having given way to an almost\nperfect Insensibility. We endeavoured to rouse her by every means in our\npower, but to no purpose. I talked to her of Henry. \"Dear Eloisa (said\nI) there's no occasion for your crying so much about such a trifle. (for\nI was willing to make light of it in order to comfort her) I beg you\nwould not mind it--You see it does not vex me in the least; though\nperhaps I may suffer most from it after all; for I shall not only be\nobliged to eat up all the Victuals I have dressed already, but must if\nHenry should recover (which however is not very likely) dress as much\nfor you again; or should he die (as I suppose he will) I shall still\nhave to prepare a Dinner for you whenever you marry any one else. So\nyou see that tho' perhaps for the present it may afflict you to think\nof Henry's sufferings, Yet I dare say he'll die soon, and then his pain\nwill be over and you will be easy, whereas my Trouble will last much\nlonger for work as hard as I may, I am certain that the pantry cannot be\ncleared in less than a fortnight.\" Thus I did all in my power to console\nher, but without any effect, and at last as I saw that she did not seem\nto listen to me, I said no more, but leaving her with my Mother I took\ndown the remains of The Ham and Chicken, and sent William to ask how\nHenry did. He was not expected to live many Hours; he died the same day.\nWe took all possible care to break the melancholy Event to Eloisa in the\ntenderest manner; yet in spite of every precaution, her sufferings on\nhearing it were too violent for her reason, and she continued for many\nhours in a high Delirium. She is still extremely ill, and her Physicians\nare greatly afraid of her going into a Decline. We are therefore\npreparing for Bristol, where we mean to be in the course of the next\nweek. And now my dear Margaret let me talk a little of your affairs; and\nin the first place I must inform you that it is confidently reported,\nyour Father is going to be married; I am very unwilling to beleive so\nunpleasing a report, and at the same time cannot wholly discredit it. I\nhave written to my freind Susan Fitzgerald, for information concerning\nit, which as she is at present in Town, she will be very able to give\nme. I know not who is the Lady. I think your Brother is extremely\nright in the resolution he has taken of travelling, as it will perhaps\ncontribute to obliterate from his remembrance, those disagreable Events,\nwhich have lately so much afflicted him--I am happy to find that\ntho' secluded from all the World, neither you nor Matilda are dull or\nunhappy--that you may never know what it is to, be either is the wish of\nyour sincerely affectionate C.L.\n\nP. S. I have this instant received an answer from my freind Susan, which\nI enclose to you, and on which you will make your own reflections.\n\nThe enclosed LETTER\n\nMy dear CHARLOTTE You could not have applied for information concerning\nthe report of Sir George Lesleys Marriage, to any one better able to\ngive it you than I am. Sir George is certainly married; I was myself\npresent at the Ceremony, which you will not be surprised at when I\nsubscribe myself your Affectionate Susan Lesley\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the THIRD From Miss MARGARET LESLEY to Miss C. LUTTERELL Lesley\nCastle February the 16th\n\nI have made my own reflections on the letter you enclosed to me, my\nDear Charlotte and I will now tell you what those reflections were.\nI reflected that if by this second Marriage Sir George should have a\nsecond family, our fortunes must be considerably diminushed--that if\nhis Wife should be of an extravagant turn, she would encourage him\nto persevere in that gay and Dissipated way of Life to which little\nencouragement would be necessary, and which has I fear already proved\nbut too detrimental to his health and fortune--that she would now become\nMistress of those Jewels which once adorned our Mother, and which Sir\nGeorge had always promised us--that if they did not come into\nPerthshire I should not be able to gratify my curiosity of beholding my\nMother-in-law and that if they did, Matilda would no longer sit at\nthe head of her Father's table--. These my dear Charlotte were the\nmelancholy reflections which crowded into my imagination after perusing\nSusan's letter to you, and which instantly occurred to Matilda when she\nhad perused it likewise. The same ideas, the same fears, immediately\noccupied her Mind, and I know not which reflection distressed her most,\nwhether the probable Diminution of our Fortunes, or her own Consequence.\nWe both wish very much to know whether Lady Lesley is handsome and what\nis your opinion of her; as you honour her with the appellation of your\nfreind, we flatter ourselves that she must be amiable. My Brother is\nalready in Paris. He intends to quit it in a few Days, and to begin his\nroute to Italy. He writes in a most chearfull manner, says that the air\nof France has greatly recovered both his Health and Spirits; that he has\nnow entirely ceased to think of Louisa with any degree either of Pity or\nAffection, that he even feels himself obliged to her for her Elopement,\nas he thinks it very good fun to be single again. By this, you may\nperceive that he has entirely regained that chearful Gaiety, and\nsprightly Wit, for which he was once so remarkable. When he first became\nacquainted with Louisa which was little more than three years ago, he\nwas one of the most lively, the most agreable young Men of the age--.\nI beleive you never yet heard the particulars of his first acquaintance\nwith her. It commenced at our cousin Colonel Drummond's; at whose house\nin Cumberland he spent the Christmas, in which he attained the age of\ntwo and twenty. Louisa Burton was the Daughter of a distant Relation of\nMrs. Drummond, who dieing a few Months before in extreme poverty, left\nhis only Child then about eighteen to the protection of any of his\nRelations who would protect her. Mrs. Drummond was the only one who\nfound herself so disposed--Louisa was therefore removed from a miserable\nCottage in Yorkshire to an elegant Mansion in Cumberland, and from\nevery pecuniary Distress that Poverty could inflict, to every elegant\nEnjoyment that Money could purchase--. Louisa was naturally ill-tempered\nand Cunning; but she had been taught to disguise her real Disposition,\nunder the appearance of insinuating Sweetness, by a father who but too\nwell knew, that to be married, would be the only chance she would\nhave of not being starved, and who flattered himself that with such\nan extroidinary share of personal beauty, joined to a gentleness of\nManners, and an engaging address, she might stand a good chance of\npleasing some young Man who might afford to marry a girl without a\nShilling. Louisa perfectly entered into her father's schemes and was\ndetermined to forward them with all her care and attention. By dint of\nPerseverance and Application, she had at length so thoroughly disguised\nher natural disposition under the mask of Innocence, and Softness, as to\nimpose upon every one who had not by a long and constant intimacy with\nher discovered her real Character. Such was Louisa when the hapless\nLesley first beheld her at Drummond-house. His heart which (to use\nyour favourite comparison) was as delicate as sweet and as tender as a\nWhipt-syllabub, could not resist her attractions. In a very few Days,\nhe was falling in love, shortly after actually fell, and before he had\nknown her a Month, he had married her. My Father was at first highly\ndispleased at so hasty and imprudent a connection; but when he found\nthat they did not mind it, he soon became perfectly reconciled to the\nmatch. The Estate near Aberdeen which my brother possesses by the bounty\nof his great Uncle independant of Sir George, was entirely sufficient\nto support him and my Sister in Elegance and Ease. For the first\ntwelvemonth, no one could be happier than Lesley, and no one more\namiable to appearance than Louisa, and so plausibly did she act and\nso cautiously behave that tho' Matilda and I often spent several weeks\ntogether with them, yet we neither of us had any suspicion of her real\nDisposition. After the birth of Louisa however, which one would have\nthought would have strengthened her regard for Lesley, the mask she had\nso long supported was by degrees thrown aside, and as probably she then\nthought herself secure in the affection of her Husband (which did indeed\nappear if possible augmented by the birth of his Child) she seemed\nto take no pains to prevent that affection from ever diminushing. Our\nvisits therefore to Dunbeath, were now less frequent and by far less\nagreable than they used to be. Our absence was however never either\nmentioned or lamented by Louisa who in the society of young Danvers\nwith whom she became acquainted at Aberdeen (he was at one of the\nUniversities there,) felt infinitely happier than in that of Matilda and\nyour freind, tho' there certainly never were pleasanter girls than we\nare. You know the sad end of all Lesleys connubial happiness; I will not\nrepeat it--. Adeiu my dear Charlotte; although I have not yet mentioned\nanything of the matter, I hope you will do me the justice to beleive\nthat I THINK and FEEL, a great deal for your Sisters affliction. I do\nnot doubt but that the healthy air of the Bristol downs will intirely\nremove it, by erasing from her Mind the remembrance of Henry. I am my\ndear Charlotte yrs ever M. L.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the FOURTH From Miss C. LUTTERELL to Miss M. LESLEY Bristol\nFebruary 27th\n\nMy Dear Peggy I have but just received your letter, which being directed\nto Sussex while I was at Bristol was obliged to be forwarded to me here,\nand from some unaccountable Delay, has but this instant reached me--.\nI return you many thanks for the account it contains of Lesley's\nacquaintance, Love and Marriage with Louisa, which has not the less\nentertained me for having often been repeated to me before.\n\nI have the satisfaction of informing you that we have every reason to\nimagine our pantry is by this time nearly cleared, as we left Particular\norders with the servants to eat as hard as they possibly could, and to\ncall in a couple of Chairwomen to assist them. We brought a cold Pigeon\npye, a cold turkey, a cold tongue, and half a dozen Jellies with us,\nwhich we were lucky enough with the help of our Landlady, her husband,\nand their three children, to get rid of, in less than two days after\nour arrival. Poor Eloisa is still so very indifferent both in Health and\nSpirits, that I very much fear, the air of the Bristol downs, healthy as\nit is, has not been able to drive poor Henry from her remembrance.\n\nYou ask me whether your new Mother in law is handsome and amiable--I\nwill now give you an exact description of her bodily and mental charms.\nShe is short, and extremely well made; is naturally pale, but rouges a\ngood deal; has fine eyes, and fine teeth, as she will take care to let\nyou know as soon as she sees you, and is altogether very pretty. She is\nremarkably good-tempered when she has her own way, and very lively when\nshe is not out of humour. She is naturally extravagant and not very\naffected; she never reads anything but the letters she receives from me,\nand never writes anything but her answers to them. She plays, sings and\nDances, but has no taste for either, and excells in none, tho' she says\nshe is passionately fond of all. Perhaps you may flatter me so far as to\nbe surprised that one of whom I speak with so little affection should\nbe my particular freind; but to tell you the truth, our freindship arose\nrather from Caprice on her side than Esteem on mine. We spent two or\nthree days together with a Lady in Berkshire with whom we both happened\nto be connected--. During our visit, the Weather being remarkably bad,\nand our party particularly stupid, she was so good as to conceive\na violent partiality for me, which very soon settled in a downright\nFreindship and ended in an established correspondence. She is probably\nby this time as tired of me, as I am of her; but as she is too Polite\nand I am too civil to say so, our letters are still as frequent and\naffectionate as ever, and our Attachment as firm and sincere as when it\nfirst commenced. As she had a great taste for the pleasures of London,\nand of Brighthelmstone, she will I dare say find some difficulty in\nprevailing on herself even to satisfy the curiosity I dare say she feels\nof beholding you, at the expence of quitting those favourite haunts of\nDissipation, for the melancholy tho' venerable gloom of the castle you\ninhabit. Perhaps however if she finds her health impaired by too much\namusement, she may acquire fortitude sufficient to undertake a Journey\nto Scotland in the hope of its Proving at least beneficial to her\nhealth, if not conducive to her happiness. Your fears I am sorry to say,\nconcerning your father's extravagance, your own fortunes, your Mothers\nJewels and your Sister's consequence, I should suppose are but too well\nfounded. My freind herself has four thousand pounds, and will probably\nspend nearly as much every year in Dress and Public places, if she can\nget it--she will certainly not endeavour to reclaim Sir George from the\nmanner of living to which he has been so long accustomed, and there is\ntherefore some reason to fear that you will be very well off, if you get\nany fortune at all. The Jewels I should imagine too will undoubtedly be\nhers, and there is too much reason to think that she will preside at\nher Husbands table in preference to his Daughter. But as so melancholy a\nsubject must necessarily extremely distress you, I will no longer dwell\non it--.\n\nEloisa's indisposition has brought us to Bristol at so unfashionable a\nseason of the year, that we have actually seen but one genteel family\nsince we came. Mr and Mrs Marlowe are very agreable people; the ill\nhealth of their little boy occasioned their arrival here; you may\nimagine that being the only family with whom we can converse, we are\nof course on a footing of intimacy with them; we see them indeed almost\nevery day, and dined with them yesterday. We spent a very pleasant\nDay, and had a very good Dinner, tho' to be sure the Veal was terribly\nunderdone, and the Curry had no seasoning. I could not help wishing\nall dinner-time that I had been at the dressing it--. A brother of Mrs\nMarlowe, Mr Cleveland is with them at present; he is a good-looking\nyoung Man, and seems to have a good deal to say for himself. I tell\nEloisa that she should set her cap at him, but she does not at all\nseem to relish the proposal. I should like to see the girl married and\nCleveland has a very good estate. Perhaps you may wonder that I do not\nconsider myself as well as my Sister in my matrimonial Projects; but\nto tell you the truth I never wish to act a more principal part at a\nWedding than the superintending and directing the Dinner, and therefore\nwhile I can get any of my acquaintance to marry for me, I shall never\nthink of doing it myself, as I very much suspect that I should not have\nso much time for dressing my own Wedding-dinner, as for dressing that of\nmy freinds. Yours sincerely C. L.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the FIFTH Miss MARGARET LESLEY to Miss CHARLOTTE LUTTERELL\nLesley-Castle March 18th\n\nOn the same day that I received your last kind letter, Matilda received\none from Sir George which was dated from Edinburgh, and informed us that\nhe should do himself the pleasure of introducing Lady Lesley to us on\nthe following evening. This as you may suppose considerably surprised\nus, particularly as your account of her Ladyship had given us reason to\nimagine there was little chance of her visiting Scotland at a time that\nLondon must be so gay. As it was our business however to be delighted at\nsuch a mark of condescension as a visit from Sir George and Lady Lesley,\nwe prepared to return them an answer expressive of the happiness we\nenjoyed in expectation of such a Blessing, when luckily recollecting\nthat as they were to reach the Castle the next Evening, it would be\nimpossible for my father to receive it before he left Edinburgh, we\ncontented ourselves with leaving them to suppose that we were as happy\nas we ought to be. At nine in the Evening on the following day,\nthey came, accompanied by one of Lady Lesleys brothers. Her Ladyship\nperfectly answers the description you sent me of her, except that I do\nnot think her so pretty as you seem to consider her. She has not a\nbad face, but there is something so extremely unmajestic in her little\ndiminutive figure, as to render her in comparison with the elegant\nheight of Matilda and Myself, an insignificant Dwarf. Her curiosity to\nsee us (which must have been great to bring her more than four hundred\nmiles) being now perfectly gratified, she already begins to mention\ntheir return to town, and has desired us to accompany her. We cannot\nrefuse her request since it is seconded by the commands of our Father,\nand thirded by the entreaties of Mr. Fitzgerald who is certainly one\nof the most pleasing young Men, I ever beheld. It is not yet determined\nwhen we are to go, but when ever we do we shall certainly take our\nlittle Louisa with us. Adeiu my dear Charlotte; Matilda unites in best\nwishes to you, and Eloisa, with yours ever M. L.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the SIXTH LADY LESLEY to Miss CHARLOTTE LUTTERELL Lesley-Castle\nMarch 20th\n\nWe arrived here my sweet Freind about a fortnight ago, and I already\nheartily repent that I ever left our charming House in Portman-square\nfor such a dismal old weather-beaten Castle as this. You can form no\nidea sufficiently hideous, of its dungeon-like form. It is actually\nperched upon a Rock to appearance so totally inaccessible, that I\nexpected to have been pulled up by a rope; and sincerely repented having\ngratified my curiosity to behold my Daughters at the expence of being\nobliged to enter their prison in so dangerous and ridiculous a manner.\nBut as soon as I once found myself safely arrived in the inside of\nthis tremendous building, I comforted myself with the hope of having my\nspirits revived, by the sight of two beautifull girls, such as the Miss\nLesleys had been represented to me, at Edinburgh. But here again, I\nmet with nothing but Disappointment and Surprise. Matilda and Margaret\nLesley are two great, tall, out of the way, over-grown, girls, just of\na proper size to inhabit a Castle almost as large in comparison as\nthemselves. I wish my dear Charlotte that you could but behold these\nScotch giants; I am sure they would frighten you out of your wits.\nThey will do very well as foils to myself, so I have invited them to\naccompany me to London where I hope to be in the course of a fortnight.\nBesides these two fair Damsels, I found a little humoured Brat here who\nI beleive is some relation to them, they told me who she was, and gave\nme a long rigmerole story of her father and a Miss SOMEBODY which I have\nentirely forgot. I hate scandal and detest Children. I have been plagued\never since I came here with tiresome visits from a parcel of Scotch\nwretches, with terrible hard-names; they were so civil, gave me so many\ninvitations, and talked of coming again so soon, that I could not help\naffronting them. I suppose I shall not see them any more, and yet as\na family party we are so stupid, that I do not know what to do with\nmyself. These girls have no Music, but Scotch airs, no Drawings but\nScotch Mountains, and no Books but Scotch Poems--and I hate everything\nScotch. In general I can spend half the Day at my toilett with a great\ndeal of pleasure, but why should I dress here, since there is not a\ncreature in the House whom I have any wish to please. I have just had\na conversation with my Brother in which he has greatly offended me, and\nwhich as I have nothing more entertaining to send you I will gave you\nthe particulars of. You must know that I have for these 4 or 5 Days past\nstrongly suspected William of entertaining a partiality to my eldest\nDaughter. I own indeed that had I been inclined to fall in love with any\nwoman, I should not have made choice of Matilda Lesley for the object\nof my passion; for there is nothing I hate so much as a tall Woman: but\nhowever there is no accounting for some men's taste and as William is\nhimself nearly six feet high, it is not wonderful that he should be\npartial to that height. Now as I have a very great affection for my\nBrother and should be extremely sorry to see him unhappy, which I\nsuppose he means to be if he cannot marry Matilda, as moreover I know\nthat his circumstances will not allow him to marry any one without a\nfortune, and that Matilda's is entirely dependant on her Father, who\nwill neither have his own inclination nor my permission to give her\nanything at present, I thought it would be doing a good-natured action\nby my Brother to let him know as much, in order that he might choose\nfor himself, whether to conquer his passion, or Love and Despair.\nAccordingly finding myself this Morning alone with him in one of the\nhorrid old rooms of this Castle, I opened the cause to him in the\nfollowing Manner.\n\n\"Well my dear William what do you think of these girls? for my part, I\ndo not find them so plain as I expected: but perhaps you may think me\npartial to the Daughters of my Husband and perhaps you are right--They\nare indeed so very like Sir George that it is natural to think\"--\n\n\"My Dear Susan (cried he in a tone of the greatest amazement) You do not\nreally think they bear the least resemblance to their Father! He is so\nvery plain!--but I beg your pardon--I had entirely forgotten to whom I\nwas speaking--\"\n\n\"Oh! pray dont mind me; (replied I) every one knows Sir George is\nhorribly ugly, and I assure you I always thought him a fright.\"\n\n\"You surprise me extremely (answered William) by what you say both with\nrespect to Sir George and his Daughters. You cannot think your Husband\nso deficient in personal Charms as you speak of, nor can you surely see\nany resemblance between him and the Miss Lesleys who are in my opinion\nperfectly unlike him and perfectly Handsome.\"\n\n\"If that is your opinion with regard to the girls it certainly is no\nproof of their Fathers beauty, for if they are perfectly unlike him and\nvery handsome at the same time, it is natural to suppose that he is very\nplain.\"\n\n\"By no means, (said he) for what may be pretty in a Woman, may be very\nunpleasing in a Man.\"\n\n\"But you yourself (replied I) but a few minutes ago allowed him to be\nvery plain.\"\n\n\"Men are no Judges of Beauty in their own Sex.\" (said he).\n\n\"Neither Men nor Women can think Sir George tolerable.\"\n\n\"Well, well, (said he) we will not dispute about HIS Beauty, but your\nopinion of his DAUGHTERS is surely very singular, for if I understood\nyou right, you said you did not find them so plain as you expected to\ndo!\"\n\n\"Why, do YOU find them plainer then?\" (said I).\n\n\"I can scarcely beleive you to be serious (returned he) when you speak\nof their persons in so extroidinary a Manner. Do not you think the Miss\nLesleys are two very handsome young Women?\"\n\n\"Lord! No! (cried I) I think them terribly plain!\"\n\n\"Plain! (replied He) My dear Susan, you cannot really think so! Why\nwhat single Feature in the face of either of them, can you possibly find\nfault with?\"\n\n\"Oh! trust me for that; (replied I). Come I will begin with the\neldest--with Matilda. Shall I, William?\" (I looked as cunning as I could\nwhen I said it, in order to shame him).\n\n\"They are so much alike (said he) that I should suppose the faults of\none, would be the faults of both.\"\n\n\"Well, then, in the first place; they are both so horribly tall!\"\n\n\"They are TALLER than you are indeed.\" (said he with a saucy smile.)\n\n\"Nay, (said I), I know nothing of that.\"\n\n\"Well, but (he continued) tho' they may be above the common size, their\nfigures are perfectly elegant; and as to their faces, their Eyes are\nbeautifull.\"\n\n\"I never can think such tremendous, knock-me-down figures in the least\ndegree elegant, and as for their eyes, they are so tall that I never\ncould strain my neck enough to look at them.\"\n\n\"Nay, (replied he) I know not whether you may not be in the right in not\nattempting it, for perhaps they might dazzle you with their Lustre.\"\n\n\"Oh! Certainly. (said I, with the greatest complacency, for I assure\nyou my dearest Charlotte I was not in the least offended tho' by what\nfollowed, one would suppose that William was conscious of having given\nme just cause to be so, for coming up to me and taking my hand, he said)\n\"You must not look so grave Susan; you will make me fear I have offended\nyou!\"\n\n\"Offended me! Dear Brother, how came such a thought in your head!\n(returned I) No really! I assure you that I am not in the least\nsurprised at your being so warm an advocate for the Beauty of these\ngirls.\"--\n\n\"Well, but (interrupted William) remember that we have not yet\nconcluded our dispute concerning them. What fault do you find with their\ncomplexion?\"\n\n\"They are so horridly pale.\"\n\n\"They have always a little colour, and after any exercise it is\nconsiderably heightened.\"\n\n\"Yes, but if there should ever happen to be any rain in this part of\nthe world, they will never be able raise more than their common\nstock--except indeed they amuse themselves with running up and Down\nthese horrid old galleries and Antichambers.\"\n\n\"Well, (replied my Brother in a tone of vexation, and glancing an\nimpertinent look at me) if they HAVE but little colour, at least, it is\nall their own.\"\n\nThis was too much my dear Charlotte, for I am certain that he had the\nimpudence by that look, of pretending to suspect the reality of mine.\nBut you I am sure will vindicate my character whenever you may hear\nit so cruelly aspersed, for you can witness how often I have protested\nagainst wearing Rouge, and how much I always told you I disliked it. And\nI assure you that my opinions are still the same.--. Well, not bearing\nto be so suspected by my Brother, I left the room immediately, and have\nbeen ever since in my own Dressing-room writing to you. What a long\nletter have I made of it! But you must not expect to receive such from\nme when I get to Town; for it is only at Lesley castle, that one has\ntime to write even to a Charlotte Lutterell.--. I was so much vexed by\nWilliam's glance, that I could not summon Patience enough, to stay and\ngive him that advice respecting his attachment to Matilda which had\nfirst induced me from pure Love to him to begin the conversation; and\nI am now so thoroughly convinced by it, of his violent passion for her,\nthat I am certain he would never hear reason on the subject, and I\nshall there fore give myself no more trouble either about him or his\nfavourite. Adeiu my dear girl--Yrs affectionately Susan L.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the SEVENTH From Miss C. LUTTERELL to Miss M. LESLEY Bristol the\n27th of March\n\nI have received Letters from you and your Mother-in-law within this week\nwhich have greatly entertained me, as I find by them that you are both\ndownright jealous of each others Beauty. It is very odd that two pretty\nWomen tho' actually Mother and Daughter cannot be in the same House\nwithout falling out about their faces. Do be convinced that you are both\nperfectly handsome and say no more of the Matter. I suppose this letter\nmust be directed to Portman Square where probably (great as is your\naffection for Lesley Castle) you will not be sorry to find yourself. In\nspite of all that people may say about Green fields and the Country\nI was always of opinion that London and its amusements must be very\nagreable for a while, and should be very happy could my Mother's income\nallow her to jockey us into its Public-places, during Winter. I always\nlonged particularly to go to Vaux-hall, to see whether the cold Beef\nthere is cut so thin as it is reported, for I have a sly suspicion that\nfew people understand the art of cutting a slice of cold Beef so well\nas I do: nay it would be hard if I did not know something of the Matter,\nfor it was a part of my Education that I took by far the most pains\nwith. Mama always found me HER best scholar, tho' when Papa was\nalive Eloisa was HIS. Never to be sure were there two more different\nDispositions in the World. We both loved Reading. SHE preferred\nHistories, and I Receipts. She loved drawing, Pictures, and I drawing\nPullets. No one could sing a better song than she, and no one make a\nbetter Pye than I.--And so it has always continued since we have been\nno longer children. The only difference is that all disputes on the\nsuperior excellence of our Employments THEN so frequent are now no more.\nWe have for many years entered into an agreement always to admire\neach other's works; I never fail listening to HER Music, and she is as\nconstant in eating my pies. Such at least was the case till Henry Hervey\nmade his appearance in Sussex. Before the arrival of his Aunt in our\nneighbourhood where she established herself you know about a twelvemonth\nago, his visits to her had been at stated times, and of equal and\nsettled Duration; but on her removal to the Hall which is within a walk\nfrom our House, they became both more frequent and longer. This as you\nmay suppose could not be pleasing to Mrs Diana who is a professed enemy\nto everything which is not directed by Decorum and Formality, or which\nbears the least resemblance to Ease and Good-breeding. Nay so great was\nher aversion to her Nephews behaviour that I have often heard her give\nsuch hints of it before his face that had not Henry at such times been\nengaged in conversation with Eloisa, they must have caught his Attention\nand have very much distressed him. The alteration in my Sisters\nbehaviour which I have before hinted at, now took place. The Agreement\nwe had entered into of admiring each others productions she no\nlonger seemed to regard, and tho' I constantly applauded even every\nCountry-dance, she played, yet not even a pidgeon-pye of my making could\nobtain from her a single word of approbation. This was certainly enough\nto put any one in a Passion; however, I was as cool as a cream-cheese\nand having formed my plan and concerted a scheme of Revenge, I was\ndetermined to let her have her own way and not even to make her a single\nreproach. My scheme was to treat her as she treated me, and tho' she\nmight even draw my own Picture or play Malbrook (which is the only tune\nI ever really liked) not to say so much as \"Thank you Eloisa;\" tho'\nI had for many years constantly hollowed whenever she played, BRAVO,\nBRAVISSIMO, ENCORE, DA CAPO, ALLEGRETTO, CON EXPRESSIONE, and POCO\nPRESTO with many other such outlandish words, all of them as Eloisa told\nme expressive of my Admiration; and so indeed I suppose they are, as I\nsee some of them in every Page of every Music book, being the sentiments\nI imagine of the composer.\n\nI executed my Plan with great Punctuality. I can not say success, for\nalas! my silence while she played seemed not in the least to displease\nher; on the contrary she actually said to me one day \"Well Charlotte,\nI am very glad to find that you have at last left off that ridiculous\ncustom of applauding my Execution on the Harpsichord till you made\nmy head ake, and yourself hoarse. I feel very much obliged to you for\nkeeping your admiration to yourself.\" I never shall forget the very\nwitty answer I made to this speech. \"Eloisa (said I) I beg you would\nbe quite at your Ease with respect to all such fears in future, for\nbe assured that I shall always keep my admiration to myself and my own\npursuits and never extend it to yours.\" This was the only very severe\nthing I ever said in my Life; not but that I have often felt myself\nextremely satirical but it was the only time I ever made my feelings\npublic.\n\nI suppose there never were two Young people who had a greater affection\nfor each other than Henry and Eloisa; no, the Love of your Brother for\nMiss Burton could not be so strong tho' it might be more violent. You\nmay imagine therefore how provoked my Sister must have been to have\nhim play her such a trick. Poor girl! she still laments his Death with\nundiminished constancy, notwithstanding he has been dead more than six\nweeks; but some People mind such things more than others. The ill state\nof Health into which his loss has thrown her makes her so weak, and so\nunable to support the least exertion, that she has been in tears all\nthis Morning merely from having taken leave of Mrs. Marlowe who with her\nHusband, Brother and Child are to leave Bristol this morning. I am sorry\nto have them go because they are the only family with whom we have here\nany acquaintance, but I never thought of crying; to be sure Eloisa\nand Mrs Marlowe have always been more together than with me, and have\ntherefore contracted a kind of affection for each other, which does not\nmake Tears so inexcusable in them as they would be in me. The Marlowes\nare going to Town; Cliveland accompanies them; as neither Eloisa nor I\ncould catch him I hope you or Matilda may have better Luck. I know not\nwhen we shall leave Bristol, Eloisa's spirits are so low that she is\nvery averse to moving, and yet is certainly by no means mended by her\nresidence here. A week or two will I hope determine our Measures--in the\nmean time believe me and etc--and etc--Charlotte Lutterell.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the EIGHTH Miss LUTTERELL to Mrs MARLOWE Bristol April 4th\n\nI feel myself greatly obliged to you my dear Emma for such a mark of\nyour affection as I flatter myself was conveyed in the proposal you made\nme of our Corresponding; I assure you that it will be a great releif to\nme to write to you and as long as my Health and Spirits will allow\nme, you will find me a very constant correspondent; I will not say\nan entertaining one, for you know my situation suffciently not to be\nignorant that in me Mirth would be improper and I know my own Heart too\nwell not to be sensible that it would be unnatural. You must not expect\nnews for we see no one with whom we are in the least acquainted, or in\nwhose proceedings we have any Interest. You must not expect scandal\nfor by the same rule we are equally debarred either from hearing or\ninventing it.--You must expect from me nothing but the melancholy\neffusions of a broken Heart which is ever reverting to the Happiness\nit once enjoyed and which ill supports its present wretchedness. The\nPossibility of being able to write, to speak, to you of my lost Henry\nwill be a luxury to me, and your goodness will not I know refuse to read\nwhat it will so much releive my Heart to write. I once thought that to\nhave what is in general called a Freind (I mean one of my own sex\nto whom I might speak with less reserve than to any other person)\nindependant of my sister would never be an object of my wishes, but how\nmuch was I mistaken! Charlotte is too much engrossed by two confidential\ncorrespondents of that sort, to supply the place of one to me, and I\nhope you will not think me girlishly romantic, when I say that to\nhave some kind and compassionate Freind who might listen to my sorrows\nwithout endeavouring to console me was what I had for some time wished\nfor, when our acquaintance with you, the intimacy which followed it and\nthe particular affectionate attention you paid me almost from the first,\ncaused me to entertain the flattering Idea of those attentions being\nimproved on a closer acquaintance into a Freindship which, if you were\nwhat my wishes formed you would be the greatest Happiness I could\nbe capable of enjoying. To find that such Hopes are realised is a\nsatisfaction indeed, a satisfaction which is now almost the only one I\ncan ever experience.--I feel myself so languid that I am sure were you\nwith me you would oblige me to leave off writing, and I cannot give you\na greater proof of my affection for you than by acting, as I know you\nwould wish me to do, whether Absent or Present. I am my dear Emmas\nsincere freind E. L.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the NINTH Mrs MARLOWE to Miss LUTTERELL Grosvenor Street, April\n10th\n\nNeed I say my dear Eloisa how wellcome your letter was to me I cannot\ngive a greater proof of the pleasure I received from it, or of the\nDesire I feel that our Correspondence may be regular and frequent than\nby setting you so good an example as I now do in answering it before the\nend of the week--. But do not imagine that I claim any merit in being\nso punctual; on the contrary I assure you, that it is a far greater\nGratification to me to write to you, than to spend the Evening either at\na Concert or a Ball. Mr Marlowe is so desirous of my appearing at some\nof the Public places every evening that I do not like to refuse him, but\nat the same time so much wish to remain at Home, that independant of\nthe Pleasure I experience in devoting any portion of my Time to my\nDear Eloisa, yet the Liberty I claim from having a letter to write of\nspending an Evening at home with my little Boy, you know me well enough\nto be sensible, will of itself be a sufficient Inducement (if one is\nnecessary) to my maintaining with Pleasure a Correspondence with you.\nAs to the subject of your letters to me, whether grave or merry, if they\nconcern you they must be equally interesting to me; not but that I think\nthe melancholy Indulgence of your own sorrows by repeating them and\ndwelling on them to me, will only encourage and increase them, and\nthat it will be more prudent in you to avoid so sad a subject; but yet\nknowing as I do what a soothing and melancholy Pleasure it must afford\nyou, I cannot prevail on myself to deny you so great an Indulgence, and\nwill only insist on your not expecting me to encourage you in it, by my\nown letters; on the contrary I intend to fill them with such lively Wit\nand enlivening Humour as shall even provoke a smile in the sweet but\nsorrowfull countenance of my Eloisa.\n\nIn the first place you are to learn that I have met your sisters three\nfreinds Lady Lesley and her Daughters, twice in Public since I have been\nhere. I know you will be impatient to hear my opinion of the Beauty of\nthree Ladies of whom you have heard so much. Now, as you are too ill and\ntoo unhappy to be vain, I think I may venture to inform you that I\nlike none of their faces so well as I do your own. Yet they are all\nhandsome--Lady Lesley indeed I have seen before; her Daughters I beleive\nwould in general be said to have a finer face than her Ladyship, and yet\nwhat with the charms of a Blooming complexion, a little Affectation and\na great deal of small-talk, (in each of which she is superior to the\nyoung Ladies) she will I dare say gain herself as many admirers as the\nmore regular features of Matilda, and Margaret. I am sure you will agree\nwith me in saying that they can none of them be of a proper size for\nreal Beauty, when you know that two of them are taller and the other\nshorter than ourselves. In spite of this Defect (or rather by reason\nof it) there is something very noble and majestic in the figures of the\nMiss Lesleys, and something agreably lively in the appearance of their\npretty little Mother-in-law. But tho' one may be majestic and the other\nlively, yet the faces of neither possess that Bewitching sweetness of\nmy Eloisas, which her present languor is so far from diminushing. What\nwould my Husband and Brother say of us, if they knew all the fine things\nI have been saying to you in this letter. It is very hard that a pretty\nwoman is never to be told she is so by any one of her own sex without\nthat person's being suspected to be either her determined Enemy, or\nher professed Toad-eater. How much more amiable are women in that\nparticular! One man may say forty civil things to another without our\nsupposing that he is ever paid for it, and provided he does his Duty by\nour sex, we care not how Polite he is to his own.\n\nMrs Lutterell will be so good as to accept my compliments, Charlotte,\nmy Love, and Eloisa the best wishes for the recovery of her Health and\nSpirits that can be offered by her affectionate Freind E. Marlowe.\n\nI am afraid this letter will be but a poor specimen of my Powers in the\nwitty way; and your opinion of them will not be greatly increased when I\nassure you that I have been as entertaining as I possibly could.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the TENTH From Miss MARGARET LESLEY to Miss CHARLOTTE LUTTERELL\nPortman Square April 13th\n\nMY DEAR CHARLOTTE We left Lesley-Castle on the 28th of last Month,\nand arrived safely in London after a Journey of seven Days; I had the\npleasure of finding your Letter here waiting my Arrival, for which you\nhave my grateful Thanks. Ah! my dear Freind I every day more regret the\nserene and tranquil Pleasures of the Castle we have left, in exchange\nfor the uncertain and unequal Amusements of this vaunted City. Not that\nI will pretend to assert that these uncertain and unequal Amusements\nare in the least Degree unpleasing to me; on the contrary I enjoy them\nextremely and should enjoy them even more, were I not certain that every\nappearance I make in Public but rivetts the Chains of those unhappy\nBeings whose Passion it is impossible not to pity, tho' it is out of my\npower to return. In short my Dear Charlotte it is my sensibility for\nthe sufferings of so many amiable young Men, my Dislike of the extreme\nadmiration I meet with, and my aversion to being so celebrated both in\nPublic, in Private, in Papers, and in Printshops, that are the reasons\nwhy I cannot more fully enjoy, the Amusements so various and pleasing\nof London. How often have I wished that I possessed as little Personal\nBeauty as you do; that my figure were as inelegant; my face as unlovely;\nand my appearance as unpleasing as yours! But ah! what little chance\nis there of so desirable an Event; I have had the small-pox, and must\ntherefore submit to my unhappy fate.\n\nI am now going to intrust you my dear Charlotte with a secret which has\nlong disturbed the tranquility of my days, and which is of a kind to\nrequire the most inviolable Secrecy from you. Last Monday se'night\nMatilda and I accompanied Lady Lesley to a Rout at the Honourable Mrs\nKickabout's; we were escorted by Mr Fitzgerald who is a very amiable\nyoung Man in the main, tho' perhaps a little singular in his Taste--He\nis in love with Matilda--. We had scarcely paid our Compliments to the\nLady of the House and curtseyed to half a score different people when my\nAttention was attracted by the appearance of a Young Man the most lovely\nof his Sex, who at that moment entered the Room with another Gentleman\nand Lady. From the first moment I beheld him, I was certain that on him\ndepended the future Happiness of my Life. Imagine my surprise when he\nwas introduced to me by the name of Cleveland--I instantly recognised\nhim as the Brother of Mrs Marlowe, and the acquaintance of my Charlotte\nat Bristol. Mr and Mrs M. were the gentleman and Lady who accompanied\nhim. (You do not think Mrs Marlowe handsome?) The elegant address of Mr\nCleveland, his polished Manners and Delightful Bow, at once confirmed my\nattachment. He did not speak; but I can imagine everything he would have\nsaid, had he opened his Mouth. I can picture to myself the cultivated\nUnderstanding, the Noble sentiments, and elegant Language which would\nhave shone so conspicuous in the conversation of Mr Cleveland. The\napproach of Sir James Gower (one of my too numerous admirers) prevented\nthe Discovery of any such Powers, by putting an end to a Conversation we\nhad never commenced, and by attracting my attention to himself. But oh!\nhow inferior are the accomplishments of Sir James to those of his so\ngreatly envied Rival! Sir James is one of the most frequent of our\nVisitors, and is almost always of our Parties. We have since often met\nMr and Mrs Marlowe but no Cleveland--he is always engaged some where\nelse. Mrs Marlowe fatigues me to Death every time I see her by her\ntiresome Conversations about you and Eloisa. She is so stupid! I live in\nthe hope of seeing her irrisistable Brother to night, as we are going to\nLady Flambeaus, who is I know intimate with the Marlowes. Our party will\nbe Lady Lesley, Matilda, Fitzgerald, Sir James Gower, and myself. We see\nlittle of Sir George, who is almost always at the gaming-table. Ah! my\npoor Fortune where art thou by this time? We see more of Lady L. who\nalways makes her appearance (highly rouged) at Dinner-time. Alas! what\nDelightful Jewels will she be decked in this evening at Lady Flambeau's!\nYet I wonder how she can herself delight in wearing them; surely she\nmust be sensible of the ridiculous impropriety of loading her little\ndiminutive figure with such superfluous ornaments; is it possible that\nshe can not know how greatly superior an elegant simplicity is to the\nmost studied apparel? Would she but Present them to Matilda and me, how\ngreatly should we be obliged to her, How becoming would Diamonds be on\nour fine majestic figures! And how surprising it is that such an Idea\nshould never have occurred to HER. I am sure if I have reflected in this\nmanner once, I have fifty times. Whenever I see Lady Lesley dressed in\nthem such reflections immediately come across me. My own Mother's Jewels\ntoo! But I will say no more on so melancholy a subject--let me entertain\nyou with something more pleasing--Matilda had a letter this morning from\nLesley, by which we have the pleasure of finding that he is at Naples\nhas turned Roman-Catholic, obtained one of the Pope's Bulls for\nannulling his 1st Marriage and has since actually married a Neapolitan\nLady of great Rank and Fortune. He tells us moreover that much the same\nsort of affair has befallen his first wife the worthless Louisa who is\nlikewise at Naples had turned Roman-catholic, and is soon to be married\nto a Neapolitan Nobleman of great and Distinguished merit. He says,\nthat they are at present very good Freinds, have quite forgiven all\npast errors and intend in future to be very good Neighbours. He invites\nMatilda and me to pay him a visit to Italy and to bring him his little\nLouisa whom both her Mother, Step-mother, and himself are equally\ndesirous of beholding. As to our accepting his invitation, it is at\nPresent very uncertain; Lady Lesley advises us to go without loss of\ntime; Fitzgerald offers to escort us there, but Matilda has some doubts\nof the Propriety of such a scheme--she owns it would be very agreable.\nI am certain she likes the Fellow. My Father desires us not to be in a\nhurry, as perhaps if we wait a few months both he and Lady Lesley will\ndo themselves the pleasure of attending us. Lady Lesley says no, that\nnothing will ever tempt her to forego the Amusements of Brighthelmstone\nfor a Journey to Italy merely to see our Brother. \"No (says the\ndisagreable Woman) I have once in my life been fool enough to travel I\ndont know how many hundred Miles to see two of the Family, and I found\nit did not answer, so Deuce take me, if ever I am so foolish again.\"So\nsays her Ladyship, but Sir George still Perseveres in saying that\nperhaps in a month or two, they may accompany us. Adeiu my Dear\nCharlotte Yrs faithful Margaret Lesley.\n\n\n*****\n\n\n\n\nTHE HISTORY OF ENGLAND\n\nFROM THE REIGN OF HENRY THE 4TH TO THE DEATH OF CHARLES THE 1ST\n\nBY A PARTIAL, PREJUDICED, AND IGNORANT HISTORIAN.\n\n*****\n\nTo Miss Austen, eldest daughter of the Rev. George Austen, this work is\ninscribed with all due respect by THE AUTHOR.\n\n\nN.B. There will be very few Dates in this History.\n\n\nTHE HISTORY OF ENGLAND\n\n\nHENRY the 4th\n\nHenry the 4th ascended the throne of England much to his own\nsatisfaction in the year 1399, after having prevailed on his cousin and\npredecessor Richard the 2nd, to resign it to him, and to retire for the\nrest of his life to Pomfret Castle, where he happened to be murdered.\nIt is to be supposed that Henry was married, since he had certainly four\nsons, but it is not in my power to inform the Reader who was his wife.\nBe this as it may, he did not live for ever, but falling ill, his son\nthe Prince of Wales came and took away the crown; whereupon the King\nmade a long speech, for which I must refer the Reader to Shakespear's\nPlays, and the Prince made a still longer. Things being thus settled\nbetween them the King died, and was succeeded by his son Henry who had\npreviously beat Sir William Gascoigne.\n\n\nHENRY the 5th\n\nThis Prince after he succeeded to the throne grew quite reformed and\namiable, forsaking all his dissipated companions, and never thrashing\nSir William again. During his reign, Lord Cobham was burnt alive, but I\nforget what for. His Majesty then turned his thoughts to France, where\nhe went and fought the famous Battle of Agincourt. He afterwards married\nthe King's daughter Catherine, a very agreable woman by Shakespear's\naccount. In spite of all this however he died, and was succeeded by his\nson Henry.\n\n\nHENRY the 6th\n\nI cannot say much for this Monarch's sense. Nor would I if I could, for\nhe was a Lancastrian. I suppose you know all about the Wars between him\nand the Duke of York who was of the right side; if you do not, you had\nbetter read some other History, for I shall not be very diffuse in this,\nmeaning by it only to vent my spleen AGAINST, and shew my Hatred TO all\nthose people whose parties or principles do not suit with mine, and not\nto give information. This King married Margaret of Anjou, a Woman whose\ndistresses and misfortunes were so great as almost to make me who hate\nher, pity her. It was in this reign that Joan of Arc lived and made such\na ROW among the English. They should not have burnt her--but they did.\nThere were several Battles between the Yorkists and Lancastrians, in\nwhich the former (as they ought) usually conquered. At length they were\nentirely overcome; The King was murdered--The Queen was sent home--and\nEdward the 4th ascended the Throne.\n\n\nEDWARD the 4th\n\nThis Monarch was famous only for his Beauty and his Courage, of which\nthe Picture we have here given of him, and his undaunted Behaviour\nin marrying one Woman while he was engaged to another, are sufficient\nproofs. His Wife was Elizabeth Woodville, a Widow who, poor Woman! was\nafterwards confined in a Convent by that Monster of Iniquity and Avarice\nHenry the 7th. One of Edward's Mistresses was Jane Shore, who has had\na play written about her, but it is a tragedy and therefore not worth\nreading. Having performed all these noble actions, his Majesty died, and\nwas succeeded by his son.\n\n\nEDWARD the 5th\n\nThis unfortunate Prince lived so little a while that nobody had him to\ndraw his picture. He was murdered by his Uncle's Contrivance, whose name\nwas Richard the 3rd.\n\n\nRICHARD the 3rd\n\nThe Character of this Prince has been in general very severely treated\nby Historians, but as he was a YORK, I am rather inclined to suppose him\na very respectable Man. It has indeed been confidently asserted that he\nkilled his two Nephews and his Wife, but it has also been declared that\nhe did not kill his two Nephews, which I am inclined to beleive true;\nand if this is the case, it may also be affirmed that he did not kill\nhis Wife, for if Perkin Warbeck was really the Duke of York, why might\nnot Lambert Simnel be the Widow of Richard. Whether innocent or guilty,\nhe did not reign long in peace, for Henry Tudor E. of Richmond as great\na villain as ever lived, made a great fuss about getting the Crown and\nhaving killed the King at the battle of Bosworth, he succeeded to it.\n\n\nHENRY the 7th\n\nThis Monarch soon after his accession married the Princess Elizabeth of\nYork, by which alliance he plainly proved that he thought his own right\ninferior to hers, tho' he pretended to the contrary. By this Marriage he\nhad two sons and two daughters, the elder of which Daughters was married\nto the King of Scotland and had the happiness of being grandmother\nto one of the first Characters in the World. But of HER, I shall have\noccasion to speak more at large in future. The youngest, Mary, married\nfirst the King of France and secondly the D. of Suffolk, by whom she had\none daughter, afterwards the Mother of Lady Jane Grey, who tho' inferior\nto her lovely Cousin the Queen of Scots, was yet an amiable young woman\nand famous for reading Greek while other people were hunting. It was in\nthe reign of Henry the 7th that Perkin Warbeck and Lambert Simnel before\nmentioned made their appearance, the former of whom was set in the\nstocks, took shelter in Beaulieu Abbey, and was beheaded with the Earl\nof Warwick, and the latter was taken into the Kings kitchen. His Majesty\ndied and was succeeded by his son Henry whose only merit was his not\nbeing quite so bad as his daughter Elizabeth.\n\n\nHENRY the 8th\n\nIt would be an affront to my Readers were I to suppose that they were\nnot as well acquainted with the particulars of this King's reign as I am\nmyself. It will therefore be saving THEM the task of reading again what\nthey have read before, and MYSELF the trouble of writing what I do not\nperfectly recollect, by giving only a slight sketch of the principal\nEvents which marked his reign. Among these may be ranked Cardinal\nWolsey's telling the father Abbott of Leicester Abbey that \"he was come\nto lay his bones among them,\" the reformation in Religion and the King's\nriding through the streets of London with Anna Bullen. It is however\nbut Justice, and my Duty to declare that this amiable Woman was entirely\ninnocent of the Crimes with which she was accused, and of which her\nBeauty, her Elegance, and her Sprightliness were sufficient proofs, not\nto mention her solemn Protestations of Innocence, the weakness of the\nCharges against her, and the King's Character; all of which add some\nconfirmation, tho' perhaps but slight ones when in comparison with those\nbefore alledged in her favour. Tho' I do not profess giving many dates,\nyet as I think it proper to give some and shall of course make choice\nof those which it is most necessary for the Reader to know, I think it\nright to inform him that her letter to the King was dated on the 6th of\nMay. The Crimes and Cruelties of this Prince, were too numerous to be\nmentioned, (as this history I trust has fully shown;) and nothing can\nbe said in his vindication, but that his abolishing Religious Houses and\nleaving them to the ruinous depredations of time has been of infinite\nuse to the landscape of England in general, which probably was a\nprincipal motive for his doing it, since otherwise why should a Man who\nwas of no Religion himself be at so much trouble to abolish one which\nhad for ages been established in the Kingdom. His Majesty's 5th Wife\nwas the Duke of Norfolk's Neice who, tho' universally acquitted of the\ncrimes for which she was beheaded, has been by many people supposed to\nhave led an abandoned life before her Marriage--of this however I have\nmany doubts, since she was a relation of that noble Duke of Norfolk who\nwas so warm in the Queen of Scotland's cause, and who at last fell a\nvictim to it. The Kings last wife contrived to survive him, but with\ndifficulty effected it. He was succeeded by his only son Edward.\n\n\nEDWARD the 6th\n\nAs this prince was only nine years old at the time of his Father's\ndeath, he was considered by many people as too young to govern, and the\nlate King happening to be of the same opinion, his mother's Brother the\nDuke of Somerset was chosen Protector of the realm during his minority.\nThis Man was on the whole of a very amiable Character, and is somewhat\nof a favourite with me, tho' I would by no means pretend to affirm that\nhe was equal to those first of Men Robert Earl of Essex, Delamere, or\nGilpin. He was beheaded, of which he might with reason have been proud,\nhad he known that such was the death of Mary Queen of Scotland; but\nas it was impossible that he should be conscious of what had never\nhappened, it does not appear that he felt particularly delighted with\nthe manner of it. After his decease the Duke of Northumberland had the\ncare of the King and the Kingdom, and performed his trust of both so\nwell that the King died and the Kingdom was left to his daughter in law\nthe Lady Jane Grey, who has been already mentioned as reading Greek.\nWhether she really understood that language or whether such a study\nproceeded only from an excess of vanity for which I beleive she was\nalways rather remarkable, is uncertain. Whatever might be the cause,\nshe preserved the same appearance of knowledge, and contempt of what\nwas generally esteemed pleasure, during the whole of her life, for\nshe declared herself displeased with being appointed Queen, and while\nconducting to the scaffold, she wrote a sentence in Latin and another in\nGreek on seeing the dead Body of her Husband accidentally passing that\nway.\n\n\nMARY\n\nThis woman had the good luck of being advanced to the throne of England,\nin spite of the superior pretensions, Merit, and Beauty of her Cousins\nMary Queen of Scotland and Jane Grey. Nor can I pity the Kingdom for the\nmisfortunes they experienced during her Reign, since they fully deserved\nthem, for having allowed her to succeed her Brother--which was a double\npeice of folly, since they might have foreseen that as she died without\nchildren, she would be succeeded by that disgrace to humanity, that\npest of society, Elizabeth. Many were the people who fell martyrs to the\nprotestant Religion during her reign; I suppose not fewer than a dozen.\nShe married Philip King of Spain who in her sister's reign was famous\nfor building Armadas. She died without issue, and then the dreadful\nmoment came in which the destroyer of all comfort, the deceitful\nBetrayer of trust reposed in her, and the Murderess of her Cousin\nsucceeded to the Throne.----\n\n\nELIZABETH\n\nIt was the peculiar misfortune of this Woman to have bad\nMinisters---Since wicked as she herself was, she could not have\ncommitted such extensive mischeif, had not these vile and abandoned Men\nconnived at, and encouraged her in her Crimes. I know that it has by\nmany people been asserted and beleived that Lord Burleigh, Sir Francis\nWalsingham, and the rest of those who filled the cheif offices of State\nwere deserving, experienced, and able Ministers. But oh! how blinded\nsuch writers and such Readers must be to true Merit, to Merit despised,\nneglected and defamed, if they can persist in such opinions when they\nreflect that these men, these boasted men were such scandals to their\nCountry and their sex as to allow and assist their Queen in confining\nfor the space of nineteen years, a WOMAN who if the claims of\nRelationship and Merit were of no avail, yet as a Queen and as one who\ncondescended to place confidence in her, had every reason to expect\nassistance and protection; and at length in allowing Elizabeth to bring\nthis amiable Woman to an untimely, unmerited, and scandalous Death. Can\nany one if he reflects but for a moment on this blot, this everlasting\nblot upon their understanding and their Character, allow any praise to\nLord Burleigh or Sir Francis Walsingham? Oh! what must this bewitching\nPrincess whose only freind was then the Duke of Norfolk, and whose\nonly ones now Mr Whitaker, Mrs Lefroy, Mrs Knight and myself, who was\nabandoned by her son, confined by her Cousin, abused, reproached and\nvilified by all, what must not her most noble mind have suffered when\ninformed that Elizabeth had given orders for her Death! Yet she bore\nit with a most unshaken fortitude, firm in her mind; constant in her\nReligion; and prepared herself to meet the cruel fate to which she\nwas doomed, with a magnanimity that would alone proceed from conscious\nInnocence. And yet could you Reader have beleived it possible that\nsome hardened and zealous Protestants have even abused her for that\nsteadfastness in the Catholic Religion which reflected on her so\nmuch credit? But this is a striking proof of THEIR narrow souls and\nprejudiced Judgements who accuse her. She was executed in the Great Hall\nat Fortheringay Castle (sacred Place!) on Wednesday the 8th of February\n1586--to the everlasting Reproach of Elizabeth, her Ministers, and of\nEngland in general. It may not be unnecessary before I entirely conclude\nmy account of this ill-fated Queen, to observe that she had been accused\nof several crimes during the time of her reigning in Scotland, of which\nI now most seriously do assure my Reader that she was entirely innocent;\nhaving never been guilty of anything more than Imprudencies into which\nshe was betrayed by the openness of her Heart, her Youth, and her\nEducation. Having I trust by this assurance entirely done away every\nSuspicion and every doubt which might have arisen in the Reader's mind,\nfrom what other Historians have written of her, I shall proceed to\nmention the remaining Events that marked Elizabeth's reign. It was about\nthis time that Sir Francis Drake the first English Navigator who sailed\nround the World, lived, to be the ornament of his Country and his\nprofession. Yet great as he was, and justly celebrated as a sailor,\nI cannot help foreseeing that he will be equalled in this or the next\nCentury by one who tho' now but young, already promises to answer all\nthe ardent and sanguine expectations of his Relations and Freinds,\namongst whom I may class the amiable Lady to whom this work is\ndedicated, and my no less amiable self.\n\nThough of a different profession, and shining in a different sphere of\nLife, yet equally conspicuous in the Character of an Earl, as Drake was\nin that of a Sailor, was Robert Devereux Lord Essex. This unfortunate\nyoung Man was not unlike in character to that equally unfortunate\none FREDERIC DELAMERE. The simile may be carried still farther, and\nElizabeth the torment of Essex may be compared to the Emmeline of\nDelamere. It would be endless to recount the misfortunes of this noble\nand gallant Earl. It is sufficient to say that he was beheaded on the\n25th of Feb, after having been Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, after having\nclapped his hand on his sword, and after performing many other services\nto his Country. Elizabeth did not long survive his loss, and died so\nmiserable that were it not an injury to the memory of Mary I should pity\nher.\n\n\nJAMES the 1st\n\nThough this King had some faults, among which and as the most principal,\nwas his allowing his Mother's death, yet considered on the whole I\ncannot help liking him. He married Anne of Denmark, and had several\nChildren; fortunately for him his eldest son Prince Henry died before\nhis father or he might have experienced the evils which befell his\nunfortunate Brother.\n\nAs I am myself partial to the roman catholic religion, it is with\ninfinite regret that I am obliged to blame the Behaviour of any Member\nof it: yet Truth being I think very excusable in an Historian, I am\nnecessitated to say that in this reign the roman Catholics of England\ndid not behave like Gentlemen to the protestants. Their Behaviour\nindeed to the Royal Family and both Houses of Parliament might justly\nbe considered by them as very uncivil, and even Sir Henry Percy tho'\ncertainly the best bred man of the party, had none of that general\npoliteness which is so universally pleasing, as his attentions were\nentirely confined to Lord Mounteagle.\n\nSir Walter Raleigh flourished in this and the preceeding reign, and is\nby many people held in great veneration and respect--But as he was an\nenemy of the noble Essex, I have nothing to say in praise of him, and\nmust refer all those who may wish to be acquainted with the particulars\nof his life, to Mr Sheridan's play of the Critic, where they will\nfind many interesting anecdotes as well of him as of his friend Sir\nChristopher Hatton.--His Majesty was of that amiable disposition which\ninclines to Freindship, and in such points was possessed of a keener\npenetration in discovering Merit than many other people. I once heard an\nexcellent Sharade on a Carpet, of which the subject I am now on reminds\nme, and as I think it may afford my Readers some amusement to FIND IT\nOUT, I shall here take the liberty of presenting it to them.\n\nSHARADE My first is what my second was to King James the 1st, and you\ntread on my whole.\n\nThe principal favourites of his Majesty were Car, who was afterwards\ncreated Earl of Somerset and whose name perhaps may have some share\nin the above mentioned Sharade, and George Villiers afterwards Duke of\nBuckingham. On his Majesty's death he was succeeded by his son Charles.\n\n\nCHARLES the 1st\n\nThis amiable Monarch seems born to have suffered misfortunes equal to\nthose of his lovely Grandmother; misfortunes which he could not deserve\nsince he was her descendant. Never certainly were there before so many\ndetestable Characters at one time in England as in this Period of its\nHistory; never were amiable men so scarce. The number of them throughout\nthe whole Kingdom amounting only to FIVE, besides the inhabitants\nof Oxford who were always loyal to their King and faithful to his\ninterests. The names of this noble five who never forgot the duty of\nthe subject, or swerved from their attachment to his Majesty, were as\nfollows--The King himself, ever stedfast in his own support--Archbishop\nLaud, Earl of Strafford, Viscount Faulkland and Duke of Ormond, who were\nscarcely less strenuous or zealous in the cause. While the VILLIANS\nof the time would make too long a list to be written or read; I shall\ntherefore content myself with mentioning the leaders of the Gang.\nCromwell, Fairfax, Hampden, and Pym may be considered as the original\nCausers of all the disturbances, Distresses, and Civil Wars in which\nEngland for many years was embroiled. In this reign as well as in that\nof Elizabeth, I am obliged in spite of my attachment to the Scotch,\nto consider them as equally guilty with the generality of the English,\nsince they dared to think differently from their Sovereign, to forget\nthe Adoration which as STUARTS it was their Duty to pay them, to rebel\nagainst, dethrone and imprison the unfortunate Mary; to oppose, to\ndeceive, and to sell the no less unfortunate Charles. The Events of this\nMonarch's reign are too numerous for my pen, and indeed the recital\nof any Events (except what I make myself) is uninteresting to me; my\nprincipal reason for undertaking the History of England being to Prove\nthe innocence of the Queen of Scotland, which I flatter myself with\nhaving effectually done, and to abuse Elizabeth, tho' I am rather\nfearful of having fallen short in the latter part of my scheme.--As\ntherefore it is not my intention to give any particular account of the\ndistresses into which this King was involved through the misconduct and\nCruelty of his Parliament, I shall satisfy myself with vindicating him\nfrom the Reproach of Arbitrary and tyrannical Government with which he\nhas often been charged. This, I feel, is not difficult to be done, for\nwith one argument I am certain of satisfying every sensible and well\ndisposed person whose opinions have been properly guided by a good\nEducation--and this Argument is that he was a STUART.\n\nFinis Saturday Nov: 26th 1791.\n\n\n*****\n\n\n\n\nA COLLECTION OF LETTERS\n\n\n\n\nTo Miss COOPER\n\nCOUSIN Conscious of the Charming Character which in every Country, and\nevery Clime in Christendom is Cried, Concerning you, with Caution and\nCare I Commend to your Charitable Criticism this Clever Collection\nof Curious Comments, which have been Carefully Culled, Collected and\nClassed by your Comical Cousin\n\nThe Author.\n\n*****\n\n\n\n\nA COLLECTION OF LETTERS\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the FIRST From a MOTHER to her FREIND.\n\nMy Children begin now to claim all my attention in different Manner from\nthat in which they have been used to receive it, as they are now arrived\nat that age when it is necessary for them in some measure to become\nconversant with the World, My Augusta is 17 and her sister scarcely a\ntwelvemonth younger. I flatter myself that their education has been such\nas will not disgrace their appearance in the World, and that THEY will\nnot disgrace their Education I have every reason to beleive. Indeed they\nare sweet Girls--. Sensible yet unaffected--Accomplished yet Easy--.\nLively yet Gentle--. As their progress in every thing they have learnt\nhas been always the same, I am willing to forget the difference of age,\nand to introduce them together into Public. This very Evening is fixed\non as their first ENTREE into Life, as we are to drink tea with Mrs Cope\nand her Daughter. I am glad that we are to meet no one, for my Girls\nsake, as it would be awkward for them to enter too wide a Circle on the\nvery first day. But we shall proceed by degrees.--Tomorrow Mr Stanly's\nfamily will drink tea with us, and perhaps the Miss Phillips's will meet\nthem. On Tuesday we shall pay Morning Visits--On Wednesday we are to\ndine at Westbrook. On Thursday we have Company at home. On Friday we\nare to be at a Private Concert at Sir John Wynna's--and on Saturday\nwe expect Miss Dawson to call in the Morning--which will complete my\nDaughters Introduction into Life. How they will bear so much dissipation\nI cannot imagine; of their spirits I have no fear, I only dread their\nhealth.\n\nThis mighty affair is now happily over, and my Girls are OUT. As the\nmoment approached for our departure, you can have no idea how the sweet\nCreatures trembled with fear and expectation. Before the Carriage drove\nto the door, I called them into my dressing-room, and as soon as they\nwere seated thus addressed them. \"My dear Girls the moment is now\narrived when I am to reap the rewards of all my Anxieties and Labours\ntowards you during your Education. You are this Evening to enter a World\nin which you will meet with many wonderfull Things; Yet let me warn\nyou against suffering yourselves to be meanly swayed by the Follies and\nVices of others, for beleive me my beloved Children that if you do--I\nshall be very sorry for it.\" They both assured me that they would ever\nremember my advice with Gratitude, and follow it with attention; That\nthey were prepared to find a World full of things to amaze and to shock\nthem: but that they trusted their behaviour would never give me reason\nto repent the Watchful Care with which I had presided over their infancy\nand formed their Minds--\" \"With such expectations and such intentions\n(cried I) I can have nothing to fear from you--and can chearfully\nconduct you to Mrs Cope's without a fear of your being seduced by her\nExample, or contaminated by her Follies. Come, then my Children (added\nI) the Carriage is driving to the door, and I will not a moment delay\nthe happiness you are so impatient to enjoy.\" When we arrived at\nWarleigh, poor Augusta could scarcely breathe, while Margaret was all\nLife and Rapture. \"The long-expected Moment is now arrived (said she)\nand we shall soon be in the World.\"--In a few Moments we were in Mrs\nCope's parlour, where with her daughter she sate ready to receive us.\nI observed with delight the impression my Children made on them--. They\nwere indeed two sweet, elegant-looking Girls, and tho' somewhat abashed\nfrom the peculiarity of their situation, yet there was an ease in their\nManners and address which could not fail of pleasing--. Imagine my\ndear Madam how delighted I must have been in beholding as I did, how\nattentively they observed every object they saw, how disgusted with some\nThings, how enchanted with others, how astonished at all! On the whole\nhowever they returned in raptures with the World, its Inhabitants, and\nManners. Yrs Ever--A. F.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the SECOND From a YOUNG LADY crossed in Love to her freind\n\nWhy should this last disappointment hang so heavily on my spirits? Why\nshould I feel it more, why should it wound me deeper than those I\nhave experienced before? Can it be that I have a greater affection for\nWilloughby than I had for his amiable predecessors? Or is it that our\nfeelings become more acute from being often wounded? I must suppose my\ndear Belle that this is the Case, since I am not conscious of being more\nsincerely attached to Willoughby than I was to Neville, Fitzowen, or\neither of the Crawfords, for all of whom I once felt the most lasting\naffection that ever warmed a Woman's heart. Tell me then dear Belle why\nI still sigh when I think of the faithless Edward, or why I weep when I\nbehold his Bride, for too surely this is the case--. My Freinds are all\nalarmed for me; They fear my declining health; they lament my want\nof spirits; they dread the effects of both. In hopes of releiving my\nmelancholy, by directing my thoughts to other objects, they have invited\nseveral of their freinds to spend the Christmas with us. Lady Bridget\nDarkwood and her sister-in-law, Miss Jane are expected on Friday; and\nColonel Seaton's family will be with us next week. This is all most\nkindly meant by my Uncle and Cousins; but what can the presence of a\ndozen indefferent people do to me, but weary and distress me--. I will\nnot finish my Letter till some of our Visitors are arrived.\n\nFriday Evening Lady Bridget came this morning, and with her, her sweet\nsister Miss Jane--. Although I have been acquainted with this charming\nWoman above fifteen Years, yet I never before observed how lovely she\nis. She is now about 35, and in spite of sickness, sorrow and Time is\nmore blooming than I ever saw a Girl of 17. I was delighted with her,\nthe moment she entered the house, and she appeared equally pleased with\nme, attaching herself to me during the remainder of the day. There is\nsomething so sweet, so mild in her Countenance, that she seems more than\nMortal. Her Conversation is as bewitching as her appearance; I could not\nhelp telling her how much she engaged my admiration--. \"Oh! Miss Jane\n(said I)--and stopped from an inability at the moment of expressing\nmyself as I could wish--Oh! Miss Jane--(I repeated)--I could not think\nof words to suit my feelings--She seemed waiting for my speech--. I\nwas confused--distressed--my thoughts were bewildered--and I could only\nadd--\"How do you do?\" She saw and felt for my Embarrassment and with\nadmirable presence of mind releived me from it by saying--\"My dear\nSophia be not uneasy at having exposed yourself--I will turn the\nConversation without appearing to notice it. \"Oh! how I loved her for\nher kindness!\" Do you ride as much as you used to do?\" said she--. \"I\nam advised to ride by my Physician. We have delightful Rides round us,\nI have a Charming horse, am uncommonly fond of the Amusement, replied\nI quite recovered from my Confusion, and in short I ride a great deal.\"\n\"You are in the right my Love,\" said she. Then repeating the following\nline which was an extempore and equally adapted to recommend both Riding\nand Candour--\n\n\"Ride where you may, Be Candid where you can,\" she added,\" I rode once,\nbut it is many years ago--She spoke this in so low and tremulous a\nVoice, that I was silent--. Struck with her Manner of speaking I could\nmake no reply. \"I have not ridden, continued she fixing her Eyes on my\nface, since I was married.\" I was never so surprised--\"Married, Ma'am!\"\nI repeated. \"You may well wear that look of astonishment, said she,\nsince what I have said must appear improbable to you--Yet nothing is\nmore true than that I once was married.\"\n\n\"Then why are you called Miss Jane?\"\n\n\"I married, my Sophia without the consent or knowledge of my father the\nlate Admiral Annesley. It was therefore necessary to keep the secret\nfrom him and from every one, till some fortunate opportunity might offer\nof revealing it--. Such an opportunity alas! was but too soon given in\nthe death of my dear Capt. Dashwood--Pardon these tears, continued Miss\nJane wiping her Eyes, I owe them to my Husband's memory. He fell my\nSophia, while fighting for his Country in America after a most happy\nUnion of seven years--. My Children, two sweet Boys and a Girl, who\nhad constantly resided with my Father and me, passing with him and with\nevery one as the Children of a Brother (tho' I had ever been an only\nChild) had as yet been the comforts of my Life. But no sooner had\nI lossed my Henry, than these sweet Creatures fell sick and died--.\nConceive dear Sophia what my feelings must have been when as an Aunt I\nattended my Children to their early Grave--. My Father did not survive\nthem many weeks--He died, poor Good old man, happily ignorant to his\nlast hour of my Marriage.'\n\n\"But did not you own it, and assume his name at your husband's death?\"\n\n\"No; I could not bring myself to do it; more especially when in my\nChildren I lost all inducement for doing it. Lady Bridget, and yourself\nare the only persons who are in the knowledge of my having ever been\neither Wife or Mother. As I could not Prevail on myself to take the\nname of Dashwood (a name which after my Henry's death I could never hear\nwithout emotion) and as I was conscious of having no right to that of\nAnnesley, I dropt all thoughts of either, and have made it a point of\nbearing only my Christian one since my Father's death.\" She paused--\"Oh!\nmy dear Miss Jane (said I) how infinitely am I obliged to you for so\nentertaining a story! You cannot think how it has diverted me! But have\nyou quite done?\"\n\n\"I have only to add my dear Sophia, that my Henry's elder Brother dieing\nabout the same time, Lady Bridget became a Widow like myself, and as we\nhad always loved each other in idea from the high Character in which we\nhad ever been spoken of, though we had never met, we determined to live\ntogether. We wrote to one another on the same subject by the same post,\nso exactly did our feeling and our actions coincide! We both eagerly\nembraced the proposals we gave and received of becoming one family, and\nhave from that time lived together in the greatest affection.\"\n\n\"And is this all? said I, I hope you have not done.\"\n\n\"Indeed I have; and did you ever hear a story more pathetic?\"\n\n\"I never did--and it is for that reason it pleases me so much, for when\none is unhappy nothing is so delightful to one's sensations as to hear\nof equal misery.\"\n\n\"Ah! but my Sophia why are YOU unhappy?\"\n\n\"Have you not heard Madam of Willoughby's Marriage?\"\n\n\"But my love why lament HIS perfidy, when you bore so well that of many\nyoung Men before?\"\n\n\"Ah! Madam, I was used to it then, but when Willoughby broke his\nEngagements I had not been dissapointed for half a year.\"\n\n\"Poor Girl!\" said Miss Jane.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the THIRD From a YOUNG LADY in distressed Circumstances to her\nfreind\n\nA few days ago I was at a private Ball given by Mr Ashburnham. As my\nMother never goes out she entrusted me to the care of Lady Greville who\ndid me the honour of calling for me in her way and of allowing me to sit\nforwards, which is a favour about which I am very indifferent especially\nas I know it is considered as confering a great obligation on me \"So\nMiss Maria (said her Ladyship as she saw me advancing to the door of the\nCarriage) you seem very smart to night--MY poor Girls will appear quite\nto disadvantage by YOU--I only hope your Mother may not have distressed\nherself to set YOU off. Have you got a new Gown on?\"\n\n\"Yes Ma'am.\" replied I with as much indifference as I could assume.\n\n\"Aye, and a fine one too I think--(feeling it, as by her permission I\nseated myself by her) I dare say it is all very smart--But I must\nown, for you know I always speak my mind, that I think it was quite a\nneedless piece of expence--Why could not you have worn your old striped\none? It is not my way to find fault with People because they are poor,\nfor I always think that they are more to be despised and pitied than\nblamed for it, especially if they cannot help it, but at the same time I\nmust say that in my opinion your old striped Gown would have been quite\nfine enough for its Wearer--for to tell you the truth (I always speak my\nmind) I am very much afraid that one half of the people in the room will\nnot know whether you have a Gown on or not--But I suppose you intend to\nmake your fortune to night--. Well, the sooner the better; and I wish\nyou success.\"\n\n\"Indeed Ma'am I have no such intention--\"\n\n\"Who ever heard a young Lady own that she was a Fortune-hunter?\" Miss\nGreville laughed but I am sure Ellen felt for me.\n\n\"Was your Mother gone to bed before you left her?\" said her Ladyship.\n\n\"Dear Ma'am, said Ellen it is but nine o'clock.\"\n\n\"True Ellen, but Candles cost money, and Mrs Williams is too wise to be\nextravagant.\"\n\n\"She was just sitting down to supper Ma'am.\"\n\n\"And what had she got for supper?\" \"I did not observe.\" \"Bread and\nCheese I suppose.\" \"I should never wish for a better supper.\" said\nEllen. \"You have never any reason replied her Mother, as a better is\nalways provided for you.\" Miss Greville laughed excessively, as she\nconstantly does at her Mother's wit.\n\nSuch is the humiliating Situation in which I am forced to appear while\nriding in her Ladyship's Coach--I dare not be impertinent, as my Mother\nis always admonishing me to be humble and patient if I wish to make my\nway in the world. She insists on my accepting every invitation of Lady\nGreville, or you may be certain that I would never enter either her\nHouse, or her Coach with the disagreable certainty I always have of\nbeing abused for my Poverty while I am in them.--When we arrived at\nAshburnham, it was nearly ten o'clock, which was an hour and a half\nlater than we were desired to be there; but Lady Greville is too\nfashionable (or fancies herself to be so) to be punctual. The Dancing\nhowever was not begun as they waited for Miss Greville. I had not been\nlong in the room before I was engaged to dance by Mr Bernard, but just\nas we were going to stand up, he recollected that his Servant had got\nhis white Gloves, and immediately ran out to fetch them. In the mean\ntime the Dancing began and Lady Greville in passing to another room went\nexactly before me--She saw me and instantly stopping, said to me though\nthere were several people close to us,\n\n\"Hey day, Miss Maria! What cannot you get a partner? Poor Young Lady!\nI am afraid your new Gown was put on for nothing. But do not despair;\nperhaps you may get a hop before the Evening is over.\" So saying, she\npassed on without hearing my repeated assurance of being engaged, and\nleaving me very much provoked at being so exposed before every one--Mr\nBernard however soon returned and by coming to me the moment he entered\nthe room, and leading me to the Dancers my Character I hope was cleared\nfrom the imputation Lady Greville had thrown on it, in the eyes of all\nthe old Ladies who had heard her speech. I soon forgot all my vexations\nin the pleasure of dancing and of having the most agreable partner in\nthe room. As he is moreover heir to a very large Estate I could see that\nLady Greville did not look very well pleased when she found who had been\nhis Choice--She was determined to mortify me, and accordingly when we\nwere sitting down between the dances, she came to me with more than her\nusual insulting importance attended by Miss Mason and said loud enough\nto be heard by half the people in the room, \"Pray Miss Maria in what\nway of business was your Grandfather? for Miss Mason and I cannot agree\nwhether he was a Grocer or a Bookbinder.\" I saw that she wanted to\nmortify me, and was resolved if I possibly could to Prevent her seeing\nthat her scheme succeeded. \"Neither Madam; he was a Wine Merchant.\"\n\"Aye, I knew he was in some such low way--He broke did not he?\" \"I\nbeleive not Ma'am.\" \"Did not he abscond?\" \"I never heard that he did.\"\n\"At least he died insolvent?\" \"I was never told so before.\" \"Why, was\nnot your FATHER as poor as a Rat\" \"I fancy not.\" \"Was not he in the\nKings Bench once?\" \"I never saw him there.\" She gave me SUCH a look, and\nturned away in a great passion; while I was half delighted with myself\nfor my impertinence, and half afraid of being thought too saucy. As Lady\nGreville was extremely angry with me, she took no further notice of\nme all the Evening, and indeed had I been in favour I should have been\nequally neglected, as she was got into a Party of great folks and she\nnever speaks to me when she can to anyone else. Miss Greville was with\nher Mother's party at supper, but Ellen preferred staying with the\nBernards and me. We had a very pleasant Dance and as Lady G--slept all\nthe way home, I had a very comfortable ride.\n\nThe next day while we were at dinner Lady Greville's Coach stopped at\nthe door, for that is the time of day she generally contrives it should.\nShe sent in a message by the servant to say that \"she should not get out\nbut that Miss Maria must come to the Coach-door, as she wanted to speak\nto her, and that she must make haste and come immediately--\" \"What an\nimpertinent Message Mama!\" said I--\"Go Maria--\" replied she--Accordingly\nI went and was obliged to stand there at her Ladyships pleasure though\nthe Wind was extremely high and very cold.\n\n\"Why I think Miss Maria you are not quite so smart as you were last\nnight--But I did not come to examine your dress, but to tell you that\nyou may dine with us the day after tomorrow--Not tomorrow, remember, do\nnot come tomorrow, for we expect Lord and Lady Clermont and Sir Thomas\nStanley's family--There will be no occasion for your being very fine\nfor I shant send the Carriage--If it rains you may take an umbrella--\"\nI could hardly help laughing at hearing her give me leave to keep myself\ndry--\"And pray remember to be in time, for I shant wait--I hate my\nVictuals over-done--But you need not come before the time--How does\nyour Mother do? She is at dinner is not she?\" \"Yes Ma'am we were in the\nmiddle of dinner when your Ladyship came.\" \"I am afraid you find it very\ncold Maria.\" said Ellen. \"Yes, it is an horrible East wind--said her\nMother--I assure you I can hardly bear the window down--But you are used\nto be blown about by the wind Miss Maria and that is what has made your\nComplexion so rudely and coarse. You young Ladies who cannot often ride\nin a Carriage never mind what weather you trudge in, or how the wind\nshews your legs. I would not have my Girls stand out of doors as you do\nin such a day as this. But some sort of people have no feelings either\nof cold or Delicacy--Well, remember that we shall expect you on Thursday\nat 5 o'clock--You must tell your Maid to come for you at night--There\nwill be no Moon--and you will have an horrid walk home--My compts to\nYour Mother--I am afraid your dinner will be cold--Drive on--\" And away\nshe went, leaving me in a great passion with her as she always does.\nMaria Williams.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the FOURTH From a YOUNG LADY rather impertinent to her freind\n\nWe dined yesterday with Mr Evelyn where we were introduced to a very\nagreable looking Girl his Cousin. I was extremely pleased with her\nappearance, for added to the charms of an engaging face, her manner and\nvoice had something peculiarly interesting in them. So much so, that\nthey inspired me with a great curiosity to know the history of her Life,\nwho were her Parents, where she came from, and what had befallen her,\nfor it was then only known that she was a relation of Mr Evelyn, and\nthat her name was Grenville. In the evening a favourable opportunity\noffered to me of attempting at least to know what I wished to know, for\nevery one played at Cards but Mrs Evelyn, My Mother, Dr Drayton, Miss\nGrenville and myself, and as the two former were engaged in a whispering\nConversation, and the Doctor fell asleep, we were of necessity obliged\nto entertain each other. This was what I wished and being determined not\nto remain in ignorance for want of asking, I began the Conversation in\nthe following Manner.\n\n\"Have you been long in Essex Ma'am?\"\n\n\"I arrived on Tuesday.\"\n\n\"You came from Derbyshire?\"\n\n\"No, Ma'am! appearing surprised at my question, from Suffolk.\" You will\nthink this a good dash of mine my dear Mary, but you know that I am not\nwanting for Impudence when I have any end in veiw. \"Are you pleased with\nthe Country Miss Grenville? Do you find it equal to the one you have\nleft?\"\n\n\"Much superior Ma'am in point of Beauty.\" She sighed. I longed to know\nfor why.\n\n\"But the face of any Country however beautiful said I, can be but a poor\nconsolation for the loss of one's dearest Freinds.\" She shook her\nhead, as if she felt the truth of what I said. My Curiosity was so much\nraised, that I was resolved at any rate to satisfy it.\n\n\"You regret having left Suffolk then Miss Grenville?\" \"Indeed I do.\"\n\"You were born there I suppose?\" \"Yes Ma'am I was and passed many happy\nyears there--\"\n\n\"That is a great comfort--said I--I hope Ma'am that you never spent any\nunhappy one's there.\"\n\n\"Perfect Felicity is not the property of Mortals, and no one has a right\nto expect uninterrupted Happiness.--Some Misfortunes I have certainly\nmet with.\"\n\n\"WHAT Misfortunes dear Ma'am? replied I, burning with impatience to know\nevery thing. \"NONE Ma'am I hope that have been the effect of any wilfull\nfault in me.\" \"I dare say not Ma'am, and have no doubt but that any\nsufferings you may have experienced could arise only from the cruelties\nof Relations or the Errors of Freinds.\" She sighed--\"You seem unhappy\nmy dear Miss Grenville--Is it in my power to soften your Misfortunes?\"\n\"YOUR power Ma'am replied she extremely surprised; it is in NO ONES\npower to make me happy.\" She pronounced these words in so mournfull and\nsolemn an accent, that for some time I had not courage to reply. I\nwas actually silenced. I recovered myself however in a few moments and\nlooking at her with all the affection I could, \"My dear Miss Grenville\nsaid I, you appear extremely young--and may probably stand in need of\nsome one's advice whose regard for you, joined to superior Age, perhaps\nsuperior Judgement might authorise her to give it. I am that person, and\nI now challenge you to accept the offer I make you of my Confidence and\nFreindship, in return to which I shall only ask for yours--\"\n\n\"You are extremely obliging Ma'am--said she--and I am highly flattered\nby your attention to me--But I am in no difficulty, no doubt, no\nuncertainty of situation in which any advice can be wanted. Whenever I\nam however continued she brightening into a complaisant smile, I shall\nknow where to apply.\"\n\nI bowed, but felt a good deal mortified by such a repulse; still however\nI had not given up my point. I found that by the appearance of sentiment\nand Freindship nothing was to be gained and determined therefore to\nrenew my attacks by Questions and suppositions. \"Do you intend staying\nlong in this part of England Miss Grenville?\"\n\n\"Yes Ma'am, some time I beleive.\"\n\n\"But how will Mr and Mrs Grenville bear your absence?\"\n\n\"They are neither of them alive Ma'am.\" This was an answer I did not\nexpect--I was quite silenced, and never felt so awkward in my Life---.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the FIFTH From a YOUNG LADY very much in love to her Freind\n\nMy Uncle gets more stingy, my Aunt more particular, and I more in love\nevery day. What shall we all be at this rate by the end of the year! I\nhad this morning the happiness of receiving the following Letter from my\ndear Musgrove.\n\nSackville St: Janry 7th It is a month to day since I first beheld my\nlovely Henrietta, and the sacred anniversary must and shall be kept in\na manner becoming the day--by writing to her. Never shall I forget the\nmoment when her Beauties first broke on my sight--No time as you well\nknow can erase it from my Memory. It was at Lady Scudamores. Happy Lady\nScudamore to live within a mile of the divine Henrietta! When the lovely\nCreature first entered the room, oh! what were my sensations? The sight\nof you was like the sight ofa wonderful fine Thing. I started--I gazed\nat her with admiration--She appeared every moment more Charming, and the\nunfortunate Musgrove became a captive to your Charms before I had time\nto look about me. Yes Madam, I had the happiness of adoring you, an\nhappiness for which I cannot be too grateful. \"What said he to himself\nis Musgrove allowed to die for Henrietta? Enviable Mortal! and may he\npine for her who is the object of universal admiration, who is adored\nby a Colonel, and toasted by a Baronet! Adorable Henrietta how beautiful\nyou are! I declare you are quite divine! You are more than Mortal.\nYou are an Angel. You are Venus herself. In short Madam you are the\nprettiest Girl I ever saw in my Life--and her Beauty is encreased in her\nMusgroves Eyes, by permitting him to love her and allowing me to hope.\nAnd ah! Angelic Miss Henrietta Heaven is my witness how ardently I do\nhope for the death of your villanous Uncle and his abandoned Wife, since\nmy fair one will not consent to be mine till their decease has placed\nher in affluence above what my fortune can procure--. Though it is an\nimprovable Estate--. Cruel Henrietta to persist in such a resolution! I\nam at Present with my sister where I mean to continue till my own house\nwhich tho' an excellent one is at Present somewhat out of repair, is\nready to receive me. Amiable princess of my Heart farewell--Of that\nHeart which trembles while it signs itself Your most ardent Admirer and\ndevoted humble servt. T. Musgrove.\n\nThere is a pattern for a Love-letter Matilda! Did you ever read such\na master-piece of Writing? Such sense, such sentiment, such purity of\nThought, such flow of Language and such unfeigned Love in one sheet?\nNo, never I can answer for it, since a Musgrove is not to be met with\nby every Girl. Oh! how I long to be with him! I intend to send him the\nfollowing in answer to his Letter tomorrow.\n\nMy dearest Musgrove--. Words cannot express how happy your Letter made\nme; I thought I should have cried for joy, for I love you better than\nany body in the World. I think you the most amiable, and the handsomest\nMan in England, and so to be sure you are. I never read so sweet a\nLetter in my Life. Do write me another just like it, and tell me you are\nin love with me in every other line. I quite die to see you. How shall\nwe manage to see one another? for we are so much in love that we cannot\nlive asunder. Oh! my dear Musgrove you cannot think how impatiently I\nwait for the death of my Uncle and Aunt--If they will not Die soon, I\nbeleive I shall run mad, for I get more in love with you every day of my\nLife.\n\nHow happy your Sister is to enjoy the pleasure of your Company in her\nhouse, and how happy every body in London must be because you are there.\nI hope you will be so kind as to write to me again soon, for I never\nread such sweet Letters as yours. I am my dearest Musgrove most truly\nand faithfully yours for ever and ever Henrietta Halton.\n\nI hope he will like my answer; it is as good a one as I can write\nthough nothing to his; Indeed I had always heard what a dab he was at\na Love-letter. I saw him you know for the first time at Lady\nScudamores--And when I saw her Ladyship afterwards she asked me how I\nliked her Cousin Musgrove?\n\n\"Why upon my word said I, I think he is a very handsome young Man.\"\n\n\"I am glad you think so replied she, for he is distractedly in love with\nyou.\"\n\n\"Law! Lady Scudamore said I, how can you talk so ridiculously?\"\n\n\"Nay, t'is very true answered she, I assure you, for he was in love with\nyou from the first moment he beheld you.\"\n\n\"I wish it may be true said I, for that is the only kind of love I\nwould give a farthing for--There is some sense in being in love at first\nsight.\"\n\n\"Well, I give you Joy of your conquest, replied Lady Scudamore, and\nI beleive it to have been a very complete one; I am sure it is not a\ncontemptible one, for my Cousin is a charming young fellow, has seen a\ngreat deal of the World, and writes the best Love-letters I ever read.\"\n\nThis made me very happy, and I was excessively pleased with my conquest.\nHowever, I thought it was proper to give myself a few Airs--so I said to\nher--\n\n\"This is all very pretty Lady Scudamore, but you know that we young\nLadies who are Heiresses must not throw ourselves away upon Men who have\nno fortune at all.\"\n\n\"My dear Miss Halton said she, I am as much convinced of that as you can\nbe, and I do assure you that I should be the last person to encourage\nyour marrying anyone who had not some pretensions to expect a fortune\nwith you. Mr Musgrove is so far from being poor that he has an estate of\nseveral hundreds an year which is capable of great Improvement, and an\nexcellent House, though at Present it is not quite in repair.\"\n\n\"If that is the case replied I, I have nothing more to say against\nhim, and if as you say he is an informed young Man and can write a\ngood Love-letter, I am sure I have no reason to find fault with him\nfor admiring me, tho' perhaps I may not marry him for all that Lady\nScudamore.\"\n\n\"You are certainly under no obligation to marry him answered her\nLadyship, except that which love himself will dictate to you, for if I\nam not greatly mistaken you are at this very moment unknown to yourself,\ncherishing a most tender affection for him.\"\n\n\"Law, Lady Scudamore replied I blushing how can you think of such a\nthing?\"\n\n\"Because every look, every word betrays it, answered she; Come my dear\nHenrietta, consider me as a freind, and be sincere with me--Do not you\nprefer Mr Musgrove to any man of your acquaintance?\"\n\n\"Pray do not ask me such questions Lady Scudamore, said I turning away\nmy head, for it is not fit for me to answer them.\"\n\n\"Nay my Love replied she, now you confirm my suspicions. But why\nHenrietta should you be ashamed to own a well-placed Love, or why refuse\nto confide in me?\"\n\n\"I am not ashamed to own it; said I taking Courage. I do not refuse to\nconfide in you or blush to say that I do love your cousin Mr Musgrove,\nthat I am sincerely attached to him, for it is no disgrace to love a\nhandsome Man. If he were plain indeed I might have had reason to be\nashamed of a passion which must have been mean since the object would\nhave been unworthy. But with such a figure and face, and such beautiful\nhair as your Cousin has, why should I blush to own that such superior\nmerit has made an impression on me.\"\n\n\"My sweet Girl (said Lady Scudamore embracing me with great affection)\nwhat a delicate way of thinking you have in these matters, and what a\nquick discernment for one of your years! Oh! how I honour you for such\nNoble Sentiments!\"\n\n\"Do you Ma'am said I; You are vastly obliging. But pray Lady Scudamore\ndid your Cousin himself tell you of his affection for me I shall like\nhim the better if he did, for what is a Lover without a Confidante?\"\n\n\"Oh! my Love replied she, you were born for each other. Every word\nyou say more deeply convinces me that your Minds are actuated by the\ninvisible power of simpathy, for your opinions and sentiments so exactly\ncoincide. Nay, the colour of your Hair is not very different. Yes my\ndear Girl, the poor despairing Musgrove did reveal to me the story of\nhis Love--. Nor was I surprised at it--I know not how it was, but I had\na kind of presentiment that he would be in love with you.\"\n\n\"Well, but how did he break it to you?\"\n\n\"It was not till after supper. We were sitting round the fire\ntogether talking on indifferent subjects, though to say the truth the\nConversation was cheifly on my side for he was thoughtful and silent,\nwhen on a sudden he interrupted me in the midst of something I was\nsaying, by exclaiming in a most Theatrical tone--\n\nYes I'm in love I feel it now And Henrietta Halton has undone me\n\n\"Oh! What a sweet way replied I, of declaring his Passion! To make such\na couple of charming lines about me! What a pity it is that they are not\nin rhime!\"\n\n\"I am very glad you like it answered she; To be sure there was a great\ndeal of Taste in it. And are you in love with her, Cousin? said I. I am\nvery sorry for it, for unexceptionable as you are in every respect, with\na pretty Estate capable of Great improvements, and an excellent House\ntho' somewhat out of repair, yet who can hope to aspire with success\nto the adorable Henrietta who has had an offer from a Colonel and\nbeen toasted by a Baronet\"--\"THAT I have--\" cried I. Lady Scudamore\ncontinued. \"Ah dear Cousin replied he, I am so well convinced of the\nlittle Chance I can have of winning her who is adored by thousands, that\nI need no assurances of yours to make me more thoroughly so. Yet surely\nneither you or the fair Henrietta herself will deny me the exquisite\nGratification of dieing for her, of falling a victim to her Charms. And\nwhen I am dead\"--continued her--\n\n\"Oh Lady Scudamore, said I wiping my eyes, that such a sweet Creature\nshould talk of dieing!\"\n\n\"It is an affecting Circumstance indeed, replied Lady Scudamore.\" \"When\nI am dead said he, let me be carried and lain at her feet, and perhaps\nshe may not disdain to drop a pitying tear on my poor remains.\"\n\n\"Dear Lady Scudamore interrupted I, say no more on this affecting\nsubject. I cannot bear it.\"\n\n\"Oh! how I admire the sweet sensibility of your Soul, and as I would not\nfor Worlds wound it too deeply, I will be silent.\"\n\n\"Pray go on.\" said I. She did so.\n\n\"And then added he, Ah! Cousin imagine what my transports will be when\nI feel the dear precious drops trickle on my face! Who would not die\nto haste such extacy! And when I am interred, may the divine Henrietta\nbless some happier Youth with her affection, May he be as tenderly\nattached to her as the hapless Musgrove and while HE crumbles to dust,\nMay they live an example of Felicity in the Conjugal state!\"\n\nDid you ever hear any thing so pathetic? What a charming wish, to be\nlain at my feet when he was dead! Oh! what an exalted mind he must have\nto be capable of such a wish! Lady Scudamore went on.\n\n\"Ah! my dear Cousin replied I to him, such noble behaviour as this, must\nmelt the heart of any woman however obdurate it may naturally be;\nand could the divine Henrietta but hear your generous wishes for her\nhappiness, all gentle as is her mind, I have not a doubt but that she\nwould pity your affection and endeavour to return it.\" \"Oh! Cousin\nanswered he, do not endeavour to raise my hopes by such flattering\nassurances. No, I cannot hope to please this angel of a Woman, and the\nonly thing which remains for me to do, is to die.\" \"True Love is ever\ndesponding replied I, but I my dear Tom will give you even greater\nhopes of conquering this fair one's heart, than I have yet given you, by\nassuring you that I watched her with the strictest attention during the\nwhole day, and could plainly discover that she cherishes in her bosom\nthough unknown to herself, a most tender affection for you.\"\n\n\"Dear Lady Scudamore cried I, This is more than I ever knew!\"\n\n\"Did not I say that it was unknown to yourself? I did not, continued\nI to him, encourage you by saying this at first, that surprise might\nrender the pleasure still Greater.\" \"No Cousin replied he in a languid\nvoice, nothing will convince me that I can have touched the heart of\nHenrietta Halton, and if you are deceived yourself, do not attempt\ndeceiving me.\" \"In short my Love it was the work of some hours for me to\nPersuade the poor despairing Youth that you had really a preference for\nhim; but when at last he could no longer deny the force of my arguments,\nor discredit what I told him, his transports, his Raptures, his Extacies\nare beyond my power to describe.\"\n\n\"Oh! the dear Creature, cried I, how passionately he loves me! But dear\nLady Scudamore did you tell him that I was totally dependant on my Uncle\nand Aunt?\"\n\n\"Yes, I told him every thing.\"\n\n\"And what did he say.\"\n\n\"He exclaimed with virulence against Uncles and Aunts; Accused the laws\nof England for allowing them to Possess their Estates when wanted by\ntheir Nephews or Neices, and wished HE were in the House of Commons,\nthat he might reform the Legislature, and rectify all its abuses.\"\n\n\"Oh! the sweet Man! What a spirit he has!\" said I.\n\n\"He could not flatter himself he added, that the adorable Henrietta\nwould condescend for his sake to resign those Luxuries and that splendor\nto which she had been used, and accept only in exchange the Comforts\nand Elegancies which his limited Income could afford her, even supposing\nthat his house were in Readiness to receive her. I told him that it\ncould not be expected that she would; it would be doing her an injustice\nto suppose her capable of giving up the power she now possesses and so\nnobly uses of doing such extensive Good to the poorer part of her fellow\nCreatures, merely for the gratification of you and herself.\"\n\n\"To be sure said I, I AM very Charitable every now and then. And what\ndid Mr Musgrove say to this?\"\n\n\"He replied that he was under a melancholy necessity of owning the truth\nof what I said, and that therefore if he should be the happy Creature\ndestined to be the Husband of the Beautiful Henrietta he must bring\nhimself to wait, however impatiently, for the fortunate day, when she\nmight be freed from the power of worthless Relations and able to bestow\nherself on him.\"\n\nWhat a noble Creature he is! Oh! Matilda what a fortunate one I am, who\nam to be his Wife! My Aunt is calling me to come and make the pies, so\nadeiu my dear freind, and beleive me yours etc--H. Halton.\n\nFinis.\n\n\n\n\n*****\n\n\n\nSCRAPS\n\n\nTo Miss FANNY CATHERINE AUSTEN\n\nMY Dear Neice As I am prevented by the great distance between Rowling\nand Steventon from superintending your Education myself, the care of\nwhich will probably on that account devolve on your Father and Mother,\nI think it is my particular Duty to Prevent your feeling as much as\npossible the want of my personal instructions, by addressing to you on\npaper my Opinions and Admonitions on the conduct of Young Women, which\nyou will find expressed in the following pages.--I am my dear Neice Your\naffectionate Aunt The Author.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FEMALE PHILOSOPHER\n\nA LETTER\n\nMy Dear Louisa Your friend Mr Millar called upon us yesterday in his way\nto Bath, whither he is going for his health; two of his daughters were\nwith him, but the eldest and the three Boys are with their Mother in\nSussex. Though you have often told me that Miss Millar was remarkably\nhandsome, you never mentioned anything of her Sisters' beauty; yet they\nare certainly extremely pretty. I'll give you their description.--Julia\nis eighteen; with a countenance in which Modesty, Sense and Dignity are\nhappily blended, she has a form which at once presents you with Grace,\nElegance and Symmetry. Charlotte who is just sixteen is shorter than her\nSister, and though her figure cannot boast the easy dignity of\nJulia's, yet it has a pleasing plumpness which is in a different way as\nestimable. She is fair and her face is expressive sometimes of softness\nthe most bewitching, and at others of Vivacity the most striking.\nShe appears to have infinite Wit and a good humour unalterable; her\nconversation during the half hour they set with us, was replete with\nhumourous sallies, Bonmots and repartees; while the sensible, the\namiable Julia uttered sentiments of Morality worthy of a heart like her\nown. Mr Millar appeared to answer the character I had always received\nof him. My Father met him with that look of Love, that social Shake, and\ncordial kiss which marked his gladness at beholding an old and valued\nfreind from whom thro' various circumstances he had been separated\nnearly twenty years. Mr Millar observed (and very justly too) that\nmany events had befallen each during that interval of time, which gave\noccasion to the lovely Julia for making most sensible reflections on the\nmany changes in their situation which so long a period had occasioned,\non the advantages of some, and the disadvantages of others. From\nthis subject she made a short digression to the instability of human\npleasures and the uncertainty of their duration, which led her to\nobserve that all earthly Joys must be imperfect. She was proceeding to\nillustrate this doctrine by examples from the Lives of great Men when\nthe Carriage came to the Door and the amiable Moralist with her Father\nand Sister was obliged to depart; but not without a promise of spending\nfive or six months with us on their return. We of course mentioned you,\nand I assure you that ample Justice was done to your Merits by all.\n\"Louisa Clarke (said I) is in general a very pleasant Girl, yet\nsometimes her good humour is clouded by Peevishness, Envy and Spite. She\nneither wants Understanding or is without some pretensions to Beauty,\nbut these are so very trifling, that the value she sets on her personal\ncharms, and the adoration she expects them to be offered are at once a\nstriking example of her vanity, her pride, and her folly.\" So said I,\nand to my opinion everyone added weight by the concurrence of their own.\nYour affectionate Arabella Smythe.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FIRST ACT OF A COMEDY\n\nCHARACTERS Popgun Maria Charles Pistolletta Postilion Hostess Chorus of\nploughboys Cook and                      and\nStrephon Chloe\n\nSCENE--AN INN\n\nENTER Hostess, Charles, Maria, and Cook.\n\nHostess to Maria) If the gentry in the Lion should want beds, shew them\nnumber 9.\n\nMaria) Yes Mistress.--EXIT Maria\n\nHostess to Cook) If their Honours in the Moon ask for the bill of fare,\ngive it them.\n\nCook) I wull, I wull. EXIT Cook.\n\nHostess to Charles) If their Ladyships in the Sun ring their\nBell--answerit.\n\nCharles) Yes Madam. EXEUNT Severally.\n\n\nSCENE CHANGES TO THE MOON, and discovers Popgun and Pistoletta.\n\nPistoletta) Pray papa how far is it to London?\n\nPopgun) My Girl, my Darling, my favourite of all my Children, who art\nthe picture of thy poor Mother who died two months ago, with whom I am\ngoing to Town to marry to Strephon, and to whom I mean to bequeath my\nwhole Estate, it wants seven Miles.\n\n\nSCENE CHANGES TO THE SUN--\n\nENTER Chloe and a chorus of ploughboys.\n\nChloe) Where am I? At Hounslow.--Where go I? To London--. What to do? To\nbe married--. Unto whom? Unto Strephon. Who is he? A Youth. Then I will\nsing a song.\n\nSONG I go to Town And when I come down, I shall be married to Streephon *\n[*Note the two e's] And that to me will be fun.\n\nChorus) Be fun, be fun, be fun, And that to me will be fun.\n\nENTER Cook--Cook) Here is the bill of fare.\n\nChloe reads) 2 Ducks, a leg of beef, a stinking partridge, and a\ntart.--I will have the leg of beef and the partridge. EXIT Cook. And now\nI will sing another song.\n\nSONG--I am going to have my dinner, After which I shan't be thinner, I\nwish I had here Strephon For he would carve the partridge if it should\nbe a tough one.\n\nChorus) Tough one, tough one, tough one For he would carve the partridge\nif it Should be a tough one. EXIT Chloe and Chorus.--\n\nSCENE CHANGES TO THE INSIDE OF THE LION.\n\nEnter Strephon and Postilion. Streph:) You drove me from Staines to this\nplace, from whence I mean to go to Town to marry Chloe. How much is your\ndue?\n\nPost:) Eighteen pence. Streph:) Alas, my freind, I have but a bad guinea\nwith which I mean to support myself in Town. But I will pawn to you an\nundirected Letter that I received from Chloe.\n\nPost:) Sir, I accept your offer.\n\nEND OF THE FIRST ACT.\n\n\n\n\nA LETTER from a YOUNG LADY, whose feelings being too strong for\nher Judgement led her into the commission of Errors which her Heart\ndisapproved.\n\nMany have been the cares and vicissitudes of my past life, my beloved\nEllinor, and the only consolation I feel for their bitterness is that on\na close examination of my conduct, I am convinced that I have strictly\ndeserved them. I murdered my father at a very early period of my Life, I\nhave since murdered my Mother, and I am now going to murder my Sister. I\nhave changed my religion so often that at present I have not an idea of\nany left. I have been a perjured witness in every public tryal for these\nlast twelve years; and I have forged my own Will. In short there is\nscarcely a crime that I have not committed--But I am now going to\nreform. Colonel Martin of the Horse guards has paid his Addresses to me,\nand we are to be married in a few days. As there is something singular\nin our Courtship, I will give you an account of it. Colonel Martin is\nthe second son of the late Sir John Martin who died immensely rich, but\nbequeathing only one hundred thousand pound apeice to his three younger\nChildren, left the bulk of his fortune, about eight Million to the\npresent Sir Thomas. Upon his small pittance the Colonel lived tolerably\ncontented for nearly four months when he took it into his head to\ndetermine on getting the whole of his eldest Brother's Estate. A new\nwill was forged and the Colonel produced it in Court--but nobody would\nswear to it's being the right will except himself, and he had sworn so\nmuch that Nobody beleived him. At that moment I happened to be passing\nby the door of the Court, and was beckoned in by the Judge who told the\nColonel that I was a Lady ready to witness anything for the cause of\nJustice, and advised him to apply to me. In short the Affair was soon\nadjusted. The Colonel and I swore to its' being the right will, and Sir\nThomas has been obliged to resign all his illgotten wealth. The Colonel\nin gratitude waited on me the next day with an offer of his hand--. I am\nnow going to murder my Sister. Yours Ever, Anna Parker.\n\n\n\n\nA TOUR THROUGH WALES--in a LETTER from a YOUNG LADY--\n\nMy Dear Clara I have been so long on the ramble that I have not till now\nhad it in my power to thank you for your Letter--. We left our dear home\non last Monday month; and proceeded on our tour through Wales, which is\na principality contiguous to England and gives the title to the Prince\nof Wales. We travelled on horseback by preference. My Mother rode upon\nour little poney and Fanny and I walked by her side or rather ran, for\nmy Mother is so fond of riding fast that she galloped all the way. You\nmay be sure that we were in a fine perspiration when we came to our\nplace of resting. Fanny has taken a great many Drawings of the Country,\nwhich are very beautiful, tho' perhaps not such exact resemblances\nas might be wished, from their being taken as she ran along. It would\nastonish you to see all the Shoes we wore out in our Tour. We determined\nto take a good Stock with us and therefore each took a pair of our own\nbesides those we set off in. However we were obliged to have them both\ncapped and heelpeiced at Carmarthen, and at last when they were quite\ngone, Mama was so kind as to lend us a pair of blue Sattin Slippers, of\nwhich we each took one and hopped home from Hereford delightfully---I am\nyour ever affectionate Elizabeth Johnson.\n\n\n\n\n\nA TALE.\n\nA Gentleman whose family name I shall conceal, bought a small Cottage in\nPembrokeshire about two years ago. This daring Action was suggested to\nhim by his elder Brother who promised to furnish two rooms and a Closet\nfor him, provided he would take a small house near the borders of an\nextensive Forest, and about three Miles from the Sea. Wilhelminus gladly\naccepted the offer and continued for some time searching after such a\nretreat when he was one morning agreably releived from his suspence by\nreading this advertisement in a Newspaper.\n\nTO BE LETT A Neat Cottage on the borders of an extensive forest and\nabout three Miles from the Sea. It is ready furnished except two rooms\nand a Closet.\n\nThe delighted Wilhelminus posted away immediately to his brother, and\nshewed him the advertisement. Robertus congratulated him and sent him\nin his Carriage to take possession of the Cottage. After travelling for\nthree days and six nights without stopping, they arrived at the Forest\nand following a track which led by it's side down a steep Hill over\nwhich ten Rivulets meandered, they reached the Cottage in half an hour.\nWilhelminus alighted, and after knocking for some time without receiving\nany answer or hearing any one stir within, he opened the door which\nwas fastened only by a wooden latch and entered a small room, which he\nimmediately perceived to be one of the two that were unfurnished--From\nthence he proceeded into a Closet equally bare. A pair of stairs that\nwent out of it led him into a room above, no less destitute, and these\napartments he found composed the whole of the House. He was by no means\ndispleased with this discovery, as he had the comfort of reflecting that\nhe should not be obliged to lay out anything on furniture himself--. He\nreturned immediately to his Brother, who took him the next day to every\nShop in Town, and bought what ever was requisite to furnish the two\nrooms and the Closet, In a few days everything was completed, and\nWilhelminus returned to take possession of his Cottage. Robertus\naccompanied him, with his Lady the amiable Cecilia and her two lovely\nSisters Arabella and Marina to whom Wilhelminus was tenderly attached,\nand a large number of Attendants.--An ordinary Genius might probably\nhave been embarrassed, in endeavouring to accomodate so large a party,\nbut Wilhelminus with admirable presence of mind gave orders for the\nimmediate erection of two noble Tents in an open spot in the Forest\nadjoining to the house. Their Construction was both simple and\nelegant--A couple of old blankets, each supported by four sticks, gave\na striking proof of that taste for architecture and that happy ease in\novercoming difficulties which were some of Wilhelminus's most striking\nVirtues.\n\n\n\n\n","id":"1212"},{"text":"\n\n\n\n\nPRIDE AND PREJUDICE\n\nBy Jane Austen\n\n\n\nChapter 1\n\n\nIt is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession\nof a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.\n\nHowever little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his\nfirst entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds\nof the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property\nof some one or other of their daughters.\n\n\"My dear Mr. Bennet,\" said his lady to him one day, \"have you heard that\nNetherfield Park is let at last?\"\n\nMr. Bennet replied that he had not.\n\n\"But it is,\" returned she; \"for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she\ntold me all about it.\"\n\nMr. Bennet made no answer.\n\n\"Do you not want to know who has taken it?\" cried his wife impatiently.\n\n\"_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.\"\n\nThis was invitation enough.\n\n\"Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken\nby a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came\ndown on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much\ndelighted with it, that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he\nis to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to\nbe in the house by the end of next week.\"\n\n\"What is his name?\"\n\n\"Bingley.\"\n\n\"Is he married or single?\"\n\n\"Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or\nfive thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!\"\n\n\"How so? How can it affect them?\"\n\n\"My dear Mr. Bennet,\" replied his wife, \"how can you be so tiresome! You\nmust know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them.\"\n\n\"Is that his design in settling here?\"\n\n\"Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he\n_may_ fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as\nsoon as he comes.\"\n\n\"I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send\nthem by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are\nas handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley may like you the best of the\nparty.\"\n\n\"My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of beauty, but\nI do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now. When a woman has five\ngrown-up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty.\"\n\n\"In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.\"\n\n\"But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into\nthe neighbourhood.\"\n\n\"It is more than I engage for, I assure you.\"\n\n\"But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would\nbe for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to\ngo, merely on that account, for in general, you know, they visit no\nnewcomers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for _us_ to\nvisit him if you do not.\"\n\n\"You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very\nglad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my\nhearty consent to his marrying whichever he chooses of the girls; though\nI must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy.\"\n\n\"I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the\nothers; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so\ngood-humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving _her_ the preference.\"\n\n\"They have none of them much to recommend them,\" replied he; \"they are\nall silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of\nquickness than her sisters.\"\n\n\"Mr. Bennet, how _can_ you abuse your own children in such a way? You\ntake delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves.\"\n\n\"You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They\nare my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration\nthese last twenty years at least.\"\n\n\"Ah, you do not know what I suffer.\"\n\n\"But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four\nthousand a year come into the neighbourhood.\"\n\n\"It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you will not\nvisit them.\"\n\n\"Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them\nall.\"\n\nMr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour,\nreserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had\nbeen insufficient to make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind\nwas less difficult to develop. She was a woman of mean understanding,\nlittle information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented,\nshe fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her\ndaughters married; its solace was visiting and news.\n\n\n\nChapter 2\n\n\nMr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He\nhad always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring\nhis wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was\npaid she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following\nmanner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he\nsuddenly addressed her with:\n\n\"I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.\"\n\n\"We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes,\" said her mother\nresentfully, \"since we are not to visit.\"\n\n\"But you forget, mamma,\" said Elizabeth, \"that we shall meet him at the\nassemblies, and that Mrs. Long promised to introduce him.\"\n\n\"I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces\nof her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion\nof her.\"\n\n\"No more have I,\" said Mr. Bennet; \"and I am glad to find that you do\nnot depend on her serving you.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply, but, unable to contain\nherself, began scolding one of her daughters.\n\n\"Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for Heaven's sake! Have a little\ncompassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.\"\n\n\"Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,\" said her father; \"she times\nthem ill.\"\n\n\"I do not cough for my own amusement,\" replied Kitty fretfully. \"When is\nyour next ball to be, Lizzy?\"\n\n\"To-morrow fortnight.\"\n\n\"Aye, so it is,\" cried her mother, \"and Mrs. Long does not come back\ntill the day before; so it will be impossible for her to introduce him,\nfor she will not know him herself.\"\n\n\"Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce\nMr. Bingley to _her_.\"\n\n\"Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him\nmyself; how can you be so teasing?\"\n\n\"I honour your circumspection. A fortnight's acquaintance is certainly\nvery little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a\nfortnight. But if _we_ do not venture somebody else will; and after all,\nMrs. Long and her daughters must stand their chance; and, therefore, as\nshe will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I will\ntake it on myself.\"\n\nThe girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only, \"Nonsense,\nnonsense!\"\n\n\"What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?\" cried he. \"Do\nyou consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on\nthem, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you _there_. What say you,\nMary? For you are a young lady of deep reflection, I know, and read\ngreat books and make extracts.\"\n\nMary wished to say something sensible, but knew not how.\n\n\"While Mary is adjusting her ideas,\" he continued, \"let us return to Mr.\nBingley.\"\n\n\"I am sick of Mr. Bingley,\" cried his wife.\n\n\"I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did not you tell me that before? If\nI had known as much this morning I certainly would not have called\non him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we\ncannot escape the acquaintance now.\"\n\nThe astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of Mrs.\nBennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though, when the first tumult of joy\nwas over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the\nwhile.\n\n\"How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should\npersuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to\nneglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! and it is such a\ngood joke, too, that you should have gone this morning and never said a\nword about it till now.\"\n\n\"Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,\" said Mr. Bennet; and,\nas he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife.\n\n\"What an excellent father you have, girls!\" said she, when the door was\nshut. \"I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness;\nor me, either, for that matter. At our time of life it is not so\npleasant, I can tell you, to be making new acquaintances every day; but\nfor your sakes, we would do anything. Lydia, my love, though you _are_\nthe youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next\nball.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Lydia stoutly, \"I am not afraid; for though I _am_ the\nyoungest, I'm the tallest.\"\n\nThe rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would\nreturn Mr. Bennet's visit, and determining when they should ask him to\ndinner.\n\n\n\nChapter 3\n\n\nNot all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five\ndaughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her\nhusband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him\nin various ways--with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and\ndistant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all, and they were at\nlast obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour,\nLady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been\ndelighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely\nagreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly\nwith a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of\ndancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively\nhopes of Mr. Bingley's heart were entertained.\n\n\"If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,\"\nsaid Mrs. Bennet to her husband, \"and all the others equally well\nmarried, I shall have nothing to wish for.\"\n\nIn a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet's visit, and sat about\nten minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being\nadmitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had\nheard much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more\nfortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining from an upper\nwindow that he wore a blue coat, and rode a black horse.\n\nAn invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already\nhad Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her\nhousekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley\nwas obliged to be in town the following day, and, consequently, unable\nto accept the honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite\ndisconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town\nso soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that\nhe might be always flying about from one place to another, and never\nsettled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears\na little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to get\na large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley\nwas to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly.\nThe girls grieved over such a number of ladies, but were comforted the\nday before the ball by hearing, that instead of twelve he brought only\nsix with him from London--his five sisters and a cousin. And when\nthe party entered the assembly room it consisted of only five\naltogether--Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and\nanother young man.\n\nMr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant\ncountenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women,\nwith an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely\nlooked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention\nof the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and\nthe report which was in general circulation within five minutes\nafter his entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen\npronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he\nwas much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great\nadmiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust\nwhich turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be\nproud; to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all\nhis large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most\nforbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared\nwith his friend.\n\nMr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal\npeople in the room; he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance,\nwas angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving\none himself at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for\nthemselves. What a contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced\nonly once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being\nintroduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in\nwalking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party.\nHis character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man\nin the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there again.\nAmongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of\nhis general behaviour was sharpened into particular resentment by his\nhaving slighted one of her daughters.\n\nElizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit\ndown for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been\nstanding near enough for her to hear a conversation between him and Mr.\nBingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes, to press his friend\nto join it.\n\n\"Come, Darcy,\" said he, \"I must have you dance. I hate to see you\nstanding about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better\ndance.\"\n\n\"I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am\nparticularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this\nit would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not\nanother woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to\nstand up with.\"\n\n\"I would not be so fastidious as you are,\" cried Mr. Bingley, \"for a\nkingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in\nmy life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see\nuncommonly pretty.\"\n\n\"_You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,\" said Mr.\nDarcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.\n\n\"Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one\nof her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I\ndare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.\"\n\n\"Which do you mean?\" and turning round he looked for a moment at\nElizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said:\n\"She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt _me_; I am in no\nhumour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted\nby other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her\nsmiles, for you are wasting your time with me.\"\n\nMr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth\nremained with no very cordial feelings toward him. She told the story,\nhowever, with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively,\nplayful disposition, which delighted in anything ridiculous.\n\nThe evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs.\nBennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield\nparty. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been\ndistinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this as\nher mother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane's\npleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most\naccomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been\nfortunate enough never to be without partners, which was all that they\nhad yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good\nspirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they\nwere the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up. With\na book he was regardless of time; and on the present occasion he had a\ngood deal of curiosity as to the event of an evening which had raised\nsuch splendid expectations. He had rather hoped that his wife's views on\nthe stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found out that he had a\ndifferent story to hear.\n\n\"Oh! my dear Mr. Bennet,\" as she entered the room, \"we have had a most\ndelightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there.\nJane was so admired, nothing could be like it. Everybody said how well\nshe looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her quite beautiful, and danced with\nher twice! Only think of _that_, my dear; he actually danced with her\ntwice! and she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second\ntime. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand\nup with her! But, however, he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody\ncan, you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going\ndown the dance. So he inquired who she was, and got introduced, and\nasked her for the two next. Then the two third he danced with Miss King,\nand the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane again,\nand the two sixth with Lizzy, and the _Boulanger_--\"\n\n\"If he had had any compassion for _me_,\" cried her husband impatiently,\n\"he would not have danced half so much! For God's sake, say no more of\nhis partners. Oh that he had sprained his ankle in the first dance!\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear, I am quite delighted with him. He is so excessively\nhandsome! And his sisters are charming women. I never in my life saw\nanything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace upon Mrs.\nHurst's gown--\"\n\nHere she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any\ndescription of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch\nof the subject, and related, with much bitterness of spirit and some\nexaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.\n\n\"But I can assure you,\" she added, \"that Lizzy does not lose much by not\nsuiting _his_ fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at\nall worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that there was no enduring\nhim! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very\ngreat! Not handsome enough to dance with! I wish you had been there, my\ndear, to have given him one of your set-downs. I quite detest the man.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 4\n\n\nWhen Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in\nher praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister just how very\nmuch she admired him.\n\n\"He is just what a young man ought to be,\" said she, \"sensible,\ngood-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners!--so much\nease, with such perfect good breeding!\"\n\n\"He is also handsome,\" replied Elizabeth, \"which a young man ought\nlikewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete.\"\n\n\"I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I\ndid not expect such a compliment.\"\n\n\"Did not you? I did for you. But that is one great difference between\nus. Compliments always take _you_ by surprise, and _me_ never. What\ncould be more natural than his asking you again? He could not help\nseeing that you were about five times as pretty as every other woman\nin the room. No thanks to his gallantry for that. Well, he certainly is\nvery agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a\nstupider person.\"\n\n\"Dear Lizzy!\"\n\n\"Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general.\nYou never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good and agreeable\nin your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in your\nlife.\"\n\n\"I would not wish to be hasty in censuring anyone; but I always speak\nwhat I think.\"\n\n\"I know you do; and it is _that_ which makes the wonder. With _your_\ngood sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of\nothers! Affectation of candour is common enough--one meets with it\neverywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design--to take the\ngood of everybody's character and make it still better, and say nothing\nof the bad--belongs to you alone. And so you like this man's sisters,\ntoo, do you? Their manners are not equal to his.\"\n\n\"Certainly not--at first. But they are very pleasing women when you\nconverse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother, and keep\nhis house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a very charming\nneighbour in her.\"\n\nElizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced; their behaviour at\nthe assembly had not been calculated to please in general; and with more\nquickness of observation and less pliancy of temper than her sister,\nand with a judgement too unassailed by any attention to herself, she\nwas very little disposed to approve them. They were in fact very fine\nladies; not deficient in good humour when they were pleased, nor in the\npower of making themselves agreeable when they chose it, but proud and\nconceited. They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the\nfirst private seminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand\npounds, were in the habit of spending more than they ought, and of\nassociating with people of rank, and were therefore in every respect\nentitled to think well of themselves, and meanly of others. They were of\na respectable family in the north of England; a circumstance more deeply\nimpressed on their memories than that their brother's fortune and their\nown had been acquired by trade.\n\nMr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly a hundred\nthousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an\nestate, but did not live to do it. Mr. Bingley intended it likewise, and\nsometimes made choice of his county; but as he was now provided with a\ngood house and the liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of those\nwho best knew the easiness of his temper, whether he might not spend the\nremainder of his days at Netherfield, and leave the next generation to\npurchase.\n\nHis sisters were anxious for his having an estate of his own; but,\nthough he was now only established as a tenant, Miss Bingley was by no\nmeans unwilling to preside at his table--nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had\nmarried a man of more fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider\nhis house as her home when it suited her. Mr. Bingley had not been of\nage two years, when he was tempted by an accidental recommendation\nto look at Netherfield House. He did look at it, and into it for\nhalf-an-hour--was pleased with the situation and the principal\nrooms, satisfied with what the owner said in its praise, and took it\nimmediately.\n\nBetween him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of\ngreat opposition of character. Bingley was endeared to Darcy by the\neasiness, openness, and ductility of his temper, though no disposition\ncould offer a greater contrast to his own, and though with his own he\nnever appeared dissatisfied. On the strength of Darcy's regard, Bingley\nhad the firmest reliance, and of his judgement the highest opinion.\nIn understanding, Darcy was the superior. Bingley was by no means\ndeficient, but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty,\nreserved, and fastidious, and his manners, though well-bred, were not\ninviting. In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley\nwas sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually\ngiving offense.\n\nThe manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was sufficiently\ncharacteristic. Bingley had never met with more pleasant people or\nprettier girls in his life; everybody had been most kind and attentive\nto him; there had been no formality, no stiffness; he had soon felt\nacquainted with all the room; and, as to Miss Bennet, he could not\nconceive an angel more beautiful. Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a\ncollection of people in whom there was little beauty and no fashion, for\nnone of whom he had felt the smallest interest, and from none received\neither attention or pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty,\nbut she smiled too much.\n\nMrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so--but still they admired\nher and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl, and one\nwhom they would not object to know more of. Miss Bennet was therefore\nestablished as a sweet girl, and their brother felt authorized by such\ncommendation to think of her as he chose.\n\n\n\nChapter 5\n\n\nWithin a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets\nwere particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been formerly in trade\nin Meryton, where he had made a tolerable fortune, and risen to the\nhonour of knighthood by an address to the king during his mayoralty.\nThe distinction had perhaps been felt too strongly. It had given him a\ndisgust to his business, and to his residence in a small market town;\nand, in quitting them both, he had removed with his family to a house\nabout a mile from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge,\nwhere he could think with pleasure of his own importance, and,\nunshackled by business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all\nthe world. For, though elated by his rank, it did not render him\nsupercilious; on the contrary, he was all attention to everybody. By\nnature inoffensive, friendly, and obliging, his presentation at St.\nJames's had made him courteous.\n\nLady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a\nvaluable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The eldest\nof them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven, was\nElizabeth's intimate friend.\n\nThat the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk over\na ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the assembly\nbrought the former to Longbourn to hear and to communicate.\n\n\"_You_ began the evening well, Charlotte,\" said Mrs. Bennet with civil\nself-command to Miss Lucas. \"_You_ were Mr. Bingley's first choice.\"\n\n\"Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.\"\n\n\"Oh! you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice. To be\nsure that _did_ seem as if he admired her--indeed I rather believe he\n_did_--I heard something about it--but I hardly know what--something\nabout Mr. Robinson.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson; did not\nI mention it to you? Mr. Robinson's asking him how he liked our Meryton\nassemblies, and whether he did not think there were a great many\npretty women in the room, and _which_ he thought the prettiest? and his\nanswering immediately to the last question: 'Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet,\nbeyond a doubt; there cannot be two opinions on that point.'\"\n\n\"Upon my word! Well, that is very decided indeed--that does seem as\nif--but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know.\"\n\n\"_My_ overhearings were more to the purpose than _yours_, Eliza,\" said\nCharlotte. \"Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend,\nis he?--poor Eliza!--to be only just _tolerable_.\"\n\n\"I beg you would not put it into Lizzy's head to be vexed by his\nill-treatment, for he is such a disagreeable man, that it would be quite\na misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night that he\nsat close to her for half-an-hour without once opening his lips.\"\n\n\"Are you quite sure, ma'am?--is not there a little mistake?\" said Jane.\n\"I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her.\"\n\n\"Aye--because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he\ncould not help answering her; but she said he seemed quite angry at\nbeing spoke to.\"\n\n\"Miss Bingley told me,\" said Jane, \"that he never speaks much,\nunless among his intimate acquaintances. With _them_ he is remarkably\nagreeable.\"\n\n\"I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very\nagreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how it\nwas; everybody says that he is eat up with pride, and I dare say he had\nheard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage, and had come to\nthe ball in a hack chaise.\"\n\n\"I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,\" said Miss Lucas, \"but I\nwish he had danced with Eliza.\"\n\n\"Another time, Lizzy,\" said her mother, \"I would not dance with _him_,\nif I were you.\"\n\n\"I believe, ma'am, I may safely promise you _never_ to dance with him.\"\n\n\"His pride,\" said Miss Lucas, \"does not offend _me_ so much as pride\noften does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so\nvery fine a young man, with family, fortune, everything in his favour,\nshould think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a _right_\nto be proud.\"\n\n\"That is very true,\" replied Elizabeth, \"and I could easily forgive\n_his_ pride, if he had not mortified _mine_.\"\n\n\"Pride,\" observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her\nreflections, \"is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have\never read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed; that human\nnature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us\nwho do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some\nquality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different\nthings, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may\nbe proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of\nourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.\"\n\n\"If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,\" cried a young Lucas, who came with\nhis sisters, \"I should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of\nfoxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine a day.\"\n\n\"Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,\" said Mrs.\nBennet; \"and if I were to see you at it, I should take away your bottle\ndirectly.\"\n\nThe boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she\nwould, and the argument ended only with the visit.\n\n\n\nChapter 6\n\n\nThe ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit\nwas soon returned in due form. Miss Bennet's pleasing manners grew on\nthe goodwill of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was\nfound to be intolerable, and the younger sisters not worth speaking to,\na wish of being better acquainted with _them_ was expressed towards\nthe two eldest. By Jane, this attention was received with the greatest\npleasure, but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment\nof everybody, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them;\nthough their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value as arising in\nall probability from the influence of their brother's admiration. It\nwas generally evident whenever they met, that he _did_ admire her and\nto _her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference\nwhich she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a\nway to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it\nwas not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane\nunited, with great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and a\nuniform cheerfulness of manner which would guard her from the suspicions\nof the impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas.\n\n\"It may perhaps be pleasant,\" replied Charlotte, \"to be able to impose\non the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be\nso very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill\nfrom the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and\nit will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in\nthe dark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every\nattachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all\n_begin_ freely--a slight preference is natural enough; but there are\nvery few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without\nencouragement. In nine cases out of ten a women had better show _more_\naffection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he\nmay never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.\"\n\n\"But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If I can\nperceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton, indeed, not to\ndiscover it too.\"\n\n\"Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane's disposition as you do.\"\n\n\"But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to conceal\nit, he must find it out.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But, though Bingley and Jane\nmeet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and, as they\nalways see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that\nevery moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should\ntherefore make the most of every half-hour in which she can command his\nattention. When she is secure of him, there will be more leisure for\nfalling in love as much as she chooses.\"\n\n\"Your plan is a good one,\" replied Elizabeth, \"where nothing is in\nquestion but the desire of being well married, and if I were determined\nto get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I should adopt it. But\nthese are not Jane's feelings; she is not acting by design. As yet,\nshe cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard nor of its\nreasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four\ndances with him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house,\nand has since dined with him in company four times. This is not quite\nenough to make her understand his character.\"\n\n\"Not as you represent it. Had she merely _dined_ with him, she might\nonly have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must\nremember that four evenings have also been spent together--and four\nevenings may do a great deal.\"\n\n\"Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they\nboth like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect to any other\nleading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has been unfolded.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Charlotte, \"I wish Jane success with all my heart; and\nif she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a\nchance of happiness as if she were to be studying his character for a\ntwelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If\nthe dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other or\never so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the\nleast. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to\nhave their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as\npossible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your\nlife.\"\n\n\"You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it is not\nsound, and that you would never act in this way yourself.\"\n\nOccupied in observing Mr. Bingley's attentions to her sister, Elizabeth\nwas far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some\ninterest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely\nallowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the\nball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise. But no\nsooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she hardly\nhad a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered\nuncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To\nthis discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had\ndetected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry\nin her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and\npleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those\nof the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of\nthis she was perfectly unaware; to her he was only the man who made\nhimself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough\nto dance with.\n\nHe began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards conversing\nwith her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so\ndrew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas's, where a large party were\nassembled.\n\n\"What does Mr. Darcy mean,\" said she to Charlotte, \"by listening to my\nconversation with Colonel Forster?\"\n\n\"That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.\"\n\n\"But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see\nwhat he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by\nbeing impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him.\"\n\nOn his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have\nany intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such\na subject to him; which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she\nturned to him and said:\n\n\"Did you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly\nwell just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at\nMeryton?\"\n\n\"With great energy; but it is always a subject which makes a lady\nenergetic.\"\n\n\"You are severe on us.\"\n\n\"It will be _her_ turn soon to be teased,\" said Miss Lucas. \"I am going\nto open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.\"\n\n\"You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me\nto play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken\na musical turn, you would have been invaluable; but as it is, I would\nreally rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of\nhearing the very best performers.\" On Miss Lucas's persevering, however,\nshe added, \"Very well, if it must be so, it must.\" And gravely glancing\nat Mr. Darcy, \"There is a fine old saying, which everybody here is of\ncourse familiar with: 'Keep your breath to cool your porridge'; and I\nshall keep mine to swell my song.\"\n\nHer performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song\nor two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that\nshe would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her\nsister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in\nthe family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always\nimpatient for display.\n\nMary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her\napplication, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited\nmanner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she\nhad reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with\nmuch more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the\nend of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by\nScotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who,\nwith some of the Lucases, and two or three officers, joined eagerly in\ndancing at one end of the room.\n\nMr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of\npassing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too\nmuch engrossed by his thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas was\nhis neighbour, till Sir William thus began:\n\n\"What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy! There\nis nothing like dancing after all. I consider it as one of the first\nrefinements of polished society.\"\n\n\"Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst\nthe less polished societies of the world. Every savage can dance.\"\n\nSir William only smiled. \"Your friend performs delightfully,\" he\ncontinued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group; \"and I doubt\nnot that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy.\"\n\n\"You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do\nyou often dance at St. James's?\"\n\n\"Never, sir.\"\n\n\"Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?\"\n\n\"It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it.\"\n\n\"You have a house in town, I conclude?\"\n\nMr. Darcy bowed.\n\n\"I had once had some thought of fixing in town myself--for I am fond\nof superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of\nLondon would agree with Lady Lucas.\"\n\nHe paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not disposed\nto make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was\nstruck with the action of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to\nher:\n\n\"My dear Miss Eliza, why are you not dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow\nme to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You\ncannot refuse to dance, I am sure when so much beauty is before you.\"\nAnd, taking her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy who, though\nextremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly\ndrew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William:\n\n\"Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you\nnot to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.\"\n\nMr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the honour of\nher hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did Sir William at\nall shake her purpose by his attempt at persuasion.\n\n\"You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny\nme the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the\namusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us\nfor one half-hour.\"\n\n\"Mr. Darcy is all politeness,\" said Elizabeth, smiling.\n\n\"He is, indeed; but, considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza,\nwe cannot wonder at his complaisance--for who would object to such a\npartner?\"\n\nElizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not\ninjured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with some\ncomplacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley:\n\n\"I can guess the subject of your reverie.\"\n\n\"I should imagine not.\"\n\n\"You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings\nin this manner--in such society; and indeed I am quite of your opinion.\nI was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the noise--the\nnothingness, and yet the self-importance of all those people! What would\nI give to hear your strictures on them!\"\n\n\"Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more\nagreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure\nwhich a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.\"\n\nMiss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he\nwould tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections.\nMr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity:\n\n\"Miss Elizabeth Bennet.\"\n\n\"Miss Elizabeth Bennet!\" repeated Miss Bingley. \"I am all astonishment.\nHow long has she been such a favourite?--and pray, when am I to wish you\njoy?\"\n\n\"That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's\nimagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love\nto matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy.\"\n\n\"Nay, if you are serious about it, I shall consider the matter is\nabsolutely settled. You will be having a charming mother-in-law, indeed;\nand, of course, she will always be at Pemberley with you.\"\n\nHe listened to her with perfect indifference while she chose to\nentertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced her\nthat all was safe, her wit flowed long.\n\n\n\nChapter 7\n\n\nMr. Bennet's property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two\nthousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed,\nin default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother's\nfortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply\nthe deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and\nhad left her four thousand pounds.\n\nShe had a sister married to a Mr. Phillips, who had been a clerk to\ntheir father and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in\nLondon in a respectable line of trade.\n\nThe village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most\nconvenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted\nthither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt and\nto a milliner's shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family,\nCatherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions;\ntheir minds were more vacant than their sisters', and when nothing\nbetter offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning\nhours and furnish conversation for the evening; and however bare of news\nthe country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some\nfrom their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with\nnews and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the\nneighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the\nheadquarters.\n\nTheir visits to Mrs. Phillips were now productive of the most\ninteresting intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge\nof the officers' names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a\nsecret, and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr.\nPhillips visited them all, and this opened to his nieces a store of\nfelicity unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and\nMr. Bingley's large fortune, the mention of which gave animation\nto their mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the\nregimentals of an ensign.\n\nAfter listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr.\nBennet coolly observed:\n\n\"From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two\nof the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but\nI am now convinced.\"\n\nCatherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with perfect\nindifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter,\nand her hope of seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the\nnext morning to London.\n\n\"I am astonished, my dear,\" said Mrs. Bennet, \"that you should be so\nready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly\nof anybody's children, it should not be of my own, however.\"\n\n\"If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of it.\"\n\n\"Yes--but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.\"\n\n\"This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I\nhad hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must\nso far differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly\nfoolish.\"\n\n\"My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of\ntheir father and mother. When they get to our age, I dare say they will\nnot think about officers any more than we do. I remember the time when\nI liked a red coat myself very well--and, indeed, so I do still at my\nheart; and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year,\nshould want one of my girls I shall not say nay to him; and I thought\nColonel Forster looked very becoming the other night at Sir William's in\nhis regimentals.\"\n\n\"Mamma,\" cried Lydia, \"my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain\nCarter do not go so often to Miss Watson's as they did when they first\ncame; she sees them now very often standing in Clarke's library.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with\na note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited\nfor an answer. Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was\neagerly calling out, while her daughter read,\n\n\"Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say? Well,\nJane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love.\"\n\n\"It is from Miss Bingley,\" said Jane, and then read it aloud.\n\n\"MY DEAR FRIEND,--\n\n\"If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and me,\nwe shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives,\nfor a whole day's tete-a-tete between two women can never end without a\nquarrel. Come as soon as you can on receipt of this. My brother and the\ngentlemen are to dine with the officers.--Yours ever,\n\n\"CAROLINE BINGLEY\"\n\n\"With the officers!\" cried Lydia. \"I wonder my aunt did not tell us of\n_that_.\"\n\n\"Dining out,\" said Mrs. Bennet, \"that is very unlucky.\"\n\n\"Can I have the carriage?\" said Jane.\n\n\"No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to\nrain; and then you must stay all night.\"\n\n\"That would be a good scheme,\" said Elizabeth, \"if you were sure that\nthey would not offer to send her home.\"\n\n\"Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley's chaise to go to Meryton,\nand the Hursts have no horses to theirs.\"\n\n\"I had much rather go in the coach.\"\n\n\"But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are\nwanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are they not?\"\n\n\"They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them.\"\n\n\"But if you have got them to-day,\" said Elizabeth, \"my mother's purpose\nwill be answered.\"\n\nShe did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the horses\nwere engaged. Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her\nmother attended her to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a\nbad day. Her hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone long before\nit rained hard. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was\ndelighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission;\nJane certainly could not come back.\n\n\"This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!\" said Mrs. Bennet more than\nonce, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the\nnext morning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her\ncontrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield\nbrought the following note for Elizabeth:\n\n\"MY DEAREST LIZZY,--\n\n\"I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be\nimputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will not\nhear of my returning till I am better. They insist also on my seeing Mr.\nJones--therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear of his having been\nto me--and, excepting a sore throat and headache, there is not much the\nmatter with me.--Yours, etc.\"\n\n\"Well, my dear,\" said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note\naloud, \"if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness--if she\nshould die, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of\nMr. Bingley, and under your orders.\"\n\n\"Oh! I am not afraid of her dying. People do not die of little trifling\ncolds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays there, it is\nall very well. I would go and see her if I could have the carriage.\"\n\nElizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her, though\nthe carriage was not to be had; and as she was no horsewoman, walking\nwas her only alternative. She declared her resolution.\n\n\"How can you be so silly,\" cried her mother, \"as to think of such a\nthing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get\nthere.\"\n\n\"I shall be very fit to see Jane--which is all I want.\"\n\n\"Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,\" said her father, \"to send for the\nhorses?\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is nothing\nwhen one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back by dinner.\"\n\n\"I admire the activity of your benevolence,\" observed Mary, \"but every\nimpulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my opinion,\nexertion should always be in proportion to what is required.\"\n\n\"We will go as far as Meryton with you,\" said Catherine and Lydia.\nElizabeth accepted their company, and the three young ladies set off\ntogether.\n\n\"If we make haste,\" said Lydia, as they walked along, \"perhaps we may\nsee something of Captain Carter before he goes.\"\n\nIn Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one\nof the officers' wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing\nfield after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing\nover puddles with impatient activity, and finding herself at last\nwithin view of the house, with weary ankles, dirty stockings, and a face\nglowing with the warmth of exercise.\n\nShe was shown into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were\nassembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of surprise.\nThat she should have walked three miles so early in the day, in such\ndirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and\nMiss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in contempt\nfor it. She was received, however, very politely by them; and in their\nbrother's manners there was something better than politeness; there\nwas good humour and kindness. Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr.\nHurst nothing at all. The former was divided between admiration of the\nbrilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as\nto the occasion's justifying her coming so far alone. The latter was\nthinking only of his breakfast.\n\nHer inquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered. Miss\nBennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish, and not\nwell enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be taken to her\nimmediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the fear of giving\nalarm or inconvenience from expressing in her note how much she longed\nfor such a visit, was delighted at her entrance. She was not equal,\nhowever, to much conversation, and when Miss Bingley left them\ntogether, could attempt little besides expressions of gratitude for the\nextraordinary kindness she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended\nher.\n\nWhen breakfast was over they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth\nbegan to like them herself, when she saw how much affection and\nsolicitude they showed for Jane. The apothecary came, and having\nexamined his patient, said, as might be supposed, that she had caught\na violent cold, and that they must endeavour to get the better of it;\nadvised her to return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The advice\nwas followed readily, for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head\nached acutely. Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment; nor were\nthe other ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had, in\nfact, nothing to do elsewhere.\n\nWhen the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go, and very\nunwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage, and she only\nwanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane testified such concern\nin parting with her, that Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer\nof the chaise to an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the present.\nElizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was dispatched to\nLongbourn to acquaint the family with her stay and bring back a supply\nof clothes.\n\n\n\nChapter 8\n\n\nAt five o'clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half-past six\nElizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil inquiries which then\npoured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of distinguishing the\nmuch superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley's, she could not make a very\nfavourable answer. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing\nthis, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how\nshocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked\nbeing ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter: and their\nindifference towards Jane when not immediately before them restored\nElizabeth to the enjoyment of all her former dislike.\n\nTheir brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she could\nregard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his\nattentions to herself most pleasing, and they prevented her feeling\nherself so much an intruder as she believed she was considered by the\nothers. She had very little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley was\nengrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so; and as for Mr.\nHurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he was an indolent man, who lived only to\neat, drink, and play at cards; who, when he found her to prefer a plain\ndish to a ragout, had nothing to say to her.\n\nWhen dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley\nbegan abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her manners were\npronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence;\nshe had no conversation, no style, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst thought the\nsame, and added:\n\n\"She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent\nwalker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really\nlooked almost wild.\"\n\n\"She did, indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very\nnonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering about the\ncountry, because her sister had a cold? Her hair, so untidy, so blowsy!\"\n\n\"Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep\nin mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been let down to\nhide it not doing its office.\"\n\n\"Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,\" said Bingley; \"but this was\nall lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably\nwell when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite\nescaped my notice.\"\n\n\"_You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,\" said Miss Bingley; \"and I am\ninclined to think that you would not wish to see _your_ sister make such\nan exhibition.\"\n\n\"Certainly not.\"\n\n\"To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is,\nabove her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! What could she mean by\nit? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence,\na most country-town indifference to decorum.\"\n\n\"It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,\" said\nBingley.\n\n\"I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,\" observed Miss Bingley in a half whisper, \"that\nthis adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes.\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" he replied; \"they were brightened by the exercise.\" A\nshort pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again:\n\n\"I have an excessive regard for Miss Jane Bennet, she is really a very\nsweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with\nsuch a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is\nno chance of it.\"\n\n\"I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in\nMeryton.\"\n\n\"Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.\"\n\n\"That is capital,\" added her sister, and they both laughed heartily.\n\n\"If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside,\" cried Bingley, \"it\nwould not make them one jot less agreeable.\"\n\n\"But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any\nconsideration in the world,\" replied Darcy.\n\nTo this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their\nhearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of\ntheir dear friend's vulgar relations.\n\nWith a renewal of tenderness, however, they returned to her room on\nleaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee.\nShe was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till\nlate in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her sleep, and\nwhen it seemed to her rather right than pleasant that she should go\ndownstairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole\nparty at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting\nthem to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the\nexcuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay\nbelow, with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.\n\n\"Do you prefer reading to cards?\" said he; \"that is rather singular.\"\n\n\"Miss Eliza Bennet,\" said Miss Bingley, \"despises cards. She is a great\nreader, and has no pleasure in anything else.\"\n\n\"I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,\" cried Elizabeth; \"I am\n_not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.\"\n\n\"In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,\" said Bingley; \"and\nI hope it will be soon increased by seeing her quite well.\"\n\nElizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards the\ntable where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her\nothers--all that his library afforded.\n\n\"And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own\ncredit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more\nthan I ever looked into.\"\n\nElizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those\nin the room.\n\n\"I am astonished,\" said Miss Bingley, \"that my father should have left\nso small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at\nPemberley, Mr. Darcy!\"\n\n\"It ought to be good,\" he replied, \"it has been the work of many\ngenerations.\"\n\n\"And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying\nbooks.\"\n\n\"I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as\nthese.\"\n\n\"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of\nthat noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be\nhalf as delightful as Pemberley.\"\n\n\"I wish it may.\"\n\n\"But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that\nneighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a\nfiner county in England than Derbyshire.\"\n\n\"With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it.\"\n\n\"I am talking of possibilities, Charles.\"\n\n\"Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get\nPemberley by purchase than by imitation.\"\n\nElizabeth was so much caught with what passed, as to leave her very\nlittle attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew\nnear the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his\neldest sister, to observe the game.\n\n\"Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?\" said Miss Bingley; \"will\nshe be as tall as I am?\"\n\n\"I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or\nrather taller.\"\n\n\"How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me\nso much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so extremely accomplished\nfor her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.\"\n\n\"It is amazing to me,\" said Bingley, \"how young ladies can have patience\nto be so very accomplished as they all are.\"\n\n\"All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?\"\n\n\"Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens, and\nnet purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this, and I am sure\nI never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being\ninformed that she was very accomplished.\"\n\n\"Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,\" said Darcy, \"has\ntoo much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no\notherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. But I am very\nfar from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I\ncannot boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen, in the whole range of my\nacquaintance, that are really accomplished.\"\n\n\"Nor I, I am sure,\" said Miss Bingley.\n\n\"Then,\" observed Elizabeth, \"you must comprehend a great deal in your\nidea of an accomplished woman.\"\n\n\"Yes, I do comprehend a great deal in it.\"\n\n\"Oh! certainly,\" cried his faithful assistant, \"no one can be really\nesteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met\nwith. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing,\ndancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides\nall this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of\nwalking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word\nwill be but half-deserved.\"\n\n\"All this she must possess,\" added Darcy, \"and to all this she must\nyet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by\nextensive reading.\"\n\n\"I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women.\nI rather wonder now at your knowing _any_.\"\n\n\"Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility of all\nthis?\"\n\n\"I never saw such a woman. I never saw such capacity, and taste, and\napplication, and elegance, as you describe united.\"\n\nMrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her\nimplied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who\nanswered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with\nbitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all\nconversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the\nroom.\n\n\"Elizabeth Bennet,\" said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her,\n\"is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the\nother sex by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it\nsucceeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art.\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly,\" replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed,\n\"there is a meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend\nto employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is\ndespicable.\"\n\nMiss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to\ncontinue the subject.\n\nElizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and\nthat she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones being sent for\nimmediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could\nbe of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most\neminent physicians. This she would not hear of; but she was not so\nunwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled\nthat Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet\nwere not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters\ndeclared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness,\nhowever, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief\nto his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every\nattention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister.\n\n\n\nChapter 9\n\n\nElizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister's room, and in the\nmorning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the\ninquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid,\nand some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his\nsisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a\nnote sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her\nown judgement of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and\nits contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her\ntwo youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast.\n\nHad she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been\nvery miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was\nnot alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her\nrestoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She\nwould not listen, therefore, to her daughter's proposal of being carried\nhome; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think\nit at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss\nBingley's appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all\nattended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes\nthat Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected.\n\n\"Indeed I have, sir,\" was her answer. \"She is a great deal too ill to be\nmoved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass\na little longer on your kindness.\"\n\n\"Removed!\" cried Bingley. \"It must not be thought of. My sister, I am\nsure, will not hear of her removal.\"\n\n\"You may depend upon it, Madam,\" said Miss Bingley, with cold civility,\n\"that Miss Bennet will receive every possible attention while she\nremains with us.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.\n\n\"I am sure,\" she added, \"if it was not for such good friends I do not\nknow what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers\na vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is\nalways the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest\ntemper I have ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are\nnothing to _her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a\ncharming prospect over the gravel walk. I do not know a place in the\ncountry that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it\nin a hurry, I hope, though you have but a short lease.\"\n\n\"Whatever I do is done in a hurry,\" replied he; \"and therefore if I\nshould resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five\nminutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here.\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,\" said Elizabeth.\n\n\"You begin to comprehend me, do you?\" cried he, turning towards her.\n\n\"Oh! yes--I understand you perfectly.\"\n\n\"I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen\nthrough I am afraid is pitiful.\"\n\n\"That is as it happens. It does not follow that a deep, intricate\ncharacter is more or less estimable than such a one as yours.\"\n\n\"Lizzy,\" cried her mother, \"remember where you are, and do not run on in\nthe wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.\"\n\n\"I did not know before,\" continued Bingley immediately, \"that you were a\nstudier of character. It must be an amusing study.\"\n\n\"Yes, but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at\nleast that advantage.\"\n\n\"The country,\" said Darcy, \"can in general supply but a few subjects for\nsuch a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and\nunvarying society.\"\n\n\"But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be\nobserved in them for ever.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning\na country neighbourhood. \"I assure you there is quite as much of _that_\ngoing on in the country as in town.\"\n\nEverybody was surprised, and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment,\nturned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete\nvictory over him, continued her triumph.\n\n\"I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, for\nmy part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal\npleasanter, is it not, Mr. Bingley?\"\n\n\"When I am in the country,\" he replied, \"I never wish to leave it;\nand when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their\nadvantages, and I can be equally happy in either.\"\n\n\"Aye--that is because you have the right disposition. But that\ngentleman,\" looking at Darcy, \"seemed to think the country was nothing\nat all.\"\n\n\"Indeed, Mamma, you are mistaken,\" said Elizabeth, blushing for her\nmother. \"You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there was not\nsuch a variety of people to be met with in the country as in the town,\nwhich you must acknowledge to be true.\"\n\n\"Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting\nwith many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few\nneighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four-and-twenty families.\"\n\nNothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his\ncountenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eyes towards\nMr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of\nsaying something that might turn her mother's thoughts, now asked her if\nCharlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since _her_ coming away.\n\n\"Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir\nWilliam is, Mr. Bingley, is not he? So much the man of fashion! So\ngenteel and easy! He has always something to say to everybody. _That_\nis my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very\nimportant, and never open their mouths, quite mistake the matter.\"\n\n\"Did Charlotte dine with you?\"\n\n\"No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince-pies. For\nmy part, Mr. Bingley, I always keep servants that can do their own work;\n_my_ daughters are brought up very differently. But everybody is to\njudge for themselves, and the Lucases are a very good sort of girls,\nI assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that I think\nCharlotte so _very_ plain--but then she is our particular friend.\"\n\n\"She seems a very pleasant young woman.\"\n\n\"Oh! dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself\nhas often said so, and envied me Jane's beauty. I do not like to boast\nof my own child, but to be sure, Jane--one does not often see anybody\nbetter looking. It is what everybody says. I do not trust my own\npartiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a man at my brother\nGardiner's in town so much in love with her that my sister-in-law was\nsure he would make her an offer before we came away. But, however, he\ndid not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses\non her, and very pretty they were.\"\n\n\"And so ended his affection,\" said Elizabeth impatiently. \"There has\nbeen many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first\ndiscovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!\"\n\n\"I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love,\" said Darcy.\n\n\"Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is\nstrong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I\nam convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.\"\n\nDarcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth\ntremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to\nspeak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs.\nBennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to\nJane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was\nunaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be\ncivil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part\nindeed without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and\nsoon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of\nher daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to\neach other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the\nyoungest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming\ninto the country to give a ball at Netherfield.\n\nLydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion\nand good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose\naffection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high\nanimal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the\nattention of the officers, to whom her uncle's good dinners, and her own\neasy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very\nequal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and\nabruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most\nshameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this\nsudden attack was delightful to their mother's ear:\n\n\"I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when\nyour sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of\nthe ball. But you would not wish to be dancing when she is ill.\"\n\nLydia declared herself satisfied. \"Oh! yes--it would be much better to\nwait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter\nwould be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball,\" she\nadded, \"I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel\nForster it will be quite a shame if he does not.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned\ninstantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the\nremarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however,\ncould not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of\nall Miss Bingley's witticisms on _fine eyes_.\n\n\n\nChapter 10\n\n\nThe day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss\nBingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who\ncontinued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined\ntheir party in the drawing-room. The loo-table, however, did not appear.\nMr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching\nthe progress of his letter and repeatedly calling off his attention by\nmessages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and\nMrs. Hurst was observing their game.\n\nElizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in\nattending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual\ncommendations of the lady, either on his handwriting, or on the evenness\nof his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern\nwith which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was\nexactly in union with her opinion of each.\n\n\"How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!\"\n\nHe made no answer.\n\n\"You write uncommonly fast.\"\n\n\"You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.\"\n\n\"How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a\nyear! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!\"\n\n\"It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of yours.\"\n\n\"Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.\"\n\n\"I have already told her so once, by your desire.\"\n\n\"I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend\npens remarkably well.\"\n\n\"Thank you--but I always mend my own.\"\n\n\"How can you contrive to write so even?\"\n\nHe was silent.\n\n\"Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp;\nand pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful\nlittle design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss\nGrantley's.\"\n\n\"Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At\npresent I have not room to do them justice.\"\n\n\"Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you\nalways write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?\"\n\n\"They are generally long; but whether always charming it is not for me\nto determine.\"\n\n\"It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter with\nease, cannot write ill.\"\n\n\"That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,\" cried her\nbrother, \"because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much for\nwords of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?\"\n\n\"My style of writing is very different from yours.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" cried Miss Bingley, \"Charles writes in the most careless way\nimaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.\"\n\n\"My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them--by which\nmeans my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.\"\n\n\"Your humility, Mr. Bingley,\" said Elizabeth, \"must disarm reproof.\"\n\n\"Nothing is more deceitful,\" said Darcy, \"than the appearance of\nhumility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an\nindirect boast.\"\n\n\"And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?\"\n\n\"The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in\nwriting, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of\nthought and carelessness of execution, which, if not estimable, you\nthink at least highly interesting. The power of doing anything with\nquickness is always prized much by the possessor, and often without any\nattention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs.\nBennet this morning that if you ever resolved upon quitting Netherfield\nyou should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of\npanegyric, of compliment to yourself--and yet what is there so very\nlaudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business\nundone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or anyone else?\"\n\n\"Nay,\" cried Bingley, \"this is too much, to remember at night all the\nfoolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour,\nI believe what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this\nmoment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless\nprecipitance merely to show off before the ladies.\"\n\n\"I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that\nyou would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as\ndependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were\nmounting your horse, a friend were to say, 'Bingley, you had better\nstay till next week,' you would probably do it, you would probably not\ngo--and at another word, might stay a month.\"\n\n\"You have only proved by this,\" cried Elizabeth, \"that Mr. Bingley did\nnot do justice to his own disposition. You have shown him off now much\nmore than he did himself.\"\n\n\"I am exceedingly gratified,\" said Bingley, \"by your converting what my\nfriend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am\nafraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means\nintend; for he would certainly think better of me, if under such a\ncircumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I\ncould.\"\n\n\"Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intentions\nas atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?\"\n\n\"Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter; Darcy must speak for\nhimself.\"\n\n\"You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call mine,\nbut which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to\nstand according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet,\nthat the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and\nthe delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering\none argument in favour of its propriety.\"\n\n\"To yield readily--easily--to the _persuasion_ of a friend is no merit\nwith you.\"\n\n\"To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of\neither.\"\n\n\"You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of\nfriendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make\none readily yield to a request, without waiting for arguments to reason\none into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have\nsupposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the\ncircumstance occurs before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour\nthereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend,\nwhere one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no\nvery great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying\nwith the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?\"\n\n\"Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to\narrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to\nappertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting\nbetween the parties?\"\n\n\"By all means,\" cried Bingley; \"let us hear all the particulars, not\nforgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have more\nweight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure\nyou, that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with\nmyself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not\nknow a more awful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in\nparticular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening,\nwhen he has nothing to do.\"\n\nMr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that he was\nrather offended, and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly\nresented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with her\nbrother for talking such nonsense.\n\n\"I see your design, Bingley,\" said his friend. \"You dislike an argument,\nand want to silence this.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss\nBennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very\nthankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me.\"\n\n\"What you ask,\" said Elizabeth, \"is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr.\nDarcy had much better finish his letter.\"\n\nMr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.\n\nWhen that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth\nfor an indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with some alacrity\nto the pianoforte; and, after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead\nthe way which the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she\nseated herself.\n\nMrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus employed,\nElizabeth could not help observing, as she turned over some music-books\nthat lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy's eyes were fixed\non her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of\nadmiration to so great a man; and yet that he should look at her\nbecause he disliked her, was still more strange. She could only imagine,\nhowever, at last that she drew his notice because there was something\nmore wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in\nany other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked\nhim too little to care for his approbation.\n\nAfter playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by\na lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near\nElizabeth, said to her:\n\n\"Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an\nopportunity of dancing a reel?\"\n\nShe smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some\nsurprise at her silence.\n\n\"Oh!\" said she, \"I heard you before, but I could not immediately\ndetermine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say 'Yes,'\nthat you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always\ndelight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of\ntheir premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell\nyou, that I do not want to dance a reel at all--and now despise me if\nyou dare.\"\n\n\"Indeed I do not dare.\"\n\nElizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his\ngallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her\nmanner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody; and Darcy\nhad never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really\nbelieved, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he\nshould be in some danger.\n\nMiss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her great\nanxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received some\nassistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth.\n\nShe often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of\ntheir supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance.\n\n\"I hope,\" said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery\nthe next day, \"you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this\ndesirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue;\nand if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after\nofficers. And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to\ncheck that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence,\nwhich your lady possesses.\"\n\n\"Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Phillips be placed\nin the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great-uncle the\njudge. They are in the same profession, you know, only in different\nlines. As for your Elizabeth's picture, you must not have it taken, for\nwhat painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?\"\n\n\"It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their\ncolour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, might be\ncopied.\"\n\nAt that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and\nElizabeth herself.\n\n\"I did not know that you intended to walk,\" said Miss Bingley, in some\nconfusion, lest they had been overheard.\n\n\"You used us abominably ill,\" answered Mrs. Hurst, \"running away without\ntelling us that you were coming out.\"\n\nThen taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk\nby herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness,\nand immediately said:\n\n\"This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the\navenue.\"\n\nBut Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them,\nlaughingly answered:\n\n\"No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and appear\nto uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a\nfourth. Good-bye.\"\n\nShe then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the hope of\nbeing at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered\nas to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening.\n\n\n\nChapter 11\n\n\nWhen the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her\nsister, and seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the\ndrawing-room, where she was welcomed by her two friends with many\nprofessions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable\nas they were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared.\nTheir powers of conversation were considerable. They could describe an\nentertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh\nat their acquaintance with spirit.\n\nBut when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object;\nMiss Bingley's eyes were instantly turned toward Darcy, and she had\nsomething to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed\nhimself to Miss Bennet, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst also\nmade her a slight bow, and said he was \"very glad;\" but diffuseness\nand warmth remained for Bingley's salutation. He was full of joy and\nattention. The first half-hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she\nshould suffer from the change of room; and she removed at his desire\nto the other side of the fireplace, that she might be further from\nthe door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to anyone\nelse. Elizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great\ndelight.\n\nWhen tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the\ncard-table--but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr.\nDarcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open\npetition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and\nthe silence of the whole party on the subject seemed to justify her. Mr.\nHurst had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch himself on one of the\nsofas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same;\nand Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets\nand rings, joined now and then in her brother's conversation with Miss\nBennet.\n\nMiss Bingley's attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr.\nDarcy's progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own; and she\nwas perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She\ncould not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her\nquestion, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be\namused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the\nsecond volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, \"How pleasant\nit is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no\nenjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a\nbook! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not\nan excellent library.\"\n\nNo one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and\ncast her eyes round the room in quest for some amusement; when hearing\nher brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly\ntowards him and said:\n\n\"By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at\nNetherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult\nthe wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are\nnot some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a\npleasure.\"\n\n\"If you mean Darcy,\" cried her brother, \"he may go to bed, if he\nchooses, before it begins--but as for the ball, it is quite a settled\nthing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough, I shall send\nround my cards.\"\n\n\"I should like balls infinitely better,\" she replied, \"if they were\ncarried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably\ntedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much\nmore rational if conversation instead of dancing were made the order of\nthe day.\"\n\n\"Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be\nnear so much like a ball.\"\n\nMiss Bingley made no answer, and soon afterwards she got up and walked\nabout the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well; but\nDarcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In\nthe desperation of her feelings, she resolved on one effort more, and,\nturning to Elizabeth, said:\n\n\"Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a\nturn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so\nlong in one attitude.\"\n\nElizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley\nsucceeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked\nup. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as\nElizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was\ndirectly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing that\nhe could imagine but two motives for their choosing to walk up and down\nthe room together, with either of which motives his joining them would\ninterfere. \"What could he mean? She was dying to know what could be his\nmeaning?\"--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him?\n\n\"Not at all,\" was her answer; \"but depend upon it, he means to be severe\non us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing\nabout it.\"\n\nMiss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in\nanything, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his\ntwo motives.\n\n\"I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,\" said he, as soon\nas she allowed him to speak. \"You either choose this method of passing\nthe evening because you are in each other's confidence, and have secret\naffairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures\nappear to the greatest advantage in walking; if the first, I would be\ncompletely in your way, and if the second, I can admire you much better\nas I sit by the fire.\"\n\n\"Oh! shocking!\" cried Miss Bingley. \"I never heard anything so\nabominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?\"\n\n\"Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,\" said Elizabeth. \"We\ncan all plague and punish one another. Tease him--laugh at him. Intimate\nas you are, you must know how it is to be done.\"\n\n\"But upon my honour, I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has\nnot yet taught me _that_. Tease calmness of manner and presence of\nmind! No, no; I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will\nnot expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a\nsubject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself.\"\n\n\"Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!\" cried Elizabeth. \"That is an\nuncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would\nbe a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintances. I dearly love a\nlaugh.\"\n\n\"Miss Bingley,\" said he, \"has given me more credit than can be.\nThe wisest and the best of men--nay, the wisest and best of their\nactions--may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in\nlife is a joke.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" replied Elizabeth--\"there are such people, but I hope I\nam not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise and good.\nFollies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, _do_ divert me, I own,\nand I laugh at them whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are precisely\nwhat you are without.\"\n\n\"Perhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has been the study\nof my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong\nunderstanding to ridicule.\"\n\n\"Such as vanity and pride.\"\n\n\"Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real\nsuperiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.\"\n\nElizabeth turned away to hide a smile.\n\n\"Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,\" said Miss Bingley;\n\"and pray what is the result?\"\n\n\"I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it\nhimself without disguise.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Darcy, \"I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough,\nbut they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch\nfor. It is, I believe, too little yielding--certainly too little for the\nconvenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others\nso soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings\nare not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper\nwould perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost\nforever.\"\n\n\"_That_ is a failing indeed!\" cried Elizabeth. \"Implacable resentment\n_is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I\nreally cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me.\"\n\n\"There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular\nevil--a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.\"\n\n\"And _your_ defect is to hate everybody.\"\n\n\"And yours,\" he replied with a smile, \"is willfully to misunderstand\nthem.\"\n\n\"Do let us have a little music,\" cried Miss Bingley, tired of a\nconversation in which she had no share. \"Louisa, you will not mind my\nwaking Mr. Hurst?\"\n\nHer sister had not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was\nopened; and Darcy, after a few moments' recollection, was not sorry for\nit. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention.\n\n\n\nChapter 12\n\n\nIn consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the\nnext morning to their mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for\nthem in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on\nher daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which\nwould exactly finish Jane's week, could not bring herself to receive\nthem with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at\nleast not to Elizabeth's wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs.\nBennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage\nbefore Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley\nand his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them\nvery well. Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively\nresolved--nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the\ncontrary, as being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long,\nshe urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley's carriage immediately, and at\nlength it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield\nthat morning should be mentioned, and the request made.\n\nThe communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was\nsaid of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work\non Jane; and till the morrow their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was\nthen sorry that she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike\nof one sister much exceeded her affection for the other.\n\nThe master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so\nsoon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be\nsafe for her--that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where\nshe felt herself to be right.\n\nTo Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence--Elizabeth had been at\nNetherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked--and Miss\nBingley was uncivil to _her_, and more teasing than usual to himself.\nHe wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration\nshould _now_ escape him, nothing that could elevate her with the hope\nof influencing his felicity; sensible that if such an idea had been\nsuggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight\nin confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke\nten words to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were\nat one time left by themselves for half-an-hour, he adhered most\nconscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her.\n\nOn Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost\nall, took place. Miss Bingley's civility to Elizabeth increased at last\nvery rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted,\nafter assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her\nto see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most\ntenderly, she even shook hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of\nthe whole party in the liveliest of spirits.\n\nThey were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet\nwondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much\ntrouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again. But their\nfather, though very laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really\nglad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The\nevening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of\nits animation, and almost all its sense by the absence of Jane and\nElizabeth.\n\nThey found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough-bass and human\nnature; and had some extracts to admire, and some new observations of\nthreadbare morality to listen to. Catherine and Lydia had information\nfor them of a different sort. Much had been done and much had been said\nin the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers\nhad dined lately with their uncle, a private had been flogged, and it\nhad actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married.\n\n\n\nChapter 13\n\n\n\"I hope, my dear,\" said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at\nbreakfast the next morning, \"that you have ordered a good dinner to-day,\nbecause I have reason to expect an addition to our family party.\"\n\n\"Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am sure,\nunless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in--and I hope _my_ dinners\nare good enough for her. I do not believe she often sees such at home.\"\n\n\"The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a stranger.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled. \"A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr.\nBingley, I am sure! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see Mr.\nBingley. But--good Lord! how unlucky! There is not a bit of fish to be\ngot to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell--I must speak to Hill this\nmoment.\"\n\n\"It is _not_ Mr. Bingley,\" said her husband; \"it is a person whom I\nnever saw in the whole course of my life.\"\n\nThis roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of being\neagerly questioned by his wife and his five daughters at once.\n\nAfter amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus explained:\n\n\"About a month ago I received this letter; and about a fortnight ago\nI answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and requiring\nearly attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead,\nmay turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases.\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear,\" cried his wife, \"I cannot bear to hear that mentioned.\nPray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing\nin the world, that your estate should be entailed away from your own\nchildren; and I am sure, if I had been you, I should have tried long ago\nto do something or other about it.\"\n\nJane and Elizabeth tried to explain to her the nature of an entail. They\nhad often attempted to do it before, but it was a subject on which\nMrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of reason, and she continued to rail\nbitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of\nfive daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.\n\n\"It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,\" said Mr. Bennet, \"and\nnothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn.\nBut if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps be a little\nsoftened by his manner of expressing himself.\"\n\n\"No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think it is very impertinent of\nhim to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false\nfriends. Why could he not keep on quarreling with you, as his father did\nbefore him?\"\n\n\"Why, indeed; he does seem to have had some filial scruples on that\nhead, as you will hear.\"\n\n\"Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, 15th October.\n\n\"Dear Sir,--\n\n\"The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured\nfather always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have had the\nmisfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal the breach; but\nfor some time I was kept back by my own doubts, fearing lest it might\nseem disrespectful to his memory for me to be on good terms with anyone\nwith whom it had always pleased him to be at variance.--'There, Mrs.\nBennet.'--My mind, however, is now made up on the subject, for having\nreceived ordination at Easter, I have been so fortunate as to be\ndistinguished by the patronage of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de\nBourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has\npreferred me to the valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be\nmy earnest endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her\nladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which\nare instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman, moreover, I\nfeel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of peace in\nall families within the reach of my influence; and on these grounds I\nflatter myself that my present overtures are highly commendable, and\nthat the circumstance of my being next in the entail of Longbourn estate\nwill be kindly overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the\noffered olive-branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the\nmeans of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for\nit, as well as to assure you of my readiness to make them every possible\namends--but of this hereafter. If you should have no objection to\nreceive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting\non you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o'clock, and\nshall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday se'ennight\nfollowing, which I can do without any inconvenience, as Lady Catherine\nis far from objecting to my occasional absence on a Sunday, provided\nthat some other clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day.--I\nremain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and\ndaughters, your well-wisher and friend,\n\n\"WILLIAM COLLINS\"\n\n\"At four o'clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman,\"\nsaid Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. \"He seems to be a most\nconscientious and polite young man, upon my word, and I doubt not will\nprove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so\nindulgent as to let him come to us again.\"\n\n\"There is some sense in what he says about the girls, however, and if\nhe is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to\ndiscourage him.\"\n\n\"Though it is difficult,\" said Jane, \"to guess in what way he can mean\nto make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his\ncredit.\"\n\nElizabeth was chiefly struck by his extraordinary deference for Lady\nCatherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying\nhis parishioners whenever it were required.\n\n\"He must be an oddity, I think,\" said she. \"I cannot make him\nout.--There is something very pompous in his style.--And what can he\nmean by apologising for being next in the entail?--We cannot suppose he\nwould help it if he could.--Could he be a sensible man, sir?\"\n\n\"No, my dear, I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the\nreverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his\nletter, which promises well. I am impatient to see him.\"\n\n\"In point of composition,\" said Mary, \"the letter does not seem\ndefective. The idea of the olive-branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I\nthink it is well expressed.\"\n\nTo Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were in any\ndegree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should\ncome in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had\nreceived pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for\ntheir mother, Mr. Collins's letter had done away much of her ill-will,\nand she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure which\nastonished her husband and daughters.\n\nMr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great\npoliteness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the\nladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in\nneed of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a\ntall, heavy-looking young man of five-and-twenty. His air was grave and\nstately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated\nbefore he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of\ndaughters; said he had heard much of their beauty, but that in this\ninstance fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did\nnot doubt her seeing them all in due time disposed of in marriage. This\ngallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers; but Mrs.\nBennet, who quarreled with no compliments, answered most readily.\n\n\"You are very kind, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may\nprove so, for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so\noddly.\"\n\n\"You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.\"\n\n\"Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you\nmust confess. Not that I mean to find fault with _you_, for such things\nI know are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates\nwill go when once they come to be entailed.\"\n\n\"I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins, and\ncould say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing\nforward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies that I come\nprepared to admire them. At present I will not say more; but, perhaps,\nwhen we are better acquainted--\"\n\nHe was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each\nother. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins's admiration. The\nhall, the dining-room, and all its furniture, were examined and praised;\nand his commendation of everything would have touched Mrs. Bennet's\nheart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his\nown future property. The dinner too in its turn was highly admired; and\nhe begged to know to which of his fair cousins the excellency of its\ncooking was owing. But he was set right there by Mrs. Bennet, who\nassured him with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a\ngood cook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He\nbegged pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she declared\nherself not at all offended; but he continued to apologise for about a\nquarter of an hour.\n\n\n\nChapter 14\n\n\nDuring dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants\nwere withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his\nguest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to\nshine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady\nCatherine de Bourgh's attention to his wishes, and consideration for\nhis comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen\nbetter. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him\nto more than usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect\nhe protested that \"he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in\na person of rank--such affability and condescension, as he had himself\nexperienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to\napprove of both of the discourses which he had already had the honour of\npreaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings,\nand had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of\nquadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many\npeople he knew, but _he_ had never seen anything but affability in her.\nShe had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she\nmade not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the\nneighbourhood nor to his leaving the parish occasionally for a week or\ntwo, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to\nmarry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had\nonce paid him a visit in his humble parsonage, where she had perfectly\napproved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed\nto suggest some herself--some shelves in the closet up stairs.\"\n\n\"That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,\" said Mrs. Bennet, \"and\nI dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies\nin general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?\"\n\n\"The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane\nfrom Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence.\"\n\n\"I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any family?\"\n\n\"She has only one daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very\nextensive property.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, \"then she is better off than\nmany girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she handsome?\"\n\n\"She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says\nthat, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far superior to the\nhandsomest of her sex, because there is that in her features which marks\nthe young lady of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly\nconstitution, which has prevented her from making that progress in many\naccomplishments which she could not have otherwise failed of, as I am\ninformed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still\nresides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends\nto drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies.\"\n\n\"Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at\ncourt.\"\n\n\"Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town;\nand by that means, as I told Lady Catherine one day, has deprived the\nBritish court of its brightest ornament. Her ladyship seemed pleased\nwith the idea; and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to\noffer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable\nto ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that\nher charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most\nelevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by\nher. These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and\nit is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to\npay.\"\n\n\"You judge very properly,\" said Mr. Bennet, \"and it is happy for you\nthat you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask\nwhether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the\nmoment, or are the result of previous study?\"\n\n\"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I\nsometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant\ncompliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to\ngive them as unstudied an air as possible.\"\n\nMr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd\nas he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment,\nmaintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance,\nand, except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner\nin his pleasure.\n\nBy tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad\nto take his guest into the drawing-room again, and, when tea was over,\nglad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily\nassented, and a book was produced; but, on beholding it (for everything\nannounced it to be from a circulating library), he started back, and\nbegging pardon, protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at\nhim, and Lydia exclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some\ndeliberation he chose Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the\nvolume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three\npages, she interrupted him with:\n\n\"Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Phillips talks of turning away\nRichard; and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me\nso herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more\nabout it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town.\"\n\nLydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr.\nCollins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said:\n\n\"I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books\nof a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes\nme, I confess; for, certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to\nthem as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin.\"\n\nThen turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at\nbackgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted\nvery wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements.\nMrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia's\ninterruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would\nresume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his\nyoung cousin no ill-will, and should never resent her behaviour as any\naffront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared\nfor backgammon.\n\n\n\nChapter 15\n\n\nMr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had\nbeen but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part\nof his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and\nmiserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he\nhad merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it any useful\nacquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up had\ngiven him originally great humility of manner; but it was now a\ngood deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in\nretirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected\nprosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de\nBourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which\nhe felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness,\nmingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a\nclergyman, and his right as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of\npride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility.\n\nHaving now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended to\nmarry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had\na wife in view, as he meant to choose one of the daughters, if he found\nthem as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report.\nThis was his plan of amends--of atonement--for inheriting their father's\nestate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and\nsuitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own\npart.\n\nHis plan did not vary on seeing them. Miss Bennet's lovely face\nconfirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of what\nwas due to seniority; and for the first evening _she_ was his settled\nchoice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a\nquarter of an hour's tete-a-tete with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a\nconversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally\nto the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress might be found for it at\nLongbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general\nencouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on. \"As to\nher _younger_ daughters, she could not take upon her to say--she could\nnot positively answer--but she did not _know_ of any prepossession; her\n_eldest_ daughter, she must just mention--she felt it incumbent on her\nto hint, was likely to be very soon engaged.\"\n\nMr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth--and it was soon\ndone--done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. Elizabeth, equally\nnext to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course.\n\nMrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have\ntwo daughters married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of\nthe day before was now high in her good graces.\n\nLydia's intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every sister\nexcept Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them,\nat the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him,\nand have his library to himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed\nhim after breakfast; and there he would continue, nominally engaged with\none of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr.\nBennet, with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such\ndoings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been\nalways sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told\nElizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other room of the\nhouse, he was used to be free from them there; his civility, therefore,\nwas most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their\nwalk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact much better fitted for a walker\nthan a reader, was extremely pleased to close his large book, and go.\n\nIn pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his\ncousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The attention of\nthe younger ones was then no longer to be gained by him. Their eyes were\nimmediately wandering up in the street in quest of the officers, and\nnothing less than a very smart bonnet indeed, or a really new muslin in\na shop window, could recall them.\n\nBut the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom\nthey had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking\nwith another officer on the other side of the way. The officer was\nthe very Mr. Denny concerning whose return from London Lydia came\nto inquire, and he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the\nstranger's air, all wondered who he could be; and Kitty and Lydia,\ndetermined if possible to find out, led the way across the street, under\npretense of wanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately\nhad just gained the pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, had\nreached the same spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated\npermission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with\nhim the day before from town, and he was happy to say had accepted a\ncommission in their corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the\nyoung man wanted only regimentals to make him completely charming.\nHis appearance was greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of\nbeauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address.\nThe introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness\nof conversation--a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and\nunassuming; and the whole party were still standing and talking together\nvery agreeably, when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy\nand Bingley were seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the\nladies of the group, the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and\nbegan the usual civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and\nMiss Bennet the principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to\nLongbourn on purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated\nit with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes\non Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by the sight of the\nstranger, and Elizabeth happening to see the countenance of both as they\nlooked at each other, was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting.\nBoth changed colour, one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham,\nafter a few moments, touched his hat--a salutation which Mr. Darcy just\ndeigned to return. What could be the meaning of it? It was impossible to\nimagine; it was impossible not to long to know.\n\nIn another minute, Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have noticed what\npassed, took leave and rode on with his friend.\n\nMr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of\nMr. Phillip's house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia's\npressing entreaties that they should come in, and even in spite of\nMrs. Phillips's throwing up the parlour window and loudly seconding the\ninvitation.\n\nMrs. Phillips was always glad to see her nieces; and the two eldest,\nfrom their recent absence, were particularly welcome, and she was\neagerly expressing her surprise at their sudden return home, which, as\ntheir own carriage had not fetched them, she should have known nothing\nabout, if she had not happened to see Mr. Jones's shop-boy in the\nstreet, who had told her that they were not to send any more draughts to\nNetherfield because the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility\nwas claimed towards Mr. Collins by Jane's introduction of him. She\nreceived him with her very best politeness, which he returned with\nas much more, apologising for his intrusion, without any previous\nacquaintance with her, which he could not help flattering himself,\nhowever, might be justified by his relationship to the young ladies who\nintroduced him to her notice. Mrs. Phillips was quite awed by such an\nexcess of good breeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon\nput to an end by exclamations and inquiries about the other; of whom,\nhowever, she could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that\nMr. Denny had brought him from London, and that he was to have a\nlieutenant's commission in the ----shire. She had been watching him the\nlast hour, she said, as he walked up and down the street, and had Mr.\nWickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued the\noccupation, but unluckily no one passed windows now except a few of the\nofficers, who, in comparison with the stranger, were become \"stupid,\ndisagreeable fellows.\" Some of them were to dine with the Phillipses\nthe next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr.\nWickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn\nwould come in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Phillips\nprotested that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery\ntickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such\ndelights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr.\nCollins repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured\nwith unwearying civility that they were perfectly needless.\n\nAs they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass\nbetween the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either\nor both, had they appeared to be in the wrong, she could no more explain\nsuch behaviour than her sister.\n\nMr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by admiring\nMrs. Phillips's manners and politeness. He protested that, except Lady\nCatherine and her daughter, he had never seen a more elegant woman;\nfor she had not only received him with the utmost civility, but even\npointedly included him in her invitation for the next evening, although\nutterly unknown to her before. Something, he supposed, might be\nattributed to his connection with them, but yet he had never met with so\nmuch attention in the whole course of his life.\n\n\n\nChapter 16\n\n\nAs no objection was made to the young people's engagement with their\naunt, and all Mr. Collins's scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for\na single evening during his visit were most steadily resisted, the coach\nconveyed him and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton; and\nthe girls had the pleasure of hearing, as they entered the drawing-room,\nthat Mr. Wickham had accepted their uncle's invitation, and was then in\nthe house.\n\nWhen this information was given, and they had all taken their seats, Mr.\nCollins was at leisure to look around him and admire, and he was so much\nstruck with the size and furniture of the apartment, that he declared he\nmight almost have supposed himself in the small summer breakfast\nparlour at Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey much\ngratification; but when Mrs. Phillips understood from him what\nRosings was, and who was its proprietor--when she had listened to the\ndescription of only one of Lady Catherine's drawing-rooms, and found\nthat the chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all\nthe force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a comparison\nwith the housekeeper's room.\n\nIn describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her mansion,\nwith occasional digressions in praise of his own humble abode, and\nthe improvements it was receiving, he was happily employed until the\ngentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs. Phillips a very attentive\nlistener, whose opinion of his consequence increased with what she\nheard, and who was resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as\nsoon as she could. To the girls, who could not listen to their cousin,\nand who had nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine\ntheir own indifferent imitations of china on the mantelpiece, the\ninterval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last, however.\nThe gentlemen did approach, and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room,\nElizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing him before, nor thinking\nof him since, with the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration.\nThe officers of the ----shire were in general a very creditable,\ngentlemanlike set, and the best of them were of the present party; but\nMr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and\nwalk, as _they_ were superior to the broad-faced, stuffy uncle Phillips,\nbreathing port wine, who followed them into the room.\n\nMr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was\nturned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated\nhimself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into\nconversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, made her feel\nthat the commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered\ninteresting by the skill of the speaker.\n\nWith such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham and the\nofficers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; to the young\nladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a kind\nlistener in Mrs. Phillips, and was by her watchfulness, most abundantly\nsupplied with coffee and muffin. When the card-tables were placed, he\nhad the opportunity of obliging her in turn, by sitting down to whist.\n\n\"I know little of the game at present,\" said he, \"but I shall be glad\nto improve myself, for in my situation in life--\" Mrs. Phillips was very\nglad for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason.\n\nMr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he\nreceived at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there\nseemed danger of Lydia's engrossing him entirely, for she was a most\ndetermined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets,\nshe soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets\nand exclaiming after prizes to have attention for anyone in particular.\nAllowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore\nat leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear\nhim, though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be\ntold--the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not\neven mention that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly\nrelieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far\nNetherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in\na hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there.\n\n\"About a month,\" said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject\ndrop, added, \"He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I\nunderstand.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Mr. Wickham; \"his estate there is a noble one. A clear\nten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more\ncapable of giving you certain information on that head than myself, for\nI have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my\ninfancy.\"\n\nElizabeth could not but look surprised.\n\n\"You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after\nseeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting\nyesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?\"\n\n\"As much as I ever wish to be,\" cried Elizabeth very warmly. \"I have\nspent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very\ndisagreeable.\"\n\n\"I have no right to give _my_ opinion,\" said Wickham, \"as to his being\nagreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him\ntoo long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_\nto be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general\nastonish--and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly\nanywhere else. Here you are in your own family.\"\n\n\"Upon my word, I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in\nthe neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in\nHertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will not find\nhim more favourably spoken of by anyone.\"\n\n\"I cannot pretend to be sorry,\" said Wickham, after a short\ninterruption, \"that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond\ntheir deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The\nworld is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his\nhigh and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen.\"\n\n\"I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an\nill-tempered man.\" Wickham only shook his head.\n\n\"I wonder,\" said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, \"whether he is\nlikely to be in this country much longer.\"\n\n\"I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I\nwas at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will\nnot be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.\"\n\n\"Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_\nwishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms,\nand it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for\navoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim before all the world, a sense\nof very great ill-usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he\nis. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men\nthat ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never\nbe in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by\na thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been\nscandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and\neverything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the\nmemory of his father.\"\n\nElizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with\nall her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented further inquiry.\n\nMr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the\nneighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that\nhe had yet seen, and speaking of the latter with gentle but very\nintelligible gallantry.\n\n\"It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,\" he added,\n\"which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I knew it to be\na most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me\nfurther by his account of their present quarters, and the very great\nattentions and excellent acquaintances Meryton had procured them.\nSociety, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and\nmy spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society.\nA military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have\nnow made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I\nwas brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in\npossession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we\nwere speaking of just now.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\"\n\n\"Yes--the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best\nliving in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me.\nI cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply,\nand thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given\nelsewhere.\"\n\n\"Good heavens!\" cried Elizabeth; \"but how could _that_ be? How could his\nwill be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal redress?\"\n\n\"There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to\ngive me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the\nintention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it--or to treat it as a merely\nconditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim\nto it by extravagance, imprudence--in short anything or nothing. Certain\nit is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was\nof an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no\nless certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done\nanything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and\nI may have spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too freely. I can\nrecall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort\nof men, and that he hates me.\"\n\n\"This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.\"\n\n\"Some time or other he _will_ be--but it shall not be by _me_. Till I\ncan forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_.\"\n\nElizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than\never as he expressed them.\n\n\"But what,\" said she, after a pause, \"can have been his motive? What can\nhave induced him to behave so cruelly?\"\n\n\"A thorough, determined dislike of me--a dislike which I cannot but\nattribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me\nless, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon\nattachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early in life. He had\nnot a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort\nof preference which was often given me.\"\n\n\"I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked\nhim. I had not thought so very ill of him. I had supposed him to be\ndespising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of\ndescending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as\nthis.\"\n\nAfter a few minutes' reflection, however, she continued, \"I _do_\nremember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of\nhis resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition\nmust be dreadful.\"\n\n\"I will not trust myself on the subject,\" replied Wickham; \"I can hardly\nbe just to him.\"\n\nElizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, \"To\ntreat in such a manner the godson, the friend, the favourite of his\nfather!\" She could have added, \"A young man, too, like _you_, whose very\ncountenance may vouch for your being amiable\"--but she contented herself\nwith, \"and one, too, who had probably been his companion from childhood,\nconnected together, as I think you said, in the closest manner!\"\n\n\"We were born in the same parish, within the same park; the greatest\npart of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house,\nsharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _My_\nfather began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Phillips,\nappears to do so much credit to--but he gave up everything to be of\nuse to the late Mr. Darcy and devoted all his time to the care of the\nPemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most\nintimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to\nbe under the greatest obligations to my father's active superintendence,\nand when, immediately before my father's death, Mr. Darcy gave him a\nvoluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to\nbe as much a debt of gratitude to _him_, as of his affection to myself.\"\n\n\"How strange!\" cried Elizabeth. \"How abominable! I wonder that the very\npride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you! If from no better\nmotive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest--for\ndishonesty I must call it.\"\n\n\"It _is_ wonderful,\" replied Wickham, \"for almost all his actions may\nbe traced to pride; and pride had often been his best friend. It has\nconnected him nearer with virtue than with any other feeling. But we are\nnone of us consistent, and in his behaviour to me there were stronger\nimpulses even than pride.\"\n\n\"Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?\"\n\n\"Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give his money\nfreely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the\npoor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride--for he is very proud of what\nhis father was--have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family,\nto degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the\nPemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride,\nwhich, with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and\ncareful guardian of his sister, and you will hear him generally cried up\nas the most attentive and best of brothers.\"\n\n\"What sort of girl is Miss Darcy?\"\n\nHe shook his head. \"I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to\nspeak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother--very, very\nproud. As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond\nof me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is\nnothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen,\nand, I understand, highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her\nhome has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her\neducation.\"\n\nAfter many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not\nhelp reverting once more to the first, and saying:\n\n\"I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley,\nwho seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable,\nbe in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other? Do you\nknow Mr. Bingley?\"\n\n\"Not at all.\"\n\n\"He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr.\nDarcy is.\"\n\n\"Probably not; but Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not\nwant abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth\nhis while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is\na very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His\npride never deserts him; but with the rich he is liberal-minded, just,\nsincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable--allowing something\nfor fortune and figure.\"\n\nThe whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round\nthe other table and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin\nElizabeth and Mrs. Phillips. The usual inquiries as to his success was\nmade by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every\npoint; but when Mrs. Phillips began to express her concern thereupon,\nhe assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least\nimportance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged\nthat she would not make herself uneasy.\n\n\"I know very well, madam,\" said he, \"that when persons sit down to a\ncard-table, they must take their chances of these things, and happily I\nam not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There\nare undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady\nCatherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding\nlittle matters.\"\n\nMr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for\na few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation\nwas very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh.\n\n\"Lady Catherine de Bourgh,\" she replied, \"has very lately given him\na living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her\nnotice, but he certainly has not known her long.\"\n\n\"You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy\nwere sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's\nconnections. I never heard of her existence till the day before\nyesterday.\"\n\n\"Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is\nbelieved that she and her cousin will unite the two estates.\"\n\nThis information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss\nBingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her\naffection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already\nself-destined for another.\n\n\"Mr. Collins,\" said she, \"speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her\ndaughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship,\nI suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his\npatroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman.\"\n\n\"I believe her to be both in a great degree,\" replied Wickham; \"I have\nnot seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked\nher, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the\nreputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe\nshe derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from\nher authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride for her\nnephew, who chooses that everyone connected with him should have an\nunderstanding of the first class.\"\n\nElizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and\nthey continued talking together, with mutual satisfaction till supper\nput an end to cards, and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr.\nWickham's attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise\nof Mrs. Phillips's supper party, but his manners recommended him to\neverybody. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done\ngracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could\nthink of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all\nthe way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name\nas they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia\ntalked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the\nfish she had won; and Mr. Collins in describing the civility of Mr. and\nMrs. Phillips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses\nat whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing\nthat he crowded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage\nbefore the carriage stopped at Longbourn House.\n\n\n\nChapter 17\n\n\nElizabeth related to Jane the next day what had passed between Mr.\nWickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern; she\nknew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr.\nBingley's regard; and yet, it was not in her nature to question the\nveracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham. The\npossibility of his having endured such unkindness, was enough to\ninterest all her tender feelings; and nothing remained therefore to be\ndone, but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each,\nand throw into the account of accident or mistake whatever could not be\notherwise explained.\n\n\"They have both,\" said she, \"been deceived, I dare say, in some way\nor other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps\nmisrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to\nconjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them,\nwithout actual blame on either side.\"\n\n\"Very true, indeed; and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say on\nbehalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the\nbusiness? Do clear _them_ too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of\nsomebody.\"\n\n\"Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my\nopinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light\nit places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father's favourite in such\na manner, one whom his father had promised to provide for. It is\nimpossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his\ncharacter, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so\nexcessively deceived in him? Oh! no.\"\n\n\"I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley's being imposed on, than\nthat Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me\nlast night; names, facts, everything mentioned without ceremony. If it\nbe not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his\nlooks.\"\n\n\"It is difficult indeed--it is distressing. One does not know what to\nthink.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon; one knows exactly what to think.\"\n\nBut Jane could think with certainty on only one point--that Mr. Bingley,\nif he _had_ been imposed on, would have much to suffer when the affair\nbecame public.\n\nThe two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery, where this\nconversation passed, by the arrival of the very persons of whom they had\nbeen speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their personal\ninvitation for the long-expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed\nfor the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see their\ndear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and repeatedly\nasked what she had been doing with herself since their separation. To\nthe rest of the family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet\nas much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to\nthe others. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats with an\nactivity which took their brother by surprise, and hurrying off as if\neager to escape from Mrs. Bennet's civilities.\n\nThe prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every\nfemale of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in\ncompliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered\nby receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a\nceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the\nsociety of her two friends, and the attentions of her brother; and\nElizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr.\nWickham, and of seeing a confirmation of everything in Mr. Darcy's look\nand behaviour. The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia depended\nless on any single event, or any particular person, for though they\neach, like Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham,\nhe was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a ball\nwas, at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her family that she\nhad no disinclination for it.\n\n\"While I can have my mornings to myself,\" said she, \"it is enough--I\nthink it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements.\nSociety has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those\nwho consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for\neverybody.\"\n\nElizabeth's spirits were so high on this occasion, that though she did\nnot often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not help asking\nhim whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley's invitation, and if\nhe did, whether he would think it proper to join in the evening's\namusement; and she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no\nscruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke\neither from the Archbishop, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to\ndance.\n\n\"I am by no means of the opinion, I assure you,\" said he, \"that a ball\nof this kind, given by a young man of character, to respectable people,\ncan have any evil tendency; and I am so far from objecting to dancing\nmyself, that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair\ncousins in the course of the evening; and I take this opportunity of\nsoliciting yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially,\na preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right\ncause, and not to any disrespect for her.\"\n\nElizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed being\nengaged by Mr. Wickham for those very dances; and to have Mr. Collins\ninstead! her liveliness had never been worse timed. There was no help\nfor it, however. Mr. Wickham's happiness and her own were perforce\ndelayed a little longer, and Mr. Collins's proposal accepted with as\ngood a grace as she could. She was not the better pleased with his\ngallantry from the idea it suggested of something more. It now first\nstruck her, that _she_ was selected from among her sisters as worthy\nof being mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a\nquadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible visitors.\nThe idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed his increasing\ncivilities toward herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a\ncompliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more astonished than\ngratified herself by this effect of her charms, it was not long before\nher mother gave her to understand that the probability of their marriage\nwas extremely agreeable to _her_. Elizabeth, however, did not choose\nto take the hint, being well aware that a serious dispute must be the\nconsequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and\ntill he did, it was useless to quarrel about him.\n\nIf there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the\nyounger Miss Bennets would have been in a very pitiable state at this\ntime, for from the day of the invitation, to the day of the ball, there\nwas such a succession of rain as prevented their walking to Meryton\nonce. No aunt, no officers, no news could be sought after--the very\nshoe-roses for Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have\nfound some trial of her patience in weather which totally suspended the\nimprovement of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than\na dance on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and\nMonday endurable to Kitty and Lydia.\n\n\n\nChapter 18\n\n\nTill Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in\nvain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a\ndoubt of his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty\nof meeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that\nmight not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than\nusual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all\nthat remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than\nmight be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose\nthe dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy's\npleasure in the Bingleys' invitation to the officers; and though\nthis was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was\npronounced by his friend Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and who\ntold them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business the\nday before, and was not yet returned; adding, with a significant smile,\n\"I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if\nhe had not wanted to avoid a certain gentleman here.\"\n\nThis part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by\nElizabeth, and, as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for\nWickham's absence than if her first surmise had been just, every\nfeeling of displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate\ndisappointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to\nthe polite inquiries which he directly afterwards approached to make.\nAttendance, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She\nwas resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned away\nwith a degree of ill-humour which she could not wholly surmount even in\nspeaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality provoked her.\n\nBut Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect\nof her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her\nspirits; and having told all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she had\nnot seen for a week, she was soon able to make a voluntary transition\nto the oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her particular\nnotice. The first two dances, however, brought a return of distress;\nthey were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn,\napologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without being\naware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a disagreeable\npartner for a couple of dances can give. The moment of her release from\nhim was ecstasy.\n\nShe danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of talking of\nWickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked. When those dances\nwere over, she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with\nher, when she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy who took\nher so much by surprise in his application for her hand, that,\nwithout knowing what she did, she accepted him. He walked away again\nimmediately, and she was left to fret over her own want of presence of\nmind; Charlotte tried to console her:\n\n\"I dare say you will find him very agreeable.\"\n\n\"Heaven forbid! _That_ would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find\na man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an\nevil.\"\n\nWhen the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her\nhand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her in a whisper, not to be a\nsimpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant\nin the eyes of a man ten times his consequence. Elizabeth made no\nanswer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which\nshe was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and\nreading in her neighbours' looks, their equal amazement in beholding\nit. They stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to\nimagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at\nfirst was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would\nbe the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made\nsome slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again\nsilent. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time\nwith:--\"It is _your_ turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked\nabout the dance, and _you_ ought to make some sort of remark on the size\nof the room, or the number of couples.\"\n\nHe smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be\nsaid.\n\n\"Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may\nobserve that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. But\n_now_ we may be silent.\"\n\n\"Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?\"\n\n\"Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be\nentirely silent for half an hour together; and yet for the advantage of\n_some_, conversation ought to be so arranged, as that they may have the\ntrouble of saying as little as possible.\"\n\n\"Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you\nimagine that you are gratifying mine?\"\n\n\"Both,\" replied Elizabeth archly; \"for I have always seen a great\nsimilarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial,\ntaciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say\nsomething that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to\nposterity with all the eclat of a proverb.\"\n\n\"This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,\"\nsaid he. \"How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot pretend to say. _You_\nthink it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.\"\n\n\"I must not decide on my own performance.\"\n\nHe made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone down\nthe dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often\nwalk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and, unable to resist\nthe temptation, added, \"When you met us there the other day, we had just\nbeen forming a new acquaintance.\"\n\nThe effect was immediate. A deeper shade of _hauteur_ overspread his\nfeatures, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though blaming herself\nfor her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a\nconstrained manner said, \"Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners\nas may ensure his _making_ friends--whether he may be equally capable of\n_retaining_ them, is less certain.\"\n\n\"He has been so unlucky as to lose _your_ friendship,\" replied Elizabeth\nwith emphasis, \"and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all\nhis life.\"\n\nDarcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the subject. At\nthat moment, Sir William Lucas appeared close to them, meaning to pass\nthrough the set to the other side of the room; but on perceiving Mr.\nDarcy, he stopped with a bow of superior courtesy to compliment him on\nhis dancing and his partner.\n\n\"I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear sir. Such very\nsuperior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong to the\nfirst circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not\ndisgrace you, and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated,\nespecially when a certain desirable event, my dear Eliza (glancing at\nher sister and Bingley) shall take place. What congratulations will then\nflow in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy:--but let me not interrupt you, sir. You\nwill not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that\nyoung lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.\"\n\nThe latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but Sir\nWilliam's allusion to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his\neyes were directed with a very serious expression towards Bingley and\nJane, who were dancing together. Recovering himself, however, shortly,\nhe turned to his partner, and said, \"Sir William's interruption has made\nme forget what we were talking of.\"\n\n\"I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have\ninterrupted two people in the room who had less to say for themselves.\nWe have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we\nare to talk of next I cannot imagine.\"\n\n\"What think you of books?\" said he, smiling.\n\n\"Books--oh! no. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same\nfeelings.\"\n\n\"I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be\nno want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.\"\n\n\"No--I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of\nsomething else.\"\n\n\"The _present_ always occupies you in such scenes--does it?\" said he,\nwith a look of doubt.\n\n\"Yes, always,\" she replied, without knowing what she said, for her\nthoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared\nby her suddenly exclaiming, \"I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy,\nthat you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was\nunappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its _being\ncreated_.\"\n\n\"I am,\" said he, with a firm voice.\n\n\"And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?\"\n\n\"I hope not.\"\n\n\"It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion,\nto be secure of judging properly at first.\"\n\n\"May I ask to what these questions tend?\"\n\n\"Merely to the illustration of _your_ character,\" said she, endeavouring\nto shake off her gravity. \"I am trying to make it out.\"\n\n\"And what is your success?\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"I do not get on at all. I hear such different\naccounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.\"\n\n\"I can readily believe,\" answered he gravely, \"that reports may vary\ngreatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were\nnot to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to\nfear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.\"\n\n\"But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another\nopportunity.\"\n\n\"I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,\" he coldly replied.\nShe said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in\nsilence; and on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree,\nfor in Darcy's breast there was a tolerable powerful feeling towards\nher, which soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against\nanother.\n\nThey had not long separated, when Miss Bingley came towards her, and\nwith an expression of civil disdain accosted her:\n\n\"So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George Wickham!\nYour sister has been talking to me about him, and asking me a thousand\nquestions; and I find that the young man quite forgot to tell you, among\nhis other communication, that he was the son of old Wickham, the late\nMr. Darcy's steward. Let me recommend you, however, as a friend, not to\ngive implicit confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr. Darcy's\nusing him ill, it is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he has\nalways been remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated\nMr. Darcy in a most infamous manner. I do not know the particulars, but\nI know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the least to blame, that he\ncannot bear to hear George Wickham mentioned, and that though my brother\nthought that he could not well avoid including him in his invitation to\nthe officers, he was excessively glad to find that he had taken himself\nout of the way. His coming into the country at all is a most insolent\nthing, indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you,\nMiss Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite's guilt; but really,\nconsidering his descent, one could not expect much better.\"\n\n\"His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be the same,\" said\nElizabeth angrily; \"for I have heard you accuse him of nothing worse\nthan of being the son of Mr. Darcy's steward, and of _that_, I can\nassure you, he informed me himself.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a sneer.\n\"Excuse my interference--it was kindly meant.\"\n\n\"Insolent girl!\" said Elizabeth to herself. \"You are much mistaken\nif you expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as this. I see\nnothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the malice of Mr.\nDarcy.\" She then sought her eldest sister, who has undertaken to make\ninquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane met her with a smile of\nsuch sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently\nmarked how well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the evening.\nElizabeth instantly read her feelings, and at that moment solicitude for\nWickham, resentment against his enemies, and everything else, gave way\nbefore the hope of Jane's being in the fairest way for happiness.\n\n\"I want to know,\" said she, with a countenance no less smiling than her\nsister's, \"what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But perhaps you have\nbeen too pleasantly engaged to think of any third person; in which case\nyou may be sure of my pardon.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Jane, \"I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing\nsatisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of\nhis history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which have\nprincipally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the good conduct,\nthe probity, and honour of his friend, and is perfectly convinced that\nMr. Wickham has deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he has\nreceived; and I am sorry to say by his account as well as his sister's,\nMr. Wickham is by no means a respectable young man. I am afraid he has\nbeen very imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy's regard.\"\n\n\"Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?\"\n\n\"No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.\"\n\n\"This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am\nsatisfied. But what does he say of the living?\"\n\n\"He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has heard\nthem from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it was left to\nhim _conditionally_ only.\"\n\n\"I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley's sincerity,\" said Elizabeth warmly;\n\"but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances only. Mr.\nBingley's defense of his friend was a very able one, I dare say; but\nsince he is unacquainted with several parts of the story, and has learnt\nthe rest from that friend himself, I shall venture to still think of\nboth gentlemen as I did before.\"\n\nShe then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each, and on\nwhich there could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth listened with\ndelight to the happy, though modest hopes which Jane entertained of Mr.\nBingley's regard, and said all in her power to heighten her confidence\nin it. On their being joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew\nto Miss Lucas; to whose inquiry after the pleasantness of her last\npartner she had scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them,\nand told her with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as\nto make a most important discovery.\n\n\"I have found out,\" said he, \"by a singular accident, that there is now\nin the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to overhear the\ngentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who does the honours of\nthe house the names of his cousin Miss de Bourgh, and of her mother Lady\nCatherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would have\nthought of my meeting with, perhaps, a nephew of Lady Catherine de\nBourgh in this assembly! I am most thankful that the discovery is made\nin time for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to\ndo, and trust he will excuse my not having done it before. My total\nignorance of the connection must plead my apology.\"\n\n\"You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy!\"\n\n\"Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it earlier.\nI believe him to be Lady Catherine's _nephew_. It will be in my power to\nassure him that her ladyship was quite well yesterday se'nnight.\"\n\nElizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme, assuring him\nthat Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without introduction\nas an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment to his aunt; that\nit was not in the least necessary there should be any notice on either\nside; and that if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in\nconsequence, to begin the acquaintance. Mr. Collins listened to her\nwith the determined air of following his own inclination, and, when she\nceased speaking, replied thus:\n\n\"My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world in\nyour excellent judgement in all matters within the scope of your\nunderstanding; but permit me to say, that there must be a wide\ndifference between the established forms of ceremony amongst the laity,\nand those which regulate the clergy; for, give me leave to observe that\nI consider the clerical office as equal in point of dignity with\nthe highest rank in the kingdom--provided that a proper humility of\nbehaviour is at the same time maintained. You must therefore allow me to\nfollow the dictates of my conscience on this occasion, which leads me to\nperform what I look on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to\nprofit by your advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant\nguide, though in the case before us I consider myself more fitted by\neducation and habitual study to decide on what is right than a young\nlady like yourself.\" And with a low bow he left her to attack Mr.\nDarcy, whose reception of his advances she eagerly watched, and whose\nastonishment at being so addressed was very evident. Her cousin prefaced\nhis speech with a solemn bow and though she could not hear a word of\nit, she felt as if hearing it all, and saw in the motion of his lips the\nwords \"apology,\" \"Hunsford,\" and \"Lady Catherine de Bourgh.\" It vexed\nher to see him expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him\nwith unrestrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him time\nto speak, replied with an air of distant civility. Mr. Collins, however,\nwas not discouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy's contempt seemed\nabundantly increasing with the length of his second speech, and at the\nend of it he only made him a slight bow, and moved another way. Mr.\nCollins then returned to Elizabeth.\n\n\"I have no reason, I assure you,\" said he, \"to be dissatisfied with my\nreception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the attention. He answered\nme with the utmost civility, and even paid me the compliment of saying\nthat he was so well convinced of Lady Catherine's discernment as to be\ncertain she could never bestow a favour unworthily. It was really a very\nhandsome thought. Upon the whole, I am much pleased with him.\"\n\nAs Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she turned\nher attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley; and the\ntrain of agreeable reflections which her observations gave birth to,\nmade her perhaps almost as happy as Jane. She saw her in idea settled in\nthat very house, in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection\ncould bestow; and she felt capable, under such circumstances, of\nendeavouring even to like Bingley's two sisters. Her mother's thoughts\nshe plainly saw were bent the same way, and she determined not to\nventure near her, lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to\nsupper, therefore, she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which\nplaced them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to find\nthat her mother was talking to that one person (Lady Lucas) freely,\nopenly, and of nothing else but her expectation that Jane would soon\nbe married to Mr. Bingley. It was an animating subject, and Mrs. Bennet\nseemed incapable of fatigue while enumerating the advantages of the\nmatch. His being such a charming young man, and so rich, and living but\nthree miles from them, were the first points of self-gratulation; and\nthen it was such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of\nJane, and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as\nshe could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her younger\ndaughters, as Jane's marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of\nother rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at her time of life to be\nable to consign her single daughters to the care of their sister, that\nshe might not be obliged to go into company more than she liked. It was\nnecessary to make this circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on\nsuch occasions it is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs.\nBennet to find comfort in staying home at any period of her life. She\nconcluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be equally\nfortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing there was no\nchance of it.\n\nIn vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her mother's\nwords, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible\nwhisper; for, to her inexpressible vexation, she could perceive that the\nchief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to them. Her\nmother only scolded her for being nonsensical.\n\n\"What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am\nsure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say\nnothing _he_ may not like to hear.\"\n\n\"For heaven's sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be for you\nto offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to his friend by\nso doing!\"\n\nNothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her mother would\ntalk of her views in the same intelligible tone. Elizabeth blushed and\nblushed again with shame and vexation. She could not help frequently\nglancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though every glance convinced her of what\nshe dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her mother, she was\nconvinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression\nof his face changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and\nsteady gravity.\n\nAt length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady Lucas, who\nhad been long yawning at the repetition of delights which she saw no\nlikelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts of cold ham and\nchicken. Elizabeth now began to revive. But not long was the interval of\ntranquillity; for, when supper was over, singing was talked of, and\nshe had the mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty,\npreparing to oblige the company. By many significant looks and silent\nentreaties, did she endeavour to prevent such a proof of complaisance,\nbut in vain; Mary would not understand them; such an opportunity of\nexhibiting was delightful to her, and she began her song. Elizabeth's\neyes were fixed on her with most painful sensations, and she watched her\nprogress through the several stanzas with an impatience which was very\nill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving, amongst the thanks\nof the table, the hint of a hope that she might be prevailed on to\nfavour them again, after the pause of half a minute began another.\nMary's powers were by no means fitted for such a display; her voice was\nweak, and her manner affected. Elizabeth was in agonies. She looked at\nJane, to see how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly talking to\nBingley. She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making signs\nof derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued, however,\nimperturbably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his\ninterference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the hint,\nand when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud, \"That will do\nextremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough. Let the other\nyoung ladies have time to exhibit.\"\n\nMary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted; and\nElizabeth, sorry for her, and sorry for her father's speech, was afraid\nher anxiety had done no good. Others of the party were now applied to.\n\n\"If I,\" said Mr. Collins, \"were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I\nshould have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an\nair; for I consider music as a very innocent diversion, and perfectly\ncompatible with the profession of a clergyman. I do not mean, however,\nto assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time\nto music, for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The\nrector of a parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make\nsuch an agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not\noffensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time\nthat remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care\nand improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making\nas comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light importance\nthat he should have attentive and conciliatory manners towards everybody,\nespecially towards those to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit\nhim of that duty; nor could I think well of the man who should omit an\noccasion of testifying his respect towards anybody connected with the\nfamily.\" And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech, which had\nbeen spoken so loud as to be heard by half the room. Many stared--many\nsmiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr. Bennet himself, while his\nwife seriously commended Mr. Collins for having spoken so sensibly,\nand observed in a half-whisper to Lady Lucas, that he was a remarkably\nclever, good kind of young man.\n\nTo Elizabeth it appeared that, had her family made an agreement to\nexpose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it would\nhave been impossible for them to play their parts with more spirit or\nfiner success; and happy did she think it for Bingley and her sister\nthat some of the exhibition had escaped his notice, and that his\nfeelings were not of a sort to be much distressed by the folly which he\nmust have witnessed. That his two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should\nhave such an opportunity of ridiculing her relations, was bad enough,\nand she could not determine whether the silent contempt of the\ngentleman, or the insolent smiles of the ladies, were more intolerable.\n\nThe rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was teased by\nMr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her side, and though\nhe could not prevail on her to dance with him again, put it out of her\npower to dance with others. In vain did she entreat him to stand up with\nsomebody else, and offer to introduce him to any young lady in the room.\nHe assured her, that as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to it;\nthat his chief object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to\nher and that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her\nthe whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. She owed\nher greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often joined them, and\ngood-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins's conversation to herself.\n\nShe was at least free from the offense of Mr. Darcy's further notice;\nthough often standing within a very short distance of her, quite\ndisengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She felt it to be the\nprobable consequence of her allusions to Mr. Wickham, and rejoiced in\nit.\n\nThe Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart, and, by\na manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet, had to wait for their carriage a quarter of\nan hour after everybody else was gone, which gave them time to see how\nheartily they were wished away by some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her\nsister scarcely opened their mouths, except to complain of fatigue, and\nwere evidently impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed\nevery attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by so doing threw a\nlanguor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by the\nlong speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr. Bingley and his\nsisters on the elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and\npoliteness which had marked their behaviour to their guests. Darcy said\nnothing at all. Mr. Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene.\nMr. Bingley and Jane were standing together, a little detached from the\nrest, and talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a\nsilence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was too\nmuch fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of \"Lord,\nhow tired I am!\" accompanied by a violent yawn.\n\nWhen at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly\ncivil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn, and\naddressed herself especially to Mr. Bingley, to assure him how happy he\nwould make them by eating a family dinner with them at any time, without\nthe ceremony of a formal invitation. Bingley was all grateful pleasure,\nand he readily engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on\nher, after his return from London, whither he was obliged to go the next\nday for a short time.\n\nMrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied, and quitted the house under the\ndelightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary preparations of\nsettlements, new carriages, and wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly\nsee her daughter settled at Netherfield in the course of three or four\nmonths. Of having another daughter married to Mr. Collins, she thought\nwith equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal, pleasure.\nElizabeth was the least dear to her of all her children; and though the\nman and the match were quite good enough for _her_, the worth of each\nwas eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.\n\n\n\nChapter 19\n\n\nThe next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his\ndeclaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of time, as\nhis leave of absence extended only to the following Saturday, and having\nno feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at\nthe moment, he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all the\nobservances, which he supposed a regular part of the business. On\nfinding Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together,\nsoon after breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words:\n\n\"May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth,\nwhen I solicit for the honour of a private audience with her in the\ncourse of this morning?\"\n\nBefore Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise, Mrs.\nBennet answered instantly, \"Oh dear!--yes--certainly. I am sure Lizzy\nwill be very happy--I am sure she can have no objection. Come, Kitty, I\nwant you up stairs.\" And, gathering her work together, she was hastening\naway, when Elizabeth called out:\n\n\"Dear madam, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must excuse\nme. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not hear. I am\ngoing away myself.\"\n\n\"No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you to stay where you are.\" And upon\nElizabeth's seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about to\nescape, she added: \"Lizzy, I _insist_ upon your staying and hearing Mr.\nCollins.\"\n\nElizabeth would not oppose such an injunction--and a moment's\nconsideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to get it\nover as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down again and tried to\nconceal, by incessant employment the feelings which were divided between\ndistress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as soon as\nthey were gone, Mr. Collins began.\n\n\"Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from\ndoing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You\nwould have been less amiable in my eyes had there _not_ been this little\nunwillingness; but allow me to assure you, that I have your respected\nmother's permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the\npurport of my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to\ndissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as\nsoon as I entered the house, I singled you out as the companion of\nmy future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this\nsubject, perhaps it would be advisable for me to state my reasons for\nmarrying--and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with the design\nof selecting a wife, as I certainly did.\"\n\nThe idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run away\nwith by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing, that she could\nnot use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him further,\nand he continued:\n\n\"My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for\nevery clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example\nof matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am convinced that it will\nadd very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly--which perhaps I ought\nto have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and\nrecommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling\npatroness. Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked\ntoo!) on this subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I\nleft Hunsford--between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was\narranging Miss de Bourgh's footstool, that she said, 'Mr. Collins, you\nmust marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose\na gentlewoman for _my_ sake; and for your _own_, let her be an active,\nuseful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small\nincome go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as\nyou can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.' Allow me, by the\nway, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice\nand kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the\nadvantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond\nanything I can describe; and your wit and vivacity, I think, must be\nacceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and\nrespect which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general\nintention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my views\nwere directed towards Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I\ncan assure you there are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that\nbeing, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honoured\nfather (who, however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy\nmyself without resolving to choose a wife from among his daughters, that\nthe loss to them might be as little as possible, when the melancholy\nevent takes place--which, however, as I have already said, may not\nbe for several years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and\nI flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And now nothing\nremains for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the\nviolence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and\nshall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well\naware that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds\nin the four per cents, which will not be yours till after your mother's\ndecease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head,\ntherefore, I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure yourself that\nno ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married.\"\n\nIt was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.\n\n\"You are too hasty, sir,\" she cried. \"You forget that I have made no\nanswer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my thanks for\nthe compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour of\nyour proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than to\ndecline them.\"\n\n\"I am not now to learn,\" replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the\nhand, \"that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the\nman whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their\nfavour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second, or even a\nthird time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just\nsaid, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.\"\n\n\"Upon my word, sir,\" cried Elizabeth, \"your hope is a rather\nextraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not\none of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so\ndaring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second\ntime. I am perfectly serious in my refusal. You could not make _me_\nhappy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who\ncould make you so. Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I\nam persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the\nsituation.\"\n\n\"Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,\" said Mr. Collins\nvery gravely--\"but I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all\ndisapprove of you. And you may be certain when I have the honour of\nseeing her again, I shall speak in the very highest terms of your\nmodesty, economy, and other amiable qualification.\"\n\n\"Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You\nmust give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment\nof believing what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by\nrefusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise.\nIn making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your\nfeelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn\nestate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach. This matter may\nbe considered, therefore, as finally settled.\" And rising as she\nthus spoke, she would have quitted the room, had Mr. Collins not thus\naddressed her:\n\n\"When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the subject, I\nshall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given\nme; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present, because I\nknow it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on\nthe first application, and perhaps you have even now said as much to\nencourage my suit as would be consistent with the true delicacy of the\nfemale character.\"\n\n\"Really, Mr. Collins,\" cried Elizabeth with some warmth, \"you puzzle me\nexceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form\nof encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as\nto convince you of its being one.\"\n\n\"You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your\nrefusal of my addresses is merely words of course. My reasons for\nbelieving it are briefly these: It does not appear to me that my hand is\nunworthy your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer would\nbe any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections\nwith the family of de Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are\ncircumstances highly in my favour; and you should take it into further\nconsideration, that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no\nmeans certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you. Your\nportion is unhappily so small that it will in all likelihood undo\nthe effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must\ntherefore conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me,\nI shall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by\nsuspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females.\"\n\n\"I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to that kind\nof elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I would\nrather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere. I thank you\nagain and again for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but\nto accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect\nforbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant\nfemale, intending to plague you, but as a rational creature, speaking\nthe truth from her heart.\"\n\n\"You are uniformly charming!\" cried he, with an air of awkward\ngallantry; \"and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the express\nauthority of both your excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of\nbeing acceptable.\"\n\nTo such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would make\nno reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, if\nhe persisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering\nencouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered\nin such a manner as to be decisive, and whose behaviour at least could\nnot be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.\n\n\n\nChapter 20\n\n\nMr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his\nsuccessful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule\nto watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open\nthe door and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she\nentered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and herself in\nwarm terms on the happy prospect or their nearer connection. Mr. Collins\nreceived and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then\nproceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result\nof which he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the\nrefusal which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow\nfrom her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her character.\n\nThis information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet; she would have been\nglad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage\nhim by protesting against his proposals, but she dared not believe it,\nand could not help saying so.\n\n\"But, depend upon it, Mr. Collins,\" she added, \"that Lizzy shall be\nbrought to reason. I will speak to her about it directly. She is a very\nheadstrong, foolish girl, and does not know her own interest but I will\n_make_ her know it.\"\n\n\"Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,\" cried Mr. Collins; \"but if\nshe is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would\naltogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who\nnaturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If therefore she\nactually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not\nto force her into accepting me, because if liable to such defects of\ntemper, she could not contribute much to my felicity.\"\n\n\"Sir, you quite misunderstand me,\" said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. \"Lizzy is\nonly headstrong in such matters as these. In everything else she is as\ngood-natured a girl as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and\nwe shall very soon settle it with her, I am sure.\"\n\nShe would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her\nhusband, called out as she entered the library, \"Oh! Mr. Bennet, you\nare wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You must come and make\nLizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him, and if you\ndo not make haste he will change his mind and not have _her_.\"\n\nMr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them\non her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the least altered by\nher communication.\n\n\"I have not the pleasure of understanding you,\" said he, when she had\nfinished her speech. \"Of what are you talking?\"\n\n\"Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins,\nand Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy.\"\n\n\"And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems an hopeless business.\"\n\n\"Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her\nmarrying him.\"\n\n\"Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the\nlibrary.\n\n\"Come here, child,\" cried her father as she appeared. \"I have sent for\nyou on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made\nyou an offer of marriage. Is it true?\" Elizabeth replied that it was.\n\"Very well--and this offer of marriage you have refused?\"\n\n\"I have, sir.\"\n\n\"Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your\naccepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?\"\n\n\"Yes, or I will never see her again.\"\n\n\"An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must\nbe a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you\nagain if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again\nif you _do_.\"\n\nElizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning,\nbut Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the\naffair as she wished, was excessively disappointed.\n\n\"What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, in talking this way? You promised me to\n_insist_ upon her marrying him.\"\n\n\"My dear,\" replied her husband, \"I have two small favours to request.\nFirst, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the\npresent occasion; and secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the\nlibrary to myself as soon as may be.\"\n\nNot yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did\nMrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again;\ncoaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane\nin her interest; but Jane, with all possible mildness, declined\ninterfering; and Elizabeth, sometimes with real earnestness, and\nsometimes with playful gaiety, replied to her attacks. Though her manner\nvaried, however, her determination never did.\n\nMr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed.\nHe thought too well of himself to comprehend on what motives his cousin\ncould refuse him; and though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other\nway. His regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her\ndeserving her mother's reproach prevented his feeling any regret.\n\nWhile the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend\nthe day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to\nher, cried in a half whisper, \"I am glad you are come, for there is such\nfun here! What do you think has happened this morning? Mr. Collins has\nmade an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him.\"\n\nCharlotte hardly had time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty,\nwho came to tell the same news; and no sooner had they entered the\nbreakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on\nthe subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating\nher to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her\nfamily. \"Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,\" she added in a melancholy tone,\n\"for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me. I am cruelly used,\nnobody feels for my poor nerves.\"\n\nCharlotte's reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth.\n\n\"Aye, there she comes,\" continued Mrs. Bennet, \"looking as unconcerned\nas may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided\nshe can have her own way. But I tell you, Miss Lizzy--if you take it\ninto your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way,\nyou will never get a husband at all--and I am sure I do not know who is\nto maintain you when your father is dead. I shall not be able to keep\nyou--and so I warn you. I have done with you from this very day. I told\nyou in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you again,\nand you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking\nto undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in talking\nto anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have\nno great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it\nis always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied.\"\n\nHer daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that\nany attempt to reason with her or soothe her would only increase the\nirritation. She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of\nthem, till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered the room with\nan air more stately than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to\nthe girls, \"Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold\nyour tongues, and let me and Mr. Collins have a little conversation\ntogether.\"\n\nElizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but\nLydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte,\ndetained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after\nherself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little\ncuriosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending\nnot to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet began the projected\nconversation: \"Oh! Mr. Collins!\"\n\n\"My dear madam,\" replied he, \"let us be for ever silent on this point.\nFar be it from me,\" he presently continued, in a voice that marked his\ndispleasure, \"to resent the behaviour of your daughter. Resignation\nto inevitable evils is the duty of us all; the peculiar duty of a\nyoung man who has been so fortunate as I have been in early preferment;\nand I trust I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt\nof my positive happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with her hand;\nfor I have often observed that resignation is never so perfect as\nwhen the blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our\nestimation. You will not, I hope, consider me as showing any disrespect\nto your family, my dear madam, by thus withdrawing my pretensions to\nyour daughter's favour, without having paid yourself and Mr. Bennet the\ncompliment of requesting you to interpose your authority in my\nbehalf. My conduct may, I fear, be objectionable in having accepted my\ndismission from your daughter's lips instead of your own. But we are all\nliable to error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair.\nMy object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with due\nconsideration for the advantage of all your family, and if my _manner_\nhas been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to apologise.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 21\n\n\nThe discussion of Mr. Collins's offer was now nearly at an end, and\nElizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings necessarily\nattending it, and occasionally from some peevish allusions of her\nmother. As for the gentleman himself, _his_ feelings were chiefly\nexpressed, not by embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid her,\nbut by stiffness of manner and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke\nto her, and the assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of\nhimself were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose\ncivility in listening to him was a seasonable relief to them all, and\nespecially to her friend.\n\nThe morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet's ill-humour or ill\nhealth. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth\nhad hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did\nnot appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on\nSaturday, and to Saturday he meant to stay.\n\nAfter breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to inquire if Mr. Wickham\nwere returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball.\nHe joined them on their entering the town, and attended them to their\naunt's where his regret and vexation, and the concern of everybody, was\nwell talked over. To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged\nthat the necessity of his absence _had_ been self-imposed.\n\n\"I found,\" said he, \"as the time drew near that I had better not meet\nMr. Darcy; that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so\nmany hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes\nmight arise unpleasant to more than myself.\"\n\nShe highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a full\ndiscussion of it, and for all the commendation which they civilly\nbestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with\nthem to Longbourn, and during the walk he particularly attended to\nher. His accompanying them was a double advantage; she felt all the\ncompliment it offered to herself, and it was most acceptable as an\noccasion of introducing him to her father and mother.\n\nSoon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came\nfrom Netherfield. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little,\nhot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady's fair, flowing hand; and\nElizabeth saw her sister's countenance change as she read it, and saw\nher dwelling intently on some particular passages. Jane recollected\nherself soon, and putting the letter away, tried to join with her usual\ncheerfulness in the general conversation; but Elizabeth felt an anxiety\non the subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no\nsooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from Jane\ninvited her to follow her up stairs. When they had gained their own room,\nJane, taking out the letter, said:\n\n\"This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains has surprised me a good\ndeal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on\ntheir way to town--and without any intention of coming back again. You\nshall hear what she says.\"\n\nShe then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information\nof their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly,\nand of their meaning to dine in Grosvenor Street, where Mr. Hurst had a\nhouse. The next was in these words: \"I do not pretend to regret anything\nI shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend;\nbut we will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many returns of that\ndelightful intercourse we have known, and in the meanwhile may\nlessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most unreserved\ncorrespondence. I depend on you for that.\" To these highflown\nexpressions Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of distrust;\nand though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she saw\nnothing in it really to lament; it was not to be supposed that their\nabsence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bingley's being there; and as\nto the loss of their society, she was persuaded that Jane must cease to\nregard it, in the enjoyment of his.\n\n\"It is unlucky,\" said she, after a short pause, \"that you should not be\nable to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not\nhope that the period of future happiness to which Miss Bingley looks\nforward may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful\nintercourse you have known as friends will be renewed with yet greater\nsatisfaction as sisters? Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by\nthem.\"\n\n\"Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into\nHertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you:\"\n\n\"When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which\ntook him to London might be concluded in three or four days; but as we\nare certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when\nCharles gets to town he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have\ndetermined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend\nhis vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintances are\nalready there for the winter; I wish that I could hear that you, my\ndearest friend, had any intention of making one of the crowd--but of\nthat I despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may\nabound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your\nbeaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the\nthree of whom we shall deprive you.\"\n\n\"It is evident by this,\" added Jane, \"that he comes back no more this\nwinter.\"\n\n\"It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean that he _should_.\"\n\n\"Why will you think so? It must be his own doing. He is his own\nmaster. But you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage which\nparticularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_.\"\n\n\"Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister; and, to confess the truth,\n_we_ are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think\nGeorgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments;\nand the affection she inspires in Louisa and myself is heightened into\nsomething still more interesting, from the hope we dare entertain of\nher being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before\nmentioned to you my feelings on this subject; but I will not leave the\ncountry without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them\nunreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already; he will have\nfrequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing;\nher relations all wish the connection as much as his own; and a sister's\npartiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most\ncapable of engaging any woman's heart. With all these circumstances to\nfavour an attachment, and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest\nJane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness\nof so many?\"\n\n\"What do you think of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?\" said Jane as she\nfinished it. \"Is it not clear enough? Does it not expressly declare that\nCaroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she is\nperfectly convinced of her brother's indifference; and that if she\nsuspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to\nput me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?\"\n\n\"Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear it?\"\n\n\"Most willingly.\"\n\n\"You shall have it in a few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is\nin love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him\nto town in hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he\ndoes not care about you.\"\n\nJane shook her head.\n\n\"Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. No one who has ever seen you\ntogether can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley, I am sure, cannot. She\nis not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr.\nDarcy for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the\ncase is this: We are not rich enough or grand enough for them; and she\nis the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion\nthat when there has been _one_ intermarriage, she may have less trouble\nin achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and\nI dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But,\nmy dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley\ntells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest\ndegree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on\nTuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that, instead\nof being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend.\"\n\n\"If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,\" replied Jane, \"your\nrepresentation of all this might make me quite easy. But I know the\nfoundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving\nanyone; and all that I can hope in this case is that she is deceiving\nherself.\"\n\n\"That is right. You could not have started a more happy idea, since you\nwill not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived, by all means.\nYou have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer.\"\n\n\"But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in\naccepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry\nelsewhere?\"\n\n\"You must decide for yourself,\" said Elizabeth; \"and if, upon mature\ndeliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is\nmore than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by\nall means to refuse him.\"\n\n\"How can you talk so?\" said Jane, faintly smiling. \"You must know that\nthough I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could\nnot hesitate.\"\n\n\"I did not think you would; and that being the case, I cannot consider\nyour situation with much compassion.\"\n\n\"But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be\nrequired. A thousand things may arise in six months!\"\n\nThe idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost\ncontempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's\ninterested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those\nwishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man\nso totally independent of everyone.\n\nShe represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt\non the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect.\nJane's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope,\nthough the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that\nBingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart.\n\nThey agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the\nfamily, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct;\nbut even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern,\nand she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen\nto go away just as they were all getting so intimate together. After\nlamenting it, however, at some length, she had the consolation that Mr.\nBingley would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the\nconclusion of all was the comfortable declaration, that though he had\nbeen invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two\nfull courses.\n\n\n\nChapter 22\n\n\nThe Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases and again during the\nchief of the day was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins.\nElizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. \"It keeps him in good\nhumour,\" said she, \"and I am more obliged to you than I can express.\"\nCharlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and\nthat it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was\nvery amiable, but Charlotte's kindness extended farther than Elizabeth\nhad any conception of; its object was nothing else than to secure her\nfrom any return of Mr. Collins's addresses, by engaging them towards\nherself. Such was Miss Lucas's scheme; and appearances were so\nfavourable, that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost\nsecure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very\nsoon. But here she did injustice to the fire and independence of his\ncharacter, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next\nmorning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw\nhimself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins,\nfrom a conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to\nconjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known\ntill its success might be known likewise; for though feeling almost\nsecure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging,\nhe was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday.\nHis reception, however, was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas\nperceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and\ninstantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had\nshe dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there.\n\nIn as short a time as Mr. Collins's long speeches would allow,\neverything was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as\nthey entered the house he earnestly entreated her to name the day that\nwas to make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must\nbe waived for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with\nhis happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature must\nguard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its\ncontinuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure\nand disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that\nestablishment were gained.\n\nSir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent;\nand it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins's present\ncircumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom\nthey could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were\nexceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate, with more\ninterest than the matter had ever excited before, how many years longer\nMr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided\nopinion, that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the\nLongbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife\nshould make their appearance at St. James's. The whole family, in short,\nwere properly overjoyed on the occasion. The younger girls formed hopes\nof _coming out_ a year or two sooner than they might otherwise have\ndone; and the boys were relieved from their apprehension of Charlotte's\ndying an old maid. Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had\ngained her point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were\nin general satisfactory. Mr. Collins, to be sure, was neither sensible\nnor agreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must\nbe imaginary. But still he would be her husband. Without thinking highly\neither of men or matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it was\nthe only provision for well-educated young women of small fortune,\nand however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest\npreservative from want. This preservative she had now obtained; and at\nthe age of twenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, she felt all\nthe good luck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business\nwas the surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship\nshe valued beyond that of any other person. Elizabeth would wonder,\nand probably would blame her; and though her resolution was not to be\nshaken, her feelings must be hurt by such a disapprobation. She resolved\nto give her the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins,\nwhen he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had\npassed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very\ndutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the\ncuriosity excited by his long absence burst forth in such very direct\nquestions on his return as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was\nat the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to\npublish his prosperous love.\n\nAs he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the\nfamily, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved\nfor the night; and Mrs. Bennet, with great politeness and cordiality,\nsaid how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever\nhis engagements might allow him to visit them.\n\n\"My dear madam,\" he replied, \"this invitation is particularly\ngratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and\nyou may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as\npossible.\"\n\nThey were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for\nso speedy a return, immediately said:\n\n\"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my\ngood sir? You had better neglect your relations than run the risk of\noffending your patroness.\"\n\n\"My dear sir,\" replied Mr. Collins, \"I am particularly obliged to you\nfor this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so\nmaterial a step without her ladyship's concurrence.\"\n\n\"You cannot be too much upon your guard. Risk anything rather than her\ndispleasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us\nagain, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home,\nand be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence.\"\n\n\"Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such\naffectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive\nfrom me a letter of thanks for this, and for every other mark of your\nregard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, though\nmy absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now\ntake the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my\ncousin Elizabeth.\"\n\nWith proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally\nsurprised that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to\nunderstand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her\nyounger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him.\nShe rated his abilities much higher than any of the others; there was\na solidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though by no\nmeans so clever as herself, she thought that if encouraged to read\nand improve himself by such an example as hers, he might become a very\nagreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of this\nkind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a\nprivate conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before.\n\nThe possibility of Mr. Collins's fancying himself in love with her\nfriend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two; but\nthat Charlotte could encourage him seemed almost as far from\npossibility as she could encourage him herself, and her astonishment was\nconsequently so great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and\nshe could not help crying out:\n\n\"Engaged to Mr. Collins! My dear Charlotte--impossible!\"\n\nThe steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her\nstory, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a\nreproach; though, as it was no more than she expected, she soon regained\nher composure, and calmly replied:\n\n\"Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you think it incredible\nthat Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman's good opinion,\nbecause he was not so happy as to succeed with you?\"\n\nBut Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong effort\nfor it, was able to assure with tolerable firmness that the prospect of\ntheir relationship was highly grateful to her, and that she wished her\nall imaginable happiness.\n\n\"I see what you are feeling,\" replied Charlotte. \"You must be surprised,\nvery much surprised--so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to marry\nyou. But when you have had time to think it over, I hope you will be\nsatisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic, you know; I never\nwas. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins's\ncharacter, connection, and situation in life, I am convinced that my\nchance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on\nentering the marriage state.\"\n\nElizabeth quietly answered \"Undoubtedly;\" and after an awkward pause,\nthey returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not stay much\nlonger, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard.\nIt was a long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so\nunsuitable a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins's making two offers\nof marriage within three days was nothing in comparison of his being now\naccepted. She had always felt that Charlotte's opinion of matrimony was\nnot exactly like her own, but she had not supposed it to be possible\nthat, when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better\nfeeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins was a\nmost humiliating picture! And to the pang of a friend disgracing herself\nand sunk in her esteem, was added the distressing conviction that it\nwas impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot she had\nchosen.\n\n\n\nChapter 23\n\n\nElizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what\nshe had heard, and doubting whether she was authorised to mention\nit, when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter, to\nannounce her engagement to the family. With many compliments to them,\nand much self-gratulation on the prospect of a connection between the\nhouses, he unfolded the matter--to an audience not merely wondering, but\nincredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than politeness,\nprotested he must be entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always unguarded and\noften uncivil, boisterously exclaimed:\n\n\"Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? Do not you know\nthat Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?\"\n\nNothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne\nwithout anger such treatment; but Sir William's good breeding carried\nhim through it all; and though he begged leave to be positive as to the\ntruth of his information, he listened to all their impertinence with the\nmost forbearing courtesy.\n\nElizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so unpleasant\na situation, now put herself forward to confirm his account, by\nmentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte herself; and\nendeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her mother and sisters\nby the earnestness of her congratulations to Sir William, in which she\nwas readily joined by Jane, and by making a variety of remarks on the\nhappiness that might be expected from the match, the excellent character\nof Mr. Collins, and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London.\n\nMrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a great deal while\nSir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than her feelings\nfound a rapid vent. In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving\nthe whole of the matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins\nhad been taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be\nhappy together; and fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two\ninferences, however, were plainly deduced from the whole: one, that\nElizabeth was the real cause of the mischief; and the other that she\nherself had been barbarously misused by them all; and on these two\npoints she principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could\nconsole and nothing could appease her. Nor did that day wear out her\nresentment. A week elapsed before she could see Elizabeth without\nscolding her, a month passed away before she could speak to Sir William\nor Lady Lucas without being rude, and many months were gone before she\ncould at all forgive their daughter.\n\nMr. Bennet's emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion, and such\nas he did experience he pronounced to be of a most agreeable sort; for\nit gratified him, he said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had\nbeen used to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and\nmore foolish than his daughter!\n\nJane confessed herself a little surprised at the match; but she said\nless of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for their happiness;\nnor could Elizabeth persuade her to consider it as improbable. Kitty\nand Lydia were far from envying Miss Lucas, for Mr. Collins was only a\nclergyman; and it affected them in no other way than as a piece of news\nto spread at Meryton.\n\nLady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to retort\non Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well married; and she\ncalled at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to say how happy she was,\nthough Mrs. Bennet's sour looks and ill-natured remarks might have been\nenough to drive happiness away.\n\nBetween Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept them\nmutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded that\nno real confidence could ever subsist between them again. Her\ndisappointment in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her\nsister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her opinion could\nnever be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious,\nas Bingley had now been gone a week and nothing more was heard of his\nreturn.\n\nJane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting\nthe days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised\nletter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to\ntheir father, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a\ntwelvemonth's abode in the family might have prompted. After discharging\nhis conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them, with many\nrapturous expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection\nof their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was\nmerely with the view of enjoying her society that he had been so ready\nto close with their kind wish of seeing him again at Longbourn, whither\nhe hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; for Lady Catherine,\nhe added, so heartily approved his marriage, that she wished it to take\nplace as soon as possible, which he trusted would be an unanswerable\nargument with his amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him\nthe happiest of men.\n\nMr. Collins's return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of\npleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary, she was as much disposed to\ncomplain of it as her husband. It was very strange that he should come\nto Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient\nand exceedingly troublesome. She hated having visitors in the house\nwhile her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the\nmost disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and\nthey gave way only to the greater distress of Mr. Bingley's continued\nabsence.\n\nNeither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day after\nday passed away without bringing any other tidings of him than the\nreport which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming no more to\nNetherfield the whole winter; a report which highly incensed Mrs.\nBennet, and which she never failed to contradict as a most scandalous\nfalsehood.\n\nEven Elizabeth began to fear--not that Bingley was indifferent--but that\nhis sisters would be successful in keeping him away. Unwilling as\nshe was to admit an idea so destructive of Jane's happiness, and so\ndishonorable to the stability of her lover, she could not prevent its\nfrequently occurring. The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters\nand of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss\nDarcy and the amusements of London might be too much, she feared, for\nthe strength of his attachment.\n\nAs for Jane, _her_ anxiety under this suspense was, of course, more\npainful than Elizabeth's, but whatever she felt she was desirous of\nconcealing, and between herself and Elizabeth, therefore, the subject\nwas never alluded to. But as no such delicacy restrained her mother,\nan hour seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her\nimpatience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he\ndid not come back she would think herself very ill used. It needed\nall Jane's steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable\ntranquillity.\n\nMr. Collins returned most punctually on Monday fortnight, but his\nreception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his\nfirst introduction. He was too happy, however, to need much attention;\nand luckily for the others, the business of love-making relieved them\nfrom a great deal of his company. The chief of every day was spent by\nhim at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time\nto make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed.\n\nMrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of\nanything concerning the match threw her into an agony of ill-humour,\nand wherever she went she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight\nof Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her successor in that house, she\nregarded her with jealous abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see\nthem, she concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and\nwhenever she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that\nthey were talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself\nand her daughters out of the house, as soon as Mr. Bennet were dead. She\ncomplained bitterly of all this to her husband.\n\n\"Indeed, Mr. Bennet,\" said she, \"it is very hard to think that Charlotte\nLucas should ever be mistress of this house, that I should be forced to\nmake way for _her_, and live to see her take her place in it!\"\n\n\"My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for\nbetter things. Let us flatter ourselves that I may be the survivor.\"\n\nThis was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and therefore, instead of\nmaking any answer, she went on as before.\n\n\"I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If it was\nnot for the entail, I should not mind it.\"\n\n\"What should not you mind?\"\n\n\"I should not mind anything at all.\"\n\n\"Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such\ninsensibility.\"\n\n\"I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for anything about the entail. How\nanyone could have the conscience to entail away an estate from one's own\ndaughters, I cannot understand; and all for the sake of Mr. Collins too!\nWhy should _he_ have it more than anybody else?\"\n\n\"I leave it to yourself to determine,\" said Mr. Bennet.\n\n\n\nChapter 24\n\n\nMiss Bingley's letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first\nsentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for\nthe winter, and concluded with her brother's regret at not having had\ntime to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left\nthe country.\n\nHope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest\nof the letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the\nwriter, that could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy's praise occupied\nthe chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on, and Caroline\nboasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict\nthe accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former\nletter. She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother's being an\ninmate of Mr. Darcy's house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of\nthe latter with regard to new furniture.\n\nElizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this,\nheard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern\nfor her sister, and resentment against all others. To Caroline's\nassertion of her brother's being partial to Miss Darcy she paid no\ncredit. That he was really fond of Jane, she doubted no more than she\nhad ever done; and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she\ncould not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness\nof temper, that want of proper resolution, which now made him the slave\nof his designing friends, and led him to sacrifice of his own happiness\nto the caprice of their inclination. Had his own happiness, however,\nbeen the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in\nwhatever manner he thought best, but her sister's was involved in it, as\nshe thought he must be sensible himself. It was a subject, in short,\non which reflection would be long indulged, and must be unavailing. She\ncould think of nothing else; and yet whether Bingley's regard had really\ndied away, or were suppressed by his friends' interference; whether\nhe had been aware of Jane's attachment, or whether it had escaped his\nobservation; whatever were the case, though her opinion of him must be\nmaterially affected by the difference, her sister's situation remained\nthe same, her peace equally wounded.\n\nA day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her feelings to\nElizabeth; but at last, on Mrs. Bennet's leaving them together, after a\nlonger irritation than usual about Netherfield and its master, she could\nnot help saying:\n\n\"Oh, that my dear mother had more command over herself! She can have no\nidea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But\nI will not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall\nall be as we were before.\"\n\nElizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said\nnothing.\n\n\"You doubt me,\" cried Jane, slightly colouring; \"indeed, you have\nno reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my\nacquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear,\nand nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not _that_ pain. A\nlittle time, therefore--I shall certainly try to get the better.\"\n\nWith a stronger voice she soon added, \"I have this comfort immediately,\nthat it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it\nhas done no harm to anyone but myself.\"\n\n\"My dear Jane!\" exclaimed Elizabeth, \"you are too good. Your sweetness\nand disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say\nto you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you\ndeserve.\"\n\nMiss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back\nthe praise on her sister's warm affection.\n\n\"Nay,\" said Elizabeth, \"this is not fair. _You_ wish to think all the\nworld respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody. I only want\nto think _you_ perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not\nbe afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your\nprivilege of universal good-will. You need not. There are few people\nwhom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see\nof the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms\nmy belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the\nlittle dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or\nsense. I have met with two instances lately, one I will not mention; the\nother is Charlotte's marriage. It is unaccountable! In every view it is\nunaccountable!\"\n\n\"My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will\nruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference\nof situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins's respectability, and\nCharlotte's steady, prudent character. Remember that she is one of a\nlarge family; that as to fortune, it is a most eligible match; and be\nready to believe, for everybody's sake, that she may feel something like\nregard and esteem for our cousin.\"\n\n\"To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no one else\ncould be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I persuaded that\nCharlotte had any regard for him, I should only think worse of her\nunderstanding than I now do of her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a\nconceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man; you know he is, as well as\nI do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the woman who married him\ncannot have a proper way of thinking. You shall not defend her, though\nit is Charlotte Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual,\nchange the meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade\nyourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility of\ndanger security for happiness.\"\n\n\"I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,\" replied\nJane; \"and I hope you will be convinced of it by seeing them happy\ntogether. But enough of this. You alluded to something else. You\nmentioned _two_ instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but I entreat\nyou, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking _that person_ to blame, and\nsaying your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy\nourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively young man\nto be always so guarded and circumspect. It is very often nothing but\nour own vanity that deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than\nit does.\"\n\n\"And men take care that they should.\"\n\n\"If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea\nof there being so much design in the world as some persons imagine.\"\n\n\"I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley's conduct to design,\"\nsaid Elizabeth; \"but without scheming to do wrong, or to make others\nunhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness,\nwant of attention to other people's feelings, and want of resolution,\nwill do the business.\"\n\n\"And do you impute it to either of those?\"\n\n\"Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by saying what\nI think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you can.\"\n\n\"You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him?\"\n\n\"Yes, in conjunction with his friend.\"\n\n\"I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can\nonly wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me, no other woman can\nsecure it.\"\n\n\"Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his\nhappiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they\nmay wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great\nconnections, and pride.\"\n\n\"Beyond a doubt, they _do_ wish him to choose Miss Darcy,\" replied Jane;\n\"but this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have\nknown her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love\nher better. But, whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely\nthey should have opposed their brother's. What sister would think\nherself at liberty to do it, unless there were something very\nobjectionable? If they believed him attached to me, they would not try\nto part us; if he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an\naffection, you make everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most\nunhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been\nmistaken--or, at least, it is light, it is nothing in comparison of what\nI should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it in\nthe best light, in the light in which it may be understood.\"\n\nElizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley's\nname was scarcely ever mentioned between them.\n\nMrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no\nmore, and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account\nfor it clearly, there was little chance of her ever considering it with\nless perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to convince her of what she\ndid not believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely the\neffect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw her\nno more; but though the probability of the statement was admitted at\nthe time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet's best\ncomfort was that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.\n\nMr. Bennet treated the matter differently. \"So, Lizzy,\" said he one day,\n\"your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate her. Next to\nbeing married, a girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then.\nIt is something to think of, and it gives her a sort of distinction\namong her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to\nbe long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough in\nMeryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham\nbe _your_ man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not\nall expect Jane's good fortune.\"\n\n\"True,\" said Mr. Bennet, \"but it is a comfort to think that whatever of\nthat kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will make\nthe most of it.\"\n\nMr. Wickham's society was of material service in dispelling the gloom\nwhich the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn\nfamily. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now\nadded that of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had already\nheard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him,\nwas now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was\npleased to know how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they\nhad known anything of the matter.\n\nMiss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be\nany extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the society\nof Hertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always pleaded for\nallowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes--but by everybody else\nMr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.\n\n\n\nChapter 25\n\n\nAfter a week spent in professions of love and schemes of felicity,\nMr. Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of\nSaturday. The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his\nside, by preparations for the reception of his bride; as he had reason\nto hope, that shortly after his return into Hertfordshire, the day would\nbe fixed that was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave of his\nrelations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished his fair\ncousins health and happiness again, and promised their father another\nletter of thanks.\n\nOn the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving\nher brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend the Christmas\nat Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly\nsuperior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield\nladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived\nby trade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so\nwell-bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger\nthan Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Phillips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant\nwoman, and a great favourite with all her Longbourn nieces. Between the\ntwo eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a particular regard.\nThey had frequently been staying with her in town.\n\nThe first part of Mrs. Gardiner's business on her arrival was to\ndistribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When this was\ndone she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen.\nMrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They\nhad all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her\ngirls had been upon the point of marriage, and after all there was\nnothing in it.\n\n\"I do not blame Jane,\" she continued, \"for Jane would have got Mr.\nBingley if she could. But Lizzy! Oh, sister! It is very hard to think\nthat she might have been Mr. Collins's wife by this time, had it not\nbeen for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very room,\nand she refused him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have\na daughter married before I have, and that the Longbourn estate is just\nas much entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful people indeed,\nsister. They are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of\nthem, but so it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted\nso in my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves\nbefore anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is the\ngreatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us, of\nlong sleeves.\"\n\nMrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before,\nin the course of Jane and Elizabeth's correspondence with her, made her\nsister a slight answer, and, in compassion to her nieces, turned the\nconversation.\n\nWhen alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. \"It\nseems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane,\" said she. \"I am\nsorry it went off. But these things happen so often! A young man, such\nas you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl\nfor a few weeks, and when accident separates them, so easily forgets\nher, that these sort of inconsistencies are very frequent.\"\n\n\"An excellent consolation in its way,\" said Elizabeth, \"but it will not\ndo for _us_. We do not suffer by _accident_. It does not often\nhappen that the interference of friends will persuade a young man of\nindependent fortune to think no more of a girl whom he was violently in\nlove with only a few days before.\"\n\n\"But that expression of 'violently in love' is so hackneyed, so\ndoubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is as\noften applied to feelings which arise from a half-hour's acquaintance,\nas to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how _violent was_ Mr. Bingley's\nlove?\"\n\n\"I never saw a more promising inclination; he was growing quite\ninattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every time\nthey met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball he\noffended two or three young ladies, by not asking them to dance; and I\nspoke to him twice myself, without receiving an answer. Could there be\nfiner symptoms? Is not general incivility the very essence of love?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes!--of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt. Poor\nJane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get\nover it immediately. It had better have happened to _you_, Lizzy; you\nwould have laughed yourself out of it sooner. But do you think she\nwould be prevailed upon to go back with us? Change of scene might be\nof service--and perhaps a little relief from home may be as useful as\nanything.\"\n\nElizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded\nof her sister's ready acquiescence.\n\n\"I hope,\" added Mrs. Gardiner, \"that no consideration with regard to\nthis young man will influence her. We live in so different a part of\ntown, all our connections are so different, and, as you well know, we go\nout so little, that it is very improbable that they should meet at all,\nunless he really comes to see her.\"\n\n\"And _that_ is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his\nfriend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in such\na part of London! My dear aunt, how could you think of it? Mr. Darcy may\nperhaps have _heard_ of such a place as Gracechurch Street, but he\nwould hardly think a month's ablution enough to cleanse him from its\nimpurities, were he once to enter it; and depend upon it, Mr. Bingley\nnever stirs without him.\"\n\n\"So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does not Jane\ncorrespond with his sister? _She_ will not be able to help calling.\"\n\n\"She will drop the acquaintance entirely.\"\n\nBut in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to place this\npoint, as well as the still more interesting one of Bingley's being\nwithheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude on the subject which\nconvinced her, on examination, that she did not consider it entirely\nhopeless. It was possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that\nhis affection might be reanimated, and the influence of his friends\nsuccessfully combated by the more natural influence of Jane's\nattractions.\n\nMiss Bennet accepted her aunt's invitation with pleasure; and the\nBingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the same time, than as she\nhoped by Caroline's not living in the same house with her brother,\nshe might occasionally spend a morning with her, without any danger of\nseeing him.\n\nThe Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the Phillipses,\nthe Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its\nengagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment\nof her brother and sister, that they did not once sit down to a family\ndinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always\nmade part of it--of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and\non these occasions, Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth's\nwarm commendation, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing them,\nfrom what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their preference\nof each other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy; and\nshe resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before she left\nHertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of encouraging such\nan attachment.\n\nTo Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure,\nunconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago,\nbefore her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very\npart of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many\nacquaintances in common; and though Wickham had been little there since\nthe death of Darcy's father, it was yet in his power to give her fresher\nintelligence of her former friends than she had been in the way of\nprocuring.\n\nMrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by\ncharacter perfectly well. Here consequently was an inexhaustible subject\nof discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberley with the minute\ndescription which Wickham could give, and in bestowing her tribute of\npraise on the character of its late possessor, she was delighting both\nhim and herself. On being made acquainted with the present Mr. Darcy's\ntreatment of him, she tried to remember some of that gentleman's\nreputed disposition when quite a lad which might agree with it, and\nwas confident at last that she recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam\nDarcy formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured boy.\n\n\n\nChapter 26\n\n\nMrs. Gardiner's caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given\non the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone; after\nhonestly telling her what she thought, she thus went on:\n\n\"You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because\nyou are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking\nopenly. Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve\nyourself or endeavour to involve him in an affection which the want\nof fortune would make so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against\n_him_; he is a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune he\nought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is, you\nmust not let your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all\nexpect you to use it. Your father would depend on _your_ resolution and\ngood conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father.\"\n\n\"My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.\"\n\n\"Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.\"\n\n\"Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of\nmyself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I\ncan prevent it.\"\n\n\"Elizabeth, you are not serious now.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon, I will try again. At present I am not in love with\nMr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison,\nthe most agreeable man I ever saw--and if he becomes really attached to\nme--I believe it will be better that he should not. I see the imprudence\nof it. Oh! _that_ abominable Mr. Darcy! My father's opinion of me does\nme the greatest honour, and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My\nfather, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I\nshould be very sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy; but\nsince we see every day that where there is affection, young people\nare seldom withheld by immediate want of fortune from entering into\nengagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many\nof my fellow-creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that it\nwould be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not\nto be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first\nobject. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short,\nI will do my best.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so very\noften. At least, you should not _remind_ your mother of inviting him.\"\n\n\"As I did the other day,\" said Elizabeth with a conscious smile: \"very\ntrue, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do not imagine\nthat he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been\nso frequently invited this week. You know my mother's ideas as to the\nnecessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my\nhonour, I will try to do what I think to be the wisest; and now I hope\nyou are satisfied.\"\n\nHer aunt assured her that she was, and Elizabeth having thanked her for\nthe kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice\nbeing given on such a point, without being resented.\n\nMr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted\nby the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode with the Lucases,\nhis arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was\nnow fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think\nit inevitable, and even repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured tone, that\nshe \"_wished_ they might be happy.\" Thursday was to be the wedding day,\nand on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she\nrose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother's ungracious and\nreluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her\nout of the room. As they went downstairs together, Charlotte said:\n\n\"I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.\"\n\n\"_That_ you certainly shall.\"\n\n\"And I have another favour to ask you. Will you come and see me?\"\n\n\"We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.\"\n\n\"I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to\ncome to Hunsford.\"\n\nElizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the\nvisit.\n\n\"My father and Maria are coming to me in March,\" added Charlotte, \"and I\nhope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as\nwelcome as either of them.\"\n\nThe wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from\nthe church door, and everybody had as much to say, or to hear, on\nthe subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their\ncorrespondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that\nit should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never\naddress her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over,\nand though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the\nsake of what had been, rather than what was. Charlotte's first letters\nwere received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be\ncuriosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would\nlike Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce herself to\nbe; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte\nexpressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She\nwrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing\nwhich she could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and\nroads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine's behaviour was most\nfriendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins's picture of Hunsford and\nRosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait\nfor her own visit there to know the rest.\n\nJane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce their\nsafe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped it\nwould be in her power to say something of the Bingleys.\n\nHer impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience\ngenerally is. Jane had been a week in town without either seeing or\nhearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that\nher last letter to her friend from Longbourn had by some accident been\nlost.\n\n\"My aunt,\" she continued, \"is going to-morrow into that part of the\ntown, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor Street.\"\n\nShe wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley.\n\"I did not think Caroline in spirits,\" were her words, \"but she was very\nglad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming\nto London. I was right, therefore, my last letter had never reached\nher. I inquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much\nengaged with Mr. Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that\nMiss Darcy was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was\nnot long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall\nsee them soon here.\"\n\nElizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her that\naccident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister's being in town.\n\nFour weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to\npersuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be\nblind to Miss Bingley's inattention. After waiting at home every morning\nfor a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the\nvisitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet more,\nthe alteration of her manner would allow Jane to deceive herself no\nlonger. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister will\nprove what she felt.\n\n\"My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in her\nbetter judgement, at my expense, when I confess myself to have been\nentirely deceived in Miss Bingley's regard for me. But, my dear sister,\nthough the event has proved you right, do not think me obstinate if I\nstill assert that, considering what her behaviour was, my confidence was\nas natural as your suspicion. I do not at all comprehend her reason for\nwishing to be intimate with me; but if the same circumstances were to\nhappen again, I am sure I should be deceived again. Caroline did not\nreturn my visit till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I\nreceive in the meantime. When she did come, it was very evident that\nshe had no pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal apology, for not\ncalling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and was\nin every respect so altered a creature, that when she went away I was\nperfectly resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity,\nthough I cannot help blaming her. She was very wrong in singling me out\nas she did; I can safely say that every advance to intimacy began on\nher side. But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been acting\nwrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for her brother is the\ncause of it. I need not explain myself farther; and though _we_ know\nthis anxiety to be quite needless, yet if she feels it, it will easily\naccount for her behaviour to me; and so deservedly dear as he is to\nhis sister, whatever anxiety she must feel on his behalf is natural and\namiable. I cannot but wonder, however, at her having any such fears now,\nbecause, if he had at all cared about me, we must have met, long ago.\nHe knows of my being in town, I am certain, from something she said\nherself; and yet it would seem, by her manner of talking, as if she\nwanted to persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Darcy. I\ncannot understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should\nbe almost tempted to say that there is a strong appearance of duplicity\nin all this. But I will endeavour to banish every painful thought,\nand think only of what will make me happy--your affection, and the\ninvariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from you very\nsoon. Miss Bingley said something of his never returning to Netherfield\nagain, of giving up the house, but not with any certainty. We had better\nnot mention it. I am extremely glad that you have such pleasant accounts\nfrom our friends at Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir William and\nMaria. I am sure you will be very comfortable there.--Yours, etc.\"\n\nThis letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned as she\nconsidered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister at least.\nAll expectation from the brother was now absolutely over. She would not\neven wish for a renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on\nevery review of it; and as a punishment for him, as well as a possible\nadvantage to Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr.\nDarcy's sister, as by Wickham's account, she would make him abundantly\nregret what he had thrown away.\n\nMrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise\nconcerning that gentleman, and required information; and Elizabeth\nhad such to send as might rather give contentment to her aunt than to\nherself. His apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over,\nhe was the admirer of some one else. Elizabeth was watchful enough to\nsee it all, but she could see it and write of it without material pain.\nHer heart had been but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied\nwith believing that _she_ would have been his only choice, had fortune\npermitted it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most\nremarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering himself\nagreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in this case than\nin Charlotte's, did not quarrel with him for his wish of independence.\nNothing, on the contrary, could be more natural; and while able to\nsuppose that it cost him a few struggles to relinquish her, she was\nready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very\nsincerely wish him happy.\n\nAll this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating the\ncircumstances, she thus went on: \"I am now convinced, my dear aunt, that\nI have never been much in love; for had I really experienced that pure\nand elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name, and\nwish him all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only cordial\ntowards _him_; they are even impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find\nout that I hate her at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to\nthink her a very good sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My\nwatchfulness has been effectual; and though I certainly should be a more\ninteresting object to all my acquaintances were I distractedly in love\nwith him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance.\nImportance may sometimes be purchased too dearly. Kitty and Lydia take\nhis defection much more to heart than I do. They are young in the\nways of the world, and not yet open to the mortifying conviction that\nhandsome young men must have something to live on as well as the plain.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 27\n\n\nWith no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise\ndiversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and\nsometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take\nElizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of\ngoing thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on the plan\nand she gradually learned to consider it herself with greater pleasure\nas well as greater certainty. Absence had increased her desire of seeing\nCharlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There\nwas novelty in the scheme, and as, with such a mother and such\nuncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change\nwas not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would moreover give her\na peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have\nbeen very sorry for any delay. Everything, however, went on smoothly,\nand was finally settled according to Charlotte's first sketch. She was\nto accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement\nof spending a night in London was added in time, and the plan became\nperfect as plan could be.\n\nThe only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss her,\nand who, when it came to the point, so little liked her going, that he\ntold her to write to him, and almost promised to answer her letter.\n\nThe farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on\nhis side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that\nElizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the\nfirst to listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner\nof bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of\nwhat she was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their\nopinion of her--their opinion of everybody--would always coincide, there\nwas a solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her to\nhim with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced that,\nwhether married or single, he must always be her model of the amiable\nand pleasing.\n\nHer fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her\nthink him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a\ngood-humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say\nthat could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much\ndelight as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but\nshe had known Sir William's too long. He could tell her nothing new of\nthe wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were\nworn out, like his information.\n\nIt was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early\nas to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner's\ndoor, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival; when\nthey entered the passage she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth,\nlooking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and\nlovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls,\nwhose eagerness for their cousin's appearance would not allow them to\nwait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen\nher for a twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and\nkindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and\nshopping, and the evening at one of the theatres.\n\nElizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first object was her\nsister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to\nher minute inquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her\nspirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however,\nto hope that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the\nparticulars also of Miss Bingley's visit in Gracechurch Street, and\nrepeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and\nherself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the\nacquaintance.\n\nMrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham's desertion, and\ncomplimented her on bearing it so well.\n\n\"But my dear Elizabeth,\" she added, \"what sort of girl is Miss King? I\nshould be sorry to think our friend mercenary.\"\n\n\"Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs,\nbetween the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end,\nand avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me,\nbecause it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get\na girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is\nmercenary.\"\n\n\"If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know\nwhat to think.\"\n\n\"She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her.\"\n\n\"But he paid her not the smallest attention till her grandfather's death\nmade her mistress of this fortune.\"\n\n\"No--why should he? If it were not allowable for him to gain _my_\naffections because I had no money, what occasion could there be for\nmaking love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally\npoor?\"\n\n\"But there seems an indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her\nso soon after this event.\"\n\n\"A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant\ndecorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does not object to it,\nwhy should _we_?\"\n\n\"_Her_ not objecting does not justify _him_. It only shows her being\ndeficient in something herself--sense or feeling.\"\n\n\"Well,\" cried Elizabeth, \"have it as you choose. _He_ shall be\nmercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish.\"\n\n\"No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry, you know,\nto think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire.\"\n\n\"Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in\nDerbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not\nmuch better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow\nwhere I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has\nneither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones\nworth knowing, after all.\"\n\n\"Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment.\"\n\nBefore they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the\nunexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in\na tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.\n\n\"We have not determined how far it shall carry us,\" said Mrs. Gardiner,\n\"but, perhaps, to the Lakes.\"\n\nNo scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her\nacceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. \"Oh, my dear,\ndear aunt,\" she rapturously cried, \"what delight! what felicity! You\ngive me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What\nare young men to rocks and mountains? Oh! what hours of transport\nwe shall spend! And when we _do_ return, it shall not be like other\ntravellers, without being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We\n_will_ know where we have gone--we _will_ recollect what we have seen.\nLakes, mountains, and rivers shall not be jumbled together in our\nimaginations; nor when we attempt to describe any particular scene,\nwill we begin quarreling about its relative situation. Let _our_\nfirst effusions be less insupportable than those of the generality of\ntravellers.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 28\n\n\nEvery object in the next day's journey was new and interesting to\nElizabeth; and her spirits were in a state of enjoyment; for she had\nseen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health,\nand the prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight.\n\nWhen they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was in\nsearch of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view.\nThe palings of Rosings Park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth\nsmiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants.\n\nAt length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the\nroad, the house standing in it, the green pales, and the laurel hedge,\neverything declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte\nappeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate which\nled by a short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of\nthe whole party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing\nat the sight of each other. Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the\nliveliest pleasure, and Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with\ncoming when she found herself so affectionately received. She saw\ninstantly that her cousin's manners were not altered by his marriage;\nhis formal civility was just what it had been, and he detained her some\nminutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his inquiries after all her\nfamily. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing out the\nneatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as soon as they\nwere in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time, with ostentatious\nformality to his humble abode, and punctually repeated all his wife's\noffers of refreshment.\n\nElizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help\nin fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its\naspect and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her,\nas if wishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But\nthough everything seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to\ngratify him by any sigh of repentance, and rather looked with wonder at\nher friend that she could have so cheerful an air with such a companion.\nWhen Mr. Collins said anything of which his wife might reasonably be\nashamed, which certainly was not unseldom, she involuntarily turned her\neye on Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a faint blush; but\nin general Charlotte wisely did not hear. After sitting long enough to\nadmire every article of furniture in the room, from the sideboard to\nthe fender, to give an account of their journey, and of all that had\nhappened in London, Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the\ngarden, which was large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of\nwhich he attended himself. To work in this garden was one of his most\nrespectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of countenance\nwith which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and\nowned she encouraged it as much as possible. Here, leading the way\nthrough every walk and cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an\ninterval to utter the praises he asked for, every view was pointed out\nwith a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind. He could number the\nfields in every direction, and could tell how many trees there were in\nthe most distant clump. But of all the views which his garden, or which\nthe country or kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with the\nprospect of Rosings, afforded by an opening in the trees that bordered\nthe park nearly opposite the front of his house. It was a handsome\nmodern building, well situated on rising ground.\n\nFrom his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two meadows;\nbut the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white\nfrost, turned back; and while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte\ntook her sister and friend over the house, extremely well pleased,\nprobably, to have the opportunity of showing it without her husband's\nhelp. It was rather small, but well built and convenient; and everything\nwas fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency of which\nElizabeth gave Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be\nforgotten, there was really an air of great comfort throughout, and by\nCharlotte's evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must be often\nforgotten.\n\nShe had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It\nwas spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining\nin, observed:\n\n\"Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine\nde Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will\nbe delighted with her. She is all affability and condescension, and I\ndoubt not but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice\nwhen service is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying she\nwill include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she\nhonours us during your stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is\ncharming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed\nto walk home. Her ladyship's carriage is regularly ordered for us. I\n_should_ say, one of her ladyship's carriages, for she has several.\"\n\n\"Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed,\" added\nCharlotte, \"and a most attentive neighbour.\"\n\n\"Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of\nwoman whom one cannot regard with too much deference.\"\n\nThe evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news,\nand telling again what had already been written; and when it closed,\nElizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to meditate upon\nCharlotte's degree of contentment, to understand her address in guiding,\nand composure in bearing with, her husband, and to acknowledge that it\nwas all done very well. She had also to anticipate how her visit\nwould pass, the quiet tenor of their usual employments, the vexatious\ninterruptions of Mr. Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse with\nRosings. A lively imagination soon settled it all.\n\nAbout the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready\nfor a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in\nconfusion; and, after listening a moment, she heard somebody running\nup stairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after her. She opened\nthe door and met Maria in the landing place, who, breathless with\nagitation, cried out--\n\n\"Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the dining-room, for\nthere is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make\nhaste, and come down this moment.\"\n\nElizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing more,\nand down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the lane, in\nquest of this wonder; It was two ladies stopping in a low phaeton at the\ngarden gate.\n\n\"And is this all?\" cried Elizabeth. \"I expected at least that the pigs\nwere got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her\ndaughter.\"\n\n\"La! my dear,\" said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, \"it is not\nLady Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them;\nthe other is Miss de Bourgh. Only look at her. She is quite a little\ncreature. Who would have thought that she could be so thin and small?\"\n\n\"She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all this wind.\nWhy does she not come in?\"\n\n\"Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours\nwhen Miss de Bourgh comes in.\"\n\n\"I like her appearance,\" said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas. \"She\nlooks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well. She will\nmake him a very proper wife.\"\n\nMr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in conversation\nwith the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth's high diversion, was\nstationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the greatness\nbefore him, and constantly bowing whenever Miss de Bourgh looked that\nway.\n\nAt length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on, and\nthe others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw the two\ngirls than he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, which\nCharlotte explained by letting them know that the whole party was asked\nto dine at Rosings the next day.\n\n\n\nChapter 29\n\n\nMr. Collins's triumph, in consequence of this invitation, was complete.\nThe power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to his wondering\nvisitors, and of letting them see her civility towards himself and his\nwife, was exactly what he had wished for; and that an opportunity\nof doing it should be given so soon, was such an instance of Lady\nCatherine's condescension, as he knew not how to admire enough.\n\n\"I confess,\" said he, \"that I should not have been at all surprised by\nher ladyship's asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening at\nRosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that it\nwould happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this? Who\ncould have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine there\n(an invitation, moreover, including the whole party) so immediately\nafter your arrival!\"\n\n\"I am the less surprised at what has happened,\" replied Sir William,\n\"from that knowledge of what the manners of the great really are, which\nmy situation in life has allowed me to acquire. About the court, such\ninstances of elegant breeding are not uncommon.\"\n\nScarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but their\nvisit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in what\nthey were to expect, that the sight of such rooms, so many servants, and\nso splendid a dinner, might not wholly overpower them.\n\nWhen the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to Elizabeth--\n\n\"Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady\nCatherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us which\nbecomes herself and her daughter. I would advise you merely to put on\nwhatever of your clothes is superior to the rest--there is no occasion\nfor anything more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you\nfor being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank\npreserved.\"\n\nWhile they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different\ndoors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much\nobjected to be kept waiting for her dinner. Such formidable accounts of\nher ladyship, and her manner of living, quite frightened Maria Lucas\nwho had been little used to company, and she looked forward to her\nintroduction at Rosings with as much apprehension as her father had done\nto his presentation at St. James's.\n\nAs the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a\nmile across the park. Every park has its beauty and its prospects; and\nElizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she could not be in such\nraptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene to inspire, and was but\nslightly affected by his enumeration of the windows in front of the\nhouse, and his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally\ncost Sir Lewis de Bourgh.\n\nWhen they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria's alarm was every\nmoment increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly calm.\nElizabeth's courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing of Lady\nCatherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary talents or\nmiraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money or rank she thought\nshe could witness without trepidation.\n\nFrom the entrance-hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a\nrapturous air, the fine proportion and the finished ornaments, they\nfollowed the servants through an ante-chamber, to the room where Lady\nCatherine, her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. Her ladyship,\nwith great condescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins had\nsettled it with her husband that the office of introduction should\nbe hers, it was performed in a proper manner, without any of those\napologies and thanks which he would have thought necessary.\n\nIn spite of having been at St. James's Sir William was so completely\nawed by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage\nenough to make a very low bow, and take his seat without saying a word;\nand his daughter, frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge\nof her chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth found herself\nquite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her\ncomposedly. Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked\nfeatures, which might once have been handsome. Her air was not\nconciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them such as to make her\nvisitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered formidable by\nsilence; but whatever she said was spoken in so authoritative a tone,\nas marked her self-importance, and brought Mr. Wickham immediately to\nElizabeth's mind; and from the observation of the day altogether, she\nbelieved Lady Catherine to be exactly what he represented.\n\nWhen, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment\nshe soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the\ndaughter, she could almost have joined in Maria's astonishment at her\nbeing so thin and so small. There was neither in figure nor face any\nlikeness between the ladies. Miss de Bourgh was pale and sickly; her\nfeatures, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very\nlittle, except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance\nthere was nothing remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening\nto what she said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before\nher eyes.\n\nAfter sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows to\nadmire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point out its beauties,\nand Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much better worth\nlooking at in the summer.\n\nThe dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants and\nall the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised; and, as he had\nlikewise foretold, he took his seat at the bottom of the table, by her\nladyship's desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish\nnothing greater. He carved, and ate, and praised with delighted\nalacrity; and every dish was commended, first by him and then by Sir\nWilliam, who was now enough recovered to echo whatever his son-in-law\nsaid, in a manner which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear.\nBut Lady Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and\ngave most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the table proved\na novelty to them. The party did not supply much conversation. Elizabeth\nwas ready to speak whenever there was an opening, but she was seated\nbetween Charlotte and Miss de Bourgh--the former of whom was engaged in\nlistening to Lady Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all\ndinner-time. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little\nMiss de Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish, and fearing\nshe was indisposed. Maria thought speaking out of the question, and the\ngentlemen did nothing but eat and admire.\n\nWhen the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to\nbe done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any\nintermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every\nsubject in so decisive a manner, as proved that she was not used to\nhave her judgement controverted. She inquired into Charlotte's domestic\nconcerns familiarly and minutely, gave her a great deal of advice as\nto the management of them all; told her how everything ought to be\nregulated in so small a family as hers, and instructed her as to the\ncare of her cows and her poultry. Elizabeth found that nothing was\nbeneath this great lady's attention, which could furnish her with an\noccasion of dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse\nwith Mrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and\nElizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew\nthe least, and who she observed to Mrs. Collins was a very genteel,\npretty kind of girl. She asked her, at different times, how many sisters\nshe had, whether they were older or younger than herself, whether any of\nthem were likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where they\nhad been educated, what carriage her father kept, and what had been\nher mother's maiden name? Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of\nher questions but answered them very composedly. Lady Catherine then\nobserved,\n\n\"Your father's estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think. For your\nsake,\" turning to Charlotte, \"I am glad of it; but otherwise I see no\noccasion for entailing estates from the female line. It was not thought\nnecessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh's family. Do you play and sing, Miss\nBennet?\"\n\n\"A little.\"\n\n\"Oh! then--some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our\ninstrument is a capital one, probably superior to----You shall try it\nsome day. Do your sisters play and sing?\"\n\n\"One of them does.\"\n\n\"Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned. The Miss\nWebbs all play, and their father has not so good an income as yours. Do\nyou draw?\"\n\n\"No, not at all.\"\n\n\"What, none of you?\"\n\n\"Not one.\"\n\n\"That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother\nshould have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters.\"\n\n\"My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates London.\"\n\n\"Has your governess left you?\"\n\n\"We never had any governess.\"\n\n\"No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home\nwithout a governess! I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must\nhave been quite a slave to your education.\"\n\nElizabeth could hardly help smiling as she assured her that had not been\nthe case.\n\n\"Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess, you\nmust have been neglected.\"\n\n\"Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as\nwished to learn never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to\nread, and had all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be\nidle, certainly might.\"\n\n\"Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent, and if I had\nknown your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage\none. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady\nand regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is\nwonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that\nway. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces\nof Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and\nit was but the other day that I recommended another young person,\nwho was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite\ndelighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalf's\ncalling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. 'Lady\nCatherine,' said she, 'you have given me a treasure.' Are any of your\nyounger sisters out, Miss Bennet?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, all.\"\n\n\"All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the second. The\nyounger ones out before the elder ones are married! Your younger sisters\nmust be very young?\"\n\n\"Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps _she_ is full young to be\nmuch in company. But really, ma'am, I think it would be very hard upon\nyounger sisters, that they should not have their share of society and\namusement, because the elder may not have the means or inclination to\nmarry early. The last-born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth\nat the first. And to be kept back on _such_ a motive! I think it would\nnot be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind.\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" said her ladyship, \"you give your opinion very decidedly\nfor so young a person. Pray, what is your age?\"\n\n\"With three younger sisters grown up,\" replied Elizabeth, smiling, \"your\nladyship can hardly expect me to own it.\"\n\nLady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer;\nand Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever\ndared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.\n\n\"You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, therefore you need not\nconceal your age.\"\n\n\"I am not one-and-twenty.\"\n\nWhen the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the card-tables\nwere placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat\ndown to quadrille; and as Miss de Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the\ntwo girls had the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her\nparty. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was\nuttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson\nexpressed her fears of Miss de Bourgh's being too hot or too cold, or\nhaving too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the\nother table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking--stating the mistakes\nof the three others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins\nwas employed in agreeing to everything her ladyship said, thanking her\nfor every fish he won, and apologising if he thought he won too many.\nSir William did not say much. He was storing his memory with anecdotes\nand noble names.\n\nWhen Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they chose,\nthe tables were broken up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins,\ngratefully accepted and immediately ordered. The party then gathered\nround the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they were\nto have on the morrow. From these instructions they were summoned by\nthe arrival of the coach; and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr.\nCollins's side and as many bows on Sir William's they departed. As soon\nas they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her cousin\nto give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, for\nCharlotte's sake, she made more favourable than it really was. But her\ncommendation, though costing her some trouble, could by no means satisfy\nMr. Collins, and he was very soon obliged to take her ladyship's praise\ninto his own hands.\n\n\n\nChapter 30\n\n\nSir William stayed only a week at Hunsford, but his visit was long\nenough to convince him of his daughter's being most comfortably settled,\nand of her possessing such a husband and such a neighbour as were not\noften met with. While Sir William was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his\nmorning to driving him out in his gig, and showing him the country; but\nwhen he went away, the whole family returned to their usual employments,\nand Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her\ncousin by the alteration, for the chief of the time between breakfast\nand dinner was now passed by him either at work in the garden or in\nreading and writing, and looking out of the window in his own book-room,\nwhich fronted the road. The room in which the ladies sat was backwards.\nElizabeth had at first rather wondered that Charlotte should not prefer\nthe dining-parlour for common use; it was a better sized room, and had a\nmore pleasant aspect; but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent\nreason for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been\nmuch less in his own apartment, had they sat in one equally lively; and\nshe gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement.\n\nFrom the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and\nwere indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what carriages went\nalong, and how often especially Miss de Bourgh drove by in her phaeton,\nwhich he never failed coming to inform them of, though it happened\nalmost every day. She not unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and\nhad a few minutes' conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever\nprevailed upon to get out.\n\nVery few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to Rosings, and\nnot many in which his wife did not think it necessary to go likewise;\nand till Elizabeth recollected that there might be other family livings\nto be disposed of, she could not understand the sacrifice of so many\nhours. Now and then they were honoured with a call from her ladyship,\nand nothing escaped her observation that was passing in the room during\nthese visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work,\nand advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement\nof the furniture; or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she\naccepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding\nout that Mrs. Collins's joints of meat were too large for her family.\n\nElizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady was not in\ncommission of the peace of the county, she was a most active magistrate\nin her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were carried to her\nby Mr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to\nbe quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she sallied forth into the\nvillage to settle their differences, silence their complaints, and scold\nthem into harmony and plenty.\n\nThe entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week;\nand, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being only one\ncard-table in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart\nof the first. Their other engagements were few, as the style of living\nin the neighbourhood in general was beyond Mr. Collins's reach. This,\nhowever, was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the whole she spent her time\ncomfortably enough; there were half-hours of pleasant conversation with\nCharlotte, and the weather was so fine for the time of year that she had\noften great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where she\nfrequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine, was\nalong the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was\na nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but herself, and\nwhere she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine's curiosity.\n\nIn this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away.\nEaster was approaching, and the week preceding it was to bring an\naddition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be\nimportant. Elizabeth had heard soon after her arrival that Mr. Darcy was\nexpected there in the course of a few weeks, and though there were not\nmany of her acquaintances whom she did not prefer, his coming would\nfurnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and\nshe might be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley's designs on him\nwere, by his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently\ndestined by Lady Catherine, who talked of his coming with the greatest\nsatisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration, and\nseemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen by\nMiss Lucas and herself.\n\nHis arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was walking\nthe whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane,\nin order to have the earliest assurance of it, and after making his\nbow as the carriage turned into the Park, hurried home with the great\nintelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his\nrespects. There were two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for\nMr. Darcy had brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of\nhis uncle Lord ----, and, to the great surprise of all the party, when\nMr. Collins returned, the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte had seen\nthem from her husband's room, crossing the road, and immediately running\ninto the other, told the girls what an honour they might expect, adding:\n\n\"I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy would\nnever have come so soon to wait upon me.\"\n\nElizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment,\nbefore their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly\nafterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam,\nwho led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and\naddress most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been\nused to look in Hertfordshire--paid his compliments, with his usual\nreserve, to Mrs. Collins, and whatever might be his feelings toward her\nfriend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely\ncurtseyed to him without saying a word.\n\nColonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the\nreadiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but\nhis cousin, after having addressed a slight observation on the house and\ngarden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without speaking to anybody.\nAt length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to inquire of\nElizabeth after the health of her family. She answered him in the usual\nway, and after a moment's pause, added:\n\n\"My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never\nhappened to see her there?\"\n\nShe was perfectly sensible that he never had; but she wished to see\nwhether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed between\nthe Bingleys and Jane, and she thought he looked a little confused as he\nanswered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The\nsubject was pursued no farther, and the gentlemen soon afterwards went\naway.\n\n\n\nChapter 31\n\n\nColonel Fitzwilliam's manners were very much admired at the Parsonage,\nand the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasures\nof their engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they\nreceived any invitation thither--for while there were visitors in the\nhouse, they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day,\nalmost a week after the gentlemen's arrival, that they were honoured by\nsuch an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to\ncome there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very little\nof Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had called at the\nParsonage more than once during the time, but Mr. Darcy they had seen\nonly at church.\n\nThe invitation was accepted of course, and at a proper hour they joined\nthe party in Lady Catherine's drawing-room. Her ladyship received\nthem civilly, but it was plain that their company was by no means so\nacceptable as when she could get nobody else; and she was, in fact,\nalmost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them, especially to Darcy,\nmuch more than to any other person in the room.\n\nColonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them; anything was a\nwelcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins's pretty friend had\nmoreover caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by her, and\ntalked so agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying\nat home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so\nwell entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much\nspirit and flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself,\nas well as of Mr. Darcy. _His_ eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned\ntowards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship, after a\nwhile, shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not\nscruple to call out:\n\n\"What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking\nof? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.\"\n\n\"We are speaking of music, madam,\" said he, when no longer able to avoid\na reply.\n\n\"Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I\nmust have my share in the conversation if you are speaking of music.\nThere are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment\nof music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt,\nI should have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her health\nhad allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have performed\ndelightfully. How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?\"\n\nMr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister's proficiency.\n\n\"I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,\" said Lady\nCatherine; \"and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel\nif she does not practice a good deal.\"\n\n\"I assure you, madam,\" he replied, \"that she does not need such advice.\nShe practises very constantly.\"\n\n\"So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write\nto her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often\ntell young ladies that no excellence in music is to be acquired without\nconstant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that she\nwill never play really well unless she practises more; and though Mrs.\nCollins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told\nher, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs.\nJenkinson's room. She would be in nobody's way, you know, in that part\nof the house.\"\n\nMr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt's ill-breeding, and made\nno answer.\n\nWhen coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having\npromised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the instrument. He\ndrew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then\ntalked, as before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away\nfrom her, and making with his usual deliberation towards the pianoforte\nstationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer's\ncountenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first\nconvenient pause, turned to him with an arch smile, and said:\n\n\"You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear\nme? I will not be alarmed though your sister _does_ play so well. There\nis a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the\nwill of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate\nme.\"\n\n\"I shall not say you are mistaken,\" he replied, \"because you could not\nreally believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have\nhad the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find\ngreat enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are\nnot your own.\"\n\nElizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to\nColonel Fitzwilliam, \"Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of\nme, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky\nin meeting with a person so able to expose my real character, in a part\nof the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of\ncredit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention all\nthat you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire--and, give me leave to\nsay, very impolitic too--for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such\nthings may come out as will shock your relations to hear.\"\n\n\"I am not afraid of you,\" said he, smilingly.\n\n\"Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,\" cried Colonel\nFitzwilliam. \"I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.\"\n\n\"You shall hear then--but prepare yourself for something very dreadful.\nThe first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know,\nwas at a ball--and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced\nonly four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain\nknowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a\npartner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.\"\n\n\"I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly\nbeyond my own party.\"\n\n\"True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well, Colonel\nFitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Darcy, \"I should have judged better, had I sought an\nintroduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.\"\n\n\"Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?\" said Elizabeth, still\naddressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. \"Shall we ask him why a man of sense and\neducation, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend\nhimself to strangers?\"\n\n\"I can answer your question,\" said Fitzwilliam, \"without applying to\nhim. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.\"\n\n\"I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,\" said Darcy,\n\"of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot\ncatch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their\nconcerns, as I often see done.\"\n\n\"My fingers,\" said Elizabeth, \"do not move over this instrument in the\nmasterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same\nforce or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I\nhave always supposed it to be my own fault--because I will not take the\ntrouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe _my_ fingers as\ncapable as any other woman's of superior execution.\"\n\nDarcy smiled and said, \"You are perfectly right. You have employed your\ntime much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can\nthink anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.\"\n\nHere they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know\nwhat they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began playing again.\nLady Catherine approached, and, after listening for a few minutes, said\nto Darcy:\n\n\"Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss if she practised more, and\ncould have the advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion\nof fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne's. Anne would have\nbeen a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn.\"\n\nElizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he assented to his\ncousin's praise; but neither at that moment nor at any other could she\ndiscern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his behaviour to Miss\nde Bourgh she derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he might have\nbeen just as likely to marry _her_, had she been his relation.\n\nLady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth's performance, mixing\nwith them many instructions on execution and taste. Elizabeth received\nthem with all the forbearance of civility, and, at the request of the\ngentlemen, remained at the instrument till her ladyship's carriage was\nready to take them all home.\n\n\n\nChapter 32\n\n\nElizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to Jane\nwhile Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village,\nwhen she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain signal of a\nvisitor. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to\nbe Lady Catherine, and under that apprehension was putting away her\nhalf-finished letter that she might escape all impertinent questions,\nwhen the door opened, and, to her very great surprise, Mr. Darcy, and\nMr. Darcy only, entered the room.\n\nHe seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for his\nintrusion by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies were\nto be within.\n\nThey then sat down, and when her inquiries after Rosings were made,\nseemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely\nnecessary, therefore, to think of something, and in this emergence\nrecollecting _when_ she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and\nfeeling curious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty\ndeparture, she observed:\n\n\"How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy!\nIt must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you\nall after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day\nbefore. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?\"\n\n\"Perfectly so, I thank you.\"\n\nShe found that she was to receive no other answer, and, after a short\npause added:\n\n\"I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever\nreturning to Netherfield again?\"\n\n\"I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend\nvery little of his time there in the future. He has many friends, and\nis at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually\nincreasing.\"\n\n\"If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for\nthe neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we\nmight possibly get a settled family there. But, perhaps, Mr. Bingley did\nnot take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as\nfor his own, and we must expect him to keep it or quit it on the same\nprinciple.\"\n\n\"I should not be surprised,\" said Darcy, \"if he were to give it up as\nsoon as any eligible purchase offers.\"\n\nElizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his\nfriend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the\ntrouble of finding a subject to him.\n\nHe took the hint, and soon began with, \"This seems a very comfortable\nhouse. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr.\nCollins first came to Hunsford.\"\n\n\"I believe she did--and I am sure she could not have bestowed her\nkindness on a more grateful object.\"\n\n\"Mr. Collins appears to be very fortunate in his choice of a wife.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed, his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one\nof the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made\nhim happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding--though\nI am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the\nwisest thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and in a\nprudential light it is certainly a very good match for her.\"\n\n\"It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so easy a\ndistance of her own family and friends.\"\n\n\"An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.\"\n\n\"And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day's\njourney. Yes, I call it a _very_ easy distance.\"\n\n\"I should never have considered the distance as one of the _advantages_\nof the match,\" cried Elizabeth. \"I should never have said Mrs. Collins\nwas settled _near_ her family.\"\n\n\"It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond\nthe very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far.\"\n\nAs he spoke there was a sort of smile which Elizabeth fancied she\nunderstood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and\nNetherfield, and she blushed as she answered:\n\n\"I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her\nfamily. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many\nvarying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expenses of\ntravelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the\ncase _here_. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not\nsuch a one as will allow of frequent journeys--and I am persuaded my\nfriend would not call herself _near_ her family under less than _half_\nthe present distance.\"\n\nMr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, \"_You_ cannot\nhave a right to such very strong local attachment. _You_ cannot have\nbeen always at Longbourn.\"\n\nElizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of\nfeeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and\nglancing over it, said, in a colder voice:\n\n\"Are you pleased with Kent?\"\n\nA short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either side\ncalm and concise--and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte\nand her sister, just returned from her walk. The tete-a-tete surprised\nthem. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which had occasioned his intruding\non Miss Bennet, and after sitting a few minutes longer without saying\nmuch to anybody, went away.\n\n\"What can be the meaning of this?\" said Charlotte, as soon as he was\ngone. \"My dear, Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he would never\nhave called us in this familiar way.\"\n\nBut when Elizabeth told of his silence; it did not seem very likely,\neven to Charlotte's wishes, to be the case; and after various\nconjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from\nthe difficulty of finding anything to do, which was the more probable\nfrom the time of year. All field sports were over. Within doors there\nwas Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard-table, but gentlemen cannot\nalways be within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the\npleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the\ntwo cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither\nalmost every day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes\nseparately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their\naunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he\nhad pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course recommended\nhim still more; and Elizabeth was reminded by her own satisfaction in\nbeing with him, as well as by his evident admiration of her, of her\nformer favourite George Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw\nthere was less captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners,\nshe believed he might have the best informed mind.\n\nBut why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage, it was more difficult\nto understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there\nten minutes together without opening his lips; and when he did speak,\nit seemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice--a sacrifice\nto propriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really\nanimated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel\nFitzwilliam's occasionally laughing at his stupidity, proved that he was\ngenerally different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told\nher; and as she would liked to have believed this change the effect\nof love, and the object of that love her friend Eliza, she set herself\nseriously to work to find it out. She watched him whenever they were at\nRosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success. He\ncertainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that\nlook was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often\ndoubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it\nseemed nothing but absence of mind.\n\nShe had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his\nbeing partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs.\nCollins did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of\nraising expectations which might only end in disappointment; for in her\nopinion it admitted not of a doubt, that all her friend's dislike would\nvanish, if she could suppose him to be in her power.\n\n\nIn her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying\nColonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison the most pleasant man; he\ncertainly admired her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but,\nto counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had considerable patronage\nin the church, and his cousin could have none at all.\n\n\n\nChapter 33\n\n\nMore than once did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the park,\nunexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the\nmischance that should bring him where no one else was brought, and, to\nprevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him at first that\nit was a favourite haunt of hers. How it could occur a second time,\ntherefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and even a third. It seemed like\nwilful ill-nature, or a voluntary penance, for on these occasions it was\nnot merely a few formal inquiries and an awkward pause and then away,\nbut he actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He\nnever said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking\nor of listening much; but it struck her in the course of their third\nrencontre that he was asking some odd unconnected questions--about\nher pleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her\nopinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins's happiness; and that in speaking of\nRosings and her not perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to\nexpect that whenever she came into Kent again she would be staying\n_there_ too. His words seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel\nFitzwilliam in his thoughts? She supposed, if he meant anything, he must\nmean an allusion to what might arise in that quarter. It distressed\nher a little, and she was quite glad to find herself at the gate in the\npales opposite the Parsonage.\n\nShe was engaged one day as she walked, in perusing Jane's last letter,\nand dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not written in\nspirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy, she saw\non looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her. Putting away the\nletter immediately and forcing a smile, she said:\n\n\"I did not know before that you ever walked this way.\"\n\n\"I have been making the tour of the park,\" he replied, \"as I generally\ndo every year, and intend to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are\nyou going much farther?\"\n\n\"No, I should have turned in a moment.\"\n\nAnd accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage\ntogether.\n\n\"Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?\" said she.\n\n\"Yes--if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He\narranges the business just as he pleases.\"\n\n\"And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least\npleasure in the great power of choice. I do not know anybody who seems\nmore to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy.\"\n\n\"He likes to have his own way very well,\" replied Colonel Fitzwilliam.\n\"But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it\nthan many others, because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak\nfeelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and\ndependence.\"\n\n\"In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of\neither. Now seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and\ndependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going\nwherever you chose, or procuring anything you had a fancy for?\"\n\n\"These are home questions--and perhaps I cannot say that I have\nexperienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater\nweight, I may suffer from want of money. Younger sons cannot marry where\nthey like.\"\n\n\"Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often\ndo.\"\n\n\"Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not many\nin my rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to\nmoney.\"\n\n\"Is this,\" thought Elizabeth, \"meant for me?\" and she coloured at the\nidea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, \"And pray, what\nis the usual price of an earl's younger son? Unless the elder brother is\nvery sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds.\"\n\nHe answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt\na silence which might make him fancy her affected with what had passed,\nshe soon afterwards said:\n\n\"I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of\nhaving someone at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a\nlasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps, his sister does as well\nfor the present, and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he\nlikes with her.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Colonel Fitzwilliam, \"that is an advantage which he must\ndivide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy.\"\n\n\"Are you indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make? Does your\ncharge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes a\nlittle difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she\nmay like to have her own way.\"\n\nAs she spoke she observed him looking at her earnestly; and the manner\nin which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to\ngive them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other\ngot pretty near the truth. She directly replied:\n\n\"You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare\nsay she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a\nvery great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and\nMiss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them.\"\n\n\"I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentlemanlike man--he\nis a great friend of Darcy's.\"\n\n\"Oh! yes,\" said Elizabeth drily; \"Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr.\nBingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.\"\n\n\"Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ take care of him in\nthose points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in\nour journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to\nhim. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that\nBingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture.\"\n\n\"What is it you mean?\"\n\n\"It is a circumstance which Darcy could not wish to be generally known,\nbecause if it were to get round to the lady's family, it would be an\nunpleasant thing.\"\n\n\"You may depend upon my not mentioning it.\"\n\n\"And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be\nBingley. What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated himself\non having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most\nimprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other\nparticulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing\nhim the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from\nknowing them to have been together the whole of last summer.\"\n\n\"Did Mr. Darcy give you reasons for this interference?\"\n\n\"I understood that there were some very strong objections against the\nlady.\"\n\n\"And what arts did he use to separate them?\"\n\n\"He did not talk to me of his own arts,\" said Fitzwilliam, smiling. \"He\nonly told me what I have now told you.\"\n\nElizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with\nindignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she\nwas so thoughtful.\n\n\"I am thinking of what you have been telling me,\" said she. \"Your\ncousin's conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?\"\n\n\"You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?\"\n\n\"I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his\nfriend's inclination, or why, upon his own judgement alone, he was to\ndetermine and direct in what manner his friend was to be happy.\nBut,\" she continued, recollecting herself, \"as we know none of the\nparticulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed\nthat there was much affection in the case.\"\n\n\"That is not an unnatural surmise,\" said Fitzwilliam, \"but it is a\nlessening of the honour of my cousin's triumph very sadly.\"\n\nThis was spoken jestingly; but it appeared to her so just a picture\nof Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an answer, and\ntherefore, abruptly changing the conversation talked on indifferent\nmatters until they reached the Parsonage. There, shut into her own room,\nas soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption\nof all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other\npeople could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There\ncould not exist in the world _two_ men over whom Mr. Darcy could have\nsuch boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures\ntaken to separate Bingley and Jane she had never doubted; but she had\nalways attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and arrangement\nof them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him, _he_ was\nthe cause, his pride and caprice were the cause, of all that Jane had\nsuffered, and still continued to suffer. He had ruined for a while\nevery hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart in the\nworld; and no one could say how lasting an evil he might have inflicted.\n\n\"There were some very strong objections against the lady,\" were Colonel\nFitzwilliam's words; and those strong objections probably were, her\nhaving one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in\nbusiness in London.\n\n\"To Jane herself,\" she exclaimed, \"there could be no possibility of\nobjection; all loveliness and goodness as she is!--her understanding\nexcellent, her mind improved, and her manners captivating. Neither\ncould anything be urged against my father, who, though with some\npeculiarities, has abilities Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain, and\nrespectability which he will probably never reach.\" When she thought of\nher mother, her confidence gave way a little; but she would not allow\nthat any objections _there_ had material weight with Mr. Darcy, whose\npride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from the want of\nimportance in his friend's connections, than from their want of sense;\nand she was quite decided, at last, that he had been partly governed\nby this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of retaining Mr.\nBingley for his sister.\n\nThe agitation and tears which the subject occasioned, brought on a\nheadache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening, that, added to\nher unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her\ncousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins,\nseeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go and as much\nas possible prevented her husband from pressing her; but Mr. Collins\ncould not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine's being rather\ndispleased by her staying at home.\n\n\n\nChapter 34\n\n\nWhen they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself\nas much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the\nexamination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her\nbeing in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any\nrevival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering.\nBut in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that\ncheerfulness which had been used to characterise her style, and which,\nproceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself and kindly\ndisposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth\nnoticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an\nattention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's\nshameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict, gave her\na keener sense of her sister's sufferings. It was some consolation\nto think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the\nnext--and, a still greater, that in less than a fortnight she should\nherself be with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of\nher spirits, by all that affection could do.\n\nShe could not think of Darcy's leaving Kent without remembering that\nhis cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear\nthat he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not\nmean to be unhappy about him.\n\nWhile settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the\ndoor-bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its\nbeing Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in\nthe evening, and might now come to inquire particularly after her.\nBut this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently\naffected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the\nroom. In an hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her\nhealth, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better.\nShe answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and\nthen getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but\nsaid not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her\nin an agitated manner, and thus began:\n\n\"In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be\nrepressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love\nyou.\"\n\nElizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured,\ndoubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement;\nand the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for her,\nimmediately followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides\nthose of the heart to be detailed; and he was not more eloquent on the\nsubject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority--of\nits being a degradation--of the family obstacles which had always\nopposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to\nthe consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his\nsuit.\n\nIn spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to\nthe compliment of such a man's affection, and though her intentions did\nnot vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to\nreceive; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she\nlost all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to\nanswer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with\nrepresenting to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite\nof all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with\nexpressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of\nhis hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt\nof a favourable answer. He _spoke_ of apprehension and anxiety, but\nhis countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could\nonly exasperate farther, and, when he ceased, the colour rose into her\ncheeks, and she said:\n\n\"In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to\nexpress a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however\nunequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should\nbe felt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude, I would now thank you. But I\ncannot--I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly\nbestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to\nanyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be\nof short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented\nthe acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in\novercoming it after this explanation.\"\n\nMr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed\non her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than\nsurprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance\nof his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the\nappearance of composure, and would not open his lips till he believed\nhimself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's feelings\ndreadful. At length, with a voice of forced calmness, he said:\n\n\"And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting!\nI might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little _endeavour_ at\ncivility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.\"\n\n\"I might as well inquire,\" replied she, \"why with so evident a desire\nof offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me\nagainst your will, against your reason, and even against your character?\nWas not this some excuse for incivility, if I _was_ uncivil? But I have\nother provocations. You know I have. Had not my feelings decided against\nyou--had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you\nthink that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has\nbeen the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most\nbeloved sister?\"\n\nAs she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion\nwas short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she\ncontinued:\n\n\"I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can\nexcuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You dare not,\nyou cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if not the only means\nof dividing them from each other--of exposing one to the censure of the\nworld for caprice and instability, and the other to its derision for\ndisappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest\nkind.\"\n\nShe paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening\nwith an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse.\nHe even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.\n\n\"Can you deny that you have done it?\" she repeated.\n\nWith assumed tranquillity he then replied: \"I have no wish of denying\nthat I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your\nsister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_ I have been\nkinder than towards myself.\"\n\nElizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection,\nbut its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her.\n\n\"But it is not merely this affair,\" she continued, \"on which my dislike\nis founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of you was\ndecided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received\nmany months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to\nsay? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself?\nor under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others?\"\n\n\"You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns,\" said Darcy,\nin a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.\n\n\"Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an\ninterest in him?\"\n\n\"His misfortunes!\" repeated Darcy contemptuously; \"yes, his misfortunes\nhave been great indeed.\"\n\n\"And of your infliction,\" cried Elizabeth with energy. \"You have reduced\nhim to his present state of poverty--comparative poverty. You have\nwithheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for\nhim. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence\nwhich was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this!\nand yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and\nridicule.\"\n\n\"And this,\" cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room,\n\"is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me!\nI thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this\ncalculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps,\" added he, stopping in\nhis walk, and turning towards her, \"these offenses might have been\noverlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the\nscruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These\nbitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater\npolicy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of\nmy being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by\nreflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.\nNor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and\njust. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your\nconnections?--to congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose\ncondition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?\"\n\nElizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to\nthe utmost to speak with composure when she said:\n\n\"You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your\ndeclaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern\nwhich I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more\ngentlemanlike manner.\"\n\nShe saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued:\n\n\"You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that\nwould have tempted me to accept it.\"\n\nAgain his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an\nexpression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on:\n\n\"From the very beginning--from the first moment, I may almost say--of\nmy acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest\nbelief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of\nthe feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of\ndisapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a\ndislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the\nlast man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.\"\n\n\"You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your\nfeelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been.\nForgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best\nwishes for your health and happiness.\"\n\nAnd with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him\nthe next moment open the front door and quit the house.\n\nThe tumult of her mind, was now painfully great. She knew not how\nto support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for\nhalf-an-hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed,\nwas increased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of\nmarriage from Mr. Darcy! That he should have been in love with her for\nso many months! So much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of\nall the objections which had made him prevent his friend's marrying\nher sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his\nown case--was almost incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired\nunconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable\npride--his shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to\nJane--his unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could\nnot justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr.\nWickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon\novercame the pity which the consideration of his attachment had for\na moment excited. She continued in very agitated reflections till the\nsound of Lady Catherine's carriage made her feel how unequal she was to\nencounter Charlotte's observation, and hurried her away to her room.\n\n\n\nChapter 35\n\n\nElizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations\nwhich had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the\nsurprise of what had happened; it was impossible to think of anything\nelse; and, totally indisposed for employment, she resolved, soon after\nbreakfast, to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding\ndirectly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy's\nsometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park,\nshe turned up the lane, which led farther from the turnpike-road. The\npark paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed one\nof the gates into the ground.\n\nAfter walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was\ntempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and\nlook into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent had\nmade a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the\nverdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk,\nwhen she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which\nedged the park; he was moving that way; and, fearful of its being Mr.\nDarcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now\nnear enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced\nher name. She had turned away; but on hearing herself called, though\nin a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the\ngate. He had by that time reached it also, and, holding out a letter,\nwhich she instinctively took, said, with a look of haughty composure,\n\"I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you.\nWill you do me the honour of reading that letter?\" And then, with a\nslight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight.\n\nWith no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity,\nElizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still increasing wonder,\nperceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter-paper, written\nquite through, in a very close hand. The envelope itself was likewise\nfull. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated\nfrom Rosings, at eight o'clock in the morning, and was as follows:--\n\n\"Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension\nof its containing any repetition of those sentiments or renewal of those\noffers which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any\nintention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes\nwhich, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the\neffort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion,\nshould have been spared, had not my character required it to be written\nand read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand\nyour attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I\ndemand it of your justice.\n\n\"Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of equal\nmagnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was,\nthat, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley\nfrom your sister, and the other, that I had, in defiance of various\nclaims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate\nprosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. Wilfully and\nwantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged\nfavourite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other\ndependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect\nits exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two young\npersons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could\nbear no comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was last\nnight so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope\nto be in the future secured, when the following account of my actions\nand their motives has been read. If, in the explanation of them, which\nis due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which\nmay be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity\nmust be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd.\n\n\"I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with\nothers, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any other young\nwoman in the country. But it was not till the evening of the dance\nat Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a serious\nattachment. I had often seen him in love before. At that ball, while I\nhad the honour of dancing with you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir\nWilliam Lucas's accidental information, that Bingley's attentions to\nyour sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage.\nHe spoke of it as a certain event, of which the time alone could\nbe undecided. From that moment I observed my friend's behaviour\nattentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss\nBennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also\nwatched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever,\nbut without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced\nfrom the evening's scrutiny, that though she received his attentions\nwith pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of\nsentiment. If _you_ have not been mistaken here, _I_ must have been\nin error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter\nprobable. If it be so, if I have been misled by such error to inflict\npain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not\nscruple to assert, that the serenity of your sister's countenance and\nair was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction\nthat, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be\neasily touched. That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is\ncertain--but I will venture to say that my investigation and decisions\nare not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did not believe\nher to be indifferent because I wished it; I believed it on impartial\nconviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. My objections to the\nmarriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have\nthe utmost force of passion to put aside, in my own case; the want of\nconnection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. But\nthere were other causes of repugnance; causes which, though still\nexisting, and existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had\nmyself endeavoured to forget, because they were not immediately before\nme. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your\nmother's family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison to that\ntotal want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by\nherself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your\nfather. Pardon me. It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern\nfor the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this\nrepresentation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that, to\nhave conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure,\nis praise no less generally bestowed on you and your elder sister, than\nit is honourable to the sense and disposition of both. I will only say\nfarther that from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties\nwas confirmed, and every inducement heightened which could have led\nme before, to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy\nconnection. He left Netherfield for London, on the day following, as\nyou, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning.\n\n\"The part which I acted is now to be explained. His sisters' uneasiness\nhad been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of feeling was\nsoon discovered, and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in\ndetaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in\nLondon. We accordingly went--and there I readily engaged in the office\nof pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a choice. I\ndescribed, and enforced them earnestly. But, however this remonstrance\nmight have staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose\nthat it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been\nseconded by the assurance that I hesitated not in giving, of your\nsister's indifference. He had before believed her to return his\naffection with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley has great\nnatural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgement than on his\nown. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself, was\nno very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into\nHertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the\nwork of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much. There\nis but one part of my conduct in the whole affair on which I do not\nreflect with satisfaction; it is that I condescended to adopt the\nmeasures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister's being in\ntown. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley; but her\nbrother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might have met without\nill consequence is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me\nenough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this\nconcealment, this disguise was beneath me; it is done, however, and it\nwas done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no\nother apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister's feelings, it\nwas unknowingly done and though the motives which governed me may to\nyou very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn\nthem.\n\n\"With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured\nMr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his\nconnection with my family. Of what he has _particularly_ accused me I\nam ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more\nthan one witness of undoubted veracity.\n\n\"Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many\nyears the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good\nconduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to\nbe of service to him; and on George Wickham, who was his godson, his\nkindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at\nschool, and afterwards at Cambridge--most important assistance, as his\nown father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have\nbeen unable to give him a gentleman's education. My father was not only\nfond of this young man's society, whose manners were always engaging; he\nhad also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be\nhis profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is\nmany, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different\nmanner. The vicious propensities--the want of principle, which he was\ncareful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape\nthe observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself,\nand who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr.\nDarcy could not have. Here again I shall give you pain--to what degree\nyou only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham\nhas created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from\nunfolding his real character--it adds even another motive.\n\n\"My excellent father died about five years ago; and his attachment to\nMr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he particularly\nrecommended it to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner\nthat his profession might allow--and if he took orders, desired that a\nvaluable family living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There\nwas also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long\nsurvive mine, and within half a year from these events, Mr. Wickham\nwrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders,\nhe hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more\nimmediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he\ncould not be benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying\nlaw, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would\nbe a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than believed\nhim to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to\nhis proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman; the\nbusiness was therefore soon settled--he resigned all claim to assistance\nin the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to\nreceive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection\nbetween us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him\nto Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town I believe he chiefly\nlived, but his studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free\nfrom all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation.\nFor about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the\nincumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to\nme again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he assured\nme, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He\nhad found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely\nresolved on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in\nquestion--of which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was\nwell assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could not\nhave forgotten my revered father's intentions. You will hardly blame\nme for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every\nrepetition to it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of\nhis circumstances--and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me\nto others as in his reproaches to myself. After this period every\nappearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But\nlast summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.\n\n\"I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself,\nand which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold\nto any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your\nsecrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to\nthe guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself.\nAbout a year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment formed\nfor her in London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided\nover it, to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by\ndesign; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him\nand Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and\nby her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,\nwhose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to\nher as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and\nto consent to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her\nexcuse; and after stating her imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed\nthe knowledge of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two\nbefore the intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the\nidea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as\na father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and\nhow I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings prevented\nany public exposure; but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place\nimmediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr.\nWickham's chief object was unquestionably my sister's fortune, which\nis thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of\nrevenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have\nbeen complete indeed.\n\n\"This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have\nbeen concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as\nfalse, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr.\nWickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he\nhad imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered\nat. Ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning either,\ndetection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in\nyour inclination.\n\n\"You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night; but\nI was not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to\nbe revealed. For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more\nparticularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our\nnear relationship and constant intimacy, and, still more, as one of\nthe executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted\nwith every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of _me_\nshould make _my_ assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by\nthe same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be\nthe possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some\nopportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the\nmorning. I will only add, God bless you.\n\n\"FITZWILLIAM DARCY\"\n\n\n\nChapter 36\n\n\nIf Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to\ncontain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of\nits contents. But such as they were, it may well be supposed how eagerly\nshe went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited.\nHer feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did\nshe first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power;\nand steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could have no explanation\nto give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong\nprejudice against everything he might say, she began his account of what\nhad happened at Netherfield. She read with an eagerness which hardly\nleft her power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing what the\nnext sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of\nthe one before her eyes. His belief of her sister's insensibility she\ninstantly resolved to be false; and his account of the real, the worst\nobjections to the match, made her too angry to have any wish of doing\nhim justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied\nher; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and\ninsolence.\n\nBut when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham--when\nshe read with somewhat clearer attention a relation of events which,\nif true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which\nbore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself--her\nfeelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition.\nAstonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished\nto discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, \"This must be false!\nThis cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!\"--and when she had\ngone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the\nlast page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not\nregard it, that she would never look in it again.\n\nIn this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on\nnothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the letter\nwas unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she\nagain began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and\ncommanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence.\nThe account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what\nhe had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though\nshe had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own\nwords. So far each recital confirmed the other; but when she came to the\nwill, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living\nwas fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was\nimpossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the\nother; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did\nnot err. But when she read and re-read with the closest attention, the\nparticulars immediately following of Wickham's resigning all pretensions\nto the living, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three\nthousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down\nthe letter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be\nimpartiality--deliberated on the probability of each statement--but with\nlittle success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read\non; but every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had\nbelieved it impossible that any contrivance could so represent as to\nrender Mr. Darcy's conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a\nturn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole.\n\nThe extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay at\nMr. Wickham's charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could\nbring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his\nentrance into the ----shire Militia, in which he had engaged at the\npersuasion of the young man who, on meeting him accidentally in town,\nhad there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life\nnothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As\nto his real character, had information been in her power, she had\nnever felt a wish of inquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had\nestablished him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried\nto recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of\nintegrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of\nMr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those\ncasual errors under which she would endeavour to class what Mr. Darcy\nhad described as the idleness and vice of many years' continuance. But\nno such recollection befriended her. She could see him instantly before\nher, in every charm of air and address; but she could remember no more\nsubstantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and\nthe regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After\npausing on this point a considerable while, she once more continued to\nread. But, alas! the story which followed, of his designs on Miss\nDarcy, received some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel\nFitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she was\nreferred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam\nhimself--from whom she had previously received the information of his\nnear concern in all his cousin's affairs, and whose character she had no\nreason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to\nhim, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and\nat length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never\nhave hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his\ncousin's corroboration.\n\nShe perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation\nbetween Wickham and herself, in their first evening at Mr. Phillips's.\nMany of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was _now_\nstruck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and\nwondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting\nhimself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions\nwith his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear\nof seeing Mr. Darcy--that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that\n_he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball\nthe very next week. She remembered also that, till the Netherfield\nfamily had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but\nherself; but that after their removal it had been everywhere discussed;\nthat he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy's\ncharacter, though he had assured her that respect for the father would\nalways prevent his exposing the son.\n\nHow differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned!\nHis attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and\nhatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer\nthe moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at anything.\nHis behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had\neither been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying\nhis vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most\nincautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter\nand fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not\nbut allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago\nasserted his blamelessness in the affair; that proud and repulsive as\nwere his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their\nacquaintance--an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much\ntogether, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways--seen anything\nthat betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust--anything that spoke him\nof irreligious or immoral habits; that among his own connections he was\nesteemed and valued--that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a\nbrother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his\nsister as to prove him capable of _some_ amiable feeling; that had his\nactions been what Mr. Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of\neverything right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and\nthat friendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man\nas Mr. Bingley, was incomprehensible.\n\nShe grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham\ncould she think without feeling she had been blind, partial, prejudiced,\nabsurd.\n\n\"How despicably I have acted!\" she cried; \"I, who have prided myself\non my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have\noften disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified\nmy vanity in useless or blameable mistrust! How humiliating is this\ndiscovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could\nnot have been more wretchedly blind! But vanity, not love, has been my\nfolly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect\nof the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted\nprepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were\nconcerned. Till this moment I never knew myself.\"\n\nFrom herself to Jane--from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line\nwhich soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy's explanation\n_there_ had appeared very insufficient, and she read it again. Widely\ndifferent was the effect of a second perusal. How could she deny that\ncredit to his assertions in one instance, which she had been obliged to\ngive in the other? He declared himself to be totally unsuspicious of her\nsister's attachment; and she could not help remembering what Charlotte's\nopinion had always been. Neither could she deny the justice of his\ndescription of Jane. She felt that Jane's feelings, though fervent, were\nlittle displayed, and that there was a constant complacency in her air\nand manner not often united with great sensibility.\n\nWhen she came to that part of the letter in which her family were\nmentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her sense\nof shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly\nfor denial, and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded as\nhaving passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first\ndisapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind\nthan on hers.\n\nThe compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed,\nbut it could not console her for the contempt which had thus been\nself-attracted by the rest of her family; and as she considered\nthat Jane's disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest\nrelations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt\nby such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything she\nhad ever known before.\n\nAfter wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every\nvariety of thought--re-considering events, determining probabilities,\nand reconciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and\nso important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made\nher at length return home; and she entered the house with the wish\nof appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such\nreflections as must make her unfit for conversation.\n\nShe was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each\ncalled during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes, to take\nleave--but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least\nan hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her\ntill she could be found. Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern\nin missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no\nlonger an object; she could think only of her letter.\n\n\n\nChapter 37\n\n\nThe two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning, and Mr. Collins having\nbeen in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting obeisance, was\nable to bring home the pleasing intelligence, of their appearing in very\ngood health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the\nmelancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings. To Rosings he then\nhastened, to console Lady Catherine and her daughter; and on his return\nbrought back, with great satisfaction, a message from her ladyship,\nimporting that she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of\nhaving them all to dine with her.\n\nElizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that, had\nshe chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to her as\nher future niece; nor could she think, without a smile, of what her\nladyship's indignation would have been. \"What would she have said? how\nwould she have behaved?\" were questions with which she amused herself.\n\nTheir first subject was the diminution of the Rosings party. \"I assure\nyou, I feel it exceedingly,\" said Lady Catherine; \"I believe no one\nfeels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I am particularly\nattached to these young men, and know them to be so much attached to\nme! They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The\ndear Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy\nseemed to feel it most acutely, more, I think, than last year. His\nattachment to Rosings certainly increases.\"\n\nMr. Collins had a compliment, and an allusion to throw in here, which\nwere kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter.\n\nLady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed out of\nspirits, and immediately accounting for it by herself, by supposing that\nshe did not like to go home again so soon, she added:\n\n\"But if that is the case, you must write to your mother and beg that\nyou may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your\ncompany, I am sure.\"\n\n\"I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation,\" replied\nElizabeth, \"but it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town\nnext Saturday.\"\n\n\"Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I expected\nyou to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There\ncan be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly\nspare you for another fortnight.\"\n\n\"But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return.\"\n\n\"Oh! your father of course may spare you, if your mother can. Daughters\nare never of so much consequence to a father. And if you will stay\nanother _month_ complete, it will be in my power to take one of you as\nfar as London, for I am going there early in June, for a week; and as\nDawson does not object to the barouche-box, there will be very good room\nfor one of you--and indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I\nshould not object to taking you both, as you are neither of you large.\"\n\n\"You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our\noriginal plan.\"\n\nLady Catherine seemed resigned. \"Mrs. Collins, you must send a servant\nwith them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea\nof two young women travelling post by themselves. It is highly improper.\nYou must contrive to send somebody. I have the greatest dislike in\nthe world to that sort of thing. Young women should always be properly\nguarded and attended, according to their situation in life. When my\nniece Georgiana went to Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her\nhaving two men-servants go with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter of\nMr. Darcy, of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have appeared with\npropriety in a different manner. I am excessively attentive to all those\nthings. You must send John with the young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I\nam glad it occurred to me to mention it; for it would really be\ndiscreditable to _you_ to let them go alone.\"\n\n\"My uncle is to send a servant for us.\"\n\n\"Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad you\nhave somebody who thinks of these things. Where shall you change horses?\nOh! Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at the Bell, you will be\nattended to.\"\n\nLady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their journey,\nand as she did not answer them all herself, attention was necessary,\nwhich Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or, with a mind so\noccupied, she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection must be\nreserved for solitary hours; whenever she was alone, she gave way to it\nas the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a solitary\nwalk, in which she might indulge in all the delight of unpleasant\nrecollections.\n\nMr. Darcy's letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She\nstudied every sentence; and her feelings towards its writer were at\ntimes widely different. When she remembered the style of his address,\nshe was still full of indignation; but when she considered how unjustly\nshe had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned against\nherself; and his disappointed feelings became the object of compassion.\nHis attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect; but she\ncould not approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal,\nor feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past\nbehaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and regret; and in\nthe unhappy defects of her family, a subject of yet heavier chagrin.\nThey were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at\nthem, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his\nyoungest daughters; and her mother, with manners so far from right\nherself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently\nunited with Jane in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine\nand Lydia; but while they were supported by their mother's indulgence,\nwhat chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited,\nirritable, and completely under Lydia's guidance, had been always\naffronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless, would\nscarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While\nthere was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt with him; and while\nMeryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they would be going there\nforever.\n\nAnxiety on Jane's behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr. Darcy's\nexplanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good opinion,\nheightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was proved\nto have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame, unless any\ncould attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his friend. How\ngrievous then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every\nrespect, so replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had\nbeen deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family!\n\nWhen to these recollections was added the development of Wickham's\ncharacter, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had\nseldom been depressed before, were now so much affected as to make it\nalmost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful.\n\nTheir engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of\nher stay as they had been at first. The very last evening was spent\nthere; and her ladyship again inquired minutely into the particulars of\ntheir journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing,\nand was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right\nway, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the\nwork of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh.\n\nWhen they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, wished them\na good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford again next year;\nand Miss de Bourgh exerted herself so far as to curtsey and hold out her\nhand to both.\n\n\n\nChapter 38\n\n\nOn Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few\nminutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of\npaying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary.\n\n\"I know not, Miss Elizabeth,\" said he, \"whether Mrs. Collins has yet\nexpressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I am very\ncertain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for\nit. The favour of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We\nknow how little there is to tempt anyone to our humble abode. Our plain\nmanner of living, our small rooms and few domestics, and the little we\nsee of the world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like\nyourself; but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension,\nand that we have done everything in our power to prevent your spending\nyour time unpleasantly.\"\n\nElizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She\nhad spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of being with\nCharlotte, and the kind attentions she had received, must make _her_\nfeel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified, and with a more smiling\nsolemnity replied:\n\n\"It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have passed your time not\ndisagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most fortunately\nhaving it in our power to introduce you to very superior society, and,\nfrom our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of varying the\nhumble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that your Hunsford\nvisit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation with regard to\nLady Catherine's family is indeed the sort of extraordinary advantage\nand blessing which few can boast. You see on what a footing we are. You\nsee how continually we are engaged there. In truth I must acknowledge\nthat, with all the disadvantages of this humble parsonage, I should\nnot think anyone abiding in it an object of compassion, while they are\nsharers of our intimacy at Rosings.\"\n\nWords were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he was\nobliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility\nand truth in a few short sentences.\n\n\"You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into\nHertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself at least that you will\nbe able to do so. Lady Catherine's great attentions to Mrs. Collins you\nhave been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust it does not appear\nthat your friend has drawn an unfortunate--but on this point it will be\nas well to be silent. Only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth,\nthat I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in\nmarriage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one mind and one way of\nthinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of\ncharacter and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each\nother.\"\n\nElizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where that was\nthe case, and with equal sincerity could add, that she firmly believed\nand rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was not sorry, however, to\nhave the recital of them interrupted by the lady from whom they sprang.\nPoor Charlotte! it was melancholy to leave her to such society! But she\nhad chosen it with her eyes open; and though evidently regretting that\nher visitors were to go, she did not seem to ask for compassion. Her\nhome and her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and all their\ndependent concerns, had not yet lost their charms.\n\nAt length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels\nplaced within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate\nparting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by\nMr. Collins, and as they walked down the garden he was commissioning her\nwith his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his thanks\nfor the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his\ncompliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her\nin, Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed,\nwhen he suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had\nhitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies at Rosings.\n\n\"But,\" he added, \"you will of course wish to have your humble respects\ndelivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you\nwhile you have been here.\"\n\nElizabeth made no objection; the door was then allowed to be shut, and\nthe carriage drove off.\n\n\"Good gracious!\" cried Maria, after a few minutes' silence, \"it seems\nbut a day or two since we first came! and yet how many things have\nhappened!\"\n\n\"A great many indeed,\" said her companion with a sigh.\n\n\"We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there twice!\nHow much I shall have to tell!\"\n\nElizabeth added privately, \"And how much I shall have to conceal!\"\n\nTheir journey was performed without much conversation, or any alarm; and\nwithin four hours of their leaving Hunsford they reached Mr. Gardiner's\nhouse, where they were to remain a few days.\n\nJane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her\nspirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her\naunt had reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at\nLongbourn there would be leisure enough for observation.\n\nIt was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even for\nLongbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy's proposals. To know\nthat she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish\nJane, and must, at the same time, so highly gratify whatever of her own\nvanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such a temptation\nto openness as nothing could have conquered but the state of indecision\nin which she remained as to the extent of what she should communicate;\nand her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried\ninto repeating something of Bingley which might only grieve her sister\nfurther.\n\n\n\nChapter 39\n\n\nIt was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies set out\ntogether from Gracechurch Street for the town of ----, in Hertfordshire;\nand, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet's carriage\nwas to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman's\npunctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room up stairs.\nThese two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily employed\nin visiting an opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on guard, and\ndressing a salad and cucumber.\n\nAfter welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set\nout with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming,\n\"Is not this nice? Is not this an agreeable surprise?\"\n\n\"And we mean to treat you all,\" added Lydia, \"but you must lend us the\nmoney, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there.\" Then, showing\nher purchases--\"Look here, I have bought this bonnet. I do not think\nit is very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall\npull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any\nbetter.\"\n\nAnd when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect\nunconcern, \"Oh! but there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and\nwhen I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I\nthink it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what\none wears this summer, after the ----shire have left Meryton, and they\nare going in a fortnight.\"\n\n\"Are they indeed!\" cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction.\n\n\"They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to\ntake us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme;\nand I dare say would hardly cost anything at all. Mamma would like to\ngo too of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall\nhave!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" thought Elizabeth, \"_that_ would be a delightful scheme indeed,\nand completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton, and a whole\ncampful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset already by one poor\nregiment of militia, and the monthly balls of Meryton!\"\n\n\"Now I have got some news for you,\" said Lydia, as they sat down at\ntable. \"What do you think? It is excellent news--capital news--and about\na certain person we all like!\"\n\nJane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told he need\nnot stay. Lydia laughed, and said:\n\n\"Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the\nwaiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse\nthings said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I am glad\nhe is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for\nmy news; it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is it not?\nThere is no danger of Wickham's marrying Mary King. There's for you! She\nis gone down to her uncle at Liverpool: gone to stay. Wickham is safe.\"\n\n\"And Mary King is safe!\" added Elizabeth; \"safe from a connection\nimprudent as to fortune.\"\n\n\"She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.\"\n\n\"But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,\" said Jane.\n\n\"I am sure there is not on _his_. I will answer for it, he never cared\nthree straws about her--who could about such a nasty little freckled\nthing?\"\n\nElizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such\ncoarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the _sentiment_\nwas little other than her own breast had harboured and fancied liberal!\n\nAs soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was\nordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their\nboxes, work-bags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty's and\nLydia's purchases, were seated in it.\n\n\"How nicely we are all crammed in,\" cried Lydia. \"I am glad I bought my\nbonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another bandbox! Well, now\nlet us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way\nhome. And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all\nsince you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any\nflirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband\nbefore you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare.\nShe is almost three-and-twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not\nbeing married before three-and-twenty! My aunt Phillips wants you so to\nget husbands, you can't think. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr.\nCollins; but _I_ do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord!\nhow I should like to be married before any of you; and then I would\nchaperon you about to all the balls. Dear me! we had such a good piece\nof fun the other day at Colonel Forster's. Kitty and me were to spend\nthe day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the\nevening; (by the bye, Mrs. Forster and me are _such_ friends!) and so\nshe asked the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen\nwas forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We\ndressed up Chamberlayne in woman's clothes on purpose to pass for a\nlady, only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Colonel and Mrs.\nForster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were forced to borrow\none of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny,\nand Wickham, and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in, they\ndid not know him in the least. Lord! how I laughed! and so did Mrs.\nForster. I thought I should have died. And _that_ made the men suspect\nsomething, and then they soon found out what was the matter.\"\n\nWith such kinds of histories of their parties and good jokes, did\nLydia, assisted by Kitty's hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her\ncompanions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she\ncould, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham's name.\n\nTheir reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane\nin undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet\nsay voluntarily to Elizabeth:\n\n\"I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.\"\n\nTheir party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases\ncame to meet Maria and hear the news; and various were the subjects that\noccupied them: Lady Lucas was inquiring of Maria, after the welfare and\npoultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet was doubly engaged, on one\nhand collecting an account of the present fashions from Jane, who sat\nsome way below her, and, on the other, retailing them all to the younger\nLucases; and Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other person's,\nwas enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who\nwould hear her.\n\n\"Oh! Mary,\" said she, \"I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun!\nAs we went along, Kitty and I drew up the blinds, and pretended there\nwas nobody in the coach; and I should have gone so all the way, if Kitty\nhad not been sick; and when we got to the George, I do think we behaved\nvery handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest cold\nluncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have treated\nyou too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought we never\nshould have got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then\nwe were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so loud, that\nanybody might have heard us ten miles off!\"\n\nTo this Mary very gravely replied, \"Far be it from me, my dear sister,\nto depreciate such pleasures! They would doubtless be congenial with the\ngenerality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms for\n_me_--I should infinitely prefer a book.\"\n\nBut of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to\nanybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all.\n\nIn the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk\nto Meryton, and to see how everybody went on; but Elizabeth steadily\nopposed the scheme. It should not be said that the Miss Bennets could\nnot be at home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers.\nThere was another reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Mr.\nWickham again, and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The\ncomfort to _her_ of the regiment's approaching removal was indeed beyond\nexpression. In a fortnight they were to go--and once gone, she hoped\nthere could be nothing more to plague her on his account.\n\nShe had not been many hours at home before she found that the Brighton\nscheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under\nfrequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her\nfather had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were\nat the same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though often\ndisheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at last.\n\n\n\nChapter 40\n\n\nElizabeth's impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could\nno longer be overcome; and at length, resolving to suppress every\nparticular in which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be\nsurprised, she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene\nbetween Mr. Darcy and herself.\n\nMiss Bennet's astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly\npartiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly\nnatural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was\nsorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so\nlittle suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved for the\nunhappiness which her sister's refusal must have given him.\n\n\"His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,\" said she, \"and certainly\nought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his\ndisappointment!\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" replied Elizabeth, \"I am heartily sorry for him; but he has\nother feelings, which will probably soon drive away his regard for me.\nYou do not blame me, however, for refusing him?\"\n\n\"Blame you! Oh, no.\"\n\n\"But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?\"\n\n\"No--I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.\"\n\n\"But you _will_ know it, when I tell you what happened the very next\nday.\"\n\nShe then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far\nas they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this for poor Jane!\nwho would willingly have gone through the world without believing that\nso much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind, as was here\ncollected in one individual. Nor was Darcy's vindication, though\ngrateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery.\nMost earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and\nseek to clear the one without involving the other.\n\n\"This will not do,\" said Elizabeth; \"you never will be able to make both\nof them good for anything. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied\nwith only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just\nenough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting\nabout pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Darcy's;\nbut you shall do as you choose.\"\n\nIt was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane.\n\n\"I do not know when I have been more shocked,\" said she. \"Wickham so\nvery bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! Dear Lizzy, only\nconsider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and with the\nknowledge of your ill opinion, too! and having to relate such a thing\nof his sister! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it\nso.\"\n\n\"Oh! no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so\nfull of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am\ngrowing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion\nmakes me saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will\nbe as light as a feather.\"\n\n\"Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness in his\ncountenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner!\"\n\n\"There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those\ntwo young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the\nappearance of it.\"\n\n\"I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it as you\nused to do.\"\n\n\"And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike\nto him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one's genius, such an\nopening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually\nabusive without saying anything just; but one cannot always be laughing\nat a man without now and then stumbling on something witty.\"\n\n\"Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat\nthe matter as you do now.\"\n\n\"Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I may say unhappy. And\nwith no one to speak to about what I felt, no Jane to comfort me and say\nthat I had not been so very weak and vain and nonsensical as I knew I\nhad! Oh! how I wanted you!\"\n\n\"How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions\nin speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they _do_ appear wholly\nundeserved.\"\n\n\"Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most\nnatural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There\nis one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I\nought, or ought not, to make our acquaintances in general understand\nWickham's character.\"\n\nMiss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, \"Surely there can be no\noccasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your opinion?\"\n\n\"That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised me\nto make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular\nrelative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to\nmyself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his\nconduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy\nis so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in\nMeryton to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal\nto it. Wickham will soon be gone; and therefore it will not signify to\nanyone here what he really is. Some time hence it will be all found out,\nand then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At\npresent I will say nothing about it.\"\n\n\"You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for\never. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and anxious to\nre-establish a character. We must not make him desperate.\"\n\nThe tumult of Elizabeth's mind was allayed by this conversation. She had\ngot rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight,\nand was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she might wish\nto talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind,\nof which prudence forbade the disclosure. She dared not relate the other\nhalf of Mr. Darcy's letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she\nhad been valued by her friend. Here was knowledge in which no one\ncould partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect\nunderstanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off\nthis last encumbrance of mystery. \"And then,\" said she, \"if that very\nimprobable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to\ntell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The\nliberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!\"\n\nShe was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real\nstate of her sister's spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a\nvery tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself\nin love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment,\nand, from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than most first\nattachments often boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance,\nand prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense, and all her\nattention to the feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the\nindulgence of those regrets which must have been injurious to her own\nhealth and their tranquillity.\n\n\"Well, Lizzy,\" said Mrs. Bennet one day, \"what is your opinion _now_ of\nthis sad business of Jane's? For my part, I am determined never to speak\nof it again to anybody. I told my sister Phillips so the other day. But\nI cannot find out that Jane saw anything of him in London. Well, he is\na very undeserving young man--and I do not suppose there's the least\nchance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of\nhis coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have inquired of\neverybody, too, who is likely to know.\"\n\n\"I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any more.\"\n\n\"Oh well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. Though I\nshall always say he used my daughter extremely ill; and if I was her, I\nwould not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure Jane will\ndie of a broken heart; and then he will be sorry for what he has done.\"\n\nBut as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation,\nshe made no answer.\n\n\"Well, Lizzy,\" continued her mother, soon afterwards, \"and so the\nCollinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope\nit will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an\nexcellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her\nmother, she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in _their_\nhousekeeping, I dare say.\"\n\n\"No, nothing at all.\"\n\n\"A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes. _they_ will\ntake care not to outrun their income. _They_ will never be distressed\nfor money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often\ntalk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it as\nquite their own, I dare say, whenever that happens.\"\n\n\"It was a subject which they could not mention before me.\"\n\n\"No; it would have been strange if they had; but I make no doubt they\noften talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an\nestate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. I should be\nashamed of having one that was only entailed on me.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 41\n\n\nThe first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was\nthe last of the regiment's stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies\nin the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost\nuniversal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink,\nand sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very\nfrequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and\nLydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such\nhard-heartedness in any of the family.\n\n\"Good Heaven! what is to become of us? What are we to do?\" would they\noften exclaim in the bitterness of woe. \"How can you be smiling so,\nLizzy?\"\n\nTheir affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what\nshe had herself endured on a similar occasion, five-and-twenty years\nago.\n\n\"I am sure,\" said she, \"I cried for two days together when Colonel\nMiller's regiment went away. I thought I should have broken my heart.\"\n\n\"I am sure I shall break _mine_,\" said Lydia.\n\n\"If one could but go to Brighton!\" observed Mrs. Bennet.\n\n\"Oh, yes!--if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so\ndisagreeable.\"\n\n\"A little sea-bathing would set me up forever.\"\n\n\"And my aunt Phillips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of good,\"\nadded Kitty.\n\nSuch were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through\nLongbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense\nof pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy's\nobjections; and never had she been so much disposed to pardon his\ninterference in the views of his friend.\n\nBut the gloom of Lydia's prospect was shortly cleared away; for she\nreceived an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the colonel of\nthe regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a\nvery young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour\nand good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of\ntheir _three_ months' acquaintance they had been intimate _two_.\n\nThe rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster,\nthe delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely\nto be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister's feelings, Lydia\nflew about the house in restless ecstasy, calling for everyone's\ncongratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever;\nwhilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repined at her fate\nin terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish.\n\n\"I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as Lydia,\"\nsaid she, \"Though I am _not_ her particular friend. I have just as much\nright to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am two years older.\"\n\nIn vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make\nher resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from\nexciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she\nconsidered it as the death warrant of all possibility of common sense\nfor the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her were it\nknown, she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her\ngo. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia's general\nbehaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of\nsuch a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more\nimprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must\nbe greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said:\n\n\"Lydia will never be easy until she has exposed herself in some public\nplace or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so\nlittle expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present\ncircumstances.\"\n\n\"If you were aware,\" said Elizabeth, \"of the very great disadvantage to\nus all which must arise from the public notice of Lydia's unguarded and\nimprudent manner--nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you\nwould judge differently in the affair.\"\n\n\"Already arisen?\" repeated Mr. Bennet. \"What, has she frightened away\nsome of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such\nsqueamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity\nare not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of pitiful fellows who\nhave been kept aloof by Lydia's folly.\"\n\n\"Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not\nof particular, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our\nimportance, our respectability in the world must be affected by the\nwild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark\nLydia's character. Excuse me, for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear\nfather, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and\nof teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of\nher life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character\nwill be fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt\nthat ever made herself or her family ridiculous; a flirt, too, in the\nworst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond\nyouth and a tolerable person; and, from the ignorance and emptiness\nof her mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion of that universal\ncontempt which her rage for admiration will excite. In this danger\nKitty also is comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain,\nignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh! my dear father, can you\nsuppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever\nthey are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the\ndisgrace?\"\n\nMr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject, and\naffectionately taking her hand said in reply:\n\n\"Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known\nyou must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less\nadvantage for having a couple of--or I may say, three--very silly\nsisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to\nBrighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will\nkeep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an\nobject of prey to anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance\neven as a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find\nwomen better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being\nthere may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow\nmany degrees worse, without authorising us to lock her up for the rest\nof her life.\"\n\nWith this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion\ncontinued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not\nin her nature, however, to increase her vexations by dwelling on\nthem. She was confident of having performed her duty, and to fret\nover unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her\ndisposition.\n\nHad Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her\nfather, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their\nunited volubility. In Lydia's imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised\nevery possibility of earthly happiness. She saw, with the creative eye\nof fancy, the streets of that gay bathing-place covered with officers.\nShe saw herself the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them\nat present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp--its tents\nstretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young\nand the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the view, she\nsaw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six\nofficers at once.\n\nHad she known her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and such\nrealities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could have\nbeen understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly the same.\nLydia's going to Brighton was all that consoled her for her melancholy\nconviction of her husband's never intending to go there himself.\n\nBut they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures\ncontinued, with little intermission, to the very day of Lydia's leaving\nhome.\n\nElizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been\nfrequently in company with him since her return, agitation was pretty\nwell over; the agitations of formal partiality entirely so. She had even\nlearnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted\nher, an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present\nbehaviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure,\nfor the inclination he soon testified of renewing those intentions which\nhad marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve, after\nwhat had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern for him in\nfinding herself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous\ngallantry; and while she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the\nreproof contained in his believing, that however long, and for whatever\ncause, his attentions had been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified,\nand her preference secured at any time by their renewal.\n\nOn the very last day of the regiment's remaining at Meryton, he dined,\nwith other of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth\ndisposed to part from him in good humour, that on his making some\ninquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she\nmentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam's and Mr. Darcy's having both spent three\nweeks at Rosings, and asked him, if he was acquainted with the former.\n\nHe looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment's\nrecollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen\nhim often; and, after observing that he was a very gentlemanlike man,\nasked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour.\nWith an air of indifference he soon afterwards added:\n\n\"How long did you say he was at Rosings?\"\n\n\"Nearly three weeks.\"\n\n\"And you saw him frequently?\"\n\n\"Yes, almost every day.\"\n\n\"His manners are very different from his cousin's.\"\n\n\"Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves upon acquaintance.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" cried Mr. Wickham with a look which did not escape her. \"And\npray, may I ask?--\" But checking himself, he added, in a gayer tone, \"Is\nit in address that he improves? Has he deigned to add aught of civility\nto his ordinary style?--for I dare not hope,\" he continued in a lower\nand more serious tone, \"that he is improved in essentials.\"\n\n\"Oh, no!\" said Elizabeth. \"In essentials, I believe, he is very much\nwhat he ever was.\"\n\nWhile she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to\nrejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a\nsomething in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive\nand anxious attention, while she added:\n\n\"When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that\nhis mind or his manners were in a state of improvement, but that, from\nknowing him better, his disposition was better understood.\"\n\nWickham's alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated\nlook; for a few minutes he was silent, till, shaking off his\nembarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of\naccents:\n\n\"You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Darcy, will readily\ncomprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume\neven the _appearance_ of what is right. His pride, in that direction,\nmay be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must only\ndeter him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only\nfear that the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been\nalluding, is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good\nopinion and judgement he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always\noperated, I know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be\nimputed to his wish of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I\nam certain he has very much at heart.\"\n\nElizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a\nslight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on\nthe old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge\nhim. The rest of the evening passed with the _appearance_, on his\nside, of usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to distinguish\nElizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a\nmutual desire of never meeting again.\n\nWhen the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton,\nfrom whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation\nbetween her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the\nonly one who shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs.\nBennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter,\nand impressive in her injunctions that she should not miss the\nopportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible--advice which\nthere was every reason to believe would be well attended to; and in\nthe clamorous happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more\ngentle adieus of her sisters were uttered without being heard.\n\n\n\nChapter 42\n\n\nHad Elizabeth's opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could\nnot have formed a very pleasing opinion of conjugal felicity or domestic\ncomfort. Her father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance\nof good humour which youth and beauty generally give, had married a\nwoman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind had very early in\ntheir marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect,\nesteem, and confidence had vanished for ever; and all his views\nof domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of\na disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own\nimprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often\nconsole the unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of\nthe country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his principal\nenjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted, than as\nher ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not\nthe sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his\nwife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true\nphilosopher will derive benefit from such as are given.\n\nElizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her\nfather's behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but\nrespecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of\nherself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to\nbanish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation\nand decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own\nchildren, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so\nstrongly as now the disadvantages which must attend the children of so\nunsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising\nfrom so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents, which, rightly used,\nmight at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters, even\nif incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife.\n\nWhen Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham's departure she found little\nother cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties\nabroad were less varied than before, and at home she had a mother and\nsister whose constant repinings at the dullness of everything around\nthem threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty\nmight in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbers\nof her brain were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition\ngreater evil might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all\nher folly and assurance by a situation of such double danger as a\nwatering-place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what\nhas been sometimes found before, that an event to which she had been\nlooking with impatient desire did not, in taking place, bring all the\nsatisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to\nname some other period for the commencement of actual felicity--to have\nsome other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by\nagain enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the\npresent, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes\nwas now the object of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation\nfor all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness of her mother\nand Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included Jane in the\nscheme, every part of it would have been perfect.\n\n\"But it is fortunate,\" thought she, \"that I have something to wish for.\nWere the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain.\nBut here, by carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret in my\nsister's absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of\npleasure realised. A scheme of which every part promises delight can\nnever be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by\nthe defence of some little peculiar vexation.\"\n\nWhen Lydia went away she promised to write very often and very minutely\nto her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and\nalways very short. Those to her mother contained little else than that\nthey were just returned from the library, where such and such officers\nhad attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as\nmade her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which\nshe would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a\nviolent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going off to\nthe camp; and from her correspondence with her sister, there was still\nless to be learnt--for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were\nmuch too full of lines under the words to be made public.\n\nAfter the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, good\nhumour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn. Everything wore\na happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter came\nback again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet\nwas restored to her usual querulous serenity; and, by the middle of\nJune, Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without\ntears; an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope that by\nthe following Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable as not to\nmention an officer above once a day, unless, by some cruel and malicious\narrangement at the War Office, another regiment should be quartered in\nMeryton.\n\nThe time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now fast\napproaching, and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter\narrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and\ncurtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from\nsetting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again\nwithin a month, and as that left too short a period for them to go so\nfar, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with\nthe leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up\nthe Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour, and, according to the\npresent plan, were to go no farther northwards than Derbyshire. In that\ncounty there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three\nweeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The\ntown where she had formerly passed some years of her life, and where\nthey were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of\nher curiosity as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth,\nDovedale, or the Peak.\n\nElizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on seeing\nthe Lakes, and still thought there might have been time enough. But it\nwas her business to be satisfied--and certainly her temper to be happy;\nand all was soon right again.\n\nWith the mention of Derbyshire there were many ideas connected. It was\nimpossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its\nowner. \"But surely,\" said she, \"I may enter his county with impunity,\nand rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me.\"\n\nThe period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away\nbefore her uncle and aunt's arrival. But they did pass away, and Mr.\nand Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at\nLongbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two\nyounger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their\ncousin Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and\nsweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every\nway--teaching them, playing with them, and loving them.\n\nThe Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the\nnext morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement.\nOne enjoyment was certain--that of suitableness of companions;\na suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear\ninconveniences--cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure--and affection\nand intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were\ndisappointments abroad.\n\nIt is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire,\nnor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither\nlay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, Birmingham, etc. are\nsufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present\nconcern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner's\nformer residence, and where she had lately learned some acquaintance\nstill remained, they bent their steps, after having seen all the\nprincipal wonders of the country; and within five miles of Lambton,\nElizabeth found from her aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not\nin their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In\ntalking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed\nan inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his\nwillingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.\n\n\"My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard\nso much?\" said her aunt; \"a place, too, with which so many of your\nacquaintances are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you\nknow.\"\n\nElizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at\nPemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She\nmust own that she was tired of seeing great houses; after going over so\nmany, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.\n\nMrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. \"If it were merely a fine house\nrichly furnished,\" said she, \"I should not care about it myself; but\nthe grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the\ncountry.\"\n\nElizabeth said no more--but her mind could not acquiesce. The\npossibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly\noccurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea, and\nthought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt than to run such\na risk. But against this there were objections; and she finally resolved\nthat it could be the last resource, if her private inquiries to the\nabsence of the family were unfavourably answered.\n\nAccordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid\nwhether Pemberley were not a very fine place? what was the name of its\nproprietor? and, with no little alarm, whether the family were down for\nthe summer? A most welcome negative followed the last question--and her\nalarms now being removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of\ncuriosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the\nnext morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and\nwith a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike\nto the scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.\n\n\n\nChapter 43\n\n\nElizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of\nPemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned\nin at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.\n\nThe park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They\nentered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through\na beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.\n\nElizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired\nevery remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for\nhalf-a-mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable\neminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by\nPemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which\nthe road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone\nbuilding, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of\nhigh woody hills; and in front, a stream of some natural importance was\nswelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks\nwere neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She\nhad never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural\nbeauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were\nall of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt that\nto be mistress of Pemberley might be something!\n\nThey descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and,\nwhile examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehension of\nmeeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been\nmistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the\nhall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to\nwonder at her being where she was.\n\nThe housekeeper came; a respectable-looking elderly woman, much less\nfine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They\nfollowed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well proportioned\nroom, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went\nto a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, which\nthey had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance,\nwas a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and\nshe looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its\nbanks and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it,\nwith delight. As they passed into other rooms these objects were taking\ndifferent positions; but from every window there were beauties to be\nseen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to\nthe fortune of its proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of\nhis taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of\nsplendour, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.\n\n\"And of this place,\" thought she, \"I might have been mistress! With\nthese rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of\nviewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and\nwelcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt. But no,\"--recollecting\nherself--\"that could never be; my uncle and aunt would have been lost to\nme; I should not have been allowed to invite them.\"\n\nThis was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something very like\nregret.\n\nShe longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master was really\nabsent, but had not the courage for it. At length however, the question\nwas asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs.\nReynolds replied that he was, adding, \"But we expect him to-morrow, with\na large party of friends.\" How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own\njourney had not by any circumstance been delayed a day!\n\nHer aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached and saw the\nlikeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other miniatures,\nover the mantelpiece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it.\nThe housekeeper came forward, and told them it was a picture of a young\ngentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought\nup by him at his own expense. \"He is now gone into the army,\" she added;\n\"but I am afraid he has turned out very wild.\"\n\nMrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not\nreturn it.\n\n\"And that,\" said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures,\n\"is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the\nother--about eight years ago.\"\n\n\"I have heard much of your master's fine person,\" said Mrs. Gardiner,\nlooking at the picture; \"it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell\nus whether it is like or not.\"\n\nMrs. Reynolds respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this\nintimation of her knowing her master.\n\n\"Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?\"\n\nElizabeth coloured, and said: \"A little.\"\n\n\"And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma'am?\"\n\n\"Yes, very handsome.\"\n\n\"I am sure I know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you\nwill see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late\nmaster's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to\nbe then. He was very fond of them.\"\n\nThis accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them.\n\nMrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn\nwhen she was only eight years old.\n\n\"And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?\" said Mrs. Gardiner.\n\n\"Oh! yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so\naccomplished!--She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is\na new instrument just come down for her--a present from my master; she\ncomes here to-morrow with him.\"\n\nMr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant, encouraged her\ncommunicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either\nby pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her\nmaster and his sister.\n\n\"Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?\"\n\n\"Not so much as I could wish, sir; but I dare say he may spend half his\ntime here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months.\"\n\n\"Except,\" thought Elizabeth, \"when she goes to Ramsgate.\"\n\n\"If your master would marry, you might see more of him.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is\ngood enough for him.\"\n\nMr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, \"It is\nvery much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so.\"\n\n\"I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that knows him,\"\nreplied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; and she\nlistened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, \"I have\nnever known a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever\nsince he was four years old.\"\n\nThis was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her\nideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been her firmest opinion.\nHer keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more, and was\ngrateful to her uncle for saying:\n\n\"There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in\nhaving such a master.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I could\nnot meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are\ngood-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and\nhe was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the\nworld.\"\n\nElizabeth almost stared at her. \"Can this be Mr. Darcy?\" thought she.\n\n\"His father was an excellent man,\" said Mrs. Gardiner.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him--just\nas affable to the poor.\"\n\nElizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs.\nReynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subjects\nof the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the\nfurniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family\nprejudice to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her\nmaster, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his\nmany merits as they proceeded together up the great staircase.\n\n\"He is the best landlord, and the best master,\" said she, \"that ever\nlived; not like the wild young men nowadays, who think of nothing but\nthemselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but will give\nhim a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never saw\nanything of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away\nlike other young men.\"\n\n\"In what an amiable light does this place him!\" thought Elizabeth.\n\n\"This fine account of him,\" whispered her aunt as they walked, \"is not\nquite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend.\"\n\n\"Perhaps we might be deceived.\"\n\n\"That is not very likely; our authority was too good.\"\n\nOn reaching the spacious lobby above they were shown into a very pretty\nsitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than\nthe apartments below; and were informed that it was but just done to\ngive pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room when\nlast at Pemberley.\n\n\"He is certainly a good brother,\" said Elizabeth, as she walked towards\none of the windows.\n\nMrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy's delight, when she should enter\nthe room. \"And this is always the way with him,\" she added. \"Whatever\ncan give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in a moment. There\nis nothing he would not do for her.\"\n\nThe picture-gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms, were\nall that remained to be shown. In the former were many good paintings;\nbut Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such as had been already\nvisible below, she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss\nDarcy's, in crayons, whose subjects were usually more interesting, and\nalso more intelligible.\n\nIn the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have\nlittle to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked in quest of\nthe only face whose features would be known to her. At last it arrested\nher--and she beheld a striking resemblance to Mr. Darcy, with such a\nsmile over the face as she remembered to have sometimes seen when he\nlooked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture, in earnest\ncontemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery.\nMrs. Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father's\nlifetime.\n\nThere was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth's mind, a more gentle\nsensation towards the original than she had ever felt at the height of\ntheir acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds\nwas of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise\nof an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she\nconsidered how many people's happiness were in his guardianship!--how\nmuch of pleasure or pain was it in his power to bestow!--how much of\ngood or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought\nforward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she\nstood before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his\neyes upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of\ngratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its warmth, and\nsoftened its impropriety of expression.\n\nWhen all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen,\nthey returned downstairs, and, taking leave of the housekeeper, were\nconsigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall-door.\n\nAs they walked across the hall towards the river, Elizabeth turned back\nto look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while the former\nwas conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself\nsuddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.\n\nThey were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his\nappearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes\ninstantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with the deepest\nblush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from\nsurprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party,\nand spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least\nof perfect civility.\n\nShe had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach,\nreceived his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be\novercome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture\nthey had just been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two\nthat they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener's expression of surprise, on\nbeholding his master, must immediately have told it. They stood a little\naloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused,\nscarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer\nshe returned to his civil inquiries after her family. Amazed at the\nalteration of his manner since they last parted, every sentence that\nhe uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the\nimpropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the few\nminutes in which they continued were some of the most uncomfortable in\nher life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he spoke, his accent\nhad none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his inquiries as\nto the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her having stayed in\nDerbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the\ndistraction of his thoughts.\n\nAt length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few\nmoments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took\nleave.\n\nThe others then joined her, and expressed admiration of his figure; but\nElizabeth heard not a word, and wholly engrossed by her own feelings,\nfollowed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and vexation. Her\ncoming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged thing in the\nworld! How strange it must appear to him! In what a disgraceful light\nmight it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if she had purposely\nthrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she come? Or, why did he\nthus come a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes\nsooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his discrimination;\nfor it was plain that he was that moment arrived--that moment alighted\nfrom his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and again over\nthe perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so strikingly\naltered--what could it mean? That he should even speak to her was\namazing!--but to speak with such civility, to inquire after her family!\nNever in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified, never\nhad he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What\na contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put\nhis letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, or how to account\nfor it.\n\nThey had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and\nevery step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer\nreach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it was some time\nbefore Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered\nmechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and\nseemed to direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she\ndistinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that\none spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then\nwas. She longed to know what at the moment was passing in his mind--in\nwhat manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything,\nshe was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he\nfelt himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice which was\nnot like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in\nseeing her she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with\ncomposure.\n\nAt length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind\naroused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself.\n\nThey entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a while,\nascended some of the higher grounds; when, in spots where the opening of\nthe trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of the\nvalley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods overspreading\nmany, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish\nof going round the whole park, but feared it might be beyond a walk.\nWith a triumphant smile they were told that it was ten miles round.\nIt settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which\nbrought them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods,\nto the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They crossed\nit by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene;\nit was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the\nvalley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the stream,\nand a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered it.\nElizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed the\nbridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner,\nwho was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only\nof returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was,\ntherefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house\non the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their\nprogress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the\ntaste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the\noccasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the\nman about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this\nslow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment\nwas quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy\napproaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here\nless sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before\nthey met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared\nfor an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with\ncalmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed,\nshe felt that he would probably strike into some other path. The idea\nlasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the\nturning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance, she saw\nthat he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his\npoliteness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place;\nbut she had not got beyond the words \"delightful,\" and \"charming,\" when\nsome unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of\nPemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed,\nand she said no more.\n\nMrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked\nher if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends.\nThis was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared;\nand she could hardly suppress a smile at his being now seeking the\nacquaintance of some of those very people against whom his pride had\nrevolted in his offer to herself. \"What will be his surprise,\" thought\nshe, \"when he knows who they are? He takes them now for people of\nfashion.\"\n\nThe introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their\nrelationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore\nit, and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he\ncould from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the\nconnection was evident; he sustained it, however, with fortitude, and\nso far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into\nconversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased,\ncould not but triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had\nsome relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most\nattentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every\nexpression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence,\nhis taste, or his good manners.\n\nThe conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr. Darcy\ninvite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he\nchose while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time\nto supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of\nthe stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was\nwalking arm-in-arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of wonder.\nElizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment\nmust be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and\ncontinually was she repeating, \"Why is he so altered? From what can\nit proceed? It cannot be for _me_--it cannot be for _my_ sake that his\nmanners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a\nchange as this. It is impossible that he should still love me.\"\n\nAfter walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two\ngentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to\nthe brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious\nwater-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated\nin Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found\nElizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred\nher husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on\ntogether. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him\nto know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the\nplace, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been\nvery unexpected--\"for your housekeeper,\" she added, \"informed us that\nyou would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we\nleft Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected\nin the country.\" He acknowledged the truth of it all, and said that\nbusiness with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours\nbefore the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. \"They\nwill join me early to-morrow,\" he continued, \"and among them are some\nwho will claim an acquaintance with you--Mr. Bingley and his sisters.\"\n\nElizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly\ndriven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been the last\nmentioned between them; and, if she might judge by his complexion, _his_\nmind was not very differently engaged.\n\n\"There is also one other person in the party,\" he continued after a\npause, \"who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow\nme, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance\nduring your stay at Lambton?\"\n\nThe surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great\nfor her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt\nthat whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her\nmust be the work of her brother, and, without looking farther, it was\nsatisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made\nhim think really ill of her.\n\nThey now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth\nwas not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and\npleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her was a compliment of\nthe highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had\nreached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a\nmile behind.\n\nHe then asked her to walk into the house--but she declared herself not\ntired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time much might\nhave been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but\nthere seemed to be an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected\nthat she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale\nwith great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly--and her\npatience and her ideas were nearly worn out before the tete-a-tete was\nover. On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's coming up they were all pressed to go\ninto the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and\nthey parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the\nladies into the carriage; and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him\nwalking slowly towards the house.\n\nThe observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them\npronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they had expected.\n\"He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming,\" said her uncle.\n\n\"There _is_ something a little stately in him, to be sure,\" replied her\naunt, \"but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now\nsay with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud, I\nhave seen nothing of it.\"\n\n\"I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more\nthan civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such\nattention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling.\"\n\n\"To be sure, Lizzy,\" said her aunt, \"he is not so handsome as Wickham;\nor, rather, he has not Wickham's countenance, for his features\nare perfectly good. But how came you to tell me that he was so\ndisagreeable?\"\n\nElizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had liked\nhim better when they had met in Kent than before, and that she had never\nseen him so pleasant as this morning.\n\n\"But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,\" replied\nher uncle. \"Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him\nat his word, as he might change his mind another day, and warn me off\nhis grounds.\"\n\nElizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his character, but\nsaid nothing.\n\n\"From what we have seen of him,\" continued Mrs. Gardiner, \"I really\nshould not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by\nanybody as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look.\nOn the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when he\nspeaks. And there is something of dignity in his countenance that would\nnot give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But, to be sure, the\ngood lady who showed us his house did give him a most flaming character!\nI could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal\nmaster, I suppose, and _that_ in the eye of a servant comprehends every\nvirtue.\"\n\nElizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of\nhis behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them to understand, in\nas guarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from\nhis relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different\nconstruction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor\nWickham's so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In\nconfirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary\ntransactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming\nher authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on.\n\nMrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now\napproaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to\nthe charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out\nto her husband all the interesting spots in its environs to think of\nanything else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning's walk they\nhad no sooner dined than she set off again in quest of her former\nacquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of a\nintercourse renewed after many years' discontinuance.\n\nThe occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth\nmuch attention for any of these new friends; and she could do nothing\nbut think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy's civility, and, above\nall, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister.\n\n\n\nChapter 44\n\n\nElizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit\nher the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was consequently\nresolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning.\nBut her conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their\narrival at Lambton, these visitors came. They had been walking about the\nplace with some of their new friends, and were just returning to the inn\nto dress themselves for dining with the same family, when the sound of a\ncarriage drew them to a window, and they saw a gentleman and a lady in\na curricle driving up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognizing\nthe livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of her\nsurprise to her relations by acquainting them with the honour which she\nexpected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and the embarrassment\nof her manner as she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many\nof the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a new idea on\nthe business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they felt that\nthere was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such a\nquarter than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these\nnewly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of\nElizabeth's feelings was at every moment increasing. She was quite\namazed at her own discomposure; but amongst other causes of disquiet,\nshe dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much\nin her favour; and, more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally\nsuspected that every power of pleasing would fail her.\n\nShe retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she walked\nup and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw such looks of\ninquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made everything worse.\n\nMiss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction\ntook place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see that her new\nacquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself. Since her\nbeing at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud;\nbut the observation of a very few minutes convinced her that she was\nonly exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain even a word from\nher beyond a monosyllable.\n\nMiss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and, though\nlittle more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance\nwomanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother; but there\nwas sense and good humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly\nunassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her as\nacute and unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much\nrelieved by discerning such different feelings.\n\nThey had not long been together before Mr. Darcy told her that Bingley\nwas also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time to express her\nsatisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when Bingley's quick\nstep was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the room. All\nElizabeth's anger against him had been long done away; but had she still\nfelt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected\ncordiality with which he expressed himself on seeing her again. He\ninquired in a friendly, though general way, after her family, and looked\nand spoke with the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done.\n\nTo Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting personage\nthan to herself. They had long wished to see him. The whole party before\nthem, indeed, excited a lively attention. The suspicions which had just\narisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece directed their observation towards\neach with an earnest though guarded inquiry; and they soon drew from\nthose inquiries the full conviction that one of them at least knew\nwhat it was to love. Of the lady's sensations they remained a little\nin doubt; but that the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was\nevident enough.\n\nElizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain the\nfeelings of each of her visitors; she wanted to compose her own, and\nto make herself agreeable to all; and in the latter object, where she\nfeared most to fail, she was most sure of success, for those to whom she\nendeavoured to give pleasure were prepossessed in her favour. Bingley\nwas ready, Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined, to be pleased.\n\nIn seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister; and, oh!\nhow ardently did she long to know whether any of his were directed in\na like manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he talked less than on\nformer occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with the notion\nthat, as he looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But,\nthough this might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his\nbehaviour to Miss Darcy, who had been set up as a rival to Jane. No look\nappeared on either side that spoke particular regard. Nothing occurred\nbetween them that could justify the hopes of his sister. On this point\nshe was soon satisfied; and two or three little circumstances occurred\nere they parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted a\nrecollection of Jane not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of saying\nmore that might lead to the mention of her, had he dared. He observed\nto her, at a moment when the others were talking together, and in a tone\nwhich had something of real regret, that it \"was a very long time since\nhe had had the pleasure of seeing her;\" and, before she could reply,\nhe added, \"It is above eight months. We have not met since the 26th of\nNovember, when we were all dancing together at Netherfield.\"\n\nElizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he afterwards\ntook occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of the rest, whether\n_all_ her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the question,\nnor in the preceding remark; but there was a look and a manner which\ngave them meaning.\n\nIt was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself;\nbut, whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an expression of general\ncomplaisance, and in all that he said she heard an accent so removed\nfrom _hauteur_ or disdain of his companions, as convinced her that\nthe improvement of manners which she had yesterday witnessed however\ntemporary its existence might prove, had at least outlived one day. When\nshe saw him thus seeking the acquaintance and courting the good opinion\nof people with whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a\ndisgrace--when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to the\nvery relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected their last\nlively scene in Hunsford Parsonage--the difference, the change was\nso great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she could hardly\nrestrain her astonishment from being visible. Never, even in the company\nof his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations\nat Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please, so free from\nself-consequence or unbending reserve, as now, when no importance\ncould result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the\nacquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed would draw\ndown the ridicule and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and\nRosings.\n\nTheir visitors stayed with them above half-an-hour; and when they arose\nto depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing\ntheir wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner\nat Pemberley, before they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a\ndiffidence which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations,\nreadily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing\nhow _she_, whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its\nacceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming however,\nthat this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment than\nany dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of\nsociety, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for\nher attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on.\n\nBingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Elizabeth\nagain, having still a great deal to say to her, and many inquiries to\nmake after all their Hertfordshire friends. Elizabeth, construing all\nthis into a wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was pleased, and on\nthis account, as well as some others, found herself, when their\nvisitors left them, capable of considering the last half-hour with some\nsatisfaction, though while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been\nlittle. Eager to be alone, and fearful of inquiries or hints from her\nuncle and aunt, she stayed with them only long enough to hear their\nfavourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress.\n\nBut she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's curiosity; it was\nnot their wish to force her communication. It was evident that she was\nmuch better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had before any idea of;\nit was evident that he was very much in love with her. They saw much to\ninterest, but nothing to justify inquiry.\n\nOf Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far\nas their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They could\nnot be untouched by his politeness; and had they drawn his character\nfrom their own feelings and his servant's report, without any reference\nto any other account, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known\nwould not have recognized it for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest,\nhowever, in believing the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible\nthat the authority of a servant who had known him since he was four\nyears old, and whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be\nhastily rejected. Neither had anything occurred in the intelligence of\ntheir Lambton friends that could materially lessen its weight. They had\nnothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably had, and if not,\nit would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants of a small market-town\nwhere the family did not visit. It was acknowledged, however, that he\nwas a liberal man, and did much good among the poor.\n\nWith respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was not held\nthere in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns with the\nson of his patron were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well-known\nfact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind\nhim, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged.\n\nAs for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening more than\nthe last; and the evening, though as it passed it seemed long, was not\nlong enough to determine her feelings towards _one_ in that mansion;\nand she lay awake two whole hours endeavouring to make them out. She\ncertainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she\nhad almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him,\nthat could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his\nvaluable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some\ntime ceased to be repugnant to her feeling; and it was now heightened\ninto somewhat of a friendlier nature, by the testimony so highly in\nhis favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light,\nwhich yesterday had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem,\nthere was a motive within her of goodwill which could not be overlooked.\nIt was gratitude; gratitude, not merely for having once loved her,\nbut for loving her still well enough to forgive all the petulance and\nacrimony of her manner in rejecting him, and all the unjust accusations\naccompanying her rejection. He who, she had been persuaded, would avoid\nher as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this accidental meeting, most\neager to preserve the acquaintance, and without any indelicate display\nof regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where their two selves only\nwere concerned, was soliciting the good opinion of her friends, and bent\non making her known to his sister. Such a change in a man of so much\npride exciting not only astonishment but gratitude--for to love, ardent\nlove, it must be attributed; and as such its impression on her was of a\nsort to be encouraged, as by no means unpleasing, though it could not be\nexactly defined. She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to him,\nshe felt a real interest in his welfare; and she only wanted to know how\nfar she wished that welfare to depend upon herself, and how far it would\nbe for the happiness of both that she should employ the power, which her\nfancy told her she still possessed, of bringing on her the renewal of\nhis addresses.\n\nIt had been settled in the evening between the aunt and the niece, that\nsuch a striking civility as Miss Darcy's in coming to see them on the\nvery day of her arrival at Pemberley, for she had reached it only to a\nlate breakfast, ought to be imitated, though it could not be equalled,\nby some exertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that\nit would be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following\nmorning. They were, therefore, to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though when\nshe asked herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply.\n\nMr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme had been\nrenewed the day before, and a positive engagement made of his meeting\nsome of the gentlemen at Pemberley before noon.\n\n\n\nChapter 45\n\n\nConvinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley's dislike of her had\noriginated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how unwelcome her\nappearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know with how\nmuch civility on that lady's side the acquaintance would now be renewed.\n\nOn reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the saloon,\nwhose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows\nopening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody\nhills behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts\nwhich were scattered over the intermediate lawn.\n\nIn this house they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting there\nwith Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived in\nLondon. Georgiana's reception of them was very civil, but attended with\nall the embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the fear\nof doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves inferior\nthe belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and her niece,\nhowever, did her justice, and pitied her.\n\nBy Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only by a curtsey; and,\non their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be,\nsucceeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a\ngenteel, agreeable-looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind\nof discourse proved her to be more truly well-bred than either of the\nothers; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from\nElizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she\nwished for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a\nshort sentence when there was least danger of its being heard.\n\nElizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss Bingley,\nand that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without\ncalling her attention. This observation would not have prevented her\nfrom trying to talk to the latter, had they not been seated at an\ninconvenient distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity\nof saying much. Her own thoughts were employing her. She expected every\nmoment that some of the gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she\nfeared that the master of the house might be amongst them; and whether\nshe wished or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After\nsitting in this manner a quarter of an hour without hearing Miss\nBingley's voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold\ninquiry after the health of her family. She answered with equal\nindifference and brevity, and the other said no more.\n\nThe next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the\nentrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the\nfinest fruits in season; but this did not take place till after many\na significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been\ngiven, to remind her of her post. There was now employment for the whole\nparty--for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the\nbeautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches soon collected\nthem round the table.\n\nWhile thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding whether\nshe most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by the\nfeelings which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but\na moment before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to\nregret that he came.\n\nHe had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three other\ngentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had left him\nonly on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to\nGeorgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear than Elizabeth wisely\nresolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed; a resolution the more\nnecessary to be made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she\nsaw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them,\nand that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour\nwhen he first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive\ncuriosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley's, in spite of the\nsmiles which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its\nobjects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attentions\nto Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother's\nentrance, exerted herself much more to talk, and Elizabeth saw that he\nwas anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded\nas much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss\nBingley saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the\nfirst opportunity of saying, with sneering civility:\n\n\"Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ----shire Militia removed from Meryton?\nThey must be a great loss to _your_ family.\"\n\nIn Darcy's presence she dared not mention Wickham's name; but Elizabeth\ninstantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and the\nvarious recollections connected with him gave her a moment's distress;\nbut exerting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she\npresently answered the question in a tolerably detached tone. While\nshe spoke, an involuntary glance showed her Darcy, with a heightened\ncomplexion, earnestly looking at her, and his sister overcome with\nconfusion, and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what\npain she was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would\nhave refrained from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose\nElizabeth by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she believed\nher partial, to make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in\nDarcy's opinion, and, perhaps, to remind the latter of all the follies\nand absurdities by which some part of her family were connected\nwith that corps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss Darcy's\nmeditated elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where secrecy\nwas possible, except to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley's connections\nher brother was particularly anxious to conceal it, from the very\nwish which Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming\nhereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and without\nmeaning that it should effect his endeavour to separate him from Miss\nBennet, it is probable that it might add something to his lively concern\nfor the welfare of his friend.\n\nElizabeth's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion; and\nas Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to\nWickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able\nto speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely\nrecollected her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which\nhad been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth seemed to have\nfixed them on her more and more cheerfully.\n\nTheir visit did not continue long after the question and answer above\nmentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their carriage Miss\nBingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth's person,\nbehaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join her. Her brother's\nrecommendation was enough to ensure her favour; his judgement could not\nerr. And he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana\nwithout the power of finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When\nDarcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to\nhim some part of what she had been saying to his sister.\n\n\"How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy,\" she\ncried; \"I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she is since\nthe winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing\nthat we should not have known her again.\"\n\nHowever little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented\nhimself with coolly replying that he perceived no other alteration than\nher being rather tanned, no miraculous consequence of travelling in the\nsummer.\n\n\"For my own part,\" she rejoined, \"I must confess that I never could\nsee any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no\nbrilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose\nwants character--there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are\ntolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes,\nwhich have sometimes been called so fine, I could never see anything\nextraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do\nnot like at all; and in her air altogether there is a self-sufficiency\nwithout fashion, which is intolerable.\"\n\nPersuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not\nthe best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always\nwise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the\nsuccess she expected. He was resolutely silent, however, and, from a\ndetermination of making him speak, she continued:\n\n\"I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all\nwere to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect\nyour saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, '_She_\na beauty!--I should as soon call her mother a wit.' But afterwards she\nseemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at\none time.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, \"but _that_\nwas only when I first saw her, for it is many months since I have\nconsidered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.\"\n\nHe then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of\nhaving forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself.\n\nMrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred during their\nvisit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested them\nboth. The look and behaviour of everybody they had seen were discussed,\nexcept of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked\nof his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit--of everything but\nhimself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of\nhim, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece's\nbeginning the subject.\n\n\n\nChapter 46\n\n\nElizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from\nJane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been\nrenewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but\non the third her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the\nreceipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that\nit had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as\nJane had written the direction remarkably ill.\n\nThey had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and\nher uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by\nthemselves. The one missent must first be attended to; it had been\nwritten five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their\nlittle parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded;\nbut the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident\nagitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect:\n\n\"Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a\nmost unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you--be\nassured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia.\nAn express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed,\nfrom Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland\nwith one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our\nsurprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am\nvery, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing\nto hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood.\nThoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step\n(and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is\ndisinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing.\nOur poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How\nthankful am I that we never let them know what has been said against\nhim; we must forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about\ntwelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at\neight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have\npassed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect\nhim here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of\ntheir intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor\nmother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly\nknow what I have written.\"\n\nWithout allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing\nwhat she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter instantly seized the\nother, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it\nhad been written a day later than the conclusion of the first.\n\n\"By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter; I\nwish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my\nhead is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest\nLizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you,\nand it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as the marriage between Mr. Wickham\nand our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has\ntaken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone\nto Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the\nday before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia's short\nletter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna\nGreen, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that W.\nnever intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was\nrepeated to Colonel F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B.\nintending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham,\nbut no further; for on entering that place, they removed into a hackney\ncoach, and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that\nis known after this is, that they were seen to continue the London road.\nI know not what to think. After making every possible inquiry on that\nside London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing\nthem at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but\nwithout any success--no such people had been seen to pass through. With\nthe kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions\nto us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved\nfor him and Mrs. F., but no one can throw any blame on them. Our\ndistress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the\nworst, but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make\nit more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to pursue\ntheir first plan; and even if _he_ could form such a design against a\nyoung woman of Lydia's connections, which is not likely, can I suppose\nher so lost to everything? Impossible! I grieve to find, however, that\nColonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage; he shook his\nhead when I expressed my hopes, and said he feared W. was not a man to\nbe trusted. My poor mother is really ill, and keeps her room. Could she\nexert herself, it would be better; but this is not to be expected. And\nas to my father, I never in my life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has\nanger for having concealed their attachment; but as it was a matter of\nconfidence, one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you\nhave been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as the\nfirst shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not\nso selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu! I\ntake up my pen again to do what I have just told you I would not; but\ncircumstances are such that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to\ncome here as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well,\nthat I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have still something\nmore to ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel\nForster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do I am sure\nI know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any\nmeasure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to\nbe at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such an exigence, my\nuncle's advice and assistance would be everything in the world; he will\nimmediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.\"\n\n\"Oh! where, where is my uncle?\" cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat\nas she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing\na moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door it was\nopened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous\nmanner made him start, and before he could recover himself to speak,\nshe, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia's situation,\nhastily exclaimed, \"I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find\nMr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not\nan instant to lose.\"\n\n\"Good God! what is the matter?\" cried he, with more feeling than\npoliteness; then recollecting himself, \"I will not detain you a minute;\nbut let me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are\nnot well enough; you cannot go yourself.\"\n\nElizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she felt how\nlittle would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back\nthe servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless\nan accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and\nmistress home instantly.\n\nOn his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support herself, and\nlooking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her,\nor to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration,\n\"Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you\npresent relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill.\"\n\n\"No, I thank you,\" she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. \"There\nis nothing the matter with me. I am quite well; I am only distressed by\nsome dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn.\"\n\nShe burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could\nnot speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say\nsomething indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate\nsilence. At length she spoke again. \"I have just had a letter from Jane,\nwith such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My younger\nsister has left all her friends--has eloped; has thrown herself into\nthe power of--of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton.\n_You_ know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no\nconnections, nothing that can tempt him to--she is lost for ever.\"\n\nDarcy was fixed in astonishment. \"When I consider,\" she added in a yet\nmore agitated voice, \"that I might have prevented it! I, who knew what\nhe was. Had I but explained some part of it only--some part of what I\nlearnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not\nhave happened. But it is all--all too late now.\"\n\n\"I am grieved indeed,\" cried Darcy; \"grieved--shocked. But is it\ncertain--absolutely certain?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced\nalmost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to\nScotland.\"\n\n\"And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?\"\n\n\"My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle's\nimmediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in half-an-hour. But\nnothing can be done--I know very well that nothing can be done. How is\nsuch a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have\nnot the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!\"\n\nDarcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.\n\n\"When _my_ eyes were opened to his real character--Oh! had I known what\nI ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not--I was afraid of doing too\nmuch. Wretched, wretched mistake!\"\n\nDarcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking\nup and down the room in earnest meditation, his brow contracted, his air\ngloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. Her\npower was sinking; everything _must_ sink under such a proof of family\nweakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither\nwonder nor condemn, but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing\nconsolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It\nwas, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own\nwishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved\nhim, as now, when all love must be vain.\n\nBut self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia--the\nhumiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all, soon swallowed\nup every private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief,\nElizabeth was soon lost to everything else; and, after a pause of\nseveral minutes, was only recalled to a sense of her situation by\nthe voice of her companion, who, in a manner which, though it spoke\ncompassion, spoke likewise restraint, said, \"I am afraid you have been\nlong desiring my absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my\nstay, but real, though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything\ncould be either said or done on my part that might offer consolation to\nsuch distress! But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may\nseem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I\nfear, prevent my sister's having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley\nto-day.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us to Miss Darcy. Say that\nurgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as\nlong as it is possible, I know it cannot be long.\"\n\nHe readily assured her of his secrecy; again expressed his sorrow for\nher distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present\nreason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her relations, with only\none serious, parting look, went away.\n\nAs he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they\nshould ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as\nhad marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a\nretrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full\nof contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those\nfeelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would\nformerly have rejoiced in its termination.\n\nIf gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth's\nchange of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if\notherwise--if regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or\nunnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on\na first interview with its object, and even before two words have been\nexchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she had given\nsomewhat of a trial to the latter method in her partiality for Wickham,\nand that its ill success might, perhaps, authorise her to seek the other\nless interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him\ngo with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia's infamy must\nproduce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched\nbusiness. Never, since reading Jane's second letter, had she entertained\na hope of Wickham's meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought,\ncould flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least\nof her feelings on this development. While the contents of the first\nletter remained in her mind, she was all surprise--all astonishment that\nWickham should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry\nfor money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared\nincomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment\nas this she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not suppose\nLydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement without the intention\nof marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither her virtue\nnor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy prey.\n\nShe had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that\nLydia had any partiality for him; but she was convinced that Lydia\nwanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one\nofficer, sometimes another, had been her favourite, as their attentions\nraised them in her opinion. Her affections had continually been\nfluctuating but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and\nmistaken indulgence towards such a girl--oh! how acutely did she now\nfeel it!\n\nShe was wild to be at home--to hear, to see, to be upon the spot to\nshare with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a\nfamily so deranged, a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and\nrequiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing\ncould be done for Lydia, her uncle's interference seemed of the utmost\nimportance, and till he entered the room her impatience was severe. Mr.\nand Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing by the servant's\naccount that their niece was taken suddenly ill; but satisfying them\ninstantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their\nsummons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on the postscript\nof the last with trembling energy, though Lydia had never been a\nfavourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be deeply\nafflicted. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after the\nfirst exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner promised every\nassistance in his power. Elizabeth, though expecting no less, thanked\nhim with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated by one spirit,\neverything relating to their journey was speedily settled. They were to\nbe off as soon as possible. \"But what is to be done about Pemberley?\"\ncried Mrs. Gardiner. \"John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for\nus; was it so?\"\n\n\"Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement.\n_That_ is all settled.\"\n\n\"What is all settled?\" repeated the other, as she ran into her room to\nprepare. \"And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real\ntruth? Oh, that I knew how it was!\"\n\nBut wishes were vain, or at least could only serve to amuse her in the\nhurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure\nto be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was\nimpossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of\nbusiness as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to\nbe written to all their friends at Lambton, with false excuses for their\nsudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr.\nGardiner meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing\nremained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of\nthe morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could\nhave supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.\n\n\n\nChapter 47\n\n\n\"I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth,\" said her uncle, as they\ndrove from the town; \"and really, upon serious consideration, I am much\nmore inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does on the\nmatter. It appears to me so very unlikely that any young man should\nform such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or\nfriendless, and who was actually staying in his colonel's family, that I\nam strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends\nwould not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the\nregiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is\nnot adequate to the risk!\"\n\n\"Do you really think so?\" cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment.\n\n\"Upon my word,\" said Mrs. Gardiner, \"I begin to be of your uncle's\nopinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and\ninterest, for him to be guilty of. I cannot think so very ill of\nWickham. Can you yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him up, as to believe\nhim capable of it?\"\n\n\"Not, perhaps, of neglecting his own interest; but of every other\nneglect I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I\ndare not hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland if that had been\nthe case?\"\n\n\"In the first place,\" replied Mr. Gardiner, \"there is no absolute proof\nthat they are not gone to Scotland.\"\n\n\"Oh! but their removing from the chaise into a hackney coach is such\na presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be found on the\nBarnet road.\"\n\n\"Well, then--supposing them to be in London. They may be there, though\nfor the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptional purpose. It is\nnot likely that money should be very abundant on either side; and it\nmight strike them that they could be more economically, though less\nexpeditiously, married in London than in Scotland.\"\n\n\"But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their\nmarriage be private? Oh, no, no--this is not likely. His most particular\nfriend, you see by Jane's account, was persuaded of his never intending\nto marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some money. He\ncannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia--what attraction has she\nbeyond youth, health, and good humour that could make him, for her sake,\nforego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what\nrestraint the apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on a\ndishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I know\nnothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But as to your\nother objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Lydia has\nno brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from my father's\nbehaviour, from his indolence and the little attention he has ever\nseemed to give to what was going forward in his family, that _he_ would\ndo as little, and think as little about it, as any father could do, in\nsuch a matter.\"\n\n\"But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love of him\nas to consent to live with him on any terms other than marriage?\"\n\n\"It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed,\" replied Elizabeth, with\ntears in her eyes, \"that a sister's sense of decency and virtue in such\na point should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say.\nPerhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young; she has never\nbeen taught to think on serious subjects; and for the last half-year,\nnay, for a twelvemonth--she has been given up to nothing but amusement\nand vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle\nand frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in her way.\nSince the ----shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love,\nflirtation, and officers have been in her head. She has been doing\neverything in her power by thinking and talking on the subject, to give\ngreater--what shall I call it? susceptibility to her feelings; which are\nnaturally lively enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of\nperson and address that can captivate a woman.\"\n\n\"But you see that Jane,\" said her aunt, \"does not think so very ill of\nWickham as to believe him capable of the attempt.\"\n\n\"Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be\ntheir former conduct, that she would think capable of such an attempt,\ntill it were proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what\nWickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every\nsense of the word; that he has neither integrity nor honour; that he is\nas false and deceitful as he is insinuating.\"\n\n\"And do you really know all this?\" cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity\nas to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.\n\n\"I do indeed,\" replied Elizabeth, colouring. \"I told you, the other day,\nof his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you yourself, when last at\nLongbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man who had behaved\nwith such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other\ncircumstances which I am not at liberty--which it is not worth while to\nrelate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From\nwhat he said of Miss Darcy I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud,\nreserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He\nmust know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found\nher.\"\n\n\"But does Lydia know nothing of this? can she be ignorant of what you\nand Jane seem so well to understand?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes!--that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw\nso much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was\nignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home, the ----shire\nwas to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight's time. As that was the\ncase, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it\nnecessary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could\nit apparently be to any one, that the good opinion which all the\nneighbourhood had of him should then be overthrown? And even when it was\nsettled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening\nher eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could be\nin any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such a\nconsequence as _this_ could ensue, you may easily believe, was far\nenough from my thoughts.\"\n\n\"When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I\nsuppose, to believe them fond of each other?\"\n\n\"Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either\nside; and had anything of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware\nthat ours is not a family on which it could be thrown away. When first\nhe entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all\nwere. Every girl in or near Meryton was out of her senses about him for\nthe first two months; but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular\nattention; and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and\nwild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment,\nwho treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites.\"\n\n                          * * * * *\n\nIt may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added\nto their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by\nits repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during\nthe whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent.\nFixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could find\nno interval of ease or forgetfulness.\n\nThey travelled as expeditiously as possible, and, sleeping one night\non the road, reached Longbourn by dinner time the next day. It was a\ncomfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied\nby long expectations.\n\nThe little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing\non the steps of the house as they entered the paddock; and, when the\ncarriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their\nfaces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of\ncapers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome.\n\nElizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them a hasty kiss,\nhurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down from her\nmother's apartment, immediately met her.\n\nElizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the\neyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether anything had been\nheard of the fugitives.\n\n\"Not yet,\" replied Jane. \"But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope\neverything will be well.\"\n\n\"Is my father in town?\"\n\n\"Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word.\"\n\n\"And have you heard from him often?\"\n\n\"We have heard only twice. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday to say\nthat he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I\nparticularly begged him to do. He merely added that he should not write\nagain till he had something of importance to mention.\"\n\n\"And my mother--how is she? How are you all?\"\n\n\"My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly\nshaken. She is up stairs and will have great satisfaction in seeing you\nall. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank\nHeaven, are quite well.\"\n\n\"But you--how are you?\" cried Elizabeth. \"You look pale. How much you\nmust have gone through!\"\n\nHer sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well; and their\nconversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were\nengaged with their children, was now put an end to by the approach\nof the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and\nthanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears.\n\nWhen they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth\nhad already asked were of course repeated by the others, and they soon\nfound that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of\ngood, however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested had not yet\ndeserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that\nevery morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father,\nto explain their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce their marriage.\n\nMrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes'\nconversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with\ntears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous\nconduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill-usage;\nblaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the\nerrors of her daughter must principally be owing.\n\n\"If I had been able,\" said she, \"to carry my point in going to Brighton,\nwith all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but poor dear Lydia\nhad nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out\nof their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their\nside, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing if she had been\nwell looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the\ncharge of her; but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor dear child!\nAnd now here's Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight Wickham,\nwherever he meets him and then he will be killed, and what is to become\nof us all? The Collinses will turn us out before he is cold in his\ngrave, and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what we\nshall do.\"\n\nThey all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after\ngeneral assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her\nthat he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr.\nBennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia.\n\n\"Do not give way to useless alarm,\" added he; \"though it is right to be\nprepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain.\nIt is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more we\nmay gain some news of them; and till we know that they are not married,\nand have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as\nlost. As soon as I get to town I shall go to my brother, and make\nhim come home with me to Gracechurch Street; and then we may consult\ntogether as to what is to be done.\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear brother,\" replied Mrs. Bennet, \"that is exactly what I\ncould most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out,\nwherever they may be; and if they are not married already, _make_ them\nmarry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but\ntell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them,\nafter they are married. And, above all, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting.\nTell him what a dreadful state I am in, that I am frighted out of my\nwits--and have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me--such\nspasms in my side and pains in my head, and such beatings at heart, that\nI can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear Lydia not to\ngive any directions about her clothes till she has seen me, for she does\nnot know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother, how kind you are! I\nknow you will contrive it all.\"\n\nBut Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavours\nin the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well\nin her hopes as her fear; and after talking with her in this manner till\ndinner was on the table, they all left her to vent all her feelings on\nthe housekeeper, who attended in the absence of her daughters.\n\nThough her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real\noccasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to\noppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her\ntongue before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged it\nbetter that _one_ only of the household, and the one whom they could\nmost trust should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the\nsubject.\n\nIn the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been\ntoo busily engaged in their separate apartments to make their appearance\nbefore. One came from her books, and the other from her toilette. The\nfaces of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change was visible\nin either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or the anger\nwhich she had herself incurred in this business, had given more of\nfretfulness than usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was\nmistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance\nof grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table:\n\n\"This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much talked of.\nBut we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of\neach other the balm of sisterly consolation.\"\n\nThen, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added,\n\"Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful\nlesson: that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable; that one\nfalse step involves her in endless ruin; that her reputation is no less\nbrittle than it is beautiful; and that she cannot be too much guarded in\nher behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex.\"\n\nElizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed\nto make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such\nkind of moral extractions from the evil before them.\n\nIn the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for\nhalf-an-hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of\nthe opportunity of making any inquiries, which Jane was equally eager to\nsatisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel\nof this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss\nBennet could not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued\nthe subject, by saying, \"But tell me all and everything about it which\nI have not already heard. Give me further particulars. What did Colonel\nForster say? Had they no apprehension of anything before the elopement\ntook place? They must have seen them together for ever.\"\n\n\"Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality,\nespecially on Lydia's side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so\ngrieved for him! His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He\n_was_ coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had\nany idea of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension\nfirst got abroad, it hastened his journey.\"\n\n\"And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of\ntheir intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?\"\n\n\"Yes; but, when questioned by _him_, Denny denied knowing anything of\ntheir plans, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not\nrepeat his persuasion of their not marrying--and from _that_, I am\ninclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before.\"\n\n\"And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a\ndoubt, I suppose, of their being really married?\"\n\n\"How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I felt\na little uneasy--a little fearful of my sister's happiness with him\nin marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite\nright. My father and mother knew nothing of that; they only felt how\nimprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural\ntriumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia's last letter\nshe had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their\nbeing in love with each other, many weeks.\"\n\n\"But not before they went to Brighton?\"\n\n\"No, I believe not.\"\n\n\"And did Colonel Forster appear to think well of Wickham himself? Does\nhe know his real character?\"\n\n\"I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly\ndid. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad\naffair has taken place, it is said that he left Meryton greatly in debt;\nbut I hope this may be false.\"\n\n\"Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him,\nthis could not have happened!\"\n\n\"Perhaps it would have been better,\" replied her sister. \"But to expose\nthe former faults of any person without knowing what their present\nfeelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions.\"\n\n\"Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to his\nwife?\"\n\n\"He brought it with him for us to see.\"\n\nJane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These\nwere the contents:\n\n\"MY DEAR HARRIET,\n\n\"You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help\nlaughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am\nmissed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who,\nI shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the world I\nlove, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without him, so think\nit no harm to be off. You need not send them word at Longbourn of my\ngoing, if you do not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater,\nwhen I write to them and sign my name 'Lydia Wickham.' What a good joke\nit will be! I can hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to\nPratt for not keeping my engagement, and dancing with him to-night.\nTell him I hope he will excuse me when he knows all; and tell him I will\ndance with him at the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I shall\nsend for my clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell\nSally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown before they are\npacked up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster. I hope you will\ndrink to our good journey.\n\n\"Your affectionate friend,\n\n\"LYDIA BENNET.\"\n\n\"Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!\" cried Elizabeth when she had\nfinished it. \"What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment!\nBut at least it shows that _she_ was serious on the subject of their\njourney. Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her\nside a _scheme_ of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it!\"\n\n\"I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten\nminutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in\nsuch confusion!\"\n\n\"Oh! Jane,\" cried Elizabeth, \"was there a servant belonging to it who\ndid not know the whole story before the end of the day?\"\n\n\"I do not know. I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a time is\nvery difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I endeavoured to\ngive her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so\nmuch as I might have done! But the horror of what might possibly happen\nalmost took from me my faculties.\"\n\n\"Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not look\nwell. Oh that I had been with you! you have had every care and anxiety\nupon yourself alone.\"\n\n\"Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every\nfatigue, I am sure; but I did not think it right for either of them.\nKitty is slight and delicate; and Mary studies so much, that her hours\nof repose should not be broken in on. My aunt Phillips came to Longbourn\non Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till\nThursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all. And\nLady Lucas has been very kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to\ncondole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters', if\nthey should be of use to us.\"\n\n\"She had better have stayed at home,\" cried Elizabeth; \"perhaps she\n_meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see\ntoo little of one's neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence\ninsufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied.\"\n\nShe then proceeded to inquire into the measures which her father had\nintended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter.\n\n\"He meant I believe,\" replied Jane, \"to go to Epsom, the place where\nthey last changed horses, see the postilions and try if anything could\nbe made out from them. His principal object must be to discover the\nnumber of the hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come\nwith a fare from London; and as he thought that the circumstance of a\ngentleman and lady's removing from one carriage into another might\nbe remarked he meant to make inquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow\ndiscover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he\ndetermined to make inquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible\nto find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any\nother designs that he had formed; but he was in such a hurry to be gone,\nand his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had difficulty in finding\nout even so much as this.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 48\n\n\nThe whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next\nmorning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him.\nHis family knew him to be, on all common occasions, a most negligent and\ndilatory correspondent; but at such a time they had hoped for exertion.\nThey were forced to conclude that he had no pleasing intelligence to\nsend; but even of _that_ they would have been glad to be certain. Mr.\nGardiner had waited only for the letters before he set off.\n\nWhen he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving constant\ninformation of what was going on, and their uncle promised, at parting,\nto prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to Longbourn, as soon as he could,\nto the great consolation of his sister, who considered it as the only\nsecurity for her husband's not being killed in a duel.\n\nMrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few\ndays longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable\nto her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a\ngreat comfort to them in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also\nvisited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of\ncheering and heartening them up--though, as she never came without\nreporting some fresh instance of Wickham's extravagance or irregularity,\nshe seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found\nthem.\n\nAll Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three months\nbefore, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be in debt\nto every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with\nthe title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family.\nEverybody declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world;\nand everybody began to find out that they had always distrusted the\nappearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above\nhalf of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of\nher sister's ruin more certain; and even Jane, who believed still less\nof it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now come\nwhen, if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before entirely\ndespaired of, they must in all probability have gained some news of\nthem.\n\nMr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday his wife received a\nletter from him; it told them that, on his arrival, he had immediately\nfound out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch Street;\nthat Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival,\nbut without gaining any satisfactory information; and that he was now\ndetermined to inquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet\nthought it possible they might have gone to one of them, on their first\ncoming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself\ndid not expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was\neager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added that Mr.\nBennet seemed wholly disinclined at present to leave London and promised\nto write again very soon. There was also a postscript to this effect:\n\n\"I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if\npossible, from some of the young man's intimates in the regiment,\nwhether Wickham has any relations or connections who would be likely to\nknow in what part of town he has now concealed himself. If there were\nanyone that one could apply to with a probability of gaining such a\nclue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we have\nnothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do everything in\nhis power to satisfy us on this head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps,\nLizzy could tell us what relations he has now living, better than any\nother person.\"\n\nElizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference to her\nauthority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give any information\nof so satisfactory a nature as the compliment deserved. She had never\nheard of his having had any relations, except a father and mother, both\nof whom had been dead many years. It was possible, however, that some of\nhis companions in the ----shire might be able to give more information;\nand though she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the application\nwas a something to look forward to.\n\nEvery day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious\npart of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters\nwas the grand object of every morning's impatience. Through letters,\nwhatever of good or bad was to be told would be communicated, and every\nsucceeding day was expected to bring some news of importance.\n\nBut before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived for\ntheir father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins; which, as Jane\nhad received directions to open all that came for him in his absence,\nshe accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his\nletters always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as\nfollows:\n\n\"MY DEAR SIR,\n\n\"I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation\nin life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now\nsuffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter from\nHertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs. Collins and myself\nsincerely sympathise with you and all your respectable family, in\nyour present distress, which must be of the bitterest kind, because\nproceeding from a cause which no time can remove. No arguments shall be\nwanting on my part that can alleviate so severe a misfortune--or that\nmay comfort you, under a circumstance that must be of all others the\nmost afflicting to a parent's mind. The death of your daughter would\nhave been a blessing in comparison of this. And it is the more to\nbe lamented, because there is reason to suppose as my dear Charlotte\ninforms me, that this licentiousness of behaviour in your daughter has\nproceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence; though, at the same time,\nfor the consolation of yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think\nthat her own disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be\nguilty of such an enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever that may be,\nyou are grievously to be pitied; in which opinion I am not only joined\nby Mrs. Collins, but likewise by Lady Catherine and her daughter, to\nwhom I have related the affair. They agree with me in apprehending that\nthis false step in one daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of\nall the others; for who, as Lady Catherine herself condescendingly says,\nwill connect themselves with such a family? And this consideration leads\nme moreover to reflect, with augmented satisfaction, on a certain event\nof last November; for had it been otherwise, I must have been involved\nin all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me then advise you, dear sir, to\nconsole yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy child\nfrom your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of her\nown heinous offense.\n\n\"I am, dear sir, etc., etc.\"\n\nMr. Gardiner did not write again till he had received an answer from\nColonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send.\nIt was not known that Wickham had a single relationship with whom he\nkept up any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one\nliving. His former acquaintances had been numerous; but since he\nhad been in the militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of\nparticular friendship with any of them. There was no one, therefore,\nwho could be pointed out as likely to give any news of him. And in the\nwretched state of his own finances, there was a very powerful motive for\nsecrecy, in addition to his fear of discovery by Lydia's relations, for\nit had just transpired that he had left gaming debts behind him to a\nvery considerable amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than a\nthousand pounds would be necessary to clear his expenses at Brighton.\nHe owed a good deal in town, but his debts of honour were still more\nformidable. Mr. Gardiner did not attempt to conceal these particulars\nfrom the Longbourn family. Jane heard them with horror. \"A gamester!\"\nshe cried. \"This is wholly unexpected. I had not an idea of it.\"\n\nMr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see their\nfather at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered\nspiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours, he had yielded\nto his brother-in-law's entreaty that he would return to his family, and\nleave it to him to do whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable\nfor continuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did\nnot express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering\nwhat her anxiety for his life had been before.\n\n\"What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia?\" she cried. \"Sure he\nwill not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Wickham,\nand make him marry her, if he comes away?\"\n\nAs Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that she\nand the children should go to London, at the same time that Mr. Bennet\ncame from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their\njourney, and brought its master back to Longbourn.\n\nMrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and her\nDerbyshire friend that had attended her from that part of the world. His\nname had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece; and\nthe kind of half-expectation which Mrs. Gardiner had formed, of their\nbeing followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing. Elizabeth had\nreceived none since her return that could come from Pemberley.\n\nThe present unhappy state of the family rendered any other excuse for\nthe lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore, could be\nfairly conjectured from _that_, though Elizabeth, who was by this time\ntolerably well acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware\nthat, had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of\nLydia's infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought,\none sleepless night out of two.\n\nWhen Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual\nphilosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the\nhabit of saying; made no mention of the business that had taken him\naway, and it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of\nit.\n\nIt was not till the afternoon, when he had joined them at tea, that\nElizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly\nexpressing her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, \"Say\nnothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing,\nand I ought to feel it.\"\n\n\"You must not be too severe upon yourself,\" replied Elizabeth.\n\n\"You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone\nto fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have\nbeen to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression.\nIt will pass away soon enough.\"\n\n\"Do you suppose them to be in London?\"\n\n\"Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?\"\n\n\"And Lydia used to want to go to London,\" added Kitty.\n\n\"She is happy then,\" said her father drily; \"and her residence there\nwill probably be of some duration.\"\n\nThen after a short silence he continued:\n\n\"Lizzy, I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your advice to me\nlast May, which, considering the event, shows some greatness of mind.\"\n\nThey were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her mother's\ntea.\n\n\"This is a parade,\" he cried, \"which does one good; it gives such an\nelegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit in my\nlibrary, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble as\nI can; or, perhaps, I may defer it till Kitty runs away.\"\n\n\"I am not going to run away, papa,\" said Kitty fretfully. \"If I should\never go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia.\"\n\n\"_You_ go to Brighton. I would not trust you so near it as Eastbourne\nfor fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and\nyou will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter into\nmy house again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be\nabsolutely prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters.\nAnd you are never to stir out of doors till you can prove that you have\nspent ten minutes of every day in a rational manner.\"\n\nKitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry.\n\n\"Well, well,\" said he, \"do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good\ngirl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of\nthem.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 49\n\n\nTwo days after Mr. Bennet's return, as Jane and Elizabeth were walking\ntogether in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper\ncoming towards them, and, concluding that she came to call them to their\nmother, went forward to meet her; but, instead of the expected summons,\nwhen they approached her, she said to Miss Bennet, \"I beg your pardon,\nmadam, for interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some\ngood news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask.\"\n\n\"What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town.\"\n\n\"Dear madam,\" cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, \"don't you know\nthere is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He has been here\nthis half-hour, and master has had a letter.\"\n\nAway ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech. They\nran through the vestibule into the breakfast-room; from thence to the\nlibrary; their father was in neither; and they were on the point of\nseeking him up stairs with their mother, when they were met by the\nbutler, who said:\n\n\"If you are looking for my master, ma'am, he is walking towards the\nlittle copse.\"\n\nUpon this information, they instantly passed through the hall once\nmore, and ran across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately\npursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of the paddock.\n\nJane, who was not so light nor so much in the habit of running as\nElizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for breath,\ncame up with him, and eagerly cried out:\n\n\"Oh, papa, what news--what news? Have you heard from my uncle?\"\n\n\"Yes I have had a letter from him by express.\"\n\n\"Well, and what news does it bring--good or bad?\"\n\n\"What is there of good to be expected?\" said he, taking the letter from\nhis pocket. \"But perhaps you would like to read it.\"\n\nElizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up.\n\n\"Read it aloud,\" said their father, \"for I hardly know myself what it is\nabout.\"\n\n\"Gracechurch Street, Monday, August 2.\n\n\"MY DEAR BROTHER,\n\n\"At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such as,\nupon the whole, I hope it will give you satisfaction. Soon after you\nleft me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what part of\nLondon they were. The particulars I reserve till we meet; it is enough\nto know they are discovered. I have seen them both--\"\n\n\"Then it is as I always hoped,\" cried Jane; \"they are married!\"\n\nElizabeth read on:\n\n\"I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find there\nwas any intention of being so; but if you are willing to perform the\nengagements which I have ventured to make on your side, I hope it will\nnot be long before they are. All that is required of you is, to assure\nto your daughter, by settlement, her equal share of the five thousand\npounds secured among your children after the decease of yourself and\nmy sister; and, moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her,\nduring your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions\nwhich, considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying with,\nas far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by\nexpress, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You\nwill easily comprehend, from these particulars, that Mr. Wickham's\ncircumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to be.\nThe world has been deceived in that respect; and I am happy to say there\nwill be some little money, even when all his debts are discharged, to\nsettle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune. If, as I conclude\nwill be the case, you send me full powers to act in your name throughout\nthe whole of this business, I will immediately give directions to\nHaggerston for preparing a proper settlement. There will not be the\nsmallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore stay quiet at\nLongbourn, and depend on my diligence and care. Send back your answer as\nfast as you can, and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it\nbest that my niece should be married from this house, of which I hope\nyou will approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as\nanything more is determined on. Yours, etc.,\n\n\"EDW. GARDINER.\"\n\n\"Is it possible?\" cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. \"Can it be\npossible that he will marry her?\"\n\n\"Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we thought him,\" said her\nsister. \"My dear father, I congratulate you.\"\n\n\"And have you answered the letter?\" cried Elizabeth.\n\n\"No; but it must be done soon.\"\n\nMost earnestly did she then entreaty him to lose no more time before he\nwrote.\n\n\"Oh! my dear father,\" she cried, \"come back and write immediately.\nConsider how important every moment is in such a case.\"\n\n\"Let me write for you,\" said Jane, \"if you dislike the trouble\nyourself.\"\n\n\"I dislike it very much,\" he replied; \"but it must be done.\"\n\nAnd so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house.\n\n\"And may I ask--\" said Elizabeth; \"but the terms, I suppose, must be\ncomplied with.\"\n\n\"Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little.\"\n\n\"And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man!\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there\nare two things that I want very much to know; one is, how much money\nyour uncle has laid down to bring it about; and the other, how am I ever\nto pay him.\"\n\n\"Money! My uncle!\" cried Jane, \"what do you mean, sir?\"\n\n\"I mean, that no man in his senses would marry Lydia on so slight a\ntemptation as one hundred a year during my life, and fifty after I am\ngone.\"\n\n\"That is very true,\" said Elizabeth; \"though it had not occurred to me\nbefore. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh!\nit must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has\ndistressed himself. A small sum could not do all this.\"\n\n\"No,\" said her father; \"Wickham's a fool if he takes her with a farthing\nless than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him,\nin the very beginning of our relationship.\"\n\n\"Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be\nrepaid?\"\n\nMr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued\nsilent till they reached the house. Their father then went on to the\nlibrary to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room.\n\n\"And they are really to be married!\" cried Elizabeth, as soon as they\nwere by themselves. \"How strange this is! And for _this_ we are to be\nthankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness,\nand wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice. Oh, Lydia!\"\n\n\"I comfort myself with thinking,\" replied Jane, \"that he certainly would\nnot marry Lydia if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind\nuncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten\nthousand pounds, or anything like it, has been advanced. He has children\nof his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand\npounds?\"\n\n\"If he were ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been,\" said\nElizabeth, \"and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall\nexactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has\nnot sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never\nbe requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal\nprotection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage as\nyears of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is\nactually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now,\nshe will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she\nfirst sees my aunt!\"\n\n\"We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,\" said\nJane: \"I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to\nmarry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of\nthinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself\nthey will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in\ntime make their past imprudence forgotten.\"\n\n\"Their conduct has been such,\" replied Elizabeth, \"as neither you, nor\nI, nor anybody can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it.\"\n\nIt now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood\nperfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library,\ntherefore, and asked their father whether he would not wish them to make\nit known to her. He was writing and, without raising his head, coolly\nreplied:\n\n\"Just as you please.\"\n\n\"May we take my uncle's letter to read to her?\"\n\n\"Take whatever you like, and get away.\"\n\nElizabeth took the letter from his writing-table, and they went up stairs\ntogether. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one communication\nwould, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for good news,\nthe letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself. As\nsoon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner's hope of Lydia's being soon\nmarried, her joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its\nexuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she\nhad ever been fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter\nwould be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her\nfelicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct.\n\n\"My dear, dear Lydia!\" she cried. \"This is delightful indeed! She will\nbe married! I shall see her again! She will be married at sixteen!\nMy good, kind brother! I knew how it would be. I knew he would manage\neverything! How I long to see her! and to see dear Wickham too! But the\nclothes, the wedding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardiner about\nthem directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him\nhow much he will give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell,\nKitty, for Hill. I will put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear\nLydia! How merry we shall be together when we meet!\"\n\nHer eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the violence of\nthese transports, by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr.\nGardiner's behaviour laid them all under.\n\n\"For we must attribute this happy conclusion,\" she added, \"in a great\nmeasure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has pledged himself to\nassist Mr. Wickham with money.\"\n\n\"Well,\" cried her mother, \"it is all very right; who should do it but\nher own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my children\nmust have had all his money, you know; and it is the first time we have\never had anything from him, except a few presents. Well! I am so happy!\nIn a short time I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well\nit sounds! And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in\nsuch a flutter, that I am sure I can't write; so I will dictate, and\nyou write for me. We will settle with your father about the money\nafterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately.\"\n\nShe was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and\ncambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had\nnot Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait till her\nfather was at leisure to be consulted. One day's delay, she observed,\nwould be of small importance; and her mother was too happy to be quite\nso obstinate as usual. Other schemes, too, came into her head.\n\n\"I will go to Meryton,\" said she, \"as soon as I am dressed, and tell the\ngood, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come back, I can call\non Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and order the carriage.\nAn airing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do\nanything for you in Meryton? Oh! Here comes Hill! My dear Hill, have you\nheard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be married; and you shall\nall have a bowl of punch to make merry at her wedding.\"\n\nMrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received her\ncongratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this folly, took\nrefuge in her own room, that she might think with freedom.\n\nPoor Lydia's situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it was\nno worse, she had need to be thankful. She felt it so; and though, in\nlooking forward, neither rational happiness nor worldly prosperity could\nbe justly expected for her sister, in looking back to what they had\nfeared, only two hours ago, she felt all the advantages of what they had\ngained.\n\n\n\nChapter 50\n\n\nMr. Bennet had very often wished before this period of his life that,\ninstead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an annual sum for\nthe better provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived\nhim. He now wished it more than ever. Had he done his duty in that\nrespect, Lydia need not have been indebted to her uncle for whatever\nof honour or credit could now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of\nprevailing on one of the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be\nher husband might then have rested in its proper place.\n\nHe was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage to anyone\nshould be forwarded at the sole expense of his brother-in-law, and he\nwas determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his assistance,\nand to discharge the obligation as soon as he could.\n\nWhen first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly\nuseless, for, of course, they were to have a son. The son was to join\nin cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age, and the widow\nand younger children would by that means be provided for. Five daughters\nsuccessively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs.\nBennet, for many years after Lydia's birth, had been certain that he\nwould. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then\ntoo late to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy, and her\nhusband's love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their\nincome.\n\nFive thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs. Bennet and\nthe children. But in what proportions it should be divided amongst the\nlatter depended on the will of the parents. This was one point, with\nregard to Lydia, at least, which was now to be settled, and Mr. Bennet\ncould have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him. In\nterms of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother,\nthough expressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect\napprobation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil the\nengagements that had been made for him. He had never before supposed\nthat, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would\nbe done with so little inconvenience to himself as by the present\narrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds a year the loser by the\nhundred that was to be paid them; for, what with her board and pocket\nallowance, and the continual presents in money which passed to her\nthrough her mother's hands, Lydia's expenses had been very little within\nthat sum.\n\nThat it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was\nanother very welcome surprise; for his wish at present was to have as\nlittle trouble in the business as possible. When the first transports\nof rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were over, he\nnaturally returned to all his former indolence. His letter was soon\ndispatched; for, though dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick\nin its execution. He begged to know further particulars of what he\nwas indebted to his brother, but was too angry with Lydia to send any\nmessage to her.\n\nThe good news spread quickly through the house, and with proportionate\nspeed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter with decent\nphilosophy. To be sure, it would have been more for the advantage\nof conversation had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the\nhappiest alternative, been secluded from the world, in some distant\nfarmhouse. But there was much to be talked of in marrying her; and the\ngood-natured wishes for her well-doing which had proceeded before from\nall the spiteful old ladies in Meryton lost but a little of their spirit\nin this change of circumstances, because with such an husband her misery\nwas considered certain.\n\nIt was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been downstairs; but on this\nhappy day she again took her seat at the head of her table, and in\nspirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her\ntriumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object\nof her wishes since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of\naccomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on those\nattendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new carriages, and\nservants. She was busily searching through the neighbourhood for a\nproper situation for her daughter, and, without knowing or considering\nwhat their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and\nimportance.\n\n\"Haye Park might do,\" said she, \"if the Gouldings could quit it--or the\ngreat house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but Ashworth is\ntoo far off! I could not bear to have her ten miles from me; and as for\nPulvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful.\"\n\nHer husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the\nservants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her: \"Mrs.\nBennet, before you take any or all of these houses for your son and\ndaughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into _one_ house in this\nneighbourhood they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage the\nimpudence of either, by receiving them at Longbourn.\"\n\nA long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was firm. It\nsoon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with amazement and horror,\nthat her husband would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his\ndaughter. He protested that she should receive from him no mark of\naffection whatever on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend\nit. That his anger could be carried to such a point of inconceivable\nresentment as to refuse his daughter a privilege without which her\nmarriage would scarcely seem valid, exceeded all she could believe\npossible. She was more alive to the disgrace which her want of new\nclothes must reflect on her daughter's nuptials, than to any sense of\nshame at her eloping and living with Wickham a fortnight before they\ntook place.\n\nElizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the distress of\nthe moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted with their fears for\nher sister; for since her marriage would so shortly give the\nproper termination to the elopement, they might hope to conceal its\nunfavourable beginning from all those who were not immediately on the\nspot.\n\nShe had no fear of its spreading farther through his means. There were\nfew people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently depended;\nbut, at the same time, there was no one whose knowledge of a sister's\nfrailty would have mortified her so much--not, however, from any fear\nof disadvantage from it individually to herself, for, at any rate,\nthere seemed a gulf impassable between them. Had Lydia's marriage been\nconcluded on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that\nMr. Darcy would connect himself with a family where, to every other\nobjection, would now be added an alliance and relationship of the\nnearest kind with a man whom he so justly scorned.\n\nFrom such a connection she could not wonder that he would shrink. The\nwish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself of his\nfeeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation survive such a\nblow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she\nhardly knew of what. She became jealous of his esteem, when she could no\nlonger hope to be benefited by it. She wanted to hear of him, when there\nseemed the least chance of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that\nshe could have been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they\nshould meet.\n\nWhat a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that the\nproposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago, would now\nhave been most gladly and gratefully received! He was as generous, she\ndoubted not, as the most generous of his sex; but while he was mortal,\nthere must be a triumph.\n\nShe began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in\ndisposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and\ntemper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It\nwas an union that must have been to the advantage of both; by her ease\nand liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved;\nand from his judgement, information, and knowledge of the world, she\nmust have received benefit of greater importance.\n\nBut no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what\nconnubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and\nprecluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their\nfamily.\n\nHow Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence,\nshe could not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could\nbelong to a couple who were only brought together because their passions\nwere stronger than their virtue, she could easily conjecture.\n\n                          * * * * *\n\nMr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet's\nacknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurance of his eagerness to\npromote the welfare of any of his family; and concluded with entreaties\nthat the subject might never be mentioned to him again. The principal\npurport of his letter was to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved\non quitting the militia.\n\n\"It was greatly my wish that he should do so,\" he added, \"as soon as\nhis marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me, in\nconsidering the removal from that corps as highly advisable, both on\nhis account and my niece's. It is Mr. Wickham's intention to go into\nthe regulars; and among his former friends, there are still some who\nare able and willing to assist him in the army. He has the promise of an\nensigncy in General ----'s regiment, now quartered in the North. It\nis an advantage to have it so far from this part of the kingdom. He\npromises fairly; and I hope among different people, where they may each\nhave a character to preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have\nwritten to Colonel Forster, to inform him of our present arrangements,\nand to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr. Wickham\nin and near Brighton, with assurances of speedy payment, for which I\nhave pledged myself. And will you give yourself the trouble of carrying\nsimilar assurances to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin\na list according to his information? He has given in all his debts; I\nhope at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions,\nand all will be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment,\nunless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from Mrs.\nGardiner, that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all before she\nleaves the South. She is well, and begs to be dutifully remembered to\nyou and your mother.--Yours, etc.,\n\n\"E. GARDINER.\"\n\nMr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham's removal\nfrom the ----shire as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But Mrs. Bennet\nwas not so well pleased with it. Lydia's being settled in the North,\njust when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her company,\nfor she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in\nHertfordshire, was a severe disappointment; and, besides, it was such a\npity that Lydia should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted\nwith everybody, and had so many favourites.\n\n\"She is so fond of Mrs. Forster,\" said she, \"it will be quite shocking\nto send her away! And there are several of the young men, too, that she\nlikes very much. The officers may not be so pleasant in General ----'s\nregiment.\"\n\nHis daughter's request, for such it might be considered, of being\nadmitted into her family again before she set off for the North,\nreceived at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth,\nwho agreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister's feelings and\nconsequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by her parents,\nurged him so earnestly yet so rationally and so mildly, to receive her\nand her husband at Longbourn, as soon as they were married, that he was\nprevailed on to think as they thought, and act as they wished. And their\nmother had the satisfaction of knowing that she would be able to show\nher married daughter in the neighbourhood before she was banished to the\nNorth. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore, he sent\nhis permission for them to come; and it was settled, that as soon as\nthe ceremony was over, they should proceed to Longbourn. Elizabeth was\nsurprised, however, that Wickham should consent to such a scheme, and\nhad she consulted only her own inclination, any meeting with him would\nhave been the last object of her wishes.\n\n\n\nChapter 51\n\n\nTheir sister's wedding day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt for her\nprobably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to\nmeet them at ----, and they were to return in it by dinner-time. Their\narrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets, and Jane more especially,\nwho gave Lydia the feelings which would have attended herself, had she\nbeen the culprit, and was wretched in the thought of what her sister\nmust endure.\n\nThey came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room to receive\nthem. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet as the carriage drove up to\nthe door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed,\nanxious, uneasy.\n\nLydia's voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown open, and\nshe ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and\nwelcomed her with rapture; gave her hand, with an affectionate smile,\nto Wickham, who followed his lady; and wished them both joy with an\nalacrity which shewed no doubt of their happiness.\n\nTheir reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite\nso cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely\nopened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was\nenough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet\nwas shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy,\nand fearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their\ncongratulations; and when at length they all sat down, looked eagerly\nround the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and\nobserved, with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been\nthere.\n\nWickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his manners\nwere always so pleasing, that had his character and his marriage been\nexactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he\nclaimed their relationship, would have delighted them all. Elizabeth had\nnot before believed him quite equal to such assurance; but she sat down,\nresolving within herself to draw no limits in future to the impudence\nof an impudent man. She blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of the\ntwo who caused their confusion suffered no variation of colour.\n\nThere was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither\nof them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to sit near\nElizabeth, began inquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood,\nwith a good humoured ease which she felt very unable to equal in her\nreplies. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the\nworld. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led\nvoluntarily to subjects which her sisters would not have alluded to for\nthe world.\n\n\"Only think of its being three months,\" she cried, \"since I went away;\nit seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been things\nenough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away, I am sure\nI had no more idea of being married till I came back again! though I\nthought it would be very good fun if I was.\"\n\nHer father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked\nexpressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw anything of\nwhich she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, \"Oh! mamma, do the\npeople hereabouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might not;\nand we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was determined he\nshould know it, and so I let down the side-glass next to him, and took\noff my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that\nhe might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like anything.\"\n\nElizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room;\nand returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to\nthe dining parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with\nanxious parade, walk up to her mother's right hand, and hear her say\nto her eldest sister, \"Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go\nlower, because I am a married woman.\"\n\nIt was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment\nfrom which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good\nspirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Phillips, the Lucases, and\nall their other neighbours, and to hear herself called \"Mrs. Wickham\"\nby each of them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to show her\nring, and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.\n\n\"Well, mamma,\" said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast\nroom, \"and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I\nam sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half\nmy good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get\nhusbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go.\"\n\n\"Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don't\nat all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?\"\n\n\"Oh, lord! yes;--there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all\nthings. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We\nshall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some\nballs, and I will take care to get good partners for them all.\"\n\n\"I should like it beyond anything!\" said her mother.\n\n\"And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters\nbehind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the\nwinter is over.\"\n\n\"I thank you for my share of the favour,\" said Elizabeth; \"but I do not\nparticularly like your way of getting husbands.\"\n\nTheir visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham\nhad received his commission before he left London, and he was to join\nhis regiment at the end of a fortnight.\n\nNo one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so short; and\nshe made the most of the time by visiting about with her daughter, and\nhaving very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to\nall; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did\nthink, than such as did not.\n\nWickham's affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth had expected\nto find it; not equal to Lydia's for him. She had scarcely needed her\npresent observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that\ntheir elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather\nthan by his; and she would have wondered why, without violently caring\nfor her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain\nthat his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and\nif that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity\nof having a companion.\n\nLydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every\noccasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did every\nthing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds on\nthe first of September, than any body else in the country.\n\nOne morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two\nelder sisters, she said to Elizabeth:\n\n\"Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe. You\nwere not by, when I told mamma and the others all about it. Are not you\ncurious to hear how it was managed?\"\n\n\"No really,\" replied Elizabeth; \"I think there cannot be too little said\non the subject.\"\n\n\"La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were\nmarried, you know, at St. Clement's, because Wickham's lodgings were in\nthat parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven\no'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others\nwere to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in\nsuch a fuss! I was so afraid, you know, that something would happen to\nput it off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And there was\nmy aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as\nif she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in\nten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed\nto know whether he would be married in his blue coat.\"\n\n\"Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never\nbe over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt\nwere horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you'll believe\nme, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a\nfortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or anything. To be sure London was\nrather thin, but, however, the Little Theatre was open. Well, and so\njust as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon\nbusiness to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once\nthey get together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I\ndid not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we\nwere beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he\ncame back again in ten minutes' time, and then we all set out. However,\nI recollected afterwards that if he had been prevented going, the\nwedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well.\"\n\n\"Mr. Darcy!\" repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.\n\n\"Oh, yes!--he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious\nme! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised\nthem so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!\"\n\n\"If it was to be secret,\" said Jane, \"say not another word on the\nsubject. You may depend upon my seeking no further.\"\n\n\"Oh! certainly,\" said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; \"we will\nask you no questions.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Lydia, \"for if you did, I should certainly tell you\nall, and then Wickham would be angry.\"\n\nOn such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her\npower, by running away.\n\nBut to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least\nit was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at\nher sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people,\nwhere he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go.\nConjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her\nbrain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as\nplacing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She\ncould not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper,\nwrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what\nLydia had dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been\nintended.\n\n\"You may readily comprehend,\" she added, \"what my curiosity must be\nto know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively\nspeaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such\na time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it--unless it is,\nfor very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems\nto think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with\nignorance.\"\n\n\"Not that I _shall_, though,\" she added to herself, as she finished\nthe letter; \"and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable\nmanner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it\nout.\"\n\nJane's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to\nElizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad\nof it;--till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any\nsatisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.\n\n\n\nChapter 52\n\n\nElizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter as\nsoon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it\nthan, hurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to\nbe interrupted, she sat down on one of the benches and prepared to\nbe happy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not\ncontain a denial.\n\n\"Gracechurch street, Sept. 6.\n\n\"MY DEAR NIECE,\n\n\"I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole morning\nto answering it, as I foresee that a _little_ writing will not comprise\nwhat I have to tell you. I must confess myself surprised by your\napplication; I did not expect it from _you_. Don't think me angry,\nhowever, for I only mean to let you know that I had not imagined such\ninquiries to be necessary on _your_ side. If you do not choose to\nunderstand me, forgive my impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised\nas I am--and nothing but the belief of your being a party concerned\nwould have allowed him to act as he has done. But if you are really\ninnocent and ignorant, I must be more explicit.\n\n\"On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most\nunexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up with him several\nhours. It was all over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so\ndreadfully racked as _yours_ seems to have been. He came to tell Mr.\nGardiner that he had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were,\nand that he had seen and talked with them both; Wickham repeatedly,\nLydia once. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day\nafter ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting for\nthem. The motive professed was his conviction of its being owing to\nhimself that Wickham's worthlessness had not been so well known as to\nmake it impossible for any young woman of character to love or confide\nin him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and\nconfessed that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his private\nactions open to the world. His character was to speak for itself. He\ncalled it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and endeavour to remedy\nan evil which had been brought on by himself. If he _had another_\nmotive, I am sure it would never disgrace him. He had been some days\nin town, before he was able to discover them; but he had something to\ndirect his search, which was more than _we_ had; and the consciousness\nof this was another reason for his resolving to follow us.\n\n\"There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago\ngoverness to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed from her charge on some cause\nof disapprobation, though he did not say what. She then took a large\nhouse in Edward-street, and has since maintained herself by letting\nlodgings. This Mrs. Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with\nWickham; and he went to her for intelligence of him as soon as he got to\ntown. But it was two or three days before he could get from her what he\nwanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery and\ncorruption, for she really did know where her friend was to be found.\nWickham indeed had gone to her on their first arrival in London, and had\nshe been able to receive them into her house, they would have taken up\ntheir abode with her. At length, however, our kind friend procured the\nwished-for direction. They were in ---- street. He saw Wickham, and\nafterwards insisted on seeing Lydia. His first object with her, he\nacknowledged, had been to persuade her to quit her present disgraceful\nsituation, and return to her friends as soon as they could be prevailed\non to receive her, offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But\nhe found Lydia absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared\nfor none of her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not hear\nof leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some time or\nother, and it did not much signify when. Since such were her feelings,\nit only remained, he thought, to secure and expedite a marriage, which,\nin his very first conversation with Wickham, he easily learnt had never\nbeen _his_ design. He confessed himself obliged to leave the regiment,\non account of some debts of honour, which were very pressing; and\nscrupled not to lay all the ill-consequences of Lydia's flight on her\nown folly alone. He meant to resign his commission immediately; and as\nto his future situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He\nmust go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew he should have\nnothing to live on.\n\n\"Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your sister at once. Though\nMr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would have been able\nto do something for him, and his situation must have been benefited by\nmarriage. But he found, in reply to this question, that Wickham still\ncherished the hope of more effectually making his fortune by marriage in\nsome other country. Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely\nto be proof against the temptation of immediate relief.\n\n\"They met several times, for there was much to be discussed. Wickham of\ncourse wanted more than he could get; but at length was reduced to be\nreasonable.\n\n\"Every thing being settled between _them_, Mr. Darcy's next step was to\nmake your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in Gracechurch\nstreet the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardiner could not be\nseen, and Mr. Darcy found, on further inquiry, that your father was\nstill with him, but would quit town the next morning. He did not judge\nyour father to be a person whom he could so properly consult as your\nuncle, and therefore readily postponed seeing him till after the\ndeparture of the former. He did not leave his name, and till the next\nday it was only known that a gentleman had called on business.\n\n\"On Saturday he came again. Your father was gone, your uncle at home,\nand, as I said before, they had a great deal of talk together.\n\n\"They met again on Sunday, and then _I_ saw him too. It was not all\nsettled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express was sent off to\nLongbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I fancy, Lizzy, that\nobstinacy is the real defect of his character, after all. He has been\naccused of many faults at different times, but _this_ is the true one.\nNothing was to be done that he did not do himself; though I am sure (and\nI do not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it), your\nuncle would most readily have settled the whole.\n\n\"They battled it together for a long time, which was more than either\nthe gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your uncle\nwas forced to yield, and instead of being allowed to be of use to his\nniece, was forced to put up with only having the probable credit of it,\nwhich went sorely against the grain; and I really believe your letter\nthis morning gave him great pleasure, because it required an explanation\nthat would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where\nit was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no farther than yourself, or Jane\nat most.\n\n\"You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done for the young\npeople. His debts are to be paid, amounting, I believe, to considerably\nmore than a thousand pounds, another thousand in addition to her own\nsettled upon _her_, and his commission purchased. The reason why all\nthis was to be done by him alone, was such as I have given above. It\nwas owing to him, to his reserve and want of proper consideration, that\nWickham's character had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he\nhad been received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth\nin _this_; though I doubt whether _his_ reserve, or _anybody's_ reserve,\ncan be answerable for the event. But in spite of all this fine talking,\nmy dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured that your uncle would\nnever have yielded, if we had not given him credit for _another\ninterest_ in the affair.\n\n\"When all this was resolved on, he returned again to his friends, who\nwere still staying at Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be in\nLondon once more when the wedding took place, and all money matters were\nthen to receive the last finish.\n\n\"I believe I have now told you every thing. It is a relation which\nyou tell me is to give you great surprise; I hope at least it will not\nafford you any displeasure. Lydia came to us; and Wickham had constant\nadmission to the house. _He_ was exactly what he had been, when I\nknew him in Hertfordshire; but I would not tell you how little I was\nsatisfied with her behaviour while she staid with us, if I had not\nperceived, by Jane's letter last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming\nhome was exactly of a piece with it, and therefore what I now tell\nyou can give you no fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most\nserious manner, representing to her all the wickedness of what she had\ndone, and all the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If she\nheard me, it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not listen. I was\nsometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my dear Elizabeth and\nJane, and for their sakes had patience with her.\n\n\"Mr. Darcy was punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you,\nattended the wedding. He dined with us the next day, and was to leave\ntown again on Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my\ndear Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying (what I was never bold\nenough to say before) how much I like him. His behaviour to us has,\nin every respect, been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire. His\nunderstanding and opinions all please me; he wants nothing but a little\nmore liveliness, and _that_, if he marry _prudently_, his wife may teach\nhim. I thought him very sly;--he hardly ever mentioned your name. But\nslyness seems the fashion.\n\n\"Pray forgive me if I have been very presuming, or at least do not\npunish me so far as to exclude me from P. I shall never be quite happy\ntill I have been all round the park. A low phaeton, with a nice little\npair of ponies, would be the very thing.\n\n\"But I must write no more. The children have been wanting me this half\nhour.\n\n\"Yours, very sincerely,\n\n\"M. GARDINER.\"\n\nThe contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits,\nin which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the\ngreatest share. The vague and unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had\nproduced of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister's\nmatch, which she had feared to encourage as an exertion of goodness too\ngreat to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the\npain of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true!\nHe had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on himself all\nthe trouble and mortification attendant on such a research; in which\nsupplication had been necessary to a woman whom he must abominate and\ndespise, and where he was reduced to meet, frequently meet, reason\nwith, persuade, and finally bribe, the man whom he always most wished to\navoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had\ndone all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her\nheart did whisper that he had done it for her. But it was a hope shortly\nchecked by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her vanity\nwas insufficient, when required to depend on his affection for her--for\na woman who had already refused him--as able to overcome a sentiment so\nnatural as abhorrence against relationship with Wickham. Brother-in-law\nof Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from the connection. He had,\nto be sure, done much. She was ashamed to think how much. But he had\ngiven a reason for his interference, which asked no extraordinary\nstretch of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel he had been\nwrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising it; and\nthough she would not place herself as his principal inducement, she\ncould, perhaps, believe that remaining partiality for her might assist\nhis endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be materially\nconcerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that they were\nunder obligations to a person who could never receive a return. They\nowed the restoration of Lydia, her character, every thing, to him. Oh!\nhow heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation she had ever\nencouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed towards him. For\nherself she was humbled; but she was proud of him. Proud that in a cause\nof compassion and honour, he had been able to get the better of himself.\nShe read over her aunt's commendation of him again and again. It\nwas hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even sensible of some\npleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how steadfastly both she\nand her uncle had been persuaded that affection and confidence subsisted\nbetween Mr. Darcy and herself.\n\nShe was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one's\napproach; and before she could strike into another path, she was\novertaken by Wickham.\n\n\"I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?\" said he,\nas he joined her.\n\n\"You certainly do,\" she replied with a smile; \"but it does not follow\nthat the interruption must be unwelcome.\"\n\n\"I should be sorry indeed, if it were. We were always good friends; and\nnow we are better.\"\n\n\"True. Are the others coming out?\"\n\n\"I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to\nMeryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our uncle and aunt, that\nyou have actually seen Pemberley.\"\n\nShe replied in the affirmative.\n\n\"I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much\nfor me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the\nold housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of\nme. But of course she did not mention my name to you.\"\n\n\"Yes, she did.\"\n\n\"And what did she say?\"\n\n\"That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had--not turned\nout well. At such a distance as _that_, you know, things are strangely\nmisrepresented.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had\nsilenced him; but he soon afterwards said:\n\n\"I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other\nseveral times. I wonder what he can be doing there.\"\n\n\"Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh,\" said\nElizabeth. \"It must be something particular, to take him there at this\ntime of year.\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I\nunderstood from the Gardiners that you had.\"\n\n\"Yes; he introduced us to his sister.\"\n\n\"And do you like her?\"\n\n\"Very much.\"\n\n\"I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year\nor two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad\nyou liked her. I hope she will turn out well.\"\n\n\"I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age.\"\n\n\"Did you go by the village of Kympton?\"\n\n\"I do not recollect that we did.\"\n\n\"I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have had. A\nmost delightful place!--Excellent Parsonage House! It would have suited\nme in every respect.\"\n\n\"How should you have liked making sermons?\"\n\n\"Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty,\nand the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to\nrepine;--but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The\nquiet, the retirement of such a life would have answered all my ideas\nof happiness! But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the\ncircumstance, when you were in Kent?\"\n\n\"I have heard from authority, which I thought _as good_, that it was\nleft you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron.\"\n\n\"You have. Yes, there was something in _that_; I told you so from the\nfirst, you may remember.\"\n\n\"I _did_ hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making was not\nso palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you actually\ndeclared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business\nhad been compromised accordingly.\"\n\n\"You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember\nwhat I told you on that point, when first we talked of it.\"\n\nThey were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked fast\nto get rid of him; and unwilling, for her sister's sake, to provoke him,\nshe only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile:\n\n\"Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let\nus quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of one\nmind.\"\n\nShe held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry, though\nhe hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house.\n\n\n\nChapter 53\n\n\nMr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation that he\nnever again distressed himself, or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth,\nby introducing the subject of it; and she was pleased to find that she\nhad said enough to keep him quiet.\n\nThe day of his and Lydia's departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet was\nforced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means\nentered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle, was likely to\ncontinue at least a twelvemonth.\n\n\"Oh! my dear Lydia,\" she cried, \"when shall we meet again?\"\n\n\"Oh, lord! I don't know. Not these two or three years, perhaps.\"\n\n\"Write to me very often, my dear.\"\n\n\"As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for\nwriting. My sisters may write to _me_. They will have nothing else to\ndo.\"\n\nMr. Wickham's adieus were much more affectionate than his wife's. He\nsmiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.\n\n\"He is as fine a fellow,\" said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of\nthe house, \"as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to\nus all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas\nhimself to produce a more valuable son-in-law.\"\n\nThe loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days.\n\n\"I often think,\" said she, \"that there is nothing so bad as parting with\none's friends. One seems so forlorn without them.\"\n\n\"This is the consequence, you see, Madam, of marrying a daughter,\" said\nElizabeth. \"It must make you better satisfied that your other four are\nsingle.\"\n\n\"It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is married,\nbut only because her husband's regiment happens to be so far off. If\nthat had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon.\"\n\nBut the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was shortly\nrelieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope, by an\narticle of news which then began to be in circulation. The housekeeper\nat Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the arrival of her\nmaster, who was coming down in a day or two, to shoot there for several\nweeks. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and\nsmiled and shook her head by turns.\n\n\"Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister,\" (for Mrs.\nPhillips first brought her the news). \"Well, so much the better. Not\nthat I care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am\nsure _I_ never want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome\nto come to Netherfield, if he likes it. And who knows what _may_ happen?\nBut that is nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to\nmention a word about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?\"\n\n\"You may depend on it,\" replied the other, \"for Mrs. Nicholls was in\nMeryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose\nto know the truth of it; and she told me that it was certain true. He\ncomes down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was\ngoing to the butcher's, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat on\nWednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks just fit to be killed.\"\n\nMiss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without changing\ncolour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to\nElizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said:\n\n\"I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the present\nreport; and I know I appeared distressed. But don't imagine it was from\nany silly cause. I was only confused for the moment, because I felt that\nI _should_ be looked at. I do assure you that the news does not affect\nme either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes\nalone; because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of\n_myself_, but I dread other people's remarks.\"\n\nElizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him in\nDerbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming there with no\nother view than what was acknowledged; but she still thought him partial\nto Jane, and she wavered as to the greater probability of his coming\nthere _with_ his friend's permission, or being bold enough to come\nwithout it.\n\n\"Yet it is hard,\" she sometimes thought, \"that this poor man cannot\ncome to a house which he has legally hired, without raising all this\nspeculation! I _will_ leave him to himself.\"\n\nIn spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be her\nfeelings in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily\nperceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed,\nmore unequal, than she had often seen them.\n\nThe subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their parents,\nabout a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.\n\n\"As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear,\" said Mrs. Bennet, \"you\nwill wait on him of course.\"\n\n\"No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised, if I\nwent to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it ended in\nnothing, and I will not be sent on a fool's errand again.\"\n\nHis wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention\nwould be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his returning to\nNetherfield.\n\n\"'Tis an etiquette I despise,\" said he. \"If he wants our society,\nlet him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not spend my hours\nin running after my neighbours every time they go away and come back\nagain.\"\n\n\"Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do not wait\non him. But, however, that shan't prevent my asking him to dine here, I\nam determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon. That will\nmake thirteen with ourselves, so there will be just room at table for\nhim.\"\n\nConsoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her\nhusband's incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that her\nneighbours might all see Mr. Bingley, in consequence of it, before\n_they_ did. As the day of his arrival drew near,--\n\n\"I begin to be sorry that he comes at all,\" said Jane to her sister. \"It\nwould be nothing; I could see him with perfect indifference, but I can\nhardly bear to hear it thus perpetually talked of. My mother means well;\nbut she does not know, no one can know, how much I suffer from what she\nsays. Happy shall I be, when his stay at Netherfield is over!\"\n\n\"I wish I could say anything to comfort you,\" replied Elizabeth; \"but it\nis wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the usual satisfaction\nof preaching patience to a sufferer is denied me, because you have\nalways so much.\"\n\nMr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of servants,\ncontrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the period of anxiety\nand fretfulness on her side might be as long as it could. She counted\nthe days that must intervene before their invitation could be sent;\nhopeless of seeing him before. But on the third morning after his\narrival in Hertfordshire, she saw him, from her dressing-room window,\nenter the paddock and ride towards the house.\n\nHer daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane resolutely\nkept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother, went\nto the window--she looked,--she saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat down\nagain by her sister.\n\n\"There is a gentleman with him, mamma,\" said Kitty; \"who can it be?\"\n\n\"Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do not\nknow.\"\n\n\"La!\" replied Kitty, \"it looks just like that man that used to be with\nhim before. Mr. what's-his-name. That tall, proud man.\"\n\n\"Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!--and so it does, I vow. Well, any friend of\nMr. Bingley's will always be welcome here, to be sure; but else I must\nsay that I hate the very sight of him.\"\n\nJane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little\nof their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness\nwhich must attend her sister, in seeing him almost for the first time\nafter receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable\nenough. Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and their\nmother talked on, of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be\ncivil to him only as Mr. Bingley's friend, without being heard by either\nof them. But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be\nsuspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew Mrs.\nGardiner's letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him.\nTo Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she had refused,\nand whose merit she had undervalued; but to her own more extensive\ninformation, he was the person to whom the whole family were indebted\nfor the first of benefits, and whom she regarded herself with an\ninterest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and just as\nwhat Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his coming--at his\ncoming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again,\nwas almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing his altered\nbehaviour in Derbyshire.\n\nThe colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half a\nminute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to\nher eyes, as she thought for that space of time that his affection and\nwishes must still be unshaken. But she would not be secure.\n\n\"Let me first see how he behaves,\" said she; \"it will then be early\nenough for expectation.\"\n\nShe sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without daring to\nlift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of\nher sister as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little\npaler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the\ngentlemen's appearing, her colour increased; yet she received them with\ntolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any\nsymptom of resentment or any unnecessary complaisance.\n\nElizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down\nagain to her work, with an eagerness which it did not often command. She\nhad ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious, as usual; and,\nshe thought, more as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, than as\nshe had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother's\npresence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but\nnot an improbable, conjecture.\n\nBingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period\nsaw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs.\nBennet with a degree of civility which made her two daughters ashamed,\nespecially when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of\nher curtsey and address to his friend.\n\nElizabeth, particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the latter\nthe preservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy,\nwas hurt and distressed to a most painful degree by a distinction so ill\napplied.\n\nDarcy, after inquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a question\nwhich she could not answer without confusion, said scarcely anything. He\nwas not seated by her; perhaps that was the reason of his silence; but\nit had not been so in Derbyshire. There he had talked to her friends,\nwhen he could not to herself. But now several minutes elapsed without\nbringing the sound of his voice; and when occasionally, unable to resist\nthe impulse of curiosity, she raised her eyes to his face, she as often\nfound him looking at Jane as at herself, and frequently on no object but\nthe ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please, than when\nthey last met, were plainly expressed. She was disappointed, and angry\nwith herself for being so.\n\n\"Could I expect it to be otherwise!\" said she. \"Yet why did he come?\"\n\nShe was in no humour for conversation with anyone but himself; and to\nhim she had hardly courage to speak.\n\nShe inquired after his sister, but could do no more.\n\n\"It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away,\" said Mrs. Bennet.\n\nHe readily agreed to it.\n\n\"I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People _did_ say\nyou meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas; but, however, I hope\nit is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood,\nsince you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled. And one of my\nown daughters. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you must have\nseen it in the papers. It was in The Times and The Courier, I know;\nthough it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, 'Lately,\nGeorge Wickham, Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,' without there being a\nsyllable said of her father, or the place where she lived, or anything.\nIt was my brother Gardiner's drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to\nmake such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?\"\n\nBingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth\ndared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could\nnot tell.\n\n\"It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married,\"\ncontinued her mother, \"but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very\nhard to have her taken such a way from me. They are gone down to\nNewcastle, a place quite northward, it seems, and there they are to stay\nI do not know how long. His regiment is there; for I suppose you have\nheard of his leaving the ----shire, and of his being gone into the\nregulars. Thank Heaven! he has _some_ friends, though perhaps not so\nmany as he deserves.\"\n\nElizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such\nmisery of shame, that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew from her,\nhowever, the exertion of speaking, which nothing else had so effectually\ndone before; and she asked Bingley whether he meant to make any stay in\nthe country at present. A few weeks, he believed.\n\n\"When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley,\" said her mother,\n\"I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you please on Mr.\nBennet's manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you, and\nwill save all the best of the covies for you.\"\n\nElizabeth's misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious\nattention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present as had\nflattered them a year ago, every thing, she was persuaded, would be\nhastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant, she felt\nthat years of happiness could not make Jane or herself amends for\nmoments of such painful confusion.\n\n\"The first wish of my heart,\" said she to herself, \"is never more to\nbe in company with either of them. Their society can afford no pleasure\nthat will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me never see either\none or the other again!\"\n\nYet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no\ncompensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from observing\nhow much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the admiration of her\nformer lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little;\nbut every five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He\nfound her as handsome as she had been last year; as good natured, and\nas unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no\ndifference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded\nthat she talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged,\nthat she did not always know when she was silent.\n\nWhen the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her\nintended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at\nLongbourn in a few days time.\n\n\"You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley,\" she added, \"for when\nyou went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with\nus, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure\nyou, I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep\nyour engagement.\"\n\nBingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of\nhis concern at having been prevented by business. They then went away.\n\nMrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine\nthere that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did\nnot think anything less than two courses could be good enough for a man\non whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride\nof one who had ten thousand a year.\n\n\n\nChapter 54\n\n\nAs soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits;\nor in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that\nmust deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her.\n\n\"Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,\" said she,\n\"did he come at all?\"\n\nShe could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.\n\n\"He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when\nhe was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If\nhe no longer cares for me, why silent? Teasing, teasing, man! I will\nthink no more about him.\"\n\nHer resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach\nof her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look, which showed her\nbetter satisfied with their visitors, than Elizabeth.\n\n\"Now,\" said she, \"that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly\neasy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by\nhis coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly\nseen that, on both sides, we meet only as common and indifferent\nacquaintance.\"\n\n\"Yes, very indifferent indeed,\" said Elizabeth, laughingly. \"Oh, Jane,\ntake care.\"\n\n\"My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger now?\"\n\n\"I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with\nyou as ever.\"\n\n                          * * * * *\n\nThey did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs. Bennet, in\nthe meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes, which the good\nhumour and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour's visit, had\nrevived.\n\nOn Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two\nwho were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their punctuality\nas sportsmen, were in very good time. When they repaired to the\ndining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take\nthe place, which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by\nher sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore\nto invite him to sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to\nhesitate; but Jane happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was\ndecided. He placed himself by her.\n\nElizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend.\nHe bore it with noble indifference, and she would have imagined that\nBingley had received his sanction to be happy, had she not seen his eyes\nlikewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing\nalarm.\n\nHis behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as showed an\nadmiration of her, which, though more guarded than formerly, persuaded\nElizabeth, that if left wholly to himself, Jane's happiness, and his\nown, would be speedily secured. Though she dared not depend upon the\nconsequence, she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It\ngave her all the animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in\nno cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her as the table\ncould divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little\nsuch a situation would give pleasure to either, or make either appear to\nadvantage. She was not near enough to hear any of their discourse, but\nshe could see how seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and\ncold was their manner whenever they did. Her mother's ungraciousness,\nmade the sense of what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth's mind;\nand she would, at times, have given anything to be privileged to tell\nhim that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of the\nfamily.\n\nShe was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity of\nbringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not pass away\nwithout enabling them to enter into something more of conversation than\nthe mere ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious\nand uneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room, before the\ngentlemen came, was wearisome and dull to a degree that almost made her\nuncivil. She looked forward to their entrance as the point on which all\nher chance of pleasure for the evening must depend.\n\n\"If he does not come to me, _then_,\" said she, \"I shall give him up for\never.\"\n\nThe gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have\nanswered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the table,\nwhere Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee,\nin so close a confederacy that there was not a single vacancy near her\nwhich would admit of a chair. And on the gentlemen's approaching, one of\nthe girls moved closer to her than ever, and said, in a whisper:\n\n\"The men shan't come and part us, I am determined. We want none of them;\ndo we?\"\n\nDarcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed him with\nher eyes, envied everyone to whom he spoke, had scarcely patience enough\nto help anybody to coffee; and then was enraged against herself for\nbeing so silly!\n\n\"A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish enough to\nexpect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex, who would not\nprotest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman?\nThere is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings!\"\n\nShe was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his coffee cup\nhimself; and she seized the opportunity of saying:\n\n\"Is your sister at Pemberley still?\"\n\n\"Yes, she will remain there till Christmas.\"\n\n\"And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to Scarborough,\nthese three weeks.\"\n\nShe could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to converse\nwith her, he might have better success. He stood by her, however, for\nsome minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young lady's whispering\nto Elizabeth again, he walked away.\n\nWhen the tea-things were removed, and the card-tables placed, the ladies\nall rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined by him,\nwhen all her views were overthrown by seeing him fall a victim to her\nmother's rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated\nwith the rest of the party. She now lost every expectation of pleasure.\nThey were confined for the evening at different tables, and she had\nnothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side\nof the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.\n\nMrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to\nsupper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of the\nothers, and she had no opportunity of detaining them.\n\n\"Well girls,\" said she, as soon as they were left to themselves, \"What\nsay you to the day? I think every thing has passed off uncommonly well,\nI assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The\nvenison was roasted to a turn--and everybody said they never saw so\nfat a haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the\nLucases' last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges\nwere remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French\ncooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater\nbeauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And\nwhat do you think she said besides? 'Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her\nat Netherfield at last.' She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good\na creature as ever lived--and her nieces are very pretty behaved girls,\nand not at all handsome: I like them prodigiously.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen enough of\nBingley's behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she would get him at\nlast; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy\nhumour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at\nnot seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals.\n\n\"It has been a very agreeable day,\" said Miss Bennet to Elizabeth. \"The\nparty seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we\nmay often meet again.\"\n\nElizabeth smiled.\n\n\"Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me.\nI assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an\nagreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am\nperfectly satisfied, from what his manners now are, that he never had\nany design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed\nwith greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally\npleasing, than any other man.\"\n\n\"You are very cruel,\" said her sister, \"you will not let me smile, and\nare provoking me to it every moment.\"\n\n\"How hard it is in some cases to be believed!\"\n\n\"And how impossible in others!\"\n\n\"But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I\nacknowledge?\"\n\n\"That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to\ninstruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive\nme; and if you persist in indifference, do not make me your confidante.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 55\n\n\nA few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His\nfriend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in\nten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably\ngood spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many\nexpressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere.\n\n\"Next time you call,\" said she, \"I hope we shall be more lucky.\"\n\nHe should be particularly happy at any time, etc. etc.; and if she would\ngive him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them.\n\n\"Can you come to-morrow?\"\n\nYes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was\naccepted with alacrity.\n\nHe came, and in such very good time that the ladies were none of them\ndressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing\ngown, and with her hair half finished, crying out:\n\n\"My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is\ncome. He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss\nBennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss\nLizzy's hair.\"\n\n\"We will be down as soon as we can,\" said Jane; \"but I dare say Kitty is\nforwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago.\"\n\n\"Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick!\nWhere is your sash, my dear?\"\n\nBut when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down\nwithout one of her sisters.\n\nThe same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in the\nevening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his\ncustom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of\nthe five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at\nElizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any\nimpression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last\nKitty did, she very innocently said, \"What is the matter mamma? What do\nyou keep winking at me for? What am I to do?\"\n\n\"Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you.\" She then sat still\nfive minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she\nsuddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, \"Come here, my love, I want to\nspeak to you,\" took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look\nat Elizabeth which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her\nentreaty that _she_ would not give in to it. In a few minutes, Mrs.\nBennet half-opened the door and called out:\n\n\"Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you.\"\n\nElizabeth was forced to go.\n\n\"We may as well leave them by themselves you know;\" said her mother, as\nsoon as she was in the hall. \"Kitty and I are going up stairs to sit in\nmy dressing-room.\"\n\nElizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained\nquietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned\ninto the drawing-room.\n\nMrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every\nthing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His\nease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their\nevening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the\nmother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command\nof countenance particularly grateful to the daughter.\n\nHe scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went\naway, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs.\nBennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband.\n\nAfter this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed\nbetween the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in\nthe happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy\nreturned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably\npersuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's\nconcurrence.\n\nBingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent\nthe morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more\nagreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption\nor folly in Bingley that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into\nsilence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric, than the\nother had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner;\nand in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get\nevery body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter\nto write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea;\nfor as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be\nwanted to counteract her mother's schemes.\n\nBut on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she\nsaw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother\nhad been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her\nsister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in\nearnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of\nboth, as they hastily turned round and moved away from each other, would\nhave told it all. Their situation was awkward enough; but _hers_ she\nthought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and\nElizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as\nwell as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few\nwords to her sister, ran out of the room.\n\nJane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give\npleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest\nemotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.\n\n\"'Tis too much!\" she added, \"by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh!\nwhy is not everybody as happy?\"\n\nElizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth,\na delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of\nkindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not\nallow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be\nsaid for the present.\n\n\"I must go instantly to my mother;\" she cried. \"I would not on any\naccount trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it\nfrom anyone but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to\nknow that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear\nfamily! how shall I bear so much happiness!\"\n\nShe then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the\ncard party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty.\n\nElizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease\nwith which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many\nprevious months of suspense and vexation.\n\n\"And this,\" said she, \"is the end of all his friend's anxious\ncircumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the\nhappiest, wisest, most reasonable end!\"\n\nIn a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her\nfather had been short and to the purpose.\n\n\"Where is your sister?\" said he hastily, as he opened the door.\n\n\"With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment, I dare say.\"\n\nHe then shut the door, and, coming up to her, claimed the good wishes\nand affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed\nher delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with\ngreat cordiality; and then, till her sister came down, she had to listen\nto all he had to say of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections;\nand in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his\nexpectations of felicity to be rationally founded, because they had for\nbasis the excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of\nJane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and\nhimself.\n\nIt was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of\nMiss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as\nmade her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped\nher turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent or\nspeak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings,\nthough she talked to Bingley of nothing else for half an hour; and when\nMr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly showed\nhow really happy he was.\n\nNot a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their\nvisitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he\nturned to his daughter, and said:\n\n\"Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman.\"\n\nJane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his\ngoodness.\n\n\"You are a good girl;\" he replied, \"and I have great pleasure in\nthinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your\ndoing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are\neach of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so\neasy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will\nalways exceed your income.\"\n\n\"I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters would be\nunpardonable in me.\"\n\n\"Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet,\" cried his wife, \"what are you\ntalking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year, and very likely\nmore.\" Then addressing her daughter, \"Oh! my dear, dear Jane, I am so\nhappy! I am sure I shan't get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it\nwould be. I always said it must be so, at last. I was sure you could not\nbe so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when\nhe first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was\nthat you should come together. Oh! he is the handsomest young man that\never was seen!\"\n\nWickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition her\nfavourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her younger\nsisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness\nwhich she might in future be able to dispense.\n\nMary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and Kitty\nbegged very hard for a few balls there every winter.\n\nBingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at Longbourn;\ncoming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after\nsupper; unless when some barbarous neighbour, who could not be enough\ndetested, had given him an invitation to dinner which he thought himself\nobliged to accept.\n\nElizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister; for\nwhile he was present, Jane had no attention to bestow on anyone else;\nbut she found herself considerably useful to both of them in those hours\nof separation that must sometimes occur. In the absence of Jane, he\nalways attached himself to Elizabeth, for the pleasure of talking of\nher; and when Bingley was gone, Jane constantly sought the same means of\nrelief.\n\n\"He has made me so happy,\" said she, one evening, \"by telling me that he\nwas totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I had not believed\nit possible.\"\n\n\"I suspected as much,\" replied Elizabeth. \"But how did he account for\nit?\"\n\n\"It must have been his sister's doing. They were certainly no friends to\nhis acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he might have\nchosen so much more advantageously in many respects. But when they see,\nas I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will\nlearn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though we\ncan never be what we once were to each other.\"\n\n\"That is the most unforgiving speech,\" said Elizabeth, \"that I ever\nheard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again\nthe dupe of Miss Bingley's pretended regard.\"\n\n\"Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last November,\nhe really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of _my_ being\nindifferent would have prevented his coming down again!\"\n\n\"He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of his\nmodesty.\"\n\nThis naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his diffidence, and\nthe little value he put on his own good qualities. Elizabeth was pleased\nto find that he had not betrayed the interference of his friend; for,\nthough Jane had the most generous and forgiving heart in the world, she\nknew it was a circumstance which must prejudice her against him.\n\n\"I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!\" cried\nJane. \"Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed\nabove them all! If I could but see _you_ as happy! If there _were_ but\nsuch another man for you!\"\n\n\"If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy as\nyou. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your\nhappiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and, perhaps, if I have very\ngood luck, I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time.\"\n\nThe situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be long a\nsecret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Phillips,\nand she ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all her\nneighbours in Meryton.\n\nThe Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the\nworld, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run away,\nthey had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune.\n\n\n\nChapter 56\n\n\nOne morning, about a week after Bingley's engagement with Jane had been\nformed, as he and the females of the family were sitting together in the\ndining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window, by the\nsound of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and four driving up\nthe lawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors, and besides, the\nequipage did not answer to that of any of their neighbours. The horses\nwere post; and neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who\npreceded it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that\nsomebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet to avoid\nthe confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the\nshrubbery. They both set off, and the conjectures of the remaining three\ncontinued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown\nopen and their visitor entered. It was Lady Catherine de Bourgh.\n\nThey were of course all intending to be surprised; but their\nastonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the part of Mrs.\nBennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly unknown to them, even\ninferior to what Elizabeth felt.\n\nShe entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious, made no\nother reply to Elizabeth's salutation than a slight inclination of the\nhead, and sat down without saying a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her\nname to her mother on her ladyship's entrance, though no request of\nintroduction had been made.\n\nMrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such\nhigh importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After sitting\nfor a moment in silence, she said very stiffly to Elizabeth,\n\n\"I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady, I suppose, is your\nmother.\"\n\nElizabeth replied very concisely that she was.\n\n\"And _that_ I suppose is one of your sisters.\"\n\n\"Yes, madam,\" said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to Lady Catherine.\n\"She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all is lately married,\nand my eldest is somewhere about the grounds, walking with a young man\nwho, I believe, will soon become a part of the family.\"\n\n\"You have a very small park here,\" returned Lady Catherine after a short\nsilence.\n\n\"It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say; but I\nassure you it is much larger than Sir William Lucas's.\"\n\n\"This must be a most inconvenient sitting room for the evening, in\nsummer; the windows are full west.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner, and then\nadded:\n\n\"May I take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left Mr. and\nMrs. Collins well.\"\n\n\"Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last.\"\n\nElizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her from\nCharlotte, as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But no\nletter appeared, and she was completely puzzled.\n\nMrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take some\nrefreshment; but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not very politely,\ndeclined eating anything; and then, rising up, said to Elizabeth,\n\n\"Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness\non one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you\nwill favour me with your company.\"\n\n\"Go, my dear,\" cried her mother, \"and show her ladyship about the\ndifferent walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage.\"\n\nElizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her parasol,\nattended her noble guest downstairs. As they passed through the\nhall, Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and\ndrawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be decent\nlooking rooms, walked on.\n\nHer carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her\nwaiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk\nthat led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for\nconversation with a woman who was now more than usually insolent and\ndisagreeable.\n\n\"How could I ever think her like her nephew?\" said she, as she looked in\nher face.\n\nAs soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the following\nmanner:--\n\n\"You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my\njourney hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I\ncome.\"\n\nElizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.\n\n\"Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able to account\nfor the honour of seeing you here.\"\n\n\"Miss Bennet,\" replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, \"you ought to\nknow, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere _you_ may\nchoose to be, you shall not find _me_ so. My character has ever been\ncelebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such\nmoment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most\nalarming nature reached me two days ago. I was told that not only your\nsister was on the point of being most advantageously married, but that\nyou, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would, in all likelihood, be soon\nafterwards united to my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I\n_know_ it must be a scandalous falsehood, though I would not injure him\nso much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved\non setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to\nyou.\"\n\n\"If you believed it impossible to be true,\" said Elizabeth, colouring\nwith astonishment and disdain, \"I wonder you took the trouble of coming\nso far. What could your ladyship propose by it?\"\n\n\"At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted.\"\n\n\"Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family,\" said Elizabeth\ncoolly, \"will be rather a confirmation of it; if, indeed, such a report\nis in existence.\"\n\n\"If! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been\nindustriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a\nreport is spread abroad?\"\n\n\"I never heard that it was.\"\n\n\"And can you likewise declare, that there is no foundation for it?\"\n\n\"I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. You may\nask questions which I shall not choose to answer.\"\n\n\"This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied. Has\nhe, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?\"\n\n\"Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible.\"\n\n\"It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of his\nreason. But your arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation,\nhave made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You\nmay have drawn him in.\"\n\n\"If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.\"\n\n\"Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such\nlanguage as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world,\nand am entitled to know all his dearest concerns.\"\n\n\"But you are not entitled to know mine; nor will such behaviour as this,\never induce me to be explicit.\"\n\n\"Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the\npresumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy is\nengaged to my daughter. Now what have you to say?\"\n\n\"Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will\nmake an offer to me.\"\n\nLady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied:\n\n\"The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy,\nthey have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of\n_his_ mother, as well as of hers. While in their cradles, we planned\nthe union: and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would\nbe accomplished in their marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of\ninferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to\nthe family! Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends? To his\ntacit engagement with Miss de Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of\npropriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say that from his earliest\nhours he was destined for his cousin?\"\n\n\"Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is\nno other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not\nbe kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to\nmarry Miss de Bourgh. You both did as much as you could in planning the\nmarriage. Its completion depended on others. If Mr. Darcy is neither\nby honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make\nanother choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?\"\n\n\"Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it. Yes,\nMiss Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or\nfriends, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will\nbe censured, slighted, and despised, by everyone connected with him.\nYour alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned\nby any of us.\"\n\n\"These are heavy misfortunes,\" replied Elizabeth. \"But the wife of Mr.\nDarcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily\nattached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause\nto repine.\"\n\n\"Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude\nfor my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that\nscore? Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came\nhere with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will\nI be dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person's\nwhims. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment.\"\n\n\"_That_ will make your ladyship's situation at present more pitiable;\nbut it will have no effect on me.\"\n\n\"I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and my\nnephew are formed for each other. They are descended, on the maternal\nside, from the same noble line; and, on the father's, from respectable,\nhonourable, and ancient--though untitled--families. Their fortune on\nboth sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of\nevery member of their respective houses; and what is to divide them?\nThe upstart pretensions of a young woman without family, connections,\nor fortune. Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If you\nwere sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere in\nwhich you have been brought up.\"\n\n\"In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that\nsphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman's daughter; so far we are\nequal.\"\n\n\"True. You _are_ a gentleman's daughter. But who was your mother?\nWho are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their\ncondition.\"\n\n\"Whatever my connections may be,\" said Elizabeth, \"if your nephew does\nnot object to them, they can be nothing to _you_.\"\n\n\"Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?\"\n\nThough Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady\nCatherine, have answered this question, she could not but say, after a\nmoment's deliberation:\n\n\"I am not.\"\n\nLady Catherine seemed pleased.\n\n\"And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?\"\n\n\"I will make no promise of the kind.\"\n\n\"Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more\nreasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that\nI will ever recede. I shall not go away till you have given me the\nassurance I require.\"\n\n\"And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into\nanything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry\nyour daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise make their\nmarriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, would\nmy refusing to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on his cousin?\nAllow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which you have\nsupported this extraordinary application have been as frivolous as the\napplication was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my character, if\nyou think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. How far your\nnephew might approve of your interference in his affairs, I cannot tell;\nbut you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg,\ntherefore, to be importuned no farther on the subject.\"\n\n\"Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the\nobjections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I am\nno stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister's infamous\nelopement. I know it all; that the young man's marrying her was a\npatched-up business, at the expence of your father and uncles. And is\nsuch a girl to be my nephew's sister? Is her husband, is the son of his\nlate father's steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth!--of what are\nyou thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?\"\n\n\"You can now have nothing further to say,\" she resentfully answered.\n\"You have insulted me in every possible method. I must beg to return to\nthe house.\"\n\nAnd she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they turned\nback. Her ladyship was highly incensed.\n\n\"You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew!\nUnfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you\nmust disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?\"\n\n\"Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know my sentiments.\"\n\n\"You are then resolved to have him?\"\n\n\"I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner,\nwhich will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without\nreference to _you_, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me.\"\n\n\"It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the\nclaims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in\nthe opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world.\"\n\n\"Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude,\" replied Elizabeth, \"have any\npossible claim on me, in the present instance. No principle of either\nwould be violated by my marriage with Mr. Darcy. And with regard to the\nresentment of his family, or the indignation of the world, if the former\n_were_ excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment's\nconcern--and the world in general would have too much sense to join in\nthe scorn.\"\n\n\"And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very well.\nI shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet, that your\nambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped to find you\nreasonable; but, depend upon it, I will carry my point.\"\n\nIn this manner Lady Catherine talked on, till they were at the door of\nthe carriage, when, turning hastily round, she added, \"I take no leave\nof you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your mother. You deserve\nno such attention. I am most seriously displeased.\"\n\nElizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade her\nladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it herself. She\nheard the carriage drive away as she proceeded up stairs. Her mother\nimpatiently met her at the door of the dressing-room, to ask why Lady\nCatherine would not come in again and rest herself.\n\n\"She did not choose it,\" said her daughter, \"she would go.\"\n\n\"She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was prodigiously\ncivil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the Collinses were\nwell. She is on her road somewhere, I dare say, and so, passing through\nMeryton, thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had\nnothing particular to say to you, Lizzy?\"\n\nElizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for to\nacknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible.\n\n\n\nChapter 57\n\n\nThe discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary visit threw\nElizabeth into, could not be easily overcome; nor could she, for many\nhours, learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine, it\nappeared, had actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings,\nfor the sole purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr.\nDarcy. It was a rational scheme, to be sure! but from what the report\nof their engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine;\ntill she recollected that _his_ being the intimate friend of Bingley,\nand _her_ being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the\nexpectation of one wedding made everybody eager for another, to supply\nthe idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her\nsister must bring them more frequently together. And her neighbours\nat Lucas Lodge, therefore (for through their communication with the\nCollinses, the report, she concluded, had reached Lady Catherine), had\nonly set that down as almost certain and immediate, which she had looked\nforward to as possible at some future time.\n\nIn revolving Lady Catherine's expressions, however, she could not help\nfeeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her persisting\nin this interference. From what she had said of her resolution to\nprevent their marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she must meditate\nan application to her nephew; and how _he_ might take a similar\nrepresentation of the evils attached to a connection with her, she dared\nnot pronounce. She knew not the exact degree of his affection for his\naunt, or his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose\nthat he thought much higher of her ladyship than _she_ could do; and it\nwas certain that, in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with _one_,\nwhose immediate connections were so unequal to his own, his aunt would\naddress him on his weakest side. With his notions of dignity, he would\nprobably feel that the arguments, which to Elizabeth had appeared weak\nand ridiculous, contained much good sense and solid reasoning.\n\nIf he had been wavering before as to what he should do, which had often\nseemed likely, the advice and entreaty of so near a relation might\nsettle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy as dignity\nunblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady\nCatherine might see him in her way through town; and his engagement to\nBingley of coming again to Netherfield must give way.\n\n\"If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise should come to his\nfriend within a few days,\" she added, \"I shall know how to understand\nit. I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of his\nconstancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting me, when he might\nhave obtained my affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him\nat all.\"\n\n                          * * * * *\n\nThe surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their visitor had\nbeen, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied it, with the same\nkind of supposition which had appeased Mrs. Bennet's curiosity; and\nElizabeth was spared from much teasing on the subject.\n\nThe next morning, as she was going downstairs, she was met by her\nfather, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.\n\n\"Lizzy,\" said he, \"I was going to look for you; come into my room.\"\n\nShe followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had to\ntell her was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner\nconnected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it\nmight be from Lady Catherine; and she anticipated with dismay all the\nconsequent explanations.\n\nShe followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat down. He\nthen said,\n\n\"I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me\nexceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its\ncontents. I did not know before, that I had two daughters on the brink\nof matrimony. Let me congratulate you on a very important conquest.\"\n\nThe colour now rushed into Elizabeth's cheeks in the instantaneous\nconviction of its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the aunt;\nand she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained\nhimself at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to\nherself; when her father continued:\n\n\"You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such matters\nas these; but I think I may defy even _your_ sagacity, to discover the\nname of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins.\"\n\n\"From Mr. Collins! and what can _he_ have to say?\"\n\n\"Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with\ncongratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of\nwhich, it seems, he has been told by some of the good-natured, gossiping\nLucases. I shall not sport with your impatience, by reading what he says\non that point. What relates to yourself, is as follows: 'Having thus\noffered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on\nthis happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another;\nof which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter\nElizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after\nher elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate may\nbe reasonably looked up to as one of the most illustrious personages in\nthis land.'\n\n\"Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this?\" 'This young\ngentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with every thing the heart of\nmortal can most desire,--splendid property, noble kindred, and extensive\npatronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin\nElizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur by a precipitate\nclosure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be\ninclined to take immediate advantage of.'\n\n\"Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out:\n\n\"'My motive for cautioning you is as follows. We have reason to imagine\nthat his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with\na friendly eye.'\n\n\"_Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_\nsurprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man within\nthe circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie\nmore effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any\nwoman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at you in his\nlife! It is admirable!\"\n\nElizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could only force\none most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so\nlittle agreeable to her.\n\n\"Are you not diverted?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes. Pray read on.\"\n\n\"'After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last\nnight, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she\nfelt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that on the score of some\nfamily objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give her\nconsent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty\nto give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and\nher noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run\nhastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned.' Mr.\nCollins moreover adds, 'I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia's sad\nbusiness has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their\nliving together before the marriage took place should be so generally\nknown. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain\nfrom declaring my amazement at hearing that you received the young\ncouple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an\nencouragement of vice; and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should\nvery strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them,\nas a Christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their\nnames to be mentioned in your hearing.' That is his notion of Christian\nforgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his dear Charlotte's\nsituation, and his expectation of a young olive-branch. But, Lizzy, you\nlook as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be _missish_,\nI hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For what do we\nlive, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our\nturn?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" cried Elizabeth, \"I am excessively diverted. But it is so\nstrange!\"\n\n\"Yes--_that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man\nit would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference, and _your_\npointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate\nwriting, I would not give up Mr. Collins's correspondence for any\nconsideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving\nhim the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and\nhypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine\nabout this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?\"\n\nTo this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as it had\nbeen asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by\nhis repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her\nfeelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when she\nwould rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her, by\nwhat he said of Mr. Darcy's indifference, and she could do nothing but\nwonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of\nhis seeing too little, she might have fancied too much.\n\n\n\nChapter 58\n\n\nInstead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, as\nElizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy\nwith him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine's\nvisit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time\nto tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat\nin momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed\ntheir all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the\nhabit of walking; Mary could never spare time; but the remaining five\nset off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others\nto outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy\nwere to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty\nwas too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a\ndesperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same.\n\nThey walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon\nMaria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern,\nwhen Kitty left them she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the\nmoment for her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was\nhigh, she immediately said:\n\n\"Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving\nrelief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding yours. I\ncan no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my\npoor sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to\nacknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest\nof my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.\"\n\n\"I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,\" replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise\nand emotion, \"that you have ever been informed of what may, in a\nmistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardiner\nwas so little to be trusted.\"\n\n\"You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to\nme that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could\nnot rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again,\nin the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced\nyou to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the\nsake of discovering them.\"\n\n\"If you _will_ thank me,\" he replied, \"let it be for yourself alone.\nThat the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other\ninducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your\n_family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought\nonly of _you_.\"\n\nElizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause,\nher companion added, \"You are too generous to trifle with me. If your\nfeelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. _My_\naffections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence\nme on this subject for ever.\"\n\nElizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of\nhis situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not\nvery fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone\nso material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make\nher receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The\nhappiness which this reply produced, was such as he had probably never\nfelt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as\nwarmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth\nbeen able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the\nexpression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him;\nbut, though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of\nfeelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his\naffection every moment more valuable.\n\nThey walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to\nbe thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She\nsoon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding\nto the efforts of his aunt, who did call on him in her return through\nLondon, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the\nsubstance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on\nevery expression of the latter which, in her ladyship's apprehension,\npeculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance; in the belief that\nsuch a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise\nfrom her nephew which she had refused to give. But, unluckily for her\nladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.\n\n\"It taught me to hope,\" said he, \"as I had scarcely ever allowed myself\nto hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain that,\nhad you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have\nacknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly.\"\n\nElizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, \"Yes, you know enough\nof my frankness to believe me capable of _that_. After abusing you so\nabominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all\nyour relations.\"\n\n\"What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your\naccusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my\nbehaviour to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was\nunpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.\"\n\n\"We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that\nevening,\" said Elizabeth. \"The conduct of neither, if strictly examined,\nwill be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved\nin civility.\"\n\n\"I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I\nthen said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of\nit, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your\nreproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: 'had you behaved in a\nmore gentlemanlike manner.' Those were your words. You know not, you can\nscarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;--though it was some time,\nI confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.\"\n\n\"I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an\nimpression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such\na way.\"\n\n\"I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper\nfeeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never\nforget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible\nway that would induce you to accept me.\"\n\n\"Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at\nall. I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it.\"\n\nDarcy mentioned his letter. \"Did it,\" said he, \"did it soon make you\nthink better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its\ncontents?\"\n\nShe explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her\nformer prejudices had been removed.\n\n\"I knew,\" said he, \"that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was\nnecessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part\nespecially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the\npower of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might\njustly make you hate me.\"\n\n\"The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the\npreservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my\nopinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily\nchanged as that implies.\"\n\n\"When I wrote that letter,\" replied Darcy, \"I believed myself perfectly\ncalm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a\ndreadful bitterness of spirit.\"\n\n\"The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The\nadieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings\nof the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now\nso widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant\ncircumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some\nof my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you\npleasure.\"\n\n\"I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. Your\nretrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment\narising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is much better, of\ninnocence. But with me, it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude\nwhich cannot, which ought not, to be repelled. I have been a selfish\nbeing all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I\nwas taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I\nwas given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit.\nUnfortunately an only son (for many years an only child), I was spoilt\nby my parents, who, though good themselves (my father, particularly, all\nthat was benevolent and amiable), allowed, encouraged, almost taught\nme to be selfish and overbearing; to care for none beyond my own family\ncircle; to think meanly of all the rest of the world; to wish at least\nto think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I\nwas, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have been\nbut for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You\ntaught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you,\nI was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception.\nYou showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman\nworthy of being pleased.\"\n\n\"Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?\"\n\n\"Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be\nwishing, expecting my addresses.\"\n\n\"My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally, I assure\nyou. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead me\nwrong. How you must have hated me after _that_ evening?\"\n\n\"Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began to take\na proper direction.\"\n\n\"I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me, when we met at\nPemberley. You blamed me for coming?\"\n\n\"No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise.\"\n\n\"Your surprise could not be greater than _mine_ in being noticed by you.\nMy conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I\nconfess that I did not expect to receive _more_ than my due.\"\n\n\"My object then,\" replied Darcy, \"was to show you, by every civility in\nmy power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped to\nobtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you\nsee that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes\nintroduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an\nhour after I had seen you.\"\n\nHe then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance, and of her\ndisappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally leading to\nthe cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution of\nfollowing her from Derbyshire in quest of her sister had been formed\nbefore he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness\nthere had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must\ncomprehend.\n\nShe expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject to\neach, to be dwelt on farther.\n\nAfter walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know\nanything about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that\nit was time to be at home.\n\n\"What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!\" was a wonder which\nintroduced the discussion of their affairs. Darcy was delighted with\ntheir engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information of\nit.\n\n\"I must ask whether you were surprised?\" said Elizabeth.\n\n\"Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.\"\n\n\"That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much.\" And\nthough he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much\nthe case.\n\n\"On the evening before my going to London,\" said he, \"I made a\nconfession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I\ntold him of all that had occurred to make my former interference in his\naffairs absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had\nthe slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself\nmistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent\nto him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was\nunabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together.\"\n\nElizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his\nfriend.\n\n\"Did you speak from your own observation,\" said she, \"when you told him\nthat my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?\"\n\n\"From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visits\nwhich I had lately made here; and I was convinced of her affection.\"\n\n\"And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to\nhim.\"\n\n\"It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had\nprevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but\nhis reliance on mine made every thing easy. I was obliged to confess\none thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not\nallow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months\nlast winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was\nangry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained\nin any doubt of your sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me\nnow.\"\n\nElizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful\nfriend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but she checked\nherself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laughed at,\nand it was rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness\nof Bingley, which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he\ncontinued the conversation till they reached the house. In the hall they\nparted.\n\n\n\nChapter 59\n\n\n\"My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?\" was a question\nwhich Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she entered their room,\nand from all the others when they sat down to table. She had only to\nsay in reply, that they had wandered about, till she was beyond her own\nknowledge. She coloured as she spoke; but neither that, nor anything\nelse, awakened a suspicion of the truth.\n\nThe evening passed quietly, unmarked by anything extraordinary. The\nacknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged were silent.\nDarcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth;\nand Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather _knew_ that she was happy\nthan _felt_ herself to be so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment,\nthere were other evils before her. She anticipated what would be felt\nin the family when her situation became known; she was aware that no\none liked him but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a\ndislike which not all his fortune and consequence might do away.\n\nAt night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far\nfrom Miss Bennet's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here.\n\n\"You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be!--engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no,\nyou shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible.\"\n\n\"This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on you; and\nI am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I am\nin earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we are\nengaged.\"\n\nJane looked at her doubtingly. \"Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much\nyou dislike him.\"\n\n\"You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot. Perhaps I\ndid not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases as\nthese, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever\nremember it myself.\"\n\nMiss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more\nseriously assured her of its truth.\n\n\"Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you,\" cried\nJane. \"My dear, dear Lizzy, I would--I do congratulate you--but are you\ncertain? forgive the question--are you quite certain that you can be\nhappy with him?\"\n\n\"There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already, that\nwe are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased,\nJane? Shall you like to have such a brother?\"\n\n\"Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more\ndelight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you\nreally love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do anything rather than\nmarry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought\nto do?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do, when I\ntell you all.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am\nafraid you will be angry.\"\n\n\"My dearest sister, now _be_ serious. I want to talk very seriously. Let\nme know every thing that I am to know, without delay. Will you tell me\nhow long you have loved him?\"\n\n\"It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began.\nBut I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds\nat Pemberley.\"\n\nAnother entreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the\ndesired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances\nof attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Bennet had nothing\nfurther to wish.\n\n\"Now I am quite happy,\" said she, \"for you will be as happy as myself.\nI always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you,\nI must always have esteemed him; but now, as Bingley's friend and your\nhusband, there can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But\nLizzy, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you\ntell me of what passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know\nof it to another, not to you.\"\n\nElizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling\nto mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made\nher equally avoid the name of his friend. But now she would no longer\nconceal from her his share in Lydia's marriage. All was acknowledged,\nand half the night spent in conversation.\n\n                          * * * * *\n\n\"Good gracious!\" cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the next\nmorning, \"if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here again with\nour dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always\ncoming here? I had no notion but he would go a-shooting, or something or\nother, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him?\nLizzy, you must walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley's\nway.\"\n\nElizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal; yet\nwas really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an\nepithet.\n\nAs soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively, and\nshook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information;\nand he soon afterwards said aloud, \"Mrs. Bennet, have you no more lanes\nhereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?\"\n\n\"I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty,\" said Mrs. Bennet, \"to walk\nto Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has\nnever seen the view.\"\n\n\"It may do very well for the others,\" replied Mr. Bingley; \"but I am\nsure it will be too much for Kitty. Won't it, Kitty?\" Kitty owned that\nshe had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great curiosity to see\nthe view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently consented. As she went\nup stairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her, saying:\n\n\"I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that\ndisagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind it: it is\nall for Jane's sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking\nto him, except just now and then. So, do not put yourself to\ninconvenience.\"\n\nDuring their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet's consent should be\nasked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved to herself the\napplication for her mother's. She could not determine how her mother\nwould take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur\nwould be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man. But whether she\nwere violently set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it\nwas certain that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit\nto her sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear\nthe first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her\ndisapprobation.\n\n                          * * * * *\n\nIn the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library, she saw\nMr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on seeing it was\nextreme. She did not fear her father's opposition, but he was going to\nbe made unhappy; and that it should be through her means--that _she_,\nhis favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be\nfilling him with fears and regrets in disposing of her--was a wretched\nreflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when,\nlooking at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes\nhe approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while\npretending to admire her work said in a whisper, \"Go to your father, he\nwants you in the library.\" She was gone directly.\n\nHer father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious.\n\"Lizzy,\" said he, \"what are you doing? Are you out of your senses, to be\naccepting this man? Have not you always hated him?\"\n\nHow earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been more\nreasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have spared her from\nexplanations and professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give;\nbut they were now necessary, and she assured him, with some confusion,\nof her attachment to Mr. Darcy.\n\n\"Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich, to be\nsure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than Jane.\nBut will they make you happy?\"\n\n\"Have you any other objection,\" said Elizabeth, \"than your belief of my\nindifference?\"\n\n\"None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but\nthis would be nothing if you really liked him.\"\n\n\"I do, I do like him,\" she replied, with tears in her eyes, \"I love him.\nIndeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not\nknow what he really is; then pray do not pain me by speaking of him in\nsuch terms.\"\n\n\"Lizzy,\" said her father, \"I have given him my consent. He is the kind\nof man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse anything, which he\ncondescended to ask. I now give it to _you_, if you are resolved on\nhaving him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know\nyour disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor\nrespectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband; unless you looked\nup to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the\ngreatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape\ndiscredit and misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing\n_you_ unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are\nabout.\"\n\nElizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply; and\nat length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was really the object\nof her choice, by explaining the gradual change which her estimation of\nhim had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that his affection\nwas not the work of a day, but had stood the test of many months'\nsuspense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities, she did\nconquer her father's incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.\n\n\"Well, my dear,\" said he, when she ceased speaking, \"I have no more to\nsay. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have parted with\nyou, my Lizzy, to anyone less worthy.\"\n\nTo complete the favourable impression, she then told him what Mr. Darcy\nhad voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with astonishment.\n\n\"This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did every thing;\nmade up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow's debts, and got him\nhis commission! So much the better. It will save me a world of trouble\nand economy. Had it been your uncle's doing, I must and _would_ have\npaid him; but these violent young lovers carry every thing their own\nway. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow; he will rant and storm about\nhis love for you, and there will be an end of the matter.\"\n\nHe then recollected her embarrassment a few days before, on his reading\nMr. Collins's letter; and after laughing at her some time, allowed her\nat last to go--saying, as she quitted the room, \"If any young men come\nfor Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am quite at leisure.\"\n\nElizabeth's mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and, after\nhalf an hour's quiet reflection in her own room, she was able to join\nthe others with tolerable composure. Every thing was too recent for\ngaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away; there was no longer\nanything material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity\nwould come in time.\n\nWhen her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she followed her,\nand made the important communication. Its effect was most extraordinary;\nfor on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and unable to\nutter a syllable. Nor was it under many, many minutes that she could\ncomprehend what she heard; though not in general backward to credit\nwhat was for the advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a\nlover to any of them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in\nher chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless herself.\n\n\"Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy! Who would\nhave thought it! And is it really true? Oh! my sweetest Lizzy! how rich\nand how great you will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages\nyou will have! Jane's is nothing to it--nothing at all. I am so\npleased--so happy. Such a charming man!--so handsome! so tall!--Oh, my\ndear Lizzy! pray apologise for my having disliked him so much before. I\nhope he will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Every thing\nthat is charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh,\nLord! What will become of me. I shall go distracted.\"\n\nThis was enough to prove that her approbation need not be doubted: and\nElizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard only by herself,\nsoon went away. But before she had been three minutes in her own room,\nher mother followed her.\n\n\"My dearest child,\" she cried, \"I can think of nothing else! Ten\nthousand a year, and very likely more! 'Tis as good as a Lord! And a\nspecial licence. You must and shall be married by a special licence. But\nmy dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond of,\nthat I may have it to-morrow.\"\n\nThis was a sad omen of what her mother's behaviour to the gentleman\nhimself might be; and Elizabeth found that, though in the certain\npossession of his warmest affection, and secure of her relations'\nconsent, there was still something to be wished for. But the morrow\npassed off much better than she expected; for Mrs. Bennet luckily stood\nin such awe of her intended son-in-law that she ventured not to speak to\nhim, unless it was in her power to offer him any attention, or mark her\ndeference for his opinion.\n\nElizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains to get\nacquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that he was rising\nevery hour in his esteem.\n\n\"I admire all my three sons-in-law highly,\" said he. \"Wickham, perhaps,\nis my favourite; but I think I shall like _your_ husband quite as well\nas Jane's.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 60\n\n\nElizabeth's spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr.\nDarcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. \"How could\nyou begin?\" said she. \"I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when\nyou had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first\nplace?\"\n\n\"I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which\nlaid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I\nknew that I _had_ begun.\"\n\n\"My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners--my behaviour\nto _you_ was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke\nto you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now be sincere;\ndid you admire me for my impertinence?\"\n\n\"For the liveliness of your mind, I did.\"\n\n\"You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little less.\nThe fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious\nattention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking,\nand looking, and thinking for _your_ approbation alone. I roused, and\ninterested you, because I was so unlike _them_. Had you not been really\namiable, you would have hated me for it; but in spite of the pains you\ntook to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and\nin your heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously\ncourted you. There--I have saved you the trouble of accounting for\nit; and really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly\nreasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of me--but nobody thinks\nof _that_ when they fall in love.\"\n\n\"Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane while she was\nill at Netherfield?\"\n\n\"Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it\nby all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are\nto exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me\nto find occasions for teasing and quarrelling with you as often as may\nbe; and I shall begin directly by asking you what made you so unwilling\nto come to the point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first\ncalled, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you called, did\nyou look as if you did not care about me?\"\n\n\"Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement.\"\n\n\"But I was embarrassed.\"\n\n\"And so was I.\"\n\n\"You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner.\"\n\n\"A man who had felt less, might.\"\n\n\"How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that\nI should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how long you\n_would_ have gone on, if you had been left to yourself. I wonder when\nyou _would_ have spoken, if I had not asked you! My resolution of\nthanking you for your kindness to Lydia had certainly great effect.\n_Too much_, I am afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if our comfort\nsprings from a breach of promise? for I ought not to have mentioned the\nsubject. This will never do.\"\n\n\"You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly fair. Lady\nCatherine's unjustifiable endeavours to separate us were the means of\nremoving all my doubts. I am not indebted for my present happiness to\nyour eager desire of expressing your gratitude. I was not in a humour\nto wait for any opening of yours. My aunt's intelligence had given me\nhope, and I was determined at once to know every thing.\"\n\n\"Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy,\nfor she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down to\nNetherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed?\nor had you intended any more serious consequence?\"\n\n\"My real purpose was to see _you_, and to judge, if I could, whether I\nmight ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or what I avowed to\nmyself, was to see whether your sister were still partial to Bingley,\nand if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since made.\"\n\n\"Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine what is to\nbefall her?\"\n\n\"I am more likely to want more time than courage, Elizabeth. But it\nought to be done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it shall be\ndone directly.\"\n\n\"And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you and\nadmire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady once did. But\nI have an aunt, too, who must not be longer neglected.\"\n\nFrom an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr. Darcy\nhad been over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs. Gardiner's\nlong letter; but now, having _that_ to communicate which she knew would\nbe most welcome, she was almost ashamed to find that her uncle and\naunt had already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as\nfollows:\n\n\"I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have done,\nfor your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of particulars; but to say the\ntruth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than really existed.\nBut _now_ suppose as much as you choose; give a loose rein to your\nfancy, indulge your imagination in every possible flight which the\nsubject will afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you\ncannot greatly err. You must write again very soon, and praise him a\ngreat deal more than you did in your last. I thank you, again and again,\nfor not going to the Lakes. How could I be so silly as to wish it! Your\nidea of the ponies is delightful. We will go round the Park every day. I\nam the happiest creature in the world. Perhaps other people have said so\nbefore, but not one with such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she\nonly smiles, I laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world that\nhe can spare from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas.\nYours, etc.\"\n\nMr. Darcy's letter to Lady Catherine was in a different style; and still\ndifferent from either was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr. Collins, in reply\nto his last.\n\n\"DEAR SIR,\n\n\"I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will soon\nbe the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as you can.\nBut, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has more to give.\n\n\"Yours sincerely, etc.\"\n\nMiss Bingley's congratulations to her brother, on his approaching\nmarriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote even\nto Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and repeat all her\nformer professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but she was\naffected; and though feeling no reliance on her, could not help writing\nher a much kinder answer than she knew was deserved.\n\nThe joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar information,\nwas as sincere as her brother's in sending it. Four sides of paper were\ninsufficient to contain all her delight, and all her earnest desire of\nbeing loved by her sister.\n\nBefore any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any congratulations\nto Elizabeth from his wife, the Longbourn family heard that the\nCollinses were come themselves to Lucas Lodge. The reason of this\nsudden removal was soon evident. Lady Catherine had been rendered\nso exceedingly angry by the contents of her nephew's letter, that\nCharlotte, really rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get away till\nthe storm was blown over. At such a moment, the arrival of her friend\nwas a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth, though in the course of their\nmeetings she must sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when she\nsaw Mr. Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of\nher husband. He bore it, however, with admirable calmness. He could even\nlisten to Sir William Lucas, when he complimented him on carrying away\nthe brightest jewel of the country, and expressed his hopes of their all\nmeeting frequently at St. James's, with very decent composure. If he did\nshrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir William was out of sight.\n\nMrs. Phillips's vulgarity was another, and perhaps a greater, tax on his\nforbearance; and though Mrs. Phillips, as well as her sister, stood in\ntoo much awe of him to speak with the familiarity which Bingley's good\nhumour encouraged, yet, whenever she _did_ speak, she must be vulgar.\nNor was her respect for him, though it made her more quiet, at all\nlikely to make her more elegant. Elizabeth did all she could to shield\nhim from the frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep\nhim to herself, and to those of her family with whom he might converse\nwithout mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings arising\nfrom all this took from the season of courtship much of its pleasure, it\nadded to the hope of the future; and she looked forward with delight to\nthe time when they should be removed from society so little pleasing\nto either, to all the comfort and elegance of their family party at\nPemberley.\n\n\n\nChapter 61\n\n\nHappy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got\nrid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride\nshe afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley, and talked of Mrs. Darcy, may\nbe guessed. I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the\naccomplishment of her earnest desire in the establishment of so many\nof her children produced so happy an effect as to make her a sensible,\namiable, well-informed woman for the rest of her life; though perhaps it\nwas lucky for her husband, who might not have relished domestic felicity\nin so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous and\ninvariably silly.\n\nMr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection for her\ndrew him oftener from home than anything else could do. He delighted in\ngoing to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected.\n\nMr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. So near\na vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not desirable even to\n_his_ easy temper, or _her_ affectionate heart. The darling wish of his\nsisters was then gratified; he bought an estate in a neighbouring county\nto Derbyshire, and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source\nof happiness, were within thirty miles of each other.\n\nKitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with\nher two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had generally\nknown, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable a\ntemper as Lydia; and, removed from the influence of Lydia's example,\nshe became, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less\nignorant, and less insipid. From the further disadvantage of Lydia's\nsociety she was of course carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham\nfrequently invited her to come and stay with her, with the promise of\nballs and young men, her father would never consent to her going.\n\nMary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was necessarily\ndrawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Bennet's being quite\nunable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix more with the world, but\nshe could still moralize over every morning visit; and as she was no\nlonger mortified by comparisons between her sisters' beauty and her own,\nit was suspected by her father that she submitted to the change without\nmuch reluctance.\n\nAs for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution from\nthe marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the conviction that\nElizabeth must now become acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude\nand falsehood had before been unknown to her; and in spite of every\nthing, was not wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be prevailed on\nto make his fortune. The congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received\nfrom Lydia on her marriage, explained to her that, by his wife at least,\nif not by himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this\neffect:\n\n\"MY DEAR LIZZY,\n\n\"I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my dear\nWickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you so\nrich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will think of us.\nI am sure Wickham would like a place at court very much, and I do not\nthink we shall have quite money enough to live upon without some help.\nAny place would do, of about three or four hundred a year; but however,\ndo not speak to Mr. Darcy about it, if you had rather not.\n\n\"Yours, etc.\"\n\nAs it happened that Elizabeth had _much_ rather not, she endeavoured in\nher answer to put an end to every entreaty and expectation of the kind.\nSuch relief, however, as it was in her power to afford, by the practice\nof what might be called economy in her own private expences, she\nfrequently sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an\nincome as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in\ntheir wants, and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to\ntheir support; and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or\nherself were sure of being applied to for some little assistance\ntowards discharging their bills. Their manner of living, even when the\nrestoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the\nextreme. They were always moving from place to place in quest of a cheap\nsituation, and always spending more than they ought. His affection for\nher soon sunk into indifference; hers lasted a little longer; and\nin spite of her youth and her manners, she retained all the claims to\nreputation which her marriage had given her.\n\nThough Darcy could never receive _him_ at Pemberley, yet, for\nElizabeth's sake, he assisted him further in his profession. Lydia was\noccasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone to enjoy himself\nin London or Bath; and with the Bingleys they both of them frequently\nstaid so long, that even Bingley's good humour was overcome, and he\nproceeded so far as to talk of giving them a hint to be gone.\n\nMiss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy's marriage; but as she\nthought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she\ndropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as\nattentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility\nto Elizabeth.\n\nPemberley was now Georgiana's home; and the attachment of the sisters\nwas exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each\nother even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion\nin the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with\nan astonishment bordering on alarm at her lively, sportive, manner of\ntalking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect\nwhich almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open\npleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen\nin her way. By Elizabeth's instructions, she began to comprehend that\na woman may take liberties with her husband which a brother will not\nalways allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself.\n\nLady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew;\nand as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character in\nher reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him\nlanguage so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time\nall intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion,\nhe was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation;\nand, after a little further resistance on the part of his aunt, her\nresentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity\nto see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait\non them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had\nreceived, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the\nvisits of her uncle and aunt from the city.\n\nWith the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms.\nDarcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever\nsensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing\nher into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.\n\n\n\n\n","id":"1342"},{"text":"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                         Transcriber's Note:\n\nThe Table of Contents is not part of the original book. The illustration\non page 290 is missing from the book. The Introduction ends abruptly.\nSeems incomplete.\n\n\n       [Illustration: _Mr. Dashwood introduced him._--P. 219.]\n\n\n\n                         SENSE & SENSIBILITY\n\n\n\n                                  BY\n\n                             JANE AUSTEN\n\n\n\n                         WITH AN INTRODUCTION\n\n\n                                  BY\n\n                            AUSTIN DOBSON\n\n\n\n                             ILLUSTRATED\n\n\n                                  BY\n\n                             HUGH THOMSON\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                  LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED\n\n                   NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n\n                                 1902\n\n\n\n        _First Edition with Hugh Thomson's Illustrations_ 1896\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\nLIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS\nCHAPTER I\nCHAPTER II\nCHAPTER III\nCHAPTER IV\nCHAPTER V\nCHAPTER VI\nCHAPTER VII\nCHAPTER VIII\nCHAPTER IX\nCHAPTER X\nCHAPTER XI\nCHAPTER XII\nCHAPTER XIII\nCHAPTER XIV\nCHAPTER XV\nCHAPTER XVI\nCHAPTER XVII\nCHAPTER XVIII\nCHAPTER XIX\nCHAPTER XX\nCHAPTER XXI\nCHAPTER XXII\nCHAPTER XXIII\nCHAPTER XXIV\nCHAPTER XXV\nCHAPTER XXVI\nCHAPTER XXVII\nCHAPTER XXVIII\nCHAPTER XXIX\nCHAPTER XXX\nCHAPTER XXXI\nCHAPTER XXXII\nCHAPTER XXXIII\nCHAPTER XXXIV\nCHAPTER XXXV\nCHAPTER XXXVI\nCHAPTER XXXVII\nCHAPTER XXXVIII\nCHAPTER XXXIX\nCHAPTER XL\nCHAPTER XLI\nCHAPTER XLII\nCHAPTER XLIII\nCHAPTER XLIV\nCHAPTER XLV\nCHAPTER XLVI\nCHAPTER XLVII\nCHAPTER XLVIII\nCHAPTER XLIX\nCHAPTER L\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nWith the title of _Sense and Sensibility_ is connected one of those minor\nproblems which delight the cummin-splitters of criticism. In the _Cecilia_\nof Madame D'Arblay--the forerunner, if not the model, of Miss Austen--is a\nsentence which at first sight suggests some relationship to the name of\nthe book which, in the present series, inaugurated Miss Austen's novels.\n'The whole of this unfortunate business'--says a certain didactic Dr.\nLyster, talking in capitals, towards the end of volume three of\n_Cecilia_--'has been the result of PRIDE and PREJUDICE,' and looking to\nthe admitted familiarity of Miss Austen with Madame D'Arblay's work, it\nhas been concluded that Miss Austen borrowed from _Cecilia_, the title of\nher second novel. But here comes in the little problem to which we have\nreferred. _Pride and Prejudice_ it is true, was written and finished\nbefore _Sense and Sensibility_--its original title for several years being\n_First Impressions_. Then, in 1797, the author fell to work upon an older\nessay in letters _a la_ Richardson, called _Elinor and Marianne_, which\nshe re-christened _Sense and Sensibility._ This, as we know, was her first\npublished book; and whatever may be the connection between the title of\n_Pride and Prejudice_ and the passage in _Cecilia_, there is an obvious\nconnection between the title of _Pride and Prejudice_ and the _title of\nSense and Sensibility_. If Miss Austen re-christened _Elinor and\nMarianne_ before she changed the title of _First Impressions_, as she well\nmay have, it is extremely unlikely that the name of _Pride and Prejudice_\nhas anything to do with _Cecilia_ (which, besides, had been published at\nleast twenty years before). Upon the whole, therefore, it is most likely\nthat the passage in Madame D'Arblay is a mere coincidence; and that in\n_Sense and Sensibility_, as well as in the novel that succeeded it in\npublication, Miss Austen, after the fashion of the old morality plays,\nsimply substituted the leading characteristics of her principal personages\nfor their names. Indeed, in _Sense and Sensibility_ the sense of Elinor,\nand the sensibility (or rather _sensiblerie_) of Marianne, are markedly\nemphasised in the opening pages of the book But Miss Austen subsequently,\nand, as we think, wisely, discarded in her remaining efforts the cheap\nattraction of an alliterative title. _Emma_ and _Persuasion, Northanger\nAbbey_ and _Mansfield Park_, are names far more in consonance with the\nquiet tone of her easy and unobtrusive art.\n\n_Elinor and Marianne_ was originally written about 1792. After the\ncompletion--or partial completion, for it was again revised in\n1811--of _First Impressions_ (subsequently _Pride and Prejudice_),\nMiss Austen set about recasting _Elinor and Marianne_, then composed\nin the form of letters; and she had no sooner accomplished this task,\nthan she began _Northanger Abbey_. It would be interesting to know to\nwhat extent she remodelled _Sense and Sensibility_ in 1797-98, for we\nare told that previous to its publication in 1811 she again devoted a\nconsiderable time to its preparation for the press, and it is clear\nthat this does not mean the correction of proofs alone, but also a\npreliminary revision of MS. Especially would it be interesting if we\ncould ascertain whether any of its more finished passages, _e.g._ the\nadmirable conversation between the Miss Dashwoods and Willoughby in\nchapter x., were the result of those fallow and apparently barren\nyears at Bath and Southampton, or whether they were already part of\nthe second version of 1797-98. But upon this matter the records are\nmute. A careful examination of the correspondence published by Lord\nBrabourne in 1884 only reveals two definite references to _Sense and\nSensibility_ and these are absolutely unfruitful in suggestion. In\nApril 1811 she speaks of having corrected two sheets of 'S and S,'\nwhich she has scarcely a hope of getting out in the following June;\nand in September, an extract from the diary of another member of the\nfamily indirectly discloses the fact that the book had by that time\nbeen published. This extract is a brief reference to a letter which\nhad been received from Cassandra Austen, begging her correspondent not\nto mention that Aunt Jane wrote _Sense and Sensibility._ Beyond these\nminute items of information, and the statement--already referred to in\nthe Introduction to _Pride and Prejudice_--that she considered herself\noverpaid for the labour she had bestowed upon it, absolutely nothing\nseems to have been preserved by her descendants respecting her first\nprinted effort. In the absence of particulars some of her critics have\nfallen to speculate upon the reason which made her select it, and not\n_Pride and Prejudice_, for her debut; and they have, perhaps\nnaturally, found in the fact a fresh confirmation of that traditional\nblindness of authors to their own best work, which is one of the\ncommonplaces of literary history. But this is to premise that she\n_did_ regard it as her masterpiece, a fact which, apart from this\naccident of priority of issue, is, as far as we are aware, nowhere\nasserted. A simpler solution is probably that, of the three novels she\nhad written or sketched by 1811, _Pride and Prejudice_ was languishing\nunder the stigma of having been refused by one bookseller without the\nformality of inspection, while _Northanger Abbey_ was lying _perdu_ in\nanother bookseller's drawer at Bath. In these circumstances it is\nintelligible that she should turn to _Sense and Sensibility_, when, at\nlength--upon the occasion of a visit to her brother in London in the\nspring of 1811--Mr. T. Egerton of the 'Military Library,' Whitehall,\ndawned upon the horizon as a practicable publisher.\n\nBy the time _Sense and Sensibility_ left the press, Miss Austen was\nagain domiciled at Chawton Cottage. For those accustomed to the\nswarming reviews of our day, with their Babel of notices, it may seem\nstrange that there should be no record of the effect produced, seeing\nthat, as already stated, the book sold well enough to enable its\nputter-forth to hand over to its author what Mr. Gargery, in _Great\nExpectations_, would have described as 'a cool L150.' Surely Mr.\nEgerton, who had visited Miss Austen at Sloane Street, must have later\nconveyed to her some intelligence of the way in which her work had\nbeen welcomed by the public. But if he did, it is no longer\ndiscoverable. Mr. Austen Leigh, her first and best biographer, could\nfind no account either of the publication or of the author's feelings\nthereupon. As far as it is possible to judge, the critical verdicts\nshe obtained were mainly derived from her own relatives and intimate\nfriends, and some of these latter--if one may trust a little anthology\nwhich she herself collected, and from which Mr. Austen Leigh prints\nextracts--must have been more often exasperating than sympathetic. The\nlong chorus of intelligent approval by which she was afterwards\ngreeted did not begin to be really audible before her death, and her\n'fit audience' during her lifetime must have been emphatically 'few,'\nOf two criticisms which came out in the _Quarterly_ early in the\ncentury, she could only have seen one, that of 1815; the other, by\nArchbishop Whately, the first which treated her in earnest, did not\nappear until she had been three years dead. Dr. Whately deals mainly\nwith _Mansfield Park_ and _Persuasion_; his predecessor professed to\nreview _Emma_, though he also gives brief summaries of _Sense and\nSensibility_ and _Pride and Prejudice_. Mr. Austen Leigh, we think,\nspeaks too contemptuously of this initial notice of 1815. If, at\ncertain points, it is half-hearted and inadequate, it is still fairly\naccurate in its recognition of Miss Austen's supreme merit, as\ncontrasted with her contemporaries--to wit, her skill in investing the\nfortunes of ordinary characters and the narrative of common\noccurrences with all the sustained excitement of romance. The Reviewer\npoints out very justly that this kind of work, 'being deprived of all\nthat, according to Bayes, goes \"to elevate and surprise,\" must make\namends by displaying depth of knowledge and dexterity of execution.'\nAnd in these qualities, even with such living competitors of her own\nsex as Miss Edgeworth and Miss Brunton (whose _Self-control_ came out\nin the same year as _Sense and Sensibility_), he does not scruple to\ndeclare that 'Miss Austen stands almost alone.' If he omits to lay\nstress upon her judgment, her nice sense of fitness, her restraint,\nher fine irony, and the delicacy of her artistic touch, something must\nbe allowed for the hesitations and reservations which invariably beset\nthe critical pioneer.\n\nTo contend, however, for a moment that the present volume is Miss\nAusten's greatest, as it was her first published, novel, would be a\nmere exercise in paradox. There are, who swear by _Persuasion_; there\nare, who prefer _Emma_ and _Mansfield Park_; there is a large\ncontingent for _Pride and Prejudice_; and there is even a section\nwhich advocates the pre-eminence of _Northanger Abbey_. But no one, as\nfar as we can remember, has ever put _Sense and Sensibility_ first,\nnor can we believe that its author did so herself. And yet it is she\nherself who has furnished the standard by which we judge it, and it is\nby comparison with _Pride and Prejudice_, in which the leading\ncharacters are also two sisters, that we assess and depress its merit.\nThe Elinor and Marianne of _Sense and Sensibility_ are only inferior\nwhen they are contrasted with the Elizabeth and Jane of _Pride and\nPrejudice_; and even then, it is probably because we personally like\nthe handsome and amiable Jane Bennet rather better than the obsolete\nsurvival of the sentimental novel represented by Marianne Dashwood.\nDarcy and Bingley again are much more 'likeable' (to use Lady\nQueensberry's word) than the colourless Edward Ferrars and the\nstiff-jointed Colonel Brandon. Yet it might not unfairly be contended\nthat there is more fidelity to what Mr. Thomas Hardy has termed\n'life's little ironies' in Miss Austen's disposal of the two Miss\nDashwoods than there is in her disposal of the heroines of _Pride and\nPrejudice_. Every one does not get a Bingley, or a Darcy (with a\npark); but a good many sensible girls like Elinor pair off contentedly\nwith poor creatures like Edward Ferrars, while not a few enthusiasts\nlike Marianne decline at last upon middle-aged colonels with flannel\nwaistcoats. George Eliot, we fancy, would have held that the fates of\nElinor and Marianne were more probable than the fortunes of Jane and\nEliza Bennet. That, of the remaining characters, there is certainly\nnone to rival Mr. Bennet, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, or the\nineffable Mr. Collins, of _Pride and Prejudice_, is true; but we\nconfess to a kindness for vulgar matchmaking Mrs. Jennings with her\nstill-room 'parmaceti for an inward bruise' in the shape of a glass of\nold Constantia; and for the diluted Squire Western, Sir John\nMiddleton, whose horror of being alone carries him to the point of\nrejoicing in the acquisition of _two_ to the population of London.\nExcellent again are Mr. Palmer and his wife; excellent, in their\nsordid veracity, the self-seeking figures of the Miss Steeles. But the\npearls of the book must be allowed to be that egregious amateur in\ntoothpick-cases, Mr. Robert Ferrars (with his excursus in chapter\nxxxvi. on life in a cottage), and the admirably-matched Mr. and Mrs.\nJohn Dashwood. Miss Austen herself has never done anything better than\nthe inimitable and oft-quoted chapter wherein is debated between the\nlast-named pair the momentous matter of the amount to be devoted to\nMrs. Dashwood and her daughters; while the suggestion in chapters\nxxxiii. and xxxiv. that the owner of Norland was once within some\nthousands of having to sell out at a loss, deserves to be remembered\nwith that other memorable escape of Sir Roger de Coverley's ancestor,\nwho was only not killed in the civil wars because 'he was sent out of\nthe field upon a private message, the day before the battle of\nWorcester.'\n\nOf local colouring there is as little in _Sense and Sensibility_ as in\n_Pride and Prejudice_. It is not unlikely that some memories of\nSteventon may survive in Norland; and it may be noted that there is\nactually a Barton Place to the north of Exeter, not far from Lord\nIddesleigh's well-known seat of Upton Pynes. It is scarcely possible,\nalso, not to believe that, in Mrs. Jennings's description of\nDelaford--'a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I call a nice\nold-fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in\nwith great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in\nthe country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner!'--Miss Austen had\nin mind some real Hampshire or Devonshire country house. In any case,\nit comes nearer a picture than what we usually get from her pen. 'Then\nthere is a dovecote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a very pretty\ncanal; and everything, in short, that one could wish for; and,\nmoreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile\nfrom the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, for if you only go and sit\nup in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the\ncarriages that pass along.' The last lines suggest those quaint\n'gazebos' and alcoves, which, in the coaching days, were so often to\nbe found perched at the roadside, where one might sit and watch the\nDover or Canterbury stage go whirling by. Of genteel accomplishments\nthere is a touch In the 'landscape in coloured silks' which Charlotte\nPalmer had worked at school (chap, xxvi.); and of old remedies for the\nlost art of swooning, in the 'lavender drops' of chapter xxix. The\nmention of a dance as a 'little hop' in chapter ix. reads like a\npremature instance of middle Victorian slang. But nothing is new--even\nin a novel--and 'hop,' in this sense, is at least as old as _Joseph\nAndrews_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nLIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\nMr. Dashwood introduced him             _Frontispiece_\n\nHis son's son, a child of four years old\n\n\"I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it\"\n\nSo shy before company\n\nThey sang together\n\nHe cut off a long lock of her hair\n\n\"I have found you out in spite of all your tricks\"\n\nApparently In violent affliction\n\nBegging her to stop\n\nCame to take a survey of the guest\n\n\"I declare they are quite charming\"\n\nMischievous tricks\n\nDrinking to her best affections\n\nAmiably bashful\n\n\"I can answer for it,\" said Mrs. Jennings\n\nAt that moment she first perceived him\n\n\"How fond he was of it!\"\n\nOffered him one of Folly's puppies\n\nA very smart beau\n\nIntroduced to Mrs. Jennings\n\nMrs. Jennings assured him directly that she should not stand\nupon ceremony\n\nMrs. Ferrars\n\nDrawing him a little aside\n\nIn a whisper\n\n\"You have heard, I suppose\"\n\nTalking over the business\n\n\"She put in the feather last night\"\n\nListening at the door\n\nBoth gained considerable amusement\n\n\"Of one thing I may assure you\"\n\nShowing her child to the housekeeper\n\nThe gardener's lamentations\n\nOpened a window-shutter\n\n\"I entreat you to stay\"\n\n\"I was formally dismissed\"\n\n\"I have entered many a shop to avoid your sight\"\n\n\"And see how the children go on\"\n\n\"I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is married\"\n\nIt _was_ Edward\n\n\"Everything in such respectable condition\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nThe family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex. Their estate\nwas large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of\ntheir property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so\nrespectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their\nsurrounding acquaintance. The late owner of this estate was a single\nman, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his\nlife, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister. But her\ndeath, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great\nalteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and\nreceived into his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood,\nthe legal inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he\nintended to bequeath it. In the society of his nephew and niece, and\ntheir children, the old Gentleman's days were comfortably spent. His\nattachment to them all increased. The constant attention of Mr. and\nMrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from\ninterest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid\ncomfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the\nchildren added a relish to his existence.\n\nBy a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son: by his present\nlady, three daughters. The son, a steady respectable young man, was\namply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large,\nand half of which devolved on him on his coming of age. By his own\nmarriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his\nwealth. To him therefore the succession to the Norland estate was not\nso really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent\nof what might arise to them from their father's inheriting that\nproperty, could be but small. Their mother had nothing, and their\nfather only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the\nremaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her\nchild, and he had only a life-interest in it.\n\nThe old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every\nother will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure. He was neither so\nunjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew; but\nhe left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the\nbequest. Mr. Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife\nand daughters than for himself or his son; but to his son, and his\nson's son, a child of four years old, it was secured, in such a way,\nas to leave to himself no power of providing for those who were most\ndear to him, and who most needed a provision by any charge on the\nestate, or by any sale of its valuable woods. The whole was tied up\nfor the benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his\nfather and mother at Norland, had so far gained on the affections of\nhis uncle, by such attractions as are by no means unusual in children\nof two or three years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest\ndesire of having his own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of\nnoise, as to outweigh all the value of all the attention which, for\nyears, he had received from his niece and her daughters. He meant not\nto be unkind, however, and, as a mark of his affection for the three\ngirls, he left them a thousand pounds a-piece.\n\nMr. Dashwood's disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper\nwas cheerful and sanguine; and he might reasonably hope to live many\nyears, and by living economically, lay by a considerable sum from the\nproduce of an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate\nimprovement. But the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was\nhis only one twelvemonth. He survived his uncle no longer; and ten\nthousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained\nfor his widow and daughters.\n\nHis son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him Mr.\nDashwood recommended, with all the strength and urgency which illness\ncould command, the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters.\n\nMr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the\nfamily; but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at\nsuch a time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to make\nthem comfortable. His father was rendered easy by such an assurance,\nand Mr. John Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there\nmight prudently be in his power to do for them.\n\n[Illustration: _His son's son, a child of four years old._]\n\nHe was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted\nand rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well\nrespected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of\nhis ordinary duties. Had he married a more amiable woman, he might\nhave been made still more respectable than he was: he might even have\nbeen made amiable himself; for he was very young when he married, and\nvery fond of his wife. But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature\nof himself; more narrow-minded and selfish.\n\nWhen he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to\nincrease the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand\npounds a-piece. He then really thought himself equal to it. The\nprospect of four thousand a-year, in addition to his present income,\nbesides the remaining half of his own mother's fortune, warmed his\nheart, and made him feel capable of generosity. \"Yes, he would give\nthem three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome! It would\nbe enough to make them completely easy. Three thousand pounds! he\ncould spare so considerable a sum with little inconvenience.\" He\nthought of it all day long, and for many days successively, and he did\nnot repent.\n\nNo sooner was his father's funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood,\nwithout sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law,\narrived with her child and their attendants. No one could dispute her\nright to come; the house was her husband's from the moment of his\nfather's decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the\ngreater, and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's situation, with only common\nfeelings, must have been highly unpleasing. But in _her_ mind there\nwas a sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any\noffence of the kind, by whomsoever given or received, was to her a\nsource of immovable disgust. Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a\nfavourite with any of her husband's family; but she had had no\nopportunity, till the present, of showing them with how little\nattention to the comfort of other people she could act when occasion\nrequired it.\n\nSo acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so\nearnestly did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the\narrival of the latter, she would have quitted the house for ever, had\nnot the entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on\nthe propriety of going, and her own tender love for all her three\nchildren determined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid\na breach with their brother.\n\nElinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed\na strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified\nher, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother, and\nenabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all,\nthat eagerness of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led\nto imprudence. She had an excellent heart; her disposition was\naffectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern\nthem: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn; and which\none of her sisters had resolved never to be taught.\n\nMarianne's abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to Elinor's.\nShe was sensible and clever; but eager in everything: her sorrows, her\njoys, could have no moderation. She was generous, amiable,\ninteresting: she was everything but prudent. The resemblance between\nher and her mother was strikingly great.\n\nElinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister's sensibility; but\nby Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cherished. They encouraged each\nother now in the violence of their affliction. The agony of grief\nwhich overpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought\nfor, was created again and again. They gave themselves up wholly to\ntheir sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection\nthat could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation\nin future. Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could\nstruggle, she could exert herself. She could consult with her brother,\ncould receive her sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with\nproper attention; and could strive to rouse her mother to similar\nexertion, and encourage her to similar forbearance.\n\nMargaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl;\nbut as she had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne's romance,\nwithout having much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair\nto equal her sisters at a more advanced period of life.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nMrs. John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of Norland; and her\nmother and sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors.\nAs such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; and by\nher husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody\nbeyond himself, his wife, and their child. He really pressed them,\nwith some earnestness, to consider Norland as their home; and, as no\nplan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as remaining there till she\ncould accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his\ninvitation was accepted.\n\nA continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former\ndelight, was exactly what suited her mind. In seasons of cheerfulness,\nno temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater\ndegree, that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness\nitself. But in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy,\nand as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy.\n\nMrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband intended\nto do for his sisters. To take three thousand pounds from the fortune\nof their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most\ndreadful degree. She begged him to think again on the subject. How\ncould he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child\ntoo, of so large a sum? And what possible claim could the Miss\nDashwoods, who were related to him only by half blood, which she\nconsidered as no relationship at all, have on his generosity to so\nlarge an amount. It was very well known that no affection was ever\nsupposed to exist between the children of any man by different\nmarriages; and why was he to ruin himself, and their poor little\nHarry, by giving away all his money to his half sisters?\n\n\"It was my father's last request to me,\" replied her husband, \"that I\nshould assist his widow and daughters.\"\n\n\"He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say; ten to one but he\nwas light-headed at the time. Had he been in his right senses, he\ncould not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away\nhalf your fortune from your own child.\"\n\n\"He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he only\nrequested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their\nsituation more comfortable than it was in his power to do. Perhaps it\nwould have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself. He could\nhardly suppose I should neglect them. But as he required the promise,\nI could not do less than give it; at least I thought so at the time.\nThe promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed. Something\nmust be done for them whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new\nhome.\"\n\n\"Well, then, _let_ something be done for them; but _that_ something\nneed not be three thousand pounds. Consider,\" she added, \"that when\nthe money is once parted with, it never can return. Your sisters will\nmarry, and it will be gone for ever. If, indeed, it could be restored\nto our poor little boy--\"\n\n\"Why, to be sure,\" said her husband, very gravely, \"that would make\ngreat difference. The time may come when Harry will regret that so\nlarge a sum was parted with. If he should have a numerous family, for\ninstance, it would be a very convenient addition.\"\n\n\"To be sure it would.\"\n\n\"Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were\ndiminished one half. Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious\nincrease to their fortunes!\"\n\n\"Oh! beyond anything great! What brother on earth would do half so\nmuch for his sisters, even if _really_ his sisters! And as it is--only\nhalf blood! But you have such a generous spirit!\"\n\n\"I would not wish to do any thing mean,\" he replied. \"One had rather,\non such occasions, do too much than too little. No one, at least, can\nthink I have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can\nhardly expect more.\"\n\n\"There is no knowing what _they_ may expect,\" said the lady, \"but we\nare not to think of their expectations: the question is, what you can\nafford to do.\"\n\n\"Certainly; and I think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds\na-piece. As it is, without any addition of mine, they will each have\nabout three thousand pounds on their mother's death--a very\ncomfortable fortune for any young woman.\"\n\n\"To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no\naddition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst\nthem. If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do\nnot, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of\nten thousand pounds.\"\n\n\"That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the\nwhole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother\nwhile she lives, rather than for them--something of the annuity kind I\nmean. My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself.\nA hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable.\"\n\nHis wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this\nplan.\n\n\"To be sure,\" said she, \"it is better than parting with fifteen\nhundred pounds at once. But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live\nfifteen years we shall be completely taken in.\"\n\n\"Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that\npurchase.\"\n\n\"Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when\nthere is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and\nhealthy, and hardly forty. An annuity is a very serious business; it\ncomes over and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it. You\nare not aware of what you are doing. I have known a great deal of the\ntrouble of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment of\nthree to old superannuated servants by my father's will, and it is\namazing how disagreeable she found it. Twice every year these\nannuities were to be paid; and then there was the trouble of getting\nit to them; and then one of them was said to have died, and afterwards\nit turned out to be no such thing. My mother was quite sick of it. Her\nincome was not her own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it;\nand it was the more unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money\nwould have been entirely at my mother's disposal, without any\nrestriction whatever. It has given me such an abhorrence of annuities,\nthat I am sure I would not pin myself down to the payment of one for\nall the world.\"\n\n\"It is certainly an unpleasant thing,\" replied Mr. Dashwood, \"to have\nthose kind of yearly drains on one's income. One's fortune, as your\nmother justly says, is _not_ one's own. To be tied down to the regular\npayment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it\ntakes away one's independence.\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it. They think\nthemselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises\nno gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever I did should be done at\nmy own discretion entirely. I would not bind myself to allow them any\nthing yearly. It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a\nhundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses.\"\n\n\"I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should\nbe no annuity in the case; whatever I may give them occasionally will\nbe of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they\nwould only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger\nincome, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the\nyear. It will certainly be much the best way. A present of fifty\npounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for\nmoney, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my\nfather.\"\n\n\"To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within\nmyself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at\nall. The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might\nbe reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a\ncomfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things,\nand sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever\nthey are in season. I'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther;\nindeed, it would be very strange and unreasonable if he did. Do but\nconsider, my dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your\nmother-in-law and her daughters may live on the interest of seven\nthousand pounds, besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the\ngirls, which brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of\ncourse, they will pay their mother for their board out of it.\nAltogether, they will have five hundred a-year amongst them, and what\non earth can four women want for more than that?--They will live so\ncheap! Their housekeeping will be nothing at all. They will have no\ncarriage, no horses, and hardly any servants; they will keep no\ncompany, and can have no expenses of any kind! Only conceive how\ncomfortable they will be! Five hundred a year! I am sure I cannot\nimagine how they will spend half of it; and as to your giving them\nmore, it is quite absurd to think of it. They will be much more able\nto give _you_ something.\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" said Mr. Dashwood, \"I believe you are perfectly right.\nMy father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than\nwhat you say. I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil\nmy engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you\nhave described. When my mother removes into another house my services\nshall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can. Some little\npresent of furniture too may be acceptable then.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" returned Mrs. John Dashwood. \"But, however, _one_ thing\nmust be considered. When your father and mother moved to Norland,\nthough the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and\nlinen was saved, and is now left to your mother. Her house will\ntherefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it.\"\n\n\"That is a material consideration undoubtedly. A valuable legacy\nindeed! And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant\naddition to our own stock here.\"\n\n\"Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what\nbelongs to this house. A great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for\nany place _they_ can ever afford to live in. But, however, so it is.\nYour father thought only of _them_ And I must say this: that you owe\nno particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we\nvery well know that if he could, he would have left almost everything\nin the world to _them._\"\n\nThis argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever of\ndecision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be\nabsolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the\nwidow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts\nas his own wife pointed out.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nMrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months; not from any\ndisinclination to move when the sight of every well known spot ceased\nto raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while; for when\nher spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other\nexertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy\nremembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her\ninquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for\nto remove far from that beloved spot was impossible. But she could\nhear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and\nease, and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier\njudgment rejected several houses as too large for their income, which\nher mother would have approved.\n\n[Illustration: \"_I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it._\"]\n\nMrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise\non the part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last\nearthly reflections. She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no\nmore than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her\ndaughters' sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was\npersuaded that a much smaller provision than 7000L would support her\nin affluence. For their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his own\nheart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to\nhis merit before, in believing him incapable of generosity. His\nattentive behaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that\ntheir welfare was dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied\non the liberality of his intentions.\n\nThe contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for\nher daughter-in-law, was very much increased by the farther knowledge\nof her character, which half a year's residence in her family\nafforded; and perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or\nmaternal affection on the side of the former, the two ladies might\nhave found it impossible to have lived together so long, had not a\nparticular circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility,\naccording to the opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters'\ncontinuance at Norland.\n\nThis circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and\nthe brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentlemanlike and pleasing young\nman, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister's\nestablishment at Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of\nhis time there.\n\nSome mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of\ninterest, for Edward Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died\nvery rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence,\nfor, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the\nwill of his mother. But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either\nconsideration. It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable,\nthat he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the partiality.\nIt was contrary to every doctrine of her's that difference of fortune\nshould keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of\ndisposition; and that Elinor's merit should not be acknowledged by\nevery one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.\n\nEdward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any\npeculiar graces of person or address. He was not handsome, and his\nmanners required intimacy to make them pleasing. He was too diffident\nto do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome,\nhis behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart.\nHis understanding was good, and his education had given it solid\nimprovement. But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to\nanswer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him\ndistinguished as--they hardly knew what. They wanted him to make a\nfine figure in the world in some manner or other. His mother wished to\ninterest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to\nsee him connected with some of the great men of the day. Mrs. John\nDashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these\nsuperior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her\nambition to see him driving a barouche. But Edward had no turn for\ngreat men or barouches. All his wishes centered in domestic comfort\nand the quiet of private life. Fortunately he had a younger brother\nwho was more promising.\n\nEdward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged\nmuch of Mrs. Dashwood's attention; for she was, at that time, in such\naffliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects. She saw\nonly that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. He\ndid not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed\nconversation. She was first called to observe and approve him farther,\nby a reflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on the\ndifference between him and his sister. It was a contrast which\nrecommended him most forcibly to her mother.\n\n\"It is enough,\" said she; \"to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough.\nIt implies everything amiable. I love him already.\"\n\n\"I think you will like him,\" said Elinor, \"when you know more of him.\"\n\n\"Like him!\" replied her mother with a smile. \"I feel no sentiment of\napprobation inferior to love.\"\n\n\"You may esteem him.\"\n\n\"I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him. Her manners\nwere attaching, and soon banished his reserve. She speedily\ncomprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for Elinor\nperhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his\nworth: and even that quietness of manner, which militated against all\nher established ideas of what a young man's address ought to be, was\nno longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his\ntemper affectionate.\n\nNo sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to\nElinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and\nlooked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching.\n\n\"In a few months, my dear Marianne,\" said she, \"Elinor will, in all\nprobability be settled for life. We shall miss her; but _she_ will be\nhappy.\"\n\n\"Oh! Mamma, how shall we do without her?\"\n\n\"My love, it will be scarcely a separation. We shall live within a few\nmiles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives. You will\ngain a brother--a real, affectionate brother. I have the highest\nopinion in the world of Edward's heart. But you look grave, Marianne;\ndo you disapprove your sister's choice?\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Marianne, \"I may consider it with some surprise.\nEdward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet--he is not\nthe kind of young man; there is something wanting--his figure is not\nstriking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man\nwho could seriously attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit,\nthat fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides\nall this, I am afraid, Mamma, he has no real taste. Music seems\nscarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor's drawings very\nmuch, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their\nworth. It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while\nshe draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as\na lover, not as a connoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters must be\nunited. I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every\npoint coincide with my own. He must enter into all my feelings; the\nsame books, the same music must charm us both. Oh! mama, how\nspiritless, how tame was Edward's manner in reading to us last night!\nI felt for my sister most severely. Yet she bore it with so much\ncomposure, she seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly keep my\nseat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost\ndriven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such\ndreadful indifference!\"\n\n\"He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant\nprose. I thought so at the time; but you _would_ give him Cowper.\"\n\n\"Nay, Mamma, if he is not to be animated by Cowper!--but we must allow\nfor difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she\nmay overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broke _my_\nheart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility.\nMama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I\nshall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He\nmust have all Edward's virtues, and his person and manners must\nornament his goodness with every possible charm.\"\n\n\"Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early in\nlife to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate\nthan your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your\ndestiny be different from her's!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\n\"What a pity it is, Elinor,\" said Marianne, \"that Edward should have\nno taste for drawing.\"\n\n\"No taste for drawing!\" replied Elinor, \"why should you think so? He\ndoes not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the\nperformances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means\ndeficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of\nimproving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he\nwould have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such\nmatters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on\nany picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste,\nwhich in general direct him perfectly right.\"\n\nMarianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but\nthe kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by\nthe drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous\ndelight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet,\nthough smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister\nfor that blind partiality to Edward which produced it.\n\n\"I hope, Marianne,\" continued Elinor, \"you do not consider him as\ndeficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot,\nfor your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were\nyour opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him.\"\n\nMarianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of\nher sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was\nimpossible. At length she replied:\n\n\"Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing\nequal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many\nopportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his\ninclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion\nin the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that\nis worthy and amiable.\"\n\n\"I am sure,\" replied Elinor, with a smile, \"that his dearest friends\ncould not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not\nperceive how you could express yourself more warmly.\"\n\nMarianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.\n\n\"Of his sense and his goodness,\" continued Elinor, \"no one can, I\nthink, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in\nunreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his\nprinciples can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps\nhim silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth.\nBut of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from\npeculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I\nhave been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been\nwholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I\nhave seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard\nhis opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole,\nI venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of\nbooks exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just\nand correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every\nrespect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person.\nAt first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person\ncan hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which\nare uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is\nperceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really\nhandsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne?\"\n\n\"I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When\nyou tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection\nin his face, than I now do in his heart.\"\n\nElinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she\nhad been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood\nvery high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but\nshe required greater certainty of it to make Marianne's conviction of\ntheir attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her\nmother conjectured one moment, they believed the next--that with them,\nto wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain\nthe real state of the case to her sister.\n\n\"I do not attempt to deny,\" said she, \"that I think very highly of\nhim--that I greatly esteem, that I like him.\"\n\nMarianne here burst forth with indignation--\n\n\"Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than\ncold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I\nwill leave the room this moment.\"\n\nElinor could not help laughing. \"Excuse me,\" said she; \"and be assured\nthat I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my\nown feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared;\nbelieve them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the\nsuspicion--the hope--of his affection for me may warrant, without\nimprudence or folly. But farther than this you must not believe. I am\nby no means assured of his regard for me. There are moments when the\nextent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known,\nyou cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own\npartiality, by believing or calling it more than it is. In my heart I\nfeel little--scarcely any doubt of his preference. But there are other\npoints to be considered besides his inclination. He is very far from\nbeing independent. What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from\nFanny's occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never\nbeen disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if\nEdward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in\nhis way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a\ngreat fortune or high rank.\"\n\nMarianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother\nand herself had outstripped the truth.\n\n\"And you really are not engaged to him!\" said she. \"Yet it certainly\nsoon will happen. But two advantages will proceed from this delay. I\nshall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity\nof improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must\nbe so indispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh! if he\nshould be so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw\nhimself, how delightful it would be!\"\n\nElinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not\nconsider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as\nMarianne had believed it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about\nhim which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something\nalmost as unpromising. A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel\nit, need not give him more than inquietude. It would not be likely to\nproduce that dejection of mind which frequently attended him. A more\nreasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation which\nforbade the indulgence of his affection. She knew that his mother\nneither behaved to him so as to make his home comfortable at present,\nnor to give him any assurance that he might form a home for himself,\nwithout strictly attending to her views for his aggrandizement. With\nsuch a knowledge as this, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on\nthe subject. She was far from depending on that result of his\npreference of her, which her mother and sister still considered as\ncertain. Nay, the longer they were together the more doubtful seemed\nthe nature of his regard; and sometimes, for a few painful minutes,\nshe believed it to be no more than friendship.\n\nBut, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when\nperceived by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time,\n(which was still more common,) to make her uncivil. She took the first\nopportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking\nto her so expressively of her brother's great expectations, of Mrs.\nFerrars's resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the\ndanger attending any young woman who attempted to _draw him in_, that\nMrs. Dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to\nbe calm. She gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and\ninstantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the\ninconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor\nshould not be exposed another week to such insinuations.\n\nIn this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the\npost, which contained a proposal particularly well timed. It was the\noffer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of\nher own, a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire. The\nletter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit\nof friendly accommodation. He understood that she was in need of a\ndwelling; and though the house he now offered her was merely a\ncottage, he assured her that everything should be done to it which she\nmight think necessary, if the situation pleased her. He earnestly\npressed her, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to\ncome with her daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own\nresidence, from whence she might judge, herself, whether Barton\nCottage, for the houses were in the same parish, could, by any\nalteration, be made comfortable to her. He seemed really anxious to\naccommodate them and the whole of his letter was written in so\nfriendly a style as could not fail of giving pleasure to his cousin;\nmore especially at a moment when she was suffering under the cold and\nunfeeling behaviour of her nearer connections. She needed no time for\ndeliberation or inquiry. Her resolution was formed as she read. The\nsituation of Barton, in a county so far distant from Sussex as\nDevonshire, which, but a few hours before, would have been a\nsufficient objection to outweigh every possible advantage belonging to\nthe place, was now its first recommendation. To quit the neighbourhood\nof Norland was no longer an evil; it was an object of desire; it was a\nblessing, in comparison of the misery of continuing her\ndaughter-in-law's guest; and to remove for ever from that beloved\nplace would be less painful than to inhabit or visit it while such a\nwoman was its mistress. She instantly wrote Sir John Middleton her\nacknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance of his proposal;\nand then hastened to show both letters to her daughters, that she\nmight be secure of their approbation before her answer were sent.\n\nElinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle\nat some distance from Norland, than immediately amongst their present\nacquaintance. On _that_ head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose\nher mother's intention of removing into Devonshire. The house, too, as\ndescribed by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so\nuncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on either\npoint; and, therefore, though it was not a plan which brought any\ncharm to her fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of\nNorland beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother\nfrom sending a letter of acquiescence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nNo sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged\nherself in the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife\nthat she was provided with a house, and should incommode them no\nlonger than till every thing were ready for her inhabiting it. They\nheard her with surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her\nhusband civilly hoped that she would not be settled far from Norland.\nShe had great satisfaction in replying that she was going into\nDevonshire. Edward turned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and,\nin a voice of surprise and concern, which required no explanation to\nher, repeated, \"Devonshire! Are you, indeed, going there? So far from\nhence! And to what part of it?\" She explained the situation. It was\nwithin four miles northward of Exeter.\n\n\"It is but a cottage,\" she continued, \"but I hope to see many of my\nfriends in it. A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends\nfind no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will\nfind none in accommodating them.\"\n\nShe concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John\nDashwood to visit her at Barton; and to Edward she gave one with still\ngreater affection. Though her late conversation with her\ndaughter-in-law had made her resolve on remaining at Norland no longer\nthan was unavoidable, it had not produced the smallest effect on her\nin that point to which it principally tended. To separate Edward and\nElinor was as far from being her object as ever; and she wished to\nshow Mrs. John Dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her brother,\nhow totally she disregarded her disapprobation of the match.\n\nMr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly\nsorry he was that she had taken a house at such a distance from\nNorland as to prevent his being of any service to her in removing her\nfurniture. He really felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for\nthe very exertion to which he had limited the performance of his\npromise to his father was by this arrangement rendered impracticable.\nThe furniture was all sent around by water. It chiefly consisted of\nhousehold linen, plate, china, and books, with a handsome pianoforte\nof Marianne's. Mrs. John Dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh:\nshe could not help feeling it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood's income\nwould be so trifling in comparison with their own, she should have any\nhandsome article of furniture.\n\nMrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready\nfurnished, and she might have immediate possession. No difficulty\narose on either side in the agreement; and she waited only for the\ndisposal of her effects at Norland, and to determine her future\nhousehold, before she set off for the west; and this, as she was\nexceedingly rapid in the performance of everything that interested\nher, was soon done. The horses which were left her by her husband had\nbeen sold soon after his death, and an opportunity now offering of\ndisposing of her carriage, she agreed to sell that likewise at the\nearnest advice of her eldest daughter. For the comfort of her\nchildren, had she consulted only her own wishes, she would have kept\nit; but the discretion of Elinor prevailed. _Her_ wisdom too limited\nthe number of their servants to three; two maids and a man, with whom\nthey were speedily provided from amongst those who had formed their\nestablishment at Norland.\n\nThe man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into\nDevonshire, to prepare the house for their mistress's arrival; for as\nLady Middleton was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred\ngoing directly to the cottage to being a visitor at Barton Park; and\nshe relied so undoubtingly on Sir John's description of the house, as\nto feel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her\nown. Her eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from\ndiminution by the evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the\nprospect of her removal; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted\nto be concealed under a cold invitation to her to defer her departure.\nNow was the time when her son-in-law's promise to his father might\nwith particular propriety be fulfilled. Since he had neglected to do\nit on first coming to the estate, their quitting his house might be\nlooked on as the most suitable period for its accomplishment. But Mrs.\nDashwood began shortly to give over every hope of the kind, and to be\nconvinced, from the general drift of his discourse, that his\nassistance extended no farther than their maintenance for six months\nat Norland. He so frequently talked of the increasing expenses of\nhousekeeping, and of the perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man\nof any consequence in the world was beyond calculation exposed to,\nthat he seemed rather to stand in need of more money himself than to\nhave any design of giving money away.\n\nIn a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir John Middleton's\nfirst letter to Norland, every thing was so far settled in their\nfuture abode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters to begin\ntheir journey.\n\nMany were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so\nmuch beloved. \"Dear, dear Norland!\" said Marianne, as she wandered\nalone before the house, on the last evening of their being there;\n\"when shall I cease to regret you!--when learn to feel a home\nelsewhere! Oh! happy house, could you know what I suffer in now\nviewing you from this spot, from whence perhaps I may view you no\nmore! And you, ye well-known trees!--but you will continue the same.\nNo leaf will decay because we are removed, nor any branch become\nmotionless although we can observe you no longer! No; you will\ncontinue the same; unconscious of the pleasure or the regret you\noccasion, and insensible of any change in those who walk under your\nshade! But who will remain to enjoy you?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nThe first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a\ndisposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant. But as they\ndrew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a\ncountry which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a\nview of Barton Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. It\nwas a pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture. After\nwinding along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house. A\nsmall green court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat\nwicket gate admitted them into it.\n\nAs a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact;\nbut as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the\nroof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were\nthe walls covered with honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly\nthrough the house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance\nwas a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were\nthe offices and the stairs. Four bedrooms and two garrets formed the\nrest of the house. It had not been built many years and was in good\nrepair. In comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed!--but\nthe tears which recollection called forth as they entered the house\nwere soon dried away. They were cheered by the joy of the servants on\ntheir arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear\nhappy. It was very early in September; the season was fine, and from\nfirst seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they\nreceived an impression in its favour which was of material service in\nrecommending it to their lasting approbation.\n\nThe situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately\nbehind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open\ndowns, the others cultivated and woody. The village of Barton was\nchiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the\ncottage windows. The prospect in front was more extensive; it\ncommanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country\nbeyond. The hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley\nin that direction; under another name, and in another course, it\nbranched out again between two of the steepest of them.\n\nWith the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the\nwhole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered\nmany additions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was\na delight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to\nsupply all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments. \"As\nfor the house itself, to be sure,\" said she, \"it is too small for our\nfamily, but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the\npresent, as it is too late in the year for improvements. Perhaps in\nthe spring, if I have plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we may\nthink about building. These parlors are both too small for such\nparties of our friends as I hope to see often collected here; and I\nhave some thoughts of throwing the passage into one of them with\nperhaps a part of the other, and so leave the remainder of that other\nfor an entrance; this, with a new drawing room which may be easily\nadded, and a bed-chamber and garret above, will make it a very snug\nlittle cottage. I could wish the stairs were handsome. But one must\nnot expect every thing; though I suppose it would be no difficult\nmatter to widen them. I shall see how much I am before-hand with the\nworld in the spring, and we will plan our improvements accordingly.\"\n\nIn the mean time, till all these alterations could be made from the\nsavings of an income of five hundred a-year by a woman who never\nsaved in her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the\nhouse as it was; and each of them was busy in arranging their\nparticular concerns, and endeavoring, by placing around them books and\nother possessions, to form themselves a home. Marianne's pianoforte\nwas unpacked and properly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were\naffixed to the walls of their sitting room.\n\nIn such employments as these they were interrupted soon after\nbreakfast the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called\nto welcome them to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation from\nhis own house and garden in which theirs might at present be\ndeficient. Sir John Middleton was a good looking man about forty. He\nhad formerly visited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young\ncousins to remember him. His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured;\nand his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. Their\narrival seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to\nbe an object of real solicitude to him. He said much of his earnest\ndesire of their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and\npressed them so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they\nwere better settled at home, that, though his entreaties were carried\nto a point of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give\noffence. His kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour\nafter he left them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit\narrived from the park, which was followed before the end of the day by\na present of game. He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their\nletters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the\nsatisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day.\n\nLady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her\nintention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon as she could be assured\nthat her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was\nanswered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced\nto them the next day.\n\n[Illustration: _So shy before company._]\n\nThey were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of\ntheir comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her\nappearance was favourable to their wishes. Lady Middleton was not more\nthan six or seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall\nand striking, and her address graceful. Her manners had all the\nelegance which her husband's wanted. But they would have been improved\nby some share of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long\nenough to detract something from their first admiration, by showing\nthat, though perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had\nnothing to say for herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or\nremark.\n\nConversation however was not wanted, for Sir John was very chatty, and\nLady Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her\ntheir eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which\nmeans there was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in\ncase of extremity, for they had to enquire his name and age, admire\nhis beauty, and ask him questions which his mother answered for him,\nwhile he hung about her and held down his head, to the great surprise\nof her ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as\nhe could make noise enough at home. On every formal visit a child\nought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse. In the\npresent case it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were\nmost like his father or mother, and in what particular he resembled\neither, for of course every body differed, and every body was\nastonished at the opinion of the others.\n\nAn opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods of debating on\nthe rest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house\nwithout securing their promise of dining at the park the next day.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nBarton Park was about half a mile from the cottage. The ladies had\npassed near it in their way along the valley, but it was screened from\ntheir view at home by the projection of a hill. The house was large\nand handsome; and the Middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality\nand elegance. The former was for Sir John's gratification, the latter\nfor that of his lady. They were scarcely ever without some friends\nstaying with them in the house, and they kept more company of every\nkind than any other family in the neighbourhood. It was necessary to\nthe happiness of both; for however dissimilar in temper and outward\nbehaviour, they strongly resembled each other in that total want of\ntalent and taste which confined their employments, unconnected with\nsuch as society produced, within a very narrow compass. Sir John was a\nsportsman, Lady Middleton a mother. He hunted and shot, and she\nhumoured her children; and these were their only resources. Lady\nMiddleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all\nthe year round, while Sir John's independent employments were in\nexistence only half the time. Continual engagements at home and\nabroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies of nature and\neducation; supported the good spirits of Sir John, and gave exercise\nto the good breeding of his wife.\n\nLady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and of\nall her domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her\ngreatest enjoyment in any of their parties. But Sir John's\nsatisfaction in society was much more real; he delighted in collecting\nabout him more young people than his house would hold, and the noisier\nthey were the better was he pleased. He was a blessing to all the\njuvenile part of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever\nforming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in\nwinter his private balls were numerous enough for any young lady who\nwas not suffering under the insatiable appetite of fifteen.\n\nThe arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy\nto him, and in every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants\nhe had now procured for his cottage at Barton. The Miss Dashwoods were\nyoung, pretty, and unaffected. It was enough to secure his good\nopinion; for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to\nmake her mind as captivating as her person. The friendliness of his\ndisposition made him happy in accommodating those, whose situation\nmight be considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate. In\nshowing kindness to his cousins therefore he had the real satisfaction\nof a good heart; and in settling a family of females only in his\ncottage, he had all the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a sportsman,\nthough he esteems only those of his sex who are sportsmen likewise, is\nnot often desirous of encouraging their taste by admitting them to a\nresidence within his own manor.\n\nMrs. Dashwood and her daughters were met at the door of the house by\nSir John, who welcomed them to Barton Park with unaffected sincerity;\nand as he attended them to the drawing room repeated to the young\nladies the concern which the same subject had drawn from him the day\nbefore, at being unable to get any smart young men to meet them. They\nwould see, he said, only one gentleman there besides himself; a\nparticular friend who was staying at the park, but who was neither\nvery young nor very gay. He hoped they would all excuse the smallness\nof the party, and could assure them it should never happen so again.\nHe had been to several families that morning in hopes of procuring\nsome addition to their number, but it was moonlight and every body was\nfull of engagements. Luckily Lady Middleton's mother had arrived at\nBarton within the last hour, and as she was a very cheerful agreeable\nwoman, he hoped the young ladies would not find it so very dull as\nthey might imagine. The young ladies, as well as their mother, were\nperfectly satisfied with having two entire strangers of the party, and\nwished for no more.\n\nMrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton's mother, was a good-humoured, merry,\nfat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and\nrather vulgar. She was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner\nwas over had said many witty things on the subject of lovers and\nhusbands; hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex,\nand pretended to see them blush whether they did or not. Marianne was\nvexed at it for her sister's sake, and turned her eyes towards Elinor\nto see how she bore these attacks, with an earnestness which gave\nElinor far more pain than could arise from such common-place raillery\nas Mrs. Jennings's.\n\nColonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed no more adapted by\nresemblance of manner to be his friend, than Lady Middleton was to be\nhis wife, or Mrs. Jennings to be Lady Middleton's mother. He was\nsilent and grave. His appearance however was not unpleasing, in spite\nof his being in the opinion of Marianne and Margaret an absolute old\nbachelor, for he was on the wrong side of five and thirty; but though\nhis face was not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his\naddress was particularly gentlemanlike.\n\nThere was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them as\ncompanions to the Dashwoods; but the cold insipidity of Lady Middleton\nwas so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity\nof Colonel Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir John and his\nmother-in-law was interesting. Lady Middleton seemed to be roused to\nenjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children after\ndinner, who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to\nevery kind of discourse except what related to themselves.\n\nIn the evening, as Marianne was discovered to be musical, she was\ninvited to play. The instrument was unlocked, every body prepared to\nbe charmed, and Marianne, who sang very well, at their request went\nthrough the chief of the songs which Lady Middleton had brought into\nthe family on her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since in\nthe same position on the pianoforte, for her ladyship had celebrated\nthat event by giving up music, although by her mother's account, she\nhad played extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it.\n\nMarianne's performance was highly applauded. Sir John was loud in his\nadmiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation\nwith the others while every song lasted. Lady Middleton frequently\ncalled him to order, wondered how any one's attention could be\ndiverted from music for a moment, and asked Marianne to sing a\nparticular song which Marianne had just finished. Colonel Brandon\nalone, of all the party, heard her without being in raptures. He paid\nher only the compliment of attention; and she felt a respect for him\non the occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by their\nshameless want of taste. His pleasure in music, though it amounted not\nto that ecstatic delight which alone could sympathize with her own,\nwas estimable when contrasted against the horrible insensibility of\nthe others; and she was reasonable enough to allow that a man of five\nand thirty might well have outlived all acuteness of feeling and every\nexquisite power of enjoyment. She was perfectly disposed to make every\nallowance for the colonel's advanced state of life which humanity\nrequired.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nMrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure. She had only two\ndaughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and\nshe had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the\nworld. In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as\nfar as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting\nweddings among all the young people of her acquaintance. She was\nremarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the\nadvantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady\nby insinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind of\ndiscernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton decisively to\npronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne\nDashwood. She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening\nof their being together, from his listening so attentively while she\nsang to them; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons'\ndining at the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to\nher again. It must be so. She was perfectly convinced of it. It would\nbe an excellent match, for _he_ was rich, and _she_ was handsome. Mrs.\nJennings had been anxious to see Colonel Brandon well married, ever\nsince her connection with Sir John first brought him to her knowledge;\nand she was always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty\ngirl.\n\nThe immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for\nit supplied her with endless jokes against them both. At the park she\nlaughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne. To the former\nher raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself,\nperfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first\nincomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew\nwhether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence,\nfor she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel's\nadvanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor.\n\nMrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than\nherself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy\nof her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability\nof wishing to throw ridicule on his age.\n\n\"But at least, Mamma, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation,\nthough you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. Colonel Brandon\nis certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be\n_my_ father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must\nhave long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous!\nWhen is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not\nprotect him?\"\n\n\"Infirmity!\" said Elinor, \"do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I can\neasily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my\nmother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use\nof his limbs!\"\n\n\"Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the\ncommonest infirmity of declining life?\"\n\n\"My dearest child,\" said her mother, laughing, \"at this rate you must\nbe in continual terror of _my_ decay; and it must seem to you a\nmiracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty.\"\n\n\"Mamma, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel\nBrandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of\nlosing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer.\nBut thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Elinor, \"thirty-five and seventeen had better not have\nany thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any\nchance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I\nshould not think Colonel Brandon's being thirty-five any objection to\nhis marrying _her_ .\"\n\n\"A woman of seven and twenty,\" said Marianne, after pausing a moment,\n\"can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be\nuncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might\nbring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the\nprovision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman\ntherefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of\nconvenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be\nno marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem\nonly a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at\nthe expense of the other.\"\n\n\"It would be impossible, I know,\" replied Elinor, \"to convince you\nthat a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five\nanything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to\nher. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to\nthe constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced\nto complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic\nfeel in one of his shoulders.\"\n\n\"But he talked of flannel waistcoats,\" said Marianne; \"and with me a\nflannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps,\nrheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and\nthe feeble.\"\n\n\"Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him\nhalf so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to\nyou in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?\"\n\nSoon after this, upon Elinor's leaving the room, \"Mamma,\" said\nMarianne, \"I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot\nconceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. We have now\nbeen here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but\nreal indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay. What else\ncan detain him at Norland?\"\n\n\"Had you any idea of his coming so soon?\" said Mrs. Dashwood. \"I had\nnone. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the\nsubject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want\nof pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of\nhis coming to Barton. Does Elinor expect him already?\"\n\n\"I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must.\"\n\n\"I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her\nyesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bed-chamber, she\nobserved that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not\nlikely that the room would be wanted for some time.\"\n\n\"How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it! But the whole of\ntheir behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how\ncomposed were their last adieus! How languid their conversation the\nlast evening of their being together! In Edward's farewell there was\nno distinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an\naffectionate brother to both. Twice did I leave them purposely\ntogether in the course of the last morning, and each time did he most\nunaccountably follow me out of the room. And Elinor, in quitting\nNorland and Edward, cried not as I did. Even now her self-command is\ninvariable. When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try to\navoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nThe Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to\nthemselves. The house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding\nthem, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had\ngiven to Norland half its charms were engaged in again with far\ngreater enjoyment than Norland had been able to afford, since the loss\nof their father. Sir John Middleton, who called on them every day for\nthe first fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much\noccupation at home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them\nalways employed.\n\nTheir visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for, in\nspite of Sir John's urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the\nneighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at\ntheir service, the independence of Mrs. Dashwood's spirit overcame the\nwish of society for her children; and she was resolute in declining to\nvisit any family beyond the distance of a walk. There were but few who\ncould be so classed; and it was not all of them that were attainable.\nAbout a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding\nvalley of Allenham, which issued from that of Barton, as formerly\ndescribed, the girls had, in one of their earliest walks, discovered\nan ancient respectable looking mansion which, by reminding them a\nlittle of Norland, interested their imagination and made them wish to\nbe better acquainted with it. But they learnt, on enquiry, that its\npossessor, an elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately\ntoo infirm to mix with the world, and never stirred from home.\n\nThe whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks. The high\ndowns which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to\nseek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy\nalternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their\nsuperior beauties; and towards one of these hills did Marianne and\nMargaret one memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the\npartial sunshine of a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the\nconfinement which the settled rain of the two preceding days had\noccasioned. The weather was not tempting enough to draw the two others\nfrom their pencil and their book, in spite of Marianne's declaration\nthat the day would be lastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud\nwould be drawn off from their hills; and the two girls set off\ntogether.\n\nThey gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at\nevery glimpse of blue sky; and when they caught in their faces the\nanimating gales of a high south-westerly wind, they pitied the fears\nwhich had prevented their mother and Elinor from sharing such\ndelightful sensations.\n\n\"Is there a felicity in the world,\" said Marianne, \"superior to\nthis?--Margaret, we will walk here at least two hours.\"\n\nMargaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind,\nresisting it with laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer,\nwhen suddenly the clouds united over their heads, and a driving rain\nset full in their face. Chagrined and surprised, they were obliged,\nthough unwillingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their\nown house. One consolation however remained for them, to which the\nexigence of the moment gave more than usual propriety,--it was that of\nrunning with all possible speed down the steep side of the hill which\nled immediately to their garden gate.\n\nThey set off. Marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step\nbrought her suddenly to the ground; and Margaret, unable to stop\nherself to assist her, was involuntarily hurried along, and reached\nthe bottom in safety.\n\nA gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was\npassing up the hill and within a few yards of Marianne, when her\naccident happened. He put down his gun and ran to her assistance. She\nhad raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in\nher fall, and she was scarcely able to stand. The gentleman offered\nhis services; and perceiving that her modesty declined what her\nsituation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without farther\ndelay, and carried her down the hill. Then passing through the garden,\nthe gate of which had been left open by Margaret, he bore her directly\ninto the house, whither Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his\nhold till he had seated her in a chair in the parlour.\n\nElinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and\nwhile the eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a\nsecret admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he\napologized for his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so\nfrank and so graceful that his person, which was uncommonly handsome,\nreceived additional charms from his voice and expression. Had he been\neven old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs.\nDashwood would have been secured by any act of attention to her child;\nbut the influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to\nthe action which came home to her feelings.\n\nShe thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address\nwhich always attended her, invited him to be seated. But this he\ndeclined, as he was dirty and wet. Mrs. Dashwood then begged to know\nto whom she was obliged. His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his\npresent home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him\nthe honour of calling tomorrow to enquire after Miss Dashwood. The\nhonour was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself\nstill more interesting, in the midst of a heavy rain.\n\nHis manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the\ntheme of general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised\nagainst Marianne received particular spirit from his exterior\nattractions. Marianne herself had seen less of his person than the\nrest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting\nher up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their\nentering the house. But she had seen enough of him to join in all the\nadmiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her\npraise. His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn\nfor the hero of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the\nhouse with so little previous formality, there was a rapidity of\nthought which particularly recommended the action to her. Every\ncircumstance belonging to him was interesting. His name was good, his\nresidence was in their favourite village, and she soon found out that\nof all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming. Her\nimagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a\nsprained ankle was disregarded.\n\nSir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather\nthat morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne's accident\nbeing related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any\ngentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allenham.\n\n\"Willoughby!\" cried Sir John; \"what, is _he_ in the country? That is\ngood news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on\nThursday.\"\n\n\"You know him then,\" said Mrs. Dashwood.\n\n\"Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year.\"\n\n\"And what sort of a young man is he?\"\n\n\"As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent\nshot, and there is not a bolder rider in England.\"\n\n\"And is that all you can say for him?\" cried Marianne, indignantly.\n\"But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his\npursuits, his talents, and genius?\"\n\nSir John was rather puzzled.\n\n\"Upon my soul,\" said he, \"I do not know much about him as to all\n_that._ But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the\nnicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with\nhim today?\"\n\nBut Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr.\nWilloughby's pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his\nmind.\n\n\"But who is he?\" said Elinor. \"Where does he come from? Has he a house\nat Allenham?\"\n\nOn this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he\ntold them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the\ncountry; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady\nat Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he\nwas to inherit; adding, \"Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I\ncan tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own\nin Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up\nto my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss\nMarianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will\nbe jealous, if she does not take care.\"\n\n\"I do not believe,\" said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile,\n\"that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of\n_my_ daughters towards what you call _catching him._ It is not an\nemployment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with\nus, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what\nyou say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose\nacquaintance will not be ineligible.\"\n\n\"He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived,\" repeated\nSir John. \"I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he\ndanced from eight o'clock till four, without once sitting down.\"\n\n\"Did he indeed?\" cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, \"and with\nelegance, with spirit?\"\n\n\"Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert.\"\n\n\"That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever\nbe his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and\nleave him no sense of fatigue.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye, I see how it will be,\" said Sir John, \"I see how it will\nbe. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor\nBrandon.\"\n\n\"That is an expression, Sir John,\" said Marianne, warmly, \"which I\nparticularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit\nis intended; and 'setting one's cap at a man,' or 'making a conquest,'\nare the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and\nif their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago\ndestroyed all its ingenuity.\"\n\nSir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as\nheartily as if he did, and then replied--\n\n\"Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other.\nPoor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth\nsetting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling\nabout and spraining of ankles.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nMarianne's preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision,\nstyled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to\nmake his personal enquiries. He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with\nmore than politeness; with a kindness which Sir John's account of him\nand her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the\nvisit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection,\nand domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced\nhim. Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview\nto be convinced.\n\nMiss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a\nremarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form,\nthough not so correct as her sister's, in having the advantage of\nheight, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in\nthe common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was\nless violently outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very brown,\nbut, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant;\nher features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in\nher eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an\neagerness, which could hardily be seen without delight. From\nWilloughby their expression was at first held back, by the\nembarrassment which the remembrance of his assistance created. But\nwhen this passed away, when her spirits became collected, when she saw\nthat to the perfect good-breeding of the gentleman, he united\nfrankness and vivacity, and above all, when she heard him declare,\nthat of music and dancing he was passionately fond, she gave him such\na look of approbation as secured the largest share of his discourse to\nherself for the rest of his stay.\n\nIt was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her\nto talk. She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and\nshe had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily\ndiscovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and\nthat it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that\nrelated to either. Encouraged by this to a further examination of his\nopinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her\nfavourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so\nrapturous a delight, that any young man of five and twenty must have\nbeen insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the\nexcellence of such works, however disregarded before. Their taste was\nstrikingly alike. The same books, the same passages were idolized by\neach; or if any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no\nlonger than till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her\neyes could be displayed. He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught\nall her enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they\nconversed with the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance.\n\n\"Well, Marianne,\" said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, \"for _one_\nmorning I think you have done pretty well. You have already\nascertained Mr. Willoughby's opinion in almost every matter of\nimportance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are\ncertain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have\nreceived every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper.\nBut how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such\nextraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? You will soon\nhave exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice to\nexplain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages,\nand then you can have nothing farther to ask.\"\n\n\"Elinor,\" cried Marianne, \"is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so\nscanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too\nhappy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of\ndecorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been\nreserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful:--had I talked only of the\nweather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this\nreproach would have been spared.\"\n\n\"My love,\" said her mother, \"you must not be offended with Elinor--she\nwas only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of\nwishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new\nfriend.\" Marianne was softened in a moment.\n\nWilloughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their\nacquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He\ncame to them every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his\nexcuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day\ngave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had\nceased to be possible, by Marianne's perfect recovery. She was\nconfined for some days to the house; but never had any confinement\nbeen less irksome. Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick\nimagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was\nexactly formed to engage Marianne's heart, for with all this, he\njoined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind\nwhich was now roused and increased by the example of her own, and\nwhich recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else.\n\nHis society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They read,\nthey talked, they sang together; his musical talents were\nconsiderable; and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which\nEdward had unfortunately wanted.\n\nIn Mrs. Dashwood's estimation he was as faultless as in Marianne's;\nand Elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he\nstrongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too\nmuch what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons\nor circumstances. In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other\npeople, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of\nundivided attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too\neasily the forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution\nwhich Elinor could not approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne\ncould say in its support.\n\nMarianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized\nher at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her\nideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable. Willoughby was\nall that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour and in every\nbrighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour\ndeclared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his abilities\nwere strong.\n\n[Illustration: _They sang together._]\n\nHer mother too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their\nmarriage had been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led before\nthe end of a week to hope and expect it; and secretly to congratulate\nherself on having gained two such sons-in-law as Edward and\nWilloughby.\n\nColonel Brandon's partiality for Marianne, which had so\nearly been discovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to\nElinor, when it ceased to be noticed by them. Their attention and wit\nwere drawn off to his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which the\nother had incurred before any partiality arose, was removed when his\nfeelings began really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to\nsensibility. Elinor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that\nthe sentiments which Mrs. Jennings had assigned him for her own\nsatisfaction, were now actually excited by her sister; and that\nhowever a general resemblance of disposition between the parties might\nforward the affection of Mr. Willoughby, an equally striking\nopposition of character was no hindrance to the regard of Colonel\nBrandon. She saw it with concern; for what could a silent man of five\nand thirty hope, when opposed to a very lively one of five and twenty?\nand as she could not even wish him successful, she heartily wished him\nindifferent. She liked him--in spite of his gravity and reserve, she\nbeheld in him an object of interest. His manners, though serious, were\nmild; and his reserve appeared rather the result of some oppression of\nspirits than of any natural gloominess of temper. Sir John had dropped\nhints of past injuries and disappointments, which justified her belief\nof his being an unfortunate man, and she regarded him with respect and\ncompassion.\n\nPerhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted\nby Willoughby and Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for being\nneither lively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits.\n\n\"Brandon is just the kind of man,\" said Willoughby one day, when they\nwere talking of him together, \"whom every body speaks well of, and\nnobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody\nremembers to talk to.\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I think of him,\" cried Marianne.\n\n\"Do not boast of it, however,\" said Elinor, \"for it is injustice in\nboth of you. He is highly esteemed by all the family at the park, and\nI never see him myself without taking pains to converse with him.\"\n\n\"That he is patronised by _you_,\" replied Willoughby, \"is certainly in\nhis favour; but as for the esteem of the others, it is a reproach in\nitself. Who would submit to the indignity of being approved by such a\nwoman as Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, that could command the\nindifference of any body else?\"\n\n\"But perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and Marianne will\nmake amends for the regard of Lady Middleton and her mother. If their\npraise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are not more\nundiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust.\"\n\n\"In defence of your _protege_ you can even be saucy.\"\n\n\"My _protege_, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense will\nalways have attractions for me. Yes, Marianne, even in a man between\nthirty and forty. He has seen a great deal of the world; has been\nabroad, has read, and has a thinking mind. I have found him capable of\ngiving me much information on various subjects; and he has always\nanswered my inquiries with readiness of good-breeding and good\nnature.\"\n\n\"That is to say,\" cried Marianne contemptuously, \"he has told you,\nthat in the East Indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are\ntroublesome.\"\n\n\"He _would_ have told me so, I doubt not, had I made any such\ninquiries, but they happened to be points on which I had been\npreviously informed.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Willoughby, \"his observations may have extended to the\nexistence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins.\"\n\n\"I may venture to say that _his_ observations have stretched much\nfurther than _your_ candour. But why should you dislike him?\"\n\n\"I do not dislike him. I consider him, on the contrary, as a very\nrespectable man, who has every body's good word, and nobody's notice;\nwho, has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to\nemploy, and two new coats every year.\"\n\n\"Add to which,\" cried Marianne, \"that he has neither genius, taste,\nnor spirit. That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no\nardour, and his voice no expression.\"\n\n\"You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass,\" replied Elinor,\n\"and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the\ncommendation I am able to give of him is comparatively cold and\ninsipid. I can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred,\nwell-informed, of gentle address, and, I believe, possessing an\namiable heart.\"\n\n\"Miss Dashwood,\" cried Willoughby, \"you are now using me unkindly. You\nare endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me against my\nwill. But it will not do. You shall find me as stubborn as you can be\nartful. I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel\nBrandon; he threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine; he\nhas found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I cannot persuade\nhim to buy my brown mare. If it will be any satisfaction to you,\nhowever, to be told, that I believe his character to be in other\nrespects irreproachable, I am ready to confess it. And in return for\nan acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me\nthe privilege of disliking him as much as ever.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\nLittle had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined when they first\ncame into Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy\ntheir time as shortly presented themselves, or that they should have\nsuch frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them\nlittle leisure for serious employment. Yet such was the case. When\nMarianne was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad,\nwhich Sir John had been previously forming, were put into execution.\nThe private balls at the park then began; and parties on the water\nwere made and accomplished as often as a showery October would allow.\nIn every meeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and\nfamiliarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly\ncalculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the\nDashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of\nMarianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving,\nin her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her\naffection.\n\nElinor could not be surprised at their attachment. She only wished\nthat it were less openly shown; and once or twice did venture to\nsuggest the propriety of some self-command to Marianne. But Marianne\nabhorred all concealment where no real disgrace could attend\nunreserve; and to aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in\nthemselves illaudable, appeared to her not merely an unnecessary\neffort, but a disgraceful subjection of reason to common-place and\nmistaken notions. Willoughby thought the same; and their behaviour at\nall times, was an illustration of their opinions.\n\nWhen he was present she had no eyes for any one else. Every thing he\ndid, was right. Every thing he said, was clever. If their evenings at\nthe park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the\nrest of the party to get her a good hand. If dancing formed the\namusement of the night, they were partners for half the time; and when\nobliged to separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand\ntogether and scarcely spoke a word to any body else. Such conduct made\nthem of course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not\nshame, and seemed hardly to provoke them.\n\nMrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left\nher no inclination for checking this excessive display of them. To her\nit was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young\nand ardent mind.\n\nThis was the season of happiness to Marianne. Her heart was devoted to\nWilloughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she brought with\nher from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought\nit possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her\npresent home.\n\nElinor's happiness was not so great. Her heart was not so much at\nease, nor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure. They afforded\nher no companion that could make amends for what she had left behind,\nnor that could teach her to think of Norland with less regret than\never. Neither Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the\nconversation she missed; although the latter was an everlasting\ntalker, and from the first had regarded her with a kindness which\nensured her a large share of her discourse. She had already repeated\nher own history to Elinor three or four times; and had Elinor's memory\nbeen equal to her means of improvement, she might have known very\nearly in their acquaintance all the particulars of Mr. Jennings's last\nillness, and what he said to his wife a few minutes before he died.\nLady Middleton was more agreeable than her mother only in being more\nsilent. Elinor needed little observation to perceive that her reserve\nwas a mere calmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do.\nTowards her husband and mother she was the same as to them; and\nintimacy was therefore neither to be looked for nor desired. She had\nnothing to say one day that she had not said the day before. Her\ninsipidity was invariable, for even her spirits were always the same;\nand though she did not oppose the parties arranged by her husband,\nprovided every thing were conducted in style and her two eldest\nchildren attended her, she never appeared to receive more enjoyment\nfrom them than she might have experienced in sitting at home; and so\nlittle did her presence add to the pleasure of the others, by any\nshare in their conversation, that they were sometimes only reminded of\nher being amongst them by her solicitude about her troublesome boys.\n\nIn Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find\na person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities,\nexcite the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion.\nWilloughby was out of the question. Her admiration and regard, even\nher sisterly regard, was all his own; but he was a lover; his\nattentions were wholly Marianne's, and a far less agreeable man might\nhave been more generally pleasing. Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for\nhimself, had no such encouragement to think only of Marianne, and in\nconversing with Elinor he found the greatest consolation for the\nindifference of her sister.\n\nElinor's compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect\nthat the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him.\nThis suspicion was given by some words which accidentally dropped from\nhim one evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by\nmutual consent, while the others were dancing. His eyes were fixed on\nMarianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint\nsmile, \"Your sister, I understand, does not approve of second\nattachments.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Elinor, \"her opinions are all romantic.\"\n\n\"Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist.\"\n\n\"I believe she does. But how she contrives it without reflecting on\nthe character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know\nnot. A few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable\nbasis of common sense and observation; and then they may be more easy\nto define and to justify than they now are, by any body but herself.\"\n\n\"This will probably be the case,\" he replied; \"and yet there is\nsomething so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is\nsorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions.\"\n\n\"I cannot agree with you there,\" said Elinor. \"There are\ninconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne's, which all the\ncharms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her\nsystems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at\nnought; and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look\nforward to as her greatest possible advantage.\"\n\nAfter a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying--\n\n\"Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a\nsecond attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body? Are those\nwho have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the\ninconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be\nequally indifferent during the rest of their lives?\"\n\n\"Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiae of her principles.\nI only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a second\nattachment's being pardonable.\"\n\n\"This,\" said he, \"cannot hold; but a change, a total change of\nsentiments--No, no, do not desire it; for when the romantic\nrefinements of a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently\nare they succeeded by such opinions as are but too common, and too\ndangerous! I speak from experience. I once knew a lady who in temper\nand mind greatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like\nher, but who from an enforced change--from a series of unfortunate\ncircumstances--\" Here he stopped suddenly; appeared to think that he\nhad said too much, and by his countenance gave rise to conjectures,\nwhich might not otherwise have entered Elinor's head. The lady would\nprobably have passed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss\nDashwood that what concerned her ought not to escape his lips. As it\nwas, it required but a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion\nwith the tender recollection of past regard. Elinor attempted no more.\nBut Marianne, in her place, would not have done so little. The whole\nstory would have been speedily formed under her active imagination;\nand every thing established in the most melancholy order of disastrous\nlove.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nAs Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning the\nlatter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of\nall that she knew before of Marianne's imprudence and want of thought,\nsurprised her by its extravagant testimony of both. Marianne told her,\nwith the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a horse, one\nthat he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was\nexactly calculated to carry a woman. Without considering that it was\nnot in her mother's plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter\nher resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the\nservant, and keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable\nto receive them, she had accepted the present without hesitation, and\ntold her sister of it in raptures.\n\n\"He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it,\"\nshe added, \"and when it arrives we will ride every day. You shall\nshare its use with me. Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the\ndelight of a gallop on some of these downs.\"\n\nMost unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to\ncomprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for\nsome time she refused to submit to them. As to an additional servant,\nthe expense would be a trifle; Mamma she was sure would never object\nto it; and any horse would do for _him_; he might always get one at\nthe park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient. Elinor\nthen ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present\nfrom a man so little, or at least so lately known to her. This was too\nmuch.\n\n\"You are mistaken, Elinor,\" said she warmly, \"in supposing I know very\nlittle of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed, but I am much\nbetter acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the\nworld, except yourself and mama. It is not time or opportunity that is\nto determine intimacy; it is disposition alone. Seven years would be\ninsufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven\ndays are more than enough for others. I should hold myself guilty of\ngreater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from\nWilloughby. Of John I know very little, though we have lived together\nfor years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed.\"\n\nElinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more. She knew her\nsister's temper. Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach\nher the more to her own opinion. But by an appeal to her affection for\nher mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent\nmother must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she\nconsented to this increase of establishment, Marianne was shortly\nsubdued; and she promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent\nkindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby when she saw\nhim next, that it must be declined.\n\nShe was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the\ncottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to\nhim in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his\npresent. The reasons for this alteration were at the same time\nrelated, and they were such as to make further entreaty on his side\nimpossible. His concern however was very apparent; and after\nexpressing it with earnestness, he added, in the same low voice, \"But,\nMarianne, the horse is still yours, though you cannot use it now. I\nshall keep it only till you can claim it. When you leave Barton to\nform your own establishment in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall\nreceive you.\"\n\nThis was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the\nsentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her\nsister by her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so\ndecided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between\nthem. From that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each\nother; and the belief of it created no other surprise than that she,\nor any of their friends, should be left by tempers so frank, to\ndiscover it by accident.\n\nMargaret related something to her the next day, which placed this\nmatter in a still clearer light. Willoughby had spent the preceding\nevening with them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the\nparlour with only him and Marianne, had had opportunity for\nobservations, which, with a most important face, she communicated to\nher eldest sister, when they were next by themselves.\n\n\"Oh, Elinor!\" she cried, \"I have such a secret to tell you about\nMarianne. I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon.\"\n\n\"You have said so,\" replied Elinor, \"almost every day since they first\nmet on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I\nbelieve, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round\nher neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great\nuncle.\"\n\n\"But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be\nmarried very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair.\"\n\n\"Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some great uncle of\n_his_.\"\n\n\"But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne's. I am almost sure it is, for I\nsaw him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and mama went out\nof the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as\ncould be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently\nhe took up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it\nwas all tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a\npiece of white paper; and put it into his pocket-book.\"\n\nFor such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not\nwithhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance\nwas in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself.\n\nMargaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory\nto her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the\npark, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor's particular\nfavourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her,\nMargaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, \"I must not\ntell, may I, Elinor?\"\n\nThis of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too.\nBut the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed\non a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a\nstanding joke with Mrs. Jennings.\n\n[Illustration: _He cut off a long lock of her hair._]\n\nMarianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good\nto the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to\nMargaret--\n\n\"Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to\nrepeat them.\"\n\n\"I never had any conjectures about it,\" replied Margaret; \"it was you\nwho told me of it yourself.\"\n\nThis increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly\npressed to say something more.\n\n\"Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it,\" said Mrs.\nJennings. \"What is the gentleman's name?\"\n\n\"I must not tell, ma'am. But I know very well what it is; and I know\nwhere he is too.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be\nsure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say.\"\n\n\"No, _that_ he is not. He is of no profession at all.\"\n\n\"Margaret,\" said Marianne with great warmth, \"you know that all this\nis an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in\nexistence.\"\n\n\"Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such\na man once, and his name begins with an F.\"\n\nMost grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this\nmoment, \"that it rained very hard,\" though she believed the\ninterruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her\nladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as\ndelighted her husband and mother. The idea however started by her, was\nimmediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion\nmindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of\nrain by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked\nMarianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of\ndifferent people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so\neasily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her.\n\nA party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see\na very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a\nbrother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not\nbe seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict\norders on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful,\nand Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be\nallowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit\nthem, at least, twice every summer for the last ten years. They\ncontained a noble piece of water--a sail on which was to a form a\ngreat part of the morning's amusement; cold provisions were to be\ntaken, open carriages only to be employed, and every thing conducted\nin the usual style of a complete party of pleasure.\n\nTo some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking,\nconsidering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the\nlast fortnight; and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was\npersuaded by Elinor to stay at home.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nTheir intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from\nwhat Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through,\nfatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate,\nfor they did not go at all.\n\nBy ten o'clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they\nwere to breakfast. The morning was rather favourable, though it had\nrained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky,\nand the sun frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and\ngood humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the\ngreatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise.\n\nWhile they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the\nrest there was one for Colonel Brandon:--he took it, looked at the\ndirection, changed colour, and immediately left the room.\n\n\"What is the matter with Brandon?\" said Sir John.\n\nNobody could tell.\n\n\"I hope he has had no bad news,\" said Lady Middleton. \"It must be\nsomething extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my\nbreakfast table so suddenly.\"\n\nIn about five minutes he returned.\n\n\"No bad news, Colonel, I hope;\" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he\nentered the room.\n\n\"None at all, ma'am, I thank you.\"\n\n\"Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is\nworse.\"\n\n\"No, ma'am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business.\"\n\n\"But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a\nletter of business? Come, come, this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear\nthe truth of it.\"\n\n\"My dear madam,\" said Lady Middleton, \"recollect what you are saying.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?\" said\nMrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter's reproof.\n\n\"No, indeed, it is not.\"\n\n\"Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well.\"\n\n\"Whom do you mean, ma'am?\" said he, colouring a little.\n\n\"Oh! you know who I mean.\"\n\n\"I am particularly sorry, ma'am,\" said he, addressing Lady Middleton,\n\"that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which\nrequires my immediate attendance in town.\"\n\n\"In town!\" cried Mrs. Jennings. \"What can you have to do in town at\nthis time of year?\"\n\n\"My own loss is great,\" he continued, \"in being obliged to leave so\nagreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence\nis necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell.\"\n\nWhat a blow upon them all was this!\n\n\"But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon,\" said\nMarianne, eagerly, \"will it not be sufficient?\"\n\nHe shook his head.\n\n\"We must go,\" said Sir John. \"It shall not be put off when we are so\nnear it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all.\"\n\n\"I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to\ndelay my journey for one day!\"\n\n\"If you would but let us know what your business is,\" said Mrs.\nJennings, \"we might see whether it could be put off or not.\"\n\n\"You would not be six hours later,\" said Willoughby, \"if you were to\ndefer your journey till our return.\"\n\n\"I cannot afford to lose _one_ hour.\"\n\nElinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, \"There\nare some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of\nthem. He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this\ntrick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was\nof his own writing.\"\n\n\"I have no doubt of it,\" replied Marianne.\n\n\"There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of\nold,\" said Sir John, \"when once you are determined on anything. But,\nhowever, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the\ntwo Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked\nup from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his\nusual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell.\"\n\nColonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of\ndisappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be\nunavoidable.\n\n\"Well, then, when will you come back again?\"\n\n\"I hope we shall see you at Barton,\" added her ladyship, \"as soon as\nyou can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to\nWhitwell till you return.\"\n\n\"You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in\nmy power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all.\"\n\n\"Oh! he must and shall come back,\" cried Sir John. \"If he is not here\nby the end of the week, I shall go after him.\"\n\n\"Ay, so do, Sir John,\" cried Mrs. Jennings, \"and then perhaps you may\nfind out what his business is.\"\n\n\"I do not want to pry into other men's concerns. I suppose it is\nsomething he is ashamed of.\"\n\nColonel Brandon's horses were announced.\n\n\"You do not go to town on horseback, do you?\" added Sir John.\n\n\"No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post.\"\n\n\"Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you\nhad better change your mind.\"\n\n\"I assure you it is not in my power.\"\n\nHe then took leave of the whole party.\n\n\"Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this\nwinter, Miss Dashwood?\"\n\n\"I am afraid, none at all.\"\n\n\"Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to\ndo.\"\n\nTo Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.\n\n\"Come Colonel,\" said Mrs. Jennings, \"before you go, do let us know\nwhat you are going about.\"\n\nHe wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the\nroom.\n\nThe complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto\nrestrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and\nagain how provoking it was to be so disappointed.\n\n\"I can guess what his business is, however,\" said Mrs. Jennings\nexultingly.\n\n\"Can you, ma'am?\" said almost every body.\n\n\"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure.\"\n\n\"And who is Miss Williams?\" asked Marianne.\n\n\"What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have\nheard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear; a\nvery near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the\nyoung ladies.\" Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor,\n\"She is his natural daughter.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\"\n\n\"Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel\nwill leave her all his fortune.\"\n\nWhen Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret\non so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as\nthey were all got together, they must do something by way of being\nhappy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although\nhappiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a\ntolerable composure of mind by driving about the country. The\ncarriages were then ordered; Willoughby's was first, and Marianne\nnever looked happier than when she got into it. He drove through the\npark very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of\nthem was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the\nreturn of all the rest. They both seemed delighted with their drive;\nbut said only in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while\nthe others went on the downs.\n\nIt was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that\nevery body should be extremely merry all day long. Some more of the\nCareys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down\nnearly twenty to table, which Sir John observed with great\ncontentment. Willoughby took his usual place between the two elder\nMiss Dashwoods. Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor's right hand; and they had\nnot been long seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and\nsaid to Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, \"I have found you\nout in spite of all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning.\"\n\nMarianne coloured, and replied very hastily, \"Where, pray?\"\n\n\"Did not you know,\" said Willoughby, \"that we had been out in my\ncurricle?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined\nto find out _where_ you had been to. I hope you like your house, Miss\nMarianne. It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you,\nI hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when\nI was there six years ago.\"\n\nMarianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Jennings laughed\nheartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they\nhad been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr.\nWilloughby's groom; and that she had by that method been informed that\nthey had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in\nwalking about the garden and going all over the house.\n\nElinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very\nunlikely that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter\nthe house while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the\nsmallest acquaintance.\n\nAs soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about it;\nand great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance\nrelated by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true. Marianne was quite angry\nwith her for doubting it.\n\n\"Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that we\ndid not see the house? Is not it what you have often wished to do\nyourself?\"\n\n\"Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and\nwith no other companion than Mr. Willoughby.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"_I have found you out in spite of all your tricks._\"]\n\n\"Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to\nshow that house; and as he went in an open carriage, it was\nimpossible to have any other companion. I never spent a pleasanter\nmorning in my life.\"\n\n\"I am afraid,\" replied Elinor, \"that the pleasantness of an employment\ndoes not always evince its propriety.\"\n\n\"On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for\nif there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have\nbeen sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting\nwrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure.\"\n\n\"But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very\nimpertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of\nyour own conduct?\"\n\n\"If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of\nimpropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our\nlives. I value not her censure any more than I should do her\ncommendation. I am not sensible of having done anything wrong in\nwalking over Mrs. Smith's grounds, or in seeing her house. They will\none day be Mr. Willoughby's, and--\"\n\n\"If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be\njustified in what you have done.\"\n\nShe blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her;\nand after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her\nsister again, and said with great good humour, \"Perhaps, Elinor, it\n_was_ rather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby\nwanted particularly to show me the place; and it is a charming house,\nI assure you. There is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs;\nof a nice comfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture\nit would be delightful. It is a corner room, and has windows on two\nsides. On one side you look across the bowling-green, behind the\nhouse, to a beautiful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view\nof the church and village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills\nthat we have so often admired. I did not see it to advantage, for\nnothing could be more forlorn than the furniture; but if it were newly\nfitted up--a couple of hundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it\none of the pleasantest summer-rooms in England.\"\n\nCould Elinor have listened to her without interruption from the\nothers, she would have described every room in the house with equal\ndelight.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nThe sudden termination of Colonel Brandon's visit at the park, with\nhis steadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind, and raised\nthe wonder of Mrs. Jennings for two or three days; she was a great\nwonderer, as every one must be who takes a very lively interest in all\nthe comings and goings of all their acquaintance. She wondered, with\nlittle intermission what could be the reason of it; was sure there\nmust be some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that\ncould have befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not\nescape them all.\n\n\"Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure,\" said she.\n\"I could see it in his face. Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances\nmay be bad. The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two\nthousand a year, and his brother left everything sadly involved. I do\nthink he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else\ncan it be? I wonder whether it is so. I would give anything to know\nthe truth of it. Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I\ndare say it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her.\nMay be she is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I\nhave a notion she is always rather sickly. I would lay any wager it is\nabout Miss Williams. It is not so very likely he should be distressed\nin his circumstances _now_, for he is a very prudent man, and to be\nsure must have cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it can\nbe! May be his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over.\nHis setting off in such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him\nout of all his trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the\nbargain.\"\n\nSo wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings. Her opinion varying with every\nfresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose.\nElinor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel\nBrandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly\naway, which Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides\nthat the circumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting\namazement or variety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise\ndisposed of. It was engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her\nsister and Willoughby on the subject, which they must know to be\npeculiarly interesting to them all. As this silence continued, every\nday made it appear more strange and more incompatible with the\ndisposition of both. Why they should not openly acknowledge to her\nmother and herself, what their constant behaviour to each other\ndeclared to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine.\n\nShe could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in\ntheir power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no\nreason to believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at\nabout six or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which\nthat income could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained\nof his poverty. But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by\nthem relative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at\nall, she could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to\ntheir general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered\nher mind of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to\nprevent her making any inquiry of Marianne.\n\nNothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than\nWilloughby's behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing\ntenderness which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of the\nfamily it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The\ncottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many\nmore of his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general\nengagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him\nout in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest\nof the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his\nfavourite pointer at her feet.\n\nOne evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the\ncountry, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of\nattachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood's happening\nto mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he\nwarmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had\nestablished as perfect with him.\n\n\"What!\" he exclaimed, \"Improve this dear cottage! No. _That_ I will\nnever consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch\nto its size, if my feelings are regarded.\"\n\n\"Do not be alarmed,\" said Miss Dashwood, \"nothing of the kind will be\ndone; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it.\"\n\n\"I am heartily glad of it,\" he cried. \"May she always be poor, if she\ncan employ her riches no better.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not\nsacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one\nwhom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it\nthat whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in\nthe spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it\nin a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this\nplace as to see no defect in it?\"\n\n\"I am,\" said he. \"To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as\nthe only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I\nrich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again\nin the exact plan of this cottage.\"\n\n\"With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose,\" said\nElinor.\n\n\"Yes,\" cried he in the same eager tone, \"with all and every thing\nbelonging to it--in no one convenience or inconvenience about it,\nshould the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under\nsuch a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at\nBarton.\"\n\n\"I flatter myself,\" replied Elinor, \"that even under the disadvantage\nof better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your\nown house as faultless as you now do this.\"\n\n\"There certainly are circumstances,\" said Willoughby, \"which might\ngreatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of\nmy affection, which no other can possibly share.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were\nfixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she\nunderstood him.\n\n\"How often did I wish,\" added he, \"when I was at Allenham this time\ntwelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within\nview of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one\nshould live in it. How little did I then think that the very first\nnews I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country,\nwould be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate\nsatisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of\nprescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account\nfor. Must it not have been so, Marianne?\" speaking to her in a lowered\nvoice. Then continuing his former tone, he said, \"And yet this house\nyou would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by\nimaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance\nfirst began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by\nus together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance,\nand every body would be eager to pass through the room which has\nhitherto contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort\nthan any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world\ncould possibly afford.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should\nbe attempted.\n\n\"You are a good woman,\" he warmly replied. \"Your promise makes me\neasy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me\nthat not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever\nfind you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will\nalways consider me with the kindness which has made everything\nbelonging to you so dear to me.\"\n\nThe promise was readily given, and Willoughby's behaviour during the\nwhole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness.\n\n\"Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?\" said Mrs. Dashwood, when he was\nleaving them. \"I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must\nwalk to the park, to call on Lady Middleton.\"\n\nHe engaged to be with them by four o'clock.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\nMrs. Dashwood's visit to Lady Middleton took place the next day, and\ntwo of her daughters went with her; but Marianne excused herself from\nbeing of the party, under some trifling pretext of employment; and her\nmother, who concluded that a promise had been made by Willoughby the\nnight before of calling on her while they were absent, was perfectly\nsatisfied with her remaining at home.\n\nOn their return from the park they found Willoughby's curricle and\nservant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced\nthat her conjecture had been just. So far it was all as she had\nforeseen; but on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had\ntaught her to expect. They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne\ncame hastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with\nher handkerchief at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs.\nSurprised and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had\njust quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning\nagainst the mantelpiece with his back towards them. He turned round\non their coming in, and his countenance showed that he strongly\npartook of the emotion which overpowered Marianne.\n\n\"Is anything the matter with her?\" cried Mrs. Dashwood as she\nentered:--\"is she ill?\"\n\n\"I hope not,\" he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a forced\nsmile presently added, \"It is I who may rather expect to be ill--for I\nam now suffering under a very heavy disappointment!\"\n\n\"Disappointment?\"\n\n\"Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with you. Mrs. Smith has\nthis morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent\ncousin, by sending me on business to London. I have just received my\ndispatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham; and by way of\nexhilaration I am now come to take my farewell of you.\"\n\n\"To London!--and are you going this morning?\"\n\n\"Almost this moment.\"\n\n[Illustration: _Apparently in violent affliction._]\n\n\"This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith must be obliged, and her\nbusiness will not detain you from us long I hope.\"\n\nHe coloured as he replied, \"You are very kind, but I have no idea of\nreturning into Devonshire immediately. My visits to Mrs. Smith are\nnever repeated within the twelvemonth.\"\n\n\"And is Mrs. Smith your only friend? Is Allenham the only house in the\nneighbourhood to which you will be welcome? For shame, Willoughby, can\nyou wait for an invitation here?\"\n\nHis colour increased; and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only\nreplied, \"You are too good.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise. Elinor felt equal\namazement. For a few moments every one was silent. Mrs. Dashwood first\nspoke.\n\n\"I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton cottage you\nwill always be welcome; for I will not press you to return here\nimmediately, because you only can judge how far _that_ might be\npleasing to Mrs. Smith; and on this head I shall be no more disposed\nto question your judgment than to doubt your inclination.\"\n\n\"My engagements at present,\" replied Willoughby, confusedly, \"are of\nsuch a nature--that--I dare not flatter myself--\"\n\nHe stopped. Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and\nanother pause succeeded. This was broken by Willoughby, who said with\na faint smile, \"It is folly to linger in this manner. I will not\ntorment myself any longer by remaining among friends whose society it\nis impossible for me now to enjoy.\"\n\nHe then hastily took leave of them all and left the room. They saw him\nstep into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight.\n\nMrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the\nparlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this\nsudden departure occasioned.\n\nElinor's uneasiness was at least equal to her mother's. She thought of\nwhat had just passed with anxiety and distrust. Willoughby's behaviour\nin taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of\ncheerfulness, and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother's\ninvitation--a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike\nhimself--greatly disturbed her. One moment she feared that no serious\ndesign had ever been formed on his side; and the next that some\nunfortunate quarrel had taken place between him and her sister. The\ndistress in which Marianne had quitted the room was such as a serious\nquarrel could most reasonably account for, though when she considered\nwhat Marianne's love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible.\n\nBut whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her\nsister's affliction was indubitable; and she thought with the\ntenderest compassion of that violent sorrow which Marianne was in all\nprobability not merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and\nencouraging as a duty.\n\nIn about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were\nred, her countenance was not uncheerful.\n\n\"Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor,\" said she,\nas she sat down to work, \"and with how heavy a heart does he travel?\"\n\n\"It is all very strange. So suddenly to be gone! It seems but the work\nof a moment. And last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so\naffectionate? And now, after only ten minutes notice,--gone too\nwithout intending to return! Something more than what he owned to us\nmust have happened. He did not speak, he did not behave like himself.\n_You_ must have seen the difference as well as I. What can it be? Can\nthey have quarrelled? Why else should he have shown such unwillingness\nto accept your invitation here?\"\n\n\"It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see\n_that._ He had not the power of accepting it. I have thought it all\nover I assure you, and I can perfectly account for every thing that at\nfirst seemed strange to me as well as to you.\"\n\n\"Can you, indeed!\"\n\n\"Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way; but\nyou, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can--it will not satisfy\n_you_, I know; but you shall not talk _me_ out of my trust in it. I am\npersuaded that Mrs. Smith suspects his regard for Marianne,\ndisapproves of it, (perhaps because she has other views for him,) and\non that account is eager to get him away; and that the business which\nshe sends him off to transact is invented as an excuse to dismiss\nhim. This is what I believe to have happened. He is, moreover, aware\nthat she _does_ disapprove the connection, he dares not therefore at\npresent confess to her his engagement with Marianne, and he feels\nhimself obliged, from his dependent situation, to give into her\nschemes, and absent himself from Devonshire for a while. You will tell\nme, I know, that this may or may _not_ have happened; but I will\nlisten to no cavil, unless you can point out any other method of\nunderstanding the affair as satisfactory at this. And now, Elinor,\nwhat have you to say?\"\n\n\"Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer.\"\n\n\"Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have\nhappened. Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings! You had\nrather take evil upon credit than good. You had rather look out for\nmisery for Marianne, and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology\nfor the latter. You are resolved to think him blamable, because he\ntook leave of us with less affection than his usual behaviour has\nshown. And is no allowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits\ndepressed by recent disappointment? Are no probabilities to be\naccepted, merely because they are not certainties? Is nothing due to\nthe man whom we have all such reason to love, and no reason in the\nworld to think ill of?--to the possibility of motives unanswerable in\nthemselves, though unavoidably secret for a while? And, after all,\nwhat is it you suspect him of?\"\n\n\"I can hardly tell myself. But suspicion of something unpleasant is\nthe inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed\nin him. There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of\nthe allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be\ncandid in my judgment of every body. Willoughby may undoubtedly have\nvery sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that he has.\nBut it would have been more like Willoughby to acknowledge them at\nonce. Secrecy may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at\nits being practiced by him.\"\n\n\"Do not blame him, however, for departing from his character, where\nthe deviation is necessary. But you really do admit the justice of\nwhat I have said in his defence?--I am happy--and he is acquitted.\"\n\n\"Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they\n_are_ engaged) from Mrs. Smith; and if that is the case, it must be\nhighly expedient for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at\npresent. But this is no excuse for their concealing it from us.\"\n\n\"Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and\nMarianne of concealment? This is strange indeed, when your eyes have\nbeen reproaching them every day for incautiousness.\"\n\n\"I want no proof of their affection,\" said Elinor; \"but of their\nengagement I do.\"\n\n\"I am perfectly satisfied of both.\"\n\n\"Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of\nthem.\"\n\n\"I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly. Has\nnot his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last\nfortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future\nwife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation?\nHave we not perfectly understood each other? Has not my consent been\ndaily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate\nrespect? My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement? How\ncould such a thought occur to you? How is it to be supposed that\nWilloughby, persuaded as he must be of your sister's love, should\nleave her, and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of\nhis affection,--that they should part without a mutual exchange of\nconfidence?\"\n\n\"I confess,\" replied Elinor, \"that every circumstance except _one_ is\nin favour of their engagement; but that _one_ is the total silence of\nboth on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other.\"\n\n\"How strange this is! You must think wretchedly indeed of Willoughby,\nif, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the\nnature of the terms on which they are together. Has he been acting a\npart in his behaviour to your sister all this time? Do you suppose him\nreally indifferent to her?\"\n\n\"No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her I am sure.\"\n\n\"But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such\nindifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to\nhim.\"\n\n\"You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this\nmatter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are\nfainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away. If we\nfind they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed.\"\n\n\"A mighty concession indeed! If you were to see them at the altar, you\nwould suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious girl! But I\nrequire no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to\njustify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly\nopen and unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister's wishes. It must be\nWilloughby therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man of\nhonour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to\ncreate alarm? can he be deceitful?\"\n\n\"I hope not, I believe not,\" cried Elinor. \"I love Willoughby,\nsincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more\npainful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will\nnot encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his\nmanners this morning; he did not speak like himself, and did not\nreturn your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be\nexplained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He\nhad just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest\naffliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs.\nSmith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware\nthat by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away\nfor some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part\nby our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a\ncase, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more\nto his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general\ncharacter;--but I will not raise objections against any one's conduct\non so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself,\nor a deviation from what I may think right and consistent.\"\n\n\"You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be\nsuspected. Though _we_ have not known him long, he is no stranger in\nthis part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage?\nHad he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately,\nit might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging\neverything to me at once: but this is not the case. It is an\nengagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage\nmust be at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it\ncan be observed, may now be very advisable.\"\n\nThey were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was then\nat liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to\nacknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all.\n\nThey saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the\nroom and took her place at the table without saying a word. Her eyes\nwere red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then\nrestrained with difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all, could\nneither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother's silently\npressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree of\nfortitude was quite overcome, she burst into tears and left the room.\n\nThis violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening. She\nwas without any power, because she was without any desire of command\nover herself. The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby\noverpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most\nanxiously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if\nthey spoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings\nconnected with him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nMarianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able\nto sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby. She\nwould have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next\nmorning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than\nwhen she lay down in it. But the feelings which made such composure a\ndisgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it. She was awake the\nwhole night, and she wept the greatest part of it. She got up with a\nheadache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment;\ngiving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding\nall attempt at consolation from either. Her sensibility was potent\nenough!\n\nWhen breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered about\nthe village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment\nand crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.\n\nThe evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling. She played\nover every favourite song that she had been used to play to\nWilloughby, every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined,\nand sat at the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had\nwritten out for her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther\nsadness could be gained; and this nourishment of grief was every day\napplied. She spent whole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing\nand crying; her voice often totally suspended by her tears. In books\ntoo, as well as in music, she courted the misery which a contrast\nbetween the past and present was certain of giving. She read nothing\nbut what they had been used to read together.\n\nSuch violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it\nsunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these\nemployments, to which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and\nsilent meditations, still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as\nlively as ever.\n\nNo letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by Marianne.\nHer mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy. But Mrs.\nDashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at\nleast satisfied herself.\n\n\"Remember, Elinor,\" said she, \"how very often Sir John fetches our\nletters himself from the post, and carries them to it. We have already\nagreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it\ncould not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through\nSir John's hands.\"\n\nElinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a\nmotive sufficient for their silence. But there was one method so\ndirect, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real\nstate of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she\ncould not help suggesting it to her mother.\n\n\"Why do you not ask Marianne at once,\" said she, \"whether she is or\nshe is not engaged to Willoughby? From you, her mother, and so kind,\nso indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence. It would\nbe the natural result of your affection for her. She used to be all\nunreserve, and to you more especially.\"\n\n\"I would not ask such a question for the world. Supposing it possible\nthat they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry\ninflict! At any rate it would be most ungenerous. I should never\ndeserve her confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of\nwhat is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one. I know\nMarianne's heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall\nnot be the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances\nmake the revealment of it eligible. I would not attempt to force the\nconfidence of any one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty\nwould prevent the denial which her wishes might direct.\"\n\nElinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister's\nyouth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common\ncare, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic\ndelicacy.\n\nIt was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned before\nMarianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed,\nwere not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour;\nbut one evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of\nShakespeare, exclaimed--\n\n\"We have never finished _Hamlet_, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went\naway before we could get through it. We will put it by, that when he\ncomes again--; But it may be months, perhaps, before _that_ happens.\"\n\n\"Months!\" cried Marianne, with strong surprise. \"No--nor many weeks.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave Elinor\npleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of\nconfidence in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions.\n\nOne morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne was\nprevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of\nwandering away by herself. Hitherto she had carefully avoided every\ncompanion in her rambles. If her sisters intended to walk on the\ndowns, she directly stole away towards the lanes; if they talked of\nthe valley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never\nbe found when the others set off. But at length she was secured by the\nexertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion.\nThey walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence,\nfor Marianne's _mind_ could not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied\nwith gaining one point, would not then attempt more. Beyond the\nentrance of the valley, where the country, though still rich, was less\nwild and more open, a long stretch of the road which they had\ntravelled on first coming to Barton, lay before them; and on reaching\nthat point, they stopped to look around them, and examine a prospect\nwhich formed the distance of their view from the cottage, from a spot\nwhich they had never happened to reach in any of their walks before.\n\nAmongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated\none; it was a man on horseback riding towards them. In a few minutes\nthey could distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment\nafterwards Marianne rapturously exclaimed--\n\n\"It is he; it is indeed--I know it is!\" and was hastening to meet him,\nwhen Elinor cried out--\n\n\"Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken. It is not Willoughby. The\nperson is not tall enough for him, and has not his air.\"\n\n\"He has, he has,\" cried Marianne, \"I am sure he has. His air, his\ncoat, his horse. I knew how soon he would come.\"\n\nShe walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne\nfrom particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being\nWilloughby, quickened her pace and kept up with her. They were soon\nwithin thirty yards of the gentleman. Marianne looked again; her heart\nsunk within her; and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying back,\nwhen the voices of both her sisters were raised to detain her; a\nthird, almost as well known as Willoughby's, joined them in begging\nher to stop, and she turned round with surprise to see and welcome\nEdward Ferrars.\n\n[Illustration: _Begging her to stop._]\n\nHe was the only person in the world who could at that moment be\nforgiven for not being Willoughby; the only one who could have gained\na smile from her; but she dispersed her tears to smile on _him_, and\nin her sister's happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment.\n\nHe dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with\nthem to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them.\n\nHe was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by\nMarianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him\nthan even Elinor herself. To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between\nEdward and her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable\ncoldness which she had often observed at Norland in their mutual\nbehaviour. On Edward's side, more particularly, there was a deficiency\nof all that a lover ought to look and say on such an occasion. He was\nconfused, seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked\nneither rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by\nquestions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection. Marianne\nsaw and listened with increasing surprise. She began almost to feel a\ndislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her,\nby carrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a\ncontrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother elect.\n\nAfter a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and enquiries\nof meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London. No,\nhe had been in Devonshire a fortnight.\n\n\"A fortnight!\" she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the\nsame county with Elinor without seeing her before.\n\nHe looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying with\nsome friends near Plymouth.\n\n\"Have you been lately in Sussex?\" said Elinor.\n\n\"I was at Norland about a month ago.\"\n\n\"And how does dear, dear Norland look?\" cried Marianne.\n\n\"Dear, dear Norland,\" said Elinor, \"probably looks much as it always\ndoes at this time of the year--the woods and walks thickly covered\nwith dead leaves.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" cried Marianne, \"with what transporting sensation have I\nformerly seen them fall! How have I delighted, as I walked, to see\nthem driven in showers about me by the wind! What feelings have they,\nthe season, the air altogether inspired! Now there is no one to regard\nthem. They are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven\nas much as possible from the sight.\"\n\n\"It is not every one,\" said Elinor, \"who has your passion for dead\nleaves.\"\n\n\"No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood. But\n_sometimes_ they are.\" As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a\nfew moments; but rousing herself again, \"Now, Edward,\" said she,\ncalling his attention to the prospect, \"here is Barton valley. Look up\nto it, and be tranquil if you can. Look at those hills! Did you ever\nsee their equals? To the left is Barton park, amongst those woods and\nplantations. You may see the end of the house. And there, beneath that\nfarthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage.\"\n\n\"It is a beautiful country,\" he replied; \"but these bottoms must be\ndirty in winter.\"\n\n\"How can you think of dirt, with such objects before you?\"\n\n\"Because,\" replied he, smiling, \"among the rest of the objects before\nme, I see a very dirty lane.\"\n\n\"How strange!\" said Marianne to herself as she walked on.\n\n\"Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here? Are the Middletons pleasant\npeople?\"\n\n\"No, not all,\" answered Marianne; \"we could not be more unfortunately\nsituated.\"\n\n\"Marianne,\" cried her sister, \"how can you say so? How can you be so\nunjust? They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars; and towards\nus have behaved in the friendliest manner. Have you forgot, Marianne,\nhow many pleasant days we have owed to them?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Marianne, in a low voice, \"nor how many painful moments.\"\n\nElinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention to their\nvisitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by\ntalking of their present residence, its conveniences, &c. extorting\nfrom him occasional questions and remarks. His coldness and reserve\nmortified her severely; she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to\nregulate her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present,\nshe avoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated\nhim as she thought he ought to be treated from the family connection.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nMrs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his\ncoming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural.\nHer joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder. He received\nthe kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not\nstand against such a reception. They had begun to fail him before he\nentered the house, and they were quite overcome by the captivating\nmanners of Mrs. Dashwood. Indeed a man could not very well be in love\nwith either of her daughters, without extending the passion to her;\nand Elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like\nhimself. His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his\ninterest in their welfare again became perceptible. He was not in\nspirits, however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was\nattentive, and kind; but still he was not in spirits. The whole family\nperceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of\nliberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all\nselfish parents.\n\n\"What are Mrs. Ferrars's views for you at present, Edward?\" said she,\nwhen dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire; \"are you still\nto be a great orator in spite of yourself?\"\n\n\"No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents\nthan inclination for a public life!\"\n\n\"But how is your fame to be established? for famous you must be to\nsatisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no\naffection for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may find\nit a difficult matter.\"\n\n\"I shall not attempt it. I have no wish to be distinguished; and have\nevery reason to hope I never shall. Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced\ninto genius and eloquence.\"\n\n\"You have no ambition, I well know. Your wishes are all moderate.\"\n\n\"As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe. I wish as\nwell as every body else to be perfectly happy; but, like every body\nelse it must be in my own way. Greatness will not make me so.\"\n\n\"Strange that it would!\" cried Marianne. \"What have wealth or grandeur\nto do with happiness?\"\n\n\"Grandeur has but little,\" said Elinor, \"but wealth has much to do\nwith it.\"\n\n\"Elinor, for shame!\" said Marianne, \"money can only give happiness\nwhere there is nothing else to give it. Beyond a competence, it can\nafford no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Elinor, smiling, \"we may come to the same point.\n_Your_ competence and _my_ wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and\nwithout them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every\nkind of external comfort must be wanting. Your ideas are only more\nnoble than mine. Come, what is your competence?\"\n\n\"About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than _that._\"\n\nElinor laughed. \"_Two_ thousand a year! _One_ is my wealth! I guessed\nhow it would end.\"\n\n\"And yet two thousand a-year is a very moderate income,\" said\nMarianne. \"A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller. I am sure\nI am not extravagant in my demands. A proper establishment of\nservants, a carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on\nless.\"\n\nElinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their\nfuture expenses at Combe Magna.\n\n\"Hunters!\" repeated Edward; \"but why must you have hunters? Every body\ndoes not hunt.\"\n\nMarianne coloured as she replied, \"But most people do.\"\n\n\"I wish,\" said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, \"that somebody\nwould give us all a large fortune a-piece!\"\n\n\"Oh that they would!\" cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with\nanimation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary\nhappiness.\n\n\"We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose,\" said Elinor, \"in spite\nof the insufficiency of wealth.\"\n\n\"Oh dear!\" cried Margaret, \"how happy I should be! I wonder what I\nshould do with it!\"\n\nMarianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.\n\n\"I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself,\" said Mrs.\nDashwood, \"if my children were all to be rich without my help.\"\n\n\"You must begin your improvements on this house,\" observed Elinor,\n\"and your difficulties will soon vanish.\"\n\n\"What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London,\"\nsaid Edward, \"in such an event! What a happy day for booksellers,\nmusic-sellers, and print-shops! You, Miss Dashwood, would give a\ngeneral commission for every new print of merit to be sent you--and as\nfor Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music\nenough in London to content her. And books!--Thomson, Cowper,\nScott--she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up\nevery copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands;\nand she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old\ntwisted tree. Should not you, Marianne? Forgive me, if I am very\nsaucy. But I was willing to show you that I had not forgot our old\ndisputes.\"\n\n\"I love to be reminded of the past, Edward--whether it be melancholy\nor gay, I love to recall it--and you will never offend me by talking\nof former times. You are very right in supposing how my money would be\nspent; some of it, at least--my loose cash--would certainly be\nemployed in improving my collection of music and books.\"\n\n\"And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the\nauthors or their heirs.\"\n\n\"No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it.\"\n\n\"Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who\nwrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever\nbe in love more than once in their life--for your opinion on that\npoint is unchanged, I presume?\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed. It is\nnot likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them.\"\n\n\"Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see,\" said Elinor, \"she is not\nat all altered.\"\n\n\"She is only grown a little more grave than she was.\"\n\n\"Nay, Edward,\" said Marianne, \"you need not reproach me. You are not\nvery gay yourself.\"\n\n\"Why should you think so!\" replied he, with a sigh. \"But gaiety never\nwas a part of _my_ character.\"\n\n\"Nor do I think it a part of Marianne's,\" said Elinor; \"I should\nhardly call her a lively girl--she is very earnest, very eager in all\nshe does--sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation--but\nshe is not often really merry.\"\n\n\"I believe you are right,\" he replied, \"and yet I have always set her\ndown as a lively girl.\"\n\n\"I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes,\" said\nElinor, \"in a total misapprehension of character in some point or\nother: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or\nstupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the\ndeception originated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of\nthemselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them,\nwithout giving oneself time to deliberate and judge.\"\n\n\"But I thought it was right, Elinor,\" said Marianne, \"to be guided\nwholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were\ngiven us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has\nalways been your doctrine, I am sure.\"\n\n\"No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of\nthe understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the\nbehaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess,\nof having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with\ngreater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their\nsentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?\"\n\n\"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of\ngeneral civility,\" said Edward to Elinor, \"Do you gain no ground?\"\n\n\"Quite the contrary,\" replied Elinor, looking expressively at\nMarianne.\n\n\"My judgment,\" he returned, \"is all on your side of the question; but\nI am afraid my practice is much more on your sister's. I never wish to\noffend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I\nam only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought\nthat I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I\nam so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!\"\n\n\"Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers,\" said\nElinor.\n\n\"She knows her own worth too well for false shame,\" replied Edward.\n\"Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or\nother. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy\nand graceful, I should not be shy.\"\n\n\"But you would still be reserved,\" said Marianne, \"and that is worse.\"\n\nEdward started. \"Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?\"\n\n\"Yes, very.\"\n\n\"I do not understand you,\" replied he, colouring. \"Reserved!--how, in\nwhat manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?\"\n\nElinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the\nsubject, she said to him, \"Do not you know my sister well enough to\nunderstand what she means? Do not you know she calls every one\nreserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as\nrapturously as herself?\"\n\nEdward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him\nin their fullest extent--and he sat for some time silent and dull.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\nElinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His\nvisit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own\nenjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was\nunhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still\ndistinguished her by the same affection which once she had felt no\ndoubt of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference\nseemed very uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her\ncontradicted one moment what a more animated look had intimated the\npreceding one.\n\nHe joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning\nbefore the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to\npromote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to\nthemselves. But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour\ndoor open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself\ncome out.\n\n\"I am going into the village to see my horses,\" said he, \"as you are\nnot yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEdward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding\ncountry; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the\nvalley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher\nsituation than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole,\nwhich had exceedingly pleased him. This was a subject which ensured\nMarianne's attention, and she was beginning to describe her own\nadmiration of these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the\nobjects that had particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her\nby saying, \"You must not enquire too far, Marianne: remember I have no\nknowledge in the picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance\nand want of taste if we come to particulars. I shall call hills steep,\nwhich ought to be bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to\nbe irregular and rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought\nonly to be indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere.\nYou must be satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give. I\ncall it a very fine country,--the hills are steep, the woods seem full\nof fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug,--with rich\nmeadows and several neat farm houses scattered here and there. It\nexactly answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty\nwith utility--and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you\nadmire it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and\npromontories, grey moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me.\nI know nothing of the picturesque.\"\n\n\"I am afraid it is but too true,\" said Marianne; \"but why should you\nboast of it?\"\n\n\"I suspect,\" said Elinor, \"that to avoid one kind of affectation,\nEdward here falls into another. Because he believes many people\npretend to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really\nfeel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater\nindifference and less discrimination in viewing them himself than he\npossesses. He is fastidious and will have an affectation of his own.\"\n\n\"It is very true,\" said Marianne, \"that admiration of landscape\nscenery is become a mere jargon. Every body pretends to feel and tries\nto describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what\npicturesque beauty was. I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I\nhave kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to\ndescribe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and\nmeaning.\"\n\n\"I am convinced,\" said Edward, \"that you really feel all the delight\nin a fine prospect which you profess to feel. But, in return, your\nsister must allow me to feel no more than I profess. I like a fine\nprospect, but not on picturesque principles. I do not like crooked,\ntwisted, blasted trees. I admire them much more if they are tall,\nstraight, and flourishing. I do not like ruined, tattered cottages. I\nam not fond of nettles or thistles, or heath blossoms. I have more\npleasure in a snug farm-house than a watch-tower,--and a troop of\ntidy, happy villages please me better than the finest banditti in the\nworld.\"\n\nMarianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her\nsister. Elinor only laughed.\n\nThe subject was continued no farther; and Marianne remained\nthoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention.\nShe was sitting by Edward, and in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood,\nhis hand passed so directly before her, as to make a ring, with a\nplait of hair in the centre, very conspicuous on one of his fingers.\n\n\"I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward,\" she cried. \"Is that\nFanny's hair? I remember her promising to give you some. But I should\nhave thought her hair had been darker.\"\n\nMarianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt; but when she saw\nhow much she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of\nthought could not be surpassed by his. He coloured very deeply, and\ngiving a momentary glance at Elinor, replied, \"Yes; it is my sister's\nhair. The setting always casts a different shade on it, you know.\"\n\nElinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise. That the hair\nwas her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne;\nthe only difference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne\nconsidered as a free gift from her sister, Elinor was conscious must\nhave been procured by some theft or contrivance unknown to herself.\nShe was not in a humour, however, to regard it as an affront, and\naffecting to take no notice of what passed, by instantly talking of\nsomething else, she internally resolved henceforward to catch every\nopportunity of eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyond all\ndoubt, that it was exactly the shade of her own.\n\nEdward's embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an absence of\nmind still more settled. He was particularly grave the whole morning.\nMarianne severely censured herself for what she had said; but her own\nforgiveness might have been more speedy, had she known how little\noffence it had given her sister.\n\nBefore the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir John and Mrs.\nJennings, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the\ncottage, came to take a survey of the guest. With the assistance of\nhis mother-in-law, Sir John was not long in discovering that the name\nof Ferrars began with an F. and this prepared a future mine of\nraillery against the devoted Elinor, which nothing but the newness of\ntheir acquaintance with Edward could have prevented from being\nimmediately sprung. But, as it was, she only learned, from some very\nsignificant looks, how far their penetration, founded on Margaret's\ninstructions, extended.\n\nSir John never came to the Dashwoods without either inviting them to\ndine at the park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening.\nOn the present occasion, for the better entertainment of their\nvisitor, towards whose amusement he felt himself bound to contribute,\nhe wished to engage them for both.\n\n\"You _must_ drink tea with us to night,\" said he, \"for we shall be\nquite alone; and tomorrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we\nshall be a large party.\"\n\nMrs. Jennings enforced the necessity. \"And who knows but you may raise\na dance,\" said she. \"And that will tempt _you_, Miss Marianne.\"\n\n\"A dance!\" cried Marianne. \"Impossible! Who is to dance?\"\n\n[Illustration: _Came to take a survey of the guest._]\n\n\"Who? why yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers to be sure.\nWhat! you thought nobody could dance because a certain person that\nshall be nameless is gone!\"\n\n\"I wish with all my soul,\" cried Sir John, \"that Willoughby were among\nus again.\"\n\nThis, and Marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward. \"And who\nis Willoughby?\" said he, in a low voice, to Miss Dashwood, by whom he\nwas sitting.\n\nShe gave him a brief reply. Marianne's countenance was more\ncommunicative. Edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning\nof others, but such of Marianne's expressions as had puzzled him\nbefore; and when their visitors left them, he went immediately round\nher, and said, in a whisper, \"I have been guessing. Shall I tell you\nmy guess?\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Shall I tell you.\"\n\n\"Certainly.\"\n\n\"Well then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts.\"\n\nMarianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling at\nthe quiet archness of his manner, and after a moment's silence, said--\n\n\"Oh, Edward! How can you?--But the time will come I hope--I am sure\nyou will like him.\"\n\n\"I do not doubt it,\" replied he, rather astonished at her earnestness\nand warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of\nher acquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing\nbetween Mr. Willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to\nmention it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\n\nEdward remained a week at the cottage; he was earnestly pressed by\nMrs. Dashwood to stay longer; but, as if he were bent only on\nself-mortification, he seemed resolved to be gone when his enjoyment\namong his friends was at the height. His spirits, during the last two\nor three days, though still very unequal, were greatly improved--he\ngrew more and more partial to the house and environs--never spoke of\ngoing away without a sigh--declared his time to be wholly\ndisengaged--even doubted to what place he should go when he left\nthem--but still, go he must. Never had any week passed so quickly--he\ncould hardly believe it to be gone. He said so repeatedly; other\nthings he said too, which marked the turn of his feelings and gave the\nlie to his actions. He had no pleasure at Norland; he detested being\nin town; but either to Norland or London, he must go. He valued their\nkindness beyond any thing, and his greatest happiness was in being\nwith them. Yet, he must leave them at the end of a week, in spite of\ntheir wishes and his own, and without any restraint on his time.\n\nElinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to his\nmother's account; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whose\ncharacter was so imperfectly known to her, as to be the general excuse\nfor every thing strange on the part of her son. Disappointed, however,\nand vexed as she was, and sometimes displeased with his uncertain\nbehaviour to herself, she was very well disposed on the whole to\nregard his actions with all the candid allowances and generous\nqualifications, which had been rather more painfully extorted from\nher, for Willoughby's service, by her mother. His want of spirits, of\nopenness, and of consistency, were most usually attributed to his want\nof independence, and his better knowledge of Mrs. Ferrars's\ndisposition and designs. The shortness of his visit, the steadiness of\nhis purpose in leaving them, originated in the same fettered\ninclination, the same inevitable necessity of temporizing with his\nmother. The old well-established grievance of duty against will,\nparent against child, was the cause of all. She would have been glad\nto know when these difficulties were to cease, this opposition was to\nyield, when Mrs. Ferrars would be reformed, and her son be at liberty\nto be happy. But from such vain wishes she was forced to turn for\ncomfort to the renewal of her confidence in Edward's affection, to the\nremembrance of every mark of regard in look or word which fell from\nhim while at Barton, and above all to that flattering proof of it\nwhich he constantly wore round his finger.\n\n\"I think, Edward,\" said Mrs. Dashwood, as they were at breakfast the\nlast morning, \"you would be a happier man if you had any profession to\nengage your time and give an interest to your plans and actions. Some\ninconvenience to your friends, indeed, might result from it--you would\nnot be able to give them so much of your time. But (with a smile) you\nwould be materially benefited in one particular at least--you would\nknow where to go when you left them.\"\n\n\"I do assure you,\" he replied, \"that I have long thought on this\npoint, as you think now. It has been, and is, and probably will always\nbe a heavy misfortune to me, that I have had no necessary business to\nengage me, no profession to give me employment, or afford me any thing\nlike independence. But unfortunately my own nicety, and the nicety of\nmy friends, have made me what I am, an idle, helpless being. We never\ncould agree in our choice of a profession. I always preferred the\nchurch, as I still do. But that was not smart enough for my family.\nThey recommended the army. That was a great deal too smart for me. The\nlaw was allowed to be genteel enough; many young men, who had chambers\nin the Temple, made a very good appearance in the first circles, and\ndrove about town in very knowing gigs. But I had no inclination for\nthe law, even in this less abstruse study of it, which my family\napproved. As for the navy, it had fashion on its side, but I was too\nold when the subject was first started to enter it; and, at length, as\nthere was no necessity for my having any profession at all, as I might\nbe as dashing and expensive without a red coat on my back as with one,\nidleness was pronounced on the whole to be most advantageous and\nhonourable, and a young man of eighteen is not in general so earnestly\nbent on being busy as to resist the solicitations of his friends to do\nnothing. I was therefore entered at Oxford and have been properly idle\never since.\"\n\n\"The consequence of which, I suppose, will be,\" said Mrs. Dashwood,\n\"since leisure has not promoted your own happiness, that your sons\nwill be brought up to as many pursuits, employments, professions, and\ntrades as Columella's.\"\n\n\"They will be brought up,\" said he, in a serious accent, \"to be as\nunlike myself as is possible. In feeling, in action, in condition, in\nevery thing.\"\n\n\"Come, come; this is all an effusion of immediate want of spirits,\nEdward. You are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that any one unlike\nyourself must be happy. But remember that the pain of parting from\nfriends will be felt by every body at times, whatever be their\neducation or state. Know your own happiness. You want nothing but\npatience--or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope. Your\nmother will secure to you, in time, that independence you are so\nanxious for; it is her duty, and it will, it must ere long become her\nhappiness to prevent your whole youth from being wasted in discontent.\nHow much may not a few months do?\"\n\n\"I think,\" replied Edward, \"that I may defy many months to produce any\ngood to me.\"\n\nThis desponding turn of mind, though it could not be communicated to\nMrs. Dashwood, gave additional pain to them all in the parting, which\nshortly took place, and left an uncomfortable impression on Elinor's\nfeelings especially, which required some trouble and time to subdue.\nBut as it was her determination to subdue it, and to prevent herself\nfrom appearing to suffer more than what all her family suffered on his\ngoing away, she did not adopt the method so judiciously employed by\nMarianne, on a similar occasion, to augment and fix her sorrow, by\nseeking silence, solitude and idleness. Their means were as different\nas their objects, and equally suited to the advancement of each.\n\nElinor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as he was out of the\nhouse, busily employed herself the whole day, neither sought nor\navoided the mention of his name, appeared to interest herself almost\nas much as ever in the general concerns of the family, and if, by this\nconduct, she did not lessen her own grief, it was at least prevented\nfrom unnecessary increase, and her mother and sisters were spared much\nsolicitude on her account.\n\nSuch behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared no\nmore meritorious to Marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her.\nThe business of self-command she settled very easily;--with strong\naffections it was impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit.\nThat her sister's affections _were_ calm, she dared not deny, though\nshe blushed to acknowledge it; and of the strength of her own, she\ngave a very striking proof, by still loving and respecting that\nsister, in spite of this mortifying conviction.\n\nWithout shutting herself up from her family, or leaving the house in\ndetermined solitude to avoid them, or lying awake the whole night to\nindulge meditation, Elinor found every day afforded her leisure enough\nto think of Edward, and of Edward's behaviour, in every possible\nvariety which the different state of her spirits at different times\ncould produce,--with tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and\ndoubt. There were moments in abundance, when, if not by the absence of\nher mother and sisters, at least by the nature of their employments,\nconversation was forbidden among them, and every effect of solitude\nwas produced. Her mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts could\nnot be chained elsewhere; and the past and the future, on a subject so\ninteresting, must be before her, must force her attention, and engross\nher memory, her reflection, and her fancy.\n\nFrom a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she was\nroused one morning, soon after Edward's leaving them, by the arrival\nof company. She happened to be quite alone. The closing of the little\ngate, at the entrance of the green court in front of the house, drew\nher eyes to the window, and she saw a large party walking up to the\ndoor. Amongst them were Sir John and Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings,\nbut there were two others, a gentleman and lady, who were quite\nunknown to her. She was sitting near the window, and as soon as Sir\nJohn perceived her, he left the rest of the party to the ceremony of\nknocking at the door, and stepping across the turf, obliged her to\nopen the casement to speak to him, though the space was so short\nbetween the door and the window, as to make it hardly possible to\nspeak at one without being heard at the other.\n\n\"Well,\" said he, \"we have brought you some strangers. How do you like\nthem?\"\n\n\"Hush! they will hear you.\"\n\n\"Never mind if they do. It is only the Palmers. Charlotte is very\npretty, I can tell you. You may see her if you look this way.\"\n\nAs Elinor was certain of seeing her in a couple of minutes, without\ntaking that liberty, she begged to be excused.\n\n\"Where is Marianne? Has she run away because we are come? I see her\ninstrument is open.\"\n\n\"She is walking, I believe.\"\n\nThey were now joined by Mrs. Jennings, who had not patience enough to\nwait till the door was opened before she told _her_ story. She came\nhallooing to the window, \"How do you do, my dear? How does Mrs.\nDashwood do? And where are your sisters? What! all alone! you will be\nglad of a little company to sit with you. I have brought my other son\nand daughter to see you. Only think of their coming so suddenly! I\nthought I heard a carriage last night, while we were drinking our tea,\nbut it never entered my head that it could be them. I thought of\nnothing but whether it might not be Colonel Brandon come back again;\nso I said to Sir John, I do think I hear a carriage; perhaps it is\nColonel Brandon come back again--\"\n\nElinor was obliged to turn from her, in the middle of her story, to\nreceive the rest of the party; Lady Middleton introduced the two\nstrangers; Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret came down stairs at the same\ntime, and they all sat down to look at one another, while Mrs.\nJennings continued her story as she walked through the passage into\nthe parlour, attended by Sir John.\n\nMrs. Palmer was several years younger than Lady Middleton, and totally\nunlike her in every respect. She was short and plump, had a very\npretty face, and the finest expression of good humour in it that could\npossibly be. Her manners were by no means so elegant as her sister's,\nbut they were much more prepossessing. She came in with a smile,\nsmiled all the time of her visit, except when she laughed, and smiled\nwhen she went away. Her husband was a grave looking young man of five\nor six and twenty, with an air of more fashion and sense than his\nwife, but of less willingness to please or be pleased. He entered the\nroom with a look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies,\nwithout speaking a word, and, after briefly surveying them and their\napartments, took up a newspaper from the table, and continued to read\nit as long as he stayed.\n\nMrs. Palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature with\na turn for being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before\nher admiration of the parlour and every thing in it burst forth.\n\n\"Well! what a delightful room this is! I never saw anything so\ncharming! Only think, Mamma, how it is improved since I was here last!\nI always thought it such a sweet place, ma'am! (turning to Mrs.\nDashwood) but you have made it so charming! Only look, sister, how\ndelightful every thing is! How I should like such a house for myself!\nShould not you, Mr. Palmer?\"\n\nMr. Palmer made her no answer, and did not even raise his eyes from\nthe newspaper.\n\n\"Mr. Palmer does not hear me,\" said she, laughing; \"he never does\nsometimes. It is so ridiculous!\"\n\nThis was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood; she had never been used to\nfind wit in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking\nwith surprise at them both.\n\nMrs. Jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and\ncontinued her account of their surprise, the evening before, on seeing\ntheir friends, without ceasing till every thing was told. Mrs. Palmer\nlaughed heartily at the recollection of their astonishment, and every\nbody agreed, two or three times over, that it had been quite an\nagreeable surprise.\n\n\"You may believe how glad we all were to see them,\" added Mrs.\nJennings, leaning forward towards Elinor, and speaking in a low voice\nas if she meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on\ndifferent sides of the room; \"but, however, I can't help wishing they\nhad not travelled quite so fast, nor made such a long journey of it,\nfor they came all round by London upon account of some business, for\nyou know (nodding significantly and pointing to her daughter) it was\nwrong in her situation. I wanted her to stay at home and rest this\nmorning, but she would come with us; she longed so much to see you\nall!\"\n\nMrs. Palmer laughed, and said it would not do her any harm.\n\n\"She expects to be confined in February,\" continued Mrs. Jennings.\n\nLady Middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and\ntherefore exerted herself to ask Mr. Palmer if there was any news in\nthe paper.\n\n\"No, none at all,\" he replied, and read on.\n\n\"Here comes Marianne,\" cried Sir John. \"Now, Palmer, you shall see a\nmonstrous pretty girl.\"\n\nHe immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and\nushered her in himself. Mrs. Jennings asked her, as soon as she\nappeared, if she had not been to Allenham; and Mrs. Palmer laughed so\nheartily at the question, as to show she understood it. Mr. Palmer\nlooked up on her entering the room, stared at her some minutes, and\nthen returned to his newspaper. Mrs. Palmer's eye was now caught by\nthe drawings which hung round the room. She got up to examine them.\n\n[Illustration: \"_I declare they are quite charming_.\"]\n\n\"Oh! dear, how beautiful these are! Well! how delightful! Do but look,\nmama, how sweet! I declare they are quite charming; I could look at\nthem for ever.\" And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot that\nthere were any such things in the room.\n\nWhen Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid down\nthe newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all around.\n\n\"My love, have you been asleep?\" said his wife, laughing.\n\nHe made her no answer; and only observed, after again examining the\nroom, that it was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked.\nHe then made his bow, and departed with the rest.\n\nSir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at\nthe park. Mrs. Dashwood, who did not choose to dine with them oftener\nthan they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account;\nher daughters might do as they pleased. But they had no curiosity to\nsee how Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of\npleasure from them in any other way. They attempted, therefore,\nlikewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was uncertain, and not\nlikely to be good. But Sir John would not be satisfied--the carriage\nshould be sent for them and they must come. Lady Middleton too, though\nshe did not press their mother, pressed them. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs.\nPalmer joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a\nfamily party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield.\n\n\"Why should they ask us?\" said Marianne, as soon as they were gone.\n\"The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very\nhard terms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying\neither with them, or with us.\"\n\n\"They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now,\" said Elinor, \"by\nthese frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them\na few weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their parties are\ngrown tedious and dull. We must look for the change elsewhere.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\n\nAs the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next\nday, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as\ngood humoured and merry as before. She took them all most\naffectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them\nagain.\n\n\"I am so glad to see you!\" said she, seating herself between Elinor\nand Marianne, \"for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come,\nwhich would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. We must\ngo, for the Westons come to us next week you know. It was quite a\nsudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the\ncarriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I\nwould go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me any\nthing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet\nagain in town very soon, I hope.\"\n\nThey were obliged to put an end to such an expectation.\n\n\"Not go to town!\" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, \"I shall be quite\ndisappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in world for\nyou, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I am\nsure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am\nconfined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public.\"\n\nThey thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties.\n\n\"Oh, my love,\" cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered\nthe room--\"you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to\ntown this winter.\"\n\nHer love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies,\nbegan complaining of the weather.\n\n\"How horrid all this is!\" said he. \"Such weather makes every thing and\nevery body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as\nwithout, by rain. It makes one detest all one's acquaintance. What the\ndevil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house?\nHow few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the\nweather.\"\n\nThe rest of the company soon dropt in.\n\n\"I am afraid, Miss Marianne,\" said Sir John, \"you have not been able\nto take your usual walk to Allenham today.\"\n\nMarianne looked very grave and said nothing.\n\n\"Oh, don't be so sly before us,\" said Mrs. Palmer; \"for we know all\nabout it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think\nhe is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the\ncountry, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say.\"\n\n\"Much nearer thirty,\" said her husband.\n\n\"Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but\nthey say it is a sweet pretty place.\"\n\n\"As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life,\" said Mr. Palmer.\n\nMarianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed\nher interest in what was said.\n\n\"Is it very ugly?\" continued Mrs. Palmer--\"then it must be some other\nplace that is so pretty I suppose.\"\n\nWhen they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with\nregret that they were only eight all together.\n\n\"My dear,\" said he to his lady, \"it is very provoking that we should\nbe so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?\"\n\n\"Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before,\nthat it could not be done? They dined with us last.\"\n\n\"You and I, Sir John,\" said Mrs. Jennings, \"should not stand upon such\nceremony.\"\n\n\"Then you would be very ill-bred,\" cried Mr. Palmer.\n\n\"My love you contradict every body,\" said his wife with her usual\nlaugh. \"Do you know that you are quite rude?\"\n\n\"I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother\nill-bred.\"\n\n\"Ay, you may abuse me as you please,\" said the good-natured old lady,\n\"you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back\nagain. So there I have the whip hand of you.\"\n\nCharlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid\nof her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her,\nas they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more\nthoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs.\nPalmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her\nhusband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was\nhighly diverted.\n\n\"Mr. Palmer is so droll!\" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. \"He is\nalways out of humour.\"\n\nElinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him\ncredit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred\nas he wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by\nfinding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable\nbias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly\nwoman,--but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any\nsensible man to be lastingly hurt by it. It was rather a wish of\ndistinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment\nof every body, and his general abuse of every thing before him. It was\nthe desire of appearing superior to other people. The motive was too\ncommon to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by\nestablishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to\nattach any one to him except his wife.\n\n\"Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood,\" said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, \"I have\ngot such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and\nspend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do,--and come\nwhile the Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be!\nIt will be quite delightful!--My love,\" applying to her husband,\n\"don't you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" he replied, with a sneer--\"I came into Devonshire with no\nother view.\"\n\n\"There now,\"--said his lady, \"you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you\ncannot refuse to come.\"\n\nThey both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation.\n\n\"But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of all\nthings. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful.\nYou cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay\nnow, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing\nagainst the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I\nnever saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very\nfatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him.\"\n\nElinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the\nhardship of such an obligation.\n\n\"How charming it will be,\" said Charlotte, \"when he is in\nParliament!--won't it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to\nsee all his letters directed to him with an M.P. But do you know, he\nsays, he will never frank for me? He declares he won't. Don't you, Mr.\nPalmer?\"\n\nMr. Palmer took no notice of her.\n\n\"He cannot bear writing, you know,\" she continued; \"he says it is\nquite shocking.\"\n\n\"No,\" said he, \"I never said any thing so irrational. Don't palm all\nyour abuses of languages upon me.\"\n\n\"There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him!\nSometimes he won't speak to me for half a day together, and then he\ncomes out with something so droll--all about any thing in the world.\"\n\nShe surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room,\nby asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively.\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Elinor; \"he seems very agreeable.\"\n\n\"Well--I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant;\nand Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can\ntell you, and you can't think how disappointed he will be if you don't\ncome to Cleveland. I can't imagine why you should object to it.\"\n\nElinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing\nthe subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable\nthat as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to\ngive some more particular account of Willoughby's general character,\nthan could be gathered from the Middletons' partial acquaintance with\nhim; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of\nhis merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She\nbegan by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland,\nand whether they were intimately acquainted with him.\n\n\"Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well,\" replied Mrs. Palmer;--\"Not\nthat I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in\ntown. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while\nhe was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before, but I was with my\nuncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great\ndeal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily\nthat we should never have been in the country together. He is very\nlittle at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do\nnot think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you\nknow, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about\nhim, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of\nit, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know.\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" replied Elinor, \"you know much more of the matter than\nI do, if you have any reason to expect such a match.\"\n\n\"Don't pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body\ntalks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town.\"\n\n\"My dear Mrs. Palmer!\"\n\n\"Upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in\nBond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly.\"\n\n\"You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely you\nmust be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not\nbe interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect\nColonel Brandon to do.\"\n\n\"But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how\nit happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and\nso we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and\nanother, and I said to him, 'So, Colonel, there is a new family come\nto Barton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very\npretty, and that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby\nof Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you\nhave been in Devonshire so lately.'\"\n\n\"And what did the Colonel say?\"\n\n\"Oh--he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true,\nso from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite\ndelightful, I declare! When is it to take place?\"\n\n\"Mr. Brandon was very well I hope?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but\nsay fine things of you.\"\n\n\"I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and I\nthink him uncommonly pleasing.\"\n\n\"So do I. He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should\nbe so grave and so dull. Mamma says _he_ was in love with your sister\ntoo. I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly\never falls in love with any body.\"\n\n\"Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?\" said\nElinor.\n\n\"Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are\nacquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all\nthink him extremely agreeable I assure you. Nobody is more liked than\nMr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. She\nis a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he\nis much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and\nagreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her. However, I don't\nthink her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you; for I think\nyou both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too I am sure,\nthough we could not get him to own it last night.\"\n\nMrs. Palmer's information respecting Willoughby was not very material;\nbut any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to her.\n\n\"I am so glad we are got acquainted at last,\" continued Charlotte.\n\"And now I hope we shall always be great friends. You can't think how\nmuch I longed to see you! It is so delightful that you should live at\nthe cottage! Nothing can be like it, to be sure! And I am so glad your\nsister is going to be well married! I hope you will be a great deal at\nCombe Magna. It is a sweet place, by all accounts.\"\n\n\"You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have not you?\"\n\n\"Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married. He was a particular\nfriend of Sir John's. I believe,\" she added in a low voice, \"he would\nhave been very glad to have had me, if he could. Sir John and Lady\nMiddleton wished it very much. But mama did not think the match good\nenough for me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the\nColonel, and we should have been married immediately.\"\n\n\"Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John's proposal to your mother\nbefore it was made? Had he never owned his affection to yourself?\"\n\n\"Oh, no; but if mama had not objected to it, I dare say he would have\nliked it of all things. He had not seen me then above twice, for it\nwas before I left school. However, I am much happier as I am. Mr.\nPalmer is the kind of man I like.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\n\nThe Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two families\nat Barton were again left to entertain each other. But this did not\nlast long; Elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her head,\nhad hardly done wondering at Charlotte's being so happy without a\ncause, at Mr. Palmer's acting so simply, with good abilities, and at\nthe strange unsuitableness which often existed between husband and\nwife, before Sir John's and Mrs. Jennings's active zeal in the cause\nof society, procured her some other new acquaintance to see and\nobserve.\n\nIn a morning's excursion to Exeter, they had met with two young\nladies, whom Mrs. Jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be\nher relations, and this was enough for Sir John to invite them\ndirectly to the park, as soon as their present engagements at Exeter\nwere over. Their engagements at Exeter instantly gave way before such\nan invitation, and Lady Middleton was thrown into no little alarm on\nthe return of Sir John, by hearing that she was very soon to receive a\nvisit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, and of whose\nelegance--whose tolerable gentility even--she could have no proof; for\nthe assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for\nnothing at all. Their being her relations too made it so much the\nworse; and Mrs. Jennings's attempts at consolation were therefore\nunfortunately founded, when she advised her daughter not to care about\ntheir being so fashionable; because they were all cousins and must put\nup with one another. As it was impossible, however, now to prevent\ntheir coming, Lady Middleton resigned herself to the idea of it, with\nall the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting herself with\nmerely giving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or\nsix times every day.\n\nThe young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no means ungenteel\nor unfashionable. Their dress was very smart, their manners very\ncivil, they were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the\nfurniture, and they happened to be so doatingly fond of children that\nLady Middleton's good opinion was engaged in their favour before they\nhad been an hour at the Park. She declared them to be very agreeable\ngirls indeed, which for her ladyship was enthusiastic admiration. Sir\nJohn's confidence in his own judgment rose with this animated praise,\nand he set off directly for the cottage to tell the Miss Dashwoods of\nthe Miss Steeles' arrival, and to assure them of their being the\nsweetest girls in the world. From such commendation as this, however,\nthere was not much to be learned; Elinor well knew that the sweetest\ngirls in the world were to be met with in every part of England, under\nevery possible variation of form, face, temper and understanding. Sir\nJohn wanted the whole family to walk to the Park directly and look at\nhis guests. Benevolent, philanthropic man! It was painful to him even\nto keep a third cousin to himself.\n\n\"Do come now,\" said he--\"pray come--you must come--I declare you shall\ncome--You can't think how you will like them. Lucy is monstrous\npretty, and so good humoured and agreeable! The children are all\nhanging about her already, as if she was an old acquaintance. And they\nboth long to see you of all things, for they have heard at Exeter that\nyou are the most beautiful creatures in the world; and I have told\nthem it is all very true, and a great deal more. You will be delighted\nwith them I am sure. They have brought the whole coach full of\nplaythings for the children. How can you be so cross as not to come?\nWhy they are your cousins, you know, after a fashion. _You_ are my\ncousins, and they are my wife's, so you must be related.\"\n\nBut Sir John could not prevail. He could only obtain a promise of\ntheir calling at the Park within a day or two, and then left them in\namazement at their indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their\nattractions to the Miss Steeles, as he had been already boasting of\nthe Miss Steeles to them.\n\nWhen their promised visit to the Park and consequent introduction to\nthese young ladies took place, they found in the appearance of the\neldest, who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible\nface, nothing to admire; but in the other, who was not more than two\nor three and twenty, they acknowledged considerable beauty; her\nfeatures were pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a smartness\nof air, which though it did not give actual elegance or grace, gave\ndistinction to her person. Their manners were particularly civil, and\nElinor soon allowed them credit for some kind of sense, when she saw\nwith what constant and judicious attention they were making themselves\nagreeable to Lady Middleton. With her children they were in continual\nraptures, extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring\ntheir whims; and such of their time as could be spared from the\nimportunate demands which this politeness made on it, was spent in\nadmiration of whatever her ladyship was doing, if she happened to be\ndoing any thing, or in taking patterns of some elegant new dress, in\nwhich her appearance the day before had thrown them into unceasing\ndelight. Fortunately for those who pay their court through such\nfoibles, a fond mother, though, in pursuit of praise for her children,\nthe most rapacious of human beings, is likewise the most credulous;\nher demands are exorbitant; but she will swallow any thing; and the\nexcessive affection and endurance of the Miss Steeles towards her\noffspring were viewed therefore by Lady Middleton without the smallest\nsurprise or distrust. She saw with maternal complacency all the\nimpertinent encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins\nsubmitted. She saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their\nears, their work-bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen\naway, and felt no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment. It\nsuggested no other surprise than that Elinor and Marianne should sit\nso composedly by, without claiming a share in what was passing.\n\n\"John is in such spirits today!\" said she, on his taking Miss Steele's\npocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window--\"He is full of\nmonkey tricks.\"\n\nAnd soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one of the\nsame lady's fingers, she fondly observed, \"How playful William is!\"\n\n[Illustration: _Mischievous tricks._]\n\n\"And here is my sweet little Annamaria,\" she added, tenderly caressing\na little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the\nlast two minutes; \"And she is always so gentle and quiet--Never was\nthere such a quiet little thing!\"\n\nBut unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship's\nhead dress slightly scratching the child's neck, produced from this\npattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone\nby any creature professedly noisy. The mother's consternation was\nexcessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and\nevery thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which\naffection could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little\nsufferer. She was seated in her mother's lap, covered with kisses, her\nwound bathed with lavender-water, by one of the Miss Steeles, who was\non her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by\nthe other. With such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to\ncease crying. She still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two\nbrothers for offering to touch her, and all their united soothings\nwere ineffectual till Lady Middleton luckily remembering that in a\nscene of similar distress last week, some apricot marmalade had been\nsuccessfully applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly\nproposed for this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of\nscreams in the young lady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that\nit would not be rejected. She was carried out of the room therefore in\nher mother's arms, in quest of this medicine, and as the two boys\nchose to follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay\nbehind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room\nhad not known for many hours.\n\n\"Poor little creatures!\" said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone.\n\"It might have been a very sad accident.\"\n\n\"Yet I hardly know how,\" cried Marianne, \"unless it had been under\ntotally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of\nheightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in\nreality.\"\n\n\"What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!\" said Lucy Steele.\n\nMarianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not\nfeel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor therefore the\nwhole task of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell.\nShe did her best when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton\nwith more warmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy.\n\n\"And Sir John too,\" cried the elder sister, \"what a charming man he\nis!\"\n\nHere too, Miss Dashwood's commendation, being only simple and just,\ncame in without any eclat. She merely observed that he was perfectly\ngood humoured and friendly.\n\n\"And what a charming little family they have! I never saw such fine\nchildren in my life. I declare I quite doat upon them already, and\nindeed I am always distractedly fond of children.\"\n\n\"I should guess so,\" said Elinor, with a smile, \"from what I have\nwitnessed this morning.\"\n\n\"I have a notion,\" said Lucy, \"you think the little Middletons rather\ntoo much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it\nis so natural in Lady Middleton; and for my part, I love to see\nchildren full of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame\nand quiet.\"\n\n\"I confess,\" replied Elinor, \"that while I am at Barton Park, I never\nthink of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence.\"\n\nA short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss\nSteele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now\nsaid rather abruptly, \"And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood?\nI suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex.\"\n\nIn some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of\nthe manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was.\n\n\"Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?\" added Miss\nSteele.\n\n\"We have heard Sir John admire it excessively,\" said Lucy, who seemed\nto think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister.\n\n\"I think every one _must_ admire it,\" replied Elinor, \"who ever saw\nthe place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate\nits beauties as we do.\"\n\n\"And had you a great many smart beaux there? I suppose you have not so\nmany in this part of the world; for my part, I think they are a vast\naddition always.\"\n\n\"But why should you think,\" said Lucy, looking ashamed of her sister,\n\"that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as\nSussex?\"\n\n\"Nay, my dear, I'm sure I don't pretend to say that there an't. I'm\nsure there's a vast many smart beaux in Exeter; but you know, how\ncould I tell what smart beaux there might be about Norland; and I was\nonly afraid the Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they\nhad not so many as they used to have. But perhaps you young ladies may\nnot care about the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with\nthem. For my part, I think they are vastly agreeable, provided they\ndress smart and behave civil. But I can't bear to see them dirty and\nnasty. Now there's Mr. Rose at Exeter, a prodigious smart young man,\nquite a beau, clerk to Mr. Simpson, you know, and yet if you do but\nmeet him of a morning, he is not fit to be seen. I suppose your\nbrother was quite a beau, Miss Dashwood, before he married, as he was\nso rich?\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" replied Elinor, \"I cannot tell you, for I do not\nperfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. But this I can say, that\nif he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still for there is\nnot the smallest alteration in him.\"\n\n\"Oh! dear! one never thinks of married men's being beaux--they have\nsomething else to do.\"\n\n\"Lord! Anne,\" cried her sister, \"you can talk of nothing but\nbeaux;--you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing\nelse.\" And then to turn the discourse, she began admiring the house\nand the furniture.\n\nThis specimen of the Miss Steeles was enough. The vulgar freedom and\nfolly of the eldest left her no recommendation, and as Elinor was not\nblinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want\nof real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish\nof knowing them better.\n\nNot so the Miss Steeles. They came from Exeter, well provided with\nadmiration for the use of Sir John Middleton, his family, and all his\nrelations, and no niggardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair\ncousins, whom they declared to be the most beautiful, elegant,\naccomplished, and agreeable girls they had ever beheld, and with whom\nthey were particularly anxious to be better acquainted. And to be\nbetter acquainted therefore, Elinor soon found was their inevitable\nlot, for as Sir John was entirely on the side of the Miss Steeles,\ntheir party would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of\nintimacy must be submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or\ntwo together in the same room almost every day. Sir John could do no\nmore; but he did not know that any more was required: to be together\nwas, in his opinion, to be intimate, and while his continual schemes\nfor their meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of their being\nestablished friends.\n\nTo do him justice, he did every thing in his power to promote their\nunreserve, by making the Miss Steeles acquainted with whatever he knew\nor supposed of his cousins' situations in the most delicate\nparticulars,--and Elinor had not seen them more than twice, before the\neldest of them wished her joy on her sister's having been so lucky as\nto make a conquest of a very smart beau since she came to Barton.\n\n\"'Twill be a fine thing to have her married so young to be sure,\" said\nshe, \"and I hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious handsome. And I\nhope you may have as good luck yourself soon,--but perhaps you may\nhave a friend in the corner already.\"\n\nElinor could not suppose that Sir John would be more nice in\nproclaiming his suspicions of her regard for Edward, than he had been\nwith respect to Marianne; indeed it was rather his favourite joke of\nthe two, as being somewhat newer and more conjectural; and since\nEdward's visit, they had never dined together without his drinking to\nher best affections with so much significancy and so many nods and\nwinks, as to excite general attention. The letter F had been likewise\ninvariably brought forward, and found productive of such countless\njokes, that its character as the wittiest letter in the alphabet had\nbeen long established with Elinor.\n\nThe Miss Steeles, as she expected, had now all the benefit of these\njokes, and in the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know the\nname of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often impertinently\nexpressed, was perfectly of a piece with her general inquisitiveness\ninto the concerns of their family. But Sir John did not sport long\nwith the curiosity which he delighted to raise, for he had at least as\nmuch pleasure in telling the name, as Miss Steele had in hearing it.\n\n\"His name is Ferrars,\" said he, in a very audible whisper; \"but pray\ndo not tell it, for it's a great secret.\"\n\n[Illustration: _Drinking to her best affections._]\n\n\"Ferrars!\" repeated Miss Steele; \"Mr. Ferrars is the happy man, is he?\nWhat! your sister-in-law's brother, Miss Dashwood? a very agreeable\nyoung man to be sure; I know him very well.\"\n\n\"How can you say so, Anne?\" cried Lucy, who generally made an\namendment to all her sister's assertions. \"Though we have seen him\nonce or twice at my uncle's, it is rather too much to pretend to know\nhim very well.\"\n\nElinor heard all this with attention and surprise. \"And who was this\nuncle? Where did he live? How came they acquainted?\" She wished very\nmuch to have the subject continued, though she did not choose to join\nin it herself; but nothing more of it was said, and for the first time\nin her life, she thought Mrs. Jennings deficient either in curiosity\nafter petty information, or in a disposition to communicate it. The\nmanner in which Miss Steele had spoken of Edward, increased her\ncuriosity; for it struck her as being rather ill-natured, and\nsuggested the suspicion of that lady's knowing, or fancying herself to\nknow something to his disadvantage. But her curiosity was unavailing,\nfor no farther notice was taken of Mr. Ferrars's name by Miss Steele\nwhen alluded to, or even openly mentioned by Sir John.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\n\nMarianne, who had never much toleration for any thing like\nimpertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of\ntaste from herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from\nthe state of her spirits, to be pleased with the Miss Steeles, or to\nencourage their advances; and to the invariable coldness of her\nbehaviour towards them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on\ntheir side, Elinor principally attributed that preference of herself\nwhich soon became evident in the manners of both, but especially of\nLucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation, or of\nstriving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank\ncommunication of her sentiments.\n\nLucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing;\nand as a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her\nagreeable; but her powers had received no aid from education: she was\nignorant and illiterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement,\nher want of information in the most common particulars, could not be\nconcealed from Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to\nappear to advantage. Elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of\nabilities which education might have rendered so respectable; but she\nsaw, with less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy,\nof rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her\nassiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have\nno lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined\ninsincerity with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their\nmeeting in conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward\nothers made every show of attention and deference towards herself\nperfectly valueless.\n\n\"You will think my question an odd one, I dare say,\" said Lucy to her\none day, as they were walking together from the park to the\ncottage--\"but pray, are you personally acquainted with your\nsister-in-law's mother, Mrs. Ferrars?\"\n\nElinor _did_ think the question a very odd one, and her countenance\nexpressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars.\n\n\"Indeed!\" replied Lucy; \"I wonder at that, for I thought you must have\nseen her at Norland sometimes. Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what\nsort of a woman she is?\"\n\n\"No,\" returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward's\nmother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent\ncuriosity; \"I know nothing of her.\"\n\n\"I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such\na way,\" said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; \"but\nperhaps there may be reasons--I wish I might venture; but however I\nhope you will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be\nimpertinent.\"\n\nElinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in\nsilence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by\nsaying, with some hesitation--\n\n\"I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am sure I\nwould rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person\nwhose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I\nshould not have the smallest fear of trusting _you_; indeed, I should\nbe very glad of your advice how to manage in such and uncomfortable\nsituation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble\n_you._ I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars.\"\n\n\"I am sorry I do _not_,\" said Elinor, in great astonishment, \"if it\ncould be of any use to _you_ to know my opinion of her. But really I\nnever understood that you were at all connected with that family, and\ntherefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry\ninto her character.\"\n\n\"I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But\nif I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs.\nFerrars is certainly nothing to me at present--but the time _may_\ncome--how soon it will come must depend upon herself--when we may be\nvery intimately connected.\"\n\nShe looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side\nglance at her companion to observe its effect on her.\n\n\"Good heavens!\" cried Elinor, \"what do you mean? Are you acquainted\nwith Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?\" And she did not feel much\ndelighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law.\n\n\"No,\" replied Lucy, \"not to Mr. _Robert_ Ferrars--I never saw him in\nmy life; but,\" fixing her eyes upon Elinor, \"to his eldest brother.\"\n\nWhat felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as\npainful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the\nassertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement,\nunable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and\nthough her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt\nin no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.\n\n\"You may well be surprised,\" continued Lucy; \"for to be sure you could\nhave had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the\nsmallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was\nalways meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully\nkept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it\nbut Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not\nfelt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I\nreally thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs.\nFerrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not\nthink Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted\nyou, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all\nyour family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods\nquite as his own sisters.\"--She paused.\n\n[Illustration: _Amiably bashful._]\n\nElinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she\nheard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself\nto speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner,\nwhich tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude--\"May I ask\nif your engagement is of long standing?\"\n\n\"We have been engaged these four years.\"\n\n\"Four years!\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nElinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it.\n\n\"I did not know,\" said she, \"that you were even acquainted till the\nother day.\"\n\n\"Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my\nuncle's care, you know, a considerable while.\"\n\n\"Your uncle!\"\n\n\"Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?\"\n\n\"I think I have,\" replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which\nincreased with her increase of emotion.\n\n\"He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near\nPlymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me\nwas often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was\nformed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he\nwas almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter\ninto it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of\nhis mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so\nprudent as I ought to have been. Though you do not know him so well as\nme, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he\nis very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but after\na moment's reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward's\nhonour and love, and her companion's falsehood--\"Engaged to Mr. Edward\nFerrars!--I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me,\nthat really--I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake\nof person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars.\"\n\n\"We can mean no other,\" cried Lucy, smiling. \"Mr. Edward Ferrars, the\neldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your\nsister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must\nallow that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on\nwho all my happiness depends.\"\n\n\"It is strange,\" replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity, \"that I\nshould never have heard him even mention your name.\"\n\n\"No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has\nbeen to keep the matter secret. You knew nothing of me, or my family,\nand, therefore, there could be no _occasion_ for ever mentioning my\nname to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister's\nsuspecting any thing, _that_ was reason enough for his not mentioning\nit.\"\n\nShe was silent. Elinor's security sunk; but her self-command did not\nsink with it.\n\n\"Four years you have been engaged,\" said she with a firm voice.\n\n\"Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor\nEdward! It puts him quite out of heart.\" Then taking a small miniature\nfrom her pocket, she added, \"To prevent the possibility of mistake, be\nso good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be\nsure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was\ndrew for. I have had it above these three years.\"\n\nShe put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the\npainting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or\nher wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind,\nshe could have none of its being Edward's face. She returned it almost\ninstantly, acknowledging the likeness.\n\n\"I have never been able,\" continued Lucy, \"to give him my picture in\nreturn, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so\nanxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first\nopportunity.\"\n\n\"You are quite in the right,\" replied Elinor calmly. They then\nproceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first.\n\n\"I am sure,\" said she, \"I have no doubt in the world of your\nfaithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what\nimportance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she\nwould never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I\nfancy she is an exceeding proud woman.\"\n\n\"I certainly did not seek your confidence,\" said Elinor; \"but you do\nme no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your\nsecret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so\nunnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being\nacquainted with it could not add to its safety.\"\n\nAs she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover\nsomething in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest\npart of what she had been saying; but Lucy's countenance suffered no\nchange.\n\n\"I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you,\"\nsaid she, \"in telling you all this. I have not known you long to be\nsure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by\ndescription a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as\nif you was an old acquaintance. Besides in the present case, I really\nthought some explanation was due to you after my making such\nparticular inquiries about Edward's mother; and I am so unfortunate,\nthat I have not a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne is the only\nperson that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she\ndoes me a great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of\nher betraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you\nmust perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world\nt'other day, when Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she\nshould out with it all. You can't think how much I go through in my\nmind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what I\nhave suffered for Edward's sake these last four years. Every thing in\nsuch suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom--we can hardly\nmeet above twice a-year. I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite\nbroke.\"\n\nHere she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very\ncompassionate.\n\n\"Sometimes,\" continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, \"I think whether\nit would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely.\"\nAs she said this, she looked directly at her companion. \"But then at\nother times I have not resolution enough for it. I cannot bear the\nthoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of\nsuch a thing would do. And on my own account too--so dear as he is to\nme--I don't think I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to\ndo in such a case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself?\"\n\n\"Pardon me,\" replied Elinor, startled by the question; \"but I can give\nyou no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct\nyou.\"\n\n\"To be sure,\" continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on both\nsides, \"his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor\nEdward is so cast down by it! Did you not think him dreadful\nlow-spirited when he was at Barton? He was so miserable when he left\nus at Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him\nquite ill.\"\n\n\"Did he come from your uncle's, then, when he visited us?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he\ncame directly from town?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh\ncircumstance in favour of Lucy's veracity; \"I remember he told us,\nthat he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth.\"\nShe remembered too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning\nnothing farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect\neven to their names.\n\n\"Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?\" repeated Lucy.\n\n\"We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived.\"\n\n\"I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was\nthe matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more\nthan a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected. Poor\nfellow!--I am afraid it is just the same with him now; for he writes\nin wretched spirits. I heard from him just before I left Exeter;\"\ntaking a letter from her pocket and carelessly showing the direction\nto Elinor. \"You know his hand, I dare say, a charming one it is; but\nthat is not written so well as usual. He was tired, I dare say, for he\nhad just filled the sheet to me as full as possible.\"\n\nElinor saw that it _was_ his hand, and she could doubt no longer. This\npicture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been\naccidentally obtained; it might not have been Edward's gift; but a\ncorrespondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a\npositive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else; for a few\nmoments, she was almost overcome--her heart sunk within her, and she\ncould hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably necessary; and she\nstruggled so resolutely against the oppression of her feelings, that\nher success was speedy, and for the time complete.\n\n\"Writing to each other,\" said Lucy, returning the letter into her\npocket, \"is the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes, I\nhave one other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even\n_that._ If he had but my picture, he says he should be easy. I gave\nhim a lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at Longstaple last,\nand that was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture.\nPerhaps you might notice the ring when you saw him?\"\n\n\"I did,\" said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was\nconcealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt\nbefore. She was mortified, shocked, confounded.\n\nFortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the\nconversation could be continued no farther. After sitting with them a\nfew minutes, the Miss Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was\nthen at liberty to think and be wretched.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\n\nHowever small Elinor's general dependence on Lucy's veracity might be,\nit was impossible for her on serious reflection to suspect it in the\npresent case, where no temptation could be answerable to the folly of\ninventing a falsehood of such a description. What Lucy had asserted to\nbe true, therefore, Elinor could not, dared not longer doubt;\nsupported as it was too on every side by such probabilities and\nproofs, and contradicted by nothing but her own wishes. Their\nopportunity of acquaintance in the house of Mr. Pratt was a foundation\nfor the rest, at once indisputable and alarming; and Edward's visit\nnear Plymouth, his melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at\nhis own prospects, his uncertain behaviour towards herself, the\nintimate knowledge of the Miss Steeles as to Norland and their family\nconnections, which had often surprised her, the picture, the letter,\nthe ring, formed altogether such a body of evidence, as overcame\nevery fear of condemning him unfairly, and established as a fact,\nwhich no partiality could set aside, his ill-treatment of herself. Her\nresentment of such behaviour, her indignation at having been its dupe,\nfor a short time made her feel only for herself; but other ideas,\nother considerations, soon arose. Had Edward been intentionally\ndeceiving her? Had he feigned a regard for her which he did not feel?\nWas his engagement to Lucy an engagement of the heart? No; whatever it\nmight once have been, she could not believe it such at present. His\naffection was all her own. She could not be deceived in that. Her\nmother, sisters, Fanny, all had been conscious of his regard for her\nat Norland; it was not an illusion of her own vanity. He certainly\nloved her. What a softener of the heart was this persuasion! How much\ncould it not tempt her to forgive! He had been blamable, highly\nblamable, in remaining at Norland after he first felt her influence\nover him to be more than it ought to be. In that, he could not be\ndefended; but if he had injured her, how much more had he injured\nhimself; if her case were pitiable, his was hopeless. His imprudence\nhad made her miserable for a while; but it seemed to have deprived\nhimself of all chance of ever being otherwise. She might in time\nregain tranquillity; but _he_, what had he to look forward to? Could\nhe ever be tolerably happy with Lucy Steele; could he, were his\naffection for herself out of the question, with his integrity, his\ndelicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife like\nher--illiterate, artful, and selfish?\n\nThe youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to\nevery thing but her beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding\nyears--years, which if rationally spent, give such improvement to the\nunderstanding, must have opened his eyes to her defects of education,\nwhile the same period of time, spent on her side in inferior society\nand more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps robbed her of that simplicity\nwhich might once have given an interesting character to her beauty.\n\nIf in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself, his\ndifficulties from his mother had seemed great, how much greater were\nthey now likely to be, when the object of his engagement was\nundoubtedly inferior in connections, and probably inferior in fortune\nto herself. These difficulties, indeed, with a heart so alienated\nfrom Lucy, might not press very hard upon his patience; but melancholy\nwas the state of the person by whom the expectation of family\nopposition and unkindness, could be felt as a relief!\n\nAs these considerations occurred to her in painful succession, she\nwept for him, more than for herself. Supported by the conviction of\nhaving done nothing to merit her present unhappiness, and consoled by\nthe belief that Edward had done nothing to forfeit her esteem, she\nthought she could even now, under the first smart of the heavy blow,\ncommand herself enough to guard every suspicion of the truth from her\nmother and sisters. And so well was she able to answer her own\nexpectations, that when she joined them at dinner only two hours after\nshe had first suffered the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one\nwould have supposed from the appearance of the sisters, that Elinor\nwas mourning in secret over obstacles which must divide her for ever\nfrom the object of her love, and that Marianne was internally dwelling\non the perfections of a man, of whose whole heart she felt thoroughly\npossessed, and whom she expected to see in every carriage which drove\nnear their house.\n\nThe necessity of concealing from her mother and Marianne, what had\nbeen entrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to\nunceasing exertion, was no aggravation of Elinor's distress. On the\ncontrary it was a relief to her, to be spared the communication of\nwhat would give such affliction to them, and to be saved likewise from\nhearing that condemnation of Edward, which would probably flow from\nthe excess of their partial affection for herself, and which was more\nthan she felt equal to support.\n\nFrom their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could receive\nno assistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress,\nwhile her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their\nexample nor from their praise. She was stronger alone, and her own\ngood sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken,\nher appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as with regrets so\npoignant and so fresh, it was possible for them to be.\n\nMuch as she had suffered from her first conversation with Lucy on the\nsubject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this for\nmore reasons than one. She wanted to hear many particulars of their\nengagement repeated again, she wanted more clearly to understand what\nLucy really felt for Edward, whether there were any sincerity in her\ndeclaration of tender regard for him, and she particularly wanted to\nconvince Lucy, by her readiness to enter on the matter again, and her\ncalmness in conversing on it, that she was no otherwise interested in\nit than as a friend, which she very much feared her involuntary\nagitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least\ndoubtful. That Lucy was disposed to be jealous of her appeared very\nprobable: it was plain that Edward had always spoken highly in her\npraise, not merely from Lucy's assertion, but from her venturing to\ntrust her on so short a personal acquaintance, with a secret so\nconfessedly and evidently important. And even Sir John's joking\nintelligence must have had some weight. But indeed, while Elinor\nremained so well assured within herself of being really beloved by\nEdward, it required no other consideration of probabilities to make it\nnatural that Lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her very\nconfidence was a proof. What other reason for the disclosure of the\naffair could there be, but that Elinor might be informed by it of\nLucy's superior claims on Edward, and be taught to avoid him in\nfuture? She had little difficulty in understanding thus much of her\nrival's intentions, and while she was firmly resolved to act by her as\nevery principle of honour and honesty directed, to combat her own\naffection for Edward and to see him as little as possible; she could\nnot deny herself the comfort of endeavouring to convince Lucy that her\nheart was unwounded. And as she could now have nothing more painful to\nhear on the subject than had already been told, she did not mistrust\nher own ability of going through a repetition of particulars with\ncomposure.\n\nBut it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could be\ncommanded, though Lucy was as well disposed as herself to take\nadvantage of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine\nenough to allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most\neasily separate themselves from the others; and though they met at\nleast every other evening either at the park or cottage, and chiefly\nat the former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake of\nconversation. Such a thought would never enter either Sir John or\nLady Middleton's head; and therefore very little leisure was ever\ngiven for a general chat, and none at all for particular discourse.\nThey met for the sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together,\nplaying at cards, or consequences, or any other game that was\nsufficiently noisy.\n\nOne or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording\nElinor any chance of engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John called at\nthe cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they\nwould all dine with Lady Middleton that day, as he was obliged to\nattend the club at Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone,\nexcept her mother and the two Miss Steeles. Elinor, who foresaw a\nfairer opening for the point she had in view, in such a party as this\nwas likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil\nand well-bred direction of Lady Middleton than when her husband united\nthem together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the\ninvitation; Margaret, with her mother's permission, was equally\ncompliant, and Marianne, though always unwilling to join any of their\nparties, was persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to have her\nseclude herself from any chance of amusement, to go likewise.\n\nThe young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved from\nthe frightful solitude which had threatened her. The insipidity of the\nmeeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected; it produced not one\nnovelty of thought or expression, and nothing could be less\ninteresting than the whole of their discourse both in the dining\nparlour and drawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied\nthem, and while they remained there, she was too well convinced of the\nimpossibility of engaging Lucy's attention to attempt it. They quitted\nit only with the removal of the tea-things. The card-table was then\nplaced, and Elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever\nentertained a hope of finding time for conversation at the park. They\nall rose up in preparation for a round game.\n\n\"I am glad,\" said Lady Middleton to Lucy, \"you are not going to finish\npoor little Annamaria's basket this evening; for I am sure it must\nhurt your eyes to work filigree by candlelight. And we will make the\ndear little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and\nthen I hope she will not much mind it.\"\n\nThis hint was enough, Lucy recollected herself instantly and replied,\n\"Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only waiting\nto know whether you can make your party without me, or I should have\nbeen at my filigree already. I would not disappoint the little angel\nfor all the world: and if you want me at the card-table now, I am\nresolved to finish the basket after supper.\"\n\n\"You are very good, I hope it won't hurt your eyes:--will you ring the\nbell for some working candles? My poor little girl would be sadly\ndisappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow, for\nthough I told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon\nhaving it done.\"\n\nLucy directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with\nan alacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to infer that she could\ntaste no greater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt\nchild.\n\nLady Middleton proposed a rubber of Casino to the others. No one made\nany objection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to the\nforms of general civility, exclaimed, \"Your Ladyship will have the\ngoodness to excuse _me_--you know I detest cards. I shall go to the\npiano-forte; I have not touched it since it was tuned.\" And without\nfarther ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument.\n\nLady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that _she_ had never\nmade so rude a speech.\n\n\"Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma'am,\"\nsaid Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; \"and I do not\nmuch wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever\nheard.\"\n\nThe remaining five were now to draw their cards.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" continued Elinor, \"if I should happen to cut out, I may be\nof some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and\nthere is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be\nimpossible I think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening. I\nshould like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in\nit.\"\n\n\"Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help,\" cried\nLucy, \"for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there\nwas; and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Annamaria\nafter all.\"\n\n\"Oh! that would be terrible, indeed,\" said Miss Steele. \"Dear little\nsoul, how I do love her!\"\n\n\"You are very kind,\" said Lady Middleton to Elinor; \"and as you\nreally like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut\nin till another rubber, or will you take your chance now?\"\n\nElinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by\na little of that address which Marianne could never condescend to\npractise, gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same\ntime. Lucy made room for her with ready attention, and the two fair\nrivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and, with the\nutmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work. The pianoforte at\nwhich Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her own thoughts, had\nby this time forgotten that any body was in the room besides herself,\nwas luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now judged she might\nsafely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting\nsubject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\n\nIn a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began.\n\n\"I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with,\nif I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on\nits subject. I will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward\nagain.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" cried Lucy warmly, \"for breaking the ice; you have set my\nheart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid I had offended\nyou by what I told you that Monday.\"\n\n\"Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me,\" and Elinor spoke\nit with the truest sincerity, \"nothing could be farther from my\nintention than to give you such an idea. Could you have a motive for\nthe trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?\"\n\n\"And yet I do assure you,\" replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes full of\nmeaning, \"there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your\nmanner that made me quite uncomfortable. I felt sure that you was\nangry with me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for\nhaving took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs. But I am\nvery glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not\nblame me. If you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my\nheart speaking to you of what I am always thinking of every moment of\nmy life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing else I am\nsure.\"\n\n\"Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you,\nto acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall\nnever have reason to repent it. Your case is a very unfortunate one;\nyou seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have\nneed of all your mutual affection to support you under them. Mr.\nFerrars, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother.\"\n\n\"He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to\nmarry upon that, though for my own part, I could give up every\nprospect of more without a sigh. I have been always used to a very\nsmall income, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love\nhim too well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all\nthat his mother might give him if he married to please her. We must\nwait, it may be for many years. With almost every other man in the\nworld, it would be an alarming prospect; but Edward's affection and\nconstancy nothing can deprive me of I know.\"\n\n\"That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly\nsupported by the same trust in your's. If the strength of your\nreciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under\nmany circumstances it naturally would during a four years' engagement,\nyour situation would have been pitiable, indeed.\"\n\nLucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her\ncountenance from every expression that could give her words a\nsuspicious tendency.\n\n\"Edward's love for me,\" said Lucy, \"has been pretty well put to the\ntest, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and\nit has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt\nit now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment's alarm\non that account from the first.\"\n\nElinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion.\n\nLucy went on. \"I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from\nour different situations in life, from his being so much more in the\nworld than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for\nsuspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had\nbeen the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or\nany lowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had\ntalked more of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less\nhappy at Longstaple than he used to be. I do not mean to say that I am\nparticularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case\nI am sure I could not be deceived.\"\n\n\"All this,\" thought Elinor, \"is very pretty; but it can impose upon\nneither of us.\"\n\n\"But what,\" said she after a short silence, \"are your views? or have\nyou none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars's death, which is a\nmelancholy and shocking extremity?--Is her son determined to submit to\nthis, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in\nwhich it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure\nfor a while by owning the truth?\"\n\n\"If we could be certain that it would be only for a while! But Mrs.\nFerrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of\nanger upon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to Robert,\nand the idea of that, for Edward's sake, frightens away all my\ninclination for hasty measures.\"\n\n\"And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness\nbeyond reason.\"\n\nLucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.\n\n\"Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?\" asked Elinor.\n\n\"Not at all--I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his\nbrother--silly and a great coxcomb.\"\n\n\"A great coxcomb!\" repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those\nwords by a sudden pause in Marianne's music. \"Oh, they are talking of\ntheir favourite beaux, I dare say.\"\n\n\"No sister,\" cried Lucy, \"you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux\nare _not_ great coxcombs.\"\n\n\"I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood's is not,\" said Mrs. Jennings,\nlaughing heartily; \"for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved\nyoung men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly little\ncreature, there is no finding out who _she_ likes.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"_I can answer for it,\" said Mrs. Jennings._]\n\n\"Oh,\" cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them, \"I dare\nsay Lucy's beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss\nDashwood's.\"\n\nElinor blushed in spite of herself. Lucy bit her lip, and looked\nangrily at her sister. A mutual silence took place for some time. Lucy\nfirst put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though Marianne was\nthen giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent\nconcerto--\n\n\"I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into my\nhead, for bringing matters to bear; indeed I am bound to let you into\nthe secret, for you are a party concerned. I dare say you have seen\nenough of Edward to know that he would prefer the church to every\nother profession; now my plan is that he should take orders as soon as\nhe can, and then through your interest, which I am sure you would be\nkind enough to use out of friendship for him, and I hope out of some\nregard to me, your brother might be persuaded to give him Norland\nliving; which I understand is a very good one, and the present\nincumbent not likely to live a great while. That would be enough for\nus to marry upon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest.\"\n\n\"I should always be happy,\" replied Elinor, \"to show any mark of my\nesteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do you not perceive that my\ninterest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary? He is\nbrother to Mrs. John Dashwood--_that_ must be recommendation enough to\nher husband.\"\n\n\"But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward's going into\norders.\"\n\n\"Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very little.\"\n\nThey were again silent for many minutes. At length Lucy exclaimed with\na deep sigh--\n\n\"I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at\nonce by dissolving the engagement. We seem so beset with difficulties\non every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we\nshould be happier perhaps in the end. But you will not give me your\nadvice, Miss Dashwood?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated\nfeelings, \"on such a subject I certainly will not. You know very well\nthat my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the\nside of your wishes.\"\n\n\"Indeed you wrong me,\" replied Lucy, with great solemnity; \"I know\nnobody of whose judgment I think so highly as I do of yours; and I do\nreally believe, that if you was to say to me, 'I advise you by all\nmeans to put an end to your engagement with Edward Ferrars, it will be\nmore for the happiness of both of you,' I should resolve upon doing it\nimmediately.\"\n\nElinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward's future wife, and\nreplied, \"This compliment would effectually frighten me from giving\nany opinion on the subject had I formed one. It raises my influence\nmuch too high; the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached\nis too much for an indifferent person.\"\n\n\"'Tis because you are an indifferent person,\" said Lucy, with some\npique, and laying a particular stress on those words, \"that your\njudgment might justly have such weight with me. If you could be\nsupposed to be biased in any respect by your own feelings, your\nopinion would not be worth having.\"\n\nElinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might\nprovoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve;\nand was even partly determined never to mention the subject again.\nAnother pause therefore of many minutes' duration, succeeded this\nspeech, and Lucy was still the first to end it.\n\n\"Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?\" said she with all\nher accustomary complacency.\n\n\"Certainly not.\"\n\n\"I am sorry for that,\" returned the other, while her eyes brightened\nat the information, \"it would have gave me such pleasure to meet you\nthere! But I dare say you will go for all that. To be sure, your\nbrother and sister will ask you to come to them.\"\n\n\"It will not be in my power to accept their invitation if they do.\"\n\n\"How unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meeting you there.\nAnne and me are to go the latter end of January to some relations who\nhave been wanting us to visit them these several years! But I only go\nfor the sake of seeing Edward. He will be there in February, otherwise\nLondon would have no charms for me; I have not spirits for it.\"\n\nElinor was soon called to the card-table by the conclusion of the\nfirst rubber, and the confidential discourse of the two ladies was\ntherefore at an end, to which both of them submitted without any\nreluctance, for nothing had been said on either side to make them\ndislike each other less than they had done before; and Elinor sat down\nto the card table with the melancholy persuasion that Edward was not\nonly without affection for the person who was to be his wife; but that\nhe had not even the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which\nsincere affection on _her_ side would have given, for self-interest\nalone could induce a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which\nshe seemed so thoroughly aware that he was weary.\n\nFrom this time the subject was never revived by Elinor, and when\nentered on by Lucy, who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing\nit, and was particularly careful to inform her confidante, of her\nhappiness whenever she received a letter from Edward, it was treated\nby the former with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon as\ncivility would allow; for she felt such conversations to be an\nindulgence which Lucy did not deserve, and which were dangerous to\nherself.\n\nThe visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was lengthened far beyond\nwhat the first invitation implied. Their favour increased; they could\nnot be spared; Sir John would not hear of their going; and in spite of\ntheir numerous and long arranged engagements in Exeter, in spite of\nthe absolute necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately, which\nwas in full force at the end of every week, they were prevailed on to\nstay nearly two months at the park, and to assist in the due\ncelebration of that festival which requires a more than ordinary share\nof private balls and large dinners to proclaim its importance.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\n\nThough Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion of\nthe year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not\nwithout a settled habitation of her own. Since the death of her\nhusband, who had traded with success in a less elegant part of the\ntown, she had resided every winter in a house in one of the streets\nnear Portman Square. Towards this home, she began on the approach of\nJanuary to turn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and\nvery unexpectedly by them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood to\naccompany her. Elinor, without observing the varying complexion of her\nsister, and the animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan,\nimmediately gave a grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she\nbelieved herself to be speaking their united inclinations. The reason\nalleged was their determined resolution of not leaving their mother at\nthat time of the year. Mrs. Jennings received the refusal with some\nsurprise, and repeated her invitation immediately.\n\n\"Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I _do_\nbeg you will favour me with your company, for I've quite set my heart\nupon it. Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I\nshan't put myself at all out of my way for you. It will only be\nsending Betty by the coach, and I hope I can afford _that._ We three\nshall be able to go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town,\nif you do not like to go wherever I do, well and good, you may always\ngo with one of my daughters. I am sure your mother will not object to\nit; for I have had such good luck in getting my own children off my\nhands that she will think me a very fit person to have the charge of\nyou; and if I don't get one of you at least well married before I have\ndone with you, it shall not be my fault. I shall speak a good word for\nyou to all the young men, you may depend upon it.\"\n\n\"I have a notion,\" said Sir John, \"that Miss Marianne would not object\nto such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it. It is very\nhard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss\nDashwood does not wish it. So I would advise you two, to set off for\ntown, when you are tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss\nDashwood about it.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" cried Mrs. Jennings, \"I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of\nMiss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only\nthe more the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable\nfor them to be together; because, if they got tired of me, they might\ntalk to one another, and laugh at my old ways behind my back. But one\nor the other, if not both of them, I must have. Lord bless me! how do\nyou think I can live poking by myself, I who have been always used\ntill this winter to have Charlotte with me. Come, Miss Marianne, let\nus strike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change her\nmind by and bye, why so much the better.\"\n\n\"I thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you,\" said Marianne, with warmth:\n\"your invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and it would give\nme such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable of,\nto be able to accept it. But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother,--I\nfeel the justice of what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made\nless happy, less comfortable by our absence--Oh! no, nothing should\ntempt me to leave her. It should not, must not be a struggle.\"\n\nMrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could spare\nthem perfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her sister, and\nsaw to what indifference to almost every thing else she was carried by\nher eagerness to be with Willoughby again, made no farther direct\nopposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother's\ndecision, from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any\nsupport in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not\napprove of for Marianne, and which on her own account she had\nparticular reasons to avoid. Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her\nmother would be eager to promote--she could not expect to influence\nthe latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which\nshe had never been able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared\nnot explain the motive of her own disinclination for going to London.\nThat Marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs.\nJennings' manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should overlook\nevery inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be\nmost wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object,\nwas such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object\nto her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared\nto witness.\n\nOn being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that\nsuch an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her\ndaughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to\nherself, how much the heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of\ntheir declining the offer upon _her_ account; insisted on their both\naccepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with her usual\ncheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to them all,\nfrom this separation.\n\n\"I am delighted with the plan,\" she cried, \"it is exactly what I could\nwish. Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves.\nWhen you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and\nhappily together with our books and our music! You will find Margaret\nso improved when you come back again! I have a little plan of\nalteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without\nany inconvenience to any one. It is very right that you _should_ go to\ntown; I would have every young woman of your condition in life\nacquainted with the manners and amusements of London. You will be\nunder the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to\nyou I can have no doubt. And in all probability you will see your\nbrother, and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife,\nwhen I consider whose son he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly\nestranged from each other.\"\n\n\"Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness,\" said Elinor, \"you\nhave been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which\noccurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion,\ncannot be so easily removed.\"\n\nMarianne's countenance sunk.\n\n\"And what,\" said Mrs. Dashwood, \"is my dear prudent Elinor going to\nsuggest? What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward? Do let\nme hear a word about the expense of it.\"\n\n\"My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings's\nheart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or\nwhose protection will give us consequence.\"\n\n\"That is very true,\" replied her mother, \"but of her society,\nseparately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing\nat all, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady\nMiddleton.\"\n\n\"If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings,\" said\nMarianne, \"at least it need not prevent _my_ accepting her invitation.\nI have no such scruples, and I am sure I could put up with every\nunpleasantness of that kind with very little effort.\"\n\nElinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards\nthe manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in\npersuading Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved\nwithin herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go\nlikewise, as she did not think it proper that Marianne should be left\nto the sole guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should\nbe abandoned to the mercy of Marianne for all the comfort of her\ndomestic hours. To this determination she was the more easily\nreconciled, by recollecting that Edward Ferrars, by Lucy's account,\nwas not to be in town before February; and that their visit, without\nany unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished.\n\n\"I will have you _both_ go,\" said Mrs. Dashwood; \"these objections are\nnonsensical. You will have much pleasure in being in London, and\nespecially in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to\nanticipate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of\nsources; she would, perhaps, expect some from improving her\nacquaintance with her sister-in-law's family.\"\n\nElinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken her\nmother's dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that the\nshock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on\nthis attack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to\nbegin her design by saying, as calmly as she could, \"I like Edward\nFerrars very much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the\nrest of the family, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me,\nwhether I am ever known to them or not.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood smiled, and said nothing. Marianne lifted up her eyes in\nastonishment, and Elinor conjectured that she might as well have held\nher tongue.\n\nAfter very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the\ninvitation should be fully accepted. Mrs. Jennings received the\ninformation with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness\nand care; nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her. Sir John was\ndelighted; for to a man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of\nbeing alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in\nLondon, was something. Even Lady Middleton took the trouble of being\ndelighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as\nfor the Miss Steeles, especially Lucy, they had never been so happy in\ntheir lives as this intelligence made them.\n\nElinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with\nless reluctance than she had expected to feel. With regard to herself,\nit was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not, and\nwhen she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her\nsister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all\nher usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she\ncould not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow\nherself to distrust the consequence.\n\nMarianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the\nperturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone. Her\nunwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness;\nand at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive.\nHer mother's affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was the only one\nof the three, who seemed to consider the separation as any thing short\nof eternal.\n\nTheir departure took place in the first week in January. The\nMiddletons were to follow in about a week. The Miss Steeles kept their\nstation at the park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the\nfamily.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\n\nElinor could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings, and\nbeginning a journey to London under her protection, and as her guest,\nwithout wondering at her own situation, so short had their\nacquaintance with that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age\nand disposition, and so many had been her objections against such a\nmeasure only a few days before! But these objections had all, with\nthat happy ardour of youth which Marianne and her mother equally\nshared, been overcome or overlooked; and Elinor, in spite of every\noccasional doubt of Willoughby's constancy, could not witness the\nrapture of delightful expectation which filled the whole soul and\nbeamed in the eyes of Marianne, without feeling how blank was her own\nprospect, how cheerless her own state of mind in the comparison, and\nhow gladly she would engage in the solicitude of Marianne's situation\nto have the same animating object in view, the same possibility of\nhope. A short, a very short time however must now decide what\nWilloughby's intentions were; in all probability he was already in\ntown. Marianne's eagerness to be gone declared her dependence on\nfinding him there; and Elinor was resolved not only upon gaining every\nnew light as to his character which her own observation or the\nintelligence of others could give her, but likewise upon watching his\nbehaviour to her sister with such zealous attention, as to ascertain\nwhat he was and what he meant, before many meetings had taken place.\nShould the result of her observations be unfavourable, she was\ndetermined at all events to open the eyes of her sister; should it be\notherwise, her exertions would be of a different nature--she must then\nlearn to avoid every selfish comparison, and banish every regret which\nmight lessen her satisfaction in the happiness of Marianne.\n\nThey were three days on their journey, and Marianne's behaviour as\nthey travelled was a happy specimen of what future complaisance and\ncompanionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be expected to be. She sat in\nsilence almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely\never voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque\nbeauty within their view drew from her an exclamation of delight\nexclusively addressed to her sister. To atone for this conduct\ntherefore, Elinor took immediate possession of the post of civility\nwhich she had assigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to\nMrs. Jennings, talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her\nwhenever she could; and Mrs. Jennings on her side treated them both\nwith all possible kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their\nease and enjoyment, and only disturbed that she could not make them\nchoose their own dinners at the inn, nor extort a confession of their\npreferring salmon to cod, or boiled fowls to veal cutlets. They\nreached town by three o'clock the third day, glad to be released,\nafter such a journey, from the confinement of a carriage, and ready to\nenjoy all the luxury of a good fire.\n\nThe house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up, and the young\nladies were immediately put in possession of a very comfortable\napartment. It had formerly been Charlotte's, and over the mantelpiece\nstill hung a landscape in coloured silks of her performance, in proof\nof her having spent seven years at a great school in town to some\neffect.\n\nAs dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their\narrival, Elinor determined to employ the interval in writing to her\nmother, and sat down for that purpose. In a few moments Marianne did\nthe same. \"I am writing home, Marianne,\" said Elinor; \"had not you\nbetter defer your letter for a day or two?\"\n\n\"I am _not_ going to write to my mother,\" replied Marianne, hastily,\nand as if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry. Elinor said no more;\nit immediately struck her that she must then be writing to Willoughby;\nand the conclusion which as instantly followed was, that, however\nmysteriously they might wish to conduct the affair, they must be\nengaged. This conviction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave her\npleasure, and she continued her letter with greater alacrity.\nMarianne's was finished in a very few minutes; in length it could be\nno more than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, and directed with\neager rapidity. Elinor thought she could distinguish a large W in the\ndirection; and no sooner was it complete than Marianne, ringing the\nbell, requested the footman who answered it to get that letter\nconveyed for her to the two-penny post. This decided the matter at\nonce.\n\nHer spirits still continued very high; but there was a flutter in them\nwhich prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this\nagitation increased as the evening drew on. She could scarcely eat any\ndinner, and when they afterwards returned to the drawing room, seemed\nanxiously listening to the sound of every carriage.\n\nIt was a great satisfaction to Elinor that Mrs. Jennings, by being\nmuch engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing.\nThe tea things were brought in, and already had Marianne been\ndisappointed more than once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a\nloud one was suddenly heard which could not be mistaken for one at any\nother house, Elinor felt secure of its announcing Willoughby's\napproach, and Marianne, starting up, moved towards the door. Every\nthing was silent; this could not be borne many seconds; she opened\nthe door, advanced a few steps towards the stairs, and after listening\nhalf a minute, returned into the room in all the agitation which a\nconviction of having heard him would naturally produce; in the ecstasy\nof her feelings at that instant she could not help exclaiming, \"Oh,\nElinor, it is Willoughby, indeed it is!\" and seemed almost ready to\nthrow herself into his arms, when Colonel Brandon appeared.\n\nIt was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she\nimmediately left the room. Elinor was disappointed too; but at the\nsame time her regard for Colonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her;\nand she felt particularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister\nshould perceive that she experienced nothing but grief and\ndisappointment in seeing him. She instantly saw that it was not\nunnoticed by him, that he even observed Marianne as she quitted the\nroom, with such astonishment and concern, as hardly left him the\nrecollection of what civility demanded towards herself.\n\n\"Is your sister ill?\" said he.\n\nElinor answered in some distress that she was, and then talked of\nhead-aches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of every thing to\nwhich she could decently attribute her sister's behaviour.\n\nHe heard her with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect\nhimself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of\nhis pleasure at seeing them in London, making the usual inquiries\nabout their journey, and the friends they had left behind.\n\nIn this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side,\nthey continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts\nof both engaged elsewhere. Elinor wished very much to ask whether\nWilloughby were then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by\nany enquiry after his rival; and at length, by way of saying\nsomething, she asked if he had been in London ever since she had seen\nhim last. \"Yes,\" he replied, with some embarrassment, \"almost ever\nsince; I have been once or twice at Delaford for a few days, but it\nhas never been in my power to return to Barton.\"\n\nThis, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back to\nher remembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with\nthe uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to Mrs. Jennings, and\nshe was fearful that her question had implied much more curiosity on\nthe subject than she had ever felt.\n\nMrs. Jennings soon came in. \"Oh! Colonel,\" said she, with her usual\nnoisy cheerfulness, \"I am monstrous glad to see you--sorry I could not\ncome before--beg your pardon, but I have been forced to look about me\na little, and settle my matters; for it is a long while since I have\nbeen at home, and you know one has always a world of little odd things\nto do after one has been away for any time; and then I have had\nCartwright to settle with. Lord, I have been as busy as a bee ever\nsince dinner! But pray, Colonel, how came you to conjure out that I\nshould be in town today?\"\n\n\"I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Palmer's, where I have been\ndining.\"\n\n\"Oh, you did; well, and how do they all do at their house? How does\nCharlotte do? I warrant you she is a fine size by this time.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well, and I am commissioned to tell you,\nthat you will certainly see her to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Ay, to be sure, I thought as much. Well, Colonel, I have brought two\nyoung ladies with me, you see--that is, you see but one of them now,\nbut there is another somewhere. Your friend, Miss Marianne, too--which\nyou will not be sorry to hear. I do not know what you and Mr.\nWilloughby will do between you about her. Ay, it is a fine thing to be\nyoung and handsome. Well! I was young once, but I never was very\nhandsome--worse luck for me. However, I got a very good husband, and I\ndon't know what the greatest beauty can do more. Ah! poor man! he has\nbeen dead these eight years and better. But Colonel, where have you\nbeen to since we parted? And how does your business go on? Come, come,\nlet's have no secrets among friends.\"\n\nHe replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but\nwithout satisfying her in any. Elinor now began to make the tea, and\nMarianne was obliged to appear again.\n\nAfter her entrance, Colonel Brandon became more thoughtful and silent\nthan he had been before, and Mrs. Jennings could not prevail on him to\nstay long. No other visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies were\nunanimous in agreeing to go early to bed.\n\nMarianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy looks.\nThe disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the\nexpectation of what was to happen that day. They had not long finished\ntheir breakfast before Mrs. Palmer's barouche stopped at the door, and\nin a few minutes she came laughing into the room: so delighted to see\nthem all, that it was hard to say whether she received most pleasure\nfrom meeting her mother or the Miss Dashwoods again. So surprised at\ntheir coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all\nalong; so angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after\nhaving declined her own, though at the same time she would never have\nforgiven them if they had not come!\n\n\"Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see you,\" said she; \"What do you think\nhe said when he heard of your coming with Mamma? I forget what it was\nnow, but it was something so droll!\"\n\nAfter an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable chat,\nor in other words, in every variety of inquiry concerning all their\nacquaintance on Mrs. Jennings's side, and in laughter without cause on\nMrs. Palmer's, it was proposed by the latter that they should all\naccompany her to some shops where she had business that morning, to\nwhich Mrs. Jennings and Elinor readily consented, as having likewise\nsome purchases to make themselves; and Marianne, though declining it\nat first was induced to go likewise.\n\nWherever they went, she was evidently always on the watch. In Bond\nStreet especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were in\nconstant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her\nmind was equally abstracted from every thing actually before them,\nfrom all that interested and occupied the others. Restless and\ndissatisfied every where, her sister could never obtain her opinion of\nany article of purchase, however it might equally concern them both:\nshe received no pleasure from anything; was only impatient to be at\nhome again, and could with difficulty govern her vexation at the\ntediousness of Mrs. Palmer, whose eye was caught by every thing\npretty, expensive, or new; who was wild to buy all, could determine on\nnone, and dawdled away her time in rapture and indecision.\n\nIt was late in the morning before they returned home; and no sooner\nhad they entered the house than Marianne flew eagerly up stairs, and\nwhen Elinor followed, she found her turning from the table with a\nsorrowful countenance, which declared that no Willoughby had been\nthere.\n\n\"Has no letter been left here for me since we went out?\" said she to\nthe footman who then entered with the parcels. She was answered in the\nnegative. \"Are you quite sure of it?\" she replied. \"Are you certain\nthat no servant, no porter has left any letter or note?\"\n\nThe man replied that none had.\n\n\"How very odd!\" said she, in a low and disappointed voice, as she\nturned away to the window.\n\n\"How odd, indeed!\" repeated Elinor within herself, regarding her\nsister with uneasiness. \"If she had not known him to be in town she\nwould not have written to him, as she did; she would have written to\nCombe Magna; and if he is in town, how odd that he should neither come\nnor write! Oh! my dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting an\nengagement between a daughter so young, a man so little known, to be\ncarried on in so doubtful, so mysterious a manner! I long to inquire;\nand how will _my_ interference be borne.\"\n\nShe determined, after some consideration, that if appearances\ncontinued many days longer as unpleasant as they now were, she would\nrepresent in the strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some\nserious enquiry into the affair.\n\nMrs. Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jennings's intimate\nacquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with\nthem. The former left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening\nengagements; and Elinor was obliged to assist in making a whist table\nfor the others. Marianne was of no use on these occasions, as she\nwould never learn the game; but though her time was therefore at her\nown disposal, the evening was by no means more productive of pleasure\nto her than to Elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of\nexpectation and the pain of disappointment. She sometimes endeavoured\nfor a few minutes to read; but the book was soon thrown aside, and she\nreturned to the more interesting employment of walking backwards and\nforwards across the room, pausing for a moment whenever she came to\nthe window, in hopes of distinguishing the long-expected rap.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\n\n\"If this open weather holds much longer,\" said Mrs. Jennings, when\nthey met at breakfast the following morning, \"Sir John will not like\nleaving Barton next week; 'tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a\nday's pleasure. Poor souls! I always pity them when they do; they seem\nto take it so much to heart.\"\n\n\"That is true,\" cried Marianne, in a cheerful voice, and walking to\nthe window as she spoke, to examine the day. \"I had not thought of\nthat. This weather will keep many sportsmen in the country.\"\n\nIt was a lucky recollection, all her good spirits were restored by it.\n\"It is charming weather for _them_ indeed,\" she continued, as she sat\ndown to the breakfast table with a happy countenance. \"How much they\nmust enjoy it! But\" (with a little return of anxiety) \"it cannot be\nexpected to last long. At this time of the year, and after such a\nseries of rain, we shall certainly have very little more of it. Frosts\nwill soon set in, and in all probability with severity. In another day\nor two perhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly last longer--nay,\nperhaps it may freeze tonight!\"\n\n\"At any rate,\" said Elinor, wishing to prevent Mrs. Jennings from\nseeing her sister's thoughts as clearly as she did, \"I dare say we\nshall have Sir John and Lady Middleton in town by the end of next\nweek.\"\n\n\"Ay, my dear, I'll warrant you we do. Mary always has her own way.\"\n\n\"And now,\" silently conjectured Elinor, \"she will write to Combe by\nthis day's post.\"\n\nBut if she _did_, the letter was written and sent away with a privacy\nwhich eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact. Whatever the\ntruth of it might be, and far as Elinor was from feeling thorough\ncontentment about it, yet while she saw Marianne in spirits, she could\nnot be very uncomfortable herself. And Marianne was in spirits; happy\nin the mildness of the weather, and still happier in her expectation\nof a frost.\n\nThe morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the houses of Mrs.\nJennings's acquaintance to inform them of her being in town; and\nMarianne was all the time busy in observing the direction of the wind,\nwatching the variations of the sky and imagining an alteration in the\nair.\n\n\"Don't you find it colder than it was in the morning, Elinor? There\nseems to me a very decided difference. I can hardly keep my hands warm\neven in my muff. It was not so yesterday, I think. The clouds seem\nparting too, the sun will be out in a moment, and we shall have a\nclear afternoon.\"\n\nElinor was alternately diverted and pained; but Marianne persevered,\nand saw every night in the brightness of the fire, and every morning\nin the appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symptoms of\napproaching frost.\n\nThe Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs.\nJennings's style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her\nbehaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind. Every thing in her\nhousehold arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and\nexcepting a few old city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton's regret,\nshe had never dropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction\ncould at all discompose the feelings of her young companions. Pleased\nto find herself more comfortably situated in that particular than she\nhad expected, Elinor was very willing to compound for the want of much\nreal enjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, whether at\nhome or abroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her.\n\nColonel Brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was with\nthem almost every day; he came to look at Marianne and talk to Elinor,\nwho often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him than from\nany other daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time with much\nconcern his continued regard for her sister. She feared it was a\nstrengthening regard. It grieved her to see the earnestness with which\nhe often watched Marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse than\nwhen at Barton.\n\nAbout a week after their arrival, it became certain that Willoughby\nwas also arrived. His card was on the table when they came in from the\nmorning's drive.\n\n\"Good God!\" cried Marianne, \"he has been here while we were out.\"\nElinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ventured\nto say, \"Depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow.\" But Marianne\nseemed hardly to hear her, and on Mrs. Jennings's entrance, escaped\nwith the precious card.\n\nThis event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor, restored to those\nof her sister all, and more than all, their former agitation. From\nthis moment her mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him\nevery hour of the day, made her unfit for any thing. She insisted on\nbeing left behind, the next morning, when the others went out.\n\nElinor's thoughts were full of what might be passing in Berkeley\nStreet during their absence; but a moment's glance at her sister when\nthey returned was enough to inform her, that Willoughby had paid no\nsecond visit there. A note was just then brought in, and laid on the\ntable.\n\n\"For me!\" cried Marianne, stepping hastily forward.\n\n\"No, ma'am, for my mistress.\"\n\nBut Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up.\n\n\"It is indeed for Mrs. Jennings; how provoking!\"\n\n\"You are expecting a letter, then?\" said Elinor, unable to be longer\nsilent.\n\n\"Yes, a little--not much.\"\n\nAfter a short pause. \"You have no confidence in me, Marianne.\"\n\n\"Nay, Elinor, this reproach from _you_--you who have confidence in no\none!\"\n\n\"Me!\" returned Elinor in some confusion; \"indeed, Marianne, I have\nnothing to tell.\"\n\n\"Nor I,\" answered Marianne with energy, \"our situations then are\nalike. We have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you do\nnot communicate, and I, because I conceal nothing.\"\n\nElinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she was\nnot at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to\npress for greater openness in Marianne.\n\nMrs. Jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read it\naloud. It was from Lady Middleton, announcing their arrival in Conduit\nStreet the night before, and requesting the company of her mother and\ncousins the following evening. Business on Sir John's part, and a\nviolent cold on her own, prevented their calling in Berkeley Street.\nThe invitation was accepted; but when the hour of appointment drew\nnear, necessary as it was in common civility to Mrs. Jennings, that\nthey should both attend her on such a visit, Elinor had some\ndifficulty in persuading her sister to go, for still she had seen\nnothing of Willoughby; and therefore was not more indisposed for\namusement abroad, than unwilling to run the risk of his calling again\nin her absence.\n\nElinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not\nmaterially altered by a change of abode, for although scarcely settled\nin town, Sir John had contrived to collect around him, nearly twenty\nyoung people, and to amuse them with a ball. This was an affair,\nhowever, of which Lady Middleton did not approve. In the country, an\nunpremeditated dance was very allowable; but in London, where the\nreputation of elegance was more important and less easily attained, it\nwas risking too much for the gratification of a few girls, to have it\nknown that Lady Middleton had given a small dance of eight or nine\ncouple, with two violins, and a mere side-board collation.\n\nMr. and Mrs. Palmer were of the party; from the former, whom they had\nnot seen before since their arrival in town, as he was careful to\navoid the appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and\ntherefore never came near her, they received no mark of recognition on\ntheir entrance. He looked at them slightly, without seeming to know\nwho they were, and merely nodded to Mrs. Jennings from the other side\nof the room. Marianne gave one glance round the apartment as she\nentered: it was enough--_he_ was not there--and she sat down, equally\nill-disposed to receive or communicate pleasure. After they had been\nassembled about an hour, Mr. Palmer sauntered towards the Miss\nDashwoods to express his surprise on seeing them in town, though\nColonel Brandon had been first informed of their arrival at his house,\nand he had himself said something very droll on hearing that they were\nto come.\n\n\"I thought you were both in Devonshire,\" said he.\n\n\"Did you?\" replied Elinor.\n\n\"When do you go back again?\"\n\n\"I do not know.\" And thus ended their discourse.\n\nNever had Marianne been so unwilling to dance in her life, as she was\nthat evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise. She\ncomplained of it as they returned to Berkeley Street.\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" said Mrs. Jennings, \"we know the reason of all that very\nwell; if a certain person who shall be nameless, had been there, you\nwould not have been a bit tired: and to say the truth it was not very\npretty of him not to give you the meeting when he was invited.\"\n\n\"Invited!\" cried Marianne.\n\n\"So my daughter Middleton told me, for it seems Sir John met him\nsomewhere in the street this morning.\" Marianne said no more, but\nlooked exceedingly hurt. Impatient in this situation to be doing\nsomething that might lead to her sister's relief, Elinor resolved to\nwrite the next morning to her mother, and hoped by awakening her fears\nfor the health of Marianne, to procure those inquiries which had been\nso long delayed; and she was still more eagerly bent on this measure\nby perceiving after breakfast on the morrow, that Marianne was again\nwriting to Willoughby, for she could not suppose it to be to any other\nperson.\n\nAbout the middle of the day, Mrs. Jennings went out by herself on\nbusiness, and Elinor began her letter directly, while Marianne, too\nrestless for employment, too anxious for conversation, walked from one\nwindow to the other, or sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation.\nElinor was very earnest in her application to her mother, relating all\nthat had passed, her suspicions of Willoughby's inconstancy, urging\nher by every plea of duty and affection to demand from Marianne an\naccount of her real situation with respect to him.\n\nHer letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and\nColonel Brandon was announced. Marianne, who had seen him from the\nwindow, and who hated company of any kind, left the room before he\nentered it. He looked more than usually grave, and though expressing\nsatisfaction at finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat in\nparticular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a word.\nElinor, persuaded that he had some communication to make in which her\nsister was concerned, impatiently expected its opening. It was not the\nfirst time of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for, more than\nonce before, beginning with the observation of \"your sister looks\nunwell to-day,\" or \"your sister seems out of spirits,\" he had\nappeared on the point, either of disclosing, or of inquiring,\nsomething particular about her. After a pause of several minutes,\ntheir silence was broken, by his asking her in a voice of some\nagitation, when he was to congratulate her on the acquisition of a\nbrother? Elinor was not prepared for such a question, and having no\nanswer ready, was obliged to adopt the simple and common expedient, of\nasking what he meant? He tried to smile as he replied, \"your sister's\nengagement to Mr. Willoughby is very generally known.\"\n\n\"It cannot be generally known,\" returned Elinor, \"for her own family\ndo not know it.\"\n\nHe looked surprised and said, \"I beg your pardon, I am afraid my\ninquiry has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secrecy\nintended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally\ntalked of.\"\n\n\"How can that be? By whom can you have heard it mentioned?\"\n\n\"By many--by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom you\nare most intimate, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons. But\nstill I might not have believed it, for where the mind is perhaps\nrather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to\nsupport its doubts, if I had not, when the servant let me in today,\naccidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to Mr. Willoughby in\nyour sister's writing. I came to inquire, but I was convinced before I\ncould ask the question. Is every thing finally settled? Is it\nimpossible to-? But I have no right, and I could have no chance of\nsucceeding. Excuse me, Miss Dashwood. I believe I have been wrong in\nsaying so much, but I hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I\nhave the strongest dependence. Tell me that it is all absolutely\nresolved on, that any attempt, that in short concealment, if\nconcealment be possible, is all that remains.\"\n\nThese words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct avowal of his love for\nher sister, affected her very much. She was not immediately able to\nsay anything, and even when her spirits were recovered, she debated\nfor a short time, on the answer it would be most proper to give. The\nreal state of things between Willoughby and her sister was so little\nknown to herself, that in endeavouring to explain it, she might be as\nliable to say too much as too little. Yet as she was convinced that\nMarianne's affection for Willoughby, could leave no hope of Colonel\nBrandon's success, whatever the event of that affection might be, and\nat the same time wished to shield her conduct from censure, she\nthought it most prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say\nmore than she really knew or believed. She acknowledged, therefore,\nthat though she had never been informed by themselves of the terms on\nwhich they stood with each other, of their mutual affection she had no\ndoubt, and of their correspondence she was not astonished to hear.\n\nHe listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak,\nrose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion,\n\"to your sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he\nmay endeavour to deserve her,\"--took leave, and went away.\n\nElinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation, to\nlessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points; she was left, on\nthe contrary, with a melancholy impression of Colonel Brandon's\nunhappiness, and was prevented even from wishing it removed, by her\nanxiety for the very event that must confirm it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\n\nNothing occurred during the next three or four days, to make Elinor\nregret what she had done, in applying to her mother; for Willoughby\nneither came nor wrote. They were engaged about the end of that time\nto attend Lady Middleton to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept\naway by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this\nparty, Marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and\nseeming equally indifferent whether she went or staid, prepared,\nwithout one look of hope or one expression of pleasure. She sat by the\ndrawing-room fire after tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton's\narrival, without once stirring from her seat, or altering her\nattitude, lost in her own thoughts, and insensible of her sister's\npresence; and when at last they were told that Lady Middleton waited\nfor them at the door, she started as if she had forgotten that any one\nwas expected.\n\nThey arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as\nthe string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended\nthe stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to\nanother in an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up,\nquite full of company, and insufferably hot. When they had paid their\ntribute of politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were\npermitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and\ninconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add. After some\ntime spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to\nCassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and\nElinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great\ndistance from the table.\n\nThey had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived\nWilloughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest\nconversation with a very fashionable looking young woman. She soon\ncaught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to\nspeak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see\nher; and then continued his discourse with the same lady. Elinor\nturned involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be\nunobserved by her. At that moment she first perceived him, and her\nwhole countenance glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved\ntowards him instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her.\n\n\"Good heavens!\" she exclaimed, \"he is there--he is there--Oh! why does\nhe not look at me? why cannot I speak to him?\"\n\n\"Pray, pray be composed,\" cried Elinor, \"and do not betray what you\nfeel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet.\"\n\nThis however was more than she could believe herself; and to be\ncomposed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne,\nit was beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of impatience which\naffected every feature.\n\n[Illustration: _At that moment she first perceived him._]\n\nAt last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up,\nand pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to\nhim. He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than\nMarianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to\nobserve her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs.\nDashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed\nof all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a\nword. But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her\nface was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest\nemotion, \"Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you\nnot received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?\"\n\nHe could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and\nhe held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was\nevidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and\nsaw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment's pause, he\nspoke with calmness.\n\n\"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday,\nand very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find\nyourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope.\"\n\n\"But have you not received my notes?\" cried Marianne in the wildest\nanxiety. \"Here is some mistake I am sure--some dreadful mistake. What\ncan be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven's sake tell\nme, what is the matter?\"\n\nHe made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment\nreturned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom\nhe had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant\nexertion, he recovered himself again, and after saying, \"Yes, I had\nthe pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town,\nwhich you were so good as to send me,\" turned hastily away with a\nslight bow and joined his friend.\n\nMarianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into\nher chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried\nto screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with\nlavender water.\n\n\"Go to him, Elinor,\" she cried, as soon as she could speak, \"and force\nhim to come to me. Tell him I must see him again--must speak to him\ninstantly. I cannot rest--I shall not have a moment's peace till this\nis explained--some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh, go to him\nthis moment.\"\n\n\"How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. This is\nnot the place for explanations. Wait only till tomorrow.\"\n\nWith difficulty however could she prevent her from following him\nherself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at\nleast, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him\nwith more privacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne\ncontinued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her\nfeelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw\nWilloughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and\ntelling Marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking\nto him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She\ninstantly begged her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them\nhome, as she was too miserable to stay a minute longer.\n\nLady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed\nthat Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her\nwish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they\ndeparted as soon as the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was\nspoken during their return to Berkeley Street. Marianne was in a\nsilent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings\nwas luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room,\nwhere hartshorn restored her a little to herself. She was soon\nundressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her\nsister then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs.\nJennings, had leisure enough for thinking over the past.\n\nThat some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and\nMarianne she could not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of it,\nseemed equally clear; for however Marianne might still feed her own\nwishes, _she_ could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or\nmisapprehension of any kind. Nothing but a thorough change of\nsentiment could account for it. Her indignation would have been still\nstronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which\nseemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented\nher from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with\nthe affections of her sister from the first, without any design that\nwould bear investigation. Absence might have weakened his regard, and\nconvenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a\nregard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt.\n\nAs for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already\nhave given her, and on those still more severe which might await her\nin its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest\nconcern. Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she\ncould _esteem_ Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided\nin future, her mind might be always supported. But every circumstance\nthat could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery\nof Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby--in an immediate and\nirreconcilable rupture with him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\n\nBefore the housemaid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun\ngained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne,\nonly half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for\nthe sake of all the little light she could command from it, and\nwriting as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. In this\nsituation, Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first\nperceived her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent\nanxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness--\n\n\"Marianne, may I ask--\"\n\n\"No, Elinor,\" she replied, \"ask nothing; you will soon know all.\"\n\nThe sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no\nlonger than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return\nof the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she could\ngo on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still\nobliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of\nher feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the\nlast time to Willoughby.\n\nElinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power;\nand she would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had\nnot Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous\nirritability, not to speak to her for the world. In such\ncircumstances, it was better for both that they should not be long\ntogether; and the restless state of Marianne's mind not only prevented\nher from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but\nrequiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her\nwander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of\nevery body.\n\nAt breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and\nElinor's attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in\npitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to\nengage Mrs. Jennings's notice entirely to herself.\n\nAs this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a\nconsiderable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it,\nround the common working table, when a letter was delivered to\nMarianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a\ndeath-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who saw as\nplainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must come\nfrom Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her\nhardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremor as\nmade her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings's notice. That\ngood lady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from\nWilloughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she\ntreated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it\nto her liking. Of Elinor's distress, she was too busily employed in\nmeasuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and\ncalmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she\nsaid--\n\n\"Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my\nlife! _My_ girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish\nenough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature. I\nhope, from the bottom of my heart, he won't keep her waiting much\nlonger, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn.\nPray, when are they to be married?\"\n\nElinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment,\nobliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore,\ntrying to smile, replied, \"And have you really, Ma'am, talked yourself\ninto a persuasion of my sister's being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I\nthought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to\nimply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive\nyourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me\nmore than to hear of their being going to be married.\"\n\n\"For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so? Don't we\nall know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in\nlove with each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see\nthem together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I\nknow that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding\nclothes? Come, come, this won't do. Because you are so sly about it\nyourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such\nthing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever\nso long. I tell every body of it and so does Charlotte.\"\n\n\"Indeed, Ma'am,\" said Elinor, very seriously, \"you are mistaken.\nIndeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and\nyou will find that you have though you will not believe me now.\"\n\nMrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more,\nand eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried\naway to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne\nstretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand,\nand two or three others laying by her. Elinor drew near, but without\nsaying a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed\nher affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of\ntears, which at first was scarcely less violent than Marianne's. The\nlatter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of\nthis behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction,\nshe put all the letters into Elinor's hands; and then covering her\nface with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony. Elinor, who\nknew that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its\ncourse, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat\nspent itself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby's letter, read as\nfollows:--\n\n\"Bond Street, January.\n\n\"MY DEAR MADAM,\n\n     \"I have just had the honour of receiving your letter, for\n     which I beg to return my sincere acknowledgments. I am much\n     concerned to find there was anything in my behaviour last\n     night that did not meet your approbation; and though I am\n     quite at a loss to discover in what point I could be so\n     unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat your forgiveness of\n     what I can assure you to have been perfectly unintentional.\n     I shall never reflect on my former acquaintance with your\n     family in Devonshire without the most grateful pleasure, and\n     flatter myself it will not be broken by any mistake or\n     misapprehension of my actions. My esteem for your whole\n     family is very sincere; but if I have been so unfortunate as\n     to give rise to a belief of more than I felt, or meant to\n     express, I shall reproach myself for not having been more\n     guarded in my professions of that esteem. That I should ever\n     have meant more you will allow to be impossible, when you\n     understand that my affections have been long engaged\n     elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before\n     this engagement is fulfilled. It is with great regret that I\n     obey your commands in returning the letters with which I\n     have been honoured from you, and the lock of hair, which you\n     so obligingly bestowed on me.\n\nI am, dear Madam,\n\nYour most obedient humble servant,\n\n\"JOHN WILLOUGHBY.\"\n\nWith what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss\nDashwood, may be imagined. Though aware, before she began it, that it\nmust bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their\nseparation for ever, she was not aware that such language could be\nsuffered to announce it; nor could she have supposed Willoughby\ncapable of departing so far from the appearance of every honourable\nand delicate feeling--so far from the common decorum of a gentleman,\nas to send a letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of\nbringing with his desire of a release any professions of regret,\nacknowledged no breach of faith, denied all peculiar affection\nwhatever;--a letter of which every line was an insult, and which\nproclaimed its writer to be deep in hardened villainy.\n\nShe paused over it for some time with indignant astonishment; then\nread it again and again; but every perusal only served to increase\nher abhorrence of the man, and so bitter were her feelings against\nhim, that she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might wound\nMarianne still deeper by treating their disengagement, not as a loss\nto her of any possible good but as an escape from the worst and most\nirremediable of all evils,--a connection, for life, with an\nunprincipled man, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the most\nimportant.\n\nIn her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the\ndepravity of that mind which could dictate it, and probably, on the\nvery different mind of a very different person, who had no other\nconnection whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him with\nevery thing that passed, Elinor forgot the immediate distress of her\nsister, forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and\nso entirely forgot how long she had been in the room, that when on\nhearing a carriage drive up to the door, she went to the window to see\nwho could be coming so unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to\nperceive Mrs. Jennings's chariot, which she knew had not been ordered\ntill one. Determined not to quit Marianne, though hopeless of\ncontributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away to excuse\nherself from attending Mrs. Jennings, on account of her sister being\nindisposed. Mrs. Jennings, with a thoroughly good-humoured concern for\nits cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and Elinor, after seeing\nher safe off, returned to Marianne, whom she found attempting to rise\nfrom the bed, and whom she reached just in time to prevent her from\nfalling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want of proper rest\nand food; for it was many days since she had any appetite, and many\nnights since she had really slept; and now, when her mind was no\nlonger supported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this\nwas felt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous\nfaintness. A glass of wine, which Elinor procured for her directly,\nmade her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express some\nsense of her kindness, by saying, \"Poor Elinor! how unhappy I make\nyou!\"\n\n\"I only wish,\" replied her sister, \"there were any thing I _could_ do,\nwhich might be of comfort to you.\"\n\nThis, as every thing else would have been, was too much for Marianne,\nwho could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, \"Oh! Elinor, I\nam miserable, indeed,\" before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.\n\nElinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in\nsilence.\n\n\"Exert yourself, dear Marianne,\" she cried, \"if you would not kill\nyourself and all who love you. Think of your mother; think of her\nmisery while _you_ suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself.\"\n\n\"I cannot, I cannot,\" cried Marianne; \"leave me, leave me, if I\ndistress you; leave me, hate me, forget me! but do not torture me so.\nOh! how easy for those, who have no sorrow of their own to talk of\nexertion! Happy, happy Elinor, _you_ cannot have an idea of what I\nsuffer.\"\n\n\"Do you call _me_ happy, Marianne? Ah! if you knew! And can you\nbelieve me to be so, while I see you so wretched!\"\n\n\"Forgive me, forgive me,\" throwing her arms round her sister's neck;\n\"I know you feel for me; I know what a heart you have; but yet you\nare--you must be happy; Edward loves you--what, oh what, can do away\nsuch happiness as that?\"\n\n\"Many, many circumstances,\" said Elinor, solemnly.\n\n\"No, no, no,\" cried Marianne wildly, \"he loves you, and only you. You\n_can_ have no grief.\"\n\n\"I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state.\"\n\n\"And you will never see me otherwise. Mine is a misery which nothing\ncan do away.\"\n\n\"You must not talk so, Marianne. Have you no comforts? no friends? Is\nyour loss such as leaves no opening for consolation? Much as you\nsuffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of\nhis character had been delayed to a later period;--if your engagement\nhad been carried on for months and months, as it might have been,\nbefore he chose to put an end to it. Every additional day of unhappy\nconfidence, on your side, would have made the blow more dreadful.\"\n\n\"Engagement!\" cried Marianne, \"there has been no engagement.\"\n\n\"No engagement!\"\n\n\"No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him. He has broken no faith\nwith me.\"\n\n\"But he told you that he loved you.\"\n\n\"Yes--no--never absolutely. It was every day implied, but never\nprofessedly declared. Sometimes I thought it had been--but it never\nwas.\"\n\n\"Yet you wrote to him?\"\n\n\"Yes: could that be wrong after all that had passed? But I cannot\ntalk.\"\n\nElinor said no more, and turning again to the three letters which now\nraised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over the\ncontents of all. The first, which was what her sister had sent him on\ntheir arrival in town, was to this effect:--\n\n\"Berkeley Street, January.\n\n     \"How surprised you will be, Willoughby, on receiving this;\n     and I think you will feel something more than surprise, when\n     you know that I am in town. An opportunity of coming hither,\n     though with Mrs. Jennings, was a temptation we could not\n     resist. I wish you may receive this in time to come here\n     tonight, but I will not depend on it. At any rate I shall\n     expect you to-morrow. For the present, adieu.\n\nM.D.\"\n\nHer second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance\nat the Middletons', was in these words:--\n\n     \"I cannot express my disappointment in having missed you the\n     day before yesterday, nor my astonishment at not having\n     received any answer to a note which I sent you above a week\n     ago. I have been expecting to hear from you, and still more\n     to see you, every hour of the day. Pray call again as soon\n     as possible, and explain the reason of my having expected\n     this in vain. You had better come earlier another time,\n     because we are generally out by one. We were last night at\n     Lady Middleton's, where there was a dance. I have been told\n     that you were asked to be of the party. But could it be so?\n     You must be very much altered indeed since we parted, if\n     that could be the case, and you not there. But I will not\n     suppose this possible, and I hope very soon to receive your\n     personal assurance of its being otherwise.\n\nM.D.\"\n\nThe contents of her last note to him were these:--\n\n     \"What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by your behaviour last\n     night? Again I demand an explanation of it. I was prepared\n     to meet you with the pleasure which our separation naturally\n     produced,--with the familiarity which our intimacy at Barton\n     appeared to me to justify. I was repulsed indeed! I have\n     passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse a conduct\n     which can scarcely be called less than insulting; but though\n     I have not yet been able to form any reasonable apology for\n     your behaviour, I am perfectly ready to hear your\n     justification of it. You have perhaps been misinformed, or\n     purposely deceived, in something concerning me, which may\n     have lowered me in your opinion. Tell me what it is, explain\n     the grounds on which you acted, and I shall be satisfied, in\n     being able to satisfy you. It would grieve me indeed to be\n     obliged to think ill of you; but if I am to do it, if I am\n     to learn that you are not what we have hitherto believed\n     you, that your regard for us all was insincere, that your\n     behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let it be told\n     as soon as possible. My feelings are at present in a state\n     of dreadful indecision; I wish to acquit you, but certainty\n     on either side will be ease to what I now suffer. If your\n     sentiments are no longer what they were, you will return my\n     notes, and the lock of my hair which is in your possession.\n\nM.D.\"\n\nThat such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have\nbeen so answered, Elinor, for Willoughby's sake, would have been\nunwilling to believe. But her condemnation of him did not blind her to\nthe impropriety of their having been written at all; and she was\nsilently grieving over the imprudence which had hazarded such\nunsolicited proofs of tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding,\nand most severely condemned by the event, when Marianne, perceiving\nthat she had finished the letters, observed to her that they contained\nnothing but what any one would have written in the same situation.\n\n\"I felt myself,\" she added, \"to be as solemnly engaged to him, as if\nthe strictest legal covenant had bound us to each other.\"\n\n\"I can believe it,\" said Elinor; \"but unfortunately he did not feel\nthe same.\"\n\n\"He _did_ feel the same, Elinor--for weeks and weeks he felt it. I\nknow he did. Whatever may have changed him now, (and nothing but the\nblackest art employed against me can have done it), I was once as dear\nto him as my own soul could wish. This lock of hair, which now he can\nso readily give up, was begged of me with the most earnest\nsupplication. Had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard his\nvoice at that moment! Have you forgot the last evening of our being\ntogether at Barton? The morning that we parted too! When he told me\nthat it might be many weeks before we met again--his distress--can I\never forget his distress?\"\n\nFor a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion had\npassed away, she added, in a firmer tone--\n\n\"Elinor, I have been cruelly used; but not by Willoughby.\"\n\n\"Dearest Marianne, who but himself? By whom can he have been\ninstigated?\"\n\n\"By all the world, rather than by his own heart. I could rather\nbelieve every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me\nin his opinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty. This\nwoman of whom he writes--whoever she be--or any one, in short, but\nyour own dear self, mama, and Edward, may have been so barbarous to\nbely me. Beyond you three, is there a creature in the world whom I\nwould not rather suspect of evil than Willoughby, whose heart I know\nso well?\"\n\nElinor would not contend, and only replied, \"Whoever may have been so\ndetestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph,\nmy dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own\ninnocence and good intentions supports your spirits. It is a\nreasonable and laudable pride which resists such malevolence.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" cried Marianne, \"misery such as mine has no pride. I care\nnot who knows that I am wretched. The triumph of seeing me so may be\nopen to all the world. Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer little may be\nproud and independent as they like--may resist insult, or return\nmortification--but I cannot. I must feel--I must be wretched--and they\nare welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can.\"\n\n\"But for my mother's sake and mine--\"\n\n\"I would do more than for my own. But to appear happy when I am so\nmiserable--oh! who can require it?\"\n\nAgain they were both silent. Elinor was employed in walking\nthoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire,\nwithout knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerning\nobjects through the other; and Marianne, seated at the foot of the\nbed, with her head leaning against one of its posts, again took up\nWilloughby's letter, and, after shuddering over every sentence,\nexclaimed--\n\n\"It is too much! Oh, Willoughby, Willoughby, could this be yours!\nCruel, cruel--nothing can acquit you. Elinor, nothing can. Whatever he\nmight have heard against me, ought he not to have suspended his\nbelief? ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power\nof clearing myself? 'The lock of hair, (repeating it from the letter,)\nwhich you so obligingly bestowed on me'--that is unpardonable.\nWilloughby, where was your heart when you wrote those words? Oh,\nbarbarously insolent!--Elinor, can he be justified?\"\n\n\"No, Marianne, in no possible way.\"\n\n\"And yet this woman--who knows what her art may have been?--how long\nit may have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her!--Who\nis she?--Who can she be?--Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young\nand attractive among his female acquaintance?--Oh! no one, no one:--he\ntalked to me only of myself.\"\n\nAnother pause ensued; Marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended\nthus:--\n\n\"Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort mama. Can not we be\ngone to-morrow?\"\n\n\"To-morrow, Marianne!\"\n\n\"Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby's sake--and\nnow who cares for me? Who regards me?\"\n\n\"It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings much\nmore than civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent\nsuch a hasty removal as that.\"\n\n\"Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannot stay here long,\nI cannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people.\nThe Middletons and Palmers--how am I to bear their pity? The pity of\nsuch a woman as Lady Middleton! Oh, what would _he_ say to that!\"\n\nElinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so; but\nno attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and body\nshe moved from one posture to another, till growing more and more\nhysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at\nall, and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for\nassistance. Some lavender drops, however, which she was at length\npersuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till Mrs. Jennings\nreturned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\n\nMrs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and\nwithout waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the\ndoor and walked in with a look of real concern.\n\n\"How do you do my dear?\" said she in a voice of great compassion to\nMarianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer.\n\n\"How is she, Miss Dashwood? Poor thing! she looks very bad. No\nwonder. Ay, it is but too true. He is to be married very soon--a\ngood-for-nothing fellow! I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told\nme of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend\nof Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it;\nand I was almost ready to sink as it was. Well, said I, all I can say\nis, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance\nabominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his\nheart out. And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it. I\nhave no notion of men's going on in this way; and if ever I meet him\nagain, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a\nday. But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne--he is not the\nonly young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty face\nyou will never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I won't disturb her\nany longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and have done\nwith. The Parrys and Sandersons luckily are coming tonight you know,\nand that will amuse her.\"\n\nShe then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she\nsupposed her young friend's affliction could be increased by noise.\n\nMarianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with\nthem. Elinor even advised her against it. But \"no, she would go down;\nshe could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less.\"\nElinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive,\nthough believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner,\nsaid no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could,\nwhile Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into\nthe dining room as soon as they were summoned to it.\n\nWhen there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was\ncalmer than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had\nshe been conscious of half Mrs. Jennings's well-meant but ill-judged\nattentions to her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but\nnot a syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts\npreserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before her.\n\nElinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings's kindness, though its\neffusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous,\nmade her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities,\nwhich her sister could not make or return for herself. Their good\nfriend saw that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was\ndue to her which might make her at all less so. She treated her\ntherefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a\nfavourite child on the last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have\nthe best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy\nin the house, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the\nday. Had not Elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a\ncheck to all mirth, she could have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings's\nendeavours to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety of\nsweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. As soon, however, as the\nconsciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on\nMarianne, she could stay no longer. With a hasty exclamation of\nMisery, and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got\nup and hurried out of the room.\n\n\"Poor soul!\" cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, \"how it\ngrieves me to see her! And I declare if she is not gone away without\nfinishing her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to\ndo her any good. I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I\nwould send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to\nme, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill! But when there\nis plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord\nbless you! they care no more about such things!\"\n\n\"The lady then,--Miss Grey I think you called her,--is very rich?\"\n\n\"Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? a smart,\nstylish girl they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very\nwell, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family\nare all rich together. Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it\nwon't come before it's wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No\nwonder! dashing about with his curricle and hunters! Well, it don't\nsignify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes\nlove to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to\nfly off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is\nready to have him. Why don't he, in such a case, sell his horses, let\nhis house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once?\nI warrant you, Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till\nmatters came round. But that won't do nowadays; nothing in the way\nof pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age.\"\n\n\"Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is? Is she said to be\namiable?\"\n\n\"I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her\nmentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day\nMiss Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison\nwould not be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison\ncould never agree.\"\n\n\"And who are the Ellisons?\"\n\n\"Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age and may choose for\nherself; and a pretty choice she has made!--What now,\" after pausing a\nmoment, \"your poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan\nby herself. Is there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear, it\nseems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by and by we shall have a\nfew friends, and that will amuse her a little. What shall we play at?\nShe hates whist I know; but is there no round game she cares for?\"\n\n\"Dear ma'am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Marianne, I dare say,\nwill not leave her room again this evening. I shall persuade her if I\ncan to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest.\"\n\n\"Aye, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her own\nsupper, and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and\nso cast down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been\nhanging over her head as long as that. And so the letter that came\ntoday finished it! Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I\nwould not have joked her about it for all my money. But then you know,\nhow should I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being nothing but\na common love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at\nabout them. Lord! how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be when\nthey hear it! If I had my senses about me I might have called in\nConduit Street in my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see\nthem to-morrow.\"\n\n\"It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer and\nSir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slightest\nallusion to what has passed, before my sister. Their own good-nature\nmust point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing\nabout it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to\nmyself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my\ndear madam will easily believe.\"\n\n\"Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear\nit talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a\nword about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time.\nNo more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very\nthoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I\ncertainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such\nthings, the better, the sooner 'tis blown over and forgot. And what\ndoes talking ever do you know?\"\n\n\"In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many\ncases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances\nwhich, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to\nbecome the public conversation. I must do _this_ justice to Mr.\nWilloughby--he has broken no positive engagement with my sister.\"\n\n\"Law, my dear! Don't pretend to defend him. No positive engagement\nindeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the\nvery rooms they were to live in hereafter!\"\n\nElinor, for her sister's sake, could not press the subject farther,\nand she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby's; since,\nthough Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the\nenforcement of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides,\nMrs. Jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again.\n\n\"Well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an ill wind, for it will be\nall the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye,\nthat he will. Mind me, now, if they an't married by Mid-summer. Lord!\nhow he'll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight. It will\nbe all to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year\nwithout debt or drawback--except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I\nhad forgot her; but she may be 'prenticed out at a small cost, and\nthen what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you;\nexactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and\nconveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered\nwith the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in\none corner! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were\nthere! Then, there is a dovecote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a\nvery pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for;\nand, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile\nfrom the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, for if you only go and sit\nup in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the\ncarriages that pass along. Oh! 'tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in\nthe village, and the parsonage-house within a stone's throw. To my\nfancy, a thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are\nforced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour\nnearer than your mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon\nas I can. One shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down. If we\n_can_ but put Willoughby out of her head!\"\n\n\"Ay, if we can do that, Ma'am,\" said Elinor, \"we shall do very well\nwith or without Colonel Brandon.\" And then rising, she went away to\njoin Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room,\nleaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which,\ntill Elinor's entrance, had been her only light.\n\n\"You had better leave me,\" was all the notice that her sister received\nfrom her.\n\n\"I will leave you,\" said Elinor, \"if you will go to bed.\" But this,\nfrom the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first\nrefused to do. Her sister's earnest, though gentle persuasion,\nhowever, soon softened her to compliance, and Elinor saw her lay her\naching head on the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some\nquiet rest before she left her.\n\nIn the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined by\nMrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand.\n\n\"My dear,\" said she, entering, \"I have just recollected that I have\nsome of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that ever was\ntasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister. My poor\nhusband! how fond he was of it! Whenever he had a touch of his old\ncolicky gout, he said it did him more good than any thing else in the\nworld. Do take it to your sister.\"\n\n\"Dear Ma'am,\" replied Elinor, smiling at the difference of the\ncomplaints for which it was recommended, \"how good you are! But I have\njust left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I think\nnothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me\nleave, I will drink the wine myself.\"\n\nMrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes\nearlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and Elinor, as she\nswallowed the chief of it, reflected, that though its effects on a\ncolicky gout were, at present, of little importance to her, its\nhealing powers, on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried\non herself as on her sister.\n\nColonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner\nof looking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied\nthat he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in short,\nthat he was already aware of what occasioned her absence. Mrs.\nJennings was not struck by the same thought; for soon after his\nentrance, she walked across the room to the tea-table where Elinor\npresided, and whispered, \"The Colonel looks as grave as ever you see.\nHe knows nothing of it; do tell him, my dear.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"_How fond he was of it!_\"]\n\nHe shortly afterwards drew a chair close to her's, and, with a look\nwhich perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after\nher sister.\n\n\"Marianne is not well,\" said she. \"She has been indisposed all day,\nand we have persuaded her to go to bed.\"\n\n\"Perhaps, then,\" he hesitatingly replied, \"what I heard this morning\nmay be--there may be more truth in it than I could believe possible at\nfirst.\"\n\n\"What did you hear?\"\n\n\"That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think--in short, that a man,\nwhom I _knew_ to be engaged--but how shall I tell you? If you know it\nalready, as surely you must, I may be spared.\"\n\n\"You mean,\" answered Elinor, with forced calmness, \"Mr. Willoughby's\nmarriage with Miss Grey. Yes, we _do_ know it all. This seems to have\nbeen a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first\nunfolded it to us. Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable! Where did you hear\nit?\"\n\n\"In a stationer's shop in Pall Mall, where I had business. Two ladies\nwere waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other\nan account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting\nconcealment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all. The name\nof Willoughby, John Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my\nattention; and what followed was a positive assertion that every thing\nwas now finally settled respecting his marriage with Miss Grey--it was\nno longer to be a secret--it would take place even within a few weeks,\nwith many particulars of preparations and other matters. One thing,\nespecially, I remember, because it served to identify the man still\nmore:--as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe\nMagna, his seat in Somersetshire. My astonishment!--but it would be\nimpossible to describe what I felt. The communicative lady I learnt,\non inquiry,--for I stayed in the shop till they were gone,--was a Mrs.\nEllison, and that, as I have been since informed, is the name of Miss\nGrey's guardian.\"\n\n\"It is. But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty thousand\npounds? In that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation.\"\n\n\"It may be so; but Willoughby is capable--at least I think--\" He\nstopped a moment; then added in a voice which seemed to distrust\nitself, \"And your sister,--how did she,--\"\n\n\"Her sufferings have been very severe. I have only to hope that they\nmay be proportionately short. It has been, it is a most cruel\naffliction. Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard;\nand even now, perhaps--but _I_ am almost convinced that he never was\nreally attached to her. He has been very deceitful! and, in some\npoints, there seems a hardness of heart about him.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Colonel Brandon, \"there is, indeed! But your sister does\nnot--I think you said so--she does not consider quite as you do?\"\n\n\"You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would still\njustify him if she could.\"\n\nHe made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the\ntea-things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was\nnecessarily dropped. Mrs. Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure\nwhile they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of Miss\nDashwood's communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel\nBrandon's side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of\nhope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening\nmore serious and thoughtful than usual.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\n\nFrom a night of more sleep than she had expected, Marianne awoke the\nnext morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had\nclosed her eyes.\n\nElinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt;\nand before breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject\nagain and again; and with the same steady conviction and affectionate\ncounsel on Elinor's side, the same impetuous feelings and varying\nopinions on Marianne's, as before. Sometimes she could believe\nWilloughby to be as unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at\nothers, lost every consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him.\nAt one moment she was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all\nthe world, at another she would seclude herself from it for ever, and\nat a third could resist it with energy. In one thing, however, she\nwas uniform, when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was\npossible, the presence of Mrs. Jennings, and in a determined silence\nwhen obliged to endure it. Her heart was hardened against the belief\nof Mrs. Jennings's entering into her sorrows with any compassion.\n\n\"No, no, no, it cannot be,\" she cried; \"she cannot feel. Her kindness\nis not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness. All that she wants\nis gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it.\"\n\nElinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which her\nsister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable\nrefinement of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her\non the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a\npolished manner. Like half the rest of the world, if more than half\nthere be that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities\nand an excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid. She\nexpected from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own,\nand she judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their\nactions on herself. Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters\nwere together in their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart\nof Mrs. Jennings still lower in her estimation; because, through her\nown weakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself,\nthough Mrs. Jennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost\ngood-will.\n\nWith a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling,\nfrom the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room,\nsaying--\n\n\"Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do you good.\"\n\nMarianne heard enough. In one moment her imagination placed before her\na letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition,\nexplanatory of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and\ninstantly followed by Willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the\nroom to enforce, at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the\nassurances of his letter. The work of one moment was destroyed by the\nnext. The hand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was\nbefore her; and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed\nsuch an ecstasy of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant,\nshe had never suffered.\n\nThe cruelty of Mrs. Jennings, no language, within her reach in her\nmoments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could\nreproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with\npassionate violence;--a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its\nobject, that after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still\nreferring her to the letter of comfort. But the letter, when she was\ncalm enough to read it, brought little comfort. Willoughby filled\nevery page. Her mother, still confident of their engagement, and\nrelying as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by\nElinor's application, to entreat from Marianne greater openness\ntowards them both; and this, with such tenderness towards her, such\naffection for Willoughby, and such a conviction of their future\nhappiness in each other, that she wept with agony through the whole of\nit.\n\nAll her impatience to be at home again now returned; her mother was\ndearer to her than ever; dearer through the very excess of her\nmistaken confidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be\ngone. Elinor, unable herself to determine whether it were better for\nMarianne to be in London or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own\nexcept of patience till their mother's wishes could be known; and at\nlength she obtained her sister's consent to wait for that knowledge.\n\nMrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could not be easy\ntill the Middletons and Palmers were able to grieve as much as\nherself; and positively refusing Elinor's offered attendance, went out\nalone for the rest of the morning. Elinor, with a very heavy heart,\naware of the pain she was going to communicate, and perceiving, by\nMarianne's letter, how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation\nfor it, then sat down to write her mother an account of what had\npassed, and entreat her directions for the future; while Marianne, who\ncame into the drawing-room on Mrs. Jennings's going away, remained\nfixed at the table where Elinor wrote, watching the advancement of her\npen, grieving over her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving\nstill more fondly over its effect on her mother.\n\nIn this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when\nMarianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was\nstartled by a rap at the door.\n\n\"Who can this be?\" cried Elinor. \"So early too! I thought we _had_\nbeen safe.\"\n\nMarianne moved to the window--\n\n\"It is Colonel Brandon!\" said she, with vexation. \"We are never safe\nfrom _him._\"\n\n\"He will not come in, as Mrs. Jennings is from home.\"\n\n\"I will not trust to _that_,\" retreating to her own room. \"A man who\nhas nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion\non that of others.\"\n\nThe event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on\ninjustice and error; for Colonel Brandon _did_ come in; and Elinor,\nwho was convinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither,\nand who saw _that_ solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look,\nand in his anxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive\nher sister for esteeming him so lightly.\n\n\"I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street,\" said he, after the first\nsalutation, \"and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more\neasily encouraged, because I thought it probable that I might find you\nalone, which I was very desirous of doing. My object--my wish--my sole\nwish in desiring it--I hope, I believe it is--is to be a means of\ngiving comfort;--no, I must not say comfort--not present comfort--but\nconviction, lasting conviction to your sister's mind. My regard for\nher, for yourself, for your mother--will you allow me to prove it, by\nrelating some circumstances which nothing but a _very_ sincere\nregard--nothing but an earnest desire of being useful--I think I am\njustified--though where so many hours have been spent in convincing\nmyself that I am right, is there not some reason to fear I may be\nwrong?\" He stopped.\n\n\"I understand you,\" said Elinor. \"You have something to tell me of Mr.\nWilloughby, that will open his character farther. Your telling it will\nbe the greatest act of friendship that can be shown Marianne. _My_\ngratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to\nthat end, and _hers_ must be gained by it in time. Pray, pray let me\nhear it.\"\n\n\"You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last October,--but\nthis will give you no idea--I must go farther back. You will find me a\nvery awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to begin. A\nshort account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it _shall_\nbe a short one. On such a subject,\" sighing heavily, \"can I have\nlittle temptation to be diffuse.\"\n\nHe stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went\non.\n\n\"You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation--(it is not to be\nsupposed that it could make any impression on you)--a conversation\nbetween us one evening at Barton Park--it was the evening of a\ndance--in which I alluded to a lady I had once known, as resembling,\nin some measure, your sister Marianne.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" answered Elinor, \"I have _not_ forgotten it.\" He looked\npleased by this remembrance, and added--\n\n\"If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender\nrecollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well\nin mind as person. The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of\nfancy and spirits. This lady was one of my nearest relations, an\norphan from her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father. Our\nages were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were\nplayfellows and friends. I cannot remember the time when I did not\nlove Eliza; and my affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as\nperhaps, judging from my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you\nmight think me incapable of having ever felt. Her's, for me, was, I\nbelieve, fervent as the attachment of your sister to Mr. Willoughby\nand it was, though from a different cause, no less unfortunate. At\nseventeen she was lost to me for ever. She was married--married\nagainst her inclination to my brother. Her fortune was large, and our\nfamily estate much encumbered. And this, I fear, is all that can be\nsaid for the conduct of one, who was at once her uncle and guardian.\nMy brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her. I had hoped\nthat her regard for me would support her under any difficulty, and for\nsome time it did; but at last the misery of her situation, for she\nexperienced great unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and though\nshe had promised me that nothing--but how blindly I relate! I have\nnever told you how this was brought on. We were within a few hours of\neloping together for Scotland. The treachery, or the folly, of my\ncousin's maid betrayed us. I was banished to the house of a relation\nfar distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement,\ntill my father's point was gained. I had depended on her fortitude too\nfar, and the blow was a severe one, but had her marriage been happy,\nso young as I then was, a few months must have reconciled me to it,\nor at least I should not have now to lament it. This however was not\nthe case. My brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not\nwhat they ought to have been, and from the first he treated her\nunkindly. The consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so\ninexperienced as Mrs. Brandon's, was but too natural. She resigned\nherself at first to all the misery of her situation; and happy had it\nbeen if she had not lived to overcome those regrets which the\nremembrance of me occasioned. But can we wonder that, with such a\nhusband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to advise or\nrestrain her (for my father lived only a few months after their\nmarriage, and I was with my regiment in the East Indies) she should\nfall? Had I remained in England, perhaps--but I meant to promote the\nhappiness of both by removing from her for years, and for that purpose\nhad procured my exchange. The shock which her marriage had given me,\"\nhe continued, in a voice of great agitation, \"was of trifling\nweight--was nothing to what I felt when I heard, about two years\nafterwards, of her divorce. It was _that_ which threw this\ngloom,--even now the recollection of what I suffered--\"\n\nHe could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes\nabout the room. Elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by\nhis distress, could not speak. He saw her concern, and coming to her,\ntook her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect. A few\nminutes more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure.\n\n\"It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I returned\nto England. My first care, when I _did_ arrive, was of course to seek\nfor her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy. I could\nnot trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to\nfear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of\nsin. Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor\nsufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from my\nbrother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months\nbefore to another person. He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it,\nthat her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to\ndispose of it for some immediate relief. At last, however, and after I\nhad been six months in England, I _did_ find her. Regard for a former\nservant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me\nto visit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and\nthere, in the same house, under a similar confinement, was my\nunfortunate sister. So altered--so faded--worn down by acute suffering\nof every kind! hardly could I believe the melancholy and sickly figure\nbefore me, to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl,\non whom I had once doted. What I endured in so beholding her--but I\nhave no right to wound your feelings by attempting to describe it--I\nhave pained you too much already. That she was, to all appearance, in\nthe last stage of a consumption, was--yes, in such a situation it was\nmy greatest comfort. Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time\nfor a better preparation for death; and that was given. I saw her\nplaced in comfortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; I visited\nher every day during the rest of her short life: I was with her in her\nlast moments.\"\n\nAgain he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor spoke her feelings in\nan exclamation of tender concern, at the fate of his unfortunate\nfriend.\n\n\"Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended,\" said he, \"by the\nresemblance I have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation.\nTheir fates, their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural\nsweet disposition of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a\nhappier marriage, she might have been all that you will live to see\nthe other be. But to what does all this lead? I seem to have been\ndistressing you for nothing. Ah! Miss Dashwood--a subject such as\nthis--untouched for fourteen years--it is dangerous to handle it at\nall! I _will_ be more collected--more concise. She left to my care her\nonly child, a little girl, the offspring of her first guilty\nconnection, who was then about three years old. She loved the child,\nand had always kept it with her. It was a valued, a precious trust to\nme; and gladly would I have discharged it in the strictest sense, by\nwatching over her education myself, had the nature of our situations\nallowed it; but I had no family, no home; and my little Eliza was\ntherefore placed at school. I saw her there whenever I could, and\nafter the death of my brother, (which happened about five years ago,\nand which left to me the possession of the family property,) she\nvisited me at Delaford. I called her a distant relation; but I am\nwell aware that I have in general been suspected of a much nearer\nconnection with her. It is now three years ago (she had just reached\nher fourteenth year,) that I removed her from school, to place her\nunder the care of a very respectable woman, residing in Dorsetshire,\nwho had the charge of four or five other girls of about the same time\nof life; and for two years I had every reason to be pleased with her\nsituation. But last February, almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly\ndisappeared. I had allowed her, (imprudently, as it has since turned\nout,) at her earnest desire, to go to Bath with one of her young\nfriends, who was attending her father there for his health. I knew him\nto be a very good sort of man, and I thought well of his\ndaughter--better than she deserved, for, with a most obstinate and\nill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would give no clue, though\nshe certainly knew all. He, her father, a well-meaning, but not a\nquick-sighted man, could really, I believe, give no information; for\nhe had been generally confined to the house, while the girls were\nranging over the town and making what acquaintance they chose; and he\ntried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was convinced himself, of\nhis daughter's being entirely unconcerned in the business. In short, I\ncould learn nothing but that she was gone; all the rest, for eight\nlong months, was left to conjecture. What I thought, what I feared,\nmay be imagined; and what I suffered too.\"\n\n\"Good heavens!\" cried Elinor, \"could it be--could Willoughby!\"--\n\n\"The first news that reached me of her,\" he continued, \"came in a\nletter from herself, last October. It was forwarded to me from\nDelaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended party\nto Whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly,\nwhich I am sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body,\nand which I believe gave offence to some. Little did Mr. Willoughby\nimagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in\nbreaking up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one\nwhom he had made poor and miserable; but _had_ he known it, what would\nit have availed? Would he have been less gay or less happy in the\nsmiles of your sister? No, he had already done that, which no man who\n_can_ feel for another would do. He had left the girl whose youth and\ninnocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with\nno creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address! He\nhad left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor\nrelieved her.\"\n\n\"This is beyond every thing!\" exclaimed Elinor.\n\n\"His character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, and worse\nthan both. Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess\nwhat I must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever,\nand on being assured that she was to marry him: guess what I must have\nfelt for all your sakes. When I came to you last week and found you\nalone, I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to\ndo when it _was_ known. My behaviour must have seemed strange to you\nthen; but now you will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so\ndeceived; to see your sister--but what could I do? I had no hope of\ninterfering with success; and sometimes I thought your sister's\ninfluence might yet reclaim him. But now, after such dishonorable\nusage, who can tell what were his designs on her. Whatever they may\nhave been, however, she may now, and hereafter doubtless _will_, turn\nwith gratitude towards her own condition, when she compares it with\nthat of my poor Eliza, when she considers the wretched and hopeless\nsituation of this poor girl, and pictures her to herself, with an\naffection for him so strong, still as strong as her own, and with a\nmind tormented by self-reproach, which must attend her through life.\nSurely this comparison must have its use with her. She will feel her\nown sufferings to be nothing. They proceed from no misconduct, and can\nbring no disgrace. On the contrary, every friend must be made still\nmore her friend by them. Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for\nher fortitude under it, must strengthen every attachment. Use your own\ndiscretion, however, in communicating to her what I have told you. You\nmust know best what will be its effect; but had I not seriously, and\nfrom my heart believed it might be of service, might lessen her\nregrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this\naccount of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem to\nhave been intended to raise myself at the expense of others.\"\n\nElinor's thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness;\nattended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage\nto Marianne, from the communication of what had passed.\n\n\"I have been more pained,\" said she, \"by her endeavors to acquit him\nthan by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most\nperfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first\nshe will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have\nyou,\" she continued, after a short silence, \"ever seen Mr. Willoughby\nsince you left him at Barton?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he replied gravely, \"once I have. One meeting was unavoidable.\"\n\nElinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying--\n\n\"What? have you met him to--\"\n\n\"I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most\nreluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town,\nwhich was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he\nto defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the\nmeeting, therefore, never got abroad.\"\n\nElinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a\nsoldier she presumed not to censure it.\n\n\"Such,\" said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, \"has been the unhappy\nresemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so\nimperfectly have I discharged my trust!\"\n\n\"Is she still in town?\"\n\n\"No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near\nher delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there\nshe remains.\"\n\nRecollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor\nfrom her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again\nthe same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion\nand esteem for him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\n\nWhen the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss\nDashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was\nnot entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne\nappeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to\nit all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither\nobjection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and\nseemed to show by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But\nthough this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt\n_was_ carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the\neffect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he\ncalled, in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind\nof compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less\nviolently irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched.\nHer mind did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection.\nShe felt the loss of Willoughby's character yet more heavily than she\nhad felt the loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss\nWilliams, the misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his\ndesigns might _once_ have been on herself, preyed altogether so much\non her spirits, that she could not bring herself to speak of what she\nfelt even to Elinor; and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave\nmore pain to her sister than could have been communicated by the most\nopen and most frequent confession of them.\n\nTo give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and\nanswering Elinor's letter would be only to give a repetition of what\nher daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly\nless painful than Marianne's, and an indignation even greater than\nElinor's. Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other,\narrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her\nanxious solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would bear up with\nfortitude under this misfortune. Bad indeed must the nature of\nMarianne's affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude!\nmortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which\n_she_ could wish her not to indulge!\n\nAgainst the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had\ndetermined that it would be better for Marianne to be any where, at\nthat time, than at Barton, where every thing within her view would be\nbringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by\nconstantly placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen\nhim there. She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all\nmeans not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length of\nwhich, though never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to\ncomprise at least five or six weeks. A variety of occupations, of\nobjects, and of company, which could not be procured at Barton, would\nbe inevitable there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at\ntimes, into some interest beyond herself, and even into some\namusement, much as the ideas of both might now be spurned by her.\n\nFrom all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered her\nto be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his\nacquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her\nfriends. Design could never bring them in each other's way: negligence\ncould never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in\nits favour in the crowd of London than even in the retirement of\nBarton, where it might force him before her while paying that visit at\nAllenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from foreseeing at\nfirst as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain\none.\n\nShe had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where\nthey were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his\nwife were to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged\nit right that they should sometimes see their brother.\n\nMarianne had promised to be guided by her mother's opinion, and she\nsubmitted to it therefore without opposition, though it proved\nperfectly different from what she wished and expected, though she felt\nit to be entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by\nrequiring her longer continuance in London it deprived her of the only\npossible alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal sympathy of her\nmother, and doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent\nher ever knowing a moment's rest.\n\nBut it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought\nevil to herself would bring good to her sister; and Elinor, on the\nother hand, suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid\nEdward entirely, comforted herself by thinking, that though their\nlonger stay would therefore militate against her own happiness, it\nwould be better for Marianne than an immediate return into Devonshire.\n\nHer carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing Willoughby's\nname mentioned, was not thrown away. Marianne, though without knowing\nit herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor\nSir John, nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her.\nElinor wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards\nherself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day\nafter day to the indignation of them all.\n\nSir John, could not have thought it possible. \"A man of whom he had\nalways had such reason to think well! Such a good-natured fellow! He\ndid not believe there was a bolder rider in England! It was an\nunaccountable business. He wished him at the devil with all his heart.\nHe would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for\nall the world! No, not if it were to be by the side of Barton covert,\nand they were kept watching for two hours together. Such a scoundrel\nof a fellow! such a deceitful dog! It was only the last time they met\nthat he had offered him one of Folly's puppies! and this was the end\nof it!\"\n\nMrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry. \"She was determined to\ndrop his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she\nhad never been acquainted with him at all. She wished with all her\nheart Combe Magna was not so near Cleveland; but it did not signify,\nfor it was a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much\nthat she was resolved never to mention his name again, and she should\ntell everybody she saw, how good-for-nothing he was.\"\n\nThe rest of Mrs. Palmer's sympathy was shown in procuring all the\nparticulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and\ncommunicating them to Elinor. She could soon tell at what coachmaker's\nthe new carriage was building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby's\nportrait was drawn, and at what warehouse Miss Grey's clothes might be\nseen.\n\n[Illustration: _Offered him one of Folly's puppies._]\n\nThe calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was a\nhappy relief to Elinor's spirits, oppressed as they often were by\nthe clamorous kindness of the others. It was a great comfort to her to\nbe sure of exciting no interest in _one_ person at least among their\ncircle of friends: a great comfort to know that there was _one_ who\nwould meet her without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any\nanxiety for her sister's health.\n\nEvery qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the\nmoment, to more than its real value; and she was sometimes worried\ndown by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more\nindispensable to comfort than good-nature.\n\nLady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day,\nor twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, \"It is very\nshocking, indeed!\" and by the means of this continual though gentle\nvent, was able not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from the first\nwithout the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them without\nrecollecting a word of the matter; and having thus supported the\ndignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was\nwrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend to the\ninterest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (though\nrather against the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs. Willoughby would\nat once be a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her\nas soon as she married.\n\nColonel Brandon's delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome\nto Miss Dashwood. He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate\ndiscussion of her sister's disappointment, by the friendly zeal with\nwhich he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with\nconfidence. His chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing\npast sorrows and present humiliations, was given in the pitying eye\nwith which Marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of her\nvoice whenever (though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or\ncould oblige herself to speak to him. _These_ assured him that his\nexertion had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and\n_these_ gave Elinor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter;\nbut Mrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that\nthe Colonel continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither\nprevail on him to make the offer himself, nor commission her to make\nit for him, began, at the end of two days, to think that, instead of\nMid-summer, they would not be married till Michaelmas, and by the end\nof a week that it would not be a match at all. The good understanding\nbetween the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather to declare that\nthe honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would\nall be made over to _her_; and Mrs. Jennings had, for some time ceased\nto think at all of Mrs. Ferrars.\n\nEarly in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby's\nletter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he\nwas married. She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to\nherself, as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she\nwas desirous that Marianne should not receive the first notice of it\nfrom the public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every\nmorning.\n\nShe received the news with resolute composure; made no observation on\nit, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would\nburst out, and for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly less\npitiable than when she first learnt to expect the event.\n\nThe Willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and Elinor now\nhoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to\nprevail on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow\nfirst fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before.\n\nAbout this time the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at their cousin's\nhouse in Bartlett's Buildings, Holborn, presented themselves again\nbefore their more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley Streets; and\nwere welcomed by them all with great cordiality.\n\nElinor only was sorry to see them. Their presence always gave her\npain, and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the\noverpowering delight of Lucy in finding her _still_ in town.\n\n\"I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here\n_still_,\" said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word.\n\"But I always thought I _should_ I was almost sure you would not leave\nLondon yet awhile; though you _told_ me, you know, at Barton, that you\nshould not stay above a _month._ But I thought, at the time, that you\nwould most likely change your mind when it came to the point. It would\nhave been such a great pity to have went away before your brother and\nsister came. And now to be sure you will be in no _hurry_ to be gone.\nI am amazingly glad you did not keep to _your word._\"\n\nElinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her\nself-command to make it appear that she did _not._\n\n\"Well, my dear,\" said Mrs. Jennings, \"and how did you travel?\"\n\n\"Not in the stage, I assure you,\" replied Miss Steele, with quick\nexultation; \"we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to\nattend us. Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we'd join\nhim in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or\ntwelve shillings more than we did.\"\n\n\"Oh, oh!\" cried Mrs. Jennings; \"very pretty, indeed! and the Doctor is\na single man, I warrant you.\"\n\n\"There now,\" said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering, \"everybody laughs\nat me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why. My cousins say they\nare sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare I never\nthink about him from one hour's end to another. 'Lord! here comes your\nbeau, Nancy,' my cousin said t'other day, when she saw him crossing\nthe street to the house. My beau, indeed! said I--I cannot think who\nyou mean. The Doctor is no beau of mine.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking--but it won't do--the Doctor is\nthe man, I see.\"\n\n\"No, indeed!\" replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, \"and I\nbeg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of.\"\n\nMrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she\ncertainly would _not_, and Miss Steele was made completely happy.\n\n\"I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss\nDashwood, when they come to town,\" said Lucy, returning, after a\ncessation of hostile hints, to the charge.\n\n\"No, I do not think we shall.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I dare say you will.\"\n\nElinor would not humour her by farther opposition.\n\n\"What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for\nso long a time together!\"\n\n\"Long a time, indeed!\" interposed Mrs. Jennings. \"Why, their visit is\nbut just begun!\"\n\n[Illustration: _A very smart beau._]\n\nLucy was silenced.\n\n\"I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood,\" said Miss\nSteele. \"I am sorry she is not well--\" for Marianne had left the room\non their arrival.\n\n\"You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the\npleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with\nnervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation.\"\n\n\"Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and\nme!--I think she might see _us_; and I am sure we would not speak a\nword.\"\n\nElinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sister was\nperhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore\nnot able to come to them.\n\n\"Oh, if that's all,\" cried Miss Steele, \"we can just as well go and\nsee _her._\"\n\nElinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but\nshe was saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy's sharp reprimand,\nwhich now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness\nto the manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of\nthe other.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\n\nAfter some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister's entreaties,\nand consented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for\nhalf an hour. She expressly conditioned, however, for paying no\nvisits, and would do no more than accompany them to Gray's in\nSackville Street, where Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the\nexchange of a few old-fashioned jewels of her mother.\n\nWhen they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there\nwas a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call;\nand as she had no business at Gray's, it was resolved, that while her\nyoung friends transacted their's, she should pay her visit and return\nfor them.\n\nOn ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people\nbefore them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to\ntend to their orders; and they were obliged to wait. All that could be\ndone was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to\npromise the quickest succession; one gentleman only was standing\nthere, and it is probable that Elinor was not without hope of exciting\nhis politeness to a quicker despatch. But the correctness of his eye,\nand the delicacy of his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness. He\nwas giving orders for a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size,\nshape, and ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining\nand debating for a quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the\nshop, were finally arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no\nleisure to bestow any other attention on the two ladies, than what was\ncomprised in three or four very broad stares; a kind of notice which\nserved to imprint on Elinor the remembrance of a person and face, of\nstrong, natural, sterling insignificance, though adorned in the first\nstyle of fashion.\n\nMarianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and\nresentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and on\nthe puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of\nthe different toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by\nremaining unconscious of it all; for she was as well able to collect\nher thoughts within herself, and be as ignorant of what was passing\naround her, in Mr. Gray's shop, as in her own bedroom.\n\nAt last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls,\nall received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the\nlast day on which his existence could be continued without the\npossession of the toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely\ncare, and bestowing another glance on the Miss Dashwoods, but such a\none as seemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off\nwith a happy air of real conceit and affected indifference.\n\nElinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point\nof concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her\nside. She turned her eyes towards his face, and found him with some\nsurprise to be her brother.\n\n[Illustration: _Introduced to Mrs. Jennings._]\n\nTheir affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a very\ncreditable appearance in Mr. Gray's shop. John Dashwood was really far\nfrom being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave them\nsatisfaction; and his inquiries after their mother were respectful and\nattentive.\n\nElinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two days.\n\n\"I wished very much to call upon you yesterday,\" said he, \"but it was\nimpossible, for we were obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts\nat Exeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs.\nFerrars. Harry was vastly pleased. _This_ morning I had fully intended\nto call on you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one\nhas always so much to do on first coming to town. I am come here to\nbespeak Fanny a seal. But tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able\nto call in Berkeley Street, and be introduced to your friend Mrs.\nJennings. I understand she is a woman of very good fortune. And the\nMiddletons too, you must introduce me to _them_. As my mother-in-law's\nrelations, I shall be happy to show them every respect. They are\nexcellent neighbours to you in the country, I understand.\"\n\n\"Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort, their friendliness\nin every particular, is more than I can express.\"\n\n\"I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed.\nBut so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they are\nrelated to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to\nmake your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected. And so you\nare most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for\nnothing! Edward brought us a most charming account of the place: the\nmost complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all\nseemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. It was a great satisfaction to us\nto hear it, I assure you.\"\n\nElinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to\nbe spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs.\nJennings's servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for\nthem at the door.\n\nMr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs.\nJennings at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being\nable to call on them the next day, took leave.\n\n[Illustration: _Mrs. Jennings assured him directly that she should not\nstand upon ceremony._]\n\nHis visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an apology from\ntheir sister-in-law, for not coming too; \"but she was so much engaged\nwith her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where.\"\nMrs. Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not\nstand upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like\nit, and she should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and\nbring her sisters to see her. His manners to _them_, though calm, were\nperfectly kind; to Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil; and on\nColonel Brandon's coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a\ncuriosity which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be\nrich, to be equally civil to _him._\n\nAfter staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him\nto Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton.\nThe weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. As soon as\nthey were out of the house, his enquiries began.\n\n\"Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune?\"\n\n\"Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire.\"\n\n\"I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think,\nElinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable\nestablishment in life.\"\n\n\"Me, brother! what do you mean?\"\n\n\"He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What\nis the amount of his fortune?\"\n\n\"I believe about two thousand a year.\"\n\n\"Two thousand a-year;\" and then working himself up to a pitch of\nenthusiastic generosity, he added, \"Elinor, I wish with all my heart\nit were _twice_ as much, for your sake.\"\n\n\"Indeed I believe you,\" replied Elinor; \"but I am very sure that\nColonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying _me._\n\n\"You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very little\ntrouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be\nundecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his\nfriends may all advise him against it. But some of those little\nattentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix\nhim, in spite of himself. And there can be no reason why you should\nnot try for him. It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on\nyour side--in short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is\nquite out of the question, the objections are insurmountable--you have\ntoo much sense not to see all that. Colonel Brandon must be the man;\nand no civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with\nyou and your family. It is a match that must give universal\nsatisfaction. In short, it is a kind of thing that,\" lowering his\nvoice to an important whisper, \"will be exceedingly welcome to _all\nparties._\" Recollecting himself, however, he added, \"That is, I mean\nto say--your friends are all truly anxious to see you well settled;\nFanny particularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, I\nassure you. And her mother too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured\nwoman, I am sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much\nthe other day.\"\n\nElinor would not vouchsafe any answer.\n\n\"It would be something remarkable, now,\" he continued, \"something\ndroll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling at the\nsame time. And yet it is not very unlikely.\"\n\n\"Is Mr. Edward Ferrars,\" said Elinor, with resolution, \"going to be\nmarried?\"\n\n\"It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation.\nHe has a most excellent mother. Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost\nliberality, will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if\nthe match takes place. The lady is the Hon. Miss Morton, only daughter\nof the late Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds. A very desirable\nconnection on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking place\nin time. A thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away,\nto make over for ever; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble spirit. To give\nyou another instance of her liberality:--The other day, as soon as we\ncame to town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us just\nnow, she put bank-notes into Fanny's hands to the amount of two\nhundred pounds. And extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a\ngreat expense while we are here.\"\n\nHe paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to\nsay--\n\n\"Your expenses both in town and country must certainly be\nconsiderable; but your income is a large one.\"\n\n\"Not so large, I dare say, as many people suppose. I do not mean to\ncomplain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope\nwill in time be better. The enclosure of Norland Common, now carrying\non, is a most serious drain. And then I have made a little purchase\nwithin this half year; East Kingham Farm, you must remember the place,\nwhere old Gibson used to live. The land was so very desirable for me\nin every respect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that I\nfelt it my duty to buy it. I could not have answered it to my\nconscience to let it fall into any other hands. A man must pay for his\nconvenience; and it _has_ cost me a vast deal of money.\"\n\n\"More than you think it really and intrinsically worth.\"\n\n\"Why, I hope not that. I might have sold it again, the next day, for\nmore than I gave: but, with regard to the purchase-money, I might have\nbeen very unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were at that time so low,\nthat if I had not happened to have the necessary sum in my banker's\nhands, I must have sold out to very great loss.\"\n\nElinor could only smile.\n\n\"Other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first coming\nto Norland. Our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the\nStanhill effects that remained at Norland (and very valuable they\nwere) to your mother. Far be it from me to repine at his doing so; he\nhad an undoubted right to dispose of his own property as he chose,\nbut, in consequence of it, we have been obliged to make large\npurchases of linen, china, &c. to supply the place of what was taken\naway. You may guess, after all these expenses, how very far we must be\nfrom being rich, and how acceptable Mrs. Ferrars's kindness is.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Elinor; \"and assisted by her liberality, I hope you\nmay yet live to be in easy circumstances.\"\n\n\"Another year or two may do much towards it,\" he gravely replied; \"but\nhowever there is still a great deal to be done. There is not a stone\nlaid of Fanny's green-house, and nothing but the plan of the\nflower-garden marked out.\"\n\n\"Where is the green-house to be?\"\n\n\"Upon the knoll behind the house. The old walnut trees are all come\ndown to make room for it. It will be a very fine object from many\nparts of the park, and the flower-garden will slope down just before\nit, and be exceedingly pretty. We have cleared away all the old thorns\nthat grew in patches over the brow.\"\n\nElinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very\nthankful that Marianne was not present, to share the provocation.\n\nHaving now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away the\nnecessity of buying a pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters, in\nhis next visit at Gray's his thoughts took a cheerfuller turn, and he\nbegan to congratulate Elinor on having such a friend as Mrs. Jennings.\n\n\"She seems a most valuable woman indeed--Her house, her style of\nliving, all bespeak an exceeding good income; and it is an\nacquaintance that has not only been of great use to you hitherto, but\nin the end may prove materially advantageous. Her inviting you to town\nis certainly a vast thing in your favour; and indeed, it speaks\naltogether so great a regard for you, that in all probability when she\ndies you will not be forgotten. She must have a great deal to leave.\"\n\n\"Nothing at all, I should rather suppose; for she has only her\njointure, which will descend to her children.\"\n\n\"But it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income. Few\npeople of common prudence will do _that_; and whatever she saves, she\nwill be able to dispose of.\"\n\n\"And do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to her\ndaughters, than to us?\"\n\n\"Her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore I\ncannot perceive the necessity of her remembering them farther.\nWhereas, in my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and\ntreating you in this kind of way, she has given you a sort of claim on\nher future consideration, which a conscientious woman would not\ndisregard. Nothing can be kinder than her behaviour; and she can\nhardly do all this, without being aware of the expectation it raises.\"\n\n\"But she raises none in those most concerned. Indeed, brother, your\nanxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far.\"\n\n\"Why, to be sure,\" said he, seeming to recollect himself, \"people have\nlittle, have very little in their power. But, my dear Elinor, what is\nthe matter with Marianne?--she looks very unwell, has lost her colour,\nand is grown quite thin. Is she ill?\"\n\n\"She is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her for several\nweeks.\"\n\n\"I am sorry for that. At her time of life, any thing of an illness\ndestroys the bloom for ever! Her's has been a very short one! She was\nas handsome a girl last September, as I ever saw; and as likely to\nattract the man. There was something in her style of beauty, to\nplease them particularly. I remember Fanny used to say that she would\nmarry sooner and better than you did; not but what she is exceedingly\nfond of _you_, but so it happened to strike her. She will be mistaken,\nhowever. I question whether Marianne _now_, will marry a man worth\nmore than five or six hundred a-year, at the utmost, and I am very\nmuch deceived if _you_ do not do better. Dorsetshire! I know very\nlittle of Dorsetshire; but, my dear Elinor, I shall be exceedingly\nglad to know more of it; and I think I can answer for your having\nFanny and myself among the earliest and best pleased of your\nvisitors.\"\n\nElinor tried very seriously to convince him that there was no\nlikelihood of her marrying Colonel Brandon; but it was an expectation\nof too much pleasure to himself to be relinquished, and he was really\nresolved on seeking an intimacy with that gentleman, and promoting the\nmarriage by every possible attention. He had just compunction enough\nfor having done nothing for his sisters himself, to be exceedingly\nanxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an offer from\nColonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means\nof atoning for his own neglect.\n\nThey were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton at home, and Sir John\ncame in before their visit ended. Abundance of civilities passed on\nall sides. Sir John was ready to like anybody, and though Mr. Dashwood\ndid not seem to know much about horses, he soon set him down as a very\ngood-natured fellow: while Lady Middleton saw enough of fashion in his\nappearance to think his acquaintance worth having; and Mr. Dashwood\nwent away delighted with both.\n\n\"I shall have a charming account to carry to Fanny,\" said he, as he\nwalked back with his sister. \"Lady Middleton is really a most elegant\nwoman! Such a woman as I am sure Fanny will be glad to know. And Mrs.\nJennings too, an exceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so elegant\nas her daughter. Your sister need not have any scruple even of\nvisiting _her_, which, to say the truth, has been a little the case,\nand very naturally; for we only knew that Mrs. Jennings was the widow\nof a man who had got all his money in a low way; and Fanny and Mrs.\nFerrars were both strongly prepossessed, that neither she nor her\ndaughters were such kind of women as Fanny would like to associate\nwith. But now I can carry her a most satisfactory account of both.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV\n\n\nMrs. John Dashwood had so much confidence in her husband's judgment,\nthat she waited the very next day both on Mrs. Jennings and her\ndaughter; and her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former,\neven the woman with whom her sisters were staying, by no means\nunworthy her notice; and as for Lady Middleton, she found her one of\nthe most charming women in the world!\n\nLady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs. Dashwood. There was a\nkind of cold hearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually\nattracted them; and they sympathised with each other in an insipid\npropriety of demeanor, and a general want of understanding.\n\nThe same manners, however, which recommended Mrs. John Dashwood to the\ngood opinion of Lady Middleton did not suit the fancy of Mrs.\nJennings, and to _her_ she appeared nothing more than a little\nproud-looking woman of uncordial address, who met her husband's\nsisters without any affection, and almost without having anything to\nsay to them; for of the quarter of an hour bestowed on Berkeley\nStreet, she sat at least seven minutes and a half in silence.\n\nElinor wanted very much to know, though she did not choose to ask,\nwhether Edward was then in town; but nothing would have induced Fanny\nvoluntarily to mention his name before her, till able to tell her that\nhis marriage with Miss Morton was resolved on, or till her husband's\nexpectations on Colonel Brandon were answered; because she believed\nthem still so very much attached to each other, that they could not be\ntoo sedulously divided in word and deed on every occasion. The\nintelligence however, which _she_ would not give, soon flowed from\nanother quarter. Lucy came very shortly to claim Elinor's compassion\non being unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in town with Mr.\nand Mrs. Dashwood. He dared not come to Bartlett's Buildings for fear\nof detection, and though their mutual impatience to meet, was not to\nbe told, they could do nothing at present but write.\n\nEdward assured them himself of his being in town, within a very short\ntime, by twice calling in Berkeley Street. Twice was his card found on\nthe table, when they returned from their morning's engagements. Elinor\nwas pleased that he had called; and still more pleased that she had\nmissed him.\n\nThe Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the Middletons,\nthat, though not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined\nto give them--a dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began,\ninvited them to dine in Harley Street, where they had taken a very\ngood house for three months. Their sisters and Mrs. Jennings were\ninvited likewise, and John Dashwood was careful to secure Colonel\nBrandon, who, always glad to be where the Miss Dashwoods were,\nreceived his eager civilities with some surprise, but much more\npleasure. They were to meet Mrs. Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn\nwhether her sons were to be of the party. The expectation of seeing\n_her_, however, was enough to make her interested in the engagement;\nfor though she could now meet Edward's mother without that strong\nanxiety which had once promised to attend such an introduction, though\nshe could now see her with perfect indifference as to her opinion of\nherself, her desire of being in company with Mrs. Ferrars, her\ncuriosity to know what she was like, was as lively as ever.\n\nThe interest with which she thus anticipated the party, was soon\nafterwards increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing\nthat the Miss Steeles were also to be at it.\n\nSo well had they recommended themselves to Lady Middleton, so\nagreeable had their assiduities made them to her, that though Lucy was\ncertainly not so elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as\nready as Sir John to ask them to spend a week or two in Conduit\nStreet; and it happened to be particularly convenient to the Miss\nSteeles, as soon as the Dashwoods' invitation was known, that their\nvisit should begin a few days before the party took place.\n\nTheir claims to the notice of Mrs. John Dashwood, as the nieces of\nthe gentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother,\nmight not have done much, however, towards procuring them seats at her\ntable; but as Lady Middleton's guests they must be welcome; and Lucy,\nwho had long wanted to be personally known to the family, to have a\nnearer view of their characters and her own difficulties, and to have\nan opportunity of endeavouring to please them, had seldom been happier\nin her life, than she was on receiving Mrs. John Dashwood's card.\n\nOn Elinor its effect was very different. She began immediately to\ndetermine, that Edward who lived with his mother, must be asked as his\nmother was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for the\nfirst time, after all that passed, in the company of Lucy!--she hardly\nknew how she could bear it!\n\nThese apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, and\ncertainly not at all on truth. They were relieved however, not by her\nown recollection, but by the good will of Lucy, who believed herself\nto be inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that Edward\ncertainly would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped to\nbe carrying the pain still farther by persuading her that he was kept\naway by the extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal\nwhen they were together.\n\nThe important Tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies\nto this formidable mother-in-law.\n\n\"Pity me, dear Miss Dashwood!\" said Lucy, as they walked up the stairs\ntogether--for the Middletons arrived so directly after Mrs. Jennings,\nthat they all followed the servant at the same time--\"There is nobody\nhere but you, that can feel for me. I declare I can hardly stand. Good\ngracious!--In a moment I shall see the person that all my happiness\ndepends on--that is to be my mother!\"--\n\nElinor could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the\npossibility of its being Miss Morton's mother, rather than her own,\nwhom they were about to behold; but instead of doing that, she assured\nher, and with great sincerity, that she did pity her--to the utter\namazement of Lucy, who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at\nleast to be an object of irrepressible envy to Elinor.\n\nMrs. Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality, in\nher figure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect. Her\ncomplexion was sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and\nnaturally without expression; but a lucky contraction of the brow had\nrescued her countenance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it\nthe strong characters of pride and ill nature. She was not a woman of\nmany words; for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to\nthe number of her ideas; and of the few syllables that did escape her,\nnot one fell to the share of Miss Dashwood, whom she eyed with the\nspirited determination of disliking her at all events.\n\nElinor could not _now_ be made unhappy by this behaviour. A few months\nago it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs.\nFerrars' power to distress her by it now; and the difference of her\nmanners to the Miss Steeles, a difference which seemed purposely made\nto humble her more, only amused her. She could not but smile to see\nthe graciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very\nperson--for Lucy was particularly distinguished--whom of all others,\nhad they known as much as she did, they would have been most anxious\nto mortify; while she herself, who had comparatively no power to wound\nthem, sat pointedly slighted by both. But while she smiled at a\ngraciousness so misapplied, she could not reflect on the mean-spirited\nfolly from which it sprung, nor observe the studied attentions with\nwhich the Miss Steeles courted its continuance, without thoroughly\ndespising them all four.\n\nLucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and Miss\nSteele wanted only to be teased about Dr. Davies to be perfectly\nhappy.\n\nThe dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every\nthing bespoke the Mistress's inclination for show, and the Master's\nability to support it. In spite of the improvements and additions\nwhich were making to the Norland estate, and in spite of its owner\nhaving once been within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell\nout at a loss, nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which he had\ntried to infer from it; no poverty of any kind, except of\nconversation, appeared; but there, the deficiency was considerable.\nJohn Dashwood had not much to say for himself that was worth hearing,\nand his wife had still less. But there was no peculiar disgrace in\nthis; for it was very much the case with the chief of their visitors,\nwho almost all laboured under one or other of these disqualifications\nfor being agreeable--Want of sense, either natural or improved--want\nof elegance--want of spirits--or want of temper.\n\nWhen the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this\npoverty was particularly evident, for the gentlemen _had_ supplied the\ndiscourse with some variety--the variety of politics, inclosing land,\nand breaking horses--but then it was all over; and one subject only\nengaged the ladies till coffee came in, which was the comparative\nheights of Harry Dashwood, and Lady Middleton's second son William,\nwho were nearly of the same age.\n\nHad both the children been there, the affair might have been\ndetermined too easily by measuring them at once; but as Harry only was\npresent, it was all conjectural assertion on both sides; and every\nbody had a right to be equally positive in their opinion, and to\nrepeat it over and over again as often as they liked.\n\nThe parties stood thus:--\n\nThe two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the\ntallest, politely decided in favour of the other. The two\ngrandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity, were\nequally earnest in support of their own descendant.\n\nLucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other,\nthought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could\nnot conceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world\nbetween them; and Miss Steele, with yet greater address gave it, as\nfast as she could, in favour of each.\n\nElinor, having once delivered her opinion on William's side, by which\nshe offended Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny still more, did not see the\nnecessity of enforcing it by any farther assertion; and Marianne, when\ncalled on for her's, offended them all, by declaring that she had no\nopinion to give, as she had never thought about it.\n\nBefore her removing from Norland, Elinor had painted a very pretty\npair of screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted\nand brought home, ornamented her present drawing room; and these\nscreens, catching the eye of John Dashwood on his following the other\ngentlemen into the room, were officiously handed by him to Colonel\nBrandon for his admiration.\n\n\"These are done by my eldest sister,\" said he; \"and you, as a man of\ntaste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them. I do not know whether\nyou have ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she\nis in general reckoned to draw extremely well.\"\n\nThe Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship,\nwarmly admired the screens, as he would have done any thing painted by\nMiss Dashwood; and on the curiosity of the others being of course\nexcited, they were handed round for general inspection. Mrs. Ferrars,\nnot aware of their being Elinor's work, particularly requested to look\nat them; and after they had received gratifying testimony of Lady\nMiddleton's approbation, Fanny presented them to her mother,\nconsiderately informing her, at the same time, that they were done by\nMiss Dashwood.\n\n\"Hum\"--said Mrs. Ferrars--\"very pretty,\"--and without regarding them\nat all, returned them to her daughter.\n\nPerhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude\nenough,--for, colouring a little, she immediately said--\n\n\"They are very pretty, ma'am--an't they?\" But then again, the dread of\nhaving been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over\nher, for she presently added, \"Do you not think they are something in\nMiss Morton's style of painting, Ma'am?--She _does_ paint most\ndelightfully!--How beautifully her last landscape is done!\"\n\n\"Beautifully indeed! But _she_ does every thing well.\"\n\nMarianne could not bear this. She was already greatly displeased with\nMrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor's\nexpense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant\nby it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth--\n\n\"This is admiration of a very particular kind! what is Miss Morton to\nus? who knows, or who cares, for her?--it is Elinor of whom _we_ think\nand speak.\"\n\nAnd so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law's hands,\nto admire them herself as they ought to be admired.\n\n[Illustration: _Mrs. Ferrars._]\n\nMrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more\nstiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, \"Miss\nMorton is Lord Morton's daughter.\"\n\nFanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at\nhis sister's audacity. Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne's warmth\nthan she had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon's eyes, as\nthey were fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was\namiable in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a\nsister slighted in the smallest point.\n\nMarianne's feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs.\nFerrars's general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretell\nsuch difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart\ntaught her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of\naffectionate sensibility, she moved after a moment, to her sister's\nchair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to\nhers, said in a low, but eager, voice--\n\n\"Dear, dear Elinor, don't mind them. Don't let them make _you_\nunhappy.\"\n\nShe could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her\nface on Elinor's shoulder, she burst into tears. Every body's\nattention was called, and almost every body was concerned. Colonel\nBrandon rose up and went to them without knowing what he did. Mrs.\nJennings, with a very intelligent \"Ah! poor dear,\" immediately gave\nher her salts; and Sir John felt so desperately enraged against the\nauthor of this nervous distress, that he instantly changed his seat to\none close by Lucy Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account\nof the whole shocking affair.\n\nIn a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to put an end\nto the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits\nretained the impression of what had passed, the whole evening.\n\n\"Poor Marianne!\" said her brother to Colonel Brandon, in a low voice,\nas soon as he could secure his attention: \"She has not such good\nhealth as her sister,--she is very nervous,--she has not Elinor's\nconstitution;--and one must allow that there is something very trying\nto a young woman who _has been_ a beauty in the loss of her personal\nattractions. You would not think it perhaps, but Marianne _was_\nremarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as Elinor. Now\nyou see it is all gone.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV\n\n\nElinor's curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars was satisfied. She had found in\nher every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between\nthe families undesirable. She had seen enough of her pride, her\nmeanness, and her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend\nall the difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and\nretarded the marriage, of Edward and herself, had he been otherwise\nfree;--and she had seen almost enough to be thankful for her _own_\nsake, that one greater obstacle preserved her from suffering under any\nother of Mrs. Ferrars's creation, preserved her from all dependence\nupon her caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion. Or at least,\nif she did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward's being\nfettered to Lucy, she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, she\n_ought_ to have rejoiced.\n\nShe wondered that Lucy's spirits could be so very much elevated by the\ncivility of Mrs. Ferrars;--that her interest and her vanity should so\nvery much blind her as to make the attention which seemed only paid\nher because she was _not Elinor_ appear a compliment to herself--or to\nallow her to derive encouragement from a preference only given her,\nbecause her real situation was unknown. But that it was so, had not\nonly been declared by Lucy's eyes at the time, but was declared over\nagain the next morning more openly, for at her particular desire, Lady\nMiddleton set her down in Berkeley Street on the chance of seeing\nElinor alone, to tell her how happy she was.\n\nThe chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon\nafter she arrived, carried Mrs. Jennings away.\n\n\"My dear friend,\" cried Lucy, as soon as they were by themselves, \"I\ncome to talk to you of my happiness. Could anything be so flattering\nas Mrs. Ferrars's way of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable\nas she was! You know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her; but the\nvery moment I was introduced, there was such an affability in her\nbehaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to\nme. Now was not it so? You saw it all; and was not you quite struck\nwith it?\"\n\n\"She was certainly very civil to you.\"\n\n\"Civil!--Did you see nothing but only civility?--I saw a vast deal\nmore. Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me!--No pride,\nno hauteur, and your sister just the same--all sweetness and\naffability!\"\n\nElinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her to\nown that she had reason for her happiness; and Elinor was obliged to\ngo on.\n\n\"Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement,\" said she, \"nothing\ncould be more flattering than their treatment of you;--but as that was\nnot the case--\"\n\n\"I guessed you would say so,\" replied Lucy quickly--\"but there was no\nreason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she\ndid not, and her liking me is every thing. You shan't talk me out of\nmy satisfaction. I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no\ndifficulties at all, to what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a\ncharming woman, and so is your sister. They are both delightful women,\nindeed!--I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs.\nDashwood was!\"\n\nTo this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.\n\n\"Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?--you seem low--you don't speak;--sure you\nan't well.\"\n\n\"I never was in better health.\"\n\n\"I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it. I\nshould be sorry to have _you_ ill; you, that have been the greatest\ncomfort to me in the world!--Heaven knows what I should have done\nwithout your friendship.\"--\n\nElinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success.\nBut it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied--\n\n\"Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to\nEdward's love, it is the greatest comfort I have. Poor Edward!--But\nnow there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty\noften, for Lady Middleton's delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall\nbe a good deal in Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half\nhis time with his sister--besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars\nwill visit now;--and Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so good\nto say more than once, they should always be glad to see me. They are\nsuch charming women!--I am sure if ever you tell your sister what I\nthink of her, you cannot speak too high.\"\n\nBut Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she\n_should_ tell her sister. Lucy continued.\n\n\"I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took\na dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for\ninstance, without saying a word, and never after had took any notice\nof me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way--you know what I\nmean--if I had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should\nhave gave it all up in despair. I could not have stood it. For where\nshe _does_ dislike, I know it is most violent.\"\n\nElinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by\nthe door's being thrown open, the servant's announcing Mr. Ferrars,\nand Edward's immediately walking in.\n\nIt was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each showed that\nit was so. They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to\nhave as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to\nadvance farther into it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest\nform, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had\nfallen on them. They were not only all three together, but were\ntogether without the relief of any other person. The ladies recovered\nthemselves first. It was not Lucy's business to put herself forward,\nand the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. She could\ntherefore only _look_ her tenderness, and after slightly addressing\nhim, said no more.\n\nBut Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and\nher own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment's\nrecollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost\neasy, and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still\nimproved them. She would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the\nconsciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from\nsaying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much\nregretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley Street.\nShe would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as\na friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes\nof Lucy, though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her.\n\nHer manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage\nenough to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the\nladies in a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his\nsex might make it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of\nLucy's, nor could his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor's.\n\nLucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no\ncontribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word;\nand almost every thing that _was_ said, proceeded from Elinor, who was\nobliged to volunteer all the information about her mother's health,\ntheir coming to town, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about,\nbut never did.\n\nHer exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself\nso heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching\nMarianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it,\nand _that_ in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several\nminutes on the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude,\nbefore she went to her sister. When that was once done, however, it\nwas time for the raptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne's joy\nhurried her into the drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure in seeing\nhim was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and\nstrongly spoken. She met him with a hand that would be taken, and a\nvoice that expressed the affection of a sister.\n\n\"Dear Edward!\" she cried, \"this is a moment of great happiness!--This\nwould almost make amends for every thing?\"\n\nEdward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such\nwitnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all\nsat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was\nlooking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and\nsometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other\nshould be checked by Lucy's unwelcome presence. Edward was the first\nto speak, and it was to notice Marianne's altered looks, and express\nhis fear of her not finding London agree with her.\n\n\"Oh, don't think of me!\" she replied with spirited earnestness, though\nher eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, \"don't think of _my_\nhealth. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both.\"\n\nThis remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor\nto conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no\nvery benignant expression.\n\n\"Do you like London?\" said Edward, willing to say any thing that might\nintroduce another subject.\n\n\"Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none.\nThe sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and\nthank Heaven! you are what you always were!\"\n\nShe paused--no one spoke.\n\n\"I think, Elinor,\" she presently added, \"we must employ Edward to take\ncare of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we\nshall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to\naccept the charge.\"\n\nPoor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even\nhimself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace\nit to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied,\nand soon talked of something else.\n\n\"We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull, so\nwretchedly dull!--But I have much to say to you on that head, which\ncannot be said now.\"\n\nAnd with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her\nfinding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her\nbeing particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in\nprivate.\n\n\"But why were you not there, Edward?--Why did you not come?\"\n\n\"I was engaged elsewhere.\"\n\n\"Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met?\"\n\n\"Perhaps, Miss Marianne,\" cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on\nher, \"you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have\nno mind to keep them, little as well as great.\"\n\nElinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the\nsting; for she calmly replied--\n\n\"Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that\nconscience only kept Edward from Harley Street. And I really believe\nhe _has_ the most delicate conscience in the world; the most\nscrupulous in performing every engagement, however minute, and however\nit may make against his interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful\nof giving pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of\nbeing selfish, of any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so, and I will\nsay it. What! are you never to hear yourself praised!--Then you must\nbe no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem,\nmust submit to my open commendation.\"\n\nThe nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened\nto be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her\nauditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon\ngot up to go away.\n\n\"Going so soon!\" said Marianne; \"my dear Edward, this must not be.\"\n\nAnd drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy\ncould not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he\nwould go; and Lucy, who would have outstayed him, had his visit lasted\ntwo hours, soon afterwards went away.\n\n\"What can bring her here so often?\" said Marianne, on her leaving\nthem. \"Could not she see that we wanted her gone!--how teasing to\nEdward!\"\n\n\"Why so?--we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest known\nto him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see her as\nwell as ourselves.\"\n\nMarianne looked at her steadily, and said, \"You know, Elinor, that\nthis is a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to\nhave your assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case,\nyou ought to recollect that I am the last person in the world to do\nit. I cannot descend to be tricked out of assurances, that are not\nreally wanted.\"\n\nShe then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more,\nfor bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give\nno information that would convince Marianne; and painful as the\nconsequences of her still continuing in an error might be, she was\nobliged to submit to it. All that she could hope, was that Edward\nwould not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing\nMarianne's mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of\nthe pain that had attended their recent meeting--and this she had\nevery reason to expect.\n\n[Illustration: _Drawing him a little aside._]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI\n\n\nWithin a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to the\nworld, that the lady of Thomas Palmer, Esq. was safely delivered of a\nson and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least\nto all those intimate connections who knew it before.\n\nThis event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings's happiness, produced a\ntemporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a\nlike degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished\nto be as much as possible with Charlotte, she went thither every\nmorning as soon as she was dressed, and did not return till late in\nthe evening; and the Miss Dashwoods, at the particular request of the\nMiddletons, spent the whole of every day, in Conduit Street. For their\nown comfort they would much rather have remained, at least all the\nmorning, in Mrs. Jennings's house; but it was not a thing to be urged\nagainst the wishes of everybody. Their hours were therefore made over\nto Lady Middleton and the two Miss Steeles, by whom their company, in\nfact was as little valued, as it was professedly sought.\n\nThey had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former; and\nby the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on\n_their_ ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to\nmonopolize. Though nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton's\nbehaviour to Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at all.\nBecause they neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not\nbelieve them good-natured; and because they were fond of reading, she\nfancied them satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was to\nbe satirical; but _that_ did not signify. It was censure in common\nuse, and easily given.\n\nTheir presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy. It checked the\nidleness of one, and the business of the other. Lady Middleton was\nashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was\nproud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they would\ndespise her for offering. Miss Steele was the least discomposed of the\nthree, by their presence; and it was in their power to reconcile her\nto it entirely. Would either of them only have given her a full and\nminute account of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr.\nWilloughby, she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the\nsacrifice of the best place by the fire after dinner, which their\narrival occasioned. But this conciliation was not granted; for though\nshe often threw out expressions of pity for her sister to Elinor, and\nmore than once dropt a reflection on the inconstancy of beaux before\nMarianne, no effect was produced, but a look of indifference from the\nformer, or of disgust in the latter. An effort even yet lighter might\nhave made her their friend. Would they only have laughed at her about\nthe Doctor! But so little were they, anymore than the others, inclined\nto oblige her, that if Sir John dined from home, she might spend a\nwhole day without hearing any other raillery on the subject, than what\nshe was kind enough to bestow on herself.\n\nAll these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally\nunsuspected by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing\nfor the girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young\nfriends every night, on having escaped the company of a stupid old\nwoman so long. She joined them sometimes at Sir John's, sometimes at\nher own house; but wherever it was, she always came in excellent\nspirits, full of delight and importance, attributing Charlotte's well\ndoing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail\nof her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough to desire.\nOne thing _did_ disturb her; and of that she made her daily complaint.\nMr. Palmer maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among his\nsex, of all infants being alike; and though she could plainly\nperceive, at different times, the most striking resemblance between\nthis baby and every one of his relations on both sides, there was no\nconvincing his father of it; no persuading him to believe that it was\nnot exactly like every other baby of the same age; nor could he even\nbe brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the\nfinest child in the world.\n\nI come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time\nbefell Mrs. John Dashwood. It so happened that while her two sisters\nwith Mrs. Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another\nof her acquaintance had dropt in--a circumstance in itself not\napparently likely to produce evil to her. But while the imaginations\nof other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our\nconduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's happiness\nmust in some measure be always at the mercy of chance. In the present\ninstance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun\ntruth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Miss\nDashwoods, and understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood's sisters, she\nimmediately concluded them to be staying in Harley Street; and this\nmisconstruction produced within a day or two afterwards, cards of\ninvitation for them as well as for their brother and sister, to a\nsmall musical party at her house. The consequence of which was, that\nMrs. John Dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly\ngreat inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Dashwoods,\nbut, what was still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness\nof appearing to treat them with attention: and who could tell that\nthey might not expect to go out with her a second time? The power of\ndisappointing them, it was true, must always be her's. But that was\nnot enough; for when people are determined on a mode of conduct which\nthey know to be wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of any\nthing better from them.\n\nMarianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit of\ngoing out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to\nher, whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and\nmechanically for every evening's engagement, though without expecting\nthe smallest amusement from any, and very often without knowing, till\nthe last moment, where it was to take her.\n\nTo her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent, as\nnot to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her\ntoilet, which it received from Miss Steele in the first five minutes\nof their being together, when it was finished. Nothing escaped _her_\nminute observation and general curiosity; she saw every thing, and\nasked every thing; was never easy till she knew the price of every\npart of Marianne's dress; could have guessed the number of her gowns\naltogether with better judgment than Marianne herself, and was not\nwithout hopes of finding out before they parted, how much her washing\ncost per week, and how much she had every year to spend upon herself.\nThe impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally\nconcluded with a compliment, which though meant as its douceur, was\nconsidered by Marianne as the greatest impertinence of all; for after\nundergoing an examination into the value and make of her gown, the\ncolour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she was almost\nsure of being told that upon \"her word she looked vastly smart, and\nshe dared to say she would make a great many conquests.\"\n\nWith such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present\noccasion, to her brother's carriage; which they were ready to enter\nfive minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very\nagreeable to their sister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house\nof her acquaintance, and was there hoping for some delay on their part\nthat might inconvenience either herself or her coachman.\n\nThe events of this evening were not very remarkable. The party, like\nother musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real\ntaste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all;\nand the performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation,\nand that of their immediate friends, the first private performers in\nEngland.\n\nAs Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no\nscruple of turning her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it\nsuited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and\nvioloncello, would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the\nroom. In one of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of\nyoung men, the very he, who had given them a lecture on\ntoothpick-cases at Gray's. She perceived him soon afterwards looking\nat herself, and speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just\ndetermined to find out his name from the latter, when they both came\ntowards her, and Mr. Dashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert\nFerrars.\n\nHe addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow\nwhich assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was\nexactly the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by Lucy. Happy\nhad it been for her, if her regard for Edward had depended less on his\nown merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations! For then his\nbrother's bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the\nill-humour of his mother and sister would have begun. But while she\nwondered at the difference of the two young men, she did not find that\nthe emptiness of conceit of the one, put her out of all charity with\nthe modesty and worth of the other. Why they _were_ different, Robert\nexclaimed to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour's\nconversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme\n_gaucherie_ which he really believed kept him from mixing in proper\nsociety, he candidly and generously attributed it much less to any\nnatural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education;\nwhile he himself, though probably without any particular, any material\nsuperiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school,\nwas as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man.\n\n\"Upon my soul,\" he added, \"I believe it is nothing more; and so I\noften tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. 'My dear Madam,'\nI always say to her, 'you must make yourself easy. The evil is now\nirremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing. Why would you\nbe persuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to\nplace Edward under private tuition, at the most critical time of his\nlife? If you had only sent him to Westminster as well as myself,\ninstead of sending him to Mr. Pratt's, all this would have been\nprevented.' This is the way in which I always consider the matter, and\nmy mother is perfectly convinced of her error.\"\n\nElinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her\ngeneral estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not\nthink of Edward's abode in Mr. Pratt's family, with any satisfaction.\n\n\"You reside in Devonshire, I think,\"--was his next observation, \"in a\ncottage near Dawlish.\"\n\nElinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather\nsurprising to him that anybody could live in Devonshire, without\nliving near Dawlish. He bestowed his hearty approbation however on\ntheir species of house.\n\n\"For my own part,\" said he, \"I am excessively fond of a cottage; there\nis always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. And I protest,\nif I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and build one\nmyself, within a short distance of London, where I might drive myself\ndown at any time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy. I\nadvise every body who is going to build, to build a cottage. My friend\nLord Courtland came to me the other day on purpose to ask my advice,\nand laid before me three different plans of Bonomi's. I was to decide\non the best of them. 'My dear Courtland,' said I, immediately throwing\nthem all into the fire, 'do not adopt either of them, but by all means\nbuild a cottage.' And that I fancy, will be the end of it.\n\n\"Some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space in\na cottage; but this is all a mistake. I was last month at my friend\nElliott's, near Dartford. Lady Elliott wished to give a dance. 'But\nhow can it be done?' said she; 'my dear Ferrars, do tell me how it is\nto be managed. There is not a room in this cottage that will hold ten\ncouple, and where can the supper be?' I immediately saw that there\ncould be no difficulty in it, so I said, 'My dear Lady Elliott, do not\nbe uneasy. The dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease;\ncard-tables may be placed in the drawing-room; the library may be open\nfor tea and other refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the\nsaloon.' Lady Elliott was delighted with the thought. We measured the\ndining-room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen couple, and the\naffair was arranged precisely after my plan. So that, in fact, you\nsee, if people do but know how to set about it, every comfort may be\nas well enjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious dwelling.\"\n\nElinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the\ncompliment of rational opposition.\n\nAs John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister,\nhis mind was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a\nthought struck him during the evening, which he communicated to his\nwife, for her approbation, when they got home. The consideration of\nMrs. Dennison's mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had\nsuggested the propriety of their being really invited to become such,\nwhile Mrs. Jennings's engagements kept her from home. The expense\nwould be nothing, the inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an\nattention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be\nrequisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his\nfather. Fanny was startled at the proposal.\n\n\"I do not see how it can be done,\" said she, \"without affronting Lady\nMiddleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise I should be\nexceedingly glad to do it. You know I am always ready to pay them any\nattention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shows. But\nthey are Lady Middleton's visitors. How can I ask them away from her?\"\n\nHer husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her\nobjection. \"They had already spent a week in this manner in Conduit\nStreet, and Lady Middleton could not be displeased at their giving the\nsame number of days to such near relations.\"\n\nFanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said--\n\n\"My love I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power.\nBut I had just settled within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend\na few days with us. They are very well behaved, good kind of girls;\nand I think the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very\nwell by Edward. We can ask your sisters some other year, you know; but\nthe Miss Steeles may not be in town any more. I am sure you will like\nthem; indeed, you _do_ like them, you know, very much already, and so\ndoes my mother; and they are such favourites with Harry!\"\n\nMr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting the Miss\nSteeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution\nof inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly\nsuspecting that another year would make the invitation needless, by\nbringing Elinor to town as Colonel Brandon's wife, and Marianne as\n_their_ visitor.\n\nFanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had\nprocured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company\nand her sister's, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady\nMiddleton could spare them. This was enough to make Lucy really and\nreasonably happy. Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her,\nherself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views! Such\nan opportunity of being with Edward and his family was, above all\nthings, the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the\nmost gratifying to her feelings! It was an advantage that could not\nbe too gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the\nvisit to Lady Middleton, which had not before had any precise limits,\nwas instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days'\ntime.\n\nWhen the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within ten minutes after\nits arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the\nexpectations of Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed\non so short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will\ntowards her arose from something more than merely malice against\nherself; and might be brought, by time and address, to do every thing\nthat Lucy wished. Her flattery had already subdued the pride of Lady\nMiddleton, and made an entry into the close heart of Mrs. John\nDashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of\ngreater.\n\nThe Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor\nof their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event.\nSir John, who called on them more than once, brought home such\naccounts of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking.\nMrs. Dashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in\nher life, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book\nmade by some emigrant; called Lucy by her Christian name; and did not\nknow whether she should ever be able to part with them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII\n\n\nMrs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother\nfelt it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her;\nand, contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day,\nreturned from that period to her own home, and her own habits, in\nwhich she found the Miss Dashwoods very ready to resume their former\nshare.\n\nAbout the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in\nBerkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit\nto Mrs. Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by\nherself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to\nhear something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea,\nbegan directly to justify it, by saying--\n\n\"Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am. What is it?\"\n\n\"Something so strange! But you shall hear it all. When I got to Mr.\nPalmer's, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was\nsure it was very ill--it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples.\nSo I looked at it directly, and, 'Lord! my dear,' says I, 'it is\nnothing in the world, but the red gum--' and nurse said just the same.\nBut Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent\nfor; and luckily he happened to just come in from Harley Street, so he\nstepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw the child, he said\njust as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and\nthen Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he was going away again, it\ncame into my head, I am sure I do not know how I happened to think of\nit, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any news. So upon\nthat, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know\nsomething or other, and at last he said in a whisper, 'For fear any\nunpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to\ntheir sister's indisposition, I think it advisable to say, that I\nbelieve there is no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will\ndo very well.'\"\n\n\"What! is Fanny ill?\"\n\n[Illustration: _In a whisper._]\n\n\"That is exactly what I said, my dear. 'Lord!' says I, 'is Mrs.\nDashwood ill?' So then it all came out; and the long and the short of\nthe matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this. Mr. Edward Ferrars,\nthe very young man I used to joke with you about (but however, as it\nturns out, I am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), Mr.\nEdward Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to\nmy cousin Lucy! There's for you, my dear! And not a creature knowing a\nsyllable of the matter, except Nancy! Could you have believed such a\nthing possible? There is no great wonder in their liking one another;\nbut that matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody\nsuspect it! _That_ is strange! I never happened to see them together,\nor I am sure I should have found it out directly. Well, and so this\nwas kept a great secret, for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, and neither she nor\nyour brother or sister suspected a word of the matter: till this very\nmorning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, but no\nconjurer, popt it all out. 'Lord!' thinks she to herself, 'they are\nall so fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about\nit;' and so, away she went to your sister, who was sitting all alone\nat her carpet-work, little suspecting what was to come--for she had\njust been saying to your brother, only five minutes before, that she\nthought to make a match between Edward and some Lord's daughter or\nother, I forget who. So you may think what a blow it was to all her\nvanity and pride. She fell into violent hysterics immediately, with\nsuch screams as reached your brother's ears, as he was sitting in his\nown dressing-room down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his\nsteward in the country. So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene\ntook place, for Lucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming\nwhat was going on. Poor soul! I pity _her._ And I must say, I think\nshe was used very hardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and\nsoon drove her into a fainting fit. Nancy, she fell upon her knees,\nand cried bitterly; and your brother, he walked about the room, and\nsaid he did not know what to do. Mrs. Dashwood declared they should\nnot stay a minute longer in the house, and your brother was forced to\ngo down upon _his_ knees too, to persuade her to let them stay till\nthey had packed up their clothes. _Then_ she fell into hysterics\nagain, and he was so frightened that he would send for Mr. Donavan,\nand Mr. Donavan found the house in all this uproar. The carriage was\nat the door ready to take my poor cousins away, and they were just\nstepping in as he came off; poor Lucy in such a condition, he says,\nshe could hardly walk; and Nancy, she was almost as bad. I declare, I\nhave no patience with your sister; and I hope, with all my heart, it\nwill be a match in spite of her. Lord! what a taking poor Mr. Edward\nwill be in when he hears of it! To have his love used so scornfully!\nfor they say he is monstrous fond of her, as well he may. I should not\nwonder, if he was to be in the greatest passion!--and Mr. Donavan\nthinks just the same. He and I had a great deal of talk about it; and\nthe best of all is, that he is gone back again to Harley Street, that\nhe may be within call when Mrs. Ferrars is told of it, for she was\nsent for as soon as ever my cousins left the house, for your sister\nwas sure _she_ would be in hysterics too; and so she may, for what I\ncare. I have no pity for either of them. I have no notion of people's\nmaking such a to-do about money and greatness. There is no reason on\nearth why Mr. Edward and Lucy should not marry; for I am sure Mrs.\nFerrars may afford to do very well by her son, and though Lucy has\nnext to nothing herself, she knows better than any body how to make\nthe most of every thing; I dare say, if Mrs. Ferrars would only allow\nhim five hundred a-year, she would make as good an appearance with it\nas any body else would with eight. Lord! how snug they might live in\nsuch another cottage as yours--or a little bigger--with two maids, and\ntwo men; and I believe I could help them to a housemaid, for my Betty\nhas a sister out of place, that would fit them exactly.\"\n\nHere Mrs. Jennings ceased, and as Elinor had had time enough to\ncollect her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make\nsuch observations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to\nproduce. Happy to find that she was not suspected of any extraordinary\ninterest in it; that Mrs. Jennings (as she had of late often hoped\nmight be the case) had ceased to imagine her at all attached to\nEdward; and happy above all the rest, in the absence of Marianne, she\nfelt very well able to speak of the affair without embarrassment, and\nto give her judgment, as she believed, with impartiality on the\nconduct of every one concerned in it.\n\nShe could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event\nreally was; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its\nbeing possible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of\nEdward and Lucy. What Mrs. Ferrars would say and do, though there\ncould not be a doubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still\nmore anxious to know how Edward would conduct himself. For _him_ she\nfelt much compassion;--for Lucy very little--and it cost her some\npains to procure that little;--for the rest of the party none at all.\n\nAs Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor soon saw the\nnecessity of preparing Marianne for its discussion. No time was to be\nlost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth,\nand in endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others,\nwithout betraying that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any\nresentment against Edward.\n\nElinor's office was a painful one. She was going to remove what she\nreally believed to be her sister's chief consolation,--to give such\nparticulars of Edward as she feared would ruin him for ever in her\ngood opinion,-and to make Marianne, by a resemblance in their\nsituations, which to _her_ fancy would seem strong, feel all her own\ndisappointment over again. But unwelcome as such a task must be, it\nwas necessary to be done, and Elinor therefore hastened to perform it.\n\nShe was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to\nrepresent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the\nself-command she had practised since her first knowledge of Edward's\nengagement, might suggest a hint of what was practicable to Marianne.\nHer narration was clear and simple; and though it could not be given\nwithout emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agitation, nor\nimpetuous grief. _That_ belonged rather to the hearer, for Marianne\nlistened with horror, and cried excessively. Elinor was to be the\ncomforter of others in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and\nall the comfort that could be given by assurances of her own composure\nof mind, and a very earnest vindication of Edward from every charge\nbut of imprudence, was readily offered.\n\nBut Marianne for some time would give credit to neither. Edward seemed\na second Willoughby; and acknowledging as Elinor did, that she _had_\nloved him most sincerely, could she feel less than herself! As for\nLucy Steele, she considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely\nincapable of attaching a sensible man, that she could not be persuaded\nat first to believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former affection of\nEdward for her. She would not even admit it to have been natural; and\nElinor left her to be convinced that it was so, by that which only\ncould convince her, a better knowledge of mankind.\n\nHer first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact\nof the engagement, and the length of time it had existed. Marianne's\nfeelings had then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of\ndetail; and for some time all that could be done was to soothe her\ndistress, lessen her alarms, and combat her resentment. The first\nquestion on her side, which led to farther particulars, was--\n\n\"How long has this been known to you, Elinor? has he written to you?\"\n\n\"I have known it these four months. When Lucy first came to Barton\nPark last November, she told me in confidence of her engagement.\"\n\nAt these words, Marianne's eyes expressed the astonishment which her\nlips could not utter. After a pause of wonder, she exclaimed--\n\n\"Four months!--Have you known of this four months?\"\n\nElinor confirmed it.\n\n\"What!--while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your\nheart?--And I have reproached you for being happy!\"--\n\n\"It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the reverse!\"\n\n\"Four months!\" cried Marianne again. \"So calm! so cheerful! how have\nyou been supported?\"\n\n\"By feeling that I was doing my duty. My promise to Lucy, obliged me\nto be secret. I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of\nthe truth; and I owed it to my family and friends, not to create in\nthem a solicitude about me, which it could not be in my power to\nsatisfy.\"\n\nMarianne seemed much struck.\n\n\"I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother,\" added\nElinor; \"and once or twice I have attempted it; but without betraying\nmy trust, I never could have convinced you.\"\n\n\"Four months! and yet you loved him!\"\n\n\"Yes. But I did not love only him;--and while the comfort of others\nwas dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt.\nNow, I can think and speak of it with little emotion. I would not have\nyou suffer on my account; for I assure you I no longer suffer\nmaterially myself. I have many things to support me. I am not\nconscious of having provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of\nmy own, I have borne it as much as possible without spreading it\nfarther. I acquit Edward of essential misconduct. I wish him very\nhappy; and I am so sure of his always doing his duty, that though now\nhe may harbour some regret, in the end he must become so. Lucy does\nnot want sense, and that is the foundation on which every thing good\nmay be built. And after all, Marianne, after all that is bewitching in\nthe idea of a single and constant attachment, and all that can be said\nof one's happiness depending entirely on any particular person, it is\nnot meant--it is not fit--it is not possible that it should be so.\nEdward will marry Lucy; he will marry a woman superior in person and\nunderstanding to half her sex; and time and habit will teach him to\nforget that he ever thought another superior to _her._\"\n\n\"If such is your way of thinking,\" said Marianne, \"if the loss of what\nis most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your\nresolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be\nwondered at. They are brought more within my comprehension.\"\n\n\"I understand you. You do not suppose that I have ever felt much. For\nfour months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind, without\nbeing at liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it\nwould make you and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained\nto you, yet unable to prepare you for it in the least. It was told\nme,--it was in a manner forced on me by the very person herself, whose\nprior engagement ruined all my prospects; and told me, as I thought,\nwith triumph. This person's suspicions, therefore, I have had to\noppose, by endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most\ndeeply interested;--and it has not been only once;--I have had her\nhopes and exultation to listen to again and again. I have known myself\nto be divided from Edward for ever, without hearing one circumstance\nthat could make me less desire the connection. Nothing has proved him\nunworthy; nor has anything declared him indifferent to me. I have had\nto contend against the unkindness of his sister, and the insolence of\nhis mother; and have suffered the punishment of an attachment, without\nenjoying its advantages. And all this has been going on at a time,\nwhen, as you know too well, it has not been my only unhappiness. If\nyou can think me capable of ever feeling, surely you may suppose that\nI have suffered _now._ The composure of mind with which I have brought\nmyself at present to consider the matter, the consolation that I have\nbeen willing to admit, have been the effect of constant and painful\nexertion; they did not spring up of themselves; they did not occur to\nrelieve my spirits at first. No, Marianne. _Then_, if I had not been\nbound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely--not\neven what I owed to my dearest friends--from openly showing that I was\n_very_ unhappy.\"--\n\nMarianne was quite subdued.\n\n\"Oh! Elinor,\" she cried, \"you have made me hate myself for ever. How\nbarbarous have I been to you!--you, who have been my only comfort, who\nhave borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only\nsuffering for me! Is this my gratitude? Is this the only return I can\nmake you? Because your merit cries out upon myself, I have been trying\nto do it away.\"\n\nThe tenderest caresses followed this confession. In such a frame of\nmind as she was now in, Elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from her\nwhatever promise she required; and at her request, Marianne engaged\nnever to speak of the affair to any one with the least appearance of\nbitterness;--to meet Lucy without betraying the smallest increase of\ndislike to her;--and even to see Edward himself, if chance should\nbring them together, without any diminution of her usual cordiality.\nThese were great concessions;--but where Marianne felt that she had\ninjured, no reparation could be too much for her to make.\n\nShe performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration. She\nattended to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say upon the subject, with\nan unchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard\nthree times to say, \"Yes, ma'am.\"--She listened to her praise of Lucy\nwith only moving from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings\ntalked of Edward's affection, it cost her only a spasm in her throat.\nSuch advances towards heroism in her sister, made Elinor feel equal to\nany thing herself.\n\nThe next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from their\nbrother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful\naffair, and bring them news of his wife.\n\n\"You have heard, I suppose,\" said he with great solemnity, as soon as\nhe was seated, \"of the very shocking discovery that took place under\nour roof yesterday.\"\n\nThey all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech.\n\n[Illustration: \"_You have heard, I suppose._\"]\n\n\"Your sister,\" he continued, \"has suffered dreadfully. Mrs. Ferrars\ntoo--in short it has been a scene of such complicated distress--but\nI will hope that the storm may be weathered without our being any of\nus quite overcome. Poor Fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday. But\nI would not alarm you too much. Donavan says there is nothing\nmaterially to be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her\nresolution equal to any thing. She has borne it all, with the\nfortitude of an angel! She says she never shall think well of anybody\nagain; and one cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived!--meeting\nwith such ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shown, so much\nconfidence had been placed! It was quite out of the benevolence of her\nheart, that she had asked these young women to her house; merely\nbecause she thought they deserved some attention, were harmless,\nwell-behaved girls, and would be pleasant companions; for otherwise we\nboth wished very much to have invited you and Marianne to be with us,\nwhile your kind friend there, was attending her daughter. And now to\nbe so rewarded! 'I wish, with all my heart,' says poor Fanny in her\naffectionate way, 'that we had asked your sisters instead of them.'\"\n\nHere he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on.\n\n\"What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered, when first Fanny broke it to her, is\nnot to be described. While she with the truest affection had been\nplanning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed\nthat he could be all the time secretly engaged to another\nperson!--such a suspicion could never have entered her head! If she\nsuspected _any_ prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in _that_\nquarter. '_There_ to be sure,' said she, 'I might have thought myself\nsafe.' She was quite in an agony. We consulted together, however, as\nto what should be done, and at last she determined to send for Edward.\nHe came. But I am sorry to relate what ensued. All that Mrs. Ferrars\ncould say to make him put an end to the engagement, assisted too as\nyou may well suppose by my arguments, and Fanny's entreaties, was of\nno avail. Duty, affection, every thing was disregarded. I never\nthought Edward so stubborn, so unfeeling before. His mother explained\nto him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying Miss Morton; told\nhim she would settle on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of\nland-tax, brings in a good thousand a-year; offered even, when matters\ngrew desperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition to this,\nif he still persisted in this low connection, represented to him the\ncertain penury that must attend the match. His own two thousand pounds\nshe protested should be his all; she would never see him again; and so\nfar would she be from affording him the smallest assistance, that if\nhe were to enter into any profession with a view of better support,\nshe would do all in her power to prevent him advancing in it.\"\n\nHere Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands\ntogether, and cried, \"Gracious God! can this be possible!\"\n\n\"Well may you wonder, Marianne,\" replied her brother, \"at the\nobstinacy which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation\nis very natural.\"\n\nMarianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and\nforbore.\n\n\"All this, however,\" he continued, \"was urged in vain. Edward said\nvery little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner.\nNothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would\nstand to it, cost him what it might.\"\n\n\"Then,\" cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be\nsilent, \"he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr.\nDashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a\nrascal. I have some little concern in the business, as well as\nyourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not a\nbetter kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good\nhusband.\"\n\nJohn Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not\nopen to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially\nanybody of good fortune. He therefore replied, without any\nresentment--\n\n\"I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours,\nmadam. Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman,\nbut in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible.\nAnd to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under\nher uncle's care, the son of a woman especially of such very large\nfortune as Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little\nextraordinary. In short, I do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour\nof any person whom you have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish\nher extremely happy; and Mrs. Ferrars's conduct throughout the whole,\nhas been such as every conscientious, good mother, in like\ncircumstances, would adopt. It has been dignified and liberal. Edward\nhas drawn his own lot, and I fear it will be a bad one.\"\n\nMarianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor's heart wrung\nfor the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother's threats, for a\nwoman who could not reward him.\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said Mrs. Jennings, \"and how did it end?\"\n\n\"I am sorry to say, ma'am, in a most unhappy rupture:--Edward is\ndismissed for ever from his mother's notice. He left her house\nyesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do\nnot know; for _we_ of course can make no inquiry.\"\n\n\"Poor young man!--and what is to become of him?\"\n\n\"What, indeed, ma'am! It is a melancholy consideration. Born to the\nprospect of such affluence! I cannot conceive a situation more\ndeplorable. The interest of two thousand pounds--how can a man live on\nit?--and when to that is added the recollection, that he might, but\nfor his own folly, within three months have been in the receipt of two\nthousand, five hundred a-year (for Miss Morton has thirty thousand\npounds,) I cannot picture to myself a more wretched condition. We must\nall feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally out of our\npower to assist him.\"\n\n\"Poor young man!\" cried Mrs. Jennings, \"I am sure he should be very\nwelcome to bed and board at my house; and so I would tell him if I\ncould see him. It is not fit that he should be living about at his own\ncharge now, at lodgings and taverns.\"\n\nElinor's heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward, though\nshe could not forbear smiling at the form of it.\n\n\"If he would only have done as well by himself,\" said John Dashwood,\n\"as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have been\nin his proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing. But as it\nis, it must be out of anybody's power to assist him. And there is one\nthing more preparing against him, which must be worse than all--his\nmother has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle\n_that_ estate upon Robert immediately, which might have been Edward's,\non proper conditions. I left her this morning with her lawyer,\ntalking over the business.\"\n\n[Illustration: _Talking over the business._]\n\n\"Well!\" said Mrs. Jennings, \"that is _her_ revenge. Everybody has a\nway of their own. But I don't think mine would be, to make one son\nindependent, because another had plagued me.\"\n\nMarianne got up and walked about the room.\n\n\"Can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man,\" continued John,\n\"than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which\nmight have been his own? Poor Edward! I feel for him sincerely.\"\n\nA few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded his\nvisit; and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really\nbelieved there was no material danger in Fanny's indisposition, and\nthat they need not therefore be very uneasy about it, he went away;\nleaving the three ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present\noccasion, as far at least as it regarded Mrs. Ferrars's conduct, the\nDashwoods', and Edward's.\n\nMarianne's indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room; and\nas her vehemence made reserve impossible in Elinor, and unnecessary in\nMrs. Jennings, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon the\nparty.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII\n\n\nMrs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward's conduct, but\nonly Elinor and Marianne understood its true merit. _They_ only knew\nhow little he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small\nwas the consolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that\ncould remain to him in the loss of friends and fortune. Elinor gloried\nin his integrity; and Marianne forgave all his offences in compassion\nfor his punishment. But though confidence between them was, by this\npublic discovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a subject\non which either of them were fond of dwelling when alone. Elinor\navoided it upon principle, as tending to fix still more upon her\nthoughts, by the too warm, too positive assurances of Marianne, that\nbelief of Edward's continued affection for herself which she rather\nwished to do away; and Marianne's courage soon failed her, in trying\nto converse upon a topic which always left her more dissatisfied with\nherself than ever, by the comparison it necessarily produced between\nElinor's conduct and her own.\n\nShe felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sister had\nhoped, to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain of\ncontinual self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never\nexerted herself before; but it brought only the torture of penitence,\nwithout the hope of amendment. Her mind was so much weakened that she\nstill fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only\ndispirited her more.\n\nNothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs\nin Harley Street, or Bartlett's Buildings. But though so much of the\nmatter was known to them already, that Mrs. Jennings might have had\nenough to do in spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking\nafter more, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort\nand inquiry to her cousins as soon as she could; and nothing but the\nhindrance of more visitors than usual, had prevented her going to them\nwithin that time.\n\nThe third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so\nfine, so beautiful a Sunday as to draw many to Kensington Gardens,\nthough it was only the second week in March. Mrs. Jennings and Elinor\nwere of the number; but Marianne, who knew that the Willoughbys were\nagain in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose rather\nto stay at home, than venture into so public a place.\n\nAn intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them soon after they\nentered the Gardens, and Elinor was not sorry that by her continuing\nwith them, and engaging all Mrs. Jennings's conversation, she was\nherself left to quiet reflection. She saw nothing of the Willoughbys,\nnothing of Edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could by\nany chance whether grave or gay, be interesting to her. But at last\nshe found herself with some surprise, accosted by Miss Steele, who,\nthough looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting\nthem, and on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of\nMrs. Jennings, left her own party for a short time, to join their's.\nMrs. Jennings immediately whispered to Elinor--\n\n\"Get it all out of her, my dear. She will tell you any thing if you\nask. You see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke.\"\n\nIt was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings's curiosity and Elinor's too,\nthat she would tell any thing _without_ being asked; for nothing would\notherwise have been learnt.\n\n\"I am so glad to meet you;\" said Miss Steele, taking her familiarly by\nthe arm--\"for I wanted to see you of all things in the world.\" And\nthen lowering her voice, \"I suppose Mrs. Jennings has heard all about\nit. Is she angry?\"\n\n\"Not at all, I believe, with you.\"\n\n\"That is a good thing. And Lady Middleton, is _she_ angry?\"\n\n\"I cannot suppose it possible that she should.\"\n\n\"I am monstrous glad of it. Good gracious! I have had such a time of\nit! I never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life. She vowed at first she\nwould never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me\nagain, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are\nas good friends as ever. Look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put\nin the feather last night. There now, _you_ are going to laugh at me\ntoo. But why should not I wear pink ribbons? I do not care if it _is_\nthe Doctor's favourite colour. I am sure, for my part, I should never\nhave known he _did_ like it better than any other colour, if he had\nnot happened to say so. My cousins have been so plaguing me! I declare\nsometimes I do not know which way to look before them.\"\n\nShe had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to say,\nand therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to\nthe first.\n\n\"Well, but Miss Dashwood,\" speaking triumphantly, \"people may say what\nthey choose about Mr. Ferrars's declaring he would not have Lucy, for\nit is no such thing I can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such\nill-natured reports to be spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think\nabout it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set\nit down for certain.\"\n\n\"I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assure you,\"\nsaid Elinor.\n\n[Illustration: \"_She put in the feather last night._\"]\n\n\"Oh, did not you? But it _was_ said, I know, very well, and by more\nthan one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses\ncould expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with\nthirty thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had\nnothing at all; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself. And besides\nthat, my cousin Richard said himself, that when it came to the point\nhe was afraid Mr. Ferrars would be off; and when Edward did not come\nnear us for three days, I could not tell what to think myself; and I\nbelieve in my heart Lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away\nfrom your brother's Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all\nThursday, Friday, and Saturday, and did not know what was become of\nhim. Once Lucy thought to write to him, but then her spirits rose\nagainst that. However this morning he came just as we came home from\nchurch; and then it all came out, how he had been sent for Wednesday\nto Harley Street, and been talked to by his mother and all of them,\nand how he had declared before them all that he loved nobody but Lucy,\nand nobody but Lucy would he have. And how he had been so worried by\nwhat passed, that as soon as he had went away from his mother's house,\nhe had got upon his horse, and rid into the country, some where or\nother; and how he had stayed about at an inn all Thursday and Friday,\non purpose to get the better of it. And after thinking it all over and\nover again, he said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune,\nand no nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the\nengagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but\ntwo thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to\ngo into orders, as he had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a\ncuracy, and how was they to live upon that?--He could not bear to\nthink of her doing no better, and so he begged, if she had the least\nmind for it, to put an end to the matter directly, and leave him shift\nfor himself. I heard him say all this as plain as could possibly be.\nAnd it was entirely for _her_ sake, and upon _her_ account, that he\nsaid a word about being off, and not upon his own. I will take my oath\nhe never dropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to\nmarry Miss Morton, or any thing like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would\nnot give ear to such kind of talking; so she told him directly (with a\ngreat deal about sweet and love, you know, and all that--Oh, la! one\ncan't repeat such kind of things you know)--she told him directly, she\nhad not the least mind in the world to be off, for she could live with\nhim upon a trifle, and how little so ever he might have, she should be\nvery glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind. So then\nhe was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should\ndo, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait\nto be married till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any\nmore, for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was\ncome in her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so\nI was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if\nshe would like to go, but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just\nrun up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with\nthe Richardsons.\"\n\n\"I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them,\" said Elinor;\n\"you were all in the same room together, were not you?\"\n\n\"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love\nwhen any body else is by? Oh, for shame!--To be sure you must know\nbetter than that. (Laughing affectedly.)--No, no; they were shut up in\nthe drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at\nthe door.\"\n\n\"How!\" cried Elinor; \"have you been repeating to me what you only\nlearnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it\nbefore; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me\nparticulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known\nyourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?\"\n\n\"Oh, la! there is nothing in _that._ I only stood at the door, and\nheard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same\nby me; for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many\nsecrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or\nbehind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said.\"\n\nElinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be\nkept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind.\n\n[Illustration: _Listening at the door._]\n\n\"Edward talks of going to Oxford soon,\" said she; \"but now he is\nlodging at No. --, Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother is,\nan't she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I\nshan't say anything against them to _you_; and to be sure they did\nsend us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for.\nAnd for my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask\nus for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however,\nnothing was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of\nsight. Edward have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go\nthere for a time; and after _that_, as soon as he can light upon a\nBishop, he will be ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get! Good\ngracious! (giggling as she spoke) I'd lay my life I know what my\ncousins will say, when they hear of it. They will tell me I should\nwrite to the Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new living. I\nknow they will; but I am sure I would not do such a thing for all the\nworld. 'La!' I shall say directly, 'I wonder how you could think of\nsuch a thing? I write to the Doctor, indeed!'\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Elinor, \"it is a comfort to be prepared against the\nworst. You have got your answer ready.\"\n\nMiss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach\nof her own party made another more necessary.\n\n\"Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I had a vast deal more to say to\nyou, but I must not stay away from them not any longer. I assure you\nthey are very genteel people. He makes a monstrous deal of money, and\nthey keep their own coach. I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings\nabout it myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear she is not\nin anger against us, and Lady Middleton the same; and if anything\nshould happen to take you and your sister away, and Mrs. Jennings\nshould want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and stay\nwith her for as long a time as she likes. I suppose Lady Middleton\nwon't ask us any more this bout. Good-bye; I am sorry Miss Marianne was\nnot here. Remember me kindly to her. La! if you have not got your\nspotted muslin on!--I wonder you was not afraid of its being torn.\"\n\nSuch was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to pay\nher farewell compliments to Mrs. Jennings, before her company was\nclaimed by Mrs. Richardson; and Elinor was left in possession of\nknowledge which might feed her powers of reflection some time, though\nshe had learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen\nand foreplanned in her own mind. Edward's marriage with Lucy was as\nfirmly determined on, and the time of its taking place remained as\nabsolutely uncertain, as she had concluded it would be;--every thing\ndepended, exactly after her expectation, on his getting that\npreferment, of which, at present, there seemed not the smallest\nchance.\n\nAs soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings was eager for\ninformation; but as Elinor wished to spread as little as possible\nintelligence that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained,\nshe confined herself to the brief repetition of such simple\nparticulars, as she felt assured that Lucy, for the sake of her own\nconsequence, would choose to have known. The continuance of their\nengagement, and the means that were able to be taken for promoting its\nend, was all her communication; and this produced from Mrs. Jennings\nthe following natural remark:--\n\n\"Wait for his having a living!--ay, we all know how _that_ will\nend:--they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it,\nwill set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest\nof his two thousand pounds, and what little matter Mr. Steele and Mr.\nPratt can give her. Then they will have a child every year! and Lord\nhelp 'em! how poor they will be!--I must see what I can give them\ntowards furnishing their house. Two maids and two men, indeed!--as I\ntalked of t'other day. No, no, they must get a stout girl of all\nworks. Betty's sister would never do for them _now._\"\n\nThe next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from\nLucy herself. It was as follows:\n\n\"Bartlett's Building, March.\n\n     \"I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the liberty I take\n     of writing to her; but I know your friendship for me will\n     make you pleased to hear such a good account of myself and\n     my dear Edward, after all the troubles we have went through\n     lately, therefore will make no more apologies, but proceed\n     to say that, thank God! though we have suffered dreadfully,\n     we are both quite well now, and as happy as we must always\n     be in one another's love. We have had great trials, and\n     great persecutions, but however, at the same time,\n     gratefully acknowledge many friends, yourself not the least\n     among them, whose great kindness I shall always thankfully\n     remember, as will Edward too, who I have told of it. I am\n     sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise dear Mrs.\n     Jennings, I spent two happy hours with him yesterday\n     afternoon, he would not hear of our parting, though\n     earnestly did I, as I thought my duty required, urge him to\n     it for prudence sake, and would have parted for ever on the\n     spot, would he consent to it; but he said it should never\n     be, he did not regard his mother's anger, while he could\n     have my affections; our prospects are not very bright, to be\n     sure, but we must wait, and hope for the best; he will be\n     ordained shortly; and should it ever be in your power to\n     recommend him to any body that has a living to bestow, am\n     very sure you will not forget us, and dear Mrs. Jennings\n     too, trust she will speak a good word for us to Sir John, or\n     Mr. Palmer, or any friend that may be able to assist us.\n     Poor Anne was much to blame for what she did, but she did it\n     for the best, so I say nothing; hope Mrs. Jennings won't\n     think it too much trouble to give us a call, should she come\n     this way any morning, 'twould be a great kindness, and my\n     cousins would be proud to know her. My paper reminds me to\n     conclude; and begging to be most gratefully and respectfully\n     remembered to her, and to Sir John, and Lady Middleton, and\n     the dear children, when you chance to see them, and love to\n     Miss Marianne,\n\n\"I am, etc., etc.\"\n\nAs soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded to\nbe its writer's real design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs.\nJennings, who read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and\npraise.\n\n\"Very well indeed!--how prettily she writes!--aye, that was quite\nproper to let him be off if he would. That was just like Lucy. Poor\nsoul! I wish I _could_ get him a living, with all my heart. She calls\nme dear Mrs. Jennings, you see. She is a good-hearted girl as ever\nlived. Very well upon my word. That sentence is very prettily turned.\nYes, yes, I will go and see her, sure enough. How attentive she is, to\nthink of every body!--Thank you, my dear, for showing it me. It is as\npretty a letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy's head and heart great\ncredit.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX\n\n\nThe Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town,\nand Marianne's impatience to be gone increased every day. She sighed\nfor the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that\nif any place could give her ease, Barton must do it. Elinor was hardly\nless anxious than herself for their removal, and only so much less\nbent on its being effected immediately, as that she was conscious of\nthe difficulties of so long a journey, which Marianne could not be\nbrought to acknowledge. She began, however, seriously to turn her\nthoughts towards its accomplishment, and had already mentioned their\nwishes to their kind hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence\nof her good-will, when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining\nthem from home yet a few weeks longer, appeared to Elinor altogether\nmuch more eligible than any other. The Palmers were to remove to\nCleveland about the end of March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs.\nJennings, with both her friends, received a very warm invitation from\nCharlotte to go with them. This would not, in itself, have been\nsufficient for the delicacy of Miss Dashwood;--but it was enforced\nwith so much real politeness by Mr. Palmer himself, as, joined to the\nvery great amendment of his manners towards them since her sister had\nbeen known to be unhappy, induced her to accept it with pleasure.\n\nWhen she told Marianne what she had done, however, her first reply was\nnot very auspicious.\n\n\"Cleveland!\"--she cried, with great agitation. \"No, I cannot go to\nCleveland.\"--\n\n\"You forget,\" said Elinor gently, \"that its situation is not--that it\nis not in the neighbourhood of--\"\n\n\"But it is in Somersetshire. I cannot go into Somersetshire. There,\nwhere I looked forward to going;--no, Elinor, you cannot expect me to\ngo there.\"\n\nElinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such\nfeelings;--she only endeavoured to counteract them by working on\nothers;--represented it, therefore, as a measure which would fix the\ntime of her returning to that dear mother, whom she so much wished to\nsee, in a more eligible, more comfortable manner, than any other plan\ncould do, and perhaps without any greater delay. From Cleveland, which\nwas within a few miles of Bristol, the distance to Barton was not\nbeyond one day, though a long day's journey; and their mother's\nservant might easily come there to attend them down; and as there\ncould be no occasion of their staying above a week at Cleveland, they\nmight now be at home in little more than three weeks' time. As\nMarianne's affection for her mother was sincere, it must triumph with\nlittle difficulty, over the imaginary evils she had started.\n\nMrs. Jennings was so far from being weary of her guest, that she\npressed them very earnestly to return with her again from Cleveland.\nElinor was grateful for the attention, but it could not alter her\ndesign; and their mother's concurrence being readily gained, every\nthing relative to their return was arranged as far as it could\nbe;--and Marianne found some relief in drawing up a statement of the\nhours that were yet to divide her from Barton.\n\n\"Ah! Colonel, I do not know what you and I shall do without the Miss\nDashwoods;\"--was Mrs. Jennings's address to him when he first called\non her, after their leaving her was settled--\"for they are quite\nresolved upon going home from the Palmers;--and how forlorn we shall\nbe, when I come back!--Lord! we shall sit and gape at one another as\ndull as two cats.\"\n\nPerhaps Mrs. Jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their\nfuture ennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give\nhimself an escape from it; and if so, she had soon afterwards good\nreason to think her object gained; for, on Elinor's moving to the\nwindow to take more expeditiously the dimensions of a print, which she\nwas going to copy for her friend, he followed her to it with a look of\nparticular meaning, and conversed with her there for several minutes.\nThe effect of his discourse on the lady too, could not escape her\nobservation, for though she was too honorable to listen, and had even\nchanged her seat, on purpose that she might _not_ hear, to one close\nby the piano forte on which Marianne was playing, she could not keep\nherself from seeing that Elinor changed colour, attended with\nagitation, and was too intent on what he said to pursue her\nemployment. Still farther in confirmation of her hopes, in the\ninterval of Marianne's turning from one lesson to another, some words\nof the Colonel's inevitably reached her ear, in which he seemed to be\napologising for the badness of his house. This set the matter beyond a\ndoubt. She wondered, indeed, at his thinking it necessary to do so;\nbut supposed it to be the proper etiquette. What Elinor said in reply\nshe could not distinguish, but judged from the motion of her lips,\nthat she did not think _that_ any material objection;--and Mrs.\nJennings commended her in her heart for being so honest. They then\ntalked on for a few minutes longer without her catching a syllable,\nwhen another lucky stop in Marianne's performance brought her these\nwords in the Colonel's calm voice,--\n\n\"I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.\"\n\nAstonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost\nready to cry out, \"Lord! what should hinder it?\"--but checking her\ndesire, confined herself to this silent ejaculation.\n\n\"This is very strange!--sure he need not wait to be older.\"\n\nThis delay on the Colonel's side, however, did not seem to offend or\nmortify his fair companion in the least, for on their breaking up the\nconference soon afterwards, and moving different ways, Mrs. Jennings\nvery plainly heard Elinor say, and with a voice which showed her to\nfeel what she said--\n\n\"I shall always think myself very much obliged to you.\"\n\nMrs. Jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only wondered that\nafter hearing such a sentence, the Colonel should be able to take\nleave of them, as he immediately did, with the utmost sang-froid, and\ngo away without making her any reply!--She had not thought her old\nfriend could have made so indifferent a suitor.\n\nWhat had really passed between them was to this effect.\n\n\"I have heard,\" said he, with great compassion, \"of the injustice your\nfriend Mr. Ferrars has suffered from his family; for if I understand\nthe matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them for\npersevering in his engagement with a very deserving young woman. Have\nI been rightly informed?--Is it so?--\"\n\nElinor told him that it was.\n\n\"The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,\"--he replied, with great\nfeeling,--\"of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people\nlong attached to each other, is terrible. Mrs. Ferrars does not know\nwhat she may be doing--what she may drive her son to. I have seen Mr.\nFerrars two or three times in Harley Street, and am much pleased with\nhim. He is not a young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted\nin a short time, but I have seen enough of him to wish him well for\nhis own sake, and as a friend of yours, I wish it still more. I\nunderstand that he intends to take orders. Will you be so good as to\ntell him that the living of Delaford, now just vacant, as I am\ninformed by this day's post, is his, if he think it worth his\nacceptance--but _that_, perhaps, so unfortunately circumstanced as he\nis now, it may be nonsense to appear to doubt; I only wish it were\nmore valuable. It is a rectory, but a small one; the late incumbent, I\nbelieve, did not make more than 200 L per annum, and though it is\ncertainly capable of improvement, I fear, not to such an amount as to\nafford him a very comfortable income. Such as it is, however, my\npleasure in presenting him to it, will be very great. Pray assure him\nof it.\"\n\nElinor's astonishment at this commission could hardly have been\ngreater, had the Colonel been really making her an offer of his hand.\nThe preferment, which only two days before she had considered as\nhopeless for Edward, was already provided to enable him to marry;--and\n_she_, of all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it!--Her\nemotion was such as Mrs. Jennings had attributed to a very different\ncause;--but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might\nhave a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence,\nand her gratitude for the particular friendship, which together\nprompted Colonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly\nexpressed. She thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of\nEdward's principles and disposition with that praise which she knew\nthem to deserve; and promised to undertake the commission with\npleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an office\nto another. But at the same time, she could not help thinking that no\none could so well perform it as himself. It was an office in short,\nfrom which, unwilling to give Edward the pain of receiving an\nobligation from _her_, she would have been very glad to be spared\nherself; but Colonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining\nit likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through her\nmeans, that she would not on any account make farther opposition.\nEdward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had heard\nhis address from Miss Steele. She could undertake therefore to inform\nhim of it, in the course of the day. After this had been settled,\nColonel Brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so\nrespectable and agreeable a neighbour, and _then_ it was that he\nmentioned with regret, that the house was small and indifferent; an\nevil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed her to do, made very\nlight of, at least as far as regarded its size.\n\n\"The smallness of the house,\" said she, \"I cannot imagine any\ninconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family\nand income.\"\n\nBy which the Colonel was surprised to find that _she_ was considering\nMr. Ferrars's marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation;\nfor he did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply\nsuch an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to\nsettle on, and he said so.\n\n\"This little rectory _can_ do no more than make Mr. Ferrars\ncomfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry\nto say that my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly\nmore extensive. If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in\nmy power to serve him farther, I must think very differently of him\nfrom what I now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I\nsincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now doing indeed,\nseems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what\nmust be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must\nstill be a distant good;--at least, I am afraid it cannot take place\nvery soon.\"\n\nSuch was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended\nthe delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of\nwhat really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they\nstood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their\nparting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited,\nnor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of\nmarriage.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL\n\n\n\"Well, Miss Dashwood,\" said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as\nsoon as the gentleman had withdrawn, \"I do not ask you what the\nColonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I _tried_\nto keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand\nhis business. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life,\nand I wish you joy of it with all my heart.\"\n\n\"Thank you, ma'am,\" said Elinor. \"It is a matter of great joy to me;\nand I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are\nnot many men who would act as he has done. Few people who have so\ncompassionate a heart! I never was more astonished in my life.\"\n\n\"Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an't the least astonished at it\nin the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more\nlikely to happen.\"\n\n\"You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel's general benevolence;\nbut at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very\nsoon occur.\"\n\n\"Opportunity!\" repeated Mrs. Jennings--\"Oh! as to that, when a man has\nonce made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon\nfind an opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and\nagain; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I\nshall soon know where to look for them.\"\n\n\"You mean to go to Delaford after them I suppose,\" said Elinor, with a\nfaint smile.\n\n\"Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed. And as to the house being a bad one,\nI do not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as\never I saw.\"\n\n\"He spoke of its being out of repair.\"\n\n\"Well, and whose fault is that? why don't he repair it? who should do\nit but himself?\"\n\nThey were interrupted by the servant's coming in to announce the\ncarriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to\ngo, said--\n\n\"Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out.\nBut, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be\nquite alone. I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind\nis too full of the matter to care for company; and besides, you must\nlong to tell your sister all about it.\"\n\nMarianne had left the room before the conversation began.\n\n\"Certainly, ma'am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall not\nmention it at present to any body else.\"\n\n\"Oh! very well,\" said Mrs. Jennings rather disappointed. \"Then you\nwould not have me tell it to Lucy, for I think of going as far as\nHolborn to-day.\"\n\n\"No, ma'am, not even Lucy if you please. One day's delay will not be\nvery material; and till I have written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it\nought not to be mentioned to any body else. I shall do _that_\ndirectly. It is of importance that no time should be lost with him,\nfor he will of course have much to do relative to his ordination.\"\n\nThis speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly. Why Mr.\nFerrars was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she\ncould not immediately comprehend. A few moments' reflection, however,\nproduced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed--\n\n\"Oh, ho! I understand you. Mr. Ferrars is to be the man. Well, so much\nthe better for him. Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness;\nand I am very glad to find things are so forward between you. But, my\ndear, is not this rather out of character? Should not the Colonel\nwrite himself? Sure, he is the proper person.\"\n\nElinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings's\nspeech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore\nonly replied to its conclusion.\n\n\"Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one\nto announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself.\"\n\n\"And so _you_ are forced to do it. Well _that_ is an odd kind of\ndelicacy! However, I will not disturb you (seeing her preparing to\nwrite.) You know your own concerns best. So good-bye, my dear. I have\nnot heard of any thing to please me so well since Charlotte was\nbrought to bed.\"\n\nAnd away she went; but returning again in a moment--\n\n\"I have just been thinking of Betty's sister, my dear. I should be\nvery glad to get her so good a mistress. But whether she would do for\na lady's maid, I am sure I can't tell. She is an excellent housemaid,\nand works very well at her needle. However, you will think of all that\nat your leisure.\"\n\n\"Certainly, ma'am,\" replied Elinor, not hearing much of what she said,\nand more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of the subject.\n\nHow she should begin--how she should express herself in her note to\nEdward, was now all her concern. The particular circumstances between\nthem made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have\nbeen the easiest thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too\nmuch or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with the pen\nin her hand, till broken in on by the entrance of Edward himself.\n\nHe had met Mrs. Jennings at the door in her way to the carriage, as he\ncame to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising for not\nreturning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that Miss\nDashwood was above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular\nbusiness.\n\nElinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her\nperplexity, that however difficult it might be to express herself\nproperly by letter, it was at least preferable to giving the\ninformation by word of mouth, when her visitor entered, to force her\nupon this greatest exertion of all. Her astonishment and confusion\nwere very great on his so sudden appearance. She had not seen him\nbefore since his engagement became public, and therefore not since his\nknowing her to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of\nwhat she had been thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her\nfeel particularly uncomfortable for some minutes. He too was much\ndistressed; and they sat down together in a most promising state of\nembarrassment. Whether he had asked her pardon for his intrusion on\nfirst coming into the room, he could not recollect; but determining to\nbe on the safe side, he made his apology in form as soon as he could\nsay any thing, after taking a chair.\n\n\"Mrs. Jennings told me,\" said he, \"that you wished to speak with me,\nat least I understood her so--or I certainly should not have intruded\non you in such a manner; though at the same time, I should have been\nextremely sorry to leave London without seeing you and your sister;\nespecially as it will most likely be some time--it is not probable\nthat I should soon have the pleasure of meeting you again. I go to\nOxford tomorrow.\"\n\n\"You would not have gone, however,\" said Elinor, recovering herself,\nand determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon as\npossible, \"without receiving our good wishes, even if we had not been\nable to give them in person. Mrs. Jennings was quite right in what she\nsaid. I have something of consequence to inform you of, which I was on\nthe point of communicating by paper. I am charged with a most\nagreeable office (breathing rather faster than usual as she spoke.)\nColonel Brandon, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me to\nsay, that understanding you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure\nin offering you the living of Delaford now just vacant, and only\nwishes it were more valuable. Allow me to congratulate you on having\nso respectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in his wish that\nthe living--it is about two hundred a-year--were much more\nconsiderable, and such as might better enable you to--as might be more\nthan a temporary accommodation to yourself--such, in short, as might\nestablish all your views of happiness.\"\n\nWhat Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be\nexpected that any one else should say for him. He _looked_ all the\nastonishment which such unexpected, such unthought-of information\ncould not fail of exciting; but he said only these two words--\n\n\"Colonel Brandon!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the\nworst was over, \"Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his\nconcern for what has lately passed--for the cruel situation in which\nthe unjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you--a concern\nwhich I am sure Marianne, myself, and all your friends, must share;\nand likewise as a proof of his high esteem for your general character,\nand his particular approbation of your behaviour on the present\noccasion.\"\n\n\"Colonel Brandon give _me_ a living!--Can it be possible?\"\n\n\"The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find\nfriendship any where.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied be, with sudden consciousness, \"not to find it in _you_;\nfor I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe it all.\nI feel it--I would express it if I could--but, as you well know, I am\nno orator.\"\n\n\"You are very much mistaken. I do assure you that you owe it entirely,\nat least almost entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon's\ndiscernment of it. I have had no hand in it. I did not even know, till\nI understood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it ever\noccurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift. As a\nfriend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps--indeed I know he _has_,\nstill greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe\nnothing to my solicitation.\"\n\nTruth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but\nshe was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of\nEdward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably\ncontributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently\nentered it. For a short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had\nceased to speak;--at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he\nsaid--\n\n\"Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability. I have\nalways heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems\nhim highly. He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners\nperfectly the gentleman.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" replied Elinor, \"I believe that you will find him, on\nfarther acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you\nwill be such very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is\nalmost close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that\nhe _should_ be all this.\"\n\nEdward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her\na look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that\nhe might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the\nmansion-house much greater.\n\n\"Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street,\" said he, soon\nafterwards, rising from his chair.\n\nElinor told him the number of the house.\n\n\"I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not\nallow me to give _you_; to assure him that he has made me a very--an\nexceedingly happy man.\"\n\nElinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very\nearnest assurance on _her_ side of her unceasing good wishes for his\nhappiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on\n_his_, with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the\npower of expressing it.\n\n\"When I see him again,\" said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him\nout, \"I shall see him the husband of Lucy.\"\n\nAnd with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the\npast, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of\nEdward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent.\n\nWhen Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people\nwhom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a\ngreat deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important\nsecret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to\nit again as soon as Elinor appeared.\n\n\"Well, my dear,\" she cried, \"I sent you up the young man. Did not I do\nright?--And I suppose you had no great difficulty--You did not find\nhim very unwilling to accept your proposal?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am; _that_ was not very likely.\"\n\n\"Well, and how soon will he be ready?--For it seems all to depend upon\nthat.\"\n\n\"Really,\" said Elinor, \"I know so little of these kind of forms, that\nI can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation\nnecessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his\nordination.\"\n\n\"Two or three months!\" cried Mrs. Jennings; \"Lord! my dear, how calmly\nyou talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord\nbless me!--I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience!--And\nthough one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I\ndo think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him.\nSure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that\nis in orders already.\"\n\n\"My dear ma'am,\" said Elinor, \"what can you be thinking of? Why,\nColonel Brandon's only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars.\"\n\n\"Lord bless you, my dear! Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the\nColonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr.\nFerrars!\"\n\n[Illustration: _Both gained considerable amusement_]\n\nThe deception could not continue after this; and an explanation\nimmediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement\nfor the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for\nMrs. Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and\nstill without forfeiting her expectation of the first.\n\n\"Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one,\" said she, after the\nfirst ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, \"and very\nlikely _may_ be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I\nthought, for a house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on\nthe ground-floor, and I think the housekeeper told me could make up\nfifteen beds! and to you too, that had been used to live in Barton\ncottage! It seems quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch up the\nColonel to do some thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for\nthem, before Lucy goes to it.\"\n\n\"But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living's\nbeing enough to allow them to marry.\"\n\n\"The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year\nhimself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less. Take my word\nfor it, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at Delaford\nParsonage before Michaelmas; and I am sure I shan't go if Lucy an't\nthere.\"\n\nElinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not\nwaiting for any thing more.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI\n\n\nEdward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with\nhis happiness to Lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he\nreached Bartlett's Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs.\nJennings, who called on her again the next day with her\ncongratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in\nher life.\n\nHer own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain;\nand she joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their\nbeing all comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before\nMichaelmas. So far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to\ngive Elinor that credit which Edward _would_ give her, that she spoke\nof her friendship for them both with the most grateful warmth, was\nready to own all their obligation to her, and openly declared that no\nexertion for their good on Miss Dashwood's part, either present or\nfuture, would ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing\nany thing in the world for those she really valued. As for Colonel\nBrandon, she was not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was\nmoreover truly anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly\nconcerns; anxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and\nscarcely resolved to avail herself, at Delaford, as far as she\npossibly could, of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his\npoultry.\n\nIt was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley\nStreet, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his\nwife's indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, Elinor began to feel\nit necessary to pay her a visit. This was an obligation, however,\nwhich not only opposed her own inclination, but which had not the\nassistance of any encouragement from her companions. Marianne, not\ncontented with absolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent to\nprevent her sister's going at all; and Mrs. Jennings, though her\ncarriage was always at Elinor's service, so very much disliked Mrs.\nJohn Dashwood, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after\nthe late discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking\nEdward's part, could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company\nagain. The consequence was, that Elinor set out by herself to pay a\nvisit, for which no one could really have less inclination, and to run\nthe risk of a tete-a-tete with a woman, whom neither of the others had\nso much reason to dislike.\n\nMrs. Dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from the\nhouse, her husband accidentally came out. He expressed great pleasure\nin meeting Elinor, told her that he had been just going to call in\nBerkeley Street, and, assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to\nsee her, invited her to come in.\n\nThey walked up stairs in to the drawing-room. Nobody was there.\n\n\"Fanny is in her own room, I suppose,\" said he:--\"I will go to her\npresently, for I am sure she will not have the least objection in the\nworld to seeing _you._ Very far from it, indeed. _Now_ especially\nthere cannot be--but however, you and Marianne were always great\nfavourites. Why would not Marianne come?\"--\n\nElinor made what excuse she could for her.\n\n\"I am not sorry to see you alone,\" he replied, \"for I have a good deal\nto say to you. This living of Colonel Brandon's--can it be true?--has\nhe really given it to Edward?--I heard it yesterday by chance, and was\ncoming to you on purpose to enquire farther about it.\"\n\n\"It is perfectly true. Colonel Brandon has given the living of\nDelaford to Edward.\"\n\n\"Really!--Well, this is very astonishing!--no relationship!--no\nconnection between them!--and now that livings fetch such a\nprice!--what was the value of this?\"\n\n\"About two hundred a year.\"\n\n\"Very well--and for the next presentation to a living of that\nvalue--supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly, and\nlikely to vacate it soon--he might have got I dare say--fourteen\nhundred pounds. And how came he not to have settled that matter before\nthis person's death? _Now_ indeed it would be too late to sell it, but\na man of Colonel Brandon's sense!--I wonder he should be so\nimprovident in a point of such common, such natural, concern!--Well, I\nam convinced that there is a vast deal of inconsistency in almost\nevery human character. I suppose, however--on recollection--that the\ncase may probably be _this._ Edward is only to hold the living till\nthe person to whom the Colonel has really sold the presentation, is\nold enough to take it. Aye, aye, that is the fact, depend upon it.\"\n\nElinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating that\nshe had herself been employed in conveying the offer from Colonel\nBrandon to Edward, and, therefore, must understand the terms on which\nit was given, obliged him to submit to her authority.\n\n\"It is truly astonishing!\"--he cried, after hearing what she\nsaid--\"what could be the Colonel's motive?\"\n\n\"A very simple one--to be of use to Mr. Ferrars.\"\n\n\"Well, well; whatever Colonel Brandon may be, Edward is a very lucky\nman. You will not mention the matter to Fanny, however, for though I\nhave broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well,--she will not like\nto hear it much talked of.\"\n\nElinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that she\nthought Fanny might have borne with composure, an acquisition of\nwealth to her brother, by which neither she nor her child could be\npossibly impoverished.\n\n\"Mrs. Ferrars,\" added he, lowering his voice to the tone becoming so\nimportant a subject, \"knows nothing about it at present, and I believe\nit will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as may\nbe. When the marriage takes place, I fear she must hear of it all.\"\n\n\"But why should such precaution be used? Though it is not to be\nsupposed that Mrs. Ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in\nknowing that her son has money enough to live upon,--for _that_ must\nbe quite out of the question; yet why, upon her late behaviour, is she\nsupposed to feel at all? She has done with her son, she cast him off\nfor ever, and has made all those over whom she had any influence, cast\nhim off likewise. Surely, after doing so, she cannot be imagined\nliable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account--she\ncannot be interested in any thing that befalls him. She would not be\nso weak as to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the\nanxiety of a parent!\"\n\n\"Ah! Elinor,\" said John, \"your reasoning is very good, but it is\nfounded on ignorance of human nature. When Edward's unhappy match\ntakes place, depend upon it his mother will feel as much as if she had\nnever discarded him; and, therefore every circumstance that may\naccelerate that dreadful event, must be concealed from her as much as\npossible. Mrs. Ferrars can never forget that Edward is her son.\"\n\n\"You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have escaped her\nmemory by _this_ time.\"\n\n\"You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs. Ferrars is one of the most\naffectionate mothers in the world.\"\n\nElinor was silent.\n\n\"We think _now_,\"--said Mr. Dashwood, after a short pause, \"of\n_Robert's_ marrying Miss Morton.\"\n\nElinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother's\ntone, calmly replied--\n\n\"The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair.\"\n\n\"Choice!--how do you mean?\"\n\n\"I only mean that I suppose, from your manner of speaking, it must be\nthe same to Miss Morton whether she marry Edward or Robert.\"\n\n\"Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert will now to all\nintents and purposes be considered as the eldest son;--and as to any\nthing else, they are both very agreeable young men: I do not know that\none is superior to the other.\"\n\nElinor said no more, and John was also for a short time silent. His\nreflections ended thus.\n\n\"Of _one_ thing, my dear sister,\" kindly taking her hand, and speaking\nin an awful whisper,--\"I may assure you; and I _will_ do it, because I\nknow it must gratify you. I have good reason to think--indeed I have\nit from the best authority, or I should not repeat it, for otherwise\nit would be very wrong to say any thing about it,--but I have it from\nthe very best authority,--not that I ever precisely heard Mrs. Ferrars\nsay it herself--but her daughter _did_, and I have it from her,--that\nin short, whatever objections there might be against a certain--a\ncertain connection, you understand me,--it would have been far\npreferable to her, it would not have given her half the vexation that\n_this_ does. I was exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferrars\nconsidered it in that light; a very gratifying circumstance you know\nto us all. 'It would have been beyond comparison,' she said, 'the\nleast evil of the two, and she would be glad to compound _now_ for\nnothing worse.' But however, all that is quite out of the\nquestion,--not to be thought of or mentioned. As to any attachment you\nknow, it never could be; all that is gone by. But I thought I would\njust tell you of this, because I knew how much it must please you. Not\nthat you have any reason to regret, my dear Elinor. There is no doubt\nof your doing exceedingly well,--quite as well, or better, perhaps,\nall things considered. Has Colonel Brandon been with you lately?\"\n\nElinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity, and raise her\nself-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind;--and she was\ntherefore glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much in reply\nherself, and from the danger of hearing any thing more from her\nbrother, by the entrance of Mr. Robert Ferrars. After a few moments'\nchat, John Dashwood, recollecting that Fanny was yet uninformed of her\nsister's being there, quitted the room in quest of her; and Elinor was\nleft to improve her acquaintance with Robert, who, by the gay\nunconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner while enjoying so\nunfair a division of his mother's love and liberality, to the\nprejudice of his banished brother, earned only by his own dissipated\ncourse of life, and that brother's integrity, was confirming her most\nunfavourable opinion of his head and heart.\n\n[Illustration: \"_Of one thing I may assure you._\"]\n\nThey had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before he began to\nspeak of Edward; for he, too, had heard of the living, and was very\ninquisitive on the subject. Elinor repeated the particulars of it, as\nshe had given them to John; and their effect on Robert, though very\ndifferent, was not less striking than it had been on _him._ He laughed\nmost immoderately. The idea of Edward's being a clergyman, and living\nin a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure;--and when to\nthat was added the fanciful imagery of Edward reading prayers in a\nwhite surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage between John\nSmith and Mary Brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous.\n\nElinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity, the\nconclusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed\non him with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited. It was a\nlook, however, very well bestowed, for it relieved her own feelings,\nand gave no intelligence to him. He was recalled from wit to wisdom,\nnot by any reproof of her's, but by his own sensibility.\n\n\"We may treat it as a joke,\" said he, at last, recovering from the\naffected laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine\ngaiety of the moment; \"but, upon my soul, it is a most serious\nbusiness. Poor Edward! he is ruined for ever. I am extremely sorry for\nit; for I know him to be a very good-hearted creature,--as\nwell-meaning a fellow perhaps, as any in the world. You must not judge\nof him, Miss Dashwood, from _your_ slight acquaintance. Poor Edward!\nHis manners are certainly not the happiest in nature. But we are not\nall born, you know, with the same powers,--the same address. Poor\nfellow! to see him in a circle of strangers! to be sure it was\npitiable enough; but upon my soul, I believe he has as good a heart as\nany in the kingdom; and I declare and protest to you I never was so\nshocked in my life, as when it all burst forth. I could not believe\nit. My mother was the first person who told me of it; and I, feeling\nmyself called on to act with resolution, immediately said to her,--'My\ndear madam, I do not know what you may intend to do on the occasion,\nbut as for myself, I must say, that if Edward does marry this young\nwoman, I never will see him again.' That was what I said immediately.\nI was most uncommonly shocked, indeed! Poor Edward! he has done for\nhimself completely,--shut himself out for ever from all decent\nsociety! but, as I directly said to my mother, I am not in the least\nsurprised at it; from his style of education, it was always to be\nexpected. My poor mother was half frantic.\"\n\n\"Have you ever seen the lady?\"\n\n\"Yes; once, while she was staying in this house, I happened to drop in\nfor ten minutes; and I saw quite enough of her. The merest awkward\ncountry girl, without style, or elegance, and almost without beauty. I\nremember her perfectly. Just the kind of girl I should suppose likely\nto captivate poor Edward. I offered immediately, as soon as my mother\nrelated the affair to me, to talk to him myself, and dissuade him from\nthe match; but it was too late _then_, I found, to do any thing, for\nunluckily, I was not in the way at first, and knew nothing of it till\nafter the breach had taken place, when it was not for me, you know, to\ninterfere. But had I been informed of it a few hours earlier, I think\nit is most probable that something might have been hit on. I certainly\nshould have represented it to Edward in a very strong light. 'My dear\nfellow,' I should have said, 'consider what you are doing. You are\nmaking a most disgraceful connection, and such a one as your family\nare unanimous in disapproving.' I cannot help thinking, in short, that\nmeans might have been found. But now it is all too late. He must be\nstarved, you know, that is certain; absolutely starved.\"\n\nHe had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance\nof Mrs. John Dashwood put an end to the subject. But though _she_\nnever spoke of it out of her own family, Elinor could see its\ninfluence on her mind, in the something like confusion of countenance\nwith which she entered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour\nto herself. She even proceeded so far as to be concerned to find that\nElinor and her sister were so soon to leave town, as she had hoped to\nsee more of them;--an exertion in which her husband, who attended her\ninto the room, and hung enamoured over her accents, seemed to\ndistinguish every thing that was most affectionate and graceful.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII\n\n\nOne other short call in Harley Street, in which Elinor received her\nbrother's congratulations on their travelling so far towards Barton\nwithout any expense, and on Colonel Brandon's being to follow them to\nCleveland in a day or two, completed the intercourse of the brother\nand sisters in town;--and a faint invitation from Fanny, to come to\nNorland whenever it should happen to be in their way, which of all\nthings was the most unlikely to occur, with a more warm, though less\npublic, assurance, from John to Elinor, of the promptitude with which\nhe should come to see her at Delaford, was all that foretold any\nmeeting in the country.\n\nIt amused her to observe that all her friends seemed determined to\nsend her to Delaford;--a place, in which, of all others, she would now\nleast choose to visit, or wish to reside; for not only was it\nconsidered as her future home by her brother and Mrs. Jennings, but\neven Lucy, when they parted, gave her a pressing invitation to visit\nher there.\n\nVery early in April, and tolerably early in the day, the two parties\nfrom Hanover Square and Berkeley Street set out from their respective\nhomes, to meet, by appointment, on the road. For the convenience of\nCharlotte and her child, they were to be more than two days on their\njourney, and Mr. Palmer, travelling more expeditiously with Colonel\nBrandon, was to join them at Cleveland soon after their arrival.\n\nMarianne, few as had been her hours of comfort in London, and eager as\nshe had long been to quit it, could not, when it came to the point,\nbid adieu to the house in which she had for the last time enjoyed\nthose hopes, and that confidence, in Willoughby, which were now\nextinguished for ever, without great pain. Nor could she leave the\nplace in which Willoughby remained, busy in new engagements, and new\nschemes, in which _she_ could have no share, without shedding many\ntears.\n\nElinor's satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was more positive.\nShe had no such object for her lingering thoughts to fix on, she left\nno creature behind, from whom it would give her a moment's regret to\nbe divided for ever, she was pleased to be free herself from the\npersecution of Lucy's friendship, she was grateful for bringing her\nsister away unseen by Willoughby since his marriage, and she looked\nforward with hope to what a few months of tranquility at Barton might\ndo towards restoring Marianne's peace of mind, and confirming her own.\n\nTheir journey was safely performed. The second day brought them into\nthe cherished, or the prohibited, county of Somerset, for as such was\nit dwelt on by turns in Marianne's imagination; and in the forenoon of\nthe third they drove up to Cleveland.\n\nCleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated on a sloping\nlawn. It had no park, but the pleasure-grounds were tolerably\nextensive; and like every other place of the same degree of\nimportance, it had its open shrubbery, and closer wood walk, a road of\nsmooth gravel winding round a plantation, led to the front, the lawn\nwas dotted over with timber, the house itself was under the\nguardianship of the fir, the mountain-ash, and the acacia, and a thick\nscreen of them altogether, interspersed with tall Lombardy poplars,\nshut out the offices.\n\nMarianne entered the house with a heart swelling with emotion from the\nconsciousness of being only eighty miles from Barton, and not thirty\nfrom Combe Magna; and before she had been five minutes within its\nwalls, while the others were busily helping Charlotte to show her\nchild to the housekeeper, she quitted it again, stealing away through\nthe winding shrubberies, now just beginning to be in beauty, to gain a\ndistant eminence; where, from its Grecian temple, her eye, wandering\nover a wide tract of country to the south-east, could fondly rest on\nthe farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and fancy that from their\nsummits Combe Magna might be seen.\n\nIn such moments of precious, invaluable misery, she rejoiced in tears\nof agony to be at Cleveland; and as she returned by a different\ncircuit to the house, feeling all the happy privilege of country\nliberty, of wandering from place to place in free and luxurious\nsolitude, she resolved to spend almost every hour of every day while\nshe remained with the Palmers, in the indulgence of such solitary\nrambles.\n\n[Illustration: _Showing her child to the housekeeper._]\n\nShe returned just in time to join the others as they quitted the\nhouse, on an excursion through its more immediate premises; and the\nrest of the morning was easily whiled away, in lounging round the\nkitchen garden, examining the bloom upon its walls, and listening to\nthe gardener's lamentations upon blights, in dawdling through the\ngreen-house, where the loss of her favourite plants, unwarily exposed,\nand nipped by the lingering frost, raised the laughter of\nCharlotte,--and in visiting her poultry-yard, where, in the\ndisappointed hopes of her dairy-maid, by hens forsaking their nests,\nor being stolen by a fox, or in the rapid decrease of a promising\nyoung brood, she found fresh sources of merriment.\n\nThe morning was fine and dry, and Marianne, in her plan of employment\nabroad, had not calculated for any change of weather during their stay\nat Cleveland. With great surprise therefore, did she find herself\nprevented by a settled rain from going out again after dinner. She had\ndepended on a twilight walk to the Grecian temple, and perhaps all\nover the grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp would not have\ndeterred her from it; but a heavy and settled rain even _she_ could\nnot fancy dry or pleasant weather for walking.\n\nTheir party was small, and the hours passed quietly away. Mrs. Palmer\nhad her child, and Mrs. Jennings her carpet-work; they talked of the\nfriends they had left behind, arranged Lady Middleton's engagements,\nand wondered whether Mr. Palmer and Colonel Brandon would get farther\nthan Reading that night. Elinor, however little concerned in it,\njoined in their discourse; and Marianne, who had the knack of finding\nher way in every house to the library, however it might be avoided by\nthe family in general, soon procured herself a book.\n\nNothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer's side that constant and friendly\ngood humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome. The\nopenness and heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that want\nof recollection and elegance which made her often deficient in the\nforms of politeness; her kindness, recommended by so pretty a face,\nwas engaging; her folly, though evident was not disgusting, because it\nwas not conceited; and Elinor could have forgiven every thing but her\nlaugh.\n\n[Illustration: _The gardener's lamentations._]\n\nThe two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner,\naffording a pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome\nvariety to their conversation, which a long morning of the same\ncontinued rain had reduced very low.\n\nElinor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer, and in that little had seen\nso much variety in his address to her sister and herself, that she\nknew not what to expect to find him in his own family. She found him,\nhowever, perfectly the gentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors,\nand only occasionally rude to his wife and her mother; she found him\nvery capable of being a pleasant companion, and only prevented from\nbeing so always, by too great an aptitude to fancy himself as much\nsuperior to people in general, as he must feel himself to be to Mrs.\nJennings and Charlotte. For the rest of his character and habits, they\nwere marked, as far as Elinor could perceive, with no traits at all\nunusual in his sex and time of life. He was nice in his eating,\nuncertain in his hours; fond of his child, though affecting to slight\nit; and idled away the mornings at billiards, which ought to have been\ndevoted to business. She liked him, however, upon the whole, much\nbetter than she had expected, and in her heart was not sorry that she\ncould like him no more; not sorry to be driven by the observation of\nhis epicurism, his selfishness, and his conceit, to rest with\ncomplacency on the remembrance of Edward's generous temper, simple\ntaste, and diffident feelings.\n\nOf Edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now received\nintelligence from Colonel Brandon, who had been into Dorsetshire\nlately; and who, treating her at once as the disinterested friend of\nMr. Ferrars, and the kind of confidant of himself, talked to her a\ngreat deal of the parsonage at Delaford, described its deficiencies,\nand told her what he meant to do himself towards removing them. His\nbehaviour to her in this, as well as in every other particular, his\nopen pleasure in meeting her after an absence of only ten days, his\nreadiness to converse with her, and his deference for her opinion,\nmight very well justify Mrs. Jennings's persuasion of his attachment,\nand would have been enough, perhaps, had not Elinor still, as from the\nfirst, believed Marianne his real favourite, to make her suspect it\nherself. But as it was, such a notion had scarcely ever entered her\nhead, except by Mrs. Jennings's suggestion; and she could not help\nbelieving herself the nicest observer of the two: she watched his\neyes, while Mrs. Jennings thought only of his behaviour; and while his\nlooks of anxious solicitude on Marianne's feeling, in her head and\nthroat, the beginning of a heavy cold, because unexpressed by words,\nentirely escaped the latter lady's observation,--_she_ could discover\nin them the quick feelings, and needless alarm of a lover.\n\nTwo delightful twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of her\nbeing there, not merely on the dry gravel of the shrubbery, but all\nover the grounds, and especially in the most distant parts of them,\nwhere there was something more of wildness than in the rest, where the\ntrees were the oldest, and the grass was the longest and wettest,\nhad--assisted by the still greater imprudence of sitting in her wet\nshoes and stockings--given Marianne a cold so violent as, though for a\nday or two trifled with or denied, would force itself by increasing\nailments on the concern of every body, and the notice of herself.\nPrescriptions poured in from all quarters, and as usual, were all\ndeclined. Though heavy and feverish, with a pain in her limbs, and a\ncough, and a sore throat, a good night's rest was to cure her\nentirely; and it was with difficulty that Elinor prevailed on her,\nwhen she went to bed, to try one or two of the simplest of the\nremedies.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII\n\n\nMarianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry\nreplied that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by\nengaging in her accustomary employments. But a day spent in sitting\nshivering over the fire with a book in her hand, which she was unable\nto read, or in lying, weary and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much\nin favour of her amendment; and when, at last, she went early to bed,\nmore and more indisposed, Colonel Brandon was only astonished at her\nsister's composure, who, though attending and nursing her the whole\nday, against Marianne's inclination, and forcing proper medicines on\nher at night, trusted, like Marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of\nsleep, and felt no real alarm.\n\nA very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the\nexpectation of both; and when Marianne, after persisting in rising,\nconfessed herself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to her\nbed, Elinor was very ready to adopt Mrs. Jennings's advice, of sending\nfor the Palmers' apothecary.\n\nHe came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood to\nexpect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet,\nby pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing\nthe word \"infection\" to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs.\nPalmer, on her baby's account. Mrs. Jennings, who had been inclined\nfrom the first to think Marianne's complaint more serious than Elinor,\nnow looked very grave on Mr. Harris's report, and confirming\nCharlotte's fears and caution, urged the necessity of her immediate\nremoval with her infant; and Mr. Palmer, though treating their\napprehensions as idle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife\ntoo great to be withstood. Her departure, therefore, was fixed on; and\nwithin an hour after Mr. Harris's arrival, she set off, with her\nlittle boy and his nurse, for the house of a near relation of Mr.\nPalmer's, who lived a few miles on the other side of Bath; whither her\nhusband promised, at her earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or\ntwo; and whither she was almost equally urgent with her mother to\naccompany her. Mrs. Jennings, however, with a kindness of heart which\nmade Elinor really love her, declared her resolution of not stirring\nfrom Cleveland as long as Marianne remained ill, and of endeavouring,\nby her own attentive care, to supply to her the place of the mother\nshe had taken her from; and Elinor found her on every occasion a most\nwilling and active helpmate, desirous to share in all her fatigues,\nand often by her better experience in nursing, of material use.\n\nPoor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and\nfeeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope that tomorrow\nwould find her recovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have\nproduced, but for this unlucky illness, made every ailment severe; for\non that day they were to have begun their journey home; and, attended\nthe whole way by a servant of Mrs. Jennings, were to have taken their\nmother by surprise on the following forenoon. The little she said was\nall in lamentation of this inevitable delay; though Elinor tried to\nraise her spirits, and make her believe, as she _then_ really believed\nherself, that it would be a very short one.\n\nThe next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the\npatient; she certainly was not better, and, except that there was no\namendment, did not appear worse. Their party was now farther reduced;\nfor Mr. Palmer, though very unwilling to go as well from real humanity\nand good-nature, as from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away\nby his wife, was persuaded at last by Colonel Brandon to perform his\npromise of following her; and while he was preparing to go, Colonel\nBrandon himself, with a much greater exertion, began to talk of going\nlikewise. Here, however, the kindness of Mrs. Jennings interposed most\nacceptably; for to send the Colonel away while his love was in so much\nuneasiness on her sister's account, would be to deprive them both, she\nthought, of every comfort; and therefore telling him at once that his\nstay at Cleveland was necessary to herself, that she should want him\nto play at piquet of an evening, while Miss Dashwood was above with\nher sister, &c. she urged him so strongly to remain, that he, who was\ngratifying the first wish of his own heart by a compliance, could not\nlong even affect to demur; especially as Mrs. Jennings's entreaty was\nwarmly seconded by Mr. Palmer, who seemed to feel a relief to himself,\nin leaving behind him a person so well able to assist or advise Miss\nDashwood in any emergence.\n\nMarianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these arrangements.\nShe knew not that she had been the means of sending the owners of\nCleveland away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival. It\ngave her no surprise that she saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer; and as it\ngave her likewise no concern, she never mentioned her name.\n\nTwo days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer's departure, and her\nsituation continued, with little variation, the same. Mr. Harris, who\nattended her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and\nMiss Dashwood was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others\nwas by no means so cheerful. Mrs. Jennings had determined very early\nin the seizure that Marianne would never get over it, and Colonel\nBrandon, who was chiefly of use in listening to Mrs. Jennings's\nforebodings, was not in a state of mind to resist their influence. He\ntried to reason himself out of fears, which the different judgment of\nthe apothecary seemed to render absurd; but the many hours of each day\nin which he was left entirely alone, were but too favourable for the\nadmission of every melancholy idea, and he could not expel from his\nmind the persuasion that he should see Marianne no more.\n\nOn the morning of the third day however, the gloomy anticipations of\nboth were almost done away; for when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared\nhis patient materially better. Her pulse was much stronger, and every\nsymptom more favourable than on the preceding visit. Elinor, confirmed\nin every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her\nletters to her mother, she had pursued her own judgment rather than\nher friend's, in making very light of the indisposition which delayed\nthem at Cleveland; and almost fixing on the time when Marianne would\nbe able to travel.\n\nBut the day did not close so auspiciously as it began. Towards the\nevening Marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and\nuncomfortable than before. Her sister, however, still sanguine, was\nwilling to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of\nhaving sat up to have her bed made; and carefully administering the\ncordials prescribed, saw her, with satisfaction, sink at last into a\nslumber, from which she expected the most beneficial effects. Her\nsleep, though not so quiet as Elinor wished to see it, lasted a\nconsiderable time; and anxious to observe the result of it herself,\nshe resolved to sit with her during the whole of it. Mrs. Jennings,\nknowing nothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to\nbed; her maid, who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating\nherself in the housekeeper's room, and Elinor remained alone with\nMarianne.\n\nThe repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and her\nsister, who watched, with unremitting attention her continual change\nof posture, and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of\ncomplaint which passed her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from\nso painful a slumber, when Marianne, suddenly awakened by some\naccidental noise in the house, started hastily up, and, with feverish\nwildness, cried out,--\n\n\"Is mama coming?--\"\n\n\"Not yet,\" cried the other, concealing her terror, and assisting\nMarianne to lie down again, \"but she will be here, I hope, before it\nis long. It is a great way, you know, from hence to Barton.\"\n\n\"But she must not go round by London,\" cried Marianne, in the same\nhurried manner. \"I shall never see her, if she goes by London.\"\n\nElinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and, while\nattempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse. It was lower and\nquicker than ever! and Marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her\nalarm increased so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly\nfor Mr. Harris, and despatching a messenger to Barton for her mother.\nTo consult with Colonel Brandon on the best means of effecting the\nlatter, was a thought which immediately followed the resolution of its\nperformance; and as soon she had rung up the maid to take her place by\nher sister, she hastened down to the drawing-room, where she knew he\nwas generally to be found at a much later hour than the present.\n\nIt was no time for hesitation. Her fears and her difficulties were\nimmediately before him. Her fears, he had no courage, no confidence to\nattempt the removal of; he listened to them in silent despondence; but\nher difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that\nseemed to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his\nmind, he offered himself as the messenger who should fetch Mrs.\nDashwood. Elinor made no resistance that was not easily overcome. She\nthanked him with brief, though fervent gratitude, and while he went to\nhurry off his servant with a message to Mr. Harris, and an order for\npost-horses directly, she wrote a few lines to her mother.\n\nThe comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon--or\nsuch a companion for her mother,--how gratefully was it felt!--a\ncompanion whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve,\nand whose friendship might soothe her!--as far as the shock of such a\nsummons _could_ be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his\nassistance, would lessen it.\n\n_He_, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness\nof a collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost\ndespatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which she might\nlook for his return. Not a moment was lost in delay of any kind. The\nhorses arrived, even before they were expected, and Colonel Brandon\nonly pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words\nspoken too low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage. It was\nthen about twelve o'clock, and she returned to her sister's apartment\nto wait for the arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the\nrest of the night. It was a night of almost equal suffering to both.\nHour after hour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium on\nMarianne's side, and in the most cruel anxiety on Elinor's, before Mr.\nHarris appeared. Her apprehensions once raised, paid by their excess\nfor all her former security; and the servant who sat up with her, for\nshe would not allow Mrs. Jennings to be called, only tortured her\nmore, by hints of what her mistress had always thought.\n\nMarianne's ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on her\nmother, and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the\nheart of poor Elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled with\nso many days of illness, and wretched for some immediate relief,\nfancied that all relief might soon be in vain, that every thing had\nbeen delayed too long, and pictured to herself her suffering mother\narriving too late to see this darling child, or to see her rational.\n\nShe was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if _he_ could\nnot come, for some other advice, when the former--but not till after\nfive o'clock--arrived. His opinion, however, made some little amends\nfor his delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected and\nunpleasant alteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger to\nbe material, and talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treatment\nmust procure, with a confidence which, in a lesser degree, was\ncommunicated to Elinor. He promised to call again in the course of\nthree or four hours, and left both the patient and her anxious\nattendant more composed than he had found them.\n\nWith strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to\ntheir aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the morning of what had passed.\nHer former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her\nno doubt of the event; and though trying to speak comfort to Elinor,\nher conviction of her sister's danger would not allow her to offer the\ncomfort of hope. Her heart was really grieved. The rapid decay, the\nearly death of a girl so young, so lovely as Marianne, must have\nstruck a less interested person with concern. On Mrs. Jennings's\ncompassion she had other claims. She had been for three months her\ncompanion, was still under her care, and she was known to have been\ngreatly injured, and long unhappy. The distress of her sister too,\nparticularly a favourite, was before her;--and as for their mother,\nwhen Mrs. Jennings considered that Marianne might probably be to _her_\nwhat Charlotte was to herself, her sympathy in _her_ sufferings was\nvery sincere.\n\nMr. Harris was punctual in his second visit; but he came to be\ndisappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce. His\nmedicines had failed; the fever was unabated; and Marianne only more\nquiet--not more herself--remained in a heavy stupor. Elinor, catching\nall, and more than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in\nfurther advice. But he judged it unnecessary: he had still something\nmore to try, some more fresh application, of whose success he was as\nconfident as the last, and his visit concluded with encouraging\nassurances which reached the ear, but could not enter the heart of\nMiss Dashwood. She was calm, except when she thought of her mother;\nbut she was almost hopeless; and in this state she continued till\nnoon, scarcely stirring from her sister's bed, her thoughts wandering\nfrom one image of grief, one suffering friend to another, and her\nspirits oppressed to the utmost by the conversation of Mrs. Jennings,\nwho scrupled not to attribute the severity and danger of this attack\nto the many weeks of previous indisposition which Marianne's\ndisappointment had brought on. Elinor felt all the reasonableness of\nthe idea, and it gave fresh misery to her reflections.\n\nAbout noon, however, she began--but with a caution--a dread of\ndisappointment which for some time kept her silent, even to her\nfriend--to fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her\nsister's pulse; she waited, watched, and examined it again and again;\nand at last, with an agitation more difficult to bury under exterior\ncalmness, than all her foregoing distress, ventured to communicate her\nhopes. Mrs. Jennings, though forced, on examination, to acknowledge a\ntemporary revival, tried to keep her young friend from indulging a\nthought of its continuance; and Elinor, conning over every injunction\nof distrust, told herself likewise not to hope. But it was too late.\nHope had already entered; and feeling all its anxious flutter, she\nbent over her sister to watch--she hardly knew for what. Half an hour\npassed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed her. Others even\narose to confirm it. Her breath, her skin, her lips, all flattered\nElinor with signs of amendment; and Marianne fixed her eyes on her\nwith a rational, though languid, gaze. Anxiety and hope now oppressed\nher in equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity till the\narrival of Mr. Harris at four o'clock; when his assurances, his\nfelicitations on a recovery in her sister even surpassing his\nexpectation, gave her confidence, comfort, and tears of joy.\n\nMarianne was in every respect materially better, and he declared her\nentirely out of danger. Mrs. Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the\npartial justification of her forebodings which had been found in their\nlate alarm, allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted,\nwith unfeigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the\nprobability of an entire recovery.\n\nElinor could not be cheerful. Her joy was of a different kind, and led\nto any thing rather than to gaiety. Marianne restored to life, health,\nfriends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with\nsensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent\ngratitude;--but it lead to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words,\nno smiles. All within Elinor's breast was satisfaction, silent and\nstrong.\n\nShe continued by the side of her sister, with little intermission the\nwhole afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her\nenfeebled spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every\nlook and every breath. The possibility of a relapse would of course,\nin some moments, occur to remind her of what anxiety was; but when she\nsaw, on her frequent and minute examination, that every symptom of\nrecovery continued, and saw Marianne at six o'clock sink into a quiet,\nsteady, and to all appearance comfortable, sleep, she silenced every\ndoubt.\n\nThe time was now drawing on, when Colonel Brandon might be expected\nback. At ten o'clock, she trusted, or at least not much later her\nmother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must\nnow be travelling towards them. The Colonel, too!--perhaps scarcely\nless an object of pity! Oh! how slow was the progress of time which\nyet kept them in ignorance!\n\nAt seven o'clock, leaving Marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined\nMrs. Jennings in the drawing-room to tea. Of breakfast she had been\nkept by her fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating\nmuch; and the present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of\ncontent as she brought to it, was particularly welcome. Mrs. Jennings\nwould have persuaded her, at its conclusion, to take some rest before\nher mother's arrival, and allow _her_ to take her place by Marianne;\nbut Elinor had no sense of fatigue, no capability of sleep at that\nmoment about her, and she was not to be kept away from her sister an\nunnecessary instant. Mrs. Jennings therefore attending her up stairs\ninto the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right,\nleft her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to\nher own room to write letters and sleep.\n\nThe night was cold and stormy. The wind roared round the house, and\nthe rain beat against the windows; but Elinor, all happiness within,\nregarded it not. Marianne slept through every blast; and the\ntravellers, they had a rich reward in store, for every present\ninconvenience.\n\nThe clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Elinor would have been\nconvinced that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the\nhouse; and so strong was the persuasion that she _did_, in spite of\nthe _almost_ impossibility of their being already come, that she moved\ninto the adjoining dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to be\nsatisfied of the truth. She instantly saw that her ears had not\ndeceived her. The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in\nview. By their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be\ndrawn by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poor\nmother's alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity.\n\nNever in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as at\nthat moment. The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the\ncarriage stopped the door,--of her doubt--her dread,--perhaps her\ndespair!--and of what _she_ had to tell! with such knowledge it was\nimpossible to be calm. All that remained to be done was to be speedy;\nand, therefore staying only till she could leave Mrs. Jennings's maid\nwith her sister, she hurried down stairs.\n\nThe bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby,\nassured her that they were already in the house. She rushed to the\ndrawing-room,--she entered it,--and saw only Willoughby.\n\n[Illustration: _Opened a window-shutter._]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV\n\n\nElinor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him,\nobeyed the first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the\nroom, and her hand was already on the lock, when its action was\nsuspended by his hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of\ncommand than supplication--\n\n\"Miss Dashwood, for half an hour--for ten minutes--I entreat you to\nstay.\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" she replied with firmness, \"I shall _not_ stay. Your\nbusiness cannot be with _me._ The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell\nyou that Mr. Palmer was not in the house.\"\n\n\"Had they told me,\" he cried with vehemence, \"that Mr. Palmer and all\nhis relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the\ndoor. My business is with you, and only you.\"\n\n\"With me!\"--in the utmost amazement;--\"well, sir--be quick--and if you\ncan--less violent.\"\n\n\"Sit down, and I will be both.\"\n\nShe hesitated; she knew not what to do. The possibility of Colonel\nBrandon's arriving and finding her there, came across her. But she had\npromised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor was\nengaged. After a moment's recollection, therefore, concluding that\nprudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best\npromote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down. He\ntook the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said by\neither.\n\n\"Pray be quick, sir,\" said Elinor, impatiently; \"I have no time to\nspare.\"\n\nHe was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to\nhear her.\n\n\"Your sister,\" said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards--\"is out\nof danger. I heard it from the servant. God be praised!--But is it\ntrue? is it really true?\"\n\nElinor would not speak. He repeated the inquiry with yet greater\neagerness.\n\n\"For God's sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?\"\n\n[Illustration: \"_I entreat you to stay._\"]\n\n\"We hope she is.\"\n\nHe rose up, and walked across the room.\n\n\"Had I known as much half an hour ago--But since I _am_\nhere,\"--speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to his\nseat,--\"what does it signify?--For once, Miss Dashwood--it will be the\nlast time, perhaps--let us be cheerful together. I am in a fine mood\nfor gaiety. Tell me honestly,\"--a deeper glow overspreading his\ncheeks, \"do you think me most a knave or a fool?\"\n\nElinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began to\nthink that he must be in liquor;--the strangeness of such a visit, and\nof such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this\nimpression she immediately rose, saying--\n\n\"Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe--I am not\nat leisure to remain with you longer. Whatever your business may be\nwith me, will it be better recollected and explained to-morrow.\"\n\n\"I understand you,\" he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice\nperfectly calm; \"yes, I am very drunk. A pint of porter with my cold\nbeef at Marlborough was enough to over-set me.\"\n\n\"At Marlborough!\"--cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to understand\nwhat he would be at.\n\n\"Yes,--I left London this morning at eight o'clock, and the only ten\nminutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a\nnuncheon at Marlborough.\"\n\nThe steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he\nspoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might\nbring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she\nsaid, after a moment's recollection--\n\n\"Mr. Willoughby, you _ought_ to feel, and I certainly _do_, that after\nwhat has passed--your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself\nupon my notice, requires a very particular excuse. What is it, that\nyou mean by it?\"--\n\n\"I mean,\"--said he, with serious energy--\"if I can, to make you hate\nme one degree less than you do _now._ I mean to offer some kind of\nexplanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole\nheart to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a\nblockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like\nforgiveness from Ma----, from your sister.\"\n\n\"Is this the real reason of your coming?\"\n\n\"Upon my soul it is,\" was his answer, with a warmth which brought all\nthe former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made\nher think him sincere.\n\n\"If that is all, you may be satisfied already; for Marianne _does_,\nshe has _long_ forgiven you.\"\n\n\"Has she?\" he cried, in the same eager tone. \"Then she has forgiven me\nbefore she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again, and\non more reasonable grounds. _Now_ will you listen to me?\"\n\nElinor bowed her assent.\n\n\"I do not know,\" said he, after a pause of expectation on her side,\nand thoughtfulness on his own, \"how _you_ may have accounted for my\nbehaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have\nimputed to me. Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me,--it is\nworth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing. When I first\nbecame intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other\nview in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was\nobliged to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done\nbefore. Your sister's lovely person and interesting manners could not\nbut please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a\nkind--It is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what _she_\nwas, that my heart should have been so insensible! But at first I must\nconfess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless of her happiness,\nthinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had\nalways been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by\nevery means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any\ndesign of returning her affection.\"\n\nMiss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most\nangry contempt, stopped him, by saying--\n\n\"It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for\nme to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed\nby any thing. Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the\nsubject.\"\n\n\"I insist on you hearing the whole of it,\" he replied, \"My fortune was\nnever large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of\nassociating with people of better income than myself. Every year\nsince my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my\ndebts; and though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set\nme free; yet that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it\nhad been for some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances\nby marrying a woman of fortune. To attach myself to your sister,\ntherefore, was not a thing to be thought of; and with a meanness,\nselfishness, cruelty, which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even\nof yours, Miss Dashwood, can ever reprobate too much,--I was acting in\nthis manner, trying to engage her regard, without a thought of\nreturning it. But one thing may be said for me: even in that horrid\nstate of selfish vanity, I did not know the extent of the injury I\nmeditated, because I did not _then_ know what it was to love. But have\nI ever known it? Well may it be doubted; for, had I really loved,\ncould I have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to avarice? or, what is\nmore, could I have sacrificed hers? But I have done it. To avoid a\ncomparative poverty, which her affection and her society would have\ndeprived of all its horrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence,\nlost every thing that could make it a blessing.\"\n\n\"You did then,\" said Elinor, a little softened, \"believe yourself at\none time attached to her?\"\n\n\"To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such tenderness!\nIs there a man on earth who could have done it? Yes, I found myself,\nby insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours\nof my life were what I spent with her when I felt my intentions were\nstrictly honourable, and my feelings blameless. Even _then_, however,\nwhen fully determined on paying my addresses to her, I allowed myself\nmost improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment of doing it,\nfrom an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my\ncircumstances were so greatly embarrassed. I will not reason here--nor\nwill I stop for _you_ to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse\nthan absurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was\nalready bound. The event has proved, that I was a cunning fool,\nproviding with great circumspection for a possible opportunity of\nmaking myself contemptible and wretched for ever. At last, however, my\nresolution was taken, and I had determined, as soon as I could engage\nher alone, to justify the attentions I had so invariably paid her, and\nopenly assure her of an affection which I had already taken such pains\nto display. But in the interim--in the interim of the very few hours\nthat were to pass, before I could have an opportunity of speaking with\nher in private--a circumstance occurred--an unlucky circumstance--to\nruin all my resolution, and with it all my comfort. A discovery took\nplace,\"--here he hesitated and looked down. \"Mrs. Smith had somehow or\nother been informed, I imagine by some distant relation, whose\ninterest it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a\nconnection--but I need not explain myself farther,\" he added, looking\nat her with an heightened colour and an enquiring eye,--\"your\nparticular intimacy--you have probably heard the whole story long\nago.\"\n\n\"I have,\" returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heart\nanew against any compassion for him, \"I have heard it all. And how you\nwill explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, I\nconfess is beyond my comprehension.\"\n\n\"Remember,\" cried Willoughby, \"from whom you received the account.\nCould it be an impartial one? I acknowledge that her situation and her\ncharacter ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean to justify\nmyself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have\nnothing to urge--that because she was injured she was irreproachable,\nand because _I_ was a libertine, _she_ must be a saint. If the\nviolence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding--I do not\nmean, however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved better\ntreatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the\ntenderness which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any\nreturn. I wish--I heartily wish it had never been. But I have injured\nmore than herself; and I have injured one, whose affection for\nme--(may I say it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose\nmind--Oh! how infinitely superior!\"\n\n\"Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl--I must say\nit, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well\nbe--your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do\nnot think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of\nunderstanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours.\nYou must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in\nDevonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was\nreduced to the extremest indigence.\"\n\n\"But, upon my soul, I did _not_ know it,\" he warmly replied; \"I did\nnot recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction; and common\nsense might have told her how to find it out.\"\n\n\"Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?\"\n\n\"She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be\nguessed. The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her\nignorance of the world,--every thing was against me. The matter itself\nI could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it. She was\npreviously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in\ngeneral, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention,\nthe very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on her, in my\npresent visit. In short, it ended in a total breach. By one measure I\nmight have saved myself. In the height of her morality, good woman!\nshe offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza. That could\nnot be; and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house.\nThe night following this affair--I was to go the next morning--was\nspent by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be. The\nstruggle was great, but it ended too soon. My affection for Marianne,\nmy thorough conviction of her attachment to me--it was all\ninsufficient to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of\nthose false ideas of the necessity of riches, which I was naturally\ninclined to feel, and expensive society had increased. I had reason to\nbelieve myself secure of my present wife, if I chose to address her,\nand I persuaded myself to think that nothing else in common prudence\nremained for me to do. A heavy scene however awaited me, before I\ncould leave Devonshire: I was engaged to dine with you on that very\nday; some apology was therefore necessary for my breaking this\nengagement. But whether I should write this apology, or deliver it in\nperson, was a point of long debate. To see Marianne, I felt, would be\ndreadful, and I even doubted whether I could see her again, and keep\nto my resolution. In that point, however, I undervalued my own\nmagnanimity, as the event declared; for I went, I saw her, and saw her\nmiserable, and left her miserable;--and left her hoping never to see\nher again.\"\n\n\"Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby?\" said Elinor, reproachfully; \"a\nnote would have answered every purpose. Why was it necessary to\ncall?\"\n\n[Illustration: \"_I was formally dismissed._\"]\n\n\"It was necessary to my own pride. I could not bear to leave the\ncountry in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the\nneighbourhood, to suspect any part of what had really passed between\nMrs. Smith and myself, and I resolved therefore on calling at the\ncottage, in my way to Honiton. The sight of your dear sister, however,\nwas really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, I found her alone.\nYou were all gone I do not know where. I had left her only the evening\nbefore, so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right! A\nfew hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and I remember how\nhappy, how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage to\nAllenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with every body! But in\nthis, our last interview of friendship, I approached her with a sense\nof guilt that almost took from me the power of dissembling. Her\nsorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret, when I told her that I\nwas obliged to leave Devonshire so immediately--I never shall forget\nit--united too with such reliance, such confidence in me! Oh, God!\nwhat a hard-hearted rascal I was!\"\n\nThey were both silent for a few moments. Elinor first spoke.\n\n\"Did you tell her that you should soon return?\"\n\n\"I do not know what I told her,\" he replied, impatiently; \"less than\nwas due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more\nthan was justified by the future. I cannot think of it. It won't do.\nThen came your dear mother to torture me farther, with all her\nkindness and confidence. Thank Heaven! it _did_ torture me. I was\nmiserable. Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it\ngives me to look back on my own misery. I owe such a grudge to myself\nfor the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past\nsufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now. Well, I\nwent, left all that I loved, and went to those to whom, at best, I was\nonly indifferent. My journey to town--travelling with my own horses,\nand therefore so tediously--no creature to speak to--my own\nreflections so cheerful--when I looked forward every thing so\ninviting!--when I looked back at Barton, the picture so soothing!--oh,\nit was a blessed journey!\"\n\nHe stopped.\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient for\nhis departure, \"and this is all?\"\n\n\"Ah!--no,--have you forgot what passed in town? That infamous letter?\nDid she show it you?\"\n\n\"Yes, I saw every note that passed.\"\n\n\"When the first of hers reached me (as it immediately did, for I was\nin town the whole time,) what I felt is, in the common phrase, not to\nbe expressed; in a more simple one--perhaps too simple to raise any\nemotion, my feelings were very, very painful. Every line, every word\nwas--in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here,\nwould forbid--a dagger to my heart. To know that Marianne was in town\nwas, in the same language, a thunderbolt. Thunderbolts and daggers!\nwhat a reproof would she have given me! her taste, her opinions--I\nbelieve they are better known to me than my own, and I am sure they\nare dearer.\"\n\nElinor's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this\nextraordinary conversation, was now softened again;--yet she felt it\nher duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last.\n\n\"This is not right, Mr. Willoughby. Remember that you are married.\nRelate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to\nhear.\"\n\n\"Marianne's note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as in\nformer days, that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been\nseparated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of\nfaith in the constancy of mine as ever, awakened all my remorse. I say\nawakened, because time and London, business and dissipation, had in\nsome measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine hardened\nvillain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and choosing to fancy\nthat she too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself of\nour past attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my\nshoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach,\novercoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, 'I shall be\nheartily glad to hear she is well married.' But this note made me know\nmyself better. I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than any\nother woman in the world, and that I was using her infamously. But\nevery thing was then just settled between Miss Grey and me. To retreat\nwas impossible. All that I had to do, was to avoid you both. I sent no\nanswer to Marianne, intending by that to preserve myself from her\nfarther notice; and for some time I was even determined not to call\nin Berkeley Street; but at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of\na cool, common acquaintance than anything else, I watched you all\nsafely out of the house one morning, and left my name.\"\n\n\"Watched us out of the house!\"\n\n\"Even so. You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, how\noften I was on the point of falling in with you. I have entered many a\nshop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by. Lodging as I did\nin Bond Street, there was hardly a day in which I did not catch a\nglimpse of one or other of you; and nothing but the most constant\nwatchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep\nout of your sight, could have separated us so long. I avoided the\nMiddletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was\nlikely to prove an acquaintance in common. Not aware of their being in\ntown, however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of\nhis coming, and the day after I had called at Mrs. Jennings's. He\nasked me to a party, a dance at his house in the evening. Had he _not_\ntold me as an inducement that you and your sister were to be there, I\nshould have felt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near him. The\nnext morning brought another short note from Marianne--still\naffectionate, open, artless, confiding--everything that could make\n_my_ conduct most hateful. I could not answer it. I tried--but could\nnot frame a sentence. But I thought of her, I believe, every moment of\nthe day. If you _can_ pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it\nwas _then._ With my head and heart full of your sister, I was forced\nto play the happy lover to another woman! Those three or four weeks\nwere worse than all. Well, at last, as I need not tell you, you were\nforced on me; and what a sweet figure I cut! what an evening of agony\nit was! Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me\nWilloughby in such a tone! Oh, God! holding out her hand to me, asking\nme for an explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such\nspeaking solicitude on my face! and Sophia, jealous as the devil on\nthe other hand, looking all that was--Well, it does not signify; it is\nover now. Such an evening! I ran away from you all as soon as I could;\nbut not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face as white as death.\n_That_ was the last, last look I ever had of her; the last manner in\nwhich she appeared to me. It was a horrid sight! yet when I thought\nof her to-day as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me to\nimagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those, who saw her\nlast in this world. She was before me, constantly before me, as I\ntravelled, in the same look and hue.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"_I have entered many a shop to avoid your sight._\"]\n\nA short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby first\nrousing himself, broke it thus:\n\n\"Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is certainly better,\ncertainly out of danger?\"\n\n\"We are assured of it.\"\n\n\"Your poor mother, too!--doting on Marianne.\"\n\n\"But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter; have you any thing\nto say about that?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, _that_ in particular. Your sister wrote to me again, you\nknow, the very next morning. You saw what she said. I was breakfasting\nat the Ellisons,--and her letter, with some others, was brought to me\nthere from my lodgings. It happened to catch Sophia's eye before it\ncaught mine;--and its size, the elegance of the paper, the hand-writing\naltogether, immediately gave her a suspicion. Some vague report had\nreached her before of my attachment to some young lady in Devonshire,\nand what had passed within her observation the preceding evening had\nmarked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous than ever.\nAffecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is delightful in a\nwoman one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read its contents.\nShe was well paid for her impudence. She read what made her wretched.\nHer wretchedness I could have borne, but her passion--her malice--at all\nevents it must be appeased. And, in short, what do you think of my\nwife's style of letter-writing?--delicate--tender--truly feminine--was\nit not?\"\n\n\"Your wife! The letter was in your own hand-writing.\"\n\n\"Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as\nI was ashamed to put my name to. The original was all her own--her own\nhappy thoughts and gentle diction. But what could I do! we were\nengaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed--but I am\ntalking like a fool. Preparation! Day! In honest words, her money was\nnecessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to be\ndone to prevent a rupture. And after all, what did it signify to my\ncharacter in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what\nlanguage my answer was couched? It must have been only to one end. My\nbusiness was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with\na bow or a bluster was of little importance. 'I am ruined for ever in\ntheir opinion,' said I to myself; 'I am shut out for ever from their\nsociety, they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter\nwill only make them think me a blackguard one.' Such were my\nreasonings, as, in a sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my\nwife's words, and parted with the last relics of Marianne. Her three\nnotes--unluckily they were all in my pocket-book, or I should have\ndenied their existence, and hoarded them for ever--I was forced to put\nthem up, and could not even kiss them. And the lock of hair--that too\nI had always carried about me in the same pocket-book, which was now\nsearched by Madam with the most ingratiating virulence,--the dear\nlock--all, every memento was torn from me.\"\n\n\"You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable,\" said Elinor,\nwhile her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate\nemotion; \"you ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs.\nWilloughby or my sister. You had made your own choice. It was not\nforced on you. Your wife has a claim to your politeness, to your\nrespect, at least. She must be attached to you, or she would not have\nmarried you. To treat her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly\nis no atonement to Marianne--nor can I suppose it a relief to your own\nconscience.\"\n\n\"Do not talk to me of my wife,\" said he with a heavy sigh. \"She does\nnot deserve your compassion. She knew I had no regard for her when we\nmarried. Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be\nhappy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay. And now do you pity\nme, Miss Dashwood? or have I said all this to no purpose? Am I,--be\nit only one degree,--am I less guilty in your opinion than I was\nbefore? My intentions were not always wrong. Have I explained away any\npart of my guilt?\"\n\n\"Yes, you have certainly removed something--a little. You have proved\nyourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You have\nproved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But I hardly\nknow--the misery that you have inflicted--I hardly know what could\nhave made it worse.\"\n\n\"Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what I have\nbeen telling you?--Let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as\nwell as in yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me already. Let me\nbe able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my\npresent feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural,\nmore gentle, less dignified, forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and my\npenitence--tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if\nyou will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever.\"\n\n\"I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be\ncalled, your justification. But you have not explained to me the\nparticular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her\nillness.\"\n\n\"Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton,\nand when he saw who I was, for the first time these two months--he\nspoke to me. That he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen\nwithout surprise or resentment. Now, however, his good-natured,\nhonest, stupid soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for\nyour sister, could not resist the temptation of telling me what he\nknew ought to, though probably he did not think it _would_, vex me\nhorridly. As bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that\nMarianne Dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland--a letter\nthat morning received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most\nimminent--the Palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c. I was too much\nshocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even to the\nundiscerning Sir John. His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer;\nand so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he\nalmost shook me by the hand while he reminded me of an old promise\nabout a pointer puppy. What I felt on hearing that your sister was\ndying, and dying too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth,\nscorning, hating me in her latest moments--for how could I tell what\nhorrid projects might not have been imputed? _One_ person I was sure\nwould represent me as capable of any thing. What I felt was dreadful!\nMy resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock this morning I was\nin my carriage. Now you know all.\"\n\nElinor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed on the\nirreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent\nhabits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the\ncharacter, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person\nand talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a\nfeeling, affectionate temper. The world had made him extravagant and\nvain--Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish.\nVanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of\nanother, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or\nat least its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each\nfaulty propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to\npunishment. The attachment, from which against honour, against\nfeeling, against every better interest he had outwardly torn himself,\nnow, when no longer allowable, governed every thought; and the\nconnection, for the sake of which he had, with little scruple, left\nher sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to\nhimself of a far more incurable nature. From a reverie of this kind\nshe was recalled at the end of some minutes by Willoughby, who,\nrousing himself from a reverie at least equally painful, started up in\npreparation for going, and said--\n\n\"There is no use in staying here; I must be off.\"\n\n\"Are you going back to town?\"\n\n\"No--to Combe Magna. I have business there; from thence to town in a\nday or two. Good bye.\"\n\nHe held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers;--he\npressed it with affection.\n\n\"And you _do_ think something better of me than you did?\"--said he,\nletting it fall, and leaning against the mantelpiece as if forgetting\nhe was to go.\n\nElinor assured him that she did;--that she forgave, pitied, wished him\nwell--was even interested in his happiness--and added some gentle\ncounsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer was\nnot very encouraging.\n\n\"As to that,\" said he, \"I must rub through the world as well as I can.\nDomestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowed\nto think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions,\nit may be the means--it may put me on my guard--at least, it may be\nsomething to live for. Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever.\nWere I even by any blessed chance at liberty again--\"\n\nElinor stopped him with a reproof.\n\n\"Well,\"--he replied--\"once more good bye. I shall now go away and live\nin dread of one event.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Your sister's marriage.\"\n\n\"You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is\nnow.\"\n\n\"But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one should\nbe the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear--but I will not\nstay to rob myself of all your compassionate good-will, by showing that\nwhere I have most injured I can least forgive. Good bye,--God bless\nyou!\"\n\nAnd with these words, he almost ran out of the room.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLV\n\n\nElinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the\nsound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a\ncrowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness\nwas the general result, to think even of her sister.\n\nWilloughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the\nmost worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited\na degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which\nmade her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with\na tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged\nwithin herself--to his wishes than to his merits. She felt that his\ninfluence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought\nnot in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction,\nthat open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to\npossess; and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not\neven innocent to indulge. But she felt that it was so, long, long\nbefore she could feel his influence less.\n\nWhen at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her\njust awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of\nher hopes. Elinor's heart was full. The past, the present, the future,\nWilloughby's visit, Marianne's safety, and her mother's expected\narrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept\noff every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful of\nbetraying herself to her sister. Short was the time, however, in which\nthat fear could affect her, for within half an hour after Willoughby's\nleaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the sound of\nanother carriage. Eager to save her mother from every unnecessary\nmoment's horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the hall, and\nreached the outward door just in time to receive and support her as\nshe entered it.\n\nMrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced\nalmost the conviction of Marianne's being no more, had no voice to\ninquire after her, no voice even for Elinor; but _she_, waiting\nneither for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief;\nand her mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment\nas much overcome by her happiness, as she had been before by her\nfears. She was supported into the drawing-room between her daughter\nand her friend; and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable\nto speak, embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at\nintervals to press Colonel Brandon's hand, with a look which spoke at\nonce her gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in\nthe bliss of the moment. He shared it, however, in a silence even\ngreater than her own.\n\nAs soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was\nher first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child,\nrendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger.\nElinor's delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only\nchecked by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther\nsleep;--but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when\nthe life of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in knowing\nher mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for\nconversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by\nevery nurse around her. Mrs. Dashwood _would_ sit up with her all\nnight; and Elinor, in compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to\nbed. But the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours\nof the most wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by\nirritation of spirits. Willoughby, \"poor Willoughby,\" as she now\nallowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would\nnot but have heard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now\nacquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before. But her\npromise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful. She\ndreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne\nmight be; doubted whether after such an explanation she could ever be\nhappy with another; and for a moment wished Willoughby a widower.\nThen, remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved herself, felt that to\n_his_ sufferings and _his_ constancy far more than to his rival's, the\nreward of her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than Mrs.\nWilloughby's death.\n\nThe shock of Colonel Brandon's errand at Barton had been much softened\nto Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her\nuneasiness about Marianne, that she had already determined to set out\nfor Cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any further\nintelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival,\nthat the Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret\naway, as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be\ninfection.\n\nMarianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness\nof Mrs. Dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she\nrepeatedly declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world.\nElinor could not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without\nsometimes wondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward. But\nMrs. Dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own\ndisappointment which Elinor had sent her, was led away by the\nexuberance of her joy to think only of what would increase it.\nMarianne was restored to her from a danger in which, as she now began\nto feel, her own mistaken judgment in encouraging the unfortunate\nattachment to Willoughby, had contributed to place her; and in her\nrecovery she had yet another source of joy unthought of by Elinor. It\nwas thus imparted to her, as soon as any opportunity of private\nconference between them occurred.\n\n\"At last we are alone. My Elinor, you do not yet know all my\nhappiness. Colonel Brandon loves Marianne. He has told me so himself.\"\n\nHer daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and\nnot surprised, was all silent attention.\n\n\"You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your\ncomposure now. Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my\nfamily, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's marrying one of you\nas the object most desirable. And I believe Marianne will be the most\nhappy with him of the two.\"\n\nElinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because\nsatisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their\nage, characters, or feelings, could be given;--but her mother must\nalways be carried away by her imagination on any interesting subject,\nand therefore instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.\n\n\"He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled. It came\nout quite unawares, quite undesignedly. I, you may well believe, could\ntalk of nothing but my child;--he could not conceal his distress; I\nsaw that it equalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere\nfriendship, as the world now goes, would not justify so warm a\nsympathy--or rather, not thinking at all, I suppose--giving way to\nirresistible feelings, made me acquainted with his earnest, tender,\nconstant, affection for Marianne. He has loved her, my Elinor, ever\nsince the first moment of seeing her.\"\n\nHere, however, Elinor perceived,--not the language, not the\nprofessions of Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her\nmother's active fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her\nas it chose.\n\n\"His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby\never felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or constant,\nwhich ever we are to call it, has subsisted through all the knowledge\nof dear Marianne's unhappy prepossession for that worthless young man!\nand without selfishness, without encouraging a hope! could he have\nseen her happy with another. Such a noble mind! such openness, such\nsincerity! No one can be deceived in _him._\"\n\n\"Colonel Brandon's character,\" said Elinor, \"as an excellent man, is\nwell established.\"\n\n\"I know it is,\" replied her mother seriously, \"or after such a\nwarning, I should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to\nbe pleased by it. But his coming for me as he did, with such active,\nsuch ready friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of\nmen.\"\n\n\"His character, however,\" answered Elinor, \"does not rest on _one_ act\nof kindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of\nthe case, would have prompted him. To Mrs. Jennings, to the\nMiddletons, he has been long and intimately known; they equally love\nand respect him; and even my own knowledge of him, though lately\nacquired, is very considerable; and so highly do I value and esteem\nhim, that if Marianne can be happy with him, I shall be as ready as\nyourself to think our connection the greatest blessing to us in the\nworld. What answer did you give him? Did you allow him to hope?\"\n\n\"Oh! my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself.\nMarianne might at that moment be dying. But he did not ask for hope or\nencouragement. His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible\neffusion to a soothing friend, not an application to a parent. Yet\nafter a time I _did_ say, for at first I was quite overcome, that if\nshe lived, as I trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in\npromoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful\nsecurity, I have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every\nencouragement in my power. Time, a very little time, I tell him, will\ndo everything; Marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a\nman as Willoughby. His own merits must soon secure it.\"\n\n\"To judge from the Colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet made\nhim equally sanguine.\"\n\n\"No. He thinks Marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any change\nin it under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again\nfree, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a\ndifference of age and disposition he could ever attach her. There,\nhowever, he is quite mistaken. His age is only so much beyond hers as\nto be an advantage, as to make his character and principles\nfixed;--and his disposition, I am well convinced, is exactly the very\none to make your sister happy. And his person, his manners too, are\nall in his favour. My partiality does not blind me; he certainly is\nnot so handsome as Willoughby--but at the same time, there is\nsomething much more pleasing in his countenance. There was always a\nsomething,--if you remember,--in Willoughby's eyes at times, which I\ndid not like.\"\n\nElinor could _not_ remember it;--but her mother, without waiting for\nher assent, continued--\n\n\"And his manners, the Colonel's manners are not only more pleasing to\nme than Willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to\nbe more solidly attaching to Marianne. Their gentleness, their\ngenuine attention to other people, and their manly unstudied\nsimplicity is much more accordant with her real disposition, than the\nliveliness--often artificial, and often ill-timed of the other. I am\nvery sure myself, that had Willoughby turned out as really amiable, as\nhe has proved himself the contrary, Marianne would yet never have been\nso happy with _him_ as she will be with Colonel Brandon.\"\n\nShe paused. Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her\ndissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence.\n\n\"At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me,\" added Mrs.\nDashwood, \"even if I remain at Barton; and in all probability,--for I\nhear it is a large village,--indeed there certainly _must_ be some\nsmall house or cottage close by, that would suit us quite as well as\nour present situation.\"\n\nPoor Elinor!--here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford!--but\nher spirit was stubborn.\n\n\"His fortune too!--for at my time of life you know, everybody cares\nabout _that_;--and though I neither know nor desire to know, what it\nreally is, I am sure it must be a good one.\"\n\nHere they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and\nElinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to\nher friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVI\n\n\nMarianne's illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long\nenough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength,\nand her mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to\nenable her to remove, within four days after the arrival of the\nlatter, into Mrs. Palmer's dressing-room. When there, at her own\nparticular request, for she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to\nhim for fetching her mother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit her.\n\nHis emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and in\nreceiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was\nsuch, as, in Elinor's conjecture, must arise from something more than\nhis affection for Marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to\nothers; and she soon discovered in his melancholy eye and varying\ncomplexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many\npast scenes of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblance\nbetween Marianne and Eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened\nby the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness,\nand the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.\n\nMrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, but\nwith a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to\nvery different effect, saw nothing in the Colonel's behaviour but what\narose from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the\nactions and words of Marianne she persuaded herself to think that\nsomething more than gratitude already dawned.\n\nAt the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger\nevery twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her\ndaughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton. On _her_\nmeasures depended those of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could not\nquit Cleveland during the Dashwoods' stay; and Colonel Brandon was\nsoon brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there\nas equally determinate, if not equally indispensable. At his and Mrs.\nJennings's united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to\naccept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better\naccommodation of her sick child; and the Colonel, at the joint\ninvitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active\ngood-nature made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well\nas herself, engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the\ncottage, in the course of a few weeks.\n\nThe day of separation and departure arrived; and Marianne, after\ntaking so particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so\nearnestly grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due\nto her own heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and\nbidding Colonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was\ncarefully assisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed\nanxious that she should engross at least half. Mrs. Dashwood and\nElinor then followed, and the others were left by themselves, to talk\nof the travellers, and feel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings\nwas summoned to her chaise to take comfort in the gossip of her maid\nfor the loss of her two young companions; and Colonel Brandon\nimmediately afterwards took his solitary way to Delaford.\n\nThe Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journey\non both, without essential fatigue. Every thing that the most zealous\naffection, the most solicitous care could do to render her\ncomfortable, was the office of each watchful companion, and each found\ntheir reward in her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits. To\nElinor, the observation of the latter was particularly grateful. She,\nwho had seen her week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by\nanguish of heart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor\nfortitude to conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally\nshare, an apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as\nshe trusted of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to\ncontentment and cheerfulness.\n\nAs they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which\nevery field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful\nrecollection, she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her\nface from their notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window. But\nhere, Elinor could neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she\nassisted Marianne from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw\nonly an emotion too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender\nthan pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. In the whole\nof her subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened\nto reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common\nsitting-room, than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of\nresolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the\nsight of every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could\nbe connected. She said little, but every sentence aimed at\ncheerfulness, and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed\naway without the atonement of a smile. After dinner she would try her\npiano-forte. She went to it; but the music on which her eye first\nrested was an opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some\nof their favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name\nin his hand-writing. That would not do. She shook her head, put the\nmusic aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained\nof feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again;\ndeclaring however with firmness as she did so, that she should in\nfuture practice much.\n\nThe next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. On the\ncontrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked\nand spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of\nMargaret's return, and talking of the dear family party which would\nthen be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as\nthe only happiness worth a wish.\n\n\"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength,\" said\nshe, \"we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the\nfarm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will\nwalk to Sir John's new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland;\nand we will often go the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its\nfoundations as far as we are told they once reached. I know we shall\nbe happy. I know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never to be\nlater in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall\ndivide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan,\nand am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own\nlibrary is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing\nbeyond mere amusement. But there are many works well worth reading at\nthe Park; and there are others of more modern production which I know\nI can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six hours a-day, I\nshall gain in the course of a twelvemonth a great deal of instruction\nwhich I now feel myself to want.\"\n\nElinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this;\nthough smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her\nto the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work\nin introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and\nvirtuous self-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh when she\nremembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared\nshe had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of\nMarianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy\ntranquillity. Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved\nto wait till her sister's health were more secure, before she\nappointed it. But the resolution was made only to be broken.\n\n[Illustration: \"_And see how the children go on._\"]\n\nMarianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was\nfine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out. But at last a\nsoft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter's\nwishes and the mother's confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor's\narm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in\nthe lane before the house.\n\nThe sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne in\nan exercise hitherto untried since her illness required;--and they had\nadvanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the\nhill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned\ntowards it, Marianne calmly said--\n\n\"There, exactly there,\"--pointing with one hand, \"on that projecting\nmound,--there I fell; and there I first saw Willoughby.\"\n\nHer voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added,\n\n\"I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the\nspot! shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?\" hesitatingly it was\nsaid. \"Or will it be wrong? I can talk of it now, I hope, as I ought\nto do.\"\n\nElinor tenderly invited her to be open.\n\n\"As for regret,\" said Marianne, \"I have done with that, as far as _he_\nis concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have\nbeen for him, but what they are _now._ At present, if I could be\nsatisfied on one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not\n_always_ acting a part, not _always_ deceiving me; but above all, if I\ncould be assured that he never was so _very_ wicked as my fears have\nsometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate girl--\"\n\nShe stopped. Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered--\n\n\"If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy.\"\n\n\"Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it; for not only is it\nhorrible to suspect a person, who has been what _he_ has been to _me_,\nof such designs, but what must it make me appear to myself? What in a\nsituation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could\nexpose me to--\"\n\n\"How then,\" asked her sister, \"would you account for his behaviour?\"\n\n\"I would suppose him--Oh, how gladly would I suppose him!--only\nfickle, very, very fickle.\"\n\nElinor said no more. She was debating within herself on the\neligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till\nMarianne were in stronger health; and they crept on for a few minutes\nin silence.\n\n\"I am not wishing him too much good,\" said Marianne at last with a\nsigh, \"when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant\nthan my own. He will suffer enough in them.\"\n\n\"Do you compare your conduct with his?\"\n\n\"No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with\nyours.\"\n\n\"Our situations have borne little resemblance.\"\n\n\"They have borne more than our conduct. Do not, my dearest Elinor, let\nyour kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure. My illness\nhas made me think. It has given me leisure and calmness for serious\nrecollection. Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I was\nperfectly able to reflect. I considered the past: I saw in my own\nbehaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last autumn,\nnothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of kindness\nto others. I saw that my own feelings had prepared my sufferings, and\nthat my want of fortitude under them had almost led me to the grave. My\nillness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself by such\nnegligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the time to be wrong.\nHad I died, it would have been self-destruction. I did not know my\ndanger till the danger was removed; but with such feelings as these\nreflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery,--wonder that the very\neagerness of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to my God,\nand to you all, did not kill me at once. Had I died, in what peculiar\nmisery should I have left you, my nurse, my friend, my sister! You, who\nhad seen all the fretful selfishness of my latter days; who had known\nall the murmurings of my heart! How should I have lived in _your_\nremembrance! My mother too! How could you have consoled her! I cannot\nexpress my own abhorrence of myself. Whenever I looked towards the past,\nI saw some duty neglected, or some failing indulged. Every body seemed\ninjured by me. The kindness, the unceasing kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I\nhad repaid with ungrateful contempt. To the Middletons, to the Palmers,\nthe Steeles, to every common acquaintance even, I had been insolent and\nunjust; with a heart hardened against their merits, and a temper\nirritated by their very attention. To John, to Fanny, yes, even to them,\nlittle as they deserve, I had given less than their due. But you, you\nabove all, above my mother, had been wronged by me. I, and only I, knew\nyour heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?--not to any\ncompassion that could benefit you or myself. Your example was before me;\nbut to what avail? Was I more considerate of you and your comfort? Did I\nimitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking any part\nin those offices of general complaisance or particular gratitude which\nyou had hitherto been left to discharge alone? No; not less when I knew\nyou to be unhappy, than when I had believed you at ease, did I turn away\nfrom every exertion of duty or friendship; scarcely allowing sorrow to\nexist but with me, regretting only _that_ heart which had deserted and\nwronged me, and leaving you, for I professed an unbounded affection, to\nbe miserable for my sake.\"\n\nHere ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor,\nimpatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly\nthat praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well\ndeserved. Marianne pressed her hand and replied--\n\n\"You are very good. The future must be my proof. I have laid down my\nplan, and if I am capable of adhering to it--my feelings shall be\ngoverned and my temper improved. They shall no longer worry others,\nnor torture myself. I shall now live solely for my family. You, my\nmother, and Margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you will\nshare my affections entirely between you. From you, from my home, I\nshall never again have the smallest incitement to move; and if I do\nmix in other society, it will be only to show that my spirit is\nhumbled, my heart amended, and that I can practise the civilities, the\nlesser duties of life, with gentleness and forbearance. As for\nWilloughby--to say that I shall soon or that I shall ever forget him,\nwould be idle. His remembrance can be overcome by no change of\ncircumstances or opinions. But it shall be regulated, it shall be\nchecked by religion, by reason, by constant employment.\"\n\nShe paused--and added in a low voice, \"If I could but know _his_\nheart, everything would become easy.\"\n\nElinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or\nimpropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at\nall nearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as\nreflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself\nleading to the fact.\n\nShe managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her\nanxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief\npoints on which Willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his\nrepentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard.\nMarianne said not a word. She trembled, her eyes were fixed on the\nground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them. A\nthousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge\none. She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand,\nunknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears\ncovered her cheeks.\n\nElinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they\nreached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her\ncuriosity must be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked\nof nothing but Willoughby, and their conversation together; and was\ncarefully minute in every particular of speech and look, where\nminuteness could be safely indulged. As soon as they entered the\nhouse, Marianne with a kiss of gratitude and these two words just\narticulate through her tears, \"Tell mama,\" withdrew from her sister\nand walked slowly up stairs. Elinor would not attempt to disturb a\nsolitude so reasonable as what she now sought; and with a mind\nanxiously pre-arranging its result, and a resolution of reviving the\nsubject again, should Marianne fail to do it, she turned into the\nparlour to fulfill her parting injunction.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVII\n\n\nMrs. Dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former\nfavourite. She rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his\nimputed guilt;--she was sorry for him;--she wished him happy. But the\nfeelings of the past could not be recalled. Nothing could restore him\nwith a faith unbroken--a character unblemished, to Marianne. Nothing\ncould do away the knowledge of what the latter had suffered through\nhis means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza. Nothing\ncould replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the\ninterests of Colonel Brandon.\n\nHad Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby's story from\nhimself,--had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence\nof his countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion\nwould have been greater. But it was neither in Elinor's power, nor in\nher wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her retailed\nexplanation, as had at first been called forth in herself. Reflection\nhad given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own opinion of\nWilloughby's deserts; she wished, therefore, to declare only the\nsimple truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his\ncharacter, without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy\nastray.\n\nIn the evening, when they were all three together, Marianne began\nvoluntarily to speak of him again; but that it was not without an\neffort, the restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for\nsome time previously sitting, her rising colour, as she spoke, and her\nunsteady voice, plainly showed.\n\n\"I wish to assure you both,\" said she, \"that I see every thing--as you\ncan desire me to do.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing\ntenderness, had not Elinor, who really wished to hear her sister's\nunbiased opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence. Marianne\nslowly continued--\n\n\"It is a great relief to me--what Elinor told me this morning--I have\nnow heard exactly what I wished to hear.\"--For some moments her voice\nwas lost; but recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness\nthan before--\"I am now perfectly satisfied, I wish for no change. I\nnever could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or\nlater I must have known, all this. I should have had no confidence, no\nesteem. Nothing could have done it away to my feelings.\"\n\n\"I know it--I know it,\" cried her mother. \"Happy with a man of\nlibertine practices!--With one who so injured the peace of the dearest\nof our friends, and the best of men!--No--my Marianne has not a heart\nto be made happy with such a man!--Her conscience, her sensitive\nconscience, would have felt all that the conscience of her husband\nought to have felt.\"\n\nMarianne sighed, and repeated, \"I wish for no change.\"\n\n\"You consider the matter,\" said Elinor, \"exactly as a good mind and a\nsound understanding must consider it; and I dare say you perceive, as\nwell as myself, not only in this, but in many other circumstances,\nreason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved\nyou in many certain troubles and disappointments, in which you would\nhave been poorly supported by an affection, on his side, much less\ncertain. Had you married, you must have been always poor. His\nexpensiveness is acknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct\ndeclares that self-denial is a word hardly understood by him. His\ndemands and your inexperience together, on a small, very small income,\nmust have brought on distresses which would not be the _less_ grievous\nto you, from having been entirely unknown and unthought of before.\n_Your_ sense of honour and honesty would have led you, I know, when\naware of your situation, to attempt all the economy that would appear\nto you possible: and, perhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched\nonly on your own comfort, you might have been suffered to practice it,\nbut beyond that--and how little could the utmost of your single\nmanagement do to stop the ruin which had begun before your marriage?\nbeyond _that_, had you endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge\n_his_ enjoyments, is it not to be feared, that instead of prevailing\non feelings so selfish to consent to it, you would have lessened your\nown influence on his heart, and made him regret the connection which\nhad involved him in such difficulties?\"\n\nMarianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the word \"Selfish?\" in a\ntone that implied, \"do you really think him selfish?\"\n\n\"The whole of his behaviour,\" replied Elinor, \"from the beginning to\nthe end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness. It was\nselfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which\nafterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession\nof it, and which finally carried him from Barton. His own enjoyment,\nor his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle.\"\n\n\"It is very true. _My_ happiness never was his object.\"\n\n\"At present,\" continued Elinor, \"he regrets what he has done. And why\ndoes he regret it?--Because he finds it has not answered towards\nhimself. It has not made him happy. His circumstances are now\nunembarrassed--he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks\nonly that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than\nyourself. But does it follow that had he married you, he would have\nbeen happy?--The inconveniences would have been different. He would\nthen have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they\nare removed, he now reckons as nothing. He would have had a wife of\nwhose temper he could make no complaint, but he would have been always\nnecessitous--always poor; and probably would soon have learned to rank\nthe innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far\nmore importance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a\nwife.\"\n\n\"I have not a doubt of it,\" said Marianne; \"and I have nothing to\nregret--nothing but my own folly.\"\n\n\"Rather say your mother's imprudence, my child,\" said Mrs. Dashwood;\n\"_she_ must be answerable.\"\n\nMarianne would not let her proceed;--and Elinor, satisfied that each\nfelt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that\nmight weaken her sister's spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first\nsubject, immediately continued--\n\n\"One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the\nstory--that all Willoughby's difficulties have arisen from the first\noffence against virtue, in his behaviour to Eliza Williams. That crime\nhas been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present\ndiscontents.\"\n\nMarianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led\nby it to an enumeration of Colonel Brandon's injuries and merits, warm\nas friendship and design could unitedly dictate. Her daughter did not\nlook, however, as if much of it were heard by her.\n\nElinor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or three\nfollowing days, that Marianne did not continue to gain strength as she\nhad done; but while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried\nto appear cheerful and easy, her sister could safely trust to the\neffect of time upon her health.\n\nMargaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each\nother, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if not pursuing their\nusual studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to\nBarton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future.\n\nElinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward. She had heard\nnothing of him since her leaving London, nothing new of his plans,\nnothing certain even of his present abode. Some letters had passed\nbetween her and her brother, in consequence of Marianne's illness; and\nin the first of John's, there had been this sentence:--\"We know\nnothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so\nprohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford\"; which\nwas all the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence,\nfor his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters.\nShe was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures.\n\nTheir man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business; and\nwhen, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his\nmistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary\ncommunication--\n\n\"I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is married.\"\n\nMarianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her\nturning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. Mrs. Dashwood,\nwhose eyes, as she answered the servant's inquiry, had intuitively\ntaken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by Elinor's\ncountenance how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards,\nalike distressed by Marianne's situation, knew not on which child to\nbestow her principal attention.\n\nThe servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense\nenough to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood's assistance,\nsupported her into the other room. By that time, Marianne was rather\nbetter, and her mother leaving her to the care of Margaret and the\nmaid, returned to Elinor, who, though still much disordered, had so\nfar recovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just\nbeginning an inquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his intelligence.\nMrs. Dashwood immediately took all that trouble on herself; and Elinor\nhad the benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it.\n\n[Illustration: \"_I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is\nmarried._\"]\n\n\"Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas?\"\n\n\"I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma'am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady\ntoo, Miss Steele as was. They was stopping in a chaise at the door of\nthe New London Inn, as I went there with a message from Sally at the\nPark to her brother, who is one of the post-boys. I happened to look\nup as I went by the chaise, and so I see directly it was the youngest\nMiss Steele; so I took off my hat, and she knew me and called to me,\nand inquired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies, especially Miss\nMarianne, and bid me I should give her compliments and Mr. Ferrars's,\ntheir best compliments and service, and how sorry they was they had\nnot time to come on and see you, but they was in a great hurry to go\nforwards, for they was going further down for a little while, but\nhowever, when they come back, they'd make sure to come and see you.\"\n\n\"But did she tell you she was married, Thomas?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am. She smiled, and said how she had changed her name since\nshe was in these parts. She was always a very affable and free-spoken\nyoung lady, and very civil behaved. So, I made free to wish her joy.\"\n\n\"Was Mr. Ferrars in the carriage with her?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look\nup;--he never was a gentleman much for talking.\"\n\nElinor's heart could easily account for his not putting himself\nforward; and Mrs. Dashwood probably found the same explanation.\n\n\"Was there no one else in the carriage?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am, only they two.\"\n\n\"Do you know where they came from?\"\n\n\"They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy--Mrs. Ferrars told me.\"\n\n\"And are they going farther westward?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am--but not to bide long. They will soon be back again, and\nthen they'd be sure and call here.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but Elinor knew better than\nto expect them. She recognised the whole of Lucy in the message, and\nwas very confident that Edward would never come near them. She\nobserved in a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably going\ndown to Mr. Pratt's, near Plymouth.\n\nThomas's intelligence seemed over. Elinor looked as if she wished to\nhear more.\n\n\"Did you see them off, before you came away?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am--the horses were just coming out, but I could not bide any\nlonger; I was afraid of being late.\"\n\n\"Did Mrs. Ferrars look well?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was\nalways a very handsome young lady--and she seemed vastly contented.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood could think of no other question, and Thomas and the\ntablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed.\nMarianne had already sent to say, that she should eat nothing more.\nMrs. Dashwood's and Elinor's appetites were equally lost, and Margaret\nmight think herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness as\nboth her sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had\noften had to be careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to\ngo without her dinner before.\n\nWhen the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and\nElinor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a\nsimilarity of thoughtfulness and silence. Mrs. Dashwood feared to\nhazard any remark, and ventured not to offer consolation. She now\nfound that she had erred in relying on Elinor's representation of\nherself; and justly concluded that every thing had been expressly\nsoftened at the time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness,\nsuffering as she then had suffered for Marianne. She found that she\nhad been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her\ndaughter, to think the attachment, which once she had so well\nunderstood, much slighter in reality, than she had been wont to\nbelieve, or than it was now proved to be. She feared that under this\npersuasion she had been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to\nher Elinor; that Marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged,\nmore immediately before her, had too much engrossed her tenderness,\nand led her away to forget that in Elinor she might have a daughter\nsuffering almost as much, certainly with less self-provocation, and\ngreater fortitude.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVIII\n\n\nElinor now found the difference between the expectation of an\nunpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it,\nand certainty itself. She now found, that in spite of herself, she had\nalways admitted a hope, while Edward remained single, that something\nwould occur to prevent his marrying Lucy; that some resolution of his\nown, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of\nestablishment for the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of\nall. But he was now married; and she condemned her heart for the\nlurking flattery, which so much heightened the pain of the\nintelligence.\n\nThat he should be married soon, before (as she imagined) he could be\nin orders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the\nliving, surprised her a little at first. But she soon saw how likely\nit was that Lucy, in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure\nhim, should overlook every thing but the risk of delay. They were\nmarried, married in town, and now hastening down to her uncle's. What\nhad Edward felt on being within four miles from Barton, on seeing her\nmother's servant, on hearing Lucy's message!\n\nThey would soon, she supposed, be settled at\nDelaford;--Delaford,--that place in which so much conspired to give\nher an interest; which she wished to be acquainted with, and yet\ndesired to avoid. She saw them in an instant in their parsonage-house;\nsaw in Lucy, the active, contriving manager, uniting at once a desire\nof smart appearance with the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be\nsuspected of half her economical practices; pursuing her own interest\nin every thought, courting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs.\nJennings, and of every wealthy friend. In Edward, she knew not what\nshe saw, nor what she wished to see. Happy or unhappy, nothing pleased\nher; she turned away her head from every sketch of him.\n\nElinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in London\nwould write to them to announce the event, and give farther\nparticulars,--but day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no\ntidings. Though uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault\nwith every absent friend. They were all thoughtless or indolent.\n\n\"When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma'am?\" was an inquiry which\nsprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on.\n\n\"I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see, than to\nhear from him again. I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should\nnot be surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day.\"\n\nThis was gaining something, something to look forward to. Colonel\nBrandon must have some information to give.\n\nScarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on\nhorseback drew her eyes to the window. He stopped at their gate. It\nwas a gentleman, it was Colonel Brandon himself. Now she could hear\nmore; and she trembled in expectation of it. But--it was _not_ Colonel\nBrandon--neither his air--nor his height. Were it possible, she must\nsay it must be Edward. She looked again. He had just dismounted;--she\ncould not be mistaken,--it _was_ Edward. She moved away and sat down.\n\"He comes from Mr. Pratt's purposely to see us. I _will_ be calm, I\n_will_ be mistress of myself.\"\n\nIn a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the\nmistake. She saw her mother and Marianne change colour; saw them look\nat herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other. She would have\ngiven the world to be able to speak--and to make them understand that\nshe hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to\nhim;--but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their\nown discretion.\n\nNot a syllable passed aloud. They all waited in silence for the\nappearance of their visitor. His footsteps were heard along the gravel\npath; in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before\nthem.\n\nHis countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for\nElinor. His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if\nfearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one.\nMrs. Dashwood, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of\nthat daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be\nguided in every thing, met with a look of forced complacency, gave him\nher hand, and wished him joy.\n\n[Illustration: _It was Edward._]\n\nHe coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply. Elinor's lips\nhad moved with her mother's, and, when the moment of action was over,\nshe wished that she had shaken hands with him too. But it was then too\nlate, and with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again\nand talked of the weather.\n\nMarianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal\nher distress; and Margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole\nof the case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and\ntherefore took a seat as far from him as she could, and maintained a\nstrict silence.\n\nWhen Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very\nawful pause took place. It was put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who\nfelt obliged to hope that he had left Mrs. Ferrars very well. In a\nhurried manner, he replied in the affirmative.\n\nAnother pause.\n\nElinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own\nvoice, now said--\n\n\"Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple?\"\n\n\"At Longstaple!\" he replied, with an air of surprise. \"No, my mother\nis in town.\"\n\n\"I meant,\" said Elinor, taking up some work from the table, \"to\ninquire for Mrs. _Edward_ Ferrars.\"\n\nShe dared not look up;--but her mother and Marianne both turned their\neyes on him. He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and,\nafter some hesitation, said,--\n\n\"Perhaps you mean--my brother--you mean Mrs.--Mrs. _Robert_ Ferrars.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Robert Ferrars!\"--was repeated by Marianne and her mother in an\naccent of the utmost amazement;--and though Elinor could not speak,\neven _her_ eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder. He\nrose from his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not\nknowing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and\nwhile spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to\npieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice--\n\n\"Perhaps you do not know--you may not have heard that my brother is\nlately married to--to the youngest--to Miss Lucy Steele.\"\n\nHis words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but\nElinor, who sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of\nsuch agitation as made her hardly know where she was.\n\n\"Yes,\" said he, \"they were married last week, and are now at Dawlish.\"\n\nElinor could sit it no longer. She almost ran out of the room, and as\nsoon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first\nshe thought would never cease. Edward, who had till then looked any\nwhere, rather than at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw, or\neven heard, her emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a\nreverie, which no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of\nMrs. Dashwood could penetrate, and at last, without saying a word,\nquitted the room, and walked out towards the village, leaving the\nothers in the greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his\nsituation, so wonderful and so sudden,--a perplexity which they had no\nmeans of lessening but by their own conjectures.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIX\n\n\nUnaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might\nappear to the whole family, it was certain that Edward was free; and\nto what purpose that freedom would be employed was easily\npre-determined by all;--for after experiencing the blessings of _one_\nimprudent engagement, contracted without his mother's consent, as he\nhad already done for more than four years, nothing less could be\nexpected of him in the failure of _that_, than the immediate\ncontraction of another.\n\nHis errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one. It was only to ask\nElinor to marry him;--and considering that he was not altogether\ninexperienced in such a question, it might be strange that he should\nfeel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much in\nneed of encouragement and fresh air.\n\nHow soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however,\nhow soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he\nexpressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly\ntold. This only need be said;--that when they all sat down to table at\nfour o'clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his\nlady, engaged her mother's consent, and was not only in the rapturous\nprofession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason and truth, one\nof the happiest of men. His situation indeed was more than commonly\njoyful. He had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to\nswell his heart, and raise his spirits. He was released without any\nreproach to himself, from an entanglement which had long formed his\nmisery, from a woman whom he had long ceased to love; and elevated at\nonce to that security with another, which he must have thought of\nalmost with despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with\ndesire. He was brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to\nhappiness; and the change was openly spoken in such a genuine,\nflowing, grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in\nhim before.\n\nHis heart was now open to Elinor, all its weaknesses, all its errors\nconfessed, and his first boyish attachment to Lucy treated with all\nthe philosophic dignity of twenty-four.\n\n\"It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side,\" said he, \"the\nconsequence of ignorance of the world and want of employment. Had my\nmother given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen\nfrom the care of Mr. Pratt, I think, nay, I am sure, it would never\nhave happened; for though I left Longstaple with what I thought, at\nthe time, a most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had I\nthen had any pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at a\ndistance from her for a few months, I should very soon have outgrown\nthe fancied attachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as\nin such case I must have done. But instead of having any thing to do,\ninstead of having any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to\nchoose any myself, I returned home to be completely idle; and for the\nfirst twelvemonth afterwards I had not even the nominal employment,\nwhich belonging to the university would have given me; for I was not\nentered at Oxford till I was nineteen. I had therefore nothing in the\nworld to do, but to fancy myself in love; and as my mother did not\nmake my home in every respect comfortable, as I had no friend, no\ncompanion in my brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not\nunnatural for me to be very often at Longstaple, where I always felt\nmyself at home, and was always sure of a welcome; and accordingly I\nspent the greatest part of my time there from eighteen to nineteen:\nLucy appeared everything that was amiable and obliging. She was pretty\ntoo--at least I thought so _then_; and I had seen so little of other\nwomen, that I could make no comparisons, and see no defects.\nConsidering everything, therefore, I hope, foolish as our engagement\nwas, foolish as it has since in every way been proved, it was not at\nthe time an unnatural or an inexcusable piece of folly.\"\n\nThe change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the\nhappiness of the Dashwoods, was such--so great--as promised them all,\nthe satisfaction of a sleepless night. Mrs. Dashwood, too happy to be\ncomfortable, knew not how to love Edward, nor praise Elinor enough,\nhow to be enough thankful for his release without wounding his\ndelicacy, nor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained\nconversation together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and\nsociety of both.\n\nMarianne could speak _her_ happiness only by tears. Comparisons would\noccur--regrets would arise;--and her joy, though sincere as her love\nfor her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor\nlanguage.\n\nBut Elinor--how are _her_ feelings to be described? From the moment of\nlearning that Lucy was married to another, that Edward was free, to\nthe moment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly\nfollowed, she was every thing by turns but tranquil. But when the\nsecond moment had passed, when she found every doubt, every solicitude\nremoved, compared her situation with what so lately it had been,--saw\nhim honourably released from his former engagement,--saw him instantly\nprofiting by the release, to address herself and declare an affection\nas tender, as constant as she had ever supposed it to be,--she was\noppressed, she was overcome by her own felicity; and happily disposed\nas is the human mind to be easily familiarized with any change for the\nbetter, it required several hours to give sedateness to her spirits,\nor any degree of tranquillity to her heart.\n\nEdward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week;--for whatever\nother claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a\nweek should be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor's company, or\nsuffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and\nthe future;--for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of\nincessant talking will despatch more subjects than can really be in\ncommon between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it is\ndifferent. Between _them_ no subject is finished, no communication is\neven made, till it has been made at least twenty times over.\n\nLucy's marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all,\nformed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers;--and\nElinor's particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her in\nevery view, as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable\ncircumstances she had ever heard. How they could be thrown together,\nand by what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of\nwhose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any\nadmiration,--a girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose\naccount that brother had been thrown off by his family--it was beyond\nher comprehension to make out. To her own heart it was a delightful\naffair, to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her\nreason, her judgment, it was completely a puzzle.\n\nEdward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that, perhaps,\nat first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so\nworked on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all\nthe rest. Elinor remembered what Robert had told her in Harley Street,\nof his opinion of what his own mediation in his brother's affairs\nmight have done, if applied to in time. She repeated it to Edward.\n\n\"_That_ was exactly like Robert,\" was his immediate observation. \"And\n_that_,\" he presently added, \"might perhaps be in _his_ head when the\nacquaintance between them first began. And Lucy perhaps at first might\nthink only of procuring his good offices in my favour. Other designs\nmight afterward arise.\"\n\nHow long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally\nat a loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had\nremained for choice ever since his quitting London, he had had no\nmeans of hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very\nlast were neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual. Not\nthe smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him\nfor what followed;--and when at last it burst on him in a letter from\nLucy herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified\nbetween the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. He\nput the letter into Elinor's hands.\n\n\"DEAR SIR,\n\n     \"Being very sure I have long lost your affections, I have\n     thought myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and\n     have no doubt of being as happy with him as I once used to\n     think I might be with you; but I scorn to accept a hand\n     while the heart was another's. Sincerely wish you happy in\n     your choice, and it shall not be my fault if we are not\n     always good friends, as our near relationship now makes\n     proper. I can safely say I owe you no ill-will, and am sure\n     you will be too generous to do us any ill offices. Your\n     brother has gained my affections entirely, and as we could\n     not live without one another, we are just returned from the\n     altar, and are now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks,\n     which place your dear brother has great curiosity to see,\n     but thought I would first trouble you with these few lines,\n     and shall always remain--\n\n     \"Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister,\n\n     \"LUCY FERRARS.\"\n\n     \"I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture\n     the first opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls--but the\n     ring with my hair you are very welcome to keep.\"\n\nElinor read and returned it without any comment.\n\n\"I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition,\" said Edward.\n\"For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by _you_ in\nformer days. In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife! how I have\nblushed over the pages of her writing! and I believe I may say that\nsince the first half year of our foolish business this is the only\nletter I ever received from her, of which the substance made me any\namends for the defect of the style.\"\n\n\"However it may have come about,\" said Elinor, after a pause,--\"they\nare certainly married. And your mother has brought on herself a most\nappropriate punishment. The independence she settled on Robert,\nthrough resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his\nown choice; and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand\na-year, to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for\nintending to do. She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert's\nmarrying Lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her.\"\n\n\"She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite. She\nwill be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him\nmuch sooner.\"\n\nIn what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew\nnot, for no communication with any of his family had yet been\nattempted by him. He had quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours\nafter Lucy's letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the\nnearest road to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of\nconduct, with which that road did not hold the most intimate\nconnection. He could do nothing till he were assured of his fate with\nMiss Dashwood; and by his rapidity in seeking _that_ fate, it is to be\nsupposed, in spite of the jealousy with which he had once thought of\nColonel Brandon, in spite of the modesty with which he rated his own\ndeserts, and the politeness with which he talked of his doubts, he did\nnot, upon the whole, expect a very cruel reception. It was his\nbusiness, however, to say that he _did_, and he said it very prettily.\nWhat he might say on the subject a twelvemonth after, must be referred\nto the imagination of husbands and wives.\n\nThat Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of\nmalice against him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to\nElinor; and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her\ncharacter, had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost\nmeanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his eyes had been long opened,\neven before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her ignorance and a\nwant of liberality in some of her opinions, they had been equally\nimputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter\nreached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed,\ngood-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself. Nothing but\nsuch a persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an\nengagement, which, long before the discovery of it laid him open to\nhis mother's anger, had been a continual source of disquiet and regret\nto him.\n\n\"I thought it my duty,\" said he, \"independent of my feelings, to give\nher the option of continuing the engagement or not, when I was\nrenounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend\nin the world to assist me. In such a situation as that, where there\nseemed nothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living\ncreature, how could I suppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly\ninsisted on sharing my fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but\nthe most disinterested affection was her inducement? And even now, I\ncannot comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage\nit could be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the\nsmallest regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world.\nShe could not foresee that Colonel Brandon would give me a living.\"\n\n\"No; but she might suppose that something would occur in your favour;\nthat your own family might in time relent. And at any rate, she lost\nnothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it\nfettered neither her inclination nor her actions. The connection was\ncertainly a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration\namong her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred, it\nwould be better for her to marry _you_ than be single.\"\n\nEdward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have\nbeen more natural than Lucy's conduct, nor more self-evident than the\nmotive of it.\n\nElinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence\nwhich compliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them\nat Norland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy.\n\n\"Your behaviour was certainly very wrong,\" said she; \"because--to say\nnothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to\nfancy and expect _what_, as you were _then_ situated, could never be.\"\n\nHe could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken\nconfidence in the force of his engagement.\n\n\"I was simple enough to think, that because my _faith_ was plighted to\nanother, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that the\nconsciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred\nas my honour. I felt that I admired you, but I told myself it was only\nfriendship; and till I began to make comparisons between yourself and\nLucy, I did not know how far I was got. After that, I suppose, I _was_\nwrong in remaining so much in Sussex, and the arguments with which I\nreconciled myself to the expediency of it, were no better than\nthese:--The danger is my own; I am doing no injury to anybody but\nmyself.\"\n\nElinor smiled, and shook her head.\n\nEdward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon's being expected at the\nCottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted with\nhim, but to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer\nresented his giving him the living of Delaford--\"Which, at present,\"\nsaid he, \"after thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the\noccasion, he must think I have never forgiven him for offering.\"\n\n_Now_ he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the\nplace. But so little interest had he taken in the matter, that he owed\nall his knowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the\nparish, condition of the land, and rate of the tithes, to Elinor\nherself, who had heard so much of it from Colonel Brandon, and heard\nit with so much attention, as to be entirely mistress of the subject.\n\nOne question after this only remained undecided, between them, one\ndifficulty only was to be overcome. They were brought together by\nmutual affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends;\ntheir intimate knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness\ncertain--and they only wanted something to live upon. Edward had two\nthousand pounds, and Elinor one, which, with Delaford living, was all\nthat they could call their own; for it was impossible that Mrs.\nDashwood should advance anything; and they were neither of them quite\nenough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a-year\nwould supply them with the comforts of life.\n\nEdward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in his\nmother towards him; and on _that_ he rested for the residue of their\nincome. But Elinor had no such dependence; for since Edward would\nstill be unable to marry Miss Morton, and his choosing herself had\nbeen spoken of in Mrs. Ferrars's flattering language as only a lesser\nevil than his choosing Lucy Steele, she feared that Robert's offence\nwould serve no other purpose than to enrich Fanny.\n\nAbout four days after Edward's arrival Colonel Brandon appeared, to\ncomplete Mrs. Dashwood's satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of\nhaving, for the first time since her living at Barton, more company\nwith her than her house would hold. Edward was allowed to retain the\nprivilege of first comer, and Colonel Brandon therefore walked every\nnight to his old quarters at the Park; from whence he usually returned\nin the morning, early enough to interrupt the lovers' first\ntete-a-tete before breakfast.\n\nA three weeks' residence at Delaford, where, in his evening hours at\nleast, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between\nthirty-six and seventeen, brought him to Barton in a temper of mind\nwhich needed all the improvement in Marianne's looks, all the kindness\nof her welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother's language, to\nmake it cheerful. Among such friends, however, and such flattery, he\ndid revive. No rumour of Lucy's marriage had yet reached him:--he knew\nnothing of what had passed; and the first hours of his visit were\nconsequently spent in hearing and in wondering. Every thing was\nexplained to him by Mrs. Dashwood, and he found fresh reason to\nrejoice in what he had done for Mr. Ferrars, since eventually it\npromoted the interest of Elinor.\n\nIt would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the good\nopinion of each other, as they advanced in each other's acquaintance,\nfor it could not be otherwise. Their resemblance in good principles\nand good sense, in disposition and manner of thinking, would probably\nhave been sufficient to unite them in friendship, without any other\nattraction; but their being in love with two sisters, and two sisters\nfond of each other, made that mutual regard inevitable and immediate,\nwhich might otherwise have waited the effect of time and judgment.\n\nThe letters from town, which a few days before would have made every\nnerve in Elinor's body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read\nwith less emotion that mirth. Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the\nwonderful tale, to vent her honest indignation against the jilting\ngirl, and pour forth her compassion towards poor Mr. Edward, who, she\nwas sure, had quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by\nall accounts, almost broken-hearted, at Oxford. \"I do think,\" she\ncontinued, \"nothing was ever carried on so sly; for it was but two\ndays before Lucy called and sat a couple of hours with me. Not a soul\nsuspected anything of the matter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul! came\ncrying to me the day after, in a great fright for fear of Mrs.\nFerrars, as well as not knowing how to get to Plymouth; for Lucy it\nseems borrowed all her money before she went off to be married, on\npurpose we suppose to make a show with, and poor Nancy had not seven\nshillings in the world;--so I was very glad to give her five guineas\nto take her down to Exeter, where she thinks of staying three or four\nweeks with Mrs. Burgess, in hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with the\nDoctor again. And I must say that Lucy's crossness not to take them\nalong with them in the chaise is worse than all. Poor Mr. Edward! I\ncannot get him out of my head, but you must send for him to Barton,\nand Miss Marianne must try to comfort him.\"\n\nMr. Dashwood's strains were more solemn. Mrs. Ferrars was the most\nunfortunate of women--poor Fanny had suffered agonies of\nsensibility--and he considered the existence of each, under such a\nblow, with grateful wonder. Robert's offence was unpardonable, but\nLucy's was infinitely worse. Neither of them were ever again to be\nmentioned to Mrs. Ferrars; and even, if she might hereafter be induced\nto forgive her son, his wife should never be acknowledged as her\ndaughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence. The secrecy with\nwhich everything had been carried on between them, was rationally\ntreated as enormously heightening the crime, because, had any\nsuspicion of it occurred to the others, proper measures would have\nbeen taken to prevent the marriage; and he called on Elinor to join\nwith him in regretting that Lucy's engagement with Edward had not\nrather been fulfilled, than that she should thus be the means of\nspreading misery farther in the family. He thus continued:--\n\n\"Mrs. Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward's name, which does not\nsurprise us; but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been\nreceived from him on the occasion. Perhaps, however, he is kept silent\nby his fear of offending, and I shall, therefore, give him a hint, by\na line to Oxford, that his sister and I both think a letter of proper\nsubmission from him, addressed perhaps to Fanny, and by her shown to\nher mother, might not be taken amiss; for we all know the tenderness\nof Mrs. Ferrars's heart, and that she wishes for nothing so much as to\nbe on good terms with her children.\"\n\nThis paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct of\nEdward. It determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not\nexactly in the manner pointed out by their brother and sister.\n\n\"A letter of proper submission!\" repeated he; \"would they have me beg\nmy mother's pardon for Robert's ingratitude to _her_, and breach of\nhonour to _me_? I can make no submission. I am grown neither humble\nnor penitent by what has passed. I am grown very happy; but that would\nnot interest. I know of no submission that _is_ proper for me to\nmake.\"\n\n\"You may certainly ask to be forgiven,\" said Elinor, \"because you have\noffended;--and I should think you might _now_ venture so far as to\nprofess some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew\non you your mother's anger.\"\n\nHe agreed that he might.\n\n\"And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be\nconvenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as\nimprudent in _her_ eyes as the first.\"\n\nHe had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the idea of a\nletter of proper submission; and therefore, to make it easier to him,\nas he declared a much greater willingness to make mean concessions by\nword of mouth than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing\nto Fanny, he should go to London, and personally entreat her good\noffices in his favour. \"And if they really _do_ interest themselves,\"\nsaid Marianne, in her new character of candour, \"in bringing about a\nreconciliation, I shall think that even John and Fanny are not\nentirely without merit.\"\n\nAfter a visit on Colonel Brandon's side of only three or four days,\nthe two gentlemen quitted Barton together. They were to go immediately\nto Delaford, that Edward might have some personal knowledge of his\nfuture home, and assist his patron and friend in deciding on what\nimprovements were needed to it; and from thence, after staying there a\ncouple of nights, he was to proceed on his journey to town.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER L\n\n\nAfter a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferrars, just so violent\nand so steady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always\nseemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, Edward\nwas admitted to her presence, and pronounced to be again her son.\n\nHer family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating. For many years of\nher life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of\nEdward a few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the similar\nannihilation of Robert had left her for a fortnight without any; and\nnow, by the resuscitation of Edward, she had one again.\n\nIn spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did not\nfeel the continuance of his existence secure, till he had revealed his\npresent engagement; for the publication of that circumstance, he\nfeared, might give a sudden turn to his constitution, and carry him\noff as rapidly as before. With apprehensive caution therefore it was\nrevealed, and he was listened to with unexpected calmness. Mrs.\nFerrars at first reasonably endeavoured to dissuade him from marrying\nMiss Dashwood, by every argument in her power; told him, that in Miss\nMorton he would have a woman of higher rank and larger fortune; and\nenforced the assertion, by observing that Miss Morton was the daughter\nof a nobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while Miss Dashwood was\nonly the daughter of a private gentleman with no more than _three_;\nbut when she found that, though perfectly admitting the truth of her\nrepresentation, he was by no means inclined to be guided by it, she\njudged it wisest, from the experience of the past, to submit; and\ntherefore, after such an ungracious delay as she owed to her own\ndignity, and as served to prevent every suspicion of good-will, she\nissued her decree of consent to the marriage of Edward and Elinor.\n\nWhat she would engage to do towards augmenting their income was next\nto be considered; and here it plainly appeared, that though Edward was\nnow her only son, he was by no means her eldest; for while Robert was\ninevitably endowed with a thousand pounds a-year, not the smallest\nobjection was made against Edward's taking orders for the sake of two\nhundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was anything promised either for\nthe present or in future, beyond the ten thousand pounds, which had\nbeen given with Fanny.\n\nIt was as much, however, as was desired, and more than was expected,\nby Edward and Elinor; and Mrs. Ferrars herself, by her shuffling\nexcuses, seemed the only person surprised at her not giving more.\n\nWith an income quite sufficient to their wants thus secured to them,\nthey had nothing to wait for after Edward was in possession of the\nliving, but the readiness of the house, to which Colonel Brandon, with\nan eager desire for the accommodation of Elinor, was making\nconsiderable improvements; and after waiting some time for their\ncompletion, after experiencing, as usual, a thousand disappointments\nand delays from the unaccountable dilatoriness of the workmen, Elinor,\nas usual, broke through the first positive resolution of not marrying\ntill every thing was ready, and the ceremony took place in Barton\nchurch early in the autumn.\n\nThe first month after their marriage was spent with their friend at\nthe Mansion-house; from whence they could superintend the progress of\nthe Parsonage, and direct every thing as they liked on the\nspot;--could choose papers, project shrubberies, and invent a sweep.\nMrs. Jennings's prophecies, though rather jumbled together, were\nchiefly fulfilled; for she was able to visit Edward and his wife in\ntheir Parsonage by Michaelmas, and she found in Elinor and her\nhusband, as she really believed, one of the happiest couples in the\nworld. They had in fact nothing to wish for, but the marriage of\nColonel Brandon and Marianne, and rather better pasturage for their\ncows.\n\nThey were visited on their first settling by almost all their\nrelations and friends. Mrs. Ferrars came to inspect the happiness\nwhich she was almost ashamed of having authorised; and even the\nDashwoods were at the expense of a journey from Sussex to do them\nhonour.\n\n\"I will not say that I am disappointed, my dear sister,\" said John, as\nthey were walking together one morning before the gates of Delaford\nHouse, \"_that_ would be saying too much, for certainly you have been\none of the most fortunate young women in the world, as it is. But, I\nconfess, it would give me great pleasure to call Colonel Brandon\nbrother. His property here, his place, his house,--every thing is in\nsuch respectable and excellent condition! And his woods,--I have not\nseen such timber any where in Dorsetshire, as there is now standing in\nDelaford Hanger! And though, perhaps, Marianne may not seem exactly\nthe person to attract him, yet I think it would altogether be\nadvisable for you to have them now frequently staying with you, for as\nColonel Brandon seems a great deal at home, nobody can tell what may\nhappen; for, when people are much thrown together, and see little of\nanybody else,--and it will always be in your power to set her off to\nadvantage, and so forth. In short, you may as well give her a chance;\nYou understand me.\"\n\nBut though Mrs. Ferrars _did_ come to see them, and always treated\nthem with the make-believe of decent affection, they were never\ninsulted by her real favour and preference. _That_ was due to the\nfolly of Robert, and the cunning of his wife; and it was earned by\nthem before many months had passed away. The selfish sagacity of the\nlatter, which had at first drawn Robert into the scrape, was the\nprincipal instrument of his deliverance from it; for her respectful\nhumility, assiduous attentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as the\nsmallest opening was given for their exercise, reconciled Mrs. Ferrars\nto his choice, and re-established him completely in her favour.\n\n[Illustration: _Everything in such respectable condition_]\n\nThe whole of Lucy's behaviour in the affair, and the prosperity which\ncrowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a most encouraging\ninstance of what an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest,\nhowever its progress may be apparently obstructed, will do in securing\nevery advantage of fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time\nand conscience. When Robert first sought her acquaintance, and\nprivately visited her in Bartlett's Buildings, it was only with the\nview imputed to him by his brother. He merely meant to persuade her to\ngive up the engagement; and as there could be nothing to overcome but\nthe affection of both, he naturally expected that one or two\ninterviews would settle the matter. In that point, however, and that\nonly, he erred; for though Lucy soon gave him hopes that his eloquence\nwould convince her in _time_, another visit, another conversation, was\nalways wanted to produce this conviction. Some doubts always lingered\nin her mind when they parted, which could only be removed by another\nhalf hour's discourse with himself. His attendance was by this means\nsecured, and the rest followed in course. Instead of talking of\nEdward, they came gradually to talk only of Robert,--a subject on\nwhich he had always more to say than on any other, and in which she\nsoon betrayed an interest even equal to his own; and in short, it\nbecame speedily evident to both, that he had entirely supplanted his\nbrother. He was proud of his conquest, proud of tricking Edward, and\nvery proud of marrying privately without his mother's consent. What\nimmediately followed is known. They passed some months in great\nhappiness at Dawlish; for she had many relations and old acquaintances\nto cut--and he drew several plans for magnificent cottages; and from\nthence returning to town, procured the forgiveness of Mrs. Ferrars, by\nthe simple expedient of asking it, which, at Lucy's instigation, was\nadopted. The forgiveness, at first, indeed, as was reasonable,\ncomprehended only Robert; and Lucy, who had owed his mother no duty\nand therefore could have transgressed none, still remained some weeks\nlonger unpardoned. But perseverance in humility of conduct and\nmessages, in self-condemnation for Robert's offence, and gratitude for\nthe unkindness she was treated with, procured her in time the haughty\nnotice which overcame her by its graciousness, and led soon\nafterwards, by rapid degrees, to the highest state of affection and\ninfluence. Lucy became as necessary to Mrs. Ferrars, as either Robert\nor Fanny; and while Edward was never cordially forgiven for having\nonce intended to marry her, and Elinor, though superior to her in\nfortune and birth, was spoken of as an intruder, _she_ was in every\nthing considered, and always openly acknowledged, to be a favourite\nchild. They settled in town, received very liberal assistance from\nMrs. Ferrars, were on the best terms imaginable with the Dashwoods;\nand setting aside the jealousies and ill-will continually subsisting\nbetween Fanny and Lucy, in which their husbands of course took a part,\nas well as the frequent domestic disagreements between Robert and Lucy\nthemselves, nothing could exceed the harmony in which they all lived\ntogether.\n\nWhat Edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, might have\npuzzled many people to find out; and what Robert had done to succeed\nto it, might have puzzled them still more. It was an arrangement,\nhowever, justified in its effects, if not in its cause; for nothing\never appeared in Robert's style of living or of talking to give a\nsuspicion of his regretting the extent of his income, as either\nleaving his brother too little, or bringing himself too much;--and if\nEdward might be judged from the ready discharge of his duties in every\nparticular, from an increasing attachment to his wife and his home,\nand from the regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be supposed\nno less contented with his lot, no less free from every wish of an\nexchange.\n\nElinor's marriage divided her as little from her family as could well\nbe contrived, without rendering the cottage at Barton entirely\nuseless, for her mother and sisters spent much more than half their\ntime with her. Mrs. Dashwood was acting on motives of policy as well\nas pleasure in the frequency of her visits at Delaford; for her wish\nof bringing Marianne and Colonel Brandon together was hardly less\nearnest, though rather more liberal than what John had expressed. It\nwas now her darling object. Precious as was the company of her\ndaughter to her, she desired nothing so much as to give up its\nconstant enjoyment to her valued friend; and to see Marianne settled\nat the mansion-house was equally the wish of Edward and Elinor. They\neach felt his sorrows, and their own obligations, and Marianne, by\ngeneral consent, was to be the reward of all.\n\nWith such a confederacy against her--with a knowledge so intimate of\nhis goodness--with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself,\nwhich at last, though long after it was observable to everybody\nelse--burst on her--what could she do?\n\nMarianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. She was born to\ndiscover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her\nconduct, her most favourite maxims. She was born to overcome an\naffection formed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no\nsentiment superior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily\nto give her hand to another!--and _that_ other, a man who had suffered\nno less than herself under the event of a former attachment, whom, two\nyears before, she had considered too old to be married,--and who still\nsought the constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat!\n\nBut so it was. Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible\npassion, as once she had fondly flattered herself with expecting,\ninstead of remaining even for ever with her mother, and finding her\nonly pleasures in retirement and study, as afterwards in her more calm\nand sober judgment she had determined on,--she found herself at\nnineteen, submitting to new attachments, entering on new duties,\nplaced in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a family, and the\npatroness of a village.\n\nColonel Brandon was now as happy, as all those who best loved him,\nbelieved he deserved to be;--in Marianne he was consoled for every\npast affliction;--her regard and her society restored his mind to\nanimation, and his spirits to cheerfulness; and that Marianne found\nher own happiness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and\ndelight of each observing friend. Marianne could never love by halves;\nand her whole heart became, in time, as much devoted to her husband,\nas it had once been to Willoughby.\n\nWilloughby could not hear of her marriage without a pang; and his\npunishment was soon afterwards complete in the voluntary forgiveness\nof Mrs. Smith, who, by stating his marriage with a woman of character,\nas the source of her clemency, gave him reason for believing that had\nhe behaved with honour towards Marianne, he might at once have been\nhappy and rich. That his repentance of misconduct, which thus brought\nits own punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted;--nor that he\nlong thought of Colonel Brandon with envy, and of Marianne with\nregret. But that he was for ever inconsolable, that he fled from\nsociety, or contracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died of a\nbroken heart, must not be depended on--for he did neither. He lived to\nexert, and frequently to enjoy himself. His wife was not always out of\nhumour, nor his home always uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses\nand dogs, and in sporting of every kind, he found no inconsiderable\ndegree of domestic felicity.\n\nFor Marianne, however, in spite of his incivility in surviving her\nloss, he always retained that decided regard which interested him in\nevery thing that befell her, and made her his secret standard of\nperfection in woman; and many a rising beauty would be slighted by him\nin after-days as bearing no comparison with Mrs. Brandon.\n\nMrs. Dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the cottage, without\nattempting a removal to Delaford; and fortunately for Sir John and\nMrs. Jennings, when Marianne was taken from them, Margaret had\nreached an age highly suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible\nfor being supposed to have a lover.\n\nBetween Barton and Delaford, there was that constant communication\nwhich strong family affection would naturally dictate;--and among the\nmerits and the happiness of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked\nas the least considerable, that though sisters, and living almost\nwithin sight of each other, they could live without disagreement\nbetween themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands.\n\nTHE END\n\n\n\n\n\n\n","id":"21839"},{"text":"Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                       Wereldbibliotheek\n\n                  Onder leiding van L. Simons\n\n    Maatschappij voor Goede en Goedkoope Lectuur--Amsterdam\n\n\n\n\n                      Jane Austen's Roman\n\n                       Gevoel en Verstand\n\n                 Vertaald door G. van Uildriks\n\n                              1922\n\n\n\n\n         Gedrukt ter Drukkerij van de Wereldbibliotheek\n\n\n\n\n\nJANE AUSTEN (1775-1817)\n\n\nVoor allen, die over uitgevers en publiek te klagen hebben, is deze\nschrijfster, tijdgenoote van onze Betje Wolff en Aagje Deken, een\ntroostend voorbeeld, mits zij een even zuiver talent hebben als deze\nEngelsche domineesdochter, die in het dorpje Steventon in Hampshire\ngeboren en getogen werd, en er haar eerste 26 jaren sleet. Want haar\neerste twee romans, _Pride and Prejudice_ en het hier in Nederlandsche\nvertaling aangebodene _Sense and Sensibility_ schreef zij tusschen de\njaren 1796 en '98, maar kon er eerst in 1811 en 1813 een uitgever voor\nvinden. Nog een derden roman had zij inmiddels geschreven _Northanger\nAbbey_, en toen, ontmoedigd(?) de pen maar laten rusten.\n\nDoch toen eindelijk haar twee oudste romans verschenen waren, duurde\nhet niet lang of onder de schrijvers van haar tijd werd haar werk\ngeprezen en gretig gelezen (éen van hen heeft later bekend, een\nharer boeken 17 maal te hebben gelezen!) en nadat tusschen 1811 en\n'16 zij nog drie romans bij de drie oudere gevoegd had (_Mansfield\nPark_, _Emma_ en _Persuasion_) kon zij over haar roep gerust zijn. De\nberoemde en gretig gelezen schrijfsters van haar tijd zijn vergeten;\nhaar werk leeft nog, even frisch als toen het geboren werd.\n\nZijn groote eigenschap is de fijne ironische observatie van het\nburgerlijk leven van haar tijd en haar vermogen dit zonder eenigen\nromantischen kunstgreep boeiend te maken. Haar menschen en haar\nomgeving leven voor ons in een volkomen zuiverheid, en in haar\ntijd, waarin men alles romantiseerde, kwam dit als een zoo groote\nverrassing, dat zelfs de romantische grootmeester Walter Scott er haar\nmet ijver om prees. Er is weinig Engelsch werk, dat ons zoo aandoet\nom zijn verwantschap met den geest van onze eigen Nederlandsche\nletterkundige kunst als het hare. De geestigheid van Betje Wolff is\nguller en meesleepender, maar Jane Austens werk staat zuiverder in\nzijn afwezigheid van alle sentimentaliteit. Als teekenaressen van de\nburgerklasse uit haar eigen omgeving wedijveren beiden, zonder dat\nmen een van beiden den eerepalm zou durven toekennen boven de andere.\n\n\"Haar fijne toets\" en ondeugendheid van beschrijving zullen, naar\nwij vertrouwen, ook onze lezers waardeeren, in de voortreffelijke\nvertaling van Mevr. Van Uildriks, die tot ons leedwezen, de uitgaaf\nniet meer mocht beleven.\n\n\n                                                       Redactie W.B.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK I\n\n\nDe familie Dashwood was lang gevestigd geweest in Sussex. Hun\ngrondbezit was uitgestrekt, en zij plachten verblijf te houden te\nNorland Park, in het middenpunt van hun bezittingen gelegen, waar zij\ngedurende vele geslachten een leven hadden geleid, achtenswaardig\ngenoeg om den algemeenen goeden dunk te winnen van hunne kennissen\nin den omtrek.\n\nDe overleden eigenaar van het goed was een ongetrouwd man, die\neen zeer hoogen leeftijd bereikte, en die gedurende vele jaren van\nzijn leven een getrouwe gezellin en huishoudster had gehad in zijne\nzuster. Doch haar dood, die tien jaren voor zijn eigen overlijden\nplaats had, veroorzaakte een groote verandering in zijn omgeving; want\nter vervulling van haar gemis, vroeg en ontving hij in zijn huis het\ngezin van zijn neef, den Heer Henry Dashwood, den wettigen erfgenaam\nvan de bezitting Norland, en den persoon, aan wien hij voornemens was,\nhet goed na te laten. In het gezelschap van zijn neef en nicht en\nhunne kinderen sleet de oude heer genoeglijke dagen. Zijn gehechtheid\naan hen allen nam toe. De voortdurende tegemoetkoming van den Heer en\nMevrouw Dashwood aan zijne wenschen, die niet enkel uit eigenbelang\nvoortsproot, maar evenzeer uit goedhartigheid, schonk hem in ieder\nopzicht het gemak en behagen, dat hij in zijn hoogen ouderdom nog\nkon genieten, en de vroolijkheid der kinderen bracht in zijn leven\neen element van opgewektheid.\n\nUit een vorig huwelijk had de Heer Henry Dashwood een zoon; van zijn\ntegenwoordige vrouw drie dochters. De zoon, een flinke, achtenswaardige\njonge man, zag zijn toekomst ruim verzekerd door het fortuin van\nzijne moeder, dat aanzienlijk was geweest, en waarvan de helft bij\nzijn meerderjarig-wording aan hem verviel. Door zijn eigen huwelijk,\ndat spoedig daarna plaats had, werd zijn rijkdom nog vermeerderd. Voor\nhem was dus het toekomstig bezit van Norland van niet zoo ingrijpend\nbelang als voor zijn zusters; want haar fortuin kon, buiten 't geen\nhaar ten deel kon vallen wanneer haar vader het goed erfde, slechts\ngering zijn. Haar moeder bezat niets, en haar vader kon slechts\nzevenduizend pond zijn eigendom noemen; want de andere helft van\nhet fortuin zijner eerste vrouw was eveneens op haar kind vastgezet,\nen hij had er slechts het vruchtgebruik van.\n\nDe oude heer stierf; zijn testament werd voorgelezen, en baarde, als\nbijna ieder testament, evenveel teleurstelling als voldoening. Hij\nwas niet zoo onrechtvaardig noch zoo ondankbaar om zijn bezitting\n_niet_ aan zijn neef na te laten, doch hij liet hem het goed na, op\nvoorwaarden die de helft der waarde van het erfdeel te niet deden. De\nHeer Dashwood had het bezit ervan gewenscht, meer terwille van zijn\nvrouw en dochters, dan voor zichzelf of zijn zoon; maar aan zijn\nzoon en zijn kleinzoon, een kind van vier jaar, werd het toegewezen,\nop een wijze, die hem volkomen de macht ontnam om de toekomst te\nverzekeren van degenen die hem het liefst waren, en die het meest zulk\neen verzekering behoefden, 't zij door een hypotheek op het goed,\nof door verkoop van zijn waardevolle bosschen. Op alles werd beslag\ngelegd ten behoeve van het kind, dat bij bezoeken, nu en dan met zijn\nvader en moeder te Norland gebracht, zóózeer de genegenheid van zijn\noudoom had weten te winnen, door aanvalligheden, ver van ongewoon bij\nkinderen van twee of drie jaar, als: onbeholpen spraak, een ernstig\nverlangen om zijn eigen wil door te zetten, veel guitenstreken en\nverbazend veel drukte, dat hiertegen de waarde van al de bewijzen van\naanhankelijkheid, die hij jarenlang van zijne nicht en hare dochters\nhad ontvangen niet kon opwegen. Zijn bedoeling was echter niet,\nonvriendelijk te zijn, en als een bewijs van zijn genegenheid voor\nde drie meisjes liet hij aan ieder van haar duizend pond na.\n\nDe Heer Dashwood was eerst bitter teleurgesteld; maar zijn aard was\nvroolijk en geneigd tot opgewektheid; hij had alle reden nog te hopen\nop een lang leven, waarin hij door zuinig te zijn, een aanzienlijke\nsom kon besparen uit de opbrengst van een goed, dat reeds groot\nwas, en vatbaar voor bijna onmiddellijke verbetering. Doch het\nfortuin, dat zoo laat gekomen was, bleef slechts een jaar in zijn\nbezit. Langer overleefde hij zijn oom niet, en tien duizend pond,\nde pas ontvangen legaten medegerekend, was al wat voor zijne weduwe\nen dochters overbleef.\n\nZoodra men wist dat hij in gevaar was, werd om zijn zoon gezonden, en\nhem beval de heer Dashwood, met al de kracht en den aandrang waartoe\nzijn ziekte hem nog vermocht te bewegen, de belangen aan van zijn\nstiefmoeder en zijne zusters.\n\nDe Heer John Dashwood bezat niet het sterke gevoel van de overige\nleden der familie; doch hij was getroffen door eene aanbeveling van\ndien aard op zulk een tijdstip; en hij beloofde alles te doen wat in\nzijn macht stond om tot haar verzorging bij te dragen. Zijn vader was\ndoor die verzekering gerustgesteld; en de Heer John Dashwood had daarna\nnog ruim tijd om te overwegen hoe veel hij in alle voorzichtigheid\nbij machte zou kunnen zijn voor haar te doen.\n\nHij was geen slechtgeaarde jonge man; tenzij het slecht geaard ware,\nietwat onhartelijk en nog al zelfzuchtig te zijn; hij stond over\n't algemeen zeer in aanzien; want hij gedroeg zich juist zooals het\nbehoorde in de vervulling van zijn gewone verplichtingen. Had hij een\nbeminnelijkere vrouw getrouwd, dan zou hij misschien nog meer gezien\nhebben kunnen zijn, dan hij reeds was; hij zou dan zelfs misschien\nzelf beminnelijk hebben kunnen worden; want hij was heel jong toen hij\ntrouwde en hij hield veel van zijn vrouw. Maar Mevrouw John Dashwood\nwas een sterk overdreven caricatuur van hem zelf; nog meer bekrompen\nen zelfzuchtig.\n\nToen hij zijn vader die belofte deed, stelde hij zich inwendig voor,\nhet fortuin van zijn zusters te vermeerderen, door haar ieder een\nduizend pond te schenken. Hij dacht toen werkelijk dat hij daartoe\nin staat zou zijn. 't Vooruitzicht op vierduizend pond jaarlijks,\ntoegevoegd aan zijn tegenwoordig inkomen, behalve de andere helft van\nzijn moeder's fortuin, verwarmde zijn hart, en deed hem zich in staat\ngevoelen, edelmoedig te zijn: \"Ja, hij zou ze drie duizend pond geven;\ndat was ruim en royaal! Het zou voldoende zijn om ze geheel onbezorgd\nte doen leven. Drie duizend pond! Hij kon die aanzienlijke som wel\nmissen, zonder veel bezwaar. Hij dacht er den geheelen dag aan,\nen vele dagen achtereen, en hij had er geen berouw van.\"\n\nZoodra de begrafenis van zijn vader was afgeloopen, kwam Mevrouw John\nDashwood met haar kind en hun bedienden; zonder aan haar schoonmoeder\neenig bericht te hebben gezonden van haar voornemen. Niemand kon haar\nrecht om te komen betwisten; het huis behoorde aan haar echtgenoot,\nvan het oogenblik af dat zijn vader overleed; maar dat maakte het\nonkiesche van haar gedrag des te meer voelbaar, en zou voor een\nvrouw in Mevrouw Dashwood's omstandigheden, met slechts alledaagsche\ngevoelens, hoogst onaangenaam zijn geweest; doch _haar_ geest was\ndoordrongen van een zóó sterk gevoel van eer, een zoo romantische\nedelmoedigheid, dat elke overtreding van dezen aard, door wien ook\nbegaan, of van wien ook ondervonden, voor haar een bron was van\nonveranderlijken afkeer. Mevrouw John Dashwood was nooit met zeer\ngunstige oogen geschouwd door eenig lid van haar man's familie,\nmaar zij had tot nu toe geen gelegenheid gehad, hun te toonen, hoe\nweinig zij bij haar optreden eens anders gevoelens ontzag, wanneer\nhet zoo in haar kraam te pas kwam. Zoo pijnlijk griefde Mevrouw\nDashwood dit onbeminnelijk gedrag, en zoo hartgrondig verachtte zij\nhaar schoondochter wegens haar houding, dat zij bij de aankomst van\nde laatste het huis voorgoed zou hebben verlaten, wanneer niet de\nsmeekingen van haar oudste dochter haar hadden bewogen eerst nog\neens na te denken over de gepastheid van zulk een vertrek, en haar\neigen teedere liefde voor alle drie hare kinderen haar later had\ndoen besluiten te blijven, en om harentwil een breuk met haar broeder\nte vermijden.\n\nElinor, deze oudste dochter, wier raadgeving zoo doeltreffend was,\nbezat een mate van doordringend begrip en een helderheid van oordeel,\ndie haar recht gaven, hoewel zij nog slechts negentien jaar was, als\nhaar moeder's raadgeefster op te treden, en haar in staat stelden,\nmenigmaal tot hun aller voordeel, haar overwicht te doen gelden\ntegenover Mevrouw Dashwood's levendigen en voortvarenden aard, die\nhaar licht tot onvoorzichtigheid had kunnen verleiden. Zij had een\nwarm hart, haar aard was liefderijk, en haar gevoelens waren sterk;\ndoch zij wist ze te beheerschen; dit was een kennis, die haar moeder\nnog te verwerven had, en die een harer zusters besloten had, zich\nnimmer te laten bijbrengen.\n\nMarianne's vermogens waren in menig opzicht, aan die van Elinor\ngelijkwaardig. Zij was verstandig en vlug van begrip; maar in alles\nheftig; haar verdriet, haar vreugde kenden geen matiging. Zij was\nedelmoedig, beminnelijk, boeiend; ze was alles, behalve voorzichtig. De\ngelijkenis tusschen haar en hare moeder was opvallend groot.\n\nElinor zag, niet zonder zorg, die overmaat van gevoeligheid bij\nhaar zuster; doch door Mevrouw Dashwood werd deze gewaardeerd en\naangewakkerd. Zij versterkten thans elkander in de heftigheid van\nhare smart. De hartverscheurende droefheid, die haar in het begin\noverweldigde, werd opzettelijk hernieuwd, gezocht, telkens en telkens\nweder opgewekt. Zij gaven zichzelf geheel over aan haar verdriet,\ntrachtten meerder leed te putten uit elke overweging, die daartoe\nkon bijdragen, en schenen vastbesloten ook in de toekomst voor troost\nontoegankelijk te blijven. Ook Elinor was diep terneergeslagen; maar\nzij kon ertegen strijden. Zij kon zich inspannen. Zij kon overleg\nplegen met haar broeder; kon haar schoonzuster ontvangen bij haar\nkomst en haar de noodige beleefdheid bewijzen; ook kon zij ernaar\nstreven haar moeder op te wekken tot een dergelijke krachtsinspanning\nen haar aan te sporen tot een dergelijke verdraagzaamheid.\n\nMargaret, de andere zuster, was een blijgezind, goedaardig meisje;\nmaar daar zij reeds vrij wat van Marianne's romantische neigingen\nhad overgenomen, zonder juist veel van haar verstand te bezitten,\nbeloofde zij thans, nu ze dertien was, niet, op lateren leeftijd de\ngelijke van hare zusters te zullen worden.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK II\n\n\nMevrouw John Dashwood nam thans hare plaats in als vrouw des huizes\nte Norland, en haar schoonmoeder en zusters werden tot de positie\nvan gasten teruggebracht. Als zoodanig echter behandelde zij hen kalm\nbeleefd, en haar man bewees hun zooveel vriendelijkheid, als hij kon\ngevoelen voor iemand, behalve zichzelf, zijn vrouw en hun kind. Hij\nwilde hen, werkelijk met eenigen aandrang, overhalen om Norland als\nhun tehuis te beschouwen, en daar geen ander plan Mevrouw Dashwood\nzoo verkieselijk scheen, als daar te blijven tot zij een huis in de\nbuurt had kunnen vinden, werd zijn uitnoodiging aangenomen.\n\nTe blijven op een plek, waar alles haar aan vroegere vreugde\nherinnerde, was juist wat strookte met haar aard. In tijden van\nblijdschap kon geen geaardheid opgewekter zijn dan de hare, of in\ngrootere mate die optimistische verwachting van geluk koesteren,\ndie het geluk zelf is. Doch in hare smart liet zij zich eveneens\ndoor haar verbeelding medevoeren, even ver van alle vertroosting,\nals in haar vreugde van storende pijn.\n\nMevrouw John Dashwood keurde volstrekt niet goed, wat haar man\nvoornemens was te doen ten behoeve van zijne zusters. Drieduizend pond\naf te nemen van het fortuin van hun kleinen jongen zou gelijk staan\nmet hem tot de verschrikkelijkste armoede te doen vervallen. Zij\nraadde hem aan, nog eens na te denken over de zaak. Hoe kon hij 't\nvoor zichzelf verantwoorden, zijn kind, zijn eenig kind nog wel,\nvan zulk een groote som te berooven? En met welk recht konden de\ndames Dashwood, die slechts bloedverwanten waren van ééne zijde,\n't geen zij als in 't geheel geen verwantschap beschouwde, aanspraak\nmaken op zulk een groote som als bewijs van zijn edelmoedigheid? Dat\nwist toch iedereen, hoe niemand ooit genegenheid verwachtte tusschen\nkinderen van eenig man, uit verschillende huwelijken, en waarom zou\nhij zichzelf, en hun armen kleinen Harry, ruïneeren, door al zijn\ngeld weg te geven aan zijn half zusters?\n\n\"'t Was vader's laatste verzoek aan mij,\" antwoordde haar man \"dat\nik zijn weduwe en dochters zou bijstaan.\"\n\n\"Hij zal wel niet hebben geweten wat hij zei, denk ik; tien tegen\neen dat hij in de war was op dat oogenblik. Als hij bij zijn verstand\ngeweest was, zou hij er niet aan hebben gedacht zoo iets vreemds te\ndoen, je te vragen je halve fortuin weg te geven ten nadeele van je\neigen kind.\"\n\n\"Hij eischte immers ook geen bepaalde som, beste Fanny, hij verzocht\nmij alleen, in algemeene termen, om hen bij te staan en hunne\nomstandigheden gemakkelijker te maken, dan in zijn vermogen was, te\ndoen. 't Was misschien beter geweest, als hij 't maar geheel aan mij\nhad overgelaten. Hij kon moeilijk veronderstellen, dat ik mij niet\nom hen zou bekommeren. Maar daar hij die belofte van mij vergde,\nkon ik al niet anders dan haar afleggen; ten minste, toen dacht ik\ner zoo over. De belofte werd dus gegeven en moet worden vervuld. Iets\nmoet er voor hen worden gedaan, wanneer ze van Norland vertrekken en\ngaan wonen in hun nieuw tehuis\".\n\n\"Nu ja, goed; _laat_ er iets voor hen gedaan worden; maar dan behoeft\ndat _iets_ niet juist drieduizend pond te zijn. Je moet niet vergeten,\"\nvoegde zij erbij, \"dat je het geld niet kunt terugkrijgen, wanneer\nje 't eens hebt afgestaan. Je zusters zullen trouwen, en dan is het\nvoor goed weg. Als het nu nog ooit aan onzen armen kleinen jongen\nkon worden teruggegeven...\"\n\n\"O, zeker,\" zei haar man heel ernstig, \"dat zou een groot verschil\nmaken. Er kan een tijd komen, waarin Harry er spijt van heeft, dat\nzulk een groote som werd weggeschonken. Als hij bijvoorbeeld een\ngroot gezin had, dan zou het een welkome vermeerdering zijn.\"\n\n\"Natuurlijk, dat spreekt vanzelf.\"\n\n\"Misschien was het dan voor alle betrokken partijen beter als we de\nsom tot op de helft verminderden. Vijfhonderd pond zou een ontzaglijke\nvermeerdering van hun fortuin beteekenen.\"\n\n\"O, maar meer dan ze in de verste verte konden verwachten! Welke broer\nter wereld zou ook maar half zooveel doen voor zijn zusters, zelfs\nals ze _werkelijk_ zijn zusters waren! Maar zooals hier--halfzusters\nmaar!--Je bent nu eenmaal zoo edelmoedig van aard!\"\n\n\"Ik zou niet graag schriel willen zijn,\" was zijn antwoord. \"Men doet\nbij zulke gelegenheden liever te veel dan te weinig. Niemand kan ten\nminste denken, dat ik niet genoeg voor hen heb gedaan; zelve zouden\nze moeilijk meer kunnen verwachten.\"\n\n\"Ja, wat _zij_ verwachten, wie zal dàt zeggen,\" vond mevrouw;\n\"maar hun verwachtingen gaan ons niet aan; de vraag is, wat jij je\nveroorloven kunt te doen.\"\n\n\"Precies, en mij dunkt, dat ik mij kan veroorloven hun elk vijfhonderd\npond te geven. Zooals 't nu staat, zonder eenige toevoeging van mij,\nzullen zij bij hun moeder's dood ieder meer dan drieduizend pond\nbezitten, een zeer voldoende som voor een jonge vrouw.\"\n\n\"Dat is het _zeker_; en wèl beschouwd, dunkt mij, dat ze in 't\ngeheel geen toevoeging noodig hebben. Tienduizend pond zullen onder\nhen verdeeld worden. Als ze trouwen, dan doen ze stellig een goede\npartij, en trouwen ze niet, dan kunnen ze met elkaar ruim leven van\nde rente van tienduizend pond.\"\n\n\"Dat is zéér waar; en daarom weet ik niet, of het over 't geheel niet\nraadzamer zou zijn, iets te doen voor hun moeder, gedurende haar leven,\ndan voor hen; zooiets als een jaargeld, bedoel ik. Mijn zusters zouden\ndaarvan evengoed voordeel trekken als zij zelve. Met honderd pond in\n't jaar zouden ze 't samen heel goed kunnen hebben.\"\n\nZijn vrouw aarzelde echter een weinig, tot dit plan haar toestemming\nte verleenen.\n\n\"Natuurlijk,\" zei ze, \"dat is wel beter, dan afstand te doen van\nvijftienhonderd pond ineens. Máár--als Mevrouw Dashwood nog vijftien\njaar blijft leven, dan zijn wij 't kind van de rekening.\"\n\n\"Vijftien jaar! maar Fanny, zóó oud wordt ze niet half.\"\n\n\"Dat denk ik ook niet; maar let eens op, als menschen een jaargeld\nkrijgen, dan leven ze maar altijd door; en zij is zoo dik en gezond,\nen nog maar even in de veertig. Een jaargeld is werkelijk geen gekheid,\n't komt geregeld ieder jaar weer terug, en men kan er niet afkomen. Je\nweet niet wat je begint. Ik heb heel wat ondervinding van dien last\nmet jaargelden; want mijn moeder had, als een blok aan haar been,\nvolgens vader's testament, er drie uit te betalen aan oude, afgedankte\ndienstboden, en je kunt je niet voorstellen hoe onaangenaam ze dat\nvond. Tweemaal in 't jaar moest dat geld worden uitbetaald, en dan\nhadt je nog den last om 't hun te doen toekomen; en toen 't heette,\ndat een van hen was gestorven, bleek het later, dat daar niets van\naan was. Mijn moeder kreeg er zoo recht genoeg van. 't Was of haar\ninkomen haar niet behoorde, zei ze, met die voortdurende eischen,\ndie aan haar werden gesteld; en 't was des te onaardiger van vader,\nomdat overigens het geld geheel en al moeder's eigendom was, zonder\neenige voorwaarde. Dat heeft me zoo'n afkeer gegeven van jaargelden,\ndat ik in geen geval mij zelf zou willen dwingen tot de verplichting\ner ooit een uit te betalen, voor geen geld van de wereld.\"\n\n\"Het _is_ ook bijzonder onaangenaam,\" antwoordde de Heer Dashwood,\n\"die soort van jaarlijksche inkomstenvermindering te moeten\nondergaan. Zooals je moeder terecht zegt, op die manier is iemands\nfortuin zijn eigendom niet. Verplicht te zijn tot geregelde betaling\nvan zoo'n som op elken betaaldag, is alles behalve prettig; 't beneemt\niemand zijn gevoel van onafhankelijkheid.\"\n\n\"Zeer zeker; en per slot krijgt men er geen dank voor. Zij denken\ndat ze zeker zijn van hun geld; je doet niet meer dan ze verwachten,\nen dankbaar zijn ze in 't minst niet. Als ik in je plaats was, dan zou\nik, wàt ik ook deed, geheel uit eigen vrijen wil doen; ik zou mij niet\nwillen binden, door een jaarlijksche toelage. Er kunnen jaren komen,\nwaarin 't ons heel slecht past om honderd, of zelfs vijftig pond te\nmissen van wat we noodig hebben voor eigen uitgaven.\"\n\n\"Mij dunkt, dat je gelijk hebt, beste; 't zal beter zijn, als er\ngeen sprake is van een jaargeld in dit geval; wàt ik hun dan ook\nbij gelegenheid eens zal geven, zal hen veel meer helpen dan een\njaarlijksche toelage; want ze zouden alleen maar op veel grooter voet\ngaan leven, als ze zeker waren van een grooter inkomen, en zoodoende\nzouden ze aan 't eind van 't jaar geen cent rijker zijn erdoor. Dat\nzal stellig de beste manier zijn. Met een cadeautje van vijftig pond\nzoo af en toe zullen ze nooit om geld verlegen zijn, en ik geloof\ndat ik op die wijze ten volle de belofte aan mijn vader nakom.\"\n\n\"Ja, zeker doe je dat. Eigenlijk, om je de waarheid te zeggen, ben\nik inwendig overtuigd, dat je vader in 't geheel niet bedoeld heeft,\ndat je hun geld zoudt geven. Ik geloof stellig, die hulp, die hij op\nhet oog had, was niet anders, dan wat men natuurlijk van je zou mogen\nverwachten; zooals bijvoorbeeld naar een geschikt huisje voor hen\nuit te zien, hen te helpen bij 't verhuizen, en hun nu en dan eens\nwat visch of wild te zenden, al naar 't seizoen. Ik durf wel wedden\ndat hij niets meer dan dat bedoelde; en 't zou dan toch ook al héél\nvreemd en onredelijk zijn geweest als dat wèl zoo was. Want bedenk\ntoch eens, man, hoe ruim en royaal je stiefmoeder en haar dochters\nkunnen leven van de rente van zevenduizend pond, behalve die duizend\npond, die de meisjes ieder bezitten, en die hun elk vijftig pond in\n't jaar opbrengen, waarvan ze natuurlijk hun moeder voor kost en\ninwoning zullen betalen. Alles met elkaar gerekend zullen ze samen\nvijfhonderd pond hebben in 't jaar, en wat ter wereld kunnen vier\nvrouwen meer begeeren? Ze zullen zoo goedkoop leven! Hun huishouden zal\nletterlijk niets kosten. Ze zullen geen rijtuig houden, geen paarden,\nen bijna geen dienstboden; ze zullen geen menschen zien, en dus in\n't geheel geen onkosten hebben! Denk eens, hoe ruim ze zich zullen\nkunnen bewegen! Vijfhonderd pond in 't jaar! Bepaald, ik kan mij niet\nvoorstellen hoe ze ook maar de helft ervan zullen uitgeven, en dat\nze van jou nog meer zouden krijgen, is te gek om aan te denken. Ze\nzullen vrij wat eerder in staat zijn om iets te geven aan _jou_.\"\n\n\"Ja, 't is waar,\" zei de Heer Dashwood; \"je hebt groot gelijk. Vader\nkan niets meer hebben bedoeld met zijn verzoek aan mij, dan wat je\nzegt. Ik begrijp dat nu volkomen, en ik zal mijn belofte getrouw\nvervullen door bewijzen van vriendelijkheid en hulp in den geest\nzooals jij dat aangaf. Als moeder een ander huis gaat betrekken,\ndan zal ik met genoegen mijn diensten aanbieden, om haar te helpen\nzooveel in mijn vermogen is. Een of andere kleine attentie, een nieuw\nmeubelstuk of zoo, zal dan ook wel te pas komen.\"\n\n\"O jawel,\" zei Mevrouw John Dashwood. \"Mààr, één ding mag je daarbij\nwèl in aanmerking nemen. Toen je vader en moeder naar Norland\nverhuisden, werden wel de meubels van Stanhill verkocht; maar al het\nporselein, zilver en linnen werden meegenomen, en zijn nu nagelaten\naan je moeder. Daardoor zal haar huis bijna geheel en al ingericht\nzijn, zoodra ze 't gaat bewonen.\"\n\n\"Dat legt gewicht in de schaal, zeer zeker. Een waardevol bezit!--Een\ngedeelte van dat zilver zou buitengewoon goed te pas zijn gekomen\nter aanvulling van onzen eigen voorraad.\"\n\n\"Ja, en 't ontbijtservies is oneindig mooier dan 't geen hier in huis\nbehoort. Veel te mooi, naar _mijn_ idee, voor welk huis ook, waarin\n_zij_ ooit kunnen wonen. Maar dat is nu eenmaal niet anders. Je vader\ndacht alleen aan _hen_. En dàt moet ik zeggen: je behoeft hem niet zoo\nbijzonder dankbaar te zijn, of zijn wenschen zoo stipt na te komen;\nwant we weten best, dat hij, als hij maar kòn, bijna alles aan _hen_\nzou hebben nagelaten.\"\n\nDàt argument was onweerlegbaar. Het verleende zijn plannen de\nvastheid, die er te voren aan ontbrak, en ten slotte besloot hij,\ndat het volkomen onnoodig, zoo niet bepaald ongepast zou zijn, meer\nte doen voor de weduwe en kinderen van zijn vader, dan hun als goeden\nburen de soort van attenties te bewijzen, waarop zijn eigen vrouw\nhem gewezen had.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK III\n\n\nMevrouw Dashwood bleef verscheiden maanden te Norland; niet omdat zij\nongeneigd was te vertrekken, nadat het gezicht van elke welbekende\nplek niet langer de heftige gemoedsbeweging veroorzaakte, die het een\ntijdlang had opgewekt; want toen haar veerkracht terugkeerde, en haar\ngeest weer in staat was tot eenige andere krachtinspanning dan die\nvan hare droefheid te verlevendigen door weemoedige herinneringen,\nverlangde zij sterk naar het vertrek, en was onvermoeid in haar\npogingen een geschikte woning te vinden in de buurt van Norland;\nwant zich ver van die geliefde plek te verwijderen scheen haar\nonmogelijk. Maar zij kon geen verblijfplaats ontdekken die voldeed\naan haar eischen op 't punt van behagen en gemak, en die tevens\nde goedkeuring wegdroeg van haar voorzichtige oudste dochter, wier\ngezonder oordeel verschillende huizen, waarmee haar moeder zeer was\ningenomen, als te groot voor hun inkomen, verwierp.\n\nMevrouw Dashwood had door haar man de plechtige belofte vernomen,\nhem door zijn zoon te haren behoeve gedaan, en welke zijn laatsten\ngedachten hier op aarde troost had geschonken. Zij twijfelde\nevenmin aan de oprechtheid van die verzekering, als haar man zelf\nhad gedaan, en ter wille van hare dochters schonk de gedachte eraan\nhaar voldoening; hoewel zij, wat haarzelve betrof, overtuigd was, dat\neen veel geringere som dan zevenduizend pond voldoende zou zijn om\nhaar een ruim bestaan te verschaffen. Ook terwille van hun broeder,\nterwille van zijn eigen hart verheugde zij zich; en zij verweet\nzichzelve, dat zij vroeger zijn verdienste geen recht had laten\nweervaren, toen zij hem niet in staat achtte tot edelmoedigheid. Zijn\nvoorkomend gedrag jegens haar en zijne zusters overtuigde haar, dat\nhun welzijn hem ter harte ging, en langen tijd vertrouwde zij vast\nop zijn vrijgevige bedoelingen.\n\nDe minachting, die zij reeds aan 't begin hunner kennismaking gevoeld\nhad voor haar schoondochter, werd zeer versterkt door de diepere kennis\nvan haar karakter, die een verblijf van een half jaar in haar gezin\nhaar deed verwerven, en misschien zouden, ondanks alle bedenkingen,\ningegeven door beleefdheid en moederlijke genegenheid van de zijde der\noudere dame, die twee het onmogelijk hebben bevonden het zoolang met\nelkander uit te houden, wanneer niet eene bijzondere omstandigheid\nin de oogen van Mevrouw Dashwood, het steeds meer verkieselijk had\ndoen schijnen, dat haar dochter vooreerst te Norland zou blijven.\n\nDie omstandigheid was een toenemende wederzijdsche genegenheid\ntusschen haar oudste meisje en den broeder van Mevrouw John Dashwood,\neen beschaafden en beminnelijken jongen man, dien zij hadden leeren\nkennen kort na zijn zuster's komst te Norland, en die sedert dien\ntijd veel bij hen aan huis kwam.\n\nSommige moeders zouden dien vertrouwelijken omgang hebben aangemoedigd\nuit eigenbelang; want Edward Ferrars was de oudste zoon van een man,\ndie schatrijk was gestorven; en andere zouden dien hebben tegengegaan\nuit voorzichtigheid; want op een geringe som na, hing zijn geheele\nfortuin af van het testament zijner moeder. Doch Mevrouw Dashwood\nliet zich door geen dier beide opvattingen beïnvloeden. Voor haar\nwas het genoeg, dat hij een aangenamen indruk maakte, dat hij hare\ndochter liefhad, en dat Elinor die voorkeur beantwoordde. Het zou in\nstrijd zijn geweest met al haar beginselen, dat verschil in fortuin\neenig paar gescheiden zou kunnen houden, dat door gelijkgestemdheid\nzich tot elkaar voelde aangetrokken; en dat Elinor's verdienste niet\nzou worden gewaardeerd door ieder die haar kende, dat ging boven haar\nbegrip. Edward Ferrars bezat overigens, om zich hunne goede meening\nte verwerven, geen bijzondere gaven, wat zijn persoon of optreden\nbetrof. Bijzonder knap van uiterlijk was hij niet, en zijn manieren\nwerden eerst aangenaam als hij zich op zijn gemak gevoelde. Hij\nwas te verlegen om goed tot zijn recht te komen; maar als hij zijn\naangeboren bedeesdheid had overwonnen, leverde zijn gedrag in elk\nopzicht de bewijzen van een openhartige en warme natuur. Zijn verstand\nwas goed, en zijne opvoeding had het degelijk geoefend. Doch noch\ndoor zijn aanleg, noch door zijne neigingen was hij geschikt, de\nwenschen te vervullen van zijne moeder en zuster, die verlangden hem\nte zien uitblinken--als--zij wisten zelven eigenlijk niet wat. Zij\nwilden dat hij een goed figuur zou slaan in de wereld op de eene of\nandere manier. Zijn moeder begeerde dat hij belang zou stellen in\npolitiek, dat hij lid van het parlement zou worden, of in aanraking\nzou komen met sommigen der groote mannen van zijn tijd. Dat wenschte\nMevrouw John Dashwood eveneens; doch voorloopig, tot een van die\nhoogere zegeningen hem zou kunnen ten deel vallen, zou háár eerzucht\ntevreden gesteld zijn, als zij hem in een eigen barouchette had kunnen\nzien rijden. Maar Edward's neigingen gingen niet uit naar groote\nmannen of barouchettes. Al zijn wenschen hadden tot hun middenpunt\nhuiselijke gezelligheid en de rust van het gezinsleven. Gelukkig had\nhij een jongeren broeder, van wien meer te verwachten viel. Edward was\nreeds meerdere weken bij hen gelogeerd geweest, eer Mevrouw Dashwood\neigenlijk goed op hem lette; want zij was in die dagen zóó bedroefd,\ndat zij voor hare omgeving in 't geheel geen oog had. Zij zag alleen,\ndat hij rustig was en zich achteraf hield, en dat beviel haar in\nhem. Hij verstoorde haar diepe verslagenheid van geest niet door te\nonpas gesprekken te beginnen. Zij kreeg voor 't eerst aanleiding\nom op hem te letten en nog gunstiger over hem te gaan denken door\neene opmerking, die Elinor op zekeren dag toevallig maakte over het\nverschil tusschen hem en zijn zuster. Die tegenstelling was voor haar\nmoeder de allerwelsprekendste aanbeveling. \"O, dat is genoeg,\" zei ze;\n\"wanneer je Zegt, dat hij niet op Fanny lijkt, dan is dat al genoeg\nvoor mij. Dat sluit alles in wat beminnelijk is. Nu houd ik al veel\nvan hem.\"\n\n\"Ik denk wel dat u hem graag zult mogen lijden,\" zei Elinor, \"als u\nhem beter leert kennen.\"\n\n\"Mogen lijden!\" antwoordde haar moeder, met een glimlach. \"Ik voor\nmij kan geen gevoel van waardeering koesteren dat beneden warme\ngenegenheid blijft.\"\n\n\"U zoudt achting voor hem kunnen voelen.\"\n\n\"Ik heb nooit geweten wat het was, achting en liefde van elkander\nte scheiden.\"\n\nMevrouw Dashwood gaf zich nu moeite, hem nader te leeren kennen. Zij\nbezat innemende manieren, en zette hem spoedig op zijn gemak. Vlug\ngenoeg zag zij zijn verdiensten in; haar overtuiging dat hij Elinor\ngenegen was, verhoogde misschien haar doorzicht; maar zij was van zijn\ninnerlijke waarde ten stelligste overtuigd, en zelfs dat bedaarde in\nzijn houding, dat indruischte tegen al haar overgeleverde begrippen\nomtrent de wijze waarop een jonge man zich behoorde voor te doen,\nbleef niet meer zoo oninteressant, nu zij wist dat hij een warm hart\nhad en een liefhebbenden aard.\n\nNiet zoodra had zij de eerste aanduiding van verliefdheid bespeurd\nin zijn houding jegens Elinor, of zij beschouwde hun ernstige\ngenegenheid als een uitgemaakte zaak, en zag hun huwelijk, als\nbinnenkort aanstaande, met blijdschap tegemoet.\n\n\"Over een paar maanden, Marianne,\" zei ze, \"zal Elinor waarschijnlijk\nal haar eigen thuis hebben gevonden. Wij zullen haar missen; maar\nzij zal gelukkig zijn.\"\n\n\"O mama! hoe zullen we 't zonder haar stellen?\"\n\n\"Lieve kind, men kan het haast geen scheiding noemen. We zullen\nmaar een paar mijlen van elkaar af wonen, en elkaar iederen dag\nontmoeten. Je krijgt nu een broer,--een echten, hartelijken broer. Van\nEdward's goede hart heb ik de hoogste verwachtingen. Maar je kijkt\nernstig, Marianne; heb je iets aan te merken op je zuster's keuze?\"\n\n\"Misschien,\" zei Marianne, \"mag ik mij er wel een weinigje over\nverwonderen. Edward is heel aardig, en ik houd ook veel van hem. Maar\ntoch, hij is niet de soort van jonge man... er ontbreekt hem iets,\nzijn persoonlijkheid is niet opvallend--hij heeft niets van de bekoring\ndie ik dacht, dat moest uitgaan van een man, die mijn zuster's ernstige\ngenegenheid kon winnen. Er is in zijn oogen niets van dien geest, van\ndat vuur, dat zoowel deugd als intellectueele begaafdheid verraadt. En\ndan bovendien nog, mama, ik ben bang dat hij eigenlijk geen goeden\nsmaak heeft. Om muziek schijnt hij weinig te geven, en al bewondert\nhij nog zoozeer Elinor's teekeningen, 't is niet de bewondering\nvan iemand, die hun waarde beoordeelen kan. Men kan duidelijk zien,\nal neemt hij ook gedurig notitie van haar als ze aan het teekenen\nis, dat hij er eigenlijk in 't geheel geen verstand van heeft. Hij\nbewondert als minnaar, niet als een kenner. Om mij te voldoen, zouden\ndie beide eigenschappen vereenigd moeten zijn. Ik zou niet gelukkig\nkunnen zijn met een man, wiens smaak niet in elk opzicht met den mijne\novereenkwam. Hij zou in al mijn gevoelens moeten kunnen komen, dezelfde\nboeken, dezelfde muziek zouden ons beiden moeten bekoren. O mama, wat\nwas Edward's houding mat en flauw en lauw, toen hij ons gisterenavond\nvoorlas! Ik vond het verschrikkelijk voor Elinor. Maar zij verdroeg het\nmet de grootste kalmte; 't scheen wel of ze 't niet eens opmerkte. Ik\nkon haast niet op mijn stoel blijven zitten. Die prachtige verzen, die\nmij dikwijls zoo woest opgewonden hebben gemaakt, te hooren voordragen\nmet zoo'n onverzettelijke kalmte, zoo'n akelige onverschilligheid!\"\n\n\"Als het eenvoudig en vloeiend proza was geweest, dat zou hij stellig\nmeer tot zijn recht hebben doen komen. Ik dacht het al; maar jij\n_moest_ hem juist Cowper geven.\"\n\n\"Ja, ziet u, mama--als Cowper hem nog niet in vuur brengt!--maar we\nmoeten bedenken, dat smaken verschillen. Elinor's gevoelens zijn niet\nde mijne; daarom kan zij zooiets over 't hoofd zien, en gelukkig\nmet hem worden. Maar 't zou _mijn_ hart hebben gebroken, als ik\nvan hem hield, om hem te hooren lezen met zóó weinig gevoel. Mama,\nhoe meer ik de wereld leer kennen, des te vaster ben ik overtuigd,\ndat ik nooit een man zal ontmoeten, dien ik werkelijk liefhebben\nkan. Ik stel zulke hooge eischen! Hij moet al de deugden van Edward\nbezitten, en zijn persoon en manieren moeten zijn goedheid alle\ndenkbare bekoring verleenen.\"\n\n\"Vergeet niet, kindje, dat je nog geen zeventien bent. 't Is nog te\nvroeg om aan dat geluk te wanhopen. Waarom zou het je minder goed gaan\nin dat opzicht dan je moeder? In één enkel opzicht alleen, Marianne,\nhoop ik, dat je lot van het hare verschillen zal.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK IV\n\n\nWat is het toch jammer, Elinor,\" zei Marianne, \"dat Edward geen\nplezier in teekenen heeft.\"\n\n\"Geen pleizier in teekenen?\" antwoordde Elinor; \"waarom dacht je\ndat? Hij teekent zelf niet; dat is waar; maar hij ziet heel graag,\ndat anderen ermee bezig zijn, en ik verzeker je, dat het hem volstrekt\nniet ontbreekt aan aangeboren smaak, hoewel hij geen gelegenheid heeft\ngehad om dien te ontwikkelen. Als hij ooit was begonnen het te leeren,\ndan geloof ik, dat hij heel goed zou hebben geteekend. Hij wantrouwt\nzóózeer zijn eigen oordeel in zulke dingen; dat hij nooit graag zijn\nmeening uitspreekt over een schilderij of teekening; maar hij heeft\ndien natuurlijken eenvoud en zuiverheid van smaak, die hem in den\nregel juist den rechten weg wijzen.\"\n\nMarianne was bang haar te kwetsen en zweeg verder over dit onderwerp;\nmaar de soort van waardeering, die Elinor in hem beweerde te\nbespeuren bij 't zien van teekeningen, door anderen vervaardigd,\ngeleek alles behalve op die opgewonden verrukking, die, in háár oogen,\nalleen waard was, smaak genoemd te worden. Toch, al glimlachte zij\ninwendig over dat wanbegrip, zij had eerbied voor haar zuster om de\nblinde partijdigheid voor Edward, waaruit het voortsproot. \"Ik hoop,\nMarianne,\" ging Elinor voort, \"dat je hem niet beschouwt als iemand,\ndie in 't algemeen weinig smaak heeft. Ik ben ook haast wel zeker,\ndat dit niet het geval is, want je houding tegenover hem is hartelijk\nen vertrouwelijk, en als je er zóó over dacht, dan weet ik wel,\ndat je hem niet eens beleefd zoudt behandelen.\"\n\nMarianne wist niet recht wat ze zou zeggen. Zij wilde in geen geval\nhaar zuster grieven, en toch was het onmogelijk, te zeggen wat ze\nniet meende. Op 't laatst antwoordde ze:\n\n\"Je moet het me niet kwalijk nemen, Elinor, als mijn lof van hem niet\nin elk opzicht overeenstemt met de overtuiging, die jij koestert\nomtrent zijn verdiensten. Ik heb niet zooveel gelegenheid gehad om\nvan zijn meer intieme geestesrichting, zijn neigingen en zijn smaak\nop de hoogte te komen als jij; maar ik ben één en al bewondering voor\nzijn goedheid en zijn verstand. Hij is in mijn oogen zoo degelijk èn\nbeminnelijk als iemand maar zijn kan.\"\n\n\"Nu,\" zei Elinor glimlachend, \"zijn beste vrienden zouden niet\nonvoldaan kunnen zijn met zulk een loftuiting. Mij dunkt, met méér\nwarmte hadt je je moeilijk kunnen uitdrukken.\"\n\nMarianne was blij, dat haar zuster zoo gemakkelijk bleek te voldoen.\n\n\"Zijn verstand en zijn goedheid,\" ging Elinor voort, \"kan dunkt mij,\nniemand in twijfel trekken, die hem dikwijls genoeg heeft ontmoet\nom een ongedwongen gesprek met hem te kunnen voeren. De helderheid\nvan zijn begrip en de uitnemendheid zijner beginselen blijven alleen\nmaar verborgen door die verlegenheid die hem zoo dikwijls tot zwijgen\nnoopt. Je weet genoeg van hem om zijn degelijken eigenschappen recht\nte doen weervaren. Maar omtrent zijn meer intieme geestesrichting,\nzooals je dat noemt, heb jij door toevallige omstandigheden minder\nervaren dan ik zelve. Hij en ik waren meermalen haast uitsluitend op\nelkaar aangewezen, terwijl jij in beslag genomen werdt door moeder,\naan wie je al je liefdevolle aandacht wijdde. Ik was veel met hem\nsamen, ik verdiepte mij in zijn gevoelens, en vernam zijn meening\nover onderwerpen van letterkunde en smaak; en over 't geheel\ndurf ik stellig te beweren, dat zijn geest zeer ontwikkeld is;\nzijn vermogen om literatuur te genieten buitengewoon groot, zijn\nverbeelding levendig, zijn opmerkingsgave juist en scherp, en zijn\nsmaak verfijnd en zuiver. Zijn begaafdheden in ieder opzicht vallen bij\nnadere kennismaking evenzeer mee als zijn wijze van optreden en zijn\npersoon. Op het eerste gezicht heeft hij waarlijk niets opvallends,\nen uiterlijk kan men hem moeilijk een knap man noemen, eer men heeft\ngelet op de uitdrukking van zijn oogen, die bijzonder aantrekkelijk\nzijn, en iets liefs en goeds in zijn gezicht. Nu ken ik hem zóó goed,\ndat ik hem werkelijk mooi vind, of ten minste bijna. Hoe denkt jij\nerover, Marianne?\"\n\n\"Ik zal hem ook wel gauw mooi vinden, Elinor, al doe ik dat nu nog\nniet. Als je mij zegt, dat ik van hem mag houden als een broer,\ndan zal ik evenmin iets onvolmaakts zien in zijn gezicht, als nu\nin zijn hart.\" Elinor schrikte bij die woorden, en 't speet haar,\ndat ze zich onwillekeurig had laten verleiden, met zooveel warmte\nvan hem te spreken. Zij gevoelde wel, dat ze Edward bijzonder hoog\nschatte. Ze geloofde dat die waardeering wederkeerig was; maar zij\nhad méér zekerheid noodig, indien Marianne's overtuiging omtrent\nhun wederzijdsche genegenheid haar aangenaam zou zijn. Ze wist, als\nMarianne en haar moeder één oogenblik iets gisten, dan waren ze in\n't volgende er zeker van;--dat bij haar beide wenschen hopen was,\nen hoop gelijk stond met verwachting. Zij poogde haar zuster den\nwerkelijken stand van zaken te verklaren.\n\n\"Ik wil niet ontkennen,\" zei ze; \"dat ik hem bijzonder hoog stel,--dat\nik hem de grootste achting toedraag, en hem graag mag lijden.\"\n\nMarianne barstte verontwaardigd uit:\n\n\"Achting toedragen! Mogen lijden! O Elinor, wat ben je koel! Erger\ndan koel! Je schaamt je om anders te schijnen. Als je die woorden\nnog weer durft noemen, dan ga ik zóó de kamer uit.\"\n\nElinor kon niet nalaten te lachen. \"Wees niet boos,\" zei ze, \"en wees\nmaar zeker, dat ik je niet wilde grieven, door zoo kalm over mijn eigen\ngevoelens te spreken. Geloof dan, dat ze sterker zijn dan ik beweerde;\ngeloof dat ze zóó zijn, als zijn verdiensten en het vermoeden van--de\nhoop op zijn genegenheid voor mij, mij toestaan ze te koesteren,\nzonder onvoorzichtigheid of dwaze inbeelding. Maar meer dan dat mag\nje _niet_ gelooven. Ik ben volstrekt niet zeker van zijn gevoelens\njegens mij. Er zijn oogenblikken, waarop hun diepte twijfelachtig\nschijnt, en eer zijn gemoedsgesteldheid mij volkomen is geopenbaard,\nkan het je niet verwonderen als ik alles wensch te vermijden wat mijn\neigen voorkeur kan aanwakkeren, door die gewichtiger te achten of te\ndoen voorkomen dan zij is. In mijn hart gevoel ik weinig,--ik mag wel\nzeggen bijna géén twijfel aan zijn genegenheid. Maar er zijn andere\ndingen, behalve zijn neiging, die in aanmerking komen. Hij is volstrekt\nniet onafhankelijk. Hoe zijn moeder werkelijk is, dat kunnen wij niet\nweten; maar te oordeelen naar Fanny's uitlatingen nu en dan over haar\ngedrag en haar meeningen, hebben wij ons nooit voorgesteld dat zij\nheel beminnelijk zou zijn; en ik zou mij al zeer moeten vergissen,\nals Edward zelf niet heel goed wist, dat hem veel moeilijkheden in\nden weg zouden staan, als hij wenschte, een vrouw te trouwen, die\nniet òf een groot fortuin bezat, of van zeer voorname afkomst was.\"\n\nMarianne was verbaasd, toen ze bemerkte, hoezeer haar moeder en\nzijzelf in hun verbeelding de werkelijkheid hadden voorbij gestreefd.\n\n\"Dus ben je wezenlijk niet met hem geëngageerd\", zei ze. \"Maar 't zal\ntoch stellig gauw gebeuren. Dat uitstel bezorgt ons in elk geval twee\nvoordeelen. Ik zal je zoo gauw niet verliezen, en Edward zal des te\nbeter gelegenheid hebben, om dien aangeboren smaak voor je geliefkoosde\nbezigheid verder aan te kweeken, die toch zoo onontbeerlijk is voor\nje toekomstig geluk. O! als je groote begaafdheid hem nog eens zóó\nkon prikkelen en aanmoedigen, dat hij zelf nog teekenen leerde;\nwat zou dàt heerlijk zijn!\"\n\nElinor had aan haar zuster gezegd, wat zij werkelijk meende. Zij kon\nhaar neiging tot Edward niet in zulk een gunstig licht beschouwen als\nMarianne had gedaan. Er was af en toe een gebrek aan opgewektheid\nin hem te bespeuren, dat, zoo het al geen onverschilligheid liet\ndoorschemeren, toch wees op iets, dat bijna even weinig goeds\nbeloofde. Twijfel aan haar genegenheid zou, bijaldien deze door hem\nwerd gekoesterd, niet meer dan onrust in hem behoeven te wekken. Het\nwas niet waarschijnlijk dat twijfel de oorzaak zou zijn van de\nneerslachtigheid, die hem meermalen scheen te drukken. Een meer\ngegronde reden ervoor zou kunnen bestaan in zijn afhankelijke positie\ndie hem belette aan zijne neiging toe te geven. Zij wist, dat zijne\nmoeder noch zorg droeg, hem voor het oogenblik een aangenaam tehuis\nte verschaffen, noch hem de zekerheid wilde schenken, dat hij zelf\nzich een gelukkig thuis zou mogen scheppen, zonder zich angstvallig\nte schikken naar haar inzichten omtrent zijn maatschappelijken\nvooruitgang. Daar zij dat alles wist, was het Elinor onmogelijk,\ngerust te zijn op dit punt. Zij rekende er volstrekt niet op, dat zijn\ngenegenheid voor haar den doorslag zou geven; iets dat haar moeder en\nzuster stellig verwachtten. Integendeel, hoe langer hun omgang duurde,\ndes te meer ging zij twijfelen aan den aard van zijn gevoel; en soms,\ngedurende enkele minuten, die pijn deden, geloofde zij, dat het niet\nmeer dan vriendschap was.\n\nDoch, wáár dan ook de grenzen mochten zijn van dat gevoel, het was\nvoldoende om zijn zuster, toen zij het bespeurde, ongerust te maken,\nen meteen (zooals bij haar iets van zelf sprekends was) uiterst\nonbeleefd. Zij greep de eerste de beste gelegenheid aan om haar\nschoonmoeder over het geval te onderhouden, en vertelde haar met\nzooveel nadruk van haar broeder's mooie vooruitzichten; van Mevrouw\nFerrars' vast besluit dat haar beide zoons een goede partij zouden\ndoen, en van het gevaar dat jonge dames liepen, die probeerden hem\n_in te palmen_; dat Mevrouw Dashwood noch kon doen alsof zij haar\nniet begreep, noch zich dwingen om kalm te blijven. Zij gaf haar\neen antwoord, dat duidelijk haar minachting deed blijken, en verliet\ndadelijk de kamer, vastbesloten dat, ondanks allen last en onkosten\ndie zulk een onverwacht vertrek insloot, haar lieve Elinor geen week\nlanger zou blootgesteld zijn aan zulke kwaadaardige toespelingen.\n\nTerwijl zij in deze gemoedsgesteldheid verkeerde, werd haar over\nde post een brief bezorgd, die een voorstel inhield, dat juist nu\nbijzonder gelegen kwam. Het was een aanbieding, tegen een geringe\nvergoeding, van een klein huis, dat toebehoorde aan een bloedverwant\nvan haar, een gezien grondbezitter in Devonshire. De brief was\nvan dezen heer zelf, en geschreven in een oprechten geest van\nvriendschappelijke tegemoetkoming. Hij had gehoord, dat zij naar\neen woning zocht, en hoewel het huis, dat hij haar thans aanbood,\nslechts een eenvoudig landhuisje was, verzekerde hij haar, dat\nalles eraan zou worden gedaan, wat noodig bleek, als de ligging en\nomgeving haar aanstonden. Hij drong er ernstig op aan, na haar nadere\nbijzonderheden omtrent huis en tuin te hebben medegedeeld, dat zij met\nhare dochters naar Barton Park zou komen, zijn eigen woonverblijf,\nvan waaruit zij zich dan zelve kon vergewissen, of Barton Cottage,\nwant de huizen lagen in dezelfde gemeente, door eenige verandering\nvoor haar geschikt zou kunnen worden gemaakt. Hij scheen er werkelijk\nop gesteld, hun een dienst te bewijzen, en de geheele toon van zijn\nbrief was zoo vriendelijk, dat zijne nicht zich niet anders dan\naangenaam erdoor getroffen kon gevoelen; te meer op dit oogenblik,\nnu zij pijnlijk gegriefd was door het onhartelijk en ongevoelig\ngedrag harer nadere familieleden. Tijd voor overleg of navraag had\nzij niet noodig. Onder het lezen stond haar besluit reeds vast. De\nligging van Barton, in een graafschap, zoo ver verwijderd van Sussex\nals Devonshire, die slechts een paar uur te voren een beletsel zou\nzijn geweest, voldoende om op te wegen tegen elk denkbaar voordeel\ndat de plaats aanbood, was thans haar voornaamste aanbeveling. Uit\nde buurt te geraken van Norland was nu niet langer een ramp; het was\nhet doel van een vurig verlangen; het was een zegen, vergeleken bij de\nellende van nog langer de gast te zijn van haar schoondochter; en voor\naltijd te vertrekken van die geliefde plek zou minder pijnlijk zijn\ndan er te wonen, of er een bezoek te brengen, zoolang zulk eene vrouw\ner meesteres was. Zij schreef onmiddellijk aan Sir John Middleton,\nom haar dank te betuigen voor zijn vriendelijkheid, en hem mede te\ndeelen dat zij zijn voorstel aannam, en haastte zich daarna, beide\nbrieven aan hare dochters te laten zien, om zeker te zijn van hare\ngoedkeuring, eer haar antwoord werd verzonden.\n\nElinor had altijd gedacht, dat het verstandiger zou zijn, als zij\nzich vestigden op eenigen afstand van Norland, dan vlak in de buurt\nvan hunne tegenwoordige kennissen. In _dat_ opzicht bestond dus\nvoor haar geen reden, zich te verzetten tegen haar moeder's plan\nom te verhuizen naar Devonshire. Ook het huis, zooals Sir John\nMiddleton het had beschreven, was zoo bescheiden van afmetingen,\nen de huurprijs zoo bijzonder laag, dat zij in beide opzichten geen\nrecht had tot het opperen van eenig bezwaar; en zoo kwam het, dat\nzij, hoewel het plan voor haar verbeelding weinig bekoorlijks had,\nen het haar verder van Norland verwijderde dan zij wel wenschte,\ngeen poging deed om haar moeder te ontraden, den brief te verzenden,\nwaarin zij hare toestemming gaf.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK V\n\n\nZoodra haar antwoord was verzonden, gunde Mevrouw Dashwood zich het\ngenoegen, haar stiefzoon en zijn vrouw mee te deelen, dat zij een huis\nhad gevonden, en hen niet langer zou lastig vallen dan noodig was,\ntotdat alles in gereedheid was gebracht om het te betrekken. Zij\nvernamen het bericht niet zonder verrassing. Mevrouw John Dashwood\nzei niets; doch haar echtgenoot gaf beleefd zijn hoop te kennen,\ndat zij niet ver van Norland wonen zou.\n\nHet was haar een groote voldoening te kunnen antwoorden, dat zij naar\nDevonshire ging. Toen Edward dit hoorde, keerde hij zich haastig\nnaar haar om, en herhaalde, op een toon van verwondering en spijt,\ndie voor haar geen verklaring behoefde: \"Naar Devonshire! Gaat u\nwerkelijk dáárheen? Zoo ver van hier? En naar welk gedeelte dan?\"\n\nZij beschreef de ligging van het nieuwe huis. Het was een kleine vier\nmijlen ten Noorden van Exeter.\n\n\"Het is maar een landhuisje,\" ging zij voort; \"maar ik hoop er velen\nvan mijn vrienden te zullen ontvangen. Er kunnen gemakkelijk een\npaar kamers worden aangebouwd; en als mijn kennissen er geen bezwaar\nin zien, zoo ver te reizen om mij op te zoeken, dan zal ik dat zeer\nzeker evenmin hebben om hen te herbergen.\"\n\nZij besloot met een zeer vriendelijke uitnoodiging aan den Heer en\nMevrouw Dashwood om haar te Barton te bezoeken, en tot Edward richtte\nzij die met nog meer hartelijkheid. Hoewel het onlangs met haar\nschoondochter gevoerde gesprek haar had doen besluiten niet langer te\nNorland te blijven dan onvermijdelijk was, het had niet den minsten\nindruk op haar gemaakt in dàt opzicht, waarom het voornamelijk was\nbegonnen. Het was thans zoomin als vroeger haar bedoeling, Edward en\nElinor van elkaar te scheiden; en zij wenschte Mevrouw John Dashwood,\ndoor deze opzettelijk tot haar broeder gerichte uitnoodiging, duidelijk\nte toonen, hoe zij zich in 't minst niet bekommerde om het afkeurend\noordeel der laatste over deze verbintenis.\n\nDe Heer John Dashwood verzekerde zijne moeder herhaalde malen,\nhoe bijzonder het hem speet, dat zij een huis had gekozen, zóó ver\nvan Norland, dat hij haar met het vervoer van haar meubels niet van\ndienst kon zijn. Hij voelde bij deze gelegenheid werkelijk eenige\ngewetensknaging; want het eenig hulpbetoon, waartoe hij de vervulling\nvan de belofte aan zijn vader had beperkt, werd door deze schikking\nfeitelijk onuitvoerbaar. De verhuisboedel werd met de boot verzonden,\nen bestond hoofdzakelijk uit huishoudlinnen, zilver, porselein en\nboeken, benevens een mooie piano van Marianne. Mevrouw John Dashwood\nzag de kisten met een zucht verdwijnen; zij kon niet nalaten het bitter\ngrievend te vinden, dat Mevrouw Dashwood, wier inkomen zoo gering was,\nvergeleken bij het hare, toch nog enkele mooie meubels bezat.\n\nMevrouw Dashwood huurde het huis voor een jaar; het was geheel\ngemeubileerd, en zij kon het dadelijk betrekken. Aan geen van\nbeide zijden deed zich eenig bezwaar op bij de overeenkomst, en\nzij wachtte slechts tot haar goed te Norland was gepakt en zij\nhaar toekomstig huishouden eenigszins geregeld had, eer zij naar\nhet Westen vertrok. Daar zij bijzonder vlug was in 't uitvoeren van\nalles wat haar ter harte ging, nam dit niet veel tijd. De paarden,\ndie haar man haar had nagelaten, waren kort na zijn dood verkocht,\nen daar zich thans een gelegenheid aanbood, haar rijtuig van de hand\nte doen, stemde zij, op het ernstig aandringen harer oudste dochter,\nerin toe, dit ook te verkoopen. Voor het gemak van haar kinderen zou\nzij het liever hebben gehouden, als zij met haar eigen wenschen te rade\nging; maar Elinor's voorzichtigheid behield de overhand. Hare wijsheid\nwas het ook, die het getal hunner dienstboden beperkte tot drie--twee\nmeisjes en een knecht, die zij gemakkelijk konden vinden onder degenen,\ndie vroeger tot hun dienstpersoneel te Norland hadden behoord.\n\nDe knecht en een van de dienstmeisjes werden dadelijk naar\nDevonshire gezonden om het huis in orde te brengen tegen de komst\nhunner meesteres; want daar Mevrouw Dashwood Lady Middleton in het\ngeheel niet kende, wilde zij liever aanstonds naar haar huisje gaan,\ndan op Barton Park te logeeren, en zij vertrouwde zoo vast op Sir\nJohn's omschrijving van het huis, dat zij niet eens nieuwsgierig\nwas, het zelf eens van nabij te zien, eer zij er haar intrek ging\nnemen. Haar verlangen om Norland te verlaten werd voor vermindering\ngevrijwaard door de blijkbare voldoening van hare schoondochter in\n't vooruitzicht van haar vertrek; eene voldoening, die slechts flauw\nte verbergen werd gepoogd, door een koeltjes gedaan voorstel om dat\nvertrek nog een weinig uit te stellen. Thans was de tijd gekomen dat de\nbelofte van haar stiefzoon, aan zijn vader gedaan, op het meest gepaste\noogenblik had kunnen vervuld worden. Daar hij verzuimd had het te doen,\ntoen hij het goed in bezit nam, kon hun vertrek uit zijn huis als het\nmeest geschikte tijdstip voor die vervulling worden aangemerkt. Doch\nMevrouw Dashwood begon in den laatsten tijd alle verwachtingen van\ndien aard te laten varen en de overtuiging te koesteren, die zij\nafleidde uit zijn algemeene opmerkingen in het gesprek, dat zijn\nhulp zich niet verder uitstrekte dan de zes maanden huisvesting,\ndie hij hun had verleend te Norland. Hij praatte zooveel over de\ntoenemende duurte van het huishouden, en de aanhoudende onvoorziene\neischen aan zijn beurs, waaraan iemand van eenig aanzien in de wereld\nwas blootgesteld, dat het haast scheen, alsof hij eerder zelf geld\nnoodig had, dan dat hij eenig plan koesterde om het weg te schenken.\n\nReeds een paar weken na den dag, waarop Sir John Middleton's eerste\nbrief te Norland werd ontvangen, was alles zoover gereed in hun\ntoekomstig verblijf, dat Mevrouw Dashwood en hare dochters de reis\nerheen konden ondernemen.\n\nVele tranen werden door hen gestort bij hun laatst vaarwel aan de plek,\ndie zij zoozeer hadden liefgehad. \"Lief, lief Norland!\" zei Marianne,\ntoen zij alleen rondom het huis zwierf, den laatsten avond: \"wanneer\nzal ik ophouden u te betreuren!--Wanneer zal ik geleerd hebben, mij\nergens anders thuis te gevoelen? Ach, gelukkig huis! kondt ge maar\nweten hoe ik lijd, terwijl ik u aanschouw van deze plek, vanwaar ik\nu misschien nooit meer zien zal!--En gij, welbekende boomen!--maar\ngij zult hetzelfde blijven.--Geen blad zal verwelken omdat wij zijn\nheengegaan, geen twijgje zal ophouden zich te bewegen, ofschoon wij\nhet niet meer kunnen aanzien! Neen; gij blijft dezelfde; onbewust\nvan de blijdschap of de treurigheid die gij wekt, en ongevoelig voor\neenige verandering in degenen, die wandelen onder uw schaduwrijk\nloover! Maar wie blijft hier over om van u te genieten?\"--\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK VI\n\n\nHet eerste gedeelte van de reis werd afgelegd in een al te treurige\nstemming, om anders dan vervelend en onaangenaam te zijn. Doch toen zij\nhet eind ervan naderden, won hun belangstelling in het voorkomen van de\nstreek, waar zij thans zouden wonen, het van hunne neerslachtigheid,\nen het uitzicht op Barton Valley stemde hen bijna vroolijk. Het was\neen mooie, vruchtbare plek, met veel bosschen en weiland. Na den loop\nvan het dal meer dan een mijl lang gevolgd te hebben, kwamen zij aan\nhun eigen huis. Een klein omheind grasveld was al wat er bij behoorde\naan de voorzijde, en een eenvoudig hekje verleende hun toegang.\n\nAls huis beschouwd, was Barton Cottage, hoewel klein, toch geriefelijk\nen beknopt; maar als landelijk buitenhuisje liet het te wenschen\nover; daar het regelmatig van bouw en met pannen gedekt was,\nterwijl noch de luiken groen waren geverfd, noch de muren begroeid\nmet kamperfoelie. Een smalle gang leidde recht door het huis naar\nden daarachter gelegen tuin. Ter weerszijden van de voordeur was\neen zitkamer van ruim vijf meter in het vierkant; daarachter lagen\nde keuken met bijkeukens, en de trap. Verder waren er nog vier\nslaapvertrekken en twee zolderkamers. Het was nog niet zeer lang\ngeleden gebouwd en goed onderhouden. Vergeleken bij Norland was het\nwel héél nederig en klein!--doch de tranen, door die herinnering te\nvoorschijn geroepen bij hun binnentreden, waren spoedig gedroogd. De\nblijdschap van de dienstboden over hunne komst vroolijkte hen een\nweinig op, en ieder besloot terwille van de anderen zich verheugd\nte toonen. Het was in 't begin van September; de mooiste tijd van\nhet jaar, en door de omgeving voor het eerst te zien bij goed weer,\nontvingen zij een gunstigen indruk, die belangrijk medewerkte om\nhun blijvende goede meening er omtrent te bevestigen. Het huis was\naangenaam gelegen. Vlak er achter, en op geringen afstand aan beide\nzijden, rezen hooge heuvels op; sommige vrij en open, met glooiende\nhellingen, andere bebouwd en bedekt met bosch. Het dorp Barton lag\ngrootendeels op een dier heuvels, en leverde een aardig uitkijkje van\nuit de vensters van het huis. Aan de voorzijde was het uitzicht ruimer;\nmen overzag van hier de geheele vallei, en zelfs een gedeelte van de\nstreek die eraan grensde. De heuvels, die het huisje omringden, sloten\nhet dal aan die zijde af; onder een anderen naam en in een andere\nrichting vertakte het zich weer, waar twee der hoogste samenkwamen.\n\nOver de grootte van het huis en over de meubileering was Mevrouw\nDashwood over 't geheel wel voldaan; want ofschoon haar vorige\nlevenswijze menige toevoeging aan het meubilair onontbeerlijk deed\nschijnen, juist in dat aanschaffen en verfraaien had zij veel plezier;\nen voor het oogenblik had zij genoeg gereed geld, om zich alles te\nkunnen veroorloven wat vereischt werd, om haar vertrekken smaakvol\nin te richten. \"Wat het huis zelf betreft,\" zeide zij, \"het is te\nklein voor ons gezin; maar we kunnen ons voorloopig er vrij goed in\nbewegen, en het is nu te laat in het jaar om verbeteringen aan te\nbrengen. Misschien kunnen we in 't voorjaar, als ik ruim bij kas ben,\nzooals ik wel denk dat 't geval zal zijn, aan bouwen gaan denken. De\nvoorkamers zijn beide te klein voor het aantal gasten, dat ik hier\ndikwijls hoop bijeen te zien, en ik denk erover om de gang met de eene\nkamer te laten samenvallen, en misschien ook nog een gedeelte van\nde andere, zoodat de overblijvende ruimte als vestibule kan dienen;\nals daar dan een nieuwe salon wordt aangebouwd, wat gemakkelijk kan,\nmet nog een slaap- en zolderkamer erboven, dan wordt het werkelijk een\ngezellig huisje. Als de trap nu maar mooier was. Maar men kan niet\nalles verwachten; hoewel ik denk dat het niet moeilijk zou zijn die\nte verbreeden. Ik zal eens zien hoe florissant het er uitziet met mijn\nfinanciën in het voorjaar, en daarvan onze bouwplannen laten afhangen.\"\n\nIntusschen waren zij, totdat al die veranderingen zouden worden\nbekostigd uit wat er gespaard kon worden op een inkomen van vijfhonderd\npond, door iemand, die nooit in haar leven sparen geleerd had, wel\nzoo wijs om tevreden te zijn met het huis zooals het was, en ieder\nvan haar was druk bezig haar eigen zaakjes in orde te brengen, en te\npogen zich tusschen haar boeken en andere bezittingen een klein eigen\nthuis te vormen. Marianne's piano werd uitgepakt en op de geschiktste\nplaats gezet, en Elinor's teekeningen werden aan den wand gehangen\nvan hun zitkamer.\n\nIn deze en dergelijke bezigheden werden zij den volgenden dag spoedig\nna het ontbijt reeds gestoord door de komst van den huiseigenaar,\ndie hen kwam opzoeken om hen welkom te heeten te Baron en om hun\nalles aan te bieden, wat _zijn_ huis en tuin opleverden, en waaraan\nin de hunne voorloopig misschien gebrek was. Sir John Middleton was\neen knap man van omstreeks veertig jaar. Hij was vroeger wel eens\nte Stanhill gelogeerd geweest; maar dat was te lang geleden, dan dat\nzijne nichtjes zich hem nog konden herinneren. Hij had een vroolijk,\nvriendelijk gezicht, en zijn manieren waren even hartelijk als de\ntoon van zijn brief. Hun komst scheen hem werkelijk veel plezier te\ndoen en hun welzijn ging hem blijkbaar oprecht ter harte. Hij had\nhet druk over zijn welgemeenden wensch naar een prettigen gezelligen\nomgang onder elkaar, en drong er zoo gul op aan, dat zij elken dag\nop Barton Park zouden komen dineeren tot hun huis beter op orde\nwas, dat zij hem zijn dringend aanhouden niet kwalijk nemen konden,\nzelfs waar het de grenzen der beleefdheid bijna overschreed. Zijn\nvriendelijkheid bleef niet beperkt tot woorden; want nog geen uur\nnadat hij was heengegaan kwam er een groote mand vol groente en fruit\nvan het Park; nog eer de dag voorbij was, gevolgd door een bezending\ngevogelte. Hij verkoos volstrekt al hun brieven voor hen af te halen\nen op de post te bezorgen, en wilde zich het genoegen niet laten\nontzeggen, hun elken dag zijn courant te sturen.\n\nLady Middleton had door haar man een beleefde boodschap laten\nzenden, waarin zij haar voornemen te kennen gaf, Mevrouw Dashwood een\nbezoek te brengen, zoodra zij zeker was, dat dit haar geen last zou\nveroorzaken, en daar die boodschap met een even beleefde uitnoodiging\nwerd beantwoord, werd de bewuste dame reeds den volgenden dag aan\nhen voorgesteld.\n\nZij waren natuurlijk zeer benieuwd iemand te leeren kennen, van wie\nveel van hun genoegen te Barton zou afhangen; en het bevredigde\nhun gespannen verwachtingen, te zien, dat zij er zeer elegant\nuitzag. Lady Middleton was niet ouder dan zes- of zeven en twintig;\nhaar gezicht was knap; haar figuur imposant en forsch, en zij bewoog\nzich gemakkelijk. Haar manieren bezaten al de bevalligheid, die\nhaar echtgenoot miste. Maar zij zouden toch hebben gewonnen door een\nweinigje van zijn rondborstigheid en warmte, en haar bezoek duurde lang\ngenoeg om hun aanvankelijke bewondering eenigszins te doen verminderen,\ntoen zij bespeurden dat zij, ofschoon zeer beschaafde vormen bezittend,\nteruggetrokken en koel was, en niets ten beste had te geven dan de\nmeest banale vragen en opmerkingen.\n\nAan conversatie was overigens geen gebrek; want Sir John was uiterst\nspraakzaam; en Lady Middleton had de wijze voorzorg genomen, haar\noudste kind mede te brengen, een mooi jongetje van omstreeks zes jaar;\nzoodat er altijd één onderwerp overbleef, waartoe de dames in geval\nvan nood hare toevlucht konden nemen; want zij moesten natuurlijk\ninformeeren naar zijn naam en leeftijd, zijn aardig gezichtje\nbewonderen, en hem vragen doen, die zijn moeder voor hem beantwoordde,\nterwijl hij zich aan haar vastklemde en zijn hoofdje liet hangen, tot\ngroote verbazing van zijn mama, die niet kon begrijpen, waarom hij zoo\nverlegen was in gezelschap, daar hij leven genoeg kon maken tehuis. Bij\nelk officieel bezoek moest er eigenlijk een kind van de partij zijn,\nbij wijze van reserve-onderwerp van gesprek. In het onderhavige geval\nwerden tien minuten besteed aan de vraag of de jongen het meest op zijn\nvader of op zijn moeder geleek, en wààrin de bijzondere gelijkenis\nop beiden bestond; want natuurlijk verschilden allen van meening,\nen ieder was over de zienswijze der anderen zeer verbaasd.\n\nWeldra zouden de Dashwoods gelegenheid krijgen om ook over de andere\nkinderen van meening te wisselen; daar Sir John niet wilde heengaan,\neer zij hem hadden beloofd den volgenden dag te komen eten op het Park.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK VII\n\n\nBarton Park was ongeveer een halve mijl van hun huis gelegen. De dames\nwaren er langs gekomen op hun weg door het dal; maar van uit Barton\nCottage kon men het goed niet zien liggen, daar een vooruitstekende\nheuvel het vrije uitzicht erop belette. Het huis was groot en mooi;\nen de Middletons wisten in hun levenswijze gastvrijheid te paren aan\nweeldevertoon. De eerste schonk voldoening aan Sir John, het tweede\naan zijne echtgenoote. Zij waren bijna nooit zonder logeergasten, en\nzij zagen meer menschen van allerlei slag, dan eenige andere familie\nin den omtrek. Voor beider geluk was dit noodzakelijk; want hoezeer\nzij ook verschilden in hun geaardheid en hun wijze van optreden,\nzij geleken sterk op elkander in dat volslagen gebrek aan talent en\nsmaak, dat hunne bezigheden, buiten die, welke samenhingen met het\ngezelschapsleven, binnen een zeer engen kring beperkte. Sir John\nwas liefhebber van sport, Lady Middleton was moeder. Hij jaagde en\nschoot; zij verwende haar kinderen; en op die genoegens waren zij, wat\nhenzelf betrof, aangewezen. Lady Middleton had dit op haar man vóór,\ndat zij hare kinderen het geheele jaar door kon bederven, terwijl Sir\nJohn's zelfstandige bedrijvigheid slechts de helft van dien tijd in\nbeslag nam. Een aanhoudend \"bezet zijn,\" echter, in hun eigen huis\nen daarbuiten, vulde alle leemten aan van natuur en opvoeding; hield\nSir John in een goed humeur, en schonk zijn vrouw gelegenheid uit te\nblinken door haar beschaafde omgangsvormen. Lady Middleton was zeer\ntrotsch op de onberispelijkheid van haar diners, en op de geheele\ninrichting van haar huishouding, en uit die soort van ijdelheid\nsproot haar grootste genoegen voort in de partijen, die zij plachten\nte geven. Maar Sir John's behagen in gezelligen omgang was èchter;\nhij deed niets liever dan meer jongelui om zich heen verzamelen, dan\nzijn huis bergen kon, en hoe meer leven ze maakten, hoe beter het hem\naanstond. Hij was een zegen voor de heele jeugd in den omtrek; want\nin den zomer beraamde hij altoos uitstapjes, waarbij in de open lucht\nveel koude kip en ham werd verorberd, en in den winter was het aantal\ndanspartijen dat hij gaf, voldoende om elke jonge dame te bevredigen,\ndie niet leed aan den onverzadelijken danshonger der vijftienjarigen.\n\nDe komst van een nieuwe familie in den omtrek was voor hem altijd een\ngroot genoegen, en hij was in ieder opzicht verrukt van de bewoners,\ndie hij voor zijn huisje te Barton gewonnen had. De meisjes Dashwood\nwaren jong, mooi, en eenvoudig. Dat was genoeg om zijn goede meening\nte verwerven, want eenvoudigheid was al wat een mooi meisje behoefde,\nom haar geest even bekoorlijk te doen zijn als haar persoon. Zijn\nwelwillende inborst deed hem een genoegen erin vinden juist hun\nvan dienst te zijn, wier omstandigheden, vergeleken bij vroeger, als\nbetrekkelijk minder gunstig mochten beschouwd worden. Hij smaakte dus,\ndoor zijnen nichten vriendelijkheid te bewijzen, de oprechte voldoening\nvan een goed hart; en dat hij een gezin, uit enkel vrouwen bestaande,\nin zijn huisje had geïnstalleerd, bevredigde hem in zijn kwaliteit\nvan jachtliefhebber; want een beoefenaar van die sport moge dan al\nenkel dien leden zijner eigen sekse achting toedragen, die eveneens\njagers zijn, hij zal niet licht verlangen hen aan te moedigen in hun\nliefhebberij, door hun een vaste woonplaats te verschaffen op zijn\neigen grondgebied.\n\nMevrouw Dashwood en hare dochters werden reeds aan de voordeur door\nSir John begroet, die hen met ongekunstelde hartelijkheid welkom\nheette op Barton Park, en terwijl hij hen naar den salon geleidde,\nden jongen dames opnieuw zijn spijt betuigde, zooals hij den dag te\nvoren ook reeds had gedaan, dat hij geen aardige jongelui had kunnen\ninviteeren, om kennis met hen te maken. Ze zouden, behalve hemzelf,\nhier maar één heer aantreffen; een goeden vriend van hem, die bij hen\nlogeerde, maar die noch heel jong, noch heel vroolijk was. Hij hoopte\ndat zij het met hun klein kringetje zouden voor lief nemen, en kon hun\nverzekeren, dat het nooit weer zoo zou treffen. Hij had dien morgen\nverschillende families opgezocht, in de hoop om het aantal gasten met\nenkele te vermeerderen; maar het was lichte maan; en dan had iedereen\ninvitaties te kust en te keur. Gelukkig was Lady Middleton's moeder\nvoor een uurtje aangekomen, en daar zij een heel vroolijke en lieve\nvrouw was, hoopte hij, dat de jonge dames zich niet zoo erg zouden\nvervelen als zij nu wel moesten verwachten. De jonge dames, zoowel\nals hare moeder, waren volkomen tevreden met het vooruitzicht twee\ngeheel onbekenden te zullen ontmoeten, en verlangden niet naar meer.\n\nMevrouw Jennings, Lady Middleton's moeder, was een guitige, vroolijke,\ndikke, bejaarde dame, die veel praatte, blijkbaar pleizier in haar\nleven had, en wier beschaving wel iets te wenschen overliet. Zij deed\nniets dan grappen maken en lachen, en had eer het diner was afgeloopen,\nal veel geestigheden ten beste gegeven over het onderwerp minnaars en\nechtgenooten; zij hoopte dat de meisjes haar harten niet in Sussex\nhadden achtergelaten, en beweerde dat ze hen zag blozen, of ze dat\ndeden of niet. Marianne ergerde zich terwille van haar zuster, en\nkeek naar Elinor, om te zien hoe zij zich hield onder die plagerij,\nmet een bezorgdheid, die Elinor veel meer pijn deed, dan Mevrouw\nJennings' banale aardigheden haar hadden kunnen veroorzaken.\n\nKolonel Brandon, de vriend van Sir John, scheen, naar zijn manier van\ndoen te oordeelen, al even weinig geschikt om diens vriend te zijn,\nals Lady Middleton paste als zijn vrouw, of Mevrouw Jennings als Lady\nMiddleton's moeder. Hij was ernstig en stil. Zijn uiterlijk was echter\nniet afstootend; hoewel hij in de oogen van Marianne en Margaret een\nechte oude vrijer was, die de vijf en dertig al achter den rug had;\nmaar al was hij dan niet bepaald mooi, hij had een verstandig gezicht,\nen bijzonder aangename en beschaafde manieren.\n\nEr was niemand onder het gezelschap, die de Dashwoods bijzonder\naantrok; maar de koele onbeduidendheid van Lady Middleton was zoo\nbuitengewoon afstootend, dat daarbij vergeleken de ernst van Kolonel\nBrandon en zelfs de luidruchtige vroolijkheid van Sir John en zijn\nschoonmoeder bijna boeiend mochten genoemd worden. Lady Middleton\nscheen eerst op dreef te komen, toen aan het dessert haar vier drukke\nkinderen binnenkwamen, die op haar hingen, haar kleeren bedierven en\nverder elk gesprek onmogelijk maakten, dat niet henzelf betrof. Toen\nhet later in den avond bleek, dat Marianne aan muziek deed, werd haar\nverzocht om iets vóór te spelen. De piano werd opengesloten, ieder\nmaakte zich gereed om verrukt te zijn, en Marianne, die heel goed zong,\nnam op hun verzoek de meeste liederen door, die Lady Middleton bij\nhaar huwelijk in de familie had meegebracht, en die misschien al dien\ntijd onaangeroerd op de piano hadden gelegen; want de bewuste dame\nhad ter eere van die heugelijke gebeurtenis de muziek laten varen,\nhoewel zij, naar haar moeder beweerde, prachtig te spelen placht,\nen er, volgens haar eigen verklaring veel van hield.\n\nMarianne's voordrachten werden zeer toegejuicht. Sir John betuigde\neven luidruchtig zijn bewondering aan 't slot van elk lied, als hij\ngepraat had met de anderen, zoolang het duurde. Lady Middleton riep\nhem herhaaldelijk tot de orde; kon maar niet begrijpen, hoe iemands\naandacht één oogenblik van muziek kon afdwalen, en vroeg Marianne een\ngeliefdkoosd lied van haar te zingen, dat de laatste juist geëindigd\nhad. Kolonel Brandon was de eenige van het gezelschap, die haar\naanhoorde zonder nu juist zoo verrukt te schijnen. Het eenig compliment\ndat hij haar maakte was zijn aandachtig luisteren; en zij voelde\nbij die gelegenheid een eerbied voor hem, waarop de anderen waarlijk\nalle aanspraak hadden verloren, door dat zonder eenige schaamte aan\nden dag leggen van hun gebrek aan smaak. Zijn genoegen in muziek,\nhoewel niet in de verte gelijkend op de enthousiaste verrukking, die\nzij alleen als gelijkwaardig kon beschouwen aan haar eigen gevoel,\nviel te waardeeren, wanneer men het vergeleek bij de afgrijselijke\nongevoeligheid van de anderen, en zij was redelijk genoeg, om toe\nte geven dat een man van vijf en dertig jaar allicht te oud was\ngeworden om nog vatbaar te zijn voor intense gemoedsbeweging of een\nverfijnd vermogen tot genieten. Zij was volkomen bereid, den kolonel\nte beschouwen met al de toegevendheid voor zijn gevorderden leeftijd,\ndie haar menschelijk rechtvaardigheidsgevoel van haar eischte.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK VIII\n\n\nMevrouw Jennings was een weduwe, met een ruim inkomen. Zij had slechts\ntwee dochters, die ze beiden tot haar voldoening, een goed huwelijk had\ndoen sluiten, en zij had dus thans niet anders meer te doen dan alle\nandere menschen onder elkaar uit te huwelijken. Tot het bevorderen van\ndit doel was zij ijverig werkzaam, zooveel in haar vermogen was, en\nliet geen gelegenheid voorbijgaan om huwelijken te beramen tusschen\nalle jongelieden die zij kende. Zij was merkwaardig vlug in het\nontdekken van genegenheden, en had meermalen 't genoegen gesmaakt,\nden blos van gevleide ijdelheid eener jonge dame te voorschijn te\nroepen, door toespelingen op den indruk, door haar op dezen of genen\nheer gemaakt; en die soort van scherpzinnigheid stelde haar in staat,\nal spoedig na haar aankomst te Barton met beslistheid te verklaren,\ndat Kolonel Brandon heel erg verliefd was op Marianne Dashwood. Zij\nhad er al eenig vermoeden van, den allereersten avond dat ze elkaar\nontmoetten, omdat hij zoo aandachtig naar haar zingen had geluisterd;\nen toen de Middletons het bezoek beantwoordden, door bij Mevrouw\nDashwood te komen eten, werd dat vermoeden bewaarheid, want hij was\nweer één en al oor. Het moest wel. Ze was er stellig zeker van. Ze\npasten uitmuntend bij elkaar, want _hij_ was rijk, en _zij_ was\nmooi. Mevrouw Jennings was al verlangend geweest om Kolonel Brandon\ngelukkig getrouwd te zien, van 't oogenblik af, dat zij hem door Sir\nJohn had leeren kennen; en zij bezorgde altoos graag aan ieder mooi\nmeisje een goeden man.\n\nVoor haar zelf was hieraan een niet gering onmiddellijk voordeel\nverbonden. Want het leverde haar stof tot onuitputtelijke grappen op\nhunne kosten. Op Barton Park lachte zij om den kolonel, en in Barton\nCottage om Marianne. Den eersten liet haar scherts, waarschijnlijk,\nwat hèm betrof, volkomen onverschillig; voor de laatste bleef zij in\n't begin totaal onbegrijpelijk, en toen zij eindelijk de bedoeling\nhad gevat, wist ze niet recht, of ze zou lachen om de dwaasheid van\ndie voorstelling, of boos worden om de onbescheidenheid ervan; want\nzij beschouwde het als een hartelooze bespotting van des kolonels\ngevorderden leeftijd en zijn beklagenswaardigen staat van ongetrouwd\noud heer.\n\nMevrouw Dashwood, voor wie een man, die vijf jaar jonger was dan\nzijzelve, moeilijk zóó stokoud kon zijn, als hij toe scheen aan de\njeugdige verbeelding harer dochter, trachtte Mevrouw Jennings te\nzuiveren van de verdenking, dat zij hem om zijn hoogen leeftijd had\nwillen bespotten.\n\n\"Maar mama, u kunt de dwaasheid van die beschuldiging toch niet\nontkennen, al gelooft u, dat ze niet opzettelijk kwaad bedoeld\nwas. Kolonel Brandon is jonger dan Mevrouw Jennings, dat is waar; maar\nhij is oud genoeg om _mijn_ vader te zijn, en als hij ooit levendig\ngenoeg geweest is om verliefd te wezen, dan moet hij nu toch veel te\noud zijn geworden voor eenige gewaarwording van dien aard. 't Is àl\nte belachelijk! Wanneer zal iemand toch bewaard blijven voor zulke\ngeestigheden, als zijn ouderdom en de gebreken ervan hem niet eens\nmeer beschermen?\"\n\n\"Gebreken!\" zei Elinor; \"noem je Kolonel Brandon misschien\ngebrekkig? Ik kan me wel voorstellen, dat hij in jouw oogen heel\nwat ouder lijkt dan in die van moeder; maar je kunt je toch moeilijk\nwijsmaken, dat hij 't gebruik van zijn ledematen mist?\"\n\n\"Hoorde je hem dan niet klagen over rheumatiek? En is dat niet de\nmeest voorkomende kwaal van den ouderdom?\"\n\n\"Mijn lieve kind,\" zei haar moeder lachend, \"op die manier moet\nje wel aanhoudend beangst zijn over _mijn_ verval van krachten, en\n't moet je wel een wonder schijnen, dat ik den hoogen leeftijd van\nveertig jaren heb mogen bereiken.\"\n\n\"Mama, dat is nu niet eerlijk tegenover mij. Ik weet best, dat Kolonel\nBrandon nog niet zoo oud is, dat zijn vrienden moeten vreezen hem te\nverliezen door den eisch der natuur. Hij kan nog wel twintig jaar\nleven. Maar als men vijf en dertig is, komt men voor trouwen niet\nmeer in aanmerking.\"\n\n\"Misschien,\" zei Elinor, \"moesten vijf en dertig en zeventien maar\nliever niet samengaan, als er van trouwen sprake is. Maar als het\ntoevallig zoo eens uitkwam, dat een vrouw op zeven en twintig jarigen\nleeftijd nog ongetrouwd was gebleven, dan dunkt mij niet, dat het voor\neen huwelijk tusschen _haar_ en Kolonel Brandon een beletsel zou zijn,\ndat hij vijf en dertig is.\"\n\n\"Een vrouw van zeven en twintig jaar,\" zei Marianne, na een oogenblik\nzwijgens, \"kan onmogelijk meer hopen liefde te gevoelen of in te\nboezemen; en als zij geen aangenaam thuis heeft, of weinig geld, dan\nkan ik mij voorstellen, dat zij de taak van een verpleegster gelaten\nzou aanvaarden, terwille van haar verzekerde toekomst en gevestigde\npositie als getrouwde vrouw. Als hij zulk een vrouw trouwde, dan\nzou daar niets ongepasts in zijn. Een verdrag, aangegaan tot beider\nvoordeel, terwijl de wereld zou zijn tevredengesteld. In mijn oogen zou\nhet in 't geheel geen huwelijk zijn, maar dat doet er natuurlijk niet\ntoe. Voor mij zou het een handelsovereenkomst schijnen, waarbij beide\npartijen zichzelf wenschten te bevoordeelen, ten koste der andere.\"\n\n\"Ik weet het wel, 't is onmogelijk,\" antwoordde Elinor, \"je te\novertuigen, dat een vrouw van zeven en twintig voor een man van vijf\nen dertig ook maar iets kan voelen, dat genoeg op liefde lijkt, om\nhaar hem tot een wenschelijk levensgezel te doen verkiezen. Maar\nik kom er toch tegenop, dat je Kolonel Brandon en zijn vrouw tot\nvoortdurende opsluiting in een ziekenkamer zoudt willen veroordeelen;\nalleen maar, omdat hij gisteren (op een erg kouden, vochtigen dag)\neen beetje klaagde over wat rheumatiek in zijn eenen schouder.\"\n\n\"Maar hij had het over flanellen vesten,\" zei Marianne; \"en voor mij\nis een flanellen vest onvermijdelijk verbonden aan pijnen, zinkingen,\nrheumatiek en alle soorten van kwalen, waar mee oude en zwakke menschen\nbehept zijn.\"\n\n\"Had hij maar hevige koorts gehad, dan zou je niet half zoo\nverachtelijk op hem hebben neergezien. Beken 't maar, Marianne, is er\nniet iets buitengewoon interessants voor je in de gloeiende wangen,\nholle oogen, en gejaagden pols van een koortslijder?\"\n\nKort daarna, toen Elinor uit de kamer was gegaan, zei Marianne:\n\"Mama, van ziekte gesproken; ik ben op dat punt ongerust, ik zal\n't u maar eerlijk zeggen. Ik geloof stellig, dat het met Edward\nFerrars niet in orde is. We zijn hier nu al haast veertien dagen,\nen nog komt hij niet. Ongesteldheid alleen kan de oorzaak zijn van\ndat allervreemdste uitstel. Wat kan hem anders te Norland terughouden?\"\n\n\"Hadt je dan verwacht, dat hij zóó gauw zou komen?\" zei Mevrouw\nDashwood. \"Ik niet. Integendeel, zoo ik al eenige bezorgdheid op\ndat punt heb gekoesterd, dan was dat, wanneer ik mij herinnerde, hoe\nhij soms opvallend weinig opgewektheid of genoegen toonde, wanneer\nik erover sprak, dat hij ons in Barton zou bezoeken. Geloof je,\ndat Elinor hem nu al verwacht?\"\n\n\"Ik heb er nooit met haar over gesproken; maar natuurlijk doet ze dat.\"\n\n\"Daarin zou je je wel kunnen vergissen; want toen ik gisteren\niets tegen haar zei over 't plaatsen van een nieuwen haard in de\nlogeerkamer, vond ze, dat daar niet bepaald haast bij was; want het\nwas niet waarschijnlijk, dat die kamer vooreerst gebruikt zou worden.\"\n\n\"Hoe vreemd toch! Wat zou het beduiden? Maar hun geheele houding\ntegenover elkaar vond ik onverklaarbaar in den laatsten tijd. Wat\nnamen ze koel en bedaard afscheid! Wat hadden ze elkaar weinig\nte zeggen op den laatsten avond van hun samenzijn! Edward nam van\nElinor niet anders afscheid dan van mij; 't was alsof een hartelijk\ngezinde broer ons beiden het beste wenschte. Tweemaal heb ik hen den\nlaatsten morgen met opzet alleen gelaten, en beide keeren ging hij,\nzonder de minste reden, na mij de kamer uit. En Elinor schreide niet,\nzooals ik, toen ze Norland èn Edward verliet. Zelfs nu verliest zij\nnooit haar zelfbeheersching. Wanneer is zij ooit terneergeslagen\nof droefgeestig? Wanneer tracht zij het gezelschap van vreemden\nte vermijden, of schijnt in hunne tegenwoordigheid rusteloos en\nonvoldaan?\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK IX\n\n\nDe Dashwoods hadden zich thans te Barton behagelijk ingericht. Met het\nhuis en den tuin, zoowel als de geheele omgeving, waren zij vertrouwd\ngeraakt, en de geregelde dagelijksche bezigheden, die de helft der\nbekoring van Norland hadden uitgemaakt, werden hervat, met veel meer\ngenoegen, dan zij er ooit meer te Norland in hadden gevonden sedert\nden dood van hun vader. Sir John Middleton, die hen in de eerste\npaar weken elken dag kwam opzoeken, en die niet gewend was tehuis\nveel bedrijvigheid te zien, kon niet nalaten zijn verwondering te\nuiten over het feit, dat hij hen altijd druk met iets bezig vond.\n\nVeel bezoek, behalve dan vanuit Barton Park, ontvingen zij niet;\nwant ondanks Sir Johns dringende aanmaning om toch overal in den\nomtrek kennis te maken, en zijn herhaalde verzekering, dat zijn\nrijtuig ten allen tijde ter hunner beschikking stond, overwon Mevrouw\nDashwood's onafhankelijkheidsgevoel haar wensch naar gezelligen\nomgang voor hare kinderen, en zij bleef bij haar vast besluit om\ngeen families te bezoeken, die te veraf woonden, om ze wandelende te\nbereiken. Er vielen slechts weinige in die termen; en niet eens alle\nwaren bereikbaar. Op ongeveer anderhalve mijl afstand van hun huisje,\nin de smalle slingerende vallei van Allenham, die zich, zooals boven\nwerd omschreven, uit het dal van Barton vertakte, hadden de meisjes\nop een harer eerste wandelingen een oud, en deftig uitziend heerenhuis\nontdekt, waaraan hun verbeelding iets aantrekkelijks verleende, omdat\nhet hen aan Norland deed denken, zoodat zij het wel gaarne nader\nhadden willen leeren kennen. Doch zij vernamen, bij verdere navraag,\ndat de eigenares, een bejaarde en zeer achtenswaardige vrouw, helaas\nte ziekelijk was om in gezelschap te verkeeren, en nooit uitging.\n\nAan mooie wandelingen was in den omtrek waarlijk geen gebrek. De\nhooge heuvelhellingen, die hen van uit elk venster van hun huisje\nschenen uit te noodigen, om het verrukkelijk genot te smaken van de\nzuivere lucht op hunne toppen, vormden een aangename afwisseling,\nwanneer het in de dalen daarbeneden te modderig was, om van hunne\ngrootere schoonheden te genieten, en naar een dier heuvels richtten\nMarianne en Margaret op een gedenkwaardigen morgen hare schreden,\nverlokt door een glimp van zonneschijn in een buiïge lucht, en niet\nlanger bij machte, de strikte opsluiting te verdragen, waartoe de\naanhoudende regen van de twee vorige dagen hen had veroordeeld. Het\nweer was niet uitlokkend genoeg om de beide anderen te bewegen, boek\nen penseel neer te leggen, ondanks Marianne's verzekering, dat het\neen prachtige dag beloofde te worden, en dat elke dreigende wolk van\nhun heuvels zou optrekken; dus togen de beide meisjes er samen op uit.\n\nVroolijk klommen zij den heuvel op, zich verheugend in elk stukje\nblauwe lucht, dat hun doorzicht bewees, en toen de opwekkende vlagen\nvan een sterke Zuid-Westerbries hun in het gezicht woeien, beklaagden\nzij haar moeder en Elinor om de vreesachtigheid, die haar had belet,\ndeze heerlijke gewaarwordingen te deelen. \"Is er wel _iets_ zoo zalig\nin de wereld als dit?\" zei Marianne. \"Margaret, een paar uur op zijn\nminst zal onze wandeling duren.\"\n\nDaarmee was Margaret het eens, en zij liepen voort tegen den wind in,\ndien zij lachend van pret nog een twintig minuten weerstand boden,\ntoen plotseling de wolken zich samenpakten boven hun hoofd, en een\nfelle slagregen hun vlak in 't gezicht joeg. Verdrietig en verrast\nmoesten ze wel, tegen hun zin, omkeeren, want er was geen schuilplaats\nnaderbij dan hun eigen huis. Een troost bleef hun echter over, die\nin dezen uitersten nood het aangewezen middel tot uitkomst scheen;\nzij mochten nu, zoo hard ze maar konden, de steile helling van den\nheuvel afhollen, die rechtstreeks naar hun tuinhekje leidde.\n\nZe namen haar vaart. Marianne bleef eerst vooraan; maar een misstap\ndeed haar struikelen, en Margaret, niet in staat op te houden, om haar\nzuster te helpen, werd onvrijwillig voortgedreven, en kwam behouden\nbeneden aan den voet.\n\nEen heer, die een geweer droeg, kwam met twee spelende jachthonden\njuist den heuvel op, en was vlak bij Marianne, toen zij viel. Hij\nlegde zijn geweer neer, en schoot toe om haar te helpen. Zij was half\nopgestaan maar had door den val haar voet verstuikt en kon er bijna\nniet op staande blijven. De vreemde heer bood aan haar behulpzaam\nte zijn, en toen hij bemerkte, dat zij uit zedigheid weigerde,\nwat haar toestand noodzakelijk maakte, nam hij haar zonder woorden\nte verspillen in zijn armen, en droeg haar den heuvel af. Den tuin\ndoorgaande, waarvan Margaret het hek had opengelaten, bracht hij haar\nin het huis, waar Margaret juist was aangekomen, en liet haar niet los,\neer hij haar op een stoel in de huiskamer had neergezet.\n\nElinor en haar moeder stonden verbaasd op, toen zij binnenkwamen,\nen terwijl beider blik op hem bleef rusten met blijkbare verbazing,\nniet zonder geheime bewondering, door zijn voorkomen gewekt,\nverontschuldigde hij zijn indringen, door de oorzaak ervan te\nverklaren, op zulk een vrijmoedigen en innemenden toon, dat zijn\nbuitengewoon knap uiterlijk aan stem en uitdrukking nog grootere\nbekoring ontleende. Zelfs al was hij oud, leelijk en grof geweest, dan\nnog zou hij Mevrouw Dashwood's dankbare welwillendheid hebben gewonnen\ndoor elk hulpbetoon, aan haar kind verleend, maar de invloed van jeugd,\nschoonheid en distinctie schonk aan zijn daad een belangwekkendheid,\ndie haar trof tot in het diepst van haar gemoed. Zij betuigde hem\nmeermalen haar innigen dank, en vroeg hem met de innemendheid, die haar\neigen was, of hij niet wilde plaats nemen. Dit deed hij liever niet,\ndaar hij vuil en nat was. Daarop vroeg Mevrouw Dashwood, aan wien zij\ndank was verschuldigd. Zijn naam, antwoordde hij, was Willoughby, en\nop het oogenblik was hij gelogeerd te Allenham, vanwaar hij hoopte,\ndat zij hem zou willen toestaan haar morgen een bezoek te brengen,\nom te vernemen hoe Mejuffrouw Dashwood het maakte. Dat verlof werd\nhem gaarne geschonken, en daarop vertrok hij, interessanter nog in\nhaar oogen dan te voren, midden in een zware regenbui.\n\nZijn mannelijke schoonheid en de ongemeene losheid waarmede hij zich\nbewoog, vormden aanstonds het onderwerp van hun aller bewonderende\ngesprekken, en de vroolijkheid, waartoe zijn galante houding jegens\nMarianne aanleiding gaf, kreeg een zeer bijzonder tintje door zijn\naantrekkelijk uiterlijk. Marianne zelf had hem minder goed opgenomen\ndan de anderen, want de verwarring, die haar diep had doen blozen,\ntoen hij haar optilde, had het haar bijna onmogelijk gemaakt, hem te\ndurven aanzien, nadat zij het huis waren binnengetreden. Doch zij had\ngenoeg van hem gezien om met de bewondering der anderen in te stemmen,\nmet de warmte, die altoos eigen was aan haar lof.\n\nZijn houding en voorkomen waren juist zooals haar verbeelding haar\nden held van een harer geliefkoosde romans afschilderde; en in dat\nzonder bedenken haar in huis dragen lag iets van snelle beradenheid,\ndat in haar oogen de handeling tot iets zeer bijzonders stempelde. Alle\nomstandigheden, hem betreffende, waren even interessant. Zijn naam had\neen goeden klank, hij logeerde in een aardig hun welbekend plaatsje,\nen zij was het al spoedig met zich zelf eens, dat van alle mannelijke\nkleedij een jachtcostuum het meest flatteerde. Haar verbeelding\nwerd steeds bezig gehouden; ze was vervuld van blijde gedachten,\nen de pijn van den verstuikten enkel werd niet geteld.\n\nSir John kwam hen opzoeken, zoodra de volgende opklaring van 't\nweer dien morgen hem toeliet uit te gaan, en na het verslag van\nMarianne's ongeval werd hem dringend gevraagd of hij ook een heer\nkende te Allenham, die Willoughby heette.\n\n\"Willoughby?\" riep Sir John: \"wel, wel, is _die_ hier buiten? Dat\nis goed nieuws; ik rijd er morgen heen en vraag hem voor Donderdag\nten eten.\"\n\n\"Ken je hem dan?\" vroeg Mevrouw Dashwood.\n\n\"Kennen? ja zeker! Hij komt hier elk jaar.\"\n\n\"En wat voor een soort man is hij wel?\"\n\n\"De beste jongen van de wereld; dat kan ik je verzekeren. Een\nuitmuntend jager, en in 't rijden heeft hij in Engeland zijn gelijke\nniet.\"\n\n\"En is _dat_ al wat u te zijnen gunste kan aanvoeren?\" riep Marianne\nverontwaardigd. \"Maar hoe is hij wel in den intiemen omgang? Waarmee\nhoudt hij zich bezig, heeft hij talenten, een genialen aanleg?\"\n\nSir John wist niet recht wat hij dáárop zou zeggen.\n\n\"Ja,\" zei hij, \"om de waarheid te zeggen, op _die_ punten weet ik\nniet veel van hem af. Maar 't is een gezellige vroolijke kerel, en\nhij heeft den mooisten jachthond dien ik ooit heb gezien. Een zwart\nteefje. Had hij haar bij zich vandaag?\" Maar Marianne kon hem evenmin\ninlichten omtrent de kleur van 's heeren Willoughby's hond, als hij\nhaar de schakeeringen van diens geest vermocht te omschrijven. \"Maar\nwie is hij eigenlijk?\" vroeg Elinor. \"Waar komt hij vandaan? Heeft\nhij in Allenham een eigen huis?\"\n\nOp die punten kon Sir John hun meer betrouwbare inlichtingen\nverschaffen, en hij vertelde hun, dat de Heer Willoughby hier in de\nbuurt geen eigendom bezat; en dat hij hier alleen vertoefde, als hij\nde oude dame kwam bezoeken op Allenham Court, die een bloedverwante\nvan hem was, en wier bezittingen hij zou erven; terwijl hij erbij\nvoegde: \"Ja, ja, hij is de moeite waard om te veroveren, dat kan\nik je verzekeren, Elinor; hij heeft nog een mooie buitenplaats in\nSomersetshire ook; als ik je was, ik stond hem niet af aan mijn\njongere zuster, al rolde ze van nog zooveel heuvels af. Marianne\nmoet niet denken dat alle heeren alleen om háár komen. Brandon zal\njaloersch zijn, als ze niet oppast.\"\n\n\"Ik geloof niet,\" zei Mevrouw Dashwood, met een oolijk lachje, \"dat\nde Heer Willoughby last zal hebben van pogingen van een van _mijne_\ndochters om hem te veroveren, zooals je dat noemt. In _die_ richting\nis hun opvoeding niet geleid geworden. Mannen behoeven voor _ons_\nniet bang te zijn, al zijn ze ook nog zoo rijk. Maar ik ben blij,\nte hooren dat hij van goede familie is, en iemand, met wien men niet\nongaarne zou kennismaken.\"\n\n\"Ja, 't is een beste kerel, voor zoover ik weet,\" herhaalde\nSir John. \"'t Vorig jaar, met Kerstmis, bij gelegenheid van een\ndanspartijtje bij ons op het Park, heeft hij gedanst van acht uur tot\n's morgens vier, aan één stuk door, zonder te gaan zitten.\"\n\n\"Och, werkelijk?\" riep Marianne met schitterende oogen, \"en danste\nhij mooi, met vuur en overgave?\"\n\n\"Ja, en om acht uur was hij alweer bij de hand, om mee uit te rijden\nop de jacht.\"\n\n\"Dáar houd ik nu van; zóo moeten jongelui zijn. Zóo vurig in al wat\nze doen, dat ze niet willen weten van matiging, en geen vermoeidheid\nbespeuren.\"\n\n\"Jawel, jawel, ik zie 't al aankomen,\" zei Sir John. \"Ik weet wel,\nhoe 't zal gaan. Je hebt nu een goed oogje op hèm; voor dien armen\nBrandon is de kans verkeken.\"\n\n\"Dàt is een uitdrukking,\" zei Marianne met grooten nadruk, \"waaraan\nik een verschrikkelijken hekel heb. Ik verfoei al die banale pogingen\nom grappig te zijn, en \"een oogje op iemand hebben,\" of \"een conquête\nmaken\" kan ik 't allerminst uitstaan. Ze spruiten voort uit een ruwe en\nbekrompen opvatting, en zoo al er ooit een zweem van puntige raakheid\nwas in die zegswijzen, dan heeft de tijd die nu toch reeds lang te\nniet gedaan.\"\n\nSir John begreep niet veel van die terechtwijzing; maar hij lachte even\nhartelijk, alsof hij dat wèl deed, en zei: \"O, kom; aan conquête's zal\n't jou niet ontbreken; is het de een niet, dan is het de ander. Die\narme Brandon! hij is tot over de ooren verliefd, en dat _die_ een\ngoede vangst zou zijn, dàt kan ik je verzekeren, vallen en enkeltjes\nverstuiken, of niet.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK X\n\n\nMarianne's levensredder, zooals Margaret, meer sierlijk dan juist,\nzich uitdrukkend, den Heer Willoughby betitelde, kwam reeds vroeg\nden volgenden morgen zich persoonlijk van den goeden afloop van\nhet ongeval overtuigen. Mevrouw Dashwood ontving hem met nog iets\nmeer dan beleefdheid, met een vriendelijkheid, waartoe Sir John's\nmededeelingen en haar eigen dankbaarheid haar aandreven; en al wat\nvoorviel gedurende zijn bezoek werkte mede om hem een hoogen dunk te\ndoen opvatten van de verstandelijke ontwikkeling, de fijne beschaving,\nde wederkeerige genegenheid en het huiselijk behagen van het gezin,\ndat hij door een toeval had keren kennen. Omtrent de uiterlijke\nbekoorlijkheden der jonge dames behoefde geen tweede ontmoeting hem\nvollediger zekerheid te verschaffen.\n\nElinor zag er wat teer uit; maar had geregelde trekken, en een\nbijzonder lief figuurtje. Marianne was mooier. Misschien iets minder\nwelgebouwd dan haar zuster, viel zij door haar lengte meer op dan\ndeze, en haar gezichtje was zóó bekoorlijk, dat men, door haar met de\ngewone overdrijving van banale loftuigingen \"een schoonheid\" te noemen,\nder waarheid minder te kort deed, dan gewoonlijk geschiedt. Haar tint\nwas zeer donker, maar het doorschijnend zuivere van haar fijne huid\ndeed haar schitterenden blos des te meer uitkomen, hare trekken waren\nwelbesneden, haar glimlach was bekoorlijk en innemend, en haar oogen,\ndie zeer donker waren, tintelden van een leven, een geest, een vuur,\ndie men niet kon aanschouwen zonder in verrukking te geraken. Hun\nuitdrukking bleef aanvankelijk tegenover Willoughby eenigszins\ningehouden, tengevolge van de verlegenheid, door de herinnering aan\nzijn hulp opnieuw gewekt. Doch toen dat voorbijging, toen zij haar\nrustige zelfbezinning herkreeg,--toen zij zag, dat hun bezoeker aan\nzijn volmaakte wellevendheid zoowel openhartigheid als levendige\nvroolijkheid paarde, en vooral toen zij hem hoorde verklaren, dat\nhij een hartstochtelijk liefhebber was van dansen en muziek, gaf\nhaar blik een onmiskenbaar welgevallen te kennen, dat haar voor den\nverderen duur van het bezoek zijn onverdeelde aandacht verzekerde.\n\nHet was voldoende, een harer geliefkoosde uitspanningen aan te roeren,\nom haar aan het praten te brengen. Zij kòn niet zwijgen, wanneer\ndie onderwerpen ter sprake kwamen, en verlegenheid of terughouding\nbestonden daarbij voor haar niet. Zij ontdekten al spoedig, dat\nde liefhebberij voor dansen en muziek door beiden werd gedeeld, en\nvoortsproot uit een algeheele overstemming van hun oordeel omtrent\nal wat met die genoegens in verband stond. Hierdoor aangemoedigd\ntot een nader onderzoek naar zijne opvattingen, begon zij hem te\nondervragen op het punt van literatuur; haar geliefkoosde schrijvers\nwerden opgenoemd en besproken met een zoo geestdriftige verrukking,\ndat een jong mensch van vijf en twintig jaar wel uiterst ongevoelig\nmoest zijn geweest, zoo hij niet onmiddellijk overtuigd ware geworden\nvan de voortreffelijkheid hunner werken, al had hij ze van te voren\nnooit ingezien. Hun smaken kwamen merkwaardig overeen. Dezelfde\nboeken, dezelfde bladzijden erin werden door hen om het vurigst\nbewonderd,--en zoo er al eenig verschil van meening bestond, eenige\ntegenwerping werd geopperd, dan duurde dit toch slechts zóólang tot\nde welsprekendheid harer argumenten en de schittering in haar oogen\nhet pleit hadden beslecht. Hij was het eens met al haar beslissende\nuitspraken, stemde in met al haar verrukte ontboezemingen, en lang\nvóór zijn bezoek was geëindigd, waren zij reeds zoo vertrouwelijk in\ngesprek alsof zij elkander jaren hadden gekend.\n\n\"Nu Marianne,\" zei Elinor, zoodra hij was heengegaan; \"mij dunkt dat\nje dezen éénen morgen goed gebruikt hebt. Op bijna elk belangrijk\npunt heb je Mijnheer Willoughby's meening weten in te winnen. Je hebt\ngehoord, hoe hij denkt over Cowper en Scott; je bent zeker, dat hij hun\nschoonheden naar behooren weet te waardeeren, en je hebt de stellige\novertuiging verkregen, dat hij voor Pope niet méér gevoelt, dan hij\nmet fatsoen niet laten kan. Maar hoe zal die omgang lang kunnen duren,\nals ieder onderwerp van gesprek met zoo verbijsterende vlugheid wordt\nafgehandeld? Je zult over al je stokpaardjes gauw zijn uitgepraat. Bij\neen volgend bezoek zal hij voldoende gelegenheid krijgen om zijn\ngevoelens te uiten over schilderachtig natuurschoon en tweede\nhuwelijken, en dan blijft er niets meer voor je te vragen over...\"\n\n\"Elinor,\" riep Marianne; \"is dàt nu eerlijk; is dat nu waar? Heb ik\nzóó weinig oorspronkelijke denkbeelden?--Maar ik weet wel, wat je\nbedoelt. Ik was te veel op mijn gemak, te vroolijk, te openhartig. Ik\nheb gezondigd tegen alle banale welvoegelijkheids-begrippen. Ik was\noprecht en open, waar ik terughoudend, saai, vervelend en huichelachtig\nhad moeten zijn. Wanneer ik alleen maar over 't weer en de wegen had\ngesproken, wanneer ik eens in de tien minuten mijn mond had opengedaan,\ndan zou dit verwijt mij zijn bespaard gebleven.\n\n\"Lieve kind,\" zei haar moeder; \"je moet het Elinor niet kwalijk\nnemen;--ze zei het maar voor de grap. Ik zou zelf boos op haar worden,\nals ze 't over zich kon verkrijgen, je het genoegen te bederven van\nje gesprekken met onzen nieuwen vriend.\"--Marianne's ergernis was in\neen oogwenk geweken.\n\nWilloughby van zijn kant bewees, door zijn blijkbaar verlangen om den\npas begonnen omgang geregeld voort te zetten, ten duidelijkste hoeveel\nbehagen hij erin schiep. Hij kwam thans iederen dag. In het begin\nkon de vraag hoe het Marianne ging, als voorwendsel dienen; doch de\nmet den dag toenemende vriendelijkheid, waarmede hij werd ontvangen\nmaakte zulk een voorwendsel overbodig, reeds eer het onmogelijk had\nkunnen dienst doen, door Marianne's volkomen herstel. Zij moest een\npaar dagen thuisblijven; doch nooit was eenig huisarrest haar minder\nonaangenaam geweest. Willoughby was een jonge man met een helder hoofd,\neen levendige verbeelding, een opgewekte natuur en iets openhartigs\nen vriendelijks in zijn optreden. Hij was als voorbestemd om juist\nMarianne's hart te winnen; want aan al die gaven paarde hij niet\nslechts een innemend uiterlijk, doch tevens een natuurlijke vurigheid\nvan geest, die thans door háár voorbeeld werd gewekt en aangespoord, en\ndie hem meer dan eenige andere eigenschap haar genegenheid deed winnen.\n\nMet hem samen te zijn werd van lieverlede haar allergrootst\ngenoegen. Zij lazen, zij praatten, zij zongen met elkaar: hij was zeer\nmuzikaal, en hij las voor met al het gevoel en het vuur, waaraan het\nEdward helaas had ontbroken.\n\nIn Mevrouw Dashwood's oogen was hij even volmaakt als in die van\nMarianne; en Elinor vond niets op hem aan te merken, behalve een\nneiging, waarin hij sterk op haar zuster geleek en die deze dan ook\nbijzonder behaagde, van bij alle voorkomende gelegenheden veel te\nronduit zijn meening te zeggen, zonder daarbij rekening te houden met\npersonen en omstandigheden. Door dat overijld oordeelen en zijn oordeel\nuitspreken over anderen, door de wellevendheid in een grooteren kring\nte laten achterstaan bij het genoegen van zich onverdeeld te wijden aan\nde uitverkorene zijns harten, en door een zeker luchtig verwaarloozen\nvan maatschappelijke omgangsvormen, gaf hij blijk van een gebrek\naan voorzichtigheid, dat Elinor niet kon goedkeuren, ondanks al wat\nMarianne en hij hadden aan te voeren ten gunste van hunne opvatting.\n\nMarianne begon nu te bespeuren dat de vrees om nooit een man te zullen\nontmoeten, die haar ideaal van volmaaktheid nabij kwam, een vrees,\ndie haar zoo wanhopig had gemaakt, toen zij nog maar pas zestien\njaar was, voorbarig en ongerechtvaardigd was geweest. Willoughby was\nal wat haar verbeelding haar in die droeve ure had voorgespiegeld,\nen thans, in zooveel blijdere dagen, even bereid en gereed om haar\nhart te winnen; zijn gedrag toch bewees, dat zijn verlangens in dat\nopzicht even ernstig gemeend waren, als zijn vermogen om liefde in\nte boezemen krachtig was.\n\nOok haar moeder, in wier geest het vooruitzicht van zijn toekomstigen\nrijkdom geen enkele berekenende gedachte aan een huwelijk had gewekt,\nbegon, eer een week was voorbijgegaan, daarop te hopen en het te\nverwachten; in stilte wenschte zij zichzelve dan ook reeds geluk met\ntwee zulke schoonzoons als Edward en Willoughby.\n\nKolonel Brandon's belangstelling in Marianne, die zijn vrienden\nreeds zoo spoedig hadden opgemerkt, werd thans eerst duidelijk\nvoor Elinor; nu de anderen er niet meer op letten. Hun aandacht en\nhun geestigheden kozen zich thans zijn gelukkigen mededinger tot\ndoelwit, en de plagerijen, waaraan de Kolonel had blootgestaan, eer\nhij eenige voorkeur had doen blijken, hielden op, toen zijn gevoelens\nmet meer recht de spotternij hadden kunnen uitlokken, die gevoeligheid\nmaar al te dikwijls pleegt te treffen. Elinor moest, haars ondanks,\nwel gelooven, dat de gevoelens, welke Mevrouw Jennings hem te haren\nopzichte had toegeschreven, hem thans werkelijk werden ingeboezemd\ndoor hare zuster, en dat, al mocht een algemeene overeenstemming\ntusschen beider karaktertrekken de neiging van Willoughby in de\nhand werken, een even opvallende tegenstelling in aard en aanleg\ngeen beletsel was voor Kolonel Brandon's genegenheid. Zij zag het\nmet leedwezen; want wat kon een stille man van vijf en dertig hopen,\nnaast en tegenover een vijf en twintigjarige, die een en al vuur en\nleven was? En daar zij zelfs niet kon wenschen, dat zijn verlangen\nvervuld zou worden, hoopte zij van harte, dat hij onverschillig\nmocht zijn. Zij hield van hem;--ondanks zijn ernst en terughouding\nwekte hij hare belangstelling. Ofschoon zoo ernstig, was hij zacht\nen vriendelijk in den omgang, en zijn teruggetrokken houding scheen\nveeleer het gevolg van gedruktheid, dan van een zwaarmoedigen en\nsomberen aard. Sir John had zich wel eens iets laten ontvallen over\ndoor hem ondervonden grieven en teleurstellingen, welke haar vermoeden\ndat hij ongelukkig was, bevestigden, en zij beschouwde hem met\neerbied en medelijden. Misschien beklaagde en waardeerde zij hem des\nte meer omdat hij weinig in tel was bij Willoughby en Marianne, die,\nbevooroordeeld tegenover iemand, noch jong, noch opgewekt van aard,\nzich schenen te hebben voorgenomen, zijn verdienste te onderschatten.\n\n\"Brandon is nu zoo iemand,\" zei Willoughby eens, toen zij samen over\nhem spraken, \"die door ieder wordt geprezen, en om wien niemand geeft;\ndie steeds met blijdschap wordt begroet; maar wien iedereen vergeet\naan te spreken.\"\n\n\"Dat is nu juist de indruk, dien hij ook maakt op mij,\" riep Marianne.\n\n\"Daar behoef je je niet op te verheffen,\" zei Elinor; \"want het is van\njullie allebei onrechtvaardig. Hij wordt ten zeerste gewaardeerd door\nde familie op Barton Park, en ik zelf zie hem nooit, zonder bepaald\nmoeite te doen met hem een gesprek te voeren.\"\n\n\"Dat u hem de hand boven 't hoofd houdt,\" antwoordde Willoughby,\n\"spreekt te zijnen gunste; maar die waardeering van de anderen is op\nzichzelf al een blaam. Wie zou de schande willen verdragen van zich\ngeprezen te zien door dames als Lady Middleton en Mevrouw Jennings,\ndie door ieder ander met de meest volkomen onverschilligheid worden\nbeschouwd?\"\n\n\"Maar misschien weegt de afkeuring van menschen als u en Marianne wel\nop tegen de waardeering van Lady Middleton en haar moeder. Als haar\nlof blaam is, dan kan jelui blaam wel als lof worden aangemerkt;\nwant hun gemis van doorzicht is volstrekt niet grooter dan jelui\nvooroordeel en onbillijkheid.\"\n\n\"Waar het geldt uw beschermeling te verdedigen, wordt u zelfs scherp.\"\n\n\"Mijn beschermeling, zooals u hem noemt, is een verstandig man, en\ntot verstand voel ik mij altijd aangetrokken. Ja Marianne, zelfs in\neen man tusschen de dertig en veertig. Hij heeft veel van de wereld\ngezien; lang in het buitenland vertoefd; hij houdt van lezen en is\ngewend, na te denken. Ik heb ondervonden, dat hij in staat was, mij\nomtrent allerlei onderwerpen voor te lichten, en hij heeft altoos\nmijn vragen beantwoord met de bereidwilligheid van een beschaafd en\ngoedhartig man.\"\n\n\"Nu ja,\" riep Marianne op minachtenden toon, \"hij heeft je verteld\ndat in Oost-Indië het klimaat erg warm is, en dat de muskieten er\nlastig zijn.\"\n\n\"Dat _zou_ hij mij allicht verteld hebben, als ik hem ernaar had\ngevraagd; maar toevallig waren dat punten, waaromtrent ik reeds eerder\nzekerheid had verkregen.\"\n\n\"Misschien,\" zei Willoughby, \"strekten zijn waarnemingen zich wel\nuit tot nabobs, rijk versierde mooren, en palankijnen.\"\n\n\"Ik durf wel zeggen, dat _zijn_ waarnemingen verder reikten dan uw\ndoorzicht. Maar wat hebt u eigenlijk op hem tegen?\"\n\n\"Ik hèb niets op hem tegen. Integendeel, ik beschouw hem als een zeer\nachtenswaardig man, die door ieder geroemd wordt, en van wien niemand\nnotitie neemt; iemand die meer geld heeft, dan hij kan uitgeven; meer\ntijd, dan hij behoorlijk weet te gebruiken, en twee nieuwe pakken in\nhet jaar.\"\n\n\"En voeg er dan nog bij,\" riep Marianne, \"dat hij noch geniaal, noch\nartistiek, noch geestig is. Dat het zijn geest ontbreekt aan leven,\nzijn gevoel aan vuur, en zijn stem aan uitdrukking.\"\n\n\"Je beslissend oordeel over zijn onvolmaaktheden is zoo veelomvattend,\"\nantwoordde Elinor, \"en zoo zeer gekleurd door je eigen verbeelding,\ndat de lof, dien ik hem vermag te schenken, daarbij vergeleken\nkoel en onbeteekenend schijnt. Ik kan alleen verklaren, dat hij een\nverstandig man is, beschaafd, ontwikkeld, vriendelijk in den omgang,\nen naar het mij voorkomt, iemand met een goed hart.\"\n\n\"Juffrouw Dashwood,\" riep Willoughby; \"u behandelt mij heel onaardig. U\ntracht mij door redeneering te ontwapenen, en mij te overtuigen, tegen\nmijn zin. Maar het helpt u niets. U zult mij even koppig vinden als\nu listig bent. Voor mijn ongunstige meening omtrent Kolonel Brandon\nbestaan drie afdoende redenen: hij heeft voorspeld, dat het zou gaan\nregenen, terwijl ik op mooi weer hoopte; hij heeft aanmerkingen gemaakt\nop den bouw van mijn rijtuig, en ik kan hem niet overhalen mijn bruine\nmerrie te koopen. Als het u echter eenige voldoening kan schenken,\nte vernemen, dat ik zijn karakter in elk ander opzicht onberispelijk\nvind, dan ben ik bereid, dat te erkennen. En als belooning voor die\nerkentenis, die niet anders dan een weinig pijnlijk voor mij kan zijn,\nmoogt u mij het voorrecht niet ontzeggen, hem nog evenmin te kunnen\nuitstaan als voorheen.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XI\n\n\nMevrouw Dashwood en hare dochters hadden zich weinig voorgesteld, toen\nzij pas in Devonshire waren komen wonen, dat de verplichtingen van den\ngezelligen omgang al spoedig zooveel van hun tijd zouden in beslag\nnemen, of dat zij zoo herhaaldelijk uitnoodigingen en zoo geregeld\nbezoeken zouden ontvangen, dat hun zeer weinig vrije tijd overbleef\nvoor ernstiger bezigheid. Toch was dit het geval. Toen Marianne\nhersteld was, werden de plannen voor feestelijkheden in zijn eigen\nhuis en daarbuiten, die Sir John reeds lang had beraamd, werkelijk\nten uitvoer gebracht. De danspartijen op het Park namen een aanvang,\nen boottochtjes werden gemaakt, zoo dikwijls een buiige Octobermaand\ndat toeliet. Bij alle bijeenkomsten van dien aard was Willoughby van de\npartij, en de luchtige en gemakkelijke toon, die natuurlijk heerschte\nbij dergelijke gelegenheden, was juist erop berekend, om de toenemende\nvertrouwelijkheid van zijn omgang met de Dashwoods te bevorderen, om\nhem gelegenheid te schenken, Marianne in al haar lieftalligheid gade\nte slaan; om steeds duidelijker zijn levendige bewondering te doen\nblijken; en om door haar houding hem de stelligste verzekering te doen\nontvangen van haar genegenheid. Elinor kon zich niet verwonderen over\nhun wederkeerige neiging. Zij wenschte alleen, dat deze minder openlijk\nwerd aan den dag gelegd, en een paar malen waagde zij het werkelijk,\nMarianne de gewenschtheid van eenige zelfbeheersching onder het oog\nte brengen. Maar Marianne verfoeide al wat naar verbergen zweemde,\nwaar openbaren niets waarlijk oneervols insloot, en opzettelijk\ngevoelens te bedwingen, die op zich zelf niet afkeurenswaardig waren,\nscheen haar niet alleen een onnoodige poging, maar een schandelijke\nonderwerping van de rede aan banale en onjuiste opvattingen.\n\nWilloughby dacht er eveneens over, en hun gedrag legde, ten allen\ntijde, van hunne meeningen het trouwste getuigenis af.\n\nIn zijn tegenwoordigheid had zij voor niemand oog dan hèm. Al wat hij\ndeed, was goed. Al wat hij zei, was geestig. Als de avondjes op het\nPark werden besloten met een spelletje kaart, dan bedierf hij zijn\neigen kansen en die van alle anderen, om haar de troeven in handen te\nspelen. Wanneer de avond met dansen werd doorgebracht, dansten zij de\nhelft van den tijd met elkaar; en als ze gedurende een paar dansen\nvolstrekt moesten scheiden, stonden ze samen te praten, en zeiden\ntegen anderen geen woord. Ze werden natuurlijk geducht uitgelachen\nom hun gedrag; maar het scheen wel of spotternij hen niet beschamen,\nen ternauwernood ergeren kon.\n\nMevrouw Dashwood nam zoo hartelijk en levendig deel in al hun\ngevoelens, dat zij onmogelijk geneigd kon zijn, paal en perk te stellen\naan dit overdreven vertoon. Voor haar was dat slechts het natuurlijk\ngevolg van een sterke genegenheid in een jongen en vurigen geest.\n\nHet was een gelukkige tijd voor Marianne. Zij hing met haar geheele\nhart aan Willoughby, en het sterke verlangen naar Norland, dat zij uit\nSussex had medegebracht werd, meer dan zij ooit mogelijk had geacht,\nverzacht door de bekoring die zijn gezelschap verleende aan haar\ntegenwoordige omgeving.\n\nElinor was niet zoo blij gestemd. Haar hart was niet zoo rustig, haar\ngenoegen in hun vermaken niet zoo onvermengd. Zij had geen vriend\nen metgezel aangetroffen, die haar kon vergoeden wat zij achterliet,\nen haar kon leeren, minder dan ooit met weemoed aan Norland terug te\ndenken. Noch Lady Middleton, noch Mevrouw Jennings konden met haar\nde gesprekken voeren, die zij miste; hoewel de laatste onuitputtelijk\nspraakzaam was, en van den beginne af een voorliefde voor Elinor had\ndoen blijken, die haar het leeuwendeel van de mededeelingen dier\ndame bezorgde. Zij had haar eigen levensgeschiedenis reeds drie\nof vier malen aan Elinor verteld, en als Elinor's geheugen bestand\nwas geweest tegen de zware eischen, die dit leerzaam verhaal eraan\nstelde, dan had zij reeds aan het begin hunner kennismaking op de\nhoogte kunnen zijn van de geringste bijzonderheden omtrent de laatste\nziekte van den Heer Jennings en wat hij gezegd had tegen zijn vrouw\neen paar minuten voor hij stierf. Lady Middleton was alleen in zooverre\naangenamer gezelschap dan haar moeder dat zij beter zwijgen kon. Doch\nElinor had haar niet lang behoeven gade te slaan, om te bespeuren, dat\nhaar terughouding eenvoudig een zekere uiterlijke trage onbewogenheid\nwas, die met verstand niets had te maken. Tegenover haar man en haar\nmoeder was zij precies dezelfde als tegenover hen, en intimiteit kon\nmen dus van haar verwachten noch verlangen. Zij had nooit iets te\nvertellen, dat zij niet den vorigen dag ook reeds had gezegd. Haar\nonbeduidendheid bleef zich altijd gelijk; want zelfs haar stemming\nwas onveranderlijk dezelfde; en hoewel zij er niets tegen had,\ndat haar man buitenpartijen gaf, zoolang alles in de puntjes was,\nen haar beide oudste kinderen haar mochten gezelschap houden, zij\nscheen er nooit meer pleizier in te hebben, dan zij thuis evengoed\nzou hebben gevonden;--en zoo weinig droeg hare tegenwoordigheid bij\ntot het genoegen der anderen, door eenige deelname in hun gesprek,\ndat zij somtijds alleen herinnerd werden aan hare tegenwoordigheid\ndoor haar bezorgdheid over haar lastige jongens.\n\nOnder al haar nieuwe kennissen vond Elinor slechts in Kolonel Brandon\niemand, die ook maar eenigszins kon aanspraak maken op eerbied\nvoor zijn gaven en op vriendschappelijke belangstelling, of wiens\ngezelschap haar aangenaam was. Willoughby kwam niet in aanmerking. Zij\nbewonderde hem en was hem welgezind, ja zusterlijk genegen; maar hij\nwas verliefd; hij wijdde zich uitsluitend aan Marianne, en een veel\nminder aantrekkelijke persoonlijkheid zou aangenamer in den omgang\nhebben kunnen zijn. Kolonel Brandon had, jammer genoeg voor hem, geen\ndergelijke aanmoediging ontvangen om aan Marianne al zijn gedachten\nte wijden, en in zijn gesprekken met Elinor vond hij den grootsten\ntroost over de volkomen onverschilligheid van haar zuster.\n\nElinor's medelijden met hem groeide nog aan, toen zij reden kreeg te\nvermoeden, dat hij de smart van teleurgestelde liefde reeds eerder\nhad leeren kennen. Dit vermoeden werd gewekt door enkele woorden,\ndie hij zich liet ontvallen op een avond te Barton Park, toen zij\nmet beider goedvinden waren gaan zitten, terwijl de anderen aan het\ndansen waren. Zijn blik bleef een poos gevestigd op Marianne, en na\neenigen tijd te hebben gezwegen, zeide hij met een flauwen glimlach:\n\"Ik meen te hebben begrepen, dat uw zuster aan een genegenheid,\ndie niet de eerste is, hare goedkeuring niet kan schenken.\"\n\n\"Neen,\" antwoordde Elinor; \"zij heeft merkwaardig romantische\ndenkbeelden.\"\n\n\"Of liever gezegd, zij beschouwt zulk een genegenheid als ondenkbaar,\ngeloof ik.\"\n\n\"Ik geloof ook, dat zij er zoo over denkt. Doch hoe ze dat kan doen,\nzonder als 't ware een blaam te werpen op het karakter van haar vader,\ndie zelf twee vrouwen heeft gehad, dat begrijp ik niet. Maar over een\npaar jaren zullen haar meeningen wel gevestigd zijn op den redelijken\ngrondslag van gezond verstand en onbevooroordeelde waarneming; en\ndan zullen zij gemakkelijker zijn te bepalen en te rechtvaardigen,\ndan het thans iemand, behalve haarzelve, mogelijk is te doen.\"\n\n\"Zoo zal het waarschijnlijk wel gaan,\" was zijn antwoord; \"en toch is\ner iets zoo beminnelijks in de vooroordeelen van een jeugdigen geest,\ndat het ons leed doet, ze te zien vervangen door ruimere opvattingen.\"\n\n\"Dàt ben ik niet met u eens,\" zeide Elinor. \"Aan zulke gevoelens\nals die van Marianne zijn nadeelen verbonden, die al de bekoring\nvan geestdrift en gemis van wereldwijsheid niet kan vergoeden. Haar\nopvattingen leiden alle in de noodlottige richting, die geen rekening\nverkiest te houden met maatschappelijk fatsoen; en in een vermeerdering\nvan haar wereld- en menschenkennis zie ik voor haar het grootste heil.\"\n\nNa een korte stilte hervatte hij het gesprek, door te vragen: \"Maakt uw\nzuster in het geheel geen onderscheid in haar bezwaren tegen een tweede\nliefde, of is dat vergrijp in ieder even misdadig te achten? Moeten\nzij, die in hun eerste keuze zijn teleurgesteld, 't zij door de ontrouw\nvan het voorwerp ervan, 't zij door den ongelukkigen samenloop der\nomstandigheden, nu ook verder hun leven lang onverschillig blijven?\"\n\n\"Zóó precies ben ik werkelijk niet op de hoogte van haar beginselen op\ndit punt. Ik weet alleen, dat ik haar nog nimmer heb hooren toegeven,\ndat eenige tweede genegenheid vergefelijk zou kunnen zijn.\"\n\n\"Dàt kan,\" zei hij, \"niet altijd zoo blijven; doch een omkeer,\neen algeheele verandering van inzicht... neen, neen, die is niet\nwenschelijk,--want wanneer de romantische kiesche denkbeelden van\neen jeugdigen geest door de werkelijkheid worden teruggedrongen,\nhoe dikwijls maken zij dan plaats voor opvattingen, die maar al te\ngangbaar zijn, en maar al te gevaarlijk. Ik spreek uit ervaring. Ik\nheb eens een dame gekend die wat aard en aanleg betrof, zeer\nveel op uwe zuster geleek, die dacht en oordeelde als zij, doch\ndie door een gedwongen verandering... door een opeenvolging van\nnoodlottige omstandigheden...\" Hier zweeg hij plotseling; scheen\nte denken dat hij te veel had gezegd, en wekte door de uitdrukking\nvan zijn gelaat in Elinor vermoedens, die zij anders allicht niet\nzou hebben gekoesterd. De dame van wie hij sprak zou waarschijnlijk\nhaar achterdocht niet hebben gaande gemaakt, zoo hij Elinor niet\nhad overtuigd, dat haar aangelegenheden niet over zijne lippen\nbehoorden te komen. Thans echter was er geen sterke inspanning der\nverbeeldingskracht noodig om zijn aandoening in verband te brengen\nmet de teedere herinnering aan een vroegere genegenheid. Elinor\nraadde niet méér. Doch Marianne, in hare plaats, zou zich daarmede\nniet vergenoegd hebben. De geheele geschiedenis zou weldra door haar\nlevendige verbeelding in elkaar zijn gezet, en uitgewerkt tot een\nallerdroevigst verhaal van jammerlijk ongelukkige liefde.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XII\n\n\nToen Elinor en Marianne den volgenden morgen samen wandelden,\nvertelde de laatste aan hare zuster een nieuwtje, dat deze, ondanks\nal wat zij reeds had ervaren omtrent Marianne's onvoorzichtigheid en\nonnadenkendheid, verbaasde, door een zóó treffend bewijs te leveren\nvan die beide eigenschappen. Marianne vertelde haar verrukt, dat\nWilloughby haar een paard had ten geschenke gegeven, een van de door\nhem zelf gefokte paarden op zijn landgoed in Somersetshire, dat juist\ngeschikt was, om door eene dame te worden bereden. Zonder te bedenken,\ndat het niet in haar moeders bedoeling lag paarden te houden,--dat\nzij, indien zij al op dat besluit wilde terugkomen, terwille van dit\ngeschenk, een ander paard moest koopen voor een knecht, dien knecht\nmoest huren om het te berijden, en ten slotte nog een stal moest laten\nbouwen om beide onder dak te brengen,--had zij zonder eenige aarzeling\nhet aanbod aangenomen, en vertelde haar zuster ervan met de grootste\nopgetogenheid. \"Hij is voornemens zijn bediende dadelijk ervoor naar\nSomersetshire te zenden\", voegde zij erbij, \"en als het komt, gaan we\niederen dag rijden. Jij mag het ook gebruiken. Stel je toch eens voor,\nElinor, hoe zalig het zijn zal, in galop over onze heuvels te snellen.\"\n\nWel zéér ongeneigd was zij, te ontwaken uit dien geluksdroom,\nzich te laten overtuigen van al de pijnlijke, maar noodzakelijke\nbijkomstigheden, aan de zaak verbonden, en een tijdlang weigerde zij\nkoppig, ze in te zien. Een bediende meer zou zooveel niet kosten; mama\nzou daar stellig niet op tegen hebben, voor hem was trouwens elk paard\ngoed genoeg; hij kon er altijd wel een krijgen van Het Park; en wat den\nstal betrof, een klein schuurtje zou immers voldoende zijn. Eindelijk\nwaagde Elinor de vraag te opperen, of het wel gepast zou zijn, zulk\neen geschenk aan te nemen van iemand, dien zij nog zoo weinig, of\nalthans zoo kort, kende.--Dat ging te ver. \"Je vergist je, Elinor,\"\nzei ze met nadruk, \"als je meent dat ik Willoughby maar oppervlakkig\nken. Ik heb nog niet lang met hem omgegaan, maar kennen doe ik hem\nbeter dan iemand anders ter wereld, behalve jou en mama. Tijd noch\ngelegenheid zijn noodig om vertrouwelijkheid te doen ontstaan;--dat\ndoet alleen natuurlijke neiging. Sommige menschen zouden elkaar in\nzeven jaar niet leeren kennen, en voor anderen zijn zeven dagen meer\ndan genoeg. Ik zou 't meer ongepast van mijzelf vinden, als ik van\nmijn broer een paard aannam, dan van Willoughby. Van John weet ik\nzoogoed als niets af, hoewel we jaren onder een dak gewoond hebben;\nmaar mijn oordeel over Willoughby staat reeds lang vast.\"\n\nElinor vond het maar 't verstandigst, dat punt niet meer aan te\nroeren. Zij kende haar zusters aard. Tegenstand in zulk een teere\naangelegenheid zou haar des te koppiger doen volharden in haar eigen\nmeening. Doch door een beroep op haar genegenheid voor hare moeder,\ndoor haar voor te stellen, hoe die toegevende moeder zichzelve in\nongelegenheid zou moeten brengen, als zij (zooals te verwachten viel)\nzou toestemmen in die uitbreiding van hun personeel, werd Marianne\ntenslotte gekalmeerd; en zij beloofde, haar moeder niet tot zoo\nonverstandige toegevendheid te zullen verleiden door te spreken\nover het voorstel, en den eersten keer dat zij Willoughby weer zou\nontmoeten, hem te zeggen, dat zij verplicht was, het af te wijzen.\n\nZij hield haar woord, en toen Willoughby hen nog dien zelfden\ndag kwam bezoeken, hoorde Elinor hoe zij op zachten toon hem hare\nteleurstelling te kennen gaf, omdat zij zich verplicht zag, zijn\ngeschenk te weigeren. De redenen voor haar veranderd inzicht werden\nhem tevens medegedeeld, en zij maakten een nader aandringen van zijne\nzijde onmogelijk. Het was echter duidelijk blijkbaar, dat het hem\nzeer speet; en nadat hij dit met nadruk had betuigd, liet hij er\nop denzelfden gedempten toon op volgen: \"Maar Marianne, het paard\nblijft toch je eigendom, al kun je het nu niet gebruiken. Ik bewaar\nhet slechts zoolang tot je het komt opeischen. Als je Barton verlaat,\nom in een eigen thuis je eigen huishouding te beginnen, dan zal Queen\nMab je ontvangen.\"\n\nElinor hoorde hem dit alles zeggen; en uit al zijn woorden, uit zijn\nuitdrukking terwijl hij ze sprak, en uit het feit dat hij haar zuster\nbij haar voornaam noemde, bleek haar oogenblikkelijk de onmiskenbaar\ninnige vertrouwelijkheid, de rechtstreeksche bedoeling, die niet den\nminsten twijfel lieten aan hun onderlinge verstandhouding. Van dat\noogenblik af stond het voor haar vast, dat zij in stilte verloofd\nwaren, en die overtuiging wekte in haar geene andere reden tot\nverwondering, dan deze, dat zulk een openhartig paar de ontdekking\nvan het geheim, door haar, of wie ook van hun vrienden, aan het toeval\noverliet. Den volgenden dag vertelde Margaret haar iets, dat de zaak\nin een nog helderder daglicht plaatste. Willoughby had den vorigen\navond bij hen doorgebracht, en toen Margaret een poos met hem en\nMarianne alleen in de huiskamer was gebleven, had zij gelegenheid\ngehad tot waarnemingen, die zij met een allergewichtigst gezicht aan\nhaar oudste zuster kwam berichten, zoodra zij samen alleen waren.\n\n\"O Elinor!\" riep zij; \"ik heb je een groot geheim te vertellen,\nover Marianne. Ik geloof stellig, dat ze nu heel gauw gaat trouwen\nmet Mijnheer Willoughby.\"\n\n\"Dat heb je nu al bijna iederen dag gezegd, antwoordde Elinor,\n\"sedert ze elkaar voor 't eerst op High-Church Down ontmoetten; en\ntoen ze elkaar nog geen week kenden, was je al zeker, dat Marianne\nzijn portret in haar medaillon droeg, tot het uitkwam dat het een\nminiatuur-portretje van onzen oudoom was.\"\n\n\"O, maar dit is heel iets anders. Nu gaan ze stellig gauw trouwen,\nwant hij heeft een lok van haar haar.\"\n\n\"Pas maar op, Margaret. Misschien is dàt nu weer een haarlok van\n_zijn_ oudoom.\"\n\n\"Neen werkelijk, Elinor; 't is van Marianne. Ik weet het stellig;\nwant ik zag hem het afknippen. Gisterenavond na de thee, toen jij en\nmama uit de kamer waren gegaan, zaten ze druk samen te praten en te\nfluisteren, en hij scheen haar telkens iets te vragen; en ten laatste\nnam hij haar schaar, en knipte een lange krul van haar haar af, want\nze had het loshangen; en toen kuste hij het, en vouwde 't in een stuk\nwit papier en legde dat in zijn notitieboek.\"\n\nDeze bijzonderheden, uit zoo betrouwbare bron, kon Elinor niet\nweigeren te gelooven, en zij was daartoe te minder geneigd, wijl het\nvoorgevallene volkomen in overeenstemming scheen met wat zijzelve\ngehoord en gezien had.\n\nMargaret gaf van haar schranderheid niet altijd blijk op de wijze,\ndie haar zuster het best kon behagen. Toen Mevrouw Jennings haar op\neen avond te Barton Park dringend vroeg om toch eens te vertellen,\nwelke jonge man bij Elinor het hoogst stond aangeschreven, iets,\nwaarnaar zij reeds lang fel nieuwsgierig was, keek Margaret haar zuster\neens aan en zei: \"Ik mag het zeker niet vertellen; of wèl, Elinor?\"\n\nDaarom moest natuurlijk iedereen lachen, en Elinor lachte zoogoed\nmogelijk mee. Maar het kostte haar moeite. Zij wist maar al te goed,\ndat Margaret iemand op het oog had, wiens naam zij niet kon verdragen\nvan nu af aan geregeld te moeten hooren, als Mevrouw Jennings met\nhaar grappen begon.\n\nMarianne had oprecht medelijden met haar; maar zij maakte de zaak\neer erger dan beter, door met een hooge kleur en op driftigen toon\ntegen Margaret te zeggen: \"Vergeet niet dat je dingen, waarvan je\nniet zeker bent, niet moogt oververtellen.\"\n\n\"'t _Zijn_ geen dingen, waarvan ik niet zeker ben,\" zei Margaret;\n\"je hebt het mij zelf verteld.\"\n\nDe vroolijkheid van 't gezelschap werd hierdoor nog verhoogd, en\nMargaret werd dringend verzocht, nog iets meer los te laten.\n\n\"Och toe, Margaret, vertel het ons nu maar,\" zei Mevrouw Jennings. \"Hoe\nheet die mijnheer?\"\n\n\"Ik mag 't niet zeggen, mevrouw. Maar ik weet het wèl; en waar hij is,\ndat weet ik ook.\"\n\n\"Ja, dat kunnen we wel raden, in zijn eigen huis, te Norland,\nnatuurlijk. Ik wed dat het de dominé is.\"\n\n\"Neen, dàt is hij niet. Hij is in 't geheel niets.\"\n\n\"Margaret,\" zei Marianne, erg boos nu, \"je weet best, dat je dit\nalles maar uit den duim zuigt, en dat er niet eens zoo iemand bestaat.\"\n\n\"O, dan is hij zeker voor kort overleden, Marianne; want dat er zoo\niemand bestaan hééft, dat weet ik wel zeker, en zijn naam begint met\neen F.\"\n\nInnig dankbaar was Elinor, dat Lady Middleton op dat oogenblik de\nopmerking maakte, \"dat het geducht hard regende,\" hoewel zij die\nopzettelijke onderbreking van het gesprek minder toeschreef aan eenig\nmedegevoel voor háár, dan aan den afkeer der gastvrouw van zulke\ngrove scherts, waarin haar moeder en haar man nu eenmaal behagen\nhadden. Het door haar ingeleide onderwerp werd aanstonds opgevat\ndoor Kolonel Brandon, die bij alle voorkomende gelegenheden anderer\ngevoelens placht te ontzien; en beiden hadden elkaar over den regen\nveel te vertellen. Willoughby opende de piano en vroeg Marianne, iets\nvoor te spelen, en bij die onderscheiden pogingen van verschillenden\nder aanwezigen, om van het onderwerp af te stappen, kwam het gelukkig\ntot rust. Maar Elinor bekwam niet zoo snel van den schrik, dien het\nhaar had veroorzaakt.\n\nEr werd dien avond een plan beraamd om den volgenden dag een fraai\nbuitengoed te gaan bezichtigen, dat omstreeks twaalf mijlen van\nBarton verwijderd lag, en toebehoorde aan een schoonbroeder van\nKolonel Brandon, zonder wiens geleide het niet te zien was, daar de\neigenaar, die buitenslands vertoefde, op dat punt strikte orders had\ngegeven. Het park en de omgeving werden als bijzonder mooi geroemd,\nen Sir John, die luide hun lof verkondigde, kon er in elk geval goed\nover oordeelen, want hij had, in de laatste tien jaar, minstens\ntweemaal elken zomer tochtjes erheen georganiseerd. Bij het park\nbehoorde een uitgestrekt meer, waarop des middags zou worden gezeild;\nproviand werd medegenomen, er werden alleén open rijtuigen gebruikt,\nen het beloofde een recht genoegelijke buitenpartij te zullen worden.\n\nEnkelen onder het gezelschap vonden het een ietwat gewaagd plan,\nom dezen tijd van het jaar, terwijl het de laatste veertien dagen\nelken dag had geregend, en Mevrouw Dashwood, die reeds verkouden was,\nliet zich door Elinor overreden om thuis te blijven.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XIII\n\n\nHet voorgenomen tochtje naar Whitwell liep heel anders af, dan Elinor\nhad verwacht. Zij had erop gerekend bang op het water, doornat en\ndoodmoe te te zullen zijn; maar het kwam nog ongelukkiger uit; want\nzij gingen in het geheel niet.\n\nOm tien uur waren allen vergaderd op het Park, waar zij zouden\nontbijten. Het weer liet zich vrij goed aanzien, schoon het den\ngeheelen nacht had geregend; want de wolken dreven uiteen, en meermalen\nvertoonde zich even de zon. Allen waren vroolijk en opgewekt, blij in\n't vooruitzicht van een prettigen dag, en vast voornemens hun pleizier\nniet te laten bederven door een weinig ongemak of tegenspoed. Aan het\nontbijt werden de brieven binnengebracht. Een ervan was voor Kolonel\nBrandon;--hij nam den brief aan, keek naar het adres, verschoot van\nkleur, en ging meteen de kamer uit.\n\n\"Wat scheelt Brandon?\" vroeg Sir John.\n\nNiemand kon het hem zeggen.\n\n\"Ik hoop dat hij geen slechte tijding heeft gekregen,\" zei Lady\nMiddleton. \"Het moet wel iets bijzonders zijn, dat Kolonel Brandon\nzoo plotseling van mijn ontbijttafel doet opstaan.\"\n\nNa een minuut of vijf kwam hij terug.\n\n\"Toch geen slecht nieuws, Kolonel?\" vroeg Mevrouw Jennings, toen\nhij binnentrad.\n\n\"O neen, mevrouw; in 't geheel niet.\"\n\n\"Kwam de brief uit Avignon? Ik hoop toch, dat uwe zuster niet erger\nis geworden?\"\n\n\"Neen, mevrouw. De brief kwam uit Londen, 't was over zaken; anders\nniet.\"\n\n\"Maar hoe kon het handschrift u zoo van streek brengen, als het niets\ndan een brief over zaken was? Neen, neen, Kolonel, zoo komt u er niet\naf; vertel ons nu maar de waarheid.\"\n\n\"Maar moeder,\" zei Lady Middleton; \"bedenk toch wat u zegt.\"\n\n\"Misschien hebt u bericht gekregen, dat uw nichtje Fanny getrouwd\nis?\" zei Mevrouw Jennings, zonder acht te slaan op haar dochters\nvermaning.\n\n\"Neen, dat was het ook niet.\"\n\n\"Nu, dàn weet ik, van wie de brief was. En ik hoop dat zij het\ngoed maakt.\"\n\n\"Wie bedoelt u, mevrouw?\" zei hij, met ietwat verhoogde kleur.\n\n\"O, u weet best wie ik bedoel.\"\n\n\"Het spijt mij wel zéér, mevrouw,\" hernam hij, zich tot Lady Middleton\nwendend, \"dat ik juist vandaag dien brief moest ontvangen; want\nhij handelt over zaken, die mijn onmiddellijk vertrek naar Londen\nnoodzakelijk maken.\"\n\n\"Naar Londen!\" riep Mevrouw Jennings. \"\"Wat kunt u om dezen tijd van\nhet jaar in de stad hebben te doen?\n\n\"Ik zelf verlies veel erdoor,\" ging hij voort, \"daar ik van zulk\naangenaam gezelschap moet afscheid nemen, doch het spijt mij te meer,\nomdat ik vrees, u zonder mijne tegenwoordigheid geen toegang tot\nWhitwell te kunnen verschaffen.\"\n\nDat was een slag voor hen allen!\n\n\"Maar als u een briefje aan de huishoudster schreef, Mijnheer Brandon,\"\nzei Marianne haastig; \"zou dat niet voldoende zijn?\"\n\nHij schudde het hoofd.\n\n\"We gaan toch,\" zei Sir John. \"Het mag niet afspringen, nu we er bijna\nzijn nog wel. Er zit niet anders op, Brandon, dan dat je morgen naar\nde stad gaat.\"\n\n\"Ik wenschte wel dat het zoo gemakkelijk geschikt kon worden. Maar\nik kan mijn reis waarlijk geen dag uitstellen.\"\n\n\"Als u ons maar wilde vertellen, wat die zaak eigenlijk _is_,\"\nzei Mevrouw Jennings; \"dan konden wij er over oordeelen, of het kon\nuitgesteld worden of niet.\"\n\n\"Het zou geen zes uren verschil maken,\" zei Willoughby, \"als u de\nreis uitstelde tot we terug waren.\"\n\n\"Ik mag geen _uur_ verliezen.\"\n\nElinor hoorde, hoe Willoughby zachtjes tegen Marianne zei: \"Er zijn\nvan die menschen die een hekel hebben aan buitenpartijen. Brandon\nbehoort er ook toe. Hij was zeker bang om kou te vatten, en bedacht\ner deze uitvlucht op, om eraf te komen. Ik durf er vijftig guinea's\nop verwedden, dat hij dien brief zelf geschreven heeft.\"\n\n\"Natuurlijk,\" antwoordde Marianne.\n\n\"Men kan je niet overhalen om van meening te veranderen, Brandon; dat\nweet ik van ouds,\" zei Sir John; \"als je eenmaal een voornemen hebt\nopgevat. Maar ik blijf nog hopen, dat je je zult bedenken. Vergeet\nniet, dat de beide dames Carey ervoor van Newton zijn gekomen, dat\nde drie dames Dashwood ervoor van huis zijn komen wandelen, en dat\nMijnheer Willoughby twee uur vroeger dan gewoonlijk is opgestaan,\nalles om dat uitstapje naar Whitwell.\"\n\nKolonel Brandon betuigde opnieuw zijn spijt, dat hij het gezelschap\nmoest teleurstellen, maar verklaarde tevens, dat dit onvermijdelijk\nwas.\n\n\"Nu, wanneer kom je dan terug?\"\n\n\"Ik hoop dat we u hier weer te Barton zullen mogen verwelkomen,\" voegde\nLady Middleton erbij, \"zoodra u weer uit Londen kunt vertrekken;\nwe moeten het uitstapje naar Whitwell dan maar uitstellen tot uw\nterugkomst.\"\n\n\"Dat is heel vriendelijk van u. Maar het is zóó onzeker, wanneer\nhet mij mogelijk zal zijn terug te keeren, dat ik daaromtrent geen\nafspraak durf maken.\"\n\n\"O, maar terugkomen moet en zàl hij,\" riep Sir John. \"Als hij aan\n't eind van de week niet weer hier is, ga ik hem halen.\"\n\n\"Ja, doe dat,\" zei Mevrouw Jennings; \"dan kom je misschien erachter,\nwat die zaak toch zijn mag.\"\n\n\"Neen, ik begeer mijn neus niet in andermans-zaken te steken; 't zal\nwel iets zijn, waarvoor hij zich schaamt.\"\n\nEen bediende kwam zeggen, dat de paarden van den Kolonel gereed waren.\n\n\"Je gaat toch niet te paard naar de stad?\" vroeg Sir John.\n\n\"Neen,--niet verder dan tot Honiton. En dan met de postkoets.\"\n\n\"Nu, als je besloten bent te gaan, goede reis dan. Maar ik zou mij\nliever nog eens bedenken.\"\n\n\"Ik verzeker je, dat het mij niet mogelijk is.\"\n\nHij nam afscheid van het geheele gezelschap.\n\n\"Is er geen kans, dat ik u en uw zusters dezen winter in de stad zal\nontmoeten, Juffrouw Dashwood?\"\n\n\"Ik vrees van niet.\"\n\n\"Dan moet ik afscheid van u nemen voor langer dan mij lief is.\"\n\nVoor Marianne boog hij alleen, zonder iets te zeggen.\n\n\"Kom, Kolonel,\" zei Mevrouw Jennings, \"laat ons nu nog eer u heengaat,\nhooren wat er achter zit.\"\n\nHij zei haar beleefd goedendag en ging, vergezeld door Sir John de\nkamer uit.\n\nDe klachten en verzuchtingen, die de hoffelijkheid tot nu toe had\nweerhouden, barstten van alle zijden los, en zij waren het steeds\nweer op nieuw met elkaar eens, dat het afschuwelijk ergerlijk was,\nzoo te worden teleurgesteld.\n\n\"Nu met dat al, ik kan 't je wel vertellen, wat dat voor zaken zijn\",\nzei Mevrouw Jennings zegevierend.\n\n\"Weet u het, mevrouw?\" zeiden bijna allen tegelijk.\n\n\"Ja, 't is natuurlijk iets met Juffrouw Williams.\"\n\n\"En wie is Juffrouw Williams?\" vroeg Marianne.\n\n\"Wat? Weet je niet wie Juffrouw Williams is? Je hebt toch stellig al\nvan haar gehoord? Zij is een bloedverwante van den Kolonel, lieve kind,\nheel na verwant. We zullen maar niet zeggen, hoe na, om den jongen\ndames geen aanstoot te geven.\" Iets zachter zei ze tegen Elinor:\n\"Ze is zijn natuurlijke dochter.\"\n\n\"Is het waar?\"\n\n\"O ja; en ze lijkt sprekend op hem. Ik wed dat de Kolonel haar al\nzijn geld nalaat.\"\n\nToen Sir John terugkwam, stemde hij van harte in met aller uitingen\nvan spijt over het gebeurde; maar besloot met te zeggen, dat zij nu\neenmaal allen bijeen waren, en iets moesten doen om de vroolijkheid\nerin te houden; en na eenig overleg werd men het eens, al mocht de ware\nvroolijkheid dan ook alleen in Whitwell te vinden zijn geweest, een\nrijtoer in de omstreken hun althans een behoorlijke mate van voldoening\nzou verschaffen. De rijtuigen kwamen voor; dat van Willoughby was het\neerste, en Marianne had er nog nooit zoo gelukkig uitgezien, als toen\nzij instapte. Hij reed snel het park door; ze waren spoedig uit het\ngezicht, en niemand kreeg hen meer te zien tot ze weer kwamen opdagen,\nniet eer alle anderen reeds weer waren teruggekeerd. Ze waren beiden\nverrukt over hun rit; maar zeiden alleen dat zij zich aan de boschpaden\nhadden gehouden, terwijl de anderen de heuvels waren opgegaan.\n\nEr was afgesproken, dat 's avonds zou worden gedanst, en dat ieder zoo\nvroolijk zou zijn als de dag lang was. Aan het diner kwamen nog eenige\nCarey's, en zij hadden het genoegen met zijn twintigen aan tafel te\nzitten, 't geen Sir John veel voldoening schonk. Willoughby nam als\ngewoonlijk plaats tusschen de beide oudste dames Dashwood. Mevrouw\nJennings zat aan Elinor's rechterhand, en zij hadden nog niet lang aan\ntafel gezeten toen zij, zich achter haar en Willoughby naar Marianne\noverbuigend, zeide, luid genoeg dat beiden het konden hooren: \"Al ben\nje nòg zoo loos, ik heb je gesnapt. Ik weet, waar je van morgen geweest\nbent.\" Marianne kreeg een kleur en zei haastig: \"Waar dan?\" \"Wist u\nniet,\" zei Willoughby, \"dat we een toertje hadden gedaan samen?\"\n\n\"Ja, ja, mijnheer Durf-al, dat wist ik heel goed, en ik had het erop\ngezet, uit te vinden, wáárheen dat toertje geweest was. Ik hoop dat\nje huis naar je zin was, Marianne. 't Is verbazend groot, en als ik\nje daar kom bezoeken, dan denk ik wel, dat je 't nieuw zult hebben\ngemeubileerd; want dat had het al noodig toen ik het zag, zes jaar\ngeleden.\"\n\nMarianne keek voor zich, verward en verlegen.\n\nMevrouw Jennings lachte hartelijk, en Elinor hoorde nu, dat zij, vast\nbesloten erachter te komen waar zij geweest waren, Willoughby's knecht\nhad laten uitvragen door haar eigen kamenier, en langs dien weg was\ngewaar geworden, dat zij naar Allenham waren geweest, daar geruimen\ntijd hadden gewandeld in den tuin, en het geheele huis bezichtigd.\n\nElinor kon bijna niet gelooven, dat dit waar kon zijn, want het leek\nal zeer onwaarschijnlijk, dat Willoughby zou voorstellen, of Marianne\nerin toestemmen, het huis binnen te gaan, terwijl Mevrouw Smith er\nvertoefde, die Marianne volkomen vreemd was.\n\nZoodra zij de eetkamer verlieten, vroeg Elinor haar zuster wat ervan\naan was, en vernam tot haar groote verbazing, dat al wat Mevrouw\nJennings had verteld de zuivere waarheid was geweest. Marianne was\nzelfs heel boos, dat zij eraan getwijfeld had.\n\n\"Waarom toch zou je denken, Elinor, dat we _niet_ daarheen waren\ngegaan, of _niet_ het huis hadden bekeken? Heb je dan niet dikwijls\nzelf gewenscht, dat te kunnen doen?\"\n\n\"Ja Marianne, maar niet wanneer Mevrouw Smith thuis was, en zonder\nander gezelschap dan Mijnheer Willoughby.\"\n\n\"Mijnheer Willoughby is nu eenmaal de eenige persoon, die het recht\nheeft, om dat huis te laten zien, en daar er in zijn rijtuig maar\nplaats was voor twee konden wij onmogelijk anderen meenemen. 't Was\nde prettigste dag, dien ik in mijn leven heb doorgebracht.\"\n\n\"Ik vrees,\" zei Elinor, \"dat genoegen en gepastheid niet altijd\nonvermijdelijk samengaan.\"\n\n\"Integendeel, juist dat genoegen bewijst zijn eigen onschuld; als er\nwerkelijk iets ongepasts was in wat ik deed, dan zou ik dat voortdurend\ngevoeld hebben; want we weten het altijd als we iets verkeerds doen,\nen met dàt besef kon ik geen pleizier hebben gehad.\"\n\n\"Maar, Marianne, begin je ook nu nog niet te twijfelen, of je gedrag\nwel was zooals het behoorde, nu het je reeds zulke uiterst onbescheiden\nopmerkingen heeft op den hals gehaald?\"\n\n\"Als Mevrouw Jennings' onbescheiden opmerkingen tot bewijs moeten\ndienen van onbehoorlijk gedrag, dan doen wij allen ons heele leven lang\nniet anders dan overtredingen begaan in dat opzicht. Ik geef evenmin\nom haar afkeuring, als ik zou hechten aan haar lof. Ik zie niet in,\ndat ik iets verkeerds heb gedaan, door in den tuin van Mevrouw Smith\nte wandelen, of haar huis te bezien. Beiden zullen eenmaal toebehooren\naan Mijnheer Willoughby, en...\"\n\n\"Al zouden ze eenmaal aan jezelf toebehooren, Marianne, dan hadt je\nnog geen recht, te doen wat je deedt.\"\n\nZij bloosde bij die toespeling, doch het was duidelijk te zien, dat\ndeze haar wel behaagde; en na een minuut of tien ernstig te hebben\nnagedacht, kwam ze bij haar zuster terug, en zei vriendelijk en\nvroolijk: \"Misschien _was_ het wel een beetje ondoordacht van mij,\nElinor, om mee naar Allenham te gaan; maar Mijnheer Willoughby was\ner zoo bijzonder op gesteld, mij het buitengoed te vertoonen; en\nhet huis is bijzonder mooi. Boven is er een allerliefste zitkamer,\njuist de goede grootte, voor dagelijksch gebruik, en met nieuwe\nmeubels zou die verrukkelijk kunnen worden. Het is een hoek-vertrek,\nmet ramen aan twee zijden. Aan den eenen kant heeft men het uitzicht\nover het grasveld achter het huis, op een prachtig bosch, tegen een\nhelling gelegen, en aan den anderen op de kerk en het dorp, met die\nmooie, streng omlijnde heuvels er achter, die we zoo dikwijls hebben\nbewonderd. Ik zag het niet eens op zijn best; want de meubels waren\nallertreurigst,--maar als het nieuw werd ingericht... Willoughby zegt,\ndat het met een uitgaaf van een paar honderd pond een van de mooiste\nzomerverblijven in Engeland zou kunnen worden.\"\n\nAls Elinor naar haar had kunnen luisteren, zonder door de anderen\ngestoord te worden, dan zou ze alle kamers van het huis met evenveel\ngenoegen hebben beschreven.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XIV\n\n\nDe onverwachte afloop van Kolonel Brandon's bezoek te Barton Park,\nen zijn volharding in het verbergen van de oorzaak ervan hielden\nMevrouw Jennings twee of drie dagen bezig, en vervulden haar met\nnieuwsgierige verbazing; zij verbaasde zich trouwens druk, zooals\nieder wel moet doen, die levendig belangstelt in al het doen en laten\nvan zijn kennissen. Zij bleef zich maar voortdurend afvragen, wat toch\nwel de reden had kunnen zijn; geloofde stellig dat hij slechte tijding\nhad gekregen, en peinsde over allerlei rampen, die hem hadden kunnen\ntreffen, met het vaste besluit, dat hij niet allen ontsnappen zou.\n\n\"'t Is bepaald iets héél treurigs,\" zei ze. \"Ik zag 't aan zijn\ngezicht. Die arme man! Ik vrees dat het met zijn geldzaken niet in orde\nis. Dat landgoed te Delaford heette niet meer dan tweeduizend in het\njaar op te brengen, en zijn broer liet het in een treurigen toestand\nachter. Hij zal bepaald hebben moeten overkomen voor geldzaken; want\nwat kan 't anders zijn? Ik ben benieuwd of 't waar is. Ik zou er\nalles voor over hebben om erachter te komen. Misschien is het tòch\niets met Juffrouw Williams,--ja, dat zal het bepaald geweest zijn,\nwant hij keek zoo verlegen, toen ik haar naam noemde. Misschien ligt\nze ziek in Londen; dat is héél waarschijnlijk, want ik meen gehoord te\nhebben, dat ze zwak van gestel is. Ik durf er alles om verwedden, dat\nhet Juffrouw Williams betrof. 't Is niet te verwachten eigenlijk, dat\nhij _nu_ in geldverlegenheid zou zijn; want hij is heel voorzichtig,\nen dat goed van hem zal nu wel vrij zijn van schulden. Wàt het toch\nzijn kan! Misschien is zijn zuster te Avignon erger geworden en heeft\nhem gevraagd om over te komen. Men zou het haast denken, door die haast\ndie hij maakte om weg te komen. Nu, ik hoop van harte, dat hij al dat\nverdriet gauw te boven komt en een goede vrouw krijgt op den koop toe.\"\n\nZoo bleef Mevrouw Jennings praten en benieuwd zijn; haar vermoedens\nwisselden met elke nieuwe gissing, en alle schenen beurtelings\neven waarschijnlijk. Hoewel het welzijn van Kolonel Brandon Elinor\nwerkelijk ter harte ging, kon zij zich niet zóó uitermate verbazen\nover zijn plotseling vertrek, als Mevrouw Jennings van haar verlangde;\nwant behalve dat die omstandigheid haar niet gewichtig genoeg scheen,\nom zulk een onuitputtelijke verwondering en zulk een verscheidenheid\nvan gissingen te rechtvaardigen, haar eigen bevreemding werd door iets\nanders gewekt. Die bevreemding gold het onverklaarbaar stilzwijgen van\nhaar zuster en Willoughby omtrent een onderwerp, welks belangrijkheid\nin aller oogen hun niet kon ontgaan. Naarmate dit zwijgen duurde,\nscheen het van dag tot dag vreemder en minder in overeenstemming\nmet beider gezindheid. Waarom zij niet openlijk zouden erkennen,\ntegenover haar moeder en haarzelve, wat hun houding tegenover\nelkander voortdurend bewees, kon Elinor zich niet voorstellen. Dat\nzij niet onmiddellijk konden trouwen, begreep zij zeer goed; want\nhoewel Willoughby onafhankelijk was, bestond er toch geen reden om\nhem zeer vermogend te achten. Sir John schatte de opbrengst van zijn\nbezitting op zes of zevenhonderd pond in het jaar; maar hij leefde\nop een voet, waarvoor dat inkomen nauwelijks toereikend kon zijn,\nen had zich dikwijls zelf beklaagd over zijn armoede. Doch voor\nde vreemde geheimzinnigheid, die zij in acht namen betreffende hun\nverloving, een geheimzinnig doen, dat feitelijk niets verborg, kon\nzij geen reden vinden; en het was zoo volkomen in tegenspraak met hun\nalgemeene opvatting en handelwijze, dat zij soms begon te twijfelen\nof zij wel werkelijk verloofd waren; en die twijfel was voldoende\nom haar te weerhouden van een rechtstreeksche vraag, tot Marianne\ngericht. Niets kon duidelijker blijk geven van oprechte genegenheid\nvoor hen allen dan Willoughby's gedrag. Tegenover Marianne was het\nvol van die uitsluitende teederheid, die het hart van een minnaar\nvermag te schenken, en de overige leden van het gezin werden door\nhem behandeld met de hartelijke voorkomendheid van een zoon en een\nbroeder. Hun huisje scheen hij te beschouwen en lief te hebben als\neen eigen thuis; hij bracht bij hen veel meer van zijn tijd door dan\nte Allenham; en als geen gezellige bijeenkomst hen allen vergaderde\nte Barton Park, dan richtte hij zijn geregelden morgenrit bijna zonder\nuitzondering dáárheen, waar hij het overige gedeelte van den dag sleet\naan Marianne's zijde, met zijn geliefkoosden jachthond aan hare voeten.\n\nOp een zekeren avond, ongeveer een week nadat Kolonel Brandon naar\nLonden was vertrokken, scheen zijn hart meer dan ooit open te staan\nvoor alle gevoelens, die hem innig deden hechten aan de omringende\nomgeving, en toen Mevrouw Dashwood toevallig melding maakte van haar\nvoornemen om het huisje in het voorjaar te laten opknappen, verzette\nhij zich met nadruk tegen elke verandering van een verblijf, dat zijn\ngenegenheid hem eens voor al volmaakt had doen schijnen.\n\n\"Wat!\" riep hij uit, \"verbeteringen aanbrengen in dit aardige\nhuisje? Neen--daartoe geef _ik_ nooit mijn toestemming. Geen steen\nmoet aan zijn muren, geen duim aan zijn afmetingen worden toegevoegd,\nals u mijn gevoelens wenscht te ontzien.\"\n\n\"Wees maar niet bang,\" zei Elinor; \"er gebeurt niets van; want mama\nzal nooit geld genoeg hebben om het te durven ondernemen.\"\n\n\"Daar ben ik blij om,\" riep hij uit. \"'t Was beter dat uw moeder altoos\narm bleef, als zij haar rijkdom niet beter dan zóó wist te gebruiken.\"\n\n\"Dank voor dien wensch, Willoughby,\" zei Mevrouw Dashwood. \"Maar\nje moogt gerust gelooven, dat ik nooit eenig gevoel van gehechtheid\naan deze plek, gekoesterd door wien ook, dien ik liefheb, zou willen\nkwetsen, terwille van alle verbeteringen ter wereld. Vertrouw maar\nstellig, dat ik, al hield ik ook nog zulk een groote som over bij\n't opmaken van mijn budget in het voorjaar, die liever ongebruikt\nzou laten liggen, dan erover te beschikken op een wijze, die je zoo\nzou grieven. Maar ben je werkelijk zóó aan dit huis gehecht, dat je\ner geen gebreken in kunt zien?\"\n\n\"Ja waarlijk,\" zei hij. \"In mijn oogen is het volmaakt. Méér dan\ndat; ik beschouw het als het eenig verblijf, waarin voor mij geluk\ndenkbaar is, en als ik rijk was, dan liet ik dadelijk Combe afbreken,\nen opnieuw bouwen als de getrouwe kopie van dit landhuisje.\"\n\n\"Met een smalle donkere trap en een rookenden keukenschoorsteen,\"\nzei Elinor.\n\n\"Ja zeker,\" riep hij, even opgewonden als te voren, \"met al wat er\nbij behoort; in geen enkel opzicht, 't zij gunstig of _on_gunstig,\nmoest ook maar de geringste afwijking zijn te bespeuren. Dan, en dàn\nalleen, onder zulk een dak, zou ik misschien te Combe even gelukkig\nzijn, als ik te Barton geweest ben.\"\n\n\"Ik durf wel hopen,\" antwoordde Elinor, \"dat je, ook ondanks het\nbezwaar van ruimere kamers en een breedere trap, later je eigen huis\neven onverbeterlijk zult gaan vinden, als thans het onze.\"\n\n\"Zeer zeker zijn er omstandigheden,\" zeide Willoughby, \"waaronder\nhet mij zeer dierbaar zou kunnen worden, doch dit huis zal altoos\néén recht op mijne genegenheid kunnen doen gelden, waarin geen ander\nverblijf ooit deelen kan.\"\n\nMevrouw Dashwood wierp een verheugden blik naar Marianne, wier mooie\noogen Willoughby aanzagen met een uitdrukking, die duidelijk te kennen\ngaf, hoe goed zij hem begreep.\n\n\"Hoe menigmaal wenschte ik,\" ging hij voort, \"toen ik, nu een jaar\ngeleden, te Allenham logeerde, dat Barton Cottage toch bewoond mocht\nworden! Ik kwam er nooit voorbij, zonder de ligging te bewonderen,\nen spijt te gevoelen, dat niemand daarvan genoot. Hoe weinig dacht\nik toen, dat het eerste, wat Mevrouw Smith mij zou mededeelen, toen\nik weer in deze streek terugkwam, het nieuws zou zijn, dat Barton\nCottage was verhuurd! en ik voelde dadelijk een zekere voldoening en\nbelangstelling bij dat bericht, die ik slechts kan toeschrijven aan\neen soort voorgevoel van het geluk, dat mij ten deel zou vallen door\ndie gebeurtenis. Zou dat niet de reden geweest zijn, Marianne?\" liet\nhij er, zachter tot haar sprekend, op volgen. Daarop ging hij luider\nvoort: \"En _dit_ huis zoudt u willen bederven, Mevrouw? U zoudt het\nzijn eenvoud willen ontnemen door een denkbeeldige verfraaiing? en\ndeze dierbare huiskamer, waarin onze kennismaking begon, en waarin wij\nzoovele gelukkige uren tezamen hebben doorgebracht, zoudt u willen\nvernederen tot den staat van een gewonen toegang, zoodat iedere\nbinnentredende zich haasten zou, het vertrek te verlaten, dat tot nu\ntoe meer ware gezelligheid en behagen in zich omsloten hield, dan enige\nzaal van indrukwekkende afmetingen ons ooit zou kunnen aanbieden?\"\n\nMevrouw Dashwood verzekerde hem opnieuw dat geenerlei verandering\nvan dien aard zou worden ondernomen.\n\n\"Dat is lief van u,\" antwoordde hij met warmte. \"Uwe belofte stelt\nmij gerust. Strek uwe goedheid nog een weinig verder uit, en u zult\nmij gelukkig maken. Beloof mij, dat niet alleen uw huis zal blijven\nzooals het is; maar dat ik u en de uwen even onveranderd zal blijven\nvinden als uwe woning, en dat u mij steeds zult beschouwen met die\nvriendelijke gezindheid, die u en uwe geheele omgeving mij zoo dierbaar\nworden deed.\"\n\nDie belofte werd gaarne gegeven, en Willoughby's stemming gedurende\nden geheelen avond legde getuigenis af van zijn genegenheid en zijn\ngeluk. \"Zullen we je morgenmiddag aan tafel zien?\" vroeg Mevrouw\nDashwood bij het afscheid. \"Ik reken niet op een morgenbezoek; want\nwij moeten naar Barton Park wandelen, om een visite te maken bij\nLady Middleton.\"\n\nHij beloofde om vier uur bij hen te zullen zijn.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XV\n\n\nHet bezoek van Mevrouw Dashwood bij Lady Middleton had den volgenden\ndag plaats, en twee van hare dochters vergezelden haar; doch Marianne\nwilde liever niet medegaan, en verontschuldigde zich op grond van\neen onbeduidend voorwendsel. Haar moeder, die hier uit opmaakte, dat\nWilloughby den avond te voren beloofd had, haar te zullen opzoeken\ngedurende hunne afwezigheid, had er niets op tegen, dat zij tehuis\nbleef.\n\nBij hun terugkomst van Barton Park zagen zij Willoughby's rijtuig en\nzijn bediende vóór het huis staan wachten, en Mevrouw Dashwood begreep,\ndat haar vermoeden bewaarheid was. Tot dusver ging alles, zooals zij\nverwacht had; maar toen zij het huis binnentrad, aanschouwde zij, wat\ngeen vooruitziende schranderheid haar had kunnen doen voorzien. Juist\ntoen zij de voordeur ingingen, zagen zij Marianne haastig uit de\nhuiskamer komen, blijkbaar bitter bedroefd, met haar zakdoek voor\nde oogen, en zonder op hen te letten, de trap oploopen. Verwonderd\nen verschrikt gingen zij aanstonds de kamer binnen, die zij pas\nverlaten had, en vonden er niemand dan Willoughby, die tegen den\nschoorsteenmantel geleund stond, met den rug naar hen toegekeerd. Hij\nwendde zich om, toen zij binnenkwamen, en zijn gelaat vertoonde ten\nduidelijkste de sporen eener even heftige aandoening, als die, welke\nMarianne had overmeesterd.\n\n\"Scheelt haar iets?\" riep Mevrouw Dashwood reeds op den drempel;\n\"is zij niet wel?\"\n\n\"Ik hoop het niet,\" antwoordde hij, met een poging om vroolijk te\nkijken, en na een oogenblik liet hij er met een gedwongen glimlach\nop volgen: \"Het zou zoo vreemd niet zijn, wanneer ikzelf mij onwel\ngevoelde; want ik ga op het oogenblik gebukt onder een grievende\nteleurstelling!\"\n\n\"Teleurstelling!\"\n\n\"Ja; want het is mij niet mogelijk, mij te houden aan onze\nafspraak. Mevrouw Smith heeft van morgen het overwicht van haar rijkdom\ndoen gelden tegenover een armen afhankelijken bloedverwant door mij\nvoor zaken naar Londen te zenden. Ik heb zooeven mijn opdrachten\nin ontvangst genomen, en Allenham vaarwel gezegd; en bij wijze van\nvertroosting ben ik nu komen afscheid nemen van u.\"\n\n\"Naar Londen!--en ga je vandaag nog?\"\n\n\"'t Is bijna reeds mijn tijd.\"\n\n\"Dat treft wel ongelukkig. Maar je moet doen, wat Mevrouw Smith\nverlangt;--en haar opdracht zal je toch, hoop ik, niet lang van ons\nverwijderd houden.\"\n\nHij kreeg een kleur, terwijl hij antwoordde: \"U bent wel vriendelijk,\nmaar het is niet mijn bedoeling, zoo spoedig terug te keeren naar\nDevonshire. Mijn bezoeken bij Mevrouw Smith worden nooit herhaald\nbinnen het jaar.\"\n\n\"En is Mevrouw Smith dan je eenige vriendin? Is Allenham het\neenige huis hier in de buurt, waar je welkom zoudt zijn? Foei,\nWilloughby. Acht je je verplicht een uitnoodiging van mijne zijde af\nte wachten?\"\n\nHij bloosde nog dieper, en zei alleen met neergeslagen oogen:\n\"U bent waarlijk te goed.\"\n\nMevrouw Dashwood zag Elinor verbaasd aan. Elinor was niet minder\nverwonderd. Een korte poos bewaarden allen het stilzwijgen. Mevrouw\nDashwood was de eerste, die sprak.\n\n\"Ik kan alleen herhalen, mijn waarde Willoughby,\" zeide zij, \"dat ge\naltijd welkom zult zijn in Barton Cottage; want ik wil niet aandringen\nop uw spoedige terugkomst hier; daar ge zelf alleen kunt beoordeelen,\nin hoeverre die Mevrouw Smith aangenaam zou zijn; en op dat punt\nben ik evenmin geneigd uw oordeel te wantrouwen, als ik gezind ben\ntwijfel te koesteren omtrent uw eigen wenschen.\"\n\n\"Voorloopig,\" antwoordde Willoughby verward, \"zijn mijn verplichtingen\nvan dien aard... dat... ik durf niet hopen...\"\n\nHij zweeg. Mevrouw Dashwood kon van verbazing geen woorden vinden,\nen weer volgde er stilte. Willoughby verbrak het zwijgen door met een\nflauwen glimlach te zeggen: \"'t Is dwaasheid, nog langer zoo te blijven\ndralen. Ik wil mijzelf niet verder kwellen, door een samenzijn met\nvrienden, in wier gezelschap ik thans onmogelijk behagen scheppen kan.\"\n\nHij nam haastig van hen allen afscheid en verliet het vertrek. Zij\nzagen hem in zijn rijtuig stappen en een oogenblik later verdween\nhet uit hun gezicht. Mevrouw Dashwood was te bewogen om haar gevoel\nin woorden te uiten, en ging de kamer uit, om in eenzaamheid zich\nover te geven aan de gevoelens van droefheid en zorg, veroorzaakt\ndoor dit plotseling vertrek.\n\nElinor was niet minder ongerust dan haar moeder. Het daareven gebeurde\nvervulde haar met angst en wantrouwen. Willoughby's houding bij het\nafscheid, zijn verwarring en zijn voorgewende vroolijkheid maar vooral\nzijn blijkbare ongeneigdheid om haar moeders uitnoodiging aan te nemen,\neen terughouding, zóó vreemd in een minnaar,--in iemand als hij, dat\nalles wekte in de hoogste mate haar bezorgdheid. Het eene oogenblik\nvreesde zij, dat van zijn kant nooit eenig ernstig plan had bestaan;\nen dan weer dacht zij, dat tusschen hem en haar zuster misschien\niets onaangenaams was voorgevallen; Marianne's droefheid, toen zij\nuit de kamer kwam, had zéér goed het gevolg van een heftigen twist\nkunnen zijn; en toch wanneer zij bedacht, hoe Marianne hem liefhad,\nscheen twist tusschen hen haar bijna iets onmogelijks.\n\nDoch onder welke omstandigheden dan ook hunne scheiding mocht hebben\nplaats gehad; aan de diepe droefheid van haar zuster viel niet te\ntwijfelen, en zij dacht met innig medelijden aan de heftige smart,\nwaarin Marianne zeer waarschijnlijk thans niet slechts verlichting\nzocht en vond, doch die zij het haar plicht zou achten aan te wakkeren\nen te verlevendigen.\n\nNa een half uurtje kwam haar moeder terug, en hoewel haar oogen\nbeschreid waren, keek zij toch niet bedrukt.\n\n\"Nu is onze beste Willoughby al een paar mijlen ver van Barton,\nElinor,\" zei ze, terwijl zij haar werk opnam en ging zitten; \"en met\nwelk een bezwaard gemoed is hij op reis gegaan!\"\n\n\"'t Is alles even vreemd. Zoo plotseling vertrokken! Het schijnt wel\nhet werk van één oogenblik. Wat was hij gisteravond nog gelukkig in\nons bijzijn, en zoo hartelijk, zoo vroolijk!--En nu, na slechts tien\nminuten voorbereiding, is hij weg--niet voornemens terug te keeren? Er\nmoet meer zijn voorgevallen dan hij ons heeft willen bekennen. Hij\nsprak niet als anders; hij was zichzelf niet. _U_ moet dat verschil\neven goed hebben opgemerkt als ik. Wat kan het zijn? Een twist tusschen\nhen beiden? Waarom zou hij anders zoo ongeneigd zijn gebleken om uwe\nuitnoodiging aan te nemen?\"\n\n\"'t Was niet, omdat hij het niet wenschte, Elinor! Dàt zag ik duidelijk\ngenoeg. Het stond niet in zijn macht. Ik heb over alles goed nagedacht,\ndat verzeker ik je, en ik begrijp nu volkomen alles, wat mij eerst\neven vreemd scheen als jou.\"\n\n\"Werkelijk, mama?\"\n\n\"Ja. _Ik_ voor mij ben tot een heel bevredigende slotsom gekomen;--maar\njij, Elinor, die bij voorkeur twijfelt, als je daar kans toe\nziet... _jou_ zal die niet voldoen, dat weet ik wel; al zal je _mijn_\nvertrouwen erin niet kunnen wegpraten. Ik ben vast overtuigd, dat\nMevrouw Smith zijn genegenheid voor Marianne vermoedt; dat zij die\nafkeurt--misschien omdat zij andere plannen met hem heeft en daarom\nerop gesteld is, hem uit den weg te krijgen; die zaak, die hij\nvoor haar moet regelen en waarvoor ze hem wegzendt, is natuurlijk\nmaar een voorwendsel, dat zij bedacht heeft. Zoo stel ik mij het\ngebeurde voor. Daarbij komt dit: hij _weet_, dat zij die verbintenis\nniet goedkeurt; hij durft haar dus op het oogenblik niet bekennen,\ndat hij met Marianne is verloofd, en in zijn afhankelijke positie,\nvoelt hij zich verplicht, op haar plannen in te gaan, en Devonshire\nvoor eenigen tijd te verlaten. Ik weet het wel, je zult zeggen:\ndat alles kàn, en kan óók _niet_ gebeurd zijn; maar ik luister naar\ngéén tegenwerping eer je mij een andere manier aan de hand doet, om\nde zaak zóó gunstig uit te leggen. En wat heb je daar nu op te zeggen?\"\n\n\"Niets, mama; want u hebt mijn antwoord reeds vooraf verwacht en\nuitgesproken.\"\n\n\"Dus je zoudt gezegd hebben: het kan evengoed _niet_ als wèl zoo zijn\ngeweest. O Elinor, wat zijn je gevoelens toch onbegrijpelijk! Je\nzoudt liever kwaad gelooven dan goed. Je zoudt liever _zoeken_\nnaar verdriet voor Marianne, en schuld van dien armen Willoughby,\ndan naar verontschuldiging voor zijn gedrag. Je _verkiest_ hem nu\neenmaal schuldig te achten omdat hij bij het afscheid van ons niet\nzoo hartelijk scheen als gewoonlijk. En is er dan geen verschooning te\nvinden in een zekere verstrooidheid en neerslachtigheid, veroorzaakt\ndoor de pas ondervonden teleurstelling? Zal geen enkele mogelijkheid\noverwogen mogen worden, enkel en alleen omdat zij geen zekerheid\nis? Zijn wij niets verplicht aan den man, dien wij om zoo goede\nreden liefhebben, en die ons niet de geringste aanleiding gaf tot\nverdenking? Mag dan de mogelijkheid niet worden aangenomen van\nbeweegredenen, volkomen gegrond op zich zelf, doch die voorloopig\nonvermijdelijk verborgen moeten blijven? En, wat is het, per slot\nvan rekening, waarvan je hem verdenkt?\"\n\n\"Dat kan ik u eigenlijk zelf niet zeggen. Maar het vermoeden van\niets onaangenaams is 't onvermijdelijk gevolg van een verandering,\nzooals wij die daareven in hem hebben waargenomen. Er is echter\nveel waars in wat u zegt omtrent de overwegingen te zijnen gunste,\ndie wij moeten laten gelden, en ik wensch werkelijk eerlijk te zijn\nin mijn oordeel over iedereen. Willoughby kàn ongetwijfeld zeer\nvoldoende redenen hebben voor zijn gedrag, en ik hoop, dat dit het\ngeval is. Maar het zou toch meer iets voor hem zijn geweest, die\nopenlijk te erkennen. Geheimzinnigheid mag raadzaam zijn; maar ik\nkan niet nalaten mij te verwonderen, dat juist hij die betracht.\"\n\n\"Je moogt hem geen verwijt maken van ontrouw aan zichzelf, waar die\nafwijking noodzakelijk is. Maar je geeft dus werkelijk toe, dat ik\ngelijk had, in wat ik tot zijn verdediging aanvoerde?--daar ben ik\nblij om--dan gaat hij vrij uit.\"\n\nNiet geheel en al. Het kan raadzaam zijn, hun verloving--(àls ze\nverloofd zijn,)--geheim te houden voor Mevrouw Smith,--en als dat\nhet geval is, dan is het natuurlijk zéér noodig, dat Willoughby thans\nslechts zelden in Devonshire gezien wordt. Maar dit is nog geen reden\nom die verloving te verbergen voor òns.\"\n\n\"Verbergen voor òns? maar lieve kind, beschuldig je Willoughby\nen Marianne van achterhoudendheid op dat punt? Dàt is wel vreemd,\nterwijl je blikken hun dag aan dag een verwijt maakten van hun gebrek\naan voorzichtigheid.\"\n\n\"Van hun genegenheid heb ik geen bewijs meer noodig,\" zei Elinor,\n\"maar van hun verloofd zijn wèl.\"\n\n\"Ik ben omtrent beide punten volkomen gerust.\"\n\n\"En toch is er door geen van hen beiden één woord tegenover u gerept\nvan dat onderwerp.\"\n\n\"Ik had geen woorden noodig; hun daden spraken voor mij duidelijk\ngenoeg. Bewees niet zijn houding jegens Marianne en ons allen,\nin de laatste weken, dat hij haar liefhad en als zijn aanstaande\nvrouw beschouwde, en dat hij ons de genegenheid toedroeg die men\nkoestert voor zijn naaste verwanten? Hebben wij elkaar niet volkomen\nbegrepen? Vroeg hij niet dagelijks mijne toestemming, door zijn blik,\nzijn houding, zijn oplettende en eerbiedige voorkomendheid? Mijn beste\nElinor, is het mogelijk dat je hun verloving in twijfel trekt? Hoe\nkon die gedachte bij je opkomen? Hoe kan je veronderstellen, dat\nWilloughby, overtuigd als hij moet zijn van je zuster's liefde,\nhaar zou verlaten, voor maanden achtereen misschien, zonder haar zijn\ngevoel te openbaren;--dat ze zouden scheiden zonder elkaar wederzijdsch\nvertrouwen te hebben geschonken?\"\n\n\"Ik geef toe,\" antwoordde Elinor, \"dat alle omstandigheden, op één na,\nspreken ten gunste van hun verloving; maar die ééne is het volslagen\nstilzwijgen, door beiden daaromtrent bewaard, en voor mij weegt die\neene tegen bijna alle andere op.\"\n\n\"Wat is dat vreemd. Je moet wel slecht over Willoughby denken, wanneer\nje, na al wat tusschen hen is voorgevallen, nog kunt twijfelen aan\nden aard van hun onderlinge verhouding. Dus hij sou al dien tijd\ntegenover je zuster een rol hebben gespeeld? Denk je dat hij in zijn\nhart onverschillig haar is?\"\n\n\"Neen, dat kàn ik niet denken. Hij moet haar liefhebben, en dat doet\nhij; daaraan twijfel ik niet\".\n\n\"Een vreemd soort van teederheid is dat dan toch, die hem toestaat\nhaar te verlaten, zoo onverschillig, zoo onbezorgd omtrent de toekomst,\nals je denkt, dat hij doet.\"\n\n\"U moet niet vergeten, mama, dat ik de zaak nooit als zeker\nbeschouwde. Ik beken, dat ik wel eens twijfel heb gekoesterd. Die\ntwijfel is echter reeds verminderd en zal misschien spoedig geheel\nverdwijnen. Als het blijkt, dat zij in briefwisseling zijn, dan ben\nik niet bang meer.\"\n\n\"Je bent wèl toegevend, moet ik zeggen! Als je hen voor het\naltaar zaagt staan, dan zou je nog denken, dat ze _misschien_\nwel gingen trouwen. 't Is een leelijke trek in je.--Maar zulke\nbewijzen heb _ik_ niet noodig. In mijn oogen is er niets gebeurd,\ndat twijfel rechtvaardigde; tot verbergen werd geen poging gedaan;\nalles ging volkomen open en zonder terughouding in zijn werk. Aan\nje zuster's wenschen kan je niet twijfelen. 't Is dus Willoughby,\ndien je verdenkt. En waarom? Is hij niet gevoelig en een man van\neer? Gaf hij ons door onstandvastigheid reden tot zorg en vrees? Zou\nhij bedriegelijk kunnen zijn?\"\n\n\"Ik geloof van niet; ik geloof van niet,\" riep Elinor. \"Ik houd van\nWilloughby; ik houd oprecht van hem; en twijfel aan de zuiverheid van\nzijn karakter doet mijzelve niet minder pijn dan u. Tegen mijn wil is\ndie twijfel gerezen, en ik wil dat gevoel niet aanmoedigen. Ik beken,\ndat ik schrikte van morgen, door die verandering in zijn houding; hij\nsprak niet zooals van hem te verwachten viel, en bleef onhartelijk\ntegenover uw vriendelijkheid. Maar dat alles laat zich verklaren\ndoor de omstandigheden, die u als waar veronderstelt. Hij had pas\nafscheid genomen van Marianne, had haar zien gaan, wanhopig bedroefd;\nen als hij zich verplicht achtte, uit vrees Mevrouw Smith te ergeren,\nde verleiding te weerstaan om hier spoedig terug te keeren, terwijl hij\ntoch wist, door het weigeren van uwe uitnoodiging, door te zeggen dat\nhij voor langen tijd afscheid nam, tegenover ons gezin den schijn op\nzich te laden van illoyaal en zonderling gedrag, dan had hij waarlijk\nwel reden verlegen en verward te zijn. Onder die omstandigheden zou een\neenvoudige en openhartige uiteenzetting van zijn moeilijkheden hem meer\ntot eer hebben gestrekt, en mijns inziens meer hebben gestrookt met\nzijn aard en aanleg; maar ik zal niemand zijn gedrag verwijten, wegens\nzoo enghartige redenen als een verschil in zienswijze met mijzelve,\nof eene afwijking van wat _ik_ als goed en redelijk beschouw.\"\n\n\"Nu spreek je, zooals het behoort. Willoughby verdient waarlijk niet\nbeschouwd te worden met achterdocht. Al kennen _wij_ hem nog niet lang;\nhij is hier geen vreemdeling; en wie heeft ooit iets te zijnen nadeele\ngezegd? Hadden zijn omstandigheden hem veroorloofd, zelfstandig op te\ntreden en onmiddellijk te huwen, dan had het vreemd kunnen schijnen,\ndat hij ons verliet, zonder mij alles thans reeds te bekennen; doch\ndit is niet het geval. Het is een verloving, die in sommige opzichten\ngeen voorspoedig begin heeft gehad, want de tijd van hun huwelijk is\nonzeker en veraf; zoodat dan ook stilzwijgen omtrent de zaak, thans,\nvoor zoover het mogelijk is, zeer raadzaam is geworden.\"\n\nHier werden zij gestoord door Margaret, die binnenkwam; en Elinor\nhad thans gelegenheid, na te denken over haar moeder's opvattingen;\nte erkennen dat vele van haar vermoedens gegrond schenen, en te hopen,\ndat alle zouden bewaarheid worden. Zij zagen Marianne niet eer het tijd\nwas om te eten, en zij zonder een woord te zeggen de kamer binnenkwam\nen aan tafel ging zitten. Haar oogen waren rood en gezwollen, en het\nscheen alsof zij slechts met moeite hare tranen weerhield. Zij vermeed\nhun aller blikken, kon noch eten, noch spreken, en toen haar moeder\nna eenigen tijd zwijgend en met innig medelijden haar hand drukte,\nbezweek haar geringe kracht geheel--zij barstte in tranen uit en\nverliet het vertrek.\n\nDeze diepe verslagenheid van geest bleef den geheelen avond\nvoortduren. Zij had geen macht over zichzelve, wijl die macht door\nhaar niet werd begeerd. Bij de geringste opmerking over iets, dat met\nWilloughby in verband stond werd zij overweldigd door hare droefheid,\nen ofschoon haar moeder en zusters hun uiterste best deden om haar\nte ontzien, het was onmogelijk, tenzij ze een volstrekt stilzwijgen\nwilden bewaren, elk onderwerp te vermijden, dat voor haar gevoel op\nhem betrekking had.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XVI\n\n\nMarianne zou het onvergefelijk van zichzelve hebben gevonden,\nals ze had kunnen slapen, den eersten nacht na het afscheid van\nWilloughby. Ze zou den anderen den volgenden morgen niet zonder\nschaamte in het gezicht hebben durven zien, als ze niet bij het opstaan\ngrooter behoefte had gehad aan rust, dan toen ze ging liggen. Maar de\ngevoelens, die haar in zelfbedwang schande deden zien, bewaarden haar\nvoor het gevaar, zich die schande op den hals te halen. Zij lag den\ngeheelen nacht wakker, en _bijna_ den geheelen nacht schreide zij. Ze\nstond met hoofdpijn op, kon niet spreken en weigerde iets te eten;\ndeed dus haar moeder en zusters onophoudelijk verdriet en verzette\nzich tegen elke poging van hunne zijde om haar te troosten. Haar\ngevoeligheid was waarlijk niet machteloos!\n\nNa het ontbijt ging zij alleen wandelen, en zwierf bijna den geheelen\nmorgen rond in de omstreken van Allenham, zwelgend in herinneringen aan\nverloren geluk, en zich onder tranen beklagend over den tegenwoordigen\ntegenspoed.\n\nOok den avond sleet zij in algeheele overgave aan haar gevoel. Zij\nspeelde al de geliefkoosde liederen over, die zij Willoughby placht\nvoor te spelen, iedere melodie, waarin hun stemmen zoo dikwijls hadden\nsamengeklonken, en zat voor de piano te staren naar de muziek, die\nhij voor haar had gecopieerd, tot haar hart zoo overstelpt was van\nverdriet, dat zij niet treuriger kòn worden; en iederen dag schonk zij\nop die wijze nieuw voedsel aan hare smart. Uren aaneen zat zij voor\nde piano beurtelings te zingen en te schreien, en dikwijls werd haar\nstem geheel door tranen verstikt. Ook in haar boeken, zoowel als in\nmuziek, zocht zij met voorliefde de rampzaligheid die de tegenstelling\ntusschen voorheen en thans haar onvermijdelijk moest doen gevoelen. Zij\nlas niets anders, dan wat zij samen te lezen plachten.\n\nZóó heftige smart kon niet van eindeloozen duur zijn, na eenige dagen\nverflauwde zij tot kalmer neerslachtigheid; doch de reeds genoemde\nbezigheden, die zij dagelijks hervatte; haar eenzame wandelingen\nen stille overpeinzingen leidden ook thans bijwijlen tot hevige\nuitbarstingen van verdriet.\n\nVan Willoughby kwam geen brief, en Marianne scheen dien ook niet te\nverwachten. Haar moeder was verwonderd, en Elinor maakte zich opnieuw\nongerust. Maar Mevrouw Dashwood had altijd verklaringen bij de hand,\nwanneer ze die behoefde, die althans haarzelve tevreden stelden.\n\n\"Je weet wel, Elinor,\" zei ze, \"hoe dikwijls Sir John onze brieven\nvan de post haalt en ze voor ons bezorgt. We zijn het nu eens, dat\nde zaak liever niet ruchtbaar moet worden, en we moeten erkennen dat\ndit onmogelijk zou zijn, als Sir John hunne brieven over en weer in\nhanden kreeg.\"\n\nElinor kon dit niet tegenspreken, en zij trachtte die beweegreden\nvoldoende te achten ter verklaring van hun stilzwijgen.\n\nEr was echter één middel om achter den waren staat van zaken te komen,\nen alle geheimzinnigheid te verbannen, zóó recht op het doel afgaand,\nzoo eenvoudig, en naar hare meening zoo verkieselijk, dat zij niet\nkon nalaten, haar moeder dit aan de hand te doen.\n\n\"Waarom vraagt u Marianne niet zelf,\" zei zij, \"of ze al of niet met\nWilloughby verloofd is? Van u, haar moeder, die zoo vriendelijk en\ntoegevend voor haar is, kan die vraag haar niet grieven. 't Zou het\nnatuurlijk uitvloeisel zijn van uw genegenheid voor haar. Zij placht\néén en al openhartigheid te zijn, tegenover u vooral.\"\n\n\"Die vraag zou ik haar nooit willen doen; in geen geval. Neem\neens voor een oogenblik aan, dat zij niet verloofd waren, hoeveel\nverdriet zou ik haar dan doen door dat uitvragen. 't Zou in elk\ngeval heel weinig edelmoedig zijn. Ik zou nooit meer haar vertrouwen\nverdienen, wanneer ik haar wilde dwingen tot een bekentenis van 't\ngeen voorloopig niemand nog mag weten. Ik ken Marianne door en door;\nik weet hoeveel zij van mij houdt, en dat ik niet de laatste zal zijn,\ndie de toedracht der zaak vernemen zal, wanneer de omstandigheden die\nkennisgeving raadzaam doen achten. Ik zou nooit willen pogen iemands\nvertrouwen af te dwingen; het allerminst dat van mijn eigen kind,\nomdat haar plichtgevoel haar mogelijk zou weerhouden, dat vertrouwen\nte weigeren, waar zij het liever niet geschonken had.\"\n\nElinor vond, met het oog op haar zuster's jeugd, deze opvatting\noverdreven; en drong nog nader bij haar moeder aan; doch te\nvergeefs; gezond verstand, natuurlijke bezorgdheid, vanzelfsprekende\nvoorzichtigheid, alles moest achterstaan bij Mevrouw Dashwood's\nromantisch overdreven fijn gevoel.\n\nMeerdere dagen verliepen, eer Willoughby's naam door een der\nleden van het gezin in Marianne's tegenwoordigheid werd genoemd;\nSir John en Mevrouw Jennings achtten zich tot die kieschheid niet\nverplicht, en hun geestigheden vermeerderden de pijn van menig\npijnlijk oogenblik;--doch op zekeren avond zeide Mevrouw Dashwood,\ntoen zij toevallig een deeltje van Shakespeare opnam:\n\n\"We hebben Hamlet nog niet uitgelezen, Marianne, onze beste Willoughby\nging heen, eer we 't hadden geëindigd. We zullen het wegleggen,\nen als hij terugkomt... Maar het zal misschien maanden duren, eer\ndàt gebeurt.\"\n\n\"Maanden?\" riep Marianne, zeer verwonderd. \"O neen,--weken zelfs niet!\"\n\nMevrouw Dashwood had reeds berouw van haar gezegde, doch het deed\nElinor genoegen, daar het Marianne een antwoord had ontlokt, dat\nhaar volkomen vertrouwen in Willoughby uitdrukte, en haar voorkennis\nomtrent zijn plannen verried.\n\nOp zekeren morgen, een week ongeveer na zijn vertrek, haalden\nhare zusters Marianne over, hen te vergezellen op hun dagelijksche\nwandeling, inplaats van alleen rond te zwerven. Tot nu toe had zij op\ndie eenzame tochten angstvallig alle gezelschap vermeden. Als haar\nzusters plan hadden de heuvels te beklimmen, dan sloop zij naar het\nbosch; spraken zij van het dal, dan klom Marianne langs de steilste\npaden, en zij was nooit ergens te vinden, wanneer de anderen gereed\nwaren om uit te gaan. Ten laatste echter werd er beslag op haar\ngelegd door Elinor, die deze voortdurende afzondering zeer verkeerd\nachtte. Zij wandelden langs den weg: door het dal, meestal zwijgend;\nwant Marianne's _geest_ liet zich niet dwingen, en Elinor, tevreden\nnu zij in een opzicht haar zin had gekregen, wilde thans niet méér\nbeproeven. Voorbij den ingang van het dal, waar het landschap, ofschoon\nnog schilderachtig en afwisselend, minder bergachtig werd en ruimer\nuitzicht verleende, konden zij een groot deel overzien van den weg,\nwaarlangs zij voor de eerste maal naar Barton waren gekomen; en toen\nzij deze plek hadden bereikt, bleven zij staan, om rond te zien en\nhet uitzicht te genieten over de vlakte, die zij van uit hun huisje in\nde verte konden onderscheiden, thans vanuit een punt, tot waar hunne\nwandelingen zich toevallig nog niet eerder hadden uitgestrekt. Onder\nde voorwerpen, die het landschap stoffeerden, bespeurden zij spoedig\neen, dat zich bewoog; het was een man te paard, die naderbij kwam. Na\neen paar minuten zagen zij, dat het een heer was, en een oogenblik\nlater riep Marianne vol verrukking: \"Hij is het; o zeker!--ik weet\ndat hij het is!\" en zij wilde hem reeds tegemoetsnellen, toen Elinor\nhaastig zeide: \"Werkelijk Marianne, je vergist je. Het is Willoughby\nniet. Deze man is zoo groot niet als hij, en heeft een andere houding.\"\n\n\"O jawel, jawel,\" riep Marianne, \"hij is het; 't is zijn figuur,\nzijn jas, zijn paard. Ik wist wel, dat hij gauw zou komen.\"\n\nZe liep onder het spreken haastig verder; en Elinor versnelde eveneens\nhaar schreden, om Marianne bij te houden, daar zij bijna zeker was,\ndat het Willoughby niet kon zijn, en zij haar zuster's gedrag niet\nwilde laten in 't oog vallen. Weldra waren zij geen dertig meter meer\nvan den vreemden heer verwijderd. Marianne keek nogmaals op; haar hart\nontzonk haar; zij keerde zich om en liep haastig terug; doch tegelijk\nmet de stemmen harer zusters, die haar toeriepen stil te staan,\nhoorde zij een derde, bijna even welbekend als die van Willoughby,\nhetzelfde verzoek tot haar richten, en toen zij zich verbaasd op\nnieuw omwendde, herkende en begroette zij Edward Ferrars. Hij was de\neenige persoon ter wereld, wien zij op dat oogenblik kon vergeven,\ndat hij niet Willoughby was; de eenige die haar een glimlach had kunnen\nontlokken. Zij drong haar tranen terug om hem toe te lachen, en vergat\neen oogenblik haar eigen teleurstelling voor haar zuster's blijdschap.\n\nHij stapte af, liet zijn paard aan zijn rijknecht over, en wandelde met\nhen terug naar Barton, waar hij hun een bezoek wilde komen brengen. Hij\nwerd door allen verwelkomd met de grootste hartelijkheid; vooral door\nMarianne, die nog levendiger voldoening liet blijken over zijn komst\ndan Elinor zelve. In Marianne's oogen scheen de begroeting tusschen\nEdward en haar zuster slechts de voortzetting van die onverklaarbaar\nkoele houding, die zij hen te Norland reeds zoo dikwijls tegenover\nelkaar had zien in acht nemen. Vooral van Edward's zijde ontbrak aan\ndie begroeting al wat een minnaar bij zulk een gelegenheid door blikken\nof woorden had moeten aan den dag leggen. Hij was verlegen, scheen\nniet eens blijde, hen te zien, keek noch verheugd, noch vroolijk,\nzei bijna niet anders dan wat hem gevraagd werd, en liet tegenover\nElinor geen spoor van bijzondere genegenheid blijken. Marianne keek\nen luisterde met toenemende verbazing. Ze begon bijna een hekel aan\nEdward te krijgen, en ten slotte eindigde die opwelling, zooals elk\ngevoel bij haar moest eindigen, met een terugkeer in gedachten tot\nWilloughby, wiens gedrag dan ook wel een opvallende tegenstelling\nvormde met dat van zijn uitverkoren aanstaanden schoonbroeder.\n\nNa het korte stilzwijgen, dat volgde op de eerste verbaasde\nbegroetingen en vragen over en weer, vroeg Marianne aan Edward of hij\nrechtstreeks uit Londen kwam. Neen, hij was reeds veertien dagen in\nDevonshire geweest.\n\n\"Veertien dagen!\" herhaalde zij, verwonderd, dat hij zoolang had\nkunnen vertoeven in hetzelfde graafschap als Elinor, zonder haar te\nkomen opzoeken. Hij keek verlegen en bedrukt, terwijl hij antwoordde,\ndat hij bij kennissen had gelogeerd in de buurt van Plymouth.\n\n\"Ben je nog voor kort in Sussex geweest?\" vroeg Elinor.\n\n\"Een maand geleden ongeveer was ik nog te Norland.\"\n\n\"En hoe ziet ons dierbaar Norland er wel uit?\" riep Marianne.\n\n\"Ons dierbaar Norland,\" zei Elinor, \"zal er wel uitzien, zooals\ngewoonlijk om dezen tijd van het jaar; de bosschen en de wegen bedekt\ndoor een dichte laag dorre bladeren.\"\n\n\"O,\" riep Marianne, \"met welke gevoelens van zielsverrukking zag\nik ze vroeger niet vallen! Wat was het zalig, als de wind ze op\nmijn wandelingen in dichte vlagen om mij heen deed dwarrelen! Welke\ngevoelens wekten zij niet, in vereeniging met het jaargetij, met de\ngeheele atmosfeer! Nu is er niemand, die acht op hen slaat. Ze worden\nbeschouwd als een last, haastig weggeveegd, en zooveel mogelijk aan\nhet gezicht onttrokken.\"\n\n\"Niet iedereen,\" zei Elinor, \"is zóó verrukt van dorre bladeren\nals jij.\"\n\n\"Neen, mijn gevoelens worden niet dikwijls gedeeld, niet dikwijls\nbegrepen. _Soms_ echter wèl.\"\n\nZij verzonk een korte poos in gepeins; doch zei, zich als 't ware\ndaaruit losrukkend, terwijl zij Edward op het landschap wees: \"Zie,\nEdward; dit is nu de vallei van Barton. Kijk nu dien kant eens uit,\nen blijf dan bedaard, als je kunt. Zie je die heuvels? Heb je ooit zoo\niets prachtigs gezien? Links ligt Barton Park, tusschen die bosschen en\ndat struikgewas. Je kunt den zijgevel van het huis onderscheiden. En\ndaar, aan den voet van dien laatsten heuvel, die zoo statig zich\nverheft, ligt ons huisje.\"\n\n\"'t Is een mooie streek,\" gaf hij ten antwoord; \"maar die laag gelegen\ngedeelten zullen 's winters wel erg modderig zijn.\"\n\n\"Hoe kan je nu denken aan modder, terwijl je zulke dingen voor\noogen hebt?\"\n\n\"Omdat ik, onder meer, één buitengewoon modderig laantje voor mijn\noogen zie.\"\n\n\"Vreemd toch!\" zei Marianne tot zichzelf, onder 't voortwandelen.\n\n\"Heb je aardige buren hier? Zijn de Middleton's prettige menschen?\"\n\n\"Neen, volstrekt niet,\" zei Marianne; \"we hadden 't niet ongelukkiger\nkunnen treffen.\"\n\n\"Maar, Marianne,\" riep haar zuster; \"hoe kan je dat zeggen? Hoe kan\nje zoo onrechtvaardig zijn? Het is een heel aardige familie, Edward,\nen ze zijn voor ons allervriendelijkst geweest. Heb je dan vergeten,\nMarianne, hoeveel prettige dagen we aan hen te danken hadden?\"\n\n\"Neen,\" zei Marianne iets zachter, \"en hoeveel onaangename oogenblikken\nevenmin.\"\n\nElinor hield zich alsof zij het niet hoorde, en zich thans tot hun\ngast wendend, poogde zij iets als een geregeld gesprek met hem gaande\nte houden door te vertellen van hun nieuwe huis, de inrichting ervan,\nen zoo meer, waardoor ze hem althans enkele vragen en opmerkingen\nontlokte. Zijn koelheid en terughouding kwetsten haar diep; zij was\ngeërgerd en bijna boos; doch met het vaste voornemen haar gedrag\njegens hem liever in overeenstemming te brengen met het verleden,\ndan met zijn houding van nu, vermeed zij elk vertoon van ergernis of\nongenoegen en behandelde hem, zooals zij oordeelde, dat hij, wegens\nhun familiebetrekking, behoorde behandeld te worden.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XVII\n\n\nMevrouw Dashwood was slechts een oogenblik verrast, toen zij hem zag;\nwant in haar oogen was zijn komst te Barton de natuurlijkste zaak\nvan de wereld. Haar blijde en hartelijke welkomstbetuigingen duurden\nlanger dan haar verwondering. Hij werd door haar allervriendelijkst\nontvangen; zijn verlegenheid, koelheid, en terughouding bleken niet\nbestand tegen zulk een begroeting. Zij waren reeds aan het wankelen\ngebracht, eer hij het huis binnentrad, en namen de wijk voor Mevrouw\nDashwood's innemende manieren. Werkelijk kon iemand moeilijk verliefd\nzijn op eene harer dochters, zonder die liefde ook tot háár uit te\nstrekken; en Elinor zag hem tot haar blijdschap spoedig weer de oude\nworden. Zijn genegenheid voor hen allen scheen weer op te leven, en\nmen kon voelen dat hij belangstelde in hun welvaren. Opgewekt was\nhij echter niet; hij vond het huis mooi; bewonderde het uitzicht,\nwas voorkomend en vriendelijk; maar de ware vroolijkheid ontbrak. Zij\nmerkten het allen op, en Mevrouw Dashwood, die het toeschreef aan\nzijn moeder's gemis van vrijgevigheid, ging aan tafel zitten met een\ngevoel van ergernis over alle zelfzuchtige ouders.\n\n\"Welke vooruitzichten heeft Mevrouw Ferrars tegenwoordig voor je op het\noog, Edward?\" vroeg zij, toen zij na het eten rondom het vuur zaten;\n\"moet je nog steeds een groot redenaar worden, tegen je zin?\"\n\n\"Neen. Ik hoop dat moeder nu wel overtuigd is, dat ik voor het openbare\nleven evenmin talent als neiging bezit.\"\n\n\"Maar hoe moet je roem dan worden gevestigd? Want beroemd moet je\nworden, als je de familie zult tevredenstellen; en zonder neiging\ntot uiterlijk vertoon, zonder behoefte aan omgang met vreemden,\nzonder beroep, en zonder zelfvertrouwen, zou je dat wel moeilijk\nkunnen blijken.\"\n\n\"Ik zal 't maar niet beproeven. Ik koester geen wensch om mij te\nonderscheiden, en ik heb alle reden te hopen, dat ik dat nooit zal\ndoen. Den hemel zij dank, dat men mij genialiteit en welsprekendheid\nniet kan afdwingen.\"\n\n\"Ik weet het wel, je hebt geen eerzucht. Je wenschen zijn alle even\ngematigd.\"\n\n\"Even gematigd als die van andere menschen ook, zou ik denken. Ik\nwensch, juist als ieder ander, volkomen gelukkig te zijn; maar,\nprecies als die anderen, op mijn eigen manier. In beroemdheid zal ik\ngeen geluk vinden.\"\n\n\"Geen wonder!\" riep Marianne. \"Wat heeft rijkdom of grootheid met\ngeluk te maken!\"\n\n\"Grootheid maar weinig,\" zei Elinor; \"rijkdom heel veel.\"\n\n\"O Elinor, schaam je! Geld geeft alleen dáár geluk, waar het in niets\nanders te vinden is. Buiten zekere bescheiden grenzen, kan het geen\nwerkelijke voldoening schenken, voor zoover het de aanspraken geldt\nvan ons eigen ik.\"\n\n\"Misschien blijken we het ten slotte toch nog eens,\" zei Elinor\nglimlachend. \"Ik wed dat _jouw_ bescheiden grenzen en _mijn_ rijkdom\nheel veel op elkaar gelijken, en daarzonder, dat geven we elkaar toe,\nzouden we, zooals de wereld nu eenmaal is, alles ontberen, wat ons\nuiterlijk gemak en behagen kan verschaffen. Jij vat de zaak alleen\nwat breeder op dan ik. Kom er maar mee voor den dag; wat zijn je\n'bescheiden grenzen?'\"\n\n\"Een achttienhonderd of tweeduizend pond in het jaar; _meer_ dan\nook niet.\"\n\nElinor lachte. \"_Twee_ duizend pond in het jaar! Voor mij is _een_\nal rijkdom. Dat had ik wel gedacht.\"\n\n\"Maar tweeduizend pond is werkelijk een heel bescheiden inkomen,\"\nzei Marianne. \"Met minder kan een gezin toch wel haast niet toe. Ik\nvind niet dat ik buitensporige eischen stel. Een voldoende aantal\nbedienden; een rijtuig, twee misschien, en jachtpaarden kan men niet\nhouden, als men met minder dan dat moet rondkomen.\"\n\nWeer glimlachte Elinor, toen zij haar zuster zoo nauwkeurig hun\ntoekomstige uitgaven te Combe Magna hoorde beschrijven.\n\n\"Jachtpaarden!\" herhaalde Edward.--\"Maar waarom moet je jachtpaarden\nerop nahouden? Iedereen jaagt toch niet.\"\n\nMarianne kreeg een kleur, en zei \"De meeste menschen wèl.\"\n\n\"Ik wou,\" zei Margaret, een nieuw onderwerp op het tapijt brengend,\n\"dat iemand ons één voor één een groot fortuin present gaf.\"\n\n\"O, als dàt kon gebeuren!\" riep Marianne, terwijl haar oogen\nschitterden van opgewondenheid, en haar wangen gloeiden van blijdschap\nover dat denkbeeldig geluk.\n\n\"Met dien wensch kunnen we ons zeker allen vereenigen,\" zei Elinor,\n\"ondanks de geringe bevrediging, die rijkdom vermag te schenken.\"\n\n\"Wat zou ik blij zijn,\" riep Margaret uit. \"Ik ben benieuwd wat ik\ner wel mee zou doen.\"\n\nMarianne keek, alsof dàt punt voor haar aan geen twijfel onderhevig\nwas.\n\n\"Ik zou niet weten, hoe ik een groot fortuin moest besteden,\" zei\nMevrouw Dashwood, \"als mijn kinderen alle drie reeds rijk waren zonder\nmijn hulp.\"\n\n\"U moest dan maar beginnen met de voorgenomen verbeteringen van dit\nhuis,\" merkte Elinor op; \"dan zou die moeilijkheid gauw zijn uit den\nweg geruimd.\"\n\n\"Wat zouden er dàn uitgebreide bestellingen worden gedaan in Londen,\"\nzei Edward, \"door alle leden van het gezin! Wat een blijde dag voor\nboek- en muziekhandelaars en voor kunstkoopers! Elinor zou hun de\nvrije hand laten, en zich al de fraaiste nieuwste etsen en plaatwerken\nlaten zenden;--en Marianne, ik ken haar royale opvattingen, er zou geen\nmuziek genoeg in Londen zijn om haar te voldoen. En boeken!--Thomson,\nCowper, Scott,--ze zou ze allen weer op nieuw aanschaffen, ze zou alle\nexemplaren opkoopen, wed ik, om te verhinderen, dat ze in onwaardige\nhanden geraakten, en ze zou alle boeken willen hebben, waarin oude,\nkronkelig vergroeide boomen worden bewonderd. Is het zoo niet,\nMarianne? Wees niet boos als ik een beetje ondeugend ben. Maar ik\nwou je eens laten zien, dat ik onze oude twistgesprekken nog niet\nhad vergeten.\"\n\n\"Ik wil graag aan 't verleden herinnerd worden, Edward,--herinneringen,\n't zij ze treurig of vroolijk zijn, roep ik gaarne op, en je kunt\nmij nooit grieven door te spreken over vroegere tijden. Je hebt\njuist geraden, hoe ik mijn geld besteden zou; een gedeelte ervan,\nmijn gereed geld tenminste, zou stellig dienen tot aanvulling van\nmijn verzameling boeken en muziek.\"\n\n\"En 't kapitaal zou worden belegd in lijfrenten voor de schrijvers,\nof hunne erfgenamen.\"\n\n\"Neen, Edward, daar zou ik iets anders mee hebben te doen.\"\n\n\"Misschien zou je 't uitloven als belooning voor den persoon, die het\nbest in een geschrift je geliefkoosden stelregel wist te verdedigen,\ndat niemand meer dan eenmaal in zijn leven verliefd kan zijn, want\nop dat punt is je meening zeker nog onveranderd?\"\n\n\"Natuurlijk. Als men eenmaal zoo oud is als ik, dan is ons oordeel\ntamelijk gevestigd. 't Is niet waarschijnlijk, dat ik nu nog iets\nzou zien of hooren, dat mij van meening veranderen deed.\"\n\n\"Je ziet wel, Marianne staat nog even vast op haar stuk,\" zei Elinor,\n\"ze is nog steeds dezelfde.\"\n\n\"Ze is alleen wat ernstiger geworden dan vroeger.\"\n\n\"Dat mag _jij_ me niet verwijten, Edward,\" zei Marianne. \"Je bent\nzelf ook zoo heel vroolijk niet\".\n\n\"Waarom denk je dat?\" antwoordde hij, met een zucht. \"Maar vroolijkheid\nlag nooit in mijn aard.\"\n\n\"In Marianne's aard evenmin, dunkt mij,\" zei Elinor. \"Zij is niet\nwat ik een levendig, opgewekt meisje zou noemen; ze is heel ernstig\nen vol vuur bij al wat ze doet;--ze spreekt soms veel, en altoos met\novertuiging;--maar eigenlijk vroolijk is ze bijna nooit.\"\n\n\"Ik geloof dat je gelijk hebt,\" antwoordde hij, \"en toch heb ik haar\naltoos als een druk, levendig meisje beschouwd.\"\n\n\"Op dergelijke vergissingen heb ik mijzelve dikwijls betrapt,\" zei\nElinor, \"op een volkomen verkeerd begrijpen van iemands karakter in een\nof ander opzicht; door mij te verbeelden dat de menschen vroolijker\nof ernstiger, of verstandiger of dommer waren, dan ze feitelijk\nzijn, en ik kan zelf niet zeggen waarom, of waaruit die vergissing\nvoortsproot. Soms laat men zich beïnvloeden door wat ze zeggen omtrent\nzichzelf, en heel dikwijls door wat anderen van hen vertellen, zonder\nzich den tijd te gunnen tot wikken en wegen eer men oordeelt.\"\n\n\"Maar ik dacht dat het juist goed was, Elinor,\" zei Marianne, \"zich\ngeheel en al te laten leiden door het oordeel van anderen. Ik dacht\ndat wij alleen meeningen mochten vormen, om ze te onderwerpen aan\ndie van onze buren. Dat is altijd je leer geweest.\"\n\n\"Neen, nooit, Marianne. Mijn bedoeling is nooit geweest dat het begrip\nzich onderwerpen zou. Al wat ik ooit heb willen gewijzigd zien, was\nhet gedrag. Je moet mij niet verkeerd begrijpen. Ik beken, dat ik\ndikwijls heb gewenscht, je onze kennissen over 't algemeen met meer\nvoorkomendheid te zien behandelen, maar heb ik je ooit aangeraden hun\ngevoelens over te nemen, of je in gewichtige dingen te laten leiden\ndoor hun oordeel?\"\n\n\"Het is je dus niet gelukt, je zuster over te halen tot je zienswijze\nop 't punt van de burgerlijke beleefdheid,\" zei Edward tot Elinor. \"Heb\nje niets gewonnen?\"\n\n\"Integendeel,\" antwoordde Elinor, terwijl ze Marianne veelbeteekenend\naanzag.\n\n\"In theorie,\" zei Edward, \"sta ik geheel aan jouw kant, maar ik vrees\ndat ik in de praktijk op je zuster gelijk. Ik wensch nooit aanstoot te\ngeven; maar ik ben zoo belachelijk verlegen, dat ik dikwijls lomp lijk,\nterwijl ik alleen word belemmerd door mijn aangeboren onhandigheid. Ik\nheb mij wel eens verbeeld dat ik zeker door de natuur voorbestemd was\nom bij voorkeur in onbeschaafd gezelschap te verkeeren, zoo weinig\nvoel ik mij op mijn gemak onder lieden uit hoogeren stand, wanneer\nze mij vreemd zijn.\"\n\n\"Marianne kan voor haar nalatigheid in dat opzicht niet bepaald\nverlegenheid als verontschuldiging aanvoeren,\" zei Elinor.\n\n\"Zij kent haar eigen waarde te goed, om valsche schaamte te gevoelen,\"\nantwoordde Edward. \"Verlegenheid is alleen het gevolg van een zeker\nminderheidsbesef in een of ander opzicht. Als ik mijzelf kon wijsmaken,\ndat ik mij gemakkelijk en luchtig bewoog, dan zou ik niet verlegen\nzijn.\"\n\n\"Maar terughoudend zou je altijd blijven,\" zei Marianne, \"en dat is\nnog erger.\"\n\nEdward zette groote oogen op--\"Terughoudend? Ben ik terughoudend,\nMarianne?\"\n\n\"Ja, heel erg.\"\n\n\"Ik begrijp je niet,\" antwoordde hij, met een hoogen\nblos.--\"Terughoudend!--hoe dan? in welk opzicht? Wat had ik je dan\nmoeten vertellen? Wat vermoedde je dan?\"\n\nElinor keek vreemd op, toen zij hem zoo ontroerd zag; maar zei, om\nhet gesprek een schertsende wending te geven: \"Je kent mijn zuster\ntoch genoeg om te begrijpen wat ze bedoelt? Je weet immers wel dat\nzij ieder terughoudend noemt, die niet even snel spreekt, en al wat\nzij mooi vindt niet even verrukt bewondert als zij zelf?\"\n\nEdward gaf geen antwoord. Hij werd weer juist zoo ernstig en nadenkend\nals in het begin, en bleef langen tijd stil en afgetrokken.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XVIII\n\n\nElinor maakte zich over de neerslachtigheid van haar vriend ernstig\nongerust. Zijn bezoek verschafte haar slechts een zeer beperkt\ngenoegen, nu hij zelf er blijkbaar slechts ten halve van genieten\nkon. Het was duidelijk merkbaar dat hij zich ongelukkig voelde; zij\nwenschte wel, dat hij haar even duidelijk de genegenheid liet blijken,\ndie zij eenmaal vast vertrouwde hem te hebben ingeboezemd; doch tot\nnog toe scheen het zeer onzeker, dat die voorkeur was blijven bestaan,\nen zijn teruggetrokken houding tegenover haar sprak het ééne oogenblik\ntegen, wat een bezielde blik in het vorige verried.\n\nHij kwam den volgenden morgen bij haar en Marianne in de eetkamer, eer\nde anderen beneden waren; en Marianne, die altijd gaarne bereid was,\nwaar zij kon, hun geluk te bevorderen, liet hen spoedig alleen. Doch\neer zij halverwege de trap was opgegaan, hoorde zij dat de kamerdeur\nwerd geopend, en zag tot haar verbazing Edward zelf op den drempel\nstaan.\n\n\"Ik ga naar het dorp om naar mijn paarden te zien,\" zei hij, \"nu je\ntoch nog niet gaat ontbijten; ik kom dadelijk terug.\"\n\nToen Edward zich weer bij hen voegde, sprak hij opnieuw zijn\nbewondering over de omgeving uit; hij had op zijn wandeling naar\nhet dorp vele punten in de vallei op hun mooist gezien; en van uit\nhet dorp zelf, dat veel hooger gelegen was dan hun huisje, had men\neen ruim uitzicht over de geheele streek, dat hem buitengemeen had\ngetroffen. Dit was een onderwerp, waaraan Marianne gaarne haar aandacht\nschonk, en reeds begon zij te vertellen van haar eigen bewondering\nvoor het landschap, en hem meer in bijzonderheden te vragen naar 't\ngeen hem het meest was opgevallen, toen Edward haar in de rede viel\ndoor te zeggen: \"Vraag nu niet te veel dóór, Marianne; je weet, ik heb\nvan schilderachtigheid geen verstand, en ik zal je stellig ergeren\ndoor mijn onkunde en gebrek aan smaak, als we tot bijzonderheden\nafdalen. Ik noem bergen steil, die jij grootsch zoudt noemen, ik\nvind vormen vreemd en wanstaltig, die mij moesten verrukken door\nhun grillige woestheid, en ik zeg, dat ik voorwerpen op een afstand\nniet kan onderscheiden, terwijl ze volgens jou slechts vaag zouden\nschemeren door de wazige zachtheid van een nevelige atmosfeer. Je\nmoet maar tevreden zijn met de soort van bewondering, die ik eerlijk\naan den dag kan leggen. Ik vind dit een mooie streek,--de bergen\nzijn steil; in de bosschen groeit zwaar geboomte, en het dal ziet er\ngezellig en welvarend uit, met sappige weilanden, waartusschen goed\nonderhouden boerderijen verspreid liggen. Het is juist, wat ik versta\nonder een mooie streek, omdat hier schoonheid en nut vereenigd zijn\nte vinden--en ik geloof graag, dat het ook wel schilderachtig zal\nzijn, omdat jij het bewondert; ik kan mij gemakkelijk voorstellen,\ndat er heel wat rotsen en uitstekende punten in te vinden zijn,\nbegroeid met grauw mos en verwilderd struikgewas, maar die maken op\nmij geen indruk. Schilderachtigheid is aan mij niet besteed.\"\n\n\"Ik vrees, dat het maar al te waar is,\" zei Marianne; \"maar waarom\nvind je 't noodig, je daarop te beroemen?\"\n\n\"Ik zou haast denken,\" zei Elinor, \"dat Edward in de ééne affectatie\nvervalt, om de andere te vermijden. Omdat hij meent, dat veel menschen\nméér bewondering beweren te gevoelen voor de schoonheden der natuur\ndan ze werkelijk doen, en een afkeer heeft van die aanstellerij,\nstelt hij zich zelf aan, alsof hij onverschilliger was en minder\nbevoegd tot oordeelen in dezen, dan feitelijk het geval is. Hij is\nkieskeurig, en verkiest zich aan te stellen op zijn eigen manier.\"\n\n\"'t Is wèl waar,\" zei Marianne, \"dat bewondering van natuurschoon tot\neen goedkoope napraterij is geworden. Iedereen beweert nu even fijn te\nvoelen en poogt even sierlijk dat gevoel uit te drukken als degene,\ndie het eerst de schoonheid van het schilderachtige onder woorden\nbracht. Ik verfoei iedere soort van jargon, en het is wel gebeurd,\ndat ik mijn gevoelens maar vóór mij hield, omdat ik geen woorden kon\nvinden om ze in uit te drukken, dan door 't gebruik van versleten\nphrasen, die zin en beteekenis hadden verloren door hun banaliteit.\"\n\n\"Ik ben overtuigd,\" zei Edward, \"dat jij werkelijk de verrukking\n_gevoelt_ over een mooi vergezicht, die je _beweert_ te voelen. Maar\nvan den anderen kant moet je zuster _mij_ nu weer niet méér laten\nvoelen dan ik _beweer_. Ik houd óók van mooie vergezichten, maar\nniet op grond van hun schilderachtigheid. Ik houd _niet_ van kromme,\nverdraaide, half vergane boomen; ik vind ze veel mooier als ze\nrecht en hoog zijn en door en door gezond. Ik houd óók niet van\nhavelooze, vervallen hutjes. En ik heb géén pleizier in brandnetels,\nof distels, of heide en brem. Ik zie vrij wat liever een genoegelijk\nboerderijtje dan een uitkijk-toren, en een groepje netgekleede,\ntevreden dorpsbewoners behaagt mij meer dan de schilderachtige\nbandieten van de wereld konden doen.\"\n\nMarianne keek Edward verbaasd, en haar zuster medelijdend aan.--Elinor\nlachte maar eens.\n\nZe gingen niet verder door op dat onderwerp, en Marianne bleef\nnadenkend zwijgen, tot een nieuw voorwerp plotseling haar aandacht\ntrok. Zij zat naast Edward, en toen hij zijn theekopje van Mevrouw\nDashwood aannam, bewoog hij zijn hand zoo vlak voor haar oogen,\ndat haar een ring opviel, met een haarvlechtje in het midden, die\nhij aan den vinger droeg.\n\n\"Vroeger heb ik je nooit een ring zien dragen, Edward\", riep\nzij. \"Is dat Fanny's haar? Ik herinner mij, dat zij beloofde 't je\nte geven. Maar ik dacht, dat zij een donkerder tint van haar had.\"\n\nMarianne zei, zonder na te denken, wat in haar opkwam,--maar toen ze\nzag, hoe pijnlijk Edward was getroffen, gevoelde zij een ergernis over\nhaar onbedachtzaamheid, die de zijne nog ver overtrof. Hij kleurde\ntot over de ooren, en zei, met een vluchtigen blik naar Elinor: \"Ja,\nhet is mijn zuster's haar. De kleur verandert altijd een beetje,\nals het in goud gevat is.\"\n\nElinor ving zijn blik op, en keek ook niet onbevangen. Evengoed als\nMarianne, geloofde zij onmiddellijk, dat het haar eigen haar moest\nzijn; het eenige verschil tusschen beider gevolgtrekkingen was dit:\ndat Marianne het beschouwde als een vrijwillig geschenk van haar\nzuster; terwijl Elinor overtuigd was, dat hij het had bemachtigd door\ndiefstal of langs een anderen weg, zonder hare voorkennis. Zij was\nechter niet gezind, dit als een beleediging te beschouwen, en hield\nzich alsof het voorgevallene haar aandacht was ontgaan, door dadelijk\nover iets anders te spreken; terwijl ze zich in stilte voornam van nu\naf elke gelegenheid aan te grijpen om het haar van nabij te bezien,\nen zich de onomstootelijke zekerheid te verschaffen, dat het precies\nde kleur van haar eigen was.\n\nEdward bleef nog geruimen tijd niet op zijn gemak, en verviel later\nweer in een van zijn langdurige vlagen van afgetrokkenheid. Hij was den\ngeheelen morgen bijzonder ernstig gestemd. Marianne verweet zichzelve\nheftig wat ze had gezegd; maar ze zou eerder bereid zijn geweest,\nzich haar misslag te vergeven, als ze geweten had, hoe weinig ergernis\ndie in haar zuster had gewekt.\n\nReeds voor den middag kregen zij bezoek van Sir John en Mevrouw\nJennings, die hadden gehoord dat er een heer op Barton Cottage\nlogeerde, en den gast eens kwamen opnemen. Met de hulp van zijn\nschoonmoeder kwam Sir John er al spoedig achter, dat de naam Ferrars\nmet een _F_ begon, en die ontdekking was voldoende, om een toekomstige\nmijn van geestigheden ten koste van de verliefde Elinor te doen leggen,\nwaarvan de losbarsting alleen door hun kortstondige bekendheid met\nEdward vooralsnog kon worden verhinderd. Nu echter reeds werd haar\ndoor enkele uiterst veelzeggende blikken te kennen gegeven tot hoever\nhun doorzicht, gegrond op Margaret's inlichtingen, wel reikte.\n\nSir John kwam nooit bij de Dashwoods, zonder hen òf ten eten te vragen\nvoor den volgenden dag, òf op de thee, nog den zelfden avond. Bij deze\ngelegenheid en tot meerder genoegen van den gast, tot wiens vermaak\nhij zich verplicht voelde het zijne bij te dragen, inviteerde hij\nhen voor beiden tegelijk.\n\n\"Jelui _moet_ van avond bij ons theedrinken,\" zei hij, \"want we\nzijn heelemaal onder ons;--en morgen mag je niet weigeren bij ons te\ndineeren, want het is een groote partij\". Mevrouw Jennings vond dit\nook volstrekt noodzakelijk. \"En wie weet, of het dan niet tot een\ndansje komt,\" zei ze. \"Dat zal jou aanstaan, Marianne.\"\n\n\"Dansen?\" riep Marianne. \"Hoe kan dat nu! Wie danst er dan?\"\n\n\"Wie? Nu, jelui zelf, en de Careys, en Whitakers dan toch? O, je dacht,\ndat niemand meer dansen kon, nu zeker iemand is heengegaan?\"\n\n\"Ik wou om een lief ding,\" riep Sir John, \"dat Willoughby weer kon\nmeedoen.\"\n\nToen hij Marianne hierop zag blozen, kreeg Edward achterdocht. \"Wie\nis die Willoughby?\" vroeg hij zachtjes aan Elinor, die naast hem zat.\n\nZij antwoordde vluchtig. Marianne's gezicht gaf veel meer te\nkennen. Edward zag genoeg, om niet alleen de bedoeling der anderen\nte vatten, maar ook uitdrukkingen van Marianne, waarover hij zich\nverwonderd had, verklaard te zien, en toen het bezoek vertrokken was,\nging hij aanstonds naar haar toe en zei fluisterend: \"Ik ben aan\n't raden geweest. Zal ik je eens vertellen, wat ik denk?\"\n\n\"Wat bedoel je?\"\n\n\"Zal ik 't maar zeggen?\"\n\n\"Ja zeker.\"\n\n\"Ik denk... dat Mijnheer Willoughby wel eens op de jacht gaat.\"\n\nMarianne was verrast en verlegen; maar zij kon toch niet nalaten\nte glimlachen om zijn stille guitigheid, en zei, na een oogenblik\nzwijgens: \"O Edward! Hoe kon je... Maar er zal, hoop ik, eens een\ntijd komen... Ik weet zeker, dat je van hem houden zult.\"\n\n\"Daar twijfel ik niet aan,\" antwoordde hij, wel eenigszins verwonderd\nover haar ernst, en de warmte waarmee ze sprak; want als hij niet\nhad gedacht, dat het maar een grap was, waarmee haar kennissen haar\nplaagden, naar aanleiding van een vluchtige gecharmeerdheid tusschen\nhaar en dien Mijnheer Willoughby, dan zou hij niet hebben gewaagd,\nerop te zinspelen.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XIX\n\n\nEdward bleef een week te Barton; Mevrouw Dashwood drong er zeer op\naan, dat hij langer zou blijven; doch hij scheen, alsof zelfkwelling\nzijn eenig doel was, vast besloten om juist te vertrekken, nu hij\nhet meest van het bijzijn zijner vriendinnen genoot. In de laatste\ntwee of drie dagen was zijn stemming, ofschoon nog zeer afwisselend,\ntoch aanmerkelijk verbeterd; hij begon zich meer en meer te hechten\naan het huis en de omgeving, sprak nooit van vertrekken zonder\neen diepen zucht,--gaf te kennen dat hij over zijn tijd vrijelijk\nkon beschikken,--wist zelfs nog niet recht, waarheen hij zou gaan,\nals hij hen verliet; maar toch, vertrekken _moest_ hij. Nog nooit\nhad hem een week zoo kort geschenen;--hij kon niet gelooven dat het\nalweer voorbij was. Dat zei hij herhaaldelijk, en nog meer liet hij\nzich ontvallen, dat wees op een omkeer in zijn gevoelens, en met zijn\ndaden in tegenspraak was. Hij vond het in Norland niets prettig; aan\nde stad had hij een hekel; maar òf naar Norland, òf naar Londen moest\nhij gaan. Hij waardeerde hun hartelijkheid meer dan iets ter wereld,\nen hij kende geen grooter genoegen dan met hen samen te zijn. Toch\nmoest hij hen na een week reeds verlaten, tegen zijn eigen en hun\naller wensch, en terwijl hij aan geen tijd gebonden was.\n\nElinor weet al wat zonderling scheen in zijn handelwijze aan zijn\nmoeder, en het was een geluk voor haar, dat hij een moeder had,\nvan wier karakter zij zoo weinig afwist, dat het als doorgaande\nverontschuldiging kon gelden voor al wat er vreemds was in het\ngedrag van haar zoon. Maar hoezeer zij zich ook teleurgesteld en\ngegriefd gevoelde, ja somtijds geërgerd door zijn onzekere houding\ntegenover haar, zij bleef toch over het geheel ten volle bereid om\nal zijn handelingen te beschouwen met die eerlijke toegevendheid\nen onpartijdige ruimheid van oordeel, die haar, met vrij wat meer\nmoeite, door haar moeder indertijd waren afgedwongen ten behoeve van\nWilloughby. Zijn gebrek aan opgewektheid, aan openhartigheid, en aan\nvastheid in zijn optreden, werden maar steeds weer toegeschreven aan\nzijn behoefte aan onafhankelijkheid en zijn nauwkeuriger bekendheid\nmet Mevrouw Ferrars' beschikkingen en plannen. De korte duur van zijn\nbezoek, zijn volharden bij zijn voornemen nu reeds te vertrekken, ook\ndit alles sproot voort uit dat zelfde geweld aandoen van zijn neiging,\nde zelfde onvermijdelijke noodzakelijkheid om zijn moeder voorloopig\nte ontzien. De oude, diep gewortelde tweespalt tusschen plicht en\nneiging, het verzet van het kind, in opstand tegen ouderlijk gezag,\nwas van alles de oorzaak. Wel gaarne zou zij hebben geweten, wanneer\ndeze moeilijkheden zouden zijn uit den weg geruimd, deze tegenstand\noverwonnen,--wanneer Mevrouw Ferrars tot andere gedachten zou komen,\nen haar zoon de vrijheid zou laten, zijn geluk te vinden. Doch zij\nwerd wel gedwongen, die ijdele wenschen te laten varen, en troost te\nzoeken in haar hernieuwd vertrouwen op Edward's genegenheid, in de\nherinnering aan elk getuigenis daarvan, door woord of blik, die hem\nte Barton ontsnapten, en vooral in dat vleiend bewijs van zijn trouw,\ndat hij voortdurend aan zijn vinger droeg.\n\n\"Mij dunkt, Edward,\" zei Mevrouw Dashwood, toen zij den laatsten\nmorgen aan het ontbijt zaten, \"dat je gelukkiger zoudt zijn, als je\neen beroep hadt, dat je tijd in beslag nam, en richting gaf aan je\nplannen en handelingen. Voor je vrienden zou daaraan allicht eenig\nbezwaar zijn verbonden; je zoudt niet in staat zijn, zooveel tijd aan\nhen te wijden als thans. Maar,\" voegde zij er met een glimlach bij,\n\"in één opzicht zou het toch een direct voordeel voor je zijn; je\nzoudt dan weten, wáárheen te gaan, wanneer je hen verliet.\"\n\n\"Ik verzeker u,\" antwoordde hij, \"dat ik de waarheid van 't geen u\nzegt, reeds lang heb ingezien. Het was, en is, en zal waarschijnlijk\naltijd voor mij een groot ongeluk zijn, dat ik geen noodzakelijke\nbezigheid heb, die mij in beslag neemt, geen beroep, dat mijn krachten\nvergt en mij in staat stelt, mij ook maar eenigszins onafhankelijk\nte voelen. Maar het ongeluk wilde, dat mijn eigen kieskeurigheid en\ndie mijner vrienden mij gemaakt hebben tot wat ik ben, een werkeloos,\nhulpeloos wezen. Wij konden het nooit eens worden over de keuze van\neen beroep. Ik gaf altoos de voorkeur aan den geestelijken stand, en\ndat doe ik nog. Maar dat vond mijn familie niet wereldsch genoeg. Zij\nwilden dat ik militair zou worden. Dat was nu weer veel te wereldsch\nvoor mij. In de rechten studeeren, nu, dat was althans deftig genoeg\nnaar hun zin; veel jongelui, die kamers hadden in den Temple, maakten\neen goed figuur in de eerste kringen, en reden rond in karretjes,\ndie 't bekijken waard waren. Maar ik voelde niets voor de rechten,\nzelfs niet voor die weinig diepgaande studie van de wet, die mijn\nfamilie op het oog had en goedkeurde. De marine was uit het oogpunt van\n\"stand\" wel aan te bevelen; maar toen de vraag mij werd voorgelegd,\nwas ik al te oud om daar nog mee te beginnen,--en ten slotte, nu\nhet eenmaal niet noodig was, dat ik een beroep koos, nu ik even goed\nvertooning kon maken en geld uitgeven zònder een rooden rok als mèt\ndat aanhangsel, werd ten slotte verklaard, dat leegloopen voor mij de\nvoordeeligste en meest eervolle bezigheid zou zijn, en een jongmensch\nvan achttien jaar is in den regel niet zoo ernstig gesteld op werk,\ndat hij zich zal verzetten tegen het dringend verzoek zijner vrienden\nom niets uit te voeren. Ik werd dus ingeschreven te Oxford, en heb\nsedert geluierd naar den eisch.\"\n\n\"En naar ik vermoed, zal 't gevolg hiervan zijn,\" zeide Mevrouw\nDashwood, \"nu gebleken is, dat ledigheid je eigen geluk niet heeft\nbevorderd, dat je zoons zullen worden opgeleid voor alle mogelijke\nvakken, bezigheden, ambten en beroepen, die iemand ter wereld beoefenen\nof waarnemen kan.\"\n\n\"Zij zullen worden opgevoed op een wijze,\" zeide hij op ernstigen toon,\n\"die hen zoo weinig mogelijk doet gelijken op mijzelf, in gevoelens,\nin daden, in omstandigheden, in alles.\"\n\n\"Kom, kom, dat is nu maar een ontboezeming, die rechtstreeks voortkomt\nuit je zwartgallige stemming, Edward. Je bent zwaarmoedig, en denkt\ndat ieder, die anders is dan jezelf, gelukkig moet zijn. Vergeet niet,\ndat het verdriet over een afscheid van goede vrienden door iedereen\nnu en dan wordt gevoeld, afgezien van opvoeding of plaats in de\nmaatschappij. Je moogt je eigen geluk niet miskennen. Wat je noodig\nhebt is geduld--of noem het liever bij een aantrekkelijker naam;\nspreek van hoop. Je moeder zal je mettertijd die onafhankelijkheid\nverzekeren, waarnaar je zoozeer verlangt; dat is haar plicht, en zij\nzàl, zij moet binnenkort, ook ter wille van háár geluk, verhinderen,\ndat je geheele jeugd wordt gesleten in onvruchtbare ontevredenheid. Wat\nbrengen misschien niet een paar maanden te weeg!\"\n\n\"Ik zou wel eens willen weten,\" antwoordde Edward, \"welk goeds zelfs\neen groot aantal maanden voor mij zou kunnen uitwerken.\"\n\nAl deelde zijn neerslachtige stemming zich niet mede aan Mevrouw\nDashwood, zijn zwaarmoedigheid maakte het afscheid, dat spoedig\nhierna volgde, voor hen allen des te pijnlijker, en liet in Elinor een\ngevoel van onrust achter, dat zij eerst na verloop van tijd en niet\nzonder moeite vermocht meester te worden. Doch daar zij zich vast had\nvoorgenomen het te onderdrukken, en te zorgen dat zij niet méér dan\neen der overige leden van het gezin zou schijnen te lijden onder zijn\nafwezigheid, koos zij niet het middel, door Marianne bij een dergelijke\ngelegenheid zoo zorgvuldig aangewend ter bevordering en bestendiging\nvan hare smart, door bij voorkeur stilte, eenzaamheid en lediggang\nte zoeken. Even verschillend als beider doel waren hun middelen,\nen evenzeer geschikt tot het bevorderen van ieders bijzonder oogmerk.\n\nElinor ging, zoodra hij was heengegaan, aan haar teekentafel zitten,\nbleef den geheelen dag druk bezig; zocht noch vermeed zijn naam te\nnoemen, scheen bijna niet minder belang te stellen dan anders in\nhun aller aangelegenheden, en zoo zij al door dit gedrag haar eigen\nverdriet niet kon verzachten, het werd er althans niet onnoodig\ndoor verzwaard, en zij bespaarde haar moeder en zusters veel\nzorg omtrent haar gemoedsgesteldheid. Een dergelijk gedrag, zoo\nlijnrecht in tegenstelling met het hare, scheen Marianne volstrekt\nniet verdienstelijk, zoomin als haar eigen houding haar verkeerd had\ntoegeschenen. De vraag omtrent zelfbeheersching loste zij bijzonder\ngemakkelijk op;--waren onze neigingen sterk, dan was zelfzucht\nonmogelijk; waren zij gematigd, dan stak er geen verdienste in. Dat\nhaar zuster's neigingen gematigd _waren_, waagde zij niet te ontkennen,\nal gaf zij het niet zonder schaamte toe; en de kracht harer eigene\nbewees zij wel zéér duidelijk, door die zuster, ondanks deze pijnlijk\ngrievende overtuiging, nog steeds te blijven achten en liefhebben.\n\nAl zonderde zij zich dus niet af van de anderen; al zocht zij\nniet om hen te vermijden, hardnekkig de eenzaamheid buitenshuis,\nen lag zij niet den geheelen nacht wakker om te kunnen nadenken,\nElinor ondervond, dat iedere dag haar voldoende gelegenheid schonk\nom te denken aan Edward en aan Edward's gedrag, met alle mogelijke\ngevoelens, die haar verschillende stemmingen op verschillende tijden\nin haar konden verwekken;--met teederheid, medelijden, instemming,\nafkeuring en twijfel. Er waren oogenblikken in overvloed, waarin,\nzoo al niet door de afwezigheid van haar moeder en zuster, dan toch\nwegens den aard hunner bezigheden, gesprekken waren uitgesloten, en zij\nevengoed alleen had kunnen zijn. Het stond haar geest onvermijdelijk\nvrij om te denken; haar gedachten konden niet elders met geweld worden\nvastgehouden, en verleden en toekomst in verband met een zoo gewichtige\naangelegenheid, moesten zich wel aan haar opdringen, haar aandacht in\nbeslag nemen, en zich geheel en al meester maken van haar herinnering,\nhaar gepeinzen en haar verbeelding.\n\nUit zulk een droomerij werd zij, toen zij, op een morgen kort na\nEdward's vertrek, aan haar teekentafel zat opgeschrikt door de komst\nvan bezoek. Zij was toevallig geheel alleen. Het dichtvallen van\nhet hekje aan den ingang van het grasveld voor hun huis deed haar\nuit het venster kijken, en zij zag verscheiden personen, die recht\nop hun deur kwamen aanwandelen. Daaronder bevonden zich Sir John en\nLady Middleton met Mevrouw Jennings; maar zij zag bovendien nog twee\nanderen, een haar geheel onbekende heer en dame. Zij zat dicht bij\nhet venster, en zoodra Sir John haar in het oog kreeg, liet hij de\nplichtpleging van aan de deur kloppen aan het gezelschap over, stapte\nover het gras, en noodzaakte haar, het venster te openen om met hem\nte spreken, ofschoon de afstand tusschen de deur en het venster zoo\ngering was, dat men moeilijk op de eene plek een woord kon zeggen,\ndat op de andere niet werd verstaan.\n\n\"Kijk eens,\" zei hij, \"we hebben je vreemde gasten meegebracht. Wat\nzeg je wel van hen?\"\n\n\"Pas op! ze zullen u hooren.\"\n\n\"O, dat is niets, 't Zijn de Palmers maar. Charlotte ziet er\nalleraardigst uit, hoor. Je kunt haar zien, als je dezen kant\nuitkijkt.\"\n\nDaar Elinor zeker wist, dat zij Charlotte over een paar minuten\nzou zien, zonder zoo onbescheiden te zijn, waagde zij het, zich te\nverontschuldigen.\n\n\"Waar is Marianne? Weggeloopen omdat ze ons zag aan komen? De piano\nstaat open, zie ik.\"\n\n\"Ik geloof, dat zij is gaan wandelen.\"\n\nHier voegde Mevrouw Jennings zich bij hen, die geen geduld had te\nwachten tot de deur openging, en volstrekt moest vertellen wat _zij_\nop het hart had. Zij kwam met veel drukte naar het raam stappen.\n\n\"Hoe maak je 't, kind? en hoe gaat het met Mevrouw Dashwood? En waar\nzijn je zusters? Wel, wel, heel alleen! je zult blij zijn, dat er\niemand komt om je gezelschap te houden. Ik heb mijn anderen schoonzoon\nen mijn dochter meegebracht om kennis met je te maken. Verbeeld je,\ndat ze zoo onverwacht zijn gekomen! Ik dacht al dat ik een rijtuig\nhoorde, toen we gisteravond aan de thee zaten; maar ik had geen flauw\nidee dat zij 't konden zijn. Ik dacht maar niet anders of Kolonel\nBrandon was teruggekomen, en ik zei nog tegen Sir John: \"Mij dunkt,\nik hoor een rijtuig, dat is bepaald Kolonel Brandon, die terug is...\"\n\nElinor moest zich midden in haar verhaal omkeeren om het overige\ngezelschap te ontvangen; Lady Middleton stelde de beide vreemden voor;\nMevrouw Dashwood en Margaret kwamen meteen beneden, en allen gingen\nzitten om elkaar eens op te nemen, terwijl Mevrouw Jennings met haar\nverhaal voortging, onder de wandeling door de gang naar de zitkamer,\nditmaal tegen Sir John.\n\nMevrouw Palmer was een paar jaar jonger dan Lady Middleton, en in elk\nopzicht geheel verschillend van haar zuster. Zij was klein en vrij\ngezet, en had een allerliefst gezichtje, dat de meest opgeruimde\nuitdrukking vertoonde, die men zich kon voorstellen. Haar manieren\nwaren bij lange na niet zoo bevallig; maar zij was oneindig meer\ninnemend. Zij kwam glimlachend binnen--glimlachte zoo lang het\nbezoek duurde, behalve wanneer ze luid lachte, en glimlachte nog,\ntoen ze vertrok. Haar echtgenoot was een ernstig uitziende jonge man\nvan vijf- of zes en twintig jaar, die een meer gedistingeerden en\nook een meer verstandigen indruk maakte dan zijn vrouw, maar minder\ngeneigd scheen te behagen, of behagen te laten blijken. Hij kwam de\nkamer in met iets zeer zelfbewust in zijn houding, boog even voor de\ndames zonder een woord te spreken, en nadat hij haar en het vertrek\nmet een vluchtigen blik had opgenomen, nam hij een courant van de\ntafel, en bleef daarin lezen, zoolang het bezoek duurde. Mevrouw\nPalmer daarentegen, die door de natuur was begiftigd met een aanleg\nom in alle omstandigheden beleefd en verheugd te zijn, zat nog niet\nop haar stoel of zij barstte los in uitroepen van bewondering over\nde kamer en al wat zich erin bevond.\n\n\"O, wat een verrukkelijke kamer is dit! Ik heb nooit zoo iets\nbeeldigs gezien! Hoe vindt u toch wel, mama, dat verschil bij de\nvorige maal, dat ik hier was! Ik heb het altijd zoo'n aardig huisje\ngevonden, mevrouw (tot mevrouw Dashwood), maar u hebt het zoo beeldig\ngemaakt! Kijk toch eens, hoe verrukkelijk! Wat zou ik zelf graag\nzoo'n huis hebben. Jij ook niet, man?\"\n\nDe heer Palmer gaf geen antwoord, en sloeg zijn oogen zelfs niet op\nvan de courant.\n\n\"Mijnheer Palmer hoort mij niet,\" zei ze lachend. \"Dat doet hij wel\nmeer, soms. Zoo grappig!\"\n\nDie opvatting was voor Mevrouw Dashwood iets nieuws; zij was nooit\ngewend geweest in iemands onachtzaamheid iets geestigs te vinden en\nzij kon niet nalaten hen beiden ietwat verwonderd aan te zien.\n\nMevrouw Jennings praatte intusschen door, zoo hard ze maar kon, en\nging voort met haar verslag van hun verrassing den vorigen avond,\nbij 't zien van haar kinderen, zonder ophouden, tot het verhaal was\nuitverteld. Mevrouw Palmer lachte hartelijk bij de herinnering aan\naller verbazing, en allen verhaalden, tot twee of driemaal toe, dat\nhet een alleraardigste verrassing was geweest. \"Je begrijpt, hoe blij\nwe allen waren hen te zien,\" voegde Mevrouw Jennings erbij, terwijl\nze zich naar Elinor vooroverboog, en zachter sprak, alsof niemand het\nmocht hooren, hoewel de anderen aan de overzij van het vertrek waren\ngezeten; \"maar met dat al had ik toch wel gewild, dat ze niet zoo'n\nhaast hadden gemaakt, en niet zulk een lange reis hadden gedaan want\nze gingen over Londen, voor zaken die ze daar hadden af te doen; omdat\nhet voor háár\" (veelbeteekenend knikkend en naar haar dochter wijzend)\n\"eigenlijk verkeerd is in haar positie, weet je. Ik wou hebben dat\nze van morgen zou thuis blijven en rusten; maar ze wou volstrekt mee;\nze verlangde zoo, jelui allen te zien!\"\n\nMevrouw Palmer lachte, en zei dat het haar geen kwaad zou doen.\n\n\"Ze verwacht in Februari haar bevalling,\" ging Mevrouw Jennings voort.\n\nLady Middleton kon dat gepraat niet langer aanhooren, en gaf zich\ndus de moeite aan den Heer Palmer te vragen of hij veel nieuws vond\nin de courant.\n\n\"Neen, in 't geheel niets,\" zei hij, en las verder.\n\n\"Daar komt Marianne aan,\" riep Sir John. \"Palmer, nu zal je een\nreusachtig mooi meisje zien.\"\n\nHij ging dadelijk in de gang, deed zelf de voordeur open en bracht\nhaar in de kamer. Mevrouw Jennings vroeg haar, zoodra ze haar zag, of\nze niet naar Allenham was geweest; en Mevrouw Palmer lachte hartelijk\nom die vraag, om te laten blijken, dat zij het wel begreep. De Heer\nPalmer keek op toen zij binnen kwam, staarde haar een paar minuten\naan, en wijdde zich daarop weer aan zijn courant. Mevrouw Palmer kreeg\nnu de teekeningen in het oog, die aan den wand hingen. Zij stond op,\nom ze nader te bezien. \"Och, hoe mooi! Prachtig vind ik ze! Kijkt u\ntoch eens, mama, is dat niet snoezig? Beeldig zijn ze, ik zou er uren\nnaar kunnen kijken.\" Daarop ging ze weer zitten en vergat meteen,\ndat er zooiets als schilderijen de kamer waren.\n\nToen Lady Middleton opstond om heen te gaan, deed de Heer Palmer\neveneens, legde de courant neer, rekte zich eens uit en keek allen\nbeurtelings aan.\n\n\"Heb je een dutje gedaan, schat?\" zei zijn vrouw lachend.\n\nHij gaf haar geen antwoord, en zei alleen, na het vertrek nog eens te\nhebben opgenomen, dat het erg laag van verdieping en dat de zoldering\nscheef liep. Daarop maakte hij zijn buiging en trok met de anderen af.\n\nSir John had hen allen dringend verzocht, den volgenden dag op het\nPark te komen doorbrengen. Mevrouw Dashwood, die niet verkoos drukker\ngebruik te maken van hun gastvrijheid dan zij deden van de hare,\nbedankte zeer bepaald, wat haarzelve betrof; haar dochters konden doen\nzooals zij goedvonden. Maar zij waren niet nieuwsgierig te zien hoe de\nHeer en Mevrouw Palmer hun middagmaal gebruikten, en eenig genoegen\nwas in ander opzicht niet van hen te wachten. Zij poogden zich dus\neveneens te verontschuldigen; het weer was ongestadig en voorspelde\nniet veel goeds. Maar Sir John liet zich niet afschepen,--ze zouden\nmet het rijtuig worden afgehaald, en ze moesten komen. Lady Middleton,\ndie bij hun moeder niet verder aandrong, deed dit wèl bij hen. Mevrouw\nJennings en Mevrouw Palmer stemden in met haar dringend verzoek,\nallen schenen evenzeer erop gesteld, niet _en famille_ te dineeren,\nen de jonge dames moesten wel toegeven.\n\n\"Waarom vragen ze ons eigenlijk?\" zei Marianne, zoodra ze weg waren,\n\"'t Heet dat de huurprijs van dit huisje laag is; maar 't komt ons\ntoch al heel onvoordeelig uit, wanneer we op Barton Park moeten eten\nbij alle gelegenheden, dat er iemand logeert, bij hen of bij ons.\"\n\n\"'t Is nog evengoed hun bedoeling, beleefd en vriendelijk voor ons te\nzijn met hun herhaalde uitnoodigingen,\" zei Elinor, \"als het dat was\neen paar weken geleden. Als hun avondpartijtjes nu vervelend en saai\nzijn, dan ligt die verandering niet aan hèn. Dat verschil moeten we\nergens anders zoeken.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XX\n\n\nToen de dames Dashwood den volgenden dag den salon te Barton\nPark binnen traden door de ééne deur, kwam Mevrouw Palmer haastig\nbinnenloopen door de andere, even vergenoegd en vroolijk als den dag\nte voren. Zij schudde hun allen hartelijk de hand, en was verrukt\nover het weerzien.\n\n\"Ik ben zoo blij, dat u gekomen bent!\" zei ze, terwijl ze plaats nam\ntusschen Elinor en Marianne; \"want 't is zulk slecht weer, ik was bang\ndat u niet kwam; en dat zou ellendig zijn geweest; want morgen gaan\nwe weg. Dat moet wel, omdat we de volgende week de Westons te logeeren\nkrijgen, weet u? De heele reis kwam zoo ineens op; ik wist van niets,\ntot het rijtuig voorkwam, en toen eerst vroeg mijnheer Palmer mij of\nik meeging naar Barton. Hij is altijd zoo grappig! Hij vertelt mij\nnooit iets! Het spijt mij zoo, dat we niet langer kunnen blijven;\nmaar we zullen elkaar gauw weer ontmoeten, hoop ik, in de stad.\"\n\nZij waren verplicht haar het ongegronde dier verwachting te doen\ninzien.\n\n\"Gaat u niet naar de stad?\" riep Mevrouw Palmer lachend, \"dat zou mij\nerg tegenvallen. Ik zou juist een geschikt huis voor u kunnen huren\nvlak naast het onze, in Hanover Square. Och, u _moet_ komen. Ik zal\nmet het grootste pleizier met u uitgaan, tot aan mijn bevalling,\nals Mevrouw Dashwood liever niet onder de menschen komt.\"\n\nZij bedankten haar voor haar welwillendheid; maar waren verplicht al\nhaar smeekingen te weerstaan.\n\n\"Och toe, lieve schat\", riep Mevrouw Palmer haar man toe die op dat\noogenblik de kamer inkwam, \"help mij toch de dames Dashwood overhalen\nom dezen winter naar de stad te gaan.\"\n\nHaar lieve schat gaf geen antwoord, en begon, na vluchtig voor de\ndames te hebben gebogen, te klagen over het weer. \"Afgrijselijk is\nhet hier!\" zei hij. \"Zulk weer maakt dat men aan alles en iedereen\neen hekel krijgt. Binnen is 't al even vervelend als buiten met dien\nregen. Men komt ertoe, zijn kennissen te verfoeien. Wat bezielt Sir\nJohn, er geen biljart op na te houden? Er zijn maar weinig menschen,\ndie weten wat behagelijkheid is. Sir John en het weer zijn allebei\neven onhebbelijk.\"\n\nLangzaam aan kwamen nu ook de anderen binnen.\n\n\"Ik ben bang, dat Marianne vandaag niet zooals gewoonlijk een wandeling\nnaar Allenham heeft kunnen doen,\" zei Sir John.\n\nMarianne keek zeer ernstig en gaf geen antwoord.\n\n\"O, houdt u zich voor ons maar zoo dom niet,\" zei Mevrouw Palmer;\n\"want wij weten er alles van; en ik bewonder uw goeden smaak, want\nik vind hem ook een bijzonder knappen man. Wij wonen niet zoo ver\nvan hem af,--niet meer dan een mijl of tien, geloof ik.\"\n\n\"Zeg maar liever dertig!\" zei haar man.\n\n\"O, nu, dat maakt niet veel verschil. Ik ben nooit in het huis geweest;\nmaar ik heb gehoord, dat het mooi is, en aardig gelegen.\"\n\n\"'t Ellendigste nest, dat ik ooit heb gezien,\" zei de Heer Palmer.\n\nMarianne bewaarde een strak stilzwijgen, hoewel men aan haar gezicht\nkon zien, hoe zeer zij belangstelde in 't geen gezegd werd.\n\n\"Is het zoo leelijk?\" ging Mevrouw Palmer voort;--\"dan is het zeker\neen ander buitengoed, dat zoo mooi was, denk ik.\"\n\nToen zij in de eetkamer aan tafel zaten, merkte Sir John tot zijn spijt\nop, dat ze maar met hun achten waren. \"Lieve,\" zei hij tot zijn vrouw,\n\"wat is dat nu vervelend, dat we maar met zoo weinig zijn. Waarom\nvroeg je de Gilberts niet, of ze vandaag konden komen?\"\n\n\"Ik heb je immers gezegd, man, toen je mij erover sprak, dat het niet\nging. Ze hebben 't laatst bij ons gedineerd.\"\n\n\"Wij zouden ons aan zulke plichtplegingen weinig storen,\" zei Mevrouw\nJennings tegen Sir John.\n\n\"Dat zou dan heel ongemanierd van u zijn,\" merkte de Heer Palmer op.\n\n\"Je spreekt iedereen tegen, manlief,\" zei zijn vrouw, lachend als\ngewoonlijk. \"Weet je wel dat je erg onbeleefd bent?\"\n\n\"Ik wist niet, dat ik iemand tegensprak, toen ik je moeder ongemanierd\nnoemde.\"\n\n\"O, mij mag je gerust uitschelden,\" zei de goedgeluimde oude dame. \"Je\nhebt Charlotte nu eenmaal van mij overgenomen, en je kunt haar niet\nteruggeven. Dus in dat opzicht ben ik je de baas.\"\n\nCharlotte lachte hartelijk om het denkbeeld, dat haar man haar niet\nkon kwijtraken, en zei triomfantelijk, dat het haar niets kon schelen,\nal was hij nog zoo onaardig, ze moesten nu eenmaal samen het leven\ndoor. Het was werkelijk onmogelijk, zich iemand voor te stellen, meer\nonverzettelijk in haar goed humeur en onwankelbare vroolijkheid, dan\nMevrouw Palmer. De met opzet ten toon gespreide onverschilligheid,\nlompheid en ontevredenheid van haar man hinderden haar volstrekt\nniet, en als hij haar berispte of onaangenaamheden zei, vond zij dat\nuiterst vermakelijk.\n\nMijnheer Palmer is toch zóó grappig!\" fluisterde zij Elinor in,\n\"Hij is altijd uit zijn humeur.\"\n\nElinor was, bij nadere beschouwing, ongeneigd, te gelooven,\ndat hij zoo echt en van nature kwaadaardig en lomp was, als hij\nzich voordeed. Misschien had zijn humeur een beetje geleden door\nhet besef, dat hij, zooals velen van zijn sekse, gedreven door een\nonverklaarbare voorliefde voor schoonheid, de echtgenoot was geworden\nvan een buitengewoon domme vrouw;--maar zij wist wel, die soort van\nvergissing werd te algemeen begaan, dan dat een verstandig man dit\nals een blijvende grief zou kunnen beschouwen. Het was meer een wensch\nom zich te onderscheiden, geloofde zij, die ten grondslag lag aan de\nminachtende wijze waarop hij iedereen behandelde, en alles afkeurde\nwat hem onder de oogen kwam. Het was het verlangen zijn meerderheid\nboven anderen te doen gelden. De beweegreden was te algemeen om\nverwondering te wekken; maar de gebezigde middelen, al beantwoordden\nzij dan ook aan het doel, door zijn meerderheid te bewijzen op het\npunt van onhebbelijk gedrag, konden bezwaarlijk in iemand, behalve\nzijn vrouw, genegenheid voor hem wekken. \"Lieve Juffrouw Dashwood,\"\nbegon Mevrouw Palmer iets later, \"ik heb aan u en uw zuster een groote\ngunst te vragen. Zoudt u met Kerstmis een poosje te Cleveland willen\nkomen logeeren? Toe, doet u dat,--en komt u dan als de Westons bij ons\nzijn. U kunt u niet voorstellen, hoe heerlijk ik dat zou vinden. 't\nZou bepaald verrukkelijk zijn!--Zou jij ook niet dolgraag willen,\nman, dat de dames Dashwood bij ons te Cleveland kwamen?\"\n\n\"Natuurlijk,\" antwoordde hij spottend,--\"ik kwam naar Devonshire met\ngeen ander doel.\"\n\n\"Ziet u wel,\" zei zijn vrouw; \"Mijnheer Palmer rekent er op, dat u\nkomt; nu kunt u niet weigeren.\"\n\nDoch beiden bedankten haastig en met nadruk voor hare uitnoodiging.\n\n\"O, maar u _moet_ en u _zult_ komen. Ik weet stellig, dat u 't heel\ngezellig zult vinden. De Westons zijn er ook, en 't zal verrukkelijk\nzijn. U weet niet, wat een aardig buitentje Cleveland is, en 't is\ner nu zoo vroolijk. Want Mijnheer Palmer reist overal in de buurt\nrond, om stemmen te winnen tegen de verkiezingen, en dan komen er\nzooveel menschen dineeren, die ik in 't geheel niet ken; dat is\nalleraardigst. Maar het is voor hem wel héél vermoeiend, die arme\njongen, want hij moet zich dan wel aangenaam maken bij iedereen.\"\n\nElinor kon haar gezicht bijna niet in bedwang houden, toen zij toegaf,\ndat die verplichting hem wel zwaar moest vallen.\n\n\"Gezellig zal dat zijn,\" zei Charlotte, \"als hij lid van het Parlement\nis,--dunkt u niet? Wat zal ik dàn lachen! Zoo aller grappigst, dat\nal zijn brieven geadresseerd zullen zijn aan een M.P. Maar hij zegt\ndat hij niet van plan is ooit aan mij te schrijven. Dat verkiest hij\nniet. Is 't niet, man?\"\n\nDe Heer Palmer nam geen notitie van haar vraag.\n\n\"Hij kan schrijven niet uitstaan, weet u,\" ging zij voort, \"dat vindt\nhij een horreur, zegt hij.\"\n\n\"Neen,\" zei de Heer Palmer, \"dien onzin heb je uit _mijn_ mond niet\ngehoord. Maak mij alsjeblieft niet aansprakelijk voor de manier waarop\njij met de taal omspringt.\"\n\n\"Hoort u toch eens; nu ziet u, hoe grappig hij is. Zoo is hij nu\naltijd. Soms zegt hij een halven dag geen woord tegen mij, en dan\nkomt hij op eens met iets grappigs voor den dag--het doet er niet\ntoe wáárover.\"\n\nToen zij naar den salon teruggingen, verbaasde zij Elinor ten zeerste,\ndoor haar te vragen, of zij den Heer Palmer niet een bijzonder aardigen\nman vond.\n\n\"Zeker,\" zei Elinor; \"hij maakt een aangenamen indruk.\"\n\n\"O, daar ben ik blij om. Ik dacht het wel: hij is zoo aardig, en hij\nis toch zoo ingenomen met u en uw zusters; u kunt u niet voorstellen,\nhoe teleurgesteld hij zal zijn, als u niet te Cleveland komt. Ik kan\nmaar niet begrijpen, waarom u toch bezwaar maakt.\"\n\nElinor moest nogmaals haar verzoek afwijzen, en maakte een einde aan\ndat dringend gevraag, door over iets anders te beginnen. Zij achtte\nhet waarschijnlijk, dat Mevrouw Palmer, die in de buurt woonde van\nWilloughby, haar allicht meer bijzonderheden kon meedeelen omtrent de\nwijze, waarop hij in de algemeene opinie stond aangeschreven, dan zij\nhad kunnen vernemen door de Middletons, die hem slechts oppervlakkig\nkenden, en zij zou gaarne, van wie ook, eenige bevestiging hebben\ngehoord van zijn verdienstelijke eigenschappen, die de mogelijkheid\nvan vrees voor Marianne had kunnen uitsluiten. Zij begon met de vraag,\nof de Heer Willoughby bij hen wel eens te Cleveland kwam op bezoek,\nen of zij goede bekenden van hem waren.\n\n\"O ja zeker; ik ken hem héél goed,\" antwoordde Mevrouw Palmer. \"Niet\ndat ik hem ooit heb gesproken; maar in de stad zag ik hem overal. Hoe\n't zoo kwam weet ik niet; maar ik logeerde toevallig nooit te Barton,\nals hij te Allenham was. Mama heeft hem hier vroeger eens ontmoet\nmaar toen logeerde ik bij mijn oom te Weymouth. Ik geloof wel, dat\nwe elkaar veel zouden hebben gezien in Somersetshire, als 't niet\nzoo ongelukkig had getroffen, dat we nooit op denzelfden tijd buiten\nwaren. Hij komt weinig te Combe, geloof ik; maar al kwam hij er nog\nzoo dikwijls, dan denk ik toch niet, dat Mijnheer Palmer hem zou gaan\nopzoeken; want hij heeft andere meeningen in de politiek, weet u, en\n't is ook zoo geducht ver weg. Ik weet best, waarom u naar hem vraagt;\nuw zuster gaat met hem trouwen. Daar ben ik verbazend blij om; want\ndan wordt ze mijn buurvrouw.\"\n\n\"Werkelijk,\" zei Elinor, \"u weet veel meer van de zaak af dan ik,\nwanneer u reden hebt, dat huwelijk te verwachten.\"\n\n\"O, doet u nu niet, alsof 't niet waar is, want u weet wel, dat\niedereen er den mond vol van heeft. Nu pas in de stad heb ik het nog\nweer gehoord.\"\n\n\"Maar, Mevrouw Palmer!\"\n\n\"Wezenlijk, op mijn woord van eer. Maandagmorgen in Bond Street,\njuist voor we weggingen kwam ik Kolonel Brandon tegen, en hij vertelde\n't me dadelijk.\"\n\n\"U doet me verbaasd staan. Kolonel Brandon zou 't u verteld hebben? U\nvergist u bepaald. Iets van dien aard mee te deelen aan iemand, die\ner geen belang in kon stellen, zelfs al was het waar, dat is niet,\nwat ik van Kolonel Brandon zou verwachten.\"\n\n\"'t Was toch werkelijk, zooals ik u zeg, en ik zal u vertellen hoe 't\nzoo kwam. Toen we hem tegenkwamen, keerde hij om, en liep met ons mee,\nen we begonnen te praten over mijn broer en zuster en zoo meer, en ik\nzei tegen hem: \"Ik hoor, Kolonel, dat Barton Cottage nieuwe bewoners\nheeft gekregen, en mama schrijft mij, dat de meisjes heel mooi zijn, en\neen van hen gaat trouwen met den Heer Willoughby, van Combe Magna. Is\ndat waar? U kunt het natuurlijk weten; want u komt pas uit Devonshire.\"\n\n\"En wat zei de Kolonel toen?\"\n\n\"O--hij zei niet veel; maar hij keek, alsof hij wel wist, dat het\nwaar was; dus van dat oogenblik af was ik er zeker van. Ik vind het\nverrukkelijk, dol! Wanneer gaan ze trouwen?\"\n\n\"Kolonel Brandon maakte het goed, hoop ik?\"\n\n\"O ja, best; en hij was één en al lof over u; hij deed maar niets\ndan allerlei moois van u vertellen.\"\n\n\"Zijn goede meening is mij veel waard. Hij is een man zooals er\nweinigen zijn, dunkt mij, en alleraangenaamst in den omgang.\"\n\n\"Dat vind ik ook.--'t Is zoo'n allerliefste man;--Zoo jammer eigenlijk,\ndat hij zoo ernstig en zoo vervelend is. Mama zegt, dat _hij_ ook\nverliefd was op uw zuster. Ik verzeker u, dat is een groot compliment,\nwant hij wordt haast nooit verliefd op iemand.\"\n\n\"Kent men in uw omgeving te Somersetshire den Heer Willoughby over\n't algemeen goed?\" vroeg Elinor.\n\n\"O ja, héél goed;--dat is te zeggen, ik geloof niet dat veel menschen\nhem kennen, omdat Combe Magna zoo ver uit de buurt is; maar iedereen\nvindt hem een aangenaam mensch. Niemand is zoo algemeen bemind als\nMijnheer Willoughby, wáár hij ook komt, dat moet u maar eens aan uw\nzuster vertellen. Ze mag van geluk spreken, hoor, dat ze hem krijgt;\nmaar hij van zijn kant nog wel meer; want zij is zoo mooi en zoo lief,\ndat voor haar niets te goed is. Maar eigenlijk vind ik u haast niet\nminder mooi dan haar; want ik vind u allebei snoezig; en dat vindt\nMijnheer Palmer ook, al konden we hem er gisteravond niet toe krijgen,\nhet toe te geven.\"\n\nMevrouw Palmer's inlichtingen omtrent Willoughby waren niet bepaald\nwaardevol; maar elk getuigenis te zijnen gunste, hoe gering ook,\ndeed Elinor genoegen.\n\n\"Ik ben zoo blij, dat we elkaar nu eindelijk hebben leeren kennen,\"\nging Charlotte voort. \"En nu hoop ik dat we altijd goede vrienden\nzullen blijven. U weet niet, hoe ik verlangde, u te zien. 't Is zoo\nheerlijk, dat u nu in dat huisje woont! 't Kon niet heerlijker! En dat\nuw zuster nu zoo'n goed huwelijk doet. Ik hoop dat u dikwijls te Combe\nMagna komt logeeren. Ieder zegt, dat het een beeldig buitengoed is.\"\n\n\"U hebt Kolonel Brandon al lang gekend, niet waar?\"\n\n\"O ja, heel lang al; sedert mijn zuster trouwde. Hij was een van Sir\nJohn's beste vrienden. Ik geloof,\" voegde zij er iets zachter bij,\n\"dat hij blij zou geweest zijn, als hij mij had kunnen krijgen. Sir\nJohn en mijn zuster hadden 't graag gezien. Maar mama vond hem voor\nmij geen geschikte partij; anders zou Sir John het aan den Kolonel\nhebben gezegd, en dan zouden we dadelijk getrouwd zijn.\"\n\n\"Wist Kolonel Brandon dan niet te voren van dat voorstel van Sir John\naan uw moeder? Had hij nooit te kennen gegeven, dat hij genegenheid\nvoor u gevoelde?\"\n\n\"O neen; maar als mama er niets tegen had gehad, dan geloof ik stellig,\ndat hij dolgraag had gewild. Hij had mij toen nog maar een paar maal\ngezien; want ik was nog niet van de kostschool thuisgekomen. Maar\nik ben veel gelukkiger, zooals 't nu is. Mijnheer Palmer is juist de\nsoort van man, die bij mij past.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XXI\n\n\nDen volgenden dag keerden de Palmers naar Cleveland terug, en aan\nde beide families te Barton werd het weer overgelaten, elkander\nte vermaken. Dat duurde echter niet lang; Elinor had nauwelijks de\nlaatste bezoekers uit haar hoofd gezet,--was nauwelijks bekomen van\nhaar verwondering over Charlotte's vermogen om tevreden te zijn zonder\noorzaak, over het komediespel van den Heer Palmer, dat zijn betere\neigenschappen verborg, en over het vreemde gebrek aan natuurlijke\novereenstemming, dat dikwijls bestond tusschen man en vrouw, of Sir\nJohn's en Mevrouw Jennings' nooit verflauwende ijver in het bevorderen\nvan den gezelligen omgang verschafte haar reeds weder nieuwe kennissen,\nter uiterlijke en innerlijke waarneming. Op een uitstapje naar Exeter\nhadden zij op een zekeren morgen twee jonge dames ontmoet, die tot\nMevrouw Jennings' voldoening verre familie van haar bleken te zijn,\nen dit was voor Sir John voldoende om hen dadelijk op Barton Park\nte logeeren te vragen, zoodra haar bezigheden te Exeter haar dat\nzouden veroorloven. De bezigheden te Exeter werden zonder bedenken\nverschoven voor zulk een uitnoodiging, en Lady Middleton was bij\nSir John's terugkomst niet weinig verschrikt door het bericht, dat\nzij binnenkort een bezoek kon verwachten van twee meisjes, die zij\nnooit in haar leven had gezien, en van wie zij volstrekt niet wist\nof zij welgemanierd,--of zelfs maar dragelijk fatsoenlijk waren;\nwant aan de beweringen van haar man en haar moeder te dien opzichte\nhechtte zij niet de minste waarde. Dat zij familie van haar waren,\nmaakte het nog des te erger; en Mevrouw Jennings' pogingen om haar te\ntroosten berustten dan ook op zeer onvoldoende gronden, wanneer zij\nhaar dochter voorhield, dat het er niets toe deed of die meisjes wat\nmeer of minder deftig waren, daar nichtjes onder elkaar het daarmee\nzoo nauw niet behoorden te nemen. Daar hun komst nu echter niet meer\nviel te verhinderen, schikte Lady Middleton zich in het geval met al de\nwijsgeerigheid van een welopgevoede vrouw, en vergenoegde zich ermee,\nhaar echtgenoot ongeveer vijf of zesmaal per dag naar aanleiding van\nhet gebeurde eenige zacht verwijtende opmerkingen toe te voegen.\n\nDe jonge dames verschenen, en zagen er volstrekt niet burgerlijk\nof ouderwetsch uit. Ze waren keurig gekleed, hadden zeer beleefde\nmanieren, waren verrukt van het huis, dweepten met de inrichting, en\ntoevallig waren ze zóó dol op kinderen, dat ze reeds Lady Middleton's\nsympathie hadden verworven, eer ze nog een uur op het Park waren\ngeweest. Zij verklaarde dat ze hen werkelijk heel aardige meisjes\nvond, 't geen voor haar gelijkstond met geestdriftige bewondering. Sir\nJohn's vertrouwen in zijn eigen oordeel werd door dien levendigen lof\nten zeerste versterkt, en hij toog onmiddellijk naar Barton Cottage,\nom aan de dames Dashwood te vertellen, dat de Steele's waren gekomen,\nen hun te verzekeren dat het allerliefste meisjes waren. Uit die\naanbeveling viel echter niet veel op te maken; Elinor wist nu al dat\n\"allerliefste meisjes\" waren te vinden in elk plaatsje in Engeland,\nen dat die uitdrukking elke denkbare verscheidenheid van gestalte,\ngelaat, gemoedsaard en begrip omvatte. Sir John wilde de geheele\nfamilie op staanden voet mee laten terugwandelen naar het Park, om\nzijn gasten te zien. Goedaardige, menschlievende man! Het viel hem\nzwaar, zelfs een nicht in den derden graad voor zich alleen te houden.\n\n\"Toe kom nu mee,\" zei hij, \"om mij pleizier te doen;--je _moet_\nkomen,--ik laat je niet los.--Je zult eens zien, hoe aardig je ze\nzult vinden. Lucy is een reusachtig knap meisje, en zoo vroolijk\nen lief! De kinderen zijn niet van haar af te slaan, alsof ze een\noude bekende was. En allebei verlangen ze verbazend jelui te zien,\nwant ze hebben in Exeter gehoord, dat jelui de mooiste meisjes van\nde wereld waart; en ik heb hun gezegd dat dat de zuivere waarheid is,\nen nog een heeleboel meer. Je zult verrukt van hen zijn, dat weet ik\nzeker. Ze hadden de heele koets vol speelgoed voor de kinderen. Hoe kan\nje nu zoo onaardig zijn, om niet te komen! 't Zijn toch ook nichtjes\nvan jelui, in zekeren zin. Jelui bent nichtjes van _mij_, en _zij_\nvan mijn vrouw; dus je bent familie van elkaar.\"\n\nMaar Sir John kreeg zijn zin niet. Hij kreeg niet anders dan de\nbelofte, dat ze over een paar dagen een bezoek zouden komen brengen\nop het Park, en trok af, verbaasd over hun onverschilligheid, om naar\nhuis te wandelen, en opnieuw tegen de dames Steele uit te weiden over\nhunne bekoorlijkheden, zooals hij tegenover hen den lof der dames\nSteele had uitgebazuind.\n\nToen het beloofde bezoek op het Park en dus ook hun voorstelling\naan de jonge dames plaats had, vonden zij aan het uiterlijk van de\noudste, die bijna dertig was, en een leelijk, en daarbij niet eens\nverstandig gezicht had, niets te bewonderen; maar zij moesten toegeven\ndat de andere, die niet meer dan twee- of drie en twintig kon zijn,\nwerkelijk mooi mocht genoemd worden; ze had welbesneden trekken,\neen levendigen vluggen oogopslag, en iets modieus in haar voorkomen,\ndat wel geen natuurlijke losheid of bevalligheid kon vergoeden,\nmaar haar toch een zekere distinctie verleende. Hun manieren waren\nbijzonder beleefd en voorkomend, en Elinor moest al spoedig erkennen,\ndat het hun niet ontbrak aan een zeker soort van verstand, toen zij\nzag met welk een aanhoudende en welberekende beminnelijkheid zij zich\nwisten aangenaam te maken bij Lady Middleton. Over haar kinderen waren\nzij in één voortdurende verrukking, verkondigden luide den lof van hun\nschoonheid, gaven zich moeite om hun gunst te winnen, en willigden hun\ngrilligste wenschen in; terwijl ze al den tijd, dien de voldoening\naan dezen dringenden eisch der beleefdheid hun overliet, besteedden\naan het bewonderen van alles wat Lady Middleton deed, wanneer zij\ntoevallig eens met iets bezig was, of aan het naknippen van het\npatroon eener sierlijke nieuwe japon, die zij haar den dag te voren\nhadden zien dragen, en waarin hare verschijning hun onuitputtelijke\nuitingen van bewonderende verrukking had ontlokt. Gelukkig voor\nhen, die door middel van dergelijke zwakheden plegen te vleien, is\niedere liefhebbende moeder, hoezeer ook, waar het den lof van haar\nkinderen geldt, het onverzadelijkste aller schepselen, tevens op\ndat punt het meest lichtgeloovige; haar eischen zijn buitensporig,\ndoch uiterst gemakkelijk te voldoen, en de alle perken te buiten\ngaande minzaamheid en geduld, door de dames Steele jegens haar\nkroost aan den dag gelegd, wekten in Lady Middleton niet de minste\nverwondering of achterdocht. Met moederlijke ingenomenheid beschouwde\nzij al de brutale vrijpostigheden en ondeugende streken, die haar\nnichten zich goedschiks lieten welgevallen. Zij keek toe, terwijl\nde strikken uit hun ceintuur werden getrokken, hun haar in wanorde\nwerd gebracht, hun werktaschjes werden geplunderd en hun mesjes en\nscharen geroofd, en zij twijfelde niet, of het gesmaakte genoegen\ndaarbij was wederkeerig. Zij vond het alleen maar verwonderlijk,\ndat Elinor en Marianne er zoo bedaard bij konden blijven zitten,\nzonder hun verlangen te uiten om te deelen in de pret.\n\n\"John is vandaag door 't dolle heen!\" zei ze, toen hij Juffrouw\nSteele haar zakdoek afnam en dien uit het raam gooide.--\"Hij zit\nvol guitenstreken!\"\n\nEn toen kort daarop haar tweede zoontje zijn nicht allerpijnlijkst\nin den vinger kneep, merkte zij met innige voldoening op, dat William\nzoo speelsch was.\n\n\"En hier hebben we mijn lieve kleine Annemarie\", voegde zij erbij,\nhet kleine meisje van drie jaar liefkoozend, dat zich een paar minuten\nachtereen had stilgehouden: \"Die is altijd zoo zacht en stil,--het\nrustigste kindje dat men zich kan voorstellen!\"\n\nDoch daar het ongeluk wilde, dat bij deze uitingen van teederheid een\nspeld in mama's kapsel het kind even in den hals schramde, barstte het\nvoorbeeldig stille schepseltje los in zulke oorverdoovende kreten,\ndat geen spreekwoordelijk luidruchtig creatuur het haar verbeteren\nkon. Haar moeder's ontzetting, hoe hevig ook, werd nog overtroffen door\nden schrik en de bezorgdheid der dames Steele en alle drie namen in\ndien uitersten nood hun toevlucht tot elk middel dat de liefde slechts\nkon uitdenken om de folteringen der kleine lijderes te verzachten. Zij\nwerd op haar moeders schoot gezet en overladen met kussen, terwijl\nde eene juffrouw Steele bij haar neerknielde om de wond te betten\nmet lavendelwater, en de andere haar mond vol suikerboonen stopte. Nu\nzij haar tranen zoo rijkelijk beloond zag, was het kind wel zoo wijs\nom niet op te houden met schreeuwen. Ze bleef uit alle macht huilen\nen snikken, schopte haar beide broertjes, toen ze haar te na kwamen,\nen hun aller vereende pogingen om haar tot bedaren te brengen bleven\nvruchteloos, tot Lady Middleton zich gelukkig herinnerde, dat bij een\ndergelijk ongeval in de vorige week een lepel abrikozengelei gunstig\nhad gewerkt ter verzachting van een buil op het voorhoofd; en daar, bij\nhet voorstel om tegen deze ongelukkige schram dezelfde remedie toe te\ndienen, het doordringend geschreeuw der jonge dame door een korte pauze\nwerd onderbroken, bestond de gegronde hoop, dat het geneesmiddel niet\nzou worden verworpen. Zij werd dus in haar moeders armen weggedragen,\nop zoek naar de heilzame medicijn, en daar de twee jongens, hoewel\nhun moeder hen dringend verzocht in de kamer te blijven, volstrekt\nwilden meegaan, bleven de vier jonge dames achter in een atmosfeer\nvan kalmte, die het vertrek sedert vele uren niet meer had gekend.\n\n\"Dat arme schepseltje!\" zei Juffrouw Steele, zoodra zij waren\nheengegaan. \"Het had wel héél erg kunnen afloopen.\"\n\n\"Maar ik begrijp toch eigenlijk niet hòe,\" riep Marianne, \"tenzij dan\nmisschien onder geheel andere omstandigheden. Op deze manier plegen de\nmenschen altijd bezorgheid te vermeerderen, terwijl er voor werkelijke\nzorg geen reden is.\"\n\n\"Wat is Lady Middleton toch een allerliefste vrouw,\" zei Lucy Steele.\n\nMarianne zweeg; zij kon onmogelijk zeggen wat ze niet meende, al gold\nhet de onbeteekendste kleinigheid, en dus werd altoos aan Elinor\nde taak overgelaten, onwaarheid te spreken, wanneer de beleefdheid\ndat vereischte. Ze deed haar best, nu dit van haar gevergd werd,\ndoor Lady Middleton te prijzen met meer warmte, dan zij gevoelde,\nhoewel met vrij wat minder geestdrift dan Juffrouw Lucy.\n\n\"En Sir John ook,\" riep de oudste zuster \"wat is dat een aardige man!\"\n\nOok hier werd Juffrouw Dashwood's lof, die eenvoudig was en\nonopgesmukt, geuit zonder den minsten _éclat_. Zij merkte alleen op,\ndat hij bijzonder vroolijk en vriendelijk van aard was.\n\n\"En wat hebben ze allerliefste kinderen! Ik heb nog nooit zulke mooie\nkinderen gezien! Ik ben nu al doodelijk van ze; trouwens ik ben altijd\ngek op kinderen geweest.\"\n\n\"Dat wil ik graag gelooven,\" zei Elinor met een glimlach, \"te oordeelen\nnaar wat ik van morgen heb bijgewoond.\"\n\n\"Het komt mij zoo voor, zei Lucy, \"dat u de kleine Middletons nog al\nverwend vindt; misschien worden ze dat ook wel, meer dan goed voor hen\nis, maar het is zoo natuurlijk van Lady Middleton; en wat mij betreft,\nik zie graag kinderen waar een beetje leven en vroolijkheid inzit;\nik kan ze niet uitstaan, als ze bedaard en stil zijn.\"\n\n\"Ik moet eerlijk bekennen,\" antwoordde Elinor, \"dat ik te Barton Park\nmij nooit geneigd voel, aan stille en bedaarde kinderen anders dan\nmet voorliefde te denken.\"\n\nOp dit gezegde volgde een korte stilte, het eerst verbroken door\nJuffrouw Steele, die bijzonder spraakzaam scheen, en nu vrij onverwacht\nbegon:\n\n\"En hoe vindt u Devonshire nu wel, Juffrouw Dashwood? Het zal u wel\nhebben gespeten, uit Sussex weg te gaan.\"\n\nIetwat verbaasd over die vraag, of althans over den gemeenzamen toon,\nwaarop ze geuit werd, antwoordde Elinor bevestigend.\n\n\"Norland is een héél erg mooi buitengoed, is 't niet?\" liet Juffrouw\nSteele hierop volgen.\n\n\"Sir John bewonderde het ten minste zéér,\" zei Lucy, die scheen te\nvinden dat haar zuster's vrijmoedigheid wel eenige verontschuldiging\nbehoefde.\n\n\"Ik denk, dat ieder die het goed ooit zag, het wel _moet_ bewonderen,\"\nantwoordde Elinor, \"hoewel het niet waarschijnlijk is, dat anderen\nde schoonheden ervan zóó kunnen waardeeren, als wij doen.\"\n\n\"En hadt u daar veel knappe cavaliers? Hier in deze buurt zullen\ner wel zooveel niet zijn; ik voor mij vind ze altoos een groote\naanwinst overal.\"\n\n\"Maar waarom dacht je eigenlijk,\" zei Lucy, zich blijkbaar schamend\nvoor haar zuster, \"dat er minder knappe jongelui zouden zijn in\nDevonshire dan in Sussex?\"\n\n\"Welneen, lieve kind, dat zeg ik ook immers niet. In Exeter zijn\ntenminste cavaliers genoeg, maar hoe kan ik nu weten of er in Norland\nook aardige heeren zijn? Ik was alleen maar bang, dat de dames Dashwood\nhet in Barton saai zouden vinden, als ze daar niet zooveel galante\ncavaliers hadden als vroeger. Maar misschien geven de jonge dames wel\nniet om heeren, en kunnen ze het evengoed stellen zonder hen. Ik voor\nmijn part, ik mag ze graag lijden, als ze ten minste netjes gekleed\nzijn en zich aardig voordoen. Ik kan ze niet uitstaan als ze slordig\nen vuil voor den dag komen. Daar heb je nu Meneer Rose in Exeter,\neen heele heer, als je hem zoo ziet, bepaald fatterig; hij is klerk\nbij Meneer Simpson, weet u, en toch, als je hem 's morgens tegenkomt,\ndan ziet hij er ontoonbaar uit. Uw broer was vóór zijn trouwen zeker\nook een echte dandy, Juffrouw Dashwood, omdat hij zoo rijk was?\"\n\n\"Ik zou 't u werkelijk niet kunnen zeggen,\" antwoordde Elinor;\n\"omdat ik niet precies begrijp wat u bedoelt. Maar dàt weet ik wel,\nwat hij indertijd is geweest vóór zijn trouwen, dat is hij nu nog;\nwant hij is in 't minst niet veranderd.\"\n\n\"O heden, neen; getrouwde lui zijn nooit galante cavaliers meer;\ndie hebben wel wat anders te doen.\"\n\n\"Hè, Anne,\" riep haar zuster; \"jij praat ook over niets anders dan\nheeren; Juffrouw Dashwood zal gaan meenen dat je nergens anders aan\ndenkt.\" En om het gesprek een andere wending te geven, begon zij haar\nbewondering te uiten van het huis en meubels.\n\nDit staaltje van de conversatie der dames Steele was voldoende. De\nonbeschaafde vrijpostigheid en mallepraat van de oudste lieten van\nhaar geen goeds meer verwachten, en daar Elinor, ondanks de schoonheid\nen het schrander voorkomen der jongere zuster maar al te goed haar\ngemis van ware beschaving en eenvoud doorzag, vertrok zij, zonder in\nhet minst te verlangen, hen nader te leeren kennen.\n\nZoo dachten de dames Steele er niet over. Zij waren uit Exeter gekomen\nmet een behoorlijke hoeveelheid bewondering, ten dienste van Sir John\nMiddleton, zijn gezin en zijn geheele familie, en uit dien ruimen\nvoorraad deelden zij kwistig mede aan zijn schoone nichten, die\nzij voor de mooiste, bevalligste, talentvolste en liefste meisjes\nverklaarden, die ze ooit hadden gezien, en die zij hartgrondig\nverlangden, nader te leeren kennen. Die nadere kennismaking was,\nzooals Elinor spoedig ontdekte, hun onvermijdelijk lot; want daar Sir\nJohn geheel en al op de hand der dames Steele was, bleek hunne partij\nte sterk voor verzet van de andere zijde, en zij moesten zich dus\nschikken in de soort van intimiteit, die bestaat in het bijna iederen\ndag een paar uur samen in de zelfde kamer zitten. Meer kon Sir John\nniet doen; maar hij zag ook niet in, dat meer dan dat kon verlangd\nworden; naar zijne meening beteekende samenzijn vertrouwelijkheid,\nen zoolang zijn geregelde plannetjes om hen met elkaar in aanraking\nte brengen, maar slaagden, twijfelde hij geen oogenblik of zij waren\ngezworen vriendinnen.\n\nOm hem recht te laten weervaren, hij deed wat in zijn vermogen was,\nom hen tot openhartigheid aan te sporen, door de dames Steele op de\nhoogte te brengen van al wat hij maar wist of kon vermoeden omtrent de\nmeest kiesche aangelegenheden, waarin zijne nichtjes waren betrokken,\nen Elinor had hen nog geen tweemaal ontmoet, of de oudste van het\ntweetal wenschte haar reeds geluk met het feit, dat haar zuster\n't zoo getroffen had, door sinds haar komst te Barton een knappen\ngalant te veroveren.\n\n\"'t Is toch maar een mooi ding, een meisje zoo vroeg al getrouwd\nte hebben,\" zei ze, \"en ik hoor dat hij een echte dandy is, en een\nverschrikkelijk knap gezicht heeft. Ik hoop dat u het ook zoo goed\nzult treffen; maar misschien hebt u al een vriend achter de hand.\"\n\nElinor kon moeilijk verwachten, dat Sir John schroomvalliger zou\nzijn in de uiting van zijn vermoedens omtrent haar genegenheid\nvoor Edward, dan hij zich getoond had, waar het Marianne betrof;\nvan de beide geestigheden genoot de eerste, als nieuwer, en nog\nspeling voor gissingen overlatend, zelfs zijn voorkeur; en sedert\nEdward's bezoek hadden zij nooit samen aan tafel gezeten, zonder\ndat hij een dronk wijdde aan haar liefsten hartewensch, vergezeld\nvan zooveel beteekenende blikken, en zooveel knikjes en knipoogjes,\ndat hij de algemeene aandacht op haar vestigde. Ook de letter F. werd\ndaarbij steeds druk besproken, en was de bron gebleken van zulk een\nonuitputtelijken voorraad grappen, dat Elinor geëindigd was met er\nvoor goed de geestigste letter van het alphabet in te zien.\n\nZooals zij reeds vermoedde, werden de dames Steele bij voorkeur\nop de bewuste aardigheden vergast, en zij wekten in de oudste een\nnieuwsgierig verlangen om den naam te vernemen van den heer, op wien\nhier gezinspeeld werd, een verlangen, dat, brutaal aan den dag gelegd,\nvolkomen strookte met haar algemeene indringende onbescheidenheid\nin het uitvorschen van hun familieaangelegenheden. Maar Sir John\nhad niet lang pleizier in het prikkelen der door hemzelf gewekte\nnieuwsgierigheid; want hij vond minstens evenveel behagen in het noemen\nvan den bewusten naam, als Juffrouw Steele in het vernemen ervan. \"Zijn\nnaam is Ferrars,\" zei hij, duidelijk verstaanbaar fluisterend;\n\"maar vertel het vooral niet verder, want het is een groot geheim.\"\n\n\"Ferrars!\" herhaalde Juffrouw Steele; \"is mijnheer Ferrars de\ngelukkige? Wel, wel, de broer van uw schoonzuster, Juffrouw\nDashwood? nu, dat is een aardig jongmensch; ik ken hem heel goed.\"\n\n\"Hoe kan je nu zooiets zeggen, Anne?\" riep Lucy, die geregeld haar\nzuster's opmerkingen te verbeteren placht. \"Al hebben we hem nu een\npaar maal bij onzen oom aan huis ontmoet, daarom behoef je nog niet\nte zeggen, dat we hem heel goed kennen.\"\n\nElinor hoorde alles oplettend en zeer verwonderd aan. Wie was die\noom? waar woonde hij? hoe hadden zij elkander leeren kennen? Zij\nwenschte van harte dat het gesprek over dit onderwerp mocht worden\nvoortgezet, al verkoos zij niet, zich erin te mengen; maar er werd\nniet verder over gesproken, en voor het eerst in haar leven vond zij\nMevrouw Jennings niet nieuwsgierig genoeg naar onbeduidende nieuwtjes,\nnoch voldoende bereidvaardig tot het mededeelen ervan. De manier\nwaarop Juffrouw Steele van Edward had gesproken vermeerderde haar\nnieuwsgierigheid; zij meende er iets onwelwillends in te bespeuren,\ndat het vermoeden wekte, als zou de spreekster iets ten nadeele van\nhem weten, of zich verbeelden te weten. Doch haar nieuwsgierigheid\nbleef onvoldaan; want Juffrouw Steele liet den naam Ferrars verder\nonopgemerkt voorbijgaan, ook toen Sir John er nogmaals op zinspeelde\nen dien zelfs openlijk uitsprak.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XXII\n\n\nMarianne, die nooit veel verdraagzaamheid toonde tegenover iets,\ndat maar op lompheid, grofheid, gebrek aan geestesgaven, of zelfs\nop eenige afwijking van haar eigen smaak geleek, was juist nu,\nin háár gemoedstoestand, bijzonder ongeneigd om in de dames Steele\nbehagen te scheppen, of hun tegemoetkomende houding door de hare\naan te moedigen; en aan haar onveranderlijke koelheid jegens hen,\ndie elke poging tot vertrouwelijkheid van hunne zijde terugwees,\nschreef Elinor hoofdzakelijk de voorkeur voor haarzelve toe, die al\nspoedig ten duidelijkste bleek uit beider gedrag; het meest nog uit\ndat van Lucy, die geen gelegenheid liet voorbijgaan om een gesprek\nmet haar aan te knoopen, of pogingen te doen tot toenadering door\nvrijmoedige en openhartige mededeeling van hare gevoelens.\n\nLucy was van nature schrander; haar opmerkingen waren dikwijls juist\nen vermakelijk, en als gezelschap voor een half uurtje vond Elinor\nhaar soms niet onaangenaam; doch haar vermogens waren niet ontwikkeld\ndoor opvoeding; zij was onwetend, had niets gelezen, en haar gemis van\nalle geestelijke vorming, haar onkunde in de meest alledaagsche zaken\nkonden niet voor Elinor verborgen blijven, ondanks Lucy's onvermoeide\npogingen om zich van haar beste zijde te laten kennen. Elinor zag, en\nbeklaagde in haar de verwaarloozing van gaven, die onder zorgvuldige\nleiding achting hadden kunnen verwerven; doch zij zag tevens, met vrij\nwat minder hartelijk medegevoel, het volslagen gebrek aan kieschheid,\naan rechtschapenheid, aan fiere zuiverheid van inborst, dat sprak\nuit al haar beleefdheden, haar opdringende dienstvaardigheid, haar\nvleierij te Barton Park, en zij kon geen duurzame voldoening vinden\nin het samenzijn met iemand, die onoprechtheid paarde aan onkunde,\nwier gebrek aan ontwikkeling elk onderhoud op een voet van gelijkheid\nonmogelijk maakte, en wier gedrag jegens anderen ieder vertoon van\nbelangstelling of eerbied tegenover haarzelve volkomen waardeloos\ndeed schijnen.\n\n\"U zult het misschien een vreemde vraag vinden,\" zei Lucy, toen zij op\nzekeren dag samen van het Park naar Barton Cottage wandelden,--\"maar\nkent u persoonlijk uw schoonzuster's mama, Mevrouw Ferrars?\"\n\nElinor _vond_ die vraag zeer vreemd, en de uitdrukking van haar gelaat\ngaf dit duidelijk te kennen, terwijl zij antwoordde, dat zij Mevrouw\nFerrars nooit had ontmoet.\n\n\"Och kom,\" zei Lucy; \"dat verwondert mij; ik dacht, dat u haar te\nNorland wel eens zoudt hebben gesproken. Dan kunt u mij zeker ook\nniet zeggen, wat voor een soort van vrouw zij eigenlijk is?\"\n\n\"Neen,\" antwoordde Elinor, voorzichtig in het uiten van haar werkelijke\nmeening omtrent Edward's moeder, en niet verlangend te bevredigen wat\nhaar onbescheiden nieuwsgierigheid scheen: \"ik weet niets van haar af.\"\n\n\"Ik begrijp wel, dat u het heel raar van mij vindt, zoo naar haar\nte vragen,\" zei Lucy, terwijl zij Elinor onder het spreken oplettend\naanzag; \"maar er zouden redenen kunnen zijn... ik wilde dat ik durfde\nwagen... In elk geval, hoop ik toch, dat u, mij niet ten onrechte\nvan grove onbescheidenheid zult beschuldigen.\"\n\nElinor gaf een beleefd antwoord, en zij wandelden een paar minuten\nzwijgend verder. Dat zwijgen werd verbroken door Lucy, die het\nonderwerp hervatte door ietwat aarzelend te zeggen:\n\n\"Ik kan niet hebben, dat u mij van ongepaste nieuwsgierigheid verdenkt;\nik zou liever ik weet niet wat doen, dan zóó beschouwd te worden door\niemand, wier goede meening mij zooveel waard is als de uwe! En ik weet\nstellig, dat ik in 't minst niet bang zou zijn om _u_ te vertrouwen;\nik zou juist heel blij zijn, als u mij kondt raden, hoe te handelen,\nin mijn moeilijke omstandigheden; maar het is _nu_ niet noodig,\nom u lastig te vallen. Het spijt mij, dat u Mevrouw Ferrars niet kent.\"\n\n\"Mij spijt het ook, dat dit het geval is,\" zei Elinor zeer verbaasd,\n\"temeer als het voor _u_ van eenig belang kon zijn, mijn meening\nover haar te vernemen. Maar om u de waarheid te zeggen, ik had nooit\nbegrepen, dat u, hoe dan ook, in aanraking waart geweest met de\nfamilie, en daarom moet ik bekennen dat ik wel eenigszins verwonderd\nben over uw ernstige navraag omtrent haar karakter.\"\n\n\"Dat wil ik graag gelooven, en _mij_ verwondert dat volstrekt\nniet. Maar als ik u alles mocht vertellen, dan zoudt u het niet meer\nzoo vreemd vinden. Op het oogenblik is Mevrouw Ferrars voor mij een\ntotaal onbekende; maar er kàn een tijd komen--hoe spoedig dat zal\nzijn, hangt van haarzelve af--dat wij in zeer nauwe betrekking tot\nelkaar komen te staan.\"\n\nZij sloeg terwijl ze sprak de oogen neer, met beminnelijke\nverlegenheid, doch niet zonder één zijdelingschen blik naar haar\ngezellin, om de uitwerking van het gezegde bij deze waar te nemen.\n\n\"Maar wat bedoelt u toch?\" riep Elinor. \"Kent u Mijnheer Robert\nFerrars dan? Is het mogelijk dat u met hèm...?\" En zij verheugde zich\nallesbehalve bij het denkbeeld zulk een schoonzuster te krijgen.\n\n\"Neen,\" zei Lucy, \"niet met mijnheer _Robert_ Ferrars,--hèm heb ik\nnooit in mijn leven gezien, maar,\"--en zij zag Elinor strak aan,--\"met\nzijn ouderen broeder.\"\n\nWat gevoelde Elinor op dat oogenblik? Een verbazing, die even pijnlijk\nzou zijn geweest, als zij sterk was, zo zij niet onmiddellijk ware\nvergezeld gegaan van een volslagen ongeloof in die verzekering. Zij\nwendde zich tot Lucy, zwijgend en verwonderd, niet bij machte de\nreden of het doel van die verklaring te gissen; en hoewel zij eerst\nbloosde en daarna bleek werd, schonk haar ongeloovigheid haar kracht,\nen zij was niet bang, dat haar zenuwen haar parten zouden spelen,\nof dat zij flauw zou vallen.\n\n\"Geen wonder dat u verbaasd staat,\" ging Lucy voort; \"want natuurlijk\nhadt u er niet het flauwste vermoeden van; hij zal er wel geen woord\nover hebben losgelaten tegen u of uw familie; want het moest altijd\neen diep geheim blijven en ik weet wel, dat ik het tot nu toe ook\ntrouw heb bewaard. Niemand van mijn familie weet het, behalve Anne,\nen ik zou het u nooit hebben verteld, als ik niet zóó zeker was\ngeweest, dat ik mij op uw stilzwijgen kon verlaten; ik vond alleen,\ndat mijn vele vragen naar Mevrouw Ferrars zulk een vreemden indruk op\nu moesten maken, en het was noodig dat ik u mijn gedrag verklaarde. Ik\ngeloof niet, dat Mijnheer Ferrars boos zal kunnen zijn, als hij hoort,\ndat ik u in vertrouwen heb genomen; want ik weet, dat hij uw geheele\nfamilie bijzonder hoog stelt, en u en de beide andere dames Dashwood\nbeschouwt als zijn eigen zusters.\"--\n\nHierna zweeg zij, en ook Elinor bleef een oogenblik stil. Haar\nverbazing over hetgeen zij hoorde was eerst te groot om zich in woorden\nte uiten; maar ten slotte zeide zij, zich dwingend tot spreken, en\nvoorzichtig spreken, met een kalmte, die tamelijk wel haar verrassing\nen angst verborg: \"Mag ik vragen of uwe verloving reeds lang geleden\nheeft plaats gehad?\"\n\n\"We zijn al vier jaar geëngageerd.\"\n\n\"Vier jaar?\"\n\n\"Ja.\"\n\nHoe ontdaan zij zich ook voelde, Elinor kon het nòg niet gelooven.\n\n\"Ik wist niet eens,\" zei ze, \"dat u hem kende, eer ik het onlangs\ngewaar werd.\"\n\n\"En toch kennen we elkaar al sedert jaren. Hij is een tijdlang bij\nmijn oom in huis geweest, weet u.\"\n\n\"Uw oom?\"\n\n\"Ja, Mijnheer Pratt. Hebt u hem nooit hooren spreken van Mijnheer\nPratt?\"\n\n\"O ja, nu herinner ik het mij,\" zei Elinor, met een inspanning van\nhaar geheugen, die haar zwaarder viel, naarmate haar ontroering toenam.\n\n\"Hij is vier jaar onder de leiding geweest van mijn oom, die te\nLongstaple woont, dicht bij Plymouth. Dáár is onze kennismaking\nbegonnen; want mijn zuster en ik logeerden dikwijls bij mijn oom, en\ndaar zijn we geëngageerd geraakt; een jaar nadat hij van school was\ngegaan; maar hij kwam daarna nog geregeld bij ons. Ik was er niets\nop gesteld de verloving aan te gaan, buiten weten van zijn moeder en\nzonder haar goedkeuring; dat kunt u wel denken; maar ik was te jong en\nik hield te veel van hem, om zoo voorzichtig te zijn als ik eigenlijk\nmoest. Al kent u hem niet zóó goed als ik, Juffrouw Dashwood, u hebt\nlang genoeg met hem omgegaan om te begrijpen, dat hij juist de man is,\nom de oprechte genegenheid eener vrouw te winnen.\"\n\n\"Zeker,\" antwoordde Elinor, zonder te weten wat zij zeide; doch\nna een oogenblik nadenken liet zij erop volgen, stelliger dan ooit\novertuigd van Edward's waarheidsliefde en zijn genegenheid, tegenover\nde valschheid van dit meisje: \"Geëngageerd met mijnheer Edward\nFerrars,--ik moet bekennen, wat u mij daar vertelt verrast zij zóózeer,\ndat... werkelijk, neemt u 't me niet kwalijk, maar er is stellig een\nvergissing in 't spel, een naams- of persoonsverwisseling. Wij kunnen\nniet denzelfden heer Ferrars bedoelen.\"\n\n\"We bedoelen geen ander dan hem,\" riep Lucy glimlachend. \"Mijnheer\nEdward Ferrars, de oudste zoon van den Heer Ferrars van Park Street;\nen de broer van uw schoonzuster, Mevrouw John Dashwood, is de persoon,\ndien ik op het oog heb; u zult wel willen toegeven, dat _ik_ mij\nwel niet zal kunnen vergissen in den naam van den man, van wien mijn\ngeheele geluk afhankelijk is.\"\n\n\"'t Is wel vreemd,\" zei Elinor, met een gevoel van pijnlijke\nverwarring, \"dat ik hem nooit zelfs uw naam heb hooren noemen.\"\n\n\"Neen; als men de omstandigheden in aanmerking neemt, was dat\nvolstrekt zoo vreemd niet. Vóór alles moesten we zorgen de zaak\ngeheim te houden. U wist van mij of mijn familie niets af; daarom\nwas er nooit eenige _aanleiding_ om mijn naam te noemen, en daar\nhij altijd erg bang was, dat zijn zuster er iets van zou vermoeden,\nwas _dat_ op zich zelf al reden genoeg om dat niet te doen.\" Weer\nzweeg zij.--Elinor's zekerheid begon haar te begeven maar haar\nzelfbeheersching begaf haar niet.\n\n\"U bent dus vier jaar al verloofd geweest,\" zei ze met vaste stem.\n\n\"Ja, en de hemel weet, hoeveel langer we nog zullen moeten\nwachten. Arme Edward; hij wordt er moedeloos onder.\" Terwijl ze een\nklein miniatuurportret uit haar zak haalde, voegde zij erbij: \"Als\nu zoo goed wilt zijn, dit portret eens te bekijken, dan zult u zien\ndat van een vergissing geen sprake kan zijn. Hij ziet er werkelijk\nknapper uit dan hier, vind ik; maar u kunt duidelijk genoeg zien,\nwien het moet voorstellen. Ik heb het al drie jaar in mijn bezit.\"\n\nTerwijl ze sprak, gaf ze Elinor het portretje in handen, en toen deze\nhet had bekeken, kon zij, hoezeer ook haar vrees voor een overhaaste\ngevolgtrekking en haar wensch om bedrog te ontdekken haar noopten tot\nhet laatste toe in haar geest een plaats voor twijfel in te ruimen,\nniet langer betwijfelen, dat zij Edward's gezicht voor zich zag. Zij\ngaf het oogenblikkelijk terug, terwijl zij de gelijkenis erkende.\n\n\"Ik heb hem nooit mijn portret ervoor in ruil kunnen geven,\" ging\nLucy voort, \"en dat spijt mij geducht; want hij was er altijd zoo\nop gesteld het te hebben. Maar ik ben van plan het te laten maken,\nzoodra de gelegenheid zich voordoet.\"\n\n\"Daar hebt u gelijk in,\" antwoordde Elinor bedaard. Zij liepen een\npoosje zwijgend verder. Lucy was de eerste die sprak.\n\n\"Ik twijfel er hoegenaamd niet aan,\" zei ze, \"of u zult dit geheim\ntrouw bewaren; omdat u wel zult begrijpen van hoeveel belang het\nvoor ons is, dat het zijn moeder niet ter oore komt; want zij zou\nhet stellig wel niet goedkeuren. Ik heb geen geld te wachten, en ik\ngeloof dat zij verschrikkelijk trotsch is.\"\n\n\"Het is zeker waar, dat ik uw vertrouwen niet gezocht heb,\" zeide\nElinor; \"maar u verwacht niet te veel van mij, wanneer u meent u op\nmij te kunnen verlaten. Uw geheim is bij mij veilig; maar vergeef\nmij, zoo ik eenige verwondering waag te uiten over de onnoodigheid\nvan deze mededeeling. U moet toch althans gevoeld hebben, dat mijne\nbekendheid ermede niet kon bijdragen tot de veiligheid van dat geheim.\"\n\nZij zag Lucy ernstig aan, terwijl zij dit zeide, in de hoop nog iets te\nontdekken in de uitdrukking van haar gelaat,--misschien de onwaarheid\nvan het meeste dat zij tot nu toe gezegd had; maar op Lucy's gezicht\nvertoonde zich geen verandering.\n\n\"Ik was al bang,\" zei ze, \"dat u het nogal vrijpostig van mij zou\nvinden, dat ik u dit alles vertelde. 't Is waar, ik ken u nog niet\nlang, persoonlijk ten minste, maar uit beschrijvingen heb ik u en uw\nfamilie al héél lang gekend, en zoodra ik u zag, kreeg ik bijna 't\ngevoel alsof wij oude vrienden waren. En bovendien, in dit geval vond\nik werkelijk, dat ik verplicht was, u eenige uitlegging te geven, nadat\nik u zoo had uitgevraagd over Edward's moeder, en het is zoo ellendig,\ndat ik niemand heb, wie ik om raad kan vragen. Anne is de eenige,\ndie er van afweet, en die weet niet wat ze zeggen of zwijgen moet;\nze doet mij meer kwaad dan goed trouwens, want ik ben altijd bang\ndat ze alles verraden zal. Ze kàn haar tong niet in bedwang houden;\ndat hebt u wel gemerkt, en verleden was ik doodsbang, toen ze Sir John\nEdward's naam noemde, dat ze alles in eens zou uitflappen. U kunt u\nniet voorstellen wat ik er al niet door moet uitstaan, op allerlei\nmanieren. Soms begrijp ik niet dat ik nog leef, na al wat ik in de\nlaatste vier jaar om Edward's wil heb moeten lijden. Altijd hangen en\nverlangen, en die onzekerheid, en dat we elkaar zoo zelden zien,--niet\nmeer dan een paar maal in 't jaar kunnen we elkaar ontmoeten. 't\nVerwondert mij soms werkelijk, dat mijn hart niet gebroken is.\" Zij\nhaalde haar zakdoek voor den dag; maar Elinor voelde zich niet juist\nbewogen tot medelijden, \"Soms,\" ging Lucy voort, nadat ze haar oogen\nhad afgedroogd, \"soms denk ik wel eens, of 't niet beter zou zijn\nvoor ons allebei, als we de verloving maar verbraken.\" Terwijl ze\ndit zeide, zag ze Elinor recht in de oogen. \"Maar dàn weer heb ik\ngeen moed, ertoe te besluiten. Ik kan de gedachte niet verdragen,\nhem zoo ongelukkig te maken als ik weet dat hij zijn zou, wanneer ik\ndaarover begon. En ook voor mijzelf--terwijl ik hem zoo liefheb--ik\ngeloof niet dat ik er den moed toe zou hebben. Wat zoudt u mij raden\nte doen in dit geval, Juffrouw Dashwood? Wat zoudt u zelf doen?\"\n\n\"Neemt u mij niet kwalijk,\" zei Elinor, verschrikt door die vraag,\n\"maar ik kan u in deze omstandigheden geen raad geven. Dat moet\novergelaten blijven aan uw eigen inzicht.\"\n\n\"'t Spreekt van zelf,\" ging Lucy voort, na een paar minuten waarin\nbeiden hadden gezwegen, \"dat zijn moeder op den langen duur toch\nvoor hem zal moeten zorgen op de eene of andere manier; maar die\narme Edward ziet alles zoo somber in! Vondt u hem niet vreeselijk\nneerslachtig toen hij te Barton was? Hij voelde zich zoo ellendig\ntoen hij uit Longstaple wegging, om naar u toe te gaan, ik was bang\ndat u meenen zou, dat hij bepaald ziek was.\"\n\n\"Kwam hij dan van uw oom, toen hij ons een bezoek bracht?\"\n\n\"Ja, hij had veertien dagen bij ons gelogeerd. Dacht u dan, dat hij\nrechtstreeks uit Londen kwam?\"\n\n\"Neen\" antwoordde Elinor, pijnlijk gevoelig voor elke nieuwe\nbijzonderheid, die sprak ten gunste van Lucy's waarheidsliefde. \"Ik\nherinner mij nu, hoe hij ons vertelde, dat hij veertien dagen bij\nkennissen te Plymouth had doorgebracht.\" Zij herinnerde zich tevens,\nhoe vreemd zij het toen gevonden had, dat hij zich niets meer omtrent\ndie kennissen had laten ontvallen, dat hij zelfs omtrent hun naam\neen volstrekt stilzwijgen had bewaard.\n\n\"Vondt u hem niet treurig terneergeslagen?\" herhaalde Lucy.\n\n\"O ja, zeker; vooral toen hij pas bij ons was.\"\n\n\"Ik drong erop aan, dat hij zich ertegen zou verzetten, uit vrees\ndat u zoudt vermoeden hoe de zaak stond; maar het maakte hem zoo\nmelancholiek, dat hij niet meer dan veertien dagen bij ons kon blijven,\nen dat hij mijn verdriet ook moest aanzien. Arme jongen!--ik vrees\ndat het nog altijd hetzelfde met hem is; want hij schrijft zoo\ngedrukt. Even voor ik uit Exeter vertrok, kreeg ik nog een brief\nvan hem;\" hierbij haalde zij een brief uit haar zak en liet Elinor\nvluchtig het adres zien. \"U kent natuurlijk zijn handschrift; 't is een\nmooie hand; maar dit is niet zoo goed geschreven als gewoonlijk. Hij\nwas stellig moe, want hij had juist een groot vel aan mij zoo dicht\nmogelijk volgeschreven.\"\n\nElinor zag, dat het zijn hand _was_, en zij kon niet langer\ntwijfelen. Het portret, zoo had zij zichzelve nog vergund te gelooven,\nkon door toeval in Lucy's bezit zijn geraakt; het behoefde haar niet\ndoor Edward te zijn geschonken; maar een briefwisseling tusschen hen\nkon alleen plaats hebben, wanneer zij feitelijk verloofd waren, kon\ndoor niets anders worden gewettigd;--bijna begaf haar een oogenblik\nalle kracht; haar hart ontzonk haar, en zij kon ternauwernood staande\nblijven; doch het was dringend noodig dat zij zich vermande, en\nzóó vastberaden verzette zij zich tegen den beklemmenden druk van\nhaar gevoelens, dat zij spoedig, en voorloopig volkomen, zichzelve\nmeester bleef.\n\n\"Dat we elkaar kunnen schrijven,\" zei Lucy, den brief weer in haar\nzak stekend, \"is onze eenige troost, wanneer we zoo lang gescheiden\nmoeten zijn. Ja, _ik_ vind dan nog bovendien troost in zijn portret;\nmaar die arme Edward bezit dàt zelfs niet. Als hij mijn portret\nmaar had, zegt hij, dan zou hij zich beter kunnen schikken. Toen hij\nlaatst te Longstaple was, heb ik hem een lok van mijn haar gegeven,\nin een ring gevat, en dat troostte hem wel een weinig, zei hij; maar\nhet stond toch niet gelijk met een portret. Misschien hebt u wel op\ndien ring gelet, toen hij bij u was?\"\n\n\"Ja, die is mij opgevallen,\" zei Elinor; en de bedaarde klank van\nhaar stem verborg een gemoedsbeweging, een radelooze smart, heviger\ndan zij ooit te voren gevoeld had. Zij was verpletterd; ontdaan; zij\nbegreep _niets_ meer. Gelukkig voor haar waren zij nu aan hun huis\ngekomen, en het gesprek kon niet verder worden voortgezet. Nadat de\ndames Steele nog een poosje bij hen gebleven waren, keerden zij naar\nhet Park terug, en nu eerst stond het Elinor vrij, na te denken en\nzich diep bedroefd te gevoelen.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XXIII\n\n\nHoe weinig Elinor ook in het algemeen waagde te bouwen op Lucy's\nwaarheidlievende gezindheid, bij ernstig nadenken was het haar\nonmogelijk, Lucy in dit geval van bedrog te verdenken, terwijl\ngeenerlei verleiding kon aansprakelijk gesteld worden voor de\ndwaasheid, een dergelijke leugen te verzinnen. Wat Lucy voor waar had\nverklaard, kon, neen durfde Elinor niet langer betwijfelen, gesteund\nals die verklaring werd door zulk een menigte van waarschijnlijkheden\nen bewijzen, en door niets weersproken dan door haar eigen wensch. De\ngelegenheid tot kennismaking ten huize van den Heer Pratt vormde een\ngrondslag voor al het overige, zoowel onbetwistbaar als onrustbarend,\nen Edward's bezoek in de buurt van Plymouth, zijn droefgeestige\nstemming, zijn onvoldaanheid over zijne vooruitzichten, zijn onzekere\nhouding tegenover haarzelve, de nauwkeurige bekendheid van de dames\nSteele met Norland en hun familie-relaties, die haar dikwijls had\nbevreemd, het portret, de brief, de ring, dit alles tezamen genomen\nvormde een aaneenschakeling van bezwarende getuigenissen, die ten\neenenmale de vrees te niet deed, hem ten onrechte te veroordeelen,\nen die duidelijk in het licht stelde, als een feit, door geen\npartijdigheid te verbloemen, dat hij haarzelve slecht behandeld\nhad. Haar afkeer van zulk een gedrag, haar verontwaardiging, dat zij\ndaarvan het slachtoffer was geworden, deden haar een tijdlang enkel\nvoor zichzelve gevoelen; doch spoedig kwamen andere gedachten, andere\nbeschouwingen bij haar op. Had Edward haar met opzet misleid? Had\nhij voor haar een genegenheid geveinsd, die hij niet gevoelde? Was\nzijne verloving met Lucy eene verbintenis van het hart? Neen, wat het\nook ooit mocht geweest zijn, dat het dit thans nog was, kon zij niet\ngelooven. Zijn genegenheid gold haar, en haar alléén. Daarin kon zij\nzich niet vergissen. Haar moeder, haar zusters, Fanny, allen hadden te\nNorland begrepen hoe hij haar waardeerde; het was geen begoocheling\nvan haar eigen ijdelheid. Hij had haar lief; dat was zeker. Hoezeer\nverzachtte die overtuiging haar gemoed! Hoeveel bewoog zij haar niet\nte vergeven! Het was verkeerd, zeer verkeerd van hem geweest te Norland\nte blijven, nadat zij voor het eerst gevoelde, hoe haar invloed op hem\ngrooter was dan die behoorde te zijn. In dàt opzicht was hij niet te\nverdedigen; maar zoo hij haar al kwaad had gedaan, hoeveel meer kwaad\ndeed hij zichzelf! Mocht háár toestand dan al beklagenswaard genoemd\nworden, de zijne was hopeloos. Zijn onbedachtzaamheid had háár een\ntijdlang ongelukkig doen zijn; doch hemzelf scheen zij voor altoos\nde kans op geluk te hebben benomen. _Zij_ zou na verloop van tijd\nmisschien haar rust herwinnen; doch _hij_, hoe zag hij de toekomst\nin? Zou hij ooit ook maar dragelijk gelukkig kunnen zijn met Lucy\nSteele? Zou hij, zijn genegenheid voor haarzelve nog daargelaten, met\nzijn rechtschapen gemoed, zijn kiesch gevoel en ontwikkelden geest,\ntevreden kunnen zijn met een vrouw als zij, onwetend, onbetrouwbaar\nen zelfzuchtig?\n\nDe jeugdige verliefdheid van een jongen van negentien had hem\nnatuurlijk verblind voor alles, behalve haar schoonheid en haar\noppervlakkige goedhartigheid; maar de vier volgende jaren,--jaren die,\nbij redelijk gebruik, zooveel bijdragen tot de vorming van het begrip,\nmoesten zijn oogen hebben geopend voor de leemten in hare opvoeding;\nterwijl zij in dat zelfde tijdsverloop door het samenzijn met personen\nvan geringe ontwikkeling en het najagen van luchthartig vermaak,\nmisschien den eenvoud had verloren, die eertijds hare schoonheid\nmeerdere bekoring kon hebben verleend.\n\nEn indien, gesteld al dat hij haarzelve had willen huwen, de\nmoeilijkheden, hem door zijn moeder in den weg gelegd, reeds groot\nhadden geschenen, hoeveel grooter zouden zij thans niet zijn, nu\nhet voorwerp zijner keuze ongetwijfeld van minder goede familie en\nwaarschijnlijk minder gefortuneerd was dan zijzelve! Die moeilijkheden\nzouden allicht, nu zijn hart reeds zoozeer van Lucy was vervreemd,\nzijn geduld niet zeer zwaar op de proef stellen; doch hoe droevig\nwas niet de toestand van hem, in wien de verwachting van tegenstand\nen onhartelijkheid van de zijde zijner naaste verwanten niet anders\ndan een gevoel van verlichting wekken kon!\n\nNaarmate deze overwegingen zich in pijnigende opeenvolging aan haar\nopdrongen, golden hare tranen meer hèm, dan haar eigen smart. Gesteund\ndoor de overtuiging, dat zij haar tegenwoordige droefenis niet aan\nzich zelve had te wijten, en getroost in het geloof, dat Edward niets\nhad gedaan om hare achting te verbeuren, meende zij zelfs nu, onder\nde eerste felle pijn na den zwaren slag, zichzelve genoeg te kunnen\nbeheerschen, om bij haar moeder en zusters ook niet het geringste\nvermoeden van de waarheid te laten opkomen. En zóó wel bleek zij in\nstaat aan haar eigen verwachting te beantwoorden, dat niemand, toen zij\nmet de anderen aan tafel ging, twee uren slechts na de verijdeling van\nal haar vurigste verlangens, uit het voorkomen der beide zusters zou\nhebben afgeleid dat Elinor in stilte treurde over beletselen, die haar\nvoor altijd moesten gescheiden houden van het voorwerp harer liefde,\nterwijl Marianne zich inwendig vermeide in de volmaaktheid van den\nman, wiens geheele hart zij onverdeeld waande te bezitten, en dien\nzij verwachtte te zien in ieder rijtuig dat hun huis voorbijreed.\n\nDe noodzakelijkheid, voor haar moeder en Marianne te verbergen, wat\nhaar in vertrouwen was medegedeeld, verzwaarde Elinor's lijden niet,\nal werd zij erdoor gedwongen tot voortdurende inspanning. Integendeel,\nhet was haar een verlichting voor hen te kunnen verzwijgen wat hun\nzooveel verdriet zou doen en tevens zich verschoond te zien van het\naanhooren hunner veroordeeling van Edward, die waarschijnlijk zou\nvoortspruiten uit overmaat van partijdige genegenheid voor haarzelve,\ndoch die thans méér zou zijn, dan zij verdragen kon.\n\nZij wist, aan hun raadgevingen of hun gesprekken kon zij geen steun\nontleenen; hun medegevoel en hun verdriet zouden haar smart nog\nvermeerderen; terwijl haar zelfbedwang noch door hun voorbeeld,\nnoch door hun lof zou worden aangemoedigd. Zij was krachtiger\nalleen, en haar eigen rustig inzicht hield haar zóó wel staande,\ndat haar vastheid zoo ongeschokt, haar vertoon van opgewektheid zoo\nonveranderlijk bleef, als mogelijk was na het bitter leed, dat haar\nzoo grievend en nog maar zoo kort geleden had getroffen.\n\nHoeveel pijn haar ook dat eerste gesprek met Lucy over het onderwerp\nhad veroorzaakt, zij verlangde weldra ernstig, en om meer dan eene\nreden, het te hervatten. Zij verlangde vele bijzonderheden omtrent hun\nverloving nogmaals te hooren, zij wenschte duidelijker te begrijpen,\nwat Lucy inderdaad voor Edward gevoelde, of er eenige oprechtheid\nwas in haar verklaring, dat zij hem innig liefhad, en vóór alles\nwenschte zij Lucy te overtuigen, door haar bereidwilligheid om weer\nover de zaak te beginnen, en haar kalmte bij het bespreken ervan,\ndat hare belangstelling een louter vriendschappelijke was, 't geen\nzij vreesde door haar onwillekeurige gemoedsbeweging dien morgen van\nhun gesprek, althans twijfelachtig te hebben doen schijnen. Dat Lucy\ngeneigd was, jaloersch van haar te zijn, scheen zeer waarschijnlijk;\nhet bleek duidelijk dat Edward haar steeds ten zeerste had geprezen,\nniet alleen uit Lucy's bewering, maar uit het feit, dat de laatste het\nwaagde, haar, na zoo korte kennismaking, een geheim toe te vertrouwen,\nblijkbaar en volgens haar eigen getuigenis, van het grootste\ngewicht. En zelfs de schertsende toespelingen van Sir John konden niet\nzonder invloed zijn gebleven. Trouwens, terwijl Elinor inwendig zoo\nstellig verzekerd bleef, dat Edward haar werkelijk liefhad, behoefde\nzij zich niet in gissingen omtrent waarschijnlijkheden te verdiepen,\nom het zeer natuurlijk te achten, dat Lucy jaloersch zou zijn, en dat\nzij dit was, bewees haar vertrouwelijke mededeeling zelf. Welke andere\nreden kon er bestaan voor de onthulling van het geheim, dan dat Elinor\nerdoor zou worden verwittigd van Lucy's recht, de eerste aanspraak\nop Edward te mogen doen gelden, en begrijpen zou, dat zij hem voor\nhet vervolg diende te vermijden? Het viel haar niet moeilijk, althans\nzóóveel van de bedoelingen harer mededingster te vatten, en terwijl zij\nvast besloten was, zich jegens haar te gedragen volgens elk beginsel,\ndat eer en eerlijkheid haar voorschreef, haar eigen liefde voor Edward\nte bestrijden en hem zoo weinig mogelijk te ontmoeten, zij kon zich\nde voldoening niet ontzeggen, althans een poging te doen om Lucy te\novertuigen, dat haar hart niet gewond was. En daar zij thans niets\npijnlijkers meer omtrent dit onderwerp kon vernemen, dan wat haar\nreeds was medegedeeld, wantrouwde zij ook haar eigen vermogen niet,\nom een herhaling van alle bijzonderheden met kalmte aan te hooren.\n\nMaar eene gelegenheid hiertoe kon niet onmiddellijk of naar believen\nworden gevonden, hoewel Lucy even zeer als zijzelve geneigd was, van\nde eerste de beste gebruik te maken; want het weer was niet dikwijls\nmooi genoeg voor een gezamenlijke wandeling, waarbij zij zich het\ngemakkelijkst van de anderen konden afzonderen, en hoewel zij elkander\nbijna om den anderen avond, meestal op het Park, of anders in hun\nhuisje ontmoetten, was er geen sprake van dat die samenkomsten plaats\nhadden met het doel eenig geregeld gesprek te voeren. Die gedachte\nkwam bij Sir John of Lady Middleton zelfs niet op; en daardoor werd\nden gasten zeer weinig tijd gelaten voor een algemeen gesprek, en\nvoor een tête à tête in het geheel niet. Zij kwamen bijeen om met\nelkaar te eten, te drinken en luidruchtig vroolijk te zijn, bij kaart-\nof pandspel, of eenig ander vermaak, dat genoeg leven maakte. Reeds\neen paar malen hadden dergelijke gezellige bijeenkomsten plaats gehad,\nzonder Elinor eenige gelegenheid te bieden tot een afzonderlijk gesprek\nmet Lucy, toen Sir John op een morgen naar Barton Cottage kwam, om hen\nte verzoeken, of zij uit menschlievendheid met hen allen dien dag bij\nLady Middleton wilden komen eten, daar hij een vergadering van zijn\nclub te Exeter moest bijwonen, en zij dus anders geheel alleen zou\nzijn met haar moeder en de beide dames Steele. Elinor, die begreep,\ndat zij beter kans had, haar doel te bereiken in een gezelschap,\nzooals dit waarschijnlijk zou zijn, vrijer in hun bewegingen onder\nelkaar onder de rustige en beschaafde leiding van Lady Middleton,\ndan wanneer haar echtgenoot hen allen vereenigde tot dat ééne doel,\nveel leven maken, nam de uitnoodiging dadelijk aan; Margaret was,\nmet haar moeder's goedvinden, eveneens bereid te komen, en Marianne,\nofschoon steeds ongeneigd aan deze bijeenkomsten deel te nemen,\nliet zich door haar moeder, die niet kon verdragen, dat zij zich\nonttrok aan elke gelegenheid tot onschuldig vermaak, overhalen om\ninsgelijks te gaan. De jonge dames gingen dus alle drie, en Lady\nMiddleton werd gelukkig bewaard voor de ontzettende verlatenheid, die\nhaar bedreigd had. De vervelendheid van de visite was volkomen zooals\nElinor reeds had verwacht; zij leverde niet het minste onvoorziene,\nin gedachte noch uitdrukking, en niets kon onbelangrijker zijn dan het\ngeheele gesprek dat gevoerd werd in eetkamer en salon; naar de laatste\ngingen de kinderen mede; en zoolang zij daar bleven was zij te vast\novertuigd van de onmogelijkheid om Lucy's aandacht te vergen, dan dat\nzij daartoe een poging zou hebben aangewend. De kleinen gingen heen\ntoen het theegoed werd weggebracht; daarop kwamen de speeltafeltjes\nvoor den dag, en Elinor begon zich reeds met verwondering af te vragen,\nhoe zij ooit de hoop had kunnen koesteren, op het Park tijd te vinden\nvoor eenig gesprek. Allen stonden op, om straks een gemeenschappelijk\nkaartspelletje te beginnen.\n\n\"Ik ben blij,\" zei Lady Middleton tot Lucy, \"dat je van avond niet dat\nmandje voor ons lieve Annemarietje gaat afmaken; want ik geloof stellig\ndat het verkeerd voor je oogen zou zijn met dat fijne zilverdraad te\nwerken bij kaarslicht. We zullen wel iets vinden om het lieve kind\nte troosten morgen over haar teleurstelling; ik hoop dat ze 't zich\nniet te erg zal aantrekken.\"\n\nDie lichte aanwijzing was voldoende; Lucy was onmiddellijk op haar\nhoede en antwoordde: \"Neen, neen, u hebt het mis; ik wachtte alleen\nmaar om te weten, of u mij ook noodig hadt bij uw spelletje, anders\nwas ik al aan het werk geweest. Ik zou voor geen geld van de wereld\nhet lieve engeltje teleurstellen; en als u mij nu liever aan de\nspeeltafel zet, dan maak ik het mandje af na het souper.\"\n\n\"'t Is heel vriendelijk van je, ik hoop dat je niet je oogen ermee\nzult bederven; wil je dan wel bellen om meer kaarsen? Mijn lieve\nkleintje zou wèl bitter teleurgesteld zijn, als het mandje morgen\nniet af was; want ik zei haar wel, dat het stellig niet klaar kwam,\nmaar zij rekent erop, dat dit wèl gebeurt.\"\n\nLucy zette dadelijk haar werktafeltje naast zich neer en ging weer\nzitten, zoo vergenoegd en ijverig, alsof ze toonen wilde, dat ze geen\ngrooter genot kon smaken dan een mandje van zilverdraad te vlechten\nvoor een bedorven kind.\n\nLady Middleton stelde den anderen een spelletje casino voor. Niemand\nmaakte eenige tegenwerping behalve Marianne, die met haar gewone\nveronachtzaming van beleefde omgangsvormen, uitriep: \"U wilt wel\nzoo goed zijn, _mij_ te verontschuldigen; ik heb een hekel aan\nkaartspelen, zooals u weet. Ik ga maar eens aan de piano; ik heb\ner nog niet op gespeeld sedert die 't laatst gestemd is.\" En zonder\nverdere plichtplegingen keerde zij zich om en stapte op de piano af.\n\nLady Middleton keek, alsof zij den hemel dankte, dat _zij_ nooit iets\nzóó onbeleefds had gezegd.\n\n\"U weet wel, mevrouw, Marianne kan nooit lang van haar dierbaar\ninstrument afblijven,\" zei Elinor, met een poging om Marianne's\nvergrijp weer goed te maken, \"en dat verwondert mij niet, want uw\npiano is de mooiste van toon, die ik ooit heb gehoord.\"\n\nDe vijf andere dames zouden nu hun kaarten ter hand nemen.\n\n\"Misschien,\" ging Elinor voort, \"zou ik, wanneer ik toevallig mocht\nuitvallen, juffrouw Lucy wel kunnen helpen; want er is nog zooveel\naan het mandje te doen, dat zij, wanneer ze het alleen zou ondernemen,\n't onmogelijk van avond zou kunnen afkrijgen. Ik vind het prettig werk;\nals zij mij wil toestaan, eraan mee te doen?\"\n\n\"O ja,\" riep Lucy; \"daarmee zoudt u mij een grooten dienst bewijzen;\nwant ik zie wel, dat er nog méér aan te doen valt, dan ik had\ngedacht, en 't zou toch te erg zijn, die lieve Annemarie te moeten\nteleurstellen.\"\n\n\"Och, _dat_ zou verschrikkelijk zijn,\" zei de oudste Juffrouw\nSteele. \"Dat lieve schatje, ik ben zoo dol op haar!\"\n\n\"'t Is heel vriendelijk van je,\" zei Lady Middleton tegen Elinor,\n\"en omdat je 't werk bepaald prettig vindt, kan 't je misschien\nniet schelen om dit spelletje over te slaan, of wil je liever eerst\nnog meedoen?\"\n\nElinor maakte met genoegen gebruik van het eerste voorstel, en\nzoodoende, met een weinigje van die handigheid, die Marianne steeds\nversmaadde in praktijk te brengen, kreeg zij haar eigen zin, terwijl ze\nmeteen Lady Middleton pleizier deed. Lucy maakte bereidwillig plaats\nvoor haar, en de twee bevallige mededingsters zaten dus naast elkaar\naan de zelfde tafel, in de grootste eendracht bezig aan de voltooiing\nvan een gemeenschappelijk werk. De piano, waarbij Marianne, verdiept\nin haar eigen muziek en haar eigen gedachten, reeds vergeten had,\ndat er iemand in het vertrek was behalve zijzelve, stond gelukkig zoo\ndicht bij hen, dat Elinor thans, onder de bescherming van haar luide\nklanken, geloofde, dat zij veilig het belangwekkende onderwerp kon\naanroeren, zonder de kans te loopen, dat men hen aan de speeltafel\nzou kunnen verstaan.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XXIV\n\n\nOp vasten, ofschoon voorzichtig ingehouden toon, begon Elinor:\n\n\"Ik zou het vertrouwen, dat u in mij hebt gesteld, niet verdienen,\nals ik niet wenschte dat het blijvend mocht zijn, of verder geen\nbelangstelling toonde in de zaak, die het betrof. Daarom wil ik mij\nniet verontschuldigen, wanneer ik deze opnieuw ter sprake breng.\"\n\n\"Ik dank u zeer,\" riep Lucy hartelijk, \"dat u het ijs hebt gebroken;\ndat verlicht mij bepaald; want ik was werkelijk bang, dat ik u op\nde eene of andere manier had beleedigd door wat ik u dien Maandag\nheb verteld.\"\n\n\"Beleedigd? Hoe kon u dat denken? geloof mij,\" en Elinor sprak deze\nwoorden in volkomen oprechtheid, \"niets kon minder in mijn bedoeling\nhebben gelegen, dan u aanleiding te geven tot dat vermoeden. Welke\nbeweegreden zou u tot dat vertrouwen hebben kunnen drijven, die niet\nvoor mij zoowel eervol als vleiend was?\"\n\n\"En toch kan ik u naar waarheid zeggen,\" antwoordde Lucy, met een\nveelbeteekenenden blik uit haar kleine scherpe oogen, \"het kwam\nmij voor, alsof er in uw houding iets zoo koels en afkeurends was,\ndat ik mij volstrekt niet op mijn gemak gevoelde. Ik dacht stellig,\ndat u boos op mij waart, en ik heb het mijzelf voortdurend verweten,\ndat ik zoo vrijpostig geweest was, u met mijn aangelegenheden lastig\nte vallen. Maar ik ben heel blij, te merken, dat ik het mij alleen\nmaar heb verbeeld, en dat u mijn gedrag niet afkeurt. Als u wist,\nhoe het mij troost geeft, mijn hart uit te storten, door tegen u\nte spreken over 't geen mij elk oogenblik van mijn leven vervult,\ndan zou uw medelijden u al het andere doen over 't hoofd zien; daar\nben ik zeker van.\"\n\n\"Ik geloof gaarne, dat het een groote verlichting voor u was, mij\nvan uw omstandigheden op de hoogte te brengen, en u kunt er zeker van\nzijn, dat u nooit reden zult hebben, dat te berouwen. Uw toestand is\nzeer zeker beklagenswaardig; van alle zijden doen zich, naar het mij\nvoorkomt, moeilijkheden voor u op, en u zult al uw wederkeerige liefde\nnoodig hebben, om u daaronder staande te houden. De heer Ferrars is,\nnaar ik meen, geheel afhankelijk van zijne moeder.\"\n\n\"Hij bezit zelf maar tweeduizend pond; het zou dwaasheid zijn, dáárop\nte trouwen, hoewel ik voor mij zonder eenige klacht elk vooruitzicht\nop meer zou kunnen laten varen. Ik ben altijd gewoon geweest aan een\nzeer klein inkomen, en zou voor hem mij dapper verzetten tegen de\nergste armoede, maar ik heb hem te lief, om hem door mijn zelfzucht\nmisschien te berooven van al wat zijn moeder hem zou kunnen schenken,\nwanneer hij huwde naar haar wensch. Wij moeten wachten, misschien\nwel jaren lang. Met bijna elken anderen man ter wereld zou dat een\nbeangstigend vooruitzicht zijn; maar Edward's genegenheid en trouw\nkan niets mij ontnemen, dat weet ik.\"\n\n\"Die overtuiging moet voor u alles zijn, en zij vindt ongetwijfeld\nsteun in dat zelfde vertrouwen op de uwe. Wanneer de innigheid van\nuw wederkeerige liefde was verminderd, zooals bij veel menschen en\nonder vele omstandigheden natuurlijk zou zijn geweest tijdens een\nverloving van vier jaren, dàn zoudt u waarlijk te beklagen zijn.\"\n\nHier zag Lucy op; doch Elinor droeg zorg, haar gelaat vrij te houden\nvan elke uitdrukking, die in haar woorden een zweem van achterdocht\nkon doen vermoeden.\n\n\"Edward's liefde,\" zei Lucy, \"is tamelijk wel op de proef gesteld door\nonze lange, zeer lange scheiding sedert het begin onzer verloving,\nen zij heeft die proef zoo goed doorstaan, dat het onvergefelijk van\nmij zou zijn, haar nu te wantrouwen. Ik durf gerust zeggen, dat hij\nmij van den beginne niet één oogenblik reden tot bezorgdheid gaf in\ndat opzicht.\"\n\nElinor wist niet recht of ze zou glimlachen of zuchten bij die\nverzekering.\n\nLucy ging voort: \"Ik ben van nature trouwens nogal jaloersch aangelegd,\nen door ons verschil in stand, doordat hij zooveel meer in de wereld\nverkeerde dan ik en door ons voortdurend gescheiden zijn, was ik\ngenoeg tot achterdocht geneigd, om dadelijk achter de waarheid te zijn\ngekomen, als er ook maar de geringste verandering in zijn houding\njegens mij was te bespeuren geweest, wanneer we elkaar ontmoetten,\nof wanneer hij een neerslachtigheid had getoond, die ik niet kon\nverklaren, of als hij meer over ééne dame had gesproken dan over\nanderen, of in eenig opzicht zich minder gelukkig scheen te gevoelen\nte Longstaple dan hij vroeger placht. Ik wil niet zeggen, dat ik over\n't algemeen zoo bijzonder nauwlettend of scherpziende ben, maar in\ndit geval weet ik wel, dat ik mij niet zou laten misleiden.\"\n\n\"Dat is nu alles,\" dacht Elinor, \"goed en wel; maar wij laten ons\ngeen van beiden door die praatjes foppen.\"\n\n\"Maar wat zijn nu,\" zei ze na een kort stilzwijgen, \"uw plannen? Of\nhebt u geen ander vooruitzicht dan te wachten tot Mevrouw Ferrars\nkomt te overlijden, 't geen een treurige en bezwaarlijk te wenschen\noplossing zou zijn? Heeft haar zoon besloten, zich liever hierin\nte schikken, liever de langdurige kwelling te verdragen van de vele\njaren van onzekerheid, die u wellicht te wachten staan, dan de kans\nte loopen, zich een tijdlang haar ongenoegen op den hals te halen\ndoor de waarheid te bekennen?\"\n\n\"Als we maar zeker wisten, dat het voor een tijdlang zou zijn! Maar\nMevrouw Ferrars is een zeer koppige en trotsche vrouw, en zou\nwaarschijnlijk in haar eerste vlaag van drift, wanneer zij het hoorde,\nalles aan Robert nalaten. Dat denkbeeld doet mij, om Edward's wil,\nhuiverig worden voor alle overhaasting.\"\n\n\"Toch ook ter wille van uzelve, anders zou uwe belangeloosheid de\ngrenzen van het waarschijnlijke te buiten gaan.\"\n\nLucy keek Elinor aan, en zweeg.\n\n\"Kent u den heer Robert Ferrars?\" vroeg Elinor.\n\n\"In 't geheel niet--ik heb hem nooit gezien; maar ik geloof, dat hij in\n't minst niet op zijn broer gelijkt,--hij is dom en verbazend ijdel,\neen echte fat.\"\n\n\"Een echte fat!\" herhaalde haar zuster, die bij een plotselinge\npauze in Marianne's muziek, de laatste woorden had opgevangen. \"O,\nze zijn natuurlijk aan 't praten over hun uitverkoren cavaliers.\"\n\n\"Neen, Anne,\" riep Lucy, \"dat heb je mis; onze uitverkoren cavaliers\nzijn _geen_ fatten.\"\n\n\"Ik weet ten minste wel, dat Elinor's vriend dat niet is,\" zei Mevrouw\nJennings, hartelijk lachend; \"want dàt is een van de bescheidenste,\nbeminnelijkste jongelui die ik ooit heb ontmoet. Maar die Lucy is\nzulk een loos klein ding, dat niemand er achter kan komen van wien\nzij wel houdt.\"\n\n\"O,\" riep de oudste Juffrouw Steele, terwijl ze met een\nveelbeteekenenden blik naar hen omzag, \"ik wed dat Lucy's vriend\nprecies even bescheiden en beminnelijk is als die van Juffrouw\nDashwood.\"\n\nElinor kreeg haars ondanks een kleur. Lucy beet zich op de lippen\nen wierp haar zuster een boozen blik toe. Allen bleven een tijdlang\nzwijgen. Lucy verbrak de stilte, door iets zachter te zeggen, hoewel\nMarianne hun op dat oogenblik de prachtige bescherming verleende van\neen schitterend pianoconcert:\n\n\"Ik zal u eerlijk vertellen van een plan, dat onlangs bij mij is\nopgekomen, om de zaak voortgang te doen krijgen; ik ben trouwens wel\nverplicht u in 't geheim in te wijden, omdat u zelf erbij betrokken\nbent. Mij dunkt, u kent Edward genoeg om te weten, dat hij aan den\ngeestelijken stand de voorkeur geeft boven elk ander beroep. Nu is\nmijn plan, dat hij zoo spoedig mogelijk moet zorgen, als geestelijke\nte worden aangesteld, en dan zou, op uwe voorspraak, die u stellig\nwel zoudt willen aanwenden uit vriendschap voor hem en, hoop ik,\nook een weinig voor mij, uw broeder allicht zijn te bewegen, hem de\npredikantsplaats te Norland te verschaffen; ik hoor, dat deze goed\nwordt bezoldigd, en dat de tegenwoordige predikant het wel niet lang\nmeer maken zal. Dan zouden we genoeg hebben om te trouwen, en het\noverige konden we dan overlaten aan den tijd en het gunstig toeval.\"\n\n\"Het zou mij altijd aangenaam zijn,\" antwoordde Elinor, \"een bewijs\nte leveren van mijn achting en vriendschap voor den Heer Ferrars;\nmaar ziet u niet in, dat mijn voorspraak in dezen geheel overbodig\nzou zijn? Hij is de broeder van Mevrouw John Dashwood,--_dat_ is voor\nhaar echtgenoot aanbeveling genoeg.\"\n\n\"Maar Mevrouw John Dashwood zou het in 't geheel niet goedkeuren dat\nEdward predikant werd.\"\n\n\"Dàn vermoed ik, dat mijn voorspraak weinig zou baten.\" Hier zwegen\nbeiden geruimen tijd. Eindelijk zei Lucy met een diepen zucht:\n\n\"Ik geloof dat het 't verstandigst zou zijn, een einde te maken aan\nde zaak, door de verloving te verbreken. We zijn zoo van alle zijden\nomringd door moeilijkheden, dat we ten slotte misschien gelukkiger\nerdoor zouden worden, al hadden we dan ook een tijdlang verdriet. Maar\nu wilt mij geen raad geven, Juffrouw Dashwood?\"\n\n\"Neen,\" antwoordde Elinor, met een glimlach, die zeer onrustige\ngevoelens verborg, \"in een dergelijke aangelegenheid wil ik dat zeer\nzeker niet. U weet heel goed, dat mijne meening bij u geen gewicht in\nde schaal zou leggen, tenzij ze overeenstemde met uw eigen wenschen.\"\n\n\"U doet mij werkelijk onrecht,\" zei Lucy met veel vertoon van\nwaardigheid, \"ik ken niemand, wier oordeel ik zóó op prijs stel als\nhet uwe; en ik geloof waarlijk, dat ik, wanneer u tegen mij zei:\n\"Ik raad u ten sterkste aan, uw verloving met Edward Ferrars te\nverbreken; het zal uw beider geluk bevorderen,\" ertoe zou kunnen\nbesluiten, dat onmiddellijk te doen.\"\n\nElinor bloosde voor de onoprechtheid van Edward's aanstaande vrouw,\nen antwoordde: \"Dit vleiend oordeel zou mij huiverig doen worden,\nmijn meening omtrent de zaak te uiten, indien ik die al gevormd\nhad. Het kent veel te veel waarde toe aan mijn invloed; de macht,\ntwee menschen, die zoo teeder aan elkander gehecht zijn, te scheiden,\nis te groot voor den onbevooroordeelden toeschouwer.\"\n\n\"'t Is juist _omdat_ u een onbevooroordeeld toeschouwster bent,\"\nzei Lucy, ietwat geërgerd, en met bijzonderen nadruk op de laatste\nwoorden, \"dat uw oordeel mij met recht zooveel waard is. Als men kon\nveronderstellen, dat u in eenig opzicht zoudt worden beïnvloed door\nuw eigen gevoelens, dan zou uw meening al van zeer weinig beteekenis\nzijn.\"\n\nElinor vond het 't verstandigst om hierop niet te antwoorden,\nuit vrees dat zij elkander zouden uitlokken tot een weinig gepaste\nvermeerdering van hun reeds vrij ver gaande openhartigheid, en zij\nwas reeds ten deele besloten het onderwerp nooit meer aan te roeren.\n\nDus volgde wederom na Lucy's woorden een minutenlange stilte, en weer\nwas Lucy de eerste die ze verbrak.\n\n\"Komt u dezen winter ook naar Londen, Juffrouw Dashwood?\" vroeg zij,\nmet haar gewone kalme zelfverzekerdheid.\n\n\"Neen, in geen geval.\"\n\n\"Dat spijt mij,\" gaf Lucy ten antwoord, terwijl haar oogen schitterden\nvan blijdschap over die mededeeling, \"'t zou zoo aardig geweest zijn,\nu daar te ontmoeten! Maar ik denk, dat u toch wel zult gaan, per slot\nvan rekening. Uw broer en zuster zullen u wel te logeeren vragen.\"\n\n\"Toch zal ik hun uitnoodiging niet kunnen aannemen, wanneer ze\ndat doen.\"\n\n\"Wat is dat nu jammer! Ik had er vast op gerekend, u daar weer\nte zien. Anne en ik gaan in 't laatst van Januari logeeren bij\nfamilie van ons, die al jaren er op aandringt dat we hen eens moeten\nbezoeken. Maar ik ga alleen om Edward te ontmoeten. Hij komt er in\nFebruari; anders zou Londen niets aantrekkelijks voor mij hebben;\ndaar is mijn stemming niet naar.\"\n\nElinor werd spoedig aan de speeltafel geroepen, nu het eerste spelletje\ngeëindigd was, en het vertrouwelijk onderhoud der twee dames was dus\nafgeloopen; iets, waarin beiden zonder aarzeling berustten; want van\nweerskanten was er niets gezegd, dat hun wederzijdschen afkeer van\nelkaar verminderen kon, en Elinor ging aan de speeltafel zitten met\nde droevige overtuiging, dat Edward niet alleen geen liefde gevoelde\nvoor het wezen dat zijn vrouw zou worden, maar dat zelfs de kans op een\ndragelijk gelukkig huwelijk, die een oprechte genegenheid van _hare_\nzijde zou hebben gewaarborgd, hem was ontzegd; want alleen eigenbelang\nkon een vrouw nopen, een man te houden aan een verbintenis, waarvan\nzij zoo blijkbaar begreep, dat hij haar moede was.\n\nVan nu af werd het onderwerp door Elinor nooit meer aangeroerd,\nen wanneer Lucy erover begon, die zelden een gelegenheid liet\nvoorbijgaan, om het op het tapijt te brengen, en ijverig zorg droeg,\nhaar vertrouwelinge vol blijdschap de komst te berichten van elken\nbrief, dien zij van Edward ontving, behandelde Elinor het met kalmte\nen voorzichtigheid, en stapte ervan af, zoodra de beleefdheid dit\ntoeliet, want zij vond zulke gesprekken voor Lucy een genoegen,\ndat deze niet verdiende, en voor zichzelve achtte zij ze gevaarlijk.\n\nHet bezoek van de dames Steele te Barton Park werd van veel langeren\nduur dan oorspronkelijk bedoeld was bij de eerste uitnoodiging. Ze\nwisten zich steeds meer bemind te maken; men kon hen niet meer missen;\nSir John wilde van heengaan niet hooren, en ondanks de vele en lang\nvan te voren gemaakte afspraken te Exeter, ondanks de volstrekte\nnoodzakelijkheid van hun terugkeer, om daaraan onverwijld te voldoen,\ndie aan het eind van iedere week tot een dringende verplichting\naangroeide, lieten zij zich overhalen om bijna twee maanden op het Park\nte blijven en een ijverig aandeel te nemen in de gebruikelijke viering\nvan dat feest, waarvan de luister noodzakelijk schijnt te moeten worden\nverhoogd door een ongewoon groot aantal danspartijen en gastmalen.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XXV\n\n\nHoewel Mevrouw Jennings gewoon was, een groot deel van het jaar door\nte brengen ten huize van hare kinderen en vrienden, was zij toch niet\nzonder een eigen vaste woonplaats. Sedert den dood van haar echtgenoot,\ndie een voorspoedigen handel placht te drijven in een minder sierlijke\nwijk, had zij des winters geregeld een huis bewoond in een der straten\nin den omtrek van Portman Square. Aan dat tehuis begon zij, toen de\nmaand Januari naderde, weer eens te denken, en op zekeren dag vroeg\nzij de beide oudste dames Dashwood zonder eenige voorbereiding en voor\nhen geheel onverwacht, of zij haar daarheen wilden vergezellen. Elinor,\ndie niet aanstonds bespeurde, hoe Marianne door haar wisselende kleur\nen gespannen blik verried, dat het plan haar niet onverschillig was,\nsloeg dadelijk dankbaar, maar beslist de uitnoodiging voor hen beiden\naf, in de meening, dat zij het op dit punt volkomen eens waren. De\nreden, welke zij aanvoerde was hun stellig besluit, hun moeder niet\nom dezen tijd van het jaar te willen alleen laten. Mevrouw Jennings\nscheen min of meer verwonderd over die weigering, en herhaalde hare\nvraag onmiddellijk.\n\n\"O lieve deugd; ik weet zeker, dat je mama je heel goed kan missen;\nen ik _hoop_ toch, dat je mij 't pleizier zult doen; want ik ben\ner nu eenmaal erg op gesteld. Denk maar niet, dat je 't mij lastig\nzult maken, want ik maak volstrekt geen omslag voor jelui. Betty\nzal alleen met de postkoets moeten reizen, en dàt is nu de heele\nwereld niet. Wij gaan dan met ons drieën in mijn rijtuig; en wanneer\njelui in de stad niet overal met mij mee wilt gaan, dan is dat niets,\nwant dan kun je altijd gaan met eene van mijn dochters. Ik wed dat je\nmoeder er niets op tegen heeft; want ik heb het zoo gelukkig getroffen\nmet mijn beide kinderen, zoo goed bezorgd, nietwaar? dat ze mij de\naangewezen persoon zal vinden om jelui onder mijn hoede te nemen,\nen als niet één van jelui beiden ten minste een goed huwelijk doet,\neer ik je weer aflever, dan zal het mijn schuld niet zijn. Ik zal\neen goed woordje voor jelui doen bij de heeren, daar kan je op aan.\"\n\n\"'t Komt mij voor,\" zei Sir John, \"dat Marianne niets op het plan\nzou tegen hebben, als haar zuster ook van de partij wilde zijn. 't\nIs ook wel wat erg, dat zij niet eens een pleiziertje mag hebben,\nomdat Elinor het niet wenscht. Ik zou u raden om maar met u beitjes\nnaar de stad te trekken, als u genoeg krijgt van Barton, en er Elinor\nniets van te vertellen.\"\n\n\"Ja, kijk eens,\" riep Mevrouw Jennings, \"ik zou verbazend in mijn\nschik zijn met Marianne's gezelschap, of Elinor meegaat of niet,\nmaar hoe meer zielen hoe meer vreugd, zeg ik altijd, en ik dacht,\ndat het gezelliger voor hen was samen te zijn; want als ik hen dan\nverveel, kunnen ze samen praten, en mij nog eens uitlachen achter\nmijn rug. Maar een van beiden moet ik hebben, als ik ze allebei niet\nkrijgen kan. Wel lieve deugd, hoe zou ik het uithouden in mijn eentje,\nterwijl ik tot aan dezen winter toe altijd Charlotte bij mij had. Kom\nMarianne, laten wij nu maar zeggen dat de zaak beklonken is, en als\nElinor zich dan nog bedenkt over een tijdje, des te beter.\"\n\n\"Ik dank u, mevrouw, ik dank u hartelijk,\" zei Marianne met nadruk;\n\"ik kan u niet genoeg danken, voor uwe uitnoodiging, en ik zou innig\ngelukkig zijn, ja, zoo gelukkig als ik met mogelijkheid zijn kàn,\nwanneer ik die mocht aannemen. Maar moeder, onze lieve beste moeder,\nik weet, dat Elinor gelijk heeft in 't geen zij zeide, en als zij\ndoor onze afwezigheid verdriet of zorg moest hebben... Neen, neen,\nniets zou mij kunnen verleiden om haar alleen te laten. Het mag,\nen het moet geen strijd kosten.\"\n\nMevrouw Jennings herhaalde haar verzekering dat Mevrouw Dashwood hen\nbest kon missen; en Elinor, die thans haar zuster begreep, en zag hoe\nhaar verlangen om Willoughby weer te ontmoeten, haar voor al wat daar\nbuiten lag, bijna onverschillig deed worden, verzette zich niet langer\nrechtstreeks tegen het plan, en wilde alleen de beslissing overlaten\naan hare moeder, van wie zij echter niet verwachtte veel steun te\nzullen ontvangen bij haar poging tot verhindering van een bezoek,\ndat zij voor Marianne verkeerd achtte, en dat zij voor zichzelf om\nbijzondere redenen liever vermeed. Wat Marianne ook mocht verlangen,\nhaar moeder zou altijd bereid zijn, haar wenschen in te willigen;\nzij mocht niet verwachten, Mevrouw Dashwood te kunnen bewegen tot\nvoorzichtigheid in eene zaak waaromtrent zij nooit bij machte was\ngeweest haar wantrouwen in te boezemen, en de reden voor haar eigen\nongeneigdheid naar Londen te gaan, kon zij niet openlijk zeggen. Dat\nMarianne, veeleischend als zij was, en maar al te goed bekend met\nMevrouw Jennings' eigenaardigheden, die telkens opnieuw haar afkeer\nwekten, elke onaangenaamheid van dien aard kon over het hoofd zien,\ngeheel uit het oog kon verliezen wat haar prikkelbare gevoeligheid\nhet meest moest kwetsen, door het najagen van dat ééne doel, was een\nzóó sterksprekend, overtuigend bewijs, hoe uitsluitend dat doel haar\nvervulde, als Elinor, zelfs na al wat er was voorgevallen, niet had\nkunnen verwachten.\n\nToen Mevrouw Dashwood van de uitnoodiging hoorde, wilde zij,\nstellig overtuigd als zij was dat zulk een uitstapje haar dochters\nveel genoegen zou verschaffen, en ondanks Marianne's betuigingen van\naanhankelijkheid wel bespeurend, hoe haar hart eraan hing, volstrekt\nniet, dat deze om _harentwil_ zou worden afgeslagen; zij rustte\nniet eer beiden beloofd hadden te zullen gaan, en begon aanstonds\nmet haar gewone opgewektheid, een menigte voordeelen op te sommen,\ndie uit deze scheiding voor hen allen zouden voortvloeien.\n\n\"Ik vind het een uitmuntend plan,\" riep zij; \"het is juist naar mijn\nzin. 't Zal voor Margaret en mij even goed zijn als voor jelui. Als\nde Middletons dan ook weg zijn, kunnen we ons zoo rustig en gezellig\nbezighouden met onze boeken en muziek! Als je dan terugkomt,\nzul je Margaret zoo vooruitgegaan vinden! En ik heb een plannetje\ngemaakt om jelui slaapkamers te veranderen, dat nu ook kan worden\nuitgevoerd zonder iemand last te veroorzaken. Het is bepaald héél\ngoed, dat je eens naar de stad gaat, ik vind dat iedere jonge dame\nvan jelui positie in de wereld, het Londensche leven en de Londensche\nvermaken behoort te leeren kennen. Je zult onder de hoede zijn van\neen moederlijke goedhartige vrouw, op wier vriendelijkheid voor jelui\nik kan rekenen. Waarschijnlijk zul je ook je broer ontmoeten, en wat\nook zijn gebreken mogen zijn, of die van zijn vrouw, als ik bedenk,\nwiens zoon hij is, dan kan ik niet goed hebben, dat jelui zoo heel\nen al van elkaar zoudt vervreemden.\"\n\n\"Hoewel u, als gewoonlijk alleen bedacht op ons genoegen,\" zei Elinor,\n\"alle bezwaren tegen het plan, die bij u opkwamen, hebt weggeredeneerd,\nis er toch nog één beletsel, dat naar 't mij voorkomt, niet zoo\ngemakkelijk kan worden terzij geschoven.\"\n\nMarianne's gezicht betrok.\n\n\"Wat gaat mijn lieve voorzichtige Elinor ons nu onder het oog\nbrengen?\" zei Mevrouw Dashwood. \"Welk geducht bezwaar komt zij\nopperen? Over de kosten wil ik geen enkel woord hooren.\"\n\n\"Mijn bezwaar is dit: al heb ik op Mevrouw Jennings' hart niets aan\nte merken, zij is toch geen vrouw, in wier gezelschap wij genoegen\nvinden, of wier bescherming voor ons eenige waarde heeft.\"\n\n\"Dat is wèl waar,\" antwoordde haar moeder; \"maar op háár gezelschap,\nzonder dat van anderen, zul je heel weinig zijn aangewezen, en in\n't publiek vertoon je je toch bijna altijd met Lady Middleton.\"\n\n\"Al zou Elinor zich door haar afkeer van Mevrouw Jennings laten bewegen\nom weg te blijven,\" zei Marianne, \"dan behoeft dat nog geene reden\nte zijn, waarom _ik_ zou bedanken voor hare uitnoodiging. Voor mij\nbestaan die bezwaren niet, en ik weet weet zeker, dat het mij heel\nweinig moeite zal kosten, dergelijke onaangenaamheden te verdragen.\"\n\nElinor kon niet nalaten te glimlachen over dit vertoon van\nonverschilligheid voor de eigenaardigheden van iemand, jegens wie\nzij Marianne dikwijls slechts met moeite had kunnen overhalen, een\ndragelijk beleefde houding aan te nemen, en nam zich in stilte voor,\nzoo haar zuster erbij bleef, te willen gaan, haar in elk geval te\nvergezellen; daar zij het niet goedkeurde, dat het Marianne zou\nvrijstaan, geheel naar eigen inzicht te handelen, noch ook, dat\nMevrouw Jennings, op het punt van huiselijke gezelligheid, volkomen\naan Marianne's genade zou zijn overgeleverd. Zij verzoende zich\nte gemakkelijker met deze beslissing, toen zij bedacht, dat Edward\nFerrars, volgens Lucy's mededeeling, niet vóór Februari in de stad zou\nkomen, en dat hun bezoek vóór dien tijd wel zou kunnen zijn afgeloopen,\nook zonder dat het opvallend werd bekort.\n\n\"Jelui moet _allebei_ gaan,\" zei Mevrouw Dashwood; \"die bezwaren\nzijn pure onzin. Je zult het alleraardigst vinden, in Londen te zijn;\nvooral met je beiden; en als Elinor zich ooit wilde verwaardigen, zich\ngenoegen van iets voor te stellen, dan zou ze het nu om verschillende\nredenen wel mogen verwachten; misschien zou ze zich dan wel verheugen\nop een nadere kennismaking met de familie van haar schoonzuster.\"\n\nElinor had dikwijls verlangd naar eene gelegenheid, waarbij zij zou\nkunnen trachten, haar moeder's stellig vertrouwen in de genegenheid\ntusschen Edward en haarzelve aan het wankelen te brengen, opdat de\nschok haar minder hevig zou treffen, wanneer de geheele waarheid\nwerd geopenbaard. en bij deze woorden dwong zij zichzelve, hoewel met\nweinig hoop op eenig gunstig gevolg, tot een begin van uitvoering van\ndit plan, door zoo kalm mogelijk te zeggen: \"Ik houd veel van Edward\nFerrars, en 't zal mij altijd genoegen doen, hem te ontmoeten; maar\nwat de overige familieleden betreft, 't is mij volkomen onverschillig,\nof ik ze ooit zal leeren kennen.\"\n\nMevrouw Dashwood glimlachte en gaf geen antwoord. Marianne keek\nverwonderd op, en Elinor begreep, dat zij even goed had kunnen zwijgen.\n\nEr waren thans niet veel besprekingen meer noodig, eer het vaststond,\ndat de uitnoodiging met genoegen zou worden aangenomen. Mevrouw\nJennings ontving dat bericht met uitbundige vreugde, en veel\nbetuigingen van vriendelijkheid en goede zorg; zij was trouwens niet\nde eenige, die zich erover verblijdde. Sir John was verrukt; want voor\neen man, die niets zoozeer vreesde als de eenzaamheid, beteekende\nde vermeerdering van Londen's aantal inwoners met twee toch altijd\niets. Zelfs Lady Middleton gaf zich de moeite, haar ingenomenheid met\nhet plan te betuigen, 't geen voor haar een heel ding was; en wat de\ndames Steele betrof, vooral Lucy, zij waren nog nooit in haar leven\nzoo blij geweest, als bij het hooren van dit bericht.\n\nElinor voegde zich in de schikking, die in strijd was met haar eigen\nwenschen, met minder tegenzin dan zij verwacht had. Wat haarzelve\nbetrof, het was haar thans onverschillig of zij naar de stad ging of\nniet; en toen zij zag, hoe hartelijk haar moeder zich verheugde over\nhet plan, hoe haar zuster in blik, stem en houding haar blijdschap\nverried, hoe zij al haar oude levendigheid en meer dan haar vroegere\nvroolijkheid erdoor had herwonnen, kon zij over de oorzaak dier\nverandering niet onvoldaan zijn, en bestreed haar neiging tot\nbezorgdheid over de gevolgen ervan.--\n\nMarianne's blijdschap was bijna te groot om te kunnen doorgaan voor\ngeluk; zoo gejaagd en onrustig was zij, en zoo verlangend om te\nvertrekken. Slechts haar ongeneigdheid om haar moeder te verlaten,\nkon haar eenigszins tot kalmte stemmen, en bij het afscheid ging haar\nverdriet alle perken te buiten. Haar moeder toonde zich weinig minder\nbedroefd, en Elinor was de eenige van de drie, die in deze scheiding\nnog niet juist een vaarwel voor eeuwig scheen te zien.\n\nZij vertrokken in de eerste week van Januari. De Middletons wilden\nongeveer een week later gaan. De dames Steele bleven vooreerst nog\nop het Park, en zouden eerst met de overige familie vertrekken.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XXVI\n\n\nElinor kon, toen zij eenmaal met Mevrouw Jennings in het rijtuig was\ngezeten, aan 't begin van de reis naar Londen, onder hare bescherming,\nen als haar gast, niet nalaten zich te verbazen over haar eigen\ntoestand; zoo kort hadden zij deze dame nog maar gekend; zoo weinig\npasten zij bij haar in leeftijd en geaardheid, en zoovele bezwaren\ntegen dezen stap had zij nog slechts een paar dagen te voren gemeend\nte moeten aanvoeren! Doch die bezwaren waren alle overwonnen of op\nzij gezet door Marianne en hare moeder, met die gelukkige en jeugdige\ngeestdrift, die beiden in gelijke mate bezielde, en Elinor kon, ondanks\nhaar telkens terugkeerenden twijfel aan Willoughby's standvastigheid,\nde verwachtingsvolle verrukking, die Marianne's ziel vervulde,\nen straalde uit haar blik, niet aanschouwen, zonder te gevoelen,\nhoe kleurloos daarbij vergeleken haar eigen vooruitzichten schenen,\nhoe vreugdeloos haar eigen gemoedsstemming was, en hoe gaarne zij\nzelfs in die zorgwekkende onzekerheid van Marianne's toestand zou\nhebben willen deelen, om althans hetzelfde bezielende doel voor\noogen te hebben, de zelfde mogelijkheid tot verwezenlijking harer\nhoop.--Binnen korten, zéér korten tijd echter zou thans blijken, wat\nWilloughby's bedoelingen waren; naar alle waarschijnlijkheid was hij\nreeds in de stad. Marianne's verlangen om te gaan bewees, hoe vast\nzij erop rekende, hem daar te ontmoeten. En Elinor was vastbesloten,\nniet alleen alles gewaar te worden, zoo door eigen waarneming als\ndoor mededeelingen van anderen, wat een nieuw licht kon werpen op zijn\nkarakter, maar ook zijn houding tegenover haar zuster zoo nauwlettend\ngade te slaan, dat zij, eer die beiden elkaar meermalen hadden ontmoet,\nzich zekerheid zou hebben verschaft omtrent de vraag, wie hij was,\nen wat hij wilde. Mocht de uitslag van hare waarnemingen ongunstig\nzijn, dan was zij voornemens, in elk geval haar zuster de oogen te\nopenen; zoo niet, dan zou zij haar kracht op andere wijze moeten\ninspannen,--zij zou dan moeten pogen, elke zelfzuchtige vergelijking\nte vermijden, en alle droefheid te verbannen, die haar voldoening\nover Marianne's geluk verminderen kon.\n\nDrie dagen duurde de reis, en Marianne's gedrag gedurende dien tijd\nwas een merkwaardig staaltje van 't geen voor het vervolg, op het punt\nvan inschikkelijkheid en voorkomendheid jegens Mevrouw Jennings van\nhaar te wachten viel. Bijna voortdurend zat zij zwijgend in gedachten\nverzonken, zonder ooit uit zichzelve een woord te spreken, tenzij\nde schilderachtige schoonheid van de omgeving haar een uitroep van\nverrukking ontlokte, die uitsluitend tot haar zuster gericht was. Om\nhaar gedrag goed te maken, aanvaardde Elinor dus onmiddellijk de taak\nder beleefdheid, die zij zichzelve reeds had opgedragen; gedroeg zich\ntegenover Mevrouw Jennings met de grootste voorkomendheid, praatte en\nlachte met haar, en luisterde zoo goed zij kon naar haar verhalen;\nterwijl Mevrouw Jennings van haar kant beiden allervriendelijkst\nbehandelde, zooveel in haar vermogen was zorgde voor hun gemak en\ngenoegen, en alleen maar betreurde, dat zij hen in de hotels hun\neigen maaltijden niet kon laten kiezen, en hun met geen mogelijkheid\nde bekentenis kon afpersen, of zij de voorkeur gaven aan zalm boven\nkabeljauw, of aan gekookte kip boven kalfscoteletten. Zij kwamen\nden derden dag om drie uur in Londen aan, blijde niet langer in een\nrijtuig te zijn opgesloten na zulk een lange reis, en zich bij voorbaat\nverheugend op de behagelijkheid van een helder brandend haardvuur.\n\nHet huis was mooi, en mooi ingericht, en de jonge dames werden\naanstonds naar een zeer gezellige eigen zitkamer gebracht. Het was\nvroeger Charlotte's kamer geweest, en boven den schoorsteenmantel\nhing nog een landschap in gekleurde zijde, door haar geborduurd, als\neen bewijs dat zij niet zonder resultaat zeven jaren in een deftige\nLondensche kostschool had doorgebracht. Daar zij eerst twee uren na\nhun aankomst zouden dineeren, besloot Elinor in dien tusschentijd aan\nhaar moeder te schrijven, en ging zitten om haar brief te beginnen. Een\noogenblik later volgde Marianne haar voorbeeld.\n\n\"_Ik_ schrijf naar huis, Marianne,\" zei Elinor, \"zou jij niet liever\nnog een paar dagen wachten met een brief?\"\n\n\"Ik schrijf niet aan moeder,\" antwoordde Marianne haastig, alsof zij\nwenschte verder navragen te vermijden.\n\nElinor zei niets meer; zij begreep dadelijk, dat Marianne aan niemand\nanders kon schrijven dan aan Willoughby, en even onmiddellijk leidde\nzij hieruit af, dat die twee, al verkozen zij nu eenmaal geheimzinnig\nte doen, in elk geval verloofd moesten zijn. Die overtuiging, ofschoon\nniet volkomen bevredigend, schonk haar toch genoegen, en zij ging\niets opgewekter voort met haar brief. Die van Marianne was in een\npaar minuten gereed; het kon niet meer dan een kort briefje zijn;\nzij vouwde, verzegelde en adresseerde het in groote haast. Elinor\nmeende een groote W. te onderscheiden in het adres; maar zoodra het\ngeschreven was, vroeg Marianne reeds aan den bediende die op haar\nbellen verscheen, den brief voor haar op de post te bezorgen, zoodat\nalles in een oogwenk was beslist.\n\nMarianne bleef nog steeds bijna overdreven vroolijk, maar er was iets\ngejaagds in haar manier van zijn, dat haar zuster belette zich over\nhaar opgewektheid te verheugen; en die gejaagdheid nam toe, naarmate\nde avond verstreek. Zij had in 't geheel geen eetlust, en toen zij\nnaar den salon waren teruggegaan, scheen zij angstig te luisteren\nnaar het geluid van ieder rijtuig.\n\nElinor was uiterst dankbaar, dat Mevrouw Jennings, die veel in haar\neigen kamer bezig was, weinig bespeurde van 't geen er voorviel. Het\ntheeservies werd binnengebracht, en reeds was Marianne meermalen\nteleurgesteld geworden door een kloppen aan eene naburige deur, toen\nplotseling een luide klop werd vernomen, die hun huis gold en geen\nander; daarin konden zij zich niet vergissen. Elinor dacht stellig,\ndat Willoughby elk oogenblik kon binnenkomen; Marianne sprong op,\nen deed een paar stappen naar de deur. Alles bleef stil; langer dan\neen paar seconden kon zij dat niet verdragen; zij opende de deur,\nliep een eind naar de trap, en keerde, na een oogenblik te hebben\ngeluisterd, in de kamer terug, zóó opgewonden, als zij slechts kon\nzijn door de zekerheid, hem werkelijk te hebben gehoord. In haar\nverrukking kon zij niet nalaten uit te roepen: \"O Elinor, 't is waar;\nhet is Willoughby!\" en zij scheen op het punt zich in zijn armen te\nwillen werpen, toen Kolonel Brandon binnentrad.\n\nDe schok was te hevig om met kalmte te worden verdragen, en zij ging\nonmiddellijk de kamer uit. Elinor was ook teleurgesteld, maar haar\ngenegenheid voor Kolonel Brandon deed haar zijn bezoek toch welkom\nzijn, en het speet haar bijzonder, dat deze man, die zooveel van hare\nzuster hield, moest bemerken, dat zij bij zijn weêrzien niets dan\nverdriet en teleurstelling gevoelde. Zij bespeurde aanstonds, dat\nhij het wel had opgemerkt; dat hij Marianne zelfs oplettend aanzag,\ntoen zij de kamer verliet, met zóóveel verwondering en spijt, dat hij\nbijna vergat, wat de beleefdheid jegens haarzelve van hem vorderde. \"Is\nuw zuster niet wel?\" vroeg hij.\n\nElinor antwoordde half verlegen, half treurig, dat dit het geval\nwas, en sprak van hoofdpijn, gedruktheid, over-vermoeienis, en\nallerlei meer, waaraan zij haar zuster's gedrag redelijkerwijze kon\ntoeschrijven.\n\nHij hoorde haar ernstig en aandachtig aan; maar scheen zichzelf thans\nweer meester, en ging niet op het onderwerp door, doch begon dadelijk\nover het genoegen, dat het hem deed, hen in Londen te ontmoeten,\nen deed de gewone vragen naar hunne reis, en de vrienden, die zij\nhadden achtergelaten.\n\nOp dien kalmen en vriendelijken toon, doch zonder veel belangstelling\nvan weerskanten, zetten zij het gesprek voort, beiden ontstemd, en\nbeiden met hun gedachten elders. Elinor zou zeer gaarne hebben gevraagd\nof Willoughby in de stad was; maar zij vreesde hem verdriet te doen,\ndoor te vragen naar zijn medeminnaar, en eindelijk vroeg zij, om maar\niets te zeggen, of hij in Londen was gebleven, sedert zij elkaar het\nlaatst hadden gezien. \"Ja,\" antwoordde hij, ietwat verlegen, \"bijna\naltijd; ik ben nog een paar malen te Delaford geweest een dag of wat,\nmaar ik kon onmogelijk te Barton terugkomen.\"\n\nDie woorden, en de wijze waarop hij ze zeide, brachten haar\nonmiddellijk de omstandigheden voor den geest, waaronder hij hen had\nverlaten; evenals de ongerustheid en de vermoedens, die zijn vertrek\nbij Mevrouw Jennings had gewekt, en zij vreesde, dat zij door hare\nvraag veel meer nieuwsgierigheid had laten blijken naar dit onderwerp,\ndan zij ooit gevoeld had.\n\nSpoedig kwam nu ook Mevrouw Jennings binnen. \"Wel, Kolonel,\" zei ze,\nmet haar gewone luidruchtige vroolijkheid, \"ik ben reusachtig blij,\ndat ik u zie,--'t spijt me, dat ik niet eerder beneden kwam,--neem het\nmij niet kwalijk; maar ik moest volstrekt alles een beetje nagaan, en\norde stellen op mijn zaakjes, want ik ben lang van huis geweest en u\nweet hoe dat gaat, men heeft dan van alles en nog wat te beredderen,\nals men terug komt; ik heb Cartwright ook nog bij me gehad, om over\nzaken te spreken. Ik ben sedert na den eten onafgebroken in touw! Maar\nvertel mij eens, Kolonel, hoe hebt u dat zoo precies kunnen raden,\ndat ik vandaag weer in de stad kwam?\"\n\n\"Ik hoorde het tot mijn groot genoegen van Mevrouw Palmer, bij wie\nik gedineerd heb.\"\n\n\"Zoo, zoo, en hoe maken de kinderen het wel? Hoe gaat het met\nCharlotte? Die zal er wel niet magerder op zijn geworden, denk ik.\"\n\n\"Mevrouw Palmer maakte het, naar 't mij voorkwam, heel goed, en zij\ndroeg mij op, u te vertellen, dat ze u stellig morgen komt bezoeken.\"\n\n\"Natuurlijk; dat dacht ik al. Wel, Kolonel, u ziet, ik heb twee jonge\ndames meegebracht; dat is te zeggen, u ziet er nu maar eene van,\nmaar er is ook nog een andere. Uw vriendin Juffrouw Marianne is hier\nook,--daar zult u wel niet op tegen hebben. Ik weet niet wat we nu wel\nzullen te doen krijgen over haar tusschen u en Mijnheer Willoughby. Ja,\nja, 't is lang niet onaardig, om jong en mooi te zijn. Nu, ik ben\nook eenmaal jong geweest; maar mooi was ik nooit--jammer genoeg\nvoor mij. En toch heb ik een besten man gekregen; méér kan zelfs de\ngrootste schoonheid niet. Hij is nu al meer dan acht jaar dood, die\ngoeie man. Maar, Kolonel, waar hebt u nu wel gezeten sinds we afscheid\nnamen? En hoe staat het met uw zaken? Kom, kom, onder vrienden behoeven\nwe geen geheimen te hebben voor elkaar.\"\n\nHij beantwoordde al haar vragen met zijn gewone zachtaardigheid;\nmaar voldeed haar op geen enkel punt. Elinor ging nu thee zetten,\nen Marianne moest wel weer binnenkomen. Kolonel Brandon was na haar\nkomst nadenkender en stiller dan te voren, en Mevrouw Jennings kon hem\nniet bewegen, lang te blijven. Dien avond kwam er geen ander bezoek, en\nde dames waren eensgezind in hun verlangen om vroeg naar bed te gaan.\n\nBij het opstaan was Marianne's stemming verbeterd, en zij keek weer\nvroolijk. De teleurstelling van den vorigen avond scheen vergeten door\nde verwachting van wat deze dag brengen zou. Kort na het ontbijt reeds\nhield Mevrouw Palmer's rijtuig voor de deur stil, en een paar minuten\nlater kwam zij lachend de kamer binnen, zoo verrukt hen allen weer te\nzien, dat men moeilijk kon nagaan, wat haar het meest plezier deed,\nhaar moeder of de dames Dashwood weer te ontmoeten. Zoo verbaasd\ndat ze toch naar de stad gekomen waren, hoewel ze 't eigenlijk nooit\nanders verwacht had; en zoo boos, dat ze haar moeder's uitnoodiging\nhadden aangenomen, na de hare te hebben geweigerd, hoewel ze 't hun\ntòch nooit zou hebben vergeven als ze _niet_ gekomen waren!\n\n\"'t Zal mijn man zooveel pleizier doen, u te zien,\" zei ze; \"wat denkt\nu wel, dat hij zei, toen hij hoorde, dat u met mama meekwam? Ik kan\n't mij op 't oogenblik niet goed meer herinneren; maar 't was iets\nhéél grappigs!\"\n\nNadat een paar uren waren gesleten met wat haar moeder \"gezellig\nbabbelen\" noemde, anders gezegd met een eindelooze reeks van vragen\nnaar alle mogelijke kennissen van den kant van Mevrouw Jennings,\nen aanhoudend gelach zonder reden van dien van Mevrouw Palmer,\nstelde de laatste voor, dat ze allen met haar zouden meegaan naar een\npaar winkels, waar zij dien morgen boodschappen wilde doen; waartoe\nMevrouw Jennings en Elinor, die ook het een en ander wenschten te\nkoopen, gaarne bereid waren, terwijl Marianne, die eerst weigerde,\nwerd overgehaald om ook te gaan.\n\nWaarheen ze zich ook begaven, zij bleef blijkbaar aanhoudend op den\nuitkijk. In Bondstreet vooral, waar zij het meest te doen hadden,\ndwaalden haar blikken voortdurend rond, en welken winkel het\ngezelschap ook binnenging, haar geest was nergens bij hetgeen zij\nfeitelijk vóór zich zag, bij al wat de aandacht der anderen boeide en\nbezighield. Overal rusteloos en onvoldaan als zij was, kon haar zuster\nhaar nooit een oordeel ontlokken over eenige koopwaar, ook al had zij\ner zelve evenveel belang bij als Elinor. Zij had nergens pleizier in;\nverlangde alleen maar, weer naar huis te gaan, en kon slechts met\nmoeite haar ergernis bedwingen over het getreuzel van Mevrouw Palmer,\ndie al wat mooi, duur en nieuw was, onmiddellijk in het oog kreeg,\nin haar opgewondenheid alles wilde koopen, nooit een keus kon doen,\nen in verrukte weifelmoedigheid haar tijd verbeuzelde.\n\nDe morgen was al bijna verstreken toen zij thuis kwamen; zoodra de\ndeur openging vloog Marianne haastig naar boven, en toen Elinor haar\ngevolgd was, zag zij hoe haar zuster zich van de tafel afwendde, met\neen droevig gezicht, waarop duidelijk stond te lezen, dat Willoughby\ner niet geweest was.\n\n\"Is er geen brief voor mij gekomen, nadat wij uitgingen?\" zei\nze tot den bediende, die de pakjes binnenbracht. Deze antwoordde\nontkennend. \"Weet je het zeker!\" vroeg zij. \"Heeft geen knecht of\ngeen kruier een briefje gebracht?\"\n\nDe knecht antwoordde dat dit niet het geval was.\n\n\"Hoe allervreemdst,\" zei ze zachtjes op teleurgestelden toon, terwijl\nzij naar het venster ging.\n\n\"Ja waarlijk, wèl vreemd,\" herhaalde Elinor in stilte, terwijl ze haar\nzuster met bezorgdheid aanzag. \"Als zij niet had geweten, dat hij in\nde stad was, dan zou ze niet aan hem hebben geschreven zooals ze deed;\ndan had ze geschreven naar Combe Magna, en als hij in de stad _is_,\nhoe zonderling dan, dat hij niet komt, en ook niet schrijft! O mijn\nbeste moeder, het kan niet anders dan verkeerd zijn, een dochter die\nnog zoo jong is, toe te staan, zich te verloven met een man van wien\nwij zoo weinig weten, en dat op zulk een twijfelachtige geheimzinnige\nmanier! _Ik_ verlang navraag te doen; maar hoe zal _mijn_ tusschenkomst\nworden opgenomen?\"\n\nNa eenige overweging besloot zij, wanneer deze onaangename toestand\nnog eenige dagen langer mocht voortduren, haar moeder met den meesten\nnadruk onder het oog te brengen, hoe noodzakelijk het was ernstig\nnavraag te doen.\n\nMevrouw Palmer bleef bij hen eten, met twee oudere dames,\ngoede bekenden van Mevrouw Jennings, die zij dien morgen had\nontmoet. De eerste ging na de thee heen, om verder avondbezoeken\naf te leggen, en Elinor moest haar plaats innemen met de anderen om\nde whist-tafel. Marianne kon bij dergelijke gelegenheden nooit van\ndienst zijn, daar zij het spel niet had willen leeren; maar al kon zij\nhaar tijd dus gebruiken zooals zij wilde, deze avond verschafte haar\neven weinig genoegen als aan Elinor, want zij sleet dien in angstige\nverwachting en grievende teleurstelling. Soms trachtte ze een paar\nminuten te lezen; maar het boek werd spoedig terzijde geworpen,\nen zij keerde terug tot de meer bevredigende bezigheid van de kamer\nop en neer te loopen, waarbij ze telkens even bleef stilstaan, als\nzij bij het venster gekomen was, in de hoop den langverwachten klop\nte onderscheiden.--\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XXVII\n\n\n\"Als 't nog lang zulk zacht weer blijft,\" zei Mevrouw Jennings den\nvolgenden morgen aan het ontbijt, \"dan zal Sir John het niet prettig\nvinden, de volgende week uit Barton weg te gaan; jagers kunnen er\nslecht tegen, een dag van hun pleizier te missen. Stakkers! ik heb\naltijd medelijden met hen, als dat gebeurt;--ze trekken het zich zoo\ngeweldig aan.\"\n\n\"Dat is waar,\" riep Marianne op vroolijken toon, terwijl ze naar\n't venster liep, om naar de lucht te zien, \"dááraan had ik niet\ngedacht. Met dit weer zullen veel jachtliefhebbers buiten blijven.\"\n\nDat was een gelukkige inval; haar vroegere opgewektheid keerde er\ngeheel door terug. \"Voor _hen_ is het weer uitgezocht,\" ging ze\nvoort, terwijl ze met een blij gezicht aan de ontbijttafel ging\nzitten. \"Wat zullen ze genieten. Maar,\" (opnieuw ietwat angstig)\n\"men kan niet verwachten dat het lang zal duren. Om dezen tijd van\nhet jaar, en na dien aanhoudenden regen, kan het niet lang meer zoo\nblijven. 't Zal wel gauw gaan vriezen, en dan zeker nog al hard. Over\neen paar dagen misschien; dit bijzonder zachte weer kàn toch haast\nniet langer aanhouden;--wie weet, misschien vriest het van nacht al!\"\n\n\"In elk geval,\" zei Elinor, die hoopte, dat Mevrouw Jennings niet\nzóó duidelijk haar zuster's gedachtengang kon volgen, als zijzelve,\n\"denk ik, dat Sir John en Lady Middleton in het eind van de volgende\nweek toch wel naar de stad zullen komen.\"\n\n\"Ja lieve kind, dat durf ik ook wel wedden. Mary krijgt toch altijd\nhaar zin.\"\n\n\"En dus,\" raadde Elinor in stilte, \"wordt er vandaag een brief\nverzonden naar Combe Magna.\"\n\nDoch zóó dit al gebeurde, dan werd die brief geschreven en verzonden\nmet een geheimzinnigheid, die al haar oplettendheid om zich van het\nfeit te vergewissen, vermocht te verschalken. Wàt dan nu ook de\nwaarheid mocht zijn, en al was Elinor er verre van, zich in haar\nhart voldaan te gevoelen, zoolang ze Marianne maar vroolijk zag,\nwas zijzelve niet al te zeer ongerust. En Marianne wàs vroolijk, blij\ndat het weer zacht bleef, en nog blijder dat er vorst te wachten viel.\n\nZij brachten den morgen door met kaartjes afgeven bij Mevrouw\nJennings' bekenden, om hen te laten weten dat zij weer in de stad\nwas, en Marianne deed niet anders dan letten op de windrichting,\nkijken naar de wisselende lucht, en zich verbeelden, dat de atmosfeer\nveranderde. \"Vind je 't niet kouder dan 't van morgen was, Elinor? Ik\nvoel bepaald een groot verschil. Ik kan zelfs in mijn mof mijn handen\nhaast niet warm houden. Gister was dat toch niet zoo. De wolken\ndrijven ook uiteen, straks komt de zon door, en dan krijgen we een\nhelderen middag.\"\n\nElinor vond het half grappig en half droevig; maar Marianne hield vol,\nen zag elken avond in de helderheid van het vuur, en elken morgen in\n't voorkomen van de lucht de onmiskenbare symptomen van de naderende\nvorst.\n\nDe dames Dashwood hadden evenmin reden tot onvoldaanheid over\nMevrouw Jennings' leefwijze en haar kring van bekenden, als over haar\ngedrag jegens henzelven, dat onveranderlijk vriendelijk bleef. Haar\nhuishouding was op ruimen en aangenamen voet ingericht, en behalve\neen paar oude vrienden uit de City, die zij tot Lady Middleton's\nergernis, niet had willen laten varen, ging zij met niemand om,\naan wie zij hare jeugdige vriendinnen niet had kunnen voorstellen\nzonder hare gevoelens te kwetsen. Blijde, dat alles haar in dit\nopzicht althans nogal meeviel, was Elinor ten volle bereid, zich\nte schikken in het gemis van werkelijk genoegen dat er voor haar te\nputten viel uit de avondpartijtjes, die, 't zij tehuis of bij vreemden,\nsteeds aan het kaartspel waren gewijd, en haar dus weinig afleiding\nverschaften. Kolonel Brandon, die een doorloopende invitatie had\nontvangen, bezocht hen bijna iederen dag; hij kwam om te kijken naar\nMarianne en te praten met Elinor, die dikwijls meer genoegen vond\nin een gesprek met hem, dan eenige andere der dagelijksche kleine\ngebeurtenissen haar kon schenken, maar die tevens met bezorgdheid\nzag, dat hij nog steeds haar zuster liefhad. Zij vreesde dat die\ngenegenheid sterker werd. Het deed haar verdriet te zien, hoe ernstig\nhij dikwijls Marianne gadesloeg, en hij scheen bepaald nog meer\ngedrukt dan te Barton.\n\nOmstreeks een week na hun aankomst verkregen zij de zekerheid, dat\nook Willoughby in de stad was. Toen zij terugkwamen van hun morgenrit,\nlag zijn kaartje op de tafel.\n\n\"God!\" riep Marianne, \"hij is hier geweest, terwijl wij uit\nwaren!\" Elinor, die blijde was thans zeker te zijn van zijn komst in\nLonden, waagde het te zeggen: \"Reken er maar gerust op, dat hij morgen\nweer hier komt.\" Doch Marianne scheen haar ternauwernood te hooren,\nen liep, toen Mevrouw Jennings binnenkwam, haastig met het kostbare\nkaartje weg.\n\nDit voorval, dat Elinor vroolijker stemde, maakte haar zuster weer\neven onrustig, ja nog gejaagder, dan zij te voren was geweest. Van dit\noogenblik af kwam zij in het geheel niet meer tot rust; het besef,\ndat zij hem elk uur van den dag kòn ontmoeten, maakte dat zij tot\nniets meer in staat was. Zij wilde volstrekt tehuis blijven, toen de\nanderen den volgenden morgen uitgingen.\n\nElinor's gedachten hielden zich voortdurend bezig met hetgeen wel in\nBerkeley Street mocht voorvallen gedurende hunne afwezigheid; maar\neen enkele blik naar haar zuster bij hun terugkomst was voldoende\nom haar te doen begrijpen, dat Willoughby geen tweede bezoek had\nafgelegd. Juist werd een briefje binnengebracht, dat de knecht op de\ntafel legde.\n\n\"Voor mij!\" riep Marianne, haastig toesnellend.\n\n\"Neen, juffrouw, 't is voor Mevrouw Jennings.\"\n\nDoch Marianne, nog niet overtuigd, nam het op.\n\n\"Ja, 't is voor Mevrouw Jennings; hoe ergerlijk!\"\n\n\"Verwacht je dan een brief?\" zei Elinor, niet bij machte langer\nte zwijgen.\n\n\"Ja... ten minste... ik dacht...\"\n\nNa een korte stilte liet Elinor hierop volgen: \"Je stelt geen\nvertrouwen in mij, Marianne.\"\n\n\"O, maar Elinor, dat _jij_ me dat verwijt!--jij, die in _niemand_\nvertrouwen stelt!\"\n\n\"Ik?\" antwoordde Elinor half verschrikt;--\"maar werkelijk, Marianne,\nik heb niets te vertellen.\"\n\n\"Ik evenmin,\" zei Marianne met grooten nadruk; \"we staan volkomen\ngelijk. We hebben geen van beiden iets te vertellen; jij omdat je\nniets wilt zeggen en ik omdat ik niets verberg.\"\n\nElinor, bedroefd over die beschuldiging van terughouding, die zij niet\nmocht ontzenuwen, begreep niet, hoe zij, onder deze omstandigheden,\nMarianne tot meerder openhartigheid zou kunnen bewegen. Mevrouw\nJennings kwam weldra binnen en las het briefje, dat haar werd\noverhandigd, hardop voor. Het was van Lady Middleton, en bevatte\nbehalve het bericht, dat zij den avond te voren in Conduit Street\nwaren aangekomen, een uitnoodiging aan haar moeder en hare nichten\nom den volgenden avond bij hen door te brengen. Sir John's drukke\nbezigheden, en een zware verkoudheid van haarzelve verhinderden hen,\neerst een bezoek te brengen in Berkeley Street. De uitnoodiging werd\naangenomen, maar toen het tijd was om te gaan, kostte het Elinor,\nofschoon het alleen reeds uit beleefdheid tegenover Mevrouw Jennings\nvolstrekt noodig was, dat zij haar beiden vergezelden bij dit bezoek,\ngeen geringe moeite, haar zuster te overreden om mee te gaan; want\nnog steeds had zij Willoughby niet gezien, en zij bleef dus even\nonverschillig voor elk vermaak buitenshuis, als ongeneigd, de kans\nte loopen, dat hij weer zou komen, terwijl zij uit was.\n\nElinor had opnieuw bevonden, toen de avond was verstreken, dat\niemands geaardheid, door wisseling van verblijfplaats, geen feitelijke\nverandering ondergaat; want hoewel hij nog maar pas in de stad was,\nhad Sir John een twintigtal jongelui bij elkaar weten te krijgen,\nen maakte hen gelukkig door een danspartij. Lady Middleton keurde\ndit nu eigenlijk niet goed. Buiten kon zulk een impromptu-avondje\ner heel goed mee door; maar in Londen, waar het er meer op aankwam,\nen minder gemakkelijk viel, als onberispelijk op het punt van goede\nvormen te worden beschouwd, vond zij, dat men te veel waagde, door\nalleen ten pleiziere van een paar meisjes, bekend te laten worden, dat\nLady Middleton ten haren huize eene kleine danspartij had gegeven van\nacht of negen paren, met twee violen, en ververschingen aan het buffet.\n\nDe Heer en Mevrouw Palmer waren van de partij; de eerste, dien zij\nsedert kun komst in de stad niet hadden gezien, daar hij den schijn van\nbeleefdheid jegens zijne schoonmoeder zorgvuldig vermeed, en zich dus\nnooit bij haar aan huis vertoonde, gaf geen blijk hen te herkennen,\ntoen zij binnentraden. Hij nam hen vluchtig op, alsof hij niet wist,\nwie zij waren, en knikte maar even tegen Mevrouw Jennings van de\noverzij van het vertrek. Marianne liet haar blik in de kamer rondgaan,\ntoen zij binnentrad; het was genoeg; _hij_ was er niet--en zij ging\nzitten, even ongeneigd genoegen te geven als te ontvangen. Toen ze\nongeveer een uur samen waren geweest, slenterde de Heer Palmer naar\nde dames Dashwood toe, om zijn verrassing te uiten, dat hij hen hier\nin de stad aantrof, hoewel Kolonel Brandon bij hem aan huis het eerst\nhun komst had vernomen, en hij zelfs iets héél grappigs had gezegd,\ntoen hij hoorde dat die komst aanstaande was.\n\n\"Ik dacht dat u allebei in Devonshire waart,\" zei hij.\n\n\"Och, is 't waar?\" antwoordde Elinor.\n\n\"Wanneer gaat u terug naar huis?\"\n\n\"Dat weet ik niet.\"--En daarmee eindigde hun gesprek. Nog nooit had\nMarianne zoo weinig lust gehad in dansen als dien avond, en nooit\nhad haar die inspanning zoo vermoeid. Zij klaagde erover, toen zij\nterugkwamen in Berkeley Street.\n\n\"O, wel ja,\" zei Mevrouw Jennings; \"hoe dàt komt weten we allemaal\nheel best, als zeker iemand er geweest was, dan hadt je niet geweten\nvan vermoeidheid, en om de waarheid te zeggen, 't was niet aardig van\nhem, niet te komen om je te ontmoeten, terwijl hij wèl was gevraagd.\"\n\n\"Gevraagd?\" riep Marianne.\n\n\"Dat vertelde mijn dochter mij; Sir John was hem vanmorgen op straat\ntegengekomen.\"\n\nMarianne zeide niets, maar men kon het haar aanzien, hoe pijnlijk zij\nwas getroffen. Innig verlangend onder deze omstandigheden iets te doen,\ndat haar zuster verlichting zou kunnen schenken, besloot Elinor den\nvolgenden morgen aan haar moeder te schrijven, en hoopte, door haar\nbezorgd te maken over Marianne's gezondheid, die navraag te kunnen\nuitlokken, welke reeds zoolang was uitgesteld; en nog dringender\nscheen haar de noodzakelijkheid van dezen maatregel, toen zij den\nvolgenden morgen na het ontbijt bemerkte, dat Marianne weer aan het\nschrijven was aan Willoughby; want zij kon niet veronderstellen dat\nhaar brief aan een ander was gericht.\n\nKort voor den middag ging Mevrouw Jennings alleen uit, en Elinor begon\naanstonds aan haar brief; terwijl Marianne, te rusteloos om bezigheid\nte zoeken, van het eene venster naar het andere liep, of in droevig\ngepeins verzonken bij het vuur zat. Elinor schreef aan hare moeder\nmet den diepsten ernst, vertelde al wat er was gebeurd, uitte haar\nvermoeden omtrent Willoughby's trouweloosheid, en drong er op aan,\ndat zij van Marianne zou vergen, wat plicht en genegenheid eischten,\neene verklaring van haar werkelijke verhouding tot hem. Haar brief\nwas juist klaar, toen een kloppen aan de deur bezoek aankondigde,\nen Kolonel Brandon werd aangediend. Marianne, die hem uit het venster\nhad zien aankomen, en die een afkeer had van alle gezelschap, ging de\nkamer uit, eer hij binnentrad. Hij keek nog ernstiger dan gewoonlijk,\nen hoewel hij zijn voldoening te kennen gaf over het feit, dat hij\nElinor alleen aantrof, alsof hij haar in het bijzonder iets had mede te\ndeelen, bleef hij een tijdlang zitten, zonder iets te zeggen. Elinor,\novertuigd dat hij haar iets wilde vertellen, dat haar zuster betrof,\nwachtte met ongeduld tot hij zou beginnen. Het was niet de eerste maal,\ndat zij dezelfde soort van zekerheid hieromtrent gevoelde; want meer\ndan eens had hij, beginnende met een opmerking als: \"Uw zuster ziet\ner vandaag slecht uit,\" of \"uw zuster schijnt neerslachtig gestemd,\"\nblijkbaar op het punt gestaan om iets bijzonders omtrent haar te\nvragen of mee te deelen. Na een stilte, die minutenlang aanhield,\nverbrak hij het zwijgen, door haar, met bewogen stem, te vragen,\nwanneer hij haar zou mogen geluk wenschen met de aanwinst van een\nbroeder? Elinor was op die vraag niet voorbereid, en moest, daar zij\ngeen antwoord klaar had, wel hare toevlucht nemen tot de eenvoudige\nen voor de hand liggende weervraag: wat hij bedoelde? Hij poogde te\nglimlachen, terwijl hij antwoordde: \"Uw zuster's verloving met den\nHeer Willoughby is een zaak van algemeene bekendheid.\"\n\n\"Algemeen bekend kan de zaak niet zijn,\" zeide Elinor; \"daar zelfs\nhaar eigen familie er niets van weet.\"\n\nHij keek verwonderd, en zei: \"Neemt u het mij niet kwalijk; ik\nvrees, dat mijn vraag onbescheiden was; maar ik had niet kunnen\nveronderstellen dat het in uwe bedoeling lag, de zaak geheim te houden,\ndaar zij openlijk in briefwisseling zijn, en iedereen spreekt over\nhun huwelijk.\"\n\n\"Hoe is dat mogelijk? Door wien kunt u erover hebben hooren spreken?\"\n\n\"Door verschillende personen,--sommigen, die u in 't geheel niet,\nanderen, die u zeer goed bekend zijn; Mevrouw Jennings, Mevrouw Palmer,\nen de Middletons. Nog zou ik het misschien niet hebben geloofd,--want\nwaar wij weinig geneigd zijn ons te laten overtuigen, vinden wij altijd\niets dat onzen twijfel steun verleent,--wanneer ik niet toevallig\nvandaag, toen de knecht mij binnenliet, een brief had gezien, dien\nhij in de hand hield, geadresseerd aan den Heer Willoughby, in uw\nzuster's handschrift. Ik kwam, om u ernaar te vragen; maar ik kreeg\nreeds zekerheid, eer ik de vraag kon doen. Is alles dus beslist? Is\nhet onmogelijk, om... Maar ik heb geen recht, en ik zou geen kans\nhebben te slagen.--Vergeef mij, juffrouw Dashwood. Ik geloof, dat\nik verkeerd deed, zooveel te zeggen; maar ik weet bijna niet wat te\ndoen, en in uwe voorzichtigheid stel ik het volste vertrouwen. Zeg\nmij, dat alles onomstootelijk vaststaat, dat geen poging... dat in\neen woord verzwijgen, indien verzwijgen mogelijk is, het eenige is,\ndat mij overblijft.\"\n\nZijne woorden, die Elinor opvatte als een rechtstreeksche bekentenis\nvan zijn liefde voor hare zuster, ontroerden haar zeer. Zij was\nniet dadelijk in staat, iets te zeggen, en zelfs toen zij zich had\nhersteld, overlegde zij nog een oogenblik bij zichzelve, wat het\nbeste zou zijn, hierop te antwoorden. De werkelijke staat van zaken\ntusschen Willoughby en haar zuster was haar zoo weinig helder, dat\nzij, bij een poging om dien te verklaren, allicht evenzeer moest\nvreezen te veel als te weinig te zeggen. Toch, daar zij overtuigd\nwas, dat Marianne's liefde voor Willoughby geen hoop op vervulling\nvan Kolonel Brandon's wensch overliet, wáártoe die liefde ook mocht\nleiden, en zij tevens erop bedacht was, Marianne's gedrag te vrijwaren\nvoor een ongunstige beoordeeling, vond zij het, na eenig bedenken,\nhet verstandigste en het beste, om meer te zeggen, dan zij feitelijk\nwist, of geloofde. Zij gaf toe, dat zij, hoewel zelve nooit door\nhen ingelicht omtrent hunne eigenlijke verhouding tot elkander, geen\ntwijfel koesterde aan hun wederzijdsche genegenheid, en dat het haar\nniet verwonderde te hooren van hunne briefwisseling.\n\nHij hoorde haar stil en aandachtig aan, en stond, toen zij ophield\nmet spreken, onmiddellijk op, terwijl hij op diepbewogen toon zeide:\n\"Uw zuster wensch ik alle geluk, dat zich laat denken; voor Willoughby\nhoop ik, dat hij zal trachten haar waardig te zijn.\" Daarop nam hij\nafscheid en vertrok.\n\nDit gesprek liet bij Elinor geen rustiger gevoelens achter, die haar\npijnlijke onzekerheid omtrent andere punten hadden kunnen verminderen;\nintegendeel, een droevige indruk bleef haar bij van Kolonel Brandon's\nverdriet, terwijl haar vurig verlangen naar eene ontknooping, die\ndat verdriet slechts kon verergeren, haar zelfs belette, te wenschen,\nhet gelenigd te zien.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XXVIII\n\n\nGedurende de drie of vier volgende dagen viel niets voor, dat Elinor\nspijt had kunnen doen gevoelen, omdat zij zich tot hare moeder\ngewend had, want Willoughby kwam noch schreef. Aan het eind van dit\ntijdsverloop hadden zij afgesproken Lady Middleton te vergezellen naar\neene partij, waarheen Mevrouw Jennings verhinderd was te gaan, door\nongesteldheid van hare jongste dochter; en voor deze partij maakte\nMarianne, diep terneergeslagen, onverschillig voor haar uiterlijk\nvoorkomen, en in eene stemming waarin het haar volkomen hetzelfde was,\nof zij ging of thuis bleef, zich gereed, zonder één hoopvollen blik,\nééne uiting van blijdschap. Na de thee zat zij bij het vuur in den\nsalon, tot het oogenblik van Lady Middleton's komst, zonder van\nhaar stoel op te staan of van houding te veranderen, verzonken in\nhaar eigen gedachten en onbewust van haar zusters tegenwoordigheid;\nen toen hun tenslotte gezegd werd, dat Lady Middleton's rijtuig voor\nde deur op hen wachtte, schrikte zij op, alsof zij had vergeten,\ndat zij zouden worden afgehaald.\n\nZij kwamen op tijd ter bestemder plaatse, stapten uit, zoodra de lange\nrij van rijtuigen vóór hen daartoe gelegenheid bood, gingen de trap\nop, hoorden hunne namen, met luider stem aangekondigd, van het eene\nportaal naar het andere galmen en traden een schitterend verlicht\nvertrek binnen, vol gasten, en onverdragelijk warm. Toen zij aan den\neisch der beleefdheid hadden voldaan door hun buiging te maken voor\nde dame des huizes, werd hun vergund zich onder het gezelschap te\nmengen en hun aandeel te dragen van de hitte en de benauwdheid, die\nnoodzakelijk door hunne komst nog moesten worden vermeerderd. Nadat\ner een tijdlang weinig gezegd en nog minder gedaan was, nam Lady\nMiddleton plaats aan de speeltafel, en daar Marianne geen lust had\nom rond te loopen, gingen zij en Elinor, die gelukkig stoelen hadden\nkunnen bemachtigen, niet ver van de tafel zitten.\n\nDit had nog niet lang geduurd, toen Elinor op eenigen afstand van\nhen Willoughby zag staan, in ernstig gesprek met eene zeer modieus\nuitziende jonge dame. Hun blikken ontmoetten elkaar, en hij boog,\ndoch zonder haar aan te spreken of een poging te doen, om Marianne te\nnaderen, ofschoon hij haar wel _moest_ zien; en daarop zette hij zijn\ngesprek met dezelfde dame voort. Elinor wendde zich onwillekeurig\ntot Marianne om te zien, of zij niets had opgemerkt. Juist op\ndat oogenblik kreeg zij hem in het oog; haar gezicht straalde\nvan plotselinge verrukking, en zij zou naar hem toegesneld zijn,\nals haar zuster haar niet had vastgegrepen. \"O Elinor!\" riep ze;\n\"daar is hij--daar is hij! O, waarom ziet hij niet naar mij? Waarom\nkan ik niet met hem spreken?\"\n\n\"Ik bid je, ik smeek je, wees bedaard,\" zeide Elinor, \"en laat niet\niedereen merken, wat in je omgaat. Misschien heeft hij je nog niet\ngezien.\"\n\nDit was meer, dan zij zelve kon gelooven; en bedaard blijven op zulk\neen oogenblik ging niet alleen Marianne's krachten te boven; maar\nzij wilde dat niet eens. Iedere trek van haar gelaat verried haar\nmartelend ongeduld. Eindelijk keerde hij zich nogmaals om, en zag\nhen beiden aan; zij sprong op en stak hem de hand toe, terwijl zij\nop hartelijken toon zijn naam noemde. Hij kwam nader, en terwijl hij\nzich meer tot Elinor wendde dan tot Marianne, wier blik hij vermeed,\nen wier houding hij niet scheen te willen opmerken, vroeg bij vluchtig\nen gehaast naar Mevrouw Dashwood, en hoe lang zij reeds in de stad\nwaren. Zijn houding deed Elinor al haar tegenwoordigheid van geest\nverliezen; zij kon geen woord uitbrengen. Doch haar zuster's gevoel\nvond onmiddellijk uiting. Een donkere blos kleurde haar gelaat,\nen zij riep uit op een toon, die de hevigste ontroering verried:\n\"Goede God, Willoughby, wat beteekent dit! Heb je mijn brieven niet\nontvangen? Wil je mij geen hand geven?\"\n\nToen kon hij het niet meer vermijden; maar hare aanraking scheen\nhem onaangenaam te zijn, en hij liet onmiddellijk hare hand los. Al\ndien tijd deed hij zichtbaar moeite om bedaard te blijven. Elinor\nlette op zijn gezicht, en zag dat zijn uitdrukking kalmer werd. Na\neen oogenblik van stilte zei hij rustig: \"Den vorigen Dinsdag heb\nik een bezoek gebracht in Berkeley Street; het speet mij zeer u en\nMevrouw Jennings niet thuis te treffen. Mijn kaartje is, hoop ik,\nniet verloren geraakt?\"\n\n\"Maar heb je mijn brieven dan niet ontvangen?\" riep Marianne,\ndoodelijk beangst. \"Het moet een vergissing zijn--een afschuwelijke\nvergissing. Wat beteekent dit toch? Zeg het mij, Willoughby, zeg mij,\nom 's hemelswil, wat is er toch gebeurd?\"\n\nHij gaf geen antwoord; maar werd bleek en scheen opnieuw gedwongen;\ndoch alsof hij, aangespoord door een blik van de jonge dame met wie\nhij te voren had gesproken, gevoelde dat onmiddellijk zelfbedwang werd\nvereischt, vermande hij zich opnieuw, zei snel: \"Ja, het bericht van\nuw komst in de stad, dat u zoo vriendelijk waart, mij te zenden, heb ik\nhet genoegen gehad te ontvangen,\" keerde zich daarop met een vluchtige\nbuiging haastig om, en voegde zich weer bij zijne vriendin. Marianne,\ndoodsbleek en niet in staat zich staande te houden, liet zich in haar\nstoel vallen, en Elinor, elk oogenblik vreezend dat zij een flauwte\nzou krijgen, trachtte haar voor onbescheiden blikken te beschermen,\nterwijl zij haar verfrischte met lavendelwater.\n\n\"Ga naar hem toe, Elinor,\" zei zij, zoodra ze spreken kon, \"en\ndwing hem, bij mij te komen. Zeg hem, dat ik hem moet zien,--dat ik\nhem dadelijk moet spreken. Ik kan het niet uithouden--ik zal geen\noogenblik rust hebben, eer dit alles is verklaard,--het moet een of\nander afschuwelijk misverstand zijn. O, ga nu toch naar hem toe.\"\n\n\"Hoe is dat nu mogelijk? Neen, liefste Marianne, je moet wachten. Dit\nis de plaats niet voor uitleggingen. Wacht nu alleen maar tot morgen.\"\n\nZij kon haar slechts met moeite weerhouden, hem zelf te gaan\nopzoeken; en het bleek onmogelijk, haar te bewegen, haar ontroering te\nbedwingen,--althans in schijn bedaard, te wachten, tot zij hem meer\nongehinderd kon spreken, en met meer kans te worden aangehoord; want\nMarianne ging onophoudelijk voort, met zachte stem uiting te geven\naan haar gevoelens van wanhoop, door smartelijke uitroepen. Weldra\nzag Elinor dat Willoughby de kamer verliet door de deur dichtbij de\ntrap, en terwijl zij Marianne vertelde dat hij weg was, bracht zij haar\nonder het oog, dat de onmogelijkheid om hem dezen avond nog te spreken,\nhaar te meer reden gaf, thans kalm te zijn. Marianne vroeg dadelijk,\nof haar zuster Lady Middleton wilde smeeken, hen naar huis te brengen;\nzij voelde zich te ellendig om een minuut langer te blijven.\n\nToen Lady Middleton hoorde dat Marianne niet wel was, liet haar\nbeleefdheid, hoewel zij verdiept was in haar kaartspel, niet toe, dat\nzij zich een oogenblik tegen Marianne's wensch tot heengaan verzette,\nzij gaf dus haar kaarten aan een vriendin; en zij vertrokken zoodra\nhun rijtuig voorkwam. Op den terugweg naar Berkeley Street werd bijna\ngeen woord gesproken. Marianne leed in stilte, te beklemd voor tranen\nzelfs; doch daar Mevrouw Jennings gelukkig nog niet te huis was, konden\nzij dadelijk naar hun eigen kamer gaan, waar zij door 't gebruik van\nhertshoorn eenigszins bijkwam. Zij was spoedig ontkleed en in bed,\nen daar zij liefst alleen scheen te zijn, ging haar zuster heen en\nhad al den tijd, terwijl zij wachtte op Mevrouw Jennings' terugkomst,\nte denken over hetgeen achter hen lag.\n\nDat er een bepaalde verbintenis van een of anderen aard tusschen\nWilloughby en Marianne had bestaan, kon zij niet betwijfelen; en dat\nWilloughby deze moede was, scheen eveneens duidelijk; want hoe Marianne\nook nog bleef voortgaan voedsel te geven aan haar eigen wenschen,\n_zij_ kon zulk een gedrag niet toeschrijven aan een vergissing, of\neenig misverstand. Niets dan een volkomen omkeer in zijn gevoelens\nkon het verklaren. Haar verontwaardiging zou nog sterker geweest\nzijn dan zij reeds was, wanneer zij niet getuige was geweest van\nzijn verlegenheid, die scheen aan te duiden, dat hij zich bewust was\nvan zijn eigen wangedrag, en haar belette hem voor zoo gewetenloos\nte houden, dat hij van den beginne met haar zuster's liefde een\nroekeloos spel had gedreven, zonder eenig voornemen, dat navraag\nvelen kon. Afwezigheid kon zijn liefde hebben doen verflauwen, en\nredenen van eigenbelang mochten hem hebben doen besluiten haar te\noverwinnen; maar dat zulk een liefde eenmaal had bestaan, daaraan\ntwijfelde zij niet. Wat Marianne betrof, aan het verdriet dat deze\nongelukkige ontmoeting haar had veroorzaakt, en het nog erger leed,\ndat haar, als het waarschijnlijk gevolg ervan, te wachten stond, kon\nzij niet denken zonder de innigste bezorgdheid. Hierbij vergeleken\nscheen haar eigen toestand haar minder treurig, want zoolang zij\nEdward slechts evenzeer kon _achten_ als voorheen, zou zij zich in\nden geest steeds getroost gevoelen, ook al bleven zij in de toekomst\ngescheiden. Doch hier schenen alle omstandigheden, die een dergelijk\nlijden konden verergeren, zich te vereenigen, om Marianne's smart te\nvermeerderen over hare scheiding van Willoughby voor altoos,--over\nhet onmiddellijk en onherroepelijk afbreken van hun omgang.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XXIX\n\n\nEer het kamermeisje den volgenden morgen het vuur in hun haard had\naangelegd, of de zon eenige kracht had gewonnen aan het begin van den\nkouden, somberen Januaridag, lag Marianne, slechts half gekleed, op de\nknieën bij de vensterbank te schrijven, terwille van het weinigje licht\ndat naar binnen viel, zoo snel als haar aanhoudend vloeiende tranen\nhet haar vergunden. Elinor, door haar zenuwachtig snikken uit den\nslaap gewekt, zag haar in die houding, en zei, na het een korte poos\nzwijgend en angstig te hebben aangezien, op een toon, waarin al haar\nzachte meewarigheid zich uitsprak: \"Marianne, mag ik een vraag doen?\"\n\n\"Neen, Elinor,\" antwoordde zij; \"vraag maar niets; je zult spoedig\nalles weten.\"\n\nDe soort van wanhopige kalmte, waarmede die woorden werden geuit,\nduurde niet langer dan het oogenblik waarin ze werden uitgesproken,\nen werd onmiddellijk gevolgd door een nieuwe uitbarsting van heftige\ndroefheid. Het duurde eenigen tijd eer zij kon voortgaan met haar\nbrief, en de telkens herhaalde vlagen van smart die haar noodzaakten\nbij tusschenpoozen de pen neer te leggen, bewezen duidelijk genoeg,\ndat zij besefte, hoe meer dan waarschijnlijk het was, dat zij voor\nde laatste maal schreef aan Willoughby.\n\nElinor bewees haar elke kalme en onopvallende vriendelijkheid, die in\nhaar vermogen was; en zij zou gaarne gepoogd hebben haar nog meer te\ntroosten en tot bedaren te brengen, als Marianne haar niet gesmeekt\nhad, met al den aandrang van iemand, wier zenuwen tot het uiterste\nzijn geprikkeld, in geen geval een woord tegen haar te zeggen. Onder\ndie omstandigheden was het beter voor beiden, niet lang achtereen\nsamen te zijn; en Marianne's rusteloosheid belette haar niet alleen,\nook maar een oogenblik in de kamer te blijven, nadat zij zich gekleed\nhad; doch deed haar, die tegelijk behoefte had aan eenzaamheid en\nvoortdurende verandering van plaats, tot aan het ontbijt door het\nhuis zwerven, terwijl zij elke ontmoeting ontweek.\n\nAan het ontbijt at zij niets, en deed ook geen poging iets te eten;\nzoodat Elinor's aandacht slechts gericht kon zijn op één doel: niet\nbij haar aandringen, niet haar beklagen, niet op haar letten, doch\nalleen maar trachten te zorgen, dat Mevrouw Jennings enkel notitie\nnam van haarzelf.\n\nDaar Mevrouw Jennings graag en goed ontbeet, duurde de maaltijd lang,\nen zij gingen juist, na afloop ervan, aan de gemeenschappelijke\nwerktafel zitten, toen Marianne een brief werd overhandigd, dien\nzij haastig aannam, en waarmede zij, plotseling doodsbleek wordend,\nonmiddellijk de kamer uitliep. Elinor, die hieruit even stellig\nopmaakte, alsof zij het adres had gezien, dat de brief van Willoughby\nkwam, voelde zich op eens zóó zenuwachtig worden, dat zij haar hoofd\nbijna niet kon ophouden, en beefde zoo erg, dat zij vreesde, Mevrouw\nJennings' aandacht ditmaal niet te kunnen ontgaan. Het goede mensch\nzag echter niet anders, dan dat Marianne een brief van Willoughby\nhad gekregen, 't geen zij uitermate grappig vond, en als zoodanig\nbehandelde, door lachend haar hoop te uiten, dat er goed nieuws in\nstond. Zij was veel te druk bezig met het meten der draden wol,\nwaarvan zij een haardkleedje knoopte, om iets te bespeuren van\nElinor's ontroering; en zoodra Marianne was heengegaan, praatte zij\nkalmpjes door: \"Ik kan je verzekeren, dat ik nog nooit in mijn leven\neen meisje zoo tot over de ooren verliefd heb gezien. De mijnen waren\nniet half zoo erg, en die stelden zich toch óók mal aan; maar die\nMarianne is letterlijk op haar hoofd gezet. Ik hoop van harte, dat\nhij haar niet lang meer laat wachten, want 't is treurig om te zien,\nzoo ellendig ziet zij eruit. Wanneer gaan ze nu trouwen?\"\n\nHoewel Elinor nooit zóó weinig lust tot spreken had gevoeld als op\ndat oogenblik, dwong zij zichzelf tot een antwoord op dien uitval,\nen zei met een poging om te glimlachen: \"Hebt u zich dat werkelijk in\nhet hoofd gehaald, mevrouw, dat mijn zuster met den Heer Willoughby\nverloofd is? Ik dacht dat het maar een grap was; maar zulk een ernstige\nvraag schijnt méér te beteekenen, en dus moet ik u verzoeken, dat\ndenkbeeld eens voor al te laten varen. Ik verzeker u, dat niets mij\nzoozeer zou verwonderen, als een kennisgeving van hun voorgenomen\nhuwelijk.\"\n\n\"O foei, foei, Elinor! Hoe kun je nu toch zóó praten! Weten we dan\nniet allemaal, dat ze 't al lang eens zijn,--dat ze tot over de ooren\nverliefd op elkaar waren van 't oogenblik af dat ze elkaar voor 't\neerst hadden gezien? Heb ik ze dan niet samen onder mijn oogen gehad\nin Devonshire, den lieven langen dag, en dagen achtereen? En wist\nik niet heel goed, dat je zuster met mij mee wilde naar de stad,\nom haar uitzet al vast te kiezen? Neen, neen, gekheid; dat gaat\nzoomaar niet. Je denkt zeker, omdat je zelf zoo weinig loslaat,\ndat een ander zijn oogen in den zak heeft, maar ik verzeker je, dat\nlijkt er niet naar; want 't is in de heele stad bekend, al ik weet\nniet hoe lang. Ik vertel het aan iedereen, en Charlotte ook.\"\n\n\"Werkelijk, Mevrouw,\" zei Elinor zeer ernstig; \"u vergist u. Het\nzou waarlijk zeer onwelwillend van u zijn, als u dat gerucht hielp\nverspreiden, en u zult dat nog eenmaal zelve inzien, al gelooft u\nmij nu niet.\" Mevrouw Jennings lachte weer; doch Elinor had geen moed\nom nog meer te zeggen; en verlangend om in elk geval nu te weten wat\nWilloughby geschreven had, liep zij haastig naar hun kamer, waar zij,\ntoen ze de deur opende, Marianne op haar bed zag liggen, bijna tot\nstikkens toe benauwd door hare smart, met een brief in haar hand,\nterwijl twee of drie andere naast haar lagen. Elinor kwam nader,\ndoch zonder een woord te spreken; zij ging op het bed zitten, nam\nMarianne's hand, kuste die een paar malen met de grootste innigheid,\nen liet zich toen eindelijk gaan in een uitbarsting van tranen,\nin den beginne bijna niet minder hevig dan Marianne's ontzettende\nsmart. Hoewel de laatste niet kon spreken, scheen zij de teederheid\nvan Elinor's medegevoel wel volkomen te beseffen, en nadat zij een\npoos zoo samen hadden toegegeven aan hunne droefheid, gaf zij Elinor\nal de brieven in handen, verborg daarop haar gezicht in haar zakdoek\nen kermde luide als van ondragelijke pijn. Elinor, die wist dat zulk\nverdriet, droevig als het was om te aanschouwen, zijn natuurlijke\nuiting moest vinden, bleef bij haar zitten, tot die buitensporige\ndroefheidsvlaag eenigszins had uitgewoed, en nam daarna in spanning\nWilloughby's brief op, waarin zij het volgende las:\n\n\n    \"Bondstreet Januari.\n\n    Geachte Mejuffrouw,\n\n    Uw geëerd schrijven, waarvoor ik u mijn dank betuig, heb\n    ik zooeven in goede orde ontvangen. Het spijt mij zeer, zoo\n    er in mijn gedrag van gisterenavond iets viel op te merken,\n    dat uwe goedkeuring niet heeft mogen wegdragen, en ofschoon\n    ik volstrekt niet kan gissen, in welk opzicht ik de fout\n    begaan heb, u aanleiding te geven tot ongenoegen, vraag ik\n    u vergeving voor 't geen ik u verzeker, dat van mijne zijde\n    zonder eenig opzet is geschied. Aan mijne vroegere kennismaking\n    met uwe familie in Devonshire zal ik nooit anders dan met\n    dankbaarheid en genoegen terugdenken, en ik vlei mij, dat deze\n    gevoelens niet zullen worden verstoord door eenige vergissing,\n    of misverstaan van mijne handelwijze, uwerzijds. Ik koester\n    voor uwe geheele familie de meeste hoogachting, doch zoo ik,\n    tot mijn spijt, u aanleiding mocht hebben gegeven, te gelooven,\n    dat ik méér gevoelde, dan ik werkelijk deed, of bedoelde\n    aan den dag te leggen, dan zal ik mijzelf moeten verwijten,\n    in mijne uitingen van die hoogachting niet omzichtiger te\n    zijn geweest. Dat ik ooit méér zou hebben bedoeld, zult u\n    als iets onmogelijks verwerpen, wanneer u verneemt, dat ik\n    mijne genegenheid reeds lang elders had verpand, en slechts\n    weinige weken zullen verloopen, eer die trouwbelofte wordt\n    vervuld. Ongaarne voldoe ik aan uw bevel, de brieven terug te\n    zenden, die ik van u mocht ontvangen, benevens de haarlok, die\n    gij wel zoo goed hebt willen zijn, mij vrijwillig te schenken.\n\n    Geloof mij intusschen, geachte Mejuffrouw,\n\n                                        Uw gehoorzamen dienaar\n                                        John Willoughby.\"\n\n\nElinor's verontwaardiging bij het lezen van dezen brief laat zich\ngemakkelijk voorstellen. Hoezeer ook overtuigd, eer zij begon te\nlezen, dat de brief de bekentenis zou behelzen van zijn ontrouw,\nen hunne scheiding voor altoos zou bevestigen, zij had zich niet\nkunnen voorstellen, dat die bekentenis in zulke bewoordingen zou\nzijn vervat! En evenmin kon zij Willoughby in staat hebben geacht\nzoo totaal af te wijken van elk betoon van kieschheid of eergevoel,\nvan alle betamelijkheid als man van de wereld zelfs, om een brief\nte kunnen schrijven, zoo onbeschaamd wreedaardig; een brief, die,\ninplaats van zijn wensch om te worden vrijgelaten te doen vergezeld\ngaan van eenige betuiging van leedwezen, zelfs geen trouwbreuk erkende,\ngeen meer dan gewone genegenheid toegaf,--een brief, waarin iedere\nregel een beleediging bevatte, en die den schrijver deed kennen als\neen toonbeeld van verharde gewetenloosheid. Zij zat er een poos over\nte denken met verontwaardigde verbazing, en las den brief nogmaals en\nnogmaals over; doch bij elke nieuwe lezing nam haar afschuw van den\nman toe; en zoo verbitterd waren haar gevoelens jegens hem, dat zij\nniet wilde wagen ze uit te spreken, om Marianne niet nog dieper te\nkwetsen, door de verbreking van dezen band te beschouwen, niet als\neen verlies van eenig mogelijk heil; doch als een ontsnapping aan\ndie vreeselijkste en onherstelbaarste aller rampen, eene verbintenis\nvoor het leven met een gewetenloozen man,--als de gelukkigste aller\nbevrijdingen, de grootste zegening, die haar ooit ten deel viel.\n\nTerwijl zij zoo ernstig zat na te denken over den inhoud van den brief,\nover de verdorvenheid van den geest, die deze woorden had kunnen\ningeven, en waarschijnlijk over den zoo oneindig verschillenden geest\nvan een geheel anderen persoon, die met deze zaak in geen ander verband\nstond, dan dat, hetwelk haar hart hem toekende met alles wat in en om\nhaar voorviel, vergat Elinor het tegenwoordig lijden harer zuster,\nvergat, dat er nog drie ongelezen brieven op haar schoot lagen, en\nvergat zoo volkomen, hoe lang zij reeds in de kamer was geweest, dat\nzij, bij het hooren naderen van een rijtuig naar het venster gaande,\nom te zien wie hen op dat ongewoon vroege uur kwam bezoeken, zeer\nverbaasd was, Mevrouw Jenning's eigen rijtuig te zien, waarvan zij\nwist, dat het niet voor één uur was besteld. Vastbesloten, Marianne\nniet alleen te laten, hoewel wanhopend aan de mogelijkheid, thans\niets te kunnen bijdragen tot hare verlichting, ging zij haastig naar\nbeneden, om zich bij Mevrouw Jennings te verontschuldigen, dat zij niet\nkon medegaan, omdat haar zuster ongesteld was. Mevrouw Jennings nam\nhet excuus, terwijl zij over de reden ervoor haar goedhartige spijt\nbetuigde, gereedelijk aan, en Elinor keerde, na haar veilig te hebben\nzien wegrijden, terug naar Marianne, die juist van het bed trachtte\nop te staan, en die zij gelukkig nog bijtijds kon beletten neer te\nvallen, zwak en duizelig als zij was, door langdurig gemis van rust en\nbehoorlijke voeding; want zij had dagen achtereen bijna niet gegeten,\nen in geen nachten een rustigen slaap gekend; en thans, nu zij niet\nlanger werd opgehouden door de koorstachtige spanning der onzekerheid,\ndeden de gevolgen zich gevoelen door hoofdpijn, een verzwakte maag,\nen algemeene zenuwslapte. Een glas wijn, dat Elinor dadelijk voor haar\nging halen, deed haar goed, en eindelijk was zij in staat, eenigermate\nhaar waardeering van Elinor's goedheid te uiten, door te zeggen:\n\n\"Arme Elinor! Wat doe ik je een verdriet!\"\n\n\"Ik wilde alleen maar,\" antwoordde haar zuster, \"dat ik iets kòn\nuitrichten, om je te troosten en goed te doen.\"\n\nDit was, zooals trouwens àlles zou zijn geweest, te veel voor Marianne,\ndie nog slechts uit het diepst van haar gefolterd hart kon uitroepen:\n\"O Elinor, ik ben wèl ongelukkig!\" eer haar stem geheel door tranen\nwerd verstikt.\n\nElinor kon het niet langer zwijgend aanzien, dit weerloos zich laten\nmedesleepen door onstuimige smart.\n\n\"Mijn lieve Marianne, doe toch je best,\" riep zij, \"wanneer je\nniet jezelve wilt martelen, èn allen, die je liefhebben. Denk aan\nmoeder; denk aan háár verdriet over je lijden, je moet je inspannen,\nom harentwil.\"\n\n\"Ik kàn niet, ik kàn niet, riep Marianne; \"ga dan, laat mij maar\nalleen, als ik je verdriet doe; laat mij aan mijn lot over, haat mij,\nvergeet mij; maar pijnig mij zoo niet! O, 't is wel gemakkelijk als\nmen zelf geen verdriet heeft, te praten van inspannen! _Jij_ bent\ngelukkig, Elinor, _jij_ kunt je niet voorstellen, hoe ik lijd!\"\n\n\"Noem je _mij_ gelukkig, Marianne? O, als je eens _wist_! En denk je,\ndat ik gelukkig kan zijn, terwijl ik je zóó bedroefd moet zien?\"\n\n\"Vergeef mij, vergeet mij,\" riep Marianne, haar armen om haar zuster's\nhals slaande; \"ik weet _hoe_ je met mij medegevoelt, ik weet welk een\nliefderijk hart je bezit, maar toch ben je--ja, je mòet gelukkig zijn;\nEdward heeft je lief;--en wàt, o wàt kan zulk een geheel vernietigen?\"\n\n\"Vele, zéér vele omstandigheden,\" zeide Elinor met diepen ernst.\n\n\"Neen, neen, neen,\" riep Marianne heftig; \"hij heeft jou lief, en\nniemand anders. Je _kunt_ geen verdriet hebben.\"\n\n\"Ik kan geen blijdschap gevoelen, zoolang ik je zóó zie.\"\n\n\"Je zult mij nooit meer anders zien. _Mijne_ smart kan door niets\nverzacht worden.\"\n\n\"Dat mag je niet zeggen, Marianne. Heb je dan geen afleiding, geen\nvrienden? Is er geen vertroosting denkbaar voor je verlies? Hoe\nzwaar je lijden thans ook is, bedenk, wat je zoudt geleden hebben,\nals het nog langer had geduurd, eer je zijn waren aard ontdekte,--als\nje verloving maandenlang slepende was gebleven, zooals licht had\nkunnen gebeuren, eer hij er een eind aan maakte. Elke nieuwe dag van\nnoodlottig vertrouwen van jouw kant zou den slag te zwaarder hebben\ndoen treffen.\"\n\n\"Verloving?\" riep Marianne; \"maar wij waren niet verloofd.\"\n\n\"Niet verloofd?\"\n\n\"Neen, hij is niet zóó slecht als je denkt. Hij heeft zijn woord\ntegenover mij niet gebroken.\"\n\n\"Maar hij heeft je toch gezegd, dat hij je liefhad?'\n\n\"Ja... neen... nooit met ronde woorden. Iederen dag liet hij\nhet duidelijk blijken; maar tot een bepaalde verklaring kwam het\nnooit! Soms dàcht ik, dat het daartoe was gekomen,--maar het wàs\nzoo niet.\"\n\n\"En toch schreef je aan hem!\"\n\n\"Ja--kon dat verkeerd zijn, na al wat er gebeurd was? Maar ik kan er\nniet over spreken.\"\n\nElinor zeide niets meer; maar nam de drie brieven op, waarnaar zij nu\nveel meer benieuwd was dan te voren, en las ze een voor een dóór. Het\neerste briefje, dat haar zuster had verzonden bij hun aankomst in de\nstad, luidde als volgt:\n\n\n    \"Berkeley Street, Januari.\n\n    Hoe zal het je verrassen, Willoughby, dit briefje te\n    ontvangen! En ik denk dat je nog iets meer dan verrassing\n    zult gevoelen, wanneer je weet, dat ik in de stad ben. De\n    gelegenheid om hierheen te reizen, al was het met Mevrouw\n    Jennings, was een verleiding, die we niet konden weerstaan. Ik\n    hoop dat mijn schrijven je vroeg genoeg bereikt, om je\n    van avond hier te kunnen zien, maar ik zal er niet op\n    rekenen. Morgen verwacht ik je in elk geval. Dus tot ziens.\n                                                            M.D.\"\n\n\nIn haar tweeden brief, den morgen na de danspartij bij de Middletons,\nschreef zij:\n\n\n    \"Ik kan je niet zeggen, hoe het mij spijt, dat je ons\n    eergisteren niet hebt thuisgetroffen, en hoe het mij verwonderd\n    heeft, geen antwoord te ontvangen op een briefje, dat ik je\n    meer dan een week geleden geschreven heb. Elken dag, van uur\n    tot uur, verwachtte ik iets van je te hooren, en nog eerder\n    je te zien. Kom ons nu toch vooral zoo spoedig mogelijk\n    opzoeken en verklaar mij dan de reden van dat vergeefsche\n    wachten. 't Zal misschien beter zijn, iets vroeger te komen;\n    want om één uur zijn we meestal uit. Gisteravond waren we op\n    een danspartijtje bij Lady Middleton. Ik hoorde dat jij ook\n    gevraagd waart. Maar kan dat wel waar zijn? Je moet wel zeer\n    zijn veranderd sedert ons afscheid, als dat het geval was,\n    en je toch niet bent gekomen. Maar ik wil die mogelijkheid\n    niet eens veronderstellen, en ik hoop dat je mij spoedig in\n    eigen persoon het tegendeel zult komen verzekeren.\"\n\n                                                        M. D.\"\n\n\nDe inhoud van haar laatste schrijven luidde:\n\n\n    \"Wat moet ik uit je houding van gisteravond afleiden,\n    Willoughby? Nogmaals vraag ik je om eene verklaring\n    ervan. Ik was op het punt je te begroeten met een\n    blijdschap, die natuurlijk was, na onze lange scheiding,\n    met de vertrouwelijkheid, waartoe onze intieme omgang te\n    Barton mij het recht scheen te verleenen, en hoe werd ik\n    teruggestooten! Ik heb een ellendigen nacht doorgebracht,\n    steeds pogend een gedrag te verontschuldigen, dat bijna niet\n    anders dan beleedigend mag genoemd worden; maar al ben ik\n    er niet in geslaagd eenige redelijke verontschuldiging te\n    vinden voor je houding, ik blijf toch bereid, te vernemen,\n    welke verdediging je kunt aanvoeren voor je gedrag. Misschien\n    heb je, door misverstand of boos opzet, iets omtrent mij\n    gehoord, waardoor je een minder goede meening omtrent mij\n    hebt opgevat. Zeg mij dan wat dat is, verklaar de reden,\n    waarom je zóó handelde, en wanneer ik je dan voldoening\n    heb kunnen schenken, zal ik zelve zijn voldaan. Bitter\n    zou het mij grieven, kwaad van je te denken; maar wanneer\n    ik daartoe zal moeten worden genoodzaakt; wanneer ik moet\n    vernemen, dat je niet degene waart, voor wien wij je tot\n    nog toe hebben gehouden, dat je schijnbare genegenheid voor\n    ons allen onoprecht was, dat je gedrag jegens mij slechts\n    misleiding ten doel had;--laat dit dan zoo spoedig mogelijk\n    worden uitgesproken. Op het oogenblik verkeer ik in een\n    treurig geslingerden toestand; ik wensch je vrij te spreken;\n    maar zekerheid, hoe dan ook, zal rust zijn, vergeleken bij\n    wat ik thans lijd. Wanneer je gevoelens niet langer zijn\n    als voorheen, verwacht ik dat je mijn brieven terugzendt,\n    met de lok van mijn haar, die in je bezit is.       M. D.\"\n\n\nDat brieven als deze, zoo vol van genegenheid en vertrouwen, zóó\nhadden kunnen worden beantwoord, zou Elinor, om Willoughby te sparen,\nongaarne hebben geloofd. Maar haar afkeuring van zijn gedrag verblindde\nhaar niet voor het ongepaste in het feit van Marianne's schrijven zelf;\nen in stilte betreurde zij de onvoorzichtigheid, die gewaagd had, zich\ndergelijke ongevraagde uitingen van teederheid te laten ontvallen,\ngeenszins gewaarborgd door het vroeger voorgevallene, en door de\nuitkomst op de meest verpletterende wijze gelogenstraft; toen Marianne,\nziende dat zij de brieven had gelezen, opmerkte, dat er niets in stond,\ndan wat ieder ander in haar omstandigheden zou geschreven hebben.\n\n\"Ik voelde mijzelve,\" voegde zij erbij, \"even plechtig aan hem\nverbonden, alsof de wet onze verbintenis bezegeld had.\"\n\n\"Dat geloof ik graag,\" zei Elinor, \"maar hij dacht er ongelukkig zoo\nniet over.\"\n\n\"Dat deed hij wèl, Elinor--weken achtereen heeft hij dat gevoeld. Ik\nweet het stellig. Wàt hem nu ook heeft doen veranderen (en dat\nkan niet anders zijn dan de vuigste verdachtmaking, tegen mij\naangewend), eens was ik hem zoo dierbaar als mijn eigen hart slechts\nkon verlangen. Hoe vurig heeft hij mij gesmeekt om die haarlok,\ndie hij thans zoo onverschillig kan teruggeven! Als je toen zijn\nblik en houding hadt gezien, zijn stem hadt kunnen hooren! Heb je\ndien laatsten avond van ons samenzijn vergeten, in Barton? En dien\nmorgen van het afscheid! Toen hij mij zeide, dat het weken zou kunnen\nduren, eer we elkaar weerzagen--zijn verdriet--zal ik het ooit kunnen\nvergeten?\" Een oogenblik kon zij niet voortgaan met spreken; doch\ntoen hare ontroering was bedaard, voegde zij erbij, op vasteren toon:\n\n\"Elinor, ik ben wreed behandeld; maar niet door Willoughby.\"\n\n\"Maar lieve Marianne; door wien anders? Wie kan hem tegen je hebben\nopgezet?\"\n\n\"De geheele wereld, eerder dan zijn eigen hart. Ik zou eerder gelooven\ndat al mijn bekenden hadden samengespannen, om mij in zijn oogen te\nvernederen, dan zijn natuur in staat te achten tot een dusdanige\nwreedheid. Die vrouw, waarover hij schrijft, wie ze dan ook moge\nzijn,--of... ja, ieder, behalve jij, mijn beste zuster, mama en Edward,\nkan zoo hardvochtig wreed zijn geweest, mij te belasteren. Is er,\nbehalve jelui drieën, een schepsel ter wereld, dat ik niet eerder\nvan kwaad zou verdenken dan Willoughby, wiens hart ik zóó wel ken?\"\n\nElinor wilde niet met haar redetwisten, en antwoordde alleen: \"Wie\nje dan ook zoo verfoeilijk vijandig gezind mochten zijn, beroof hen\nvan hun kwaadaardige zegepraal, mijn lieve zuster, door te toonen,\nhoe fier de bewustheid van eigen onschuld en goede bedoelingen je het\nhoofd omhoog doet heffen. 't Is een gegronde en prijzenswaardige trots,\ndie dergelijke kwaadwilligheid weet te weerstaan.\"\n\n\"Neen, neen,\" riep Marianne, \"verdriet als het kent geen trots. Ieder\nmag weten, dat ik ongelukkig ben. Laat de geheele wereld den triomf\ngenieten, mij zoo te zien. Elinor, Elinor, zij die weinig lijden, mogen\nzoo trotsch en onafhankelijk zijn als ze willen--mogen beleedigingen\nweerstaan, vernederende kwelling vergelden,--ik kan het niet. Ik moet\nvoelen--ik moet lijden--laat dan genieten van eigen zelfbewustzijn,\nwie het vermag.\"\n\n\"Maar om moeder's, om mijnentwil...\"\n\n\"Zou ik meer doen, dan voor mijzelve. Toch, gelukkig te schijnen,\nwanneer ik mij zoo wanhopig voel... O, wie kan dat verlangen?\"\n\nWeer zwegen beiden. Elinor bleef voortdurend, diep in gedachten,\nheen en weer wandelen van den haard naar het venster, van het venster\nnaar den haard, zonder te bespeuren dat die haard warmte gaf, of dat\nzij voorwerpen kon onderscheiden buiten dat venster; en Marianne,\nop het voeteneind van het ledikant gezeten, met haar hoofd tegen\neen der stijlen geleund, nam weer Willoughby's brief op, herlas\nhuiverend iederen zin, en riep uit: \"Het is te veel! O Willoughby,\nWilloughby, kon je _dit_ schrijven? Het is wreed--wreed; niets kan je\nvrijspreken. Neen, Elinor, niets. Wat hij ook voor kwaad van mij mocht\nhebben gehoord, had hij niet moeten aarzelen, eer hij daaraan geloof\nsloeg? Had hij het mij niet moeten vertellen, mij in staat stellen\nmij zelve vrij te pleiten? \"De haarlok\" (las zij uit den brief) \"die\ngij wel zoo goed hebt willen zijn, mij vrijwillig te schenken\"--dat\nis onvergefelijk. Willoughby, waar was je hart, toen je die woorden\nschreef? O, de hardvochtigheid van die beleediging!--Elinor, is er\neenige rechtvaardiging te vinden van zijn gedrag?\"\n\n\"Neen, Marianne; geen enkele.\"\n\n\"En toch, deze vrouw,--wie weet hoe listig zij geweest is--hoe lang\nvan te voren zij haar plannen had beraamd, en hoe behendig zij ze\nheeft weten uit te voeren! Wie is zij?--Wie kan ze zijn? Wie beschreef\nhij ooit onder de dames van zijn kennis als jong en aantrekkelijk? O\nniemand, niemand--tegen mij sprak hij over mijzelve alleen.\"\n\nWeer volgde een poos van stilte; Marianne was heftig\nbewogen;--eindelijk zei ze:\n\n\"Elinor, ik moet naar huis. Ik moet mama gaan troosten. Kunnen we\nmorgen niet gaan?\"\n\n\"Morgen, Marianne?\"\n\n\"Ja; waarom zou ik hier blijven? Ik kwam alleen om Willoughby;--en\nwie geeft hier nu om mij? Wie draagt mij een goed hart toe?\"\n\n\"Het zou onmogelijk zijn, morgen al te gaan. We zijn Mevrouw\nJennings meer dan beleefdheid verschuldigd, en de eenvoudigste\nbeleefdheidsregelen zouden zulk een overhaast vertrek verbieden.\"\n\n\"Nu, dan een paar dagen nog; maar ik kan hier niet lang meer\nblijven; ik kan de vragen en opmerkingen van al die menschen niet\nverdragen. De Middletons en de Palmer's--hoe zal ik hun medelijden\nkunnen verduren? Medelijden van een vrouw als Lady Middleton!--O... wat\nzou _hij_ daarvan zeggen!\"\n\nElinor gaf haar den raad, weer te gaan liggen, en een oogenblik\ndeed zij dat ook; maar zij kon in geen enkele houding rust vinden\nen in haar pijnigende gejaagdheid naar lichaam en geest bleef zij\nvoortdurend in beweging, tot zij zoo zenuwachtig werd, dat haar zuster\nhaar slechts met moeite in bed kon houden, en een oogenblik bang was,\ndat zij vreemde hulp zou moeten inroepen. Een paar lavendeltabletten,\ndie Elinor haar eindelijk overreedde, in te nemen, kalmeerden haar\neen weinig, en daarna bleef zij, tot Mevrouw Jennings terugkwam,\nstil en zonder zich meer te bewegen, op het bed liggen.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XXX\n\n\nMevrouw Jennings ging bij haar terugkomst dadelijk naar hun zitkamer,\nen zonder te wachten tot haar kloppen was beantwoord, opende zij de\ndeur en stapte binnen met een blik vol oprechte meewarigheid.\n\n\"Hoe staat het ermee, mijn kind?\" zeide zij, met innig medelijden in\nhaar stem tegen Marianne, die zonder een poging tot antwoorden haar\ngezicht afwendde. \"Hoe is 't met haar, Elinor? Arm kind! ze ziet er\nerg slecht uit. Geen wonder. Ja, 't is maar al te waar. Hij gaat al\nheel gauw trouwen--ellendige kerel! Bij mij heeft hij 't voor goed\nverbruid. Mevrouw Taylor vertelde 't mij, een half uur geleden, en\nzij had het van een intieme vriendin van Juffrouw Grey zelf, anders\nhad ik 't stellig niet geloofd, en ik had een gevoel of ik door den\ngrond ging. Nu, zei ik, ik kan alleen maar zeggen, als 't waar is,\ndat hij een jonge dame die ik ken, allerschandelijkst heeft behandeld,\nen ik hoop van harte, dat hij met die vrouw géén leven zal hebben. Dat\nzal ik altijd zeggen, lieve kind, daar kun je op aan. Ik heb er geen\nbegrip van, dat mannen zóó kunnen te werk gaan, en als ik hem ooit\nweer zie, dan krijgt hij van mij een schrobbeering die hem heugen\nzal. Maar er blijft een troost, mijn lieve Marianne, hij is niet de\neenige jonge man in de wereld, die de moeite waard is, en met je\nmooie gezichtje zal 't jou aan bewonderaars nooit ontbreken. Och,\ndat arme kind, ik zal haar maar niet langer lastig vallen; beter\ndat ze maar eens flink uitschreit, eens voor al. Van avond komen de\nParry's en de Sanderson's gelukkig, dat zal haar een beetje afleiden.\"\n\nDaarop ging zij op de teenen de kamer uit, alsof zij bang was, dat\nharde geluiden het verdriet van haar logéetje konden verergeren.\n\nMarianne besloot, tot haar zuster's verwondering, wel mee aan tafel te\ngaan. Elinor ried het haar eerder af. Maar neen, \"ze zou naar beneden\ngaan; ze kon het best verdragen, en dan werd er minder drukte om\nhaar gemaakt.\" Elinor, blijde dat zij zich een oogenblik door zulk\neen beweegreden liet leiden, al geloofde zij niet dat zij tot het\neinde toe aan tafel zou kunnen blijven, zei maar niets meer, hielp\nhaar kleeding zoo goed zij kon in orde brengen, terwijl Marianne te\nbed lag, en stond gereed om haar naar de eetkamer te brengen, zoodra\nzij aan tafel werden geroepen.\n\nToen zij eenmaal beneden was, zag zij er wel heel slecht uit; maar at\nmeer en was kalmer dan haar zuster verwacht had. Als zij een poging\nhad gedaan te spreken, of als zij al Mevrouw Jennings' goedbedoelde,\nmaar weinig tactvolle attenties had opgemerkt, dan zou die kalmte niet\nhebben kunnen bewaard blijven; doch geen woord kwam over haar lippen,\nen zij was zoo in gedachten verdiept, dat zij niets bespeurde van al\nwat om haar heen voorviel.\n\nElinor, die Mevrouw Jennings' vriendelijkheid waardeerde, al waren\nde uitingen er van dikwijls hinderlijk en soms haast belachelijk,\nbewees haar den dank, en beantwoordde de beleefdheid, die haar zuster\nzelve niet bewijzen of beantwoorden kon. Hun goede vriendin zag dat\nMarianne ongelukkig was, en had een gevoel, dat al wat haar minder\nongelukkig kon maken, haar nu rechtens toekwam. Zij behandelde haar\ndus met al de toegevende verteedering, die ouders jegens een geliefd\nkind aan den dag leggen op een laatsten vacantiedag. Marianne moest op\nhet warmste plaatsje bij den haard zitten; haar eetlust moest worden\nopgewekt door de fijnste lekkernijen die maar konden worden opgedischt,\nen alle nieuwtjes van den dag moesten ter harer afleiding dienen. Als\nElinor in haar zuster's droevig gezicht niet een beletsel voor alle\nvroolijkheid had gezien, zou zij zich een weinig hebben vermaakt\nover Mevrouw Jennings' pogingen om teleurstelling in de liefde te\nverzachten door een keur van zoetigheden en olijven, en een helder\nbrandend vuur. Zoodra echter door dat herhaalde aandringen het besef\nvan dit alles tot Marianne doordrong, kon zij niet langer blijven. Met\neen heftigen uitroep van smart, en haar zuster een wenk gevend,\nhaar niet te volgen, stond zij haastig op, en snelde de kamer uit.\n\n\"Arm schepsel!\" riep Mevrouw Jennings, toen zij was heengegaan, \"wat\ndoet het mij verdriet haar zoo te zien! Kijk toch eens, nu heeft ze\nniet eens haar wijn opgedronken! En de geconfijte kersen ook laten\nliggen! Och Heere, er is niets aan haar besteed. Als ik maar wist,\nwaar ze veel van hield, ik zou er de halve stad voor laten afloopen.\n\nDaar kan ik nu met geen mogelijkheid inkomen, dat een man een aardig\nmeisje zóó behandelen kan! Maar als er aan den eenen kant een hoop\ngeld zit, en zoo goed als niets aan den anderen, och lieve deugd,\ndan geven ze om die dingen niet meer...\"\n\n\"Is die dame,--die Juffrouw--Grey noemde u haar, meen ik,--dan\nzoo rijk?\"\n\n\"Vijftig duizend pond, kind. Heb je haar wel eens gezien? Een knap\nmeisje, elegant, zeggen ze; maar niet mooi. Haar tante herinner ik mij\nbest, Biddy Henshawe; die is met een schatrijken man getrouwd. Maar\nde heele familie zit er warmpjes in. Vijftig duizend pond, en naar\nik hoor komt het hem uitmuntend te pas; want ze zeggen, dat hij\ner leelijk vóór staat. Geen wonder, met dat rennen en rossen en die\njachtpaarden! Och ja, praten helpt niet veel; maar als een jongmensch,\n't doet er niet toe wie, een aardig meisje 't hof maakt, en belooft\nhaar te trouwen, dan gaat het niet aan, zijn woord te breken, omdat\nhij arm wordt, en er een rijkere juffer een oogje op hem heeft. Waarom\nverkoopt hij niet, als 't zoover komt, zijn paarden, verhuurt zijn\nhuis, schaft zijn bedienden af, en begint van meet af aan, op een\nandere manier? Ik wed, dat Marianne graag had willen wachten, tot de\nzaak er beter voor stond. Maar dat is tegenwoordig geen mode meer; de\njongelui van onze dagen geven nooit iets op, waarin ze plezier hebben.\n\n\"Weet u ook iets meer van die Juffrouw Grey? Moet zij een lief\nmeisje zijn?\"\n\n\"Ik heb nooit kwaad van haar hooren zeggen; eigenlijk heb ik haast\nnooit over haar hooren spreken, behalve dat Mevrouw Taylor van morgen\nzei, dat Juffrouw Walker eens had laten doorschemeren, dat ze dacht,\ndat Mijnheer en Mevrouw Ellison het niet kwaad zouden vinden, als\nJuffrouw Grey maar trouwde; want zij en Mevrouw Ellison konden niet\nmet elkaar overweg.\"\n\n\"En wie zijn de Ellisons?\"\n\n\"Hij is haar voogd, kindje. Maar ze is nu meerderjarig, en mag zelf\nkiezen, en 't is een mooie keuze, die ze heeft gedaan!--Kijk nu eens\naan,\" (na een oogenblik zwijgens) \"daar is nu je arme zuster naar\nhaar kamer gegaan, om in haar eentje te zitten jammeren. Zou er niets\nte bedenken zijn, waarmee we haar pleizier kunnen doen? Arm kind, 't\nlijkt zoo onhartelijk, haar alleen te laten. Nu, straks komen er een\npaar kennissen; dat leidt toch een beetje af. Wat zullen we spelen? Ze\nheeft een hekel aan whist; maar is er geen gezelschapsspelletje,\nwaar ze graag aan meedoet?\"\n\n\"Lieve mevrouw, het is werkelijk niet noodig, dat u zich zooveel\nmoeite geeft. Ik denk niet, dat Marianne vanavond weer beneden zal\nkomen. Als ik kan, zal ik haar bepraten om vroeg naar bed te gaan;\nwant zij heeft stellig rust noodig.\"\n\n\"Ja, dat geloof ik ook; dat zal 't beste voor haar zijn. Laat ze maar\nzeggen wat ze nog wil gebruiken, en dan naar bed gaan. Och heere, geen\nwonder, dat ze er de laatste weken zoo slecht en zoo treurig uitzag,\nwant al dien tijd zal haar dit wel boven 't hoofd hebben gehangen. En\nnu heeft die brief vandaag er een eind aan gemaakt. Arm kind! Als ik\n't maar geweten had; ik zou er haar voor geen geld van de wereld mee\ngeplaagd hebben. Maar hoe kon ik het raden, zeg nu eens zelf. Ik dacht\ndat het maar een gewoon minnebriefje was, en jongemeisjes laten zich\ndaar graag een beetje mee plagen. Och, och, wat zal 't Sir John en\nmijn dochters spijten, als ze 't hooren! Als ik niet zoo in de war\ngeweest was, had ik best even op weg naar huis in Conduit Street\nkunnen aangaan en 't hun vertellen. Maar ik spreek hen morgen wel.\"\n\n\"Het zal wel niet noodig zijn, denk ik, dat u Mevrouw Palmer en Sir\nJohn waarschuwt, nooit den naam van den Heer Willoughby te noemen, of\nte zinspelen op het gebeurde, in tegenwoordigheid van mijn zuster. Hun\neigen goed hart zal hen wel doen inzien, hoe waarlijk wreed het zou\nzijn, ten aanhoore van Marianne te laten blijken, dat zij er iets van\nweten, en hoe minder er ooit over wordt gesproken tegen mijzelve,\ndes te liever zal het ook mij zijn, zooals u, lieve mevrouw, licht\nzult begrijpen.\"\n\n\"O lieve deugd, ja, dat begrijp ik best. Het moet verschrikkelijk voor\nje zijn het gepraat erover aan te hooren, en wat je zuster betreft,\nik zou voor geen geld van de wereld tegen haar een woord erover\nzeggen. Je hebt het wel gemerkt; van middag aan tafel deed ik het\nook niet. En dat zouden Sir John en mijn dochters evenmin; want ze\nzijn allen heel oplettend en kiesch,--vooral wanneer ik hen nog eens\nwaarschuw, zooals ik stellig zal doen. Ik vind altijd, hoe minder er\nover zulke dingen wordt gepraat, hoe beter, en des te gauwer is 't\nweer voorbij en vergeten. En heb je ooit gezien, dat praten ook maar\n't geringste goed deed?\"\n\n\"In dit geval kan het alleen maar kwaad doen;--meer nog misschien\ndan in vele dergelijke; want hiermede gingen omstandigheden gepaard,\ndie het voor alle betrokken partijen hoogst ongewenscht doen zijn,\ndat de zaak zoo in 't publiek zou worden besproken. In zóóver moet ik\nden Heer Willoughby recht laten weervaren;--hij heeft geen bepaalde\nverloving verbroken met mijn zuster.\"\n\n\"Máár, lieve kind! Probeer maar niet, hem te verdedigen. Geen bepaalde\nverloving! nu vraag ik je, nadat hij haar Allenham House van binnen\nen van buiten heeft laten zien, en de kamers al had uitgekozen,\nwaarin ze later zouden wonen!\"\n\nElinor kon, ter wille van haar zuster, niet verder op het onderwerp\ndoorgaan, en zij hoopte, dat dit niet van haar mocht geëischt\nworden, om Willoughby te sparen; want door een openbaring van de\nvolle waarheid had Marianne veel te verliezen, terwijl hij er slechts\nweinig bij winnen kon. Nadat beiden een poosje hadden gezwegen, begon\nMevrouw Jennings opnieuw, met al de opgewektheid, die haar van nature\neigen was:\n\n\"Nu, lieve kind, 't is een waar woord, van die slechte wind, want\nvoor Kolonel Brandon is het zooveel te beter. Hij krijgt haar per\nslot toch nog; ja ja, dat zul je zien. Let maar eens op, of ze niet\ngetrouwd zijn eer 't weer zomer is. Och och, wat zal hij blij zijn met\ndit nieuwtje. Ik hoop, dat hij komt van avond. 't Zal voor je zuster\nin elk opzicht een betere partij zijn. Tweeduizend pond in 't jaar,\nzonder schulden of eenig bezwaar;--behalve dan dat dochtertje,--ja,\ndat vergat ik; maar dat kan ergens in de leer worden gedaan tegen een\ngeringe vergoeding,--en wat doet dàt er nu toe? Delaford is een mooi\nlandgoed, dat kan ik je verzekeren; zoo'n ouderwetsche genoegelijke\nbuitenplaats, met allerlei gerief en gezelligheden; heel en al\nafgesloten door hooge tuinmuren, die begroeid zijn met allerheerlijkste\nvruchten, en in een hoek een pracht van een moerbeienboom! Och, och,\nwat hebben Charlotte en ik ons genoegen gegeten, dien eenen keer, dat\nwe er waren! Dan is er een duiventil, een paar aardige vischvijvers,\neen mooie waterpartij, alles wat men maar kan wenschen; en daarbij\nligt het heel dicht bij de kerk, en maar een minuut of vijf van den\ngrooten weg; dus je behoeft je nooit te vervelen, want als je gaat\nzitten in een hoog-gelegen taxis-prieel achter 't huis, dan kun je al\nde rijtuigen zien, die voorbijkomen. O, 't is een heerlijk huis! De\nslager vlak bij, in het dorp, en de pastorie om zoo te zeggen, naast\nde deur. Naar _mijn_ zin, duizend maal mooier dan Barton Park, waar\nze hun vleesch drie mijlen ver uit de buurt moeten laten halen, en\ngeen buren hebben, dichterbij dan je moeder. Nu, ik zal den Kolonel\neens opvroolijken, zoo gauw als ik kan. De een zijn dood is den\nander zijn brood; dat is nu niet anders. Als 't ons nu maar lukt,\nom haar Willoughby uit het hoofd te zetten!\"\n\n\"Ja, als ons _dat_ gelukt, mevrouw,\" zei Elinor, \"dan zullen we er\nwel komen, mèt of zonder Kolonel Brandon.\" Meteen stond zij op en ging\nheen, om Marianne op te zoeken, die zij, zooals ze verwachtte, in hun\neigen kamer, zwijgend en bedroefd, bij de smeulende overblijfselen\nvond zitten van een klein vuurtje, het eenige dat licht gaf in de\nkamer, tot Elinor binnenkwam.\n\n\"Laat mij liever alleen,\" was al wat deze van Marianne kreeg te hooren.\n\n\"Ik zal je alleen laten,\" zei Elinor, \"als je naar bed wilt gaan.\"\n\nEerst weigerde zij; door haar ongedurige smart tot onredelijk verzet\ngedreven. Doch haar zuster's ernstige, hoewel zachte overreding deed\nhaar weldra gewillig toegeven; Elinor zag haar het pijnlijke hoofd\nop het kussen leggen, en bleef wachten tot Marianne, naar zij hoopte,\nop den goeden weg was om een weinig rust te genieten.\n\nIn den salon, waarheen zij zich daarna had begeven, kwam Mevrouw\nJennings weldra bij haar, met een vol wijnglas in de hand.\n\n\"Lieve kind,\" zei ze, \"ik bedacht daar juist, dat ik een paar\nflesschen van den besten ouden Malaga-wijn in huis heb, dien je ooit\nhebt geproefd,--en nu breng ik je een glas voor je zuster. Zooveel\nals mijn arme man daarvan hield. Als hij weer eens geplaagd werd door\neen van zijn aanvallen van jicht-koliek, dan zei hij, dat niets ter\nwereld hem zoo kon opknappen. Toe, breng dat nu eens aan Marianne.\"\n\n\"Lieve mevrouw,\" zei Elinor, glimlachend over het verschil van\nde kwalen, waarvoor de medicijn werd aanbevolen: \"Wat is u toch\nvriendelijk! Maar Marianne is juist naar bed gegaan, en nu, hoop ik,\nbijna in slaap; en daar ik geloof, dat niets haar zooveel goed kan doen\nals rust, wil ik, als u 't goedvindt, den wijn zelf wel opdrinken.\"\n\nHoewel het Mevrouw Jennings speet, dat zij er niet vijf minuten eerder\nmee was gekomen, had zij vrede met deze schikking, en terwijl Elinor\nhaar glas uitdronk, dacht zij, ofschoon de goede uitwerking van het\nvocht in een geval van jichtkoliek voor haar op het oogenblik van\nminder belang was, dat zijn genezend vermogen bij teleurgestelde\nliefde met evenveel recht mocht beproefd worden door haar als door\nhare zuster.\n\nKolonel Brandon kwam binnen terwijl zij aan de thee zaten, en uit\nde wijze waarop hij in de kamer rondzag naar Marianne, leidde Elinor\naanstonds af, dat hij haar noch verwachtte, noch wenschte daar te zien,\nen dat hij reeds op de hoogte was van de oorzaak harer afwezigheid.\n\nDezelfde gedachte scheen Mevrouw Jennings niet te zijn ingevallen;\nwant kort na zijn komst liep zij naar de theetafel, waarbij Elinor\ngezeten was, en fluisterde: \"De Kolonel kijkt even ernstig als altoos;\nzie je wel? Hij weet nog niets; vertel jij het hem maar, lieve.\"\n\nEen poosje later nam hij een stoel vlak bij haar, en vroeg, met een\nuitdrukking, die haar de stellige zekerheid schonk, dat hij alles wist,\nnaar hare zuster.\n\n\"Marianne is niet wel,\" zeide zij. \"Zij was den geheelen dag reeds\nongesteld, en we hebben haar overgehaald, naar bed te gaan.\"\n\n\"Misschien,\" antwoordde hij aarzelend, \"is het dus waar, wat ik\nvan morgen hoorde,--misschien is er meer waarheid in, dan ik eerst\nmogelijk had geacht.\"\n\n\"Wat hebt u gehoord?\"\n\n\"Dat iemand, van wien ik reden had, te denken,--of liever, dat een man,\ndie ik _wist_ dat verloofd was,--maar hoe moet ik het u vertellen? Als\nu het reeds weet, zooals u natuurlijk doet, dan wilt u mij dat wel\nbesparen.\"\n\n\"U bedoelt,\" antwoordde Elinor met gedwongen kalmte, \"het huwelijk van\nden Heer Willoughby met Mejuffrouw Grey. Ja, wij weten nu alles. Dit\nschijnt een dag te zijn geweest van algemeene opheldering; want van\nmorgen pas hebben wij er voor het eerst van gehoord. De Heer Willoughby\nis moeilijk te doorzien! Waar hebt u het vernomen?\"\n\n\"In een boekwinkel in Pall Mall, waar ik iets had te doen. Twee dames\nwachtten er op hun rijtuig, en de eene deed aan de andere een verslag\nvan het voorgenomen huwelijk, waarbij zij zich zoo weinig moeite\ngaf, haar stem te dempen, dat ik alles wel moest verstaan. De naam\nWilloughby, John Willoughby, herhaaldelijk genoemd, trok het eerst\nmijn aandacht, en daarop volgde de stellige verzekering, dat zijn\nhuwelijk met Mejuffrouw Grey dan nu eindelijk vaststond,--het behoefde\nniet langer te worden geheimgehouden--het zou zelfs binnen een paar\nweken worden voltrokken, en er werden nog vele bijzonderheden aan\ntoegevoegd omtrent de voorbereiding en zoo meer. Een ding herinner\nik mij in 't bijzonder, omdat het mij nog duidelijker deed blijken,\nwie de bedoelde persoon was;--na de huwelijksvoltrekking zouden zij\nnaar Combe Magna gaan, zijn landgoed in Somersetshire. U kunt u mijn\nverbazing voorstellen! Maar 't zou onmogelijk zijn, te beschrijven\nwat ik gevoelde. De spraakzame dame, hoorde ik bij navraag, want ik\nbleef in den winkel, tot zij waren vertrokken, was een zekere Mevrouw\nEllison, en dat is de naam, zooals ik later vernam, van Juffrouw\nGrey's voogd.\"\n\n\"Dat is waar. Maar hebt u ook gehoord, dat Juffrouw Grey vijftigduizend\npond bezit? Zoo ergens, dan kunnen we dáárin de verklaring vinden.\"\n\n\"Dat kan wel zijn; maar Willoughby is in staat... ten minste ik\ndenk...\" hij zweeg een oogenblik, en voegde er toen bij met een\nstem, die van zich zelve niet zeker scheen: \"En uw zuster... hoe\nvatte zij...\"\n\n\"Zij heeft het zich ontzaglijk aangetrokken. Ik kan alleen maar hopen,\ndat haar hevige smart naar verhouding kort zal duren. Het wàs, en\nhet _is_ een zware beproeving. Tot gisteren nog, geloof ik, heeft zij\nnooit aan zijn genegenheid getwijfeld, en zelfs nù, misschien... maar\nik voor mij ben bijna overtuigd, dat hij haar nooit werkelijk heeft\nliefgehad. Hij is zeer onoprecht geweest! en in sommige opzichten\nschijnt het, dat hij van nature hardvochtig is.\"\n\n\"Ja waarlijk,\" zeide Kolonel Brandon; \"dat is hij! Maar uw zuster\ndenkt--ik meen dat u zeide--zij ziet de zaak anders in dan u?\"\n\n\"U kent haar geaardheid, en u kunt wel begrijpen, hoe bereid zij is,\nhem nog in 't gelijk te stellen, als zij dat kon.\"\n\nHij gaf geen antwoord, en toen kort daarop het theeservies werd\nweggenomen en de speeltafeltjes werden klaargezet, moesten zij het\nonderwerp natuurlijk laten varen. Mevrouw Jennings, die met genoegen\nnaar hen had zitten kijken, terwijl zij aan het praten waren, en die\nverwacht had, de uitwerking van Elinor's mededeeling, onmiddellijk\nbij Kolonel Brandon te zullen waarnemen in een onstuimige blijdschap,\nzooals die gepast zou hebben bij een man in den bloei der jeugd vol\nhoop, en vol geluk, zag hem tot haar verbazing den geheelen avond\ndiep ernstig blijven, en nog meer nadenkend dan gewoonlijk.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XXXI\n\n\nNa een nacht, waarin zij meer had geslapen, dan zij verwachtte, werd\nMarianne den volgenden morgen wakker met het zelfde bewustzijn van\nbitter leed, waarmede zij de oogen had gesloten.\n\nElinor spoorde haar zooveel mogelijk aan tot uiting van 't geen zij\ngevoelde; en vóór het ontbijt reeds hadden zij alles weer lang en\nbreed besproken; met dezelfde stellige overtuiging en welgemeende\nraadgevingen van Elinor's kant, en dezelfde heftige gevoelens en\nwisselende meeningen van Marianne's zijde als te voren. Nu eens\nbeschouwde zij Willoughby als even ongelukkig en even schuldeloos als\nzichzelve, en dan weer ontviel haar elke troost door de onmogelijkheid\nhem van schuld vrij te pleiten. Het eene oogenblik was het haar\ntotaal onverschillig of de geheele wereld wist van haar verdriet;\nin het andere wilde zij zich voor goed uit die wereld terugtrekken;\nen een minuut later meende zij haar krachtig weerstand te kunnen\nbieden. In één opzicht bleef zij, als het erop aankwam, zichzelve\ngelijk, in het vermijden namelijk, als het eenigszins mogelijk was,\nvan Mevrouw Jennings' gezelschap, en in een volhardend stilzwijgen,\nzoolang zij verplicht was dat te verdragen. Haar hart weigerde\neenvoudig verstokt, te gelooven, dat Mevrouw Jennings zich met iets\nals medelijden kon indenken in haar verdriet.\n\n\"Neen, neen, neen; dat kàn niet,\" riep zij uit; \"zij kàn niet\nvoelen. Haar vriendelijkheid is niet sympathie; haar goedhartigheid\nis niet teederheid. Al wat zij begeert is een onderwerp voor praatjes,\nen ze houdt nu alleen maar van mij, omdat ik haar dat verschaf.\"\n\nOok zonder deze uitingen was Elinor reeds genoegzaam overtuigd van\nde onbillijkheid in haar oordeel over anderen, waartoe haar zuster\ndikwijls werd verleid door de prikkelbare verfijning van haar eigen\ngeest, en het overdreven gewicht dat zij hechtte aan de kiesche\nvooroordeelen van een sterk ontwikkeld gevoelsleven en de bekoring van\nuiterlijke wellevendheid. Zooals het meerendeel der menschen, indien\nalthans het meerendeel zoowel goed als begaafd is, was Marianne,\nmet uitmuntende vermogens en een uitmuntenden gemoedsaard, noch\nredelijk, noch volkomen eerlijk te noemen. Zij verwachtte dat anderen\nde zelfde meeningen en gevoelens als zij zelve zouden koesteren, en\nzij beoordeelde hunne beweegredenen naar de onmiddellijke uitwerking\nhunner handelingen op haarzelve. Zoo viel er thans, terwijl de zusters\nna het ontbijt samen op hun kamer waren, weer iets voor, dat Marianne\neen nog geringeren dunk deed opvatten van Mevrouw Jennings' goede hart,\nomdat het, door haar eigen zwakheid, toevallig een bron van nieuw\nleed voor haarzelve bleek, hoewel Mevrouw Jennings in dezen slechts\nwerd bewogen door een opwelling van de hartelijkste welgezindheid.\n\nMet een brief in haar uitgestrekte hand, en vroolijk glimlachend,\nin de overtuiging dat zij troost kwam brengen, trad zij hun kamer\nbinnen, met de woorden: \"Nu, kindje, nu breng ik je toch iets, dat\nje stellig goed zal doen.\"\n\nMarianne had reeds genoeg gehoord. In een oogwenk schilderde haar\nverbeelding haar een brief van Willoughby, vol teederheid en berouw,\nal het gebeurde verklarend, bevredigend, overtuigend; onmiddellijk\ngevolgd door Willoughby zelf, die de kamer haastig kwam binnensnellen,\nom aan hare voeten door zijn welsprekende blikken te bevestigen wat\nzijn brief haar verzekerde. Dat werk van één oogenblik werd door\nhet volgende vernietigd. Het handschrift van haar moeder, tot nog toe\nnimmer onwelkom, lag vóór haar, en in de scherpte dezer teleurstelling,\nvolgend op eene verrukking, die méér was dan hoop, had zij een gevoel,\nalsof zij tot op dit oogenblik nog niet geleden had.\n\nDe wreedheid van Mevrouw Jennings zou door geen woorden, waarover\nzij beschikte in haar meest welsprekende oogenblikken, kunnen zijn\nuitgedrukt, en thans kon zij haar enkel beschuldigen door de tranen,\ndie haar met hartstochtelijke heftigheid uit de oogen stroomden--een\nbeschuldiging, die echter het voorwerp ervan zóó volkomen ontging,\ndat zij, na veel betuigingen van medelijden, heenging, nog steeds\nverwijzend naar den brief, die ongetwijfeld troost zou schenken. Doch\nde brief bracht weinig troost, toen zij voldoende bedaard was, om dien\nte kunnen lezen. Iedere bladzijde was vol van Willoughby. Haar moeder,\nnog steeds in de meening, dat zij verloofd was, en even vast als\naltijd bouwend op zijn trouw, was door Elinor's vraag slechts bewogen,\nMarianne te smeeken om grootere openhartigheid jegens hen beiden,\nen zij deed dit met zooveel teederheid jegens haar, zoo oprechte\ngenegenheid voor Willoughby, en een zoo stellige verzekerdheid\nvan hun toekomstig geluk in en door elkander, dat Marianne onder\nhet lezen het uitsnikte van duldelooze pijn. Al haar ongeduldig\nverlangen om weer thuis te zijn keerde thans terug; haar moeder was\nhaar dierbaarder dan ooit,--dierbaarder juist door dat overdreven,\nschoon misplaatst vertrouwen in Willoughby, en zij drong onstuimig aan\nop hun vertrek. Elinor, zelf niet in staat te beslissen, of het beter\nvoor Marianne zou zijn, te Londen te blijven of naar Barton te gaan,\nkon geen anderen raad geven, dan geduld te oefenen tot zij wisten,\nwat hun moeder wenschte, en ten slotte verkreeg zij haar zuster's\ntoestemming, te wachten, tot die wensch hun bekend zou zijn.\n\nMevrouw Jennings liet hen vroeger dan gewoonlijk alleen; want zij had\ngeen rust eer de Middletons en de Palmers in haar verdriet zouden\nkunnen deelen; zij weigerde beslist, toen Elinor aanbood haar te\nvergezellen, en ging dien morgen alleen uit. Elinor ging met een\nbezwaard gemoed, wetend dat haar mededeeling verdriet zou veroorzaken,\nen uit Marianne's brief wel bespeurend, hoe weinig zij erin geslaagd\nwas, op dit verdriet eenigermate voor te bereiden, aan haar moeder\nzitten schrijven, wat er gebeurd was, en haar vragen, wat hun verder\nte doen stond; terwijl Marianne, die na Mevrouw Jennings' vertrek\nin den salon was gekomen, bij de tafel ging zitten, waaraan Elinor\nschreef, ziende naar het voortbewegen van haar pen, haar beklagend\nom de moeilijkheid van zulk een taak, en nog inniger bedroefd om den\nindruk, dien het schrijven moest wekken bij hare moeder.\n\nZoo hadden zij ongeveer een kwartier samen gezeten, toen Marianne,\nwier zenuwen geen onverwacht geluid konden verdragen, opschrikte door\neen kloppen aan de voordeur.\n\n\"Wie kan daar zijn?\" riep Elinor, \"Zoo vroeg al! Ik dacht, dat we _nu_\ntoch veilig waren.\"\n\nMarianne ging naar het venster.\n\n\"'t Is Kolonel Brandon!\" zei ze geërgerd. \"Voor hèm zijn we nooit\nveilig.\"\n\n\"Hij zal niet boven komen, nu Mevrouw Jennings uit is.\"\n\n\"Dáár reken ik niet op,\" zei Marianne, naar haar eigen kamer\ngaande. \"Een man die met zijn eigen tijd geen raad weet, ziet er geen\nbezwaar in, beslag te leggen op dien van een ander.\"\n\nHet bleek dat haar gissing juist was geweest, hoewel gegrond op een\nonbillijke en onware voorstelling; want Kolonel Brandon kwàm binnen;\nen Elinor die overtuigd was, dat bezorgdheid over Marianne hem hierheen\nvoerde, en die bezorgdheid zag in zijn onrustigen en treurigen blik,\nen hoorde in zijn angstige, doch korte vraag naar haar, kon het haar\nzuster niet vergeven, dat zij hem zoo gering schatte.\n\n\"Ik ontmoette Mevrouw Jennings in Bond Street,\" zeide hij na de eerste\nbegroeting, \"en zij spoorde mij aan, hierheen te gaan. Ik liet mij\nte eerder daartoe aansporen, omdat ik het waarschijnlijk achtte,\ndat ik u hier alleen zou vinden, wat ik ten zeerste verlangde. Mijn\nbedoeling,--mijn wensch--mijn eenige wensch, naar ik hoop en geloof,\nis deze,--mede te werken om troost te schenken,--neen, ik moet niet\nzeggen troost,--althans geen onmiddellijke troost,--maar overtuiging,\neen vaste overtuiging, en zekerheid voor uw zuster's gemoed. Mijn\ngenegenheid voor haar, voor uzelve, voor uwe moeder,--wilt u mij\ntoestaan deze te bewijzen, door u het een en ander mede te deelen,\ndat door niets dan een zéér oprechte genegenheid,--niets dan een\ninnigen wensch om mij nuttig te maken... ik geloof, dat ik in mijn\nrecht ben;--doch is er niet eenige reden, te vreezen dat ik ongelijk\nheb; daar ik vele uren heb moeten doorbrengen met pogingen om mijzelf\nte rechtvaardigen?...\" Hij zweeg.\n\n\"Ik begrijp u wel,\" zeide Elinor, \"U hebt mij iets te vertellen\nomtrent den Heer Willoughby, dat een helderder licht zal werpen op\ndiens karakter. U zult daardoor Marianne den grootsten vriendendienst\nbewijzen. _Mijne_ dankbaarheid wint u onmiddellijk door elke\nmededeeling van dien aard; de hare zult u mettertijd daardoor\nverwerven. Ik vraag u dringend, ik bid u, zeg mij wat het is.\"\n\n\"Dat zal ik, en om kort te zijn, toen ik Barton in October\nverliet... maar zóó zult u het niet begrijpen. Ik moet verder\nteruggaan. U zult mij een zeer onhandig spreker vinden, juffrouw\nDashwood; ik weet haast niet, waar te beginnen. Ik geloof, dat het\nnoodig zal zijn, in 't kort een en ander van mijzelf te vertellen,\nen dàt verslag zàl kort zijn. Dàt onderwerp,\" voegde hij erbij met\neen zwaren zucht \"lokt niet uit tot bijzondere uitvoerigheid.\"\n\nHij wachtte een oogenblik, om zijn gedachten te verzamelen, en ging\ntoen, nogmaals zuchtend, voort: \"Waarschijnlijk herinnert u zich in\nhet geheel niet meer een gesprek (het is moeilijk te veronderstellen,\ndat het eenigen indruk op u zou maken)--een gesprek tusschen ons\nop zekeren avond te Barton Park--het was bij gelegenheid van een\ndanspartij,--waarin ik zinspeelde op een dame, die ik vroeger had\ngekend, en die in menig opzicht op uwe zuster Marianne geleek.\"\n\n\"Welzeker,\" antwoordde Elinor, \"ik herinner het mij zéér goed.\" Het\nscheen hem genoegen te doen, dit te hooren, en hij ging voort.\n\n\"Als ik mij niet laat misleiden door de onzekerheid, de partijdigheid\neener teedere herinnering, dan bestaat tusschen hen beiden een\nsterke gelijkenis, zoowel innerlijk als uiterlijk,--dezelfde warmte\nvan hart, dezelfde vurigheid van verbeelding en geest. Deze dame\nwas eene mijner naaste bloedverwanten, reeds jong wees geworden,\nen onder de voogdijschap van mijn vader geplaatst. Wij waren bijna\neven oud, en van jongsaf speelgenooten en vrienden. Ik kan mij den\ntijd niet herinneren, waarin ik Eliza niet liefhad; en toen wij\nouder werden, was mijn genegenheid voor haar zoo innig, dat u, die\nmij beoordeelt naar mijn tegenwoordigen triesten en vreugdeloozen\nernst, mij wellicht niet tot zulk een sterk gevoel in staat zoudt\nkunnen achten. Haar liefde voor mij was, geloof ik, vurig als die\nvan uwe zuster voor den Heer Willoughby, en niet minder ongelukkig,\nal was het door eene andere oorzaak. Toen zij zeventien jaren was,\nmoest ik haar voor altijd verliezen. Zij trouwde--werd tegen haar zin\nuitgehuwelijkt aan mijn broeder. Haar fortuin was aanzienlijk en ons\nfamiliegoed stak diep in schulden. Dat is alles, vrees ik, wat gezegd\nkan worden ter vergoelijking van het gedrag van hem, die haar oom\nen voogd was. Mijn broeder verdiende haar niet; hij had haar zelfs\nniet lief. Ik had gehoopt, dat haar genegenheid voor mij haar onder\nalle moeilijkheden zou staande houden, en een tijdlang was dit ook\nzoo;--doch op den duur kon haar standvastigheid geen weerstand bieden\naan de smart die zij moest verduren; want zij werd zeer hard behandeld,\nen hoewel zij mij had beloofd, dat niets... maar hoe ongeregeld is\nmijn verhaal! Ik heb u nog niet verteld, hoe het zoover kwam. Slechts\nenkele uren voor wij te zamen wilden vluchten naar Schotland, werden\nwij verraden door het bedrog of de domheid van de kamenier mijner\nnicht. Ik werd verbannen naar het huis van een zeer veraf wonenden\nbloedverwant en haar werd alle vrijheid, alle omgang, elk vermaak\nontzegd, tot mijn vader zijn zin had gekregen. Ik had te veel op haar\nkracht vertrouwd, en de slag trof mij zwaar;--doch als haar huwelijk\ngelukkig was geweest, dan had ik mij, zoo jong als ik toen was, er\nna eenige maanden mede moeten verzoenen; of ik had het althans nu\nniet behoeven te betreuren. Maar dat was niet het geval. Mijn broeder\nhad haar niet lief; hij jaagde ongeoorloofde genoegens na, en van den\nbeginne af heeft hij haar hard behandeld. Maar al te natuurlijk waren\nde gevolgen van die behandeling, in hun uitwerking op een geest, zoo\njong, zoo levendig, zoo onervaren als die van Mevrouw Brandon. In het\nbegin droeg zij gelaten haar ellende, en het zou gelukkig zijn geweest,\nzoo zij gestorven ware, eer zij de droefheid verwon, die de herinnering\naan mij in haar placht te wekken. Maar is het vreemd, dat zij ten val\nwerd gebracht, met een echtgenoot, die haar uitlokte tot ontrouw, en\nzonder één vriend, die haar raden of weerhouden kon? (want mijn vader\nstierf een paar maanden na hun huwelijk, en ik was met mijn regiment\nin Indië). Was ik in Engeland gebleven, misschien... doch ik meende\nbeider geluk te bevorderen door haar voor lange jaren te verlaten,\nen met dat doel had ik om overplaatsing verzocht. De schok, dien\nik ondervond bij het vernemen van haar huwelijk,\" ging hij voort,\nmet een stem, die zijn heftige ontroering verried, \"was gering,\nwas niets,--vergeleken bij wat ik voelde, toen ik twee jaren later\nhoorde, dat zij gescheiden was. Dàt was het, dat mij zoo somber deed\nworden--zelfs nu is de herinnering aan wat ik geleden heb...\" Hij kon\nniet voortgaan, stond haastig op, diep aangedaan door zijn verhaal,\nen nog meer door zijn smartelijke ontroering, kon niet spreken. Hij\nzag, hoe bewogen zij was, vatte hare hand, drukte die en kuste ze\nmet dankbaren eerbied. Na nog een paar minuten, waarin hij zich in\nstilte vermande, kon hij bedaarder voortgaan.\n\n\"Drie jaren bijna waren verstreken na die droeve dagen, eer ik naar\nEngeland terugkeerde. Mijn eerste gedachte, bij mijne aankomst,\nwas natuurlijk, haar te zoeken; maar de pogingen daartoe waren zoo\nvruchteloos als diep bedroevend. Ik kon niet ontdekken, wat er van\nhaar was geworden, nadat zij door haar eersten verleider was verlaten,\nen er bestond alle reden, te vreezen, dat zij steeds dieper gezonken en\ntot een leven van zonde vervallen was. Het jaargeld, haar door de wet\ntoegezegd, was niet evenredig aan haar fortuin, noch voldoende voor\nhaar behoorlijk onderhoud, en ik vernam van mijn broeder, dat eenige\nmaanden geleden het recht om het in ontvangst te nemen aan een ander\nwas afgestaan. Hij vermoedde, en kon dat vermoeden kalm uitspreken,\ndat haar verkwisting en hieruit voortvloeiende armoede haar hadden\ngenoodzaakt, het op te geven om voorloopig uit den dringendsten\nnood te geraken. Eindelijk echter, toen ik reeds zes maanden in\nEngeland was geweest, heb ik haar tòch gevonden. Uit gehechtheid\naan een vroegeren bediende, die in het ongeluk was geraakt, zocht\nik dezen man op in een schuldgevangenis, waar hij wegens schulden in\nhechtenis werd gehouden, en hier in dat zelfde huis, en in dergelijke\nomstandigheden, trof ik haar aan, mijn ongelukkige pleegzuster. Zoo\nveranderd--zoo vervallen--zoo uitgeteerd door hevig lijden naar\nlichaam en ziel! Ternauwernood kon ik gelooven, dat dit droeve,\ndoor ziekte ondermijnde schepsel eens het beminnelijke, bloeiende,\ngezonde meisje was geweest, waarmede ik gedweept had, Hoe ik leed,\ntoen ik haar zóó moest aanschouwen--maar ik heb het recht niet uw\ngevoelens te kwetsen door te pogen dat te beschrijven--ik deed u\nreeds te veel verdriet. Dat zij, het bleek maar al te duidelijk,\nin het laatste stadium van de tering was, schonk mij,--ja in deze\nomstandigheden moest het mij troost schenken. Haar bood het leven\nniets meer, dan tijd zich beter voor te bereiden op den dood, en\ndeze werd haar geschonken. Ik zorgde dat zij goed werd gehuisvest, en\nzorgvuldig verpleegd; ik bezocht haar iederen dag, zoolang haar korte\nleven nog moest duren; ik was bij haar in haar laatste oogenblikken.\"\n\nWeer zweeg hij, om zijn aandoening meester te worden, en Elinor uitte\nhaar gevoel in een uitroep vol van het teederste medelijden met het\nlot zijner beklagenswaardige vriendin.\n\n\"Het zal uwe zuster, hoop ik, niet kunnen kwetsen,\" zeide hij, \"dat\nik mij verbeeldde, een zekere gelijkenis te zien tusschen haar en\nmijne arme, onteerde bloedverwante. Hun lot, hunne ervaringen kunnen\nniet dezelfde zijn, en had de van nature beminnelijke geaardheid\nder laatste steun ontvangen door een krachtiger wil of door een\ngelukkiger huwelijk, dan zou zij alles hebben kunnen zijn, wat uwe\nzuster in de toekomst belooft te worden.--Doch waartoe leidt dit\nalles? Het schijnt alsof ik u voor niets heb bedroefd. Ach,--een\nonderwerp als dit,--veertien jaren onaangeroerd gebleven--het is\ngevaarlijk het zelfs maar ter sprake te brengen! Maar ik _wil_\ngeregelder verhalen--beknopter zijn. Zij vertrouwde aan mijne zorg\nhaar eenig kindje, een meisje, de vrucht van hare eerste schuldige\nverbintenis, dat toen omstreeks drie jaren oud was. Zij had het kind\nlief, en het was altijd bij haar gebleven. Voor mij was deze opdracht\nwaardevol en kostbaar, en gaarne zou ik mij ervan hebben gekweten in\nden meest volledigen zin, door zelf te waken over hare opvoeding,\nindien de omstandigheden dit hadden veroorloofd; maar ik had geen\ngezin, geen tehuis; en dus werd mijn kleine Eliza naar eene school\ngebracht. Ik ging haar bezoeken, zoo dikwijls ik kon, en na den dood\nvan mijn broeder omstreeks vijf jaar geleden, waardoor ik eigenaar\nwerd van ons familiegoed, kwam zij dikwijls bij mij te Delaford. Het\nheette, dat zij verre familie van mij was; maar ik weet zeer goed, dat\nmen in 't algemeen mij verdacht van een veel nadere verwantschap. Nu\ndrie jaar geleden (zij was toen veertien) nam ik haar van school, om\nhaar onder de hoede te plaatsen van eene zeer achtenswaardige dame\nin Dorsetshire, die zich belast had met de opvoeding van nog vier\nof vijf andere meisjes van denzelfden leeftijd, en gedurende twee\njaren had ik alle reden om tevreden te zijn met deze schikking. Doch\nin Februari van het vorige jaar, nu bijna een jaar geleden, was zij\nplotseling verdwenen. Ik had haar toegestaan (onvoorzichtig, zooals\nlater bleek) op haar dringend verlangen, naar Bath te gaan met eene\nharer vriendinnen, die haar zieken vader daar moest verplegen. Ik\nwist dat hij een goede man was, en had ook een gunstige meening\nopgevat omtrent zijne dochter, beter dan zij verdiende; want in\nhaar koppige en onverstandige zucht tot geheimhouding, wilde zij\nons niets vertellen, en geen enkele inlichting verstrekken, ofschoon\nzij stellig alles wist. Haar vader zelf, een goedhartige, maar ver\nvan scherpziende man, kon mij werkelijk niets mededeelen; want hij\nwas aan huis gebonden geweest, terwijl de meisjes alleen in de stad\nzwierven, en kennis maakten met wie ze verkozen; en hij poogde mij te\novertuigen, even stellig als hij zelf daarvan doordrongen was, dat\nzijne dochter niets van de zaak afwist. Om kort te gaan, ik vernam\nniets dan dat zij weg was, al het overige bleef onzeker, acht volle\nmaanden lang. Wat ik dacht, wat ik vreesde, kunt u zich voorstellen,\nen hoe ik leed, eveneens.\"\n\n\"O!\" riep Elinor, \"is het mogelijk! Kon Willoughby...\"\n\n\"Het eerste bericht van haar, dat ik ontving,\" ging hij voort,\n\"bereikte mij in een brief van haarzelve in October l.l. Deze werd\nmij uit Delaford opgezonden, en ik ontving dien juist op den morgen\nvan ons voorgenomen tochtje naar Whitwell. Dat was de reden van\nmijn plotseling vertrek uit Barton, dat toen iedereen, zooals ik\nwel begreep, zeer vreemd voorkwam, en dat sommigen mij, geloof ik,\nkwalijk hebben genomen. Weinig vermoedde de Heer Willoughby, denk\nik, toen zijn blikken mij mijne onbeleefdheid verweten, omdat ik\nhet voorgenomen uitstapje bedierf, dat mijne hulp werd ingeroepen\ndoor iemand, die hij tot armoede en ellende had doen vervallen;\nmaar wat zou het hebben gebaat, _indien_ hij het wist? Zou hij zich\nminder vroolijk of gelukkig hebben gevoeld door den glimlach van uw\nzuster? Neen; want hij had reeds gedaan, wat geen man zou _kunnen_\ndoen, die voor anderen kan gevoelen. Hij had het jonge, ónschuldige\nmeisje, dat hij had verleid, achtergelaten in een wanhopigen toestand,\nzonder behoorlijk tehuis, zonder hulp, zonder vrienden, zonder haar\nzijn adres op te geven! Hij verliet haar met de belofte te zullen\nterugkeeren; hij kwam niet terug, schreef niet, verleende geen hulp.\"\n\n\"Dat is beneden alles!\" riep Elinor uit.\n\n\"Thans kent u zijn waren aard;--verkwistend, losbandig, en erger\ndan dat. Denk eens wat ik, dit alles wetend, zooals ik het reeds\nwekenlang geweten heb, moest gevoelen, toen ik zag, dat uwe zuster hem\nnog steeds liefhad, en toen ik hoorde, dat zij met hem ging trouwen;\nwat ik gevoelde om u aller wil. Toen ik de vorige week kwam en u alleen\nvond, was ik vastbesloten, de waarheid te vernemen, ofschoon nog niet\nzeker, wàt te doen, wanneer ik die vernomen hàd. Mijn gedrag moet u\ntoen vreemd zijn voorgekomen; doch nu zult u het begrijpen. U allen\nzoo misleid te weten; uw zuster te zien... maar wat kon ik doen? Ik\nhad geen hoop, dat mijn tusschenkomst iets zou baten, en soms dacht ik,\ndat uw zuster's invloed hem nog ten goede zou kunnen bewegen. Doch wie\nzal zeggen, na deze schandelijke behandeling, wat hij wellicht met haar\nheeft voorgehad? Wat ook zijn bedoelingen mogen geweest zijn, zij kan\nnu, en zàl ongetwijfeld later, haar eigen toestand met dankbaarheid\nbeschouwen, wanneer zij dien vergelijkt met het lijden mijner arme\nEliza; wanneer zij denkt aan de treurige, hopelooze omstandigheden,\nwaarin dit arme meisje verkeert, en zich haar voorstelt, hem even\ninnig, ook thans nog, liefhebbend als zij zelve en daarbij gekweld\ndoor een zelfverwijt dat van levenslangen duur zal zijn. Stellig\nzal die vergelijking haar ten goede komen. Zij zal gevoelen dat haar\neigen leed als niets is. Het vond zijn oorsprong in geen wangedrag,\nen kan geen blaam op haar werpen. Integendeel, ieder die te voren\nhaar vriend was, wordt het thans des te meer. Medelijden met haar\nverdriet, en eerbied voor de kracht, waarmede zij het draagt, moeten\nelke genegenheid versterken. Ik laat echter aan uw eigen oordeel over,\nwat u haar wilt mededeelen van 't geen ik u verteld heb. U weet het\nbest wat de uitwerking ervan zal zijn; doch als ik niet oprecht en\nuit den grond van mijn hart had geloofd, dat het haar ten goede zou\nkunnen komen, haar droefheid zou kunnen doen verminderen, dan zou ik\nmijzelf niet hebben veroorloofd, u lastig te vallen met dit relaas\nvan mijn treurige familie-omstandigheden; met een verhaal, dat den\nschijn zou kunnen wekken, alsof ik mijzelf ten koste van anderen had\nwillen verheffen.\"\n\nElinor betuigde hem met ernstigen nadruk dank voor deze woorden, en\nverzekerde hem, dat zij voor Marianne van zijne mededeeling werkelijk\nveel goeds verwachtte. \"Haar pogingen om hem vrij te spreken,\" zeide\nzij, \"deden mij het allermeest verdriet; want zij doen haar meer kwaad\ndan de stelligste overtuiging van zijn onwaardigheid. Nu geloof ik,\ndat zij, hoewel ze in het begin erdoor zal lijden, spoedig veel meer\ngetroost zal zijn.--Hebt u\", ging zij na een kort stilzwijgen voort,\n\"den Heer Willoughby nog weer ontmoet sedert uw vertrek uit Barton?\"\n\n\"Ja,\" antwoordde hij ernstig, \"eenmaal. Eene ontmoeting was\nonvermijdelijk.\"\n\nElinor, verschrikt door zijn toon, zag hem angstig aan, en zeide:\n\"Wat? hebt u met hem...\"\n\n\"Er was geen andere uitweg. Eliza had mij, hoewel zeer ongaarne, den\nnaam van haar minnaar bekend; en toen hij naar de stad terugkeerde,\nveertien dagen later dan ik, hebben wij geduelleerd; hij om zich te\nverdedigen, ik om zijn gedrag te straffen. Wij werden geen van beiden\ngewond, en dus is de zaak niet ruchtbaar geworden.\"\n\nElinor zuchtte over de gewaande noodzakelijkheid van zulk een\nhandelwijze; doch zij waagde niet tegenover een man en een militair,\nhare afkeuring ervan te uiten.\n\n\"Zoo droevig\" zeide Kolonel Brandon, na een poos van zwijgen, \"was\nde gelijkenis tusschen het lot van moeder en dochter! en zóó ben ik\ntekort geschoten in de mij toevertrouwde taak!\"\n\n\"Is zij nog in de stad?\"\n\n\"Neen, zoodra zij hersteld was na haar bevalling, die aanstaande was\ntoen ik haar vond, heb ik haar met het kind naar buiten gezonden,\nen daar zal zij blijven.\" Toen hij zich spoedig daarna herinnerde,\ndat hij Elinor misschien belette zich bij haar zuster te voegen,\nnam hij afscheid, en na nogmaals haar erkentelijke dankbetuiging te\nhebben ontvangen, verliet hij haar, vervuld van medelijden en achting\nvoor hem.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XXXII\n\n\nToen de bijzonderheden van dit gesprek door Elinor aan hare zuster\nwerden medegedeeld, zooals spoedig gebeurde, was hunne uitwerking niet\nvolkomen zooals de eerste zich die had voorgesteld. Niet dat Marianne\nin eenig opzicht aan de waarheid van het verhaalde scheen te twijfelen;\nwant Zij hoorde alles aan met stille en onderworpen aandacht, uitte\ngeen tegenwerping, noch eenige opmerking zelfs; trachtte Willoughby\nniet te rechtvaardigen, en scheen door haar tranen te toonen, hoezeer\nzij gevoelde, dat dit onmogelijk was. Maar hoewel dit gedrag Elinor\nde zekerheid schonk, dat de overtuiging omtrent zijn schuld thans\nwerkelijk tot haar was doorgedrongen, hoewel zij met voldoening de\nuitwerking ervan waarnam, door te zien, hoe Marianne niet langer\nKolonel Brandon vermeed bij zijn bezoeken, hoe zij tot hem sprak,\nzelfs uit eigen beweging, met een soort van medelijdenden eerbied,\nen hoewel zij zag dat Marianne's zenuwgestel minder heftig geprikkeld\nscheen, zij vond hare treurigheid niet verminderd. Haar geest wàs thans\ntot rust gekomen; doch het was de rust der diepste verslagenheid. Het\nverlies, van alle vertrouwen in Willoughby's zedelijk karakter trof\nhaar nog zwaarder dan het verlies van zijn liefde had kunnen doen;\nhet feit dat hij een jong meisje had verleid en verlaten, de ellende\nvan dat arme kind, en de twijfel, welke plannen hij wellicht omtrent\nhaarzelve had gekoesterd, dit alles had zulk een neerdrukkenden\ninvloed op haar geest, dat zij niet van zich kon verkrijgen, zelfs\ntegen Elinor te spreken over 't geen zij gevoelde, en dat stille\nverzinken in haar verdriet bedroefde haar zuster meer dan de meest\nopenhartige en herhaalde uiting ervan had kunnen doen.\n\nDe weergave der gevoelens en uitingen van Mevrouw Dashwood, bij\nhet ontvangen en beantwoorden van Elinor's brief, zou slechts eene\nherhaling zijn van 't geen haar dochters reeds gevoeld en gezegd\nhadden; teleurstelling, bijna niet minder smartelijk dan die van\nMarianne; verontwaardiging, nog grooter dan die van Elinor. In\nhaar lange en snel op elkaar volgende brieven kwam al wat zij\nleed en dacht tot uiting; zij waren vol angstige bezorgdheid over\nMarianne, en smeekten haar, geestkracht te toonen onder dezen zwaren\nslag. Inderdaad, wèl zwaar moest de ramp zijn, die Marianne had\ngetroffen, waar haar moeder spreken kon van geestkracht. Wel zéér\npijnlijk en vernederend moest de oorzaak zijn eener droefgeestigheid,\nwaaraan _zij_ niet kon wenschen, haar te zien toegeven!...\n\nIn tegenspraak met haar persoonlijken wensch, achtte Mevrouw Dashwood\nhet beter voor Marianne, thans overal elders liever te zijn, dan juist\nte Barton, waar al wat zij zag, het verleden op de levendigste en\npijnlijkste wijze moest terugroepen, door haar aanhoudend Willoughby\nvoor den geest te brengen, zooals zij hem daar steeds had gezien. Zij\nraadde hare dochters dus aan, het bezoek bij Mevrouw Jennings\nvooral niet te bekorten, dat, ofschoon geen bepaalde afspraak was\ngemaakt, toch naar aller meening minstens vijf of zes weken had\nzullen duren. Afwisseling, zoo in bezigheid als in vooruitzichten\nen gezelschap, waaraan het haar te Barton zou ontbreken, was hier\nonvermijdelijk, en zou, naar zij hoopte, Marianne soms toch nog\nkunnen bewegen tot eenige belangstelling in dingen buiten haarzelve,\nen zelfs tot deelname in eenig vermaak, hoezeer die beide mogelijkheden\nthans nog door haar mochten verworpen worden. Voor het gevaar, dat zij\nWilloughby weer zou kunnen zien, achtte haar moeder haar in de stad\nalthans even veilig als buiten; daar allen, die zich haar vrienden\nnoemden, thans niet meer met hem wilden omgaan. Met voorbedachten rade\nzouden zij elkander nooit ontmoeten; door onvoorzichtigheid zouden\nzij geen kans loopen, te worden blootgesteld aan een verrassing;\nen het toeval kon in het gewoel van Londen hun minder licht parten\nspelen dan zelfs in het afgelegen Barton, waar het hem plotseling\nvoor haar oogen kon doen staan, wanneer hij het bezoek bracht te\nAllenham bij gelegenheid van zijn huwelijk, dat Mevrouw Dashwood,\ndoor het aanvankelijk als iets waarschijnlijks te beschouwen, thans\nwas begonnen te verwachten als een stellige zekerheid.\n\nZij had nog eene andere reden voor den wensch, dat hare kinderen\nzouden blijven, waar zij waren; uit een brief van haar stiefzoon had\nzij vernomen, dat hij en zijn vrouw vóór half Februari in de stad\nzouden zijn; en zij vond het goed, dat zij nu en dan met hun broeder\nin aanraking zouden komen.\n\nMarianne had beloofd, zich door haar moeder's oordeel te laten leiden,\nen zij schikte zich dus ernaar zonder tegenstreven, hoewel het geheel\nverschillend bleek van wat zij wenschte en verwachtte; hoewel zij\nhet beschouwde als ten eenenmale onjuist, en gegrond op een verkeerde\nzienswijze, terwijl het door een langer verblijf te Londen van haar\nte eischen, haar beroofde van de eenig mogelijke verzachting van haar\nellende, het innig meegevoel harer moeder, en haar de straf oplegde\nvan een gezelschap en eene omgeving, waarin zij nooit een oogenblik\nrust zou kunnen genieten. Doch het was voor haar een groote troost,\ndat wat háár kwaad berokkende, tengoede zou komen aan hare zuster;\nen Elinor, van haar kant, vermoedende, dat het niet in haar macht zou\nstaan, Edward geheel te vermijden, troostte zich door te bedenken,\ndat hun langer verblijf, hoewel niet bevorderlijk voor haar eigen\ngeluk, voor Marianne beter zou zijn dan onmiddellijk naar Devonshire\nterug te keeren.\n\nHaar zorg om haar zuster te vrijwaren voor het hooren noemen van\nWilloughby's naam, was niet vergeefsch geweest. Zonder het zelve te\nweten, plukte Marianne de vruchten ervan, want noch Mevrouw Jennings,\nnoch Sir John, noch zelfs Mevrouw Palmer, spraken ooit over hem in haar\nbijzijn. Elinor wenschte wel dat zij de zelfde omzichtigheid tegenover\nhaar hadden willen in acht nemen; maar dàt was onmogelijk, en zij moest\ndag aan dag luisteren naar de uitingen van hun aller verontwaardiging.\n\nSir John kon niet begrijpen, hoe zoo iets mogelijk was geweest. \"Een\nman, van wien hij alle reden had gehad niets dan goeds te\nverwachten! De beste kerel van de wereld! In heel Engeland geloofde\nhij niet dat zulk een goed ruiter te vinden was! 't Was onverklaarbaar,\ndie geschiedenis. Hij mocht voor zijn part naar den duivel loopen. Hij\nzou van zijn leven geen woord meer met hem wisselen, wáár hij hem ook\nontmoette! Neen, al was 't op de grens van zijn eigen jachtgebied en\nal zouden ze er twee uur naast elkaar moeten staan wachten. Zulk een\nschurk van een kerel, zulk een bedriegelijke schavuit! Den laatsten\nkeer dat hij hem sprak, had hij hem nog een van Folly's jongen\naangeboden, en nu kwam het hierop neer!\"\n\nMevrouw Palmer was al even boos, op haar manier. Zij wilde hem van nu\naf aan _niet_ meer kennen, en ze was wàt blij, dat ze nooit kennis met\nhem had gemaakt. Ze wenschte van harte dat Combe Magna niet zoo dicht\nbij Cleveland was gelegen; maar 't was toch zoo erg niet, omdat het\nveel te veraf was, om er een bezoek te brengen; ze had zoo'n hekel\naan hem, dat ze vast van plan was, nooit weer zijn naam te noemen,\nen ze zou aan ieder, die ze zag vertellen, hoe weinig hij deugde.\n\nVerder toonde Mevrouw Palmer haar meegevoel, door alle bijzonderheden\nuit te visschen, die ze kon te weten komen omtrent het aanstaande\nhuwelijk, en die aan Elinor mee te deelen. Al spoedig wist ze bij\nwelken rijtuigmaker het nieuwe rijtuig was besteld; door welken\nschilder het portret van den Heer Willoughby werd vervaardigd, en\nin welken winkel Juffrouw Grey's trousseau was uitgestald. Lady\nMiddleton's kalme en beleefde onverschilligheid was voor Elinor\neen ware verlichting, gedrukt als zij soms was door de luidruchtige\nvriendelijkheid der anderen. Het was haar een groote troost, te weten\ndat althans ééne persoon in hun vriendenkring géén belang in hen\nstelde; een troost, zeker te zijn, dat die eene haar zou ontmoeten\nzonder de geringste nieuwsgierigheid te toonen naar bijzonderheden,\nof eenige bezorgdheid aan den dag te leggen omtrent haar zuster's\ngezondheidstoestand.\n\nElke eigenschap wordt somtijds, door de omstandigheden van het\noogenblik verheven, tot meer dan haar werkelijke waarde; en soms\nwerd zij zóó geplaagd door die opdringende meewarigheid, dat zij\nertoe kwam, goede manieren als meer onontbeerlijk te gaan beschouwen\nvoor haar gemoedsrust, dan goedhartigheid. Lady Middleton gaf haar\nbevindingen omtrent de zaak omstreeks eenmaal per dag, (of als het\nonderwerp herhaaldelijk ter sprake kwam, tweemalen) te kennen, door te\nzeggen: \"'t Is bepaald ongehoord!\"--en met behulp dezer aanhoudend,\ndoch gemakkelijk werkende veiligheidsklep kon zij niet slechts\nvan den beginne de dames Dashwood ontmoeten zonder de geringste\naandoening; doch al spoedig ook hen ontvangen zonder zich van de\ngeheele geschiedenis een woord te herinneren; en na op deze wijze de\nwaardigheid harer eigen sekse te hebben opgehouden, en haar besliste\nafkeuring te hebben geuit van de fouten der andere, vond zij, dat het\nhaar thans vrijstond, eens te denken aan de samenstelling harer eigen\navondpartijen, en besloot dus (hoewel tegen den zin van Sir John)\nom, zoodra Mevrouw Willoughby getrouwd was, een kaartje bij haar\naf te geven, daar zij door haar huwelijk zoowel tot de deftige als\nvermogende kringen behooren zou.\n\nKolonel Brandon's kiesche en onopvallende deelneming was Elinor nooit\nonwelkom. Hij had zich ten volle het voorrecht waardig gemaakt,\nhaar zuster's teleurstelling vertrouwelijk met haar te bespreken,\ndoor den vriendschappelijken ijver, waarmede hij had gepoogd,\ndeze te verzachten, en zij spraken thans altijd met elkaar zonder\nterughouding. Het meest werd hij beloond voor de moeite, die het\nhem moest hebben gekost, het oude verdriet en de nieuwe vernedering\nte openbaren, door den medelijdenden blik, dien Marianne somtijds op\nhem liet rusten, en de zachtheid van haar stem, wanneer zij (wat niet\ndikwijls gebeurde) verplicht was, of zichzelve ertoe kon brengen, het\nwoord tot hem te richten. _Die_ teekenen schonken hem de zekerheid,\ndat zijne bemoeiingen een gunstigen invloed hadden uitgeoefend op\nhare gezindheid te zijnen opzichte; en _zij_ gaven Elinor hoop, dat\ndeze gunstige gezindheid mettertijd nog zou toenemen; maar Mevrouw\nJennings, die van dit alles niets afwist,--die alleen maar zag,\ndat de Kolonel nog steeds even ernstig bleef, en wel wist, dat zij\nhem nooit zou kunnen overhalen zelf het aanzoek te doen, en evenmin,\nom die taak aan háár op te dragen,--begon na een paar dagen te denken,\ndat het huwelijk toch allicht eerder in 't najaar dan in den voorzomer\nzou plaats hebben, en geloofde aan 't eind van de week, dat er in\n't geheel niets van kwam. De goede verstandhouding tusschen den\nKolonel en Elinor scheen veeleer te doen vermoeden, dat ten slotte\nde begeerlijke moerbeienboom, de waterpartij en het taxis-prieel háár\nzouden ten deel vallen; en aan den Heer Ferrars had Mevrouw Jennings\nin den laatsten tijd in 't geheel niet meer gedacht.\n\nIn 't begin van Februari, nog geen veertien dagen na de ontvangst\nvan Willoughby's brief, werd Elinor de pijnlijke taak opgelegd,\nhaar zuster mede te deelen, dat hij gehuwd was. Zij had gezorgd,\nbericht te ontvangen, zoodra de plechtigheid was voltrokken, daar\nzij niet wilde, dat Marianne de tijding het eerst zou vernemen uit de\ncourant, die zij elken morgen met blijkbare spanning inzag. Marianne\nontving het bericht met vastberaden kalmte, maakte geene opmerking,\nen schreide zelfs niet in het begin; doch na eenigen tijd kon zij\nhare tranen niet meer bedwingen, en zij was verder dien dag in een\nweinig minder beklagenswaardigen toestand, dan toen zij voor het\neerst vernam, dat wat thans gebeurd was, te wachten stond.\n\nDe Willoughby's vertrokken dadelijk na hun huwelijk; en Elinor hoopte,\nnu er geen gevaar meer bestond, dat zij een van beiden zou zien,\nhaar zuster, die na den eersten slag nog steeds was thuis gebleven,\nover te halen, om langzamerhand weer meer uit te gaan, zooals\nvroeger. Omstreeks dezen tijd kwamen de dames Steele, die reeds\neen poosje waren gelogeerd bij hun neef in Bartlett's Buildings,\nHolborn, zich weer vertoonen bij hun deftiger verwanten in Conduit\nen Berkeley Street; en zij werden door allen bijzonder hartelijk\nontvangen. Elinor alleen was niet blijde hen te zien. Hun aanwezigheid\nwas haar altoos onaangenaam, en zij wist bijna niet, hoe zich met de\nnoodige beleefdheid te gedragen, bij Lucy's overstelpende verrukking,\nomdat zij haar _nog_ in de stad aantrof.\n\n\"'t Zou mij héél erg hebben teleurgesteld, als ik u niet _nog_ hier\nhad ontmoet,\" zei ze herhaalde malen met sterken nadruk op het woordje\n\"nog\". Maar ik had het altijd wel gedacht. Ik wist haast wel zeker,\ndat u nog zoo gauw niet uit Londen zoudt heengaan; hoewel u mij te\nBarton vertelde, weet u nog wel? dat u niet langer zoudt blijven dan\neen maand. Ik dacht toen al, dat u wel van plan zoudt veranderen,\nals 't er op aankwam. Het zou ook zoo jammer zijn geweest, weg te\ngaan eer uw broer en zuster kwamen. En nù zult u _stellig_ wel geen\nhaast maken. Het doet mij verbazend veel pleizier dat u uw woord niet\ngehouden hebt.\"\n\nElinor begreep haar volkomen, en had al haar zelfbeheersching noodig,\nom te doen alsof dit niet het geval was.\n\n\"Wel, meisjes,\" zei Mevrouw Jennings, \"en hoe hebben jelui de reis\ngemaakt?\"\n\n\"Niet met den omnibus, hoor,\" zei Juffrouw Anne haastig en verheugd;\n\"we hadden een postkoets, en een galanten cavalier op den koop\ntoe. Dr. Davies moest naar de stad, en dus vonden we 't wel geschikt om\nmet hem partij te maken, en samen met de postkoets te reizen; hij was\nhéél royaal, en betaalde wel tien of twaalf shillings meer dan wij.\"\n\n\"O, o!\" riep Mevrouw Jennings, \"zoo mag ik het hooren! en ik wed,\ndat de dokter ongetrouwd is.\"\n\n\"Kijk nu weer,\" zei Juffrouw Steele, gemaakt lachend, \"iedereen\nplaagt mij zoo met dien dokter, en ik begrijp niet waarom. Mijn\nnichtjes zeggen, dat ik bepaald een verovering heb gemaakt; maar _ik_\ndenk in 't geheel niet aan hem. \"Anne, daar komt je vriend aan,\"\nzei mijn nichtje laatst, toen ze hem de straat zag oversteken naar\nons huis. \"Vriend! 't is wat moois!\" zei ik; \"ik weet niet eens wat\nje bedoelt. De dokter _is_ geen vriend van mij.\"\n\n\"Jawel, jawel, dat is alles nu heel aardig; maar praatjes vullen geen\ngaatjes;--ik zie 't al; de dokter is de man.\"\n\n\"Neen, werkelijk!\" antwoordde haar nicht met gemaakten ernst, \"ik hoop\ntoch, dat u het zult tegenspreken, als u er ooit over hoort praten.\"\n\nMevrouw Jennings gaf haar aanstonds de geruststellende verzekering,\ndat zij dit zeer stellig _niet_ van plan was, en Juffrouw Steele's\ngeluk was nu volmaakt.\n\n\"U gaat zeker bij uw broer en zuster logeeren, Juffrouw Dashwood,\nals ze in de stad komen,\" zei Lucy, die na een poos haar vijandige\ntoespelingen te hebben gestaakt, zich op nieuw gereedmaakte tot\nden aanval.\n\n\"Neen, dat denk ik niet.\"\n\n\"O wel ja, natuurlijk doet u dat.\"\n\nElinor wilde haar door verder tegenspreken niet haar zin geven.\n\n\"'t Is toch maar prettig, dat Mevrouw Dashwood u allebei zóó lang\nkan missen!\"\n\n\"Zóó lang?\" kwam Mevrouw Jennings tusschenbeiden. \"En ze zijn pas\nhier!\"\n\nLucy was tot zwijgen gebracht.\n\n\"'t Spijt mij, dat we uw zuster niet zien, Juffrouw Dashwood\", zei\nAnne. \"Jammer, dat ze niet wel is\"; want Marianne was bij hun komst\nnaar haar kamer gegaan.\n\n\"Dank u; 't zal mijn zuster ook spijten, dat ze niet 't genoegen heeft\ngehad u te zien; maar zij heeft in den laatsten tijd veel last van\nzenuwhoofdpijn, die haar ongeschikt maakt om bezoek te ontvangen of\nmet iemand te spreken.\"\n\n\"Och, dat treft wèl ongelukkig!--maar zulke oude vriendinnen als Lucy\nen ik!--_ons_ kon ze toch wel ontvangen, dunkt mij, en we zullen geen\nwoord zeggen.\"\n\nElinor, steeds uiterst beleefd, ging op dit voorstel niet in. Haar\nzuster zou misschien te bed liggen, of half ontkleed zijn, en daarom\nniet kunnen beneden komen.\n\n\"O, dàt doet er niets toe,\" riep Juffrouw Steele; \"we kunnen evengoed\nháár gaan opzoeken.\"\n\nElinor begon deze brutaliteit toch wat erg te vinden, zelfs voor háár\nverdraagzaamheid; maar de moeite er paal en perk aan te stellen werd\nhaar bespaard door Lucy's scherpe terechtwijzing, die ook in dit geval,\nzooals meermalen, hoewel niet bevorderlijk voor de lieftalligheid der\neene zuster, toch den goeden dienst bewees, de lompheid der andere\neenigszins binnen de perken te houden.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XXXIII\n\n\nNa eenig tegenstribbelen gaf Marianne gehoor aan haar zuster's\ndringend verzoek, en stemde op zekeren morgen erin toe, een half\nuurtje met haar en Mevrouw Jennings uit te gaan. Zij stelde echter\nde voorwaarde, dat zij geen bezoeken zou behoeven te maken, en wilde\nalleen meegaan naar den winkel van Gray in Sackville Street, waar\nElinor het een en ander had te bespreken in verband met den ruil van\nenkele ouderwetsche kostbaarheden van hare moeder. Toen zij voor de\ndeur van den juwelier stilhielden, herinnerde Mevrouw Jennings zich,\ndat aan het andere einde van de straat eene dame woonde, die zij\nvolstrekt moest bezoeken, en daar zij bij Gray niets te doen had,\nwerd afgesproken dat zij haar visite zou maken, terwijl hare logées\nhun zaken afdeden, om hen later weer af te halen.\n\nToen de dames Dashwood boven kwamen, bemerkten zij, dat reeds\nverscheiden personen hen waren vóór geweest, en geen der bedienden\nhun op het oogenblik kon te woord staan; zij waren dus wel genoodzaakt\nte wachten. Al wat zij konden doen, was, aan den hoek te gaan zitten\nvan de toonbank, waar zij het eerst kans hadden, aan de beurt te\nzullen komen; hier stond slechts één heer, en waarschijnlijk hoopte\nElinor, dat hij uit beleefdheid een weinig haast zou maken. Maar de\nnauwlettendheid van zijn scherpen blik, en de keurigheid van zijn\nsmaak schenen het van zijn beleefdheid te winnen. Hij bestelde een\ntandenstoker-étui, voor eigen gebruik, en eer hij tot een beslissing\nwas gekomen omtrent de grootte, het model en de versiering van het\nvoorwerp,--die tenslotte, nadat hij alle tandenstoker-étuis in den\nwinkel had bekeken en bepraat, bleven overgelaten aan zijn eigen\nvindingrijke fantasie,--had hij geen gelegenheid, zich tegenover\nde dames op andere wijze verdienstelijk te maken, dan door hen\ndrie of viermaal zéér onbescheiden op te nemen; eene attentie, die\nElinor voorgoed de herinnering deed behouden aan een persoon en een\ngezicht, uitmuntend door de meest treffende, aangeboren en kernachtige\nonbeduidendheid; hoewel het jongemensch naar de allerlaatste mode\nwas uitgedost.\n\nMarianne bleven de onaangename gevoelens van minachting en ergernis\nbespaard, gewekt door dat brutale opnemen van hun gezichten, en door\nhet ingebeelde air, waarmee hij de verschillende onvolmaaktheden\nder verschillende tandenstoker-étuis critiseerde, die hem werden\nvoorgelegd; daar zij van dit alles niets bespeurde; zij kon evengoed\nzich in haar gedachten verdiepen en onbewust blijven van 't geen\nrondom haar voorviel, in den juwelierswinkel als in haar eigen\nslaapkamer thuis. Eindelijk kwam de zaak in orde. Het ivoor, het\ngoud en de parelen kregen elk de hun aangewezen bestemming, en nadat\nde jonge man den laatsten dag had genoemd, dien hij dacht te kunnen\ndoorleven zonder zijn étui, en op zijn gemak zijn handschoenen had\naangetrokken, wierp hij den dames Dashwood nogmaals een blik toe, die\neer bewondering scheen te eischen dan uit te drukken, en stapte heen,\nin al de glorie van echte inbeelding en voorgewende onverschilligheid.\n\nElinor zorgde ervoor, thans onmiddellijk te worden geholpen, en zij\nwas bijna klaar, toen een andere heer naast haar kwam staan. Zij keek\nhem even aan, en zag tot haar verwondering, dat het haar broeder was.\n\nHun hartelijkheid en de blijdschap over deze ontmoeting waren juist\nvoldoende om hier in den winkel een zeer goeden indruk teweeg te\nbrengen. John Dashwood vond het heel aardig, zijn zusters eens weer\nte zien; hun beiden deed het werkelijk genoegen, en naar hun moeder\nvroeg hij met eerbiedige belangstelling.\n\nElinor hoorde, dat hij en Fanny al twee dagen in de stad waren. \"Ik\nzou je graag gisteren zijn komen opzoeken,\" zei hij, \"maar dat ging\nnu eenmaal niet, omdat Harry volstrekt den dierentuin moest zien,\nen verder brachten we den dag door bij Mevrouw Ferrars. Harry vond\nhet prachtig. Van morgen was ik wéér stellig van plan je een bezoek\nte brengen, als ik een half uurtje vrij had, maar er is altijd zóóveel\nte doen, als men pas in de stad komt! Ik moet hier een zegel bestellen\nvoor Fanny. Maar morgen denk ik bepaald naar Berkeley Street te gaan,\nen meteen kennis te maken met je vriendin Mevrouw Jennings. Ik hoor\ndat zij zeer vermogend is. En aan de Middletons moet je mij ook\nvoorstellen. Daar zij familie zijn van mijn stiefmoeder, zal 't mij\ngenoegen doen hen te leeren kennen. Ik hoor, dat ze daarbuiten goede\nburen voor je zijn.\"\n\n\"O ja, uitmuntend. Hun welwillendheid in ieder opzicht, hun hartelijke\nvriendschappelijkheid zijn met geen woorden uit te drukken.\"\n\n\"Het doet mij oprecht genoegen dat te hooren; daar ben ik bepaald\nblij om. Maar zoo behoort het ook; het zijn menschen van fortuin;\nze zijn familie van je; en men kon met recht verwachten, dat\nze door beleefdheid en voorkomendheid je leven zouden pogen te\nveraangenamen. En je hebt het dus zeer naar je zin in je huisje,\nen verder niets te wenschen. Edward had er ons niets dan goeds van\nte vertellen; hij zei, het was in zijn soort volmaakt en jelui hadt\ner allen evenveel pleizier in. 't Was ons een groote voldoening,\ndat te hooren, zooals je wel begrijpen zult.\"\n\nElinor schaamde zich een beetje over haar broeder, en het speet haar\nniet, dat zij een antwoord kon achterwege laten; daar Mevrouw Jennings'\nknecht kwam zeggen, dat het rijtuig wachtte.\n\nDe Heer Dashwood ging met hen mee naar beneden, werd bij het portier\nvan het rijtuig aan Mevrouw Jennings voorgesteld, en nam afscheid,\nna nogmaals de hoop te hebben uitgedrukt, dat hij hen den volgenden\ndag zou kunnen bezoeken.\n\nHet bezoek had dan ook werkelijk plaats. Hij bracht een zoogenaamde\nverontschuldiging over van hun schoonzuster, dat zij niet meekwam;\n\"maar zij werd zoo in beslag genomen door haar moeder, dat ze\nwerkelijk geen tijd had om ergens heen te gaan.\" Mevrouw Jennings\nverzekerde hem echter dadelijk, dat zij het daarmee zoo nauw niet nam;\nze waren toch allen familie van elkaar in zekeren zin, en zij zou\nin elk geval spoedig Mevrouw John Dashwood bezoeken en haar zusters\nmeebrengen. Tegen Elinor en Marianne was hij, ofschoon niet uitbundig,\ntoch zeer vriendelijk; Mevrouw Jennings behandelde hij uiterst beleefd,\nen toen Kolonel Brandon kort na hem verscheen, keek hij hem aan\nmet een nieuwsgierige belangstelling, die zijn bereidwilligheid liet\ndoorschemeren, ook tegen hèm beleefd te zijn, als hij maar eerst wist,\ndat hij rijk was. Toen hij er een half uurtje had gezeten, vroeg hij\nof Elinor met hem naar Conduit Street wilde wandelen, om hem aan Sir\nJohn en Lady Middleton voor te stellen. Het was bijzonder mooi weer,\nen zij stemde hier gaarne in toe. Zoodra ze buitenshuis waren, begon\nhij te vragen.\n\n\"Wie is Kolonel Brandon? Is hij rijk?\"\n\n\"Ja; hij heeft een mooie bezitting in Dorsetshire.\"\n\n\"Daar ben ik blij om. Hij maakt een zeer gunstigen indruk en ik\ngeloof, Elinor, dat ik je mag gelukwenschen met het vooruitzicht op\neen goede positie.\"\n\n\"Mij gelukwenschen?--wat bedoel je, John?\"\n\n\"Hij houdt van je. Ik heb scherp opgelet, en ik ben er zeker\nvan. Hoeveel inkomen heeft hij?\"\n\n\"Ik geloof omstreeks tweeduizend pond in het jaar.\"\n\n\"Tweeduizend pond in het jaar,\"... en met een soort van stuipachtige\npoging tot edelmoedige geestdrift voegde hij erbij: \"Elinor, uit den\ngrond van mijn hart zou ik wenschen, voor jou, dat het _tweemaal_\nzooveel was.\"\n\n\"Dat geloof ik graag,\" antwoordde Elinor; \"maar ik weet wel zeker, dat\nKolonel Brandon in de verste verte niet wenscht, met _mij_ te trouwen.\"\n\n\"Je vergist je, Elinor; je vergist je bepaald. Met een klein beetje\nmoeite van jouw kant zou 't gelukken. Misschien staat zijn besluit\nnog niet vast; dat je weinig bezit kan een beletsel voor hem zijn;\nmogelijk raden zijn vrienden het hem allen af. Maar zoo enkele kleine\nattenties en aanmoedigingen, die het dames zoo gemakkelijk valt te\nbewijzen, brengen de zaak in orde, eer hij het weet. En er kan geen\nreden bestaan, waarom je 't niet zou beproeven, hem te winnen. 't\nIs niet te denken, dat een vroegere genegenheid van jouw kant... je\nweet nu eenmaal, wat dàt betreft, daarvan kan geen sprake zijn;\nde bezwaren zijn onoverkomelijk--en je bent te verstandig om dat\nniet in te zien. Kolonel Brandon wordt de man, en 't zal aan mij\nniet liggen, als hij niet ingenomen is met jou en je familie. Dàt\nis nu een huwelijk, dat iedereen zal aanstaan.--Ik zal 't je maar\nzeggen,\"--hier begon hij gewichtig te fluisteren,--\"het zal voor\n_alle partijen_ bepaald een uitkomst zijn.\" Zich bedenkend, voegde\nhij erbij: \"Dat wil zeggen... ik bedoel... al je vrienden verlangen\nnatuurlijk oprecht om je gelukkig getrouwd te zien; Fanny vooral,\nwant zij meent het goed met je, werkelijk. En haar moeder ook;\nMevrouw Ferrars is een heel goedhartige vrouw; ik geloof stellig,\ndat het haar veel pleizier zou doen, ze heeft nog pas zoo iets gezegd.\"\n\nElinor verwaardigde zich niet, hierop te antwoorden.\n\n\"Het zou wèl toevallig zijn,\" ging hij voort, \"bepaald grappig, als\nFanny's broer en _mijn_ zuster op den zelfden tijd in 't huwelijk\ntraden. En 't kan toch licht gebeuren.\"\n\n\"Gaat Edward Ferrars dan trouwen?\" zei Elinor bedaard.\n\n\"Het staat nog niet vast; maar er is wel sprake van. Hij heeft een\nmoeder zooals er geen tweede bestaat. Mevrouw Ferrars zal hem met de\ngrootste vrijgevigheid behandelen en hem een vast inkomen verzekeren\nvan duizend pond jaarlijks, als dit huwelijk doorgaat. _Zij_ is een\nMorton, de eenige dochter van den overleden Lord Morton, en zij bezit\ndertigduizend pond,--van beide zijden is de verbintenis zeer gewenscht,\nen ik twijfel geen oogenblik of die zaak komt wel in orde. Duizend\npond in 't jaar is geen kleinigheid voor een moeder, om voor goed af\nte staan; maar Mevrouw Ferrars heeft een nobele natuur. Om je nog een\nvoorbeeld te noemen van haar royaliteit; toen we nu onlangs in de stad\nkwamen, heeft ze, omdat ze wel wist dat we niet ruim bij kas waren,\nFanny een presentje toegestopt van tweehonderd pond. En dat kwam ons\nuitnemend te pas; want het is duur leven hier in de stad.\" Hij wachtte\nop een betuiging van instemming en medelijden, en zij dwong zichzelf,\nte zeggen:\n\n\"Je zult zoowel in de stad als buiten veel uitgaven hebben; maar je\ninkomen is ook groot.\"\n\n\"Niet zoo groot, durf ik wel zeggen als veel menschen meenen. Ik\nwil overigens niet klagen, natuurlijk; het is in elk geval zéér\nvoldoende, en zal, hoop ik, mettertijd grooter worden. Het omheinen\nvan Norland Common, waarmee we nu bezig zijn, verslindt ontzaglijk\nveel geld. En ik heb in dit laatste halfjaar ook nog een aankoop\ngedaan--East Kingham Farm, je herinnert je die boerderij wel, waar\nde oude Gibson woonde. Die landerijen kwamen mij in elk opzicht zoo\nuitmuntend van pas, ze sloten zoo onmiddellijk aan bij mijn eigendom,\ndat ik het als mijn plicht beschouwde, ze te koopen. Ik had het niet\nmet mijn geweten kunnen overeenbrengen, ze in andere handen te laten\nvallen. Voor iets goeds moet men ook wat overhebben; en het _heeft_\nmij geld gekost, dat is zeker.\"\n\n\"Meer dan je denkt, dat het bezit werkelijk en op zich zelf waard was?\"\n\n\"Och, dat wil ik niet zeggen. Ik had het den volgenden dag kunnen\nverkoopen voor méér dan ik had betaald; maar wat de koopsom betrof,\ndaarmee had ik wel heel ongelukkig kunnen treffen; de koersen stonden\ntoen juist zoo laag, dat ik bepaald met groot verlies effecten zou\nhebben moeten verkoopen, als ik niet toevallig bij mijn bankier over\nde benoodigde som had kunnen beschikken.\"\n\nElinor glimlachte even.\n\n\"Nog meer groote en onvermijdelijke uitgaven hebben we gehad toen\nwe pas te Norland waren gekomen. Zooals je weet, had vader al het\ngoed van Stanhill, dat meegenomen was naar Norland, aan je moeder\nnagelaten. Daarover wil ik mij niet beklagen; verre van daar; hij\nhad het volste recht over zijn eigendom te beschikken zooals hij\nverkoos. Maar wij hebben dientengevolge veel linnengoed, porselein,\nenz. moeten aanschaffen, ter vervanging van 't geen werd weggenomen. Je\nkunt wel begrijpen, dat we, na al die onkosten, nu volstrekt niet\nrijk kunnen genoemd worden, en dat Mevrouw Ferrars' vriendelijkheid\nons bijzonder welkom is.\"\n\n\"Zeker,\" zei Elinor; \"en ik hoop dat je met haar bijstand nog eenmaal\nzoover zult komen, dat je ruim en royaal leven kunt.\"\n\n\"Met een paar jaar zal het er méér naar gaan lijken,\" antwoordde\nhij met onverstoorbaren ernst; \"maar er blijft vooreerst nog veel te\ndoen. Er is nog niet eens begonnen met den bouw van Fanny's oranjerie,\nen van den bloemtuin is enkel het plan ontworpen.\"\n\n\"Waar komt die oranjerie?\"\n\n\"Op het heuveltje achter het huis. De oude noteboomen zijn alle\nomgehakt, om ruimte te maken. Van uit het park gezien zal dat mooie\ngebouw een goed figuur maken, en de bloemtuin komt er vlak vóór,\ntegen de helling. We hebben al de oude meidoorns opgeruimd, die daar\nverspreid op den heuvel groeiden.\"\n\nElinor hield haar spijt en haar afkeuring voor zich, en was maar\nblijde, dat Marianne er niet bij was, om zich mèt haar te ergeren.\n\nNu hij genoeg had gezegd, om zijn armoede in een helder licht te\nstellen, en de verplichting te ontgaan, bij zijn volgend bezoek aan den\njuwelier voor ieder van zijn zusters een paar oorbelletjes te koopen,\nbegon hij aan vroolijker dingen te denken, en Elinor geluk te wenschen,\ndat ze een vriendin had als Mevrouw Jennings. \"Dat is bepaald iemand,\ndie men op prijs moet stellen. Haar huis, haar manier van leven,\nalles wijst op een uiterst ruim inkomen, en de kennismaking met haar\nis niet alleen tot nu toe je van zeer groot nut geweest; maar kan\nlater werkelijk voordeel voor je afwerpen. Dat ze jelui hier heeft te\nlogeeren gevraagd, bewijst wel, hoe goed ze je gezind is; werkelijk,\nik zie daarin een zoo sprekend bewijs van haar genegenheid, dat jelui\nnaar alle waarschijnlijkheid bij haar overlijden wel niet zult worden\nvergeten. Zij zal heel wat nalaten, denk ik...\"\n\n\"Ik zou eerder denken, in 't geheel niets; zij heeft enkel het\nvruchtgebruik van het kapitaal, dat haar kinderen zullen erven.\"\n\n\"Maar het spreekt toch van zelf, dat zij niet haar geheele inkomen\nverteert. Dàt doet toch haast niemand, die zijn verstand gebruikt;\nen met hetgeen ze spaart, kan zij doen wat ze wil.\"\n\n\"En lijkt het je niet meer dan waarschijnlijk, dat ze dat aan haar\ndochters zal nalaten dan aan ons?\"\n\n\"Haar dochters zijn beiden rijk getrouwd; ik zie dus niet in,\nwaarom zij juist het eerst aan hèn zou denken. _Mij_ dunkt juist,\ndat zij, door zooveel notitie van jelui te nemen, en je op deze wijze\nte behandelen, jelui een soort van recht heeft gegeven om voor de\ntoekomst iets van haar te verwachten, dat een vrouw, die nauwgezet van\ngeweten is, stellig zal moeten erkennen. Haar houding tegenover jelui\nis wel zoo vriendelijk mogelijk, en zij kan moeilijk zóó ver gaan in\ndit opzicht, zonder te begrijpen, welke verwachtingen zij wekt.\"\n\n\"Gééne, bij hen, die de zaak het allereerst aangaat. Werkelijk, John,\nje bezorgdheid voor ons welzijn en onzen voorspoed gaat verder dan\nnoodig is.\"\n\n\"'t Is waar,\" zei hij, blijkbaar tot nadenken gebracht, \"de mensch\nheeft weinig, zéér weinig in zijn macht. Maar lieve Elinor, wat scheelt\nMarianne toch?--Ze ziet er bijzonder slecht uit, heeft haar frissche\nkleur verloren, en is bepaald mager geworden. Is zij ziek?\"\n\n\"Ze is niet heel wel; ze heeft al een paar weken last van haar\nzenuwen.\"\n\n\"Dat is jammer. Op haar leeftijd doet ziekte alle frischheid verloren\ngaan. Háár bloei heeft maar kort geduurd. In September nog was ze\neen van de mooiste meisjes, die ik kende, met veel aantrekkelijks\nvoor mannen. Juist de soort van schoonheid die hun bevalt. Ik weet\nnog, hoe Fanny altijd zei, dat _zij_ eerder en beter zou trouwen dan\njij,--niet dat ze van jou niet véél zou houden,--maar ze dacht dat nu\nzoo. En toch zal ze zien, dat ze zich vergist heeft. 't Is de vraag of\nMarianne _nu_ een man kan krijgen met meer dan vijf- of zeshonderd in\n't jaar op zijn meest, en 't zou mij niets verwonderen, als jij het\nniet beter treft. Dorsetshire! Ik ken Dorsetshire zoo goed als niet;\nmaar ik zou het bijzonder gaarne nader leeren kennen, Elinor; en ik\ndurf wel zeggen, dat Fanny en ik daar je eerste en recht verheugde\nlogeergasten zullen zijn.\"\n\nElinor trachtte hem met den meesten nadruk te overtuigen, dat er\nvan een huwelijk tusschen haar en Kolonel Brandon niets zou komen;\nmaar hij had te veel pleizier in die verwachting om haar te kunnen\nopgeven; en hij was vastbesloten, den Kolonel nader te leeren kennen,\nen zijn uiterste best te doen, dat huwelijk tot stand te brengen. Hij\nhad juist genoeg berouw over het feit, dat hijzelf niets voor zijn\nzusters had gedaan, om uit alle macht te verlangen, dat anderen des\nte meer voor hen zouden doen, en een huwelijksaanzoek van Kolonel\nBrandon, of een legaat van Mevrouw Jennings, waren de eenvoudigste\nmiddelen om zijn eigen nalatigheid te vergoeden....\n\nZij troffen Lady Middleton gelukkig thuis, en Sir John kwam binnen,\neer hun bezoek was afgeloopen. Er werden van weerskanten veel minzame\nbeleefdheidsbetuigingen gewisseld. Sir John was altoos bereid met\niedereen veel op te hebben; en hoewel de Heer Dashwood van paarden\nniet veel scheen te weten, vond hij hem al spoedig een besten kerel;\nterwijl Lady Middleton oordeelde, dat hij er gedistingeerd genoeg\nuitzag, om de kennismaking de moeite waard te achten; en de Heer\nDashwood zelf vertrok verrukt van allebei.\n\n\"Ik zal er Fanny niets dan goeds van kunnen vertellen,\" zei hij tegen\nzijn zuster, onder het terugwandelen, \"Lady Middleton is werkelijk\neen charmante vrouw; iemand, met wie Fanny blij zal zijn, kennis te\nmaken. En Mevrouw Jennings weet zich ook bijzonder goed voor te doen,\nal is ze niet zoo elegant als haar dochter. Je schoonzuster behoeft\ner geen bezwaar in te zien, háár ook te bezoeken; wat tot nu toe,\nom de waarheid te zeggen, wel een beetje 't geval was, en niet zonder\nreden; want we wisten alleen, dat Mevrouw Jennings de weduwe was van\neen man, die zijn geld had verdiend op een nog al obscure manier; en\nFanny en Mevrouw Ferrars hielden stijf en strak vol, dat noch zij,\nnoch haar dochters in de termen vielen om met iemand als Fanny te\nkunnen omgaan. Maar nu kan ik haar omtrent beiden op de meest afdoende\nwijze geruststellen.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XXXIV\n\n\nMevrouw John Dashwood had zooveel vertrouwen in haar man's oordeel,\ndat zij den volgenden dag zoowel Mevrouw Jennings als haar dochter\neen bezoek ging brengen; en zij zag dat vertrouwen beloond door de\nontdekking, dat zelfs de eerste, dat mensch, bij wie hare zusters\nlogeerden, haar omgang niet onwaardig scheen, terwijl zij Lady\nMiddleton een van de liefste vrouwen vond, die zij ooit had ontmoet!\n\nLady Middleton was precies even ingenomen met Mevrouw Dashwood. Van\nweerskanten was hier een soort koele zelfzucht, die beiden zich tot\nelkaar aangetrokken deed gevoelen, en zij stemden volkomen overeen\nin de geestelooze vormelijkheid van hun gedrag, en een totaal gemis\nvan begrijpend inzicht. Dezelfde houding echter, die Mevrouw John\nDashwood de goede meening van Lady Middleton deed verwerven, beviel\nMevrouw Jennings in 't geheel niet; _zij_ kreeg alleen den indruk van\neen nuffig vrouwtje met stijve manieren, dat haar schoonzusters zonder\neen spoor van hartelijkheid begroette en hun niets te vertellen had;\nwant van het kwartiertje, dat zij in Berkeley Street bleef, zat zij\nstellig zeven minuten zonder een woord te zeggen.\n\nElinor had heel graag willen weten, ofschoon zij er niet naar verkoos\nte vragen, of Edward al in de stad was; maar niets zou Fanny hebben\nkunnen bewegen vrijwillig zijn naam in haar bijzijn te noemen, eer zij\nhaar kon vertellen, dat zijn huwelijk met Juffrouw Morton vaststond,\nof totdat haar man's verwachtingen omtrent Kolonel Brandon waren\nvervuld; want zij verdacht hen ervan nog steeds zooveel van elkander\nte houden, dat zij bij alle gelegenheden niet ijverig genoeg konden\nworden gescheiden gehouden, door woord en door daad. De inlichting\nechter, die _zij_ niet verkoos te verstrekken, gewerd Elinor al\nspoedig uit een andere bron. Lucy kwam haar medelijden inroepen,\nomdat zij Edward niet kon ontmoeten, hoewel hij tegelijk met den Heer\nen Mevrouw Dashwood in de stad gekomen was. Hij durfde uit vrees voor\nontdekking niet naar Bartlett's Buildings gaan, en hoewel zij beiden\nonuitsprekelijk verlangden elkaar te zien, was schrijven het eenige\ndat hun voorloopig overbleef.\n\nZeer spoedig verschafte Edward zelf hun de zekerheid dat hij\nin de stad was, door tweemaal een bezoek te brengen in Berkeley\nStreet. Tweemaal vonden zij zijn kaartje, toen zij van hun morgenritje\nterugkwamen. Elinor was blijde dat hij er geweest was, en nog\nblijder, dat zij hem niet had behoeven te zien. De Dashwoods waren\nzoo uitermate ingenomen met de Middletons, dat zij, die overigens\naan geven niet gewend waren, nu toch eens besloten een diner te\ngeven te hunner eere, en zij vroegen hen dus al spoedig te dineeren\nin Harley Street, waar zij voor drie maanden een zeer geschikt huis\nhadden gehuurd. Hun zusters en Mevrouw Jennings werden ook gevraagd,\nen John Dashwood zorgde ervoor dat Kolonel Brandon eveneens van de\npartij zou zijn. De laatste, die gaarne overal kwam, waar hij de dames\nDashwood kon ontmoeten, beantwoordde zijne overstelpende beleefdheid\nmet eenige verwondering, maar met veel meer genoegen. Zij zouden\ndan nu Mevrouw Ferrars leeren kennen; maar Elinor kon niet gewaar\nworden of haar beide zoons ook waren gevraagd. De verwachting echter,\nháár te zullen zien, was voldoende om haar belangstelling te wekken;\nwant al kon zij nu Edward's moeder ontmoeten zonder het gevoel van\nangst, dat vroeger met die voorstelling had moeten gepaard gaan; al\nbleef het haar thans volkomen onverschillig, welken indruk zij op de\noude dame zou maken; haar wensch om in Mevrouw Ferrars' gezelschap\nte zijn, haar nieuwsgierigheid om te weten hoe zij nu eigenlijk was,\nbleven even sterk als voorheen.\n\nDe spanning, waarmede zij de partij tegemoet zag, werd spoedig daarna\nnog verhoogd op een wijze, niet zoozeer aangenaam als wel prikkelend,\ndoor het bericht dat de dames Steele eveneens waren uitgenoodigd.\n\nZoo goed stonden zij bij Lady Middleton aangeschreven; zoozeer\nhadden zij zich door hun vleierij in haar gunst weten te dringen,\ndat zij, hoewel Lucy _niet_ gedistingeerd, en haar zuster zelfs niet\nrecht vertoonbaar was, evenzeer bereid bleek als Sir John om hen\neen paar weken in Conduit Street te logeeren te vragen; en het trof\ntoevallig de dames Steele als zéér geschikt, zoodra zij hoorden van\nde uitnoodiging der Dashwoods, hun bezoek aan te kondigen een paar\ndagen vóór de bewuste partij.\n\nHun aanspraak op de beleefdheid van Mevrouw John Dashwood, als de\nnichten van den heer, die jaren geleden met de opvoeding van haar\nbroer belast was, zou hun overigens allicht geen plaatsje aan haar\ndisch hebben kunnen verschaffen; doch als de gasten van Lady Middleton\nmoesten zij haar welkom zijn, en Lucy, die al zoo lang gewenscht had,\nde familie persoonlijk te leeren kennen, van naderbij hun karakters te\nbeschouwen in verband met haar eigen moeilijkheden, en gelegenheid te\nvinden tot een poging om hun gunst te winnen, was zelden in haar leven\nzóó gelukkig geweest, als bij het ontvangen van Mevrouw John Dashwood's\ninvitatiekaart. Elinor ging het juist andersom. Zij begon dadelijk te\nbedenken, dat Edward, die bij zijn moeder gelogeerd was, mèt haar zou\nworden geïnviteerd op een partij, gegeven door zijn zuster, en hem voor\nde eerste maal te ontmoeten, na al wat er gebeurd was, in gezelschap\nvan Lucy!--Zij begreep bijna niet, hoe zij dàt zou verdragen!\n\nMisschien was die vrees wel niet volkomen redelijk, en in elk geval\nbleek zij geheel ongegrond. Zij werd echter verdreven, niet zoozeer\ndoor haar eigen rustig nadenken, als door de minzaamheid van Lucy,\ndie meende, dat zij Elinor bitter teleurstelde, toen zij haar kwam\nvertellen, dat Edward Dinsdag in géén geval zou kunnen komen; en zelfs\nhoopte haar nog dieper te grieven, door het zoo voor te stellen,\nalsof hij zich gedrongen zag, weg te blijven met het oog op zijn\nvurige genegenheid, die hij niet zou kunnen verbergen, wanneer zij\nsamen in gezelschap waren.\n\nDe gewichtige Dinsdag brak aan, waarop beide jonge dames zouden worden\nvoorgesteld aan de geduchte schoonmoeder _in spe_.\n\n\"Beklaag mij toch, mijn beste Juffrouw Dashwood!\" zei Lucy, terwijl\nze samen de trap opgingen,--want de Middletons kwamen bijna tegelijk\nmet Mevrouw Jennings, en zij volgden met elkander den bediende naar\nden salon.--\"Niemand dan u kan hier met mij meegevoelen. Ik kan haast\nniet op mijn beenen staan. Ontzettend!--Over een minuut zal ik háár\nzien, van wie al mijn geluk afhankelijk is,--háár, die mijn moeder\nzal worden!\"...\n\nElinor had haar oogenblikkelijk verlichting kunnen verschaffen,\ndoor de mogelijkheid op te werpen, dat het veeleer de moeder van\nJuffrouw Morton, dan de hare zou zijn, die zij op het punt waren te\naanschouwen; maar inplaats van dat te doen, verzekerde zij haar,\nvolkomen oprecht, dat zij haar inderdaad beklaagde,--tot groote\nverbazing van Lucy, die, hoewel zelve alles behalve op haar gemak,\ntoch hoopte, door Elinor te worden beschouwd met niet te onderdrukken\nafgunst. Mevrouw Ferrars was een kleine magere vrouw; met een stijfheid\nin haar houding, die aan strakheid, en een ernst in haar uitdrukking,\ndie aan bitsheid grensde. Haar tint was vaal, en hare trekken waren,\nhoewel niet grof, zonder schoonheid, en van nature onbewogen, doch een\ngelukkig toeval had gewild, dat de strenge frons van haar voorhoofd\nhaar gelaat vrijwaarde voor de blaam van volkomen onbeduidendheid,\ndoor het krachtig te stempelen met het merk van boosaardigheid en\ntrots. Zij was niet zeer spraakzaam; daar zij, anders dan de meeste\nmenschen, haar woorden in verhouding placht te brengen tot het aantal\nharer denkbeelden, en van de paar korte zinnetjes, die zij zich\nliet ontvallen, was er geen enkele gericht tot Juffrouw Dashwood,\ndie zij opnam met het vastgewortelde voornemen, haar in elk geval\nniet aantrekkelijk te vinden.\n\n_Nu_ kon dit gedrag Elinor geen verdriet doen. Een paar maanden\ngeleden zou het haar diep hebben gegriefd; doch het stond thans\nniet in Mevrouw Ferrars' macht, haar ermede te hinderen; en het\nverschil met haar houding tegenover de dames Steele--een verschil,\ndat blijkbaar moest dienen om háár te meer te vernederen,--vermaakte\nhaar zelfs een weinig. Zij kon niet nalaten te glimlachen bij het\nzien van de beminnelijkheid, door moeder en dochter ten toon gespreid\ntegenover iemand,--want Lucy werd met bijzondere onderscheiding\nbehandeld,--die zij, wanneer ze evengoed op de hoogte waren geweest\nals zijzelve, liever zouden hebben willen vernielen; terwijl zij, die\nbetrekkelijk machteloos was tegenover hen, erbij zat, en opzettelijk\ndoor beiden werd veronachtzaamd. Maar terwijl zij glimlachte over\ndie vriendelijkheid aan het verkeerde adres, kon zij niet nalaten,\ndenkend aan de dwaze kleingeestigheid, waaruit deze voortsproot,\nen lettend op den pijnlijken ijver, waarmede de dames Steele zich\nbevlijtigden om in de gunst te blijven, hen alle vier uit den grond\nvan haar hart te verachten.\n\nLucy was in één verrukking over de onderscheiding, die haar te\nbeurt viel; en haar zuster was overal in de wolken, waar ze maar\nmet Dr. Davies werd geplaagd. Het diner was deftig, de bedienden\ntalrijk, en alles verried Mevrouw's neiging tot vertooning maken, en\nMijnheer's bereidwilligheid om aan die neiging te voldoen. Ondanks\nde verbetering en vergrooting van Norland en ten spijt van het\ndreigend gevaar, dat de eigenaar van het goed had geloopen, een\npaar duizend pond kwijt te raken door te verkoopen met verlies,\nvertoonde zich nergens een spoor van de behoeftigheid, die hij had\ngepoogd, als het gevolg hiervan voor te stellen; armoede viel hier\ngeenszins te bespeuren, tenzij in het gehalte van het gesprek, dat\ndan ook bedenkelijk te wenschen overliet. John Dashwood had nooit\nveel te vertellen, dat de moeite van het aanhooren waard was, en\nzijn vrouw nog minder. Hierdoor echter kon hen in 't bijzonder geen\nblaam treffen, want in het zelfde geval verkeerden de meesten hunner\ngasten, die bijna allen den druk ondervonden van de eene of andere der\nvoornaamste beletselen om zich aangenaam te maken,--gemis van verstand,\n't zij natuurlijk of verhelderd door ontwikkeling, gemis van gratie,\ngemis van vroolijkheid, en gemis van geest.\n\nToen de dames na het diner naar den salon terugkeerden, bleek die\narmoede duidelijker dan te voren; want de heeren hàdden dan toch\neenige afwisseling gebracht in het gesprek,--in zooverre het liep over\npolitiek, land-ontginning en paardrijden,--maar daarmee was het nu\nuit, en slechts één onderwerp hield de dames bezig, tot de koffie werd\ngepresenteerd, nl. het verschil in lengte tusschen Harry Dashwood, en\nLady Middleton's tweede zoontje William, die ongeveer even oud waren.\n\nWaren beide kinderen in de kamer geweest, dan zou de vraag tè\ngemakkelijk zijn beslist, door ze eenvoudig te meten; doch daar Harry\nalleen tegenwoordig was, bleef het van beide zijden bij gissingen,\nterwijl ieder het recht had op zijn stuk te blijven staan, en zijne\nmeening tot in het oneindige te herhalen.\n\nDe partijen waren verdeeld in dezer voege:\n\nDe beide moeders, hoewel ieder voor zich overtuigd, dat haar eigen\njongen de grootste was, gaven uit beleefdheid de eer aan den ander.\n\nDe beide grootmoeders, niet minder partijdig, doch meer oprecht,\nnamen het even ernstig op voor hun eigen nakomelingen.\n\nLucy, die bijna niet wist, wie van de beide mama's het liefste te\nbehagen, vond beide jongens buitengewoon groot voor hun leeftijd,\nen kon maar niet begrijpen dat er een zweem verschil tusschen hen\nbestond, en Juffrouw Steele wist zich nog handiger te redden, door\nin een adem den een, zoowel als den ander den grootste te noemen.\n\nElinor, die eenmaal de meening had uitgesproken, dat zij William voor\ngrooter hield, waardoor ze Mevrouw Ferrars beleedigde, en Fanny nog\nerger, vond het niet noodig, verder vol te houden, en toen Marianne\nnaar de hare werd gevraagd, maakte zij hen allen met elkaar boos,\ndoor te zeggen, dat zij er geene meening op nahield in dezen, omdat\nzij nooit veel op de kinderen had gelet. Eer zij Norland verliet, had\nElinor voor haar schoonzuster een paar mooie schermpjes geschilderd,\ndie thans waren omlijst en als versiering dienden van den salon te\nLonden; en toen John Dashwood ze in het oog kreeg, nadat hij met de\nandere heeren weer binnen was gekomen, overhandigde hij ze beleefd\naan Kolonel Brandon, om ze door hem te laten bewonderen.\n\n\"Die heeft mijn oudste zuster geschilderd,\" zei hij, \"ik denk dat u,\nals man van smaak, ze wel mooi zult vinden. Ik weet niet, of u al meer\nvan haar tekeningen hebt gezien; maar over 't algemeen beschouwt men\nhaar als zeer talentvol.\"\n\nDe Kolonel zeide, dat men hem volstrekt niet als een kenner moest\nbeschouwen; doch bewonderde de schermpjes, zooals hij alles zou\nbewonderd hebben, wat door Juffrouw Dashwood was geschilderd; en daar\nde anderen nu natuurlijk nieuwsgierig werden, gingen zij van hand\ntot hand. Mevrouw Ferrars, die niet wist dat ze Elinor's werk waren,\nbood ze zelve ter beschouwing aan, en nadat ze het vleiend getuigenis\nvan Lady Middleton's goedkeuring hadden mogen verwerven, gaf Fanny ze\nnogmaals aan haar moeder, met de mededeeling, dat Juffrouw Dashwood\nze geschilderd had.\n\n\"O zoo...\" zei Mevrouw Ferrars,--\"heel aardig,\" en gaf ze aan haar\ndochter terug, zonder er zelfs naar te kijken.\n\nMisschien dacht Fanny even, dat haar moeder nu toch wat àl te onbeleefd\nwerd,--want zij kreeg een kleur en zei: \"Allerliefst, vindt u niet,\nmama?\" Doch waarschijnlijk overviel haar nu weer de angst, dat zij\nzelve al te beleefd en voorkomend was geweest, want zij voegde erbij:\n\"Vindt u niet, dat er iets in is van Juffrouw Morton's manier van\nschilderen? _Zij_ schildert prachtig. Wat is dat laatste landschap\nvan haar mooi!\"\n\n\"Ja, bijzonder. Maar _zij_ doet àlles goed.\"\n\nDit kon Marianne niet verdragen. Zij had al een geduchten hekel aan\nMevrouw Ferrars, en die onnoodige lof, een ander toegezwaaid, ten koste\nvan Elinor, lokte haar uit, hoewel zij volstrekt niet kon gissen, wat\ner eigenlijk hoofdzakelijk mee bedoeld werd, om haastig en geërgerd\nte zeggen: \"Een eigenaardige manier om de dingen te bewonderen! Wat\nkan ons die Juffrouw Morton nu schelen? Háár kennen we niet, _wij_\nhebben het nu over Elinor!\"\n\nMet die woorden nam ze haar schoonzuster de schermpjes af, om ze\nzelve te bewonderen, zooals ze verdienden bewonderd te worden.\n\nMevrouw Ferrars keek geducht boos, richtte zich nog stijver op, en zei\nmet vernietigende bitsheid: \"Juffrouw Morton is Lord Morton's dochter.\"\n\nFanny keek ook verontwaardigd, en haar man was doodelijk verschrikt\ndoor zijn zuster's vrijmoedigheid. Elinor trok zich Marianne's\nheftigen uitval veel meer aan, dan 't geen er aanleiding toe had\ngegeven; doch Kolonel Brandon's blik die op Marianne bleef rusten,\nverried, hoe hij er alleen in had gezien, wat er beminnelijks in was,\nde warme genegenheid, die niet kon verdragen, een zuster ook maar in\nhet minst verongelijkt te zien.\n\nMarianne's gevoel sleepte haar nog verder mede. De beleedigende\nkoelheid van Mevrouw Ferrars' houding tegenover haar zuster deed haar\nvoor Elinor moeilijkheden en verdrietelijkheden voorzien, waarvoor\nhaar eigen diepgewond gemoed wel angstig moest terugdeinzen, en in\neen opwelling van innig meegevoel, ging zij een oogenblik later naar\nhaar zuster en zei zacht en snel, terwijl zij haar arm om Elinor's\nhals sloeg, met de wang tegen de hare: \"Lieve beste Elinor, trek het\nje maar niet aan. Laten ze _jou_ niet ongelukkig maken.\"\n\nMeer kon zij niet zeggen; zij was te zeer aangedaan; en haar gelaat\ntegen Elinor's schouder verbergend, barstte zij in tranen uit. Aller\naandacht was op haar gevestigd, en bijna allen hadden medelijden met\nhaar. Kolonel Brandon stond op en ging naar hen toe, zonder te weten\nwat hij deed. Mevrouw Jennings reikte dadelijk met een hartelijk\nbegrijpend \"Och, dat arme kind!\" haar reukfleschje, en Sir John\nwas zoo woedend op de persoon die aanleiding had gegeven tot deze\nzenuwaandoening dat hij dadelijk naast Lucy Steele kwam zitten en\nhaar fluisterend van de geheele treurige toedracht der zaak op de\nhoogte bracht.\n\nNa een paar minuten had Marianne zich echter voldoende hersteld,\nom een einde te maken aan de drukte en weer te gaan zitten, hoewel\nzij den geheelen verderen avond onder den indruk bleef van hetgeen\nwas voorgevallen.\n\n\"Die arme Marianne!\" zei haar broer zachtjes tegen Kolonel Brandon,\nzoodra het hem gelukte, diens aandacht te trekken, \"ze is lang niet\nzoo gezond als haar zuster,--erg zenuwachtig,--ze is veel zwakker van\ngestel dan Elinor; en men moet toegeven, dat het ook wel hard is voor\neen jong meisje, dat vroeger héél mooi is geweest, haar schoonheid\nte verliezen. U zoudt het misschien niet gelooven; maar een paar\nmaanden geleden nog wàs Marianne bijzonder mooi--bepaald even knap\nals Elinor. En nu, zooals u ziet, is daar niets meer van over.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XXXV\n\n\nElinor's verlangen om Mevrouw Ferrars te zien was nu voldaan. Het\nwas haar gebleken dat deze vrouw alle eigenschappen bezat, die\neen verderen omgang tusschen beide families niet wenschelijk deden\nschijnen. Zij had genoeg gezien van haar trots, haar kleingeestigheid\nen haar onverzettelijke vooringenomenheid tegen haarzelve, om al de\nbezwaren te begrijpen, die een verloving zouden hebben bedorven en\neen huwelijk verhinderd tusschen Edward en haar, zoo hij overigens al\nvrij ware geweest; en zij had welhaast genoeg opgemerkt, om dankbaar\nte zijn op zichzelf, dat één gewichtiger beletsel haar vrijwaarde\nvoor de kwelling der vele andere, welke Mevrouw Ferrars had kunnen\nuitdenken; voor eenige afhankelijkheid van hare luimen, of eenige\nbezorgheid omtrent hare goede meening. Of althans besloot zij, zoo\nze zich al niet ten volle kon verheugen over het feit, dat Edward\naan Lucy gebonden was, dat zij zich daarover had _moeten_ verheugen,\nwanneer Lucy beminnelijker was geweest.\n\nZij verbaasde zich erover, dat Lucy zoo in de wolken kon zijn over\nMevrouw Ferrars' beleefdheid; dat zij zich zóó kon laten verblinden\ndoor haar eigenbelang en ijdelheid, om de attenties, die haar toch\nenkel werden bewezen, omdat zij _niet_ Elinor was, als een hulde\naan haarzelve op te vatten,--en om bemoediging te putten uit een\nvoorkeur, die haar slechts geschonken werd, zoolang haar werkelijke\nverhouding tot hen allen hun onbekend bleef. Dàt Lucy verrukt was,\nhadden niet alleen haar blikken verraden op den avond van de partij;\nmaar zij kwam het den volgenden morgen nog eens persoonlijk verklaren;\ntoen Lady Middleton haar, op haar uitdrukkelijk verlangen, in Berkeley\nStreet liet uitstappen, in de hoop, Elinor alleen te vinden, om haar\nte kunnen vertellen, hoe gelukkig zij zich gevoelde.\n\nHet toeval bleek haar gunstig gezind; want kort na dat zij gekomen\nwas, werd Mevrouw Jennings door een boodschap van Mevrouw Palmer\nweggeroepen.\n\n\"Mijn beste vriendin,\" riep Lucy, zoodra zij alleen waren: \"ik\nmoest u eens komen vertellen, hoe blijde ik ben. Kon er wel iets\nvleiender geweest zijn, dan de manier waarop Mevrouw Ferrars mij\ngisteren behandelde? Ze was werkelijk allervriendelijkst! U weet,\nhoe ik er tegen opzag, haar te ontmoeten; maar van 't oogenblik af,\ndat ik aan haar werd voorgesteld, gedroeg ze zich jegens mij met een\nvoorkomendheid, die bepaald deed blijken, dat ze bijzonder met mij\nwas ingenomen. Vondt u dat ook niet? U hebt het zelf alles bijgewoond,\nen viel het u ook niet op?\"\n\n\"Zeker; ze ontving u heel beleefd.\"\n\n\"Beleefd?--Zag u alleen beleefdheid in haar houding? Nu, ik dan\nvrij wat méér--een vriendelijkheid, die aan niemand anders dan\nmij werd bewezen! Niets trotsch, niets uit de hoogte; en uw zuster\neveneens,--een en al beminnelijkheid en tegemoetkoming!\"\n\nElinor wilde over iets anders gaan spreken; maar Lucy liet niet los,\neer zij had toegegeven, dat er reden bestond voor haar blijdschap,\nen Elinor was gedwongen nog iets te zeggen.\n\n\"Als zij geweten hadden van uw verloving,\" zeide zij, \"dan zou hun\nhouding tegenover u ongetwijfeld zéér vleiend zijn geweest; maar nu\ndit niet het geval was...\"\n\n\"Dat dacht ik al, dat u dat zoudt zeggen,\" antwoordde Lucy snel;\n\"maar er was niet de minste reden, waarom Mevrouw Ferrars zich met\nmij ingenomen zou toonen, als ze dat niet wàs,--en dat ze van mij\nhoudt is de hoofdzaak. Neen, u zult me mijn voldoening niet kunnen\nontnemen. Ik geloof stellig, dat alles best zal afloopen, en dat er,\nvergeleken bij 't geen ik mij had voorgesteld, in 't geheel geen\nmoeilijkheden zullen zijn. Mevrouw Ferrars is een allerliefste vrouw,\nen uw zuster ook. Ze zijn allebei even aardig!--'t verwondert mij, dat\nu ons nooit verteld hebt, wat een lieve vrouw Mevrouw Dashwood was!\"\n\nHierop had Elinor niets te antwoorden, en zij deed daar toe ook\ngeen moeite.\n\n\"Is u niet wel, Juffrouw Dashwood?--u lijkt zoo gedrukt, en u zegt\nniets,--er scheelt bepaald iets aan.\"\n\n\"O neen, ik voel mij volkomen wèl.\"\n\n\"Daar ben ik blij om; maar u ziet er niet naar uit. Wat zou 't me\nspijten, als _u_ ziek werdt--u, die mijn beste en eenige toevlucht\nbent geweest! Ik weet waarlijk niet, wat ik zou zijn begonnen zonder\nuw vriendschap!\"\n\nElinor trachtte iets beleefds te antwoorden, ofschoon zij vreesde,\ndat het haar slecht gelukte. Het scheen Lucy echter te bevredigen,\nwant zij ging voort: \"Ja, ik weet, dat u oprecht voor mij gevoelt, en\nna Edward's liefde, is dat mijn grootste troost. Die arme Edward! Maar\nnu treft het in een opzicht gelukkig,--we kunnen elkaar nu ontmoeten,\nen vrij dikwijls zelfs, want Lady Middleton is verrukt van Mevrouw\nDashwood; dus zullen we, denk ik, wel veel in Harley Street zijn, en\nEdward is bijna den heelen dag bij zijn zuster;--bovendien bezoeken\nLady Middleton en Mevrouw Ferrars elkaar nu ook, en Mevrouw Ferrars\nen uw zuster waren beiden zoo vriendelijk, meermalen te zeggen, dat\nhet hun altijd genoegen zou doen, mij te zien. Zulke allerliefste\nmenschen!--als u ooit aan uw zuster vertelt, hoe ik over haar denk,\ndan kunt u niet te veel goeds zeggen.\"\n\nElinor verkoos haar echter geen hoop te geven, dat zij dit aan haar\nzuster zou overbrengen. Lucy ging voort:\n\n\"Ik zou 't stellig onmiddellijk hebben opgemerkt, als Mevrouw Ferrars\niets tegen mij had gehad. Wanneer ze bij voorbeeld, alleen maar\nstijfjes voor mij had gebogen zonder een woord te zeggen, en later\nin 't geheel geen notitie van mij had genomen, en mij nooit eens\nvriendelijk had aangezien,--u weet wel, hoe ik bedoel,--als ik op die\nmanier op een afstand was gehouden, dan zou ik alles hebben opgegeven\nen heel en al wanhopig zijn geweest. Dàt zou ik niet hebben kunnen\nverdragen. Want _als_ zij iets tegen iemand heeft, dàn meent zij het,\ndat weet ik.\"\n\nElinor behoefde deze uiting van beleefde zegepraal niet te\nbeantwoorden; want de deur werd geopend, de knecht diende den Heer\nFerrars aan, en Edward stapte meteen de kamer in.\n\nHet was een allerpijnlijkst oogenblik; en ieders gelaat gaf dit\nduidelijk te kennen. Zij sloegen alle drie een dwaas figuur, en Edward\nscheen evenveel lust te hebben het vertrek weer te verlaten, als naar\nbinnen te gaan. Juist _die_ ontmoeting, in haar onaangenaamsten vorm,\nhad thans tusschen hen plaats, die ieder van hen het liefst had willen\nvermijden; ze waren niet alleen met hun drieën samen maar misten\ndaarbij de afleiding door ander gezelschap. De dames herstelden\nzich het eerst. Het lag niet op Lucy's weg, zich op den voorgrond\nte stellen, en het geheim moest zoogenaamd blijven bewaard. Zij kon\nhaar teedere gezindheid dus slechts door blikken uitdrukken, en na\nhem met een enkel woord te hebben begroet, zeide zij niets meer.\n\nMaar Elinor had méér te doen; en zóó gaarne wilde zij dat _goed_\ndoen, om zijnent- en om harentwil, dat zij zichzelve, na een oogenblik\nvan krachtige inspanning wist te dwingen hem te verwelkomen met een\nblik en een houding, die bijna open, bijna natuurlijk waren; en dit\nnog meer werden na een tweede heldhaftige poging. Zij wilde zich,\nzoomin door Lucy's tegenwoordigheid als door het bewustzijn van eenig\nhaar aangedaan onrecht, laten weerhouden, om hem te zeggen, dat zij\nblijde was hem te zien, en hoe het haar had gespeten, dat zij uit was,\ntoen hij reeds eerder een bezoek had gebracht in Berkeley Street. Zij\nwilde hem, uit vrees voor Lucy's waakzamen blik, niet die beleefdheid\nonthouden, welke zij hem, als vriend en bijna een lid hunner familie,\nverschuldigd was, hoewel zij spoedig bespeurde, dat Lucy scherp op\nhaar lette.\n\nHaar rustige houding gaf Edward iets meer zekerheid; en hij had\nthans moed genoeg om te gaan zitten, maar zijn verlegenheid overtrof\ndie der dames op een wijze, die in zijne omstandigheden, zooal\nniet door zijne sekse, verschoonbaar kon worden geacht; want zijn\nhart was niet zoo onverschillig als dat van Lucy, en zijn geweten\nniet zoo volkomen zuiver als dat van Elinor. Lucy scheen zich, met\neen vertoon van zedige bedaardheid, niet geroepen te gevoelen, het\nhare te doen om de anderen op hun gemak te zetten, en verkoos geen\nwoord te zeggen; zoodat bijna alles, wat er gezegd wèrd, uitging van\nElinor, die uit eigen beweging alle inlichtingen verstrekte omtrent\nhun moeder's gezondheid, hun reis naar de stad, enz. waarnaar Edward\n_niet_ vroeg, zooals hij behoorde te doen. Nog verder ging zij in\nhaar pogingen; want weldra voelde zij zich zóó heldhaftig gezind,\ndat zij besloot, onder het voorwendsel, Marianne te gaan halen,\nde beide anderen alleen te laten; 't geen ze ook werkelijk deed, en\ndat wel op de meest loyale wijze; want zij bleef, met grootmoedige\ndapperheid, een paar minuten heen en weer drentelen op het portaal,\neer zij naar haar zuster ging. Toen dat echter gebeurd was, had Edward\nvoor liefdesbetuigingen geen tijd meer; want Marianne vloog in haar\nblijdschap onmiddellijk naar beneden en den salon binnen. Als al haar\ngevoelens, was haar vreugde, hem weer te zien, levendig op zichzelf,\nen levendig uitgedrukt. Zij kwam hem te gemoet met uitgestrekte hand,\nen in haar stem den klank van zusterlijke genegenheid.\n\n\"Beste Edward!\" riep ze, \"wat ben ik blij je te zien! Dit zou bijna\nalles weer goedmaken!\"\n\nEdward trachtte haar vriendelijkheid te beantwoorden, zooals zij\nverdiende; maar in tegenwoordigheid der anderen durfde hij niet\nhalf zeggen, wat hij werkelijk gevoelde. Zij gingen weer zitten,\nen eenige oogenblikken bleven allen zwijgen; terwijl Marianne met\nzichtbaar teeder welgevallen van Edward naar Elinor keek, en alleen\nmaar betreurde, dat hun blijdschap in elkander's bijzijn werd bedorven\ndoor Lucy's onwelkome tegenwoordigheid. Edward was de eerste, die\nsprak; hij merkte op, dat Marianne er minder goed uitzag, en gaf zijn\nvrees te kennen, dat het verblijf te Londen haar niet goed bekwam.\n\n\"O, denk maar niet aan mij!\" antwoordde zij, met opgewekten nadruk,\nhoewel haar oogen vol tranen stonden, \"maak je over _mijn_ gezondheid\nniet bezorgd. Elinor maakt het goed, zooals je ziet. Dat moet voor\nons beiden voldoende zijn.\"\n\nDeze opmerking droeg er niet toe bij, Edward en Elinor kalmer te\nstemmen, en nog minder om haar de welwillende gezindheid te verwerven\nvan Lucy, die Marianne allesbehalve vriendelijk aanzag.\n\n\"Bevalt Londen je goed?\" vroeg Edward, om toch maar iets te zeggen,\ndat een ander onderwerp van gesprek aan de hand kon doen.\n\n\"Neen, volstrekt niet. Ik had mij er veel genoegen van voorgesteld;\nmaar dat heb ik er niet gevonden. Dit weerzien van jou, Edward, is\nde eenige blijdschap, die 't mij heeft gebracht; en jij bent gelukkig\nnog altijd dezelfde!\"\n\nZij zweeg--en ook de anderen bleven zwijgen. \"Mij dunkt, Elinor,\"\nging Marianne voort, \"we moesten Edward vragen om voor ons te zorgen\nals we weer naar Barton teruggaan. Over een paar weken zal dat wel\ngebeuren, en ik denk dat Edward er wel niet op tegen zal hebben,\ndie opdracht te aanvaarden.\"\n\nDe arme Edward prevelde iets, dat niemand verstond, misschien hij zelf\nook niet. Maar Marianne, die zag, dat hij zenuwachtig was, en licht\ngeneigd was, de oorzaak hiervoor te zoeken in 't geen haar 't best\nbehaagde, scheen volkomen voldaan en sprak spoedig over iets anders.\n\n\"O Edward, wat hebben we gisteren een dag gehad, in Harley Street! Zóó\nvervelend; zoo ontzaglijk vervelend! Maar dááromtrent heb ik je veel\nte vertellen, dat ik nu niet zeggen kan.\"\n\nMet zoo bewonderenswaardige omzichtigheid verschoof zij de mededeeling,\ndat zij hun wederzijdsche bloedverwanten onaangenamer had gevonden\ndan ooit, en in 't bijzonder aan zijn moeder een hekel had, tot later,\nwanneer er gelegenheid zou zijn voor een vertrouwelijk gesprek.\n\n\"Maar waarom was jij er niet, Edward?--Waarom was je niet gekomen?\"\n\n\"Ik had iets anders te doen.\"\n\n\"Iets anders?--Maar wat kon dat zijn, terwijl je je beste vrienden\nhadt kunnen ontmoeten?\"\n\n\"U denkt zeker, juffrouw Marianne,\" riep Lucy, de gelegenheid\naangrijpend om wraak te nemen, \"dat jongelui zich nooit bekommeren\nom hun verplichtingen, als ze niet van plan zijn, die na te komen,\nin 't klein, zoowel als in 't groot.\"\n\nElinor was ernstig boos; maar Marianne scheen de hatelijkheid niet\nte willen opmerken, want zij antwoordde bedaard:\n\n\"Neen, tòch niet; want in ernst, ik ben overtuigd, dat alleen\nnauwgezetheid van geweten Edward verhinderde naar Harley Street\nte gaan. En ik geloof stellig, dat hij van alle menschen het\nallerkwetsbaarste geweten heeft, het meest nauwgezet elke verplichting\nnakomt, hoe gering die ook zij, en hoe ook in tegenspraak met zijn\nbelang of genoegen. Hij is meer bevreesd om anderen verdriet te doen,\nom verwachtingen teleur te stellen, minder in staat tot zelfzuchtige\nbedoelingen, dan iemand, dien ik ooit heb ontmoet. Het _is_ zoo,\nEdward, en ik _wil_ het zeggen. Wat! zou jij je nooit mogen hooren\nprijzen? Dan zou je mijn vriend niet kunnen zijn, want zij, wien ik\nliefde en achting toedraag, moeten zich ook mijn openhartigen lof\nlaten welgevallen.\"\n\nDe soort van lof, in dit geval door haar toegekend, paste echter zoo\nbuitengewoon slecht bij de gevoelens van twee harer toehoorders,\nen scheen Edward zoo weinig voldoening te verschaffen, dat hij al\nheel spoedig opstond om heen te gaan.\n\n\"Ga je nu al?\" zei Marianne; \"maar beste Edward, dat kan toch niet.\"\n\nEn hem terzijde nemend, fluisterde zij hem toe, dat Lucy stellig\nniet lang meer kon blijven. Doch zelfs deze aansporing baatte niet;\nhij _moest_ weg, en Lucy, die gewacht zou hebben, al had zijn bezoek\ntwee uren geduurd, nam spoedig daarna ook afscheid.\n\n\"Wat doet ze hier toch zoo dikwijls?\" zei Marianne, toen zij was\nheengegaan. \"Kon ze niet begrijpen, dat we haar graag kwijt waren? Zoo\nvervelend voor Edward!\"\n\n\"Och, waarom?--we zijn allen vrienden van hem; en Lucy heeft hem\n't langst gekend. 't Is heel natuurlijk, dat hij haar even graag\nontmoet als ons.\"\n\nMarianne zag haar ernstig aan en zei: \"Je weet, Elinor, dat ik deze\nsoort van redeneeringen niet kan verdragen. Als je alleen maar hoopt,\ntegenspraak uit te lokken, zooals ik wel vermoeden moet, dat het geval\nis, dan behoor je toch te bedenken, dat ik de laatste persoon ben, van\nwie je die verwachten kunt. Ik wil mij niet verlagen tot die komedie,\nmij beweringen te laten afpersen, die volkomen overbodig zijn.\"\n\nDaarop ging zij de kamer uit, en Elinor durfde haar niet volgen om\nde zaak uit te leggen, want gebonden als zij was door haar belofte\nvan geheimhouding tegenover Lucy, kon zij Marianne niets mededeelen,\ndat haar overtuigen kon; en al zouden de gevolgen van Marianne's\nonwetendheid in dezen ook nog zoo onaangenaam kunnen zijn, zij\nwas verplicht ze te dragen. Al wat zij kon hopen, was, dat Edward\nniet dikwijls haar en zichzelf zou blootstellen aan de pijnlijke\ngewaarwordingen, veroorzaakt door Marianne's misplaatste geestdrift,\nof tot eene herhaling van de vele smartelijke gevoelens, die zijn\nlaatste bezoek had gewekt--en zij had alle reden, dit te verwachten.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XXXVI\n\n\nEenige dagen na deze ontmoeting verkondigden de nieuwsbladen der wereld\nde tijding, dat de echtgenoote van den Heer Thomas Palmer voorspoedig\nwas bevallen van een zoon; een zeer belangwekkend en verblijdend\nbericht, althans voor alle intieme bekenden, die erop waren voorbereid.\n\nDeze gebeurtenis, zoo hoogst gewichtig voor Mevrouw Jennings'\nlevensvreugde, bracht een tijdelijke wijziging in hare tijdverdeeling,\nen oefende eveneens invloed uit op het doen en laten harer jeugdige\nvriendinnen; want daar zij liefst zooveel mogelijk bij Charlotte\nwilde zijn, ging zij daar elken morgen heen, zoodra zij gekleed was,\nen kwam eerst laat in den avond terug; terwijl de dames Dashwood, op\nhet dringend verzoek van de Middletons, den geheelen dag doorbrachten\nin Conduit Street. Zij zouden het zelven veel gemakkelijker hebben\ngevonden, ten minste des morgens tehuis te blijven; maar die wensch\nkon niet tegen den zin van alle anderen worden doorgedreven. Hun tijd\nwerd dus ter beschikking gesteld van Lady Middleton en de beide dames\nSteele, die feitelijk hun gezelschap bitter weinig op prijs stelden,\nmaar het des te ijveriger beweerden te zoeken.\n\nZij waren te verstandig om aangenaam gezelschap te zijn voor de eerste,\nen door de beide anderen werden zij met een afgunstig oog beschouwd,\nals indringsters op hun terrein, die deelden in de vriendelijkheid,\nwelke zij voor zich alleen in beslag dachten te nemen. Hoewel niets\nbeleefder kon zijn dan Lady Middleton's houding tegenover Elinor en\nMarianne, hield zij toch in het geheel niet van hen. Daar zij noch\nhaar, noch hare kinderen vleiden, kon zij niet gelooven, dat zij\ngoedhartig waren; en omdat ze veel van lezen hielden, verbeeldde\nzij zich, dat ze satiriek waren; zonder misschien precies te weten\nwat satiriek zijn beduidde; maar dàt deed er minder toe. Het was\neen gebruikelijke afkeuring, en 't kon geen kwaad, dat het eens\nwerd gezegd.\n\nHunne tegenwoordigheid legde beiden haar en Lucy een zekeren\ndwang op. Zij hinderden de eene in haar laten, en de andere in haar\ndoen. Lady Middleton schaamde zich voor hen, dat ze niets uitvoerde,\nen Lucy was bang, dat ze haar zouden minachten om de vleierij,\ndie zij anders vol zelfvoldoening placht toe te dienen. Juffrouw\nAnne werd het minst van streek gebracht door hun bijzijn, en het\nstond in hun macht, haar geheel ermee te verzoenen. Als een van hen\nbeiden haar maar eens volledig en tot in de kleinste bijzonderheden\nhad ingelicht omtrent die geschiedenis tusschen Marianne en den Heer\nWilloughby, dan zou ze zich ruim beloond hebben geacht voor 't gemis\nvan het warmste plaatsje bij den haard na den eten, dat zij na hunne\nkomst had moeten afstaan. Maar deze tegemoetkoming werd haar niet\nbewezen, en al liet zij zich meermalen tegenover Elinor uitroepen\nvan medelijden met hare zuster ontvallen, of al hield ze ten aanhoore\nvan Marianne herhaaldelijk beschouwingen over de wispelturigheid van\ngalante cavaliers, zij bereikte er niet anders mee, dan dat de eerste\nonverschillig en de laatste met minachtenden afkeer haar aanzag. En met\nnog veel geringere moeite hadden ze haar vriendschap kunnen winnen. Als\nze haar toch maar eens hadden geplaagd met den dokter! Doch zij waren\nal even weinig als de anderen gezind haar hierin ter wille te zijn,\nen als Sir John niet thuis kwam dineeren, moest zij soms een geheelen\ndag doorbrengen zonder andere grappen te hooren over dat onderwerp,\ndan die, waarmee ze zich zelve placht te vermaken.\n\nVan al die afgunst en ontevredenheid echter bleef Mevrouw Jennings\nzoo totaal onkundig, dat zij het verrukkelijk voor de meisjes vond\nom zooveel samen te zijn; en in den regel haar logéetjes elken\navond gelukwenschte dat ze alweer een dag aan 't gezelschap van een\nsaaie oude vrouw waren ontsnapt. Zij kwam wel eens met hen bij Sir\nJohn, en sprak ze ook wel in haar eigen huis; maar waar het ook\nmocht zijn, zij was altijd in haar nopjes, verrukt en gewichtig,\nCharlotte's welbevinden toeschrijvend aan háár goede zorgen, en steeds\nbereid tot een zoo nauwkeurige en uitvoerige beschrijving van haar\ngezondheidstoestand, als alleen Juffrouw Steele nieuwsgierig genoeg was\nte verlangen. _Een_ ding hinderde haar toch, en daarover beklaagde zij\nzich dan ook elken dag. De Heer Palmer hield zich aan de algemeene,\ndoch onvaderlijke uitspraak zijner sekse, dat alle kleine kinderen\nprecies eender zijn; en hoewel zij op verschillende tijden duidelijk\nde meest treffende gelijkenis kon zien tusschen dit kleine ding en\nal zijn bloedverwanten van beide zijden, zij kòn zijn vader daarvan\nmaar niet overtuigen; zij kòn hem niet overhalen te gelooven, dat het\ner niet precies zoo uitzag als elke baby van den zelfden leeftijd;\nen zelfs tot de eenvoudige verklaring, dat het 't mooiste kindje van\nde wereld was, bleek hij niet bereid.\n\n\n\nThans moet ik melding maken van een ongeluk, dat omstreeks dezen tijd\naan Mevrouw John Dashwood overkwam. Toevallig was, bij gelegenheid\nvan het bezoek harer zusters met Mevrouw Jennings in Harley\nStreet, eene harer vriendinnen haar een visite komen maken,--op\nzichzelf geen gebeurtenis, waaruit eenig kwaad voor haar zou kunnen\nvoortspruiten. Doch zoolang de verbeelding van andere menschen hen\nkan meesleepen tot het maken van verkeerde gevolgtrekkingen omtrent\nons gedrag, die zij daarenboven afleiden uit oppervlakkige gegevens,\nkan ons geluk niet anders dan tot op zekere hoogte van het toeval\nafhankelijk zijn. In het onderhavige geval had de laatst-gekomen\ndame haar verbeelding vergund, zich zoover te begeven buiten de\nperken van waarheid en waarschijnlijkheid, dat zij, enkel bij het\nhooren noemen van den naam der dames Dashwood, en begrijpende dat\nzij de zusters van den Heer Dashwood waren, onmiddellijk hieruit\nhad afgeleid, dat zij logeerden in Harley Street; en als gevolg van\ndit misverstand verschenen een paar dagen later invitatie-kaarten,\nzoo voor hen als voor hun broer en zuster, om hen uit te noodigen op\neen muziek-avond te hunnen huize. Ten gevolge waarvan wederom Mevrouw\nJohn Dashwood zich genoodzaakt zag niet alleen tot den buitengewoon\nlastigen maatregel, de dames Dashwood met haar rijtuig te laten\nafhalen; maar, wat erger was, zich de onaangename verplichting zag\nopgelegd, hen althans schijnbaar voorkomend te behandelen,--en wie\nkon zeggen, of ze er nu niet op zouden gaan rekenen, een tweeden\nkeer met haar uit te gaan. Het stond wel is waar altijd nog in haar\nmacht, hen teleur te stellen. Maar dat zou niet voldoende zijn; want\nals de menschen vast voornemens zijn zich te gedragen op een wijze,\nwaarvan ze 't verkeerde zelf inzien, zijn ze tòch beleedigd, als\nanderen iets beters van hen verwachten. Marianne was er van lieverlede\nreeds weer zóó aan gewend geraakt, iederen dag uit te gaan, dat het\nhaar onverschillig was geworden, of zij ging of niet, en zij maakte\nzich rustig en werktuigelijk gereed voor elke avondpartij, hoewel\nzonder ooit eenig genoegen van een dier uitgangen te verwachten, en\ndikwijls zelfs tot op het laatste oogenblik niet wetend, bij wie ze\neigenlijk gevraagd was. Voor haar kleeding en haar uiterlijk was zij\nzoo volkomen onverschillig geworden, dat zij er onder het kleeden niet\nhalf zooveel aandacht aan wijdde, als haar ten deel viel van Juffrouw\nAnne's zijde in de eerste vijf minuten van hun samenzijn. _Haar_\nnauwlettende opmerkzaamheid en nieuwsgierigen blik ontging niets;\nzij zag alles, vroeg naar alles, had geen rust eer ze wist wat elk\nonderdeel van Marianne's toilet gekost had; was van het aantal harer\njaponnen beter op de hoogte dan Marianne zelf, en hoopte nog eenmaal,\neer zij weer afscheid namen, te zullen ontdekken, hoeveel waschgeld\nzij per week betaalde, en hoeveel haar kleedgeld per jaar bedroeg.\n\nGewoonlijk werd de lompheid van dat brutale uitvragen zoogenaamd\nweer goedgemaakt door een compliment, dat, hoewel bedoeld als een\nsoort belooning, door Marianne als de verregaandste onbeschaamdheid\nwerd beschouwd; want na een verhoor te hebben ondergaan omtrent den\nprijs en het patroon van haar japon, de kleur van haar schoenen en\nde wijze waarop haar haar was opgemaakt, wist zij van te voren, hoe\nze nu te hooren zou krijgen, \"dat ze er gerust waar piekfijn uitzag,\nen een hoop harten zou veroveren.\"\n\nMet een dergelijke aanmoediging werd zij ook bij deze gelegenheid\nverwezen naar haar broeder's rijtuig, dat geen vijf minuten aan hun\ndeur had behoeven te wachten; eene nauwgezetheid, weinig gewaardeerd\ndoor hun schoonzuster, die reeds eerder naar het huis van haar\nvriendin was gegaan, en hoopte op eenige vertraging van hunne zijde,\nten ongerieve van haarzelve of haren koetsier.\n\nVeel vermeldenswaardigs viel er dien avond niet voor. Op dit, zooals op\nandere muziekpartijtjes, was een zeker aantal gasten bijeenverzameld,\ndat werkelijk genoot van de uitvoering, en een veel grooter aantal\nandere, die er niets om gaven; en de medewerkenden zelf waren zooals\ngewoonlijk, volgens hun eigen oordeel, en dat hunner intieme vrienden\nde voortreffelijkste amateurs van heel Engeland.\n\nDaar Elinor noch muzikaal was, noch voorgaf het te zijn, zag zij\ner geen bezwaar in, haar oogen eens af te wenden van den vleugel,\nwanneer zij daar lust in had, en zonder zich te laten intimideeren\ndoor de aanwezigheid van harp en violoncel, haar blik naar believen\nte laten rusten op eenig ander voorwerp in het vertrek.\n\nBij een van die uitstapjes viel haar oog op een groepje jongelui,\nwaaronder zij hetzelfde jongemensch bespeurde, dat bij den juwelier de\nvoordracht over tandenstoker-étuis had gehouden. Weldra zag zij hem\nnaar haar kijken, terwijl hij vertrouwelijk stond te praten met haar\nbroeder; en zij nam zich juist voor aan John te vragen, wie hij was,\ntoen zij samen naar haar toekwamen, en de Heer Dashwood hem aan haar\nvoorstelde als den Heer Robert Ferrars.\n\nHij sprak haar aan met luchtige beleefdheid, en boog, met een grappige\nhoofdwending, die haar even duidelijk als woorden hadden kunnen doen,\nliet bespeuren, dat hij wel waarlijk de ingebeelde fat was, dien\nLucy haar had beschreven. 't Zou gelukkig voor haar zijn geweest,\nals haar genegenheid voor Edward minder had afgehangen van zijn\neigen verdiensten, dan van die zijner naaste familieleden. Want dan\nzou zijn broeders buiging hebben voltooid, wat de booze blikken van\nzijn moeder en zuster hadden begonnen. Maar terwijl zij zich verbaasde\nover het verschil tusschen de twee jongelieden, bleek het haar, dat de\nleeghoofdigheid en ijdelheid van den een haar waarlijk geen geringeren\ndunk deden opvatten omtrent de bescheidenheid en degelijkheid van\nden ander. Hoe het _kwam_, dat zij zoo verschilden, legde Robert zelf\nhaar uit in het kwartiertje, dat hij met haar praatte; want sprekend\nover zijn broeder, en betreurend dat zijn verregaande _gaucherie_ hem,\nnaar hij dacht, belette den omgang van zijn standgenooten te zoeken,\nmeende hij, met oprechte welwillendheid, die linkschheid niet zoozeer\nte moeten toeschrijven aan eenig natuurlijk gebrek, als wel aan de\nongelukkige omstandigheid, dat Edward privaat-onderricht had genoten;\nterwijl hijzelf, hoewel allicht van nature en feitelijk niet zoo\nbijzonder veel meer begaafd dan zijn broeder, alleen aan het voorrecht\neener opvoeding in een openbare school te danken had, dat hij zich\nin de wereld wist te bewegen zoo goed als de beste. \"Bepaald,\" voegde\nhij erbij, \"ik geloof dat het alleen daaraan ligt, en dat zeg ik zoo\ndikwijls tegen mijn moeder, als zij erover aan het tobben is. \"Mama,\"\nzeg ik dan, \"zet u dat nu uit het hoofd. De zaak is _nu_ niet meer te\nverhelpen, en 't is heel en al uw eigen schuld. Waarom liet u zich\nook overhalen door mijn oom, Sir Robert, om tegen uw eigen beter\nweten in Edward privaat-onderwijs te laten geven, juist in de jaren,\ndie er het meest op aankwamen? Hadt u hem naar Westminster laten gaan,\nzooals mij, inplaats van hem bij den Heer Pratt in den kost te doen,\ndan zoudt u dit alles hebben voorkomen.\" In dat licht heb ik de zaak\naltijd beschouwd, en mijn moeder ziet nu ook zelve haar vergissing\nwel in.\"\n\nElinor wilde hem niet tegenspreken, want hoe zij ook in 't algemeen\nmocht denken over de voordeelen eener opvoeding in een der groote\nopenbare scholen, aan Edward's verblijf in het gezin van den Heer\nPratt kon zij niet met voldoening terugdenken.\n\n\"U woont in Devonshire, niet waar?\" was zijn volgende opmerking,\n\"in een landhuisje, dicht bij Dawlish.\"\n\nElinor bracht hem op de hoogte omtrent de plaats waar hun huis gelegen\nwas, en het scheen hem te verbazen, dat iemand in Devonshire kon wonen,\nen tòch niet in de buurt van Dawlish. Hun soort van verblijfplaats\ndroeg echter zijn welwillende goedkeuring weg.\n\n\"Ik voor mij,\" zei hij, \"houd bijzonder van landhuisjes; ze zijn\nmeestal gezellig, en zien er aardig uit. Ik verzeker u, als ik er\nhet geld voor had, dan kocht ik een stukje grond, en liet er zelf\neen bouwen, in de buurt van Londen, zoodat ik er heen kon rijden\nwanneer ik verkoos, en er een paar vrienden vragen, om samen ervan te\ngenieten. Ik raad iedereen aan, die bouwen wil, om met een landhuisje\nte beginnen. Onlangs kwam mijn vriend Lord Courtland bij mij, om mij\nom raad te vragen, en legde me drie verschillende ontwerpen voor\nvan Bonomi. Ik moest beslissen, welk het beste was. \"Mijn waarde\nCourtland,\" zei ik, zonder mij te bedenken, en ik wierp ze alle drie\nin het vuur, \"neem ze geen van alle, maar bouw een landhuisje, en\nanders niet.\" En daar zal het nu wel op uitloopen.--Er zijn menschen,\ndie denken, dat er met een landhuisje weinig valt te beginnen, dat\ner niet genoeg ruimte is; maar dat is allemaal gekheid. De vorige\nmaand logeerde ik bij goede vrienden, de Elliott's, in de buurt\nvan Dartford. Lady Elliott wilde een danspartij geven. \"Maar hoe\nkan dat nu?\" zei ze; \"mijn beste Ferrars, zeg me toch eens, hoe ik\ndat moet aanleggen. In dit huisje is geen enkele kamer groot genoeg\nvoor tien paren, en waar moeten we soupeeren?\"--_Ik_ zag dadelijk,\ndat het héél goed ging; en ik zei: \"Mijn waarde Lady Elliott, tobt u\ndáár niet over. In de eetkamer kunnen met gemak achttien paren ruimte\nvinden, speeltafeltjes worden geplaatst in den grooten salon; in de\nbibliotheek kunt u thee en andere ververschingen laten presenteeren,\nen in den kleinen salon zet u het souper klaar.\" Lady Elliott was\nverrukt over mijn plan. We hebben de eetkamer gemeten, en 't bleek dat\ner precies plaats was voor achttien paren; zoodat alles juist werd\ngeschikt volgens mijn idee. U ziet dus wel, wanneer men maar weet,\nhoe men moet te werk gaan, dan kan men 't in een landhuisje even goed\nen genoegelijk hebben, als in een ruim en deftig heerenhuis.\"\n\nElinor gaf hem maar gelijk, want zij vond niet, dat hij verdiende\nals redelijk mensch op redelijke gronden te worden tegengesproken.\n\nDaar John Dashwood evenmin pleizier had in muziek als zijn oudste\nzuster, kon hij eveneens zijn gedachten naar believen bij iets\nanders bepalen, en in den loop van den avond viel hem iets in,\ndat hij bij zijn thuiskomst aan zijn vrouw meedeelde, in de hoop\ndat het hare goedkeuring zou wegdragen. De vergissing van Mevrouw\nDennison, die zijne zusters als zijn logeergasten had beschouwd,\nhad hem op het denkbeeld gebracht, of het misschien ook gepast zou\nzijn, hen werkelijk te logeeren te vragen, zoolang Mevrouw Jennings\nzooveel tijd buitenshuis doorbracht. Veel onkosten zou 't hun niet\nveroorzaken; veel last evenmin, en het was dan toch eene attentie,\ndie zijn teergevoelig geweten hem als noodzakelijk deed beschouwen, ter\nvolkomen kwijting van de belofte, tegenover zijn vader afgelegd. Fanny\nschrikte van het voorstel.\n\n\"Ik zie niet in, hoe dat zal gaan,\" zei ze, \"zonder onbeleefd te\nzijn jegens Lady Middleton; want ze zijn elken dag bij háár; anders\nzou ik het met pleizier doen. Je weet wel, dat ik altijd bereid ben,\nhun wáár ik kan, een beleefdheid te bewijzen, zooals ik door dezen\nuitgang van avond weer heb getoond. Maar ze zijn de gasten van Lady\nMiddleton. Kan ik haar nu wel van hen berooven?\"\n\nHaar echtgenoot vond, in alle bescheidenheid, hare tegenwerping toch\neigenlijk niet afdoende. Zij hadden nu al een week op deze wijze\ngelogeerd in Conduit Street, en het zou Lady Middleton stellig niet\nhinderen, wanneer zij hetzelfde aantal dagen doorbrachten bij hun\neigen naaste familie.\n\nFanny zweeg een oogenblik, en zei toen, met nog grooteren nadruk:\n\"Beste man, als het maar kon, zou ik niets liever doen. Maar ik had\njuist bij mij zelf overlegd, dat we de meisjes Steele een paar dagen\nte logeeren moesten vragen. Dat zijn heel geschikte, aardige meisjes;\nen ik vind, dat we 't eigenlijk wel verplicht zijn, omdat hun oom zich\nzooveel moeite heeft gegeven met Edward. Dan kunnen we je zusters 't\nvolgend jaar vragen; maar de dames Steele komen misschien dan niet weer\nin de stad. Je zult ze stellig héél aardig vinden; trouwens ik weet,\ndat je dat nu al doet; evenals mama, en Harry mag ze zoo graag lijden!\"\n\nDe Heer Dashwood was overtuigd. Hij zag dadelijk in, dat het noodig\nwas, de dames Steele te inviteeren; en zijn geweten werd gerustgesteld\ndoor het besluit, zijn zusters te vragen in het volgend jaar. In stilte\nvermoedde hij wel, dat de uitnoodiging een jaar later overbodig zou\nzijn; want dan kwam Elinor natuurlijk als Kolonel Brandon's vrouw,\nen Marianne als de gast van dàt echtpaar.\n\nFanny, blij over die onverwachte uitkomst, en trotsch op de handigheid\nwaarmee ze zich had weten te redden, schreef den volgenden morgen\naan Lucy, om haar en hare zuster een paar dagen in Harley Street te\nlogeeren te vragen, zoodra Lady Middleton hen kon missen. Dat was\nvoldoende om Lucy waarlijk en met reden tevreden te doen zijn. Het\nscheen wel, of Mevrouw Dashwood haar plannen in de hand werkte,\nalsof zij dezelfde hoop koesterde als zij, en háár geluk wilde\nbevorderen! Zulk een gelegenheid om met Edward èn zijn familie samen\nte zijn, was voor haar van het allergrootste belang, en zulk eene\nuitnoodiging vond zij wel buitengewoon vleiend! Het was een voorrecht,\ndat zij niet dankbaar genoeg kon erkennen en niet spoedig genoeg zich\nten nutte maken; en het bezoek bij Lady Middleton, waarvan de duur\nte voren niet was bepaald, bleek plotseling over twee dagen aan zijn\nafgesproken einde te zullen zijn gekomen.\n\nToen het briefje, tien minuten nadat het was ontvangen, aan Elinor\nwerd vertoond, deed het haar voor de eerste maal, eenigszins\ndeelen in Lucy's verwachtingen; want zulk een ongewoon bewijs van\nvriendelijkheid, na zóó korte kennismaking, scheen te duiden op\neen welgezindheid, die haar oorsprong vond in méér dan louter\nkwaadwilligheid jegens haarzelve, en misschien op den duur en\nmet wat behendigheid kon worden aangewend om Lucy's verlangens te\nvervullen. Haar vleierij had Lady Middleton's trots reeds doen buigen,\nen haar den weg gebaand naar het moeilijk toegankelijk hart van\nMevrouw John Dashwood; uitwerkselen, die nog grootere mogelijkheden\ndeden verwachten.\n\nDe dames Steele vertrokken naar Harley Street, en al wat Elinor\nter oore kwam omtrent hun invloed daar aan huis, droeg ertoe bij\nhaar verwachting te versterken. Sir John, die hen meermalen ging\nopzoeken, bracht verhalen mee omtrent de gunst waarin zij stonden,\ndie ieder versteld deden staan. Mevrouw Dashwood had nog nooit in haar\nleven zulke lieve meisjes ontmoet; ze had hun ieder een naaldenboekje\ngegeven, het werk van een of anderen vreemden vluchteling; zij noemde\nLucy bij haar voornaam, en zij wist niet, hoe zij het ooit zonder\nhen zou stellen.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XXXVII\n\n\nNa een paar weken was Mevrouw Palmer zóó wel, dat haar moeder het\nniet meer noodig vond, zich geheel en al aan haar te wijden; zij\nbezocht haar dan nu ook slechts eens of tweemalen per dag en keerde\nterug naar haar eigen huis en tot haar oude gewoonten; waarbij zij\nde dames Dashwood zeer bereid vond, deze te deelen, zooals zij dat\nreeds vroeger hadden gedaan.\n\nDen derden of vierden morgen nadat zij het oude leventje in Berkeley\nStreet hadden hervat, kwam Mevrouw Jennings, bij haar terugkomst van\nhet gewone bezoek aan Mevrouw Palmer, den salon binnen, waar Elinor\nalleen zat, met zulk een haast, en zulk een vertoon van gewicht,\ndat Elinor zich reeds op iets heel bijzonders voorbereidde; maar\nzonder haar tijd te gunnen tot méér dan die eene gedachte, begon\nhaar gastvrouw deze aanstonds te rechtvaardigen door te zeggen:\n\"Mijn lieve Elinor! heb je 't nieuws al gehoord?\"\n\n\"Neen, mevrouw. Wat is het dan?\"\n\n\"O, zoo vreemd! Ik zal je alles vertellen. Toen ik bij mijn dochter\nkwam, was Charlotte doodelijk ongerust over 't kind. Ze dacht dat het\nerg ziek was;--'t schreide, 't was lastig, en 't had uitslag overal. Ik\nging gauw kijken, en ik zei: Lieve kind, zei ik; dat is niets; een\nbeetje roos, en dat zei de baker ook. Maar Charlotte had er geen rust\nbij; dus werd Dr. Donovan gehaald; en hij was gelukkig juist thuis\ngekomen uit Harley Street, dus liep hij even bij ons aan, en zoodra hij\n't kind zag zei hij ook net als wij, dat het een beetje roos was in\nhet tandvleesch, en toen was Charlotte gerust. En juist toen hij wou\nheen gaan, kwam 't mij zoo in de gedachte, ik weet niet hoe 't zoo was,\nmaar 't viel mij zoo in, om hem te vragen of hij ook iets nieuws had te\nvertellen. Nu, toen lachte hij zoo'n beetje, en trok een gek gezicht,\nen keek dan weer ernstig, en scheen wel iets bijzonders te weten, en\neindelijk zei hij zachtjes: \"Als de jonge dames die bij u logeeren,\nmisschien ongunstige berichten mochten hooren omtrent hun zuster's\nongesteldheid, dan wil ik nu maar vast tot hun geruststelling zeggen,\ndat er geen reden bestaat tot bezorgdheid; het zal, denk ik, met\nMevrouw Dashwood wel goed afloopen, daar ben ik niet bang voor.\"\n\n\"Wat? is Fanny ziek?\"\n\n\"Precies wat ik zelf zei, kind. \"Heden\", zei ik, \"is Mevrouw Dashwood\nziek?\"--Dus toen kreeg ik alles te hooren, en naar ik wèl heb begrepen,\nkomt het hierop neer: Mijnheer Edward Ferrars, dat zelfde jongemensch\nmet wien ik jou wel eens geplaagd heb (ik ben intusschen maar blij,\nnu 't zoo uitkomt, dat dààr niets van aan was) die Mijnheer Edward\nFerrars dan schijnt al langer dan een jaar verloofd te zijn geweest\nmet mijn nichtje Lucy!--Wat zeg je dáárvan, kind. En geen mensch, die\ner van wist dan Anne! Zou je zooiets hebben kunnen gelooven?--Dat ze\nvan elkaar houden is zoo'n wonder niet; maar dat het zóóver tusschen\nhen was gekomen, en niemand er op verdacht was! _Dat_ is vreemd!--ik\nheb ze nooit samen gezien,--anders had ik het natuurlijk gauw in\nde gaten gehad. Nu, het werd dan diep geheim gehouden, uit vrees\nvoor Mevrouw Ferrars, en noch zij, noch je broer en zuster hadden\n't flauwste vermoeden ervan,--tot dat Anne, die een goed schepsel is,\nzooals je weet, maar de wijsheid niet in pacht heeft, er van morgen\nop eens mee voor den dag kwam. \"Kom,\" denkt ze bij zichzelf, \"ze\nzijn allemaal zóó dol op Lucy, ze hebben er bepaald niets op tegen,\"\nen zóó loopt ze naar je zuster, die in haar eentje aan haar handwerk\nzit, en weinig wist, wat haar boven 't hoofd hing,--want ze had geen\nvijf minuten te voren tegen je broer gezegd, dat zij van plan was,\nhet klaar te spelen tusschen Edward en een andere dame, de dochter\nvan een Lord... dat weet ik niet meer, hoe die heette. Dus je kunt\ndenken wat een slag dit was voor haar ijdelheid en haar trots. Ze\nkreeg het verschrikkelijk op de zenuwen en gilde zoo hard, dat je\nbroer het beneden hoorde; die zat in zijn kamer, van plan een brief\nte schrijven aan zijn rentmeester. Hij vloog naar boven; en toen werd\nhet daar een scène van belang, want Lucy was er ook op afgekomen,\nweinig vermoedende, wat er gaande was. Dat arme schepsel! háár beklaag\nik. Ze hebben haar ook niet mooi behandeld, moet ik zeggen; want je\nzuster schold haar uit voor al wat leelijk was; en al heel gauw viel\nLucy flauw. Anne viel op de knieën en schreide allerjammerlijkst, en\nje broer liep de kamer rond en wist niet, wat te beginnen. Mevrouw\nDashwood riep maar, dat ze geen minuut langer in haar huis mochten\nblijven, en toen moest je broer óók wel voor haar op de knieën vallen,\nom haar te bewegen, hen te laten blijven, tot ze hun goed hadden\ngepakt. Toen kreeg ze weer een zenuwtoeval, en hij werd zoo bang,\ndat hij Dr. Donovan liet halen, en Dr. Donovan had hen met elkaar\ngevonden in zóó'n toestand. Het rijtuig stond al klaar om mijn arme\nnichten weg te brengen, ze stapten juist in, toen hij wegging; Lucy\nkon bijna niet loopen, zei hij, en Anne was haast even erg. Ik kan\n't niet uitstaan van je zuster, en ik hoop van harte dat ze toch\neen paar worden, tegen haar zin. Och, och, wat zal die arme Edward\nwel zeggen als hij ervan hoort! Dat zijn meisje zoo minachtend wordt\nbehandeld! want ze zeggen dat hij dol op haar is, en geen wonder. 't\nZou mij niet verwonderen, als hij er half razend door wordt, en dat\ndacht Dr. Donovan ook. We hebben er samen lang en breed over gepraat,\nen het trof gelukkig, dat hij weer terugging naar Harley Street,\nom bij de hand te zijn, wanneer ze 't vertelden aan Mevrouw Ferrars;\nwant die werd gehaald, zoodra mijn nichtjes het huis uit waren; en\nje zuster wist vooruit, dat zij 't óók op de zenuwen zou krijgen;\nnu, dat gun ik haar graag. Ik heb met geen van beiden een ziertje\nmedelijden. Daar heb ik geen begrip van, hoe de menschen zoo'n drukte\nkunnen maken over geld en voornaamheid. Ik zie volstrekt niet in,\nwaarom Mijnheer Edward en Lucy niet zouden kunnen trouwen; want\nMevrouw Ferrars kan haar zoon genoeg meegeven, en al heeft Lucy zoo\ngoed als niets, ze weet beter dan de meesten met weinig rond te komen;\nen als Mevrouw Ferrars hem maar vijfhonderd pond in 't jaar wou geven,\ndan zou zij ermee voor den dag komen, als een ander met achthonderd\nzou doen. Wat zouden ze 't niet genoeglijk kunnen hebben samen, in\nzoo'n soort huisje als dat van jelui,--of een beetje grooter--met twee\ndienstmeisjes en twee knechts; en ik zou ze dadelijk een kamermeisje\nkunnen bezorgen, denk ik, want de zuster van mijn Betty zoekt een\ndienst, en die zou juist voor hen passen.\"\n\nHier hield Mevrouw Jennings een oogenblik op, en daar Elinor tijd\ngenoeg had gehad, haar gedachten te verzamelen, was zij in staat, juist\ndàt antwoord te geven, en precies díe opmerkingen te maken, die in dit\ngeval als voor de hand liggend mochten worden beschouwd. Al blijde,\nte bespeuren, dat zij niet werd verdacht van eenige buitengewone\nbelangstelling, en dat Mevrouw Jennings (zooals zij reeds dikwijls\nhad gehoopt in den laatsten tijd) al lang niet meer in de meening\nverkeerde, dat zij iets gevoelde voor Edward; maar vooral blij, omdat\nMarianne niet in de kamer was, kon zij zeer goed, zonder verlegenheid\nte toonen, over de zaak spreken, en een, naar zij meende, onpartijdig\noordeel uiten over het gedrag van allen, die erbij waren betrokken.\n\nZij kon bijna niet uitmaken, wat zij zelve verwachtte dat deze\ngebeurtenis ten gevolge zou hebben;--hoewel zij zich ernstig trachtte\nte verzetten tegen het denkbeeld, dat de zaak bij mogelijkheid op iets\nanders kon uitloopen dan het huwelijk van Edward en Lucy. Wat Mevrouw\nFerrars zou zeggen en doen, scheen wel allesbehalve twijfelachtig;\nmaar zij was er toch benieuwd naar, en nog veel meer benieuwd, hoe\nEdward zelf zich zou gedragen. Met hèm had zij medelijden;--met Lucy\nheel weinig, en dat weinigje riep ze met moeite te voorschijn;--met\nde anderen in 't geheel niet.\n\nDaar Mevrouw Jennings over niets anders kon praten, zag Elinor\nspoedig in, dat Marianne op de bespreking van de zaak moest worden\nvoorbereid. Er viel geen tijd te verliezen; zij moest op de hoogte\nworden gebracht, de volle waarheid vernemen, en leeren, erover te\nhooren spreken door anderen, zonder te laten merken, dat zij bedroefd\nwas om hare zuster, of verontwaardigd over Edward's gedrag.\n\nHet was een pijnlijke taak voor Elinor. Zij moest haar zuster ontnemen,\nwat zij werkelijk als Marianne's grootsten troost beschouwde,--moest\nhaar dingen omtrent Edward vertellen, die zij vreesde, dat hem\nvoor altoos haar goede meening zouden doen verliezen, en zij zou\nMarianne door de gelijkenis van beider omstandigheden, die haar wel\ntreffend moest schijnen, al haar eigen teleurstelling opnieuw doen\ngevoelen. Doch hoe onwelkom die taak ook mocht zijn, zij moest vervuld\nworden, en Elinor haastte zich te doen, wat haar te doen stond.\n\nAllerminst wenschte zij, lang stil te staan bij haar eigen gevoelens\nof het te doen voorkomen, alsof zij zwaar verdriet had, behalve dan in\nzooverre, als het zelfbedwang, dat zij zich had opgelegd, sedert zij\nvoor het eerst Edward's verloving vernam, voor Marianne eenigermate\neene aansporing kon zijn, dit ook van hare zijde te betrachten. Zij\nvertelde alles duidelijk en eenvoudig; en ofschoon niet onbewogen, liet\nzij zich toch geenszins vervoeren tot heftige aandoening of onstuimige\nsmart. _Deze_ bleven overgelaten aan haar die luisterde; want Marianne\nhoorde haar aan met ontzetting, en schreide bitter. Elinor scheen de\ntroosteres te moeten zijn van anderen, zoowel in haar eigen verdriet,\nals in het hunne, en bereidwillig bood zij al de geruststelling aan,\ndie zij kon schenken, door de verzekering, dat zij zelve nu volkomen\nkalm was, en door haar ernstige voorspraak van Edward, dien zij\nvrijpleitte van alle schuld, behalve onvoorzichtigheid.\n\nDoch een tijdlang wilde Marianne noch het een, noch het ander\ngelooven. Edward scheen wel een andere Willoughby, en als Elinor\ntoegaf, zooals ze _deed_, dat zij hem innig had liefgehad, kon zij\ndan minder gevoelen dan Marianne zelve? Wat Lucy Steele betrof,\nzij beschouwde haar als zoo volkomen onaantrekkelijk, zoo absoluut\nongeschikt om de liefde van een verstandig man te winnen, dat zij\naan een vroegere genegenheid van Edward voor Lucy eerst niet wilde\ngelooven, en hem die in geen geval vergeven kon. Zij wilde zelfs\nniet inzien, dat zooiets natuurlijk had kunnen zijn; en Elinor gaf\nhet maar op, en liet haar bij hare meening, totdat die overtuiging\nhaar zou zijn bijgebracht door het eenige, dat haar overtuigen kòn,\neene grootere mate van menschenkennis.\n\nHaar eerste mededeeling had zich niet verder uitgestrekt dan tot\nhet feit van de verloving en den duur ervan. Daarop was Marianne's\ngevoel tusschenbeide gekomen en had een einde gemaakt aan allen\ngeregelden samenhang. Een tijdlang rustte op Elinor de taak, haar\ndroefheid te doen bedaren, haar ongerustheid te doen verminderen en\nhaar verontwaardiging te bestrijden. De eerste vraag van Marianne's\nkant, die tot verdere bijzonderheden leidde, was:\n\n\"Hoe lang heb je dit al geweten, Elinor? Heeft hij het je geschreven?\"\n\n\"Ik wist het al vier maanden. Toen Lucy pas te Barton was gekomen,\nin November, vertelde ze mij in vertrouwen, dat ze verloofd was.\"\n\nBij deze woorden drukten Marianne's oogen de verwondering uit, die\nhaar lippen niet konden uitspreken. Na een oogenblik van zwijgende\nverbazing, riep ze:\n\n\"Vier maanden?--Heb je dit vier maanden lang geweten?\"\n\nElinor antwoordde bevestigend.\n\n\"Dus... terwijl je deelde in al mijn verdriet, hadt je _dit_ op het\nhart? En ik maakte je er een verwijt van, dat je gelukkig waart!\"\n\n\"Het zou niet goed voor je zijn geweest, toen te weten, hoe zeer het\ntegendeel bij mij 't geval was.\"\n\n\"Vier maanden!\" riep Marianne nogmaals. \"En zoo kalm, zoo vroolijk! Wat\nstelde je daartoe in staat?\"\n\n\"Het gevoel, dat ik mijn plicht deed. Mijn belofte aan Lucy verplichtte\nmij tot geheimhouding. Ik moest dus om harentwil vermijden, ook maar\neen zweem van de waarheid te doen vermoeden, en bij mijn familie\nen goede vrienden mocht ik geen bezorgdheid wekken, die ik niet bij\nmachte zou zijn te verdrijven.\"\n\nMarianne scheen diep getroffen.\n\n\"Ik heb dikwijls verlangd, jou en moeder alles duidelijk te maken,\"\nvoegde Elinor erbij, \"en een paar malen beproefde ik dat zelfs;--maar\nzonder het in mij gestelde vertrouwen te verraden, had ik je nooit\nkunnen overtuigen.\"\n\n\"Vier maanden!--en toch hadt je hem lief!\"\n\n\"Ja. Maar ik had niet hem alléén lief,--en zoolang het geluk van\nanderen mij ter harte ging, was ik blijde, hun de wetenschap te\nkunnen besparen van wat ik gevoelde. Nu kan ik eraan denken en\nerover spreken zonder heftige aandoening. Ik zou niet willen dat je\nom mijnentwille verdriet hadt, want feitelijk heb ik zelf nu géén\nverdriet meer. Ik heb veel dingen, die mij steun geven. Ik ben mij\nniet bewust, mij te hebben blootgesteld aan deze teleurstelling door\neigen onvoorzichtigheid, en ik heb die zooveel mogelijk gedragen\nzonder anderen erin te laten deelen. Ik kan in gemoede verklaren\ndat Edward zich niet heeft misdragen. Ik hoop, dat hij gelukkig zal\nworden, en ik weet zóó zeker, dat hij altoos zijn plicht zal doen,\ndat hij het ten slotte worden zàl, al mag hij nu ook nog een weinig\nbedroefd zijn. Verstand heeft Lucy genoeg, en dat is een grondslag,\nwaarop zich veel goeds laat bouwen. En dan, Marianne, wel beschouwd,\nondanks al wat er betooverends moge zijn in de voorstelling van ééne\nduurzame getrouwe genegenheid, ondanks al dat roemen in een geluk,\ndat uitsluitend afhankelijk is van één bepaalden persoon, het is\nons niet beschoren,--het is niet geoorloofd,--het is niet mogelijk,\ndat dit waarheid zij. Edward zal trouwen met Lucy; hij zal trouwen\nmet een vrouw, die, wat uiterlijk en verstand betreft, de meerdere\nis van de helft harer seksegenooten, en tijd en gewoonte zullen hem\nleeren vergeten, dat hij ooit eene andere als de meerdere van háár\nheeft beschouwd.\"\n\n\"Als je er zóó over denkt,\" zei Marianne, \"als het verlies van wat\nje het hoogst schatte, zóó gemakkelijk kan worden vergoed door iets\nanders, dan zijn je vastberadenheid en je zelfbedwang misschien een\nbeetje minder verwonderlijk te achten. Althans meer binnen 't bereik\nvan mijn begrip.\"\n\n\"Ik weet, wat je zeggen wilt. Je gelooft niet, dat ik ooit veel\ngevoeld kan hebben. Vier maanden, Marianne, ben ik van dit alles\nvervuld geweest, zonder dat het mij vrijstond, er met één sterveling\nover te spreken; begrijpende, dat het jou en moeder bitter verdriet\nmoest doen, wanneer je het te weten kwaamt, en toch niet in staat,\nje er ook maar in 't minst op voor te bereiden. Het werd mij verteld;\nhet werd mij, om zoo te zeggen, opgedrongen door de persoon zelve,\nwier vroegere verbintenis al mijn verwachtingen neersloeg; en verteld,\nnaar het mij voorkwam, met zegevierenden trots. Háár achterdocht\ndus moest ik ontwapenen, door onverschillig te schijnen voor wat\nmij het allerdiepst ter harte ging. En dat gebeurde niet éénmaal;\nnogmaals en nogmaals moest ik de uitingen aanhooren van haar hoop\nen haar verrukking. Ik heb beseft, dat ik voor altijd van Edward\ngescheiden zou zijn, zonder te weten van ééne omstandigheid, welke\nmij die verbintenis minder wenschelijk had kunnen doen schijnen. Hij\nheeft zich noch onwaardig betoond, noch onverschillig te mijnen\nopzichte. Ik heb het hoofd moeten bieden aan de onheusche bejegening\nvan zijn zuster en de beleedigende houding zijner moeder, en de straf\nmoeten ondergaan voor eene genegenheid, waarvan ik de vreugde gemist\nhad. En dat alles is gebeurd in dagen, die, zooals je maar al te goed\nweet, nog andere droefheid brachten. Wanneer je mij tot éénig gevoel\nin staat acht, waarlijk, dan mag je veronderstellen, dat ik _thans_\ngeleden heb. De kalmte, waarmede ik nu van mijzelf verkregen heb, de\nzaak te beschouwen, de troostgronden, die ik bereid was te erkennen,\nzijn de vrucht geweest van aanhoudende en smartelijke inspanning;--zij\nmeldden zich niet vrijwillig aan; zij kwamen aanvankelijk mij geen\nverlichting brengen,--neen, Marianne. Toen--wanneer mij geen belofte\nhet zwijgen had opgelegd, zou mij _toen_ misschien niets, zelfs\nniet wat ik mijn liefsten vrienden verschuldigd was, hebben kunnen\nweerhouden openlijk te toonen, dat ik mij _diep_ ongelukkig gevoelde.\"\n\nMarianne had niets meer in te brengen.\n\n\"O Elinor,\" riep ze, \"je maakt, dat ik voor altijd een hekel\nzal hebben aan mijzelf! Wat ben ik barbaarsch wreed tegenover je\ngeweest!--tegenover jou, die mijn eenige troost waart, die mij trouw\nbijstondt in al mijn ellende, die alleen om mij scheent te lijden! Is\ndat mijn dank? Is dat mijn eenige vergelding? Ik heb je verdienste\ntrachten te verkleinen, omdat zij _mijn_ tekortkoming aan het licht\nbrengt.\"\n\nOp die bekentenis volgden de teederste liefkoozingen. In de\ngemoedsstemming, waarin ze thans verkeerde, kon Elinor zonder moeite\nelke belofte van haar vergen, die haar gewenscht voorkwam; en op haar\nverzoek nam Marianne zich vast voor, niemand over de zaak te spreken\nmet den geringsten schijn van bitterheid;--als zij Lucy ontmoette,\ngeen de minste toename van haar afkeer te doen blijken, en zelfs\nEdward, mocht het toeval hen doen samenkomen, niet minder hartelijk te\nbegroeten, dan zij vroeger placht te doen. Het waren zware eischen,\ndie hier werden ingewilligd; maar als Marianne besefte, dat zij een\nander onrecht had gedaan, kende haar bereidvaardigheid om het weer\ngoed te maken, geen grenzen.\n\nZij vervulde haar belofte van voorzichtig te zullen zijn, op een\nwijze, die bewondering verdiende. Zij luisterde zonder blozen of\nverbleeken naar al wat Mevrouw Jennings over het onderwerp te zeggen\nhad, verschilde geen enkele maal met haar van meening, en zei tot\ndriemaal toe: \"Ja, mevrouw.\" Bij het aanhooren van Lucy's lof ging\nzij alleen op een anderen stoel zitten, en toen Mevrouw Jennings het\nhad over Edward's genegenheid, kostte haar dat enkel een zenuwachtige\nkramptrekking in haar keel. Deze aan het heldhaftige grenzende houding\nvan hare zuster gaf Elinor een gevoel, alsof zijzelve nu wel tot\nàlles in staat was.\n\nDen volgenden morgen werd die heldhaftigheid nog verder op de proef\ngesteld door een bezoek van hun broeder, die met een diep ernstig\ngezicht de treurige geschiedenis kwam vertellen en berichten, hoe\nhet ging met zijn vrouw.\n\n\"Je hebt zeker al gehoord,\" zei hij plechtig, toen hij had plaats\ngenomen, \"van de alleronaangenaamste ontdekking, die gisteren bij\nons aan huis heeft plaats gehad.\"\n\nZij gaven allen door blikken hun toestemming te kennen; voor woorden\nscheen het oogenblik te onheilvol.\n\n\"Je schoonzuster,\" ging hij voort, \"heeft het zich ontzaglijk\naangetrokken. Mevrouw Ferrars ook,--we waren allen in een rampzaligen\ntoestand; maar ik durf toch hopen, dat we den storm weerstand zullen\nbieden, zonder dat een van ons totaal bezwijkt. Die arme Fanny;\ngisteren had zij het den geheelen dag op de zenuwen. Maar ik wilde\njelui niet al te ongerust maken. Donovan zegt, dat er geen reden is,\niets ernstigs te vreezen; haar gestel is sterk, en haar geestkracht\nstelt haar in staat, het ergste te dragen. Met engelengeduld heeft\nzij alles verduurd! Zij zegt, dat ze van niemand ooit meer iets goeds\nzal verwachten; en geen wonder, na zoo te zijn bedrogen!--zulk een\nverregaande ondankbaarheid te hebben ondervonden, als vergelding\nvan zooveel vriendelijkheid, zulk vertrouwen. Uit pure, oprechte\ngoedhartigheid had ze die meisjes te logeeren gevraagd, enkel omdat\nze vond, dat hun wel eenige attentie mocht worden bewezen; ze waren\naardig, wisten zich goed voor te doen, en zouden prettig gezelschap\nvoor ons zijn; want anders zouden we allebei stellig liever jou en\nMarianne gevraagd hebben, terwijl je lieve gastvrouw zich wijdde\naan haar dochter. En dan op deze wijze te worden beloond! \"Ik wou\nom een lief ding,\" zegt Fanny met haar natuurlijke hartelijkheid,\n\"dat we je zusters maar hadden gevraagd, inplaats van hen.\"\n\nHier wachtte hij even, om bedankt te worden, en toen dat gebeurd was,\npraatte hij door.\n\n\"Wat dit arme Mevrouw Ferrars uitstond, toen ze 't van Fanny het eerst\nkreeg te hooren, is met geen woorden te omschrijven. Terwijl zij in\nhaar trouwe genegenheid, zulk een uiterst wenschelijke verbintenis voor\nhem had weten voor te bereiden, kon men toch niet veronderstellen, dat\nhij al dien tijd in 't geheim met iemand anders was verloofd!--dat\nvermoeden kòn eenvoudig niet bij haar opkomen. Wanneer ze hem\nal verdacht van eenige bijzondere voorkeur, dan was het toch niet\n_hierheen_, dat die verdenking zich richtte. \"_Daar_,\" zei ze, \"dacht\nik nu toch, dat geen gevaar was te duchten.\" Zij was letterlijk ten\neinde raad. We overlegden samen, wat nu te doen stond, en ten laatste\nbesloot zij, Edward bij zich te laten komen. Hij kwam dan ook. Wat\ntoen volgde, verhaal ik ongaarne. Al wat Mevrouw Ferrars kon zeggen,\nom hem te bewegen de verloving te verbreken, terwijl zij toch werd\nbijgestaan, zooals je kunt begrijpen, door mijn redeneering en Fanny's\nsmeekbeden, het baatte niets. Plicht, genegenheid, alles verloor\nhij uit het oog. Ik had nooit gedacht, dat Edward zoo stijfkoppig,\nzoo ongevoelig kon zijn. Zijn moeder deelde hem mede, wat haar plan\nwas, als hij trouwde met Juffrouw Morton; ze zei dat ze hem hun\nbezitting in Norfolk zou schenken, die zonder grondbelasting ruim\nduizend pond in het jaar opbrengt; ze bood zelfs aan, toen het begon\nte spannen, zijn inkomen op twaalfhonderd te brengen terwijl zij aan\nden anderen kant, als hij deze ongepaste verbintenis wilde doorzetten,\nhem wees op de onvermijdelijke armoede, waartoe dit huwelijk hem zou\nveroordeelen. Zijn eigen tweeduizend pond zouden alles zijn wat hij\nbezat, verklaarde zij; zij wilde hem nooit weerzien, en zóó weinig\nzou zij gezind zijn, hem den geringsten steun te verleenen, dat zij,\nwanneer hij een beroep zou kiezen, om in zijn onderhoud te voorzien,\nalles zou doen wat in haar macht stond, om te beletten, dat hij\nvooruit kwam.\"\n\nHier sloeg Marianne, wier verontwaardiging thans haar hoogtepunt\nhad bereikt, de handen ineen en riep: \"Goede hemel! kan zoo iets\nmogelijk zijn?\"\n\n\"Je moogt je waarlijk wèl verbazen, Marianne,\" antwoordde haar broeder,\n\"over een onverzettelijkheid, die zulke argumenten kon weerstaan. Je\nuitroep is zeer natuurlijk.\"\n\nMarianne wilde heftig antwoorden; maar zij herinnerde zich haar\nbelofte en hield zich in.\n\n\"Alles echter,\" ging hij voort, \"werd te vergeefs hem\nvoorgehouden. Edward zei heel weinig, maar dat weinige op den meest\nbeslisten toon. Niets zou hem bewegen, zijn verloving te verbreken. Hij\nhield zich aan zijn gegeven woord, het mocht dan kosten wat het wilde.\"\n\n\"Dan heeft hij gehandeld,\" riep Mevrouw Jennings, die zich niet langer\nkon stilhouden, met rondborstige oprechtheid uit, \"als een eerlijk\nman. Neem mij niet kwalijk, mijnheer Dashwood, maar als hij zich anders\nhad gedragen, dan zou ik hem een schurk hebben genoemd. Ik ben ook\neenigszins bij de zaak betrokken, zoo goed als u; want Lucy Steele is\nmijn nichtje, en ik geloof, dat er geen beter meisje in de wereld is\nte vinden, géén, die 't zoo goed waard is, een besten man te krijgen.\"\n\nJohn Dashwood was zeer verbaasd; maar hij had een kalme geaardheid,\nzou niet licht aanstoot nemen, en wenschte niemand te beleedigen,\nvooral niet iemand met geld. Hij antwoordde dus, zonder eenige ergernis\nte laten blijken.\n\n\"Ik zou in geen geval oneerbiedig willen spreken van iemand die\nfamilie is van u, mevrouw. Ik wil gaarne gelooven, dat Juffrouw\nSteele een zeer verdienstelijke jonge dame is, maar in dit geval\nkan toch van een engagement geen sprake zijn. En dat zij zich in 't\ngeheim heeft verloofd met een jongen man, die aan de zorg van haar\noom was toevertrouwd, den zoon nog wel van een zoo vermogende dame als\nMevrouw Ferrars, dat is toch op zich zelf wel een beetje vreemd. Maar\nhet spreekt vanzelf, dat ik geen ongunstig oordeel vel over 't gedrag\nvan iemand, die door u wordt gewaardeerd, Mevrouw Jennings. We hopen\nallen dat zij gelukkig zal worden, en Mevrouw Ferrars' houding is\nin alle opzichten zóó geweest, als men van elke goede moeder, die\nzich van haar plicht bewust is, in hare omstandigheden zou verwacht\nhebben. Zij heeft zich waardig en grootmoedig gedragen. Edward heeft\nzijn eigen lot gekozen, en ik vrees dat het niet gelukkig zal zijn.\"\n\nMarianne gaf met een zucht die zelfde vrees te kennen; en Elinor's\nhart bloedde bij de gedachte aan Edward's gevoelens, terwijl hij\nzijn moeder's bedreigingen trotseerde voor een vrouw, die hem niet\nkon beloonen.\n\n\"En hoe,\" zei Mevrouw Jennings, \"liep het toen af?\"\n\n\"Helaas, mevrouw, het kwam tot een treurige breuk tusschen beiden;\nEdward werd door zijn moeder voor goed uit haar huis gezonden. Gisteren\nis hij vertrokken; waarheen weet ik niet, en ook niet, of hij nog in\nde stad is; want _wij_ kunnen natuurlijk geen navraag doen.\"\n\n\"Die arme jongen; en wat moet er nu van hem worden?\"\n\n\"Zegt u dat wèl, mevrouw! 't Is droevig om aan te denken. Gewend aan\n't vooruitzicht van eenmaal schatrijk te zullen worden! Ik kan mij\ngeen beklagenswaardiger toestand voorstellen. De rente van tweeduizend\npond--hoe kàn iemand daarvan leven!--en als daarbij dan nog moet worden\nbedacht, dat hij door zijn eigen dwaasheid zich de kans liet ontgaan\nbinnen drie maanden een inkomen te bezitten van tweeduizend vijfhonderd\npond in het jaar (want Juffrouw Morton bezit dertigduizend),--ik kan\nmij geen bedroevender omstandigheden denken. We moeten allen met hem\nmeegevoelen; te meer, daar we geheel onmachtig zijn, hem te helpen.\"\n\n\"Arme jongen!\" riep Mevrouw Jennings, \"ik weet wel, dat hij in\nmijn huis gerust mag komen slapen en eten, en dat zou ik hem zeker\nvertellen, als ik hem zag! 't Is niet zooals 't hoort, dat hij nu\nzich zelf moet bedruipen, en logeeren op kamers, of in hôtels.\"\n\nElinor bedankte haar in haar hart voor die vriendelijke gevoelens\njegens Edward, al kon zij niet nalaten te glimlachen om den vorm,\nwaarin deze werden uitgedrukt.\n\n\"Als hij maar even goed voor zich zelf had willen zorgen,\" zei John\nDashwood, \"als al zijn vrienden geneigd waren voor hèm te doen,\ndan zou hij nu zijn natuurlijke positie hebben ingenomen, en aan\nniets gebrek hebben gehad. Maar zooals het nu is, kan niemand hem\nhelpen. En nog iets hangt hem boven het hoofd, wel haast het ergste\nvan alles--zijn moeder heeft besloten,--en ik vind dat zeer natuurlijk\nvan haar,--nu al dadelijk _die_ bezitting aan Robert te schenken,\ndie van Edward had kunnen zijn, als hij zich naar haar voorwaarden\nhad willen schikken. Toen ik haar van morgen verliet, was zij bezig,\nmet haar zaakwaarnemer hierover te spreken.\"\n\n\"Nu,\" zei Mevrouw Jennings, \"dat is nu háár wijze van wraaknemen. Ieder\ndoet dat op zijn eigen manier. De mijne zou het, dunkt mij, niet\nzijn, den eenen zoon onafhankelijk te maken, omdat de andere mij\nhad geërgerd.\"\n\nMarianne stond op en ging de kamer uit.\n\n\"Wat kan meer verbittering wekken in iemands gemoed\", ging John voort,\n\"dan zijn jongeren broeder in 't bezit te zien van een goed, dat _zijn_\neigendom had kunnen zijn? Arme Edward, ik beklaag hem van harte.\"\n\nNa nog een paar minuten te hebben gewijd aan dergelijke ontboezemingen,\nnam hij afscheid, en vertrok met de herhaalde verzekering aan zijn\nzusters, dat Fanny's ongesteldheid niet van ernstigen aard was,\nen dat zij zich dus niet ongerust behoefden te maken. De drie dames\nbleven achter, volkomen eensgezind in hun gevoelens ditmaal, althans\nwat het gedrag betrof van Mevrouw Ferrars, de Dashwoods en Edward.\n\nMarianne's verontwaardiging barstte los, zoodra hij de kamer uit was,\nen daar haar heftigheid het voor Elinor onmogelijk, en voor Mevrouw\nJennings onnoodig maakte, terughouding te betrachten, gaven zij\neendrachtig en met groote levendigheid uiting aan hun afkeuring van\nhet drietal.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XXXVIII\n\n\nMevrouw Jennings prees Edward's gedrag met groote warmte, maar alleen\nElinor en Marianne beseften de ware verdienste ervan. _Zij_ alleen\nwisten, hoe weinig hem verlokte tot ongehoorzaamheid, en hoe gering\nde troost was, die hem overbleef, bij het verlies van vrienden en\nfortuin, buiten de zekerheid, goed te hebben gehandeld. Elinor was\nvervuld van blijden trots om zijn rechtschapenheid, en Marianne\nvergaf hem al zijn wandaden uit medelijden met zijn straf. Maar\nhoewel, na deze openlijke ontdekking, het oude vertrouwen tusschen\nhen was teruggekeerd, was dit toch niet een onderwerp, waarover zij\ngaarne spraken, als zij alleen waren. Elinor vermeed het uit beginsel,\ndaar het door Marianne's al te vurige, al te stellige verzekeringen,\nlicht kon leiden tot een te aanhoudend verwijlen van haar gedachten\nbij de voorstelling van Edward's blijvende genegenheid voor haarzelve,\nwelke zij liever van zich wilde afzetten; en Marianne ontzonk spoedig\nde moed, als zij poogde te spreken over een onderwerp, dat haar altijd\neen ontevreden gevoel gaf met zichzelve, door de vergelijking, die het\nwel moest oproepen tusschen Elinor's gedrag en het hare. Het treffende\nvan die vergelijking gevoelde zij ten volle; doch dit noopte haar\nthans niet tot inspanning, zooals hare zuster had gehoopt; het ging\ngepaard met de pijn van een aanhoudend zelfverwijt, waarin zij bitter\nbetreurde zich te voren nooit te hebben ingespannen; doch het bracht\nenkel de kwelling mede van berouw, zonder hoop op verbetering. Haar\ngeest was zoozeer verslapt, dat zij het nog steeds onmogelijk waande,\nhaar kracht te beproeven, en daardoor te meer ontmoedigd werd.\n\nIn de eerstvolgende paar dagen vernamen zij niets nieuws, noch uit\nHarley Street, noch uit Bartlett's Buildings. Maar hoewel zij reeds\nzooveel van de zaak wisten, dat Mevrouw Jennings genoeg te doen zou\nhebben gehad met het verder verbreiden van die kennis, zonder naar\nmeer te verlangen, had zij dadelijk besloten, zoodra ze kon, haar\nnichten een bezoek te brengen, om hen te troosten en navraag te doen,\nen alleen een grootere toeloop van bezoek dan gewoonlijk had haar\nverhinderd dat plan ten uitvoer te brengen.\n\nDe derde dag nadat het bericht hun ter oore was gekomen, was een\nprachtige Zondag, die velen uitlokte tot een bezoek aan Kensington\nGardens, hoewel het nog slechts de tweede week was van Maart. Tot die\nbezoekers behoorden ook Mevrouw Jennings en Elinor; doch Marianne,\ndie wist, dat de Willoughby's weer in de stad waren, en altijd bang\nwas, hen te ontmoeten, wilde liever thuisblijven dan zich vertoonen\nop een plaats, waar zooveel menschen bijeen kwamen.\n\nEen goede kennis van Mevrouw Jennings voegde zich bij hen, zoodra\nzij het hek waren binnengegaan, en het speet Elinor niet, dat\nzij hun gezelschap bleef houden, en druk doorpraatte met Mevrouw\nJennings, zoodat zij zelve rustig kon nadenken. De Willoughby's zag\nzij niet; Edward evenmin; en een tijdlang vertoonde zich niemand,\ndie om eenige reden, 't zij van ernstigen of vroolijken aard, haar\nbelangstelling kon wekken. Eindelijk echter werd zij, tot haar\nverwondering, aangesproken door de oudste Juffrouw Steele, die,\nhoewel een weinig verlegen kijkend, toch haar genoegen te kennen gaf,\nhen te zien, en, aangemoedigd door Mevrouw Jennings' buitengewone\nvriendelijkheid, haar eigen gezelschap een poosje verliet, om zich\nbij hen te voegen. Mevrouw Jennings fluisterde Elinor haastig toe:\n\"Zie, dat je alles te weten komt, kind. Ze vertelt je, wat je wilt,\nals je maar vraagt. Je ziet wel, ik moet bij Mevrouw Clarke blijven.\"\n\nHet trof gelukkig voor Mevrouw Jennings' nieuwsgierigheid, en die\nvan Elinor eveneens, dat Anne alles wel wilde vertellen, _zonder_\ngevraagd te worden; want anders hadden zij niets vernomen.\n\n\"Ik ben zoo blij, dat ik u hier tref,\" zei Juffrouw Steele, haar\nvertrouwelijk in den arm nemend; \"want ik verlangde juist erg om u\neens te spreken\"; en met zachtere stem voegde zij erbij: \"Mevrouw\nJennings heeft zeker al alles gehoord. Is ze boos?\"\n\n\"Op u, geloof ik, in 't geheel niet.\"\n\n\"Dat treft. En Lady Middleton, is _die_ boos?\"\n\n\"Dat lijkt mij haast niet mogelijk.\"\n\n\"Wat ben ik dáár blij om! Och lieve deugd, wat heb ik al niet\nuitgestaan! Ik heb Lucy nog nooit van mijn leven zóó woedend gezien. Ze\nhield bij hoog en laag vol, dat ze nooit weer een hoed voor mij\nzou opmaken, of wàt ook voor mij doen, zoolang ze leefde; maar 't\nis nu al weer bijgetrokken en we zijn weer beste maatjes. Zie eens,\ndien strik op mijn hoed heeft zij gemaakt; gisteravond heeft ze er\nde veer op gezet. Kijk, nu lacht u óók alweer om mij. Maar waarom\nzou ik geen rose mogen dragen! _Ik_ kan toch niet helpen, dat het\nde lievelingskleur van den dokter is. Ik zou 't waarlijk niet hebben\ngeweten, dat hij aan die kleur boven alle andere de voorkeur geeft,\nals hij 't niet zelf gezegd had. Mijn nichtjes hebben me toch zóó\ngeplaagd! Ik zeg wel eens, ik weet niet, waar ik mijn gezicht zal\nbergen, wanneer zij beginnen.\"\n\nZij was afgedwaald tot een onderwerp, waarover Elinor niets had te\nzeggen, en vond het dus geraden, tot het eerste terug te keeren.\n\n\"Hoor eens, Juffrouw Dashwood,\" zei ze zegevierend, \"de menschen mogen\nnu zeggen wat ze willen, van dat Mijnheer Ferrars beweerd had, dat\nhij Lucy niet wou hebben; maar daar is niets van aan, hoor; en 't is\nschande, dat er zulke leelijke praatjes worden rondgestrooid. Wàt Lucy\nzelf er ook van vond, andere menschen hadden volstrekt niet noodig,\ndat maar zoo voor waar aan te nemen.\"\n\n\"Ik heb in de verste verte niets van dien aard gehoord,\" zei Elinor,\n\"dat kan ik u verzekeren.\"\n\n\"O zoo! niet? Maar 't _werd_ toch verteld; dat weet ik zeker, en\ndoor verschillende menschen; want Juffrouw Godby had tegen Juffrouw\nSparks gezegd, dat niemand die bij zijn verstand was, kon verwachten,\ndat Mijnheer Ferrars iemand als Juffrouw Morton, die dertig duizend\npond meebrengt, zou laten loopen voor Lucy Steele, die geen cent\nbezat; en dat hoorde ik van Juffrouw Sparks zelf. Mijn neef Richard\nzei trouwens ook al, als 't er zóó voor stond, dan was hij bang,\ndat Mijnheer Ferrars ons liet zitten, en toen Edward zich in geen\ndrie dagen bij ons vertoonde, wist ik zelf niet, wat ik ervan moest\ndenken; ik geloof dat Lucy in haar hart ook alles al had opgegeven;\nwant we gingen Woensdag weg bij uw broer, en Donderdag, Vrijdag en\nZaterdag kregen we hem niet te zien, en we wisten ook niet, wat er\nmet hem gebeurd was. Eenmaal dacht Lucy erover, hem te schrijven;\nmaar dat kon ze toen toch weer niet van zichzelf verkrijgen. Nu, maar\nvan morgen is hij dan toch gekomen, juist toen wij thuiskwamen uit de\nkerk; en toen kregen we alles te hooren, dat hij Woensdag in Harley\nStreet had moeten komen, en hoe zijn moeder en allemaal hem hadden\nwillen bepraten, en dat hij ronduit had gezegd, hij hield van niemand\ndan Lucy, en hij wou Lucy hebben, en geen ander. En dat hij er zoo\nellendig over geweest was, dat hij, zóó als hij uit zijn moeders huis\nkwam, te paard was gesprongen en de stad uit was gereden, ik weet niet\nmeer waarheen; en dat hij den heelen Donderdag en Vrijdag daar ergens\nin een logement was gebleven, om zich eroverheen te zetten. En toen hij\nalles nog eens weer goed overdacht had, zei hij, leek het hem zoo, nu\nhij geen geld had en niets in de wereld bezat, dat het tegenover haar\nniet goed zou zijn, als hij haar gebonden hield door die verloving,\nomdat zij erbij zou verliezen; want hij bezat niets dan tweeduizend\npond en kon niets meer verwachten; en als hij predikant zou worden,\nwaar hij over dacht, dan werd hij toch maar hulpprediker vooreerst,\nen hoe zouden ze dan moeten rondkomen?--Hij vond dat voor haar een\nte treurig vooruitzicht, en hij vroeg haar, als ze ook maar in 't\nminst ertoe geneigd was, er een eind aan te maken; en dan zou hij\nwel voor zichzelf zien, hoe hij er kwam. Dat hoorde ik hem alles\nduidelijk zeggen. En 't was enkel om háár, en voor haar bestwil,\ndat hij een woord zei over afmaken, niet om hemzelf. Ik verzeker u\nheilig, dat hij zich geen woord liet ontvallen van dat hij genoeg\nvan haar had, of dat hij liever met Juffrouw Morton zou trouwen, of\nzoo iets. Maar natuurlijk, Lucy wou van dat alles niets hooren, dat\nzei ze hem dadelijk (met nog een heelen omhaal van verliefde praatjes\nen zoo--och, u weet wel, dat kan je zoo niet oververtellen); ze zei,\nze dacht er niet over om het af te maken, want ze kon met hem best\nvan een klein inkomen leven, en hoe weinig hij ook bezat, ze zou blij\nzijn als ze 't kreeg, of zoo iets, dat kan u zich wel voorstellen. Nu:\ntoen was hij in de wolken natuurlijk, en praatte erover wat ze nu\nzouden beginnen, en ze spraken af, dat hij zoo gauw mogelijk zou zien\nde wijding als geestelijke te ontvangen, en dat ze zouden wachten met\ntrouwen tot hij als predikant zou worden aangesteld. Toen kon ik niet\nméér hooren, want mijn nichtje riep van beneden, dat Mevrouw Richardson\neen van ons beiden in haar koets mee naar Kensington Gardens wou nemen;\ndus moest ik wel in de kamer gaan en hen storen, om Lucy te vragen,\nof zij misschien wou gaan; maar zij wou Edward niet alleen laten;\ndus liep ik gauw naar boven om een paar zijden kousen aan te trekken,\nen nu ben ik hier met de Richardsons.\"\n\n\"Ik begrijp niet, wat u bedoelt met \"hen storen,\" zei Elinor;\n\"u waart toch met hen in de zelfde kamer, niet waar?\"\n\n\"Welnee! hoe komt u erbij?--Heere, Juffrouw Dashwood, denkt u, dat\nzulke verliefde lui vrijen, waar anderen bij zijn? O foei, neen;\nik dacht, dat u wel beter wist!\" (Hierbij lachte ze gemaakt). \"Neen,\nneen, ze zaten samen in den salon, en ik hoorde alles, omdat ik aan\nde deur stond te luisteren.\"\n\n\"Maar hebt u dan nu,\" riep Elinor, \"voor mij herhaald, wat u zelf hebt\ngehoord door te luisteren aan de deur? Het spijt mij wel zeer, dat ik\ndit niet eerder heb geweten; want ik zou stellig hebben geweigerd,\nuit uw mond bijzonderheden te vernemen, die u zelve niet behoordet\nte weten. Hoe kondt u zoo oneerlijk zijn tegenover uw zuster?\"\n\n\"Och kom, wat doet dàt er nu toe! Ik stond alleen maar bij de deur,\nen ik hoorde wat ik kon opvangen. Ik weet zeker dat Lucy tegenover\nmij precies 't zelfde zou hebben gedaan, want een jaar of wat geleden,\ntoen ik altijd geheimen had met Martha Sharpe, vond zij er niets in,\nzich in de kast te verstoppen, of onder den schoorsteen, om af te\nluisteren wat wij elkaar vertelden.\"\n\nElinor poogde over iets anders te spreken; maar Juffrouw Steele\nkon geen twee minuten afblijven van het onderwerp dat haar op dit\noogenblik vervulde.\n\n\"Edward sprak ervan, gauw naar Oxford te gaan,\" zei ze; \"maar vooreerst\nlogeert hij in Pall Mall, no. 14. Wat een akelig mensch toch, die\nmoeder van hem! En uw broer en zuster waren ook lang niet aardig! Maar\ntegen _u_ wil ik van hen geen kwaad zeggen; ze stuurden ons toch nog\nnaar huis in hun eigen rijtuig; dat was meer dan ik verwachtte. _Ik_\nwas maar bang, dat uw zuster ons naar die mooie naaldenboekjes zou\nvragen, die ze ons voor een paar dagen had gegeven; maar niemand zei\ner iets van, en ik stopte 't mijne weg. Edward zegt, dat hij nu een\npoos in Oxford moet werken; dus daar blijft hij nu een tijdje, en\nzoo gauw hij dan maar een bisschop kan vinden, wordt hij gewijd. Ik\nben benieuwd in welke plaats hij dan wordt aangesteld!--O jé, (hier\nbegon zij te giegelen) \"ik wed, dat ik weet wat mijn nichtjes zullen\nzeggen, als ze ervan hooren. Dan willen ze, dat ik aan den dokter\nzal schrijven, om voor Edward een goed woordje te doen. Dat weet ik\nstellig; maar ik zou 't niet doen, al was 't ook nòg zoo. \"Verbeeld\nje,\" zal ik tegen hen zeggen, \"ik begrijp niet, waar jelui 't vandaan\nhaalt. _Ik_ aan den dokter schrijven, stel je voor!\"\n\n\"Nu,\" zei Elinor, \"'t is altijd goed, op alles te zijn voorbereid. Uw\nantwoord hebt u ten minste klaar.\"\n\nJuffrouw Steele wilde verder doorgaan op dat onderwerp; maar daar\nzij haar eigen gezelschap nu zag aankomen, scheen iets anders haar\nmeer dringend.\n\n\"O jé, daar komen de Richardsons aan. Ik had u nog een heeleboel te\nzeggen; maar ik mag ze niet langer in den steek laten. 't Zijn deftige\nlui, hoor. Hij verdient geld als water, en ze hebben eigen rijtuig. Ik\nheb nu geen tijd om 't Mevrouw Jennings zelf te vertellen, maar zegt\nu haar maar, dat ik blij ben, dat ze niet boos op ons is, en Lady\nMiddleton ook niet; en als u en uw zuster misschien eens zoudt moeten\nweggaan, en Mevrouw Jennings graag wat gezelschap heeft, dan zouden\nwij met pleizier bij haar komen, zoolang ze maar wil. Ik denk niet,\ndat Lady Middleton ons ditmaal nog wéér verzoeken zal. Nu, tot ziens;\n't spijt mij dat Juffrouw Marianne niet hier was. U wilt haar wel van\nmij groeten. Heden--hebt u die dunne japon met de moesjes aan?--was\nu niet bang dat het goed zou scheuren?\"--\n\nMet die bezorgde vraag nam zij afscheid; want zij had nog slechts\neven den tijd om Mevrouw Jennings goeden dag te zeggen, eer\nMevrouw Richardson haar kwam afhalen, en Elinor bleef achter met\nde wetenschap van 't een en ander, dat haar stof tot nadenken gaf,\nhoewel zij weinig meer vernomen had, dan 't geen zij reeds in stilte\nzelve voorzien en overlegd had. Edward's huwelijk met Lucy stond even\nvast, en het tijdstip der voltrekking ervan bleef even onzeker, als\nzij verwacht had;--alles hing af, precies zooals zij had gedacht, van\nde mogelijkheid, dat hem een predikantsplaats zou worden aangeboden;\niets, waarop voorloopig niet de minste kans bestond.\n\nZoodra ze weer in het rijtuig zaten, wilde Mevrouw Jennings alles\nhooren; maar daar Elinor zoo min mogelijk dingen wilde verder\nvertellen, die, om te beginnen, door ongeoorloofde middelen te harer\nkennis waren gekomen, beperkte zij zich tot de korte mededeeling van\ndie bijzonderheden, welke zij begreep, dat Lucy, terwille van haar\neigen waardigheid, gaarne algemeen bekend zou zien. Zij had niet anders\nte berichten dan het voortduren van de verloving, en de middelen die\nzouden worden aangewend om het einde ervan te bespoedigen; 't geen\nMevrouw Jennings het zeer natuurlijke antwoord ontlokte: \"Wachten tot\nhij een predikantsplaats krijgt--ja, dat weten we allemaal wel, waarop\n_dat_ uitloopt;--dat houden ze een jaar vol, en als ze dan zien dat\nhet niets helpt, nemen ze een betrekking voor lief als hulpprediker,\nen dan moeten ze 't stellen met vijftig pond in 't jaar, de rente van\nzijn tweeduizend pond, en het beetje, dat Mijnheer Steele en Mijnheer\nPratt haar kunnen afstaan. Dan komt er ieder jaar een kind! en och,\noch, wat zullen ze zich moeten behelpen!--ik moet eens zien, wat ik\nhun kan geven voor 't inrichten van hun huisje. En gisteren praatte ik\nnog van twee meisjes en twee knechts! 't lijkt er niet naar.--Neen,\nze moeten een flinke werkster hebben.--Betty's zuster zou hun _nu_\nniet meer passen.\"\n\nDen volgenden morgen bracht de post Elinor een brief van Lucy\nzelf. Zij schreef:\n\n\n                                    Bartlett's Buildings, Maart.\n\n    Ik hoop dat mijn waarde Juffrouw Dashwood mij niet kwalijk\n    zal nemen, dat ik zoo vrij ben aan haar te schrijven;\n    maar ik weet dat uw vriendschap voor mij de reden zal zijn,\n    dat het u genoegen doet zooveel goeds te hooren van mij en\n    mijn beste Edward, na al 't verdriet dat we in den laatsten\n    tijd hebben doorgemaakt, en wil ik daarom niet doorgaan met\n    verontschuldigen, maar verder vermelden dat wij, hoewel\n    we beiden veel hebben geleden, nu goddank allebei gezond\n    en wel zijn, en zoo gelukkig, als wij steeds moeten zijn in\n    elkanders liefde. Wij hebben zware beproevingen en vervolgingen\n    doorstaan; maar mogen ons toch tevens dankbaar verheugen in\n    't bezit van vele vrienden, uzelf niet in de laatste plaats,\n    wier groote vriendelijkheid ik altoos dankbaar zal gedenken,\n    en Edward ook, die ik het verteld heb. Het zal u pleizier\n    doen te hooren, en de lieve Mevrouw Jennings ook, dat ik\n    gisteren twee gelukkige uren met hem doorbracht; hij wilde\n    niet hooren van een scheiding tusschen ons, hoewel ik, zooals\n    ik dacht dat mijn plicht was, er ernstig bij hem op aandrong,\n    uit voorzichtigheid, en zou meteen afscheid van hem hebben\n    genomen voorgoed, als hij erin had toegestemd; maar hij zei,\n    dàt nooit; hij gaf niet om zijn moeder's boosheid, zoolang hij\n    mijn liefde bezat; onze vooruitzichten zijn niet schitterend,\n    maar wij moeten wachten en het beste hopen; hij zal spoedig\n    de wijding ontvangen, en als u ooit in de gelegenheid komt,\n    hem aan te bevelen aan iemand, die een predikantsplaats heeft\n    te vergeven, zoo zult u ons wel niet vergeten, en weet ik wel\n    zeker dat de lieve mevrouw Jennings een goed woordje voor\n    ons zal doen bij Sir John, of Mijnheer Palmer, of wie ook,\n    die ons op de eene of andere manier helpen kan.--Die arme Anne\n    heeft wel erg verkeerd gedaan; maar zij deed het om bestwil,\n    en zeg ik dus maar niets; hoop, dat Mevrouw Jennings niet\n    tegen de moeite zal opzien om ons eens te bezoeken als zij\n    dezen kant uitkomt, we zouden 't erg vriendelijk vinden, en\n    mijn nichtjes zouden haar erg graag leeren kennen. Het papier\n    is bijna vol, en blijf ik, met veel dankbare en eerbiedige\n    groeten aan haar en aan Sir John en Lady Middleton, en de\n    lieve kinderen, als u ze ziet, en veel complimenten aan\n    Juffrouw Marianne de uwe, enz.\"\n\n\nZoodra Elinor den brief had gelezen, gaf zij dien, zooals zij begreep,\ndat de bedoeling der schrijfster was geweest, aan Mevrouw Jennings, die\nhet schrijven hardop voorlas, met vele uitroepen van voldoening en lof.\n\n\"Aardig gezegd!--wat schrijft ze goed!--ja zeker, dat was best,\nhem vrij te laten, als hij 't wenschte. Net iets voor Lucy.--Arm\nkind, ik wou dat ik hem een predikantsplaats _kon_ bezorgen, 'k zou\n't graag doen.--\"De lieve mevrouw Jennings,\" zegt ze, zie je wel? Ze\nis een best meisje, met een hart van goud.--'t Is bepaald mooi. Ze kan\n't maar aardig zeggen.--Ja stellig ga ik haar eens gauw opzoeken.--Wat\nis ze oplettend, ze denkt aan iedereen!--Dank je wel, kind, dat je\nhem mij hebt laten lezen. 't Is een echt _mooie_ brief, die Lucy's\nhoofd en hart tot eer strekt.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XXXIX\n\n\nDe dames Dashwood waren nu reeds ruim twee maanden in de stad\ngeweest, en met iederen dag groeide Marianne's verlangen aan, om te\nvertrekken. Zij snakte naar de buitenlucht, de vrijheid, de rust van\nhet landleven, en verbeeldde zich, als zij ergens tot kalmte kon komen,\ndat het in Barton moest zijn. Elinor was bijna niet minder verlangend\ndan zijzelve om te gaan, en slechts in zooverre minder geneigd om het\nplan aanstonds ten uitvoer te brengen, als zij de bezwaren inzag,\nverbonden aan zulk een lange reis, die Marianne niet verkoos in\naanmerking te nemen. Zij begon echter thans ernstig te denken over\nhet vertrek, en zij had haar wensch reeds te kennen gegeven aan haar\nvriendelijke gastvrouw, die zich met al haar hartelijke welsprekendheid\nertegen verzette, toen een plan werd geopperd, dat, hoewel het hen\nnog een paar weken langer van huis zou doen blijven, Elinor toch\nverkieselijker scheen dan eenig ander. De Palmers zouden in het\nlaatst van Maart naar Cleveland vertrekken, voor de Paaschvacantie, en\nMevrouw Jennings werd mèt haar beide vriendinnen, allerhartelijkst door\nCharlotte uitgenoodigd, met hen mede te gaan. Dit zou op zichzelf niet\nvoldoende zijn geweest om Elinor's schroomvalligheid te overwinnen;\ndoch het verzoek werd zoo beleefd en dringend ondersteund door den\nHeer Palmer, wiens houding tegenover hen zeer was verbeterd, sedert\nhij wist van haar zuster's teleurstelling, dat zij de uitnoodiging\nmet genoegen aannam. Toen zij het aan Marianne vertelde, was het\neerste antwoord, dat zij ontving, niet zeer gunstig.\n\n\"Naar Cleveland!\" riep zij zenuwachtig. \"Neen, dáár kan ik niet\nheengaan.\"\n\n\"Je vergeet,\" zei Elinor op zachten toon, \"dat het niet zoo\ndichtbij... dat het niet in de buurt is van...\"\n\n\"Maar 't is in Somersetshire,--ik kàn niet naar Somersetshire\ngaan.--Daar, waar ik eenmaal hoopte te komen... Neen, Elinor, dat\nkan je van mij niet verwachten.\"\n\nElinor wilde maar niet met haar redeneeren over de verplichting,\nzulke gevoelens te bestrijden; zij trachtte ze alleen tegen te gaan,\ndoor te werken op andere, en bracht haar dus onder het oog, dat deze\nmaatregel het tijdstip van háár terugkeer naar haar lieve moeder,\ndie zij zoo verlangde weer te zien, veel nader zou brengen, en wel op\neen meer gemakkelijke en verkieselijke wijze, dan eenig ander plan zou\nkunnen doen; misschien zonder veel langer uitstel. Van Cleveland, dat\neen paar mijlen van Bristol was gelegen, duurde de reis naar Barton\nniet langer dan één dag; hoewel dan een langen dag reizens, en hun\neigen knecht kon hen daar gemakkelijk komen afhalen. Daar zij wel niet\nlanger dan een week te Cleveland zouden behoeven te logeeren, konden\nzij nu reeds over ruim drie weken weer thuis zijn. Daar Marianne's\nliefde voor haar moeder oprecht was, behaalde zij, zonder veel moeite,\nde overwinning over de denkbeeldige bezwaren, door haar opgeworpen.\n\nMevrouw Jennings was het gezelschap harer gasten zoo weinig moede, dat\nzij er ernstig bij hen op aandrong weer met haar terug te keeren van\nCleveland. Elinor was haar dankbaar voor haar vriendelijkheid; maar\nhet voorstel kon hun plan niet doen veranderen; en nadat hun moeder\ngaarne hare instemming ermede had te kennen gegeven, werd alles voor\nde terugreis, zooveel doenlijk was, in gereedheid gebracht. Marianne\nvond eenige verlichting in het opmaken van eene lijst der uren,\ndie haar nog scheidden van Barton.\n\n\"Ach, Kolonel, ik weet niet, wat u en ik zullen beginnen zonder de\ndames Dashwood,\" zei Mevrouw Jennings, toen kolonel Brandon haar\nvoor het eerst bezocht, nadat hun vertrek was bepaald,--\"ze zijn\nvast van plan van de Palmers naar huis te gaan; wat zullen wij het\ndan eenzaam hebben, als ik terugkom! We zullen elkaar zitten aan te\ngapen als twee kikkers op een kluitje.\"\n\nMisschien hoopte Mevrouw Jennings door die levendige voorstelling\nvan hun toekomstige verveling, hem uit te lokken tot het aanzoek,\ndat hem aan die verveling zou kunnen doen ontsnappen,--en als\ndit zoo was, dan kreeg zij iets later goede reden om te denken,\ndat haar doel was bereikt; want toen Elinor naar het venster ging,\nom met meer juistheid de afmetingen na te gaan van eene plaat, die\nzij voor haar vriendin wilde copieeren, volgde hij haar, blijkbaar\nmet een bijzondere bedoeling, en bleef een tijdlang met haar in\ngesprek. De uitwerking daarvan op Elinor kon haar aandacht niet\nontgaan; want ofschoon zij te veel eergevoel bezat om te luisteren,\nen zelfs opzettelijk, om _niet_ te hooren, haar plaats had verlaten,\nom dicht bij de piano te gaan zitten, waarop Marianne speelde, zij\nmoest wel zien, dat Elinor bleek werd, zenuwachtige spanning liet\nblijken en te veel aandacht schonk aan 't geen hij zeide, om met\nhare bezigheid voort te gaan. Wat haar hoop nog meer aanmoedigde,\nwaren enkele woorden van den Kolonel, die haar oor bereikten in een\ntusschenpoos, waarin Marianne naar een nieuw stuk zocht, en waaruit\nbleek, dat hij zich scheen te verontschuldigen over den slechten\ntoestand, waarin zijn huis verkeerde. Nu viel aan de zaak niet meer te\ntwijfelen. Zij vond het wel vreemd, dat hij dit noodig achtte,--maar\ndacht, dat het zeker wel zoo zou hooren. Wat Elinor hierop antwoordde\nkon zij niet verstaan; maar uit de beweging harer lippen leidde zij\naf, dat zij dàt geen overwegend bezwaar vond; en Mevrouw Jennings\nprees haar in stilte om haar eerlijkheid. Daarop praatten ze nog\neen paar minuten door, zonder dat zij een woord verstond, totdat\neen tweede welkome pauze in Marianne's spel haar gelegenheid schonk,\nden Kolonel met zijn bedaarde stem te hooren zeggen:\n\n\"Ik vrees ten minste dat het niet zeer spoedig kan plaats hebben.\"\n\nVerbaasd en bijna geërgerd over deze in den mond van een minnaar\nweinig passende woorden, had zij bijna hardop gezegd: \"Lieve deugd,\nwat kan er nu tegen zijn?\"--maar zij hield zich nog bijtijds in,\nen vergenoegde zich met de in stilte gemaakte opmerking: \"Dàt is\nal heel raar! Hij behoeft waarlijk niet te wachten tot hij de jaren\nheeft\"... Deze neiging tot uitstel van des Kolonels kant scheen echter\nzijne uitverkorene volstrekt niet te beleedigen of te grieven; want\ntoen zij kort daarna hun gesprek afbraken en uiteengingen, hoorde\nMevrouw Jennings Elinor duidelijk zeggen, op een toon, waarin haar\noprechtheid doorklonk: \"Ik zal u hiervoor altijd van harte dankbaar\nzijn.\" Mevrouw Jennings vond die dankbaarheid allerliefst van haar,\nen verbaasde zich alleen, dat de Kolonel, na zulk eene uiting, in\nstaat was, zooals hij thans deed, doodbedaard afscheid te nemen, en\nheen te gaan, zonder haar zelfs te antwoorden!--Zij had niet gedacht,\ndat haar oude vriend zulk een onverschillig minnaar zou zijn. Wat\nwerkelijk tusschen hen voorviel was het volgende: \"Ik heb gehoord\",\nzeide hij op medelijdenden toon, \"van het onrecht, uw vriend den Heer\nFerrars door zijn familie aangedaan; want als ik wèl heb begrepen,\nis hij door hen voorgoed verstooten, omdat hij zijne verloving met\neen goed en achtenswaardig meisje niet wilde verbreken. Heeft men\nmij wèl ingelicht?--Is dit werkelijk het geval?\"\n\nElinor antwoordde bevestigend.\n\n\"De wreedheid, de onverstandige wreedheid,\" zeide hij met diepgevoelde\nverontwaardiging, \"van zulk een poging om twee jongelieden, die\nelkander reeds lang hebben liefgehad, te scheiden, is ontzettend;\nMevrouw Ferrars weet niet wat zij doet,--waartoe zij haar zoon wellicht\ndrijven zal. Ik heb den Heer Ferrars een paar malen in Harley Street\nontmoet, en hij maakte op mij een zeer aangenamen indruk. Hij is niet\niemand met wien men binnen korten tijd vertrouwelijk bekend kan zijn;\nmaar ik weet thans toch genoeg van hem om hem persoonlijk alle goeds\nte wenschen, te meer nog, omdat hij een vriend van u is. Ik hoorde\ndat hij zich voorbereidt voor het predikambt. Wilt u zoo goed zijn\nhem mede te deelen, dat de predikantsplaats te Delaford, die juist,\nnaar ik vandaag vernam, is vrijgekomen, hem wordt aangeboden, als hij\ngeneigd is ze te aanvaarden,--en dááraan valt in zijn omstandigheden\nnu wel allerminst te twijfelen; ik wilde alleen wel, dat hij beter\nbezoldigd werd. De vorige predikant verdiende, naar ik meen, niet meer\ndan twee honderd pond in het jaar, en ofschoon die som stellig nog\nwel iets verhoogd kan worden, vrees ik toch, dat die verhooging niet\nzooveel zal bedragen, dat hij er eenigszins ruim van leven kan. In\nelk geval echter doet het mij groot genoegen hem in dezen van dienst\nte kunnen zijn. Dat wilt u hem zeker wel vertellen.\"\n\nElinor's verbazing over deze opdracht kon moeilijk grooter zijn\ngeweest, als de Kolonel haar werkelijk zijn hand had aangeboden. Zulk\neen aanbieding, die zij een paar dagen geleden nog als iets had\nbeschouwd, waarop voor Edward niet te hopen viel, stelde hem nu reeds\nin staat, te trouwen;--en _haar_ viel, onder alle lieden ter wereld,\nde taak ten deel, hem die gave over te brengen!--Zij gevoelde werkelijk\nde aandoening, die Mevrouw Jennings had toegeschreven aan eene geheel\nandere oorzaak;--maar welke andere gevoelens, minder zuiver en minder\nbevredigend, zich in die aandoening mochten mengen, haar achting voor\nde algemeene menschlievendheid en haar dankbaarheid voor de bijzondere\nvriendschap, welke Kolonel Brandon bewogen tot deze handeling,\nwaren diepgevoeld, en werden met warmte uitgedrukt. Zij dankte hem\nvan ganscher harte, sprak van Edward's beginselen en karakter met den\nlof, dien zij wist, dat ze verdienden, en beloofde zich met genoegen\nvan de opdracht te zullen kwijten, als hij waarlijk wenschte zulk een\naangename taak aan een ander over te dragen. Intusschen kon zij niet\nnalaten te denken, dat niemand deze zoo goed zou kunnen vervullen\nals hijzelf. Het was een plicht, waarvan zij, ongeneigd als zij was,\nEdward pijn te doen, door hem van háár eenig gunstbewijs te doen\nontvangen, zich zeer gaarne had willen ontheven zien;--doch Kolonel\nBrandon, die zich eveneens uit kiesche terughoudendheid eraan onttrok,\nscheen zoozeer erop gesteld, dat zij de brengster der goede tijding\nzou zijn, dat zij in geen geval langer wilde blijven weigeren. Edward\nwas, naar zij meende, nog in de stad, en van Juffrouw Steele had zij\nzijn adres vernomen. Zij kon dus beloven, hem nog in den loop van den\ndag het bericht te zullen doen toekomen. Toen dit was afgesproken, gaf\nkolonel Brandon zijn genoegen te kennen over het feit, dat hij zulk een\nachtenswaardigen en beminnelijken buurman kreeg, en bij die gelegenheid\nuitte hij zijn spijt, dat de pastorie klein en niet heel mooi was;\neen bezwaar, dat Elinor, zooals Mevrouw Jennings goed had gezien,\nal heel licht telde, ten minste wat de grootte van het huisje betrof.\n\n\"Dat het huis klein is,\" zei ze, \"zal, dunkt mij, voor hen niet\nhinderlijk zijn; want het is dan in overeenstemming met het aantal\nbewoners en met hun inkomen.\"\n\nDe Kolonel bespeurde hierdoor tot zijn verwondering, dat _zij_ hun\nhuwelijk als het onvermijdelijk gevolg van deze aanbieding beschouwde;\nhij had het niet mogelijk geacht, dat de predikantsplaats te Delaford\ngenoeg zou opbrengen, om iemand, gewend aan een levenswijze als de\nzijne, in staat te stellen tot het waagstuk, een huwelijk aan te\ngaan,--en hij bracht die meening onder woorden.\n\n\"In die kleine pastorie en met dat beperkte inkomen kàn de Heer Ferrars\nalleen als vrijgezel eenigszins behoorlijk leven;--erop trouwen kan\nhij niet. Het spijt mij, dat ik niet meer voor hem kan doen; maar\nverder reikt mijn invloed niet. Als het echter, door eenig onvoorzien\ntoeval, ooit in mijn macht mocht staan, hem verder van dienst te zijn,\ndan moest ik al geheel anders over hem zijn gaan denken dan ik nu doe,\nwanneer ik ook dan niet even bereid zou zijn, hem hulp te verleenen,\nals ik oprecht wensch, dat nu te kunnen doen. Wat ik thans voor hem doe\nis van geringe beteekenis, daar het hem zoo weinig nader brengt tot\nhetgeen zijn eerst en eenig oogmerk moet zijn ter bereiking van zijn\ngeluk. Zijn huwelijk moet vooreerst nog een toekomstdroom blijven;--ik\nvrees ten minste, dat het niet zeer spoedig kan plaats hebben.\"\n\nDit waren de woorden, die, daar zij verkeerd werden begrepen, met\nrecht kwetsend schenen voor Mevrouw Jennings' kiesch gevoel; doch na\ndit getrouw verslag van 't geen werkelijk voorviel tusschen Kolonel\nBrandon en Elinor, toen zij bij het venster stonden, kon allicht\nde dankbaarheid, door de laatste bij het afscheid uitgedrukt, over\n't geheel evengoed zijn gewekt door, en behoefde in geen andere\nbewoordingen te zijn vervat geworden na een huwelijksaanzoek.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XL\n\n\nNu, Elinor\", zei Mevrouw Jennings met een veelzeggenden glimlach,\nzoodra de Kolonel was vertrokken, \"ik vraag je maar niet, wat Kolonel\nBrandon je had te vertellen; want al deed ik, op mijn woord van eer,\nmijn best om er niets van te hooren, ik ving toch, zonder dat ik er\niets aan kon doen, genoeg op om te begrijpen, waarover het ging. Ik\nmoet je zeggen, dat ik er van harte blij om ben, en ik wensch je\noprecht geluk ermee.\"\n\n\"Dank u, mevrouw,\" zei Elinor. \"Het verheugt mij ook innig, en ik ben\nwerkelijk getroffen door Kolonel Brandon's goedheid. Er zijn niet veel\nmenschen, die gehandeld zouden hebben als hij. Zoo vol meegevoel zijn\ner maar weinigen! 't Heeft mij meer verwonderd, dan ik kan zeggen.\"\n\n\"Lieve kind, je bent wel heel bescheiden! Mij verwondert het in\n't minst niet; want ik heb in den laatsten tijd dikwijls gedacht,\ndat niets zoo waarschijnlijk was als dit.\"\n\n\"U leidde dat oordeel af uit wat u wist van Kolonel Brandon's\nedelmoedig karakter; maar u kon niet voorzien, dat de gelegenheid\nzich zoo spoedig zou aanbieden.\"\n\n\"Gelegenheid,\" herhaalde Mevrouw Jennings, \"och, wat dàt betreft, als\nzoo'n plan eenmaal vaststaat bij een man, dan vindt hij, hoe dan ook,\nde gelegenheid gauw genoeg. Nu, lieve kind, ik zeg nog eens, ik ben er\nhartelijk blijde om, en als er ooit een gelukkig paar is geweest in de\nwereld, dan weet ik nu wèl, wáár ik dat binnenkort zal kunnen vinden.\"\n\n\"U wilt het zeker te Delaford komen zoeken,\" zei Elinor met een\nflauwen glimlach.\n\n\"Ja zeker, kind; dat ben ik stellig van plan. En dat het huis niet goed\ngenoeg zou zijn, ik weet niet, wat de Kolonel dáármee kan bedoelen;\nwant ik zou niet weten, wat erop viel aan te merken.\"\n\n\"Hij zei, dat er in lang niets aan gedaan was.\"\n\n\"Nu, wiens schuld is dat? waarom laat hij het dan niet opknappen--wie\nzou het ànders doen dan hij?\"\n\nZij werden gestoord door de komst van den bediende, die kwam zeggen,\ndat het rijtuig vóór was, en Mevrouw Jennings zei, vlug opstaande:\n\"Nu moet ik al weg, kind, eer we nog half erover zijn uitgepraat. Van\navond kunnen we 't in elk geval nog eens overdoen; want we zijn onder\nons. Ik vraag je maar niet om mee te gaan, want ik denk dat je te\nveel hiermee vervuld zult zijn, om nu graag vreemden te spreken;\nen je zult wel verlangen, het aan je zuster te vertellen.\"\n\nMarianne was de kamer uitgegaan, eer hun gesprek begon.\n\n\"Zeker, Mevrouw, ik zal 't aan Marianne zeggen; maar vooreerst spreek\nik er nog met niemand anders over.\"\n\n\"O, heel goed,\" zei Mevrouw Jennings, ietwat teleurgesteld. \"Dus\ndan mag ik het nog niet aan Lucy vertellen; want ik dacht erover,\nnaar Holborn te gaan vandaag.\"\n\n\"Neen, mevrouw, zelfs niet aan Lucy. Een dag uitstel maakt weinig\nverschil; en mij dunkt dat er niet met anderen over moet worden\ngesproken, eer ik aan den Heer Ferrars geschreven heb. Dat zal ik nu\naanstonds doen. Het komt er voor hem op aan, geen tijd te verliezen,\nwant hij zal natuurlijk nog veel te doen hebben, met het oog op zijn\naanstelling, als predikant.\"\n\nNu begreep Mevrouw Jennings er niets meer van. Waarom er zoo'n haast\nbij was, dat de Heer Ferrars op de hoogte zou worden gebracht, was haar\neerst niet recht duidelijk. Maar na een oogenblik nadenken ging haar\neen licht op, en zij riep uit: \"Aha! nu begrijp ik je. Op Mijnheer\nFerrars is de keus gevallen. Kom, dat is aardig. Ja natuurlijk,\neerst moet hij predikant zijn, en ik ben blij, dat je al zoover heen\nbent met je plannen. Maar kind, is dit nu toch eigenlijk niet wat\nvreemd? Moest de Kolonel hem dat zelf niet schrijven? Mij dunkt,\ndat is toch meer _zijn_ werk.\"\n\nElinor begreep niet precies, wat Mevrouw Jennings bedoelde met haar\neerste woorden; maar vond navragen niet de moeite waard, en antwoordde\ndus alleen op haar laatste opmerking.\n\n\"Kolonel Brandon is zóó fijngevoelig, dat hij het liefst aan een\nander overlaat, den Heer Ferrars omtrent zijn voornemen op de hoogte\nte brengen.\"\n\n\"En dus moet _jij_ dat nu wel doen. Dat is toch een vreemd soort van\nfijngevoeligheid, dunkt mij!--Maar ik wil je niet storen.\" (Zij zag\ndat Elinor haar schrijfgereedschap klaarlegde). \"Je kunt zelf alles\n't beste beoordeelen. Adieu, lieve kind. Sedert Charlotte's bevalling\nis er niets gebeurd, dat mij zooveel pleizier deed.\" Zij ging, maar\nkwam een oogenblik later terug.\n\n\"Ik dacht daarjuist aan Betty's zuster, kindje. Ik zou blij zijn voor\nhaar, als ze zoo'n goeden dienst kreeg. Maar of ze geschikt is voor\nkamenier, dat weet ik niet. Als kamermeisje voldoet ze uitmuntend,\nen ze kan goed met de naald terecht. Nu, dat kan je nog wel eens op\nje gemak overleggen.\"\n\n\"Zeker, mevrouw,\" antwoordde Elinor, die niet veel hoorde van Mevrouw\nJennings' gepraat, en meer verlangde alleen te zijn dan te weten,\nwaarover zij het had. Hoe te beginnen--welke woorden te bezigen\nin haar briefje aan Edward, daarop kwam het voor haar nu aan. Hun\nbijzondere omstandigheden maakten datgene moeilijk, wat voor een\nander de gemakkelijkste zaak van de wereld zou zijn geweest; maar\nzij vreesde evenzeer te veel, als te weinig te zeggen, en zat met de\npen in de hand te overwegen, hoe zij zich zou uitdrukken, tot er een\neinde kwam aan haar aarzelen, doordat Edward zelf binnentrad.\n\nHij had Mevrouw Jennings aan de deur ontmoet, toen zij in haar rijtuig\nwilde stappen, terwijl hij zijn afscheidsbezoek kwam brengen; en na\nzich te hebben verontschuldigd, omdat zij niet met hem mee terugging,\nhad zij hem doen besluiten, naar boven te gaan, door te zeggen, dat\nJuffrouw Dashwood alleen was, en hem gaarne wilde spreken, daar zij\nhem iets van gewicht had mee te deelen.\n\nElinor had juist, midden in haar weifelingen, zichzelve met\ndankbaarheid voorgehouden, dat een brief, hoe moeilijk het ook\nmocht zijn, de juiste woorden ervoor te vinden, toch verre te\nverkiezen was boven eene mondelinge mededeeling van het bericht,\ntoen de bezoeker binnentrad, die haar noodzaakte tot deze nog veel\ngrootere inspanning. Zij was zeer verwonderd en verward, toen hij daar\nzoo plotseling voor haar stond. Sedert zijn engagement publiek was\ngeworden, had zij hem nog niet gezien; dus ook niet, sedert hij wist,\ndat zij ervan had vernomen; en dit alles, gepaard met het bewustzijn\nvan 't geen zij daareven had gedacht, en wat zij hem had te vertellen,\nmaakte haar in de eerste paar minuten geheel van streek.\n\nHij was ook alles behalve op zijn gemak, en zij gingen beiden zitten\nin een toestand van verlegenheid, die niet veel goeds beloofde. Of\nhij haar bij het binnenkomen om verschooning had gevraagd, dat hij\nhaar zoo onverwacht kwam overvallen, herinnerde hij zich niet meer;\nmaar voor alle zekerheid verontschuldigde hij zich behoorlijk, zoodra\nhij iets kon zeggen, nadat hij had plaatsgenomen.\n\n\"Mevrouw Jennings vertelde mij,\" zei hij, \"dat je mij wenschte te\nspreken; tenminste dat meende ik te begrijpen;--anders zou ik je\nstellig niet zoo zijn komen overvallen; hoewel het mij toch ook erg\nzou hebben gespeten, uit Londen weg te gaan, zonder jelui beiden nog\neens te zien; vooral omdat het nog al eenigen tijd zal duren... omdat\nhet niet waarschijnlijk is, dat ik spoedig het genoegen zal hebben,\nje weer te ontmoeten. Ik ga morgen naar Oxford.\"\n\n\"Je zoudt toch niet zijn vertrokken,\" zei Elinor, zichzelve nu weer\nmeester en vastbesloten, zoo spoedig mogelijk datgene af te doen,\nwaartegen zij zoo opzag, \"zonder onze goede wenschen te ontvangen,\nook al hadden we je die niet persoonlijk kunnen doen toekomen. Het\nwas waar, wat Mevrouw Jennings je heeft gezegd. Ik heb je iets van\nbelang mee te deelen, dat ik je juist wilde melden in een brief. Een\nzeer aangename taak is mij opgedragen,\" ging zij, ietwat sneller\nademhalend dan gewoonlijk, voort: \"Kolonel Brandon, die nog pas tien\nminuten geleden hier was, heeft mij verzocht, je te zeggen, dat hij,\nwetende van je plan om predikant te worden, je met groot genoegen\nde standplaats te Delaford aanbiedt, die juist is vrijgekomen, en\nalleen maar wenschte, dat zij beter bezoldigd mocht worden. Laat\nmij je gelukwenschen met zulk een achtenswaardigen en verstandigen\nvriend, en mèt hem den wensch uitspreken, dat het traktement--omstreeks\ntweehonderd pond in het jaar,--grooter mocht zijn, zoodat het je beter\nin staat zou kunnen stellen om te... dat het meer kon worden dan een\ntijdelijke tegemoetkoming... dat het in één woord de hoop zou kunnen\nverwezenlijken op een toekomstig geluk.\"\n\nDaar Edward zelf niet kon zeggen, wat hij gevoelde, mag men niet\nverwachten, dat een ander het voor hem kan doen. Zijn blikken\ndrukten al de verbazing uit, die dat onverwachte, ongedachte bericht\nonvermijdelijk moest wekken; maar hij zei niets anders dan: \"Kolonel\nBrandon!\"\n\n\"Ja,\" ging Elinor voort; met meer kalmte, nu het ergste voorbij was:\n\"Kolonel Brandon wilde hierdoor een blijk geven van zijn oprechte\nspijt over hetgeen onlangs is voorgevallen,--van zijn medegevoel met de\npijnlijke positie, waarin je bent geplaatst door het onverantwoordelijk\ngedrag van je familie; een medegevoel, dat door Marianne, mijzelf\nen al je vrienden wordt gedeeld; en eveneens van zijn hoogachting\nvoor je karakter en van zijn bijzondere waardeering van je houding\nin dit geval.\"\n\n\"Dat Kolonel Brandon _mij_ die gunst bewijst! Hoe is dat mogelijk?\"\n\n\"De onhartelijkheid van je bloedverwanten doet je verbaasd staan,\nnog ergens vriendschap te ondervinden.\"\n\n\"Neen,\" antwoordde hij, plotseling tot zich zelf komend, \"niet waar ik\ndie aantref in jou; want ik weet het wel, aan jou, aan je goedheid,\nheb ik alles te danken. Ik voel het;--ik zou 't uitdrukken als ik\nkon,--maar je weet wel, ik ben niet welsprekend.\"\n\n\"Je vergist je geheel en al. Ik verzeker je, dat je dit alles alleen,\nof ten minste bijna alleen, hebt te danken aan je eigen verdienste,\nen aan Kolonel Brandon's juiste waardeering ervan. Ik heb er niet\nde hand in gehad. Ik wist zelfs niet, tot ik hoorde van zijn plan,\ndat er een vacature was; en het was ook nooit bij mij opgekomen,\ndat hij een predikantsplaats had te vergeven. Uit vriendschap voor\nmij en mijn familie kàn hij misschien... of hééft hij, dat weet ik,\nnog meer genoegen in het bewijzen van deze gunst; maar ik verzeker je,\naan mijne voorspraak heb je niets te danken.\"\n\nWaarheidsliefde verplichtte haar, een gering aandeel in de handeling\nte erkennen; maar zij was zoo ongenegen, als Edward's weldoenster op\nte treden, dat zij dit slechts aarzelend deed; 't geen waarschijnlijk\nertoe bijdroeg, het vermoeden bij hem te bevestigen, dat daareven in\nzijn geest was opgekomen. Een korten tijd zat hij diep in gedachten,\nnadat Elinor had opgehouden te spreken; en eindelijk zeide hij,\nmet merkbare inspanning:\n\n\"Kolonel Brandon schijnt een zeer edelaardig en achtenswaardig\nmensch. Ik heb hem altoos als zoodanig hooren roemen, en ik weet, dat\nje broer hem zeer hoog stelt. Hij is ongetwijfeld een verstandig man,\nen hij heeft bijzonder aangename manieren.\"\n\n\"Zeker,\" antwoordde Elinor, \"ik geloof dat je bij een nadere\nkennismaking al wat je omtrent hem gehoord hebt, als waarheid zult\nerkennen; en daar je in elkaars onmiddellijke nabijheid zult wonen,\n(want ik meen dat de pastorie vlak bij het heerenhuis is gelegen),\ntreft het wel bijzonder gelukkig, dat hij werkelijk zoo _is_.\"\n\nEdward antwoordde niet; maar toen zij haar hoofd afwendde, wierp\nhij haar een blik toe, zoo ernstig, zoo veelbeteekenend en zoo\ndroefgeestig, dat zij er duidelijk in had kunnen lezen, hoezeer hij\nwenschte, dat de afstand tusschen de pastorie en het heerenhuis veel\ngrooter had mogen zijn.\n\n\"Kolonel Brandon woont, geloof ik, in St. James's Street,\" zei hij\neen oogenblik later, terwijl hij opstond.\n\nElinor noemde het nummer van zijn huis.\n\n\"Dan moet ik nu gauw weg, om hem den dank te betuigen, dien jij niet\nvan mij wilt aannemen; om hem te verzekeren, dat hij mij waarlijk\nzéér gelukkig heeft gemaakt.\"\n\nElinor drong niet aan, dat hij zou blijven, en zij scheidden, van\nháár kant met de nadrukkelijke verzekering, dat zij, onder alle\nlotswisselingen, die hem mochten ten deel vallen, zich steeds zou\nverheugen in zijn geluk; van den zijnen met een poging veeleer tot\nhet beantwoorden van dien welgemeenden wensch, dan het vermogen dien\nuit te drukken. \"Als ik hem weerzie,\" zeide Elinor bij zichzelve, toen\nde deur zich achter hem sloot, \"dan zal het zijn als de man van Lucy.\"\n\nEn met dat gelukkig vooruitzicht ging zij zitten, om zich het verleden\nvoor den geest te roepen, zich de woorden te herinneren, door Edward\ngesproken, en te pogen al zijn gevoelens te begrijpen; terwijl zij\nnatuurlijk over de hare onvoldaan was.\n\nToen Mevrouw Jennings thuiskwam, was zij, ofschoon ze menschen had\nontmoet, die ze nog nooit had gesproken, en van wie ze dus veel\nte vertellen had, toch zoo uitsluitend vervuld van het gewichtige\ngeheim, haar toevertrouwd, dat zij erover begon, zoodra Elinor zich\nvertoonde. \"Nu, kind,\" riep zij uit, \"ik heb den jongen man maar naar\nboven gestuurd. Was dat niet goed?--Hij maakte zeker geen bezwaar.--Had\nhij niets tegen op het voorstel?\"\n\n\"Neen mevrouw, _dat_ was niet waarschijnlijk.\"\n\n\"En wanneer zou hij dan nu klaar kunnen zijn? Want dáárvan schijnt\nalles af te hangen.\"\n\n\"Ik weet niet genoeg omtrent die formaliteiten,\" zei Elinor, \"om te\ndurven zeggen, hoeveel tijd, of welke mate van voorbereiding daartoe\nwordt vereischt; maar ik denk dat hij over twee of drie maanden wel\nberoepbaar zal zijn.\"\n\n\"Twee of drie maanden?\" riep Mevrouw Jennings. \"Wel lieve deugd, kind;\nwat praat je daar kalm over; en kan de Kolonel zoo lang wachten? Goeie\nhemel; daar zou _ik_ geen geduld voor hebben, dat weet ik wèl. En\nal wil men dien armen Mijnheer Ferrars nu nog zoo graag een dienst\nbewijzen, twee of drie maanden op hèm te wachten, dàt dunkt mij toch\nniet de moeite waard. Er kon toch licht iemand anders worden gevonden,\ndie 't even goed kon doen; een predikant, die al is aangesteld.\"\n\n\"Maar lieve mevrouw\", zei Elinor; \"waar denkt u aan? 't Is immers\nalléén Kolonel Brandon's bedoeling om den Heer Ferrars te helpen.\"\n\n\"Maar kind, je wilt me toch niet wijsmaken, dat de Kolonel alleen\nmet jou gaat trouwen, om den Heer Ferrars dat buitenkansje van tien\nguineas te bezorgen?\"\n\nNu kon het misverstand niet langer voortduren; en de verklaring,\ndie onmiddellijk volgde, vermaakte beiden niet weinig; zonder dat een\nvan hen er feitelijk bij verloor; want Mevrouw Jennings verwisselde\nslechts ééne bron van uitgelaten vroolijkheid voor eene andere, en\nbehoefde daarbij toch haar verwachting van het heugelijk nieuws niet\nop te geven.\n\n\"O ja, de pastorie is maar klein,\" zei ze, toen ze van haar eerste\nuitbarsting van verbazing en pret was bekomen, \"en dáár zal allicht\nnog al wat aan zijn op te knappen; maar iemand verontschuldigingen te\nhooren maken, zooals ik meende, over een huis, met als ik 't wel heb,\nbeneden vijf zitkamers en gelegenheid om vijftien logeergasten te\nbergen, zooals de huishoudster mij vertelde!--En dat tegen jou, die\ngewend was aan Barton Cottage! Dat was toch àl te gek.--Maar kindje,\nwe moeten den Kolonel een beetje aansporen om wat te doen aan die\npastorie, en 't wat gezellig te maken, tegen dat Lucy komt.\"\n\n\"Kolonel Brandon scheen 't niet mogelijk te achten, dat ze zouden\nkunnen trouwen op het traktement, dat Edward zou ontvangen.\"\n\n\"Kolonel Brandon weet er niets van, lieve kind; omdat hij zelf\ntweeduizend pond in 't jaar heeft, meent hij, dat geen mensch kan\ntrouwen op minder. Geloof maar wat ik je zeg, als we tijd van leven\nhebben, dan kom ik logeeren in de pastorie te Delaford vóór de maand\nSeptember achter den rug is, en als Lucy er niet is, dan zie je mij\ner niet, dat begrijp je.\"\n\nElinor was het volkomen met haar eens, het was niet waarschijnlijk,\ndat zij langer zouden wachten.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XLI\n\n\nToen Edward Kolonel Brandon zijn dank had betuigd, ging hij Lucy\ndeelgenoote maken van zijn geluk; en toen hij Bartlett's Buildings\nbereikte, was zijn blijdschap reeds zoo toegenomen, dat zij Mevrouw\nJennings, die haar den volgenden dag kwam gelukwenschen, kon\nverzekeren, dat zij hem nog nooit in haar leven zoo verrukt had gezien.\n\nHáár blijdschap en verrukking bleken althans duidelijk genoeg, en\nzij verheugde zich mèt Mevrouw Jennings in de voorstelling, dat zij\nsamen gezellig in de pastorie te Delaford zouden zitten, eer de maand\nSeptember was verstreken. Zoo weinig schroomvallig betoonde zij zich\ndaarbij in het openlijk de eer geven aan Elinor van 't geen Edward\nbleef toeschrijven aan háár invloed, dat zij met dankbare hartelijkheid\nsprak van hare vriendschap voor hen beiden; gereed was te erkennen,\ndat zij aan háár alles waren verplicht, en openlijk verklaarde, dat\ngééne poging tot bevordering van hun geluk, van Juffrouw Dashwood's\nkant, haar ooit zou verwonderen, 't zij nu of later; want zij was vast\novertuigd, dat zij in staat was het onmogelijke te doen voor iemand,\ndien zij oprecht waardeerde. Wat Kolonel Brandon betrof, zij was niet\nalleen bereid hem te vereeren als een heilige; maar ook zeer bezorgd,\ndat hij in alle wereldsche aangelegenheden de eer zou ontvangen,\ndie hem toekwam; zij wenschte van harte, dat zijn bezitting hem méér\ndan ooit zou opbrengen, en nam zich in stilte voor te Delaford, waar\nzij maar eenigszins daartoe kans zag, zich het gebruik te verzekeren\nvan zijn bedienden, zijn rijtuig, zijn koeien en zijn hoenderpark.\n\nSedert John Dashwood's bezoek in Berkeley Street was nu reeds een week\nverloopen, en daar zij na dien tijd, behalve een mondelinge navraag,\ngeen notitie meer hadden genomen van zijn vrouw's ongesteldheid, begon\nElinor het noodig te achten, haar een bezoek te brengen. Dit was een\nverplichting, waartoe zij zelve niet alleen weinig aandrang gevoelde,\nmaar die bovendien geen steun ontving door den bijval van haar beide\nhuisgenooten. Marianne weigerde niet alleen zeer stellig, zelve te\ngaan; maar wilde volstrekt haar zuster van dat bezoek terughouden;\nen hoewel Mevrouw Jennings' rijtuig ten allen tijde tot Elinor's\ndienst stond, had zijzelve zulk een hekel aan Mevrouw John Dashwood,\ndat noch haar nieuwsgierigheid om te zien, hoe zij zich hield na\nde onlangs gedane ontdekking, noch haar groote lust om haar eens de\nwaarheid te zeggen en het voor Edward op te nemen, haar konden bewegen,\nden tegenzin in haar gezelschap te overwinnen. Het gevolg hiervan was,\ndat Elinor alleen het bezoek ging afleggen, waartoe niemand minder lust\ngevoelde dan zij, en de kans ging loopen op een tête-à-tête met iemand,\ndie geen der anderen reden had met zóóveel afkeer te beschouwen.\n\nMevrouw Dashwood had belet; maar eer het rijtuig nog kon omkeeren, kwam\nhaar man toevallig de deur uit. Hij gaf zijn blijdschap te kennen,\nElinor te zien, vertelde, dat hij juist naar Berkeley Street had\nwillen gaan, en vroeg haar, binnen te komen; het zou Fanny pleizier\ndoen haar weer eens te spreken.\n\nZij gingen de trap op, en naar den salon, waar niemand zich vertoonde.\n\n\"Fanny is zeker in haar eigen kamer,\" zei hij, \"ik zal straks\nnaar haar toegaan; want zij heeft er natuurlijk in 't minst niet\nop tegen om je te zien;--integendeel.--_Nu_ vooral kan er niets\nmeer... maar in elk geval, jij en Marianne stondt altijd hoog bij\nhaar aangeschreven. Waarom is Marianne niet meegekomen?\"\n\nElinor verontschuldigde haar zoo goed zij kon.\n\n\"Ik ben er niet rouwig om, dat ik je alleen spreek,\" zei hij,\n\"want ik heb je veel te vertellen. Die predikantsplaats van Kolonel\nBrandon... kan dat waar zijn?--heeft hij die werkelijk aan Edward\ngegeven? Ik hoorde het gisteren bij toeval, en wilde juist je gaan\nopzoeken, om er meer van te vernemen.\"\n\n\"'t Is werkelijk waar.--Kolonel Brandon heeft de predikantsplaats te\nDelaford aan Edward geschonken.\"\n\n\"Dus tòch!--Dat is toch verbazingwekkend!--geen\nfamiliebetrekking,--geen andere relatie!... en dat terwijl zulke\nplaatsen nu juist hooge prijzen opbrengen; hoeveel was deze waard?\"\n\n\"Ongeveer tweehonderd pond.\"\n\n\"Nu goed,--en voor de voorkeur alleen voor die vacature,--gesteld dat\nde vorige predikant oud en ziekelijk was, en spoedig zijn ambt had\nmoeten neerleggen,--had hij stellig wel een veertienhonderd pond kunnen\nkrijgen. Hoe kwam het, dat hij dat niet al lang had in orde gebracht,\nvóór deze laatste predikant was overleden?--_Nu_ zou het natuurlijk te\nlaat zijn voor een verkoop;--maar zulk een verstandig man als Kolonel\nBrandon!--hoe is 't mogelijk, dat hij zoo weinig vooruitziende is, in\nzulk een natuurlijke, van zelf sprekende zaak. Nu, het bewijst alweer,\ndat bijna ieder mensch in zeker opzicht inconsequent is. Maar nu ik\nhet goed bedenk, zal de zaak hoogst waarschijnlijk _deze_ zijn. Edward\ntreedt zoolang als plaatsvervanger op, tot de persoon aan wien de\nKolonel de voorkeur door verkoop heeft afgestaan, oud genoeg is, om het\nambt waar te nemen.--Ja, ja, zóó zal 't zijn; daar ben ik zeker van.\"\n\nElinor sprak dit echter met den meesten nadruk tegen, en toen zij\nverteld had, dat zijzelve op verzoek van den Kolonel zijn aanbod\naan Edward had overgebracht, en dus op de hoogte was van de wijze,\nwaarop het was gegeven en aanvaard, moest hij wel gelooven op gezag.\n\n\"'t Is wèl merkwaardig!\"--riep hij uit, na haar te hebben\naangehoord,--\"wat kan toch de beweegreden van den Kolonel zijn\ngeweest?\"\n\n\"Een heel eenvoudige--Edward een dienst te bewijzen.\"\n\n\"Nu, ik moet zeggen, wat voor een man Kolonel Brandon dan ook is,\nEdward heeft het getroffen! Spreek er overigens maar niet over tegen\nFanny; want hoewel ik het haar heb meegedeeld, en zij het nog al goed\nopnam, ze heeft niet graag, dat erover wordt gepraat.\"\n\nElinor had eenige moeite, de opmerking te weerhouden, dat Fanny allicht\nmet gelatenheid zou hebben kunnen verdragen, haar broeder's inkomen\nvermeerderd te zien op een wijze, die noch haar, noch haar kind bij\nmogelijkheid zou kunnen benadeelen.\n\n\"Mevrouw Ferrars,\" voegde hij erbij, op den zachteren toon, die bij\nhet gewicht van dit onderwerp paste, \"weet er op het oogenblik nog\nniets van, en ik geloof dat het raadzaam is, het zoo lang mogelijk\nvoor haar geheim te houden. Als het huwelijk wordt voltrokken, vrees\nik, dat zij alles zal moeten hooren.\"\n\n\"Maar waarom zouden zulke voorzorgen moeten worden in acht genomen? 't\nIs niet te verwachten, dat Mevrouw Ferrars de geringste voldoening\nkan vinden in de zekerheid, dat haar zoon genoeg heeft om van\nte leven;--dàt staat in elk geval vast; maar waarom zou men,\nna de wijze waarop zij zich heeft gedragen, éénig gevoel bij haar\nveronderstellen? Ze heeft afgedaan met haar zoon; ze heeft hem voor\naltoos verstooten, en gezorgd, dat allen, op wie zij eenigen invloed\nhad, dat eveneens deden. Nu ze dàt eenmaal heeft gedaan, kan men\nzich toch niet voorstellen, dat ze nog vatbaar zou zijn voor eenigen\nindruk van smart of vreugde, òm of dóór hèm;--zij kàn geen belang\nstellen in iets, wat hem aangaat. Zij zal toch niet zoo zwak zijn,\nouderlijke bezorgdheid te gevoelen voor een kind, terwijl zij den\ntroost zijner genegenheid moedwillig heeft verworpen?\"\n\n\"Zeker, Elinor,\" zei John; \"je redeneering is zeer juist; maar zij\nberust op onbekendheid met de menschelijke natuur. Geloof maar gerust,\nals dat ongelukkige huwelijk van Edward plaats heeft, dan voelt zijn\nmoeder dat even diep, alsof zij hem nooit had verstooten; en daarom\nmoet elke omstandigheid, die deze verschrikkelijke ramp kan verhaasten,\nzoo lang mogelijk voor haar verborgen worden gehouden. Mevrouw Ferrars\nkan nooit vergeten, dat Edward haar zoon is.\"\n\n\"Hoe is het mogelijk?--ik zou zeggen, dat ze 't zich _nu_ al bijna\nniet meer herinnert.\"\n\n\"Je doet haar schromelijk onrecht. Mevrouw Ferrars is een van de\nmeest liefhebbende moeders, die er bestaan.\"\n\nElinor zweeg.\n\n\"We denken er _nu_ over,\" zeide de Heer Dashwood na een korte stilte,\n\"om _Robert_ met Juffrouw Morton te laten trouwen.\"\n\nElinor, die niet kon nalaten te glimlachen om de ernstige en\nbeslissende gewichtigheid van haar broeder's toon, zei bedaard;\n\"Met de keuze der dame wordt dus geen rekening gehouden.\"\n\n\"Keuze?--Hoe bedoel je?\"\n\n\"Ik bedoel, dat het, naar je manier van spreken te oordeelen, voor\nJuffrouw Morton hetzelfde moet zijn, of ze met Edward of met Robert\ntrouwt.\"\n\n\"Natuurlijk; dat maakt ook geen verschil; want Robert zal nu feitelijk\nen in elk opzicht als de oudste zoon worden beschouwd; en wat het\noverige aangaat, ze zijn beiden heel aardige jongelui,--ik zie niet\nin dat de een hooger staat dan de ander.\"--\n\nElinor zeide niets meer en ook John bleef een poos zwijgen. Aan\n't slot van zijn overpeinzingen nam hij zijn zuster vriendelijk bij\nde hand en fluisterde bijna plechtig: \"Een ding, zusjelief, kan ik\nje verzekeren, en ik wil het je zeggen, omdat ik weet dat het je\ngenoegen zal doen. Ik heb alle reden te denken--ja, ik weet het uit\nde beste bron, anders zou ik 't niet oververtellen, want dàn zou\nhet heel verkeerd zijn er over te spreken--maar ik heb het uit de\nallereerste hand--niet dat ik het door Mevrouw Ferrars zelve hoorde\nzeggen, maar haar dochter zei het, en van háár heb ik 't gehoord--dat,\nom kort te gaan, welke bezwaren er ook mochten hebben bestaan tegen een\nzekere... een zekere verbintenis,--je begrijpt wat ik bedoel,--_die_\nhaar toch oneindig liever zou geweest zijn, en haar niet half zoo zou\nhebben geërgerd als _dit_. Het verheugde mij bijzonder, te hooren,\ndat Mevrouw Ferrars er zóó over dacht,--'t is voor ons allen aangenaam\ndit te weten, dat begrijp je. \"'t Zou van twee kwaden verreweg het\nminste zijn geweest,\" zei ze, \"en ze zou blij zijn, als ze zich _nu_\nhad te schikken in niets ergers dan dàt. Trouwens,--daarvan is nu geen\nsprake, niet waar? daarover wordt geen woord meer gerept, en we denken\ner niet meer aan; die genegenheid trouwens--dat was nooit--dat is nu\nvoorbij. Maar ik vond, dat ik 't je toch moest vertellen; omdat ik\nbegreep, dat het je veel pleizier moest doen. Reden tot spijt heb je\noverigens niet, mijn beste Elinor. Je zult het stellig nog heel goed\ntreffen, evengoed, of beter misschien, als men alles in aanmerking\nneemt. Heb je Kolonel Brandon voor kort nog gesproken?\"\n\nElinor had genoeg gehoord, zooal niet om haar ijdelheid te vleien en\nhaar eigendunk te streelen, dan toch om haar zenuwen te prikkelen en\nhaar gedachten te vervullen; en daarom was zij blijde, dat haar de\nverplichting werd bespaard, zelf nog meer te zeggen, zoowel als de\nkans, nog meer van haar broeder te vernemen, doordat Robert Ferrars\nbinnentrad. Na een oogenblik met hem te hebben gepraat, ging John\nDashwood zich herinneren, dat Fanny nog steeds niet wist van haar\nzuster's bezoek, de kamer uit, om haar te halen; en Elinor bleef\nachter, om nader kennis te maken met Robert, die door de luchtige\nzorgeloosheid en de tevreden zelfvoldaanheid van zijn optreden,\nterwijl hem een zoo onrechtmatig groot aandeel werd geschonken in zijn\nmoeder's liefde en haar gunstbewijzen ten nadeele van zijn verbannen\nbroeder, een voorkeur, slechts verdiend door zijn eigen losbandig\nleven, in tegenstelling met Edward's onkreukbare rechtschapenheid,\nde ongunstige meening bevestigde, die zij reeds had opgevat omtrent\nzijn gaven van hoofd en hart. Zij waren nog geen twee minuten alleen\ngebleven, of hij begon al over Edward te spreken; want hij had ook\nvan de predikantsplaats gehoord, en was zeer benieuwd er meer van\nte vernemen. Elinor herhaalde de bijzonderheden, die zij aan John\nhad medegedeeld, en hun uitwerking op Robert was, hoewel weer op een\nandere manier, niet minder treffend, dan bij haar broeder 't geval was\ngeweest. Hij lachte uitbundig. Het denkbeeld, dat Edward predikant\nzou worden en wonen in een kleine pastorie, vermaakte hem ongemeen,\nen toen zijn verbeelding hem daarbij Edward nog afschilderde in een\nwit koorhemd, de huwelijksaankondiging aflezend van John Smith en\nMary Brown, kon hij zich onmogelijk iets grappigers voorstellen.\n\nTerwijl Elinor, zwijgend en onverstoorbaar ernstig, wachtte tot dat\ndwaze gelach zou ophouden, kon zij niet nalaten, in den blik, dien zij\nop hem liet rusten, al de minachting aan den dag te leggen, die zij\ngevoelde. Die blik was in zóóverre welbesteed, dat hij háár verlichting\nschonk, terwijl _hij_ er in 't minst niet door werd getroffen. Het\nwas geen berisping van hare zijde, die zijn geestigheid in wijsheid\ndeed verkeeren; doch zijn eigen oprecht gevoel.\n\n\"We beschouwen 't nu als een grap,\" zei hij eindelijk, het gemaakte\ngelach stakend, waarmee hij zijn eerste uitbarsting van vroolijkheid\nnog eenigen tijd had verlengd,--\"maar, in ernst, het is waarlijk geen\ngekheid. Die arme Edward; het is uit met hem, voor goed. 't Spijt me\nontzettend voor hem,--want hij is een beste jongen; zoo goed als er\ngeen tweede bestaat misschien. U moet hem niet beoordeelen, Juffrouw\nDashwood, naar het weinigje dat _u_ van hem weet. Arme kerel! Zijn\nmanieren zijn nu niet juist wat men een aanbeveling zou kunnen\nnoemen. Maar niet ieder wordt geboren met dezelfde gaven,--denzelfden\nnatuurlijken aanleg in dat opzicht. Die stakker--als men hem in een\nvreemd gezelschap zag,--'t was om medelijden mee te hebben! Maar op\nmijn woord van eer, ik houd hem voor een van de beste menschen die\nik ken, en ik kan u naar waarheid verzekeren, dat ik nog nooit in\nmijn leven zoo heb opgekeken, als toen deze geschiedenis aan 't licht\nkwam. Ik kon 't niet gelooven. Mama was de eerste die 't mij vertelde,\nen ik zei dadelijk, (want ik wist onmiddellijk wat mij te doen stond):\n\"Mama, ik weet niet, wat _u_ van plan bent; maar wat _mij_ betreft,\nals Edward met dit meisje trouwt, dan ziet hij mij nooit weerom!\" Dat\nzei ik, zoodra ik 't hoorde;--ik kon mijn ooren niet gelooven! 't\nWas bepaald kwetsend voor mijn gevoel!--Arme Edward, hij heeft zich\ntotaal te gronde gericht,--geen fatsoenlijk mensch zal ooit weer met\nhem willen omgaan; maar zooals ik dadelijk tegen mijn moeder zei,\n't verwondert me niets; na die opvoeding, die hij heeft gehad, kon men\nniet anders verwachten. Mijn goeie moeder was half gek van boosheid.\"\n\n\"Hebt u zijn meisje wel eens ontmoet?\"\n\n\"Ja, eenmaal; toen ze hier logeerde. Ik liep toevallig even aan;\nmaar ik zag genoeg, om te weten wie ik voorhad. Een gewoon, stijf\nburgermeisje, provinciaal, ongracieus, en niet eens wat je mooi\nnoemt. Ik kan me haar nog precies voorstellen. Juist het soort\nvan meisje, door wie Edward zich licht zou laten inpalmen. Ik bood\ndadelijk aan, toen mijn moeder 't mij vertelde, om zelf eens met hem\nte praten, en hem te bewegen, van dat huwelijk af te zien; maar _toen_\nwas het al te laat, dat zag ik in; want jammer genoeg was ik er in\n't begin niet bij geweest, en wist van niets af, eer de breuk met\nmijn moeder een voldongen feit was, waarna het niet op mijn weg lag,\ntusschenbeide te komen, dat begrijpt u. Maar had ik het een paar\nuur vroeger vernomen, dan geloof ik stellig, dat er nog wel iets\nop te vinden was geweest. Ik zou Edward met den meesten nadruk mijn\nmeening hebben te kennen gegeven. \"Beste jongen,\" zou ik hebben gezegd,\n\"bedenk wat je doet. Je verlaagt je door een dergelijke verbintenis,\ndie door je geheele familie wordt afgekeurd.\" Ik kan niet nalaten te\ndenken, dat er nog wel iets aan te doen zou geweest zijn. Maar nu is\nhet te laat. Hij zal moeten hongerlijden; dat staat vast; feitelijk\nen letterlijk hongerlijden.\"\n\nHij had die overtuiging juist met de grootste kalmte uitgesproken,\ntoen de komst van Mevrouw John Dashwood een einde maakte aan hun\ngesprek. Maar hoewel zij nooit over de zaak sprak met anderen\ndan haar eigen familieleden, bespeurde Elinor den invloed ervan\nop haar geest, in den zweem van verlegenheid, die zich op haar\ngezicht vertoonde bij het binnentreden, en in een poging tot iets\nals vriendelijkheid jegens haarzelve in hare houding. Zij ging zelfs\nzoo ver, haar spijt te betuigen, dat Elinor en haar zuster reeds zoo\nspoedig zouden vertrekken, daar zij had gehoopt, hen nog dikwijls\nte zien, eene uiting, door haar man, die haar had binnengebracht, en\nverteerderd naar haar luisterde, blijkbaar beschouwd als een bewijs\nvan allerbeminnelijkste hartelijkheid.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XLII\n\n\nNog één kort bezoek in Harley Street, waarbij Elinor haar broeder's\ngelukwenschen ontving, omdat zij op deze wijze zonder onkosten een\ngedeelte van de reis naar Barton konden afleggen, en omdat Kolonel\nBrandon hen over eenige dagen naar Cleveland zou volgen, besloot den\nomgang van broeder en zusters in de stad; en een vluchtige uitnoodiging\nvan Fanny om te Norland te komen, als zij ooit eens in de buurt waren,\nwel de minst waarschijnlijke gebeurtenis, die zich denken liet,\nbenevens een iets hartelijker, doch in stilte geuite verzekering van\nJohn aan Elinor, dat hij niet in gebreke zou blijven haar te Delaford\nte bezoeken, was alles wat een toekomstige ontmoeting buiten Londen\nmocht doen verwachten.\n\nZij vond iets grappigs in de opmerking, dat al haar vrienden haar\nvolstrekt naar Delaford wilden zenden, een plaats waar zij nu wel\nhet allerminst zou wenschen te wonen, of zelfs een bezoek te brengen;\nwant niet alleen werd het door haar broeder en Mevrouw Jennings als\nhaar toekomstig tehuis beschouwd; maar zelfs Lucy drong er bij het\nafscheid op aan, dat zij haar daar toch eens moest opzoeken.\n\nOp een der eerste dagen van April, en tamelijk vroeg op den dag,\nbegaven zich de twee families, uit Hanover Square en uit Berkeley\nStreet, elk afzonderlijk op weg, om elkaar op een afgesproken plaats\nte ontmoeten. Voor 't gemak van Charlotte met haar kind zouden zij\nmeer dan twee dagen onderweg blijven, en de Heer Palmer, die met\nKolonel Brandon iets vlugger reisde, zou zich spoedig na hun aankomst\nte Cleveland bij hen voegen.\n\nHoe weinig gelukkige uren Marianne ook in Londen had doorgebracht,\nen hoezeer zij ook reeds geruimen tijd verlangde de stad te verlaten,\nzij kon, nu het zoover was, het huis niet vaarwelzeggen, waarin zij\nvoor het laatst zich had gevleid met de hoop en het vertrouwen op\nWilloughby, die thans voor altijd waren vervlogen, zonder diepe smart\nte gevoelen. En evenmin kon zij heengaan van de plek, waar Willoughby\nthans achterbleef, vervuld van nieuwe plannen en nieuwe verplichtingen,\nwaarin _zij_ niet mocht deelen, zonder vele tranen te storten.\n\nElinor's voldoening, nu het oogenblik van vertrekken aanbrak, was\nminder twijfelachtig. Voor haar was er geen voorwerp, waarbij haar\ngedachten konden verwijlen in droeve mijmerij; geen sterveling liet\nzij achter van wien ze 't een oogenblik zou betreuren, als zij hem\nnooit weer ontmoette; ze was blijde, eindelijk verlost te worden van\nLucy's drukkende vriendschap; dankbaar, haar zuster te kunnen meenemen,\nzonder dat deze Willoughby sedert zijn huwelijk had ontmoet; en zij\nzag met hoopvolle verwachting uit naar 't geen een paar maanden van\nkalmte te Barton zouden bewerken, ter verbetering van Marianne's\ngemoedsrust en ter bevestiging van de hare. De reis liep zonder\nongevallen af. De tweede dag bracht hen in het dierbare, of verboden\nland, zooals Marianne beurtelings in haar verbeelding het graafschap\nSomerset placht te noemen; en vóór de derde morgen was verstreken,\nhadden zij Cleveland bereikt.\n\nCleveland was een groot huis, in modernen stijl gebouwd, en op een\nhellend grasveld gelegen. Een park bezat het niet; maar de tuinen\nwaren uitgestrekt, en zooals alle dergelijke fraaie buitenplaatsen,\nhad het een open plantsoen en begroeide boschpartijen; een effen\nkiezelpad, omzoomd door heesters, leidde naar den voorgevel; het\ngrasveld voor het huis was beplant met verspreid geboomte; het huis\nzelf ging schuil onder sparren, eschdoorns en acacia's, en achter\neen dichte haag, waartusschen hooge Lombardische populieren groeiden,\nlagen de gebouwen voor het dienstpersoneel en de stallen.\n\nMarianne trad het huis binnen, diep ontroerd door de gedachte,\ndat zij slechts tachtig mijlen van Barton, en geen dertig van Combe\nMagna was verwijderd; en eer zij vijf minuten binnen zijn muren had\nvertoefd, terwijl de anderen Charlotte hielpen, om haar kindje aan\nde huishoudster te vertoonen, liep zij weer heen en sloop door de\nslingerpaden van het plantsoen, dat reeds groen begon te worden,\nnaar een hooggelegen plek, vanwaar zij, uit een Grieksch tempeltje,\nhaar blik kon laten zwerven over een uitgestrekt landschap naar\nhet Zuid-Oosten, met welgevallen het oog laten rusten op de verst\nverwijderde heuvelrij aan den gezichtseinder, en zich verbeelden,\ndat zij van hun top Combe Magna zou kunnen zien.\n\nIn zulke oogenblikken van zalig, van onwaardeerbaar lijden verheugde\nzij zich onder heete tranen, te Cleveland te zijn, en toen zij langs\neen anderen weg naar het huis terugkeerde, met het gelukkig gevoel\nweer landelijke vrijheid te kunnen smaken, van plek tot plek te\nkunnen zwerven in ongestoorde, genotvolle eenzaamheid, besloot zij,\nzoolang zij bij de Palmers zou zijn, bijna ieder uur van iederen dag\nte genieten van zulke eenzame zwerftochten.\n\nZij kwam juist bij tijds terug, om zich bij de anderen te voegen, die\nhet huis verlieten, om de onmiddellijke omgeving eens in oogenschouw\nte nemen, en de morgen werd verder aangenaam gesleten met een\nwandeling door den moestuin, waar zij de bloesems bewonderden der\nlangs de muren geleide vruchtboomen, en luisterden naar de klachten\nvan den tuinman over de vorst, met een kijkje in de oranjerie,\nwaar het verlies van haar fraaiste planten, die onvoorzichtig waren\nblootgesteld, en geleden hadden door de langdurige koude, Charlotte\nalweer aan het lachen bracht, en met een bezoek aan het hoenderpark,\nwaar zij nieuwe stof tot vroolijkheid vond in de teleurgestelde\nverwachtingen van het meisje dat er toezicht hield, wegens kippen,\ndie haar nesten in den steek lieten, of door een vos werden gestolen,\nof wegens de groote sterfte onder een veelbelovend broedsel. De\nmorgen was mooi en droog, en Marianne had bij haar plannen om zich\nhier buiten bezig te houden niet gerekend op verandering van weer,\nzoolang zij te Cleveland logeerde. Het verraste haar dus niet weinig,\ndat een gestadige slagregen haar verhinderde na den eten weer uit te\ngaan. Zij had zich een wandeling in de schemering voorgesteld naar den\nGriekschen tempel, en misschien nog verder, en een koude of vochtige\navond zou haar daarvan niet hebben teruggehouden; maar een zwaren en\naanhoudenden slagregen kon zelfs _zij_ niet beschouwen als geschikt\nof aangenaam wandelweer.\n\nHet gezelschap was klein, en de uren gingen rustig voorbij. Mevrouw\nPalmer had haar kindje, en Mevrouw Jennings haar handwerk; ze praatten\nover de vrienden die ze hadden achtergelaten; regelden Lady Middleton's\ngezelschapsavonden, en waren benieuwd of de Heer Palmer en Kolonel\nBrandon het dien avond verder zouden brengen dan tot Reading. Elinor\nnam deel in hun gesprek, hoewel het haar weinig boeide, en Marianne,\ndie in ieder huis als bij instinct den weg naar de bibliotheek wist\nte vinden, hoezeer die ook overigens door het gezin werd vermeden,\nzorgde wel, dat zij spoedig een boek in handen had. Mevrouw Palmer deed\nvan haar kant, in haar onveranderlijke en welgezinde opgeruimdheid, al\nwat zij kon, om hen te doen gevoelen, dat zij hier welkom waren. Haar\noprechte hartelijkheid vergoedde ruimschoots de onnadenkendheid en\nhet gebrek aan tact, die haar dikwijls deden te kort schieten in\nuiterlijke beleefdheid; haar vriendelijkheid, nog te bekoorlijker\ndoor haar lief gezichtje, nam voor haar in; haar dwaasheid, hoezeer\nook in het oog vallend, was niet afstootend, daar zij niet gepaard\nging met inbeelding; en Elinor had haar alles kunnen vergeven,\nbehalve haar gelach.\n\nDe twee heeren kwamen den volgenden dag bij tijds om deel te nemen aan\nhet zeer verlate middagmaal. Zij vormden een prettige aanwinst voor\nhet gezelschap en brachten een welkome afwisseling in het gesprek,\ndat na een langen regenachtigen morgen in ietwat kwijnenden toestand\nverkeerde.\n\nElinor had den Heer Palmer zoo zelden ontmoet, en bij die enkele\ngelegenheden zijn houding tegenover haar en hare zuster zoo\nverschillend bevonden, dat zij zich niet recht kon voorstellen,\nhoe hij eigenlijk zou zijn in zijn eigen huiselijken kring. Hij\nbleek nu toch tegenover zijn gasten voorkomend genoeg, en slechts\nnu en dan lomp tegen zijn vrouw en haar moeder; hij kon, zooals zij\nthans bespeurde, zeer goed aangenaam in gezelschap zijn, en werd\ndaarin slechts verhinderd door een overwegende neiging om zich even\nver verheven boven alle andere menschen te achten, als hij zich den\nmeerdere gevoelde van Mevrouw Jennings en Charlotte. Voor het overige\nvertoonde hij in zijn karakter en gewoonten, voor zoover Elinor\nkon nagaan, geen enkelen ongewonen trek, zijn sekse en leeftijd in\naanmerking genomen. Hij was kieskeurig op zijn maaltijden, niet precies\nop zijn tijd, hij hield veel van zijn kind, hoewel hij deed als of het\nhem niet schelen kon, en hij sleet des morgens met biljartspelen den\ntijd, dien hij aan zijn zaken had behooren te wijden. Zij mocht hem\nechter over 't geheel wel lijden; veel beter dan zij had verwacht;\nen in haar hart speet het haar niet, dat zij niet beter over hem\ndenken kon; dat zij door de waarneming van zijn verfijnde genotzucht,\nzijn egoïsme en zijn eigenwaan ertoe gebracht werd met welbehagen\nte verwijlen bij de herinnering aan Edward's edelmoedigen aard,\nzijn eenvoudige neigingen en schuchtere fijngevoeligheid.\n\nVan Edward, of althans het een en ander, hem betreffende, hoorde zij\nnu door Kolonel Brandon, die onlangs naar Dorsetshire was geweest,\nen die aan haar, als de belanglooze vriendin van den Heer Ferrars,\nen de vriendelijke vertrouwde van hemzelf, veel vertelde van de\npastorie te Delaford, waarvan hij de gebreken omschreef, terwijl hij\nmeteen vermeldde, hoe hij daarin verbetering dacht te brengen. Zijn\nhouding tegenover haar, zoowel in dezen als in alle andere opzichten,\nzijn zichtbare blijdschap haar weer te zien, na een afwezigheid van\nslechts tien dagen, het blijkbare genoegen dat hij scheen te vinden\nin hun gesprekken, en het gezag dat hij toekende aan haar oordeel,\ndeden Mevrouw Jennings' verzekerdheid van zijn liefde voor haar niet\nonnatuurlijk schijnen, en zouden wellicht voldoende geweest zijn,\nook bij haarzelve dat vermoeden te wekken, wanneer zij niet nog steeds\nMarianne als degene had beschouwd, aan wie hij van den beginne zijne\nvoorkeur had geschonken. Maar inderdaad was die gedachte nooit bij\nhaar opgekomen, tenzij dan door Mevrouw Jennings' opmerkingen, en zij\nkon niet nalaten zichzelve voor de meest scherpziende te houden van\nhen beiden; _zij_ lette op zijn oogen, terwijl Mevrouw Jennings enkel\naandacht schonk aan zijn gedrag, en terwijl de angstige bezorgdheid\nin zijn blik, nu Marianne in haar hoofd en keel het begin van een\nzware verkoudheid gevoelde, volkomen aan zijn gastvrouw ontging,\nomdat hij die bezorgdheid niet onder woorden bracht, zag zij er de\nlicht gewekte vrees en de noodelooze beduchtheid in van een minnaar.\n\nTwee heerlijke schemeravond-wandelingen, niet slechts op de droge\nkiezelpaden van het plantsoen, maar in de meest afgelegen gedeelten van\nden tuin en de omgeving, waar nog iets restte van de ongerepte natuur,\nwaar de boomen het oudst waren en het gras heel lang en heel nat was,\nhadden,--in vereeniging met de nog grooter onvoorzichtigheid van\nhaar natte kousen en schoenen aan te houden--Marianne zulk een hevige\nverkoudheid bezorgd, dat zij, ofschoon zij er een paar dagen geen acht\nop sloeg, of bij navraag ontkende, door toenemende ongesteldheid zich\nweldra het voorwerp zag van aller medelijden, en zelve moest erkennen,\ndat zij ziek was. Geneesmiddelen werden van alle zijden aanbevolen,\nen zooals gewoonlijk, alle verworpen. Hoewel loom en koortsig, met\npijn in alle leden, en gekweld door hoest en keelpijn, meende zij dat\neen goede nachtrust haar volkomen zou genezen, en slechts met moeite\nkon Elinor van haar gedaan krijgen, dat zij, bij het naar bed gaan,\neen paar van de eenvoudigste huismiddeltjes wilde aanwenden.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XLIII\n\n\nMarianne stond den volgenden morgen op haar gewonen tijd op; antwoordde\nop elke vraag, dat zij zich beter gevoelde, en trachtte te bewijzen,\ndat dit het geval was, door ook haar gewone bezigheden ter hand te\nnemen. Maar de dag, dien zij doorbracht met zitten huiveren bij het\nvuur, een boek in de hand, waarin zij niet lezen kon, op de sofa\nliggen, leverde geen treffend bewijs van die beterschap, en toen\nzij eindelijk, steeds meer ongesteld, vroeg naar bed ging, verbaasde\nKolonel Brandon zich over de kalmte van haar zuster, die, hoewel zij\nMarianne tegen den zin der zieke den geheelen dag had verzorgd en\nopgepast, en haar gedwongen had, des avonds medicijnen te gebruiken,\nevenals Marianne zelve vertrouwde op de goede uitwerking van den slaap,\ndien zij als zeker beschouwde, en niet in ernst ongerust was.\n\nEen zeer onrustige en koortsige nacht stelde echter beider\nverwachtingen te leur; en toen Marianne, die volstrekt had willen\nopstaan, toegaf, dat zij zich niet in staat gevoelde op te zitten,\nen uit zich zelve weer naar bed ging, volgde Elinor gaarne Mevrouw\nJennings' raad, den plattelandsheelmeester te laten halen, die in de\nbuurt van de Palmers woonde.\n\nHij kwam en onderzocht de patiënte; en hoewel hij Elinor poogde te\nbemoedigen door de verzekering dat haar zuster binnen eenige dagen\nhersteld zou kunnen zijn, liet hij zich toch het woord \"besmetting\"\nontvallen, waardoor Mevrouw Palmer dadelijk zeer bezorgd over\nhaar kindje werd. Mevrouw Jennings, die van den beginne, meer dan\nElinor, Marianne's ongesteldheid als ernstig had beschouwd, keek zeer\nbedenkelijk, toen zij hoorde wat de Heer Harris had gezegd; zij vond\nCharlotte's angst en bezorgdheid zeer gegrond, en drong erop aan, dat\nzij onmiddellijk met het kind zou vertrekken; terwijl de Heer Palmer,\nhoewel hij hun vrees overdreven achtte, aan de angstige smeekingen van\nvrouw geen weerstand kon bieden. Er werd dus besloten, dat zij dadelijk\nzou gaan, en een uur na het bezoek van den Heer Harris vertrok zij, met\nhaar kleinen jongen en het kindermeisje, naar een bloedverwant van den\nHeer Palmer, die een paar mijlen aan den anderen kant van Bath woonde;\nterwijl haar man, op haar dringend verzoek, beloofde haar over eenige\ndagen te zullen volgen, en zij bijna evenzeer erop gesteld was, haar\nmoeder ook daarheen mee te nemen. Mevrouw Jennings echter verklaarde,\nmet een innige goedhartigheid, die Elinor werkelijk liefde voor haar\ndeed opvatten, dat zij Cleveland niet zou verlaten, zoolang Marianne\nziek bleef, en dat zij wilde trachten door haar eigen oplettende zorg\nde moeder te vervangen, aan wie zij haar had ontnomen; en Elinor\nvond in haar ten allen tijde eene ijverige en gewillige helpster,\ngaarne bereid, haar moeite en vermoeienis te deelen, en wier ervaring\nop het punt van ziekenverpleging haar dikwijls van groot nut was.\n\nDe arme Marianne, mat en gedrukt door haar ziektetoestand, en\nzich nu wel zeer ongesteld gevoelend, kon niet langer hopen, dat\nzij den volgenden dag beter zou zijn; en de gedachte aan 't geen\ndie dag haar zou gebracht hebben, wanneer deze ongelukkige ziekte\nniet tusschenbeide was gekomen, verscherpte elke pijn; want morgen\nzouden zij de thuisreis hebben aanvaard, vergezeld door een knecht\nvan Mevrouw Jennings, zoodat zij in den loop van den daaropvolgenden\ndag hun moeder zouden zijn komen verrassen. De weinige woorden die\nzij sprak, uitten enkel haar beklag over dit onvermijdelijk uitstel;\nhoewel Elinor haar poogde op te beuren en te doen gelooven, zooals zij\n_toen_ werkelijk zelve geloofde, dat dit uitstel slechts kort zou zijn.\n\nDe volgende dag bracht weinig of geen verandering in den toestand der\nzieke; beter was zij in elk geval niet; maar men kon haar, behalve\ndan in zooverre geen beterschap viel te bespeuren, toch ook niet erger\nnoemen. Hun gezelschap werd thans nog kleiner; want de Heer Palmer liet\nzich, hoewel hij weinig lust had om te gaan, en dat zoowel uit ware\nmenschelijkheid en goedhartigheid, als uit ongeneigdheid, den schijn\nop zich te laden van door zijn vrouw's angst te zijn aangestoken,\nten slotte door Kolonel Brandon overreden, zijn belofte van haar te\nzullen volgen gestand te doen, en terwijl hij zich gereedmaakte voor\nde reis, begon Kolonel Brandon, wien dit heel wat meer inspanning\nkostte, ervan te praten, ook te willen vertrekken. Hier kwam Mevrouw\nJennings' goedigheid hun allen buitengewoon te pas; want om den\nKolonel nu weg te zenden, terwijl zijn lieve vriendin zoo bezorgd\nwas over hare zuster, zou hen allebei, dacht zij, van allen troost\nberooven; dus vertelde zij hem maar dadelijk, dat zij zelve hem hier\nte Cleveland volstrekt noodig had; dat hij 's avonds haar partijtje\npiquet met haar moest spelen, als Elinor boven bleef bij haar zuster,\nen zoo meer; en zoo dringend verzocht zij hem te blijven, dat hij,\ndie zijn eigen liefsten hartewensch vervulde, wanneer hij toegaf,\nzich zelfs in schijn niet lang tegen haar verlangen kon verzetten;\ntemeer daar Mevrouw Jennings' verzoek ijverig werd ondersteund door\nden Heer Palmer, die verlichting scheen te vinden in het besef, dat\nhij iemand achterliet, zoo uitnemend geschikt om Juffrouw Dashwood\nin geval van nood met raad en daad bij te staan.\n\nMarianne vernam natuurlijk niets van al deze schikkingen. Zij wist\nniet, dat zij de bewoners van Cleveland uit hun huis had verjaagd,\npas zeven dagen na hunne terugkomst. Het verwonderde haar volstrekt\nniet, dat Mevrouw Palmer zich nooit vertoonde, en daar het haar\nevenmin speet, sprak zij in 't geheel niet van hare gastvrouw. Twee\ndagen verliepen na het vertrek van den Heer Palmer, en haar toestand\nbleef nagenoeg dezelfde. De Heer Harris die elken dag kwam, sprak nog\nsteeds vol vertrouwen van een spoedig herstel, en Elinor bleef ook\nhoopvol gestemd; doch de anderen waren veel minder optimistisch in\nhunne verwachtingen. Mevrouw Jennings had zich van den beginne in het\nhoofd gezet, dat Marianne er nooit weer bovenop zou komen, en Kolonel\nBrandon, die niet veel anders had te doen dan Mevrouw Jennings'\nsombere voorspellingen aan te hooren, was niet in de stemming om\nhun invloed te weerstaan. Hij trachtte door redeneering de vrees te\nonderdrukken, die het andersluidend oordeel van den heelmeester als\ndwaasheid scheen te stempelen; doch de vele uren van den dag, die\nhij in eenzaamheid doorbracht waren maar al te bevorderlijk voor de\ntoelating van allerlei treurige gedachten, en hij kon de overtuiging\nniet van zich afzetten, dat hij Marianne niet zou weerzien.\n\nToen de derde morgen was aangebroken, scheen het echter, alsof\nbeiden de toekomst te donker hadden ingezien; want toen de Heer\nHarris kwam, vond hij de patiënte aanmerkelijk beter. De pols was\nveel sterker en alle verschijnselen waren gunstiger dan bij zijn\nvorig bezoek. Elinor, wier blijde hoop ten volle werd bevestigd,\nwas een en al vroolijkheid; zij verheugde zich, in haar brieven aan\nhaar moeder meer haar eigen oordeel te hebben gevolgd dan dat harer\nvrienden; want zij had volstrekt geen ophef gemaakt van de lichte\nongesteldheid, die hen vooreerst nog te Cleveland deed blijven, en\nbijna den dag reeds bepaald, waarop Marianne op reis zou kunnen gaan.\n\nDoch de dag eindigde niet zoo gunstig als hij was begonnen. Tegen\nden avond werd Marianne weer erger; zij gevoelde zich meer afgemat,\nrusteloos en gejaagd dan te voren. Haar zuster, nog altijd hoopvol,\nwas geneigd die verandering toe te schrijven aan de vermoeienis van\nhet opzitten, terwijl haar bed werd opgemaakt; en na haar zorgvuldig de\nvoorgeschreven medicijnen te hebben ingegeven, zag zij haar eindelijk\nindommelen, en hoopte dat de rust haar goed zou doen. Zij bleef, hoewel\nniet zoo rustig als Elinor wenschte, geruimen tijd doorslapen; en\ndaar Elinor de uitwerking van dien slaap gaarne zelf wilde waarnemen,\nbesloot zij, bij haar te blijven opzitten, tot zij wakker werd.\n\nMevrouw Jennings, die niets wist van de verandering in den toestand\nder zieke, ging ongewoon vroeg naar bed; haar kamenier, die mede hielp\nverplegen, gebruikte haar avondeten in de kamer der huishoudster,\nen Elinor bleef met Marianne alleen.\n\nSteeds onrustiger werd de slaap der zieke, en haar zuster, die den\nblik niet van haar afwendde, wenschte bijna, nu zij haar voortdurend\nvan houding zag veranderen, en de herhaalde, vage klachten hoorde,\ndie haar lippen ontsnapten, dat zij haar mocht wekken uit een zoo\nweinig verkwikkende sluimering; toen Marianne, plotseling wakker\nschrikkend door een toevallig geluid in huis, overeind vloog, en\nkoortsachtig opgewonden uitriep: \"Komt Mama nu?\"\n\n\"Nog niet,\" antwoordde Elinor, terwijl zij, zonder te laten merken\nhoe zij geschrikt was, Marianne hielp, weer te gaan liggen; \"maar\nzij zal nu, hoop ik, spoedig komen. Het is een heel eind, van hier\nnaar Barton; dat weet je wel.\"\n\n\"Maar ze moet niet over Londen gaan,\" riep Marianne, op denzelfden\ngejaagden toon. \"Als ze naar Londen gaat, dan zal ik haar niet\nmeer zien.\"\n\nElinor bespeurde tot haar grooten schrik, dat zij niet volkomen bij\nkennis was, en voelde haar pols, terwijl zij trachtte haar tot bedaren\nte brengen. De polsslag was zwakker en sneller dan ooit, en daar\nMarianne nog steeds verward over mama bleef praten, werd Elinor zóó\nongerust, dat zij besloot, dadelijk den Heer Harris te laten halen,\nen een bode naar Barton te zenden om hare moeder. Kolonel Brandon te\nraadplegen over de beste wijze, waarop dit zou kunnen gebeuren, was de\ngedachte onmiddellijk volgend op het genomen besluit, en zoodra zij\nde kamenier had gebeld, om haar plaats bij hare zuster in te nemen,\nging zij haastig naar beneden naar den salon, waar zij wist, dat hij\ngewoonlijk, op een nog veel later uur dan thans, was te vinden.\n\nVoor aarzelen was het de tijd niet. Wat zij vreesde en wat haar\nbezwaarde werd hem in enkele woorden medegedeeld. Hij had niet\ngenoeg moed, noch vertrouwen, tot een poging zelfs, om haar vrees\nte verdrijven; zwijgend en treurig hoorde hij haar aan; doch haar\nmoeilijkheden werden onmiddellijk uit den weg geruimd; want met een\nbereidwilligheid, die deed vermoeden, dat hij reeds bij voorbaat had\ngerekend op deze gelegenheid om van dienst te zijn, bood hij zich\naan als den boodschapper, die Mevrouw Dashwood zou gaan halen. Elinor\nmaakte geene tegenwerping, die niet gemakkelijk werd overwonnen. Zij\ndankte hem in enkele, innig gevoelde woorden, en terwijl hij zijn\nknecht haastig heenzond, om den Heer Harris te waarschuwen, en\nonmiddellijk postpaarden te bestellen, schreef zij een kort briefje\naan hare moeder. Hoe dankbaar verheugde zij zich op dat oogenblik in\nhet bezit van een vriend als Kolonel Brandon!--van een leidsman voor\nhare moeder, wiens oordeel haar zou voorlichten, wiens hulp haar rust\nzou schenken, en wiens vriendschap haar zou troosten!--Voor zoover\nde schok van zulk een tijding voor haar kòn worden verzacht, zouden\nzijn aanwezigheid, zijn gedrag, zijn gereede hulp daartoe bijdragen.\n\n_Hij_ intusschen handelde, wàt hij ook mocht gevoelen, met al de\nberadenheid van een rustigen geest, deed al het noodige met de\nuiterste snelheid, en berekende nauwkeurig het tijdstip, waarop zij\nzijne terugkomst mocht verwachten. Geen oogenblik ging verloren door\neenig oponthoud. De paarden kwamen nog eerder dan zij hadden verwacht,\nen Kolonel Brandon stapte haastig in het rijtuig, terwijl hij haar\nalleen met een diep-ernstigen blik de hand drukte, en enkele woorden\nsprak, te zacht dan dat zij ze kon verstaan. Het was nu omstreeks\ntwaalf uur, en zij ging terug naar haar zuster's kamer, om te wachten\nop de komst van den Heer Harris, en verder dien nacht bij haar te\nwaken. Voor beiden was het een lijdensnacht. Uur na uur verstreek,\nonder slapelooze pijn en koortsig ijlen van Marianne, onder kwellenden\nangst van Elinor, eer de Heer Harris kwam. De overmaat der eenmaal\ngewekte vrees deed haar boeten voor al haar vroegere kalmte, en het\nmeisje, dat met haar waakte, (want zij wilde Mevrouw Jennings niet\nlaten roepen), pijnigde haar te meer door zinspelingen op 't geen\nhaar meesteres altijd wel had gedacht.\n\nMarianne's gedachten dwaalden nog steeds, bij tusschenpoozen en\nonsamenhangend, naar hare moeder; en telkens als zij haar naam noemde,\nkromp het hart van de arme Elinor ineen, die, zichzelve verwijtend,\ndat zij zoovele dagen van ziekte zoo licht had geteld, en snakkend naar\neenige onmiddellijke verlichting, zich verbeeldde, dat alle hulp wel\nspoedig te vergeefsch zou zijn; dat alles te lang was uitgesteld, en\nzich haar bedroefde moeder voorstelde, telaat komend om haar geliefd\nkind nog in leven, of nog bij haar bewustzijn te vinden.\n\nZij was op het punt, nogmaals om den Heer Harris te zenden, of\nals _hij_ niet kon komen, anderen raad in te winnen, toen hij\neindelijk,--het was reeds over vijf geworden,--verscheen. Zijn\noordeel maakte gelukkig zijn late komst eenigszins goed; want hoewel\nhij erkende, dat er een zeer onverwachte en ongunstige verandering\nin den toestand der zieke was ingetreden, hij zag nog geen werkelijk\ngevaar, en sprak over de goede verwachting, die hij had van eene nieuwe\nbehandelingswijze, met zooveel vertrouwen, dat Elinor zich eenigermate\ngerustgesteld gevoelde. Hij beloofde over een uur of vier te zullen\nterugkomen en verliet zoowel de zieke als haar bezorgde verpleegster\nkalmer dan hij beiden had aangetroffen.\n\nMet oprechte meewarigheid, en vele verwijten, omdat hare hulp niet\nwas ingeroepen, vernam Mevrouw Jennings des morgens, wat er gebeurd\nwas. Haar vroegere vrees, thans en met meer reden, opnieuw gewekt, deed\nhaar omtrent den afloop geen twijfel koesteren, en hoewel zij poogde,\nElinor woorden van troost toe te spreken, haar stellige overtuiging\nomtrent het gevaar, waarin Marianne verkeerde, liet haar niet toe,\nden troost der hoop te verleenen. Het deed haar innig verdriet. Het\nsnelle verval, de vroege dood van een zoo jong en schoon meisje als\nMarianne zouden het medelijden hebben gewekt zelfs van wie haar minder\nna stond. Doch er was meer, dat haar recht gaf op Mevrouw Jennings'\nmeegevoel. Drie maanden was zij dagelijks met haar in aanraking\ngeweest, ook thans nog bleef zij aan hare zorg toevertrouwd;\nzij wist dat Marianne groot onrecht was geschied; dat zij lang en\nveel had geleden. Het verdriet harer zuster, van wie zij bijzonder\nveel hield, moest zij ook aanzien; en wat hunne moeder betrof, als\nmevrouw Jennings bedacht, dat Marianne waarschijnlijk voor haar was,\nwat Charlotte was voor haarzelve, dan leed zij in waarheid de smart\ndier andere moeder mede.\n\nDe Heer Harris bracht zijn tweede bezoek precies op tijd; doch zag\nzijn hoop op een goeden uitslag teleurgesteld. Zijne medicijnen\nhadden niet geholpen;--de koorts nam nog niet af, en Marianne\nbleef,--rustiger, doch niet bij kennis,--in een toestand van doffe\nbewusteloosheid. Elinor, onmiddellijk onder den indruk van zijn vrees,\nen erger nog, stelde voor, andere hulp in te roepen. Doch hij achtte\ndit niet noodig; hij wilde nog een nieuwe behandeling beproeven, op\nwelke uitwerking hij bijna evenveel vertrouwen had als op de vorige,\nen hij nam afscheid met bemoedigende verzekeringen, die Elinor\naanhoorde, zonder dat zij doordrongen tot haar hart. Zij was kalm;\nbehalve wanneer zij aan hare moeder dacht; doch zij had bijna geen\nhoop meer; en zoo bleef zij tot twaalf uur bij haar zuster's bed\nzitten, terwijl haar gedachten van de eene treurige voorstelling, van\nden eenen lijdenden vriend naar den anderen zwierven, en zij bijna\ntot wanhoop werd gedreven door het gepraat van Mevrouw Jennings,\ndie onomwonden uitsprak, dat zij de hevigheid en gevaarlijkheid van\ndezen ziekte-aanval toeschreef aan de vele voorafgegane weken van\nongesteldheid, veroorzaakt door Marianne's teleurstelling. Elinor\ngevoelde maar al te zeer, hoe gegrond deze veronderstelling was,\nen dit stemde haar des te droeviger.\n\nOmstreeks twaalf uur echter begon zij,--maar met een schroomvalligheid,\neene vrees voor teleurstelling, die haar eenigen tijd deden zwijgen,\nzelfs tegenover haar vriendin,--zich te verbeelden, te hopen, dat\nzij een geringe verbetering bespeurde in haar zuster's polsslag;--zij\nwachtte, zag toe, voelde nogmaals en nogmaals, en eindelijk waagde zij,\nmet een ontroering, moeilijker te verbergen achter uitwendige kalmte\ndan al het voorgaand verdriet, hare hoop uit te spreken. Hoewel Mevrouw\nJennings eveneens moest erkennen, dat er een tijdelijke verbetering te\nbespeuren viel, trachtte zij haar vriendin te ontraden, die verbetering\nals blijvend te beschouwen; en Elinor, langdurig verwijlend bij elke\ningeving van wantrouwen, hield zich zelve voor, dat zij niet mòcht\nhopen. Doch het was te laat. De hoop had zich reeds toegang gebaand,\nen deelend in al haar angstige bewogenheid, boog Elinor zich over haar\nzuster, om te wachten op... zij wist zelve bijna niet wàt. Een half\nuur verstreek, en nog mocht zij zich verblijden over het gunstig\nteeken. Andere voegden zich daarbij, om het te bevestigen. Haar\nademhaling, haar huid, haar lippen, in alles zag Elinor sporen van\nbeterschap, en Marianne zag haar aan met een rustigen, schoon matten\nblik. Tusschen hoop en vrees, die zich gelijkelijk van haar meester\nmaakten, had zij geen oogenblik rust, tot om vier uur de Heer Harris\nkwam, die haar door zijn stellige verzekering, en door zijn gelukwensch\nmet een beterschap, welke zijn verwachting overtrof, zoowel vertrouwen\nals kalmte schonk en bewoog tot tranen van vreugde.\n\nMarianne was in elk opzicht oneindig beter, en hij verklaarde haar\nthans geheel buiten gevaar. Mevrouw Jennings, misschien voldaan,\nnu haar sombere voorgevoelens althans gedeeltelijk waren bewaarheid\ndoor den pas uitgestanen angst, begon te denken, dat hij wel gelijk\nzou hebben, en gaf met ongeveinsde blijdschap, en al spoedig met\nonmiskenbare vroolijkheid, te kennen dat ook zij geloofde in een\nvolkomen herstel.\n\nVroolijkheid kon Elinor niet aan den dag leggen. Haar vreugde was van\nanderen aard en leidde het allerminst tot blijdschaps-uiting. Marianne\nte zien teruggegeven aan het leven, gezondheid, haar vrienden en\nhare liefhebbende moeder, was een denkbeeld, dat haar hart vervulde\nmet een gewaarwording van innige bevrediging; dat het deed zwellen\nvan vurige dankbaarheid;--doch dat gevoel vertolkte zich door geen\nuiterlijk vreugdebetoon, geen woorden, geen glimlach. In Elinor's\nbinnenste was slechts plaats voor stille, sterke voldoening.\n\nZij bleef dien namiddag bijna voortdurend aan haar zuster's zijde, elke\nvrees bedarend, elke vraag van haar verzwakten geest beantwoordend, tot\nalle hulp bereid, en lettend op elken blik, op iedere ademhaling. De\nmogelijkheid van instorting kwam haar natuurlijk nu en dan herinneren\naan 't geen het zeggen wilde, angst te gevoelen;--maar toen zij\nbij herhaald, nauwkeurig onderzoek, bespeurde dat alle teekenen\nvan beterschap aanhielden, toen zij Marianne om zes uur in een\nrustigen, vasten en oogenschijnlijk verkwikkenden slaap zag vallen,\nlegde zij elken twijfel het zwijgen op. De tijd naderde thans, dat\nKolonel Brandon kon worden terugverwacht. Om tien uur, dacht zij,\nof althans niet veel later, zou voor haar moeder een einde komen aan\nde vreeselijke onzekerheid, waarin zij thans naar hen op weg was. En\nde Kolonel ook!--misschien weinig minder te beklagen dan zij!--O, hoe\nlangzaam verstreek de tijd, die hen nog in onwetendheid bleef houden!\n\nOm zeven uur ging zij, toen Marianne nog steeds rustig doorsliep, naar\nden salon, om met Mevrouw Jennings thee te drinken. Aan het ontbijt had\nzij door haar angst, en aan het diner door de plotselinge bevrijding\nervan, niet veel gegeten,--en dus was haar deze maaltijd, waaraan\nzij met zulk een tevreden gevoel deelnam, bijzonder welkom. Mevrouw\nJennings wilde haar na de thee overhalen om nog wat te rusten eer\nhaar moeder kwam, _zij_ zou dan hare plaats bij Marianne innemen;\nmaar Elinor voelde op dat oogenblik noch vermoeienis, noch behoefte\naan slaap, en zij wilde volstrekt niet langer dan noodig was, van haar\nzuster wegblijven. Nadat Mevrouw Jennings dus met haar was meegegaan\nnaar de ziekenkamer, om zelf te zien, dat alles goed bleef gaan, liet\nzij haar daar alleen met hare taak en hare gedachten, en ging naar\nhaar eigen kamer, om brieven te schrijven, eer zij zich ter rust begaf.\n\nDe avond was koud en stormachtig. De wind joeg in vlagen rondom\nhet huis en de regen sloeg tegen de vensters; maar Elinor in wier\nbinnenste alles blijdschap was, deerde het niet. Marianne sliep\ndoor elke stormvlaag heen,--en de reizigers--hun wachtte de rijkste\nbelooning voor alle tegenwoordig ongerief.\n\nDe klok sloeg acht uur. Had het tien geslagen, dan zou Elinor stellig\ngemeend hebben, dat zij op dat oogenblik een rijtuig hoorde naderkomen,\nen zo zeker geloofde zij het werkelijk gehoord te hebben, dat zij,\nal scheen het _bijna_ onmogelijk, hun komst nu reeds te verwachten,\nnaar de aangrenzende kleedkamer ging, en een der luiken opende, om zich\nvan de waarheid te vergewissen. Zij zag dadelijk, dat haar ooren haar\nniet hadden bedrogen, toen zij het licht van twee rijtuiglantaarns\nbespeurde. Bij hun onzeker schijnsel meende zij te zien, dat het\nvoertuig met vier paarden was bespannen; waaruit zij niet slechts\nafleidde, in hoe groote ongerustheid haar arme moeder moest hebben\nverkeerd; doch 't geen tevens de onverwachte snelheid verklaarde,\nwaarmede de reis volbracht was. Nog nooit in haar leven had Elinor het\nzoo moeilijk bevonden, kalm te zijn, als op dat oogenblik. Het besef\nvan wat haar moeder moest gevoelen, terwijl het rijtuig voor de deur\nstilhield,--van haar twijfel--haar vrees--haar wanhoop misschien!--en\nwat _zij_ daarop te zeggen had!--met dàt besef was het onmogelijk,\nkalm te zijn. Het eenige wat haar te doen stond, was haast te maken;\nen zoodra zij Mevrouw Jennings' kamenier bij haar zuster had geroepen,\nsnelde zij de trap af.\n\nToen zij een afgesloten gang doorliep, hoorde zij aan de voetstappen\nin de vestibule, dat zij het huis reeds waren binnengegaan. Haastig\nliep zij naar den salon,--trad binnen,--en stond tegenover Willoughby.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XLIV\n\n\nElinor, die met een blik vol ontzetting terugdeinsde toen zij hem zag,\ngaf gehoor aan eene natuurlijke opwelling, toen zij zich omkeerde,\nom de kamer te verlaten, en zij legde de hand reeds op den deurknop,\ntoen zij werd teruggehouden, doordat hij haastig nadertrad, en op\neer bevelenden dan verzoekenden toon zeide:\n\n\"Juffrouw Dashwood, blijf!--een half uur,--tien minuten, ik smeek u\ner om.\"\n\n\"Neen mijnheer,\" zeide zij vastberaden; \"ik blijf hier niet. U kunt\nom _mij_ niet gekomen zijn. De bedienden hebben zeker vergeten u te\nzeggen, dat de Heer Palmer niet thuis is.\"\n\n\"Al hadden ze mij verteld,\" riep hij heftig, \"dat de Heer Palmer\nen zijn geheele familie naar den duivel waren, dan zou mij dat niet\nhebben bewogen, heen te gaan! Ik kom hier om u te spreken, u alleen.\"\n\n\"Mij!\"--riep zij, ten hoogste verbaasd,--\"welnu, zeg het dan vlug,--en\nals u kunt, met minder heftigheid.\"\n\n\"Gaat u zitten; dan zal ik aan beide voorwaarden voldoen.\"\n\nZij aarzelde; zij wist niet, hoe te handelen. Het ging haar door\nhet hoofd, dat Kolonel Brandon hem hier bij zijn aankomst zou\nkunnen vinden. Maar zij had beloofd, hem aan te hooren, en zoowel\nnieuwsgierigheid als die verplichting drongen haar te blijven. Na\neen oogenblik nadenken echter kwam zij tot het besluit, dat\nvoorzichtigheid haast gebood, die door haar bereidwilligheid het\nbeste werd bevorderd. Zij ging dus zwijgend naar de tafel en nam\nplaats. Hij ging op den stoel tegenover haar zitten, en een halve\nminuut bleven beiden zwijgen.\n\n\"Wees zoo goed te zeggen, wat u te zeggen hebt, mijnheer,\" zeide\nElinor ongeduldig,--\"ik heb geen tijd te verliezen.\"\n\nHij zat in diepe gedachten verzonken, en scheen haar niet te hooren.\n\n\"Uwe zuster,\" zei hij een oogenblik later,--\"is buiten gevaar. Ik\nhoorde het van den knecht.--Goddank!--Maar is het waar?--is het\nwerkelijk waar?\"--\n\nElinor wilde niet antwoorden. Hij herhaalde de vraag met nog meer\naandrang.\n\n\"Om Godswil, zeg het mij, is het gevaar geweken, of niet?\"\n\n\"Wij hopen het.\"\n\nHij stond op, en liep door de kamer.\n\n\"Had ik dit een half uur geleden geweten... Maar nu ik eenmaal hier\nbèn,\" ging hij met gedwongen levendigheid voort, terwijl hij weer ging\nzitten, \"wat komt het er nu op aan?--Laat ons nog eenmaal,--misschien\nvoor de laatste maal, Juffrouw Dashwood,--samen vroolijk zijn. Zeg\nmij eens eerlijk,\"--een donkerder tint kleurde zijn wangen, \"waarvoor\nhoudt u mij, voor een schurk, of voor een gek?\"\n\nElinor zag hem met steeds meer verbazing aan. Zij begon te denken,\ndat hij beschonken moest zijn; zij kon het vreemde bezoek en zijn\nzonderlinge houding op geen andere wijze verklaren; en onder dien\nindruk stond zij onmiddellijk op, met de woorden:\n\n\"Mijnheer Willoughby, ik raad u aan, nu naar Combe terug te keeren. Ik\nheb geen tijd, om langer te blijven. Wàt u mij ook hebt te zeggen,\nmorgen zult u het u beter herinneren, en het beter kunnen verklaren.\"\n\n\"Ik begrijp u,\" antwoordde hij met een veelbeteekenenden glimlach,\nop volkomen kalmen toon. \"O ja, ik ben dronken. Dat glas bier bij\nmijn koud vleesch in Marlborough was voldoende om mij van de wijs\nte brengen.\"\n\n\"In Marlborough?\" riep Elinor, die steeds minder begreep wat hij\ntoch wilde.\n\n\"Ja, ik ben van morgen om acht uur uit Londen vertrokken, en in de\neenige tien minuten, die ik sinds dat vertrek buiten mijn rijtuig\ndoorbracht, heb ik iets gebruikt te Marlborough.\"\n\nZijn bedaarde wijze van spreken en de vastheid van zijn blik\novertuigden Elinor, dat het geen dronkenschap was, die hem hier bracht,\nwelke onvergefelijke dwaasheid hem dan ook naar Cleveland mocht hebben\ngedreven. Na een oogenblik nadenken zeide zij: \"Mijnheer Willoughby,\nu behoordet te begrijpen, wat _ik_ zeer stellig gevoel, dat, na 't\ngeen er gebeurd is, uwe komst hier op deze wijze, en dit met geweld\nu aan mij opdringen, wel zéér noodig verontschuldiging eischen. Wat\nis uwe bedoeling?\"\n\n\"Mijn bedoeling is,\" zeide hij met ernstigen nadruk, \"als ik\nkàn, te bewerken, dat u mij _iets_ minder zult verafschuwen dan u\nthans doet. Mijn bedoeling is, althans eenige verschooning, eenige\nverklaring aan te bieden van het verleden,--mijn geheele hart voor u\nopen te leggen, en u te overtuigen dat ik, hoewel altoos kortzichtig,\nniet altoos slecht ben geweest,--om althans iets als vergiffenis te\nverkrijgen van Ma..., van uwe zuster.\"\n\n\"Is dat de werkelijke reden van uw komst?\"\n\n\"Dat zweer ik u,\"--antwoordde hij, met een warmte, die haar aan den\nWilloughby van vroeger levendig herinnerde, en haar noopte, haars\nondanks te gelooven aan zijn oprechtheid.\n\n\"Wanneer dat alles is, dan kunt u reeds voldaan zijn; want Marianne\nvergeeft u--hééft u reeds lang vergeven.\"\n\n\"Is dat waar?\"--riep hij, met die zelfde ontroering in zijn stem.--\"Dan\nheeft zij mij vergeven, eer het daartoe de tijd was. Maar zij zal\nmij nogmaals vergeven, en met grondiger reden daartoe. Wilt u mij\n_nu_ aanhooren?\"\n\nElinor boog toestemmend het hoofd.\n\n\"Ik weet niet,\" zeide hij, na een poos van stilte, afwachtend van háár\nkant, nadenkend van den zijnen--\"hoe _u_ mijn gedrag tegenover uwe\nzuster hebt verklaard, of welke duivelsche beweegreden u mij moogt\nhebben toegeschreven. Misschien zult u hierna niet eens veel beter\nover mij denken; maar het is de moeite waard, het te beproeven,\nen u zult alles vernemen. Toen ik voor het eerst uw familie van\nnabij leerde kennen, had ik geen ander plan, geene andere bedoeling\nmet dien omgang, dan mijn tijd aangenaam door te brengen, zoolang\nik in Devonshire moest blijven; aangenamer dan ik ooit te voren had\ngedaan. Uw zuster's bekoorlijkheid en haar ongewone gaven moesten mij\nwel aantrekken, en haar houding jegens mij, bijna van den beginne, was\nzóó... Verwonderlijk, wanneer ik bedenk, wat die was, en hoe _zij_ was,\ndat mijn hart zoo gevoelloos heeft kunnen zijn!--Doch ik moet bekennen,\nin het begin werd alleen mijn ijdelheid erdoor gevleid. Onverschillig\nvoor haar geluk, alleen denkend aan mijn eigen genoegen, geheel onder\nden invloed van gevoelens, waardoor ik te zeer gewend was mij te laten\nbeheerschen, trachtte ik, door elk middel dat mij ten dienste stond,\nbeminnelijk te schijnen in haar oogen, zonder het minste voornemen,\nhaar genegenheid te beantwoorden.\"\n\nHier wierp Elinor hem een blik toe vol verontwaardigde minachting,\nen viel hem in de rede door te zeggen:\n\n\"Het is werkelijk niet de moeite waard, mijnheer Willoughby, dat\nu nog langer blijft vertellen, of ik naar u luisteren. Wat zou er\nkunnen volgen, na zulk een begin? Laat mij niet méér hooren over dit\npijnlijke onderwerp.\"\n\n\"Ik wil, dat u alles zult aanhooren,\" was zijn antwoord. \"Mijn fortuin\nwas nooit aanzienlijk, en ik was altoos verkwistend geweest, altoos\ngewend om te gaan met lieden, die meer inkomen hadden dan ikzelf. Met\nieder jaar, sedert ik meerderjarig was geworden, en reeds eerder,\ngeloof ik, waren mijn schulden toegenomen, en hoewel de dood van mijn\noude nicht, Mevrouw Smith, mij daarvan zou bevrijden, had ik, daar op\ndie gebeurtenis niet viel te rekenen, en zij nog lang leven kon, reeds\neenigen tijd het voornemen opgevat, weer in beteren doen te geraken\ndoor een rijke vrouw te trouwen. Aan eene verloving met uwe zuster\nviel dus niet te denken; en met een lage, zelfzuchtige wreedheid,\ndie geen verontwaardigde, minachtende blik, zelfs van u, juffrouw\nDashwood, genoeg kan afkeuren,--ging ik voort, zooals ik was begonnen,\npogend haar genegenheid te winnen, zonder eenig voornemen, die te\nbeantwoorden. Een ding echter mag te mijnen gunste worden aangevoerd,\nzelfs in dien verfoeilijken toestand van zelfzuchtige ijdelheid\nbesefte ik niet den omvang van het misdrijf dat ik wilde begaan,\nomdat ik _toen_ niet wist wat het zeggen wil, lief te hebben. Heb ik\ndat ooit geweten?--Wel mag dat worden betwijfeld; want zou ik, zoo ik\nwaarlijk bemind had, mijn gevoel hebben opgeofferd aan ijdelheid, aan\nhebzucht--of wat erger was, het hare hebben prijsgegeven?--Toch heb\nik dat gedaan. Om eene betrekkelijke armoede te vermijden, die haar\nliefde en haar bijzijn van alle bitterheid zouden hebben ontdaan,\nheb ik, door mij rijkdom te verwerven, alles verloren, wat dien\nrijkdom tot een zegen zou kunnen doen zijn.\"\n\n\"U hebt dus,\" zeide Elinor, ietwat verzacht, \"een tijdlang geloofd,\ndat u waarlijk genegenheid voor haar gevoelde.\"\n\n\"Zooveel beminnelijkheid te weerstaan, gevoelloos te blijven voor\nzooveel teederheid!--is er wel een man ter wereld, die daartoe in staat\nzou zijn geweest?--Ja, van lieverlede, onmerkbaar bijna, maar zeker,\nnam mijn gehechtheid aan haar toe, en de gelukkigste uren van mijn\nleven waren die, welke ik sleet in haar bijzijn, als ik gevoelde, dat\nmijn bedoelingen eerlijk waren, en mijn genegenheid zuiver. En toch,\nzelfs _toen_, terwijl ik stellig voornemens was, haar ten huwelijk\nte vragen, stelde ik op onvergefelijke wijze van dag tot dag uit,\ngevolg te geven aan dit plan uit schroom, een verloving aan te gaan\nin mijne benarde omstandigheden. Ik wil hier niet wijzen op--noch\naan u overlaten dat voor _mij_ te doen,--de dwaasheid, en erger dan\ndwaasheid, terug te schrikken voor het verpanden van mijn trouw,\nwaar mijn eer mij reeds had gebonden. De uitkomst heeft bewezen, dat\nik een listige gek ben geweest, die met groote omzichtigheid zich de\nmogelijkheid wilde voorbehouden, voor altijd verachtelijk en ongelukkig\nte worden. Ten laatste echter stond mijn besluit vast, en ik had mij\nvoorgenomen, zoodra ik haar alleen kon spreken, de oprechtheid te\nbewijzen der hulde, die ik haar voortdurend had toegebracht, en haar\nopenlijk de liefde te verklaren, die ik zoo duidelijk en opzettelijk\nreeds had aan den dag gelegd. Doch in het tijdsverloop van enkele\nuren, die nog moesten verstrijken, eer ik gelegenheid kon vinden\nhaar onder vier oogen te spreken,--gebeurde iets... iets ongelukkigs,\ndat mijn plannen verijdelde, en mij tevens alle rust ontnam. Er werd\niets ontdekt...\" (hier aarzelde hij, en sloeg de oogen neer). \"Mevrouw\nSmith had op de eene of andere wijze vernomen, ik denk door een verren\nbloedverwant, wiens belang medebracht, mij van haar gunst te berooven,\nvan eene zaak, eene verbintenis... doch ik behoef mij niet nader te\nverklaren,\" voegde hij erbij, met verhoogde kleur en haar aanziende\nmet een vragenden blik, \"uwe bijzondere vertrouwelijkheid met... u\nzult waarschijnlijk de geheele geschiedenis reeds hebben vernomen.\"\n\n\"Dat heb ik,\" antwoordde Elinor, eveneens blozend, en opnieuw haar\nhart verhardend tegen eenige opwelling van medelijden met hem. \"Ik\nweet dat alles. En hoe u ook maar een zweem van uw schuld in die\ntreurige zaak zult kunnen wegredeneeren, gaat mijn bevatting te boven.\"\n\n\"Bedenk,\" riep Willoughby, \"van wien u het verhaal hebt gehoord. Kon\nhet onpartijdig zijn? Ik erken, dat ik haar omstandigheden en haar\njeugd had moeten ontzien. Ik wil mij niet van schuld vrijpleiten,\ndoch evenmin kan ik u in de meening laten verkeeren, dat ik niets\nte mijner verdediging heb aan te voeren; dat zij onberispelijk was,\nomdat haar onrecht werd aangedaan, of dat, wijl ik losbandig was,\nzij een heilige moest zijn. Als de onstuimigheid van haar hartstocht,\nde zwakheid van haar geestvermogens... maar verdedigen wil ik mij\nniet. Haar liefde voor mij had beter verdiend, en dikwijls herinner\nik mij, met diep zelfverwijt, de teederheid, die voor zeer korten\ntijd vermocht een dergelijk gevoel in mij te wekken. Ik wenschte van\nganscher harte dat dit nooit was geschied. Maar ik heb anderen dan\nhaar kwaad gedaan; en ééne heb ik kwaad gedaan, wier liefde voor mij\n(mag ik het zeggen?) niet minder innig was dan de hare, en die naar\nden geest... o, hoe oneindig veel hooger stond dan zij!\"\n\n\"Maar uwe onverschilligheid voor dat ongelukkige meisje,--ik moet het\nzeggen, hoezeer mij het bespreken van zulk een onderwerp ook tegen de\nborst stuit--uwe onverschilligheid maakt uwe hartelooze veronachtzaming\nniet goed. U moogt niet denken, dat eenige zwakheid, eenig natuurlijk\ngebrek aan begrip van haar kant eene verontschuldiging zou kunnen\nzijn voor de lichtzinnige wreedheid, door u zoo duidelijk aan den dag\ngelegd. U moet hebben geweten, dat zij, terwijl u in Devonshire reeds\nweer nieuwe genoegens vondt, nieuwe plannen maaktet, altoos vroolijk,\naltoos welgemoed, intusschen bitter gebrek leed.\"\n\n\"Ik verzeker u, ik wist dat _niet_,\" antwoordde hij met nadruk;\n\"ik herinnerde mij niet, dat ik verzuimd had, haar mijn adres op te\ngeven; en als zij haar verstand gebruikt had, zou ze 't licht hebben\nkunnen uitvinden.\"\n\n\"Maar gaat u voort: wat zeide dan nu Mevrouw Smith?\"\n\n\"Zij kwam dadelijk met hare beschuldiging voor den dag; en dat ik\nbeschaamd was, behoef ik niet te zeggen. Haar strenge zedelijkheid,\nhaar vormelijke begrippen, haar gebrek aan wereldkennis,--alles had ik\ntegen mij. Het feit zelf kon ik niet ontkennen, en elke poging het te\nverzachten, was vergeefsch. Zij was toch al reeds geneigd, geloof ik,\nmijn zedelijk gedrag over 't geheel te wantrouwen, en daarbij was\nzij ontevreden, omdat ik, bij dit bezoek, al zeer weinig aandacht,\nen zeer weinig tijd aan háár had geschonken. Het kwam dan ook tusschen\nons tot een volslagen breuk. Op ééne wijze slechts had ik mij kunnen\nredden. Bij haar nauwgezette opvattingen van zedelijkheid bood de\ngoede vrouw aan, het verleden te vergeven, als ik met Eliza wilde\ntrouwen. Dat ging niet--en zij ontzei mij van nu af hare gunst en\nhare gastvrijheid. Op den avond na dit gesprek,--ik zou den volgenden\nmorgen vertrekken,--overwoog ik mijn toekomstig gedrag. De strijd was\nzwaar,--doch te spoedig gestreden. Mijn liefde voor Marianne, mijn\nstellige verzekerdheid van haar gehechtheid aan mij,--al die gevoelens\nwaren niet bij machte, op te wegen tegen de vrees voor armoede of\nde verkeerde denkbeelden te overwinnen omtrent de onmisbaarheid van\nrijkdom, die ik van nature geneigd was, te koesteren, en die mijn\nomgang met verkwistende vrienden had versterkt. Ik wist, dat ik op\nde toestemming mijner tegenwoordige vrouw kon rekenen, wanneer ik\nhaar ten huwelijk vroeg, en ik maakte mijzelf wijs, dat mij, uit\nvoorzichtigheid, niet anders overbleef. Nog een zware taak wachtte\nmij, eer ik Devonshire kon verlaten; ik had beloofd, dien dag bij u\nte zullen dineeren; er was dus eenige verontschuldiging noodig voor\nhet verbreken dier belofte. Of ik deze schriftelijk zou afleggen,\nof persoonlijk zou komen brengen, was een punt, waarover ik het\nlangen tijd niet met mijzelf kon eens worden. Marianne weer te zien,\nzou ontzettend zijn, en ik twijfelde zelfs, of ik, als ik haar zag,\nbij mijn besluit kon volharden. Op dat punt echter onderschatte ik\nmijn krachten, zooals uit het gebeurde is gebleken; want ik ging; ik\nzag haar; zag hoe zij leed, en verliet haar in haar lijden;--verliet\nhaar, hopende haar nooit weer te zien.\"\n\n\"Waarom bracht u dat bezoek, Mijnheer Willoughby?\" zeide Elinor\nverwijtend; \"een brief zou volkomen afdoende zijn geweest. Waarom\nwas het noodig, zelf te gaan?\"\n\n\"Mijn trots gedoogde niet anders. Ik verkoos niet, heen te gaan op\neen wijze, die u, of de andere kennissen in de omtrek, zou kunnen\ndoen gissen, wat tusschen mij en Mevrouw Smith was voorgevallen,\nen daarom besloot ik, op weg naar Honiton, bij uw huis stil te\nhouden. Vreeselijk was het voor mij, uwe lieve zuster te zien, en\nwat de zaak nog moeilijker maakte, ik trof haar alleen. U waart\nallen uitgegaan, waarheen weet ik niet. Den avond te voren had\nik haar verlaten, zoo stellig, zoo vast besloten in mijn hart, te\ndoen wat goed was! Binnen weinige uren zou zij voor altoos aan mij\nverbonden zijn geweest; en ik weet nog, hoe gelukkig, hoe verheugd\nik mij gevoelde, toen ik van uw huisje naar Allenham wandelde,\ntevreden over mijzelf, jegens ieder welgezind! Doch bij dat laatste\nvriendschappelijke onderhoud naderde ik haar met een schuldgevoel,\ndat mij het vermogen tot veinzen bijna benam. Haar smart, haar\nteleurstelling, haar diepe verslagenheid, toen ik haar zeide, dat\nik zoo plotseling uit Devonshire moest vertrekken,--ik vergeet het\nnooit; en daarbij haar volkomen geloof, haar vertrouwen in mij! O God,\nwat een hardvochtige schurk was ik toen!\"\n\nBeiden zwegen een poos. Elinor sprak het eerst.\n\n\"Zei u toen, dat u spoedig zoudt terugkeeren?\"\n\n\"Ik weet niet, wat ik haar zeide,\" antwoordde hij ongeduldig; \"minder,\nin elk geval, dan het verleden haar recht gaf, te verwachten, en\nwaarschijnlijk veel meer dan de toekomst in vervulling bracht. Ik\nkan er niet aan denken,--ik wil dat niet. Daarna kwam uwe goede\nmoeder, om mij nog verder te pijnigen met haar vriendelijkheid en\nhaar vertrouwen. Dat hééft mij gepijnigd, Goddank. Ik voelde mij\nellendig. Juffrouw Dashwood, u kunt u niet voorstellen, hoe het mij\ngoed doet, te denken aan wat ik geleden heb. Zoo bitter verwijt ik\nmij mijn eigen domme, schurkachtige dwaasheid, dat al het verdriet,\ndat ik mij er vroeger door heb berokkend, mij nu een bron van\ntrots en blijdschap is. Nu dan, ik ging; ik verliet allen, die ik\nliefhad, en ging naar hen, wien ik, op zijn best, onverschillig\nwas. Mijn reis naar de stad,--met mijn eigen paarden, en dus zoo\nlangzaam,--geen sterveling om meer te spreken,--mijn eigen gedachten\nzoo vroolijk,--mijne vooruitzichten zoo uitlokkend!--den terugblik\nnaar Barton zoo bevredigend!--o, het was een onvergetelijke tocht.\"\n\nHij zweeg.\n\n\"En is dat alles?\" zeide Elinor, die ofschoon zij medelijden met hem\nhad, verlangde, dat hij zou vertrekken.\n\n\"Alles? neen!--hebt u vergeten wat er in Londen voorviel? Die\nschandelijke brief! Heeft zij hem u laten lezen?\"--\n\n\"Ja; ik las alle brieven, die werden gewisseld.\"\n\n\"Toen ik haar eerste briefje ontving (dadelijk, want ik was al dien\ntijd in de stad) was mijn gevoel zooals men dat gewoonlijk uitdrukt,\nniet onder woorden te brengen; eenvoudiger gezegd,--misschien\nte eenvoudig om ontroering te wekken,--ik was pijnlijk, zéér\npijnlijk getroffen. Elke regel, ieder woord was--om de afgezaagde\nvergelijking te bezigen, die de lieve schrijfster, zoo zij hier ware,\nzou verbieden,--een dolksteek in mijn hart. Het bericht, dat Marianne\nin de stad was, trof mij, in die zelfde taal uitgedrukt, als een\ndonderslag. Donderslagen en dolksteken!--hoe zou ze mij de les hebben\ngelezen!--haar smaak, haar oordeel,--ik geloof dat ze mij beter bekend\nzijn dan mijn eigen meeningen, en zéér zeker zijn ze mij liever.\"\n\nElinor's gemoed, waarin vele wisselingen hadden plaats gegrepen\nin den loop van dit zonderlinge gesprek, was thans weer verzacht;\nmaar toch achtte zij het haar plicht, dergelijke denkbeelden in hem\nte bestrijden.\n\n\"Dit is niet goed, mijnheer Willoughby. Bedenk, dat u getrouwd\nbent. Vertel mij alleen, wat u in ernst noodig acht, dat ik zal\nvernemen.\"\n\n\"Toen Marianne's briefje mij de zekerheid schonk, dat ik haar nog\neven dierbaar was als vroeger, dat zij ondanks de vele, vele weken,\nsedert onze scheiding verloopen, nog even trouw was aan haar eigen\ngevoelens en nog even vertrouwend op de standvastigheid van de mijne,\nontwaakte in mij het berouw. Ik zeg: ontwaakte; want de tijd en\nLonden, bezigheid en ijdel vermaak hadden het, in zekeren zin, doen\ninsluimeren, en ik was langzamerhand een waarlijk verharde booswicht\ngeworden, mij verbeeldend, dat ik haar onverschillig was, en mij\ninpratend, dat ik ook voor haar niets meer gevoelde; ik beschouwde\ninwendig onze vroegere genegenheid als een voorbijgaand, vluchtig\nminnarijtje, haalde de schouders erover op, om mij zelf dat diets te\nmaken, en bracht elk verwijt tot zwijgen, verwon elk gewetensbezwaar,\ndoor in stilte nu en dan te zeggen: \"Ik zal blij zijn, wanneer ik\nhoor, dat ze een goed huwelijk heeft gedaan.\"--Doch dat briefje\nleerde mij mijzelf beter kennen. Ik gevoelde, dat ik haar oneindig\nliever had dan eenige vrouw ter wereld, en dat ik haar schandelijk\nbehandelde. Doch juist toen was tusschen Juffrouw Grey en mij alles\nbeslist. Terugtrekken was onmogelijk. Al wat mij stond te doen, was,\nu beiden te vermijden. Ik antwoordde Marianne niet, om geene verdere\nmededeeling van haar uit te lokken; en een tijdlang was ik zelfs\nniet voornemens, een bezoek te brengen in Berkeley Street; maar daar\nik het tenslotte verstandiger vond, de houding aan te nemen van een\nonverschilligen, gewonen bekende, wachtte ik op zekeren morgen tot\nik u allen had zien uitgaan, en gaf daarna mijn kaartje af.\"--\n\n\"Zaagt u ons uitgaan?\"\n\n\"Ja zeker. U zoudt verwonderd zijn, als u wist, hoe dikwijls ik u\nbespiedde, hoe licht ik u had kunnen ontmoeten. Ik ben menigmaal een\nwinkel binnengegaan, om niet door u te worden gezien, als uw rijtuig\nvoorbijreed. Er ging bijna geen dag voorbij, waarop ik niet uit mijn\nkamer in Bond Street een van u allen in 't voorbijgaan zag, en niets\ndan voortdurende waakzaamheid van mijne zijde, de onveranderlijke\nwensch om mij niet aan u te vertoonen had ons zoolang gescheiden\nkunnen houden. Ik vermeed de Middletons zooveel mogelijk, evenals\nalle anderen, die wellicht gemeenschappelijke bekenden hadden kunnen\nzijn. Daar ik niet wist, dat zij in de stad waren, ontmoette ik hen\nbij Sir John, den eersten dag nadat ze waren aangekomen, geloof ik,\nen den volgenden dag bracht ik dat bezoek bij Mevrouw Jennings. Hij\nvroeg mij op een partij, een danspartij bij hem aan huis dien\navond. Al had hij mij _niet_ verteld, om mij over te halen, dat u\nen uwe zuster er ook zouden zijn, dan zou ik daarop toch te stellig\nhebben gerekend, om mijzelf in zijne buurt te wagen. Den volgenden\nmorgen kreeg ik weer een briefje van Marianne,--nog steeds hartelijk,\nopen, eenvoudig, vertrouwend, --al wat _mijn_ gedrag verfoeilijk kon\ndoen schijnen. Ik kon er niet op antwoorden. Ik beproefde het, maar\nkon geen woorden vinden. Doch ik dacht aan haar, geloof ik, op elk\nuur van den dag. Wanneer _u_ mij kunt beklagen, Juffrouw Dashwood,\nbeklaag dan den toestand, waarin ik mij _toen_ bevond. Terwijl mijn\nhoofd en hart vol waren van uwe zuster, moest ik tegenover eene\nandere vrouw de rol van den gelukkigen minnaar spelen! Die drie\nof vier weken waren het ergst van alles. En ten laatste, ik behoef\nhet u niet te zeggen, _moest_ ik u ontmoeten; en hoe fraai was mijn\nhouding!--Wàt een avond was dat! Marianne aan den eenen kant, even\nschoon als altoos, mij bij mijn naam noemend op zùlk een toon!--o God,\nhaar hand naar mij uitstekend, mij een verklaring vragend van mijn\ngedrag, terwijl die betooverende oogen met zoo sprekende bezorgheid\nop mijn gelaat gevestigd waren!--en Sophia, razend van jaloezie,\naan den anderen, met een gezicht als... Laat ik daarvan zwijgen;\nhet is nu voorbij. Zulk een avond! Zoodra ik kon, vluchtte ik heen\nvan u allen, doch niet eer ik Marianne's lief gezicht doodsbleek\nhad zien worden. Dàt was de laatste, laatste blik dien ik van haar\nopving,--de laatste dien ik op haar wierp. Ontzettende aanblik! Toch,\ntoen ik mij haar vandaag als stervende voorstelde, was het in zekeren\nzin een troost voor mij, te denken, dat ik wist, hoe zij zich zou\nvertoonen aan hen, die haar voor het laatst aanschouwden in deze\nwereld. Ik zag haar voor mij, aanhoudend vóór mij, op weg hierheen\nmet dien zelfden blik, diezelfde lijkkleur.\"\n\nEr volgde een korte stilte, waarin beiden nadachten. Willoughby,\nhet eerst uit zijn overpeinzingen opschrikkend, verbrak het zwijgen,\ndoor te zeggen:\n\n\"Laat ik nu gaan. Uwe zuster is dus werkelijk beter, werkelijk\nbuiten gevaar.\"\n\n\"Dat is ons stellig verzekerd.\"\n\n\"En uwe arme moeder!--die zoo dweepte met Marianne!\"\n\n\"Maar die brief, mijnheer Willoughby, uw eigen brief; hebt u daarover\nniets te zeggen?\"\n\n\"Ja, ja; veel zelfs. U weet, uw zuster schreef mij nog eenmaal,\nden volgenden morgen. Wat zij zeide, hebt u gezien. Ik ontbeet\nbij de Ellison's, en haar brief werd mij daar, met andere,\noverhandigd. Toevallig viel Sophia's oog erop, eer ik hem zag, en\nhet formaat, de fraaiheid van het papier, het handschrift, alles\nwekte onmiddellijk haar achterdocht. Er was haar reeds iets ter oore\ngekomen van mijne genegenheid voor eene jonge dame in Devonshire, en\nwat den vorigen avond onder haar oogen was voorgevallen, had haar doen\nzien, wie die jonge dame was, en haar jaloezie nog verergerd. Met een\nvoorgewende luchtige speelschheid, zoo aantrekkelijk in eene vrouw,\ndie men waarlijk liefheeft, opende zij den brief zelf, en las den\ninhoud. Zij kreeg voor die onbescheidenheid haar verdiende loon. Wat\nzij las, deed haar verdriet. Haar verdriet had ik gemakkelijk kunnen\nverdragen; maar haar drift, haar woede... in elk geval moest ik ze\ndoen bedaren. En wat zegt u nu wel van mijn vrouw's stijl,--was de\nbrief niet kiesch, teeder, met vrouwelijk fijn gevoel geschreven?\"\n\n\"Uw vrouw?--De brief was van uw eigen hand.\"\n\n\"Ja; maar mij kwam alleen de verdienste toe, die zinnen, die ik mij\nschaamde, te onderteekenen, slaafsch te hebben nageschreven. Het\norigineel was haar eigen vinding; haar eigen beminnelijke gedachten,\nzoo lieftallig onder woorden gebracht. Maar wat kon ik doen?--wij\nwaren verloofd: alles werd in gereedheid gebracht; de dag was bijna\nbepaald; --doch neen, ik spreek onzin. Gereedheid!--dag bepalen! In\nronde woorden gezegd, ik had haar geld noodig, en in omstandigheden\nals de mijne zou ik alles hebben gedaan om een breuk te voorkomen. En\nwat deed het er trouwens toe, in welke bewoordingen mijn antwoord was\ningekleed? Het zou het oordeel van Marianne en hare vrienden omtrent\nmijn karakter niet veranderen. Dat zou toch altijd hetzelfde zijn. Ik\nmoest openlijk erkennen, dat ik een schurk was, en of ik dat nu deed\nmet mooie praatjes of zonder omwegen, maakte weinig verschil. \"Zij\nzullen tòch nooit weer goed over mij denken,\" zeide ik tot mijzelf;\n\"hun omgang is mij voor altoos ontzegd; nu reeds houden ze mij voor\neen gewetenloozen kerel, en na dien brief zullen ze mij bovendien\nals een lompen vlegel beschouwen.\" Zóó redeneerde ik, terwijl ik,\nmet een soort roekelooze onverschilligheid, de woorden van mijn vrouw\nnaschreef, en de laatste herinneringen aan Marianne prijsgaf. Haar drie\nbriefjes,--ik had ze alle drie in mijn portefeuille, helaas! anders\nzou ik ontkend hebben, dat ze bestonden, en ze voor altoos hebben\nbewaard; ik werd gedwongen ze af te geven zonder er zelfs een kus op\nte drukken. En de haarlok, die ik altoos bij mij droeg, in die zelfde\nportefeuille, door mijn vrouw in haar kwaadaardige drift nauwkeurig\ndoorzocht,--de dierbare haarlok,--alles,--ieder aandenken werd mij\nmet geweld ontnomen.\"\n\n\"Dit is slecht, Mijnheer Willoughby; dit is zeer verkeerd van u,\" zeide\nElinor, terwijl hare stem, haars ondanks, ontroering en medelijden\nverried, \"zóó moogt u niet spreken, noch van Mevrouw Willoughby,\nnoch van mijne zuster. U hebt uwe eigen keuze gevolgd. Zij werd u\nniet opgedrongen. Uwe vrouw heeft recht op uwe beleefdheid, op uwe\nachting dan toch. Zij moet iets voor u gevoelen; anders had zij u niet\ngetrouwd. Door haar onvriendelijk te behandelen, of met minachting\nover haar te spreken, maakt u tegenover Marianne niets goed; en\nevenmin kan het, dunkt mij, uw eigen geweten verlichten.\"\n\n\"Spreek mij niet van mijne vrouw,\" zei hij met een zwaren zucht. \"Zij\nverdient uw meelijden niet. Zij wist, dat ik haar niet liefhad,\ntoen wij huwden. En zoo zijn wij dan getrouwd, en gingen naar Combe\nMagna om gelukkig te zijn, en keerden terug naar de stad om ons te\nvermaken.--En hebt u nu medelijden met mij, Juffrouw Dashwood? Of is\nal wat ik u zeide te vergeefs gezegd? Ben ik--al is het ook maar een\nzweem--minder schuldig in uwe oogen dan te voren? Niet altijd waren\nmijn bedoelingen slecht. Heb ik door deze verklaring mijn schuld\nalthans gedeeltelijk doen verminderen?\"\n\n\"Ja; u hebt die wel degelijk verlicht--een weinig, ten minste. U\nhebt getoond, dat u, over 't geheel, minder slecht waart, dan ik\nmij u voorstelde. U hebt getoond, dat uw hart minder, veel minder\nverdorven was. Maar toch,--als ik denk aan het verdriet, dat door u\nis veroorzaakt,--ik weet bijna niet, wat nòg erger had kunnen zijn.\"\n\n\"Wilt u nog eens herhalen voor uwe zuster, als zij hersteld is, wat\nik u heb gezegd? Laat ook zij een weinig beter over mij denken, zoowel\nals u. U zegt, dat zij mij reeds vergeven heeft. Laat mij althans mij\nmogen verbeelden, dat een beter inzicht in mijn gemoedsgesteldheid\nen mijn tegenwoordige gevoelens haar eene meer vrijwillige, meer\nnatuurlijke, meer zachtaardige, minder hooghartige vergiffenis zal\nontlokken. Spreek haar van mijn ellende en mijn berouw; zeg haar dat\nmijn hart haar nimmer ontrouw was, en zeg zoo u dat wilt, dat zij op\ndit oogenblik mij dierbaarder is dan ooit.\"\n\n\"Ik zal haar alles zeggen, wat noodig is, om u, als men het zoo\nnoemen mag, te rechtvaardigen. Maar u hebt mij nog niet verklaard,\nwaarom u juist nu kwaamt, en hoe u hebt vernomen, dat zij ziek was.\"\n\n\"Gisteravond, in den foyer van Drury Lane, stond ik plotseling voor Sir\nJohn Middleton, en toen hij zag, dat ik het was, sprak hij mij aan,\nvoor de eerste maal in deze twee maanden. Dat hij mij sedert mijn\nhuwelijk den rug toekeerde, had mij niet in het minst verwonderd,\nnoch geërgerd. Nu echter kon de goedige, eerlijke, domme man, diep\nverontwaardigd jegens mij, en vol medelijden met uwe zuster, de\nverzoeking niet weerstaan, mij mede te deelen, wat hij wist dat mij\ndiep had _moeten_ treffen, al zal hij wel niet gedacht hebben, dat het\ndit waarlijk deed. Hij zei dus, zoo kortaf als hem mogelijk was, dat\nMarianne Dashwood op sterven lag te Cleveland,--dien morgen hadden zij\nuit een brief van Mevrouw Jennings gehoord van het dreigend gevaar,\nwaarin zij verkeerde,--de Palmers waren uit vrees voor besmetting\nvertrokken, en zoo voort. Ik was te zeer getroffen, om den schijn aan\nte nemen van ongevoeligheid, zelfs tegenover den weinig scherpzienden\nSir John. Zijn hart werd verzacht bij het zien van mijn lijden; en\nzijn afkeer van mij was bij het afscheid zoo verminderd, dat hij mij\nbijna hartelijk de hand schudde, en mij herinnerde aan een vroeger\ngedane belofte omtrent een jongen jachthond. Wat ik gevoelde, toen\nik hoorde dat uwe zuster stervende was, stervend met de gedachte,\ndat ik de moedwilligste booswicht ter wereld was geweest, mij\nverachtend en hatend in haar laatste oogenblikken,--want welke\nafschuwelijke bedoelingen kon men mij niet hebben toegeschreven? Ik\nwist dat één persoon mij zou afschilderen als tot alles in staat. Het\nwas ontzettend! Spoedig stond mijn besluit vast, en om acht uur van\nmorgen stapte ik in mijn rijtuig. Nu weet u alles.\"--\n\nElinor gaf geen antwoord. Terwijl zij zweeg, verwijlden hare\ngedachten bij de onherstelbare schade, die een te vroeg verkregen\nonafhankelijkheid, en de daarmede gepaard gaande gewoonten van\nlediggang, verkwisting en losbandigheid, had berokkend aan den geest,\nhet karakter, het geluk van een man, die reeds zoozeer bevoorrecht\ndoor zijn persoonlijkheid en zijn vele gaven, een van nature open en\neerlijken aard, en een gevoelig, voor liefde vatbaar gemoed bezat. De\nwereld had hem verkwistend en ijdel doen worden; verkwisting en\nijdelheid maakten hem harteloos en zelfzuchtig. De ijdelheid,\ndie ten koste van een ander haar eigen schuldige triomfen najoeg,\nhad geleid tot eene oprechte genegenheid, welke door verkwisting, of\nalthans de daaruit voortvloeiende vrees voor armoede had moeten worden\nopgeofferd. Elke schuldige neiging had, hem drijvend tot het kwade,\nhem eveneens gedreven naar zijne straf. De genegenheid, waaraan hij\nzich schijnbaar had ontrukt, in tegenspraak met zijn eer, zijn gevoel,\nzijn eigen hoogere belangen, beheerschte thans, nu zij niet langer\ngeoorloofd was, al zijn gedachten; en de verbintenis, ter wille\nwaarvan hij zoo roekeloos haar zuster in het ongeluk had gestort,\nbeloofde voor hemzelf een bron te worden van nimmer te verzachten\nellende. Uit deze en dergelijke gepeinzen werd zij na enkele minuten\ngewekt door Willoughby, die, zich oprichtend uit een niet minder\ndroevige mijmering, aanstalten maakte om te vertrekken, terwijl hij\nzeide: \"Wat geeft het, of ik hier al langer blijf; ik moet gaan.\"\n\n\"Gaat u terug naar de stad?\"\n\n\"Neen; naar Combe Magna. Ik heb daar 't een en ander te doen; over\neen paar dagen ga ik weer naar Londen. Adieu.\"\n\nHij stak haar de hand toe. Zij kon niet weigeren hem de hare te reiken,\ndie hij hartelijk drukte.\n\n\"En dus denkt u nu werkelijk beter over mij?\" zei hij, terwijl hij\nhaar hand losliet, en tegen den schoorsteen mantel leunde, alsof hij\nvergat, dat hij had willen gaan. Elinor verzekerde hem, dat dit zoo\nwas; dat zij hem vergaf, beklaagde, het beste wenschte,--gaarne zou\nzien dat hij gelukkig werd,--en zij voegde er eenige zachtzinnige\nraadgevingen aan toe omtrent de gedragswijze, die het best dat geluk\nzou bevorderen. Zijn antwoord was niet zeer bemoedigend.\n\n\"Wat dat betreft,\" zei hij, \"ik moet maar zien, hoe ik mij door de\nwereld sla. Van huiselijk geluk is geen sprake. Zoo ik echter mag\ngelooven, dat u en de uwen belang stellen in mijn lot en mijne\nhandelingen, dan zou dat een middel kunnen zijn... het zou mij\nnopen tot voorzichtigheid... het zou althans iets zijn om voor te\nleven. Marianne is in elk geval voor goed voor mij verloren. Zelfs\nal gaf mij eenig gelukkig toeval de vrijheid terug...\"\n\nElinor legde hem met een blik vol verwijt het zwijgen op.\n\n\"Nu dan,\" zeide hij; \"nogmaals adieu. Ik ga heen, en zal van nu af\naan slechts één ding met angst verwachten.\"\n\n\"Wat bedoelt u?\"\n\n\"Uw zuster's huwelijk.\"\n\n\"Dat is niet goed. Zij kan nooit méér voor u verloren zijn, dan zij\nthans is.\"\n\n\"Maar een ander zal haar winnen. En als die ander de man zou zijn, dien\nik het allerminst zou kunnen verdragen... Maar ik wil mij zelf niet\nberooven van uwe medelijdende welgezindheid, door te toonen, dat ik\nhèm het minst kan vergeven, dien ik het diepst beleedigd heb.--Vaarwel,\nhet ga u goed!\" En met die woorden liep hij haastig de kamer uit.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XLV\n\n\nNog eenigen tijd nadat hij haar had verlaten, nadat het geluid van\nzijn rijtuig was weggestorven zelfs, bleef Elinor te zeer onder den\nindruk van vele gedachten, op zichzelve van zeer uiteenloopenden aard,\ndoch alle leidend tot droefheid als eenige uitkomst, om zelfs aan\nhaar zuster te denken.\n\nWilloughby,--de man dien zij nog slechts een half uur geleden had\nverfoeid als een nietswaardige,--Willoughby wekte, ondanks al zijn\ngebreken, een zoo innig medelijden met de smart, door die gebreken\nveroorzaakt, dat de gedachte, hem voor altoos uitgesloten te weten\nbuiten hunnen kring, haar vervulde met een teederheid en een weemoed,\nveel meer in overeenstemming (zooals zij spoedig voor zichzelve\nerkende) met zijn verlangen, dan met zijn verdiensten. Zij gevoelde\ndat zijn invloed op haar denkwijze versterkt was door omstandigheden,\ndie redelijkerwijze geen gewicht in de schaal moesten leggen; door de\nongewone aantrekkelijkheid van zijn persoon; door zijn openhartige,\nbezielde, levendige wijze van zich te uiten, die op zichzelf toch\nniets verdienstelijks insloot, en door die nog steeds zoo vurige\nliefde voor Marianne, waaraan hij zelfs niet mocht toegeven zonder\nschuld op zich te laden.--Zij gevoelde dat dit zoo was, lang, lang\neer zijn invloed op haar was verflauwd.\n\nToen zij eindelijk terugkeerde naar de van niets bewuste Marianne,\nwerd haar zuster juist wakker, verkwikt, zooals zij gehoopt had, door\ndien langen en rustigen slaap.--Elinor's hart was vol. Het verleden,\nhet tegenwoordige, de toekomst,--Willoughby's bezoek, Marianne's\nredding, en haar moeder's verwachte komst,--alles tezamen maakte haar\nte rusteloos en gejaagd om een spoor van vermoeidheid te gevoelen,\nen zij was alleen maar bang, dat zij zich tegenover Marianne zou\nverraden.--Er werd haar echter weinig tijd gelaten voor het koesteren\nvan die vrees; want nog geen half uur na Willoughby's vertrek deed het\ngeluid van een ander rijtuig haar opnieuw naar beneden snellen. Vol\nverlangen om hare moeder elk onnoodig oogenblik van folterende\nonzekerheid te besparen, liep zij haastig naar de vestibule, en was\njuist bij tijds aan de voordeur, om haar moeder te ontvangen en te\nsteunen, toen zij binnentrad.\n\nMevrouw Dashwood, wier angst, toen zij het huis naderden, haar\nbijna overtuigd deed zijn, dat Marianne niet meer in leven was,\nkon geen woord uitbrengen om naar haar te vragen; kon zelfs Elinor\nniet begroeten, die echter zonder te wachten op groet of vraag, haar\nonmiddellijk de zaligste verlichting schonk;--en haar moeder, die deze\nmet de haar eigen geestdrift ontving, was in een oogwenk evenzeer\noverstelpt door haar vreugde, als zij het te voren was geweest door\nhare vrees. Zij werd, ondersteund door haar dochter en haren vriend,\nnaar den salon gebracht, waar zij onder tranen van blijdschap, nog\nsteeds niet bij machte te spreken, Elinor meermalen omhelsde, zich\nnu en dan van haar afwendend om Kolonel Brandon de hand te drukken,\nmet een blik, die zoowel haar dank uitdrukte, als hare overtuiging,\ndat hij ten volle deelde in de blijdschap van het oogenblik. Dat deed\nhij, doch onder een stilzwijgen, nog dieper dan het hare.\n\nZoodra Mevrouw Dashwood zich hersteld had, was haar eerste verlangen,\nMarianne te zien; en enkele minuten later was zij bij haar geliefd\nkind, haar dierbaarder geworden dan ooit na lange scheiding,\nongeluk en gevaar. Elinor's blijdschap bij het zien van wat beiden\nbij die ontmoeting gevoelden, werd alleen verminderd door de vrees,\ndat Marianne nu niet meer zou kunnen slapen; doch Mevrouw Dashwood\nkon kalm, kon zelfs voorzichtig zijn, waar het behoud van haar\nkind op het spel stond; en Marianne, tevreden in het besef van\nhaar moeder's nabijheid, en wel wetende, dat zij te zwak was om te\nspreken, onderwierp zich gaarne aan den eisch van stilte en rust,\nwaarop al hare verpleegsters aandrongen. Mevrouw Dashwood wilde\nvolstrekt dien nacht bij haar blijven waken, en Elinor begaf zich, op\nhaar moeder's dringenden wensch, ter rust. Maar die rust, welke één\nvolkomen slapelooze nacht en vele uren van uitputtenden angst toch\nzoo noodig deden schijnen, bleef uit door den geprikkelden toestand\nharer zenuwen. Willoughby, \"die arme Willoughby,\" zooals zij hem nu\nwel wilde noemen, was voortdurend in hare gedachten; voor niets ter\nwereld had zij zijn poging om zich te rechtvaardigen willen missen,\nen nu eens verweet zij zich, om zich daarna weer vrij te pleiten,\ndat zij hem te voren zoo hard had beoordeeld. Doch haar belofte om\nhet aan hare zuster mede te deelen, bleef steeds pijnlijk. Zij zag\ner tegenop, die te vervullen; vreesde voor de uitwerking ervan op\nMarianne, twijfelde, of zij, na die verklaring, ooit met een ander\ngelukkig zou kunnen zijn; en wenschte een oogenblik, dat Willoughby\nweduwnaar mocht worden; toen zij echter weer aan Kolonel Brandon dacht,\nberispte zij zichzelve, gevoelde dat van _zijn_ lijden en _zijne_\ntrouw haar zuster de belooning moest zijn, veeleer dan voor die van\nzijn medeminnaar, en verlangde in het minst niet meer naar den dood\nvan Mevrouw Willoughby.\n\nDe schrik over Kolonel Brandon's komst te Barton was voor Mevrouw\nDashwood verzacht door haar eigen reeds lang gekoesterde bezorgdheid;\nwant zij was zoo ongerust over Marianne, dat zij reeds besloten had,\ndien zelfden dag naar Cleveland te vertrekken, zonder nader bericht\naf te wachten; en zij had haar reis reeds zoover voorbereid, eer\nhij kwam, dat zij juist op dat oogenblik de Carey's verwachtte, die\nMargaret zouden komen afhalen, daar hare moeder haar niet aan eene\nmogelijke besmetting wilde blootstellen.\n\nMarianne's beterschap nam met den dag toe, en Mevrouw Dashwood bewees\ndoor haar van blijdschap stralenden blik en haar onveranderlijke\nopgewektheid, dat zij zich, zooals zij herhaaldelijk verklaarde,\nde gelukkigste vrouw ter wereld achtte. Elinor kon die bewering niet\naanhooren, noch de duidelijke bewijzen ervan aanschouwen, zonder zich\nnu en dan af te vragen, of haar moeder wel ooit aan Edward dacht. Maar\nMevrouw Dashwood, vertrouwend op de kalme gematigdheid, waarmede Elinor\nhad geschreven over haar eigen teleurstelling, kon in de overmaat\nharer vreugde slechts denken aan 't geen hare blijdschap verhoogen zou.\n\nMarianne was haar teruggegeven, na een gevaar, waaraan, zooals\nzij thans begon in te zien, zij zelve had geholpen haar bloot te\nstellen, toen zij haar uit gebrek aan inzicht, aanmoedigde in haar\nnoodlottige genegenheid voor Willoughby; en thans vond zij in haar\nherstel nog eene andere reden tot vreugde, waaraan Elinor niet had\ngedacht. Deze werd haar medegedeeld, zoodra zij gelegenheid vonden\ntot een vertrouwelijk onderhoud.\n\n\"Eindelijk zijn we dan alleen,\" zeide hare moeder. \"Mijn lieve Elinor;\nje weet nog niet, hoe gelukkig ik ben. Kolonel Brandon heeft Marianne\nlief; hij heeft het mij zelf gezegd.\"\n\nHaar dochter, die zich beurtelings blijde en bedroefd, verrast en\nniet verrast gevoelde, was een en al zwijgende aandacht.\n\n\"Als ik niet wist, Elinor, dat je altijd anders bent dan ik, dan zou\nik mij verbazen over je kalmte bij dit bericht. Als ik mijn gezin een\ngroot geluk had mogen toewenschen, dan zou ik het allerliefst hebben\ngezien, dat Kolonel Brandon met een van jelui tweeën trouwde. En ik\ngeloof dat Marianne nog het gelukkigst met hem zal zijn.\"\n\nElinor had wel lust te vragen waarom; daar zij begreep dat de reden\nniet gegrond kon zijn op eenige onpartijdige beschouwing van hun\nleeftijd, karakter, of gevoelens;--doch haar moeder liet zich bij\nal wat haar ter harte ging, door haar verbeelding meesleepen, en dus\nglimlachte zij slechts, en liet de vraag achterwege.\n\n\"Gisteren onder de reis heeft hij zijn geheele hart voor mij\nuitgestort. Het kwam onverwacht, geheel zonder opzet. Ik kon, zooals\nje wel kunt nagaan, over niets spreken dan mijn kind;--hij kon zijn\nsmart niet verbergen; ik zag dat die de mijne evenaarde, en hij,\nmogelijk denkend, dat louter vriendschap, in onzen nuchteren tijd,\ndie innige sympathie niet kon rechtvaardigen,--of liever in het\ngeheel niet denkend misschien,--toegevend aan den onweerstaanbaren\ndrang van zijn gevoel, openbaarde mij zijne ernstige, teedere,\ntrouwe genegenheid voor Marianne. Hij heeft haar liefgehad, Elinor,\nvan het eerste oogenblik, dat hij haar zag.\"\n\nElinor begreep wel, dat zij noch Kolonel Brandon's woorden, noch zijne\nware uitingen te hooren kreeg, doch de natuurlijke verfraaiing ervan\ndoor haar moeder's levendige verbeelding, die alles naar believen\ninrichtte zooals dat haarzelve het aangenaamst was.\n\n\"Zijn liefde voor haar, zoo oneindig hooger staande dan iets, dat\nWilloughby ooit gevoelde, of veinsde te gevoelen, daar zij veel\ninniger was, veel oprechter, of standvastiger--hoe zullen wij het\nnoemen?--bleef onveranderd, terwijl hij wist van de ongelukkige\ngenegenheid onzer lieve Marianne voor dien slechten man, en geheel\nonzelfzuchtig, zonder de minste hoop te koesteren, had hij haar met\neen ander gelukkig kunnen zien! Zulk een edel karakter! Zoo openhartig;\nzoo oprecht!--in hèm kan men zich niet vergissen.\"\n\n\"Dat Kolonel Brandon een buitengewoon goed mensch is,\" zei Elinor,\n\"wordt door ieder erkend.\"\n\n\"Dat weet ik,\" gaf haar moeder ernstig ten antwoord, \"anders zou\n_ik_ de laatste zijn, om na zulk een waarschuwing, een dergelijke\ngenegenheid aan te moedigen, of mij daarover te verheugen. Maar dat\nhij mij kwam afhalen, zooals hij deed, met die gereede, bereidwillige\nvriendschap, bewijst al genoeg, dat hij een van de beste menschen\nter wereld is.\"\n\n\"De roep, die uitgaat van zijn goedheid,\" antwoordde Elinor, \"berust\nniet op ééne enkele vriendelijke daad, waartoe, ook zonder eenige\nalgemeen menschelijke beweegreden, zijn liefde voor Marianne hem\nzou hebben aangedreven. Mevrouw Jennings en de Middletons hebben hem\nlang en van nabij gekend; zij dragen hem liefde zoowel als achting\ntoe; ook ik, hoewel ik hem eerst voor kort leerde kennen, weet veel\nvan wat hem aangaat; en _ik_ waardeer en acht hem zóó hoog, dat ik,\nwanneer Marianne met hem gelukkig kan zijn, even geneigd ben als u,\ndeze verbintenis te beschouwen als het grootste geluk, dat ons kon\nten deel vallen. Welk antwoord hebt u hem gegeven? Zeide u hem,\ndat hij hoop mocht koesteren?\"\n\n\"Och, mijn kind, ik kon toen noch hem, noch mijzelve vleien met\nhoop. Marianne kon op dat oogenblik wel stervende zijn. Maar hij vroeg\nook niet om hoop of bemoediging. Het was eene onwillekeurige uiting\nvan vertrouwen, een niet te weerhouden zielsuitstorting tegenover\neene vriendin, wier bijzijn hem rust schonk,--geen vraag, gericht\ntot eene moeder. Toch zei ik wèl na eenigen tijd, want eerst was ik\nte zeer overweldigd door mijn aandoening, dat wanneer zij, zooals ik\nhoopte en vertrouwde, in leven bleef, het mijn grootste geluk zou zijn,\nhen gehuwd te zien, en sedert onze komst hier, sedert onze gelukkige\nzekerheid, heb ik hem dit nogmaals uitdrukkelijk herhaald, en hem naar\nmijn beste vermogen moed ingesproken. De tijd, een weinig tijds zelfs,\nzei ik hem, zal alles bewerken;--Marianne's hart kan niet voor altoos\nen te vergeefs geschonken zijn aan een man als Willoughby. Zijn eigen\nverdienste zal het hem spoedig doen winnen.\"\n\n\"Te oordeelen naar de stemming van den Kolonel, bent u er niet in\ngeslaagd, hem even hoopvolle verwachtingen te doen koesteren.\"\n\n\"Neen. Hij houdt Marianne's genegenheid voor zoo diepgeworteld, dat\nzij eerst na zéér langen tijd zal kunnen veranderen, en zelfs al was\nhaar hart volkomen vrij, dan is hij nog te bescheiden, om te gelooven,\ndat hij, bij zulk een verschil in leeftijd en geaardheid, ooit haar\nliefde zou kunnen winnen. Maar dáárin vergist hij zich. Dat verschil\nin leeftijd is juist groot genoeg, om in zijn voordeel te zijn; om\nzijn karakter en beginselen vastheid te hebben geschonken, en wat zijn\ngeaardheid betreft, hij is juist de soort van man om je zuster gelukkig\nte maken; daar ben ik zeker van. Zijn voorkomen, zijn manieren,\nalles heeft hij vóór. Ik ben niet verblind door partijdigheid; zoo\nknap als Willoughby is hij niet; dat is waar; maar daarentegen heeft\nhij iets veel aantrekkelijkers. Er was altijd iets in Willoughby's\noogen nu en dan, dat mij niet aanstond; dat herinner je je wel.\"\n\nElinor herinnerde zich dat _niet_;  maar haar moeder ging voort,\nzonder haar antwoord af te wachten: \"En zijn manieren, het geheele\noptreden van den Kolonel, vind ik niet alleen aangenamer dan dat\nvan Willoughby; maar ik weet stellig, dat ook Marianne zich op den\nduur er meer toe aangetrokken zal gevoelen. Zijn zachtaardigheid,\nzijn echte beminnelijkheid jegens anderen, en zijn mannelijke,\nnatuurlijke eenvoudigheid zijn veel meer in overeenstemming met haar\nwaren aard, dan de dikwijls gekunstelde levendigheid van Willoughby,\ndie ook wel eens te onpas kwam. Ik voor mij geloof stellig al was\nWilloughby werkelijk zoo beminnelijk gebleken, als hij getoond heeft\nhet tegendeel te zijn, dan zou Marianne nòg met _hem_ niet zoo gelukkig\nzijn geworden, als ze zijn zal met Kolonel Brandon.\"\n\nZij zweeg. Haar dochter was het niet geheel met haar eens; doch dat\nmeeningsverschil werd niet geuit en kon dus geen aanstoot geven.\n\n\"Te Delaford zal ik haar gemakkelijk kunnen bereiken\", voegde Mevrouw\nDashwood erbij, \"zelfs als ik te Barton blijf; en heel waarschijnlijk,\n(want ik hoor dat het een groot dorp is)--ja, natuurlijk, _stellig_\nis er wel een of ander klein huisje of landhuisje in de buurt, dat\neven geschikt voor ons zou zijn als Barton Cottage.\"\n\nArme Elinor! alweer een nieuw plan om haar naar Delaford te doen\nverhuizen! maar zij hield zich goed.\n\n\"En dan zijn fortuin! op mijn leeftijd denkt iedereen dááraan toch ook,\nniet waar? en hoewel ik niet weet, en ook niet wensch te weten, hoeveel\nhij bezit, ik denk toch wel dat het aanzienlijk mag genoemd worden.\"\n\nHier werden zij gestoord door de komst van een derde, en Elinor ging\nheen, om alles in eenzaamheid te overdenken, haar vriend het beste\nte wenschen, en toch tegelijkertijd eene opwelling van medelijden te\ngevoelen met Willoughby.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XLVI\n\n\nMarianne's ziekte had haar natuurlijk sterk aangegrepen, doch niet\nlang genoeg geduurd om haar herstel te vertragen, en met medewerking\nvan haar jeugd, haar van nature sterk gestel en haar moeder's\nbijzijn, was zij weldra zoo veel beter, dat zij vier dagen na haar\nmoeder's aankomst, kon worden overgebracht naar Mevrouw Palmer's\nkleedkamer. Hier verzocht zij uit eigen beweging, dat Kolonel Brandon\nhaar zou komen bezoeken, daar zij ongeduldig verlangde, hem te danken,\nomdat hij hare moeder had gehaald.\n\nZijne ontroering, toen hij de kamer binnentrad, haar zoo veranderd\nzag, en de vermagerde hand drukte, die zij hem dadelijk toestak, deed\nElinor vermoeden, dat die aandoening haar oorsprong vond in méér dan\nzijne liefde voor Marianne, of het besef, dat anderen hiervan wisten,\nen spoedig bespeurde zij in zijn droefgeestigen blik en wisselende\ngelaatskleur, terwijl hij hare zuster aanzag, dat waarschijnlijk de\nlevendige herinnering aan vele treurige tooneelen uit het verleden\nbij hem was wakker geroepen, door die gelijkenis tusschen Marianne en\nEliza, waarvan hij reeds melding had gemaakt, en die thans nog werd\nverhoogd door de bleeke tint, de ingezonken oogen, de liggende houding\nder nog zwakke herstellende, zoowel als haar innige erkentelijkheid\nvoor haar in 't bijzonder bewezen goedheid.\n\nMevrouw Dashwood, niet minder oplettend dan hare dochter waarnemend\nhetgeen hier voorviel, doch onder den invloed van geheel andere\ngedachten, en zich dus ook een geheel ander beeld vormend uit die\nwaarneming, zag niets in des Kolonels houding, dan 't geen zij het\ngevolg achtte van zeer eenvoudige en vanzelfsprekende gewaarwordingen,\nterwijl zij zich verbeeldde, te bespeuren dat in Marianne's handelingen\nen woorden reeds iets meer doorschemerde dan dankbaarheid.\n\nToen nog een paar dagen waren verstreken, en Marianne met iederen dag\nzichtbaar sterker werd, begon Mevrouw Dashwood, zoowel op aandringen\nharer dochters, als gedreven door haar eigen wensch, ervan te spreken,\nnaar Barton terug te keeren. Van _hare_ maatregelen hingen die harer\nbeide vrienden af; Mevrouw Jennings kon Cleveland niet verlaten,\nzoolang de Dashwoods er logeerden, en op aller verlangen werd Kolonel\nBrandon spoedig overgehaald, zijn verblijf aldaar als even vast,\nzooal niet als even onmisbaar te beschouwen. Geholpen door Mevrouw\nJennings, wist hij Mevrouw Dashwood te bewegen, gebruik te maken van\nhet aanbod van zijn rijtuig op de terugreis, dat haar zieke dochter\nmeer gemak zou kunnen bieden, en daarvoor beloofde hij, toegevend\naan het eenparig verzoek van Mevrouw Dashwood en Mevrouw Jennings,\nwier bereidwillige goedhartigheid haar noopte, hartelijk en gastvrij\nte zijn voor anderen zoowel als voor zichzelve, dat hij met genoegen\nhaar over een paar weken te Barton Cottage zou komen opzoeken.\n\nDe dag van hun afscheid en vertrek brak aan; en na een lang en\nhartelijk vaarwel aan Mevrouw Jennings, waarin zij uiting gaf aan al de\ninnige dankbaarheid, den eerbied en de vriendschappelijke gevoelens,\ndie zij te meer zich bewust was verschuldigd te zijn, door het\nstille besef van vroegere tekortkoming,--terwijl zij Kolonel Brandon\ngoeden dag zeide als een vertrouwden vriend,--werd Marianne door\nhem zorgvuldig in het rijtuig geholpen, waarin hij volstrekt wilde,\ndat zij minstens de helft der ruimte in beslag nam. Daarna volgden\nMevrouw Dashwood en Elinor, en de anderen bleven achter, om te spreken\nover de reizigers, en zich mistroostig te voelen in hun verlatenheid;\ntotdat Mevrouw Jennings geroepen werd voor een ritje, waarbij zij\nzich met het gepraat van haar kamenier kon troosten over 't verlies\nharer jonge vriendinnen; terwijl Kolonel Brandon dadelijk daarna\nin eenzaamheid zijns weegs ging naar Delaford. De Dashwoods bleven\ntwee dagen onderweg, en Marianne verdroeg de reis zonder al te groote\nvermoeienis. Al wat de meest dienstvaardige genegenheid, de ijverigste\nzorg konden doen om haar gemak te verschaffen, was de taak van haar\nbeide oplettende gezellinnen, en beiden zagen zich beloond door haar\nlichamelijk welbevinden en de kalmte van haar geest. Voor Elinor was\nhet vooral bevredigend, die laatste bijzonderheid op te merken. Zij,\ndie haar weken achtereen aanhoudend had zien lijden, gepijnigd door\neen zielsverdriet, dat zij den moed niet had te openbaren, noch de\nkracht om te verbergen, zag thans, met een blijdschap, die geen ander\nin zoo hooge mate kon gevoelen, een blijkbare gemoedsrust, die, daar\nzij de uitkomst was, naar zij geloofde, van ernstig nadenken, haar\nzuster ten slotte tot tevredenheid en ware vroolijkheid zou leiden.\n\nWel werd Marianne, toen zij Barton naderden, en het landschap\nterugzagen, waarin aan elk veld, aan iederen boom eenige bijzondere en\npijnlijke herinnering verbonden was, stil en nadenkend; zij wendde haar\ngelaat af en zat ernstig uit het venster te staren. Hier echter vond\nElinor reden tot verwondering, noch afkeuring, en toen zij, Marianne\nuit het rijtuig helpend, zag, dat deze geschreid had, zag zij slechts\neene ontroering, te natuurlijk, om iets minder teeders dan medelijden\nte wekken, en welke eer lof verdiende, wijl zij zich zoo onopvallend\nvermocht te uiten. In haar geheele verdere houding bespeurde zij\nde richting van een geest, die gewekt is tot redelijke inspanning;\nwant zoodra zij de huiskamer binnentraden, zag Marianne om zich heen,\nmet een vastberaden blik, alsof zij besloten had, zich dadelijk te\ngewennen aan het gezicht van ieder voorwerp, waarmede de herinnering\naan Willoughby was verbonden. Zij sprak weinig; maar al wat zij zeide,\nhad de bedoeling, vroolijk te zijn; en hoewel haar somtijds een zucht\nontsnapte, gleed deze niet over haar lippen, zonder dat zij dien\ndoor een glimlach had vergoed. Na den eten wilde zij haar piano eens\nprobeeren. Zij ging erheen: doch de muziek, waarop het eerst haar oog\nviel, was eene opera, die Willoughby haar had gezonden, en die enkele\nhunner geliefkoosde duetten bevatte; terwijl op het schutblad haar\nnaam door zijne hand geschreven stond. Dat ging niet.--Zij schudde\nhaar hoofd, legde de muziek terzijde, liet even de vingers over de\ntoetsen glijden, zeide, dat haar vingers te zwak geworden waren,\nen sloot het instrument; terwijl zij echter haar stellig voornemen\nte kennen gaf, in 't vervolg hard te zullen studeeren.\n\nDen volgenden morgen was nog geen vermindering te bespeuren van al deze\ngunstige verschijnselen. Integendeel, naar lichaam en geest verkwikt\ndoor de rust, verried zij in blik en stem meer echte opgewektheid,\nzag met blijdschap Margaret's terugkomst tegemoet, en sprak van\nhun genoeglijk kringetje dat dan weer als van ouds samen zou zijn,\nvan hun verschillende bezigheden en hun vroolijk gezelschap, als het\neenig geluk, dat wenschenswaard mocht genoemd worden,\n\n\"Als het weer gestadig wordt, en ik weer even sterk ben als vroeger,\"\nzei ze, \"dan gaan we samen elken dag lange wandelingen doen. We\nzullen naar de boerderij gaan aan den rand van de heide, en zien hoe\nde kinderen het maken; we zullen een wandeling doen naar Sir John's\nnieuwe aanplantingen te Barton Cross en Abbeyland; en dikwijls zullen\nwe een tochtje doen naar de bouwvallen van de abdij, en trachten de\ngrondvesten na te speuren, zoover als men zegt, dat ze eenmaal zich\nuitstrekten. Ik denk dat we 't heerlijk zullen hebben. Ik weet, dat\nde zomer genoeglijk zal voorbijgaan. Ik wil nooit later dan om zes\nuur opstaan, en tusschen 't ontbijt en het eten zal ik elk oogenblik\nbesteden aan muziek en lectuur. Ik heb mijn plannen al gemaakt,\nen ben vast voornemens nu eens ernstig aan de studie te gaan. Onze\neigen bibliotheek ken ik te goed om er anders dan voor louter\ngenoegen gebruik van te maken. Maar op het Park zijn veel boeken,\ndie de moeite wel waard zijn, en andere, nieuwere werken weet ik,\ndie ik van Kolonel Brandon kan leenen. Als ik maar zes uur per dag\naan lezen besteed, dan kan ik in een jaar veel leeren, waarvan de\nkennis mij nu nog ontbreekt.\"\n\nElinor had eerbied voor een voornemen, dat uit zulke edele bedoelingen\nvoortsproot; hoewel zij glimlachte, nu zij dezelfde vurige verbeelding,\ndie haar vervoerd had tot het uiterste in haar matte traagheid en\nzelfzuchtig beklag, thans aan het werk zag bij het overdrijven van een\nplan, dat toch verstandige bezigheid en deugdzame zelfbeheersching\nbeoogde. Haar glimlach maakte echter plaats voor een zucht, toen\nzij zich herinnerde, dat hare belofte aan Willoughby nog niet was\nvervuld; en zij vreesde, dat hare mededeeling Marianne weer met\nonrust zou vervullen, en althans voorloopig dit goede vooruitzicht\nvan bedrijvige kalmte zou bederven. Daar zij dus geneigd was tot het\nverschuiven van dat ongewenschte oogenblik, besloot zij, te wachten\ntot haar zuster's gezondheid zich volkomen zou hebben hersteld,\neer zij het deed aanbreken. Doch dit besluit werd slechts genomen,\nom te worden verijdeld.\n\nMarianne was reeds twee of drie dagen thuis geweest eer het weer mooi\ngenoeg was, om toe te laten, dat eene herstellende zieke als zij zich\nbuiten waagde. Eindelijk echter kwam een zachte, uitlokkende morgen;\nuitlokkend genoeg, om den wensch der dochter, zoowel als het vertrouwen\nder moeder te rechtvaardigen, en Marianne, steunend op Elinor's arm,\nkreeg vergunning te wandelen zoolang zij zich niet vermoeid gevoelde,\nin de laan voor hun huis.\n\nDe zusters begaven zich op weg, zoo langzaam als Marianne's zwakte,\nsedert haar ziekte nog niet op deze wijze op de proef gesteld,\nvereischte,--en zij waren slechts zoover voorbij het huis gekomen dat\nzij het volle gezicht konden hebben op den heuvel, den gewichtigen\nheuvel, achter hun huisje gelegen, toen Marianne, die stilstond om\nin die richting te zien, bedaard zeide:\n\n\"Dáár,--kijk, dáár op die plek,\"--(zij wees ernaar met haar vinger,)\n\"was het, dat ik viel; en daar heb ik voor 't eerst Willoughby gezien.\"\n\nHare stem werd zachter bij het noemen van dien naam; doch iets\nlevendiger voegde zij erbij:\n\n\"Ik ben blijde, nu ik bemerk, dat ik de plek met zoo weinig\nhartzeer kan terugzien!--Zullen wij ooit over dat onderwerp spreken,\nElinor?\" liet zij er aarzelend op volgen. \"Of zou het verkeerd zijn? Ik\n_kan_ er nu over spreken, hoop ik, zooals ik behoor te doen.\"\n\nElinor moedigde haar vol teederheid aan, zich uit te spreken.\n\n\"Betreuren,\" zei Marianne, \"neen, wat hèm betreft, doe ik dat niet. Ik\nwil nu niet spreken van wat ik vroeger voor hem placht te gevoelen,\nmaar van wat ik thans voel. Zooals het nu is--als ik maar één ding\nzeker wist--als ik mocht denken, dat hij niet _altoos_ een rol speelde,\nmij niet _altoos_ bedroog;--en vooral, als ik de zekerheid had, dat\nhij nooit zóó verdorven was geweest, als ik mij soms heb voorgesteld,\nsedert ik wist van dat arme meisje...\"\n\nZij zweeg. Elinor ving met blijdschap haar woorden op, en bewaarde\nze in haar hart, terwijl zij antwoordde:\n\n\"Als je dat zeker wist, dan zou je dat rust geven, geloof je.\"\n\n\"Ja. Mijn gemoedsvrede is er in dubbelen zin bij betrokken;--want\nhet is niet alleen afschuwelijk, iemand, die voor ons geweest is wat\n_hij_ was voor _mij_, te verdenken van zulke plannen; maar wat moet\nik mijzelve wel toeschijnen? Wàt anders, in mijn omstandigheden,\ndan een onvoorzichtigheid, waarover ik mij diep heb te schamen,\nkon mij blootstellen aan...\"\n\n\"Hoe zou jij zijn gedrag wel verklaren?\" vroeg haar zuster.\n\n\"Ik zou hem beschouwen als... o, hoe gaarne zou ik dat doen... alleen\nlichtzinnig,--heel, heel erg lichtzinnig.\"\n\nElinor zweeg. Inwendig overlegde zij, wat het beste zou zijn; nu\naanstonds met haar verhaal te beginnen, of het uit te stellen, tot\nMarianne sterker was;--en een paar minuten wandelden zij zwijgend\nverder.\n\n\"Ik wensch hem niet te veel goeds,\" zei Marianne eindelijk met een\nzucht, \"als ik hem toewensch, dat zijn stille overdenkingen niet\ndroeviger mogen zijn dan de mijne. Hij zal er genoeg verdriet door\nhebben.\"\n\n\"Vergelijk je je eigen gedrag met het zijne?\"\n\n\"Neen. Ik vergelijk het, met 't geen het had behooren te zijn; ik\nvergelijk het met dat van jou.\"\n\n\"Onze omstandigheden geleken niet veel op elkaar.\"\n\n\"Ze geleken meer op elkaar dan ons gedrag. Mijn liefste Elinor,\nverdedig niet uit vriendelijkheid, wat ik weet dat je helder oordeel\nmoet afkeuren. Mijn ziekte heeft mij aan het denken gebracht--heeft\nmij den tijd en de kalmte geschonken, die noodig zijn voor ernstigen\ninkeer tot zichzelf. Lang eer ik weer sterk genoeg was om te spreken,\nwas ik tot nadenken uitmuntend in staat. Ik beschouwde het verleden;\nik zag mijn eigen gedrag, sedert onze eerste kennismaking met hem\nin den vorigen herfst, als eene aaneenschakeling van handelingen,\nonvoorzichtig tegenover mijzelve, en jegens anderen liefdeloos. Ik zag,\ndat mijn eigen gevoelens mijn lijden hadden voorbereid, en dat mijn\ngebrek aan draagkracht mij bijna had ten grave gebracht. Ik wist zeer\ngoed, dat ik mij mijne ziekte zelve had op den hals gehaald, door mijne\ngezondheid te verwaarloozen op een wijze, waarvan ik zelfs toen reeds\nhet verkeerde inzag. Als ik gestorven was, zou het door zelfmoord\nzijn geweest. Van het gevaar was ik mij niet bewust, eer het reeds\nwas geweken; maar ik verbaas mij over mijn herstel, met gevoelens,\nzooals deze overdenkingen in mij wekken;--ik verbaas mij, dat niet\nde vurigheid van mijn wensch om te blijven leven, tijd te hebben om\nberouw te toonen tegenover God, en u allen, mij heeft gedood. Was\nik gestorven, hoe diep verslagen zou ik je dan hebben achtergelaten,\nmijn trouwe verpleegster, vriendin en zuster! die al de verdrietige\nzelfzuchtigheid van mijn laatste levensdagen hadt gekend, voor wie\nhet verzet in mijn hart niet was verborgen gebleven!--Hoe zou ik\ngeleefd hebben in je herinnering!--En moeder! Hoe hadt je haar kunnen\ntroosten!--Ik kan niet uitdrukken, hoe ik mijzelf verfoeide. Wáárheen\nik zag in het verleden, overal drong zich een verwaarloosde plicht\naan mij op, of een onbestreden neiging. Ieder scheen door mij te\nkort gedaan. De onuitputtelijke goedheid van Mevrouw Jennings had\nik vergolden met ondankbare minachting. Tegenover de Middletons,\nde Palmers, de Steeles, tegen al onze oppervlakkige bekenden zelfs,\nwas ik lomp en onrechtvaardig geweest; ik had hun verdiensten niet\nwillen inzien, en werd geprikkeld juist door hun voorkomendheid. Aan\nJohn, aan Fanny,--ja zelfs aan hen, al verdienen ze weinig,--had ik\nniet gegeven wat hun toekwam. Maar jou vooral, meer nog dan moeder,\nhad ik onrecht aangedaan. Ik, en ik alleen, wist, wat omging in je\nhart en, hoe je hebt geleden;--en toch, waartoe bewoog dit mij?--tot\ngeen medelijden, dat voor of mijzelve eenige waarde had. Je voorbeeld\nhad ik voor oogen, doch waartoe was het mij nut? Schonk ik meer\naandacht aan jou en 't geen je aangenaam kon zijn? Trachtte ik je\nverdraagzaamheid na te volgen, of je te ontheffen van zelfbedwang,\ndoor mijn aandeel te dragen in de verplichtingen, je opgelegd door\nalgemeene welwillendheid of bijzondere reden tot dankbetoon, die je\ntot nog toe steeds alleen hadt moeten vervullen? Neen;--evengoed toen\nik wist, dat je ongelukkig waart, als toen ik je nog tevreden waande,\nweigerde ik elke inspanning, die plicht of vriendschap van mij eischte;\nzag bijna niet in, dat er andere smart kòn bestaan dan de mijne;\ntreurde enkel om dàt hart, dat mij verlaten en bitter gegriefd had,\nen liet toe, dat jij, voor wie ik onbegrensde genegenheid heette te\nkoesteren, om mijnentwille ongelukkig waart.\"\n\nHier eindigde de heftige vloed van verwijten, tegen haarzelve gericht,\nen Elinor, innig verlangend haar gerust te stellen, ofschoon te eerlijk\nom haar te vleien, schonk haar gaarne den lof en de instemming, die\nhaar openhartigheid en haar berouw ten volle verdienden. Marianne\ndrukte haar hand en antwoordde:\n\n\"Je bent wel goed. De toekomst alleen kan bewijzen dat ik waarheid\nspreek. Mijn plan is gevormd; en als ik bij machte ben, mij daaraan te\nhouden, dan zullen mijn gevoelens worden beheerscht en mijn grillig\nhumeur verbeterd. Zij zullen niet langer anderen tot last zijn, en\nmijzelve tot een kwelling. Ik wil van nu af aan slechts leven voor\nmijn familiekring. Jij, moeder en Margaret moeten voortaan voor mij\nde geheele wereld zijn; al mijn liefde zal tusschen jelui worden\nverdeeld. Nooit zal ik weer de geringste neiging gevoelen om jelui\nen mijn eigen thuis te verlaten, en als ik mij in het gezelschap van\nanderen begeef, dan zal dat alleen zijn, om te toonen, dat mijn geest\nnederiger, mijn hart beter is geworden, en dat ik met zachtheid en\ngeduld beleefdheidvormen kan in acht nemen en de kleinere plichten des\nlevens vervullen. Wat Willoughby betreft, het zou vruchteloos zijn,\nte zeggen, dat ik hem spoedig, dat ik hem ooit zal vergeten. De\nherinnering aan hem kan door geen verandering van omstandigheden\nof van zienswijze worden uitgewischt. Doch zij zal worden geregeld,\nworden in toom gehouden, door godsdienst, door rede, door voortdurende\nbezigheid.\"\n\nZij zweeg een oogenblik, en voegde erbij, met zachtere stem: \"Als\nik slechts kon weten, wat in _zijn_ hart is omgegaan, dan zou alles\ngemakkelijk worden.\"\n\nElinor, die thans reeds eenigen tijd had overwogen, of het al dan\nniet geraden ware, spoedig te wagen aan haar verhaal te beginnen,\nzonder nader tot eenige beslissing te geraken, hoorde dit; en daar zij\nbegreep, dat snel beraad alles moest doen, waar nadenken niet baatte,\nkwam zij al spoedig met de feiten voor den dag.\n\nZij deed haar verhaal, naar zij hoopte, met omzichtigheid, bereidde de\ngretige luisterende voorzichtig voor; vertelde eenvoudig en eerlijk\nde hoofdzaken, waarop Willoughby zijne verdediging had gegrond; liet\nzijn berouw recht weervaren, en verzachtte alleen de betuigingen\nzijner voortdurende genegenheid.\n\nMarianne sprak geen woord; zij beefde; hare oogen bleven op den grond\ngevestigd, en uit hare lippen week het weinigje kleur, dat hare ziekte\nerin had overgelaten. Duizend vragen rezen op in haar binnenste,\ndoch zij durfde geene enkele ervan uiten. Ademloos begeerig ving zij\nieder woord op; zonder dat zij het wist, drukte hare hand vaster die\nharer zuster, en tranen stroomden over hare wangen.\n\nElinor, vreezend dat zij vermoeid was, liet haar terugkeeren, en tot\nzij de deur van hun huisje bereikten, sprak zij, wel begrijpend, hoe\ngroot Marianne's nieuwsgierigheid moest zijn, ofschoon geen vraag deze\nonder woorden mocht brengen, van niets anders dan Willoughby en hun\nbeider onderhoud, terwijl zij zorg droeg, de geringste bijzonderheden\nvan woord en blik te vermelden, waar zij veilig in bijzonderheden\ntreden kòn. Zoodra zij het huis waren binnengegaan, liet Marianne met\neen dankbaren kus, terwijl zij onder tranen slechts de woorden kon\nuitbrengen: \"Zeg het aan mama,\" hare zuster alleen, en ging langzaam\nde trap op. Elinor wilde niet pogen, eene eenzaamheid te storen, zoo\nnatuurlijk gewenscht als de thans gezochte afzondering, en terwijl zij\nin haar geest reeds angstig de mogelijke gevolgen overwoog, en besloot,\nhet onderwerp te hervatten, indien Marianne in gebreke bleef dit te\ndoen, trad zij de huiskamer binnen, om Marianne's daareven gegeven\nopdracht te vervullen.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XLVII\n\n\nMevrouw Dashwood hoorde niet zonder ontroering de verdediging aan van\nhaar voormaligen gunsteling. Het verheugde haar, hem gedeeltelijk van\nde hem ten laste gelegde schuld gezuiverd te zien, zij beklaagde hem,\nen wenschte, dat hij gelukkig mocht worden. Doch de gevoelens van\nvoorheen konden niet worden teruggeroepen. Niets kon hem aan Marianne\nhergeven met onverbroken trouw,--met onbezoedeld karakter. Niets\nkon het besef vernietigen van 't geen de laatste had geleden door\nzijn toedoen; noch de schuld uitwisschen van zijn gedrag jegens\nEliza. Niets kon hem dus haar vroegere achting doen herwinnen,\nnoch afbreuk doen aan hare voorkeur voor Kolonel Brandon.--Had\nMevrouw Dashwood, evenals hare dochter, Willoughby's verhaal van\nhemzelf gehoord, was zij getuige geweest van zijne droefheid, en\nhad zij den invloed ondergaan van zijn gelaat en zijne wijze van\nzich te uiten, dan zou waarschijnlijk haar medelijden grooter zijn\ngeweest. Doch Elinor vermocht, noch wenschte, door haar nauwkeurige\nuiteenzetting, in anderen die gevoelens te wekken, welke in den aanvang\nbij haarzelve waren wakker geroepen. Door nadenken was haar oordeel\nberadener geworden, haar eigen beschouwing van Willoughby's verdienste\ngematigder; zij wenschte dus enkel de eenvoudige waarheid te verklaren,\nen slechts die feiten te openbaren, welke in overeenstemming waren\nmet zijn karakter, zonder eenige opsiering door teedere gevoelens,\nwelke de verbeelding op een dwaalspoor brachten.\n\nToen zij des avonds bij elkaar zaten, begon Marianne uit eigen\nbeweging weer over hem te spreken; doch dat dit niet zonder moeite\ngeschiedde, bewees het rustelooze, weinig kalme van de houding,\nwaarin zij eenigen tijd van te voren had zitten nadenken, zoowel\nals de blos, die hare wangen kleurde, toen zij begon te spreken,\nen de onvaste klank harer stem.\n\n\"Ik wilde u beiden gaarne verzekeren,\" zeide zij, \"dat ik alles\ninzie,--zooals gij dat het liefst zoudt wenschen.\"\n\nMevrouw Dashwood had haar dadelijk met eenige teedere woorden willen\ngeruststellen; doch Elinor, die werkelijk verlangde, haar zuster's\nonbevooroordeelde meening te vernemen, legde haar met een dringenden\nwenk het zwijgen op. Marianne ging langzaam voort:\n\n\"Het is mij een groote verlichting,--wat Elinor mij van morgen\nvertelde,--ik heb nu precies gehoord, wat ik wenschte te weten.\"\n\nEen korte poos had zij hare stem niet in de macht; doch zich\nherstellend, voegde zij met meer kalmte erbij: \"Ik ben nu geheel\nvoldaan. Ik verlang geene verandering. Ik zou nooit gelukkig met hem\nhebben kunnen zijn, nadat ik dit alles had vernomen, zooals vroeger\nof later had moeten gebeuren. Ik zou geen vertrouwen, geen achting\nhebben kunnen gevoelen. Niets zou dit voor mijn gevoel hebben kunnen\nuitwisschen.\"\n\n\"Dat weet ik,--dat weet ik, riep hare moeder. \"Gelukkig met een\nlosbandigen man? Met iemand, die zóó zich had vergrepen jegens\nonzen liefsten vriend, die de beste van alle mannen is? Neen, het\nhart van mijne Marianne kon door zulk een man niet gelukkig gemaakt\nworden! Haar geweten, haar nauwgezet geweten zou alles hebben gevoeld,\nwat haar echtgenoot had behooren te voelen.\"--\n\nMarianne zuchtte, en herhaalde: \"Ik wensch geene verandering.\"\n\n\"Je beschouwt de zaak,\" zeide Elinor, \"juist zooals een zuiver\ngemoed en een klaar begrip haar moeten beschouwen, en ik denk dat\nje, evenzeer als ik, niet slechts in deze, maar in menige andere\nomstandigheid, reden vindt tot de overtuiging, dat je huwelijk je\nveel onvermijdelijk verdriet en teleurstelling zou hebben berokkend;\nwaarbij je slechts weinig steun zoudt hebben gevonden in eene\ngenegenheid, die van zijne zijde veel minder betrouwbaar was. Als je\ngetrouwd waart, zou je altijd arm zijn gebleven. Zijne neiging tot\nverkwisting heeft hij zelf toegegeven, en zijn geheele gedrag bewijst,\nhoe zelfverloochening een woord is, dat ternauwernood door hem wordt\nbegrepen. Zijne eischen, gevoegd bij jouw onervarenheid, en dat met\neen klein, zeer klein inkomen, zouden oorzaak zijn geworden van een\nverdriet, dat niet minder kwellend zou zijn geweest, wijl je het van\nte voren hadt kunnen beseffen, noch voorzien. Je eigen eergevoel en\neerlijkheid zouden je, dat weet ik, als de toestand je helder werd,\ngedreven hebben tot het betrachten van de grootst mogelijke zuinigheid,\nen misschien zou dat je vergund zijn geworden, zoolang je spaarzaamheid\nalleen je eigen genoegens besnoeide; maar verder... en hoe weinig\nhadt je met den besten wil alléén kunnen doen, om den ondergang te\nverhoeden, die reeds vóór je huwelijk was begonnen?... verder, zoo je\nhadt gepoogd, met hoeveel recht ook, paal en perk te stellen aan zijn\nuitspattingen, was het dan niet te vreezen, dat je, wel verre van\nde overhand te behouden op een inborst, zelfzuchtig genoeg om dien\ntoestand te kunnen verdragen, je eigen invloed op zijn gemoed zoudt\nhebben verloren, en hem de verbintenis zoudt hebben doen betreuren,\ndie hem in zulke moeilijkheden had gewikkeld?\"\n\nMarianne's lippen beefden, en zij herhaalde het woord \"zelfzuchtig?\",\nop een toon, alsof zij wilde zeggen: \"Dus je denkt werkelijk, dat\nhij zelfzuchtig is?\"\n\n\"Zijn geheele gedrag,\" antwoordde Elinor, \"van 't begin tot het einde,\nis alleen op zelfzucht gegrond. Het was zelfzucht, die hem het eerst\ndeed spelen met je gevoelens; die later, toen zijne eigene erbij waren\nbetrokken, hem de bekentenis ervan deed verschuiven, en die hem ten\nslotte Barton verlaten deed. Zijn eigen genoegen en zijn eigen gemak\nbepaalden zijn gedragslijn bij iedere gelegenheid.\"\n\n\"Dat is wel waar. _Mijn_ geluk had hij nooit op het oog.\"\n\n\"En thans,\" ging Elinor voort, \"betreurt hij, wat hij gedaan\nheeft. Waarom betreurt hij dat? Omdat hij bemerkt, dat zijne\nhandelwijze niet aan haar doel heeft beantwoord. Zij heeft\nhem niet gelukkig gemaakt. Hij verkeert niet meer in geldelijke\nverlegenheid,--van die zijde kan hem nu geen kwaad meer deren, hij\nbedenkt nu alleen, dat hij eene vrouw heeft getrouwd, die minder\naangenaam in den omgang is dan jij. Maar volgt daaruit nu, dat hij,\nals hij met jou gehuwd was, gelukkig zou zijn geweest? Er zouden andere\nbezwaren zijn gerezen. Dan zou hij hebben geleden onder het geldgebrek,\ndat hij, nu het geweken is, als niets beschouwt. Hij zou een vrouw\nhebben gehad, over wier geaardheid hij zich niet kon beklagen;\nmaar hij zou altijd behoeftig zijn gebleven,--altijd arm; en hij\nzou waarschijnlijk spoedig hebben geleerd, de tallooze voorrechten,\nverbonden aan het bezit van een door geen schuld bezwaard goed en\neen ruim inkomen, van veel meer gewicht te achten, zelfs voor zijn\nhuiselijk geluk, dan iets zoo onbeteekenends als de geaardheid zijner\nechtgenoote.\"\n\n\"Daaraan twijfel ik niet,\" zeide Marianne, \"en ik heb niets te\nbetreuren; niets dan mijn eigen dwaasheid.\"\n\n\"Zeg liever: \"de onvoorzichtigheid van mijne moeder,\" mijn kind,\"\nzeide Mevrouw Dashwood; \"op háár komt de schuld neer.\"\n\nMarianne wilde haar niet laten voortgaan, en Elinor, tevreden,\nnu beiden hun eigen dwaling hadden ingezien, wilde liever eene\nbeschouwing van het verleden vermijden, die hare zuster droefgeestig\nzou kunnen stemmen; zij ging dus dadelijk voort, zich bepalend tot\nhet eerste onderwerp:\n\n\"Eene slotsom kan, dunkt mij, worden getrokken uit al het\ngebeurde,--dat al Willoughby's moeilijkheden hun oorsprong vonden\nin zijn eerste vergrijp jegens de deugd; in zijn gedrag tegenover\nEliza Williams. Die misdaad is de oorzaak geweest van al wat volgde,\nen van zijne tegenwoordige onvoldaanheid.\"\n\nMarianne beaamde die opmerking ten volle, en hare moeder knoopte\ner eene beschouwing aan vast, van het onrecht, Kolonel Brandon\naangedaan, en diens verdiensten, voorgedragen met al de warmte,\nwaartoe vriendschap en hare bijzondere bedoelingen haar slechts konden\nvervoeren. Haar dochter gaf echter niet den indruk, alsof zij er veel\nvan had gehoord.\n\nElinor zag, zooals zij reeds verwacht had, dat Marianne in de\neerstvolgende twee of drie dagen, niet als te voren in kracht bleef\ntoenemen; doch daar haar besluit even vast stond, en zij haar best\nbleef doen, zich vroolijk en tevreden te toonen, mocht hare zuster\ngerust vertrouwen op de goede uitwerking van den tijd ter herstel\nvan hare gezondheid.\n\nMargaret kwam terug, en het gezin was nu weer vereend; opnieuw waren\nzij rustig samen in hun huisje, en indien al niet zoo druk bezig\nmet hun gewone studies, als toen zij pas te Barton kwamen, althans\nvoornemens, ze in het vervolg met ijver voort te zetten.\n\nElinor begon sterk te verlangen naar eenig bericht over Edward. Sedert\nhaar vertrek uit Londen had zij niets van hem vernomen; niets\nnieuws omtrent zijne plannen, en zelfs omtrent zijne tegenwoordige\nverblijfplaats verkeerde zij in onzekerheid.\n\nTen gevolge van Marianne's ziekte waren tusschen haar en haar broeder\neenige brieven gewisseld, en in John's eersten brief kwam deze zin\nvoor: \"Van onzen ongelukkigen Edward weten we niets, en we kunnen geen\nnavraag doen naar zulk een verboden onderwerp; maar we vermoeden, dat\nhij nog te Oxford is,\"--'t geen het eenige bericht omtrent Edward was,\ndat de briefwisseling haar verschafte; daar zijn naam in de volgende\nbrieven zelfs niet werd genoemd. Lang echter zou zij niet veroordeeld\nblijven, in onwetendheid te verkeeren omtrent zijn doen en laten.\n\nHun huisknecht was op zekeren morgen naar Exeter geweest, en toen hij,\nbij het tafeldienen, de vragen van zijne meesteres omtrent den uitslag\nvan zijne opdracht had beantwoord, voegde hij uit eigen beweging erbij:\n\n\"U weet zeker al, Mevrouw, dat Mijnheer Ferrars getrouwd is?\"\n\nMarianne schrikte hevig, zag Elinor verbleeken, viel zenuwachtig\nsnikkend achterover in haar stoel. Mevrouw Dashwood, wier blik,\nterwijl zij de vraag van den knecht beantwoordde, instinctmatig\ndezelfde richting volgde, ontstelde, toen zij aan Elinor's gelaat\nzag, hoe diep deze was getroffen, en een oogenblik later wist zij,\nevenzeer verontrust door Marianne's toestand, waarlijk niet, wie van\nhare kinderen het meest hare hulp behoefde.\n\nDe knecht, die alleen zag, dat Juffrouw Marianne onwel werd, was\nzoo verstandig een van de dienstmeisjes te roepen, die haar, door\nMevrouw Dashwood geholpen, naar de andere kamer bracht. Marianne\nherstelde zich reeds, en hare moeder kon haar overlaten aan de zorg\nvan Margaret en de kamenier, om terug te keeren naar Elinor, die,\nhoewel nog zeer onder den indruk, in zooverre haar zenuwen en hare\nstem weer meester was, dat zij aan Thomas kon vragen, van wie hij die\ntijding had vernomen. Mevrouw Dashwood onthief haar dadelijk van die\ntaak, en Elinor werd dus, zonder eenige inspanning van hare zijde,\nvoldoende op de hoogte gebracht.\n\n\"Wie heeft je verteld, Thomas, dat Mijnheer Ferrars was getrouwd?\"--\n\n\"Ik zag Mijnheer Ferrars zelf, Mevrouw, van morgen te Exeter,\nmet zijn vrouw, juffrouw Steele, zooals ze dan vroeger heette. Ze\nzaten in een koets, die stil stond voor de New London Inn, toen ik\ndaar een brief kwam bezorgen van Sally op het Park, Voor haar broer\ndie er postillon is. Ik keek toevallig op, toen ik langs de koets\nkwam, en ik zag dadelijk, dat het de jongste juffrouw Steele was;\ndus nam ik mijn hoed af, en zij kende mij nog, en riep mij; en ze\nvroeg naar u, Mevrouw, en de jonge dames, vooral Juffrouw Marianne,\nen of ik de groeten wilde doen van haar en Mijnheer Ferrars; hun beider\nhartelijke groeten, en dat het hun zoo speet, dat ze geen tijd hadden,\nu te komen opzoeken, maar ze hadden zoo'n haast om verder te komen,\nwant ze gingen nog verder op reis voor een tijdje,--maar in elk geval,\nals ze terugkwamen, dan zouden ze u stellig een bezoek brengen.\"\n\n\"En ze zei, dat ze getrouwd was, Thomas?\"\n\n\"Ja, Mevrouw; ze lachte, en zei dat ze van naam was veranderd,\nsedert ze 't laatst hier in de buurt was. Ze was altoos heel aardig\nen spraakzaam, en had voor ieder een vriendelijk woord. Dus was ik\nmaar zoo vrij, haar geluk te wenschen.\"\n\n\"Zat Mijnheer Ferrars met haar in het rijtuig?\"\n\n\"Ja, Mevrouw. Ik kon hem nog juist zien, hij leunde achterover; maar\nhij keek niet op;--mijnheer was nooit iemand, die veel pleizier in\npraten had.\"\n\nElinor begreep maar al te goed, dat hij zich op den achtergrond had\ngehouden, en Mevrouw Dashwood nam vermoedelijk dezelfde verklaring\naan voor zijne houding.\n\n\"Zat er anders niemand in het rijtuig?\"\n\n\"Neen, Mevrouw, zij met hen beiden; anders niet.\"\n\n\"Weet je ook, waar ze vandaan kwamen?\"\n\n\"Ze kwamen zóó uit Londen, zei Juffrouw Lucy,--Mevrouw Ferrars,\nbedoel ik.\"\n\n\"En gingen ze verder naar 't Westen?\"\n\n\"Ja, Mevrouw; maar niet voor lang. Ze zouden gauw terugkomen, en dan\nkwamen ze u stellig opzoeken.\"\n\nMevrouw Dashwood zag hare dochter aan; maar Elinor begreep wel,\ndat ze hen niet behoefde te verwachten. Die boodschap was weer juist\niets voor Lucy; zij wist wel zeker, dat Edward zich bij hen niet zou\nvertoonen. Zachtjes zei ze tegen hare moeder, dat ze waarschijnlijk\nnaar den Heer Pratt gingen, in de buurt van Plymouth.\n\nThomas had blijkbaar niets meer te vertellen. Elinor keek, alsof ze\nnog meer wenschte te hooren.\n\n\"Zag je hen wegrijden, eer je heenging?\"\n\n\"Neen, Mevrouw, de paarden werden juist buiten gebracht; maar ik kon\nniet langer wachten; ik was bang, dat het te laat werd.\"\n\n\"Zag Mevrouw Ferrars er goed uit?\"\n\n\"Ja, Mevrouw; ze zei dat ze 't best maakte; ze was altoos een knappe\njonge dame, vond ik;--en ze leek erg in haar schik.\"\n\nMevrouw Dashwood wist geen nieuwe vragen meer te bedenken, en Thomas\nkon spoedig heengaan, met het tafellaken, dat nu even overbodig was\ngeworden als hijzelf. Marianne had reeds laten zeggen, dat zij niets\nmeer wilde gebruiken; Mevrouw Dashwood en Elinor waren ook hun eetlust\nkwijt, en Margaret mocht nog van geluk spreken, dat zij, ondanks al\nde onrust, die hare zusters in den laatsten tijd hadden uitgestaan,\nondanks zooveel reden tot nalatigheid op het punt van geregelde\nmaaltijden, nog nooit te voren haar middagmaal had moeten missen.\n\nToen het dessert en de wijn waren binnengebracht en Mevrouw Dashwood\nen Elinor alleen waren, bleven zij langen tijd zwijgen, verzonken in\ngelijksoortige gepeinzen. Mevrouw Dashwood waagde geene opmerking, en\nbeproefde evenmin troost te bieden. Zij begreep nu, dat zij zich had\nvergist, toen zij vertrouwde op de wijze waarop Elinor zich voordeed,\nen zag thans zeer goed in, dat alles in der tijd met opzet was\nverzacht, om hare droefheid niet te vermeerderen, terwijl zij reeds\nzooveel had te lijden om Marianne. Zij begreep, dat hare dochter,\ndoor zoo zorgvuldig haar gevoel te sparen, haar ertoe had gebracht,\nde genegenheid, die zij eens zoo wel had begrepen, van veel minder\nbeteekenis te achten dan zij vroeger placht te gelooven, of dan deze\nthans bleek te zijn. Zij vreesde, dat zij, in dien waan verkeerend,\nonrechtvaardig, onachtzaam, ja bijna onvriendelijk was geweest jegens\nhare Elinor; dat Marianne's leed, omdat het meer openlijk werd erkend,\nzich meer onmiddellijk aan haar opdrong, te veel beslag had gelegd op\nhare teederheid, en haar ertoe had gebracht, te vergeten, hoe zij in\nElinor eene dochter bezat, die misschien evenveel had te dragen, en dat\nwel met geringer besef van eigen schuld, en met meerder geestkracht.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XLVIII\n\n\nElinor bespeurde thans hoe groot het verschil is tusschen het\nverwachten van eene onaangename gebeurtenis, hoe stellig wij ons ook\nvan hare komst overtuigd weten te houden, en volkomen zekerheid. Zij\nbespeurde nu, dat zij, haars ondanks, altoos nog, zoolang Edward\nongetrouwd bleef, eenige hoop had blijven koesteren, dat er iets mocht\ngebeuren, 't geen zijn huwelijk met Lucy verhinderen zou; dat òf een\ndoor hemzelf genomen besluit, òf de tusschenkomst van vrienden, òf\neenige meer verkieselijke gelegenheid om de toekomst der jonge dame\nte verzekeren, had mogen bijdragen tot de bevordering van hun aller\ngeluk. Maar nu was hij getrouwd, en zij laakte haar hart wegens die\ngeheime vleitaal, welke de smart dezer tijding zoo zeer had verscherpt.\n\nDat hij zoo spoedig getrouwd was, eer hij, naar zij meende,\nde wijding had kunnen ontvangen, en bijgevolg eer hij beroepen\nhad kunnen worden, verwonderde haar eerst een weinig. Maar zij zag\nweldra in, hoe waarschijnlijk het was, dat Lucy, in haar baatzuchtige\nbezorgdheid, in haar haast om hem te winnen, alles over het hoofd zou\nzien behalve het gevaar, verbonden aan uitstel. Zij waren getrouwd;\nin de stad getrouwd, en thans haastig op weg naar Lucy's oom. Wat\nzou Edward hebben gevoeld, toen hij nog geen vier mijlen van Barton\nwas verwijderd; toen hij haar moeder's knecht zag; toen hij Lucy's\nboodschap aanhoorde!\n\nZij zouden zeker spoedig, dacht zij, nu gaan wonen te\nDelaford,--Delaford, die plaats, waarin zoovele redenen haar noopten,\nbelang te stellen, die zij wenschte te kennen, en toch verlangde\nte vermijden. Zij zag ze vóór zich in hun pastorie; zag Lucy als\nde ijverige bekwame huishoudster, die den wensch naar uiterlijk\nweeldevertoon wist te paren met de uiterste spaarzaamheid, zich\nschamend, zoo iemand maar de helft van hare zuinigheidsmaatregelen\nhad kunnen vermoeden;--onophoudelijk bedacht op haar eigen belang,\npogend in de gunst te geraken bij Kolonel Brandon, bij Mevrouw\nJennings, en bij alle vermogende vrienden. Hoe zij Edward zag, wist\nzij zelve niet, en evenmin, hoe zij hem wenschte te zien; gelukkig\nof ongelukkig,--niets kon haar behagen;--van iedere voorstelling,\ndie ze zich van hem maakte, wendde zij het hoofd af.\n\nElinor bleef nog hopen, dat een van hunne kennissen in Londen hun\nzou schrijven, om het nieuws te berichten en verdere bijzonderheden\nte vermelden; maar de eene dag na de andere ging voorbij, zonder\nbrief of tijding. Hoewel zij niet precies wist, aan wien de schuld te\ngeven, ergerde zij zich over alle afwezige vrienden. Ze waren allen\nvergeetachtig, of lui.\n\n\"Wanneer schrijft u aan Kolonel Brandon, moeder?\" was de vraag,\ndie voortsproot uit haar ongeduldig verlangen, dat er toch iets\ngebeuren mocht.\n\n\"Ik schreef hem de vorige week, lieve, en ik verwacht nog eerder hem\nte zien, dan van hem te hooren. Ik drong er zeer op aan, dat hij zou\nkomen, en 't zou mij niet verwonderen, als we hem vandaag of morgen\nzagen binnenstappen.\"\n\nDat was toch iets gewonnen; iets om tegemoet te zien. Kolonel Brandon\nmoest het een of ander hebben te vertellen.\n\nPas had zij dit voor zichzelve vastgesteld, toen de verschijning van\neen ruiter haar de oogen naar het venster deed richten. Hij hield stil\nbij hun hek. Het was een heer; het zou Kolonel Brandon zijn. Nu zou\nze meer hooren, en gespannen verwachting deed haar beven. Maar--het\nwas niet Kolonel Brandon, zijn figuur niet; zijn lengte niet. Als\nzooiets nu mogelijk was, dan zou zij zeggen, dat het Edward moest\nzijn. Zij keek opnieuw. Hij was juist afgestegen;--zij kon zich niet\nvergissen; het was Edward. Ze verwijderde zich van het venster en ging\nzitten. \"Hij komt van den Heer Pratt hierheen, om ons te bezoeken. Ik\n_wil_ kalm zijn; ik _wil_ mij beheerschen.\"\n\nOp dat oogenblik bespeurde zij, dat de anderen ook hunne vergissing\nhadden bemerkt. Zij zag haar moeder en Marianne verbleeken, naar haar\nzien, en elkander iets toefluisteren. Ze zou alles hebben gegeven,\nom te kunnen spreken, om hen te doen begrijpen, hoe zij hoopte, dat\nhun houding geen koelheid, geen onverschilligheid zou aan den dag\nleggen; maar zij kon geen woord uitbrengen, en moest alles overlaten\naan hun eigen gevoel van tact. Geen enkel woord werd tusschen\nhen gewisseld. Zij wachtten zwijgend, tot de bezoeker verschijnen\nzou. Zijn voetstappen klonken op het grintpad; daarna in de gang,\nen een oogenblik later stond hij voor hen.\n\nZijn gelaat drukte bij het binnenkomen geen al te groote blijdschap\nuit; zelfs niet voor Elinor. Hij zag bleek van zenuwachtigheid, en\nkeek alsof hij bevreesd was voor de te verwachten ontvangst, en zich\nbewust, dat deze niet vriendelijk kon zijn. Mevrouw Dashwood echter,\nzich voegend, naar zij geloofde, naar den wensch van hare dochter,\ndoor wie zij zich, in hare verteederde gezindheid, in alles wilde\nlaten leiden, begroette hem met een ietwat gedwongen minzaamheid,\ngaf hem de hand en wenschte hem geluk. Hij kleurde en stotterde iets\nonverstaanbaars. Elinor's lippen bewogen gelijktijdig met die harer\nmoeder, en toen het ogenblik van handelen was verstreken, wenschte\nzij, dat zij hem ook de hand gegeven had. Maar nu was het te laat, en\nmet een uitdrukking, die zij haar best deed onbevangen te doen zijn,\nging zij weer zitten, en praatte over het weer.\n\nMarianne had zich zoo ver mogelijk teruggetrokken, om hare droefheid\nte verbergen, en Margaret, die wel iets, maar niet alles van de zaak\nbegreep, vond het raadzaam, een waardige houding aan te nemen; zij\nging dus zoo ver mogelijk van hen af zitten, en bewaarde een strak\nstilzwijgen.\n\nToen Elinor klaar was met haar blijdschapsbetuigingen over het mooie\ndroge weer, volgde er eene onheilspellende stilte. Deze werd verbroken\ndoor Mevrouw Dashwood, die zich verplicht achtte, te hopen, dat Mevrouw\nFerrars het goed maakte. Hij gaf haastig een bevestigend antwoord.\n\nNieuwe stilte.\n\nAl haar krachten verzamelend, hoewel bang voor 't geluid van haar\neigen stem, zei Elinor: \"Is Mevrouw Ferrars te Longstaple?\"\n\n\"Longstaple?\" antwoordde hij verwonderd. \"Neen, mijn moeder is in\nde stad.\"\n\n\"Ik bedoelde eigenlijk,\" zei Elinor, een handwerk van de tafel\nopnemend, \"Mevrouw _Edward_ Ferrars.\" Zij durfde niet opzien; maar\nhare moeder en Marianne zagen hem beiden aan. Hij kleurde, scheen\nverlegen, keek twijfelachtig, en zei na eenige aarzeling: \"Misschien\nbedoel je... mijn broer... je bedoelt zeker Mevrouw... Mevrouw Robert\nFerrars.\"\n\n\"Mevrouw Robert Ferrars?\"--herhaalden Marianne en hare moeder op een\ntoon van de uiterste verbazing, en hoewel Elinor niet kon spreken,\nzagen hare oogen hem aan met de zelfde ongeduldige verwondering. Hij\nstond van zijn stoel op en liep naar het venster, blijkbaar omdat\nhij niet wist, wat te beginnen; hij nam een schaartje in étui op,\ndat er lag, en terwijl hij zoowel het schaartje als het étui bedierf,\ndoor het laatste onder het spreken in stukjes te knippen, zeide hij,\nop gejaagde toon:\n\n\"U weet zeker niet,--u hebt misschien niet gehoord, dat mijn broer\nonlangs is getrouwd met... met de jongste... met juffrouw Lucy Steele.\"\n\nZijne woorden werden met onuitsprekelijke verbazing herhaald door\nallen, behalve Elinor, die met het hoofd over haar werk zat gebogen,\nzóó zenuwachtig, dat zij bijna niet wist, waar zij was.\n\n\"Ja,\" zei hij, \"ze zijn de vorige week getrouwd, en logeeren nu\nte Dawlish.\"\n\nElinor kon niet langer blijven zitten. Zij liep bijna op een draf de\nkamer uit, en zoodra de deur was gesloten, barstte zij uit in een\nstroom van blijde tranen, die zij dacht, dat vooreerst niet zouden\nkunnen ophouden te vloeien. Edward, die tot nu toe naar alles had\ngekeken behalve naar haar, zag haar wegvluchten, en zag ook,--of\nhoorde zelfs,--hare ontroering; want dadelijk daarna verzonk hij\nin een gepeins, dat geene opmerking, geen vraag, geen vriendelijke\ntoespraak van Mevrouw Dashwood scheen te kunnen verstoren, en eindelijk\nging hij, zonder een woord te zeggen, de kamer uit en wandelde den\nweg op, naar het dorp, de anderen uiterst verbaasd en nieuwsgierig\nachterlatend over zulk een wonderlijke en snelle verandering in\nzijne omstandigheden,--zonder eenig ander middel om die verbaasde\nnieuwsgierigheid te bevredigen, dan hun eigen gissingen.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK XLIX\n\n\nHoe onverklaarbaar echter ook de omstandigheden, waaronder zijn\nbevrijding had plaatsgegrepen, der geheele familie mochten voorkomen,\nhet stond vast, dat Edward vrij was, en tot welk doel die vrijheid\nzou worden aangewend, konden allen gemakkelijk voorzien; want na\nde zegeningen te hebben ervaren van ééne onvoorzichtige verloving,\naangegaan zonder zijn moeder's toestemming, zooals hij reeds meer\ndan vier jaren had gedaan, kon er, na de verbreking van deze, niet\nanders van hem worden verwacht, dan dat hij onmiddellijk eene andere\nverbintenis zou sluiten.\n\nHet doel van zijn bezoek te Barton was eenvoudig genoeg. Hij wilde\nniets anders, dan Elinor ten huwelijk vragen, en in aanmerking genomen\ndat hij op dit punt niet geheel onervaren was, kon het vreemd schijnen,\ndat hij zich thans zoo weinig op zijn gemak gevoelde, en zooveel\nbehoefte had aan bemoediging en frissche lucht.\n\nHoe spoedig hij echter, al wandelende, tot een genoegzaam vast\nbesluit was gekomen, hoe dra de gelegenheid zich voordeed om het\nten uitvoer te brengen, op welke wijze hij zich uitdrukte, en\nhoe hij werd ontvangen, behoeft niet in bijzonderheden te worden\nvermeld. Wij kunnen volstaan met te zeggen, dat hij, toen zij samen\nom vier uur aan tafel gingen, omstreeks drie uren na zijne aankomst,\nzijn verloofde had gewonnen, haar moeder's toestemming had verworven,\nen zich, niet slechts met de verrukte overdrijving van den minnaar,\nmaar in waarheid en werkelijkheid een der gelukkigste menschen ter\nwereld voelde. Waarlijk, hij mocht zich buitengewoon bevoorrecht\nachten. Zijn hart mocht zwellen, zijn geest zich verheffen met meer dan\nden natuurlijken trots van beantwoorde liefde. Hij zag zich bevrijd,\nen zonder het minste zelfverwijt, van banden, die hem lang een bron van\nkwelling waren geweest, van eene vrouw, die hij reeds lang niet meer\nliefhad, en plotseling verzekerd van het bezit eener andere, waaraan\nhij bijna niet anders dan met wanhoop had kunnen denken, zoodra hij\nwas begonnen het te beschouwen als het doel van zijn verlangen. Niet\nvan uit twijfel en onzekerheid, doch van uit de diepste ellende ging\nhij over tot het geluk;--en die verandering uitte zich onomwonden,\nin zulk een echte, natuurlijk opwellende, dankbare vroolijkheid,\nals zijn vrienden nog nimmer bij hem hadden waargenomen.\n\nZijn hart stond nu open voor Elinor; al zijne zwakheden en dwalingen\nwerden gebiecht, en zijne eerste, jongensachtige verliefdheid op\nLucy werd beschouwd met al de philosofische waardigheid van den vier\nen twintigjarige.\n\n\"Het was van mijn kant een dwaze, lichtzinnige neiging,\" zeide hij,\n\"'t gevolg van gebrek aan wereldkennis en gemis van bezigheid. Had\nmijn moeder mij werkzaam laten zijn in eenig beroep, toen ik op mijn\nachttiende jaar aan de zorg van den Heer Pratt werd onttrokken,\ndan denk ik, neen, dan weet ik stellig, dat het nooit zou zijn\ngebeurd; want hoewel ik Longstaple verliet met wat ik toen als eene\nonoverwinnelijke neiging beschouwde voor zijne nicht, ik zou toch,\nwanneer ik toen eenige bezigheid had gehad, eenig doel, dat mijn tijd\nin beslag nam en mij enkele maanden van haar verwijderd hield, zeer\nspoedig die gewaande genegenheid zijn te boven gekomen; vooral door\nmij meer onder vreemden te bewegen, zooals ik in dat geval had moeten\ndoen. Maar inplaats van iets te doen te krijgen,--in plaats dat eenig\nberoep voor mij werd gekozen, of eene eigen keuze mij werd vergund,\nkwam ik terug bij mijn familie om totaal leeg te loopen, en het eerste\njaar na mijn thuiskomst had ik zelfs niet die zoogenaamde bezigheid,\ndie het verblijf aan de universiteit mij zou hebben verschaft;\nwant ik werd niet ingeschreven te Oxford, eer ik negentien jaar was\ngeworden. Ik had dus niets ter wereld te doen, dan mij te verbeelden,\ndat ik verliefd was, en daar moeder mijn verblijf tehuis niet in\nelk opzicht aangenaam maakte,--daar ik geen vriend of kameraad vond\nin mijn broeder, en ongeneigd was, nieuwe kennissen te zoeken, was\nhet niet onnatuurlijk, dat ik veel naar Longstaple ging, waar ik mij\naltijd thuis gevoelde, en zeker was, hartelijk te worden verwelkomd;\nzoodoende bracht ik het grootste deel van mijn tijd daar door, tusschen\nmijn achttiende en negentiende jaar. Lucy scheen toen zoo beminnelijk\nen voorkomend als iemand maar zijn kon. Mooi was zij ook;--ten minste\n_toen_ vond ik dat; en ik had zoo weinig omgegaan met andere vrouwen,\ndat ik geen vergelijkingen kon maken, en geen gebreken zien. Alles in\naanmerking genomen, hoop ik dus, dat onze verloving, hoe onverstandig\ndie ook was, en sedert in elk opzicht is gebleken, toentertijd toch\ngeen onnatuurlijke of onverschoonbaar dwaze daad is geweest.\"\n\nDe verandering, die enkele uren hadden bewerkstelligd in den geest\nen de gemoedsstemming der Dashwoods was zoo groot, dat zij allen, en\nniet zonder voldoening, een slapeloozen nacht tegemoet zagen. Mevrouw\nDashwood, te gelukkig om kalm te zijn, wist niet hoe Edward genoeg\nte waardeeren, noch Elinor te prijzen;--hoe dankbaar genoeg te zijn\nvoor zijn bevrijding zonder zijn fijngevoeligheid te kwetsen;--noch\nhoe zij hun tegelijkertijd gelegenheid zou schenken tot ongedwongen\nonderling gesprek, en tevens, zooals zij dat wenschte, zou kunnen\ngenieten van beider aanblik en gezelschap.\n\nMarianne kon hare vreugde slechts uiten door tranen. Vergelijkingen\ndrongen zich aan haar op; weemoedige herinneringen kwamen oprijzen;\nen hare blijdschap, hoewel oprecht als haar zusterlijke liefde, was\ner eene, die haar noch opgewekt, noch spraakzaam vermocht te doen zijn.\n\nDoch Elinor, hoe _hare_ gevoelens te beschrijven? Van af het oogenblik,\nwaarop zij vernam, dat Lucy met een ander was gehuwd, dat Edward\nvrij was, tot aan dat, waarin hij de hoop in vervulling deed gaan,\nzoo plotseling daarop gevolgd, was zij beurtelings alles geweest,\nbehalve kalm. Doch toen dat tweede oogenblik voorbij was,--toen\nzij elken twijfel, alle bezorgdheid voelde wijken,--toen zij haar\ntoestand vergeleek bij wat die nog zoo kort geleden was geweest,--toen\nzij hem, met behoud van zijne eer, zag ontslagen van zijn vroegere\nverbintenis,--zag, hoe hij aanstonds gebruikmaakte van die bevrijding,\ndoor zich tot haar zelve te wenden, en de bekentenis af te leggen\nvan eene liefde, zoo teeder en trouw als zij die altoos geloofd\nhad te zijn,--toen was zij bezwaard, ja overstelpt door haar eigen\ngeluksgevoel, en hoezeer ook des menschen geest gelukkigerwijze\ngeneigd is, zich gemakkelijk te gewennen aan elke verandering ten\ngoede, toch moesten meerdere uren verloopen eer haar gemoed zijne\nkalmte herkreeg, haar hart eenigermate tot rust kwam.\n\nEdward moest nu minstens een week te Barton blijven; want van welke\nandere verplichtingen hij zich ook had te kwijten, het was onmogelijk,\ndat een korter tijdsverloop dan eene week zou worden gewijd aan het\ngenot van Elinor's gezelschap; of voldoende had kunnen zijn om de\nhelft te zeggen van 't geen er te zeggen viel over verleden, heden en\ntoekomst; want hoewel in een paar uren van volijverig en onverpoosd\ngesprek meer onderwerpen kunnen worden behandeld, dan feitelijk aan\ntwee redelijke wezens gemeenschappelijk belang kunnen inboezemen, bij\ngelieven is het toch anders gesteld. Tusschen hen is geen onderwerp\nafgehandeld, wordt geene mededeeling zelfs als gedaan beschouwd,\nwanneer zij niet minstens twintigmaal herhaald is.\n\nLucy's huwelijk, een bron van eindelooze en verklaarbare verbazing voor\nhen allen, vormde natuurlijk een der eerste onderwerpen van gesprek\ntusschen de gelieven, en Elinor's bijzondere bekendheid met de beide\npartijen deed het in hare oogen in elk opzicht een der zonderlingste\nen onverklaarbaarste gebeurtenissen schijnen, die haar ooit waren ter\noore gekomen. Hoe zij met elkaar in aanraking waren gekomen, en welke\naantrekkingskracht Robert had verleid tot een huwelijk met een meisje,\nvan wier schoonheid zij hem zelve zonder eenige bewondering had hooren\nspreken, een meisje nog wel, dat reeds verloofd was met zijn broeder,\nen om wier wil die broeder door zijn familie was verstooten,--het ging\nhaar begrip te boven. Haar eigen hart vond in het gebeurde reden tot\ngroote blijdschap; haar verbeelding trof het als iets belachelijks;\ndoch voor haar verstand, haar oordeel bleef het een onopgelost raadsel.\n\nEdward kon slechts pogen het te verklaren door de onderstelling, dat\nna eene eerste toevallige ontmoeting de ijdelheid van den een zoozeer\ngestreeld was door de vleierij der andere, dat hieruit van lieverlede\nal het overige was gevolgd. Elinor herinnerde zich, wat Robert haar in\nHarley Street had verteld aangaande zijne meening omtrent hetgeen zijne\nbemiddeling in zijn broeder's aangelegenheid zou hebben uitgewerkt, zoo\nhij bijtijds ware tusschenbeide gekomen. Zij vertelde dit aan Edward.\n\n\"Dàt was wel juist iets voor Robert,\" merkte hij dadelijk op. \"En\ndàt,\" voegde hij erbij, \"heeft hij misschien in het hoofd gehad,\ntoen zij elkaar voor 't eerst ontmoetten. Terwijl Lucy mogelijk\nin 't begin alleen erop bedacht was, zijn voorspraak te mijnen\ngunste te winnen. Later kunnen toen wel andere plannen bij hen zijn\nopgekomen.\" Hoelang die verstandhouding tusschen hen had bestaan,\nkon hij echter evenmin uitmaken als zijzelve; want te Oxford, waar\nhij bij voorkeur was gebleven sedert zijn vertrek uit Londen, had hij\ngeen ander bericht omtrent haar kunnen ontvangen dan door haarzelve,\nen tot het allerlaatst waren hare brieven noch in aantal, noch in\nhartelijkheid verminderd. Geen de minste achterdocht was dus bij hem\ngerezen, om hem voor te bereiden op hetgeen gebeuren ging, en toen\nhet hem ten slotte geheel onverwacht werd geopenbaard door een brief\nvan Lucy zelve, was hij een tijdlang half verbijsterd geweest, dacht\nhij, door verbazing, ontzetting en vreugde over zulk een ongedachte\nverlossing. Hij liet Elinor den brief lezen.--\n\n\n    \"Geachte Heer.\n\n    Daar ik zeer wel weet, dat ik reeds lang niet meer uwe liefde\n    bezit, acht ik mij gerechtigd, de mijne aan een ander te\n    schenken, en twijfel ik niet, of ik zal zoo gelukkig met hem\n    worden als ik eens had gedacht te zullen zijn met u; maar ik\n    acht het beneden mij, de hand aan te nemen van hem, wiens hart\n    aan eene andere behoort. Ik wensch u oprecht geluk met uwe\n    keuze, en zal het mijne schuld niet zijn, als wij niet steeds\n    goede vrienden blijven, zooals nu ook behoorlijk is, daar wij\n    naaste verwanten worden. Ik mag gerust zeggen, dat ik u geen\n    kwaad hart toedraag, en ik weet wel, dat gij te edelmoedig\n    zijt om ons te willen benadeelen. Uw broeder heeft mijn geheele\n    hart gewonnen, en daar wij zonder elkander niet konden leven,\n    zijn wij zooeven in den echt verbonden, en thans op weg naar\n    Dawlish voor een paar weken, waarnaar uw broeder zeer verlangt;\n    maar meende ik u eerst deze paar regels te moeten schrijven,\n    en blijf steeds gaarne, u van harte alle goeds wenschend,\n\n                                        uwe vriendin en zuster\n                                        Lucy Ferrars.\n\n\nIk heb al uwe brieven verbrand, en zal uw portret bij de eerstvolgende\ngelegenheid terugzenden. Verscheur als 't u blieft mijn gekrabbel;\nden ring met mijn haar moogt ge gerust behouden.\"\n\nElinor las den brief, en gaf dien zonder iets te zeggen terug.\n\n\"Ik zal maar niet vragen wat je denkt van den stijl,\" zei Edward. \"Ik\nhad voor geen geld van de wereld gewild vroeger, dat een brief van\nhaar onder je oogen was gekomen. 't Is al erg genoeg als eene zuster\nzoo schrijft; maar je eigen vrouw! Hoe dikwijls kreeg ik een kleur\nvan schaamte bij 't lezen van haar brieven; en ik geloof wel, te mogen\nzeggen, dat sedert het eerste half jaar van die dwaze... geschiedenis,\ndit de eerste brief is geweest, dien ik van haar ontving, waarvan de\ninhoud de stijlfouten eenigszins vergoedde.\"\n\n\"Hoe het dan ook zoover is gekomen,\" zeide Elinor na een poos\nvan stilte, \"getrouwd _zijn_ ze nu. En je moeder heeft zich hare\nverdiende straf op den hals gehaald. De onafhankelijkheid, die zij\nRobert verzekerde, uit verbittering jegens jou, heeft hem in staat\ngesteld, zijn eigen keuze te volgen, en door hem die duizend pond\nin het jaar te schenken, heeft zij feitelijk bewerkt, dat de eene\nzoon het plan volvoerde, wegens welks beraming zij den anderen had\nonterfd. Het zal haar wel niet minder grieven, denk ik, dat Robert\nmet Lucy is getrouwd, dan dat jij haar tot vrouw hadt gekregen.\"\n\n\"Het grieft haar dieper; want van Robert hield zij altoos het\nmeest. Het grieft haar dieper; maar om diezelfde reden zal ze hem\nveel eerder vergiffenis schenken.\"\n\nHoe de zaken op het oogenblik tusschen hen stonden, wist Edward niet;\nwant hij had nog met geen zijner familieleden gepoogd in verbinding te\ntreden. Nog geen vierentwintig uren na de komst van Lucy's brief had\nhij Oxford verlaten; en met slechts één doel voor oogen, de naaste\nweg naar Barton, had hij nog geen tijd gehad, eenig voornemen op te\nvatten, dat niet met dien weg in het nauwste verband stond. Hij kon\nniets doen, eer hij wist, hoe Elinor over zijn lot zou beslissen,\nen uit de snelheid, waarmede hij die beslissing zocht, mocht men\nopmaken,--ondanks de jaloezie, waarmede hij eenmaal aan Kolonel\nBrandon had gedacht,--ondanks zijn bescheiden meening omtrent zijn\neigen verdiensten, en de beleefdheid, die hem van zijn twijfel deed\nspreken, dat hij over 't geheel op geen al te wreedaardige ontvangst\nhad gerekend. Hij behoorde echter te beweren, dat hij dit wèl had\ngedaan, en hij zeide dit dan ook, zooals het betaamde. Wat hij een\njaar later omtrent dit onderwerp zou hebben te vertellen, laat ik\nover aan de verbeelding van echtelieden.\n\nDat Lucy stellig bedoeld had, hem te bedriegen, en hem, met eene\nuiting van boosaardigen triomf in hare opdracht aan Thomas, zijn\nafscheid te geven, was Elinor volkomen duidelijk; en Edward zelf, die\nhaar karakter thans goed doorzag, gaf onbewimpeld te kennen, dat hij\nhaar, in hare roekelooze boosaardigheid, tot het allerlaagste in staat\nachtte. Hoewel hem de oogen reeds lang waren opengegaan, zelfs eer hij\nElinor leerde kennen, voor hare onwetendheid en het gemis van ruimheid\nin sommige harer opvattingen, had hij dit alles aan haar gebrekkige\nopvoeding geweten, en totdat hij haar laatsten brief ontving, had\nhij altoos gedacht, dat zij een welmeenend, goedhartig meisje was,\nen dat zij voor hem eene oprechte genegenheid koesterde. Niets dan\ndeze overtuiging kon hem hebben belet, een einde te maken aan eene\nverloving, die lang eer de ontdekking ervan hem blootstelde aan zijn\nmoeder's toorn, een aanhoudende oorzaak van onrust en verdriet voor\nhem was geweest.\n\n\"Ik achtte het mijn plicht,\" zeide hij, \"afgezien van mijn eigen\ngevoelens, haar de keus te laten, of zij de verloving wilde verbreken,\nof niet, toen ik door mijne moeder werd verstooten, en het scheen,\nalsof ik in de wereld stond zonder een enkelen vriend, die mij had\nkunnen bijstaan. Hoe kon ik, in zulke omstandigheden, waarin niets\nverlokkends gelegen scheen voor de hebzucht of de ijdelheid van\neenig menschelijk wezen, veronderstellen, toen zij zoo ernstig en\nhartelijk er op aandrong, mijn lot te deelen, hoe het ook mocht zijn,\ndat iets anders dan de meest onbaatzuchtige genegenheid haar daartoe\nnoopte? En zelfs nu kan ik niet begrijpen, door welke beweegreden\nzij werd gedreven, of welk gewaand voordeel zij erin zag, gebonden te\nzijn aan een man, voor wien zij geen spoor van liefde gevoelde, en die\nslechts tweeduizend pond zijn eigendom kon noemen. Zij kon niet vooruit\nweten, dat Kolonel Brandon mij eene predikantsplaats zou bezorgen.\"\n\n\"Neen; maar zij geloofde allicht, dat er iets gebeuren kon in je\nvoordeel; dat je eigen familie ten slotte zou toegeven. En in elk\ngeval verloor zij er niets bij, als zij de verloving liet voortduren;\nwant zij heeft bewezen, dat deze haar noch in hare neigingen, noch\nin hare daden belemmerde. De relatie was zeer zeker waardevol, en\nverschafte haar waarschijnlijk eenig aanzien onder hare vrienden,\nen als zich niets voordeeligers opdeed, was het beter voor haar,\nmet jou te trouwen dan ongehuwd te blijven.\"\n\nHet sprak van zelf, dat Edward aanstonds inzag, hoe niets natuurlijker\nkon zijn geweest dan Lucy's gedrag, en niets meer verklaarbaar,\ndan de beweegreden, die haar ertoe had gedreven.\n\nElinor berispte hem, streng, als dames steeds eene onvoorzichtigheid\nberispen, die voor haarzelve vleiend is, omdat hij zooveel tijd bij\nhen te Norland had doorgebracht, toen hij zich toch bewust moest zijn\ngeweest van zijn eigen ontrouw.\n\n\"Je gedrag was werkelijk zeer verkeerd,\" zeide zij; \"omdat, mijn eigen\novertuiging nu nog daargelaten, onze verwanten er allen aanleiding in\nvonden, zich te verbeelden en te verwachten, wat in de omstandigheden,\nwaarin je _toen_ verkeerde, nooit gebeuren kon.\"\n\nHet eenige wat hij hiertegen kon inbrengen was, dat hij zijn eigen\nhart niet had gekend, en te veel gewicht had gehecht aan de bindende\nkracht van zijne verloving.\n\n\"Ik was onnoozel genoeg, om te gelooven, dat er, daar ik mijne trouw\naan eene andere had verpand, geen gevaar was te duchten van ons beider\nsamenzijn; en dat het besef, dat ik verloofd was, mijn hart even\nveilig en ongerept zou doen blijven, als mijne eer. Ik voelde, dat ik\nje bewonderde; maar ik zeide tot mijzelf, dat het enkel vriendschap\nwas, en totdat ik vergelijkingen begon te maken tusschen jou en Lucy,\nwist ik niet, hoever het reeds met mij was gekomen. Daarna geloof ik\nwel, dat ik verkeerd deed door zoo dikwijls in Sussex te vertoeven,\nen de argumenten, waarmede ik mijzelf poogde te overtuigen dat\nhierin geen kwaad stak, kwamen op niet veel beters neer dan dit:\n\"Ik ben de eenige, die gevaar loopt; ik doe niemand kwaad dan mijzelf.\"\n\nElinor glimlachte, en schudde haar hoofd.\n\nEdward hoorde met genoegen, dat Kolonel Brandon te Barton werd\nverwacht; daar hij werkelijk niet alleen wenschte, hem beter te leeren\nkennen; maar ook, om gelegenheid te vinden, hem te overtuigen, dat hij\nniet afkeerig was van de predikantsplaats te Delaford. \"Terwijl thans,\"\nzeide hij, \"na de weinig beminnelijke wijze, waarop ik mijn dank bij\ndie gelegenheid heb uitgesproken, de Kolonel wel zou kunnen denken,\ndat ik hem die aanbieding nooit heb kunnen vergeven.\" Nu was hij er\nzelf verbaasd over, dat hij Delaford nog niet had bezocht. Maar hij\nhad zoo weinig belang gesteld in de zaak, dat hij al zijne kennis\nomtrent het huis, den tuin en den bouwgrond, de grootte der gemeente,\nden toestand van het land, en de opbrengst der tienden, te danken\nhad aan Elinor zelve, die er door Kolonel Brandon zooveel van had\nvernomen, en daarbij zoo aandachtig had geluisterd, dat zij thans\nvolkomen op de hoogte was.\n\nEene vraag bleef hierna slechts onbeslist tusschen hen; eene\nmoeilijkheid viel nog slechts te overwinnen. Zij waren tezamengebracht\ndoor wederzijdsche genegenheid, met de hartelijkste goedkeuring\nhunner waarachtige vrienden; hunne innig vertrouwde bekendheid met\nelkander scheen hun geluk te waarborgen, en zij verlangden nu alleen\nhet noodige om van te leven.\n\nEdward bezat tweeduizend pond, en Elinor duizend, hetgeen met de\npredikantsplaats te Delaford, alles was, wat zij hun eigendom konden\nnoemen; want het was niet mogelijk, dat Mevrouw Dashwood hun iets zou\nafstaan, en zij waren geen van beiden verliefd genoeg, om te denken\ndat driehonderdvijftig pond in het jaar hun een behagelijk bestaan\nzou verschaffen.\n\nEdward liet nog niet alle hoop varen op eene gunstige verandering\nin zijne moeder te zijnen opzichte, en hierop rekende hij, wat de\nrest van hun inkomen betrof. Elinor echter vertrouwde hierop niet;\nwant daar Edward nog steeds met Juffrouw Morton zou kunnen trouwen,\nen Mevrouw Ferrars, op haar vleiende manier, het slechts voor een\ngeringer kwaad had verklaard, als hij háár, inplaats van Lucy Steele\nhad gekozen, vreesde zij, dat Robert's vergrijp tot niets anders zou\ndienen, dan om Fanny te verrijken. Omstreeks vier dagen na Edward's\nkomst verscheen Kolonel Brandon, om Mevrouw Dashwood's voldoening te\nvolmaken, en haar het trotsche gevoel te schenken, voor de eerste maal\nsedert zij te Barton woonde, van meer gasten te hebben, dan zij in haar\nhuis bergen kon. Edward mocht zijn recht als eerstgekomene doen gelden,\nen dus wandelde Kolonel Brandon iederen avond naar zijn oud kwartier\nop Het Park, vanwaar hij gewoonlijk 's morgens terugkeerde, vroeg\ngenoeg om het tête-à-tête der gelieven te storen, voor het ontbijt.\n\nEen verblijf van drie weken te Delaford, waar hij, althans in de\navonduren, weinig anders te doen had, dan de ongunstige verhouding\nna te rekenen tusschen zes en dertig en zeventien, deed hem naar\nBarton komen in eene stemming, die, ondanks Marianne's merkbaar\nverbeterden gezondheidstoestand, haar hartelijke verwelkoming, en de\nbemoedigende verzekeringen van hare moeder, nog steeds niet vroolijk\nkon worden genoemd. Onder zulke vrienden echter, en bij zooveel\nvoorkomendheid leefde hij werkelijk op. Nog had hij niets vernomen\nvan Lucy's huwelijk; hij wist niets van 't geen er gebeurd was,\nen dus gaven de eerste uren van zijn bezoek ruim stof tot aanhooren\nen zich verbazen. Alles werd hem door Mevrouw Dashwood verklaard,\nen hij verheugde zich te meer over 't geen hij voor den Heer Ferrars\nhad gedaan, nu het ten slotte bleek, dat hij Elinor's belang daardoor\nhad bevorderd.\n\nHet zou onnoodig zijn, te zeggen, dat met de nadere kennismaking\nde wederzijdsche waardeering der beide heeren gelijken tred hield;\nwant het had moeilijk anders kunnen zijn. Hunne overeenstemming in\nzuivere beginselen en helder oordeel, in geaardheid en denkwijze,\nzou waarschijnlijk voldoende zijn geweest om hen vriendschap te doen\nsluiten, zonder dat eenige andere aantrekking daartoe medewerkte; maar\ndat zij hun liefde hadden geschonken aan twee zusters, en twee zusters\ndie veel van elkaar hielden, deed onvermijdelijk en onmiddellijk de\nwederzijdsche genegenheid ontstaan, die anders misschien zou hebben\ngewacht op de uitwerking van den tijd, en rijper nadenken.\n\nDe brieven uit de stad, die eenige dagen tevoren iedere zenuw\nin Elinor's lichaam zouden hebben doen trillen van verrukking,\nkwamen nu aan; om te worden gelezen met meer vroolijkheid dan\nontroering. Mevrouw Jennings schreef, om het wonderlijke bericht te\nvertellen, haar eerlijke verontwaardiging te uiten jegens het meisje\ndat zoo grillig haar minnaar verwierp, en al haar medelijden uit\nte storten over dien armen Mijnheer Edward, die naar zij stellig\ngeloofde, gedweept had met dat ondeugende ding, en nu, naar zij\nhoorde, diep wanhopig te Oxford zat. \"Ik moet zeggen,\" ging ze voort,\n\"het was buitengewoon slim overlegd; want nog geen twee dagen te voren\nhad Lucy mij opgezocht, en zat een paar uren bij mij te praten. Geen\nmensch, die er iets van vermoedde; zelfs Anne niet, die arme ziel,\ndie den volgenden dag schreiende bij mij kwam, doodsbang voor Mevrouw\nFerrars en omdat ze niet wist, hoe naar Plymouth te komen; want het\nblijkt, dat Lucy eer ze wegging om te trouwen, al Anne's geld had\ngeleend; zeker om er vertooning mee te maken, en die arme Anne had\ngeen zeven shillings in haar beurs;--ik gaf haar met pleizier vijf\nguineas, om naar Exeter te reizen, waar ze een week of drie vier bij\nMevrouw Burgess dacht te logeeren, natuurlijk in de hoop, zooals ik\nhaar al zei, den dokter daar weer te ontmoeten. En ik moet zeggen,\ndie onaardigheid van Lucy, om haar niet mee in het rijtuig te nemen,\nvind ik het ergst van alles. Arme Mijnheer Edward! Ik kan hem niet\nuit mijn hoofd zetten; maar jelui moet hem naar Barton halen; en dan\nmoet Marianne beproeven hem te troosten.\"\n\nDe Heer Dashwood schreef in ernstiger trant. Mevrouw Ferrars was\nde ongelukkigste van alle vrouwen--de arme Fanny had door hare\ngevoeligheid onbeschrijfelijke kwellingen verduurd--en hij beschouwde\nhet als eene reden tot dankbare verwondering, dat beiden na zulk een\nslag nog in leven waren gebleven. Robert's vergrijp was onvergefelijk;\nmaar Lucy had zich oneindig erger misdragen. Beider naam mocht ten\naanhoore van Mevrouw Ferrars niet meer worden genoemd, en zelfs al zou\nzij er later toe kunnen komen, haar zoon te vergeven, zijne vrouw zou\nnooit als hare dochter worden erkend; noch vergunning verkrijgen, zich\nin hare tegenwoordigheid te vertoonen. De geheimzinnigheid, die zij bij\nalles hadden in acht genomen, werd zeer terecht aangemerkt als eene\nomstandigheid, die hunne misdaad ontzaglijk verzwaarde; want wanneer\nde anderen eenig vermoeden hadden opgevat van 't geen er gaande was,\ndan waren er maatregelen genomen om het huwelijk te beletten, en hij\nvroeg Elinor in gemoede, of zij het niet met hem betreurde, dat Lucy's\nverloving met Edward niet liever was doorgegaan, dan dat zij op deze\nwijze nog meer onheil had gesticht in hun familie. Hij ging voort:\n\n\"Mevrouw Ferrars heeft nog nooit Edward's naam genoemd, 't geen ons\nniet verwondert; maar tot onze verbazing heeft zij geen woord van\nhem vernomen bij deze gelegenheid. Misschien is zijn zwijgen toe te\nschrijven aan de vrees, haar te beleedigen, en ik zal hem dus een wenk\ngeven, in een brief naar Oxford, dat zijn zuster en ik beiden denken,\ndat een schrijven van hem, waarin hij op betamelijke wijze blijk geeft\nvan eene onderworpen gezindheid (geadresseerd aan Fanny bijvoorbeeld,\nen door haar vertoond aan hare moeder) mogelijk in goede aarde zou\nvallen; want wij weten allen, welk een teeder hart Mevrouw Ferrars\nbezit, en dat zij niets zoozeer wenscht, als met hare kinderen in\ngoede verstandhouding te leven.\"\n\nDeze zinsnede was van gewicht, zoo voor Edward's vooruitzichten als\nzijn gedrag. Hij werd erdoor bewogen een poging te doen tot verzoening,\nal was het dan niet precies op de wijze, door hun broeder en zuster\naangegeven.\n\n\"Een schrijven waarin ik op betamelijke wijze blijk geef van een\nonderwerpen gezindheid!\" herhaalde hij; \"zouden ze vinden, dat\n_ik_ moeder vergiffenis moet vragen voor Robert's ondankbaarheid\njegens háár, en oneerlijkheid tegenover _mij_?--Ik bèn niet gezind\nmij te onderwerpen; het gebeurde heeft mij noch nederig gestemd,\nnoch berouwvol. Alleen maar zeer gelukkig; en dat vindt zij van\ngeen belang. Ik zie de betamelijkheid van onderwerping niet in,\nin mijn geval.\"\n\n\"Je moogt toch stellig om vergeving vragen,\" zeide Elinor, \"omdat je\nhaar verdriet hebt gedaan; en ik zou denken, dat je nù wel zoo ver\nmocht gaan, eenige spijt te toonen, dat je ooit de verloving hebt\naangegaan, die je moeder's toorn heeft opgewekt.\"\n\nHij gaf toe, dat hij dit wel zou kunnen doen.\n\n\"En als ze je heeft vergeven, dan zou een weinigje nederigheid je\nwel passen, wanneer je haar vertelt van een tweede verloving, in hare\noogen haast even onvoorzichtig als de eerste.\"\n\nDaartegen had hij niets in te brengen; maar het denkbeeld van\neen onderworpen brief stond hem nog steeds niet aan; en om het\nhem gemakkelijker te maken, daar hij veel eerder bereid scheen,\nmondeling zoete broodjes te bakken, dan op papier, werd er besloten\ndat hij, inplaats van aan Fanny te schrijven, naar Londen zou gaan,\nen persoonlijk haar tusschenkomst te zijnen behoeve zou verzoeken.\n\n\"En als ze werkelijk hun best doen,\" zei Marianne in haar nieuwe\nrol van onpartijdige toeschouwster, \"om een verzoening tot stand\nte brengen, dan vind ik van nu af zelfs in John en Fanny nog wel\niets goeds.\"\n\nToen Kolonel Brandon's bezoek na een dag of vier was afgeloopen,\nvertrokken de beide heeren samen uit Barton. Zij zouden eerst\nnaar Delaford gaan, opdat Edward zijn toekomstig tehuis zou kunnen\nin oogenschouw nemen, en met zijn beschermer en vriend zou kunnen\noverleggen, welke verbeteringen nog vielen aan te brengen; en na een\npaar dagen, te Delaford doorgebracht, zou hij verder doorreizen naar\nde stad.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOOFDSTUK L\n\n\nNa eene behoorlijke mate van tegenstand van Mevrouw Ferrars' zijde,\njuist heftig en langdurig genoeg, om haar te vrijwaren voor het\nverwijt, dat zij blijkbaar altijd vreesde, zich te zien toevoegen,\nhet verwijt van al te groote beminnelijkheid, werd Edward in hare\ntegenwoordigheid toegelaten, en wederom als haar zoon erkend. Er\nhadden in den laatsten tijd veel wisselingen plaats gehad in haar\nfamiliekring. Vele jaren lang had zij twee zonen bezeten; doch het\nmisdrijf en de daarop volgende doodverklaring van Edward had haar een\npaar weken geleden van den eenen beroofd; een dergelijke doodverklaring\nvan Robert had haar een volle veertien dagen kinderloos gelaten,\nen nu zij Edward weer in 't leven had teruggeroepen, was zij weer\neen zoon rijk.\n\nHoewel hem het aanzijn nu weder was vergund, gevoelde hij zich voor\n't vervolg nog niet volkomen zeker van zijn bestaan, eer hij kennis had\ngegeven van zijne nieuwe verloving; want hij vreesde, dat de openbaring\nvan die omstandigheid eene onverwachte verandering in zijn gestel\nzou bewerken, en hem even plotseling als te voren aan het leven zou\nontrukken. Met angstige voorzichtigheid onthulde hij dus het geheim,\nen hij werd aangehoord met meer kalmte dan hij verwacht had. In\nhet begin poogde Mevrouw Ferrars hem door redeneering te bewegen,\nvan het huwelijk met Juffrouw Dashwood af te zien, waarbij zij zich\nvan elk argument bediende, dat zij kon uitdenken. Zij hield hem voor,\ndat hij in Juffrouw Morton eene vrouw zou bezitten van hoogeren rang en\nmet meer fortuin, en zette haar bewering klem bij, door de opmerking,\ndat Juffrouw Morton de dochter was van een edelman, en dertig duizend\npond bezat; terwijl Juffrouw Dashwood slechts de dochter was van een\ngewonen grondbezitter, die niet meer dan drieduizend zijn eigendom\nhad kunnen noemen; doch toen zij bespeurde, dat hij, ofschoon volkomen\nde waarheid harer beweringen erkennend, volstrekt niet gezind bleek,\nzich door haar oordeel te laten leiden, achtte zij het, door ervaring\nwijzer geworden, het verstandigst om toe te geven,--en dus gaf zij,\nna de zaak zoo onaangenaam lang te hebben verschoven, als zij vond,\ndat hare waardigheid eischte, en als noodig was om elke gedachte aan\neenige welgezindheid van haar kant uit te sluiten, hare toestemming\ntot het huwelijk van Edward en Elinor.\n\nWat zij zich zou voornemen te doen, in verband met eene bijdrage\ntot hun inkomen, moest daarna worden overwogen; en thans bleek\nhet duidelijk, dat Edward, hoewel vooralsnog haar eenige zoon, toch\nvolstrekt niet als haar oudste werd beschouwd; want terwijl Robert voor\ngoed in 't bezit bleef van zijne duizend pond in het jaar, werd er\nniet het minste bezwaar geopperd tegen Edward's aanvaarding van eene\npredikantsplaats, terwille van hoogstens een tweehonderdvijftig pond,\nen evenmin werd eenige belofte afgelegd, 't zij voor nu of later,\nbehalve dan de tienduizend pond, die ook Fanny mee ten huwelijk\nhad gekregen.\n\nNaar Edward's en Elinor's meening was het echter genoeg; meer zelfs dan\nzij verwachtten; en Mevrouw Ferrars zelve scheen, door hare onhandige\nverontschuldigingen, de eenige persoon, die verwonderd was, dat zij\nniet meer gegeven had.\n\nNu zij dus zeker waren van een inkomen, dat ruim voldoende zou zijn\nvoor hunne behoeften, viel er op niets meer te wachten, nadat Edward\nberoepen was, dan dat het huis gereed zou zijn, waarin Kolonel\nBrandon, die er veel genoegen in vond, het Elinor naar den zin te\nmaken, allerlei verbeteringen liet aanbrengen; en nadat zij een poos\nop de voltooiing daarvan hadden gewacht, en als gewoonlijk zich\nhadden moeten schikken in eindelooze teleurstellingen en uitstel,\ndoor de onverklaarbare langzaamheid der werklieden, was het, ook als\ngewoonlijk, Elinor, die het eerst zoo stellige besluit, om niet te\ntrouwen eer alles gereed was, liet varen; en de huwelijksplechtigheid\nwerd voltrokken in het kerkje te Barton, in 't begin van den herfst.\n\nDe eerste maand na hun huwelijk brachten zij door bij hun vriend\nop het Heerenhuis te Delaford, waar zij het oog konden houden op de\nverbouwing der pastorie, en steeds bij de hand waren, om alles naar hun\nzin in te richten; zij konden behangselpapieren kiezen, plannen maken\nvoor een plantsoen, en zelfs in gedachten een oprijlaan aanleggen. De\nvoorspellingen van Mevrouw Jennings, ofschoon ietwat dooreengehaspeld,\ngingen over 't geheel toch nog in vervulling, want zij kon Edward\nen zijn vrouw in hun pastorie opzoeken eer de maand September was\nverstreken, en zij mocht Elinor en haar man, naar zij oprecht geloofde,\nals een der gelukkigste echtparen ter wereld beschouwen. Er bleef hun\nook werkelijk niets te wenschen over, dan het huwelijk van Kolonel\nBrandon en Marianne, en nog wat beter weidegrond voor hun koeien.\n\nToen hun huis in orde was, kwamen bijna al hunne familieleden en\nkennissen hen bezoeken. Mevrouw Ferrars kwam het geluk in oogenschouw\nnemen tot hetwelk zij zich bijna schaamde, hare goedkeuring te hebben\nverleend, en zelfs de Dashwoods zetten zich te hunner eer over de\nonkosten van de reis uit Sussex heen.\n\n\"Ik wil niet beweren, dat ik teleurgesteld ben, zusjelief,\" zei\nJohn, toen zij samen op een morgen voor het hek van Delaford House\nop en neer wandelden;--\"dàt zou te veel gezegd zijn; want zooals\nhet nu is, mag men je stellig eene der gelukkigste jonge vrouwen\nter wereld noemen. Maar ik moet bekennen, 't zou mij veel genoegen\ndoen, als Kolonel Brandon mijn broeder werd. Deze bezitting hier,\nzijn landgoed, zijn huis, alles zoo deftig, en keurig onderhouden; en\nzijn bosschen! Ik heb nergens in Dorsetshire zulk timmerhout gezien\nals hier in het bosch van Delaford!--En al is nu misschien Marianne\nniet precies de persoon, die hem zou kunnen bekoren, het komt mij toch\nraadzaam voor, haar nu veel bij je te logeeren te vragen. Want daar\nKolonel Brandon blijkbaar veel thuis is, kan niemand zeggen, wat er zou\nkunnen gebeuren,--natuurlijk, als twee menschen elkaar dikwijls zien,\nen weinig vreemden ontmoeten--het zal bovendien altoos in je macht\nstaan haar op het gunstigst te doen uitkomen en zoo... mij dunkt, je\nmocht haar de gelegenheid wel gunnen... je begrijpt, wat ik bedoel.\"--\n\nDoch ofschoon Mevrouw Ferrars hen dan al kwam bezoeken, en hen steeds\nbehandelde met een zeker vertoon van quasi-genegenheid, zij behoefden\nzich niet de beleediging te laten welgevallen van haar werkelijke gunst\nen voorkeur. Deze waren voorbehouden voor Robert, om zijn dwaasheid,\nen voor zijne vrouw, om haar listig gedrag, en zij hadden ze zich\nreeds weten te verwerven, eer vele maanden waren verstreken. De\nbaatzuchtige scherpziendheid van Lucy, die Robert eerst in de val had\ndoen loopen, werkte hoofdzakelijk mede, om hem daaruit te verlossen;\nwant haar eerbiedige onderdanigheid, haar ijver in het bewijzen van\nattenties en haar eindelooze vleierijen verzoenden, zoodra zij maar\nde geringste gelegenheid vond, haar kunsten in praktijk te brengen,\nMevrouw Ferrars met zijn keuze, en brachten hem opnieuw, evenzeer\nals vroeger, bij haar in de gunst.\n\nLucy's geheele gedrag in de zaak, en de goede uitslag waarmede het\nwerd bekroond, mag dus als een zeer bemoedigend voorbeeld worden\naangevoerd, om aan te toonen, wat een ernstig en onverdroten najagen\nvan eigen belang, hoezeer ook in zijn voortgang schijnbaar belemmerd,\nkan uitwerken ter bereiking van alle denkbare voordeel, met geene\nandere opoffering dan die van tijd en geweten. Toen Robert haar\nvoor het eerst poogde te leeren kennen, en haar een bezoek bracht\nin Bartlett's Buildings, geschiedde dit slechts met de bedoeling,\nhem door zijn broeder toegeschreven. Hij wilde niet anders, dan haar\noverhalen, van de verloving af te zien, en daar hiertoe niets in den\nweg stond dan hun beider genegenheid, verwachtte hij natuurlijk dat\nde zaak in orde zou komen, als hij haar maar een paar maal onder vier\noogen gesproken had. Op dat punt echter, en dàt alleen, vergiste hij\nzich; want hoewel Lucy hem spoedig hoop gaf, dat zijn welsprekendheid\nhaar ten langen leste wel zou overtuigen, er was altijd weer een\nnieuw bezoek en een nieuw gesprek noodig om die overtuiging te\nvestigen. Bij het afscheid bleven er altijd nog eenige twijfelingen\nin haar gemoed, die slechts konden worden opgeheven door een half\nuurtje vertrouwelijk onderhoud met hemzelf. Op die wijze wist zij\nzijn geregelde bezoeken te doen voortduren, en geleidelijk volgde\ndaaruit het overige. Inplaats van over Edward, begon hun gesprek\nlangzamerhand te loopen over Robert alleen, een onderwerp waarover\nhij altijd meer te vertellen had dan over eenig ander, en waarin zij\nal spoedig eene belangstelling liet blijken, die de zijne evenaarde,\nzoodat het beiden weldra duidelijk werd, hoe hij geheel en al de plaats\nvan zijn broeder had ingenomen. Hij was trotsch op zijn verovering,\ntrotsch omdat hij Edward had gefopt, en bovenal trotsch, omdat hij in\n't geheim was gehuwd, zonder zijn moeder's toestemming. Wat hierna\ngevolgd was, weten wij. Zij brachten een paar zeer gelukkige maanden\ndoor te Dawlish; want zij kon nu veel verwanten en oude kennissen\nuit de hoogte behandelen, en hij teekende meerdere plannen voor\nallerprachtigste landhuizen, en toen zij van daar terugkeerden\nnaar de stad, verwierven zij Mevrouw Ferrars' vergiffenis, door het\neenvoudige middel, er om te vragen, dat op Lucy's aanraden werd te\nbaat genomen. Die vergiffenis strekte zich, billijkerwijze, in den\nbeginne slechts uit tot Robert alleen; Lucy, die tegenover zijne\nmoeder geene verplichtingen had, en daarin dus ook niet had kunnen\nte kort schieten, bleef nog een paar weken langer in ongenade. Doch\nvolharding in onderworpen gedrag, en boodschappen, waarin zij de\nschuld voor Roberts vergrijp op zich nam, zoowel als dankbetuigingen\nvoor de onvriendelijkheid, waarmede zij werd behandeld, verwierven\nhaar mettertijd toch een zeker betoon van trotsche neerbuigendheid,\ndat haar overstelpt deed zijn van dankbaarheid voor die hooge gunst,\nen dat haar spoedig daarna met rassche schreden deed naderen tot het\ntoppunt van genegenheid en invloed. Mevrouw Ferrars begon Lucy even\nnoodig te hebben als Robert en Fanny, en terwijl het Edward nooit van\nharte werd vergeven, dat hij eenmaal voornemens was geweest, met haar\nte trouwen, en Elinor, hoewel door fortuin en geboorte haar meerdere,\nnog altijd als eene indringster werd beschouwd, zag _zij_ zich in\nelk opzicht behandeld als een begunstigde dochter, en openlijk als\nzoodanig erkend. Zij vestigden zich in de stad, kregen van Mevrouw\nFerrars eene ruime toelage, gingen zeer vriendschappelijk om met de\nDashwoods, en afgezien van de uitbarstingen van nijd en afgunst,\ndie voortdurend plaats hadden tusschen Fanny en Lucy, en waarin\nhunne echtgenooten natuurlijk ook werden betrokken, zoowel als van\nde veelvuldige huiselijke oneenigheden tusschen Robert en Lucy zelf,\nkon de natuurlijke harmonie waarin zij allen met elkander leefden,\nniet worden overtroffen. Wat Edward had gedaan om zijn rechten\nals oudste zoon te verbeuren, zou voor menigeen zeker een raadsel\nzijn geweest, en wat Robert had in 't werk gesteld om dat zelfde\nrecht te winnen, scheen nog veel moeilijker te verklaren. Het was\nechter eene schikking, die door hare gevolgen, zooal niet door hare\noorzaak, werd gerechtvaardigd; want nooit viel er iets te bespeuren in\nRobert's levenswijze of in zijne uitingen van eenige neiging, zich te\nbeklagen over de grootte van zijn inkomen, in zooverre zijn broeder te\nweinig, en hemzelf te veel werd toebedeeld;--en als men Edward mocht\nbeoordeelen naar de nauwgezette wijze, waarop hij in elk opzicht zijne\nplichten vervulde, naar zijne toenemende gehechtheid aan zijne vrouw\nen zijn tehuis, en naar de gestadige opgewektheid van zijne stemming,\ndan mocht men veronderstellen, dat hij niet minder tevreden was met\nzijn lot, en even weinig verlangde naar eenige verandering.\n\nElinor's huwelijk verwijderde haar zoo weinig van haar familie, als\nslechts mogelijk was, zonder het huisje te Barton geheel overbodig\nte doen worden; want haar moeder en zusters brachten meer dan de\nhelft van hun tijd bij haar door. Mevrouw Dashwood had zoowel haar\nbelang als haar genoegen op het oog, bij die veelvuldige bezoeken\nte Delaford; want haar wensch om Marianne en Kolonel Brandon met\nelkaar in aanraking te brengen, was bijna niet minder ernstig gemeend,\nschoon minder baatzuchtig, dan het verlangen, door John in dit opzicht\ngeuit. Het was thans haar lievelingsplan geworden. Hoezeer zij ook\nhet gezelschap harer dochter waardeerde, zij wenschte niets zoozeer,\nals het voortdurend genot ervan aan haren hooggeschatten vriend af te\nstaan; en Marianne als meesteres van het Heerenhuis te zien optreden,\nwas evenzeer de wensch van Edward en Elinor. Zij allen gevoelden\nsterk het lijden van hun vriend en hun eigen verplichtingen, en met\nalgemeene toestemming zou Marianne daarvoor de belooning zijn. Met\nzulk een bondgenootschap tegenover zich,--bij zoo beproefde ervaring\nvan zijn goedheid,--met de overtuiging van zijne teedere gehechtheid\naan haarzelve, die ten laatste, schoon lang nadat zij voor ieder ander\nduidelijk was gebleken, zich ook aan haar opdrong,--wat kon zij doen?\n\nEene zonderlinge lotsbestemming viel Marianne Dashwood ten deel. Zij\nwas bestemd, de onjuistheid van haar eigen meeningen te ontdekken, en\nte handelen in tegenspraak met haar meest geliefkoosde stelregels. Zij\nwas bestemd, eene neiging te overwinnen, ontstaan op den rijpen\nleeftijd van zeventien jaren, en met geene andere gevoelens dan die\nvan hoogachting en warme vriendschap vrijwillig hare hand te schenken\naan een ander!--en die andere daarbij een man, die niet minder dan\nzij had geleden door eene vroegere genegenheid,--dien zij twee jaar\ngeleden als te oud had beschouwd om te trouwen,--en die nog steeds, uit\nvoorzorg voor zijn gezondheid, zijn heil zocht in een flanellen vest!\n\nZoo echter gebeurde het. Inplaats van te bezwijken als slachtoffer van\neen onweerstaanbaren hartstocht, zooals zij eens zich had gevleid dat\nhaar lot zou zijn, inplaats zelfs van voor altijd bij hare moeder te\nblijven, en haar eenig genoegen te vinden in afzondering en studie,\nzooals zij later, tot kalmer en gematigder inzicht gekomen, had\nbesloten,--zag zij zichzelve op haar negentiende jaar het lijdzaam\nvoorwerp eener nieuwe genegenheid, geplaatst voor nieuwe plichten,\nin een nieuw tehuis, als echtgenoote, als hoofd van een gezin en\nbeschermvrouw eener gemeente.\n\nKolonel Brandon was thans zoo gelukkig als allen, die het meest van hem\nhielden, geloofden, dat hij verdiende te zijn; in Marianne vond hij\ntroost voor alle geleden verdriet; haar genegenheid haar gezelschap\nschonken zijn geest de levendigheid, zijn stemming de opgewektheid\nvan voorheen; en dat Marianne haar geluk vond in het bevorderen\nvan het zijne, was de verblijdende overtuiging, die door al haar\nopmerkzame vrienden werd gedeeld. Ten halve beminnen kon Marianne\nnooit; en binnenkort behoorde haar geheele hart zoo onverdeeld aan\nharen echtgenoot, als zij het eens aan Willoughby had geschonken.\n\nWilloughby kon haar huwelijk niet vernemen zonder een grievend\ngevoel van smart, en zijne straf werd spoedig daarna voltooid door\nde vrijwillige vergiffenis van Mevrouw Smith, die, daar zij als de\nreden van hare verzachte gezindheid opgaf, dat hij een huwelijk met\neene vrouw van karakter had gesloten, hem met recht deed vermoeden,\ndat hij, door zich tegenover Marianne eervol te gedragen, gelukkig\nèn rijk had kunnen zijn.\n\nDat zijn berouw over een wangedrag, 't welk op deze wijze zijn eigen\nstraf medebracht, oprecht was, behoeft niet te worden betwijfeld, en\nevenmin, dat hij langen tijd aan Kolonel Brandon dacht met afgunst,\nen aan Marianne met weemoedig verlangen. Maar dat hij voor altoos\nontroostbaar was,--dat hij de maatschappij ontvluchtte, dat hij\nvan nu af aan tot diepe zwaarmoedigheid verviel, of stierf aan een\ngebroken hart, moet men niet met zekerheid verwachten,--want van dat\nalles deed hij niets. Hij bleef in leven; vond bezigheid; en niet\nzelden genoegen daarin. Zijn vrouw was niet altoos uit haar humeur,\nen zijn tehuis niet altoos ongezellig. Bij zijn liefhebberij in het\nfokken van paarden en honden en andere soorten van sport, viel hem\nnog eene niet geringe mate van huiselijk geluk ten deel.\n\nVoor Marianne echter behield hij,--hoewel hij de onbeleefdheid had\nbegaan, haar verlies te overleven,--altijd die besliste voorkeur,\ndie hem belang deed stellen in al wat haar wedervoer, en haar voor hem\ntot den geheimen standaard maakte van alle vrouwelijke volkomenheid;\nen menige veelbelovende schoonheid werd door hem in latere jaren met\ngeringschatting beschouwd, daar zij de vergelijking niet kon doorstaan\nmet Mevrouw Brandon.\n\nMevrouw Dashwood was verstandig genoeg, om in haar huisje te blijven,\nzonder eene poging te doen tot verhuizen naar Delaford, en toen\nMarianne haar werd ontnomen, was Margaret, gelukkig voor Sir John en\nMevrouw Jennings, oud genoeg geworden, om gevoegelijk op danspartijen\nte kunnen worden gevraagd, en om het niet al te ongerijmd te doen\nschijnen, als zij geplaagd werd met een minnaar.\n\nTusschen Barton en Delaford had dat aanhoudend levendig verkeer\nplaats, dat sterke familiegehechtheid uiteraard moest bevorderen,\nen onder Elinor's en Marianne's verdiensten en voorrechten mocht\nals niet de geringste worden aangemerkt, dat zij, hoewel zusters,\nen bijna wonend onder 't bereik van elkanders blik, konden leven,\nzonder welven in onmin te geraken, of verkoeling te weeg te brengen\ntusschen hare echtgenooten.\n\n\n\n\n\n","id":"25946"},{"text":"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN\n\n\n\nEdited by David Widger\n\nProject Gutenberg Editions\n\n\n\n             DEDICATION\n\n     This Jane Austen collection\n         is dedicated to\n     Alice Goodson [Hart] Woodby\n\n\n\n[Note: The accompanying HTML file has active links to all the volumes\nand chapters in this set.]\n\n\n\nCONTENTS:\n\n   PERSUASION\n\n   NORTHANGER ABBEY\n\n   MANSFIELD PARK\n\n   EMMA\n\n   LADY SUSAN\n\n   LOVE AND FREINDSHIP AND OTHER EARLY WORKS\n\n   PRIDE AND PREJUDICE\n\n   SENSE AND SENSIBILITY\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPERSUASION\n\n\nby Jane Austen\n\n(1818)\n\n\n\n\nChapter 1\n\n\nSir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who,\nfor his own amusement, never took up any book but the Baronetage; there\nhe found occupation for an idle hour, and consolation in a distressed\none; there his faculties were roused into admiration and respect, by\ncontemplating the limited remnant of the earliest patents; there any\nunwelcome sensations, arising from domestic affairs changed naturally\ninto pity and contempt as he turned over the almost endless creations\nof the last century; and there, if every other leaf were powerless, he\ncould read his own history with an interest which never failed.  This\nwas the page at which the favourite volume always opened:\n\n           \"ELLIOT OF KELLYNCH HALL.\n\n\"Walter Elliot, born March 1, 1760, married, July 15, 1784, Elizabeth,\ndaughter of James Stevenson, Esq. of South Park, in the county of\nGloucester, by which lady (who died 1800) he has issue Elizabeth, born\nJune 1, 1785; Anne, born August 9, 1787; a still-born son, November 5,\n1789; Mary, born November 20, 1791.\"\n\nPrecisely such had the paragraph originally stood from the printer's\nhands; but Sir Walter had improved it by adding, for the information of\nhimself and his family, these words, after the date of Mary's birth--\n\"Married, December 16, 1810, Charles, son and heir of Charles Musgrove,\nEsq. of Uppercross, in the county of Somerset,\" and by inserting most\naccurately the day of the month on which he had lost his wife.\n\nThen followed the history and rise of the ancient and respectable\nfamily, in the usual terms; how it had been first settled in Cheshire;\nhow mentioned in Dugdale, serving the office of high sheriff,\nrepresenting a borough in three successive parliaments, exertions of\nloyalty, and dignity of baronet, in the first year of Charles II, with\nall the Marys and Elizabeths they had married; forming altogether two\nhandsome duodecimo pages, and concluding with the arms and\nmotto:--\"Principal seat, Kellynch Hall, in the county of Somerset,\" and\nSir Walter's handwriting again in this finale:--\n\n\"Heir presumptive, William Walter Elliot, Esq., great grandson of the\nsecond Sir Walter.\"\n\nVanity was the beginning and the end of Sir Walter Elliot's character;\nvanity of person and of situation.  He had been remarkably handsome in\nhis youth; and, at fifty-four, was still a very fine man.  Few women\ncould think more of their personal appearance than he did, nor could\nthe valet of any new made lord be more delighted with the place he held\nin society.  He considered the blessing of beauty as inferior only to\nthe blessing of a baronetcy; and the Sir Walter Elliot, who united\nthese gifts, was the constant object of his warmest respect and\ndevotion.\n\nHis good looks and his rank had one fair claim on his attachment; since\nto them he must have owed a wife of very superior character to any\nthing deserved by his own.  Lady Elliot had been an excellent woman,\nsensible and amiable; whose judgement and conduct, if they might be\npardoned the youthful infatuation which made her Lady Elliot, had never\nrequired indulgence afterwards.--She had humoured, or softened, or\nconcealed his failings, and promoted his real respectability for\nseventeen years; and though not the very happiest being in the world\nherself, had found enough in her duties, her friends, and her children,\nto attach her to life, and make it no matter of indifference to her\nwhen she was called on to quit them.--Three girls, the two eldest\nsixteen and fourteen, was an awful legacy for a mother to bequeath, an\nawful charge rather, to confide to the authority and guidance of a\nconceited, silly father.  She had, however, one very intimate friend, a\nsensible, deserving woman, who had been brought, by strong attachment\nto herself, to settle close by her, in the village of Kellynch; and on\nher kindness and advice, Lady Elliot mainly relied for the best help\nand maintenance of the good principles and instruction which she had\nbeen anxiously giving her daughters.\n\nThis friend, and Sir Walter, did not marry, whatever might have been\nanticipated on that head by their acquaintance.  Thirteen years had\npassed away since Lady Elliot's death, and they were still near\nneighbours and intimate friends, and one remained a widower, the other\na widow.\n\nThat Lady Russell, of steady age and character, and extremely well\nprovided for, should have no thought of a second marriage, needs no\napology to the public, which is rather apt to be unreasonably\ndiscontented when a woman does marry again, than when she does not; but\nSir Walter's continuing in singleness requires explanation.  Be it\nknown then, that Sir Walter, like a good father, (having met with one\nor two private disappointments in very unreasonable applications),\nprided himself on remaining single for his dear daughters' sake.  For\none daughter, his eldest, he would really have given up any thing,\nwhich he had not been very much tempted to do.  Elizabeth had\nsucceeded, at sixteen, to all that was possible, of her mother's rights\nand consequence; and being very handsome, and very like himself, her\ninfluence had always been great, and they had gone on together most\nhappily.  His two other children were of very inferior value.  Mary had\nacquired a little artificial importance, by becoming Mrs Charles\nMusgrove; but Anne, with an elegance of mind and sweetness of\ncharacter, which must have placed her high with any people of real\nunderstanding, was nobody with either father or sister; her word had no\nweight, her convenience was always to give way--she was only Anne.\n\nTo Lady Russell, indeed, she was a most dear and highly valued\ngod-daughter, favourite, and friend.  Lady Russell loved them all; but\nit was only in Anne that she could fancy the mother to revive again.\n\nA few years before, Anne Elliot had been a very pretty girl, but her\nbloom had vanished early; and as even in its height, her father had\nfound little to admire in her, (so totally different were her delicate\nfeatures and mild dark eyes from his own), there could be nothing in\nthem, now that she was faded and thin, to excite his esteem. He had\nnever indulged much hope, he had now none, of ever reading her name in\nany other page of his favourite work.  All equality of alliance must\nrest with Elizabeth, for Mary had merely connected herself with an old\ncountry family of respectability and large fortune, and had therefore\ngiven all the honour and received none: Elizabeth would, one day or\nother, marry suitably.\n\nIt sometimes happens that a woman is handsomer at twenty-nine than she\nwas ten years before; and, generally speaking, if there has been\nneither ill health nor anxiety, it is a time of life at which scarcely\nany charm is lost.  It was so with Elizabeth, still the same handsome\nMiss Elliot that she had begun to be thirteen years ago, and Sir Walter\nmight be excused, therefore, in forgetting her age, or, at least, be\ndeemed only half a fool, for thinking himself and Elizabeth as blooming\nas ever, amidst the wreck of the good looks of everybody else; for he\ncould plainly see how old all the rest of his family and acquaintance\nwere growing.  Anne haggard, Mary coarse, every face in the\nneighbourhood worsting, and the rapid increase of the crow's foot about\nLady Russell's temples had long been a distress to him.\n\nElizabeth did not quite equal her father in personal contentment.\nThirteen years had seen her mistress of Kellynch Hall, presiding and\ndirecting with a self-possession and decision which could never have\ngiven the idea of her being younger than she was.  For thirteen years\nhad she been doing the honours, and laying down the domestic law at\nhome, and leading the way to the chaise and four, and walking\nimmediately after Lady Russell out of all the drawing-rooms and\ndining-rooms in the country.  Thirteen winters' revolving frosts had\nseen her opening every ball of credit which a scanty neighbourhood\nafforded, and thirteen springs shewn their blossoms, as she travelled\nup to London with her father, for a few weeks' annual enjoyment of the\ngreat world.  She had the remembrance of all this, she had the\nconsciousness of being nine-and-twenty to give her some regrets and\nsome apprehensions; she was fully satisfied of being still quite as\nhandsome as ever, but she felt her approach to the years of danger, and\nwould have rejoiced to be certain of being properly solicited by\nbaronet-blood within the next twelvemonth or two.  Then might she again\ntake up the book of books with as much enjoyment as in her early youth,\nbut now she liked it not.  Always to be presented with the date of her\nown birth and see no marriage follow but that of a youngest sister,\nmade the book an evil; and more than once, when her father had left it\nopen on the table near her, had she closed it, with averted eyes, and\npushed it away.\n\nShe had had a disappointment, moreover, which that book, and especially\nthe history of her own family, must ever present the remembrance of.\nThe heir presumptive, the very William Walter Elliot, Esq., whose\nrights had been so generously supported by her father, had disappointed\nher.\n\nShe had, while a very young girl, as soon as she had known him to be,\nin the event of her having no brother, the future baronet, meant to\nmarry him, and her father had always meant that she should.  He had not\nbeen known to them as a boy; but soon after Lady Elliot's death, Sir\nWalter had sought the acquaintance, and though his overtures had not\nbeen met with any warmth, he had persevered in seeking it, making\nallowance for the modest drawing-back of youth; and, in one of their\nspring excursions to London, when Elizabeth was in her first bloom, Mr\nElliot had been forced into the introduction.\n\nHe was at that time a very young man, just engaged in the study of the\nlaw; and Elizabeth found him extremely agreeable, and every plan in his\nfavour was confirmed.  He was invited to Kellynch Hall; he was talked\nof and expected all the rest of the year; but he never came.  The\nfollowing spring he was seen again in town, found equally agreeable,\nagain encouraged, invited, and expected, and again he did not come; and\nthe next tidings were that he was married.  Instead of pushing his\nfortune in the line marked out for the heir of the house of Elliot, he\nhad purchased independence by uniting himself to a rich woman of\ninferior birth.\n\nSir Walter has resented it.  As the head of the house, he felt that he\nought to have been consulted, especially after taking the young man so\npublicly by the hand; \"For they must have been seen together,\" he\nobserved, \"once at Tattersall's, and twice in the lobby of the House of\nCommons.\"  His disapprobation was expressed, but apparently very little\nregarded.  Mr Elliot had attempted no apology, and shewn himself as\nunsolicitous of being longer noticed by the family, as Sir Walter\nconsidered him unworthy of it:  all acquaintance between them had\nceased.\n\nThis very awkward history of Mr Elliot was still, after an interval of\nseveral years, felt with anger by Elizabeth, who had liked the man for\nhimself, and still more for being her father's heir, and whose strong\nfamily pride could see only in him a proper match for Sir Walter\nElliot's eldest daughter.  There was not a baronet from A to Z whom her\nfeelings could have so willingly acknowledged as an equal.  Yet so\nmiserably had he conducted himself, that though she was at this present\ntime (the summer of 1814) wearing black ribbons for his wife, she could\nnot admit him to be worth thinking of again.  The disgrace of his first\nmarriage might, perhaps, as there was no reason to suppose it\nperpetuated by offspring, have been got over, had he not done worse;\nbut he had, as by the accustomary intervention of kind friends, they\nhad been informed, spoken most disrespectfully of them all, most\nslightingly and contemptuously of the very blood he belonged to, and\nthe honours which were hereafter to be his own.  This could not be\npardoned.\n\nSuch were Elizabeth Elliot's sentiments and sensations; such the cares\nto alloy, the agitations to vary, the sameness and the elegance, the\nprosperity and the nothingness of her scene of life; such the feelings\nto give interest to a long, uneventful residence in one country circle,\nto fill the vacancies which there were no habits of utility abroad, no\ntalents or accomplishments for home, to occupy.\n\nBut now, another occupation and solicitude of mind was beginning to be\nadded to these.  Her father was growing distressed for money.  She\nknew, that when he now took up the Baronetage, it was to drive the\nheavy bills of his tradespeople, and the unwelcome hints of Mr\nShepherd, his agent, from his thoughts.  The Kellynch property was\ngood, but not equal to Sir Walter's apprehension of the state required\nin its possessor.  While Lady Elliot lived, there had been method,\nmoderation, and economy, which had just kept him within his income; but\nwith her had died all such right-mindedness, and from that period he\nhad been constantly exceeding it.  It had not been possible for him to\nspend less; he had done nothing but what Sir Walter Elliot was\nimperiously called on to do; but blameless as he was, he was not only\ngrowing dreadfully in debt, but was hearing of it so often, that it\nbecame vain to attempt concealing it longer, even partially, from his\ndaughter.  He had given her some hints of it the last spring in town;\nhe had gone so far even as to say, \"Can we retrench?  Does it occur to\nyou that there is any one article in which we can retrench?\" and\nElizabeth, to do her justice, had, in the first ardour of female alarm,\nset seriously to think what could be done, and had finally proposed\nthese two branches of economy, to cut off some unnecessary charities,\nand to refrain from new furnishing the drawing-room; to which\nexpedients she afterwards added the happy thought of their taking no\npresent down to Anne, as had been the usual yearly custom.  But these\nmeasures, however good in themselves, were insufficient for the real\nextent of the evil, the whole of which Sir Walter found himself obliged\nto confess to her soon afterwards.  Elizabeth had nothing to propose of\ndeeper efficacy.  She felt herself ill-used and unfortunate, as did her\nfather; and they were neither of them able to devise any means of\nlessening their expenses without compromising their dignity, or\nrelinquishing their comforts in a way not to be borne.\n\nThere was only a small part of his estate that Sir Walter could dispose\nof; but had every acre been alienable, it would have made no\ndifference.  He had condescended to mortgage as far as he had the\npower, but he would never condescend to sell.  No; he would never\ndisgrace his name so far.  The Kellynch estate should be transmitted\nwhole and entire, as he had received it.\n\nTheir two confidential friends, Mr Shepherd, who lived in the\nneighbouring market town, and Lady Russell, were called to advise them;\nand both father and daughter seemed to expect that something should be\nstruck out by one or the other to remove their embarrassments and\nreduce their expenditure, without involving the loss of any indulgence\nof taste or pride.\n\n\n\nChapter 2\n\n\nMr Shepherd, a civil, cautious lawyer, who, whatever might be his hold\nor his views on Sir Walter, would rather have the disagreeable prompted\nby anybody else, excused himself from offering the slightest hint, and\nonly begged leave to recommend an implicit reference to the excellent\njudgement of Lady Russell, from whose known good sense he fully\nexpected to have just such resolute measures advised as he meant to see\nfinally adopted.\n\nLady Russell was most anxiously zealous on the subject, and gave it\nmuch serious consideration.  She was a woman rather of sound than of\nquick abilities, whose difficulties in coming to any decision in this\ninstance were great, from the opposition of two leading principles.\nShe was of strict integrity herself, with a delicate sense of honour;\nbut she was as desirous of saving Sir Walter's feelings, as solicitous\nfor the credit of the family, as aristocratic in her ideas of what was\ndue to them, as anybody of sense and honesty could well be.  She was a\nbenevolent, charitable, good woman, and capable of strong attachments,\nmost correct in her conduct, strict in her notions of decorum, and with\nmanners that were held a standard of good-breeding.  She had a\ncultivated mind, and was, generally speaking, rational and consistent;\nbut she had prejudices on the side of ancestry; she had a value for\nrank and consequence, which blinded her a little to the faults of those\nwho possessed them.  Herself the widow of only a knight, she gave the\ndignity of a baronet all its due; and Sir Walter, independent of his\nclaims as an old acquaintance, an attentive neighbour, an obliging\nlandlord, the husband of her very dear friend, the father of Anne and\nher sisters, was, as being Sir Walter, in her apprehension, entitled to\na great deal of compassion and consideration under his present\ndifficulties.\n\nThey must retrench; that did not admit of a doubt.  But she was very\nanxious to have it done with the least possible pain to him and\nElizabeth. She drew up plans of economy, she made exact calculations,\nand she did what nobody else thought of doing:  she consulted Anne, who\nnever seemed considered by the others as having any interest in the\nquestion. She consulted, and in a degree was influenced by her in\nmarking out the scheme of retrenchment which was at last submitted to\nSir Walter. Every emendation of Anne's had been on the side of honesty\nagainst importance.  She wanted more vigorous measures, a more complete\nreformation, a quicker release from debt, a much higher tone of\nindifference for everything but justice and equity.\n\n\"If we can persuade your father to all this,\" said Lady Russell,\nlooking over her paper, \"much may be done.  If he will adopt these\nregulations, in seven years he will be clear; and I hope we may be able\nto convince him and Elizabeth, that Kellynch Hall has a respectability\nin itself which cannot be affected by these reductions; and that the\ntrue dignity of Sir Walter Elliot will be very far from lessened in the\neyes of sensible people, by acting like a man of principle.  What will\nhe be doing, in fact, but what very many of our first families have\ndone, or ought to do?  There will be nothing singular in his case; and\nit is singularity which often makes the worst part of our suffering, as\nit always does of our conduct.  I have great hope of prevailing.  We\nmust be serious and decided; for after all, the person who has\ncontracted debts must pay them; and though a great deal is due to the\nfeelings of the gentleman, and the head of a house, like your father,\nthere is still more due to the character of an honest man.\"\n\nThis was the principle on which Anne wanted her father to be\nproceeding, his friends to be urging him.  She considered it as an act\nof indispensable duty to clear away the claims of creditors with all\nthe expedition which the most comprehensive retrenchments could secure,\nand saw no dignity in anything short of it.  She wanted it to be\nprescribed, and felt as a duty.  She rated Lady Russell's influence\nhighly; and as to the severe degree of self-denial which her own\nconscience prompted, she believed there might be little more difficulty\nin persuading them to a complete, than to half a reformation.  Her\nknowledge of her father and Elizabeth inclined her to think that the\nsacrifice of one pair of horses would be hardly less painful than of\nboth, and so on, through the whole list of Lady Russell's too gentle\nreductions.\n\nHow Anne's more rigid requisitions might have been taken is of little\nconsequence.  Lady Russell's had no success at all: could not be put up\nwith, were not to be borne. \"What! every comfort of life knocked off!\nJourneys, London, servants, horses, table--contractions and\nrestrictions every where!  To live no longer with the decencies even of\na private gentleman!  No, he would sooner quit Kellynch Hall at once,\nthan remain in it on such disgraceful terms.\"\n\n\"Quit Kellynch Hall.\"  The hint was immediately taken up by Mr\nShepherd, whose interest was involved in the reality of Sir Walter's\nretrenching, and who was perfectly persuaded that nothing would be done\nwithout a change of abode.  \"Since the idea had been started in the\nvery quarter which ought to dictate, he had no scruple,\" he said, \"in\nconfessing his judgement to be entirely on that side.  It did not\nappear to him that Sir Walter could materially alter his style of\nliving in a house which had such a character of hospitality and ancient\ndignity to support.  In any other place Sir Walter might judge for\nhimself; and would be looked up to, as regulating the modes of life in\nwhatever way he might choose to model his household.\"\n\nSir Walter would quit Kellynch Hall; and after a very few days more of\ndoubt and indecision, the great question of whither he should go was\nsettled, and the first outline of this important change made out.\n\nThere had been three alternatives, London, Bath, or another house in\nthe country.  All Anne's wishes had been for the latter.  A small house\nin their own neighbourhood, where they might still have Lady Russell's\nsociety, still be near Mary, and still have the pleasure of sometimes\nseeing the lawns and groves of Kellynch, was the object of her\nambition.  But the usual fate of Anne attended her, in having something\nvery opposite from her inclination fixed on.  She disliked Bath, and\ndid not think it agreed with her; and Bath was to be her home.\n\nSir Walter had at first thought more of London; but Mr Shepherd felt\nthat he could not be trusted in London, and had been skilful enough to\ndissuade him from it, and make Bath preferred.  It was a much safer\nplace for a gentleman in his predicament:  he might there be important\nat comparatively little expense.  Two material advantages of Bath over\nLondon had of course been given all their weight:  its more convenient\ndistance from Kellynch, only fifty miles, and Lady Russell's spending\nsome part of every winter there; and to the very great satisfaction of\nLady Russell, whose first views on the projected change had been for\nBath, Sir Walter and Elizabeth were induced to believe that they should\nlose neither consequence nor enjoyment by settling there.\n\nLady Russell felt obliged to oppose her dear Anne's known wishes.  It\nwould be too much to expect Sir Walter to descend into a small house in\nhis own neighbourhood.  Anne herself would have found the\nmortifications of it more than she foresaw, and to Sir Walter's\nfeelings they must have been dreadful.  And with regard to Anne's\ndislike of Bath, she considered it as a prejudice and mistake arising,\nfirst, from the circumstance of her having been three years at school\nthere, after her mother's death; and secondly, from her happening to be\nnot in perfectly good spirits the only winter which she had afterwards\nspent there with herself.\n\nLady Russell was fond of Bath, in short, and disposed to think it must\nsuit them all; and as to her young friend's health, by passing all the\nwarm months with her at Kellynch Lodge, every danger would be avoided;\nand it was in fact, a change which must do both health and spirits\ngood.  Anne had been too little from home, too little seen. Her spirits\nwere not high.  A larger society would improve them.  She wanted her to\nbe more known.\n\nThe undesirableness of any other house in the same neighbourhood for\nSir Walter was certainly much strengthened by one part, and a very\nmaterial part of the scheme, which had been happily engrafted on the\nbeginning.  He was not only to quit his home, but to see it in the\nhands of others; a trial of fortitude, which stronger heads than Sir\nWalter's have found too much.  Kellynch Hall was to be let.  This,\nhowever, was a profound secret, not to be breathed beyond their own\ncircle.\n\nSir Walter could not have borne the degradation of being known to\ndesign letting his house.  Mr Shepherd had once mentioned the word\n\"advertise,\" but never dared approach it again.  Sir Walter spurned the\nidea of its being offered in any manner; forbad the slightest hint\nbeing dropped of his having such an intention; and it was only on the\nsupposition of his being spontaneously solicited by some most\nunexceptionable applicant, on his own terms, and as a great favour,\nthat he would let it at all.\n\nHow quick come the reasons for approving what we like!  Lady Russell\nhad another excellent one at hand, for being extremely glad that Sir\nWalter and his family were to remove from the country.  Elizabeth had\nbeen lately forming an intimacy, which she wished to see interrupted.\nIt was with the daughter of Mr Shepherd, who had returned, after an\nunprosperous marriage, to her father's house, with the additional\nburden of two children.  She was a clever young woman, who understood\nthe art of pleasing--the art of pleasing, at least, at Kellynch Hall;\nand who had made herself so acceptable to Miss Elliot, as to have been\nalready staying there more than once, in spite of all that Lady\nRussell, who thought it a friendship quite out of place, could hint of\ncaution and reserve.\n\nLady Russell, indeed, had scarcely any influence with Elizabeth, and\nseemed to love her, rather because she would love her, than because\nElizabeth deserved it.  She had never received from her more than\noutward attention, nothing beyond the observances of complaisance; had\nnever succeeded in any point which she wanted to carry, against\nprevious inclination.  She had been repeatedly very earnest in trying\nto get Anne included in the visit to London, sensibly open to all the\ninjustice and all the discredit of the selfish arrangements which shut\nher out, and on many lesser occasions had endeavoured to give Elizabeth\nthe advantage of her own better judgement and experience; but always in\nvain:  Elizabeth would go her own way; and never had she pursued it in\nmore decided opposition to Lady Russell than in this selection of Mrs\nClay; turning from the society of so deserving a sister, to bestow her\naffection and confidence on one who ought to have been nothing to her\nbut the object of distant civility.\n\nFrom situation, Mrs Clay was, in Lady Russell's estimate, a very\nunequal, and in her character she believed a very dangerous companion;\nand a removal that would leave Mrs Clay behind, and bring a choice of\nmore suitable intimates within Miss Elliot's reach, was therefore an\nobject of first-rate importance.\n\n\n\nChapter 3\n\n\n\"I must take leave to observe, Sir Walter,\" said Mr Shepherd one\nmorning at Kellynch Hall, as he laid down the newspaper, \"that the\npresent juncture is much in our favour.  This peace will be turning all\nour rich naval officers ashore.  They will be all wanting a home.\nCould not be a better time, Sir Walter, for having a choice of tenants,\nvery responsible tenants.  Many a noble fortune has been made during\nthe war.  If a rich admiral were to come in our way, Sir Walter--\"\n\n\"He would be a very lucky man, Shepherd,\" replied Sir Walter; \"that's\nall I have to remark.  A prize indeed would Kellynch Hall be to him;\nrather the greatest prize of all, let him have taken ever so many\nbefore; hey, Shepherd?\"\n\nMr Shepherd laughed, as he knew he must, at this wit, and then added--\n\n\"I presume to observe, Sir Walter, that, in the way of business,\ngentlemen of the navy are well to deal with.  I have had a little\nknowledge of their methods of doing business; and I am free to confess\nthat they have very liberal notions, and are as likely to make\ndesirable tenants as any set of people one should meet with.\nTherefore, Sir Walter, what I would take leave to suggest is, that if\nin consequence of any rumours getting abroad of your intention; which\nmust be contemplated as a possible thing, because we know how difficult\nit is to keep the actions and designs of one part of the world from the\nnotice and curiosity of the other; consequence has its tax; I, John\nShepherd, might conceal any family-matters that I chose, for nobody\nwould think it worth their while to observe me; but Sir Walter Elliot\nhas eyes upon him which it may be very difficult to elude; and\ntherefore, thus much I venture upon, that it will not greatly surprise\nme if, with all our caution, some rumour of the truth should get\nabroad; in the supposition of which, as I was going to observe, since\napplications will unquestionably follow, I should think any from our\nwealthy naval commanders particularly worth attending to; and beg leave\nto add, that two hours will bring me over at any time, to save you the\ntrouble of replying.\"\n\nSir Walter only nodded.  But soon afterwards, rising and pacing the\nroom, he observed sarcastically--\n\n\"There are few among the gentlemen of the navy, I imagine, who would\nnot be surprised to find themselves in a house of this description.\"\n\n\"They would look around them, no doubt, and bless their good fortune,\"\nsaid Mrs Clay, for Mrs Clay was present:  her father had driven her\nover, nothing being of so much use to Mrs Clay's health as a drive to\nKellynch: \"but I quite agree with my father in thinking a sailor might\nbe a very desirable tenant.  I have known a good deal of the\nprofession; and besides their liberality, they are so neat and careful\nin all their ways!  These valuable pictures of yours, Sir Walter, if\nyou chose to leave them, would be perfectly safe.  Everything in and\nabout the house would be taken such excellent care of!  The gardens and\nshrubberies would be kept in almost as high order as they are now.  You\nneed not be afraid, Miss Elliot, of your own sweet flower gardens being\nneglected.\"\n\n\"As to all that,\" rejoined Sir Walter coolly, \"supposing I were induced\nto let my house, I have by no means made up my mind as to the\nprivileges to be annexed to it.  I am not particularly disposed to\nfavour a tenant.  The park would be open to him of course, and few navy\nofficers, or men of any other description, can have had such a range;\nbut what restrictions I might impose on the use of the\npleasure-grounds, is another thing.  I am not fond of the idea of my\nshrubberies being always approachable; and I should recommend Miss\nElliot to be on her guard with respect to her flower garden.  I am very\nlittle disposed to grant a tenant of Kellynch Hall any extraordinary\nfavour, I assure you, be he sailor or soldier.\"\n\nAfter a short pause, Mr Shepherd presumed to say--\n\n\"In all these cases, there are established usages which make everything\nplain and easy between landlord and tenant.  Your interest, Sir Walter,\nis in pretty safe hands.  Depend upon me for taking care that no tenant\nhas more than his just rights.  I venture to hint, that Sir Walter\nElliot cannot be half so jealous for his own, as John Shepherd will be\nfor him.\"\n\nHere Anne spoke--\n\n\"The navy, I think, who have done so much for us, have at least an\nequal claim with any other set of men, for all the comforts and all the\nprivileges which any home can give.  Sailors work hard enough for their\ncomforts, we must all allow.\"\n\n\"Very true, very true.  What Miss Anne says, is very true,\" was Mr\nShepherd's rejoinder, and \"Oh! certainly,\" was his daughter's; but Sir\nWalter's remark was, soon afterwards--\n\n\"The profession has its utility, but I should be sorry to see any\nfriend of mine belonging to it.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" was the reply, and with a look of surprise.\n\n\"Yes; it is in two points offensive to me; I have two strong grounds of\nobjection to it.  First, as being the means of bringing persons of\nobscure birth into undue distinction, and raising men to honours which\ntheir fathers and grandfathers never dreamt of; and secondly, as it\ncuts up a man's youth and vigour most horribly; a sailor grows old\nsooner than any other man.  I have observed it all my life.  A man is\nin greater danger in the navy of being insulted by the rise of one\nwhose father, his father might have disdained to speak to, and of\nbecoming prematurely an object of disgust himself, than in any other\nline.  One day last spring, in town, I was in company with two men,\nstriking instances of what I am talking of; Lord St Ives, whose father\nwe all know to have been a country curate, without bread to eat; I was\nto give place to Lord St Ives, and a certain Admiral Baldwin, the most\ndeplorable-looking personage you can imagine; his face the colour of\nmahogany, rough and rugged to the last degree; all lines and wrinkles,\nnine grey hairs of a side, and nothing but a dab of powder at top.  'In\nthe name of heaven, who is that old fellow?' said I to a friend of mine\nwho was standing near, (Sir Basil Morley).  'Old fellow!' cried Sir\nBasil, 'it is Admiral Baldwin.  What do you take his age to be?'\n'Sixty,' said I, 'or perhaps sixty-two.' 'Forty,' replied Sir Basil,\n'forty, and no more.'  Picture to yourselves my amazement; I shall not\neasily forget Admiral Baldwin.  I never saw quite so wretched an\nexample of what a sea-faring life can do; but to a degree, I know it is\nthe same with them all:  they are all knocked about, and exposed to\nevery climate, and every weather, till they are not fit to be seen.  It\nis a pity they are not knocked on the head at once, before they reach\nAdmiral Baldwin's age.\"\n\n\"Nay, Sir Walter,\" cried Mrs Clay, \"this is being severe indeed.  Have\na little mercy on the poor men.  We are not all born to be handsome.\nThe sea is no beautifier, certainly; sailors do grow old betimes; I\nhave observed it; they soon lose the look of youth.  But then, is not\nit the same with many other professions, perhaps most other?  Soldiers,\nin active service, are not at all better off:  and even in the quieter\nprofessions, there is a toil and a labour of the mind, if not of the\nbody, which seldom leaves a man's looks to the natural effect of time.\nThe lawyer plods, quite care-worn; the physician is up at all hours,\nand travelling in all weather; and even the clergyman--\" she stopt a\nmoment to consider what might do for the clergyman;--\"and even the\nclergyman, you know is obliged to go into infected rooms, and expose\nhis health and looks to all the injury of a poisonous atmosphere.  In\nfact, as I have long been convinced, though every profession is\nnecessary and honourable in its turn, it is only the lot of those who\nare not obliged to follow any, who can live in a regular way, in the\ncountry, choosing their own hours, following their own pursuits, and\nliving on their own property, without the torment of trying for more;\nit is only their lot, I say, to hold the blessings of health and a good\nappearance to the utmost: I know no other set of men but what lose\nsomething of their personableness when they cease to be quite young.\"\n\nIt seemed as if Mr Shepherd, in this anxiety to bespeak Sir Walter's\ngood will towards a naval officer as tenant, had been gifted with\nforesight; for the very first application for the house was from an\nAdmiral Croft, with whom he shortly afterwards fell into company in\nattending the quarter sessions at Taunton; and indeed, he had received\na hint of the Admiral from a London correspondent.  By the report which\nhe hastened over to Kellynch to make, Admiral Croft was a native of\nSomersetshire, who having acquired a very handsome fortune, was wishing\nto settle in his own country, and had come down to Taunton in order to\nlook at some advertised places in that immediate neighbourhood, which,\nhowever, had not suited him; that accidentally hearing--(it was just as\nhe had foretold, Mr Shepherd observed, Sir Walter's concerns could not\nbe kept a secret,)--accidentally hearing of the possibility of\nKellynch Hall being to let, and understanding his (Mr Shepherd's)\nconnection with the owner, he had introduced himself to him in order to\nmake particular inquiries, and had, in the course of a pretty long\nconference, expressed as strong an inclination for the place as a man\nwho knew it only by description could feel; and given Mr Shepherd, in\nhis explicit account of himself, every proof of his being a most\nresponsible, eligible tenant.\n\n\"And who is Admiral Croft?\" was Sir Walter's cold suspicious inquiry.\n\nMr Shepherd answered for his being of a gentleman's family, and\nmentioned a place; and Anne, after the little pause which followed,\nadded--\n\n\"He is a rear admiral of the white.  He was in the Trafalgar action,\nand has been in the East Indies since; he was stationed there, I\nbelieve, several years.\"\n\n\"Then I take it for granted,\" observed Sir Walter, \"that his face is\nabout as orange as the cuffs and capes of my livery.\"\n\nMr Shepherd hastened to assure him, that Admiral Croft was a very hale,\nhearty, well-looking man, a little weather-beaten, to be sure, but not\nmuch, and quite the gentleman in all his notions and behaviour; not\nlikely to make the smallest difficulty about terms, only wanted a\ncomfortable home, and to get into it as soon as possible; knew he must\npay for his convenience; knew what rent a ready-furnished house of that\nconsequence might fetch; should not have been surprised if Sir Walter\nhad asked more; had inquired about the manor; would be glad of the\ndeputation, certainly, but made no great point of it; said he sometimes\ntook out a gun, but never killed; quite the gentleman.\n\nMr Shepherd was eloquent on the subject; pointing out all the\ncircumstances of the Admiral's family, which made him peculiarly\ndesirable as a tenant.  He was a married man, and without children; the\nvery state to be wished for.  A house was never taken good care of, Mr\nShepherd observed, without a lady: he did not know, whether furniture\nmight not be in danger of suffering as much where there was no lady, as\nwhere there were many children.  A lady, without a family, was the very\nbest preserver of furniture in the world.  He had seen Mrs Croft, too;\nshe was at Taunton with the admiral, and had been present almost all\nthe time they were talking the matter over.\n\n\"And a very well-spoken, genteel, shrewd lady, she seemed to be,\"\ncontinued he; \"asked more questions about the house, and terms, and\ntaxes, than the Admiral himself, and seemed more conversant with\nbusiness; and moreover, Sir Walter, I found she was not quite\nunconnected in this country, any more than her husband; that is to say,\nshe is sister to a gentleman who did live amongst us once; she told me\nso herself: sister to the gentleman who lived a few years back at\nMonkford. Bless me! what was his name? At this moment I cannot\nrecollect his name, though I have heard it so lately. Penelope, my\ndear, can you help me to the name of the gentleman who lived at\nMonkford: Mrs Croft's brother?\"\n\nBut Mrs Clay was talking so eagerly with Miss Elliot, that she did not\nhear the appeal.\n\n\"I have no conception whom you can mean, Shepherd; I remember no\ngentleman resident at Monkford since the time of old Governor Trent.\"\n\n\"Bless me! how very odd!  I shall forget my own name soon, I suppose.\nA name that I am so very well acquainted with; knew the gentleman so\nwell by sight; seen him a hundred times; came to consult me once, I\nremember, about a trespass of one of his neighbours; farmer's man\nbreaking into his orchard; wall torn down; apples stolen; caught in the\nfact; and afterwards, contrary to my judgement, submitted to an\namicable compromise.  Very odd indeed!\"\n\nAfter waiting another moment--\n\n\"You mean Mr Wentworth, I suppose?\" said Anne.\n\nMr Shepherd was all gratitude.\n\n\"Wentworth was the very name!  Mr Wentworth was the very man.  He had\nthe curacy of Monkford, you know, Sir Walter, some time back, for two\nor three years.  Came there about the year ---5, I take it.  You\nremember him, I am sure.\"\n\n\"Wentworth?  Oh! ay,--Mr Wentworth, the curate of Monkford.  You misled\nme by the term gentleman.  I thought you were speaking of some man of\nproperty:  Mr Wentworth was nobody, I remember; quite unconnected;\nnothing to do with the Strafford family.  One wonders how the names of\nmany of our nobility become so common.\"\n\nAs Mr Shepherd perceived that this connexion of the Crofts did them no\nservice with Sir Walter, he mentioned it no more; returning, with all\nhis zeal, to dwell on the circumstances more indisputably in their\nfavour; their age, and number, and fortune; the high idea they had\nformed of Kellynch Hall, and extreme solicitude for the advantage of\nrenting it; making it appear as if they ranked nothing beyond the\nhappiness of being the tenants of Sir Walter Elliot: an extraordinary\ntaste, certainly, could they have been supposed in the secret of Sir\nWalter's estimate of the dues of a tenant.\n\nIt succeeded, however; and though Sir Walter must ever look with an\nevil eye on anyone intending to inhabit that house, and think them\ninfinitely too well off in being permitted to rent it on the highest\nterms, he was talked into allowing Mr Shepherd to proceed in the\ntreaty, and authorising him to wait on Admiral Croft, who still\nremained at Taunton, and fix a day for the house being seen.\n\nSir Walter was not very wise; but still he had experience enough of the\nworld to feel, that a more unobjectionable tenant, in all essentials,\nthan Admiral Croft bid fair to be, could hardly offer.  So far went his\nunderstanding; and his vanity supplied a little additional soothing, in\nthe Admiral's situation in life, which was just high enough, and not\ntoo high.  \"I have let my house to Admiral Croft,\" would sound\nextremely well; very much better than to any mere Mr--; a Mr (save,\nperhaps, some half dozen in the nation,) always needs a note of\nexplanation.  An admiral speaks his own consequence, and, at the same\ntime, can never make a baronet look small.  In all their dealings and\nintercourse, Sir Walter Elliot must ever have the precedence.\n\nNothing could be done without a reference to Elizabeth: but her\ninclination was growing so strong for a removal, that she was happy to\nhave it fixed and expedited by a tenant at hand; and not a word to\nsuspend decision was uttered by her.\n\nMr Shepherd was completely empowered to act; and no sooner had such an\nend been reached, than Anne, who had been a most attentive listener to\nthe whole, left the room, to seek the comfort of cool air for her\nflushed cheeks; and as she walked along a favourite grove, said, with a\ngentle sigh, \"A few months more, and he, perhaps, may be walking here.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 4\n\n\nHe was not Mr Wentworth, the former curate of Monkford, however\nsuspicious appearances may be, but a Captain Frederick Wentworth, his\nbrother, who being made commander in consequence of the action off St\nDomingo, and not immediately employed, had come into Somersetshire, in\nthe summer of 1806; and having no parent living, found a home for half\na year at Monkford.  He was, at that time, a remarkably fine young man,\nwith a great deal of intelligence, spirit, and brilliancy; and Anne an\nextremely pretty girl, with gentleness, modesty, taste, and feeling.\nHalf the sum of attraction, on either side, might have been enough, for\nhe had nothing to do, and she had hardly anybody to love; but the\nencounter of such lavish recommendations could not fail.  They were\ngradually acquainted, and when acquainted, rapidly and deeply in love.\nIt would be difficult to say which had seen highest perfection in the\nother, or which had been the happiest: she, in receiving his\ndeclarations and proposals, or he in having them accepted.\n\nA short period of exquisite felicity followed, and but a short one.\nTroubles soon arose.  Sir Walter, on being applied to, without actually\nwithholding his consent, or saying it should never be, gave it all the\nnegative of great astonishment, great coldness, great silence, and a\nprofessed resolution of doing nothing for his daughter.  He thought it\na very degrading alliance; and Lady Russell, though with more tempered\nand pardonable pride, received it as a most unfortunate one.\n\nAnne Elliot, with all her claims of birth, beauty, and mind, to throw\nherself away at nineteen; involve herself at nineteen in an engagement\nwith a young man, who had nothing but himself to recommend him, and no\nhopes of attaining affluence, but in the chances of a most uncertain\nprofession, and no connexions to secure even his farther rise in the\nprofession, would be, indeed, a throwing away, which she grieved to\nthink of!  Anne Elliot, so young; known to so few, to be snatched off\nby a stranger without alliance or fortune; or rather sunk by him into a\nstate of most wearing, anxious, youth-killing dependence!  It must not\nbe, if by any fair interference of friendship, any representations from\none who had almost a mother's love, and mother's rights, it would be\nprevented.\n\nCaptain Wentworth had no fortune.  He had been lucky in his profession;\nbut spending freely, what had come freely, had realized nothing.  But\nhe was confident that he should soon be rich: full of life and ardour,\nhe knew that he should soon have a ship, and soon be on a station that\nwould lead to everything he wanted.  He had always been lucky; he knew\nhe should be so still.  Such confidence, powerful in its own warmth,\nand bewitching in the wit which often expressed it, must have been\nenough for Anne; but Lady Russell saw it very differently.  His\nsanguine temper, and fearlessness of mind, operated very differently on\nher.  She saw in it but an aggravation of the evil.  It only added a\ndangerous character to himself.  He was brilliant, he was headstrong.\nLady Russell had little taste for wit, and of anything approaching to\nimprudence a horror.  She deprecated the connexion in every light.\n\nSuch opposition, as these feelings produced, was more than Anne could\ncombat.  Young and gentle as she was, it might yet have been possible\nto withstand her father's ill-will, though unsoftened by one kind word\nor look on the part of her sister; but Lady Russell, whom she had\nalways loved and relied on, could not, with such steadiness of opinion,\nand such tenderness of manner, be continually advising her in vain.\nShe was persuaded to believe the engagement a wrong thing:  indiscreet,\nimproper, hardly capable of success, and not deserving it.  But it was\nnot a merely selfish caution, under which she acted, in putting an end\nto it.  Had she not imagined herself consulting his good, even more\nthan her own, she could hardly have given him up.  The belief of being\nprudent, and self-denying, principally for his advantage, was her chief\nconsolation, under the misery of a parting, a final parting; and every\nconsolation was required, for she had to encounter all the additional\npain of opinions, on his side, totally unconvinced and unbending, and\nof his feeling himself ill used by so forced a relinquishment.  He had\nleft the country in consequence.\n\nA few months had seen the beginning and the end of their acquaintance;\nbut not with a few months ended Anne's share of suffering from it.  Her\nattachment and regrets had, for a long time, clouded every enjoyment of\nyouth, and an early loss of bloom and spirits had been their lasting\neffect.\n\nMore than seven years were gone since this little history of sorrowful\ninterest had reached its close; and time had softened down much,\nperhaps nearly all of peculiar attachment to him, but she had been too\ndependent on time alone; no aid had been given in change of place\n(except in one visit to Bath soon after the rupture), or in any novelty\nor enlargement of society.  No one had ever come within the Kellynch\ncircle, who could bear a comparison with Frederick Wentworth, as he\nstood in her memory.  No second attachment, the only thoroughly\nnatural, happy, and sufficient cure, at her time of life, had been\npossible to the nice tone of her mind, the fastidiousness of her taste,\nin the small limits of the society around them.  She had been\nsolicited, when about two-and-twenty, to change her name, by the young\nman, who not long afterwards found a more willing mind in her younger\nsister; and Lady Russell had lamented her refusal; for Charles Musgrove\nwas the eldest son of a man, whose landed property and general\nimportance were second in that country, only to Sir Walter's, and of\ngood character and appearance; and however Lady Russell might have\nasked yet for something more, while Anne was nineteen, she would have\nrejoiced to see her at twenty-two so respectably removed from the\npartialities and injustice of her father's house, and settled so\npermanently near herself.  But in this case, Anne had left nothing for\nadvice to do; and though Lady Russell, as satisfied as ever with her\nown discretion, never wished the past undone, she began now to have the\nanxiety which borders on hopelessness for Anne's being tempted, by some\nman of talents and independence, to enter a state for which she held\nher to be peculiarly fitted by her warm affections and domestic habits.\n\nThey knew not each other's opinion, either its constancy or its change,\non the one leading point of Anne's conduct, for the subject was never\nalluded to; but Anne, at seven-and-twenty, thought very differently\nfrom what she had been made to think at nineteen.  She did not blame\nLady Russell, she did not blame herself for having been guided by her;\nbut she felt that were any young person, in similar circumstances, to\napply to her for counsel, they would never receive any of such certain\nimmediate wretchedness, such uncertain future good.  She was persuaded\nthat under every disadvantage of disapprobation at home, and every\nanxiety attending his profession, all their probable fears, delays, and\ndisappointments, she should yet have been a happier woman in\nmaintaining the engagement, than she had been in the sacrifice of it;\nand this, she fully believed, had the usual share, had even more than\nthe usual share of all such solicitudes and suspense been theirs,\nwithout reference to the actual results of their case, which, as it\nhappened, would have bestowed earlier prosperity than could be\nreasonably calculated on.  All his sanguine expectations, all his\nconfidence had been justified.  His genius and ardour had seemed to\nforesee and to command his prosperous path.  He had, very soon after\ntheir engagement ceased, got employ: and all that he had told her would\nfollow, had taken place.  He had distinguished himself, and early\ngained the other step in rank, and must now, by successive captures,\nhave made a handsome fortune.  She had only navy lists and newspapers\nfor her authority, but she could not doubt his being rich; and, in\nfavour of his constancy, she had no reason to believe him married.\n\nHow eloquent could Anne Elliot have been! how eloquent, at least, were\nher wishes on the side of early warm attachment, and a cheerful\nconfidence in futurity, against that over-anxious caution which seems\nto insult exertion and distrust Providence!  She had been forced into\nprudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older: the\nnatural sequel of an unnatural beginning.\n\nWith all these circumstances, recollections and feelings, she could not\nhear that Captain Wentworth's sister was likely to live at Kellynch\nwithout a revival of former pain; and many a stroll, and many a sigh,\nwere necessary to dispel the agitation of the idea.  She often told\nherself it was folly, before she could harden her nerves sufficiently\nto feel the continual discussion of the Crofts and their business no\nevil.  She was assisted, however, by that perfect indifference and\napparent unconsciousness, among the only three of her own friends in\nthe secret of the past, which seemed almost to deny any recollection of\nit.  She could do justice to the superiority of Lady Russell's motives\nin this, over those of her father and Elizabeth; she could honour all\nthe better feelings of her calmness; but the general air of oblivion\namong them was highly important from whatever it sprung; and in the\nevent of Admiral Croft's really taking Kellynch Hall, she rejoiced anew\nover the conviction which had always been most grateful to her, of the\npast being known to those three only among her connexions, by whom no\nsyllable, she believed, would ever be whispered, and in the trust that\namong his, the brother only with whom he had been residing, had\nreceived any information of their short-lived engagement.  That brother\nhad been long removed from the country and being a sensible man, and,\nmoreover, a single man at the time, she had a fond dependence on no\nhuman creature's having heard of it from him.\n\nThe sister, Mrs Croft, had then been out of England, accompanying her\nhusband on a foreign station, and her own sister, Mary, had been at\nschool while it all occurred; and never admitted by the pride of some,\nand the delicacy of others, to the smallest knowledge of it afterwards.\n\nWith these supports, she hoped that the acquaintance between herself\nand the Crofts, which, with Lady Russell, still resident in Kellynch,\nand Mary fixed only three miles off, must be anticipated, need not\ninvolve any particular awkwardness.\n\n\n\nChapter 5\n\n\nOn the morning appointed for Admiral and Mrs Croft's seeing Kellynch\nHall, Anne found it most natural to take her almost daily walk to Lady\nRussell's, and keep out of the way till all was over; when she found it\nmost natural to be sorry that she had missed the opportunity of seeing\nthem.\n\nThis meeting of the two parties proved highly satisfactory, and decided\nthe whole business at once.  Each lady was previously well disposed for\nan agreement, and saw nothing, therefore, but good manners in the\nother; and with regard to the gentlemen, there was such an hearty good\nhumour, such an open, trusting liberality on the Admiral's side, as\ncould not but influence Sir Walter, who had besides been flattered into\nhis very best and most polished behaviour by Mr Shepherd's assurances\nof his being known, by report, to the Admiral, as a model of good\nbreeding.\n\nThe house and grounds, and furniture, were approved, the Crofts were\napproved, terms, time, every thing, and every body, was right; and Mr\nShepherd's clerks were set to work, without there having been a single\npreliminary difference to modify of all that \"This indenture sheweth.\"\n\nSir Walter, without hesitation, declared the Admiral to be the\nbest-looking sailor he had ever met with, and went so far as to say,\nthat if his own man might have had the arranging of his hair, he should\nnot be ashamed of being seen with him any where; and the Admiral, with\nsympathetic cordiality, observed to his wife as they drove back through\nthe park, \"I thought we should soon come to a deal, my dear, in spite\nof what they told us at Taunton.  The Baronet will never set the Thames\non fire, but there seems to be no harm in him.\"--reciprocal\ncompliments, which would have been esteemed about equal.\n\nThe Crofts were to have possession at Michaelmas; and as Sir Walter\nproposed removing to Bath in the course of the preceding month, there\nwas no time to be lost in making every dependent arrangement.\n\nLady Russell, convinced that Anne would not be allowed to be of any\nuse, or any importance, in the choice of the house which they were\ngoing to secure, was very unwilling to have her hurried away so soon,\nand wanted to make it possible for her to stay behind till she might\nconvey her to Bath herself after Christmas; but having engagements of\nher own which must take her from Kellynch for several weeks, she was\nunable to give the full invitation she wished, and Anne though dreading\nthe possible heats of September in all the white glare of Bath, and\ngrieving to forego all the influence so sweet and so sad of the\nautumnal months in the country, did not think that, everything\nconsidered, she wished to remain.  It would be most right, and most\nwise, and, therefore must involve least suffering to go with the others.\n\nSomething occurred, however, to give her a different duty.  Mary, often\na little unwell, and always thinking a great deal of her own\ncomplaints, and always in the habit of claiming Anne when anything was\nthe matter, was indisposed; and foreseeing that she should not have a\nday's health all the autumn, entreated, or rather required her, for it\nwas hardly entreaty, to come to Uppercross Cottage, and bear her\ncompany as long as she should want her, instead of going to Bath.\n\n\"I cannot possibly do without Anne,\" was Mary's reasoning; and\nElizabeth's reply was, \"Then I am sure Anne had better stay, for nobody\nwill want her in Bath.\"\n\nTo be claimed as a good, though in an improper style, is at least\nbetter than being rejected as no good at all; and Anne, glad to be\nthought of some use, glad to have anything marked out as a duty, and\ncertainly not sorry to have the scene of it in the country, and her own\ndear country, readily agreed to stay.\n\nThis invitation of Mary's removed all Lady Russell's difficulties, and\nit was consequently soon settled that Anne should not go to Bath till\nLady Russell took her, and that all the intervening time should be\ndivided between Uppercross Cottage and Kellynch Lodge.\n\nSo far all was perfectly right; but Lady Russell was almost startled by\nthe wrong of one part of the Kellynch Hall plan, when it burst on her,\nwhich was, Mrs Clay's being engaged to go to Bath with Sir Walter and\nElizabeth, as a most important and valuable assistant to the latter in\nall the business before her.  Lady Russell was extremely sorry that\nsuch a measure should have been resorted to at all, wondered, grieved,\nand feared; and the affront it contained to Anne, in Mrs Clay's being\nof so much use, while Anne could be of none, was a very sore\naggravation.\n\nAnne herself was become hardened to such affronts; but she felt the\nimprudence of the arrangement quite as keenly as Lady Russell.  With a\ngreat deal of quiet observation, and a knowledge, which she often\nwished less, of her father's character, she was sensible that results\nthe most serious to his family from the intimacy were more than\npossible.  She did not imagine that her father had at present an idea\nof the kind.  Mrs Clay had freckles, and a projecting tooth, and a\nclumsy wrist, which he was continually making severe remarks upon, in\nher absence; but she was young, and certainly altogether well-looking,\nand possessed, in an acute mind and assiduous pleasing manners,\ninfinitely more dangerous attractions than any merely personal might\nhave been.  Anne was so impressed by the degree of their danger, that\nshe could not excuse herself from trying to make it perceptible to her\nsister.  She had little hope of success; but Elizabeth, who in the\nevent of such a reverse would be so much more to be pitied than\nherself, should never, she thought, have reason to reproach her for\ngiving no warning.\n\nShe spoke, and seemed only to offend.  Elizabeth could not conceive how\nsuch an absurd suspicion should occur to her, and indignantly answered\nfor each party's perfectly knowing their situation.\n\n\"Mrs Clay,\" said she, warmly, \"never forgets who she is; and as I am\nrather better acquainted with her sentiments than you can be, I can\nassure you, that upon the subject of marriage they are particularly\nnice, and that she reprobates all inequality of condition and rank more\nstrongly than most people.  And as to my father, I really should not\nhave thought that he, who has kept himself single so long for our\nsakes, need be suspected now.  If Mrs Clay were a very beautiful woman,\nI grant you, it might be wrong to have her so much with me; not that\nanything in the world, I am sure, would induce my father to make a\ndegrading match, but he might be rendered unhappy.  But poor Mrs Clay\nwho, with all her merits, can never have been reckoned tolerably\npretty, I really think poor Mrs Clay may be staying here in perfect\nsafety.  One would imagine you had never heard my father speak of her\npersonal misfortunes, though I know you must fifty times.  That tooth\nof her's and those freckles.  Freckles do not disgust me so very much\nas they do him.  I have known a face not materially disfigured by a\nfew, but he abominates them.  You must have heard him notice Mrs Clay's\nfreckles.\"\n\n\"There is hardly any personal defect,\" replied Anne, \"which an\nagreeable manner might not gradually reconcile one to.\"\n\n\"I think very differently,\" answered Elizabeth, shortly; \"an agreeable\nmanner may set off handsome features, but can never alter plain ones.\nHowever, at any rate, as I have a great deal more at stake on this\npoint than anybody else can have, I think it rather unnecessary in you\nto be advising me.\"\n\nAnne had done; glad that it was over, and not absolutely hopeless of\ndoing good.  Elizabeth, though resenting the suspicion, might yet be\nmade observant by it.\n\nThe last office of the four carriage-horses was to draw Sir Walter,\nMiss Elliot, and Mrs Clay to Bath. The party drove off in very good\nspirits; Sir Walter prepared with condescending bows for all the\nafflicted tenantry and cottagers who might have had a hint to show\nthemselves, and Anne walked up at the same time, in a sort of desolate\ntranquillity, to the Lodge, where she was to spend the first week.\n\nHer friend was not in better spirits than herself. Lady Russell felt\nthis break-up of the family exceedingly.  Their respectability was as\ndear to her as her own, and a daily intercourse had become precious by\nhabit.  It was painful to look upon their deserted grounds, and still\nworse to anticipate the new hands they were to fall into; and to escape\nthe solitariness and the melancholy of so altered a village, and be out\nof the way when Admiral and Mrs Croft first arrived, she had determined\nto make her own absence from home begin when she must give up Anne.\nAccordingly their removal was made together, and Anne was set down at\nUppercross Cottage, in the first stage of Lady Russell's journey.\n\nUppercross was a moderate-sized village, which a few years back had\nbeen completely in the old English style, containing only two houses\nsuperior in appearance to those of the yeomen and labourers; the\nmansion of the squire, with its high walls, great gates, and old trees,\nsubstantial and unmodernized, and the compact, tight parsonage,\nenclosed in its own neat garden, with a vine and a pear-tree trained\nround its casements; but upon the marriage of the young 'squire, it had\nreceived the improvement of a farm-house elevated into a cottage, for\nhis residence, and Uppercross Cottage, with its veranda, French\nwindows, and other prettiness, was quite as likely to catch the\ntraveller's eye as the more consistent and considerable aspect and\npremises of the Great House, about a quarter of a mile farther on.\n\nHere Anne had often been staying. She knew the ways of Uppercross as\nwell as those of Kellynch. The two families were so continually\nmeeting, so much in the habit of running in and out of each other's\nhouse at all hours, that it was rather a surprise to her to find Mary\nalone; but being alone, her being unwell and out of spirits was almost\na matter of course. Though better endowed than the elder sister, Mary\nhad not Anne's understanding nor temper. While well, and happy, and\nproperly attended to, she had great good humour and excellent spirits;\nbut any indisposition sunk her completely. She had no resources for\nsolitude; and inheriting a considerable share of the Elliot\nself-importance, was very prone to add to every other distress that of\nfancying herself neglected and ill-used. In person, she was inferior to\nboth sisters, and had, even in her bloom, only reached the dignity of\nbeing \"a fine girl.\" She was now lying on the faded sofa of the pretty\nlittle drawing-room, the once elegant furniture of which had been\ngradually growing shabby, under the influence of four summers and two\nchildren; and, on Anne's appearing, greeted her with--\n\n\"So, you are come at last!  I began to think I should never see you.  I\nam so ill I can hardly speak.  I have not seen a creature the whole\nmorning!\"\n\n\"I am sorry to find you unwell,\" replied Anne.  \"You sent me such a\ngood account of yourself on Thursday!\"\n\n\"Yes, I made the best of it; I always do:  but I was very far from well\nat the time; and I do not think I ever was so ill in my life as I have\nbeen all this morning:  very unfit to be left alone, I am sure.\nSuppose I were to be seized of a sudden in some dreadful way, and not\nable to ring the bell!  So, Lady Russell would not get out.  I do not\nthink she has been in this house three times this summer.\"\n\nAnne said what was proper, and enquired after her husband.  \"Oh!\nCharles is out shooting.  I have not seen him since seven o'clock.  He\nwould go, though I told him how ill I was.  He said he should not stay\nout long; but he has never come back, and now it is almost one.  I\nassure you, I have not seen a soul this whole long morning.\"\n\n\"You have had your little boys with you?\"\n\n\"Yes, as long as I could bear their noise; but they are so unmanageable\nthat they do me more harm than good.  Little Charles does not mind a\nword I say, and Walter is growing quite as bad.\"\n\n\"Well, you will soon be better now,\" replied Anne, cheerfully.  \"You\nknow I always cure you when I come.  How are your neighbours at the\nGreat House?\"\n\n\"I can give you no account of them.  I have not seen one of them\nto-day, except Mr Musgrove, who just stopped and spoke through the\nwindow, but without getting off his horse; and though I told him how\nill I was, not one of them have been near me.  It did not happen to\nsuit the Miss Musgroves, I suppose, and they never put themselves out\nof their way.\"\n\n\"You will see them yet, perhaps, before the morning is gone.  It is\nearly.\"\n\n\"I never want them, I assure you.  They talk and laugh a great deal too\nmuch for me.  Oh! Anne, I am so very unwell!  It was quite unkind of\nyou not to come on Thursday.\"\n\n\"My dear Mary, recollect what a comfortable account you sent me of\nyourself!  You wrote in the cheerfullest manner, and said you were\nperfectly well, and in no hurry for me; and that being the case, you\nmust be aware that my wish would be to remain with Lady Russell to the\nlast: and besides what I felt on her account, I have really been so\nbusy, have had so much to do, that I could not very conveniently have\nleft Kellynch sooner.\"\n\n\"Dear me! what can you possibly have to do?\"\n\n\"A great many things, I assure you.  More than I can recollect in a\nmoment; but I can tell you some.  I have been making a duplicate of the\ncatalogue of my father's books and pictures.  I have been several times\nin the garden with Mackenzie, trying to understand, and make him\nunderstand, which of Elizabeth's plants are for Lady Russell.  I have\nhad all my own little concerns to arrange, books and music to divide,\nand all my trunks to repack, from not having understood in time what\nwas intended as to the waggons: and one thing I have had to do, Mary,\nof a more trying nature: going to almost every house in the parish, as\na sort of take-leave.  I was told that they wished it.  But all these\nthings took up a great deal of time.\"\n\n\"Oh! well!\" and after a moment's pause, \"but you have never asked me\none word about our dinner at the Pooles yesterday.\"\n\n\"Did you go then?  I have made no enquiries, because I concluded you\nmust have been obliged to give up the party.\"\n\n\"Oh yes! I went.  I was very well yesterday; nothing at all the matter\nwith me till this morning.  It would have been strange if I had not\ngone.\"\n\n\"I am very glad you were well enough, and I hope you had a pleasant\nparty.\"\n\n\"Nothing remarkable.  One always knows beforehand what the dinner will\nbe, and who will be there; and it is so very uncomfortable not having a\ncarriage of one's own.  Mr and Mrs Musgrove took me, and we were so\ncrowded!  They are both so very large, and take up so much room; and Mr\nMusgrove always sits forward.  So, there was I, crowded into the back\nseat with Henrietta and Louise; and I think it very likely that my\nillness to-day may be owing to it.\"\n\nA little further perseverance in patience and forced cheerfulness on\nAnne's side produced nearly a cure on Mary's.  She could soon sit\nupright on the sofa, and began to hope she might be able to leave it by\ndinner-time.  Then, forgetting to think of it, she was at the other end\nof the room, beautifying a nosegay; then, she ate her cold meat; and\nthen she was well enough to propose a little walk.\n\n\"Where shall we go?\" said she, when they were ready.  \"I suppose you\nwill not like to call at the Great House before they have been to see\nyou?\"\n\n\"I have not the smallest objection on that account,\" replied Anne.  \"I\nshould never think of standing on such ceremony with people I know so\nwell as Mrs and the Miss Musgroves.\"\n\n\"Oh! but they ought to call upon you as soon as possible.  They ought\nto feel what is due to you as my sister.  However, we may as well go\nand sit with them a little  while, and when we have that over, we can\nenjoy our walk.\"\n\nAnne had always thought such a style of intercourse highly imprudent;\nbut she had ceased to endeavour to check it, from believing that,\nthough there were on each side continual subjects of offence, neither\nfamily could now do without it.  To the Great House accordingly they\nwent, to sit the full half hour in the old-fashioned square parlour,\nwith a small carpet and shining floor, to which the present daughters\nof the house were gradually giving the proper air of confusion by a\ngrand piano-forte and a harp, flower-stands and little tables placed in\nevery direction.  Oh! could the originals of the portraits against the\nwainscot, could the gentlemen in brown velvet and the ladies in blue\nsatin have seen what was going on, have been conscious of such an\noverthrow of all order and neatness!  The portraits themselves seemed\nto be staring in astonishment.\n\nThe Musgroves, like their houses, were in a state of alteration,\nperhaps of improvement.  The father and mother were in the old English\nstyle, and the young people in the new.  Mr and Mrs Musgrove were a\nvery good sort of people; friendly and hospitable, not much educated,\nand not at all elegant.  Their children had more modern minds and\nmanners.  There was a numerous family; but the only two grown up,\nexcepting Charles, were Henrietta and Louisa, young ladies of nineteen\nand twenty, who had brought from school at Exeter all the usual stock\nof accomplishments, and were now like thousands of other young ladies,\nliving to be fashionable, happy, and merry.  Their dress had every\nadvantage, their faces were rather pretty, their spirits extremely\ngood, their manner unembarrassed and pleasant; they were of consequence\nat home, and favourites abroad.  Anne always contemplated them as some\nof the happiest creatures of her acquaintance; but still, saved as we\nall are, by some comfortable feeling of superiority from wishing for\nthe possibility of exchange, she would not have given up her own more\nelegant and cultivated mind for all their enjoyments; and envied them\nnothing but that seemingly perfect good understanding and agreement\ntogether, that good-humoured mutual affection, of which she had known\nso little herself with either of her sisters.\n\nThey were received with great cordiality.  Nothing seemed amiss on the\nside of the Great House family, which was generally, as Anne very well\nknew, the least to blame.  The half hour was chatted away pleasantly\nenough; and she was not at all surprised at the end of it, to have\ntheir walking party joined by both the Miss Musgroves, at Mary's\nparticular invitation.\n\n\n\nChapter 6\n\n\nAnne had not wanted this visit to Uppercross, to learn that a removal\nfrom one set of people to another, though at a distance of only three\nmiles, will often include a total change of conversation, opinion, and\nidea.  She had never been staying there before, without being struck by\nit, or without wishing that other Elliots could have her advantage in\nseeing how unknown, or unconsidered there, were the affairs which at\nKellynch Hall were treated as of such general publicity and pervading\ninterest; yet, with all this experience, she believed she must now\nsubmit to feel that another lesson, in the art of knowing our own\nnothingness beyond our own circle, was become necessary for her; for\ncertainly, coming as she did, with a heart full of the subject which\nhad been completely occupying both houses in Kellynch for many weeks,\nshe had expected rather more curiosity and sympathy than she found in\nthe separate but very similar remark of Mr and Mrs Musgrove: \"So, Miss\nAnne, Sir Walter and your sister are gone; and what part of Bath do you\nthink they will settle in?\" and this, without much waiting for an\nanswer; or in the young ladies' addition of, \"I hope we shall be in\nBath in the winter; but remember, papa, if we do go, we must be in a\ngood situation:  none of your Queen Squares for us!\" or in the anxious\nsupplement from Mary, of--\"Upon my word, I shall be pretty well off,\nwhen you are all gone away to be happy at Bath!\"\n\nShe could only resolve to avoid such self-delusion in future, and think\nwith heightened gratitude of the extraordinary blessing of having one\nsuch truly sympathising friend as Lady Russell.\n\nThe Mr Musgroves had their own game to guard, and to destroy, their own\nhorses, dogs, and newspapers to engage them, and the females were fully\noccupied in all the other common subjects of housekeeping, neighbours,\ndress, dancing, and music.  She acknowledged it to be very fitting,\nthat every little social commonwealth should dictate its own matters of\ndiscourse; and hoped, ere long, to become a not unworthy member of the\none she was now transplanted into.  With the prospect of spending at\nleast two months at Uppercross, it was highly incumbent on her to\nclothe her imagination, her memory, and all her ideas in as much of\nUppercross as possible.\n\nShe had no dread of these two months.  Mary was not so repulsive and\nunsisterly as Elizabeth, nor so inaccessible to all influence of hers;\nneither was there anything among the other component parts of the\ncottage inimical to comfort.  She was always on friendly terms with her\nbrother-in-law; and in the children, who loved her nearly as well, and\nrespected her a great deal more than their mother, she had an object of\ninterest, amusement, and wholesome exertion.\n\nCharles Musgrove was civil and agreeable; in sense and temper he was\nundoubtedly superior to his wife, but not of powers, or conversation,\nor grace, to make the past, as they were connected together, at all a\ndangerous contemplation; though, at the same time, Anne could believe,\nwith Lady Russell, that a more equal match might have greatly improved\nhim; and that a woman of real understanding might have given more\nconsequence to his character, and more usefulness, rationality, and\nelegance to his habits and pursuits.  As it was, he did nothing with\nmuch zeal, but sport; and his time was otherwise trifled away, without\nbenefit from books or anything else.  He had very good spirits, which\nnever seemed much affected by his wife's occasional lowness, bore with\nher unreasonableness sometimes to Anne's admiration, and upon the\nwhole, though there was very often a little disagreement (in which she\nhad sometimes more share than she wished, being appealed to by both\nparties), they might pass for a happy couple.  They were always\nperfectly agreed in the want of more money, and a strong inclination\nfor a handsome present from his father; but here, as on most topics, he\nhad the superiority, for while Mary thought it a great shame that such\na present was not made, he always contended for his father's having\nmany other uses for his money, and a right to spend it as he liked.\n\nAs to the management of their children, his theory was much better than\nhis wife's, and his practice not so bad.  \"I could manage them very\nwell, if it were not for Mary's interference,\" was what Anne often\nheard him say, and had a good deal of faith in; but when listening in\nturn to Mary's reproach of \"Charles spoils the children so that I\ncannot get them into any order,\" she never had the smallest temptation\nto say, \"Very true.\"\n\nOne of the least agreeable circumstances of her residence there was her\nbeing treated with too much confidence by all parties, and being too\nmuch in the secret of the complaints of each house.  Known to have some\ninfluence with her sister, she was continually requested, or at least\nreceiving hints to exert it, beyond what was practicable.  \"I wish you\ncould persuade Mary not to be always fancying herself ill,\" was\nCharles's language; and, in an unhappy mood, thus spoke Mary: \"I do\nbelieve if Charles were to see me dying, he would not think there was\nanything the matter with me.  I am sure, Anne, if you would, you might\npersuade him that I really am very ill--a great deal worse than I ever\nown.\"\n\nMary's declaration was, \"I hate sending the children to the Great\nHouse, though their grandmamma is always wanting to see them, for she\nhumours and indulges them to such a degree, and gives them so much\ntrash and sweet things, that they are sure to come back sick and cross\nfor the rest of the day.\"  And Mrs Musgrove took the first opportunity\nof being alone with Anne, to say, \"Oh! Miss Anne, I cannot help wishing\nMrs Charles had a little of your method with those children.  They are\nquite different creatures with you!  But to be sure, in general they\nare so spoilt!  It is a pity you cannot put your sister in the way of\nmanaging them.  They are as fine healthy children as ever were seen,\npoor little dears! without partiality; but Mrs Charles knows no more\nhow they should be treated--!  Bless me! how troublesome they are\nsometimes.  I assure you, Miss Anne, it prevents my wishing to see them\nat our house so often as I otherwise should.  I believe Mrs Charles is\nnot quite pleased with my not inviting them oftener; but you know it is\nvery bad to have children with one that one is obligated to be checking\nevery moment; \"don't do this,\" and \"don't do that;\" or that one can\nonly keep in tolerable order by more cake than is good for them.\"\n\nShe had this communication, moreover, from Mary.  \"Mrs Musgrove thinks\nall her servants so steady, that it would be high treason to call it in\nquestion; but I am sure, without exaggeration, that her upper\nhouse-maid and laundry-maid, instead of being in their business, are\ngadding about the village, all day long.  I meet them wherever I go;\nand I declare, I never go twice into my nursery without seeing\nsomething of them.  If Jemima were not the trustiest, steadiest\ncreature in the world, it would be enough to spoil her; for she tells\nme, they are always tempting her to take a walk with them.\" And on Mrs\nMusgrove's side, it was, \"I make a rule of never interfering in any of\nmy daughter-in-law's concerns, for I know it would not do; but I shall\ntell you, Miss Anne, because you may be able to set things to rights,\nthat I have no very good opinion of Mrs Charles's nursery-maid: I hear\nstrange stories of her; she is always upon the gad; and from my own\nknowledge, I can declare, she is such a fine-dressing lady, that she is\nenough to ruin any servants she comes near.  Mrs Charles quite swears\nby her, I know; but I just give you this hint, that you may be upon the\nwatch; because, if you see anything amiss, you need not be afraid of\nmentioning it.\"\n\nAgain, it was Mary's complaint, that Mrs Musgrove was very apt not to\ngive her the precedence that was her due, when they dined at the Great\nHouse with other families; and she did not see any reason why she was\nto be considered so much at home as to lose her place.  And one day\nwhen Anne was walking with only the Musgroves, one of them after\ntalking of rank, people of rank, and jealousy of rank, said, \"I have no\nscruple of observing to you, how nonsensical some persons are about\ntheir place, because all the world knows how easy and indifferent you\nare about it; but I wish anybody could give Mary a hint that it would\nbe a great deal better if she were not so very tenacious, especially if\nshe would not be always putting herself forward to take place of mamma.\nNobody doubts her right to have precedence of mamma, but it would be\nmore becoming in her not to be always insisting on it.  It is not that\nmamma cares about it the least in the world, but I know it is taken\nnotice of by many persons.\"\n\nHow was Anne to set all these matters to rights?  She could do little\nmore than listen patiently, soften every grievance, and excuse each to\nthe other; give them all hints of the forbearance necessary between\nsuch near neighbours, and make those hints broadest which were meant\nfor her sister's benefit.\n\nIn all other respects, her visit began and proceeded very well.  Her\nown spirits improved by change of place and subject, by being removed\nthree miles from Kellynch; Mary's ailments lessened by having a\nconstant companion, and their daily intercourse with the other family,\nsince there was neither superior affection, confidence, nor employment\nin the cottage, to be interrupted by it, was rather an advantage.  It\nwas certainly carried nearly as far as possible, for they met every\nmorning, and hardly ever spent an evening asunder; but she believed\nthey should not have done so well without the sight of Mr and Mrs\nMusgrove's respectable forms in the usual places, or without the\ntalking, laughing, and singing of their daughters.\n\nShe played a great deal better than either of the Miss Musgroves, but\nhaving no voice, no knowledge of the harp, and no fond parents, to sit\nby and fancy themselves delighted, her performance was little thought\nof, only out of civility, or to refresh the others, as she was well\naware.  She knew that when she played she was giving pleasure only to\nherself; but this was no new sensation.  Excepting one short period of\nher life, she had never, since the age of fourteen, never since the\nloss of her dear mother, known the happiness of being listened to, or\nencouraged by any just appreciation or real taste.  In music she had\nbeen always used to feel alone in the world; and Mr and Mrs Musgrove's\nfond partiality for their own daughters' performance, and total\nindifference to any other person's, gave her much more pleasure for\ntheir sakes, than mortification for her own.\n\nThe party at the Great House was sometimes increased by other company.\nThe neighbourhood was not large, but the Musgroves were visited by\neverybody, and had more dinner-parties, and more callers, more visitors\nby invitation and by chance, than any other family.  There were more\ncompletely popular.\n\nThe girls were wild for dancing; and the evenings ended, occasionally,\nin an unpremeditated little ball.  There was a family of cousins within\na walk of Uppercross, in less affluent circumstances, who depended on\nthe Musgroves for all their pleasures:  they would come at any time,\nand help play at anything, or dance anywhere; and Anne, very much\npreferring the office of musician to a more active post, played country\ndances to them by the hour together; a kindness which always\nrecommended her musical powers to the notice of Mr and Mrs Musgrove\nmore than anything else, and often drew this compliment;--\"Well done,\nMiss Anne! very well done indeed!  Lord bless me!  how those little\nfingers of yours fly about!\"\n\nSo passed the first three weeks.  Michaelmas came; and now Anne's heart\nmust be in Kellynch again.  A beloved home made over to others; all the\nprecious rooms and furniture, groves, and prospects, beginning to own\nother eyes and other limbs!  She could not think of much else on the\n29th of September; and she had this sympathetic touch in the evening\nfrom Mary, who, on having occasion to note down the day of the month,\nexclaimed, \"Dear me, is not this the day the Crofts were to come to\nKellynch?  I am glad I did not think of it before.  How low it makes\nme!\"\n\nThe Crofts took possession with true naval alertness, and were to be\nvisited.  Mary deplored the necessity for herself.  \"Nobody knew how\nmuch she should suffer.  She should put it off as long as she could;\"\nbut was not easy till she had talked Charles into driving her over on\nan early day, and was in a very animated, comfortable state of\nimaginary agitation, when she came back.  Anne had very sincerely\nrejoiced in there being no means of her going.  She wished, however to\nsee the Crofts, and was glad to be within when the visit was returned.\nThey came:  the master of the house was not at home, but the two\nsisters were together; and as it chanced that Mrs Croft fell to the\nshare of Anne, while the Admiral sat by Mary, and made himself very\nagreeable by his good-humoured notice of her little boys, she was well\nable to watch for a likeness, and if it failed her in the features, to\ncatch it in the voice, or in the turn of sentiment and expression.\n\nMrs Croft, though neither tall nor fat, had a squareness, uprightness,\nand vigour of form, which gave importance to her person.  She had\nbright dark eyes, good teeth, and altogether an agreeable face; though\nher reddened and weather-beaten complexion, the consequence of her\nhaving been almost as much at sea as her husband, made her seem to have\nlived some years longer in the world than her real eight-and-thirty.\nHer manners were open, easy, and decided, like one who had no distrust\nof herself, and no doubts of what to do; without any approach to\ncoarseness, however, or any want of good humour.  Anne gave her credit,\nindeed, for feelings of great consideration towards herself, in all\nthat related to Kellynch, and it pleased her: especially, as she had\nsatisfied herself in the very first half minute, in the instant even of\nintroduction, that there was not the smallest symptom of any knowledge\nor suspicion on Mrs Croft's side, to give a bias of any sort.  She was\nquite easy on that head, and consequently full of strength and courage,\ntill for a moment electrified by Mrs Croft's suddenly saying,--\n\n\"It was you, and not your sister, I find, that my brother had the\npleasure of being acquainted with, when he was in this country.\"\n\nAnne hoped she had outlived the age of blushing; but the age of emotion\nshe certainly had not.\n\n\"Perhaps you may not have heard that he is married?\" added Mrs Croft.\n\nShe could now answer as she ought; and was happy to feel, when Mrs\nCroft's next words explained it to be Mr Wentworth of whom she spoke,\nthat she had said nothing which might not do for either brother. She\nimmediately felt how reasonable it was, that Mrs Croft should be\nthinking and speaking of Edward, and not of Frederick; and with shame\nat her own forgetfulness applied herself to the knowledge of their\nformer neighbour's present state with proper interest.\n\nThe rest was all tranquillity; till, just as they were moving, she\nheard the Admiral say to Mary--\n\n\"We are expecting a brother of Mrs Croft's here soon; I dare say you\nknow him by name.\"\n\nHe was cut short by the eager attacks of the little boys, clinging to\nhim like an old friend, and declaring he should not go; and being too\nmuch engrossed by proposals of carrying them away in his coat pockets,\n&c., to have another moment for finishing or recollecting what he had\nbegun, Anne was left to persuade herself, as well as she could, that\nthe same brother must still be in question.  She could not, however,\nreach such a degree of certainty, as not to be anxious to hear whether\nanything had been said on the subject at the other house, where the\nCrofts had previously been calling.\n\nThe folks of the Great House were to spend the evening of this day at\nthe Cottage; and it being now too late in the year for such visits to\nbe made on foot, the coach was beginning to be listened for, when the\nyoungest Miss Musgrove walked in.  That she was coming to apologize,\nand that they should have to spend the evening by themselves, was the\nfirst black idea; and Mary was quite ready to be affronted, when Louisa\nmade all right by saying, that she only came on foot, to leave more\nroom for the harp, which was bringing in the carriage.\n\n\"And I will tell you our reason,\" she added, \"and all about it.  I am\ncome on to give you notice, that papa and mamma are out of spirits this\nevening, especially mamma; she is thinking so much of poor Richard!\nAnd we agreed it would be best to have the harp, for it seems to amuse\nher more than the piano-forte.  I will tell you why she is out of\nspirits.  When the Crofts called this morning, (they called here\nafterwards, did not they?), they happened to say, that her brother,\nCaptain Wentworth, is just returned to England, or paid off, or\nsomething, and is coming to see them almost directly; and most\nunluckily it came into mamma's head, when they were gone, that\nWentworth, or something very like it, was the name of poor Richard's\ncaptain at one time; I do not know when or where, but a great while\nbefore he died, poor fellow!  And upon looking over his letters and\nthings, she found it was so, and is perfectly sure that this must be\nthe very man, and her head is quite full of it, and of poor Richard!\nSo we must be as merry as we can, that she may not be dwelling upon\nsuch gloomy things.\"\n\nThe real circumstances of this pathetic piece of family history were,\nthat the Musgroves had had the ill fortune of a very troublesome,\nhopeless son; and the good fortune to lose him before he reached his\ntwentieth year; that he had been sent to sea because he was stupid and\nunmanageable on shore; that he had been very little cared for at any\ntime by his family, though quite as much as he deserved; seldom heard\nof, and scarcely at all regretted, when the intelligence of his death\nabroad had worked its way to Uppercross, two years before.\n\nHe had, in fact, though his sisters were now doing all they could for\nhim, by calling him \"poor Richard,\" been nothing better than a\nthick-headed, unfeeling, unprofitable Dick Musgrove, who had never done\nanything to entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name,\nliving or dead.\n\nHe had been several years at sea, and had, in the course of those\nremovals to which all midshipmen are liable, and especially such\nmidshipmen as every captain wishes to get rid of, been six months on\nboard Captain Frederick Wentworth's frigate, the Laconia; and from the\nLaconia he had, under the influence of his captain, written the only\ntwo letters which his father and mother had ever received from him\nduring the whole of his absence; that is to say, the only two\ndisinterested letters; all the rest had been mere applications for\nmoney.\n\nIn each letter he had spoken well of his captain; but yet, so little\nwere they in the habit of attending to such matters, so unobservant and\nincurious were they as to the names of men or ships, that it had made\nscarcely any impression at the time; and that Mrs Musgrove should have\nbeen suddenly struck, this very day, with a recollection of the name of\nWentworth, as connected with her son, seemed one of those extraordinary\nbursts of mind which do sometimes occur.\n\nShe had gone to her letters, and found it all as she supposed; and the\nre-perusal of these letters, after so long an interval, her poor son\ngone for ever, and all the strength of his faults forgotten, had\naffected her spirits exceedingly, and thrown her into greater grief for\nhim than she had known on first hearing of his death.  Mr Musgrove was,\nin a lesser degree, affected likewise; and when they reached the\ncottage, they were evidently in want, first, of being listened to anew\non this subject, and afterwards, of all the relief which cheerful\ncompanions could give them.\n\nTo hear them talking so much of Captain Wentworth, repeating his name\nso often, puzzling over past years, and at last ascertaining that it\nmight, that it probably would, turn out to be the very same Captain\nWentworth whom they recollected meeting, once or twice, after their\ncoming back from Clifton--a very fine young man--but they could not say\nwhether it was seven or eight years ago, was a new sort of trial to\nAnne's nerves.  She found, however, that it was one to which she must\ninure herself.  Since he actually was expected in the country, she must\nteach herself to be insensible on such points.  And not only did it\nappear that he was expected, and speedily, but the Musgroves, in their\nwarm gratitude for the kindness he had shewn poor Dick, and very high\nrespect for his character, stamped as it was by poor Dick's having been\nsix months under his care, and mentioning him in strong, though not\nperfectly well-spelt praise, as \"a fine dashing felow, only two\nperticular about the schoolmaster,\" were bent on introducing\nthemselves, and seeking his acquaintance, as soon as they could hear of\nhis arrival.\n\nThe resolution of doing so helped to form the comfort of their evening.\n\n\n\nChapter 7\n\n\nA very few days more, and Captain Wentworth was known to be at\nKellynch, and Mr Musgrove had called on him, and come back warm in his\npraise, and he was engaged with the Crofts to dine at Uppercross, by\nthe end of another week.  It had been a great disappointment to Mr\nMusgrove to find that no earlier day could be fixed, so impatient was\nhe to shew his gratitude, by seeing Captain Wentworth under his own\nroof, and welcoming him to all that was strongest and best in his\ncellars.  But a week must pass; only a week, in Anne's reckoning, and\nthen, she supposed, they must meet; and soon she began to wish that she\ncould feel secure even for a week.\n\nCaptain Wentworth made a very early return to Mr Musgrove's civility,\nand she was all but calling there in the same half hour.  She and Mary\nwere actually setting forward for the Great House, where, as she\nafterwards learnt, they must inevitably have found him, when they were\nstopped by the eldest boy's being at that moment brought home in\nconsequence of a bad fall.  The child's situation put the visit\nentirely aside; but she could not hear of her escape with indifference,\neven in the midst of the serious anxiety which they afterwards felt on\nhis account.\n\nHis collar-bone was found to be dislocated, and such injury received in\nthe back, as roused the most alarming ideas.  It was an afternoon of\ndistress, and Anne had every thing to do at once; the apothecary to\nsend for, the father to have pursued and informed, the mother to\nsupport and keep from hysterics, the servants to control, the youngest\nchild to banish, and the poor suffering one to attend and soothe;\nbesides sending, as soon as she recollected it, proper notice to the\nother house, which brought her an accession rather of frightened,\nenquiring companions, than of very useful assistants.\n\nHer brother's return was the first comfort; he could take best care of\nhis wife; and the second blessing was the arrival of the apothecary.\nTill he came and had examined the child, their apprehensions were the\nworse for being vague; they suspected great injury, but knew not where;\nbut now the collar-bone was soon replaced, and though Mr Robinson felt\nand felt, and rubbed, and looked grave, and spoke low words both to the\nfather and the aunt, still they were all to hope the best, and to be\nable to part and eat their dinner in tolerable ease of mind; and then\nit was, just before they parted, that the two young aunts were able so\nfar to digress from their nephew's state, as to give the information of\nCaptain Wentworth's visit; staying five minutes behind their father and\nmother, to endeavour to express how perfectly delighted they were with\nhim, how much handsomer, how infinitely more agreeable they thought him\nthan any individual among their male acquaintance, who had been at all\na favourite before.  How glad they had been to hear papa invite him to\nstay dinner, how sorry when he said it was quite out of his power, and\nhow glad again when he had promised in reply to papa and mamma's\nfarther pressing invitations to come and dine with them on the\nmorrow--actually on the morrow; and he had promised it in so pleasant a\nmanner, as if he felt all the motive of their attention just as he\nought.  And in short, he had looked and said everything with such\nexquisite grace, that they could assure them all, their heads were both\nturned by him; and off they ran, quite as full of glee as of love, and\napparently more full of Captain Wentworth than of little Charles.\n\nThe same story and the same raptures were repeated, when the two girls\ncame with their father, through the gloom of the evening, to make\nenquiries; and Mr Musgrove, no longer under the first uneasiness about\nhis heir, could add his confirmation and praise, and hope there would\nbe now no occasion for putting Captain Wentworth off, and only be sorry\nto think that the cottage party, probably, would not like to leave the\nlittle boy, to give him the meeting.  \"Oh no; as to leaving the little\nboy,\" both father and mother were in much too strong and recent alarm\nto bear the thought; and Anne, in the joy of the escape, could not help\nadding her warm protestations to theirs.\n\nCharles Musgrove, indeed, afterwards, shewed more of inclination; \"the\nchild was going on so well, and he wished so much to be introduced to\nCaptain Wentworth, that, perhaps, he might join them in the evening; he\nwould not dine from home, but he might walk in for half an hour.\" But\nin this he was eagerly opposed by his wife, with \"Oh! no, indeed,\nCharles, I cannot bear to have you go away.  Only think if anything\nshould happen?\"\n\nThe child had a good night, and was going on well the next day.  It\nmust be a work of time to ascertain that no injury had been done to the\nspine; but Mr Robinson found nothing to increase alarm, and Charles\nMusgrove began, consequently, to feel no necessity for longer\nconfinement.  The child was to be kept in bed and amused as quietly as\npossible; but what was there for a father to do?  This was quite a\nfemale case, and it would be highly absurd in him, who could be of no\nuse at home, to shut himself up.  His father very much wished him to\nmeet Captain Wentworth, and there being no sufficient reason against\nit, he ought to go; and it ended in his making a bold, public\ndeclaration, when he came in from shooting, of his meaning to dress\ndirectly, and dine at the other house.\n\n\"Nothing can be going on better than the child,\" said he; \"so I told my\nfather, just now, that I would come, and he thought me quite right.\nYour sister being with you, my love, I have no scruple at all.  You\nwould not like to leave him yourself, but you see I can be of no use.\nAnne will send for me if anything is the matter.\"\n\nHusbands and wives generally understand when opposition will be vain.\nMary knew, from Charles's manner of speaking, that he was quite\ndetermined on going, and that it would be of no use to teaze him.  She\nsaid nothing, therefore, till he was out of the room, but as soon as\nthere was only Anne to hear--\n\n\"So you and I are to be left to shift by ourselves, with this poor sick\nchild; and not a creature coming near us all the evening!  I knew how\nit would be.  This is always my luck.  If there is anything\ndisagreeable going on men are always sure to get out of it, and Charles\nis as bad as any of them.  Very unfeeling!  I must say it is very\nunfeeling of him to be running away from his poor little boy.  Talks of\nhis being going on so well!  How does he know that he is going on well,\nor that there may not be a sudden change half an hour hence?  I did not\nthink Charles would have been so unfeeling.  So here he is to go away\nand enjoy himself, and because I am the poor mother, I am not to be\nallowed to stir; and yet, I am sure, I am more unfit than anybody else\nto be about the child.  My being the mother is the very reason why my\nfeelings should not be tried.  I am not at all equal to it.  You saw\nhow hysterical I was yesterday.\"\n\n\"But that was only the effect of the suddenness of your alarm--of the\nshock.  You will not be hysterical again.  I dare say we shall have\nnothing to distress us.  I perfectly understand Mr Robinson's\ndirections, and have no fears; and indeed, Mary, I cannot wonder at\nyour husband.  Nursing does not belong to a man; it is not his\nprovince.  A sick child is always the mother's property:  her own\nfeelings generally make it so.\"\n\n\"I hope I am as fond of my child as any mother, but I do not know that\nI am of any more use in the sick-room than Charles, for I cannot be\nalways scolding and teazing the poor child when it is ill; and you saw,\nthis morning, that if I told him to keep quiet, he was sure to begin\nkicking about.  I have not nerves for the sort of thing.\"\n\n\"But, could you be comfortable yourself, to be spending the whole\nevening away from the poor boy?\"\n\n\"Yes; you see his papa can, and why should not I?  Jemima is so\ncareful; and she could send us word every hour how he was.  I really\nthink Charles might as well have told his father we would all come.  I\nam not more alarmed about little Charles now than he is.  I was\ndreadfully alarmed yesterday, but the case is very different to-day.\"\n\n\"Well, if you do not think it too late to give notice for yourself,\nsuppose you were to go, as well as your husband.  Leave little Charles\nto my care.  Mr and Mrs Musgrove cannot think it wrong while I remain\nwith him.\"\n\n\"Are you serious?\" cried Mary, her eyes brightening.  \"Dear me!  that's\na very good thought, very good, indeed.  To be sure, I may just as well\ngo as not, for I am of no use at home--am I?  and it only harasses me.\nYou, who have not a mother's feelings, are a great deal the properest\nperson.  You can make little Charles do anything; he always minds you\nat a word.  It will be a great deal better than leaving him only with\nJemima.  Oh! I shall certainly go; I am sure I ought if I can, quite as\nmuch as Charles, for they want me excessively to be acquainted with\nCaptain Wentworth, and I know you do not mind being left alone.  An\nexcellent thought of yours, indeed, Anne.  I will go and tell Charles,\nand get ready directly.  You can send for us, you know, at a moment's\nnotice, if anything is the matter; but I dare say there will be nothing\nto alarm you.  I should not go, you may be sure, if I did not feel\nquite at ease about my dear child.\"\n\nThe next moment she was tapping at her husband's dressing-room door,\nand as Anne followed her up stairs, she was in time for the whole\nconversation, which began with Mary's saying, in a tone of great\nexultation--\n\n\"I mean to go with you, Charles, for I am of no more use at home than\nyou are.  If I were to shut myself up for ever with the child, I should\nnot be able to persuade him to do anything he did not like.  Anne will\nstay; Anne undertakes to stay at home and take care of him.  It is\nAnne's own proposal, and so I shall go with you, which will be a great\ndeal better, for I have not dined at the other house since Tuesday.\"\n\n\"This is very kind of Anne,\" was her husband's answer, \"and I should be\nvery glad to have you go; but it seems rather hard that she should be\nleft at home by herself, to nurse our sick child.\"\n\nAnne was now at hand to take up her own cause, and the sincerity of her\nmanner being soon sufficient to convince him, where conviction was at\nleast very agreeable, he had no farther scruples as to her being left\nto dine alone, though he still wanted her to join them in the evening,\nwhen the child might be at rest for the night, and kindly urged her to\nlet him come and fetch her, but she was quite unpersuadable; and this\nbeing the case, she had ere long the pleasure of seeing them set off\ntogether in high spirits.  They were gone, she hoped, to be happy,\nhowever oddly constructed such happiness might seem; as for herself,\nshe was left with as many sensations of comfort, as were, perhaps, ever\nlikely to be hers.  She knew herself to be of the first utility to the\nchild; and what was it to her if Frederick Wentworth were only half a\nmile distant, making himself agreeable to others?\n\nShe would have liked to know how he felt as to a meeting.  Perhaps\nindifferent, if indifference could exist under such circumstances.  He\nmust be either indifferent or unwilling.  Had he wished ever to see her\nagain, he need not have waited till this time; he would have done what\nshe could not but believe that in his place she should have done long\nago, when events had been early giving him the independence which alone\nhad been wanting.\n\nHer brother and sister came back delighted with their new acquaintance,\nand their visit in general.  There had been music, singing, talking,\nlaughing, all that was most agreeable; charming manners in Captain\nWentworth, no shyness or reserve; they seemed all to know each other\nperfectly, and he was coming the very next morning to shoot with\nCharles.  He was to come to breakfast, but not at the Cottage, though\nthat had been proposed at first; but then he had been pressed to come\nto the Great House instead, and he seemed afraid of being in Mrs\nCharles Musgrove's way, on account of the child, and therefore,\nsomehow, they hardly knew how, it ended in Charles's being to meet him\nto breakfast at his father's.\n\nAnne understood it.  He wished to avoid seeing her.  He had inquired\nafter her, she found, slightly, as might suit a former slight\nacquaintance, seeming to acknowledge such as she had acknowledged,\nactuated, perhaps, by the same view of escaping introduction when they\nwere to meet.\n\nThe morning hours of the Cottage were always later than those of the\nother house, and on the morrow the difference was so great that Mary\nand Anne were not more than beginning breakfast when Charles came in to\nsay that they were just setting off, that he was come for his dogs,\nthat his sisters were following with Captain Wentworth; his sisters\nmeaning to visit Mary and the child, and Captain Wentworth proposing\nalso to wait on her for a few minutes if not inconvenient; and though\nCharles had answered for the child's being in no such state as could\nmake it inconvenient, Captain Wentworth would not be satisfied without\nhis running on to give notice.\n\nMary, very much gratified by this attention, was delighted to receive\nhim, while a thousand feelings rushed on Anne, of which this was the\nmost consoling, that it would soon be over.  And it was soon over.  In\ntwo minutes after Charles's preparation, the others appeared; they were\nin the drawing-room.  Her eye half met Captain Wentworth's, a bow, a\ncurtsey passed; she heard his voice; he talked to Mary, said all that\nwas right, said something to the Miss Musgroves, enough to mark an easy\nfooting; the room seemed full, full of persons and voices, but a few\nminutes ended it.  Charles shewed himself at the window, all was ready,\ntheir visitor had bowed and was gone, the Miss Musgroves were gone too,\nsuddenly resolving to walk to the end of the village with the\nsportsmen:  the room was cleared, and Anne might finish her breakfast\nas she could.\n\n\"It is over! it is over!\" she repeated to herself again and again, in\nnervous gratitude.  \"The worst is over!\"\n\nMary talked, but she could not attend.  She had seen him.  They had\nmet.  They had been once more in the same room.\n\nSoon, however, she began to reason with herself, and try to be feeling\nless.  Eight years, almost eight years had passed, since all had been\ngiven up.  How absurd to be resuming the agitation which such an\ninterval had banished into distance and indistinctness!  What might not\neight years do?  Events of every description, changes, alienations,\nremovals--all, all must be comprised in it, and oblivion of the past--\nhow natural, how certain too!  It included nearly a third part of her\nown life.\n\nAlas! with all her reasoning, she found, that to retentive feelings\neight years may be little more than nothing.\n\nNow, how were his sentiments to be read?  Was this like wishing to\navoid her?  And the next moment she was hating herself for the folly\nwhich asked the question.\n\nOn one other question which perhaps her utmost wisdom might not have\nprevented, she was soon spared all suspense; for, after the Miss\nMusgroves had returned and finished their visit at the Cottage she had\nthis spontaneous information from Mary:--\n\n\"Captain Wentworth is not very gallant by you, Anne, though he was so\nattentive to me.  Henrietta asked him what he thought of you, when they\nwent away, and he said, 'You were so altered he should not have known\nyou again.'\"\n\nMary had no feelings to make her respect her sister's in a common way,\nbut she was perfectly unsuspicious of being inflicting any peculiar\nwound.\n\n\"Altered beyond his knowledge.\"  Anne fully submitted, in silent, deep\nmortification.  Doubtless it was so, and she could take no revenge, for\nhe was not altered, or not for the worse.  She had already acknowledged\nit to herself, and she could not think differently, let him think of\nher as he would.  No:  the years which had destroyed her youth and\nbloom had only given him a more glowing, manly, open look, in no\nrespect lessening his personal advantages.  She had seen the same\nFrederick Wentworth.\n\n\"So altered that he should not have known her again!\"  These were words\nwhich could not but dwell with her.  Yet she soon began to rejoice that\nshe had heard them.  They were of sobering tendency; they allayed\nagitation; they composed, and consequently must make her happier.\n\nFrederick Wentworth had used such words, or something like them, but\nwithout an idea that they would be carried round to her.  He had\nthought her wretchedly altered, and in the first moment of appeal, had\nspoken as he felt.  He had not forgiven Anne Elliot.  She had used him\nill, deserted and disappointed him; and worse, she had shewn a\nfeebleness of character in doing so, which his own decided, confident\ntemper could not endure.  She had given him up to oblige others.  It\nhad been the effect of over-persuasion.  It had been weakness and\ntimidity.\n\nHe had been most warmly attached to her, and had never seen a woman\nsince whom he thought her equal; but, except from some natural\nsensation of curiosity, he had no desire of meeting her again.  Her\npower with him was gone for ever.\n\nIt was now his object to marry.  He was rich, and being turned on\nshore, fully intended to settle as soon as he could be properly\ntempted; actually looking round, ready to fall in love with all the\nspeed which a clear head and a quick taste could allow.  He had a heart\nfor either of the Miss Musgroves, if they could catch it; a heart, in\nshort, for any pleasing young woman who came in his way, excepting Anne\nElliot.  This was his only secret exception, when he said to his\nsister, in answer to her suppositions:--\n\n\"Yes, here I am, Sophia, quite ready to make a foolish match.  Anybody\nbetween fifteen and thirty may have me for asking.  A little beauty,\nand a few smiles, and a few compliments to the navy, and I am a lost\nman.  Should not this be enough for a sailor, who has had no society\namong women to make him nice?\"\n\nHe said it, she knew, to be contradicted.  His bright proud eye spoke\nthe conviction that he was nice; and Anne Elliot was not out of his\nthoughts, when he more seriously described the woman he should wish to\nmeet with.  \"A strong mind, with sweetness of manner,\" made the first\nand the last of the description.\n\n\"That is the woman I want,\" said he.  \"Something a little inferior I\nshall of course put up with, but it must not be much.  If I am a fool,\nI shall be a fool indeed, for I have thought on the subject more than\nmost men.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 8\n\n\nFrom this time Captain Wentworth and Anne Elliot were repeatedly in the\nsame circle.  They were soon dining in company together at Mr\nMusgrove's, for the little boy's state could no longer supply his aunt\nwith a pretence for absenting herself; and this was but the beginning\nof other dinings and other meetings.\n\nWhether former feelings were to be renewed must be brought to the\nproof; former times must undoubtedly be brought to the recollection of\neach; they could not but be reverted to; the year of their engagement\ncould not but be named by him, in the little narratives or descriptions\nwhich conversation called forth.  His profession qualified him, his\ndisposition lead him, to talk; and \"That was in the year six;\" \"That\nhappened before I went to sea in the year six,\" occurred in the course\nof the first evening they spent together: and though his voice did not\nfalter, and though she had no reason to suppose his eye wandering\ntowards her while he spoke, Anne felt the utter impossibility, from her\nknowledge of his mind, that he could be unvisited by remembrance any\nmore than herself.  There must be the same immediate association of\nthought, though she was very far from conceiving it to be of equal pain.\n\nThey had no conversation together, no intercourse but what the\ncommonest civility required.  Once so much to each other!  Now nothing!\nThere had been a time, when of all the large party now filling the\ndrawing-room at Uppercross, they would have found it most difficult to\ncease to speak to one another.  With the exception, perhaps, of Admiral\nand Mrs Croft, who seemed particularly attached and happy, (Anne could\nallow no other exceptions even among the married couples), there could\nhave been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so\nin unison, no countenances so beloved.  Now they were as strangers;\nnay, worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted.  It\nwas a perpetual estrangement.\n\nWhen he talked, she heard the same voice, and discerned the same mind.\nThere was a very general ignorance of all naval matters throughout the\nparty; and he was very much questioned, and especially by the two Miss\nMusgroves, who seemed hardly to have any eyes but for him, as to the\nmanner of living on board, daily regulations, food, hours, &c., and\ntheir surprise at his accounts, at learning the degree of accommodation\nand arrangement which was practicable, drew from him some pleasant\nridicule, which reminded Anne of the early days when she too had been\nignorant, and she too had been accused of supposing sailors to be\nliving on board without anything to eat, or any cook to dress it if\nthere were, or any servant to wait, or any knife and fork to use.\n\nFrom thus listening and thinking, she was roused by a whisper of Mrs\nMusgrove's who, overcome by fond regrets, could not help saying--\n\n\"Ah! Miss Anne, if it had pleased Heaven to spare my poor son, I dare\nsay he would have been just such another by this time.\"\n\nAnne suppressed a smile, and listened kindly, while Mrs Musgrove\nrelieved her heart a little more; and for a few minutes, therefore,\ncould not keep pace with the conversation of the others.\n\nWhen she could let her attention take its natural course again, she\nfound the Miss Musgroves just fetching the Navy List (their own navy\nlist, the first that had ever been at Uppercross), and sitting down\ntogether to pore over it, with the professed view of finding out the\nships that Captain Wentworth had commanded.\n\n\"Your first was the Asp, I remember; we will look for the Asp.\"\n\n\"You will not find her there.  Quite worn out and broken up.  I was the\nlast man who commanded her.  Hardly fit for service then.  Reported fit\nfor home service for a year or two, and so I was sent off to the West\nIndies.\"\n\nThe girls looked all amazement.\n\n\"The Admiralty,\" he continued, \"entertain themselves now and then, with\nsending a few hundred men to sea, in a ship not fit to be employed.\nBut they have a great many to provide for; and among the thousands that\nmay just as well go to the bottom as not, it is impossible for them to\ndistinguish the very set who may be least missed.\"\n\n\"Phoo! phoo!\" cried the Admiral, \"what stuff these young fellows talk!\nNever was a better sloop than the Asp in her day.  For an old built\nsloop, you would not see her equal.  Lucky fellow to get her!  He knows\nthere must have been twenty better men than himself applying for her at\nthe same time.  Lucky fellow to get anything so soon, with no more\ninterest than his.\"\n\n\"I felt my luck, Admiral, I assure you;\" replied Captain Wentworth,\nseriously.  \"I was as well satisfied with my appointment as you can\ndesire.  It was a great object with me at that time to be at sea; a\nvery great object, I wanted to be doing something.\"\n\n\"To be sure you did.  What should a young fellow like you do ashore for\nhalf a year together?  If a man had not a wife, he soon wants to be\nafloat again.\"\n\n\"But, Captain Wentworth,\" cried Louisa, \"how vexed you must have been\nwhen you came to the Asp, to see what an old thing they had given you.\"\n\n\"I knew pretty well what she was before that day;\" said he, smiling.\n\"I had no more discoveries to make than you would have as to the\nfashion and strength of any old pelisse, which you had seen lent about\namong half your acquaintance ever since you could remember, and which\nat last, on some very wet day, is lent to yourself.  Ah! she was a dear\nold Asp to me.  She did all that I wanted.  I knew she would.  I knew\nthat we should either go to the bottom together, or that she would be\nthe making of me; and I never had two days of foul weather all the time\nI was at sea in her; and after taking privateers enough to be very\nentertaining, I had the good luck in my passage home the next autumn,\nto fall in with the very French frigate I wanted.  I brought her into\nPlymouth; and here another instance of luck.  We had not been six hours\nin the Sound, when a gale came on, which lasted four days and nights,\nand which would have done for poor old Asp in half the time; our touch\nwith the Great Nation not having much improved our condition.\nFour-and-twenty hours later, and I should only have been a gallant\nCaptain Wentworth, in a small paragraph at one corner of the\nnewspapers; and being lost in only a sloop, nobody would have thought\nabout me.\" Anne's shudderings were to herself alone; but the Miss\nMusgroves could be as open as they were sincere, in their exclamations\nof pity and horror.\n\n\"And so then, I suppose,\" said Mrs Musgrove, in a low voice, as if\nthinking aloud, \"so then he went away to the Laconia, and there he met\nwith our poor boy. Charles, my dear,\" (beckoning him to her), \"do ask\nCaptain Wentworth where it was he first met with your poor brother.  I\nalways forgot.\"\n\n\"It was at Gibraltar, mother, I know.  Dick had been left ill at\nGibraltar, with a recommendation from his former captain to Captain\nWentworth.\"\n\n\"Oh! but, Charles, tell Captain Wentworth, he need not be afraid of\nmentioning poor Dick before me, for it would be rather a pleasure to\nhear him talked of by such a good friend.\"\n\nCharles, being somewhat more mindful of the probabilities of the case,\nonly nodded in reply, and walked away.\n\nThe girls were now hunting for the Laconia; and Captain Wentworth could\nnot deny himself the pleasure of taking the precious volume into his\nown hands to save them the trouble, and once more read aloud the little\nstatement of her name and rate, and present non-commissioned class,\nobserving over it that she too had been one of the best friends man\never had.\n\n\"Ah! those were pleasant days when I had the Laconia!  How fast I made\nmoney in her.  A friend of mine and I had such a lovely cruise together\noff the Western Islands.  Poor Harville, sister!  You know how much he\nwanted money:  worse than myself.  He had a wife.  Excellent fellow.  I\nshall never forget his happiness.  He felt it all, so much for her\nsake.  I wished for him again the next summer, when I had still the\nsame luck in the Mediterranean.\"\n\n\"And I am sure, Sir,\" said Mrs Musgrove, \"it was a lucky day for us,\nwhen you were put captain into that ship.  We shall never forget what\nyou did.\"\n\nHer feelings made her speak low; and Captain Wentworth, hearing only in\npart, and probably not having Dick Musgrove at all near his thoughts,\nlooked rather in suspense, and as if waiting for more.\n\n\"My brother,\" whispered one of the girls; \"mamma is thinking of poor\nRichard.\"\n\n\"Poor dear fellow!\" continued Mrs Musgrove; \"he was grown so steady,\nand such an excellent correspondent, while he was under your care!  Ah!\nit would have been a happy thing, if he had never left you.  I assure\nyou, Captain Wentworth, we are very sorry he ever left you.\"\n\nThere was a momentary expression in Captain Wentworth's face at this\nspeech, a certain glance of his bright eye, and curl of his handsome\nmouth, which convinced Anne, that instead of sharing in Mrs Musgrove's\nkind wishes, as to her son, he had probably been at some pains to get\nrid of him; but it was too transient an indulgence of self-amusement to\nbe detected by any who understood him less than herself; in another\nmoment he was perfectly collected and serious, and almost instantly\nafterwards coming up to the sofa, on which she and Mrs Musgrove were\nsitting, took a place by the latter, and entered into conversation with\nher, in a low voice, about her son, doing it with so much sympathy and\nnatural grace, as shewed the kindest consideration for all that was\nreal and unabsurd in the parent's feelings.\n\nThey were actually on the same sofa, for Mrs Musgrove had most readily\nmade room for him; they were divided only by Mrs Musgrove.  It was no\ninsignificant barrier, indeed.  Mrs Musgrove was of a comfortable,\nsubstantial size, infinitely more fitted by nature to express good\ncheer and good humour, than tenderness and sentiment; and while the\nagitations of Anne's slender form, and pensive face, may be considered\nas very completely screened, Captain Wentworth should be allowed some\ncredit for the self-command with which he attended to her large fat\nsighings over the destiny of a son, whom alive nobody had cared for.\n\nPersonal size and mental sorrow have certainly no necessary\nproportions.  A large bulky figure has as good a right to be in deep\naffliction, as the most graceful set of limbs in the world.  But, fair\nor not fair, there are unbecoming conjunctions, which reason will\npatronize in vain--which taste cannot tolerate--which ridicule will\nseize.\n\nThe Admiral, after taking two or three refreshing turns about the room\nwith his hands behind him, being called to order by his wife, now came\nup to Captain Wentworth, and without any observation of what he might\nbe interrupting, thinking only of his own thoughts, began with--\n\n\"If you had been a week later at Lisbon, last spring, Frederick, you\nwould have been asked to give a passage to Lady Mary Grierson and her\ndaughters.\"\n\n\"Should I?  I am glad I was not a week later then.\"\n\nThe Admiral abused him for his want of gallantry.  He defended himself;\nthough professing that he would never willingly admit any ladies on\nboard a ship of his, excepting for a ball, or a visit, which a few\nhours might comprehend.\n\n\"But, if I know myself,\" said he, \"this is from no want of gallantry\ntowards them.  It is rather from feeling how impossible it is, with all\none's efforts, and all one's sacrifices, to make the accommodations on\nboard such as women ought to have.  There can be no want of gallantry,\nAdmiral, in rating the claims of women to every personal comfort high,\nand this is what I do.  I hate to hear of women on board, or to see\nthem on board; and no ship under my command shall ever convey a family\nof ladies anywhere, if I can help it.\"\n\nThis brought his sister upon him.\n\n\"Oh! Frederick!  But I cannot believe it of you.--All idle\nrefinement!--Women may be as comfortable on board, as in the best house\nin England.  I believe I have lived as much on board as most women, and\nI know nothing superior to the accommodations of a man-of-war.  I\ndeclare I have not a comfort or an indulgence about me, even at\nKellynch Hall,\" (with a kind bow to Anne), \"beyond what I always had in\nmost of the ships I have lived in; and they have been five altogether.\"\n\n\"Nothing to the purpose,\" replied her brother.  \"You were living with\nyour husband, and were the only woman on board.\"\n\n\"But you, yourself, brought Mrs Harville, her sister, her cousin, and\nthree children, round from Portsmouth to Plymouth.  Where was this\nsuperfine, extraordinary sort of gallantry of yours then?\"\n\n\"All merged in my friendship, Sophia.  I would assist any brother\nofficer's wife that I could, and I would bring anything of Harville's\nfrom the world's end, if he wanted it.  But do not imagine that I did\nnot feel it an evil in itself.\"\n\n\"Depend upon it, they were all perfectly comfortable.\"\n\n\"I might not like them the better for that perhaps.  Such a number of\nwomen and children have no right to be comfortable on board.\"\n\n\"My dear Frederick, you are talking quite idly.  Pray, what would\nbecome of us poor sailors' wives, who often want to be conveyed to one\nport or another, after our husbands, if everybody had your feelings?\"\n\n\"My feelings, you see, did not prevent my taking Mrs Harville and all\nher family to Plymouth.\"\n\n\"But I hate to hear you talking so like a fine gentleman, and as if\nwomen were all fine ladies, instead of rational creatures.  We none of\nus expect to be in smooth water all our days.\"\n\n\"Ah! my dear,\" said the Admiral, \"when he had got a wife, he will sing\na different tune.  When he is married, if we have the good luck to live\nto another war, we shall see him do as you and I, and a great many\nothers, have done.  We shall have him very thankful to anybody that\nwill bring him his wife.\"\n\n\"Ay, that we shall.\"\n\n\"Now I have done,\" cried Captain Wentworth.  \"When once married people\nbegin to attack me with,--'Oh! you will think very differently, when\nyou are married.'  I can only say, 'No, I shall not;' and then they say\nagain, 'Yes, you will,' and there is an end of it.\"\n\nHe got up and moved away.\n\n\"What a great traveller you must have been, ma'am!\" said Mrs Musgrove\nto Mrs Croft.\n\n\"Pretty well, ma'am in the fifteen years of my marriage; though many\nwomen have done more.  I have crossed the Atlantic four times, and have\nbeen once to the East Indies, and back again, and only once; besides\nbeing in different places about home: Cork, and Lisbon, and Gibraltar.\nBut I never went beyond the Streights, and never was in the West\nIndies.  We do not call Bermuda or Bahama, you know, the West Indies.\"\n\nMrs Musgrove had not a word to say in dissent; she could not accuse\nherself of having ever called them anything in the whole course of her\nlife.\n\n\"And I do assure you, ma'am,\" pursued Mrs Croft, \"that nothing can\nexceed the accommodations of a man-of-war; I speak, you know, of the\nhigher rates.  When you come to a frigate, of course, you are more\nconfined; though any reasonable woman may be perfectly happy in one of\nthem; and I can safely say, that the happiest part of my life has been\nspent on board a ship.  While we were together, you know, there was\nnothing to be feared.  Thank God!  I have always been blessed with\nexcellent health, and no climate disagrees with me.  A little\ndisordered always the first twenty-four hours of going to sea, but\nnever knew what sickness was afterwards.  The only time I ever really\nsuffered in body or mind, the only time that I ever fancied myself\nunwell, or had any ideas of danger, was the winter that I passed by\nmyself at Deal, when the Admiral (Captain Croft then) was in the North\nSeas.  I lived in perpetual fright at that time, and had all manner of\nimaginary complaints from not knowing what to do with myself, or when I\nshould hear from him next; but as long as we could be together, nothing\never ailed me, and I never met with the smallest inconvenience.\"\n\n\"Aye, to be sure.  Yes, indeed, oh yes!  I am quite of your opinion,\nMrs Croft,\" was Mrs Musgrove's hearty answer.  \"There is nothing so bad\nas a separation.  I am quite of your opinion.  I know what it is, for\nMr Musgrove always attends the assizes, and I am so glad when they are\nover, and he is safe back again.\"\n\nThe evening ended with dancing.  On its being proposed, Anne offered\nher services, as usual; and though her eyes would sometimes fill with\ntears as she sat at the instrument, she was extremely glad to be\nemployed, and desired nothing in return but to be unobserved.\n\nIt was a merry, joyous party, and no one seemed in higher spirits than\nCaptain Wentworth.  She felt that he had every thing to elevate him\nwhich general attention and deference, and especially the attention of\nall the young women, could do.  The Miss Hayters, the females of the\nfamily of cousins already mentioned, were apparently admitted to the\nhonour of being in love with him; and as for Henrietta and Louisa, they\nboth seemed so entirely occupied by him, that nothing but the continued\nappearance of the most perfect good-will between themselves could have\nmade it credible that they were not decided rivals.  If he were a\nlittle spoilt by such universal, such eager admiration, who could\nwonder?\n\nThese were some of the thoughts which occupied Anne, while her fingers\nwere mechanically at work, proceeding for half an hour together,\nequally without error, and without consciousness.  Once she felt that\nhe was looking at herself,  observing her altered features, perhaps,\ntrying to trace in them the ruins of the face which had once charmed\nhim; and once she knew that he must have spoken of her; she was hardly\naware of it, till she heard the answer; but then she was sure of his\nhaving asked his partner whether Miss Elliot never danced?  The answer\nwas, \"Oh, no; never; she has quite given up dancing.  She had rather\nplay.  She is never tired of playing.\"  Once, too, he spoke to her.\nShe had left the instrument on the dancing being over, and he had sat\ndown to try to make out an air which he wished to give the Miss\nMusgroves an idea of.  Unintentionally she returned to that part of the\nroom; he saw her, and, instantly rising, said, with studied politeness--\n\n\"I beg your pardon, madam, this is your seat;\" and though she\nimmediately drew back with a decided negative, he was not to be induced\nto sit down again.\n\nAnne did not wish for more of such looks and speeches.  His cold\npoliteness, his ceremonious grace, were worse than anything.\n\n\n\nChapter 9\n\n\nCaptain Wentworth was come to Kellynch as to a home, to stay as long as\nhe liked, being as thoroughly the object of the Admiral's fraternal\nkindness as of his wife's.  He had intended, on first arriving, to\nproceed very soon into Shropshire, and visit the brother settled in\nthat country, but the attractions of Uppercross induced him to put this\noff.  There was so much of friendliness, and of flattery, and of\neverything most bewitching in his reception there; the old were so\nhospitable, the young so agreeable, that he could not but resolve to\nremain where he was, and take all the charms and perfections of\nEdward's wife upon credit a little longer.\n\nIt was soon Uppercross with him almost every day.  The Musgroves could\nhardly be more ready to invite than he to come, particularly in the\nmorning, when he had no companion at home, for the Admiral and Mrs\nCroft were generally out of doors together, interesting themselves in\ntheir new possessions, their grass, and their sheep, and dawdling about\nin a way not endurable to a third person, or driving out in a gig,\nlately added to their establishment.\n\nHitherto there had been but one opinion of Captain Wentworth among the\nMusgroves and their dependencies.  It was unvarying, warm admiration\neverywhere; but this intimate footing was not more than established,\nwhen a certain Charles Hayter returned among them, to be a good deal\ndisturbed by it, and to think Captain Wentworth very much in the way.\n\nCharles Hayter was the eldest of all the cousins, and a very amiable,\npleasing young man, between whom and Henrietta there had been a\nconsiderable appearance of attachment previous to Captain Wentworth's\nintroduction.  He was in orders; and having a curacy in the\nneighbourhood, where residence was not required, lived at his father's\nhouse, only two miles from Uppercross.  A short absence from home had\nleft his fair one unguarded by his attentions at this critical period,\nand when he came back he had the pain of finding very altered manners,\nand of seeing Captain Wentworth.\n\nMrs Musgrove and Mrs Hayter were sisters.  They had each had money, but\ntheir marriages had made a material difference in their degree of\nconsequence.  Mr Hayter had some property of his own, but it was\ninsignificant compared with Mr Musgrove's; and while the Musgroves were\nin the first class of society in the country, the young Hayters would,\nfrom their parents' inferior, retired, and unpolished way of living,\nand their own defective education, have been hardly in any class at\nall, but for their connexion with Uppercross, this eldest son of course\nexcepted, who had chosen to be a scholar and a gentleman, and who was\nvery superior in cultivation and manners to all the rest.\n\nThe two families had always been on excellent terms, there being no\npride on one side, and no envy on the other, and only such a\nconsciousness of superiority in the Miss Musgroves, as made them\npleased to improve their cousins.  Charles's attentions to Henrietta\nhad been observed by her father and mother without any disapprobation.\n\"It would not be a great match for her; but if Henrietta liked him,\"--\nand Henrietta did seem to like him.\n\nHenrietta fully thought so herself, before Captain Wentworth came; but\nfrom that time Cousin Charles had been very much forgotten.\n\nWhich of the two sisters was preferred by Captain Wentworth was as yet\nquite doubtful, as far as Anne's observation reached.  Henrietta was\nperhaps the prettiest, Louisa had the higher spirits; and she knew not\nnow, whether the more gentle or the more lively character were most\nlikely to attract him.\n\nMr and Mrs Musgrove, either from seeing little, or from an entire\nconfidence in the discretion of both their daughters, and of all the\nyoung men who came near them, seemed to leave everything to take its\nchance.  There was not the smallest appearance of solicitude or remark\nabout them in the Mansion-house; but it was different at the Cottage:\nthe young couple there were more disposed to speculate and wonder; and\nCaptain Wentworth had not been above four or five times in the Miss\nMusgroves' company, and Charles Hayter had but just reappeared, when\nAnne had to listen to the opinions of her brother and sister, as to\nwhich was the one liked best.  Charles gave it for Louisa, Mary for\nHenrietta, but quite agreeing that to have him marry either could be\nextremely delightful.\n\nCharles \"had never seen a pleasanter man in his life; and from what he\nhad once heard Captain Wentworth himself say, was very sure that he had\nnot made less than twenty thousand pounds by the war.  Here was a\nfortune at once; besides which, there would be the chance of what might\nbe done in any future war; and he was sure Captain Wentworth was as\nlikely a man to distinguish himself as any officer in the navy.  Oh! it\nwould be a capital match for either of his sisters.\"\n\n\"Upon my word it would,\" replied Mary.  \"Dear me!  If he should rise to\nany very great honours!  If he should ever be made a baronet!  'Lady\nWentworth' sounds very well.  That would be a noble thing, indeed, for\nHenrietta!  She would take place of me then, and Henrietta would not\ndislike that.  Sir Frederick and Lady Wentworth!  It would be but a new\ncreation, however, and I never think much of your new creations.\"\n\nIt suited Mary best to think Henrietta the one preferred on the very\naccount of Charles Hayter, whose pretensions she wished to see put an\nend to.  She looked down very decidedly upon the Hayters, and thought\nit would be quite a misfortune to have the existing connection between\nthe families renewed--very sad for herself and her children.\n\n\"You know,\" said she, \"I cannot think him at all a fit match for\nHenrietta; and considering the alliances which the Musgroves have made,\nshe has no right to throw herself away.  I do not think any young woman\nhas a right to make a choice that may be disagreeable and inconvenient\nto the principal part of her family, and be giving bad connections to\nthose who have not been used to them.  And, pray, who is Charles\nHayter?  Nothing but a country curate.  A most improper match for Miss\nMusgrove of Uppercross.\"\n\nHer husband, however, would not agree with her here; for besides having\na regard for his cousin, Charles Hayter was an eldest son, and he saw\nthings as an eldest son himself.\n\n\"Now you are talking nonsense, Mary,\" was therefore his answer.  \"It\nwould not be a great match for Henrietta, but Charles has a very fair\nchance, through the Spicers, of getting something from the Bishop in\nthe course of a year or two; and you will please to remember, that he\nis the eldest son; whenever my uncle dies, he steps into very pretty\nproperty.  The estate at Winthrop is not less than two hundred and\nfifty acres, besides the farm near Taunton, which is some of the best\nland in the country.  I grant you, that any of them but Charles would\nbe a very shocking match for Henrietta, and indeed it could not be; he\nis the only one that could be possible; but he is a very good-natured,\ngood sort of a fellow; and whenever Winthrop comes into his hands, he\nwill make a different sort of place of it, and live in a very different\nsort of way; and with that property, he will never be a contemptible\nman--good, freehold property.  No, no; Henrietta might do worse than\nmarry Charles Hayter; and if she has him, and Louisa can get Captain\nWentworth, I shall be very well satisfied.\"\n\n\"Charles may say what he pleases,\" cried Mary to Anne, as soon as he\nwas out of the room, \"but it would be shocking to have Henrietta marry\nCharles Hayter; a very bad thing for her, and still worse for me; and\ntherefore it is very much to be wished that Captain Wentworth may soon\nput him quite out of her head, and I have very little doubt that he\nhas.  She took hardly any notice of Charles Hayter yesterday.  I wish\nyou had been there to see her behaviour.  And as to Captain Wentworth's\nliking Louisa as well as Henrietta, it is nonsense to say so; for he\ncertainly does like Henrietta a great deal the best.  But Charles is so\npositive!  I wish you had been with us yesterday, for then you might\nhave decided between us; and I am sure you would have thought as I did,\nunless you had been determined to give it against me.\"\n\nA dinner at Mr Musgrove's had been the occasion when all these things\nshould have been seen by Anne; but she had staid at home, under the\nmixed plea of a headache of her own, and some return of indisposition\nin little Charles.  She had thought only of avoiding Captain Wentworth;\nbut an escape from being appealed to as umpire was now added to the\nadvantages of a quiet evening.\n\nAs to Captain Wentworth's views, she deemed it of more consequence that\nhe should know his own mind early enough not to be endangering the\nhappiness of either sister, or impeaching his own honour, than that he\nshould prefer Henrietta to Louisa, or Louisa to Henrietta.  Either of\nthem would, in all probability, make him an affectionate, good-humoured\nwife.  With regard to Charles Hayter, she had delicacy which must be\npained by any lightness of conduct in a well-meaning young woman, and a\nheart to sympathize in any of the sufferings it occasioned; but if\nHenrietta found herself mistaken in the nature of her feelings, the\nalternation could not be understood too soon.\n\nCharles Hayter had met with much to disquiet and mortify him in his\ncousin's behaviour.  She had too old a regard for him to be so wholly\nestranged as might in two meetings extinguish every past hope, and\nleave him nothing to do but to keep away from Uppercross:  but there\nwas such a change as became very alarming, when such a man as Captain\nWentworth was to be regarded as the probable cause.  He had been absent\nonly two Sundays, and when they parted, had left her interested, even\nto the height of his wishes, in his prospect of soon quitting his\npresent curacy, and obtaining that of Uppercross instead.  It had then\nseemed the object nearest her heart, that Dr Shirley, the rector, who\nfor more than forty years had been zealously discharging all the duties\nof his office, but was now growing too infirm for many of them, should\nbe quite fixed on engaging a curate; should make his curacy quite as\ngood as he could afford, and should give Charles Hayter the promise of\nit.  The advantage of his having to come only to Uppercross, instead of\ngoing six miles another way; of his having, in every respect, a better\ncuracy; of his belonging to their dear Dr Shirley, and of dear, good Dr\nShirley's being relieved from the duty which he could no longer get\nthrough without most injurious fatigue, had been a great deal, even to\nLouisa, but had been almost everything to Henrietta.  When he came\nback, alas!  the zeal of the business was gone by.  Louisa could not\nlisten at all to his account of a conversation which he had just held\nwith Dr Shirley: she was at a window, looking out for Captain\nWentworth; and even Henrietta had at best only a divided attention to\ngive, and seemed to have forgotten all the former doubt and solicitude\nof the negotiation.\n\n\"Well, I am very glad indeed:  but I always thought you would have it;\nI always thought you sure.  It did not appear to me that--in short, you\nknow, Dr Shirley must have a curate, and you had secured his promise.\nIs he coming, Louisa?\"\n\nOne morning, very soon after the dinner at the Musgroves, at which Anne\nhad not been present, Captain Wentworth walked into the drawing-room at\nthe Cottage, where were only herself and the little invalid Charles,\nwho was lying on the sofa.\n\nThe surprise of finding himself almost alone with Anne Elliot, deprived\nhis manners of their usual composure:  he started, and could only say,\n\"I thought the Miss Musgroves had been here: Mrs Musgrove told me I\nshould find them here,\" before he walked to the window to recollect\nhimself, and feel how he ought to behave.\n\n\"They are up stairs with my sister:  they will be down in a few\nmoments, I dare say,\" had been Anne's reply, in all the confusion that\nwas natural; and if the child had not called her to come and do\nsomething for him, she would have been out of the room the next moment,\nand released Captain Wentworth as well as herself.\n\nHe continued at the window; and after calmly and politely saying, \"I\nhope the little boy is better,\" was silent.\n\nShe was obliged to kneel down by the sofa, and remain there to satisfy\nher patient; and thus they continued a few minutes, when, to her very\ngreat satisfaction, she heard some other person crossing the little\nvestibule.  She hoped, on turning her head, to see the master of the\nhouse; but it proved to be one much less calculated for making matters\neasy--Charles Hayter, probably not at all better pleased by the sight\nof Captain Wentworth than Captain Wentworth had been by the sight of\nAnne.\n\nShe only attempted to say, \"How do you do?  Will you not sit down?  The\nothers will be here presently.\"\n\nCaptain Wentworth, however, came from his window, apparently not\nill-disposed for conversation; but Charles Hayter soon put an end to\nhis attempts by seating himself near the table, and taking up the\nnewspaper; and Captain Wentworth returned to his window.\n\nAnother minute brought another addition.  The younger boy, a remarkable\nstout, forward child, of two years old, having got the door opened for\nhim by some one without, made his determined appearance among them, and\nwent straight to the sofa to see what was going on, and put in his\nclaim to anything good that might be giving away.\n\nThere being nothing to eat, he could only have some play; and as his\naunt would not let him tease his sick brother, he began to fasten\nhimself upon her, as she knelt, in such a way that, busy as she was\nabout Charles, she could not shake him off.  She spoke to him, ordered,\nentreated, and insisted in vain.  Once she did contrive to push him\naway, but the boy had the greater pleasure in getting upon her back\nagain directly.\n\n\"Walter,\" said she, \"get down this moment.  You are extremely\ntroublesome.  I am very angry with you.\"\n\n\"Walter,\" cried Charles Hayter, \"why do you not do as you are bid?  Do\nnot you hear your aunt speak?  Come to me, Walter, come to cousin\nCharles.\"\n\nBut not a bit did Walter stir.\n\nIn another moment, however, she found herself in the state of being\nreleased from him; some one was taking him from her, though he had bent\ndown her head so much, that his little sturdy hands were unfastened\nfrom around her neck, and he was resolutely borne away, before she knew\nthat Captain Wentworth had done it.\n\nHer sensations on the discovery made her perfectly speechless.  She\ncould not even thank him.  She could only hang over little Charles,\nwith most disordered feelings.  His kindness in stepping forward to her\nrelief, the manner, the silence in which it had passed, the little\nparticulars of the circumstance, with the conviction soon forced on her\nby the noise he was studiously making with the child, that he meant to\navoid hearing her thanks, and rather sought to testify that her\nconversation was the last of his wants, produced such a confusion of\nvarying, but very painful agitation, as she could not recover from,\ntill enabled by the entrance of Mary and the Miss Musgroves to make\nover her little patient to their cares, and leave the room.  She could\nnot stay.  It might have been an opportunity of watching the loves and\njealousies of the four--they were now altogether; but she could stay\nfor none of it.  It was evident that Charles Hayter was not well\ninclined towards Captain Wentworth.  She had a strong impression of his\nhaving said, in a vext tone of voice, after Captain Wentworth's\ninterference, \"You ought to have minded me, Walter; I told you not to\nteaze your aunt;\" and could comprehend his regretting that Captain\nWentworth should do what he ought to have done himself.  But neither\nCharles Hayter's feelings, nor anybody's feelings, could interest her,\ntill she had a little better arranged her own.  She was ashamed of\nherself, quite ashamed of being so nervous, so overcome by such a\ntrifle; but so it was, and it required a long application of solitude\nand reflection to recover her.\n\n\n\nChapter 10\n\n\nOther opportunities of making her observations could not fail to occur.\nAnne had soon been in company with all the four together often enough\nto have an opinion, though too wise to acknowledge as much at home,\nwhere she knew it would have satisfied neither husband nor wife; for\nwhile she considered Louisa to be rather the favourite, she could not\nbut think, as far as she might dare to judge from memory and\nexperience, that Captain Wentworth was not in love with either.  They\nwere more in love with him; yet there it was not love.  It was a little\nfever of admiration; but it might, probably must, end in love with\nsome.  Charles Hayter seemed aware of being slighted, and yet Henrietta\nhad sometimes the air of being divided between them.  Anne longed for\nthe power of representing to them all what they were about, and of\npointing out some of the evils they were exposing themselves to.  She\ndid not attribute guile to any.  It was the highest satisfaction to her\nto believe Captain Wentworth not in the least aware of the pain he was\noccasioning.  There was no triumph, no pitiful triumph in his manner.\nHe had, probably, never heard, and never thought of any claims of\nCharles Hayter.  He was only wrong in accepting the attentions (for\naccepting must be the word) of two young women at once.\n\nAfter a short struggle, however, Charles Hayter seemed to quit the\nfield.  Three days had passed without his coming once to Uppercross; a\nmost decided change.  He had even refused one regular invitation to\ndinner; and having been found on the occasion by Mr Musgrove with some\nlarge books before him, Mr and Mrs Musgrove were sure all could not be\nright, and talked, with grave faces, of his studying himself to death.\nIt was Mary's hope and belief that he had received a positive dismissal\nfrom Henrietta, and her husband lived under the constant dependence of\nseeing him to-morrow.  Anne could only feel that Charles Hayter was\nwise.\n\nOne morning, about this time Charles Musgrove and Captain Wentworth\nbeing gone a-shooting together, as the sisters in the Cottage were\nsitting quietly at work, they were visited at the window by the sisters\nfrom the Mansion-house.\n\nIt was a very fine November day, and the Miss Musgroves came through\nthe little grounds, and stopped for no other purpose than to say, that\nthey were going to take a long walk, and therefore concluded Mary could\nnot like to go with them; and when Mary immediately replied, with some\njealousy at not being supposed a good walker, \"Oh, yes, I should like\nto join you very much, I am very fond of a long walk;\" Anne felt\npersuaded, by the looks of the two girls, that it was precisely what\nthey did not wish, and admired again the sort of necessity which the\nfamily habits seemed to produce, of everything being to be\ncommunicated, and everything being to be done together, however\nundesired and inconvenient.  She tried to dissuade Mary from going, but\nin vain; and that being the case, thought it best to accept the Miss\nMusgroves' much more cordial invitation to herself to go likewise, as\nshe might be useful in turning back with her sister, and lessening the\ninterference in any plan of their own.\n\n\"I cannot imagine why they should suppose I should not like a long\nwalk,\" said Mary, as she went up stairs.  \"Everybody is always\nsupposing that I am not a good walker; and yet they would not have been\npleased, if we had refused to join them.  When people come in this\nmanner on purpose to ask us, how can one say no?\"\n\nJust as they were setting off, the gentlemen returned.  They had taken\nout a young dog, who had spoilt their sport, and sent them back early.\nTheir time and strength, and spirits, were, therefore, exactly ready\nfor this walk, and they entered into it with pleasure.  Could Anne have\nforeseen such a junction, she would have staid at home; but, from some\nfeelings of interest and curiosity, she fancied now that it was too\nlate to retract, and the whole six set forward together in the\ndirection chosen by the Miss Musgroves, who evidently considered the\nwalk as under their guidance.\n\nAnne's object was, not to be in the way of anybody; and where the\nnarrow paths across the fields made many separations necessary, to keep\nwith her brother and sister.  Her pleasure in the walk must arise from\nthe exercise and the day, from the view of the last smiles of the year\nupon the tawny leaves, and withered hedges, and from repeating to\nherself some few of the thousand poetical descriptions extant of\nautumn, that season of peculiar and inexhaustible influence on the mind\nof taste and tenderness, that season which had drawn from every poet,\nworthy of being read, some attempt at description, or some lines of\nfeeling.  She occupied her mind as much as possible in such like\nmusings and quotations; but it was not possible, that when within reach\nof Captain Wentworth's conversation with either of the Miss Musgroves,\nshe should not try to hear it; yet she caught little very remarkable.\nIt was mere lively chat, such as any young persons, on an intimate\nfooting, might fall into.  He was more engaged with Louisa than with\nHenrietta.  Louisa certainly put more forward for his notice than her\nsister.  This distinction appeared to increase, and there was one\nspeech of Louisa's which struck her.  After one of the many praises of\nthe day, which were continually bursting forth, Captain Wentworth\nadded:--\n\n\"What glorious weather for the Admiral and my sister!  They meant to\ntake a long drive this morning; perhaps we may hail them from some of\nthese hills.  They talked of coming into this side of the country.  I\nwonder whereabouts they will upset to-day.  Oh! it does happen very\noften, I assure you; but my sister makes nothing of it; she would as\nlieve be tossed out as not.\"\n\n\"Ah! You make the most of it, I know,\" cried Louisa, \"but if it were\nreally so, I should do just the same in her place.  If I loved a man,\nas she loves the Admiral, I would always be with him, nothing should\never separate us, and I would rather be overturned by him, than driven\nsafely by anybody else.\"\n\nIt was spoken with enthusiasm.\n\n\"Had you?\" cried he, catching the same tone; \"I honour you!\" And there\nwas silence between them for a little while.\n\nAnne could not immediately fall into a quotation again.  The sweet\nscenes of autumn were for a while put by, unless some tender sonnet,\nfraught with the apt analogy of the declining year, with declining\nhappiness, and the images of youth and hope, and spring, all gone\ntogether, blessed her memory.  She roused herself to say, as they\nstruck by order into another path, \"Is not this one of the ways to\nWinthrop?\" But nobody heard, or, at least, nobody answered her.\n\nWinthrop, however, or its environs--for young men are, sometimes to be\nmet with, strolling about near home--was their destination; and after\nanother half mile of gradual ascent through large enclosures, where the\nploughs at work, and the fresh made path spoke the farmer counteracting\nthe sweets of poetical despondence, and meaning to have spring again,\nthey gained the summit of the most considerable hill, which parted\nUppercross and Winthrop, and soon commanded a full view of the latter,\nat the foot of the hill on the other side.\n\nWinthrop, without beauty and without dignity, was stretched before them\nan indifferent house, standing low, and hemmed in by the barns and\nbuildings of a farm-yard.\n\nMary exclaimed, \"Bless me! here is Winthrop.  I declare I had no idea!\nWell now, I think we had better turn back; I am excessively tired.\"\n\nHenrietta, conscious and ashamed, and seeing no cousin Charles walking\nalong any path, or leaning against any gate, was ready to do as Mary\nwished; but \"No!\" said Charles Musgrove, and \"No, no!\" cried Louisa\nmore eagerly, and taking her sister aside, seemed to be arguing the\nmatter warmly.\n\nCharles, in the meanwhile, was very decidedly declaring his resolution\nof calling on his aunt, now that he was so near; and very evidently,\nthough more fearfully, trying to induce his wife to go too.  But this\nwas one of the points on which the lady shewed her strength; and when\nhe recommended the advantage of resting herself a quarter of an hour at\nWinthrop, as she felt so tired, she resolutely answered, \"Oh! no,\nindeed! walking up that hill again would do her more harm than any\nsitting down could do her good;\" and, in short, her look and manner\ndeclared, that go she would not.\n\nAfter a little succession of these sort of debates and consultations,\nit was settled between Charles and his two sisters, that he and\nHenrietta should just run down for a few minutes, to see their aunt and\ncousins, while the rest of the party waited for them at the top of the\nhill.  Louisa seemed the principal arranger of the plan; and, as she\nwent a little way with them, down the hill, still talking to Henrietta,\nMary took the opportunity of looking scornfully around her, and saying\nto Captain Wentworth--\n\n\"It is very unpleasant, having such connexions!  But, I assure you, I\nhave never been in the house above twice in my life.\"\n\nShe received no other answer, than an artificial, assenting smile,\nfollowed by a contemptuous glance, as he turned away, which Anne\nperfectly knew the meaning of.\n\nThe brow of the hill, where they remained, was a cheerful spot: Louisa\nreturned; and Mary, finding a comfortable seat for herself on the step\nof a stile, was very well satisfied so long as the others all stood\nabout her; but when Louisa drew Captain Wentworth away, to try for a\ngleaning of nuts in an adjoining hedge-row, and they were gone by\ndegrees quite out of sight and sound, Mary was happy no longer; she\nquarrelled with her own seat, was sure Louisa had got a much better\nsomewhere, and nothing could prevent her from going to look for a\nbetter also.  She turned through the same gate, but could not see them.\nAnne found a nice seat for her, on a dry sunny bank, under the\nhedge-row, in which she had no doubt of their still being, in some spot\nor other.  Mary sat down for a moment, but it would not do; she was\nsure Louisa had found a better seat somewhere else, and she would go on\ntill she overtook her.\n\nAnne, really tired herself, was glad to sit down; and she very soon\nheard Captain Wentworth and Louisa in the hedge-row, behind her, as if\nmaking their way back along the rough, wild sort of channel, down the\ncentre.  They were speaking as they drew near.  Louisa's voice was the\nfirst distinguished.  She seemed to be in the middle of some eager\nspeech.  What Anne first heard was--\n\n\"And so, I made her go.  I could not bear that she should be frightened\nfrom the visit by such nonsense.  What! would I be turned back from\ndoing a thing that I had determined to do, and that I knew to be right,\nby the airs and interference of such a person, or of any person I may\nsay?  No, I have no idea of being so easily persuaded.  When I have\nmade up my mind, I have made it; and Henrietta seemed entirely to have\nmade up hers to call at Winthrop to-day; and yet, she was as near\ngiving it up, out of nonsensical complaisance!\"\n\n\"She would have turned back then, but for you?\"\n\n\"She would indeed.  I am almost ashamed to say it.\"\n\n\"Happy for her, to have such a mind as yours at hand!  After the hints\nyou gave just now, which did but confirm my own observations, the last\ntime I was in company with him,  I need not affect to have no\ncomprehension of what is going on.  I see that more than a mere dutiful\nmorning visit to your aunt was in question; and woe betide him, and her\ntoo, when it comes to things of consequence, when they are placed in\ncircumstances requiring fortitude and strength of mind, if she have not\nresolution enough to resist idle interference in such a trifle as this.\nYour sister is an amiable creature; but yours is the character of\ndecision and firmness, I see.  If you value her conduct or happiness,\ninfuse as much of your own spirit into her as you can.  But this, no\ndoubt, you have been always doing.  It is the worst evil of too\nyielding and indecisive a character, that no influence over it can be\ndepended on.  You are never sure of a good impression being durable;\neverybody may sway it.  Let those who would be happy be firm.  Here is\na nut,\" said he, catching one down from an upper bough, \"to exemplify:\na beautiful glossy nut, which, blessed with original strength, has\noutlived all the storms of autumn.  Not a puncture, not a weak spot\nanywhere.  This nut,\" he continued, with playful solemnity, \"while so\nmany of his brethren have fallen and been trodden under foot, is still\nin possession of all the happiness that a hazel nut can be supposed\ncapable of.\"  Then returning to his former earnest tone--\"My first\nwish for all whom I am interested in, is that they should be firm.  If\nLouisa Musgrove would be beautiful and happy in her November of life,\nshe will cherish all her present powers of mind.\"\n\nHe had done, and was unanswered.  It would have surprised Anne if\nLouisa could have readily answered such a speech:  words of such\ninterest, spoken with such serious warmth!  She could imagine what\nLouisa was feeling.  For herself, she feared to move, lest she should\nbe seen.  While she remained, a bush of low rambling holly protected\nher, and they were moving on.  Before they were beyond her hearing,\nhowever, Louisa spoke again.\n\n\"Mary is good-natured enough in many respects,\" said she; \"but she does\nsometimes provoke me excessively, by her nonsense and pride--the Elliot\npride.  She has a great deal too much of the Elliot pride.  We do so\nwish that Charles had married Anne instead.  I suppose you know he\nwanted to marry Anne?\"\n\nAfter a moment's pause, Captain Wentworth said--\n\n\"Do you mean that she refused him?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes; certainly.\"\n\n\"When did that happen?\"\n\n\"I do not exactly know, for Henrietta and I were at school at the time;\nbut I believe about a year before he married Mary.  I wish she had\naccepted him.  We should all have liked her a great deal better; and\npapa and mamma always think it was her great friend Lady Russell's\ndoing, that she did not.  They think Charles might not be learned and\nbookish enough to please Lady Russell, and that therefore, she\npersuaded Anne to refuse him.\"\n\nThe sounds were retreating, and Anne distinguished no more.  Her own\nemotions still kept her fixed.  She had much to recover from, before\nshe could move.  The listener's proverbial fate was not absolutely\nhers; she had heard no evil of herself, but she had heard a great deal\nof very painful import.  She saw how her own character was considered\nby Captain Wentworth, and there had been just that degree of feeling\nand curiosity about her in his manner which must give her extreme\nagitation.\n\nAs soon as she could, she went after Mary, and having found, and walked\nback with her to their former station, by the stile, felt some comfort\nin their whole party being immediately afterwards collected, and once\nmore in motion together.  Her spirits wanted the solitude and silence\nwhich only numbers could give.\n\nCharles and Henrietta returned, bringing, as may be conjectured,\nCharles Hayter with them.  The minutiae of the business Anne could not\nattempt to understand; even Captain Wentworth did not seem admitted to\nperfect confidence here; but that there had been a withdrawing on the\ngentleman's side, and a relenting on the lady's, and that they were now\nvery glad to be together again, did not admit a doubt.  Henrietta\nlooked a little ashamed, but very well pleased;--Charles Hayter\nexceedingly happy:  and they were devoted to each other almost from the\nfirst instant of their all setting forward for Uppercross.\n\nEverything now marked out Louisa for Captain Wentworth; nothing could\nbe plainer; and where many divisions were necessary, or even where they\nwere not, they walked side by side nearly as much as the other two.  In\na long strip of meadow land, where there was ample space for all, they\nwere thus divided, forming three distinct parties; and to that party of\nthe three which boasted least animation, and least complaisance, Anne\nnecessarily belonged.  She joined Charles and Mary, and was tired\nenough to be very glad of Charles's other arm; but Charles, though in\nvery good humour with her, was out of temper with his wife.  Mary had\nshewn herself disobliging to him, and was now to reap the consequence,\nwhich consequence was his dropping her arm almost every moment to cut\noff the heads of some nettles in the hedge with his switch; and when\nMary began to complain of it, and lament her being ill-used, according\nto custom, in being on the hedge side, while Anne was never incommoded\non the other, he dropped the arms of both to hunt after a weasel which\nhe had a momentary glance of, and they could hardly get him along at\nall.\n\nThis long meadow bordered a lane, which their footpath, at the end of\nit was to cross, and when the party had all reached the gate of exit,\nthe carriage advancing in the same direction, which had been some time\nheard, was just coming up, and proved to be Admiral Croft's gig.  He\nand his wife had taken their intended drive, and were returning home.\nUpon hearing how long a walk the young people had engaged in, they\nkindly offered a seat to any lady who might be particularly tired; it\nwould save her a full mile, and they were going through Uppercross.\nThe invitation was general, and generally declined.  The Miss Musgroves\nwere not at all tired, and Mary was either offended, by not being asked\nbefore any of the others, or what Louisa called the Elliot pride could\nnot endure to make a third in a one horse chaise.\n\nThe walking party had crossed the lane, and were surmounting an\nopposite stile, and the Admiral was putting his horse in motion again,\nwhen Captain Wentworth cleared the hedge in a moment to say something\nto his sister.  The something might be guessed by its effects.\n\n\"Miss Elliot, I am sure you are tired,\" cried Mrs Croft.  \"Do let us\nhave the pleasure of taking you home.  Here is excellent room for\nthree, I assure you.  If we were all like you, I believe we might sit\nfour.  You must, indeed, you must.\"\n\nAnne was still in the lane; and though instinctively beginning to\ndecline, she was not allowed to proceed.  The Admiral's kind urgency\ncame in support of his wife's; they would not be refused; they\ncompressed themselves into the smallest possible space to leave her a\ncorner, and Captain Wentworth, without saying a word, turned to her,\nand quietly obliged her to be assisted into the carriage.\n\nYes; he had done it.  She was in the carriage, and felt that he had\nplaced her there, that his will and his hands had done it, that she\nowed it to his perception of her fatigue, and his resolution to give\nher rest.  She was very much affected by the view of his disposition\ntowards her, which all these things made apparent.  This little\ncircumstance seemed the completion of all that had gone before.  She\nunderstood him.  He could not forgive her, but he could not be\nunfeeling.  Though condemning her for the past, and considering it with\nhigh and unjust resentment, though perfectly careless of her, and\nthough becoming attached to another, still he could not see her suffer,\nwithout the desire of giving her relief.  It was a remainder of former\nsentiment; it was an impulse of pure, though unacknowledged friendship;\nit was a proof of his own warm and amiable heart, which she could not\ncontemplate without emotions so compounded of pleasure and pain, that\nshe knew not which prevailed.\n\nHer answers to the kindness and the remarks of her companions were at\nfirst unconsciously given.  They had travelled half their way along the\nrough lane, before she was quite awake to what they said.  She then\nfound them talking of \"Frederick.\"\n\n\"He certainly means to have one or other of those two girls, Sophy,\"\nsaid the Admiral; \"but there is no saying which.  He has been running\nafter them, too, long enough, one would think, to make up his mind.\nAy, this comes of the peace.  If it were war now, he would have settled\nit long ago.  We sailors, Miss Elliot, cannot afford to make long\ncourtships in time of war.  How many days was it, my dear, between the\nfirst time of my seeing you and our sitting down together in our\nlodgings at North Yarmouth?\"\n\n\"We had better not talk about it, my dear,\" replied Mrs Croft,\npleasantly; \"for if Miss Elliot were to hear how soon we came to an\nunderstanding, she would never be persuaded that we could be happy\ntogether.  I had known you by character, however, long before.\"\n\n\"Well, and I had heard of you as a very pretty girl, and what were we\nto wait for besides?  I do not like having such things so long in hand.\nI wish Frederick would spread a little more canvass, and bring us home\none of these young ladies to Kellynch.  Then there would always be\ncompany for them.  And very nice young ladies they both are; I hardly\nknow one from the other.\"\n\n\"Very good humoured, unaffected girls, indeed,\" said Mrs Croft, in a\ntone of calmer praise, such as made Anne suspect that her keener powers\nmight not consider either of them as quite worthy of her brother; \"and\na very respectable family.  One could not be connected with better\npeople.  My dear Admiral, that post!  we shall certainly take that\npost.\"\n\nBut by coolly giving the reins a better direction herself they happily\npassed the danger; and by once afterwards judiciously putting out her\nhand they neither fell into a rut, nor ran foul of a dung-cart; and\nAnne, with some amusement at their style of driving, which she imagined\nno bad representation of the general guidance of their affairs, found\nherself safely deposited by them at the Cottage.\n\n\n\nChapter 11\n\n\nThe time now approached for Lady Russell's return:  the day was even\nfixed; and Anne, being engaged to join her as soon as she was\nresettled, was looking forward to an early removal to Kellynch, and\nbeginning to think how her own comfort was likely to be affected by it.\n\nIt would place her in the same village with Captain Wentworth, within\nhalf a mile of him; they would have to frequent the same church, and\nthere must be intercourse between the two families.  This was against\nher; but on the other hand, he spent so much of his time at Uppercross,\nthat in removing thence she might be considered rather as leaving him\nbehind, than as going towards him; and, upon the whole, she believed\nshe must, on this interesting question, be the gainer, almost as\ncertainly as in her change of domestic society, in leaving poor Mary\nfor Lady Russell.\n\nShe wished it might be possible for her to avoid ever seeing Captain\nWentworth at the Hall:  those rooms had witnessed former meetings which\nwould be brought too painfully before her; but she was yet more anxious\nfor the possibility of Lady Russell and Captain Wentworth never meeting\nanywhere.  They did not like each other, and no renewal of acquaintance\nnow could do any good; and were Lady Russell to see them together, she\nmight think that he had too much self-possession, and she too little.\n\nThese points formed her chief solicitude in anticipating her removal\nfrom Uppercross, where she felt she had been stationed quite long\nenough.  Her usefulness to little Charles would always give some\nsweetness to the memory of her two months' visit there, but he was\ngaining strength apace, and she had nothing else to stay for.\n\nThe conclusion of her visit, however, was diversified in a way which\nshe had not at all imagined.  Captain Wentworth, after being unseen and\nunheard of at Uppercross for two whole days, appeared again among them\nto justify himself by a relation of what had kept him away.\n\nA letter from his friend, Captain Harville, having found him out at\nlast, had brought intelligence of Captain Harville's being settled with\nhis family at Lyme for the winter; of their being therefore, quite\nunknowingly, within twenty miles of each other.  Captain Harville had\nnever been in good health since a severe wound which he received two\nyears before, and Captain Wentworth's anxiety to see him had determined\nhim to go immediately to Lyme.  He had been there for four-and-twenty\nhours.  His acquittal was complete, his friendship warmly honoured, a\nlively interest excited for his friend, and his description of the fine\ncountry about Lyme so feelingly attended to by the party, that an\nearnest desire to see Lyme themselves, and a project for going thither\nwas the consequence.\n\nThe young people were all wild to see Lyme.  Captain Wentworth talked\nof going there again himself, it was only seventeen miles from\nUppercross; though November, the weather was by no means bad; and, in\nshort, Louisa, who was the most eager of the eager, having formed the\nresolution to go, and besides the pleasure of doing as she liked, being\nnow armed with the idea of merit in maintaining her own way, bore down\nall the wishes of her father and mother for putting it off till summer;\nand to Lyme they were to go--Charles, Mary, Anne, Henrietta, Louisa,\nand Captain Wentworth.\n\nThe first heedless scheme had been to go in the morning and return at\nnight; but to this Mr Musgrove, for the sake of his horses, would not\nconsent; and when it came to be rationally considered, a day in the\nmiddle of November would not leave much time for seeing a new place,\nafter deducting seven hours, as the nature of the country required, for\ngoing and returning.  They were, consequently, to stay the night there,\nand not to be expected back till the next day's dinner.  This was felt\nto be a considerable amendment; and though they all met at the Great\nHouse at rather an early breakfast hour, and set off very punctually,\nit was so much past noon before the two carriages, Mr Musgrove's coach\ncontaining the four ladies, and Charles's curricle, in which he drove\nCaptain Wentworth, were descending the long hill into Lyme, and\nentering upon the still steeper street of the town itself, that it was\nvery evident they would not have more than time for looking about them,\nbefore the light and warmth of the day were gone.\n\nAfter securing accommodations, and ordering a dinner at one of the\ninns, the next thing to be done was unquestionably to walk directly\ndown to the sea.  They were come too late in the year for any amusement\nor variety which Lyme, as a public place, might offer.  The rooms were\nshut up, the lodgers almost all gone, scarcely any family but of the\nresidents left; and, as there is nothing to admire in the buildings\nthemselves, the remarkable situation of the town, the principal street\nalmost hurrying into the water, the walk to the Cobb, skirting round\nthe pleasant little bay, which, in the season, is animated with bathing\nmachines and company; the Cobb itself, its old wonders and new\nimprovements, with the very beautiful line of cliffs stretching out to\nthe east of the town, are what the stranger's eye will seek; and a very\nstrange stranger it must be, who does not see charms in the immediate\nenvirons of Lyme, to make him wish to know it better.  The scenes in\nits neighbourhood, Charmouth, with its high grounds and extensive\nsweeps of country, and still more, its sweet, retired bay, backed by\ndark cliffs, where fragments of low rock among the sands, make it the\nhappiest spot for watching the flow of the tide, for sitting in\nunwearied contemplation; the woody varieties of the cheerful village of\nUp Lyme; and, above all, Pinny, with its green chasms between romantic\nrocks, where the scattered forest trees and orchards of luxuriant\ngrowth, declare that many a generation must have passed away since the\nfirst partial falling of the cliff prepared the ground for such a\nstate, where a scene so wonderful and so lovely is exhibited, as may\nmore than equal any of the resembling scenes of the far-famed Isle of\nWight:  these places must be visited, and visited again, to make the\nworth of Lyme understood.\n\nThe party from Uppercross passing down by the now deserted and\nmelancholy looking rooms, and still descending, soon found themselves\non the sea-shore; and lingering only, as all must linger and gaze on a\nfirst return to the sea, who ever deserved to look on it at all,\nproceeded towards the Cobb, equally their object in itself and on\nCaptain Wentworth's account:  for in a small house, near the foot of an\nold pier of unknown date, were the Harvilles settled.  Captain\nWentworth turned in to call on his friend; the others walked on, and he\nwas to join them on the Cobb.\n\nThey were by no means tired of wondering and admiring; and not even\nLouisa seemed to feel that they had parted with Captain Wentworth long,\nwhen they saw him coming after them, with three companions, all well\nknown already, by description, to be Captain and Mrs Harville, and a\nCaptain Benwick, who was staying with them.\n\nCaptain Benwick had some time ago been first lieutenant of the Laconia;\nand the account which Captain Wentworth had given of him, on his return\nfrom Lyme before, his warm praise of him as an excellent young man and\nan officer, whom he had always valued highly, which must have stamped\nhim well in the esteem of every listener, had been followed by a little\nhistory of his private life, which rendered him perfectly interesting\nin the eyes of all the ladies.  He had been engaged to Captain\nHarville's sister, and was now mourning her loss.  They had been a year\nor two waiting for fortune and promotion.  Fortune came, his\nprize-money as lieutenant being great; promotion, too, came at last;\nbut Fanny Harville did not live to know it.  She had died the preceding\nsummer while he was at sea.  Captain Wentworth believed it impossible\nfor man to be more attached to woman than poor Benwick had been to\nFanny Harville, or to be more deeply afflicted under the dreadful\nchange.  He considered his disposition as of the sort which must suffer\nheavily, uniting very strong feelings with quiet, serious, and retiring\nmanners, and a decided taste for reading, and sedentary pursuits.  To\nfinish the interest of the story, the friendship between him and the\nHarvilles seemed, if possible, augmented by the event which closed all\ntheir views of alliance, and Captain Benwick was now living with them\nentirely.  Captain Harville had taken his present house for half a\nyear; his taste, and his health, and his fortune, all directing him to\na residence inexpensive, and by the sea; and the grandeur of the\ncountry, and the retirement of Lyme in the winter, appeared exactly\nadapted to Captain Benwick's state of mind.  The sympathy and good-will\nexcited towards Captain Benwick was very great.\n\n\"And yet,\" said Anne to herself, as they now moved forward to meet the\nparty, \"he has not, perhaps, a more sorrowing heart than I have.  I\ncannot believe his prospects so blighted for ever.  He is younger than\nI am; younger in feeling, if not in fact; younger as a man.  He will\nrally again, and be happy with another.\"\n\nThey all met, and were introduced.  Captain Harville was a tall, dark\nman, with a sensible, benevolent countenance; a little lame; and from\nstrong features and want of health, looking much older than Captain\nWentworth.  Captain Benwick looked, and was, the youngest of the three,\nand, compared with either of them, a little man.  He had a pleasing\nface and a melancholy air, just as he ought to have, and drew back from\nconversation.\n\nCaptain Harville, though not equalling Captain Wentworth in manners,\nwas a perfect gentleman, unaffected, warm, and obliging.  Mrs Harville,\na degree less polished than her husband, seemed, however, to have the\nsame good feelings; and nothing could be more pleasant than their\ndesire of considering the whole party as friends of their own, because\nthe friends of Captain Wentworth, or more kindly hospitable than their\nentreaties for their all promising to dine with them.  The dinner,\nalready ordered at the inn, was at last, though unwillingly, accepted\nas a excuse; but they seemed almost hurt that Captain Wentworth should\nhave brought any such party to Lyme, without considering it as a thing\nof course that they should dine with them.\n\nThere was so much attachment to Captain Wentworth in all this, and such\na bewitching charm in a degree of hospitality so uncommon, so unlike\nthe usual style of give-and-take invitations, and dinners of formality\nand display, that Anne felt her spirits not likely to be benefited by\nan increasing acquaintance among his brother-officers.  \"These would\nhave been all my friends,\" was her thought; and she had to struggle\nagainst a great tendency to lowness.\n\nOn quitting the Cobb, they all went in-doors with their new friends,\nand found rooms so small as none but those who invite from the heart\ncould think capable of accommodating so many.  Anne had a moment's\nastonishment on the subject herself; but it was soon lost in the\npleasanter feelings which sprang from the sight of all the ingenious\ncontrivances and nice arrangements of Captain Harville, to turn the\nactual space to the best account, to supply the deficiencies of\nlodging-house furniture, and defend the windows and doors against the\nwinter storms to be expected.  The varieties in the fitting-up of the\nrooms, where the common necessaries provided by the owner, in the\ncommon indifferent plight, were contrasted with some few articles of a\nrare species of wood, excellently worked up, and with something curious\nand valuable from all the distant countries Captain Harville had\nvisited, were more than amusing to Anne; connected as it all was with\nhis profession, the fruit of its labours, the effect of its influence\non his habits, the picture of repose and domestic happiness it\npresented, made it to her a something more, or less, than gratification.\n\nCaptain Harville was no reader; but he had contrived excellent\naccommodations, and fashioned very pretty shelves, for a tolerable\ncollection of well-bound volumes, the property of Captain Benwick.  His\nlameness prevented him from taking much exercise; but a mind of\nusefulness and ingenuity seemed to furnish him with constant employment\nwithin.  He drew, he varnished, he carpentered, he glued; he made toys\nfor the children; he fashioned new netting-needles and pins with\nimprovements; and if everything else was done, sat down to his large\nfishing-net at one corner of the room.\n\nAnne thought she left great happiness behind her when they quitted the\nhouse; and Louisa, by whom she found herself walking, burst forth into\nraptures of admiration and delight on the character of the navy; their\nfriendliness, their brotherliness, their openness, their uprightness;\nprotesting that she was convinced of sailors having more worth and\nwarmth than any other set of men in England; that they only knew how to\nlive, and they only deserved to be respected and loved.\n\nThey went back to dress and dine; and so well had the scheme answered\nalready, that nothing was found amiss; though its being \"so entirely\nout of season,\" and the \"no thoroughfare of Lyme,\" and the \"no\nexpectation of company,\" had brought many apologies from the heads of\nthe inn.\n\nAnne found herself by this time growing so much more hardened to being\nin Captain Wentworth's company than she had at first imagined could\never be, that the sitting down to the same table with him now, and the\ninterchange of the common civilities attending on it (they never got\nbeyond), was become a mere nothing.\n\nThe nights were too dark for the ladies to meet again till the morrow,\nbut Captain Harville had promised them a visit in the evening; and he\ncame, bringing his friend also, which was more than had been expected,\nit having been agreed that Captain Benwick had all the appearance of\nbeing oppressed by the presence of so many strangers.  He ventured\namong them again, however, though his spirits certainly did not seem\nfit for the mirth of the party in general.\n\nWhile Captains Wentworth and Harville led the talk on one side of the\nroom, and by recurring to former days, supplied anecdotes in abundance\nto occupy and entertain the others, it fell to Anne's lot to be placed\nrather apart with Captain Benwick; and a very good impulse of her\nnature obliged her to begin an acquaintance with him.  He was shy, and\ndisposed to abstraction; but the engaging mildness of her countenance,\nand gentleness of her manners, soon had their effect; and Anne was well\nrepaid the first trouble of exertion.  He was evidently a young man of\nconsiderable taste in reading, though principally in poetry; and\nbesides the persuasion of having given him at least an evening's\nindulgence in the discussion of subjects, which his usual companions\nhad probably no concern in, she had the hope of being of real use to\nhim in some suggestions as to the duty and benefit of struggling\nagainst affliction, which had naturally grown out of their\nconversation.  For, though shy, he did not seem reserved; it had rather\nthe appearance of feelings glad to burst their usual restraints; and\nhaving talked of poetry, the richness of the present age, and gone\nthrough a brief comparison of opinion as to the first-rate poets,\ntrying to ascertain whether Marmion or The Lady of the Lake were to be\npreferred, and how ranked the Giaour and The Bride of Abydos; and\nmoreover, how the Giaour was to be pronounced, he showed himself so\nintimately acquainted with all the tenderest songs of the one poet, and\nall the impassioned descriptions of hopeless agony of the other; he\nrepeated, with such tremulous feeling, the various lines which imaged a\nbroken heart, or a mind destroyed by wretchedness, and looked so\nentirely as if he meant to be understood, that she ventured to hope he\ndid not always read only poetry, and to say, that she thought it was\nthe misfortune of poetry to be seldom safely enjoyed by those who\nenjoyed it completely; and that the strong feelings which alone could\nestimate it truly were the very feelings which ought to taste it but\nsparingly.\n\nHis looks shewing him not pained, but pleased with this allusion to his\nsituation, she was emboldened to go on; and feeling in herself the\nright of seniority of mind, she ventured to recommend a larger\nallowance of prose in his daily study; and on being requested to\nparticularize, mentioned such works of our best moralists, such\ncollections of the finest letters, such memoirs of characters of worth\nand suffering, as occurred to her at the moment as calculated to rouse\nand fortify the mind by the highest precepts, and the strongest\nexamples of moral and religious endurances.\n\nCaptain Benwick listened attentively, and seemed grateful for the\ninterest implied; and though with a shake of the head, and sighs which\ndeclared his little faith in the efficacy of any books on grief like\nhis, noted down the names of those she recommended, and promised to\nprocure and read them.\n\nWhen the evening was over, Anne could not but be amused at the idea of\nher coming to Lyme to preach patience and resignation to a young man\nwhom she had never seen before; nor could she help fearing, on more\nserious reflection, that, like many other great moralists and\npreachers, she had been eloquent on a point in which her own conduct\nwould ill bear examination.\n\n\n\nChapter 12\n\n\nAnne and Henrietta, finding themselves the earliest of the party the\nnext morning, agreed to stroll down to the sea before breakfast.  They\nwent to the sands, to watch the flowing of the tide, which a fine\nsouth-easterly breeze was bringing in with all the grandeur which so\nflat a shore admitted.  They praised the morning; gloried in the sea;\nsympathized in the delight of the fresh-feeling breeze--and were\nsilent; till Henrietta suddenly began again with--\n\n\"Oh! yes,--I am quite convinced that, with very few exceptions, the\nsea-air always does good.  There can be no doubt of its having been of\nthe greatest service to Dr Shirley, after his illness, last spring\ntwelve-month.  He declares himself, that coming to Lyme for a month,\ndid him more good than all the medicine he took; and, that being by the\nsea, always makes him feel young again.  Now, I cannot help thinking it\na pity that he does not live entirely by the sea.  I do think he had\nbetter leave Uppercross entirely, and fix at Lyme.  Do not you, Anne?\nDo not you agree with me, that it is the best thing he could do, both\nfor himself and Mrs Shirley?  She has cousins here, you know, and many\nacquaintance, which would make it cheerful for her, and I am sure she\nwould be glad to get to a place where she could have medical attendance\nat hand, in case of his having another seizure.  Indeed I think it\nquite melancholy to have such excellent people as Dr and Mrs Shirley,\nwho have been doing good all their lives, wearing out their last days\nin a place like Uppercross, where, excepting our family, they seem shut\nout from all the world.  I wish his friends would propose it to him.  I\nreally think they ought.  And, as to procuring a dispensation, there\ncould be no difficulty at his time of life, and with his character.  My\nonly doubt is, whether anything could persuade him to leave his parish.\nHe is so very strict and scrupulous in his notions; over-scrupulous I\nmust say.  Do not you think, Anne, it is being over-scrupulous?  Do not\nyou think it is quite a mistaken point of conscience, when a clergyman\nsacrifices his health for the sake of duties, which may be just as well\nperformed by another person?  And at Lyme too, only seventeen miles\noff, he would be near enough to hear, if people thought there was\nanything to complain of.\"\n\nAnne smiled more than once to herself during this speech, and entered\ninto the subject, as ready to do good by entering into the feelings of\na young lady as of a young man, though here it was good of a lower\nstandard, for what could be offered but general acquiescence?  She said\nall that was reasonable and proper on the business; felt the claims of\nDr Shirley to repose as she ought; saw how very desirable it was that\nhe should have some active, respectable young man, as a resident\ncurate, and was even courteous enough to hint at the advantage of such\nresident curate's being married.\n\n\"I wish,\" said Henrietta, very well pleased with her companion, \"I wish\nLady Russell lived at Uppercross, and were intimate with Dr Shirley.  I\nhave always heard of Lady Russell as a woman of the greatest influence\nwith everybody!  I always look upon her as able to persuade a person to\nanything!  I am afraid of her, as I have told you before, quite afraid\nof her, because she is so very clever; but I respect her amazingly, and\nwish we had such a neighbour at Uppercross.\"\n\nAnne was amused by Henrietta's manner of being grateful, and amused\nalso that the course of events and the new interests of Henrietta's\nviews should have placed her friend at all in favour with any of the\nMusgrove family; she had only time, however, for a general answer, and\na wish that such another woman were at Uppercross, before all subjects\nsuddenly ceased, on seeing Louisa and Captain Wentworth coming towards\nthem.  They came also for a stroll till breakfast was likely to be\nready; but Louisa recollecting, immediately afterwards that she had\nsomething to procure at a shop, invited them all to go back with her\ninto the town.  They were all at her disposal.\n\nWhen they came to the steps, leading upwards from the beach, a\ngentleman, at the same moment preparing to come down, politely drew\nback, and stopped to give them way.  They ascended and passed him; and\nas they passed, Anne's face caught his eye, and he looked at her with a\ndegree of earnest admiration, which she could not be insensible of.\nShe was looking remarkably well; her very regular, very pretty\nfeatures, having the bloom and freshness of youth restored by the fine\nwind which had been blowing on her complexion, and by the animation of\neye which it had also produced.  It was evident that the gentleman,\n(completely a gentleman in manner) admired her exceedingly.  Captain\nWentworth looked round at her instantly in a way which shewed his\nnoticing of it.  He gave her a momentary glance, a glance of\nbrightness, which seemed to say, \"That man is struck with you, and even\nI, at this moment, see something like Anne Elliot again.\"\n\nAfter attending Louisa through her business, and loitering about a\nlittle longer, they returned to the inn; and Anne, in passing\nafterwards quickly from her own chamber to their dining-room, had\nnearly run against the very same gentleman, as he came out of an\nadjoining apartment.  She had before conjectured him to be a stranger\nlike themselves, and determined that a well-looking groom, who was\nstrolling about near the two inns as they came back, should be his\nservant.  Both master and man being in mourning assisted the idea.  It\nwas now proved that he belonged to the same inn as themselves; and this\nsecond meeting, short as it was, also proved again by the gentleman's\nlooks, that he thought hers very lovely, and by the readiness and\npropriety of his apologies, that he was a man of exceedingly good\nmanners.  He seemed about thirty, and though not handsome, had an\nagreeable person.  Anne felt that she should like to know who he was.\n\nThey had nearly done breakfast, when the sound of a carriage, (almost\nthe first they had heard since entering Lyme) drew half the party to\nthe window.  It was a gentleman's carriage, a curricle, but only coming\nround from the stable-yard to the front door; somebody must be going\naway.  It was driven by a servant in mourning.\n\nThe word curricle made Charles Musgrove jump up that he might compare\nit with his own; the servant in mourning roused Anne's curiosity, and\nthe whole six were collected to look, by the time the owner of the\ncurricle was to be seen issuing from the door amidst the bows and\ncivilities of the household, and taking his seat, to drive off.\n\n\"Ah!\" cried Captain Wentworth, instantly, and with half a glance at\nAnne, \"it is the very man we passed.\"\n\nThe Miss Musgroves agreed to it; and having all kindly watched him as\nfar up the hill as they could, they returned to the breakfast table.\nThe waiter came into the room soon afterwards.\n\n\"Pray,\" said Captain Wentworth, immediately, \"can you tell us the name\nof the gentleman who is just gone away?\"\n\n\"Yes, Sir, a Mr Elliot, a gentleman of large fortune, came in last\nnight from Sidmouth.  Dare say you heard the carriage, sir, while you\nwere at dinner; and going on now for Crewkherne, in his way to Bath and\nLondon.\"\n\n\"Elliot!\"  Many had looked on each other, and many had repeated the\nname, before all this had been got through, even by the smart rapidity\nof a waiter.\n\n\"Bless me!\" cried Mary; \"it must be our cousin; it must be our Mr\nElliot, it must, indeed!  Charles, Anne, must not it?  In mourning, you\nsee, just as our Mr Elliot must be.  How very extraordinary!  In the\nvery same inn with us!  Anne, must not it be our Mr Elliot?  my\nfather's next heir?  Pray sir,\" turning to the waiter, \"did not you\nhear, did not his servant say whether he belonged to the Kellynch\nfamily?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am, he did not mention no particular family; but he said his\nmaster was a very rich gentleman, and would be a baronight some day.\"\n\n\"There! you see!\" cried Mary in an ecstasy, \"just as I said!  Heir to\nSir Walter Elliot!  I was sure that would come out, if it was so.\nDepend upon it, that is a circumstance which his servants take care to\npublish, wherever he goes.  But, Anne, only conceive how extraordinary!\nI wish I had looked at him more.  I wish we had been aware in time, who\nit was, that he might have been introduced to us.  What a pity that we\nshould not have been introduced to each other!  Do you think he had the\nElliot countenance?  I hardly looked at him, I was looking at the\nhorses; but I think he had something of the Elliot countenance, I\nwonder the arms did not strike me!  Oh! the great-coat was hanging over\nthe panel, and hid the arms, so it did; otherwise, I am sure, I should\nhave observed them, and the livery too; if the servant had not been in\nmourning, one should have known him by the livery.\"\n\n\"Putting all these very extraordinary circumstances together,\" said\nCaptain Wentworth, \"we must consider it to be the arrangement of\nProvidence, that you should not be introduced to your cousin.\"\n\nWhen she could command Mary's attention, Anne quietly tried to convince\nher that their father and Mr Elliot had not, for many years, been on\nsuch terms as to make the power of attempting an introduction at all\ndesirable.\n\nAt the same time, however, it was a secret gratification to herself to\nhave seen her cousin, and to know that the future owner of Kellynch was\nundoubtedly a gentleman, and had an air of good sense.  She would not,\nupon any account, mention her having met with him the second time;\nluckily Mary did not much attend to their having passed close by him in\ntheir earlier walk, but she would have felt quite ill-used by Anne's\nhaving actually run against him in the passage, and received his very\npolite excuses, while she had never been near him at all; no, that\ncousinly little interview must remain a perfect secret.\n\n\"Of course,\" said Mary, \"you will mention our seeing Mr Elliot, the\nnext time you write to Bath.  I think my father certainly ought to hear\nof it; do mention all about him.\"\n\nAnne avoided a direct reply, but it was just the circumstance which she\nconsidered as not merely unnecessary to be communicated, but as what\nought to be suppressed.  The offence which had been given her father,\nmany years back, she knew; Elizabeth's particular share in it she\nsuspected; and that Mr Elliot's idea always produced irritation in both\nwas beyond a doubt.  Mary never wrote to Bath herself; all the toil of\nkeeping up a slow and unsatisfactory correspondence with Elizabeth fell\non Anne.\n\nBreakfast had not been long over, when they were joined by Captain and\nMrs Harville and Captain Benwick; with whom they had appointed to take\ntheir last walk about Lyme.  They ought to be setting off for\nUppercross by one, and in the mean while were to be all together, and\nout of doors as long as they could.\n\nAnne found Captain Benwick getting near her, as soon as they were all\nfairly in the street.  Their conversation the preceding evening did not\ndisincline him to seek her again; and they walked together some time,\ntalking as before of Mr Scott and Lord Byron, and still as unable as\nbefore, and as unable as any other two readers, to think exactly alike\nof the merits of either, till something occasioned an almost general\nchange amongst their party, and instead of Captain Benwick, she had\nCaptain Harville by her side.\n\n\"Miss Elliot,\" said he, speaking rather low, \"you have done a good deed\nin making that poor fellow talk so much.  I wish he could have such\ncompany oftener.  It is bad for him, I know, to be shut up as he is;\nbut what can we do?  We cannot part.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Anne, \"that I can easily believe to be impossible; but in\ntime, perhaps--we know what time does in every case of affliction, and\nyou must remember, Captain Harville, that your friend may yet be called\na young mourner--only last summer, I understand.\"\n\n\"Ay, true enough,\" (with a deep sigh) \"only June.\"\n\n\"And not known to him, perhaps, so soon.\"\n\n\"Not till the first week of August, when he came home from the Cape,\njust made into the Grappler.  I was at Plymouth dreading to hear of\nhim; he sent in letters, but the Grappler was under orders for\nPortsmouth.  There the news must follow him, but who was to tell it?\nnot I.  I would as soon have been run up to the yard-arm.  Nobody could\ndo it, but that good fellow\" (pointing to Captain Wentworth.)  \"The\nLaconia had come into Plymouth the week before; no danger of her being\nsent to sea again.  He stood his chance for the rest; wrote up for\nleave of absence, but without waiting the return, travelled night and\nday till he got to Portsmouth, rowed off to the Grappler that instant,\nand never left the poor fellow for a week.  That's what he did, and\nnobody else could have saved poor James.  You may think, Miss Elliot,\nwhether he is dear to us!\"\n\nAnne did think on the question with perfect decision, and said as much\nin reply as her own feeling could accomplish, or as his seemed able to\nbear, for he was too much affected to renew the subject, and when he\nspoke again, it was of something totally different.\n\nMrs Harville's giving it as her opinion that her husband would have\nquite walking enough by the time he reached home, determined the\ndirection of all the party in what was to be their last walk; they\nwould accompany them to their door, and then return and set off\nthemselves.  By all their calculations there was just time for this;\nbut as they drew near the Cobb, there was such a general wish to walk\nalong it once more, all were so inclined, and Louisa soon grew so\ndetermined, that the difference of a quarter of an hour, it was found,\nwould be no difference at all; so with all the kind leave-taking, and\nall the kind interchange of invitations and promises which may be\nimagined, they parted from Captain and Mrs Harville at their own door,\nand still accompanied by Captain Benwick, who seemed to cling to them\nto the last, proceeded to make the proper adieus to the Cobb.\n\nAnne found Captain Benwick again drawing near her.  Lord Byron's \"dark\nblue seas\" could not fail of being brought forward by their present\nview, and she gladly gave him all her attention as long as attention\nwas possible.  It was soon drawn, perforce another way.\n\nThere was too much wind to make the high part of the new Cobb pleasant\nfor the ladies, and they agreed to get down the steps to the lower, and\nall were contented to pass quietly and carefully down the steep flight,\nexcepting Louisa; she must be jumped down them by Captain Wentworth.\nIn all their walks, he had had to jump her from the stiles; the\nsensation was delightful to her.  The hardness of the pavement for her\nfeet, made him less willing upon the present occasion; he did it,\nhowever.  She was safely down, and instantly, to show her enjoyment,\nran up the steps to be jumped down again.  He advised her against it,\nthought the jar too great; but no, he reasoned and talked in vain, she\nsmiled and said, \"I am determined I will:\" he put out his hands; she\nwas too precipitate by half a second, she fell on the pavement on the\nLower Cobb, and was taken up lifeless!  There was no wound, no blood,\nno visible bruise; but her eyes were closed, she breathed not, her face\nwas like death.  The horror of the moment to all who stood around!\n\nCaptain Wentworth, who had caught her up, knelt with her in his arms,\nlooking on her with a face as pallid as her own, in an agony of\nsilence.  \"She is dead! she is dead!\" screamed Mary, catching hold of\nher husband, and contributing with his own horror to make him\nimmoveable; and in another moment, Henrietta, sinking under the\nconviction, lost her senses too, and would have fallen on the steps,\nbut for Captain Benwick and Anne, who caught and supported her between\nthem.\n\n\"Is there no one to help me?\" were the first words which burst from\nCaptain Wentworth, in a tone of despair, and as if all his own strength\nwere gone.\n\n\"Go to him, go to him,\" cried Anne, \"for heaven's sake go to him.  I\ncan support her myself.  Leave me, and go to him.  Rub her hands, rub\nher temples; here are salts; take them, take them.\"\n\nCaptain Benwick obeyed, and Charles at the same moment, disengaging\nhimself from his wife, they were both with him; and Louisa was raised\nup and supported more firmly between them, and everything was done that\nAnne had prompted, but in vain; while Captain Wentworth, staggering\nagainst the wall for his support, exclaimed in the bitterest agony--\n\n\"Oh God! her father and mother!\"\n\n\"A surgeon!\" said Anne.\n\nHe caught the word; it seemed to rouse him at once, and saying only--\n\"True, true, a surgeon this instant,\" was darting away, when Anne\neagerly suggested--\n\n\"Captain Benwick, would not it be better for Captain Benwick?  He knows\nwhere a surgeon is to be found.\"\n\nEvery one capable of thinking felt the advantage of the idea, and in a\nmoment (it was all done in rapid moments) Captain Benwick had resigned\nthe poor corpse-like  figure entirely to the brother's care, and was\noff for the town with the utmost rapidity.\n\nAs to the wretched party left behind, it could scarcely be said which\nof the three, who were completely rational, was suffering most: Captain\nWentworth, Anne, or Charles, who, really a very affectionate brother,\nhung over Louisa with sobs of grief, and could only turn his eyes from\none sister, to see the other in a state as insensible, or to witness\nthe hysterical agitations of his wife, calling on him for help which he\ncould not give.\n\nAnne, attending with all the strength and zeal, and thought, which\ninstinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried, at intervals, to suggest\ncomfort to the others, tried to quiet Mary, to animate Charles, to\nassuage the feelings of Captain Wentworth.  Both seemed to look to her\nfor directions.\n\n\"Anne, Anne,\" cried Charles, \"What is to be done next?  What, in\nheaven's name, is to be done next?\"\n\nCaptain Wentworth's eyes were also turned towards her.\n\n\"Had not she better be carried to the inn?  Yes, I am sure: carry her\ngently to the inn.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, to the inn,\" repeated Captain Wentworth, comparatively\ncollected, and eager to be doing something.  \"I will carry her myself.\nMusgrove, take care of the others.\"\n\nBy this time the report of the accident had spread among the workmen\nand boatmen about the Cobb, and many were collected near them, to be\nuseful if wanted, at any rate, to enjoy the sight of a dead young lady,\nnay, two dead young ladies, for it proved twice as fine as the first\nreport.  To some of the best-looking of these good people Henrietta was\nconsigned, for, though partially revived, she was quite helpless; and\nin this manner, Anne walking by her side, and Charles attending to his\nwife, they set forward, treading back with feelings unutterable, the\nground, which so lately, so very lately, and so light of heart, they\nhad passed along.\n\nThey were not off the Cobb, before the Harvilles met them.  Captain\nBenwick had been seen flying by their house, with a countenance which\nshowed something to be wrong; and they had set off immediately,\ninformed and directed as they passed, towards the spot.  Shocked as\nCaptain Harville was, he brought senses and nerves that could be\ninstantly useful; and a look between him and his wife decided what was\nto be done.  She must be taken to their house; all must go to their\nhouse; and await the surgeon's arrival there.  They would not listen to\nscruples:  he was obeyed; they were all beneath his roof; and while\nLouisa, under Mrs Harville's direction, was conveyed up stairs, and\ngiven possession of her own bed, assistance, cordials, restoratives\nwere supplied by her husband to all who needed them.\n\nLouisa had once opened her eyes, but soon closed them again, without\napparent consciousness.  This had been a proof of life, however, of\nservice to her sister; and Henrietta, though perfectly incapable of\nbeing in the same room with Louisa, was kept, by the agitation of hope\nand fear, from a return of her own insensibility.  Mary, too, was\ngrowing calmer.\n\nThe surgeon was with them almost before it had seemed possible.  They\nwere sick with horror, while he examined; but he was not hopeless.  The\nhead had received a severe contusion, but he had seen greater injuries\nrecovered from:  he was by no means hopeless; he spoke cheerfully.\n\nThat he did not regard it as a desperate case, that he did not say a\nfew hours must end it, was at first felt, beyond the hope of most; and\nthe ecstasy of such a reprieve, the rejoicing, deep and silent, after a\nfew fervent ejaculations of gratitude to Heaven had been offered, may\nbe conceived.\n\nThe tone, the look, with which \"Thank God!\" was uttered by Captain\nWentworth, Anne was sure could never be forgotten by her; nor the sight\nof him afterwards, as he sat near a table, leaning over it with folded\narms and face concealed, as if overpowered by the various feelings of\nhis soul, and trying by prayer and reflection to calm them.\n\nLouisa's limbs had escaped.  There was no injury but to the head.\n\nIt now became necessary for the party to consider what was best to be\ndone, as to their general situation.  They were now able to speak to\neach other and consult.  That Louisa must remain where she was, however\ndistressing to her friends to be involving the Harvilles in such\ntrouble, did not admit a doubt.  Her removal was impossible.  The\nHarvilles silenced all scruples; and, as much as they could, all\ngratitude.  They had looked forward and arranged everything before the\nothers began to reflect.  Captain Benwick must give up his room to\nthem, and get another bed elsewhere; and the whole was settled.  They\nwere only concerned that the house could accommodate no more; and yet\nperhaps, by \"putting the children away in the maid's room, or swinging\na cot somewhere,\" they could hardly bear to think of not finding room\nfor two or three besides, supposing they might wish to stay; though,\nwith regard to any attendance on Miss Musgrove, there need not be the\nleast uneasiness in leaving her to Mrs Harville's care entirely.  Mrs\nHarville was a very experienced nurse, and her nursery-maid, who had\nlived with her long, and gone about with her everywhere, was just such\nanother.  Between these two, she could want no possible attendance by\nday or night.  And all this was said with a truth and sincerity of\nfeeling irresistible.\n\nCharles, Henrietta, and Captain Wentworth were the three in\nconsultation, and for a little while it was only an interchange of\nperplexity and terror.  \"Uppercross, the necessity of some one's going\nto Uppercross; the news to be conveyed; how it could be broken to Mr\nand Mrs Musgrove; the lateness of the morning; an hour already gone\nsince they ought to have been off; the impossibility of being in\ntolerable time.\" At first, they were capable of nothing more to the\npurpose than such exclamations; but, after a while, Captain Wentworth,\nexerting himself, said--\n\n\"We must be decided, and without the loss of another minute.  Every\nminute is valuable.  Some one must resolve on being off for Uppercross\ninstantly.  Musgrove, either you or I must go.\"\n\nCharles agreed, but declared his resolution of not going away.  He\nwould be as little incumbrance as possible to Captain and Mrs Harville;\nbut as to leaving his sister in such a state, he neither ought, nor\nwould.  So far it was decided; and Henrietta at first declared the\nsame.  She, however, was soon persuaded to think differently.  The\nusefulness of her staying!  She who had not been able to remain in\nLouisa's room, or to look at her, without sufferings which made her\nworse than helpless!  She was forced to acknowledge that she could do\nno good, yet was still unwilling to be away, till, touched by the\nthought of her father and mother, she gave it up; she consented, she\nwas anxious to be at home.\n\nThe plan had reached this point, when Anne, coming quietly down from\nLouisa's room, could not but hear what followed, for the parlour door\nwas open.\n\n\"Then it is settled, Musgrove,\" cried Captain Wentworth, \"that you\nstay, and that I take care of your sister home.  But as to the rest, as\nto the others, if one stays to assist Mrs Harville, I think it need be\nonly one.  Mrs Charles Musgrove will, of course, wish to get back to\nher children; but if Anne will stay, no one so proper, so capable as\nAnne.\"\n\nShe paused a moment to recover from the emotion of hearing herself so\nspoken of.  The other two warmly agreed with what he said, and she then\nappeared.\n\n\"You will stay, I am sure; you will stay and nurse her;\" cried he,\nturning to her and speaking with a glow, and yet a gentleness, which\nseemed almost restoring the past.  She coloured deeply, and he\nrecollected himself and moved away.  She expressed herself most\nwilling, ready, happy to remain.  \"It was what she had been thinking\nof, and wishing to be allowed to do.  A bed on the floor in Louisa's\nroom would be sufficient for her, if Mrs Harville would but think so.\"\n\nOne thing more, and all seemed arranged.  Though it was rather\ndesirable that Mr and Mrs Musgrove should be previously alarmed by some\nshare of delay; yet the time required by the Uppercross horses to take\nthem back, would be a dreadful extension of suspense; and Captain\nWentworth proposed, and Charles Musgrove agreed, that it would be much\nbetter for him to take a chaise from the inn, and leave Mr Musgrove's\ncarriage and horses to be sent home the next morning early, when there\nwould be the farther advantage of sending an account of Louisa's night.\n\nCaptain Wentworth now hurried off to get everything ready on his part,\nand to be soon followed by the two ladies.  When the plan was made\nknown to Mary, however, there was an end of all peace in it.  She was\nso wretched and so vehement, complained so much of injustice in being\nexpected to go away instead of Anne; Anne, who was nothing to Louisa,\nwhile she was her sister, and had the best right to stay in Henrietta's\nstead!  Why was not she to be as useful as Anne?  And to go home\nwithout Charles, too, without her husband!  No, it was too unkind.  And\nin short, she said more than her husband could long withstand, and as\nnone of the others could oppose when he gave way, there was no help for\nit; the change of Mary for Anne was inevitable.\n\nAnne had never submitted more reluctantly to the jealous and\nill-judging claims of Mary; but so it must be, and they set off for the\ntown, Charles taking care of his sister, and Captain Benwick attending\nto her.  She gave a moment's recollection, as they hurried along, to\nthe little circumstances which the same spots had witnessed earlier in\nthe morning.  There she had listened to Henrietta's schemes for Dr\nShirley's leaving Uppercross; farther on, she had first seen Mr Elliot;\na moment seemed all that could now be given to any one but Louisa, or\nthose who were wrapt up in her welfare.\n\nCaptain Benwick was most considerately attentive to her; and, united as\nthey all seemed by the distress of the day, she felt an increasing\ndegree of good-will towards him, and a pleasure even in thinking that\nit might, perhaps, be the occasion of continuing their acquaintance.\n\nCaptain Wentworth was on the watch for them, and a chaise and four in\nwaiting, stationed for their convenience in the lowest part of the\nstreet; but his evident surprise and vexation at the substitution of\none sister for the other, the change in his countenance, the\nastonishment, the expressions begun and suppressed, with which Charles\nwas listened to, made but a mortifying reception of Anne; or must at\nleast convince her that she was valued only as she could be useful to\nLouisa.\n\nShe endeavoured to be composed, and to be just.  Without emulating the\nfeelings of an Emma towards her Henry, she would have attended on\nLouisa with a zeal above the common claims of regard, for his sake; and\nshe hoped he would not long be so unjust as to suppose she would shrink\nunnecessarily from the office of a friend.\n\nIn the mean while she was in the carriage.  He had handed them both in,\nand placed himself between them; and in this manner, under these\ncircumstances, full of astonishment and emotion to Anne, she quitted\nLyme.  How the long stage would pass; how it was to affect their\nmanners; what was to be their sort of intercourse, she could not\nforesee.  It was all quite natural, however.  He was devoted to\nHenrietta; always turning towards her; and when he spoke at all, always\nwith the view of supporting her hopes and raising her spirits.  In\ngeneral, his voice and manner were studiously calm.  To spare Henrietta\nfrom agitation seemed the governing principle.  Once only, when she had\nbeen grieving over the last ill-judged, ill-fated walk to the Cobb,\nbitterly lamenting that it ever had been thought of, he burst forth, as\nif wholly overcome--\n\n\"Don't talk of it, don't talk of it,\" he cried.  \"Oh God! that I had\nnot given way to her at the fatal moment!  Had I done as I ought!  But\nso eager and so resolute! Dear, sweet Louisa!\"\n\nAnne wondered whether it ever occurred to him now, to question the\njustness of his own previous opinion as to the universal felicity and\nadvantage of firmness of character; and whether it might not strike him\nthat, like all other qualities of the mind, it should have its\nproportions and limits.  She thought it could scarcely escape him to\nfeel that a persuadable temper might sometimes be as much in favour of\nhappiness as a very resolute character.\n\nThey got on fast.  Anne was astonished to recognise the same hills and\nthe same objects so soon.  Their actual speed, heightened by some dread\nof the conclusion, made the road appear but half as long as on the day\nbefore.  It was growing quite dusk, however, before they were in the\nneighbourhood of Uppercross, and there had been total silence among\nthem for some time, Henrietta leaning back in the corner, with a shawl\nover her face, giving the hope of her having cried herself to sleep;\nwhen, as they were going up their last hill, Anne found herself all at\nonce addressed by Captain Wentworth.  In a low, cautious voice, he\nsaid:--\n\n\"I have been considering what we had best do.  She must not appear at\nfirst.  She could not stand it.  I have been thinking whether you had\nnot better remain in the carriage with her, while I go in and break it\nto Mr and Mrs Musgrove.  Do you think this is a good plan?\"\n\nShe did:  he was satisfied, and said no more.  But the remembrance of\nthe appeal remained a pleasure to her, as a proof of friendship, and of\ndeference for her judgement, a great pleasure; and when it became a\nsort of parting proof, its value did not lessen.\n\nWhen the distressing communication at Uppercross was over, and he had\nseen the father and mother quite as composed as could be hoped, and the\ndaughter all the better for being with them, he announced his intention\nof returning in the same carriage to Lyme; and when the horses were\nbaited, he was off.\n\n(End of volume one.)\n\n\n\nChapter 13\n\n\nThe remainder of Anne's time at Uppercross, comprehending only two\ndays, was spent entirely at the Mansion House; and she had the\nsatisfaction of knowing herself extremely useful there, both as an\nimmediate companion, and as assisting in all those arrangements for the\nfuture, which, in Mr and Mrs Musgrove's distressed state of spirits,\nwould have been difficulties.\n\nThey had an early account from Lyme the next morning.  Louisa was much\nthe same.  No symptoms worse than before had appeared.  Charles came a\nfew hours afterwards, to bring a later and more particular account.  He\nwas tolerably cheerful.  A speedy cure must not be hoped, but\neverything was going on as well as the nature of the case admitted.  In\nspeaking of the Harvilles, he seemed unable to satisfy his own sense of\ntheir kindness, especially of Mrs Harville's exertions as a nurse.\n\"She really left nothing for Mary to do.  He and Mary had been\npersuaded to go early to their inn last night.  Mary had been\nhysterical again this morning.  When he came away, she was going to\nwalk out with Captain Benwick, which, he hoped, would do her good.  He\nalmost wished she had been prevailed on to come home the day before;\nbut the truth was, that Mrs Harville left nothing for anybody to do.\"\n\nCharles was to return to Lyme the same afternoon, and his father had at\nfirst half a mind to go with him, but the ladies could not consent.  It\nwould be going only to multiply trouble to the others, and increase his\nown distress; and a much better scheme followed and was acted upon.  A\nchaise was sent for from Crewkherne, and Charles conveyed back a far\nmore useful person in the old nursery-maid of the family, one who\nhaving brought up all the children, and seen the very last, the\nlingering and long-petted Master Harry, sent to school after his\nbrothers, was now living in her deserted nursery to mend stockings and\ndress all the blains and bruises she could get near her, and who,\nconsequently, was only too happy in being allowed to go and help nurse\ndear Miss Louisa.  Vague wishes of getting Sarah thither, had occurred\nbefore to Mrs Musgrove and Henrietta; but without Anne, it would hardly\nhave been resolved on, and found practicable so soon.\n\nThey were indebted, the next day, to Charles Hayter, for all the minute\nknowledge of Louisa, which it was so essential to obtain every\ntwenty-four hours.  He made it his business to go to Lyme, and his\naccount was still encouraging.  The intervals of sense and\nconsciousness were believed to be stronger.  Every report agreed in\nCaptain Wentworth's appearing fixed in Lyme.\n\nAnne was to leave them on the morrow, an event which they all dreaded.\n\"What should they do without her?  They were wretched comforters for\none another.\"  And so much was said in this way, that Anne thought she\ncould not do better than impart among them the general inclination to\nwhich she was privy, and persuaded them all to go to Lyme at once.  She\nhad little difficulty; it was soon determined that they would go; go\nto-morrow, fix themselves at the inn, or get into lodgings, as it\nsuited, and there remain till dear Louisa could be moved.  They must be\ntaking off some trouble from the good people she was with; they might\nat least relieve Mrs Harville from the care of her own children; and in\nshort, they were so happy in the decision, that Anne was delighted with\nwhat she had done, and felt that she could not spend her last morning\nat Uppercross better than in assisting their preparations, and sending\nthem off at an early hour, though her being left to the solitary range\nof the house was the consequence.\n\nShe was the last, excepting the little boys at the cottage, she was the\nvery last, the only remaining one of all that had filled and animated\nboth houses, of all that had given Uppercross its cheerful character.\nA few days had made a change indeed!\n\nIf Louisa recovered, it would all be well again.  More than former\nhappiness would be restored.  There could not be a doubt, to her mind\nthere was none, of what would follow her recovery.  A few months hence,\nand the room now so deserted, occupied but by her silent, pensive self,\nmight be filled again with all that was happy and gay, all that was\nglowing and bright in prosperous love, all that was most unlike Anne\nElliot!\n\nAn hour's complete leisure for such reflections as these, on a dark\nNovember day, a small thick rain almost blotting out the very few\nobjects ever to be discerned from the windows, was enough to make the\nsound of Lady Russell's carriage exceedingly welcome; and yet, though\ndesirous to be gone, she could not quit the Mansion House, or look an\nadieu to the Cottage, with its black, dripping and comfortless veranda,\nor even notice through the misty glasses the last humble tenements of\nthe village, without a saddened heart.  Scenes had passed in Uppercross\nwhich made it precious.  It stood the record of many sensations of\npain, once severe, but now softened; and of some instances of relenting\nfeeling, some breathings of friendship and reconciliation, which could\nnever be looked for again, and which could never cease to be dear.  She\nleft it all behind her, all but the recollection that such things had\nbeen.\n\nAnne had never entered Kellynch since her quitting Lady Russell's house\nin September.  It had not been necessary, and the few occasions of its\nbeing possible for her to go to the Hall she had contrived to evade and\nescape from.  Her first return was to resume her place in the modern\nand elegant apartments of the Lodge, and to gladden the eyes of its\nmistress.\n\nThere was some anxiety mixed with Lady Russell's joy in meeting her.\nShe knew who had been frequenting Uppercross.  But happily, either Anne\nwas improved in plumpness and looks, or Lady Russell fancied her so;\nand Anne, in receiving her compliments on the occasion, had the\namusement of connecting them with the silent admiration of her cousin,\nand of hoping that she was to be blessed with a second spring of youth\nand beauty.\n\nWhen they came to converse, she was soon sensible of some mental\nchange.  The subjects of which her heart had been full on leaving\nKellynch, and which she had felt slighted, and been compelled to\nsmother among the Musgroves, were now become but of secondary interest.\nShe had lately lost sight even of her father and sister and Bath.\nTheir concerns had been sunk under those of Uppercross; and when Lady\nRussell reverted to their former hopes and fears, and spoke her\nsatisfaction in the house in Camden Place, which had been taken, and\nher regret that Mrs Clay should still be with them, Anne would have\nbeen ashamed to have it known how much more she was thinking of Lyme\nand Louisa Musgrove, and all her acquaintance there; how much more\ninteresting to her was the home and the friendship of the Harvilles and\nCaptain Benwick, than her own father's house in Camden Place, or her\nown sister's intimacy with Mrs Clay.  She was actually forced to exert\nherself to meet Lady Russell with anything like the appearance of equal\nsolicitude, on topics which had by nature the first claim on her.\n\nThere was a little awkwardness at first in their discourse on another\nsubject.  They must speak of the accident at Lyme.  Lady Russell had\nnot been arrived five minutes the day before, when a full account of\nthe whole had burst on her; but still it must be talked of, she must\nmake enquiries, she must regret the imprudence, lament the result, and\nCaptain Wentworth's name must be mentioned by both.  Anne was conscious\nof not doing it so well as Lady Russell.  She could not speak the name,\nand look straight forward to Lady Russell's eye, till she had adopted\nthe expedient of telling her briefly what she thought of the attachment\nbetween him and Louisa.  When this was told, his name distressed her no\nlonger.\n\nLady Russell had only to listen composedly, and wish them happy, but\ninternally her heart revelled in angry pleasure, in pleased contempt,\nthat the man who at twenty-three had seemed to understand somewhat of\nthe value of an Anne Elliot, should, eight years afterwards, be charmed\nby a Louisa Musgrove.\n\nThe first three or four days passed most quietly, with no circumstance\nto mark them excepting the receipt of a note or two from Lyme, which\nfound their way to Anne, she could not tell how, and brought a rather\nimproving account of Louisa.  At the end of that period, Lady Russell's\npoliteness could repose no longer, and the fainter self-threatenings of\nthe past became in a decided tone, \"I must call on Mrs Croft; I really\nmust call upon her soon.  Anne, have you courage to go with me, and pay\na visit in that house?  It will be some trial to us both.\"\n\nAnne did not shrink from it; on the contrary, she truly felt as she\nsaid, in observing--\n\n\"I think you are very likely to suffer the most of the two; your\nfeelings are less reconciled to the change than mine.  By remaining in\nthe neighbourhood, I am become inured to it.\"\n\nShe could have said more on the subject; for she had in fact so high an\nopinion of the Crofts, and considered her father so very fortunate in\nhis tenants, felt the parish to be so sure of a good example, and the\npoor of the best attention and relief, that however sorry and ashamed\nfor the necessity of the removal, she could not but in conscience feel\nthat they were gone who deserved not to stay, and that Kellynch Hall\nhad passed into better hands than its owners'.  These convictions must\nunquestionably have their own pain, and severe was its kind; but they\nprecluded that pain which Lady Russell would suffer in entering the\nhouse again, and returning through the well-known apartments.\n\nIn such moments Anne had no power of saying to herself, \"These rooms\nought to belong only to us.  Oh, how fallen in their destination!  How\nunworthily occupied!  An ancient family to be so driven away!\nStrangers filling their place!\" No, except when she thought of her\nmother, and remembered where she had been used to sit and preside, she\nhad no sigh of that description to heave.\n\nMrs Croft always met her with a kindness which gave her the pleasure of\nfancying herself a favourite, and on the present occasion, receiving\nher in that house, there was particular attention.\n\nThe sad accident at Lyme was soon the prevailing topic, and on\ncomparing their latest accounts of the invalid, it appeared that each\nlady dated her intelligence from the same hour of yestermorn; that\nCaptain Wentworth had been in Kellynch yesterday (the first time since\nthe accident), had brought Anne the last note, which she had not been\nable to trace the exact steps of; had staid a few hours and then\nreturned again to Lyme, and without any present intention of quitting\nit any more.  He had enquired after her, she found, particularly; had\nexpressed his hope of Miss Elliot's not being the worse for her\nexertions, and had spoken of those exertions as great.  This was\nhandsome, and gave her more pleasure than almost anything else could\nhave done.\n\nAs to the sad catastrophe itself, it could be canvassed only in one\nstyle by a couple of steady, sensible women, whose judgements had to\nwork on ascertained events; and it was perfectly decided that it had\nbeen the consequence of much thoughtlessness and much imprudence; that\nits effects were most alarming, and that it was frightful to think, how\nlong Miss Musgrove's recovery might yet be doubtful, and how liable she\nwould still remain to suffer from the concussion hereafter!  The\nAdmiral wound it up summarily by exclaiming--\n\n\"Ay, a very bad business indeed.  A new sort of way this, for a young\nfellow to be making love, by breaking his mistress's head, is not it,\nMiss Elliot?  This is breaking a head and giving a plaster, truly!\"\n\nAdmiral Croft's manners were not quite of the tone to suit Lady\nRussell, but they delighted Anne.  His goodness of heart and simplicity\nof character were irresistible.\n\n\"Now, this must be very bad for you,\" said he, suddenly rousing from a\nlittle reverie, \"to be coming and finding us here.  I had not\nrecollected it before, I declare, but it must be very bad.  But now, do\nnot stand upon ceremony.  Get up and go over all the rooms in the house\nif you like it.\"\n\n\"Another time, Sir, I thank you, not now.\"\n\n\"Well, whenever it suits you.  You can slip in from the shrubbery at\nany time; and there you will find we keep our umbrellas hanging up by\nthat door.  A good place is not it?  But,\" (checking himself), \"you\nwill not think it a good place, for yours were always kept in the\nbutler's room.  Ay, so it always is, I believe.  One man's ways may be\nas good as another's, but we all like our own best.  And so you must\njudge for yourself, whether it would be better for you to go about the\nhouse or not.\"\n\nAnne, finding she might decline it, did so, very gratefully.\n\n\"We have made very few changes either,\" continued the Admiral, after\nthinking a moment.  \"Very few.  We told you about the laundry-door, at\nUppercross.  That has been a very great improvement.  The wonder was,\nhow any family upon earth could bear with the inconvenience of its\nopening as it did, so long!  You will tell Sir Walter what we have\ndone, and that Mr Shepherd thinks it the greatest improvement the house\never had.  Indeed, I must do ourselves the justice to say, that the few\nalterations we have made have been all very much for the better.  My\nwife should have the credit of them, however.  I have done very little\nbesides sending away some of the large looking-glasses from my\ndressing-room, which was your father's.  A very good man, and very much\nthe gentleman I am sure: but I should think, Miss Elliot,\" (looking\nwith serious reflection), \"I should think he must be rather a dressy\nman for his time of life.  Such a number of looking-glasses! oh Lord!\nthere was no getting away from one's self.  So I got Sophy to lend me a\nhand, and we soon shifted their quarters; and now I am quite snug, with\nmy little shaving glass in one corner, and another great thing that I\nnever go near.\"\n\nAnne, amused in spite of herself, was rather distressed for an answer,\nand the Admiral, fearing he might not have been civil enough, took up\nthe subject again, to say--\n\n\"The next time you write to your good father, Miss Elliot, pray give\nhim my compliments and Mrs Croft's, and say that we are settled here\nquite to our liking, and have no fault at all to find with the place.\nThe breakfast-room chimney smokes a little, I grant you, but it is only\nwhen the wind is due north and blows hard, which may not happen three\ntimes a winter.  And take it altogether, now that we have been into\nmost of the houses hereabouts and can judge, there is not one that we\nlike better than this.  Pray say so, with my compliments.  He will be\nglad to hear it.\"\n\nLady Russell and Mrs Croft were very well pleased with each other: but\nthe acquaintance which this visit began was fated not to proceed far at\npresent; for when it was returned, the Crofts announced themselves to\nbe going away for a few weeks, to visit their connexions in the north\nof the county, and probably might not be at home again before Lady\nRussell would be removing to Bath.\n\nSo ended all danger to Anne of meeting Captain Wentworth at Kellynch\nHall, or of seeing him in company with her friend.  Everything was safe\nenough, and she smiled over the many anxious feelings she had wasted on\nthe subject.\n\n\n\nChapter 14\n\n\nThough Charles and Mary had remained at Lyme much longer after Mr and\nMrs Musgrove's going than Anne conceived they could have been at all\nwanted, they were yet the first of the family to be at home again; and\nas soon as possible after their return to Uppercross they drove over to\nthe Lodge.  They had left Louisa beginning to sit up; but her head,\nthough clear, was exceedingly weak, and her nerves susceptible to the\nhighest extreme of tenderness; and though she might be pronounced to be\naltogether doing very well, it was still impossible to say when she\nmight be able to bear the removal home; and her father and mother, who\nmust return in time to receive their younger children for the Christmas\nholidays, had hardly a hope of being allowed to bring her with them.\n\nThey had been all in lodgings together.  Mrs Musgrove had got Mrs\nHarville's children away as much as she could, every possible supply\nfrom Uppercross had been furnished, to lighten the inconvenience to the\nHarvilles, while the Harvilles had been wanting them to come to dinner\nevery day; and in short, it seemed to have been only a struggle on each\nside as to which should be most disinterested and hospitable.\n\nMary had had her evils; but upon the whole, as was evident by her\nstaying so long, she had found more to enjoy than to suffer.  Charles\nHayter had been at Lyme oftener than suited her; and when they dined\nwith the Harvilles there had been only a maid-servant to wait, and at\nfirst Mrs Harville had always given Mrs Musgrove precedence; but then,\nshe had received so very handsome an apology from her on finding out\nwhose daughter she was, and there had been so much going on every day,\nthere had been so many walks between their lodgings and the Harvilles,\nand she had got books from the library, and changed them so often, that\nthe balance had certainly been much in favour of Lyme.  She had been\ntaken to Charmouth too, and she had bathed, and she had gone to church,\nand there were a great many more people to look at in the church at\nLyme than at Uppercross; and all this, joined to the sense of being so\nvery useful, had made really an agreeable fortnight.\n\nAnne enquired after Captain Benwick, Mary's face was clouded directly.\nCharles laughed.\n\n\"Oh! Captain Benwick is very well, I believe, but he is a very odd\nyoung man.  I do not know what he would be at.  We asked him to come\nhome with us for a day or two:  Charles undertook to give him some\nshooting, and he seemed quite delighted, and, for my part, I thought it\nwas all settled; when behold! on Tuesday night, he made a very awkward\nsort of excuse; 'he never shot' and he had 'been quite misunderstood,'\nand he had promised this and he had promised that, and the end of it\nwas, I found, that he did not mean to come.  I suppose he was afraid of\nfinding it dull; but upon my word I should have thought we were lively\nenough at the Cottage for such a heart-broken man as Captain Benwick.\"\n\nCharles laughed again and said, \"Now Mary, you know very well how it\nreally was.  It was all your doing,\" (turning to Anne.) \"He fancied\nthat if he went with us, he should find you close by: he fancied\neverybody to be living in Uppercross; and when he discovered that Lady\nRussell lived three miles off, his heart failed him, and he had not\ncourage to come.  That is the fact, upon my honour, Mary knows it is.\"\n\nBut Mary did not give into it very graciously, whether from not\nconsidering Captain Benwick entitled by birth and situation to be in\nlove with an Elliot, or from not wanting to believe Anne a greater\nattraction to Uppercross than herself, must be left to be guessed.\nAnne's good-will, however, was not to be lessened by what she heard.\nShe boldly acknowledged herself flattered, and continued her enquiries.\n\n\"Oh! he talks of you,\" cried Charles, \"in such terms--\" Mary\ninterrupted him. \"I declare, Charles, I never heard him mention Anne\ntwice all the time I was there.  I declare, Anne, he never talks of you\nat all.\"\n\n\"No,\" admitted Charles, \"I do not know that he ever does, in a general\nway; but however, it is a very clear thing that he admires you\nexceedingly.  His head is full of some books that he is reading upon\nyour recommendation, and he wants to talk to you about them; he has\nfound out something or other in one of them which he thinks--oh! I\ncannot pretend to remember it, but it was something very fine--I\noverheard him telling Henrietta all about it; and then 'Miss Elliot'\nwas spoken of in the highest terms!  Now Mary, I declare it was so, I\nheard it myself, and you were in the other room.  'Elegance, sweetness,\nbeauty.' Oh! there was no end of Miss Elliot's charms.\"\n\n\"And I am sure,\" cried Mary, warmly, \"it was a very little to his\ncredit, if he did.  Miss Harville only died last June.  Such a heart is\nvery little worth having; is it, Lady Russell?  I am sure you will\nagree with me.\"\n\n\"I must see Captain Benwick before I decide,\" said Lady Russell,\nsmiling.\n\n\"And that you are very likely to do very soon, I can tell you, ma'am,\"\nsaid Charles.  \"Though he had not nerves for coming away with us, and\nsetting off again afterwards to pay a formal visit here, he will make\nhis way over to Kellynch one day by himself, you may depend on it.  I\ntold him the distance and the road, and I told him of the church's\nbeing so very well worth seeing; for as he has a taste for those sort\nof things, I thought that would be a good excuse, and he listened with\nall his understanding and soul; and I am sure from his manner that you\nwill have him calling here soon.  So, I give you notice, Lady Russell.\"\n\n\"Any acquaintance of Anne's will always be welcome to me,\" was Lady\nRussell's kind answer.\n\n\"Oh! as to being Anne's acquaintance,\" said Mary, \"I think he is rather\nmy acquaintance, for I have been seeing him every day this last\nfortnight.\"\n\n\"Well, as your joint acquaintance, then, I shall be very happy to see\nCaptain Benwick.\"\n\n\"You will not find anything very agreeable in him, I assure you, ma'am.\nHe is one of the dullest young men that ever lived.  He has walked with\nme, sometimes, from one end of the sands to the other, without saying a\nword.  He is not at all a well-bred young man.  I am sure you will not\nlike him.\"\n\n\"There we differ, Mary,\" said Anne.  \"I think Lady Russell would like\nhim.  I think she would be so much pleased with his mind, that she\nwould very soon see no deficiency in his manner.\"\n\n\"So do I, Anne,\" said Charles.  \"I am sure Lady Russell would like him.\nHe is just Lady Russell's sort.  Give him a book, and he will read all\nday long.\"\n\n\"Yes, that he will!\" exclaimed Mary, tauntingly.  \"He will sit poring\nover his book, and not know when a person speaks to him, or when one\ndrop's one's scissors, or anything that happens.  Do you think Lady\nRussell would like that?\"\n\nLady Russell could not help laughing.  \"Upon my word,\" said she, \"I\nshould not have supposed that my opinion of any one could have admitted\nof such difference of conjecture, steady and matter of fact as I may\ncall myself.  I have really a curiosity to see the person who can give\noccasion to such directly opposite notions.  I wish he may be induced\nto call here.  And when he does, Mary, you may depend upon hearing my\nopinion; but I am determined not to judge him beforehand.\"\n\n\"You will not like him, I will answer for it.\"\n\nLady Russell began talking of something else.  Mary spoke with\nanimation of their meeting with, or rather missing, Mr Elliot so\nextraordinarily.\n\n\"He is a man,\" said Lady Russell, \"whom I have no wish to see.  His\ndeclining to be on cordial terms with the head of his family, has left\na very strong impression in his disfavour with me.\"\n\nThis decision checked Mary's eagerness, and stopped her short in the\nmidst of the Elliot countenance.\n\nWith regard to Captain Wentworth, though Anne hazarded no enquiries,\nthere was voluntary communication sufficient.  His spirits had been\ngreatly recovering lately as might be expected.  As Louisa improved, he\nhad improved, and he was now quite a different creature from what he\nhad been the first week.  He had not seen Louisa; and was so extremely\nfearful of any ill consequence to her from an interview, that he did\nnot press for it at all; and, on the contrary, seemed to have a plan of\ngoing away for a week or ten days, till her head was stronger.  He had\ntalked of going down to Plymouth for a week, and wanted to persuade\nCaptain Benwick to go with him; but, as Charles maintained to the last,\nCaptain Benwick seemed much more disposed to ride over to Kellynch.\n\nThere can be no doubt that Lady Russell and Anne were both occasionally\nthinking of Captain Benwick, from this time.  Lady Russell could not\nhear the door-bell without feeling that it might be his herald; nor\ncould Anne return from any stroll of solitary indulgence in her\nfather's grounds, or any visit of charity in the village, without\nwondering whether she might see him or hear of him.  Captain Benwick\ncame not, however.  He was either less disposed for it than Charles had\nimagined, or he was too shy; and after giving him a week's indulgence,\nLady Russell determined him to be unworthy of the interest which he had\nbeen beginning to excite.\n\nThe Musgroves came back to receive their happy boys and girls from\nschool, bringing with them Mrs Harville's little children, to improve\nthe noise of Uppercross, and lessen that of Lyme.  Henrietta remained\nwith Louisa; but all the rest of the family were again in their usual\nquarters.\n\nLady Russell and Anne paid their compliments to them once, when Anne\ncould not but feel that Uppercross was already quite alive again.\nThough neither Henrietta, nor Louisa, nor Charles Hayter, nor Captain\nWentworth were there, the room presented as strong a contrast as could\nbe wished to the last state she had seen it in.\n\nImmediately surrounding Mrs Musgrove were the little Harvilles, whom\nshe was sedulously guarding from the tyranny of the two children from\nthe Cottage, expressly arrived to amuse them.  On one side was a table\noccupied by some chattering girls, cutting up silk and gold paper; and\non the other were tressels and trays, bending under the weight of brawn\nand cold pies, where riotous boys were holding high revel; the whole\ncompleted by a roaring Christmas fire, which seemed determined to be\nheard, in spite of all the noise of the others.  Charles and Mary also\ncame in, of course, during their visit, and Mr Musgrove made a point of\npaying his respects to Lady Russell, and sat down close to her for ten\nminutes, talking with a very raised voice, but from the clamour of the\nchildren on his knees, generally in vain.  It was a fine family-piece.\n\nAnne, judging from her own temperament, would have deemed such a\ndomestic hurricane a bad restorative of the nerves, which Louisa's\nillness must have so greatly shaken.  But Mrs Musgrove, who got Anne\nnear her on purpose to thank her most cordially, again and again, for\nall her attentions to them, concluded a short recapitulation of what\nshe had suffered herself by observing, with a happy glance round the\nroom, that after all she had gone through, nothing was so likely to do\nher good as a little quiet cheerfulness at home.\n\nLouisa was now recovering apace.  Her mother could even think of her\nbeing able to join their party at home, before her brothers and sisters\nwent to school again.  The Harvilles had promised to come with her and\nstay at Uppercross, whenever she returned.  Captain Wentworth was gone,\nfor the present, to see his brother in Shropshire.\n\n\"I hope I shall remember, in future,\" said Lady Russell, as soon as\nthey were reseated in the carriage, \"not to call at Uppercross in the\nChristmas holidays.\"\n\nEverybody has their taste in noises as well as in other matters; and\nsounds are quite innoxious, or most distressing, by their sort rather\nthan their quantity.  When Lady Russell not long afterwards, was\nentering Bath on a wet afternoon, and driving through the long course\nof streets from the Old Bridge to Camden Place, amidst the dash of\nother carriages, the heavy rumble of carts and drays, the bawling of\nnewspapermen, muffin-men and milkmen, and the ceaseless clink of\npattens, she made no complaint.  No, these were noises which belonged\nto the winter pleasures; her spirits rose under their influence; and\nlike Mrs Musgrove, she was feeling, though not saying, that after being\nlong in the country, nothing could be so good for her as a little quiet\ncheerfulness.\n\nAnne did not share these feelings.  She persisted in a very determined,\nthough very silent disinclination for Bath; caught the first dim view\nof the extensive buildings, smoking in rain, without any wish of seeing\nthem better; felt their progress through the streets to be, however\ndisagreeable, yet too rapid; for who would be glad to see her when she\narrived?  And looked back, with fond regret, to the bustles of\nUppercross and the seclusion of Kellynch.\n\nElizabeth's last letter had communicated a piece of news of some\ninterest.  Mr Elliot was in Bath.  He had called in Camden Place; had\ncalled a second time, a third; had been pointedly attentive.  If\nElizabeth and her father did not deceive themselves, had been taking\nmuch pains to seek the acquaintance, and proclaim the value of the\nconnection, as he had formerly taken pains to shew neglect.  This was\nvery wonderful if it were true; and Lady Russell was in a state of very\nagreeable curiosity and perplexity about Mr Elliot, already recanting\nthe sentiment she had so lately expressed to Mary, of his being \"a man\nwhom she had no wish to see.\"  She had a great wish to see him.  If he\nreally sought to reconcile himself like a dutiful branch, he must be\nforgiven for having dismembered himself from the paternal tree.\n\nAnne was not animated to an equal pitch by the circumstance, but she\nfelt that she would rather see Mr Elliot again than not, which was more\nthan she could say for many other persons in Bath.\n\nShe was put down in Camden Place; and Lady Russell then drove to her\nown lodgings, in Rivers Street.\n\n\n\nChapter 15\n\n\nSir Walter had taken a very good house in Camden Place, a lofty\ndignified situation, such as becomes a man of consequence; and both he\nand Elizabeth were settled there, much to their satisfaction.\n\nAnne entered it with a sinking heart, anticipating an imprisonment of\nmany months, and anxiously saying to herself, \"Oh! when shall I leave\nyou again?\"  A degree of unexpected cordiality, however, in the welcome\nshe received, did her good.  Her father and sister were glad to see\nher, for the sake of shewing her the house and furniture, and met her\nwith kindness.  Her making a fourth, when they sat down to dinner, was\nnoticed as an advantage.\n\nMrs Clay was very pleasant, and very smiling, but her courtesies and\nsmiles were more a matter of course.  Anne had always felt that she\nwould pretend what was proper on her arrival, but the complaisance of\nthe others was unlooked for.  They were evidently in excellent spirits,\nand she was soon to listen to the causes.  They had no inclination to\nlisten to her.  After laying out for some compliments of being deeply\nregretted in their old neighbourhood, which Anne could not pay, they\nhad only a few faint enquiries to make, before the talk must be all\ntheir own.  Uppercross excited no interest, Kellynch very little: it\nwas all Bath.\n\nThey had the pleasure of assuring her that Bath more than answered\ntheir expectations in every respect.  Their house was undoubtedly the\nbest in Camden Place; their drawing-rooms had many decided advantages\nover all the others which they had either seen or heard of, and the\nsuperiority was not less in the style of the fitting-up, or the taste\nof the furniture.  Their acquaintance was exceedingly sought after.\nEverybody was wanting to visit them.  They had drawn back from many\nintroductions, and still were perpetually having cards left by people\nof whom they knew nothing.\n\nHere were funds of enjoyment.  Could Anne wonder that her father and\nsister were happy?  She might not wonder, but she must sigh that her\nfather should feel no degradation in his change, should see nothing to\nregret in the duties and dignity of the resident landholder, should\nfind so much to be vain of in the littlenesses of a town; and she must\nsigh, and smile, and wonder too, as Elizabeth threw open the\nfolding-doors and walked with exultation from one drawing-room to the\nother, boasting of their space; at the possibility of that woman, who\nhad been mistress of Kellynch Hall, finding extent to be proud of\nbetween two walls, perhaps thirty feet asunder.\n\nBut this was not all which they had to make them happy.  They had Mr\nElliot too.  Anne had a great deal to hear of Mr Elliot.  He was not\nonly pardoned, they were delighted with him.  He had been in Bath about\na fortnight; (he had passed through Bath in November, in his way to\nLondon, when the intelligence of Sir Walter's being settled there had\nof course reached him, though only twenty-four hours in the place, but\nhe had not been able to avail himself of it;) but he had now been a\nfortnight in Bath, and his first object on arriving, had been to leave\nhis card in Camden Place, following it up by such assiduous endeavours\nto meet, and when they did meet, by such great openness of conduct,\nsuch readiness to apologize for the past, such solicitude to be\nreceived as a relation again, that their former good understanding was\ncompletely re-established.\n\nThey had not a fault to find in him.  He had explained away all the\nappearance of neglect on his own side.  It had originated in\nmisapprehension entirely.  He had never had an idea of throwing himself\noff; he had feared that he was thrown off, but knew not why, and\ndelicacy had kept him silent.  Upon the hint of having spoken\ndisrespectfully or carelessly of the family and the family honours, he\nwas quite indignant.  He, who had ever boasted of being an Elliot, and\nwhose feelings, as to connection, were only too strict to suit the\nunfeudal tone of the present day.  He was astonished, indeed, but his\ncharacter and general conduct must refute it.  He could refer Sir\nWalter to all who knew him; and certainly, the pains he had been taking\non this, the first opportunity of reconciliation, to be restored to the\nfooting of a relation and heir-presumptive, was a strong proof of his\nopinions on the subject.\n\nThe circumstances of his marriage, too, were found to admit of much\nextenuation.  This was an article not to be entered on by himself; but\na very intimate friend of his, a Colonel Wallis, a highly respectable\nman, perfectly the gentleman, (and not an ill-looking man, Sir Walter\nadded), who was living in very good style in Marlborough Buildings, and\nhad, at his own particular request, been admitted to their acquaintance\nthrough Mr Elliot, had mentioned one or two things relative to the\nmarriage, which made a material difference in the discredit of it.\n\nColonel Wallis had known Mr Elliot long, had been well acquainted also\nwith his wife, had perfectly understood the whole story.  She was\ncertainly not a woman of family, but well educated, accomplished, rich,\nand excessively in love with his friend.  There had been the charm.\nShe had sought him.  Without that attraction, not all her money would\nhave tempted Elliot, and Sir Walter was, moreover, assured of her\nhaving been a very fine woman.  Here was a great deal to soften the\nbusiness.  A very fine woman with a large fortune, in love with him!\nSir Walter seemed to admit it as complete apology; and though Elizabeth\ncould not see the circumstance in quite so favourable a light, she\nallowed it be a great extenuation.\n\nMr Elliot had called repeatedly, had dined with them once, evidently\ndelighted by the distinction of being asked, for they gave no dinners\nin general; delighted, in short, by every proof of cousinly notice, and\nplacing his whole happiness in being on intimate terms in Camden Place.\n\nAnne listened, but without quite understanding it.  Allowances, large\nallowances, she knew, must be made for the ideas of those who spoke.\nShe heard it all under embellishment.  All that sounded extravagant or\nirrational in the progress of the reconciliation might have no origin\nbut in the language of the relators.  Still, however, she had the\nsensation of there being something more than immediately appeared, in\nMr Elliot's wishing, after an interval of so many years, to be well\nreceived by them.  In a worldly view, he had nothing to gain by being\non terms with Sir Walter; nothing to risk by a state of variance.  In\nall probability he was already the richer of the two, and the Kellynch\nestate would as surely be his hereafter as the title.  A sensible man,\nand he had looked like a very sensible man, why should it be an object\nto him?  She could only offer one solution; it was, perhaps, for\nElizabeth's sake.  There might really have been a liking formerly,\nthough convenience and accident had drawn him a different way; and now\nthat he could afford to please himself, he might mean to pay his\naddresses to her.  Elizabeth was certainly very handsome, with\nwell-bred, elegant manners, and her character might never have been\npenetrated by Mr Elliot, knowing her but in public, and when very young\nhimself.  How her temper and understanding might bear the investigation\nof his present keener time of life was another concern and rather a\nfearful one.  Most earnestly did she wish that he might not be too\nnice, or too observant if Elizabeth were his object; and that Elizabeth\nwas disposed to believe herself so, and that her friend Mrs Clay was\nencouraging the idea, seemed apparent by a glance or two between them,\nwhile Mr Elliot's frequent visits were talked of.\n\nAnne mentioned the glimpses she had had of him at Lyme, but without\nbeing much attended to.  \"Oh! yes, perhaps, it had been Mr Elliot.\nThey did not know.  It might be him, perhaps.\"  They could not listen\nto her description of him.  They were describing him themselves; Sir\nWalter especially.  He did justice to his very gentlemanlike\nappearance, his air of elegance and fashion, his good shaped face, his\nsensible eye; but, at the same time, \"must lament his being very much\nunder-hung, a defect which time seemed to have increased; nor could he\npretend to say that ten years had not altered almost every feature for\nthe worse.  Mr Elliot appeared to think that he (Sir Walter) was\nlooking exactly as he had done when they last parted;\" but Sir Walter\nhad \"not been able to return the compliment entirely, which had\nembarrassed him.  He did not mean to complain, however.  Mr Elliot was\nbetter to look at than most men, and he had no objection to being seen\nwith him anywhere.\"\n\nMr Elliot, and his friends in Marlborough Buildings, were talked of the\nwhole evening.  \"Colonel Wallis had been so impatient to be introduced\nto them! and Mr Elliot so anxious that he should!\" and there was a Mrs\nWallis, at present known only to them by description, as she was in\ndaily expectation of her confinement; but Mr Elliot spoke of her as \"a\nmost charming woman, quite worthy of being known in Camden Place,\" and\nas soon as she recovered they were to be acquainted.  Sir Walter\nthought much of Mrs Wallis; she was said to be an excessively pretty\nwoman, beautiful.  \"He longed to see her.  He hoped she might make some\namends for the many very plain faces he was continually passing in the\nstreets.  The worst of Bath was the number of its plain women.  He did\nnot mean to say that there were no pretty women, but the number of the\nplain was out of all proportion.  He had frequently observed, as he\nwalked, that one handsome face would be followed by thirty, or\nfive-and-thirty frights; and once, as he had stood in a shop on Bond\nStreet, he had counted eighty-seven women go by, one after another,\nwithout there being a tolerable face among them.  It had been a frosty\nmorning, to be sure, a sharp frost, which hardly one woman in a\nthousand could stand the test of.  But still, there certainly were a\ndreadful multitude of ugly women in Bath; and as for the men!  they\nwere infinitely worse.  Such scarecrows as the streets were full of!\nIt was evident how little the women were used to the sight of anything\ntolerable, by the effect which a man of decent appearance produced.  He\nhad never walked anywhere arm-in-arm with Colonel Wallis (who was a\nfine military figure, though sandy-haired) without observing that every\nwoman's eye was upon him; every woman's eye was sure to be upon Colonel\nWallis.\"  Modest Sir Walter!  He was not allowed to escape, however.\nHis daughter and Mrs Clay united in hinting that Colonel Wallis's\ncompanion might have as good a figure as Colonel Wallis, and certainly\nwas not sandy-haired.\n\n\"How is Mary looking?\" said Sir Walter, in the height of his good\nhumour.  \"The last time I saw her she had a red nose, but I hope that\nmay not happen every day.\"\n\n\"Oh! no, that must have been quite accidental.  In general she has been\nin very good health and very good looks since Michaelmas.\"\n\n\"If I thought it would not tempt her to go out in sharp winds, and grow\ncoarse, I would send her a new hat and pelisse.\"\n\nAnne was considering whether she should venture to suggest that a gown,\nor a cap, would not be liable to any such misuse, when a knock at the\ndoor suspended everything.  \"A knock at the door! and so late!  It was\nten o'clock.  Could it be Mr Elliot?  They knew he was to dine in\nLansdown Crescent.  It was possible that he might stop in his way home\nto ask them how they did.  They could think of no one else.  Mrs Clay\ndecidedly thought it Mr Elliot's knock.\"  Mrs Clay was right.  With all\nthe state which a butler and foot-boy could give, Mr Elliot was ushered\ninto the room.\n\nIt was the same, the very same man, with no difference but of dress.\nAnne drew a little back, while the others received his compliments, and\nher sister his apologies for calling at so unusual an hour, but \"he\ncould not be so near without wishing to know that neither she nor her\nfriend had taken cold the day before,\" &c. &c; which was all as\npolitely done, and as politely taken, as possible, but her part must\nfollow then.  Sir Walter talked of his youngest daughter; \"Mr Elliot\nmust give him leave to present him to his youngest daughter\" (there was\nno occasion for remembering Mary); and Anne, smiling and blushing, very\nbecomingly shewed to Mr Elliot the pretty features which he had by no\nmeans forgotten, and instantly saw, with amusement at his little start\nof surprise, that he had not been at all aware of who she was.  He\nlooked completely astonished, but not more astonished than pleased; his\neyes brightened! and with the most perfect alacrity he welcomed the\nrelationship, alluded to the past, and entreated to be received as an\nacquaintance already.  He was quite as good-looking as he had appeared\nat Lyme, his countenance improved by speaking, and his manners were so\nexactly what they ought to be, so polished, so easy, so particularly\nagreeable, that she could compare them in excellence to only one\nperson's manners.  They were not the same, but they were, perhaps,\nequally good.\n\nHe sat down with them, and improved their conversation very much.\nThere could be no doubt of his being a sensible man.  Ten minutes were\nenough to certify that.  His tone, his expressions, his choice of\nsubject, his knowing where to stop; it was all the operation of a\nsensible, discerning mind.  As soon as he could, he began to talk to\nher of Lyme, wanting to compare opinions respecting the place, but\nespecially wanting to speak of the circumstance of their happening to\nbe guests in the same inn at the same time; to give his own route,\nunderstand something of hers, and regret that he should have lost such\nan opportunity of paying his respects to her.  She gave him a short\naccount of her party and business at Lyme.  His regret increased as he\nlistened.  He had spent his whole solitary evening in the room\nadjoining theirs; had heard voices, mirth continually; thought they\nmust be a most delightful set of people, longed to be with them, but\ncertainly without the smallest suspicion of his possessing the shadow\nof a right to introduce himself.  If he had but asked who the party\nwere!  The name of Musgrove would have told him enough.  \"Well, it\nwould serve to cure him of an absurd practice of never asking a\nquestion at an inn, which he had adopted, when quite a young man, on\nthe principal of its being very ungenteel to be curious.\n\n\"The notions of a young man of one or two and twenty,\" said he, \"as to\nwhat is necessary in manners to make him quite the thing, are more\nabsurd, I believe, than those of any other set of beings in the world.\nThe folly of the means they often employ is only to be equalled by the\nfolly of what they have in view.\"\n\nBut he must not be addressing his reflections to Anne alone: he knew\nit; he was soon diffused again among the others, and it was only at\nintervals that he could return to Lyme.\n\nHis enquiries, however, produced at length an account of the scene she\nhad been engaged in there, soon after his leaving the place.  Having\nalluded to \"an accident,\"  he must hear the whole.  When he questioned,\nSir Walter and Elizabeth began to question also, but the difference in\ntheir manner of doing it could not be unfelt.  She could only compare\nMr Elliot to Lady Russell, in the wish of really comprehending what had\npassed, and in the degree of concern for what she must have suffered in\nwitnessing it.\n\nHe staid an hour with them.  The elegant little clock on the mantel-piece\nhad struck \"eleven with its silver sounds,\" and the watchman was\nbeginning to be heard at a distance telling the same tale, before Mr\nElliot or any of them seemed to feel that he had been there long.\n\nAnne could not have supposed it possible that her first evening in\nCamden Place could have passed so well!\n\n\n\nChapter 16\n\n\nThere was one point which Anne, on returning to her family, would have\nbeen more thankful to ascertain even than Mr Elliot's being in love\nwith Elizabeth, which was, her father's not being in love with Mrs\nClay; and she was very far from easy about it, when she had been at\nhome a few hours.  On going down to breakfast the next morning, she\nfound there had just been a decent pretence on the lady's side of\nmeaning to leave them.  She could imagine Mrs Clay to have said, that\n\"now Miss Anne was come, she could not suppose herself at all wanted;\"\nfor Elizabeth was replying in a sort of whisper, \"That must not be any\nreason, indeed.  I assure you I feel it none.  She is nothing to me,\ncompared with you;\"  and she was in full time to hear her father say,\n\"My dear madam, this must not be.  As yet, you have seen nothing of\nBath.  You have been here only to be useful.  You must not run away\nfrom us now.  You must stay to be acquainted with Mrs Wallis, the\nbeautiful Mrs Wallis.  To your fine mind, I well know the sight of\nbeauty is a real gratification.\"\n\nHe spoke and looked so much in earnest, that Anne was not surprised to\nsee Mrs Clay stealing a glance at Elizabeth and herself.  Her\ncountenance, perhaps, might express some watchfulness; but the praise\nof the fine mind did not appear to excite a thought in her sister.  The\nlady could not but yield to such joint entreaties, and promise to stay.\n\nIn the course of the same morning, Anne and her father chancing to be\nalone together, he began to compliment her on her improved looks; he\nthought her \"less thin in her person, in her cheeks; her skin, her\ncomplexion, greatly improved; clearer, fresher.  Had she been using any\nthing in particular?\"  \"No, nothing.\"  \"Merely Gowland,\" he supposed.\n\"No, nothing at all.\"  \"Ha! he was surprised at that;\" and added,\n\"certainly you cannot do better than to continue as you are; you cannot\nbe better than well; or I should recommend Gowland, the constant use of\nGowland, during the spring months.  Mrs Clay has been using it at my\nrecommendation, and you see what it has done for her.  You see how it\nhas carried away her freckles.\"\n\nIf Elizabeth could but have heard this!  Such personal praise might\nhave struck her, especially as it did not appear to Anne that the\nfreckles were at all lessened.  But everything must take its chance.\nThe evil of a marriage would be much diminished, if Elizabeth were also\nto marry.  As for herself, she might always command a home with Lady\nRussell.\n\nLady Russell's composed mind and polite manners were put to some trial\non this point, in her intercourse in Camden Place.  The sight of Mrs\nClay in such favour, and of Anne so overlooked, was a perpetual\nprovocation to her there; and vexed her as much when she was away, as a\nperson in Bath who drinks the water, gets all the new publications, and\nhas a very large acquaintance, has time to be vexed.\n\nAs Mr Elliot became known to her, she grew more charitable, or more\nindifferent, towards the others.  His manners were an immediate\nrecommendation; and on conversing with him she found the solid so fully\nsupporting the superficial, that she was at first, as she told Anne,\nalmost ready to exclaim, \"Can this be Mr Elliot?\" and could not\nseriously picture to herself a more agreeable or estimable man.\nEverything united in him; good understanding, correct opinions,\nknowledge of the world, and a warm heart.  He had strong feelings of\nfamily attachment and family honour, without pride or weakness; he\nlived with the liberality of a man of fortune, without display; he\njudged for himself in everything essential, without defying public\nopinion in any point of worldly decorum.  He was steady, observant,\nmoderate, candid; never run away with by spirits or by selfishness,\nwhich fancied itself strong feeling; and yet, with a sensibility to\nwhat was amiable and lovely, and a value for all the felicities of\ndomestic life, which characters of fancied enthusiasm and violent\nagitation seldom really possess.  She was sure that he had not been\nhappy in marriage.  Colonel Wallis said it, and Lady Russell saw it;\nbut it had been no unhappiness to sour his mind, nor (she began pretty\nsoon to suspect) to prevent his thinking of a second choice.  Her\nsatisfaction in Mr Elliot outweighed all the plague of Mrs Clay.\n\nIt was now some years since Anne had begun to learn that she and her\nexcellent friend could sometimes think differently; and it did not\nsurprise her, therefore, that Lady Russell should see nothing\nsuspicious or inconsistent, nothing to require more motives than\nappeared, in Mr Elliot's great desire of a reconciliation.  In Lady\nRussell's view, it was perfectly natural that Mr Elliot, at a mature\ntime of life, should feel it a most desirable object, and what would\nvery generally recommend him among all sensible people, to be on good\nterms with the head of his family; the simplest process in the world of\ntime upon a head naturally clear, and only erring in the heyday of\nyouth.  Anne presumed, however, still to smile about it, and at last to\nmention \"Elizabeth.\"  Lady Russell listened, and looked, and made only\nthis cautious reply:--\"Elizabeth! very well; time will explain.\"\n\nIt was a reference to the future, which Anne, after a little\nobservation, felt she must submit to.  She could determine nothing at\npresent.  In that house Elizabeth must be first; and she was in the\nhabit of such general observance as \"Miss Elliot,\" that any\nparticularity of attention seemed almost impossible.  Mr Elliot, too,\nit must be remembered, had not been a widower seven months.  A little\ndelay on his side might be very excusable.  In fact, Anne could never\nsee the crape round his hat, without fearing that she was the\ninexcusable one, in attributing to him such imaginations; for though\nhis marriage had not been very happy, still it had existed so many\nyears that she could not comprehend a very rapid recovery from the\nawful impression of its being dissolved.\n\nHowever it might end, he was without any question their pleasantest\nacquaintance in Bath:  she saw nobody equal to him; and it was a great\nindulgence now and then to talk to him about Lyme, which he seemed to\nhave as lively a wish to see again, and to see more of, as herself.\nThey went through the particulars of their first meeting a great many\ntimes.  He gave her to understand that he had looked at her with some\nearnestness.  She knew it well; and she remembered another person's\nlook also.\n\nThey did not always think alike.  His value for rank and connexion she\nperceived was greater than hers.  It was not merely complaisance, it\nmust be a liking to the cause, which made him enter warmly into her\nfather and sister's solicitudes on a subject which she thought unworthy\nto excite them.  The Bath paper one morning announced the arrival of\nthe Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple, and her daughter, the Honourable\nMiss Carteret; and all the comfort of No. --, Camden Place, was swept\naway for many days; for the Dalrymples (in Anne's opinion, most\nunfortunately) were cousins of the Elliots; and the agony was how to\nintroduce themselves properly.\n\nAnne had never seen her father and sister before in contact with\nnobility, and she must acknowledge herself disappointed.  She had hoped\nbetter things from their high ideas of their own situation in life, and\nwas reduced to form a wish which she had never foreseen; a wish that\nthey had more pride; for \"our cousins Lady Dalrymple and Miss\nCarteret;\" \"our cousins, the Dalrymples,\" sounded in her ears all day\nlong.\n\nSir Walter had once been in company with the late viscount, but had\nnever seen any of the rest of the family; and the difficulties of the\ncase arose from there having been a suspension of all intercourse by\nletters of ceremony, ever since the death of that said late viscount,\nwhen, in consequence of a dangerous illness of Sir Walter's at the same\ntime, there had been an unlucky omission at Kellynch.  No letter of\ncondolence had been sent to Ireland.  The neglect had been visited on\nthe head of the sinner; for when poor Lady Elliot died herself, no\nletter of condolence was received at Kellynch, and, consequently, there\nwas but too much reason to apprehend that the Dalrymples considered the\nrelationship as closed.  How to have this anxious business set to\nrights, and be admitted as cousins again, was the question:  and it was\na question which, in a more rational manner, neither Lady Russell nor\nMr Elliot thought unimportant.  \"Family connexions were always worth\npreserving, good company always worth seeking; Lady Dalrymple had taken\na house, for three months, in Laura Place, and would be living in\nstyle.  She had been at Bath the year before, and Lady Russell had\nheard her spoken of as a charming woman.  It was very desirable that\nthe connexion should be renewed, if it could be done, without any\ncompromise of propriety on the side of the Elliots.\"\n\nSir Walter, however, would choose his own means, and at last wrote a\nvery fine letter of ample explanation, regret, and entreaty, to his\nright honourable cousin.  Neither Lady Russell nor Mr Elliot could\nadmire the letter; but it did all that was wanted, in bringing three\nlines of scrawl from the Dowager Viscountess.  \"She was very much\nhonoured, and should be happy in their acquaintance.\" The toils of the\nbusiness were over, the sweets began.  They visited in Laura Place,\nthey had the cards of Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple, and the Honourable\nMiss Carteret, to be arranged wherever they might be most visible:  and\n\"Our cousins in Laura Place,\"--\"Our cousin, Lady Dalrymple and Miss\nCarteret,\" were talked of to everybody.\n\nAnne was ashamed.  Had Lady Dalrymple and her daughter even been very\nagreeable, she would still have been ashamed of the agitation they\ncreated, but they were nothing.  There was no superiority of manner,\naccomplishment, or understanding.  Lady Dalrymple had acquired the name\nof \"a charming woman,\" because she had a smile and a civil answer for\neverybody.  Miss Carteret, with still less to say, was so plain and so\nawkward, that she would never have been tolerated in Camden Place but\nfor her birth.\n\nLady Russell confessed she had expected something better; but yet \"it\nwas an acquaintance worth having;\" and when Anne ventured to speak her\nopinion of them to Mr Elliot, he agreed to their being nothing in\nthemselves, but still maintained that, as a family connexion, as good\ncompany, as those who would collect good company around them, they had\ntheir value.  Anne smiled and said,\n\n\"My idea of good company, Mr Elliot, is the company of clever,\nwell-informed people, who have a great deal of conversation; that is\nwhat I call good company.\"\n\n\"You are mistaken,\" said he gently, \"that is not good company; that is\nthe best.  Good company requires only birth, education, and manners,\nand with regard to education is not very nice.  Birth and good manners\nare essential; but a little learning is by no means a dangerous thing\nin good company; on the contrary, it will do very well.  My cousin Anne\nshakes her head.  She is not satisfied.  She is fastidious.  My dear\ncousin\" (sitting down by her), \"you have a better right to be\nfastidious than almost any other woman I know; but will it answer?\nWill it make you happy?  Will it not be wiser to accept the society of\nthose good ladies in Laura Place, and enjoy all the advantages of the\nconnexion as far as possible?  You may depend upon it, that they will\nmove in the first set in Bath this winter, and as rank is rank, your\nbeing known to be related to them will have its use in fixing your\nfamily (our family let me say) in that degree of consideration which we\nmust all wish for.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" sighed Anne, \"we shall, indeed, be known to be related to them!\"\nthen recollecting herself, and not wishing to be answered, she added,\n\"I certainly do think there has been by far too much trouble taken to\nprocure the acquaintance.  I suppose\" (smiling) \"I have more pride than\nany of you; but I confess it does vex me, that we should be so\nsolicitous to have the relationship acknowledged, which we may be very\nsure is a matter of perfect indifference to them.\"\n\n\"Pardon me, dear cousin, you are unjust in your own claims.  In London,\nperhaps, in your present quiet style of living, it might be as you say:\nbut in Bath; Sir Walter Elliot and his family will always be worth\nknowing:  always acceptable as acquaintance.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Anne, \"I certainly am proud, too proud to enjoy a welcome\nwhich depends so entirely upon place.\"\n\n\"I love your indignation,\" said he; \"it is very natural.  But here you\nare in Bath, and the object is to be established here with all the\ncredit and dignity which ought to belong to Sir Walter Elliot.  You\ntalk of being proud; I am called proud, I know, and I shall not wish to\nbelieve myself otherwise; for our pride, if investigated, would have\nthe same object, I have no doubt, though the kind may seem a little\ndifferent.  In one point, I am sure, my dear cousin,\" (he continued,\nspeaking lower, though there was no one else in the room) \"in one\npoint, I am sure, we must feel alike.  We must feel that every addition\nto your father's society, among his equals or superiors, may be of use\nin diverting his thoughts from those who are beneath him.\"\n\nHe looked, as he spoke, to the seat which Mrs Clay had been lately\noccupying:  a sufficient explanation of what he particularly meant; and\nthough Anne could not believe in their having the same sort of pride,\nshe was pleased with him for not liking Mrs Clay; and her conscience\nadmitted that his wishing to promote her father's getting great\nacquaintance was more than excusable in the view of defeating her.\n\n\n\nChapter 17\n\n\nWhile Sir Walter and Elizabeth were assiduously pushing their good\nfortune in Laura Place, Anne was renewing an acquaintance of a very\ndifferent description.\n\nShe had called on her former governess, and had heard from her of there\nbeing an old school-fellow in Bath, who had the two strong claims on\nher attention of past kindness and present suffering.  Miss Hamilton,\nnow Mrs Smith, had shewn her kindness in one of those periods of her\nlife when it had been most valuable.  Anne had gone unhappy to school,\ngrieving for the loss of a mother whom she had dearly loved, feeling\nher separation from home, and suffering as a girl of fourteen, of\nstrong sensibility and not high spirits, must suffer at such a time;\nand Miss Hamilton, three years older than herself, but still from the\nwant of near relations and a settled home, remaining another year at\nschool, had been useful and good to her in a way which had considerably\nlessened her misery, and could never be remembered with indifference.\n\nMiss Hamilton had left school, had married not long afterwards, was\nsaid to have married a man of fortune, and this was all that Anne had\nknown of her, till now that their governess's account brought her\nsituation forward in a more decided but very different form.\n\nShe was a widow and poor.  Her husband had been extravagant; and at his\ndeath, about two years before, had left his affairs dreadfully\ninvolved.  She had had difficulties of every sort to contend with, and\nin addition to these distresses had been afflicted with a severe\nrheumatic fever, which, finally settling in her legs, had made her for\nthe present a cripple.  She had come to Bath on that account, and was\nnow in lodgings near the hot baths, living in a very humble way, unable\neven to afford herself the comfort of a servant, and of course almost\nexcluded from society.\n\nTheir mutual friend answered for the satisfaction which a visit from\nMiss Elliot would give Mrs Smith, and Anne therefore lost no time in\ngoing.  She mentioned nothing of what she had heard, or what she\nintended, at home.  It would excite no proper interest there.  She only\nconsulted Lady Russell, who entered thoroughly into her sentiments, and\nwas most happy to convey her as near to Mrs Smith's lodgings in\nWestgate Buildings, as Anne chose to be taken.\n\nThe visit was paid, their acquaintance re-established, their interest\nin each other more than re-kindled.  The first ten minutes had its\nawkwardness and its emotion.  Twelve years were gone since they had\nparted, and each presented a somewhat different person from what the\nother had imagined.  Twelve years had changed Anne from the blooming,\nsilent, unformed girl of fifteen, to the elegant little woman of\nseven-and-twenty, with every beauty except bloom, and with manners as\nconsciously right as they were invariably gentle; and twelve years had\ntransformed the fine-looking, well-grown Miss Hamilton, in all the glow\nof health and confidence of superiority, into a poor, infirm, helpless\nwidow, receiving the visit of her former protegee as a favour; but all\nthat was uncomfortable in the meeting had soon passed away, and left\nonly the interesting charm of remembering former partialities and\ntalking over old times.\n\nAnne found in Mrs Smith the good sense and agreeable manners which she\nhad almost ventured to depend on, and a disposition to converse and be\ncheerful beyond her expectation.  Neither the dissipations of the\npast--and she had lived very much in the world--nor the restrictions of\nthe present, neither sickness nor sorrow seemed to have closed her\nheart or ruined her spirits.\n\nIn the course of a second visit she talked with great openness, and\nAnne's astonishment increased.  She could scarcely imagine a more\ncheerless situation in itself than Mrs Smith's.  She had been very fond\nof her husband:  she had buried him.  She had been used to affluence:\nit was gone.  She had no child to connect her with life and happiness\nagain, no relations to assist in the arrangement of perplexed affairs,\nno health to make all the rest supportable.  Her accommodations were\nlimited to a noisy parlour, and a dark bedroom behind, with no\npossibility of moving from one to the other without assistance, which\nthere was only one servant in the house to afford, and she never\nquitted the house but to be conveyed into the warm bath.  Yet, in spite\nof all this, Anne had reason to believe that she had moments only of\nlanguor and depression, to hours of occupation and enjoyment.  How\ncould it be?  She watched, observed, reflected, and finally determined\nthat this was not a case of fortitude or of resignation only.  A\nsubmissive spirit might be patient, a strong understanding would supply\nresolution, but here was something more; here was that elasticity of\nmind, that disposition to be comforted, that power of turning readily\nfrom evil to good, and of finding employment which carried her out of\nherself, which was from nature alone.  It was the choicest gift of\nHeaven; and Anne viewed her friend as one of those instances in which,\nby a merciful appointment, it seems designed to counterbalance almost\nevery other want.\n\nThere had been a time, Mrs Smith told her, when her spirits had nearly\nfailed.  She could not call herself an invalid now, compared with her\nstate on first reaching Bath.  Then she had, indeed, been a pitiable\nobject; for she had caught cold on the journey, and had hardly taken\npossession of her lodgings before she was again confined to her bed and\nsuffering under severe and constant pain; and all this among strangers,\nwith the absolute necessity of having a regular nurse, and finances at\nthat moment particularly unfit to meet any extraordinary expense.  She\nhad weathered it, however, and could truly say that it had done her\ngood.  It had increased her comforts by making her feel herself to be\nin good hands.  She had seen too much of the world, to expect sudden or\ndisinterested attachment anywhere, but her illness had proved to her\nthat her landlady had a character to preserve, and would not use her\nill; and she had been particularly fortunate in her nurse, as a sister\nof her landlady, a nurse by profession, and who had always a home in\nthat house when unemployed, chanced to be at liberty just in time to\nattend her.  \"And she,\" said Mrs Smith, \"besides nursing me most\nadmirably, has really proved an invaluable acquaintance.  As soon as I\ncould use my hands she taught me to knit, which has been a great\namusement; and she put me in the way of making these little\nthread-cases, pin-cushions and card-racks, which you always find me so\nbusy about, and which supply me with the means of doing a little good\nto one or two very poor families in this neighbourhood.  She had a\nlarge acquaintance, of course professionally, among those who can\nafford to buy, and she disposes of my merchandise.  She always takes\nthe right time for applying.  Everybody's heart is open, you know, when\nthey have recently escaped from severe pain, or are recovering the\nblessing of health, and Nurse Rooke thoroughly understands when to\nspeak.  She is a shrewd, intelligent, sensible woman.  Hers is a line\nfor seeing human nature; and she has a fund of good sense and\nobservation, which, as a companion, make her infinitely superior to\nthousands of those who having only received 'the best education in the\nworld,' know nothing worth attending to.  Call it gossip, if you will,\nbut when Nurse Rooke has half an hour's leisure to bestow on me, she is\nsure to have something to relate that is entertaining and profitable:\nsomething that makes one know one's species better.  One likes to hear\nwhat is going on, to be au fait as to the newest modes of being\ntrifling and silly.  To me, who live so much alone, her conversation, I\nassure you, is a treat.\"\n\nAnne, far from wishing to cavil at the pleasure, replied, \"I can easily\nbelieve it.  Women of that class have great opportunities, and if they\nare intelligent may be well worth listening to.  Such varieties of\nhuman nature as they are in the habit of witnessing!  And it is not\nmerely in its follies, that they are well read; for they see it\noccasionally under every circumstance that can be most interesting or\naffecting.  What instances must pass before them of ardent,\ndisinterested, self-denying attachment, of heroism, fortitude,\npatience, resignation:  of all the conflicts and all the sacrifices\nthat ennoble us most.  A sick chamber may often furnish the worth of\nvolumes.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mrs Smith more doubtingly, \"sometimes it may, though I fear\nits lessons are not often in the elevated style you describe.  Here and\nthere, human nature may be great in times of trial; but generally\nspeaking, it is its weakness and not its strength that appears in a\nsick chamber:  it is selfishness and impatience rather than generosity\nand fortitude, that one hears of.  There is so little real friendship\nin the world! and unfortunately\" (speaking low and tremulously) \"there\nare so many who forget to think seriously till it is almost too late.\"\n\nAnne saw the misery of such feelings.  The husband had not been what he\nought, and the wife had been led among that part of mankind which made\nher think worse of the world than she hoped it deserved.  It was but a\npassing emotion however with Mrs Smith; she shook it off, and soon\nadded in a different tone--\n\n\"I do not suppose the situation my friend Mrs Rooke is in at present,\nwill furnish much either to interest or edify me.  She is only nursing\nMrs Wallis of Marlborough Buildings; a mere pretty, silly, expensive,\nfashionable woman, I believe; and of course will have nothing to report\nbut of lace and finery.  I mean to make my profit of Mrs Wallis,\nhowever.  She has plenty of money, and I intend she shall buy all the\nhigh-priced things I have in hand now.\"\n\nAnne had called several times on her friend, before the existence of\nsuch a person was known in Camden Place.  At last, it became necessary\nto speak of her. Sir Walter, Elizabeth and Mrs Clay, returned one\nmorning from Laura Place, with a sudden invitation from Lady Dalrymple\nfor the same evening, and Anne was already engaged, to spend that\nevening in Westgate Buildings.  She was not sorry for the excuse.  They\nwere only asked, she was sure, because Lady Dalrymple being kept at\nhome by a bad cold, was glad to make use of the relationship which had\nbeen so pressed on her; and she declined on her own account with great\nalacrity--\"She was engaged to spend the evening with an old\nschoolfellow.\"  They were not much interested in anything relative to\nAnne; but still there were questions enough asked, to make it\nunderstood what this old schoolfellow was; and Elizabeth was\ndisdainful, and Sir Walter severe.\n\n\"Westgate Buildings!\" said he, \"and who is Miss Anne Elliot to be\nvisiting in Westgate Buildings?  A Mrs Smith.  A widow Mrs Smith; and\nwho was her husband?  One of five thousand Mr Smiths whose names are to\nbe met with everywhere.  And what is her attraction?  That she is old\nand sickly.  Upon my word, Miss Anne Elliot, you have the most\nextraordinary taste!  Everything that revolts other people, low\ncompany, paltry rooms, foul air, disgusting associations are inviting\nto you.  But surely you may put off this old lady till to-morrow:  she\nis not so near her end, I presume, but that she may hope to see another\nday.  What is her age?  Forty?\"\n\n\"No, sir, she is not one-and-thirty; but I do not think I can put off\nmy engagement, because it is the only evening for some time which will\nat once suit her and myself.  She goes into the warm bath to-morrow,\nand for the rest of the week, you know, we are engaged.\"\n\n\"But what does Lady Russell think of this acquaintance?\" asked\nElizabeth.\n\n\"She sees nothing to blame in it,\" replied Anne; \"on the contrary, she\napproves it, and has generally taken me when I have called on Mrs\nSmith.\"\n\n\"Westgate Buildings must have been rather surprised by the appearance\nof a carriage drawn up near its pavement,\" observed Sir Walter.  \"Sir\nHenry Russell's widow, indeed, has no honours to distinguish her arms,\nbut still it is a handsome equipage, and no doubt is well known to\nconvey a Miss Elliot.  A widow Mrs Smith lodging in Westgate Buildings!\nA poor widow barely able to live, between thirty and forty; a mere Mrs\nSmith, an every-day Mrs Smith, of all people and all names in the\nworld, to be the chosen friend of Miss Anne Elliot, and to be preferred\nby her to her own family connections among the nobility of England and\nIreland!  Mrs Smith!  Such a name!\"\n\nMrs Clay, who had been present while all this passed, now thought it\nadvisable to leave the room, and Anne could have said much, and did\nlong to say a little in defence of her friend's not very dissimilar\nclaims to theirs, but her sense of personal respect to her father\nprevented her.  She made no reply.  She left it to himself to\nrecollect, that Mrs Smith was not the only widow in Bath between thirty\nand forty, with little to live on, and no surname of dignity.\n\nAnne kept her appointment; the others kept theirs, and of course she\nheard the next morning that they had had a delightful evening.  She had\nbeen the only one of the set absent, for Sir Walter and Elizabeth had\nnot only been quite at her ladyship's service themselves, but had\nactually been happy to be employed by her in collecting others, and had\nbeen at the trouble of inviting both Lady Russell and Mr Elliot; and Mr\nElliot had made a point of leaving Colonel Wallis early, and Lady\nRussell had fresh arranged all her evening engagements in order to wait\non her.  Anne had the whole history of all that such an evening could\nsupply from Lady Russell.  To her, its greatest interest must be, in\nhaving been very much talked of between her friend and Mr Elliot; in\nhaving been wished for, regretted, and at the same time honoured for\nstaying away in such a cause.  Her kind, compassionate visits to this\nold schoolfellow, sick and reduced, seemed to have quite delighted Mr\nElliot.  He thought her a most extraordinary young woman; in her\ntemper, manners, mind, a model of female excellence.  He could meet\neven Lady Russell in a discussion of her merits; and Anne could not be\ngiven to understand so much by her friend, could not know herself to be\nso highly rated by a sensible man, without many of those agreeable\nsensations which her friend meant to create.\n\nLady Russell was now perfectly decided in her opinion of Mr Elliot.\nShe was as much convinced of his meaning to gain Anne in time as of his\ndeserving her, and was beginning to calculate the number of weeks which\nwould free him from all the remaining restraints of widowhood, and\nleave him at liberty to exert his most open powers of pleasing.  She\nwould not speak to Anne with half the certainty she felt on the\nsubject, she would venture on little more than hints of what might be\nhereafter, of a possible attachment on his side, of the desirableness\nof the alliance, supposing such attachment to be real and returned.\nAnne heard her, and made no violent exclamations; she only smiled,\nblushed, and gently shook her head.\n\n\"I am no match-maker, as you well know,\" said Lady Russell, \"being much\ntoo well aware of the uncertainty of all human events and calculations.\nI only mean that if Mr Elliot should some time hence pay his addresses\nto you, and if you should be disposed to accept him, I think there\nwould be every possibility of your being happy together.  A most\nsuitable connection everybody must consider it, but I think it might be\na very happy one.\"\n\n\"Mr Elliot is an exceedingly agreeable man, and in many respects I\nthink highly of him,\" said Anne; \"but we should not suit.\"\n\nLady Russell let this pass, and only said in rejoinder, \"I own that to\nbe able to regard you as the future mistress of Kellynch, the future\nLady Elliot, to look forward and see you occupying your dear mother's\nplace, succeeding to all her rights, and all her popularity, as well as\nto all her virtues, would be the highest possible gratification to me.\nYou are your mother's self in countenance and disposition; and if I\nmight be allowed to fancy you such as she was, in situation and name,\nand home, presiding and blessing in the same spot, and only superior to\nher in being more highly valued!  My dearest Anne, it would give me\nmore delight than is often felt at my time of life!\"\n\nAnne was obliged to turn away, to rise, to walk to a distant table,\nand, leaning there in pretended employment, try to subdue the feelings\nthis picture excited.  For a few moments her imagination and her heart\nwere bewitched.  The idea of becoming what her mother had been; of\nhaving the precious name of \"Lady Elliot\" first revived in herself; of\nbeing restored to Kellynch, calling it her home again, her home for\never, was a charm which she could not immediately resist.  Lady Russell\nsaid not another word, willing to leave the matter to its own\noperation; and believing that, could Mr Elliot at that moment with\npropriety have spoken for himself!--she believed, in short, what Anne\ndid not believe.  The same image of Mr Elliot speaking for himself\nbrought Anne to composure again.  The charm of Kellynch and of \"Lady\nElliot\" all faded away.  She never could accept him.  And it was not\nonly that her feelings were still adverse to any man save one; her\njudgement, on a serious consideration of the possibilities of such a\ncase was against Mr Elliot.\n\nThough they had now been acquainted a month, she could not be satisfied\nthat she really knew his character.  That he was a sensible man, an\nagreeable man, that he talked well, professed good opinions, seemed to\njudge properly and as a man of principle, this was all clear enough.\nHe certainly knew what was right, nor could she fix on any one article\nof moral duty evidently transgressed; but yet she would have been\nafraid to answer for his conduct.  She distrusted the past, if not the\npresent.  The names which occasionally dropt of former associates, the\nallusions to former practices and pursuits, suggested suspicions not\nfavourable of what he had been.  She saw that there had been bad\nhabits; that Sunday travelling had been a common thing; that there had\nbeen a period of his life (and probably not a short one) when he had\nbeen, at least, careless in all serious matters; and, though he might\nnow think very differently, who could answer for the true sentiments of\na clever, cautious man, grown old enough to appreciate a fair\ncharacter?  How could it ever be ascertained that his mind was truly\ncleansed?\n\nMr Elliot was rational, discreet, polished, but he was not open.  There\nwas never any burst of feeling, any warmth of indignation or delight,\nat the evil or good of others.  This, to Anne, was a decided\nimperfection.  Her early impressions were incurable.  She prized the\nfrank, the open-hearted, the eager character beyond all others.  Warmth\nand enthusiasm did captivate her still.  She felt that she could so\nmuch more depend upon the sincerity of those who sometimes looked or\nsaid a careless or a hasty thing, than of those whose presence of mind\nnever varied, whose tongue never slipped.\n\nMr Elliot was too generally agreeable.  Various as were the tempers in\nher father's house, he pleased them all.  He endured too well, stood\ntoo well with every body.  He had spoken to her with some degree of\nopenness of Mrs Clay; had appeared completely to see what Mrs Clay was\nabout, and to hold her in contempt; and yet Mrs Clay found him as\nagreeable as any body.\n\nLady Russell saw either less or more than her young friend, for she saw\nnothing to excite distrust.  She could not imagine a man more exactly\nwhat he ought to be than Mr Elliot; nor did she ever enjoy a sweeter\nfeeling than the hope of seeing him receive the hand of her beloved\nAnne in Kellynch church, in the course of the following autumn.\n\n\n\nChapter 18\n\n\nIt was the beginning of February; and Anne, having been a month in\nBath, was growing very eager for news from Uppercross and Lyme.  She\nwanted to hear much more than Mary had communicated.  It was three\nweeks since she had heard at all.  She only knew that Henrietta was at\nhome again; and that Louisa, though considered to be recovering fast,\nwas still in Lyme; and she was thinking of them all very intently one\nevening, when a thicker letter than usual from Mary was delivered to\nher; and, to quicken the pleasure and surprise, with Admiral and Mrs\nCroft's compliments.\n\nThe Crofts must be in Bath!  A circumstance to interest her.  They were\npeople whom her heart turned to very naturally.\n\n\"What is this?\" cried Sir Walter.  \"The Crofts have arrived in Bath?\nThe Crofts who rent Kellynch?  What have they brought you?\"\n\n\"A letter from Uppercross Cottage, Sir.\"\n\n\"Oh! those letters are convenient passports.  They secure an\nintroduction.  I should have visited Admiral Croft, however, at any\nrate.  I know what is due to my tenant.\"\n\nAnne could listen no longer; she could not even have told how the poor\nAdmiral's complexion escaped; her letter engrossed her.  It had been\nbegun several days back.\n\n\n\"February 1st.\n\n\"My dear Anne,--I make no apology for my silence, because I know how\nlittle people think of letters in such a place as Bath.  You must be a\ngreat deal too happy to care for Uppercross, which, as you well know,\naffords little to write about.  We have had a very dull Christmas; Mr\nand Mrs Musgrove have not had one dinner party all the holidays.  I do\nnot reckon the Hayters as anybody.  The holidays, however, are over at\nlast:  I believe no children ever had such long ones.  I am sure I had\nnot.  The house was cleared yesterday, except of the little Harvilles;\nbut you will be surprised to hear they have never gone home.  Mrs\nHarville must be an odd mother to part with them so long.  I do not\nunderstand it.  They are not at all nice children, in my opinion; but\nMrs Musgrove seems to like them quite as well, if not better, than her\ngrandchildren.  What dreadful weather we have had!  It may not be felt\nin Bath, with your nice pavements; but in the country it is of some\nconsequence.  I have not had a creature call on me since the second\nweek in January, except Charles Hayter, who had been calling much\noftener than was welcome.  Between ourselves, I think it a great pity\nHenrietta did not remain at Lyme as long as Louisa; it would have kept\nher a little out of his way.  The carriage is gone to-day, to bring\nLouisa and the Harvilles to-morrow.  We are not asked to dine with\nthem, however, till the day after, Mrs Musgrove is so afraid of her\nbeing fatigued by the journey, which is not very likely, considering\nthe care that will be taken of her; and it would be much more\nconvenient to me to dine there to-morrow.  I am glad you find Mr Elliot\nso agreeable, and wish I could be acquainted with him too; but I have\nmy usual luck:  I am always out of the way when any thing desirable is\ngoing on; always the last of my family to be noticed.  What an immense\ntime Mrs Clay has been staying with Elizabeth!  Does she never mean to\ngo away?  But perhaps if she were to leave the room vacant, we might\nnot be invited.  Let me know what you think of this.  I do not expect\nmy children to be asked, you know.  I can leave them at the Great House\nvery well, for a month or six weeks.  I have this moment heard that the\nCrofts are going to Bath almost immediately; they think the Admiral\ngouty.  Charles heard it quite by chance; they have not had the\ncivility to give me any notice, or of offering to take anything.  I do\nnot think they improve at all as neighbours.  We see nothing of them,\nand this is really an instance of gross inattention.  Charles joins me\nin love, and everything proper.  Yours affectionately,\n\n\"Mary M---.\n\n\"I am sorry to say that I am very far from well; and Jemima has just\ntold me that the butcher says there is a bad sore-throat very much\nabout.  I dare say I shall catch it; and my sore-throats, you know, are\nalways worse than anybody's.\"\n\n\nSo ended the first part, which had been afterwards put into an\nenvelope, containing nearly as much more.\n\n\n\"I kept my letter open, that I might send you word how Louisa bore her\njourney, and now I am extremely glad I did, having a great deal to add.\nIn the first place, I had a note from Mrs Croft yesterday, offering to\nconvey anything to you; a very kind, friendly note indeed, addressed to\nme, just as it ought; I shall therefore be able to make my letter as\nlong as I like.  The Admiral does not seem very ill, and I sincerely\nhope Bath will do him all the good he wants.  I shall be truly glad to\nhave them back again.  Our neighbourhood cannot spare such a pleasant\nfamily.  But now for Louisa.  I have something to communicate that will\nastonish you not a little.  She and the Harvilles came on Tuesday very\nsafely, and in the evening we went to ask her how she did, when we were\nrather surprised not to find Captain Benwick of the party, for he had\nbeen invited as well as the Harvilles; and what do you think was the\nreason?  Neither more nor less than his being in love with Louisa, and\nnot choosing to venture to Uppercross till he had had an answer from Mr\nMusgrove; for it was all settled between him and her before she came\naway, and he had written to her father by Captain Harville.  True, upon\nmy honour!  Are not you astonished?  I shall be surprised at least if\nyou ever received a hint of it, for I never did.  Mrs Musgrove protests\nsolemnly that she knew nothing of the matter.  We are all very well\npleased, however, for though it is not equal to her marrying Captain\nWentworth, it is infinitely better than Charles Hayter; and Mr Musgrove\nhas written his consent, and Captain Benwick is expected to-day.  Mrs\nHarville says her husband feels a good deal on his poor sister's\naccount; but, however, Louisa is a great favourite with both.  Indeed,\nMrs Harville and I quite agree that we love her the better for having\nnursed her.  Charles wonders what Captain Wentworth will say; but if\nyou remember, I never thought him attached to Louisa; I never could see\nanything of it.  And this is the end, you see, of Captain Benwick's\nbeing supposed to be an admirer of yours.  How Charles could take such\na thing into his head was always incomprehensible to me.  I hope he\nwill be more agreeable now.  Certainly not a great match for Louisa\nMusgrove, but a million times better than marrying among the Hayters.\"\n\n\nMary need not have feared her sister's being in any degree prepared for\nthe news.  She had never in her life been more astonished.  Captain\nBenwick and Louisa Musgrove!  It was almost too wonderful for belief,\nand it was with the greatest effort that she could remain in the room,\npreserve an air of calmness, and answer the common questions of the\nmoment.  Happily for her, they were not many.  Sir Walter wanted to\nknow whether the Crofts travelled with four horses, and whether they\nwere likely to be situated in such a part of Bath as it might suit Miss\nElliot and himself to visit in; but had little curiosity beyond.\n\n\"How is Mary?\" said Elizabeth; and without waiting for an answer, \"And\npray what brings the Crofts to Bath?\"\n\n\"They come on the Admiral's account.  He is thought to be gouty.\"\n\n\"Gout and decrepitude!\" said Sir Walter.  \"Poor old gentleman.\"\n\n\"Have they any acquaintance here?\" asked Elizabeth.\n\n\"I do not know; but I can hardly suppose that, at Admiral Croft's time\nof life, and in his profession, he should not have many acquaintance in\nsuch a place as this.\"\n\n\"I suspect,\" said Sir Walter coolly, \"that Admiral Croft will be best\nknown in Bath as the renter of Kellynch Hall.  Elizabeth, may we\nventure to present him and his wife in Laura Place?\"\n\n\"Oh, no! I think not.  Situated as we are with Lady Dalrymple, cousins,\nwe ought to be very careful not to embarrass her with acquaintance she\nmight not approve.  If we were not related, it would not signify; but\nas cousins, she would feel scrupulous as to any proposal of ours.  We\nhad better leave the Crofts to find their own level.  There are several\nodd-looking men walking about here, who, I am told, are sailors.  The\nCrofts will associate with them.\"\n\nThis was Sir Walter and Elizabeth's share of interest in the letter;\nwhen Mrs Clay had paid her tribute of more decent attention, in an\nenquiry after Mrs Charles Musgrove, and her fine little boys, Anne was\nat liberty.\n\nIn her own room, she tried to comprehend it.  Well might Charles wonder\nhow Captain Wentworth would feel!  Perhaps he had quitted the field,\nhad given Louisa up, had ceased to love, had found he did not love her.\nShe could not endure the idea of treachery or levity, or anything akin\nto ill usage between him and his friend.  She could not endure that\nsuch a friendship as theirs should be severed unfairly.\n\nCaptain Benwick and Louisa Musgrove!  The high-spirited, joyous-talking\nLouisa Musgrove, and the dejected, thinking, feeling, reading, Captain\nBenwick, seemed each of them everything that would not suit the other.\nTheir minds most dissimilar!  Where could have been the attraction?\nThe answer soon presented itself.  It had been in situation.  They had\nbeen thrown together several weeks; they had been living in the same\nsmall family party:  since Henrietta's coming away, they must have been\ndepending almost entirely on each other, and Louisa, just recovering\nfrom illness, had been in an interesting state, and Captain Benwick was\nnot inconsolable.  That was a point which Anne had not been able to\navoid suspecting before; and instead of drawing the same conclusion as\nMary, from the present course of events, they served only to confirm\nthe idea of his having felt some dawning of tenderness toward herself.\nShe did not mean, however, to derive much more from it to gratify her\nvanity, than Mary might have allowed.  She was persuaded that any\ntolerably pleasing young woman who had listened and seemed to feel for\nhim would have received the same compliment.  He had an affectionate\nheart.  He must love somebody.\n\nShe saw no reason against their being happy.  Louisa had fine naval\nfervour to begin with, and they would soon grow more alike.  He would\ngain cheerfulness, and she would learn to be an enthusiast for Scott\nand Lord Byron; nay, that was probably learnt already; of course they\nhad fallen in love over poetry.  The idea of Louisa Musgrove turned\ninto a person of literary taste, and sentimental reflection was\namusing, but she had no doubt of its being so.  The day at Lyme, the\nfall from the Cobb, might influence her health, her nerves, her\ncourage, her character to the end of her life, as thoroughly as it\nappeared to have influenced her fate.\n\nThe conclusion of the whole was, that if the woman who had been\nsensible of Captain Wentworth's merits could be allowed to prefer\nanother man, there was nothing in the engagement to excite lasting\nwonder; and if Captain Wentworth lost no friend by it, certainly\nnothing to be regretted.  No, it was not regret which made Anne's heart\nbeat in spite of herself, and brought the colour into her cheeks when\nshe thought of Captain Wentworth unshackled and free.  She had some\nfeelings which she was ashamed to investigate.  They were too much like\njoy, senseless joy!\n\nShe longed to see the Crofts; but when the meeting took place, it was\nevident that no rumour of the news had yet reached them.  The visit of\nceremony was paid and returned; and Louisa Musgrove was mentioned, and\nCaptain Benwick, too, without even half a smile.\n\nThe Crofts had placed themselves in lodgings in Gay Street, perfectly\nto Sir Walter's satisfaction.  He was not at all ashamed of the\nacquaintance, and did, in fact, think and talk a great deal more about\nthe Admiral, than the Admiral ever thought or talked about him.\n\nThe Crofts knew quite as many people in Bath as they wished for, and\nconsidered their intercourse with the Elliots as a mere matter of form,\nand not in the least likely to afford them any pleasure.  They brought\nwith them their country habit of being almost always together.  He was\nordered to walk to keep off the gout, and Mrs Croft seemed to go shares\nwith him in everything, and to walk for her life to do him good.  Anne\nsaw them wherever she went.  Lady Russell took her out in her carriage\nalmost every morning, and she never failed to think of them, and never\nfailed to see them.  Knowing their feelings as she did, it was a most\nattractive picture of happiness to her.  She always watched them as\nlong as she could, delighted to fancy she understood what they might be\ntalking of, as they walked along in happy independence, or equally\ndelighted to see the Admiral's hearty shake of the hand when he\nencountered an old friend, and observe their eagerness of conversation\nwhen occasionally forming into a little knot of the navy, Mrs Croft\nlooking as intelligent and keen as any of the officers around her.\n\nAnne was too much engaged with Lady Russell to be often walking\nherself; but it so happened that one morning, about a week or ten days\nafter the Croft's arrival, it suited her best to leave her friend, or\nher friend's carriage, in the lower part of the town, and return alone\nto Camden Place, and in walking up Milsom Street she had the good\nfortune to meet with the Admiral.  He was standing by himself at a\nprintshop window, with his hands behind him, in earnest contemplation\nof some print, and she not only might have passed him unseen, but was\nobliged to touch as well as address him before she could catch his\nnotice.  When he did perceive and acknowledge her, however, it was done\nwith all his usual frankness and good humour.  \"Ha! is it you?  Thank\nyou, thank you.  This is treating me like a friend.  Here I am, you\nsee, staring at a picture.  I can never get by this shop without\nstopping.  But what a thing here is, by way of a boat!  Do look at it.\nDid you ever see the like?  What queer fellows your fine painters must\nbe, to think that anybody would venture their lives in such a shapeless\nold cockleshell as that?  And yet here are two gentlemen stuck up in it\nmightily at their ease, and looking about them at the rocks and\nmountains, as if they were not to be upset the next moment, which they\ncertainly must be.  I wonder where that boat was built!\" (laughing\nheartily); \"I would not venture over a horsepond in it.  Well,\"\n(turning away), \"now, where are you bound?  Can I go anywhere for you,\nor with you?  Can I be of any use?\"\n\n\"None, I thank you, unless you will give me the pleasure of your\ncompany the little way our road lies together.  I am going home.\"\n\n\n\"That I will, with all my heart, and farther, too.  Yes, yes we will\nhave a snug walk together, and I have something to tell you as we go\nalong.  There, take my arm; that's right; I do not feel comfortable if\nI have not a woman there.  Lord! what a boat it is!\" taking a last look\nat the picture, as they began to be in motion.\n\n\"Did you say that you had something to tell me, sir?\"\n\n\"Yes, I have, presently.  But here comes a friend, Captain Brigden; I\nshall only say, 'How d'ye do?' as we pass, however.  I shall not stop.\n'How d'ye do?'  Brigden stares to see anybody with me but my wife.\nShe, poor soul, is tied by the leg.  She has a blister on one of her\nheels, as large as a three-shilling piece.  If you look across the\nstreet, you will see Admiral Brand coming down and his brother.  Shabby\nfellows, both of them!  I am glad they are not on this side of the way.\nSophy cannot bear them.  They played me a pitiful trick once: got away\nwith some of my best men.  I will tell you the whole story another\ntime.  There comes old Sir Archibald Drew and his grandson.  Look, he\nsees us; he kisses his hand to you; he takes you for my wife.  Ah! the\npeace has come too soon for that younker.  Poor old Sir Archibald!  How\ndo you like Bath, Miss Elliot?  It suits us very well.  We are always\nmeeting with some old friend or other; the streets full of them every\nmorning; sure to have plenty of chat; and then we get away from them\nall, and shut ourselves in our lodgings, and draw in our chairs, and\nare snug as if we were at Kellynch, ay, or as we used to be even at\nNorth Yarmouth and Deal.  We do not like our lodgings here the worse, I\ncan tell you, for putting us in mind of those we first had at North\nYarmouth.  The wind blows through one of the cupboards just in the same\nway.\"\n\nWhen they were got a little farther, Anne ventured to press again for\nwhat he had to communicate.  She hoped when clear of Milsom Street to\nhave her curiosity gratified; but she was still obliged to wait, for\nthe Admiral had made up his mind not to begin till they had gained the\ngreater space and quiet of Belmont; and as she was not really Mrs\nCroft, she must let him have his own way.  As soon as they were fairly\nascending Belmont, he began--\n\n\"Well, now you shall hear something that will surprise you.  But first\nof all, you must tell me the name of the young lady I am going to talk\nabout.  That young lady, you know, that we have all been so concerned\nfor.  The Miss Musgrove, that all this has been happening to.  Her\nChristian name:  I always forget her Christian name.\"\n\nAnne had been ashamed to appear to comprehend so soon as she really\ndid; but now she could safely suggest the name of \"Louisa.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, Miss Louisa Musgrove, that is the name.  I wish young ladies\nhad not such a number of fine Christian names.  I should never be out\nif they were all Sophys, or something of that sort.  Well, this Miss\nLouisa, we all thought, you know, was to marry Frederick.  He was\ncourting her week after week.  The only wonder was, what they could be\nwaiting for, till the business at Lyme came; then, indeed, it was clear\nenough that they must wait till her brain was set to right.  But even\nthen there was something odd in their way of going on.  Instead of\nstaying at Lyme, he went off to Plymouth, and then he went off to see\nEdward.  When we came back from Minehead he was gone down to Edward's,\nand there he has been ever since.  We have seen nothing of him since\nNovember.  Even Sophy could not understand it.  But now, the matter has\ntaken the strangest turn of all; for this young lady, the same Miss\nMusgrove, instead of being to marry Frederick, is to marry James\nBenwick.  You know James Benwick.\"\n\n\"A little.  I am a little acquainted with Captain Benwick.\"\n\n\"Well, she is to marry him.  Nay, most likely they are married already,\nfor I do not know what they should wait for.\"\n\n\"I thought Captain Benwick a very pleasing young man,\" said Anne, \"and\nI understand that he bears an excellent character.\"\n\n\"Oh! yes, yes, there is not a word to be said against James Benwick.\nHe is only a commander, it is true, made last summer, and these are bad\ntimes for getting on, but he has not another fault that I know of.  An\nexcellent, good-hearted fellow, I assure you; a very active, zealous\nofficer too, which is more than you would think for, perhaps, for that\nsoft sort of manner does not do him justice.\"\n\n\"Indeed you are mistaken there, sir; I should never augur want of\nspirit from Captain Benwick's manners.  I thought them particularly\npleasing, and I will answer for it, they would generally please.\"\n\n\"Well, well, ladies are the best judges; but James Benwick is rather\ntoo piano for me; and though very likely it is all our partiality,\nSophy and I cannot help thinking Frederick's manners better than his.\nThere is something about Frederick more to our taste.\"\n\nAnne was caught.  She had only meant to oppose the too common idea of\nspirit and gentleness being incompatible with each other, not at all to\nrepresent Captain Benwick's manners as the very best that could\npossibly be; and, after a little hesitation, she was beginning to say,\n\"I was not entering into any comparison of the two friends,\" but the\nAdmiral interrupted her with--\n\n\"And the thing is certainly true.  It is not a mere bit of gossip.  We\nhave it from Frederick himself.  His sister had a letter from him\nyesterday, in which he tells us of it, and he had just had it in a\nletter from Harville, written upon the spot, from Uppercross.  I fancy\nthey are all at Uppercross.\"\n\nThis was an opportunity which Anne could not resist; she said,\ntherefore, \"I hope, Admiral, I hope there is nothing in the style of\nCaptain Wentworth's letter to make you and Mrs Croft particularly\nuneasy.  It did seem, last autumn, as if there were an attachment\nbetween him and Louisa Musgrove; but I hope it may be understood to\nhave worn out on each side equally, and without violence.  I hope his\nletter does not breathe the spirit of an ill-used man.\"\n\n\"Not at all, not at all; there is not an oath or a murmur from\nbeginning to end.\"\n\nAnne looked down to hide her smile.\n\n\"No, no; Frederick is not a man to whine and complain; he has too much\nspirit for that.  If the girl likes another man better, it is very fit\nshe should have him.\"\n\n\"Certainly.  But what I mean is, that I hope there is nothing in\nCaptain Wentworth's manner of writing to make you suppose he thinks\nhimself ill-used by his friend, which might appear, you know, without\nits being absolutely said.  I should be very sorry that such a\nfriendship as has subsisted between him and Captain Benwick should be\ndestroyed, or even wounded, by a circumstance of this sort.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, I understand you.  But there is nothing at all of that\nnature in the letter.  He does not give the least fling at Benwick;\ndoes not so much as say, 'I wonder at it, I have a reason of my own for\nwondering at it.'  No, you would not guess, from his way of writing,\nthat he had ever thought of this Miss (what's her name?) for himself.\nHe very handsomely hopes they will be happy together; and there is\nnothing very unforgiving in that, I think.\"\n\nAnne did not receive the perfect conviction which the Admiral meant to\nconvey, but it would have been useless to press the enquiry farther.\nShe therefore satisfied herself with common-place remarks or quiet\nattention, and the Admiral had it all his own way.\n\n\"Poor Frederick!\" said he at last.  \"Now he must begin all over again\nwith somebody else.  I think we must get him to Bath.  Sophy must\nwrite, and beg him to come to Bath.  Here are pretty girls enough, I am\nsure.  It would be of no use to go to Uppercross again, for that other\nMiss Musgrove, I find, is bespoke by her cousin, the young parson.  Do\nnot you think, Miss Elliot, we had better try to get him to Bath?\"\n\n\n\nChapter 19\n\n\nWhile Admiral Croft was taking this walk with Anne, and expressing his\nwish of getting Captain Wentworth to Bath, Captain Wentworth was\nalready on his way thither.  Before Mrs Croft had written, he was\narrived, and the very next time Anne walked out, she saw him.\n\nMr Elliot was attending his two cousins and Mrs Clay.  They were in\nMilsom Street.  It began to rain, not much, but enough to make shelter\ndesirable for women, and quite enough to make it very desirable for\nMiss Elliot to have the advantage of being conveyed home in Lady\nDalrymple's carriage, which was seen waiting at a little distance; she,\nAnne, and Mrs Clay, therefore, turned into Molland's, while Mr Elliot\nstepped to Lady Dalrymple, to request her assistance.  He soon joined\nthem again, successful, of course; Lady Dalrymple would be most happy\nto take them home, and would call for them in a few minutes.\n\nHer ladyship's carriage was a barouche, and did not hold more than four\nwith any comfort.  Miss Carteret was with her mother; consequently it\nwas not reasonable to expect accommodation for all the three Camden\nPlace ladies.  There could be no doubt as to Miss Elliot.  Whoever\nsuffered inconvenience, she must suffer none, but it occupied a little\ntime to settle the point of civility between the other two.  The rain\nwas a mere trifle, and Anne was most sincere in preferring a walk with\nMr Elliot.  But the rain was also a mere trifle to Mrs Clay; she would\nhardly allow it even to drop at all, and her boots were so thick! much\nthicker than Miss Anne's; and, in short, her civility rendered her\nquite as anxious to be left to walk with Mr Elliot as Anne could be,\nand it was discussed between them with a generosity so polite and so\ndetermined, that the others were obliged to settle it for them; Miss\nElliot maintaining that Mrs Clay had a little cold already, and Mr\nElliot deciding on appeal, that his cousin Anne's boots were rather the\nthickest.\n\nIt was fixed accordingly, that Mrs Clay should be of the party in the\ncarriage; and they had just reached this point, when Anne, as she sat\nnear the window, descried, most decidedly and distinctly, Captain\nWentworth walking down the street.\n\nHer start was perceptible only to herself; but she instantly felt that\nshe was the greatest simpleton in the world, the most unaccountable and\nabsurd!  For a few minutes she saw nothing before her; it was all\nconfusion.  She was lost, and when she had scolded back her senses, she\nfound the others still waiting for the carriage, and Mr Elliot (always\nobliging) just setting off for Union Street on a commission of Mrs\nClay's.\n\nShe now felt a great inclination to go to the outer door; she wanted to\nsee if it rained.  Why was she to suspect herself of another motive?\nCaptain Wentworth must be out of sight.  She left her seat, she would\ngo; one half of her should not be always so much wiser than the other\nhalf, or always suspecting the other of being worse than it was.  She\nwould see if it rained.  She was sent back, however, in a moment by the\nentrance of Captain Wentworth himself, among a party of gentlemen and\nladies, evidently his acquaintance, and whom he must have joined a\nlittle below Milsom Street.  He was more obviously struck and confused\nby the sight of her than she had ever observed before; he looked quite\nred.  For the first time, since their renewed acquaintance, she felt\nthat she was betraying the least sensibility of the two.  She had the\nadvantage of him in the preparation of the last few moments.  All the\noverpowering, blinding, bewildering, first effects of strong surprise\nwere over with her.  Still, however, she had enough to feel!  It was\nagitation, pain, pleasure, a something between delight and misery.\n\nHe spoke to her, and then turned away.  The character of his manner was\nembarrassment.  She could not have called it either cold or friendly,\nor anything so certainly as embarrassed.\n\nAfter a short interval, however, he came towards her, and spoke again.\nMutual enquiries on common subjects passed:  neither of them, probably,\nmuch the wiser for what they heard, and Anne continuing fully sensible\nof his being less at ease than formerly.  They had by dint of being so\nvery much together, got to speak to each other with a considerable\nportion of apparent indifference and calmness; but he could not do it\nnow.  Time had changed him, or Louisa had changed him.  There was\nconsciousness of some sort or other.  He looked very well, not as if he\nhad been suffering in health or spirits, and he talked of Uppercross,\nof the Musgroves, nay, even of Louisa, and had even a momentary look of\nhis own arch significance as he named her; but yet it was Captain\nWentworth not comfortable, not easy, not able to feign that he was.\n\nIt did not surprise, but it grieved Anne to observe that Elizabeth\nwould not know him.  She saw that he saw Elizabeth, that Elizabeth saw\nhim, that there was complete internal recognition on each side; she was\nconvinced that he was ready to be acknowledged as an acquaintance,\nexpecting it, and she had the pain of seeing her sister turn away with\nunalterable coldness.\n\nLady Dalrymple's carriage, for which Miss Elliot was growing very\nimpatient, now drew up; the servant came in to announce it.  It was\nbeginning to rain again, and altogether there was a delay, and a\nbustle, and a talking, which must make all the little crowd in the shop\nunderstand that Lady Dalrymple was calling to convey Miss Elliot.  At\nlast Miss Elliot and her friend, unattended but by the servant, (for\nthere was no cousin returned), were walking off; and Captain Wentworth,\nwatching them, turned again to Anne, and by manner, rather than words,\nwas offering his services to her.\n\n\"I am much obliged to you,\" was her answer, \"but I am not going with\nthem.  The carriage would not accommodate so many.  I walk:  I prefer\nwalking.\"\n\n\"But it rains.\"\n\n\"Oh! very little,  Nothing that I regard.\"\n\nAfter a moment's pause he said:  \"Though I came only yesterday, I have\nequipped myself properly for Bath already, you see,\" (pointing to a new\numbrella); \"I wish you would make use of it, if you are determined to\nwalk; though I think it would be more prudent to let me get you a\nchair.\"\n\nShe was very much obliged to him, but declined it all, repeating her\nconviction, that the rain would come to nothing at present, and adding,\n\"I am only waiting for Mr Elliot.  He will be here in a moment, I am\nsure.\"\n\nShe had hardly spoken the words when Mr Elliot walked in.  Captain\nWentworth recollected him perfectly.  There was no difference between\nhim and the man who had stood on the steps at Lyme, admiring Anne as\nshe passed, except in the air and look and manner of the privileged\nrelation and friend.  He came in with eagerness, appeared to see and\nthink only of her, apologised for his stay, was grieved to have kept\nher waiting, and anxious to get her away without further loss of time\nand before the rain increased; and in another moment they walked off\ntogether, her arm under his, a gentle and embarrassed glance, and a\n\"Good morning to you!\" being all that she had time for, as she passed\naway.\n\nAs soon as they were out of sight, the ladies of Captain Wentworth's\nparty began talking of them.\n\n\"Mr Elliot does not dislike his cousin, I fancy?\"\n\n\"Oh! no, that is clear enough.  One can guess what will happen there.\nHe is always with them; half lives in the family, I believe.  What a\nvery good-looking man!\"\n\n\"Yes, and Miss Atkinson, who dined with him once at the Wallises, says\nhe is the most agreeable man she ever was in company with.\"\n\n\"She is pretty, I think; Anne Elliot; very pretty, when one comes to\nlook at her.  It is not the fashion to say so, but I confess I admire\nher more than her sister.\"\n\n\"Oh! so do I.\"\n\n\"And so do I.  No comparison.  But the men are all wild after Miss\nElliot.  Anne is too delicate for them.\"\n\nAnne would have been particularly obliged to her cousin, if he would\nhave walked by her side all the way to Camden Place, without saying a\nword.  She had never found it so difficult to listen to him, though\nnothing could exceed his solicitude and care, and though his subjects\nwere principally such as were wont to be always interesting: praise,\nwarm, just, and discriminating, of Lady Russell, and insinuations\nhighly rational against Mrs Clay.  But just now she could think only of\nCaptain Wentworth.  She could not understand his present feelings,\nwhether he were really suffering much from disappointment or not; and\ntill that point were settled, she could not be quite herself.\n\nShe hoped to be wise and reasonable in time; but alas! alas!  she must\nconfess to herself that she was not wise yet.\n\nAnother circumstance very essential for her to know, was how long he\nmeant to be in Bath; he had not mentioned it, or she could not\nrecollect it.  He might be only passing through.  But it was more\nprobable that he should be come to stay.  In that case, so liable as\nevery body was to meet every body in Bath, Lady Russell would in all\nlikelihood see him somewhere.  Would she recollect him?  How would it\nall be?\n\nShe had already been obliged to tell Lady Russell that Louisa Musgrove\nwas to marry Captain Benwick.  It had cost her something to encounter\nLady Russell's surprise; and now, if she were by any chance to be\nthrown into company with Captain Wentworth, her imperfect knowledge of\nthe matter might add another shade of prejudice against him.\n\nThe following morning Anne was out with her friend, and for the first\nhour, in an incessant and fearful sort of watch for him in vain; but at\nlast, in returning down Pulteney Street, she distinguished him on the\nright hand pavement at such a distance as to have him in view the\ngreater part of the street.  There were many other men about him, many\ngroups walking the same way, but there was no mistaking him.  She\nlooked instinctively at Lady Russell; but not from any mad idea of her\nrecognising him so soon as she did herself.  No, it was not to be\nsupposed that Lady Russell would perceive him till they were nearly\nopposite.  She looked at her however, from time to time, anxiously; and\nwhen the moment approached which must point him out, though not daring\nto look again (for her own countenance she knew was unfit to be seen),\nshe was yet perfectly conscious of Lady Russell's eyes being turned\nexactly in the direction for him--of her being, in short, intently\nobserving him.  She could thoroughly comprehend the sort of fascination\nhe must possess over Lady Russell's mind, the difficulty it must be for\nher to withdraw her eyes, the astonishment she must be feeling that\neight or nine years should have passed over him, and in foreign climes\nand in active service too, without robbing him of one personal grace!\n\nAt last, Lady Russell drew back her head.  \"Now, how would she speak of\nhim?\"\n\n\"You will wonder,\" said she, \"what has been fixing my eye so long; but\nI was looking after some window-curtains, which Lady Alicia and Mrs\nFrankland were telling me of last night.  They described the\ndrawing-room window-curtains of one of the houses on this side of the\nway, and this part of the street, as being the handsomest and best hung\nof any in Bath, but could not recollect the exact number, and I have\nbeen trying to find out which it could be; but I confess I can see no\ncurtains hereabouts that answer their description.\"\n\nAnne sighed and blushed and smiled, in pity and disdain, either at her\nfriend or herself.  The part which provoked her most, was that in all\nthis waste of foresight and caution, she should have lost the right\nmoment for seeing whether he saw them.\n\nA day or two passed without producing anything.  The theatre or the\nrooms, where he was most likely to be, were not fashionable enough for\nthe Elliots, whose evening amusements were solely in the elegant\nstupidity of private parties, in which they were getting more and more\nengaged; and Anne, wearied of such a state of stagnation, sick of\nknowing nothing, and fancying herself stronger because her strength was\nnot tried, was quite impatient for the concert evening.  It was a\nconcert for the benefit of a person patronised by Lady Dalrymple.  Of\ncourse they must attend.  It was really expected to be a good one, and\nCaptain Wentworth was very fond of music.  If she could only have a few\nminutes conversation with him again, she fancied she should be\nsatisfied; and as to the power of addressing him, she felt all over\ncourage if the opportunity occurred.  Elizabeth had turned from him,\nLady Russell overlooked him; her nerves were strengthened by these\ncircumstances; she felt that she owed him attention.\n\nShe had once partly promised Mrs Smith to spend the evening with her;\nbut in a short hurried call she excused herself and put it off, with\nthe more decided promise of a longer visit on the morrow.  Mrs Smith\ngave a most good-humoured acquiescence.\n\n\"By all means,\" said she; \"only tell me all about it, when you do come.\nWho is your party?\"\n\nAnne named them all.  Mrs Smith made no reply; but when she was leaving\nher said, and with an expression half serious, half arch, \"Well, I\nheartily wish your concert may answer; and do not fail me to-morrow if\nyou can come; for I begin to have a foreboding that I may not have many\nmore visits from you.\"\n\nAnne was startled and confused; but after standing in a moment's\nsuspense, was obliged, and not sorry to be obliged, to hurry away.\n\n\n\nChapter 20\n\n\nSir Walter, his two daughters, and Mrs Clay, were the earliest of all\ntheir party at the rooms in the evening; and as Lady Dalrymple must be\nwaited for, they took their station by one of the fires in the Octagon\nRoom.  But hardly were they so settled, when the door opened again, and\nCaptain Wentworth walked in alone.  Anne was the nearest to him, and\nmaking yet a little advance, she instantly spoke.  He was preparing\nonly to bow and pass on, but her gentle \"How do you do?\" brought him\nout of the straight line to stand near her, and make enquiries in\nreturn, in spite of the formidable father and sister in the back\nground.  Their being in the back ground was a support to Anne; she knew\nnothing of their looks, and felt equal to everything which she believed\nright to be done.\n\nWhile they were speaking, a whispering between her father and Elizabeth\ncaught her ear.  She could not distinguish, but she must guess the\nsubject; and on Captain Wentworth's making a distant bow, she\ncomprehended that her father had judged so well as to give him that\nsimple acknowledgement of acquaintance, and she was just in time by a\nside glance to see a slight curtsey from Elizabeth herself.  This,\nthough late, and reluctant, and ungracious, was yet better than\nnothing, and her spirits improved.\n\nAfter talking, however, of the weather, and Bath, and the concert,\ntheir conversation began to flag, and so little was said at last, that\nshe was expecting him to go every moment, but he did not; he seemed in\nno hurry to leave her; and presently with renewed spirit, with a little\nsmile, a little glow, he said--\n\n\"I have hardly seen you since our day at Lyme.  I am afraid you must\nhave suffered from the shock, and the more from its not overpowering\nyou at the time.\"\n\nShe assured him that she had not.\n\n\"It was a frightful hour,\" said he, \"a frightful day!\" and he passed\nhis hand across his eyes, as if the remembrance were still too painful,\nbut in a moment, half smiling again, added, \"The day has produced some\neffects however; has had some consequences which must be considered as\nthe very reverse of frightful.  When you had the presence of mind to\nsuggest that Benwick would be the properest person to fetch a surgeon,\nyou could have little idea of his being eventually one of those most\nconcerned in her recovery.\"\n\n\"Certainly I could have none.  But it appears--I should hope it would\nbe a very happy match.  There are on both sides good principles and\ngood temper.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said he, looking not exactly forward; \"but there, I think, ends\nthe resemblance.  With all my soul I wish them happy, and rejoice over\nevery circumstance in favour of it.  They have no difficulties to\ncontend with at home, no opposition, no caprice, no delays.  The\nMusgroves are behaving like themselves, most honourably and kindly,\nonly anxious with true parental hearts to promote their daughter's\ncomfort.  All this is much, very much in favour of their happiness;\nmore than perhaps--\"\n\nHe stopped.  A sudden recollection seemed to occur, and to give him\nsome taste of that emotion which was reddening Anne's cheeks and fixing\nher eyes on the ground.  After clearing his throat, however, he\nproceeded thus--\n\n\"I confess that I do think there is a disparity, too great a disparity,\nand in a point no less essential than mind.  I regard Louisa Musgrove\nas a very amiable, sweet-tempered girl, and not deficient in\nunderstanding, but Benwick is something more.  He is a clever man, a\nreading man; and I confess, that I do consider his attaching himself to\nher with some surprise.  Had it been the effect of gratitude, had he\nlearnt to love her, because he believed her to be preferring him, it\nwould have been another thing.  But I have no reason to suppose it so.\nIt seems, on the contrary, to have been a perfectly spontaneous,\nuntaught feeling on his side, and this surprises me.  A man like him,\nin his situation! with a heart pierced, wounded, almost broken!  Fanny\nHarville was a very superior creature, and his attachment to her was\nindeed attachment.  A man does not recover from such a devotion of the\nheart to such a woman.  He ought not; he does not.\"\n\nEither from the consciousness, however, that his friend had recovered,\nor from other consciousness, he went no farther; and Anne who, in spite\nof the agitated voice in which the latter part had been uttered, and in\nspite of all the various noises of the room, the almost ceaseless slam\nof the door, and ceaseless buzz of persons walking through, had\ndistinguished every word, was struck, gratified, confused, and\nbeginning to breathe very quick, and feel an hundred things in a\nmoment.  It was impossible for her to enter on such a subject; and yet,\nafter a pause, feeling the necessity of speaking, and having not the\nsmallest wish for a total change, she only deviated so far as to say--\n\n\"You were a good while at Lyme, I think?\"\n\n\"About a fortnight.  I could not leave it till Louisa's doing well was\nquite ascertained.  I had been too deeply concerned in the mischief to\nbe soon at peace.  It had been my doing, solely mine.  She would not\nhave been obstinate if I had not been weak.  The country round Lyme is\nvery fine.  I walked and rode a great deal; and the more I saw, the\nmore I found to admire.\"\n\n\"I should very much like to see Lyme again,\" said Anne.\n\n\"Indeed!  I should not have supposed that you could have found anything\nin Lyme to inspire such a feeling.  The horror and distress you were\ninvolved in, the stretch of mind, the wear of spirits!  I should have\nthought your last impressions of Lyme must have been strong disgust.\"\n\n\"The last hours were certainly very painful,\" replied Anne; \"but when\npain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure.  One does\nnot love a place the less for having suffered in it, unless it has been\nall suffering, nothing but suffering, which was by no means the case at\nLyme.  We were only in anxiety and distress during the last two hours,\nand previously there had been a great deal of enjoyment.  So much\nnovelty and beauty! I have travelled so little, that every fresh place\nwould be interesting to me; but there is real beauty at Lyme; and in\nshort\" (with a faint blush at some recollections), \"altogether my\nimpressions of the place are very agreeable.\"\n\nAs she ceased, the entrance door opened again, and the very party\nappeared for whom they were waiting.  \"Lady Dalrymple, Lady Dalrymple,\"\nwas the rejoicing sound; and with all the eagerness compatible with\nanxious elegance, Sir Walter and his two ladies stepped forward to meet\nher.  Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret, escorted by Mr Elliot and\nColonel Wallis, who had happened to arrive nearly at the same instant,\nadvanced into the room.  The others joined them, and it was a group in\nwhich Anne found herself also necessarily included.  She was divided\nfrom Captain Wentworth.  Their interesting, almost too interesting\nconversation must be broken up for a time, but slight was the penance\ncompared with the happiness which brought it on!  She had learnt, in\nthe last ten minutes, more of his feelings towards Louisa, more of all\nhis feelings than she dared to think of; and she gave herself up to the\ndemands of the party, to the needful civilities of the moment, with\nexquisite, though agitated sensations.  She was in good humour with\nall.  She had received ideas which disposed her to be courteous and\nkind to all, and to pity every one, as being less happy than herself.\n\nThe delightful emotions were a little subdued, when on stepping back\nfrom the group, to be joined again by Captain Wentworth, she saw that\nhe was gone.  She was just in time to see him turn into the Concert\nRoom.  He was gone; he had disappeared, she felt a moment's regret.\nBut \"they should meet again.  He would look for her, he would find her\nout before the evening were over, and at present, perhaps, it was as\nwell to be asunder.  She was in need of a little interval for\nrecollection.\"\n\nUpon Lady Russell's appearance soon afterwards, the whole party was\ncollected, and all that remained was to marshal themselves, and proceed\ninto the Concert Room; and be of all the consequence in their power,\ndraw as many eyes, excite as many whispers, and disturb as many people\nas they could.\n\nVery, very happy were both Elizabeth and Anne Elliot as they walked in.\nElizabeth arm in arm with Miss Carteret, and looking on the broad back\nof the dowager Viscountess Dalrymple before her, had nothing to wish\nfor which did not seem within her reach; and Anne--but it would be an\ninsult to the nature of Anne's felicity, to draw any comparison between\nit and her sister's; the origin of one all selfish vanity, of the other\nall generous attachment.\n\nAnne saw nothing, thought nothing of the brilliancy of the room.  Her\nhappiness was from within.  Her eyes were bright and her cheeks glowed;\nbut she knew nothing about it.  She was thinking only of the last half\nhour, and as they passed to their seats, her mind took a hasty range\nover it.  His choice of subjects, his expressions, and still more his\nmanner and look, had been such as she could see in only one light.  His\nopinion of Louisa Musgrove's inferiority, an opinion which he had\nseemed solicitous to give, his wonder at Captain Benwick, his feelings\nas to a first, strong attachment; sentences begun which he could not\nfinish, his half averted eyes and more than half expressive glance,\nall, all declared that he had a heart returning to her at least; that\nanger, resentment, avoidance, were no more; and that they were\nsucceeded, not merely by friendship and regard, but by the tenderness\nof the past.  Yes, some share of the tenderness of the past.  She could\nnot contemplate the change as implying less.  He must love her.\n\nThese were thoughts, with their attendant visions, which occupied and\nflurried her too much to leave her any power of observation; and she\npassed along the room without having a glimpse of him, without even\ntrying to discern him.  When their places were determined on, and they\nwere all properly arranged, she looked round to see if he should happen\nto be in the same part of the room, but he was not; her eye could not\nreach him; and the concert being just opening, she must consent for a\ntime to be happy in a humbler way.\n\nThe party was divided and disposed of on two contiguous benches: Anne\nwas among those on the foremost, and Mr Elliot had manoeuvred so well,\nwith the assistance of his friend Colonel Wallis, as to have a seat by\nher.  Miss Elliot, surrounded by her cousins, and the principal object\nof Colonel Wallis's gallantry, was quite contented.\n\nAnne's mind was in a most favourable state for the entertainment of the\nevening; it was just occupation enough:  she had feelings for the\ntender, spirits for the gay, attention for the scientific, and patience\nfor the wearisome; and had never liked a concert better, at least\nduring the first act.  Towards the close of it, in the interval\nsucceeding an Italian song, she explained the words of the song to Mr\nElliot.  They had a concert bill between them.\n\n\"This,\" said she, \"is nearly the sense, or rather the meaning of the\nwords, for certainly the sense of an Italian love-song must not be\ntalked of, but it is as nearly the meaning as I can give; for I do not\npretend to understand the language.  I am a very poor Italian scholar.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, I see you are.  I see you know nothing of the matter.  You\nhave only knowledge enough of the language to translate at sight these\ninverted, transposed, curtailed Italian lines, into clear,\ncomprehensible, elegant English.  You need not say anything more of\nyour ignorance.  Here is complete proof.\"\n\n\"I will not oppose such kind politeness; but I should be sorry to be\nexamined by a real proficient.\"\n\n\"I have not had the pleasure of visiting in Camden Place so long,\"\nreplied he, \"without knowing something of Miss Anne Elliot; and I do\nregard her as one who is too modest for the world in general to be\naware of half her accomplishments, and too highly accomplished for\nmodesty to be natural in any other woman.\"\n\n\"For shame! for shame! this is too much flattery.  I forget what we are\nto have next,\" turning to the bill.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Mr Elliot, speaking low, \"I have had a longer\nacquaintance with your character than you are aware of.\"\n\n\"Indeed!  How so?  You can have been acquainted with it only since I\ncame to Bath, excepting as you might hear me previously spoken of in my\nown family.\"\n\n\"I knew you by report long before you came to Bath.  I had heard you\ndescribed by those who knew you intimately.  I have been acquainted\nwith you by character many years.  Your person, your disposition,\naccomplishments, manner; they were all present to me.\"\n\nMr Elliot was not disappointed in the interest he hoped to raise.  No\none can withstand the charm of such a mystery.  To have been described\nlong ago to a recent acquaintance, by nameless people, is irresistible;\nand Anne was all curiosity.  She wondered, and questioned him eagerly;\nbut in vain.  He delighted in being asked, but he would not tell.\n\n\"No, no, some time or other, perhaps, but not now.  He would mention no\nnames now; but such, he could assure her, had been the fact.  He had\nmany years ago received such a description of Miss Anne Elliot as had\ninspired him with the highest idea of her merit, and excited the\nwarmest curiosity to know her.\"\n\nAnne could think of no one so likely to have spoken with partiality of\nher many years ago as the Mr Wentworth of Monkford, Captain Wentworth's\nbrother.  He might have been in Mr Elliot's company, but she had not\ncourage to ask the question.\n\n\"The name of Anne Elliot,\" said he, \"has long had an interesting sound\nto me.  Very long has it possessed a charm over my fancy; and, if I\ndared, I would breathe my wishes that the name might never change.\"\n\nSuch, she believed, were his words; but scarcely had she received their\nsound, than her attention was caught by other sounds immediately behind\nher, which rendered every thing else trivial.  Her father and Lady\nDalrymple were speaking.\n\n\"A well-looking man,\" said Sir Walter, \"a very well-looking man.\"\n\n\"A very fine young man indeed!\" said Lady Dalrymple.  \"More air than\none often sees in Bath.  Irish, I dare say.\"\n\n\"No, I just know his name.  A bowing acquaintance.  Wentworth; Captain\nWentworth of the navy.  His sister married my tenant in Somersetshire,\nthe Croft, who rents Kellynch.\"\n\nBefore Sir Walter had reached this point, Anne's eyes had caught the\nright direction, and distinguished Captain Wentworth standing among a\ncluster of men at a little distance.  As her eyes fell on him, his\nseemed to be withdrawn from her.  It had that appearance.  It seemed as\nif she had been one moment too late; and as long as she dared observe,\nhe did not look again:  but the performance was recommencing, and she\nwas forced to seem to restore her attention to the orchestra and look\nstraight forward.\n\nWhen she could give another glance, he had moved away.  He could not\nhave come nearer to her if he would; she was so surrounded and shut in:\nbut she would rather have caught his eye.\n\nMr Elliot's speech, too, distressed her.  She had no longer any\ninclination to talk to him.  She wished him not so near her.\n\nThe first act was over.  Now she hoped for some beneficial change; and,\nafter a period of nothing-saying amongst the party, some of them did\ndecide on going in quest of tea.  Anne was one of the few who did not\nchoose to move.  She remained in her seat, and so did Lady Russell; but\nshe had the pleasure of getting rid of Mr Elliot; and she did not mean,\nwhatever she might feel on Lady Russell's account, to shrink from\nconversation with Captain Wentworth, if he gave her the opportunity.\nShe was persuaded by Lady Russell's countenance that she had seen him.\n\nHe did not come however.  Anne sometimes fancied she discerned him at a\ndistance, but he never came.  The anxious interval wore away\nunproductively.  The others returned, the room filled again, benches\nwere reclaimed and repossessed, and another hour of pleasure or of\npenance was to be sat out, another hour of music was to give delight or\nthe gapes, as real or affected taste for it prevailed.  To Anne, it\nchiefly wore the prospect of an hour of agitation.  She could not quit\nthat room in peace without seeing Captain Wentworth once more, without\nthe interchange of one friendly look.\n\nIn re-settling themselves there were now many changes, the result of\nwhich was favourable for her.  Colonel Wallis declined sitting down\nagain, and Mr Elliot was invited by Elizabeth and Miss Carteret, in a\nmanner not to be refused, to sit between them; and by some other\nremovals, and a little scheming of her own,  Anne was enabled to place\nherself much nearer the end of the bench than she had been before, much\nmore within reach of a passer-by.  She could not do so, without\ncomparing herself with Miss Larolles, the inimitable Miss Larolles; but\nstill she did it, and not with much happier effect; though by what\nseemed prosperity in the shape of an early abdication in her next\nneighbours, she found herself at the very end of the bench before the\nconcert closed.\n\nSuch was her situation, with a vacant space at hand, when Captain\nWentworth was again in sight.  She saw him not far off.  He saw her\ntoo; yet he looked grave, and seemed irresolute, and only by very slow\ndegrees came at last near enough to speak to her.  She felt that\nsomething must be the matter.  The change was indubitable.  The\ndifference between his present air and what it had been in the Octagon\nRoom was strikingly great.  Why was it?  She thought of her father, of\nLady Russell.  Could there have been any unpleasant glances?  He began\nby speaking of the concert gravely, more like the Captain Wentworth of\nUppercross; owned himself disappointed, had expected singing; and in\nshort, must confess that he should not be sorry when it was over.  Anne\nreplied, and spoke in defence of the performance so well, and yet in\nallowance for his feelings so pleasantly, that his countenance\nimproved, and he replied again with almost a smile.  They talked for a\nfew minutes more; the improvement held; he even looked down towards the\nbench, as if he saw a place on it well worth occupying; when at that\nmoment a touch on her shoulder obliged Anne to turn round.  It came\nfrom Mr Elliot.  He begged her pardon, but she must be applied to, to\nexplain Italian again.  Miss Carteret was very anxious to have a\ngeneral idea of what was next to be sung.  Anne could not refuse; but\nnever had she sacrificed to politeness with a more suffering spirit.\n\nA few minutes, though as few as possible, were inevitably consumed; and\nwhen her own mistress again, when able to turn and look as she had done\nbefore, she found herself accosted by Captain Wentworth, in a reserved\nyet hurried sort of farewell.  \"He must wish her good night; he was\ngoing; he should get home as fast as he could.\"\n\n\"Is not this song worth staying for?\" said Anne, suddenly struck by an\nidea which made her yet more anxious to be encouraging.\n\n\"No!\" he replied impressively, \"there is nothing worth my staying for;\"\nand he was gone directly.\n\nJealousy of Mr Elliot!  It was the only intelligible motive.  Captain\nWentworth jealous of her affection!  Could she have believed it a week\nago; three hours ago!  For a moment the gratification was exquisite.\nBut, alas! there were very different thoughts to succeed.  How was such\njealousy to be quieted?  How was the truth to reach him?  How, in all\nthe peculiar disadvantages of their respective situations, would he\never learn of her real sentiments?  It was misery to think of Mr\nElliot's attentions.  Their evil was incalculable.\n\n\n\nChapter 21\n\n\nAnne recollected with pleasure the next morning her promise of going to\nMrs Smith, meaning that it should engage her from home at the time when\nMr Elliot would be most likely to call; for to avoid Mr Elliot was\nalmost a first object.\n\nShe felt a great deal of good-will towards him.  In spite of the\nmischief of his attentions, she owed him gratitude and regard, perhaps\ncompassion.  She could not help thinking much of the extraordinary\ncircumstances attending their acquaintance, of the right which he\nseemed to have to interest her, by everything in situation, by his own\nsentiments, by his early prepossession.  It was altogether very\nextraordinary; flattering, but painful.  There was much to regret.  How\nshe might have felt had there been no Captain Wentworth in the case,\nwas not worth enquiry; for there was a Captain Wentworth; and be the\nconclusion of the present suspense good or bad, her affection would be\nhis for ever.  Their union, she believed, could not divide her more\nfrom other men, than their final separation.\n\nPrettier musings of high-wrought love and eternal constancy, could\nnever have passed along the streets of Bath, than Anne was sporting\nwith from Camden Place to Westgate Buildings.  It was almost enough to\nspread purification and perfume all the way.\n\nShe was sure of a pleasant reception; and her friend seemed this\nmorning particularly obliged to her for coming, seemed hardly to have\nexpected her, though it had been an appointment.\n\nAn account of the concert was immediately claimed; and Anne's\nrecollections of the concert were quite happy enough to animate her\nfeatures and make her rejoice to talk of it.  All that she could tell\nshe told most gladly, but the all was little for one who had been\nthere, and unsatisfactory for such an enquirer as Mrs Smith, who had\nalready heard, through the short cut of a laundress and a waiter,\nrather more of the general success and produce of the evening than Anne\ncould relate, and who now asked in vain for several particulars of the\ncompany.  Everybody of any consequence or notoriety in Bath was well\nknow by name to Mrs Smith.\n\n\"The little Durands were there, I conclude,\" said she, \"with their\nmouths open to catch the music, like unfledged sparrows ready to be\nfed.  They never miss a concert.\"\n\n\"Yes; I did not see them myself, but I heard Mr Elliot say they were in\nthe room.\"\n\n\"The Ibbotsons, were they there? and the two new beauties, with the\ntall Irish officer, who is talked of for one of them.\"\n\n\"I do not know.  I do not think they were.\"\n\n\"Old Lady Mary Maclean?  I need not ask after her.  She never misses, I\nknow; and you must have seen her.  She must have been in your own\ncircle; for as you went with Lady Dalrymple, you were in the seats of\ngrandeur, round the orchestra, of course.\"\n\n\"No, that was what I dreaded.  It would have been very unpleasant to me\nin every respect.  But happily Lady Dalrymple always chooses to be\nfarther off; and we were exceedingly well placed, that is, for hearing;\nI must not say for seeing, because I appear to have seen very little.\"\n\n\"Oh! you saw enough for your own amusement.  I can understand.  There\nis a sort of domestic enjoyment to be known even in a crowd, and this\nyou had.  You were a large party in yourselves, and you wanted nothing\nbeyond.\"\n\n\"But I ought to have looked about me more,\" said Anne, conscious while\nshe spoke that there had in fact been no want of looking about, that\nthe object only had been deficient.\n\n\"No, no; you were better employed.  You need not tell me that you had a\npleasant evening.  I see it in your eye.  I perfectly see how the hours\npassed:  that you had always something agreeable to listen to.  In the\nintervals of the concert it was conversation.\"\n\nAnne half smiled and said, \"Do you see that in my eye?\"\n\n\"Yes, I do.  Your countenance perfectly informs me that you were in\ncompany last night with the person whom you think the most agreeable in\nthe world, the person who interests you at this present time more than\nall the rest of the world put together.\"\n\nA blush overspread Anne's cheeks.  She could say nothing.\n\n\"And such being the case,\" continued Mrs Smith, after a short pause, \"I\nhope you believe that I do know how to value your kindness in coming to\nme this morning.  It is really very good of you to come and sit with\nme, when you must have so many pleasanter demands upon your time.\"\n\nAnne heard nothing of this.  She was still in the astonishment and\nconfusion excited by her friend's penetration, unable to imagine how\nany report of Captain Wentworth could have reached her.  After another\nshort silence--\n\n\"Pray,\" said Mrs Smith, \"is Mr Elliot aware of your acquaintance with\nme?  Does he know that I am in Bath?\"\n\n\"Mr Elliot!\" repeated Anne, looking up surprised.  A moment's\nreflection shewed her the mistake she had been under.  She caught it\ninstantaneously; and recovering her courage with the feeling of safety,\nsoon added, more composedly, \"Are you acquainted with Mr Elliot?\"\n\n\"I have been a good deal acquainted with him,\" replied Mrs Smith,\ngravely, \"but it seems worn out now.  It is a great while since we met.\"\n\n\"I was not at all aware of this.  You never mentioned it before.  Had I\nknown it, I would have had the pleasure of talking to him about you.\"\n\n\"To confess the truth,\" said Mrs Smith, assuming her usual air of\ncheerfulness, \"that is exactly the pleasure I want you to have.  I want\nyou to talk about me to Mr Elliot.  I want your interest with him.  He\ncan be of essential service to me; and if you would have the goodness,\nmy dear Miss Elliot, to make it an object to yourself, of course it is\ndone.\"\n\n\"I should be extremely happy; I hope you cannot doubt my willingness to\nbe of even the slightest use to you,\" replied Anne; \"but I suspect that\nyou are considering me as having a higher claim on Mr Elliot, a greater\nright to influence him, than is really the case.  I am sure you have,\nsomehow or other, imbibed such a notion.  You must consider me only as\nMr Elliot's relation.  If in that light there is anything which you\nsuppose his cousin might fairly ask of him, I beg you would not\nhesitate to employ me.\"\n\nMrs Smith gave her a penetrating glance, and then, smiling, said--\n\n\"I have been a little premature, I perceive; I beg your pardon.  I\nought to have waited for official information,  But now, my dear Miss\nElliot, as an old friend, do give me a hint as to when I may speak.\nNext week?  To be sure by next week I may be allowed to think it all\nsettled, and build my own selfish schemes on Mr Elliot's good fortune.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Anne, \"nor next week, nor next, nor next.  I assure you\nthat nothing of the sort you are thinking of will be settled any week.\nI am not going to marry Mr Elliot.  I should like to know why you\nimagine I am?\"\n\nMrs Smith looked at her again, looked earnestly, smiled, shook her\nhead, and exclaimed--\n\n\"Now, how I do wish I understood you!  How I do wish I knew what you\nwere at!  I have a great idea that you do not design to be cruel, when\nthe right moment occurs.  Till it does come, you know, we women never\nmean to have anybody.  It is a thing of course among us, that every man\nis refused, till he offers.  But why should you be cruel?  Let me plead\nfor my--present friend I cannot call him, but for my former friend.\nWhere can you look for a more suitable match?  Where could you expect a\nmore gentlemanlike, agreeable man?  Let me recommend Mr Elliot.  I am\nsure you hear nothing but good of him from Colonel Wallis; and who can\nknow him better than Colonel Wallis?\"\n\n\"My dear Mrs Smith, Mr Elliot's wife has not been dead much above half\na year.  He ought not to be supposed to be paying his addresses to any\none.\"\n\n\"Oh! if these are your only objections,\" cried Mrs Smith, archly, \"Mr\nElliot is safe, and I shall give myself no more trouble about him.  Do\nnot forget me when you are married, that's all.  Let him know me to be\na friend of yours, and then he will think little of the trouble\nrequired, which it is very natural for him now, with so many affairs\nand engagements of his own, to avoid and get rid of as he can; very\nnatural, perhaps.  Ninety-nine out of a hundred would do the same.  Of\ncourse, he cannot be aware of the importance to me.  Well, my dear Miss\nElliot, I hope and trust you will be very happy.  Mr Elliot has sense\nto understand the value of such a woman.  Your peace will not be\nshipwrecked as mine has been.  You are safe in all worldly matters, and\nsafe in his character.  He will not be led astray; he will not be\nmisled by others to his ruin.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Anne, \"I can readily believe all that of my cousin.  He\nseems to have a calm decided temper, not at all open to dangerous\nimpressions.  I consider him with great respect.  I have no reason,\nfrom any thing that has fallen within my observation, to do otherwise.\nBut I have not known him long; and he is not a man, I think, to be\nknown intimately soon.  Will not this manner of speaking of him, Mrs\nSmith, convince you that he is nothing to me?  Surely this must be calm\nenough.  And, upon my word, he is nothing to me.  Should he ever\npropose to me (which I have very little reason to imagine he has any\nthought of doing), I shall not accept him.  I assure you I shall not.\nI assure you, Mr Elliot had not the share which you have been\nsupposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford:\nnot Mr Elliot; it is not Mr Elliot that--\"\n\nShe stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had implied so much;\nbut less would hardly have been sufficient.  Mrs Smith would hardly\nhave believed so soon in Mr Elliot's failure, but from the perception\nof there being a somebody else.  As it was, she instantly submitted,\nand with all the semblance of seeing nothing beyond; and Anne, eager to\nescape farther notice, was impatient to know why Mrs Smith should have\nfancied she was to marry Mr Elliot; where she could have received the\nidea, or from whom she could have heard it.\n\n\"Do tell me how it first came into your head.\"\n\n\"It first came into my head,\" replied Mrs Smith, \"upon finding how much\nyou were together, and feeling it to be the most probable thing in the\nworld to be wished for by everybody belonging to either of you; and you\nmay depend upon it that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in\nthe same way.  But I never heard it spoken of till two days ago.\"\n\n\"And has it indeed been spoken of?\"\n\n\"Did you observe the woman who opened the door to you when you called\nyesterday?\"\n\n\"No.  Was not it Mrs Speed, as usual, or the maid?  I observed no one\nin particular.\"\n\n\"It was my friend Mrs Rooke; Nurse Rooke; who, by-the-bye, had a great\ncuriosity to see you, and was delighted to be in the way to let you in.\nShe came away from Marlborough Buildings only on Sunday; and she it was\nwho told me you were to marry Mr Elliot.  She had had it from Mrs\nWallis herself, which did not seem bad authority.  She sat an hour with\nme on Monday evening, and gave me the whole history.\" \"The whole\nhistory,\" repeated Anne, laughing.  \"She could not make a very long\nhistory, I think, of one such little article of unfounded news.\"\n\nMrs Smith said nothing.\n\n\"But,\" continued Anne, presently, \"though there is no truth in my\nhaving this claim on Mr Elliot, I should be extremely happy to be of\nuse to you in any way that I could.  Shall I mention to him your being\nin Bath?  Shall I take any message?\"\n\n\"No, I thank you:  no, certainly not.  In the warmth of the moment, and\nunder a mistaken impression, I might, perhaps, have endeavoured to\ninterest you in some circumstances; but not now.  No, I thank you, I\nhave nothing to trouble you with.\"\n\n\"I think you spoke of having known Mr Elliot many years?\"\n\n\"I did.\"\n\n\"Not before he was married, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Yes; he was not married when I knew him first.\"\n\n\"And--were you much acquainted?\"\n\n\"Intimately.\"\n\n\"Indeed!  Then do tell me what he was at that time of life.  I have a\ngreat curiosity to know what Mr Elliot was as a very young man.  Was he\nat all such as he appears now?\"\n\n\"I have not seen Mr Elliot these three years,\" was Mrs Smith's answer,\ngiven so gravely that it was impossible to pursue the subject farther;\nand Anne felt that she had gained nothing but an increase of curiosity.\nThey were both silent:  Mrs Smith very thoughtful.  At last--\n\n\"I beg your pardon, my dear Miss Elliot,\" she cried, in her natural\ntone of cordiality, \"I beg your pardon for the short answers I have\nbeen giving you, but I have been uncertain what I ought to do.  I have\nbeen doubting and considering as to what I ought to tell you.  There\nwere many things to be taken into the account.  One hates to be\nofficious, to be giving bad impressions, making mischief.  Even the\nsmooth surface of family-union seems worth preserving, though there may\nbe nothing durable beneath.  However, I have determined; I think I am\nright; I think you ought to be made acquainted with Mr Elliot's real\ncharacter.  Though I fully believe that, at present, you have not the\nsmallest intention of accepting him, there is no saying what may\nhappen.  You might, some time or other, be differently affected towards\nhim.  Hear the truth, therefore, now, while you are unprejudiced.  Mr\nElliot is a man without heart or conscience; a designing, wary,\ncold-blooded being, who thinks only of himself; whom for his own\ninterest or ease, would be guilty of any cruelty, or any treachery,\nthat could be perpetrated without risk of his general character.  He\nhas no feeling for others.  Those whom he has been the chief cause of\nleading into ruin, he can neglect and desert without the smallest\ncompunction.  He is totally beyond the reach of any sentiment of\njustice or compassion.  Oh! he is black at heart, hollow and black!\"\n\nAnne's astonished air, and exclamation of wonder, made her pause, and\nin a calmer manner, she added,\n\n\"My expressions startle you.  You must allow for an injured, angry\nwoman.  But I will try to command myself.  I will not abuse him.  I\nwill only tell you what I have found him.  Facts shall speak.  He was\nthe intimate friend of my dear husband, who trusted and loved him, and\nthought him as good as himself.  The intimacy had been formed before\nour marriage.  I found them most intimate friends; and I, too, became\nexcessively pleased with Mr Elliot, and entertained the highest opinion\nof him.  At nineteen, you know, one does not think very seriously; but\nMr Elliot appeared to me quite as good as others, and much more\nagreeable than most others, and we were almost always together.  We\nwere principally in town, living in very good style.  He was then the\ninferior in circumstances; he was then the poor one; he had chambers in\nthe Temple, and it was as much as he could do to support the appearance\nof a gentleman.  He had always a home with us whenever he chose it; he\nwas always welcome; he was like a brother.  My poor Charles, who had\nthe finest, most generous spirit in the world, would have divided his\nlast farthing with him; and I know that his purse was open to him; I\nknow that he often assisted him.\"\n\n\"This must have been about that very period of Mr Elliot's life,\" said\nAnne, \"which has always excited my particular curiosity.  It must have\nbeen about the same time that he became known to my father and sister.\nI never knew him myself; I only heard of him; but there was a something\nin his conduct then, with regard to my father and sister, and\nafterwards in the circumstances of his marriage, which I never could\nquite reconcile with present times.  It seemed to announce a different\nsort of man.\"\n\n\"I know it all, I know it all,\" cried Mrs Smith.  \"He had been\nintroduced to Sir Walter and your sister before I was acquainted with\nhim, but I heard him speak of them for ever.  I know he was invited and\nencouraged, and I know he did not choose to go.  I can satisfy you,\nperhaps, on points which you would little expect; and as to his\nmarriage, I knew all about it at the time.  I was privy to all the fors\nand againsts; I was the friend to whom he confided his hopes and plans;\nand though I did not know his wife previously, her inferior situation\nin society, indeed, rendered that impossible, yet I knew her all her\nlife afterwards, or at least till within the last two years of her\nlife, and can answer any question you may wish to put.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said Anne, \"I have no particular enquiry to make about her.  I\nhave always understood they were not a happy couple.  But I should like\nto know why, at that time of his life, he should slight my father's\nacquaintance as he did.  My father was certainly disposed to take very\nkind and proper notice of him.  Why did Mr Elliot draw back?\"\n\n\"Mr Elliot,\" replied Mrs Smith, \"at that period of his life, had one\nobject in view:  to make his fortune, and by a rather quicker process\nthan the law.  He was determined to make it by marriage.  He was\ndetermined, at least, not to mar it by an imprudent marriage; and I\nknow it was his belief (whether justly or not, of course I cannot\ndecide), that your father and sister, in their civilities and\ninvitations, were designing a match between the heir and the young\nlady, and it was impossible that such a match should have answered his\nideas of wealth and independence.  That was his motive for drawing\nback, I can assure you.  He told me the whole story.  He had no\nconcealments with me.  It was curious, that having just left you behind\nme in Bath, my first and principal acquaintance on marrying should be\nyour cousin; and that, through him, I should be continually hearing of\nyour father and sister.  He described one Miss Elliot, and I thought\nvery affectionately of the other.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" cried Anne, struck by a sudden idea, \"you sometimes spoke of\nme to Mr Elliot?\"\n\n\"To be sure I did; very often.  I used to boast of my own Anne Elliot,\nand vouch for your being a very different creature from--\"\n\nShe checked herself just in time.\n\n\"This accounts for something which Mr Elliot said last night,\" cried\nAnne.  \"This explains it.  I found he had been used to hear of me.  I\ncould not comprehend how.  What wild imaginations one forms where dear\nself is concerned!  How sure to be mistaken!  But I beg your pardon; I\nhave interrupted you.  Mr Elliot married then completely for money?\nThe circumstances, probably, which first opened your eyes to his\ncharacter.\"\n\nMrs Smith hesitated a little here.  \"Oh! those things are too common.\nWhen one lives in the world, a man or woman's marrying for money is too\ncommon to strike one as it ought.  I was very young, and associated\nonly with the young, and we were a thoughtless, gay set, without any\nstrict rules of conduct.  We lived for enjoyment.  I think differently\nnow; time and sickness and sorrow have given me other notions; but at\nthat period I must own I saw nothing reprehensible in what Mr Elliot\nwas doing.  'To do the best for himself,' passed as a duty.\"\n\n\"But was not she a very low woman?\"\n\n\"Yes; which I objected to, but he would not regard.  Money, money, was\nall that he wanted.  Her father was a grazier, her grandfather had been\na butcher, but that was all nothing.  She was a fine woman, had had a\ndecent education, was brought forward by some cousins, thrown by chance\ninto Mr Elliot's company, and fell in love with him; and not a\ndifficulty or a scruple was there on his side, with respect to her\nbirth.  All his caution was spent in being secured of the real amount\nof her fortune, before he committed himself.  Depend upon it, whatever\nesteem Mr Elliot may have for his own situation in life now, as a young\nman he had not the smallest value for it.  His chance for the Kellynch\nestate was something, but all the honour of the family he held as cheap\nas dirt.  I have often heard him declare, that if baronetcies were\nsaleable, anybody should have his for fifty pounds, arms and motto,\nname and livery included; but I will not pretend to repeat half that I\nused to hear him say on that subject.  It would not be fair; and yet\nyou ought to have proof, for what is all this but assertion, and you\nshall have proof.\"\n\n\"Indeed, my dear Mrs Smith, I want none,\" cried Anne.  \"You have\nasserted nothing contradictory to what Mr Elliot appeared to be some\nyears ago.  This is all in confirmation, rather, of what we used to\nhear and believe.  I am more curious to know why he should be so\ndifferent now.\"\n\n\"But for my satisfaction, if you will have the goodness to ring for\nMary; stay:  I am sure you will have the still greater goodness of\ngoing yourself into my bedroom, and bringing me the small inlaid box\nwhich you will find on the upper shelf of the closet.\"\n\nAnne, seeing her friend to be earnestly bent on it, did as she was\ndesired.  The box was brought and placed before her, and Mrs Smith,\nsighing over it as she unlocked it, said--\n\n\"This is full of papers belonging to him, to my husband; a small\nportion only of what I had to look over when I lost him.  The letter I\nam looking for was one written by Mr Elliot to him before our marriage,\nand happened to be saved; why, one can hardly imagine.  But he was\ncareless and immethodical, like other men, about those things; and when\nI came to examine his papers, I found it with others still more\ntrivial, from different people scattered here and there, while many\nletters and memorandums of real importance had been destroyed.  Here it\nis; I would not burn it, because being even then very little satisfied\nwith Mr Elliot, I was determined to preserve every document of former\nintimacy.  I have now another motive for being glad that I can produce\nit.\"\n\nThis was the letter, directed to \"Charles Smith, Esq. Tunbridge Wells,\"\nand dated from London, as far back as July, 1803:--\n\n\"Dear Smith,--I have received yours.  Your kindness almost overpowers\nme.  I wish nature had made such hearts as yours more common, but I\nhave lived three-and-twenty years in the world, and have seen none like\nit.  At present, believe me, I have no need of your services, being in\ncash again.  Give me joy:  I have got rid of Sir Walter and Miss.  They\nare gone back to Kellynch, and almost made me swear to visit them this\nsummer; but my first visit to Kellynch will be with a surveyor, to tell\nme how to bring it with best advantage to the hammer.  The baronet,\nnevertheless, is not unlikely to marry again; he is quite fool enough.\nIf he does, however, they will leave me in peace, which may be a decent\nequivalent  for the reversion.  He is worse than last year.\n\n\"I wish I had any name but Elliot.  I am sick of it.  The name of\nWalter I can drop, thank God! and I desire you will never insult me\nwith my second W. again, meaning, for the rest of my life, to be only\nyours truly,--Wm. Elliot.\"\n\nSuch a letter could not be read without putting Anne in a glow; and Mrs\nSmith, observing the high colour in her face, said--\n\n\"The language, I know, is highly disrespectful.  Though I have forgot\nthe exact terms, I have a perfect impression of the general meaning.\nBut it shows you the man.  Mark his professions to my poor husband.\nCan any thing be stronger?\"\n\nAnne could not immediately get over the shock and mortification of\nfinding such words applied to her father.  She was obliged to recollect\nthat her seeing the letter was a violation of the laws of honour, that\nno one ought to be judged or to be known by such testimonies, that no\nprivate correspondence could bear the eye of others, before she could\nrecover calmness enough to return the letter which she had been\nmeditating over, and say--\n\n\"Thank you.  This is full proof undoubtedly; proof of every thing you\nwere saying.  But why be acquainted with us now?\"\n\n\"I can explain this too,\" cried Mrs Smith, smiling.\n\n\"Can you really?\"\n\n\"Yes.  I have shewn you Mr Elliot as he was a dozen years ago, and I\nwill shew him as he is now.  I cannot produce written proof again, but\nI can give as authentic oral testimony as you can desire, of what he is\nnow wanting, and what he is now doing.  He is no hypocrite now.  He\ntruly wants to marry you.  His present attentions to your family are\nvery sincere:  quite from the heart.  I will give you my authority: his\nfriend Colonel Wallis.\"\n\n\"Colonel Wallis! you are acquainted with him?\"\n\n\"No.  It does not come to me in quite so direct a line as that; it\ntakes a bend or two, but nothing of consequence.  The stream is as good\nas at first; the little rubbish it collects in the turnings is easily\nmoved away.  Mr Elliot talks unreservedly to Colonel Wallis of his\nviews on you, which said Colonel Wallis, I imagine to be, in himself, a\nsensible, careful, discerning sort of character; but Colonel Wallis has\na very pretty silly wife, to whom he tells things which he had better\nnot, and he repeats it all to her.  She in the overflowing spirits of\nher recovery, repeats it all to her nurse; and the nurse  knowing my\nacquaintance with you, very naturally brings it all to me.  On Monday\nevening, my good friend Mrs Rooke let me thus much into the secrets of\nMarlborough Buildings.  When I talked of a whole history, therefore,\nyou see I was not romancing so much as you supposed.\"\n\n\"My dear Mrs Smith, your authority is deficient.  This will not do.  Mr\nElliot's having any views on me will not in the least account for the\nefforts he made towards a reconciliation with my father.  That was all\nprior to my coming to Bath.  I found them on the most friendly terms\nwhen I arrived.\"\n\n\"I know you did; I know it all perfectly, but--\"\n\n\"Indeed, Mrs Smith, we must not expect to get real information in such\na line.  Facts or opinions which are to pass through the hands of so\nmany, to be misconceived by folly in one, and ignorance in another, can\nhardly have much truth left.\"\n\n\"Only give me a hearing.  You will soon be able to judge of the general\ncredit due, by listening to some particulars which you can yourself\nimmediately contradict or confirm.  Nobody supposes that you were his\nfirst inducement.  He had seen you indeed, before he came to Bath, and\nadmired you, but without knowing it to be you.  So says my historian,\nat least.  Is this true?  Did he see you last summer or autumn,\n'somewhere down in the west,' to use her own words, without knowing it\nto be you?\"\n\n\"He certainly did.  So far it is very true.  At Lyme.  I happened to be\nat Lyme.\"\n\n\"Well,\" continued Mrs Smith, triumphantly, \"grant my friend the credit\ndue to the establishment of the first point asserted.  He saw you then\nat Lyme, and liked you so well as to be exceedingly pleased to meet\nwith you again in Camden Place, as Miss Anne Elliot, and from that\nmoment, I have no doubt, had a double motive in his visits there.  But\nthere was another, and an earlier, which I will now explain.  If there\nis anything in my story which you know to be either false or\nimprobable, stop me.  My account states, that your sister's friend, the\nlady now staying with you, whom I have heard you mention, came to Bath\nwith Miss Elliot and Sir Walter as long ago as September (in short when\nthey first came themselves), and has been staying there ever since;\nthat she is a clever, insinuating, handsome woman, poor and plausible,\nand altogether such in situation and manner, as to give a general idea,\namong Sir Walter's acquaintance, of her meaning to be Lady Elliot, and\nas general a surprise that Miss Elliot should be apparently, blind to\nthe danger.\"\n\nHere Mrs Smith paused a moment; but Anne had not a word to say, and she\ncontinued--\n\n\"This was the light in which it appeared to those who knew the family,\nlong before you returned to it; and Colonel Wallis had his eye upon\nyour father enough to be sensible of it, though he did not then visit\nin Camden Place; but his regard for Mr Elliot gave him an interest in\nwatching all that was going on there, and when Mr Elliot came to Bath\nfor a day or two, as he happened to do a little before Christmas,\nColonel Wallis made him acquainted with the appearance of things, and\nthe reports beginning to prevail.  Now you are to understand, that time\nhad worked a very material change in Mr Elliot's opinions as to the\nvalue of a baronetcy.  Upon all points of blood and connexion he is a\ncompletely altered man.  Having long had as much money as he could\nspend, nothing to wish for on the side of avarice or indulgence, he has\nbeen gradually learning to pin his happiness upon the consequence he is\nheir to.  I thought it coming on before our acquaintance ceased, but it\nis now a confirmed feeling.  He cannot bear the idea of not being Sir\nWilliam.  You may guess, therefore, that the news he heard from his\nfriend could not be very agreeable, and you may guess what it produced;\nthe resolution of coming back to Bath as soon as possible, and of\nfixing himself here for a time, with the view of renewing his former\nacquaintance, and recovering such a footing in the family as might give\nhim the means of ascertaining the degree of his danger, and of\ncircumventing the lady if he found it material.  This was agreed upon\nbetween the two friends as the only thing to be done; and Colonel\nWallis was to assist in every way that he could.  He was to be\nintroduced, and Mrs Wallis was to be introduced, and everybody was to\nbe introduced.  Mr Elliot came back accordingly; and on application was\nforgiven, as you know, and re-admitted into the family; and there it\nwas his constant object, and his only object (till your arrival added\nanother motive), to watch Sir Walter and Mrs Clay.  He omitted no\nopportunity of being with them, threw himself in their way, called at\nall hours; but I need not be particular on this subject.  You can\nimagine what an artful man would do; and with this guide, perhaps, may\nrecollect what you have seen him do.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Anne, \"you tell me nothing which does not accord with what\nI have known, or could imagine.  There is always something offensive in\nthe details of cunning.  The manoeuvres of selfishness and duplicity\nmust ever be revolting, but I have heard nothing which really surprises\nme.  I know those who would be shocked by such a representation of Mr\nElliot, who would have difficulty in believing it; but I have never\nbeen satisfied.  I have always wanted some other motive for his conduct\nthan appeared.  I should like to know his present opinion, as to the\nprobability of the event he has been in dread of; whether he considers\nthe danger to be lessening or not.\"\n\n\"Lessening, I understand,\" replied Mrs Smith.  \"He thinks Mrs Clay\nafraid of him, aware that he sees through her, and not daring to\nproceed as she might do in his absence.  But since he must be absent\nsome time or other, I do not perceive how he can ever be secure while\nshe holds her present influence.  Mrs Wallis has an amusing idea, as\nnurse tells me, that it is to be put into the marriage articles when\nyou and Mr Elliot marry, that your father is not to marry Mrs Clay.  A\nscheme, worthy of Mrs Wallis's understanding, by all accounts; but my\nsensible nurse Rooke sees the absurdity of it.  'Why, to be sure,\nma'am,' said she, 'it would not prevent his marrying anybody else.'\nAnd, indeed, to own the truth, I do not think nurse, in her heart, is a\nvery strenuous opposer of Sir Walter's making a second match.  She must\nbe allowed to be a favourer of matrimony, you know; and (since self\nwill intrude) who can say that she may not have some flying visions of\nattending the next Lady Elliot, through Mrs Wallis's recommendation?\"\n\n\"I am very glad to know all this,\" said Anne, after a little\nthoughtfulness.  \"It will be more painful to me in some respects to be\nin company with him, but I shall know better what to do.  My line of\nconduct will be more direct.  Mr Elliot is evidently a disingenuous,\nartificial, worldly man, who has never had any better principle to\nguide him than selfishness.\"\n\nBut Mr Elliot was not done with.  Mrs Smith had been carried away from\nher first direction, and Anne had forgotten, in the interest of her own\nfamily concerns, how much had been originally implied against him; but\nher attention was now called to the explanation of those first hints,\nand she listened to a recital which, if it did not perfectly justify\nthe unqualified bitterness of Mrs Smith, proved him to have been very\nunfeeling in his conduct towards her; very deficient both in justice\nand compassion.\n\nShe learned that (the intimacy between them continuing unimpaired by Mr\nElliot's marriage) they had been as before always together, and Mr\nElliot had led his friend into expenses much beyond his fortune.  Mrs\nSmith did not want to take blame to herself, and was most tender of\nthrowing any on her husband; but Anne could collect that their income\nhad never been equal to their style of living, and that from the first\nthere had been a great deal of general and joint extravagance.  From\nhis wife's account of him she could discern Mr Smith to have been a man\nof warm feelings, easy temper, careless habits, and not strong\nunderstanding, much more amiable than his friend, and very unlike him,\nled by him, and probably despised by him.  Mr Elliot, raised by his\nmarriage to great affluence, and disposed to every gratification of\npleasure and vanity which could be commanded without involving himself,\n(for with all his self-indulgence he had become a prudent man), and\nbeginning to be rich, just as his friend ought to have found himself to\nbe poor, seemed to have had no concern at all for that friend's\nprobable finances, but, on the contrary, had been prompting and\nencouraging expenses which could end only in ruin; and the Smiths\naccordingly had been ruined.\n\nThe husband had died just in time to be spared the full knowledge of\nit.  They had previously known embarrassments enough to try the\nfriendship of their friends, and to prove that Mr Elliot's had better\nnot be tried; but it was not till his death that the wretched state of\nhis affairs was fully known.  With a confidence in Mr Elliot's regard,\nmore creditable to his feelings than his judgement, Mr Smith had\nappointed him the executor of his will; but Mr Elliot would not act,\nand the difficulties and distress which this refusal had heaped on her,\nin addition to the inevitable sufferings of her situation, had been\nsuch as could not be related without anguish of spirit, or listened to\nwithout corresponding indignation.\n\nAnne was shewn some letters of his on the occasion, answers to urgent\napplications from Mrs Smith, which all breathed the same stern\nresolution of not engaging in a fruitless trouble, and, under a cold\ncivility, the same hard-hearted indifference to any of the evils it\nmight bring on her.  It was a dreadful picture of ingratitude and\ninhumanity; and Anne felt, at some moments, that no flagrant open crime\ncould have been worse.  She had a great deal to listen to; all the\nparticulars of past sad scenes, all the minutiae of distress upon\ndistress, which in former conversations had been merely hinted at, were\ndwelt on now with a natural indulgence.  Anne could perfectly\ncomprehend the exquisite relief, and was only the more inclined to\nwonder at the composure of her friend's usual state of mind.\n\nThere was one circumstance in the history of her grievances of\nparticular irritation.  She had good reason to believe that some\nproperty of her husband in the West Indies, which had been for many\nyears under a sort of sequestration for the payment of its own\nincumbrances, might be recoverable by proper measures; and this\nproperty, though not large, would be enough to make her comparatively\nrich.  But there was nobody to stir in it.  Mr Elliot would do nothing,\nand she could do nothing herself, equally disabled from personal\nexertion by her state of bodily weakness, and from employing others by\nher want of money.  She had no natural connexions to assist her even\nwith their counsel, and she could not afford to purchase the assistance\nof the law.  This was a cruel aggravation of actually straitened means.\nTo feel that she ought to be in better circumstances, that a little\ntrouble in the right place might do it, and to fear that delay might be\neven weakening her claims, was hard to bear.\n\nIt was on this point that she had hoped to engage Anne's good offices\nwith Mr Elliot.  She had previously, in the anticipation of their\nmarriage, been very apprehensive of losing her friend by it; but on\nbeing assured that he could have made no attempt of that nature, since\nhe did not even know her to be in Bath, it immediately occurred, that\nsomething might be done in her favour by the influence of the woman he\nloved, and she had been hastily preparing to interest Anne's feelings,\nas far as the observances due to Mr Elliot's character would allow,\nwhen Anne's refutation of the supposed engagement changed the face of\neverything; and while it took from her the new-formed hope of\nsucceeding in the object of her first anxiety, left her at least the\ncomfort of telling the whole story her own way.\n\nAfter listening to this full description of Mr Elliot, Anne could not\nbut express some surprise at Mrs Smith's having spoken of him so\nfavourably in the beginning of their conversation.  \"She had seemed to\nrecommend and praise him!\"\n\n\"My dear,\" was Mrs Smith's reply, \"there was nothing else to be done.\nI considered your marrying him as certain, though he might not yet have\nmade the offer, and I could no more speak the truth of him, than if he\nhad been your husband.  My heart bled for you, as I talked of\nhappiness; and yet he is sensible, he is agreeable, and with such a\nwoman as you, it was not absolutely hopeless.  He was very unkind to\nhis first wife.  They were wretched together.  But she was too ignorant\nand giddy for respect, and he had never loved her.  I was willing to\nhope that you must fare better.\"\n\nAnne could just acknowledge within herself such a possibility of having\nbeen induced to marry him, as made her shudder at the idea of the\nmisery which must have followed.  It was just possible that she might\nhave been persuaded by Lady Russell!  And under such a supposition,\nwhich would have been most miserable, when time had disclosed all, too\nlate?\n\nIt was very desirable that Lady Russell should be no longer deceived;\nand one of the concluding arrangements of this important conference,\nwhich carried them through the greater part of the morning, was, that\nAnne had full liberty to communicate to her friend everything relative\nto Mrs Smith, in which his conduct was involved.\n\n\n\nChapter 22\n\n\nAnne went home to think over all that she had heard.  In one point, her\nfeelings were relieved by this knowledge of Mr Elliot.  There was no\nlonger anything of tenderness due to him.  He stood as opposed to\nCaptain Wentworth, in all his own unwelcome obtrusiveness; and the evil\nof his attentions last night, the irremediable mischief he might have\ndone, was considered with sensations unqualified, unperplexed.  Pity\nfor him was all over.  But this was the only point of relief.  In every\nother respect, in looking around her, or penetrating forward, she saw\nmore to distrust and to apprehend.  She was concerned for the\ndisappointment and pain Lady Russell would be feeling; for the\nmortifications which must be hanging over her father and sister, and\nhad all the distress of foreseeing many evils, without knowing how to\navert any one of them.  She was most thankful for her own knowledge of\nhim.  She had never considered herself as entitled to reward for not\nslighting an old friend like Mrs Smith, but here was a reward indeed\nspringing from it!  Mrs Smith had been able to tell her what no one\nelse could have done.  Could the knowledge have been extended through\nher family?  But this was a vain idea.  She must talk to Lady Russell,\ntell her, consult with her, and having done her best, wait the event\nwith as much composure as possible; and after all, her greatest want of\ncomposure would be in that quarter of the mind which could not be\nopened to Lady Russell; in that flow of anxieties and fears which must\nbe all to herself.\n\n\nShe found, on reaching home, that she had, as she intended, escaped\nseeing Mr Elliot; that he had called and paid them a long morning\nvisit; but hardly had she congratulated herself, and felt safe, when\nshe heard that he was coming again in the evening.\n\n\"I had not the smallest intention of asking him,\" said Elizabeth, with\naffected carelessness, \"but he gave so many hints; so Mrs Clay says, at\nleast.\"\n\n\"Indeed, I do say it.  I never saw anybody in my life spell harder for\nan invitation.  Poor man!  I was really in pain for him; for your\nhard-hearted sister, Miss Anne, seems bent on cruelty.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" cried Elizabeth, \"I have been rather too much used to the game to\nbe soon overcome by a gentleman's hints.  However, when I found how\nexcessively he was regretting that he should miss my father this\nmorning, I gave way immediately, for I would never really omit an\nopportunity of bring him and Sir Walter together.  They appear to so\nmuch advantage in company with each other.  Each behaving so\npleasantly.  Mr Elliot looking up with so much respect.\"\n\n\"Quite delightful!\" cried Mrs Clay, not daring, however, to turn her\neyes towards Anne.  \"Exactly like father and son!  Dear Miss Elliot,\nmay I not say father and son?\"\n\n\"Oh! I lay no embargo on any body's words.  If you will have such\nideas!  But, upon my word, I am scarcely sensible of his attentions\nbeing beyond those of other men.\"\n\n\"My dear Miss Elliot!\" exclaimed Mrs Clay, lifting her hands and eyes,\nand sinking all the rest of her astonishment in a convenient silence.\n\n\"Well, my dear Penelope, you need not be so alarmed about him.  I did\ninvite him, you know.  I sent him away with smiles.  When I found he\nwas really going to his friends at Thornberry Park for the whole day\nto-morrow, I had compassion on him.\"\n\nAnne admired the good acting of the friend, in being able to shew such\npleasure as she did, in the expectation and in the actual arrival of\nthe very person whose presence must really be interfering with her\nprime object.  It was impossible but that Mrs Clay must hate the sight\nof Mr Elliot; and yet she could assume a most obliging, placid look,\nand appear quite satisfied with the curtailed license of devoting\nherself only half as much to Sir Walter as she would have done\notherwise.\n\nTo Anne herself it was most distressing to see Mr Elliot enter the\nroom; and quite painful to have him approach and speak to her.  She had\nbeen used before to feel that he could not be always quite sincere, but\nnow she saw insincerity in everything.  His attentive deference to her\nfather, contrasted with his former language, was odious; and when she\nthought of his cruel conduct towards Mrs Smith, she could hardly bear\nthe sight of his present smiles and mildness, or the sound of his\nartificial good sentiments.\n\nShe meant to avoid any such alteration of manners as might provoke a\nremonstrance on his side.  It was a great object to her to escape all\nenquiry or eclat; but it was her intention to be as decidedly cool to\nhim as might be compatible with their relationship; and to retrace, as\nquietly as she could, the few steps of unnecessary intimacy she had\nbeen gradually led along.  She was accordingly more guarded, and more\ncool, than she had been the night before.\n\nHe wanted to animate her curiosity again as to how and where he could\nhave heard her formerly praised; wanted very much to be gratified by\nmore solicitation; but the charm was broken: he found that the heat and\nanimation of a public room was necessary to kindle his modest cousin's\nvanity; he found, at least, that it was not to be done now, by any of\nthose attempts which he could hazard among the too-commanding claims of\nthe others.  He little surmised that it was a subject acting now\nexactly against his interest, bringing immediately to her thoughts all\nthose parts of his conduct which were least excusable.\n\nShe had some satisfaction in finding that he was really going out of\nBath the next morning, going early, and that he would be gone the\ngreater part of two days.  He was invited again to Camden Place the\nvery evening of his return; but from Thursday to Saturday evening his\nabsence was certain.  It was bad enough that a Mrs Clay should be\nalways before her; but that a deeper hypocrite should be added to their\nparty, seemed the destruction of everything like peace and comfort.  It\nwas so humiliating to reflect on the constant deception practised on\nher father and Elizabeth; to consider the various sources of\nmortification preparing for them!  Mrs Clay's selfishness was not so\ncomplicate nor so revolting as his; and Anne would have compounded for\nthe marriage at once, with all its evils, to be clear of Mr Elliot's\nsubtleties in endeavouring to prevent it.\n\nOn Friday morning she meant to go very early to Lady Russell, and\naccomplish the necessary communication; and she would have gone\ndirectly after breakfast, but that Mrs Clay was also going out on some\nobliging purpose of saving her sister trouble, which determined her to\nwait till she might be safe from such a companion.  She saw Mrs Clay\nfairly off, therefore, before she began to talk of spending the morning\nin Rivers Street.\n\n\"Very well,\" said Elizabeth, \"I have nothing to send but my love.  Oh!\nyou may as well take back that tiresome book she would lend me, and\npretend I have read it through.  I really cannot be plaguing myself for\never with all the new poems and states of the nation that come out.\nLady Russell quite bores one with her new publications.  You need not\ntell her so, but I thought her dress hideous the other night.  I used\nto think she had some taste in dress, but I was ashamed of her at the\nconcert.  Something so formal and arrange in her air!  and she sits so\nupright!  My best love, of course.\"\n\n\"And mine,\" added Sir Walter.  \"Kindest regards.  And you may say, that\nI mean to call upon her soon.  Make a civil message; but I shall only\nleave my card.  Morning visits are never fair by women at her time of\nlife, who make themselves up so little.  If she would only wear rouge\nshe would not be afraid of being seen; but last time I called, I\nobserved the blinds were let down immediately.\"\n\nWhile her father spoke, there was a knock at the door.  Who could it\nbe?  Anne, remembering the preconcerted visits, at all hours, of Mr\nElliot, would have expected him, but for his known engagement seven\nmiles off.  After the usual period of suspense, the usual sounds of\napproach were heard, and \"Mr and Mrs Charles Musgrove\" were ushered\ninto the room.\n\nSurprise was the strongest emotion raised by their appearance; but Anne\nwas really glad to see them; and the others were not so sorry but that\nthey could put on a decent air of welcome; and as soon as it became\nclear that these, their nearest relations, were not arrived with any\nviews of accommodation in that house, Sir Walter and Elizabeth were\nable to rise in cordiality, and do the honours of it very well.  They\nwere come to Bath for a few days with Mrs Musgrove, and were at the\nWhite Hart.  So much was pretty soon understood; but till Sir Walter\nand Elizabeth were walking Mary into the other drawing-room, and\nregaling themselves with her admiration, Anne could not draw upon\nCharles's brain for a regular history of their coming, or an\nexplanation of some smiling hints of particular business, which had\nbeen ostentatiously dropped by Mary, as well as of some apparent\nconfusion as to whom their party consisted of.\n\nShe then found that it consisted of Mrs Musgrove, Henrietta, and\nCaptain Harville, beside their two selves.  He gave her a very plain,\nintelligible account of the whole; a narration in which she saw a great\ndeal of most characteristic proceeding.  The scheme had received its\nfirst impulse by Captain Harville's wanting to come to Bath on\nbusiness.  He had begun to talk of it a week ago; and by way of doing\nsomething, as shooting was over, Charles had proposed coming with him,\nand Mrs Harville had seemed to like the idea of it very much, as an\nadvantage to her husband; but Mary could not bear to be left, and had\nmade herself so unhappy about it, that for a day or two everything\nseemed to be in suspense, or at an end.  But then, it had been taken up\nby his father and mother.  His mother had some old friends in Bath whom\nshe wanted to see; it was thought a good opportunity for Henrietta to\ncome and buy wedding-clothes for herself and her sister; and, in short,\nit ended in being his mother's party, that everything might be\ncomfortable and easy to Captain Harville; and he and Mary were included\nin it by way of general convenience.  They had arrived late the night\nbefore.  Mrs Harville, her children, and Captain Benwick, remained with\nMr Musgrove and Louisa at Uppercross.\n\nAnne's only surprise was, that affairs should be in forwardness enough\nfor Henrietta's wedding-clothes to be talked of.  She had imagined such\ndifficulties of fortune to exist there as must prevent the marriage\nfrom being near at hand; but she learned from Charles that, very\nrecently, (since Mary's last letter to herself), Charles Hayter had\nbeen applied to by a friend to hold a living for a youth who could not\npossibly claim it under many years; and that on the strength of his\npresent income, with almost a certainty of something more permanent\nlong before the term in question, the two families had consented to the\nyoung people's wishes, and that their marriage was likely to take place\nin a few months, quite as soon as Louisa's.  \"And a very good living it\nwas,\" Charles added:  \"only five-and-twenty miles from Uppercross, and\nin a very fine country: fine part of Dorsetshire.  In the centre of\nsome of the best preserves in the kingdom, surrounded by three great\nproprietors, each more careful and jealous than the other; and to two\nof the three at least, Charles Hayter might get a special\nrecommendation.  Not that he will value it as he ought,\" he observed,\n\"Charles is too cool about sporting. That's the worst of him.\"\n\n\"I am extremely glad, indeed,\" cried Anne, \"particularly glad that this\nshould happen; and that of two sisters, who both deserve equally well,\nand who have always been such good friends, the pleasant prospect of\none should not be dimming those of the other--that they should be so\nequal in their prosperity and comfort.  I hope your father and mother\nare quite happy with regard to both.\"\n\n\"Oh! yes.  My father would be well pleased if the gentlemen were\nricher, but he has no other fault to find.  Money, you know, coming\ndown with money--two daughters at once--it cannot be a very agreeable\noperation, and it streightens him as to many things.  However, I do not\nmean to say they have not a right to it.  It is very fit they should\nhave daughters' shares; and I am sure he has always been a very kind,\nliberal father to me.  Mary does not above half like Henrietta's match.\nShe never did, you know.  But she does not do him justice, nor think\nenough about Winthrop.  I cannot make her attend to the value of the\nproperty.  It is a very fair match, as times go; and I have liked\nCharles Hayter all my life, and I shall not leave off now.\"\n\n\"Such excellent parents as Mr and Mrs Musgrove,\" exclaimed Anne,\n\"should be happy in their children's marriages.  They do everything to\nconfer happiness, I am sure.  What a blessing to young people to be in\nsuch hands!  Your father and mother seem so totally free from all those\nambitious feelings which have led to so much misconduct and misery,\nboth in young and old.  I hope you think Louisa perfectly recovered\nnow?\"\n\nHe answered rather hesitatingly, \"Yes, I believe I do; very much\nrecovered; but she is altered; there is no running or jumping about, no\nlaughing or dancing; it is quite different.  If one happens only to\nshut the door a little hard, she starts and wriggles like a young\ndab-chick in the water; and Benwick sits at her elbow, reading verses,\nor whispering to her, all day long.\"\n\nAnne could not help laughing.  \"That cannot be much to your taste, I\nknow,\" said she; \"but I do believe him to be an excellent young man.\"\n\n\"To be sure he is.  Nobody doubts it; and I hope you do not think I am\nso illiberal as to want every man to have the same objects and\npleasures as myself.  I have a great value for Benwick; and when one\ncan but get him to talk, he has plenty to say.  His reading has done\nhim no harm, for he has fought as well as read.  He is a brave fellow.\nI got more acquainted with him last Monday than ever I did before.  We\nhad a famous set-to at rat-hunting all the morning in my father's great\nbarns; and he played his part so well that I have liked him the better\never since.\"\n\nHere they were interrupted by the absolute necessity of Charles's\nfollowing the others to admire mirrors and china; but Anne had heard\nenough to understand the present state of Uppercross, and rejoice in\nits happiness; and though she sighed as she rejoiced, her sigh had none\nof the ill-will of envy in it.  She would certainly have risen to their\nblessings if she could, but she did not want to lessen theirs.\n\nThe visit passed off altogether in high good humour.  Mary was in\nexcellent spirits, enjoying the gaiety and the change, and so well\nsatisfied with the journey in her mother-in-law's carriage with four\nhorses, and with her own complete independence of Camden Place, that\nshe was exactly in a temper to admire everything as she ought, and\nenter most readily into all the superiorities of the house, as they\nwere detailed to her.  She had no demands on her father or sister, and\nher consequence was just enough increased by their handsome\ndrawing-rooms.\n\nElizabeth was, for a short time, suffering a good deal.  She felt that\nMrs Musgrove and all her party ought to be asked to dine with them; but\nshe could not bear to have the difference of style, the reduction of\nservants, which a dinner must betray, witnessed by those who had been\nalways so inferior to the Elliots of Kellynch.  It was a struggle\nbetween propriety and vanity; but vanity got the better, and then\nElizabeth was happy again.  These were her internal persuasions: \"Old\nfashioned notions; country hospitality; we do not profess to give\ndinners; few people in Bath do; Lady Alicia never does; did not even\nask her own sister's family, though they were here a month: and I dare\nsay it would be very inconvenient to Mrs Musgrove; put her quite out of\nher way.  I am sure she would rather not come; she cannot feel easy\nwith us.  I will ask them all for an evening; that will be much better;\nthat will be a novelty and a treat.  They have not seen two such\ndrawing rooms before.  They will be delighted to come to-morrow\nevening.  It shall be a regular party, small, but most elegant.\"  And\nthis satisfied Elizabeth:  and when the invitation was given to the two\npresent, and promised for the absent, Mary was as completely satisfied.\nShe was particularly asked to meet Mr Elliot, and be introduced to Lady\nDalrymple and Miss Carteret, who were fortunately already engaged to\ncome; and she could not have received a more gratifying attention.\nMiss Elliot was to have the honour of calling on Mrs Musgrove in the\ncourse of the morning; and Anne walked off with Charles and Mary, to go\nand see her and Henrietta directly.\n\nHer plan of sitting with Lady Russell must give way for the present.\nThey all three called in Rivers Street for a couple of minutes; but\nAnne convinced herself that a day's delay of the intended communication\ncould be of no consequence, and hastened forward to the White Hart, to\nsee again the friends and companions of the last autumn, with an\neagerness of good-will which many associations contributed to form.\n\nThey found Mrs Musgrove and her daughter within, and by themselves, and\nAnne had the kindest welcome from each.  Henrietta was exactly in that\nstate of recently-improved views, of fresh-formed happiness, which made\nher full of regard and interest for everybody she had ever liked before\nat all; and Mrs Musgrove's real affection had been won by her\nusefulness when they were in distress.  It was a heartiness, and a\nwarmth, and a sincerity which Anne delighted in the more, from the sad\nwant of such blessings at home.  She was entreated to give them as much\nof her time as possible, invited for every day and all day long, or\nrather claimed as part of the family; and, in return, she naturally\nfell into all her wonted ways of attention and assistance, and on\nCharles's leaving them together, was listening to Mrs Musgrove's\nhistory of Louisa, and to Henrietta's of herself, giving opinions on\nbusiness, and recommendations to shops; with intervals of every help\nwhich Mary required, from altering her ribbon to settling her accounts;\nfrom finding her keys, and assorting her trinkets, to trying to\nconvince her that she was not ill-used by anybody; which Mary, well\namused as she generally was, in her station at a window overlooking the\nentrance to the Pump Room, could not but have her moments of imagining.\n\nA morning of thorough confusion was to be expected.  A large party in\nan hotel ensured a quick-changing, unsettled scene.  One five minutes\nbrought a note, the next a parcel; and Anne had not been there half an\nhour, when their dining-room, spacious as it was, seemed more than half\nfilled:  a party of steady old friends were seated around Mrs Musgrove,\nand Charles came back with Captains Harville and Wentworth.  The\nappearance of the latter could not be more than the surprise of the\nmoment.  It was impossible for her to have forgotten to feel that this\narrival of their common friends must be soon bringing them together\nagain.  Their last meeting had been most important in opening his\nfeelings; she had derived from it a delightful conviction; but she\nfeared from his looks, that the same unfortunate persuasion, which had\nhastened him away from the Concert Room, still governed.  He did not\nseem to want to be near enough for conversation.\n\nShe tried to be calm, and leave things to take their course, and tried\nto dwell much on this argument of rational dependence:--\"Surely, if\nthere be constant attachment on each side, our hearts must understand\neach other ere long.  We are not boy and girl, to be captiously\nirritable, misled by every moment's inadvertence, and wantonly playing\nwith our own happiness.\"  And yet, a few minutes afterwards, she felt\nas if their being in company with each other, under their present\ncircumstances, could only be exposing them to inadvertencies and\nmisconstructions of the most mischievous kind.\n\n\"Anne,\" cried Mary, still at her window, \"there is Mrs Clay, I am sure,\nstanding under the colonnade, and a gentleman with her.  I saw them\nturn the corner from Bath Street just now.  They seemed deep in talk.\nWho is it?  Come, and tell me.  Good heavens! I recollect.  It is Mr\nElliot himself.\"\n\n\"No,\" cried Anne, quickly, \"it cannot be Mr Elliot, I assure you.  He\nwas to leave Bath at nine this morning, and does not come back till\nto-morrow.\"\n\nAs she spoke, she felt that Captain Wentworth was looking at her, the\nconsciousness of which vexed and embarrassed her, and made her regret\nthat she had said so much, simple as it was.\n\nMary, resenting that she should be supposed not to know her own cousin,\nbegan talking very warmly about the family features, and protesting\nstill more positively that it was Mr Elliot, calling again upon Anne to\ncome and look for herself, but Anne did not mean to stir, and tried to\nbe cool and unconcerned.  Her distress returned, however, on perceiving\nsmiles and intelligent glances pass between two or three of the lady\nvisitors, as if they believed themselves quite in the secret.  It was\nevident that the report concerning her had spread, and a short pause\nsucceeded, which seemed to ensure that it would now spread farther.\n\n\"Do come, Anne\" cried Mary, \"come and look yourself.  You will be too\nlate if you do not make haste.  They are parting; they are shaking\nhands.  He is turning away.  Not know Mr Elliot, indeed!  You seem to\nhave forgot all about Lyme.\"\n\nTo pacify Mary, and perhaps screen her own embarrassment, Anne did move\nquietly to the window.  She was just in time to ascertain that it\nreally was Mr Elliot, which she had never believed, before he\ndisappeared on one side, as Mrs Clay walked quickly off on the other;\nand checking the surprise which she could not but feel at such an\nappearance of friendly conference between two persons of totally\nopposite interest, she calmly said, \"Yes, it is Mr Elliot, certainly.\nHe has changed his hour of going, I suppose, that is all, or I may be\nmistaken, I might not attend;\" and walked back to her chair,\nrecomposed, and with the comfortable hope of having acquitted herself\nwell.\n\nThe visitors took their leave; and Charles, having civilly seen them\noff, and then made a face at them, and abused them for coming, began\nwith--\n\n\"Well, mother, I have done something for you that you will like.  I\nhave been to the theatre, and secured a box for to-morrow night.  A'n't\nI a good boy?  I know you love a play; and there is room for us all.\nIt holds nine.  I have engaged Captain Wentworth.  Anne will not be\nsorry to join us, I am sure.  We all like a play.  Have not I done\nwell, mother?\"\n\nMrs Musgrove was good humouredly beginning to express her perfect\nreadiness for the play, if Henrietta and all the others liked it, when\nMary eagerly interrupted her by exclaiming--\n\n\"Good heavens, Charles! how can you think of such a thing?  Take a box\nfor to-morrow night!  Have you forgot that we are engaged to Camden\nPlace to-morrow night? and that we were most particularly asked to meet\nLady Dalrymple and her daughter, and Mr Elliot, and all the principal\nfamily connexions, on purpose to be introduced to them?  How can you be\nso forgetful?\"\n\n\"Phoo! phoo!\" replied Charles, \"what's an evening party?  Never worth\nremembering.  Your father might have asked us to dinner, I think, if he\nhad wanted to see us.  You may do as you like, but I shall go to the\nplay.\"\n\n\"Oh! Charles, I declare it will be too abominable if you do, when you\npromised to go.\"\n\n\"No, I did not promise.  I only smirked and bowed, and said the word\n'happy.'  There was no promise.\"\n\n\"But you must go, Charles.  It would be unpardonable to fail.  We were\nasked on purpose to be introduced.  There was always such a great\nconnexion between the Dalrymples and ourselves.  Nothing ever happened\non either side that was not announced immediately.  We are quite near\nrelations, you know; and Mr Elliot too, whom you ought so particularly\nto be acquainted with!  Every attention is due to Mr Elliot.  Consider,\nmy father's heir:  the future representative of the family.\"\n\n\"Don't talk to me about heirs and representatives,\" cried Charles.  \"I\nam not one of those who neglect the reigning power to bow to the rising\nsun.  If I would not go for the sake of your father, I should think it\nscandalous to go for the sake of his heir.  What is Mr Elliot to me?\"\nThe careless expression was life to Anne, who saw that Captain\nWentworth was all attention, looking and listening with his whole soul;\nand that the last words brought his enquiring eyes from Charles to\nherself.\n\nCharles and Mary still talked on in the same style; he, half serious\nand half jesting, maintaining the scheme for the play, and she,\ninvariably serious, most warmly opposing it, and not omitting to make\nit known that, however determined to go to Camden Place herself, she\nshould not think herself very well used, if they went to the play\nwithout her.  Mrs Musgrove interposed.\n\n\"We had better put it off.  Charles, you had much better go back and\nchange the box for Tuesday.  It would be a pity to be divided, and we\nshould be losing Miss Anne, too, if there is a party at her father's;\nand I am sure neither Henrietta nor I should care at all for the play,\nif Miss Anne could not be with us.\"\n\nAnne felt truly obliged to her for such kindness; and quite as much so\nfor the opportunity it gave her of decidedly saying--\n\n\"If it depended only on my inclination, ma'am, the party at home\n(excepting on Mary's account) would not be the smallest impediment.  I\nhave no pleasure in the sort of meeting, and should be too happy to\nchange it for a play, and with you.  But, it had better not be\nattempted, perhaps.\"  She had spoken it; but she trembled when it was\ndone, conscious that her words were listened to, and daring not even to\ntry to observe their effect.\n\nIt was soon generally agreed that Tuesday should be the day; Charles\nonly reserving the advantage of still teasing his wife, by persisting\nthat he would go to the play to-morrow if nobody else would.\n\nCaptain Wentworth left his seat, and walked to the fire-place; probably\nfor the sake of walking away from it soon afterwards, and taking a\nstation, with less bare-faced design, by Anne.\n\n\"You have not been long enough in Bath,\" said he, \"to enjoy the evening\nparties of the place.\"\n\n\"Oh! no.  The usual character of them has nothing for me.  I am no\ncard-player.\"\n\n\"You were not formerly, I know.  You did not use to like cards; but\ntime makes many changes.\"\n\n\"I am not yet so much changed,\" cried Anne, and stopped, fearing she\nhardly knew what misconstruction.  After waiting a few moments he said,\nand as if it were the result of immediate feeling, \"It is a period,\nindeed!  Eight years and a half is a period.\"\n\nWhether he would have proceeded farther was left to Anne's imagination\nto ponder over in a calmer hour; for while still hearing the sounds he\nhad uttered, she was startled to other subjects by Henrietta, eager to\nmake use of the present leisure for getting out, and calling on her\ncompanions to lose no time, lest somebody else should come in.\n\nThey were obliged to move.  Anne talked of being perfectly ready, and\ntried to look it; but she felt that could Henrietta have known the\nregret and reluctance of her heart in quitting that chair, in preparing\nto quit the room, she would have found, in all her own sensations for\nher cousin, in the very security of his affection, wherewith to pity\nher.\n\nTheir preparations, however, were stopped short.  Alarming sounds were\nheard; other visitors approached, and the door was thrown open for Sir\nWalter and Miss Elliot, whose entrance seemed to give a general chill.\nAnne felt an instant oppression, and wherever she looked saw symptoms\nof the same.  The comfort, the freedom, the gaiety of the room was\nover, hushed into cold composure, determined silence, or insipid talk,\nto meet the heartless elegance of her father and sister.  How\nmortifying to feel that it was so!\n\nHer jealous eye was satisfied in one particular.  Captain Wentworth was\nacknowledged again by each, by Elizabeth more graciously than before.\nShe even addressed him once, and looked at him more than once.\nElizabeth was, in fact, revolving a great measure.  The sequel\nexplained it.  After the waste of a few minutes in saying the proper\nnothings, she began to give the invitation which was to comprise all\nthe remaining dues of the Musgroves.  \"To-morrow evening, to meet a few\nfriends:  no formal party.\" It was all said very gracefully, and the\ncards with which she had provided herself, the \"Miss Elliot at home,\"\nwere laid on the table, with a courteous, comprehensive smile to all,\nand one smile and one card more decidedly for Captain Wentworth.  The\ntruth was, that Elizabeth had been long enough in Bath to understand\nthe importance of a man of such an air and appearance as his.  The past\nwas nothing.  The present was that Captain Wentworth would move about\nwell in her drawing-room.  The card was pointedly given, and Sir Walter\nand Elizabeth arose and disappeared.\n\nThe interruption had been short, though severe, and ease and animation\nreturned to most of those they left as the door shut them out, but not\nto Anne.  She could think only of the invitation she had with such\nastonishment witnessed, and of the manner in which it had been\nreceived; a manner of doubtful meaning, of surprise rather than\ngratification, of polite acknowledgement rather than acceptance.  She\nknew him; she saw disdain in his eye, and could not venture to believe\nthat he had determined to accept such an offering, as an atonement for\nall the insolence of the past.  Her spirits sank.  He held the card in\nhis hand after they were gone, as if deeply considering it.\n\n\"Only think of Elizabeth's including everybody!\" whispered Mary very\naudibly.  \"I do not wonder Captain Wentworth is delighted!  You see he\ncannot put the card out of his hand.\"\n\nAnne caught his eye, saw his cheeks glow, and his mouth form itself\ninto a momentary expression of contempt, and turned away, that she\nmight neither see nor hear more to vex her.\n\nThe party separated.  The gentlemen had their own pursuits, the ladies\nproceeded on their own business, and they met no more while Anne\nbelonged to them.  She was earnestly begged to return and dine, and\ngive them all the rest of the day, but her spirits had been so long\nexerted that at present she felt unequal to more, and fit only for\nhome, where she might be sure of being as silent as she chose.\n\nPromising to be with them the whole of the following morning,\ntherefore, she closed the fatigues of the present by a toilsome walk to\nCamden Place, there to spend the evening chiefly in listening to the\nbusy arrangements of Elizabeth and Mrs Clay for the morrow's party, the\nfrequent enumeration of the persons invited, and the continually\nimproving detail of all the embellishments which were to make it the\nmost completely elegant of its kind in Bath, while harassing herself\nwith the never-ending question, of whether Captain Wentworth would come\nor not?  They were reckoning him as certain, but with her it was a\ngnawing solicitude never appeased for five minutes together.  She\ngenerally thought he would come, because she generally thought he\nought; but it was a case which she could not so shape into any positive\nact of duty or discretion, as inevitably to defy the suggestions of\nvery opposite feelings.\n\nShe only roused herself from the broodings of this restless agitation,\nto let Mrs Clay know that she had been seen with Mr Elliot three hours\nafter his being supposed to be out of Bath, for having watched in vain\nfor some intimation of the interview from the lady herself, she\ndetermined to mention it, and it seemed to her there was guilt in Mrs\nClay's face as she listened.  It was transient: cleared away in an\ninstant; but Anne could imagine she read there the consciousness of\nhaving, by some complication of mutual trick, or some overbearing\nauthority of his, been obliged to attend (perhaps for half an hour) to\nhis lectures and restrictions on her designs on Sir Walter.  She\nexclaimed, however, with a very tolerable imitation of nature:--\n\n\"Oh! dear! very true.  Only think, Miss Elliot, to my great surprise I\nmet with Mr Elliot in Bath Street.  I was never more astonished.  He\nturned back and walked with me to the Pump Yard.  He had been prevented\nsetting off for Thornberry, but I really forget by what; for I was in a\nhurry, and could not much attend, and I can only answer for his being\ndetermined not to be delayed in his return.  He wanted to know how\nearly he might be admitted to-morrow.  He was full of 'to-morrow,' and\nit is very evident that I have been full of it too, ever since I\nentered the house, and learnt the extension of your plan and all that\nhad happened, or my seeing him could never have gone so entirely out of\nmy head.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 23\n\n\nOne day only had passed since Anne's conversation with Mrs Smith; but a\nkeener interest had succeeded, and she was now so little touched by Mr\nElliot's conduct, except by its effects in one quarter, that it became\na matter of course the next morning, still to defer her explanatory\nvisit in Rivers Street.  She had promised to be with the Musgroves from\nbreakfast to dinner.  Her faith was plighted, and Mr Elliot's\ncharacter, like the Sultaness Scheherazade's head, must live another\nday.\n\nShe could not keep her appointment punctually, however; the weather was\nunfavourable, and she had grieved over the rain on her friends'\naccount, and felt it very much on her own, before she was able to\nattempt the walk.  When she reached the White Hart, and made her way to\nthe proper apartment, she found herself neither arriving quite in time,\nnor the first to arrive.  The party before her were, Mrs Musgrove,\ntalking to Mrs Croft, and Captain Harville to Captain Wentworth; and\nshe immediately heard that Mary and Henrietta, too impatient to wait,\nhad gone out the moment it had cleared, but would be back again soon,\nand that the strictest injunctions had been left with Mrs Musgrove to\nkeep her there till they returned.  She had only to submit, sit down,\nbe outwardly composed, and feel herself plunged at once in all the\nagitations which she had merely laid her account of tasting a little\nbefore the morning closed.  There was no delay, no waste of time.  She\nwas deep in the happiness of such misery, or the misery of such\nhappiness, instantly.  Two minutes after her entering the room, Captain\nWentworth said--\n\n\"We will write the letter we were talking of, Harville, now, if you\nwill give me materials.\"\n\nMaterials were at hand, on a separate table; he went to it, and nearly\nturning his back to them all, was engrossed by writing.\n\nMrs Musgrove was giving Mrs Croft the history of her eldest daughter's\nengagement, and just in that inconvenient tone of voice which was\nperfectly audible while it pretended to be a whisper.  Anne felt that\nshe did not belong to the conversation, and yet, as Captain Harville\nseemed thoughtful and not disposed to talk, she could not avoid hearing\nmany undesirable particulars; such as, \"how Mr Musgrove and my brother\nHayter had met again and again to talk it over; what my brother Hayter\nhad said one day, and what Mr Musgrove had proposed the next, and what\nhad occurred to my sister Hayter, and what the young people had wished,\nand what I said at first I never could consent to, but was afterwards\npersuaded to think might do very well,\" and a great deal in the same\nstyle of open-hearted communication:  minutiae which, even with every\nadvantage of taste and delicacy, which good Mrs Musgrove could not\ngive, could be properly interesting only to the principals.  Mrs Croft\nwas attending with great good-humour, and whenever she spoke at all, it\nwas very sensibly.  Anne hoped the gentlemen might each be too much\nself-occupied to hear.\n\n\"And so, ma'am, all these thing considered,\" said Mrs Musgrove, in her\npowerful whisper, \"though we could have wished it different, yet,\naltogether, we did not think it fair to stand out any longer, for\nCharles Hayter was quite wild about it, and Henrietta was pretty near\nas bad; and so we thought they had better marry at once, and make the\nbest of it, as many others have done before them.  At any rate, said I,\nit will be better than a long engagement.\"\n\n\"That is precisely what I was going to observe,\" cried Mrs Croft.  \"I\nwould rather have young people settle on a small income at once, and\nhave to struggle with a few difficulties together, than be involved in\na long engagement.  I always think that no mutual--\"\n\n\"Oh! dear Mrs Croft,\" cried Mrs Musgrove, unable to let her finish her\nspeech, \"there is nothing I so abominate for young people as a long\nengagement.  It is what I always protested against for my children.  It\nis all very well, I used to say, for young people to be engaged, if\nthere is a certainty of their being able to marry in six months, or\neven in twelve; but a long engagement--\"\n\n\"Yes, dear ma'am,\" said Mrs Croft, \"or an uncertain engagement, an\nengagement which may be long.  To begin without knowing that at such a\ntime there will be the means of marrying, I hold to be very unsafe and\nunwise, and what I think all parents should prevent as far as they can.\"\n\nAnne found an unexpected interest here.  She felt its application to\nherself, felt it in a nervous thrill all over her; and at the same\nmoment that her eyes instinctively glanced towards the distant table,\nCaptain Wentworth's pen ceased to move, his head was raised, pausing,\nlistening, and he turned round the next instant to give a look, one\nquick, conscious look at her.\n\nThe two ladies continued to talk, to re-urge the same admitted truths,\nand enforce them with such examples of the ill effect of a contrary\npractice as had fallen within their observation, but Anne heard nothing\ndistinctly; it was only a buzz of words in her ear, her mind was in\nconfusion.\n\nCaptain Harville, who had in truth been hearing none of it, now left\nhis seat, and moved to a window, and Anne seeming to watch him, though\nit was from thorough absence of mind, became gradually sensible that he\nwas inviting her to join him where he stood.  He looked at her with a\nsmile, and a little motion of the head, which expressed, \"Come to me, I\nhave something to say;\" and the unaffected, easy kindness of manner\nwhich denoted the feelings of an older acquaintance than he really was,\nstrongly enforced the invitation.  She roused herself and went to him.\nThe window at which he stood was at the other end of the room from\nwhere the two ladies were sitting, and though nearer to Captain\nWentworth's table, not very near.  As she joined him, Captain\nHarville's countenance re-assumed the serious, thoughtful expression\nwhich seemed its natural character.\n\n\"Look here,\" said he, unfolding a parcel in his hand, and displaying a\nsmall miniature painting, \"do you know who that is?\"\n\n\"Certainly:  Captain Benwick.\"\n\n\"Yes, and you may guess who it is for.  But,\" (in a deep tone,) \"it was\nnot done for her.  Miss Elliot, do you remember our walking together at\nLyme, and grieving for him?  I little thought then--but no matter.\nThis was drawn at the Cape.  He met with a clever young German artist\nat the Cape, and in compliance with a promise to my poor sister, sat to\nhim, and was bringing it home for her; and I have now the charge of\ngetting it properly set for another!  It was a commission to me!  But\nwho else was there to employ?  I hope I can allow for him.  I am not\nsorry, indeed, to make it over to another.  He undertakes it;\" (looking\ntowards Captain Wentworth,) \"he is writing about it now.\"  And with a\nquivering lip he wound up the whole by adding, \"Poor Fanny! she would\nnot have forgotten him so soon!\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Anne, in a low, feeling voice. \"That I can easily\nbelieve.\"\n\n\"It was not in her nature.  She doted on him.\"\n\n\"It would not be the nature of any woman who truly loved.\"\n\nCaptain Harville smiled, as much as to say, \"Do you claim that for your\nsex?\" and she answered the question, smiling also, \"Yes.  We certainly\ndo not forget you as soon as you forget us.  It is, perhaps, our fate\nrather than our merit.  We cannot help ourselves.  We live at home,\nquiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us.  You are forced on\nexertion.  You have always a profession, pursuits, business of some\nsort or other, to take you back into the world immediately, and\ncontinual occupation and change soon weaken impressions.\"\n\n\"Granting your assertion that the world does all this so soon for men\n(which, however, I do not think I shall grant), it does not apply to\nBenwick.  He has not been forced upon any exertion.  The peace turned\nhim on shore at the very moment, and he has been living with us, in our\nlittle family circle, ever since.\"\n\n\"True,\" said Anne, \"very true; I did not recollect; but what shall we\nsay now, Captain Harville?  If the change be not from outward\ncircumstances, it must be from within; it must be nature, man's nature,\nwhich has done the business for Captain Benwick.\"\n\n\"No, no, it is not man's nature.  I will not allow it to be more man's\nnature than woman's to be inconstant and forget those they do love, or\nhave loved.  I believe the reverse.  I believe in a true analogy\nbetween our bodily frames and our mental; and that as our bodies are\nthe strongest, so are our feelings; capable of bearing most rough\nusage, and riding out the heaviest weather.\"\n\n\"Your feelings may be the strongest,\" replied Anne, \"but the same\nspirit of analogy will authorise me to assert that ours are the most\ntender.  Man is more robust than woman, but he is not longer lived;\nwhich exactly explains my view of the nature of their attachments.\nNay, it would be too hard upon you, if it were otherwise.  You have\ndifficulties, and privations, and dangers enough to struggle with.  You\nare always labouring and toiling, exposed to every risk and hardship.\nYour home, country, friends, all quitted.  Neither time, nor health,\nnor life, to be called your own.  It would be hard, indeed\" (with a\nfaltering voice), \"if woman's feelings were to be added to all this.\"\n\n\"We shall never agree upon this question,\" Captain Harville was\nbeginning to say, when a slight noise called their attention to Captain\nWentworth's hitherto perfectly quiet division of the room.  It was\nnothing more than that his pen had fallen down; but Anne was startled\nat finding him nearer than she had supposed, and half inclined to\nsuspect that the pen had only fallen because he had been occupied by\nthem, striving to catch sounds, which yet she did not think he could\nhave caught.\n\n\"Have you finished your letter?\" said Captain Harville.\n\n\"Not quite, a few lines more.  I shall have done in five minutes.\"\n\n\"There is no hurry on my side.  I am only ready whenever you are.  I am\nin very good anchorage here,\" (smiling at Anne,) \"well supplied, and\nwant for nothing.  No hurry for a signal at all.  Well, Miss Elliot,\"\n(lowering his voice,) \"as I was saying we shall never agree, I suppose,\nupon this point.  No man and woman, would, probably.  But let me\nobserve that all histories are against you--all stories, prose and\nverse.  If I had such a memory as Benwick, I could bring you fifty\nquotations in a moment on my side the argument, and I do not think I\never opened a book in my life which had not something to say upon\nwoman's inconstancy.  Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman's\nfickleness.  But perhaps you will say, these were all written by men.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I shall.  Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in\nbooks.  Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story.\nEducation has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been\nin their hands.  I will not allow books to prove anything.\"\n\n\"But how shall we prove anything?\"\n\n\"We never shall.  We never can expect to prove any thing upon such a\npoint.  It is a difference of opinion which does not admit of proof.\nWe each begin, probably, with a little bias towards our own sex; and\nupon that bias build every circumstance in favour of it which has\noccurred within our own circle; many of which circumstances (perhaps\nthose very cases which strike us the most) may be precisely such as\ncannot be brought forward without betraying a confidence, or in some\nrespect saying what should not be said.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" cried Captain Harville, in a tone of strong feeling, \"if I could\nbut make you comprehend what a man suffers when he takes a last look at\nhis wife and children, and watches the boat that he has sent them off\nin, as long as it is in sight, and then turns away and says, 'God knows\nwhether we ever meet again!' And then, if I could convey to you the\nglow of his soul when he does see them again; when, coming back after a\ntwelvemonth's absence, perhaps, and obliged to put into another port,\nhe calculates how soon it be possible to get them there, pretending to\ndeceive himself, and saying, 'They cannot be here till such a day,' but\nall the while hoping for them twelve hours sooner, and seeing them\narrive at last, as if Heaven had given them wings, by many hours sooner\nstill!  If I could explain to you all this, and all that a man can bear\nand do, and glories to do, for the sake of these treasures of his\nexistence!  I speak, you know, only of such men as have hearts!\"\npressing his own with emotion.\n\n\"Oh!\" cried Anne eagerly, \"I hope I do justice to all that is felt by\nyou, and by those who resemble you.  God forbid that I should\nundervalue the warm and faithful feelings of any of my\nfellow-creatures!  I should deserve utter contempt if I dared to\nsuppose that true attachment and constancy were known only by woman.\nNo, I believe you capable of everything great and good in your married\nlives.  I believe you equal to every important exertion, and to every\ndomestic forbearance, so long as--if I may be allowed the\nexpression--so long as you have an object.  I mean while the woman you\nlove lives, and lives for you.  All the privilege I claim for my own\nsex (it is not a very enviable one; you need not covet it), is that of\nloving longest, when existence or when hope is gone.\"\n\nShe could not immediately have uttered another sentence; her heart was\ntoo full, her breath too much oppressed.\n\n\"You are a good soul,\" cried Captain Harville, putting his hand on her\narm, quite affectionately.  \"There is no quarrelling with you.  And\nwhen I think of Benwick, my tongue is tied.\"\n\nTheir attention was called towards the others.  Mrs Croft was taking\nleave.\n\n\"Here, Frederick, you and I part company, I believe,\" said she.  \"I am\ngoing home, and you have an engagement with your friend.  To-night we\nmay have the pleasure of all meeting again at your party,\" (turning to\nAnne.)  \"We had your sister's card yesterday, and I understood\nFrederick had a card too, though I did not see it; and you are\ndisengaged, Frederick, are you not, as well as ourselves?\"\n\nCaptain Wentworth was folding up a letter in great haste, and either\ncould not or would not answer fully.\n\n\"Yes,\" said he, \"very true; here we separate, but Harville and I shall\nsoon be after you; that is, Harville, if you are ready, I am in half a\nminute.  I know you will not be sorry to be off.  I shall be at your\nservice in half a minute.\"\n\nMrs Croft left them, and Captain Wentworth, having sealed his letter\nwith great rapidity, was indeed ready, and had even a hurried, agitated\nair, which shewed impatience to be gone.  Anne knew not how to\nunderstand it.  She had the kindest \"Good morning, God bless you!\" from\nCaptain Harville, but from him not a word, nor a look!  He had passed\nout of the room without a look!\n\nShe had only time, however, to move closer to the table where he had\nbeen writing, when footsteps were heard returning; the door opened, it\nwas himself.  He begged their pardon, but he had forgotten his gloves,\nand instantly crossing the room to the writing table, he drew out a\nletter from under the scattered paper, placed it before Anne with eyes\nof glowing entreaty fixed on her for a time, and hastily collecting his\ngloves, was again out of the room, almost before Mrs Musgrove was aware\nof his being in it: the work of an instant!\n\nThe revolution which one instant had made in Anne, was almost beyond\nexpression.  The letter, with a direction hardly legible, to \"Miss A.\nE.--,\" was evidently the one which he had been folding so hastily.\nWhile supposed to be writing only to Captain Benwick, he had been also\naddressing her!  On the contents of that letter depended all which this\nworld could do for her.  Anything was possible, anything might be\ndefied rather than suspense.  Mrs Musgrove had little arrangements of\nher own at her own table; to their protection she must trust, and\nsinking into the chair which he had occupied, succeeding to the very\nspot where he had leaned and written, her eyes devoured the following\nwords:\n\n\n\"I can listen no longer in silence.  I must speak to you by such means\nas are within my reach.  You pierce my soul.  I am half agony, half\nhope.  Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are\ngone for ever.  I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your\nown than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago.  Dare\nnot say that man forgets sooner than  woman, that his love has an\nearlier death.  I have loved none but you.  Unjust I may have been,\nweak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.  You alone have\nbrought me to Bath.  For you alone, I think and plan.  Have you not\nseen this?  Can you fail to have understood my wishes?  I had not\nwaited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think\nyou must have penetrated mine.  I can hardly write.  I am every instant\nhearing something which overpowers me.  You sink your voice, but I can\ndistinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others.\nToo good, too excellent creature!  You do us justice, indeed.  You do\nbelieve that there is true attachment and constancy among men.  Believe\nit to be most fervent, most undeviating, in F. W.\n\n\"I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow\nyour party, as soon as possible.  A word, a look, will be enough to\ndecide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never.\"\n\n\nSuch a letter was not to be soon recovered from.  Half an hour's\nsolitude and reflection might have tranquillized her; but the ten\nminutes only which now passed before she was interrupted, with all the\nrestraints of her situation, could do nothing towards tranquillity.\nEvery moment rather brought fresh agitation.  It was overpowering\nhappiness.  And before she was beyond the first stage of full\nsensation, Charles, Mary, and Henrietta all came in.\n\nThe absolute necessity of seeming like herself produced then an\nimmediate struggle; but after a while she could do no more.  She began\nnot to understand a word they said, and was obliged to plead\nindisposition and excuse herself.  They could then see that she looked\nvery ill, were shocked and concerned, and would not stir without her\nfor the world.  This was dreadful.  Would they only have gone away, and\nleft her in the quiet possession of that room it would have been her\ncure; but to have them all standing or waiting around her was\ndistracting, and in desperation, she said she would go home.\n\n\"By all means, my dear,\" cried Mrs Musgrove, \"go home directly, and\ntake care of yourself, that you may be fit for the evening.  I wish\nSarah was here to doctor you, but I am no doctor myself.  Charles, ring\nand order a chair.  She must not walk.\"\n\nBut the chair would never do.  Worse than all!  To lose the possibility\nof speaking two words to Captain Wentworth in the course of her quiet,\nsolitary progress up the town (and she felt almost certain of meeting\nhim) could not be borne.  The chair was earnestly protested against,\nand Mrs Musgrove, who thought only of one sort of illness, having\nassured herself with some anxiety, that there had been no fall in the\ncase; that Anne had not at any time lately slipped down, and got a blow\non her head; that she was perfectly convinced of having had no fall;\ncould part with her cheerfully, and depend on finding her better at\nnight.\n\nAnxious to omit no possible precaution, Anne struggled, and said--\n\n\"I am afraid, ma'am, that it is not perfectly understood.  Pray be so\ngood as to mention to the other gentlemen that we hope to see your\nwhole party this evening.  I am afraid there had been some mistake; and\nI wish you particularly to assure Captain Harville and Captain\nWentworth, that we hope to see them both.\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear, it is quite understood, I give you my word.  Captain\nHarville has no thought but of going.\"\n\n\"Do you think so?  But I am afraid; and I should be so very sorry.\nWill you promise me to mention it, when you see them again?  You will\nsee them both this morning, I dare say.  Do promise me.\"\n\n\"To be sure I will, if you wish it.  Charles, if you see Captain\nHarville anywhere, remember to give Miss Anne's message.  But indeed,\nmy dear, you need not be uneasy.  Captain Harville holds himself quite\nengaged, I'll answer for it; and Captain Wentworth the same, I dare\nsay.\"\n\nAnne could do no more; but her heart prophesied some mischance to damp\nthe perfection of her felicity.  It could not be very lasting, however.\nEven if he did not come to Camden Place himself, it would be in her\npower to send an intelligible sentence by Captain Harville.  Another\nmomentary vexation occurred.  Charles, in his real concern and good\nnature, would go home with her; there was no preventing him.  This was\nalmost cruel.  But she could not be long ungrateful; he was sacrificing\nan engagement at a gunsmith's, to be of use to her; and she set off\nwith him, with no feeling but gratitude apparent.\n\nThey were on Union Street, when a quicker step behind, a something of\nfamiliar sound, gave her two moments' preparation for the sight of\nCaptain Wentworth.  He joined them; but, as if irresolute whether to\njoin or to pass on, said nothing, only looked.  Anne could command\nherself enough to receive that look, and not repulsively.  The cheeks\nwhich had been pale now glowed, and the movements which had hesitated\nwere decided.  He walked by her side.  Presently, struck by a sudden\nthought, Charles said--\n\n\"Captain Wentworth, which way are you going?  Only to Gay Street, or\nfarther up the town?\"\n\n\"I hardly know,\" replied Captain Wentworth, surprised.\n\n\"Are you going as high as Belmont?  Are you going near Camden Place?\nBecause, if you are, I shall have no scruple in asking you to take my\nplace, and give Anne your arm to her father's door.  She is rather done\nfor this morning, and must not go so far without help, and I ought to\nbe at that fellow's in the Market Place.  He promised me the sight of a\ncapital gun he is just going to send off; said he would keep it\nunpacked to the last possible moment, that I might see it; and if I do\nnot turn back now, I have no chance.  By his description, a good deal\nlike the second size double-barrel of mine, which you shot with one day\nround Winthrop.\"\n\nThere could not be an objection.  There could be only the most proper\nalacrity, a most obliging compliance for public view; and smiles reined\nin and spirits dancing in private rapture.  In half a minute Charles\nwas at the bottom of Union Street again, and the other two proceeding\ntogether:  and soon words enough had passed between them to decide\ntheir direction towards the comparatively quiet and retired gravel\nwalk, where the power of conversation would make the present hour a\nblessing indeed, and prepare it for all the immortality which the\nhappiest recollections of their own future lives could bestow.  There\nthey exchanged again those feelings and those promises which had once\nbefore seemed to secure everything, but which had been followed by so\nmany, many years of division and estrangement.  There they returned\nagain into the past, more exquisitely happy, perhaps, in their\nre-union, than when it had been first projected; more tender, more\ntried, more fixed in a knowledge of each other's character, truth, and\nattachment; more equal to act, more justified in acting.  And there, as\nthey slowly paced the gradual ascent, heedless of every group around\nthem, seeing neither sauntering politicians, bustling housekeepers,\nflirting girls, nor nursery-maids and children, they could indulge in\nthose retrospections and acknowledgements, and especially in those\nexplanations of what had directly preceded the present moment, which\nwere so poignant and so ceaseless in interest.  All the little\nvariations of the last week were gone through; and of yesterday and\ntoday there could scarcely be an end.\n\nShe had not mistaken him.  Jealousy of Mr Elliot had been the retarding\nweight, the doubt, the torment.  That had begun to operate in the very\nhour of first meeting her in Bath; that had returned, after a short\nsuspension, to ruin the concert; and that had influenced him in\neverything he had said and done, or omitted to say and do, in the last\nfour-and-twenty hours.  It had been gradually yielding to the better\nhopes which her looks, or words, or actions occasionally encouraged; it\nhad been vanquished at last by those sentiments and those tones which\nhad reached him while she talked with Captain Harville; and under the\nirresistible governance of which he had seized a sheet of paper, and\npoured out his feelings.\n\nOf what he had then written, nothing was to be retracted or qualified.\nHe persisted in having loved none but her.  She had never been\nsupplanted.  He never even believed himself to see her equal.  Thus\nmuch indeed he was obliged to acknowledge:  that he had been constant\nunconsciously, nay unintentionally; that he had meant to forget her,\nand believed it to be done.  He had imagined himself indifferent, when\nhe had only been angry; and he had been unjust to her merits, because\nhe had been a sufferer from them.  Her character was now fixed on his\nmind as perfection itself, maintaining the loveliest medium of\nfortitude and gentleness; but he was obliged to acknowledge that only\nat Uppercross had he learnt to do her justice, and only at Lyme had he\nbegun to understand himself.  At Lyme, he had received lessons of more\nthan one sort.  The passing admiration of Mr Elliot had at least roused\nhim, and the scenes on the Cobb and at Captain Harville's had fixed her\nsuperiority.\n\nIn his preceding attempts to attach himself to Louisa Musgrove (the\nattempts of angry pride), he protested that he had for ever felt it to\nbe impossible; that he had not cared, could not care, for Louisa;\nthough till that day, till the leisure for reflection which followed\nit, he had not understood the perfect excellence of the mind with which\nLouisa's could so ill bear a comparison, or the perfect unrivalled hold\nit possessed over his own.  There, he had learnt to distinguish between\nthe steadiness of principle and the obstinacy of self-will, between the\ndarings of heedlessness and the resolution of a collected mind.  There\nhe had seen everything to exalt in his estimation the woman he had\nlost; and there begun to deplore the pride, the folly, the madness of\nresentment, which had kept him from trying to regain her when thrown in\nhis way.\n\nFrom that period his penance had become severe.  He had no sooner been\nfree from the horror and remorse attending the first few days of\nLouisa's accident, no sooner begun to feel himself alive again, than he\nhad begun to feel himself, though alive, not at liberty.\n\n\"I found,\" said he, \"that I was considered by Harville an engaged man!\nThat neither Harville nor his wife entertained a doubt of our mutual\nattachment.  I was startled and shocked.  To a degree, I could\ncontradict this instantly; but, when I began to reflect that others\nmight have felt the same--her own family, nay, perhaps herself--I was\nno longer at my own disposal.  I was hers in honour if she wished it.\nI had been unguarded.  I had not thought seriously on this subject\nbefore.  I had not considered that my excessive intimacy must have its\ndanger of ill consequence in many ways; and that I had no right to be\ntrying whether I could attach myself to either of the girls, at the\nrisk of raising even an unpleasant report, were there no other ill\neffects.  I had been grossly wrong, and must abide the consequences.\"\n\nHe found too late, in short, that he had entangled himself; and that\nprecisely as he became fully satisfied of his not caring for Louisa at\nall, he must regard himself as bound to her, if her sentiments for him\nwere what the Harvilles supposed.  It determined him to leave Lyme, and\nawait her complete recovery elsewhere.  He would gladly weaken, by any\nfair means, whatever feelings or speculations concerning him might\nexist; and he went, therefore, to his brother's, meaning after a while\nto return to Kellynch, and act as circumstances might require.\n\n\"I was six weeks with Edward,\" said he, \"and saw him happy.  I could\nhave no other pleasure.  I deserved none.  He enquired after you very\nparticularly; asked even if you were personally altered, little\nsuspecting that to my eye you could never alter.\"\n\nAnne smiled, and let it pass.  It was too pleasing a blunder for a\nreproach.  It is something for a woman to be assured, in her\neight-and-twentieth year, that she has not lost one charm of earlier\nyouth; but the value of such homage was inexpressibly increased to\nAnne, by comparing it with former words, and feeling it to be the\nresult, not the cause of a revival of his warm attachment.\n\nHe had remained in Shropshire, lamenting the blindness of his own\npride, and the blunders of his own calculations, till at once released\nfrom Louisa by the astonishing and felicitous intelligence of her\nengagement with Benwick.\n\n\"Here,\" said he, \"ended the worst of my state; for now I could at least\nput myself in the way of happiness; I could exert myself; I could do\nsomething.  But to be waiting so long in inaction, and waiting only for\nevil, had been dreadful.  Within the first five minutes I said, 'I will\nbe at Bath on Wednesday,' and I was.  Was it unpardonable to think it\nworth my while to come? and to arrive with some degree of hope?  You\nwere single.  It was possible that you might retain the feelings of the\npast, as I did; and one encouragement happened to be mine.  I could\nnever doubt that you would be loved and sought by others, but I knew to\na certainty that you had refused one man, at least, of better\npretensions than myself; and I could not help often saying, 'Was this\nfor me?'\"\n\nTheir first meeting in Milsom Street afforded much to be said, but the\nconcert still more.  That evening seemed to be made up of exquisite\nmoments.  The moment of her stepping forward in the Octagon Room to\nspeak to him:  the moment of Mr Elliot's appearing and tearing her\naway, and one or two subsequent moments, marked by returning hope or\nincreasing despondency, were dwelt on with energy.\n\n\"To see you,\" cried he, \"in the midst of those who could not be my\nwell-wishers; to see your cousin close by you, conversing and smiling,\nand feel all the horrible eligibilities and proprieties of the match!\nTo consider it as the certain wish of every being who could hope to\ninfluence you!  Even if your own feelings were reluctant or\nindifferent, to consider what powerful supports would be his!  Was it\nnot enough to make the fool of me which I appeared?  How could I look\non without agony?  Was not the very sight of the friend who sat behind\nyou, was not the recollection of what had been, the knowledge of her\ninfluence, the indelible, immoveable impression of what persuasion had\nonce done--was it not all against me?\"\n\n\"You should have distinguished,\" replied Anne.  \"You should not have\nsuspected me now; the case is so different, and my age is so different.\nIf I was wrong in yielding to persuasion once, remember that it was to\npersuasion exerted on the side of safety, not of risk.  When I yielded,\nI thought it was to duty, but no duty could be called in aid here.  In\nmarrying a man indifferent to me, all risk would have been incurred,\nand all duty violated.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I ought to have reasoned thus,\" he replied, \"but I could not.\nI could not derive benefit from the late knowledge I had acquired of\nyour character.  I could not bring it into play; it was overwhelmed,\nburied, lost in those earlier feelings which I had been smarting under\nyear after year.  I could think of you only as one who had yielded, who\nhad given me up, who had been influenced by any one rather than by me.\nI saw you with the very person who had guided you in that year of\nmisery.  I had no reason to believe her of less authority now.  The\nforce of habit was to be added.\"\n\n\"I should have thought,\" said Anne, \"that my manner to yourself might\nhave spared you much or all of this.\"\n\n\"No, no! your manner might be only the ease which your engagement to\nanother man would give.  I left you in this belief; and yet, I was\ndetermined to see you again.  My spirits rallied with the morning, and\nI felt that I had still a motive for remaining here.\"\n\nAt last Anne was at home again, and happier than any one in that house\ncould have conceived.  All the surprise and suspense, and every other\npainful part of the morning dissipated by this conversation, she\nre-entered the house so happy as to be obliged to find an alloy in some\nmomentary apprehensions of its being impossible to last.  An interval\nof meditation, serious and grateful, was the best corrective of\neverything dangerous in such high-wrought felicity; and she went to her\nroom, and grew steadfast and fearless in the thankfulness of her\nenjoyment.\n\nThe evening came, the drawing-rooms were lighted up, the company\nassembled.  It was but a card party, it was but a mixture of those who\nhad never met before, and those who met too often; a commonplace\nbusiness, too numerous for intimacy, too small for variety; but Anne\nhad never found an evening shorter.  Glowing and lovely in sensibility\nand happiness, and more generally admired than she thought about or\ncared for, she had cheerful or forbearing feelings for every creature\naround her.  Mr Elliot was there; she avoided, but she could pity him.\nThe Wallises, she had amusement in understanding them.  Lady Dalrymple\nand Miss Carteret--they would soon be innoxious cousins to her.  She\ncared not for Mrs Clay, and had nothing to blush for in the public\nmanners of her father and sister.  With the Musgroves, there was the\nhappy chat of perfect ease; with Captain Harville, the kind-hearted\nintercourse of brother and sister; with Lady Russell, attempts at\nconversation, which a delicious consciousness cut short; with Admiral\nand Mrs Croft, everything of peculiar cordiality and fervent interest,\nwhich the same consciousness sought to conceal; and with Captain\nWentworth, some moments of communications continually occurring, and\nalways the hope of more, and always the knowledge of his being there.\n\nIt was in one of these short meetings, each apparently occupied in\nadmiring a fine display of greenhouse plants, that she said--\n\n\"I have been thinking over the past, and trying impartially to judge of\nthe right and wrong, I mean with regard to myself; and I must believe\nthat I was right, much as I suffered from it, that I was perfectly\nright in being guided by the friend whom you will love better than you\ndo now.  To me, she was in the place of a parent.  Do not mistake me,\nhowever.  I am not saying that she did not err in her advice.  It was,\nperhaps, one of those cases in which advice is good or bad only as the\nevent decides; and for myself, I certainly never should, in any\ncircumstance of tolerable similarity, give such advice.  But I mean,\nthat I was right in submitting to her, and that if I had done\notherwise, I should have suffered more in continuing the engagement\nthan I did even in giving it up, because I should have suffered in my\nconscience.  I have now, as far as such a sentiment is allowable in\nhuman nature, nothing to reproach myself with; and if I mistake not, a\nstrong sense of duty is no bad part of a woman's portion.\"\n\nHe looked at her, looked at Lady Russell, and looking again at her,\nreplied, as if in cool deliberation--\n\n\"Not yet.  But there are hopes of her being forgiven in time.  I trust\nto being in charity with her soon.  But I too have been thinking over\nthe past, and a  question has suggested itself, whether there may not\nhave been one person more my enemy even than that lady?  My own self.\nTell me if, when I returned to England in the year eight, with a few\nthousand pounds, and was posted into the Laconia, if I had then written\nto you, would you have answered my letter?  Would you, in short, have\nrenewed the engagement then?\"\n\n\"Would I!\" was all her answer; but the accent was decisive enough.\n\n\"Good God!\" he cried, \"you would!  It is not that I did not think of\nit, or desire it, as what could alone crown all my other success; but I\nwas proud, too proud to ask again.  I did not understand you.  I shut\nmy eyes, and would not understand you, or do you justice.  This is a\nrecollection which ought to make me forgive every one sooner than\nmyself.  Six years of separation and suffering might have been spared.\nIt is a sort of pain, too, which is new to me.  I have been used to the\ngratification of believing myself to earn every blessing that I\nenjoyed.  I have valued myself on honourable toils and just rewards.\nLike other great men under reverses,\" he added, with a smile. \"I must\nendeavour to subdue my mind to my fortune.  I must learn to brook being\nhappier than I deserve.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 24\n\n\nWho can be in doubt of what followed?  When any two young people take\nit into their heads to marry, they are pretty sure by perseverance to\ncarry their point, be they ever so poor, or ever so imprudent, or ever\nso little likely to be necessary to each other's ultimate comfort.\nThis may be bad morality to conclude with, but I believe it to be\ntruth; and if such parties succeed, how should a Captain Wentworth and\nan Anne Elliot, with the advantage of maturity of mind, consciousness\nof right, and one independent fortune between them, fail of bearing\ndown every opposition?  They might in fact, have borne down a great\ndeal more than they met with, for there was little to distress them\nbeyond the want of graciousness and warmth.  Sir Walter made no\nobjection, and Elizabeth did nothing worse than look cold and\nunconcerned.  Captain Wentworth, with five-and-twenty thousand pounds,\nand as high in his profession as merit and activity could place him,\nwas no longer nobody.  He was now esteemed quite worthy to address the\ndaughter of a foolish, spendthrift baronet, who had not had principle\nor sense enough to maintain himself in the situation in which\nProvidence had placed him, and who could give his daughter at present\nbut a small part of the share of ten thousand pounds which must be hers\nhereafter.\n\nSir Walter, indeed, though he had no affection for Anne, and no vanity\nflattered, to make him really happy on the occasion, was very far from\nthinking it a bad match for her.  On the contrary, when he saw more of\nCaptain Wentworth, saw him repeatedly by daylight, and eyed him well,\nhe was very much struck by his personal claims, and felt that his\nsuperiority of appearance might be not unfairly balanced against her\nsuperiority of rank; and all this, assisted by his well-sounding name,\nenabled Sir Walter at last to prepare his pen, with a very good grace,\nfor the insertion of the marriage in the volume of honour.\n\nThe only one among them, whose opposition of feeling could excite any\nserious anxiety was Lady Russell.  Anne knew that Lady Russell must be\nsuffering some pain in understanding and relinquishing Mr Elliot, and\nbe making some struggles to become truly acquainted with, and do\njustice to Captain Wentworth.  This however was what Lady Russell had\nnow to do.  She must learn to feel that she had been mistaken with\nregard to both; that she had been unfairly influenced by appearances in\neach; that because Captain Wentworth's manners had not suited her own\nideas, she had been too quick in suspecting them to indicate a\ncharacter of dangerous impetuosity; and that because Mr Elliot's\nmanners had precisely pleased her in their propriety and correctness,\ntheir general politeness and suavity, she had been too quick in\nreceiving them as the certain result of the most correct opinions and\nwell-regulated mind.  There was nothing less for Lady Russell to do,\nthan to admit that she had been pretty completely wrong, and to take up\na new set of opinions and of hopes.\n\nThere is a quickness of perception in some, a nicety in the discernment\nof character, a natural penetration, in short, which no experience in\nothers can equal, and Lady Russell had been less gifted in this part of\nunderstanding than her young friend.  But she was a very good woman,\nand if her second object was to be sensible and well-judging, her first\nwas to see Anne happy.  She loved Anne better than she loved her own\nabilities; and when the awkwardness of the beginning was over, found\nlittle hardship in attaching herself as a mother to the man who was\nsecuring the happiness of her other child.\n\nOf all the family, Mary was probably the one most immediately gratified\nby the circumstance.  It was creditable to have a sister married, and\nshe might flatter herself with having been greatly instrumental to the\nconnexion, by keeping Anne with her in the autumn; and as her own\nsister must be better than her husband's sisters, it was very agreeable\nthat Captain Wentworth should be a richer man than either Captain\nBenwick or Charles Hayter.  She had something to suffer, perhaps, when\nthey came into contact again, in seeing Anne restored to the rights of\nseniority, and the mistress of a very pretty landaulette; but she had a\nfuture to look forward to, of powerful consolation.  Anne had no\nUppercross Hall before her, no landed estate, no headship of a family;\nand if they could but keep Captain Wentworth from being made a baronet,\nshe would not change situations with Anne.\n\nIt would be well for the eldest sister if she were equally satisfied\nwith her situation, for a change is not very probable there.  She had\nsoon the mortification of seeing Mr Elliot withdraw, and no one of\nproper condition has since presented himself to raise even the\nunfounded hopes which sunk with him.\n\nThe news of his cousins Anne's engagement burst on Mr Elliot most\nunexpectedly.  It deranged his best plan of domestic happiness, his\nbest hope of keeping Sir Walter single by the watchfulness which a\nson-in-law's rights would have given.  But, though discomfited and\ndisappointed, he could still do something for his own interest and his\nown enjoyment.  He soon quitted Bath; and on Mrs Clay's quitting it\nsoon afterwards, and being next heard of as established under his\nprotection in London, it was evident how double a game he had been\nplaying, and how determined he was to save himself from being cut out\nby one artful woman, at least.\n\nMrs Clay's affections had overpowered her interest, and she had\nsacrificed, for the young man's sake, the possibility of scheming\nlonger for Sir Walter.  She has abilities, however, as well as\naffections; and it is now a doubtful point whether his cunning, or\nhers, may finally carry the day; whether, after preventing her from\nbeing the wife of Sir Walter, he may not be wheedled and caressed at\nlast into making her the wife of Sir William.\n\nIt cannot be doubted that Sir Walter and Elizabeth were shocked and\nmortified by the loss of their companion, and the discovery of their\ndeception in her.  They had their great cousins, to be sure, to resort\nto for comfort; but they must long feel that to flatter and follow\nothers, without being flattered and followed in turn, is but a state of\nhalf enjoyment.\n\nAnne, satisfied at a very early period of Lady Russell's meaning to\nlove Captain Wentworth as she ought, had no other alloy to the\nhappiness of her prospects than what arose from the consciousness of\nhaving no relations to bestow on him which a man of sense could value.\nThere she felt her own inferiority very keenly.  The disproportion in\ntheir fortune was nothing; it did not give her a moment's regret; but\nto have no family to receive and estimate him properly, nothing of\nrespectability, of harmony, of good will to offer in return for all the\nworth and all the prompt welcome which met her in his brothers and\nsisters, was a source of as lively pain as her mind could well be\nsensible of under circumstances of otherwise strong felicity.  She had\nbut two friends in the world to add to his list, Lady Russell and Mrs\nSmith.  To those, however, he was very well disposed to attach himself.\nLady Russell, in spite of all her former transgressions, he could now\nvalue from his heart.  While he was not obliged to say that he believed\nher to have been right in originally dividing them, he was ready to say\nalmost everything else in her favour, and as for Mrs Smith, she had\nclaims of various kinds to recommend her quickly and permanently.\n\nHer recent good offices by Anne had been enough in themselves, and\ntheir marriage, instead of depriving her of one friend, secured her\ntwo.  She was their earliest visitor in their settled life; and Captain\nWentworth, by putting her in the way of recovering her husband's\nproperty in the West Indies, by writing for her, acting for her, and\nseeing her through all the petty difficulties of the case with the\nactivity and exertion of a fearless man and a determined friend, fully\nrequited the services which she had rendered, or ever meant to render,\nto his wife.\n\nMrs Smith's enjoyments were not spoiled by this improvement of income,\nwith some improvement of health, and the acquisition of such friends to\nbe often with, for her cheerfulness and mental alacrity did not fail\nher; and while these prime supplies of good remained, she might have\nbid defiance even to greater accessions of worldly prosperity.  She\nmight have been absolutely rich and perfectly healthy, and yet be\nhappy.  Her spring of felicity was in the glow of her spirits, as her\nfriend Anne's was in the warmth of her heart.  Anne was tenderness\nitself, and she had the full worth of it in Captain Wentworth's\naffection.  His profession was all that could ever make her friends\nwish that tenderness less, the dread of a future war all that could dim\nher sunshine.  She gloried in being a sailor's wife, but she must pay\nthe tax of quick alarm for belonging to that profession which is, if\npossible, more distinguished in its domestic virtues than in its\nnational importance.\n\n\n\nFinis\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nNORTHANGER ABBEY\n\n\nby Jane Austen (1803)\n\n\n\n\nADVERTISEMENT BY THE AUTHORESS, TO NORTHANGER ABBEY\n\nTHIS little work was finished in the year 1803, and intended for\nimmediate publication. It was disposed of to a bookseller, it was even\nadvertised, and why the business proceeded no farther, the author\nhas never been able to learn. That any bookseller should think it\nworth-while to purchase what he did not think it worth-while to publish\nseems extraordinary. But with this, neither the author nor the public\nhave any other concern than as some observation is necessary upon those\nparts of the work which thirteen years have made comparatively obsolete.\nThe public are entreated to bear in mind that thirteen years have passed\nsince it was finished, many more since it was begun, and that during\nthat period, places, manners, books, and opinions have undergone\nconsiderable changes.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 1\n\n\nNo one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have\nsupposed her born to be an heroine. Her situation in life, the character\nof her father and mother, her own person and disposition, were\nall equally against her. Her father was a clergyman, without being\nneglected, or poor, and a very respectable man, though his name\nwas Richard--and he had never been handsome. He had a considerable\nindependence besides two good livings--and he was not in the least\naddicted to locking up his daughters. Her mother was a woman of useful\nplain sense, with a good temper, and, what is more remarkable, with a\ngood constitution. She had three sons before Catherine was born; and\ninstead of dying in bringing the latter into the world, as anybody might\nexpect, she still lived on--lived to have six children more--to see them\ngrowing up around her, and to enjoy excellent health herself. A family\nof ten children will be always called a fine family, where there are\nheads and arms and legs enough for the number; but the Morlands had\nlittle other right to the word, for they were in general very plain, and\nCatherine, for many years of her life, as plain as any. She had a thin\nawkward figure, a sallow skin without colour, dark lank hair, and strong\nfeatures--so much for her person; and not less unpropitious for heroism\nseemed her mind. She was fond of all boy's plays, and greatly preferred\ncricket not merely to dolls, but to the more heroic enjoyments of\ninfancy, nursing a dormouse, feeding a canary-bird, or watering a\nrose-bush. Indeed she had no taste for a garden; and if she gathered\nflowers at all, it was chiefly for the pleasure of mischief--at least\nso it was conjectured from her always preferring those which she was\nforbidden to take. Such were her propensities--her abilities were quite\nas extraordinary. She never could learn or understand anything\nbefore she was taught; and sometimes not even then, for she was often\ninattentive, and occasionally stupid. Her mother was three months in\nteaching her only to repeat the \"Beggar's Petition\"; and after all, her\nnext sister, Sally, could say it better than she did. Not that Catherine\nwas always stupid--by no means; she learnt the fable of \"The Hare and\nMany Friends\" as quickly as any girl in England. Her mother wished her\nto learn music; and Catherine was sure she should like it, for she was\nvery fond of tinkling the keys of the old forlorn spinnet; so, at eight\nyears old she began. She learnt a year, and could not bear it; and Mrs.\nMorland, who did not insist on her daughters being accomplished in\nspite of incapacity or distaste, allowed her to leave off. The day which\ndismissed the music-master was one of the happiest of Catherine's life.\nHer taste for drawing was not superior; though whenever she could obtain\nthe outside of a letter from her mother or seize upon any other odd\npiece of paper, she did what she could in that way, by drawing houses\nand trees, hens and chickens, all very much like one another. Writing\nand accounts she was taught by her father; French by her mother: her\nproficiency in either was not remarkable, and she shirked her lessons in\nboth whenever she could. What a strange, unaccountable character!--for\nwith all these symptoms of profligacy at ten years old, she had neither\na bad heart nor a bad temper, was seldom stubborn, scarcely ever\nquarrelsome, and very kind to the little ones, with few interruptions\nof tyranny; she was moreover noisy and wild, hated confinement and\ncleanliness, and loved nothing so well in the world as rolling down the\ngreen slope at the back of the house.\n\nSuch was Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen, appearances were mending;\nshe began to curl her hair and long for balls; her complexion improved,\nher features were softened by plumpness and colour, her eyes gained more\nanimation, and her figure more consequence. Her love of dirt gave way to\nan inclination for finery, and she grew clean as she grew smart; she had\nnow the pleasure of sometimes hearing her father and mother remark\non her personal improvement. \"Catherine grows quite a good-looking\ngirl--she is almost pretty today,\" were words which caught her ears now\nand then; and how welcome were the sounds! To look almost pretty is an\nacquisition of higher delight to a girl who has been looking plain the\nfirst fifteen years of her life than a beauty from her cradle can ever\nreceive.\n\nMrs. Morland was a very good woman, and wished to see her children\neverything they ought to be; but her time was so much occupied in\nlying-in and teaching the little ones, that her elder daughters were\ninevitably left to shift for themselves; and it was not very wonderful\nthat Catherine, who had by nature nothing heroic about her, should\nprefer cricket, baseball, riding on horseback, and running about\nthe country at the age of fourteen, to books--or at least books of\ninformation--for, provided that nothing like useful knowledge could be\ngained from them, provided they were all story and no reflection, she\nhad never any objection to books at all. But from fifteen to seventeen\nshe was in training for a heroine; she read all such works as heroines\nmust read to supply their memories with those quotations which are so\nserviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful lives.\n\nFrom Pope, she learnt to censure those who\n\n   \"bear about the mockery of woe.\"\n\n\nFrom Gray, that\n\n   \"Many a flower is born to blush unseen,\n   \"And waste its fragrance on the desert air.\"\n\n\nFrom Thompson, that--\n\n   \"It is a delightful task\n   \"To teach the young idea how to shoot.\"\n\n\nAnd from Shakespeare she gained a great store of information--amongst\nthe rest, that--\n\n   \"Trifles light as air,\n   \"Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong,\n   \"As proofs of Holy Writ.\"\n\n\nThat\n\n   \"The poor beetle, which we tread upon,\n   \"In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great\n   \"As when a giant dies.\"\n\n\nAnd that a young woman in love always looks--\n\n   \"like Patience on a monument\n   \"Smiling at Grief.\"\n\n\nSo far her improvement was sufficient--and in many other points she came\non exceedingly well; for though she could not write sonnets, she brought\nherself to read them; and though there seemed no chance of her throwing\na whole party into raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte, of her own\ncomposition, she could listen to other people's performance with very\nlittle fatigue. Her greatest deficiency was in the pencil--she had no\nnotion of drawing--not enough even to attempt a sketch of her lover's\nprofile, that she might be detected in the design. There she fell\nmiserably short of the true heroic height. At present she did not know\nher own poverty, for she had no lover to portray. She had reached the\nage of seventeen, without having seen one amiable youth who could call\nforth her sensibility, without having inspired one real passion, and\nwithout having excited even any admiration but what was very moderate\nand very transient. This was strange indeed! But strange things may be\ngenerally accounted for if their cause be fairly searched out. There was\nnot one lord in the neighbourhood; no--not even a baronet. There was not\none family among their acquaintance who had reared and supported a boy\naccidentally found at their door--not one young man whose origin\nwas unknown. Her father had no ward, and the squire of the parish no\nchildren.\n\nBut when a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty\nsurrounding families cannot prevent her. Something must and will happen\nto throw a hero in her way.\n\nMr. Allen, who owned the chief of the property about Fullerton, the\nvillage in Wiltshire where the Morlands lived, was ordered to Bath\nfor the benefit of a gouty constitution--and his lady, a good-humoured\nwoman, fond of Miss Morland, and probably aware that if adventures will\nnot befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad,\ninvited her to go with them. Mr. and Mrs. Morland were all compliance,\nand Catherine all happiness.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 2\n\n\nIn addition to what has been already said of Catherine Morland's\npersonal and mental endowments, when about to be launched into all the\ndifficulties and dangers of a six weeks' residence in Bath, it may be\nstated, for the reader's more certain information, lest the following\npages should otherwise fail of giving any idea of what her character is\nmeant to be, that her heart was affectionate; her disposition cheerful\nand open, without conceit or affectation of any kind--her manners just\nremoved from the awkwardness and shyness of a girl; her person pleasing,\nand, when in good looks, pretty--and her mind about as ignorant and\nuninformed as the female mind at seventeen usually is.\n\nWhen the hour of departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs.\nMorland will be naturally supposed to be most severe. A thousand\nalarming presentiments of evil to her beloved Catherine from this\nterrific separation must oppress her heart with sadness, and drown her\nin tears for the last day or two of their being together; and advice of\nthe most important and applicable nature must of course flow from her\nwise lips in their parting conference in her closet. Cautions against\nthe violence of such noblemen and baronets as delight in forcing young\nladies away to some remote farm-house, must, at such a moment, relieve\nthe fulness of her heart. Who would not think so? But Mrs. Morland knew\nso little of lords and baronets, that she entertained no notion of their\ngeneral mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to her\ndaughter from their machinations. Her cautions were confined to the\nfollowing points. \"I beg, Catherine, you will always wrap yourself up\nvery warm about the throat, when you come from the rooms at night; and\nI wish you would try to keep some account of the money you spend; I will\ngive you this little book on purpose.\"\n\nSally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common gentility will\nreach the age of sixteen without altering her name as far as she can?),\nmust from situation be at this time the intimate friend and confidante\nof her sister. It is remarkable, however, that she neither insisted\non Catherine's writing by every post, nor exacted her promise of\ntransmitting the character of every new acquaintance, nor a detail\nof every interesting conversation that Bath might produce. Everything\nindeed relative to this important journey was done, on the part of the\nMorlands, with a degree of moderation and composure, which seemed\nrather consistent with the common feelings of common life, than with the\nrefined susceptibilities, the tender emotions which the first separation\nof a heroine from her family ought always to excite. Her father, instead\nof giving her an unlimited order on his banker, or even putting an\nhundred pounds bank-bill into her hands, gave her only ten guineas, and\npromised her more when she wanted it.\n\nUnder these unpromising auspices, the parting took place, and the\njourney began. It was performed with suitable quietness and uneventful\nsafety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor one lucky\noverturn to introduce them to the hero. Nothing more alarming occurred\nthan a fear, on Mrs. Allen's side, of having once left her clogs behind\nher at an inn, and that fortunately proved to be groundless.\n\nThey arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight--her eyes were\nhere, there, everywhere, as they approached its fine and striking\nenvirons, and afterwards drove through those streets which conducted\nthem to the hotel. She was come to be happy, and she felt happy already.\n\nThey were soon settled in comfortable lodgings in Pulteney Street.\n\nIt is now expedient to give some description of Mrs. Allen, that the\nreader may be able to judge in what manner her actions will hereafter\ntend to promote the general distress of the work, and how she will,\nprobably, contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate\nwretchedness of which a last volume is capable--whether by her\nimprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy--whether by intercepting her letters,\nruining her character, or turning her out of doors.\n\nMrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose society can\nraise no other emotion than surprise at there being any men in the world\nwho could like them well enough to marry them. She had neither beauty,\ngenius, accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a gentlewoman, a great\ndeal of quiet, inactive good temper, and a trifling turn of mind\nwere all that could account for her being the choice of a sensible,\nintelligent man like Mr. Allen. In one respect she was admirably fitted\nto introduce a young lady into public, being as fond of going everywhere\nand seeing everything herself as any young lady could be. Dress was\nher passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine; and our\nheroine's entree into life could not take place till after three or four\ndays had been spent in learning what was mostly worn, and her chaperone\nwas provided with a dress of the newest fashion. Catherine too made\nsome purchases herself, and when all these matters were arranged, the\nimportant evening came which was to usher her into the Upper Rooms. Her\nhair was cut and dressed by the best hand, her clothes put on with care,\nand both Mrs. Allen and her maid declared she looked quite as she should\ndo. With such encouragement, Catherine hoped at least to pass uncensured\nthrough the crowd. As for admiration, it was always very welcome when it\ncame, but she did not depend on it.\n\nMrs. Allen was so long in dressing that they did not enter the ballroom\ntill late. The season was full, the room crowded, and the two ladies\nsqueezed in as well as they could. As for Mr. Allen, he repaired\ndirectly to the card-room, and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves.\nWith more care for the safety of her new gown than for the comfort of\nher protegee, Mrs. Allen made her way through the throng of men by\nthe door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would allow; Catherine,\nhowever, kept close at her side, and linked her arm too firmly within\nher friend's to be torn asunder by any common effort of a struggling\nassembly. But to her utter amazement she found that to proceed along the\nroom was by no means the way to disengage themselves from the crowd; it\nseemed rather to increase as they went on, whereas she had imagined that\nwhen once fairly within the door, they should easily find seats and be\nable to watch the dances with perfect convenience. But this was far from\nbeing the case, and though by unwearied diligence they gained even the\ntop of the room, their situation was just the same; they saw nothing\nof the dancers but the high feathers of some of the ladies. Still they\nmoved on--something better was yet in view; and by a continued exertion\nof strength and ingenuity they found themselves at last in the passage\nbehind the highest bench. Here there was something less of crowd than\nbelow; and hence Miss Morland had a comprehensive view of all the\ncompany beneath her, and of all the dangers of her late passage through\nthem. It was a splendid sight, and she began, for the first time that\nevening, to feel herself at a ball: she longed to dance, but she had\nnot an acquaintance in the room. Mrs. Allen did all that she could do\nin such a case by saying very placidly, every now and then, \"I wish you\ncould dance, my dear--I wish you could get a partner.\" For some time\nher young friend felt obliged to her for these wishes; but they were\nrepeated so often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Catherine\ngrew tired at last, and would thank her no more.\n\nThey were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence\nthey had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for\ntea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel\nsomething of disappointment--she was tired of being continually pressed\nagainst by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to\ninterest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she\ncould not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a\nsyllable with any of her fellow captives; and when at last arrived in\nthe tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of having no party to\njoin, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist them. They saw\nnothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a more\neligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at\nwhich a large party were already placed, without having anything to do\nthere, or anybody to speak to, except each other.\n\nMrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having\npreserved her gown from injury. \"It would have been very shocking to\nhave it torn,\" said she, \"would not it? It is such a delicate muslin.\nFor my part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I\nassure you.\"\n\n\"How uncomfortable it is,\" whispered Catherine, \"not to have a single\nacquaintance here!\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear,\" replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, \"it is very\nuncomfortable indeed.\"\n\n\"What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if\nthey wondered why we came here--we seem forcing ourselves into their\nparty.\"\n\n\"Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large\nacquaintance here.\"\n\n\"I wish we had any--it would be somebody to go to.\"\n\n\"Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them directly.\nThe Skinners were here last year--I wish they were here now.\"\n\n\"Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you\nsee.\"\n\n\"No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I think we had\nbetter sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How is my\nhead, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure\nthere is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you\nmust know somebody.\"\n\n\"I don't, upon my word--I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance\nhere with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should be\nso glad to have you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! What an\nodd gown she has got on! How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back.\"\n\nAfter some time they received an offer of tea from one of their\nneighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light\nconversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time\nthat anybody spoke to them during the evening, till they were discovered\nand joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over.\n\n\"Well, Miss Morland,\" said he, directly, \"I hope you have had an\nagreeable ball.\"\n\n\"Very agreeable indeed,\" she replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a\ngreat yawn.\n\n\"I wish she had been able to dance,\" said his wife; \"I wish we could\nhave got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I should be if\nthe Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parrys had\ncome, as they talked of once, she might have danced with George Parry. I\nam so sorry she has not had a partner!\"\n\n\"We shall do better another evening I hope,\" was Mr. Allen's\nconsolation.\n\nThe company began to disperse when the dancing was over--enough to leave\nspace for the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and now was the\ntime for a heroine, who had not yet played a very distinguished part\nin the events of the evening, to be noticed and admired. Every five\nminutes, by removing some of the crowd, gave greater openings for her\ncharms. She was now seen by many young men who had not been near her\nbefore. Not one, however, started with rapturous wonder on beholding\nher, no whisper of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor was she once\ncalled a divinity by anybody. Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and\nhad the company only seen her three years before, they would now have\nthought her exceedingly handsome.\n\nShe was looked at, however, and with some admiration; for, in her own\nhearing, two gentlemen pronounced her to be a pretty girl. Such words\nhad their due effect; she immediately thought the evening pleasanter\nthan she had found it before--her humble vanity was contented--she\nfelt more obliged to the two young men for this simple praise than a\ntrue-quality heroine would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration\nof her charms, and went to her chair in good humour with everybody, and\nperfectly satisfied with her share of public attention.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 3\n\n\nEvery morning now brought its regular duties--shops were to be visited;\nsome new part of the town to be looked at; and the pump-room to be\nattended, where they paraded up and down for an hour, looking at\neverybody and speaking to no one. The wish of a numerous acquaintance\nin Bath was still uppermost with Mrs. Allen, and she repeated it after\nevery fresh proof, which every morning brought, of her knowing nobody at\nall.\n\nThey made their appearance in the Lower Rooms; and here fortune was more\nfavourable to our heroine. The master of the ceremonies introduced to\nher a very gentlemanlike young man as a partner; his name was Tilney.\nHe seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather tall, had a\npleasing countenance, a very intelligent and lively eye, and, if not\nquite handsome, was very near it. His address was good, and Catherine\nfelt herself in high luck. There was little leisure for speaking\nwhile they danced; but when they were seated at tea, she found him as\nagreeable as she had already given him credit for being. He talked with\nfluency and spirit--and there was an archness and pleasantry in his\nmanner which interested, though it was hardly understood by her. After\nchatting some time on such matters as naturally arose from the objects\naround them, he suddenly addressed her with--\"I have hitherto been very\nremiss, madam, in the proper attentions of a partner here; I have not\nyet asked you how long you have been in Bath; whether you were ever here\nbefore; whether you have been at the Upper Rooms, the theatre, and\nthe concert; and how you like the place altogether. I have been\nvery negligent--but are you now at leisure to satisfy me in these\nparticulars? If you are I will begin directly.\"\n\n\"You need not give yourself that trouble, sir.\"\n\n\"No trouble, I assure you, madam.\" Then forming his features into a set\nsmile, and affectedly softening his voice, he added, with a simpering\nair, \"Have you been long in Bath, madam?\"\n\n\"About a week, sir,\" replied Catherine, trying not to laugh.\n\n\"Really!\" with affected astonishment.\n\n\"Why should you be surprised, sir?\"\n\n\"Why, indeed!\" said he, in his natural tone. \"But some emotion must\nappear to be raised by your reply, and surprise is more easily assumed,\nand not less reasonable than any other. Now let us go on. Were you never\nhere before, madam?\"\n\n\"Never, sir.\"\n\n\"Indeed! Have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, I was there last Monday.\"\n\n\"Have you been to the theatre?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, I was at the play on Tuesday.\"\n\n\"To the concert?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, on Wednesday.\"\n\n\"And are you altogether pleased with Bath?\"\n\n\"Yes--I like it very well.\"\n\n\"Now I must give one smirk, and then we may be rational again.\"\nCatherine turned away her head, not knowing whether she might venture to\nlaugh. \"I see what you think of me,\" said he gravely--\"I shall make but\na poor figure in your journal tomorrow.\"\n\n\"My journal!\"\n\n\"Yes, I know exactly what you will say: Friday, went to the Lower\nRooms; wore my sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings--plain black\nshoes--appeared to much advantage; but was strangely harassed by a\nqueer, half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and distressed\nme by his nonsense.\"\n\n\"Indeed I shall say no such thing.\"\n\n\"Shall I tell you what you ought to say?\"\n\n\"If you please.\"\n\n\"I danced with a very agreeable young man, introduced by Mr. King; had\na great deal of conversation with him--seems a most extraordinary\ngenius--hope I may know more of him. That, madam, is what I wish you to\nsay.\"\n\n\"But, perhaps, I keep no journal.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you are not sitting in this room, and I am not sitting by\nyou. These are points in which a doubt is equally possible. Not keep a\njournal! How are your absent cousins to understand the tenour of your\nlife in Bath without one? How are the civilities and compliments of\nevery day to be related as they ought to be, unless noted down every\nevening in a journal? How are your various dresses to be remembered,\nand the particular state of your complexion, and curl of your hair to be\ndescribed in all their diversities, without having constant recourse to\na journal? My dear madam, I am not so ignorant of young ladies' ways as\nyou wish to believe me; it is this delightful habit of journaling which\nlargely contributes to form the easy style of writing for which ladies\nare so generally celebrated. Everybody allows that the talent of writing\nagreeable letters is peculiarly female. Nature may have done something,\nbut I am sure it must be essentially assisted by the practice of keeping\na journal.\"\n\n\"I have sometimes thought,\" said Catherine, doubtingly, \"whether ladies\ndo write so much better letters than gentlemen! That is--I should not\nthink the superiority was always on our side.\"\n\n\"As far as I have had opportunity of judging, it appears to me that the\nusual style of letter-writing among women is faultless, except in three\nparticulars.\"\n\n\"And what are they?\"\n\n\"A general deficiency of subject, a total inattention to stops, and a\nvery frequent ignorance of grammar.\"\n\n\"Upon my word! I need not have been afraid of disclaiming the\ncompliment. You do not think too highly of us in that way.\"\n\n\"I should no more lay it down as a general rule that women write better\nletters than men, than that they sing better duets, or draw better\nlandscapes. In every power, of which taste is the foundation, excellence\nis pretty fairly divided between the sexes.\"\n\nThey were interrupted by Mrs. Allen: \"My dear Catherine,\" said she, \"do\ntake this pin out of my sleeve; I am afraid it has torn a hole already;\nI shall be quite sorry if it has, for this is a favourite gown, though\nit cost but nine shillings a yard.\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I should have guessed it, madam,\" said Mr. Tilney,\nlooking at the muslin.\n\n\"Do you understand muslins, sir?\"\n\n\"Particularly well; I always buy my own cravats, and am allowed to be an\nexcellent judge; and my sister has often trusted me in the choice of a\ngown. I bought one for her the other day, and it was pronounced to be a\nprodigious bargain by every lady who saw it. I gave but five shillings a\nyard for it, and a true Indian muslin.\"\n\nMrs. Allen was quite struck by his genius. \"Men commonly take so little\nnotice of those things,\" said she; \"I can never get Mr. Allen to know\none of my gowns from another. You must be a great comfort to your\nsister, sir.\"\n\n\"I hope I am, madam.\"\n\n\"And pray, sir, what do you think of Miss Morland's gown?\"\n\n\"It is very pretty, madam,\" said he, gravely examining it; \"but I do not\nthink it will wash well; I am afraid it will fray.\"\n\n\"How can you,\" said Catherine, laughing, \"be so--\" She had almost said\n\"strange.\"\n\n\"I am quite of your opinion, sir,\" replied Mrs. Allen; \"and so I told\nMiss Morland when she bought it.\"\n\n\"But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some account or other;\nMiss Morland will get enough out of it for a handkerchief, or a cap, or\na cloak. Muslin can never be said to be wasted. I have heard my sister\nsay so forty times, when she has been extravagant in buying more than\nshe wanted, or careless in cutting it to pieces.\"\n\n\"Bath is a charming place, sir; there are so many good shops here. We\nare sadly off in the country; not but what we have very good shops in\nSalisbury, but it is so far to go--eight miles is a long way; Mr. Allen\nsays it is nine, measured nine; but I am sure it cannot be more than\neight; and it is such a fag--I come back tired to death. Now, here one\ncan step out of doors and get a thing in five minutes.\"\n\nMr. Tilney was polite enough to seem interested in what she said; and\nshe kept him on the subject of muslins till the dancing recommenced.\nCatherine feared, as she listened to their discourse, that he indulged\nhimself a little too much with the foibles of others. \"What are you\nthinking of so earnestly?\" said he, as they walked back to the ballroom;\n\"not of your partner, I hope, for, by that shake of the head, your\nmeditations are not satisfactory.\"\n\nCatherine coloured, and said, \"I was not thinking of anything.\"\n\n\"That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told at once\nthat you will not tell me.\"\n\n\"Well then, I will not.\"\n\n\"Thank you; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am authorized to\ntease you on this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the world\nadvances intimacy so much.\"\n\nThey danced again; and, when the assembly closed, parted, on the\nlady's side at least, with a strong inclination for continuing the\nacquaintance. Whether she thought of him so much, while she drank her\nwarm wine and water, and prepared herself for bed, as to dream of him\nwhen there, cannot be ascertained; but I hope it was no more than in\na slight slumber, or a morning doze at most; for if it be true, as a\ncelebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be justified\nin falling in love before the gentleman's love is declared,* it must be\nvery improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before the\ngentleman is first known to have dreamt of her. How proper Mr. Tilney\nmight be as a dreamer or a lover had not yet perhaps entered Mr. Allen's\nhead, but that he was not objectionable as a common acquaintance for\nhis young charge he was on inquiry satisfied; for he had early in the\nevening taken pains to know who her partner was, and had been assured\nof Mr. Tilney's being a clergyman, and of a very respectable family in\nGloucestershire.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 4\n\n\nWith more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room the\nnext day, secure within herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before the\nmorning were over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile\nwas demanded--Mr. Tilney did not appear. Every creature in Bath,\nexcept himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the\nfashionable hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and\nout, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody\nwanted to see; and he only was absent. \"What a delightful place Bath\nis,\" said Mrs. Allen as they sat down near the great clock, after\nparading the room till they were tired; \"and how pleasant it would be if\nwe had any acquaintance here.\"\n\nThis sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no\nparticular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now;\nbut we are told to \"despair of nothing we would attain,\" as \"unwearied\ndiligence our point would gain\"; and the unwearied diligence with which\nshe had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its\njust reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady of\nabout her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her\nattentively for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance\nin these words: \"I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time\nsince I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?\"\nThis question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers\nto be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of\na former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since\ntheir respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this\nmeeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented\nto know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments\non good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away\nsince they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in\nBath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to\nmake inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and\ncousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive\ninformation, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs.\nThorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen,\nin a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her\nsons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different\nsituations and views--that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant\nTaylors', and William at sea--and all of them more beloved and respected\nin their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs.\nAllen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press\non the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to\nsit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling\nherself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that\nthe lace on Mrs. Thorpe's pelisse was not half so handsome as that on\nher own.\n\n\"Here come my dear girls,\" cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three\nsmart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. \"My\ndear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted\nto see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine young\nwoman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe Isabella is\nthe handsomest.\"\n\nThe Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a\nshort time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike\nthem all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the eldest\nyoung lady observed aloud to the rest, \"How excessively like her brother\nMiss Morland is!\"\n\n\"The very picture of him indeed!\" cried the mother--and \"I should have\nknown her anywhere for his sister!\" was repeated by them all, two or\nthree times over. For a moment Catherine was surprised; but Mrs. Thorpe\nand her daughters had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance\nwith Mr. James Morland, before she remembered that her eldest brother\nhad lately formed an intimacy with a young man of his own college, of\nthe name of Thorpe; and that he had spent the last week of the Christmas\nvacation with his family, near London.\n\nThe whole being explained, many obliging things were said by the Miss\nThorpes of their wish of being better acquainted with her; of being\nconsidered as already friends, through the friendship of their brothers,\netc., which Catherine heard with pleasure, and answered with all the\npretty expressions she could command; and, as the first proof of amity,\nshe was soon invited to accept an arm of the eldest Miss Thorpe, and\ntake a turn with her about the room. Catherine was delighted with this\nextension of her Bath acquaintance, and almost forgot Mr. Tilney while\nshe talked to Miss Thorpe. Friendship is certainly the finest balm for\nthe pangs of disappointed love.\n\nTheir conversation turned upon those subjects, of which the free\ndiscussion has generally much to do in perfecting a sudden intimacy\nbetween two young ladies: such as dress, balls, flirtations, and\nquizzes. Miss Thorpe, however, being four years older than Miss Morland,\nand at least four years better informed, had a very decided advantage in\ndiscussing such points; she could compare the balls of Bath with those\nof Tunbridge, its fashions with the fashions of London; could rectify\nthe opinions of her new friend in many articles of tasteful attire;\ncould discover a flirtation between any gentleman and lady who only\nsmiled on each other; and point out a quiz through the thickness of a\ncrowd. These powers received due admiration from Catherine, to whom they\nwere entirely new; and the respect which they naturally inspired might\nhave been too great for familiarity, had not the easy gaiety of Miss\nThorpe's manners, and her frequent expressions of delight on this\nacquaintance with her, softened down every feeling of awe, and left\nnothing but tender affection. Their increasing attachment was not to be\nsatisfied with half a dozen turns in the pump-room, but required, when\nthey all quitted it together, that Miss Thorpe should accompany Miss\nMorland to the very door of Mr. Allen's house; and that they should\nthere part with a most affectionate and lengthened shake of hands, after\nlearning, to their mutual relief, that they should see each other across\nthe theatre at night, and say their prayers in the same chapel the next\nmorning. Catherine then ran directly upstairs, and watched Miss Thorpe's\nprogress down the street from the drawing-room window; admired the\ngraceful spirit of her walk, the fashionable air of her figure and\ndress; and felt grateful, as well she might, for the chance which had\nprocured her such a friend.\n\nMrs. Thorpe was a widow, and not a very rich one; she was a\ngood-humoured, well-meaning woman, and a very indulgent mother. Her\neldest daughter had great personal beauty, and the younger ones, by\npretending to be as handsome as their sister, imitating her air, and\ndressing in the same style, did very well.\n\nThis brief account of the family is intended to supersede the necessity\nof a long and minute detail from Mrs. Thorpe herself, of her past\nadventures and sufferings, which might otherwise be expected to occupy\nthe three or four following chapters; in which the worthlessness of\nlords and attorneys might be set forth, and conversations, which had\npassed twenty years before, be minutely repeated.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 5\n\n\nCatherine was not so much engaged at the theatre that evening, in\nreturning the nods and smiles of Miss Thorpe, though they certainly\nclaimed much of her leisure, as to forget to look with an inquiring eye\nfor Mr. Tilney in every box which her eye could reach; but she looked in\nvain. Mr. Tilney was no fonder of the play than the pump-room. She hoped\nto be more fortunate the next day; and when her wishes for fine weather\nwere answered by seeing a beautiful morning, she hardly felt a doubt of\nit; for a fine Sunday in Bath empties every house of its inhabitants,\nand all the world appears on such an occasion to walk about and tell\ntheir acquaintance what a charming day it is.\n\nAs soon as divine service was over, the Thorpes and Allens eagerly\njoined each other; and after staying long enough in the pump-room to\ndiscover that the crowd was insupportable, and that there was not\na genteel face to be seen, which everybody discovers every Sunday\nthroughout the season, they hastened away to the Crescent, to breathe\nthe fresh air of better company. Here Catherine and Isabella, arm\nin arm, again tasted the sweets of friendship in an unreserved\nconversation; they talked much, and with much enjoyment; but again\nwas Catherine disappointed in her hope of reseeing her partner. He was\nnowhere to be met with; every search for him was equally unsuccessful,\nin morning lounges or evening assemblies; neither at the Upper nor Lower\nRooms, at dressed or undressed balls, was he perceivable; nor among the\nwalkers, the horsemen, or the curricle-drivers of the morning. His name\nwas not in the pump-room book, and curiosity could do no more. He must\nbe gone from Bath. Yet he had not mentioned that his stay would be so\nshort! This sort of mysteriousness, which is always so becoming in a\nhero, threw a fresh grace in Catherine's imagination around his person\nand manners, and increased her anxiety to know more of him. From the\nThorpes she could learn nothing, for they had been only two days in Bath\nbefore they met with Mrs. Allen. It was a subject, however, in which\nshe often indulged with her fair friend, from whom she received every\npossible encouragement to continue to think of him; and his impression\non her fancy was not suffered therefore to weaken. Isabella was very\nsure that he must be a charming young man, and was equally sure that he\nmust have been delighted with her dear Catherine, and would therefore\nshortly return. She liked him the better for being a clergyman, \"for she\nmust confess herself very partial to the profession\"; and something like\na sigh escaped her as she said it. Perhaps Catherine was wrong in not\ndemanding the cause of that gentle emotion--but she was not experienced\nenough in the finesse of love, or the duties of friendship, to know when\ndelicate raillery was properly called for, or when a confidence should\nbe forced.\n\nMrs. Allen was now quite happy--quite satisfied with Bath. She had found\nsome acquaintance, had been so lucky too as to find in them the family\nof a most worthy old friend; and, as the completion of good fortune, had\nfound these friends by no means so expensively dressed as herself. Her\ndaily expressions were no longer, \"I wish we had some acquaintance in\nBath!\" They were changed into, \"How glad I am we have met with Mrs.\nThorpe!\" and she was as eager in promoting the intercourse of the two\nfamilies, as her young charge and Isabella themselves could be; never\nsatisfied with the day unless she spent the chief of it by the side of\nMrs. Thorpe, in what they called conversation, but in which there was\nscarcely ever any exchange of opinion, and not often any resemblance of\nsubject, for Mrs. Thorpe talked chiefly of her children, and Mrs. Allen\nof her gowns.\n\nThe progress of the friendship between Catherine and Isabella was quick\nas its beginning had been warm, and they passed so rapidly through every\ngradation of increasing tenderness that there was shortly no fresh proof\nof it to be given to their friends or themselves. They called each other\nby their Christian name, were always arm in arm when they walked, pinned\nup each other's train for the dance, and were not to be divided in the\nset; and if a rainy morning deprived them of other enjoyments, they\nwere still resolute in meeting in defiance of wet and dirt, and shut\nthemselves up, to read novels together. Yes, novels; for I will not\nadopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with novel-writers,\nof degrading by their contemptuous censure the very performances, to the\nnumber of which they are themselves adding--joining with their greatest\nenemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely\never permitting them to be read by their own heroine, who, if she\naccidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages\nwith disgust. Alas! If the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the\nheroine of another, from whom can she expect protection and regard? I\ncannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the reviewers to abuse such\neffusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in\nthreadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. Let us\nnot desert one another; we are an injured body. Although our productions\nhave afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any\nother literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has\nbeen so much decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes\nare almost as many as our readers. And while the abilities of the\nnine-hundredth abridger of the History of England, or of the man who\ncollects and publishes in a volume some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and\nPrior, with a paper from the Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne,\nare eulogized by a thousand pens--there seems almost a general wish of\ndecrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and\nof slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to\nrecommend them. \"I am no novel-reader--I seldom look into novels--Do not\nimagine that I often read novels--It is really very well for a novel.\"\nSuch is the common cant. \"And what are you reading, Miss--?\" \"Oh! It is\nonly a novel!\" replies the young lady, while she lays down her book\nwith affected indifference, or momentary shame. \"It is only Cecilia, or\nCamilla, or Belinda\"; or, in short, only some work in which the greatest\npowers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge\nof human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the\nliveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the\nbest-chosen language. Now, had the same young lady been engaged with a\nvolume of the Spectator, instead of such a work, how proudly would she\nhave produced the book, and told its name; though the chances must be\nagainst her being occupied by any part of that voluminous publication,\nof which either the matter or manner would not disgust a young person of\ntaste: the substance of its papers so often consisting in the statement\nof improbable circumstances, unnatural characters, and topics of\nconversation which no longer concern anyone living; and their language,\ntoo, frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable idea of the age\nthat could endure it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 6\n\n\nThe following conversation, which took place between the two friends in\nthe pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance of eight or nine\ndays, is given as a specimen of their very warm attachment, and of the\ndelicacy, discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste which\nmarked the reasonableness of that attachment.\n\nThey met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five\nminutes before her friend, her first address naturally was, \"My dearest\ncreature, what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at\nleast this age!\"\n\n\"Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was in\nvery good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here long?\"\n\n\"Oh! These ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this half hour.\nBut now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and enjoy\nourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first place,\nI was so afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to set off;\nit looked very showery, and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do\nyou know, I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop window in\nMilsom Street just now--very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons\ninstead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what\nhave you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on\nwith Udolpho?\"\n\n\"Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the\nblack veil.\"\n\n\"Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is\nbehind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?\"\n\n\"Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me--I would not be\ntold upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is\nLaurentina's skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like\nto spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been\nto meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world.\"\n\n\"Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished\nUdolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list\nof ten or twelve more of the same kind for you.\"\n\n\"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?\"\n\n\"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook.\nCastle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the\nBlack Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries.\nThose will last us some time.\"\n\n\"Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all\nhorrid?\"\n\n\"Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a\nsweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every\none of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with\nher. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think\nher as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not\nadmiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it.\"\n\n\"Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?\"\n\n\"Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are\nreally my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is\nnot my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told\nCaptain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to\ntease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow\nMiss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable\nof real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the\ndifference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I\nshould fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for you are\njust the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men.\"\n\n\"Oh, dear!\" cried Catherine, colouring. \"How can you say so?\"\n\n\"I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly\nwhat Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly\ninsipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted\nyesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly--I am sure he\nis in love with you.\" Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella\nlaughed. \"It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are\nindifferent to everybody's admiration, except that of one gentleman,\nwho shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you\"--speaking more\nseriously--\"your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is\nreally attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with the\nattention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting,\nthat does not relate to the beloved object! I can perfectly comprehend\nyour feelings.\"\n\n\"But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr.\nTilney, for perhaps I may never see him again.\"\n\n\"Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure\nyou would be miserable if you thought so!\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very\nmuch pleased with him; but while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if\nnobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! My dear\nIsabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina's skeleton behind it.\"\n\n\"It is so odd to me, that you should never have read Udolpho before; but\nI suppose Mrs. Morland objects to novels.\"\n\n\"No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles Grandison herself;\nbut new books do not fall in our way.\"\n\n\"Sir Charles Grandison! That is an amazing horrid book, is it not? I\nremember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume.\"\n\n\"It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it is very\nentertaining.\"\n\n\"Do you indeed! You surprise me; I thought it had not been readable.\nBut, my dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head\ntonight? I am determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you.\nThe men take notice of that sometimes, you know.\"\n\n\"But it does not signify if they do,\" said Catherine, very innocently.\n\n\"Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say.\nThey are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with\nspirit, and make them keep their distance.\"\n\n\"Are they? Well, I never observed that. They always behave very well to\nme.\"\n\n\"Oh! They give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited\ncreatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance!\nBy the by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always\nforgot to ask you what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you\nlike them best dark or fair?\"\n\n\"I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both, I\nthink. Brown--not fair, and--and not very dark.\"\n\n\"Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your\ndescription of Mr. Tilney--'a brown skin, with dark eyes, and rather\ndark hair.' Well, my taste is different. I prefer light eyes, and as to\ncomplexion--do you know--I like a sallow better than any other. You must\nnot betray me, if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintance\nanswering that description.\"\n\n\"Betray you! What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop\nthe subject.\"\n\nCatherine, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few\nmoments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her\nat that time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina's\nskeleton, when her friend prevented her, by saying, \"For heaven's sake!\nLet us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two\nodious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really\nput me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals.\nThey will hardly follow us there.\"\n\nAway they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names, it\nwas Catherine's employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming\nyoung men.\n\n\"They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so\nimpertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am\ndetermined I will not look up.\"\n\nIn a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her\nthat she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left the\npump-room.\n\n\"And which way are they gone?\" said Isabella, turning hastily round.\n\"One was a very good-looking young man.\"\n\n\"They went towards the church-yard.\"\n\n\"Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And now, what say you\nto going to Edgar's Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat? You\nsaid you should like to see it.\"\n\nCatherine readily agreed. \"Only,\" she added, \"perhaps we may overtake\nthe two young men.\"\n\n\"Oh! Never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them presently,\nand I am dying to show you my hat.\"\n\n\"But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no danger of our\nseeing them at all.\"\n\n\"I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you. I have no\nnotion of treating men with such respect. That is the way to spoil\nthem.\"\n\nCatherine had nothing to oppose against such reasoning; and therefore,\nto show the independence of Miss Thorpe, and her resolution of humbling\nthe sex, they set off immediately as fast as they could walk, in pursuit\nof the two young men.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 7\n\n\nHalf a minute conducted them through the pump-yard to the archway,\nopposite Union Passage; but here they were stopped. Everybody acquainted\nwith Bath may remember the difficulties of crossing Cheap Street at\nthis point; it is indeed a street of so impertinent a nature, so\nunfortunately connected with the great London and Oxford roads, and the\nprincipal inn of the city, that a day never passes in which parties of\nladies, however important their business, whether in quest of pastry,\nmillinery, or even (as in the present case) of young men, are not\ndetained on one side or other by carriages, horsemen, or carts. This\nevil had been felt and lamented, at least three times a day, by Isabella\nsince her residence in Bath; and she was now fated to feel and lament it\nonce more, for at the very moment of coming opposite to Union Passage,\nand within view of the two gentlemen who were proceeding through the\ncrowds, and threading the gutters of that interesting alley, they\nwere prevented crossing by the approach of a gig, driven along on bad\npavement by a most knowing-looking coachman with all the vehemence that\ncould most fitly endanger the lives of himself, his companion, and his\nhorse.\n\n\"Oh, these odious gigs!\" said Isabella, looking up. \"How I detest them.\"\nBut this detestation, though so just, was of short duration, for she\nlooked again and exclaimed, \"Delightful! Mr. Morland and my brother!\"\n\n\"Good heaven! 'Tis James!\" was uttered at the same moment by Catherine;\nand, on catching the young men's eyes, the horse was immediately checked\nwith a violence which almost threw him on his haunches, and the servant\nhaving now scampered up, the gentlemen jumped out, and the equipage was\ndelivered to his care.\n\nCatherine, by whom this meeting was wholly unexpected, received her\nbrother with the liveliest pleasure; and he, being of a very amiable\ndisposition, and sincerely attached to her, gave every proof on his\nside of equal satisfaction, which he could have leisure to do, while the\nbright eyes of Miss Thorpe were incessantly challenging his notice;\nand to her his devoirs were speedily paid, with a mixture of joy and\nembarrassment which might have informed Catherine, had she been more\nexpert in the development of other people's feelings, and less simply\nengrossed by her own, that her brother thought her friend quite as\npretty as she could do herself.\n\nJohn Thorpe, who in the meantime had been giving orders about the\nhorses, soon joined them, and from him she directly received the amends\nwhich were her due; for while he slightly and carelessly touched the\nhand of Isabella, on her he bestowed a whole scrape and half a short\nbow. He was a stout young man of middling height, who, with a plain face\nand ungraceful form, seemed fearful of being too handsome unless he wore\nthe dress of a groom, and too much like a gentleman unless he were easy\nwhere he ought to be civil, and impudent where he might be allowed to be\neasy. He took out his watch: \"How long do you think we have been running\nit from Tetbury, Miss Morland?\"\n\n\"I do not know the distance.\" Her brother told her that it was\ntwenty-three miles.\n\n\"Three and twenty!\" cried Thorpe. \"Five and twenty if it is an inch.\"\nMorland remonstrated, pleaded the authority of road-books, innkeepers,\nand milestones; but his friend disregarded them all; he had a surer test\nof distance. \"I know it must be five and twenty,\" said he, \"by the time\nwe have been doing it. It is now half after one; we drove out of the\ninn-yard at Tetbury as the town clock struck eleven; and I defy any man\nin England to make my horse go less than ten miles an hour in harness;\nthat makes it exactly twenty-five.\"\n\n\"You have lost an hour,\" said Morland; \"it was only ten o'clock when we\ncame from Tetbury.\"\n\n\"Ten o'clock! It was eleven, upon my soul! I counted every stroke. This\nbrother of yours would persuade me out of my senses, Miss Morland; do\nbut look at my horse; did you ever see an animal so made for speed in\nyour life?\" (The servant had just mounted the carriage and was driving\noff.) \"Such true blood! Three hours and and a half indeed coming only\nthree and twenty miles! Look at that creature, and suppose it possible\nif you can.\"\n\n\"He does look very hot, to be sure.\"\n\n\"Hot! He had not turned a hair till we came to Walcot Church; but look\nat his forehand; look at his loins; only see how he moves; that horse\ncannot go less than ten miles an hour: tie his legs and he will get on.\nWhat do you think of my gig, Miss Morland? A neat one, is not it?\nWell hung; town-built; I have not had it a month. It was built for a\nChristchurch man, a friend of mine, a very good sort of fellow; he ran\nit a few weeks, till, I believe, it was convenient to have done with it.\nI happened just then to be looking out for some light thing of the kind,\nthough I had pretty well determined on a curricle too; but I chanced to\nmeet him on Magdalen Bridge, as he was driving into Oxford, last term:\n'Ah! Thorpe,' said he, 'do you happen to want such a little thing as\nthis? It is a capital one of the kind, but I am cursed tired of it.'\n'Oh! D--,' said I; 'I am your man; what do you ask?' And how much do you\nthink he did, Miss Morland?\"\n\n\"I am sure I cannot guess at all.\"\n\n\"Curricle-hung, you see; seat, trunk, sword-case, splashing-board,\nlamps, silver moulding, all you see complete; the iron-work as good\nas new, or better. He asked fifty guineas; I closed with him directly,\nthrew down the money, and the carriage was mine.\"\n\n\"And I am sure,\" said Catherine, \"I know so little of such things that I\ncannot judge whether it was cheap or dear.\"\n\n\"Neither one nor t'other; I might have got it for less, I dare say; but\nI hate haggling, and poor Freeman wanted cash.\"\n\n\"That was very good-natured of you,\" said Catherine, quite pleased.\n\n\"Oh! D---- it, when one has the means of doing a kind thing by a friend,\nI hate to be pitiful.\"\n\nAn inquiry now took place into the intended movements of the young\nladies; and, on finding whither they were going, it was decided that\nthe gentlemen should accompany them to Edgar's Buildings, and pay their\nrespects to Mrs. Thorpe. James and Isabella led the way; and so\nwell satisfied was the latter with her lot, so contentedly was she\nendeavouring to ensure a pleasant walk to him who brought the double\nrecommendation of being her brother's friend, and her friend's brother,\nso pure and uncoquettish were her feelings, that, though they overtook\nand passed the two offending young men in Milsom Street, she was so far\nfrom seeking to attract their notice, that she looked back at them only\nthree times.\n\nJohn Thorpe kept of course with Catherine, and, after a few minutes'\nsilence, renewed the conversation about his gig. \"You will find,\nhowever, Miss Morland, it would be reckoned a cheap thing by some\npeople, for I might have sold it for ten guineas more the next day;\nJackson, of Oriel, bid me sixty at once; Morland was with me at the\ntime.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Morland, who overheard this; \"but you forget that your horse\nwas included.\"\n\n\"My horse! Oh, d---- it! I would not sell my horse for a hundred. Are\nyou fond of an open carriage, Miss Morland?\"\n\n\"Yes, very; I have hardly ever an opportunity of being in one; but I am\nparticularly fond of it.\"\n\n\"I am glad of it; I will drive you out in mine every day.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Catherine, in some distress, from a doubt of the\npropriety of accepting such an offer.\n\n\"I will drive you up Lansdown Hill tomorrow.\"\n\n\"Thank you; but will not your horse want rest?\"\n\n\"Rest! He has only come three and twenty miles today; all nonsense;\nnothing ruins horses so much as rest; nothing knocks them up so soon.\nNo, no; I shall exercise mine at the average of four hours every day\nwhile I am here.\"\n\n\"Shall you indeed!\" said Catherine very seriously. \"That will be forty\nmiles a day.\"\n\n\"Forty! Aye, fifty, for what I care. Well, I will drive you up Lansdown\ntomorrow; mind, I am engaged.\"\n\n\"How delightful that will be!\" cried Isabella, turning round. \"My\ndearest Catherine, I quite envy you; but I am afraid, brother, you will\nnot have room for a third.\"\n\n\"A third indeed! No, no; I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters\nabout; that would be a good joke, faith! Morland must take care of you.\"\n\nThis brought on a dialogue of civilities between the other two; but\nCatherine heard neither the particulars nor the result. Her companion's\ndiscourse now sunk from its hitherto animated pitch to nothing more than\na short decisive sentence of praise or condemnation on the face of every\nwoman they met; and Catherine, after listening and agreeing as long as\nshe could, with all the civility and deference of the youthful female\nmind, fearful of hazarding an opinion of its own in opposition to that\nof a self-assured man, especially where the beauty of her own sex is\nconcerned, ventured at length to vary the subject by a question which\nhad been long uppermost in her thoughts; it was, \"Have you ever read\nUdolpho, Mr. Thorpe?\"\n\n\"Udolpho! Oh, Lord! Not I; I never read novels; I have something else to\ndo.\"\n\nCatherine, humbled and ashamed, was going to apologize for her question,\nbut he prevented her by saying, \"Novels are all so full of nonsense\nand stuff; there has not been a tolerably decent one come out since\nTom Jones, except The Monk; I read that t'other day; but as for all the\nothers, they are the stupidest things in creation.\"\n\n\"I think you must like Udolpho, if you were to read it; it is so very\ninteresting.\"\n\n\"Not I, faith! No, if I read any, it shall be Mrs. Radcliffe's; her\nnovels are amusing enough; they are worth reading; some fun and nature\nin them.\"\n\n\"Udolpho was written by Mrs. Radcliffe,\" said Catherine, with some\nhesitation, from the fear of mortifying him.\n\n\"No sure; was it? Aye, I remember, so it was; I was thinking of that\nother stupid book, written by that woman they make such a fuss about,\nshe who married the French emigrant.\"\n\n\"I suppose you mean Camilla?\"\n\n\"Yes, that's the book; such unnatural stuff! An old man playing at\nsee-saw, I took up the first volume once and looked it over, but I soon\nfound it would not do; indeed I guessed what sort of stuff it must be\nbefore I saw it: as soon as I heard she had married an emigrant, I was\nsure I should never be able to get through it.\"\n\n\"I have never read it.\"\n\n\"You had no loss, I assure you; it is the horridest nonsense you can\nimagine; there is nothing in the world in it but an old man's playing at\nsee-saw and learning Latin; upon my soul there is not.\"\n\nThis critique, the justness of which was unfortunately lost on poor\nCatherine, brought them to the door of Mrs. Thorpe's lodgings, and the\nfeelings of the discerning and unprejudiced reader of Camilla gave way\nto the feelings of the dutiful and affectionate son, as they met Mrs.\nThorpe, who had descried them from above, in the passage. \"Ah, Mother!\nHow do you do?\" said he, giving her a hearty shake of the hand. \"Where\ndid you get that quiz of a hat? It makes you look like an old witch.\nHere is Morland and I come to stay a few days with you, so you must look\nout for a couple of good beds somewhere near.\" And this address seemed\nto satisfy all the fondest wishes of the mother's heart, for she\nreceived him with the most delighted and exulting affection. On his\ntwo younger sisters he then bestowed an equal portion of his fraternal\ntenderness, for he asked each of them how they did, and observed that\nthey both looked very ugly.\n\nThese manners did not please Catherine; but he was James's friend\nand Isabella's brother; and her judgment was further bought off by\nIsabella's assuring her, when they withdrew to see the new hat, that\nJohn thought her the most charming girl in the world, and by John's\nengaging her before they parted to dance with him that evening. Had she\nbeen older or vainer, such attacks might have done little; but, where\nyouth and diffidence are united, it requires uncommon steadiness of\nreason to resist the attraction of being called the most charming girl\nin the world, and of being so very early engaged as a partner; and the\nconsequence was that, when the two Morlands, after sitting an hour with\nthe Thorpes, set off to walk together to Mr. Allen's, and James, as\nthe door was closed on them, said, \"Well, Catherine, how do you like my\nfriend Thorpe?\" instead of answering, as she probably would have done,\nhad there been no friendship and no flattery in the case, \"I do not like\nhim at all,\" she directly replied, \"I like him very much; he seems very\nagreeable.\"\n\n\"He is as good-natured a fellow as ever lived; a little of a rattle; but\nthat will recommend him to your sex, I believe: and how do you like the\nrest of the family?\"\n\n\"Very, very much indeed: Isabella particularly.\"\n\n\"I am very glad to hear you say so; she is just the kind of young woman\nI could wish to see you attached to; she has so much good sense, and is\nso thoroughly unaffected and amiable; I always wanted you to know her;\nand she seems very fond of you. She said the highest things in your\npraise that could possibly be; and the praise of such a girl as Miss\nThorpe even you, Catherine,\" taking her hand with affection, \"may be\nproud of.\"\n\n\"Indeed I am,\" she replied; \"I love her exceedingly, and am delighted\nto find that you like her too. You hardly mentioned anything of her when\nyou wrote to me after your visit there.\"\n\n\"Because I thought I should soon see you myself. I hope you will be a\ngreat deal together while you are in Bath. She is a most amiable girl;\nsuch a superior understanding! How fond all the family are of her; she\nis evidently the general favourite; and how much she must be admired in\nsuch a place as this--is not she?\"\n\n\"Yes, very much indeed, I fancy; Mr. Allen thinks her the prettiest girl\nin Bath.\"\n\n\"I dare say he does; and I do not know any man who is a better judge of\nbeauty than Mr. Allen. I need not ask you whether you are happy here, my\ndear Catherine; with such a companion and friend as Isabella Thorpe, it\nwould be impossible for you to be otherwise; and the Allens, I am sure,\nare very kind to you?\"\n\n\"Yes, very kind; I never was so happy before; and now you are come it\nwill be more delightful than ever; how good it is of you to come so far\non purpose to see me.\"\n\nJames accepted this tribute of gratitude, and qualified his conscience\nfor accepting it too, by saying with perfect sincerity, \"Indeed,\nCatherine, I love you dearly.\"\n\nInquiries and communications concerning brothers and sisters, the\nsituation of some, the growth of the rest, and other family matters now\npassed between them, and continued, with only one small digression\non James's part, in praise of Miss Thorpe, till they reached Pulteney\nStreet, where he was welcomed with great kindness by Mr. and Mrs. Allen,\ninvited by the former to dine with them, and summoned by the latter\nto guess the price and weigh the merits of a new muff and tippet.\nA pre-engagement in Edgar's Buildings prevented his accepting the\ninvitation of one friend, and obliged him to hurry away as soon as he\nhad satisfied the demands of the other. The time of the two parties\nuniting in the Octagon Room being correctly adjusted, Catherine was then\nleft to the luxury of a raised, restless, and frightened imagination\nover the pages of Udolpho, lost from all worldly concerns of dressing\nand dinner, incapable of soothing Mrs. Allen's fears on the delay of an\nexpected dressmaker, and having only one minute in sixty to bestow even\non the reflection of her own felicity, in being already engaged for the\nevening.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 8\n\n\nIn spite of Udolpho and the dressmaker, however, the party from Pulteney\nStreet reached the Upper Rooms in very good time. The Thorpes and James\nMorland were there only two minutes before them; and Isabella having\ngone through the usual ceremonial of meeting her friend with the most\nsmiling and affectionate haste, of admiring the set of her gown, and\nenvying the curl of her hair, they followed their chaperones, arm in\narm, into the ballroom, whispering to each other whenever a thought\noccurred, and supplying the place of many ideas by a squeeze of the hand\nor a smile of affection.\n\nThe dancing began within a few minutes after they were seated; and\nJames, who had been engaged quite as long as his sister, was very\nimportunate with Isabella to stand up; but John was gone into the\ncard-room to speak to a friend, and nothing, she declared, should induce\nher to join the set before her dear Catherine could join it too. \"I\nassure you,\" said she, \"I would not stand up without your dear sister\nfor all the world; for if I did we should certainly be separated the\nwhole evening.\" Catherine accepted this kindness with gratitude, and\nthey continued as they were for three minutes longer, when Isabella, who\nhad been talking to James on the other side of her, turned again to his\nsister and whispered, \"My dear creature, I am afraid I must leave you,\nyour brother is so amazingly impatient to begin; I know you will not\nmind my going away, and I dare say John will be back in a moment,\nand then you may easily find me out.\" Catherine, though a little\ndisappointed, had too much good nature to make any opposition, and the\nothers rising up, Isabella had only time to press her friend's hand and\nsay, \"Good-bye, my dear love,\" before they hurried off. The younger\nMiss Thorpes being also dancing, Catherine was left to the mercy of Mrs.\nThorpe and Mrs. Allen, between whom she now remained. She could not help\nbeing vexed at the non-appearance of Mr. Thorpe, for she not only longed\nto be dancing, but was likewise aware that, as the real dignity of her\nsituation could not be known, she was sharing with the scores of other\nyoung ladies still sitting down all the discredit of wanting a partner.\nTo be disgraced in the eye of the world, to wear the appearance of\ninfamy while her heart is all purity, her actions all innocence, and the\nmisconduct of another the true source of her debasement, is one of those\ncircumstances which peculiarly belong to the heroine's life, and her\nfortitude under it what particularly dignifies her character. Catherine\nhad fortitude too; she suffered, but no murmur passed her lips.\n\nFrom this state of humiliation, she was roused, at the end of ten\nminutes, to a pleasanter feeling, by seeing, not Mr. Thorpe, but Mr.\nTilney, within three yards of the place where they sat; he seemed to be\nmoving that way, but he did not see her, and therefore the smile and the\nblush, which his sudden reappearance raised in Catherine, passed away\nwithout sullying her heroic importance. He looked as handsome and as\nlively as ever, and was talking with interest to a fashionable and\npleasing-looking young woman, who leant on his arm, and whom Catherine\nimmediately guessed to be his sister; thus unthinkingly throwing away\na fair opportunity of considering him lost to her forever, by being\nmarried already. But guided only by what was simple and probable, it\nhad never entered her head that Mr. Tilney could be married; he had not\nbehaved, he had not talked, like the married men to whom she had been\nused; he had never mentioned a wife, and he had acknowledged a sister.\nFrom these circumstances sprang the instant conclusion of his sister's\nnow being by his side; and therefore, instead of turning of a deathlike\npaleness and falling in a fit on Mrs. Allen's bosom, Catherine sat\nerect, in the perfect use of her senses, and with cheeks only a little\nredder than usual.\n\nMr. Tilney and his companion, who continued, though slowly, to approach,\nwere immediately preceded by a lady, an acquaintance of Mrs. Thorpe; and\nthis lady stopping to speak to her, they, as belonging to her, stopped\nlikewise, and Catherine, catching Mr. Tilney's eye, instantly received\nfrom him the smiling tribute of recognition. She returned it with\npleasure, and then advancing still nearer, he spoke both to her and Mrs.\nAllen, by whom he was very civilly acknowledged. \"I am very happy to see\nyou again, sir, indeed; I was afraid you had left Bath.\" He thanked her\nfor her fears, and said that he had quitted it for a week, on the very\nmorning after his having had the pleasure of seeing her.\n\n\"Well, sir, and I dare say you are not sorry to be back again, for it\nis just the place for young people--and indeed for everybody else too.\nI tell Mr. Allen, when he talks of being sick of it, that I am sure he\nshould not complain, for it is so very agreeable a place, that it is\nmuch better to be here than at home at this dull time of year. I tell\nhim he is quite in luck to be sent here for his health.\"\n\n\"And I hope, madam, that Mr. Allen will be obliged to like the place,\nfrom finding it of service to him.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir. I have no doubt that he will. A neighbour of ours,\nDr. Skinner, was here for his health last winter, and came away quite\nstout.\"\n\n\"That circumstance must give great encouragement.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir--and Dr. Skinner and his family were here three months; so I\ntell Mr. Allen he must not be in a hurry to get away.\"\n\nHere they were interrupted by a request from Mrs. Thorpe to Mrs. Allen,\nthat she would move a little to accommodate Mrs. Hughes and Miss Tilney\nwith seats, as they had agreed to join their party. This was accordingly\ndone, Mr. Tilney still continuing standing before them; and after a\nfew minutes' consideration, he asked Catherine to dance with him. This\ncompliment, delightful as it was, produced severe mortification to the\nlady; and in giving her denial, she expressed her sorrow on the occasion\nso very much as if she really felt it that had Thorpe, who joined her\njust afterwards, been half a minute earlier, he might have thought her\nsufferings rather too acute. The very easy manner in which he then told\nher that he had kept her waiting did not by any means reconcile her more\nto her lot; nor did the particulars which he entered into while they\nwere standing up, of the horses and dogs of the friend whom he had just\nleft, and of a proposed exchange of terriers between them, interest her\nso much as to prevent her looking very often towards that part of the\nroom where she had left Mr. Tilney. Of her dear Isabella, to whom she\nparticularly longed to point out that gentleman, she could see nothing.\nThey were in different sets. She was separated from all her party, and\naway from all her acquaintance; one mortification succeeded another,\nand from the whole she deduced this useful lesson, that to go previously\nengaged to a ball does not necessarily increase either the dignity or\nenjoyment of a young lady. From such a moralizing strain as this, she\nwas suddenly roused by a touch on the shoulder, and turning round,\nperceived Mrs. Hughes directly behind her, attended by Miss Tilney and\na gentleman. \"I beg your pardon, Miss Morland,\" said she, \"for this\nliberty--but I cannot anyhow get to Miss Thorpe, and Mrs. Thorpe said\nshe was sure you would not have the least objection to letting in this\nyoung lady by you.\" Mrs. Hughes could not have applied to any creature\nin the room more happy to oblige her than Catherine. The young ladies\nwere introduced to each other, Miss Tilney expressing a proper sense of\nsuch goodness, Miss Morland with the real delicacy of a generous mind\nmaking light of the obligation; and Mrs. Hughes, satisfied with having\nso respectably settled her young charge, returned to her party.\n\nMiss Tilney had a good figure, a pretty face, and a very agreeable\ncountenance; and her air, though it had not all the decided pretension,\nthe resolute stylishness of Miss Thorpe's, had more real elegance. Her\nmanners showed good sense and good breeding; they were neither shy nor\naffectedly open; and she seemed capable of being young, attractive, and\nat a ball without wanting to fix the attention of every man near her,\nand without exaggerated feelings of ecstatic delight or inconceivable\nvexation on every little trifling occurrence. Catherine, interested at\nonce by her appearance and her relationship to Mr. Tilney, was desirous\nof being acquainted with her, and readily talked therefore whenever she\ncould think of anything to say, and had courage and leisure for saying\nit. But the hindrance thrown in the way of a very speedy intimacy, by\nthe frequent want of one or more of these requisites, prevented their\ndoing more than going through the first rudiments of an acquaintance, by\ninforming themselves how well the other liked Bath, how much she admired\nits buildings and surrounding country, whether she drew, or played, or\nsang, and whether she was fond of riding on horseback.\n\nThe two dances were scarcely concluded before Catherine found her arm\ngently seized by her faithful Isabella, who in great spirits exclaimed,\n\"At last I have got you. My dearest creature, I have been looking for\nyou this hour. What could induce you to come into this set, when you\nknew I was in the other? I have been quite wretched without you.\"\n\n\"My dear Isabella, how was it possible for me to get at you? I could not\neven see where you were.\"\n\n\"So I told your brother all the time--but he would not believe me. Do go\nand see for her, Mr. Morland, said I--but all in vain--he would not stir\nan inch. Was not it so, Mr. Morland? But you men are all so immoderately\nlazy! I have been scolding him to such a degree, my dear Catherine, you\nwould be quite amazed. You know I never stand upon ceremony with such\npeople.\"\n\n\"Look at that young lady with the white beads round her head,\" whispered\nCatherine, detaching her friend from James. \"It is Mr. Tilney's sister.\"\n\n\"Oh! Heavens! You don't say so! Let me look at her this moment. What a\ndelightful girl! I never saw anything half so beautiful! But where is\nher all-conquering brother? Is he in the room? Point him out to me this\ninstant, if he is. I die to see him. Mr. Morland, you are not to listen.\nWe are not talking about you.\"\n\n\"But what is all this whispering about? What is going on?\"\n\n\"There now, I knew how it would be. You men have such restless\ncuriosity! Talk of the curiosity of women, indeed! 'Tis nothing. But be\nsatisfied, for you are not to know anything at all of the matter.\"\n\n\"And is that likely to satisfy me, do you think?\"\n\n\"Well, I declare I never knew anything like you. What can it signify to\nyou, what we are talking of. Perhaps we are talking about you; therefore\nI would advise you not to listen, or you may happen to hear something\nnot very agreeable.\"\n\nIn this commonplace chatter, which lasted some time, the original\nsubject seemed entirely forgotten; and though Catherine was very well\npleased to have it dropped for a while, she could not avoid a little\nsuspicion at the total suspension of all Isabella's impatient desire to\nsee Mr. Tilney. When the orchestra struck up a fresh dance, James would\nhave led his fair partner away, but she resisted. \"I tell you, Mr.\nMorland,\" she cried, \"I would not do such a thing for all the world.\nHow can you be so teasing; only conceive, my dear Catherine, what your\nbrother wants me to do. He wants me to dance with him again, though\nI tell him that it is a most improper thing, and entirely against the\nrules. It would make us the talk of the place, if we were not to change\npartners.\"\n\n\"Upon my honour,\" said James, \"in these public assemblies, it is as\noften done as not.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, how can you say so? But when you men have a point to carry,\nyou never stick at anything. My sweet Catherine, do support me; persuade\nyour brother how impossible it is. Tell him that it would quite shock\nyou to see me do such a thing; now would not it?\"\n\n\"No, not at all; but if you think it wrong, you had much better change.\"\n\n\"There,\" cried Isabella, \"you hear what your sister says, and yet you\nwill not mind her. Well, remember that it is not my fault, if we set all\nthe old ladies in Bath in a bustle. Come along, my dearest Catherine,\nfor heaven's sake, and stand by me.\" And off they went, to regain\ntheir former place. John Thorpe, in the meanwhile, had walked away; and\nCatherine, ever willing to give Mr. Tilney an opportunity of repeating\nthe agreeable request which had already flattered her once, made her\nway to Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Thorpe as fast as she could, in the hope\nof finding him still with them--a hope which, when it proved to be\nfruitless, she felt to have been highly unreasonable. \"Well, my dear,\"\nsaid Mrs. Thorpe, impatient for praise of her son, \"I hope you have had\nan agreeable partner.\"\n\n\"Very agreeable, madam.\"\n\n\"I am glad of it. John has charming spirits, has not he?\"\n\n\"Did you meet Mr. Tilney, my dear?\" said Mrs. Allen.\n\n\"No, where is he?\"\n\n\"He was with us just now, and said he was so tired of lounging about,\nthat he was resolved to go and dance; so I thought perhaps he would ask\nyou, if he met with you.\"\n\n\"Where can he be?\" said Catherine, looking round; but she had not looked\nround long before she saw him leading a young lady to the dance.\n\n\"Ah! He has got a partner; I wish he had asked you,\" said Mrs. Allen;\nand after a short silence, she added, \"he is a very agreeable young\nman.\"\n\n\"Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen,\" said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling complacently; \"I\nmust say it, though I am his mother, that there is not a more agreeable\nyoung man in the world.\"\n\nThis inapplicable answer might have been too much for the comprehension\nof many; but it did not puzzle Mrs. Allen, for after only a moment's\nconsideration, she said, in a whisper to Catherine, \"I dare say she\nthought I was speaking of her son.\"\n\nCatherine was disappointed and vexed. She seemed to have missed by so\nlittle the very object she had had in view; and this persuasion did not\nincline her to a very gracious reply, when John Thorpe came up to her\nsoon afterwards and said, \"Well, Miss Morland, I suppose you and I are\nto stand up and jig it together again.\"\n\n\"Oh, no; I am much obliged to you, our two dances are over; and,\nbesides, I am tired, and do not mean to dance any more.\"\n\n\"Do not you? Then let us walk about and quiz people. Come along with\nme, and I will show you the four greatest quizzers in the room; my two\nyounger sisters and their partners. I have been laughing at them this\nhalf hour.\"\n\nAgain Catherine excused herself; and at last he walked off to quiz his\nsisters by himself. The rest of the evening she found very dull; Mr.\nTilney was drawn away from their party at tea, to attend that of his\npartner; Miss Tilney, though belonging to it, did not sit near her, and\nJames and Isabella were so much engaged in conversing together that the\nlatter had no leisure to bestow more on her friend than one smile, one\nsqueeze, and one \"dearest Catherine.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 9\n\n\nThe progress of Catherine's unhappiness from the events of the evening\nwas as follows. It appeared first in a general dissatisfaction with\neverybody about her, while she remained in the rooms, which speedily\nbrought on considerable weariness and a violent desire to go home. This,\non arriving in Pulteney Street, took the direction of extraordinary\nhunger, and when that was appeased, changed into an earnest longing to\nbe in bed; such was the extreme point of her distress; for when there\nshe immediately fell into a sound sleep which lasted nine hours, and\nfrom which she awoke perfectly revived, in excellent spirits, with fresh\nhopes and fresh schemes. The first wish of her heart was to improve her\nacquaintance with Miss Tilney, and almost her first resolution, to seek\nher for that purpose, in the pump-room at noon. In the pump-room, one\nso newly arrived in Bath must be met with, and that building she had\nalready found so favourable for the discovery of female excellence,\nand the completion of female intimacy, so admirably adapted for secret\ndiscourses and unlimited confidence, that she was most reasonably\nencouraged to expect another friend from within its walls. Her plan\nfor the morning thus settled, she sat quietly down to her book after\nbreakfast, resolving to remain in the same place and the same employment\ntill the clock struck one; and from habitude very little incommoded by\nthe remarks and ejaculations of Mrs. Allen, whose vacancy of mind and\nincapacity for thinking were such, that as she never talked a great\ndeal, so she could never be entirely silent; and, therefore, while she\nsat at her work, if she lost her needle or broke her thread, if she\nheard a carriage in the street, or saw a speck upon her gown, she must\nobserve it aloud, whether there were anyone at leisure to answer her or\nnot. At about half past twelve, a remarkably loud rap drew her in haste\nto the window, and scarcely had she time to inform Catherine of there\nbeing two open carriages at the door, in the first only a servant,\nher brother driving Miss Thorpe in the second, before John Thorpe came\nrunning upstairs, calling out, \"Well, Miss Morland, here I am. Have\nyou been waiting long? We could not come before; the old devil of a\ncoachmaker was such an eternity finding out a thing fit to be got into,\nand now it is ten thousand to one but they break down before we are out\nof the street. How do you do, Mrs. Allen? A famous ball last night, was\nnot it? Come, Miss Morland, be quick, for the others are in a confounded\nhurry to be off. They want to get their tumble over.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" said Catherine. \"Where are you all going to?\"\n\n\"Going to? Why, you have not forgot our engagement! Did not we agree\ntogether to take a drive this morning? What a head you have! We are\ngoing up Claverton Down.\"\n\n\"Something was said about it, I remember,\" said Catherine, looking at\nMrs. Allen for her opinion; \"but really I did not expect you.\"\n\n\"Not expect me! That's a good one! And what a dust you would have made,\nif I had not come.\"\n\nCatherine's silent appeal to her friend, meanwhile, was entirely thrown\naway, for Mrs. Allen, not being at all in the habit of conveying any\nexpression herself by a look, was not aware of its being ever intended\nby anybody else; and Catherine, whose desire of seeing Miss Tilney again\ncould at that moment bear a short delay in favour of a drive, and who\nthought there could be no impropriety in her going with Mr. Thorpe, as\nIsabella was going at the same time with James, was therefore obliged to\nspeak plainer. \"Well, ma'am, what do you say to it? Can you spare me for\nan hour or two? Shall I go?\"\n\n\"Do just as you please, my dear,\" replied Mrs. Allen, with the most\nplacid indifference. Catherine took the advice, and ran off to get\nready. In a very few minutes she reappeared, having scarcely allowed\nthe two others time enough to get through a few short sentences in her\npraise, after Thorpe had procured Mrs. Allen's admiration of his gig;\nand then receiving her friend's parting good wishes, they both hurried\ndownstairs. \"My dearest creature,\" cried Isabella, to whom the duty\nof friendship immediately called her before she could get into the\ncarriage, \"you have been at least three hours getting ready. I was\nafraid you were ill. What a delightful ball we had last night. I have a\nthousand things to say to you; but make haste and get in, for I long to\nbe off.\"\n\nCatherine followed her orders and turned away, but not too soon to hear\nher friend exclaim aloud to James, \"What a sweet girl she is! I quite\ndote on her.\"\n\n\"You will not be frightened, Miss Morland,\" said Thorpe, as he handed\nher in, \"if my horse should dance about a little at first setting off.\nHe will, most likely, give a plunge or two, and perhaps take the rest\nfor a minute; but he will soon know his master. He is full of spirits,\nplayful as can be, but there is no vice in him.\"\n\nCatherine did not think the portrait a very inviting one, but it was too\nlate to retreat, and she was too young to own herself frightened; so,\nresigning herself to her fate, and trusting to the animal's boasted\nknowledge of its owner, she sat peaceably down, and saw Thorpe sit down\nby her. Everything being then arranged, the servant who stood at the\nhorse's head was bid in an important voice \"to let him go,\" and off they\nwent in the quietest manner imaginable, without a plunge or a caper, or\nanything like one. Catherine, delighted at so happy an escape, spoke\nher pleasure aloud with grateful surprise; and her companion immediately\nmade the matter perfectly simple by assuring her that it was entirely\nowing to the peculiarly judicious manner in which he had then held the\nreins, and the singular discernment and dexterity with which he had\ndirected his whip. Catherine, though she could not help wondering that\nwith such perfect command of his horse, he should think it necessary to\nalarm her with a relation of its tricks, congratulated herself sincerely\non being under the care of so excellent a coachman; and perceiving that\nthe animal continued to go on in the same quiet manner, without\nshowing the smallest propensity towards any unpleasant vivacity, and\n(considering its inevitable pace was ten miles an hour) by no means\nalarmingly fast, gave herself up to all the enjoyment of air and\nexercise of the most invigorating kind, in a fine mild day of February,\nwith the consciousness of safety. A silence of several minutes succeeded\ntheir first short dialogue; it was broken by Thorpe's saying very\nabruptly, \"Old Allen is as rich as a Jew--is not he?\" Catherine did not\nunderstand him--and he repeated his question, adding in explanation,\n\"Old Allen, the man you are with.\"\n\n\"Oh! Mr. Allen, you mean. Yes, I believe, he is very rich.\"\n\n\"And no children at all?\"\n\n\"No--not any.\"\n\n\"A famous thing for his next heirs. He is your godfather, is not he?\"\n\n\"My godfather! No.\"\n\n\"But you are always very much with them.\"\n\n\"Yes, very much.\"\n\n\"Aye, that is what I meant. He seems a good kind of old fellow enough,\nand has lived very well in his time, I dare say; he is not gouty for\nnothing. Does he drink his bottle a day now?\"\n\n\"His bottle a day! No. Why should you think of such a thing? He is a\nvery temperate man, and you could not fancy him in liquor last night?\"\n\n\"Lord help you! You women are always thinking of men's being in liquor.\nWhy, you do not suppose a man is overset by a bottle? I am sure of\nthis--that if everybody was to drink their bottle a day, there would not\nbe half the disorders in the world there are now. It would be a famous\ngood thing for us all.\"\n\n\"I cannot believe it.\"\n\n\"Oh! Lord, it would be the saving of thousands. There is not the\nhundredth part of the wine consumed in this kingdom that there ought to\nbe. Our foggy climate wants help.\"\n\n\"And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of wine drunk in\nOxford.\"\n\n\"Oxford! There is no drinking at Oxford now, I assure you. Nobody drinks\nthere. You would hardly meet with a man who goes beyond his four pints\nat the utmost. Now, for instance, it was reckoned a remarkable thing, at\nthe last party in my rooms, that upon an average we cleared about five\npints a head. It was looked upon as something out of the common way.\nMine is famous good stuff, to be sure. You would not often meet with\nanything like it in Oxford--and that may account for it. But this will\njust give you a notion of the general rate of drinking there.\"\n\n\"Yes, it does give a notion,\" said Catherine warmly, \"and that is, that\nyou all drink a great deal more wine than I thought you did. However, I\nam sure James does not drink so much.\"\n\nThis declaration brought on a loud and overpowering reply, of which\nno part was very distinct, except the frequent exclamations, amounting\nalmost to oaths, which adorned it, and Catherine was left, when it\nended, with rather a strengthened belief of there being a great deal\nof wine drunk in Oxford, and the same happy conviction of her brother's\ncomparative sobriety.\n\nThorpe's ideas then all reverted to the merits of his own equipage, and\nshe was called on to admire the spirit and freedom with which his horse\nmoved along, and the ease which his paces, as well as the excellence of\nthe springs, gave the motion of the carriage. She followed him in all\nhis admiration as well as she could. To go before or beyond him was\nimpossible. His knowledge and her ignorance of the subject, his rapidity\nof expression, and her diffidence of herself put that out of her power;\nshe could strike out nothing new in commendation, but she readily echoed\nwhatever he chose to assert, and it was finally settled between them\nwithout any difficulty that his equipage was altogether the most\ncomplete of its kind in England, his carriage the neatest, his horse the\nbest goer, and himself the best coachman. \"You do not really think,\nMr. Thorpe,\" said Catherine, venturing after some time to consider the\nmatter as entirely decided, and to offer some little variation on the\nsubject, \"that James's gig will break down?\"\n\n\"Break down! Oh! Lord! Did you ever see such a little tittuppy thing in\nyour life? There is not a sound piece of iron about it. The wheels have\nbeen fairly worn out these ten years at least--and as for the body! Upon\nmy soul, you might shake it to pieces yourself with a touch. It is the\nmost devilish little rickety business I ever beheld! Thank God! we\nhave got a better. I would not be bound to go two miles in it for fifty\nthousand pounds.\"\n\n\"Good heavens!\" cried Catherine, quite frightened. \"Then pray let us\nturn back; they will certainly meet with an accident if we go on. Do let\nus turn back, Mr. Thorpe; stop and speak to my brother, and tell him how\nvery unsafe it is.\"\n\n\"Unsafe! Oh, lord! What is there in that? They will only get a roll if\nit does break down; and there is plenty of dirt; it will be excellent\nfalling. Oh, curse it! The carriage is safe enough, if a man knows how\nto drive it; a thing of that sort in good hands will last above twenty\nyears after it is fairly worn out. Lord bless you! I would undertake for\nfive pounds to drive it to York and back again, without losing a nail.\"\n\nCatherine listened with astonishment; she knew not how to reconcile two\nsuch very different accounts of the same thing; for she had not been\nbrought up to understand the propensities of a rattle, nor to know to\nhow many idle assertions and impudent falsehoods the excess of vanity\nwill lead. Her own family were plain, matter-of-fact people who seldom\naimed at wit of any kind; her father, at the utmost, being contented\nwith a pun, and her mother with a proverb; they were not in the habit\ntherefore of telling lies to increase their importance, or of asserting\nat one moment what they would contradict the next. She reflected on the\naffair for some time in much perplexity, and was more than once on the\npoint of requesting from Mr. Thorpe a clearer insight into his real\nopinion on the subject; but she checked herself, because it appeared to\nher that he did not excel in giving those clearer insights, in making\nthose things plain which he had before made ambiguous; and, joining to\nthis, the consideration that he would not really suffer his sister and\nhis friend to be exposed to a danger from which he might easily preserve\nthem, she concluded at last that he must know the carriage to be in fact\nperfectly safe, and therefore would alarm herself no longer. By him\nthe whole matter seemed entirely forgotten; and all the rest of his\nconversation, or rather talk, began and ended with himself and his own\nconcerns. He told her of horses which he had bought for a trifle and\nsold for incredible sums; of racing matches, in which his judgment had\ninfallibly foretold the winner; of shooting parties, in which he had\nkilled more birds (though without having one good shot) than all his\ncompanions together; and described to her some famous day's sport, with\nthe fox-hounds, in which his foresight and skill in directing the dogs\nhad repaired the mistakes of the most experienced huntsman, and in which\nthe boldness of his riding, though it had never endangered his own life\nfor a moment, had been constantly leading others into difficulties,\nwhich he calmly concluded had broken the necks of many.\n\nLittle as Catherine was in the habit of judging for herself, and unfixed\nas were her general notions of what men ought to be, she could not\nentirely repress a doubt, while she bore with the effusions of his\nendless conceit, of his being altogether completely agreeable. It was a\nbold surmise, for he was Isabella's brother; and she had been assured by\nJames that his manners would recommend him to all her sex; but in spite\nof this, the extreme weariness of his company, which crept over her\nbefore they had been out an hour, and which continued unceasingly to\nincrease till they stopped in Pulteney Street again, induced her, in\nsome small degree, to resist such high authority, and to distrust his\npowers of giving universal pleasure.\n\nWhen they arrived at Mrs. Allen's door, the astonishment of Isabella was\nhardly to be expressed, on finding that it was too late in the day for\nthem to attend her friend into the house: \"Past three o'clock!\" It was\ninconceivable, incredible, impossible! And she would neither believe her\nown watch, nor her brother's, nor the servant's; she would believe no\nassurance of it founded on reason or reality, till Morland produced his\nwatch, and ascertained the fact; to have doubted a moment longer then\nwould have been equally inconceivable, incredible, and impossible; and\nshe could only protest, over and over again, that no two hours and a\nhalf had ever gone off so swiftly before, as Catherine was called on to\nconfirm; Catherine could not tell a falsehood even to please Isabella;\nbut the latter was spared the misery of her friend's dissenting voice,\nby not waiting for her answer. Her own feelings entirely engrossed\nher; her wretchedness was most acute on finding herself obliged to go\ndirectly home. It was ages since she had had a moment's conversation\nwith her dearest Catherine; and, though she had such thousands of things\nto say to her, it appeared as if they were never to be together again;\nso, with smiles of most exquisite misery, and the laughing eye of utter\ndespondency, she bade her friend adieu and went on.\n\nCatherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the busy idleness of\nthe morning, and was immediately greeted with, \"Well, my dear, here\nyou are,\" a truth which she had no greater inclination than power to\ndispute; \"and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day.\"\n\n\"So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going.\"\n\n\"You have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?\"\n\n\"Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met\nher, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there was hardly\nany veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce.\"\n\n\"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?\"\n\n\"Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs.\nHughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her.\"\n\n\"Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?\"\n\n\"Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem\nvery agreeable people. Miss Tilney was in a very pretty spotted\nmuslin, and I fancy, by what I can learn, that she always dresses very\nhandsomely. Mrs. Hughes talked to me a great deal about the family.\"\n\n\"And what did she tell you of them?\"\n\n\"Oh! A vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of anything else.\"\n\n\"Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they come from?\"\n\n\"Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now. But they are very good kind\nof people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss Drummond, and she\nand Mrs. Hughes were schoolfellows; and Miss Drummond had a very large\nfortune; and, when she married, her father gave her twenty thousand\npounds, and five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all the\nclothes after they came from the warehouse.\"\n\n\"And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath?\"\n\n\"Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite certain. Upon recollection,\nhowever, I have a notion they are both dead; at least the mother is;\nyes, I am sure Mrs. Tilney is dead, because Mrs. Hughes told me there\nwas a very beautiful set of pearls that Mr. Drummond gave his daughter\non her wedding-day and that Miss Tilney has got now, for they were put\nby for her when her mother died.\"\n\n\"And is Mr. Tilney, my partner, the only son?\"\n\n\"I cannot be quite positive about that, my dear; I have some idea he is;\nbut, however, he is a very fine young man, Mrs. Hughes says, and likely\nto do very well.\"\n\nCatherine inquired no further; she had heard enough to feel that\nMrs. Allen had no real intelligence to give, and that she was most\nparticularly unfortunate herself in having missed such a meeting with\nboth brother and sister. Could she have foreseen such a circumstance,\nnothing should have persuaded her to go out with the others; and, as\nit was, she could only lament her ill luck, and think over what she had\nlost, till it was clear to her that the drive had by no means been very\npleasant and that John Thorpe himself was quite disagreeable.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 10\n\n\nThe Allens, Thorpes, and Morlands all met in the evening at the\ntheatre; and, as Catherine and Isabella sat together, there was then an\nopportunity for the latter to utter some few of the many thousand\nthings which had been collecting within her for communication in the\nimmeasurable length of time which had divided them. \"Oh, heavens!\nMy beloved Catherine, have I got you at last?\" was her address on\nCatherine's entering the box and sitting by her. \"Now, Mr. Morland,\" for\nhe was close to her on the other side, \"I shall not speak another word\nto you all the rest of the evening; so I charge you not to expect it. My\nsweetest Catherine, how have you been this long age? But I need not ask\nyou, for you look delightfully. You really have done your hair in a\nmore heavenly style than ever; you mischievous creature, do you want to\nattract everybody? I assure you, my brother is quite in love with you\nalready; and as for Mr. Tilney--but that is a settled thing--even your\nmodesty cannot doubt his attachment now; his coming back to Bath makes\nit too plain. Oh! What would not I give to see him! I really am quite\nwild with impatience. My mother says he is the most delightful young man\nin the world; she saw him this morning, you know; you must introduce him\nto me. Is he in the house now? Look about, for heaven's sake! I assure\nyou, I can hardly exist till I see him.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Catherine, \"he is not here; I cannot see him anywhere.\"\n\n\"Oh, horrid! Am I never to be acquainted with him? How do you like my\ngown? I think it does not look amiss; the sleeves were entirely my own\nthought. Do you know, I get so immoderately sick of Bath; your brother\nand I were agreeing this morning that, though it is vastly well to be\nhere for a few weeks, we would not live here for millions. We soon found\nout that our tastes were exactly alike in preferring the country to\nevery other place; really, our opinions were so exactly the same, it was\nquite ridiculous! There was not a single point in which we differed; I\nwould not have had you by for the world; you are such a sly thing, I am\nsure you would have made some droll remark or other about it.\"\n\n\"No, indeed I should not.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes you would indeed; I know you better than you know yourself. You\nwould have told us that we seemed born for each other, or some nonsense\nof that kind, which would have distressed me beyond conception; my\ncheeks would have been as red as your roses; I would not have had you by\nfor the world.\"\n\n\"Indeed you do me injustice; I would not have made so improper a remark\nupon any account; and besides, I am sure it would never have entered my\nhead.\"\n\nIsabella smiled incredulously and talked the rest of the evening to\nJames.\n\nCatherine's resolution of endeavouring to meet Miss Tilney again\ncontinued in full force the next morning; and till the usual moment of\ngoing to the pump-room, she felt some alarm from the dread of a second\nprevention. But nothing of that kind occurred, no visitors appeared to\ndelay them, and they all three set off in good time for the pump-room,\nwhere the ordinary course of events and conversation took place; Mr.\nAllen, after drinking his glass of water, joined some gentlemen to\ntalk over the politics of the day and compare the accounts of their\nnewspapers; and the ladies walked about together, noticing every new\nface, and almost every new bonnet in the room. The female part of the\nThorpe family, attended by James Morland, appeared among the crowd in\nless than a quarter of an hour, and Catherine immediately took her\nusual place by the side of her friend. James, who was now in constant\nattendance, maintained a similar position, and separating themselves\nfrom the rest of their party, they walked in that manner for some\ntime, till Catherine began to doubt the happiness of a situation which,\nconfining her entirely to her friend and brother, gave her very\nlittle share in the notice of either. They were always engaged in\nsome sentimental discussion or lively dispute, but their sentiment was\nconveyed in such whispering voices, and their vivacity attended with\nso much laughter, that though Catherine's supporting opinion was not\nunfrequently called for by one or the other, she was never able to give\nany, from not having heard a word of the subject. At length however\nshe was empowered to disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed\nnecessity of speaking to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just\nentering the room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she instantly joined, with\na firmer determination to be acquainted, than she might have had courage\nto command, had she not been urged by the disappointment of the day\nbefore. Miss Tilney met her with great civility, returned her advances\nwith equal goodwill, and they continued talking together as long as\nboth parties remained in the room; and though in all probability not\nan observation was made, nor an expression used by either which had not\nbeen made and used some thousands of times before, under that roof, in\nevery Bath season, yet the merit of their being spoken with simplicity\nand truth, and without personal conceit, might be something uncommon.\n\n\"How well your brother dances!\" was an artless exclamation of\nCatherine's towards the close of their conversation, which at once\nsurprised and amused her companion.\n\n\"Henry!\" she replied with a smile. \"Yes, he does dance very well.\"\n\n\"He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other\nevening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been engaged\nthe whole day to Mr. Thorpe.\" Miss Tilney could only bow. \"You cannot\nthink,\" added Catherine after a moment's silence, \"how surprised I was\nto see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away.\"\n\n\"When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but\nfor a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us.\"\n\n\"That never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I\nthought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday\na Miss Smith?\"\n\n\"Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes.\"\n\n\"I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?\"\n\n\"Not very.\"\n\n\"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father.\"\n\nMrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to\ngo. \"I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon,\" said\nCatherine. \"Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?\"\n\n\"Perhaps we--Yes, I think we certainly shall.\"\n\n\"I am glad of it, for we shall all be there.\" This civility was duly\nreturned; and they parted--on Miss Tilney's side with some knowledge\nof her new acquaintance's feelings, and on Catherine's, without the\nsmallest consciousness of having explained them.\n\nShe went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and\nthe evening of the following day was now the object of expectation,\nthe future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the\noccasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress\nis at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about\nit often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her\ngreat aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas\nbefore; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating\nbetween her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the\nshortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening.\nThis would have been an error in judgment, great though not uncommon,\nfrom which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother rather\nthan a great aunt, might have warned her, for man only can be aware of\nthe insensibility of man towards a new gown. It would be mortifying to\nthe feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how little\nthe heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their attire;\nhow little it is biased by the texture of their muslin, and how\nunsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged,\nthe mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone.\nNo man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the better for\nit. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a something of\nshabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the latter. But not\none of these grave reflections troubled the tranquillity of Catherine.\n\nShe entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very different\nfrom what had attended her thither the Monday before. She had then been\nexulting in her engagement to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to\navoid his sight, lest he should engage her again; for though she could\nnot, dared not expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third time to\ndance, her wishes, hopes, and plans all centred in nothing less. Every\nyoung lady may feel for my heroine in this critical moment, for every\nyoung lady has at some time or other known the same agitation. All have\nbeen, or at least all have believed themselves to be, in danger from the\npursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid; and all have been anxious\nfor the attentions of someone whom they wished to please. As soon as\nthey were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine's agony began; she fidgeted\nabout if John Thorpe came towards her, hid herself as much as possible\nfrom his view, and when he spoke to her pretended not to hear him. The\ncotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning, and she saw nothing\nof the Tilneys.\n\n\"Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,\" whispered Isabella, \"but I am\nreally going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively it\nis quite shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but you\nand John must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear creature, and\ncome to us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a moment.\"\n\nCatherine had neither time nor inclination to answer. The others walked\naway, John Thorpe was still in view, and she gave herself up for lost.\nThat she might not appear, however, to observe or expect him, she kept\nher eyes intently fixed on her fan; and a self-condemnation for her\nfolly, in supposing that among such a crowd they should even meet with\nthe Tilneys in any reasonable time, had just passed through her mind,\nwhen she suddenly found herself addressed and again solicited to dance,\nby Mr. Tilney himself. With what sparkling eyes and ready motion she\ngranted his request, and with how pleasing a flutter of heart she went\nwith him to the set, may be easily imagined. To escape, and, as\nshe believed, so narrowly escape John Thorpe, and to be asked, so\nimmediately on his joining her, asked by Mr. Tilney, as if he had sought\nher on purpose!--it did not appear to her that life could supply any\ngreater felicity.\n\nScarcely had they worked themselves into the quiet possession of a\nplace, however, when her attention was claimed by John Thorpe, who stood\nbehind her. \"Heyday, Miss Morland!\" said he. \"What is the meaning of\nthis? I thought you and I were to dance together.\"\n\n\"I wonder you should think so, for you never asked me.\"\n\n\"That is a good one, by Jove! I asked you as soon as I came into the\nroom, and I was just going to ask you again, but when I turned round,\nyou were gone! This is a cursed shabby trick! I only came for the sake\nof dancing with you, and I firmly believe you were engaged to me ever\nsince Monday. Yes; I remember, I asked you while you were waiting in the\nlobby for your cloak. And here have I been telling all my acquaintance\nthat I was going to dance with the prettiest girl in the room; and\nwhen they see you standing up with somebody else, they will quiz me\nfamously.\"\n\n\"Oh, no; they will never think of me, after such a description as that.\"\n\n\"By heavens, if they do not, I will kick them out of the room for\nblockheads. What chap have you there?\" Catherine satisfied his\ncuriosity. \"Tilney,\" he repeated. \"Hum--I do not know him. A good figure\nof a man; well put together. Does he want a horse? Here is a friend\nof mine, Sam Fletcher, has got one to sell that would suit anybody. A\nfamous clever animal for the road--only forty guineas. I had fifty minds\nto buy it myself, for it is one of my maxims always to buy a good horse\nwhen I meet with one; but it would not answer my purpose, it would not\ndo for the field. I would give any money for a real good hunter. I\nhave three now, the best that ever were backed. I would not take\neight hundred guineas for them. Fletcher and I mean to get a house in\nLeicestershire, against the next season. It is so d--uncomfortable,\nliving at an inn.\"\n\nThis was the last sentence by which he could weary Catherine's\nattention, for he was just then borne off by the resistless pressure of\na long string of passing ladies. Her partner now drew near, and said,\n\"That gentleman would have put me out of patience, had he stayed with\nyou half a minute longer. He has no business to withdraw the attention\nof my partner from me. We have entered into a contract of mutual\nagreeableness for the space of an evening, and all our agreeableness\nbelongs solely to each other for that time. Nobody can fasten themselves\non the notice of one, without injuring the rights of the other.\nI consider a country-dance as an emblem of marriage. Fidelity and\ncomplaisance are the principal duties of both; and those men who do not\nchoose to dance or marry themselves, have no business with the partners\nor wives of their neighbours.\"\n\n\"But they are such very different things!\"\n\n\"--That you think they cannot be compared together.\"\n\n\"To be sure not. People that marry can never part, but must go and keep\nhouse together. People that dance only stand opposite each other in a\nlong room for half an hour.\"\n\n\"And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing. Taken in that\nlight certainly, their resemblance is not striking; but I think I could\nplace them in such a view. You will allow, that in both, man has the\nadvantage of choice, woman only the power of refusal; that in both,\nit is an engagement between man and woman, formed for the advantage of\neach; and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to each\nother till the moment of its dissolution; that it is their duty, each\nto endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that he or she had\nbestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best interest to keep their own\nimaginations from wandering towards the perfections of their neighbours,\nor fancying that they should have been better off with anyone else. You\nwill allow all this?\"\n\n\"Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds very well; but still\nthey are so very different. I cannot look upon them at all in the same\nlight, nor think the same duties belong to them.\"\n\n\"In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man\nis supposed to provide for the support of the woman, the woman to make\nthe home agreeable to the man; he is to purvey, and she is to smile.\nBut in dancing, their duties are exactly changed; the agreeableness, the\ncompliance are expected from him, while she furnishes the fan and the\nlavender water. That, I suppose, was the difference of duties which\nstruck you, as rendering the conditions incapable of comparison.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I never thought of that.\"\n\n\"Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however, I must observe. This\ndisposition on your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow any\nsimilarity in the obligations; and may I not thence infer that your\nnotions of the duties of the dancing state are not so strict as your\npartner might wish? Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman who\nspoke to you just now were to return, or if any other gentleman were to\naddress you, there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing with\nhim as long as you chose?\"\n\n\"Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother's, that if he\ntalks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three young\nmen in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with.\"\n\n\"And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!\"\n\n\"Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody,\nit is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not want to\ntalk to anybody.\"\n\n\"Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed\nwith courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of\nmaking the inquiry before?\"\n\n\"Yes, quite--more so, indeed.\"\n\n\"More so! Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper\ntime. You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks.\"\n\n\"I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months.\"\n\n\"Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds\nout every year. 'For six weeks, I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but\nbeyond that, it is the most tiresome place in the world.' You would be\ntold so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly every winter,\nlengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at last because\nthey can afford to stay no longer.\"\n\n\"Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to\nLondon may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired\nvillage in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place\nas this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a\nvariety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know\nnothing of there.\"\n\n\"You are not fond of the country.\"\n\n\"Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But\ncertainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath\nlife. One day in the country is exactly like another.\"\n\n\"But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country.\"\n\n\"Do I?\"\n\n\"Do you not?\"\n\n\"I do not believe there is much difference.\"\n\n\"Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long.\"\n\n\"And so I am at home--only I do not find so much of it. I walk about\nhere, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every\nstreet, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen.\"\n\nMr. Tilney was very much amused.\n\n\"Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!\" he repeated. \"What a picture of\nintellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you\nwill have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that\nyou did here.\"\n\n\"Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs.\nAllen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking of\nBath, when I am at home again--I do like it so very much. If I could but\nhave Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them here, I suppose I should be\ntoo happy! James's coming (my eldest brother) is quite delightful--and\nespecially as it turns out that the very family we are just got so\nintimate with are his intimate friends already. Oh! Who can ever be\ntired of Bath?\"\n\n\"Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do.\nBut papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are a good deal\ngone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath--and the honest relish of\nballs and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them.\" Here\ntheir conversation closed, the demands of the dance becoming now too\nimportunate for a divided attention.\n\nSoon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine perceived\nherself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the\nlookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He was a very handsome man,\nof a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour of\nlife; and with his eye still directed towards her, she saw him presently\naddress Mr. Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by his notice, and\nblushing from the fear of its being excited by something wrong in\nher appearance, she turned away her head. But while she did so, the\ngentleman retreated, and her partner, coming nearer, said, \"I see that\nyou guess what I have just been asked. That gentleman knows your name,\nand you have a right to know his. It is General Tilney, my father.\"\n\nCatherine's answer was only \"Oh!\"--but it was an \"Oh!\" expressing\neverything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance on\ntheir truth. With real interest and strong admiration did her eye now\nfollow the general, as he moved through the crowd, and \"How handsome a\nfamily they are!\" was her secret remark.\n\nIn chatting with Miss Tilney before the evening concluded, a new source\nof felicity arose to her. She had never taken a country walk since\nher arrival in Bath. Miss Tilney, to whom all the commonly frequented\nenvirons were familiar, spoke of them in terms which made her all\neagerness to know them too; and on her openly fearing that she might\nfind nobody to go with her, it was proposed by the brother and sister\nthat they should join in a walk, some morning or other. \"I shall like\nit,\" she cried, \"beyond anything in the world; and do not let us put\nit off--let us go tomorrow.\" This was readily agreed to, with only a\nproviso of Miss Tilney's, that it did not rain, which Catherine was sure\nit would not. At twelve o'clock, they were to call for her in Pulteney\nStreet; and \"Remember--twelve o'clock,\" was her parting speech to\nher new friend. Of her other, her older, her more established friend,\nIsabella, of whose fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a fortnight's\nexperience, she scarcely saw anything during the evening. Yet, though\nlonging to make her acquainted with her happiness, she cheerfully\nsubmitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them rather early away,\nand her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her chair all the\nway home.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 11\n\n\nThe morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only\na few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most\nfavourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year,\nshe allowed, would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold\nimprovement as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for\nconfirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and\nbarometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine.\nShe applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen's opinion was more positive.\n\"She had no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the\nclouds would only go off, and the sun keep out.\"\n\nAt about eleven o'clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the\nwindows caught Catherine's watchful eye, and \"Oh! dear, I do believe it\nwill be wet,\" broke from her in a most desponding tone.\n\n\"I thought how it would be,\" said Mrs. Allen.\n\n\"No walk for me today,\" sighed Catherine; \"but perhaps it may come to\nnothing, or it may hold up before twelve.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it may, but then, my dear, it will be so dirty.\"\n\n\"Oh! That will not signify; I never mind dirt.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied her friend very placidly, \"I know you never mind dirt.\"\n\nAfter a short pause, \"It comes on faster and faster!\" said Catherine, as\nshe stood watching at a window.\n\n\"So it does indeed. If it keeps raining, the streets will be very wet.\"\n\n\"There are four umbrellas up already. How I hate the sight of an\numbrella!\"\n\n\"They are disagreeable things to carry. I would much rather take a chair\nat any time.\"\n\n\"It was such a nice-looking morning! I felt so convinced it would be\ndry!\"\n\n\"Anybody would have thought so indeed. There will be very few people in\nthe pump-room, if it rains all the morning. I hope Mr. Allen will put\non his greatcoat when he goes, but I dare say he will not, for he had\nrather do anything in the world than walk out in a greatcoat; I wonder\nhe should dislike it, it must be so comfortable.\"\n\nThe rain continued--fast, though not heavy. Catherine went every five\nminutes to the clock, threatening on each return that, if it still\nkept on raining another five minutes, she would give up the matter as\nhopeless. The clock struck twelve, and it still rained. \"You will not be\nable to go, my dear.\"\n\n\"I do not quite despair yet. I shall not give it up till a quarter after\ntwelve. This is just the time of day for it to clear up, and I do think\nit looks a little lighter. There, it is twenty minutes after twelve, and\nnow I shall give it up entirely. Oh! That we had such weather here\nas they had at Udolpho, or at least in Tuscany and the south of\nFrance!--the night that poor St. Aubin died!--such beautiful weather!\"\n\nAt half past twelve, when Catherine's anxious attention to the weather\nwas over and she could no longer claim any merit from its amendment, the\nsky began voluntarily to clear. A gleam of sunshine took her quite by\nsurprise; she looked round; the clouds were parting, and she instantly\nreturned to the window to watch over and encourage the happy appearance.\nTen minutes more made it certain that a bright afternoon would succeed,\nand justified the opinion of Mrs. Allen, who had \"always thought it\nwould clear up.\" But whether Catherine might still expect her friends,\nwhether there had not been too much rain for Miss Tilney to venture,\nmust yet be a question.\n\nIt was too dirty for Mrs. Allen to accompany her husband to the\npump-room; he accordingly set off by himself, and Catherine had barely\nwatched him down the street when her notice was claimed by the approach\nof the same two open carriages, containing the same three people that\nhad surprised her so much a few mornings back.\n\n\"Isabella, my brother, and Mr. Thorpe, I declare! They are coming for\nme perhaps--but I shall not go--I cannot go indeed, for you know Miss\nTilney may still call.\" Mrs. Allen agreed to it. John Thorpe was soon\nwith them, and his voice was with them yet sooner, for on the stairs he\nwas calling out to Miss Morland to be quick. \"Make haste! Make haste!\"\nas he threw open the door. \"Put on your hat this moment--there is no\ntime to be lost--we are going to Bristol. How d'ye do, Mrs. Allen?\"\n\n\"To Bristol! Is not that a great way off? But, however, I cannot go with\nyou today, because I am engaged; I expect some friends every moment.\"\nThis was of course vehemently talked down as no reason at all; Mrs.\nAllen was called on to second him, and the two others walked in, to give\ntheir assistance. \"My sweetest Catherine, is not this delightful? We\nshall have a most heavenly drive. You are to thank your brother and me\nfor the scheme; it darted into our heads at breakfast-time, I verily\nbelieve at the same instant; and we should have been off two hours ago\nif it had not been for this detestable rain. But it does not signify,\nthe nights are moonlight, and we shall do delightfully. Oh! I am in such\necstasies at the thoughts of a little country air and quiet! So much\nbetter than going to the Lower Rooms. We shall drive directly to Clifton\nand dine there; and, as soon as dinner is over, if there is time for it,\ngo on to Kingsweston.\"\n\n\"I doubt our being able to do so much,\" said Morland.\n\n\"You croaking fellow!\" cried Thorpe. \"We shall be able to do ten times\nmore. Kingsweston! Aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can\nhear of; but here is your sister says she will not go.\"\n\n\"Blaize Castle!\" cried Catherine. \"What is that'?\"\n\n\"The finest place in England--worth going fifty miles at any time to\nsee.\"\n\n\"What, is it really a castle, an old castle?\"\n\n\"The oldest in the kingdom.\"\n\n\"But is it like what one reads of?\"\n\n\"Exactly--the very same.\"\n\n\"But now really--are there towers and long galleries?\"\n\n\"By dozens.\"\n\n\"Then I should like to see it; but I cannot--I cannot go.\n\n\"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean'?\"\n\n\"I cannot go, because\"--looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella's\nsmile--\"I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a\ncountry walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now,\nas it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon.\"\n\n\"Not they indeed,\" cried Thorpe; \"for, as we turned into Broad Street, I\nsaw them--does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?\"\n\n\"I do not know indeed.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced\nwith last night, are not you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\n\n\"Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a\nsmart-looking girl.\"\n\n\"Did you indeed?\"\n\n\"Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he seemed to have got\nsome very pretty cattle too.\"\n\n\"It is very odd! But I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for a\nwalk.\"\n\n\"And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life. Walk!\nYou could no more walk than you could fly! It has not been so dirty the\nwhole winter; it is ankle-deep everywhere.\"\n\nIsabella corroborated it: \"My dearest Catherine, you cannot form an idea\nof the dirt; come, you must go; you cannot refuse going now.\"\n\n\"I should like to see the castle; but may we go all over it? May we go\nup every staircase, and into every suite of rooms?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, every hole and corner.\"\n\n\"But then, if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is dryer,\nand call by and by?\"\n\n\"Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard Tilney\nhallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback, that they were\ngoing as far as Wick Rocks.\"\n\n\"Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen?\"\n\n\"Just as you please, my dear.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Allen, you must persuade her to go,\" was the general cry. Mrs.\nAllen was not inattentive to it: \"Well, my dear,\" said she, \"suppose you\ngo.\" And in two minutes they were off.\n\nCatherine's feelings, as she got into the carriage, were in a very\nunsettled state; divided between regret for the loss of one great\npleasure, and the hope of soon enjoying another, almost its equal in\ndegree, however unlike in kind. She could not think the Tilneys had\nacted quite well by her, in so readily giving up their engagement,\nwithout sending her any message of excuse. It was now but an hour later\nthan the time fixed on for the beginning of their walk; and, in spite of\nwhat she had heard of the prodigious accumulation of dirt in the course\nof that hour, she could not from her own observation help thinking that\nthey might have gone with very little inconvenience. To feel herself\nslighted by them was very painful. On the other hand, the delight of\nexploring an edifice like Udolpho, as her fancy represented Blaize\nCastle to be, was such a counterpoise of good as might console her for\nalmost anything.\n\nThey passed briskly down Pulteney Street, and through Laura Place,\nwithout the exchange of many words. Thorpe talked to his horse, and she\nmeditated, by turns, on broken promises and broken arches, phaetons\nand false hangings, Tilneys and trap-doors. As they entered Argyle\nBuildings, however, she was roused by this address from her companion,\n\"Who is that girl who looked at you so hard as she went by?\"\n\n\"Who? Where?\"\n\n\"On the right-hand pavement--she must be almost out of sight now.\"\nCatherine looked round and saw Miss Tilney leaning on her brother's arm,\nwalking slowly down the street. She saw them both looking back at her.\n\"Stop, stop, Mr. Thorpe,\" she impatiently cried; \"it is Miss Tilney; it\nis indeed. How could you tell me they were gone? Stop, stop, I will\nget out this moment and go to them.\" But to what purpose did she speak?\nThorpe only lashed his horse into a brisker trot; the Tilneys, who had\nsoon ceased to look after her, were in a moment out of sight round the\ncorner of Laura Place, and in another moment she was herself whisked\ninto the marketplace. Still, however, and during the length of another\nstreet, she entreated him to stop. \"Pray, pray stop, Mr. Thorpe. I\ncannot go on. I will not go on. I must go back to Miss Tilney.\" But Mr.\nThorpe only laughed, smacked his whip, encouraged his horse, made odd\nnoises, and drove on; and Catherine, angry and vexed as she was, having\nno power of getting away, was obliged to give up the point and submit.\nHer reproaches, however, were not spared. \"How could you deceive me so,\nMr. Thorpe? How could you say that you saw them driving up the Lansdown\nRoad? I would not have had it happen so for the world. They must think\nit so strange, so rude of me! To go by them, too, without saying a word!\nYou do not know how vexed I am; I shall have no pleasure at Clifton, nor\nin anything else. I had rather, ten thousand times rather, get out now,\nand walk back to them. How could you say you saw them driving out in a\nphaeton?\" Thorpe defended himself very stoutly, declared he had never\nseen two men so much alike in his life, and would hardly give up the\npoint of its having been Tilney himself.\n\nTheir drive, even when this subject was over, was not likely to be very\nagreeable. Catherine's complaisance was no longer what it had been in\ntheir former airing. She listened reluctantly, and her replies were\nshort. Blaize Castle remained her only comfort; towards that, she still\nlooked at intervals with pleasure; though rather than be disappointed of\nthe promised walk, and especially rather than be thought ill of by the\nTilneys, she would willingly have given up all the happiness which its\nwalls could supply--the happiness of a progress through a long suite of\nlofty rooms, exhibiting the remains of magnificent furniture, though\nnow for many years deserted--the happiness of being stopped in their way\nalong narrow, winding vaults, by a low, grated door; or even of having\ntheir lamp, their only lamp, extinguished by a sudden gust of wind, and\nof being left in total darkness. In the meanwhile, they proceeded on\ntheir journey without any mischance, and were within view of the town\nof Keynsham, when a halloo from Morland, who was behind them, made his\nfriend pull up, to know what was the matter. The others then came close\nenough for conversation, and Morland said, \"We had better go back,\nThorpe; it is too late to go on today; your sister thinks so as well as\nI. We have been exactly an hour coming from Pulteney Street, very little\nmore than seven miles; and, I suppose, we have at least eight more to\ngo. It will never do. We set out a great deal too late. We had much\nbetter put it off till another day, and turn round.\"\n\n\"It is all one to me,\" replied Thorpe rather angrily; and instantly\nturning his horse, they were on their way back to Bath.\n\n\"If your brother had not got such a d--beast to drive,\" said he soon\nafterwards, \"we might have done it very well. My horse would have\ntrotted to Clifton within the hour, if left to himself, and I have\nalmost broke my arm with pulling him in to that cursed broken-winded\njade's pace. Morland is a fool for not keeping a horse and gig of his\nown.\"\n\n\"No, he is not,\" said Catherine warmly, \"for I am sure he could not\nafford it.\"\n\n\"And why cannot he afford it?\"\n\n\"Because he has not money enough.\"\n\n\"And whose fault is that?\"\n\n\"Nobody's, that I know of.\" Thorpe then said something in the loud,\nincoherent way to which he had often recourse, about its being a\nd--thing to be miserly; and that if people who rolled in money could not\nafford things, he did not know who could, which Catherine did not even\nendeavour to understand. Disappointed of what was to have been the\nconsolation for her first disappointment, she was less and less disposed\neither to be agreeable herself or to find her companion so; and they\nreturned to Pulteney Street without her speaking twenty words.\n\nAs she entered the house, the footman told her that a gentleman and lady\nhad called and inquired for her a few minutes after her setting off;\nthat, when he told them she was gone out with Mr. Thorpe, the lady had\nasked whether any message had been left for her; and on his saying no,\nhad felt for a card, but said she had none about her, and went away.\nPondering over these heart-rending tidings, Catherine walked slowly\nupstairs. At the head of them she was met by Mr. Allen, who, on hearing\nthe reason of their speedy return, said, \"I am glad your brother had so\nmuch sense; I am glad you are come back. It was a strange, wild scheme.\"\n\nThey all spent the evening together at Thorpe's. Catherine was disturbed\nand out of spirits; but Isabella seemed to find a pool of commerce, in\nthe fate of which she shared, by private partnership with Morland, a\nvery good equivalent for the quiet and country air of an inn at Clifton.\nHer satisfaction, too, in not being at the Lower Rooms was spoken more\nthan once. \"How I pity the poor creatures that are going there! How glad\nI am that I am not amongst them! I wonder whether it will be a full ball\nor not! They have not begun dancing yet. I would not be there for\nall the world. It is so delightful to have an evening now and then\nto oneself. I dare say it will not be a very good ball. I know the\nMitchells will not be there. I am sure I pity everybody that is. But I\ndare say, Mr. Morland, you long to be at it, do not you? I am sure you\ndo. Well, pray do not let anybody here be a restraint on you. I dare say\nwe could do very well without you; but you men think yourselves of such\nconsequence.\"\n\nCatherine could almost have accused Isabella of being wanting in\ntenderness towards herself and her sorrows, so very little did they\nappear to dwell on her mind, and so very inadequate was the comfort she\noffered. \"Do not be so dull, my dearest creature,\" she whispered. \"You\nwill quite break my heart. It was amazingly shocking, to be sure; but\nthe Tilneys were entirely to blame. Why were not they more punctual?\nIt was dirty, indeed, but what did that signify? I am sure John and I\nshould not have minded it. I never mind going through anything, where a\nfriend is concerned; that is my disposition, and John is just the same;\nhe has amazing strong feelings. Good heavens! What a delightful hand you\nhave got! Kings, I vow! I never was so happy in my life! I would fifty\ntimes rather you should have them than myself.\"\n\nAnd now I may dismiss my heroine to the sleepless couch, which is the\ntrue heroine's portion; to a pillow strewed with thorns and wet with\ntears. And lucky may she think herself, if she get another good night's\nrest in the course of the next three months.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 12\n\n\n\"Mrs. Allen,\" said Catherine the next morning, \"will there be any harm\nin my calling on Miss Tilney today? I shall not be easy till I have\nexplained everything.\"\n\n\"Go, by all means, my dear; only put on a white gown; Miss Tilney always\nwears white.\"\n\nCatherine cheerfully complied, and being properly equipped, was more\nimpatient than ever to be at the pump-room, that she might inform\nherself of General Tilney's lodgings, for though she believed they were\nin Milsom Street, she was not certain of the house, and Mrs. Allen's\nwavering convictions only made it more doubtful. To Milsom Street she\nwas directed, and having made herself perfect in the number, hastened\naway with eager steps and a beating heart to pay her visit, explain her\nconduct, and be forgiven; tripping lightly through the church-yard, and\nresolutely turning away her eyes, that she might not be obliged to\nsee her beloved Isabella and her dear family, who, she had reason to\nbelieve, were in a shop hard by. She reached the house without any\nimpediment, looked at the number, knocked at the door, and inquired for\nMiss Tilney. The man believed Miss Tilney to be at home, but was not\nquite certain. Would she be pleased to send up her name? She gave her\ncard. In a few minutes the servant returned, and with a look which did\nnot quite confirm his words, said he had been mistaken, for that Miss\nTilney was walked out. Catherine, with a blush of mortification, left\nthe house. She felt almost persuaded that Miss Tilney was at home, and\ntoo much offended to admit her; and as she retired down the street,\ncould not withhold one glance at the drawing-room windows, in\nexpectation of seeing her there, but no one appeared at them. At the\nbottom of the street, however, she looked back again, and then, not at a\nwindow, but issuing from the door, she saw Miss Tilney herself. She was\nfollowed by a gentleman, whom Catherine believed to be her father,\nand they turned up towards Edgar's Buildings. Catherine, in deep\nmortification, proceeded on her way. She could almost be angry herself\nat such angry incivility; but she checked the resentful sensation; she\nremembered her own ignorance. She knew not how such an offence as hers\nmight be classed by the laws of worldly politeness, to what a degree\nof unforgivingness it might with propriety lead, nor to what rigours of\nrudeness in return it might justly make her amenable.\n\nDejected and humbled, she had even some thoughts of not going with the\nothers to the theatre that night; but it must be confessed that they\nwere not of long continuance, for she soon recollected, in the first\nplace, that she was without any excuse for staying at home; and, in the\nsecond, that it was a play she wanted very much to see. To the theatre\naccordingly they all went; no Tilneys appeared to plague or please her;\nshe feared that, amongst the many perfections of the family, a fondness\nfor plays was not to be ranked; but perhaps it was because they were\nhabituated to the finer performances of the London stage, which she\nknew, on Isabella's authority, rendered everything else of the kind\n\"quite horrid.\" She was not deceived in her own expectation of pleasure;\nthe comedy so well suspended her care that no one, observing her during\nthe first four acts, would have supposed she had any wretchedness about\nher. On the beginning of the fifth, however, the sudden view of Mr.\nHenry Tilney and his father, joining a party in the opposite box,\nrecalled her to anxiety and distress. The stage could no longer excite\ngenuine merriment--no longer keep her whole attention. Every other look\nupon an average was directed towards the opposite box; and, for the\nspace of two entire scenes, did she thus watch Henry Tilney, without\nbeing once able to catch his eye. No longer could he be suspected of\nindifference for a play; his notice was never withdrawn from the stage\nduring two whole scenes. At length, however, he did look towards her,\nand he bowed--but such a bow! No smile, no continued observance attended\nit; his eyes were immediately returned to their former direction.\nCatherine was restlessly miserable; she could almost have run round to\nthe box in which he sat and forced him to hear her explanation. Feelings\nrather natural than heroic possessed her; instead of considering her\nown dignity injured by this ready condemnation--instead of proudly\nresolving, in conscious innocence, to show her resentment towards him\nwho could harbour a doubt of it, to leave to him all the trouble\nof seeking an explanation, and to enlighten him on the past only by\navoiding his sight, or flirting with somebody else--she took to herself\nall the shame of misconduct, or at least of its appearance, and was only\neager for an opportunity of explaining its cause.\n\nThe play concluded--the curtain fell--Henry Tilney was no longer to be\nseen where he had hitherto sat, but his father remained, and perhaps he\nmight be now coming round to their box. She was right; in a few minutes\nhe appeared, and, making his way through the then thinning rows, spoke\nwith like calm politeness to Mrs. Allen and her friend. Not with such\ncalmness was he answered by the latter: \"Oh! Mr. Tilney, I have been\nquite wild to speak to you, and make my apologies. You must have thought\nme so rude; but indeed it was not my own fault, was it, Mrs. Allen?\nDid not they tell me that Mr. Tilney and his sister were gone out in a\nphaeton together? And then what could I do? But I had ten thousand times\nrather have been with you; now had not I, Mrs. Allen?\"\n\n\"My dear, you tumble my gown,\" was Mrs. Allen's reply.\n\nHer assurance, however, standing sole as it did, was not thrown away; it\nbrought a more cordial, more natural smile into his countenance, and\nhe replied in a tone which retained only a little affected reserve:\n\"We were much obliged to you at any rate for wishing us a pleasant walk\nafter our passing you in Argyle Street: you were so kind as to look back\non purpose.\"\n\n\"But indeed I did not wish you a pleasant walk; I never thought of such\na thing; but I begged Mr. Thorpe so earnestly to stop; I called out to\nhim as soon as ever I saw you; now, Mrs. Allen, did not--Oh! You were\nnot there; but indeed I did; and, if Mr. Thorpe would only have stopped,\nI would have jumped out and run after you.\"\n\nIs there a Henry in the world who could be insensible to such a\ndeclaration? Henry Tilney at least was not. With a yet sweeter smile, he\nsaid everything that need be said of his sister's concern, regret, and\ndependence on Catherine's honour. \"Oh! Do not say Miss Tilney was not\nangry,\" cried Catherine, \"because I know she was; for she would not see\nme this morning when I called; I saw her walk out of the house the next\nminute after my leaving it; I was hurt, but I was not affronted. Perhaps\nyou did not know I had been there.\"\n\n\"I was not within at the time; but I heard of it from Eleanor, and she\nhas been wishing ever since to see you, to explain the reason of such\nincivility; but perhaps I can do it as well. It was nothing more than\nthat my father--they were just preparing to walk out, and he being\nhurried for time, and not caring to have it put off--made a point of her\nbeing denied. That was all, I do assure you. She was very much vexed,\nand meant to make her apology as soon as possible.\"\n\nCatherine's mind was greatly eased by this information, yet a something\nof solicitude remained, from which sprang the following question,\nthoroughly artless in itself, though rather distressing to the\ngentleman: \"But, Mr. Tilney, why were you less generous than your\nsister? If she felt such confidence in my good intentions, and could\nsuppose it to be only a mistake, why should you be so ready to take\noffence?\"\n\n\"Me! I take offence!\"\n\n\"Nay, I am sure by your look, when you came into the box, you were\nangry.\"\n\n\"I angry! I could have no right.\"\n\n\"Well, nobody would have thought you had no right who saw your face.\" He\nreplied by asking her to make room for him, and talking of the play.\n\nHe remained with them some time, and was only too agreeable for\nCatherine to be contented when he went away. Before they parted,\nhowever, it was agreed that the projected walk should be taken as soon\nas possible; and, setting aside the misery of his quitting their box,\nshe was, upon the whole, left one of the happiest creatures in the\nworld.\n\nWhile talking to each other, she had observed with some surprise that\nJohn Thorpe, who was never in the same part of the house for ten minutes\ntogether, was engaged in conversation with General Tilney; and she felt\nsomething more than surprise when she thought she could perceive herself\nthe object of their attention and discourse. What could they have to say\nof her? She feared General Tilney did not like her appearance: she found\nit was implied in his preventing her admittance to his daughter, rather\nthan postpone his own walk a few minutes. \"How came Mr. Thorpe to know\nyour father?\" was her anxious inquiry, as she pointed them out to her\ncompanion. He knew nothing about it; but his father, like every military\nman, had a very large acquaintance.\n\nWhen the entertainment was over, Thorpe came to assist them in getting\nout. Catherine was the immediate object of his gallantry; and, while\nthey waited in the lobby for a chair, he prevented the inquiry which had\ntravelled from her heart almost to the tip of her tongue, by asking, in\na consequential manner, whether she had seen him talking with General\nTilney: \"He is a fine old fellow, upon my soul! Stout, active--looks\nas young as his son. I have a great regard for him, I assure you: a\ngentleman-like, good sort of fellow as ever lived.\"\n\n\"But how came you to know him?\"\n\n\"Know him! There are few people much about town that I do not know. I\nhave met him forever at the Bedford; and I knew his face again today the\nmoment he came into the billiard-room. One of the best players we have,\nby the by; and we had a little touch together, though I was almost\nafraid of him at first: the odds were five to four against me; and, if\nI had not made one of the cleanest strokes that perhaps ever was made in\nthis world--I took his ball exactly--but I could not make you understand\nit without a table; however, I did beat him. A very fine fellow; as rich\nas a Jew. I should like to dine with him; I dare say he gives famous\ndinners. But what do you think we have been talking of? You. Yes, by\nheavens! And the general thinks you the finest girl in Bath.\"\n\n\"Oh! Nonsense! How can you say so?\"\n\n\"And what do you think I said?\"--lowering his voice--\"well done,\ngeneral, said I; I am quite of your mind.\"\n\nHere Catherine, who was much less gratified by his admiration than by\nGeneral Tilney's, was not sorry to be called away by Mr. Allen. Thorpe,\nhowever, would see her to her chair, and, till she entered it, continued\nthe same kind of delicate flattery, in spite of her entreating him to\nhave done.\n\nThat General Tilney, instead of disliking, should admire her, was very\ndelightful; and she joyfully thought that there was not one of the\nfamily whom she need now fear to meet. The evening had done more, much\nmore, for her than could have been expected.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 13\n\n\nMonday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday have now\npassed in review before the reader; the events of each day, its hopes\nand fears, mortifications and pleasures, have been separately stated,\nand the pangs of Sunday only now remain to be described, and close the\nweek. The Clifton scheme had been deferred, not relinquished, and on\nthe afternoon's crescent of this day, it was brought forward again. In a\nprivate consultation between Isabella and James, the former of whom had\nparticularly set her heart upon going, and the latter no less anxiously\nplaced his upon pleasing her, it was agreed that, provided the weather\nwere fair, the party should take place on the following morning; and\nthey were to set off very early, in order to be at home in good time.\nThe affair thus determined, and Thorpe's approbation secured, Catherine\nonly remained to be apprised of it. She had left them for a few minutes\nto speak to Miss Tilney. In that interval the plan was completed, and as\nsoon as she came again, her agreement was demanded; but instead of the\ngay acquiescence expected by Isabella, Catherine looked grave, was very\nsorry, but could not go. The engagement which ought to have kept her\nfrom joining in the former attempt would make it impossible for her to\naccompany them now. She had that moment settled with Miss Tilney to take\ntheir proposed walk tomorrow; it was quite determined, and she would\nnot, upon any account, retract. But that she must and should retract\nwas instantly the eager cry of both the Thorpes; they must go to Clifton\ntomorrow, they would not go without her, it would be nothing to put off\na mere walk for one day longer, and they would not hear of a refusal.\nCatherine was distressed, but not subdued. \"Do not urge me, Isabella. I\nam engaged to Miss Tilney. I cannot go.\" This availed nothing. The same\narguments assailed her again; she must go, she should go, and they would\nnot hear of a refusal. \"It would be so easy to tell Miss Tilney that you\nhad just been reminded of a prior engagement, and must only beg to put\noff the walk till Tuesday.\"\n\n\"No, it would not be easy. I could not do it. There has been no prior\nengagement.\" But Isabella became only more and more urgent, calling\non her in the most affectionate manner, addressing her by the most\nendearing names. She was sure her dearest, sweetest Catherine would not\nseriously refuse such a trifling request to a friend who loved her so\ndearly. She knew her beloved Catherine to have so feeling a heart, so\nsweet a temper, to be so easily persuaded by those she loved. But all\nin vain; Catherine felt herself to be in the right, and though pained\nby such tender, such flattering supplication, could not allow it to\ninfluence her. Isabella then tried another method. She reproached her\nwith having more affection for Miss Tilney, though she had known her so\nlittle a while, than for her best and oldest friends, with being grown\ncold and indifferent, in short, towards herself. \"I cannot help being\njealous, Catherine, when I see myself slighted for strangers, I, who\nlove you so excessively! When once my affections are placed, it is not\nin the power of anything to change them. But I believe my feelings are\nstronger than anybody's; I am sure they are too strong for my own peace;\nand to see myself supplanted in your friendship by strangers does cut me\nto the quick, I own. These Tilneys seem to swallow up everything else.\"\n\nCatherine thought this reproach equally strange and unkind. Was it the\npart of a friend thus to expose her feelings to the notice of others?\nIsabella appeared to her ungenerous and selfish, regardless of\neverything but her own gratification. These painful ideas crossed her\nmind, though she said nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile, had applied\nher handkerchief to her eyes; and Morland, miserable at such a sight,\ncould not help saying, \"Nay, Catherine. I think you cannot stand out any\nlonger now. The sacrifice is not much; and to oblige such a friend--I\nshall think you quite unkind, if you still refuse.\"\n\nThis was the first time of her brother's openly siding against her, and\nanxious to avoid his displeasure, she proposed a compromise. If they\nwould only put off their scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily\ndo, as it depended only on themselves, she could go with them, and\neverybody might then be satisfied. But \"No, no, no!\" was the immediate\nanswer; \"that could not be, for Thorpe did not know that he might not\ngo to town on Tuesday.\" Catherine was sorry, but could do no more; and\na short silence ensued, which was broken by Isabella, who in a voice of\ncold resentment said, \"Very well, then there is an end of the party.\nIf Catherine does not go, I cannot. I cannot be the only woman. I would\nnot, upon any account in the world, do so improper a thing.\"\n\n\"Catherine, you must go,\" said James.\n\n\"But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters? I dare say\neither of them would like to go.\"\n\n\"Thank ye,\" cried Thorpe, \"but I did not come to Bath to drive my\nsisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d---- me if I\ndo. I only go for the sake of driving you.\"\n\n\"That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure.\" But her words were\nlost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away.\n\nThe three others still continued together, walking in a most\nuncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; sometimes not a word was said,\nsometimes she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and\nher arm was still linked within Isabella's, though their hearts were\nat war. At one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always\ndistressed, but always steady.\n\n\"I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine,\" said James;\n\"you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the kindest,\nbest-tempered of my sisters.\"\n\n\"I hope I am not less so now,\" she replied, very feelingly; \"but indeed\nI cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right.\"\n\n\"I suspect,\" said Isabella, in a low voice, \"there is no great\nstruggle.\"\n\nCatherine's heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no\nopposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined\nby Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, \"Well, I\nhave settled the matter, and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe\nconscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses.\"\n\n\"You have not!\" cried Catherine.\n\n\"I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me to\nsay that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to Clifton\nwith us tomorrow, you could not have the pleasure of walking with her\ntill Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as convenient to her;\nso there is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty good thought of\nmine--hey?\"\n\nIsabella's countenance was once more all smiles and good humour, and\nJames too looked happy again.\n\n\"A most heavenly thought indeed! Now, my sweet Catherine, all our\ndistresses are over; you are honourably acquitted, and we shall have a\nmost delightful party.\"\n\n\"This will not do,\" said Catherine; \"I cannot submit to this. I must run\nafter Miss Tilney directly and set her right.\"\n\nIsabella, however, caught hold of one hand, Thorpe of the other, and\nremonstrances poured in from all three. Even James was quite angry. When\neverything was settled, when Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday would\nsuit her as well, it was quite ridiculous, quite absurd, to make any\nfurther objection.\n\n\"I do not care. Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent any such message.\nIf I had thought it right to put it off, I could have spoken to Miss\nTilney myself. This is only doing it in a ruder way; and how do I know\nthat Mr. Thorpe has--He may be mistaken again perhaps; he led me into\none act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday. Let me go, Mr. Thorpe;\nIsabella, do not hold me.\"\n\nThorpe told her it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys; they were\nturning the corner into Brock Street, when he had overtaken them, and\nwere at home by this time.\n\n\"Then I will go after them,\" said Catherine; \"wherever they are I will\ngo after them. It does not signify talking. If I could not be persuaded\ninto doing what I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into it.\"\nAnd with these words she broke away and hurried off. Thorpe would have\ndarted after her, but Morland withheld him. \"Let her go, let her go, if\nshe will go. She is as obstinate as--\"\n\nThorpe never finished the simile, for it could hardly have been a proper\none.\n\nAway walked Catherine in great agitation, as fast as the crowd would\npermit her, fearful of being pursued, yet determined to persevere. As\nshe walked, she reflected on what had passed. It was painful to her to\ndisappoint and displease them, particularly to displease her brother;\nbut she could not repent her resistance. Setting her own inclination\napart, to have failed a second time in her engagement to Miss Tilney, to\nhave retracted a promise voluntarily made only five minutes before,\nand on a false pretence too, must have been wrong. She had not been\nwithstanding them on selfish principles alone, she had not consulted\nmerely her own gratification; that might have been ensured in some\ndegree by the excursion itself, by seeing Blaize Castle; no, she had\nattended to what was due to others, and to her own character in their\nopinion. Her conviction of being right, however, was not enough to\nrestore her composure; till she had spoken to Miss Tilney she could not\nbe at ease; and quickening her pace when she got clear of the Crescent,\nshe almost ran over the remaining ground till she gained the top of\nMilsom Street. So rapid had been her movements that in spite of the\nTilneys' advantage in the outset, they were but just turning into\ntheir lodgings as she came within view of them; and the servant still\nremaining at the open door, she used only the ceremony of saying\nthat she must speak with Miss Tilney that moment, and hurrying by him\nproceeded upstairs. Then, opening the first door before her, which\nhappened to be the right, she immediately found herself in the\ndrawing-room with General Tilney, his son, and daughter. Her\nexplanation, defective only in being--from her irritation of nerves and\nshortness of breath--no explanation at all, was instantly given. \"I am\ncome in a great hurry--It was all a mistake--I never promised to go--I\ntold them from the first I could not go.--I ran away in a great hurry\nto explain it.--I did not care what you thought of me.--I would not stay\nfor the servant.\"\n\nThe business, however, though not perfectly elucidated by this speech,\nsoon ceased to be a puzzle. Catherine found that John Thorpe had given\nthe message; and Miss Tilney had no scruple in owning herself greatly\nsurprised by it. But whether her brother had still exceeded her in\nresentment, Catherine, though she instinctively addressed herself as\nmuch to one as to the other in her vindication, had no means of knowing.\nWhatever might have been felt before her arrival, her eager declarations\nimmediately made every look and sentence as friendly as she could\ndesire.\n\nThe affair thus happily settled, she was introduced by Miss Tilney\nto her father, and received by him with such ready, such solicitous\npoliteness as recalled Thorpe's information to her mind, and made her\nthink with pleasure that he might be sometimes depended on. To such\nanxious attention was the general's civility carried, that not aware of\nher extraordinary swiftness in entering the house, he was quite angry\nwith the servant whose neglect had reduced her to open the door of the\napartment herself. \"What did William mean by it? He should make a point\nof inquiring into the matter.\" And if Catherine had not most warmly\nasserted his innocence, it seemed likely that William would lose the\nfavour of his master forever, if not his place, by her rapidity.\n\nAfter sitting with them a quarter of an hour, she rose to take leave,\nand was then most agreeably surprised by General Tilney's asking her if\nshe would do his daughter the honour of dining and spending the rest\nof the day with her. Miss Tilney added her own wishes. Catherine was\ngreatly obliged; but it was quite out of her power. Mr. and Mrs. Allen\nwould expect her back every moment. The general declared he could say no\nmore; the claims of Mr. and Mrs. Allen were not to be superseded; but on\nsome other day he trusted, when longer notice could be given, they would\nnot refuse to spare her to her friend. \"Oh, no; Catherine was sure they\nwould not have the least objection, and she should have great pleasure\nin coming.\" The general attended her himself to the street-door, saying\neverything gallant as they went downstairs, admiring the elasticity of\nher walk, which corresponded exactly with the spirit of her dancing, and\nmaking her one of the most graceful bows she had ever beheld, when they\nparted.\n\nCatherine, delighted by all that had passed, proceeded gaily to Pulteney\nStreet, walking, as she concluded, with great elasticity, though she\nhad never thought of it before. She reached home without seeing anything\nmore of the offended party; and now that she had been triumphant\nthroughout, had carried her point, and was secure of her walk, she began\n(as the flutter of her spirits subsided) to doubt whether she had been\nperfectly right. A sacrifice was always noble; and if she had given way\nto their entreaties, she should have been spared the distressing idea of\na friend displeased, a brother angry, and a scheme of great happiness\nto both destroyed, perhaps through her means. To ease her mind, and\nascertain by the opinion of an unprejudiced person what her own conduct\nhad really been, she took occasion to mention before Mr. Allen the\nhalf-settled scheme of her brother and the Thorpes for the following\nday. Mr. Allen caught at it directly. \"Well,\" said he, \"and do you think\nof going too?\"\n\n\"No; I had just engaged myself to walk with Miss Tilney before they told\nme of it; and therefore you know I could not go with them, could I?\"\n\n\"No, certainly not; and I am glad you do not think of it. These schemes\nare not at all the thing. Young men and women driving about the country\nin open carriages! Now and then it is very well; but going to inns and\npublic places together! It is not right; and I wonder Mrs. Thorpe should\nallow it. I am glad you do not think of going; I am sure Mrs. Morland\nwould not be pleased. Mrs. Allen, are not you of my way of thinking? Do\nnot you think these kind of projects objectionable?\"\n\n\"Yes, very much so indeed. Open carriages are nasty things. A clean\ngown is not five minutes' wear in them. You are splashed getting in\nand getting out; and the wind takes your hair and your bonnet in every\ndirection. I hate an open carriage myself.\"\n\n\"I know you do; but that is not the question. Do not you think it has an\nodd appearance, if young ladies are frequently driven about in them by\nyoung men, to whom they are not even related?\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear, a very odd appearance indeed. I cannot bear to see it.\"\n\n\"Dear madam,\" cried Catherine, \"then why did not you tell me so before?\nI am sure if I had known it to be improper, I would not have gone with\nMr. Thorpe at all; but I always hoped you would tell me, if you thought\nI was doing wrong.\"\n\n\"And so I should, my dear, you may depend on it; for as I told Mrs.\nMorland at parting, I would always do the best for you in my power. But\none must not be over particular. Young people will be young people,\nas your good mother says herself. You know I wanted you, when we first\ncame, not to buy that sprigged muslin, but you would. Young people do\nnot like to be always thwarted.\"\n\n\"But this was something of real consequence; and I do not think you\nwould have found me hard to persuade.\"\n\n\"As far as it has gone hitherto, there is no harm done,\" said Mr. Allen;\n\"and I would only advise you, my dear, not to go out with Mr. Thorpe any\nmore.\"\n\n\"That is just what I was going to say,\" added his wife.\n\nCatherine, relieved for herself, felt uneasy for Isabella, and after a\nmoment's thought, asked Mr. Allen whether it would not be both proper\nand kind in her to write to Miss Thorpe, and explain the indecorum of\nwhich she must be as insensible as herself; for she considered that\nIsabella might otherwise perhaps be going to Clifton the next day, in\nspite of what had passed. Mr. Allen, however, discouraged her from doing\nany such thing. \"You had better leave her alone, my dear; she is old\nenough to know what she is about, and if not, has a mother to advise\nher. Mrs. Thorpe is too indulgent beyond a doubt; but, however, you had\nbetter not interfere. She and your brother choose to go, and you will be\nonly getting ill will.\"\n\nCatherine submitted, and though sorry to think that Isabella should be\ndoing wrong, felt greatly relieved by Mr. Allen's approbation of her\nown conduct, and truly rejoiced to be preserved by his advice from the\ndanger of falling into such an error herself. Her escape from being one\nof the party to Clifton was now an escape indeed; for what would the\nTilneys have thought of her, if she had broken her promise to them in\norder to do what was wrong in itself, if she had been guilty of one\nbreach of propriety, only to enable her to be guilty of another?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 14\n\n\nThe next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected another attack\nfrom the assembled party. With Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no\ndread of the event: but she would gladly be spared a contest, where\nvictory itself was painful, and was heartily rejoiced therefore at\nneither seeing nor hearing anything of them. The Tilneys called for\nher at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden\nrecollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to\ndisconcert their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to\nfulfil her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself.\nThey determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose\nbeautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object\nfrom almost every opening in Bath.\n\n\"I never look at it,\" said Catherine, as they walked along the side of\nthe river, \"without thinking of the south of France.\"\n\n\"You have been abroad then?\" said Henry, a little surprised.\n\n\"Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind\nof the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The\nMysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Because they are not clever enough for you--gentlemen read better\nbooks.\"\n\n\"The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good\nnovel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe's\nworks, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho,\nwhen I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember\nfinishing it in two days--my hair standing on end the whole time.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" added Miss Tilney, \"and I remember that you undertook to read it\naloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to\nanswer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the\nHermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Eleanor--a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Morland,\nthe injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get on,\nrefusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise\nI had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most\ninteresting part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to\nobserve, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on\nit, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion.\"\n\n\"I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of\nliking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised\nnovels amazingly.\"\n\n\"It is amazingly; it may well suggest amazement if they do--for they\nread nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds.\nDo not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and\nLouisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing\ninquiry of 'Have you read this?' and 'Have you read that?' I shall soon\nleave you as far behind me as--what shall I say?--I want an appropriate\nsimile.--as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when\nshe went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had\nthe start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were\na good little girl working your sampler at home!\"\n\n\"Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho\nthe nicest book in the world?\"\n\n\"The nicest--by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend\nupon the binding.\"\n\n\"Henry,\" said Miss Tilney, \"you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he\nis treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding\nfault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking\nthe same liberty with you. The word 'nicest,' as you used it, did not\nsuit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall\nbe overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way.\"\n\n\"I am sure,\" cried Catherine, \"I did not mean to say anything wrong; but\nit is a nice book, and why should not I call it so?\"\n\n\"Very true,\" said Henry, \"and this is a very nice day, and we are taking\na very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a\nvery nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it\nwas applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or\nrefinement--people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or\ntheir choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised\nin that one word.\"\n\n\"While, in fact,\" cried his sister, \"it ought only to be applied to you,\nwithout any commendation at all. You are more nice than wise. Come,\nMiss Morland, let us leave him to meditate over our faults in the utmost\npropriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever terms we\nlike best. It is a most interesting work. You are fond of that kind of\nreading?\"\n\n\"To say the truth, I do not much like any other.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\"\n\n\"That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and\ndo not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be\ninterested in. Can you?\"\n\n\"Yes, I am fond of history.\"\n\n\"I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me\nnothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and\nkings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for\nnothing, and hardly any women at all--it is very tiresome: and yet I\noften think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it\nmust be invention. The speeches that are put into the heroes' mouths,\ntheir thoughts and designs--the chief of all this must be invention, and\ninvention is what delights me in other books.\"\n\n\"Historians, you think,\" said Miss Tilney, \"are not happy in their\nflights of fancy. They display imagination without raising interest. I\nam fond of history--and am very well contented to take the false with\nthe true. In the principal facts they have sources of intelligence\nin former histories and records, which may be as much depended on,\nI conclude, as anything that does not actually pass under one's own\nobservation; and as for the little embellishments you speak of, they are\nembellishments, and I like them as such. If a speech be well drawn up,\nI read it with pleasure, by whomsoever it may be made--and probably with\nmuch greater, if the production of Mr. Hume or Mr. Robertson, than if\nthe genuine words of Caractacus, Agricola, or Alfred the Great.\"\n\n\"You are fond of history! And so are Mr. Allen and my father; and I have\ntwo brothers who do not dislike it. So many instances within my small\ncircle of friends is remarkable! At this rate, I shall not pity the\nwriters of history any longer. If people like to read their books, it\nis all very well, but to be at so much trouble in filling great volumes,\nwhich, as I used to think, nobody would willingly ever look into, to be\nlabouring only for the torment of little boys and girls, always struck\nme as a hard fate; and though I know it is all very right and necessary,\nI have often wondered at the person's courage that could sit down on\npurpose to do it.\"\n\n\"That little boys and girls should be tormented,\" said Henry, \"is what\nno one at all acquainted with human nature in a civilized state can\ndeny; but in behalf of our most distinguished historians, I must observe\nthat they might well be offended at being supposed to have no higher\naim, and that by their method and style, they are perfectly well\nqualified to torment readers of the most advanced reason and mature\ntime of life. I use the verb 'to torment,' as I observed to be your own\nmethod, instead of 'to instruct,' supposing them to be now admitted as\nsynonymous.\"\n\n\"You think me foolish to call instruction a torment, but if you had been\nas much used as myself to hear poor little children first learning their\nletters and then learning to spell, if you had ever seen how stupid they\ncan be for a whole morning together, and how tired my poor mother is\nat the end of it, as I am in the habit of seeing almost every day of my\nlife at home, you would allow that 'to torment' and 'to instruct' might\nsometimes be used as synonymous words.\"\n\n\"Very probably. But historians are not accountable for the difficulty\nof learning to read; and even you yourself, who do not altogether seem\nparticularly friendly to very severe, very intense application, may\nperhaps be brought to acknowledge that it is very well worth-while to\nbe tormented for two or three years of one's life, for the sake of\nbeing able to read all the rest of it. Consider--if reading had not been\ntaught, Mrs. Radcliffe would have written in vain--or perhaps might not\nhave written at all.\"\n\nCatherine assented--and a very warm panegyric from her on that lady's\nmerits closed the subject. The Tilneys were soon engaged in another on\nwhich she had nothing to say. They were viewing the country with the\neyes of persons accustomed to drawing, and decided on its capability of\nbeing formed into pictures, with all the eagerness of real taste. Here\nCatherine was quite lost. She knew nothing of drawing--nothing of taste:\nand she listened to them with an attention which brought her little\nprofit, for they talked in phrases which conveyed scarcely any idea\nto her. The little which she could understand, however, appeared to\ncontradict the very few notions she had entertained on the matter\nbefore. It seemed as if a good view were no longer to be taken from the\ntop of an high hill, and that a clear blue sky was no longer a proof\nof a fine day. She was heartily ashamed of her ignorance. A misplaced\nshame. Where people wish to attach, they should always be ignorant.\nTo come with a well-informed mind is to come with an inability of\nadministering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person would\nalways wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of\nknowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.\n\nThe advantages of natural folly in a beautiful girl have been already\nset forth by the capital pen of a sister author; and to her treatment\nof the subject I will only add, in justice to men, that though to the\nlarger and more trifling part of the sex, imbecility in females is a\ngreat enhancement of their personal charms, there is a portion of them\ntoo reasonable and too well informed themselves to desire anything\nmore in woman than ignorance. But Catherine did not know her own\nadvantages--did not know that a good-looking girl, with an affectionate\nheart and a very ignorant mind, cannot fail of attracting a clever young\nman, unless circumstances are particularly untoward. In the present\ninstance, she confessed and lamented her want of knowledge, declared\nthat she would give anything in the world to be able to draw; and\na lecture on the picturesque immediately followed, in which his\ninstructions were so clear that she soon began to see beauty in\neverything admired by him, and her attention was so earnest that he\nbecame perfectly satisfied of her having a great deal of natural taste.\nHe talked of foregrounds, distances, and second distances--side-screens\nand perspectives--lights and shades; and Catherine was so hopeful a\nscholar that when they gained the top of Beechen Cliff, she voluntarily\nrejected the whole city of Bath as unworthy to make part of a landscape.\nDelighted with her progress, and fearful of wearying her with too much\nwisdom at once, Henry suffered the subject to decline, and by an easy\ntransition from a piece of rocky fragment and the withered oak which\nhe had placed near its summit, to oaks in general, to forests, the\nenclosure of them, waste lands, crown lands and government, he shortly\nfound himself arrived at politics; and from politics, it was an\neasy step to silence. The general pause which succeeded his short\ndisquisition on the state of the nation was put an end to by Catherine,\nwho, in rather a solemn tone of voice, uttered these words, \"I have\nheard that something very shocking indeed will soon come out in London.\"\n\nMiss Tilney, to whom this was chiefly addressed, was startled, and\nhastily replied, \"Indeed! And of what nature?\"\n\n\"That I do not know, nor who is the author. I have only heard that it is\nto be more horrible than anything we have met with yet.\"\n\n\"Good heaven! Where could you hear of such a thing?\"\n\n\"A particular friend of mine had an account of it in a letter from\nLondon yesterday. It is to be uncommonly dreadful. I shall expect murder\nand everything of the kind.\"\n\n\"You speak with astonishing composure! But I hope your friend's accounts\nhave been exaggerated; and if such a design is known beforehand, proper\nmeasures will undoubtedly be taken by government to prevent its coming\nto effect.\"\n\n\"Government,\" said Henry, endeavouring not to smile, \"neither desires\nnor dares to interfere in such matters. There must be murder; and\ngovernment cares not how much.\"\n\nThe ladies stared. He laughed, and added, \"Come, shall I make you\nunderstand each other, or leave you to puzzle out an explanation as\nyou can? No--I will be noble. I will prove myself a man, no less by the\ngenerosity of my soul than the clearness of my head. I have no patience\nwith such of my sex as disdain to let themselves sometimes down to the\ncomprehension of yours. Perhaps the abilities of women are neither sound\nnor acute--neither vigorous nor keen. Perhaps they may want observation,\ndiscernment, judgment, fire, genius, and wit.\"\n\n\"Miss Morland, do not mind what he says; but have the goodness to\nsatisfy me as to this dreadful riot.\"\n\n\"Riot! What riot?\"\n\n\"My dear Eleanor, the riot is only in your own brain. The confusion\nthere is scandalous. Miss Morland has been talking of nothing more\ndreadful than a new publication which is shortly to come out, in three\nduodecimo volumes, two hundred and seventy-six pages in each, with\na frontispiece to the first, of two tombstones and a lantern--do you\nunderstand? And you, Miss Morland--my stupid sister has mistaken all\nyour clearest expressions. You talked of expected horrors in London--and\ninstead of instantly conceiving, as any rational creature would have\ndone, that such words could relate only to a circulating library, she\nimmediately pictured to herself a mob of three thousand men assembling\nin St. George's Fields, the Bank attacked, the Tower threatened, the\nstreets of London flowing with blood, a detachment of the Twelfth Light\nDragoons (the hopes of the nation) called up from Northampton to quell\nthe insurgents, and the gallant Captain Frederick Tilney, in the\nmoment of charging at the head of his troop, knocked off his horse by a\nbrickbat from an upper window. Forgive her stupidity. The fears of the\nsister have added to the weakness of the woman; but she is by no means a\nsimpleton in general.\"\n\nCatherine looked grave. \"And now, Henry,\" said Miss Tilney, \"that you\nhave made us understand each other, you may as well make Miss Morland\nunderstand yourself--unless you mean to have her think you intolerably\nrude to your sister, and a great brute in your opinion of women in\ngeneral. Miss Morland is not used to your odd ways.\"\n\n\"I shall be most happy to make her better acquainted with them.\"\n\n\"No doubt; but that is no explanation of the present.\"\n\n\"What am I to do?\"\n\n\"You know what you ought to do. Clear your character handsomely before\nher. Tell her that you think very highly of the understanding of women.\"\n\n\"Miss Morland, I think very highly of the understanding of all the women\nin the world--especially of those--whoever they may be--with whom I\nhappen to be in company.\"\n\n\"That is not enough. Be more serious.\"\n\n\"Miss Morland, no one can think more highly of the understanding of\nwomen than I do. In my opinion, nature has given them so much that they\nnever find it necessary to use more than half.\"\n\n\"We shall get nothing more serious from him now, Miss Morland. He is\nnot in a sober mood. But I do assure you that he must be entirely\nmisunderstood, if he can ever appear to say an unjust thing of any woman\nat all, or an unkind one of me.\"\n\nIt was no effort to Catherine to believe that Henry Tilney could never\nbe wrong. His manner might sometimes surprise, but his meaning must\nalways be just: and what she did not understand, she was almost as ready\nto admire, as what she did. The whole walk was delightful, and though it\nended too soon, its conclusion was delightful too; her friends attended\nher into the house, and Miss Tilney, before they parted, addressing\nherself with respectful form, as much to Mrs. Allen as to Catherine,\npetitioned for the pleasure of her company to dinner on the day after\nthe next. No difficulty was made on Mrs. Allen's side, and the only\ndifficulty on Catherine's was in concealing the excess of her pleasure.\n\nThe morning had passed away so charmingly as to banish all her\nfriendship and natural affection, for no thought of Isabella or James\nhad crossed her during their walk. When the Tilneys were gone, she\nbecame amiable again, but she was amiable for some time to little\neffect; Mrs. Allen had no intelligence to give that could relieve her\nanxiety; she had heard nothing of any of them. Towards the end of the\nmorning, however, Catherine, having occasion for some indispensable yard\nof ribbon which must be bought without a moment's delay, walked out into\nthe town, and in Bond Street overtook the second Miss Thorpe as she was\nloitering towards Edgar's Buildings between two of the sweetest girls in\nthe world, who had been her dear friends all the morning. From her, she\nsoon learned that the party to Clifton had taken place. \"They set off at\neight this morning,\" said Miss Anne, \"and I am sure I do not envy\nthem their drive. I think you and I are very well off to be out of the\nscrape. It must be the dullest thing in the world, for there is not a\nsoul at Clifton at this time of year. Belle went with your brother, and\nJohn drove Maria.\"\n\nCatherine spoke the pleasure she really felt on hearing this part of the\narrangement.\n\n\"Oh! yes,\" rejoined the other, \"Maria is gone. She was quite wild to go.\nShe thought it would be something very fine. I cannot say I admire her\ntaste; and for my part, I was determined from the first not to go, if\nthey pressed me ever so much.\"\n\nCatherine, a little doubtful of this, could not help answering, \"I wish\nyou could have gone too. It is a pity you could not all go.\"\n\n\"Thank you; but it is quite a matter of indifference to me. Indeed, I\nwould not have gone on any account. I was saying so to Emily and Sophia\nwhen you overtook us.\"\n\nCatherine was still unconvinced; but glad that Anne should have the\nfriendship of an Emily and a Sophia to console her, she bade her adieu\nwithout much uneasiness, and returned home, pleased that the party had\nnot been prevented by her refusing to join it, and very heartily wishing\nthat it might be too pleasant to allow either James or Isabella to\nresent her resistance any longer.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 15\n\n\nEarly the next day, a note from Isabella, speaking peace and tenderness\nin every line, and entreating the immediate presence of her friend on\na matter of the utmost importance, hastened Catherine, in the happiest\nstate of confidence and curiosity, to Edgar's Buildings. The two\nyoungest Miss Thorpes were by themselves in the parlour; and, on Anne's\nquitting it to call her sister, Catherine took the opportunity of asking\nthe other for some particulars of their yesterday's party. Maria desired\nno greater pleasure than to speak of it; and Catherine immediately\nlearnt that it had been altogether the most delightful scheme in the\nworld, that nobody could imagine how charming it had been, and that\nit had been more delightful than anybody could conceive. Such was the\ninformation of the first five minutes; the second unfolded thus much in\ndetail--that they had driven directly to the York Hotel, ate some soup,\nand bespoke an early dinner, walked down to the pump-room, tasted the\nwater, and laid out some shillings in purses and spars; thence adjoined\nto eat ice at a pastry-cook's, and hurrying back to the hotel, swallowed\ntheir dinner in haste, to prevent being in the dark; and then had a\ndelightful drive back, only the moon was not up, and it rained a little,\nand Mr. Morland's horse was so tired he could hardly get it along.\n\nCatherine listened with heartfelt satisfaction. It appeared that Blaize\nCastle had never been thought of; and, as for all the rest, there was\nnothing to regret for half an instant. Maria's intelligence concluded\nwith a tender effusion of pity for her sister Anne, whom she represented\nas insupportably cross, from being excluded the party.\n\n\"She will never forgive me, I am sure; but, you know, how could I help\nit? John would have me go, for he vowed he would not drive her, because\nshe had such thick ankles. I dare say she will not be in good humour\nagain this month; but I am determined I will not be cross; it is not a\nlittle matter that puts me out of temper.\"\n\nIsabella now entered the room with so eager a step, and a look of such\nhappy importance, as engaged all her friend's notice. Maria was without\nceremony sent away, and Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began: \"Yes,\nmy dear Catherine, it is so indeed; your penetration has not deceived\nyou. Oh! That arch eye of yours! It sees through everything.\"\n\nCatherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance.\n\n\"Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,\" continued the other, \"compose\nyourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and\ntalk in comfort. Well, and so you guessed it the moment you had my note?\nSly creature! Oh! My dear Catherine, you alone, who know my heart, can\njudge of my present happiness. Your brother is the most charming of\nmen. I only wish I were more worthy of him. But what will your excellent\nfather and mother say? Oh! Heavens! When I think of them I am so\nagitated!\"\n\nCatherine's understanding began to awake: an idea of the truth suddenly\ndarted into her mind; and, with the natural blush of so new an emotion,\nshe cried out, \"Good heaven! My dear Isabella, what do you mean? Can\nyou--can you really be in love with James?\"\n\nThis bold surmise, however, she soon learnt comprehended but half the\nfact. The anxious affection, which she was accused of having continually\nwatched in Isabella's every look and action, had, in the course of their\nyesterday's party, received the delightful confession of an equal love.\nHer heart and faith were alike engaged to James. Never had Catherine\nlistened to anything so full of interest, wonder, and joy. Her brother\nand her friend engaged! New to such circumstances, the importance of\nit appeared unspeakably great, and she contemplated it as one of those\ngrand events, of which the ordinary course of life can hardly afford a\nreturn. The strength of her feelings she could not express; the nature\nof them, however, contented her friend. The happiness of having such a\nsister was their first effusion, and the fair ladies mingled in embraces\nand tears of joy.\n\nDelighting, however, as Catherine sincerely did in the prospect of the\nconnection, it must be acknowledged that Isabella far surpassed her\nin tender anticipations. \"You will be so infinitely dearer to me, my\nCatherine, than either Anne or Maria: I feel that I shall be so much\nmore attached to my dear Morland's family than to my own.\"\n\nThis was a pitch of friendship beyond Catherine.\n\n\"You are so like your dear brother,\" continued Isabella, \"that I quite\ndoted on you the first moment I saw you. But so it always is with me;\nthe first moment settles everything. The very first day that Morland\ncame to us last Christmas--the very first moment I beheld him--my heart\nwas irrecoverably gone. I remember I wore my yellow gown, with my hair\ndone up in braids; and when I came into the drawing-room, and John\nintroduced him, I thought I never saw anybody so handsome before.\"\n\nHere Catherine secretly acknowledged the power of love; for, though\nexceedingly fond of her brother, and partial to all his endowments, she\nhad never in her life thought him handsome.\n\n\"I remember too, Miss Andrews drank tea with us that evening, and wore\nher puce-coloured sarsenet; and she looked so heavenly that I thought\nyour brother must certainly fall in love with her; I could not sleep\na wink all right for thinking of it. Oh! Catherine, the many sleepless\nnights I have had on your brother's account! I would not have you suffer\nhalf what I have done! I am grown wretchedly thin, I know; but I will\nnot pain you by describing my anxiety; you have seen enough of it. I\nfeel that I have betrayed myself perpetually--so unguarded in speaking\nof my partiality for the church! But my secret I was always sure would\nbe safe with you.\"\n\nCatherine felt that nothing could have been safer; but ashamed of an\nignorance little expected, she dared no longer contest the point,\nnor refuse to have been as full of arch penetration and affectionate\nsympathy as Isabella chose to consider her. Her brother, she found,\nwas preparing to set off with all speed to Fullerton, to make known his\nsituation and ask consent; and here was a source of some real agitation\nto the mind of Isabella. Catherine endeavoured to persuade her, as she\nwas herself persuaded, that her father and mother would never oppose\ntheir son's wishes. \"It is impossible,\" said she, \"for parents to be\nmore kind, or more desirous of their children's happiness; I have no\ndoubt of their consenting immediately.\"\n\n\"Morland says exactly the same,\" replied Isabella; \"and yet I dare not\nexpect it; my fortune will be so small; they never can consent to it.\nYour brother, who might marry anybody!\"\n\nHere Catherine again discerned the force of love.\n\n\"Indeed, Isabella, you are too humble. The difference of fortune can be\nnothing to signify.\"\n\n\"Oh! My sweet Catherine, in your generous heart I know it would signify\nnothing; but we must not expect such disinterestedness in many. As for\nmyself, I am sure I only wish our situations were reversed. Had I the\ncommand of millions, were I mistress of the whole world, your brother\nwould be my only choice.\"\n\nThis charming sentiment, recommended as much by sense as novelty,\ngave Catherine a most pleasing remembrance of all the heroines of her\nacquaintance; and she thought her friend never looked more lovely than\nin uttering the grand idea. \"I am sure they will consent,\" was her\nfrequent declaration; \"I am sure they will be delighted with you.\"\n\n\"For my own part,\" said Isabella, \"my wishes are so moderate that the\nsmallest income in nature would be enough for me. Where people are\nreally attached, poverty itself is wealth; grandeur I detest: I would\nnot settle in London for the universe. A cottage in some retired village\nwould be ecstasy. There are some charming little villas about Richmond.\"\n\n\"Richmond!\" cried Catherine. \"You must settle near Fullerton. You must\nbe near us.\"\n\n\"I am sure I shall be miserable if we do not. If I can but be near you,\nI shall be satisfied. But this is idle talking! I will not allow myself\nto think of such things, till we have your father's answer. Morland\nsays that by sending it tonight to Salisbury, we may have it tomorrow.\nTomorrow? I know I shall never have courage to open the letter. I know\nit will be the death of me.\"\n\nA reverie succeeded this conviction--and when Isabella spoke again, it\nwas to resolve on the quality of her wedding-gown.\n\nTheir conference was put an end to by the anxious young lover himself,\nwho came to breathe his parting sigh before he set off for Wiltshire.\nCatherine wished to congratulate him, but knew not what to say, and her\neloquence was only in her eyes. From them, however, the eight parts of\nspeech shone out most expressively, and James could combine them with\nease. Impatient for the realization of all that he hoped at home, his\nadieus were not long; and they would have been yet shorter, had he not\nbeen frequently detained by the urgent entreaties of his fair one that\nhe would go. Twice was he called almost from the door by her eagerness\nto have him gone. \"Indeed, Morland, I must drive you away. Consider how\nfar you have to ride. I cannot bear to see you linger so. For heaven's\nsake, waste no more time. There, go, go--I insist on it.\"\n\nThe two friends, with hearts now more united than ever, were inseparable\nfor the day; and in schemes of sisterly happiness the hours flew along.\nMrs. Thorpe and her son, who were acquainted with everything, and\nwho seemed only to want Mr. Morland's consent, to consider Isabella's\nengagement as the most fortunate circumstance imaginable for their\nfamily, were allowed to join their counsels, and add their quota of\nsignificant looks and mysterious expressions to fill up the measure\nof curiosity to be raised in the unprivileged younger sisters. To\nCatherine's simple feelings, this odd sort of reserve seemed neither\nkindly meant, nor consistently supported; and its unkindness she would\nhardly have forborne pointing out, had its inconsistency been less their\nfriend; but Anne and Maria soon set her heart at ease by the sagacity of\ntheir \"I know what\"; and the evening was spent in a sort of war of wit,\na display of family ingenuity, on one side in the mystery of an affected\nsecret, on the other of undefined discovery, all equally acute.\n\nCatherine was with her friend again the next day, endeavouring to\nsupport her spirits and while away the many tedious hours before\nthe delivery of the letters; a needful exertion, for as the time\nof reasonable expectation drew near, Isabella became more and more\ndesponding, and before the letter arrived, had worked herself into a\nstate of real distress. But when it did come, where could distress\nbe found? \"I have had no difficulty in gaining the consent of my kind\nparents, and am promised that everything in their power shall be done to\nforward my happiness,\" were the first three lines, and in one moment\nall was joyful security. The brightest glow was instantly spread over\nIsabella's features, all care and anxiety seemed removed, her spirits\nbecame almost too high for control, and she called herself without\nscruple the happiest of mortals.\n\nMrs. Thorpe, with tears of joy, embraced her daughter, her son, her\nvisitor, and could have embraced half the inhabitants of Bath with\nsatisfaction. Her heart was overflowing with tenderness. It was \"dear\nJohn\" and \"dear Catherine\" at every word; \"dear Anne and dear Maria\"\nmust immediately be made sharers in their felicity; and two \"dears\" at\nonce before the name of Isabella were not more than that beloved child\nhad now well earned. John himself was no skulker in joy. He not only\nbestowed on Mr. Morland the high commendation of being one of the finest\nfellows in the world, but swore off many sentences in his praise.\n\nThe letter, whence sprang all this felicity, was short, containing\nlittle more than this assurance of success; and every particular was\ndeferred till James could write again. But for particulars Isabella\ncould well afford to wait. The needful was comprised in Mr. Morland's\npromise; his honour was pledged to make everything easy; and by what\nmeans their income was to be formed, whether landed property were to\nbe resigned, or funded money made over, was a matter in which her\ndisinterested spirit took no concern. She knew enough to feel secure of\nan honourable and speedy establishment, and her imagination took a rapid\nflight over its attendant felicities. She saw herself at the end of\na few weeks, the gaze and admiration of every new acquaintance at\nFullerton, the envy of every valued old friend in Putney, with a\ncarriage at her command, a new name on her tickets, and a brilliant\nexhibition of hoop rings on her finger.\n\nWhen the contents of the letter were ascertained, John Thorpe, who had\nonly waited its arrival to begin his journey to London, prepared to set\noff. \"Well, Miss Morland,\" said he, on finding her alone in the parlour,\n\"I am come to bid you good-bye.\" Catherine wished him a good journey.\nWithout appearing to hear her, he walked to the window, fidgeted about,\nhummed a tune, and seemed wholly self-occupied.\n\n\"Shall not you be late at Devizes?\" said Catherine. He made no answer;\nbut after a minute's silence burst out with, \"A famous good thing this\nmarrying scheme, upon my soul! A clever fancy of Morland's and Belle's.\nWhat do you think of it, Miss Morland? I say it is no bad notion.\"\n\n\"I am sure I think it a very good one.\"\n\n\"Do you? That's honest, by heavens! I am glad you are no enemy to\nmatrimony, however. Did you ever hear the old song 'Going to One Wedding\nBrings on Another?' I say, you will come to Belle's wedding, I hope.\"\n\n\"Yes; I have promised your sister to be with her, if possible.\"\n\n\"And then you know\"--twisting himself about and forcing a foolish\nlaugh--\"I say, then you know, we may try the truth of this same old\nsong.\"\n\n\"May we? But I never sing. Well, I wish you a good journey. I dine with\nMiss Tilney today, and must now be going home.\"\n\n\"Nay, but there is no such confounded hurry. Who knows when we may\nbe together again? Not but that I shall be down again by the end of a\nfortnight, and a devilish long fortnight it will appear to me.\"\n\n\"Then why do you stay away so long?\" replied Catherine--finding that he\nwaited for an answer.\n\n\"That is kind of you, however--kind and good-natured. I shall not forget\nit in a hurry. But you have more good nature and all that, than anybody\nliving, I believe. A monstrous deal of good nature, and it is not only\ngood nature, but you have so much, so much of everything; and then you\nhave such--upon my soul, I do not know anybody like you.\"\n\n\"Oh! dear, there are a great many people like me, I dare say, only a\ngreat deal better. Good morning to you.\"\n\n\"But I say, Miss Morland, I shall come and pay my respects at Fullerton\nbefore it is long, if not disagreeable.\"\n\n\"Pray do. My father and mother will be very glad to see you.\"\n\n\"And I hope--I hope, Miss Morland, you will not be sorry to see me.\"\n\n\"Oh! dear, not at all. There are very few people I am sorry to see.\nCompany is always cheerful.\"\n\n\"That is just my way of thinking. Give me but a little cheerful company,\nlet me only have the company of the people I love, let me only be where\nI like and with whom I like, and the devil take the rest, say I. And\nI am heartily glad to hear you say the same. But I have a notion, Miss\nMorland, you and I think pretty much alike upon most matters.\"\n\n\"Perhaps we may; but it is more than I ever thought of. And as to most\nmatters, to say the truth, there are not many that I know my own mind\nabout.\"\n\n\"By Jove, no more do I. It is not my way to bother my brains with what\ndoes not concern me. My notion of things is simple enough. Let me only\nhave the girl I like, say I, with a comfortable house over my head, and\nwhat care I for all the rest? Fortune is nothing. I am sure of a good\nincome of my own; and if she had not a penny, why, so much the better.\"\n\n\"Very true. I think like you there. If there is a good fortune on one\nside, there can be no occasion for any on the other. No matter which\nhas it, so that there is enough. I hate the idea of one great fortune\nlooking out for another. And to marry for money I think the wickedest\nthing in existence. Good day. We shall be very glad to see you at\nFullerton, whenever it is convenient.\" And away she went. It was not in\nthe power of all his gallantry to detain her longer. With such news to\ncommunicate, and such a visit to prepare for, her departure was not\nto be delayed by anything in his nature to urge; and she hurried away,\nleaving him to the undivided consciousness of his own happy address, and\nher explicit encouragement.\n\nThe agitation which she had herself experienced on first learning her\nbrother's engagement made her expect to raise no inconsiderable emotion\nin Mr. and Mrs. Allen, by the communication of the wonderful event. How\ngreat was her disappointment! The important affair, which many words of\npreparation ushered in, had been foreseen by them both ever since\nher brother's arrival; and all that they felt on the occasion was\ncomprehended in a wish for the young people's happiness, with a remark,\non the gentleman's side, in favour of Isabella's beauty, and on the\nlady's, of her great good luck. It was to Catherine the most surprising\ninsensibility. The disclosure, however, of the great secret of James's\ngoing to Fullerton the day before, did raise some emotion in Mrs. Allen.\nShe could not listen to that with perfect calmness, but repeatedly\nregretted the necessity of its concealment, wished she could have known\nhis intention, wished she could have seen him before he went, as she\nshould certainly have troubled him with her best regards to his father\nand mother, and her kind compliments to all the Skinners.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 16\n\n\nCatherine's expectations of pleasure from her visit in Milsom Street\nwere so very high that disappointment was inevitable; and accordingly,\nthough she was most politely received by General Tilney, and kindly\nwelcomed by his daughter, though Henry was at home, and no one else of\nthe party, she found, on her return, without spending many hours in\nthe examination of her feelings, that she had gone to her appointment\npreparing for happiness which it had not afforded. Instead of finding\nherself improved in acquaintance with Miss Tilney, from the intercourse\nof the day, she seemed hardly so intimate with her as before; instead\nof seeing Henry Tilney to greater advantage than ever, in the ease of a\nfamily party, he had never said so little, nor been so little agreeable;\nand, in spite of their father's great civilities to her--in spite of his\nthanks, invitations, and compliments--it had been a release to get\naway from him. It puzzled her to account for all this. It could not\nbe General Tilney's fault. That he was perfectly agreeable and\ngood-natured, and altogether a very charming man, did not admit of a\ndoubt, for he was tall and handsome, and Henry's father. He could not\nbe accountable for his children's want of spirits, or for her want of\nenjoyment in his company. The former she hoped at last might have\nbeen accidental, and the latter she could only attribute to her own\nstupidity. Isabella, on hearing the particulars of the visit, gave\na different explanation: \"It was all pride, pride, insufferable\nhaughtiness and pride! She had long suspected the family to be very\nhigh, and this made it certain. Such insolence of behaviour as Miss\nTilney's she had never heard of in her life! Not to do the honours of\nher house with common good breeding! To behave to her guest with such\nsuperciliousness! Hardly even to speak to her!\"\n\n\"But it was not so bad as that, Isabella; there was no superciliousness;\nshe was very civil.\"\n\n\"Oh! Don't defend her! And then the brother, he, who had appeared\nso attached to you! Good heavens! Well, some people's feelings are\nincomprehensible. And so he hardly looked once at you the whole day?\"\n\n\"I do not say so; but he did not seem in good spirits.\"\n\n\"How contemptible! Of all things in the world inconstancy is my\naversion. Let me entreat you never to think of him again, my dear\nCatherine; indeed he is unworthy of you.\"\n\n\"Unworthy! I do not suppose he ever thinks of me.\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I say; he never thinks of you. Such fickleness!\nOh! How different to your brother and to mine! I really believe John has\nthe most constant heart.\"\n\n\"But as for General Tilney, I assure you it would be impossible for\nanybody to behave to me with greater civility and attention; it seemed\nto be his only care to entertain and make me happy.\"\n\n\"Oh! I know no harm of him; I do not suspect him of pride. I believe he\nis a very gentleman-like man. John thinks very well of him, and John's\njudgment--\"\n\n\"Well, I shall see how they behave to me this evening; we shall meet\nthem at the rooms.\"\n\n\"And must I go?\"\n\n\"Do not you intend it? I thought it was all settled.\"\n\n\"Nay, since you make such a point of it, I can refuse you nothing. But\ndo not insist upon my being very agreeable, for my heart, you know, will\nbe some forty miles off. And as for dancing, do not mention it, I beg;\nthat is quite out of the question. Charles Hodges will plague me to\ndeath, I dare say; but I shall cut him very short. Ten to one but he\nguesses the reason, and that is exactly what I want to avoid, so I shall\ninsist on his keeping his conjecture to himself.\"\n\nIsabella's opinion of the Tilneys did not influence her friend; she was\nsure there had been no insolence in the manners either of brother or\nsister; and she did not credit there being any pride in their hearts.\nThe evening rewarded her confidence; she was met by one with the same\nkindness, and by the other with the same attention, as heretofore: Miss\nTilney took pains to be near her, and Henry asked her to dance.\n\nHaving heard the day before in Milsom Street that their elder brother,\nCaptain Tilney, was expected almost every hour, she was at no loss for\nthe name of a very fashionable-looking, handsome young man, whom she had\nnever seen before, and who now evidently belonged to their party. She\nlooked at him with great admiration, and even supposed it possible that\nsome people might think him handsomer than his brother, though, in her\neyes, his air was more assuming, and his countenance less prepossessing.\nHis taste and manners were beyond a doubt decidedly inferior; for,\nwithin her hearing, he not only protested against every thought of\ndancing himself, but even laughed openly at Henry for finding it\npossible. From the latter circumstance it may be presumed that, whatever\nmight be our heroine's opinion of him, his admiration of her was not\nof a very dangerous kind; not likely to produce animosities between the\nbrothers, nor persecutions to the lady. He cannot be the instigator of\nthe three villains in horsemen's greatcoats, by whom she will hereafter\nbe forced into a traveling-chaise and four, which will drive off with\nincredible speed. Catherine, meanwhile, undisturbed by presentiments of\nsuch an evil, or of any evil at all, except that of having but a short\nset to dance down, enjoyed her usual happiness with Henry Tilney,\nlistening with sparkling eyes to everything he said; and, in finding him\nirresistible, becoming so herself.\n\nAt the end of the first dance, Captain Tilney came towards them again,\nand, much to Catherine's dissatisfaction, pulled his brother away. They\nretired whispering together; and, though her delicate sensibility did\nnot take immediate alarm, and lay it down as fact, that Captain Tilney\nmust have heard some malevolent misrepresentation of her, which he now\nhastened to communicate to his brother, in the hope of separating them\nforever, she could not have her partner conveyed from her sight without\nvery uneasy sensations. Her suspense was of full five minutes' duration;\nand she was beginning to think it a very long quarter of an hour, when\nthey both returned, and an explanation was given, by Henry's requesting\nto know if she thought her friend, Miss Thorpe, would have any objection\nto dancing, as his brother would be most happy to be introduced to\nher. Catherine, without hesitation, replied that she was very sure Miss\nThorpe did not mean to dance at all. The cruel reply was passed on to\nthe other, and he immediately walked away.\n\n\"Your brother will not mind it, I know,\" said she, \"because I heard him\nsay before that he hated dancing; but it was very good-natured in him\nto think of it. I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down, and fancied she\nmight wish for a partner; but he is quite mistaken, for she would not\ndance upon any account in the world.\"\n\nHenry smiled, and said, \"How very little trouble it can give you to\nunderstand the motive of other people's actions.\"\n\n\"Why? What do you mean?\"\n\n\"With you, it is not, How is such a one likely to be influenced, What\nis the inducement most likely to act upon such a person's feelings, age,\nsituation, and probable habits of life considered--but, How should I be\ninfluenced, What would be my inducement in acting so and so?\"\n\n\"I do not understand you.\"\n\n\"Then we are on very unequal terms, for I understand you perfectly\nwell.\"\n\n\"Me? Yes; I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible.\"\n\n\"Bravo! An excellent satire on modern language.\"\n\n\"But pray tell me what you mean.\"\n\n\"Shall I indeed? Do you really desire it? But you are not aware of the\nconsequences; it will involve you in a very cruel embarrassment, and\ncertainly bring on a disagreement between us.\n\n\"No, no; it shall not do either; I am not afraid.\"\n\n\"Well, then, I only meant that your attributing my brother's wish of\ndancing with Miss Thorpe to good nature alone convinced me of your being\nsuperior in good nature yourself to all the rest of the world.\"\n\nCatherine blushed and disclaimed, and the gentleman's predictions were\nverified. There was a something, however, in his words which repaid her\nfor the pain of confusion; and that something occupied her mind so much\nthat she drew back for some time, forgetting to speak or to listen, and\nalmost forgetting where she was; till, roused by the voice of Isabella,\nshe looked up and saw her with Captain Tilney preparing to give them\nhands across.\n\nIsabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only explanation of this\nextraordinary change which could at that time be given; but as it\nwas not quite enough for Catherine's comprehension, she spoke her\nastonishment in very plain terms to her partner.\n\n\"I cannot think how it could happen! Isabella was so determined not to\ndance.\"\n\n\"And did Isabella never change her mind before?\"\n\n\"Oh! But, because--And your brother! After what you told him from me,\nhow could he think of going to ask her?\"\n\n\"I cannot take surprise to myself on that head. You bid me be surprised\non your friend's account, and therefore I am; but as for my brother, his\nconduct in the business, I must own, has been no more than I believed\nhim perfectly equal to. The fairness of your friend was an open\nattraction; her firmness, you know, could only be understood by\nyourself.\"\n\n\"You are laughing; but, I assure you, Isabella is very firm in general.\"\n\n\"It is as much as should be said of anyone. To be always firm must be\nto be often obstinate. When properly to relax is the trial of judgment;\nand, without reference to my brother, I really think Miss Thorpe has by\nno means chosen ill in fixing on the present hour.\"\n\nThe friends were not able to get together for any confidential discourse\ntill all the dancing was over; but then, as they walked about the room\narm in arm, Isabella thus explained herself: \"I do not wonder at your\nsurprise; and I am really fatigued to death. He is such a rattle!\nAmusing enough, if my mind had been disengaged; but I would have given\nthe world to sit still.\"\n\n\"Then why did not you?\"\n\n\"Oh! My dear! It would have looked so particular; and you know how I\nabhor doing that. I refused him as long as I possibly could, but he\nwould take no denial. You have no idea how he pressed me. I begged him\nto excuse me, and get some other partner--but no, not he; after aspiring\nto my hand, there was nobody else in the room he could bear to think of;\nand it was not that he wanted merely to dance, he wanted to be with\nme. Oh! Such nonsense! I told him he had taken a very unlikely way to\nprevail upon me; for, of all things in the world, I hated fine speeches\nand compliments; and so--and so then I found there would be no peace if\nI did not stand up. Besides, I thought Mrs. Hughes, who introduced him,\nmight take it ill if I did not: and your dear brother, I am sure he\nwould have been miserable if I had sat down the whole evening. I am\nso glad it is over! My spirits are quite jaded with listening to his\nnonsense: and then, being such a smart young fellow, I saw every eye was\nupon us.\"\n\n\"He is very handsome indeed.\"\n\n\"Handsome! Yes, I suppose he may. I dare say people would admire him\nin general; but he is not at all in my style of beauty. I hate a florid\ncomplexion and dark eyes in a man. However, he is very well. Amazingly\nconceited, I am sure. I took him down several times, you know, in my\nway.\"\n\nWhen the young ladies next met, they had a far more interesting subject\nto discuss. James Morland's second letter was then received, and the\nkind intentions of his father fully explained. A living, of which Mr.\nMorland was himself patron and incumbent, of about four hundred pounds\nyearly value, was to be resigned to his son as soon as he should be\nold enough to take it; no trifling deduction from the family income, no\nniggardly assignment to one of ten children. An estate of at least equal\nvalue, moreover, was assured as his future inheritance.\n\nJames expressed himself on the occasion with becoming gratitude; and\nthe necessity of waiting between two and three years before they could\nmarry, being, however unwelcome, no more than he had expected, was borne\nby him without discontent. Catherine, whose expectations had been as\nunfixed as her ideas of her father's income, and whose judgment was now\nentirely led by her brother, felt equally well satisfied, and heartily\ncongratulated Isabella on having everything so pleasantly settled.\n\n\"It is very charming indeed,\" said Isabella, with a grave face. \"Mr.\nMorland has behaved vastly handsome indeed,\" said the gentle Mrs.\nThorpe, looking anxiously at her daughter. \"I only wish I could do as\nmuch. One could not expect more from him, you know. If he finds he\ncan do more by and by, I dare say he will, for I am sure he must be an\nexcellent good-hearted man. Four hundred is but a small income to begin\non indeed, but your wishes, my dear Isabella, are so moderate, you do\nnot consider how little you ever want, my dear.\"\n\n\"It is not on my own account I wish for more; but I cannot bear to\nbe the means of injuring my dear Morland, making him sit down upon an\nincome hardly enough to find one in the common necessaries of life. For\nmyself, it is nothing; I never think of myself.\"\n\n\"I know you never do, my dear; and you will always find your reward in\nthe affection it makes everybody feel for you. There never was a young\nwoman so beloved as you are by everybody that knows you; and I dare say\nwhen Mr. Morland sees you, my dear child--but do not let us distress\nour dear Catherine by talking of such things. Mr. Morland has behaved so\nvery handsome, you know. I always heard he was a most excellent man;\nand you know, my dear, we are not to suppose but what, if you had had a\nsuitable fortune, he would have come down with something more, for I am\nsure he must be a most liberal-minded man.\"\n\n\"Nobody can think better of Mr. Morland than I do, I am sure. But\neverybody has their failing, you know, and everybody has a right to\ndo what they like with their own money.\" Catherine was hurt by these\ninsinuations. \"I am very sure,\" said she, \"that my father has promised\nto do as much as he can afford.\"\n\nIsabella recollected herself. \"As to that, my sweet Catherine, there\ncannot be a doubt, and you know me well enough to be sure that a much\nsmaller income would satisfy me. It is not the want of more money that\nmakes me just at present a little out of spirits; I hate money; and if\nour union could take place now upon only fifty pounds a year, I should\nnot have a wish unsatisfied. Ah! my Catherine, you have found me out.\nThere's the sting. The long, long, endless two years and half that are\nto pass before your brother can hold the living.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, my darling Isabella,\" said Mrs. Thorpe, \"we perfectly see\ninto your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly understand the\npresent vexation; and everybody must love you the better for such a\nnoble honest affection.\"\n\nCatherine's uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. She endeavoured to\nbelieve that the delay of the marriage was the only source of Isabella's\nregret; and when she saw her at their next interview as cheerful and\namiable as ever, endeavoured to forget that she had for a minute thought\notherwise. James soon followed his letter, and was received with the\nmost gratifying kindness.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 17\n\n\nThe Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath; and\nwhether it should be the last was for some time a question, to which\nCatherine listened with a beating heart. To have her acquaintance with\nthe Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance.\nHer whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense,\nand everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should\nbe taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight was to\nproduce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney made\nbut a small part of Catherine's speculation. Once or twice indeed, since\nJames's engagement had taught her what could be done, she had got so\nfar as to indulge in a secret \"perhaps,\" but in general the felicity of\nbeing with him for the present bounded her views: the present was now\ncomprised in another three weeks, and her happiness being certain for\nthat period, the rest of her life was at such a distance as to excite\nbut little interest. In the course of the morning which saw this\nbusiness arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured forth her\njoyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No sooner had she\nexpressed her delight in Mr. Allen's lengthened stay than Miss Tilney\ntold her of her father's having just determined upon quitting Bath\nby the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of\nthe morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment.\nCatherine's countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she\nechoed Miss Tilney's concluding words, \"By the end of another week!\"\n\n\"Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I\nthink a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends' arrival\nwhom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a\nhurry to get home.\"\n\n\"I am very sorry for it,\" said Catherine dejectedly; \"if I had known\nthis before--\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, \"you would be so\ngood--it would make me very happy if--\"\n\nThe entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine\nwas beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding.\nAfter addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his\ndaughter and said, \"Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being\nsuccessful in your application to your fair friend?\"\n\n\"I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in.\"\n\n\"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My\ndaughter, Miss Morland,\" he continued, without leaving his daughter time\nto speak, \"has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has\nperhaps told you, on Saturday se'nnight. A letter from my steward tells\nme that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope\nof seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of\nmy very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And\ncould we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a\nsingle regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene\nof public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in\nGloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its\npresumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath\nthan yourself. Modesty such as yours--but not for the world would I pain\nit by open praise. If you can be induced to honour us with a visit,\nyou will make us happy beyond expression. 'Tis true, we can offer you\nnothing like the gaieties of this lively place; we can tempt you neither\nby amusement nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you see, is plain\nand unpretending; yet no endeavours shall be wanting on our side to make\nNorthanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable.\"\n\nNorthanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound up Catherine's\nfeelings to the highest point of ecstasy. Her grateful and gratified\nheart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of\ntolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have her\ncompany so warmly solicited! Everything honourable and soothing, every\npresent enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her\nacceptance, with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma's approbation,\nwas eagerly given. \"I will write home directly,\" said she, \"and if they\ndo not object, as I dare say they will not--\"\n\nGeneral Tilney was not less sanguine, having already waited on her\nexcellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction of\nhis wishes. \"Since they can consent to part with you,\" said he, \"we may\nexpect philosophy from all the world.\"\n\nMiss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary civilities, and\nthe affair became in a few minutes as nearly settled as this necessary\nreference to Fullerton would allow.\n\nThe circumstances of the morning had led Catherine's feelings through\nthe varieties of suspense, security, and disappointment; but they were\nnow safely lodged in perfect bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture,\nwith Henry at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips, she\nhurried home to write her letter. Mr. and Mrs. Morland, relying on\nthe discretion of the friends to whom they had already entrusted their\ndaughter, felt no doubt of the propriety of an acquaintance which had\nbeen formed under their eye, and sent therefore by return of post their\nready consent to her visit in Gloucestershire. This indulgence, though\nnot more than Catherine had hoped for, completed her conviction of being\nfavoured beyond every other human creature, in friends and fortune,\ncircumstance and chance. Everything seemed to cooperate for her\nadvantage. By the kindness of her first friends, the Allens, she had\nbeen introduced into scenes where pleasures of every kind had met her.\nHer feelings, her preferences, had each known the happiness of a return.\nWherever she felt attachment, she had been able to create it. The\naffection of Isabella was to be secured to her in a sister. The Tilneys,\nthey, by whom, above all, she desired to be favourably thought of,\noutstripped even her wishes in the flattering measures by which their\nintimacy was to be continued. She was to be their chosen visitor, she\nwas to be for weeks under the same roof with the person whose society\nshe mostly prized--and, in addition to all the rest, this roof was to\nbe the roof of an abbey! Her passion for ancient edifices was next in\ndegree to her passion for Henry Tilney--and castles and abbeys made\nusually the charm of those reveries which his image did not fill. To see\nand explore either the ramparts and keep of the one, or the cloisters\nof the other, had been for many weeks a darling wish, though to be more\nthan the visitor of an hour had seemed too nearly impossible for desire.\nAnd yet, this was to happen. With all the chances against her of house,\nhall, place, park, court, and cottage, Northanger turned up an abbey,\nand she was to be its inhabitant. Its long, damp passages, its narrow\ncells and ruined chapel, were to be within her daily reach, and she\ncould not entirely subdue the hope of some traditional legends, some\nawful memorials of an injured and ill-fated nun.\n\nIt was wonderful that her friends should seem so little elated by the\npossession of such a home, that the consciousness of it should be so\nmeekly borne. The power of early habit only could account for it. A\ndistinction to which they had been born gave no pride. Their superiority\nof abode was no more to them than their superiority of person.\n\nMany were the inquiries she was eager to make of Miss Tilney; but so\nactive were her thoughts, that when these inquiries were answered, she\nwas hardly more assured than before, of Northanger Abbey having been\na richly endowed convent at the time of the Reformation, of its having\nfallen into the hands of an ancestor of the Tilneys on its dissolution,\nof a large portion of the ancient building still making a part of the\npresent dwelling although the rest was decayed, or of its standing low\nin a valley, sheltered from the north and east by rising woods of oak.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 18\n\n\nWith a mind thus full of happiness, Catherine was hardly aware that two\nor three days had passed away, without her seeing Isabella for more than\na few minutes together. She began first to be sensible of this, and\nto sigh for her conversation, as she walked along the pump-room one\nmorning, by Mrs. Allen's side, without anything to say or to hear; and\nscarcely had she felt a five minutes' longing of friendship, before the\nobject of it appeared, and inviting her to a secret conference, led the\nway to a seat. \"This is my favourite place,\" said she as they sat\ndown on a bench between the doors, which commanded a tolerable view of\neverybody entering at either; \"it is so out of the way.\"\n\nCatherine, observing that Isabella's eyes were continually bent towards\none door or the other, as in eager expectation, and remembering how\noften she had been falsely accused of being arch, thought the present a\nfine opportunity for being really so; and therefore gaily said, \"Do not\nbe uneasy, Isabella, James will soon be here.\"\n\n\"Psha! My dear creature,\" she replied, \"do not think me such a simpleton\nas to be always wanting to confine him to my elbow. It would be hideous\nto be always together; we should be the jest of the place. And so you\nare going to Northanger! I am amazingly glad of it. It is one of the\nfinest old places in England, I understand. I shall depend upon a most\nparticular description of it.\"\n\n\"You shall certainly have the best in my power to give. But who are you\nlooking for? Are your sisters coming?\"\n\n\"I am not looking for anybody. One's eyes must be somewhere, and you\nknow what a foolish trick I have of fixing mine, when my thoughts are an\nhundred miles off. I am amazingly absent; I believe I am the most absent\ncreature in the world. Tilney says it is always the case with minds of a\ncertain stamp.\"\n\n\"But I thought, Isabella, you had something in particular to tell me?\"\n\n\"Oh! Yes, and so I have. But here is a proof of what I was saying. My\npoor head, I had quite forgot it. Well, the thing is this: I have just\nhad a letter from John; you can guess the contents.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I cannot.\"\n\n\"My sweet love, do not be so abominably affected. What can he write\nabout, but yourself? You know he is over head and ears in love with\nyou.\"\n\n\"With me, dear Isabella!\"\n\n\"Nay, my sweetest Catherine, this is being quite absurd! Modesty, and\nall that, is very well in its way, but really a little common honesty is\nsometimes quite as becoming. I have no idea of being so overstrained!\nIt is fishing for compliments. His attentions were such as a child must\nhave noticed. And it was but half an hour before he left Bath that you\ngave him the most positive encouragement. He says so in this letter,\nsays that he as good as made you an offer, and that you received his\nadvances in the kindest way; and now he wants me to urge his suit,\nand say all manner of pretty things to you. So it is in vain to affect\nignorance.\"\n\nCatherine, with all the earnestness of truth, expressed her astonishment\nat such a charge, protesting her innocence of every thought of Mr.\nThorpe's being in love with her, and the consequent impossibility of\nher having ever intended to encourage him. \"As to any attentions on his\nside, I do declare, upon my honour, I never was sensible of them for a\nmoment--except just his asking me to dance the first day of his coming.\nAnd as to making me an offer, or anything like it, there must be some\nunaccountable mistake. I could not have misunderstood a thing of that\nkind, you know! And, as I ever wish to be believed, I solemnly protest\nthat no syllable of such a nature ever passed between us. The last half\nhour before he went away! It must be all and completely a mistake--for I\ndid not see him once that whole morning.\"\n\n\"But that you certainly did, for you spent the whole morning in Edgar's\nBuildings--it was the day your father's consent came--and I am pretty\nsure that you and John were alone in the parlour some time before you\nleft the house.\"\n\n\"Are you? Well, if you say it, it was so, I dare say--but for the life\nof me, I cannot recollect it. I do remember now being with you, and\nseeing him as well as the rest--but that we were ever alone for five\nminutes--However, it is not worth arguing about, for whatever might pass\non his side, you must be convinced, by my having no recollection of it,\nthat I never thought, nor expected, nor wished for anything of the kind\nfrom him. I am excessively concerned that he should have any regard for\nme--but indeed it has been quite unintentional on my side; I never had\nthe smallest idea of it. Pray undeceive him as soon as you can, and tell\nhim I beg his pardon--that is--I do not know what I ought to say--but\nmake him understand what I mean, in the properest way. I would not speak\ndisrespectfully of a brother of yours, Isabella, I am sure; but you know\nvery well that if I could think of one man more than another--he is not\nthe person.\" Isabella was silent. \"My dear friend, you must not be angry\nwith me. I cannot suppose your brother cares so very much about me. And,\nyou know, we shall still be sisters.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes\" (with a blush), \"there are more ways than one of our being\nsisters. But where am I wandering to? Well, my dear Catherine, the case\nseems to be that you are determined against poor John--is not it so?\"\n\n\"I certainly cannot return his affection, and as certainly never meant\nto encourage it.\"\n\n\"Since that is the case, I am sure I shall not tease you any further.\nJohn desired me to speak to you on the subject, and therefore I have.\nBut I confess, as soon as I read his letter, I thought it a very\nfoolish, imprudent business, and not likely to promote the good of\neither; for what were you to live upon, supposing you came together? You\nhave both of you something, to be sure, but it is not a trifle that will\nsupport a family nowadays; and after all that romancers may say, there\nis no doing without money. I only wonder John could think of it; he\ncould not have received my last.\"\n\n\"You do acquit me, then, of anything wrong?--You are convinced that I\nnever meant to deceive your brother, never suspected him of liking me\ntill this moment?\"\n\n\"Oh! As to that,\" answered Isabella laughingly, \"I do not pretend to\ndetermine what your thoughts and designs in time past may have been. All\nthat is best known to yourself. A little harmless flirtation or so will\noccur, and one is often drawn on to give more encouragement than one\nwishes to stand by. But you may be assured that I am the last person in\nthe world to judge you severely. All those things should be allowed for\nin youth and high spirits. What one means one day, you know, one may not\nmean the next. Circumstances change, opinions alter.\"\n\n\"But my opinion of your brother never did alter; it was always the same.\nYou are describing what never happened.\"\n\n\"My dearest Catherine,\" continued the other without at all listening to\nher, \"I would not for all the world be the means of hurrying you into an\nengagement before you knew what you were about. I do not think anything\nwould justify me in wishing you to sacrifice all your happiness merely\nto oblige my brother, because he is my brother, and who perhaps after\nall, you know, might be just as happy without you, for people seldom\nknow what they would be at, young men especially, they are so amazingly\nchangeable and inconstant. What I say is, why should a brother's\nhappiness be dearer to me than a friend's? You know I carry my notions\nof friendship pretty high. But, above all things, my dear Catherine, do\nnot be in a hurry. Take my word for it, that if you are in too great\na hurry, you will certainly live to repent it. Tilney says there is\nnothing people are so often deceived in as the state of their own\naffections, and I believe he is very right. Ah! Here he comes; never\nmind, he will not see us, I am sure.\"\n\nCatherine, looking up, perceived Captain Tilney; and Isabella,\nearnestly fixing her eye on him as she spoke, soon caught his notice. He\napproached immediately, and took the seat to which her movements invited\nhim. His first address made Catherine start. Though spoken low, she\ncould distinguish, \"What! Always to be watched, in person or by proxy!\"\n\n\"Psha, nonsense!\" was Isabella's answer in the same half whisper. \"Why\ndo you put such things into my head? If I could believe it--my spirit,\nyou know, is pretty independent.\"\n\n\"I wish your heart were independent. That would be enough for me.\"\n\n\"My heart, indeed! What can you have to do with hearts? You men have\nnone of you any hearts.\"\n\n\"If we have not hearts, we have eyes; and they give us torment enough.\"\n\n\"Do they? I am sorry for it; I am sorry they find anything so\ndisagreeable in me. I will look another way. I hope this pleases you\"\n(turning her back on him); \"I hope your eyes are not tormented now.\"\n\n\"Never more so; for the edge of a blooming cheek is still in view--at\nonce too much and too little.\"\n\nCatherine heard all this, and quite out of countenance, could listen\nno longer. Amazed that Isabella could endure it, and jealous for her\nbrother, she rose up, and saying she should join Mrs. Allen, proposed\ntheir walking. But for this Isabella showed no inclination. She was so\namazingly tired, and it was so odious to parade about the pump-room;\nand if she moved from her seat she should miss her sisters; she was\nexpecting her sisters every moment; so that her dearest Catherine must\nexcuse her, and must sit quietly down again. But Catherine could be\nstubborn too; and Mrs. Allen just then coming up to propose their\nreturning home, she joined her and walked out of the pump-room, leaving\nIsabella still sitting with Captain Tilney. With much uneasiness did\nshe thus leave them. It seemed to her that Captain Tilney was falling\nin love with Isabella, and Isabella unconsciously encouraging him;\nunconsciously it must be, for Isabella's attachment to James was as\ncertain and well acknowledged as her engagement. To doubt her truth\nor good intentions was impossible; and yet, during the whole of their\nconversation her manner had been odd. She wished Isabella had talked\nmore like her usual self, and not so much about money, and had not\nlooked so well pleased at the sight of Captain Tilney. How strange that\nshe should not perceive his admiration! Catherine longed to give her a\nhint of it, to put her on her guard, and prevent all the pain which\nher too lively behaviour might otherwise create both for him and her\nbrother.\n\nThe compliment of John Thorpe's affection did not make amends for this\nthoughtlessness in his sister. She was almost as far from believing as\nfrom wishing it to be sincere; for she had not forgotten that he\ncould mistake, and his assertion of the offer and of her encouragement\nconvinced her that his mistakes could sometimes be very egregious.\nIn vanity, therefore, she gained but little; her chief profit was in\nwonder. That he should think it worth his while to fancy himself in love\nwith her was a matter of lively astonishment. Isabella talked of his\nattentions; she had never been sensible of any; but Isabella had said\nmany things which she hoped had been spoken in haste, and would never\nbe said again; and upon this she was glad to rest altogether for present\nease and comfort.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 19\n\n\nA few days passed away, and Catherine, though not allowing herself to\nsuspect her friend, could not help watching her closely. The result of\nher observations was not agreeable. Isabella seemed an altered creature.\nWhen she saw her, indeed, surrounded only by their immediate friends\nin Edgar's Buildings or Pulteney Street, her change of manners was so\ntrifling that, had it gone no farther, it might have passed unnoticed.\nA something of languid indifference, or of that boasted absence of\nmind which Catherine had never heard of before, would occasionally come\nacross her; but had nothing worse appeared, that might only have spread\na new grace and inspired a warmer interest. But when Catherine saw her\nin public, admitting Captain Tilney's attentions as readily as they were\noffered, and allowing him almost an equal share with James in her notice\nand smiles, the alteration became too positive to be passed over. What\ncould be meant by such unsteady conduct, what her friend could be at,\nwas beyond her comprehension. Isabella could not be aware of the pain\nshe was inflicting; but it was a degree of wilful thoughtlessness which\nCatherine could not but resent. James was the sufferer. She saw him\ngrave and uneasy; and however careless of his present comfort the woman\nmight be who had given him her heart, to her it was always an object.\nFor poor Captain Tilney too she was greatly concerned. Though his looks\ndid not please her, his name was a passport to her goodwill, and she\nthought with sincere compassion of his approaching disappointment; for,\nin spite of what she had believed herself to overhear in the pump-room,\nhis behaviour was so incompatible with a knowledge of Isabella's\nengagement that she could not, upon reflection, imagine him aware of it.\nHe might be jealous of her brother as a rival, but if more had seemed\nimplied, the fault must have been in her misapprehension. She wished, by\na gentle remonstrance, to remind Isabella of her situation, and make\nher aware of this double unkindness; but for remonstrance, either\nopportunity or comprehension was always against her. If able to suggest\na hint, Isabella could never understand it. In this distress, the\nintended departure of the Tilney family became her chief consolation;\ntheir journey into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days,\nand Captain Tilney's removal would at least restore peace to every heart\nbut his own. But Captain Tilney had at present no intention of removing;\nhe was not to be of the party to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath.\nWhen Catherine knew this, her resolution was directly made. She spoke to\nHenry Tilney on the subject, regretting his brother's evident partiality\nfor Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known her prior engagement.\n\n\"My brother does know it,\" was Henry's answer.\n\n\"Does he? Then why does he stay here?\"\n\nHe made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she\neagerly continued, \"Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer\nhe stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his\nown sake, and for everybody's sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence will\nin time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it\nis only staying to be miserable.\"\n\nHenry smiled and said, \"I am sure my brother would not wish to do that.\"\n\n\"Then you will persuade him to go away?\"\n\n\"Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour\nto persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He\nknows what he is about, and must be his own master.\"\n\n\"No, he does not know what he is about,\" cried Catherine; \"he does not\nknow the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me\nso, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable.\"\n\n\"And are you sure it is my brother's doing?\"\n\n\"Yes, very sure.\"\n\n\"Is it my brother's attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe's\nadmission of them, that gives the pain?\"\n\n\"Is not it the same thing?\"\n\n\"I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended\nby another man's admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only\nwho can make it a torment.\"\n\nCatherine blushed for her friend, and said, \"Isabella is wrong. But I\nam sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my\nbrother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and\nwhile my father's consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into\na fever. You know she must be attached to him.\"\n\n\"I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick.\"\n\n\"Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with\nanother.\"\n\n\"It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so\nwell, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a\nlittle.\"\n\nAfter a short pause, Catherine resumed with, \"Then you do not believe\nIsabella so very much attached to my brother?\"\n\n\"I can have no opinion on that subject.\"\n\n\"But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he\nmean by his behaviour?\"\n\n\"You are a very close questioner.\"\n\n\"Am I? I only ask what I want to be told.\"\n\n\"But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?\"\n\n\"Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother's heart.\"\n\n\"My brother's heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure\nyou I can only guess at.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To\nbe guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before\nyou. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young\nman; he has had about a week's acquaintance with your friend, and he has\nknown her engagement almost as long as he has known her.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Catherine, after some moments' consideration, \"you may be\nable to guess at your brother's intentions from all this; but I am sure\nI cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he\nwant Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to\nhim, he would go.\"\n\n\"My dear Miss Morland,\" said Henry, \"in this amiable solicitude for your\nbrother's comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried\na little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or\nMiss Thorpe's, for supposing that her affection, or at least her good\nbehaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain\nTilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him\nonly when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this--and you may\nbe sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say, 'Do not\nbe uneasy,' because I know that you are so, at this moment; but be as\nlittle uneasy as you can. You have no doubt of the mutual attachment\nof your brother and your friend; depend upon it, therefore, that\nreal jealousy never can exist between them; depend upon it that no\ndisagreement between them can be of any duration. Their hearts are open\nto each other, as neither heart can be to you; they know exactly what\nis required and what can be borne; and you may be certain that one will\nnever tease the other beyond what is known to be pleasant.\"\n\nPerceiving her still to look doubtful and grave, he added, \"Though\nFrederick does not leave Bath with us, he will probably remain but a\nvery short time, perhaps only a few days behind us. His leave of absence\nwill soon expire, and he must return to his regiment. And what will then\nbe their acquaintance? The mess-room will drink Isabella Thorpe for\na fortnight, and she will laugh with your brother over poor Tilney's\npassion for a month.\"\n\nCatherine would contend no longer against comfort. She had resisted its\napproaches during the whole length of a speech, but it now carried her\ncaptive. Henry Tilney must know best. She blamed herself for the extent\nof her fears, and resolved never to think so seriously on the subject\nagain.\n\nHer resolution was supported by Isabella's behaviour in their parting\ninterview. The Thorpes spent the last evening of Catherine's stay in\nPulteney Street, and nothing passed between the lovers to excite\nher uneasiness, or make her quit them in apprehension. James was in\nexcellent spirits, and Isabella most engagingly placid. Her tenderness\nfor her friend seemed rather the first feeling of her heart; but that\nat such a moment was allowable; and once she gave her lover a flat\ncontradiction, and once she drew back her hand; but Catherine remembered\nHenry's instructions, and placed it all to judicious affection. The\nembraces, tears, and promises of the parting fair ones may be fancied.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 20\n\n\nMr. and Mrs. Allen were sorry to lose their young friend, whose good\nhumour and cheerfulness had made her a valuable companion, and in the\npromotion of whose enjoyment their own had been gently increased. Her\nhappiness in going with Miss Tilney, however, prevented their wishing\nit otherwise; and, as they were to remain only one more week in Bath\nthemselves, her quitting them now would not long be felt. Mr. Allen\nattended her to Milsom Street, where she was to breakfast, and saw her\nseated with the kindest welcome among her new friends; but so great was\nher agitation in finding herself as one of the family, and so fearful\nwas she of not doing exactly what was right, and of not being able to\npreserve their good opinion, that, in the embarrassment of the first\nfive minutes, she could almost have wished to return with him to\nPulteney Street.\n\nMiss Tilney's manners and Henry's smile soon did away some of her\nunpleasant feelings; but still she was far from being at ease; nor could\nthe incessant attentions of the general himself entirely reassure her.\nNay, perverse as it seemed, she doubted whether she might not have felt\nless, had she been less attended to. His anxiety for her comfort--his\ncontinual solicitations that she would eat, and his often-expressed\nfears of her seeing nothing to her taste--though never in her life\nbefore had she beheld half such variety on a breakfast-table--made it\nimpossible for her to forget for a moment that she was a visitor. She\nfelt utterly unworthy of such respect, and knew not how to reply to it.\nHer tranquillity was not improved by the general's impatience for the\nappearance of his eldest son, nor by the displeasure he expressed at his\nlaziness when Captain Tilney at last came down. She was quite pained by\nthe severity of his father's reproof, which seemed disproportionate to\nthe offence; and much was her concern increased when she found herself\nthe principal cause of the lecture, and that his tardiness was chiefly\nresented from being disrespectful to her. This was placing her in a\nvery uncomfortable situation, and she felt great compassion for Captain\nTilney, without being able to hope for his goodwill.\n\nHe listened to his father in silence, and attempted not any defence,\nwhich confirmed her in fearing that the inquietude of his mind, on\nIsabella's account, might, by keeping him long sleepless, have been\nthe real cause of his rising late. It was the first time of her being\ndecidedly in his company, and she had hoped to be now able to form\nher opinion of him; but she scarcely heard his voice while his father\nremained in the room; and even afterwards, so much were his spirits\naffected, she could distinguish nothing but these words, in a whisper to\nEleanor, \"How glad I shall be when you are all off.\"\n\nThe bustle of going was not pleasant. The clock struck ten while the\ntrunks were carrying down, and the general had fixed to be out of Milsom\nStreet by that hour. His greatcoat, instead of being brought for him\nto put on directly, was spread out in the curricle in which he was to\naccompany his son. The middle seat of the chaise was not drawn out,\nthough there were three people to go in it, and his daughter's maid had\nso crowded it with parcels that Miss Morland would not have room to sit;\nand, so much was he influenced by this apprehension when he handed her\nin, that she had some difficulty in saving her own new writing-desk from\nbeing thrown out into the street. At last, however, the door was closed\nupon the three females, and they set off at the sober pace in which\nthe handsome, highly fed four horses of a gentleman usually perform a\njourney of thirty miles: such was the distance of Northanger from Bath,\nto be now divided into two equal stages. Catherine's spirits revived as\nthey drove from the door; for with Miss Tilney she felt no restraint;\nand, with the interest of a road entirely new to her, of an abbey\nbefore, and a curricle behind, she caught the last view of Bath without\nany regret, and met with every milestone before she expected it. The\ntediousness of a two hours' wait at Petty France, in which there was\nnothing to be done but to eat without being hungry, and loiter about\nwithout anything to see, next followed--and her admiration of the style\nin which they travelled, of the fashionable chaise and four--postilions\nhandsomely liveried, rising so regularly in their stirrups, and\nnumerous outriders properly mounted, sunk a little under this consequent\ninconvenience. Had their party been perfectly agreeable, the delay would\nhave been nothing; but General Tilney, though so charming a man, seemed\nalways a check upon his children's spirits, and scarcely anything was\nsaid but by himself; the observation of which, with his discontent at\nwhatever the inn afforded, and his angry impatience at the waiters, made\nCatherine grow every moment more in awe of him, and appeared to lengthen\nthe two hours into four. At last, however, the order of release was\ngiven; and much was Catherine then surprised by the general's proposal\nof her taking his place in his son's curricle for the rest of the\njourney: \"the day was fine, and he was anxious for her seeing as much of\nthe country as possible.\"\n\nThe remembrance of Mr. Allen's opinion, respecting young men's open\ncarriages, made her blush at the mention of such a plan, and her first\nthought was to decline it; but her second was of greater deference for\nGeneral Tilney's judgment; he could not propose anything improper for\nher; and, in the course of a few minutes, she found herself with Henry\nin the curricle, as happy a being as ever existed. A very short trial\nconvinced her that a curricle was the prettiest equipage in the world;\nthe chaise and four wheeled off with some grandeur, to be sure, but it\nwas a heavy and troublesome business, and she could not easily forget\nits having stopped two hours at Petty France. Half the time would\nhave been enough for the curricle, and so nimbly were the light horses\ndisposed to move, that, had not the general chosen to have his own\ncarriage lead the way, they could have passed it with ease in half a\nminute. But the merit of the curricle did not all belong to the horses;\nHenry drove so well--so quietly--without making any disturbance,\nwithout parading to her, or swearing at them: so different from the only\ngentleman-coachman whom it was in her power to compare him with! And\nthen his hat sat so well, and the innumerable capes of his greatcoat\nlooked so becomingly important! To be driven by him, next to being\ndancing with him, was certainly the greatest happiness in the world. In\naddition to every other delight, she had now that of listening to her\nown praise; of being thanked at least, on his sister's account, for\nher kindness in thus becoming her visitor; of hearing it ranked as real\nfriendship, and described as creating real gratitude. His sister, he\nsaid, was uncomfortably circumstanced--she had no female companion--and,\nin the frequent absence of her father, was sometimes without any\ncompanion at all.\n\n\"But how can that be?\" said Catherine. \"Are not you with her?\"\n\n\"Northanger is not more than half my home; I have an establishment at\nmy own house in Woodston, which is nearly twenty miles from my father's,\nand some of my time is necessarily spent there.\"\n\n\"How sorry you must be for that!\"\n\n\"I am always sorry to leave Eleanor.\"\n\n\"Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must be so fond of\nthe abbey! After being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary\nparsonage-house must be very disagreeable.\"\n\nHe smiled, and said, \"You have formed a very favourable idea of the\nabbey.\"\n\n\"To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one\nreads about?\"\n\n\"And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such\nas 'what one reads about' may produce? Have you a stout heart? Nerves\nfit for sliding panels and tapestry?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes--I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there\nwould be so many people in the house--and besides, it has never been\nuninhabited and left deserted for years, and then the family come back\nto it unawares, without giving any notice, as generally happens.\"\n\n\"No, certainly. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly\nlighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire--nor be obliged to spread\nour beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture.\nBut you must be aware that when a young lady is (by whatever means)\nintroduced into a dwelling of this kind, she is always lodged apart from\nthe rest of the family. While they snugly repair to their own end of the\nhouse, she is formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper, up\na different staircase, and along many gloomy passages, into an apartment\nnever used since some cousin or kin died in it about twenty years\nbefore. Can you stand such a ceremony as this? Will not your mind\nmisgive you when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber--too lofty and\nextensive for you, with only the feeble rays of a single lamp to take\nin its size--its walls hung with tapestry exhibiting figures as large as\nlife, and the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet, presenting even\na funereal appearance? Will not your heart sink within you?\"\n\n\"Oh! But this will not happen to me, I am sure.\"\n\n\"How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! And\nwhat will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers,\nbut on one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a\nponderous chest which no efforts can open, and over the fireplace\nthe portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features will so\nincomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be able to withdraw your\neyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile, no less struck by your appearance,\ngazes on you in great agitation, and drops a few unintelligible hints.\nTo raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason to suppose that\nthe part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly haunted, and informs\nyou that you will not have a single domestic within call. With this\nparting cordial she curtsies off--you listen to the sound of her\nreceding footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you--and when,\nwith fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover,\nwith increased alarm, that it has no lock.\"\n\n\"Oh! Mr. Tilney, how frightful! This is just like a book! But it cannot\nreally happen to me. I am sure your housekeeper is not really Dorothy.\nWell, what then?\"\n\n\"Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the first night. After\nsurmounting your unconquerable horror of the bed, you will retire to\nrest, and get a few hours' unquiet slumber. But on the second, or at\nfarthest the third night after your arrival, you will probably have a\nviolent storm. Peals of thunder so loud as to seem to shake the edifice\nto its foundation will roll round the neighbouring mountains--and during\nthe frightful gusts of wind which accompany it, you will probably think\nyou discern (for your lamp is not extinguished) one part of the hanging\nmore violently agitated than the rest. Unable of course to repress your\ncuriosity in so favourable a moment for indulging it, you will instantly\narise, and throwing your dressing-gown around you, proceed to examine\nthis mystery. After a very short search, you will discover a division in\nthe tapestry so artfully constructed as to defy the minutest inspection,\nand on opening it, a door will immediately appear--which door, being\nonly secured by massy bars and a padlock, you will, after a few efforts,\nsucceed in opening--and, with your lamp in your hand, will pass through\nit into a small vaulted room.\"\n\n\"No, indeed; I should be too much frightened to do any such thing.\"\n\n\"What! Not when Dorothy has given you to understand that there is a\nsecret subterraneous communication between your apartment and the chapel\nof St. Anthony, scarcely two miles off? Could you shrink from so simple\nan adventure? No, no, you will proceed into this small vaulted room,\nand through this into several others, without perceiving anything very\nremarkable in either. In one perhaps there may be a dagger, in another\na few drops of blood, and in a third the remains of some instrument of\ntorture; but there being nothing in all this out of the common way,\nand your lamp being nearly exhausted, you will return towards your own\napartment. In repassing through the small vaulted room, however, your\neyes will be attracted towards a large, old-fashioned cabinet of ebony\nand gold, which, though narrowly examining the furniture before, you\nhad passed unnoticed. Impelled by an irresistible presentiment, you will\neagerly advance to it, unlock its folding doors, and search into\nevery drawer--but for some time without discovering anything of\nimportance--perhaps nothing but a considerable hoard of diamonds. At\nlast, however, by touching a secret spring, an inner compartment will\nopen--a roll of paper appears--you seize it--it contains many sheets of\nmanuscript--you hasten with the precious treasure into your own chamber,\nbut scarcely have you been able to decipher 'Oh! Thou--whomsoever thou\nmayst be, into whose hands these memoirs of the wretched Matilda may\nfall'--when your lamp suddenly expires in the socket, and leaves you in\ntotal darkness.\"\n\n\"Oh! No, no--do not say so. Well, go on.\"\n\nBut Henry was too much amused by the interest he had raised to be able\nto carry it farther; he could no longer command solemnity either of\nsubject or voice, and was obliged to entreat her to use her own fancy\nin the perusal of Matilda's woes. Catherine, recollecting herself, grew\nashamed of her eagerness, and began earnestly to assure him that her\nattention had been fixed without the smallest apprehension of really\nmeeting with what he related. \"Miss Tilney, she was sure, would never\nput her into such a chamber as he had described! She was not at all\nafraid.\"\n\nAs they drew near the end of their journey, her impatience for a sight\nof the abbey--for some time suspended by his conversation on subjects\nvery different--returned in full force, and every bend in the road was\nexpected with solemn awe to afford a glimpse of its massy walls of grey\nstone, rising amidst a grove of ancient oaks, with the last beams of the\nsun playing in beautiful splendour on its high Gothic windows. But so\nlow did the building stand, that she found herself passing through the\ngreat gates of the lodge into the very grounds of Northanger, without\nhaving discerned even an antique chimney.\n\nShe knew not that she had any right to be surprised, but there was a\nsomething in this mode of approach which she certainly had not expected.\nTo pass between lodges of a modern appearance, to find herself with such\nease in the very precincts of the abbey, and driven so rapidly along a\nsmooth, level road of fine gravel, without obstacle, alarm, or solemnity\nof any kind, struck her as odd and inconsistent. She was not long\nat leisure, however, for such considerations. A sudden scud of rain,\ndriving full in her face, made it impossible for her to observe anything\nfurther, and fixed all her thoughts on the welfare of her new straw\nbonnet; and she was actually under the abbey walls, was springing, with\nHenry's assistance, from the carriage, was beneath the shelter of the\nold porch, and had even passed on to the hall, where her friend and\nthe general were waiting to welcome her, without feeling one awful\nforeboding of future misery to herself, or one moment's suspicion of any\npast scenes of horror being acted within the solemn edifice. The breeze\nhad not seemed to waft the sighs of the murdered to her; it had wafted\nnothing worse than a thick mizzling rain; and having given a good shake\nto her habit, she was ready to be shown into the common drawing-room,\nand capable of considering where she was.\n\nAn abbey! Yes, it was delightful to be really in an abbey! But she\ndoubted, as she looked round the room, whether anything within her\nobservation would have given her the consciousness. The furniture was in\nall the profusion and elegance of modern taste. The fireplace, where she\nhad expected the ample width and ponderous carving of former times, was\ncontracted to a Rumford, with slabs of plain though handsome marble, and\nornaments over it of the prettiest English china. The windows, to which\nshe looked with peculiar dependence, from having heard the general talk\nof his preserving them in their Gothic form with reverential care, were\nyet less what her fancy had portrayed. To be sure, the pointed arch\nwas preserved--the form of them was Gothic--they might be even\ncasements--but every pane was so large, so clear, so light! To an\nimagination which had hoped for the smallest divisions, and the heaviest\nstone-work, for painted glass, dirt, and cobwebs, the difference was\nvery distressing.\n\nThe general, perceiving how her eye was employed, began to talk of the\nsmallness of the room and simplicity of the furniture, where everything,\nbeing for daily use, pretended only to comfort, etc.; flattering\nhimself, however, that there were some apartments in the Abbey not\nunworthy her notice--and was proceeding to mention the costly gilding\nof one in particular, when, taking out his watch, he stopped short to\npronounce it with surprise within twenty minutes of five! This seemed\nthe word of separation, and Catherine found herself hurried away by Miss\nTilney in such a manner as convinced her that the strictest punctuality\nto the family hours would be expected at Northanger.\n\nReturning through the large and lofty hall, they ascended a broad\nstaircase of shining oak, which, after many flights and many\nlanding-places, brought them upon a long, wide gallery. On one side it\nhad a range of doors, and it was lighted on the other by windows which\nCatherine had only time to discover looked into a quadrangle, before\nMiss Tilney led the way into a chamber, and scarcely staying to hope she\nwould find it comfortable, left her with an anxious entreaty that she\nwould make as little alteration as possible in her dress.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 21\n\n\nA moment's glance was enough to satisfy Catherine that her apartment\nwas very unlike the one which Henry had endeavoured to alarm her by the\ndescription of. It was by no means unreasonably large, and contained\nneither tapestry nor velvet. The walls were papered, the floor was\ncarpeted; the windows were neither less perfect nor more dim than those\nof the drawing-room below; the furniture, though not of the latest\nfashion, was handsome and comfortable, and the air of the room\naltogether far from uncheerful. Her heart instantaneously at ease on\nthis point, she resolved to lose no time in particular examination of\nanything, as she greatly dreaded disobliging the general by any delay.\nHer habit therefore was thrown off with all possible haste, and she was\npreparing to unpin the linen package, which the chaise-seat had conveyed\nfor her immediate accommodation, when her eye suddenly fell on a large\nhigh chest, standing back in a deep recess on one side of the fireplace.\nThe sight of it made her start; and, forgetting everything else, she\nstood gazing on it in motionless wonder, while these thoughts crossed\nher:\n\n\"This is strange indeed! I did not expect such a sight as this! An\nimmense heavy chest! What can it hold? Why should it be placed here?\nPushed back too, as if meant to be out of sight! I will look into\nit--cost me what it may, I will look into it--and directly too--by\ndaylight. If I stay till evening my candle may go out.\" She advanced and\nexamined it closely: it was of cedar, curiously inlaid with some darker\nwood, and raised, about a foot from the ground, on a carved stand of the\nsame. The lock was silver, though tarnished from age; at each end\nwere the imperfect remains of handles also of silver, broken perhaps\nprematurely by some strange violence; and, on the centre of the lid, was\na mysterious cipher, in the same metal. Catherine bent over it intently,\nbut without being able to distinguish anything with certainty. She could\nnot, in whatever direction she took it, believe the last letter to be\na T; and yet that it should be anything else in that house was\na circumstance to raise no common degree of astonishment. If not\noriginally theirs, by what strange events could it have fallen into the\nTilney family?\n\nHer fearful curiosity was every moment growing greater; and seizing,\nwith trembling hands, the hasp of the lock, she resolved at all hazards\nto satisfy herself at least as to its contents. With difficulty, for\nsomething seemed to resist her efforts, she raised the lid a few inches;\nbut at that moment a sudden knocking at the door of the room made her,\nstarting, quit her hold, and the lid closed with alarming violence. This\nill-timed intruder was Miss Tilney's maid, sent by her mistress to be of\nuse to Miss Morland; and though Catherine immediately dismissed her, it\nrecalled her to the sense of what she ought to be doing, and forced her,\nin spite of her anxious desire to penetrate this mystery, to proceed in\nher dressing without further delay. Her progress was not quick, for her\nthoughts and her eyes were still bent on the object so well calculated\nto interest and alarm; and though she dared not waste a moment upon\na second attempt, she could not remain many paces from the chest. At\nlength, however, having slipped one arm into her gown, her toilette\nseemed so nearly finished that the impatience of her curiosity might\nsafely be indulged. One moment surely might be spared; and, so desperate\nshould be the exertion of her strength, that, unless secured by\nsupernatural means, the lid in one moment should be thrown back. With\nthis spirit she sprang forward, and her confidence did not deceive her.\nHer resolute effort threw back the lid, and gave to her astonished eyes\nthe view of a white cotton counterpane, properly folded, reposing at one\nend of the chest in undisputed possession!\n\nShe was gazing on it with the first blush of surprise when Miss Tilney,\nanxious for her friend's being ready, entered the room, and to the\nrising shame of having harboured for some minutes an absurd expectation,\nwas then added the shame of being caught in so idle a search. \"That is\na curious old chest, is not it?\" said Miss Tilney, as Catherine hastily\nclosed it and turned away to the glass. \"It is impossible to say how\nmany generations it has been here. How it came to be first put in this\nroom I know not, but I have not had it moved, because I thought it might\nsometimes be of use in holding hats and bonnets. The worst of it is that\nits weight makes it difficult to open. In that corner, however, it is at\nleast out of the way.\"\n\nCatherine had no leisure for speech, being at once blushing, tying her\ngown, and forming wise resolutions with the most violent dispatch. Miss\nTilney gently hinted her fear of being late; and in half a minute they\nran downstairs together, in an alarm not wholly unfounded, for General\nTilney was pacing the drawing-room, his watch in his hand, and having,\non the very instant of their entering, pulled the bell with violence,\nordered \"Dinner to be on table directly!\"\n\nCatherine trembled at the emphasis with which he spoke, and sat pale\nand breathless, in a most humble mood, concerned for his children, and\ndetesting old chests; and the general, recovering his politeness as he\nlooked at her, spent the rest of his time in scolding his daughter for\nso foolishly hurrying her fair friend, who was absolutely out of breath\nfrom haste, when there was not the least occasion for hurry in the\nworld: but Catherine could not at all get over the double distress\nof having involved her friend in a lecture and been a great simpleton\nherself, till they were happily seated at the dinner-table, when the\ngeneral's complacent smiles, and a good appetite of her own, restored\nher to peace. The dining-parlour was a noble room, suitable in its\ndimensions to a much larger drawing-room than the one in common use, and\nfitted up in a style of luxury and expense which was almost lost on the\nunpractised eye of Catherine, who saw little more than its spaciousness\nand the number of their attendants. Of the former, she spoke aloud\nher admiration; and the general, with a very gracious countenance,\nacknowledged that it was by no means an ill-sized room, and further\nconfessed that, though as careless on such subjects as most people, he\ndid look upon a tolerably large eating-room as one of the necessaries\nof life; he supposed, however, \"that she must have been used to much\nbetter-sized apartments at Mr. Allen's?\"\n\n\"No, indeed,\" was Catherine's honest assurance; \"Mr. Allen's\ndining-parlour was not more than half as large,\" and she had never\nseen so large a room as this in her life. The general's good humour\nincreased. Why, as he had such rooms, he thought it would be simple not\nto make use of them; but, upon his honour, he believed there might be\nmore comfort in rooms of only half their size. Mr. Allen's house, he was\nsure, must be exactly of the true size for rational happiness.\n\nThe evening passed without any further disturbance, and, in the\noccasional absence of General Tilney, with much positive cheerfulness.\nIt was only in his presence that Catherine felt the smallest fatigue\nfrom her journey; and even then, even in moments of languor or\nrestraint, a sense of general happiness preponderated, and she could\nthink of her friends in Bath without one wish of being with them.\n\nThe night was stormy; the wind had been rising at intervals the whole\nafternoon; and by the time the party broke up, it blew and rained\nviolently. Catherine, as she crossed the hall, listened to the tempest\nwith sensations of awe; and, when she heard it rage round a corner of\nthe ancient building and close with sudden fury a distant door, felt\nfor the first time that she was really in an abbey. Yes, these were\ncharacteristic sounds; they brought to her recollection a countless\nvariety of dreadful situations and horrid scenes, which such buildings\nhad witnessed, and such storms ushered in; and most heartily did she\nrejoice in the happier circumstances attending her entrance within walls\nso solemn! She had nothing to dread from midnight assassins or drunken\ngallants. Henry had certainly been only in jest in what he had told her\nthat morning. In a house so furnished, and so guarded, she could have\nnothing to explore or to suffer, and might go to her bedroom as securely\nas if it had been her own chamber at Fullerton. Thus wisely fortifying\nher mind, as she proceeded upstairs, she was enabled, especially on\nperceiving that Miss Tilney slept only two doors from her, to enter\nher room with a tolerably stout heart; and her spirits were immediately\nassisted by the cheerful blaze of a wood fire. \"How much better is\nthis,\" said she, as she walked to the fender--\"how much better to find a\nfire ready lit, than to have to wait shivering in the cold till all the\nfamily are in bed, as so many poor girls have been obliged to do, and\nthen to have a faithful old servant frightening one by coming in with a\nfaggot! How glad I am that Northanger is what it is! If it had been like\nsome other places, I do not know that, in such a night as this, I could\nhave answered for my courage: but now, to be sure, there is nothing to\nalarm one.\"\n\nShe looked round the room. The window curtains seemed in motion. It\ncould be nothing but the violence of the wind penetrating through the\ndivisions of the shutters; and she stepped boldly forward, carelessly\nhumming a tune, to assure herself of its being so, peeped courageously\nbehind each curtain, saw nothing on either low window seat to scare her,\nand on placing a hand against the shutter, felt the strongest conviction\nof the wind's force. A glance at the old chest, as she turned away from\nthis examination, was not without its use; she scorned the causeless\nfears of an idle fancy, and began with a most happy indifference to\nprepare herself for bed. \"She should take her time; she should not hurry\nherself; she did not care if she were the last person up in the house.\nBut she would not make up her fire; that would seem cowardly, as if\nshe wished for the protection of light after she were in bed.\" The fire\ntherefore died away, and Catherine, having spent the best part of an\nhour in her arrangements, was beginning to think of stepping into bed,\nwhen, on giving a parting glance round the room, she was struck by the\nappearance of a high, old-fashioned black cabinet, which, though in\na situation conspicuous enough, had never caught her notice before.\nHenry's words, his description of the ebony cabinet which was to escape\nher observation at first, immediately rushed across her; and though\nthere could be nothing really in it, there was something whimsical, it\nwas certainly a very remarkable coincidence! She took her candle and\nlooked closely at the cabinet. It was not absolutely ebony and gold; but\nit was japan, black and yellow japan of the handsomest kind; and as she\nheld her candle, the yellow had very much the effect of gold. The key\nwas in the door, and she had a strange fancy to look into it; not,\nhowever, with the smallest expectation of finding anything, but it was\nso very odd, after what Henry had said. In short, she could not sleep\ntill she had examined it. So, placing the candle with great caution on\na chair, she seized the key with a very tremulous hand and tried to turn\nit; but it resisted her utmost strength. Alarmed, but not discouraged,\nshe tried it another way; a bolt flew, and she believed herself\nsuccessful; but how strangely mysterious! The door was still immovable.\nShe paused a moment in breathless wonder. The wind roared down the\nchimney, the rain beat in torrents against the windows, and everything\nseemed to speak the awfulness of her situation. To retire to bed,\nhowever, unsatisfied on such a point, would be vain, since sleep must be\nimpossible with the consciousness of a cabinet so mysteriously closed\nin her immediate vicinity. Again, therefore, she applied herself to the\nkey, and after moving it in every possible way for some instants with\nthe determined celerity of hope's last effort, the door suddenly yielded\nto her hand: her heart leaped with exultation at such a victory, and\nhaving thrown open each folding door, the second being secured only by\nbolts of less wonderful construction than the lock, though in that her\neye could not discern anything unusual, a double range of small drawers\nappeared in view, with some larger drawers above and below them; and in\nthe centre, a small door, closed also with a lock and key, secured in\nall probability a cavity of importance.\n\nCatherine's heart beat quick, but her courage did not fail her. With a\ncheek flushed by hope, and an eye straining with curiosity, her fingers\ngrasped the handle of a drawer and drew it forth. It was entirely empty.\nWith less alarm and greater eagerness she seized a second, a third, a\nfourth; each was equally empty. Not one was left unsearched, and in not\none was anything found. Well read in the art of concealing a treasure,\nthe possibility of false linings to the drawers did not escape her, and\nshe felt round each with anxious acuteness in vain. The place in the\nmiddle alone remained now unexplored; and though she had \"never from\nthe first had the smallest idea of finding anything in any part of the\ncabinet, and was not in the least disappointed at her ill success thus\nfar, it would be foolish not to examine it thoroughly while she was\nabout it.\" It was some time however before she could unfasten the door,\nthe same difficulty occurring in the management of this inner lock as of\nthe outer; but at length it did open; and not vain, as hitherto, was her\nsearch; her quick eyes directly fell on a roll of paper pushed back\ninto the further part of the cavity, apparently for concealment, and\nher feelings at that moment were indescribable. Her heart fluttered, her\nknees trembled, and her cheeks grew pale. She seized, with an unsteady\nhand, the precious manuscript, for half a glance sufficed to ascertain\nwritten characters; and while she acknowledged with awful sensations\nthis striking exemplification of what Henry had foretold, resolved\ninstantly to peruse every line before she attempted to rest.\n\nThe dimness of the light her candle emitted made her turn to it with\nalarm; but there was no danger of its sudden extinction; it had yet some\nhours to burn; and that she might not have any greater difficulty in\ndistinguishing the writing than what its ancient date might occasion,\nshe hastily snuffed it. Alas! It was snuffed and extinguished in one. A\nlamp could not have expired with more awful effect. Catherine, for a\nfew moments, was motionless with horror. It was done completely; not a\nremnant of light in the wick could give hope to the rekindling breath.\nDarkness impenetrable and immovable filled the room. A violent gust\nof wind, rising with sudden fury, added fresh horror to the moment.\nCatherine trembled from head to foot. In the pause which succeeded, a\nsound like receding footsteps and the closing of a distant door struck\non her affrighted ear. Human nature could support no more. A cold sweat\nstood on her forehead, the manuscript fell from her hand, and groping\nher way to the bed, she jumped hastily in, and sought some suspension of\nagony by creeping far underneath the clothes. To close her eyes in\nsleep that night, she felt must be entirely out of the question. With\na curiosity so justly awakened, and feelings in every way so agitated,\nrepose must be absolutely impossible. The storm too abroad so dreadful!\nShe had not been used to feel alarm from wind, but now every blast\nseemed fraught with awful intelligence. The manuscript so wonderfully\nfound, so wonderfully accomplishing the morning's prediction, how was it\nto be accounted for? What could it contain? To whom could it relate?\nBy what means could it have been so long concealed? And how singularly\nstrange that it should fall to her lot to discover it! Till she had made\nherself mistress of its contents, however, she could have neither repose\nnor comfort; and with the sun's first rays she was determined to peruse\nit. But many were the tedious hours which must yet intervene. She\nshuddered, tossed about in her bed, and envied every quiet sleeper. The\nstorm still raged, and various were the noises, more terrific even\nthan the wind, which struck at intervals on her startled ear. The very\ncurtains of her bed seemed at one moment in motion, and at another\nthe lock of her door was agitated, as if by the attempt of somebody to\nenter. Hollow murmurs seemed to creep along the gallery, and more than\nonce her blood was chilled by the sound of distant moans. Hour after\nhour passed away, and the wearied Catherine had heard three proclaimed\nby all the clocks in the house before the tempest subsided or she\nunknowingly fell fast asleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 22\n\n\nThe housemaid's folding back her window-shutters at eight o'clock the\nnext day was the sound which first roused Catherine; and she opened her\neyes, wondering that they could ever have been closed, on objects of\ncheerfulness; her fire was already burning, and a bright morning\nhad succeeded the tempest of the night. Instantaneously, with the\nconsciousness of existence, returned her recollection of the manuscript;\nand springing from the bed in the very moment of the maid's going away,\nshe eagerly collected every scattered sheet which had burst from the\nroll on its falling to the ground, and flew back to enjoy the luxury\nof their perusal on her pillow. She now plainly saw that she must not\nexpect a manuscript of equal length with the generality of what she had\nshuddered over in books, for the roll, seeming to consist entirely of\nsmall disjointed sheets, was altogether but of trifling size, and much\nless than she had supposed it to be at first.\n\nHer greedy eye glanced rapidly over a page. She started at its import.\nCould it be possible, or did not her senses play her false? An inventory\nof linen, in coarse and modern characters, seemed all that was before\nher! If the evidence of sight might be trusted, she held a washing-bill\nin her hand. She seized another sheet, and saw the same articles with\nlittle variation; a third, a fourth, and a fifth presented nothing\nnew. Shirts, stockings, cravats, and waistcoats faced her in each. Two\nothers, penned by the same hand, marked an expenditure scarcely more\ninteresting, in letters, hair-powder, shoe-string, and breeches-ball.\nAnd the larger sheet, which had enclosed the rest, seemed by its first\ncramp line, \"To poultice chestnut mare\"--a farrier's bill! Such was the\ncollection of papers (left perhaps, as she could then suppose, by the\nnegligence of a servant in the place whence she had taken them) which\nhad filled her with expectation and alarm, and robbed her of half her\nnight's rest! She felt humbled to the dust. Could not the adventure of\nthe chest have taught her wisdom? A corner of it, catching her eye as\nshe lay, seemed to rise up in judgment against her. Nothing could now\nbe clearer than the absurdity of her recent fancies. To suppose that a\nmanuscript of many generations back could have remained undiscovered in\na room such as that, so modern, so habitable!--Or that she should be the\nfirst to possess the skill of unlocking a cabinet, the key of which was\nopen to all!\n\nHow could she have so imposed on herself? Heaven forbid that Henry\nTilney should ever know her folly! And it was in a great measure his\nown doing, for had not the cabinet appeared so exactly to agree with his\ndescription of her adventures, she should never have felt the smallest\ncuriosity about it. This was the only comfort that occurred. Impatient\nto get rid of those hateful evidences of her folly, those detestable\npapers then scattered over the bed, she rose directly, and folding them\nup as nearly as possible in the same shape as before, returned them\nto the same spot within the cabinet, with a very hearty wish that no\nuntoward accident might ever bring them forward again, to disgrace her\neven with herself.\n\nWhy the locks should have been so difficult to open, however, was still\nsomething remarkable, for she could now manage them with perfect ease.\nIn this there was surely something mysterious, and she indulged in the\nflattering suggestion for half a minute, till the possibility of the\ndoor's having been at first unlocked, and of being herself its fastener,\ndarted into her head, and cost her another blush.\n\nShe got away as soon as she could from a room in which her conduct\nproduced such unpleasant reflections, and found her way with all speed\nto the breakfast-parlour, as it had been pointed out to her by Miss\nTilney the evening before. Henry was alone in it; and his immediate hope\nof her having been undisturbed by the tempest, with an arch reference\nto the character of the building they inhabited, was rather distressing.\nFor the world would she not have her weakness suspected, and yet,\nunequal to an absolute falsehood, was constrained to acknowledge that\nthe wind had kept her awake a little. \"But we have a charming morning\nafter it,\" she added, desiring to get rid of the subject; \"and storms\nand sleeplessness are nothing when they are over. What beautiful\nhyacinths! I have just learnt to love a hyacinth.\"\n\n\"And how might you learn? By accident or argument?\"\n\n\"Your sister taught me; I cannot tell how. Mrs. Allen used to take\npains, year after year, to make me like them; but I never could, till\nI saw them the other day in Milsom Street; I am naturally indifferent\nabout flowers.\"\n\n\"But now you love a hyacinth. So much the better. You have gained a new\nsource of enjoyment, and it is well to have as many holds upon happiness\nas possible. Besides, a taste for flowers is always desirable in your\nsex, as a means of getting you out of doors, and tempting you to more\nfrequent exercise than you would otherwise take. And though the love\nof a hyacinth may be rather domestic, who can tell, the sentiment once\nraised, but you may in time come to love a rose?\"\n\n\"But I do not want any such pursuit to get me out of doors. The pleasure\nof walking and breathing fresh air is enough for me, and in fine weather\nI am out more than half my time. Mamma says I am never within.\"\n\n\"At any rate, however, I am pleased that you have learnt to love\na hyacinth. The mere habit of learning to love is the thing; and a\nteachableness of disposition in a young lady is a great blessing. Has my\nsister a pleasant mode of instruction?\"\n\nCatherine was saved the embarrassment of attempting an answer by the\nentrance of the general, whose smiling compliments announced a happy\nstate of mind, but whose gentle hint of sympathetic early rising did not\nadvance her composure.\n\nThe elegance of the breakfast set forced itself on Catherine's notice\nwhen they were seated at table; and, lucidly, it had been the general's\nchoice. He was enchanted by her approbation of his taste, confessed it\nto be neat and simple, thought it right to encourage the manufacture of\nhis country; and for his part, to his uncritical palate, the tea was as\nwell flavoured from the clay of Staffordshire, as from that of Dresden\nor Save. But this was quite an old set, purchased two years ago.\nThe manufacture was much improved since that time; he had seen some\nbeautiful specimens when last in town, and had he not been perfectly\nwithout vanity of that kind, might have been tempted to order a new\nset. He trusted, however, that an opportunity might ere long occur of\nselecting one--though not for himself. Catherine was probably the only\none of the party who did not understand him.\n\nShortly after breakfast Henry left them for Woodston, where business\nrequired and would keep him two or three days. They all attended in\nthe hall to see him mount his horse, and immediately on re-entering the\nbreakfast-room, Catherine walked to a window in the hope of catching\nanother glimpse of his figure. \"This is a somewhat heavy call upon your\nbrother's fortitude,\" observed the general to Eleanor. \"Woodston will\nmake but a sombre appearance today.\"\n\n\"Is it a pretty place?\" asked Catherine.\n\n\"What say you, Eleanor? Speak your opinion, for ladies can best tell the\ntaste of ladies in regard to places as well as men. I think it would be\nacknowledged by the most impartial eye to have many recommendations. The\nhouse stands among fine meadows facing the south-east, with an excellent\nkitchen-garden in the same aspect; the walls surrounding which I built\nand stocked myself about ten years ago, for the benefit of my son. It\nis a family living, Miss Morland; and the property in the place being\nchiefly my own, you may believe I take care that it shall not be a bad\none. Did Henry's income depend solely on this living, he would not be\nill-provided for. Perhaps it may seem odd, that with only two younger\nchildren, I should think any profession necessary for him; and certainly\nthere are moments when we could all wish him disengaged from every tie\nof business. But though I may not exactly make converts of you young\nladies, I am sure your father, Miss Morland, would agree with me in\nthinking it expedient to give every young man some employment. The\nmoney is nothing, it is not an object, but employment is the thing.\nEven Frederick, my eldest son, you see, who will perhaps inherit as\nconsiderable a landed property as any private man in the county, has his\nprofession.\"\n\nThe imposing effect of this last argument was equal to his wishes. The\nsilence of the lady proved it to be unanswerable.\n\nSomething had been said the evening before of her being shown over the\nhouse, and he now offered himself as her conductor; and though Catherine\nhad hoped to explore it accompanied only by his daughter, it was a\nproposal of too much happiness in itself, under any circumstances, not\nto be gladly accepted; for she had been already eighteen hours in the\nabbey, and had seen only a few of its rooms. The netting-box, just\nleisurely drawn forth, was closed with joyful haste, and she was ready\nto attend him in a moment. \"And when they had gone over the house, he\npromised himself moreover the pleasure of accompanying her into the\nshrubberies and garden.\" She curtsied her acquiescence. \"But perhaps\nit might be more agreeable to her to make those her first object.\nThe weather was at present favourable, and at this time of year the\nuncertainty was very great of its continuing so. Which would she prefer?\nHe was equally at her service. Which did his daughter think would most\naccord with her fair friend's wishes? But he thought he could discern.\nYes, he certainly read in Miss Morland's eyes a judicious desire of\nmaking use of the present smiling weather. But when did she judge amiss?\nThe abbey would be always safe and dry. He yielded implicitly, and\nwould fetch his hat and attend them in a moment.\" He left the room,\nand Catherine, with a disappointed, anxious face, began to speak of her\nunwillingness that he should be taking them out of doors against his own\ninclination, under a mistaken idea of pleasing her; but she was stopped\nby Miss Tilney's saying, with a little confusion, \"I believe it will be\nwisest to take the morning while it is so fine; and do not be uneasy on\nmy father's account; he always walks out at this time of day.\"\n\nCatherine did not exactly know how this was to be understood. Why\nwas Miss Tilney embarrassed? Could there be any unwillingness on the\ngeneral's side to show her over the abbey? The proposal was his own. And\nwas not it odd that he should always take his walk so early? Neither her\nfather nor Mr. Allen did so. It was certainly very provoking. She was\nall impatience to see the house, and had scarcely any curiosity about\nthe grounds. If Henry had been with them indeed! But now she should not\nknow what was picturesque when she saw it. Such were her thoughts, but\nshe kept them to herself, and put on her bonnet in patient discontent.\n\nShe was struck, however, beyond her expectation, by the grandeur of\nthe abbey, as she saw it for the first time from the lawn. The whole\nbuilding enclosed a large court; and two sides of the quadrangle, rich\nin Gothic ornaments, stood forward for admiration. The remainder was\nshut off by knolls of old trees, or luxuriant plantations, and the steep\nwoody hills rising behind, to give it shelter, were beautiful even in\nthe leafless month of March. Catherine had seen nothing to compare with\nit; and her feelings of delight were so strong, that without waiting for\nany better authority, she boldly burst forth in wonder and praise. The\ngeneral listened with assenting gratitude; and it seemed as if his own\nestimation of Northanger had waited unfixed till that hour.\n\nThe kitchen-garden was to be next admired, and he led the way to it\nacross a small portion of the park.\n\nThe number of acres contained in this garden was such as Catherine could\nnot listen to without dismay, being more than double the extent of all\nMr. Allen's, as well her father's, including church-yard and orchard.\nThe walls seemed countless in number, endless in length; a village of\nhot-houses seemed to arise among them, and a whole parish to be at\nwork within the enclosure. The general was flattered by her looks of\nsurprise, which told him almost as plainly, as he soon forced her to\ntell him in words, that she had never seen any gardens at all equal to\nthem before; and he then modestly owned that, \"without any ambition of\nthat sort himself--without any solicitude about it--he did believe them\nto be unrivalled in the kingdom. If he had a hobby-horse, it was that.\nHe loved a garden. Though careless enough in most matters of eating, he\nloved good fruit--or if he did not, his friends and children did. There\nwere great vexations, however, attending such a garden as his. The\nutmost care could not always secure the most valuable fruits. The pinery\nhad yielded only one hundred in the last year. Mr. Allen, he supposed,\nmust feel these inconveniences as well as himself.\"\n\n\"No, not at all. Mr. Allen did not care about the garden, and never went\ninto it.\"\n\nWith a triumphant smile of self-satisfaction, the general wished he\ncould do the same, for he never entered his, without being vexed in some\nway or other, by its falling short of his plan.\n\n\"How were Mr. Allen's succession-houses worked?\" describing the nature\nof his own as they entered them.\n\n\"Mr. Allen had only one small hot-house, which Mrs. Allen had the use of\nfor her plants in winter, and there was a fire in it now and then.\"\n\n\"He is a happy man!\" said the general, with a look of very happy\ncontempt.\n\nHaving taken her into every division, and led her under every wall, till\nshe was heartily weary of seeing and wondering, he suffered the girls\nat last to seize the advantage of an outer door, and then expressing\nhis wish to examine the effect of some recent alterations about the\ntea-house, proposed it as no unpleasant extension of their walk, if Miss\nMorland were not tired. \"But where are you going, Eleanor? Why do you\nchoose that cold, damp path to it? Miss Morland will get wet. Our best\nway is across the park.\"\n\n\"This is so favourite a walk of mine,\" said Miss Tilney, \"that I always\nthink it the best and nearest way. But perhaps it may be damp.\"\n\nIt was a narrow winding path through a thick grove of old Scotch firs;\nand Catherine, struck by its gloomy aspect, and eager to enter it,\ncould not, even by the general's disapprobation, be kept from stepping\nforward. He perceived her inclination, and having again urged the plea\nof health in vain, was too polite to make further opposition. He excused\nhimself, however, from attending them: \"The rays of the sun were not too\ncheerful for him, and he would meet them by another course.\" He turned\naway; and Catherine was shocked to find how much her spirits were\nrelieved by the separation. The shock, however, being less real than the\nrelief, offered it no injury; and she began to talk with easy gaiety of\nthe delightful melancholy which such a grove inspired.\n\n\"I am particularly fond of this spot,\" said her companion, with a sigh.\n\"It was my mother's favourite walk.\"\n\nCatherine had never heard Mrs. Tilney mentioned in the family before,\nand the interest excited by this tender remembrance showed itself\ndirectly in her altered countenance, and in the attentive pause with\nwhich she waited for something more.\n\n\"I used to walk here so often with her!\" added Eleanor; \"though I never\nloved it then, as I have loved it since. At that time indeed I used to\nwonder at her choice. But her memory endears it now.\"\n\n\"And ought it not,\" reflected Catherine, \"to endear it to her husband?\nYet the general would not enter it.\" Miss Tilney continuing silent, she\nventured to say, \"Her death must have been a great affliction!\"\n\n\"A great and increasing one,\" replied the other, in a low voice. \"I was\nonly thirteen when it happened; and though I felt my loss perhaps as\nstrongly as one so young could feel it, I did not, I could not, then\nknow what a loss it was.\" She stopped for a moment, and then added, with\ngreat firmness, \"I have no sister, you know--and though Henry--though my\nbrothers are very affectionate, and Henry is a great deal here, which I\nam most thankful for, it is impossible for me not to be often solitary.\"\n\n\"To be sure you must miss him very much.\"\n\n\"A mother would have been always present. A mother would have been a\nconstant friend; her influence would have been beyond all other.\"\n\n\"Was she a very charming woman? Was she handsome? Was there any picture\nof her in the abbey? And why had she been so partial to that grove? Was\nit from dejection of spirits?\"--were questions now eagerly poured forth;\nthe first three received a ready affirmative, the two others were passed\nby; and Catherine's interest in the deceased Mrs. Tilney augmented with\nevery question, whether answered or not. Of her unhappiness in marriage,\nshe felt persuaded. The general certainly had been an unkind husband. He\ndid not love her walk: could he therefore have loved her? And besides,\nhandsome as he was, there was a something in the turn of his features\nwhich spoke his not having behaved well to her.\n\n\"Her picture, I suppose,\" blushing at the consummate art of her own\nquestion, \"hangs in your father's room?\"\n\n\"No; it was intended for the drawing-room; but my father was\ndissatisfied with the painting, and for some time it had no place.\nSoon after her death I obtained it for my own, and hung it in my\nbed-chamber--where I shall be happy to show it you; it is very like.\"\nHere was another proof. A portrait--very like--of a departed wife, not\nvalued by the husband! He must have been dreadfully cruel to her!\n\nCatherine attempted no longer to hide from herself the nature of the\nfeelings which, in spite of all his attentions, he had previously\nexcited; and what had been terror and dislike before, was now absolute\naversion. Yes, aversion! His cruelty to such a charming woman made him\nodious to her. She had often read of such characters, characters which\nMr. Allen had been used to call unnatural and overdrawn; but here was\nproof positive of the contrary.\n\nShe had just settled this point when the end of the path brought them\ndirectly upon the general; and in spite of all her virtuous indignation,\nshe found herself again obliged to walk with him, listen to him, and\neven to smile when he smiled. Being no longer able, however, to receive\npleasure from the surrounding objects, she soon began to walk with\nlassitude; the general perceived it, and with a concern for her health,\nwhich seemed to reproach her for her opinion of him, was most urgent\nfor returning with his daughter to the house. He would follow them in\na quarter of an hour. Again they parted--but Eleanor was called back in\nhalf a minute to receive a strict charge against taking her friend round\nthe abbey till his return. This second instance of his anxiety to delay\nwhat she so much wished for struck Catherine as very remarkable.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 23\n\n\nAn hour passed away before the general came in, spent, on the part of\nhis young guest, in no very favourable consideration of his character.\n\"This lengthened absence, these solitary rambles, did not speak a mind\nat ease, or a conscience void of reproach.\" At length he appeared; and,\nwhatever might have been the gloom of his meditations, he could still\nsmile with them. Miss Tilney, understanding in part her friend's\ncuriosity to see the house, soon revived the subject; and her father\nbeing, contrary to Catherine's expectations, unprovided with any\npretence for further delay, beyond that of stopping five minutes to\norder refreshments to be in the room by their return, was at last ready\nto escort them.\n\nThey set forward; and, with a grandeur of air, a dignified step,\nwhich caught the eye, but could not shake the doubts of the well-read\nCatherine, he led the way across the hall, through the common\ndrawing-room and one useless antechamber, into a room magnificent both\nin size and furniture--the real drawing-room, used only with company of\nconsequence. It was very noble--very grand--very charming!--was all that\nCatherine had to say, for her indiscriminating eye scarcely discerned\nthe colour of the satin; and all minuteness of praise, all praise\nthat had much meaning, was supplied by the general: the costliness or\nelegance of any room's fitting-up could be nothing to her; she cared for\nno furniture of a more modern date than the fifteenth century. When the\ngeneral had satisfied his own curiosity, in a close examination of every\nwell-known ornament, they proceeded into the library, an apartment, in\nits way, of equal magnificence, exhibiting a collection of books, on\nwhich an humble man might have looked with pride. Catherine heard,\nadmired, and wondered with more genuine feeling than before--gathered\nall that she could from this storehouse of knowledge, by running over\nthe titles of half a shelf, and was ready to proceed. But suites of\napartments did not spring up with her wishes. Large as was the building,\nshe had already visited the greatest part; though, on being told that,\nwith the addition of the kitchen, the six or seven rooms she had now\nseen surrounded three sides of the court, she could scarcely believe it,\nor overcome the suspicion of there being many chambers secreted. It was\nsome relief, however, that they were to return to the rooms in common\nuse, by passing through a few of less importance, looking into the\ncourt, which, with occasional passages, not wholly unintricate,\nconnected the different sides; and she was further soothed in her\nprogress by being told that she was treading what had once been a\ncloister, having traces of cells pointed out, and observing several\ndoors that were neither opened nor explained to her--by finding herself\nsuccessively in a billiard-room, and in the general's private apartment,\nwithout comprehending their connection, or being able to turn aright\nwhen she left them; and lastly, by passing through a dark little room,\nowning Henry's authority, and strewed with his litter of books, guns,\nand greatcoats.\n\nFrom the dining-room, of which, though already seen, and always to be\nseen at five o'clock, the general could not forgo the pleasure of pacing\nout the length, for the more certain information of Miss Morland, as\nto what she neither doubted nor cared for, they proceeded by quick\ncommunication to the kitchen--the ancient kitchen of the convent, rich\nin the massy walls and smoke of former days, and in the stoves and hot\nclosets of the present. The general's improving hand had not loitered\nhere: every modern invention to facilitate the labour of the cooks had\nbeen adopted within this, their spacious theatre; and, when the genius\nof others had failed, his own had often produced the perfection wanted.\nHis endowments of this spot alone might at any time have placed him high\namong the benefactors of the convent.\n\nWith the walls of the kitchen ended all the antiquity of the abbey; the\nfourth side of the quadrangle having, on account of its decaying state,\nbeen removed by the general's father, and the present erected in its\nplace. All that was venerable ceased here. The new building was not\nonly new, but declared itself to be so; intended only for offices, and\nenclosed behind by stable-yards, no uniformity of architecture had been\nthought necessary. Catherine could have raved at the hand which had\nswept away what must have been beyond the value of all the rest, for the\npurposes of mere domestic economy; and would willingly have been spared\nthe mortification of a walk through scenes so fallen, had the general\nallowed it; but if he had a vanity, it was in the arrangement of his\noffices; and as he was convinced that, to a mind like Miss Morland's,\na view of the accommodations and comforts, by which the labours of her\ninferiors were softened, must always be gratifying, he should make\nno apology for leading her on. They took a slight survey of all; and\nCatherine was impressed, beyond her expectation, by their multiplicity\nand their convenience. The purposes for which a few shapeless pantries\nand a comfortless scullery were deemed sufficient at Fullerton, were\nhere carried on in appropriate divisions, commodious and roomy. The\nnumber of servants continually appearing did not strike her less than\nthe number of their offices. Wherever they went, some pattened girl\nstopped to curtsy, or some footman in dishabille sneaked off. Yet this\nwas an abbey! How inexpressibly different in these domestic arrangements\nfrom such as she had read about--from abbeys and castles, in which,\nthough certainly larger than Northanger, all the dirty work of the house\nwas to be done by two pair of female hands at the utmost. How they could\nget through it all had often amazed Mrs. Allen; and, when Catherine saw\nwhat was necessary here, she began to be amazed herself.\n\nThey returned to the hall, that the chief staircase might be ascended,\nand the beauty of its wood, and ornaments of rich carving might be\npointed out: having gained the top, they turned in an opposite direction\nfrom the gallery in which her room lay, and shortly entered one on\nthe same plan, but superior in length and breadth. She was here shown\nsuccessively into three large bed-chambers, with their dressing-rooms,\nmost completely and handsomely fitted up; everything that money and\ntaste could do, to give comfort and elegance to apartments, had been\nbestowed on these; and, being furnished within the last five years, they\nwere perfect in all that would be generally pleasing, and wanting in all\nthat could give pleasure to Catherine. As they were surveying the last,\nthe general, after slightly naming a few of the distinguished characters\nby whom they had at times been honoured, turned with a smiling\ncountenance to Catherine, and ventured to hope that henceforward some of\ntheir earliest tenants might be \"our friends from Fullerton.\" She felt\nthe unexpected compliment, and deeply regretted the impossibility of\nthinking well of a man so kindly disposed towards herself, and so full\nof civility to all her family.\n\nThe gallery was terminated by folding doors, which Miss Tilney,\nadvancing, had thrown open, and passed through, and seemed on the point\nof doing the same by the first door to the left, in another long reach\nof gallery, when the general, coming forwards, called her hastily, and,\nas Catherine thought, rather angrily back, demanding whether she were\ngoing?--And what was there more to be seen?--Had not Miss Morland\nalready seen all that could be worth her notice?--And did she not\nsuppose her friend might be glad of some refreshment after so much\nexercise? Miss Tilney drew back directly, and the heavy doors were\nclosed upon the mortified Catherine, who, having seen, in a momentary\nglance beyond them, a narrower passage, more numerous openings, and\nsymptoms of a winding staircase, believed herself at last within the\nreach of something worth her notice; and felt, as she unwillingly paced\nback the gallery, that she would rather be allowed to examine that end\nof the house than see all the finery of all the rest. The general's\nevident desire of preventing such an examination was an additional\nstimulant. Something was certainly to be concealed; her fancy, though\nit had trespassed lately once or twice, could not mislead her here;\nand what that something was, a short sentence of Miss Tilney's, as they\nfollowed the general at some distance downstairs, seemed to point out:\n\"I was going to take you into what was my mother's room--the room\nin which she died--\" were all her words; but few as they were, they\nconveyed pages of intelligence to Catherine. It was no wonder that the\ngeneral should shrink from the sight of such objects as that room\nmust contain; a room in all probability never entered by him since the\ndreadful scene had passed, which released his suffering wife, and left\nhim to the stings of conscience.\n\nShe ventured, when next alone with Eleanor, to express her wish of being\npermitted to see it, as well as all the rest of that side of the house;\nand Eleanor promised to attend her there, whenever they should have a\nconvenient hour. Catherine understood her: the general must be watched\nfrom home, before that room could be entered. \"It remains as it was, I\nsuppose?\" said she, in a tone of feeling.\n\n\"Yes, entirely.\"\n\n\"And how long ago may it be that your mother died?\"\n\n\"She has been dead these nine years.\" And nine years, Catherine knew,\nwas a trifle of time, compared with what generally elapsed after the\ndeath of an injured wife, before her room was put to rights.\n\n\"You were with her, I suppose, to the last?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Miss Tilney, sighing; \"I was unfortunately from home. Her\nillness was sudden and short; and, before I arrived it was all over.\"\n\nCatherine's blood ran cold with the horrid suggestions which naturally\nsprang from these words. Could it be possible? Could Henry's father--?\nAnd yet how many were the examples to justify even the blackest\nsuspicions! And, when she saw him in the evening, while she worked\nwith her friend, slowly pacing the drawing-room for an hour together in\nsilent thoughtfulness, with downcast eyes and contracted brow, she felt\nsecure from all possibility of wronging him. It was the air and attitude\nof a Montoni! What could more plainly speak the gloomy workings of a\nmind not wholly dead to every sense of humanity, in its fearful review\nof past scenes of guilt? Unhappy man! And the anxiousness of her spirits\ndirected her eyes towards his figure so repeatedly, as to catch Miss\nTilney's notice. \"My father,\" she whispered, \"often walks about the room\nin this way; it is nothing unusual.\"\n\n\"So much the worse!\" thought Catherine; such ill-timed exercise was of a\npiece with the strange unseasonableness of his morning walks, and boded\nnothing good.\n\nAfter an evening, the little variety and seeming length of which made\nher peculiarly sensible of Henry's importance among them, she was\nheartily glad to be dismissed; though it was a look from the general not\ndesigned for her observation which sent his daughter to the bell.\nWhen the butler would have lit his master's candle, however, he was\nforbidden. The latter was not going to retire. \"I have many pamphlets to\nfinish,\" said he to Catherine, \"before I can close my eyes, and perhaps\nmay be poring over the affairs of the nation for hours after you are\nasleep. Can either of us be more meetly employed? My eyes will be\nblinding for the good of others, and yours preparing by rest for future\nmischief.\"\n\nBut neither the business alleged, nor the magnificent compliment,\ncould win Catherine from thinking that some very different object must\noccasion so serious a delay of proper repose. To be kept up for hours,\nafter the family were in bed, by stupid pamphlets was not very likely.\nThere must be some deeper cause: something was to be done which could\nbe done only while the household slept; and the probability that Mrs.\nTilney yet lived, shut up for causes unknown, and receiving from the\npitiless hands of her husband a nightly supply of coarse food, was the\nconclusion which necessarily followed. Shocking as was the idea, it\nwas at least better than a death unfairly hastened, as, in the natural\ncourse of things, she must ere long be released. The suddenness of her\nreputed illness, the absence of her daughter, and probably of her other\nchildren, at the time--all favoured the supposition of her imprisonment.\nIts origin--jealousy perhaps, or wanton cruelty--was yet to be\nunravelled.\n\nIn revolving these matters, while she undressed, it suddenly struck her\nas not unlikely that she might that morning have passed near the very\nspot of this unfortunate woman's confinement--might have been within\na few paces of the cell in which she languished out her days; for what\npart of the abbey could be more fitted for the purpose than that which\nyet bore the traces of monastic division? In the high-arched passage,\npaved with stone, which already she had trodden with peculiar awe, she\nwell remembered the doors of which the general had given no account. To\nwhat might not those doors lead? In support of the plausibility of this\nconjecture, it further occurred to her that the forbidden gallery, in\nwhich lay the apartments of the unfortunate Mrs. Tilney, must be, as\ncertainly as her memory could guide her, exactly over this suspected\nrange of cells, and the staircase by the side of those apartments of\nwhich she had caught a transient glimpse, communicating by some\nsecret means with those cells, might well have favoured the barbarous\nproceedings of her husband. Down that staircase she had perhaps been\nconveyed in a state of well-prepared insensibility!\n\nCatherine sometimes started at the boldness of her own surmises, and\nsometimes hoped or feared that she had gone too far; but they were\nsupported by such appearances as made their dismissal impossible.\n\nThe side of the quadrangle, in which she supposed the guilty scene to be\nacting, being, according to her belief, just opposite her own, it struck\nher that, if judiciously watched, some rays of light from the general's\nlamp might glimmer through the lower windows, as he passed to the prison\nof his wife; and, twice before she stepped into bed, she stole gently\nfrom her room to the corresponding window in the gallery, to see if it\nappeared; but all abroad was dark, and it must yet be too early. The\nvarious ascending noises convinced her that the servants must still be\nup. Till midnight, she supposed it would be in vain to watch; but then,\nwhen the clock had struck twelve, and all was quiet, she would, if not\nquite appalled by darkness, steal out and look once more. The clock\nstruck twelve--and Catherine had been half an hour asleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 24\n\n\nThe next day afforded no opportunity for the proposed examination of the\nmysterious apartments. It was Sunday, and the whole time between morning\nand afternoon service was required by the general in exercise abroad or\neating cold meat at home; and great as was Catherine's curiosity, her\ncourage was not equal to a wish of exploring them after dinner, either\nby the fading light of the sky between six and seven o'clock, or by the\nyet more partial though stronger illumination of a treacherous lamp.\nThe day was unmarked therefore by anything to interest her imagination\nbeyond the sight of a very elegant monument to the memory of Mrs.\nTilney, which immediately fronted the family pew. By that her eye\nwas instantly caught and long retained; and the perusal of the highly\nstrained epitaph, in which every virtue was ascribed to her by the\ninconsolable husband, who must have been in some way or other her\ndestroyer, affected her even to tears.\n\nThat the general, having erected such a monument, should be able to face\nit, was not perhaps very strange, and yet that he could sit so boldly\ncollected within its view, maintain so elevated an air, look so\nfearlessly around, nay, that he should even enter the church, seemed\nwonderful to Catherine. Not, however, that many instances of beings\nequally hardened in guilt might not be produced. She could remember\ndozens who had persevered in every possible vice, going on from crime to\ncrime, murdering whomsoever they chose, without any feeling of humanity\nor remorse; till a violent death or a religious retirement closed their\nblack career. The erection of the monument itself could not in the\nsmallest degree affect her doubts of Mrs. Tilney's actual decease. Were\nshe even to descend into the family vault where her ashes were supposed\nto slumber, were she to behold the coffin in which they were said to\nbe enclosed--what could it avail in such a case? Catherine had read too\nmuch not to be perfectly aware of the ease with which a waxen figure\nmight be introduced, and a supposititious funeral carried on.\n\nThe succeeding morning promised something better. The general's early\nwalk, ill-timed as it was in every other view, was favourable here; and\nwhen she knew him to be out of the house, she directly proposed to Miss\nTilney the accomplishment of her promise. Eleanor was ready to oblige\nher; and Catherine reminding her as they went of another promise, their\nfirst visit in consequence was to the portrait in her bed-chamber. It\nrepresented a very lovely woman, with a mild and pensive countenance,\njustifying, so far, the expectations of its new observer; but they were\nnot in every respect answered, for Catherine had depended upon meeting\nwith features, hair, complexion, that should be the very counterpart,\nthe very image, if not of Henry's, of Eleanor's--the only portraits of\nwhich she had been in the habit of thinking, bearing always an equal\nresemblance of mother and child. A face once taken was taken for\ngenerations. But here she was obliged to look and consider and study\nfor a likeness. She contemplated it, however, in spite of this drawback,\nwith much emotion, and, but for a yet stronger interest, would have left\nit unwillingly.\n\nHer agitation as they entered the great gallery was too much for any\nendeavour at discourse; she could only look at her companion. Eleanor's\ncountenance was dejected, yet sedate; and its composure spoke her inured\nto all the gloomy objects to which they were advancing. Again she passed\nthrough the folding doors, again her hand was upon the important lock,\nand Catherine, hardly able to breathe, was turning to close the former\nwith fearful caution, when the figure, the dreaded figure of the general\nhimself at the further end of the gallery, stood before her! The name of\n\"Eleanor\" at the same moment, in his loudest tone, resounded through the\nbuilding, giving to his daughter the first intimation of his presence,\nand to Catherine terror upon terror. An attempt at concealment had been\nher first instinctive movement on perceiving him, yet she could\nscarcely hope to have escaped his eye; and when her friend, who with an\napologizing look darted hastily by her, had joined and disappeared\nwith him, she ran for safety to her own room, and, locking herself\nin, believed that she should never have courage to go down again. She\nremained there at least an hour, in the greatest agitation, deeply\ncommiserating the state of her poor friend, and expecting a summons\nherself from the angry general to attend him in his own apartment. No\nsummons, however, arrived; and at last, on seeing a carriage drive up\nto the abbey, she was emboldened to descend and meet him under the\nprotection of visitors. The breakfast-room was gay with company; and\nshe was named to them by the general as the friend of his daughter, in\na complimentary style, which so well concealed his resentful ire, as to\nmake her feel secure at least of life for the present. And Eleanor,\nwith a command of countenance which did honour to her concern for his\ncharacter, taking an early occasion of saying to her, \"My father only\nwanted me to answer a note,\" she began to hope that she had either been\nunseen by the general, or that from some consideration of policy she\nshould be allowed to suppose herself so. Upon this trust she dared still\nto remain in his presence, after the company left them, and nothing\noccurred to disturb it.\n\nIn the course of this morning's reflections, she came to a resolution\nof making her next attempt on the forbidden door alone. It would be much\nbetter in every respect that Eleanor should know nothing of the matter.\nTo involve her in the danger of a second detection, to court her into\nan apartment which must wring her heart, could not be the office of a\nfriend. The general's utmost anger could not be to herself what it might\nbe to a daughter; and, besides, she thought the examination itself\nwould be more satisfactory if made without any companion. It would be\nimpossible to explain to Eleanor the suspicions, from which the other\nhad, in all likelihood, been hitherto happily exempt; nor could she\ntherefore, in her presence, search for those proofs of the general's\ncruelty, which however they might yet have escaped discovery, she felt\nconfident of somewhere drawing forth, in the shape of some fragmented\njournal, continued to the last gasp. Of the way to the apartment she was\nnow perfectly mistress; and as she wished to get it over before Henry's\nreturn, who was expected on the morrow, there was no time to be lost.\nThe day was bright, her courage high; at four o'clock, the sun was now\ntwo hours above the horizon, and it would be only her retiring to dress\nhalf an hour earlier than usual.\n\nIt was done; and Catherine found herself alone in the gallery before the\nclocks had ceased to strike. It was no time for thought; she hurried\non, slipped with the least possible noise through the folding doors,\nand without stopping to look or breathe, rushed forward to the one in\nquestion. The lock yielded to her hand, and, luckily, with no sullen\nsound that could alarm a human being. On tiptoe she entered; the room\nwas before her; but it was some minutes before she could advance another\nstep. She beheld what fixed her to the spot and agitated every feature.\nShe saw a large, well-proportioned apartment, an handsome dimity bed,\narranged as unoccupied with an housemaid's care, a bright Bath stove,\nmahogany wardrobes, and neatly painted chairs, on which the warm beams\nof a western sun gaily poured through two sash windows! Catherine had\nexpected to have her feelings worked, and worked they were. Astonishment\nand doubt first seized them; and a shortly succeeding ray of common\nsense added some bitter emotions of shame. She could not be mistaken\nas to the room; but how grossly mistaken in everything else!--in Miss\nTilney's meaning, in her own calculation! This apartment, to which she\nhad given a date so ancient, a position so awful, proved to be one end\nof what the general's father had built. There were two other doors in\nthe chamber, leading probably into dressing-closets; but she had no\ninclination to open either. Would the veil in which Mrs. Tilney had last\nwalked, or the volume in which she had last read, remain to tell what\nnothing else was allowed to whisper? No: whatever might have been the\ngeneral's crimes, he had certainly too much wit to let them sue for\ndetection. She was sick of exploring, and desired but to be safe in her\nown room, with her own heart only privy to its folly; and she was on\nthe point of retreating as softly as she had entered, when the sound of\nfootsteps, she could hardly tell where, made her pause and tremble.\nTo be found there, even by a servant, would be unpleasant; but by the\ngeneral (and he seemed always at hand when least wanted), much worse!\nShe listened--the sound had ceased; and resolving not to lose a\nmoment, she passed through and closed the door. At that instant a door\nunderneath was hastily opened; someone seemed with swift steps to ascend\nthe stairs, by the head of which she had yet to pass before she could\ngain the gallery. She had no power to move. With a feeling of terror\nnot very definable, she fixed her eyes on the staircase, and in a few\nmoments it gave Henry to her view. \"Mr. Tilney!\" she exclaimed in a\nvoice of more than common astonishment. He looked astonished too. \"Good\nGod!\" she continued, not attending to his address. \"How came you here?\nHow came you up that staircase?\"\n\n\"How came I up that staircase!\" he replied, greatly surprised. \"Because\nit is my nearest way from the stable-yard to my own chamber; and why\nshould I not come up it?\"\n\nCatherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and could say no more. He\nseemed to be looking in her countenance for that explanation which her\nlips did not afford. She moved on towards the gallery. \"And may I not,\nin my turn,\" said he, as he pushed back the folding doors, \"ask how you\ncame here? This passage is at least as extraordinary a road from the\nbreakfast-parlour to your apartment, as that staircase can be from the\nstables to mine.\"\n\n\"I have been,\" said Catherine, looking down, \"to see your mother's\nroom.\"\n\n\"My mother's room! Is there anything extraordinary to be seen there?\"\n\n\"No, nothing at all. I thought you did not mean to come back till\ntomorrow.\"\n\n\"I did not expect to be able to return sooner, when I went away; but\nthree hours ago I had the pleasure of finding nothing to detain me. You\nlook pale. I am afraid I alarmed you by running so fast up those stairs.\nPerhaps you did not know--you were not aware of their leading from the\noffices in common use?\"\n\n\"No, I was not. You have had a very fine day for your ride.\"\n\n\"Very; and does Eleanor leave you to find your way into all the rooms in\nthe house by yourself?\"\n\n\"Oh! No; she showed me over the greatest part on Saturday--and we were\ncoming here to these rooms--but only\"--dropping her voice--\"your father\nwas with us.\"\n\n\"And that prevented you,\" said Henry, earnestly regarding her. \"Have you\nlooked into all the rooms in that passage?\"\n\n\"No, I only wanted to see--Is not it very late? I must go and dress.\"\n\n\"It is only a quarter past four\" showing his watch--\"and you are not now\nin Bath. No theatre, no rooms to prepare for. Half an hour at Northanger\nmust be enough.\"\n\nShe could not contradict it, and therefore suffered herself to be\ndetained, though her dread of further questions made her, for the first\ntime in their acquaintance, wish to leave him. They walked slowly up the\ngallery. \"Have you had any letter from Bath since I saw you?\"\n\n\"No, and I am very much surprised. Isabella promised so faithfully to\nwrite directly.\"\n\n\"Promised so faithfully! A faithful promise! That puzzles me. I have\nheard of a faithful performance. But a faithful promise--the fidelity\nof promising! It is a power little worth knowing, however, since it can\ndeceive and pain you. My mother's room is very commodious, is it not?\nLarge and cheerful-looking, and the dressing-closets so well disposed!\nIt always strikes me as the most comfortable apartment in the house, and\nI rather wonder that Eleanor should not take it for her own. She sent\nyou to look at it, I suppose?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"It has been your own doing entirely?\" Catherine said nothing. After a\nshort silence, during which he had closely observed her, he added, \"As\nthere is nothing in the room in itself to raise curiosity, this must\nhave proceeded from a sentiment of respect for my mother's character,\nas described by Eleanor, which does honour to her memory. The world, I\nbelieve, never saw a better woman. But it is not often that virtue can\nboast an interest such as this. The domestic, unpretending merits of a\nperson never known do not often create that kind of fervent, venerating\ntenderness which would prompt a visit like yours. Eleanor, I suppose,\nhas talked of her a great deal?\"\n\n\"Yes, a great deal. That is--no, not much, but what she did say was very\ninteresting. Her dying so suddenly\" (slowly, and with hesitation it\nwas spoken), \"and you--none of you being at home--and your father, I\nthought--perhaps had not been very fond of her.\"\n\n\"And from these circumstances,\" he replied (his quick eye\nfixed on hers), \"you infer perhaps the probability of some\nnegligence--some\"--(involuntarily she shook her head)--\"or it may be--of\nsomething still less pardonable.\" She raised her eyes towards him\nmore fully than she had ever done before. \"My mother's illness,\" he\ncontinued, \"the seizure which ended in her death, was sudden. The malady\nitself, one from which she had often suffered, a bilious fever--its\ncause therefore constitutional. On the third day, in short, as soon as\nshe could be prevailed on, a physician attended her, a very respectable\nman, and one in whom she had always placed great confidence. Upon his\nopinion of her danger, two others were called in the next day, and\nremained in almost constant attendance for four and twenty hours. On the\nfifth day she died. During the progress of her disorder, Frederick and I\n(we were both at home) saw her repeatedly; and from our own observation\ncan bear witness to her having received every possible attention\nwhich could spring from the affection of those about her, or which her\nsituation in life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and at such a\ndistance as to return only to see her mother in her coffin.\"\n\n\"But your father,\" said Catherine, \"was he afflicted?\"\n\n\"For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attached\nto her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for him\nto--we have not all, you know, the same tenderness of disposition--and\nI will not pretend to say that while she lived, she might not often have\nhad much to bear, but though his temper injured her, his judgment never\ndid. His value of her was sincere; and, if not permanently, he was truly\nafflicted by her death.\"\n\n\"I am very glad of it,\" said Catherine; \"it would have been very\nshocking!\"\n\n\"If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as\nI have hardly words to--Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature\nof the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from?\nRemember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are\nEnglish, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding, your\nown sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing\naround you. Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our\nlaws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, in\na country like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a\nfooting, where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary\nspies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Miss\nMorland, what ideas have you been admitting?\"\n\nThey had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame she ran\noff to her own room.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 25\n\n\nThe visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened.\nHenry's address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened her\neyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their several\ndisappointments had done. Most grievously was she humbled. Most bitterly\ndid she cry. It was not only with herself that she was sunk--but with\nHenry. Her folly, which now seemed even criminal, was all exposed to\nhim, and he must despise her forever. The liberty which her imagination\nhad dared to take with the character of his father--could he ever\nforgive it? The absurdity of her curiosity and her fears--could they\never be forgotten? She hated herself more than she could express. He\nhad--she thought he had, once or twice before this fatal morning, shown\nsomething like affection for her. But now--in short, she made herself as\nmiserable as possible for about half an hour, went down when the\nclock struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give an\nintelligible answer to Eleanor's inquiry if she was well. The formidable\nHenry soon followed her into the room, and the only difference in his\nbehaviour to her was that he paid her rather more attention than usual.\nCatherine had never wanted comfort more, and he looked as if he was\naware of it.\n\nThe evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing politeness; and\nher spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquillity. She did not\nlearn either to forget or defend the past; but she learned to hope that\nit would never transpire farther, and that it might not cost her Henry's\nentire regard. Her thoughts being still chiefly fixed on what she had\nwith such causeless terror felt and done, nothing could shortly be\nclearer than that it had been all a voluntary, self-created delusion,\neach trifling circumstance receiving importance from an imagination\nresolved on alarm, and everything forced to bend to one purpose by\na mind which, before she entered the abbey, had been craving to be\nfrightened. She remembered with what feelings she had prepared for a\nknowledge of Northanger. She saw that the infatuation had been created,\nthe mischief settled, long before her quitting Bath, and it seemed as if\nthe whole might be traced to the influence of that sort of reading which\nshe had there indulged.\n\nCharming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and charming even as were\nthe works of all her imitators, it was not in them perhaps that human\nnature, at least in the Midland counties of England, was to be looked\nfor. Of the Alps and Pyrenees, with their pine forests and their vices,\nthey might give a faithful delineation; and Italy, Switzerland, and\nthe south of France might be as fruitful in horrors as they were there\nrepresented. Catherine dared not doubt beyond her own country, and even\nof that, if hard pressed, would have yielded the northern and western\nextremities. But in the central part of England there was surely some\nsecurity for the existence even of a wife not beloved, in the laws of\nthe land, and the manners of the age. Murder was not tolerated, servants\nwere not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping potions to be procured,\nlike rhubarb, from every druggist. Among the Alps and Pyrenees, perhaps,\nthere were no mixed characters. There, such as were not as spotless as\nan angel might have the dispositions of a fiend. But in England it was\nnot so; among the English, she believed, in their hearts and habits,\nthere was a general though unequal mixture of good and bad. Upon this\nconviction, she would not be surprised if even in Henry and Eleanor\nTilney, some slight imperfection might hereafter appear; and upon this\nconviction she need not fear to acknowledge some actual specks in\nthe character of their father, who, though cleared from the grossly\ninjurious suspicions which she must ever blush to have entertained, she\ndid believe, upon serious consideration, to be not perfectly amiable.\n\nHer mind made up on these several points, and her resolution formed, of\nalways judging and acting in future with the greatest good sense, she\nhad nothing to do but to forgive herself and be happier than ever; and\nthe lenient hand of time did much for her by insensible gradations in\nthe course of another day. Henry's astonishing generosity and nobleness\nof conduct, in never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed,\nwas of the greatest assistance to her; and sooner than she could have\nsupposed it possible in the beginning of her distress, her spirits\nbecame absolutely comfortable, and capable, as heretofore, of continual\nimprovement by anything he said. There were still some subjects, indeed,\nunder which she believed they must always tremble--the mention of a\nchest or a cabinet, for instance--and she did not love the sight of\njapan in any shape: but even she could allow that an occasional memento\nof past folly, however painful, might not be without use.\n\nThe anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to the alarms of\nromance. Her desire of hearing from Isabella grew every day greater.\nShe was quite impatient to know how the Bath world went on, and how the\nrooms were attended; and especially was she anxious to be assured of\nIsabella's having matched some fine netting-cotton, on which she had\nleft her intent; and of her continuing on the best terms with James. Her\nonly dependence for information of any kind was on Isabella. James had\nprotested against writing to her till his return to Oxford; and Mrs.\nAllen had given her no hopes of a letter till she had got back to\nFullerton. But Isabella had promised and promised again; and when she\npromised a thing, she was so scrupulous in performing it! This made it\nso particularly strange!\n\nFor nine successive mornings, Catherine wondered over the repetition\nof a disappointment, which each morning became more severe: but, on\nthe tenth, when she entered the breakfast-room, her first object was a\nletter, held out by Henry's willing hand. She thanked him as heartily\nas if he had written it himself. \"'Tis only from James, however,\" as she\nlooked at the direction. She opened it; it was from Oxford; and to this\npurpose:\n\n\n\"Dear Catherine,\n\n\"Though, God knows, with little inclination for writing, I think it my\nduty to tell you that everything is at an end between Miss Thorpe and\nme. I left her and Bath yesterday, never to see either again. I shall\nnot enter into particulars--they would only pain you more. You will soon\nhear enough from another quarter to know where lies the blame; and I\nhope will acquit your brother of everything but the folly of too easily\nthinking his affection returned. Thank God! I am undeceived in time!\nBut it is a heavy blow! After my father's consent had been so kindly\ngiven--but no more of this. She has made me miserable forever! Let me\nsoon hear from you, dear Catherine; you are my only friend; your love\nI do build upon. I wish your visit at Northanger may be over before\nCaptain Tilney makes his engagement known, or you will be uncomfortably\ncircumstanced. Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of him; his\nhonest heart would feel so much. I have written to him and my father.\nHer duplicity hurts me more than all; till the very last, if I reasoned\nwith her, she declared herself as much attached to me as ever, and\nlaughed at my fears. I am ashamed to think how long I bore with it;\nbut if ever man had reason to believe himself loved, I was that man. I\ncannot understand even now what she would be at, for there could be no\nneed of my being played off to make her secure of Tilney. We parted\nat last by mutual consent--happy for me had we never met! I can never\nexpect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, beware how you\ngive your heart.\n\n\"Believe me,\" &c.\n\n\nCatherine had not read three lines before her sudden change of\ncountenance, and short exclamations of sorrowing wonder, declared her to\nbe receiving unpleasant news; and Henry, earnestly watching her through\nthe whole letter, saw plainly that it ended no better than it began. He\nwas prevented, however, from even looking his surprise by his father's\nentrance. They went to breakfast directly; but Catherine could hardly\neat anything. Tears filled her eyes, and even ran down her cheeks as she\nsat. The letter was one moment in her hand, then in her lap, and then in\nher pocket; and she looked as if she knew not what she did. The general,\nbetween his cocoa and his newspaper, had luckily no leisure for noticing\nher; but to the other two her distress was equally visible. As soon\nas she dared leave the table she hurried away to her own room; but the\nhousemaids were busy in it, and she was obliged to come down again.\nShe turned into the drawing-room for privacy, but Henry and Eleanor had\nlikewise retreated thither, and were at that moment deep in consultation\nabout her. She drew back, trying to beg their pardon, but was, with\ngentle violence, forced to return; and the others withdrew, after\nEleanor had affectionately expressed a wish of being of use or comfort\nto her.\n\nAfter half an hour's free indulgence of grief and reflection, Catherine\nfelt equal to encountering her friends; but whether she should make\nher distress known to them was another consideration. Perhaps, if\nparticularly questioned, she might just give an idea--just distantly\nhint at it--but not more. To expose a friend, such a friend as Isabella\nhad been to her--and then their own brother so closely concerned in it!\nShe believed she must waive the subject altogether. Henry and Eleanor\nwere by themselves in the breakfast-room; and each, as she entered it,\nlooked at her anxiously. Catherine took her place at the table, and,\nafter a short silence, Eleanor said, \"No bad news from Fullerton, I\nhope? Mr. and Mrs. Morland--your brothers and sisters--I hope they are\nnone of them ill?\"\n\n\"No, I thank you\" (sighing as she spoke); \"they are all very well. My\nletter was from my brother at Oxford.\"\n\nNothing further was said for a few minutes; and then speaking through\nher tears, she added, \"I do not think I shall ever wish for a letter\nagain!\"\n\n\"I am sorry,\" said Henry, closing the book he had just opened; \"if I\nhad suspected the letter of containing anything unwelcome, I should have\ngiven it with very different feelings.\"\n\n\"It contained something worse than anybody could suppose! Poor James is\nso unhappy! You will soon know why.\"\n\n\"To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister,\" replied Henry\nwarmly, \"must be a comfort to him under any distress.\"\n\n\"I have one favour to beg,\" said Catherine, shortly afterwards, in an\nagitated manner, \"that, if your brother should be coming here, you will\ngive me notice of it, that I may go away.\"\n\n\"Our brother! Frederick!\"\n\n\"Yes; I am sure I should be very sorry to leave you so soon, but\nsomething has happened that would make it very dreadful for me to be in\nthe same house with Captain Tilney.\"\n\nEleanor's work was suspended while she gazed with increasing\nastonishment; but Henry began to suspect the truth, and something, in\nwhich Miss Thorpe's name was included, passed his lips.\n\n\"How quick you are!\" cried Catherine: \"you have guessed it, I declare!\nAnd yet, when we talked about it in Bath, you little thought of its\nending so. Isabella--no wonder now I have not heard from her--Isabella\nhas deserted my brother, and is to marry yours! Could you have believed\nthere had been such inconstancy and fickleness, and everything that is\nbad in the world?\"\n\n\"I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are misinformed. I hope\nhe has not had any material share in bringing on Mr. Morland's\ndisappointment. His marrying Miss Thorpe is not probable. I think you\nmust be deceived so far. I am very sorry for Mr. Morland--sorry that\nanyone you love should be unhappy; but my surprise would be greater at\nFrederick's marrying her than at any other part of the story.\"\n\n\"It is very true, however; you shall read James's letter yourself.\nStay--There is one part--\" recollecting with a blush the last line.\n\n\"Will you take the trouble of reading to us the passages which concern\nmy brother?\"\n\n\"No, read it yourself,\" cried Catherine, whose second thoughts were\nclearer. \"I do not know what I was thinking of\" (blushing again that she\nhad blushed before); \"James only means to give me good advice.\"\n\nHe gladly received the letter, and, having read it through, with close\nattention, returned it saying, \"Well, if it is to be so, I can only\nsay that I am sorry for it. Frederick will not be the first man who has\nchosen a wife with less sense than his family expected. I do not envy\nhis situation, either as a lover or a son.\"\n\nMiss Tilney, at Catherine's invitation, now read the letter likewise,\nand, having expressed also her concern and surprise, began to inquire\ninto Miss Thorpe's connections and fortune.\n\n\"Her mother is a very good sort of woman,\" was Catherine's answer.\n\n\"What was her father?\"\n\n\"A lawyer, I believe. They live at Putney.\"\n\n\"Are they a wealthy family?\"\n\n\"No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has any fortune at all: but\nthat will not signify in your family. Your father is so very liberal!\nHe told me the other day that he only valued money as it allowed him to\npromote the happiness of his children.\" The brother and sister looked\nat each other. \"But,\" said Eleanor, after a short pause, \"would it be to\npromote his happiness, to enable him to marry such a girl? She must be\nan unprincipled one, or she could not have used your brother so. And how\nstrange an infatuation on Frederick's side! A girl who, before his eyes,\nis violating an engagement voluntarily entered into with another man! Is\nnot it inconceivable, Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his heart so\nproudly! Who found no woman good enough to be loved!\"\n\n\"That is the most unpromising circumstance, the strongest presumption\nagainst him. When I think of his past declarations, I give him up.\nMoreover, I have too good an opinion of Miss Thorpe's prudence to\nsuppose that she would part with one gentleman before the other\nwas secured. It is all over with Frederick indeed! He is a deceased\nman--defunct in understanding. Prepare for your sister-in-law, Eleanor,\nand such a sister-in-law as you must delight in! Open, candid, artless,\nguileless, with affections strong but simple, forming no pretensions,\nand knowing no disguise.\"\n\n\"Such a sister-in-law, Henry, I should delight in,\" said Eleanor with a\nsmile.\n\n\"But perhaps,\" observed Catherine, \"though she has behaved so ill by our\nfamily, she may behave better by yours. Now she has really got the man\nshe likes, she may be constant.\"\n\n\"Indeed I am afraid she will,\" replied Henry; \"I am afraid she will\nbe very constant, unless a baronet should come in her way; that is\nFrederick's only chance. I will get the Bath paper, and look over the\narrivals.\"\n\n\"You think it is all for ambition, then? And, upon my word, there are\nsome things that seem very like it. I cannot forget that, when she first\nknew what my father would do for them, she seemed quite disappointed\nthat it was not more. I never was so deceived in anyone's character in\nmy life before.\"\n\n\"Among all the great variety that you have known and studied.\"\n\n\"My own disappointment and loss in her is very great; but, as for poor\nJames, I suppose he will hardly ever recover it.\"\n\n\"Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied at present; but we\nmust not, in our concern for his sufferings, undervalue yours. You feel,\nI suppose, that in losing Isabella, you lose half yourself: you feel a\nvoid in your heart which nothing else can occupy. Society is becoming\nirksome; and as for the amusements in which you were wont to share at\nBath, the very idea of them without her is abhorrent. You would not,\nfor instance, now go to a ball for the world. You feel that you have no\nlonger any friend to whom you can speak with unreserve, on whose regard\nyou can place dependence, or whose counsel, in any difficulty, you could\nrely on. You feel all this?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Catherine, after a few moments' reflection, \"I do not--ought\nI? To say the truth, though I am hurt and grieved, that I cannot still\nlove her, that I am never to hear from her, perhaps never to see her\nagain, I do not feel so very, very much afflicted as one would have\nthought.\"\n\n\"You feel, as you always do, what is most to the credit of human nature.\nSuch feelings ought to be investigated, that they may know themselves.\"\n\nCatherine, by some chance or other, found her spirits so very much\nrelieved by this conversation that she could not regret her being led\non, though so unaccountably, to mention the circumstance which had\nproduced it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 26\n\n\nFrom this time, the subject was frequently canvassed by the three young\npeople; and Catherine found, with some surprise, that her two young\nfriends were perfectly agreed in considering Isabella's want of\nconsequence and fortune as likely to throw great difficulties in the way\nof her marrying their brother. Their persuasion that the general would,\nupon this ground alone, independent of the objection that might be\nraised against her character, oppose the connection, turned her feelings\nmoreover with some alarm towards herself. She was as insignificant,\nand perhaps as portionless, as Isabella; and if the heir of the Tilney\nproperty had not grandeur and wealth enough in himself, at what point\nof interest were the demands of his younger brother to rest? The very\npainful reflections to which this thought led could only be dispersed by\na dependence on the effect of that particular partiality, which, as she\nwas given to understand by his words as well as his actions, she had\nfrom the first been so fortunate as to excite in the general; and by a\nrecollection of some most generous and disinterested sentiments on the\nsubject of money, which she had more than once heard him utter, and\nwhich tempted her to think his disposition in such matters misunderstood\nby his children.\n\nThey were so fully convinced, however, that their brother would not\nhave the courage to apply in person for his father's consent, and so\nrepeatedly assured her that he had never in his life been less likely to\ncome to Northanger than at the present time, that she suffered her mind\nto be at ease as to the necessity of any sudden removal of her own. But\nas it was not to be supposed that Captain Tilney, whenever he made his\napplication, would give his father any just idea of Isabella's conduct,\nit occurred to her as highly expedient that Henry should lay the whole\nbusiness before him as it really was, enabling the general by that means\nto form a cool and impartial opinion, and prepare his objections on\na fairer ground than inequality of situations. She proposed it to him\naccordingly; but he did not catch at the measure so eagerly as she had\nexpected. \"No,\" said he, \"my father's hands need not be strengthened,\nand Frederick's confession of folly need not be forestalled. He must\ntell his own story.\"\n\n\"But he will tell only half of it.\"\n\n\"A quarter would be enough.\"\n\nA day or two passed away and brought no tidings of Captain Tilney. His\nbrother and sister knew not what to think. Sometimes it appeared to\nthem as if his silence would be the natural result of the suspected\nengagement, and at others that it was wholly incompatible with it.\nThe general, meanwhile, though offended every morning by Frederick's\nremissness in writing, was free from any real anxiety about him, and had\nno more pressing solicitude than that of making Miss Morland's time at\nNorthanger pass pleasantly. He often expressed his uneasiness on this\nhead, feared the sameness of every day's society and employments would\ndisgust her with the place, wished the Lady Frasers had been in the\ncountry, talked every now and then of having a large party to dinner,\nand once or twice began even to calculate the number of young dancing\npeople in the neighbourhood. But then it was such a dead time of year,\nno wild-fowl, no game, and the Lady Frasers were not in the country.\nAnd it all ended, at last, in his telling Henry one morning that when he\nnext went to Woodston, they would take him by surprise there some day\nor other, and eat their mutton with him. Henry was greatly honoured and\nvery happy, and Catherine was quite delighted with the scheme. \"And when\ndo you think, sir, I may look forward to this pleasure? I must be at\nWoodston on Monday to attend the parish meeting, and shall probably be\nobliged to stay two or three days.\"\n\n\"Well, well, we will take our chance some one of those days. There is\nno need to fix. You are not to put yourself at all out of your way.\nWhatever you may happen to have in the house will be enough. I think I\ncan answer for the young ladies making allowance for a bachelor's table.\nLet me see; Monday will be a busy day with you, we will not come on\nMonday; and Tuesday will be a busy one with me. I expect my surveyor\nfrom Brockham with his report in the morning; and afterwards I cannot in\ndecency fail attending the club. I really could not face my acquaintance\nif I stayed away now; for, as I am known to be in the country, it would\nbe taken exceedingly amiss; and it is a rule with me, Miss Morland,\nnever to give offence to any of my neighbours, if a small sacrifice of\ntime and attention can prevent it. They are a set of very worthy men.\nThey have half a buck from Northanger twice a year; and I dine with them\nwhenever I can. Tuesday, therefore, we may say is out of the question.\nBut on Wednesday, I think, Henry, you may expect us; and we shall be\nwith you early, that we may have time to look about us. Two hours and\nthree quarters will carry us to Woodston, I suppose; we shall be in the\ncarriage by ten; so, about a quarter before one on Wednesday, you may\nlook for us.\"\n\nA ball itself could not have been more welcome to Catherine than\nthis little excursion, so strong was her desire to be acquainted with\nWoodston; and her heart was still bounding with joy when Henry, about an\nhour afterwards, came booted and greatcoated into the room where she\nand Eleanor were sitting, and said, \"I am come, young ladies, in a\nvery moralizing strain, to observe that our pleasures in this world\nare always to be paid for, and that we often purchase them at a great\ndisadvantage, giving ready-monied actual happiness for a draft on the\nfuture, that may not be honoured. Witness myself, at this present hour.\nBecause I am to hope for the satisfaction of seeing you at Woodston on\nWednesday, which bad weather, or twenty other causes, may prevent, I\nmust go away directly, two days before I intended it.\"\n\n\"Go away!\" said Catherine, with a very long face. \"And why?\"\n\n\"Why! How can you ask the question? Because no time is to be lost in\nfrightening my old housekeeper out of her wits, because I must go and\nprepare a dinner for you, to be sure.\"\n\n\"Oh! Not seriously!\"\n\n\"Aye, and sadly too--for I had much rather stay.\"\n\n\"But how can you think of such a thing, after what the general said?\nWhen he so particularly desired you not to give yourself any trouble,\nbecause anything would do.\"\n\nHenry only smiled. \"I am sure it is quite unnecessary upon your sister's\naccount and mine. You must know it to be so; and the general made such\na point of your providing nothing extraordinary: besides, if he had not\nsaid half so much as he did, he has always such an excellent dinner\nat home, that sitting down to a middling one for one day could not\nsignify.\"\n\n\"I wish I could reason like you, for his sake and my own. Good-bye. As\ntomorrow is Sunday, Eleanor, I shall not return.\"\n\nHe went; and, it being at any time a much simpler operation to Catherine\nto doubt her own judgment than Henry's, she was very soon obliged to\ngive him credit for being right, however disagreeable to her his going.\nBut the inexplicability of the general's conduct dwelt much on her\nthoughts. That he was very particular in his eating, she had, by her own\nunassisted observation, already discovered; but why he should say\none thing so positively, and mean another all the while, was most\nunaccountable! How were people, at that rate, to be understood? Who but\nHenry could have been aware of what his father was at?\n\nFrom Saturday to Wednesday, however, they were now to be without Henry.\nThis was the sad finale of every reflection: and Captain Tilney's letter\nwould certainly come in his absence; and Wednesday she was very sure\nwould be wet. The past, present, and future were all equally in gloom.\nHer brother so unhappy, and her loss in Isabella so great; and Eleanor's\nspirits always affected by Henry's absence! What was there to interest\nor amuse her? She was tired of the woods and the shrubberies--always so\nsmooth and so dry; and the abbey in itself was no more to her now than\nany other house. The painful remembrance of the folly it had helped\nto nourish and perfect was the only emotion which could spring from a\nconsideration of the building. What a revolution in her ideas! She, who\nhad so longed to be in an abbey! Now, there was nothing so charming\nto her imagination as the unpretending comfort of a well-connected\nparsonage, something like Fullerton, but better: Fullerton had its\nfaults, but Woodston probably had none. If Wednesday should ever come!\n\nIt did come, and exactly when it might be reasonably looked for. It\ncame--it was fine--and Catherine trod on air. By ten o'clock, the chaise\nand four conveyed the two from the abbey; and, after an agreeable drive\nof almost twenty miles, they entered Woodston, a large and populous\nvillage, in a situation not unpleasant. Catherine was ashamed to say\nhow pretty she thought it, as the general seemed to think an apology\nnecessary for the flatness of the country, and the size of the village;\nbut in her heart she preferred it to any place she had ever been at,\nand looked with great admiration at every neat house above the rank of\na cottage, and at all the little chandler's shops which they passed. At\nthe further end of the village, and tolerably disengaged from the rest\nof it, stood the parsonage, a new-built substantial stone house, with\nits semicircular sweep and green gates; and, as they drove up to the\ndoor, Henry, with the friends of his solitude, a large Newfoundland\npuppy and two or three terriers, was ready to receive and make much of\nthem.\n\nCatherine's mind was too full, as she entered the house, for her either\nto observe or to say a great deal; and, till called on by the general\nfor her opinion of it, she had very little idea of the room in which she\nwas sitting. Upon looking round it then, she perceived in a moment that\nit was the most comfortable room in the world; but she was too guarded\nto say so, and the coldness of her praise disappointed him.\n\n\"We are not calling it a good house,\" said he. \"We are not comparing\nit with Fullerton and Northanger--we are considering it as a mere\nparsonage, small and confined, we allow, but decent, perhaps, and\nhabitable; and altogether not inferior to the generality; or, in other\nwords, I believe there are few country parsonages in England half so\ngood. It may admit of improvement, however. Far be it from me to say\notherwise; and anything in reason--a bow thrown out, perhaps--though,\nbetween ourselves, if there is one thing more than another my aversion,\nit is a patched-on bow.\"\n\nCatherine did not hear enough of this speech to understand or be pained\nby it; and other subjects being studiously brought forward and supported\nby Henry, at the same time that a tray full of refreshments was\nintroduced by his servant, the general was shortly restored to his\ncomplacency, and Catherine to all her usual ease of spirits.\n\nThe room in question was of a commodious, well-proportioned size, and\nhandsomely fitted up as a dining-parlour; and on their quitting it to\nwalk round the grounds, she was shown, first into a smaller apartment,\nbelonging peculiarly to the master of the house, and made unusually tidy\non the occasion; and afterwards into what was to be the drawing-room,\nwith the appearance of which, though unfurnished, Catherine was\ndelighted enough even to satisfy the general. It was a prettily shaped\nroom, the windows reaching to the ground, and the view from them\npleasant, though only over green meadows; and she expressed her\nadmiration at the moment with all the honest simplicity with which she\nfelt it. \"Oh! Why do not you fit up this room, Mr. Tilney? What a pity\nnot to have it fitted up! It is the prettiest room I ever saw; it is the\nprettiest room in the world!\"\n\n\"I trust,\" said the general, with a most satisfied smile, \"that it will\nvery speedily be furnished: it waits only for a lady's taste!\"\n\n\"Well, if it was my house, I should never sit anywhere else. Oh! What a\nsweet little cottage there is among the trees--apple trees, too! It is\nthe prettiest cottage!\"\n\n\"You like it--you approve it as an object--it is enough. Henry, remember\nthat Robinson is spoken to about it. The cottage remains.\"\n\nSuch a compliment recalled all Catherine's consciousness, and silenced\nher directly; and, though pointedly applied to by the general for her\nchoice of the prevailing colour of the paper and hangings, nothing like\nan opinion on the subject could be drawn from her. The influence of\nfresh objects and fresh air, however, was of great use in dissipating\nthese embarrassing associations; and, having reached the ornamental part\nof the premises, consisting of a walk round two sides of a meadow, on\nwhich Henry's genius had begun to act about half a year ago, she was\nsufficiently recovered to think it prettier than any pleasure-ground she\nhad ever been in before, though there was not a shrub in it higher than\nthe green bench in the corner.\n\nA saunter into other meadows, and through part of the village, with a\nvisit to the stables to examine some improvements, and a charming game\nof play with a litter of puppies just able to roll about, brought them\nto four o'clock, when Catherine scarcely thought it could be three. At\nfour they were to dine, and at six to set off on their return. Never had\nany day passed so quickly!\n\nShe could not but observe that the abundance of the dinner did not seem\nto create the smallest astonishment in the general; nay, that he was\neven looking at the side-table for cold meat which was not there. His\nson and daughter's observations were of a different kind. They had\nseldom seen him eat so heartily at any table but his own, and never\nbefore known him so little disconcerted by the melted butter's being\noiled.\n\nAt six o'clock, the general having taken his coffee, the carriage again\nreceived them; and so gratifying had been the tenor of his conduct\nthroughout the whole visit, so well assured was her mind on the subject\nof his expectations, that, could she have felt equally confident of the\nwishes of his son, Catherine would have quitted Woodston with little\nanxiety as to the How or the When she might return to it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 27\n\n\nThe next morning brought the following very unexpected letter from\nIsabella:\n\n\nBath, April\n\nMy dearest Catherine, I received your two kind letters with the greatest\ndelight, and have a thousand apologies to make for not answering them\nsooner. I really am quite ashamed of my idleness; but in this horrid\nplace one can find time for nothing. I have had my pen in my hand to\nbegin a letter to you almost every day since you left Bath, but have\nalways been prevented by some silly trifler or other. Pray write to me\nsoon, and direct to my own home. Thank God, we leave this vile place\ntomorrow. Since you went away, I have had no pleasure in it--the dust\nis beyond anything; and everybody one cares for is gone. I believe if I\ncould see you I should not mind the rest, for you are dearer to me than\nanybody can conceive. I am quite uneasy about your dear brother, not\nhaving heard from him since he went to Oxford; and am fearful of some\nmisunderstanding. Your kind offices will set all right: he is the only\nman I ever did or could love, and I trust you will convince him of it.\nThe spring fashions are partly down; and the hats the most frightful you\ncan imagine. I hope you spend your time pleasantly, but am afraid you\nnever think of me. I will not say all that I could of the family you are\nwith, because I would not be ungenerous, or set you against those you\nesteem; but it is very difficult to know whom to trust, and young men\nnever know their minds two days together. I rejoice to say that the\nyoung man whom, of all others, I particularly abhor, has left Bath. You\nwill know, from this description, I must mean Captain Tilney, who, as\nyou may remember, was amazingly disposed to follow and tease me, before\nyou went away. Afterwards he got worse, and became quite my shadow. Many\ngirls might have been taken in, for never were such attentions; but I\nknew the fickle sex too well. He went away to his regiment two days ago,\nand I trust I shall never be plagued with him again. He is the greatest\ncoxcomb I ever saw, and amazingly disagreeable. The last two days he was\nalways by the side of Charlotte Davis: I pitied his taste, but took no\nnotice of him. The last time we met was in Bath Street, and I turned\ndirectly into a shop that he might not speak to me; I would not even\nlook at him. He went into the pump-room afterwards; but I would not have\nfollowed him for all the world. Such a contrast between him and your\nbrother! Pray send me some news of the latter--I am quite unhappy about\nhim; he seemed so uncomfortable when he went away, with a cold, or\nsomething that affected his spirits. I would write to him myself, but\nhave mislaid his direction; and, as I hinted above, am afraid he\ntook something in my conduct amiss. Pray explain everything to his\nsatisfaction; or, if he still harbours any doubt, a line from himself\nto me, or a call at Putney when next in town, might set all to rights.\nI have not been to the rooms this age, nor to the play, except going in\nlast night with the Hodges, for a frolic, at half price: they teased\nme into it; and I was determined they should not say I shut myself up\nbecause Tilney was gone. We happened to sit by the Mitchells, and they\npretended to be quite surprised to see me out. I knew their spite: at\none time they could not be civil to me, but now they are all friendship;\nbut I am not such a fool as to be taken in by them. You know I have a\npretty good spirit of my own. Anne Mitchell had tried to put on a\nturban like mine, as I wore it the week before at the concert, but made\nwretched work of it--it happened to become my odd face, I believe, at\nleast Tilney told me so at the time, and said every eye was upon me; but\nhe is the last man whose word I would take. I wear nothing but purple\nnow: I know I look hideous in it, but no matter--it is your dear\nbrother's favourite colour. Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest\nCatherine, in writing to him and to me, Who ever am, etc.\n\n\nSuch a strain of shallow artifice could not impose even upon Catherine.\nIts inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood struck her from the\nvery first. She was ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of having ever\nloved her. Her professions of attachment were now as disgusting as her\nexcuses were empty, and her demands impudent. \"Write to James on her\nbehalf! No, James should never hear Isabella's name mentioned by her\nagain.\"\n\nOn Henry's arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor\ntheir brother's safety, congratulating them with sincerity on it, and\nreading aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong\nindignation. When she had finished it--\"So much for Isabella,\" she\ncried, \"and for all our intimacy! She must think me an idiot, or she\ncould not have written so; but perhaps this has served to make her\ncharacter better known to me than mine is to her. I see what she has\nbeen about. She is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered. I\ndo not believe she had ever any regard either for James or for me, and I\nwish I had never known her.\"\n\n\"It will soon be as if you never had,\" said Henry.\n\n\"There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has\nhad designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I do not\nunderstand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should\nhe pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother, and\nthen fly off himself?\"\n\n\"I have very little to say for Frederick's motives, such as I believe\nthem to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the\nchief difference is, that, having a stronger head, they have not yet\ninjured himself. If the effect of his behaviour does not justify him\nwith you, we had better not seek after the cause.\"\n\n\"Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?\"\n\n\"I am persuaded that he never did.\"\n\n\"And only made believe to do so for mischief's sake?\"\n\nHenry bowed his assent.\n\n\"Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it has\nturned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it happens,\nthere is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any\nheart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him?\"\n\n\"But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to\nlose--consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that\ncase, she would have met with very different treatment.\"\n\n\"It is very right that you should stand by your brother.\"\n\n\"And if you would stand by yours, you would not be much distressed by\nthe disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate\nprinciple of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool\nreasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge.\"\n\nCatherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could\nnot be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She\nresolved on not answering Isabella's letter, and tried to think no more\nof it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 28\n\n\nSoon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London for\na week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity\nshould rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland's company, and anxiously\nrecommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his children\nas their chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the\nfirst experimental conviction that a loss may be sometimes a gain. The\nhappiness with which their time now passed, every employment voluntary,\nevery laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease and good humour,\nwalking where they liked and when they liked, their hours, pleasures,\nand fatigues at their own command, made her thoroughly sensible of the\nrestraint which the general's presence had imposed, and most thankfully\nfeel their present release from it. Such ease and such delights made her\nlove the place and the people more and more every day; and had it not\nbeen for a dread of its soon becoming expedient to leave the one, and\nan apprehension of not being equally beloved by the other, she would at\neach moment of each day have been perfectly happy; but she was now in\nthe fourth week of her visit; before the general came home, the fourth\nweek would be turned, and perhaps it might seem an intrusion if she\nstayed much longer. This was a painful consideration whenever it\noccurred; and eager to get rid of such a weight on her mind, she very\nsoon resolved to speak to Eleanor about it at once, propose going away,\nand be guided in her conduct by the manner in which her proposal might\nbe taken.\n\nAware that if she gave herself much time, she might feel it difficult to\nbring forward so unpleasant a subject, she took the first opportunity of\nbeing suddenly alone with Eleanor, and of Eleanor's being in the\nmiddle of a speech about something very different, to start forth her\nobligation of going away very soon. Eleanor looked and declared herself\nmuch concerned. She had \"hoped for the pleasure of her company for a\nmuch longer time--had been misled (perhaps by her wishes) to suppose\nthat a much longer visit had been promised--and could not but think that\nif Mr. and Mrs. Morland were aware of the pleasure it was to her to have\nher there, they would be too generous to hasten her return.\" Catherine\nexplained: \"Oh! As to that, Papa and Mamma were in no hurry at all. As\nlong as she was happy, they would always be satisfied.\"\n\n\"Then why, might she ask, in such a hurry herself to leave them?\"\n\n\"Oh! Because she had been there so long.\"\n\n\"Nay, if you can use such a word, I can urge you no farther. If you\nthink it long--\"\n\n\"Oh! No, I do not indeed. For my own pleasure, I could stay with you as\nlong again.\" And it was directly settled that, till she had, her leaving\nthem was not even to be thought of. In having this cause of uneasiness\nso pleasantly removed, the force of the other was likewise weakened. The\nkindness, the earnestness of Eleanor's manner in pressing her to stay,\nand Henry's gratified look on being told that her stay was determined,\nwere such sweet proofs of her importance with them, as left her only\njust so much solicitude as the human mind can never do comfortably\nwithout. She did--almost always--believe that Henry loved her, and quite\nalways that his father and sister loved and even wished her to belong\nto them; and believing so far, her doubts and anxieties were merely\nsportive irritations.\n\nHenry was not able to obey his father's injunction of remaining wholly\nat Northanger in attendance on the ladies, during his absence in London,\nthe engagements of his curate at Woodston obliging him to leave them on\nSaturday for a couple of nights. His loss was not now what it had been\nwhile the general was at home; it lessened their gaiety, but did not\nruin their comfort; and the two girls agreeing in occupation, and\nimproving in intimacy, found themselves so well sufficient for the time\nto themselves, that it was eleven o'clock, rather a late hour at\nthe abbey, before they quitted the supper-room on the day of Henry's\ndeparture. They had just reached the head of the stairs when it seemed,\nas far as the thickness of the walls would allow them to judge, that a\ncarriage was driving up to the door, and the next moment confirmed the\nidea by the loud noise of the house-bell. After the first perturbation\nof surprise had passed away, in a \"Good heaven! What can be the matter?\"\nit was quickly decided by Eleanor to be her eldest brother, whose\narrival was often as sudden, if not quite so unseasonable, and\naccordingly she hurried down to welcome him.\n\nCatherine walked on to her chamber, making up her mind as well as she\ncould, to a further acquaintance with Captain Tilney, and comforting\nherself under the unpleasant impression his conduct had given her, and\nthe persuasion of his being by far too fine a gentleman to approve of\nher, that at least they should not meet under such circumstances as\nwould make their meeting materially painful. She trusted he would never\nspeak of Miss Thorpe; and indeed, as he must by this time be ashamed of\nthe part he had acted, there could be no danger of it; and as long as\nall mention of Bath scenes were avoided, she thought she could behave\nto him very civilly. In such considerations time passed away, and it was\ncertainly in his favour that Eleanor should be so glad to see him, and\nhave so much to say, for half an hour was almost gone since his arrival,\nand Eleanor did not come up.\n\nAt that moment Catherine thought she heard her step in the gallery, and\nlistened for its continuance; but all was silent. Scarcely, however,\nhad she convicted her fancy of error, when the noise of something moving\nclose to her door made her start; it seemed as if someone was touching\nthe very doorway--and in another moment a slight motion of the lock\nproved that some hand must be on it. She trembled a little at the idea\nof anyone's approaching so cautiously; but resolving not to be again\novercome by trivial appearances of alarm, or misled by a raised\nimagination, she stepped quietly forward, and opened the door. Eleanor,\nand only Eleanor, stood there. Catherine's spirits, however, were\ntranquillized but for an instant, for Eleanor's cheeks were pale, and\nher manner greatly agitated. Though evidently intending to come in, it\nseemed an effort to enter the room, and a still greater to speak when\nthere. Catherine, supposing some uneasiness on Captain Tilney's account,\ncould only express her concern by silent attention, obliged her to be\nseated, rubbed her temples with lavender-water, and hung over her with\naffectionate solicitude. \"My dear Catherine, you must not--you must not\nindeed--\" were Eleanor's first connected words. \"I am quite well.\nThis kindness distracts me--I cannot bear it--I come to you on such an\nerrand!\"\n\n\"Errand! To me!\"\n\n\"How shall I tell you! Oh! How shall I tell you!\"\n\nA new idea now darted into Catherine's mind, and turning as pale as her\nfriend, she exclaimed, \"'Tis a messenger from Woodston!\"\n\n\"You are mistaken, indeed,\" returned Eleanor, looking at her most\ncompassionately; \"it is no one from Woodston. It is my father himself.\"\nHer voice faltered, and her eyes were turned to the ground as she\nmentioned his name. His unlooked-for return was enough in itself to make\nCatherine's heart sink, and for a few moments she hardly supposed\nthere were anything worse to be told. She said nothing; and Eleanor,\nendeavouring to collect herself and speak with firmness, but with eyes\nstill cast down, soon went on. \"You are too good, I am sure, to think\nthe worse of me for the part I am obliged to perform. I am indeed a most\nunwilling messenger. After what has so lately passed, so lately been\nsettled between us--how joyfully, how thankfully on my side!--as to your\ncontinuing here as I hoped for many, many weeks longer, how can I tell\nyou that your kindness is not to be accepted--and that the happiness\nyour company has hitherto given us is to be repaid by--But I must not\ntrust myself with words. My dear Catherine, we are to part. My father\nhas recollected an engagement that takes our whole family away on\nMonday. We are going to Lord Longtown's, near Hereford, for a fortnight.\nExplanation and apology are equally impossible. I cannot attempt\neither.\"\n\n\"My dear Eleanor,\" cried Catherine, suppressing her feelings as well as\nshe could, \"do not be so distressed. A second engagement must give\nway to a first. I am very, very sorry we are to part--so soon, and so\nsuddenly too; but I am not offended, indeed I am not. I can finish my\nvisit here, you know, at any time; or I hope you will come to me. Can\nyou, when you return from this lord's, come to Fullerton?\"\n\n\"It will not be in my power, Catherine.\"\n\n\"Come when you can, then.\"\n\nEleanor made no answer; and Catherine's thoughts recurring to something\nmore directly interesting, she added, thinking aloud, \"Monday--so soon\nas Monday; and you all go. Well, I am certain of--I shall be able to\ntake leave, however. I need not go till just before you do, you know. Do\nnot be distressed, Eleanor, I can go on Monday very well. My father\nand mother's having no notice of it is of very little consequence. The\ngeneral will send a servant with me, I dare say, half the way--and then\nI shall soon be at Salisbury, and then I am only nine miles from home.\"\n\n\"Ah, Catherine! Were it settled so, it would be somewhat less\nintolerable, though in such common attentions you would have received\nbut half what you ought. But--how can I tell you?--tomorrow morning is\nfixed for your leaving us, and not even the hour is left to your choice;\nthe very carriage is ordered, and will be here at seven o'clock, and no\nservant will be offered you.\"\n\nCatherine sat down, breathless and speechless. \"I could hardly believe\nmy senses, when I heard it; and no displeasure, no resentment that\nyou can feel at this moment, however justly great, can be more than I\nmyself--but I must not talk of what I felt. Oh! That I could suggest\nanything in extenuation! Good God! What will your father and mother say!\nAfter courting you from the protection of real friends to this--almost\ndouble distance from your home, to have you driven out of the house,\nwithout the considerations even of decent civility! Dear, dear\nCatherine, in being the bearer of such a message, I seem guilty myself\nof all its insult; yet, I trust you will acquit me, for you must have\nbeen long enough in this house to see that I am but a nominal mistress\nof it, that my real power is nothing.\"\n\n\"Have I offended the general?\" said Catherine in a faltering voice.\n\n\"Alas! For my feelings as a daughter, all that I know, all that I\nanswer for, is that you can have given him no just cause of offence. He\ncertainly is greatly, very greatly discomposed; I have seldom seen him\nmore so. His temper is not happy, and something has now occurred to\nruffle it in an uncommon degree; some disappointment, some vexation,\nwhich just at this moment seems important, but which I can hardly\nsuppose you to have any concern in, for how is it possible?\"\n\nIt was with pain that Catherine could speak at all; and it was only for\nEleanor's sake that she attempted it. \"I am sure,\" said she, \"I am very\nsorry if I have offended him. It was the last thing I would willingly\nhave done. But do not be unhappy, Eleanor. An engagement, you know, must\nbe kept. I am only sorry it was not recollected sooner, that I might\nhave written home. But it is of very little consequence.\"\n\n\"I hope, I earnestly hope, that to your real safety it will be of none;\nbut to everything else it is of the greatest consequence: to comfort,\nappearance, propriety, to your family, to the world. Were your friends,\nthe Allens, still in Bath, you might go to them with comparative ease;\na few hours would take you there; but a journey of seventy miles, to be\ntaken post by you, at your age, alone, unattended!\"\n\n\"Oh, the journey is nothing. Do not think about that. And if we are to\npart, a few hours sooner or later, you know, makes no difference. I\ncan be ready by seven. Let me be called in time.\" Eleanor saw that she\nwished to be alone; and believing it better for each that they should\navoid any further conversation, now left her with, \"I shall see you in\nthe morning.\"\n\nCatherine's swelling heart needed relief. In Eleanor's presence\nfriendship and pride had equally restrained her tears, but no sooner was\nshe gone than they burst forth in torrents. Turned from the house, and\nin such a way! Without any reason that could justify, any apology that\ncould atone for the abruptness, the rudeness, nay, the insolence of\nit. Henry at a distance--not able even to bid him farewell. Every hope,\nevery expectation from him suspended, at least, and who could say how\nlong? Who could say when they might meet again? And all this by such\na man as General Tilney, so polite, so well bred, and heretofore\nso particularly fond of her! It was as incomprehensible as it was\nmortifying and grievous. From what it could arise, and where it would\nend, were considerations of equal perplexity and alarm. The manner in\nwhich it was done so grossly uncivil, hurrying her away without any\nreference to her own convenience, or allowing her even the appearance\nof choice as to the time or mode of her travelling; of two days, the\nearliest fixed on, and of that almost the earliest hour, as if resolved\nto have her gone before he was stirring in the morning, that he\nmight not be obliged even to see her. What could all this mean but\nan intentional affront? By some means or other she must have had the\nmisfortune to offend him. Eleanor had wished to spare her from so\npainful a notion, but Catherine could not believe it possible that any\ninjury or any misfortune could provoke such ill will against a person\nnot connected, or, at least, not supposed to be connected with it.\n\nHeavily passed the night. Sleep, or repose that deserved the name\nof sleep, was out of the question. That room, in which her disturbed\nimagination had tormented her on her first arrival, was again the scene\nof agitated spirits and unquiet slumbers. Yet how different now the\nsource of her inquietude from what it had been then--how mournfully\nsuperior in reality and substance! Her anxiety had foundation in\nfact, her fears in probability; and with a mind so occupied in the\ncontemplation of actual and natural evil, the solitude of her situation,\nthe darkness of her chamber, the antiquity of the building, were felt\nand considered without the smallest emotion; and though the wind was\nhigh, and often produced strange and sudden noises throughout the house,\nshe heard it all as she lay awake, hour after hour, without curiosity or\nterror.\n\nSoon after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show attention or give\nassistance where it was possible; but very little remained to be done.\nCatherine had not loitered; she was almost dressed, and her packing\nalmost finished. The possibility of some conciliatory message from the\ngeneral occurred to her as his daughter appeared. What so natural, as\nthat anger should pass away and repentance succeed it? And she only\nwanted to know how far, after what had passed, an apology might properly\nbe received by her. But the knowledge would have been useless here;\nit was not called for; neither clemency nor dignity was put to the\ntrial--Eleanor brought no message. Very little passed between them on\nmeeting; each found her greatest safety in silence, and few and trivial\nwere the sentences exchanged while they remained upstairs, Catherine in\nbusy agitation completing her dress, and Eleanor with more goodwill than\nexperience intent upon filling the trunk. When everything was done they\nleft the room, Catherine lingering only half a minute behind her friend\nto throw a parting glance on every well-known, cherished object, and\nwent down to the breakfast-parlour, where breakfast was prepared. She\ntried to eat, as well to save herself from the pain of being urged as\nto make her friend comfortable; but she had no appetite, and could not\nswallow many mouthfuls. The contrast between this and her last breakfast\nin that room gave her fresh misery, and strengthened her distaste for\neverything before her. It was not four and twenty hours ago since they\nhad met there to the same repast, but in circumstances how different!\nWith what cheerful ease, what happy, though false, security, had she\nthen looked around her, enjoying everything present, and fearing little\nin future, beyond Henry's going to Woodston for a day! Happy, happy\nbreakfast! For Henry had been there; Henry had sat by her and helped\nher. These reflections were long indulged undisturbed by any address\nfrom her companion, who sat as deep in thought as herself; and the\nappearance of the carriage was the first thing to startle and recall\nthem to the present moment. Catherine's colour rose at the sight of it;\nand the indignity with which she was treated, striking at that instant\non her mind with peculiar force, made her for a short time sensible only\nof resentment. Eleanor seemed now impelled into resolution and speech.\n\n\"You must write to me, Catherine,\" she cried; \"you must let me hear from\nyou as soon as possible. Till I know you to be safe at home, I shall\nnot have an hour's comfort. For one letter, at all risks, all hazards, I\nmust entreat. Let me have the satisfaction of knowing that you are safe\nat Fullerton, and have found your family well, and then, till I can ask\nfor your correspondence as I ought to do, I will not expect more. Direct\nto me at Lord Longtown's, and, I must ask it, under cover to Alice.\"\n\n\"No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter from me, I am\nsure I had better not write. There can be no doubt of my getting home\nsafe.\"\n\nEleanor only replied, \"I cannot wonder at your feelings. I will not\nimportune you. I will trust to your own kindness of heart when I am at\na distance from you.\" But this, with the look of sorrow accompanying\nit, was enough to melt Catherine's pride in a moment, and she instantly\nsaid, \"Oh, Eleanor, I will write to you indeed.\"\n\nThere was yet another point which Miss Tilney was anxious to settle,\nthough somewhat embarrassed in speaking of. It had occurred to her that\nafter so long an absence from home, Catherine might not be provided with\nmoney enough for the expenses of her journey, and, upon suggesting it\nto her with most affectionate offers of accommodation, it proved to be\nexactly the case. Catherine had never thought on the subject till that\nmoment, but, upon examining her purse, was convinced that but for\nthis kindness of her friend, she might have been turned from the house\nwithout even the means of getting home; and the distress in which she\nmust have been thereby involved filling the minds of both, scarcely\nanother word was said by either during the time of their remaining\ntogether. Short, however, was that time. The carriage was soon announced\nto be ready; and Catherine, instantly rising, a long and affectionate\nembrace supplied the place of language in bidding each other adieu; and,\nas they entered the hall, unable to leave the house without some mention\nof one whose name had not yet been spoken by either, she paused a\nmoment, and with quivering lips just made it intelligible that she left\n\"her kind remembrance for her absent friend.\" But with this approach to\nhis name ended all possibility of restraining her feelings; and, hiding\nher face as well as she could with her handkerchief, she darted across\nthe hall, jumped into the chaise, and in a moment was driven from the\ndoor.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 29\n\n\nCatherine was too wretched to be fearful. The journey in itself had no\nterrors for her; and she began it without either dreading its length or\nfeeling its solitariness. Leaning back in one corner of the carriage, in\na violent burst of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond the walls\nof the abbey before she raised her head; and the highest point of ground\nwithin the park was almost closed from her view before she was capable\nof turning her eyes towards it. Unfortunately, the road she now\ntravelled was the same which only ten days ago she had so happily passed\nalong in going to and from Woodston; and, for fourteen miles, every\nbitter feeling was rendered more severe by the review of objects on\nwhich she had first looked under impressions so different. Every mile,\nas it brought her nearer Woodston, added to her sufferings, and when\nwithin the distance of five, she passed the turning which led to it, and\nthought of Henry, so near, yet so unconscious, her grief and agitation\nwere excessive.\n\nThe day which she had spent at that place had been one of the happiest\nof her life. It was there, it was on that day, that the general had made\nuse of such expressions with regard to Henry and herself, had so\nspoken and so looked as to give her the most positive conviction of his\nactually wishing their marriage. Yes, only ten days ago had he\nelated her by his pointed regard--had he even confused her by his too\nsignificant reference! And now--what had she done, or what had she\nomitted to do, to merit such a change?\n\nThe only offence against him of which she could accuse herself had been\nsuch as was scarcely possible to reach his knowledge. Henry and her own\nheart only were privy to the shocking suspicions which she had so idly\nentertained; and equally safe did she believe her secret with each.\nDesignedly, at least, Henry could not have betrayed her. If, indeed, by\nany strange mischance his father should have gained intelligence of\nwhat she had dared to think and look for, of her causeless fancies\nand injurious examinations, she could not wonder at any degree of his\nindignation. If aware of her having viewed him as a murderer, she could\nnot wonder at his even turning her from his house. But a justification\nso full of torture to herself, she trusted, would not be in his power.\n\nAnxious as were all her conjectures on this point, it was not, however,\nthe one on which she dwelt most. There was a thought yet nearer, a more\nprevailing, more impetuous concern. How Henry would think, and feel,\nand look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger and heard of\nher being gone, was a question of force and interest to rise over every\nother, to be never ceasing, alternately irritating and soothing; it\nsometimes suggested the dread of his calm acquiescence, and at others\nwas answered by the sweetest confidence in his regret and resentment. To\nthe general, of course, he would not dare to speak; but to Eleanor--what\nmight he not say to Eleanor about her?\n\nIn this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries, on any one article\nof which her mind was incapable of more than momentary repose, the hours\npassed away, and her journey advanced much faster than she looked for.\nThe pressing anxieties of thought, which prevented her from noticing\nanything before her, when once beyond the neighbourhood of Woodston,\nsaved her at the same time from watching her progress; and though no\nobject on the road could engage a moment's attention, she found no stage\nof it tedious. From this, she was preserved too by another cause, by\nfeeling no eagerness for her journey's conclusion; for to return in such\na manner to Fullerton was almost to destroy the pleasure of a meeting\nwith those she loved best, even after an absence such as hers--an eleven\nweeks' absence. What had she to say that would not humble herself and\npain her family, that would not increase her own grief by the confession\nof it, extend an useless resentment, and perhaps involve the innocent\nwith the guilty in undistinguishing ill will? She could never do justice\nto Henry and Eleanor's merit; she felt it too strongly for expression;\nand should a dislike be taken against them, should they be thought of\nunfavourably, on their father's account, it would cut her to the heart.\n\nWith these feelings, she rather dreaded than sought for the first view\nof that well-known spire which would announce her within twenty miles of\nhome. Salisbury she had known to be her point on leaving Northanger; but\nafter the first stage she had been indebted to the post-masters for the\nnames of the places which were then to conduct her to it; so great\nhad been her ignorance of her route. She met with nothing, however,\nto distress or frighten her. Her youth, civil manners, and liberal\npay procured her all the attention that a traveller like herself could\nrequire; and stopping only to change horses, she travelled on for\nabout eleven hours without accident or alarm, and between six and seven\no'clock in the evening found herself entering Fullerton.\n\nA heroine returning, at the close of her career, to her native village,\nin all the triumph of recovered reputation, and all the dignity of\na countess, with a long train of noble relations in their several\nphaetons, and three waiting-maids in a travelling chaise and four,\nbehind her, is an event on which the pen of the contriver may well\ndelight to dwell; it gives credit to every conclusion, and the author\nmust share in the glory she so liberally bestows. But my affair is\nwidely different; I bring back my heroine to her home in solitude and\ndisgrace; and no sweet elation of spirits can lead me into minuteness.\nA heroine in a hack post-chaise is such a blow upon sentiment, as no\nattempt at grandeur or pathos can withstand. Swiftly therefore shall her\npost-boy drive through the village, amid the gaze of Sunday groups, and\nspeedy shall be her descent from it.\n\nBut, whatever might be the distress of Catherine's mind, as she thus\nadvanced towards the parsonage, and whatever the humiliation of her\nbiographer in relating it, she was preparing enjoyment of no everyday\nnature for those to whom she went; first, in the appearance of her\ncarriage--and secondly, in herself. The chaise of a traveller being\na rare sight in Fullerton, the whole family were immediately at the\nwindow; and to have it stop at the sweep-gate was a pleasure to brighten\nevery eye and occupy every fancy--a pleasure quite unlooked for by all\nbut the two youngest children, a boy and girl of six and four years old,\nwho expected a brother or sister in every carriage. Happy the glance\nthat first distinguished Catherine! Happy the voice that proclaimed the\ndiscovery! But whether such happiness were the lawful property of George\nor Harriet could never be exactly understood.\n\nHer father, mother, Sarah, George, and Harriet, all assembled at the\ndoor to welcome her with affectionate eagerness, was a sight to awaken\nthe best feelings of Catherine's heart; and in the embrace of each, as\nshe stepped from the carriage, she found herself soothed beyond anything\nthat she had believed possible. So surrounded, so caressed, she was even\nhappy! In the joyfulness of family love everything for a short time was\nsubdued, and the pleasure of seeing her, leaving them at first little\nleisure for calm curiosity, they were all seated round the tea-table,\nwhich Mrs. Morland had hurried for the comfort of the poor traveller,\nwhose pale and jaded looks soon caught her notice, before any inquiry so\ndirect as to demand a positive answer was addressed to her.\n\nReluctantly, and with much hesitation, did she then begin what might\nperhaps, at the end of half an hour, be termed, by the courtesy of her\nhearers, an explanation; but scarcely, within that time, could they\nat all discover the cause, or collect the particulars, of her sudden\nreturn. They were far from being an irritable race; far from any\nquickness in catching, or bitterness in resenting, affronts: but here,\nwhen the whole was unfolded, was an insult not to be overlooked, nor,\nfor the first half hour, to be easily pardoned. Without suffering any\nromantic alarm, in the consideration of their daughter's long and lonely\njourney, Mr. and Mrs. Morland could not but feel that it might have been\nproductive of much unpleasantness to her; that it was what they could\nnever have voluntarily suffered; and that, in forcing her on such\na measure, General Tilney had acted neither honourably nor\nfeelingly--neither as a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he had done it,\nwhat could have provoked him to such a breach of hospitality, and so\nsuddenly turned all his partial regard for their daughter into actual\nill will, was a matter which they were at least as far from divining\nas Catherine herself; but it did not oppress them by any means so long;\nand, after a due course of useless conjecture, that \"it was a strange\nbusiness, and that he must be a very strange man,\" grew enough for all\ntheir indignation and wonder; though Sarah indeed still indulged in the\nsweets of incomprehensibility, exclaiming and conjecturing with youthful\nardour. \"My dear, you give yourself a great deal of needless trouble,\"\nsaid her mother at last; \"depend upon it, it is something not at all\nworth understanding.\"\n\n\"I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this\nengagement,\" said Sarah, \"but why not do it civilly?\"\n\n\"I am sorry for the young people,\" returned Mrs. Morland; \"they must\nhave a sad time of it; but as for anything else, it is no matter now;\nCatherine is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General\nTilney.\" Catherine sighed. \"Well,\" continued her philosophic mother, \"I\nam glad I did not know of your journey at the time; but now it is all\nover, perhaps there is no great harm done. It is always good for\nyoung people to be put upon exerting themselves; and you know, my dear\nCatherine, you always were a sad little scatter-brained creature; but\nnow you must have been forced to have your wits about you, with so much\nchanging of chaises and so forth; and I hope it will appear that you\nhave not left anything behind you in any of the pockets.\"\n\nCatherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in her own\namendment, but her spirits were quite worn down; and, to be silent and\nalone becoming soon her only wish, she readily agreed to her mother's\nnext counsel of going early to bed. Her parents, seeing nothing in\nher ill looks and agitation but the natural consequence of mortified\nfeelings, and of the unusual exertion and fatigue of such a journey,\nparted from her without any doubt of their being soon slept away; and\nthough, when they all met the next morning, her recovery was not equal\nto their hopes, they were still perfectly unsuspicious of there being\nany deeper evil. They never once thought of her heart, which, for the\nparents of a young lady of seventeen, just returned from her first\nexcursion from home, was odd enough!\n\nAs soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil her promise to\nMiss Tilney, whose trust in the effect of time and distance on her\nfriend's disposition was already justified, for already did Catherine\nreproach herself with having parted from Eleanor coldly, with\nhaving never enough valued her merits or kindness, and never enough\ncommiserated her for what she had been yesterday left to endure. The\nstrength of these feelings, however, was far from assisting her pen;\nand never had it been harder for her to write than in addressing Eleanor\nTilney. To compose a letter which might at once do justice to her\nsentiments and her situation, convey gratitude without servile regret,\nbe guarded without coldness, and honest without resentment--a letter\nwhich Eleanor might not be pained by the perusal of--and, above all,\nwhich she might not blush herself, if Henry should chance to see, was an\nundertaking to frighten away all her powers of performance; and, after\nlong thought and much perplexity, to be very brief was all that she\ncould determine on with any confidence of safety. The money therefore\nwhich Eleanor had advanced was enclosed with little more than grateful\nthanks, and the thousand good wishes of a most affectionate heart.\n\n\"This has been a strange acquaintance,\" observed Mrs. Morland, as the\nletter was finished; \"soon made and soon ended. I am sorry it happens\nso, for Mrs. Allen thought them very pretty kind of young people; and\nyou were sadly out of luck too in your Isabella. Ah! Poor James! Well,\nwe must live and learn; and the next new friends you make I hope will be\nbetter worth keeping.\"\n\nCatherine coloured as she warmly answered, \"No friend can be better\nworth keeping than Eleanor.\"\n\n\"If so, my dear, I dare say you will meet again some time or other; do\nnot be uneasy. It is ten to one but you are thrown together again in the\ncourse of a few years; and then what a pleasure it will be!\"\n\nMrs. Morland was not happy in her attempt at consolation. The hope\nof meeting again in the course of a few years could only put into\nCatherine's head what might happen within that time to make a meeting\ndreadful to her. She could never forget Henry Tilney, or think of him\nwith less tenderness than she did at that moment; but he might forget\nher; and in that case, to meet--! Her eyes filled with tears as she\npictured her acquaintance so renewed; and her mother, perceiving her\ncomfortable suggestions to have had no good effect, proposed, as another\nexpedient for restoring her spirits, that they should call on Mrs.\nAllen.\n\nThe two houses were only a quarter of a mile apart; and, as they walked,\nMrs. Morland quickly dispatched all that she felt on the score of\nJames's disappointment. \"We are sorry for him,\" said she; \"but otherwise\nthere is no harm done in the match going off; for it could not be\na desirable thing to have him engaged to a girl whom we had not the\nsmallest acquaintance with, and who was so entirely without fortune; and\nnow, after such behaviour, we cannot think at all well of her. Just at\npresent it comes hard to poor James; but that will not last forever; and\nI dare say he will be a discreeter man all his life, for the foolishness\nof his first choice.\"\n\nThis was just such a summary view of the affair as Catherine could\nlisten to; another sentence might have endangered her complaisance,\nand made her reply less rational; for soon were all her thinking powers\nswallowed up in the reflection of her own change of feelings and spirits\nsince last she had trodden that well-known road. It was not three months\nago since, wild with joyful expectation, she had there run backwards\nand forwards some ten times a day, with an heart light, gay, and\nindependent; looking forward to pleasures untasted and unalloyed, and\nfree from the apprehension of evil as from the knowledge of it. Three\nmonths ago had seen her all this; and now, how altered a being did she\nreturn!\n\nShe was received by the Allens with all the kindness which her\nunlooked-for appearance, acting on a steady affection, would naturally\ncall forth; and great was their surprise, and warm their displeasure,\non hearing how she had been treated--though Mrs. Morland's account of\nit was no inflated representation, no studied appeal to their passions.\n\"Catherine took us quite by surprise yesterday evening,\" said she. \"She\ntravelled all the way post by herself, and knew nothing of coming till\nSaturday night; for General Tilney, from some odd fancy or other, all\nof a sudden grew tired of having her there, and almost turned her out\nof the house. Very unfriendly, certainly; and he must be a very odd\nman; but we are so glad to have her amongst us again! And it is a great\ncomfort to find that she is not a poor helpless creature, but can shift\nvery well for herself.\"\n\nMr. Allen expressed himself on the occasion with the reasonable\nresentment of a sensible friend; and Mrs. Allen thought his expressions\nquite good enough to be immediately made use of again by herself. His\nwonder, his conjectures, and his explanations became in succession hers,\nwith the addition of this single remark--\"I really have not patience\nwith the general\"--to fill up every accidental pause. And, \"I really\nhave not patience with the general,\" was uttered twice after Mr.\nAllen left the room, without any relaxation of anger, or any material\ndigression of thought. A more considerable degree of wandering attended\nthe third repetition; and, after completing the fourth, she immediately\nadded, \"Only think, my dear, of my having got that frightful great rent\nin my best Mechlin so charmingly mended, before I left Bath, that one\ncan hardly see where it was. I must show it you some day or other. Bath\nis a nice place, Catherine, after all. I assure you I did not above half\nlike coming away. Mrs. Thorpe's being there was such a comfort to us,\nwas not it? You know, you and I were quite forlorn at first.\"\n\n\"Yes, but that did not last long,\" said Catherine, her eyes brightening\nat the recollection of what had first given spirit to her existence\nthere.\n\n\"Very true: we soon met with Mrs. Thorpe, and then we wanted for\nnothing. My dear, do not you think these silk gloves wear very well?\nI put them on new the first time of our going to the Lower Rooms, you\nknow, and I have worn them a great deal since. Do you remember that\nevening?\"\n\n\"Do I! Oh! Perfectly.\"\n\n\"It was very agreeable, was not it? Mr. Tilney drank tea with us, and I\nalways thought him a great addition, he is so very agreeable. I have a\nnotion you danced with him, but am not quite sure. I remember I had my\nfavourite gown on.\"\n\nCatherine could not answer; and, after a short trial of other subjects,\nMrs. Allen again returned to--\"I really have not patience with the\ngeneral! Such an agreeable, worthy man as he seemed to be! I do not\nsuppose, Mrs. Morland, you ever saw a better-bred man in your life. His\nlodgings were taken the very day after he left them, Catherine. But no\nwonder; Milsom Street, you know.\"\n\nAs they walked home again, Mrs. Morland endeavoured to impress on her\ndaughter's mind the happiness of having such steady well-wishers as Mr.\nand Mrs. Allen, and the very little consideration which the neglect or\nunkindness of slight acquaintance like the Tilneys ought to have with\nher, while she could preserve the good opinion and affection of her\nearliest friends. There was a great deal of good sense in all this; but\nthere are some situations of the human mind in which good sense has\nvery little power; and Catherine's feelings contradicted almost every\nposition her mother advanced. It was upon the behaviour of these very\nslight acquaintance that all her present happiness depended; and\nwhile Mrs. Morland was successfully confirming her own opinions by the\njustness of her own representations, Catherine was silently reflecting\nthat now Henry must have arrived at Northanger; now he must have heard\nof her departure; and now, perhaps, they were all setting off for\nHereford.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 30\n\n\nCatherine's disposition was not naturally sedentary, nor had her habits\nbeen ever very industrious; but whatever might hitherto have been her\ndefects of that sort, her mother could not but perceive them now to be\ngreatly increased. She could neither sit still nor employ herself for\nten minutes together, walking round the garden and orchard again and\nagain, as if nothing but motion was voluntary; and it seemed as if she\ncould even walk about the house rather than remain fixed for any time\nin the parlour. Her loss of spirits was a yet greater alteration. In her\nrambling and her idleness she might only be a caricature of herself; but\nin her silence and sadness she was the very reverse of all that she had\nbeen before.\n\nFor two days Mrs. Morland allowed it to pass even without a hint;\nbut when a third night's rest had neither restored her cheerfulness,\nimproved her in useful activity, nor given her a greater inclination for\nneedlework, she could no longer refrain from the gentle reproof of, \"My\ndear Catherine, I am afraid you are growing quite a fine lady. I do not\nknow when poor Richard's cravats would be done, if he had no friend\nbut you. Your head runs too much upon Bath; but there is a time for\neverything--a time for balls and plays, and a time for work. You have\nhad a long run of amusement, and now you must try to be useful.\"\n\nCatherine took up her work directly, saying, in a dejected voice, that\n\"her head did not run upon Bath--much.\"\n\n\"Then you are fretting about General Tilney, and that is very simple\nof you; for ten to one whether you ever see him again. You should never\nfret about trifles.\" After a short silence--\"I hope, my Catherine, you\nare not getting out of humour with home because it is not so grand\nas Northanger. That would be turning your visit into an evil indeed.\nWherever you are you should always be contented, but especially at home,\nbecause there you must spend the most of your time. I did not quite\nlike, at breakfast, to hear you talk so much about the French bread at\nNorthanger.\"\n\n\"I am sure I do not care about the bread. It is all the same to me what\nI eat.\"\n\n\"There is a very clever essay in one of the books upstairs upon much\nsuch a subject, about young girls that have been spoilt for home by\ngreat acquaintance--The Mirror, I think. I will look it out for you some\nday or other, because I am sure it will do you good.\"\n\nCatherine said no more, and, with an endeavour to do right, applied\nto her work; but, after a few minutes, sunk again, without knowing it\nherself, into languor and listlessness, moving herself in her chair,\nfrom the irritation of weariness, much oftener than she moved her\nneedle. Mrs. Morland watched the progress of this relapse; and seeing,\nin her daughter's absent and dissatisfied look, the full proof of that\nrepining spirit to which she had now begun to attribute her want of\ncheerfulness, hastily left the room to fetch the book in question,\nanxious to lose no time in attacking so dreadful a malady. It was some\ntime before she could find what she looked for; and other family matters\noccurring to detain her, a quarter of an hour had elapsed ere she\nreturned downstairs with the volume from which so much was hoped. Her\navocations above having shut out all noise but what she created herself,\nshe knew not that a visitor had arrived within the last few minutes,\ntill, on entering the room, the first object she beheld was a young\nman whom she had never seen before. With a look of much respect, he\nimmediately rose, and being introduced to her by her conscious daughter\nas \"Mr. Henry Tilney,\" with the embarrassment of real sensibility began\nto apologize for his appearance there, acknowledging that after what had\npassed he had little right to expect a welcome at Fullerton, and stating\nhis impatience to be assured of Miss Morland's having reached her home\nin safety, as the cause of his intrusion. He did not address himself to\nan uncandid judge or a resentful heart. Far from comprehending him or\nhis sister in their father's misconduct, Mrs. Morland had been always\nkindly disposed towards each, and instantly, pleased by his appearance,\nreceived him with the simple professions of unaffected benevolence;\nthanking him for such an attention to her daughter, assuring him that\nthe friends of her children were always welcome there, and entreating\nhim to say not another word of the past.\n\nHe was not ill-inclined to obey this request, for, though his heart was\ngreatly relieved by such unlooked-for mildness, it was not just at that\nmoment in his power to say anything to the purpose. Returning in silence\nto his seat, therefore, he remained for some minutes most civilly\nanswering all Mrs. Morland's common remarks about the weather and\nroads. Catherine meanwhile--the anxious, agitated, happy, feverish\nCatherine--said not a word; but her glowing cheek and brightened eye\nmade her mother trust that this good-natured visit would at least set\nher heart at ease for a time, and gladly therefore did she lay aside the\nfirst volume of The Mirror for a future hour.\n\nDesirous of Mr. Morland's assistance, as well in giving encouragement,\nas in finding conversation for her guest, whose embarrassment on his\nfather's account she earnestly pitied, Mrs. Morland had very early\ndispatched one of the children to summon him; but Mr. Morland was from\nhome--and being thus without any support, at the end of a quarter of\nan hour she had nothing to say. After a couple of minutes' unbroken\nsilence, Henry, turning to Catherine for the first time since her\nmother's entrance, asked her, with sudden alacrity, if Mr. and Mrs.\nAllen were now at Fullerton? And on developing, from amidst all her\nperplexity of words in reply, the meaning, which one short syllable\nwould have given, immediately expressed his intention of paying his\nrespects to them, and, with a rising colour, asked her if she would\nhave the goodness to show him the way. \"You may see the house from this\nwindow, sir,\" was information on Sarah's side, which produced only a\nbow of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and a silencing nod from\nher mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary\nconsideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy neighbours, that he\nmight have some explanation to give of his father's behaviour, which it\nmust be more pleasant for him to communicate only to Catherine, would\nnot on any account prevent her accompanying him. They began their walk,\nand Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in his object in wishing it.\nSome explanation on his father's account he had to give; but his first\npurpose was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr. Allen's\ngrounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think it could\never be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection; and that\nheart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally\nknew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now sincerely\nattached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies\nof her character and truly loved her society, I must confess that his\naffection originated in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other\nwords, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only\ncause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new circumstance in\nromance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an heroine's\ndignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a wild\nimagination will at least be all my own.\n\nA very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry talked at random,\nwithout sense or connection, and Catherine, rapt in the contemplation of\nher own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed them\nto the ecstasies of another tete-a-tete; and before it was suffered to\nclose, she was enabled to judge how far he was sanctioned by parental\nauthority in his present application. On his return from Woodston, two\ndays before, he had been met near the abbey by his impatient father,\nhastily informed in angry terms of Miss Morland's departure, and ordered\nto think of her no more.\n\nSuch was the permission upon which he had now offered her his hand.\nThe affrighted Catherine, amidst all the terrors of expectation, as she\nlistened to this account, could not but rejoice in the kind caution\nwith which Henry had saved her from the necessity of a conscientious\nrejection, by engaging her faith before he mentioned the subject; and\nas he proceeded to give the particulars, and explain the motives of\nhis father's conduct, her feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant\ndelight. The general had had nothing to accuse her of, nothing to lay\nto her charge, but her being the involuntary, unconscious object of a\ndeception which his pride could not pardon, and which a better pride\nwould have been ashamed to own. She was guilty only of being less rich\nthan he had supposed her to be. Under a mistaken persuasion of her\npossessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath,\nsolicited her company at Northanger, and designed her for his\ndaughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn her from the house\nseemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his\nresentment towards herself, and his contempt of her family.\n\nJohn Thorpe had first misled him. The general, perceiving his son\none night at the theatre to be paying considerable attention to Miss\nMorland, had accidentally inquired of Thorpe if he knew more of her\nthan her name. Thorpe, most happy to be on speaking terms with a man\nof General Tilney's importance, had been joyfully and proudly\ncommunicative; and being at that time not only in daily expectation\nof Morland's engaging Isabella, but likewise pretty well resolved upon\nmarrying Catherine himself, his vanity induced him to represent the\nfamily as yet more wealthy than his vanity and avarice had made him\nbelieve them. With whomsoever he was, or was likely to be connected, his\nown consequence always required that theirs should be great, and as his\nintimacy with any acquaintance grew, so regularly grew their fortune.\nThe expectations of his friend Morland, therefore, from the first\noverrated, had ever since his introduction to Isabella been gradually\nincreasing; and by merely adding twice as much for the grandeur of the\nmoment, by doubling what he chose to think the amount of Mr. Morland's\npreferment, trebling his private fortune, bestowing a rich aunt, and\nsinking half the children, he was able to represent the whole family\nto the general in a most respectable light. For Catherine, however, the\npeculiar object of the general's curiosity, and his own speculations,\nhe had yet something more in reserve, and the ten or fifteen thousand\npounds which her father could give her would be a pretty addition to Mr.\nAllen's estate. Her intimacy there had made him seriously determine on\nher being handsomely legacied hereafter; and to speak of her therefore\nas the almost acknowledged future heiress of Fullerton naturally\nfollowed. Upon such intelligence the general had proceeded; for never\nhad it occurred to him to doubt its authority. Thorpe's interest in the\nfamily, by his sister's approaching connection with one of its members,\nand his own views on another (circumstances of which he boasted with\nalmost equal openness), seemed sufficient vouchers for his truth; and\nto these were added the absolute facts of the Allens being wealthy and\nchildless, of Miss Morland's being under their care, and--as soon as his\nacquaintance allowed him to judge--of their treating her with parental\nkindness. His resolution was soon formed. Already had he discerned a\nliking towards Miss Morland in the countenance of his son; and thankful\nfor Mr. Thorpe's communication, he almost instantly determined to spare\nno pains in weakening his boasted interest and ruining his dearest\nhopes. Catherine herself could not be more ignorant at the time of all\nthis, than his own children. Henry and Eleanor, perceiving nothing in\nher situation likely to engage their father's particular respect, had\nseen with astonishment the suddenness, continuance, and extent of his\nattention; and though latterly, from some hints which had accompanied an\nalmost positive command to his son of doing everything in his power to\nattach her, Henry was convinced of his father's believing it to be\nan advantageous connection, it was not till the late explanation at\nNorthanger that they had the smallest idea of the false calculations\nwhich had hurried him on. That they were false, the general had learnt\nfrom the very person who had suggested them, from Thorpe himself, whom\nhe had chanced to meet again in town, and who, under the influence of\nexactly opposite feelings, irritated by Catherine's refusal, and\nyet more by the failure of a very recent endeavour to accomplish a\nreconciliation between Morland and Isabella, convinced that they were\nseparated forever, and spurning a friendship which could be no longer\nserviceable, hastened to contradict all that he had said before to\nthe advantage of the Morlands--confessed himself to have been totally\nmistaken in his opinion of their circumstances and character, misled by\nthe rhodomontade of his friend to believe his father a man of substance\nand credit, whereas the transactions of the two or three last weeks\nproved him to be neither; for after coming eagerly forward on the first\noverture of a marriage between the families, with the most liberal\nproposals, he had, on being brought to the point by the shrewdness of\nthe relator, been constrained to acknowledge himself incapable of\ngiving the young people even a decent support. They were, in fact, a\nnecessitous family; numerous, too, almost beyond example; by no means\nrespected in their own neighbourhood, as he had lately had particular\nopportunities of discovering; aiming at a style of life which their\nfortune could not warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy\nconnections; a forward, bragging, scheming race.\n\nThe terrified general pronounced the name of Allen with an inquiring\nlook; and here too Thorpe had learnt his error. The Allens, he believed,\nhad lived near them too long, and he knew the young man on whom the\nFullerton estate must devolve. The general needed no more. Enraged with\nalmost everybody in the world but himself, he set out the next day for\nthe abbey, where his performances have been seen.\n\nI leave it to my reader's sagacity to determine how much of all this\nit was possible for Henry to communicate at this time to Catherine, how\nmuch of it he could have learnt from his father, in what points his own\nconjectures might assist him, and what portion must yet remain to be\ntold in a letter from James. I have united for their case what they must\ndivide for mine. Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to feel that in\nsuspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his wife,\nshe had scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified his cruelty.\n\nHenry, in having such things to relate of his father, was almost\nas pitiable as in their first avowal to himself. He blushed for the\nnarrow-minded counsel which he was obliged to expose. The conversation\nbetween them at Northanger had been of the most unfriendly kind. Henry's\nindignation on hearing how Catherine had been treated, on comprehending\nhis father's views, and being ordered to acquiesce in them, had been\nopen and bold. The general, accustomed on every ordinary occasion to\ngive the law in his family, prepared for no reluctance but of feeling,\nno opposing desire that should dare to clothe itself in words, could ill\nbrook the opposition of his son, steady as the sanction of reason and\nthe dictate of conscience could make it. But, in such a cause, his\nanger, though it must shock, could not intimidate Henry, who was\nsustained in his purpose by a conviction of its justice. He felt himself\nbound as much in honour as in affection to Miss Morland, and believing\nthat heart to be his own which he had been directed to gain, no unworthy\nretraction of a tacit consent, no reversing decree of unjustifiable\nanger, could shake his fidelity, or influence the resolutions it\nprompted.\n\nHe steadily refused to accompany his father into Herefordshire, an\nengagement formed almost at the moment to promote the dismissal of\nCatherine, and as steadily declared his intention of offering her his\nhand. The general was furious in his anger, and they parted in dreadful\ndisagreement. Henry, in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours\nwere required to compose, had returned almost instantly to Woodston,\nand, on the afternoon of the following day, had begun his journey to\nFullerton.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 31\n\n\nMr. and Mrs. Morland's surprise on being applied to by Mr. Tilney for\ntheir consent to his marrying their daughter was, for a few minutes,\nconsiderable, it having never entered their heads to suspect an\nattachment on either side; but as nothing, after all, could be more\nnatural than Catherine's being beloved, they soon learnt to consider it\nwith only the happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far as they\nalone were concerned, had not a single objection to start. His pleasing\nmanners and good sense were self-evident recommendations; and having\nnever heard evil of him, it was not their way to suppose any evil could\nbe told. Goodwill supplying the place of experience, his character\nneeded no attestation. \"Catherine would make a sad, heedless young\nhousekeeper to be sure,\" was her mother's foreboding remark; but quick\nwas the consolation of there being nothing like practice.\n\nThere was but one obstacle, in short, to be mentioned; but till that one\nwas removed, it must be impossible for them to sanction the engagement.\nTheir tempers were mild, but their principles were steady, and while\nhis parent so expressly forbade the connection, they could not allow\nthemselves to encourage it. That the general should come forward to\nsolicit the alliance, or that he should even very heartily approve it,\nthey were not refined enough to make any parading stipulation; but\nthe decent appearance of consent must be yielded, and that once\nobtained--and their own hearts made them trust that it could not be\nvery long denied--their willing approbation was instantly to follow. His\nconsent was all that they wished for. They were no more inclined than\nentitled to demand his money. Of a very considerable fortune, his son\nwas, by marriage settlements, eventually secure; his present income was\nan income of independence and comfort, and under every pecuniary view,\nit was a match beyond the claims of their daughter.\n\nThe young people could not be surprised at a decision like this. They\nfelt and they deplored--but they could not resent it; and they parted,\nendeavouring to hope that such a change in the general, as each believed\nalmost impossible, might speedily take place, to unite them again in\nthe fullness of privileged affection. Henry returned to what was now\nhis only home, to watch over his young plantations, and extend his\nimprovements for her sake, to whose share in them he looked anxiously\nforward; and Catherine remained at Fullerton to cry. Whether the\ntorments of absence were softened by a clandestine correspondence, let\nus not inquire. Mr. and Mrs. Morland never did--they had been too kind\nto exact any promise; and whenever Catherine received a letter, as, at\nthat time, happened pretty often, they always looked another way.\n\nThe anxiety, which in this state of their attachment must be the portion\nof Henry and Catherine, and of all who loved either, as to its final\nevent, can hardly extend, I fear, to the bosom of my readers, who will\nsee in the tell-tale compression of the pages before them, that we are\nall hastening together to perfect felicity. The means by which their\nearly marriage was effected can be the only doubt: what probable\ncircumstance could work upon a temper like the general's? The\ncircumstance which chiefly availed was the marriage of his daughter with\na man of fortune and consequence, which took place in the course of\nthe summer--an accession of dignity that threw him into a fit of good\nhumour, from which he did not recover till after Eleanor had obtained\nhis forgiveness of Henry, and his permission for him \"to be a fool if he\nliked it!\"\n\nThe marriage of Eleanor Tilney, her removal from all the evils of such\na home as Northanger had been made by Henry's banishment, to the home of\nher choice and the man of her choice, is an event which I expect to\ngive general satisfaction among all her acquaintance. My own joy on the\noccasion is very sincere. I know no one more entitled, by unpretending\nmerit, or better prepared by habitual suffering, to receive and enjoy\nfelicity. Her partiality for this gentleman was not of recent origin;\nand he had been long withheld only by inferiority of situation from\naddressing her. His unexpected accession to title and fortune had\nremoved all his difficulties; and never had the general loved his\ndaughter so well in all her hours of companionship, utility, and patient\nendurance as when he first hailed her \"Your Ladyship!\" Her husband was\nreally deserving of her; independent of his peerage, his wealth, and\nhis attachment, being to a precision the most charming young man in the\nworld. Any further definition of his merits must be unnecessary; the\nmost charming young man in the world is instantly before the imagination\nof us all. Concerning the one in question, therefore, I have only to\nadd--aware that the rules of composition forbid the introduction of a\ncharacter not connected with my fable--that this was the very\ngentleman whose negligent servant left behind him that collection of\nwashing-bills, resulting from a long visit at Northanger, by which my\nheroine was involved in one of her most alarming adventures.\n\nThe influence of the viscount and viscountess in their brother's behalf\nwas assisted by that right understanding of Mr. Morland's circumstances\nwhich, as soon as the general would allow himself to be informed, they\nwere qualified to give. It taught him that he had been scarcely\nmore misled by Thorpe's first boast of the family wealth than by his\nsubsequent malicious overthrow of it; that in no sense of the word were\nthey necessitous or poor, and that Catherine would have three thousand\npounds. This was so material an amendment of his late expectations that\nit greatly contributed to smooth the descent of his pride; and by no\nmeans without its effect was the private intelligence, which he was at\nsome pains to procure, that the Fullerton estate, being entirely at\nthe disposal of its present proprietor, was consequently open to every\ngreedy speculation.\n\nOn the strength of this, the general, soon after Eleanor's marriage,\npermitted his son to return to Northanger, and thence made him the\nbearer of his consent, very courteously worded in a page full of empty\nprofessions to Mr. Morland. The event which it authorized soon followed:\nHenry and Catherine were married, the bells rang, and everybody smiled;\nand, as this took place within a twelvemonth from the first day of their\nmeeting, it will not appear, after all the dreadful delays occasioned by\nthe general's cruelty, that they were essentially hurt by it. To begin\nperfect happiness at the respective ages of twenty-six and eighteen is\nto do pretty well; and professing myself moreover convinced that the\ngeneral's unjust interference, so far from being really injurious to\ntheir felicity, was perhaps rather conducive to it, by improving their\nknowledge of each other, and adding strength to their attachment,\nI leave it to be settled, by whomsoever it may concern, whether the\ntendency of this work be altogether to recommend parental tyranny, or\nreward filial disobedience.\n\n\n\n*Vide a letter from Mr. Richardson, No. 97, Vol. II, Rambler.\n\n\n\n\nA NOTE ON THE TEXT\n\nNorthanger Abbey was written in 1797-98 under a different title. The\nmanuscript was revised around 1803 and sold to a London publisher,\nCrosbie & Co., who sold it back in 1816. The Signet Classic text\nis based on the first edition, published by John Murray, London, in\n1818--the year following Miss Austen's death. Spelling and punctuation\nhave been largely brought into conformity with modern British usage.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nMANSFIELD PARK\n\n(1814)\n\n\nBy Jane Austen\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nAbout thirty years ago Miss Maria Ward, of Huntingdon, with only seven\nthousand pounds, had the good luck to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of\nMansfield Park, in the county of Northampton, and to be thereby raised\nto the rank of a baronet's lady, with all the comforts and consequences\nof an handsome house and large income. All Huntingdon exclaimed on the\ngreatness of the match, and her uncle, the lawyer, himself, allowed her\nto be at least three thousand pounds short of any equitable claim to it.\nShe had two sisters to be benefited by her elevation; and such of their\nacquaintance as thought Miss Ward and Miss Frances quite as handsome as\nMiss Maria, did not scruple to predict their marrying with almost equal\nadvantage. But there certainly are not so many men of large fortune in\nthe world as there are pretty women to deserve them. Miss Ward, at the\nend of half a dozen years, found herself obliged to be attached to\nthe Rev. Mr. Norris, a friend of her brother-in-law, with scarcely any\nprivate fortune, and Miss Frances fared yet worse. Miss Ward's match,\nindeed, when it came to the point, was not contemptible: Sir Thomas\nbeing happily able to give his friend an income in the living of\nMansfield; and Mr. and Mrs. Norris began their career of conjugal\nfelicity with very little less than a thousand a year. But Miss Frances\nmarried, in the common phrase, to disoblige her family, and by fixing on\na lieutenant of marines, without education, fortune, or connexions, did\nit very thoroughly. She could hardly have made a more untoward choice.\nSir Thomas Bertram had interest, which, from principle as well as\npride--from a general wish of doing right, and a desire of seeing all\nthat were connected with him in situations of respectability, he would\nhave been glad to exert for the advantage of Lady Bertram's sister; but\nher husband's profession was such as no interest could reach; and before\nhe had time to devise any other method of assisting them, an absolute\nbreach between the sisters had taken place. It was the natural result of\nthe conduct of each party, and such as a very imprudent marriage almost\nalways produces. To save herself from useless remonstrance, Mrs. Price\nnever wrote to her family on the subject till actually married. Lady\nBertram, who was a woman of very tranquil feelings, and a temper\nremarkably easy and indolent, would have contented herself with merely\ngiving up her sister, and thinking no more of the matter; but Mrs.\nNorris had a spirit of activity, which could not be satisfied till she\nhad written a long and angry letter to Fanny, to point out the folly of\nher conduct, and threaten her with all its possible ill consequences.\nMrs. Price, in her turn, was injured and angry; and an answer, which\ncomprehended each sister in its bitterness, and bestowed such very\ndisrespectful reflections on the pride of Sir Thomas as Mrs. Norris\ncould not possibly keep to herself, put an end to all intercourse\nbetween them for a considerable period.\n\nTheir homes were so distant, and the circles in which they moved so\ndistinct, as almost to preclude the means of ever hearing of each\nother's existence during the eleven following years, or, at least, to\nmake it very wonderful to Sir Thomas that Mrs. Norris should ever have\nit in her power to tell them, as she now and then did, in an angry\nvoice, that Fanny had got another child. By the end of eleven years,\nhowever, Mrs. Price could no longer afford to cherish pride or\nresentment, or to lose one connexion that might possibly assist her.\nA large and still increasing family, an husband disabled for active\nservice, but not the less equal to company and good liquor, and a very\nsmall income to supply their wants, made her eager to regain the friends\nshe had so carelessly sacrificed; and she addressed Lady Bertram in\na letter which spoke so much contrition and despondence, such a\nsuperfluity of children, and such a want of almost everything else, as\ncould not but dispose them all to a reconciliation. She was preparing\nfor her ninth lying-in; and after bewailing the circumstance, and\nimploring their countenance as sponsors to the expected child, she\ncould not conceal how important she felt they might be to the future\nmaintenance of the eight already in being. Her eldest was a boy of ten\nyears old, a fine spirited fellow, who longed to be out in the world;\nbut what could she do? Was there any chance of his being hereafter\nuseful to Sir Thomas in the concerns of his West Indian property?\nNo situation would be beneath him; or what did Sir Thomas think of\nWoolwich? or how could a boy be sent out to the East?\n\nThe letter was not unproductive. It re-established peace and kindness.\nSir Thomas sent friendly advice and professions, Lady Bertram dispatched\nmoney and baby-linen, and Mrs. Norris wrote the letters.\n\nSuch were its immediate effects, and within a twelvemonth a more\nimportant advantage to Mrs. Price resulted from it. Mrs. Norris was\noften observing to the others that she could not get her poor sister and\nher family out of her head, and that, much as they had all done for her,\nshe seemed to be wanting to do more; and at length she could not but\nown it to be her wish that poor Mrs. Price should be relieved from the\ncharge and expense of one child entirely out of her great number. \"What\nif they were among them to undertake the care of her eldest daughter,\na girl now nine years old, of an age to require more attention than her\npoor mother could possibly give? The trouble and expense of it to them\nwould be nothing, compared with the benevolence of the action.\" Lady\nBertram agreed with her instantly. \"I think we cannot do better,\" said\nshe; \"let us send for the child.\"\n\nSir Thomas could not give so instantaneous and unqualified a consent. He\ndebated and hesitated;--it was a serious charge;--a girl so brought up\nmust be adequately provided for, or there would be cruelty instead\nof kindness in taking her from her family. He thought of his own four\nchildren, of his two sons, of cousins in love, etc.;--but no sooner\nhad he deliberately begun to state his objections, than Mrs. Norris\ninterrupted him with a reply to them all, whether stated or not.\n\n\"My dear Sir Thomas, I perfectly comprehend you, and do justice to the\ngenerosity and delicacy of your notions, which indeed are quite of a\npiece with your general conduct; and I entirely agree with you in\nthe main as to the propriety of doing everything one could by way of\nproviding for a child one had in a manner taken into one's own hands;\nand I am sure I should be the last person in the world to withhold my\nmite upon such an occasion. Having no children of my own, who should I\nlook to in any little matter I may ever have to bestow, but the children\nof my sisters?--and I am sure Mr. Norris is too just--but you know I am\na woman of few words and professions. Do not let us be frightened from\na good deed by a trifle. Give a girl an education, and introduce\nher properly into the world, and ten to one but she has the means of\nsettling well, without farther expense to anybody. A niece of ours, Sir\nThomas, I may say, or at least of _yours_, would not grow up in this\nneighbourhood without many advantages. I don't say she would be so\nhandsome as her cousins. I dare say she would not; but she would be\nintroduced into the society of this country under such very favourable\ncircumstances as, in all human probability, would get her a creditable\nestablishment. You are thinking of your sons--but do not you know that,\nof all things upon earth, _that_ is the least likely to happen, brought\nup as they would be, always together like brothers and sisters? It is\nmorally impossible. I never knew an instance of it. It is, in fact, the\nonly sure way of providing against the connexion. Suppose her a pretty\ngirl, and seen by Tom or Edmund for the first time seven years hence,\nand I dare say there would be mischief. The very idea of her having been\nsuffered to grow up at a distance from us all in poverty and neglect,\nwould be enough to make either of the dear, sweet-tempered boys in love\nwith her. But breed her up with them from this time, and suppose her\neven to have the beauty of an angel, and she will never be more to\neither than a sister.\"\n\n\"There is a great deal of truth in what you say,\" replied Sir Thomas,\n\"and far be it from me to throw any fanciful impediment in the way of a\nplan which would be so consistent with the relative situations of each.\nI only meant to observe that it ought not to be lightly engaged in,\nand that to make it really serviceable to Mrs. Price, and creditable to\nourselves, we must secure to the child, or consider ourselves engaged to\nsecure to her hereafter, as circumstances may arise, the provision of\na gentlewoman, if no such establishment should offer as you are so\nsanguine in expecting.\"\n\n\"I thoroughly understand you,\" cried Mrs. Norris, \"you are everything\nthat is generous and considerate, and I am sure we shall never disagree\non this point. Whatever I can do, as you well know, I am always ready\nenough to do for the good of those I love; and, though I could never\nfeel for this little girl the hundredth part of the regard I bear your\nown dear children, nor consider her, in any respect, so much my own,\nI should hate myself if I were capable of neglecting her. Is not she a\nsister's child? and could I bear to see her want while I had a bit of\nbread to give her? My dear Sir Thomas, with all my faults I have a warm\nheart; and, poor as I am, would rather deny myself the necessaries of\nlife than do an ungenerous thing. So, if you are not against it, I will\nwrite to my poor sister tomorrow, and make the proposal; and, as soon\nas matters are settled, _I_ will engage to get the child to Mansfield;\n_you_ shall have no trouble about it. My own trouble, you know, I never\nregard. I will send Nanny to London on purpose, and she may have a bed\nat her cousin the saddler's, and the child be appointed to meet her\nthere. They may easily get her from Portsmouth to town by the coach,\nunder the care of any creditable person that may chance to be going. I\ndare say there is always some reputable tradesman's wife or other going\nup.\"\n\nExcept to the attack on Nanny's cousin, Sir Thomas no longer made any\nobjection, and a more respectable, though less economical rendezvous\nbeing accordingly substituted, everything was considered as settled,\nand the pleasures of so benevolent a scheme were already enjoyed. The\ndivision of gratifying sensations ought not, in strict justice, to\nhave been equal; for Sir Thomas was fully resolved to be the real and\nconsistent patron of the selected child, and Mrs. Norris had not the\nleast intention of being at any expense whatever in her maintenance.\nAs far as walking, talking, and contriving reached, she was thoroughly\nbenevolent, and nobody knew better how to dictate liberality to others;\nbut her love of money was equal to her love of directing, and she knew\nquite as well how to save her own as to spend that of her friends.\nHaving married on a narrower income than she had been used to look\nforward to, she had, from the first, fancied a very strict line of\neconomy necessary; and what was begun as a matter of prudence, soon grew\ninto a matter of choice, as an object of that needful solicitude which\nthere were no children to supply. Had there been a family to provide\nfor, Mrs. Norris might never have saved her money; but having no care\nof that kind, there was nothing to impede her frugality, or lessen the\ncomfort of making a yearly addition to an income which they had never\nlived up to. Under this infatuating principle, counteracted by no real\naffection for her sister, it was impossible for her to aim at more than\nthe credit of projecting and arranging so expensive a charity; though\nperhaps she might so little know herself as to walk home to the\nParsonage, after this conversation, in the happy belief of being the\nmost liberal-minded sister and aunt in the world.\n\nWhen the subject was brought forward again, her views were more fully\nexplained; and, in reply to Lady Bertram's calm inquiry of \"Where shall\nthe child come to first, sister, to you or to us?\" Sir Thomas heard with\nsome surprise that it would be totally out of Mrs. Norris's power to\ntake any share in the personal charge of her. He had been considering\nher as a particularly welcome addition at the Parsonage, as a desirable\ncompanion to an aunt who had no children of her own; but he found\nhimself wholly mistaken. Mrs. Norris was sorry to say that the little\ngirl's staying with them, at least as things then were, was quite out of\nthe question. Poor Mr. Norris's indifferent state of health made it an\nimpossibility: he could no more bear the noise of a child than he could\nfly; if, indeed, he should ever get well of his gouty complaints, it\nwould be a different matter: she should then be glad to take her turn,\nand think nothing of the inconvenience; but just now, poor Mr. Norris\ntook up every moment of her time, and the very mention of such a thing\nshe was sure would distract him.\n\n\"Then she had better come to us,\" said Lady Bertram, with the utmost\ncomposure. After a short pause Sir Thomas added with dignity, \"Yes, let\nher home be in this house. We will endeavour to do our duty by her, and\nshe will, at least, have the advantage of companions of her own age, and\nof a regular instructress.\"\n\n\"Very true,\" cried Mrs. Norris, \"which are both very important\nconsiderations; and it will be just the same to Miss Lee whether she has\nthree girls to teach, or only two--there can be no difference. I only\nwish I could be more useful; but you see I do all in my power. I am not\none of those that spare their own trouble; and Nanny shall fetch her,\nhowever it may put me to inconvenience to have my chief counsellor away\nfor three days. I suppose, sister, you will put the child in the little\nwhite attic, near the old nurseries. It will be much the best place\nfor her, so near Miss Lee, and not far from the girls, and close by the\nhousemaids, who could either of them help to dress her, you know, and\ntake care of her clothes, for I suppose you would not think it fair to\nexpect Ellis to wait on her as well as the others. Indeed, I do not see\nthat you could possibly place her anywhere else.\"\n\nLady Bertram made no opposition.\n\n\"I hope she will prove a well-disposed girl,\" continued Mrs. Norris,\n\"and be sensible of her uncommon good fortune in having such friends.\"\n\n\"Should her disposition be really bad,\" said Sir Thomas, \"we must not,\nfor our own children's sake, continue her in the family; but there is\nno reason to expect so great an evil. We shall probably see much to wish\naltered in her, and must prepare ourselves for gross ignorance, some\nmeanness of opinions, and very distressing vulgarity of manner; but\nthese are not incurable faults; nor, I trust, can they be dangerous for\nher associates. Had my daughters been _younger_ than herself, I should\nhave considered the introduction of such a companion as a matter of very\nserious moment; but, as it is, I hope there can be nothing to fear for\n_them_, and everything to hope for _her_, from the association.\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I think,\" cried Mrs. Norris, \"and what I was\nsaying to my husband this morning. It will be an education for the\nchild, said I, only being with her cousins; if Miss Lee taught her\nnothing, she would learn to be good and clever from _them_.\"\n\n\"I hope she will not tease my poor pug,\" said Lady Bertram; \"I have but\njust got Julia to leave it alone.\"\n\n\"There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs. Norris,\" observed Sir\nThomas, \"as to the distinction proper to be made between the girls\nas they grow up: how to preserve in the minds of my _daughters_ the\nconsciousness of what they are, without making them think too lowly of\ntheir cousin; and how, without depressing her spirits too far, to make\nher remember that she is not a _Miss Bertram_. I should wish to see them\nvery good friends, and would, on no account, authorise in my girls the\nsmallest degree of arrogance towards their relation; but still they\ncannot be equals. Their rank, fortune, rights, and expectations will\nalways be different. It is a point of great delicacy, and you must\nassist us in our endeavours to choose exactly the right line of\nconduct.\"\n\nMrs. Norris was quite at his service; and though she perfectly agreed\nwith him as to its being a most difficult thing, encouraged him to hope\nthat between them it would be easily managed.\n\nIt will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris did not write to her sister\nin vain. Mrs. Price seemed rather surprised that a girl should be\nfixed on, when she had so many fine boys, but accepted the offer most\nthankfully, assuring them of her daughter's being a very well-disposed,\ngood-humoured girl, and trusting they would never have cause to throw\nher off. She spoke of her farther as somewhat delicate and puny, but was\nsanguine in the hope of her being materially better for change of air.\nPoor woman! she probably thought change of air might agree with many of\nher children.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nThe little girl performed her long journey in safety; and at Northampton\nwas met by Mrs. Norris, who thus regaled in the credit of being foremost\nto welcome her, and in the importance of leading her in to the others,\nand recommending her to their kindness.\n\nFanny Price was at this time just ten years old, and though there might\nnot be much in her first appearance to captivate, there was, at least,\nnothing to disgust her relations. She was small of her age, with no glow\nof complexion, nor any other striking beauty; exceedingly timid and shy,\nand shrinking from notice; but her air, though awkward, was not vulgar,\nher voice was sweet, and when she spoke her countenance was pretty. Sir\nThomas and Lady Bertram received her very kindly; and Sir Thomas,\nseeing how much she needed encouragement, tried to be all that was\nconciliating: but he had to work against a most untoward gravity of\ndeportment; and Lady Bertram, without taking half so much trouble, or\nspeaking one word where he spoke ten, by the mere aid of a good-humoured\nsmile, became immediately the less awful character of the two.\n\nThe young people were all at home, and sustained their share in the\nintroduction very well, with much good humour, and no embarrassment, at\nleast on the part of the sons, who, at seventeen and sixteen, and tall\nof their age, had all the grandeur of men in the eyes of their little\ncousin. The two girls were more at a loss from being younger and in\ngreater awe of their father, who addressed them on the occasion with\nrather an injudicious particularity. But they were too much used to\ncompany and praise to have anything like natural shyness; and their\nconfidence increasing from their cousin's total want of it, they were\nsoon able to take a full survey of her face and her frock in easy\nindifference.\n\nThey were a remarkably fine family, the sons very well-looking, the\ndaughters decidedly handsome, and all of them well-grown and forward of\ntheir age, which produced as striking a difference between the cousins\nin person, as education had given to their address; and no one would\nhave supposed the girls so nearly of an age as they really were. There\nwere in fact but two years between the youngest and Fanny. Julia\nBertram was only twelve, and Maria but a year older. The little visitor\nmeanwhile was as unhappy as possible. Afraid of everybody, ashamed of\nherself, and longing for the home she had left, she knew not how to look\nup, and could scarcely speak to be heard, or without crying. Mrs. Norris\nhad been talking to her the whole way from Northampton of her wonderful\ngood fortune, and the extraordinary degree of gratitude and good\nbehaviour which it ought to produce, and her consciousness of misery was\ntherefore increased by the idea of its being a wicked thing for her\nnot to be happy. The fatigue, too, of so long a journey, became soon no\ntrifling evil. In vain were the well-meant condescensions of Sir Thomas,\nand all the officious prognostications of Mrs. Norris that she would be\na good girl; in vain did Lady Bertram smile and make her sit on the sofa\nwith herself and pug, and vain was even the sight of a gooseberry tart\ntowards giving her comfort; she could scarcely swallow two mouthfuls\nbefore tears interrupted her, and sleep seeming to be her likeliest\nfriend, she was taken to finish her sorrows in bed.\n\n\"This is not a very promising beginning,\" said Mrs. Norris, when Fanny\nhad left the room. \"After all that I said to her as we came along, I\nthought she would have behaved better; I told her how much might depend\nupon her acquitting herself well at first. I wish there may not be a\nlittle sulkiness of temper--her poor mother had a good deal; but we must\nmake allowances for such a child--and I do not know that her being sorry\nto leave her home is really against her, for, with all its faults,\nit _was_ her home, and she cannot as yet understand how much she has\nchanged for the better; but then there is moderation in all things.\"\n\nIt required a longer time, however, than Mrs. Norris was inclined to\nallow, to reconcile Fanny to the novelty of Mansfield Park, and the\nseparation from everybody she had been used to. Her feelings were very\nacute, and too little understood to be properly attended to. Nobody\nmeant to be unkind, but nobody put themselves out of their way to secure\nher comfort.\n\nThe holiday allowed to the Miss Bertrams the next day, on purpose to\nafford leisure for getting acquainted with, and entertaining their young\ncousin, produced little union. They could not but hold her cheap on\nfinding that she had but two sashes, and had never learned French; and\nwhen they perceived her to be little struck with the duet they were so\ngood as to play, they could do no more than make her a generous present\nof some of their least valued toys, and leave her to herself, while\nthey adjourned to whatever might be the favourite holiday sport of the\nmoment, making artificial flowers or wasting gold paper.\n\nFanny, whether near or from her cousins, whether in the schoolroom, the\ndrawing-room, or the shrubbery, was equally forlorn, finding something\nto fear in every person and place. She was disheartened by Lady\nBertram's silence, awed by Sir Thomas's grave looks, and quite overcome\nby Mrs. Norris's admonitions. Her elder cousins mortified her by\nreflections on her size, and abashed her by noticing her shyness: Miss\nLee wondered at her ignorance, and the maid-servants sneered at her\nclothes; and when to these sorrows was added the idea of the brothers\nand sisters among whom she had always been important as playfellow,\ninstructress, and nurse, the despondence that sunk her little heart was\nsevere.\n\nThe grandeur of the house astonished, but could not console her. The\nrooms were too large for her to move in with ease: whatever she touched\nshe expected to injure, and she crept about in constant terror of\nsomething or other; often retreating towards her own chamber to cry; and\nthe little girl who was spoken of in the drawing-room when she left it\nat night as seeming so desirably sensible of her peculiar good fortune,\nended every day's sorrows by sobbing herself to sleep. A week had\npassed in this way, and no suspicion of it conveyed by her quiet\npassive manner, when she was found one morning by her cousin Edmund, the\nyoungest of the sons, sitting crying on the attic stairs.\n\n\"My dear little cousin,\" said he, with all the gentleness of an\nexcellent nature, \"what can be the matter?\" And sitting down by her,\nhe was at great pains to overcome her shame in being so surprised, and\npersuade her to speak openly. Was she ill? or was anybody angry with\nher? or had she quarrelled with Maria and Julia? or was she puzzled\nabout anything in her lesson that he could explain? Did she, in short,\nwant anything he could possibly get her, or do for her? For a long while\nno answer could be obtained beyond a \"no, no--not at all--no, thank\nyou\"; but he still persevered; and no sooner had he begun to revert\nto her own home, than her increased sobs explained to him where the\ngrievance lay. He tried to console her.\n\n\"You are sorry to leave Mama, my dear little Fanny,\" said he, \"which\nshows you to be a very good girl; but you must remember that you are\nwith relations and friends, who all love you, and wish to make you\nhappy. Let us walk out in the park, and you shall tell me all about your\nbrothers and sisters.\"\n\nOn pursuing the subject, he found that, dear as all these brothers and\nsisters generally were, there was one among them who ran more in her\nthoughts than the rest. It was William whom she talked of most, and\nwanted most to see. William, the eldest, a year older than herself, her\nconstant companion and friend; her advocate with her mother (of whom\nhe was the darling) in every distress. \"William did not like she should\ncome away; he had told her he should miss her very much indeed.\" \"But\nWilliam will write to you, I dare say.\" \"Yes, he had promised he would,\nbut he had told _her_ to write first.\" \"And when shall you do it?\" She\nhung her head and answered hesitatingly, \"she did not know; she had not\nany paper.\"\n\n\"If that be all your difficulty, I will furnish you with paper and every\nother material, and you may write your letter whenever you choose. Would\nit make you happy to write to William?\"\n\n\"Yes, very.\"\n\n\"Then let it be done now. Come with me into the breakfast-room, we shall\nfind everything there, and be sure of having the room to ourselves.\"\n\n\"But, cousin, will it go to the post?\"\n\n\"Yes, depend upon me it shall: it shall go with the other letters; and,\nas your uncle will frank it, it will cost William nothing.\"\n\n\"My uncle!\" repeated Fanny, with a frightened look.\n\n\"Yes, when you have written the letter, I will take it to my father to\nfrank.\"\n\nFanny thought it a bold measure, but offered no further resistance; and\nthey went together into the breakfast-room, where Edmund prepared her\npaper, and ruled her lines with all the goodwill that her brother\ncould himself have felt, and probably with somewhat more exactness. He\ncontinued with her the whole time of her writing, to assist her with his\npenknife or his orthography, as either were wanted; and added to these\nattentions, which she felt very much, a kindness to her brother which\ndelighted her beyond all the rest. He wrote with his own hand his\nlove to his cousin William, and sent him half a guinea under the seal.\nFanny's feelings on the occasion were such as she believed herself\nincapable of expressing; but her countenance and a few artless words\nfully conveyed all their gratitude and delight, and her cousin began\nto find her an interesting object. He talked to her more, and, from all\nthat she said, was convinced of her having an affectionate heart, and\na strong desire of doing right; and he could perceive her to be farther\nentitled to attention by great sensibility of her situation, and great\ntimidity. He had never knowingly given her pain, but he now felt that\nshe required more positive kindness; and with that view endeavoured,\nin the first place, to lessen her fears of them all, and gave her\nespecially a great deal of good advice as to playing with Maria and\nJulia, and being as merry as possible.\n\nFrom this day Fanny grew more comfortable. She felt that she had a\nfriend, and the kindness of her cousin Edmund gave her better spirits\nwith everybody else. The place became less strange, and the people less\nformidable; and if there were some amongst them whom she could not cease\nto fear, she began at least to know their ways, and to catch the best\nmanner of conforming to them. The little rusticities and awkwardnesses\nwhich had at first made grievous inroads on the tranquillity of all,\nand not least of herself, necessarily wore away, and she was no longer\nmaterially afraid to appear before her uncle, nor did her aunt Norris's\nvoice make her start very much. To her cousins she became occasionally\nan acceptable companion. Though unworthy, from inferiority of age and\nstrength, to be their constant associate, their pleasures and schemes\nwere sometimes of a nature to make a third very useful, especially when\nthat third was of an obliging, yielding temper; and they could not but\nown, when their aunt inquired into her faults, or their brother Edmund\nurged her claims to their kindness, that \"Fanny was good-natured\nenough.\"\n\nEdmund was uniformly kind himself; and she had nothing worse to endure\non the part of Tom than that sort of merriment which a young man of\nseventeen will always think fair with a child of ten. He was just\nentering into life, full of spirits, and with all the liberal\ndispositions of an eldest son, who feels born only for expense and\nenjoyment. His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his\nsituation and rights: he made her some very pretty presents, and laughed\nat her.\n\nAs her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris\nthought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan; and it\nwas pretty soon decided between them that, though far from clever, she\nshowed a tractable disposition, and seemed likely to give them little\ntrouble. A mean opinion of her abilities was not confined to _them_.\nFanny could read, work, and write, but she had been taught nothing more;\nand as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which they had\nbeen long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and for the\nfirst two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh report of\nit into the drawing-room. \"Dear mama, only think, my cousin cannot\nput the map of Europe together--or my cousin cannot tell the principal\nrivers in Russia--or, she never heard of Asia Minor--or she does\nnot know the difference between water-colours and crayons!--How\nstrange!--Did you ever hear anything so stupid?\"\n\n\"My dear,\" their considerate aunt would reply, \"it is very bad, but\nyou must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as\nyourself.\"\n\n\"But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant!--Do you know, we asked her\nlast night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she\nshould cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle of\nWight, and she calls it _the_ _Island_, as if there were no other island\nin the world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if I had\nnot known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot remember\nthe time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the least\nnotion of yet. How long ago it is, aunt, since we used to repeat the\nchronological order of the kings of England, with the dates of their\naccession, and most of the principal events of their reigns!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" added the other; \"and of the Roman emperors as low as Severus;\nbesides a great deal of the heathen mythology, and all the metals,\nsemi-metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers.\"\n\n\"Very true indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with wonderful\nmemories, and your poor cousin has probably none at all. There is a\nvast deal of difference in memories, as well as in everything else,\nand therefore you must make allowance for your cousin, and pity her\ndeficiency. And remember that, if you are ever so forward and clever\nyourselves, you should always be modest; for, much as you know already,\nthere is a great deal more for you to learn.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen. But I must tell you another\nthing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid. Do you know, she says she does not\nwant to learn either music or drawing.\"\n\n\"To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great\nwant of genius and emulation. But, all things considered, I do not know\nwhether it is not as well that it should be so, for, though you know\n(owing to me) your papa and mama are so good as to bring her up with\nyou, it is not at all necessary that she should be as accomplished as\nyou are;--on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there should\nbe a difference.\"\n\nSuch were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted to form her nieces'\nminds; and it is not very wonderful that, with all their promising\ntalents and early information, they should be entirely deficient in the\nless common acquirements of self-knowledge, generosity and humility. In\neverything but disposition they were admirably taught. Sir Thomas did\nnot know what was wanting, because, though a truly anxious father, he\nwas not outwardly affectionate, and the reserve of his manner repressed\nall the flow of their spirits before him.\n\nTo the education of her daughters Lady Bertram paid not the smallest\nattention. She had not time for such cares. She was a woman who spent\nher days in sitting, nicely dressed, on a sofa, doing some long piece of\nneedlework, of little use and no beauty, thinking more of her pug than\nher children, but very indulgent to the latter when it did not put\nherself to inconvenience, guided in everything important by Sir Thomas,\nand in smaller concerns by her sister. Had she possessed greater leisure\nfor the service of her girls, she would probably have supposed it\nunnecessary, for they were under the care of a governess, with proper\nmasters, and could want nothing more. As for Fanny's being stupid at\nlearning, \"she could only say it was very unlucky, but some people\n_were_ stupid, and Fanny must take more pains: she did not know what\nelse was to be done; and, except her being so dull, she must add she saw\nno harm in the poor little thing, and always found her very handy and\nquick in carrying messages, and fetching what she wanted.\"\n\nFanny, with all her faults of ignorance and timidity, was fixed at\nMansfield Park, and learning to transfer in its favour much of her\nattachment to her former home, grew up there not unhappily among her\ncousins. There was no positive ill-nature in Maria or Julia; and though\nFanny was often mortified by their treatment of her, she thought too\nlowly of her own claims to feel injured by it.\n\nFrom about the time of her entering the family, Lady Bertram, in\nconsequence of a little ill-health, and a great deal of indolence, gave\nup the house in town, which she had been used to occupy every spring,\nand remained wholly in the country, leaving Sir Thomas to attend his\nduty in Parliament, with whatever increase or diminution of comfort\nmight arise from her absence. In the country, therefore, the Miss\nBertrams continued to exercise their memories, practise their duets,\nand grow tall and womanly: and their father saw them becoming in person,\nmanner, and accomplishments, everything that could satisfy his anxiety.\nHis eldest son was careless and extravagant, and had already given him\nmuch uneasiness; but his other children promised him nothing but good.\nHis daughters, he felt, while they retained the name of Bertram, must\nbe giving it new grace, and in quitting it, he trusted, would extend\nits respectable alliances; and the character of Edmund, his strong good\nsense and uprightness of mind, bid most fairly for utility, honour, and\nhappiness to himself and all his connexions. He was to be a clergyman.\n\nAmid the cares and the complacency which his own children suggested,\nSir Thomas did not forget to do what he could for the children of Mrs.\nPrice: he assisted her liberally in the education and disposal of her\nsons as they became old enough for a determinate pursuit; and Fanny,\nthough almost totally separated from her family, was sensible of the\ntruest satisfaction in hearing of any kindness towards them, or of\nanything at all promising in their situation or conduct. Once, and once\nonly, in the course of many years, had she the happiness of being with\nWilliam. Of the rest she saw nothing: nobody seemed to think of her ever\ngoing amongst them again, even for a visit, nobody at home seemed to\nwant her; but William determining, soon after her removal, to be a\nsailor, was invited to spend a week with his sister in Northamptonshire\nbefore he went to sea. Their eager affection in meeting, their exquisite\ndelight in being together, their hours of happy mirth, and moments of\nserious conference, may be imagined; as well as the sanguine views and\nspirits of the boy even to the last, and the misery of the girl when he\nleft her. Luckily the visit happened in the Christmas holidays, when she\ncould directly look for comfort to her cousin Edmund; and he told her\nsuch charming things of what William was to do, and be hereafter, in\nconsequence of his profession, as made her gradually admit that the\nseparation might have some use. Edmund's friendship never failed her:\nhis leaving Eton for Oxford made no change in his kind dispositions, and\nonly afforded more frequent opportunities of proving them. Without any\ndisplay of doing more than the rest, or any fear of doing too much,\nhe was always true to her interests, and considerate of her feelings,\ntrying to make her good qualities understood, and to conquer the\ndiffidence which prevented their being more apparent; giving her advice,\nconsolation, and encouragement.\n\nKept back as she was by everybody else, his single support could not\nbring her forward; but his attentions were otherwise of the highest\nimportance in assisting the improvement of her mind, and extending its\npleasures. He knew her to be clever, to have a quick apprehension\nas well as good sense, and a fondness for reading, which, properly\ndirected, must be an education in itself. Miss Lee taught her French,\nand heard her read the daily portion of history; but he recommended\nthe books which charmed her leisure hours, he encouraged her taste, and\ncorrected her judgment: he made reading useful by talking to her of what\nshe read, and heightened its attraction by judicious praise. In return\nfor such services she loved him better than anybody in the world except\nWilliam: her heart was divided between the two.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nThe first event of any importance in the family was the death of Mr.\nNorris, which happened when Fanny was about fifteen, and necessarily\nintroduced alterations and novelties. Mrs. Norris, on quitting the\nParsonage, removed first to the Park, and afterwards to a small house\nof Sir Thomas's in the village, and consoled herself for the loss of her\nhusband by considering that she could do very well without him; and for\nher reduction of income by the evident necessity of stricter economy.\n\nThe living was hereafter for Edmund; and, had his uncle died a few years\nsooner, it would have been duly given to some friend to hold till he\nwere old enough for orders. But Tom's extravagance had, previous to\nthat event, been so great as to render a different disposal of the next\npresentation necessary, and the younger brother must help to pay for the\npleasures of the elder. There was another family living actually held\nfor Edmund; but though this circumstance had made the arrangement\nsomewhat easier to Sir Thomas's conscience, he could not but feel it to\nbe an act of injustice, and he earnestly tried to impress his eldest son\nwith the same conviction, in the hope of its producing a better effect\nthan anything he had yet been able to say or do.\n\n\"I blush for you, Tom,\" said he, in his most dignified manner; \"I blush\nfor the expedient which I am driven on, and I trust I may pity your\nfeelings as a brother on the occasion. You have robbed Edmund for ten,\ntwenty, thirty years, perhaps for life, of more than half the income\nwhich ought to be his. It may hereafter be in my power, or in yours\n(I hope it will), to procure him better preferment; but it must not\nbe forgotten that no benefit of that sort would have been beyond his\nnatural claims on us, and that nothing can, in fact, be an equivalent\nfor the certain advantage which he is now obliged to forego through the\nurgency of your debts.\"\n\nTom listened with some shame and some sorrow; but escaping as quickly as\npossible, could soon with cheerful selfishness reflect, firstly, that he\nhad not been half so much in debt as some of his friends; secondly, that\nhis father had made a most tiresome piece of work of it; and,\nthirdly, that the future incumbent, whoever he might be, would, in all\nprobability, die very soon.\n\nOn Mr. Norris's death the presentation became the right of a Dr. Grant,\nwho came consequently to reside at Mansfield; and on proving to be a\nhearty man of forty-five, seemed likely to disappoint Mr. Bertram's\ncalculations. But \"no, he was a short-necked, apoplectic sort of fellow,\nand, plied well with good things, would soon pop off.\"\n\nHe had a wife about fifteen years his junior, but no children; and\nthey entered the neighbourhood with the usual fair report of being very\nrespectable, agreeable people.\n\nThe time was now come when Sir Thomas expected his sister-in-law to\nclaim her share in their niece, the change in Mrs. Norris's situation,\nand the improvement in Fanny's age, seeming not merely to do away any\nformer objection to their living together, but even to give it the most\ndecided eligibility; and as his own circumstances were rendered less\nfair than heretofore, by some recent losses on his West India estate, in\naddition to his eldest son's extravagance, it became not undesirable\nto himself to be relieved from the expense of her support, and the\nobligation of her future provision. In the fullness of his belief that\nsuch a thing must be, he mentioned its probability to his wife; and the\nfirst time of the subject's occurring to her again happening to be when\nFanny was present, she calmly observed to her, \"So, Fanny, you are going\nto leave us, and live with my sister. How shall you like it?\"\n\nFanny was too much surprised to do more than repeat her aunt's words,\n\"Going to leave you?\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished? You have been five years\nwith us, and my sister always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died.\nBut you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same.\"\n\nThe news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She had\nnever received kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love her.\n\n\"I shall be very sorry to go away,\" said she, with a faltering voice.\n\n\"Yes, I dare say you will; _that's_ natural enough. I suppose you have\nhad as little to vex you since you came into this house as any creature\nin the world.\"\n\n\"I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt,\" said Fanny modestly.\n\n\"No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good girl.\"\n\n\"And am I never to live here again?\"\n\n\"Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make\nvery little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the\nother.\"\n\nFanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the\ndifference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt\nwith anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she told\nhim her distress.\n\n\"Cousin,\" said she, \"something is going to happen which I do not like\nat all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to\nthings that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I am\ngoing to live entirely with my aunt Norris.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\"\n\n\"Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to\nleave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as\nshe is removed there.\"\n\n\"Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call\nit an excellent one.\"\n\n\"Oh, cousin!\"\n\n\"It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a sensible\nwoman in wishing for you. She is choosing a friend and companion exactly\nwhere she ought, and I am glad her love of money does not interfere.\nYou will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does not distress you\nvery much, Fanny?\"\n\n\"Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and everything in\nit: I shall love nothing there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with\nher.\"\n\n\"I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child; but it was the\nsame with us all, or nearly so. She never knew how to be pleasant to\nchildren. But you are now of an age to be treated better; I think she is\nbehaving better already; and when you are her only companion, you _must_\nbe important to her.\"\n\n\"I can never be important to any one.\"\n\n\"What is to prevent you?\"\n\n\"Everything. My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness.\"\n\n\"As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you\nnever have a shadow of either, but in using the words so improperly.\nThere is no reason in the world why you should not be important where\nyou are known. You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure\nyou have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness without\nwishing to return it. I do not know any better qualifications for a\nfriend and companion.\"\n\n\"You are too kind,\" said Fanny, colouring at such praise; \"how shall I\never thank you as I ought, for thinking so well of me. Oh! cousin, if I\nam to go away, I shall remember your goodness to the last moment of my\nlife.\"\n\n\"Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at such a distance\nas the White House. You speak as if you were going two hundred miles\noff instead of only across the park; but you will belong to us almost\nas much as ever. The two families will be meeting every day in the\nyear. The only difference will be that, living with your aunt, you will\nnecessarily be brought forward as you ought to be. _Here_ there are\ntoo many whom you can hide behind; but with _her_ you will be forced to\nspeak for yourself.\"\n\n\"Oh! I do not say so.\"\n\n\"I must say it, and say it with pleasure. Mrs. Norris is much better\nfitted than my mother for having the charge of you now. She is of a\ntemper to do a great deal for anybody she really interests herself\nabout, and she will force you to do justice to your natural powers.\"\n\nFanny sighed, and said, \"I cannot see things as you do; but I ought to\nbelieve you to be right rather than myself, and I am very much obliged\nto you for trying to reconcile me to what must be. If I could suppose\nmy aunt really to care for me, it would be delightful to feel myself of\nconsequence to anybody. _Here_, I know, I am of none, and yet I love the\nplace so well.\"\n\n\"The place, Fanny, is what you will not quit, though you quit the house.\nYou will have as free a command of the park and gardens as ever. Even\n_your_ constant little heart need not take fright at such a nominal\nchange. You will have the same walks to frequent, the same library to\nchoose from, the same people to look at, the same horse to ride.\"\n\n\"Very true. Yes, dear old grey pony! Ah! cousin, when I remember how\nmuch I used to dread riding, what terrors it gave me to hear it talked\nof as likely to do me good (oh! how I have trembled at my uncle's\nopening his lips if horses were talked of), and then think of the kind\npains you took to reason and persuade me out of my fears, and convince\nme that I should like it after a little while, and feel how right you\nproved to be, I am inclined to hope you may always prophesy as well.\"\n\n\"And I am quite convinced that your being with Mrs. Norris will be as\ngood for your mind as riding has been for your health, and as much for\nyour ultimate happiness too.\"\n\nSo ended their discourse, which, for any very appropriate service it\ncould render Fanny, might as well have been spared, for Mrs. Norris had\nnot the smallest intention of taking her. It had never occurred to her,\non the present occasion, but as a thing to be carefully avoided. To\nprevent its being expected, she had fixed on the smallest habitation\nwhich could rank as genteel among the buildings of Mansfield parish,\nthe White House being only just large enough to receive herself and her\nservants, and allow a spare room for a friend, of which she made a\nvery particular point. The spare rooms at the Parsonage had never been\nwanted, but the absolute necessity of a spare room for a friend was now\nnever forgotten. Not all her precautions, however, could save her from\nbeing suspected of something better; or, perhaps, her very display of\nthe importance of a spare room might have misled Sir Thomas to suppose\nit really intended for Fanny. Lady Bertram soon brought the matter to a\ncertainty by carelessly observing to Mrs. Norris--\n\n\"I think, sister, we need not keep Miss Lee any longer, when Fanny goes\nto live with you.\"\n\nMrs. Norris almost started. \"Live with me, dear Lady Bertram! what do\nyou mean?\"\n\n\"Is she not to live with you? I thought you had settled it with Sir\nThomas.\"\n\n\"Me! never. I never spoke a syllable about it to Sir Thomas, nor he to\nme. Fanny live with me! the last thing in the world for me to think\nof, or for anybody to wish that really knows us both. Good heaven! what\ncould I do with Fanny? Me! a poor, helpless, forlorn widow, unfit for\nanything, my spirits quite broke down; what could I do with a girl at\nher time of life? A girl of fifteen! the very age of all others to need\nmost attention and care, and put the cheerfullest spirits to the test!\nSure Sir Thomas could not seriously expect such a thing! Sir Thomas is\ntoo much my friend. Nobody that wishes me well, I am sure, would propose\nit. How came Sir Thomas to speak to you about it?\"\n\n\"Indeed, I do not know. I suppose he thought it best.\"\n\n\"But what did he say? He could not say he _wished_ me to take Fanny. I\nam sure in his heart he could not wish me to do it.\"\n\n\"No; he only said he thought it very likely; and I thought so too. We\nboth thought it would be a comfort to you. But if you do not like it,\nthere is no more to be said. She is no encumbrance here.\"\n\n\"Dear sister, if you consider my unhappy state, how can she be any\ncomfort to me? Here am I, a poor desolate widow, deprived of the best of\nhusbands, my health gone in attending and nursing him, my spirits still\nworse, all my peace in this world destroyed, with hardly enough to\nsupport me in the rank of a gentlewoman, and enable me to live so as not\nto disgrace the memory of the dear departed--what possible comfort could\nI have in taking such a charge upon me as Fanny? If I could wish it for\nmy own sake, I would not do so unjust a thing by the poor girl. She\nis in good hands, and sure of doing well. I must struggle through my\nsorrows and difficulties as I can.\"\n\n\"Then you will not mind living by yourself quite alone?\"\n\n\"Lady Bertram, I do not complain. I know I cannot live as I have done,\nbut I must retrench where I can, and learn to be a better manager. I\n_have_ _been_ a liberal housekeeper enough, but I shall not be ashamed\nto practise economy now. My situation is as much altered as my income.\nA great many things were due from poor Mr. Norris, as clergyman of the\nparish, that cannot be expected from me. It is unknown how much was\nconsumed in our kitchen by odd comers and goers. At the White House,\nmatters must be better looked after. I _must_ live within my income, or\nI shall be miserable; and I own it would give me great satisfaction to\nbe able to do rather more, to lay by a little at the end of the year.\"\n\n\"I dare say you will. You always do, don't you?\"\n\n\"My object, Lady Bertram, is to be of use to those that come after me.\nIt is for your children's good that I wish to be richer. I have nobody\nelse to care for, but I should be very glad to think I could leave a\nlittle trifle among them worth their having.\"\n\n\"You are very good, but do not trouble yourself about them. They are\nsure of being well provided for. Sir Thomas will take care of that.\"\n\n\"Why, you know, Sir Thomas's means will be rather straitened if the\nAntigua estate is to make such poor returns.\"\n\n\"Oh! _that_ will soon be settled. Sir Thomas has been writing about it,\nI know.\"\n\n\"Well, Lady Bertram,\" said Mrs. Norris, moving to go, \"I can only say\nthat my sole desire is to be of use to your family: and so, if Sir\nThomas should ever speak again about my taking Fanny, you will be able\nto say that my health and spirits put it quite out of the question;\nbesides that, I really should not have a bed to give her, for I must\nkeep a spare room for a friend.\"\n\nLady Bertram repeated enough of this conversation to her husband to\nconvince him how much he had mistaken his sister-in-law's views; and\nshe was from that moment perfectly safe from all expectation, or the\nslightest allusion to it from him. He could not but wonder at her\nrefusing to do anything for a niece whom she had been so forward to\nadopt; but, as she took early care to make him, as well as Lady Bertram,\nunderstand that whatever she possessed was designed for their family,\nhe soon grew reconciled to a distinction which, at the same time that it\nwas advantageous and complimentary to them, would enable him better to\nprovide for Fanny himself.\n\nFanny soon learnt how unnecessary had been her fears of a removal;\nand her spontaneous, untaught felicity on the discovery, conveyed some\nconsolation to Edmund for his disappointment in what he had expected to\nbe so essentially serviceable to her. Mrs. Norris took possession of the\nWhite House, the Grants arrived at the Parsonage, and these events over,\neverything at Mansfield went on for some time as usual.\n\nThe Grants showing a disposition to be friendly and sociable, gave great\nsatisfaction in the main among their new acquaintance. They had their\nfaults, and Mrs. Norris soon found them out. The Doctor was very fond of\neating, and would have a good dinner every day; and Mrs. Grant, instead\nof contriving to gratify him at little expense, gave her cook as high\nwages as they did at Mansfield Park, and was scarcely ever seen in her\noffices. Mrs. Norris could not speak with any temper of such grievances,\nnor of the quantity of butter and eggs that were regularly consumed\nin the house. \"Nobody loved plenty and hospitality more than herself;\nnobody more hated pitiful doings; the Parsonage, she believed, had never\nbeen wanting in comforts of any sort, had never borne a bad character\nin _her_ _time_, but this was a way of going on that she could not\nunderstand. A fine lady in a country parsonage was quite out of place.\n_Her_ store-room, she thought, might have been good enough for Mrs.\nGrant to go into. Inquire where she would, she could not find out that\nMrs. Grant had ever had more than five thousand pounds.\"\n\nLady Bertram listened without much interest to this sort of invective.\nShe could not enter into the wrongs of an economist, but she felt all\nthe injuries of beauty in Mrs. Grant's being so well settled in life\nwithout being handsome, and expressed her astonishment on that point\nalmost as often, though not so diffusely, as Mrs. Norris discussed the\nother.\n\nThese opinions had been hardly canvassed a year before another event\narose of such importance in the family, as might fairly claim some place\nin the thoughts and conversation of the ladies. Sir Thomas found it\nexpedient to go to Antigua himself, for the better arrangement of his\naffairs, and he took his eldest son with him, in the hope of detaching\nhim from some bad connexions at home. They left England with the\nprobability of being nearly a twelvemonth absent.\n\nThe necessity of the measure in a pecuniary light, and the hope of its\nutility to his son, reconciled Sir Thomas to the effort of quitting the\nrest of his family, and of leaving his daughters to the direction of\nothers at their present most interesting time of life. He could not\nthink Lady Bertram quite equal to supply his place with them, or rather,\nto perform what should have been her own; but, in Mrs. Norris's watchful\nattention, and in Edmund's judgment, he had sufficient confidence to\nmake him go without fears for their conduct.\n\nLady Bertram did not at all like to have her husband leave her; but she\nwas not disturbed by any alarm for his safety, or solicitude for his\ncomfort, being one of those persons who think nothing can be dangerous,\nor difficult, or fatiguing to anybody but themselves.\n\nThe Miss Bertrams were much to be pitied on the occasion: not for their\nsorrow, but for their want of it. Their father was no object of love to\nthem; he had never seemed the friend of their pleasures, and his absence\nwas unhappily most welcome. They were relieved by it from all restraint;\nand without aiming at one gratification that would probably have been\nforbidden by Sir Thomas, they felt themselves immediately at their\nown disposal, and to have every indulgence within their reach. Fanny's\nrelief, and her consciousness of it, were quite equal to her cousins';\nbut a more tender nature suggested that her feelings were ungrateful,\nand she really grieved because she could not grieve. \"Sir Thomas, who\nhad done so much for her and her brothers, and who was gone perhaps\nnever to return! that she should see him go without a tear! it was a\nshameful insensibility.\" He had said to her, moreover, on the very last\nmorning, that he hoped she might see William again in the course of the\nensuing winter, and had charged her to write and invite him to Mansfield\nas soon as the squadron to which he belonged should be known to be\nin England. \"This was so thoughtful and kind!\" and would he only have\nsmiled upon her, and called her \"my dear Fanny,\" while he said it, every\nformer frown or cold address might have been forgotten. But he had ended\nhis speech in a way to sink her in sad mortification, by adding, \"If\nWilliam does come to Mansfield, I hope you may be able to convince him\nthat the many years which have passed since you parted have not been\nspent on your side entirely without improvement; though, I fear, he must\nfind his sister at sixteen in some respects too much like his sister at\nten.\" She cried bitterly over this reflection when her uncle was\ngone; and her cousins, on seeing her with red eyes, set her down as a\nhypocrite.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nTom Bertram had of late spent so little of his time at home that he\ncould be only nominally missed; and Lady Bertram was soon astonished\nto find how very well they did even without his father, how well Edmund\ncould supply his place in carving, talking to the steward, writing to\nthe attorney, settling with the servants, and equally saving her\nfrom all possible fatigue or exertion in every particular but that of\ndirecting her letters.\n\nThe earliest intelligence of the travellers' safe arrival at Antigua,\nafter a favourable voyage, was received; though not before Mrs. Norris\nhad been indulging in very dreadful fears, and trying to make Edmund\nparticipate them whenever she could get him alone; and as she depended\non being the first person made acquainted with any fatal catastrophe,\nshe had already arranged the manner of breaking it to all the others,\nwhen Sir Thomas's assurances of their both being alive and well made it\nnecessary to lay by her agitation and affectionate preparatory speeches\nfor a while.\n\nThe winter came and passed without their being called for; the accounts\ncontinued perfectly good; and Mrs. Norris, in promoting gaieties for her\nnieces, assisting their toilets, displaying their accomplishments,\nand looking about for their future husbands, had so much to do as, in\naddition to all her own household cares, some interference in those of\nher sister, and Mrs. Grant's wasteful doings to overlook, left her very\nlittle occasion to be occupied in fears for the absent.\n\nThe Miss Bertrams were now fully established among the belles of the\nneighbourhood; and as they joined to beauty and brilliant acquirements\na manner naturally easy, and carefully formed to general civility and\nobligingness, they possessed its favour as well as its admiration. Their\nvanity was in such good order that they seemed to be quite free from it,\nand gave themselves no airs; while the praises attending such behaviour,\nsecured and brought round by their aunt, served to strengthen them in\nbelieving they had no faults.\n\nLady Bertram did not go into public with her daughters. She was too\nindolent even to accept a mother's gratification in witnessing their\nsuccess and enjoyment at the expense of any personal trouble, and the\ncharge was made over to her sister, who desired nothing better than a\npost of such honourable representation, and very thoroughly relished\nthe means it afforded her of mixing in society without having horses to\nhire.\n\nFanny had no share in the festivities of the season; but she enjoyed\nbeing avowedly useful as her aunt's companion when they called away the\nrest of the family; and, as Miss Lee had left Mansfield, she naturally\nbecame everything to Lady Bertram during the night of a ball or a party.\nShe talked to her, listened to her, read to her; and the tranquillity\nof such evenings, her perfect security in such a _tete-a-tete_ from any\nsound of unkindness, was unspeakably welcome to a mind which had seldom\nknown a pause in its alarms or embarrassments. As to her cousins'\ngaieties, she loved to hear an account of them, especially of the\nballs, and whom Edmund had danced with; but thought too lowly of her\nown situation to imagine she should ever be admitted to the same, and\nlistened, therefore, without an idea of any nearer concern in them. Upon\nthe whole, it was a comfortable winter to her; for though it brought\nno William to England, the never-failing hope of his arrival was worth\nmuch.\n\nThe ensuing spring deprived her of her valued friend, the old grey pony;\nand for some time she was in danger of feeling the loss in her health as\nwell as in her affections; for in spite of the acknowledged importance\nof her riding on horse-back, no measures were taken for mounting her\nagain, \"because,\" as it was observed by her aunts, \"she might ride one\nof her cousin's horses at any time when they did not want them,\" and as\nthe Miss Bertrams regularly wanted their horses every fine day, and had\nno idea of carrying their obliging manners to the sacrifice of any real\npleasure, that time, of course, never came. They took their cheerful\nrides in the fine mornings of April and May; and Fanny either sat at\nhome the whole day with one aunt, or walked beyond her strength at\nthe instigation of the other: Lady Bertram holding exercise to be as\nunnecessary for everybody as it was unpleasant to herself; and Mrs.\nNorris, who was walking all day, thinking everybody ought to walk\nas much. Edmund was absent at this time, or the evil would have\nbeen earlier remedied. When he returned, to understand how Fanny was\nsituated, and perceived its ill effects, there seemed with him but one\nthing to be done; and that \"Fanny must have a horse\" was the resolute\ndeclaration with which he opposed whatever could be urged by the\nsupineness of his mother, or the economy of his aunt, to make it appear\nunimportant. Mrs. Norris could not help thinking that some steady old\nthing might be found among the numbers belonging to the Park that would\ndo vastly well; or that one might be borrowed of the steward; or that\nperhaps Dr. Grant might now and then lend them the pony he sent to the\npost. She could not but consider it as absolutely unnecessary, and even\nimproper, that Fanny should have a regular lady's horse of her own, in\nthe style of her cousins. She was sure Sir Thomas had never intended it:\nand she must say that, to be making such a purchase in his absence, and\nadding to the great expenses of his stable, at a time when a large part\nof his income was unsettled, seemed to her very unjustifiable. \"Fanny\nmust have a horse,\" was Edmund's only reply. Mrs. Norris could not see\nit in the same light. Lady Bertram did: she entirely agreed with her son\nas to the necessity of it, and as to its being considered necessary by\nhis father; she only pleaded against there being any hurry; she only\nwanted him to wait till Sir Thomas's return, and then Sir Thomas might\nsettle it all himself. He would be at home in September, and where would\nbe the harm of only waiting till September?\n\nThough Edmund was much more displeased with his aunt than with his\nmother, as evincing least regard for her niece, he could not help paying\nmore attention to what she said; and at length determined on a method of\nproceeding which would obviate the risk of his father's thinking he\nhad done too much, and at the same time procure for Fanny the immediate\nmeans of exercise, which he could not bear she should be without. He had\nthree horses of his own, but not one that would carry a woman. Two\nof them were hunters; the third, a useful road-horse: this third he\nresolved to exchange for one that his cousin might ride; he knew where\nsuch a one was to be met with; and having once made up his mind, the\nwhole business was soon completed. The new mare proved a treasure; with\na very little trouble she became exactly calculated for the purpose,\nand Fanny was then put in almost full possession of her. She had not\nsupposed before that anything could ever suit her like the old grey\npony; but her delight in Edmund's mare was far beyond any former\npleasure of the sort; and the addition it was ever receiving in the\nconsideration of that kindness from which her pleasure sprung, was\nbeyond all her words to express. She regarded her cousin as an example\nof everything good and great, as possessing worth which no one but\nherself could ever appreciate, and as entitled to such gratitude from\nher as no feelings could be strong enough to pay. Her sentiments towards\nhim were compounded of all that was respectful, grateful, confiding, and\ntender.\n\nAs the horse continued in name, as well as fact, the property of Edmund,\nMrs. Norris could tolerate its being for Fanny's use; and had Lady\nBertram ever thought about her own objection again, he might have\nbeen excused in her eyes for not waiting till Sir Thomas's return in\nSeptember, for when September came Sir Thomas was still abroad, and\nwithout any near prospect of finishing his business. Unfavourable\ncircumstances had suddenly arisen at a moment when he was beginning to\nturn all his thoughts towards England; and the very great uncertainty\nin which everything was then involved determined him on sending home his\nson, and waiting the final arrangement by himself. Tom arrived safely,\nbringing an excellent account of his father's health; but to very little\npurpose, as far as Mrs. Norris was concerned. Sir Thomas's sending away\nhis son seemed to her so like a parent's care, under the influence of a\nforeboding of evil to himself, that she could not help feeling dreadful\npresentiments; and as the long evenings of autumn came on, was so\nterribly haunted by these ideas, in the sad solitariness of her cottage,\nas to be obliged to take daily refuge in the dining-room of the Park.\nThe return of winter engagements, however, was not without its effect;\nand in the course of their progress, her mind became so pleasantly\noccupied in superintending the fortunes of her eldest niece, as\ntolerably to quiet her nerves. \"If poor Sir Thomas were fated never to\nreturn, it would be peculiarly consoling to see their dear Maria well\nmarried,\" she very often thought; always when they were in the company\nof men of fortune, and particularly on the introduction of a young man\nwho had recently succeeded to one of the largest estates and finest\nplaces in the country.\n\nMr. Rushworth was from the first struck with the beauty of Miss Bertram,\nand, being inclined to marry, soon fancied himself in love. He was\na heavy young man, with not more than common sense; but as there was\nnothing disagreeable in his figure or address, the young lady was well\npleased with her conquest. Being now in her twenty-first year, Maria\nBertram was beginning to think matrimony a duty; and as a marriage with\nMr. Rushworth would give her the enjoyment of a larger income than her\nfather's, as well as ensure her the house in town, which was now a prime\nobject, it became, by the same rule of moral obligation, her evident\nduty to marry Mr. Rushworth if she could. Mrs. Norris was most zealous\nin promoting the match, by every suggestion and contrivance likely to\nenhance its desirableness to either party; and, among other means, by\nseeking an intimacy with the gentleman's mother, who at present lived\nwith him, and to whom she even forced Lady Bertram to go through ten\nmiles of indifferent road to pay a morning visit. It was not long before\na good understanding took place between this lady and herself. Mrs.\nRushworth acknowledged herself very desirous that her son should marry,\nand declared that of all the young ladies she had ever seen, Miss\nBertram seemed, by her amiable qualities and accomplishments, the best\nadapted to make him happy. Mrs. Norris accepted the compliment,\nand admired the nice discernment of character which could so well\ndistinguish merit. Maria was indeed the pride and delight of them\nall--perfectly faultless--an angel; and, of course, so surrounded by\nadmirers, must be difficult in her choice: but yet, as far as Mrs.\nNorris could allow herself to decide on so short an acquaintance, Mr.\nRushworth appeared precisely the young man to deserve and attach her.\n\nAfter dancing with each other at a proper number of balls, the young\npeople justified these opinions, and an engagement, with a due reference\nto the absent Sir Thomas, was entered into, much to the satisfaction\nof their respective families, and of the general lookers-on of the\nneighbourhood, who had, for many weeks past, felt the expediency of Mr.\nRushworth's marrying Miss Bertram.\n\nIt was some months before Sir Thomas's consent could be received; but,\nin the meanwhile, as no one felt a doubt of his most cordial pleasure\nin the connexion, the intercourse of the two families was carried\non without restraint, and no other attempt made at secrecy than Mrs.\nNorris's talking of it everywhere as a matter not to be talked of at\npresent.\n\nEdmund was the only one of the family who could see a fault in the\nbusiness; but no representation of his aunt's could induce him to find\nMr. Rushworth a desirable companion. He could allow his sister to be\nthe best judge of her own happiness, but he was not pleased that her\nhappiness should centre in a large income; nor could he refrain from\noften saying to himself, in Mr. Rushworth's company--\"If this man had\nnot twelve thousand a year, he would be a very stupid fellow.\"\n\nSir Thomas, however, was truly happy in the prospect of an alliance\nso unquestionably advantageous, and of which he heard nothing but the\nperfectly good and agreeable. It was a connexion exactly of the right\nsort--in the same county, and the same interest--and his most hearty\nconcurrence was conveyed as soon as possible. He only conditioned that\nthe marriage should not take place before his return, which he was again\nlooking eagerly forward to. He wrote in April, and had strong hopes\nof settling everything to his entire satisfaction, and leaving Antigua\nbefore the end of the summer.\n\nSuch was the state of affairs in the month of July; and Fanny had just\nreached her eighteenth year, when the society of the village received\nan addition in the brother and sister of Mrs. Grant, a Mr. and Miss\nCrawford, the children of her mother by a second marriage. They were\nyoung people of fortune. The son had a good estate in Norfolk, the\ndaughter twenty thousand pounds. As children, their sister had been\nalways very fond of them; but, as her own marriage had been soon\nfollowed by the death of their common parent, which left them to the\ncare of a brother of their father, of whom Mrs. Grant knew nothing, she\nhad scarcely seen them since. In their uncle's house they had found a\nkind home. Admiral and Mrs. Crawford, though agreeing in nothing else,\nwere united in affection for these children, or, at least, were no\nfarther adverse in their feelings than that each had their favourite, to\nwhom they showed the greatest fondness of the two. The Admiral delighted\nin the boy, Mrs. Crawford doted on the girl; and it was the lady's death\nwhich now obliged her _protegee_, after some months' further trial at\nher uncle's house, to find another home. Admiral Crawford was a man of\nvicious conduct, who chose, instead of retaining his niece, to bring his\nmistress under his own roof; and to this Mrs. Grant was indebted for her\nsister's proposal of coming to her, a measure quite as welcome on one\nside as it could be expedient on the other; for Mrs. Grant, having by\nthis time run through the usual resources of ladies residing in the\ncountry without a family of children--having more than filled her\nfavourite sitting-room with pretty furniture, and made a choice\ncollection of plants and poultry--was very much in want of some variety\nat home. The arrival, therefore, of a sister whom she had always loved,\nand now hoped to retain with her as long as she remained single, was\nhighly agreeable; and her chief anxiety was lest Mansfield should not\nsatisfy the habits of a young woman who had been mostly used to London.\n\nMiss Crawford was not entirely free from similar apprehensions, though\nthey arose principally from doubts of her sister's style of living and\ntone of society; and it was not till after she had tried in vain to\npersuade her brother to settle with her at his own country house,\nthat she could resolve to hazard herself among her other relations. To\nanything like a permanence of abode, or limitation of society, Henry\nCrawford had, unluckily, a great dislike: he could not accommodate his\nsister in an article of such importance; but he escorted her, with the\nutmost kindness, into Northamptonshire, and as readily engaged to fetch\nher away again, at half an hour's notice, whenever she were weary of the\nplace.\n\nThe meeting was very satisfactory on each side. Miss Crawford found a\nsister without preciseness or rusticity, a sister's husband who looked\nthe gentleman, and a house commodious and well fitted up; and Mrs. Grant\nreceived in those whom she hoped to love better than ever a young man\nand woman of very prepossessing appearance. Mary Crawford was remarkably\npretty; Henry, though not handsome, had air and countenance; the manners\nof both were lively and pleasant, and Mrs. Grant immediately gave them\ncredit for everything else. She was delighted with each, but Mary was\nher dearest object; and having never been able to glory in beauty of her\nown, she thoroughly enjoyed the power of being proud of her sister's.\nShe had not waited her arrival to look out for a suitable match for her:\nshe had fixed on Tom Bertram; the eldest son of a baronet was not too\ngood for a girl of twenty thousand pounds, with all the elegance\nand accomplishments which Mrs. Grant foresaw in her; and being a\nwarm-hearted, unreserved woman, Mary had not been three hours in the\nhouse before she told her what she had planned.\n\nMiss Crawford was glad to find a family of such consequence so very near\nthem, and not at all displeased either at her sister's early care, or\nthe choice it had fallen on. Matrimony was her object, provided she\ncould marry well: and having seen Mr. Bertram in town, she knew that\nobjection could no more be made to his person than to his situation in\nlife. While she treated it as a joke, therefore, she did not forget to\nthink of it seriously. The scheme was soon repeated to Henry.\n\n\"And now,\" added Mrs. Grant, \"I have thought of something to make it\ncomplete. I should dearly love to settle you both in this country; and\ntherefore, Henry, you shall marry the youngest Miss Bertram, a nice,\nhandsome, good-humoured, accomplished girl, who will make you very\nhappy.\"\n\nHenry bowed and thanked her.\n\n\"My dear sister,\" said Mary, \"if you can persuade him into anything\nof the sort, it will be a fresh matter of delight to me to find myself\nallied to anybody so clever, and I shall only regret that you have\nnot half a dozen daughters to dispose of. If you can persuade Henry\nto marry, you must have the address of a Frenchwoman. All that English\nabilities can do has been tried already. I have three very particular\nfriends who have been all dying for him in their turn; and the pains\nwhich they, their mothers (very clever women), as well as my dear aunt\nand myself, have taken to reason, coax, or trick him into marrying, is\ninconceivable! He is the most horrible flirt that can be imagined. If\nyour Miss Bertrams do not like to have their hearts broke, let them\navoid Henry.\"\n\n\"My dear brother, I will not believe this of you.\"\n\n\"No, I am sure you are too good. You will be kinder than Mary. You\nwill allow for the doubts of youth and inexperience. I am of a cautious\ntemper, and unwilling to risk my happiness in a hurry. Nobody can\nthink more highly of the matrimonial state than myself. I consider the\nblessing of a wife as most justly described in those discreet lines of\nthe poet--'Heaven's _last_ best gift.'\"\n\n\"There, Mrs. Grant, you see how he dwells on one word, and only look\nat his smile. I assure you he is very detestable; the Admiral's lessons\nhave quite spoiled him.\"\n\n\"I pay very little regard,\" said Mrs. Grant, \"to what any young person\nsays on the subject of marriage. If they profess a disinclination for\nit, I only set it down that they have not yet seen the right person.\"\n\nDr. Grant laughingly congratulated Miss Crawford on feeling no\ndisinclination to the state herself.\n\n\"Oh yes! I am not at all ashamed of it. I would have everybody marry if\nthey can do it properly: I do not like to have people throw themselves\naway; but everybody should marry as soon as they can do it to\nadvantage.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nThe young people were pleased with each other from the first. On each\nside there was much to attract, and their acquaintance soon promised as\nearly an intimacy as good manners would warrant. Miss Crawford's beauty\ndid her no disservice with the Miss Bertrams. They were too handsome\nthemselves to dislike any woman for being so too, and were almost as\nmuch charmed as their brothers with her lively dark eye, clear brown\ncomplexion, and general prettiness. Had she been tall, full formed, and\nfair, it might have been more of a trial: but as it was, there could be\nno comparison; and she was most allowably a sweet, pretty girl, while\nthey were the finest young women in the country.\n\nHer brother was not handsome: no, when they first saw him he was\nabsolutely plain, black and plain; but still he was the gentleman, with\na pleasing address. The second meeting proved him not so very plain:\nhe was plain, to be sure, but then he had so much countenance, and his\nteeth were so good, and he was so well made, that one soon forgot he was\nplain; and after a third interview, after dining in company with him at\nthe Parsonage, he was no longer allowed to be called so by anybody. He\nwas, in fact, the most agreeable young man the sisters had ever known,\nand they were equally delighted with him. Miss Bertram's engagement made\nhim in equity the property of Julia, of which Julia was fully aware; and\nbefore he had been at Mansfield a week, she was quite ready to be fallen\nin love with.\n\nMaria's notions on the subject were more confused and indistinct. She\ndid not want to see or understand. \"There could be no harm in her liking\nan agreeable man--everybody knew her situation--Mr. Crawford must take\ncare of himself.\" Mr. Crawford did not mean to be in any danger! the\nMiss Bertrams were worth pleasing, and were ready to be pleased; and he\nbegan with no object but of making them like him. He did not want them\nto die of love; but with sense and temper which ought to have made him\njudge and feel better, he allowed himself great latitude on such points.\n\n\"I like your Miss Bertrams exceedingly, sister,\" said he, as he returned\nfrom attending them to their carriage after the said dinner visit; \"they\nare very elegant, agreeable girls.\"\n\n\"So they are indeed, and I am delighted to hear you say it. But you like\nJulia best.\"\n\n\"Oh yes! I like Julia best.\"\n\n\"But do you really? for Miss Bertram is in general thought the\nhandsomest.\"\n\n\"So I should suppose. She has the advantage in every feature, and I\nprefer her countenance; but I like Julia best; Miss Bertram is certainly\nthe handsomest, and I have found her the most agreeable, but I shall\nalways like Julia best, because you order me.\"\n\n\"I shall not talk to you, Henry, but I know you _will_ like her best at\nlast.\"\n\n\"Do not I tell you that I like her best _at_ _first_?\"\n\n\"And besides, Miss Bertram is engaged. Remember that, my dear brother.\nHer choice is made.\"\n\n\"Yes, and I like her the better for it. An engaged woman is always more\nagreeable than a disengaged. She is satisfied with herself. Her cares\nare over, and she feels that she may exert all her powers of pleasing\nwithout suspicion. All is safe with a lady engaged: no harm can be\ndone.\"\n\n\"Why, as to that, Mr. Rushworth is a very good sort of young man, and it\nis a great match for her.\"\n\n\"But Miss Bertram does not care three straws for him; _that_ is your\nopinion of your intimate friend. _I_ do not subscribe to it. I am sure\nMiss Bertram is very much attached to Mr. Rushworth. I could see it in\nher eyes, when he was mentioned. I think too well of Miss Bertram to\nsuppose she would ever give her hand without her heart.\"\n\n\"Mary, how shall we manage him?\"\n\n\"We must leave him to himself, I believe. Talking does no good. He will\nbe taken in at last.\"\n\n\"But I would not have him _taken_ _in_; I would not have him duped; I\nwould have it all fair and honourable.\"\n\n\"Oh dear! let him stand his chance and be taken in. It will do just as\nwell. Everybody is taken in at some period or other.\"\n\n\"Not always in marriage, dear Mary.\"\n\n\"In marriage especially. With all due respect to such of the present\ncompany as chance to be married, my dear Mrs. Grant, there is not one in\na hundred of either sex who is not taken in when they marry. Look where\nI will, I see that it _is_ so; and I feel that it _must_ be so, when I\nconsider that it is, of all transactions, the one in which people expect\nmost from others, and are least honest themselves.\"\n\n\"Ah! You have been in a bad school for matrimony, in Hill Street.\"\n\n\"My poor aunt had certainly little cause to love the state; but,\nhowever, speaking from my own observation, it is a manoeuvring business.\nI know so many who have married in the full expectation and confidence\nof some one particular advantage in the connexion, or accomplishment, or\ngood quality in the person, who have found themselves entirely deceived,\nand been obliged to put up with exactly the reverse. What is this but a\ntake in?\"\n\n\"My dear child, there must be a little imagination here. I beg your\npardon, but I cannot quite believe you. Depend upon it, you see but\nhalf. You see the evil, but you do not see the consolation. There will\nbe little rubs and disappointments everywhere, and we are all apt to\nexpect too much; but then, if one scheme of happiness fails, human\nnature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make\na second better: we find comfort somewhere--and those evil-minded\nobservers, dearest Mary, who make much of a little, are more taken in\nand deceived than the parties themselves.\"\n\n\"Well done, sister! I honour your _esprit_ _du_ _corps_. When I am a\nwife, I mean to be just as staunch myself; and I wish my friends in\ngeneral would be so too. It would save me many a heartache.\"\n\n\"You are as bad as your brother, Mary; but we will cure you both.\nMansfield shall cure you both, and without any taking in. Stay with us,\nand we will cure you.\"\n\nThe Crawfords, without wanting to be cured, were very willing to stay.\nMary was satisfied with the Parsonage as a present home, and Henry\nequally ready to lengthen his visit. He had come, intending to spend\nonly a few days with them; but Mansfield promised well, and there was\nnothing to call him elsewhere. It delighted Mrs. Grant to keep them both\nwith her, and Dr. Grant was exceedingly well contented to have it so: a\ntalking pretty young woman like Miss Crawford is always pleasant society\nto an indolent, stay-at-home man; and Mr. Crawford's being his guest was\nan excuse for drinking claret every day.\n\nThe Miss Bertrams' admiration of Mr. Crawford was more rapturous than\nanything which Miss Crawford's habits made her likely to feel. She\nacknowledged, however, that the Mr. Bertrams were very fine young men,\nthat two such young men were not often seen together even in London, and\nthat their manners, particularly those of the eldest, were very good.\n_He_ had been much in London, and had more liveliness and gallantry than\nEdmund, and must, therefore, be preferred; and, indeed, his being the\neldest was another strong claim. She had felt an early presentiment that\nshe _should_ like the eldest best. She knew it was her way.\n\nTom Bertram must have been thought pleasant, indeed, at any rate; he was\nthe sort of young man to be generally liked, his agreeableness was of\nthe kind to be oftener found agreeable than some endowments of a higher\nstamp, for he had easy manners, excellent spirits, a large acquaintance,\nand a great deal to say; and the reversion of Mansfield Park, and a\nbaronetcy, did no harm to all this. Miss Crawford soon felt that he and\nhis situation might do. She looked about her with due consideration, and\nfound almost everything in his favour: a park, a real park, five miles\nround, a spacious modern-built house, so well placed and well screened\nas to deserve to be in any collection of engravings of gentlemen's\nseats in the kingdom, and wanting only to be completely new\nfurnished--pleasant sisters, a quiet mother, and an agreeable man\nhimself--with the advantage of being tied up from much gaming at present\nby a promise to his father, and of being Sir Thomas hereafter. It\nmight do very well; she believed she should accept him; and she began\naccordingly to interest herself a little about the horse which he had to\nrun at the B---- races.\n\nThese races were to call him away not long after their acquaintance\nbegan; and as it appeared that the family did not, from his usual goings\non, expect him back again for many weeks, it would bring his passion to\nan early proof. Much was said on his side to induce her to attend the\nraces, and schemes were made for a large party to them, with all the\neagerness of inclination, but it would only do to be talked of.\n\nAnd Fanny, what was _she_ doing and thinking all this while? and what\nwas _her_ opinion of the newcomers? Few young ladies of eighteen could\nbe less called on to speak their opinion than Fanny. In a quiet way,\nvery little attended to, she paid her tribute of admiration to Miss\nCrawford's beauty; but as she still continued to think Mr. Crawford\nvery plain, in spite of her two cousins having repeatedly proved the\ncontrary, she never mentioned _him_. The notice, which she excited\nherself, was to this effect. \"I begin now to understand you all,\nexcept Miss Price,\" said Miss Crawford, as she was walking with the Mr.\nBertrams. \"Pray, is she out, or is she not? I am puzzled. She dined at\nthe Parsonage, with the rest of you, which seemed like being _out_; and\nyet she says so little, that I can hardly suppose she _is_.\"\n\nEdmund, to whom this was chiefly addressed, replied, \"I believe I know\nwhat you mean, but I will not undertake to answer the question. My\ncousin is grown up. She has the age and sense of a woman, but the outs\nand not outs are beyond me.\"\n\n\"And yet, in general, nothing can be more easily ascertained. The\ndistinction is so broad. Manners as well as appearance are, generally\nspeaking, so totally different. Till now, I could not have supposed it\npossible to be mistaken as to a girl's being out or not. A girl not out\nhas always the same sort of dress: a close bonnet, for instance; looks\nvery demure, and never says a word. You may smile, but it is so, I\nassure you; and except that it is sometimes carried a little too far,\nit is all very proper. Girls should be quiet and modest. The most\nobjectionable part is, that the alteration of manners on being\nintroduced into company is frequently too sudden. They sometimes pass in\nsuch very little time from reserve to quite the opposite--to confidence!\n_That_ is the faulty part of the present system. One does not like to\nsee a girl of eighteen or nineteen so immediately up to every thing--and\nperhaps when one has seen her hardly able to speak the year before. Mr.\nBertram, I dare say _you_ have sometimes met with such changes.\"\n\n\"I believe I have, but this is hardly fair; I see what you are at. You\nare quizzing me and Miss Anderson.\"\n\n\"No, indeed. Miss Anderson! I do not know who or what you mean. I am\nquite in the dark. But I _will_ quiz you with a great deal of pleasure,\nif you will tell me what about.\"\n\n\"Ah! you carry it off very well, but I cannot be quite so far imposed\non. You must have had Miss Anderson in your eye, in describing an\naltered young lady. You paint too accurately for mistake. It was exactly\nso. The Andersons of Baker Street. We were speaking of them the other\nday, you know. Edmund, you have heard me mention Charles Anderson.\nThe circumstance was precisely as this lady has represented it. When\nAnderson first introduced me to his family, about two years ago, his\nsister was not _out_, and I could not get her to speak to me. I sat\nthere an hour one morning waiting for Anderson, with only her and a\nlittle girl or two in the room, the governess being sick or run away,\nand the mother in and out every moment with letters of business, and I\ncould hardly get a word or a look from the young lady--nothing like a\ncivil answer--she screwed up her mouth, and turned from me with such an\nair! I did not see her again for a twelvemonth. She was then _out_. I\nmet her at Mrs. Holford's, and did not recollect her. She came up to me,\nclaimed me as an acquaintance, stared me out of countenance; and talked\nand laughed till I did not know which way to look. I felt that I must\nbe the jest of the room at the time, and Miss Crawford, it is plain, has\nheard the story.\"\n\n\"And a very pretty story it is, and with more truth in it, I dare say,\nthan does credit to Miss Anderson. It is too common a fault. Mothers\ncertainly have not yet got quite the right way of managing their\ndaughters. I do not know where the error lies. I do not pretend to set\npeople right, but I do see that they are often wrong.\"\n\n\"Those who are showing the world what female manners _should_ be,\" said\nMr. Bertram gallantly, \"are doing a great deal to set them right.\"\n\n\"The error is plain enough,\" said the less courteous Edmund; \"such girls\nare ill brought up. They are given wrong notions from the beginning.\nThey are always acting upon motives of vanity, and there is no more\nreal modesty in their behaviour _before_ they appear in public than\nafterwards.\"\n\n\"I do not know,\" replied Miss Crawford hesitatingly. \"Yes, I cannot\nagree with you there. It is certainly the modestest part of the\nbusiness. It is much worse to have girls not out give themselves the\nsame airs and take the same liberties as if they were, which I have seen\ndone. That is worse than anything--quite disgusting!\"\n\n\"Yes, _that_ is very inconvenient indeed,\" said Mr. Bertram. \"It leads\none astray; one does not know what to do. The close bonnet and demure\nair you describe so well (and nothing was ever juster), tell one what\nis expected; but I got into a dreadful scrape last year from the want of\nthem. I went down to Ramsgate for a week with a friend last September,\njust after my return from the West Indies. My friend Sneyd--you have\nheard me speak of Sneyd, Edmund--his father, and mother, and sisters,\nwere there, all new to me. When we reached Albion Place they were out;\nwe went after them, and found them on the pier: Mrs. and the two Miss\nSneyds, with others of their acquaintance. I made my bow in form; and\nas Mrs. Sneyd was surrounded by men, attached myself to one of her\ndaughters, walked by her side all the way home, and made myself as\nagreeable as I could; the young lady perfectly easy in her manners, and\nas ready to talk as to listen. I had not a suspicion that I could be\ndoing anything wrong. They looked just the same: both well-dressed, with\nveils and parasols like other girls; but I afterwards found that I had\nbeen giving all my attention to the youngest, who was not _out_, and\nhad most excessively offended the eldest. Miss Augusta ought not to have\nbeen noticed for the next six months; and Miss Sneyd, I believe, has\nnever forgiven me.\"\n\n\"That was bad indeed. Poor Miss Sneyd. Though I have no younger\nsister, I feel for her. To be neglected before one's time must be very\nvexatious; but it was entirely the mother's fault. Miss Augusta should\nhave been with her governess. Such half-and-half doings never prosper.\nBut now I must be satisfied about Miss Price. Does she go to balls? Does\nshe dine out every where, as well as at my sister's?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Edmund; \"I do not think she has ever been to a ball. My\nmother seldom goes into company herself, and dines nowhere but with Mrs.\nGrant, and Fanny stays at home with _her_.\"\n\n\"Oh! then the point is clear. Miss Price is not out.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nMr. Bertram set off for--------, and Miss Crawford was prepared to\nfind a great chasm in their society, and to miss him decidedly in the\nmeetings which were now becoming almost daily between the families;\nand on their all dining together at the Park soon after his going, she\nretook her chosen place near the bottom of the table, fully expecting to\nfeel a most melancholy difference in the change of masters. It would\nbe a very flat business, she was sure. In comparison with his brother,\nEdmund would have nothing to say. The soup would be sent round in a most\nspiritless manner, wine drank without any smiles or agreeable trifling,\nand the venison cut up without supplying one pleasant anecdote of any\nformer haunch, or a single entertaining story, about \"my friend such a\none.\" She must try to find amusement in what was passing at the upper\nend of the table, and in observing Mr. Rushworth, who was now making his\nappearance at Mansfield for the first time since the Crawfords' arrival.\nHe had been visiting a friend in the neighbouring county, and that\nfriend having recently had his grounds laid out by an improver, Mr.\nRushworth was returned with his head full of the subject, and very eager\nto be improving his own place in the same way; and though not saying\nmuch to the purpose, could talk of nothing else. The subject had\nbeen already handled in the drawing-room; it was revived in the\ndining-parlour. Miss Bertram's attention and opinion was evidently his\nchief aim; and though her deportment showed rather conscious superiority\nthan any solicitude to oblige him, the mention of Sotherton Court,\nand the ideas attached to it, gave her a feeling of complacency, which\nprevented her from being very ungracious.\n\n\"I wish you could see Compton,\" said he; \"it is the most complete thing!\nI never saw a place so altered in my life. I told Smith I did not know\nwhere I was. The approach _now_, is one of the finest things in the\ncountry: you see the house in the most surprising manner. I declare,\nwhen I got back to Sotherton yesterday, it looked like a prison--quite a\ndismal old prison.\"\n\n\"Oh, for shame!\" cried Mrs. Norris. \"A prison indeed? Sotherton Court is\nthe noblest old place in the world.\"\n\n\"It wants improvement, ma'am, beyond anything. I never saw a place that\nwanted so much improvement in my life; and it is so forlorn that I do\nnot know what can be done with it.\"\n\n\"No wonder that Mr. Rushworth should think so at present,\" said Mrs.\nGrant to Mrs. Norris, with a smile; \"but depend upon it, Sotherton will\nhave _every_ improvement in time which his heart can desire.\"\n\n\"I must try to do something with it,\" said Mr. Rushworth, \"but I do not\nknow what. I hope I shall have some good friend to help me.\"\n\n\"Your best friend upon such an occasion,\" said Miss Bertram calmly,\n\"would be Mr. Repton, I imagine.\"\n\n\"That is what I was thinking of. As he has done so well by Smith, I\nthink I had better have him at once. His terms are five guineas a day.\"\n\n\"Well, and if they were _ten_,\" cried Mrs. Norris, \"I am sure _you_ need\nnot regard it. The expense need not be any impediment. If I were you,\nI should not think of the expense. I would have everything done in the\nbest style, and made as nice as possible. Such a place as Sotherton\nCourt deserves everything that taste and money can do. You have space to\nwork upon there, and grounds that will well reward you. For my own part,\nif I had anything within the fiftieth part of the size of Sotherton, I\nshould be always planting and improving, for naturally I am excessively\nfond of it. It would be too ridiculous for me to attempt anything where\nI am now, with my little half acre. It would be quite a burlesque. But\nif I had more room, I should take a prodigious delight in improving and\nplanting. We did a vast deal in that way at the Parsonage: we made it\nquite a different place from what it was when we first had it. You young\nones do not remember much about it, perhaps; but if dear Sir Thomas were\nhere, he could tell you what improvements we made: and a great deal more\nwould have been done, but for poor Mr. Norris's sad state of health.\nHe could hardly ever get out, poor man, to enjoy anything, and _that_\ndisheartened me from doing several things that Sir Thomas and I used to\ntalk of. If it had not been for _that_, we should have carried on the\ngarden wall, and made the plantation to shut out the churchyard, just\nas Dr. Grant has done. We were always doing something as it was. It was\nonly the spring twelvemonth before Mr. Norris's death that we put in the\napricot against the stable wall, which is now grown such a noble tree,\nand getting to such perfection, sir,\" addressing herself then to Dr.\nGrant.\n\n\"The tree thrives well, beyond a doubt, madam,\" replied Dr. Grant. \"The\nsoil is good; and I never pass it without regretting that the fruit\nshould be so little worth the trouble of gathering.\"\n\n\"Sir, it is a Moor Park, we bought it as a Moor Park, and it cost\nus--that is, it was a present from Sir Thomas, but I saw the bill--and I\nknow it cost seven shillings, and was charged as a Moor Park.\"\n\n\"You were imposed on, ma'am,\" replied Dr. Grant: \"these potatoes have as\nmuch the flavour of a Moor Park apricot as the fruit from that tree. It\nis an insipid fruit at the best; but a good apricot is eatable, which\nnone from my garden are.\"\n\n\"The truth is, ma'am,\" said Mrs. Grant, pretending to whisper across\nthe table to Mrs. Norris, \"that Dr. Grant hardly knows what the natural\ntaste of our apricot is: he is scarcely ever indulged with one, for it\nis so valuable a fruit; with a little assistance, and ours is such a\nremarkably large, fair sort, that what with early tarts and preserves,\nmy cook contrives to get them all.\"\n\nMrs. Norris, who had begun to redden, was appeased; and, for a little\nwhile, other subjects took place of the improvements of Sotherton. Dr.\nGrant and Mrs. Norris were seldom good friends; their acquaintance had\nbegun in dilapidations, and their habits were totally dissimilar.\n\nAfter a short interruption Mr. Rushworth began again. \"Smith's place\nis the admiration of all the country; and it was a mere nothing before\nRepton took it in hand. I think I shall have Repton.\"\n\n\"Mr. Rushworth,\" said Lady Bertram, \"if I were you, I would have a\nvery pretty shrubbery. One likes to get out into a shrubbery in fine\nweather.\"\n\nMr. Rushworth was eager to assure her ladyship of his acquiescence, and\ntried to make out something complimentary; but, between his submission\nto _her_ taste, and his having always intended the same himself, with\nthe superadded objects of professing attention to the comfort of ladies\nin general, and of insinuating that there was one only whom he was\nanxious to please, he grew puzzled, and Edmund was glad to put an end\nto his speech by a proposal of wine. Mr. Rushworth, however, though not\nusually a great talker, had still more to say on the subject next his\nheart. \"Smith has not much above a hundred acres altogether in his\ngrounds, which is little enough, and makes it more surprising that the\nplace can have been so improved. Now, at Sotherton we have a good seven\nhundred, without reckoning the water meadows; so that I think, if so\nmuch could be done at Compton, we need not despair. There have been two\nor three fine old trees cut down, that grew too near the house, and\nit opens the prospect amazingly, which makes me think that Repton, or\nanybody of that sort, would certainly have the avenue at Sotherton down:\nthe avenue that leads from the west front to the top of the hill,\nyou know,\" turning to Miss Bertram particularly as he spoke. But Miss\nBertram thought it most becoming to reply--\n\n\"The avenue! Oh! I do not recollect it. I really know very little of\nSotherton.\"\n\nFanny, who was sitting on the other side of Edmund, exactly opposite\nMiss Crawford, and who had been attentively listening, now looked at\nhim, and said in a low voice--\n\n\"Cut down an avenue! What a pity! Does it not make you think of Cowper?\n'Ye fallen avenues, once more I mourn your fate unmerited.'\"\n\nHe smiled as he answered, \"I am afraid the avenue stands a bad chance,\nFanny.\"\n\n\"I should like to see Sotherton before it is cut down, to see the place\nas it is now, in its old state; but I do not suppose I shall.\"\n\n\"Have you never been there? No, you never can; and, unluckily, it is out\nof distance for a ride. I wish we could contrive it.\"\n\n\"Oh! it does not signify. Whenever I do see it, you will tell me how it\nhas been altered.\"\n\n\"I collect,\" said Miss Crawford, \"that Sotherton is an old place, and a\nplace of some grandeur. In any particular style of building?\"\n\n\"The house was built in Elizabeth's time, and is a large, regular, brick\nbuilding; heavy, but respectable looking, and has many good rooms. It\nis ill placed. It stands in one of the lowest spots of the park; in that\nrespect, unfavourable for improvement. But the woods are fine, and\nthere is a stream, which, I dare say, might be made a good deal of. Mr.\nRushworth is quite right, I think, in meaning to give it a modern dress,\nand I have no doubt that it will be all done extremely well.\"\n\nMiss Crawford listened with submission, and said to herself, \"He is a\nwell-bred man; he makes the best of it.\"\n\n\"I do not wish to influence Mr. Rushworth,\" he continued; \"but, had I\na place to new fashion, I should not put myself into the hands of an\nimprover. I would rather have an inferior degree of beauty, of my own\nchoice, and acquired progressively. I would rather abide by my own\nblunders than by his.\"\n\n\"_You_ would know what you were about, of course; but that would not\nsuit _me_. I have no eye or ingenuity for such matters, but as they are\nbefore me; and had I a place of my own in the country, I should be most\nthankful to any Mr. Repton who would undertake it, and give me as much\nbeauty as he could for my money; and I should never look at it till it\nwas complete.\"\n\n\"It would be delightful to _me_ to see the progress of it all,\" said\nFanny.\n\n\"Ay, you have been brought up to it. It was no part of my education; and\nthe only dose I ever had, being administered by not the first favourite\nin the world, has made me consider improvements _in_ _hand_ as the\ngreatest of nuisances. Three years ago the Admiral, my honoured uncle,\nbought a cottage at Twickenham for us all to spend our summers in;\nand my aunt and I went down to it quite in raptures; but it being\nexcessively pretty, it was soon found necessary to be improved, and for\nthree months we were all dirt and confusion, without a gravel walk to\nstep on, or a bench fit for use. I would have everything as complete\nas possible in the country, shrubberies and flower-gardens, and rustic\nseats innumerable: but it must all be done without my care. Henry is\ndifferent; he loves to be doing.\"\n\nEdmund was sorry to hear Miss Crawford, whom he was much disposed to\nadmire, speak so freely of her uncle. It did not suit his sense of\npropriety, and he was silenced, till induced by further smiles and\nliveliness to put the matter by for the present.\n\n\"Mr. Bertram,\" said she, \"I have tidings of my harp at last. I am\nassured that it is safe at Northampton; and there it has probably been\nthese ten days, in spite of the solemn assurances we have so often\nreceived to the contrary.\" Edmund expressed his pleasure and surprise.\n\"The truth is, that our inquiries were too direct; we sent a servant,\nwe went ourselves: this will not do seventy miles from London; but this\nmorning we heard of it in the right way. It was seen by some farmer, and\nhe told the miller, and the miller told the butcher, and the butcher's\nson-in-law left word at the shop.\"\n\n\"I am very glad that you have heard of it, by whatever means, and hope\nthere will be no further delay.\"\n\n\"I am to have it to-morrow; but how do you think it is to be conveyed?\nNot by a wagon or cart: oh no! nothing of that kind could be hired in\nthe village. I might as well have asked for porters and a handbarrow.\"\n\n\"You would find it difficult, I dare say, just now, in the middle of a\nvery late hay harvest, to hire a horse and cart?\"\n\n\"I was astonished to find what a piece of work was made of it! To want\na horse and cart in the country seemed impossible, so I told my maid to\nspeak for one directly; and as I cannot look out of my dressing-closet\nwithout seeing one farmyard, nor walk in the shrubbery without passing\nanother, I thought it would be only ask and have, and was rather grieved\nthat I could not give the advantage to all. Guess my surprise, when\nI found that I had been asking the most unreasonable, most impossible\nthing in the world; had offended all the farmers, all the labourers,\nall the hay in the parish! As for Dr. Grant's bailiff, I believe I had\nbetter keep out of _his_ way; and my brother-in-law himself, who is all\nkindness in general, looked rather black upon me when he found what I\nhad been at.\"\n\n\"You could not be expected to have thought on the subject before; but\nwhen you _do_ think of it, you must see the importance of getting in\nthe grass. The hire of a cart at any time might not be so easy as you\nsuppose: our farmers are not in the habit of letting them out; but, in\nharvest, it must be quite out of their power to spare a horse.\"\n\n\"I shall understand all your ways in time; but, coming down with the\ntrue London maxim, that everything is to be got with money, I was a\nlittle embarrassed at first by the sturdy independence of your country\ncustoms. However, I am to have my harp fetched to-morrow. Henry, who is\ngood-nature itself, has offered to fetch it in his barouche. Will it not\nbe honourably conveyed?\"\n\nEdmund spoke of the harp as his favourite instrument, and hoped to be\nsoon allowed to hear her. Fanny had never heard the harp at all, and\nwished for it very much.\n\n\"I shall be most happy to play to you both,\" said Miss Crawford; \"at\nleast as long as you can like to listen: probably much longer, for\nI dearly love music myself, and where the natural taste is equal the\nplayer must always be best off, for she is gratified in more ways than\none. Now, Mr. Bertram, if you write to your brother, I entreat you to\ntell him that my harp is come: he heard so much of my misery about it.\nAnd you may say, if you please, that I shall prepare my most plaintive\nairs against his return, in compassion to his feelings, as I know his\nhorse will lose.\"\n\n\"If I write, I will say whatever you wish me; but I do not, at present,\nforesee any occasion for writing.\"\n\n\"No, I dare say, nor if he were to be gone a twelvemonth, would you ever\nwrite to him, nor he to you, if it could be helped. The occasion would\nnever be foreseen. What strange creatures brothers are! You would not\nwrite to each other but upon the most urgent necessity in the world; and\nwhen obliged to take up the pen to say that such a horse is ill, or such\na relation dead, it is done in the fewest possible words. You have but\none style among you. I know it perfectly. Henry, who is in every other\nrespect exactly what a brother should be, who loves me, consults me,\nconfides in me, and will talk to me by the hour together, has never\nyet turned the page in a letter; and very often it is nothing more\nthan--'Dear Mary, I am just arrived. Bath seems full, and everything\nas usual. Yours sincerely.' That is the true manly style; that is a\ncomplete brother's letter.\"\n\n\"When they are at a distance from all their family,\" said Fanny,\ncolouring for William's sake, \"they can write long letters.\"\n\n\"Miss Price has a brother at sea,\" said Edmund, \"whose excellence as a\ncorrespondent makes her think you too severe upon us.\"\n\n\"At sea, has she? In the king's service, of course?\"\n\nFanny would rather have had Edmund tell the story, but his determined\nsilence obliged her to relate her brother's situation: her voice was\nanimated in speaking of his profession, and the foreign stations he had\nbeen on; but she could not mention the number of years that he had been\nabsent without tears in her eyes. Miss Crawford civilly wished him an\nearly promotion.\n\n\"Do you know anything of my cousin's captain?\" said Edmund; \"Captain\nMarshall? You have a large acquaintance in the navy, I conclude?\"\n\n\"Among admirals, large enough; but,\" with an air of grandeur, \"we know\nvery little of the inferior ranks. Post-captains may be very good sort\nof men, but they do not belong to _us_. Of various admirals I could tell\nyou a great deal: of them and their flags, and the gradation of their\npay, and their bickerings and jealousies. But, in general, I can assure\nyou that they are all passed over, and all very ill used. Certainly, my\nhome at my uncle's brought me acquainted with a circle of admirals. Of\n_Rears_ and _Vices_ I saw enough. Now do not be suspecting me of a pun,\nI entreat.\"\n\nEdmund again felt grave, and only replied, \"It is a noble profession.\"\n\n\"Yes, the profession is well enough under two circumstances: if it make\nthe fortune, and there be discretion in spending it; but, in short, it\nis not a favourite profession of mine. It has never worn an amiable form\nto _me_.\"\n\nEdmund reverted to the harp, and was again very happy in the prospect of\nhearing her play.\n\nThe subject of improving grounds, meanwhile, was still under\nconsideration among the others; and Mrs. Grant could not help addressing\nher brother, though it was calling his attention from Miss Julia\nBertram.\n\n\"My dear Henry, have _you_ nothing to say? You have been an improver\nyourself, and from what I hear of Everingham, it may vie with any place\nin England. Its natural beauties, I am sure, are great. Everingham,\nas it _used_ to be, was perfect in my estimation: such a happy fall of\nground, and such timber! What would I not give to see it again?\"\n\n\"Nothing could be so gratifying to me as to hear your opinion of it,\"\nwas his answer; \"but I fear there would be some disappointment: you\nwould not find it equal to your present ideas. In extent, it is a mere\nnothing; you would be surprised at its insignificance; and, as for\nimprovement, there was very little for me to do--too little: I should\nlike to have been busy much longer.\"\n\n\"You are fond of the sort of thing?\" said Julia.\n\n\"Excessively; but what with the natural advantages of the ground, which\npointed out, even to a very young eye, what little remained to be done,\nand my own consequent resolutions, I had not been of age three\nmonths before Everingham was all that it is now. My plan was laid\nat Westminster, a little altered, perhaps, at Cambridge, and at\none-and-twenty executed. I am inclined to envy Mr. Rushworth for having\nso much happiness yet before him. I have been a devourer of my own.\"\n\n\"Those who see quickly, will resolve quickly, and act quickly,\"\nsaid Julia. \"_You_ can never want employment. Instead of envying Mr.\nRushworth, you should assist him with your opinion.\"\n\nMrs. Grant, hearing the latter part of this speech, enforced it warmly,\npersuaded that no judgment could be equal to her brother's; and as\nMiss Bertram caught at the idea likewise, and gave it her full support,\ndeclaring that, in her opinion, it was infinitely better to consult\nwith friends and disinterested advisers, than immediately to throw the\nbusiness into the hands of a professional man, Mr. Rushworth was very\nready to request the favour of Mr. Crawford's assistance; and Mr.\nCrawford, after properly depreciating his own abilities, was quite at\nhis service in any way that could be useful. Mr. Rushworth then began to\npropose Mr. Crawford's doing him the honour of coming over to Sotherton,\nand taking a bed there; when Mrs. Norris, as if reading in her two\nnieces' minds their little approbation of a plan which was to take Mr.\nCrawford away, interposed with an amendment.\n\n\"There can be no doubt of Mr. Crawford's willingness; but why should not\nmore of us go? Why should not we make a little party? Here are many that\nwould be interested in your improvements, my dear Mr. Rushworth, and\nthat would like to hear Mr. Crawford's opinion on the spot, and that\nmight be of some small use to you with _their_ opinions; and, for my\nown part, I have been long wishing to wait upon your good mother again;\nnothing but having no horses of my own could have made me so remiss; but\nnow I could go and sit a few hours with Mrs. Rushworth, while the rest\nof you walked about and settled things, and then we could all return\nto a late dinner here, or dine at Sotherton, just as might be most\nagreeable to your mother, and have a pleasant drive home by moonlight.\nI dare say Mr. Crawford would take my two nieces and me in his barouche,\nand Edmund can go on horseback, you know, sister, and Fanny will stay at\nhome with you.\"\n\nLady Bertram made no objection; and every one concerned in the going\nwas forward in expressing their ready concurrence, excepting Edmund, who\nheard it all and said nothing.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\"Well, Fanny, and how do you like Miss Crawford _now_?\" said Edmund the\nnext day, after thinking some time on the subject himself. \"How did you\nlike her yesterday?\"\n\n\"Very well--very much. I like to hear her talk. She entertains me; and\nshe is so extremely pretty, that I have great pleasure in looking at\nher.\"\n\n\"It is her countenance that is so attractive. She has a wonderful play\nof feature! But was there nothing in her conversation that struck you,\nFanny, as not quite right?\"\n\n\"Oh yes! she ought not to have spoken of her uncle as she did. I was\nquite astonished. An uncle with whom she has been living so many years,\nand who, whatever his faults may be, is so very fond of her brother,\ntreating him, they say, quite like a son. I could not have believed it!\"\n\n\"I thought you would be struck. It was very wrong; very indecorous.\"\n\n\"And very ungrateful, I think.\"\n\n\"Ungrateful is a strong word. I do not know that her uncle has any claim\nto her _gratitude_; his wife certainly had; and it is the warmth of her\nrespect for her aunt's memory which misleads her here. She is awkwardly\ncircumstanced. With such warm feelings and lively spirits it must be\ndifficult to do justice to her affection for Mrs. Crawford, without\nthrowing a shade on the Admiral. I do not pretend to know which was most\nto blame in their disagreements, though the Admiral's present conduct\nmight incline one to the side of his wife; but it is natural and amiable\nthat Miss Crawford should acquit her aunt entirely. I do not censure her\n_opinions_; but there certainly _is_ impropriety in making them public.\"\n\n\"Do not you think,\" said Fanny, after a little consideration, \"that this\nimpropriety is a reflection itself upon Mrs. Crawford, as her niece has\nbeen entirely brought up by her? She cannot have given her right notions\nof what was due to the Admiral.\"\n\n\"That is a fair remark. Yes, we must suppose the faults of the niece\nto have been those of the aunt; and it makes one more sensible of the\ndisadvantages she has been under. But I think her present home must\ndo her good. Mrs. Grant's manners are just what they ought to be. She\nspeaks of her brother with a very pleasing affection.\"\n\n\"Yes, except as to his writing her such short letters. She made me\nalmost laugh; but I cannot rate so very highly the love or good-nature\nof a brother who will not give himself the trouble of writing anything\nworth reading to his sisters, when they are separated. I am sure William\nwould never have used _me_ so, under any circumstances. And what right\nhad she to suppose that _you_ would not write long letters when you were\nabsent?\"\n\n\"The right of a lively mind, Fanny, seizing whatever may contribute\nto its own amusement or that of others; perfectly allowable, when\nuntinctured by ill-humour or roughness; and there is not a shadow of\neither in the countenance or manner of Miss Crawford: nothing sharp, or\nloud, or coarse. She is perfectly feminine, except in the instances we\nhave been speaking of. There she cannot be justified. I am glad you saw\nit all as I did.\"\n\nHaving formed her mind and gained her affections, he had a good chance\nof her thinking like him; though at this period, and on this subject,\nthere began now to be some danger of dissimilarity, for he was in a line\nof admiration of Miss Crawford, which might lead him where Fanny\ncould not follow. Miss Crawford's attractions did not lessen. The harp\narrived, and rather added to her beauty, wit, and good-humour; for she\nplayed with the greatest obligingness, with an expression and taste\nwhich were peculiarly becoming, and there was something clever to be\nsaid at the close of every air. Edmund was at the Parsonage every day,\nto be indulged with his favourite instrument: one morning secured an\ninvitation for the next; for the lady could not be unwilling to have a\nlistener, and every thing was soon in a fair train.\n\nA young woman, pretty, lively, with a harp as elegant as herself, and\nboth placed near a window, cut down to the ground, and opening on a\nlittle lawn, surrounded by shrubs in the rich foliage of summer, was\nenough to catch any man's heart. The season, the scene, the air, were\nall favourable to tenderness and sentiment. Mrs. Grant and her tambour\nframe were not without their use: it was all in harmony; and as\neverything will turn to account when love is once set going, even the\nsandwich tray, and Dr. Grant doing the honours of it, were worth looking\nat. Without studying the business, however, or knowing what he was\nabout, Edmund was beginning, at the end of a week of such intercourse,\nto be a good deal in love; and to the credit of the lady it may be added\nthat, without his being a man of the world or an elder brother, without\nany of the arts of flattery or the gaieties of small talk, he began to\nbe agreeable to her. She felt it to be so, though she had not foreseen,\nand could hardly understand it; for he was not pleasant by any common\nrule: he talked no nonsense; he paid no compliments; his opinions\nwere unbending, his attentions tranquil and simple. There was a charm,\nperhaps, in his sincerity, his steadiness, his integrity, which Miss\nCrawford might be equal to feel, though not equal to discuss with\nherself. She did not think very much about it, however: he pleased her\nfor the present; she liked to have him near her; it was enough.\n\nFanny could not wonder that Edmund was at the Parsonage every morning;\nshe would gladly have been there too, might she have gone in uninvited\nand unnoticed, to hear the harp; neither could she wonder that, when the\nevening stroll was over, and the two families parted again, he should\nthink it right to attend Mrs. Grant and her sister to their home, while\nMr. Crawford was devoted to the ladies of the Park; but she thought it\na very bad exchange; and if Edmund were not there to mix the wine and\nwater for her, would rather go without it than not. She was a little\nsurprised that he could spend so many hours with Miss Crawford, and\nnot see more of the sort of fault which he had already observed, and of\nwhich _she_ was almost always reminded by a something of the same nature\nwhenever she was in her company; but so it was. Edmund was fond of\nspeaking to her of Miss Crawford, but he seemed to think it enough that\nthe Admiral had since been spared; and she scrupled to point out her own\nremarks to him, lest it should appear like ill-nature. The first actual\npain which Miss Crawford occasioned her was the consequence of an\ninclination to learn to ride, which the former caught, soon after her\nbeing settled at Mansfield, from the example of the young ladies at the\nPark, and which, when Edmund's acquaintance with her increased, led to\nhis encouraging the wish, and the offer of his own quiet mare for the\npurpose of her first attempts, as the best fitted for a beginner that\neither stable could furnish. No pain, no injury, however, was designed\nby him to his cousin in this offer: _she_ was not to lose a day's\nexercise by it. The mare was only to be taken down to the Parsonage half\nan hour before her ride were to begin; and Fanny, on its being first\nproposed, so far from feeling slighted, was almost over-powered with\ngratitude that he should be asking her leave for it.\n\nMiss Crawford made her first essay with great credit to herself, and no\ninconvenience to Fanny. Edmund, who had taken down the mare and presided\nat the whole, returned with it in excellent time, before either Fanny or\nthe steady old coachman, who always attended her when she rode without\nher cousins, were ready to set forward. The second day's trial was not\nso guiltless. Miss Crawford's enjoyment of riding was such that she did\nnot know how to leave off. Active and fearless, and though rather small,\nstrongly made, she seemed formed for a horsewoman; and to the pure\ngenuine pleasure of the exercise, something was probably added in\nEdmund's attendance and instructions, and something more in the\nconviction of very much surpassing her sex in general by her early\nprogress, to make her unwilling to dismount. Fanny was ready and\nwaiting, and Mrs. Norris was beginning to scold her for not being gone,\nand still no horse was announced, no Edmund appeared. To avoid her aunt,\nand look for him, she went out.\n\nThe houses, though scarcely half a mile apart, were not within sight of\neach other; but, by walking fifty yards from the hall door, she could\nlook down the park, and command a view of the Parsonage and all its\ndemesnes, gently rising beyond the village road; and in Dr. Grant's\nmeadow she immediately saw the group--Edmund and Miss Crawford both on\nhorse-back, riding side by side, Dr. and Mrs. Grant, and Mr. Crawford,\nwith two or three grooms, standing about and looking on. A happy party\nit appeared to her, all interested in one object: cheerful beyond a\ndoubt, for the sound of merriment ascended even to her. It was a sound\nwhich did not make _her_ cheerful; she wondered that Edmund should\nforget her, and felt a pang. She could not turn her eyes from the\nmeadow; she could not help watching all that passed. At first Miss\nCrawford and her companion made the circuit of the field, which was not\nsmall, at a foot's pace; then, at _her_ apparent suggestion, they rose\ninto a canter; and to Fanny's timid nature it was most astonishing to\nsee how well she sat. After a few minutes they stopped entirely. Edmund\nwas close to her; he was speaking to her; he was evidently directing her\nmanagement of the bridle; he had hold of her hand; she saw it, or the\nimagination supplied what the eye could not reach. She must not wonder\nat all this; what could be more natural than that Edmund should be\nmaking himself useful, and proving his good-nature by any one? She could\nnot but think, indeed, that Mr. Crawford might as well have saved him\nthe trouble; that it would have been particularly proper and becoming\nin a brother to have done it himself; but Mr. Crawford, with all his\nboasted good-nature, and all his coachmanship, probably knew nothing\nof the matter, and had no active kindness in comparison of Edmund. She\nbegan to think it rather hard upon the mare to have such double duty; if\nshe were forgotten, the poor mare should be remembered.\n\nHer feelings for one and the other were soon a little tranquillised\nby seeing the party in the meadow disperse, and Miss Crawford still on\nhorseback, but attended by Edmund on foot, pass through a gate into the\nlane, and so into the park, and make towards the spot where she stood.\nShe began then to be afraid of appearing rude and impatient; and walked\nto meet them with a great anxiety to avoid the suspicion.\n\n\"My dear Miss Price,\" said Miss Crawford, as soon as she was at all\nwithin hearing, \"I am come to make my own apologies for keeping you\nwaiting; but I have nothing in the world to say for myself--I knew it\nwas very late, and that I was behaving extremely ill; and therefore, if\nyou please, you must forgive me. Selfishness must always be forgiven,\nyou know, because there is no hope of a cure.\"\n\nFanny's answer was extremely civil, and Edmund added his conviction that\nshe could be in no hurry. \"For there is more than time enough for my\ncousin to ride twice as far as she ever goes,\" said he, \"and you have\nbeen promoting her comfort by preventing her from setting off half an\nhour sooner: clouds are now coming up, and she will not suffer from the\nheat as she would have done then. I wish _you_ may not be fatigued by so\nmuch exercise. I wish you had saved yourself this walk home.\"\n\n\"No part of it fatigues me but getting off this horse, I assure you,\"\nsaid she, as she sprang down with his help; \"I am very strong. Nothing\never fatigues me but doing what I do not like. Miss Price, I give way to\nyou with a very bad grace; but I sincerely hope you will have a pleasant\nride, and that I may have nothing but good to hear of this dear,\ndelightful, beautiful animal.\"\n\nThe old coachman, who had been waiting about with his own horse, now\njoining them, Fanny was lifted on hers, and they set off across another\npart of the park; her feelings of discomfort not lightened by seeing, as\nshe looked back, that the others were walking down the hill together to\nthe village; nor did her attendant do her much good by his comments on\nMiss Crawford's great cleverness as a horse-woman, which he had been\nwatching with an interest almost equal to her own.\n\n\"It is a pleasure to see a lady with such a good heart for riding!\"\nsaid he. \"I never see one sit a horse better. She did not seem to have\na thought of fear. Very different from you, miss, when you first began,\nsix years ago come next Easter. Lord bless you! how you did tremble when\nSir Thomas first had you put on!\"\n\nIn the drawing-room Miss Crawford was also celebrated. Her merit in\nbeing gifted by Nature with strength and courage was fully appreciated\nby the Miss Bertrams; her delight in riding was like their own; her\nearly excellence in it was like their own, and they had great pleasure\nin praising it.\n\n\"I was sure she would ride well,\" said Julia; \"she has the make for it.\nHer figure is as neat as her brother's.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" added Maria, \"and her spirits are as good, and she has the same\nenergy of character. I cannot but think that good horsemanship has a\ngreat deal to do with the mind.\"\n\nWhen they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny whether she meant to ride\nthe next day.\n\n\"No, I do not know--not if you want the mare,\" was her answer.\n\n\"I do not want her at all for myself,\" said he; \"but whenever you are\nnext inclined to stay at home, I think Miss Crawford would be glad to\nhave her a longer time--for a whole morning, in short. She has a great\ndesire to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has been telling\nher of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal\nto it. But any morning will do for this. She would be extremely sorry to\ninterfere with you. It would be very wrong if she did. _She_ rides only\nfor pleasure; _you_ for health.\"\n\n\"I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly,\" said Fanny; \"I have been out\nvery often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong\nenough now to walk very well.\"\n\nEdmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to\nMansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the\nyoung people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly\nenjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this\nsort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield\nCommon disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There\nwere many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there\nwere shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always\nprovided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent\nin this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the\nhonours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and\ngood-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked\nof with pleasure--till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of\nthe party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and\nJulia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was excluded.\nIt was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr.\nRushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day;\nbut it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were\nseverely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home.\nAs Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased, and she had\nnot even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be\nsullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as\npossible over their dinner and dessert.\n\nBetween ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room,\nfresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse\nof what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would\nscarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep;\nand even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having\nasked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately\nattended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes\nthe brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and\ntheir remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the\nfirst pause came, Edmund, looking around, said, \"But where is Fanny? Is\nshe gone to bed?\"\n\n\"No, not that I know of,\" replied Mrs. Norris; \"she was here a moment\nago.\"\n\nHer own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was\na very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began\nscolding.\n\n\"That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening\nupon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as\n_we_ do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the\npoor basket. There is all the new calico, that was bought last week,\nnot touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out. You\nshould learn to think of other people; and, take my word for it, it is a\nshocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa.\"\n\nBefore half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table,\nand had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high good-humour,\nfrom the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming, \"I\nmust say, ma'am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in the\nhouse.\"\n\n\"Fanny,\" said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, \"I am sure you\nhave the headache.\"\n\nShe could not deny it, but said it was not very bad.\n\n\"I can hardly believe you,\" he replied; \"I know your looks too well. How\nlong have you had it?\"\n\n\"Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat.\"\n\n\"Did you go out in the heat?\"\n\n\"Go out! to be sure she did,\" said Mrs. Norris: \"would you have her stay\nwithin such a fine day as this? Were not we _all_ out? Even your mother\nwas out to-day for above an hour.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed, Edmund,\" added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly\nawakened by Mrs. Norris's sharp reprimand to Fanny; \"I was out above an\nhour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny\ncut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It\nwas shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the coming\nhome again.\"\n\n\"Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?\"\n\n\"Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing! _She_\nfound it hot enough; but they were so full-blown that one could not\nwait.\"\n\n\"There was no help for it, certainly,\" rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a rather\nsoftened voice; \"but I question whether her headache might not be caught\n_then_, sister. There is nothing so likely to give it as standing and\nstooping in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well to-morrow. Suppose\nyou let her have your aromatic vinegar; I always forget to have mine\nfilled.\"\n\n\"She has got it,\" said Lady Bertram; \"she has had it ever since she came\nback from your house the second time.\"\n\n\"What!\" cried Edmund; \"has she been walking as well as cutting roses;\nwalking across the hot park to your house, and doing it twice, ma'am? No\nwonder her head aches.\"\n\nMrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not hear.\n\n\"I was afraid it would be too much for her,\" said Lady Bertram; \"but\nwhen the roses were gathered, your aunt wished to have them, and then\nyou know they must be taken home.\"\n\n\"But were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice?\"\n\n\"No; but they were to be put into the spare room to dry; and, unluckily,\nFanny forgot to lock the door of the room and bring away the key, so she\nwas obliged to go again.\"\n\nEdmund got up and walked about the room, saying, \"And could nobody be\nemployed on such an errand but Fanny? Upon my word, ma'am, it has been a\nvery ill-managed business.\"\n\n\"I am sure I do not know how it was to have been done better,\" cried\nMrs. Norris, unable to be longer deaf; \"unless I had gone myself,\nindeed; but I cannot be in two places at once; and I was talking to Mr.\nGreen at that very time about your mother's dairymaid, by _her_ desire,\nand had promised John Groom to write to Mrs. Jefferies about his son,\nand the poor fellow was waiting for me half an hour. I think nobody\ncan justly accuse me of sparing myself upon any occasion, but really I\ncannot do everything at once. And as for Fanny's just stepping down\nto my house for me--it is not much above a quarter of a mile--I cannot\nthink I was unreasonable to ask it. How often do I pace it three times a\nday, early and late, ay, and in all weathers too, and say nothing about\nit?\"\n\n\"I wish Fanny had half your strength, ma'am.\"\n\n\"If Fanny would be more regular in her exercise, she would not be\nknocked up so soon. She has not been out on horseback now this long\nwhile, and I am persuaded that, when she does not ride, she ought to\nwalk. If she had been riding before, I should not have asked it of her.\nBut I thought it would rather do her good after being stooping among the\nroses; for there is nothing so refreshing as a walk after a fatigue\nof that kind; and though the sun was strong, it was not so very hot.\nBetween ourselves, Edmund,\" nodding significantly at his mother, \"it was\ncutting the roses, and dawdling about in the flower-garden, that did the\nmischief.\"\n\n\"I am afraid it was, indeed,\" said the more candid Lady Bertram, who had\noverheard her; \"I am very much afraid she caught the headache there,\nfor the heat was enough to kill anybody. It was as much as I could bear\nmyself. Sitting and calling to Pug, and trying to keep him from the\nflower-beds, was almost too much for me.\"\n\nEdmund said no more to either lady; but going quietly to another table,\non which the supper-tray yet remained, brought a glass of Madeira to\nFanny, and obliged her to drink the greater part. She wished to be able\nto decline it; but the tears, which a variety of feelings created, made\nit easier to swallow than to speak.\n\nVexed as Edmund was with his mother and aunt, he was still more angry\nwith himself. His own forgetfulness of her was worse than anything which\nthey had done. Nothing of this would have happened had she been properly\nconsidered; but she had been left four days together without any choice\nof companions or exercise, and without any excuse for avoiding whatever\nher unreasonable aunts might require. He was ashamed to think that\nfor four days together she had not had the power of riding, and very\nseriously resolved, however unwilling he must be to check a pleasure of\nMiss Crawford's, that it should never happen again.\n\nFanny went to bed with her heart as full as on the first evening of her\narrival at the Park. The state of her spirits had probably had its\nshare in her indisposition; for she had been feeling neglected, and been\nstruggling against discontent and envy for some days past. As she leant\non the sofa, to which she had retreated that she might not be seen, the\npain of her mind had been much beyond that in her head; and the sudden\nchange which Edmund's kindness had then occasioned, made her hardly know\nhow to support herself.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nFanny's rides recommenced the very next day; and as it was a pleasant\nfresh-feeling morning, less hot than the weather had lately been, Edmund\ntrusted that her losses, both of health and pleasure, would be soon made\ngood. While she was gone Mr. Rushworth arrived, escorting his mother,\nwho came to be civil and to shew her civility especially, in urging the\nexecution of the plan for visiting Sotherton, which had been started a\nfortnight before, and which, in consequence of her subsequent absence\nfrom home, had since lain dormant. Mrs. Norris and her nieces were all\nwell pleased with its revival, and an early day was named and agreed\nto, provided Mr. Crawford should be disengaged: the young ladies did\nnot forget that stipulation, and though Mrs. Norris would willingly have\nanswered for his being so, they would neither authorise the liberty nor\nrun the risk; and at last, on a hint from Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth\ndiscovered that the properest thing to be done was for him to walk down\nto the Parsonage directly, and call on Mr. Crawford, and inquire whether\nWednesday would suit him or not.\n\nBefore his return Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford came in. Having been out\nsome time, and taken a different route to the house, they had not met\nhim. Comfortable hopes, however, were given that he would find Mr.\nCrawford at home. The Sotherton scheme was mentioned of course. It was\nhardly possible, indeed, that anything else should be talked of,\nfor Mrs. Norris was in high spirits about it; and Mrs. Rushworth, a\nwell-meaning, civil, prosing, pompous woman, who thought nothing of\nconsequence, but as it related to her own and her son's concerns,\nhad not yet given over pressing Lady Bertram to be of the party. Lady\nBertram constantly declined it; but her placid manner of refusal made\nMrs. Rushworth still think she wished to come, till Mrs. Norris's more\nnumerous words and louder tone convinced her of the truth.\n\n\"The fatigue would be too much for my sister, a great deal too much, I\nassure you, my dear Mrs. Rushworth. Ten miles there, and ten back, you\nknow. You must excuse my sister on this occasion, and accept of our\ntwo dear girls and myself without her. Sotherton is the only place that\ncould give her a _wish_ to go so far, but it cannot be, indeed. She will\nhave a companion in Fanny Price, you know, so it will all do very well;\nand as for Edmund, as he is not here to speak for himself, I will answer\nfor his being most happy to join the party. He can go on horseback, you\nknow.\"\n\nMrs. Rushworth being obliged to yield to Lady Bertram's staying at home,\ncould only be sorry. \"The loss of her ladyship's company would be a\ngreat drawback, and she should have been extremely happy to have seen\nthe young lady too, Miss Price, who had never been at Sotherton yet, and\nit was a pity she should not see the place.\"\n\n\"You are very kind, you are all kindness, my dear madam,\" cried Mrs.\nNorris; \"but as to Fanny, she will have opportunities in plenty of\nseeing Sotherton. She has time enough before her; and her going now is\nquite out of the question. Lady Bertram could not possibly spare her.\"\n\n\"Oh no! I cannot do without Fanny.\"\n\nMrs. Rushworth proceeded next, under the conviction that everybody must\nbe wanting to see Sotherton, to include Miss Crawford in the invitation;\nand though Mrs. Grant, who had not been at the trouble of visiting Mrs.\nRushworth, on her coming into the neighbourhood, civilly declined it on\nher own account, she was glad to secure any pleasure for her sister;\nand Mary, properly pressed and persuaded, was not long in accepting\nher share of the civility. Mr. Rushworth came back from the Parsonage\nsuccessful; and Edmund made his appearance just in time to learn\nwhat had been settled for Wednesday, to attend Mrs. Rushworth to her\ncarriage, and walk half-way down the park with the two other ladies.\n\nOn his return to the breakfast-room, he found Mrs. Norris trying to\nmake up her mind as to whether Miss Crawford's being of the party were\ndesirable or not, or whether her brother's barouche would not be full\nwithout her. The Miss Bertrams laughed at the idea, assuring her that\nthe barouche would hold four perfectly well, independent of the box, on\nwhich _one_ might go with him.\n\n\"But why is it necessary,\" said Edmund, \"that Crawford's carriage, or\nhis _only_, should be employed? Why is no use to be made of my mother's\nchaise? I could not, when the scheme was first mentioned the other\nday, understand why a visit from the family were not to be made in the\ncarriage of the family.\"\n\n\"What!\" cried Julia: \"go boxed up three in a postchaise in this weather,\nwhen we may have seats in a barouche! No, my dear Edmund, that will not\nquite do.\"\n\n\"Besides,\" said Maria, \"I know that Mr. Crawford depends upon taking us.\nAfter what passed at first, he would claim it as a promise.\"\n\n\"And, my dear Edmund,\" added Mrs. Norris, \"taking out _two_ carriages\nwhen _one_ will do, would be trouble for nothing; and, between\nourselves, coachman is not very fond of the roads between this and\nSotherton: he always complains bitterly of the narrow lanes scratching\nhis carriage, and you know one should not like to have dear Sir Thomas,\nwhen he comes home, find all the varnish scratched off.\"\n\n\"That would not be a very handsome reason for using Mr. Crawford's,\"\nsaid Maria; \"but the truth is, that Wilcox is a stupid old fellow, and\ndoes not know how to drive. I will answer for it that we shall find no\ninconvenience from narrow roads on Wednesday.\"\n\n\"There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing unpleasant,\" said Edmund, \"in\ngoing on the barouche box.\"\n\n\"Unpleasant!\" cried Maria: \"oh dear! I believe it would be generally\nthought the favourite seat. There can be no comparison as to one's view\nof the country. Probably Miss Crawford will choose the barouche-box\nherself.\"\n\n\"There can be no objection, then, to Fanny's going with you; there can\nbe no doubt of your having room for her.\"\n\n\"Fanny!\" repeated Mrs. Norris; \"my dear Edmund, there is no idea of her\ngoing with us. She stays with her aunt. I told Mrs. Rushworth so. She is\nnot expected.\"\n\n\"You can have no reason, I imagine, madam,\" said he, addressing his\nmother, \"for wishing Fanny _not_ to be of the party, but as it relates\nto yourself, to your own comfort. If you could do without her, you would\nnot wish to keep her at home?\"\n\n\"To be sure not, but I _cannot_ do without her.\"\n\n\"You can, if I stay at home with you, as I mean to do.\"\n\nThere was a general cry out at this. \"Yes,\" he continued, \"there is no\nnecessity for my going, and I mean to stay at home. Fanny has a great\ndesire to see Sotherton. I know she wishes it very much. She has not\noften a gratification of the kind, and I am sure, ma'am, you would be\nglad to give her the pleasure now?\"\n\n\"Oh yes! very glad, if your aunt sees no objection.\"\n\nMrs. Norris was very ready with the only objection which could\nremain--their having positively assured Mrs. Rushworth that Fanny could\nnot go, and the very strange appearance there would consequently be in\ntaking her, which seemed to her a difficulty quite impossible to be got\nover. It must have the strangest appearance! It would be something so\nvery unceremonious, so bordering on disrespect for Mrs. Rushworth, whose\nown manners were such a pattern of good-breeding and attention, that she\nreally did not feel equal to it. Mrs. Norris had no affection for Fanny,\nand no wish of procuring her pleasure at any time; but her opposition to\nEdmund _now_, arose more from partiality for her own scheme, because it\n_was_ her own, than from anything else. She felt that she had arranged\neverything extremely well, and that any alteration must be for the\nworse. When Edmund, therefore, told her in reply, as he did when she\nwould give him the hearing, that she need not distress herself on Mrs.\nRushworth's account, because he had taken the opportunity, as he walked\nwith her through the hall, of mentioning Miss Price as one who would\nprobably be of the party, and had directly received a very sufficient\ninvitation for his cousin, Mrs. Norris was too much vexed to submit with\na very good grace, and would only say, \"Very well, very well, just as\nyou chuse, settle it your own way, I am sure I do not care about it.\"\n\n\"It seems very odd,\" said Maria, \"that you should be staying at home\ninstead of Fanny.\"\n\n\"I am sure she ought to be very much obliged to you,\" added Julia,\nhastily leaving the room as she spoke, from a consciousness that she\nought to offer to stay at home herself.\n\n\"Fanny will feel quite as grateful as the occasion requires,\" was\nEdmund's only reply, and the subject dropt.\n\nFanny's gratitude, when she heard the plan, was, in fact, much greater\nthan her pleasure. She felt Edmund's kindness with all, and more than\nall, the sensibility which he, unsuspicious of her fond attachment,\ncould be aware of; but that he should forego any enjoyment on her\naccount gave her pain, and her own satisfaction in seeing Sotherton\nwould be nothing without him.\n\nThe next meeting of the two Mansfield families produced another\nalteration in the plan, and one that was admitted with general\napprobation. Mrs. Grant offered herself as companion for the day to Lady\nBertram in lieu of her son, and Dr. Grant was to join them at dinner.\nLady Bertram was very well pleased to have it so, and the young ladies\nwere in spirits again. Even Edmund was very thankful for an arrangement\nwhich restored him to his share of the party; and Mrs. Norris thought it\nan excellent plan, and had it at her tongue's end, and was on the point\nof proposing it, when Mrs. Grant spoke.\n\nWednesday was fine, and soon after breakfast the barouche arrived, Mr.\nCrawford driving his sisters; and as everybody was ready, there was\nnothing to be done but for Mrs. Grant to alight and the others to take\ntheir places. The place of all places, the envied seat, the post of\nhonour, was unappropriated. To whose happy lot was it to fall? While\neach of the Miss Bertrams were meditating how best, and with the most\nappearance of obliging the others, to secure it, the matter was settled\nby Mrs. Grant's saying, as she stepped from the carriage, \"As there are\nfive of you, it will be better that one should sit with Henry; and as\nyou were saying lately that you wished you could drive, Julia, I think\nthis will be a good opportunity for you to take a lesson.\"\n\nHappy Julia! Unhappy Maria! The former was on the barouche-box in a\nmoment, the latter took her seat within, in gloom and mortification; and\nthe carriage drove off amid the good wishes of the two remaining ladies,\nand the barking of Pug in his mistress's arms.\n\nTheir road was through a pleasant country; and Fanny, whose rides had\nnever been extensive, was soon beyond her knowledge, and was very happy\nin observing all that was new, and admiring all that was pretty. She was\nnot often invited to join in the conversation of the others, nor did\nshe desire it. Her own thoughts and reflections were habitually her\nbest companions; and, in observing the appearance of the country, the\nbearings of the roads, the difference of soil, the state of the harvest,\nthe cottages, the cattle, the children, she found entertainment that\ncould only have been heightened by having Edmund to speak to of what she\nfelt. That was the only point of resemblance between her and the lady\nwho sat by her: in everything but a value for Edmund, Miss Crawford was\nvery unlike her. She had none of Fanny's delicacy of taste, of mind, of\nfeeling; she saw Nature, inanimate Nature, with little observation;\nher attention was all for men and women, her talents for the light\nand lively. In looking back after Edmund, however, when there was any\nstretch of road behind them, or when he gained on them in ascending a\nconsiderable hill, they were united, and a \"there he is\" broke at the\nsame moment from them both, more than once.\n\nFor the first seven miles Miss Bertram had very little real comfort:\nher prospect always ended in Mr. Crawford and her sister sitting side by\nside, full of conversation and merriment; and to see only his expressive\nprofile as he turned with a smile to Julia, or to catch the laugh of\nthe other, was a perpetual source of irritation, which her own sense\nof propriety could but just smooth over. When Julia looked back, it was\nwith a countenance of delight, and whenever she spoke to them, it was in\nthe highest spirits: \"her view of the country was charming, she wished\nthey could all see it,\" etc.; but her only offer of exchange was\naddressed to Miss Crawford, as they gained the summit of a long hill,\nand was not more inviting than this: \"Here is a fine burst of country. I\nwish you had my seat, but I dare say you will not take it, let me press\nyou ever so much;\" and Miss Crawford could hardly answer before they\nwere moving again at a good pace.\n\nWhen they came within the influence of Sotherton associations, it was\nbetter for Miss Bertram, who might be said to have two strings to her\nbow. She had Rushworth feelings, and Crawford feelings, and in\nthe vicinity of Sotherton the former had considerable effect. Mr.\nRushworth's consequence was hers. She could not tell Miss Crawford that\n\"those woods belonged to Sotherton,\" she could not carelessly observe\nthat \"she believed that it was now all Mr. Rushworth's property on each\nside of the road,\" without elation of heart; and it was a pleasure\nto increase with their approach to the capital freehold mansion,\nand ancient manorial residence of the family, with all its rights of\ncourt-leet and court-baron.\n\n\"Now we shall have no more rough road, Miss Crawford; our difficulties\nare over. The rest of the way is such as it ought to be. Mr. Rushworth\nhas made it since he succeeded to the estate. Here begins the village.\nThose cottages are really a disgrace. The church spire is reckoned\nremarkably handsome. I am glad the church is not so close to the great\nhouse as often happens in old places. The annoyance of the bells must be\nterrible. There is the parsonage: a tidy-looking house, and I understand\nthe clergyman and his wife are very decent people. Those are almshouses,\nbuilt by some of the family. To the right is the steward's house; he\nis a very respectable man. Now we are coming to the lodge-gates; but we\nhave nearly a mile through the park still. It is not ugly, you see, at\nthis end; there is some fine timber, but the situation of the house is\ndreadful. We go down hill to it for half a mile, and it is a pity, for\nit would not be an ill-looking place if it had a better approach.\"\n\nMiss Crawford was not slow to admire; she pretty well guessed Miss\nBertram's feelings, and made it a point of honour to promote her\nenjoyment to the utmost. Mrs. Norris was all delight and volubility; and\neven Fanny had something to say in admiration, and might be heard with\ncomplacency. Her eye was eagerly taking in everything within her reach;\nand after being at some pains to get a view of the house, and observing\nthat \"it was a sort of building which she could not look at but with\nrespect,\" she added, \"Now, where is the avenue? The house fronts the\neast, I perceive. The avenue, therefore, must be at the back of it. Mr.\nRushworth talked of the west front.\"\n\n\"Yes, it is exactly behind the house; begins at a little distance, and\nascends for half a mile to the extremity of the grounds. You may see\nsomething of it here--something of the more distant trees. It is oak\nentirely.\"\n\nMiss Bertram could now speak with decided information of what she had\nknown nothing about when Mr. Rushworth had asked her opinion; and her\nspirits were in as happy a flutter as vanity and pride could furnish,\nwhen they drove up to the spacious stone steps before the principal\nentrance.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nMr. Rushworth was at the door to receive his fair lady; and the whole\nparty were welcomed by him with due attention. In the drawing-room they\nwere met with equal cordiality by the mother, and Miss Bertram had all\nthe distinction with each that she could wish. After the business of\narriving was over, it was first necessary to eat, and the doors were\nthrown open to admit them through one or two intermediate rooms into the\nappointed dining-parlour, where a collation was prepared with abundance\nand elegance. Much was said, and much was ate, and all went well. The\nparticular object of the day was then considered. How would Mr. Crawford\nlike, in what manner would he chuse, to take a survey of the grounds?\nMr. Rushworth mentioned his curricle. Mr. Crawford suggested the greater\ndesirableness of some carriage which might convey more than two. \"To be\ndepriving themselves of the advantage of other eyes and other judgments,\nmight be an evil even beyond the loss of present pleasure.\"\n\nMrs. Rushworth proposed that the chaise should be taken also; but this\nwas scarcely received as an amendment: the young ladies neither smiled\nnor spoke. Her next proposition, of shewing the house to such of them\nas had not been there before, was more acceptable, for Miss Bertram\nwas pleased to have its size displayed, and all were glad to be doing\nsomething.\n\nThe whole party rose accordingly, and under Mrs. Rushworth's guidance\nwere shewn through a number of rooms, all lofty, and many large, and\namply furnished in the taste of fifty years back, with shining floors,\nsolid mahogany, rich damask, marble, gilding, and carving, each handsome\nin its way. Of pictures there were abundance, and some few good, but\nthe larger part were family portraits, no longer anything to anybody\nbut Mrs. Rushworth, who had been at great pains to learn all that the\nhousekeeper could teach, and was now almost equally well qualified to\nshew the house. On the present occasion she addressed herself chiefly to\nMiss Crawford and Fanny, but there was no comparison in the willingness\nof their attention; for Miss Crawford, who had seen scores of great\nhouses, and cared for none of them, had only the appearance of civilly\nlistening, while Fanny, to whom everything was almost as interesting\nas it was new, attended with unaffected earnestness to all that Mrs.\nRushworth could relate of the family in former times, its rise and\ngrandeur, regal visits and loyal efforts, delighted to connect anything\nwith history already known, or warm her imagination with scenes of the\npast.\n\nThe situation of the house excluded the possibility of much prospect\nfrom any of the rooms; and while Fanny and some of the others were\nattending Mrs. Rushworth, Henry Crawford was looking grave and shaking\nhis head at the windows. Every room on the west front looked across\na lawn to the beginning of the avenue immediately beyond tall iron\npalisades and gates.\n\nHaving visited many more rooms than could be supposed to be of any\nother use than to contribute to the window-tax, and find employment for\nhousemaids, \"Now,\" said Mrs. Rushworth, \"we are coming to the chapel,\nwhich properly we ought to enter from above, and look down upon; but\nas we are quite among friends, I will take you in this way, if you will\nexcuse me.\"\n\nThey entered. Fanny's imagination had prepared her for something\ngrander than a mere spacious, oblong room, fitted up for the purpose of\ndevotion: with nothing more striking or more solemn than the profusion\nof mahogany, and the crimson velvet cushions appearing over the ledge of\nthe family gallery above. \"I am disappointed,\" said she, in a low voice,\nto Edmund. \"This is not my idea of a chapel. There is nothing awful\nhere, nothing melancholy, nothing grand. Here are no aisles, no arches,\nno inscriptions, no banners. No banners, cousin, to be 'blown by the\nnight wind of heaven.' No signs that a 'Scottish monarch sleeps below.'\"\n\n\"You forget, Fanny, how lately all this has been built, and for how\nconfined a purpose, compared with the old chapels of castles and\nmonasteries. It was only for the private use of the family. They have\nbeen buried, I suppose, in the parish church. _There_ you must look for\nthe banners and the achievements.\"\n\n\"It was foolish of me not to think of all that; but I am disappointed.\"\n\nMrs. Rushworth began her relation. \"This chapel was fitted up as you see\nit, in James the Second's time. Before that period, as I understand,\nthe pews were only wainscot; and there is some reason to think that\nthe linings and cushions of the pulpit and family seat were only purple\ncloth; but this is not quite certain. It is a handsome chapel, and was\nformerly in constant use both morning and evening. Prayers were always\nread in it by the domestic chaplain, within the memory of many; but the\nlate Mr. Rushworth left it off.\"\n\n\"Every generation has its improvements,\" said Miss Crawford, with a\nsmile, to Edmund.\n\nMrs. Rushworth was gone to repeat her lesson to Mr. Crawford; and\nEdmund, Fanny, and Miss Crawford remained in a cluster together.\n\n\"It is a pity,\" cried Fanny, \"that the custom should have been\ndiscontinued. It was a valuable part of former times. There is something\nin a chapel and chaplain so much in character with a great house,\nwith one's ideas of what such a household should be! A whole family\nassembling regularly for the purpose of prayer is fine!\"\n\n\"Very fine indeed,\" said Miss Crawford, laughing. \"It must do the heads\nof the family a great deal of good to force all the poor housemaids and\nfootmen to leave business and pleasure, and say their prayers here twice\na day, while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying away.\"\n\n\"_That_ is hardly Fanny's idea of a family assembling,\" said Edmund. \"If\nthe master and mistress do _not_ attend themselves, there must be more\nharm than good in the custom.\"\n\n\"At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own devices on such\nsubjects. Everybody likes to go their own way--to chuse their own time\nand manner of devotion. The obligation of attendance, the formality, the\nrestraint, the length of time--altogether it is a formidable thing, and\nwhat nobody likes; and if the good people who used to kneel and gape in\nthat gallery could have foreseen that the time would ever come when men\nand women might lie another ten minutes in bed, when they woke with a\nheadache, without danger of reprobation, because chapel was missed,\nthey would have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you imagine with what\nunwilling feelings the former belles of the house of Rushworth did\nmany a time repair to this chapel? The young Mrs. Eleanors and Mrs.\nBridgets--starched up into seeming piety, but with heads full of\nsomething very different--especially if the poor chaplain were not worth\nlooking at--and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very inferior even\nto what they are now.\"\n\nFor a few moments she was unanswered. Fanny coloured and looked\nat Edmund, but felt too angry for speech; and he needed a little\nrecollection before he could say, \"Your lively mind can hardly be\nserious even on serious subjects. You have given us an amusing sketch,\nand human nature cannot say it was not so. We must all feel _at_ _times_\nthe difficulty of fixing our thoughts as we could wish; but if you are\nsupposing it a frequent thing, that is to say, a weakness grown into a\nhabit from neglect, what could be expected from the _private_ devotions\nof such persons? Do you think the minds which are suffered, which\nare indulged in wanderings in a chapel, would be more collected in a\ncloset?\"\n\n\"Yes, very likely. They would have two chances at least in their favour.\nThere would be less to distract the attention from without, and it would\nnot be tried so long.\"\n\n\"The mind which does not struggle against itself under _one_\ncircumstance, would find objects to distract it in the _other_, I\nbelieve; and the influence of the place and of example may often rouse\nbetter feelings than are begun with. The greater length of the service,\nhowever, I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind. One\nwishes it were not so; but I have not yet left Oxford long enough to\nforget what chapel prayers are.\"\n\nWhile this was passing, the rest of the party being scattered about the\nchapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford's attention to her sister, by saying,\n\"Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side by side, exactly as\nif the ceremony were going to be performed. Have not they completely the\nair of it?\"\n\nMr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward to Maria,\nsaid, in a voice which she only could hear, \"I do not like to see Miss\nBertram so near the altar.\"\n\nStarting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering\nherself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him, in a tone not\nmuch louder, \"If he would give her away?\"\n\n\"I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly,\" was his reply, with a look\nof meaning.\n\nJulia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke.\n\n\"Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place\ndirectly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether,\nand nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant.\" And she\ntalked and laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the\ncomprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose her sister to\nthe whispered gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke\nwith proper smiles and dignity of its being a most happy event to her\nwhenever it took place.\n\n\"If Edmund were but in orders!\" cried Julia, and running to where he\nstood with Miss Crawford and Fanny: \"My dear Edmund, if you were but in\norders now, you might perform the ceremony directly. How unlucky that\nyou are not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready.\"\n\nMiss Crawford's countenance, as Julia spoke, might have amused a\ndisinterested observer. She looked almost aghast under the new idea she\nwas receiving. Fanny pitied her. \"How distressed she will be at what she\nsaid just now,\" passed across her mind.\n\n\"Ordained!\" said Miss Crawford; \"what, are you to be a clergyman?\"\n\n\"Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father's return--probably at\nChristmas.\"\n\nMiss Crawford, rallying her spirits, and recovering her complexion,\nreplied only, \"If I had known this before, I would have spoken of the\ncloth with more respect,\" and turned the subject.\n\nThe chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and stillness\nwhich reigned in it, with few interruptions, throughout the year. Miss\nBertram, displeased with her sister, led the way, and all seemed to feel\nthat they had been there long enough.\n\nThe lower part of the house had been now entirely shewn, and Mrs.\nRushworth, never weary in the cause, would have proceeded towards the\nprincipal staircase, and taken them through all the rooms above, if her\nson had not interposed with a doubt of there being time enough. \"For\nif,\" said he, with the sort of self-evident proposition which many a\nclearer head does not always avoid, \"we are _too_ long going over the\nhouse, we shall not have time for what is to be done out of doors. It is\npast two, and we are to dine at five.\"\n\nMrs. Rushworth submitted; and the question of surveying the grounds,\nwith the who and the how, was likely to be more fully agitated, and Mrs.\nNorris was beginning to arrange by what junction of carriages and horses\nmost could be done, when the young people, meeting with an outward door,\ntemptingly open on a flight of steps which led immediately to turf and\nshrubs, and all the sweets of pleasure-grounds, as by one impulse, one\nwish for air and liberty, all walked out.\n\n\"Suppose we turn down here for the present,\" said Mrs. Rushworth,\ncivilly taking the hint and following them. \"Here are the greatest\nnumber of our plants, and here are the curious pheasants.\"\n\n\"Query,\" said Mr. Crawford, looking round him, \"whether we may not find\nsomething to employ us here before we go farther? I see walls of great\npromise. Mr. Rushworth, shall we summon a council on this lawn?\"\n\n\"James,\" said Mrs. Rushworth to her son, \"I believe the wilderness\nwill be new to all the party. The Miss Bertrams have never seen the\nwilderness yet.\"\n\nNo objection was made, but for some time there seemed no inclination to\nmove in any plan, or to any distance. All were attracted at first by the\nplants or the pheasants, and all dispersed about in happy independence.\nMr. Crawford was the first to move forward to examine the capabilities\nof that end of the house. The lawn, bounded on each side by a high wall,\ncontained beyond the first planted area a bowling-green, and beyond\nthe bowling-green a long terrace walk, backed by iron palisades, and\ncommanding a view over them into the tops of the trees of the wilderness\nimmediately adjoining. It was a good spot for fault-finding. Mr.\nCrawford was soon followed by Miss Bertram and Mr. Rushworth; and when,\nafter a little time, the others began to form into parties, these three\nwere found in busy consultation on the terrace by Edmund, Miss Crawford,\nand Fanny, who seemed as naturally to unite, and who, after a short\nparticipation of their regrets and difficulties, left them and walked\non. The remaining three, Mrs. Rushworth, Mrs. Norris, and Julia, were\nstill far behind; for Julia, whose happy star no longer prevailed,\nwas obliged to keep by the side of Mrs. Rushworth, and restrain her\nimpatient feet to that lady's slow pace, while her aunt, having fallen\nin with the housekeeper, who was come out to feed the pheasants, was\nlingering behind in gossip with her. Poor Julia, the only one out of\nthe nine not tolerably satisfied with their lot, was now in a state of\ncomplete penance, and as different from the Julia of the barouche-box as\ncould well be imagined. The politeness which she had been brought up to\npractise as a duty made it impossible for her to escape; while the\nwant of that higher species of self-command, that just consideration of\nothers, that knowledge of her own heart, that principle of right, which\nhad not formed any essential part of her education, made her miserable\nunder it.\n\n\"This is insufferably hot,\" said Miss Crawford, when they had taken one\nturn on the terrace, and were drawing a second time to the door in the\nmiddle which opened to the wilderness. \"Shall any of us object to being\ncomfortable? Here is a nice little wood, if one can but get into it.\nWhat happiness if the door should not be locked! but of course it is;\nfor in these great places the gardeners are the only people who can go\nwhere they like.\"\n\nThe door, however, proved not to be locked, and they were all agreed in\nturning joyfully through it, and leaving the unmitigated glare of day\nbehind. A considerable flight of steps landed them in the wilderness,\nwhich was a planted wood of about two acres, and though chiefly of\nlarch and laurel, and beech cut down, and though laid out with too much\nregularity, was darkness and shade, and natural beauty, compared with\nthe bowling-green and the terrace. They all felt the refreshment of it,\nand for some time could only walk and admire. At length, after a short\npause, Miss Crawford began with, \"So you are to be a clergyman, Mr.\nBertram. This is rather a surprise to me.\"\n\n\"Why should it surprise you? You must suppose me designed for some\nprofession, and might perceive that I am neither a lawyer, nor a\nsoldier, nor a sailor.\"\n\n\"Very true; but, in short, it had not occurred to me. And you know there\nis generally an uncle or a grandfather to leave a fortune to the second\nson.\"\n\n\"A very praiseworthy practice,\" said Edmund, \"but not quite universal.\nI am one of the exceptions, and _being_ one, must do something for\nmyself.\"\n\n\"But why are you to be a clergyman? I thought _that_ was always the lot\nof the youngest, where there were many to chuse before him.\"\n\n\"Do you think the church itself never chosen, then?\"\n\n\"_Never_ is a black word. But yes, in the _never_ of conversation, which\nmeans _not_ _very_ _often_, I do think it. For what is to be done in the\nchurch? Men love to distinguish themselves, and in either of the other\nlines distinction may be gained, but not in the church. A clergyman is\nnothing.\"\n\n\"The _nothing_ of conversation has its gradations, I hope, as well as\nthe _never_. A clergyman cannot be high in state or fashion. He must\nnot head mobs, or set the ton in dress. But I cannot call that situation\nnothing which has the charge of all that is of the first importance\nto mankind, individually or collectively considered, temporally and\neternally, which has the guardianship of religion and morals, and\nconsequently of the manners which result from their influence. No one\nhere can call the _office_ nothing. If the man who holds it is so, it\nis by the neglect of his duty, by foregoing its just importance, and\nstepping out of his place to appear what he ought not to appear.\"\n\n\"_You_ assign greater consequence to the clergyman than one has been\nused to hear given, or than I can quite comprehend. One does not see\nmuch of this influence and importance in society, and how can it be\nacquired where they are so seldom seen themselves? How can two sermons a\nweek, even supposing them worth hearing, supposing the preacher to have\nthe sense to prefer Blair's to his own, do all that you speak of? govern\nthe conduct and fashion the manners of a large congregation for the rest\nof the week? One scarcely sees a clergyman out of his pulpit.\"\n\n\"_You_ are speaking of London, _I_ am speaking of the nation at large.\"\n\n\"The metropolis, I imagine, is a pretty fair sample of the rest.\"\n\n\"Not, I should hope, of the proportion of virtue to vice throughout the\nkingdom. We do not look in great cities for our best morality. It is not\nthere that respectable people of any denomination can do most good; and\nit certainly is not there that the influence of the clergy can be most\nfelt. A fine preacher is followed and admired; but it is not in fine\npreaching only that a good clergyman will be useful in his parish and\nhis neighbourhood, where the parish and neighbourhood are of a size\ncapable of knowing his private character, and observing his general\nconduct, which in London can rarely be the case. The clergy are lost\nthere in the crowds of their parishioners. They are known to the largest\npart only as preachers. And with regard to their influencing public\nmanners, Miss Crawford must not misunderstand me, or suppose I mean to\ncall them the arbiters of good-breeding, the regulators of refinement\nand courtesy, the masters of the ceremonies of life. The _manners_ I\nspeak of might rather be called _conduct_, perhaps, the result of good\nprinciples; the effect, in short, of those doctrines which it is their\nduty to teach and recommend; and it will, I believe, be everywhere\nfound, that as the clergy are, or are not what they ought to be, so are\nthe rest of the nation.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Fanny, with gentle earnestness.\n\n\"There,\" cried Miss Crawford, \"you have quite convinced Miss Price\nalready.\"\n\n\"I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too.\"\n\n\"I do not think you ever will,\" said she, with an arch smile; \"I am just\nas much surprised now as I was at first that you should intend to take\norders. You really are fit for something better. Come, do change your\nmind. It is not too late. Go into the law.\"\n\n\"Go into the law! With as much ease as I was told to go into this\nwilderness.\"\n\n\"Now you are going to say something about law being the worst wilderness\nof the two, but I forestall you; remember, I have forestalled you.\"\n\n\"You need not hurry when the object is only to prevent my saying a\n_bon_ _mot_, for there is not the least wit in my nature. I am a very\nmatter-of-fact, plain-spoken being, and may blunder on the borders of a\nrepartee for half an hour together without striking it out.\"\n\nA general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful. Fanny made the first\ninterruption by saying, \"I wonder that I should be tired with only\nwalking in this sweet wood; but the next time we come to a seat, if it\nis not disagreeable to you, I should be glad to sit down for a little\nwhile.\"\n\n\"My dear Fanny,\" cried Edmund, immediately drawing her arm within his,\n\"how thoughtless I have been! I hope you are not very tired. Perhaps,\"\nturning to Miss Crawford, \"my other companion may do me the honour of\ntaking an arm.\"\n\n\"Thank you, but I am not at all tired.\" She took it, however, as she\nspoke, and the gratification of having her do so, of feeling such a\nconnexion for the first time, made him a little forgetful of Fanny.\n\"You scarcely touch me,\" said he. \"You do not make me of any use. What a\ndifference in the weight of a woman's arm from that of a man! At Oxford\nI have been a good deal used to have a man lean on me for the length of\na street, and you are only a fly in the comparison.\"\n\n\"I am really not tired, which I almost wonder at; for we must have\nwalked at least a mile in this wood. Do not you think we have?\"\n\n\"Not half a mile,\" was his sturdy answer; for he was not yet so much in\nlove as to measure distance, or reckon time, with feminine lawlessness.\n\n\"Oh! you do not consider how much we have wound about. We have taken\nsuch a very serpentine course, and the wood itself must be half a mile\nlong in a straight line, for we have never seen the end of it yet since\nwe left the first great path.\"\n\n\"But if you remember, before we left that first great path, we saw\ndirectly to the end of it. We looked down the whole vista, and saw it\nclosed by iron gates, and it could not have been more than a furlong in\nlength.\"\n\n\"Oh! I know nothing of your furlongs, but I am sure it is a very long\nwood, and that we have been winding in and out ever since we came into\nit; and therefore, when I say that we have walked a mile in it, I must\nspeak within compass.\"\n\n\"We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here,\" said Edmund, taking\nout his watch. \"Do you think we are walking four miles an hour?\"\n\n\"Oh! do not attack me with your watch. A watch is always too fast or too\nslow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch.\"\n\nA few steps farther brought them out at the bottom of the very walk they\nhad been talking of; and standing back, well shaded and sheltered, and\nlooking over a ha-ha into the park, was a comfortable-sized bench, on\nwhich they all sat down.\n\n\"I am afraid you are very tired, Fanny,\" said Edmund, observing her;\n\"why would not you speak sooner? This will be a bad day's amusement for\nyou if you are to be knocked up. Every sort of exercise fatigues her so\nsoon, Miss Crawford, except riding.\"\n\n\"How abominable in you, then, to let me engross her horse as I did all\nlast week! I am ashamed of you and of myself, but it shall never happen\nagain.\"\n\n\"_Your_ attentiveness and consideration makes me more sensible of my own\nneglect. Fanny's interest seems in safer hands with you than with me.\"\n\n\"That she should be tired now, however, gives me no surprise; for there\nis nothing in the course of one's duties so fatiguing as what we have\nbeen doing this morning: seeing a great house, dawdling from one room to\nanother, straining one's eyes and one's attention, hearing what one does\nnot understand, admiring what one does not care for. It is generally\nallowed to be the greatest bore in the world, and Miss Price has found\nit so, though she did not know it.\"\n\n\"I shall soon be rested,\" said Fanny; \"to sit in the shade on a fine\nday, and look upon verdure, is the most perfect refreshment.\"\n\nAfter sitting a little while Miss Crawford was up again. \"I must move,\"\nsaid she; \"resting fatigues me. I have looked across the ha-ha till I\nam weary. I must go and look through that iron gate at the same view,\nwithout being able to see it so well.\"\n\nEdmund left the seat likewise. \"Now, Miss Crawford, if you will look up\nthe walk, you will convince yourself that it cannot be half a mile long,\nor half half a mile.\"\n\n\"It is an immense distance,\" said she; \"I see _that_ with a glance.\"\n\nHe still reasoned with her, but in vain. She would not calculate, she\nwould not compare. She would only smile and assert. The greatest degree\nof rational consistency could not have been more engaging, and they\ntalked with mutual satisfaction. At last it was agreed that they should\nendeavour to determine the dimensions of the wood by walking a little\nmore about it. They would go to one end of it, in the line they were\nthen in--for there was a straight green walk along the bottom by\nthe side of the ha-ha--and perhaps turn a little way in some other\ndirection, if it seemed likely to assist them, and be back in a few\nminutes. Fanny said she was rested, and would have moved too, but this\nwas not suffered. Edmund urged her remaining where she was with an\nearnestness which she could not resist, and she was left on the bench to\nthink with pleasure of her cousin's care, but with great regret that she\nwas not stronger. She watched them till they had turned the corner, and\nlistened till all sound of them had ceased.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nA quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed away, and Fanny was still\nthinking of Edmund, Miss Crawford, and herself, without interruption\nfrom any one. She began to be surprised at being left so long, and to\nlisten with an anxious desire of hearing their steps and their voices\nagain. She listened, and at length she heard; she heard voices and feet\napproaching; but she had just satisfied herself that it was not those\nshe wanted, when Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford issued\nfrom the same path which she had trod herself, and were before her.\n\n\"Miss Price all alone\" and \"My dear Fanny, how comes this?\" were the\nfirst salutations. She told her story. \"Poor dear Fanny,\" cried her\ncousin, \"how ill you have been used by them! You had better have staid\nwith us.\"\n\nThen seating herself with a gentleman on each side, she resumed\nthe conversation which had engaged them before, and discussed the\npossibility of improvements with much animation. Nothing was fixed\non; but Henry Crawford was full of ideas and projects, and, generally\nspeaking, whatever he proposed was immediately approved, first by her,\nand then by Mr. Rushworth, whose principal business seemed to be to\nhear the others, and who scarcely risked an original thought of his own\nbeyond a wish that they had seen his friend Smith's place.\n\nAfter some minutes spent in this way, Miss Bertram, observing the iron\ngate, expressed a wish of passing through it into the park, that their\nviews and their plans might be more comprehensive. It was the very thing\nof all others to be wished, it was the best, it was the only way of\nproceeding with any advantage, in Henry Crawford's opinion; and he\ndirectly saw a knoll not half a mile off, which would give them exactly\nthe requisite command of the house. Go therefore they must to that\nknoll, and through that gate; but the gate was locked. Mr. Rushworth\nwished he had brought the key; he had been very near thinking whether he\nshould not bring the key; he was determined he would never come without\nthe key again; but still this did not remove the present evil. They\ncould not get through; and as Miss Bertram's inclination for so doing\ndid by no means lessen, it ended in Mr. Rushworth's declaring outright\nthat he would go and fetch the key. He set off accordingly.\n\n\"It is undoubtedly the best thing we can do now, as we are so far from\nthe house already,\" said Mr. Crawford, when he was gone.\n\n\"Yes, there is nothing else to be done. But now, sincerely, do not you\nfind the place altogether worse than you expected?\"\n\n\"No, indeed, far otherwise. I find it better, grander, more complete in\nits style, though that style may not be the best. And to tell you the\ntruth,\" speaking rather lower, \"I do not think that _I_ shall ever see\nSotherton again with so much pleasure as I do now. Another summer will\nhardly improve it to me.\"\n\nAfter a moment's embarrassment the lady replied, \"You are too much a\nman of the world not to see with the eyes of the world. If other people\nthink Sotherton improved, I have no doubt that you will.\"\n\n\"I am afraid I am not quite so much the man of the world as might be\ngood for me in some points. My feelings are not quite so evanescent, nor\nmy memory of the past under such easy dominion as one finds to be the\ncase with men of the world.\"\n\nThis was followed by a short silence. Miss Bertram began again. \"You\nseemed to enjoy your drive here very much this morning. I was glad to\nsee you so well entertained. You and Julia were laughing the whole way.\"\n\n\"Were we? Yes, I believe we were; but I have not the least recollection\nat what. Oh! I believe I was relating to her some ridiculous stories of\nan old Irish groom of my uncle's. Your sister loves to laugh.\"\n\n\"You think her more light-hearted than I am?\"\n\n\"More easily amused,\" he replied; \"consequently, you know,\" smiling,\n\"better company. I could not have hoped to entertain you with Irish\nanecdotes during a ten miles' drive.\"\n\n\"Naturally, I believe, I am as lively as Julia, but I have more to think\nof now.\"\n\n\"You have, undoubtedly; and there are situations in which very high\nspirits would denote insensibility. Your prospects, however, are too\nfair to justify want of spirits. You have a very smiling scene before\nyou.\"\n\n\"Do you mean literally or figuratively? Literally, I conclude. Yes,\ncertainly, the sun shines, and the park looks very cheerful. But\nunluckily that iron gate, that ha-ha, give me a feeling of restraint and\nhardship. 'I cannot get out,' as the starling said.\" As she spoke, and\nit was with expression, she walked to the gate: he followed her. \"Mr.\nRushworth is so long fetching this key!\"\n\n\"And for the world you would not get out without the key and without Mr.\nRushworth's authority and protection, or I think you might with little\ndifficulty pass round the edge of the gate, here, with my assistance;\nI think it might be done, if you really wished to be more at large, and\ncould allow yourself to think it not prohibited.\"\n\n\"Prohibited! nonsense! I certainly can get out that way, and I will.\nMr. Rushworth will be here in a moment, you know; we shall not be out of\nsight.\"\n\n\"Or if we are, Miss Price will be so good as to tell him that he will\nfind us near that knoll: the grove of oak on the knoll.\"\n\nFanny, feeling all this to be wrong, could not help making an effort to\nprevent it. \"You will hurt yourself, Miss Bertram,\" she cried; \"you will\ncertainly hurt yourself against those spikes; you will tear your gown;\nyou will be in danger of slipping into the ha-ha. You had better not\ngo.\"\n\nHer cousin was safe on the other side while these words were spoken,\nand, smiling with all the good-humour of success, she said, \"Thank you,\nmy dear Fanny, but I and my gown are alive and well, and so good-bye.\"\n\nFanny was again left to her solitude, and with no increase of pleasant\nfeelings, for she was sorry for almost all that she had seen and heard,\nastonished at Miss Bertram, and angry with Mr. Crawford. By taking\na circuitous route, and, as it appeared to her, very unreasonable\ndirection to the knoll, they were soon beyond her eye; and for some\nminutes longer she remained without sight or sound of any companion.\nShe seemed to have the little wood all to herself. She could almost\nhave thought that Edmund and Miss Crawford had left it, but that it was\nimpossible for Edmund to forget her so entirely.\n\nShe was again roused from disagreeable musings by sudden footsteps:\nsomebody was coming at a quick pace down the principal walk. She\nexpected Mr. Rushworth, but it was Julia, who, hot and out of breath,\nand with a look of disappointment, cried out on seeing her, \"Heyday!\nWhere are the others? I thought Maria and Mr. Crawford were with you.\"\n\nFanny explained.\n\n\"A pretty trick, upon my word! I cannot see them anywhere,\" looking\neagerly into the park. \"But they cannot be very far off, and I think I\nam equal to as much as Maria, even without help.\"\n\n\"But, Julia, Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment with the key. Do\nwait for Mr. Rushworth.\"\n\n\"Not I, indeed. I have had enough of the family for one morning. Why,\nchild, I have but this moment escaped from his horrible mother. Such a\npenance as I have been enduring, while you were sitting here so composed\nand so happy! It might have been as well, perhaps, if you had been in my\nplace, but you always contrive to keep out of these scrapes.\"\n\nThis was a most unjust reflection, but Fanny could allow for it, and let\nit pass: Julia was vexed, and her temper was hasty; but she felt that it\nwould not last, and therefore, taking no notice, only asked her if she\nhad not seen Mr. Rushworth.\n\n\"Yes, yes, we saw him. He was posting away as if upon life and death,\nand could but just spare time to tell us his errand, and where you all\nwere.\"\n\n\"It is a pity he should have so much trouble for nothing.\"\n\n\"_That_ is Miss Maria's concern. I am not obliged to punish myself for\n_her_ sins. The mother I could not avoid, as long as my tiresome aunt\nwas dancing about with the housekeeper, but the son I _can_ get away\nfrom.\"\n\nAnd she immediately scrambled across the fence, and walked away, not\nattending to Fanny's last question of whether she had seen anything of\nMiss Crawford and Edmund. The sort of dread in which Fanny now sat of\nseeing Mr. Rushworth prevented her thinking so much of their continued\nabsence, however, as she might have done. She felt that he had been\nvery ill-used, and was quite unhappy in having to communicate what had\npassed. He joined her within five minutes after Julia's exit; and\nthough she made the best of the story, he was evidently mortified and\ndispleased in no common degree. At first he scarcely said anything; his\nlooks only expressed his extreme surprise and vexation, and he walked to\nthe gate and stood there, without seeming to know what to do.\n\n\"They desired me to stay--my cousin Maria charged me to say that you\nwould find them at that knoll, or thereabouts.\"\n\n\"I do not believe I shall go any farther,\" said he sullenly; \"I see\nnothing of them. By the time I get to the knoll they may be gone\nsomewhere else. I have had walking enough.\"\n\nAnd he sat down with a most gloomy countenance by Fanny.\n\n\"I am very sorry,\" said she; \"it is very unlucky.\" And she longed to be\nable to say something more to the purpose.\n\nAfter an interval of silence, \"I think they might as well have staid for\nme,\" said he.\n\n\"Miss Bertram thought you would follow her.\"\n\n\"I should not have had to follow her if she had staid.\"\n\nThis could not be denied, and Fanny was silenced. After another pause,\nhe went on--\"Pray, Miss Price, are you such a great admirer of this Mr.\nCrawford as some people are? For my part, I can see nothing in him.\"\n\n\"I do not think him at all handsome.\"\n\n\"Handsome! Nobody can call such an undersized man handsome. He is not\nfive foot nine. I should not wonder if he is not more than five foot\neight. I think he is an ill-looking fellow. In my opinion, these\nCrawfords are no addition at all. We did very well without them.\"\n\nA small sigh escaped Fanny here, and she did not know how to contradict\nhim.\n\n\"If I had made any difficulty about fetching the key, there might have\nbeen some excuse, but I went the very moment she said she wanted it.\"\n\n\"Nothing could be more obliging than your manner, I am sure, and I dare\nsay you walked as fast as you could; but still it is some distance, you\nknow, from this spot to the house, quite into the house; and when people\nare waiting, they are bad judges of time, and every half minute seems\nlike five.\"\n\nHe got up and walked to the gate again, and \"wished he had had the key\nabout him at the time.\" Fanny thought she discerned in his standing\nthere an indication of relenting, which encouraged her to another\nattempt, and she said, therefore, \"It is a pity you should not join\nthem. They expected to have a better view of the house from that part\nof the park, and will be thinking how it may be improved; and nothing of\nthat sort, you know, can be settled without you.\"\n\nShe found herself more successful in sending away than in retaining a\ncompanion. Mr. Rushworth was worked on. \"Well,\" said he, \"if you\nreally think I had better go: it would be foolish to bring the key\nfor nothing.\" And letting himself out, he walked off without farther\nceremony.\n\nFanny's thoughts were now all engrossed by the two who had left her so\nlong ago, and getting quite impatient, she resolved to go in search\nof them. She followed their steps along the bottom walk, and had just\nturned up into another, when the voice and the laugh of Miss Crawford\nonce more caught her ear; the sound approached, and a few more windings\nbrought them before her. They were just returned into the wilderness\nfrom the park, to which a sidegate, not fastened, had tempted them very\nsoon after their leaving her, and they had been across a portion of the\npark into the very avenue which Fanny had been hoping the whole morning\nto reach at last, and had been sitting down under one of the trees. This\nwas their history. It was evident that they had been spending their time\npleasantly, and were not aware of the length of their absence. Fanny's\nbest consolation was in being assured that Edmund had wished for her\nvery much, and that he should certainly have come back for her, had she\nnot been tired already; but this was not quite sufficient to do away\nwith the pain of having been left a whole hour, when he had talked of\nonly a few minutes, nor to banish the sort of curiosity she felt to know\nwhat they had been conversing about all that time; and the result of\nthe whole was to her disappointment and depression, as they prepared by\ngeneral agreement to return to the house.\n\nOn reaching the bottom of the steps to the terrace, Mrs. Rushworth\nand Mrs. Norris presented themselves at the top, just ready for the\nwilderness, at the end of an hour and a half from their leaving the\nhouse. Mrs. Norris had been too well employed to move faster. Whatever\ncross-accidents had occurred to intercept the pleasures of her nieces,\nshe had found a morning of complete enjoyment; for the housekeeper,\nafter a great many courtesies on the subject of pheasants, had taken her\nto the dairy, told her all about their cows, and given her the receipt\nfor a famous cream cheese; and since Julia's leaving them they had\nbeen met by the gardener, with whom she had made a most satisfactory\nacquaintance, for she had set him right as to his grandson's illness,\nconvinced him that it was an ague, and promised him a charm for it; and\nhe, in return, had shewn her all his choicest nursery of plants, and\nactually presented her with a very curious specimen of heath.\n\nOn this _rencontre_ they all returned to the house together, there\nto lounge away the time as they could with sofas, and chit-chat, and\nQuarterly Reviews, till the return of the others, and the arrival of\ndinner. It was late before the Miss Bertrams and the two gentlemen came\nin, and their ramble did not appear to have been more than partially\nagreeable, or at all productive of anything useful with regard to the\nobject of the day. By their own accounts they had been all walking after\neach other, and the junction which had taken place at last seemed, to\nFanny's observation, to have been as much too late for re-establishing\nharmony, as it confessedly had been for determining on any alteration.\nShe felt, as she looked at Julia and Mr. Rushworth, that hers was not\nthe only dissatisfied bosom amongst them: there was gloom on the face of\neach. Mr. Crawford and Miss Bertram were much more gay, and she thought\nthat he was taking particular pains, during dinner, to do away any\nlittle resentment of the other two, and restore general good-humour.\n\nDinner was soon followed by tea and coffee, a ten miles' drive home\nallowed no waste of hours; and from the time of their sitting down to\ntable, it was a quick succession of busy nothings till the carriage came\nto the door, and Mrs. Norris, having fidgeted about, and obtained a\nfew pheasants' eggs and a cream cheese from the housekeeper, and made\nabundance of civil speeches to Mrs. Rushworth, was ready to lead the\nway. At the same moment Mr. Crawford, approaching Julia, said, \"I hope I\nam not to lose my companion, unless she is afraid of the evening air\nin so exposed a seat.\" The request had not been foreseen, but was very\ngraciously received, and Julia's day was likely to end almost as well as\nit began. Miss Bertram had made up her mind to something different, and\nwas a little disappointed; but her conviction of being really the\none preferred comforted her under it, and enabled her to receive Mr.\nRushworth's parting attentions as she ought. He was certainly better\npleased to hand her into the barouche than to assist her in ascending\nthe box, and his complacency seemed confirmed by the arrangement.\n\n\"Well, Fanny, this has been a fine day for you, upon my word,\" said\nMrs. Norris, as they drove through the park. \"Nothing but pleasure from\nbeginning to end! I am sure you ought to be very much obliged to your\naunt Bertram and me for contriving to let you go. A pretty good day's\namusement you have had!\"\n\nMaria was just discontented enough to say directly, \"I think _you_ have\ndone pretty well yourself, ma'am. Your lap seems full of good things,\nand here is a basket of something between us which has been knocking my\nelbow unmercifully.\"\n\n\"My dear, it is only a beautiful little heath, which that nice old\ngardener would make me take; but if it is in your way, I will have it in\nmy lap directly. There, Fanny, you shall carry that parcel for me; take\ngreat care of it: do not let it fall; it is a cream cheese, just like\nthe excellent one we had at dinner. Nothing would satisfy that good old\nMrs. Whitaker, but my taking one of the cheeses. I stood out as long\nas I could, till the tears almost came into her eyes, and I knew it was\njust the sort that my sister would be delighted with. That Mrs. Whitaker\nis a treasure! She was quite shocked when I asked her whether wine was\nallowed at the second table, and she has turned away two housemaids for\nwearing white gowns. Take care of the cheese, Fanny. Now I can manage\nthe other parcel and the basket very well.\"\n\n\"What else have you been spunging?\" said Maria, half-pleased that\nSotherton should be so complimented.\n\n\"Spunging, my dear! It is nothing but four of those beautiful pheasants'\neggs, which Mrs. Whitaker would quite force upon me: she would not take\na denial. She said it must be such an amusement to me, as she understood\nI lived quite alone, to have a few living creatures of that sort; and\nso to be sure it will. I shall get the dairymaid to set them under the\nfirst spare hen, and if they come to good I can have them moved to my\nown house and borrow a coop; and it will be a great delight to me in\nmy lonely hours to attend to them. And if I have good luck, your mother\nshall have some.\"\n\nIt was a beautiful evening, mild and still, and the drive was as\npleasant as the serenity of Nature could make it; but when Mrs. Norris\nceased speaking, it was altogether a silent drive to those within. Their\nspirits were in general exhausted; and to determine whether the day had\nafforded most pleasure or pain, might occupy the meditations of almost\nall.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nThe day at Sotherton, with all its imperfections, afforded the Miss\nBertrams much more agreeable feelings than were derived from the letters\nfrom Antigua, which soon afterwards reached Mansfield. It was much\npleasanter to think of Henry Crawford than of their father; and to think\nof their father in England again within a certain period, which these\nletters obliged them to do, was a most unwelcome exercise.\n\nNovember was the black month fixed for his return. Sir Thomas wrote of\nit with as much decision as experience and anxiety could authorise. His\nbusiness was so nearly concluded as to justify him in proposing to take\nhis passage in the September packet, and he consequently looked forward\nwith the hope of being with his beloved family again early in November.\n\nMaria was more to be pitied than Julia; for to her the father brought a\nhusband, and the return of the friend most solicitous for her happiness\nwould unite her to the lover, on whom she had chosen that happiness\nshould depend. It was a gloomy prospect, and all she could do was to\nthrow a mist over it, and hope when the mist cleared away she should\nsee something else. It would hardly be _early_ in November, there\nwere generally delays, a bad passage or _something_; that favouring\n_something_ which everybody who shuts their eyes while they look, or\ntheir understandings while they reason, feels the comfort of. It would\nprobably be the middle of November at least; the middle of November\nwas three months off. Three months comprised thirteen weeks. Much might\nhappen in thirteen weeks.\n\nSir Thomas would have been deeply mortified by a suspicion of half that\nhis daughters felt on the subject of his return, and would hardly have\nfound consolation in a knowledge of the interest it excited in the\nbreast of another young lady. Miss Crawford, on walking up with her\nbrother to spend the evening at Mansfield Park, heard the good news; and\nthough seeming to have no concern in the affair beyond politeness, and\nto have vented all her feelings in a quiet congratulation, heard it with\nan attention not so easily satisfied. Mrs. Norris gave the particulars\nof the letters, and the subject was dropt; but after tea, as Miss\nCrawford was standing at an open window with Edmund and Fanny looking\nout on a twilight scene, while the Miss Bertrams, Mr. Rushworth,\nand Henry Crawford were all busy with candles at the pianoforte, she\nsuddenly revived it by turning round towards the group, and saying, \"How\nhappy Mr. Rushworth looks! He is thinking of November.\"\n\nEdmund looked round at Mr. Rushworth too, but had nothing to say.\n\n\"Your father's return will be a very interesting event.\"\n\n\"It will, indeed, after such an absence; an absence not only long, but\nincluding so many dangers.\"\n\n\"It will be the forerunner also of other interesting events: your\nsister's marriage, and your taking orders.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Don't be affronted,\" said she, laughing, \"but it does put me in mind of\nsome of the old heathen heroes, who, after performing great exploits in\na foreign land, offered sacrifices to the gods on their safe return.\"\n\n\"There is no sacrifice in the case,\" replied Edmund, with a serious\nsmile, and glancing at the pianoforte again; \"it is entirely her own\ndoing.\"\n\n\"Oh yes I know it is. I was merely joking. She has done no more than\nwhat every young woman would do; and I have no doubt of her being\nextremely happy. My other sacrifice, of course, you do not understand.\"\n\n\"My taking orders, I assure you, is quite as voluntary as Maria's\nmarrying.\"\n\n\"It is fortunate that your inclination and your father's convenience\nshould accord so well. There is a very good living kept for you, I\nunderstand, hereabouts.\"\n\n\"Which you suppose has biassed me?\"\n\n\"But _that_ I am sure it has not,\" cried Fanny.\n\n\"Thank you for your good word, Fanny, but it is more than I would affirm\nmyself. On the contrary, the knowing that there was such a provision for\nme probably did bias me. Nor can I think it wrong that it should. There\nwas no natural disinclination to be overcome, and I see no reason why\na man should make a worse clergyman for knowing that he will have a\ncompetence early in life. I was in safe hands. I hope I should not have\nbeen influenced myself in a wrong way, and I am sure my father was too\nconscientious to have allowed it. I have no doubt that I was biased, but\nI think it was blamelessly.\"\n\n\"It is the same sort of thing,\" said Fanny, after a short pause, \"as for\nthe son of an admiral to go into the navy, or the son of a general to be\nin the army, and nobody sees anything wrong in that. Nobody wonders that\nthey should prefer the line where their friends can serve them best, or\nsuspects them to be less in earnest in it than they appear.\"\n\n\"No, my dear Miss Price, and for reasons good. The profession, either\nnavy or army, is its own justification. It has everything in its favour:\nheroism, danger, bustle, fashion. Soldiers and sailors are always\nacceptable in society. Nobody can wonder that men are soldiers and\nsailors.\"\n\n\"But the motives of a man who takes orders with the certainty of\npreferment may be fairly suspected, you think?\" said Edmund. \"To be\njustified in your eyes, he must do it in the most complete uncertainty\nof any provision.\"\n\n\"What! take orders without a living! No; that is madness indeed;\nabsolute madness.\"\n\n\"Shall I ask you how the church is to be filled, if a man is neither to\ntake orders with a living nor without? No; for you certainly would not\nknow what to say. But I must beg some advantage to the clergyman from\nyour own argument. As he cannot be influenced by those feelings which\nyou rank highly as temptation and reward to the soldier and sailor in\ntheir choice of a profession, as heroism, and noise, and fashion, are\nall against him, he ought to be less liable to the suspicion of wanting\nsincerity or good intentions in the choice of his.\"\n\n\"Oh! no doubt he is very sincere in preferring an income ready made,\nto the trouble of working for one; and has the best intentions of doing\nnothing all the rest of his days but eat, drink, and grow fat. It is\nindolence, Mr. Bertram, indeed. Indolence and love of ease; a want of\nall laudable ambition, of taste for good company, or of inclination\nto take the trouble of being agreeable, which make men clergymen.\nA clergyman has nothing to do but be slovenly and selfish--read the\nnewspaper, watch the weather, and quarrel with his wife. His curate does\nall the work, and the business of his own life is to dine.\"\n\n\"There are such clergymen, no doubt, but I think they are not so common\nas to justify Miss Crawford in esteeming it their general character. I\nsuspect that in this comprehensive and (may I say) commonplace censure,\nyou are not judging from yourself, but from prejudiced persons, whose\nopinions you have been in the habit of hearing. It is impossible that\nyour own observation can have given you much knowledge of the clergy.\nYou can have been personally acquainted with very few of a set of men\nyou condemn so conclusively. You are speaking what you have been told at\nyour uncle's table.\"\n\n\"I speak what appears to me the general opinion; and where an opinion\nis general, it is usually correct. Though _I_ have not seen much of\nthe domestic lives of clergymen, it is seen by too many to leave any\ndeficiency of information.\"\n\n\"Where any one body of educated men, of whatever denomination, are\ncondemned indiscriminately, there must be a deficiency of information,\nor (smiling) of something else. Your uncle, and his brother admirals,\nperhaps knew little of clergymen beyond the chaplains whom, good or bad,\nthey were always wishing away.\"\n\n\"Poor William! He has met with great kindness from the chaplain of the\nAntwerp,\" was a tender apostrophe of Fanny's, very much to the purpose\nof her own feelings if not of the conversation.\n\n\"I have been so little addicted to take my opinions from my uncle,\"\nsaid Miss Crawford, \"that I can hardly suppose--and since you push me so\nhard, I must observe, that I am not entirely without the means of seeing\nwhat clergymen are, being at this present time the guest of my own\nbrother, Dr. Grant. And though Dr. Grant is most kind and obliging to\nme, and though he is really a gentleman, and, I dare say, a good scholar\nand clever, and often preaches good sermons, and is very respectable,\n_I_ see him to be an indolent, selfish _bon_ _vivant_, who must have\nhis palate consulted in everything; who will not stir a finger for the\nconvenience of any one; and who, moreover, if the cook makes a blunder,\nis out of humour with his excellent wife. To own the truth, Henry and\nI were partly driven out this very evening by a disappointment about a\ngreen goose, which he could not get the better of. My poor sister was\nforced to stay and bear it.\"\n\n\"I do not wonder at your disapprobation, upon my word. It is a great\ndefect of temper, made worse by a very faulty habit of self-indulgence;\nand to see your sister suffering from it must be exceedingly painful to\nsuch feelings as yours. Fanny, it goes against us. We cannot attempt to\ndefend Dr. Grant.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Fanny, \"but we need not give up his profession for all\nthat; because, whatever profession Dr. Grant had chosen, he would have\ntaken a--not a good temper into it; and as he must, either in the navy\nor army, have had a great many more people under his command than he\nhas now, I think more would have been made unhappy by him as a sailor or\nsoldier than as a clergyman. Besides, I cannot but suppose that whatever\nthere may be to wish otherwise in Dr. Grant would have been in a greater\ndanger of becoming worse in a more active and worldly profession, where\nhe would have had less time and obligation--where he might have escaped\nthat knowledge of himself, the _frequency_, at least, of that knowledge\nwhich it is impossible he should escape as he is now. A man--a sensible\nman like Dr. Grant, cannot be in the habit of teaching others their duty\nevery week, cannot go to church twice every Sunday, and preach such very\ngood sermons in so good a manner as he does, without being the better\nfor it himself. It must make him think; and I have no doubt that he\noftener endeavours to restrain himself than he would if he had been\nanything but a clergyman.\"\n\n\"We cannot prove to the contrary, to be sure; but I wish you a better\nfate, Miss Price, than to be the wife of a man whose amiableness\ndepends upon his own sermons; for though he may preach himself into a\ngood-humour every Sunday, it will be bad enough to have him quarrelling\nabout green geese from Monday morning till Saturday night.\"\n\n\"I think the man who could often quarrel with Fanny,\" said Edmund\naffectionately, \"must be beyond the reach of any sermons.\"\n\nFanny turned farther into the window; and Miss Crawford had only time\nto say, in a pleasant manner, \"I fancy Miss Price has been more used to\ndeserve praise than to hear it\"; when, being earnestly invited by the\nMiss Bertrams to join in a glee, she tripped off to the instrument,\nleaving Edmund looking after her in an ecstasy of admiration of all her\nmany virtues, from her obliging manners down to her light and graceful\ntread.\n\n\"There goes good-humour, I am sure,\" said he presently. \"There goes a\ntemper which would never give pain! How well she walks! and how readily\nshe falls in with the inclination of others! joining them the moment she\nis asked. What a pity,\" he added, after an instant's reflection, \"that\nshe should have been in such hands!\"\n\nFanny agreed to it, and had the pleasure of seeing him continue at the\nwindow with her, in spite of the expected glee; and of having his eyes\nsoon turned, like hers, towards the scene without, where all that was\nsolemn, and soothing, and lovely, appeared in the brilliancy of an\nunclouded night, and the contrast of the deep shade of the woods. Fanny\nspoke her feelings. \"Here's harmony!\" said she; \"here's repose! Here's\nwhat may leave all painting and all music behind, and what poetry only\ncan attempt to describe! Here's what may tranquillise every care, and\nlift the heart to rapture! When I look out on such a night as this, I\nfeel as if there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world;\nand there certainly would be less of both if the sublimity of Nature\nwere more attended to, and people were carried more out of themselves by\ncontemplating such a scene.\"\n\n\"I like to hear your enthusiasm, Fanny. It is a lovely night, and they\nare much to be pitied who have not been taught to feel, in some degree,\nas you do; who have not, at least, been given a taste for Nature in\nearly life. They lose a great deal.\"\n\n\"_You_ taught me to think and feel on the subject, cousin.\"\n\n\"I had a very apt scholar. There's Arcturus looking very bright.\"\n\n\"Yes, and the Bear. I wish I could see Cassiopeia.\"\n\n\"We must go out on the lawn for that. Should you be afraid?\"\n\n\"Not in the least. It is a great while since we have had any\nstar-gazing.\"\n\n\"Yes; I do not know how it has happened.\" The glee began. \"We will stay\ntill this is finished, Fanny,\" said he, turning his back on the window;\nand as it advanced, she had the mortification of seeing him advance too,\nmoving forward by gentle degrees towards the instrument, and when it\nceased, he was close by the singers, among the most urgent in requesting\nto hear the glee again.\n\nFanny sighed alone at the window till scolded away by Mrs. Norris's\nthreats of catching cold.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nSir Thomas was to return in November, and his eldest son had duties to\ncall him earlier home. The approach of September brought tidings of Mr.\nBertram, first in a letter to the gamekeeper and then in a letter\nto Edmund; and by the end of August he arrived himself, to be gay,\nagreeable, and gallant again as occasion served, or Miss Crawford\ndemanded; to tell of races and Weymouth, and parties and friends, to\nwhich she might have listened six weeks before with some interest, and\naltogether to give her the fullest conviction, by the power of actual\ncomparison, of her preferring his younger brother.\n\nIt was very vexatious, and she was heartily sorry for it; but so it was;\nand so far from now meaning to marry the elder, she did not even want\nto attract him beyond what the simplest claims of conscious beauty\nrequired: his lengthened absence from Mansfield, without anything but\npleasure in view, and his own will to consult, made it perfectly clear\nthat he did not care about her; and his indifference was so much more\nthan equalled by her own, that were he now to step forth the owner of\nMansfield Park, the Sir Thomas complete, which he was to be in time, she\ndid not believe she could accept him.\n\nThe season and duties which brought Mr. Bertram back to Mansfield took\nMr. Crawford into Norfolk. Everingham could not do without him in the\nbeginning of September. He went for a fortnight--a fortnight of such\ndullness to the Miss Bertrams as ought to have put them both on their\nguard, and made even Julia admit, in her jealousy of her sister, the\nabsolute necessity of distrusting his attentions, and wishing him not\nto return; and a fortnight of sufficient leisure, in the intervals of\nshooting and sleeping, to have convinced the gentleman that he ought\nto keep longer away, had he been more in the habit of examining his own\nmotives, and of reflecting to what the indulgence of his idle vanity was\ntending; but, thoughtless and selfish from prosperity and bad example,\nhe would not look beyond the present moment. The sisters, handsome,\nclever, and encouraging, were an amusement to his sated mind; and\nfinding nothing in Norfolk to equal the social pleasures of Mansfield,\nhe gladly returned to it at the time appointed, and was welcomed thither\nquite as gladly by those whom he came to trifle with further.\n\nMaria, with only Mr. Rushworth to attend to her, and doomed to the\nrepeated details of his day's sport, good or bad, his boast of his dogs,\nhis jealousy of his neighbours, his doubts of their qualifications,\nand his zeal after poachers, subjects which will not find their way to\nfemale feelings without some talent on one side or some attachment on\nthe other, had missed Mr. Crawford grievously; and Julia, unengaged and\nunemployed, felt all the right of missing him much more. Each sister\nbelieved herself the favourite. Julia might be justified in so doing by\nthe hints of Mrs. Grant, inclined to credit what she wished, and Maria\nby the hints of Mr. Crawford himself. Everything returned into the same\nchannel as before his absence; his manners being to each so animated and\nagreeable as to lose no ground with either, and just stopping short of\nthe consistence, the steadiness, the solicitude, and the warmth which\nmight excite general notice.\n\nFanny was the only one of the party who found anything to dislike; but\nsince the day at Sotherton, she could never see Mr. Crawford with either\nsister without observation, and seldom without wonder or censure; and\nhad her confidence in her own judgment been equal to her exercise of it\nin every other respect, had she been sure that she was seeing clearly,\nand judging candidly, she would probably have made some important\ncommunications to her usual confidant. As it was, however, she only\nhazarded a hint, and the hint was lost. \"I am rather surprised,\" said\nshe, \"that Mr. Crawford should come back again so soon, after being here\nso long before, full seven weeks; for I had understood he was so\nvery fond of change and moving about, that I thought something would\ncertainly occur, when he was once gone, to take him elsewhere. He is\nused to much gayer places than Mansfield.\"\n\n\"It is to his credit,\" was Edmund's answer; \"and I dare say it gives his\nsister pleasure. She does not like his unsettled habits.\"\n\n\"What a favourite he is with my cousins!\"\n\n\"Yes, his manners to women are such as must please. Mrs. Grant, I\nbelieve, suspects him of a preference for Julia; I have never seen much\nsymptom of it, but I wish it may be so. He has no faults but what a\nserious attachment would remove.\"\n\n\"If Miss Bertram were not engaged,\" said Fanny cautiously, \"I could\nsometimes almost think that he admired her more than Julia.\"\n\n\"Which is, perhaps, more in favour of his liking Julia best, than you,\nFanny, may be aware; for I believe it often happens that a man, before\nhe has quite made up his own mind, will distinguish the sister or\nintimate friend of the woman he is really thinking of more than the\nwoman herself. Crawford has too much sense to stay here if he found\nhimself in any danger from Maria; and I am not at all afraid for her,\nafter such a proof as she has given that her feelings are not strong.\"\n\nFanny supposed she must have been mistaken, and meant to think\ndifferently in future; but with all that submission to Edmund could\ndo, and all the help of the coinciding looks and hints which she\noccasionally noticed in some of the others, and which seemed to say that\nJulia was Mr. Crawford's choice, she knew not always what to think. She\nwas privy, one evening, to the hopes of her aunt Norris on the subject,\nas well as to her feelings, and the feelings of Mrs. Rushworth, on a\npoint of some similarity, and could not help wondering as she listened;\nand glad would she have been not to be obliged to listen, for it was\nwhile all the other young people were dancing, and she sitting,\nmost unwillingly, among the chaperons at the fire, longing for the\nre-entrance of her elder cousin, on whom all her own hopes of a partner\nthen depended. It was Fanny's first ball, though without the preparation\nor splendour of many a young lady's first ball, being the thought only\nof the afternoon, built on the late acquisition of a violin player in\nthe servants' hall, and the possibility of raising five couple with\nthe help of Mrs. Grant and a new intimate friend of Mr. Bertram's just\narrived on a visit. It had, however, been a very happy one to Fanny\nthrough four dances, and she was quite grieved to be losing even a\nquarter of an hour. While waiting and wishing, looking now at\nthe dancers and now at the door, this dialogue between the two\nabove-mentioned ladies was forced on her--\n\n\"I think, ma'am,\" said Mrs. Norris, her eyes directed towards Mr.\nRushworth and Maria, who were partners for the second time, \"we shall\nsee some happy faces again now.\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, indeed,\" replied the other, with a stately simper, \"there\nwill be some satisfaction in looking on _now_, and I think it was rather\na pity they should have been obliged to part. Young folks in their\nsituation should be excused complying with the common forms. I wonder my\nson did not propose it.\"\n\n\"I dare say he did, ma'am. Mr. Rushworth is never remiss. But dear Maria\nhas such a strict sense of propriety, so much of that true delicacy\nwhich one seldom meets with nowadays, Mrs. Rushworth--that wish of\navoiding particularity! Dear ma'am, only look at her face at this\nmoment; how different from what it was the two last dances!\"\n\nMiss Bertram did indeed look happy, her eyes were sparkling with\npleasure, and she was speaking with great animation, for Julia and her\npartner, Mr. Crawford, were close to her; they were all in a cluster\ntogether. How she had looked before, Fanny could not recollect, for she\nhad been dancing with Edmund herself, and had not thought about her.\n\nMrs. Norris continued, \"It is quite delightful, ma'am, to see young\npeople so properly happy, so well suited, and so much the thing! I\ncannot but think of dear Sir Thomas's delight. And what do you say,\nma'am, to the chance of another match? Mr. Rushworth has set a good\nexample, and such things are very catching.\"\n\nMrs. Rushworth, who saw nothing but her son, was quite at a loss.\n\n\"The couple above, ma'am. Do you see no symptoms there?\"\n\n\"Oh dear! Miss Julia and Mr. Crawford. Yes, indeed, a very pretty match.\nWhat is his property?\"\n\n\"Four thousand a year.\"\n\n\"Very well. Those who have not more must be satisfied with what they\nhave. Four thousand a year is a pretty estate, and he seems a very\ngenteel, steady young man, so I hope Miss Julia will be very happy.\"\n\n\"It is not a settled thing, ma'am, yet. We only speak of it among\nfriends. But I have very little doubt it _will_ be. He is growing\nextremely particular in his attentions.\"\n\nFanny could listen no farther. Listening and wondering were all\nsuspended for a time, for Mr. Bertram was in the room again; and though\nfeeling it would be a great honour to be asked by him, she thought it\nmust happen. He came towards their little circle; but instead of asking\nher to dance, drew a chair near her, and gave her an account of the\npresent state of a sick horse, and the opinion of the groom, from\nwhom he had just parted. Fanny found that it was not to be, and in the\nmodesty of her nature immediately felt that she had been unreasonable\nin expecting it. When he had told of his horse, he took a newspaper from\nthe table, and looking over it, said in a languid way, \"If you want to\ndance, Fanny, I will stand up with you.\" With more than equal civility\nthe offer was declined; she did not wish to dance. \"I am glad of it,\"\nsaid he, in a much brisker tone, and throwing down the newspaper again,\n\"for I am tired to death. I only wonder how the good people can keep\nit up so long. They had need be _all_ in love, to find any amusement in\nsuch folly; and so they are, I fancy. If you look at them you may see\nthey are so many couple of lovers--all but Yates and Mrs. Grant--and,\nbetween ourselves, she, poor woman, must want a lover as much as any one\nof them. A desperate dull life hers must be with the doctor,\" making\na sly face as he spoke towards the chair of the latter, who proving,\nhowever, to be close at his elbow, made so instantaneous a change of\nexpression and subject necessary, as Fanny, in spite of everything,\ncould hardly help laughing at. \"A strange business this in America, Dr.\nGrant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to know what I am to\nthink of public matters.\"\n\n\"My dear Tom,\" cried his aunt soon afterwards, \"as you are not dancing,\nI dare say you will have no objection to join us in a rubber; shall\nyou?\" Then leaving her seat, and coming to him to enforce the proposal,\nadded in a whisper, \"We want to make a table for Mrs. Rushworth, you\nknow. Your mother is quite anxious about it, but cannot very well spare\ntime to sit down herself, because of her fringe. Now, you and I and Dr.\nGrant will just do; and though _we_ play but half-crowns, you know, you\nmay bet half-guineas with _him_.\"\n\n\"I should be most happy,\" replied he aloud, and jumping up with\nalacrity, \"it would give me the greatest pleasure; but that I am\nthis moment going to dance.\" Come, Fanny, taking her hand, \"do not be\ndawdling any longer, or the dance will be over.\"\n\nFanny was led off very willingly, though it was impossible for her to\nfeel much gratitude towards her cousin, or distinguish, as he certainly\ndid, between the selfishness of another person and his own.\n\n\"A pretty modest request upon my word,\" he indignantly exclaimed as they\nwalked away. \"To want to nail me to a card-table for the next two hours\nwith herself and Dr. Grant, who are always quarrelling, and that poking\nold woman, who knows no more of whist than of algebra. I wish my good\naunt would be a little less busy! And to ask me in such a way too!\nwithout ceremony, before them all, so as to leave me no possibility\nof refusing. _That_ is what I dislike most particularly. It raises my\nspleen more than anything, to have the pretence of being asked, of\nbeing given a choice, and at the same time addressed in such a way as\nto oblige one to do the very thing, whatever it be! If I had not luckily\nthought of standing up with you I could not have got out of it. It is\na great deal too bad. But when my aunt has got a fancy in her head,\nnothing can stop her.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nThe Honourable John Yates, this new friend, had not much to recommend\nhim beyond habits of fashion and expense, and being the younger son of\na lord with a tolerable independence; and Sir Thomas would probably\nhave thought his introduction at Mansfield by no means desirable. Mr.\nBertram's acquaintance with him had begun at Weymouth, where they had\nspent ten days together in the same society, and the friendship, if\nfriendship it might be called, had been proved and perfected by Mr.\nYates's being invited to take Mansfield in his way, whenever he could,\nand by his promising to come; and he did come rather earlier than had\nbeen expected, in consequence of the sudden breaking-up of a large party\nassembled for gaiety at the house of another friend, which he had left\nWeymouth to join. He came on the wings of disappointment, and with his\nhead full of acting, for it had been a theatrical party; and the play\nin which he had borne a part was within two days of representation,\nwhen the sudden death of one of the nearest connexions of the family\nhad destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers. To be so near\nhappiness, so near fame, so near the long paragraph in praise of the\nprivate theatricals at Ecclesford, the seat of the Right Hon. Lord\nRavenshaw, in Cornwall, which would of course have immortalised the\nwhole party for at least a twelvemonth! and being so near, to lose\nit all, was an injury to be keenly felt, and Mr. Yates could talk of\nnothing else. Ecclesford and its theatre, with its arrangements and\ndresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing subject, and to\nboast of the past his only consolation.\n\nHappily for him, a love of the theatre is so general, an itch for acting\nso strong among young people, that he could hardly out-talk the interest\nof his hearers. From the first casting of the parts to the epilogue it\nwas all bewitching, and there were few who did not wish to have been a\nparty concerned, or would have hesitated to try their skill. The play\nhad been Lovers' Vows, and Mr. Yates was to have been Count Cassel. \"A\ntrifling part,\" said he, \"and not at all to my taste, and such a one\nas I certainly would not accept again; but I was determined to make no\ndifficulties. Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had appropriated the only two\ncharacters worth playing before I reached Ecclesford; and though Lord\nRavenshaw offered to resign his to me, it was impossible to take it, you\nknow. I was sorry for _him_ that he should have so mistaken his powers,\nfor he was no more equal to the Baron--a little man with a weak voice,\nalways hoarse after the first ten minutes. It must have injured the\npiece materially; but _I_ was resolved to make no difficulties. Sir\nHenry thought the duke not equal to Frederick, but that was because\nSir Henry wanted the part himself; whereas it was certainly in the best\nhands of the two. I was surprised to see Sir Henry such a stick. Luckily\nthe strength of the piece did not depend upon him. Our Agatha was\ninimitable, and the duke was thought very great by many. And upon the\nwhole, it would certainly have gone off wonderfully.\"\n\n\"It was a hard case, upon my word\"; and, \"I do think you were very much\nto be pitied,\" were the kind responses of listening sympathy.\n\n\"It is not worth complaining about; but to be sure the poor old dowager\ncould not have died at a worse time; and it is impossible to help\nwishing that the news could have been suppressed for just the three days\nwe wanted. It was but three days; and being only a grandmother, and all\nhappening two hundred miles off, I think there would have been no great\nharm, and it was suggested, I know; but Lord Ravenshaw, who I suppose is\none of the most correct men in England, would not hear of it.\"\n\n\"An afterpiece instead of a comedy,\" said Mr. Bertram. \"Lovers' Vows\nwere at an end, and Lord and Lady Ravenshaw left to act My Grandmother\nby themselves. Well, the jointure may comfort _him_; and perhaps,\nbetween friends, he began to tremble for his credit and his lungs in the\nBaron, and was not sorry to withdraw; and to make _you_ amends, Yates, I\nthink we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you to be our\nmanager.\"\n\nThis, though the thought of the moment, did not end with the moment; for\nthe inclination to act was awakened, and in no one more strongly than in\nhim who was now master of the house; and who, having so much leisure as\nto make almost any novelty a certain good, had likewise such a degree of\nlively talents and comic taste, as were exactly adapted to the novelty\nof acting. The thought returned again and again. \"Oh for the Ecclesford\ntheatre and scenery to try something with.\" Each sister could echo the\nwish; and Henry Crawford, to whom, in all the riot of his gratifications\nit was yet an untasted pleasure, was quite alive at the idea. \"I really\nbelieve,\" said he, \"I could be fool enough at this moment to undertake\nany character that ever was written, from Shylock or Richard III down to\nthe singing hero of a farce in his scarlet coat and cocked hat. I feel\nas if I could be anything or everything; as if I could rant and storm,\nor sigh or cut capers, in any tragedy or comedy in the English language.\nLet us be doing something. Be it only half a play, an act, a scene; what\nshould prevent us? Not these countenances, I am sure,\" looking towards\nthe Miss Bertrams; \"and for a theatre, what signifies a theatre? We\nshall be only amusing ourselves. Any room in this house might suffice.\"\n\n\"We must have a curtain,\" said Tom Bertram; \"a few yards of green baize\nfor a curtain, and perhaps that may be enough.\"\n\n\"Oh, quite enough,\" cried Mr. Yates, \"with only just a side wing or two\nrun up, doors in flat, and three or four scenes to be let down; nothing\nmore would be necessary on such a plan as this. For mere amusement among\nourselves we should want nothing more.\"\n\n\"I believe we must be satisfied with _less_,\" said Maria. \"There would\nnot be time, and other difficulties would arise. We must rather adopt\nMr. Crawford's views, and make the _performance_, not the _theatre_, our\nobject. Many parts of our best plays are independent of scenery.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said Edmund, who began to listen with alarm. \"Let us do nothing\nby halves. If we are to act, let it be in a theatre completely fitted\nup with pit, boxes, and gallery, and let us have a play entire from\nbeginning to end; so as it be a German play, no matter what, with a good\ntricking, shifting afterpiece, and a figure-dance, and a hornpipe, and a\nsong between the acts. If we do not outdo Ecclesford, we do nothing.\"\n\n\"Now, Edmund, do not be disagreeable,\" said Julia. \"Nobody loves a play\nbetter than you do, or can have gone much farther to see one.\"\n\n\"True, to see real acting, good hardened real acting; but I would hardly\nwalk from this room to the next to look at the raw efforts of those who\nhave not been bred to the trade: a set of gentlemen and ladies, who have\nall the disadvantages of education and decorum to struggle through.\"\n\nAfter a short pause, however, the subject still continued, and was\ndiscussed with unabated eagerness, every one's inclination increasing\nby the discussion, and a knowledge of the inclination of the rest; and\nthough nothing was settled but that Tom Bertram would prefer a comedy,\nand his sisters and Henry Crawford a tragedy, and that nothing in the\nworld could be easier than to find a piece which would please them all,\nthe resolution to act something or other seemed so decided as to\nmake Edmund quite uncomfortable. He was determined to prevent it, if\npossible, though his mother, who equally heard the conversation which\npassed at table, did not evince the least disapprobation.\n\nThe same evening afforded him an opportunity of trying his strength.\nMaria, Julia, Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates were in the billiard-room.\nTom, returning from them into the drawing-room, where Edmund was\nstanding thoughtfully by the fire, while Lady Bertram was on the sofa at\na little distance, and Fanny close beside her arranging her work, thus\nbegan as he entered--\"Such a horribly vile billiard-table as ours is not\nto be met with, I believe, above ground. I can stand it no longer, and I\nthink, I may say, that nothing shall ever tempt me to it again; but one\ngood thing I have just ascertained: it is the very room for a theatre,\nprecisely the shape and length for it; and the doors at the farther\nend, communicating with each other, as they may be made to do in five\nminutes, by merely moving the bookcase in my father's room, is the very\nthing we could have desired, if we had sat down to wish for it; and\nmy father's room will be an excellent greenroom. It seems to join the\nbilliard-room on purpose.\"\n\n\"You are not serious, Tom, in meaning to act?\" said Edmund, in a low\nvoice, as his brother approached the fire.\n\n\"Not serious! never more so, I assure you. What is there to surprise you\nin it?\"\n\n\"I think it would be very wrong. In a _general_ light, private\ntheatricals are open to some objections, but as _we_ are circumstanced,\nI must think it would be highly injudicious, and more than injudicious\nto attempt anything of the kind. It would shew great want of feeling\non my father's account, absent as he is, and in some degree of constant\ndanger; and it would be imprudent, I think, with regard to Maria, whose\nsituation is a very delicate one, considering everything, extremely\ndelicate.\"\n\n\"You take up a thing so seriously! as if we were going to act three\ntimes a week till my father's return, and invite all the country. But\nit is not to be a display of that sort. We mean nothing but a little\namusement among ourselves, just to vary the scene, and exercise our\npowers in something new. We want no audience, no publicity. We may be\ntrusted, I think, in chusing some play most perfectly unexceptionable;\nand I can conceive no greater harm or danger to any of us in conversing\nin the elegant written language of some respectable author than in\nchattering in words of our own. I have no fears and no scruples. And\nas to my father's being absent, it is so far from an objection, that I\nconsider it rather as a motive; for the expectation of his return must\nbe a very anxious period to my mother; and if we can be the means of\namusing that anxiety, and keeping up her spirits for the next few weeks,\nI shall think our time very well spent, and so, I am sure, will he. It\nis a _very_ anxious period for her.\"\n\nAs he said this, each looked towards their mother. Lady Bertram, sunk\nback in one corner of the sofa, the picture of health, wealth, ease,\nand tranquillity, was just falling into a gentle doze, while Fanny was\ngetting through the few difficulties of her work for her.\n\nEdmund smiled and shook his head.\n\n\"By Jove! this won't do,\" cried Tom, throwing himself into a chair with\na hearty laugh. \"To be sure, my dear mother, your anxiety--I was unlucky\nthere.\"\n\n\"What is the matter?\" asked her ladyship, in the heavy tone of one\nhalf-roused; \"I was not asleep.\"\n\n\"Oh dear, no, ma'am, nobody suspected you! Well, Edmund,\" he continued,\nreturning to the former subject, posture, and voice, as soon as Lady\nBertram began to nod again, \"but _this_ I _will_ maintain, that we shall\nbe doing no harm.\"\n\n\"I cannot agree with you; I am convinced that my father would totally\ndisapprove it.\"\n\n\"And I am convinced to the contrary. Nobody is fonder of the exercise\nof talent in young people, or promotes it more, than my father, and for\nanything of the acting, spouting, reciting kind, I think he has always a\ndecided taste. I am sure he encouraged it in us as boys. How many a time\nhave we mourned over the dead body of Julius Caesar, and to _be'd_ and\nnot _to_ _be'd_, in this very room, for his amusement? And I am sure,\n_my_ _name_ _was_ _Norval_, every evening of my life through one\nChristmas holidays.\"\n\n\"It was a very different thing. You must see the difference yourself. My\nfather wished us, as schoolboys, to speak well, but he would never\nwish his grown-up daughters to be acting plays. His sense of decorum is\nstrict.\"\n\n\"I know all that,\" said Tom, displeased. \"I know my father as well as\nyou do; and I'll take care that his daughters do nothing to distress\nhim. Manage your own concerns, Edmund, and I'll take care of the rest of\nthe family.\"\n\n\"If you are resolved on acting,\" replied the persevering Edmund, \"I must\nhope it will be in a very small and quiet way; and I think a theatre\nought not to be attempted. It would be taking liberties with my father's\nhouse in his absence which could not be justified.\"\n\n\"For everything of that nature I will be answerable,\" said Tom, in a\ndecided tone. \"His house shall not be hurt. I have quite as great an\ninterest in being careful of his house as you can have; and as to such\nalterations as I was suggesting just now, such as moving a bookcase, or\nunlocking a door, or even as using the billiard-room for the space of a\nweek without playing at billiards in it, you might just as well suppose\nhe would object to our sitting more in this room, and less in the\nbreakfast-room, than we did before he went away, or to my sister's\npianoforte being moved from one side of the room to the other. Absolute\nnonsense!\"\n\n\"The innovation, if not wrong as an innovation, will be wrong as an\nexpense.\"\n\n\"Yes, the expense of such an undertaking would be prodigious! Perhaps\nit might cost a whole twenty pounds. Something of a theatre we must have\nundoubtedly, but it will be on the simplest plan: a green curtain and a\nlittle carpenter's work, and that's all; and as the carpenter's work\nmay be all done at home by Christopher Jackson himself, it will be\ntoo absurd to talk of expense; and as long as Jackson is employed,\neverything will be right with Sir Thomas. Don't imagine that nobody in\nthis house can see or judge but yourself. Don't act yourself, if you do\nnot like it, but don't expect to govern everybody else.\"\n\n\"No, as to acting myself,\" said Edmund, \"_that_ I absolutely protest\nagainst.\"\n\nTom walked out of the room as he said it, and Edmund was left to sit\ndown and stir the fire in thoughtful vexation.\n\nFanny, who had heard it all, and borne Edmund company in every feeling\nthroughout the whole, now ventured to say, in her anxiety to suggest\nsome comfort, \"Perhaps they may not be able to find any play to suit\nthem. Your brother's taste and your sisters' seem very different.\"\n\n\"I have no hope there, Fanny. If they persist in the scheme, they will\nfind something. I shall speak to my sisters and try to dissuade _them_,\nand that is all I can do.\"\n\n\"I should think my aunt Norris would be on your side.\"\n\n\"I dare say she would, but she has no influence with either Tom or my\nsisters that could be of any use; and if I cannot convince them myself,\nI shall let things take their course, without attempting it through\nher. Family squabbling is the greatest evil of all, and we had better do\nanything than be altogether by the ears.\"\n\nHis sisters, to whom he had an opportunity of speaking the next morning,\nwere quite as impatient of his advice, quite as unyielding to his\nrepresentation, quite as determined in the cause of pleasure, as Tom.\nTheir mother had no objection to the plan, and they were not in the\nleast afraid of their father's disapprobation. There could be no harm in\nwhat had been done in so many respectable families, and by so many women\nof the first consideration; and it must be scrupulousness run mad that\ncould see anything to censure in a plan like theirs, comprehending only\nbrothers and sisters and intimate friends, and which would never be\nheard of beyond themselves. Julia _did_ seem inclined to admit that\nMaria's situation might require particular caution and delicacy--but\nthat could not extend to _her_--she was at liberty; and Maria evidently\nconsidered her engagement as only raising her so much more above\nrestraint, and leaving her less occasion than Julia to consult either\nfather or mother. Edmund had little to hope, but he was still urging the\nsubject when Henry Crawford entered the room, fresh from the Parsonage,\ncalling out, \"No want of hands in our theatre, Miss Bertram. No want\nof understrappers: my sister desires her love, and hopes to be admitted\ninto the company, and will be happy to take the part of any old duenna\nor tame confidante, that you may not like to do yourselves.\"\n\nMaria gave Edmund a glance, which meant, \"What say you now? Can we\nbe wrong if Mary Crawford feels the same?\" And Edmund, silenced,\nwas obliged to acknowledge that the charm of acting might well carry\nfascination to the mind of genius; and with the ingenuity of love, to\ndwell more on the obliging, accommodating purport of the message than on\nanything else.\n\nThe scheme advanced. Opposition was vain; and as to Mrs. Norris, he\nwas mistaken in supposing she would wish to make any. She started no\ndifficulties that were not talked down in five minutes by her eldest\nnephew and niece, who were all-powerful with her; and as the whole\narrangement was to bring very little expense to anybody, and none at all\nto herself, as she foresaw in it all the comforts of hurry, bustle,\nand importance, and derived the immediate advantage of fancying herself\nobliged to leave her own house, where she had been living a month at\nher own cost, and take up her abode in theirs, that every hour might be\nspent in their service, she was, in fact, exceedingly delighted with the\nproject.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nFanny seemed nearer being right than Edmund had supposed. The business\nof finding a play that would suit everybody proved to be no trifle; and\nthe carpenter had received his orders and taken his measurements, had\nsuggested and removed at least two sets of difficulties, and having made\nthe necessity of an enlargement of plan and expense fully evident, was\nalready at work, while a play was still to seek. Other preparations\nwere also in hand. An enormous roll of green baize had arrived from\nNorthampton, and been cut out by Mrs. Norris (with a saving by her good\nmanagement of full three-quarters of a yard), and was actually forming\ninto a curtain by the housemaids, and still the play was wanting; and\nas two or three days passed away in this manner, Edmund began almost to\nhope that none might ever be found.\n\nThere were, in fact, so many things to be attended to, so many people\nto be pleased, so many best characters required, and, above all, such a\nneed that the play should be at once both tragedy and comedy, that there\ndid seem as little chance of a decision as anything pursued by youth and\nzeal could hold out.\n\nOn the tragic side were the Miss Bertrams, Henry Crawford, and Mr.\nYates; on the comic, Tom Bertram, not _quite_ alone, because it was\nevident that Mary Crawford's wishes, though politely kept back, inclined\nthe same way: but his determinateness and his power seemed to make\nallies unnecessary; and, independent of this great irreconcilable\ndifference, they wanted a piece containing very few characters in the\nwhole, but every character first-rate, and three principal women. All\nthe best plays were run over in vain. Neither Hamlet, nor Macbeth, nor\nOthello, nor Douglas, nor The Gamester, presented anything that could\nsatisfy even the tragedians; and The Rivals, The School for Scandal,\nWheel of Fortune, Heir at Law, and a long et cetera, were successively\ndismissed with yet warmer objections. No piece could be proposed that\ndid not supply somebody with a difficulty, and on one side or the other\nit was a continual repetition of, \"Oh no, _that_ will never do! Let us\nhave no ranting tragedies. Too many characters. Not a tolerable\nwoman's part in the play. Anything but _that_, my dear Tom. It would be\nimpossible to fill it up. One could not expect anybody to take such a\npart. Nothing but buffoonery from beginning to end. _That_ might do,\nperhaps, but for the low parts. If I _must_ give my opinion, I have\nalways thought it the most insipid play in the English language. _I_ do\nnot wish to make objections; I shall be happy to be of any use, but I\nthink we could not chuse worse.\"\n\nFanny looked on and listened, not unamused to observe the selfishness\nwhich, more or less disguised, seemed to govern them all, and wondering\nhow it would end. For her own gratification she could have wished that\nsomething might be acted, for she had never seen even half a play, but\neverything of higher consequence was against it.\n\n\"This will never do,\" said Tom Bertram at last. \"We are wasting time\nmost abominably. Something must be fixed on. No matter what, so that\nsomething is chosen. We must not be so nice. A few characters too many\nmust not frighten us. We must _double_ them. We must descend a little.\nIf a part is insignificant, the greater our credit in making anything of\nit. From this moment I make no difficulties. I take any part you chuse\nto give me, so as it be comic. Let it but be comic, I condition for\nnothing more.\"\n\nFor about the fifth time he then proposed the Heir at Law, doubting only\nwhether to prefer Lord Duberley or Dr. Pangloss for himself; and very\nearnestly, but very unsuccessfully, trying to persuade the others that\nthere were some fine tragic parts in the rest of the dramatis personae.\n\nThe pause which followed this fruitless effort was ended by the same\nspeaker, who, taking up one of the many volumes of plays that lay on the\ntable, and turning it over, suddenly exclaimed--\"Lovers' Vows! And why\nshould not Lovers' Vows do for _us_ as well as for the Ravenshaws? How\ncame it never to be thought of before? It strikes me as if it would do\nexactly. What say you all? Here are two capital tragic parts for Yates\nand Crawford, and here is the rhyming Butler for me, if nobody else\nwants it; a trifling part, but the sort of thing I should not dislike,\nand, as I said before, I am determined to take anything and do my best.\nAnd as for the rest, they may be filled up by anybody. It is only Count\nCassel and Anhalt.\"\n\nThe suggestion was generally welcome. Everybody was growing weary of\nindecision, and the first idea with everybody was, that nothing had been\nproposed before so likely to suit them all. Mr. Yates was particularly\npleased: he had been sighing and longing to do the Baron at Ecclesford,\nhad grudged every rant of Lord Ravenshaw's, and been forced to re-rant\nit all in his own room. The storm through Baron Wildenheim was the\nheight of his theatrical ambition; and with the advantage of knowing\nhalf the scenes by heart already, he did now, with the greatest\nalacrity, offer his services for the part. To do him justice, however,\nhe did not resolve to appropriate it; for remembering that there was\nsome very good ranting-ground in Frederick, he professed an equal\nwillingness for that. Henry Crawford was ready to take either. Whichever\nMr. Yates did not chuse would perfectly satisfy him, and a short parley\nof compliment ensued. Miss Bertram, feeling all the interest of an\nAgatha in the question, took on her to decide it, by observing to Mr.\nYates that this was a point in which height and figure ought to\nbe considered, and that _his_ being the tallest, seemed to fit him\npeculiarly for the Baron. She was acknowledged to be quite right, and\nthe two parts being accepted accordingly, she was certain of the proper\nFrederick. Three of the characters were now cast, besides Mr. Rushworth,\nwho was always answered for by Maria as willing to do anything; when\nJulia, meaning, like her sister, to be Agatha, began to be scrupulous on\nMiss Crawford's account.\n\n\"This is not behaving well by the absent,\" said she. \"Here are not women\nenough. Amelia and Agatha may do for Maria and me, but here is nothing\nfor your sister, Mr. Crawford.\"\n\nMr. Crawford desired _that_ might not be thought of: he was very sure\nhis sister had no wish of acting but as she might be useful, and that\nshe would not allow herself to be considered in the present case. But\nthis was immediately opposed by Tom Bertram, who asserted the part of\nAmelia to be in every respect the property of Miss Crawford, if she\nwould accept it. \"It falls as naturally, as necessarily to her,\"\nsaid he, \"as Agatha does to one or other of my sisters. It can be no\nsacrifice on their side, for it is highly comic.\"\n\nA short silence followed. Each sister looked anxious; for each felt the\nbest claim to Agatha, and was hoping to have it pressed on her by the\nrest. Henry Crawford, who meanwhile had taken up the play, and with\nseeming carelessness was turning over the first act, soon settled the\nbusiness.\n\n\"I must entreat Miss _Julia_ Bertram,\" said he, \"not to engage in the\npart of Agatha, or it will be the ruin of all my solemnity. You must\nnot, indeed you must not\" (turning to her). \"I could not stand your\ncountenance dressed up in woe and paleness. The many laughs we have had\ntogether would infallibly come across me, and Frederick and his knapsack\nwould be obliged to run away.\"\n\nPleasantly, courteously, it was spoken; but the manner was lost in the\nmatter to Julia's feelings. She saw a glance at Maria which confirmed\nthe injury to herself: it was a scheme, a trick; she was slighted, Maria\nwas preferred; the smile of triumph which Maria was trying to suppress\nshewed how well it was understood; and before Julia could command\nherself enough to speak, her brother gave his weight against her too,\nby saying, \"Oh yes! Maria must be Agatha. Maria will be the best Agatha.\nThough Julia fancies she prefers tragedy, I would not trust her in it.\nThere is nothing of tragedy about her. She has not the look of it. Her\nfeatures are not tragic features, and she walks too quick, and speaks\ntoo quick, and would not keep her countenance. She had better do the old\ncountrywoman: the Cottager's wife; you had, indeed, Julia. Cottager's\nwife is a very pretty part, I assure you. The old lady relieves the\nhigh-flown benevolence of her husband with a good deal of spirit. You\nshall be Cottager's wife.\"\n\n\"Cottager's wife!\" cried Mr. Yates. \"What are you talking of? The most\ntrivial, paltry, insignificant part; the merest commonplace; not a\ntolerable speech in the whole. Your sister do that! It is an insult\nto propose it. At Ecclesford the governess was to have done it. We\nall agreed that it could not be offered to anybody else. A little more\njustice, Mr. Manager, if you please. You do not deserve the office, if\nyou cannot appreciate the talents of your company a little better.\"\n\n\"Why, as to _that_, my good friend, till I and my company have really\nacted there must be some guesswork; but I mean no disparagement to\nJulia. We cannot have two Agathas, and we must have one Cottager's\nwife; and I am sure I set her the example of moderation myself in being\nsatisfied with the old Butler. If the part is trifling she will have\nmore credit in making something of it; and if she is so desperately bent\nagainst everything humorous, let her take Cottager's speeches instead of\nCottager's wife's, and so change the parts all through; _he_ is solemn\nand pathetic enough, I am sure. It could make no difference in the play,\nand as for Cottager himself, when he has got his wife's speeches, _I_\nwould undertake him with all my heart.\"\n\n\"With all your partiality for Cottager's wife,\" said Henry Crawford, \"it\nwill be impossible to make anything of it fit for your sister, and we\nmust not suffer her good-nature to be imposed on. We must not _allow_\nher to accept the part. She must not be left to her own complaisance.\nHer talents will be wanted in Amelia. Amelia is a character more\ndifficult to be well represented than even Agatha. I consider Amelia\nis the most difficult character in the whole piece. It requires great\npowers, great nicety, to give her playfulness and simplicity without\nextravagance. I have seen good actresses fail in the part. Simplicity,\nindeed, is beyond the reach of almost every actress by profession.\nIt requires a delicacy of feeling which they have not. It requires a\ngentlewoman--a Julia Bertram. You _will_ undertake it, I hope?\" turning\nto her with a look of anxious entreaty, which softened her a little; but\nwhile she hesitated what to say, her brother again interposed with Miss\nCrawford's better claim.\n\n\"No, no, Julia must not be Amelia. It is not at all the part for her.\nShe would not like it. She would not do well. She is too tall and\nrobust. Amelia should be a small, light, girlish, skipping figure. It is\nfit for Miss Crawford, and Miss Crawford only. She looks the part, and I\nam persuaded will do it admirably.\"\n\nWithout attending to this, Henry Crawford continued his supplication.\n\"You must oblige us,\" said he, \"indeed you must. When you have studied\nthe character, I am sure you will feel it suit you. Tragedy may be your\nchoice, but it will certainly appear that comedy chuses _you_. You\nwill be to visit me in prison with a basket of provisions; you will\nnot refuse to visit me in prison? I think I see you coming in with your\nbasket.\"\n\nThe influence of his voice was felt. Julia wavered; but was he only\ntrying to soothe and pacify her, and make her overlook the previous\naffront? She distrusted him. The slight had been most determined. He\nwas, perhaps, but at treacherous play with her. She looked suspiciously\nat her sister; Maria's countenance was to decide it: if she were vexed\nand alarmed--but Maria looked all serenity and satisfaction, and Julia\nwell knew that on this ground Maria could not be happy but at her\nexpense. With hasty indignation, therefore, and a tremulous voice, she\nsaid to him, \"You do not seem afraid of not keeping your countenance\nwhen I come in with a basket of provisions--though one might have\nsupposed--but it is only as Agatha that I was to be so overpowering!\"\nShe stopped--Henry Crawford looked rather foolish, and as if he did not\nknow what to say. Tom Bertram began again--\n\n\"Miss Crawford must be Amelia. She will be an excellent Amelia.\"\n\n\"Do not be afraid of _my_ wanting the character,\" cried Julia, with\nangry quickness: \"I am _not_ to be Agatha, and I am sure I will do\nnothing else; and as to Amelia, it is of all parts in the world the\nmost disgusting to me. I quite detest her. An odious, little, pert,\nunnatural, impudent girl. I have always protested against comedy, and\nthis is comedy in its worst form.\" And so saying, she walked hastily\nout of the room, leaving awkward feelings to more than one, but exciting\nsmall compassion in any except Fanny, who had been a quiet auditor of\nthe whole, and who could not think of her as under the agitations of\n_jealousy_ without great pity.\n\nA short silence succeeded her leaving them; but her brother soon\nreturned to business and Lovers' Vows, and was eagerly looking over\nthe play, with Mr. Yates's help, to ascertain what scenery would be\nnecessary--while Maria and Henry Crawford conversed together in an\nunder-voice, and the declaration with which she began of, \"I am sure I\nwould give up the part to Julia most willingly, but that though I shall\nprobably do it very ill, I feel persuaded _she_ would do it worse,\" was\ndoubtless receiving all the compliments it called for.\n\nWhen this had lasted some time, the division of the party was completed\nby Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates walking off together to consult farther in\nthe room now beginning to be called _the_ _Theatre_, and Miss Bertram's\nresolving to go down to the Parsonage herself with the offer of Amelia\nto Miss Crawford; and Fanny remained alone.\n\nThe first use she made of her solitude was to take up the volume which\nhad been left on the table, and begin to acquaint herself with the play\nof which she had heard so much. Her curiosity was all awake, and she ran\nthrough it with an eagerness which was suspended only by intervals of\nastonishment, that it could be chosen in the present instance, that it\ncould be proposed and accepted in a private theatre! Agatha and Amelia\nappeared to her in their different ways so totally improper for home\nrepresentation--the situation of one, and the language of the other,\nso unfit to be expressed by any woman of modesty, that she could hardly\nsuppose her cousins could be aware of what they were engaging in; and\nlonged to have them roused as soon as possible by the remonstrance which\nEdmund would certainly make.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nMiss Crawford accepted the part very readily; and soon after Miss\nBertram's return from the Parsonage, Mr. Rushworth arrived, and another\ncharacter was consequently cast. He had the offer of Count Cassel\nand Anhalt, and at first did not know which to chuse, and wanted Miss\nBertram to direct him; but upon being made to understand the different\nstyle of the characters, and which was which, and recollecting that he\nhad once seen the play in London, and had thought Anhalt a very stupid\nfellow, he soon decided for the Count. Miss Bertram approved the\ndecision, for the less he had to learn the better; and though she could\nnot sympathise in his wish that the Count and Agatha might be to act\ntogether, nor wait very patiently while he was slowly turning over the\nleaves with the hope of still discovering such a scene, she very kindly\ntook his part in hand, and curtailed every speech that admitted being\nshortened; besides pointing out the necessity of his being very much\ndressed, and chusing his colours. Mr. Rushworth liked the idea of his\nfinery very well, though affecting to despise it; and was too much\nengaged with what his own appearance would be to think of the others,\nor draw any of those conclusions, or feel any of that displeasure which\nMaria had been half prepared for.\n\nThus much was settled before Edmund, who had been out all the morning,\nknew anything of the matter; but when he entered the drawing-room before\ndinner, the buzz of discussion was high between Tom, Maria, and Mr.\nYates; and Mr. Rushworth stepped forward with great alacrity to tell him\nthe agreeable news.\n\n\"We have got a play,\" said he. \"It is to be Lovers' Vows; and I am to be\nCount Cassel, and am to come in first with a blue dress and a pink satin\ncloak, and afterwards am to have another fine fancy suit, by way of a\nshooting-dress. I do not know how I shall like it.\"\n\nFanny's eyes followed Edmund, and her heart beat for him as she heard\nthis speech, and saw his look, and felt what his sensations must be.\n\n\"Lovers' Vows!\" in a tone of the greatest amazement, was his only reply\nto Mr. Rushworth, and he turned towards his brother and sisters as if\nhardly doubting a contradiction.\n\n\"Yes,\" cried Mr. Yates. \"After all our debatings and difficulties, we\nfind there is nothing that will suit us altogether so well, nothing so\nunexceptionable, as Lovers' Vows. The wonder is that it should not have\nbeen thought of before. My stupidity was abominable, for here we have\nall the advantage of what I saw at Ecclesford; and it is so useful to\nhave anything of a model! We have cast almost every part.\"\n\n\"But what do you do for women?\" said Edmund gravely, and looking at\nMaria.\n\nMaria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, \"I take the part\nwhich Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and\" (with a bolder eye) \"Miss\nCrawford is to be Amelia.\"\n\n\"I should not have thought it the sort of play to be so easily filled\nup, with _us_,\" replied Edmund, turning away to the fire, where sat\nhis mother, aunt, and Fanny, and seating himself with a look of great\nvexation.\n\nMr. Rushworth followed him to say, \"I come in three times, and have\ntwo-and-forty speeches. That's something, is not it? But I do not much\nlike the idea of being so fine. I shall hardly know myself in a blue\ndress and a pink satin cloak.\"\n\nEdmund could not answer him. In a few minutes Mr. Bertram was called\nout of the room to satisfy some doubts of the carpenter; and being\naccompanied by Mr. Yates, and followed soon afterwards by Mr. Rushworth,\nEdmund almost immediately took the opportunity of saying, \"I cannot,\nbefore Mr. Yates, speak what I feel as to this play, without reflecting\non his friends at Ecclesford; but I must now, my dear Maria, tell _you_,\nthat I think it exceedingly unfit for private representation, and that I\nhope you will give it up. I cannot but suppose you _will_ when you have\nread it carefully over. Read only the first act aloud to either your\nmother or aunt, and see how you can approve it. It will not be necessary\nto send you to your _father's_ judgment, I am convinced.\"\n\n\"We see things very differently,\" cried Maria. \"I am perfectly\nacquainted with the play, I assure you; and with a very few omissions,\nand so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothing\nobjectionable in it; and _I_ am not the _only_ young woman you find who\nthinks it very fit for private representation.\"\n\n\"I am sorry for it,\" was his answer; \"but in this matter it is _you_ who\nare to lead. _You_ must set the example. If others have blundered, it\nis your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacy is.\nIn all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law to the rest of the\nparty.\"\n\nThis picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better\nto lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered, \"I am\nmuch obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I still\nthink you see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake to\nharangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. _There_ would be the\ngreatest indecorum, I think.\"\n\n\"Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your\nconduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel\nyourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion and\nconfidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness, and\nit will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will understand your\nmotive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it\nought.\"\n\n\"Do not act anything improper, my dear,\" said Lady Bertram. \"Sir Thomas\nwould not like it.--Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner.--To be\nsure, Julia is dressed by this time.\"\n\n\"I am convinced, madam,\" said Edmund, preventing Fanny, \"that Sir Thomas\nwould not like it.\"\n\n\"There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?\"\n\n\"If I were to decline the part,\" said Maria, with renewed zeal, \"Julia\nwould certainly take it.\"\n\n\"What!\" cried Edmund, \"if she knew your reasons!\"\n\n\"Oh! she might think the difference between us--the difference in our\nsituations--that _she_ need not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel\nnecessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I\ncannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so\ndisappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we\nshall never act anything.\"\n\n\"I was just going to say the very same thing,\" said Mrs. Norris.\n\"If every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the\npreparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure _that_\nwould be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as Maria\nsays, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with most of\nthem) it can be easily left out. We must not be over-precise, Edmund. As\nMr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had\nknown his own mind when the carpenters began, for there was the loss\nof half a day's work about those side-doors. The curtain will be a good\njob, however. The maids do their work very well, and I think we shall be\nable to send back some dozens of the rings. There is no occasion to put\nthem so very close together. I _am_ of some use, I hope, in preventing\nwaste and making the most of things. There should always be one\nsteady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgot to tell Tom of\nsomething that happened to me this very day. I had been looking about me\nin the poultry-yard, and was just coming out, when who should I see but\nDick Jackson making up to the servants' hall-door with two bits of deal\nboard in his hand, bringing them to father, you may be sure; mother had\nchanced to send him of a message to father, and then father had bid\nhim bring up them two bits of board, for he could not no how do without\nthem. I knew what all this meant, for the servants' dinner-bell\nwas ringing at the very moment over our heads; and as I hate such\nencroaching people (the Jacksons are very encroaching, I have always\nsaid so: just the sort of people to get all they can), I said to the boy\ndirectly (a great lubberly fellow of ten years old, you know, who ought\nto be ashamed of himself), '_I'll_ take the boards to your father, Dick,\nso get you home again as fast as you can.' The boy looked very silly,\nand turned away without offering a word, for I believe I might speak\npretty sharp; and I dare say it will cure him of coming marauding about\nthe house for one while. I hate such greediness--so good as your father\nis to the family, employing the man all the year round!\"\n\nNobody was at the trouble of an answer; the others soon returned; and\nEdmund found that to have endeavoured to set them right must be his only\nsatisfaction.\n\nDinner passed heavily. Mrs. Norris related again her triumph over Dick\nJackson, but neither play nor preparation were otherwise much talked\nof, for Edmund's disapprobation was felt even by his brother, though\nhe would not have owned it. Maria, wanting Henry Crawford's animating\nsupport, thought the subject better avoided. Mr. Yates, who was trying\nto make himself agreeable to Julia, found her gloom less impenetrable on\nany topic than that of his regret at her secession from their company;\nand Mr. Rushworth, having only his own part and his own dress in his\nhead, had soon talked away all that could be said of either.\n\nBut the concerns of the theatre were suspended only for an hour or two:\nthere was still a great deal to be settled; and the spirits of evening\ngiving fresh courage, Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates, soon after their being\nreassembled in the drawing-room, seated themselves in committee at a\nseparate table, with the play open before them, and were just getting\ndeep in the subject when a most welcome interruption was given by the\nentrance of Mr. and Miss Crawford, who, late and dark and dirty as it\nwas, could not help coming, and were received with the most grateful\njoy.\n\n\"Well, how do you go on?\" and \"What have you settled?\" and \"Oh! we\ncan do nothing without you,\" followed the first salutations; and Henry\nCrawford was soon seated with the other three at the table, while his\nsister made her way to Lady Bertram, and with pleasant attention was\ncomplimenting _her_. \"I must really congratulate your ladyship,\" said\nshe, \"on the play being chosen; for though you have borne it with\nexemplary patience, I am sure you must be sick of all our noise and\ndifficulties. The actors may be glad, but the bystanders must be\ninfinitely more thankful for a decision; and I do sincerely give you\njoy, madam, as well as Mrs. Norris, and everybody else who is in the\nsame predicament,\" glancing half fearfully, half slyly, beyond Fanny to\nEdmund.\n\nShe was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram, but Edmund said nothing.\nHis being only a bystander was not disclaimed. After continuing in chat\nwith the party round the fire a few minutes, Miss Crawford returned\nto the party round the table; and standing by them, seemed to\ninterest herself in their arrangements till, as if struck by a sudden\nrecollection, she exclaimed, \"My good friends, you are most composedly\nat work upon these cottages and alehouses, inside and out; but pray let\nme know my fate in the meanwhile. Who is to be Anhalt? What gentleman\namong you am I to have the pleasure of making love to?\"\n\nFor a moment no one spoke; and then many spoke together to tell the same\nmelancholy truth, that they had not yet got any Anhalt. \"Mr. Rushworth\nwas to be Count Cassel, but no one had yet undertaken Anhalt.\"\n\n\"I had my choice of the parts,\" said Mr. Rushworth; \"but I thought I\nshould like the Count best, though I do not much relish the finery I am\nto have.\"\n\n\"You chose very wisely, I am sure,\" replied Miss Crawford, with a\nbrightened look; \"Anhalt is a heavy part.\"\n\n\"_The_ _Count_ has two-and-forty speeches,\" returned Mr. Rushworth,\n\"which is no trifle.\"\n\n\"I am not at all surprised,\" said Miss Crawford, after a short pause,\n\"at this want of an Anhalt. Amelia deserves no better. Such a forward\nyoung lady may well frighten the men.\"\n\n\"I should be but too happy in taking the part, if it were possible,\"\ncried Tom; \"but, unluckily, the Butler and Anhalt are in together. I\nwill not entirely give it up, however; I will try what can be done--I\nwill look it over again.\"\n\n\"Your _brother_ should take the part,\" said Mr. Yates, in a low voice.\n\"Do not you think he would?\"\n\n\"_I_ shall not ask him,\" replied Tom, in a cold, determined manner.\n\nMiss Crawford talked of something else, and soon afterwards rejoined the\nparty at the fire.\n\n\"They do not want me at all,\" said she, seating herself. \"I only puzzle\nthem, and oblige them to make civil speeches. Mr. Edmund Bertram, as\nyou do not act yourself, you will be a disinterested adviser; and,\ntherefore, I apply to _you_. What shall we do for an Anhalt? Is it\npracticable for any of the others to double it? What is your advice?\"\n\n\"My advice,\" said he calmly, \"is that you change the play.\"\n\n\"_I_ should have no objection,\" she replied; \"for though I should not\nparticularly dislike the part of Amelia if well supported, that is, if\neverything went well, I shall be sorry to be an inconvenience; but\nas they do not chuse to hear your advice at _that_ _table_\" (looking\nround), \"it certainly will not be taken.\"\n\nEdmund said no more.\n\n\"If _any_ part could tempt _you_ to act, I suppose it would be Anhalt,\"\nobserved the lady archly, after a short pause; \"for he is a clergyman,\nyou know.\"\n\n\"_That_ circumstance would by no means tempt me,\" he replied, \"for I\nshould be sorry to make the character ridiculous by bad acting. It\nmust be very difficult to keep Anhalt from appearing a formal, solemn\nlecturer; and the man who chuses the profession itself is, perhaps, one\nof the last who would wish to represent it on the stage.\"\n\nMiss Crawford was silenced, and with some feelings of resentment and\nmortification, moved her chair considerably nearer the tea-table, and\ngave all her attention to Mrs. Norris, who was presiding there.\n\n\"Fanny,\" cried Tom Bertram, from the other table, where the conference\nwas eagerly carrying on, and the conversation incessant, \"we want your\nservices.\"\n\nFanny was up in a moment, expecting some errand; for the habit of\nemploying her in that way was not yet overcome, in spite of all that\nEdmund could do.\n\n\"Oh! we do not want to disturb you from your seat. We do not want your\n_present_ services. We shall only want you in our play. You must be\nCottager's wife.\"\n\n\"Me!\" cried Fanny, sitting down again with a most frightened look.\n\"Indeed you must excuse me. I could not act anything if you were to give\nme the world. No, indeed, I cannot act.\"\n\n\"Indeed, but you must, for we cannot excuse you. It need not frighten\nyou: it is a nothing of a part, a mere nothing, not above half a dozen\nspeeches altogether, and it will not much signify if nobody hears a word\nyou say; so you may be as creep-mouse as you like, but we must have you\nto look at.\"\n\n\"If you are afraid of half a dozen speeches,\" cried Mr. Rushworth, \"what\nwould you do with such a part as mine? I have forty-two to learn.\"\n\n\"It is not that I am afraid of learning by heart,\" said Fanny, shocked\nto find herself at that moment the only speaker in the room, and to feel\nthat almost every eye was upon her; \"but I really cannot act.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, you can act well enough for _us_. Learn your part, and we\nwill teach you all the rest. You have only two scenes, and as I shall\nbe Cottager, I'll put you in and push you about, and you will do it very\nwell, I'll answer for it.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse me. You cannot have an idea.\nIt would be absolutely impossible for me. If I were to undertake it, I\nshould only disappoint you.\"\n\n\"Phoo! Phoo! Do not be so shamefaced. You'll do it very well. Every\nallowance will be made for you. We do not expect perfection. You must\nget a brown gown, and a white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make\nyou a few wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of your\neyes, and you will be a very proper, little old woman.\"\n\n\"You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me,\" cried Fanny, growing\nmore and more red from excessive agitation, and looking distressfully\nat Edmund, who was kindly observing her; but unwilling to exasperate\nhis brother by interference, gave her only an encouraging smile. Her\nentreaty had no effect on Tom: he only said again what he had said\nbefore; and it was not merely Tom, for the requisition was now backed by\nMaria, and Mr. Crawford, and Mr. Yates, with an urgency which differed\nfrom his but in being more gentle or more ceremonious, and which\naltogether was quite overpowering to Fanny; and before she could breathe\nafter it, Mrs. Norris completed the whole by thus addressing her in a\nwhisper at once angry and audible--\"What a piece of work here is about\nnothing: I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to make such a difficulty of\nobliging your cousins in a trifle of this sort--so kind as they are to\nyou! Take the part with a good grace, and let us hear no more of the\nmatter, I entreat.\"\n\n\"Do not urge her, madam,\" said Edmund. \"It is not fair to urge her\nin this manner. You see she does not like to act. Let her chuse for\nherself, as well as the rest of us. Her judgment may be quite as safely\ntrusted. Do not urge her any more.\"\n\n\"I am not going to urge her,\" replied Mrs. Norris sharply; \"but I shall\nthink her a very obstinate, ungrateful girl, if she does not do what her\naunt and cousins wish her--very ungrateful, indeed, considering who and\nwhat she is.\"\n\nEdmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Crawford, looking for a moment\nwith astonished eyes at Mrs. Norris, and then at Fanny, whose tears were\nbeginning to shew themselves, immediately said, with some keenness, \"I\ndo not like my situation: this _place_ is too hot for me,\" and moved\naway her chair to the opposite side of the table, close to Fanny, saying\nto her, in a kind, low whisper, as she placed herself, \"Never mind,\nmy dear Miss Price, this is a cross evening: everybody is cross and\nteasing, but do not let us mind them\"; and with pointed attention\ncontinued to talk to her and endeavour to raise her spirits, in spite of\nbeing out of spirits herself. By a look at her brother she prevented any\nfarther entreaty from the theatrical board, and the really good feelings\nby which she was almost purely governed were rapidly restoring her to\nall the little she had lost in Edmund's favour.\n\nFanny did not love Miss Crawford; but she felt very much obliged to her\nfor her present kindness; and when, from taking notice of her work,\nand wishing _she_ could work as well, and begging for the pattern, and\nsupposing Fanny was now preparing for her _appearance_, as of course she\nwould come out when her cousin was married, Miss Crawford proceeded to\ninquire if she had heard lately from her brother at sea, and said that\nshe had quite a curiosity to see him, and imagined him a very fine young\nman, and advised Fanny to get his picture drawn before he went to sea\nagain--she could not help admitting it to be very agreeable flattery, or\nhelp listening, and answering with more animation than she had intended.\n\nThe consultation upon the play still went on, and Miss Crawford's\nattention was first called from Fanny by Tom Bertram's telling her,\nwith infinite regret, that he found it absolutely impossible for him to\nundertake the part of Anhalt in addition to the Butler: he had been most\nanxiously trying to make it out to be feasible, but it would not do;\nhe must give it up. \"But there will not be the smallest difficulty in\nfilling it,\" he added. \"We have but to speak the word; we may pick and\nchuse. I could name, at this moment, at least six young men within six\nmiles of us, who are wild to be admitted into our company, and there are\none or two that would not disgrace us: I should not be afraid to trust\neither of the Olivers or Charles Maddox. Tom Oliver is a very clever\nfellow, and Charles Maddox is as gentlemanlike a man as you will see\nanywhere, so I will take my horse early to-morrow morning and ride over\nto Stoke, and settle with one of them.\"\n\nWhile he spoke, Maria was looking apprehensively round at Edmund in full\nexpectation that he must oppose such an enlargement of the plan as this:\nso contrary to all their first protestations; but Edmund said nothing.\nAfter a moment's thought, Miss Crawford calmly replied, \"As far as I\nam concerned, I can have no objection to anything that you all think\neligible. Have I ever seen either of the gentlemen? Yes, Mr. Charles\nMaddox dined at my sister's one day, did not he, Henry? A quiet-looking\nyoung man. I remember him. Let _him_ be applied to, if you please, for\nit will be less unpleasant to me than to have a perfect stranger.\"\n\nCharles Maddox was to be the man. Tom repeated his resolution of going\nto him early on the morrow; and though Julia, who had scarcely opened\nher lips before, observed, in a sarcastic manner, and with a glance\nfirst at Maria and then at Edmund, that \"the Mansfield theatricals would\nenliven the whole neighbourhood exceedingly,\" Edmund still held his\npeace, and shewed his feelings only by a determined gravity.\n\n\"I am not very sanguine as to our play,\" said Miss Crawford, in an\nundervoice to Fanny, after some consideration; \"and I can tell Mr.\nMaddox that I shall shorten some of _his_ speeches, and a great many of\n_my_ _own_, before we rehearse together. It will be very disagreeable,\nand by no means what I expected.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nIt was not in Miss Crawford's power to talk Fanny into any real\nforgetfulness of what had passed. When the evening was over, she went to\nbed full of it, her nerves still agitated by the shock of such an attack\nfrom her cousin Tom, so public and so persevered in, and her spirits\nsinking under her aunt's unkind reflection and reproach. To be called\ninto notice in such a manner, to hear that it was but the prelude to\nsomething so infinitely worse, to be told that she must do what was\nso impossible as to act; and then to have the charge of obstinacy and\ningratitude follow it, enforced with such a hint at the dependence\nof her situation, had been too distressing at the time to make the\nremembrance when she was alone much less so, especially with the\nsuperadded dread of what the morrow might produce in continuation of the\nsubject. Miss Crawford had protected her only for the time; and if\nshe were applied to again among themselves with all the authoritative\nurgency that Tom and Maria were capable of, and Edmund perhaps away,\nwhat should she do? She fell asleep before she could answer the\nquestion, and found it quite as puzzling when she awoke the next\nmorning. The little white attic, which had continued her sleeping-room\never since her first entering the family, proving incompetent to suggest\nany reply, she had recourse, as soon as she was dressed, to another\napartment more spacious and more meet for walking about in and thinking,\nand of which she had now for some time been almost equally mistress. It\nhad been their school-room; so called till the Miss Bertrams would not\nallow it to be called so any longer, and inhabited as such to a later\nperiod. There Miss Lee had lived, and there they had read and written,\nand talked and laughed, till within the last three years, when she had\nquitted them. The room had then become useless, and for some time was\nquite deserted, except by Fanny, when she visited her plants, or wanted\none of the books, which she was still glad to keep there, from the\ndeficiency of space and accommodation in her little chamber above: but\ngradually, as her value for the comforts of it increased, she had added\nto her possessions, and spent more of her time there; and having nothing\nto oppose her, had so naturally and so artlessly worked herself into it,\nthat it was now generally admitted to be hers. The East room, as it had\nbeen called ever since Maria Bertram was sixteen, was now considered\nFanny's, almost as decidedly as the white attic: the smallness of the\none making the use of the other so evidently reasonable that the Miss\nBertrams, with every superiority in their own apartments which their own\nsense of superiority could demand, were entirely approving it; and Mrs.\nNorris, having stipulated for there never being a fire in it on Fanny's\naccount, was tolerably resigned to her having the use of what nobody\nelse wanted, though the terms in which she sometimes spoke of the\nindulgence seemed to imply that it was the best room in the house.\n\nThe aspect was so favourable that even without a fire it was habitable\nin many an early spring and late autumn morning to such a willing mind\nas Fanny's; and while there was a gleam of sunshine she hoped not to be\ndriven from it entirely, even when winter came. The comfort of it in\nher hours of leisure was extreme. She could go there after anything\nunpleasant below, and find immediate consolation in some pursuit, or\nsome train of thought at hand. Her plants, her books--of which she had\nbeen a collector from the first hour of her commanding a shilling--her\nwriting-desk, and her works of charity and ingenuity, were all within\nher reach; or if indisposed for employment, if nothing but musing would\ndo, she could scarcely see an object in that room which had not an\ninteresting remembrance connected with it. Everything was a friend, or\nbore her thoughts to a friend; and though there had been sometimes much\nof suffering to her; though her motives had often been misunderstood,\nher feelings disregarded, and her comprehension undervalued; though she\nhad known the pains of tyranny, of ridicule, and neglect, yet almost\nevery recurrence of either had led to something consolatory: her aunt\nBertram had spoken for her, or Miss Lee had been encouraging, or, what\nwas yet more frequent or more dear, Edmund had been her champion and her\nfriend: he had supported her cause or explained her meaning, he had told\nher not to cry, or had given her some proof of affection which made\nher tears delightful; and the whole was now so blended together, so\nharmonised by distance, that every former affliction had its charm. The\nroom was most dear to her, and she would not have changed its furniture\nfor the handsomest in the house, though what had been originally plain\nhad suffered all the ill-usage of children; and its greatest elegancies\nand ornaments were a faded footstool of Julia's work, too ill done\nfor the drawing-room, three transparencies, made in a rage for\ntransparencies, for the three lower panes of one window, where Tintern\nAbbey held its station between a cave in Italy and a moonlight lake in\nCumberland, a collection of family profiles, thought unworthy of being\nanywhere else, over the mantelpiece, and by their side, and pinned\nagainst the wall, a small sketch of a ship sent four years ago from the\nMediterranean by William, with H.M.S. Antwerp at the bottom, in letters\nas tall as the mainmast.\n\nTo this nest of comforts Fanny now walked down to try its influence on\nan agitated, doubting spirit, to see if by looking at Edmund's profile\nshe could catch any of his counsel, or by giving air to her geraniums\nshe might inhale a breeze of mental strength herself. But she had more\nthan fears of her own perseverance to remove: she had begun to feel\nundecided as to what she _ought_ _to_ _do_; and as she walked round the\nroom her doubts were increasing. Was she _right_ in refusing what was\nso warmly asked, so strongly wished for--what might be so essential to a\nscheme on which some of those to whom she owed the greatest complaisance\nhad set their hearts? Was it not ill-nature, selfishness, and a fear of\nexposing herself? And would Edmund's judgment, would his persuasion of\nSir Thomas's disapprobation of the whole, be enough to justify her in a\ndetermined denial in spite of all the rest? It would be so horrible to\nher to act that she was inclined to suspect the truth and purity of her\nown scruples; and as she looked around her, the claims of her cousins\nto being obliged were strengthened by the sight of present upon present\nthat she had received from them. The table between the windows was\ncovered with work-boxes and netting-boxes which had been given her at\ndifferent times, principally by Tom; and she grew bewildered as to the\namount of the debt which all these kind remembrances produced. A tap at\nthe door roused her in the midst of this attempt to find her way to her\nduty, and her gentle \"Come in\" was answered by the appearance of one,\nbefore whom all her doubts were wont to be laid. Her eyes brightened at\nthe sight of Edmund.\n\n\"Can I speak with you, Fanny, for a few minutes?\" said he.\n\n\"Yes, certainly.\"\n\n\"I want to consult. I want your opinion.\"\n\n\"My opinion!\" she cried, shrinking from such a compliment, highly as it\ngratified her.\n\n\"Yes, your advice and opinion. I do not know what to do. This acting\nscheme gets worse and worse, you see. They have chosen almost as bad a\nplay as they could, and now, to complete the business, are going to ask\nthe help of a young man very slightly known to any of us. This is the\nend of all the privacy and propriety which was talked about at first.\nI know no harm of Charles Maddox; but the excessive intimacy which\nmust spring from his being admitted among us in this manner is highly\nobjectionable, the _more_ than intimacy--the familiarity. I cannot\nthink of it with any patience; and it does appear to me an evil of such\nmagnitude as must, _if_ _possible_, be prevented. Do not you see it in\nthe same light?\"\n\n\"Yes; but what can be done? Your brother is so determined.\"\n\n\"There is but _one_ thing to be done, Fanny. I must take Anhalt myself.\nI am well aware that nothing else will quiet Tom.\"\n\nFanny could not answer him.\n\n\"It is not at all what I like,\" he continued. \"No man can like being\ndriven into the _appearance_ of such inconsistency. After being known to\noppose the scheme from the beginning, there is absurdity in the face of\nmy joining them _now_, when they are exceeding their first plan in every\nrespect; but I can think of no other alternative. Can you, Fanny?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Fanny slowly, \"not immediately, but--\"\n\n\"But what? I see your judgment is not with me. Think it a little over.\nPerhaps you are not so much aware as I am of the mischief that _may_, of\nthe unpleasantness that _must_ arise from a young man's being received\nin this manner: domesticated among us; authorised to come at all hours,\nand placed suddenly on a footing which must do away all restraints. To\nthink only of the licence which every rehearsal must tend to create. It\nis all very bad! Put yourself in Miss Crawford's place, Fanny. Consider\nwhat it would be to act Amelia with a stranger. She has a right to be\nfelt for, because she evidently feels for herself. I heard enough of\nwhat she said to you last night to understand her unwillingness to be\nacting with a stranger; and as she probably engaged in the part with\ndifferent expectations--perhaps without considering the subject enough\nto know what was likely to be--it would be ungenerous, it would be\nreally wrong to expose her to it. Her feelings ought to be respected.\nDoes it not strike you so, Fanny? You hesitate.\"\n\n\"I am sorry for Miss Crawford; but I am more sorry to see you drawn in\nto do what you had resolved against, and what you are known to think\nwill be disagreeable to my uncle. It will be such a triumph to the\nothers!\"\n\n\"They will not have much cause of triumph when they see how infamously I\nact. But, however, triumph there certainly will be, and I must brave it.\nBut if I can be the means of restraining the publicity of the business,\nof limiting the exhibition, of concentrating our folly, I shall be\nwell repaid. As I am now, I have no influence, I can do nothing: I have\noffended them, and they will not hear me; but when I have put them in\ngood-humour by this concession, I am not without hopes of persuading\nthem to confine the representation within a much smaller circle than\nthey are now in the high road for. This will be a material gain. My\nobject is to confine it to Mrs. Rushworth and the Grants. Will not this\nbe worth gaining?\"\n\n\"Yes, it will be a great point.\"\n\n\"But still it has not your approbation. Can you mention any other\nmeasure by which I have a chance of doing equal good?\"\n\n\"No, I cannot think of anything else.\"\n\n\"Give me your approbation, then, Fanny. I am not comfortable without\nit.\"\n\n\"Oh, cousin!\"\n\n\"If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself, and yet--But it is\nabsolutely impossible to let Tom go on in this way, riding about the\ncountry in quest of anybody who can be persuaded to act--no matter whom:\nthe look of a gentleman is to be enough. I thought _you_ would have\nentered more into Miss Crawford's feelings.\"\n\n\"No doubt she will be very glad. It must be a great relief to her,\" said\nFanny, trying for greater warmth of manner.\n\n\"She never appeared more amiable than in her behaviour to you last\nnight. It gave her a very strong claim on my goodwill.\"\n\n\"She _was_ very kind, indeed, and I am glad to have her spared\"...\n\nShe could not finish the generous effusion. Her conscience stopt her in\nthe middle, but Edmund was satisfied.\n\n\"I shall walk down immediately after breakfast,\" said he, \"and am sure\nof giving pleasure there. And now, dear Fanny, I will not interrupt you\nany longer. You want to be reading. But I could not be easy till I had\nspoken to you, and come to a decision. Sleeping or waking, my head has\nbeen full of this matter all night. It is an evil, but I am certainly\nmaking it less than it might be. If Tom is up, I shall go to him\ndirectly and get it over, and when we meet at breakfast we shall be all\nin high good-humour at the prospect of acting the fool together with\nsuch unanimity. _You_, in the meanwhile, will be taking a trip into\nChina, I suppose. How does Lord Macartney go on?\"--opening a volume on\nthe table and then taking up some others. \"And here are Crabbe's Tales,\nand the Idler, at hand to relieve you, if you tire of your great book. I\nadmire your little establishment exceedingly; and as soon as I am\ngone, you will empty your head of all this nonsense of acting, and sit\ncomfortably down to your table. But do not stay here to be cold.\"\n\nHe went; but there was no reading, no China, no composure for Fanny. He\nhad told her the most extraordinary, the most inconceivable, the most\nunwelcome news; and she could think of nothing else. To be acting! After\nall his objections--objections so just and so public! After all that she\nhad heard him say, and seen him look, and known him to be feeling. Could\nit be possible? Edmund so inconsistent! Was he not deceiving himself?\nWas he not wrong? Alas! it was all Miss Crawford's doing. She had seen\nher influence in every speech, and was miserable. The doubts and alarms\nas to her own conduct, which had previously distressed her, and\nwhich had all slept while she listened to him, were become of little\nconsequence now. This deeper anxiety swallowed them up. Things should\ntake their course; she cared not how it ended. Her cousins might attack,\nbut could hardly tease her. She was beyond their reach; and if at last\nobliged to yield--no matter--it was all misery now.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nIt was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria. Such a\nvictory over Edmund's discretion had been beyond their hopes, and was\nmost delightful. There was no longer anything to disturb them in their\ndarling project, and they congratulated each other in private on the\njealous weakness to which they attributed the change, with all the glee\nof feelings gratified in every way. Edmund might still look grave, and\nsay he did not like the scheme in general, and must disapprove the play\nin particular; their point was gained: he was to act, and he was driven\nto it by the force of selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended\nfrom that moral elevation which he had maintained before, and they were\nboth as much the better as the happier for the descent.\n\nThey behaved very well, however, to _him_ on the occasion, betraying no\nexultation beyond the lines about the corners of the mouth, and seemed\nto think it as great an escape to be quit of the intrusion of Charles\nMaddox, as if they had been forced into admitting him against their\ninclination. \"To have it quite in their own family circle was what\nthey had particularly wished. A stranger among them would have been the\ndestruction of all their comfort\"; and when Edmund, pursuing that idea,\ngave a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the audience, they were\nready, in the complaisance of the moment, to promise anything. It was\nall good-humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his\ndress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt's last scene with the Baron\nadmitted a good deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth undertook\nto count his speeches.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Tom, \"Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now.\nPerhaps you may persuade _her_.\"\n\n\"No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act.\"\n\n\"Oh! very well.\" And not another word was said; but Fanny felt herself\nagain in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning to\nfail her already.\n\nThere were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park on this\nchange in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely in hers, and entered\nwith such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole\naffair as could have but one effect on him. \"He was certainly right in\nrespecting such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it.\" And the\nmorning wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if not very sound. One\nadvantage resulted from it to Fanny: at the earnest request of Miss\nCrawford, Mrs. Grant had, with her usual good-humour, agreed to\nundertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted; and this was all\nthat occurred to gladden _her_ heart during the day; and even this, when\nimparted by Edmund, brought a pang with it, for it was Miss Crawford to\nwhom she was obliged--it was Miss Crawford whose kind exertions were to\nexcite her gratitude, and whose merit in making them was spoken of\nwith a glow of admiration. She was safe; but peace and safety were\nunconnected here. Her mind had been never farther from peace. She could\nnot feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was disquieted\nin every other way. Her heart and her judgment were equally against\nEdmund's decision: she could not acquit his unsteadiness, and his\nhappiness under it made her wretched. She was full of jealousy and\nagitation. Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed an\ninsult, with friendly expressions towards herself which she could hardly\nanswer calmly. Everybody around her was gay and busy, prosperous and\nimportant; each had their object of interest, their part, their dress,\ntheir favourite scene, their friends and confederates: all were finding\nemployment in consultations and comparisons, or diversion in the playful\nconceits they suggested. She alone was sad and insignificant: she had\nno share in anything; she might go or stay; she might be in the midst\nof their noise, or retreat from it to the solitude of the East room,\nwithout being seen or missed. She could almost think anything would\nhave been preferable to this. Mrs. Grant was of consequence: _her_\ngood-nature had honourable mention; her taste and her time were\nconsidered; her presence was wanted; she was sought for, and attended,\nand praised; and Fanny was at first in some danger of envying her the\ncharacter she had accepted. But reflection brought better feelings, and\nshewed her that Mrs. Grant was entitled to respect, which could never\nhave belonged to _her_; and that, had she received even the greatest,\nshe could never have been easy in joining a scheme which, considering\nonly her uncle, she must condemn altogether.\n\nFanny's heart was not absolutely the only saddened one amongst them,\nas she soon began to acknowledge to herself. Julia was a sufferer too,\nthough not quite so blamelessly.\n\nHenry Crawford had trifled with her feelings; but she had very long\nallowed and even sought his attentions, with a jealousy of her sister so\nreasonable as ought to have been their cure; and now that the conviction\nof his preference for Maria had been forced on her, she submitted to it\nwithout any alarm for Maria's situation, or any endeavour at rational\ntranquillity for herself. She either sat in gloomy silence, wrapt in\nsuch gravity as nothing could subdue, no curiosity touch, no wit amuse;\nor allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates, was talking with forced gaiety\nto him alone, and ridiculing the acting of the others.\n\nFor a day or two after the affront was given, Henry Crawford had\nendeavoured to do it away by the usual attack of gallantry and\ncompliment, but he had not cared enough about it to persevere against a\nfew repulses; and becoming soon too busy with his play to have time for\nmore than one flirtation, he grew indifferent to the quarrel, or rather\nthought it a lucky occurrence, as quietly putting an end to what might\nere long have raised expectations in more than Mrs. Grant. She was not\npleased to see Julia excluded from the play, and sitting by disregarded;\nbut as it was not a matter which really involved her happiness, as Henry\nmust be the best judge of his own, and as he did assure her, with a\nmost persuasive smile, that neither he nor Julia had ever had a serious\nthought of each other, she could only renew her former caution as to\nthe elder sister, entreat him not to risk his tranquillity by too\nmuch admiration there, and then gladly take her share in anything that\nbrought cheerfulness to the young people in general, and that did so\nparticularly promote the pleasure of the two so dear to her.\n\n\"I rather wonder Julia is not in love with Henry,\" was her observation\nto Mary.\n\n\"I dare say she is,\" replied Mary coldly. \"I imagine both sisters are.\"\n\n\"Both! no, no, that must not be. Do not give him a hint of it. Think of\nMr. Rushworth!\"\n\n\"You had better tell Miss Bertram to think of Mr. Rushworth. It may\ndo _her_ some good. I often think of Mr. Rushworth's property and\nindependence, and wish them in other hands; but I never think of him. A\nman might represent the county with such an estate; a man might escape a\nprofession and represent the county.\"\n\n\"I dare say he _will_ be in parliament soon. When Sir Thomas comes, I\ndare say he will be in for some borough, but there has been nobody to\nput him in the way of doing anything yet.\"\n\n\"Sir Thomas is to achieve many mighty things when he comes home,\" said\nMary, after a pause. \"Do you remember Hawkins Browne's 'Address to\nTobacco,' in imitation of Pope?--\n\n     Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense\n     To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense.\n\nI will parody them--\n\n     Blest Knight! whose dictatorial looks dispense\n     To Children affluence, to Rushworth sense.\n\nWill not that do, Mrs. Grant? Everything seems to depend upon Sir\nThomas's return.\"\n\n\"You will find his consequence very just and reasonable when you see him\nin his family, I assure you. I do not think we do so well without him.\nHe has a fine dignified manner, which suits the head of such a house,\nand keeps everybody in their place. Lady Bertram seems more of a cipher\nnow than when he is at home; and nobody else can keep Mrs. Norris in\norder. But, Mary, do not fancy that Maria Bertram cares for Henry. I\nam sure _Julia_ does not, or she would not have flirted as she did last\nnight with Mr. Yates; and though he and Maria are very good friends, I\nthink she likes Sotherton too well to be inconstant.\"\n\n\"I would not give much for Mr. Rushworth's chance if Henry stept in\nbefore the articles were signed.\"\n\n\"If you have such a suspicion, something must be done; and as soon as\nthe play is all over, we will talk to him seriously and make him know\nhis own mind; and if he means nothing, we will send him off, though he\nis Henry, for a time.\"\n\nJulia _did_ suffer, however, though Mrs. Grant discerned it not, and\nthough it escaped the notice of many of her own family likewise. She had\nloved, she did love still, and she had all the suffering which a warm\ntemper and a high spirit were likely to endure under the disappointment\nof a dear, though irrational hope, with a strong sense of ill-usage.\nHer heart was sore and angry, and she was capable only of angry\nconsolations. The sister with whom she was used to be on easy terms was\nnow become her greatest enemy: they were alienated from each other;\nand Julia was not superior to the hope of some distressing end to the\nattentions which were still carrying on there, some punishment to\nMaria for conduct so shameful towards herself as well as towards Mr.\nRushworth. With no material fault of temper, or difference of opinion,\nto prevent their being very good friends while their interests were\nthe same, the sisters, under such a trial as this, had not affection or\nprinciple enough to make them merciful or just, to give them honour or\ncompassion. Maria felt her triumph, and pursued her purpose, careless of\nJulia; and Julia could never see Maria distinguished by Henry Crawford\nwithout trusting that it would create jealousy, and bring a public\ndisturbance at last.\n\nFanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia; but there was no outward\nfellowship between them. Julia made no communication, and Fanny took\nno liberties. They were two solitary sufferers, or connected only by\nFanny's consciousness.\n\nThe inattention of the two brothers and the aunt to Julia's\ndiscomposure, and their blindness to its true cause, must be imputed to\nthe fullness of their own minds. They were totally preoccupied. Tom was\nengrossed by the concerns of his theatre, and saw nothing that did not\nimmediately relate to it. Edmund, between his theatrical and his real\npart, between Miss Crawford's claims and his own conduct, between love\nand consistency, was equally unobservant; and Mrs. Norris was too busy\nin contriving and directing the general little matters of the company,\nsuperintending their various dresses with economical expedient, for\nwhich nobody thanked her, and saving, with delighted integrity, half\na crown here and there to the absent Sir Thomas, to have leisure for\nwatching the behaviour, or guarding the happiness of his daughters.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nEverything was now in a regular train: theatre, actors, actresses, and\ndresses, were all getting forward; but though no other great impediments\narose, Fanny found, before many days were past, that it was not all\nuninterrupted enjoyment to the party themselves, and that she had not to\nwitness the continuance of such unanimity and delight as had been almost\ntoo much for her at first. Everybody began to have their vexation.\nEdmund had many. Entirely against _his_ judgment, a scene-painter\narrived from town, and was at work, much to the increase of the\nexpenses, and, what was worse, of the eclat of their proceedings; and\nhis brother, instead of being really guided by him as to the privacy of\nthe representation, was giving an invitation to every family who came\nin his way. Tom himself began to fret over the scene-painter's slow\nprogress, and to feel the miseries of waiting. He had learned his\npart--all his parts, for he took every trifling one that could be united\nwith the Butler, and began to be impatient to be acting; and every day\nthus unemployed was tending to increase his sense of the insignificance\nof all his parts together, and make him more ready to regret that some\nother play had not been chosen.\n\nFanny, being always a very courteous listener, and often the only\nlistener at hand, came in for the complaints and the distresses of\nmost of them. _She_ knew that Mr. Yates was in general thought to rant\ndreadfully; that Mr. Yates was disappointed in Henry Crawford; that\nTom Bertram spoke so quick he would be unintelligible; that Mrs. Grant\nspoiled everything by laughing; that Edmund was behindhand with his\npart, and that it was misery to have anything to do with Mr. Rushworth,\nwho was wanting a prompter through every speech. She knew, also, that\npoor Mr. Rushworth could seldom get anybody to rehearse with him: _his_\ncomplaint came before her as well as the rest; and so decided to her\neye was her cousin Maria's avoidance of him, and so needlessly often the\nrehearsal of the first scene between her and Mr. Crawford, that she had\nsoon all the terror of other complaints from _him_. So far from being\nall satisfied and all enjoying, she found everybody requiring something\nthey had not, and giving occasion of discontent to the others. Everybody\nhad a part either too long or too short; nobody would attend as they\nought; nobody would remember on which side they were to come in; nobody\nbut the complainer would observe any directions.\n\nFanny believed herself to derive as much innocent enjoyment from the\nplay as any of them; Henry Crawford acted well, and it was a pleasure to\n_her_ to creep into the theatre, and attend the rehearsal of the first\nact, in spite of the feelings it excited in some speeches for Maria.\nMaria, she also thought, acted well, too well; and after the first\nrehearsal or two, Fanny began to be their only audience; and sometimes\nas prompter, sometimes as spectator, was often very useful. As far as\nshe could judge, Mr. Crawford was considerably the best actor of all: he\nhad more confidence than Edmund, more judgment than Tom, more talent and\ntaste than Mr. Yates. She did not like him as a man, but she must admit\nhim to be the best actor, and on this point there were not many who\ndiffered from her. Mr. Yates, indeed, exclaimed against his tameness and\ninsipidity; and the day came at last, when Mr. Rushworth turned to her\nwith a black look, and said, \"Do you think there is anything so very\nfine in all this? For the life and soul of me, I cannot admire him; and,\nbetween ourselves, to see such an undersized, little, mean-looking man,\nset up for a fine actor, is very ridiculous in my opinion.\"\n\nFrom this moment there was a return of his former jealousy, which Maria,\nfrom increasing hopes of Crawford, was at little pains to remove; and\nthe chances of Mr. Rushworth's ever attaining to the knowledge of his\ntwo-and-forty speeches became much less. As to his ever making anything\n_tolerable_ of them, nobody had the smallest idea of that except\nhis mother; _she_, indeed, regretted that his part was not more\nconsiderable, and deferred coming over to Mansfield till they were\nforward enough in their rehearsal to comprehend all his scenes; but the\nothers aspired at nothing beyond his remembering the catchword, and the\nfirst line of his speech, and being able to follow the prompter through\nthe rest. Fanny, in her pity and kindheartedness, was at great pains to\nteach him how to learn, giving him all the helps and directions in her\npower, trying to make an artificial memory for him, and learning every\nword of his part herself, but without his being much the forwarder.\n\nMany uncomfortable, anxious, apprehensive feelings she certainly had;\nbut with all these, and other claims on her time and attention, she was\nas far from finding herself without employment or utility amongst them,\nas without a companion in uneasiness; quite as far from having no\ndemand on her leisure as on her compassion. The gloom of her first\nanticipations was proved to have been unfounded. She was occasionally\nuseful to all; she was perhaps as much at peace as any.\n\nThere was a great deal of needlework to be done, moreover, in which her\nhelp was wanted; and that Mrs. Norris thought her quite as well off\nas the rest, was evident by the manner in which she claimed it--\"Come,\nFanny,\" she cried, \"these are fine times for you, but you must not be\nalways walking from one room to the other, and doing the lookings-on at\nyour ease, in this way; I want you here. I have been slaving myself till\nI can hardly stand, to contrive Mr. Rushworth's cloak without sending\nfor any more satin; and now I think you may give me your help in putting\nit together. There are but three seams; you may do them in a trice. It\nwould be lucky for me if I had nothing but the executive part to do.\n_You_ are best off, I can tell you: but if nobody did more than _you_,\nwe should not get on very fast.\"\n\nFanny took the work very quietly, without attempting any defence; but\nher kinder aunt Bertram observed on her behalf--\n\n\"One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny _should_ be delighted: it is\nall new to her, you know; you and I used to be very fond of a play\nourselves, and so am I still; and as soon as I am a little more at\nleisure, _I_ mean to look in at their rehearsals too. What is the play\nabout, Fanny? you have never told me.\"\n\n\"Oh! sister, pray do not ask her now; for Fanny is not one of those who\ncan talk and work at the same time. It is about Lovers' Vows.\"\n\n\"I believe,\" said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, \"there will be three acts\nrehearsed to-morrow evening, and that will give you an opportunity of\nseeing all the actors at once.\"\n\n\"You had better stay till the curtain is hung,\" interposed Mrs. Norris;\n\"the curtain will be hung in a day or two--there is very little sense in\na play without a curtain--and I am much mistaken if you do not find it\ndraw up into very handsome festoons.\"\n\nLady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. Fanny did not share her\naunt's composure: she thought of the morrow a great deal, for if the\nthree acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be acting\ntogether for the first time; the third act would bring a scene between\nthem which interested her most particularly, and which she was longing\nand dreading to see how they would perform. The whole subject of it was\nlove--a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman, and very\nlittle short of a declaration of love be made by the lady.\n\nShe had read and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering\nemotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a\ncircumstance almost too interesting. She did not _believe_ they had yet\nrehearsed it, even in private.\n\nThe morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny's\nconsideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very\ndiligently under her aunt's directions, but her diligence and her\nsilence concealed a very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she\nmade her escape with her work to the East room, that she might have no\nconcern in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal of\nthe first act, which Henry Crawford was just proposing, desirous at\nonce of having her time to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr.\nRushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two ladies\nwalking up from the Parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat, and\nshe worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed, for a quarter of\nan hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance of\nMiss Crawford.\n\n\"Am I right? Yes; this is the East room. My dear Miss Price, I beg your\npardon, but I have made my way to you on purpose to entreat your help.\"\n\nFanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to shew herself mistress of the room\nby her civilities, and looked at the bright bars of her empty grate with\nconcern.\n\n\"Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm. Allow me to stay here a little\nwhile, and do have the goodness to hear me my third act. I have brought\nmy book, and if you would but rehearse it with me, I should be _so_\nobliged! I came here to-day intending to rehearse it with Edmund--by\nourselves--against the evening, but he is not in the way; and if he\n_were_, I do not think I could go through it with _him_, till I have\nhardened myself a little; for really there is a speech or two. You will\nbe so good, won't you?\"\n\nFanny was most civil in her assurances, though she could not give them\nin a very steady voice.\n\n\"Have you ever happened to look at the part I mean?\" continued Miss\nCrawford, opening her book. \"Here it is. I did not think much of it at\nfirst--but, upon my word. There, look at _that_ speech, and _that_, and\n_that_. How am I ever to look him in the face and say such things? Could\nyou do it? But then he is your cousin, which makes all the difference.\nYou must rehearse it with me, that I may fancy _you_ him, and get on by\ndegrees. You _have_ a look of _his_ sometimes.\"\n\n\"Have I? I will do my best with the greatest readiness; but I must\n_read_ the part, for I can say very little of it.\"\n\n\"_None_ of it, I suppose. You are to have the book, of course. Now for\nit. We must have two chairs at hand for you to bring forward to the\nfront of the stage. There--very good school-room chairs, not made for a\ntheatre, I dare say; much more fitted for little girls to sit and kick\ntheir feet against when they are learning a lesson. What would your\ngoverness and your uncle say to see them used for such a purpose? Could\nSir Thomas look in upon us just now, he would bless himself, for we\nare rehearsing all over the house. Yates is storming away in the\ndining-room. I heard him as I came upstairs, and the theatre is engaged\nof course by those indefatigable rehearsers, Agatha and Frederick. If\n_they_ are not perfect, I _shall_ be surprised. By the bye, I looked in\nupon them five minutes ago, and it happened to be exactly at one of the\ntimes when they were trying _not_ to embrace, and Mr. Rushworth was with\nme. I thought he began to look a little queer, so I turned it off as\nwell as I could, by whispering to him, 'We shall have an excellent\nAgatha; there is something so _maternal_ in her manner, so completely\n_maternal_ in her voice and countenance.' Was not that well done of me?\nHe brightened up directly. Now for my soliloquy.\"\n\nShe began, and Fanny joined in with all the modest feeling which the\nidea of representing Edmund was so strongly calculated to inspire; but\nwith looks and voice so truly feminine as to be no very good picture of\na man. With such an Anhalt, however, Miss Crawford had courage enough;\nand they had got through half the scene, when a tap at the door brought\na pause, and the entrance of Edmund, the next moment, suspended it all.\n\nSurprise, consciousness, and pleasure appeared in each of the three\non this unexpected meeting; and as Edmund was come on the very same\nbusiness that had brought Miss Crawford, consciousness and pleasure were\nlikely to be more than momentary in _them_. He too had his book, and was\nseeking Fanny, to ask her to rehearse with him, and help him to prepare\nfor the evening, without knowing Miss Crawford to be in the house;\nand great was the joy and animation of being thus thrown together, of\ncomparing schemes, and sympathising in praise of Fanny's kind offices.\n\n_She_ could not equal them in their warmth. _Her_ spirits sank under the\nglow of theirs, and she felt herself becoming too nearly nothing to\nboth to have any comfort in having been sought by either. They must now\nrehearse together. Edmund proposed, urged, entreated it, till the lady,\nnot very unwilling at first, could refuse no longer, and Fanny was\nwanted only to prompt and observe them. She was invested, indeed, with\nthe office of judge and critic, and earnestly desired to exercise it and\ntell them all their faults; but from doing so every feeling within her\nshrank--she could not, would not, dared not attempt it: had she been\notherwise qualified for criticism, her conscience must have restrained\nher from venturing at disapprobation. She believed herself to feel too\nmuch of it in the aggregate for honesty or safety in particulars. To\nprompt them must be enough for her; and it was sometimes _more_ than\nenough; for she could not always pay attention to the book. In watching\nthem she forgot herself; and, agitated by the increasing spirit of\nEdmund's manner, had once closed the page and turned away exactly as he\nwanted help. It was imputed to very reasonable weariness, and she was\nthanked and pitied; but she deserved their pity more than she hoped they\nwould ever surmise. At last the scene was over, and Fanny forced herself\nto add her praise to the compliments each was giving the other; and when\nagain alone and able to recall the whole, she was inclined to believe\ntheir performance would, indeed, have such nature and feeling in it as\nmust ensure their credit, and make it a very suffering exhibition to\nherself. Whatever might be its effect, however, she must stand the brunt\nof it again that very day.\n\nThe first regular rehearsal of the three first acts was certainly to\ntake place in the evening: Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords were engaged to\nreturn for that purpose as soon as they could after dinner; and every\none concerned was looking forward with eagerness. There seemed a general\ndiffusion of cheerfulness on the occasion. Tom was enjoying such an\nadvance towards the end; Edmund was in spirits from the morning's\nrehearsal, and little vexations seemed everywhere smoothed away. All\nwere alert and impatient; the ladies moved soon, the gentlemen soon\nfollowed them, and with the exception of Lady Bertram, Mrs. Norris, and\nJulia, everybody was in the theatre at an early hour; and having lighted\nit up as well as its unfinished state admitted, were waiting only the\narrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords to begin.\n\nThey did not wait long for the Crawfords, but there was no Mrs. Grant.\nShe could not come. Dr. Grant, professing an indisposition, for which he\nhad little credit with his fair sister-in-law, could not spare his wife.\n\n\"Dr. Grant is ill,\" said she, with mock solemnity. \"He has been ill ever\nsince he did not eat any of the pheasant today. He fancied it tough,\nsent away his plate, and has been suffering ever since\".\n\nHere was disappointment! Mrs. Grant's non-attendance was sad indeed.\nHer pleasant manners and cheerful conformity made her always valuable\namongst them; but _now_ she was absolutely necessary. They could not\nact, they could not rehearse with any satisfaction without her. The\ncomfort of the whole evening was destroyed. What was to be done? Tom, as\nCottager, was in despair. After a pause of perplexity, some eyes began\nto be turned towards Fanny, and a voice or two to say, \"If Miss Price\nwould be so good as to _read_ the part.\" She was immediately surrounded\nby supplications; everybody asked it; even Edmund said, \"Do, Fanny, if\nit is not _very_ disagreeable to you.\"\n\nBut Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the idea of it. Why was\nnot Miss Crawford to be applied to as well? Or why had not she rather\ngone to her own room, as she had felt to be safest, instead of attending\nthe rehearsal at all? She had known it would irritate and distress her;\nshe had known it her duty to keep away. She was properly punished.\n\n\"You have only to _read_ the part,\" said Henry Crawford, with renewed\nentreaty.\n\n\"And I do believe she can say every word of it,\" added Maria, \"for she\ncould put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places. Fanny, I am\nsure you know the part.\"\n\nFanny could not say she did _not_; and as they all persevered, as\nEdmund repeated his wish, and with a look of even fond dependence on\nher good-nature, she must yield. She would do her best. Everybody was\nsatisfied; and she was left to the tremors of a most palpitating heart,\nwhile the others prepared to begin.\n\nThey _did_ begin; and being too much engaged in their own noise to be\nstruck by an unusual noise in the other part of the house, had proceeded\nsome way when the door of the room was thrown open, and Julia, appearing\nat it, with a face all aghast, exclaimed, \"My father is come! He is in\nthe hall at this moment.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nHow is the consternation of the party to be described? To the greater\nnumber it was a moment of absolute horror. Sir Thomas in the house! All\nfelt the instantaneous conviction. Not a hope of imposition or mistake\nwas harboured anywhere. Julia's looks were an evidence of the fact that\nmade it indisputable; and after the first starts and exclamations, not a\nword was spoken for half a minute: each with an altered countenance was\nlooking at some other, and almost each was feeling it a stroke the most\nunwelcome, most ill-timed, most appalling! Mr. Yates might consider\nit only as a vexatious interruption for the evening, and Mr. Rushworth\nmight imagine it a blessing; but every other heart was sinking under\nsome degree of self-condemnation or undefined alarm, every other heart\nwas suggesting, \"What will become of us? what is to be done now?\" It\nwas a terrible pause; and terrible to every ear were the corroborating\nsounds of opening doors and passing footsteps.\n\nJulia was the first to move and speak again. Jealousy and bitterness\nhad been suspended: selfishness was lost in the common cause; but at the\nmoment of her appearance, Frederick was listening with looks of devotion\nto Agatha's narrative, and pressing her hand to his heart; and as soon\nas she could notice this, and see that, in spite of the shock of her\nwords, he still kept his station and retained her sister's hand, her\nwounded heart swelled again with injury, and looking as red as she had\nbeen white before, she turned out of the room, saying, \"_I_ need not be\nafraid of appearing before him.\"\n\nHer going roused the rest; and at the same moment the two brothers\nstepped forward, feeling the necessity of doing something. A very few\nwords between them were sufficient. The case admitted no difference of\nopinion: they must go to the drawing-room directly. Maria joined them\nwith the same intent, just then the stoutest of the three; for the\nvery circumstance which had driven Julia away was to her the sweetest\nsupport. Henry Crawford's retaining her hand at such a moment, a moment\nof such peculiar proof and importance, was worth ages of doubt and\nanxiety. She hailed it as an earnest of the most serious determination,\nand was equal even to encounter her father. They walked off, utterly\nheedless of Mr. Rushworth's repeated question of, \"Shall I go too? Had\nnot I better go too? Will not it be right for me to go too?\" but they\nwere no sooner through the door than Henry Crawford undertook to answer\nthe anxious inquiry, and, encouraging him by all means to pay his\nrespects to Sir Thomas without delay, sent him after the others with\ndelighted haste.\n\nFanny was left with only the Crawfords and Mr. Yates. She had been quite\noverlooked by her cousins; and as her own opinion of her claims on Sir\nThomas's affection was much too humble to give her any idea of classing\nherself with his children, she was glad to remain behind and gain a\nlittle breathing-time. Her agitation and alarm exceeded all that was\nendured by the rest, by the right of a disposition which not even\ninnocence could keep from suffering. She was nearly fainting: all her\nformer habitual dread of her uncle was returning, and with it compassion\nfor him and for almost every one of the party on the development before\nhim, with solicitude on Edmund's account indescribable. She had found\na seat, where in excessive trembling she was enduring all these fearful\nthoughts, while the other three, no longer under any restraint, were\ngiving vent to their feelings of vexation, lamenting over such an\nunlooked-for premature arrival as a most untoward event, and without\nmercy wishing poor Sir Thomas had been twice as long on his passage, or\nwere still in Antigua.\n\nThe Crawfords were more warm on the subject than Mr. Yates, from better\nunderstanding the family, and judging more clearly of the mischief that\nmust ensue. The ruin of the play was to them a certainty: they felt\nthe total destruction of the scheme to be inevitably at hand; while Mr.\nYates considered it only as a temporary interruption, a disaster for the\nevening, and could even suggest the possibility of the rehearsal being\nrenewed after tea, when the bustle of receiving Sir Thomas were over,\nand he might be at leisure to be amused by it. The Crawfords laughed\nat the idea; and having soon agreed on the propriety of their walking\nquietly home and leaving the family to themselves, proposed Mr. Yates's\naccompanying them and spending the evening at the Parsonage. But Mr.\nYates, having never been with those who thought much of parental claims,\nor family confidence, could not perceive that anything of the kind was\nnecessary; and therefore, thanking them, said, \"he preferred remaining\nwhere he was, that he might pay his respects to the old gentleman\nhandsomely since he _was_ come; and besides, he did not think it would\nbe fair by the others to have everybody run away.\"\n\nFanny was just beginning to collect herself, and to feel that if she\nstaid longer behind it might seem disrespectful, when this point was\nsettled, and being commissioned with the brother and sister's apology,\nsaw them preparing to go as she quitted the room herself to perform the\ndreadful duty of appearing before her uncle.\n\nToo soon did she find herself at the drawing-room door; and after\npausing a moment for what she knew would not come, for a courage which\nthe outside of no door had ever supplied to her, she turned the lock in\ndesperation, and the lights of the drawing-room, and all the collected\nfamily, were before her. As she entered, her own name caught her ear.\nSir Thomas was at that moment looking round him, and saying, \"But where\nis Fanny? Why do not I see my little Fanny?\"--and on perceiving her,\ncame forward with a kindness which astonished and penetrated her,\ncalling her his dear Fanny, kissing her affectionately, and observing\nwith decided pleasure how much she was grown! Fanny knew not how to\nfeel, nor where to look. She was quite oppressed. He had never been so\nkind, so _very_ kind to her in his life. His manner seemed changed, his\nvoice was quick from the agitation of joy; and all that had been awful\nin his dignity seemed lost in tenderness. He led her nearer the light\nand looked at her again--inquired particularly after her health, and\nthen, correcting himself, observed that he need not inquire, for\nher appearance spoke sufficiently on that point. A fine blush having\nsucceeded the previous paleness of her face, he was justified in his\nbelief of her equal improvement in health and beauty. He inquired next\nafter her family, especially William: and his kindness altogether was\nsuch as made her reproach herself for loving him so little, and thinking\nhis return a misfortune; and when, on having courage to lift her eyes to\nhis face, she saw that he was grown thinner, and had the burnt, fagged,\nworn look of fatigue and a hot climate, every tender feeling was\nincreased, and she was miserable in considering how much unsuspected\nvexation was probably ready to burst on him.\n\nSir Thomas was indeed the life of the party, who at his suggestion\nnow seated themselves round the fire. He had the best right to be the\ntalker; and the delight of his sensations in being again in his own\nhouse, in the centre of his family, after such a separation, made him\ncommunicative and chatty in a very unusual degree; and he was ready to\ngive every information as to his voyage, and answer every question\nof his two sons almost before it was put. His business in Antigua had\nlatterly been prosperously rapid, and he came directly from Liverpool,\nhaving had an opportunity of making his passage thither in a private\nvessel, instead of waiting for the packet; and all the little\nparticulars of his proceedings and events, his arrivals and departures,\nwere most promptly delivered, as he sat by Lady Bertram and looked with\nheartfelt satisfaction on the faces around him--interrupting himself\nmore than once, however, to remark on his good fortune in finding them\nall at home--coming unexpectedly as he did--all collected together\nexactly as he could have wished, but dared not depend on. Mr. Rushworth\nwas not forgotten: a most friendly reception and warmth of hand-shaking\nhad already met him, and with pointed attention he was now included in\nthe objects most intimately connected with Mansfield. There was nothing\ndisagreeable in Mr. Rushworth's appearance, and Sir Thomas was liking\nhim already.\n\nBy not one of the circle was he listened to with such unbroken,\nunalloyed enjoyment as by his wife, who was really extremely happy to\nsee him, and whose feelings were so warmed by his sudden arrival as to\nplace her nearer agitation than she had been for the last twenty years.\nShe had been _almost_ fluttered for a few minutes, and still remained so\nsensibly animated as to put away her work, move Pug from her side, and\ngive all her attention and all the rest of her sofa to her husband. She\nhad no anxieties for anybody to cloud _her_ pleasure: her own time had\nbeen irreproachably spent during his absence: she had done a great\ndeal of carpet-work, and made many yards of fringe; and she would have\nanswered as freely for the good conduct and useful pursuits of all\nthe young people as for her own. It was so agreeable to her to see\nhim again, and hear him talk, to have her ear amused and her whole\ncomprehension filled by his narratives, that she began particularly\nto feel how dreadfully she must have missed him, and how impossible it\nwould have been for her to bear a lengthened absence.\n\nMrs. Norris was by no means to be compared in happiness to her\nsister. Not that _she_ was incommoded by many fears of Sir Thomas's\ndisapprobation when the present state of his house should be known, for\nher judgment had been so blinded that, except by the instinctive caution\nwith which she had whisked away Mr. Rushworth's pink satin cloak as her\nbrother-in-law entered, she could hardly be said to shew any sign of\nalarm; but she was vexed by the _manner_ of his return. It had left her\nnothing to do. Instead of being sent for out of the room, and seeing\nhim first, and having to spread the happy news through the house, Sir\nThomas, with a very reasonable dependence, perhaps, on the nerves of his\nwife and children, had sought no confidant but the butler, and had been\nfollowing him almost instantaneously into the drawing-room. Mrs. Norris\nfelt herself defrauded of an office on which she had always depended,\nwhether his arrival or his death were to be the thing unfolded; and was\nnow trying to be in a bustle without having anything to bustle about,\nand labouring to be important where nothing was wanted but tranquillity\nand silence. Would Sir Thomas have consented to eat, she might have gone\nto the housekeeper with troublesome directions, and insulted the footmen\nwith injunctions of despatch; but Sir Thomas resolutely declined all\ndinner: he would take nothing, nothing till tea came--he would rather\nwait for tea. Still Mrs. Norris was at intervals urging something\ndifferent; and in the most interesting moment of his passage to England,\nwhen the alarm of a French privateer was at the height, she burst\nthrough his recital with the proposal of soup. \"Sure, my dear Sir\nThomas, a basin of soup would be a much better thing for you than tea.\nDo have a basin of soup.\"\n\nSir Thomas could not be provoked. \"Still the same anxiety for\neverybody's comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris,\" was his answer. \"But indeed I\nwould rather have nothing but tea.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Lady Bertram, suppose you speak for tea directly; suppose\nyou hurry Baddeley a little; he seems behindhand to-night.\" She carried\nthis point, and Sir Thomas's narrative proceeded.\n\nAt length there was a pause. His immediate communications were\nexhausted, and it seemed enough to be looking joyfully around him, now\nat one, now at another of the beloved circle; but the pause was not\nlong: in the elation of her spirits Lady Bertram became talkative, and\nwhat were the sensations of her children upon hearing her say, \"How\ndo you think the young people have been amusing themselves lately, Sir\nThomas? They have been acting. We have been all alive with acting.\"\n\n\"Indeed! and what have you been acting?\"\n\n\"Oh! they'll tell you all about it.\"\n\n\"The _all_ will soon be told,\" cried Tom hastily, and with affected\nunconcern; \"but it is not worth while to bore my father with it now. You\nwill hear enough of it to-morrow, sir. We have just been trying, by way\nof doing something, and amusing my mother, just within the last week,\nto get up a few scenes, a mere trifle. We have had such incessant rains\nalmost since October began, that we have been nearly confined to the\nhouse for days together. I have hardly taken out a gun since the 3rd.\nTolerable sport the first three days, but there has been no attempting\nanything since. The first day I went over Mansfield Wood, and Edmund\ntook the copses beyond Easton, and we brought home six brace between\nus, and might each have killed six times as many, but we respect your\npheasants, sir, I assure you, as much as you could desire. I do not\nthink you will find your woods by any means worse stocked than they\nwere. _I_ never saw Mansfield Wood so full of pheasants in my life\nas this year. I hope you will take a day's sport there yourself, sir,\nsoon.\"\n\nFor the present the danger was over, and Fanny's sick feelings subsided;\nbut when tea was soon afterwards brought in, and Sir Thomas, getting up,\nsaid that he found that he could not be any longer in the house without\njust looking into his own dear room, every agitation was returning. He\nwas gone before anything had been said to prepare him for the change he\nmust find there; and a pause of alarm followed his disappearance. Edmund\nwas the first to speak--\n\n\"Something must be done,\" said he.\n\n\"It is time to think of our visitors,\" said Maria, still feeling her\nhand pressed to Henry Crawford's heart, and caring little for anything\nelse. \"Where did you leave Miss Crawford, Fanny?\"\n\nFanny told of their departure, and delivered their message.\n\n\"Then poor Yates is all alone,\" cried Tom. \"I will go and fetch him. He\nwill be no bad assistant when it all comes out.\"\n\nTo the theatre he went, and reached it just in time to witness the first\nmeeting of his father and his friend. Sir Thomas had been a good deal\nsurprised to find candles burning in his room; and on casting his eye\nround it, to see other symptoms of recent habitation and a general air\nof confusion in the furniture. The removal of the bookcase from before\nthe billiard-room door struck him especially, but he had scarcely more\nthan time to feel astonished at all this, before there were sounds from\nthe billiard-room to astonish him still farther. Some one was talking\nthere in a very loud accent; he did not know the voice--more than\ntalking--almost hallooing. He stepped to the door, rejoicing at that\nmoment in having the means of immediate communication, and, opening it,\nfound himself on the stage of a theatre, and opposed to a ranting young\nman, who appeared likely to knock him down backwards. At the very moment\nof Yates perceiving Sir Thomas, and giving perhaps the very best start\nhe had ever given in the whole course of his rehearsals, Tom Bertram\nentered at the other end of the room; and never had he found greater\ndifficulty in keeping his countenance. His father's looks of solemnity\nand amazement on this his first appearance on any stage, and the gradual\nmetamorphosis of the impassioned Baron Wildenheim into the well-bred and\neasy Mr. Yates, making his bow and apology to Sir Thomas Bertram, was\nsuch an exhibition, such a piece of true acting, as he would not have\nlost upon any account. It would be the last--in all probability--the\nlast scene on that stage; but he was sure there could not be a finer.\nThe house would close with the greatest eclat.\n\nThere was little time, however, for the indulgence of any images of\nmerriment. It was necessary for him to step forward, too, and assist\nthe introduction, and with many awkward sensations he did his best. Sir\nThomas received Mr. Yates with all the appearance of cordiality which\nwas due to his own character, but was really as far from pleased\nwith the necessity of the acquaintance as with the manner of its\ncommencement. Mr. Yates's family and connexions were sufficiently known\nto him to render his introduction as the \"particular friend,\" another of\nthe hundred particular friends of his son, exceedingly unwelcome; and it\nneeded all the felicity of being again at home, and all the forbearance\nit could supply, to save Sir Thomas from anger on finding himself thus\nbewildered in his own house, making part of a ridiculous exhibition in\nthe midst of theatrical nonsense, and forced in so untoward a moment to\nadmit the acquaintance of a young man whom he felt sure of disapproving,\nand whose easy indifference and volubility in the course of the first\nfive minutes seemed to mark him the most at home of the two.\n\nTom understood his father's thoughts, and heartily wishing he might be\nalways as well disposed to give them but partial expression, began to\nsee, more clearly than he had ever done before, that there might be some\nground of offence, that there might be some reason for the glance his\nfather gave towards the ceiling and stucco of the room; and that when he\ninquired with mild gravity after the fate of the billiard-table, he was\nnot proceeding beyond a very allowable curiosity. A few minutes were\nenough for such unsatisfactory sensations on each side; and Sir\nThomas having exerted himself so far as to speak a few words of\ncalm approbation in reply to an eager appeal of Mr. Yates, as to the\nhappiness of the arrangement, the three gentlemen returned to the\ndrawing-room together, Sir Thomas with an increase of gravity which was\nnot lost on all.\n\n\"I come from your theatre,\" said he composedly, as he sat down; \"I found\nmyself in it rather unexpectedly. Its vicinity to my own room--but in\nevery respect, indeed, it took me by surprise, as I had not the smallest\nsuspicion of your acting having assumed so serious a character. It\nappears a neat job, however, as far as I could judge by candlelight,\nand does my friend Christopher Jackson credit.\" And then he would\nhave changed the subject, and sipped his coffee in peace over domestic\nmatters of a calmer hue; but Mr. Yates, without discernment to catch Sir\nThomas's meaning, or diffidence, or delicacy, or discretion enough to\nallow him to lead the discourse while he mingled among the others with\nthe least obtrusiveness himself, would keep him on the topic of the\ntheatre, would torment him with questions and remarks relative to it,\nand finally would make him hear the whole history of his disappointment\nat Ecclesford. Sir Thomas listened most politely, but found much to\noffend his ideas of decorum, and confirm his ill-opinion of Mr. Yates's\nhabits of thinking, from the beginning to the end of the story; and when\nit was over, could give him no other assurance of sympathy than what a\nslight bow conveyed.\n\n\"This was, in fact, the origin of _our_ acting,\" said Tom, after\na moment's thought. \"My friend Yates brought the infection from\nEcclesford, and it spread--as those things always spread, you know,\nsir--the faster, probably, from _your_ having so often encouraged the\nsort of thing in us formerly. It was like treading old ground again.\"\n\nMr. Yates took the subject from his friend as soon as possible, and\nimmediately gave Sir Thomas an account of what they had done and were\ndoing: told him of the gradual increase of their views, the happy\nconclusion of their first difficulties, and present promising state of\naffairs; relating everything with so blind an interest as made him not\nonly totally unconscious of the uneasy movements of many of his\nfriends as they sat, the change of countenance, the fidget, the hem! of\nunquietness, but prevented him even from seeing the expression of the\nface on which his own eyes were fixed--from seeing Sir Thomas's dark\nbrow contract as he looked with inquiring earnestness at his daughters\nand Edmund, dwelling particularly on the latter, and speaking a\nlanguage, a remonstrance, a reproof, which _he_ felt at his heart. Not\nless acutely was it felt by Fanny, who had edged back her chair behind\nher aunt's end of the sofa, and, screened from notice herself, saw all\nthat was passing before her. Such a look of reproach at Edmund from his\nfather she could never have expected to witness; and to feel that it\nwas in any degree deserved was an aggravation indeed. Sir Thomas's\nlook implied, \"On your judgment, Edmund, I depended; what have you\nbeen about?\" She knelt in spirit to her uncle, and her bosom swelled to\nutter, \"Oh, not to _him_! Look so to all the others, but not to _him_!\"\n\nMr. Yates was still talking. \"To own the truth, Sir Thomas, we were in\nthe middle of a rehearsal when you arrived this evening. We were going\nthrough the three first acts, and not unsuccessfully upon the whole. Our\ncompany is now so dispersed, from the Crawfords being gone home, that\nnothing more can be done to-night; but if you will give us the honour of\nyour company to-morrow evening, I should not be afraid of the result. We\nbespeak your indulgence, you understand, as young performers; we bespeak\nyour indulgence.\"\n\n\"My indulgence shall be given, sir,\" replied Sir Thomas gravely, \"but\nwithout any other rehearsal.\" And with a relenting smile, he added, \"I\ncome home to be happy and indulgent.\" Then turning away towards any\nor all of the rest, he tranquilly said, \"Mr. and Miss Crawford were\nmentioned in my last letters from Mansfield. Do you find them agreeable\nacquaintance?\"\n\nTom was the only one at all ready with an answer, but he being entirely\nwithout particular regard for either, without jealousy either in love\nor acting, could speak very handsomely of both. \"Mr. Crawford was a\nmost pleasant, gentleman-like man; his sister a sweet, pretty, elegant,\nlively girl.\"\n\nMr. Rushworth could be silent no longer. \"I do not say he is not\ngentleman-like, considering; but you should tell your father he is not\nabove five feet eight, or he will be expecting a well-looking man.\"\n\nSir Thomas did not quite understand this, and looked with some surprise\nat the speaker.\n\n\"If I must say what I think,\" continued Mr. Rushworth, \"in my opinion it\nis very disagreeable to be always rehearsing. It is having too much of a\ngood thing. I am not so fond of acting as I was at first. I think we are\na great deal better employed, sitting comfortably here among ourselves,\nand doing nothing.\"\n\nSir Thomas looked again, and then replied with an approving smile, \"I am\nhappy to find our sentiments on this subject so much the same. It gives\nme sincere satisfaction. That I should be cautious and quick-sighted,\nand feel many scruples which my children do _not_ feel, is perfectly\nnatural; and equally so that my value for domestic tranquillity, for a\nhome which shuts out noisy pleasures, should much exceed theirs. But at\nyour time of life to feel all this, is a most favourable circumstance\nfor yourself, and for everybody connected with you; and I am sensible of\nthe importance of having an ally of such weight.\"\n\nSir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Rushworth's opinion in better words\nthan he could find himself. He was aware that he must not expect a\ngenius in Mr. Rushworth; but as a well-judging, steady young man, with\nbetter notions than his elocution would do justice to, he intended to\nvalue him very highly. It was impossible for many of the others not to\nsmile. Mr. Rushworth hardly knew what to do with so much meaning; but by\nlooking, as he really felt, most exceedingly pleased with Sir Thomas's\ngood opinion, and saying scarcely anything, he did his best towards\npreserving that good opinion a little longer.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nEdmund's first object the next morning was to see his father alone, and\ngive him a fair statement of the whole acting scheme, defending his own\nshare in it as far only as he could then, in a soberer moment, feel his\nmotives to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness, that\nhis concession had been attended with such partial good as to make his\njudgment in it very doubtful. He was anxious, while vindicating himself,\nto say nothing unkind of the others: but there was only one amongst\nthem whose conduct he could mention without some necessity of defence\nor palliation. \"We have all been more or less to blame,\" said he, \"every\none of us, excepting Fanny. Fanny is the only one who has judged rightly\nthroughout; who has been consistent. _Her_ feelings have been steadily\nagainst it from first to last. She never ceased to think of what was due\nto you. You will find Fanny everything you could wish.\"\n\nSir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among such a party,\nand at such a time, as strongly as his son had ever supposed he must; he\nfelt it too much, indeed, for many words; and having shaken hands with\nEdmund, meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression, and forget how\nmuch he had been forgotten himself as soon as he could, after the house\nhad been cleared of every object enforcing the remembrance, and restored\nto its proper state. He did not enter into any remonstrance with his\nother children: he was more willing to believe they felt their error\nthan to run the risk of investigation. The reproof of an immediate\nconclusion of everything, the sweep of every preparation, would be\nsufficient.\n\nThere was one person, however, in the house, whom he could not leave\nto learn his sentiments merely through his conduct. He could not help\ngiving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having hoped that her advice might\nhave been interposed to prevent what her judgment must certainly have\ndisapproved. The young people had been very inconsiderate in forming the\nplan; they ought to have been capable of a better decision themselves;\nbut they were young; and, excepting Edmund, he believed, of unsteady\ncharacters; and with greater surprise, therefore, he must regard her\nacquiescence in their wrong measures, her countenance of their unsafe\namusements, than that such measures and such amusements should have\nbeen suggested. Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as nearly\nbeing silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she was ashamed to\nconfess having never seen any of the impropriety which was so glaring\nto Sir Thomas, and would not have admitted that her influence was\ninsufficient--that she might have talked in vain. Her only resource was\nto get out of the subject as fast as possible, and turn the current\nof Sir Thomas's ideas into a happier channel. She had a great deal to\ninsinuate in her own praise as to _general_ attention to the interest\nand comfort of his family, much exertion and many sacrifices to glance\nat in the form of hurried walks and sudden removals from her own\nfireside, and many excellent hints of distrust and economy to Lady\nBertram and Edmund to detail, whereby a most considerable saving had\nalways arisen, and more than one bad servant been detected. But her\nchief strength lay in Sotherton. Her greatest support and glory was\nin having formed the connexion with the Rushworths. _There_ she\nwas impregnable. She took to herself all the credit of bringing Mr.\nRushworth's admiration of Maria to any effect. \"If I had not been\nactive,\" said she, \"and made a point of being introduced to his mother,\nand then prevailed on my sister to pay the first visit, I am as certain\nas I sit here that nothing would have come of it; for Mr. Rushworth\nis the sort of amiable modest young man who wants a great deal of\nencouragement, and there were girls enough on the catch for him if we\nhad been idle. But I left no stone unturned. I was ready to move heaven\nand earth to persuade my sister, and at last I did persuade her. You\nknow the distance to Sotherton; it was in the middle of winter, and the\nroads almost impassable, but I did persuade her.\"\n\n\"I know how great, how justly great, your influence is with Lady Bertram\nand her children, and am the more concerned that it should not have\nbeen.\"\n\n\"My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the state of the roads _that_ day!\nI thought we should never have got through them, though we had the four\nhorses of course; and poor old coachman would attend us, out of his\ngreat love and kindness, though he was hardly able to sit the box on\naccount of the rheumatism which I had been doctoring him for ever since\nMichaelmas. I cured him at last; but he was very bad all the winter--and\nthis was such a day, I could not help going to him up in his room before\nwe set off to advise him not to venture: he was putting on his wig; so\nI said, 'Coachman, you had much better not go; your Lady and I shall be\nvery safe; you know how steady Stephen is, and Charles has been upon the\nleaders so often now, that I am sure there is no fear.' But, however, I\nsoon found it would not do; he was bent upon going, and as I hate to be\nworrying and officious, I said no more; but my heart quite ached for him\nat every jolt, and when we got into the rough lanes about Stoke, where,\nwhat with frost and snow upon beds of stones, it was worse than anything\nyou can imagine, I was quite in an agony about him. And then the poor\nhorses too! To see them straining away! You know how I always feel for\nthe horses. And when we got to the bottom of Sandcroft Hill, what do you\nthink I did? You will laugh at me; but I got out and walked up. I did\nindeed. It might not be saving them much, but it was something, and I\ncould not bear to sit at my ease and be dragged up at the expense of\nthose noble animals. I caught a dreadful cold, but _that_ I did not\nregard. My object was accomplished in the visit.\"\n\n\"I hope we shall always think the acquaintance worth any trouble that\nmight be taken to establish it. There is nothing very striking in Mr.\nRushworth's manners, but I was pleased last night with what appeared to\nbe his opinion on one subject: his decided preference of a quiet family\nparty to the bustle and confusion of acting. He seemed to feel exactly\nas one could wish.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed, and the more you know of him the better you will like him.\nHe is not a shining character, but he has a thousand good qualities; and\nis so disposed to look up to you, that I am quite laughed at about it,\nfor everybody considers it as my doing. 'Upon my word, Mrs. Norris,'\nsaid Mrs. Grant the other day, 'if Mr. Rushworth were a son of your own,\nhe could not hold Sir Thomas in greater respect.'\"\n\nSir Thomas gave up the point, foiled by her evasions, disarmed by her\nflattery; and was obliged to rest satisfied with the conviction that\nwhere the present pleasure of those she loved was at stake, her kindness\ndid sometimes overpower her judgment.\n\nIt was a busy morning with him. Conversation with any of them occupied\nbut a small part of it. He had to reinstate himself in all the wonted\nconcerns of his Mansfield life: to see his steward and his bailiff; to\nexamine and compute, and, in the intervals of business, to walk into\nhis stables and his gardens, and nearest plantations; but active and\nmethodical, he had not only done all this before he resumed his seat as\nmaster of the house at dinner, he had also set the carpenter to work in\npulling down what had been so lately put up in the billiard-room,\nand given the scene-painter his dismissal long enough to justify the\npleasing belief of his being then at least as far off as Northampton.\nThe scene-painter was gone, having spoilt only the floor of one room,\nruined all the coachman's sponges, and made five of the under-servants\nidle and dissatisfied; and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another day or\ntwo would suffice to wipe away every outward memento of what had been,\neven to the destruction of every unbound copy of Lovers' Vows in the\nhouse, for he was burning all that met his eye.\n\nMr. Yates was beginning now to understand Sir Thomas's intentions,\nthough as far as ever from understanding their source. He and his friend\nhad been out with their guns the chief of the morning, and Tom had taken\nthe opportunity of explaining, with proper apologies for his father's\nparticularity, what was to be expected. Mr. Yates felt it as acutely as\nmight be supposed. To be a second time disappointed in the same way was\nan instance of very severe ill-luck; and his indignation was such,\nthat had it not been for delicacy towards his friend, and his friend's\nyoungest sister, he believed he should certainly attack the baronet\non the absurdity of his proceedings, and argue him into a little more\nrationality. He believed this very stoutly while he was in Mansfield\nWood, and all the way home; but there was a something in Sir Thomas,\nwhen they sat round the same table, which made Mr. Yates think it\nwiser to let him pursue his own way, and feel the folly of it without\nopposition. He had known many disagreeable fathers before, and often\nbeen struck with the inconveniences they occasioned, but never, in\nthe whole course of his life, had he seen one of that class so\nunintelligibly moral, so infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He was\nnot a man to be endured but for his children's sake, and he might be\nthankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. Yates did yet mean to stay\na few days longer under his roof.\n\nThe evening passed with external smoothness, though almost every\nmind was ruffled; and the music which Sir Thomas called for from his\ndaughters helped to conceal the want of real harmony. Maria was in a\ngood deal of agitation. It was of the utmost consequence to her that\nCrawford should now lose no time in declaring himself, and she was\ndisturbed that even a day should be gone by without seeming to advance\nthat point. She had been expecting to see him the whole morning, and\nall the evening, too, was still expecting him. Mr. Rushworth had set off\nearly with the great news for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped for\nsuch an immediate _eclaircissement_ as might save him the trouble of\never coming back again. But they had seen no one from the Parsonage,\nnot a creature, and had heard no tidings beyond a friendly note of\ncongratulation and inquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram. It was the\nfirst day for many, many weeks, in which the families had been wholly\ndivided. Four-and-twenty hours had never passed before, since August\nbegan, without bringing them together in some way or other. It was a\nsad, anxious day; and the morrow, though differing in the sort of evil,\ndid by no means bring less. A few moments of feverish enjoyment were\nfollowed by hours of acute suffering. Henry Crawford was again in the\nhouse: he walked up with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his respects\nto Sir Thomas, and at rather an early hour they were ushered into the\nbreakfast-room, where were most of the family. Sir Thomas soon appeared,\nand Maria saw with delight and agitation the introduction of the man she\nloved to her father. Her sensations were indefinable, and so were they\na few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford, who had a chair\nbetween herself and Tom, ask the latter in an undervoice whether\nthere were any plans for resuming the play after the present happy\ninterruption (with a courteous glance at Sir Thomas), because, in that\ncase, he should make a point of returning to Mansfield at any time\nrequired by the party: he was going away immediately, being to meet his\nuncle at Bath without delay; but if there were any prospect of a renewal\nof Lovers' Vows, he should hold himself positively engaged, he should\nbreak through every other claim, he should absolutely condition with his\nuncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted. The play should\nnot be lost by _his_ absence.\n\n\"From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be,\" said he; \"I will\nattend you from any place in England, at an hour's notice.\"\n\nIt was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not his sister. He\ncould immediately say with easy fluency, \"I am sorry you are going;\nbut as to our play, _that_ is all over--entirely at an end\" (looking\nsignificantly at his father). \"The painter was sent off yesterday, and\nvery little will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew how _that_\nwould be from the first. It is early for Bath. You will find nobody\nthere.\"\n\n\"It is about my uncle's usual time.\"\n\n\"When do you think of going?\"\n\n\"I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day.\"\n\n\"Whose stables do you use at Bath?\" was the next question; and while\nthis branch of the subject was under discussion, Maria, who wanted\nneither pride nor resolution, was preparing to encounter her share of it\nwith tolerable calmness.\n\nTo her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had already said, with\nonly a softened air and stronger expressions of regret. But what availed\nhis expressions or his air? He was going, and, if not voluntarily going,\nvoluntarily intending to stay away; for, excepting what might be due\nto his uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed. He might talk of\nnecessity, but she knew his independence. The hand which had so pressed\nhers to his heart! the hand and the heart were alike motionless and\npassive now! Her spirit supported her, but the agony of her mind was\nsevere. She had not long to endure what arose from listening to language\nwhich his actions contradicted, or to bury the tumult of her feelings\nunder the restraint of society; for general civilities soon called\nhis notice from her, and the farewell visit, as it then became openly\nacknowledged, was a very short one. He was gone--he had touched her\nhand for the last time, he had made his parting bow, and she might seek\ndirectly all that solitude could do for her. Henry Crawford was gone,\ngone from the house, and within two hours afterwards from the parish;\nand so ended all the hopes his selfish vanity had raised in Maria and\nJulia Bertram.\n\nJulia could rejoice that he was gone. His presence was beginning to be\nodious to her; and if Maria gained him not, she was now cool enough to\ndispense with any other revenge. She did not want exposure to be added\nto desertion. Henry Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister.\n\nWith a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the intelligence. She heard it\nat dinner, and felt it a blessing. By all the others it was mentioned\nwith regret; and his merits honoured with due gradation of feeling--from\nthe sincerity of Edmund's too partial regard, to the unconcern of his\nmother speaking entirely by rote. Mrs. Norris began to look about her,\nand wonder that his falling in love with Julia had come to nothing; and\ncould almost fear that she had been remiss herself in forwarding it; but\nwith so many to care for, how was it possible for even _her_ activity to\nkeep pace with her wishes?\n\nAnother day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone likewise. In _his_ departure\nSir Thomas felt the chief interest: wanting to be alone with his family,\nthe presence of a stranger superior to Mr. Yates must have been irksome;\nbut of him, trifling and confident, idle and expensive, it was every way\nvexatious. In himself he was wearisome, but as the friend of Tom and\nthe admirer of Julia he became offensive. Sir Thomas had been quite\nindifferent to Mr. Crawford's going or staying: but his good wishes\nfor Mr. Yates's having a pleasant journey, as he walked with him to the\nhall-door, were given with genuine satisfaction. Mr. Yates had staid to\nsee the destruction of every theatrical preparation at Mansfield, the\nremoval of everything appertaining to the play: he left the house in all\nthe soberness of its general character; and Sir Thomas hoped, in seeing\nhim out of it, to be rid of the worst object connected with the scheme,\nand the last that must be inevitably reminding him of its existence.\n\nMrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight that might\nhave distressed him. The curtain, over which she had presided with such\ntalent and such success, went off with her to her cottage, where she\nhappened to be particularly in want of green baize.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nSir Thomas's return made a striking change in the ways of the family,\nindependent of Lovers' Vows. Under his government, Mansfield was an\naltered place. Some members of their society sent away, and the spirits\nof many others saddened--it was all sameness and gloom compared with\nthe past--a sombre family party rarely enlivened. There was little\nintercourse with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back from intimacies\nin general, was particularly disinclined, at this time, for any\nengagements but in one quarter. The Rushworths were the only addition to\nhis own domestic circle which he could solicit.\n\nEdmund did not wonder that such should be his father's feelings, nor\ncould he regret anything but the exclusion of the Grants. \"But they,\" he\nobserved to Fanny, \"have a claim. They seem to belong to us; they seem\nto be part of ourselves. I could wish my father were more sensible of\ntheir very great attention to my mother and sisters while he was away. I\nam afraid they may feel themselves neglected. But the truth is, that my\nfather hardly knows them. They had not been here a twelvemonth when he\nleft England. If he knew them better, he would value their society as it\ndeserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort of people he would\nlike. We are sometimes a little in want of animation among ourselves: my\nsisters seem out of spirits, and Tom is certainly not at his ease. Dr.\nand Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and make our evenings pass away with\nmore enjoyment even to my father.\"\n\n\"Do you think so?\" said Fanny: \"in my opinion, my uncle would not like\n_any_ addition. I think he values the very quietness you speak of, and\nthat the repose of his own family circle is all he wants. And it does\nnot appear to me that we are more serious than we used to be--I mean\nbefore my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect, it was always\nmuch the same. There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if\nthere is any difference, it is not more, I think, than such an absence\nhas a tendency to produce at first. There must be a sort of shyness; but\nI cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry, except\nwhen my uncle was in town. No young people's are, I suppose, when those\nthey look up to are at home\".\n\n\"I believe you are right, Fanny,\" was his reply, after a short\nconsideration. \"I believe our evenings are rather returned to what they\nwere, than assuming a new character. The novelty was in their being\nlively. Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks will give!\nI have been feeling as if we had never lived so before.\"\n\n\"I suppose I am graver than other people,\" said Fanny. \"The evenings do\nnot appear long to me. I love to hear my uncle talk of the West Indies.\nI could listen to him for an hour together. It entertains _me_ more than\nmany other things have done; but then I am unlike other people, I dare\nsay.\"\n\n\"Why should you dare say _that_?\" (smiling). \"Do you want to be told\nthat you are only unlike other people in being more wise and discreet?\nBut when did you, or anybody, ever get a compliment from me, Fanny? Go\nto my father if you want to be complimented. He will satisfy you. Ask\nyour uncle what he thinks, and you will hear compliments enough: and\nthough they may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with it, and\ntrust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time.\"\n\nSuch language was so new to Fanny that it quite embarrassed her.\n\n\"Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny--and that is the long and\nthe short of the matter. Anybody but myself would have made something\nmore of it, and anybody but you would resent that you had not been\nthought very pretty before; but the truth is, that your uncle never\ndid admire you till now--and now he does. Your complexion is so\nimproved!--and you have gained so much countenance!--and your\nfigure--nay, Fanny, do not turn away about it--it is but an uncle. If\nyou cannot bear an uncle's admiration, what is to become of you? You\nmust really begin to harden yourself to the idea of being worth looking\nat. You must try not to mind growing up into a pretty woman.\"\n\n\"Oh! don't talk so, don't talk so,\" cried Fanny, distressed by more\nfeelings than he was aware of; but seeing that she was distressed, he\nhad done with the subject, and only added more seriously--\n\n\"Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in every respect; and I\nonly wish you would talk to him more. You are one of those who are too\nsilent in the evening circle.\"\n\n\"But I do talk to him more than I used. I am sure I do. Did not you hear\nme ask him about the slave-trade last night?\"\n\n\"I did--and was in hopes the question would be followed up by others. It\nwould have pleased your uncle to be inquired of farther.\"\n\n\"And I longed to do it--but there was such a dead silence! And while\nmy cousins were sitting by without speaking a word, or seeming at all\ninterested in the subject, I did not like--I thought it would appear as\nif I wanted to set myself off at their expense, by shewing a curiosity\nand pleasure in his information which he must wish his own daughters to\nfeel.\"\n\n\"Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you the other day:\nthat you seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women\nwere of neglect. We were talking of you at the Parsonage, and those were\nher words. She has great discernment. I know nobody who distinguishes\ncharacters better. For so young a woman it is remarkable! She certainly\nunderstands _you_ better than you are understood by the greater part of\nthose who have known you so long; and with regard to some others, I can\nperceive, from occasional lively hints, the unguarded expressions of\nthe moment, that she could define _many_ as accurately, did not delicacy\nforbid it. I wonder what she thinks of my father! She must admire him\nas a fine-looking man, with most gentlemanlike, dignified, consistent\nmanners; but perhaps, having seen him so seldom, his reserve may be\na little repulsive. Could they be much together, I feel sure of their\nliking each other. He would enjoy her liveliness and she has talents to\nvalue his powers. I wish they met more frequently! I hope she does not\nsuppose there is any dislike on his side.\"\n\n\"She must know herself too secure of the regard of all the rest of you,\"\nsaid Fanny, with half a sigh, \"to have any such apprehension. And Sir\nThomas's wishing just at first to be only with his family, is so very\nnatural, that she can argue nothing from that. After a little while, I\ndare say, we shall be meeting again in the same sort of way, allowing\nfor the difference of the time of year.\"\n\n\"This is the first October that she has passed in the country since her\ninfancy. I do not call Tunbridge or Cheltenham the country; and November\nis a still more serious month, and I can see that Mrs. Grant is very\nanxious for her not finding Mansfield dull as winter comes on.\"\n\nFanny could have said a great deal, but it was safer to say nothing, and\nleave untouched all Miss Crawford's resources--her accomplishments, her\nspirits, her importance, her friends, lest it should betray her into\nany observations seemingly unhandsome. Miss Crawford's kind opinion of\nherself deserved at least a grateful forbearance, and she began to talk\nof something else.\n\n\"To-morrow, I think, my uncle dines at Sotherton, and you and Mr.\nBertram too. We shall be quite a small party at home. I hope my uncle\nmay continue to like Mr. Rushworth.\"\n\n\"That is impossible, Fanny. He must like him less after to-morrow's\nvisit, for we shall be five hours in his company. I should dread\nthe stupidity of the day, if there were not a much greater evil to\nfollow--the impression it must leave on Sir Thomas. He cannot much\nlonger deceive himself. I am sorry for them all, and would give\nsomething that Rushworth and Maria had never met.\"\n\nIn this quarter, indeed, disappointment was impending over Sir Thomas.\nNot all his good-will for Mr. Rushworth, not all Mr. Rushworth's\ndeference for him, could prevent him from soon discerning some part of\nthe truth--that Mr. Rushworth was an inferior young man, as ignorant\nin business as in books, with opinions in general unfixed, and without\nseeming much aware of it himself.\n\nHe had expected a very different son-in-law; and beginning to feel\ngrave on Maria's account, tried to understand _her_ feelings. Little\nobservation there was necessary to tell him that indifference was the\nmost favourable state they could be in. Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth\nwas careless and cold. She could not, did not like him. Sir Thomas\nresolved to speak seriously to her. Advantageous as would be the\nalliance, and long standing and public as was the engagement, her\nhappiness must not be sacrificed to it. Mr. Rushworth had, perhaps, been\naccepted on too short an acquaintance, and, on knowing him better, she\nwas repenting.\n\nWith solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed her: told her his fears,\ninquired into her wishes, entreated her to be open and sincere, and\nassured her that every inconvenience should be braved, and the connexion\nentirely given up, if she felt herself unhappy in the prospect of it. He\nwould act for her and release her. Maria had a moment's struggle as she\nlistened, and only a moment's: when her father ceased, she was able to\ngive her answer immediately, decidedly, and with no apparent agitation.\nShe thanked him for his great attention, his paternal kindness, but he\nwas quite mistaken in supposing she had the smallest desire of breaking\nthrough her engagement, or was sensible of any change of opinion or\ninclination since her forming it. She had the highest esteem for Mr.\nRushworth's character and disposition, and could not have a doubt of her\nhappiness with him.\n\nSir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to be satisfied, perhaps, to urge the\nmatter quite so far as his judgment might have dictated to others. It\nwas an alliance which he could not have relinquished without pain;\nand thus he reasoned. Mr. Rushworth was young enough to improve. Mr.\nRushworth must and would improve in good society; and if Maria could now\nspeak so securely of her happiness with him, speaking certainly without\nthe prejudice, the blindness of love, she ought to be believed. Her\nfeelings, probably, were not acute; he had never supposed them to be\nso; but her comforts might not be less on that account; and if she could\ndispense with seeing her husband a leading, shining character, there\nwould certainly be everything else in her favour. A well-disposed young\nwoman, who did not marry for love, was in general but the more attached\nto her own family; and the nearness of Sotherton to Mansfield\nmust naturally hold out the greatest temptation, and would, in all\nprobability, be a continual supply of the most amiable and innocent\nenjoyments. Such and such-like were the reasonings of Sir Thomas,\nhappy to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture, the wonder,\nthe reflections, the reproach that must attend it; happy to secure a\nmarriage which would bring him such an addition of respectability\nand influence, and very happy to think anything of his daughter's\ndisposition that was most favourable for the purpose.\n\nTo her the conference closed as satisfactorily as to him. She was in a\nstate of mind to be glad that she had secured her fate beyond recall:\nthat she had pledged herself anew to Sotherton; that she was safe from\nthe possibility of giving Crawford the triumph of governing her actions,\nand destroying her prospects; and retired in proud resolve, determined\nonly to behave more cautiously to Mr. Rushworth in future, that her\nfather might not be again suspecting her.\n\nHad Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first three or four\ndays after Henry Crawford's leaving Mansfield, before her feelings were\nat all tranquillised, before she had given up every hope of him, or\nabsolutely resolved on enduring his rival, her answer might have been\ndifferent; but after another three or four days, when there was no\nreturn, no letter, no message, no symptom of a softened heart, no hope\nof advantage from separation, her mind became cool enough to seek all\nthe comfort that pride and self revenge could give.\n\nHenry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he should not know that\nhe had done it; he should not destroy her credit, her appearance, her\nprosperity, too. He should not have to think of her as pining in the\nretirement of Mansfield for _him_, rejecting Sotherton and London,\nindependence and splendour, for _his_ sake. Independence was more\nneedful than ever; the want of it at Mansfield more sensibly felt. She\nwas less and less able to endure the restraint which her father imposed.\nThe liberty which his absence had given was now become absolutely\nnecessary. She must escape from him and Mansfield as soon as possible,\nand find consolation in fortune and consequence, bustle and the world,\nfor a wounded spirit. Her mind was quite determined, and varied not.\n\nTo such feelings delay, even the delay of much preparation, would have\nbeen an evil, and Mr. Rushworth could hardly be more impatient for the\nmarriage than herself. In all the important preparations of the mind\nshe was complete: being prepared for matrimony by an hatred of home,\nrestraint, and tranquillity; by the misery of disappointed affection,\nand contempt of the man she was to marry. The rest might wait. The\npreparations of new carriages and furniture might wait for London and\nspring, when her own taste could have fairer play.\n\nThe principals being all agreed in this respect, it soon appeared that a\nvery few weeks would be sufficient for such arrangements as must precede\nthe wedding.\n\nMrs. Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and make way for the fortunate\nyoung woman whom her dear son had selected; and very early in November\nremoved herself, her maid, her footman, and her chariot, with true\ndowager propriety, to Bath, there to parade over the wonders of\nSotherton in her evening parties; enjoying them as thoroughly, perhaps,\nin the animation of a card-table, as she had ever done on the spot; and\nbefore the middle of the same month the ceremony had taken place which\ngave Sotherton another mistress.\n\nIt was a very proper wedding. The bride was elegantly dressed; the two\nbridesmaids were duly inferior; her father gave her away; her mother\nstood with salts in her hand, expecting to be agitated; her aunt tried\nto cry; and the service was impressively read by Dr. Grant. Nothing\ncould be objected to when it came under the discussion of the\nneighbourhood, except that the carriage which conveyed the bride and\nbridegroom and Julia from the church-door to Sotherton was the same\nchaise which Mr. Rushworth had used for a twelvemonth before. In\neverything else the etiquette of the day might stand the strictest\ninvestigation.\n\nIt was done, and they were gone. Sir Thomas felt as an anxious father\nmust feel, and was indeed experiencing much of the agitation which his\nwife had been apprehensive of for herself, but had fortunately escaped.\nMrs. Norris, most happy to assist in the duties of the day, by spending\nit at the Park to support her sister's spirits, and drinking the health\nof Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth in a supernumerary glass or two, was all\njoyous delight; for she had made the match; she had done everything;\nand no one would have supposed, from her confident triumph, that she\nhad ever heard of conjugal infelicity in her life, or could have the\nsmallest insight into the disposition of the niece who had been brought\nup under her eye.\n\nThe plan of the young couple was to proceed, after a few days, to\nBrighton, and take a house there for some weeks. Every public place was\nnew to Maria, and Brighton is almost as gay in winter as in summer. When\nthe novelty of amusement there was over, it would be time for the wider\nrange of London.\n\nJulia was to go with them to Brighton. Since rivalry between the sisters\nhad ceased, they had been gradually recovering much of their former good\nunderstanding; and were at least sufficiently friends to make each of\nthem exceedingly glad to be with the other at such a time. Some other\ncompanion than Mr. Rushworth was of the first consequence to his lady;\nand Julia was quite as eager for novelty and pleasure as Maria, though\nshe might not have struggled through so much to obtain them, and could\nbetter bear a subordinate situation.\n\nTheir departure made another material change at Mansfield, a chasm\nwhich required some time to fill up. The family circle became greatly\ncontracted; and though the Miss Bertrams had latterly added little to\nits gaiety, they could not but be missed. Even their mother missed them;\nand how much more their tenderhearted cousin, who wandered about\nthe house, and thought of them, and felt for them, with a degree of\naffectionate regret which they had never done much to deserve!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nFanny's consequence increased on the departure of her cousins. Becoming,\nas she then did, the only young woman in the drawing-room, the only\noccupier of that interesting division of a family in which she had\nhitherto held so humble a third, it was impossible for her not to be\nmore looked at, more thought of and attended to, than she had ever been\nbefore; and \"Where is Fanny?\" became no uncommon question, even without\nher being wanted for any one's convenience.\n\nNot only at home did her value increase, but at the Parsonage too. In\nthat house, which she had hardly entered twice a year since Mr. Norris's\ndeath, she became a welcome, an invited guest, and in the gloom and dirt\nof a November day, most acceptable to Mary Crawford. Her visits there,\nbeginning by chance, were continued by solicitation. Mrs. Grant,\nreally eager to get any change for her sister, could, by the easiest\nself-deceit, persuade herself that she was doing the kindest thing by\nFanny, and giving her the most important opportunities of improvement in\npressing her frequent calls.\n\nFanny, having been sent into the village on some errand by her aunt\nNorris, was overtaken by a heavy shower close to the Parsonage; and\nbeing descried from one of the windows endeavouring to find shelter\nunder the branches and lingering leaves of an oak just beyond their\npremises, was forced, though not without some modest reluctance on her\npart, to come in. A civil servant she had withstood; but when Dr. Grant\nhimself went out with an umbrella, there was nothing to be done but to\nbe very much ashamed, and to get into the house as fast as possible; and\nto poor Miss Crawford, who had just been contemplating the dismal rain\nin a very desponding state of mind, sighing over the ruin of all her\nplan of exercise for that morning, and of every chance of seeing a\nsingle creature beyond themselves for the next twenty-four hours, the\nsound of a little bustle at the front door, and the sight of Miss Price\ndripping with wet in the vestibule, was delightful. The value of an\nevent on a wet day in the country was most forcibly brought before her.\nShe was all alive again directly, and among the most active in being\nuseful to Fanny, in detecting her to be wetter than she would at first\nallow, and providing her with dry clothes; and Fanny, after being\nobliged to submit to all this attention, and to being assisted and\nwaited on by mistresses and maids, being also obliged, on returning\ndownstairs, to be fixed in their drawing-room for an hour while the rain\ncontinued, the blessing of something fresh to see and think of was thus\nextended to Miss Crawford, and might carry on her spirits to the period\nof dressing and dinner.\n\nThe two sisters were so kind to her, and so pleasant, that Fanny might\nhave enjoyed her visit could she have believed herself not in the way,\nand could she have foreseen that the weather would certainly clear at\nthe end of the hour, and save her from the shame of having Dr. Grant's\ncarriage and horses out to take her home, with which she was threatened.\nAs to anxiety for any alarm that her absence in such weather might\noccasion at home, she had nothing to suffer on that score; for as her\nbeing out was known only to her two aunts, she was perfectly aware that\nnone would be felt, and that in whatever cottage aunt Norris might chuse\nto establish her during the rain, her being in such cottage would be\nindubitable to aunt Bertram.\n\nIt was beginning to look brighter, when Fanny, observing a harp in the\nroom, asked some questions about it, which soon led to an acknowledgment\nof her wishing very much to hear it, and a confession, which could\nhardly be believed, of her having never yet heard it since its being\nin Mansfield. To Fanny herself it appeared a very simple and natural\ncircumstance. She had scarcely ever been at the Parsonage since the\ninstrument's arrival, there had been no reason that she should; but Miss\nCrawford, calling to mind an early expressed wish on the subject, was\nconcerned at her own neglect; and \"Shall I play to you now?\" and \"What\nwill you have?\" were questions immediately following with the readiest\ngood-humour.\n\nShe played accordingly; happy to have a new listener, and a listener who\nseemed so much obliged, so full of wonder at the performance, and who\nshewed herself not wanting in taste. She played till Fanny's eyes,\nstraying to the window on the weather's being evidently fair, spoke what\nshe felt must be done.\n\n\"Another quarter of an hour,\" said Miss Crawford, \"and we shall see how\nit will be. Do not run away the first moment of its holding up. Those\nclouds look alarming.\"\n\n\"But they are passed over,\" said Fanny. \"I have been watching them. This\nweather is all from the south.\"\n\n\"South or north, I know a black cloud when I see it; and you must not\nset forward while it is so threatening. And besides, I want to play\nsomething more to you--a very pretty piece--and your cousin Edmund's\nprime favourite. You must stay and hear your cousin's favourite.\"\n\nFanny felt that she must; and though she had not waited for that\nsentence to be thinking of Edmund, such a memento made her particularly\nawake to his idea, and she fancied him sitting in that room again\nand again, perhaps in the very spot where she sat now, listening with\nconstant delight to the favourite air, played, as it appeared to her,\nwith superior tone and expression; and though pleased with it herself,\nand glad to like whatever was liked by him, she was more sincerely\nimpatient to go away at the conclusion of it than she had been before;\nand on this being evident, she was so kindly asked to call again, to\ntake them in her walk whenever she could, to come and hear more of the\nharp, that she felt it necessary to be done, if no objection arose at\nhome.\n\nSuch was the origin of the sort of intimacy which took place between\nthem within the first fortnight after the Miss Bertrams' going away--an\nintimacy resulting principally from Miss Crawford's desire of something\nnew, and which had little reality in Fanny's feelings. Fanny went to her\nevery two or three days: it seemed a kind of fascination: she could not\nbe easy without going, and yet it was without loving her, without ever\nthinking like her, without any sense of obligation for being sought\nafter now when nobody else was to be had; and deriving no higher\npleasure from her conversation than occasional amusement, and _that_\noften at the expense of her judgment, when it was raised by pleasantry\non people or subjects which she wished to be respected. She went,\nhowever, and they sauntered about together many an half-hour in Mrs.\nGrant's shrubbery, the weather being unusually mild for the time of\nyear, and venturing sometimes even to sit down on one of the benches now\ncomparatively unsheltered, remaining there perhaps till, in the midst\nof some tender ejaculation of Fanny's on the sweets of so protracted\nan autumn, they were forced, by the sudden swell of a cold gust shaking\ndown the last few yellow leaves about them, to jump up and walk for\nwarmth.\n\n\"This is pretty, very pretty,\" said Fanny, looking around her as\nthey were thus sitting together one day; \"every time I come into this\nshrubbery I am more struck with its growth and beauty. Three years ago,\nthis was nothing but a rough hedgerow along the upper side of the field,\nnever thought of as anything, or capable of becoming anything; and now\nit is converted into a walk, and it would be difficult to say whether\nmost valuable as a convenience or an ornament; and perhaps, in another\nthree years, we may be forgetting--almost forgetting what it was before.\nHow wonderful, how very wonderful the operations of time, and the\nchanges of the human mind!\" And following the latter train of thought,\nshe soon afterwards added: \"If any one faculty of our nature may be\ncalled _more_ wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory. There\nseems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers,\nthe failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our\nintelligences. The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so\nobedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so\ntyrannic, so beyond control! We are, to be sure, a miracle every way;\nbut our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past\nfinding out.\"\n\nMiss Crawford, untouched and inattentive, had nothing to say; and\nFanny, perceiving it, brought back her own mind to what she thought must\ninterest.\n\n\"It may seem impertinent in _me_ to praise, but I must admire the taste\nMrs. Grant has shewn in all this. There is such a quiet simplicity in\nthe plan of the walk! Not too much attempted!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Miss Crawford carelessly, \"it does very well for a\nplace of this sort. One does not think of extent _here_; and between\nourselves, till I came to Mansfield, I had not imagined a country parson\never aspired to a shrubbery, or anything of the kind.\"\n\n\"I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive!\" said Fanny, in reply. \"My\nuncle's gardener always says the soil here is better than his own, and\nso it appears from the growth of the laurels and evergreens in general.\nThe evergreen! How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the evergreen!\nWhen one thinks of it, how astonishing a variety of nature! In some\ncountries we know the tree that sheds its leaf is the variety, but that\ndoes not make it less amazing that the same soil and the same sun should\nnurture plants differing in the first rule and law of their existence.\nYou will think me rhapsodising; but when I am out of doors, especially\nwhen I am sitting out of doors, I am very apt to get into this sort of\nwondering strain. One cannot fix one's eyes on the commonest natural\nproduction without finding food for a rambling fancy.\"\n\n\"To say the truth,\" replied Miss Crawford, \"I am something like the\nfamous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV.; and may declare that I see no\nwonder in this shrubbery equal to seeing myself in it. If anybody had\ntold me a year ago that this place would be my home, that I should be\nspending month after month here, as I have done, I certainly should\nnot have believed them. I have now been here nearly five months; and,\nmoreover, the quietest five months I ever passed.\"\n\n\"_Too_ quiet for you, I believe.\"\n\n\"I should have thought so _theoretically_ myself, but,\" and her eyes\nbrightened as she spoke, \"take it all and all, I never spent so happy a\nsummer. But then,\" with a more thoughtful air and lowered voice, \"there\nis no saying what it may lead to.\"\n\nFanny's heart beat quick, and she felt quite unequal to surmising\nor soliciting anything more. Miss Crawford, however, with renewed\nanimation, soon went on--\n\n\"I am conscious of being far better reconciled to a country residence\nthan I had ever expected to be. I can even suppose it pleasant to\nspend _half_ the year in the country, under certain circumstances,\nvery pleasant. An elegant, moderate-sized house in the centre of family\nconnexions; continual engagements among them; commanding the first\nsociety in the neighbourhood; looked up to, perhaps, as leading it even\nmore than those of larger fortune, and turning from the cheerful round\nof such amusements to nothing worse than a _tete-a-tete_ with the person\none feels most agreeable in the world. There is nothing frightful in\nsuch a picture, is there, Miss Price? One need not envy the new Mrs.\nRushworth with such a home as _that_.\"\n\n\"Envy Mrs. Rushworth!\" was all that Fanny attempted to say. \"Come, come,\nit would be very un-handsome in us to be severe on Mrs. Rushworth, for I\nlook forward to our owing her a great many gay, brilliant, happy hours.\nI expect we shall be all very much at Sotherton another year. Such\na match as Miss Bertram has made is a public blessing; for the first\npleasures of Mr. Rushworth's wife must be to fill her house, and give\nthe best balls in the country.\"\n\nFanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed into thoughtfulness, till\nsuddenly looking up at the end of a few minutes, she exclaimed, \"Ah!\nhere he is.\" It was not Mr. Rushworth, however, but Edmund, who then\nappeared walking towards them with Mrs. Grant. \"My sister and Mr.\nBertram. I am so glad your eldest cousin is gone, that he may be Mr.\nBertram again. There is something in the sound of Mr. _Edmund_ Bertram\nso formal, so pitiful, so younger-brother-like, that I detest it.\"\n\n\"How differently we feel!\" cried Fanny. \"To me, the sound of _Mr._\nBertram is so cold and nothing-meaning, so entirely without warmth or\ncharacter! It just stands for a gentleman, and that's all. But there is\nnobleness in the name of Edmund. It is a name of heroism and renown; of\nkings, princes, and knights; and seems to breathe the spirit of chivalry\nand warm affections.\"\n\n\"I grant you the name is good in itself, and _Lord_ Edmund or _Sir_\nEdmund sound delightfully; but sink it under the chill, the annihilation\nof a Mr., and Mr. Edmund is no more than Mr. John or Mr. Thomas. Well,\nshall we join and disappoint them of half their lecture upon sitting\ndown out of doors at this time of year, by being up before they can\nbegin?\"\n\nEdmund met them with particular pleasure. It was the first time of his\nseeing them together since the beginning of that better acquaintance\nwhich he had been hearing of with great satisfaction. A friendship\nbetween two so very dear to him was exactly what he could have wished:\nand to the credit of the lover's understanding, be it stated, that he\ndid not by any means consider Fanny as the only, or even as the greater\ngainer by such a friendship.\n\n\"Well,\" said Miss Crawford, \"and do you not scold us for our imprudence?\nWhat do you think we have been sitting down for but to be talked to\nabout it, and entreated and supplicated never to do so again?\"\n\n\"Perhaps I might have scolded,\" said Edmund, \"if either of you had been\nsitting down alone; but while you do wrong together, I can overlook a\ngreat deal.\"\n\n\"They cannot have been sitting long,\" cried Mrs. Grant, \"for when I went\nup for my shawl I saw them from the staircase window, and then they were\nwalking.\"\n\n\"And really,\" added Edmund, \"the day is so mild, that your sitting down\nfor a few minutes can be hardly thought imprudent. Our weather must\nnot always be judged by the calendar. We may sometimes take greater\nliberties in November than in May.\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" cried Miss Crawford, \"you are two of the most\ndisappointing and unfeeling kind friends I ever met with! There is no\ngiving you a moment's uneasiness. You do not know how much we have been\nsuffering, nor what chills we have felt! But I have long thought Mr.\nBertram one of the worst subjects to work on, in any little manoeuvre\nagainst common sense, that a woman could be plagued with. I had very\nlittle hope of _him_ from the first; but you, Mrs. Grant, my sister, my\nown sister, I think I had a right to alarm you a little.\"\n\n\"Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary. You have not the smallest\nchance of moving me. I have my alarms, but they are quite in a different\nquarter; and if I could have altered the weather, you would have had a\ngood sharp east wind blowing on you the whole time--for here are some of\nmy plants which Robert _will_ leave out because the nights are so mild,\nand I know the end of it will be, that we shall have a sudden change of\nweather, a hard frost setting in all at once, taking everybody (at least\nRobert) by surprise, and I shall lose every one; and what is worse, cook\nhas just been telling me that the turkey, which I particularly wished\nnot to be dressed till Sunday, because I know how much more Dr. Grant\nwould enjoy it on Sunday after the fatigues of the day, will not keep\nbeyond to-morrow. These are something like grievances, and make me think\nthe weather most unseasonably close.\"\n\n\"The sweets of housekeeping in a country village!\" said Miss Crawford\narchly. \"Commend me to the nurseryman and the poulterer.\"\n\n\"My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the deanery of Westminster or St.\nPaul's, and I should be as glad of your nurseryman and poulterer as you\ncould be. But we have no such people in Mansfield. What would you have\nme do?\"\n\n\"Oh! you can do nothing but what you do already: be plagued very often,\nand never lose your temper.\"\n\n\"Thank you; but there is no escaping these little vexations, Mary, live\nwhere we may; and when you are settled in town and I come to see you, I\ndare say I shall find you with yours, in spite of the nurseryman and\nthe poulterer, perhaps on their very account. Their remoteness and\nunpunctuality, or their exorbitant charges and frauds, will be drawing\nforth bitter lamentations.\"\n\n\"I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything of the sort.\nA large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of. It\ncertainly may secure all the myrtle and turkey part of it.\"\n\n\"You intend to be very rich?\" said Edmund, with a look which, to Fanny's\neye, had a great deal of serious meaning.\n\n\"To be sure. Do not you? Do not we all?\"\n\n\"I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely beyond my power\nto command. Miss Crawford may chuse her degree of wealth. She has only\nto fix on her number of thousands a year, and there can be no doubt of\ntheir coming. My intentions are only not to be poor.\"\n\n\"By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants to your income,\nand all that. I understand you--and a very proper plan it is for a\nperson at your time of life, with such limited means and indifferent\nconnexions. What can _you_ want but a decent maintenance? You have\nnot much time before you; and your relations are in no situation to do\nanything for you, or to mortify you by the contrast of their own wealth\nand consequence. Be honest and poor, by all means--but I shall not envy\nyou; I do not much think I shall even respect you. I have a much greater\nrespect for those that are honest and rich.\"\n\n\"Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor, is precisely what\nI have no manner of concern with. I do not mean to be poor. Poverty\nis exactly what I have determined against. Honesty, in the something\nbetween, in the middle state of worldly circumstances, is all that I am\nanxious for your not looking down on.\"\n\n\"But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher. I must\nlook down upon anything contented with obscurity when it might rise to\ndistinction.\"\n\n\"But how may it rise? How may my honesty at least rise to any\ndistinction?\"\n\nThis was not so very easy a question to answer, and occasioned an \"Oh!\"\nof some length from the fair lady before she could add, \"You ought to be\nin parliament, or you should have gone into the army ten years ago.\"\n\n\"_That_ is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being in\nparliament, I believe I must wait till there is an especial assembly for\nthe representation of younger sons who have little to live on. No, Miss\nCrawford,\" he added, in a more serious tone, \"there _are_ distinctions\nwhich I should be miserable if I thought myself without any\nchance--absolutely without chance or possibility of obtaining--but they\nare of a different character.\"\n\nA look of consciousness as he spoke, and what seemed a consciousness\nof manner on Miss Crawford's side as she made some laughing answer,\nwas sorrowfull food for Fanny's observation; and finding herself quite\nunable to attend as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose side she was now\nfollowing the others, she had nearly resolved on going home immediately,\nand only waited for courage to say so, when the sound of the great clock\nat Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel that she had\nreally been much longer absent than usual, and brought the previous\nself-inquiry of whether she should take leave or not just then, and how,\nto a very speedy issue. With undoubting decision she directly began her\nadieus; and Edmund began at the same time to recollect that his mother\nhad been inquiring for her, and that he had walked down to the Parsonage\non purpose to bring her back.\n\nFanny's hurry increased; and without in the least expecting Edmund's\nattendance, she would have hastened away alone; but the general pace was\nquickened, and they all accompanied her into the house, through which it\nwas necessary to pass. Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as they stopt\nto speak to him she found, from Edmund's manner, that he _did_ mean to\ngo with her. He too was taking leave. She could not but be thankful. In\nthe moment of parting, Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant to eat his mutton\nwith him the next day; and Fanny had barely time for an unpleasant\nfeeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant, with sudden recollection,\nturned to her and asked for the pleasure of her company too. This was\nso new an attention, so perfectly new a circumstance in the events of\nFanny's life, that she was all surprise and embarrassment; and while\nstammering out her great obligation, and her \"but she did not suppose it\nwould be in her power,\" was looking at Edmund for his opinion and help.\nBut Edmund, delighted with her having such an happiness offered, and\nascertaining with half a look, and half a sentence, that she had no\nobjection but on her aunt's account, could not imagine that his mother\nwould make any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore gave his decided\nopen advice that the invitation should be accepted; and though Fanny\nwould not venture, even on his encouragement, to such a flight of\naudacious independence, it was soon settled, that if nothing were heard\nto the contrary, Mrs. Grant might expect her.\n\n\"And you know what your dinner will be,\" said Mrs. Grant, smiling--\"the\nturkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear,\" turning to her\nhusband, \"cook insists upon the turkey's being dressed to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Very well, very well,\" cried Dr. Grant, \"all the better; I am glad\nto hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr.\nEdmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We none of us want\nto hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner,\nis all we have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or\nwhatever you and your cook chuse to give us.\"\n\nThe two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate\ndiscussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest\nsatisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy which\nhe saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk; for\nhaving finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for any\nother.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\n\"But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?\" said Lady Bertram. \"How came she\nto think of asking Fanny? Fanny never dines there, you know, in this\nsort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go.\nFanny, you do not want to go, do you?\"\n\n\"If you put such a question to her,\" cried Edmund, preventing his\ncousin's speaking, \"Fanny will immediately say No; but I am sure, my\ndear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why she\nshould not.\"\n\n\"I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? She never\ndid before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never\nasked Fanny.\"\n\n\"If you cannot do without me, ma'am--\" said Fanny, in a self-denying\ntone.\n\n\"But my mother will have my father with her all the evening.\"\n\n\"To be sure, so I shall.\"\n\n\"Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am.\"\n\n\"That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as\nsoon as he comes in, whether I can do without her.\"\n\n\"As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my father's opinion\nas to the _propriety_ of the invitation's being accepted or not; and\nI think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by\nFanny, that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted.\"\n\n\"I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised that\nMrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all.\"\n\nThere was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any purpose,\ntill Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it did,\nher own evening's comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady\nBertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in for a\nminute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she called\nhim back again, when he had almost closed the door, with \"Sir Thomas,\nstop a moment--I have something to say to you.\"\n\nHer tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her\nvoice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her\nstory began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear\nherself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her\nnerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew--more anxious perhaps than\nshe ought to be--for what was it after all whether she went or staid?\nbut if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and\nwith very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and\nat last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly\nsubmissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It\nbegan, on Lady Bertram's part, with--\"I have something to tell you that\nwill surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise.\n\n\"Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?\"\n\n\"She will be late,\" said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; \"but what is\nyour difficulty?\"\n\nEdmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his\nmother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, \"So strange!\nfor Mrs. Grant never used to ask her.\"\n\n\"But is it not very natural,\" observed Edmund, \"that Mrs. Grant should\nwish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?\"\n\n\"Nothing can be more natural,\" said Sir Thomas, after a short\ndeliberation; \"nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything,\nin my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss\nPrice, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only\nsurprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its\nbeing paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional\nanswer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she\nmust wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see\nno reason why she should be denied the indulgence.\"\n\n\"But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?\"\n\n\"Indeed I think you may.\"\n\n\"She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here.\"\n\n\"Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and\nI shall certainly be at home.\"\n\n\"Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund.\"\n\nThe good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way\nto his own.\n\n\"Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest\nhesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go.\"\n\n\"Thank you, I am _so_ glad,\" was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when\nshe had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,\n\"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing\nsomething there to pain me?\"\n\nIn spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an\nengagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in\nhers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined\nout before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three\npeople, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of\npreparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor\nassistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and\ndirected her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to\nanybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence of\nan early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill humour,\nand seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure, both present\nand future, as much as possible.\n\n\"Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention\nand indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for\nthinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to\nlook upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that\nthere is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of\nway, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon\never being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is\nmeant as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment is intended\nto your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to\n_us_ to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come\ninto her head, and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia\nhad been at home, you would not have been asked at all.\"\n\nMrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant's part of\nthe favour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only\nsay that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her,\nand that she was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening work in such a\nstate as to prevent her being missed.\n\n\"Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you\nwould not be allowed to go. _I_ shall be here, so you may be quite easy\nabout your aunt. And I hope you will have a very _agreeable_ day, and\nfind it all mighty _delightful_. But I must observe that five is the\nvery awkwardest of all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I\ncannot but be surprised that such an _elegant_ lady as Mrs. Grant should\nnot contrive better! And round their enormous great wide table, too,\nwhich fills up the room so dreadfully! Had the doctor been contented to\ntake my dining-table when I came away, as anybody in their senses would\nhave done, instead of having that absurd new one of his own, which is\nwider, literally wider than the dinner-table here, how infinitely better\nit would have been! and how much more he would have been respected! for\npeople are never respected when they step out of their proper sphere.\nRemember that, Fanny. Five--only five to be sitting round that table.\nHowever, you will have dinner enough on it for ten, I dare say.\"\n\nMrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again.\n\n\"The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their rank and\ntrying to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to give _you_\na hint, Fanny, now that you are going into company without any of us;\nand I do beseech and entreat you not to be putting yourself forward, and\ntalking and giving your opinion as if you were one of your cousins--as\nif you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia. _That_ will never do, believe\nme. Remember, wherever you are, you must be the lowest and last; and\nthough Miss Crawford is in a manner at home at the Parsonage, you are\nnot to be taking place of her. And as to coming away at night, you are\nto stay just as long as Edmund chuses. Leave him to settle _that_.\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, I should not think of anything else.\"\n\n\"And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely, for I never\nsaw it more threatening for a wet evening in my life, you must manage as\nwell as you can, and not be expecting the carriage to be sent for you. I\ncertainly do not go home to-night, and, therefore, the carriage will not\nbe out on my account; so you must make up your mind to what may happen,\nand take your things accordingly.\"\n\nHer niece thought it perfectly reasonable. She rated her own claims\nto comfort as low even as Mrs. Norris could; and when Sir Thomas soon\nafterwards, just opening the door, said, \"Fanny, at what time would you\nhave the carriage come round?\" she felt a degree of astonishment which\nmade it impossible for her to speak.\n\n\"My dear Sir Thomas!\" cried Mrs. Norris, red with anger, \"Fanny can\nwalk.\"\n\n\"Walk!\" repeated Sir Thomas, in a tone of most unanswerable dignity, and\ncoming farther into the room. \"My niece walk to a dinner engagement at\nthis time of the year! Will twenty minutes after four suit you?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" was Fanny's humble answer, given with the feelings almost\nof a criminal towards Mrs. Norris; and not bearing to remain with her\nin what might seem a state of triumph, she followed her uncle out of\nthe room, having staid behind him only long enough to hear these words\nspoken in angry agitation--\n\n\"Quite unnecessary! a great deal too kind! But Edmund goes; true, it is\nupon Edmund's account. I observed he was hoarse on Thursday night.\"\n\nBut this could not impose on Fanny. She felt that the carriage was for\nherself, and herself alone: and her uncle's consideration of her, coming\nimmediately after such representations from her aunt, cost her some\ntears of gratitude when she was alone.\n\nThe coachman drove round to a minute; another minute brought down the\ngentleman; and as the lady had, with a most scrupulous fear of being\nlate, been many minutes seated in the drawing-room, Sir Thomas saw them\noff in as good time as his own correctly punctual habits required.\n\n\"Now I must look at you, Fanny,\" said Edmund, with the kind smile of an\naffectionate brother, \"and tell you how I like you; and as well as I can\njudge by this light, you look very nicely indeed. What have you got on?\"\n\n\"The new dress that my uncle was so good as to give me on my cousin's\nmarriage. I hope it is not too fine; but I thought I ought to wear it as\nsoon as I could, and that I might not have such another opportunity all\nthe winter. I hope you do not think me too fine.\"\n\n\"A woman can never be too fine while she is all in white. No, I see no\nfinery about you; nothing but what is perfectly proper. Your gown seems\nvery pretty. I like these glossy spots. Has not Miss Crawford a gown\nsomething the same?\"\n\nIn approaching the Parsonage they passed close by the stable-yard and\ncoach-house.\n\n\"Heyday!\" said Edmund, \"here's company, here's a carriage! who have they\ngot to meet us?\" And letting down the side-glass to distinguish, \"'Tis\nCrawford's, Crawford's barouche, I protest! There are his own two men\npushing it back into its old quarters. He is here, of course. This is\nquite a surprise, Fanny. I shall be very glad to see him.\"\n\nThere was no occasion, there was no time for Fanny to say how very\ndifferently she felt; but the idea of having such another to observe\nher was a great increase of the trepidation with which she performed the\nvery awful ceremony of walking into the drawing-room.\n\nIn the drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly was, having been just long\nenough arrived to be ready for dinner; and the smiles and pleased looks\nof the three others standing round him, shewed how welcome was his\nsudden resolution of coming to them for a few days on leaving Bath.\nA very cordial meeting passed between him and Edmund; and with the\nexception of Fanny, the pleasure was general; and even to _her_ there\nmight be some advantage in his presence, since every addition to the\nparty must rather forward her favourite indulgence of being suffered to\nsit silent and unattended to. She was soon aware of this herself; for\nthough she must submit, as her own propriety of mind directed, in spite\nof her aunt Norris's opinion, to being the principal lady in company,\nand to all the little distinctions consequent thereon, she found, while\nthey were at table, such a happy flow of conversation prevailing, in\nwhich she was not required to take any part--there was so much to be\nsaid between the brother and sister about Bath, so much between the two\nyoung men about hunting, so much of politics between Mr. Crawford and\nDr. Grant, and of everything and all together between Mr. Crawford\nand Mrs. Grant, as to leave her the fairest prospect of having only\nto listen in quiet, and of passing a very agreeable day. She could not\ncompliment the newly arrived gentleman, however, with any appearance of\ninterest, in a scheme for extending his stay at Mansfield, and sending\nfor his hunters from Norfolk, which, suggested by Dr. Grant, advised by\nEdmund, and warmly urged by the two sisters, was soon in possession of\nhis mind, and which he seemed to want to be encouraged even by her to\nresolve on. Her opinion was sought as to the probable continuance of the\nopen weather, but her answers were as short and indifferent as civility\nallowed. She could not wish him to stay, and would much rather not have\nhim speak to her.\n\nHer two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in her thoughts on\nseeing him; but no embarrassing remembrance affected _his_ spirits.\nHere he was again on the same ground where all had passed before, and\napparently as willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams,\nas if he had never known Mansfield in any other state. She heard them\nspoken of by him only in a general way, till they were all re-assembled\nin the drawing-room, when Edmund, being engaged apart in some matter of\nbusiness with Dr. Grant, which seemed entirely to engross them, and\nMrs. Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began talking of them with more\nparticularity to his other sister. With a significant smile, which made\nFanny quite hate him, he said, \"So! Rushworth and his fair bride are at\nBrighton, I understand; happy man!\"\n\n\"Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have they not?\nAnd Julia is with them.\"\n\n\"And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not far off.\"\n\n\"Mr. Yates! Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates. I do not imagine he\nfigures much in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price? I\nthink my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father with Mr.\nYates.\"\n\n\"Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!\" continued Crawford.\n\"Nobody can ever forget them. Poor fellow! I see him now--his toil and\nhis despair. Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever want\nhim to make two-and-forty speeches to her\"; adding, with a momentary\nseriousness, \"She is too good for him--much too good.\" And then changing\nhis tone again to one of gentle gallantry, and addressing Fanny, he\nsaid, \"You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend. Your kindness and patience\ncan never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in trying to make it\npossible for him to learn his part--in trying to give him a brain\nwhich nature had denied--to mix up an understanding for him out of the\nsuperfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough himself to\nestimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honour from\nall the rest of the party.\"\n\nFanny coloured, and said nothing.\n\n\"It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!\" he exclaimed, breaking forth\nagain, after a few minutes' musing. \"I shall always look back on our\ntheatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such an\nanimation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all alive.\nThere was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour of\nthe day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some little\nanxiety to be got over. I never was happier.\"\n\nWith silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, \"Never\nhappier!--never happier than when doing what you must know was not\njustifiable!--never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and\nunfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!\"\n\n\"We were unlucky, Miss Price,\" he continued, in a lower tone, to avoid\nthe possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of her\nfeelings, \"we certainly were very unlucky. Another week, only one other\nweek, would have been enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal\nof events--if Mansfield Park had had the government of the winds\njust for a week or two, about the equinox, there would have been\na difference. Not that we would have endangered his safety by any\ntremendous weather--but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm. I\nthink, Miss Price, we would have indulged ourselves with a week's calm\nin the Atlantic at that season.\"\n\nHe seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting her face, said,\nwith a firmer tone than usual, \"As far as _I_ am concerned, sir, I would\nnot have delayed his return for a day. My uncle disapproved it all so\nentirely when he did arrive, that in my opinion everything had gone\nquite far enough.\"\n\nShe had never spoken so much at once to him in her life before, and\nnever so angrily to any one; and when her speech was over, she trembled\nand blushed at her own daring. He was surprised; but after a few\nmoments' silent consideration of her, replied in a calmer, graver tone,\nand as if the candid result of conviction, \"I believe you are right.\nIt was more pleasant than prudent. We were getting too noisy.\" And\nthen turning the conversation, he would have engaged her on some other\nsubject, but her answers were so shy and reluctant that he could not\nadvance in any.\n\nMiss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Edmund,\nnow observed, \"Those gentlemen must have some very interesting point to\ndiscuss.\"\n\n\"The most interesting in the world,\" replied her brother--\"how to make\nmoney; how to turn a good income into a better. Dr. Grant is giving\nBertram instructions about the living he is to step into so soon. I find\nhe takes orders in a few weeks. They were at it in the dining-parlour. I\nam glad to hear Bertram will be so well off. He will have a very pretty\nincome to make ducks and drakes with, and earned without much trouble. I\napprehend he will not have less than seven hundred a year. Seven hundred\na year is a fine thing for a younger brother; and as of course he will\nstill live at home, it will be all for his _menus_ _plaisirs_; and a\nsermon at Christmas and Easter, I suppose, will be the sum total of\nsacrifice.\"\n\nHis sister tried to laugh off her feelings by saying, \"Nothing amuses me\nmore than the easy manner with which everybody settles the abundance of\nthose who have a great deal less than themselves. You would look rather\nblank, Henry, if your _menus_ _plaisirs_ were to be limited to seven\nhundred a year.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I might; but all _that_ you know is entirely comparative.\nBirthright and habit must settle the business. Bertram is certainly well\noff for a cadet of even a baronet's family. By the time he is four or\nfive and twenty he will have seven hundred a year, and nothing to do for\nit.\"\n\nMiss Crawford _could_ have said that there would be a something to do\nand to suffer for it, which she could not think lightly of; but she\nchecked herself and let it pass; and tried to look calm and unconcerned\nwhen the two gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them.\n\n\"Bertram,\" said Henry Crawford, \"I shall make a point of coming to\nMansfield to hear you preach your first sermon. I shall come on purpose\nto encourage a young beginner. When is it to be? Miss Price, will not\nyou join me in encouraging your cousin? Will not you engage to attend\nwith your eyes steadily fixed on him the whole time--as I shall do--not\nto lose a word; or only looking off just to note down any sentence\npreeminently beautiful? We will provide ourselves with tablets and a\npencil. When will it be? You must preach at Mansfield, you know, that\nSir Thomas and Lady Bertram may hear you.\"\n\n\"I shall keep clear of you, Crawford, as long as I can,\" said Edmund;\n\"for you would be more likely to disconcert me, and I should be more\nsorry to see you trying at it than almost any other man.\"\n\n\"Will he not feel this?\" thought Fanny. \"No, he can feel nothing as he\nought.\"\n\nThe party being now all united, and the chief talkers attracting each\nother, she remained in tranquillity; and as a whist-table was formed\nafter tea--formed really for the amusement of Dr. Grant, by his\nattentive wife, though it was not to be supposed so--and Miss Crawford\ntook her harp, she had nothing to do but to listen; and her tranquillity\nremained undisturbed the rest of the evening, except when Mr. Crawford\nnow and then addressed to her a question or observation, which she could\nnot avoid answering. Miss Crawford was too much vexed by what had passed\nto be in a humour for anything but music. With that she soothed herself\nand amused her friend.\n\nThe assurance of Edmund's being so soon to take orders, coming upon her\nlike a blow that had been suspended, and still hoped uncertain and at a\ndistance, was felt with resentment and mortification. She was very angry\nwith him. She had thought her influence more. She _had_ begun to think\nof him; she felt that she had, with great regard, with almost decided\nintentions; but she would now meet him with his own cool feelings. It\nwas plain that he could have no serious views, no true attachment, by\nfixing himself in a situation which he must know she would never\nstoop to. She would learn to match him in his indifference. She would\nhenceforth admit his attentions without any idea beyond immediate\namusement. If _he_ could so command his affections, _hers_ should do her\nno harm.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nHenry Crawford had quite made up his mind by the next morning to give\nanother fortnight to Mansfield, and having sent for his hunters, and\nwritten a few lines of explanation to the Admiral, he looked round at\nhis sister as he sealed and threw the letter from him, and seeing the\ncoast clear of the rest of the family, said, with a smile, \"And how do\nyou think I mean to amuse myself, Mary, on the days that I do not hunt?\nI am grown too old to go out more than three times a week; but I have a\nplan for the intermediate days, and what do you think it is?\"\n\n\"To walk and ride with me, to be sure.\"\n\n\"Not exactly, though I shall be happy to do both, but _that_ would be\nexercise only to my body, and I must take care of my mind. Besides,\n_that_ would be all recreation and indulgence, without the wholesome\nalloy of labour, and I do not like to eat the bread of idleness. No, my\nplan is to make Fanny Price in love with me.\"\n\n\"Fanny Price! Nonsense! No, no. You ought to be satisfied with her two\ncousins.\"\n\n\"But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny Price, without making a small\nhole in Fanny Price's heart. You do not seem properly aware of her\nclaims to notice. When we talked of her last night, you none of you\nseemed sensible of the wonderful improvement that has taken place in her\nlooks within the last six weeks. You see her every day, and therefore do\nnot notice it; but I assure you she is quite a different creature from\nwhat she was in the autumn. She was then merely a quiet, modest, not\nplain-looking girl, but she is now absolutely pretty. I used to think\nshe had neither complexion nor countenance; but in that soft skin of\nhers, so frequently tinged with a blush as it was yesterday, there is\ndecided beauty; and from what I observed of her eyes and mouth, I do\nnot despair of their being capable of expression enough when she\nhas anything to express. And then, her air, her manner, her _tout_\n_ensemble_, is so indescribably improved! She must be grown two inches,\nat least, since October.\"\n\n\"Phoo! phoo! This is only because there were no tall women to compare\nher with, and because she has got a new gown, and you never saw her so\nwell dressed before. She is just what she was in October, believe me.\nThe truth is, that she was the only girl in company for you to notice,\nand you must have a somebody. I have always thought her pretty--not\nstrikingly pretty--but 'pretty enough,' as people say; a sort of beauty\nthat grows on one. Her eyes should be darker, but she has a sweet smile;\nbut as for this wonderful degree of improvement, I am sure it may all\nbe resolved into a better style of dress, and your having nobody else to\nlook at; and therefore, if you do set about a flirtation with her, you\nnever will persuade me that it is in compliment to her beauty, or that\nit proceeds from anything but your own idleness and folly.\"\n\nHer brother gave only a smile to this accusation, and soon afterwards\nsaid, \"I do not quite know what to make of Miss Fanny. I do not\nunderstand her. I could not tell what she would be at yesterday. What is\nher character? Is she solemn? Is she queer? Is she prudish? Why did she\ndraw back and look so grave at me? I could hardly get her to speak. I\nnever was so long in company with a girl in my life, trying to entertain\nher, and succeed so ill! Never met with a girl who looked so grave on\nme! I must try to get the better of this. Her looks say, 'I will not\nlike you, I am determined not to like you'; and I say she shall.\"\n\n\"Foolish fellow! And so this is her attraction after all! This it is,\nher not caring about you, which gives her such a soft skin, and makes\nher so much taller, and produces all these charms and graces! I do\ndesire that you will not be making her really unhappy; a _little_ love,\nperhaps, may animate and do her good, but I will not have you plunge\nher deep, for she is as good a little creature as ever lived, and has a\ngreat deal of feeling.\"\n\n\"It can be but for a fortnight,\" said Henry; \"and if a fortnight can\nkill her, she must have a constitution which nothing could save. No, I\nwill not do her any harm, dear little soul! only want her to look kindly\non me, to give me smiles as well as blushes, to keep a chair for me by\nherself wherever we are, and be all animation when I take it and talk\nto her; to think as I think, be interested in all my possessions and\npleasures, try to keep me longer at Mansfield, and feel when I go away\nthat she shall be never happy again. I want nothing more.\"\n\n\"Moderation itself!\" said Mary. \"I can have no scruples now. Well, you\nwill have opportunities enough of endeavouring to recommend yourself,\nfor we are a great deal together.\"\n\nAnd without attempting any farther remonstrance, she left Fanny to\nher fate, a fate which, had not Fanny's heart been guarded in a way\nunsuspected by Miss Crawford, might have been a little harder than she\ndeserved; for although there doubtless are such unconquerable young\nladies of eighteen (or one should not read about them) as are never\nto be persuaded into love against their judgment by all that talent,\nmanner, attention, and flattery can do, I have no inclination to\nbelieve Fanny one of them, or to think that with so much tenderness\nof disposition, and so much taste as belonged to her, she could have\nescaped heart-whole from the courtship (though the courtship only of\na fortnight) of such a man as Crawford, in spite of there being some\nprevious ill opinion of him to be overcome, had not her affection been\nengaged elsewhere. With all the security which love of another and\ndisesteem of him could give to the peace of mind he was attacking,\nhis continued attentions--continued, but not obtrusive, and adapting\nthemselves more and more to the gentleness and delicacy of her\ncharacter--obliged her very soon to dislike him less than formerly. She\nhad by no means forgotten the past, and she thought as ill of him as\never; but she felt his powers: he was entertaining; and his manners were\nso improved, so polite, so seriously and blamelessly polite, that it was\nimpossible not to be civil to him in return.\n\nA very few days were enough to effect this; and at the end of those few\ndays, circumstances arose which had a tendency rather to forward his\nviews of pleasing her, inasmuch as they gave her a degree of happiness\nwhich must dispose her to be pleased with everybody. William, her\nbrother, the so long absent and dearly loved brother, was in England\nagain. She had a letter from him herself, a few hurried happy lines,\nwritten as the ship came up Channel, and sent into Portsmouth with\nthe first boat that left the Antwerp at anchor in Spithead; and when\nCrawford walked up with the newspaper in his hand, which he had hoped\nwould bring the first tidings, he found her trembling with joy over this\nletter, and listening with a glowing, grateful countenance to the kind\ninvitation which her uncle was most collectedly dictating in reply.\n\nIt was but the day before that Crawford had made himself thoroughly\nmaster of the subject, or had in fact become at all aware of her having\nsuch a brother, or his being in such a ship, but the interest then\nexcited had been very properly lively, determining him on his return to\ntown to apply for information as to the probable period of the Antwerp's\nreturn from the Mediterranean, etc.; and the good luck which attended\nhis early examination of ship news the next morning seemed the reward of\nhis ingenuity in finding out such a method of pleasing her, as well as\nof his dutiful attention to the Admiral, in having for many years\ntaken in the paper esteemed to have the earliest naval intelligence. He\nproved, however, to be too late. All those fine first feelings, of which\nhe had hoped to be the exciter, were already given. But his intention,\nthe kindness of his intention, was thankfully acknowledged: quite\nthankfully and warmly, for she was elevated beyond the common timidity\nof her mind by the flow of her love for William.\n\nThis dear William would soon be amongst them. There could be no doubt\nof his obtaining leave of absence immediately, for he was still only a\nmidshipman; and as his parents, from living on the spot, must already\nhave seen him, and be seeing him perhaps daily, his direct holidays\nmight with justice be instantly given to the sister, who had been his\nbest correspondent through a period of seven years, and the uncle who\nhad done most for his support and advancement; and accordingly the reply\nto her reply, fixing a very early day for his arrival, came as soon as\npossible; and scarcely ten days had passed since Fanny had been in\nthe agitation of her first dinner-visit, when she found herself in an\nagitation of a higher nature, watching in the hall, in the lobby, on\nthe stairs, for the first sound of the carriage which was to bring her a\nbrother.\n\nIt came happily while she was thus waiting; and there being neither\nceremony nor fearfulness to delay the moment of meeting, she was with\nhim as he entered the house, and the first minutes of exquisite feeling\nhad no interruption and no witnesses, unless the servants chiefly intent\nupon opening the proper doors could be called such. This was exactly\nwhat Sir Thomas and Edmund had been separately conniving at, as each\nproved to the other by the sympathetic alacrity with which they both\nadvised Mrs. Norris's continuing where she was, instead of rushing out\ninto the hall as soon as the noises of the arrival reached them.\n\nWilliam and Fanny soon shewed themselves; and Sir Thomas had the\npleasure of receiving, in his protege, certainly a very different person\nfrom the one he had equipped seven years ago, but a young man of an\nopen, pleasant countenance, and frank, unstudied, but feeling and\nrespectful manners, and such as confirmed him his friend.\n\nIt was long before Fanny could recover from the agitating happiness of\nsuch an hour as was formed by the last thirty minutes of expectation,\nand the first of fruition; it was some time even before her happiness\ncould be said to make her happy, before the disappointment inseparable\nfrom the alteration of person had vanished, and she could see in him the\nsame William as before, and talk to him, as her heart had been yearning\nto do through many a past year. That time, however, did gradually come,\nforwarded by an affection on his side as warm as her own, and much less\nencumbered by refinement or self-distrust. She was the first object\nof his love, but it was a love which his stronger spirits, and bolder\ntemper, made it as natural for him to express as to feel. On the\nmorrow they were walking about together with true enjoyment, and every\nsucceeding morrow renewed a _tete-a-tete_ which Sir Thomas could not but\nobserve with complacency, even before Edmund had pointed it out to him.\n\nExcepting the moments of peculiar delight, which any marked or\nunlooked-for instance of Edmund's consideration of her in the last few\nmonths had excited, Fanny had never known so much felicity in her life,\nas in this unchecked, equal, fearless intercourse with the brother and\nfriend who was opening all his heart to her, telling her all his hopes\nand fears, plans, and solicitudes respecting that long thought of,\ndearly earned, and justly valued blessing of promotion; who could give\nher direct and minute information of the father and mother, brothers and\nsisters, of whom she very seldom heard; who was interested in all the\ncomforts and all the little hardships of her home at Mansfield; ready to\nthink of every member of that home as she directed, or differing only\nby a less scrupulous opinion, and more noisy abuse of their aunt Norris,\nand with whom (perhaps the dearest indulgence of the whole) all the evil\nand good of their earliest years could be gone over again, and every\nformer united pain and pleasure retraced with the fondest recollection.\nAn advantage this, a strengthener of love, in which even the conjugal\ntie is beneath the fraternal. Children of the same family, the same\nblood, with the same first associations and habits, have some means of\nenjoyment in their power, which no subsequent connexions can supply; and\nit must be by a long and unnatural estrangement, by a divorce which\nno subsequent connexion can justify, if such precious remains of the\nearliest attachments are ever entirely outlived. Too often, alas! it is\nso. Fraternal love, sometimes almost everything, is at others worse than\nnothing. But with William and Fanny Price it was still a sentiment\nin all its prime and freshness, wounded by no opposition of interest,\ncooled by no separate attachment, and feeling the influence of time and\nabsence only in its increase.\n\nAn affection so amiable was advancing each in the opinion of all who had\nhearts to value anything good. Henry Crawford was as much struck with\nit as any. He honoured the warm-hearted, blunt fondness of the young\nsailor, which led him to say, with his hands stretched towards Fanny's\nhead, \"Do you know, I begin to like that queer fashion already, though\nwhen I first heard of such things being done in England, I could\nnot believe it; and when Mrs. Brown, and the other women at the\nCommissioner's at Gibraltar, appeared in the same trim, I thought they\nwere mad; but Fanny can reconcile me to anything\"; and saw, with lively\nadmiration, the glow of Fanny's cheek, the brightness of her eye, the\ndeep interest, the absorbed attention, while her brother was describing\nany of the imminent hazards, or terrific scenes, which such a period at\nsea must supply.\n\nIt was a picture which Henry Crawford had moral taste enough to value.\nFanny's attractions increased--increased twofold; for the sensibility\nwhich beautified her complexion and illumined her countenance was an\nattraction in itself. He was no longer in doubt of the capabilities of\nher heart. She had feeling, genuine feeling. It would be something to\nbe loved by such a girl, to excite the first ardours of her young\nunsophisticated mind! She interested him more than he had foreseen. A\nfortnight was not enough. His stay became indefinite.\n\nWilliam was often called on by his uncle to be the talker. His recitals\nwere amusing in themselves to Sir Thomas, but the chief object in\nseeking them was to understand the reciter, to know the young man by his\nhistories; and he listened to his clear, simple, spirited details\nwith full satisfaction, seeing in them the proof of good principles,\nprofessional knowledge, energy, courage, and cheerfulness, everything\nthat could deserve or promise well. Young as he was, William had already\nseen a great deal. He had been in the Mediterranean; in the West Indies;\nin the Mediterranean again; had been often taken on shore by the favour\nof his captain, and in the course of seven years had known every variety\nof danger which sea and war together could offer. With such means in\nhis power he had a right to be listened to; and though Mrs. Norris could\nfidget about the room, and disturb everybody in quest of two needlefuls\nof thread or a second-hand shirt button, in the midst of her nephew's\naccount of a shipwreck or an engagement, everybody else was attentive;\nand even Lady Bertram could not hear of such horrors unmoved, or\nwithout sometimes lifting her eyes from her work to say, \"Dear me! how\ndisagreeable! I wonder anybody can ever go to sea.\"\n\nTo Henry Crawford they gave a different feeling. He longed to have been\nat sea, and seen and done and suffered as much. His heart was warmed,\nhis fancy fired, and he felt the highest respect for a lad who, before\nhe was twenty, had gone through such bodily hardships and given such\nproofs of mind. The glory of heroism, of usefulness, of exertion, of\nendurance, made his own habits of selfish indulgence appear in shameful\ncontrast; and he wished he had been a William Price, distinguishing\nhimself and working his way to fortune and consequence with so much\nself-respect and happy ardour, instead of what he was!\n\nThe wish was rather eager than lasting. He was roused from the reverie\nof retrospection and regret produced by it, by some inquiry from Edmund\nas to his plans for the next day's hunting; and he found it was as well\nto be a man of fortune at once with horses and grooms at his command.\nIn one respect it was better, as it gave him the means of conferring a\nkindness where he wished to oblige. With spirits, courage, and curiosity\nup to anything, William expressed an inclination to hunt; and Crawford\ncould mount him without the slightest inconvenience to himself, and with\nonly some scruples to obviate in Sir Thomas, who knew better than his\nnephew the value of such a loan, and some alarms to reason away in\nFanny. She feared for William; by no means convinced by all that he\ncould relate of his own horsemanship in various countries, of the\nscrambling parties in which he had been engaged, the rough horses and\nmules he had ridden, or his many narrow escapes from dreadful falls,\nthat he was at all equal to the management of a high-fed hunter in an\nEnglish fox-chase; nor till he returned safe and well, without accident\nor discredit, could she be reconciled to the risk, or feel any of that\nobligation to Mr. Crawford for lending the horse which he had fully\nintended it should produce. When it was proved, however, to have done\nWilliam no harm, she could allow it to be a kindness, and even reward\nthe owner with a smile when the animal was one minute tendered to his\nuse again; and the next, with the greatest cordiality, and in a manner\nnot to be resisted, made over to his use entirely so long as he remained\nin Northamptonshire.\n\n                        [End volume one of this edition.\n                        Printed by T. and A. Constable,\n                        Printers to Her Majesty at\n                        the Edinburgh University Press]\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nThe intercourse of the two families was at this period more nearly\nrestored to what it had been in the autumn, than any member of the\nold intimacy had thought ever likely to be again. The return of Henry\nCrawford, and the arrival of William Price, had much to do with it,\nbut much was still owing to Sir Thomas's more than toleration of the\nneighbourly attempts at the Parsonage. His mind, now disengaged from\nthe cares which had pressed on him at first, was at leisure to find\nthe Grants and their young inmates really worth visiting; and though\ninfinitely above scheming or contriving for any the most advantageous\nmatrimonial establishment that could be among the apparent possibilities\nof any one most dear to him, and disdaining even as a littleness the\nbeing quick-sighted on such points, he could not avoid perceiving, in\na grand and careless way, that Mr. Crawford was somewhat distinguishing\nhis niece--nor perhaps refrain (though unconsciously) from giving a more\nwilling assent to invitations on that account.\n\nHis readiness, however, in agreeing to dine at the Parsonage, when the\ngeneral invitation was at last hazarded, after many debates and many\ndoubts as to whether it were worth while, \"because Sir Thomas seemed\nso ill inclined, and Lady Bertram was so indolent!\" proceeded from\ngood-breeding and goodwill alone, and had nothing to do with Mr.\nCrawford, but as being one in an agreeable group: for it was in the\ncourse of that very visit that he first began to think that any one in\nthe habit of such idle observations _would_ _have_ _thought_ that Mr.\nCrawford was the admirer of Fanny Price.\n\nThe meeting was generally felt to be a pleasant one, being composed in a\ngood proportion of those who would talk and those who would listen;\nand the dinner itself was elegant and plentiful, according to the usual\nstyle of the Grants, and too much according to the usual habits of\nall to raise any emotion except in Mrs. Norris, who could never behold\neither the wide table or the number of dishes on it with patience, and\nwho did always contrive to experience some evil from the passing of the\nservants behind her chair, and to bring away some fresh conviction of\nits being impossible among so many dishes but that some must be cold.\n\nIn the evening it was found, according to the predetermination of Mrs.\nGrant and her sister, that after making up the whist-table there would\nremain sufficient for a round game, and everybody being as perfectly\ncomplying and without a choice as on such occasions they always are,\nspeculation was decided on almost as soon as whist; and Lady Bertram\nsoon found herself in the critical situation of being applied to for her\nown choice between the games, and being required either to draw a card\nfor whist or not. She hesitated. Luckily Sir Thomas was at hand.\n\n\"What shall I do, Sir Thomas? Whist and speculation; which will amuse me\nmost?\"\n\nSir Thomas, after a moment's thought, recommended speculation. He was\na whist player himself, and perhaps might feel that it would not much\namuse him to have her for a partner.\n\n\"Very well,\" was her ladyship's contented answer; \"then speculation, if\nyou please, Mrs. Grant. I know nothing about it, but Fanny must teach\nme.\"\n\nHere Fanny interposed, however, with anxious protestations of her own\nequal ignorance; she had never played the game nor seen it played in\nher life; and Lady Bertram felt a moment's indecision again; but upon\neverybody's assuring her that nothing could be so easy, that it was the\neasiest game on the cards, and Henry Crawford's stepping forward with a\nmost earnest request to be allowed to sit between her ladyship and Miss\nPrice, and teach them both, it was so settled; and Sir Thomas, Mrs.\nNorris, and Dr. and Mrs. Grant being seated at the table of prime\nintellectual state and dignity, the remaining six, under Miss Crawford's\ndirection, were arranged round the other. It was a fine arrangement\nfor Henry Crawford, who was close to Fanny, and with his hands full of\nbusiness, having two persons' cards to manage as well as his own; for\nthough it was impossible for Fanny not to feel herself mistress of the\nrules of the game in three minutes, he had yet to inspirit her play,\nsharpen her avarice, and harden her heart, which, especially in any\ncompetition with William, was a work of some difficulty; and as for Lady\nBertram, he must continue in charge of all her fame and fortune through\nthe whole evening; and if quick enough to keep her from looking at her\ncards when the deal began, must direct her in whatever was to be done\nwith them to the end of it.\n\nHe was in high spirits, doing everything with happy ease, and preeminent\nin all the lively turns, quick resources, and playful impudence that\ncould do honour to the game; and the round table was altogether a very\ncomfortable contrast to the steady sobriety and orderly silence of the\nother.\n\nTwice had Sir Thomas inquired into the enjoyment and success of his\nlady, but in vain; no pause was long enough for the time his measured\nmanner needed; and very little of her state could be known till Mrs.\nGrant was able, at the end of the first rubber, to go to her and pay her\ncompliments.\n\n\"I hope your ladyship is pleased with the game.\"\n\n\"Oh dear, yes! very entertaining indeed. A very odd game. I do not know\nwhat it is all about. I am never to see my cards; and Mr. Crawford does\nall the rest.\"\n\n\"Bertram,\" said Crawford, some time afterwards, taking the opportunity\nof a little languor in the game, \"I have never told you what happened to\nme yesterday in my ride home.\" They had been hunting together, and were\nin the midst of a good run, and at some distance from Mansfield, when\nhis horse being found to have flung a shoe, Henry Crawford had been\nobliged to give up, and make the best of his way back. \"I told you I\nlost my way after passing that old farmhouse with the yew-trees, because\nI can never bear to ask; but I have not told you that, with my usual\nluck--for I never do wrong without gaining by it--I found myself in due\ntime in the very place which I had a curiosity to see. I was suddenly,\nupon turning the corner of a steepish downy field, in the midst of\na retired little village between gently rising hills; a small stream\nbefore me to be forded, a church standing on a sort of knoll to my\nright--which church was strikingly large and handsome for the place, and\nnot a gentleman or half a gentleman's house to be seen excepting one--to\nbe presumed the Parsonage--within a stone's throw of the said knoll and\nchurch. I found myself, in short, in Thornton Lacey.\"\n\n\"It sounds like it,\" said Edmund; \"but which way did you turn after\npassing Sewell's farm?\"\n\n\"I answer no such irrelevant and insidious questions; though were I to\nanswer all that you could put in the course of an hour, you would never\nbe able to prove that it was _not_ Thornton Lacey--for such it certainly\nwas.\"\n\n\"You inquired, then?\"\n\n\"No, I never inquire. But I _told_ a man mending a hedge that it was\nThornton Lacey, and he agreed to it.\"\n\n\"You have a good memory. I had forgotten having ever told you half so\nmuch of the place.\"\n\nThornton Lacey was the name of his impending living, as Miss Crawford\nwell knew; and her interest in a negotiation for William Price's knave\nincreased.\n\n\"Well,\" continued Edmund, \"and how did you like what you saw?\"\n\n\"Very much indeed. You are a lucky fellow. There will be work for five\nsummers at least before the place is liveable.\"\n\n\"No, no, not so bad as that. The farmyard must be moved, I grant you;\nbut I am not aware of anything else. The house is by no means bad, and\nwhen the yard is removed, there may be a very tolerable approach to it.\"\n\n\"The farmyard must be cleared away entirely, and planted up to shut\nout the blacksmith's shop. The house must be turned to front the east\ninstead of the north--the entrance and principal rooms, I mean, must be\non that side, where the view is really very pretty; I am sure it may be\ndone. And _there_ must be your approach, through what is at present the\ngarden. You must make a new garden at what is now the back of the house;\nwhich will be giving it the best aspect in the world, sloping to the\nsouth-east. The ground seems precisely formed for it. I rode fifty yards\nup the lane, between the church and the house, in order to look about\nme; and saw how it might all be. Nothing can be easier. The meadows\nbeyond what _will_ _be_ the garden, as well as what now _is_, sweeping\nround from the lane I stood in to the north-east, that is, to the\nprincipal road through the village, must be all laid together, of\ncourse; very pretty meadows they are, finely sprinkled with timber. They\nbelong to the living, I suppose; if not, you must purchase them. Then\nthe stream--something must be done with the stream; but I could not\nquite determine what. I had two or three ideas.\"\n\n\"And I have two or three ideas also,\" said Edmund, \"and one of them is,\nthat very little of your plan for Thornton Lacey will ever be put in\npractice. I must be satisfied with rather less ornament and beauty. I\nthink the house and premises may be made comfortable, and given the air\nof a gentleman's residence, without any very heavy expense, and that\nmust suffice me; and, I hope, may suffice all who care about me.\"\n\nMiss Crawford, a little suspicious and resentful of a certain tone of\nvoice, and a certain half-look attending the last expression of his\nhope, made a hasty finish of her dealings with William Price; and\nsecuring his knave at an exorbitant rate, exclaimed, \"There, I will\nstake my last like a woman of spirit. No cold prudence for me. I am not\nborn to sit still and do nothing. If I lose the game, it shall not be\nfrom not striving for it.\"\n\nThe game was hers, and only did not pay her for what she had given\nto secure it. Another deal proceeded, and Crawford began again about\nThornton Lacey.\n\n\"My plan may not be the best possible: I had not many minutes to form\nit in; but you must do a good deal. The place deserves it, and you\nwill find yourself not satisfied with much less than it is capable of.\n(Excuse me, your ladyship must not see your cards. There, let them lie\njust before you.) The place deserves it, Bertram. You talk of giving it\nthe air of a gentleman's residence. _That_ will be done by the removal\nof the farmyard; for, independent of that terrible nuisance, I never saw\na house of the kind which had in itself so much the air of a\ngentleman's residence, so much the look of a something above a mere\nparsonage-house--above the expenditure of a few hundreds a year. It is\nnot a scrambling collection of low single rooms, with as many roofs\nas windows; it is not cramped into the vulgar compactness of a square\nfarmhouse: it is a solid, roomy, mansion-like looking house, such as\none might suppose a respectable old country family had lived in from\ngeneration to generation, through two centuries at least, and were now\nspending from two to three thousand a year in.\" Miss Crawford listened,\nand Edmund agreed to this. \"The air of a gentleman's residence,\ntherefore, you cannot but give it, if you do anything. But it is capable\nof much more. (Let me see, Mary; Lady Bertram bids a dozen for that\nqueen; no, no, a dozen is more than it is worth. Lady Bertram does not\nbid a dozen. She will have nothing to say to it. Go on, go on.) By some\nsuch improvements as I have suggested (I do not really require you to\nproceed upon my plan, though, by the bye, I doubt anybody's striking out\na better) you may give it a higher character. You may raise it into\na _place_. From being the mere gentleman's residence, it becomes, by\njudicious improvement, the residence of a man of education, taste,\nmodern manners, good connexions. All this may be stamped on it; and that\nhouse receive such an air as to make its owner be set down as the\ngreat landholder of the parish by every creature travelling the road;\nespecially as there is no real squire's house to dispute the point--a\ncircumstance, between ourselves, to enhance the value of such a\nsituation in point of privilege and independence beyond all calculation.\n_You_ think with me, I hope\" (turning with a softened voice to Fanny).\n\"Have you ever seen the place?\"\n\nFanny gave a quick negative, and tried to hide her interest in the\nsubject by an eager attention to her brother, who was driving as hard a\nbargain, and imposing on her as much as he could; but Crawford pursued\nwith \"No, no, you must not part with the queen. You have bought her too\ndearly, and your brother does not offer half her value. No, no, sir,\nhands off, hands off. Your sister does not part with the queen. She is\nquite determined. The game will be yours,\" turning to her again; \"it\nwill certainly be yours.\"\n\n\"And Fanny had much rather it were William's,\" said Edmund, smiling at\nher. \"Poor Fanny! not allowed to cheat herself as she wishes!\"\n\n\"Mr. Bertram,\" said Miss Crawford, a few minutes afterwards, \"you know\nHenry to be such a capital improver, that you cannot possibly engage in\nanything of the sort at Thornton Lacey without accepting his help. Only\nthink how useful he was at Sotherton! Only think what grand things were\nproduced there by our all going with him one hot day in August to drive\nabout the grounds, and see his genius take fire. There we went, and\nthere we came home again; and what was done there is not to be told!\"\n\nFanny's eyes were turned on Crawford for a moment with an expression\nmore than grave--even reproachful; but on catching his, were instantly\nwithdrawn. With something of consciousness he shook his head at his\nsister, and laughingly replied, \"I cannot say there was much done at\nSotherton; but it was a hot day, and we were all walking after each\nother, and bewildered.\" As soon as a general buzz gave him shelter, he\nadded, in a low voice, directed solely at Fanny, \"I should be sorry to\nhave my powers of _planning_ judged of by the day at Sotherton. I see\nthings very differently now. Do not think of me as I appeared then.\"\n\nSotherton was a word to catch Mrs. Norris, and being just then in the\nhappy leisure which followed securing the odd trick by Sir Thomas's\ncapital play and her own against Dr. and Mrs. Grant's great hands,\nshe called out, in high good-humour, \"Sotherton! Yes, that is a place,\nindeed, and we had a charming day there. William, you are quite out of\nluck; but the next time you come, I hope dear Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth\nwill be at home, and I am sure I can answer for your being kindly\nreceived by both. Your cousins are not of a sort to forget their\nrelations, and Mr. Rushworth is a most amiable man. They are at Brighton\nnow, you know; in one of the best houses there, as Mr. Rushworth's fine\nfortune gives them a right to be. I do not exactly know the distance,\nbut when you get back to Portsmouth, if it is not very far off, you\nought to go over and pay your respects to them; and I could send a\nlittle parcel by you that I want to get conveyed to your cousins.\"\n\n\"I should be very happy, aunt; but Brighton is almost by Beachey Head;\nand if I could get so far, I could not expect to be welcome in such a\nsmart place as that--poor scrubby midshipman as I am.\"\n\nMrs. Norris was beginning an eager assurance of the affability he might\ndepend on, when she was stopped by Sir Thomas's saying with authority,\n\"I do not advise your going to Brighton, William, as I trust you may\nsoon have more convenient opportunities of meeting; but my daughters\nwould be happy to see their cousins anywhere; and you will find Mr.\nRushworth most sincerely disposed to regard all the connexions of our\nfamily as his own.\"\n\n\"I would rather find him private secretary to the First Lord than\nanything else,\" was William's only answer, in an undervoice, not meant\nto reach far, and the subject dropped.\n\nAs yet Sir Thomas had seen nothing to remark in Mr. Crawford's\nbehaviour; but when the whist-table broke up at the end of the second\nrubber, and leaving Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris to dispute over their last\nplay, he became a looker-on at the other, he found his niece the\nobject of attentions, or rather of professions, of a somewhat pointed\ncharacter.\n\nHenry Crawford was in the first glow of another scheme about Thornton\nLacey; and not being able to catch Edmund's ear, was detailing it to his\nfair neighbour with a look of considerable earnestness. His scheme was\nto rent the house himself the following winter, that he might have a\nhome of his own in that neighbourhood; and it was not merely for the use\nof it in the hunting-season (as he was then telling her), though _that_\nconsideration had certainly some weight, feeling as he did that, in\nspite of all Dr. Grant's very great kindness, it was impossible for him\nand his horses to be accommodated where they now were without material\ninconvenience; but his attachment to that neighbourhood did not depend\nupon one amusement or one season of the year: he had set his heart upon\nhaving a something there that he could come to at any time, a little\nhomestall at his command, where all the holidays of his year might be\nspent, and he might find himself continuing, improving, and _perfecting_\nthat friendship and intimacy with the Mansfield Park family which was\nincreasing in value to him every day. Sir Thomas heard and was not\noffended. There was no want of respect in the young man's address;\nand Fanny's reception of it was so proper and modest, so calm and\nuninviting, that he had nothing to censure in her. She said little,\nassented only here and there, and betrayed no inclination either of\nappropriating any part of the compliment to herself, or of strengthening\nhis views in favour of Northamptonshire. Finding by whom he was\nobserved, Henry Crawford addressed himself on the same subject to Sir\nThomas, in a more everyday tone, but still with feeling.\n\n\"I want to be your neighbour, Sir Thomas, as you have, perhaps, heard me\ntelling Miss Price. May I hope for your acquiescence, and for your not\ninfluencing your son against such a tenant?\"\n\nSir Thomas, politely bowing, replied, \"It is the only way, sir, in which\nI could _not_ wish you established as a permanent neighbour; but I hope,\nand believe, that Edmund will occupy his own house at Thornton Lacey.\nEdmund, am I saying too much?\"\n\nEdmund, on this appeal, had first to hear what was going on; but, on\nunderstanding the question, was at no loss for an answer.\n\n\"Certainly, sir, I have no idea but of residence. But, Crawford, though\nI refuse you as a tenant, come to me as a friend. Consider the house as\nhalf your own every winter, and we will add to the stables on your own\nimproved plan, and with all the improvements of your improved plan that\nmay occur to you this spring.\"\n\n\"We shall be the losers,\" continued Sir Thomas. \"His going, though only\neight miles, will be an unwelcome contraction of our family circle; but\nI should have been deeply mortified if any son of mine could reconcile\nhimself to doing less. It is perfectly natural that you should not have\nthought much on the subject, Mr. Crawford. But a parish has wants and\nclaims which can be known only by a clergyman constantly resident, and\nwhich no proxy can be capable of satisfying to the same extent. Edmund\nmight, in the common phrase, do the duty of Thornton, that is, he might\nread prayers and preach, without giving up Mansfield Park: he might ride\nover every Sunday, to a house nominally inhabited, and go through divine\nservice; he might be the clergyman of Thornton Lacey every seventh day,\nfor three or four hours, if that would content him. But it will not.\nHe knows that human nature needs more lessons than a weekly sermon can\nconvey; and that if he does not live among his parishioners, and prove\nhimself, by constant attention, their well-wisher and friend, he does\nvery little either for their good or his own.\"\n\nMr. Crawford bowed his acquiescence.\n\n\"I repeat again,\" added Sir Thomas, \"that Thornton Lacey is the only\nhouse in the neighbourhood in which I should _not_ be happy to wait on\nMr. Crawford as occupier.\"\n\nMr. Crawford bowed his thanks.\n\n\"Sir Thomas,\" said Edmund, \"undoubtedly understands the duty of a parish\npriest. We must hope his son may prove that _he_ knows it too.\"\n\nWhatever effect Sir Thomas's little harangue might really produce on Mr.\nCrawford, it raised some awkward sensations in two of the others, two\nof his most attentive listeners--Miss Crawford and Fanny. One of\nwhom, having never before understood that Thornton was so soon and so\ncompletely to be his home, was pondering with downcast eyes on what it\nwould be _not_ to see Edmund every day; and the other, startled from the\nagreeable fancies she had been previously indulging on the strength of\nher brother's description, no longer able, in the picture she had\nbeen forming of a future Thornton, to shut out the church, sink the\nclergyman, and see only the respectable, elegant, modernised, and\noccasional residence of a man of independent fortune, was considering\nSir Thomas, with decided ill-will, as the destroyer of all this, and\nsuffering the more from that involuntary forbearance which his character\nand manner commanded, and from not daring to relieve herself by a single\nattempt at throwing ridicule on his cause.\n\nAll the agreeable of _her_ speculation was over for that hour. It was\ntime to have done with cards, if sermons prevailed; and she was glad to\nfind it necessary to come to a conclusion, and be able to refresh her\nspirits by a change of place and neighbour.\n\nThe chief of the party were now collected irregularly round the\nfire, and waiting the final break-up. William and Fanny were the most\ndetached. They remained together at the otherwise deserted card-table,\ntalking very comfortably, and not thinking of the rest, till some of the\nrest began to think of them. Henry Crawford's chair was the first to be\ngiven a direction towards them, and he sat silently observing them for a\nfew minutes; himself, in the meanwhile, observed by Sir Thomas, who was\nstanding in chat with Dr. Grant.\n\n\"This is the assembly night,\" said William. \"If I were at Portsmouth I\nshould be at it, perhaps.\"\n\n\"But you do not wish yourself at Portsmouth, William?\"\n\n\"No, Fanny, that I do not. I shall have enough of Portsmouth and of\ndancing too, when I cannot have you. And I do not know that there would\nbe any good in going to the assembly, for I might not get a partner.\nThe Portsmouth girls turn up their noses at anybody who has not a\ncommission. One might as well be nothing as a midshipman. One _is_\nnothing, indeed. You remember the Gregorys; they are grown up amazing\nfine girls, but they will hardly speak to _me_, because Lucy is courted\nby a lieutenant.\"\n\n\"Oh! shame, shame! But never mind it, William\" (her own cheeks in a\nglow of indignation as she spoke). \"It is not worth minding. It is no\nreflection on _you_; it is no more than what the greatest admirals have\nall experienced, more or less, in their time. You must think of that,\nyou must try to make up your mind to it as one of the hardships which\nfall to every sailor's share, like bad weather and hard living, only\nwith this advantage, that there will be an end to it, that there will\ncome a time when you will have nothing of that sort to endure. When you\nare a lieutenant! only think, William, when you are a lieutenant, how\nlittle you will care for any nonsense of this kind.\"\n\n\"I begin to think I shall never be a lieutenant, Fanny. Everybody gets\nmade but me.\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear William, do not talk so; do not be so desponding. My uncle\nsays nothing, but I am sure he will do everything in his power to get\nyou made. He knows, as well as you do, of what consequence it is.\"\n\nShe was checked by the sight of her uncle much nearer to them than she\nhad any suspicion of, and each found it necessary to talk of something\nelse.\n\n\"Are you fond of dancing, Fanny?\"\n\n\"Yes, very; only I am soon tired.\"\n\n\"I should like to go to a ball with you and see you dance. Have you\nnever any balls at Northampton? I should like to see you dance, and I'd\ndance with you if you _would_, for nobody would know who I was here,\nand I should like to be your partner once more. We used to jump about\ntogether many a time, did not we? when the hand-organ was in the street?\nI am a pretty good dancer in my way, but I dare say you are a better.\"\nAnd turning to his uncle, who was now close to them, \"Is not Fanny a\nvery good dancer, sir?\"\n\nFanny, in dismay at such an unprecedented question, did not know which\nway to look, or how to be prepared for the answer. Some very grave\nreproof, or at least the coldest expression of indifference, must be\ncoming to distress her brother, and sink her to the ground. But, on the\ncontrary, it was no worse than, \"I am sorry to say that I am unable\nto answer your question. I have never seen Fanny dance since she was a\nlittle girl; but I trust we shall both think she acquits herself like\na gentlewoman when we do see her, which, perhaps, we may have an\nopportunity of doing ere long.\"\n\n\"I have had the pleasure of seeing your sister dance, Mr. Price,\"\nsaid Henry Crawford, leaning forward, \"and will engage to answer every\ninquiry which you can make on the subject, to your entire satisfaction.\nBut I believe\" (seeing Fanny looked distressed) \"it must be at some\nother time. There is _one_ person in company who does not like to have\nMiss Price spoken of.\"\n\nTrue enough, he had once seen Fanny dance; and it was equally true\nthat he would now have answered for her gliding about with quiet, light\nelegance, and in admirable time; but, in fact, he could not for the life\nof him recall what her dancing had been, and rather took it for granted\nthat she had been present than remembered anything about her.\n\nHe passed, however, for an admirer of her dancing; and Sir Thomas, by no\nmeans displeased, prolonged the conversation on dancing in general, and\nwas so well engaged in describing the balls of Antigua, and listening to\nwhat his nephew could relate of the different modes of dancing which\nhad fallen within his observation, that he had not heard his carriage\nannounced, and was first called to the knowledge of it by the bustle of\nMrs. Norris.\n\n\"Come, Fanny, Fanny, what are you about? We are going. Do not you see\nyour aunt is going? Quick, quick! I cannot bear to keep good old Wilcox\nwaiting. You should always remember the coachman and horses. My dear Sir\nThomas, we have settled it that the carriage should come back for you,\nand Edmund and William.\"\n\nSir Thomas could not dissent, as it had been his own arrangement,\npreviously communicated to his wife and sister; but _that_ seemed\nforgotten by Mrs. Norris, who must fancy that she settled it all\nherself.\n\nFanny's last feeling in the visit was disappointment: for the shawl\nwhich Edmund was quietly taking from the servant to bring and put round\nher shoulders was seized by Mr. Crawford's quicker hand, and she was\nobliged to be indebted to his more prominent attention.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\nWilliam's desire of seeing Fanny dance made more than a momentary\nimpression on his uncle. The hope of an opportunity, which Sir Thomas\nhad then given, was not given to be thought of no more. He remained\nsteadily inclined to gratify so amiable a feeling; to gratify anybody\nelse who might wish to see Fanny dance, and to give pleasure to the\nyoung people in general; and having thought the matter over, and taken\nhis resolution in quiet independence, the result of it appeared the\nnext morning at breakfast, when, after recalling and commending what\nhis nephew had said, he added, \"I do not like, William, that you\nshould leave Northamptonshire without this indulgence. It would give me\npleasure to see you both dance. You spoke of the balls at Northampton.\nYour cousins have occasionally attended them; but they would not\naltogether suit us now. The fatigue would be too much for your aunt. I\nbelieve we must not think of a Northampton ball. A dance at home would\nbe more eligible; and if--\"\n\n\"Ah, my dear Sir Thomas!\" interrupted Mrs. Norris, \"I knew what was\ncoming. I knew what you were going to say. If dear Julia were at home,\nor dearest Mrs. Rushworth at Sotherton, to afford a reason, an occasion\nfor such a thing, you would be tempted to give the young people a dance\nat Mansfield. I know you would. If _they_ were at home to grace the\nball, a ball you would have this very Christmas. Thank your uncle,\nWilliam, thank your uncle!\"\n\n\"My daughters,\" replied Sir Thomas, gravely interposing, \"have their\npleasures at Brighton, and I hope are very happy; but the dance which I\nthink of giving at Mansfield will be for their cousins. Could we be all\nassembled, our satisfaction would undoubtedly be more complete, but the\nabsence of some is not to debar the others of amusement.\"\n\nMrs. Norris had not another word to say. She saw decision in his looks,\nand her surprise and vexation required some minutes' silence to be\nsettled into composure. A ball at such a time! His daughters absent and\nherself not consulted! There was comfort, however, soon at hand. _She_\nmust be the doer of everything: Lady Bertram would of course be spared\nall thought and exertion, and it would all fall upon _her_. She should\nhave to do the honours of the evening; and this reflection quickly\nrestored so much of her good-humour as enabled her to join in with the\nothers, before their happiness and thanks were all expressed.\n\nEdmund, William, and Fanny did, in their different ways, look and speak\nas much grateful pleasure in the promised ball as Sir Thomas could\ndesire. Edmund's feelings were for the other two. His father had never\nconferred a favour or shewn a kindness more to his satisfaction.\n\nLady Bertram was perfectly quiescent and contented, and had no\nobjections to make. Sir Thomas engaged for its giving her very little\ntrouble; and she assured him \"that she was not at all afraid of the\ntrouble; indeed, she could not imagine there would be any.\"\n\nMrs. Norris was ready with her suggestions as to the rooms he would\nthink fittest to be used, but found it all prearranged; and when she\nwould have conjectured and hinted about the day, it appeared that the\nday was settled too. Sir Thomas had been amusing himself with shaping a\nvery complete outline of the business; and as soon as she would listen\nquietly, could read his list of the families to be invited, from whom\nhe calculated, with all necessary allowance for the shortness of the\nnotice, to collect young people enough to form twelve or fourteen\ncouple: and could detail the considerations which had induced him to\nfix on the 22nd as the most eligible day. William was required to be at\nPortsmouth on the 24th; the 22nd would therefore be the last day of his\nvisit; but where the days were so few it would be unwise to fix on any\nearlier. Mrs. Norris was obliged to be satisfied with thinking just the\nsame, and with having been on the point of proposing the 22nd herself,\nas by far the best day for the purpose.\n\nThe ball was now a settled thing, and before the evening a proclaimed\nthing to all whom it concerned. Invitations were sent with despatch,\nand many a young lady went to bed that night with her head full of happy\ncares as well as Fanny. To her the cares were sometimes almost beyond\nthe happiness; for young and inexperienced, with small means of choice\nand no confidence in her own taste, the \"how she should be dressed\" was\na point of painful solicitude; and the almost solitary ornament in her\npossession, a very pretty amber cross which William had brought her from\nSicily, was the greatest distress of all, for she had nothing but a bit\nof ribbon to fasten it to; and though she had worn it in that manner\nonce, would it be allowable at such a time in the midst of all the rich\nornaments which she supposed all the other young ladies would appear in?\nAnd yet not to wear it! William had wanted to buy her a gold chain too,\nbut the purchase had been beyond his means, and therefore not to wear\nthe cross might be mortifying him. These were anxious considerations;\nenough to sober her spirits even under the prospect of a ball given\nprincipally for her gratification.\n\nThe preparations meanwhile went on, and Lady Bertram continued to sit on\nher sofa without any inconvenience from them. She had some extra visits\nfrom the housekeeper, and her maid was rather hurried in making up a new\ndress for her: Sir Thomas gave orders, and Mrs. Norris ran about; but\nall this gave _her_ no trouble, and as she had foreseen, \"there was, in\nfact, no trouble in the business.\"\n\nEdmund was at this time particularly full of cares: his mind being\ndeeply occupied in the consideration of two important events now\nat hand, which were to fix his fate in life--ordination and\nmatrimony--events of such a serious character as to make the ball, which\nwould be very quickly followed by one of them, appear of less moment in\nhis eyes than in those of any other person in the house. On the 23rd\nhe was going to a friend near Peterborough, in the same situation\nas himself, and they were to receive ordination in the course of the\nChristmas week. Half his destiny would then be determined, but the\nother half might not be so very smoothly wooed. His duties would be\nestablished, but the wife who was to share, and animate, and reward\nthose duties, might yet be unattainable. He knew his own mind, but he\nwas not always perfectly assured of knowing Miss Crawford's. There were\npoints on which they did not quite agree; there were moments in which\nshe did not seem propitious; and though trusting altogether to her\naffection, so far as to be resolved--almost resolved--on bringing it to\na decision within a very short time, as soon as the variety of business\nbefore him were arranged, and he knew what he had to offer her, he\nhad many anxious feelings, many doubting hours as to the result. His\nconviction of her regard for him was sometimes very strong; he could\nlook back on a long course of encouragement, and she was as perfect in\ndisinterested attachment as in everything else. But at other times\ndoubt and alarm intermingled with his hopes; and when he thought of\nher acknowledged disinclination for privacy and retirement, her decided\npreference of a London life, what could he expect but a determined\nrejection? unless it were an acceptance even more to be deprecated,\ndemanding such sacrifices of situation and employment on his side as\nconscience must forbid.\n\nThe issue of all depended on one question. Did she love him well enough\nto forego what had used to be essential points? Did she love him well\nenough to make them no longer essential? And this question, which he was\ncontinually repeating to himself, though oftenest answered with a \"Yes,\"\nhad sometimes its \"No.\"\n\nMiss Crawford was soon to leave Mansfield, and on this circumstance the\n\"no\" and the \"yes\" had been very recently in alternation. He had seen\nher eyes sparkle as she spoke of the dear friend's letter, which claimed\na long visit from her in London, and of the kindness of Henry, in\nengaging to remain where he was till January, that he might convey her\nthither; he had heard her speak of the pleasure of such a journey with\nan animation which had \"no\" in every tone. But this had occurred on the\nfirst day of its being settled, within the first hour of the burst of\nsuch enjoyment, when nothing but the friends she was to visit was before\nher. He had since heard her express herself differently, with other\nfeelings, more chequered feelings: he had heard her tell Mrs. Grant that\nshe should leave her with regret; that she began to believe neither the\nfriends nor the pleasures she was going to were worth those she left\nbehind; and that though she felt she must go, and knew she should enjoy\nherself when once away, she was already looking forward to being at\nMansfield again. Was there not a \"yes\" in all this?\n\nWith such matters to ponder over, and arrange, and re-arrange, Edmund\ncould not, on his own account, think very much of the evening which the\nrest of the family were looking forward to with a more equal degree of\nstrong interest. Independent of his two cousins' enjoyment in it, the\nevening was to him of no higher value than any other appointed meeting\nof the two families might be. In every meeting there was a hope of\nreceiving farther confirmation of Miss Crawford's attachment; but the\nwhirl of a ballroom, perhaps, was not particularly favourable to the\nexcitement or expression of serious feelings. To engage her early for\nthe two first dances was all the command of individual happiness which\nhe felt in his power, and the only preparation for the ball which he\ncould enter into, in spite of all that was passing around him on the\nsubject, from morning till night.\n\nThursday was the day of the ball; and on Wednesday morning Fanny, still\nunable to satisfy herself as to what she ought to wear, determined to\nseek the counsel of the more enlightened, and apply to Mrs. Grant and\nher sister, whose acknowledged taste would certainly bear her blameless;\nand as Edmund and William were gone to Northampton, and she had reason\nto think Mr. Crawford likewise out, she walked down to the Parsonage\nwithout much fear of wanting an opportunity for private discussion;\nand the privacy of such a discussion was a most important part of it to\nFanny, being more than half-ashamed of her own solicitude.\n\nShe met Miss Crawford within a few yards of the Parsonage, just setting\nout to call on her, and as it seemed to her that her friend, though\nobliged to insist on turning back, was unwilling to lose her walk, she\nexplained her business at once, and observed, that if she would be so\nkind as to give her opinion, it might be all talked over as well without\ndoors as within. Miss Crawford appeared gratified by the application,\nand after a moment's thought, urged Fanny's returning with her in a much\nmore cordial manner than before, and proposed their going up into her\nroom, where they might have a comfortable coze, without disturbing Dr.\nand Mrs. Grant, who were together in the drawing-room. It was just the\nplan to suit Fanny; and with a great deal of gratitude on her side for\nsuch ready and kind attention, they proceeded indoors, and upstairs, and\nwere soon deep in the interesting subject. Miss Crawford, pleased with\nthe appeal, gave her all her best judgment and taste, made everything\neasy by her suggestions, and tried to make everything agreeable by her\nencouragement. The dress being settled in all its grander parts--\"But\nwhat shall you have by way of necklace?\" said Miss Crawford. \"Shall not\nyou wear your brother's cross?\" And as she spoke she was undoing a\nsmall parcel, which Fanny had observed in her hand when they met. Fanny\nacknowledged her wishes and doubts on this point: she did not know\nhow either to wear the cross, or to refrain from wearing it. She was\nanswered by having a small trinket-box placed before her, and being\nrequested to chuse from among several gold chains and necklaces. Such\nhad been the parcel with which Miss Crawford was provided, and such the\nobject of her intended visit: and in the kindest manner she now urged\nFanny's taking one for the cross and to keep for her sake, saying\neverything she could think of to obviate the scruples which were making\nFanny start back at first with a look of horror at the proposal.\n\n\"You see what a collection I have,\" said she; \"more by half than I ever\nuse or think of. I do not offer them as new. I offer nothing but an old\nnecklace. You must forgive the liberty, and oblige me.\"\n\nFanny still resisted, and from her heart. The gift was too valuable. But\nMiss Crawford persevered, and argued the case with so much affectionate\nearnestness through all the heads of William and the cross, and the\nball, and herself, as to be finally successful. Fanny found\nherself obliged to yield, that she might not be accused of pride\nor indifference, or some other littleness; and having with modest\nreluctance given her consent, proceeded to make the selection. She\nlooked and looked, longing to know which might be least valuable; and\nwas determined in her choice at last, by fancying there was one necklace\nmore frequently placed before her eyes than the rest. It was of gold,\nprettily worked; and though Fanny would have preferred a longer and a\nplainer chain as more adapted for her purpose, she hoped, in fixing\non this, to be chusing what Miss Crawford least wished to keep. Miss\nCrawford smiled her perfect approbation; and hastened to complete the\ngift by putting the necklace round her, and making her see how well\nit looked. Fanny had not a word to say against its becomingness, and,\nexcepting what remained of her scruples, was exceedingly pleased with\nan acquisition so very apropos. She would rather, perhaps, have been\nobliged to some other person. But this was an unworthy feeling. Miss\nCrawford had anticipated her wants with a kindness which proved her a\nreal friend. \"When I wear this necklace I shall always think of you,\"\nsaid she, \"and feel how very kind you were.\"\n\n\"You must think of somebody else too, when you wear that necklace,\"\nreplied Miss Crawford. \"You must think of Henry, for it was his choice\nin the first place. He gave it to me, and with the necklace I make over\nto you all the duty of remembering the original giver. It is to be\na family remembrancer. The sister is not to be in your mind without\nbringing the brother too.\"\n\nFanny, in great astonishment and confusion, would have returned the\npresent instantly. To take what had been the gift of another person,\nof a brother too, impossible! it must not be! and with an eagerness\nand embarrassment quite diverting to her companion, she laid down the\nnecklace again on its cotton, and seemed resolved either to take another\nor none at all. Miss Crawford thought she had never seen a prettier\nconsciousness. \"My dear child,\" said she, laughing, \"what are you afraid\nof? Do you think Henry will claim the necklace as mine, and fancy you\ndid not come honestly by it? or are you imagining he would be too much\nflattered by seeing round your lovely throat an ornament which his money\npurchased three years ago, before he knew there was such a throat in the\nworld? or perhaps\"--looking archly--\"you suspect a confederacy between\nus, and that what I am now doing is with his knowledge and at his\ndesire?\"\n\nWith the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a thought.\n\n\"Well, then,\" replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without at all\nbelieving her, \"to convince me that you suspect no trick, and are as\nunsuspicious of compliment as I have always found you, take the necklace\nand say no more about it. Its being a gift of my brother's need not make\nthe smallest difference in your accepting it, as I assure you it makes\nnone in my willingness to part with it. He is always giving me something\nor other. I have such innumerable presents from him that it is quite\nimpossible for me to value or for him to remember half. And as for this\nnecklace, I do not suppose I have worn it six times: it is very pretty,\nbut I never think of it; and though you would be most heartily welcome\nto any other in my trinket-box, you have happened to fix on the very\none which, if I have a choice, I would rather part with and see in your\npossession than any other. Say no more against it, I entreat you. Such a\ntrifle is not worth half so many words.\"\n\nFanny dared not make any farther opposition; and with renewed but less\nhappy thanks accepted the necklace again, for there was an expression in\nMiss Crawford's eyes which she could not be satisfied with.\n\nIt was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford's change of\nmanners. She had long seen it. He evidently tried to please her: he was\ngallant, he was attentive, he was something like what he had been to her\ncousins: he wanted, she supposed, to cheat her of her tranquillity as\nhe had cheated them; and whether he might not have some concern in this\nnecklace--she could not be convinced that he had not, for Miss Crawford,\ncomplaisant as a sister, was careless as a woman and a friend.\n\nReflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession of what she had\nso much wished for did not bring much satisfaction, she now walked\nhome again, with a change rather than a diminution of cares since her\ntreading that path before.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\nOn reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs to deposit this\nunexpected acquisition, this doubtful good of a necklace, in some\nfavourite box in the East room, which held all her smaller treasures;\nbut on opening the door, what was her surprise to find her cousin Edmund\nthere writing at the table! Such a sight having never occurred before,\nwas almost as wonderful as it was welcome.\n\n\"Fanny,\" said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen, and meeting her\nwith something in his hand, \"I beg your pardon for being here. I came\nto look for you, and after waiting a little while in hope of your coming\nin, was making use of your inkstand to explain my errand. You will find\nthe beginning of a note to yourself; but I can now speak my business,\nwhich is merely to beg your acceptance of this little trifle--a chain\nfor William's cross. You ought to have had it a week ago, but there has\nbeen a delay from my brother's not being in town by several days so soon\nas I expected; and I have only just now received it at Northampton. I\nhope you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I endeavoured to consult the\nsimplicity of your taste; but, at any rate, I know you will be kind to\nmy intentions, and consider it, as it really is, a token of the love of\none of your oldest friends.\"\n\nAnd so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, overpowered by a\nthousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could attempt to speak; but\nquickened by one sovereign wish, she then called out, \"Oh! cousin, stop\na moment, pray stop!\"\n\nHe turned back.\n\n\"I cannot attempt to thank you,\" she continued, in a very agitated\nmanner; \"thanks are out of the question. I feel much more than I can\npossibly express. Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is\nbeyond--\"\n\n\"If that is all you have to say, Fanny\" smiling and turning away again.\n\n\"No, no, it is not. I want to consult you.\"\n\nAlmost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he had just put\ninto her hand, and seeing before her, in all the niceness of jewellers'\npacking, a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not\nhelp bursting forth again, \"Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is the\nvery thing, precisely what I wished for! This is the only ornament I\nhave ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly suit my cross. They\nmust and shall be worn together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable\nmoment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is.\"\n\n\"My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I am most\nhappy that you like the chain, and that it should be here in time for\nto-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I\nhave no pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to yours.\nNo, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It\nis without a drawback.\"\n\nUpon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour\nwithout saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged\nher to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying, \"But what\nis it that you want to consult me about?\"\n\nIt was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to\nreturn, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave the\nhistory of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over;\nfor Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what\nMiss Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence of conduct\nbetween them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior power of one\npleasure over his own mind, though it might have its drawback. It was\nsome time before she could get his attention to her plan, or any answer\nto her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverie of fond reflection,\nuttering only now and then a few half-sentences of praise; but when\nhe did awake and understand, he was very decided in opposing what she\nwished.\n\n\"Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. It would be\nmortifying her severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant sensation\nthan the having anything returned on our hands which we have given with\na reasonable hope of its contributing to the comfort of a friend. Why\nshould she lose a pleasure which she has shewn herself so deserving of?\"\n\n\"If it had been given to me in the first instance,\" said Fanny, \"I\nshould not have thought of returning it; but being her brother's\npresent, is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not part with\nit, when it is not wanted?\"\n\n\"She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at least: and its\nhaving been originally her brother's gift makes no difference; for as\nshe was not prevented from offering, nor you from taking it on that\naccount, it ought not to prevent you from keeping it. No doubt it is\nhandsomer than mine, and fitter for a ballroom.\"\n\n\"No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer in its way, and, for\nmy purpose, not half so fit. The chain will agree with William's cross\nbeyond all comparison better than the necklace.\"\n\n\"For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it _be_ a sacrifice; I am\nsure you will, upon consideration, make that sacrifice rather than give\npain to one who has been so studious of your comfort. Miss Crawford's\nattentions to you have been--not more than you were justly entitled\nto--I am the last person to think that _could_ _be_, but they have been\ninvariable; and to be returning them with what must have something the\n_air_ of ingratitude, though I know it could never have the _meaning_,\nis not in your nature, I am sure. Wear the necklace, as you are engaged\nto do, to-morrow evening, and let the chain, which was not ordered with\nany reference to the ball, be kept for commoner occasions. This is my\nadvice. I would not have the shadow of a coolness between the two whose\nintimacy I have been observing with the greatest pleasure, and in whose\ncharacters there is so much general resemblance in true generosity\nand natural delicacy as to make the few slight differences, resulting\nprincipally from situation, no reasonable hindrance to a perfect\nfriendship. I would not have the shadow of a coolness arise,\" he\nrepeated, his voice sinking a little, \"between the two dearest objects I\nhave on earth.\"\n\nHe was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained to tranquillise herself as\nshe could. She was one of his two dearest--that must support her. But\nthe other: the first! She had never heard him speak so openly before,\nand though it told her no more than what she had long perceived, it was\na stab, for it told of his own convictions and views. They were\ndecided. He would marry Miss Crawford. It was a stab, in spite of every\nlong-standing expectation; and she was obliged to repeat again and\nagain, that she was one of his two dearest, before the words gave her\nany sensation. Could she believe Miss Crawford to deserve him, it would\nbe--oh, how different would it be--how far more tolerable! But he was\ndeceived in her: he gave her merits which she had not; her faults were\nwhat they had ever been, but he saw them no longer. Till she had shed\nmany tears over this deception, Fanny could not subdue her agitation;\nand the dejection which followed could only be relieved by the influence\nof fervent prayers for his happiness.\n\nIt was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty, to try to overcome\nall that was excessive, all that bordered on selfishness, in her\naffection for Edmund. To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment,\nwould be a presumption for which she had not words strong enough to\nsatisfy her own humility. To think of him as Miss Crawford might be\njustified in thinking, would in her be insanity. To her he could be\nnothing under any circumstances; nothing dearer than a friend. Why did\nsuch an idea occur to her even enough to be reprobated and forbidden? It\nought not to have touched on the confines of her imagination. She would\nendeavour to be rational, and to deserve the right of judging of Miss\nCrawford's character, and the privilege of true solicitude for him by a\nsound intellect and an honest heart.\n\nShe had all the heroism of principle, and was determined to do her duty;\nbut having also many of the feelings of youth and nature, let her not\nbe much wondered at, if, after making all these good resolutions on the\nside of self-government, she seized the scrap of paper on which Edmund\nhad begun writing to her, as a treasure beyond all her hopes, and\nreading with the tenderest emotion these words, \"My very dear Fanny,\nyou must do me the favour to accept\" locked it up with the chain, as the\ndearest part of the gift. It was the only thing approaching to a letter\nwhich she had ever received from him; she might never receive another;\nit was impossible that she ever should receive another so perfectly\ngratifying in the occasion and the style. Two lines more prized had\nnever fallen from the pen of the most distinguished author--never\nmore completely blessed the researches of the fondest biographer. The\nenthusiasm of a woman's love is even beyond the biographer's. To her,\nthe handwriting itself, independent of anything it may convey, is a\nblessedness. Never were such characters cut by any other human being as\nEdmund's commonest handwriting gave! This specimen, written in haste\nas it was, had not a fault; and there was a felicity in the flow of the\nfirst four words, in the arrangement of \"My very dear Fanny,\" which she\ncould have looked at for ever.\n\nHaving regulated her thoughts and comforted her feelings by this happy\nmixture of reason and weakness, she was able in due time to go down\nand resume her usual employments near her aunt Bertram, and pay her the\nusual observances without any apparent want of spirits.\n\nThursday, predestined to hope and enjoyment, came; and opened with\nmore kindness to Fanny than such self-willed, unmanageable days often\nvolunteer, for soon after breakfast a very friendly note was brought\nfrom Mr. Crawford to William, stating that as he found himself obliged\nto go to London on the morrow for a few days, he could not help trying\nto procure a companion; and therefore hoped that if William could\nmake up his mind to leave Mansfield half a day earlier than had been\nproposed, he would accept a place in his carriage. Mr. Crawford meant to\nbe in town by his uncle's accustomary late dinner-hour, and William\nwas invited to dine with him at the Admiral's. The proposal was a very\npleasant one to William himself, who enjoyed the idea of travelling post\nwith four horses, and such a good-humoured, agreeable friend; and, in\nlikening it to going up with despatches, was saying at once everything\nin favour of its happiness and dignity which his imagination could\nsuggest; and Fanny, from a different motive, was exceedingly pleased;\nfor the original plan was that William should go up by the mail from\nNorthampton the following night, which would not have allowed him an\nhour's rest before he must have got into a Portsmouth coach; and though\nthis offer of Mr. Crawford's would rob her of many hours of his company,\nshe was too happy in having William spared from the fatigue of such\na journey, to think of anything else. Sir Thomas approved of it for\nanother reason. His nephew's introduction to Admiral Crawford might be\nof service. The Admiral, he believed, had interest. Upon the whole, it\nwas a very joyous note. Fanny's spirits lived on it half the morning,\nderiving some accession of pleasure from its writer being himself to go\naway.\n\nAs for the ball, so near at hand, she had too many agitations and fears\nto have half the enjoyment in anticipation which she ought to have had,\nor must have been supposed to have by the many young ladies looking\nforward to the same event in situations more at ease, but under\ncircumstances of less novelty, less interest, less peculiar\ngratification, than would be attributed to her. Miss Price, known\nonly by name to half the people invited, was now to make her first\nappearance, and must be regarded as the queen of the evening. Who could\nbe happier than Miss Price? But Miss Price had not been brought up to\nthe trade of _coming_ _out_; and had she known in what light this ball\nwas, in general, considered respecting her, it would very much have\nlessened her comfort by increasing the fears she already had of doing\nwrong and being looked at. To dance without much observation or any\nextraordinary fatigue, to have strength and partners for about half the\nevening, to dance a little with Edmund, and not a great deal with Mr.\nCrawford, to see William enjoy himself, and be able to keep away\nfrom her aunt Norris, was the height of her ambition, and seemed to\ncomprehend her greatest possibility of happiness. As these were the best\nof her hopes, they could not always prevail; and in the course of a long\nmorning, spent principally with her two aunts, she was often under the\ninfluence of much less sanguine views. William, determined to make this\nlast day a day of thorough enjoyment, was out snipe-shooting; Edmund,\nshe had too much reason to suppose, was at the Parsonage; and left\nalone to bear the worrying of Mrs. Norris, who was cross because the\nhousekeeper would have her own way with the supper, and whom _she_ could\nnot avoid though the housekeeper might, Fanny was worn down at last to\nthink everything an evil belonging to the ball, and when sent off with\na parting worry to dress, moved as languidly towards her own room, and\nfelt as incapable of happiness as if she had been allowed no share in\nit.\n\nAs she walked slowly upstairs she thought of yesterday; it had been\nabout the same hour that she had returned from the Parsonage, and\nfound Edmund in the East room. \"Suppose I were to find him there again\nto-day!\" said she to herself, in a fond indulgence of fancy.\n\n\"Fanny,\" said a voice at that moment near her. Starting and looking up,\nshe saw, across the lobby she had just reached, Edmund himself, standing\nat the head of a different staircase. He came towards her. \"You look\ntired and fagged, Fanny. You have been walking too far.\"\n\n\"No, I have not been out at all.\"\n\n\"Then you have had fatigues within doors, which are worse. You had\nbetter have gone out.\"\n\nFanny, not liking to complain, found it easiest to make no answer; and\nthough he looked at her with his usual kindness, she believed he had\nsoon ceased to think of her countenance. He did not appear in spirits:\nsomething unconnected with her was probably amiss. They proceeded\nupstairs together, their rooms being on the same floor above.\n\n\"I come from Dr. Grant's,\" said Edmund presently. \"You may guess my\nerrand there, Fanny.\" And he looked so conscious, that Fanny could think\nbut of one errand, which turned her too sick for speech. \"I wished to\nengage Miss Crawford for the two first dances,\" was the explanation that\nfollowed, and brought Fanny to life again, enabling her, as she found\nshe was expected to speak, to utter something like an inquiry as to the\nresult.\n\n\"Yes,\" he answered, \"she is engaged to me; but\" (with a smile that did\nnot sit easy) \"she says it is to be the last time that she ever will\ndance with me. She is not serious. I think, I hope, I am sure she is\nnot serious; but I would rather not hear it. She never has danced with a\nclergyman, she says, and she never _will_. For my own sake, I could wish\nthere had been no ball just at--I mean not this very week, this very\nday; to-morrow I leave home.\"\n\nFanny struggled for speech, and said, \"I am very sorry that anything has\noccurred to distress you. This ought to be a day of pleasure. My uncle\nmeant it so.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, yes! and it will be a day of pleasure. It will all end right. I\nam only vexed for a moment. In fact, it is not that I consider the ball\nas ill-timed; what does it signify? But, Fanny,\" stopping her, by taking\nher hand, and speaking low and seriously, \"you know what all this means.\nYou see how it is; and could tell me, perhaps better than I could tell\nyou, how and why I am vexed. Let me talk to you a little. You are a\nkind, kind listener. I have been pained by her manner this morning, and\ncannot get the better of it. I know her disposition to be as sweet and\nfaultless as your own, but the influence of her former companions\nmakes her seem--gives to her conversation, to her professed opinions,\nsometimes a tinge of wrong. She does not _think_ evil, but she speaks\nit, speaks it in playfulness; and though I know it to be playfulness, it\ngrieves me to the soul.\"\n\n\"The effect of education,\" said Fanny gently.\n\nEdmund could not but agree to it. \"Yes, that uncle and aunt! They have\ninjured the finest mind; for sometimes, Fanny, I own to you, it does\nappear more than manner: it appears as if the mind itself was tainted.\"\n\nFanny imagined this to be an appeal to her judgment, and therefore,\nafter a moment's consideration, said, \"If you only want me as a\nlistener, cousin, I will be as useful as I can; but I am not qualified\nfor an adviser. Do not ask advice of _me_. I am not competent.\"\n\n\"You are right, Fanny, to protest against such an office, but you need\nnot be afraid. It is a subject on which I should never ask advice; it\nis the sort of subject on which it had better never be asked; and few,\nI imagine, do ask it, but when they want to be influenced against their\nconscience. I only want to talk to you.\"\n\n\"One thing more. Excuse the liberty; but take care _how_ you talk to me.\nDo not tell me anything now, which hereafter you may be sorry for. The\ntime may come--\"\n\nThe colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke.\n\n\"Dearest Fanny!\" cried Edmund, pressing her hand to his lips with\nalmost as much warmth as if it had been Miss Crawford's, \"you are all\nconsiderate thought! But it is unnecessary here. The time will never\ncome. No such time as you allude to will ever come. I begin to think it\nmost improbable: the chances grow less and less; and even if it should,\nthere will be nothing to be remembered by either you or me that we need\nbe afraid of, for I can never be ashamed of my own scruples; and if they\nare removed, it must be by changes that will only raise her character\nthe more by the recollection of the faults she once had. You are the\nonly being upon earth to whom I should say what I have said; but you\nhave always known my opinion of her; you can bear me witness, Fanny,\nthat I have never been blinded. How many a time have we talked over\nher little errors! You need not fear me; I have almost given up every\nserious idea of her; but I must be a blockhead indeed, if, whatever\nbefell me, I could think of your kindness and sympathy without the\nsincerest gratitude.\"\n\nHe had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen. He had said\nenough to give Fanny some happier feelings than she had lately known,\nand with a brighter look, she answered, \"Yes, cousin, I am convinced\nthat _you_ would be incapable of anything else, though perhaps some\nmight not. I cannot be afraid of hearing anything you wish to say. Do\nnot check yourself. Tell me whatever you like.\"\n\nThey were now on the second floor, and the appearance of a housemaid\nprevented any farther conversation. For Fanny's present comfort it was\nconcluded, perhaps, at the happiest moment: had he been able to talk\nanother five minutes, there is no saying that he might not have talked\naway all Miss Crawford's faults and his own despondence. But as it was,\nthey parted with looks on his side of grateful affection, and with\nsome very precious sensations on hers. She had felt nothing like it for\nhours. Since the first joy from Mr. Crawford's note to William had worn\naway, she had been in a state absolutely the reverse; there had been\nno comfort around, no hope within her. Now everything was smiling.\nWilliam's good fortune returned again upon her mind, and seemed of\ngreater value than at first. The ball, too--such an evening of pleasure\nbefore her! It was now a real animation; and she began to dress for it\nwith much of the happy flutter which belongs to a ball. All went well:\nshe did not dislike her own looks; and when she came to the necklaces\nagain, her good fortune seemed complete, for upon trial the one given\nher by Miss Crawford would by no means go through the ring of the cross.\nShe had, to oblige Edmund, resolved to wear it; but it was too large for\nthe purpose. His, therefore, must be worn; and having, with delightful\nfeelings, joined the chain and the cross--those memorials of the two\nmost beloved of her heart, those dearest tokens so formed for each other\nby everything real and imaginary--and put them round her neck, and seen\nand felt how full of William and Edmund they were, she was able, without\nan effort, to resolve on wearing Miss Crawford's necklace too. She\nacknowledged it to be right. Miss Crawford had a claim; and when it was\nno longer to encroach on, to interfere with the stronger claims, the\ntruer kindness of another, she could do her justice even with pleasure\nto herself. The necklace really looked very well; and Fanny left her\nroom at last, comfortably satisfied with herself and all about her.\n\nHer aunt Bertram had recollected her on this occasion with an unusual\ndegree of wakefulness. It had really occurred to her, unprompted, that\nFanny, preparing for a ball, might be glad of better help than the upper\nhousemaid's, and when dressed herself, she actually sent her own maid to\nassist her; too late, of course, to be of any use. Mrs. Chapman had just\nreached the attic floor, when Miss Price came out of her room completely\ndressed, and only civilities were necessary; but Fanny felt her aunt's\nattention almost as much as Lady Bertram or Mrs. Chapman could do\nthemselves.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\nHer uncle and both her aunts were in the drawing-room when Fanny went\ndown. To the former she was an interesting object, and he saw with\npleasure the general elegance of her appearance, and her being in\nremarkably good looks. The neatness and propriety of her dress was all\nthat he would allow himself to commend in her presence, but upon her\nleaving the room again soon afterwards, he spoke of her beauty with very\ndecided praise.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Lady Bertram, \"she looks very well. I sent Chapman to her.\"\n\n\"Look well! Oh, yes!\" cried Mrs. Norris, \"she has good reason to look\nwell with all her advantages: brought up in this family as she has been,\nwith all the benefit of her cousins' manners before her. Only think, my\ndear Sir Thomas, what extraordinary advantages you and I have been the\nmeans of giving her. The very gown you have been taking notice of is\nyour own generous present to her when dear Mrs. Rushworth married. What\nwould she have been if we had not taken her by the hand?\"\n\nSir Thomas said no more; but when they sat down to table the eyes of\nthe two young men assured him that the subject might be gently touched\nagain, when the ladies withdrew, with more success. Fanny saw that she\nwas approved; and the consciousness of looking well made her look still\nbetter. From a variety of causes she was happy, and she was soon made\nstill happier; for in following her aunts out of the room, Edmund, who\nwas holding open the door, said, as she passed him, \"You must dance\nwith me, Fanny; you must keep two dances for me; any two that you like,\nexcept the first.\" She had nothing more to wish for. She had hardly\never been in a state so nearly approaching high spirits in her life. Her\ncousins' former gaiety on the day of a ball was no longer surprising to\nher; she felt it to be indeed very charming, and was actually practising\nher steps about the drawing-room as long as she could be safe from the\nnotice of her aunt Norris, who was entirely taken up at first in fresh\narranging and injuring the noble fire which the butler had prepared.\n\nHalf an hour followed that would have been at least languid under any\nother circumstances, but Fanny's happiness still prevailed. It was but\nto think of her conversation with Edmund, and what was the restlessness\nof Mrs. Norris? What were the yawns of Lady Bertram?\n\nThe gentlemen joined them; and soon after began the sweet expectation of\na carriage, when a general spirit of ease and enjoyment seemed diffused,\nand they all stood about and talked and laughed, and every moment had\nits pleasure and its hope. Fanny felt that there must be a struggle\nin Edmund's cheerfulness, but it was delightful to see the effort so\nsuccessfully made.\n\nWhen the carriages were really heard, when the guests began really to\nassemble, her own gaiety of heart was much subdued: the sight of so\nmany strangers threw her back into herself; and besides the gravity and\nformality of the first great circle, which the manners of neither Sir\nThomas nor Lady Bertram were of a kind to do away, she found herself\noccasionally called on to endure something worse. She was introduced\nhere and there by her uncle, and forced to be spoken to, and to curtsey,\nand speak again. This was a hard duty, and she was never summoned to\nit without looking at William, as he walked about at his ease in the\nbackground of the scene, and longing to be with him.\n\nThe entrance of the Grants and Crawfords was a favourable epoch. The\nstiffness of the meeting soon gave way before their popular manners and\nmore diffused intimacies: little groups were formed, and everybody grew\ncomfortable. Fanny felt the advantage; and, drawing back from the toils\nof civility, would have been again most happy, could she have kept her\neyes from wandering between Edmund and Mary Crawford. _She_ looked all\nloveliness--and what might not be the end of it? Her own musings\nwere brought to an end on perceiving Mr. Crawford before her, and\nher thoughts were put into another channel by his engaging her almost\ninstantly for the first two dances. Her happiness on this occasion was\nvery much _a_ _la_ _mortal_, finely chequered. To be secure of a partner\nat first was a most essential good--for the moment of beginning was now\ngrowing seriously near; and she so little understood her own claims as\nto think that if Mr. Crawford had not asked her, she must have been the\nlast to be sought after, and should have received a partner only through\na series of inquiry, and bustle, and interference, which would have been\nterrible; but at the same time there was a pointedness in his manner of\nasking her which she did not like, and she saw his eye glancing for\na moment at her necklace, with a smile--she thought there was a\nsmile--which made her blush and feel wretched. And though there was no\nsecond glance to disturb her, though his object seemed then to be only\nquietly agreeable, she could not get the better of her embarrassment,\nheightened as it was by the idea of his perceiving it, and had no\ncomposure till he turned away to some one else. Then she could gradually\nrise up to the genuine satisfaction of having a partner, a voluntary\npartner, secured against the dancing began.\n\nWhen the company were moving into the ballroom, she found herself\nfor the first time near Miss Crawford, whose eyes and smiles were\nimmediately and more unequivocally directed as her brother's had been,\nand who was beginning to speak on the subject, when Fanny, anxious\nto get the story over, hastened to give the explanation of the second\nnecklace: the real chain. Miss Crawford listened; and all her intended\ncompliments and insinuations to Fanny were forgotten: she felt only one\nthing; and her eyes, bright as they had been before, shewing they could\nyet be brighter, she exclaimed with eager pleasure, \"Did he? Did Edmund?\nThat was like himself. No other man would have thought of it. I honour\nhim beyond expression.\" And she looked around as if longing to tell him\nso. He was not near, he was attending a party of ladies out of the room;\nand Mrs. Grant coming up to the two girls, and taking an arm of each,\nthey followed with the rest.\n\nFanny's heart sunk, but there was no leisure for thinking long even of\nMiss Crawford's feelings. They were in the ballroom, the violins were\nplaying, and her mind was in a flutter that forbade its fixing on\nanything serious. She must watch the general arrangements, and see how\neverything was done.\n\nIn a few minutes Sir Thomas came to her, and asked if she were engaged;\nand the \"Yes, sir; to Mr. Crawford,\" was exactly what he had intended\nto hear. Mr. Crawford was not far off; Sir Thomas brought him to her,\nsaying something which discovered to Fanny, that _she_ was to lead the\nway and open the ball; an idea that had never occurred to her before.\nWhenever she had thought of the minutiae of the evening, it had been as\na matter of course that Edmund would begin with Miss Crawford; and the\nimpression was so strong, that though _her_ _uncle_ spoke the contrary,\nshe could not help an exclamation of surprise, a hint of her unfitness,\nan entreaty even to be excused. To be urging her opinion against Sir\nThomas's was a proof of the extremity of the case; but such was her\nhorror at the first suggestion, that she could actually look him in\nthe face and say that she hoped it might be settled otherwise; in vain,\nhowever: Sir Thomas smiled, tried to encourage her, and then looked too\nserious, and said too decidedly, \"It must be so, my dear,\" for her to\nhazard another word; and she found herself the next moment conducted by\nMr. Crawford to the top of the room, and standing there to be joined by\nthe rest of the dancers, couple after couple, as they were formed.\n\nShe could hardly believe it. To be placed above so many elegant young\nwomen! The distinction was too great. It was treating her like her\ncousins! And her thoughts flew to those absent cousins with most\nunfeigned and truly tender regret, that they were not at home to take\ntheir own place in the room, and have their share of a pleasure which\nwould have been so very delightful to them. So often as she had heard\nthem wish for a ball at home as the greatest of all felicities! And\nto have them away when it was given--and for _her_ to be opening the\nball--and with Mr. Crawford too! She hoped they would not envy her that\ndistinction _now_; but when she looked back to the state of things in\nthe autumn, to what they had all been to each other when once dancing\nin that house before, the present arrangement was almost more than she\ncould understand herself.\n\nThe ball began. It was rather honour than happiness to Fanny, for the\nfirst dance at least: her partner was in excellent spirits, and tried to\nimpart them to her; but she was a great deal too much frightened to have\nany enjoyment till she could suppose herself no longer looked at. Young,\npretty, and gentle, however, she had no awkwardnesses that were not\nas good as graces, and there were few persons present that were not\ndisposed to praise her. She was attractive, she was modest, she was Sir\nThomas's niece, and she was soon said to be admired by Mr. Crawford. It\nwas enough to give her general favour. Sir Thomas himself was watching\nher progress down the dance with much complacency; he was proud of his\nniece; and without attributing all her personal beauty, as Mrs. Norris\nseemed to do, to her transplantation to Mansfield, he was pleased with\nhimself for having supplied everything else: education and manners she\nowed to him.\n\nMiss Crawford saw much of Sir Thomas's thoughts as he stood, and having,\nin spite of all his wrongs towards her, a general prevailing desire of\nrecommending herself to him, took an opportunity of stepping aside to\nsay something agreeable of Fanny. Her praise was warm, and he\nreceived it as she could wish, joining in it as far as discretion, and\npoliteness, and slowness of speech would allow, and certainly appearing\nto greater advantage on the subject than his lady did soon afterwards,\nwhen Mary, perceiving her on a sofa very near, turned round before she\nbegan to dance, to compliment her on Miss Price's looks.\n\n\"Yes, she does look very well,\" was Lady Bertram's placid reply.\n\"Chapman helped her to dress. I sent Chapman to her.\" Not but that\nshe was really pleased to have Fanny admired; but she was so much more\nstruck with her own kindness in sending Chapman to her, that she could\nnot get it out of her head.\n\nMiss Crawford knew Mrs. Norris too well to think of gratifying _her_\nby commendation of Fanny; to her, it was as the occasion offered--\"Ah!\nma'am, how much we want dear Mrs. Rushworth and Julia to-night!\" and\nMrs. Norris paid her with as many smiles and courteous words as she had\ntime for, amid so much occupation as she found for herself in making\nup card-tables, giving hints to Sir Thomas, and trying to move all the\nchaperons to a better part of the room.\n\nMiss Crawford blundered most towards Fanny herself in her intentions\nto please. She meant to be giving her little heart a happy flutter,\nand filling her with sensations of delightful self-consequence; and,\nmisinterpreting Fanny's blushes, still thought she must be doing so when\nshe went to her after the two first dances, and said, with a significant\nlook, \"Perhaps _you_ can tell me why my brother goes to town to-morrow?\nHe says he has business there, but will not tell me what. The first time\nhe ever denied me his confidence! But this is what we all come to.\nAll are supplanted sooner or later. Now, I must apply to you for\ninformation. Pray, what is Henry going for?\"\n\nFanny protested her ignorance as steadily as her embarrassment allowed.\n\n\"Well, then,\" replied Miss Crawford, laughing, \"I must suppose it to be\npurely for the pleasure of conveying your brother, and of talking of you\nby the way.\"\n\nFanny was confused, but it was the confusion of discontent; while Miss\nCrawford wondered she did not smile, and thought her over-anxious,\nor thought her odd, or thought her anything rather than insensible of\npleasure in Henry's attentions. Fanny had a good deal of enjoyment in\nthe course of the evening; but Henry's attentions had very little to\ndo with it. She would much rather _not_ have been asked by him again so\nvery soon, and she wished she had not been obliged to suspect that his\nprevious inquiries of Mrs. Norris, about the supper hour, were all for\nthe sake of securing her at that part of the evening. But it was not to\nbe avoided: he made her feel that she was the object of all; though she\ncould not say that it was unpleasantly done, that there was indelicacy\nor ostentation in his manner; and sometimes, when he talked of William,\nhe was really not unagreeable, and shewed even a warmth of heart\nwhich did him credit. But still his attentions made no part of her\nsatisfaction. She was happy whenever she looked at William, and saw how\nperfectly he was enjoying himself, in every five minutes that she could\nwalk about with him and hear his account of his partners; she was happy\nin knowing herself admired; and she was happy in having the two dances\nwith Edmund still to look forward to, during the greatest part of the\nevening, her hand being so eagerly sought after that her indefinite\nengagement with _him_ was in continual perspective. She was happy even\nwhen they did take place; but not from any flow of spirits on his side,\nor any such expressions of tender gallantry as had blessed the morning.\nHis mind was fagged, and her happiness sprung from being the friend with\nwhom it could find repose. \"I am worn out with civility,\" said he. \"I\nhave been talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say. But\nwith _you_, Fanny, there may be peace. You will not want to be talked\nto. Let us have the luxury of silence.\" Fanny would hardly even speak\nher agreement. A weariness, arising probably, in great measure, from the\nsame feelings which he had acknowledged in the morning, was peculiarly\nto be respected, and they went down their two dances together with such\nsober tranquillity as might satisfy any looker-on that Sir Thomas had\nbeen bringing up no wife for his younger son.\n\nThe evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure. Miss Crawford had\nbeen in gay spirits when they first danced together, but it was not her\ngaiety that could do him good: it rather sank than raised his comfort;\nand afterwards, for he found himself still impelled to seek her\nagain, she had absolutely pained him by her manner of speaking of the\nprofession to which he was now on the point of belonging. They had\ntalked, and they had been silent; he had reasoned, she had ridiculed;\nand they had parted at last with mutual vexation. Fanny, not able to\nrefrain entirely from observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably\nsatisfied. It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering. Yet\nsome happiness must and would arise from the very conviction that he did\nsuffer.\n\nWhen her two dances with him were over, her inclination and strength for\nmore were pretty well at an end; and Sir Thomas, having seen her walk\nrather than dance down the shortening set, breathless, and with her hand\nat her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely. From that\ntime Mr. Crawford sat down likewise.\n\n\"Poor Fanny!\" cried William, coming for a moment to visit her, and\nworking away his partner's fan as if for life, \"how soon she is knocked\nup! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall keep it up these\ntwo hours. How can you be tired so soon?\"\n\n\"So soon! my good friend,\" said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with all\nnecessary caution; \"it is three o'clock, and your sister is not used to\nthese sort of hours.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep as\nlong as you can, and never mind me.\"\n\n\"Oh! William.\"\n\n\"What! Did she think of being up before you set off?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes, sir,\" cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer\nher uncle; \"I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last\ntime, you know; the last morning.\"\n\n\"You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-past\nnine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past nine?\"\n\nFanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for\ndenial; and it ended in a gracious \"Well, well!\" which was permission.\n\n\"Yes, half-past nine,\" said Crawford to William as the latter was\nleaving them, \"and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind sister\nto get up for _me_.\" And in a lower tone to Fanny, \"I shall have only\na desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of time\nand his own very different to-morrow.\"\n\nAfter a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the early\nbreakfast party in that house instead of eating alone: he should himself\nbe of it; and the readiness with which his invitation was accepted\nconvinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess to himself,\nthis very ball had in great measure sprung, were well founded. Mr.\nCrawford was in love with Fanny. He had a pleasing anticipation of what\nwould be. His niece, meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had just\ndone. She had hoped to have William all to herself the last morning. It\nwould have been an unspeakable indulgence. But though her wishes\nwere overthrown, there was no spirit of murmuring within her. On the\ncontrary, she was so totally unused to have her pleasure consulted, or\nto have anything take place at all in the way she could desire, that she\nwas more disposed to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point so\nfar, than to repine at the counteraction which followed.\n\nShortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering a little with her\ninclination, by advising her to go immediately to bed. \"Advise\" was his\nword, but it was the advice of absolute power, and she had only to\nrise, and, with Mr. Crawford's very cordial adieus, pass quietly away;\nstopping at the entrance-door, like the Lady of Branxholm Hall, \"one\nmoment and no more,\" to view the happy scene, and take a last look at\nthe five or six determined couple who were still hard at work; and then,\ncreeping slowly up the principal staircase, pursued by the ceaseless\ncountry-dance, feverish with hopes and fears, soup and negus,\nsore-footed and fatigued, restless and agitated, yet feeling, in spite\nof everything, that a ball was indeed delightful.\n\nIn thus sending her away, Sir Thomas perhaps might not be thinking\nmerely of her health. It might occur to him that Mr. Crawford had been\nsitting by her long enough, or he might mean to recommend her as a wife\nby shewing her persuadableness.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\nThe ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too; the last kiss\nwas given, and William was gone. Mr. Crawford had, as he foretold, been\nvery punctual, and short and pleasant had been the meal.\n\nAfter seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back to the\nbreakfast-room with a very saddened heart to grieve over the melancholy\nchange; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace, conceiving,\nperhaps, that the deserted chair of each young man might exercise her\ntender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork bones and mustard in\nWilliam's plate might but divide her feelings with the broken egg-shells\nin Mr. Crawford's. She sat and cried _con_ _amore_ as her uncle\nintended, but it was _con_ _amore_ fraternal and no other. William was\ngone, and she now felt as if she had wasted half his visit in idle cares\nand selfish solicitudes unconnected with him.\n\nFanny's disposition was such that she could never even think of her\naunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness of her own small house,\nwithout reproaching herself for some little want of attention to her\nwhen they had been last together; much less could her feelings acquit\nher of having done and said and thought everything by William that was\ndue to him for a whole fortnight.\n\nIt was a heavy, melancholy day. Soon after the second breakfast, Edmund\nbade them good-bye for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterborough,\nand then all were gone. Nothing remained of last night but remembrances,\nwhich she had nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt Bertram--she\nmust talk to somebody of the ball; but her aunt had seen so little of\nwhat had passed, and had so little curiosity, that it was heavy work.\nLady Bertram was not certain of anybody's dress or anybody's place at\nsupper but her own. \"She could not recollect what it was that she had\nheard about one of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it was that Lady Prescott\nhad noticed in Fanny: she was not sure whether Colonel Harrison had been\ntalking of Mr. Crawford or of William when he said he was the finest\nyoung man in the room--somebody had whispered something to her; she had\nforgot to ask Sir Thomas what it could be.\" And these were her longest\nspeeches and clearest communications: the rest was only a languid \"Yes,\nyes; very well; did you? did he? I did not see _that_; I should not know\none from the other.\" This was very bad. It was only better than Mrs.\nNorris's sharp answers would have been; but she being gone home with\nall the supernumerary jellies to nurse a sick maid, there was peace\nand good-humour in their little party, though it could not boast much\nbeside.\n\nThe evening was heavy like the day. \"I cannot think what is the matter\nwith me,\" said Lady Bertram, when the tea-things were removed. \"I feel\nquite stupid. It must be sitting up so late last night. Fanny, you must\ndo something to keep me awake. I cannot work. Fetch the cards; I feel so\nvery stupid.\"\n\nThe cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage with her aunt till\nbedtime; and as Sir Thomas was reading to himself, no sounds were\nheard in the room for the next two hours beyond the reckonings of the\ngame--\"And _that_ makes thirty-one; four in hand and eight in crib. You\nare to deal, ma'am; shall I deal for you?\" Fanny thought and thought\nagain of the difference which twenty-four hours had made in that room,\nand all that part of the house. Last night it had been hope and smiles,\nbustle and motion, noise and brilliancy, in the drawing-room, and out\nof the drawing-room, and everywhere. Now it was languor, and all but\nsolitude.\n\nA good night's rest improved her spirits. She could think of William the\nnext day more cheerfully; and as the morning afforded her an opportunity\nof talking over Thursday night with Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, in a\nvery handsome style, with all the heightenings of imagination, and\nall the laughs of playfulness which are so essential to the shade of a\ndeparted ball, she could afterwards bring her mind without much effort\ninto its everyday state, and easily conform to the tranquillity of the\npresent quiet week.\n\nThey were indeed a smaller party than she had ever known there for\na whole day together, and _he_ was gone on whom the comfort and\ncheerfulness of every family meeting and every meal chiefly depended.\nBut this must be learned to be endured. He would soon be always gone;\nand she was thankful that she could now sit in the same room with her\nuncle, hear his voice, receive his questions, and even answer them,\nwithout such wretched feelings as she had formerly known.\n\n\"We miss our two young men,\" was Sir Thomas's observation on both the\nfirst and second day, as they formed their very reduced circle after\ndinner; and in consideration of Fanny's swimming eyes, nothing more was\nsaid on the first day than to drink their good health; but on the\nsecond it led to something farther. William was kindly commended and\nhis promotion hoped for. \"And there is no reason to suppose,\" added Sir\nThomas, \"but that his visits to us may now be tolerably frequent. As to\nEdmund, we must learn to do without him. This will be the last winter of\nhis belonging to us, as he has done.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Lady Bertram, \"but I wish he was not going away. They are\nall going away, I think. I wish they would stay at home.\"\n\nThis wish was levelled principally at Julia, who had just applied for\npermission to go to town with Maria; and as Sir Thomas thought it best\nfor each daughter that the permission should be granted, Lady Bertram,\nthough in her own good-nature she would not have prevented it, was\nlamenting the change it made in the prospect of Julia's return, which\nwould otherwise have taken place about this time. A great deal of good\nsense followed on Sir Thomas's side, tending to reconcile his wife to\nthe arrangement. Everything that a considerate parent _ought_ to feel\nwas advanced for her use; and everything that an affectionate mother\n_must_ feel in promoting her children's enjoyment was attributed to her\nnature. Lady Bertram agreed to it all with a calm \"Yes\"; and at the end\nof a quarter of an hour's silent consideration spontaneously observed,\n\"Sir Thomas, I have been thinking--and I am very glad we took Fanny as\nwe did, for now the others are away we feel the good of it.\"\n\nSir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding, \"Very true.\nWe shew Fanny what a good girl we think her by praising her to her face,\nshe is now a very valuable companion. If we have been kind to _her_, she\nis now quite as necessary to _us_.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Lady Bertram presently; \"and it is a comfort to think that\nwe shall always have _her_.\"\n\nSir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece, and then gravely\nreplied, \"She will never leave us, I hope, till invited to some other\nhome that may reasonably promise her greater happiness than she knows\nhere.\"\n\n\"And _that_ is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas. Who should invite her?\nMaria might be very glad to see her at Sotherton now and then, but she\nwould not think of asking her to live there; and I am sure she is better\noff here; and besides, I cannot do without her.\"\n\nThe week which passed so quietly and peaceably at the great house in\nMansfield had a very different character at the Parsonage. To the young\nlady, at least, in each family, it brought very different feelings. What\nwas tranquillity and comfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation to\nMary. Something arose from difference of disposition and habit: one so\neasily satisfied, the other so unused to endure; but still more might be\nimputed to difference of circumstances. In some points of interest they\nwere exactly opposed to each other. To Fanny's mind, Edmund's absence\nwas really, in its cause and its tendency, a relief. To Mary it was\nevery way painful. She felt the want of his society every day, almost\nevery hour, and was too much in want of it to derive anything but\nirritation from considering the object for which he went. He could not\nhave devised anything more likely to raise his consequence than this\nweek's absence, occurring as it did at the very time of her brother's\ngoing away, of William Price's going too, and completing the sort of\ngeneral break-up of a party which had been so animated. She felt it\nkeenly. They were now a miserable trio, confined within doors by a\nseries of rain and snow, with nothing to do and no variety to hope for.\nAngry as she was with Edmund for adhering to his own notions, and acting\non them in defiance of her (and she had been so angry that they had\nhardly parted friends at the ball), she could not help thinking of\nhim continually when absent, dwelling on his merit and affection, and\nlonging again for the almost daily meetings they lately had. His absence\nwas unnecessarily long. He should not have planned such an absence--he\nshould not have left home for a week, when her own departure from\nMansfield was so near. Then she began to blame herself. She wished she\nhad not spoken so warmly in their last conversation. She was afraid she\nhad used some strong, some contemptuous expressions in speaking of the\nclergy, and that should not have been. It was ill-bred; it was wrong.\nShe wished such words unsaid with all her heart.\n\nHer vexation did not end with the week. All this was bad, but she had\nstill more to feel when Friday came round again and brought no Edmund;\nwhen Saturday came and still no Edmund; and when, through the slight\ncommunication with the other family which Sunday produced, she learned\nthat he had actually written home to defer his return, having promised\nto remain some days longer with his friend.\n\nIf she had felt impatience and regret before--if she had been sorry for\nwhat she said, and feared its too strong effect on him--she now felt\nand feared it all tenfold more. She had, moreover, to contend with one\ndisagreeable emotion entirely new to her--jealousy. His friend Mr.\nOwen had sisters; he might find them attractive. But, at any rate, his\nstaying away at a time when, according to all preceding plans, she was\nto remove to London, meant something that she could not bear. Had Henry\nreturned, as he talked of doing, at the end of three or four days, she\nshould now have been leaving Mansfield. It became absolutely necessary\nfor her to get to Fanny and try to learn something more. She could not\nlive any longer in such solitary wretchedness; and she made her way\nto the Park, through difficulties of walking which she had deemed\nunconquerable a week before, for the chance of hearing a little in\naddition, for the sake of at least hearing his name.\n\nThe first half-hour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertram were together,\nand unless she had Fanny to herself she could hope for nothing. But\nat last Lady Bertram left the room, and then almost immediately Miss\nCrawford thus began, with a voice as well regulated as she could--\"And\nhow do _you_ like your cousin Edmund's staying away so long? Being the\nonly young person at home, I consider _you_ as the greatest sufferer.\nYou must miss him. Does his staying longer surprise you?\"\n\n\"I do not know,\" said Fanny hesitatingly. \"Yes; I had not particularly\nexpected it.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of. It is the general\nway all young men do.\"\n\n\"He did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before.\"\n\n\"He finds the house more agreeable _now_. He is a very--a very pleasing\nyoung man himself, and I cannot help being rather concerned at not\nseeing him again before I go to London, as will now undoubtedly be the\ncase. I am looking for Henry every day, and as soon as he comes there\nwill be nothing to detain me at Mansfield. I should like to have seen\nhim once more, I confess. But you must give my compliments to him. Yes;\nI think it must be compliments. Is not there a something wanted,\nMiss Price, in our language--a something between compliments and--and\nlove--to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had together? So\nmany months' acquaintance! But compliments may be sufficient here.\nWas his letter a long one? Does he give you much account of what he is\ndoing? Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?\"\n\n\"I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I believe\nit was very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines. All that I\nheard was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer, and that he\nhad agreed to do so. A _few_ days longer, or _some_ days longer; I am\nnot quite sure which.\"\n\n\"Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have been to Lady\nBertram or you. But if he wrote to his father, no wonder he was concise.\nWho could write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there\nwould have been more particulars. You would have heard of balls\nand parties. He would have sent you a description of everything and\neverybody. How many Miss Owens are there?\"\n\n\"Three grown up.\"\n\n\"Are they musical?\"\n\n\"I do not at all know. I never heard.\"\n\n\"That is the first question, you know,\" said Miss Crawford, trying to\nappear gay and unconcerned, \"which every woman who plays herself is sure\nto ask about another. But it is very foolish to ask questions about\nany young ladies--about any three sisters just grown up; for one knows,\nwithout being told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished and\npleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty in every family; it is\na regular thing. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp; and\nall sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing all the better for\nnot being taught; or something like it.\"\n\n\"I know nothing of the Miss Owens,\" said Fanny calmly.\n\n\"You know nothing and you care less, as people say. Never did tone\nexpress indifference plainer. Indeed, how can one care for those one has\nnever seen? Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find Mansfield\nvery quiet; all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine and myself. I\ndo not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the time draws near. She\ndoes not like my going.\"\n\nFanny felt obliged to speak. \"You cannot doubt your being missed by\nmany,\" said she. \"You will be very much missed.\"\n\nMiss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or see more,\nand then laughingly said, \"Oh yes! missed as every noisy evil is missed\nwhen it is taken away; that is, there is a great difference felt. But I\nam not fishing; don't compliment me. If I _am_ missed, it will appear.\nI may be discovered by those who want to see me. I shall not be in any\ndoubtful, or distant, or unapproachable region.\"\n\nNow Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss Crawford was\ndisappointed; for she had hoped to hear some pleasant assurance of her\npower from one who she thought must know, and her spirits were clouded\nagain.\n\n\"The Miss Owens,\" said she, soon afterwards; \"suppose you were to have\none of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey; how should you like it?\nStranger things have happened. I dare say they are trying for it. And\nthey are quite in the light, for it would be a very pretty establishment\nfor them. I do not at all wonder or blame them. It is everybody's duty\nto do as well for themselves as they can. Sir Thomas Bertram's son is\nsomebody; and now he is in their own line. Their father is a clergyman,\nand their brother is a clergyman, and they are all clergymen together.\nHe is their lawful property; he fairly belongs to them. You don't speak,\nFanny; Miss Price, you don't speak. But honestly now, do not you rather\nexpect it than otherwise?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Fanny stoutly, \"I do not expect it at all.\"\n\n\"Not at all!\" cried Miss Crawford with alacrity. \"I wonder at that. But\nI dare say you know exactly--I always imagine you are--perhaps you do\nnot think him likely to marry at all--or not at present.\"\n\n\"No, I do not,\" said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err either in the\nbelief or the acknowledgment of it.\n\nHer companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater spirit from\nthe blush soon produced from such a look, only said, \"He is best off as\nhe is,\" and turned the subject.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\nMiss Crawford's uneasiness was much lightened by this conversation, and\nshe walked home again in spirits which might have defied almost another\nweek of the same small party in the same bad weather, had they been put\nto the proof; but as that very evening brought her brother down from\nLondon again in quite, or more than quite, his usual cheerfulness, she\nhad nothing farther to try her own. His still refusing to tell her what\nhe had gone for was but the promotion of gaiety; a day before it might\nhave irritated, but now it was a pleasant joke--suspected only of\nconcealing something planned as a pleasant surprise to herself. And the\nnext day _did_ bring a surprise to her. Henry had said he should just\ngo and ask the Bertrams how they did, and be back in ten minutes, but\nhe was gone above an hour; and when his sister, who had been waiting for\nhim to walk with her in the garden, met him at last most impatiently in\nthe sweep, and cried out, \"My dear Henry, where can you have been\nall this time?\" he had only to say that he had been sitting with Lady\nBertram and Fanny.\n\n\"Sitting with them an hour and a half!\" exclaimed Mary.\n\nBut this was only the beginning of her surprise.\n\n\"Yes, Mary,\" said he, drawing her arm within his, and walking along\nthe sweep as if not knowing where he was: \"I could not get away sooner;\nFanny looked so lovely! I am quite determined, Mary. My mind is entirely\nmade up. Will it astonish you? No: you must be aware that I am quite\ndetermined to marry Fanny Price.\"\n\nThe surprise was now complete; for, in spite of whatever his\nconsciousness might suggest, a suspicion of his having any such views\nhad never entered his sister's imagination; and she looked so truly the\nastonishment she felt, that he was obliged to repeat what he had said,\nand more fully and more solemnly. The conviction of his determination\nonce admitted, it was not unwelcome. There was even pleasure with the\nsurprise. Mary was in a state of mind to rejoice in a connexion with the\nBertram family, and to be not displeased with her brother's marrying a\nlittle beneath him.\n\n\"Yes, Mary,\" was Henry's concluding assurance. \"I am fairly caught.\nYou know with what idle designs I began; but this is the end of them.\nI have, I flatter myself, made no inconsiderable progress in her\naffections; but my own are entirely fixed.\"\n\n\"Lucky, lucky girl!\" cried Mary, as soon as she could speak; \"what a\nmatch for her! My dearest Henry, this must be my _first_ feeling; but\nmy _second_, which you shall have as sincerely, is, that I approve your\nchoice from my soul, and foresee your happiness as heartily as I wish\nand desire it. You will have a sweet little wife; all gratitude and\ndevotion. Exactly what you deserve. What an amazing match for her! Mrs.\nNorris often talks of her luck; what will she say now? The delight\nof all the family, indeed! And she has some _true_ friends in it! How\n_they_ will rejoice! But tell me all about it! Talk to me for ever. When\ndid you begin to think seriously about her?\"\n\nNothing could be more impossible than to answer such a question, though\nnothing could be more agreeable than to have it asked. \"How the pleasing\nplague had stolen on him\" he could not say; and before he had expressed\nthe same sentiment with a little variation of words three times over,\nhis sister eagerly interrupted him with, \"Ah, my dear Henry, and this\nis what took you to London! This was your business! You chose to consult\nthe Admiral before you made up your mind.\"\n\nBut this he stoutly denied. He knew his uncle too well to consult him on\nany matrimonial scheme. The Admiral hated marriage, and thought it never\npardonable in a young man of independent fortune.\n\n\"When Fanny is known to him,\" continued Henry, \"he will doat on her.\nShe is exactly the woman to do away every prejudice of such a man as\nthe Admiral, for she he would describe, if indeed he has now delicacy\nof language enough to embody his own ideas. But till it is absolutely\nsettled--settled beyond all interference, he shall know nothing of the\nmatter. No, Mary, you are quite mistaken. You have not discovered my\nbusiness yet.\"\n\n\"Well, well, I am satisfied. I know now to whom it must relate, and am\nin no hurry for the rest. Fanny Price! wonderful, quite wonderful! That\nMansfield should have done so much for--that _you_ should have found\nyour fate in Mansfield! But you are quite right; you could not have\nchosen better. There is not a better girl in the world, and you do not\nwant for fortune; and as to her connexions, they are more than good. The\nBertrams are undoubtedly some of the first people in this country. She\nis niece to Sir Thomas Bertram; that will be enough for the world. But\ngo on, go on. Tell me more. What are your plans? Does she know her own\nhappiness?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"What are you waiting for?\"\n\n\"For--for very little more than opportunity. Mary, she is not like her\ncousins; but I think I shall not ask in vain.\"\n\n\"Oh no! you cannot. Were you even less pleasing--supposing her not to\nlove you already (of which, however, I can have little doubt)--you would\nbe safe. The gentleness and gratitude of her disposition would secure\nher all your own immediately. From my soul I do not think she would\nmarry you _without_ love; that is, if there is a girl in the world\ncapable of being uninfluenced by ambition, I can suppose it her; but ask\nher to love you, and she will never have the heart to refuse.\"\n\nAs soon as her eagerness could rest in silence, he was as happy to tell\nas she could be to listen; and a conversation followed almost as deeply\ninteresting to her as to himself, though he had in fact nothing to\nrelate but his own sensations, nothing to dwell on but Fanny's charms.\nFanny's beauty of face and figure, Fanny's graces of manner and goodness\nof heart, were the exhaustless theme. The gentleness, modesty, and\nsweetness of her character were warmly expatiated on; that sweetness\nwhich makes so essential a part of every woman's worth in the judgment\nof man, that though he sometimes loves where it is not, he can never\nbelieve it absent. Her temper he had good reason to depend on and\nto praise. He had often seen it tried. Was there one of the family,\nexcepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other continually exercised\nher patience and forbearance? Her affections were evidently strong. To\nsee her with her brother! What could more delightfully prove that the\nwarmth of her heart was equal to its gentleness? What could be more\nencouraging to a man who had her love in view? Then, her understanding\nwas beyond every suspicion, quick and clear; and her manners were the\nmirror of her own modest and elegant mind. Nor was this all. Henry\nCrawford had too much sense not to feel the worth of good principles\nin a wife, though he was too little accustomed to serious reflection to\nknow them by their proper name; but when he talked of her having such a\nsteadiness and regularity of conduct, such a high notion of honour, and\nsuch an observance of decorum as might warrant any man in the fullest\ndependence on her faith and integrity, he expressed what was inspired by\nthe knowledge of her being well principled and religious.\n\n\"I could so wholly and absolutely confide in her,\" said he; \"and _that_\nis what I want.\"\n\nWell might his sister, believing as she really did that his opinion of\nFanny Price was scarcely beyond her merits, rejoice in her prospects.\n\n\"The more I think of it,\" she cried, \"the more am I convinced that you\nare doing quite right; and though I should never have selected Fanny\nPrice as the girl most likely to attach you, I am now persuaded she is\nthe very one to make you happy. Your wicked project upon her peace turns\nout a clever thought indeed. You will both find your good in it.\"\n\n\"It was bad, very bad in me against such a creature; but I did not know\nher then; and she shall have no reason to lament the hour that first put\nit into my head. I will make her very happy, Mary; happier than she has\never yet been herself, or ever seen anybody else. I will not take her\nfrom Northamptonshire. I shall let Everingham, and rent a place in this\nneighbourhood; perhaps Stanwix Lodge. I shall let a seven years' lease\nof Everingham. I am sure of an excellent tenant at half a word. I could\nname three people now, who would give me my own terms and thank me.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" cried Mary; \"settle in Northamptonshire! That is pleasant! Then we\nshall be all together.\"\n\nWhen she had spoken it, she recollected herself, and wished it unsaid;\nbut there was no need of confusion; for her brother saw her only as the\nsupposed inmate of Mansfield parsonage, and replied but to invite her in\nthe kindest manner to his own house, and to claim the best right in her.\n\n\"You must give us more than half your time,\" said he. \"I cannot admit\nMrs. Grant to have an equal claim with Fanny and myself, for we shall\nboth have a right in you. Fanny will be so truly your sister!\"\n\nMary had only to be grateful and give general assurances; but she was\nnow very fully purposed to be the guest of neither brother nor sister\nmany months longer.\n\n\"You will divide your year between London and Northamptonshire?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"That's right; and in London, of course, a house of your own: no longer\nwith the Admiral. My dearest Henry, the advantage to you of getting away\nfrom the Admiral before your manners are hurt by the contagion of his,\nbefore you have contracted any of his foolish opinions, or learned to\nsit over your dinner as if it were the best blessing of life! _You_ are\nnot sensible of the gain, for your regard for him has blinded you; but,\nin my estimation, your marrying early may be the saving of you. To have\nseen you grow like the Admiral in word or deed, look or gesture, would\nhave broken my heart.\"\n\n\"Well, well, we do not think quite alike here. The Admiral has his\nfaults, but he is a very good man, and has been more than a father to\nme. Few fathers would have let me have my own way half so much. You must\nnot prejudice Fanny against him. I must have them love one another.\"\n\nMary refrained from saying what she felt, that there could not be two\npersons in existence whose characters and manners were less accordant:\ntime would discover it to him; but she could not help _this_ reflection\non the Admiral. \"Henry, I think so highly of Fanny Price, that if I\ncould suppose the next Mrs. Crawford would have half the reason which\nmy poor ill-used aunt had to abhor the very name, I would prevent the\nmarriage, if possible; but I know you: I know that a wife you _loved_\nwould be the happiest of women, and that even when you ceased to\nlove, she would yet find in you the liberality and good-breeding of a\ngentleman.\"\n\nThe impossibility of not doing everything in the world to make Fanny\nPrice happy, or of ceasing to love Fanny Price, was of course the\ngroundwork of his eloquent answer.\n\n\"Had you seen her this morning, Mary,\" he continued, \"attending with\nsuch ineffable sweetness and patience to all the demands of her aunt's\nstupidity, working with her, and for her, her colour beautifully\nheightened as she leant over the work, then returning to her seat to\nfinish a note which she was previously engaged in writing for that\nstupid woman's service, and all this with such unpretending gentleness,\nso much as if it were a matter of course that she was not to have a\nmoment at her own command, her hair arranged as neatly as it always is,\nand one little curl falling forward as she wrote, which she now and then\nshook back, and in the midst of all this, still speaking at intervals to\n_me_, or listening, and as if she liked to listen, to what I said. Had\nyou seen her so, Mary, you would not have implied the possibility of her\npower over my heart ever ceasing.\"\n\n\"My dearest Henry,\" cried Mary, stopping short, and smiling in his face,\n\"how glad I am to see you so much in love! It quite delights me. But\nwhat will Mrs. Rushworth and Julia say?\"\n\n\"I care neither what they say nor what they feel. They will now see what\nsort of woman it is that can attach me, that can attach a man of sense.\nI wish the discovery may do them any good. And they will now see their\ncousin treated as she ought to be, and I wish they may be heartily\nashamed of their own abominable neglect and unkindness. They will be\nangry,\" he added, after a moment's silence, and in a cooler tone; \"Mrs.\nRushworth will be very angry. It will be a bitter pill to her; that is,\nlike other bitter pills, it will have two moments' ill flavour, and then\nbe swallowed and forgotten; for I am not such a coxcomb as to suppose\nher feelings more lasting than other women's, though _I_ was the object\nof them. Yes, Mary, my Fanny will feel a difference indeed: a daily,\nhourly difference, in the behaviour of every being who approaches her;\nand it will be the completion of my happiness to know that I am the doer\nof it, that I am the person to give the consequence so justly her due.\nNow she is dependent, helpless, friendless, neglected, forgotten.\"\n\n\"Nay, Henry, not by all; not forgotten by all; not friendless or\nforgotten. Her cousin Edmund never forgets her.\"\n\n\"Edmund! True, I believe he is, generally speaking, kind to her, and\nso is Sir Thomas in his way; but it is the way of a rich, superior,\nlong-worded, arbitrary uncle. What can Sir Thomas and Edmund together\ndo, what do they _do_ for her happiness, comfort, honour, and dignity in\nthe world, to what I _shall_ do?\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\nHenry Crawford was at Mansfield Park again the next morning, and at an\nearlier hour than common visiting warrants. The two ladies were together\nin the breakfast-room, and, fortunately for him, Lady Bertram was on the\nvery point of quitting it as he entered. She was almost at the door, and\nnot chusing by any means to take so much trouble in vain, she still went\non, after a civil reception, a short sentence about being waited for,\nand a \"Let Sir Thomas know\" to the servant.\n\nHenry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and watched her off, and without\nlosing another moment, turned instantly to Fanny, and, taking out some\nletters, said, with a most animated look, \"I must acknowledge myself\ninfinitely obliged to any creature who gives me such an opportunity\nof seeing you alone: I have been wishing it more than you can have any\nidea. Knowing as I do what your feelings as a sister are, I could hardly\nhave borne that any one in the house should share with you in the\nfirst knowledge of the news I now bring. He is made. Your brother is a\nlieutenant. I have the infinite satisfaction of congratulating you on\nyour brother's promotion. Here are the letters which announce it, this\nmoment come to hand. You will, perhaps, like to see them.\"\n\nFanny could not speak, but he did not want her to speak. To see the\nexpression of her eyes, the change of her complexion, the progress of\nher feelings, their doubt, confusion, and felicity, was enough. She took\nthe letters as he gave them. The first was from the Admiral to inform\nhis nephew, in a few words, of his having succeeded in the object he had\nundertaken, the promotion of young Price, and enclosing two more, one\nfrom the Secretary of the First Lord to a friend, whom the Admiral had\nset to work in the business, the other from that friend to himself,\nby which it appeared that his lordship had the very great happiness of\nattending to the recommendation of Sir Charles; that Sir Charles was\nmuch delighted in having such an opportunity of proving his regard\nfor Admiral Crawford, and that the circumstance of Mr. William Price's\ncommission as Second Lieutenant of H.M. Sloop Thrush being made out was\nspreading general joy through a wide circle of great people.\n\nWhile her hand was trembling under these letters, her eye running from\none to the other, and her heart swelling with emotion, Crawford thus\ncontinued, with unfeigned eagerness, to express his interest in the\nevent--\n\n\"I will not talk of my own happiness,\" said he, \"great as it is, for I\nthink only of yours. Compared with you, who has a right to be happy? I\nhave almost grudged myself my own prior knowledge of what you ought to\nhave known before all the world. I have not lost a moment, however.\nThe post was late this morning, but there has not been since a moment's\ndelay. How impatient, how anxious, how wild I have been on the subject,\nI will not attempt to describe; how severely mortified, how cruelly\ndisappointed, in not having it finished while I was in London! I was\nkept there from day to day in the hope of it, for nothing less dear\nto me than such an object would have detained me half the time from\nMansfield. But though my uncle entered into my wishes with all the\nwarmth I could desire, and exerted himself immediately, there were\ndifficulties from the absence of one friend, and the engagements of\nanother, which at last I could no longer bear to stay the end of, and\nknowing in what good hands I left the cause, I came away on Monday,\ntrusting that many posts would not pass before I should be followed by\nsuch very letters as these. My uncle, who is the very best man in\nthe world, has exerted himself, as I knew he would, after seeing your\nbrother. He was delighted with him. I would not allow myself yesterday\nto say how delighted, or to repeat half that the Admiral said in his\npraise. I deferred it all till his praise should be proved the praise of\na friend, as this day _does_ prove it. _Now_ I may say that even I could\nnot require William Price to excite a greater interest, or be followed\nby warmer wishes and higher commendation, than were most voluntarily\nbestowed by my uncle after the evening they had passed together.\"\n\n\"Has this been all _your_ doing, then?\" cried Fanny. \"Good heaven! how\nvery, very kind! Have you really--was it by _your_ desire? I beg your\npardon, but I am bewildered. Did Admiral Crawford apply? How was it? I\nam stupefied.\"\n\nHenry was most happy to make it more intelligible, by beginning at an\nearlier stage, and explaining very particularly what he had done. His\nlast journey to London had been undertaken with no other view than that\nof introducing her brother in Hill Street, and prevailing on the Admiral\nto exert whatever interest he might have for getting him on. This had\nbeen his business. He had communicated it to no creature: he had not\nbreathed a syllable of it even to Mary; while uncertain of the issue,\nhe could not have borne any participation of his feelings, but this had\nbeen his business; and he spoke with such a glow of what his solicitude\nhad been, and used such strong expressions, was so abounding in the\n_deepest_ _interest_, in _twofold_ _motives_, in _views_ _and_ _wishes_\n_more_ _than_ _could_ _be_ _told_, that Fanny could not have remained\ninsensible of his drift, had she been able to attend; but her heart was\nso full and her senses still so astonished, that she could listen but\nimperfectly even to what he told her of William, and saying only when\nhe paused, \"How kind! how very kind! Oh, Mr. Crawford, we are infinitely\nobliged to you! Dearest, dearest William!\" She jumped up and moved in\nhaste towards the door, crying out, \"I will go to my uncle. My uncle\nought to know it as soon as possible.\" But this could not be suffered.\nThe opportunity was too fair, and his feelings too impatient. He was\nafter her immediately. \"She must not go, she must allow him five minutes\nlonger,\" and he took her hand and led her back to her seat, and was in\nthe middle of his farther explanation, before she had suspected for what\nshe was detained. When she did understand it, however, and found herself\nexpected to believe that she had created sensations which his heart had\nnever known before, and that everything he had done for William was to\nbe placed to the account of his excessive and unequalled attachment\nto her, she was exceedingly distressed, and for some moments unable\nto speak. She considered it all as nonsense, as mere trifling and\ngallantry, which meant only to deceive for the hour; she could not but\nfeel that it was treating her improperly and unworthily, and in such a\nway as she had not deserved; but it was like himself, and entirely of a\npiece with what she had seen before; and she would not allow herself to\nshew half the displeasure she felt, because he had been conferring an\nobligation, which no want of delicacy on his part could make a trifle\nto her. While her heart was still bounding with joy and gratitude on\nWilliam's behalf, she could not be severely resentful of anything that\ninjured only herself; and after having twice drawn back her hand, and\ntwice attempted in vain to turn away from him, she got up, and said\nonly, with much agitation, \"Don't, Mr. Crawford, pray don't! I beg you\nwould not. This is a sort of talking which is very unpleasant to me. I\nmust go away. I cannot bear it.\" But he was still talking on, describing\nhis affection, soliciting a return, and, finally, in words so plain as\nto bear but one meaning even to her, offering himself, hand, fortune,\neverything, to her acceptance. It was so; he had said it. Her\nastonishment and confusion increased; and though still not knowing\nhow to suppose him serious, she could hardly stand. He pressed for an\nanswer.\n\n\"No, no, no!\" she cried, hiding her face. \"This is all nonsense. Do not\ndistress me. I can hear no more of this. Your kindness to William makes\nme more obliged to you than words can express; but I do not want, I\ncannot bear, I must not listen to such--No, no, don't think of me. But\nyou are _not_ thinking of me. I know it is all nothing.\"\n\nShe had burst away from him, and at that moment Sir Thomas was heard\nspeaking to a servant in his way towards the room they were in. It was\nno time for farther assurances or entreaty, though to part with her at\na moment when her modesty alone seemed, to his sanguine and preassured\nmind, to stand in the way of the happiness he sought, was a cruel\nnecessity. She rushed out at an opposite door from the one her uncle\nwas approaching, and was walking up and down the East room in the\nutmost confusion of contrary feeling, before Sir Thomas's politeness\nor apologies were over, or he had reached the beginning of the joyful\nintelligence which his visitor came to communicate.\n\nShe was feeling, thinking, trembling about everything; agitated, happy,\nmiserable, infinitely obliged, absolutely angry. It was all beyond\nbelief! He was inexcusable, incomprehensible! But such were his habits\nthat he could do nothing without a mixture of evil. He had previously\nmade her the happiest of human beings, and now he had insulted--she knew\nnot what to say, how to class, or how to regard it. She would not have\nhim be serious, and yet what could excuse the use of such words and\noffers, if they meant but to trifle?\n\nBut William was a lieutenant. _That_ was a fact beyond a doubt, and\nwithout an alloy. She would think of it for ever and forget all the\nrest. Mr. Crawford would certainly never address her so again: he must\nhave seen how unwelcome it was to her; and in that case, how gratefully\nshe could esteem him for his friendship to William!\n\nShe would not stir farther from the East room than the head of the great\nstaircase, till she had satisfied herself of Mr. Crawford's having left\nthe house; but when convinced of his being gone, she was eager to go\ndown and be with her uncle, and have all the happiness of his joy\nas well as her own, and all the benefit of his information or his\nconjectures as to what would now be William's destination. Sir Thomas\nwas as joyful as she could desire, and very kind and communicative; and\nshe had so comfortable a talk with him about William as to make her\nfeel as if nothing had occurred to vex her, till she found, towards the\nclose, that Mr. Crawford was engaged to return and dine there that\nvery day. This was a most unwelcome hearing, for though he might think\nnothing of what had passed, it would be quite distressing to her to see\nhim again so soon.\n\nShe tried to get the better of it; tried very hard, as the dinner hour\napproached, to feel and appear as usual; but it was quite impossible for\nher not to look most shy and uncomfortable when their visitor entered\nthe room. She could not have supposed it in the power of any concurrence\nof circumstances to give her so many painful sensations on the first day\nof hearing of William's promotion.\n\nMr. Crawford was not only in the room--he was soon close to her. He\nhad a note to deliver from his sister. Fanny could not look at him, but\nthere was no consciousness of past folly in his voice. She opened her\nnote immediately, glad to have anything to do, and happy, as she read\nit, to feel that the fidgetings of her aunt Norris, who was also to dine\nthere, screened her a little from view.\n\n\"My dear Fanny,--for so I may now always call you, to the infinite\nrelief of a tongue that has been stumbling at _Miss_ _Price_ for at\nleast the last six weeks--I cannot let my brother go without sending you\na few lines of general congratulation, and giving my most joyful consent\nand approval. Go on, my dear Fanny, and without fear; there can be no\ndifficulties worth naming. I chuse to suppose that the assurance of my\nconsent will be something; so you may smile upon him with your sweetest\nsmiles this afternoon, and send him back to me even happier than he\ngoes.--Yours affectionately, M. C.\"\n\nThese were not expressions to do Fanny any good; for though she read\nin too much haste and confusion to form the clearest judgment of Miss\nCrawford's meaning, it was evident that she meant to compliment her on\nher brother's attachment, and even to _appear_ to believe it serious.\nShe did not know what to do, or what to think. There was wretchedness in\nthe idea of its being serious; there was perplexity and agitation every\nway. She was distressed whenever Mr. Crawford spoke to her, and he spoke\nto her much too often; and she was afraid there was a something in his\nvoice and manner in addressing her very different from what they were\nwhen he talked to the others. Her comfort in that day's dinner was\nquite destroyed: she could hardly eat anything; and when Sir Thomas\ngood-humouredly observed that joy had taken away her appetite, she\nwas ready to sink with shame, from the dread of Mr. Crawford's\ninterpretation; for though nothing could have tempted her to turn\nher eyes to the right hand, where he sat, she felt that _his_ were\nimmediately directed towards her.\n\nShe was more silent than ever. She would hardly join even when William\nwas the subject, for his commission came all from the right hand too,\nand there was pain in the connexion.\n\nShe thought Lady Bertram sat longer than ever, and began to be in\ndespair of ever getting away; but at last they were in the drawing-room,\nand she was able to think as she would, while her aunts finished the\nsubject of William's appointment in their own style.\n\nMrs. Norris seemed as much delighted with the saving it would be to\nSir Thomas as with any part of it. \"_Now_ William would be able to keep\nhimself, which would make a vast difference to his uncle, for it was\nunknown how much he had cost his uncle; and, indeed, it would make some\ndifference in _her_ presents too. She was very glad that she had given\nWilliam what she did at parting, very glad, indeed, that it had been in\nher power, without material inconvenience, just at that time to give him\nsomething rather considerable; that is, for _her_, with _her_ limited\nmeans, for now it would all be useful in helping to fit up his cabin.\nShe knew he must be at some expense, that he would have many things to\nbuy, though to be sure his father and mother would be able to put him in\nthe way of getting everything very cheap; but she was very glad she had\ncontributed her mite towards it.\"\n\n\"I am glad you gave him something considerable,\" said Lady Bertram, with\nmost unsuspicious calmness, \"for _I_ gave him only 10.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" cried Mrs. Norris, reddening. \"Upon my word, he must have gone\noff with his pockets well lined, and at no expense for his journey to\nLondon either!\"\n\n\"Sir Thomas told me 10 would be enough.\"\n\nMrs. Norris, being not at all inclined to question its sufficiency,\nbegan to take the matter in another point.\n\n\"It is amazing,\" said she, \"how much young people cost their friends,\nwhat with bringing them up and putting them out in the world! They\nlittle think how much it comes to, or what their parents, or their\nuncles and aunts, pay for them in the course of the year. Now, here are\nmy sister Price's children; take them all together, I dare say nobody\nwould believe what a sum they cost Sir Thomas every year, to say nothing\nof what _I_ do for them.\"\n\n\"Very true, sister, as you say. But, poor things! they cannot help\nit; and you know it makes very little difference to Sir Thomas. Fanny,\nWilliam must not forget my shawl if he goes to the East Indies; and I\nshall give him a commission for anything else that is worth having. I\nwish he may go to the East Indies, that I may have my shawl. I think I\nwill have two shawls, Fanny.\"\n\nFanny, meanwhile, speaking only when she could not help it, was very\nearnestly trying to understand what Mr. and Miss Crawford were at. There\nwas everything in the world _against_ their being serious but his words\nand manner. Everything natural, probable, reasonable, was against it;\nall their habits and ways of thinking, and all her own demerits. How\ncould _she_ have excited serious attachment in a man who had seen so\nmany, and been admired by so many, and flirted with so many, infinitely\nher superiors; who seemed so little open to serious impressions, even\nwhere pains had been taken to please him; who thought so slightly, so\ncarelessly, so unfeelingly on all such points; who was everything to\neverybody, and seemed to find no one essential to him? And farther,\nhow could it be supposed that his sister, with all her high and worldly\nnotions of matrimony, would be forwarding anything of a serious nature\nin such a quarter? Nothing could be more unnatural in either. Fanny\nwas ashamed of her own doubts. Everything might be possible rather than\nserious attachment, or serious approbation of it toward her. She had\nquite convinced herself of this before Sir Thomas and Mr. Crawford\njoined them. The difficulty was in maintaining the conviction quite so\nabsolutely after Mr. Crawford was in the room; for once or twice a\nlook seemed forced on her which she did not know how to class among the\ncommon meaning; in any other man, at least, she would have said that\nit meant something very earnest, very pointed. But she still tried to\nbelieve it no more than what he might often have expressed towards her\ncousins and fifty other women.\n\nShe thought he was wishing to speak to her unheard by the rest. She\nfancied he was trying for it the whole evening at intervals, whenever\nSir Thomas was out of the room, or at all engaged with Mrs. Norris, and\nshe carefully refused him every opportunity.\n\nAt last--it seemed an at last to Fanny's nervousness, though not\nremarkably late--he began to talk of going away; but the comfort of the\nsound was impaired by his turning to her the next moment, and saying,\n\"Have you nothing to send to Mary? No answer to her note? She will be\ndisappointed if she receives nothing from you. Pray write to her, if it\nbe only a line.\"\n\n\"Oh yes! certainly,\" cried Fanny, rising in haste, the haste of\nembarrassment and of wanting to get away--\"I will write directly.\"\n\nShe went accordingly to the table, where she was in the habit of writing\nfor her aunt, and prepared her materials without knowing what in the\nworld to say. She had read Miss Crawford's note only once, and how to\nreply to anything so imperfectly understood was most distressing.\nQuite unpractised in such sort of note-writing, had there been time for\nscruples and fears as to style she would have felt them in abundance:\nbut something must be instantly written; and with only one decided\nfeeling, that of wishing not to appear to think anything really\nintended, she wrote thus, in great trembling both of spirits and hand--\n\n\"I am very much obliged to you, my dear Miss Crawford, for your kind\ncongratulations, as far as they relate to my dearest William. The rest\nof your note I know means nothing; but I am so unequal to anything of\nthe sort, that I hope you will excuse my begging you to take no farther\nnotice. I have seen too much of Mr. Crawford not to understand his\nmanners; if he understood me as well, he would, I dare say, behave\ndifferently. I do not know what I write, but it would be a great favour\nof you never to mention the subject again. With thanks for the honour of\nyour note, I remain, dear Miss Crawford, etc., etc.\"\n\nThe conclusion was scarcely intelligible from increasing fright, for\nshe found that Mr. Crawford, under pretence of receiving the note, was\ncoming towards her.\n\n\"You cannot think I mean to hurry you,\" said he, in an undervoice,\nperceiving the amazing trepidation with which she made up the note, \"you\ncannot think I have any such object. Do not hurry yourself, I entreat.\"\n\n\"Oh! I thank you; I have quite done, just done; it will be ready in a\nmoment; I am very much obliged to you; if you will be so good as to give\n_that_ to Miss Crawford.\"\n\nThe note was held out, and must be taken; and as she instantly and with\naverted eyes walked towards the fireplace, where sat the others, he had\nnothing to do but to go in good earnest.\n\nFanny thought she had never known a day of greater agitation, both of\npain and pleasure; but happily the pleasure was not of a sort to die\nwith the day; for every day would restore the knowledge of William's\nadvancement, whereas the pain, she hoped, would return no more. She had\nno doubt that her note must appear excessively ill-written, that\nthe language would disgrace a child, for her distress had allowed no\narrangement; but at least it would assure them both of her being neither\nimposed on nor gratified by Mr. Crawford's attentions.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\nFanny had by no means forgotten Mr. Crawford when she awoke the next\nmorning; but she remembered the purport of her note, and was not less\nsanguine as to its effect than she had been the night before. If Mr.\nCrawford would but go away! That was what she most earnestly desired:\ngo and take his sister with him, as he was to do, and as he returned to\nMansfield on purpose to do. And why it was not done already she could\nnot devise, for Miss Crawford certainly wanted no delay. Fanny had\nhoped, in the course of his yesterday's visit, to hear the day named;\nbut he had only spoken of their journey as what would take place ere\nlong.\n\nHaving so satisfactorily settled the conviction her note would convey,\nshe could not but be astonished to see Mr. Crawford, as she accidentally\ndid, coming up to the house again, and at an hour as early as the day\nbefore. His coming might have nothing to do with her, but she must avoid\nseeing him if possible; and being then on her way upstairs, she resolved\nthere to remain, during the whole of his visit, unless actually sent\nfor; and as Mrs. Norris was still in the house, there seemed little\ndanger of her being wanted.\n\nShe sat some time in a good deal of agitation, listening, trembling, and\nfearing to be sent for every moment; but as no footsteps approached the\nEast room, she grew gradually composed, could sit down, and be able to\nemploy herself, and able to hope that Mr. Crawford had come and would go\nwithout her being obliged to know anything of the matter.\n\nNearly half an hour had passed, and she was growing very comfortable,\nwhen suddenly the sound of a step in regular approach was heard; a heavy\nstep, an unusual step in that part of the house: it was her uncle's; she\nknew it as well as his voice; she had trembled at it as often, and began\nto tremble again, at the idea of his coming up to speak to her, whatever\nmight be the subject. It was indeed Sir Thomas who opened the door and\nasked if she were there, and if he might come in. The terror of his\nformer occasional visits to that room seemed all renewed, and she felt\nas if he were going to examine her again in French and English.\n\nShe was all attention, however, in placing a chair for him, and trying\nto appear honoured; and, in her agitation, had quite overlooked the\ndeficiencies of her apartment, till he, stopping short as he entered,\nsaid, with much surprise, \"Why have you no fire to-day?\"\n\nThere was snow on the ground, and she was sitting in a shawl. She\nhesitated.\n\n\"I am not cold, sir: I never sit here long at this time of year.\"\n\n\"But you have a fire in general?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\n\"How comes this about? Here must be some mistake. I understood that you\nhad the use of this room by way of making you perfectly comfortable.\nIn your bedchamber I know you _cannot_ have a fire. Here is some great\nmisapprehension which must be rectified. It is highly unfit for you to\nsit, be it only half an hour a day, without a fire. You are not strong.\nYou are chilly. Your aunt cannot be aware of this.\"\n\nFanny would rather have been silent; but being obliged to speak, she\ncould not forbear, in justice to the aunt she loved best, from saying\nsomething in which the words \"my aunt Norris\" were distinguishable.\n\n\"I understand,\" cried her uncle, recollecting himself, and not wanting\nto hear more: \"I understand. Your aunt Norris has always been an\nadvocate, and very judiciously, for young people's being brought up\nwithout unnecessary indulgences; but there should be moderation in\neverything. She is also very hardy herself, which of course will\ninfluence her in her opinion of the wants of others. And on another\naccount, too, I can perfectly comprehend. I know what her sentiments\nhave always been. The principle was good in itself, but it may have\nbeen, and I believe _has_ _been_, carried too far in your case. I\nam aware that there has been sometimes, in some points, a misplaced\ndistinction; but I think too well of you, Fanny, to suppose you will\never harbour resentment on that account. You have an understanding\nwhich will prevent you from receiving things only in part, and judging\npartially by the event. You will take in the whole of the past, you\nwill consider times, persons, and probabilities, and you will feel that\n_they_ were not least your friends who were educating and preparing you\nfor that mediocrity of condition which _seemed_ to be your lot. Though\ntheir caution may prove eventually unnecessary, it was kindly meant; and\nof this you may be assured, that every advantage of affluence will be\ndoubled by the little privations and restrictions that may have been\nimposed. I am sure you will not disappoint my opinion of you, by failing\nat any time to treat your aunt Norris with the respect and attention\nthat are due to her. But enough of this. Sit down, my dear. I must speak\nto you for a few minutes, but I will not detain you long.\"\n\nFanny obeyed, with eyes cast down and colour rising. After a moment's\npause, Sir Thomas, trying to suppress a smile, went on.\n\n\"You are not aware, perhaps, that I have had a visitor this morning. I\nhad not been long in my own room, after breakfast, when Mr. Crawford was\nshewn in. His errand you may probably conjecture.\"\n\nFanny's colour grew deeper and deeper; and her uncle, perceiving that\nshe was embarrassed to a degree that made either speaking or looking\nup quite impossible, turned away his own eyes, and without any farther\npause proceeded in his account of Mr. Crawford's visit.\n\nMr. Crawford's business had been to declare himself the lover of Fanny,\nmake decided proposals for her, and entreat the sanction of the uncle,\nwho seemed to stand in the place of her parents; and he had done it all\nso well, so openly, so liberally, so properly, that Sir Thomas, feeling,\nmoreover, his own replies, and his own remarks to have been very much\nto the purpose, was exceedingly happy to give the particulars of their\nconversation; and little aware of what was passing in his niece's mind,\nconceived that by such details he must be gratifying her far more than\nhimself. He talked, therefore, for several minutes without Fanny's\ndaring to interrupt him. She had hardly even attained the wish to do it.\nHer mind was in too much confusion. She had changed her position; and,\nwith her eyes fixed intently on one of the windows, was listening to her\nuncle in the utmost perturbation and dismay. For a moment he ceased, but\nshe had barely become conscious of it, when, rising from his chair, he\nsaid, \"And now, Fanny, having performed one part of my commission,\nand shewn you everything placed on a basis the most assured and\nsatisfactory, I may execute the remainder by prevailing on you to\naccompany me downstairs, where, though I cannot but presume on having\nbeen no unacceptable companion myself, I must submit to your finding\none still better worth listening to. Mr. Crawford, as you have perhaps\nforeseen, is yet in the house. He is in my room, and hoping to see you\nthere.\"\n\nThere was a look, a start, an exclamation on hearing this, which\nastonished Sir Thomas; but what was his increase of astonishment on\nhearing her exclaim--\"Oh! no, sir, I cannot, indeed I cannot go down to\nhim. Mr. Crawford ought to know--he must know that: I told him enough\nyesterday to convince him; he spoke to me on this subject yesterday,\nand I told him without disguise that it was very disagreeable to me, and\nquite out of my power to return his good opinion.\"\n\n\"I do not catch your meaning,\" said Sir Thomas, sitting down again. \"Out\nof your power to return his good opinion? What is all this? I know he\nspoke to you yesterday, and (as far as I understand) received as much\nencouragement to proceed as a well-judging young woman could permit\nherself to give. I was very much pleased with what I collected to have\nbeen your behaviour on the occasion; it shewed a discretion highly to\nbe commended. But now, when he has made his overtures so properly, and\nhonourably--what are your scruples _now_?\"\n\n\"You are mistaken, sir,\" cried Fanny, forced by the anxiety of the\nmoment even to tell her uncle that he was wrong; \"you are quite\nmistaken. How could Mr. Crawford say such a thing? I gave him no\nencouragement yesterday. On the contrary, I told him, I cannot recollect\nmy exact words, but I am sure I told him that I would not listen to him,\nthat it was very unpleasant to me in every respect, and that I begged\nhim never to talk to me in that manner again. I am sure I said as much\nas that and more; and I should have said still more, if I had been quite\ncertain of his meaning anything seriously; but I did not like to be, I\ncould not bear to be, imputing more than might be intended. I thought it\nmight all pass for nothing with _him_.\"\n\nShe could say no more; her breath was almost gone.\n\n\"Am I to understand,\" said Sir Thomas, after a few moments' silence,\n\"that you mean to _refuse_ Mr. Crawford?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Refuse him?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Refuse Mr. Crawford! Upon what plea? For what reason?\"\n\n\"I--I cannot like him, sir, well enough to marry him.\"\n\n\"This is very strange!\" said Sir Thomas, in a voice of calm displeasure.\n\"There is something in this which my comprehension does not reach. Here\nis a young man wishing to pay his addresses to you, with everything to\nrecommend him: not merely situation in life, fortune, and character,\nbut with more than common agreeableness, with address and conversation\npleasing to everybody. And he is not an acquaintance of to-day; you have\nnow known him some time. His sister, moreover, is your intimate friend,\nand he has been doing _that_ for your brother, which I should suppose\nwould have been almost sufficient recommendation to you, had there been\nno other. It is very uncertain when my interest might have got William\non. He has done it already.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Fanny, in a faint voice, and looking down with fresh shame;\nand she did feel almost ashamed of herself, after such a picture as her\nuncle had drawn, for not liking Mr. Crawford.\n\n\"You must have been aware,\" continued Sir Thomas presently, \"you must\nhave been some time aware of a particularity in Mr. Crawford's manners\nto you. This cannot have taken you by surprise. You must have observed\nhis attentions; and though you always received them very properly (I\nhave no accusation to make on that head), I never perceived them to be\nunpleasant to you. I am half inclined to think, Fanny, that you do not\nquite know your own feelings.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, sir! indeed I do. His attentions were always--what I did not\nlike.\"\n\nSir Thomas looked at her with deeper surprise. \"This is beyond me,\"\nsaid he. \"This requires explanation. Young as you are, and having seen\nscarcely any one, it is hardly possible that your affections--\"\n\nHe paused and eyed her fixedly. He saw her lips formed into a _no_,\nthough the sound was inarticulate, but her face was like scarlet. That,\nhowever, in so modest a girl, might be very compatible with innocence;\nand chusing at least to appear satisfied, he quickly added, \"No, no, I\nknow _that_ is quite out of the question; quite impossible. Well, there\nis nothing more to be said.\"\n\nAnd for a few minutes he did say nothing. He was deep in thought. His\nniece was deep in thought likewise, trying to harden and prepare herself\nagainst farther questioning. She would rather die than own the truth;\nand she hoped, by a little reflection, to fortify herself beyond\nbetraying it.\n\n\"Independently of the interest which Mr. Crawford's _choice_ seemed to\njustify\" said Sir Thomas, beginning again, and very composedly, \"his\nwishing to marry at all so early is recommendatory to me. I am an\nadvocate for early marriages, where there are means in proportion, and\nwould have every young man, with a sufficient income, settle as soon\nafter four-and-twenty as he can. This is so much my opinion, that I am\nsorry to think how little likely my own eldest son, your cousin, Mr.\nBertram, is to marry early; but at present, as far as I can judge,\nmatrimony makes no part of his plans or thoughts. I wish he were more\nlikely to fix.\" Here was a glance at Fanny. \"Edmund, I consider, from\nhis dispositions and habits, as much more likely to marry early than\nhis brother. _He_, indeed, I have lately thought, has seen the woman he\ncould love, which, I am convinced, my eldest son has not. Am I right? Do\nyou agree with me, my dear?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nIt was gently, but it was calmly said, and Sir Thomas was easy on the\nscore of the cousins. But the removal of his alarm did his niece\nno service: as her unaccountableness was confirmed his displeasure\nincreased; and getting up and walking about the room with a frown, which\nFanny could picture to herself, though she dared not lift up her eyes,\nhe shortly afterwards, and in a voice of authority, said, \"Have you any\nreason, child, to think ill of Mr. Crawford's temper?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\nShe longed to add, \"But of his principles I have\"; but her heart sunk\nunder the appalling prospect of discussion, explanation, and probably\nnon-conviction. Her ill opinion of him was founded chiefly on\nobservations, which, for her cousins' sake, she could scarcely dare\nmention to their father. Maria and Julia, and especially Maria, were so\nclosely implicated in Mr. Crawford's misconduct, that she could not give\nhis character, such as she believed it, without betraying them. She had\nhoped that, to a man like her uncle, so discerning, so honourable, so\ngood, the simple acknowledgment of settled _dislike_ on her side would\nhave been sufficient. To her infinite grief she found it was not.\n\nSir Thomas came towards the table where she sat in trembling\nwretchedness, and with a good deal of cold sternness, said, \"It is of no\nuse, I perceive, to talk to you. We had better put an end to this most\nmortifying conference. Mr. Crawford must not be kept longer waiting. I\nwill, therefore, only add, as thinking it my duty to mark my opinion of\nyour conduct, that you have disappointed every expectation I had formed,\nand proved yourself of a character the very reverse of what I had\nsupposed. For I _had_, Fanny, as I think my behaviour must have shewn,\nformed a very favourable opinion of you from the period of my return to\nEngland. I had thought you peculiarly free from wilfulness of temper,\nself-conceit, and every tendency to that independence of spirit which\nprevails so much in modern days, even in young women, and which in young\nwomen is offensive and disgusting beyond all common offence. But you\nhave now shewn me that you can be wilful and perverse; that you can and\nwill decide for yourself, without any consideration or deference for\nthose who have surely some right to guide you, without even asking their\nadvice. You have shewn yourself very, very different from anything that\nI had imagined. The advantage or disadvantage of your family, of your\nparents, your brothers and sisters, never seems to have had a moment's\nshare in your thoughts on this occasion. How _they_ might be benefited,\nhow _they_ must rejoice in such an establishment for you, is nothing to\n_you_. You think only of yourself, and because you do not feel for Mr.\nCrawford exactly what a young heated fancy imagines to be necessary for\nhappiness, you resolve to refuse him at once, without wishing even for\na little time to consider of it, a little more time for cool\nconsideration, and for really examining your own inclinations; and are,\nin a wild fit of folly, throwing away from you such an opportunity of\nbeing settled in life, eligibly, honourably, nobly settled, as will,\nprobably, never occur to you again. Here is a young man of sense, of\ncharacter, of temper, of manners, and of fortune, exceedingly attached\nto you, and seeking your hand in the most handsome and disinterested\nway; and let me tell you, Fanny, that you may live eighteen years longer\nin the world without being addressed by a man of half Mr. Crawford's\nestate, or a tenth part of his merits. Gladly would I have bestowed\neither of my own daughters on him. Maria is nobly married; but had\nMr. Crawford sought Julia's hand, I should have given it to him with\nsuperior and more heartfelt satisfaction than I gave Maria's to Mr.\nRushworth.\" After half a moment's pause: \"And I should have been very\nmuch surprised had either of my daughters, on receiving a proposal\nof marriage at any time which might carry with it only _half_ the\neligibility of _this_, immediately and peremptorily, and without paying\nmy opinion or my regard the compliment of any consultation, put a\ndecided negative on it. I should have been much surprised and much hurt\nby such a proceeding. I should have thought it a gross violation of duty\nand respect. _You_ are not to be judged by the same rule. You do not\nowe me the duty of a child. But, Fanny, if your heart can acquit you of\n_ingratitude_--\"\n\nHe ceased. Fanny was by this time crying so bitterly that, angry as he\nwas, he would not press that article farther. Her heart was almost broke\nby such a picture of what she appeared to him; by such accusations,\nso heavy, so multiplied, so rising in dreadful gradation! Self-willed,\nobstinate, selfish, and ungrateful. He thought her all this. She had\ndeceived his expectations; she had lost his good opinion. What was to\nbecome of her?\n\n\"I am very sorry,\" said she inarticulately, through her tears, \"I am\nvery sorry indeed.\"\n\n\"Sorry! yes, I hope you are sorry; and you will probably have reason to\nbe long sorry for this day's transactions.\"\n\n\"If it were possible for me to do otherwise\" said she, with another\nstrong effort; \"but I am so perfectly convinced that I could never make\nhim happy, and that I should be miserable myself.\"\n\nAnother burst of tears; but in spite of that burst, and in spite of that\ngreat black word _miserable_, which served to introduce it, Sir Thomas\nbegan to think a little relenting, a little change of inclination, might\nhave something to do with it; and to augur favourably from the personal\nentreaty of the young man himself. He knew her to be very timid, and\nexceedingly nervous; and thought it not improbable that her mind\nmight be in such a state as a little time, a little pressing, a little\npatience, and a little impatience, a judicious mixture of all on the\nlover's side, might work their usual effect on. If the gentleman would\nbut persevere, if he had but love enough to persevere, Sir Thomas began\nto have hopes; and these reflections having passed across his mind and\ncheered it, \"Well,\" said he, in a tone of becoming gravity, but of less\nanger, \"well, child, dry up your tears. There is no use in these tears;\nthey can do no good. You must now come downstairs with me. Mr. Crawford\nhas been kept waiting too long already. You must give him your own\nanswer: we cannot expect him to be satisfied with less; and you only\ncan explain to him the grounds of that misconception of your sentiments,\nwhich, unfortunately for himself, he certainly has imbibed. I am totally\nunequal to it.\"\n\nBut Fanny shewed such reluctance, such misery, at the idea of going down\nto him, that Sir Thomas, after a little consideration, judged it better\nto indulge her. His hopes from both gentleman and lady suffered a small\ndepression in consequence; but when he looked at his niece, and saw the\nstate of feature and complexion which her crying had brought her\ninto, he thought there might be as much lost as gained by an immediate\ninterview. With a few words, therefore, of no particular meaning, he\nwalked off by himself, leaving his poor niece to sit and cry over what\nhad passed, with very wretched feelings.\n\nHer mind was all disorder. The past, present, future, everything was\nterrible. But her uncle's anger gave her the severest pain of all.\nSelfish and ungrateful! to have appeared so to him! She was miserable\nfor ever. She had no one to take her part, to counsel, or speak for her.\nHer only friend was absent. He might have softened his father; but all,\nperhaps all, would think her selfish and ungrateful. She might have to\nendure the reproach again and again; she might hear it, or see it, or\nknow it to exist for ever in every connexion about her. She could not\nbut feel some resentment against Mr. Crawford; yet, if he really loved\nher, and were unhappy too! It was all wretchedness together.\n\nIn about a quarter of an hour her uncle returned; she was almost\nready to faint at the sight of him. He spoke calmly, however, without\nausterity, without reproach, and she revived a little. There was\ncomfort, too, in his words, as well as his manner, for he began with,\n\"Mr. Crawford is gone: he has just left me. I need not repeat what has\npassed. I do not want to add to anything you may now be feeling, by an\naccount of what he has felt. Suffice it, that he has behaved in the\nmost gentlemanlike and generous manner, and has confirmed me in a most\nfavourable opinion of his understanding, heart, and temper. Upon my\nrepresentation of what you were suffering, he immediately, and with the\ngreatest delicacy, ceased to urge to see you for the present.\"\n\nHere Fanny, who had looked up, looked down again. \"Of course,\" continued\nher uncle, \"it cannot be supposed but that he should request to speak\nwith you alone, be it only for five minutes; a request too natural,\na claim too just to be denied. But there is no time fixed; perhaps\nto-morrow, or whenever your spirits are composed enough. For the present\nyou have only to tranquillise yourself. Check these tears; they do but\nexhaust you. If, as I am willing to suppose, you wish to shew me any\nobservance, you will not give way to these emotions, but endeavour to\nreason yourself into a stronger frame of mind. I advise you to go out:\nthe air will do you good; go out for an hour on the gravel; you will\nhave the shrubbery to yourself, and will be the better for air and\nexercise. And, Fanny\" (turning back again for a moment), \"I shall make\nno mention below of what has passed; I shall not even tell your aunt\nBertram. There is no occasion for spreading the disappointment; say\nnothing about it yourself.\"\n\nThis was an order to be most joyfully obeyed; this was an act of\nkindness which Fanny felt at her heart. To be spared from her aunt\nNorris's interminable reproaches! he left her in a glow of gratitude.\nAnything might be bearable rather than such reproaches. Even to see Mr.\nCrawford would be less overpowering.\n\nShe walked out directly, as her uncle recommended, and followed his\nadvice throughout, as far as she could; did check her tears; did\nearnestly try to compose her spirits and strengthen her mind. She wished\nto prove to him that she did desire his comfort, and sought to regain\nhis favour; and he had given her another strong motive for exertion, in\nkeeping the whole affair from the knowledge of her aunts. Not to excite\nsuspicion by her look or manner was now an object worth attaining; and\nshe felt equal to almost anything that might save her from her aunt\nNorris.\n\nShe was struck, quite struck, when, on returning from her walk and going\ninto the East room again, the first thing which caught her eye was a\nfire lighted and burning. A fire! it seemed too much; just at that time\nto be giving her such an indulgence was exciting even painful gratitude.\nShe wondered that Sir Thomas could have leisure to think of such a\ntrifle again; but she soon found, from the voluntary information of the\nhousemaid, who came in to attend it, that so it was to be every day. Sir\nThomas had given orders for it.\n\n\"I must be a brute, indeed, if I can be really ungrateful!\" said she, in\nsoliloquy. \"Heaven defend me from being ungrateful!\"\n\nShe saw nothing more of her uncle, nor of her aunt Norris, till they met\nat dinner. Her uncle's behaviour to her was then as nearly as possible\nwhat it had been before; she was sure he did not mean there should be\nany change, and that it was only her own conscience that could fancy\nany; but her aunt was soon quarrelling with her; and when she found how\nmuch and how unpleasantly her having only walked out without her aunt's\nknowledge could be dwelt on, she felt all the reason she had to bless\nthe kindness which saved her from the same spirit of reproach, exerted\non a more momentous subject.\n\n\"If I had known you were going out, I should have got you just to go\nas far as my house with some orders for Nanny,\" said she, \"which I have\nsince, to my very great inconvenience, been obliged to go and carry\nmyself. I could very ill spare the time, and you might have saved me the\ntrouble, if you would only have been so good as to let us know you were\ngoing out. It would have made no difference to you, I suppose, whether\nyou had walked in the shrubbery or gone to my house.\"\n\n\"I recommended the shrubbery to Fanny as the driest place,\" said Sir\nThomas.\n\n\"Oh!\" said Mrs. Norris, with a moment's check, \"that was very kind of\nyou, Sir Thomas; but you do not know how dry the path is to my house.\nFanny would have had quite as good a walk there, I assure you, with the\nadvantage of being of some use, and obliging her aunt: it is all her\nfault. If she would but have let us know she was going out but there is\na something about Fanny, I have often observed it before--she likes to\ngo her own way to work; she does not like to be dictated to; she takes\nher own independent walk whenever she can; she certainly has a little\nspirit of secrecy, and independence, and nonsense, about her, which I\nwould advise her to get the better of.\"\n\nAs a general reflection on Fanny, Sir Thomas thought nothing could be\nmore unjust, though he had been so lately expressing the same sentiments\nhimself, and he tried to turn the conversation: tried repeatedly\nbefore he could succeed; for Mrs. Norris had not discernment enough to\nperceive, either now, or at any other time, to what degree he thought\nwell of his niece, or how very far he was from wishing to have his own\nchildren's merits set off by the depreciation of hers. She was talking\n_at_ Fanny, and resenting this private walk half through the dinner.\n\nIt was over, however, at last; and the evening set in with more\ncomposure to Fanny, and more cheerfulness of spirits than she could\nhave hoped for after so stormy a morning; but she trusted, in the first\nplace, that she had done right: that her judgment had not misled her.\nFor the purity of her intentions she could answer; and she was willing\nto hope, secondly, that her uncle's displeasure was abating, and would\nabate farther as he considered the matter with more impartiality, and\nfelt, as a good man must feel, how wretched, and how unpardonable, how\nhopeless, and how wicked it was to marry without affection.\n\nWhen the meeting with which she was threatened for the morrow was past,\nshe could not but flatter herself that the subject would be finally\nconcluded, and Mr. Crawford once gone from Mansfield, that everything\nwould soon be as if no such subject had existed. She would not, could\nnot believe, that Mr. Crawford's affection for her could distress him\nlong; his mind was not of that sort. London would soon bring its cure.\nIn London he would soon learn to wonder at his infatuation, and be\nthankful for the right reason in her which had saved him from its evil\nconsequences.\n\nWhile Fanny's mind was engaged in these sort of hopes, her uncle was,\nsoon after tea, called out of the room; an occurrence too common to\nstrike her, and she thought nothing of it till the butler reappeared ten\nminutes afterwards, and advancing decidedly towards herself, said,\n\"Sir Thomas wishes to speak with you, ma'am, in his own room.\" Then it\noccurred to her what might be going on; a suspicion rushed over her mind\nwhich drove the colour from her cheeks; but instantly rising, she was\npreparing to obey, when Mrs. Norris called out, \"Stay, stay, Fanny! what\nare you about? where are you going? don't be in such a hurry. Depend\nupon it, it is not you who are wanted; depend upon it, it is me\"\n(looking at the butler); \"but you are so very eager to put yourself\nforward. What should Sir Thomas want you for? It is me, Baddeley, you\nmean; I am coming this moment. You mean me, Baddeley, I am sure; Sir\nThomas wants me, not Miss Price.\"\n\nBut Baddeley was stout. \"No, ma'am, it is Miss Price; I am certain of\nits being Miss Price.\" And there was a half-smile with the words, which\nmeant, \"I do not think you would answer the purpose at all.\"\n\nMrs. Norris, much discontented, was obliged to compose herself to work\nagain; and Fanny, walking off in agitating consciousness, found herself,\nas she anticipated, in another minute alone with Mr. Crawford.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\nThe conference was neither so short nor so conclusive as the lady had\ndesigned. The gentleman was not so easily satisfied. He had all the\ndisposition to persevere that Sir Thomas could wish him. He had vanity,\nwhich strongly inclined him in the first place to think she did love\nhim, though she might not know it herself; and which, secondly, when\nconstrained at last to admit that she did know her own present feelings,\nconvinced him that he should be able in time to make those feelings what\nhe wished.\n\nHe was in love, very much in love; and it was a love which, operating\non an active, sanguine spirit, of more warmth than delicacy, made her\naffection appear of greater consequence because it was withheld, and\ndetermined him to have the glory, as well as the felicity, of forcing\nher to love him.\n\nHe would not despair: he would not desist. He had every well-grounded\nreason for solid attachment; he knew her to have all the worth that\ncould justify the warmest hopes of lasting happiness with her; her\nconduct at this very time, by speaking the disinterestedness and\ndelicacy of her character (qualities which he believed most rare\nindeed), was of a sort to heighten all his wishes, and confirm all his\nresolutions. He knew not that he had a pre-engaged heart to attack.\nOf _that_ he had no suspicion. He considered her rather as one who\nhad never thought on the subject enough to be in danger; who had been\nguarded by youth, a youth of mind as lovely as of person; whose modesty\nhad prevented her from understanding his attentions, and who was still\noverpowered by the suddenness of addresses so wholly unexpected, and the\nnovelty of a situation which her fancy had never taken into account.\n\nMust it not follow of course, that, when he was understood, he should\nsucceed? He believed it fully. Love such as his, in a man like himself,\nmust with perseverance secure a return, and at no great distance; and\nhe had so much delight in the idea of obliging her to love him in a very\nshort time, that her not loving him now was scarcely regretted. A little\ndifficulty to be overcome was no evil to Henry Crawford. He rather\nderived spirits from it. He had been apt to gain hearts too easily. His\nsituation was new and animating.\n\nTo Fanny, however, who had known too much opposition all her life to\nfind any charm in it, all this was unintelligible. She found that he did\nmean to persevere; but how he could, after such language from her as she\nfelt herself obliged to use, was not to be understood. She told him that\nshe did not love him, could not love him, was sure she never should love\nhim; that such a change was quite impossible; that the subject was most\npainful to her; that she must entreat him never to mention it again, to\nallow her to leave him at once, and let it be considered as concluded\nfor ever. And when farther pressed, had added, that in her opinion their\ndispositions were so totally dissimilar as to make mutual affection\nincompatible; and that they were unfitted for each other by nature,\neducation, and habit. All this she had said, and with the earnestness\nof sincerity; yet this was not enough, for he immediately denied there\nbeing anything uncongenial in their characters, or anything unfriendly\nin their situations; and positively declared, that he would still love,\nand still hope!\n\nFanny knew her own meaning, but was no judge of her own manner. Her\nmanner was incurably gentle; and she was not aware how much it concealed\nthe sternness of her purpose. Her diffidence, gratitude, and softness\nmade every expression of indifference seem almost an effort of\nself-denial; seem, at least, to be giving nearly as much pain to herself\nas to him. Mr. Crawford was no longer the Mr. Crawford who, as the\nclandestine, insidious, treacherous admirer of Maria Bertram, had been\nher abhorrence, whom she had hated to see or to speak to, in whom she\ncould believe no good quality to exist, and whose power, even of being\nagreeable, she had barely acknowledged. He was now the Mr. Crawford who\nwas addressing herself with ardent, disinterested love; whose feelings\nwere apparently become all that was honourable and upright, whose views\nof happiness were all fixed on a marriage of attachment; who was\npouring out his sense of her merits, describing and describing again his\naffection, proving as far as words could prove it, and in the language,\ntone, and spirit of a man of talent too, that he sought her for her\ngentleness and her goodness; and to complete the whole, he was now the\nMr. Crawford who had procured William's promotion!\n\nHere was a change, and here were claims which could not but operate!\nShe might have disdained him in all the dignity of angry virtue, in\nthe grounds of Sotherton, or the theatre at Mansfield Park; but he\napproached her now with rights that demanded different treatment.\nShe must be courteous, and she must be compassionate. She must have\na sensation of being honoured, and whether thinking of herself or her\nbrother, she must have a strong feeling of gratitude. The effect of the\nwhole was a manner so pitying and agitated, and words intermingled with\nher refusal so expressive of obligation and concern, that to a temper of\nvanity and hope like Crawford's, the truth, or at least the strength\nof her indifference, might well be questionable; and he was not so\nirrational as Fanny considered him, in the professions of persevering,\nassiduous, and not desponding attachment which closed the interview.\n\nIt was with reluctance that he suffered her to go; but there was no look\nof despair in parting to belie his words, or give her hopes of his being\nless unreasonable than he professed himself.\n\nNow she was angry. Some resentment did arise at a perseverance so\nselfish and ungenerous. Here was again a want of delicacy and regard for\nothers which had formerly so struck and disgusted her. Here was again\na something of the same Mr. Crawford whom she had so reprobated before.\nHow evidently was there a gross want of feeling and humanity where his\nown pleasure was concerned; and alas! how always known no principle to\nsupply as a duty what the heart was deficient in! Had her own affections\nbeen as free as perhaps they ought to have been, he never could have\nengaged them.\n\nSo thought Fanny, in good truth and sober sadness, as she sat musing\nover that too great indulgence and luxury of a fire upstairs: wondering\nat the past and present; wondering at what was yet to come, and in a\nnervous agitation which made nothing clear to her but the persuasion of\nher being never under any circumstances able to love Mr. Crawford, and\nthe felicity of having a fire to sit over and think of it.\n\nSir Thomas was obliged, or obliged himself, to wait till the morrow for\na knowledge of what had passed between the young people. He then saw\nMr. Crawford, and received his account. The first feeling was\ndisappointment: he had hoped better things; he had thought that an\nhour's entreaty from a young man like Crawford could not have worked so\nlittle change on a gentle-tempered girl like Fanny; but there was speedy\ncomfort in the determined views and sanguine perseverance of the lover;\nand when seeing such confidence of success in the principal, Sir Thomas\nwas soon able to depend on it himself.\n\nNothing was omitted, on his side, of civility, compliment, or kindness,\nthat might assist the plan. Mr. Crawford's steadiness was honoured, and\nFanny was praised, and the connexion was still the most desirable in the\nworld. At Mansfield Park Mr. Crawford would always be welcome; he had\nonly to consult his own judgment and feelings as to the frequency of his\nvisits, at present or in future. In all his niece's family and friends,\nthere could be but one opinion, one wish on the subject; the influence\nof all who loved her must incline one way.\n\nEverything was said that could encourage, every encouragement received\nwith grateful joy, and the gentlemen parted the best of friends.\n\nSatisfied that the cause was now on a footing the most proper and\nhopeful, Sir Thomas resolved to abstain from all farther importunity\nwith his niece, and to shew no open interference. Upon her disposition\nhe believed kindness might be the best way of working. Entreaty should\nbe from one quarter only. The forbearance of her family on a point,\nrespecting which she could be in no doubt of their wishes, might be\ntheir surest means of forwarding it. Accordingly, on this principle, Sir\nThomas took the first opportunity of saying to her, with a mild gravity,\nintended to be overcoming, \"Well, Fanny, I have seen Mr. Crawford again,\nand learn from him exactly how matters stand between you. He is a most\nextraordinary young man, and whatever be the event, you must feel that\nyou have created an attachment of no common character; though, young\nas you are, and little acquainted with the transient, varying, unsteady\nnature of love, as it generally exists, you cannot be struck as I\nam with all that is wonderful in a perseverance of this sort against\ndiscouragement. With him it is entirely a matter of feeling: he claims\nno merit in it; perhaps is entitled to none. Yet, having chosen so\nwell, his constancy has a respectable stamp. Had his choice been less\nunexceptionable, I should have condemned his persevering.\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir,\" said Fanny, \"I am very sorry that Mr. Crawford should\ncontinue to know that it is paying me a very great compliment, and I\nfeel most undeservedly honoured; but I am so perfectly convinced, and I\nhave told him so, that it never will be in my power--\"\n\n\"My dear,\" interrupted Sir Thomas, \"there is no occasion for this. Your\nfeelings are as well known to me as my wishes and regrets must be\nto you. There is nothing more to be said or done. From this hour the\nsubject is never to be revived between us. You will have nothing to\nfear, or to be agitated about. You cannot suppose me capable of trying\nto persuade you to marry against your inclinations. Your happiness and\nadvantage are all that I have in view, and nothing is required of you\nbut to bear with Mr. Crawford's endeavours to convince you that they may\nnot be incompatible with his. He proceeds at his own risk. You are on\nsafe ground. I have engaged for your seeing him whenever he calls, as\nyou might have done had nothing of this sort occurred. You will see\nhim with the rest of us, in the same manner, and, as much as you\ncan, dismissing the recollection of everything unpleasant. He leaves\nNorthamptonshire so soon, that even this slight sacrifice cannot be\noften demanded. The future must be very uncertain. And now, my dear\nFanny, this subject is closed between us.\"\n\nThe promised departure was all that Fanny could think of with much\nsatisfaction. Her uncle's kind expressions, however, and forbearing\nmanner, were sensibly felt; and when she considered how much of the\ntruth was unknown to him, she believed she had no right to wonder at\nthe line of conduct he pursued. He, who had married a daughter to Mr.\nRushworth: romantic delicacy was certainly not to be expected from him.\nShe must do her duty, and trust that time might make her duty easier\nthan it now was.\n\nShe could not, though only eighteen, suppose Mr. Crawford's attachment\nwould hold out for ever; she could not but imagine that steady,\nunceasing discouragement from herself would put an end to it in time.\nHow much time she might, in her own fancy, allot for its dominion, is\nanother concern. It would not be fair to inquire into a young lady's\nexact estimate of her own perfections.\n\nIn spite of his intended silence, Sir Thomas found himself once more\nobliged to mention the subject to his niece, to prepare her briefly for\nits being imparted to her aunts; a measure which he would still have\navoided, if possible, but which became necessary from the totally\nopposite feelings of Mr. Crawford as to any secrecy of proceeding. He\nhad no idea of concealment. It was all known at the Parsonage, where\nhe loved to talk over the future with both his sisters, and it would be\nrather gratifying to him to have enlightened witnesses of the progress\nof his success. When Sir Thomas understood this, he felt the necessity\nof making his own wife and sister-in-law acquainted with the business\nwithout delay; though, on Fanny's account, he almost dreaded the\neffect of the communication to Mrs. Norris as much as Fanny herself. He\ndeprecated her mistaken but well-meaning zeal. Sir Thomas, indeed, was,\nby this time, not very far from classing Mrs. Norris as one of those\nwell-meaning people who are always doing mistaken and very disagreeable\nthings.\n\nMrs. Norris, however, relieved him. He pressed for the strictest\nforbearance and silence towards their niece; she not only promised, but\ndid observe it. She only looked her increased ill-will. Angry she was:\nbitterly angry; but she was more angry with Fanny for having received\nsuch an offer than for refusing it. It was an injury and affront to\nJulia, who ought to have been Mr. Crawford's choice; and, independently\nof that, she disliked Fanny, because she had neglected her; and she\nwould have grudged such an elevation to one whom she had been always\ntrying to depress.\n\nSir Thomas gave her more credit for discretion on the occasion than she\ndeserved; and Fanny could have blessed her for allowing her only to see\nher displeasure, and not to hear it.\n\nLady Bertram took it differently. She had been a beauty, and a\nprosperous beauty, all her life; and beauty and wealth were all that\nexcited her respect. To know Fanny to be sought in marriage by a man of\nfortune, raised her, therefore, very much in her opinion. By convincing\nher that Fanny _was_ very pretty, which she had been doubting about\nbefore, and that she would be advantageously married, it made her feel a\nsort of credit in calling her niece.\n\n\"Well, Fanny,\" said she, as soon as they were alone together afterwards,\nand she really had known something like impatience to be alone with her,\nand her countenance, as she spoke, had extraordinary animation; \"Well,\nFanny, I have had a very agreeable surprise this morning. I must just\nspeak of it _once_, I told Sir Thomas I must _once_, and then I\nshall have done. I give you joy, my dear niece.\" And looking at her\ncomplacently, she added, \"Humph, we certainly are a handsome family!\"\n\nFanny coloured, and doubted at first what to say; when, hoping to assail\nher on her vulnerable side, she presently answered--\n\n\"My dear aunt, _you_ cannot wish me to do differently from what I have\ndone, I am sure. _You_ cannot wish me to marry; for you would miss me,\nshould not you? Yes, I am sure you would miss me too much for that.\"\n\n\"No, my dear, I should not think of missing you, when such an offer as\nthis comes in your way. I could do very well without you, if you were\nmarried to a man of such good estate as Mr. Crawford. And you must be\naware, Fanny, that it is every young woman's duty to accept such a very\nunexceptionable offer as this.\"\n\nThis was almost the only rule of conduct, the only piece of advice,\nwhich Fanny had ever received from her aunt in the course of eight years\nand a half. It silenced her. She felt how unprofitable contention would\nbe. If her aunt's feelings were against her, nothing could be hoped from\nattacking her understanding. Lady Bertram was quite talkative.\n\n\"I will tell you what, Fanny,\" said she, \"I am sure he fell in love with\nyou at the ball; I am sure the mischief was done that evening. You did\nlook remarkably well. Everybody said so. Sir Thomas said so. And you\nknow you had Chapman to help you to dress. I am very glad I sent\nChapman to you. I shall tell Sir Thomas that I am sure it was done\nthat evening.\" And still pursuing the same cheerful thoughts, she soon\nafterwards added, \"And will tell you what, Fanny, which is more than I\ndid for Maria: the next time Pug has a litter you shall have a puppy.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV\n\nEdmund had great things to hear on his return. Many surprises were\nawaiting him. The first that occurred was not least in interest: the\nappearance of Henry Crawford and his sister walking together through the\nvillage as he rode into it. He had concluded--he had meant them to be\nfar distant. His absence had been extended beyond a fortnight purposely\nto avoid Miss Crawford. He was returning to Mansfield with spirits ready\nto feed on melancholy remembrances, and tender associations, when her\nown fair self was before him, leaning on her brother's arm, and he found\nhimself receiving a welcome, unquestionably friendly, from the woman\nwhom, two moments before, he had been thinking of as seventy miles off,\nand as farther, much farther, from him in inclination than any distance\ncould express.\n\nHer reception of him was of a sort which he could not have hoped\nfor, had he expected to see her. Coming as he did from such a purport\nfulfilled as had taken him away, he would have expected anything rather\nthan a look of satisfaction, and words of simple, pleasant meaning.\nIt was enough to set his heart in a glow, and to bring him home in the\nproperest state for feeling the full value of the other joyful surprises\nat hand.\n\nWilliam's promotion, with all its particulars, he was soon master of;\nand with such a secret provision of comfort within his own breast to\nhelp the joy, he found in it a source of most gratifying sensation and\nunvarying cheerfulness all dinner-time.\n\nAfter dinner, when he and his father were alone, he had Fanny's history;\nand then all the great events of the last fortnight, and the present\nsituation of matters at Mansfield were known to him.\n\nFanny suspected what was going on. They sat so much longer than usual in\nthe dining-parlour, that she was sure they must be talking of her; and\nwhen tea at last brought them away, and she was to be seen by Edmund\nagain, she felt dreadfully guilty. He came to her, sat down by her, took\nher hand, and pressed it kindly; and at that moment she thought that,\nbut for the occupation and the scene which the tea-things afforded, she\nmust have betrayed her emotion in some unpardonable excess.\n\nHe was not intending, however, by such action, to be conveying to her\nthat unqualified approbation and encouragement which her hopes drew\nfrom it. It was designed only to express his participation in all that\ninterested her, and to tell her that he had been hearing what quickened\nevery feeling of affection. He was, in fact, entirely on his father's\nside of the question. His surprise was not so great as his father's at\nher refusing Crawford, because, so far from supposing her to consider\nhim with anything like a preference, he had always believed it to\nbe rather the reverse, and could imagine her to be taken perfectly\nunprepared, but Sir Thomas could not regard the connexion as more\ndesirable than he did. It had every recommendation to him; and while\nhonouring her for what she had done under the influence of her present\nindifference, honouring her in rather stronger terms than Sir Thomas\ncould quite echo, he was most earnest in hoping, and sanguine in\nbelieving, that it would be a match at last, and that, united by mutual\naffection, it would appear that their dispositions were as exactly\nfitted to make them blessed in each other, as he was now beginning\nseriously to consider them. Crawford had been too precipitate. He had\nnot given her time to attach herself. He had begun at the wrong end.\nWith such powers as his, however, and such a disposition as hers, Edmund\ntrusted that everything would work out a happy conclusion. Meanwhile,\nhe saw enough of Fanny's embarrassment to make him scrupulously guard\nagainst exciting it a second time, by any word, or look, or movement.\n\nCrawford called the next day, and on the score of Edmund's return, Sir\nThomas felt himself more than licensed to ask him to stay dinner; it was\nreally a necessary compliment. He staid of course, and Edmund had then\nample opportunity for observing how he sped with Fanny, and what degree\nof immediate encouragement for him might be extracted from her manners;\nand it was so little, so very, very little--every chance, every\npossibility of it, resting upon her embarrassment only; if there was\nnot hope in her confusion, there was hope in nothing else--that he was\nalmost ready to wonder at his friend's perseverance. Fanny was worth it\nall; he held her to be worth every effort of patience, every exertion of\nmind, but he did not think he could have gone on himself with any woman\nbreathing, without something more to warm his courage than his eyes\ncould discern in hers. He was very willing to hope that Crawford saw\nclearer, and this was the most comfortable conclusion for his friend\nthat he could come to from all that he observed to pass before, and at,\nand after dinner.\n\nIn the evening a few circumstances occurred which he thought more\npromising. When he and Crawford walked into the drawing-room, his mother\nand Fanny were sitting as intently and silently at work as if there\nwere nothing else to care for. Edmund could not help noticing their\napparently deep tranquillity.\n\n\"We have not been so silent all the time,\" replied his mother. \"Fanny\nhas been reading to me, and only put the book down upon hearing you\ncoming.\" And sure enough there was a book on the table which had the air\nof being very recently closed: a volume of Shakespeare. \"She often\nreads to me out of those books; and she was in the middle of a very\nfine speech of that man's--what's his name, Fanny?--when we heard your\nfootsteps.\"\n\nCrawford took the volume. \"Let me have the pleasure of finishing that\nspeech to your ladyship,\" said he. \"I shall find it immediately.\" And by\ncarefully giving way to the inclination of the leaves, he did find it,\nor within a page or two, quite near enough to satisfy Lady Bertram, who\nassured him, as soon as he mentioned the name of Cardinal Wolsey, that\nhe had got the very speech. Not a look or an offer of help had Fanny\ngiven; not a syllable for or against. All her attention was for her\nwork. She seemed determined to be interested by nothing else. But taste\nwas too strong in her. She could not abstract her mind five minutes: she\nwas forced to listen; his reading was capital, and her pleasure in good\nreading extreme. To _good_ reading, however, she had been long used:\nher uncle read well, her cousins all, Edmund very well, but in Mr.\nCrawford's reading there was a variety of excellence beyond what she had\never met with. The King, the Queen, Buckingham, Wolsey, Cromwell, all\nwere given in turn; for with the happiest knack, the happiest power of\njumping and guessing, he could always alight at will on the best scene,\nor the best speeches of each; and whether it were dignity, or pride, or\ntenderness, or remorse, or whatever were to be expressed, he could do\nit with equal beauty. It was truly dramatic. His acting had first taught\nFanny what pleasure a play might give, and his reading brought all his\nacting before her again; nay, perhaps with greater enjoyment, for it\ncame unexpectedly, and with no such drawback as she had been used to\nsuffer in seeing him on the stage with Miss Bertram.\n\nEdmund watched the progress of her attention, and was amused and\ngratified by seeing how she gradually slackened in the needlework, which\nat the beginning seemed to occupy her totally: how it fell from her hand\nwhile she sat motionless over it, and at last, how the eyes which had\nappeared so studiously to avoid him throughout the day were turned and\nfixed on Crawford--fixed on him for minutes, fixed on him, in short,\ntill the attraction drew Crawford's upon her, and the book was closed,\nand the charm was broken. Then she was shrinking again into herself,\nand blushing and working as hard as ever; but it had been enough to give\nEdmund encouragement for his friend, and as he cordially thanked him, he\nhoped to be expressing Fanny's secret feelings too.\n\n\"That play must be a favourite with you,\" said he; \"you read as if you\nknew it well.\"\n\n\"It will be a favourite, I believe, from this hour,\" replied Crawford;\n\"but I do not think I have had a volume of Shakespeare in my hand before\nsince I was fifteen. I once saw Henry the Eighth acted, or I have heard\nof it from somebody who did, I am not certain which. But Shakespeare\none gets acquainted with without knowing how. It is a part of an\nEnglishman's constitution. His thoughts and beauties are so spread\nabroad that one touches them everywhere; one is intimate with him by\ninstinct. No man of any brain can open at a good part of one of his\nplays without falling into the flow of his meaning immediately.\"\n\n\"No doubt one is familiar with Shakespeare in a degree,\" said Edmund,\n\"from one's earliest years. His celebrated passages are quoted\nby everybody; they are in half the books we open, and we all talk\nShakespeare, use his similes, and describe with his descriptions; but\nthis is totally distinct from giving his sense as you gave it. To know\nhim in bits and scraps is common enough; to know him pretty thoroughly\nis, perhaps, not uncommon; but to read him well aloud is no everyday\ntalent.\"\n\n\"Sir, you do me honour,\" was Crawford's answer, with a bow of mock\ngravity.\n\nBoth gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant\npraise could be extorted from her; yet both feeling that it could not\nbe. Her praise had been given in her attention; _that_ must content\nthem.\n\nLady Bertram's admiration was expressed, and strongly too. \"It was\nreally like being at a play,\" said she. \"I wish Sir Thomas had been\nhere.\"\n\nCrawford was excessively pleased. If Lady Bertram, with all her\nincompetency and languor, could feel this, the inference of what her\nniece, alive and enlightened as she was, must feel, was elevating.\n\n\"You have a great turn for acting, I am sure, Mr. Crawford,\" said her\nladyship soon afterwards; \"and I will tell you what, I think you will\nhave a theatre, some time or other, at your house in Norfolk. I mean\nwhen you are settled there. I do indeed. I think you will fit up a\ntheatre at your house in Norfolk.\"\n\n\"Do you, ma'am?\" cried he, with quickness. \"No, no, that will never be.\nYour ladyship is quite mistaken. No theatre at Everingham! Oh no!\" And\nhe looked at Fanny with an expressive smile, which evidently meant,\n\"That lady will never allow a theatre at Everingham.\"\n\nEdmund saw it all, and saw Fanny so determined _not_ to see it, as to\nmake it clear that the voice was enough to convey the full meaning of\nthe protestation; and such a quick consciousness of compliment, such a\nready comprehension of a hint, he thought, was rather favourable than\nnot.\n\nThe subject of reading aloud was farther discussed. The two young men\nwere the only talkers, but they, standing by the fire, talked over the\ntoo common neglect of the qualification, the total inattention to it,\nin the ordinary school-system for boys, the consequently natural, yet in\nsome instances almost unnatural, degree of ignorance and uncouthness\nof men, of sensible and well-informed men, when suddenly called to the\nnecessity of reading aloud, which had fallen within their notice, giving\ninstances of blunders, and failures with their secondary causes, the\nwant of management of the voice, of proper modulation and emphasis, of\nforesight and judgment, all proceeding from the first cause: want of\nearly attention and habit; and Fanny was listening again with great\nentertainment.\n\n\"Even in my profession,\" said Edmund, with a smile, \"how little the\nart of reading has been studied! how little a clear manner, and good\ndelivery, have been attended to! I speak rather of the past, however,\nthan the present. There is now a spirit of improvement abroad; but among\nthose who were ordained twenty, thirty, forty years ago, the larger\nnumber, to judge by their performance, must have thought reading was\nreading, and preaching was preaching. It is different now. The subject\nis more justly considered. It is felt that distinctness and energy may\nhave weight in recommending the most solid truths; and besides, there is\nmore general observation and taste, a more critical knowledge diffused\nthan formerly; in every congregation there is a larger proportion who\nknow a little of the matter, and who can judge and criticise.\"\n\nEdmund had already gone through the service once since his ordination;\nand upon this being understood, he had a variety of questions from\nCrawford as to his feelings and success; questions, which being made,\nthough with the vivacity of friendly interest and quick taste, without\nany touch of that spirit of banter or air of levity which Edmund knew to\nbe most offensive to Fanny, he had true pleasure in satisfying; and\nwhen Crawford proceeded to ask his opinion and give his own as to the\nproperest manner in which particular passages in the service should be\ndelivered, shewing it to be a subject on which he had thought before,\nand thought with judgment, Edmund was still more and more pleased. This\nwould be the way to Fanny's heart. She was not to be won by all that\ngallantry and wit and good-nature together could do; or, at least,\nshe would not be won by them nearly so soon, without the assistance of\nsentiment and feeling, and seriousness on serious subjects.\n\n\"Our liturgy,\" observed Crawford, \"has beauties, which not even a\ncareless, slovenly style of reading can destroy; but it has also\nredundancies and repetitions which require good reading not to be felt.\nFor myself, at least, I must confess being not always so attentive as I\nought to be\" (here was a glance at Fanny); \"that nineteen times out of\ntwenty I am thinking how such a prayer ought to be read, and longing to\nhave it to read myself. Did you speak?\" stepping eagerly to Fanny, and\naddressing her in a softened voice; and upon her saying \"No,\" he added,\n\"Are you sure you did not speak? I saw your lips move. I fancied you\nmight be going to tell me I ought to be more attentive, and not _allow_\nmy thoughts to wander. Are not you going to tell me so?\"\n\n\"No, indeed, you know your duty too well for me to--even supposing--\"\n\nShe stopt, felt herself getting into a puzzle, and could not be\nprevailed on to add another word, not by dint of several minutes of\nsupplication and waiting. He then returned to his former station, and\nwent on as if there had been no such tender interruption.\n\n\"A sermon, well delivered, is more uncommon even than prayers well read.\nA sermon, good in itself, is no rare thing. It is more difficult\nto speak well than to compose well; that is, the rules and trick of\ncomposition are oftener an object of study. A thoroughly good sermon,\nthoroughly well delivered, is a capital gratification. I can never hear\nsuch a one without the greatest admiration and respect, and more than\nhalf a mind to take orders and preach myself. There is something in the\neloquence of the pulpit, when it is really eloquence, which is entitled\nto the highest praise and honour. The preacher who can touch and affect\nsuch an heterogeneous mass of hearers, on subjects limited, and long\nworn threadbare in all common hands; who can say anything new or\nstriking, anything that rouses the attention without offending the\ntaste, or wearing out the feelings of his hearers, is a man whom one\ncould not, in his public capacity, honour enough. I should like to be\nsuch a man.\"\n\nEdmund laughed.\n\n\"I should indeed. I never listened to a distinguished preacher in my\nlife without a sort of envy. But then, I must have a London audience.\nI could not preach but to the educated; to those who were capable of\nestimating my composition. And I do not know that I should be fond of\npreaching often; now and then, perhaps once or twice in the spring,\nafter being anxiously expected for half a dozen Sundays together; but\nnot for a constancy; it would not do for a constancy.\"\n\nHere Fanny, who could not but listen, involuntarily shook her head,\nand Crawford was instantly by her side again, entreating to know her\nmeaning; and as Edmund perceived, by his drawing in a chair, and sitting\ndown close by her, that it was to be a very thorough attack, that looks\nand undertones were to be well tried, he sank as quietly as possible\ninto a corner, turned his back, and took up a newspaper, very sincerely\nwishing that dear little Fanny might be persuaded into explaining away\nthat shake of the head to the satisfaction of her ardent lover; and as\nearnestly trying to bury every sound of the business from himself in\nmurmurs of his own, over the various advertisements of \"A most desirable\nEstate in South Wales\"; \"To Parents and Guardians\"; and a \"Capital\nseason'd Hunter.\"\n\nFanny, meanwhile, vexed with herself for not having been as motionless\nas she was speechless, and grieved to the heart to see Edmund's\narrangements, was trying by everything in the power of her modest,\ngentle nature, to repulse Mr. Crawford, and avoid both his looks and\ninquiries; and he, unrepulsable, was persisting in both.\n\n\"What did that shake of the head mean?\" said he. \"What was it meant to\nexpress? Disapprobation, I fear. But of what? What had I been saying\nto displease you? Did you think me speaking improperly, lightly,\nirreverently on the subject? Only tell me if I was. Only tell me if\nI was wrong. I want to be set right. Nay, nay, I entreat you; for one\nmoment put down your work. What did that shake of the head mean?\"\n\nIn vain was her \"Pray, sir, don't; pray, Mr. Crawford,\" repeated twice\nover; and in vain did she try to move away. In the same low, eager\nvoice, and the same close neighbourhood, he went on, reurging the same\nquestions as before. She grew more agitated and displeased.\n\n\"How can you, sir? You quite astonish me; I wonder how you can--\"\n\n\"Do I astonish you?\" said he. \"Do you wonder? Is there anything in\nmy present entreaty that you do not understand? I will explain to you\ninstantly all that makes me urge you in this manner, all that gives me\nan interest in what you look and do, and excites my present curiosity. I\nwill not leave you to wonder long.\"\n\nIn spite of herself, she could not help half a smile, but she said\nnothing.\n\n\"You shook your head at my acknowledging that I should not like to\nengage in the duties of a clergyman always for a constancy. Yes, that\nwas the word. Constancy: I am not afraid of the word. I would spell it,\nread it, write it with anybody. I see nothing alarming in the word. Did\nyou think I ought?\"\n\n\"Perhaps, sir,\" said Fanny, wearied at last into speaking--\"perhaps,\nsir, I thought it was a pity you did not always know yourself as well as\nyou seemed to do at that moment.\"\n\nCrawford, delighted to get her to speak at any rate, was determined\nto keep it up; and poor Fanny, who had hoped to silence him by such an\nextremity of reproof, found herself sadly mistaken, and that it was only\na change from one object of curiosity and one set of words to another.\nHe had always something to entreat the explanation of. The opportunity\nwas too fair. None such had occurred since his seeing her in her uncle's\nroom, none such might occur again before his leaving Mansfield. Lady\nBertram's being just on the other side of the table was a trifle,\nfor she might always be considered as only half-awake, and Edmund's\nadvertisements were still of the first utility.\n\n\"Well,\" said Crawford, after a course of rapid questions and reluctant\nanswers; \"I am happier than I was, because I now understand more clearly\nyour opinion of me. You think me unsteady: easily swayed by the whim of\nthe moment, easily tempted, easily put aside. With such an opinion, no\nwonder that. But we shall see. It is not by protestations that I shall\nendeavour to convince you I am wronged; it is not by telling you that my\naffections are steady. My conduct shall speak for me; absence, distance,\ntime shall speak for me. _They_ shall prove that, as far as you can be\ndeserved by anybody, I do deserve you. You are infinitely my superior\nin merit; all _that_ I know. You have qualities which I had not before\nsupposed to exist in such a degree in any human creature. You have some\ntouches of the angel in you beyond what--not merely beyond what one\nsees, because one never sees anything like it--but beyond what one\nfancies might be. But still I am not frightened. It is not by equality\nof merit that you can be won. That is out of the question. It is he\nwho sees and worships your merit the strongest, who loves you most\ndevotedly, that has the best right to a return. There I build my\nconfidence. By that right I do and will deserve you; and when once\nconvinced that my attachment is what I declare it, I know you too well\nnot to entertain the warmest hopes. Yes, dearest, sweetest Fanny. Nay\"\n(seeing her draw back displeased), \"forgive me. Perhaps I have as yet\nno right; but by what other name can I call you? Do you suppose you are\never present to my imagination under any other? No, it is 'Fanny' that\nI think of all day, and dream of all night. You have given the name such\nreality of sweetness, that nothing else can now be descriptive of you.\"\n\nFanny could hardly have kept her seat any longer, or have refrained from\nat least trying to get away in spite of all the too public opposition\nshe foresaw to it, had it not been for the sound of approaching relief,\nthe very sound which she had been long watching for, and long thinking\nstrangely delayed.\n\nThe solemn procession, headed by Baddeley, of tea-board, urn, and\ncake-bearers, made its appearance, and delivered her from a grievous\nimprisonment of body and mind. Mr. Crawford was obliged to move. She was\nat liberty, she was busy, she was protected.\n\nEdmund was not sorry to be admitted again among the number of those who\nmight speak and hear. But though the conference had seemed full long to\nhim, and though on looking at Fanny he saw rather a flush of vexation,\nhe inclined to hope that so much could not have been said and listened\nto without some profit to the speaker.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV\n\nEdmund had determined that it belonged entirely to Fanny to chuse\nwhether her situation with regard to Crawford should be mentioned\nbetween them or not; and that if she did not lead the way, it should\nnever be touched on by him; but after a day or two of mutual reserve, he\nwas induced by his father to change his mind, and try what his influence\nmight do for his friend.\n\nA day, and a very early day, was actually fixed for the Crawfords'\ndeparture; and Sir Thomas thought it might be as well to make one\nmore effort for the young man before he left Mansfield, that all his\nprofessions and vows of unshaken attachment might have as much hope to\nsustain them as possible.\n\nSir Thomas was most cordially anxious for the perfection of Mr.\nCrawford's character in that point. He wished him to be a model of\nconstancy; and fancied the best means of effecting it would be by not\ntrying him too long.\n\nEdmund was not unwilling to be persuaded to engage in the business; he\nwanted to know Fanny's feelings. She had been used to consult him in\nevery difficulty, and he loved her too well to bear to be denied her\nconfidence now; he hoped to be of service to her, he thought he must be\nof service to her; whom else had she to open her heart to? If she did\nnot need counsel, she must need the comfort of communication. Fanny\nestranged from him, silent and reserved, was an unnatural state of\nthings; a state which he must break through, and which he could easily\nlearn to think she was wanting him to break through.\n\n\"I will speak to her, sir: I will take the first opportunity of speaking\nto her alone,\" was the result of such thoughts as these; and upon Sir\nThomas's information of her being at that very time walking alone in the\nshrubbery, he instantly joined her.\n\n\"I am come to walk with you, Fanny,\" said he. \"Shall I?\" Drawing her\narm within his. \"It is a long while since we have had a comfortable walk\ntogether.\"\n\nShe assented to it all rather by look than word. Her spirits were low.\n\n\"But, Fanny,\" he presently added, \"in order to have a comfortable walk,\nsomething more is necessary than merely pacing this gravel together. You\nmust talk to me. I know you have something on your mind. I know what you\nare thinking of. You cannot suppose me uninformed. Am I to hear of it\nfrom everybody but Fanny herself?\"\n\nFanny, at once agitated and dejected, replied, \"If you hear of it from\neverybody, cousin, there can be nothing for me to tell.\"\n\n\"Not of facts, perhaps; but of feelings, Fanny. No one but you can tell\nme them. I do not mean to press you, however. If it is not what you wish\nyourself, I have done. I had thought it might be a relief.\"\n\n\"I am afraid we think too differently for me to find any relief in\ntalking of what I feel.\"\n\n\"Do you suppose that we think differently? I have no idea of it. I dare\nsay that, on a comparison of our opinions, they would be found as much\nalike as they have been used to be: to the point--I consider Crawford's\nproposals as most advantageous and desirable, if you could return his\naffection. I consider it as most natural that all your family should\nwish you could return it; but that, as you cannot, you have done exactly\nas you ought in refusing him. Can there be any disagreement between us\nhere?\"\n\n\"Oh no! But I thought you blamed me. I thought you were against me. This\nis such a comfort!\"\n\n\"This comfort you might have had sooner, Fanny, had you sought it. But\nhow could you possibly suppose me against you? How could you imagine me\nan advocate for marriage without love? Were I even careless in general\non such matters, how could you imagine me so where your happiness was at\nstake?\"\n\n\"My uncle thought me wrong, and I knew he had been talking to you.\"\n\n\"As far as you have gone, Fanny, I think you perfectly right. I may be\nsorry, I may be surprised--though hardly _that_, for you had not had\ntime to attach yourself--but I think you perfectly right. Can it admit\nof a question? It is disgraceful to us if it does. You did not love him;\nnothing could have justified your accepting him.\"\n\nFanny had not felt so comfortable for days and days.\n\n\"So far your conduct has been faultless, and they were quite mistaken\nwho wished you to do otherwise. But the matter does not end here.\nCrawford's is no common attachment; he perseveres, with the hope of\ncreating that regard which had not been created before. This, we know,\nmust be a work of time. But\" (with an affectionate smile) \"let him\nsucceed at last, Fanny, let him succeed at last. You have proved\nyourself upright and disinterested, prove yourself grateful and\ntender-hearted; and then you will be the perfect model of a woman which\nI have always believed you born for.\"\n\n\"Oh! never, never, never! he never will succeed with me.\" And she spoke\nwith a warmth which quite astonished Edmund, and which she blushed at\nthe recollection of herself, when she saw his look, and heard him\nreply, \"Never! Fanny!--so very determined and positive! This is not like\nyourself, your rational self.\"\n\n\"I mean,\" she cried, sorrowfully correcting herself, \"that I _think_ I\nnever shall, as far as the future can be answered for; I think I never\nshall return his regard.\"\n\n\"I must hope better things. I am aware, more aware than Crawford can be,\nthat the man who means to make you love him (you having due notice of\nhis intentions) must have very uphill work, for there are all your early\nattachments and habits in battle array; and before he can get your heart\nfor his own use he has to unfasten it from all the holds upon things\nanimate and inanimate, which so many years' growth have confirmed, and\nwhich are considerably tightened for the moment by the very idea\nof separation. I know that the apprehension of being forced to quit\nMansfield will for a time be arming you against him. I wish he had not\nbeen obliged to tell you what he was trying for. I wish he had known you\nas well as I do, Fanny. Between us, I think we should have won you. My\ntheoretical and his practical knowledge together could not have failed.\nHe should have worked upon my plans. I must hope, however, that time,\nproving him (as I firmly believe it will) to deserve you by his steady\naffection, will give him his reward. I cannot suppose that you have not\nthe _wish_ to love him--the natural wish of gratitude. You must have\nsome feeling of that sort. You must be sorry for your own indifference.\"\n\n\"We are so totally unlike,\" said Fanny, avoiding a direct answer, \"we\nare so very, very different in all our inclinations and ways, that\nI consider it as quite impossible we should ever be tolerably happy\ntogether, even if I _could_ like him. There never were two people more\ndissimilar. We have not one taste in common. We should be miserable.\"\n\n\"You are mistaken, Fanny. The dissimilarity is not so strong. You are\nquite enough alike. You _have_ tastes in common. You have moral and\nliterary tastes in common. You have both warm hearts and benevolent\nfeelings; and, Fanny, who that heard him read, and saw you listen to\nShakespeare the other night, will think you unfitted as companions? You\nforget yourself: there is a decided difference in your tempers, I allow.\nHe is lively, you are serious; but so much the better: his spirits will\nsupport yours. It is your disposition to be easily dejected and to fancy\ndifficulties greater than they are. His cheerfulness will counteract\nthis. He sees difficulties nowhere: and his pleasantness and gaiety will\nbe a constant support to you. Your being so far unlike, Fanny, does not\nin the smallest degree make against the probability of your happiness\ntogether: do not imagine it. I am myself convinced that it is rather a\nfavourable circumstance. I am perfectly persuaded that the tempers\nhad better be unlike: I mean unlike in the flow of the spirits, in\nthe manners, in the inclination for much or little company, in the\npropensity to talk or to be silent, to be grave or to be gay. Some\nopposition here is, I am thoroughly convinced, friendly to matrimonial\nhappiness. I exclude extremes, of course; and a very close resemblance\nin all those points would be the likeliest way to produce an extreme.\nA counteraction, gentle and continual, is the best safeguard of manners\nand conduct.\"\n\nFull well could Fanny guess where his thoughts were now: Miss Crawford's\npower was all returning. He had been speaking of her cheerfully from the\nhour of his coming home. His avoiding her was quite at an end. He had\ndined at the Parsonage only the preceding day.\n\nAfter leaving him to his happier thoughts for some minutes, Fanny,\nfeeling it due to herself, returned to Mr. Crawford, and said, \"It\nis not merely in _temper_ that I consider him as totally unsuited to\nmyself; though, in _that_ respect, I think the difference between us too\ngreat, infinitely too great: his spirits often oppress me; but there is\nsomething in him which I object to still more. I must say, cousin, that\nI cannot approve his character. I have not thought well of him from the\ntime of the play. I then saw him behaving, as it appeared to me, so\nvery improperly and unfeelingly--I may speak of it now because it is all\nover--so improperly by poor Mr. Rushworth, not seeming to care how he\nexposed or hurt him, and paying attentions to my cousin Maria, which--in\nshort, at the time of the play, I received an impression which will\nnever be got over.\"\n\n\"My dear Fanny,\" replied Edmund, scarcely hearing her to the end, \"let\nus not, any of us, be judged by what we appeared at that period of\ngeneral folly. The time of the play is a time which I hate to recollect.\nMaria was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong together; but\nnone so wrong as myself. Compared with me, all the rest were blameless.\nI was playing the fool with my eyes open.\"\n\n\"As a bystander,\" said Fanny, \"perhaps I saw more than you did; and I do\nthink that Mr. Rushworth was sometimes very jealous.\"\n\n\"Very possibly. No wonder. Nothing could be more improper than the whole\nbusiness. I am shocked whenever I think that Maria could be capable of\nit; but, if she could undertake the part, we must not be surprised at\nthe rest.\"\n\n\"Before the play, I am much mistaken if _Julia_ did not think he was\npaying her attentions.\"\n\n\"Julia! I have heard before from some one of his being in love with\nJulia; but I could never see anything of it. And, Fanny, though I hope I\ndo justice to my sisters' good qualities, I think it very possible that\nthey might, one or both, be more desirous of being admired by Crawford,\nand might shew that desire rather more unguardedly than was perfectly\nprudent. I can remember that they were evidently fond of his society;\nand with such encouragement, a man like Crawford, lively, and it may\nbe, a little unthinking, might be led on to--there could be nothing very\nstriking, because it is clear that he had no pretensions: his heart was\nreserved for you. And I must say, that its being for you has raised him\ninconceivably in my opinion. It does him the highest honour; it shews\nhis proper estimation of the blessing of domestic happiness and pure\nattachment. It proves him unspoilt by his uncle. It proves him, in\nshort, everything that I had been used to wish to believe him, and\nfeared he was not.\"\n\n\"I am persuaded that he does not think, as he ought, on serious\nsubjects.\"\n\n\"Say, rather, that he has not thought at all upon serious subjects,\nwhich I believe to be a good deal the case. How could it be otherwise,\nwith such an education and adviser? Under the disadvantages, indeed,\nwhich both have had, is it not wonderful that they should be what they\nare? Crawford's _feelings_, I am ready to acknowledge, have hitherto\nbeen too much his guides. Happily, those feelings have generally been\ngood. You will supply the rest; and a most fortunate man he is to attach\nhimself to such a creature--to a woman who, firm as a rock in her own\nprinciples, has a gentleness of character so well adapted to recommend\nthem. He has chosen his partner, indeed, with rare felicity. He will\nmake you happy, Fanny; I know he will make you happy; but you will make\nhim everything.\"\n\n\"I would not engage in such a charge,\" cried Fanny, in a shrinking\naccent; \"in such an office of high responsibility!\"\n\n\"As usual, believing yourself unequal to anything! fancying everything\ntoo much for you! Well, though I may not be able to persuade you into\ndifferent feelings, you will be persuaded into them, I trust. I confess\nmyself sincerely anxious that you may. I have no common interest in\nCrawford's well-doing. Next to your happiness, Fanny, his has the first\nclaim on me. You are aware of my having no common interest in Crawford.\"\n\nFanny was too well aware of it to have anything to say; and they walked\non together some fifty yards in mutual silence and abstraction. Edmund\nfirst began again--\n\n\"I was very much pleased by her manner of speaking of it yesterday,\nparticularly pleased, because I had not depended upon her seeing\neverything in so just a light. I knew she was very fond of you; but yet\nI was afraid of her not estimating your worth to her brother quite as\nit deserved, and of her regretting that he had not rather fixed on\nsome woman of distinction or fortune. I was afraid of the bias of those\nworldly maxims, which she has been too much used to hear. But it was\nvery different. She spoke of you, Fanny, just as she ought. She desires\nthe connexion as warmly as your uncle or myself. We had a long talk\nabout it. I should not have mentioned the subject, though very anxious\nto know her sentiments; but I had not been in the room five minutes\nbefore she began introducing it with all that openness of heart, and\nsweet peculiarity of manner, that spirit and ingenuousness which are so\nmuch a part of herself. Mrs. Grant laughed at her for her rapidity.\"\n\n\"Was Mrs. Grant in the room, then?\"\n\n\"Yes, when I reached the house I found the two sisters together by\nthemselves; and when once we had begun, we had not done with you, Fanny,\ntill Crawford and Dr. Grant came in.\"\n\n\"It is above a week since I saw Miss Crawford.\"\n\n\"Yes, she laments it; yet owns it may have been best. You will see her,\nhowever, before she goes. She is very angry with you, Fanny; you must be\nprepared for that. She calls herself very angry, but you can imagine her\nanger. It is the regret and disappointment of a sister, who thinks her\nbrother has a right to everything he may wish for, at the first moment.\nShe is hurt, as you would be for William; but she loves and esteems you\nwith all her heart.\"\n\n\"I knew she would be very angry with me.\"\n\n\"My dearest Fanny,\" cried Edmund, pressing her arm closer to him, \"do\nnot let the idea of her anger distress you. It is anger to be talked\nof rather than felt. Her heart is made for love and kindness, not for\nresentment. I wish you could have overheard her tribute of praise;\nI wish you could have seen her countenance, when she said that you\n_should_ be Henry's wife. And I observed that she always spoke of you\nas 'Fanny,' which she was never used to do; and it had a sound of most\nsisterly cordiality.\"\n\n\"And Mrs. Grant, did she say--did she speak; was she there all the\ntime?\"\n\n\"Yes, she was agreeing exactly with her sister. The surprise of your\nrefusal, Fanny, seems to have been unbounded. That you could refuse such\na man as Henry Crawford seems more than they can understand. I said what\nI could for you; but in good truth, as they stated the case--you must\nprove yourself to be in your senses as soon as you can by a different\nconduct; nothing else will satisfy them. But this is teasing you. I have\ndone. Do not turn away from me.\"\n\n\"I _should_ have thought,\" said Fanny, after a pause of recollection and\nexertion, \"that every woman must have felt the possibility of a man's\nnot being approved, not being loved by some one of her sex at least, let\nhim be ever so generally agreeable. Let him have all the perfections\nin the world, I think it ought not to be set down as certain that a man\nmust be acceptable to every woman he may happen to like himself. But,\neven supposing it is so, allowing Mr. Crawford to have all the claims\nwhich his sisters think he has, how was I to be prepared to meet him\nwith any feeling answerable to his own? He took me wholly by surprise.\nI had not an idea that his behaviour to me before had any meaning; and\nsurely I was not to be teaching myself to like him only because he was\ntaking what seemed very idle notice of me. In my situation, it would\nhave been the extreme of vanity to be forming expectations on Mr.\nCrawford. I am sure his sisters, rating him as they do, must have\nthought it so, supposing he had meant nothing. How, then, was I to\nbe--to be in love with him the moment he said he was with me? How was I\nto have an attachment at his service, as soon as it was asked for? His\nsisters should consider me as well as him. The higher his deserts, the\nmore improper for me ever to have thought of him. And, and--we think\nvery differently of the nature of women, if they can imagine a woman so\nvery soon capable of returning an affection as this seems to imply.\"\n\n\"My dear, dear Fanny, now I have the truth. I know this to be the truth;\nand most worthy of you are such feelings. I had attributed them to you\nbefore. I thought I could understand you. You have now given exactly\nthe explanation which I ventured to make for you to your friend and Mrs.\nGrant, and they were both better satisfied, though your warm-hearted\nfriend was still run away with a little by the enthusiasm of her\nfondness for Henry. I told them that you were of all human creatures the\none over whom habit had most power and novelty least; and that the very\ncircumstance of the novelty of Crawford's addresses was against him.\nTheir being so new and so recent was all in their disfavour; that you\ncould tolerate nothing that you were not used to; and a great deal more\nto the same purpose, to give them a knowledge of your character. Miss\nCrawford made us laugh by her plans of encouragement for her brother.\nShe meant to urge him to persevere in the hope of being loved in time,\nand of having his addresses most kindly received at the end of about ten\nyears' happy marriage.\"\n\nFanny could with difficulty give the smile that was here asked for. Her\nfeelings were all in revolt. She feared she had been doing wrong: saying\ntoo much, overacting the caution which she had been fancying necessary;\nin guarding against one evil, laying herself open to another; and to\nhave Miss Crawford's liveliness repeated to her at such a moment, and on\nsuch a subject, was a bitter aggravation.\n\nEdmund saw weariness and distress in her face, and immediately resolved\nto forbear all farther discussion; and not even to mention the name\nof Crawford again, except as it might be connected with what _must_ be\nagreeable to her. On this principle, he soon afterwards observed--\"They\ngo on Monday. You are sure, therefore, of seeing your friend either\nto-morrow or Sunday. They really go on Monday; and I was within a trifle\nof being persuaded to stay at Lessingby till that very day! I had almost\npromised it. What a difference it might have made! Those five or six\ndays more at Lessingby might have been felt all my life.\"\n\n\"You were near staying there?\"\n\n\"Very. I was most kindly pressed, and had nearly consented. Had I\nreceived any letter from Mansfield, to tell me how you were all going\non, I believe I should certainly have staid; but I knew nothing that\nhad happened here for a fortnight, and felt that I had been away long\nenough.\"\n\n\"You spent your time pleasantly there?\"\n\n\"Yes; that is, it was the fault of my own mind if I did not. They were\nall very pleasant. I doubt their finding me so. I took uneasiness with\nme, and there was no getting rid of it till I was in Mansfield again.\"\n\n\"The Miss Owens--you liked them, did not you?\"\n\n\"Yes, very well. Pleasant, good-humoured, unaffected girls. But I am\nspoilt, Fanny, for common female society. Good-humoured, unaffected\ngirls will not do for a man who has been used to sensible women. They\nare two distinct orders of being. You and Miss Crawford have made me too\nnice.\"\n\nStill, however, Fanny was oppressed and wearied; he saw it in her looks,\nit could not be talked away; and attempting it no more, he led her\ndirectly, with the kind authority of a privileged guardian, into the\nhouse.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI\n\nEdmund now believed himself perfectly acquainted with all that Fanny\ncould tell, or could leave to be conjectured of her sentiments, and he\nwas satisfied. It had been, as he before presumed, too hasty a measure\non Crawford's side, and time must be given to make the idea first\nfamiliar, and then agreeable to her. She must be used to the\nconsideration of his being in love with her, and then a return of\naffection might not be very distant.\n\nHe gave this opinion as the result of the conversation to his father;\nand recommended there being nothing more said to her: no farther\nattempts to influence or persuade; but that everything should be left to\nCrawford's assiduities, and the natural workings of her own mind.\n\nSir Thomas promised that it should be so. Edmund's account of Fanny's\ndisposition he could believe to be just; he supposed she had all those\nfeelings, but he must consider it as very unfortunate that she _had_;\nfor, less willing than his son to trust to the future, he could not\nhelp fearing that if such very long allowances of time and habit were\nnecessary for her, she might not have persuaded herself into receiving\nhis addresses properly before the young man's inclination for paying\nthem were over. There was nothing to be done, however, but to submit\nquietly and hope the best.\n\nThe promised visit from \"her friend,\" as Edmund called Miss Crawford,\nwas a formidable threat to Fanny, and she lived in continual terror of\nit. As a sister, so partial and so angry, and so little scrupulous of\nwhat she said, and in another light so triumphant and secure, she was in\nevery way an object of painful alarm. Her displeasure, her penetration,\nand her happiness were all fearful to encounter; and the dependence of\nhaving others present when they met was Fanny's only support in looking\nforward to it. She absented herself as little as possible from Lady\nBertram, kept away from the East room, and took no solitary walk in the\nshrubbery, in her caution to avoid any sudden attack.\n\nShe succeeded. She was safe in the breakfast-room, with her aunt, when\nMiss Crawford did come; and the first misery over, and Miss Crawford\nlooking and speaking with much less particularity of expression than she\nhad anticipated, Fanny began to hope there would be nothing worse to be\nendured than a half-hour of moderate agitation. But here she hoped too\nmuch; Miss Crawford was not the slave of opportunity. She was determined\nto see Fanny alone, and therefore said to her tolerably soon, in a low\nvoice, \"I must speak to you for a few minutes somewhere\"; words that\nFanny felt all over her, in all her pulses and all her nerves. Denial\nwas impossible. Her habits of ready submission, on the contrary, made\nher almost instantly rise and lead the way out of the room. She did it\nwith wretched feelings, but it was inevitable.\n\nThey were no sooner in the hall than all restraint of countenance was\nover on Miss Crawford's side. She immediately shook her head at Fanny\nwith arch, yet affectionate reproach, and taking her hand, seemed hardly\nable to help beginning directly. She said nothing, however, but, \"Sad,\nsad girl! I do not know when I shall have done scolding you,\" and had\ndiscretion enough to reserve the rest till they might be secure of\nhaving four walls to themselves. Fanny naturally turned upstairs, and\ntook her guest to the apartment which was now always fit for comfortable\nuse; opening the door, however, with a most aching heart, and feeling\nthat she had a more distressing scene before her than ever that spot had\nyet witnessed. But the evil ready to burst on her was at least delayed\nby the sudden change in Miss Crawford's ideas; by the strong effect on\nher mind which the finding herself in the East room again produced.\n\n\"Ha!\" she cried, with instant animation, \"am I here again? The East\nroom! Once only was I in this room before\"; and after stopping to look\nabout her, and seemingly to retrace all that had then passed, she added,\n\"Once only before. Do you remember it? I came to rehearse. Your cousin\ncame too; and we had a rehearsal. You were our audience and prompter.\nA delightful rehearsal. I shall never forget it. Here we were, just in\nthis part of the room: here was your cousin, here was I, here were the\nchairs. Oh! why will such things ever pass away?\"\n\nHappily for her companion, she wanted no answer. Her mind was entirely\nself-engrossed. She was in a reverie of sweet remembrances.\n\n\"The scene we were rehearsing was so very remarkable! The subject of\nit so very--very--what shall I say? He was to be describing and\nrecommending matrimony to me. I think I see him now, trying to be as\ndemure and composed as Anhalt ought, through the two long speeches.\n'When two sympathetic hearts meet in the marriage state, matrimony\nmay be called a happy life.' I suppose no time can ever wear out the\nimpression I have of his looks and voice as he said those words. It was\ncurious, very curious, that we should have such a scene to play! If I\nhad the power of recalling any one week of my existence, it should be\nthat week--that acting week. Say what you would, Fanny, it should be\n_that_; for I never knew such exquisite happiness in any other. His\nsturdy spirit to bend as it did! Oh! it was sweet beyond expression. But\nalas, that very evening destroyed it all. That very evening brought your\nmost unwelcome uncle. Poor Sir Thomas, who was glad to see you? Yet,\nFanny, do not imagine I would now speak disrespectfully of Sir Thomas,\nthough I certainly did hate him for many a week. No, I do him justice\nnow. He is just what the head of such a family should be. Nay, in sober\nsadness, I believe I now love you all.\" And having said so, with a\ndegree of tenderness and consciousness which Fanny had never seen in her\nbefore, and now thought only too becoming, she turned away for a moment\nto recover herself. \"I have had a little fit since I came into this\nroom, as you may perceive,\" said she presently, with a playful smile,\n\"but it is over now; so let us sit down and be comfortable; for as to\nscolding you, Fanny, which I came fully intending to do, I have not\nthe heart for it when it comes to the point.\" And embracing her very\naffectionately, \"Good, gentle Fanny! when I think of this being the\nlast time of seeing you for I do not know how long, I feel it quite\nimpossible to do anything but love you.\"\n\nFanny was affected. She had not foreseen anything of this, and her\nfeelings could seldom withstand the melancholy influence of the word\n\"last.\" She cried as if she had loved Miss Crawford more than she\npossibly could; and Miss Crawford, yet farther softened by the sight of\nsuch emotion, hung about her with fondness, and said, \"I hate to leave\nyou. I shall see no one half so amiable where I am going. Who says we\nshall not be sisters? I know we shall. I feel that we are born to\nbe connected; and those tears convince me that you feel it too, dear\nFanny.\"\n\nFanny roused herself, and replying only in part, said, \"But you are\nonly going from one set of friends to another. You are going to a very\nparticular friend.\"\n\n\"Yes, very true. Mrs. Fraser has been my intimate friend for years. But\nI have not the least inclination to go near her. I can think only of the\nfriends I am leaving: my excellent sister, yourself, and the Bertrams in\ngeneral. You have all so much more _heart_ among you than one finds in\nthe world at large. You all give me a feeling of being able to trust and\nconfide in you, which in common intercourse one knows nothing of. I wish\nI had settled with Mrs. Fraser not to go to her till after Easter, a\nmuch better time for the visit, but now I cannot put her off. And when\nI have done with her I must go to her sister, Lady Stornaway, because\n_she_ was rather my most particular friend of the two, but I have not\ncared much for _her_ these three years.\"\n\nAfter this speech the two girls sat many minutes silent, each\nthoughtful: Fanny meditating on the different sorts of friendship in the\nworld, Mary on something of less philosophic tendency. _She_ first spoke\nagain.\n\n\"How perfectly I remember my resolving to look for you upstairs, and\nsetting off to find my way to the East room, without having an idea\nwhereabouts it was! How well I remember what I was thinking of as I came\nalong, and my looking in and seeing you here sitting at this table at\nwork; and then your cousin's astonishment, when he opened the door, at\nseeing me here! To be sure, your uncle's returning that very evening!\nThere never was anything quite like it.\"\n\nAnother short fit of abstraction followed, when, shaking it off, she\nthus attacked her companion.\n\n\"Why, Fanny, you are absolutely in a reverie. Thinking, I hope, of one\nwho is always thinking of you. Oh! that I could transport you for a\nshort time into our circle in town, that you might understand how your\npower over Henry is thought of there! Oh! the envyings and heartburnings\nof dozens and dozens; the wonder, the incredulity that will be felt at\nhearing what you have done! For as to secrecy, Henry is quite the hero\nof an old romance, and glories in his chains. You should come to London\nto know how to estimate your conquest. If you were to see how he is\ncourted, and how I am courted for his sake! Now, I am well aware that\nI shall not be half so welcome to Mrs. Fraser in consequence of his\nsituation with you. When she comes to know the truth she will, very\nlikely, wish me in Northamptonshire again; for there is a daughter of\nMr. Fraser, by a first wife, whom she is wild to get married, and\nwants Henry to take. Oh! she has been trying for him to such a degree.\nInnocent and quiet as you sit here, you cannot have an idea of the\n_sensation_ that you will be occasioning, of the curiosity there will\nbe to see you, of the endless questions I shall have to answer! Poor\nMargaret Fraser will be at me for ever about your eyes and your teeth,\nand how you do your hair, and who makes your shoes. I wish Margaret were\nmarried, for my poor friend's sake, for I look upon the Frasers to be\nabout as unhappy as most other married people. And yet it was a most\ndesirable match for Janet at the time. We were all delighted. She could\nnot do otherwise than accept him, for he was rich, and she had nothing;\nbut he turns out ill-tempered and _exigeant_, and wants a young woman,\na beautiful young woman of five-and-twenty, to be as steady as himself.\nAnd my friend does not manage him well; she does not seem to know how\nto make the best of it. There is a spirit of irritation which, to say\nnothing worse, is certainly very ill-bred. In their house I shall call\nto mind the conjugal manners of Mansfield Parsonage with respect. Even\nDr. Grant does shew a thorough confidence in my sister, and a certain\nconsideration for her judgment, which makes one feel there _is_\nattachment; but of that I shall see nothing with the Frasers. I shall\nbe at Mansfield for ever, Fanny. My own sister as a wife, Sir Thomas\nBertram as a husband, are my standards of perfection. Poor Janet has\nbeen sadly taken in, and yet there was nothing improper on her side:\nshe did not run into the match inconsiderately; there was no want of\nforesight. She took three days to consider of his proposals, and during\nthose three days asked the advice of everybody connected with her whose\nopinion was worth having, and especially applied to my late dear aunt,\nwhose knowledge of the world made her judgment very generally and\ndeservedly looked up to by all the young people of her acquaintance, and\nshe was decidedly in favour of Mr. Fraser. This seems as if nothing were\na security for matrimonial comfort. I have not so much to say for my\nfriend Flora, who jilted a very nice young man in the Blues for the sake\nof that horrid Lord Stornaway, who has about as much sense, Fanny, as\nMr. Rushworth, but much worse-looking, and with a blackguard character.\nI _had_ my doubts at the time about her being right, for he has not even\nthe air of a gentleman, and now I am sure she was wrong. By the bye,\nFlora Ross was dying for Henry the first winter she came out. But were I\nto attempt to tell you of all the women whom I have known to be in love\nwith him, I should never have done. It is you, only you, insensible\nFanny, who can think of him with anything like indifference. But are you\nso insensible as you profess yourself? No, no, I see you are not.\"\n\nThere was, indeed, so deep a blush over Fanny's face at that moment as\nmight warrant strong suspicion in a predisposed mind.\n\n\"Excellent creature! I will not tease you. Everything shall take its\ncourse. But, dear Fanny, you must allow that you were not so absolutely\nunprepared to have the question asked as your cousin fancies. It is not\npossible but that you must have had some thoughts on the subject, some\nsurmises as to what might be. You must have seen that he was trying to\nplease you by every attention in his power. Was not he devoted to you\nat the ball? And then before the ball, the necklace! Oh! you received\nit just as it was meant. You were as conscious as heart could desire. I\nremember it perfectly.\"\n\n\"Do you mean, then, that your brother knew of the necklace beforehand?\nOh! Miss Crawford, _that_ was not fair.\"\n\n\"Knew of it! It was his own doing entirely, his own thought. I am\nashamed to say that it had never entered my head, but I was delighted to\nact on his proposal for both your sakes.\"\n\n\"I will not say,\" replied Fanny, \"that I was not half afraid at the time\nof its being so, for there was something in your look that frightened\nme, but not at first; I was as unsuspicious of it at first--indeed,\nindeed I was. It is as true as that I sit here. And had I had an idea\nof it, nothing should have induced me to accept the necklace. As to your\nbrother's behaviour, certainly I was sensible of a particularity: I had\nbeen sensible of it some little time, perhaps two or three weeks; but\nthen I considered it as meaning nothing: I put it down as simply being\nhis way, and was as far from supposing as from wishing him to have any\nserious thoughts of me. I had not, Miss Crawford, been an inattentive\nobserver of what was passing between him and some part of this family in\nthe summer and autumn. I was quiet, but I was not blind. I could not\nbut see that Mr. Crawford allowed himself in gallantries which did mean\nnothing.\"\n\n\"Ah! I cannot deny it. He has now and then been a sad flirt, and\ncared very little for the havoc he might be making in young ladies'\naffections. I have often scolded him for it, but it is his only fault;\nand there is this to be said, that very few young ladies have any\naffections worth caring for. And then, Fanny, the glory of fixing one\nwho has been shot at by so many; of having it in one's power to pay off\nthe debts of one's sex! Oh! I am sure it is not in woman's nature to\nrefuse such a triumph.\"\n\nFanny shook her head. \"I cannot think well of a man who sports with any\nwoman's feelings; and there may often be a great deal more suffered than\na stander-by can judge of.\"\n\n\"I do not defend him. I leave him entirely to your mercy, and when he\nhas got you at Everingham, I do not care how much you lecture him. But\nthis I will say, that his fault, the liking to make girls a little\nin love with him, is not half so dangerous to a wife's happiness as a\ntendency to fall in love himself, which he has never been addicted to.\nAnd I do seriously and truly believe that he is attached to you in a way\nthat he never was to any woman before; that he loves you with all his\nheart, and will love you as nearly for ever as possible. If any man ever\nloved a woman for ever, I think Henry will do as much for you.\"\n\nFanny could not avoid a faint smile, but had nothing to say.\n\n\"I cannot imagine Henry ever to have been happier,\" continued Mary\npresently, \"than when he had succeeded in getting your brother's\ncommission.\"\n\nShe had made a sure push at Fanny's feelings here.\n\n\"Oh! yes. How very, very kind of him.\"\n\n\"I know he must have exerted himself very much, for I know the parties\nhe had to move. The Admiral hates trouble, and scorns asking favours;\nand there are so many young men's claims to be attended to in the same\nway, that a friendship and energy, not very determined, is easily put\nby. What a happy creature William must be! I wish we could see him.\"\n\nPoor Fanny's mind was thrown into the most distressing of all its\nvarieties. The recollection of what had been done for William was always\nthe most powerful disturber of every decision against Mr. Crawford; and\nshe sat thinking deeply of it till Mary, who had been first watching\nher complacently, and then musing on something else, suddenly called\nher attention by saying: \"I should like to sit talking with you here all\nday, but we must not forget the ladies below, and so good-bye, my dear,\nmy amiable, my excellent Fanny, for though we shall nominally part in\nthe breakfast-parlour, I must take leave of you here. And I do take\nleave, longing for a happy reunion, and trusting that when we meet\nagain, it will be under circumstances which may open our hearts to each\nother without any remnant or shadow of reserve.\"\n\nA very, very kind embrace, and some agitation of manner, accompanied\nthese words.\n\n\"I shall see your cousin in town soon: he talks of being there tolerably\nsoon; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the course of the spring; and your\neldest cousin, and the Rushworths, and Julia, I am sure of meeting again\nand again, and all but you. I have two favours to ask, Fanny: one is\nyour correspondence. You must write to me. And the other, that you will\noften call on Mrs. Grant, and make her amends for my being gone.\"\n\nThe first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not have been\nasked; but it was impossible for her to refuse the correspondence; it\nwas impossible for her even not to accede to it more readily than\nher own judgment authorised. There was no resisting so much apparent\naffection. Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond\ntreatment, and from having hitherto known so little of it, she was the\nmore overcome by Miss Crawford's. Besides, there was gratitude towards\nher, for having made their _tete-a-tete_ so much less painful than her\nfears had predicted.\n\nIt was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without\ndetection. Her secret was still her own; and while that was the case,\nshe thought she could resign herself to almost everything.\n\nIn the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and\nsat some time with them; and her spirits not being previously in the\nstrongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him, because\nhe really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said\nanything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him,\nthough hoping she might never see him again till he were the husband of\nsome other woman.\n\nWhen it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand, he would\nnot be denied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing that she heard,\nand when he had left the room, she was better pleased that such a token\nof friendship had passed.\n\nOn the morrow the Crawfords were gone.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII\n\nMr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas's next object was that he should be\nmissed; and he entertained great hope that his niece would find a blank\nin the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt, or\nfancied, an evil. She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering\nform; and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into\nnothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched her\nwith this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success. He hardly\nknew whether there were any difference in her spirits or not. She\nwas always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond his\ndiscrimination. He did not understand her: he felt that he did not; and\ntherefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on the\npresent occasion, and whether she were more or less happy than she had\nbeen.\n\nEdmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his father\na little unreasonable in supposing the first three or four days could\nproduce any.\n\nWhat chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford's sister, the friend\nand companion who had been so much to her, should not be more visibly\nregretted. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of _her_, and had so\nlittle voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation.\n\nAlas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the\nchief bane of Fanny's comfort. If she could have believed Mary's future\nfate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the brother's\nshould be, if she could have hoped her return thither to be as distant\nas she was much inclined to think his, she would have been light of\nheart indeed; but the more she recollected and observed, the more deeply\nwas she convinced that everything was now in a fairer train for Miss\nCrawford's marrying Edmund than it had ever been before. On his side the\ninclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal. His objections, the\nscruples of his integrity, seemed all done away, nobody could tell\nhow; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition were equally got\nover--and equally without apparent reason. It could only be imputed to\nincreasing attachment. His good and her bad feelings yielded to love,\nand such love must unite them. He was to go to town as soon as some\nbusiness relative to Thornton Lacey were completed--perhaps within a\nfortnight; he talked of going, he loved to talk of it; and when once\nwith her again, Fanny could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be\nas certain as his offer; and yet there were bad feelings still remaining\nwhich made the prospect of it most sorrowful to her, independently, she\nbelieved, independently of self.\n\nIn their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some amiable\nsensations, and much personal kindness, had still been Miss Crawford;\nstill shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any suspicion\nof being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. She might love, but\nshe did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. Fanny believed there\nwas scarcely a second feeling in common between them; and she may be\nforgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of Miss Crawford's\nfuture improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking that if Edmund's\ninfluence in this season of love had already done so little in clearing\nher judgment, and regulating her notions, his worth would be finally\nwasted on her even in years of matrimony.\n\nExperience might have hoped more for any young people so circumstanced,\nand impartiality would not have denied to Miss Crawford's nature that\nparticipation of the general nature of women which would lead her to\nadopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own. But\nas such were Fanny's persuasions, she suffered very much from them, and\ncould never speak of Miss Crawford without pain.\n\nSir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes and his own\nobservations, still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of human\nnature, to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and consequence\non his niece's spirits, and the past attentions of the lover producing a\ncraving for their return; and he was soon afterwards able to account for\nhis not yet completely and indubitably seeing all this, by the prospect\nof another visitor, whose approach he could allow to be quite enough to\nsupport the spirits he was watching. William had obtained a ten days'\nleave of absence, to be given to Northamptonshire, and was coming, the\nhappiest of lieutenants, because the latest made, to shew his happiness\nand describe his uniform.\n\nHe came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there too,\nhad not cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty. So the\nuniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before Fanny\nhad any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the freshness\nof its wearer's feelings must be worn away. It would be sunk into a\nbadge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming, or more worthless,\nthan the uniform of a lieutenant, who has been a lieutenant a year or\ntwo, and sees others made commanders before him? So reasoned Edmund,\ntill his father made him the confidant of a scheme which placed Fanny's\nchance of seeing the second lieutenant of H.M.S. Thrush in all his glory\nin another light.\n\nThis scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to\nPortsmouth, and spend a little time with her own family. It had occurred\nto Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and desirable\nmeasure; but before he absolutely made up his mind, he consulted his\nson. Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing but what was right.\nThe thing was good in itself, and could not be done at a better time;\nand he had no doubt of it being highly agreeable to Fanny. This was\nenough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive \"then so it shall be\"\nclosed that stage of the business; Sir Thomas retiring from it with some\nfeelings of satisfaction, and views of good over and above what he had\ncommunicated to his son; for his prime motive in sending her away had\nvery little to do with the propriety of her seeing her parents again,\nand nothing at all with any idea of making her happy. He certainly\nwished her to go willingly, but he as certainly wished her to be\nheartily sick of home before her visit ended; and that a little\nabstinence from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield Park would\nbring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a juster estimate\nof the value of that home of greater permanence, and equal comfort, of\nwhich she had the offer.\n\nIt was a medicinal project upon his niece's understanding, which he must\nconsider as at present diseased. A residence of eight or nine years in\nthe abode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered her powers of\ncomparing and judging. Her father's house would, in all probability,\nteach her the value of a good income; and he trusted that she would be\nthe wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the experiment he had\ndevised.\n\nHad Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong\nattack of them when she first understood what was intended, when her\nuncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers,\nand sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life; of\nreturning for a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy, with\nWilliam for the protector and companion of her journey, and the\ncertainty of continuing to see William to the last hour of his remaining\non land. Had she ever given way to bursts of delight, it must have been\nthen, for she was delighted, but her happiness was of a quiet, deep,\nheart-swelling sort; and though never a great talker, she was always\nmore inclined to silence when feeling most strongly. At the moment she\ncould only thank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarised with the\nvisions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak more largely\nto William and Edmund of what she felt; but still there were emotions\nof tenderness that could not be clothed in words. The remembrance of all\nher earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered in being torn from\nthem, came over her with renewed strength, and it seemed as if to be\nat home again would heal every pain that had since grown out of the\nseparation. To be in the centre of such a circle, loved by so many,\nand more loved by all than she had ever been before; to feel affection\nwithout fear or restraint; to feel herself the equal of those who\nsurrounded her; to be at peace from all mention of the Crawfords, safe\nfrom every look which could be fancied a reproach on their account. This\nwas a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness that could be but half\nacknowledged.\n\nEdmund, too--to be two months from _him_ (and perhaps she might be\nallowed to make her absence three) must do her good. At a distance,\nunassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual\nirritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence,\nshe should be able to reason herself into a properer state; she should\nbe able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there,\nwithout wretchedness. What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield was\nto become a slight evil at Portsmouth.\n\nThe only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram's being comfortable\nwithout her. She was of use to no one else; but _there_ she might be\nmissed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and that part of\nthe arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish,\nand what only _he_ could have accomplished at all.\n\nBut he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on\nany measure, he could always carry it through; and now by dint of long\ntalking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny's\nsometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go;\nobtaining it rather from submission, however, than conviction, for Lady\nBertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought\nFanny ought to go, and therefore that she must. In the calmness of\nher own dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations,\nunbiassed by his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any\nnecessity for Fanny's ever going near a father and mother who had done\nwithout her so long, while she was so useful to herself. And as to the\nnot missing her, which under Mrs. Norris's discussion was the point\nattempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily against admitting\nany such thing.\n\nSir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. He\ncalled it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and self-command\nas such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be very\nwell spared--_she_ being ready to give up all her own time to her as\nrequested--and, in short, could not really be wanted or missed.\n\n\"That may be, sister,\" was all Lady Bertram's reply. \"I dare say you are\nvery right; but I am sure I shall miss her very much.\"\n\nThe next step was to communicate with Portsmouth. Fanny wrote to offer\nherself; and her mother's answer, though short, was so kind--a few\nsimple lines expressed so natural and motherly a joy in the prospect\nof seeing her child again, as to confirm all the daughter's views of\nhappiness in being with her--convincing her that she should now find a\nwarm and affectionate friend in the \"mama\" who had certainly shewn no\nremarkable fondness for her formerly; but this she could easily suppose\nto have been her own fault or her own fancy. She had probably alienated\nlove by the helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper, or been\nunreasonable in wanting a larger share than any one among so many could\ndeserve. Now, when she knew better how to be useful, and how to forbear,\nand when her mother could be no longer occupied by the incessant\ndemands of a house full of little children, there would be leisure and\ninclination for every comfort, and they should soon be what mother and\ndaughter ought to be to each other.\n\nWilliam was almost as happy in the plan as his sister. It would be the\ngreatest pleasure to him to have her there to the last moment before he\nsailed, and perhaps find her there still when he came in from his first\ncruise. And besides, he wanted her so very much to see the Thrush before\nshe went out of harbour--the Thrush was certainly the finest sloop in\nthe service--and there were several improvements in the dockyard, too,\nwhich he quite longed to shew her.\n\nHe did not scruple to add that her being at home for a while would be a\ngreat advantage to everybody.\n\n\"I do not know how it is,\" said he; \"but we seem to want some of\nyour nice ways and orderliness at my father's. The house is always in\nconfusion. You will set things going in a better way, I am sure. You\nwill tell my mother how it all ought to be, and you will be so useful to\nSusan, and you will teach Betsey, and make the boys love and mind you.\nHow right and comfortable it will all be!\"\n\nBy the time Mrs. Price's answer arrived, there remained but a very few\ndays more to be spent at Mansfield; and for part of one of those days\nthe young travellers were in a good deal of alarm on the subject of\ntheir journey, for when the mode of it came to be talked of, and Mrs.\nNorris found that all her anxiety to save her brother-in-law's money\nwas vain, and that in spite of her wishes and hints for a less expensive\nconveyance of Fanny, they were to travel post; when she saw Sir Thomas\nactually give William notes for the purpose, she was struck with the\nidea of there being room for a third in the carriage, and suddenly\nseized with a strong inclination to go with them, to go and see her poor\ndear sister Price. She proclaimed her thoughts. She must say that she\nhad more than half a mind to go with the young people; it would be such\nan indulgence to her; she had not seen her poor dear sister Price for\nmore than twenty years; and it would be a help to the young people in\ntheir journey to have her older head to manage for them; and she could\nnot help thinking her poor dear sister Price would feel it very unkind\nof her not to come by such an opportunity.\n\nWilliam and Fanny were horror-struck at the idea.\n\nAll the comfort of their comfortable journey would be destroyed at\nonce. With woeful countenances they looked at each other. Their suspense\nlasted an hour or two. No one interfered to encourage or dissuade. Mrs.\nNorris was left to settle the matter by herself; and it ended, to the\ninfinite joy of her nephew and niece, in the recollection that she could\nnot possibly be spared from Mansfield Park at present; that she was a\ngreat deal too necessary to Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram for her to\nbe able to answer it to herself to leave them even for a week, and\ntherefore must certainly sacrifice every other pleasure to that of being\nuseful to them.\n\nIt had, in fact, occurred to her, that though taken to Portsmouth for\nnothing, it would be hardly possible for her to avoid paying her own\nexpenses back again. So her poor dear sister Price was left to all the\ndisappointment of her missing such an opportunity, and another twenty\nyears' absence, perhaps, begun.\n\nEdmund's plans were affected by this Portsmouth journey, this absence of\nFanny's. He too had a sacrifice to make to Mansfield Park as well as his\naunt. He had intended, about this time, to be going to London; but he\ncould not leave his father and mother just when everybody else of most\nimportance to their comfort was leaving them; and with an effort, felt\nbut not boasted of, he delayed for a week or two longer a journey which\nhe was looking forward to with the hope of its fixing his happiness for\never.\n\nHe told Fanny of it. She knew so much already, that she must know\neverything. It made the substance of one other confidential discourse\nabout Miss Crawford; and Fanny was the more affected from feeling it to\nbe the last time in which Miss Crawford's name would ever be mentioned\nbetween them with any remains of liberty. Once afterwards she was\nalluded to by him. Lady Bertram had been telling her niece in the\nevening to write to her soon and often, and promising to be a good\ncorrespondent herself; and Edmund, at a convenient moment, then added\nin a whisper, \"And _I_ shall write to you, Fanny, when I have anything\nworth writing about, anything to say that I think you will like to hear,\nand that you will not hear so soon from any other quarter.\" Had she\ndoubted his meaning while she listened, the glow in his face, when she\nlooked up at him, would have been decisive.\n\nFor this letter she must try to arm herself. That a letter from Edmund\nshould be a subject of terror! She began to feel that she had not yet\ngone through all the changes of opinion and sentiment which the progress\nof time and variation of circumstances occasion in this world of\nchanges. The vicissitudes of the human mind had not yet been exhausted\nby her.\n\nPoor Fanny! though going as she did willingly and eagerly, the last\nevening at Mansfield Park must still be wretchedness. Her heart was\ncompletely sad at parting. She had tears for every room in the house,\nmuch more for every beloved inhabitant. She clung to her aunt, because\nshe would miss her; she kissed the hand of her uncle with struggling\nsobs, because she had displeased him; and as for Edmund, she could\nneither speak, nor look, nor think, when the last moment came with\n_him_; and it was not till it was over that she knew he was giving her\nthe affectionate farewell of a brother.\n\nAll this passed overnight, for the journey was to begin very early in\nthe morning; and when the small, diminished party met at breakfast,\nWilliam and Fanny were talked of as already advanced one stage.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII\n\nThe novelty of travelling, and the happiness of being with William, soon\nproduced their natural effect on Fanny's spirits, when Mansfield Park\nwas fairly left behind; and by the time their first stage was ended, and\nthey were to quit Sir Thomas's carriage, she was able to take leave of\nthe old coachman, and send back proper messages, with cheerful looks.\n\nOf pleasant talk between the brother and sister there was no end.\nEverything supplied an amusement to the high glee of William's mind, and\nhe was full of frolic and joke in the intervals of their higher-toned\nsubjects, all of which ended, if they did not begin, in praise of the\nThrush, conjectures how she would be employed, schemes for an action\nwith some superior force, which (supposing the first lieutenant out of\nthe way, and William was not very merciful to the first lieutenant) was\nto give himself the next step as soon as possible, or speculations upon\nprize-money, which was to be generously distributed at home, with only\nthe reservation of enough to make the little cottage comfortable,\nin which he and Fanny were to pass all their middle and later life\ntogether.\n\nFanny's immediate concerns, as far as they involved Mr. Crawford, made\nno part of their conversation. William knew what had passed, and from\nhis heart lamented that his sister's feelings should be so cold towards\na man whom he must consider as the first of human characters; but he was\nof an age to be all for love, and therefore unable to blame; and knowing\nher wish on the subject, he would not distress her by the slightest\nallusion.\n\nShe had reason to suppose herself not yet forgotten by Mr. Crawford. She\nhad heard repeatedly from his sister within the three weeks which had\npassed since their leaving Mansfield, and in each letter there had been\na few lines from himself, warm and determined like his speeches. It\nwas a correspondence which Fanny found quite as unpleasant as she had\nfeared. Miss Crawford's style of writing, lively and affectionate, was\nitself an evil, independent of what she was thus forced into reading\nfrom the brother's pen, for Edmund would never rest till she had read\nthe chief of the letter to him; and then she had to listen to his\nadmiration of her language, and the warmth of her attachments. There\nhad, in fact, been so much of message, of allusion, of recollection, so\nmuch of Mansfield in every letter, that Fanny could not but suppose it\nmeant for him to hear; and to find herself forced into a purpose of\nthat kind, compelled into a correspondence which was bringing her the\naddresses of the man she did not love, and obliging her to administer\nto the adverse passion of the man she did, was cruelly mortifying. Here,\ntoo, her present removal promised advantage. When no longer under the\nsame roof with Edmund, she trusted that Miss Crawford would have no\nmotive for writing strong enough to overcome the trouble, and that at\nPortsmouth their correspondence would dwindle into nothing.\n\nWith such thoughts as these, among ten hundred others, Fanny proceeded\nin her journey safely and cheerfully, and as expeditiously as could\nrationally be hoped in the dirty month of February. They entered Oxford,\nbut she could take only a hasty glimpse of Edmund's college as they\npassed along, and made no stop anywhere till they reached Newbury, where\na comfortable meal, uniting dinner and supper, wound up the enjoyments\nand fatigues of the day.\n\nThe next morning saw them off again at an early hour; and with no\nevents, and no delays, they regularly advanced, and were in the environs\nof Portsmouth while there was yet daylight for Fanny to look around her,\nand wonder at the new buildings. They passed the drawbridge, and\nentered the town; and the light was only beginning to fail as, guided\nby William's powerful voice, they were rattled into a narrow street,\nleading from the High Street, and drawn up before the door of a small\nhouse now inhabited by Mr. Price.\n\nFanny was all agitation and flutter; all hope and apprehension. The\nmoment they stopped, a trollopy-looking maidservant, seemingly in\nwaiting for them at the door, stepped forward, and more intent on\ntelling the news than giving them any help, immediately began with, \"The\nThrush is gone out of harbour, please sir, and one of the officers has\nbeen here to--\" She was interrupted by a fine tall boy of eleven years\nold, who, rushing out of the house, pushed the maid aside, and while\nWilliam was opening the chaise-door himself, called out, \"You are just\nin time. We have been looking for you this half-hour. The Thrush went\nout of harbour this morning. I saw her. It was a beautiful sight. And\nthey think she will have her orders in a day or two. And Mr. Campbell\nwas here at four o'clock to ask for you: he has got one of the Thrush's\nboats, and is going off to her at six, and hoped you would be here in\ntime to go with him.\"\n\nA stare or two at Fanny, as William helped her out of the carriage, was\nall the voluntary notice which this brother bestowed; but he made no\nobjection to her kissing him, though still entirely engaged in detailing\nfarther particulars of the Thrush's going out of harbour, in which\nhe had a strong right of interest, being to commence his career of\nseamanship in her at this very time.\n\nAnother moment and Fanny was in the narrow entrance-passage of the\nhouse, and in her mother's arms, who met her there with looks of true\nkindness, and with features which Fanny loved the more, because they\nbrought her aunt Bertram's before her, and there were her two sisters:\nSusan, a well-grown fine girl of fourteen, and Betsey, the youngest of\nthe family, about five--both glad to see her in their way, though with\nno advantage of manner in receiving her. But manner Fanny did not want.\nWould they but love her, she should be satisfied.\n\nShe was then taken into a parlour, so small that her first conviction\nwas of its being only a passage-room to something better, and she stood\nfor a moment expecting to be invited on; but when she saw there was\nno other door, and that there were signs of habitation before her, she\ncalled back her thoughts, reproved herself, and grieved lest they should\nhave been suspected. Her mother, however, could not stay long enough\nto suspect anything. She was gone again to the street-door, to welcome\nWilliam. \"Oh! my dear William, how glad I am to see you. But have you\nheard about the Thrush? She is gone out of harbour already; three days\nbefore we had any thought of it; and I do not know what I am to do about\nSam's things, they will never be ready in time; for she may have her\norders to-morrow, perhaps. It takes me quite unawares. And now you must\nbe off for Spithead too. Campbell has been here, quite in a worry about\nyou; and now what shall we do? I thought to have had such a comfortable\nevening with you, and here everything comes upon me at once.\"\n\nHer son answered cheerfully, telling her that everything was always for\nthe best; and making light of his own inconvenience in being obliged to\nhurry away so soon.\n\n\"To be sure, I had much rather she had stayed in harbour, that I might\nhave sat a few hours with you in comfort; but as there is a boat ashore,\nI had better go off at once, and there is no help for it. Whereabouts\ndoes the Thrush lay at Spithead? Near the Canopus? But no matter; here's\nFanny in the parlour, and why should we stay in the passage? Come,\nmother, you have hardly looked at your own dear Fanny yet.\"\n\nIn they both came, and Mrs. Price having kindly kissed her daughter\nagain, and commented a little on her growth, began with very natural\nsolicitude to feel for their fatigues and wants as travellers.\n\n\"Poor dears! how tired you must both be! and now, what will you have? I\nbegan to think you would never come. Betsey and I have been watching for\nyou this half-hour. And when did you get anything to eat? And what would\nyou like to have now? I could not tell whether you would be for some\nmeat, or only a dish of tea, after your journey, or else I would have\ngot something ready. And now I am afraid Campbell will be here before\nthere is time to dress a steak, and we have no butcher at hand. It is\nvery inconvenient to have no butcher in the street. We were better off\nin our last house. Perhaps you would like some tea as soon as it can be\ngot.\"\n\nThey both declared they should prefer it to anything. \"Then, Betsey, my\ndear, run into the kitchen and see if Rebecca has put the water on; and\ntell her to bring in the tea-things as soon as she can. I wish we could\nget the bell mended; but Betsey is a very handy little messenger.\"\n\nBetsey went with alacrity, proud to shew her abilities before her fine\nnew sister.\n\n\"Dear me!\" continued the anxious mother, \"what a sad fire we have got,\nand I dare say you are both starved with cold. Draw your chair nearer,\nmy dear. I cannot think what Rebecca has been about. I am sure I told\nher to bring some coals half an hour ago. Susan, you should have taken\ncare of the fire.\"\n\n\"I was upstairs, mama, moving my things,\" said Susan, in a fearless,\nself-defending tone, which startled Fanny. \"You know you had but just\nsettled that my sister Fanny and I should have the other room; and I\ncould not get Rebecca to give me any help.\"\n\nFarther discussion was prevented by various bustles: first, the driver\ncame to be paid; then there was a squabble between Sam and Rebecca about\nthe manner of carrying up his sister's trunk, which he would manage all\nhis own way; and lastly, in walked Mr. Price himself, his own loud voice\npreceding him, as with something of the oath kind he kicked away his\nson's port-manteau and his daughter's bandbox in the passage, and called\nout for a candle; no candle was brought, however, and he walked into the\nroom.\n\nFanny with doubting feelings had risen to meet him, but sank down again\non finding herself undistinguished in the dusk, and unthought of. With\na friendly shake of his son's hand, and an eager voice, he instantly\nbegan--\"Ha! welcome back, my boy. Glad to see you. Have you heard the\nnews? The Thrush went out of harbour this morning. Sharp is the\nword, you see! By G--, you are just in time! The doctor has been here\ninquiring for you: he has got one of the boats, and is to be off for\nSpithead by six, so you had better go with him. I have been to Turner's\nabout your mess; it is all in a way to be done. I should not wonder if\nyou had your orders to-morrow: but you cannot sail with this wind, if\nyou are to cruise to the westward; and Captain Walsh thinks you will\ncertainly have a cruise to the westward, with the Elephant. By G--, I\nwish you may! But old Scholey was saying, just now, that he thought you\nwould be sent first to the Texel. Well, well, we are ready, whatever\nhappens. But by G--, you lost a fine sight by not being here in the\nmorning to see the Thrush go out of harbour! I would not have been out\nof the way for a thousand pounds. Old Scholey ran in at breakfast-time,\nto say she had slipped her moorings and was coming out, I jumped up, and\nmade but two steps to the platform. If ever there was a perfect beauty\nafloat, she is one; and there she lays at Spithead, and anybody in\nEngland would take her for an eight-and-twenty. I was upon the platform\ntwo hours this afternoon looking at her. She lays close to the Endymion,\nbetween her and the Cleopatra, just to the eastward of the sheer hulk.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" cried William, \"_that's_ just where I should have put her myself.\nIt's the best berth at Spithead. But here is my sister, sir; here is\nFanny,\" turning and leading her forward; \"it is so dark you do not see\nher.\"\n\nWith an acknowledgment that he had quite forgot her, Mr. Price now\nreceived his daughter; and having given her a cordial hug, and observed\nthat she was grown into a woman, and he supposed would be wanting a\nhusband soon, seemed very much inclined to forget her again. Fanny\nshrunk back to her seat, with feelings sadly pained by his language and\nhis smell of spirits; and he talked on only to his son, and only of the\nThrush, though William, warmly interested as he was in that subject,\nmore than once tried to make his father think of Fanny, and her long\nabsence and long journey.\n\nAfter sitting some time longer, a candle was obtained; but as there was\nstill no appearance of tea, nor, from Betsey's reports from the kitchen,\nmuch hope of any under a considerable period, William determined to\ngo and change his dress, and make the necessary preparations for\nhis removal on board directly, that he might have his tea in comfort\nafterwards.\n\nAs he left the room, two rosy-faced boys, ragged and dirty, about eight\nand nine years old, rushed into it just released from school, and coming\neagerly to see their sister, and tell that the Thrush was gone out of\nharbour; Tom and Charles. Charles had been born since Fanny's going\naway, but Tom she had often helped to nurse, and now felt a particular\npleasure in seeing again. Both were kissed very tenderly, but Tom she\nwanted to keep by her, to try to trace the features of the baby she had\nloved, and talked to, of his infant preference of herself. Tom, however,\nhad no mind for such treatment: he came home not to stand and be talked\nto, but to run about and make a noise; and both boys had soon burst from\nher, and slammed the parlour-door till her temples ached.\n\nShe had now seen all that were at home; there remained only two brothers\nbetween herself and Susan, one of whom was a clerk in a public office\nin London, and the other midshipman on board an Indiaman. But though she\nhad _seen_ all the members of the family, she had not yet _heard_ all\nthe noise they could make. Another quarter of an hour brought her a\ngreat deal more. William was soon calling out from the landing-place of\nthe second story for his mother and for Rebecca. He was in distress\nfor something that he had left there, and did not find again. A key was\nmislaid, Betsey accused of having got at his new hat, and some slight,\nbut essential alteration of his uniform waistcoat, which he had been\npromised to have done for him, entirely neglected.\n\nMrs. Price, Rebecca, and Betsey all went up to defend themselves, all\ntalking together, but Rebecca loudest, and the job was to be done as\nwell as it could in a great hurry; William trying in vain to send Betsey\ndown again, or keep her from being troublesome where she was; the whole\nof which, as almost every door in the house was open, could be plainly\ndistinguished in the parlour, except when drowned at intervals by the\nsuperior noise of Sam, Tom, and Charles chasing each other up and down\nstairs, and tumbling about and hallooing.\n\nFanny was almost stunned. The smallness of the house and thinness of the\nwalls brought everything so close to her, that, added to the fatigue of\nher journey, and all her recent agitation, she hardly knew how to\nbear it. _Within_ the room all was tranquil enough, for Susan having\ndisappeared with the others, there were soon only her father and herself\nremaining; and he, taking out a newspaper, the accustomary loan of a\nneighbour, applied himself to studying it, without seeming to recollect\nher existence. The solitary candle was held between himself and the\npaper, without any reference to her possible convenience; but she had\nnothing to do, and was glad to have the light screened from her aching\nhead, as she sat in bewildered, broken, sorrowful contemplation.\n\nShe was at home. But, alas! it was not such a home, she had not such a\nwelcome, as--she checked herself; she was unreasonable. What right had\nshe to be of importance to her family? She could have none, so long lost\nsight of! William's concerns must be dearest, they always had been, and\nhe had every right. Yet to have so little said or asked about herself,\nto have scarcely an inquiry made after Mansfield! It did pain her to\nhave Mansfield forgotten; the friends who had done so much--the dear,\ndear friends! But here, one subject swallowed up all the rest. Perhaps\nit must be so. The destination of the Thrush must be now preeminently\ninteresting. A day or two might shew the difference. _She_ only was to\nblame. Yet she thought it would not have been so at Mansfield. No, in\nher uncle's house there would have been a consideration of times and\nseasons, a regulation of subject, a propriety, an attention towards\neverybody which there was not here.\n\nThe only interruption which thoughts like these received for nearly half\nan hour was from a sudden burst of her father's, not at all calculated\nto compose them. At a more than ordinary pitch of thumping and hallooing\nin the passage, he exclaimed, \"Devil take those young dogs! How they are\nsinging out! Ay, Sam's voice louder than all the rest! That boy is fit\nfor a boatswain. Holla, you there! Sam, stop your confounded pipe, or I\nshall be after you.\"\n\nThis threat was so palpably disregarded, that though within five minutes\nafterwards the three boys all burst into the room together and sat down,\nFanny could not consider it as a proof of anything more than their\nbeing for the time thoroughly fagged, which their hot faces and panting\nbreaths seemed to prove, especially as they were still kicking each\nother's shins, and hallooing out at sudden starts immediately under\ntheir father's eye.\n\nThe next opening of the door brought something more welcome: it was for\nthe tea-things, which she had begun almost to despair of seeing that\nevening. Susan and an attendant girl, whose inferior appearance informed\nFanny, to her great surprise, that she had previously seen the upper\nservant, brought in everything necessary for the meal; Susan looking, as\nshe put the kettle on the fire and glanced at her sister, as if divided\nbetween the agreeable triumph of shewing her activity and usefulness,\nand the dread of being thought to demean herself by such an office. \"She\nhad been into the kitchen,\" she said, \"to hurry Sally and help make the\ntoast, and spread the bread and butter, or she did not know when they\nshould have got tea, and she was sure her sister must want something\nafter her journey.\"\n\nFanny was very thankful. She could not but own that she should be very\nglad of a little tea, and Susan immediately set about making it, as if\npleased to have the employment all to herself; and with only a little\nunnecessary bustle, and some few injudicious attempts at keeping her\nbrothers in better order than she could, acquitted herself very well.\nFanny's spirit was as much refreshed as her body; her head and heart\nwere soon the better for such well-timed kindness. Susan had an open,\nsensible countenance; she was like William, and Fanny hoped to find her\nlike him in disposition and goodwill towards herself.\n\nIn this more placid state of things William reentered, followed not\nfar behind by his mother and Betsey. He, complete in his lieutenant's\nuniform, looking and moving all the taller, firmer, and more graceful\nfor it, and with the happiest smile over his face, walked up directly\nto Fanny, who, rising from her seat, looked at him for a moment in\nspeechless admiration, and then threw her arms round his neck to sob out\nher various emotions of pain and pleasure.\n\nAnxious not to appear unhappy, she soon recovered herself; and wiping\naway her tears, was able to notice and admire all the striking parts\nof his dress; listening with reviving spirits to his cheerful hopes of\nbeing on shore some part of every day before they sailed, and even of\ngetting her to Spithead to see the sloop.\n\nThe next bustle brought in Mr. Campbell, the surgeon of the Thrush, a\nvery well-behaved young man, who came to call for his friend, and for\nwhom there was with some contrivance found a chair, and with some hasty\nwashing of the young tea-maker's, a cup and saucer; and after another\nquarter of an hour of earnest talk between the gentlemen, noise rising\nupon noise, and bustle upon bustle, men and boys at last all in motion\ntogether, the moment came for setting off; everything was ready, William\ntook leave, and all of them were gone; for the three boys, in spite\nof their mother's entreaty, determined to see their brother and Mr.\nCampbell to the sally-port; and Mr. Price walked off at the same time to\ncarry back his neighbour's newspaper.\n\nSomething like tranquillity might now be hoped for; and accordingly,\nwhen Rebecca had been prevailed on to carry away the tea-things,\nand Mrs. Price had walked about the room some time looking for a\nshirt-sleeve, which Betsey at last hunted out from a drawer in the\nkitchen, the small party of females were pretty well composed, and the\nmother having lamented again over the impossibility of getting Sam ready\nin time, was at leisure to think of her eldest daughter and the friends\nshe had come from.\n\nA few inquiries began: but one of the earliest--\"How did sister Bertram\nmanage about her servants?\" \"Was she as much plagued as herself to get\ntolerable servants?\"--soon led her mind away from Northamptonshire, and\nfixed it on her own domestic grievances, and the shocking character of\nall the Portsmouth servants, of whom she believed her own two were the\nvery worst, engrossed her completely. The Bertrams were all forgotten\nin detailing the faults of Rebecca, against whom Susan had also much\nto depose, and little Betsey a great deal more, and who did seem so\nthoroughly without a single recommendation, that Fanny could not help\nmodestly presuming that her mother meant to part with her when her year\nwas up.\n\n\"Her year!\" cried Mrs. Price; \"I am sure I hope I shall be rid of her\nbefore she has staid a year, for that will not be up till November.\nServants are come to such a pass, my dear, in Portsmouth, that it is\nquite a miracle if one keeps them more than half a year. I have no hope\nof ever being settled; and if I was to part with Rebecca, I should\nonly get something worse. And yet I do not think I am a very difficult\nmistress to please; and I am sure the place is easy enough, for there is\nalways a girl under her, and I often do half the work myself.\"\n\nFanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there might not be a\nremedy found for some of these evils. As she now sat looking at Betsey,\nshe could not but think particularly of another sister, a very pretty\nlittle girl, whom she had left there not much younger when she went into\nNorthamptonshire, who had died a few years afterwards. There had been\nsomething remarkably amiable about her. Fanny in those early days had\npreferred her to Susan; and when the news of her death had at last\nreached Mansfield, had for a short time been quite afflicted. The sight\nof Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, but she would\nnot have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. While\nconsidering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance, was\nholding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at the\nsame time from Susan's.\n\n\"What have you got there, my love?\" said Fanny; \"come and shew it to\nme.\"\n\nIt was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and\ntrying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother's protection,\nand Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently\nhoping to interest Fanny on her side. \"It was very hard that she was not\nto have her _own_ knife; it was her own knife; little sister Mary had\nleft it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to have had it to keep\nherself long ago. But mama kept it from her, and was always letting\nBetsey get hold of it; and the end of it would be that Betsey would\nspoil it, and get it for her own, though mama had _promised_ her that\nBetsey should not have it in her own hands.\"\n\nFanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty, honour, and tenderness\nwas wounded by her sister's speech and her mother's reply.\n\n\"Now, Susan,\" cried Mrs. Price, in a complaining voice, \"now, how can\nyou be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish you\nwould not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is to\nyou! But you should not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you to\nthe drawer. You know I told you not to touch it, because Susan is so\ncross about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little\nthought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it me to\nkeep, only two hours before she died. Poor little soul! she could but\njust speak to be heard, and she said so prettily, 'Let sister Susan have\nmy knife, mama, when I am dead and buried.' Poor little dear! she was so\nfond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by her in bed, all through\nher illness. It was the gift of her good godmother, old Mrs. Admiral\nMaxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death. Poor little\nsweet creature! Well, she was taken away from evil to come. My own\nBetsey\" (fondling her), \"_you_ have not the luck of such a good\ngodmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to think of such little people\nas you.\"\n\nFanny had indeed nothing to convey from aunt Norris, but a message to\nsay she hoped that her god-daughter was a good girl, and learnt her\nbook. There had been at one moment a slight murmur in the drawing-room\nat Mansfield Park about sending her a prayer-book; but no second sound\nhad been heard of such a purpose. Mrs. Norris, however, had gone home\nand taken down two old prayer-books of her husband with that idea; but,\nupon examination, the ardour of generosity went off. One was found\nto have too small a print for a child's eyes, and the other to be too\ncumbersome for her to carry about.\n\nFanny, fatigued and fatigued again, was thankful to accept the first\ninvitation of going to bed; and before Betsey had finished her cry at\nbeing allowed to sit up only one hour extraordinary in honour of sister,\nshe was off, leaving all below in confusion and noise again; the boys\nbegging for toasted cheese, her father calling out for his rum and\nwater, and Rebecca never where she ought to be.\n\nThere was nothing to raise her spirits in the confined and scantily\nfurnished chamber that she was to share with Susan. The smallness of\nthe rooms above and below, indeed, and the narrowness of the passage and\nstaircase, struck her beyond her imagination. She soon learned to think\nwith respect of her own little attic at Mansfield Park, in _that_ house\nreckoned too small for anybody's comfort.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX\n\nCould Sir Thomas have seen all his niece's feelings, when she wrote her\nfirst letter to her aunt, he would not have despaired; for though a good\nnight's rest, a pleasant morning, the hope of soon seeing William again,\nand the comparatively quiet state of the house, from Tom and Charles\nbeing gone to school, Sam on some project of his own, and her father\non his usual lounges, enabled her to express herself cheerfully on the\nsubject of home, there were still, to her own perfect consciousness,\nmany drawbacks suppressed. Could he have seen only half that she felt\nbefore the end of a week, he would have thought Mr. Crawford sure of\nher, and been delighted with his own sagacity.\n\nBefore the week ended, it was all disappointment. In the first place,\nWilliam was gone. The Thrush had had her orders, the wind had changed,\nand he was sailed within four days from their reaching Portsmouth; and\nduring those days she had seen him only twice, in a short and\nhurried way, when he had come ashore on duty. There had been no free\nconversation, no walk on the ramparts, no visit to the dockyard, no\nacquaintance with the Thrush, nothing of all that they had planned and\ndepended on. Everything in that quarter failed her, except William's\naffection. His last thought on leaving home was for her. He stepped back\nagain to the door to say, \"Take care of Fanny, mother. She is tender,\nand not used to rough it like the rest of us. I charge you, take care of\nFanny.\"\n\nWilliam was gone: and the home he had left her in was, Fanny could not\nconceal it from herself, in almost every respect the very reverse of\nwhat she could have wished. It was the abode of noise, disorder, and\nimpropriety. Nobody was in their right place, nothing was done as it\nought to be. She could not respect her parents as she had hoped. On her\nfather, her confidence had not been sanguine, but he was more negligent\nof his family, his habits were worse, and his manners coarser, than\nshe had been prepared for. He did not want abilities but he had no\ncuriosity, and no information beyond his profession; he read only\nthe newspaper and the navy-list; he talked only of the dockyard, the\nharbour, Spithead, and the Motherbank; he swore and he drank, he was\ndirty and gross. She had never been able to recall anything approaching\nto tenderness in his former treatment of herself. There had remained\nonly a general impression of roughness and loudness; and now he scarcely\never noticed her, but to make her the object of a coarse joke.\n\nHer disappointment in her mother was greater: _there_ she had hoped\nmuch, and found almost nothing. Every flattering scheme of being of\nconsequence to her soon fell to the ground. Mrs. Price was not unkind;\nbut, instead of gaining on her affection and confidence, and becoming\nmore and more dear, her daughter never met with greater kindness from\nher than on the first day of her arrival. The instinct of nature was\nsoon satisfied, and Mrs. Price's attachment had no other source. Her\nheart and her time were already quite full; she had neither leisure nor\naffection to bestow on Fanny. Her daughters never had been much to her.\nShe was fond of her sons, especially of William, but Betsey was the\nfirst of her girls whom she had ever much regarded. To her she was most\ninjudiciously indulgent. William was her pride; Betsey her darling;\nand John, Richard, Sam, Tom, and Charles occupied all the rest of her\nmaternal solicitude, alternately her worries and her comforts. These\nshared her heart: her time was given chiefly to her house and her\nservants. Her days were spent in a kind of slow bustle; all was busy\nwithout getting on, always behindhand and lamenting it, without altering\nher ways; wishing to be an economist, without contrivance or regularity;\ndissatisfied with her servants, without skill to make them better, and\nwhether helping, or reprimanding, or indulging them, without any power\nof engaging their respect.\n\nOf her two sisters, Mrs. Price very much more resembled Lady Bertram\nthan Mrs. Norris. She was a manager by necessity, without any of Mrs.\nNorris's inclination for it, or any of her activity. Her disposition\nwas naturally easy and indolent, like Lady Bertram's; and a situation of\nsimilar affluence and do-nothingness would have been much more suited\nto her capacity than the exertions and self-denials of the one which her\nimprudent marriage had placed her in. She might have made just as good a\nwoman of consequence as Lady Bertram, but Mrs. Norris would have been a\nmore respectable mother of nine children on a small income.\n\nMuch of all this Fanny could not but be sensible of. She might scruple\nto make use of the words, but she must and did feel that her mother was\na partial, ill-judging parent, a dawdle, a slattern, who neither taught\nnor restrained her children, whose house was the scene of mismanagement\nand discomfort from beginning to end, and who had no talent, no\nconversation, no affection towards herself; no curiosity to know her\nbetter, no desire of her friendship, and no inclination for her company\nthat could lessen her sense of such feelings.\n\nFanny was very anxious to be useful, and not to appear above her home,\nor in any way disqualified or disinclined, by her foreign education,\nfrom contributing her help to its comforts, and therefore set about\nworking for Sam immediately; and by working early and late, with\nperseverance and great despatch, did so much that the boy was shipped\noff at last, with more than half his linen ready. She had great pleasure\nin feeling her usefulness, but could not conceive how they would have\nmanaged without her.\n\nSam, loud and overbearing as he was, she rather regretted when he went,\nfor he was clever and intelligent, and glad to be employed in any errand\nin the town; and though spurning the remonstrances of Susan, given as\nthey were, though very reasonable in themselves, with ill-timed and\npowerless warmth, was beginning to be influenced by Fanny's services\nand gentle persuasions; and she found that the best of the three younger\nones was gone in him: Tom and Charles being at least as many years as\nthey were his juniors distant from that age of feeling and reason, which\nmight suggest the expediency of making friends, and of endeavouring to\nbe less disagreeable. Their sister soon despaired of making the smallest\nimpression on _them_; they were quite untameable by any means of address\nwhich she had spirits or time to attempt. Every afternoon brought a\nreturn of their riotous games all over the house; and she very early\nlearned to sigh at the approach of Saturday's constant half-holiday.\n\nBetsey, too, a spoiled child, trained up to think the alphabet her\ngreatest enemy, left to be with the servants at her pleasure, and\nthen encouraged to report any evil of them, she was almost as ready to\ndespair of being able to love or assist; and of Susan's temper she\nhad many doubts. Her continual disagreements with her mother, her rash\nsquabbles with Tom and Charles, and petulance with Betsey, were at least\nso distressing to Fanny that, though admitting they were by no means\nwithout provocation, she feared the disposition that could push them to\nsuch length must be far from amiable, and from affording any repose to\nherself.\n\nSuch was the home which was to put Mansfield out of her head, and\nteach her to think of her cousin Edmund with moderated feelings. On the\ncontrary, she could think of nothing but Mansfield, its beloved inmates,\nits happy ways. Everything where she now was in full contrast to it. The\nelegance, propriety, regularity, harmony, and perhaps, above all, the\npeace and tranquillity of Mansfield, were brought to her remembrance\nevery hour of the day, by the prevalence of everything opposite to them\n_here_.\n\nThe living in incessant noise was, to a frame and temper delicate and\nnervous like Fanny's, an evil which no superadded elegance or harmony\ncould have entirely atoned for. It was the greatest misery of all. At\nMansfield, no sounds of contention, no raised voice, no abrupt bursts,\nno tread of violence, was ever heard; all proceeded in a regular course\nof cheerful orderliness; everybody had their due importance; everybody's\nfeelings were consulted. If tenderness could be ever supposed wanting,\ngood sense and good breeding supplied its place; and as to the little\nirritations sometimes introduced by aunt Norris, they were short, they\nwere trifling, they were as a drop of water to the ocean, compared with\nthe ceaseless tumult of her present abode. Here everybody was noisy,\nevery voice was loud (excepting, perhaps, her mother's, which resembled\nthe soft monotony of Lady Bertram's, only worn into fretfulness).\nWhatever was wanted was hallooed for, and the servants hallooed out\ntheir excuses from the kitchen. The doors were in constant banging, the\nstairs were never at rest, nothing was done without a clatter, nobody\nsat still, and nobody could command attention when they spoke.\n\nIn a review of the two houses, as they appeared to her before the end\nof a week, Fanny was tempted to apply to them Dr. Johnson's celebrated\njudgment as to matrimony and celibacy, and say, that though Mansfield\nPark might have some pains, Portsmouth could have no pleasures.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL\n\nFanny was right enough in not expecting to hear from Miss Crawford now\nat the rapid rate in which their correspondence had begun; Mary's next\nletter was after a decidedly longer interval than the last, but she\nwas not right in supposing that such an interval would be felt a great\nrelief to herself. Here was another strange revolution of mind! She was\nreally glad to receive the letter when it did come. In her present exile\nfrom good society, and distance from everything that had been wont to\ninterest her, a letter from one belonging to the set where her heart\nlived, written with affection, and some degree of elegance, was\nthoroughly acceptable. The usual plea of increasing engagements was made\nin excuse for not having written to her earlier; \"And now that I have\nbegun,\" she continued, \"my letter will not be worth your reading, for\nthere will be no little offering of love at the end, no three or four\nlines _passionnees_ from the most devoted H. C. in the world, for\nHenry is in Norfolk; business called him to Everingham ten days ago, or\nperhaps he only pretended to call, for the sake of being travelling\nat the same time that you were. But there he is, and, by the bye, his\nabsence may sufficiently account for any remissness of his sister's in\nwriting, for there has been no 'Well, Mary, when do you write to Fanny?\nIs not it time for you to write to Fanny?' to spur me on. At last, after\nvarious attempts at meeting, I have seen your cousins, 'dear Julia and\ndearest Mrs. Rushworth'; they found me at home yesterday, and we were\nglad to see each other again. We _seemed_ _very_ glad to see each other,\nand I do really think we were a little. We had a vast deal to say. Shall\nI tell you how Mrs. Rushworth looked when your name was mentioned? I did\nnot use to think her wanting in self-possession, but she had not quite\nenough for the demands of yesterday. Upon the whole, Julia was in the\nbest looks of the two, at least after you were spoken of. There was no\nrecovering the complexion from the moment that I spoke of 'Fanny,' and\nspoke of her as a sister should. But Mrs. Rushworth's day of good looks\nwill come; we have cards for her first party on the 28th. Then she\nwill be in beauty, for she will open one of the best houses in Wimpole\nStreet. I was in it two years ago, when it was Lady Lascelle's, and\nprefer it to almost any I know in London, and certainly she will then\nfeel, to use a vulgar phrase, that she has got her pennyworth for her\npenny. Henry could not have afforded her such a house. I hope she will\nrecollect it, and be satisfied, as well as she may, with moving the\nqueen of a palace, though the king may appear best in the background;\nand as I have no desire to tease her, I shall never _force_ your name\nupon her again. She will grow sober by degrees. From all that I hear\nand guess, Baron Wildenheim's attentions to Julia continue, but I do not\nknow that he has any serious encouragement. She ought to do better.\nA poor honourable is no catch, and I cannot imagine any liking in the\ncase, for take away his rants, and the poor baron has nothing. What a\ndifference a vowel makes! If his rents were but equal to his rants! Your\ncousin Edmund moves slowly; detained, perchance, by parish duties. There\nmay be some old woman at Thornton Lacey to be converted. I am unwilling\nto fancy myself neglected for a _young_ one. Adieu! my dear sweet Fanny,\nthis is a long letter from London: write me a pretty one in reply to\ngladden Henry's eyes, when he comes back, and send me an account of all\nthe dashing young captains whom you disdain for his sake.\"\n\nThere was great food for meditation in this letter, and chiefly for\nunpleasant meditation; and yet, with all the uneasiness it supplied, it\nconnected her with the absent, it told her of people and things about\nwhom she had never felt so much curiosity as now, and she would\nhave been glad to have been sure of such a letter every week. Her\ncorrespondence with her aunt Bertram was her only concern of higher\ninterest.\n\nAs for any society in Portsmouth, that could at all make amends for\ndeficiencies at home, there were none within the circle of her father's\nand mother's acquaintance to afford her the smallest satisfaction: she\nsaw nobody in whose favour she could wish to overcome her own shyness\nand reserve. The men appeared to her all coarse, the women all pert,\neverybody underbred; and she gave as little contentment as she received\nfrom introductions either to old or new acquaintance. The young ladies\nwho approached her at first with some respect, in consideration of her\ncoming from a baronet's family, were soon offended by what they termed\n\"airs\"; for, as she neither played on the pianoforte nor wore fine\npelisses, they could, on farther observation, admit no right of\nsuperiority.\n\nThe first solid consolation which Fanny received for the evils of home,\nthe first which her judgment could entirely approve, and which gave any\npromise of durability, was in a better knowledge of Susan, and a hope of\nbeing of service to her. Susan had always behaved pleasantly to herself,\nbut the determined character of her general manners had astonished\nand alarmed her, and it was at least a fortnight before she began to\nunderstand a disposition so totally different from her own. Susan saw\nthat much was wrong at home, and wanted to set it right. That a girl of\nfourteen, acting only on her own unassisted reason, should err in the\nmethod of reform, was not wonderful; and Fanny soon became more disposed\nto admire the natural light of the mind which could so early distinguish\njustly, than to censure severely the faults of conduct to which it led.\nSusan was only acting on the same truths, and pursuing the same system,\nwhich her own judgment acknowledged, but which her more supine and\nyielding temper would have shrunk from asserting. Susan tried to be\nuseful, where _she_ could only have gone away and cried; and that Susan\nwas useful she could perceive; that things, bad as they were, would\nhave been worse but for such interposition, and that both her mother and\nBetsey were restrained from some excesses of very offensive indulgence\nand vulgarity.\n\nIn every argument with her mother, Susan had in point of reason the\nadvantage, and never was there any maternal tenderness to buy her off.\nThe blind fondness which was for ever producing evil around her she had\nnever known. There was no gratitude for affection past or present to\nmake her better bear with its excesses to the others.\n\nAll this became gradually evident, and gradually placed Susan before her\nsister as an object of mingled compassion and respect. That her manner\nwas wrong, however, at times very wrong, her measures often ill-chosen\nand ill-timed, and her looks and language very often indefensible, Fanny\ncould not cease to feel; but she began to hope they might be rectified.\nSusan, she found, looked up to her and wished for her good opinion; and\nnew as anything like an office of authority was to Fanny, new as it\nwas to imagine herself capable of guiding or informing any one, she did\nresolve to give occasional hints to Susan, and endeavour to exercise for\nher advantage the juster notions of what was due to everybody, and what\nwould be wisest for herself, which her own more favoured education had\nfixed in her.\n\nHer influence, or at least the consciousness and use of it, originated\nin an act of kindness by Susan, which, after many hesitations of\ndelicacy, she at last worked herself up to. It had very early occurred\nto her that a small sum of money might, perhaps, restore peace for\never on the sore subject of the silver knife, canvassed as it now was\ncontinually, and the riches which she was in possession of herself,\nher uncle having given her 10 at parting, made her as able as she was\nwilling to be generous. But she was so wholly unused to confer favours,\nexcept on the very poor, so unpractised in removing evils, or bestowing\nkindnesses among her equals, and so fearful of appearing to elevate\nherself as a great lady at home, that it took some time to determine\nthat it would not be unbecoming in her to make such a present. It\nwas made, however, at last: a silver knife was bought for Betsey, and\naccepted with great delight, its newness giving it every advantage\nover the other that could be desired; Susan was established in the full\npossession of her own, Betsey handsomely declaring that now she had got\none so much prettier herself, she should never want _that_ again; and\nno reproach seemed conveyed to the equally satisfied mother, which Fanny\nhad almost feared to be impossible. The deed thoroughly answered: a\nsource of domestic altercation was entirely done away, and it was the\nmeans of opening Susan's heart to her, and giving her something more to\nlove and be interested in. Susan shewed that she had delicacy: pleased\nas she was to be mistress of property which she had been struggling for\nat least two years, she yet feared that her sister's judgment had been\nagainst her, and that a reproof was designed her for having so struggled\nas to make the purchase necessary for the tranquillity of the house.\n\nHer temper was open. She acknowledged her fears, blamed herself for\nhaving contended so warmly; and from that hour Fanny, understanding the\nworth of her disposition and perceiving how fully she was inclined to\nseek her good opinion and refer to her judgment, began to feel again the\nblessing of affection, and to entertain the hope of being useful to a\nmind so much in need of help, and so much deserving it. She gave advice,\nadvice too sound to be resisted by a good understanding, and given so\nmildly and considerately as not to irritate an imperfect temper, and she\nhad the happiness of observing its good effects not unfrequently.\nMore was not expected by one who, while seeing all the obligation and\nexpediency of submission and forbearance, saw also with sympathetic\nacuteness of feeling all that must be hourly grating to a girl like\nSusan. Her greatest wonder on the subject soon became--not that Susan\nshould have been provoked into disrespect and impatience against her\nbetter knowledge--but that so much better knowledge, so many good\nnotions should have been hers at all; and that, brought up in the midst\nof negligence and error, she should have formed such proper opinions\nof what ought to be; she, who had had no cousin Edmund to direct her\nthoughts or fix her principles.\n\nThe intimacy thus begun between them was a material advantage to\neach. By sitting together upstairs, they avoided a great deal of the\ndisturbance of the house; Fanny had peace, and Susan learned to think it\nno misfortune to be quietly employed. They sat without a fire; but\nthat was a privation familiar even to Fanny, and she suffered the\nless because reminded by it of the East room. It was the only point of\nresemblance. In space, light, furniture, and prospect, there was\nnothing alike in the two apartments; and she often heaved a sigh at the\nremembrance of all her books and boxes, and various comforts there. By\ndegrees the girls came to spend the chief of the morning upstairs, at\nfirst only in working and talking, but after a few days, the remembrance\nof the said books grew so potent and stimulative that Fanny found it\nimpossible not to try for books again. There were none in her father's\nhouse; but wealth is luxurious and daring, and some of hers found its\nway to a circulating library. She became a subscriber; amazed at being\nanything _in propria persona_, amazed at her own doings in every way, to\nbe a renter, a chuser of books! And to be having any one's improvement\nin view in her choice! But so it was. Susan had read nothing, and Fanny\nlonged to give her a share in her own first pleasures, and inspire a\ntaste for the biography and poetry which she delighted in herself.\n\nIn this occupation she hoped, moreover, to bury some of the\nrecollections of Mansfield, which were too apt to seize her mind if her\nfingers only were busy; and, especially at this time, hoped it might\nbe useful in diverting her thoughts from pursuing Edmund to London,\nwhither, on the authority of her aunt's last letter, she knew he was\ngone. She had no doubt of what would ensue. The promised notification\nwas hanging over her head. The postman's knock within the neighbourhood\nwas beginning to bring its daily terrors, and if reading could banish\nthe idea for even half an hour, it was something gained.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI\n\nA week was gone since Edmund might be supposed in town, and Fanny had\nheard nothing of him. There were three different conclusions to be drawn\nfrom his silence, between which her mind was in fluctuation; each of\nthem at times being held the most probable. Either his going had been\nagain delayed, or he had yet procured no opportunity of seeing Miss\nCrawford alone, or he was too happy for letter-writing!\n\nOne morning, about this time, Fanny having now been nearly four weeks\nfrom Mansfield, a point which she never failed to think over and\ncalculate every day, as she and Susan were preparing to remove, as\nusual, upstairs, they were stopped by the knock of a visitor, whom they\nfelt they could not avoid, from Rebecca's alertness in going to the\ndoor, a duty which always interested her beyond any other.\n\nIt was a gentleman's voice; it was a voice that Fanny was just turning\npale about, when Mr. Crawford walked into the room.\n\nGood sense, like hers, will always act when really called upon; and she\nfound that she had been able to name him to her mother, and recall her\nremembrance of the name, as that of \"William's friend,\" though she could\nnot previously have believed herself capable of uttering a syllable\nat such a moment. The consciousness of his being known there only as\nWilliam's friend was some support. Having introduced him, however, and\nbeing all reseated, the terrors that occurred of what this visit might\nlead to were overpowering, and she fancied herself on the point of\nfainting away.\n\nWhile trying to keep herself alive, their visitor, who had at first\napproached her with as animated a countenance as ever, was wisely and\nkindly keeping his eyes away, and giving her time to recover, while he\ndevoted himself entirely to her mother, addressing her, and attending\nto her with the utmost politeness and propriety, at the same time with\na degree of friendliness, of interest at least, which was making his\nmanner perfect.\n\nMrs. Price's manners were also at their best. Warmed by the sight of\nsuch a friend to her son, and regulated by the wish of appearing to\nadvantage before him, she was overflowing with gratitude--artless,\nmaternal gratitude--which could not be unpleasing. Mr. Price was out,\nwhich she regretted very much. Fanny was just recovered enough to\nfeel that _she_ could not regret it; for to her many other sources of\nuneasiness was added the severe one of shame for the home in which he\nfound her. She might scold herself for the weakness, but there was no\nscolding it away. She was ashamed, and she would have been yet more\nashamed of her father than of all the rest.\n\nThey talked of William, a subject on which Mrs. Price could never tire;\nand Mr. Crawford was as warm in his commendation as even her heart could\nwish. She felt that she had never seen so agreeable a man in her life;\nand was only astonished to find that, so great and so agreeable as he\nwas, he should be come down to Portsmouth neither on a visit to the\nport-admiral, nor the commissioner, nor yet with the intention of going\nover to the island, nor of seeing the dockyard. Nothing of all that she\nhad been used to think of as the proof of importance, or the employment\nof wealth, had brought him to Portsmouth. He had reached it late the\nnight before, was come for a day or two, was staying at the Crown, had\naccidentally met with a navy officer or two of his acquaintance since\nhis arrival, but had no object of that kind in coming.\n\nBy the time he had given all this information, it was not unreasonable\nto suppose that Fanny might be looked at and spoken to; and she was\ntolerably able to bear his eye, and hear that he had spent half an hour\nwith his sister the evening before his leaving London; that she had\nsent her best and kindest love, but had had no time for writing; that he\nthought himself lucky in seeing Mary for even half an hour, having spent\nscarcely twenty-four hours in London, after his return from Norfolk,\nbefore he set off again; that her cousin Edmund was in town, had been in\ntown, he understood, a few days; that he had not seen him himself, but\nthat he was well, had left them all well at Mansfield, and was to dine,\nas yesterday, with the Frasers.\n\nFanny listened collectedly, even to the last-mentioned circumstance;\nnay, it seemed a relief to her worn mind to be at any certainty; and the\nwords, \"then by this time it is all settled,\" passed internally, without\nmore evidence of emotion than a faint blush.\n\nAfter talking a little more about Mansfield, a subject in which her\ninterest was most apparent, Crawford began to hint at the expediency of\nan early walk. \"It was a lovely morning, and at that season of the year\na fine morning so often turned off, that it was wisest for everybody\nnot to delay their exercise\"; and such hints producing nothing, he soon\nproceeded to a positive recommendation to Mrs. Price and her\ndaughters to take their walk without loss of time. Now they came to an\nunderstanding. Mrs. Price, it appeared, scarcely ever stirred out of\ndoors, except of a Sunday; she owned she could seldom, with her large\nfamily, find time for a walk. \"Would she not, then, persuade her\ndaughters to take advantage of such weather, and allow him the pleasure\nof attending them?\" Mrs. Price was greatly obliged and very complying.\n\"Her daughters were very much confined; Portsmouth was a sad place; they\ndid not often get out; and she knew they had some errands in the town,\nwhich they would be very glad to do.\" And the consequence was, that\nFanny, strange as it was--strange, awkward, and distressing--found\nherself and Susan, within ten minutes, walking towards the High Street\nwith Mr. Crawford.\n\nIt was soon pain upon pain, confusion upon confusion; for they were\nhardly in the High Street before they met her father, whose\nappearance was not the better from its being Saturday. He stopt; and,\nungentlemanlike as he looked, Fanny was obliged to introduce him to Mr.\nCrawford. She could not have a doubt of the manner in which Mr. Crawford\nmust be struck. He must be ashamed and disgusted altogether. He must\nsoon give her up, and cease to have the smallest inclination for the\nmatch; and yet, though she had been so much wanting his affection to\nbe cured, this was a sort of cure that would be almost as bad as the\ncomplaint; and I believe there is scarcely a young lady in the United\nKingdoms who would not rather put up with the misfortune of being sought\nby a clever, agreeable man, than have him driven away by the vulgarity\nof her nearest relations.\n\nMr. Crawford probably could not regard his future father-in-law with any\nidea of taking him for a model in dress; but (as Fanny instantly, and to\nher great relief, discerned) her father was a very different man, a\nvery different Mr. Price in his behaviour to this most highly respected\nstranger, from what he was in his own family at home. His manners\nnow, though not polished, were more than passable: they were grateful,\nanimated, manly; his expressions were those of an attached father, and\na sensible man; his loud tones did very well in the open air, and there\nwas not a single oath to be heard. Such was his instinctive compliment\nto the good manners of Mr. Crawford; and, be the consequence what it\nmight, Fanny's immediate feelings were infinitely soothed.\n\nThe conclusion of the two gentlemen's civilities was an offer of Mr.\nPrice's to take Mr. Crawford into the dockyard, which Mr. Crawford,\ndesirous of accepting as a favour what was intended as such, though\nhe had seen the dockyard again and again, and hoping to be so much the\nlonger with Fanny, was very gratefully disposed to avail himself of, if\nthe Miss Prices were not afraid of the fatigue; and as it was somehow or\nother ascertained, or inferred, or at least acted upon, that they were\nnot at all afraid, to the dockyard they were all to go; and but for\nMr. Crawford, Mr. Price would have turned thither directly, without the\nsmallest consideration for his daughters' errands in the High Street. He\ntook care, however, that they should be allowed to go to the shops they\ncame out expressly to visit; and it did not delay them long, for Fanny\ncould so little bear to excite impatience, or be waited for, that before\nthe gentlemen, as they stood at the door, could do more than begin upon\nthe last naval regulations, or settle the number of three-deckers now in\ncommission, their companions were ready to proceed.\n\nThey were then to set forward for the dockyard at once, and the walk\nwould have been conducted--according to Mr. Crawford's opinion--in a\nsingular manner, had Mr. Price been allowed the entire regulation of it,\nas the two girls, he found, would have been left to follow, and keep up\nwith them or not, as they could, while they walked on together at their\nown hasty pace. He was able to introduce some improvement occasionally,\nthough by no means to the extent he wished; he absolutely would not walk\naway from them; and at any crossing or any crowd, when Mr. Price was\nonly calling out, \"Come, girls; come, Fan; come, Sue, take care of\nyourselves; keep a sharp lookout!\" he would give them his particular\nattendance.\n\nOnce fairly in the dockyard, he began to reckon upon some happy\nintercourse with Fanny, as they were very soon joined by a brother\nlounger of Mr. Price's, who was come to take his daily survey of how\nthings went on, and who must prove a far more worthy companion than\nhimself; and after a time the two officers seemed very well satisfied\ngoing about together, and discussing matters of equal and never-failing\ninterest, while the young people sat down upon some timbers in the yard,\nor found a seat on board a vessel in the stocks which they all went to\nlook at. Fanny was most conveniently in want of rest. Crawford could not\nhave wished her more fatigued or more ready to sit down; but he could\nhave wished her sister away. A quick-looking girl of Susan's age was the\nvery worst third in the world: totally different from Lady Bertram, all\neyes and ears; and there was no introducing the main point before her.\nHe must content himself with being only generally agreeable, and letting\nSusan have her share of entertainment, with the indulgence, now and\nthen, of a look or hint for the better-informed and conscious Fanny.\nNorfolk was what he had mostly to talk of: there he had been some time,\nand everything there was rising in importance from his present schemes.\nSuch a man could come from no place, no society, without importing\nsomething to amuse; his journeys and his acquaintance were all of use,\nand Susan was entertained in a way quite new to her. For Fanny, somewhat\nmore was related than the accidental agreeableness of the parties he had\nbeen in. For her approbation, the particular reason of his going into\nNorfolk at all, at this unusual time of year, was given. It had been\nreal business, relative to the renewal of a lease in which the welfare\nof a large and--he believed--industrious family was at stake. He had\nsuspected his agent of some underhand dealing; of meaning to bias\nhim against the deserving; and he had determined to go himself, and\nthoroughly investigate the merits of the case. He had gone, had done\neven more good than he had foreseen, had been useful to more than his\nfirst plan had comprehended, and was now able to congratulate himself\nupon it, and to feel that in performing a duty, he had secured agreeable\nrecollections for his own mind. He had introduced himself to some\ntenants whom he had never seen before; he had begun making acquaintance\nwith cottages whose very existence, though on his own estate, had been\nhitherto unknown to him. This was aimed, and well aimed, at Fanny. It\nwas pleasing to hear him speak so properly; here he had been acting as\nhe ought to do. To be the friend of the poor and the oppressed! Nothing\ncould be more grateful to her; and she was on the point of giving him an\napproving look, when it was all frightened off by his adding a something\ntoo pointed of his hoping soon to have an assistant, a friend, a guide\nin every plan of utility or charity for Everingham: a somebody that\nwould make Everingham and all about it a dearer object than it had ever\nbeen yet.\n\nShe turned away, and wished he would not say such things. She was\nwilling to allow he might have more good qualities than she had been\nwont to suppose. She began to feel the possibility of his turning out\nwell at last; but he was and must ever be completely unsuited to her,\nand ought not to think of her.\n\nHe perceived that enough had been said of Everingham, and that it would\nbe as well to talk of something else, and turned to Mansfield. He could\nnot have chosen better; that was a topic to bring back her attention and\nher looks almost instantly. It was a real indulgence to her to hear or\nto speak of Mansfield. Now so long divided from everybody who knew the\nplace, she felt it quite the voice of a friend when he mentioned it,\nand led the way to her fond exclamations in praise of its beauties and\ncomforts, and by his honourable tribute to its inhabitants allowed her\nto gratify her own heart in the warmest eulogium, in speaking of her\nuncle as all that was clever and good, and her aunt as having the\nsweetest of all sweet tempers.\n\nHe had a great attachment to Mansfield himself; he said so; he looked\nforward with the hope of spending much, very much, of his time there;\nalways there, or in the neighbourhood. He particularly built upon a very\nhappy summer and autumn there this year; he felt that it would be so: he\ndepended upon it; a summer and autumn infinitely superior to the last.\nAs animated, as diversified, as social, but with circumstances of\nsuperiority undescribable.\n\n\"Mansfield, Sotherton, Thornton Lacey,\" he continued; \"what a society\nwill be comprised in those houses! And at Michaelmas, perhaps, a fourth\nmay be added: some small hunting-box in the vicinity of everything so\ndear; for as to any partnership in Thornton Lacey, as Edmund Bertram\nonce good-humouredly proposed, I hope I foresee two objections: two\nfair, excellent, irresistible objections to that plan.\"\n\nFanny was doubly silenced here; though when the moment was passed,\ncould regret that she had not forced herself into the acknowledged\ncomprehension of one half of his meaning, and encouraged him to say\nsomething more of his sister and Edmund. It was a subject which she must\nlearn to speak of, and the weakness that shrunk from it would soon be\nquite unpardonable.\n\nWhen Mr. Price and his friend had seen all that they wished, or had time\nfor, the others were ready to return; and in the course of their walk\nback, Mr. Crawford contrived a minute's privacy for telling Fanny that\nhis only business in Portsmouth was to see her; that he was come down\nfor a couple of days on her account, and hers only, and because he could\nnot endure a longer total separation. She was sorry, really sorry; and\nyet in spite of this and the two or three other things which she wished\nhe had not said, she thought him altogether improved since she had seen\nhim; he was much more gentle, obliging, and attentive to other people's\nfeelings than he had ever been at Mansfield; she had never seen him so\nagreeable--so _near_ being agreeable; his behaviour to her father could\nnot offend, and there was something particularly kind and proper in the\nnotice he took of Susan. He was decidedly improved. She wished the next\nday over, she wished he had come only for one day; but it was not\nso very bad as she would have expected: the pleasure of talking of\nMansfield was so very great!\n\nBefore they parted, she had to thank him for another pleasure, and one\nof no trivial kind. Her father asked him to do them the honour of taking\nhis mutton with them, and Fanny had time for only one thrill of horror,\nbefore he declared himself prevented by a prior engagement. He was\nengaged to dinner already both for that day and the next; he had met\nwith some acquaintance at the Crown who would not be denied; he should\nhave the honour, however, of waiting on them again on the morrow, etc.,\nand so they parted--Fanny in a state of actual felicity from escaping so\nhorrible an evil!\n\nTo have had him join their family dinner-party, and see all their\ndeficiencies, would have been dreadful! Rebecca's cookery and Rebecca's\nwaiting, and Betsey's eating at table without restraint, and pulling\neverything about as she chose, were what Fanny herself was not yet\nenough inured to for her often to make a tolerable meal. _She_ was nice\nonly from natural delicacy, but _he_ had been brought up in a school of\nluxury and epicurism.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII\n\nThe Prices were just setting off for church the next day when Mr.\nCrawford appeared again. He came, not to stop, but to join them; he was\nasked to go with them to the Garrison chapel, which was exactly what he\nhad intended, and they all walked thither together.\n\nThe family were now seen to advantage. Nature had given them no\ninconsiderable share of beauty, and every Sunday dressed them in their\ncleanest skins and best attire. Sunday always brought this comfort to\nFanny, and on this Sunday she felt it more than ever. Her poor mother\nnow did not look so very unworthy of being Lady Bertram's sister as she\nwas but too apt to look. It often grieved her to the heart to think of\nthe contrast between them; to think that where nature had made so little\ndifference, circumstances should have made so much, and that her mother,\nas handsome as Lady Bertram, and some years her junior, should have an\nappearance so much more worn and faded, so comfortless, so slatternly,\nso shabby. But Sunday made her a very creditable and tolerably\ncheerful-looking Mrs. Price, coming abroad with a fine family of\nchildren, feeling a little respite of her weekly cares, and only\ndiscomposed if she saw her boys run into danger, or Rebecca pass by with\na flower in her hat.\n\nIn chapel they were obliged to divide, but Mr. Crawford took care not to\nbe divided from the female branch; and after chapel he still continued\nwith them, and made one in the family party on the ramparts.\n\nMrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts every fine Sunday\nthroughout the year, always going directly after morning service and\nstaying till dinner-time. It was her public place: there she met her\nacquaintance, heard a little news, talked over the badness of the\nPortsmouth servants, and wound up her spirits for the six days ensuing.\n\nThither they now went; Mr. Crawford most happy to consider the Miss\nPrices as his peculiar charge; and before they had been there long,\nsomehow or other, there was no saying how, Fanny could not have believed\nit, but he was walking between them with an arm of each under his,\nand she did not know how to prevent or put an end to it. It made her\nuncomfortable for a time, but yet there were enjoyments in the day and\nin the view which would be felt.\n\nThe day was uncommonly lovely. It was really March; but it was April in\nits mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun, occasionally clouded for\na minute; and everything looked so beautiful under the influence of such\na sky, the effects of the shadows pursuing each other on the ships at\nSpithead and the island beyond, with the ever-varying hues of the sea,\nnow at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing against the ramparts\nwith so fine a sound, produced altogether such a combination of charms\nfor Fanny, as made her gradually almost careless of the circumstances\nunder which she felt them. Nay, had she been without his arm, she would\nsoon have known that she needed it, for she wanted strength for a two\nhours' saunter of this kind, coming, as it generally did, upon a week's\nprevious inactivity. Fanny was beginning to feel the effect of being\ndebarred from her usual regular exercise; she had lost ground as to\nhealth since her being in Portsmouth; and but for Mr. Crawford and the\nbeauty of the weather would soon have been knocked up now.\n\nThe loveliness of the day, and of the view, he felt like herself. They\noften stopt with the same sentiment and taste, leaning against the wall,\nsome minutes, to look and admire; and considering he was not Edmund,\nFanny could not but allow that he was sufficiently open to the charms\nof nature, and very well able to express his admiration. She had a few\ntender reveries now and then, which he could sometimes take advantage\nof to look in her face without detection; and the result of these looks\nwas, that though as bewitching as ever, her face was less blooming than\nit ought to be. She _said_ she was very well, and did not like to be\nsupposed otherwise; but take it all in all, he was convinced that her\npresent residence could not be comfortable, and therefore could not\nbe salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for her being again at\nMansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her, must be so\nmuch greater.\n\n\"You have been here a month, I think?\" said he.\n\n\"No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks to-morrow since I left\nMansfield.\"\n\n\"You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that a\nmonth.\"\n\n\"I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening.\"\n\n\"And it is to be a two months' visit, is not?\"\n\n\"Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less.\"\n\n\"And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?\"\n\n\"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps\nI may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched\nexactly at the two months' end.\"\n\nAfter a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, \"I know Mansfield, I\nknow its way, I know its faults towards _you_. I know the danger of\nyour being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the\nimaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware\nthat you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle\neverything for coming himself, or sending your aunt's maid for you,\nwithout involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he\nmay have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do. Two\nmonths is an ample allowance; I should think six weeks quite enough.\nI am considering your sister's health,\" said he, addressing himself to\nSusan, \"which I think the confinement of Portsmouth unfavourable to. She\nrequires constant air and exercise. When you know her as well as I do,\nI am sure you will agree that she does, and that she ought never to\nbe long banished from the free air and liberty of the country. If,\ntherefore\" (turning again to Fanny), \"you find yourself growing unwell,\nand any difficulties arise about your returning to Mansfield, without\nwaiting for the two months to be ended, _that_ must not be regarded\nas of any consequence, if you feel yourself at all less strong or\ncomfortable than usual, and will only let my sister know it, give her\nonly the slightest hint, she and I will immediately come down, and take\nyou back to Mansfield. You know the ease and the pleasure with which\nthis would be done. You know all that would be felt on the occasion.\"\n\nFanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off.\n\n\"I am perfectly serious,\" he replied, \"as you perfectly know. And I\nhope you will not be cruelly concealing any tendency to indisposition.\nIndeed, you shall _not_; it shall not be in your power; for so long only\nas you positively say, in every letter to Mary, 'I am well,' and I\nknow you cannot speak or write a falsehood, so long only shall you be\nconsidered as well.\"\n\nFanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a degree\nthat made it impossible for her to say much, or even to be certain of\nwhat she ought to say. This was towards the close of their walk. He\nattended them to the last, and left them only at the door of their own\nhouse, when he knew them to be going to dinner, and therefore pretended\nto be waited for elsewhere.\n\n\"I wish you were not so tired,\" said he, still detaining Fanny after all\nthe others were in the house--\"I wish I left you in stronger health. Is\nthere anything I can do for you in town? I have half an idea of going\ninto Norfolk again soon. I am not satisfied about Maddison. I am sure\nhe still means to impose on me if possible, and get a cousin of his own\ninto a certain mill, which I design for somebody else. I must come to an\nunderstanding with him. I must make him know that I will not be tricked\non the south side of Everingham, any more than on the north: that I will\nbe master of my own property. I was not explicit enough with him before.\nThe mischief such a man does on an estate, both as to the credit of his\nemployer and the welfare of the poor, is inconceivable. I have a great\nmind to go back into Norfolk directly, and put everything at once on\nsuch a footing as cannot be afterwards swerved from. Maddison is a\nclever fellow; I do not wish to displace him, provided he does not try\nto displace _me_; but it would be simple to be duped by a man who has no\nright of creditor to dupe me, and worse than simple to let him give me a\nhard-hearted, griping fellow for a tenant, instead of an honest man,\nto whom I have given half a promise already. Would it not be worse than\nsimple? Shall I go? Do you advise it?\"\n\n\"I advise! You know very well what is right.\"\n\n\"Yes. When you give me your opinion, I always know what is right. Your\njudgment is my rule of right.\"\n\n\"Oh, no! do not say so. We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we\nwould attend to it, than any other person can be. Good-bye; I wish you a\npleasant journey to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Is there nothing I can do for you in town?\"\n\n\"Nothing; I am much obliged to you.\"\n\n\"Have you no message for anybody?\"\n\n\"My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin, my\ncousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good as to say that I suppose I\nshall soon hear from him.\"\n\n\"Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will write his excuses\nmyself.\"\n\nHe could say no more, for Fanny would be no longer detained. He pressed\nher hand, looked at her, and was gone. _He_ went to while away the next\nthree hours as he could, with his other acquaintance, till the best\ndinner that a capital inn afforded was ready for their enjoyment, and\n_she_ turned in to her more simple one immediately.\n\nTheir general fare bore a very different character; and could he have\nsuspected how many privations, besides that of exercise, she endured in\nher father's house, he would have wondered that her looks were not much\nmore affected than he found them. She was so little equal to Rebecca's\npuddings and Rebecca's hashes, brought to table, as they all were, with\nsuch accompaniments of half-cleaned plates, and not half-cleaned knives\nand forks, that she was very often constrained to defer her heartiest\nmeal till she could send her brothers in the evening for biscuits and\nbuns. After being nursed up at Mansfield, it was too late in the day\nto be hardened at Portsmouth; and though Sir Thomas, had he known all,\nmight have thought his niece in the most promising way of being starved,\nboth mind and body, into a much juster value for Mr. Crawford's good\ncompany and good fortune, he would probably have feared to push his\nexperiment farther, lest she might die under the cure.\n\nFanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day. Though tolerably\nsecure of not seeing Mr. Crawford again, she could not help being low.\nIt was parting with somebody of the nature of a friend; and though, in\none light, glad to have him gone, it seemed as if she was now deserted\nby everybody; it was a sort of renewed separation from Mansfield; and\nshe could not think of his returning to town, and being frequently with\nMary and Edmund, without feelings so near akin to envy as made her hate\nherself for having them.\n\nHer dejection had no abatement from anything passing around her; a\nfriend or two of her father's, as always happened if he was not with\nthem, spent the long, long evening there; and from six o'clock till\nhalf-past nine, there was little intermission of noise or grog. She\nwas very low. The wonderful improvement which she still fancied in Mr.\nCrawford was the nearest to administering comfort of anything within the\ncurrent of her thoughts. Not considering in how different a circle she\nhad been just seeing him, nor how much might be owing to contrast, she\nwas quite persuaded of his being astonishingly more gentle and regardful\nof others than formerly. And, if in little things, must it not be so in\ngreat? So anxious for her health and comfort, so very feeling as he now\nexpressed himself, and really seemed, might not it be fairly supposed\nthat he would not much longer persevere in a suit so distressing to her?\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII\n\nIt was presumed that Mr. Crawford was travelling back, to London, on the\nmorrow, for nothing more was seen of him at Mr. Price's; and two days\nafterwards, it was a fact ascertained to Fanny by the following letter\nfrom his sister, opened and read by her, on another account, with the\nmost anxious curiosity:--\n\n\"I have to inform you, my dearest Fanny, that Henry has been down to\nPortsmouth to see you; that he had a delightful walk with you to the\ndockyard last Saturday, and one still more to be dwelt on the next day,\non the ramparts; when the balmy air, the sparkling sea, and your sweet\nlooks and conversation were altogether in the most delicious harmony,\nand afforded sensations which are to raise ecstasy even in retrospect.\nThis, as well as I understand, is to be the substance of my information.\nHe makes me write, but I do not know what else is to be communicated,\nexcept this said visit to Portsmouth, and these two said walks, and his\nintroduction to your family, especially to a fair sister of yours, a\nfine girl of fifteen, who was of the party on the ramparts, taking her\nfirst lesson, I presume, in love. I have not time for writing much, but\nit would be out of place if I had, for this is to be a mere letter of\nbusiness, penned for the purpose of conveying necessary information,\nwhich could not be delayed without risk of evil. My dear, dear Fanny,\nif I had you here, how I would talk to you! You should listen to me till\nyou were tired, and advise me till you were still tired more; but it is\nimpossible to put a hundredth part of my great mind on paper, so I will\nabstain altogether, and leave you to guess what you like. I have no news\nfor you. You have politics, of course; and it would be too bad to plague\nyou with the names of people and parties that fill up my time. I ought\nto have sent you an account of your cousin's first party, but I was\nlazy, and now it is too long ago; suffice it, that everything was just\nas it ought to be, in a style that any of her connexions must have been\ngratified to witness, and that her own dress and manners did her the\ngreatest credit. My friend, Mrs. Fraser, is mad for such a house, and it\nwould not make _me_ miserable. I go to Lady Stornaway after Easter;\nshe seems in high spirits, and very happy. I fancy Lord S. is very\ngood-humoured and pleasant in his own family, and I do not think him so\nvery ill-looking as I did--at least, one sees many worse. He will not\ndo by the side of your cousin Edmund. Of the last-mentioned hero, what\nshall I say? If I avoided his name entirely, it would look suspicious.\nI will say, then, that we have seen him two or three times, and that\nmy friends here are very much struck with his gentlemanlike appearance.\nMrs. Fraser (no bad judge) declares she knows but three men in town\nwho have so good a person, height, and air; and I must confess, when he\ndined here the other day, there were none to compare with him, and\nwe were a party of sixteen. Luckily there is no distinction of dress\nnowadays to tell tales, but--but--but Yours affectionately.\"\n\n\"I had almost forgot (it was Edmund's fault: he gets into my head more\nthan does me good) one very material thing I had to say from Henry and\nmyself--I mean about our taking you back into Northamptonshire. My dear\nlittle creature, do not stay at Portsmouth to lose your pretty looks.\nThose vile sea-breezes are the ruin of beauty and health. My poor aunt\nalways felt affected if within ten miles of the sea, which the Admiral\nof course never believed, but I know it was so. I am at your service\nand Henry's, at an hour's notice. I should like the scheme, and we would\nmake a little circuit, and shew you Everingham in our way, and perhaps\nyou would not mind passing through London, and seeing the inside of St.\nGeorge's, Hanover Square. Only keep your cousin Edmund from me at such\na time: I should not like to be tempted. What a long letter! one word\nmore. Henry, I find, has some idea of going into Norfolk again upon\nsome business that _you_ approve; but this cannot possibly be permitted\nbefore the middle of next week; that is, he cannot anyhow be spared till\nafter the 14th, for _we_ have a party that evening. The value of a man\nlike Henry, on such an occasion, is what you can have no conception\nof; so you must take it upon my word to be inestimable. He will see the\nRushworths, which own I am not sorry for--having a little curiosity, and\nso I think has he--though he will not acknowledge it.\"\n\nThis was a letter to be run through eagerly, to be read deliberately,\nto supply matter for much reflection, and to leave everything in greater\nsuspense than ever. The only certainty to be drawn from it was, that\nnothing decisive had yet taken place. Edmund had not yet spoken. How\nMiss Crawford really felt, how she meant to act, or might act without\nor against her meaning; whether his importance to her were quite what\nit had been before the last separation; whether, if lessened, it were\nlikely to lessen more, or to recover itself, were subjects for endless\nconjecture, and to be thought of on that day and many days to come,\nwithout producing any conclusion. The idea that returned the oftenest\nwas that Miss Crawford, after proving herself cooled and staggered by\na return to London habits, would yet prove herself in the end too much\nattached to him to give him up. She would try to be more ambitious than\nher heart would allow. She would hesitate, she would tease, she would\ncondition, she would require a great deal, but she would finally accept.\n\nThis was Fanny's most frequent expectation. A house in town--that, she\nthought, must be impossible. Yet there was no saying what Miss Crawford\nmight not ask. The prospect for her cousin grew worse and worse. The\nwoman who could speak of him, and speak only of his appearance! What an\nunworthy attachment! To be deriving support from the commendations of\nMrs. Fraser! _She_ who had known him intimately half a year! Fanny was\nashamed of her. Those parts of the letter which related only to Mr.\nCrawford and herself, touched her, in comparison, slightly. Whether Mr.\nCrawford went into Norfolk before or after the 14th was certainly no\nconcern of hers, though, everything considered, she thought he _would_\ngo without delay. That Miss Crawford should endeavour to secure a\nmeeting between him and Mrs. Rushworth, was all in her worst line of\nconduct, and grossly unkind and ill-judged; but she hoped _he_ would\nnot be actuated by any such degrading curiosity. He acknowledged no such\ninducement, and his sister ought to have given him credit for better\nfeelings than her own.\n\nShe was yet more impatient for another letter from town after receiving\nthis than she had been before; and for a few days was so unsettled by\nit altogether, by what had come, and what might come, that her usual\nreadings and conversation with Susan were much suspended. She could\nnot command her attention as she wished. If Mr. Crawford remembered her\nmessage to her cousin, she thought it very likely, most likely, that he\nwould write to her at all events; it would be most consistent with his\nusual kindness; and till she got rid of this idea, till it gradually\nwore off, by no letters appearing in the course of three or four days\nmore, she was in a most restless, anxious state.\n\nAt length, a something like composure succeeded. Suspense must be\nsubmitted to, and must not be allowed to wear her out, and make her\nuseless. Time did something, her own exertions something more, and she\nresumed her attentions to Susan, and again awakened the same interest in\nthem.\n\nSusan was growing very fond of her, and though without any of the early\ndelight in books which had been so strong in Fanny, with a disposition\nmuch less inclined to sedentary pursuits, or to information for\ninformation's sake, she had so strong a desire of not _appearing_\nignorant, as, with a good clear understanding, made her a most\nattentive, profitable, thankful pupil. Fanny was her oracle. Fanny's\nexplanations and remarks were a most important addition to every essay,\nor every chapter of history. What Fanny told her of former times dwelt\nmore on her mind than the pages of Goldsmith; and she paid her sister\nthe compliment of preferring her style to that of any printed author.\nThe early habit of reading was wanting.\n\nTheir conversations, however, were not always on subjects so high as\nhistory or morals. Others had their hour; and of lesser matters, none\nreturned so often, or remained so long between them, as Mansfield Park,\na description of the people, the manners, the amusements, the ways\nof Mansfield Park. Susan, who had an innate taste for the genteel and\nwell-appointed, was eager to hear, and Fanny could not but indulge\nherself in dwelling on so beloved a theme. She hoped it was not wrong;\nthough, after a time, Susan's very great admiration of everything\nsaid or done in her uncle's house, and earnest longing to go into\nNorthamptonshire, seemed almost to blame her for exciting feelings which\ncould not be gratified.\n\nPoor Susan was very little better fitted for home than her elder sister;\nand as Fanny grew thoroughly to understand this, she began to feel that\nwhen her own release from Portsmouth came, her happiness would have a\nmaterial drawback in leaving Susan behind. That a girl so capable of\nbeing made everything good should be left in such hands, distressed her\nmore and more. Were _she_ likely to have a home to invite her to, what\na blessing it would be! And had it been possible for her to return Mr.\nCrawford's regard, the probability of his being very far from objecting\nto such a measure would have been the greatest increase of all her own\ncomforts. She thought he was really good-tempered, and could fancy his\nentering into a plan of that sort most pleasantly.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV\n\nSeven weeks of the two months were very nearly gone, when the one\nletter, the letter from Edmund, so long expected, was put into Fanny's\nhands. As she opened, and saw its length, she prepared herself for a\nminute detail of happiness and a profusion of love and praise towards\nthe fortunate creature who was now mistress of his fate. These were the\ncontents--\n\n\"My Dear Fanny,--Excuse me that I have not written before. Crawford told\nme that you were wishing to hear from me, but I found it impossible to\nwrite from London, and persuaded myself that you would understand my\nsilence. Could I have sent a few happy lines, they should not have been\nwanting, but nothing of that nature was ever in my power. I am returned\nto Mansfield in a less assured state than when I left it. My hopes are\nmuch weaker. You are probably aware of this already. So very fond of you\nas Miss Crawford is, it is most natural that she should tell you enough\nof her own feelings to furnish a tolerable guess at mine. I will not be\nprevented, however, from making my own communication. Our confidences in\nyou need not clash. I ask no questions. There is something soothing\nin the idea that we have the same friend, and that whatever unhappy\ndifferences of opinion may exist between us, we are united in our love\nof you. It will be a comfort to me to tell you how things now are, and\nwhat are my present plans, if plans I can be said to have. I have been\nreturned since Saturday. I was three weeks in London, and saw her (for\nLondon) very often. I had every attention from the Frasers that could be\nreasonably expected. I dare say I was not reasonable in carrying with\nme hopes of an intercourse at all like that of Mansfield. It was her\nmanner, however, rather than any unfrequency of meeting. Had she been\ndifferent when I did see her, I should have made no complaint, but from\nthe very first she was altered: my first reception was so unlike what I\nhad hoped, that I had almost resolved on leaving London again directly.\nI need not particularise. You know the weak side of her character, and\nmay imagine the sentiments and expressions which were torturing me. She\nwas in high spirits, and surrounded by those who were giving all the\nsupport of their own bad sense to her too lively mind. I do not like\nMrs. Fraser. She is a cold-hearted, vain woman, who has married entirely\nfrom convenience, and though evidently unhappy in her marriage,\nplaces her disappointment not to faults of judgment, or temper, or\ndisproportion of age, but to her being, after all, less affluent than\nmany of her acquaintance, especially than her sister, Lady Stornaway,\nand is the determined supporter of everything mercenary and ambitious,\nprovided it be only mercenary and ambitious enough. I look upon her\nintimacy with those two sisters as the greatest misfortune of her life\nand mine. They have been leading her astray for years. Could she be\ndetached from them!--and sometimes I do not despair of it, for the\naffection appears to me principally on their side. They are very fond of\nher; but I am sure she does not love them as she loves you. When I think\nof her great attachment to you, indeed, and the whole of her judicious,\nupright conduct as a sister, she appears a very different creature,\ncapable of everything noble, and I am ready to blame myself for a too\nharsh construction of a playful manner. I cannot give her up, Fanny. She\nis the only woman in the world whom I could ever think of as a wife. If\nI did not believe that she had some regard for me, of course I should\nnot say this, but I do believe it. I am convinced that she is not\nwithout a decided preference. I have no jealousy of any individual. It\nis the influence of the fashionable world altogether that I am jealous\nof. It is the habits of wealth that I fear. Her ideas are not higher\nthan her own fortune may warrant, but they are beyond what our incomes\nunited could authorise. There is comfort, however, even here. I could\nbetter bear to lose her because not rich enough, than because of my\nprofession. That would only prove her affection not equal to sacrifices,\nwhich, in fact, I am scarcely justified in asking; and, if I am refused,\nthat, I think, will be the honest motive. Her prejudices, I trust, are\nnot so strong as they were. You have my thoughts exactly as they arise,\nmy dear Fanny; perhaps they are sometimes contradictory, but it will\nnot be a less faithful picture of my mind. Having once begun, it is a\npleasure to me to tell you all I feel. I cannot give her up. Connected\nas we already are, and, I hope, are to be, to give up Mary Crawford\nwould be to give up the society of some of those most dear to me; to\nbanish myself from the very houses and friends whom, under any other\ndistress, I should turn to for consolation. The loss of Mary I must\nconsider as comprehending the loss of Crawford and of Fanny. Were it a\ndecided thing, an actual refusal, I hope I should know how to bear it,\nand how to endeavour to weaken her hold on my heart, and in the course\nof a few years--but I am writing nonsense. Were I refused, I must bear\nit; and till I am, I can never cease to try for her. This is the truth.\nThe only question is _how_? What may be the likeliest means? I have\nsometimes thought of going to London again after Easter, and sometimes\nresolved on doing nothing till she returns to Mansfield. Even now, she\nspeaks with pleasure of being in Mansfield in June; but June is at\na great distance, and I believe I shall write to her. I have nearly\ndetermined on explaining myself by letter. To be at an early certainty\nis a material object. My present state is miserably irksome. Considering\neverything, I think a letter will be decidedly the best method of\nexplanation. I shall be able to write much that I could not say, and\nshall be giving her time for reflection before she resolves on her\nanswer, and I am less afraid of the result of reflection than of an\nimmediate hasty impulse; I think I am. My greatest danger would lie in\nher consulting Mrs. Fraser, and I at a distance unable to help my own\ncause. A letter exposes to all the evil of consultation, and where\nthe mind is anything short of perfect decision, an adviser may, in an\nunlucky moment, lead it to do what it may afterwards regret. I must\nthink this matter over a little. This long letter, full of my own\nconcerns alone, will be enough to tire even the friendship of a Fanny.\nThe last time I saw Crawford was at Mrs. Fraser's party. I am more\nand more satisfied with all that I see and hear of him. There is not a\nshadow of wavering. He thoroughly knows his own mind, and acts up to his\nresolutions: an inestimable quality. I could not see him and my eldest\nsister in the same room without recollecting what you once told me,\nand I acknowledge that they did not meet as friends. There was\nmarked coolness on her side. They scarcely spoke. I saw him draw back\nsurprised, and I was sorry that Mrs. Rushworth should resent any former\nsupposed slight to Miss Bertram. You will wish to hear my opinion\nof Maria's degree of comfort as a wife. There is no appearance of\nunhappiness. I hope they get on pretty well together. I dined twice in\nWimpole Street, and might have been there oftener, but it is mortifying\nto be with Rushworth as a brother. Julia seems to enjoy London\nexceedingly. I had little enjoyment there, but have less here. We are\nnot a lively party. You are very much wanted. I miss you more than I\ncan express. My mother desires her best love, and hopes to hear from\nyou soon. She talks of you almost every hour, and I am sorry to find\nhow many weeks more she is likely to be without you. My father means\nto fetch you himself, but it will not be till after Easter, when he has\nbusiness in town. You are happy at Portsmouth, I hope, but this must\nnot be a yearly visit. I want you at home, that I may have your opinion\nabout Thornton Lacey. I have little heart for extensive improvements\ntill I know that it will ever have a mistress. I think I shall certainly\nwrite. It is quite settled that the Grants go to Bath; they leave\nMansfield on Monday. I am glad of it. I am not comfortable enough to be\nfit for anybody; but your aunt seems to feel out of luck that such an\narticle of Mansfield news should fall to my pen instead of hers.--Yours\never, my dearest Fanny.\"\n\n\"I never will, no, I certainly never will wish for a letter again,\" was\nFanny's secret declaration as she finished this. \"What do they bring but\ndisappointment and sorrow? Not till after Easter! How shall I bear it?\nAnd my poor aunt talking of me every hour!\"\n\nFanny checked the tendency of these thoughts as well as she could, but\nshe was within half a minute of starting the idea that Sir Thomas was\nquite unkind, both to her aunt and to herself. As for the main subject\nof the letter, there was nothing in that to soothe irritation. She was\nalmost vexed into displeasure and anger against Edmund. \"There is no\ngood in this delay,\" said she. \"Why is not it settled? He is blinded,\nand nothing will open his eyes; nothing can, after having had truths\nbefore him so long in vain. He will marry her, and be poor and\nmiserable. God grant that her influence do not make him cease to be\nrespectable!\" She looked over the letter again. \"'So very fond of me!'\n'tis nonsense all. She loves nobody but herself and her brother. Her\nfriends leading her astray for years! She is quite as likely to have led\n_them_ astray. They have all, perhaps, been corrupting one another; but\nif they are so much fonder of her than she is of them, she is the less\nlikely to have been hurt, except by their flattery. 'The only woman in\nthe world whom he could ever think of as a wife.' I firmly believe it.\nIt is an attachment to govern his whole life. Accepted or refused, his\nheart is wedded to her for ever. 'The loss of Mary I must consider as\ncomprehending the loss of Crawford and Fanny.' Edmund, you do not know\nme. The families would never be connected if you did not connect\nthem! Oh! write, write. Finish it at once. Let there be an end of this\nsuspense. Fix, commit, condemn yourself.\"\n\nSuch sensations, however, were too near akin to resentment to be long\nguiding Fanny's soliloquies. She was soon more softened and sorrowful.\nHis warm regard, his kind expressions, his confidential treatment,\ntouched her strongly. He was only too good to everybody. It was a\nletter, in short, which she would not but have had for the world, and\nwhich could never be valued enough. This was the end of it.\n\nEverybody at all addicted to letter-writing, without having much to say,\nwhich will include a large proportion of the female world at least, must\nfeel with Lady Bertram that she was out of luck in having such a capital\npiece of Mansfield news as the certainty of the Grants going to Bath,\noccur at a time when she could make no advantage of it, and will admit\nthat it must have been very mortifying to her to see it fall to the\nshare of her thankless son, and treated as concisely as possible at the\nend of a long letter, instead of having it to spread over the largest\npart of a page of her own. For though Lady Bertram rather shone in the\nepistolary line, having early in her marriage, from the want of other\nemployment, and the circumstance of Sir Thomas's being in Parliament,\ngot into the way of making and keeping correspondents, and formed for\nherself a very creditable, common-place, amplifying style, so that a\nvery little matter was enough for her: she could not do entirely without\nany; she must have something to write about, even to her niece; and\nbeing so soon to lose all the benefit of Dr. Grant's gouty symptoms and\nMrs. Grant's morning calls, it was very hard upon her to be deprived of\none of the last epistolary uses she could put them to.\n\nThere was a rich amends, however, preparing for her. Lady Bertram's\nhour of good luck came. Within a few days from the receipt of Edmund's\nletter, Fanny had one from her aunt, beginning thus--\n\n\"My Dear Fanny,--I take up my pen to communicate some very alarming\nintelligence, which I make no doubt will give you much concern\".\n\nThis was a great deal better than to have to take up the pen to acquaint\nher with all the particulars of the Grants' intended journey, for the\npresent intelligence was of a nature to promise occupation for the pen\nfor many days to come, being no less than the dangerous illness of her\neldest son, of which they had received notice by express a few hours\nbefore.\n\nTom had gone from London with a party of young men to Newmarket, where\na neglected fall and a good deal of drinking had brought on a fever; and\nwhen the party broke up, being unable to move, had been left by himself\nat the house of one of these young men to the comforts of sickness and\nsolitude, and the attendance only of servants. Instead of being soon\nwell enough to follow his friends, as he had then hoped, his disorder\nincreased considerably, and it was not long before he thought so ill of\nhimself as to be as ready as his physician to have a letter despatched\nto Mansfield.\n\n\"This distressing intelligence, as you may suppose,\" observed\nher ladyship, after giving the substance of it, \"has agitated us\nexceedingly, and we cannot prevent ourselves from being greatly alarmed\nand apprehensive for the poor invalid, whose state Sir Thomas fears\nmay be very critical; and Edmund kindly proposes attending his brother\nimmediately, but I am happy to add that Sir Thomas will not leave me on\nthis distressing occasion, as it would be too trying for me. We shall\ngreatly miss Edmund in our small circle, but I trust and hope he\nwill find the poor invalid in a less alarming state than might be\napprehended, and that he will be able to bring him to Mansfield shortly,\nwhich Sir Thomas proposes should be done, and thinks best on every\naccount, and I flatter myself the poor sufferer will soon be able to\nbear the removal without material inconvenience or injury. As I\nhave little doubt of your feeling for us, my dear Fanny, under these\ndistressing circumstances, I will write again very soon.\"\n\nFanny's feelings on the occasion were indeed considerably more warm and\ngenuine than her aunt's style of writing. She felt truly for them all.\nTom dangerously ill, Edmund gone to attend him, and the sadly small\nparty remaining at Mansfield, were cares to shut out every other care,\nor almost every other. She could just find selfishness enough to wonder\nwhether Edmund _had_ written to Miss Crawford before this summons came,\nbut no sentiment dwelt long with her that was not purely affectionate\nand disinterestedly anxious. Her aunt did not neglect her: she wrote\nagain and again; they were receiving frequent accounts from Edmund,\nand these accounts were as regularly transmitted to Fanny, in the same\ndiffuse style, and the same medley of trusts, hopes, and fears, all\nfollowing and producing each other at haphazard. It was a sort of\nplaying at being frightened. The sufferings which Lady Bertram did not\nsee had little power over her fancy; and she wrote very comfortably\nabout agitation, and anxiety, and poor invalids, till Tom was actually\nconveyed to Mansfield, and her own eyes had beheld his altered\nappearance. Then a letter which she had been previously preparing for\nFanny was finished in a different style, in the language of real feeling\nand alarm; then she wrote as she might have spoken. \"He is just come, my\ndear Fanny, and is taken upstairs; and I am so shocked to see him, that\nI do not know what to do. I am sure he has been very ill. Poor Tom! I am\nquite grieved for him, and very much frightened, and so is Sir Thomas;\nand how glad I should be if you were here to comfort me. But Sir\nThomas hopes he will be better to-morrow, and says we must consider his\njourney.\"\n\nThe real solicitude now awakened in the maternal bosom was not\nsoon over. Tom's extreme impatience to be removed to Mansfield, and\nexperience those comforts of home and family which had been little\nthought of in uninterrupted health, had probably induced his being\nconveyed thither too early, as a return of fever came on, and for a week\nhe was in a more alarming state than ever. They were all very seriously\nfrightened. Lady Bertram wrote her daily terrors to her niece, who\nmight now be said to live upon letters, and pass all her time between\nsuffering from that of to-day and looking forward to to-morrow's.\nWithout any particular affection for her eldest cousin, her tenderness\nof heart made her feel that she could not spare him, and the purity of\nher principles added yet a keener solicitude, when she considered how\nlittle useful, how little self-denying his life had (apparently) been.\n\nSusan was her only companion and listener on this, as on more common\noccasions. Susan was always ready to hear and to sympathise. Nobody else\ncould be interested in so remote an evil as illness in a family above an\nhundred miles off; not even Mrs. Price, beyond a brief question or two,\nif she saw her daughter with a letter in her hand, and now and then the\nquiet observation of, \"My poor sister Bertram must be in a great deal of\ntrouble.\"\n\nSo long divided and so differently situated, the ties of blood were\nlittle more than nothing. An attachment, originally as tranquil as their\ntempers, was now become a mere name. Mrs. Price did quite as much for\nLady Bertram as Lady Bertram would have done for Mrs. Price. Three or\nfour Prices might have been swept away, any or all except Fanny and\nWilliam, and Lady Bertram would have thought little about it; or perhaps\nmight have caught from Mrs. Norris's lips the cant of its being a very\nhappy thing and a great blessing to their poor dear sister Price to have\nthem so well provided for.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLV\n\nAt about the week's end from his return to Mansfield, Tom's immediate\ndanger was over, and he was so far pronounced safe as to make his mother\nperfectly easy; for being now used to the sight of him in his suffering,\nhelpless state, and hearing only the best, and never thinking beyond\nwhat she heard, with no disposition for alarm and no aptitude at a hint,\nLady Bertram was the happiest subject in the world for a little medical\nimposition. The fever was subdued; the fever had been his complaint;\nof course he would soon be well again. Lady Bertram could think nothing\nless, and Fanny shared her aunt's security, till she received a few\nlines from Edmund, written purposely to give her a clearer idea of his\nbrother's situation, and acquaint her with the apprehensions which\nhe and his father had imbibed from the physician with respect to some\nstrong hectic symptoms, which seemed to seize the frame on the departure\nof the fever. They judged it best that Lady Bertram should not be\nharassed by alarms which, it was to be hoped, would prove unfounded;\nbut there was no reason why Fanny should not know the truth. They were\napprehensive for his lungs.\n\nA very few lines from Edmund shewed her the patient and the sickroom\nin a juster and stronger light than all Lady Bertram's sheets of paper\ncould do. There was hardly any one in the house who might not have\ndescribed, from personal observation, better than herself; not one who\nwas not more useful at times to her son. She could do nothing but glide\nin quietly and look at him; but when able to talk or be talked to, or\nread to, Edmund was the companion he preferred. His aunt worried him by\nher cares, and Sir Thomas knew not how to bring down his conversation or\nhis voice to the level of irritation and feebleness. Edmund was all in\nall. Fanny would certainly believe him so at least, and must find that\nher estimation of him was higher than ever when he appeared as the\nattendant, supporter, cheerer of a suffering brother. There was not only\nthe debility of recent illness to assist: there was also, as she now\nlearnt, nerves much affected, spirits much depressed to calm and raise,\nand her own imagination added that there must be a mind to be properly\nguided.\n\nThe family were not consumptive, and she was more inclined to hope than\nfear for her cousin, except when she thought of Miss Crawford; but Miss\nCrawford gave her the idea of being the child of good luck, and to her\nselfishness and vanity it would be good luck to have Edmund the only\nson.\n\nEven in the sick chamber the fortunate Mary was not forgotten. Edmund's\nletter had this postscript. \"On the subject of my last, I had actually\nbegun a letter when called away by Tom's illness, but I have now changed\nmy mind, and fear to trust the influence of friends. When Tom is better,\nI shall go.\"\n\nSuch was the state of Mansfield, and so it continued, with scarcely any\nchange, till Easter. A line occasionally added by Edmund to his\nmother's letter was enough for Fanny's information. Tom's amendment was\nalarmingly slow.\n\nEaster came particularly late this year, as Fanny had most sorrowfully\nconsidered, on first learning that she had no chance of leaving\nPortsmouth till after it. It came, and she had yet heard nothing of her\nreturn--nothing even of the going to London, which was to precede\nher return. Her aunt often expressed a wish for her, but there was no\nnotice, no message from the uncle on whom all depended. She supposed\nhe could not yet leave his son, but it was a cruel, a terrible delay\nto her. The end of April was coming on; it would soon be almost three\nmonths, instead of two, that she had been absent from them all, and that\nher days had been passing in a state of penance, which she loved them\ntoo well to hope they would thoroughly understand; and who could yet say\nwhen there might be leisure to think of or fetch her?\n\nHer eagerness, her impatience, her longings to be with them, were such\nas to bring a line or two of Cowper's Tirocinium for ever before her.\n\"With what intense desire she wants her home,\" was continually on her\ntongue, as the truest description of a yearning which she could not\nsuppose any schoolboy's bosom to feel more keenly.\n\nWhen she had been coming to Portsmouth, she had loved to call it her\nhome, had been fond of saying that she was going home; the word had\nbeen very dear to her, and so it still was, but it must be applied to\nMansfield. _That_ was now the home. Portsmouth was Portsmouth; Mansfield\nwas home. They had been long so arranged in the indulgence of her secret\nmeditations, and nothing was more consolatory to her than to find her\naunt using the same language: \"I cannot but say I much regret your being\nfrom home at this distressing time, so very trying to my spirits. I\ntrust and hope, and sincerely wish you may never be absent from home so\nlong again,\" were most delightful sentences to her. Still, however, it\nwas her private regale. Delicacy to her parents made her careful not to\nbetray such a preference of her uncle's house. It was always: \"When I go\nback into Northamptonshire, or when I return to Mansfield, I shall do\nso and so.\" For a great while it was so, but at last the longing grew\nstronger, it overthrew caution, and she found herself talking of what\nshe should do when she went home before she was aware. She reproached\nherself, coloured, and looked fearfully towards her father and mother.\nShe need not have been uneasy. There was no sign of displeasure, or even\nof hearing her. They were perfectly free from any jealousy of Mansfield.\nShe was as welcome to wish herself there as to be there.\n\nIt was sad to Fanny to lose all the pleasures of spring. She had not\nknown before what pleasures she _had_ to lose in passing March and April\nin a town. She had not known before how much the beginnings and progress\nof vegetation had delighted her. What animation, both of body and mind,\nshe had derived from watching the advance of that season which cannot,\nin spite of its capriciousness, be unlovely, and seeing its increasing\nbeauties from the earliest flowers in the warmest divisions of her\naunt's garden, to the opening of leaves of her uncle's plantations, and\nthe glory of his woods. To be losing such pleasures was no trifle; to\nbe losing them, because she was in the midst of closeness and noise,\nto have confinement, bad air, bad smells, substituted for liberty,\nfreshness, fragrance, and verdure, was infinitely worse: but even these\nincitements to regret were feeble, compared with what arose from the\nconviction of being missed by her best friends, and the longing to be\nuseful to those who were wanting her!\n\nCould she have been at home, she might have been of service to every\ncreature in the house. She felt that she must have been of use to all.\nTo all she must have saved some trouble of head or hand; and were it\nonly in supporting the spirits of her aunt Bertram, keeping her from\nthe evil of solitude, or the still greater evil of a restless, officious\ncompanion, too apt to be heightening danger in order to enhance her own\nimportance, her being there would have been a general good. She loved to\nfancy how she could have read to her aunt, how she could have talked to\nher, and tried at once to make her feel the blessing of what was, and\nprepare her mind for what might be; and how many walks up and down\nstairs she might have saved her, and how many messages she might have\ncarried.\n\nIt astonished her that Tom's sisters could be satisfied with remaining\nin London at such a time, through an illness which had now, under\ndifferent degrees of danger, lasted several weeks. _They_ might return\nto Mansfield when they chose; travelling could be no difficulty to\n_them_, and she could not comprehend how both could still keep away.\nIf Mrs. Rushworth could imagine any interfering obligations, Julia was\ncertainly able to quit London whenever she chose. It appeared from one\nof her aunt's letters that Julia had offered to return if wanted, but\nthis was all. It was evident that she would rather remain where she was.\n\nFanny was disposed to think the influence of London very much at war\nwith all respectable attachments. She saw the proof of it in Miss\nCrawford, as well as in her cousins; _her_ attachment to Edmund had been\nrespectable, the most respectable part of her character; her friendship\nfor herself had at least been blameless. Where was either sentiment now?\nIt was so long since Fanny had had any letter from her, that she had\nsome reason to think lightly of the friendship which had been so dwelt\non. It was weeks since she had heard anything of Miss Crawford or of\nher other connexions in town, except through Mansfield, and she was\nbeginning to suppose that she might never know whether Mr. Crawford had\ngone into Norfolk again or not till they met, and might never hear from\nhis sister any more this spring, when the following letter was received\nto revive old and create some new sensations--\n\n\"Forgive me, my dear Fanny, as soon as you can, for my long silence, and\nbehave as if you could forgive me directly. This is my modest request\nand expectation, for you are so good, that I depend upon being treated\nbetter than I deserve, and I write now to beg an immediate answer. I\nwant to know the state of things at Mansfield Park, and you, no doubt,\nare perfectly able to give it. One should be a brute not to feel for the\ndistress they are in; and from what I hear, poor Mr. Bertram has a bad\nchance of ultimate recovery. I thought little of his illness at first.\nI looked upon him as the sort of person to be made a fuss with, and to\nmake a fuss himself in any trifling disorder, and was chiefly concerned\nfor those who had to nurse him; but now it is confidently asserted that\nhe is really in a decline, that the symptoms are most alarming, and that\npart of the family, at least, are aware of it. If it be so, I am sure\nyou must be included in that part, that discerning part, and therefore\nentreat you to let me know how far I have been rightly informed. I need\nnot say how rejoiced I shall be to hear there has been any mistake, but\nthe report is so prevalent that I confess I cannot help trembling. To\nhave such a fine young man cut off in the flower of his days is most\nmelancholy. Poor Sir Thomas will feel it dreadfully. I really am quite\nagitated on the subject. Fanny, Fanny, I see you smile and look cunning,\nbut, upon my honour, I never bribed a physician in my life. Poor young\nman! If he is to die, there will be _two_ poor young men less in the\nworld; and with a fearless face and bold voice would I say to any one,\nthat wealth and consequence could fall into no hands more deserving of\nthem. It was a foolish precipitation last Christmas, but the evil of\na few days may be blotted out in part. Varnish and gilding hide many\nstains. It will be but the loss of the Esquire after his name. With real\naffection, Fanny, like mine, more might be overlooked. Write to me by\nreturn of post, judge of my anxiety, and do not trifle with it. Tell me\nthe real truth, as you have it from the fountainhead. And now, do\nnot trouble yourself to be ashamed of either my feelings or your own.\nBelieve me, they are not only natural, they are philanthropic and\nvirtuous. I put it to your conscience, whether 'Sir Edmund' would not do\nmore good with all the Bertram property than any other possible 'Sir.'\nHad the Grants been at home I would not have troubled you, but you are\nnow the only one I can apply to for the truth, his sisters not being\nwithin my reach. Mrs. R. has been spending the Easter with the Aylmers\nat Twickenham (as to be sure you know), and is not yet returned; and\nJulia is with the cousins who live near Bedford Square, but I forget\ntheir name and street. Could I immediately apply to either, however, I\nshould still prefer you, because it strikes me that they have all along\nbeen so unwilling to have their own amusements cut up, as to shut their\neyes to the truth. I suppose Mrs. R.'s Easter holidays will not last\nmuch longer; no doubt they are thorough holidays to her. The Aylmers\nare pleasant people; and her husband away, she can have nothing but\nenjoyment. I give her credit for promoting his going dutifully down to\nBath, to fetch his mother; but how will she and the dowager agree in one\nhouse? Henry is not at hand, so I have nothing to say from him. Do not\nyou think Edmund would have been in town again long ago, but for this\nillness?--Yours ever, Mary.\"\n\n\"I had actually begun folding my letter when Henry walked in, but he\nbrings no intelligence to prevent my sending it. Mrs. R. knows a decline\nis apprehended; he saw her this morning: she returns to Wimpole Street\nto-day; the old lady is come. Now do not make yourself uneasy with any\nqueer fancies because he has been spending a few days at Richmond. He\ndoes it every spring. Be assured he cares for nobody but you. At this\nvery moment he is wild to see you, and occupied only in contriving the\nmeans for doing so, and for making his pleasure conduce to yours. In\nproof, he repeats, and more eagerly, what he said at Portsmouth about\nour conveying you home, and I join him in it with all my soul. Dear\nFanny, write directly, and tell us to come. It will do us all good.\nHe and I can go to the Parsonage, you know, and be no trouble to our\nfriends at Mansfield Park. It would really be gratifying to see them\nall again, and a little addition of society might be of infinite use to\nthem; and as to yourself, you must feel yourself to be so wanted there,\nthat you cannot in conscience--conscientious as you are--keep away, when\nyou have the means of returning. I have not time or patience to give\nhalf Henry's messages; be satisfied that the spirit of each and every\none is unalterable affection.\"\n\nFanny's disgust at the greater part of this letter, with her extreme\nreluctance to bring the writer of it and her cousin Edmund together,\nwould have made her (as she felt) incapable of judging impartially\nwhether the concluding offer might be accepted or not. To herself,\nindividually, it was most tempting. To be finding herself, perhaps\nwithin three days, transported to Mansfield, was an image of the\ngreatest felicity, but it would have been a material drawback to be\nowing such felicity to persons in whose feelings and conduct, at the\npresent moment, she saw so much to condemn: the sister's feelings,\nthe brother's conduct, _her_ cold-hearted ambition, _his_ thoughtless\nvanity. To have him still the acquaintance, the flirt perhaps, of Mrs.\nRushworth! She was mortified. She had thought better of him. Happily,\nhowever, she was not left to weigh and decide between opposite\ninclinations and doubtful notions of right; there was no occasion to\ndetermine whether she ought to keep Edmund and Mary asunder or not. She\nhad a rule to apply to, which settled everything. Her awe of her uncle,\nand her dread of taking a liberty with him, made it instantly plain to\nher what she had to do. She must absolutely decline the proposal. If he\nwanted, he would send for her; and even to offer an early return was\na presumption which hardly anything would have seemed to justify. She\nthanked Miss Crawford, but gave a decided negative. \"Her uncle,\nshe understood, meant to fetch her; and as her cousin's illness had\ncontinued so many weeks without her being thought at all necessary,\nshe must suppose her return would be unwelcome at present, and that she\nshould be felt an encumbrance.\"\n\nHer representation of her cousin's state at this time was exactly\naccording to her own belief of it, and such as she supposed would convey\nto the sanguine mind of her correspondent the hope of everything she was\nwishing for. Edmund would be forgiven for being a clergyman, it seemed,\nunder certain conditions of wealth; and this, she suspected, was all\nthe conquest of prejudice which he was so ready to congratulate himself\nupon. She had only learnt to think nothing of consequence but money.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVI\n\nAs Fanny could not doubt that her answer was conveying a real\ndisappointment, she was rather in expectation, from her knowledge of\nMiss Crawford's temper, of being urged again; and though no second\nletter arrived for the space of a week, she had still the same feeling\nwhen it did come.\n\nOn receiving it, she could instantly decide on its containing little\nwriting, and was persuaded of its having the air of a letter of haste\nand business. Its object was unquestionable; and two moments were enough\nto start the probability of its being merely to give her notice that\nthey should be in Portsmouth that very day, and to throw her into all\nthe agitation of doubting what she ought to do in such a case. If two\nmoments, however, can surround with difficulties, a third can disperse\nthem; and before she had opened the letter, the possibility of Mr. and\nMiss Crawford's having applied to her uncle and obtained his permission\nwas giving her ease. This was the letter--\n\n\"A most scandalous, ill-natured rumour has just reached me, and I write,\ndear Fanny, to warn you against giving the least credit to it, should it\nspread into the country. Depend upon it, there is some mistake, and that\na day or two will clear it up; at any rate, that Henry is blameless, and\nin spite of a moment's _etourderie_, thinks of nobody but you. Say not a\nword of it; hear nothing, surmise nothing, whisper nothing till I\nwrite again. I am sure it will be all hushed up, and nothing proved but\nRushworth's folly. If they are gone, I would lay my life they are only\ngone to Mansfield Park, and Julia with them. But why would not you let\nus come for you? I wish you may not repent it.--Yours, etc.\"\n\nFanny stood aghast. As no scandalous, ill-natured rumour had reached\nher, it was impossible for her to understand much of this strange\nletter. She could only perceive that it must relate to Wimpole Street\nand Mr. Crawford, and only conjecture that something very imprudent had\njust occurred in that quarter to draw the notice of the world, and to\nexcite her jealousy, in Miss Crawford's apprehension, if she heard it.\nMiss Crawford need not be alarmed for her. She was only sorry for the\nparties concerned and for Mansfield, if the report should spread so far;\nbut she hoped it might not. If the Rushworths were gone themselves to\nMansfield, as was to be inferred from what Miss Crawford said, it was\nnot likely that anything unpleasant should have preceded them, or at\nleast should make any impression.\n\nAs to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it might give him a knowledge of his own\ndisposition, convince him that he was not capable of being steadily\nattached to any one woman in the world, and shame him from persisting\nany longer in addressing herself.\n\nIt was very strange! She had begun to think he really loved her, and to\nfancy his affection for her something more than common; and his sister\nstill said that he cared for nobody else. Yet there must have been some\nmarked display of attentions to her cousin, there must have been some\nstrong indiscretion, since her correspondent was not of a sort to regard\na slight one.\n\nVery uncomfortable she was, and must continue, till she heard from\nMiss Crawford again. It was impossible to banish the letter from her\nthoughts, and she could not relieve herself by speaking of it to any\nhuman being. Miss Crawford need not have urged secrecy with so much\nwarmth; she might have trusted to her sense of what was due to her\ncousin.\n\nThe next day came and brought no second letter. Fanny was disappointed.\nShe could still think of little else all the morning; but, when her\nfather came back in the afternoon with the daily newspaper as usual, she\nwas so far from expecting any elucidation through such a channel that\nthe subject was for a moment out of her head.\n\nShe was deep in other musing. The remembrance of her first evening in\nthat room, of her father and his newspaper, came across her. No candle\nwas now wanted. The sun was yet an hour and half above the horizon. She\nfelt that she had, indeed, been three months there; and the sun's rays\nfalling strongly into the parlour, instead of cheering, made her still\nmore melancholy, for sunshine appeared to her a totally different\nthing in a town and in the country. Here, its power was only a glare:\na stifling, sickly glare, serving but to bring forward stains and dirt\nthat might otherwise have slept. There was neither health nor gaiety in\nsunshine in a town. She sat in a blaze of oppressive heat, in a cloud\nof moving dust, and her eyes could only wander from the walls, marked by\nher father's head, to the table cut and notched by her brothers, where\nstood the tea-board never thoroughly cleaned, the cups and saucers wiped\nin streaks, the milk a mixture of motes floating in thin blue, and the\nbread and butter growing every minute more greasy than even Rebecca's\nhands had first produced it. Her father read his newspaper, and her\nmother lamented over the ragged carpet as usual, while the tea was\nin preparation, and wished Rebecca would mend it; and Fanny was first\nroused by his calling out to her, after humphing and considering over\na particular paragraph: \"What's the name of your great cousins in town,\nFan?\"\n\nA moment's recollection enabled her to say, \"Rushworth, sir.\"\n\n\"And don't they live in Wimpole Street?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Then, there's the devil to pay among them, that's all! There\" (holding\nout the paper to her); \"much good may such fine relations do you. I\ndon't know what Sir Thomas may think of such matters; he may be too much\nof the courtier and fine gentleman to like his daughter the less. But,\nby G--! if she belonged to _me_, I'd give her the rope's end as long as\nI could stand over her. A little flogging for man and woman too would be\nthe best way of preventing such things.\"\n\nFanny read to herself that \"it was with infinite concern the newspaper\nhad to announce to the world a matrimonial _fracas_ in the family of\nMr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R., whose name had not long\nbeen enrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had promised to become\nso brilliant a leader in the fashionable world, having quitted her\nhusband's roof in company with the well-known and captivating Mr. C.,\nthe intimate friend and associate of Mr. R., and it was not known even\nto the editor of the newspaper whither they were gone.\"\n\n\"It is a mistake, sir,\" said Fanny instantly; \"it must be a mistake, it\ncannot be true; it must mean some other people.\"\n\nShe spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with\na resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what she did not,\ncould not believe herself. It had been the shock of conviction as she\nread. The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all,\nhow she could even have breathed, was afterwards matter of wonder to\nherself.\n\nMr. Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer.\n\"It might be all a lie,\" he acknowledged; \"but so many fine ladies were\ngoing to the devil nowadays that way, that there was no answering for\nanybody.\"\n\n\"Indeed, I hope it is not true,\" said Mrs. Price plaintively; \"it would\nbe so very shocking! If I have spoken once to Rebecca about that carpet,\nI am sure I have spoke at least a dozen times; have not I, Betsey? And\nit would not be ten minutes' work.\"\n\nThe horror of a mind like Fanny's, as it received the conviction of such\nguilt, and began to take in some part of the misery that must ensue, can\nhardly be described. At first, it was a sort of stupefaction; but every\nmoment was quickening her perception of the horrible evil. She could not\ndoubt, she dared not indulge a hope, of the paragraph being false. Miss\nCrawford's letter, which she had read so often as to make every line\nher own, was in frightful conformity with it. Her eager defence of her\nbrother, her hope of its being _hushed_ _up_, her evident agitation,\nwere all of a piece with something very bad; and if there was a woman\nof character in existence, who could treat as a trifle this sin of the\nfirst magnitude, who would try to gloss it over, and desire to have it\nunpunished, she could believe Miss Crawford to be the woman! Now she\ncould see her own mistake as to _who_ were gone, or _said_ to be\ngone. It was not Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth; it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr.\nCrawford.\n\nFanny seemed to herself never to have been shocked before. There was no\npossibility of rest. The evening passed without a pause of misery, the\nnight was totally sleepless. She passed only from feelings of sickness\nto shudderings of horror; and from hot fits of fever to cold. The event\nwas so shocking, that there were moments even when her heart revolted\nfrom it as impossible: when she thought it could not be. A woman married\nonly six months ago; a man professing himself devoted, even _engaged_ to\nanother; that other her near relation; the whole family, both families\nconnected as they were by tie upon tie; all friends, all intimate\ntogether! It was too horrible a confusion of guilt, too gross a\ncomplication of evil, for human nature, not in a state of utter\nbarbarism, to be capable of! yet her judgment told her it was so.\n_His_ unsettled affections, wavering with his vanity, _Maria's_\ndecided attachment, and no sufficient principle on either side, gave it\npossibility: Miss Crawford's letter stampt it a fact.\n\nWhat would be the consequence? Whom would it not injure? Whose views\nmight it not affect? Whose peace would it not cut up for ever? Miss\nCrawford, herself, Edmund; but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tread\nsuch ground. She confined herself, or tried to confine herself, to the\nsimple, indubitable family misery which must envelop all, if it were\nindeed a matter of certified guilt and public exposure. The mother's\nsufferings, the father's; there she paused. Julia's, Tom's, Edmund's;\nthere a yet longer pause. They were the two on whom it would fall most\nhorribly. Sir Thomas's parental solicitude and high sense of honour and\ndecorum, Edmund's upright principles, unsuspicious temper, and genuine\nstrength of feeling, made her think it scarcely possible for them to\nsupport life and reason under such disgrace; and it appeared to her\nthat, as far as this world alone was concerned, the greatest blessing to\nevery one of kindred with Mrs. Rushworth would be instant annihilation.\n\nNothing happened the next day, or the next, to weaken her terrors. Two\nposts came in, and brought no refutation, public or private. There was\nno second letter to explain away the first from Miss Crawford; there was\nno intelligence from Mansfield, though it was now full time for her\nto hear again from her aunt. This was an evil omen. She had, indeed,\nscarcely the shadow of a hope to soothe her mind, and was reduced to so\nlow and wan and trembling a condition, as no mother, not unkind, except\nMrs. Price could have overlooked, when the third day did bring the\nsickening knock, and a letter was again put into her hands. It bore the\nLondon postmark, and came from Edmund.\n\n\"Dear Fanny,--You know our present wretchedness. May God support you\nunder your share! We have been here two days, but there is nothing to\nbe done. They cannot be traced. You may not have heard of the last\nblow--Julia's elopement; she is gone to Scotland with Yates. She left\nLondon a few hours before we entered it. At any other time this would\nhave been felt dreadfully. Now it seems nothing; yet it is an heavy\naggravation. My father is not overpowered. More cannot be hoped. He is\nstill able to think and act; and I write, by his desire, to propose your\nreturning home. He is anxious to get you there for my mother's sake. I\nshall be at Portsmouth the morning after you receive this, and hope to\nfind you ready to set off for Mansfield. My father wishes you to invite\nSusan to go with you for a few months. Settle it as you like; say what\nis proper; I am sure you will feel such an instance of his kindness at\nsuch a moment! Do justice to his meaning, however I may confuse it. You\nmay imagine something of my present state. There is no end of the evil\nlet loose upon us. You will see me early by the mail.--Yours, etc.\"\n\nNever had Fanny more wanted a cordial. Never had she felt such a one\nas this letter contained. To-morrow! to leave Portsmouth to-morrow!\nShe was, she felt she was, in the greatest danger of being exquisitely\nhappy, while so many were miserable. The evil which brought such good\nto her! She dreaded lest she should learn to be insensible of it. To be\ngoing so soon, sent for so kindly, sent for as a comfort, and with leave\nto take Susan, was altogether such a combination of blessings as set her\nheart in a glow, and for a time seemed to distance every pain, and\nmake her incapable of suitably sharing the distress even of those\nwhose distress she thought of most. Julia's elopement could affect her\ncomparatively but little; she was amazed and shocked; but it could not\noccupy her, could not dwell on her mind. She was obliged to call herself\nto think of it, and acknowledge it to be terrible and grievous, or it\nwas escaping her, in the midst of all the agitating pressing joyful\ncares attending this summons to herself.\n\nThere is nothing like employment, active indispensable employment, for\nrelieving sorrow. Employment, even melancholy, may dispel melancholy,\nand her occupations were hopeful. She had so much to do, that not even\nthe horrible story of Mrs. Rushworth--now fixed to the last point of\ncertainty could affect her as it had done before. She had not time to\nbe miserable. Within twenty-four hours she was hoping to be gone; her\nfather and mother must be spoken to, Susan prepared, everything got\nready. Business followed business; the day was hardly long enough. The\nhappiness she was imparting, too, happiness very little alloyed by the\nblack communication which must briefly precede it--the joyful consent\nof her father and mother to Susan's going with her--the general\nsatisfaction with which the going of both seemed regarded, and the\necstasy of Susan herself, was all serving to support her spirits.\n\nThe affliction of the Bertrams was little felt in the family. Mrs. Price\ntalked of her poor sister for a few minutes, but how to find anything to\nhold Susan's clothes, because Rebecca took away all the boxes and spoilt\nthem, was much more in her thoughts: and as for Susan, now unexpectedly\ngratified in the first wish of her heart, and knowing nothing personally\nof those who had sinned, or of those who were sorrowing--if she could\nhelp rejoicing from beginning to end, it was as much as ought to be\nexpected from human virtue at fourteen.\n\nAs nothing was really left for the decision of Mrs. Price, or the good\noffices of Rebecca, everything was rationally and duly accomplished,\nand the girls were ready for the morrow. The advantage of much sleep\nto prepare them for their journey was impossible. The cousin who was\ntravelling towards them could hardly have less than visited their\nagitated spirits--one all happiness, the other all varying and\nindescribable perturbation.\n\nBy eight in the morning Edmund was in the house. The girls heard his\nentrance from above, and Fanny went down. The idea of immediately seeing\nhim, with the knowledge of what he must be suffering, brought back all\nher own first feelings. He so near her, and in misery. She was ready to\nsink as she entered the parlour. He was alone, and met her instantly;\nand she found herself pressed to his heart with only these words, just\narticulate, \"My Fanny, my only sister; my only comfort now!\" She could\nsay nothing; nor for some minutes could he say more.\n\nHe turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again, though his\nvoice still faltered, his manner shewed the wish of self-command, and\nthe resolution of avoiding any farther allusion. \"Have you breakfasted?\nWhen shall you be ready? Does Susan go?\" were questions following each\nother rapidly. His great object was to be off as soon as possible. When\nMansfield was considered, time was precious; and the state of his own\nmind made him find relief only in motion. It was settled that he should\norder the carriage to the door in half an hour. Fanny answered for their\nhaving breakfasted and being quite ready in half an hour. He had already\nate, and declined staying for their meal. He would walk round the\nramparts, and join them with the carriage. He was gone again; glad to\nget away even from Fanny.\n\nHe looked very ill; evidently suffering under violent emotions, which he\nwas determined to suppress. She knew it must be so, but it was terrible\nto her.\n\nThe carriage came; and he entered the house again at the same\nmoment, just in time to spend a few minutes with the family, and be a\nwitness--but that he saw nothing--of the tranquil manner in which the\ndaughters were parted with, and just in time to prevent their sitting\ndown to the breakfast-table, which, by dint of much unusual activity,\nwas quite and completely ready as the carriage drove from the door.\nFanny's last meal in her father's house was in character with her first:\nshe was dismissed from it as hospitably as she had been welcomed.\n\nHow her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as she passed the barriers\nof Portsmouth, and how Susan's face wore its broadest smiles, may be\neasily conceived. Sitting forwards, however, and screened by her bonnet,\nthose smiles were unseen.\n\nThe journey was likely to be a silent one. Edmund's deep sighs often\nreached Fanny. Had he been alone with her, his heart must have opened\nin spite of every resolution; but Susan's presence drove him quite into\nhimself, and his attempts to talk on indifferent subjects could never be\nlong supported.\n\nFanny watched him with never-failing solicitude, and sometimes catching\nhis eye, revived an affectionate smile, which comforted her; but the\nfirst day's journey passed without her hearing a word from him on the\nsubjects that were weighing him down. The next morning produced a\nlittle more. Just before their setting out from Oxford, while Susan was\nstationed at a window, in eager observation of the departure of a\nlarge family from the inn, the other two were standing by the fire; and\nEdmund, particularly struck by the alteration in Fanny's looks, and from\nhis ignorance of the daily evils of her father's house, attributing an\nundue share of the change, attributing _all_ to the recent event, took\nher hand, and said in a low, but very expressive tone, \"No wonder--you\nmust feel it--you must suffer. How a man who had once loved, could\ndesert you! But _yours_--your regard was new compared with----Fanny,\nthink of _me_!\"\n\nThe first division of their journey occupied a long day, and brought\nthem, almost knocked up, to Oxford; but the second was over at a much\nearlier hour. They were in the environs of Mansfield long before the\nusual dinner-time, and as they approached the beloved place, the hearts\nof both sisters sank a little. Fanny began to dread the meeting with her\naunts and Tom, under so dreadful a humiliation; and Susan to feel\nwith some anxiety, that all her best manners, all her lately acquired\nknowledge of what was practised here, was on the point of being called\ninto action. Visions of good and ill breeding, of old vulgarisms and new\ngentilities, were before her; and she was meditating much upon silver\nforks, napkins, and finger-glasses. Fanny had been everywhere awake to\nthe difference of the country since February; but when they entered the\nPark her perceptions and her pleasures were of the keenest sort. It was\nthree months, full three months, since her quitting it, and the\nchange was from winter to summer. Her eye fell everywhere on lawns\nand plantations of the freshest green; and the trees, though not fully\nclothed, were in that delightful state when farther beauty is known to\nbe at hand, and when, while much is actually given to the sight, more\nyet remains for the imagination. Her enjoyment, however, was for herself\nalone. Edmund could not share it. She looked at him, but he was leaning\nback, sunk in a deeper gloom than ever, and with eyes closed, as if the\nview of cheerfulness oppressed him, and the lovely scenes of home must\nbe shut out.\n\nIt made her melancholy again; and the knowledge of what must be enduring\nthere, invested even the house, modern, airy, and well situated as it\nwas, with a melancholy aspect.\n\nBy one of the suffering party within they were expected with such\nimpatience as she had never known before. Fanny had scarcely passed the\nsolemn-looking servants, when Lady Bertram came from the drawing-room\nto meet her; came with no indolent step; and falling on her neck, said,\n\"Dear Fanny! now I shall be comfortable.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVII\n\nIt had been a miserable party, each of the three believing themselves\nmost miserable. Mrs. Norris, however, as most attached to Maria, was\nreally the greatest sufferer. Maria was her first favourite, the dearest\nof all; the match had been her own contriving, as she had been wont with\nsuch pride of heart to feel and say, and this conclusion of it almost\noverpowered her.\n\nShe was an altered creature, quieted, stupefied, indifferent to\neverything that passed. The being left with her sister and nephew, and\nall the house under her care, had been an advantage entirely thrown\naway; she had been unable to direct or dictate, or even fancy herself\nuseful. When really touched by affliction, her active powers had been\nall benumbed; and neither Lady Bertram nor Tom had received from her the\nsmallest support or attempt at support. She had done no more for them\nthan they had done for each other. They had been all solitary, helpless,\nand forlorn alike; and now the arrival of the others only established\nher superiority in wretchedness. Her companions were relieved, but there\nwas no good for _her_. Edmund was almost as welcome to his brother\nas Fanny to her aunt; but Mrs. Norris, instead of having comfort from\neither, was but the more irritated by the sight of the person whom, in\nthe blindness of her anger, she could have charged as the daemon of the\npiece. Had Fanny accepted Mr. Crawford this could not have happened.\n\nSusan too was a grievance. She had not spirits to notice her in more\nthan a few repulsive looks, but she felt her as a spy, and an intruder,\nand an indigent niece, and everything most odious. By her other aunt,\nSusan was received with quiet kindness. Lady Bertram could not give her\nmuch time, or many words, but she felt her, as Fanny's sister, to have\na claim at Mansfield, and was ready to kiss and like her; and Susan\nwas more than satisfied, for she came perfectly aware that nothing but\nill-humour was to be expected from aunt Norris; and was so provided\nwith happiness, so strong in that best of blessings, an escape from\nmany certain evils, that she could have stood against a great deal more\nindifference than she met with from the others.\n\nShe was now left a good deal to herself, to get acquainted with the\nhouse and grounds as she could, and spent her days very happily in so\ndoing, while those who might otherwise have attended to her were shut\nup, or wholly occupied each with the person quite dependent on them, at\nthis time, for everything like comfort; Edmund trying to bury his own\nfeelings in exertions for the relief of his brother's, and Fanny devoted\nto her aunt Bertram, returning to every former office with more than\nformer zeal, and thinking she could never do enough for one who seemed\nso much to want her.\n\nTo talk over the dreadful business with Fanny, talk and lament, was all\nLady Bertram's consolation. To be listened to and borne with, and hear\nthe voice of kindness and sympathy in return, was everything that could\nbe done for her. To be otherwise comforted was out of the question. The\ncase admitted of no comfort. Lady Bertram did not think deeply, but,\nguided by Sir Thomas, she thought justly on all important points; and\nshe saw, therefore, in all its enormity, what had happened, and neither\nendeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise her, to think little\nof guilt and infamy.\n\nHer affections were not acute, nor was her mind tenacious. After a time,\nFanny found it not impossible to direct her thoughts to other subjects,\nand revive some interest in the usual occupations; but whenever Lady\nBertram _was_ fixed on the event, she could see it only in one light, as\ncomprehending the loss of a daughter, and a disgrace never to be wiped\noff.\n\nFanny learnt from her all the particulars which had yet transpired. Her\naunt was no very methodical narrator, but with the help of some letters\nto and from Sir Thomas, and what she already knew herself, and could\nreasonably combine, she was soon able to understand quite as much as she\nwished of the circumstances attending the story.\n\nMrs. Rushworth had gone, for the Easter holidays, to Twickenham, with\na family whom she had just grown intimate with: a family of lively,\nagreeable manners, and probably of morals and discretion to suit, for to\n_their_ house Mr. Crawford had constant access at all times. His having\nbeen in the same neighbourhood Fanny already knew. Mr. Rushworth had\nbeen gone at this time to Bath, to pass a few days with his mother, and\nbring her back to town, and Maria was with these friends without any\nrestraint, without even Julia; for Julia had removed from Wimpole Street\ntwo or three weeks before, on a visit to some relations of Sir Thomas;\na removal which her father and mother were now disposed to attribute\nto some view of convenience on Mr. Yates's account. Very soon after the\nRushworths' return to Wimpole Street, Sir Thomas had received a letter\nfrom an old and most particular friend in London, who hearing and\nwitnessing a good deal to alarm him in that quarter, wrote to recommend\nSir Thomas's coming to London himself, and using his influence with his\ndaughter to put an end to the intimacy which was already exposing her to\nunpleasant remarks, and evidently making Mr. Rushworth uneasy.\n\nSir Thomas was preparing to act upon this letter, without communicating\nits contents to any creature at Mansfield, when it was followed by\nanother, sent express from the same friend, to break to him the almost\ndesperate situation in which affairs then stood with the young people.\nMrs. Rushworth had left her husband's house: Mr. Rushworth had been\nin great anger and distress to _him_ (Mr. Harding) for his advice; Mr.\nHarding feared there had been _at_ _least_ very flagrant indiscretion.\nThe maidservant of Mrs. Rushworth, senior, threatened alarmingly. He\nwas doing all in his power to quiet everything, with the hope of Mrs.\nRushworth's return, but was so much counteracted in Wimpole Street by\nthe influence of Mr. Rushworth's mother, that the worst consequences\nmight be apprehended.\n\nThis dreadful communication could not be kept from the rest of the\nfamily. Sir Thomas set off, Edmund would go with him, and the others had\nbeen left in a state of wretchedness, inferior only to what followed\nthe receipt of the next letters from London. Everything was by that time\npublic beyond a hope. The servant of Mrs. Rushworth, the mother, had\nexposure in her power, and supported by her mistress, was not to be\nsilenced. The two ladies, even in the short time they had been\ntogether, had disagreed; and the bitterness of the elder against her\ndaughter-in-law might perhaps arise almost as much from the personal\ndisrespect with which she had herself been treated as from sensibility\nfor her son.\n\nHowever that might be, she was unmanageable. But had she been less\nobstinate, or of less weight with her son, who was always guided by the\nlast speaker, by the person who could get hold of and shut him up, the\ncase would still have been hopeless, for Mrs. Rushworth did not appear\nagain, and there was every reason to conclude her to be concealed\nsomewhere with Mr. Crawford, who had quitted his uncle's house, as for a\njourney, on the very day of her absenting herself.\n\nSir Thomas, however, remained yet a little longer in town, in the hope\nof discovering and snatching her from farther vice, though all was lost\non the side of character.\n\n_His_ present state Fanny could hardly bear to think of. There was but\none of his children who was not at this time a source of misery to\nhim. Tom's complaints had been greatly heightened by the shock of his\nsister's conduct, and his recovery so much thrown back by it, that even\nLady Bertram had been struck by the difference, and all her alarms were\nregularly sent off to her husband; and Julia's elopement, the additional\nblow which had met him on his arrival in London, though its force had\nbeen deadened at the moment, must, she knew, be sorely felt. She saw\nthat it was. His letters expressed how much he deplored it. Under any\ncircumstances it would have been an unwelcome alliance; but to have it\nso clandestinely formed, and such a period chosen for its completion,\nplaced Julia's feelings in a most unfavourable light, and severely\naggravated the folly of her choice. He called it a bad thing, done in\nthe worst manner, and at the worst time; and though Julia was yet as\nmore pardonable than Maria as folly than vice, he could not but\nregard the step she had taken as opening the worst probabilities of a\nconclusion hereafter like her sister's. Such was his opinion of the set\ninto which she had thrown herself.\n\nFanny felt for him most acutely. He could have no comfort but in Edmund.\nEvery other child must be racking his heart. His displeasure against\nherself she trusted, reasoning differently from Mrs. Norris, would now\nbe done away. _She_ should be justified. Mr. Crawford would have fully\nacquitted her conduct in refusing him; but this, though most material\nto herself, would be poor consolation to Sir Thomas. Her uncle's\ndispleasure was terrible to her; but what could her justification or her\ngratitude and attachment do for him? His stay must be on Edmund alone.\n\nShe was mistaken, however, in supposing that Edmund gave his father no\npresent pain. It was of a much less poignant nature than what the others\nexcited; but Sir Thomas was considering his happiness as very deeply\ninvolved in the offence of his sister and friend; cut off by it, as\nhe must be, from the woman whom he had been pursuing with undoubted\nattachment and strong probability of success; and who, in everything but\nthis despicable brother, would have been so eligible a connexion. He was\naware of what Edmund must be suffering on his own behalf, in addition\nto all the rest, when they were in town: he had seen or conjectured\nhis feelings; and, having reason to think that one interview with Miss\nCrawford had taken place, from which Edmund derived only increased\ndistress, had been as anxious on that account as on others to get him\nout of town, and had engaged him in taking Fanny home to her aunt, with\na view to his relief and benefit, no less than theirs. Fanny was not in\nthe secret of her uncle's feelings, Sir Thomas not in the secret of Miss\nCrawford's character. Had he been privy to her conversation with his\nson, he would not have wished her to belong to him, though her twenty\nthousand pounds had been forty.\n\nThat Edmund must be for ever divided from Miss Crawford did not admit\nof a doubt with Fanny; and yet, till she knew that he felt the same, her\nown conviction was insufficient. She thought he did, but she wanted to\nbe assured of it. If he would now speak to her with the unreserve which\nhad sometimes been too much for her before, it would be most consoling;\nbut _that_ she found was not to be. She seldom saw him: never alone. He\nprobably avoided being alone with her. What was to be inferred? That\nhis judgment submitted to all his own peculiar and bitter share of this\nfamily affliction, but that it was too keenly felt to be a subject of\nthe slightest communication. This must be his state. He yielded, but it\nwas with agonies which did not admit of speech. Long, long would it be\nere Miss Crawford's name passed his lips again, or she could hope for a\nrenewal of such confidential intercourse as had been.\n\nIt _was_ long. They reached Mansfield on Thursday, and it was not till\nSunday evening that Edmund began to talk to her on the subject. Sitting\nwith her on Sunday evening--a wet Sunday evening--the very time of\nall others when, if a friend is at hand, the heart must be opened, and\neverything told; no one else in the room, except his mother, who,\nafter hearing an affecting sermon, had cried herself to sleep, it was\nimpossible not to speak; and so, with the usual beginnings, hardly to\nbe traced as to what came first, and the usual declaration that if she\nwould listen to him for a few minutes, he should be very brief, and\ncertainly never tax her kindness in the same way again; she need not\nfear a repetition; it would be a subject prohibited entirely: he entered\nupon the luxury of relating circumstances and sensations of the first\ninterest to himself, to one of whose affectionate sympathy he was quite\nconvinced.\n\nHow Fanny listened, with what curiosity and concern, what pain and what\ndelight, how the agitation of his voice was watched, and how carefully\nher own eyes were fixed on any object but himself, may be imagined. The\nopening was alarming. He had seen Miss Crawford. He had been invited to\nsee her. He had received a note from Lady Stornaway to beg him to call;\nand regarding it as what was meant to be the last, last interview\nof friendship, and investing her with all the feelings of shame and\nwretchedness which Crawford's sister ought to have known, he had gone to\nher in such a state of mind, so softened, so devoted, as made it for a\nfew moments impossible to Fanny's fears that it should be the last. But\nas he proceeded in his story, these fears were over. She had met him,\nhe said, with a serious--certainly a serious--even an agitated air;\nbut before he had been able to speak one intelligible sentence, she had\nintroduced the subject in a manner which he owned had shocked him. \"'I\nheard you were in town,' said she; 'I wanted to see you. Let us talk\nover this sad business. What can equal the folly of our two relations?'\nI could not answer, but I believe my looks spoke. She felt reproved.\nSometimes how quick to feel! With a graver look and voice she then\nadded, 'I do not mean to defend Henry at your sister's expense.' So\nshe began, but how she went on, Fanny, is not fit, is hardly fit to be\nrepeated to you. I cannot recall all her words. I would not dwell upon\nthem if I could. Their substance was great anger at the _folly_ of each.\nShe reprobated her brother's folly in being drawn on by a woman whom he\nhad never cared for, to do what must lose him the woman he adored; but\nstill more the folly of poor Maria, in sacrificing such a situation,\nplunging into such difficulties, under the idea of being really loved\nby a man who had long ago made his indifference clear. Guess what I must\nhave felt. To hear the woman whom--no harsher name than folly given!\nSo voluntarily, so freely, so coolly to canvass it! No reluctance, no\nhorror, no feminine, shall I say, no modest loathings? This is what the\nworld does. For where, Fanny, shall we find a woman whom nature had so\nrichly endowed? Spoilt, spoilt!\"\n\nAfter a little reflection, he went on with a sort of desperate calmness.\n\"I will tell you everything, and then have done for ever. She saw it\nonly as folly, and that folly stamped only by exposure. The want of\ncommon discretion, of caution: his going down to Richmond for the whole\ntime of her being at Twickenham; her putting herself in the power of\na servant; it was the detection, in short--oh, Fanny! it was the\ndetection, not the offence, which she reprobated. It was the imprudence\nwhich had brought things to extremity, and obliged her brother to give\nup every dearer plan in order to fly with her.\"\n\nHe stopt. \"And what,\" said Fanny (believing herself required to speak),\n\"what could you say?\"\n\n\"Nothing, nothing to be understood. I was like a man stunned. She\nwent on, began to talk of you; yes, then she began to talk of you,\nregretting, as well she might, the loss of such a--. There she spoke\nvery rationally. But she has always done justice to you. 'He has thrown\naway,' said she, 'such a woman as he will never see again. She would\nhave fixed him; she would have made him happy for ever.' My dearest\nFanny, I am giving you, I hope, more pleasure than pain by this\nretrospect of what might have been--but what never can be now. You do\nnot wish me to be silent? If you do, give me but a look, a word, and I\nhave done.\"\n\nNo look or word was given.\n\n\"Thank God,\" said he. \"We were all disposed to wonder, but it seems to\nhave been the merciful appointment of Providence that the heart which\nknew no guile should not suffer. She spoke of you with high praise and\nwarm affection; yet, even here, there was alloy, a dash of evil; for in\nthe midst of it she could exclaim, 'Why would not she have him? It is\nall her fault. Simple girl! I shall never forgive her. Had she accepted\nhim as she ought, they might now have been on the point of marriage, and\nHenry would have been too happy and too busy to want any other object.\nHe would have taken no pains to be on terms with Mrs. Rushworth again.\nIt would have all ended in a regular standing flirtation, in yearly\nmeetings at Sotherton and Everingham.' Could you have believed it\npossible? But the charm is broken. My eyes are opened.\"\n\n\"Cruel!\" said Fanny, \"quite cruel. At such a moment to give way to\ngaiety, to speak with lightness, and to you! Absolute cruelty.\"\n\n\"Cruelty, do you call it? We differ there. No, hers is not a cruel\nnature. I do not consider her as meaning to wound my feelings. The evil\nlies yet deeper: in her total ignorance, unsuspiciousness of there being\nsuch feelings; in a perversion of mind which made it natural to her to\ntreat the subject as she did. She was speaking only as she had been used\nto hear others speak, as she imagined everybody else would speak. Hers\nare not faults of temper. She would not voluntarily give unnecessary\npain to any one, and though I may deceive myself, I cannot but think\nthat for me, for my feelings, she would--Hers are faults of principle,\nFanny; of blunted delicacy and a corrupted, vitiated mind. Perhaps it\nis best for me, since it leaves me so little to regret. Not so, however.\nGladly would I submit to all the increased pain of losing her, rather\nthan have to think of her as I do. I told her so.\"\n\n\"Did you?\"\n\n\"Yes; when I left her I told her so.\"\n\n\"How long were you together?\"\n\n\"Five-and-twenty minutes. Well, she went on to say that what remained\nnow to be done was to bring about a marriage between them. She spoke of\nit, Fanny, with a steadier voice than I can.\" He was obliged to pause\nmore than once as he continued. \"'We must persuade Henry to marry\nher,' said she; 'and what with honour, and the certainty of having shut\nhimself out for ever from Fanny, I do not despair of it. Fanny he must\ngive up. I do not think that even _he_ could now hope to succeed with\none of her stamp, and therefore I hope we may find no insuperable\ndifficulty. My influence, which is not small shall all go that way; and\nwhen once married, and properly supported by her own family, people of\nrespectability as they are, she may recover her footing in society to a\ncertain degree. In some circles, we know, she would never be admitted,\nbut with good dinners, and large parties, there will always be those\nwho will be glad of her acquaintance; and there is, undoubtedly, more\nliberality and candour on those points than formerly. What I advise\nis, that your father be quiet. Do not let him injure his own cause by\ninterference. Persuade him to let things take their course. If by any\nofficious exertions of his, she is induced to leave Henry's protection,\nthere will be much less chance of his marrying her than if she remain\nwith him. I know how he is likely to be influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust\nto his honour and compassion, and it may all end well; but if he get his\ndaughter away, it will be destroying the chief hold.'\"\n\nAfter repeating this, Edmund was so much affected that Fanny, watching\nhim with silent, but most tender concern, was almost sorry that the\nsubject had been entered on at all. It was long before he could speak\nagain. At last, \"Now, Fanny,\" said he, \"I shall soon have done. I have\ntold you the substance of all that she said. As soon as I could speak,\nI replied that I had not supposed it possible, coming in such a state of\nmind into that house as I had done, that anything could occur to make\nme suffer more, but that she had been inflicting deeper wounds in almost\nevery sentence. That though I had, in the course of our acquaintance,\nbeen often sensible of some difference in our opinions, on points,\ntoo, of some moment, it had not entered my imagination to conceive the\ndifference could be such as she had now proved it. That the manner in\nwhich she treated the dreadful crime committed by her brother and my\nsister (with whom lay the greater seduction I pretended not to say),\nbut the manner in which she spoke of the crime itself, giving it every\nreproach but the right; considering its ill consequences only as they\nwere to be braved or overborne by a defiance of decency and impudence in\nwrong; and last of all, and above all, recommending to us a compliance,\na compromise, an acquiescence in the continuance of the sin, on the\nchance of a marriage which, thinking as I now thought of her brother,\nshould rather be prevented than sought; all this together most\ngrievously convinced me that I had never understood her before, and\nthat, as far as related to mind, it had been the creature of my own\nimagination, not Miss Crawford, that I had been too apt to dwell on\nfor many months past. That, perhaps, it was best for me; I had less to\nregret in sacrificing a friendship, feelings, hopes which must, at any\nrate, have been torn from me now. And yet, that I must and would confess\nthat, could I have restored her to what she had appeared to me before,\nI would infinitely prefer any increase of the pain of parting, for the\nsake of carrying with me the right of tenderness and esteem. This is\nwhat I said, the purport of it; but, as you may imagine, not spoken\nso collectedly or methodically as I have repeated it to you. She was\nastonished, exceedingly astonished--more than astonished. I saw her\nchange countenance. She turned extremely red. I imagined I saw a\nmixture of many feelings: a great, though short struggle; half a wish of\nyielding to truths, half a sense of shame, but habit, habit carried\nit. She would have laughed if she could. It was a sort of laugh, as she\nanswered, 'A pretty good lecture, upon my word. Was it part of your last\nsermon? At this rate you will soon reform everybody at Mansfield and\nThornton Lacey; and when I hear of you next, it may be as a celebrated\npreacher in some great society of Methodists, or as a missionary into\nforeign parts.' She tried to speak carelessly, but she was not so\ncareless as she wanted to appear. I only said in reply, that from my\nheart I wished her well, and earnestly hoped that she might soon learn\nto think more justly, and not owe the most valuable knowledge we could\nany of us acquire, the knowledge of ourselves and of our duty, to the\nlessons of affliction, and immediately left the room. I had gone a few\nsteps, Fanny, when I heard the door open behind me. 'Mr. Bertram,' said\nshe. I looked back. 'Mr. Bertram,' said she, with a smile; but it was\na smile ill-suited to the conversation that had passed, a saucy playful\nsmile, seeming to invite in order to subdue me; at least it appeared so\nto me. I resisted; it was the impulse of the moment to resist, and still\nwalked on. I have since, sometimes, for a moment, regretted that I did\nnot go back, but I know I was right, and such has been the end of our\nacquaintance. And what an acquaintance has it been! How have I been\ndeceived! Equally in brother and sister deceived! I thank you for your\npatience, Fanny. This has been the greatest relief, and now we will have\ndone.\"\n\nAnd such was Fanny's dependence on his words, that for five minutes\nshe thought they _had_ done. Then, however, it all came on again, or\nsomething very like it, and nothing less than Lady Bertram's rousing\nthoroughly up could really close such a conversation. Till that\nhappened, they continued to talk of Miss Crawford alone, and how she had\nattached him, and how delightful nature had made her, and how excellent\nshe would have been, had she fallen into good hands earlier. Fanny, now\nat liberty to speak openly, felt more than justified in adding to\nhis knowledge of her real character, by some hint of what share his\nbrother's state of health might be supposed to have in her wish for a\ncomplete reconciliation. This was not an agreeable intimation. Nature\nresisted it for a while. It would have been a vast deal pleasanter to\nhave had her more disinterested in her attachment; but his vanity was\nnot of a strength to fight long against reason. He submitted to believe\nthat Tom's illness had influenced her, only reserving for himself this\nconsoling thought, that considering the many counteractions of opposing\nhabits, she had certainly been _more_ attached to him than could have\nbeen expected, and for his sake been more near doing right. Fanny\nthought exactly the same; and they were also quite agreed in their\nopinion of the lasting effect, the indelible impression, which such\na disappointment must make on his mind. Time would undoubtedly abate\nsomewhat of his sufferings, but still it was a sort of thing which he\nnever could get entirely the better of; and as to his ever meeting with\nany other woman who could--it was too impossible to be named but with\nindignation. Fanny's friendship was all that he had to cling to.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVIII\n\nLet other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious subjects\nas soon as I can, impatient to restore everybody, not greatly in fault\nthemselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the rest.\n\nMy Fanny, indeed, at this very time, I have the satisfaction of knowing,\nmust have been happy in spite of everything. She must have been a happy\ncreature in spite of all that she felt, or thought she felt, for the\ndistress of those around her. She had sources of delight that must force\ntheir way. She was returned to Mansfield Park, she was useful, she was\nbeloved; she was safe from Mr. Crawford; and when Sir Thomas came back\nshe had every proof that could be given in his then melancholy state of\nspirits, of his perfect approbation and increased regard; and happy as\nall this must make her, she would still have been happy without any of\nit, for Edmund was no longer the dupe of Miss Crawford.\n\nIt is true that Edmund was very far from happy himself. He was suffering\nfrom disappointment and regret, grieving over what was, and wishing for\nwhat could never be. She knew it was so, and was sorry; but it was with\na sorrow so founded on satisfaction, so tending to ease, and so much in\nharmony with every dearest sensation, that there are few who might not\nhave been glad to exchange their greatest gaiety for it.\n\nSir Thomas, poor Sir Thomas, a parent, and conscious of errors in his\nown conduct as a parent, was the longest to suffer. He felt that he\nought not to have allowed the marriage; that his daughter's sentiments\nhad been sufficiently known to him to render him culpable in authorising\nit; that in so doing he had sacrificed the right to the expedient, and\nbeen governed by motives of selfishness and worldly wisdom. These were\nreflections that required some time to soften; but time will do almost\neverything; and though little comfort arose on Mrs. Rushworth's side for\nthe misery she had occasioned, comfort was to be found greater than\nhe had supposed in his other children. Julia's match became a less\ndesperate business than he had considered it at first. She was humble,\nand wishing to be forgiven; and Mr. Yates, desirous of being really\nreceived into the family, was disposed to look up to him and be guided.\nHe was not very solid; but there was a hope of his becoming less\ntrifling, of his being at least tolerably domestic and quiet; and at any\nrate, there was comfort in finding his estate rather more, and his debts\nmuch less, than he had feared, and in being consulted and treated as\nthe friend best worth attending to. There was comfort also in Tom, who\ngradually regained his health, without regaining the thoughtlessness and\nselfishness of his previous habits. He was the better for ever for his\nillness. He had suffered, and he had learned to think: two advantages\nthat he had never known before; and the self-reproach arising from the\ndeplorable event in Wimpole Street, to which he felt himself accessory\nby all the dangerous intimacy of his unjustifiable theatre, made an\nimpression on his mind which, at the age of six-and-twenty, with no want\nof sense or good companions, was durable in its happy effects. He became\nwhat he ought to be: useful to his father, steady and quiet, and not\nliving merely for himself.\n\nHere was comfort indeed! and quite as soon as Sir Thomas could place\ndependence on such sources of good, Edmund was contributing to his\nfather's ease by improvement in the only point in which he had given\nhim pain before--improvement in his spirits. After wandering about and\nsitting under trees with Fanny all the summer evenings, he had so well\ntalked his mind into submission as to be very tolerably cheerful again.\n\nThese were the circumstances and the hopes which gradually brought their\nalleviation to Sir Thomas, deadening his sense of what was lost, and\nin part reconciling him to himself; though the anguish arising from the\nconviction of his own errors in the education of his daughters was never\nto be entirely done away.\n\nToo late he became aware how unfavourable to the character of any young\npeople must be the totally opposite treatment which Maria and Julia had\nbeen always experiencing at home, where the excessive indulgence and\nflattery of their aunt had been continually contrasted with his own\nseverity. He saw how ill he had judged, in expecting to counteract what\nwas wrong in Mrs. Norris by its reverse in himself; clearly saw that he\nhad but increased the evil by teaching them to repress their spirits in\nhis presence so as to make their real disposition unknown to him, and\nsending them for all their indulgences to a person who had been able to\nattach them only by the blindness of her affection, and the excess of\nher praise.\n\nHere had been grievous mismanagement; but, bad as it was, he gradually\ngrew to feel that it had not been the most direful mistake in his plan\nof education. Something must have been wanting _within_, or time would\nhave worn away much of its ill effect. He feared that principle, active\nprinciple, had been wanting; that they had never been properly taught\nto govern their inclinations and tempers by that sense of duty which can\nalone suffice. They had been instructed theoretically in their religion,\nbut never required to bring it into daily practice. To be distinguished\nfor elegance and accomplishments, the authorised object of their youth,\ncould have had no useful influence that way, no moral effect on the\nmind. He had meant them to be good, but his cares had been directed to\nthe understanding and manners, not the disposition; and of the necessity\nof self-denial and humility, he feared they had never heard from any\nlips that could profit them.\n\nBitterly did he deplore a deficiency which now he could scarcely\ncomprehend to have been possible. Wretchedly did he feel, that with all\nthe cost and care of an anxious and expensive education, he had brought\nup his daughters without their understanding their first duties, or his\nbeing acquainted with their character and temper.\n\nThe high spirit and strong passions of Mrs. Rushworth, especially, were\nmade known to him only in their sad result. She was not to be prevailed\non to leave Mr. Crawford. She hoped to marry him, and they continued\ntogether till she was obliged to be convinced that such hope was vain,\nand till the disappointment and wretchedness arising from the conviction\nrendered her temper so bad, and her feelings for him so like hatred,\nas to make them for a while each other's punishment, and then induce a\nvoluntary separation.\n\nShe had lived with him to be reproached as the ruin of all his happiness\nin Fanny, and carried away no better consolation in leaving him than\nthat she _had_ divided them. What can exceed the misery of such a mind\nin such a situation?\n\nMr. Rushworth had no difficulty in procuring a divorce; and so ended a\nmarriage contracted under such circumstances as to make any better end\nthe effect of good luck not to be reckoned on. She had despised him,\nand loved another; and he had been very much aware that it was so. The\nindignities of stupidity, and the disappointments of selfish passion,\ncan excite little pity. His punishment followed his conduct, as did a\ndeeper punishment the deeper guilt of his wife. _He_ was released from\nthe engagement to be mortified and unhappy, till some other pretty girl\ncould attract him into matrimony again, and he might set forward on a\nsecond, and, it is to be hoped, more prosperous trial of the state: if\nduped, to be duped at least with good humour and good luck; while she\nmust withdraw with infinitely stronger feelings to a retirement and\nreproach which could allow no second spring of hope or character.\n\nWhere she could be placed became a subject of most melancholy and\nmomentous consultation. Mrs. Norris, whose attachment seemed to augment\nwith the demerits of her niece, would have had her received at home\nand countenanced by them all. Sir Thomas would not hear of it; and Mrs.\nNorris's anger against Fanny was so much the greater, from considering\n_her_ residence there as the motive. She persisted in placing his\nscruples to _her_ account, though Sir Thomas very solemnly assured her\nthat, had there been no young woman in question, had there been no young\nperson of either sex belonging to him, to be endangered by the society\nor hurt by the character of Mrs. Rushworth, he would never have offered\nso great an insult to the neighbourhood as to expect it to notice her.\nAs a daughter, he hoped a penitent one, she should be protected by him,\nand secured in every comfort, and supported by every encouragement to do\nright, which their relative situations admitted; but farther than _that_\nhe could not go. Maria had destroyed her own character, and he would\nnot, by a vain attempt to restore what never could be restored, by\naffording his sanction to vice, or in seeking to lessen its disgrace, be\nanywise accessory to introducing such misery in another man's family as\nhe had known himself.\n\nIt ended in Mrs. Norris's resolving to quit Mansfield and devote herself\nto her unfortunate Maria, and in an establishment being formed for them\nin another country, remote and private, where, shut up together with\nlittle society, on one side no affection, on the other no judgment,\nit may be reasonably supposed that their tempers became their mutual\npunishment.\n\nMrs. Norris's removal from Mansfield was the great supplementary comfort\nof Sir Thomas's life. His opinion of her had been sinking from the day\nof his return from Antigua: in every transaction together from that\nperiod, in their daily intercourse, in business, or in chat, she had\nbeen regularly losing ground in his esteem, and convincing him that\neither time had done her much disservice, or that he had considerably\nover-rated her sense, and wonderfully borne with her manners before. He\nhad felt her as an hourly evil, which was so much the worse, as there\nseemed no chance of its ceasing but with life; she seemed a part of\nhimself that must be borne for ever. To be relieved from her, therefore,\nwas so great a felicity that, had she not left bitter remembrances\nbehind her, there might have been danger of his learning almost to\napprove the evil which produced such a good.\n\nShe was regretted by no one at Mansfield. She had never been able to\nattach even those she loved best; and since Mrs. Rushworth's elopement,\nher temper had been in a state of such irritation as to make her\neverywhere tormenting. Not even Fanny had tears for aunt Norris, not\neven when she was gone for ever.\n\nThat Julia escaped better than Maria was owing, in some measure, to a\nfavourable difference of disposition and circumstance, but in a greater\nto her having been less the darling of that very aunt, less flattered\nand less spoilt. Her beauty and acquirements had held but a second\nplace. She had been always used to think herself a little inferior to\nMaria. Her temper was naturally the easiest of the two; her feelings,\nthough quick, were more controllable, and education had not given her so\nvery hurtful a degree of self-consequence.\n\nShe had submitted the best to the disappointment in Henry Crawford.\nAfter the first bitterness of the conviction of being slighted was over,\nshe had been tolerably soon in a fair way of not thinking of him again;\nand when the acquaintance was renewed in town, and Mr. Rushworth's house\nbecame Crawford's object, she had had the merit of withdrawing herself\nfrom it, and of chusing that time to pay a visit to her other friends,\nin order to secure herself from being again too much attracted. This had\nbeen her motive in going to her cousin's. Mr. Yates's convenience had\nhad nothing to do with it. She had been allowing his attentions some\ntime, but with very little idea of ever accepting him; and had not her\nsister's conduct burst forth as it did, and her increased dread of her\nfather and of home, on that event, imagining its certain consequence\nto herself would be greater severity and restraint, made her hastily\nresolve on avoiding such immediate horrors at all risks, it is probable\nthat Mr. Yates would never have succeeded. She had not eloped with any\nworse feelings than those of selfish alarm. It had appeared to her the\nonly thing to be done. Maria's guilt had induced Julia's folly.\n\nHenry Crawford, ruined by early independence and bad domestic example,\nindulged in the freaks of a cold-blooded vanity a little too long. Once\nit had, by an opening undesigned and unmerited, led him into the way of\nhappiness. Could he have been satisfied with the conquest of one\namiable woman's affections, could he have found sufficient exultation\nin overcoming the reluctance, in working himself into the esteem and\ntenderness of Fanny Price, there would have been every probability of\nsuccess and felicity for him. His affection had already done something.\nHer influence over him had already given him some influence over her.\nWould he have deserved more, there can be no doubt that more would have\nbeen obtained, especially when that marriage had taken place, which\nwould have given him the assistance of her conscience in subduing her\nfirst inclination, and brought them very often together. Would he have\npersevered, and uprightly, Fanny must have been his reward, and a reward\nvery voluntarily bestowed, within a reasonable period from Edmund's\nmarrying Mary.\n\nHad he done as he intended, and as he knew he ought, by going down to\nEveringham after his return from Portsmouth, he might have been deciding\nhis own happy destiny. But he was pressed to stay for Mrs. Fraser's\nparty; his staying was made of flattering consequence, and he was to\nmeet Mrs. Rushworth there. Curiosity and vanity were both engaged, and\nthe temptation of immediate pleasure was too strong for a mind unused to\nmake any sacrifice to right: he resolved to defer his Norfolk journey,\nresolved that writing should answer the purpose of it, or that its\npurpose was unimportant, and staid. He saw Mrs. Rushworth, was received\nby her with a coldness which ought to have been repulsive, and have\nestablished apparent indifference between them for ever; but he was\nmortified, he could not bear to be thrown off by the woman whose smiles\nhad been so wholly at his command: he must exert himself to subdue so\nproud a display of resentment; it was anger on Fanny's account; he must\nget the better of it, and make Mrs. Rushworth Maria Bertram again in her\ntreatment of himself.\n\nIn this spirit he began the attack, and by animated perseverance had\nsoon re-established the sort of familiar intercourse, of gallantry,\nof flirtation, which bounded his views; but in triumphing over the\ndiscretion which, though beginning in anger, might have saved them both,\nhe had put himself in the power of feelings on her side more strong\nthan he had supposed. She loved him; there was no withdrawing attentions\navowedly dear to her. He was entangled by his own vanity, with as little\nexcuse of love as possible, and without the smallest inconstancy of mind\ntowards her cousin. To keep Fanny and the Bertrams from a knowledge of\nwhat was passing became his first object. Secrecy could not have been\nmore desirable for Mrs. Rushworth's credit than he felt it for his own.\nWhen he returned from Richmond, he would have been glad to see Mrs.\nRushworth no more. All that followed was the result of her imprudence;\nand he went off with her at last, because he could not help it,\nregretting Fanny even at the moment, but regretting her infinitely more\nwhen all the bustle of the intrigue was over, and a very few months had\ntaught him, by the force of contrast, to place a yet higher value on the\nsweetness of her temper, the purity of her mind, and the excellence of\nher principles.\n\nThat punishment, the public punishment of disgrace, should in a just\nmeasure attend _his_ share of the offence is, we know, not one of the\nbarriers which society gives to virtue. In this world the penalty is\nless equal than could be wished; but without presuming to look forward\nto a juster appointment hereafter, we may fairly consider a man of\nsense, like Henry Crawford, to be providing for himself no small\nportion of vexation and regret: vexation that must rise sometimes\nto self-reproach, and regret to wretchedness, in having so requited\nhospitality, so injured family peace, so forfeited his best, most\nestimable, and endeared acquaintance, and so lost the woman whom he had\nrationally as well as passionately loved.\n\nAfter what had passed to wound and alienate the two families, the\ncontinuance of the Bertrams and Grants in such close neighbourhood would\nhave been most distressing; but the absence of the latter, for some\nmonths purposely lengthened, ended very fortunately in the necessity, or\nat least the practicability, of a permanent removal. Dr. Grant, through\nan interest on which he had almost ceased to form hopes, succeeded to\na stall in Westminster, which, as affording an occasion for leaving\nMansfield, an excuse for residence in London, and an increase of income\nto answer the expenses of the change, was highly acceptable to those who\nwent and those who staid.\n\nMrs. Grant, with a temper to love and be loved, must have gone with some\nregret from the scenes and people she had been used to; but the same\nhappiness of disposition must in any place, and any society, secure her\na great deal to enjoy, and she had again a home to offer Mary; and Mary\nhad had enough of her own friends, enough of vanity, ambition, love, and\ndisappointment in the course of the last half-year, to be in need of the\ntrue kindness of her sister's heart, and the rational tranquillity\nof her ways. They lived together; and when Dr. Grant had brought on\napoplexy and death, by three great institutionary dinners in one week,\nthey still lived together; for Mary, though perfectly resolved against\never attaching herself to a younger brother again, was long in finding\namong the dashing representatives, or idle heir-apparents, who were at\nthe command of her beauty, and her 20,000, any one who could satisfy the\nbetter taste she had acquired at Mansfield, whose character and manners\ncould authorise a hope of the domestic happiness she had there learned\nto estimate, or put Edmund Bertram sufficiently out of her head.\n\nEdmund had greatly the advantage of her in this respect. He had not to\nwait and wish with vacant affections for an object worthy to succeed her\nin them. Scarcely had he done regretting Mary Crawford, and observing to\nFanny how impossible it was that he should ever meet with such another\nwoman, before it began to strike him whether a very different kind of\nwoman might not do just as well, or a great deal better: whether Fanny\nherself were not growing as dear, as important to him in all her smiles\nand all her ways, as Mary Crawford had ever been; and whether it might\nnot be a possible, an hopeful undertaking to persuade her that her warm\nand sisterly regard for him would be foundation enough for wedded love.\n\nI purposely abstain from dates on this occasion, that every one may\nbe at liberty to fix their own, aware that the cure of unconquerable\npassions, and the transfer of unchanging attachments, must vary much as\nto time in different people. I only entreat everybody to believe that\nexactly at the time when it was quite natural that it should be so, and\nnot a week earlier, Edmund did cease to care about Miss Crawford, and\nbecame as anxious to marry Fanny as Fanny herself could desire.\n\nWith such a regard for her, indeed, as his had long been, a regard\nfounded on the most endearing claims of innocence and helplessness, and\ncompleted by every recommendation of growing worth, what could be more\nnatural than the change? Loving, guiding, protecting her, as he had been\ndoing ever since her being ten years old, her mind in so great a degree\nformed by his care, and her comfort depending on his kindness, an\nobject to him of such close and peculiar interest, dearer by all his own\nimportance with her than any one else at Mansfield, what was there now\nto add, but that he should learn to prefer soft light eyes to sparkling\ndark ones. And being always with her, and always talking confidentially,\nand his feelings exactly in that favourable state which a recent\ndisappointment gives, those soft light eyes could not be very long in\nobtaining the pre-eminence.\n\nHaving once set out, and felt that he had done so on this road to\nhappiness, there was nothing on the side of prudence to stop him or make\nhis progress slow; no doubts of her deserving, no fears of opposition of\ntaste, no need of drawing new hopes of happiness from dissimilarity\nof temper. Her mind, disposition, opinions, and habits wanted no\nhalf-concealment, no self-deception on the present, no reliance on\nfuture improvement. Even in the midst of his late infatuation, he had\nacknowledged Fanny's mental superiority. What must be his sense of it\nnow, therefore? She was of course only too good for him; but as nobody\nminds having what is too good for them, he was very steadily earnest in\nthe pursuit of the blessing, and it was not possible that encouragement\nfrom her should be long wanting. Timid, anxious, doubting as she was, it\nwas still impossible that such tenderness as hers should not, at times,\nhold out the strongest hope of success, though it remained for a later\nperiod to tell him the whole delightful and astonishing truth. His\nhappiness in knowing himself to have been so long the beloved of such a\nheart, must have been great enough to warrant any strength of language\nin which he could clothe it to her or to himself; it must have been\na delightful happiness. But there was happiness elsewhere which no\ndescription can reach. Let no one presume to give the feelings of a\nyoung woman on receiving the assurance of that affection of which she\nhas scarcely allowed herself to entertain a hope.\n\nTheir own inclinations ascertained, there were no difficulties behind,\nno drawback of poverty or parent. It was a match which Sir Thomas's\nwishes had even forestalled. Sick of ambitious and mercenary connexions,\nprizing more and more the sterling good of principle and temper, and\nchiefly anxious to bind by the strongest securities all that remained to\nhim of domestic felicity, he had pondered with genuine satisfaction on\nthe more than possibility of the two young friends finding their natural\nconsolation in each other for all that had occurred of disappointment to\neither; and the joyful consent which met Edmund's application, the high\nsense of having realised a great acquisition in the promise of Fanny for\na daughter, formed just such a contrast with his early opinion on the\nsubject when the poor little girl's coming had been first agitated, as\ntime is for ever producing between the plans and decisions of mortals,\nfor their own instruction, and their neighbours' entertainment.\n\nFanny was indeed the daughter that he wanted. His charitable kindness\nhad been rearing a prime comfort for himself. His liberality had a rich\nrepayment, and the general goodness of his intentions by her deserved\nit. He might have made her childhood happier; but it had been an error\nof judgment only which had given him the appearance of harshness, and\ndeprived him of her early love; and now, on really knowing each other,\ntheir mutual attachment became very strong. After settling her at\nThornton Lacey with every kind attention to her comfort, the object of\nalmost every day was to see her there, or to get her away from it.\n\nSelfishly dear as she had long been to Lady Bertram, she could not be\nparted with willingly by _her_. No happiness of son or niece could make\nher wish the marriage. But it was possible to part with her, because\nSusan remained to supply her place. Susan became the stationary niece,\ndelighted to be so; and equally well adapted for it by a readiness of\nmind, and an inclination for usefulness, as Fanny had been by sweetness\nof temper, and strong feelings of gratitude. Susan could never be\nspared. First as a comfort to Fanny, then as an auxiliary, and last as\nher substitute, she was established at Mansfield, with every appearance\nof equal permanency. Her more fearless disposition and happier nerves\nmade everything easy to her there. With quickness in understanding\nthe tempers of those she had to deal with, and no natural timidity to\nrestrain any consequent wishes, she was soon welcome and useful to all;\nand after Fanny's removal succeeded so naturally to her influence over\nthe hourly comfort of her aunt, as gradually to become, perhaps, the\nmost beloved of the two. In _her_ usefulness, in Fanny's excellence,\nin William's continued good conduct and rising fame, and in the general\nwell-doing and success of the other members of the family, all assisting\nto advance each other, and doing credit to his countenance and aid, Sir\nThomas saw repeated, and for ever repeated, reason to rejoice in what he\nhad done for them all, and acknowledge the advantages of early hardship\nand discipline, and the consciousness of being born to struggle and\nendure.\n\nWith so much true merit and true love, and no want of fortune and\nfriends, the happiness of the married cousins must appear as secure as\nearthly happiness can be. Equally formed for domestic life, and attached\nto country pleasures, their home was the home of affection and comfort;\nand to complete the picture of good, the acquisition of Mansfield\nliving, by the death of Dr. Grant, occurred just after they had been\nmarried long enough to begin to want an increase of income, and feel\ntheir distance from the paternal abode an inconvenience.\n\nOn that event they removed to Mansfield; and the Parsonage there,\nwhich, under each of its two former owners, Fanny had never been able\nto approach but with some painful sensation of restraint or alarm, soon\ngrew as dear to her heart, and as thoroughly perfect in her eyes, as\neverything else within the view and patronage of Mansfield Park had long\nbeen.\n\n\nTHE END\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEMMA\n\nBy Jane Austen\n\n\n\n\nVOLUME I\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nEmma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home\nand happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of\nexistence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very\nlittle to distress or vex her.\n\nShe was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate,\nindulgent father; and had, in consequence of her sister's marriage, been\nmistress of his house from a very early period. Her mother had died\ntoo long ago for her to have more than an indistinct remembrance of\nher caresses; and her place had been supplied by an excellent woman as\ngoverness, who had fallen little short of a mother in affection.\n\nSixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse's family, less as a\ngoverness than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularly\nof Emma. Between _them_ it was more the intimacy of sisters. Even before\nMiss Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office of governess, the\nmildness of her temper had hardly allowed her to impose any restraint;\nand the shadow of authority being now long passed away, they had been\nliving together as friend and friend very mutually attached, and Emma\ndoing just what she liked; highly esteeming Miss Taylor's judgment, but\ndirected chiefly by her own.\n\nThe real evils, indeed, of Emma's situation were the power of having\nrather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too\nwell of herself; these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to\nher many enjoyments. The danger, however, was at present so unperceived,\nthat they did not by any means rank as misfortunes with her.\n\nSorrow came--a gentle sorrow--but not at all in the shape of any\ndisagreeable consciousness.--Miss Taylor married. It was Miss Taylor's\nloss which first brought grief. It was on the wedding-day of this\nbeloved friend that Emma first sat in mournful thought of any\ncontinuance. The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her father and\nherself were left to dine together, with no prospect of a third to cheer\na long evening. Her father composed himself to sleep after dinner, as\nusual, and she had then only to sit and think of what she had lost.\n\nThe event had every promise of happiness for her friend. Mr. Weston\nwas a man of unexceptionable character, easy fortune, suitable age, and\npleasant manners; and there was some satisfaction in considering\nwith what self-denying, generous friendship she had always wished and\npromoted the match; but it was a black morning's work for her. The want\nof Miss Taylor would be felt every hour of every day. She recalled her\npast kindness--the kindness, the affection of sixteen years--how she had\ntaught and how she had played with her from five years old--how she had\ndevoted all her powers to attach and amuse her in health--and how\nnursed her through the various illnesses of childhood. A large debt of\ngratitude was owing here; but the intercourse of the last seven\nyears, the equal footing and perfect unreserve which had soon followed\nIsabella's marriage, on their being left to each other, was yet a\ndearer, tenderer recollection. She had been a friend and companion such\nas few possessed: intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing\nall the ways of the family, interested in all its concerns, and\npeculiarly interested in herself, in every pleasure, every scheme of\nhers--one to whom she could speak every thought as it arose, and who had\nsuch an affection for her as could never find fault.\n\nHow was she to bear the change?--It was true that her friend was going\nonly half a mile from them; but Emma was aware that great must be the\ndifference between a Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and a Miss\nTaylor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural and domestic,\nshe was now in great danger of suffering from intellectual solitude. She\ndearly loved her father, but he was no companion for her. He could not\nmeet her in conversation, rational or playful.\n\nThe evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr. Woodhouse had\nnot married early) was much increased by his constitution and habits;\nfor having been a valetudinarian all his life, without activity of\nmind or body, he was a much older man in ways than in years; and though\neverywhere beloved for the friendliness of his heart and his amiable\ntemper, his talents could not have recommended him at any time.\n\nHer sister, though comparatively but little removed by matrimony, being\nsettled in London, only sixteen miles off, was much beyond her daily\nreach; and many a long October and November evening must be struggled\nthrough at Hartfield, before Christmas brought the next visit from\nIsabella and her husband, and their little children, to fill the house,\nand give her pleasant society again.\n\nHighbury, the large and populous village, almost amounting to a town,\nto which Hartfield, in spite of its separate lawn, and shrubberies, and\nname, did really belong, afforded her no equals. The Woodhouses\nwere first in consequence there. All looked up to them. She had many\nacquaintance in the place, for her father was universally civil, but\nnot one among them who could be accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor for even\nhalf a day. It was a melancholy change; and Emma could not but sigh over\nit, and wish for impossible things, till her father awoke, and made it\nnecessary to be cheerful. His spirits required support. He was a nervous\nman, easily depressed; fond of every body that he was used to, and\nhating to part with them; hating change of every kind. Matrimony, as the\norigin of change, was always disagreeable; and he was by no means yet\nreconciled to his own daughter's marrying, nor could ever speak of her\nbut with compassion, though it had been entirely a match of affection,\nwhen he was now obliged to part with Miss Taylor too; and from his\nhabits of gentle selfishness, and of being never able to suppose that\nother people could feel differently from himself, he was very much\ndisposed to think Miss Taylor had done as sad a thing for herself as for\nthem, and would have been a great deal happier if she had spent all the\nrest of her life at Hartfield. Emma smiled and chatted as cheerfully\nas she could, to keep him from such thoughts; but when tea came, it was\nimpossible for him not to say exactly as he had said at dinner,\n\n\"Poor Miss Taylor!--I wish she were here again. What a pity it is that\nMr. Weston ever thought of her!\"\n\n\"I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot. Mr. Weston is such\na good-humoured, pleasant, excellent man, that he thoroughly deserves\na good wife;--and you would not have had Miss Taylor live with us for\never, and bear all my odd humours, when she might have a house of her\nown?\"\n\n\"A house of her own!--But where is the advantage of a house of her own?\nThis is three times as large.--And you have never any odd humours, my\ndear.\"\n\n\"How often we shall be going to see them, and they coming to see us!--We\nshall be always meeting! _We_ must begin; we must go and pay wedding\nvisit very soon.\"\n\n\"My dear, how am I to get so far? Randalls is such a distance. I could\nnot walk half so far.\"\n\n\"No, papa, nobody thought of your walking. We must go in the carriage,\nto be sure.\"\n\n\"The carriage! But James will not like to put the horses to for such a\nlittle way;--and where are the poor horses to be while we are paying our\nvisit?\"\n\n\"They are to be put into Mr. Weston's stable, papa. You know we have\nsettled all that already. We talked it all over with Mr. Weston last\nnight. And as for James, you may be very sure he will always like going\nto Randalls, because of his daughter's being housemaid there. I only\ndoubt whether he will ever take us anywhere else. That was your doing,\npapa. You got Hannah that good place. Nobody thought of Hannah till you\nmentioned her--James is so obliged to you!\"\n\n\"I am very glad I did think of her. It was very lucky, for I would not\nhave had poor James think himself slighted upon any account; and I am\nsure she will make a very good servant: she is a civil, pretty-spoken\ngirl; I have a great opinion of her. Whenever I see her, she always\ncurtseys and asks me how I do, in a very pretty manner; and when you\nhave had her here to do needlework, I observe she always turns the lock\nof the door the right way and never bangs it. I am sure she will be an\nexcellent servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylor\nto have somebody about her that she is used to see. Whenever James goes\nover to see his daughter, you know, she will be hearing of us. He will\nbe able to tell her how we all are.\"\n\nEmma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of ideas, and\nhoped, by the help of backgammon, to get her father tolerably\nthrough the evening, and be attacked by no regrets but her own. The\nbackgammon-table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards walked\nin and made it unnecessary.\n\nMr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-and-thirty, was not\nonly a very old and intimate friend of the family, but particularly\nconnected with it, as the elder brother of Isabella's husband. He lived\nabout a mile from Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome,\nand at this time more welcome than usual, as coming directly from their\nmutual connexions in London. He had returned to a late dinner, after\nsome days' absence, and now walked up to Hartfield to say that all were\nwell in Brunswick Square. It was a happy circumstance, and animated\nMr. Woodhouse for some time. Mr. Knightley had a cheerful manner, which\nalways did him good; and his many inquiries after \"poor Isabella\" and\nher children were answered most satisfactorily. When this was over, Mr.\nWoodhouse gratefully observed, \"It is very kind of you, Mr. Knightley,\nto come out at this late hour to call upon us. I am afraid you must have\nhad a shocking walk.\"\n\n\"Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that I\nmust draw back from your great fire.\"\n\n\"But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish you may not\ncatch cold.\"\n\n\"Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them.\"\n\n\"Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain\nhere. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at\nbreakfast. I wanted them to put off the wedding.\"\n\n\"By the bye--I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware of what\nsort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my\ncongratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well. How did you\nall behave? Who cried most?\"\n\n\"Ah! poor Miss Taylor! 'Tis a sad business.\"\n\n\"Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly say\n'poor Miss Taylor.' I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it\ncomes to the question of dependence or independence!--At any rate, it\nmust be better to have only one to please than two.\"\n\n\"Especially when _one_ of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome\ncreature!\" said Emma playfully. \"That is what you have in your head, I\nknow--and what you would certainly say if my father were not by.\"\n\n\"I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed,\" said Mr. Woodhouse, with a\nsigh. \"I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome.\"\n\n\"My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean _you_, or suppose Mr.\nKnightley to mean _you_. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only\nmyself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know--in a\njoke--it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another.\"\n\nMr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults\nin Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and\nthough this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew\nit would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him\nreally suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by\nevery body.\n\n\"Emma knows I never flatter her,\" said Mr. Knightley, \"but I meant no\nreflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons\nto please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a\ngainer.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Emma, willing to let it pass--\"you want to hear about\nthe wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved\ncharmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not\na tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we\nwere going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every\nday.\"\n\n\"Dear Emma bears every thing so well,\" said her father. \"But, Mr.\nKnightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am\nsure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for.\"\n\nEmma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. \"It\nis impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion,\" said Mr.\nKnightley. \"We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could\nsuppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's\nadvantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's\ntime of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to\nher to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow\nherself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor\nmust be glad to have her so happily married.\"\n\n\"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me,\" said Emma, \"and a very\nconsiderable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you\nknow, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the\nright, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may\ncomfort me for any thing.\"\n\nMr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, \"Ah!\nmy dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for\nwhatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more\nmatches.\"\n\n\"I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for\nother people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such\nsuccess, you know!--Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry\nagain. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who\nseemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied\neither in his business in town or among his friends here, always\nacceptable wherever he went, always cheerful--Mr. Weston need not spend\na single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr.\nWeston certainly would never marry again. Some people even talked of a\npromise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the\nuncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the\nsubject, but I believed none of it.\n\n\"Ever since the day--about four years ago--that Miss Taylor and I met\nwith him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted\naway with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from\nFarmer Mitchell's, I made up my mind on the subject. I planned the match\nfrom that hour; and when such success has blessed me in this instance,\ndear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave off match-making.\"\n\n\"I do not understand what you mean by 'success,'\" said Mr. Knightley.\n\"Success supposes endeavour. Your time has been properly and delicately\nspent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four years to bring\nabout this marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady's mind! But\nif, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as you call it, means\nonly your planning it, your saying to yourself one idle day, 'I think it\nwould be a very good thing for Miss Taylor if Mr. Weston were to marry\nher,' and saying it again to yourself every now and then afterwards, why\ndo you talk of success? Where is your merit? What are you proud of? You\nmade a lucky guess; and _that_ is all that can be said.\"\n\n\"And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a lucky guess?--I\npity you.--I thought you cleverer--for, depend upon it a lucky guess is\nnever merely luck. There is always some talent in it. And as to my\npoor word 'success,' which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am so\nentirely without any claim to it. You have drawn two pretty pictures;\nbut I think there may be a third--a something between the do-nothing and\nthe do-all. If I had not promoted Mr. Weston's visits here, and given\nmany little encouragements, and smoothed many little matters, it might\nnot have come to any thing after all. I think you must know Hartfield\nenough to comprehend that.\"\n\n\"A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and a rational,\nunaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage their\nown concerns. You are more likely to have done harm to yourself, than\ngood to them, by interference.\"\n\n\"Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others,\" rejoined\nMr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part. \"But, my dear, pray do not\nmake any more matches; they are silly things, and break up one's family\ncircle grievously.\"\n\n\"Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton. Poor Mr. Elton! You like Mr.\nElton, papa,--I must look about for a wife for him. There is nobody in\nHighbury who deserves him--and he has been here a whole year, and has\nfitted up his house so comfortably, that it would be a shame to have him\nsingle any longer--and I thought when he was joining their hands to-day,\nhe looked so very much as if he would like to have the same kind office\ndone for him! I think very well of Mr. Elton, and this is the only way I\nhave of doing him a service.\"\n\n\"Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a very good young\nman, and I have a great regard for him. But if you want to shew him any\nattention, my dear, ask him to come and dine with us some day. That will\nbe a much better thing. I dare say Mr. Knightley will be so kind as to\nmeet him.\"\n\n\"With a great deal of pleasure, sir, at any time,\" said Mr. Knightley,\nlaughing, \"and I agree with you entirely, that it will be a much better\nthing. Invite him to dinner, Emma, and help him to the best of the fish\nand the chicken, but leave him to chuse his own wife. Depend upon it, a\nman of six or seven-and-twenty can take care of himself.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nMr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family,\nwhich for the last two or three generations had been rising into\ngentility and property. He had received a good education, but, on\nsucceeding early in life to a small independence, had become indisposed\nfor any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged,\nand had satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social temper by entering\ninto the militia of his county, then embodied.\n\nCaptain Weston was a general favourite; and when the chances of his\nmilitary life had introduced him to Miss Churchill, of a great Yorkshire\nfamily, and Miss Churchill fell in love with him, nobody was surprized,\nexcept her brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and who were\nfull of pride and importance, which the connexion would offend.\n\nMiss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command of her\nfortune--though her fortune bore no proportion to the family-estate--was\nnot to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it took place, to the\ninfinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her off with\ndue decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce much\nhappiness. Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in it, for she had a\nhusband whose warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing due\nto her in return for the great goodness of being in love with him;\nbut though she had one sort of spirit, she had not the best. She had\nresolution enough to pursue her own will in spite of her brother,\nbut not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that brother's\nunreasonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former home.\nThey lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing in comparison\nof Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but she wanted at\nonce to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe.\n\nCaptain Weston, who had been considered, especially by the Churchills,\nas making such an amazing match, was proved to have much the worst of\nthe bargain; for when his wife died, after a three years' marriage, he\nwas rather a poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain.\nFrom the expense of the child, however, he was soon relieved. The boy\nhad, with the additional softening claim of a lingering illness of his\nmother's, been the means of a sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs.\nChurchill, having no children of their own, nor any other young creature\nof equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge of the\nlittle Frank soon after her decease. Some scruples and some reluctance\nthe widower-father may be supposed to have felt; but as they were\novercome by other considerations, the child was given up to the care and\nthe wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort to seek,\nand his own situation to improve as he could.\n\nA complete change of life became desirable. He quitted the militia and\nengaged in trade, having brothers already established in a good way in\nLondon, which afforded him a favourable opening. It was a concern which\nbrought just employment enough. He had still a small house in Highbury,\nwhere most of his leisure days were spent; and between useful occupation\nand the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty years of his\nlife passed cheerfully away. He had, by that time, realised an easy\ncompetence--enough to secure the purchase of a little estate adjoining\nHighbury, which he had always longed for--enough to marry a woman as\nportionless even as Miss Taylor, and to live according to the wishes of\nhis own friendly and social disposition.\n\nIt was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his\nschemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth,\nit had not shaken his determination of never settling till he could\npurchase Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward to;\nbut he had gone steadily on, with these objects in view, till they were\naccomplished. He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained\nhis wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every\nprobability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through. He had\nnever been an unhappy man; his own temper had secured him from that,\neven in his first marriage; but his second must shew him how delightful\na well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must give him the\npleasantest proof of its being a great deal better to choose than to be\nchosen, to excite gratitude than to feel it.\n\nHe had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own;\nfor as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his\nuncle's heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume\nthe name of Churchill on coming of age. It was most unlikely, therefore,\nthat he should ever want his father's assistance. His father had no\napprehension of it. The aunt was a capricious woman, and governed her\nhusband entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston's nature to imagine that\nany caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear, and, as he\nbelieved, so deservedly dear. He saw his son every year in London, and\nwas proud of him; and his fond report of him as a very fine young man\nhad made Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too. He was looked on as\nsufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and prospects a\nkind of common concern.\n\nMr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively\ncuriosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little\nreturned that he had never been there in his life. His coming to visit\nhis father had been often talked of but never achieved.\n\nNow, upon his father's marriage, it was very generally proposed, as a\nmost proper attention, that the visit should take place. There was not a\ndissentient voice on the subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea with\nMrs. and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the visit. Now\nwas the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and the hope\nstrengthened when it was understood that he had written to his new\nmother on the occasion. For a few days, every morning visit in Highbury\nincluded some mention of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had received.\n\"I suppose you have heard of the handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill\nhas written to Mrs. Weston? I understand it was a very handsome letter,\nindeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse saw the letter, and\nhe says he never saw such a handsome letter in his life.\"\n\nIt was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had, of course,\nformed a very favourable idea of the young man; and such a pleasing\nattention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense, and a most\nwelcome addition to every source and every expression of congratulation\nwhich her marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most\nfortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know how fortunate\nshe might well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial\nseparation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled, and\nwho could ill bear to part with her.\n\nShe knew that at times she must be missed; and could not think, without\npain, of Emma's losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour's ennui,\nfrom the want of her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble\ncharacter; she was more equal to her situation than most girls would\nhave been, and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped\nwould bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and\nprivations. And then there was such comfort in the very easy distance of\nRandalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female walking,\nand in Mr. Weston's disposition and circumstances, which would make the\napproaching season no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in\nthe week together.\n\nHer situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude to Mrs.\nWeston, and of moments only of regret; and her satisfaction--her more\nthan satisfaction--her cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent,\nthat Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprize\nat his being still able to pity 'poor Miss Taylor,' when they left her\nat Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away\nin the evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her\nown. But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse's giving a gentle sigh,\nand saying, \"Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would be very glad to stay.\"\n\nThere was no recovering Miss Taylor--nor much likelihood of ceasing to\npity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse.\nThe compliments of his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by\nbeing wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which\nhad been a great distress to him, was all eat up. His own stomach\ncould bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be\ndifferent from himself. What was unwholesome to him he regarded as unfit\nfor any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade them\nfrom having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as\nearnestly tried to prevent any body's eating it. He had been at the\npains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr. Perry\nwas an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were one\nof the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse's life; and upon being applied to, he\ncould not but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against the bias\nof inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with\nmany--perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately. With such an\nopinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence\nevery visitor of the newly married pair; but still the cake was eaten;\nand there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone.\n\nThere was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being\nseen with a slice of Mrs. Weston's wedding-cake in their hands: but Mr.\nWoodhouse would never believe it.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nMr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way. He liked very much to\nhave his friends come and see him; and from various united causes, from\nhis long residence at Hartfield, and his good nature, from his fortune,\nhis house, and his daughter, he could command the visits of his\nown little circle, in a great measure, as he liked. He had not much\nintercourse with any families beyond that circle; his horror of late\nhours, and large dinner-parties, made him unfit for any acquaintance but\nsuch as would visit him on his own terms. Fortunately for him, Highbury,\nincluding Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell Abbey in the parish\nadjoining, the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended many such. Not\nunfrequently, through Emma's persuasion, he had some of the chosen and\nthe best to dine with him: but evening parties were what he preferred;\nand, unless he fancied himself at any time unequal to company, there\nwas scarcely an evening in the week in which Emma could not make up a\ncard-table for him.\n\nReal, long-standing regard brought the Westons and Mr. Knightley; and by\nMr. Elton, a young man living alone without liking it, the privilege\nof exchanging any vacant evening of his own blank solitude for the\nelegancies and society of Mr. Woodhouse's drawing-room, and the smiles\nof his lovely daughter, was in no danger of being thrown away.\n\nAfter these came a second set; among the most come-at-able of whom were\nMrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, three ladies almost always at\nthe service of an invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and\ncarried home so often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no hardship for\neither James or the horses. Had it taken place only once a year, it\nwould have been a grievance.\n\nMrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a very old\nlady, almost past every thing but tea and quadrille. She lived with her\nsingle daughter in a very small way, and was considered with all the\nregard and respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward\ncircumstances, can excite. Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree\nof popularity for a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor married.\nMiss Bates stood in the very worst predicament in the world for having\nmuch of the public favour; and she had no intellectual superiority to\nmake atonement to herself, or frighten those who might hate her into\noutward respect. She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her\nyouth had passed without distinction, and her middle of life was devoted\nto the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a small\nincome go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman, and a woman\nwhom no one named without good-will. It was her own universal good-will\nand contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved every body,\nwas interested in every body's happiness, quicksighted to every body's\nmerits; thought herself a most fortunate creature, and surrounded with\nblessings in such an excellent mother, and so many good neighbours\nand friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. The simplicity and\ncheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful spirit, were a\nrecommendation to every body, and a mine of felicity to herself. She was\na great talker upon little matters, which exactly suited Mr. Woodhouse,\nfull of trivial communications and harmless gossip.\n\nMrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School--not of a seminary, or an\nestablishment, or any thing which professed, in long sentences of\nrefined nonsense, to combine liberal acquirements with elegant morality,\nupon new principles and new systems--and where young ladies for enormous\npay might be screwed out of health and into vanity--but a real,\nhonest, old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a reasonable quantity of\naccomplishments were sold at a reasonable price, and where girls might\nbe sent to be out of the way, and scramble themselves into a little\neducation, without any danger of coming back prodigies. Mrs. Goddard's\nschool was in high repute--and very deservedly; for Highbury was\nreckoned a particularly healthy spot: she had an ample house and garden,\ngave the children plenty of wholesome food, let them run about a great\ndeal in the summer, and in winter dressed their chilblains with her own\nhands. It was no wonder that a train of twenty young couple now walked\nafter her to church. She was a plain, motherly kind of woman, who\nhad worked hard in her youth, and now thought herself entitled to the\noccasional holiday of a tea-visit; and having formerly owed much to Mr.\nWoodhouse's kindness, felt his particular claim on her to leave her neat\nparlour, hung round with fancy-work, whenever she could, and win or lose\na few sixpences by his fireside.\n\nThese were the ladies whom Emma found herself very frequently able to\ncollect; and happy was she, for her father's sake, in the power; though,\nas far as she was herself concerned, it was no remedy for the absence of\nMrs. Weston. She was delighted to see her father look comfortable, and\nvery much pleased with herself for contriving things so well; but the\nquiet prosings of three such women made her feel that every evening so\nspent was indeed one of the long evenings she had fearfully anticipated.\n\nAs she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such a close of the\npresent day, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in most\nrespectful terms, to be allowed to bring Miss Smith with her; a most\nwelcome request: for Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom Emma knew\nvery well by sight, and had long felt an interest in, on account of\nher beauty. A very gracious invitation was returned, and the evening no\nlonger dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion.\n\nHarriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody. Somebody had placed\nher, several years back, at Mrs. Goddard's school, and somebody\nhad lately raised her from the condition of scholar to that of\nparlour-boarder. This was all that was generally known of her history.\nShe had no visible friends but what had been acquired at Highbury, and\nwas now just returned from a long visit in the country to some young\nladies who had been at school there with her.\n\nShe was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be of a sort\nwhich Emma particularly admired. She was short, plump, and fair, with a\nfine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, regular features, and a look of great\nsweetness, and, before the end of the evening, Emma was as much pleased\nwith her manners as her person, and quite determined to continue the\nacquaintance.\n\nShe was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in Miss Smith's\nconversation, but she found her altogether very engaging--not\ninconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk--and yet so far from pushing,\nshewing so proper and becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly\ngrateful for being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed\nby the appearance of every thing in so superior a style to what she had\nbeen used to, that she must have good sense, and deserve encouragement.\nEncouragement should be given. Those soft blue eyes, and all those\nnatural graces, should not be wasted on the inferior society of Highbury\nand its connexions. The acquaintance she had already formed were\nunworthy of her. The friends from whom she had just parted, though very\ngood sort of people, must be doing her harm. They were a family of the\nname of Martin, whom Emma well knew by character, as renting a large\nfarm of Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of Donwell--very\ncreditably, she believed--she knew Mr. Knightley thought highly of\nthem--but they must be coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be the\nintimates of a girl who wanted only a little more knowledge and elegance\nto be quite perfect. _She_ would notice her; she would improve her; she\nwould detach her from her bad acquaintance, and introduce her into good\nsociety; she would form her opinions and her manners. It would be an\ninteresting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highly becoming her\nown situation in life, her leisure, and powers.\n\nShe was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talking and\nlistening, and forming all these schemes in the in-betweens, that the\nevening flew away at a very unusual rate; and the supper-table, which\nalways closed such parties, and for which she had been used to sit and\nwatch the due time, was all set out and ready, and moved forwards to the\nfire, before she was aware. With an alacrity beyond the common impulse\nof a spirit which yet was never indifferent to the credit of doing every\nthing well and attentively, with the real good-will of a mind delighted\nwith its own ideas, did she then do all the honours of the meal, and\nhelp and recommend the minced chicken and scalloped oysters, with an\nurgency which she knew would be acceptable to the early hours and civil\nscruples of their guests.\n\nUpon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouses feelings were in sad warfare.\nHe loved to have the cloth laid, because it had been the fashion of his\nyouth, but his conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him\nrather sorry to see any thing put on it; and while his hospitality would\nhave welcomed his visitors to every thing, his care for their health\nmade him grieve that they would eat.\n\nSuch another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all that he could,\nwith thorough self-approbation, recommend; though he might constrain\nhimself, while the ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer things, to\nsay:\n\n\"Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of these eggs. An egg\nboiled very soft is not unwholesome. Serle understands boiling an egg\nbetter than any body. I would not recommend an egg boiled by any body\nelse; but you need not be afraid, they are very small, you see--one of\nour small eggs will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let Emma help you to a\n_little_ bit of tart--a _very_ little bit. Ours are all apple-tarts. You\nneed not be afraid of unwholesome preserves here. I do not advise the\ncustard. Mrs. Goddard, what say you to _half_ a glass of wine? A\n_small_ half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do not think it could\ndisagree with you.\"\n\nEmma allowed her father to talk--but supplied her visitors in a much\nmore satisfactory style, and on the present evening had particular\npleasure in sending them away happy. The happiness of Miss Smith was\nquite equal to her intentions. Miss Woodhouse was so great a personage\nin Highbury, that the prospect of the introduction had given as much\npanic as pleasure; but the humble, grateful little girl went off with\nhighly gratified feelings, delighted with the affability with which Miss\nWoodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually shaken hands\nwith her at last!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nHarriet Smith's intimacy at Hartfield was soon a settled thing. Quick\nand decided in her ways, Emma lost no time in inviting, encouraging, and\ntelling her to come very often; and as their acquaintance increased, so\ndid their satisfaction in each other. As a walking companion, Emma had\nvery early foreseen how useful she might find her. In that respect\nMrs. Weston's loss had been important. Her father never went beyond the\nshrubbery, where two divisions of the ground sufficed him for his long\nwalk, or his short, as the year varied; and since Mrs. Weston's marriage\nher exercise had been too much confined. She had ventured once alone to\nRandalls, but it was not pleasant; and a Harriet Smith, therefore,\none whom she could summon at any time to a walk, would be a valuable\naddition to her privileges. But in every respect, as she saw more of\nher, she approved her, and was confirmed in all her kind designs.\n\nHarriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet, docile, grateful\ndisposition, was totally free from conceit, and only desiring to be\nguided by any one she looked up to. Her early attachment to herself\nwas very amiable; and her inclination for good company, and power of\nappreciating what was elegant and clever, shewed that there was no\nwant of taste, though strength of understanding must not be expected.\nAltogether she was quite convinced of Harriet Smith's being exactly the\nyoung friend she wanted--exactly the something which her home required.\nSuch a friend as Mrs. Weston was out of the question. Two such could\nnever be granted. Two such she did not want. It was quite a different\nsort of thing, a sentiment distinct and independent. Mrs. Weston was the\nobject of a regard which had its basis in gratitude and esteem. Harriet\nwould be loved as one to whom she could be useful. For Mrs. Weston there\nwas nothing to be done; for Harriet every thing.\n\nHer first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to find out who\nwere the parents, but Harriet could not tell. She was ready to tell\nevery thing in her power, but on this subject questions were vain. Emma\nwas obliged to fancy what she liked--but she could never believe that in\nthe same situation _she_ should not have discovered the truth. Harriet\nhad no penetration. She had been satisfied to hear and believe just what\nMrs. Goddard chose to tell her; and looked no farther.\n\nMrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the affairs of\nthe school in general, formed naturally a great part of the\nconversation--and but for her acquaintance with the Martins of\nAbbey-Mill Farm, it must have been the whole. But the Martins occupied\nher thoughts a good deal; she had spent two very happy months with them,\nand now loved to talk of the pleasures of her visit, and describe\nthe many comforts and wonders of the place. Emma encouraged her\ntalkativeness--amused by such a picture of another set of beings,\nand enjoying the youthful simplicity which could speak with so much\nexultation of Mrs. Martin's having \"_two_ parlours, two very good\nparlours, indeed; one of them quite as large as Mrs. Goddard's\ndrawing-room; and of her having an upper maid who had lived\nfive-and-twenty years with her; and of their having eight cows, two of\nthem Alderneys, and one a little Welch cow, a very pretty little Welch\ncow indeed; and of Mrs. Martin's saying as she was so fond of it,\nit should be called _her_ cow; and of their having a very handsome\nsummer-house in their garden, where some day next year they were all to\ndrink tea:--a very handsome summer-house, large enough to hold a dozen\npeople.\"\n\nFor some time she was amused, without thinking beyond the immediate\ncause; but as she came to understand the family better, other feelings\narose. She had taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and\ndaughter, a son and son's wife, who all lived together; but when it\nappeared that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was\nalways mentioned with approbation for his great good-nature in doing\nsomething or other, was a single man; that there was no young Mrs.\nMartin, no wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her poor little\nfriend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she were not\ntaken care of, she might be required to sink herself forever.\n\nWith this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number and\nmeaning; and she particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin,\nand there was evidently no dislike to it. Harriet was very ready to\nspeak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry evening\ngames; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very good-humoured and\nobliging. He had gone three miles round one day in order to bring her\nsome walnuts, because she had said how fond she was of them, and in\nevery thing else he was so very obliging. He had his shepherd's son into\nthe parlour one night on purpose to sing to her. She was very fond\nof singing. He could sing a little himself. She believed he was very\nclever, and understood every thing. He had a very fine flock, and, while\nshe was with them, he had been bid more for his wool than any body in\nthe country. She believed every body spoke well of him. His mother and\nsisters were very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and\nthere was a blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any body\nto be a better son, and therefore she was sure, whenever he married, he\nwould make a good husband. Not that she _wanted_ him to marry. She was\nin no hurry at all.\n\n\"Well done, Mrs. Martin!\" thought Emma. \"You know what you are about.\"\n\n\"And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send\nMrs. Goddard a beautiful goose--the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever\nseen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three\nteachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with\nher.\"\n\n\"Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of\nhis own business? He does not read?\"\n\n\"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a\ngood deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the\nAgricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window\nseats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening,\nbefore we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the\nElegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of\nWakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of\nthe Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but\nhe is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can.\"\n\nThe next question was--\n\n\"What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?\"\n\n\"Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at\nfirst, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know,\nafter a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now and\nthen, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston.\nHe has passed you very often.\"\n\n\"That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having\nany idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot,\nis the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are\nprecisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do.\nA degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest me;\nI might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other. But\na farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as\nmuch above my notice as in every other he is below it.\"\n\n\"To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have observed him;\nbut he knows you very well indeed--I mean by sight.\"\n\n\"I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man. I know,\nindeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well. What do you imagine\nhis age to be?\"\n\n\"He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the\n23rd just a fortnight and a day's difference--which is very odd.\"\n\n\"Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His mother is\nperfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem very comfortable as they\nare, and if she were to take any pains to marry him, she would probably\nrepent it. Six years hence, if he could meet with a good sort of young\nwoman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it might be very\ndesirable.\"\n\n\"Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old!\"\n\n\"Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are not\nborn to an independence. Mr. Martin, I imagine, has his fortune entirely\nto make--cannot be at all beforehand with the world. Whatever money he\nmight come into when his father died, whatever his share of the family\nproperty, it is, I dare say, all afloat, all employed in his stock, and\nso forth; and though, with diligence and good luck, he may be rich in\ntime, it is next to impossible that he should have realised any thing\nyet.\"\n\n\"To be sure, so it is. But they live very comfortably. They have no\nindoors man, else they do not want for any thing; and Mrs. Martin talks\nof taking a boy another year.\"\n\n\"I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet, whenever he does\nmarry;--I mean, as to being acquainted with his wife--for though his\nsisters, from a superior education, are not to be altogether objected\nto, it does not follow that he might marry any body at all fit for you\nto notice. The misfortune of your birth ought to make you particularly\ncareful as to your associates. There can be no doubt of your being a\ngentleman's daughter, and you must support your claim to that station by\nevery thing within your own power, or there will be plenty of people who\nwould take pleasure in degrading you.\"\n\n\"Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are. But while I visit at Hartfield,\nand you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I am not afraid of what any\nbody can do.\"\n\n\"You understand the force of influence pretty well, Harriet; but I would\nhave you so firmly established in good society, as to be independent\neven of Hartfield and Miss Woodhouse. I want to see you permanently\nwell connected, and to that end it will be advisable to have as few odd\nacquaintance as may be; and, therefore, I say that if you should still\nbe in this country when Mr. Martin marries, I wish you may not be drawn\nin by your intimacy with the sisters, to be acquainted with the wife,\nwho will probably be some mere farmer's daughter, without education.\"\n\n\"To be sure. Yes. Not that I think Mr. Martin would ever marry any body\nbut what had had some education--and been very well brought up. However,\nI do not mean to set up my opinion against yours--and I am sure I shall\nnot wish for the acquaintance of his wife. I shall always have a great\nregard for the Miss Martins, especially Elizabeth, and should be very\nsorry to give them up, for they are quite as well educated as me. But\nif he marries a very ignorant, vulgar woman, certainly I had better not\nvisit her, if I can help it.\"\n\nEmma watched her through the fluctuations of this speech, and saw no\nalarming symptoms of love. The young man had been the first admirer, but\nshe trusted there was no other hold, and that there would be no serious\ndifficulty, on Harriet's side, to oppose any friendly arrangement of her\nown.\n\nThey met Mr. Martin the very next day, as they were walking on the\nDonwell road. He was on foot, and after looking very respectfully at\nher, looked with most unfeigned satisfaction at her companion. Emma was\nnot sorry to have such an opportunity of survey; and walking a few\nyards forward, while they talked together, soon made her quick eye\nsufficiently acquainted with Mr. Robert Martin. His appearance was very\nneat, and he looked like a sensible young man, but his person had no\nother advantage; and when he came to be contrasted with gentlemen,\nshe thought he must lose all the ground he had gained in Harriet's\ninclination. Harriet was not insensible of manner; she had voluntarily\nnoticed her father's gentleness with admiration as well as wonder. Mr.\nMartin looked as if he did not know what manner was.\n\nThey remained but a few minutes together, as Miss Woodhouse must not be\nkept waiting; and Harriet then came running to her with a smiling face,\nand in a flutter of spirits, which Miss Woodhouse hoped very soon to\ncompose.\n\n\"Only think of our happening to meet him!--How very odd! It was quite\na chance, he said, that he had not gone round by Randalls. He did not\nthink we ever walked this road. He thought we walked towards Randalls\nmost days. He has not been able to get the Romance of the Forest yet.\nHe was so busy the last time he was at Kingston that he quite forgot it,\nbut he goes again to-morrow. So very odd we should happen to meet! Well,\nMiss Woodhouse, is he like what you expected? What do you think of him?\nDo you think him so very plain?\"\n\n\"He is very plain, undoubtedly--remarkably plain:--but that is nothing\ncompared with his entire want of gentility. I had no right to expect\nmuch, and I did not expect much; but I had no idea that he could be so\nvery clownish, so totally without air. I had imagined him, I confess, a\ndegree or two nearer gentility.\"\n\n\"To be sure,\" said Harriet, in a mortified voice, \"he is not so genteel\nas real gentlemen.\"\n\n\"I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you have been\nrepeatedly in the company of some such very real gentlemen, that you\nmust yourself be struck with the difference in Mr. Martin. At Hartfield,\nyou have had very good specimens of well educated, well bred men. I\nshould be surprized if, after seeing them, you could be in company\nwith Mr. Martin again without perceiving him to be a very inferior\ncreature--and rather wondering at yourself for having ever thought him\nat all agreeable before. Do not you begin to feel that now? Were not\nyou struck? I am sure you must have been struck by his awkward look and\nabrupt manner, and the uncouthness of a voice which I heard to be wholly\nunmodulated as I stood here.\"\n\n\"Certainly, he is not like Mr. Knightley. He has not such a fine air and\nway of walking as Mr. Knightley. I see the difference plain enough. But\nMr. Knightley is so very fine a man!\"\n\n\"Mr. Knightley's air is so remarkably good that it is not fair to\ncompare Mr. Martin with _him_. You might not see one in a hundred with\n_gentleman_ so plainly written as in Mr. Knightley. But he is not the\nonly gentleman you have been lately used to. What say you to Mr. Weston\nand Mr. Elton? Compare Mr. Martin with either of _them_. Compare their\nmanner of carrying themselves; of walking; of speaking; of being silent.\nYou must see the difference.\"\n\n\"Oh yes!--there is a great difference. But Mr. Weston is almost an old\nman. Mr. Weston must be between forty and fifty.\"\n\n\"Which makes his good manners the more valuable. The older a person\ngrows, Harriet, the more important it is that their manners should not\nbe bad; the more glaring and disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or\nawkwardness becomes. What is passable in youth is detestable in later\nage. Mr. Martin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at Mr.\nWeston's time of life?\"\n\n\"There is no saying, indeed,\" replied Harriet rather solemnly.\n\n\"But there may be pretty good guessing. He will be a completely gross,\nvulgar farmer, totally inattentive to appearances, and thinking of\nnothing but profit and loss.\"\n\n\"Will he, indeed? That will be very bad.\"\n\n\"How much his business engrosses him already is very plain from the\ncircumstance of his forgetting to inquire for the book you recommended.\nHe was a great deal too full of the market to think of any thing\nelse--which is just as it should be, for a thriving man. What has he to\ndo with books? And I have no doubt that he _will_ thrive, and be a very\nrich man in time--and his being illiterate and coarse need not disturb\n_us_.\"\n\n\"I wonder he did not remember the book\"--was all Harriet's answer, and\nspoken with a degree of grave displeasure which Emma thought might be\nsafely left to itself. She, therefore, said no more for some time. Her\nnext beginning was,\n\n\"In one respect, perhaps, Mr. Elton's manners are superior to Mr.\nKnightley's or Mr. Weston's. They have more gentleness. They might be\nmore safely held up as a pattern. There is an openness, a quickness,\nalmost a bluntness in Mr. Weston, which every body likes in _him_,\nbecause there is so much good-humour with it--but that would not do to\nbe copied. Neither would Mr. Knightley's downright, decided, commanding\nsort of manner, though it suits _him_ very well; his figure, and look,\nand situation in life seem to allow it; but if any young man were to set\nabout copying him, he would not be sufferable. On the contrary, I think\na young man might be very safely recommended to take Mr. Elton as a\nmodel. Mr. Elton is good-humoured, cheerful, obliging, and gentle.\nHe seems to me to be grown particularly gentle of late. I do not know\nwhether he has any design of ingratiating himself with either of us,\nHarriet, by additional softness, but it strikes me that his manners are\nsofter than they used to be. If he means any thing, it must be to please\nyou. Did not I tell you what he said of you the other day?\"\n\nShe then repeated some warm personal praise which she had drawn from Mr.\nElton, and now did full justice to; and Harriet blushed and smiled, and\nsaid she had always thought Mr. Elton very agreeable.\n\nMr. Elton was the very person fixed on by Emma for driving the young\nfarmer out of Harriet's head. She thought it would be an excellent\nmatch; and only too palpably desirable, natural, and probable, for her\nto have much merit in planning it. She feared it was what every body\nelse must think of and predict. It was not likely, however, that any\nbody should have equalled her in the date of the plan, as it had\nentered her brain during the very first evening of Harriet's coming to\nHartfield. The longer she considered it, the greater was her sense\nof its expediency. Mr. Elton's situation was most suitable, quite the\ngentleman himself, and without low connexions; at the same time, not of\nany family that could fairly object to the doubtful birth of Harriet.\nHe had a comfortable home for her, and Emma imagined a very sufficient\nincome; for though the vicarage of Highbury was not large, he was known\nto have some independent property; and she thought very highly of him\nas a good-humoured, well-meaning, respectable young man, without any\ndeficiency of useful understanding or knowledge of the world.\n\nShe had already satisfied herself that he thought Harriet a beautiful\ngirl, which she trusted, with such frequent meetings at Hartfield, was\nfoundation enough on his side; and on Harriet's there could be little\ndoubt that the idea of being preferred by him would have all the usual\nweight and efficacy. And he was really a very pleasing young man, a\nyoung man whom any woman not fastidious might like. He was reckoned very\nhandsome; his person much admired in general, though not by her,\nthere being a want of elegance of feature which she could not dispense\nwith:--but the girl who could be gratified by a Robert Martin's riding\nabout the country to get walnuts for her might very well be conquered by\nMr. Elton's admiration.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\n\"I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston,\" said Mr.\nKnightley, \"of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, but I\nthink it a bad thing.\"\n\n\"A bad thing! Do you really think it a bad thing?--why so?\"\n\n\"I think they will neither of them do the other any good.\"\n\n\"You surprize me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by supplying her with a\nnew object of interest, Harriet may be said to do Emma good. I have been\nseeing their intimacy with the greatest pleasure. How very differently\nwe feel!--Not think they will do each other any good! This will\ncertainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels about Emma, Mr.\nKnightley.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you think I am come on purpose to quarrel with you, knowing\nWeston to be out, and that you must still fight your own battle.\"\n\n\"Mr. Weston would undoubtedly support me, if he were here, for he thinks\nexactly as I do on the subject. We were speaking of it only yesterday,\nand agreeing how fortunate it was for Emma, that there should be such a\ngirl in Highbury for her to associate with. Mr. Knightley, I shall not\nallow you to be a fair judge in this case. You are so much used to live\nalone, that you do not know the value of a companion; and, perhaps no\nman can be a good judge of the comfort a woman feels in the society of\none of her own sex, after being used to it all her life. I can imagine\nyour objection to Harriet Smith. She is not the superior young woman\nwhich Emma's friend ought to be. But on the other hand, as Emma wants\nto see her better informed, it will be an inducement to her to read more\nherself. They will read together. She means it, I know.\"\n\n\"Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she was twelve years old.\nI have seen a great many lists of her drawing-up at various times of\nbooks that she meant to read regularly through--and very good lists\nthey were--very well chosen, and very neatly arranged--sometimes\nalphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule. The list she drew\nup when only fourteen--I remember thinking it did her judgment so much\ncredit, that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she may have made\nout a very good list now. But I have done with expecting any course of\nsteady reading from Emma. She will never submit to any thing\nrequiring industry and patience, and a subjection of the fancy to the\nunderstanding. Where Miss Taylor failed to stimulate, I may safely\naffirm that Harriet Smith will do nothing.--You never could persuade her\nto read half so much as you wished.--You know you could not.\"\n\n\"I dare say,\" replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, \"that I thought so\n_then_;--but since we have parted, I can never remember Emma's omitting\nto do any thing I wished.\"\n\n\"There is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory as _that_,\"--said\nMr. Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment or two he had done. \"But I,\"\nhe soon added, \"who have had no such charm thrown over my senses, must\nstill see, hear, and remember. Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest\nof her family. At ten years old, she had the misfortune of being able to\nanswer questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen. She was always\nquick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And ever since she\nwas twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you all. In her\nmother she lost the only person able to cope with her. She inherits her\nmother's talents, and must have been under subjection to her.\"\n\n\"I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley, to be dependent on _your_\nrecommendation, had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse's family and wanted another\nsituation; I do not think you would have spoken a good word for me to\nany body. I am sure you always thought me unfit for the office I held.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said he, smiling. \"You are better placed _here_; very fit for a\nwife, but not at all for a governess. But you were preparing yourself to\nbe an excellent wife all the time you were at Hartfield. You might\nnot give Emma such a complete education as your powers would seem to\npromise; but you were receiving a very good education from _her_, on the\nvery material matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and doing\nas you were bid; and if Weston had asked me to recommend him a wife, I\nshould certainly have named Miss Taylor.\"\n\n\"Thank you. There will be very little merit in making a good wife to\nsuch a man as Mr. Weston.\"\n\n\"Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown away, and that\nwith every disposition to bear, there will be nothing to be borne. We\nwill not despair, however. Weston may grow cross from the wantonness of\ncomfort, or his son may plague him.\"\n\n\"I hope not _that_.--It is not likely. No, Mr. Knightley, do not\nforetell vexation from that quarter.\"\n\n\"Not I, indeed. I only name possibilities. I do not pretend to Emma's\ngenius for foretelling and guessing. I hope, with all my heart, the\nyoung man may be a Weston in merit, and a Churchill in fortune.--But\nHarriet Smith--I have not half done about Harriet Smith. I think her the\nvery worst sort of companion that Emma could possibly have. She knows\nnothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing every thing. She is a\nflatterer in all her ways; and so much the worse, because undesigned.\nHer ignorance is hourly flattery. How can Emma imagine she has any\nthing to learn herself, while Harriet is presenting such a delightful\ninferiority? And as for Harriet, I will venture to say that _she_ cannot\ngain by the acquaintance. Hartfield will only put her out of conceit\nwith all the other places she belongs to. She will grow just refined\nenough to be uncomfortable with those among whom birth and circumstances\nhave placed her home. I am much mistaken if Emma's doctrines give any\nstrength of mind, or tend at all to make a girl adapt herself rationally\nto the varieties of her situation in life.--They only give a little\npolish.\"\n\n\"I either depend more upon Emma's good sense than you do, or am more\nanxious for her present comfort; for I cannot lament the acquaintance.\nHow well she looked last night!\"\n\n\"Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her mind, would you? Very\nwell; I shall not attempt to deny Emma's being pretty.\"\n\n\"Pretty! say beautiful rather. Can you imagine any thing nearer perfect\nbeauty than Emma altogether--face and figure?\"\n\n\"I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that I have seldom\nseen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers. But I am a partial\nold friend.\"\n\n\"Such an eye!--the true hazle eye--and so brilliant! regular features,\nopen countenance, with a complexion! oh! what a bloom of full health,\nand such a pretty height and size; such a firm and upright figure!\nThere is health, not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her\nglance. One hears sometimes of a child being 'the picture of health;'\nnow, Emma always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of\ngrown-up health. She is loveliness itself. Mr. Knightley, is not she?\"\n\n\"I have not a fault to find with her person,\" he replied. \"I think her\nall you describe. I love to look at her; and I will add this praise,\nthat I do not think her personally vain. Considering how very handsome\nshe is, she appears to be little occupied with it; her vanity lies\nanother way. Mrs. Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of\nHarriet Smith, or my dread of its doing them both harm.\"\n\n\"And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence of its not\ndoing them any harm. With all dear Emma's little faults, she is an\nexcellent creature. Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder\nsister, or a truer friend? No, no; she has qualities which may be\ntrusted; she will never lead any one really wrong; she will make no\nlasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred\ntimes.\"\n\n\"Very well; I will not plague you any more. Emma shall be an angel, and\nI will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas brings John and Isabella.\nJohn loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not a blind affection,\nand Isabella always thinks as he does; except when he is not quite\nfrightened enough about the children. I am sure of having their opinions\nwith me.\"\n\n\"I know that you all love her really too well to be unjust or unkind;\nbut excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if I take the liberty (I consider myself,\nyou know, as having somewhat of the privilege of speech that Emma's\nmother might have had) the liberty of hinting that I do not think any\npossible good can arise from Harriet Smith's intimacy being made a\nmatter of much discussion among you. Pray excuse me; but supposing any\nlittle inconvenience may be apprehended from the intimacy, it cannot be\nexpected that Emma, accountable to nobody but her father, who perfectly\napproves the acquaintance, should put an end to it, so long as it is a\nsource of pleasure to herself. It has been so many years my province to\ngive advice, that you cannot be surprized, Mr. Knightley, at this little\nremains of office.\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" cried he; \"I am much obliged to you for it. It is very\ngood advice, and it shall have a better fate than your advice has often\nfound; for it shall be attended to.\"\n\n\"Mrs. John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be made unhappy about\nher sister.\"\n\n\"Be satisfied,\" said he, \"I will not raise any outcry. I will keep my\nill-humour to myself. I have a very sincere interest in Emma. Isabella\ndoes not seem more my sister; has never excited a greater interest;\nperhaps hardly so great. There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one\nfeels for Emma. I wonder what will become of her!\"\n\n\"So do I,\" said Mrs. Weston gently, \"very much.\"\n\n\"She always declares she will never marry, which, of course, means just\nnothing at all. But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she\ncared for. It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love\nwith a proper object. I should like to see Emma in love, and in some\ndoubt of a return; it would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts\nto attach her; and she goes so seldom from home.\"\n\n\"There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break her resolution\nat present,\" said Mrs. Weston, \"as can well be; and while she is so\nhappy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be forming any attachment which\nwould be creating such difficulties on poor Mr. Woodhouse's account. I\ndo not recommend matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no slight\nto the state, I assure you.\"\n\nPart of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts of her own\nand Mr. Weston's on the subject, as much as possible. There were wishes\nat Randalls respecting Emma's destiny, but it was not desirable to\nhave them suspected; and the quiet transition which Mr. Knightley soon\nafterwards made to \"What does Weston think of the weather; shall we have\nrain?\" convinced her that he had nothing more to say or surmise about\nHartfield.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nEmma could not feel a doubt of having given Harriet's fancy a proper\ndirection and raised the gratitude of her young vanity to a very good\npurpose, for she found her decidedly more sensible than before of Mr.\nElton's being a remarkably handsome man, with most agreeable manners;\nand as she had no hesitation in following up the assurance of his\nadmiration by agreeable hints, she was soon pretty confident of creating\nas much liking on Harriet's side, as there could be any occasion for.\nShe was quite convinced of Mr. Elton's being in the fairest way of\nfalling in love, if not in love already. She had no scruple with regard\nto him. He talked of Harriet, and praised her so warmly, that she could\nnot suppose any thing wanting which a little time would not add. His\nperception of the striking improvement of Harriet's manner, since her\nintroduction at Hartfield, was not one of the least agreeable proofs of\nhis growing attachment.\n\n\"You have given Miss Smith all that she required,\" said he; \"you have\nmade her graceful and easy. She was a beautiful creature when she\ncame to you, but, in my opinion, the attractions you have added are\ninfinitely superior to what she received from nature.\"\n\n\"I am glad you think I have been useful to her; but Harriet only wanted\ndrawing out, and receiving a few, very few hints. She had all the\nnatural grace of sweetness of temper and artlessness in herself. I have\ndone very little.\"\n\n\"If it were admissible to contradict a lady,\" said the gallant Mr.\nElton--\n\n\"I have perhaps given her a little more decision of character, have\ntaught her to think on points which had not fallen in her way before.\"\n\n\"Exactly so; that is what principally strikes me. So much superadded\ndecision of character! Skilful has been the hand!\"\n\n\"Great has been the pleasure, I am sure. I never met with a disposition\nmore truly amiable.\"\n\n\"I have no doubt of it.\" And it was spoken with a sort of sighing\nanimation, which had a vast deal of the lover. She was not less pleased\nanother day with the manner in which he seconded a sudden wish of hers,\nto have Harriet's picture.\n\n\"Did you ever have your likeness taken, Harriet?\" said she: \"did you\never sit for your picture?\"\n\nHarriet was on the point of leaving the room, and only stopt to say,\nwith a very interesting naivete,\n\n\"Oh! dear, no, never.\"\n\nNo sooner was she out of sight, than Emma exclaimed,\n\n\"What an exquisite possession a good picture of her would be! I would\ngive any money for it. I almost long to attempt her likeness myself.\nYou do not know it I dare say, but two or three years ago I had a great\npassion for taking likenesses, and attempted several of my friends, and\nwas thought to have a tolerable eye in general. But from one cause or\nanother, I gave it up in disgust. But really, I could almost venture,\nif Harriet would sit to me. It would be such a delight to have her\npicture!\"\n\n\"Let me entreat you,\" cried Mr. Elton; \"it would indeed be a delight!\nLet me entreat you, Miss Woodhouse, to exercise so charming a talent\nin favour of your friend. I know what your drawings are. How could\nyou suppose me ignorant? Is not this room rich in specimens of your\nlandscapes and flowers; and has not Mrs. Weston some inimitable\nfigure-pieces in her drawing-room, at Randalls?\"\n\nYes, good man!--thought Emma--but what has all that to do with taking\nlikenesses? You know nothing of drawing. Don't pretend to be in raptures\nabout mine. Keep your raptures for Harriet's face. \"Well, if you give me\nsuch kind encouragement, Mr. Elton, I believe I shall try what I can do.\nHarriet's features are very delicate, which makes a likeness difficult;\nand yet there is a peculiarity in the shape of the eye and the lines\nabout the mouth which one ought to catch.\"\n\n\"Exactly so--The shape of the eye and the lines about the mouth--I have\nnot a doubt of your success. Pray, pray attempt it. As you will do it,\nit will indeed, to use your own words, be an exquisite possession.\"\n\n\"But I am afraid, Mr. Elton, Harriet will not like to sit. She thinks\nso little of her own beauty. Did not you observe her manner of answering\nme? How completely it meant, 'why should my picture be drawn?'\"\n\n\"Oh! yes, I observed it, I assure you. It was not lost on me. But still\nI cannot imagine she would not be persuaded.\"\n\nHarriet was soon back again, and the proposal almost immediately made;\nand she had no scruples which could stand many minutes against the\nearnest pressing of both the others. Emma wished to go to work directly,\nand therefore produced the portfolio containing her various attempts at\nportraits, for not one of them had ever been finished, that they might\ndecide together on the best size for Harriet. Her many beginnings were\ndisplayed. Miniatures, half-lengths, whole-lengths, pencil, crayon, and\nwater-colours had been all tried in turn. She had always wanted to do\nevery thing, and had made more progress both in drawing and music than\nmany might have done with so little labour as she would ever submit to.\nShe played and sang;--and drew in almost every style; but steadiness\nhad always been wanting; and in nothing had she approached the degree of\nexcellence which she would have been glad to command, and ought not to\nhave failed of. She was not much deceived as to her own skill either\nas an artist or a musician, but she was not unwilling to have others\ndeceived, or sorry to know her reputation for accomplishment often\nhigher than it deserved.\n\nThere was merit in every drawing--in the least finished, perhaps the\nmost; her style was spirited; but had there been much less, or had there\nbeen ten times more, the delight and admiration of her two companions\nwould have been the same. They were both in ecstasies. A likeness\npleases every body; and Miss Woodhouse's performances must be capital.\n\n\"No great variety of faces for you,\" said Emma. \"I had only my own\nfamily to study from. There is my father--another of my father--but the\nidea of sitting for his picture made him so nervous, that I could only\ntake him by stealth; neither of them very like therefore. Mrs. Weston\nagain, and again, and again, you see. Dear Mrs. Weston! always my\nkindest friend on every occasion. She would sit whenever I asked her.\nThere is my sister; and really quite her own little elegant figure!--and\nthe face not unlike. I should have made a good likeness of her, if she\nwould have sat longer, but she was in such a hurry to have me draw\nher four children that she would not be quiet. Then, here come all my\nattempts at three of those four children;--there they are, Henry and\nJohn and Bella, from one end of the sheet to the other, and any one of\nthem might do for any one of the rest. She was so eager to have them\ndrawn that I could not refuse; but there is no making children of three\nor four years old stand still you know; nor can it be very easy to take\nany likeness of them, beyond the air and complexion, unless they are\ncoarser featured than any of mama's children ever were. Here is my\nsketch of the fourth, who was a baby. I took him as he was sleeping on\nthe sofa, and it is as strong a likeness of his cockade as you would\nwish to see. He had nestled down his head most conveniently. That's very\nlike. I am rather proud of little George. The corner of the sofa is very\ngood. Then here is my last,\"--unclosing a pretty sketch of a gentleman\nin small size, whole-length--\"my last and my best--my brother, Mr. John\nKnightley.--This did not want much of being finished, when I put it away\nin a pet, and vowed I would never take another likeness. I could not\nhelp being provoked; for after all my pains, and when I had really made\na very good likeness of it--(Mrs. Weston and I were quite agreed in\nthinking it _very_ like)--only too handsome--too flattering--but\nthat was a fault on the right side\"--after all this, came poor dear\nIsabella's cold approbation of--\"Yes, it was a little like--but to be\nsure it did not do him justice. We had had a great deal of trouble\nin persuading him to sit at all. It was made a great favour of; and\naltogether it was more than I could bear; and so I never would finish\nit, to have it apologised over as an unfavourable likeness, to every\nmorning visitor in Brunswick Square;--and, as I said, I did then\nforswear ever drawing any body again. But for Harriet's sake, or rather\nfor my own, and as there are no husbands and wives in the case _at_\n_present_, I will break my resolution now.\"\n\nMr. Elton seemed very properly struck and delighted by the idea, and was\nrepeating, \"No husbands and wives in the case at present indeed, as\nyou observe. Exactly so. No husbands and wives,\" with so interesting a\nconsciousness, that Emma began to consider whether she had not better\nleave them together at once. But as she wanted to be drawing, the\ndeclaration must wait a little longer.\n\nShe had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait. It was to be\na whole-length in water-colours, like Mr. John Knightley's, and was\ndestined, if she could please herself, to hold a very honourable station\nover the mantelpiece.\n\nThe sitting began; and Harriet, smiling and blushing, and afraid of not\nkeeping her attitude and countenance, presented a very sweet mixture of\nyouthful expression to the steady eyes of the artist. But there was no\ndoing any thing, with Mr. Elton fidgeting behind her and watching every\ntouch. She gave him credit for stationing himself where he might gaze\nand gaze again without offence; but was really obliged to put an end to\nit, and request him to place himself elsewhere. It then occurred to her\nto employ him in reading.\n\n\"If he would be so good as to read to them, it would be a kindness\nindeed! It would amuse away the difficulties of her part, and lessen the\nirksomeness of Miss Smith's.\"\n\nMr. Elton was only too happy. Harriet listened, and Emma drew in peace.\nShe must allow him to be still frequently coming to look; any thing less\nwould certainly have been too little in a lover; and he was ready at the\nsmallest intermission of the pencil, to jump up and see the progress,\nand be charmed.--There was no being displeased with such an encourager,\nfor his admiration made him discern a likeness almost before it\nwas possible. She could not respect his eye, but his love and his\ncomplaisance were unexceptionable.\n\nThe sitting was altogether very satisfactory; she was quite enough\npleased with the first day's sketch to wish to go on. There was no want\nof likeness, she had been fortunate in the attitude, and as she meant\nto throw in a little improvement to the figure, to give a little more\nheight, and considerably more elegance, she had great confidence of\nits being in every way a pretty drawing at last, and of its filling\nits destined place with credit to them both--a standing memorial of the\nbeauty of one, the skill of the other, and the friendship of both;\nwith as many other agreeable associations as Mr. Elton's very promising\nattachment was likely to add.\n\nHarriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Elton, just as he ought,\nentreated for the permission of attending and reading to them again.\n\n\"By all means. We shall be most happy to consider you as one of the\nparty.\"\n\nThe same civilities and courtesies, the same success and satisfaction,\ntook place on the morrow, and accompanied the whole progress of the\npicture, which was rapid and happy. Every body who saw it was pleased,\nbut Mr. Elton was in continual raptures, and defended it through every\ncriticism.\n\n\"Miss Woodhouse has given her friend the only beauty she\nwanted,\"--observed Mrs. Weston to him--not in the least suspecting that\nshe was addressing a lover.--\"The expression of the eye is most correct,\nbut Miss Smith has not those eyebrows and eyelashes. It is the fault of\nher face that she has them not.\"\n\n\"Do you think so?\" replied he. \"I cannot agree with you. It appears\nto me a most perfect resemblance in every feature. I never saw such a\nlikeness in my life. We must allow for the effect of shade, you know.\"\n\n\"You have made her too tall, Emma,\" said Mr. Knightley.\n\nEmma knew that she had, but would not own it; and Mr. Elton warmly\nadded,\n\n\"Oh no! certainly not too tall; not in the least too tall. Consider, she\nis sitting down--which naturally presents a different--which in short\ngives exactly the idea--and the proportions must be preserved, you know.\nProportions, fore-shortening.--Oh no! it gives one exactly the idea of\nsuch a height as Miss Smith's. Exactly so indeed!\"\n\n\"It is very pretty,\" said Mr. Woodhouse. \"So prettily done! Just as your\ndrawings always are, my dear. I do not know any body who draws so well\nas you do. The only thing I do not thoroughly like is, that she seems\nto be sitting out of doors, with only a little shawl over her\nshoulders--and it makes one think she must catch cold.\"\n\n\"But, my dear papa, it is supposed to be summer; a warm day in summer.\nLook at the tree.\"\n\n\"But it is never safe to sit out of doors, my dear.\"\n\n\"You, sir, may say any thing,\" cried Mr. Elton, \"but I must confess that\nI regard it as a most happy thought, the placing of Miss Smith out of\ndoors; and the tree is touched with such inimitable spirit! Any other\nsituation would have been much less in character. The naivete of Miss\nSmith's manners--and altogether--Oh, it is most admirable! I cannot keep\nmy eyes from it. I never saw such a likeness.\"\n\nThe next thing wanted was to get the picture framed; and here were a few\ndifficulties. It must be done directly; it must be done in London; the\norder must go through the hands of some intelligent person whose taste\ncould be depended on; and Isabella, the usual doer of all commissions,\nmust not be applied to, because it was December, and Mr. Woodhouse\ncould not bear the idea of her stirring out of her house in the fogs of\nDecember. But no sooner was the distress known to Mr. Elton, than it\nwas removed. His gallantry was always on the alert. \"Might he be trusted\nwith the commission, what infinite pleasure should he have in executing\nit! he could ride to London at any time. It was impossible to say how\nmuch he should be gratified by being employed on such an errand.\"\n\n\"He was too good!--she could not endure the thought!--she would not give\nhim such a troublesome office for the world,\"--brought on the desired\nrepetition of entreaties and assurances,--and a very few minutes settled\nthe business.\n\nMr. Elton was to take the drawing to London, chuse the frame, and give\nthe directions; and Emma thought she could so pack it as to ensure its\nsafety without much incommoding him, while he seemed mostly fearful of\nnot being incommoded enough.\n\n\"What a precious deposit!\" said he with a tender sigh, as he received\nit.\n\n\"This man is almost too gallant to be in love,\" thought Emma. \"I should\nsay so, but that I suppose there may be a hundred different ways of\nbeing in love. He is an excellent young man, and will suit Harriet\nexactly; it will be an 'Exactly so,' as he says himself; but he does\nsigh and languish, and study for compliments rather more than I could\nendure as a principal. I come in for a pretty good share as a second.\nBut it is his gratitude on Harriet's account.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nThe very day of Mr. Elton's going to London produced a fresh occasion\nfor Emma's services towards her friend. Harriet had been at Hartfield,\nas usual, soon after breakfast; and, after a time, had gone home to\nreturn again to dinner: she returned, and sooner than had been\ntalked of, and with an agitated, hurried look, announcing something\nextraordinary to have happened which she was longing to tell. Half a\nminute brought it all out. She had heard, as soon as she got back to\nMrs. Goddard's, that Mr. Martin had been there an hour before, and\nfinding she was not at home, nor particularly expected, had left a\nlittle parcel for her from one of his sisters, and gone away; and on\nopening this parcel, she had actually found, besides the two songs which\nshe had lent Elizabeth to copy, a letter to herself; and this letter was\nfrom him, from Mr. Martin, and contained a direct proposal of marriage.\n\"Who could have thought it? She was so surprized she did not know what\nto do. Yes, quite a proposal of marriage; and a very good letter,\nat least she thought so. And he wrote as if he really loved her very\nmuch--but she did not know--and so, she was come as fast as she could to\nask Miss Woodhouse what she should do.--\" Emma was half-ashamed of her\nfriend for seeming so pleased and so doubtful.\n\n\"Upon my word,\" she cried, \"the young man is determined not to lose any\nthing for want of asking. He will connect himself well if he can.\"\n\n\"Will you read the letter?\" cried Harriet. \"Pray do. I'd rather you\nwould.\"\n\nEmma was not sorry to be pressed. She read, and was surprized. The style\nof the letter was much above her expectation. There were not merely no\ngrammatical errors, but as a composition it would not have disgraced a\ngentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and unaffected, and\nthe sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of the writer. It was\nshort, but expressed good sense, warm attachment, liberality, propriety,\neven delicacy of feeling. She paused over it, while Harriet stood\nanxiously watching for her opinion, with a \"Well, well,\" and was at last\nforced to add, \"Is it a good letter? or is it too short?\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed, a very good letter,\" replied Emma rather slowly--\"so\ngood a letter, Harriet, that every thing considered, I think one of his\nsisters must have helped him. I can hardly imagine the young man whom\nI saw talking with you the other day could express himself so well, if\nleft quite to his own powers, and yet it is not the style of a woman;\nno, certainly, it is too strong and concise; not diffuse enough for a\nwoman. No doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose may have a natural\ntalent for--thinks strongly and clearly--and when he takes a pen in\nhand, his thoughts naturally find proper words. It is so with some men.\nYes, I understand the sort of mind. Vigorous, decided, with sentiments\nto a certain point, not coarse. A better written letter, Harriet\n(returning it,) than I had expected.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the still waiting Harriet;--\"well--and--and what shall I\ndo?\"\n\n\"What shall you do! In what respect? Do you mean with regard to this\nletter?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"But what are you in doubt of? You must answer it of course--and\nspeedily.\"\n\n\"Yes. But what shall I say? Dear Miss Woodhouse, do advise me.\"\n\n\"Oh no, no! the letter had much better be all your own. You will express\nyourself very properly, I am sure. There is no danger of your not\nbeing intelligible, which is the first thing. Your meaning must be\nunequivocal; no doubts or demurs: and such expressions of gratitude\nand concern for the pain you are inflicting as propriety requires, will\npresent themselves unbidden to _your_ mind, I am persuaded. You need\nnot be prompted to write with the appearance of sorrow for his\ndisappointment.\"\n\n\"You think I ought to refuse him then,\" said Harriet, looking down.\n\n\"Ought to refuse him! My dear Harriet, what do you mean? Are you in any\ndoubt as to that? I thought--but I beg your pardon, perhaps I have been\nunder a mistake. I certainly have been misunderstanding you, if you feel\nin doubt as to the _purport_ of your answer. I had imagined you were\nconsulting me only as to the wording of it.\"\n\nHarriet was silent. With a little reserve of manner, Emma continued:\n\n\"You mean to return a favourable answer, I collect.\"\n\n\"No, I do not; that is, I do not mean--What shall I do? What would you\nadvise me to do? Pray, dear Miss Woodhouse, tell me what I ought to do.\"\n\n\"I shall not give you any advice, Harriet. I will have nothing to do\nwith it. This is a point which you must settle with your feelings.\"\n\n\"I had no notion that he liked me so very much,\" said Harriet,\ncontemplating the letter. For a little while Emma persevered in her\nsilence; but beginning to apprehend the bewitching flattery of that\nletter might be too powerful, she thought it best to say,\n\n\"I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman _doubts_ as\nto whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to refuse\nhim. If she can hesitate as to 'Yes,' she ought to say 'No' directly.\nIt is not a state to be safely entered into with doubtful feelings, with\nhalf a heart. I thought it my duty as a friend, and older than yourself,\nto say thus much to you. But do not imagine that I want to influence\nyou.\"\n\n\"Oh! no, I am sure you are a great deal too kind to--but if you would\njust advise me what I had best do--No, no, I do not mean that--As\nyou say, one's mind ought to be quite made up--One should not be\nhesitating--It is a very serious thing.--It will be safer to say 'No,'\nperhaps.--Do you think I had better say 'No?'\"\n\n\"Not for the world,\" said Emma, smiling graciously, \"would I advise you\neither way. You must be the best judge of your own happiness. If you\nprefer Mr. Martin to every other person; if you think him the most\nagreeable man you have ever been in company with, why should you\nhesitate? You blush, Harriet.--Does any body else occur to you at\nthis moment under such a definition? Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive\nyourself; do not be run away with by gratitude and compassion. At this\nmoment whom are you thinking of?\"\n\nThe symptoms were favourable.--Instead of answering, Harriet turned away\nconfused, and stood thoughtfully by the fire; and though the letter was\nstill in her hand, it was now mechanically twisted about without regard.\nEmma waited the result with impatience, but not without strong hopes. At\nlast, with some hesitation, Harriet said--\n\n\"Miss Woodhouse, as you will not give me your opinion, I must do as well\nas I can by myself; and I have now quite determined, and really almost\nmade up my mind--to refuse Mr. Martin. Do you think I am right?\"\n\n\"Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are doing just\nwhat you ought. While you were at all in suspense I kept my feelings to\nmyself, but now that you are so completely decided I have no hesitation\nin approving. Dear Harriet, I give myself joy of this. It would\nhave grieved me to lose your acquaintance, which must have been the\nconsequence of your marrying Mr. Martin. While you were in the smallest\ndegree wavering, I said nothing about it, because I would not influence;\nbut it would have been the loss of a friend to me. I could not have\nvisited Mrs. Robert Martin, of Abbey-Mill Farm. Now I am secure of you\nfor ever.\"\n\nHarriet had not surmised her own danger, but the idea of it struck her\nforcibly.\n\n\"You could not have visited me!\" she cried, looking aghast. \"No, to be\nsure you could not; but I never thought of that before. That would have\nbeen too dreadful!--What an escape!--Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would not\ngive up the pleasure and honour of being intimate with you for any thing\nin the world.\"\n\n\"Indeed, Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to lose you; but it\nmust have been. You would have thrown yourself out of all good society.\nI must have given you up.\"\n\n\"Dear me!--How should I ever have borne it! It would have killed me\nnever to come to Hartfield any more!\"\n\n\"Dear affectionate creature!--_You_ banished to Abbey-Mill Farm!--_You_\nconfined to the society of the illiterate and vulgar all your life! I\nwonder how the young man could have the assurance to ask it. He must\nhave a pretty good opinion of himself.\"\n\n\"I do not think he is conceited either, in general,\" said Harriet, her\nconscience opposing such censure; \"at least, he is very good natured,\nand I shall always feel much obliged to him, and have a great regard\nfor--but that is quite a different thing from--and you know, though\nhe may like me, it does not follow that I should--and certainly I must\nconfess that since my visiting here I have seen people--and if one comes\nto compare them, person and manners, there is no comparison at all,\n_one_ is so very handsome and agreeable. However, I do really think Mr.\nMartin a very amiable young man, and have a great opinion of him; and\nhis being so much attached to me--and his writing such a letter--but as\nto leaving you, it is what I would not do upon any consideration.\"\n\n\"Thank you, thank you, my own sweet little friend. We will not be\nparted. A woman is not to marry a man merely because she is asked, or\nbecause he is attached to her, and can write a tolerable letter.\"\n\n\"Oh no;--and it is but a short letter too.\"\n\nEmma felt the bad taste of her friend, but let it pass with a \"very\ntrue; and it would be a small consolation to her, for the clownish\nmanner which might be offending her every hour of the day, to know that\nher husband could write a good letter.\"\n\n\"Oh! yes, very. Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is, to be always\nhappy with pleasant companions. I am quite determined to refuse him. But\nhow shall I do? What shall I say?\"\n\nEmma assured her there would be no difficulty in the answer, and advised\nits being written directly, which was agreed to, in the hope of her\nassistance; and though Emma continued to protest against any assistance\nbeing wanted, it was in fact given in the formation of every sentence.\nThe looking over his letter again, in replying to it, had such a\nsoftening tendency, that it was particularly necessary to brace her up\nwith a few decisive expressions; and she was so very much concerned at\nthe idea of making him unhappy, and thought so much of what his mother\nand sisters would think and say, and was so anxious that they should not\nfancy her ungrateful, that Emma believed if the young man had come in\nher way at that moment, he would have been accepted after all.\n\nThis letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent. The business\nwas finished, and Harriet safe. She was rather low all the evening, but\nEmma could allow for her amiable regrets, and sometimes relieved them by\nspeaking of her own affection, sometimes by bringing forward the idea of\nMr. Elton.\n\n\"I shall never be invited to Abbey-Mill again,\" was said in rather a\nsorrowful tone.\n\n\"Nor, if you were, could I ever bear to part with you, my Harriet. You\nare a great deal too necessary at Hartfield to be spared to Abbey-Mill.\"\n\n\"And I am sure I should never want to go there; for I am never happy but\nat Hartfield.\"\n\nSome time afterwards it was, \"I think Mrs. Goddard would be very much\nsurprized if she knew what had happened. I am sure Miss Nash would--for\nMiss Nash thinks her own sister very well married, and it is only a\nlinen-draper.\"\n\n\"One should be sorry to see greater pride or refinement in the teacher\nof a school, Harriet. I dare say Miss Nash would envy you such an\nopportunity as this of being married. Even this conquest would appear\nvaluable in her eyes. As to any thing superior for you, I suppose she\nis quite in the dark. The attentions of a certain person can hardly be\namong the tittle-tattle of Highbury yet. Hitherto I fancy you and I\nare the only people to whom his looks and manners have explained\nthemselves.\"\n\nHarriet blushed and smiled, and said something about wondering that\npeople should like her so much. The idea of Mr. Elton was certainly\ncheering; but still, after a time, she was tender-hearted again towards\nthe rejected Mr. Martin.\n\n\"Now he has got my letter,\" said she softly. \"I wonder what they are all\ndoing--whether his sisters know--if he is unhappy, they will be unhappy\ntoo. I hope he will not mind it so very much.\"\n\n\"Let us think of those among our absent friends who are more cheerfully\nemployed,\" cried Emma. \"At this moment, perhaps, Mr. Elton is shewing\nyour picture to his mother and sisters, telling how much more beautiful\nis the original, and after being asked for it five or six times,\nallowing them to hear your name, your own dear name.\"\n\n\"My picture!--But he has left my picture in Bond-street.\"\n\n\"Has he so!--Then I know nothing of Mr. Elton. No, my dear little modest\nHarriet, depend upon it the picture will not be in Bond-street till\njust before he mounts his horse to-morrow. It is his companion all this\nevening, his solace, his delight. It opens his designs to his family,\nit introduces you among them, it diffuses through the party those\npleasantest feelings of our nature, eager curiosity and warm\nprepossession. How cheerful, how animated, how suspicious, how busy\ntheir imaginations all are!\"\n\nHarriet smiled again, and her smiles grew stronger.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nHarriet slept at Hartfield that night. For some weeks past she had been\nspending more than half her time there, and gradually getting to have\na bed-room appropriated to herself; and Emma judged it best in every\nrespect, safest and kindest, to keep her with them as much as possible\njust at present. She was obliged to go the next morning for an hour or\ntwo to Mrs. Goddard's, but it was then to be settled that she should\nreturn to Hartfield, to make a regular visit of some days.\n\nWhile she was gone, Mr. Knightley called, and sat some time with Mr.\nWoodhouse and Emma, till Mr. Woodhouse, who had previously made up his\nmind to walk out, was persuaded by his daughter not to defer it, and was\ninduced by the entreaties of both, though against the scruples of his\nown civility, to leave Mr. Knightley for that purpose. Mr. Knightley,\nwho had nothing of ceremony about him, was offering by his short,\ndecided answers, an amusing contrast to the protracted apologies and\ncivil hesitations of the other.\n\n\"Well, I believe, if you will excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if you will not\nconsider me as doing a very rude thing, I shall take Emma's advice and\ngo out for a quarter of an hour. As the sun is out, I believe I had\nbetter take my three turns while I can. I treat you without ceremony,\nMr. Knightley. We invalids think we are privileged people.\"\n\n\"My dear sir, do not make a stranger of me.\"\n\n\"I leave an excellent substitute in my daughter. Emma will be happy to\nentertain you. And therefore I think I will beg your excuse and take my\nthree turns--my winter walk.\"\n\n\"You cannot do better, sir.\"\n\n\"I would ask for the pleasure of your company, Mr. Knightley, but I am a\nvery slow walker, and my pace would be tedious to you; and, besides, you\nhave another long walk before you, to Donwell Abbey.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir, thank you; I am going this moment myself; and I think\nthe sooner _you_ go the better. I will fetch your greatcoat and open the\ngarden door for you.\"\n\nMr. Woodhouse at last was off; but Mr. Knightley, instead of being\nimmediately off likewise, sat down again, seemingly inclined for more\nchat. He began speaking of Harriet, and speaking of her with more\nvoluntary praise than Emma had ever heard before.\n\n\"I cannot rate her beauty as you do,\" said he; \"but she is a\npretty little creature, and I am inclined to think very well of her\ndisposition. Her character depends upon those she is with; but in good\nhands she will turn out a valuable woman.\"\n\n\"I am glad you think so; and the good hands, I hope, may not be\nwanting.\"\n\n\"Come,\" said he, \"you are anxious for a compliment, so I will tell you\nthat you have improved her. You have cured her of her school-girl's\ngiggle; she really does you credit.\"\n\n\"Thank you. I should be mortified indeed if I did not believe I had been\nof some use; but it is not every body who will bestow praise where they\nmay. _You_ do not often overpower me with it.\"\n\n\"You are expecting her again, you say, this morning?\"\n\n\"Almost every moment. She has been gone longer already than she\nintended.\"\n\n\"Something has happened to delay her; some visitors perhaps.\"\n\n\"Highbury gossips!--Tiresome wretches!\"\n\n\"Harriet may not consider every body tiresome that you would.\"\n\nEmma knew this was too true for contradiction, and therefore said\nnothing. He presently added, with a smile,\n\n\"I do not pretend to fix on times or places, but I must tell you that\nI have good reason to believe your little friend will soon hear of\nsomething to her advantage.\"\n\n\"Indeed! how so? of what sort?\"\n\n\"A very serious sort, I assure you;\" still smiling.\n\n\"Very serious! I can think of but one thing--Who is in love with her?\nWho makes you their confidant?\"\n\nEmma was more than half in hopes of Mr. Elton's having dropt a hint.\nMr. Knightley was a sort of general friend and adviser, and she knew Mr.\nElton looked up to him.\n\n\"I have reason to think,\" he replied, \"that Harriet Smith will soon have\nan offer of marriage, and from a most unexceptionable quarter:--Robert\nMartin is the man. Her visit to Abbey-Mill, this summer, seems to have\ndone his business. He is desperately in love and means to marry her.\"\n\n\"He is very obliging,\" said Emma; \"but is he sure that Harriet means to\nmarry him?\"\n\n\"Well, well, means to make her an offer then. Will that do? He came to\nthe Abbey two evenings ago, on purpose to consult me about it. He knows\nI have a thorough regard for him and all his family, and, I believe,\nconsiders me as one of his best friends. He came to ask me whether\nI thought it would be imprudent in him to settle so early; whether\nI thought her too young: in short, whether I approved his choice\naltogether; having some apprehension perhaps of her being considered\n(especially since _your_ making so much of her) as in a line of society\nabove him. I was very much pleased with all that he said. I never hear\nbetter sense from any one than Robert Martin. He always speaks to the\npurpose; open, straightforward, and very well judging. He told me every\nthing; his circumstances and plans, and what they all proposed doing in\nthe event of his marriage. He is an excellent young man, both as son and\nbrother. I had no hesitation in advising him to marry. He proved to me\nthat he could afford it; and that being the case, I was convinced he\ncould not do better. I praised the fair lady too, and altogether sent\nhim away very happy. If he had never esteemed my opinion before, he\nwould have thought highly of me then; and, I dare say, left the house\nthinking me the best friend and counsellor man ever had. This happened\nthe night before last. Now, as we may fairly suppose, he would not allow\nmuch time to pass before he spoke to the lady, and as he does not appear\nto have spoken yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be at Mrs.\nGoddard's to-day; and she may be detained by a visitor, without thinking\nhim at all a tiresome wretch.\"\n\n\"Pray, Mr. Knightley,\" said Emma, who had been smiling to herself\nthrough a great part of this speech, \"how do you know that Mr. Martin\ndid not speak yesterday?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" replied he, surprized, \"I do not absolutely know it; but it\nmay be inferred. Was not she the whole day with you?\"\n\n\"Come,\" said she, \"I will tell you something, in return for what\nyou have told me. He did speak yesterday--that is, he wrote, and was\nrefused.\"\n\nThis was obliged to be repeated before it could be believed; and Mr.\nKnightley actually looked red with surprize and displeasure, as he stood\nup, in tall indignation, and said,\n\n\"Then she is a greater simpleton than I ever believed her. What is the\nfoolish girl about?\"\n\n\"Oh! to be sure,\" cried Emma, \"it is always incomprehensible to a man\nthat a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage. A man always\nimagines a woman to be ready for any body who asks her.\"\n\n\"Nonsense! a man does not imagine any such thing. But what is the\nmeaning of this? Harriet Smith refuse Robert Martin? madness, if it is\nso; but I hope you are mistaken.\"\n\n\"I saw her answer!--nothing could be clearer.\"\n\n\"You saw her answer!--you wrote her answer too. Emma, this is your\ndoing. You persuaded her to refuse him.\"\n\n\"And if I did, (which, however, I am far from allowing) I should not\nfeel that I had done wrong. Mr. Martin is a very respectable young man,\nbut I cannot admit him to be Harriet's equal; and am rather surprized\nindeed that he should have ventured to address her. By your account, he\ndoes seem to have had some scruples. It is a pity that they were ever\ngot over.\"\n\n\"Not Harriet's equal!\" exclaimed Mr. Knightley loudly and warmly; and\nwith calmer asperity, added, a few moments afterwards, \"No, he is\nnot her equal indeed, for he is as much her superior in sense as in\nsituation. Emma, your infatuation about that girl blinds you. What are\nHarriet Smith's claims, either of birth, nature or education, to any\nconnexion higher than Robert Martin? She is the natural daughter of\nnobody knows whom, with probably no settled provision at all, and\ncertainly no respectable relations. She is known only as parlour-boarder\nat a common school. She is not a sensible girl, nor a girl of any\ninformation. She has been taught nothing useful, and is too young and\ntoo simple to have acquired any thing herself. At her age she can have\nno experience, and with her little wit, is not very likely ever to have\nany that can avail her. She is pretty, and she is good tempered, and\nthat is all. My only scruple in advising the match was on his account,\nas being beneath his deserts, and a bad connexion for him. I felt that,\nas to fortune, in all probability he might do much better; and that as\nto a rational companion or useful helpmate, he could not do worse. But I\ncould not reason so to a man in love, and was willing to trust to there\nbeing no harm in her, to her having that sort of disposition, which, in\ngood hands, like his, might be easily led aright and turn out very well.\nThe advantage of the match I felt to be all on her side; and had not the\nsmallest doubt (nor have I now) that there would be a general cry-out\nupon her extreme good luck. Even _your_ satisfaction I made sure of.\nIt crossed my mind immediately that you would not regret your friend's\nleaving Highbury, for the sake of her being settled so well. I remember\nsaying to myself, 'Even Emma, with all her partiality for Harriet, will\nthink this a good match.'\"\n\n\"I cannot help wondering at your knowing so little of Emma as to say any\nsuch thing. What! think a farmer, (and with all his sense and all his\nmerit Mr. Martin is nothing more,) a good match for my intimate friend!\nNot regret her leaving Highbury for the sake of marrying a man whom\nI could never admit as an acquaintance of my own! I wonder you should\nthink it possible for me to have such feelings. I assure you mine are\nvery different. I must think your statement by no means fair. You are\nnot just to Harriet's claims. They would be estimated very differently\nby others as well as myself; Mr. Martin may be the richest of the two,\nbut he is undoubtedly her inferior as to rank in society.--The sphere in\nwhich she moves is much above his.--It would be a degradation.\"\n\n\"A degradation to illegitimacy and ignorance, to be married to a\nrespectable, intelligent gentleman-farmer!\"\n\n\"As to the circumstances of her birth, though in a legal sense she may\nbe called Nobody, it will not hold in common sense. She is not to pay\nfor the offence of others, by being held below the level of those with\nwhom she is brought up.--There can scarcely be a doubt that her father\nis a gentleman--and a gentleman of fortune.--Her allowance is\nvery liberal; nothing has ever been grudged for her improvement or\ncomfort.--That she is a gentleman's daughter, is indubitable to me; that\nshe associates with gentlemen's daughters, no one, I apprehend, will\ndeny.--She is superior to Mr. Robert Martin.\"\n\n\"Whoever might be her parents,\" said Mr. Knightley, \"whoever may have\nhad the charge of her, it does not appear to have been any part of\ntheir plan to introduce her into what you would call good society. After\nreceiving a very indifferent education she is left in Mrs. Goddard's\nhands to shift as she can;--to move, in short, in Mrs. Goddard's line,\nto have Mrs. Goddard's acquaintance. Her friends evidently thought\nthis good enough for her; and it _was_ good enough. She desired nothing\nbetter herself. Till you chose to turn her into a friend, her mind had\nno distaste for her own set, nor any ambition beyond it. She was as\nhappy as possible with the Martins in the summer. She had no sense of\nsuperiority then. If she has it now, you have given it. You have been no\nfriend to Harriet Smith, Emma. Robert Martin would never have proceeded\nso far, if he had not felt persuaded of her not being disinclined to\nhim. I know him well. He has too much real feeling to address any\nwoman on the haphazard of selfish passion. And as to conceit, he is\nthe farthest from it of any man I know. Depend upon it he had\nencouragement.\"\n\nIt was most convenient to Emma not to make a direct reply to this\nassertion; she chose rather to take up her own line of the subject\nagain.\n\n\"You are a very warm friend to Mr. Martin; but, as I said before,\nare unjust to Harriet. Harriet's claims to marry well are not so\ncontemptible as you represent them. She is not a clever girl, but she\nhas better sense than you are aware of, and does not deserve to have her\nunderstanding spoken of so slightingly. Waiving that point, however, and\nsupposing her to be, as you describe her, only pretty and good-natured,\nlet me tell you, that in the degree she possesses them, they are not\ntrivial recommendations to the world in general, for she is, in fact, a\nbeautiful girl, and must be thought so by ninety-nine people out of an\nhundred; and till it appears that men are much more philosophic on the\nsubject of beauty than they are generally supposed; till they do fall\nin love with well-informed minds instead of handsome faces, a girl, with\nsuch loveliness as Harriet, has a certainty of being admired and sought\nafter, of having the power of chusing from among many, consequently a\nclaim to be nice. Her good-nature, too, is not so very slight a claim,\ncomprehending, as it does, real, thorough sweetness of temper and\nmanner, a very humble opinion of herself, and a great readiness to\nbe pleased with other people. I am very much mistaken if your sex in\ngeneral would not think such beauty, and such temper, the highest claims\na woman could possess.\"\n\n\"Upon my word, Emma, to hear you abusing the reason you have, is almost\nenough to make me think so too. Better be without sense, than misapply\nit as you do.\"\n\n\"To be sure!\" cried she playfully. \"I know _that_ is the feeling of\nyou all. I know that such a girl as Harriet is exactly what every\nman delights in--what at once bewitches his senses and satisfies his\njudgment. Oh! Harriet may pick and chuse. Were you, yourself, ever to\nmarry, she is the very woman for you. And is she, at seventeen, just\nentering into life, just beginning to be known, to be wondered at\nbecause she does not accept the first offer she receives? No--pray let\nher have time to look about her.\"\n\n\"I have always thought it a very foolish intimacy,\" said Mr. Knightley\npresently, \"though I have kept my thoughts to myself; but I now perceive\nthat it will be a very unfortunate one for Harriet. You will puff her up\nwith such ideas of her own beauty, and of what she has a claim to, that,\nin a little while, nobody within her reach will be good enough for her.\nVanity working on a weak head, produces every sort of mischief. Nothing\nso easy as for a young lady to raise her expectations too high. Miss\nHarriet Smith may not find offers of marriage flow in so fast, though\nshe is a very pretty girl. Men of sense, whatever you may chuse to\nsay, do not want silly wives. Men of family would not be very fond of\nconnecting themselves with a girl of such obscurity--and most prudent\nmen would be afraid of the inconvenience and disgrace they might be\ninvolved in, when the mystery of her parentage came to be revealed. Let\nher marry Robert Martin, and she is safe, respectable, and happy for\never; but if you encourage her to expect to marry greatly, and teach her\nto be satisfied with nothing less than a man of consequence and large\nfortune, she may be a parlour-boarder at Mrs. Goddard's all the rest\nof her life--or, at least, (for Harriet Smith is a girl who will marry\nsomebody or other,) till she grow desperate, and is glad to catch at the\nold writing-master's son.\"\n\n\"We think so very differently on this point, Mr. Knightley, that there\ncan be no use in canvassing it. We shall only be making each other more\nangry. But as to my _letting_ her marry Robert Martin, it is impossible;\nshe has refused him, and so decidedly, I think, as must prevent any\nsecond application. She must abide by the evil of having refused him,\nwhatever it may be; and as to the refusal itself, I will not pretend to\nsay that I might not influence her a little; but I assure you there\nwas very little for me or for any body to do. His appearance is so much\nagainst him, and his manner so bad, that if she ever were disposed to\nfavour him, she is not now. I can imagine, that before she had seen\nany body superior, she might tolerate him. He was the brother of her\nfriends, and he took pains to please her; and altogether, having seen\nnobody better (that must have been his great assistant) she might not,\nwhile she was at Abbey-Mill, find him disagreeable. But the case\nis altered now. She knows now what gentlemen are; and nothing but a\ngentleman in education and manner has any chance with Harriet.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, errant nonsense, as ever was talked!\" cried Mr.\nKnightley.--\"Robert Martin's manners have sense, sincerity, and\ngood-humour to recommend them; and his mind has more true gentility than\nHarriet Smith could understand.\"\n\nEmma made no answer, and tried to look cheerfully unconcerned, but was\nreally feeling uncomfortable and wanting him very much to be gone. She\ndid not repent what she had done; she still thought herself a better\njudge of such a point of female right and refinement than he could be;\nbut yet she had a sort of habitual respect for his judgment in general,\nwhich made her dislike having it so loudly against her; and to have him\nsitting just opposite to her in angry state, was very disagreeable.\nSome minutes passed in this unpleasant silence, with only one attempt\non Emma's side to talk of the weather, but he made no answer. He was\nthinking. The result of his thoughts appeared at last in these words.\n\n\"Robert Martin has no great loss--if he can but think so; and I hope it\nwill not be long before he does. Your views for Harriet are best known\nto yourself; but as you make no secret of your love of match-making, it\nis fair to suppose that views, and plans, and projects you have;--and as\na friend I shall just hint to you that if Elton is the man, I think it\nwill be all labour in vain.\"\n\nEmma laughed and disclaimed. He continued,\n\n\"Depend upon it, Elton will not do. Elton is a very good sort of man,\nand a very respectable vicar of Highbury, but not at all likely to make\nan imprudent match. He knows the value of a good income as well as any\nbody. Elton may talk sentimentally, but he will act rationally. He is\nas well acquainted with his own claims, as you can be with Harriet's.\nHe knows that he is a very handsome young man, and a great favourite\nwherever he goes; and from his general way of talking in unreserved\nmoments, when there are only men present, I am convinced that he does\nnot mean to throw himself away. I have heard him speak with great\nanimation of a large family of young ladies that his sisters are\nintimate with, who have all twenty thousand pounds apiece.\"\n\n\"I am very much obliged to you,\" said Emma, laughing again. \"If I had\nset my heart on Mr. Elton's marrying Harriet, it would have been very\nkind to open my eyes; but at present I only want to keep Harriet to\nmyself. I have done with match-making indeed. I could never hope to\nequal my own doings at Randalls. I shall leave off while I am well.\"\n\n\"Good morning to you,\"--said he, rising and walking off abruptly. He was\nvery much vexed. He felt the disappointment of the young man, and was\nmortified to have been the means of promoting it, by the sanction he had\ngiven; and the part which he was persuaded Emma had taken in the affair,\nwas provoking him exceedingly.\n\nEmma remained in a state of vexation too; but there was more\nindistinctness in the causes of her's, than in his. She did not always\nfeel so absolutely satisfied with herself, so entirely convinced that\nher opinions were right and her adversary's wrong, as Mr. Knightley. He\nwalked off in more complete self-approbation than he left for her. She\nwas not so materially cast down, however, but that a little time and\nthe return of Harriet were very adequate restoratives. Harriet's staying\naway so long was beginning to make her uneasy. The possibility of the\nyoung man's coming to Mrs. Goddard's that morning, and meeting with\nHarriet and pleading his own cause, gave alarming ideas. The dread\nof such a failure after all became the prominent uneasiness; and when\nHarriet appeared, and in very good spirits, and without having any\nsuch reason to give for her long absence, she felt a satisfaction which\nsettled her with her own mind, and convinced her, that let Mr.\nKnightley think or say what he would, she had done nothing which woman's\nfriendship and woman's feelings would not justify.\n\nHe had frightened her a little about Mr. Elton; but when she considered\nthat Mr. Knightley could not have observed him as she had done, neither\nwith the interest, nor (she must be allowed to tell herself, in spite of\nMr. Knightley's pretensions) with the skill of such an observer on such\na question as herself, that he had spoken it hastily and in anger, she\nwas able to believe, that he had rather said what he wished resentfully\nto be true, than what he knew any thing about. He certainly might have\nheard Mr. Elton speak with more unreserve than she had ever done, and\nMr. Elton might not be of an imprudent, inconsiderate disposition as to\nmoney matters; he might naturally be rather attentive than otherwise\nto them; but then, Mr. Knightley did not make due allowance for the\ninfluence of a strong passion at war with all interested motives. Mr.\nKnightley saw no such passion, and of course thought nothing of its\neffects; but she saw too much of it to feel a doubt of its overcoming\nany hesitations that a reasonable prudence might originally suggest; and\nmore than a reasonable, becoming degree of prudence, she was very sure\ndid not belong to Mr. Elton.\n\nHarriet's cheerful look and manner established hers: she came back, not\nto think of Mr. Martin, but to talk of Mr. Elton. Miss Nash had been\ntelling her something, which she repeated immediately with great\ndelight. Mr. Perry had been to Mrs. Goddard's to attend a sick child,\nand Miss Nash had seen him, and he had told Miss Nash, that as he was\ncoming back yesterday from Clayton Park, he had met Mr. Elton, and\nfound to his great surprize, that Mr. Elton was actually on his road\nto London, and not meaning to return till the morrow, though it was the\nwhist-club night, which he had been never known to miss before; and Mr.\nPerry had remonstrated with him about it, and told him how shabby it\nwas in him, their best player, to absent himself, and tried very much to\npersuade him to put off his journey only one day; but it would not\ndo; Mr. Elton had been determined to go on, and had said in a _very_\n_particular_ way indeed, that he was going on business which he would\nnot put off for any inducement in the world; and something about a\nvery enviable commission, and being the bearer of something exceedingly\nprecious. Mr. Perry could not quite understand him, but he was very sure\nthere must be a _lady_ in the case, and he told him so; and Mr. Elton\nonly looked very conscious and smiling, and rode off in great spirits.\nMiss Nash had told her all this, and had talked a great deal more about\nMr. Elton; and said, looking so very significantly at her, \"that she did\nnot pretend to understand what his business might be, but she only\nknew that any woman whom Mr. Elton could prefer, she should think the\nluckiest woman in the world; for, beyond a doubt, Mr. Elton had not his\nequal for beauty or agreeableness.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nMr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could not quarrel with\nherself. He was so much displeased, that it was longer than usual before\nhe came to Hartfield again; and when they did meet, his grave looks\nshewed that she was not forgiven. She was sorry, but could not repent.\nOn the contrary, her plans and proceedings were more and more justified\nand endeared to her by the general appearances of the next few days.\n\nThe Picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon after Mr.\nElton's return, and being hung over the mantelpiece of the common\nsitting-room, he got up to look at it, and sighed out his half sentences\nof admiration just as he ought; and as for Harriet's feelings, they were\nvisibly forming themselves into as strong and steady an attachment as\nher youth and sort of mind admitted. Emma was soon perfectly satisfied\nof Mr. Martin's being no otherwise remembered, than as he furnished a\ncontrast with Mr. Elton, of the utmost advantage to the latter.\n\nHer views of improving her little friend's mind, by a great deal of\nuseful reading and conversation, had never yet led to more than a few\nfirst chapters, and the intention of going on to-morrow. It was much\neasier to chat than to study; much pleasanter to let her imagination\nrange and work at Harriet's fortune, than to be labouring to enlarge\nher comprehension or exercise it on sober facts; and the only literary\npursuit which engaged Harriet at present, the only mental provision she\nwas making for the evening of life, was the collecting and transcribing\nall the riddles of every sort that she could meet with, into a thin\nquarto of hot-pressed paper, made up by her friend, and ornamented with\nciphers and trophies.\n\nIn this age of literature, such collections on a very grand scale are\nnot uncommon. Miss Nash, head-teacher at Mrs. Goddard's, had written out\nat least three hundred; and Harriet, who had taken the first hint of it\nfrom her, hoped, with Miss Woodhouse's help, to get a great many more.\nEmma assisted with her invention, memory and taste; and as Harriet wrote\na very pretty hand, it was likely to be an arrangement of the first\norder, in form as well as quantity.\n\nMr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the business as the\ngirls, and tried very often to recollect something worth their putting\nin. \"So many clever riddles as there used to be when he was young--he\nwondered he could not remember them! but he hoped he should in time.\"\nAnd it always ended in \"Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.\"\n\nHis good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the subject,\ndid not at present recollect any thing of the riddle kind; but he\nhad desired Perry to be upon the watch, and as he went about so much,\nsomething, he thought, might come from that quarter.\n\nIt was by no means his daughter's wish that the intellects of Highbury\nin general should be put under requisition. Mr. Elton was the only one\nwhose assistance she asked. He was invited to contribute any really good\nenigmas, charades, or conundrums that he might recollect; and she had\nthe pleasure of seeing him most intently at work with his recollections;\nand at the same time, as she could perceive, most earnestly careful that\nnothing ungallant, nothing that did not breathe a compliment to the\nsex should pass his lips. They owed to him their two or three politest\npuzzles; and the joy and exultation with which at last he recalled, and\nrather sentimentally recited, that well-known charade,\n\n    My first doth affliction denote,\n      Which my second is destin'd to feel\n    And my whole is the best antidote\n      That affliction to soften and heal.--\n\nmade her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed it some\npages ago already.\n\n\"Why will not you write one yourself for us, Mr. Elton?\" said she; \"that\nis the only security for its freshness; and nothing could be easier to\nyou.\"\n\n\"Oh no! he had never written, hardly ever, any thing of the kind in his\nlife. The stupidest fellow! He was afraid not even Miss Woodhouse\"--he\nstopt a moment--\"or Miss Smith could inspire him.\"\n\nThe very next day however produced some proof of inspiration. He\ncalled for a few moments, just to leave a piece of paper on the table\ncontaining, as he said, a charade, which a friend of his had addressed\nto a young lady, the object of his admiration, but which, from his\nmanner, Emma was immediately convinced must be his own.\n\n\"I do not offer it for Miss Smith's collection,\" said he. \"Being my\nfriend's, I have no right to expose it in any degree to the public eye,\nbut perhaps you may not dislike looking at it.\"\n\nThe speech was more to Emma than to Harriet, which Emma could\nunderstand. There was deep consciousness about him, and he found\nit easier to meet her eye than her friend's. He was gone the next\nmoment:--after another moment's pause,\n\n\"Take it,\" said Emma, smiling, and pushing the paper towards\nHarriet--\"it is for you. Take your own.\"\n\nBut Harriet was in a tremor, and could not touch it; and Emma, never\nloth to be first, was obliged to examine it herself.\n\n        To Miss--\n\n          CHARADE.\n\n    My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,\n      Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.\n    Another view of man, my second brings,\n      Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!\n\n    But ah! united, what reverse we have!\n      Man's boasted power and freedom, all are flown;\n    Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,\n      And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.\n\n      Thy ready wit the word will soon supply,\n      May its approval beam in that soft eye!\n\nShe cast her eye over it, pondered, caught the meaning, read it through\nagain to be quite certain, and quite mistress of the lines, and then\npassing it to Harriet, sat happily smiling, and saying to herself, while\nHarriet was puzzling over the paper in all the confusion of hope and\ndulness, \"Very well, Mr. Elton, very well indeed. I have read worse\ncharades. _Courtship_--a very good hint. I give you credit for it. This\nis feeling your way. This is saying very plainly--'Pray, Miss Smith,\ngive me leave to pay my addresses to you. Approve my charade and my\nintentions in the same glance.'\n\n      May its approval beam in that soft eye!\n\nHarriet exactly. Soft is the very word for her eye--of all epithets, the\njustest that could be given.\n\n      Thy ready wit the word will soon supply.\n\nHumph--Harriet's ready wit! All the better. A man must be very much in\nlove, indeed, to describe her so. Ah! Mr. Knightley, I wish you had the\nbenefit of this; I think this would convince you. For once in your life\nyou would be obliged to own yourself mistaken. An excellent charade\nindeed! and very much to the purpose. Things must come to a crisis soon\nnow.\"\n\nShe was obliged to break off from these very pleasant observations,\nwhich were otherwise of a sort to run into great length, by the\neagerness of Harriet's wondering questions.\n\n\"What can it be, Miss Woodhouse?--what can it be? I have not an idea--I\ncannot guess it in the least. What can it possibly be? Do try to find\nit out, Miss Woodhouse. Do help me. I never saw any thing so hard. Is it\nkingdom? I wonder who the friend was--and who could be the young lady.\nDo you think it is a good one? Can it be woman?\n\n      And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.\n\nCan it be Neptune?\n\n      Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!\n\nOr a trident? or a mermaid? or a shark? Oh, no! shark is only one\nsyllable. It must be very clever, or he would not have brought it. Oh!\nMiss Woodhouse, do you think we shall ever find it out?\"\n\n\"Mermaids and sharks! Nonsense! My dear Harriet, what are you thinking\nof? Where would be the use of his bringing us a charade made by a friend\nupon a mermaid or a shark? Give me the paper and listen.\n\nFor Miss ------, read Miss Smith.\n\n    My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,\n      Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.\n\nThat is _court_.\n\n    Another view of man, my second brings;\n      Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!\n\nThat is _ship_;--plain as it can be.--Now for the cream.\n\n    But ah! united, (_courtship_, you know,) what reverse we have!\n      Man's boasted power and freedom, all are flown.\n    Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,\n      And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.\n\nA very proper compliment!--and then follows the application, which\nI think, my dear Harriet, you cannot find much difficulty in\ncomprehending. Read it in comfort to yourself. There can be no doubt of\nits being written for you and to you.\"\n\nHarriet could not long resist so delightful a persuasion. She read\nthe concluding lines, and was all flutter and happiness. She could not\nspeak. But she was not wanted to speak. It was enough for her to feel.\nEmma spoke for her.\n\n\"There is so pointed, and so particular a meaning in this compliment,\"\nsaid she, \"that I cannot have a doubt as to Mr. Elton's intentions. You\nare his object--and you will soon receive the completest proof of it. I\nthought it must be so. I thought I could not be so deceived; but now, it\nis clear; the state of his mind is as clear and decided, as my wishes on\nthe subject have been ever since I knew you. Yes, Harriet, just so long\nhave I been wanting the very circumstance to happen what has happened.\nI could never tell whether an attachment between you and Mr. Elton were\nmost desirable or most natural. Its probability and its eligibility have\nreally so equalled each other! I am very happy. I congratulate you, my\ndear Harriet, with all my heart. This is an attachment which a woman may\nwell feel pride in creating. This is a connexion which offers nothing\nbut good. It will give you every thing that you want--consideration,\nindependence, a proper home--it will fix you in the centre of all your\nreal friends, close to Hartfield and to me, and confirm our intimacy\nfor ever. This, Harriet, is an alliance which can never raise a blush in\neither of us.\"\n\n\"Dear Miss Woodhouse!\"--and \"Dear Miss Woodhouse,\" was all that Harriet,\nwith many tender embraces could articulate at first; but when they did\narrive at something more like conversation, it was sufficiently clear to\nher friend that she saw, felt, anticipated, and remembered just as she\nought. Mr. Elton's superiority had very ample acknowledgment.\n\n\"Whatever you say is always right,\" cried Harriet, \"and therefore I\nsuppose, and believe, and hope it must be so; but otherwise I could not\nhave imagined it. It is so much beyond any thing I deserve. Mr. Elton,\nwho might marry any body! There cannot be two opinions about _him_. He\nis so very superior. Only think of those sweet verses--'To Miss ------.'\nDear me, how clever!--Could it really be meant for me?\"\n\n\"I cannot make a question, or listen to a question about that. It is a\ncertainty. Receive it on my judgment. It is a sort of prologue to\nthe play, a motto to the chapter; and will be soon followed by\nmatter-of-fact prose.\"\n\n\"It is a sort of thing which nobody could have expected. I am sure,\na month ago, I had no more idea myself!--The strangest things do take\nplace!\"\n\n\"When Miss Smiths and Mr. Eltons get acquainted--they do indeed--and\nreally it is strange; it is out of the common course that what is so\nevidently, so palpably desirable--what courts the pre-arrangement of\nother people, should so immediately shape itself into the proper form.\nYou and Mr. Elton are by situation called together; you belong to one\nanother by every circumstance of your respective homes. Your marrying\nwill be equal to the match at Randalls. There does seem to be a\nsomething in the air of Hartfield which gives love exactly the right\ndirection, and sends it into the very channel where it ought to flow.\n\n      The course of true love never did run smooth--\n\nA Hartfield edition of Shakespeare would have a long note on that\npassage.\"\n\n\"That Mr. Elton should really be in love with me,--me, of all people,\nwho did not know him, to speak to him, at Michaelmas! And he, the very\nhandsomest man that ever was, and a man that every body looks up to,\nquite like Mr. Knightley! His company so sought after, that every body\nsays he need not eat a single meal by himself if he does not chuse it;\nthat he has more invitations than there are days in the week. And so\nexcellent in the Church! Miss Nash has put down all the texts he has\never preached from since he came to Highbury. Dear me! When I look back\nto the first time I saw him! How little did I think!--The two Abbots and\nI ran into the front room and peeped through the blind when we heard he\nwas going by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us away, and staid to look\nthrough herself; however, she called me back presently, and let me\nlook too, which was very good-natured. And how beautiful we thought he\nlooked! He was arm-in-arm with Mr. Cole.\"\n\n\"This is an alliance which, whoever--whatever your friends may be, must\nbe agreeable to them, provided at least they have common sense; and we\nare not to be addressing our conduct to fools. If they are anxious to\nsee you _happily_ married, here is a man whose amiable character gives\nevery assurance of it;--if they wish to have you settled in the same\ncountry and circle which they have chosen to place you in, here it will\nbe accomplished; and if their only object is that you should, in the\ncommon phrase, be _well_ married, here is the comfortable fortune, the\nrespectable establishment, the rise in the world which must satisfy\nthem.\"\n\n\"Yes, very true. How nicely you talk; I love to hear you. You understand\nevery thing. You and Mr. Elton are one as clever as the other. This\ncharade!--If I had studied a twelvemonth, I could never have made any\nthing like it.\"\n\n\"I thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of declining it\nyesterday.\"\n\n\"I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I ever read.\"\n\n\"I never read one more to the purpose, certainly.\"\n\n\"It is as long again as almost all we have had before.\"\n\n\"I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour. Such things\nin general cannot be too short.\"\n\nHarriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most satisfactory\ncomparisons were rising in her mind.\n\n\"It is one thing,\" said she, presently--her cheeks in a glow--\"to have\nvery good sense in a common way, like every body else, and if there is\nany thing to say, to sit down and write a letter, and say just what you\nmust, in a short way; and another, to write verses and charades like\nthis.\"\n\nEmma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin's\nprose.\n\n\"Such sweet lines!\" continued Harriet--\"these two last!--But how shall I\never be able to return the paper, or say I have found it out?--Oh! Miss\nWoodhouse, what can we do about that?\"\n\n\"Leave it to me. You do nothing. He will be here this evening, I dare\nsay, and then I will give it him back, and some nonsense or other will\npass between us, and you shall not be committed.--Your soft eyes shall\nchuse their own time for beaming. Trust to me.\"\n\n\"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not write this beautiful\ncharade into my book! I am sure I have not got one half so good.\"\n\n\"Leave out the two last lines, and there is no reason why you should not\nwrite it into your book.\"\n\n\"Oh! but those two lines are\"--\n\n--\"The best of all. Granted;--for private enjoyment; and for private\nenjoyment keep them. They are not at all the less written you know,\nbecause you divide them. The couplet does not cease to be, nor does its\nmeaning change. But take it away, and all _appropriation_ ceases, and a\nvery pretty gallant charade remains, fit for any collection. Depend upon\nit, he would not like to have his charade slighted, much better than his\npassion. A poet in love must be encouraged in both capacities, or\nneither. Give me the book, I will write it down, and then there can be\nno possible reflection on you.\"\n\nHarriet submitted, though her mind could hardly separate the parts,\nso as to feel quite sure that her friend were not writing down a\ndeclaration of love. It seemed too precious an offering for any degree\nof publicity.\n\n\"I shall never let that book go out of my own hands,\" said she.\n\n\"Very well,\" replied Emma; \"a most natural feeling; and the longer it\nlasts, the better I shall be pleased. But here is my father coming: you\nwill not object to my reading the charade to him. It will be giving him\nso much pleasure! He loves any thing of the sort, and especially any\nthing that pays woman a compliment. He has the tenderest spirit of\ngallantry towards us all!--You must let me read it to him.\"\n\nHarriet looked grave.\n\n\"My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon this charade.--You\nwill betray your feelings improperly, if you are too conscious and too\nquick, and appear to affix more meaning, or even quite all the meaning\nwhich may be affixed to it. Do not be overpowered by such a little\ntribute of admiration. If he had been anxious for secrecy, he would not\nhave left the paper while I was by; but he rather pushed it towards me\nthan towards you. Do not let us be too solemn on the business. He has\nencouragement enough to proceed, without our sighing out our souls over\nthis charade.\"\n\n\"Oh! no--I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it. Do as you please.\"\n\nMr. Woodhouse came in, and very soon led to the subject again, by the\nrecurrence of his very frequent inquiry of \"Well, my dears, how does\nyour book go on?--Have you got any thing fresh?\"\n\n\"Yes, papa; we have something to read you, something quite fresh. A\npiece of paper was found on the table this morning--(dropt, we suppose,\nby a fairy)--containing a very pretty charade, and we have just copied\nit in.\"\n\nShe read it to him, just as he liked to have any thing read, slowly and\ndistinctly, and two or three times over, with explanations of every\npart as she proceeded--and he was very much pleased, and, as she had\nforeseen, especially struck with the complimentary conclusion.\n\n\"Aye, that's very just, indeed, that's very properly said. Very true.\n'Woman, lovely woman.' It is such a pretty charade, my dear, that I\ncan easily guess what fairy brought it.--Nobody could have written so\nprettily, but you, Emma.\"\n\nEmma only nodded, and smiled.--After a little thinking, and a very\ntender sigh, he added,\n\n\"Ah! it is no difficulty to see who you take after! Your dear mother\nwas so clever at all those things! If I had but her memory! But I can\nremember nothing;--not even that particular riddle which you have\nheard me mention; I can only recollect the first stanza; and there are\nseveral.\n\n    Kitty, a fair but frozen maid,\n      Kindled a flame I yet deplore,\n    The hood-wink'd boy I called to aid,\n    Though of his near approach afraid,\n      So fatal to my suit before.\n\nAnd that is all that I can recollect of it--but it is very clever all\nthe way through. But I think, my dear, you said you had got it.\"\n\n\"Yes, papa, it is written out in our second page. We copied it from the\nElegant Extracts. It was Garrick's, you know.\"\n\n\"Aye, very true.--I wish I could recollect more of it.\n\n    Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.\n\nThe name makes me think of poor Isabella; for she was very near being\nchristened Catherine after her grandmama. I hope we shall have her here\nnext week. Have you thought, my dear, where you shall put her--and what\nroom there will be for the children?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes--she will have her own room, of course; the room she always\nhas;--and there is the nursery for the children,--just as usual, you\nknow. Why should there be any change?\"\n\n\"I do not know, my dear--but it is so long since she was here!--not\nsince last Easter, and then only for a few days.--Mr. John Knightley's\nbeing a lawyer is very inconvenient.--Poor Isabella!--she is sadly taken\naway from us all!--and how sorry she will be when she comes, not to see\nMiss Taylor here!\"\n\n\"She will not be surprized, papa, at least.\"\n\n\"I do not know, my dear. I am sure I was very much surprized when I\nfirst heard she was going to be married.\"\n\n\"We must ask Mr. and Mrs. Weston to dine with us, while Isabella is\nhere.\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear, if there is time.--But--(in a very depressed tone)--she\nis coming for only one week. There will not be time for any thing.\"\n\n\"It is unfortunate that they cannot stay longer--but it seems a case of\nnecessity. Mr. John Knightley must be in town again on the 28th, and we\nought to be thankful, papa, that we are to have the whole of the time\nthey can give to the country, that two or three days are not to be taken\nout for the Abbey. Mr. Knightley promises to give up his claim this\nChristmas--though you know it is longer since they were with him, than\nwith us.\"\n\n\"It would be very hard, indeed, my dear, if poor Isabella were to be\nanywhere but at Hartfield.\"\n\nMr. Woodhouse could never allow for Mr. Knightley's claims on his\nbrother, or any body's claims on Isabella, except his own. He sat musing\na little while, and then said,\n\n\"But I do not see why poor Isabella should be obliged to go back so\nsoon, though he does. I think, Emma, I shall try and persuade her to\nstay longer with us. She and the children might stay very well.\"\n\n\"Ah! papa--that is what you never have been able to accomplish, and I\ndo not think you ever will. Isabella cannot bear to stay behind her\nhusband.\"\n\nThis was too true for contradiction. Unwelcome as it was, Mr. Woodhouse\ncould only give a submissive sigh; and as Emma saw his spirits affected\nby the idea of his daughter's attachment to her husband, she immediately\nled to such a branch of the subject as must raise them.\n\n\"Harriet must give us as much of her company as she can while my brother\nand sister are here. I am sure she will be pleased with the children.\nWe are very proud of the children, are not we, papa? I wonder which she\nwill think the handsomest, Henry or John?\"\n\n\"Aye, I wonder which she will. Poor little dears, how glad they will be\nto come. They are very fond of being at Hartfield, Harriet.\"\n\n\"I dare say they are, sir. I am sure I do not know who is not.\"\n\n\"Henry is a fine boy, but John is very like his mama. Henry is the\neldest, he was named after me, not after his father. John, the second,\nis named after his father. Some people are surprized, I believe, that\nthe eldest was not, but Isabella would have him called Henry, which I\nthought very pretty of her. And he is a very clever boy, indeed. They\nare all remarkably clever; and they have so many pretty ways. They will\ncome and stand by my chair, and say, 'Grandpapa, can you give me a bit\nof string?' and once Henry asked me for a knife, but I told him knives\nwere only made for grandpapas. I think their father is too rough with\nthem very often.\"\n\n\"He appears rough to you,\" said Emma, \"because you are so very gentle\nyourself; but if you could compare him with other papas, you would not\nthink him rough. He wishes his boys to be active and hardy; and if\nthey misbehave, can give them a sharp word now and then; but he is an\naffectionate father--certainly Mr. John Knightley is an affectionate\nfather. The children are all fond of him.\"\n\n\"And then their uncle comes in, and tosses them up to the ceiling in a\nvery frightful way!\"\n\n\"But they like it, papa; there is nothing they like so much. It is such\nenjoyment to them, that if their uncle did not lay down the rule of\ntheir taking turns, whichever began would never give way to the other.\"\n\n\"Well, I cannot understand it.\"\n\n\"That is the case with us all, papa. One half of the world cannot\nunderstand the pleasures of the other.\"\n\nLater in the morning, and just as the girls were going to separate\nin preparation for the regular four o'clock dinner, the hero of this\ninimitable charade walked in again. Harriet turned away; but Emma could\nreceive him with the usual smile, and her quick eye soon discerned in\nhis the consciousness of having made a push--of having thrown a die;\nand she imagined he was come to see how it might turn up. His ostensible\nreason, however, was to ask whether Mr. Woodhouse's party could be made\nup in the evening without him, or whether he should be in the smallest\ndegree necessary at Hartfield. If he were, every thing else must give\nway; but otherwise his friend Cole had been saying so much about his\ndining with him--had made such a point of it, that he had promised him\nconditionally to come.\n\nEmma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappointing his friend\non their account; her father was sure of his rubber. He re-urged--she\nre-declined; and he seemed then about to make his bow, when taking the\npaper from the table, she returned it--\n\n\"Oh! here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave with us; thank\nyou for the sight of it. We admired it so much, that I have ventured\nto write it into Miss Smith's collection. Your friend will not take it\namiss I hope. Of course I have not transcribed beyond the first eight\nlines.\"\n\nMr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say. He looked rather\ndoubtingly--rather confused; said something about \"honour,\"--glanced at\nEmma and at Harriet, and then seeing the book open on the table, took\nit up, and examined it very attentively. With the view of passing off an\nawkward moment, Emma smilingly said,\n\n\"You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good a charade\nmust not be confined to one or two. He may be sure of every woman's\napprobation while he writes with such gallantry.\"\n\n\"I have no hesitation in saying,\" replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating\na good deal while he spoke; \"I have no hesitation in saying--at least\nif my friend feels at all as _I_ do--I have not the smallest doubt that,\ncould he see his little effusion honoured as _I_ see it, (looking at the\nbook again, and replacing it on the table), he would consider it as the\nproudest moment of his life.\"\n\nAfter this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma could not think\nit too soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was\na sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to\nlaugh. She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and\nthe sublime of pleasure to Harriet's share.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nThough now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to\nprevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the\nmorrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who\nlived a little way out of Highbury.\n\nTheir road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane\nleading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street of\nthe place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of Mr.\nElton. A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then, about\na quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not\nvery good house, almost as close to the road as it could be. It had\nno advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened up by the\npresent proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no possibility\nof the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing\neyes.--Emma's remark was--\n\n\"There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these\ndays.\"--Harriet's was--\n\n\"Oh, what a sweet house!--How very beautiful!--There are the yellow\ncurtains that Miss Nash admires so much.\"\n\n\"I do not often walk this way _now_,\" said Emma, as they proceeded, \"but\n_then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get intimately\nacquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this part\nof Highbury.\"\n\nHarriet, she found, had never in her life been within side the Vicarage,\nand her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors\nand probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with\nMr. Elton's seeing ready wit in her.\n\n\"I wish we could contrive it,\" said she; \"but I cannot think of any\ntolerable pretence for going in;--no servant that I want to inquire\nabout of his housekeeper--no message from my father.\"\n\nShe pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual silence of some\nminutes, Harriet thus began again--\n\n\"I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or\ngoing to be married! so charming as you are!\"--\n\nEmma laughed, and replied,\n\n\"My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry;\nI must find other people charming--one other person at least. And I\nam not only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little\nintention of ever marrying at all.\"\n\n\"Ah!--so you say; but I cannot believe it.\"\n\n\"I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be\ntempted; Mr. Elton, you know, (recollecting herself,) is out of the\nquestion: and I do _not_ wish to see any such person. I would rather not\nbe tempted. I cannot really change for the better. If I were to marry, I\nmust expect to repent it.\"\n\n\"Dear me!--it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!\"--\n\n\"I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Were I to fall\nin love, indeed, it would be a different thing! but I never have been in\nlove; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever shall.\nAnd, without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a\nsituation as mine. Fortune I do not want; employment I do not want;\nconsequence I do not want: I believe few married women are half as much\nmistress of their husband's house as I am of Hartfield; and never, never\ncould I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always first and\nalways right in any man's eyes as I am in my father's.\"\n\n\"But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!\"\n\n\"That is as formidable an image as you could present, Harriet; and if\nI thought I should ever be like Miss Bates! so silly--so satisfied--so\nsmiling--so prosing--so undistinguishing and unfastidious--and so apt\nto tell every thing relative to every body about me, I would marry\nto-morrow. But between _us_, I am convinced there never can be any\nlikeness, except in being unmarried.\"\n\n\"But still, you will be an old maid! and that's so dreadful!\"\n\n\"Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; and it is poverty\nonly which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public! A single\nwoman, with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable old\nmaid! the proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of good\nfortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant\nas any body else. And the distinction is not quite so much against the\ncandour and common sense of the world as appears at first; for a very\nnarrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour the temper.\nThose who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very small, and\ngenerally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and cross. This\ndoes not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too good natured and\ntoo silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very much to the taste\nof every body, though single and though poor. Poverty certainly has not\ncontracted her mind: I really believe, if she had only a shilling in the\nworld, she would be very likely to give away sixpence of it; and nobody\nis afraid of her: that is a great charm.\"\n\n\"Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself when you\ngrow old?\"\n\n\"If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great\nmany independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more\nin want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman's\nusual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they\nare now; or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read\nmore; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for\nobjects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the\ngreat point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil\nto be avoided in _not_ marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the\nchildren of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be enough\nof them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that\ndeclining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and every\nfear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it\nsuits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My\nnephews and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me.\"\n\n\"Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I know you must have seen her\na hundred times--but are you acquainted?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to\nHighbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit\nwith a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people\nhalf so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane\nFairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from\nher is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round\nand round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a\nstomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of\nnothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires\nme to death.\"\n\nThey were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were\nsuperseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor\nwere as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her\ncounsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways,\ncould allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic\nexpectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had\ndone so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and\nalways gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In\nthe present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she\ncame to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give\ncomfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of\nthe scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away,\n\n\"These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make\nevery thing else appear!--I feel now as if I could think of nothing but\nthese poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how\nsoon it may all vanish from my mind?\"\n\n\"Very true,\" said Harriet. \"Poor creatures! one can think of nothing\nelse.\"\n\n\"And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over,\" said\nEmma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep which ended\nthe narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden, and brought them\ninto the lane again. \"I do not think it will,\" stopping to look once\nmore at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still\ngreater within.\n\n\"Oh! dear, no,\" said her companion.\n\nThey walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was\npassed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma\ntime only to say farther,\n\n\"Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good\nthoughts. Well, (smiling,) I hope it may be allowed that if compassion\nhas produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that\nis truly important. If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we can\nfor them, the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to ourselves.\"\n\nHarriet could just answer, \"Oh! dear, yes,\" before the gentleman joined\nthem. The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the\nfirst subject on meeting. He had been going to call on them. His visit\nhe would now defer; but they had a very interesting parley about\nwhat could be done and should be done. Mr. Elton then turned back to\naccompany them.\n\n\"To fall in with each other on such an errand as this,\" thought Emma;\n\"to meet in a charitable scheme; this will bring a great increase\nof love on each side. I should not wonder if it were to bring on the\ndeclaration. It must, if I were not here. I wish I were anywhere else.\"\n\nAnxious to separate herself from them as far as she could, she soon\nafterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a little raised on one\nside of the lane, leaving them together in the main road. But she had\nnot been there two minutes when she found that Harriet's habits of\ndependence and imitation were bringing her up too, and that, in short,\nthey would both be soon after her. This would not do; she immediately\nstopped, under pretence of having some alteration to make in the lacing\nof her half-boot, and stooping down in complete occupation of the\nfootpath, begged them to have the goodness to walk on, and she would\nfollow in half a minute. They did as they were desired; and by the time\nshe judged it reasonable to have done with her boot, she had the comfort\nof farther delay in her power, being overtaken by a child from the\ncottage, setting out, according to orders, with her pitcher, to fetch\nbroth from Hartfield. To walk by the side of this child, and talk to\nand question her, was the most natural thing in the world, or would have\nbeen the most natural, had she been acting just then without design;\nand by this means the others were still able to keep ahead, without\nany obligation of waiting for her. She gained on them, however,\ninvoluntarily: the child's pace was quick, and theirs rather slow;\nand she was the more concerned at it, from their being evidently in\na conversation which interested them. Mr. Elton was speaking with\nanimation, Harriet listening with a very pleased attention; and Emma,\nhaving sent the child on, was beginning to think how she might draw back\na little more, when they both looked around, and she was obliged to join\nthem.\n\nMr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some interesting detail;\nand Emma experienced some disappointment when she found that he was only\ngiving his fair companion an account of the yesterday's party at his\nfriend Cole's, and that she was come in herself for the Stilton cheese,\nthe north Wiltshire, the butter, the celery, the beet-root, and all the\ndessert.\n\n\"This would soon have led to something better, of course,\" was her\nconsoling reflection; \"any thing interests between those who love; and\nany thing will serve as introduction to what is near the heart. If I\ncould but have kept longer away!\"\n\nThey now walked on together quietly, till within view of the vicarage\npales, when a sudden resolution, of at least getting Harriet into the\nhouse, made her again find something very much amiss about her boot, and\nfall behind to arrange it once more. She then broke the lace off short,\nand dexterously throwing it into a ditch, was presently obliged to\nentreat them to stop, and acknowledged her inability to put herself to\nrights so as to be able to walk home in tolerable comfort.\n\n\"Part of my lace is gone,\" said she, \"and I do not know how I am to\ncontrive. I really am a most troublesome companion to you both, but I\nhope I am not often so ill-equipped. Mr. Elton, I must beg leave to stop\nat your house, and ask your housekeeper for a bit of ribband or string,\nor any thing just to keep my boot on.\"\n\nMr. Elton looked all happiness at this proposition; and nothing could\nexceed his alertness and attention in conducting them into his house and\nendeavouring to make every thing appear to advantage. The room they were\ntaken into was the one he chiefly occupied, and looking forwards; behind\nit was another with which it immediately communicated; the door between\nthem was open, and Emma passed into it with the housekeeper to receive\nher assistance in the most comfortable manner. She was obliged to leave\nthe door ajar as she found it; but she fully intended that Mr. Elton\nshould close it. It was not closed, however, it still remained ajar; but\nby engaging the housekeeper in incessant conversation, she hoped to make\nit practicable for him to chuse his own subject in the adjoining\nroom. For ten minutes she could hear nothing but herself. It could be\nprotracted no longer. She was then obliged to be finished, and make her\nappearance.\n\nThe lovers were standing together at one of the windows. It had a most\nfavourable aspect; and, for half a minute, Emma felt the glory of having\nschemed successfully. But it would not do; he had not come to the point.\nHe had been most agreeable, most delightful; he had told Harriet that\nhe had seen them go by, and had purposely followed them; other little\ngallantries and allusions had been dropt, but nothing serious.\n\n\"Cautious, very cautious,\" thought Emma; \"he advances inch by inch, and\nwill hazard nothing till he believes himself secure.\"\n\nStill, however, though every thing had not been accomplished by her\ningenious device, she could not but flatter herself that it had been\nthe occasion of much present enjoyment to both, and must be leading them\nforward to the great event.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\nMr. Elton must now be left to himself. It was no longer in Emma's power\nto superintend his happiness or quicken his measures. The coming of her\nsister's family was so very near at hand, that first in anticipation,\nand then in reality, it became henceforth her prime object of interest;\nand during the ten days of their stay at Hartfield it was not to be\nexpected--she did not herself expect--that any thing beyond occasional,\nfortuitous assistance could be afforded by her to the lovers. They might\nadvance rapidly if they would, however; they must advance somehow or\nother whether they would or no. She hardly wished to have more leisure\nfor them. There are people, who the more you do for them, the less they\nwill do for themselves.\n\nMr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer than usual absent\nfrom Surry, were exciting of course rather more than the usual interest.\nTill this year, every long vacation since their marriage had been\ndivided between Hartfield and Donwell Abbey; but all the holidays of\nthis autumn had been given to sea-bathing for the children, and it was\ntherefore many months since they had been seen in a regular way by their\nSurry connexions, or seen at all by Mr. Woodhouse, who could not be\ninduced to get so far as London, even for poor Isabella's sake; and\nwho consequently was now most nervously and apprehensively happy in\nforestalling this too short visit.\n\nHe thought much of the evils of the journey for her, and not a little\nof the fatigues of his own horses and coachman who were to bring some\nof the party the last half of the way; but his alarms were needless;\nthe sixteen miles being happily accomplished, and Mr. and Mrs. John\nKnightley, their five children, and a competent number of nursery-maids,\nall reaching Hartfield in safety. The bustle and joy of such an arrival,\nthe many to be talked to, welcomed, encouraged, and variously dispersed\nand disposed of, produced a noise and confusion which his nerves could\nnot have borne under any other cause, nor have endured much longer even\nfor this; but the ways of Hartfield and the feelings of her father\nwere so respected by Mrs. John Knightley, that in spite of maternal\nsolicitude for the immediate enjoyment of her little ones, and for their\nhaving instantly all the liberty and attendance, all the eating and\ndrinking, and sleeping and playing, which they could possibly wish for,\nwithout the smallest delay, the children were never allowed to be long\na disturbance to him, either in themselves or in any restless attendance\non them.\n\nMrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman, of gentle, quiet\nmanners, and a disposition remarkably amiable and affectionate; wrapt\nup in her family; a devoted wife, a doating mother, and so tenderly\nattached to her father and sister that, but for these higher ties, a\nwarmer love might have seemed impossible. She could never see a fault\nin any of them. She was not a woman of strong understanding or any\nquickness; and with this resemblance of her father, she inherited also\nmuch of his constitution; was delicate in her own health, over-careful\nof that of her children, had many fears and many nerves, and was as fond\nof her own Mr. Wingfield in town as her father could be of Mr. Perry.\nThey were alike too, in a general benevolence of temper, and a strong\nhabit of regard for every old acquaintance.\n\nMr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very clever man;\nrising in his profession, domestic, and respectable in his private\ncharacter; but with reserved manners which prevented his being generally\npleasing; and capable of being sometimes out of humour. He was not an\nill-tempered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to deserve such a\nreproach; but his temper was not his great perfection; and, indeed, with\nsuch a worshipping wife, it was hardly possible that any natural defects\nin it should not be increased. The extreme sweetness of her temper\nmust hurt his. He had all the clearness and quickness of mind which she\nwanted, and he could sometimes act an ungracious, or say a severe thing.\n\nHe was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing wrong\nin him escaped her. She was quick in feeling the little injuries to\nIsabella, which Isabella never felt herself. Perhaps she might have\npassed over more had his manners been flattering to Isabella's sister,\nbut they were only those of a calmly kind brother and friend, without\npraise and without blindness; but hardly any degree of personal\ncompliment could have made her regardless of that greatest fault of\nall in her eyes which he sometimes fell into, the want of respectful\nforbearance towards her father. There he had not always the patience\nthat could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse's peculiarities and\nfidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance or\nsharp retort equally ill-bestowed. It did not often happen; for Mr. John\nKnightley had really a great regard for his father-in-law, and generally\na strong sense of what was due to him; but it was too often for Emma's\ncharity, especially as there was all the pain of apprehension frequently\nto be endured, though the offence came not. The beginning, however, of\nevery visit displayed none but the properest feelings, and this being of\nnecessity so short might be hoped to pass away in unsullied cordiality.\nThey had not been long seated and composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a\nmelancholy shake of the head and a sigh, called his daughter's attention\nto the sad change at Hartfield since she had been there last.\n\n\"Ah, my dear,\" said he, \"poor Miss Taylor--It is a grievous business.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, sir,\" cried she with ready sympathy, \"how you must miss her!\nAnd dear Emma, too!--What a dreadful loss to you both!--I have been so\ngrieved for you.--I could not imagine how you could possibly do without\nher.--It is a sad change indeed.--But I hope she is pretty well, sir.\"\n\n\"Pretty well, my dear--I hope--pretty well.--I do not know but that the\nplace agrees with her tolerably.\"\n\nMr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any doubts\nof the air of Randalls.\n\n\"Oh! no--none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my\nlife--never looking so well. Papa is only speaking his own regret.\"\n\n\"Very much to the honour of both,\" was the handsome reply.\n\n\"And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?\" asked Isabella in the\nplaintive tone which just suited her father.\n\nMr. Woodhouse hesitated.--\"Not near so often, my dear, as I could wish.\"\n\n\"Oh! papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they\nmarried. Either in the morning or evening of every day, excepting one,\nhave we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both,\neither at Randalls or here--and as you may suppose, Isabella, most\nfrequently here. They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston\nis really as kind as herself. Papa, if you speak in that melancholy way,\nyou will be giving Isabella a false idea of us all. Every body must be\naware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but every body ought also to be\nassured that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent our missing her by\nany means to the extent we ourselves anticipated--which is the exact\ntruth.\"\n\n\"Just as it should be,\" said Mr. John Knightley, \"and just as I hoped\nit was from your letters. Her wish of shewing you attention could not be\ndoubted, and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all easy. I\nhave been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of the change\nbeing so very material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and now you have\nEmma's account, I hope you will be satisfied.\"\n\n\"Why, to be sure,\" said Mr. Woodhouse--\"yes, certainly--I cannot\ndeny that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, does come and see us pretty\noften--but then--she is always obliged to go away again.\"\n\n\"It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, papa.--You quite\nforget poor Mr. Weston.\"\n\n\"I think, indeed,\" said John Knightley pleasantly, \"that Mr. Weston has\nsome little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of the\npoor husband. I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the claims\nof the man may very likely strike us with equal force. As for Isabella,\nshe has been married long enough to see the convenience of putting all\nthe Mr. Westons aside as much as she can.\"\n\n\"Me, my love,\" cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in part.--\n\"Are you talking about me?--I am sure nobody ought to be, or can be, a\ngreater advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not been for\nthe misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of Miss\nTaylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and as to slighting\nMr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think there is nothing he does\nnot deserve. I believe he is one of the very best-tempered men that ever\nexisted. Excepting yourself and your brother, I do not know his equal\nfor temper. I shall never forget his flying Henry's kite for him that\nvery windy day last Easter--and ever since his particular kindness last\nSeptember twelvemonth in writing that note, at twelve o'clock at night,\non purpose to assure me that there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I\nhave been convinced there could not be a more feeling heart nor a better\nman in existence.--If any body can deserve him, it must be Miss Taylor.\"\n\n\"Where is the young man?\" said John Knightley. \"Has he been here on this\noccasion--or has he not?\"\n\n\"He has not been here yet,\" replied Emma. \"There was a strong\nexpectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but it ended in\nnothing; and I have not heard him mentioned lately.\"\n\n\"But you should tell them of the letter, my dear,\" said her father.\n\"He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate her, and a very\nproper, handsome letter it was. She shewed it to me. I thought it very\nwell done of him indeed. Whether it was his own idea you know, one\ncannot tell. He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps--\"\n\n\"My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how time passes.\"\n\n\"Three-and-twenty!--is he indeed?--Well, I could not have thought\nit--and he was but two years old when he lost his poor mother! Well,\ntime does fly indeed!--and my memory is very bad. However, it was an\nexceeding good, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal\nof pleasure. I remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated Sept.\n28th--and began, 'My dear Madam,' but I forget how it went on; and it\nwas signed 'F. C. Weston Churchill.'--I remember that perfectly.\"\n\n\"How very pleasing and proper of him!\" cried the good-hearted Mrs. John\nKnightley. \"I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man. But\nhow sad it is that he should not live at home with his father! There is\nsomething so shocking in a child's being taken away from his parents and\nnatural home! I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part with\nhim. To give up one's child! I really never could think well of any body\nwho proposed such a thing to any body else.\"\n\n\"Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy,\" observed Mr.\nJohn Knightley coolly. \"But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have felt\nwhat you would feel in giving up Henry or John. Mr. Weston is rather\nan easy, cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong feelings; he takes\nthings as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow or other,\ndepending, I suspect, much more upon what is called society for his\ncomforts, that is, upon the power of eating and drinking, and playing\nwhist with his neighbours five times a week, than upon family affection,\nor any thing that home affords.\"\n\nEmma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and had\nhalf a mind to take it up; but she struggled, and let it pass. She\nwould keep the peace if possible; and there was something honourable and\nvaluable in the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home to\nhimself, whence resulted her brother's disposition to look down on\nthe common rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was\nimportant.--It had a high claim to forbearance.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nMr. Knightley was to dine with them--rather against the inclination of\nMr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any one should share with him in\nIsabella's first day. Emma's sense of right however had decided it;\nand besides the consideration of what was due to each brother, she had\nparticular pleasure, from the circumstance of the late disagreement\nbetween Mr. Knightley and herself, in procuring him the proper\ninvitation.\n\nShe hoped they might now become friends again. She thought it was time\nto make up. Making-up indeed would not do. _She_ certainly had not been\nin the wrong, and _he_ would never own that he had. Concession must be\nout of the question; but it was time to appear to forget that they had\never quarrelled; and she hoped it might rather assist the restoration of\nfriendship, that when he came into the room she had one of the children\nwith her--the youngest, a nice little girl about eight months old, who\nwas now making her first visit to Hartfield, and very happy to be danced\nabout in her aunt's arms. It did assist; for though he began with grave\nlooks and short questions, he was soon led on to talk of them all in\nthe usual way, and to take the child out of her arms with all the\nunceremoniousness of perfect amity. Emma felt they were friends again;\nand the conviction giving her at first great satisfaction, and then\na little sauciness, she could not help saying, as he was admiring the\nbaby,\n\n\"What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our nephews and nieces.\nAs to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different; but with\nregard to these children, I observe we never disagree.\"\n\n\"If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of men and women,\nand as little under the power of fancy and whim in your dealings with\nthem, as you are where these children are concerned, we might always\nthink alike.\"\n\n\"To be sure--our discordancies must always arise from my being in the\nwrong.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said he, smiling--\"and reason good. I was sixteen years old when\nyou were born.\"\n\n\"A material difference then,\" she replied--\"and no doubt you were much\nmy superior in judgment at that period of our lives; but does not the\nlapse of one-and-twenty years bring our understandings a good deal\nnearer?\"\n\n\"Yes--a good deal _nearer_.\"\n\n\"But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right, if we\nthink differently.\"\n\n\"I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years' experience, and by\nnot being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child. Come, my dear Emma,\nlet us be friends, and say no more about it. Tell your aunt, little\nEmma, that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing old\ngrievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is now.\"\n\n\"That's true,\" she cried--\"very true. Little Emma, grow up a better\nwoman than your aunt. Be infinitely cleverer and not half so conceited.\nNow, Mr. Knightley, a word or two more, and I have done. As far as good\nintentions went, we were _both_ right, and I must say that no effects on\nmy side of the argument have yet proved wrong. I only want to know that\nMr. Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed.\"\n\n\"A man cannot be more so,\" was his short, full answer.\n\n\"Ah!--Indeed I am very sorry.--Come, shake hands with me.\"\n\nThis had just taken place and with great cordiality, when John Knightley\nmade his appearance, and \"How d'ye do, George?\" and \"John, how are\nyou?\" succeeded in the true English style, burying under a calmness that\nseemed all but indifference, the real attachment which would have led\neither of them, if requisite, to do every thing for the good of the\nother.\n\nThe evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Woodhouse declined cards\nentirely for the sake of comfortable talk with his dear Isabella, and\nthe little party made two natural divisions; on one side he and his\ndaughter; on the other the two Mr. Knightleys; their subjects totally\ndistinct, or very rarely mixing--and Emma only occasionally joining in\none or the other.\n\nThe brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits, but principally\nof those of the elder, whose temper was by much the most communicative,\nand who was always the greater talker. As a magistrate, he had generally\nsome point of law to consult John about, or, at least, some curious\nanecdote to give; and as a farmer, as keeping in hand the home-farm at\nDonwell, he had to tell what every field was to bear next year, and to\ngive all such local information as could not fail of being interesting\nto a brother whose home it had equally been the longest part of his\nlife, and whose attachments were strong. The plan of a drain, the change\nof a fence, the felling of a tree, and the destination of every acre for\nwheat, turnips, or spring corn, was entered into with as much equality\nof interest by John, as his cooler manners rendered possible; and if his\nwilling brother ever left him any thing to inquire about, his inquiries\neven approached a tone of eagerness.\n\nWhile they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying a\nfull flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter.\n\n\"My poor dear Isabella,\" said he, fondly taking her hand, and\ninterrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for some one of her\nfive children--\"How long it is, how terribly long since you were here!\nAnd how tired you must be after your journey! You must go to bed early,\nmy dear--and I recommend a little gruel to you before you go.--You and\nI will have a nice basin of gruel together. My dear Emma, suppose we all\nhave a little gruel.\"\n\nEmma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did, that both the\nMr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as herself;--and\ntwo basins only were ordered. After a little more discourse in praise of\ngruel, with some wondering at its not being taken every evening by every\nbody, he proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection,\n\n\"It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the autumn at South\nEnd instead of coming here. I never had much opinion of the sea air.\"\n\n\"Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir--or we should not\nhave gone. He recommended it for all the children, but particularly for\nthe weakness in little Bella's throat,--both sea air and bathing.\"\n\n\"Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her any\ngood; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, though\nperhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use\nto any body. I am sure it almost killed me once.\"\n\n\"Come, come,\" cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject, \"I must\nbeg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me envious and miserable;--I\nwho have never seen it! South End is prohibited, if you please. My dear\nIsabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet; and\nhe never forgets you.\"\n\n\"Oh! good Mr. Perry--how is he, sir?\"\n\n\"Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he has\nnot time to take care of himself--he tells me he has not time to take\ncare of himself--which is very sad--but he is always wanted all round\nthe country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere. But\nthen there is not so clever a man any where.\"\n\n\"And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the children grow?\nI have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon. He\nwill be so pleased to see my little ones.\"\n\n\"I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask\nhim about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes,\nyou had better let him look at little Bella's throat.\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any\nuneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the greatest service to\nher, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation of Mr.\nWingfield's, which we have been applying at times ever since August.\"\n\n\"It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been of use\nto her--and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation, I would have\nspoken to--\n\n\"You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates,\" said Emma, \"I\nhave not heard one inquiry after them.\"\n\n\"Oh! the good Bateses--I am quite ashamed of myself--but you mention\nthem in most of your letters. I hope they are quite well. Good old Mrs.\nBates--I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my children.--They\nare always so pleased to see my children.--And that excellent Miss\nBates!--such thorough worthy people!--How are they, sir?\"\n\n\"Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs. Bates had a\nbad cold about a month ago.\"\n\n\"How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as they have been\nthis autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them more\ngeneral or heavy--except when it has been quite an influenza.\"\n\n\"That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree you\nmention. Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavy\nas he has very often known them in November. Perry does not call it\naltogether a sickly season.\"\n\n\"No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it _very_ sickly\nexcept--\n\n\"Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always\na sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is a\ndreadful thing to have you forced to live there! so far off!--and the\nair so bad!\"\n\n\"No, indeed--_we_ are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is\nvery superior to most others!--You must not confound us with London\nin general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very\ndifferent from almost all the rest. We are so very airy! I should be\nunwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;--there is\nhardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children in:\nbut _we_ are so remarkably airy!--Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of\nBrunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air.\"\n\n\"Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best of it--but\nafter you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you different\ncreatures; you do not look like the same. Now I cannot say, that I think\nyou are any of you looking well at present.\"\n\n\"I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting those\nlittle nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never entirely\nfree from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were\nrather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were a\nlittle more tired than usual, from their journey and the happiness of\ncoming. I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow; for I\nassure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not believe he had ever\nsent us off altogether, in such good case. I trust, at least, that\nyou do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill,\" turning her eyes with\naffectionate anxiety towards her husband.\n\n\"Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John Knightley\nvery far from looking well.\"\n\n\"What is the matter, sir?--Did you speak to me?\" cried Mr. John\nKnightley, hearing his own name.\n\n\"I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you looking\nwell--but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued. I could have\nwished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before you\nleft home.\"\n\n\"My dear Isabella,\"--exclaimed he hastily--\"pray do not concern yourself\nabout my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and\nthe children, and let me look as I chuse.\"\n\n\"I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother,\"\ncried Emma, \"about your friend Mr. Graham's intending to have a bailiff\nfrom Scotland, to look after his new estate. What will it answer? Will\nnot the old prejudice be too strong?\"\n\nAnd she talked in this way so long and successfully that, when forced to\ngive her attention again to her father and sister, she had nothing\nworse to hear than Isabella's kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax; and Jane\nFairfax, though no great favourite with her in general, she was at that\nmoment very happy to assist in praising.\n\n\"That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!\" said Mrs. John Knightley.--\"It\nis so long since I have seen her, except now and then for a moment\naccidentally in town! What happiness it must be to her good old\ngrandmother and excellent aunt, when she comes to visit them! I always\nregret excessively on dear Emma's account that she cannot be more at\nHighbury; but now their daughter is married, I suppose Colonel and Mrs.\nCampbell will not be able to part with her at all. She would be such a\ndelightful companion for Emma.\"\n\nMr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added,\n\n\"Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another pretty\nkind of young person. You will like Harriet. Emma could not have a\nbetter companion than Harriet.\"\n\n\"I am most happy to hear it--but only Jane Fairfax one knows to be so\nvery accomplished and superior!--and exactly Emma's age.\"\n\nThis topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of similar\nmoment, and passed away with similar harmony; but the evening did not\nclose without a little return of agitation. The gruel came and supplied\na great deal to be said--much praise and many comments--undoubting\ndecision of its wholesomeness for every constitution, and pretty\nsevere Philippics upon the many houses where it was never met with\ntolerable;--but, unfortunately, among the failures which the daughter\nhad to instance, the most recent, and therefore most prominent, was in\nher own cook at South End, a young woman hired for the time, who never\nhad been able to understand what she meant by a basin of nice smooth\ngruel, thin, but not too thin. Often as she had wished for and ordered\nit, she had never been able to get any thing tolerable. Here was a\ndangerous opening.\n\n\"Ah!\" said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing his eyes on her\nwith tender concern.--The ejaculation in Emma's ear expressed, \"Ah!\nthere is no end of the sad consequences of your going to South End. It\ndoes not bear talking of.\" And for a little while she hoped he would not\ntalk of it, and that a silent rumination might suffice to restore him to\nthe relish of his own smooth gruel. After an interval of some minutes,\nhowever, he began with,\n\n\"I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this autumn,\ninstead of coming here.\"\n\n\"But why should you be sorry, sir?--I assure you, it did the children a\ngreat deal of good.\"\n\n\"And, moreover, if you must go to the sea, it had better not have been\nto South End. South End is an unhealthy place. Perry was surprized to\nhear you had fixed upon South End.\"\n\n\"I know there is such an idea with many people, but indeed it is quite\na mistake, sir.--We all had our health perfectly well there, never\nfound the least inconvenience from the mud; and Mr. Wingfield says it is\nentirely a mistake to suppose the place unhealthy; and I am sure he may\nbe depended on, for he thoroughly understands the nature of the air, and\nhis own brother and family have been there repeatedly.\"\n\n\"You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went anywhere.--Perry\nwas a week at Cromer once, and he holds it to be the best of all the\nsea-bathing places. A fine open sea, he says, and very pure air. And, by\nwhat I understand, you might have had lodgings there quite away from\nthe sea--a quarter of a mile off--very comfortable. You should have\nconsulted Perry.\"\n\n\"But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey;--only consider how\ngreat it would have been.--An hundred miles, perhaps, instead of forty.\"\n\n\"Ah! my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing else\nshould be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not much to\nchuse between forty miles and an hundred.--Better not move at all,\nbetter stay in London altogether than travel forty miles to get into\na worse air. This is just what Perry said. It seemed to him a very\nill-judged measure.\"\n\nEmma's attempts to stop her father had been vain; and when he\nhad reached such a point as this, she could not wonder at her\nbrother-in-law's breaking out.\n\n\"Mr. Perry,\" said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure, \"would do\nas well to keep his opinion till it is asked for. Why does he make it\nany business of his, to wonder at what I do?--at my taking my family to\none part of the coast or another?--I may be allowed, I hope, the use of\nmy judgment as well as Mr. Perry.--I want his directions no more than\nhis drugs.\" He paused--and growing cooler in a moment, added, with only\nsarcastic dryness, \"If Mr. Perry can tell me how to convey a wife and\nfive children a distance of an hundred and thirty miles with no greater\nexpense or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be as\nwilling to prefer Cromer to South End as he could himself.\"\n\n\"True, true,\" cried Mr. Knightley, with most ready interposition--\"very\ntrue. That's a consideration indeed.--But John, as to what I was telling\nyou of my idea of moving the path to Langham, of turning it more to the\nright that it may not cut through the home meadows, I cannot conceive\nany difficulty. I should not attempt it, if it were to be the means of\ninconvenience to the Highbury people, but if you call to mind exactly\nthe present line of the path.... The only way of proving it, however,\nwill be to turn to our maps. I shall see you at the Abbey to-morrow\nmorning I hope, and then we will look them over, and you shall give me\nyour opinion.\"\n\nMr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflections on his\nfriend Perry, to whom he had, in fact, though unconsciously, been\nattributing many of his own feelings and expressions;--but the soothing\nattentions of his daughters gradually removed the present evil, and\nthe immediate alertness of one brother, and better recollections of the\nother, prevented any renewal of it.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nThere could hardly be a happier creature in the world than Mrs. John\nKnightley, in this short visit to Hartfield, going about every morning\namong her old acquaintance with her five children, and talking over what\nshe had done every evening with her father and sister. She had nothing\nto wish otherwise, but that the days did not pass so swiftly. It was a\ndelightful visit;--perfect, in being much too short.\n\nIn general their evenings were less engaged with friends than their\nmornings; but one complete dinner engagement, and out of the house too,\nthere was no avoiding, though at Christmas. Mr. Weston would take no\ndenial; they must all dine at Randalls one day;--even Mr. Woodhouse was\npersuaded to think it a possible thing in preference to a division of\nthe party.\n\nHow they were all to be conveyed, he would have made a difficulty if he\ncould, but as his son and daughter's carriage and horses were actually\nat Hartfield, he was not able to make more than a simple question on\nthat head; it hardly amounted to a doubt; nor did it occupy Emma long\nto convince him that they might in one of the carriages find room for\nHarriet also.\n\nHarriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own especial set, were the\nonly persons invited to meet them;--the hours were to be early, as\nwell as the numbers few; Mr. Woodhouse's habits and inclination being\nconsulted in every thing.\n\nThe evening before this great event (for it was a very great event that\nMr. Woodhouse should dine out, on the 24th of December) had been spent\nby Harriet at Hartfield, and she had gone home so much indisposed with\na cold, that, but for her own earnest wish of being nursed by Mrs.\nGoddard, Emma could not have allowed her to leave the house. Emma called\non her the next day, and found her doom already signed with regard to\nRandalls. She was very feverish and had a bad sore throat: Mrs. Goddard\nwas full of care and affection, Mr. Perry was talked of, and Harriet\nherself was too ill and low to resist the authority which excluded her\nfrom this delightful engagement, though she could not speak of her loss\nwithout many tears.\n\nEmma sat with her as long as she could, to attend her in Mrs. Goddard's\nunavoidable absences, and raise her spirits by representing how much Mr.\nElton's would be depressed when he knew her state; and left her at last\ntolerably comfortable, in the sweet dependence of his having a most\ncomfortless visit, and of their all missing her very much. She had not\nadvanced many yards from Mrs. Goddard's door, when she was met by Mr.\nElton himself, evidently coming towards it, and as they walked on slowly\ntogether in conversation about the invalid--of whom he, on the rumour\nof considerable illness, had been going to inquire, that he might\ncarry some report of her to Hartfield--they were overtaken by Mr. John\nKnightley returning from the daily visit to Donwell, with his two eldest\nboys, whose healthy, glowing faces shewed all the benefit of a country\nrun, and seemed to ensure a quick despatch of the roast mutton and rice\npudding they were hastening home for. They joined company and\nproceeded together. Emma was just describing the nature of her friend's\ncomplaint;--\"a throat very much inflamed, with a great deal of heat\nabout her, a quick, low pulse, &c. and she was sorry to find from Mrs.\nGoddard that Harriet was liable to very bad sore-throats, and had often\nalarmed her with them.\" Mr. Elton looked all alarm on the occasion, as\nhe exclaimed,\n\n\"A sore-throat!--I hope not infectious. I hope not of a putrid\ninfectious sort. Has Perry seen her? Indeed you should take care of\nyourself as well as of your friend. Let me entreat you to run no risks.\nWhy does not Perry see her?\"\n\nEmma, who was not really at all frightened herself, tranquillised this\nexcess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs. Goddard's experience and\ncare; but as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness which she\ncould not wish to reason away, which she would rather feed and assist\nthan not, she added soon afterwards--as if quite another subject,\n\n\"It is so cold, so very cold--and looks and feels so very much like\nsnow, that if it were to any other place or with any other party, I\nshould really try not to go out to-day--and dissuade my father from\nventuring; but as he has made up his mind, and does not seem to feel the\ncold himself, I do not like to interfere, as I know it would be so great\na disappointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But, upon my word, Mr. Elton,\nin your case, I should certainly excuse myself. You appear to me a\nlittle hoarse already, and when you consider what demand of voice and\nwhat fatigues to-morrow will bring, I think it would be no more than\ncommon prudence to stay at home and take care of yourself to-night.\"\n\nMr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make;\nwhich was exactly the case; for though very much gratified by the kind\ncare of such a fair lady, and not liking to resist any advice of her's,\nhe had not really the least inclination to give up the visit;--but Emma,\ntoo eager and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear him\nimpartially, or see him with clear vision, was very well satisfied with\nhis muttering acknowledgment of its being \"very cold, certainly very\ncold,\" and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him from Randalls,\nand secured him the power of sending to inquire after Harriet every hour\nof the evening.\n\n\"You do quite right,\" said she;--\"we will make your apologies to Mr. and\nMrs. Weston.\"\n\nBut hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly\noffering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton's only\nobjection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt\nsatisfaction. It was a done thing; Mr. Elton was to go, and never had\nhis broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this moment;\nnever had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes more exulting than when\nhe next looked at her.\n\n\"Well,\" said she to herself, \"this is most strange!--After I had got\nhim off so well, to chuse to go into company, and leave Harriet ill\nbehind!--Most strange indeed!--But there is, I believe, in many men,\nespecially single men, such an inclination--such a passion for dining\nout--a dinner engagement is so high in the class of their pleasures,\ntheir employments, their dignities, almost their duties, that any\nthing gives way to it--and this must be the case with Mr. Elton; a most\nvaluable, amiable, pleasing young man undoubtedly, and very much in love\nwith Harriet; but still, he cannot refuse an invitation, he must dine\nout wherever he is asked. What a strange thing love is! he can see ready\nwit in Harriet, but will not dine alone for her.\"\n\nSoon afterwards Mr. Elton quitted them, and she could not but do him\nthe justice of feeling that there was a great deal of sentiment in his\nmanner of naming Harriet at parting; in the tone of his voice while\nassuring her that he should call at Mrs. Goddard's for news of her fair\nfriend, the last thing before he prepared for the happiness of meeting\nher again, when he hoped to be able to give a better report; and\nhe sighed and smiled himself off in a way that left the balance of\napprobation much in his favour.\n\nAfter a few minutes of entire silence between them, John Knightley began\nwith--\n\n\"I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agreeable than Mr.\nElton. It is downright labour to him where ladies are concerned. With\nmen he can be rational and unaffected, but when he has ladies to please,\nevery feature works.\"\n\n\"Mr. Elton's manners are not perfect,\" replied Emma; \"but where there is\na wish to please, one ought to overlook, and one does overlook a great\ndeal. Where a man does his best with only moderate powers, he will\nhave the advantage over negligent superiority. There is such perfect\ngood-temper and good-will in Mr. Elton as one cannot but value.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mr. John Knightley presently, with some slyness, \"he seems\nto have a great deal of good-will towards you.\"\n\n\"Me!\" she replied with a smile of astonishment, \"are you imagining me to\nbe Mr. Elton's object?\"\n\n\"Such an imagination has crossed me, I own, Emma; and if it never\noccurred to you before, you may as well take it into consideration now.\"\n\n\"Mr. Elton in love with me!--What an idea!\"\n\n\"I do not say it is so; but you will do well to consider whether it\nis so or not, and to regulate your behaviour accordingly. I think your\nmanners to him encouraging. I speak as a friend, Emma. You had better\nlook about you, and ascertain what you do, and what you mean to do.\"\n\n\"I thank you; but I assure you you are quite mistaken. Mr. Elton and\nI are very good friends, and nothing more;\" and she walked on, amusing\nherself in the consideration of the blunders which often arise from a\npartial knowledge of circumstances, of the mistakes which people of high\npretensions to judgment are for ever falling into; and not very well\npleased with her brother for imagining her blind and ignorant, and in\nwant of counsel. He said no more.\n\nMr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to the visit, that in\nspite of the increasing coldness, he seemed to have no idea of shrinking\nfrom it, and set forward at last most punctually with his eldest\ndaughter in his own carriage, with less apparent consciousness of the\nweather than either of the others; too full of the wonder of his own\ngoing, and the pleasure it was to afford at Randalls to see that it was\ncold, and too well wrapt up to feel it. The cold, however, was severe;\nand by the time the second carriage was in motion, a few flakes of snow\nwere finding their way down, and the sky had the appearance of being so\novercharged as to want only a milder air to produce a very white world\nin a very short time.\n\nEmma soon saw that her companion was not in the happiest humour. The\npreparing and the going abroad in such weather, with the sacrifice of\nhis children after dinner, were evils, were disagreeables at least,\nwhich Mr. John Knightley did not by any means like; he anticipated\nnothing in the visit that could be at all worth the purchase; and the\nwhole of their drive to the vicarage was spent by him in expressing his\ndiscontent.\n\n\"A man,\" said he, \"must have a very good opinion of himself when he asks\npeople to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a day as\nthis, for the sake of coming to see him. He must think himself a most\nagreeable fellow; I could not do such a thing. It is the greatest\nabsurdity--Actually snowing at this moment!--The folly of not allowing\npeople to be comfortable at home--and the folly of people's not staying\ncomfortably at home when they can! If we were obliged to go out such\nan evening as this, by any call of duty or business, what a hardship we\nshould deem it;--and here are we, probably with rather thinner clothing\nthan usual, setting forward voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of\nthe voice of nature, which tells man, in every thing given to his view\nor his feelings, to stay at home himself, and keep all under shelter\nthat he can;--here are we setting forward to spend five dull hours in\nanother man's house, with nothing to say or to hear that was not said\nand heard yesterday, and may not be said and heard again to-morrow.\nGoing in dismal weather, to return probably in worse;--four horses and\nfour servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering\ncreatures into colder rooms and worse company than they might have had\nat home.\"\n\nEmma did not find herself equal to give the pleased assent, which no\ndoubt he was in the habit of receiving, to emulate the \"Very true,\nmy love,\" which must have been usually administered by his travelling\ncompanion; but she had resolution enough to refrain from making\nany answer at all. She could not be complying, she dreaded being\nquarrelsome; her heroism reached only to silence. She allowed him to\ntalk, and arranged the glasses, and wrapped herself up, without opening\nher lips.\n\nThey arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let down, and Mr. Elton,\nspruce, black, and smiling, was with them instantly. Emma thought with\npleasure of some change of subject. Mr. Elton was all obligation and\ncheerfulness; he was so very cheerful in his civilities indeed, that she\nbegan to think he must have received a different account of Harriet from\nwhat had reached her. She had sent while dressing, and the answer had\nbeen, \"Much the same--not better.\"\n\n\"_My_ report from Mrs. Goddard's,\" said she presently, \"was not so\npleasant as I had hoped--'Not better' was _my_ answer.\"\n\nHis face lengthened immediately; and his voice was the voice of\nsentiment as he answered.\n\n\"Oh! no--I am grieved to find--I was on the point of telling you that\nwhen I called at Mrs. Goddard's door, which I did the very last thing\nbefore I returned to dress, I was told that Miss Smith was not better,\nby no means better, rather worse. Very much grieved and concerned--I\nhad flattered myself that she must be better after such a cordial as I\nknew had been given her in the morning.\"\n\nEmma smiled and answered--\"My visit was of use to the nervous part of\nher complaint, I hope; but not even I can charm away a sore throat;\nit is a most severe cold indeed. Mr. Perry has been with her, as you\nprobably heard.\"\n\n\"Yes--I imagined--that is--I did not--\"\n\n\"He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope to-morrow\nmorning will bring us both a more comfortable report. But it is\nimpossible not to feel uneasiness. Such a sad loss to our party to-day!\"\n\n\"Dreadful!--Exactly so, indeed.--She will be missed every moment.\"\n\nThis was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it was really\nestimable; but it should have lasted longer. Emma was rather in dismay\nwhen only half a minute afterwards he began to speak of other things,\nand in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment.\n\n\"What an excellent device,\" said he, \"the use of a sheepskin for\ncarriages. How very comfortable they make it;--impossible to feel cold\nwith such precautions. The contrivances of modern days indeed have\nrendered a gentleman's carriage perfectly complete. One is so fenced\nand guarded from the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way\nunpermitted. Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a very\ncold afternoon--but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter.--Ha!\nsnows a little I see.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said John Knightley, \"and I think we shall have a good deal of\nit.\"\n\n\"Christmas weather,\" observed Mr. Elton. \"Quite seasonable; and\nextremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin\nyesterday, and prevent this day's party, which it might very possibly\nhave done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been\nmuch snow on the ground; but now it is of no consequence. This is quite\nthe season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas every body invites\ntheir friends about them, and people think little of even the worst\nweather. I was snowed up at a friend's house once for a week. Nothing\ncould be pleasanter. I went for only one night, and could not get away\ntill that very day se'nnight.\"\n\nMr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure, but\nsaid only, coolly,\n\n\"I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls.\"\n\nAt another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too much\nastonished now at Mr. Elton's spirits for other feelings. Harriet seemed\nquite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party.\n\n\"We are sure of excellent fires,\" continued he, \"and every thing in the\ngreatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston;--Mrs. Weston\nindeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so\nhospitable, and so fond of society;--it will be a small party, but where\nsmall parties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any.\nMr. Weston's dining-room does not accommodate more than ten comfortably;\nand for my part, I would rather, under such circumstances, fall short by\ntwo than exceed by two. I think you will agree with me, (turning with\na soft air to Emma,) I think I shall certainly have your approbation,\nthough Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large parties of\nLondon, may not quite enter into our feelings.\"\n\n\"I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir--I never dine with\nany body.\"\n\n\"Indeed! (in a tone of wonder and pity,) I had no idea that the law had\nbeen so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will\nbe paid for all this, when you will have little labour and great\nenjoyment.\"\n\n\"My first enjoyment,\" replied John Knightley, as they passed through the\nsweep-gate, \"will be to find myself safe at Hartfield again.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nSome change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they\nwalked into Mrs. Weston's drawing-room;--Mr. Elton must compose his\njoyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr.\nElton must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the\nplace.--Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as\nhappy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons.\nMr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the\nworld to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any\none, to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and\nunderstood, of being always interesting and always intelligible, the\nlittle affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father\nand herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston\nhad not a lively concern; and half an hour's uninterrupted communication\nof all those little matters on which the daily happiness of private life\ndepends, was one of the first gratifications of each.\n\nThis was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day's visit might not\nafford, which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but the\nvery sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was grateful\nto Emma, and she determined to think as little as possible of Mr.\nElton's oddities, or of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all that\nwas enjoyable to the utmost.\n\nThe misfortune of Harriet's cold had been pretty well gone through\nbefore her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough\nto give the history of it, besides all the history of his own and\nIsabella's coming, and of Emma's being to follow, and had indeed just\ngot to the end of his satisfaction that James should come and see his\ndaughter, when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been almost\nwholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able to turn away and\nwelcome her dear Emma.\n\nEmma's project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather sorry\nto find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close to her.\nThe difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility towards\nHarriet, from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but\nwas continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and\nsolicitously addressing her upon every occasion. Instead of forgetting\nhim, his behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal\nsuggestion of \"Can it really be as my brother imagined? can it be\npossible for this man to be beginning to transfer his affections from\nHarriet to me?--Absurd and insufferable!\"--Yet he would be so anxious\nfor her being perfectly warm, would be so interested about her father,\nand so delighted with Mrs. Weston; and at last would begin admiring her\ndrawings with so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed terribly\nlike a would-be lover, and made it some effort with her to preserve her\ngood manners. For her own sake she could not be rude; and for Harriet's,\nin the hope that all would yet turn out right, she was even positively\ncivil; but it was an effort; especially as something was going on\namongst the others, in the most overpowering period of Mr. Elton's\nnonsense, which she particularly wished to listen to. She heard enough\nto know that Mr. Weston was giving some information about his son; she\nheard the words \"my son,\" and \"Frank,\" and \"my son,\" repeated several\ntimes over; and, from a few other half-syllables very much suspected\nthat he was announcing an early visit from his son; but before she could\nquiet Mr. Elton, the subject was so completely past that any reviving\nquestion from her would have been awkward.\n\nNow, it so happened that in spite of Emma's resolution of never\nmarrying, there was something in the name, in the idea of Mr.\nFrank Churchill, which always interested her. She had frequently\nthought--especially since his father's marriage with Miss Taylor--that\nif she _were_ to marry, he was the very person to suit her in age,\ncharacter and condition. He seemed by this connexion between the\nfamilies, quite to belong to her. She could not but suppose it to be\na match that every body who knew them must think of. That Mr. and Mrs.\nWeston did think of it, she was very strongly persuaded; and though\nnot meaning to be induced by him, or by any body else, to give up a\nsituation which she believed more replete with good than any she could\nchange it for, she had a great curiosity to see him, a decided intention\nof finding him pleasant, of being liked by him to a certain degree, and\na sort of pleasure in the idea of their being coupled in their friends'\nimaginations.\n\nWith such sensations, Mr. Elton's civilities were dreadfully ill-timed;\nbut she had the comfort of appearing very polite, while feeling very\ncross--and of thinking that the rest of the visit could not possibly\npass without bringing forward the same information again, or the\nsubstance of it, from the open-hearted Mr. Weston.--So it proved;--for\nwhen happily released from Mr. Elton, and seated by Mr. Weston,\nat dinner, he made use of the very first interval in the cares of\nhospitality, the very first leisure from the saddle of mutton, to say to\nher,\n\n\"We want only two more to be just the right number. I should like to see\ntwo more here,--your pretty little friend, Miss Smith, and my son--and\nthen I should say we were quite complete. I believe you did not hear me\ntelling the others in the drawing-room that we are expecting Frank.\nI had a letter from him this morning, and he will be with us within a\nfortnight.\"\n\nEmma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure; and fully assented to\nhis proposition of Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Smith making their party\nquite complete.\n\n\"He has been wanting to come to us,\" continued Mr. Weston, \"ever since\nSeptember: every letter has been full of it; but he cannot command his\nown time. He has those to please who must be pleased, and who (between\nourselves) are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices.\nBut now I have no doubt of seeing him here about the second week in\nJanuary.\"\n\n\"What a very great pleasure it will be to you! and Mrs. Weston is so\nanxious to be acquainted with him, that she must be almost as happy as\nyourself.\"\n\n\"Yes, she would be, but that she thinks there will be another put-off.\nShe does not depend upon his coming so much as I do: but she does not\nknow the parties so well as I do. The case, you see, is--(but this is\nquite between ourselves: I did not mention a syllable of it in the other\nroom. There are secrets in all families, you know)--The case is, that a\nparty of friends are invited to pay a visit at Enscombe in January; and\nthat Frank's coming depends upon their being put off. If they are not\nput off, he cannot stir. But I know they will, because it is a family\nthat a certain lady, of some consequence, at Enscombe, has a particular\ndislike to: and though it is thought necessary to invite them once in\ntwo or three years, they always are put off when it comes to the point.\nI have not the smallest doubt of the issue. I am as confident of seeing\nFrank here before the middle of January, as I am of being here myself:\nbut your good friend there (nodding towards the upper end of the table)\nhas so few vagaries herself, and has been so little used to them at\nHartfield, that she cannot calculate on their effects, as I have been\nlong in the practice of doing.\"\n\n\"I am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the case,\" replied\nEmma; \"but am disposed to side with you, Mr. Weston. If you think he\nwill come, I shall think so too; for you know Enscombe.\"\n\n\"Yes--I have some right to that knowledge; though I have never been at\nthe place in my life.--She is an odd woman!--But I never allow myself\nto speak ill of her, on Frank's account; for I do believe her to be very\nfond of him. I used to think she was not capable of being fond of\nany body, except herself: but she has always been kind to him (in her\nway--allowing for little whims and caprices, and expecting every thing\nto be as she likes). And it is no small credit, in my opinion, to him,\nthat he should excite such an affection; for, though I would not say\nit to any body else, she has no more heart than a stone to people in\ngeneral; and the devil of a temper.\"\n\nEmma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it, to Mrs. Weston,\nvery soon after their moving into the drawing-room: wishing her joy--yet\nobserving, that she knew the first meeting must be rather alarming.--\nMrs. Weston agreed to it; but added, that she should be very glad to be\nsecure of undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time talked\nof: \"for I cannot depend upon his coming. I cannot be so sanguine as\nMr. Weston. I am very much afraid that it will all end in nothing. Mr.\nWeston, I dare say, has been telling you exactly how the matter stands?\"\n\n\"Yes--it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-humour of Mrs.\nChurchill, which I imagine to be the most certain thing in the world.\"\n\n\"My Emma!\" replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, \"what is the certainty\nof caprice?\" Then turning to Isabella, who had not been attending\nbefore--\"You must know, my dear Mrs. Knightley, that we are by no means\nso sure of seeing Mr. Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father\nthinks. It depends entirely upon his aunt's spirits and pleasure; in\nshort, upon her temper. To you--to my two daughters--I may venture on\nthe truth. Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is a very odd-tempered\nwoman; and his coming now, depends upon her being willing to spare him.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mrs. Churchill; every body knows Mrs. Churchill,\" replied Isabella:\n\"and I am sure I never think of that poor young man without the greatest\ncompassion. To be constantly living with an ill-tempered person, must\nbe dreadful. It is what we happily have never known any thing of; but\nit must be a life of misery. What a blessing, that she never had any\nchildren! Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would have made them!\"\n\nEmma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston. She should then have\nheard more: Mrs. Weston would speak to her, with a degree of unreserve\nwhich she would not hazard with Isabella; and, she really believed,\nwould scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills\nfrom her, excepting those views on the young man, of which her own\nimagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge. But at\npresent there was nothing more to be said. Mr. Woodhouse very soon\nfollowed them into the drawing-room. To be sitting long after\ndinner, was a confinement that he could not endure. Neither wine nor\nconversation was any thing to him; and gladly did he move to those with\nwhom he was always comfortable.\n\nWhile he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an opportunity of\nsaying,\n\n\"And so you do not consider this visit from your son as by any means\ncertain. I am sorry for it. The introduction must be unpleasant,\nwhenever it takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better.\"\n\n\"Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays. Even\nif this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that\nsome excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine\nany reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on\nthe Churchills' to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They\nare jealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no\ndependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine.\"\n\n\"He ought to come,\" said Emma. \"If he could stay only a couple of days,\nhe ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man's not having\nit in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_, if she fall into\nbad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she wants\nto be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_'s being under such\nrestraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he\nlikes it.\"\n\n\"One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before\none decides upon what he can do,\" replied Mrs. Weston. \"One ought to\nuse the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one\nindividual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must\nnot be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every\nthing gives way to her.\"\n\n\"But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now,\naccording to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that\nwhile she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she\nowes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards _him_,\nshe should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes\nnothing at all.\"\n\n\"My dearest Emma, do not pretend, with your sweet temper, to understand\na bad one, or to lay down rules for it: you must let it go its own way.\nI have no doubt of his having, at times, considerable influence; but it\nmay be perfectly impossible for him to know beforehand _when_ it will\nbe.\"\n\nEmma listened, and then coolly said, \"I shall not be satisfied, unless\nhe comes.\"\n\n\"He may have a great deal of influence on some points,\" continued Mrs.\nWeston, \"and on others, very little: and among those, on which she is\nbeyond his reach, it is but too likely, may be this very circumstance of\nhis coming away from them to visit us.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\nMr. Woodhouse was soon ready for his tea; and when he had drank his\ntea he was quite ready to go home; and it was as much as his three\ncompanions could do, to entertain away his notice of the lateness of\nthe hour, before the other gentlemen appeared. Mr. Weston was chatty and\nconvivial, and no friend to early separations of any sort; but at last\nthe drawing-room party did receive an augmentation. Mr. Elton, in very\ngood spirits, was one of the first to walk in. Mrs. Weston and Emma\nwere sitting together on a sofa. He joined them immediately, and, with\nscarcely an invitation, seated himself between them.\n\nEmma, in good spirits too, from the amusement afforded her mind by\nthe expectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was willing to forget his late\nimproprieties, and be as well satisfied with him as before, and on his\nmaking Harriet his very first subject, was ready to listen with most\nfriendly smiles.\n\nHe professed himself extremely anxious about her fair friend--her fair,\nlovely, amiable friend. \"Did she know?--had she heard any thing about\nher, since their being at Randalls?--he felt much anxiety--he must\nconfess that the nature of her complaint alarmed him considerably.\"\nAnd in this style he talked on for some time very properly, not much\nattending to any answer, but altogether sufficiently awake to the terror\nof a bad sore throat; and Emma was quite in charity with him.\n\nBut at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed all at once as if he\nwere more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on her account, than on\nHarriet's--more anxious that she should escape the infection, than\nthat there should be no infection in the complaint. He began with great\nearnestness to entreat her to refrain from visiting the sick-chamber\nagain, for the present--to entreat her to _promise_ _him_ not to venture\ninto such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry and learnt his opinion; and\nthough she tried to laugh it off and bring the subject back into its\nproper course, there was no putting an end to his extreme solicitude\nabout her. She was vexed. It did appear--there was no concealing\nit--exactly like the pretence of being in love with her, instead of\nHarriet; an inconstancy, if real, the most contemptible and abominable!\nand she had difficulty in behaving with temper. He turned to Mrs. Weston\nto implore her assistance, \"Would not she give him her support?--would\nnot she add her persuasions to his, to induce Miss Woodhouse not to go\nto Mrs. Goddard's till it were certain that Miss Smith's disorder had\nno infection? He could not be satisfied without a promise--would not she\ngive him her influence in procuring it?\"\n\n\"So scrupulous for others,\" he continued, \"and yet so careless for\nherself! She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home to-day, and\nyet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore\nthroat herself. Is this fair, Mrs. Weston?--Judge between us. Have not I\nsome right to complain? I am sure of your kind support and aid.\"\n\nEmma saw Mrs. Weston's surprize, and felt that it must be great, at an\naddress which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself the right of\nfirst interest in her; and as for herself, she was too much provoked and\noffended to have the power of directly saying any thing to the purpose.\nShe could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she thought\nmust restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa, removing to a\nseat by her sister, and giving her all her attention.\n\nShe had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did\nanother subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room\nfrom examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information\nof the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing\nfast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr.\nWoodhouse:\n\n\"This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements,\nsir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way\nthrough a storm of snow.\"\n\nPoor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else\nhad something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized,\nand had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston\nand Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his\nson-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly.\n\n\"I admired your resolution very much, sir,\" said he, \"in venturing out\nin such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon.\nEvery body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit; and\nI dare say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two's snow can\nhardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is\nblown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the other\nat hand. I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight.\"\n\nMr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he\nhad known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest\nit should make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his\nhurrying away. As to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely\nto fall to impede their return, that was a mere joke; he was afraid they\nwould find no difficulty. He wished the road might be impassable, that\nhe might be able to keep them all at Randalls; and with the utmost\ngood-will was sure that accommodation might be found for every body,\ncalling on his wife to agree with him, that with a little contrivance,\nevery body might be lodged, which she hardly knew how to do, from the\nconsciousness of there being but two spare rooms in the house.\n\n\"What is to be done, my dear Emma?--what is to be done?\" was Mr.\nWoodhouse's first exclamation, and all that he could say for some\ntime. To her he looked for comfort; and her assurances of safety, her\nrepresentation of the excellence of the horses, and of James, and of\ntheir having so many friends about them, revived him a little.\n\nHis eldest daughter's alarm was equal to his own. The horror of being\nblocked up at Randalls, while her children were at Hartfield, was full\nin her imagination; and fancying the road to be now just passable for\nadventurous people, but in a state that admitted no delay, she was eager\nto have it settled, that her father and Emma should remain at Randalls,\nwhile she and her husband set forward instantly through all the possible\naccumulations of drifted snow that might impede them.\n\n\"You had better order the carriage directly, my love,\" said she; \"I dare\nsay we shall be able to get along, if we set off directly; and if we\ndo come to any thing very bad, I can get out and walk. I am not at all\nafraid. I should not mind walking half the way. I could change my shoes,\nyou know, the moment I got home; and it is not the sort of thing that\ngives me cold.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" replied he. \"Then, my dear Isabella, it is the most\nextraordinary sort of thing in the world, for in general every thing\ndoes give you cold. Walk home!--you are prettily shod for walking home,\nI dare say. It will be bad enough for the horses.\"\n\nIsabella turned to Mrs. Weston for her approbation of the plan. Mrs.\nWeston could only approve. Isabella then went to Emma; but Emma could\nnot so entirely give up the hope of their being all able to get away;\nand they were still discussing the point, when Mr. Knightley, who had\nleft the room immediately after his brother's first report of the snow,\ncame back again, and told them that he had been out of doors to examine,\nand could answer for there not being the smallest difficulty in their\ngetting home, whenever they liked it, either now or an hour hence. He\nhad gone beyond the sweep--some way along the Highbury road--the snow\nwas nowhere above half an inch deep--in many places hardly enough to\nwhiten the ground; a very few flakes were falling at present, but the\nclouds were parting, and there was every appearance of its being soon\nover. He had seen the coachmen, and they both agreed with him in there\nbeing nothing to apprehend.\n\nTo Isabella, the relief of such tidings was very great, and they were\nscarcely less acceptable to Emma on her father's account, who\nwas immediately set as much at ease on the subject as his nervous\nconstitution allowed; but the alarm that had been raised could not be\nappeased so as to admit of any comfort for him while he continued at\nRandalls. He was satisfied of there being no present danger in returning\nhome, but no assurances could convince him that it was safe to stay; and\nwhile the others were variously urging and recommending, Mr. Knightley\nand Emma settled it in a few brief sentences: thus--\n\n\"Your father will not be easy; why do not you go?\"\n\n\"I am ready, if the others are.\"\n\n\"Shall I ring the bell?\"\n\n\"Yes, do.\"\n\nAnd the bell was rung, and the carriages spoken for. A few minutes more,\nand Emma hoped to see one troublesome companion deposited in his own\nhouse, to get sober and cool, and the other recover his temper and\nhappiness when this visit of hardship were over.\n\nThe carriage came: and Mr. Woodhouse, always the first object on such\noccasions, was carefully attended to his own by Mr. Knightley and Mr.\nWeston; but not all that either could say could prevent some renewal\nof alarm at the sight of the snow which had actually fallen, and the\ndiscovery of a much darker night than he had been prepared for. \"He was\nafraid they should have a very bad drive. He was afraid poor Isabella\nwould not like it. And there would be poor Emma in the carriage behind.\nHe did not know what they had best do. They must keep as much together\nas they could;\" and James was talked to, and given a charge to go very\nslow and wait for the other carriage.\n\nIsabella stept in after her father; John Knightley, forgetting that he\ndid not belong to their party, stept in after his wife very naturally;\nso that Emma found, on being escorted and followed into the second\ncarriage by Mr. Elton, that the door was to be lawfully shut on them,\nand that they were to have a tete-a-tete drive. It would not have been\nthe awkwardness of a moment, it would have been rather a pleasure,\nprevious to the suspicions of this very day; she could have talked to\nhim of Harriet, and the three-quarters of a mile would have seemed but\none. But now, she would rather it had not happened. She believed he had\nbeen drinking too much of Mr. Weston's good wine, and felt sure that he\nwould want to be talking nonsense.\n\nTo restrain him as much as might be, by her own manners, she was\nimmediately preparing to speak with exquisite calmness and gravity of\nthe weather and the night; but scarcely had she begun, scarcely had they\npassed the sweep-gate and joined the other carriage, than she found her\nsubject cut up--her hand seized--her attention demanded, and Mr. Elton\nactually making violent love to her: availing himself of the precious\nopportunity, declaring sentiments which must be already well known,\nhoping--fearing--adoring--ready to die if she refused him; but\nflattering himself that his ardent attachment and unequalled love and\nunexampled passion could not fail of having some effect, and in short,\nvery much resolved on being seriously accepted as soon as possible. It\nreally was so. Without scruple--without apology--without much apparent\ndiffidence, Mr. Elton, the lover of Harriet, was professing himself\n_her_ lover. She tried to stop him; but vainly; he would go on, and say\nit all. Angry as she was, the thought of the moment made her resolve to\nrestrain herself when she did speak. She felt that half this folly must\nbe drunkenness, and therefore could hope that it might belong only to\nthe passing hour. Accordingly, with a mixture of the serious and the\nplayful, which she hoped would best suit his half and half state, she\nreplied,\n\n\"I am very much astonished, Mr. Elton. This to _me_! you forget\nyourself--you take me for my friend--any message to Miss Smith I shall\nbe happy to deliver; but no more of this to _me_, if you please.\"\n\n\"Miss Smith!--message to Miss Smith!--What could she possibly\nmean!\"--And he repeated her words with such assurance of accent, such\nboastful pretence of amazement, that she could not help replying with\nquickness,\n\n\"Mr. Elton, this is the most extraordinary conduct! and I can account\nfor it only in one way; you are not yourself, or you could not speak\neither to me, or of Harriet, in such a manner. Command yourself enough\nto say no more, and I will endeavour to forget it.\"\n\nBut Mr. Elton had only drunk wine enough to elevate his spirits, not at\nall to confuse his intellects. He perfectly knew his own meaning; and\nhaving warmly protested against her suspicion as most injurious, and\nslightly touched upon his respect for Miss Smith as her friend,--but\nacknowledging his wonder that Miss Smith should be mentioned at all,--he\nresumed the subject of his own passion, and was very urgent for a\nfavourable answer.\n\nAs she thought less of his inebriety, she thought more of his\ninconstancy and presumption; and with fewer struggles for politeness,\nreplied,\n\n\"It is impossible for me to doubt any longer. You have made yourself\ntoo clear. Mr. Elton, my astonishment is much beyond any thing I can\nexpress. After such behaviour, as I have witnessed during the last\nmonth, to Miss Smith--such attentions as I have been in the daily\nhabit of observing--to be addressing me in this manner--this is an\nunsteadiness of character, indeed, which I had not supposed possible!\nBelieve me, sir, I am far, very far, from gratified in being the object\nof such professions.\"\n\n\"Good Heaven!\" cried Mr. Elton, \"what can be the meaning of this?--Miss\nSmith!--I never thought of Miss Smith in the whole course of my\nexistence--never paid her any attentions, but as your friend: never\ncared whether she were dead or alive, but as your friend. If she\nhas fancied otherwise, her own wishes have misled her, and I am very\nsorry--extremely sorry--But, Miss Smith, indeed!--Oh! Miss Woodhouse!\nwho can think of Miss Smith, when Miss Woodhouse is near! No, upon my\nhonour, there is no unsteadiness of character. I have thought only of\nyou. I protest against having paid the smallest attention to any one\nelse. Every thing that I have said or done, for many weeks past, has\nbeen with the sole view of marking my adoration of yourself. You\ncannot really, seriously, doubt it. No!--(in an accent meant to be\ninsinuating)--I am sure you have seen and understood me.\"\n\nIt would be impossible to say what Emma felt, on hearing this--which\nof all her unpleasant sensations was uppermost. She was too completely\noverpowered to be immediately able to reply: and two moments of silence\nbeing ample encouragement for Mr. Elton's sanguine state of mind, he\ntried to take her hand again, as he joyously exclaimed--\n\n\"Charming Miss Woodhouse! allow me to interpret this interesting\nsilence. It confesses that you have long understood me.\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" cried Emma, \"it confesses no such thing. So far from having\nlong understood you, I have been in a most complete error with respect\nto your views, till this moment. As to myself, I am very sorry that you\nshould have been giving way to any feelings--Nothing could be farther\nfrom my wishes--your attachment to my friend Harriet--your pursuit of\nher, (pursuit, it appeared,) gave me great pleasure, and I have been\nvery earnestly wishing you success: but had I supposed that she were not\nyour attraction to Hartfield, I should certainly have thought you judged\nill in making your visits so frequent. Am I to believe that you have\nnever sought to recommend yourself particularly to Miss Smith?--that you\nhave never thought seriously of her?\"\n\n\"Never, madam,\" cried he, affronted in his turn: \"never, I assure you.\n_I_ think seriously of Miss Smith!--Miss Smith is a very good sort of\ngirl; and I should be happy to see her respectably settled. I wish\nher extremely well: and, no doubt, there are men who might not object\nto--Every body has their level: but as for myself, I am not, I think,\nquite so much at a loss. I need not so totally despair of an equal\nalliance, as to be addressing myself to Miss Smith!--No, madam, my\nvisits to Hartfield have been for yourself only; and the encouragement I\nreceived--\"\n\n\"Encouragement!--I give you encouragement!--Sir, you have been entirely\nmistaken in supposing it. I have seen you only as the admirer of my\nfriend. In no other light could you have been more to me than a common\nacquaintance. I am exceedingly sorry: but it is well that the mistake\nends where it does. Had the same behaviour continued, Miss Smith might\nhave been led into a misconception of your views; not being aware,\nprobably, any more than myself, of the very great inequality which you\nare so sensible of. But, as it is, the disappointment is single, and, I\ntrust, will not be lasting. I have no thoughts of matrimony at present.\"\n\nHe was too angry to say another word; her manner too decided to invite\nsupplication; and in this state of swelling resentment, and mutually\ndeep mortification, they had to continue together a few minutes longer,\nfor the fears of Mr. Woodhouse had confined them to a foot-pace. If\nthere had not been so much anger, there would have been desperate\nawkwardness; but their straightforward emotions left no room for the\nlittle zigzags of embarrassment. Without knowing when the carriage\nturned into Vicarage Lane, or when it stopped, they found themselves,\nall at once, at the door of his house; and he was out before another\nsyllable passed.--Emma then felt it indispensable to wish him a good\nnight. The compliment was just returned, coldly and proudly; and, under\nindescribable irritation of spirits, she was then conveyed to Hartfield.\n\nThere she was welcomed, with the utmost delight, by her father, who\nhad been trembling for the dangers of a solitary drive from Vicarage\nLane--turning a corner which he could never bear to think of--and in\nstrange hands--a mere common coachman--no James; and there it seemed as\nif her return only were wanted to make every thing go well: for Mr.\nJohn Knightley, ashamed of his ill-humour, was now all kindness and\nattention; and so particularly solicitous for the comfort of her\nfather, as to seem--if not quite ready to join him in a basin of\ngruel--perfectly sensible of its being exceedingly wholesome; and the\nday was concluding in peace and comfort to all their little party,\nexcept herself.--But her mind had never been in such perturbation; and\nit needed a very strong effort to appear attentive and cheerful till the\nusual hour of separating allowed her the relief of quiet reflection.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nThe hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to think\nand be miserable.--It was a wretched business indeed!--Such an overthrow\nof every thing she had been wishing for!--Such a development of every\nthing most unwelcome!--Such a blow for Harriet!--that was the worst\nof all. Every part of it brought pain and humiliation, of some sort or\nother; but, compared with the evil to Harriet, all was light; and\nshe would gladly have submitted to feel yet more mistaken--more in\nerror--more disgraced by mis-judgment, than she actually was, could the\neffects of her blunders have been confined to herself.\n\n\"If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I could have\nborne any thing. He might have doubled his presumption to me--but poor\nHarriet!\"\n\nHow she could have been so deceived!--He protested that he had never\nthought seriously of Harriet--never! She looked back as well as\nshe could; but it was all confusion. She had taken up the idea, she\nsupposed, and made every thing bend to it. His manners, however, must\nhave been unmarked, wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so\nmisled.\n\nThe picture!--How eager he had been about the picture!--and the\ncharade!--and an hundred other circumstances;--how clearly they had\nseemed to point at Harriet. To be sure, the charade, with its \"ready\nwit\"--but then the \"soft eyes\"--in fact it suited neither; it was\na jumble without taste or truth. Who could have seen through such\nthick-headed nonsense?\n\nCertainly she had often, especially of late, thought his manners to\nherself unnecessarily gallant; but it had passed as his way, as a mere\nerror of judgment, of knowledge, of taste, as one proof among others\nthat he had not always lived in the best society, that with all the\ngentleness of his address, true elegance was sometimes wanting; but,\ntill this very day, she had never, for an instant, suspected it to mean\nany thing but grateful respect to her as Harriet's friend.\n\nTo Mr. John Knightley was she indebted for her first idea on the\nsubject, for the first start of its possibility. There was no denying\nthat those brothers had penetration. She remembered what Mr. Knightley\nhad once said to her about Mr. Elton, the caution he had given,\nthe conviction he had professed that Mr. Elton would never marry\nindiscreetly; and blushed to think how much truer a knowledge of his\ncharacter had been there shewn than any she had reached herself. It\nwas dreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton was proving himself, in many\nrespects, the very reverse of what she had meant and believed him;\nproud, assuming, conceited; very full of his own claims, and little\nconcerned about the feelings of others.\n\nContrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton's wanting to pay his\naddresses to her had sunk him in her opinion. His professions and his\nproposals did him no service. She thought nothing of his attachment,\nand was insulted by his hopes. He wanted to marry well, and having the\narrogance to raise his eyes to her, pretended to be in love; but she was\nperfectly easy as to his not suffering any disappointment that need be\ncared for. There had been no real affection either in his language or\nmanners. Sighs and fine words had been given in abundance; but she could\nhardly devise any set of expressions, or fancy any tone of voice, less\nallied with real love. She need not trouble herself to pity him. He\nonly wanted to aggrandise and enrich himself; and if Miss Woodhouse\nof Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so\neasily obtained as he had fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody\nelse with twenty, or with ten.\n\nBut--that he should talk of encouragement, should consider her as aware\nof his views, accepting his attentions, meaning (in short), to marry\nhim!--should suppose himself her equal in connexion or mind!--look down\nupon her friend, so well understanding the gradations of rank below\nhim, and be so blind to what rose above, as to fancy himself shewing no\npresumption in addressing her!--It was most provoking.\n\nPerhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very much he was her\ninferior in talent, and all the elegancies of mind. The very want of\nsuch equality might prevent his perception of it; but he must know that\nin fortune and consequence she was greatly his superior. He must\nknow that the Woodhouses had been settled for several generations at\nHartfield, the younger branch of a very ancient family--and that the\nEltons were nobody. The landed property of Hartfield certainly was\ninconsiderable, being but a sort of notch in the Donwell Abbey estate,\nto which all the rest of Highbury belonged; but their fortune, from\nother sources, was such as to make them scarcely secondary to Donwell\nAbbey itself, in every other kind of consequence; and the Woodhouses had\nlong held a high place in the consideration of the neighbourhood which\nMr. Elton had first entered not two years ago, to make his way as he\ncould, without any alliances but in trade, or any thing to recommend him\nto notice but his situation and his civility.--But he had fancied her\nin love with him; that evidently must have been his dependence; and\nafter raving a little about the seeming incongruity of gentle manners\nand a conceited head, Emma was obliged in common honesty to stop\nand admit that her own behaviour to him had been so complaisant and\nobliging, so full of courtesy and attention, as (supposing her real\nmotive unperceived) might warrant a man of ordinary observation and\ndelicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fancying himself a very decided favourite.\nIf _she_ had so misinterpreted his feelings, she had little right to\nwonder that _he_, with self-interest to blind him, should have mistaken\nhers.\n\nThe first error and the worst lay at her door. It was foolish, it was\nwrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two people together. It\nwas adventuring too far, assuming too much, making light of what\nought to be serious, a trick of what ought to be simple. She was quite\nconcerned and ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more.\n\n\"Here have I,\" said she, \"actually talked poor Harriet into being very\nmuch attached to this man. She might never have thought of him but for\nme; and certainly never would have thought of him with hope, if I had\nnot assured her of his attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I\nused to think him. Oh! that I had been satisfied with persuading her not\nto accept young Martin. There I was quite right. That was well done\nof me; but there I should have stopped, and left the rest to time and\nchance. I was introducing her into good company, and giving her the\nopportunity of pleasing some one worth having; I ought not to have\nattempted more. But now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time.\nI have been but half a friend to her; and if she were _not_ to feel this\ndisappointment so very much, I am sure I have not an idea of any body\nelse who would be at all desirable for her;--William Coxe--Oh! no, I\ncould not endure William Coxe--a pert young lawyer.\"\n\nShe stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then resumed a more\nserious, more dispiriting cogitation upon what had been, and might be,\nand must be. The distressing explanation she had to make to Harriet, and\nall that poor Harriet would be suffering, with the awkwardness of\nfuture meetings, the difficulties of continuing or discontinuing the\nacquaintance, of subduing feelings, concealing resentment, and avoiding\neclat, were enough to occupy her in most unmirthful reflections some\ntime longer, and she went to bed at last with nothing settled but the\nconviction of her having blundered most dreadfully.\n\nTo youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma's, though under temporary\ngloom at night, the return of day will hardly fail to bring return of\nspirits. The youth and cheerfulness of morning are in happy analogy,\nand of powerful operation; and if the distress be not poignant enough\nto keep the eyes unclosed, they will be sure to open to sensations of\nsoftened pain and brighter hope.\n\nEmma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort than she had gone\nto bed, more ready to see alleviations of the evil before her, and to\ndepend on getting tolerably out of it.\n\nIt was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be really in\nlove with her, or so particularly amiable as to make it shocking to\ndisappoint him--that Harriet's nature should not be of that superior\nsort in which the feelings are most acute and retentive--and that there\ncould be no necessity for any body's knowing what had passed except the\nthree principals, and especially for her father's being given a moment's\nuneasiness about it.\n\nThese were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a great deal of snow\non the ground did her further service, for any thing was welcome that\nmight justify their all three being quite asunder at present.\n\nThe weather was most favourable for her; though Christmas Day, she\ncould not go to church. Mr. Woodhouse would have been miserable had his\ndaughter attempted it, and she was therefore safe from either exciting\nor receiving unpleasant and most unsuitable ideas. The ground covered\nwith snow, and the atmosphere in that unsettled state between frost and\nthaw, which is of all others the most unfriendly for exercise, every\nmorning beginning in rain or snow, and every evening setting in to\nfreeze, she was for many days a most honourable prisoner. No intercourse\nwith Harriet possible but by note; no church for her on Sunday any\nmore than on Christmas Day; and no need to find excuses for Mr. Elton's\nabsenting himself.\n\nIt was weather which might fairly confine every body at home; and though\nshe hoped and believed him to be really taking comfort in some society\nor other, it was very pleasant to have her father so well satisfied with\nhis being all alone in his own house, too wise to stir out; and to\nhear him say to Mr. Knightley, whom no weather could keep entirely from\nthem,--\n\n\"Ah! Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home like poor Mr. Elton?\"\n\nThese days of confinement would have been, but for her private\nperplexities, remarkably comfortable, as such seclusion exactly suited\nher brother, whose feelings must always be of great importance to\nhis companions; and he had, besides, so thoroughly cleared off his\nill-humour at Randalls, that his amiableness never failed him during the\nrest of his stay at Hartfield. He was always agreeable and obliging,\nand speaking pleasantly of every body. But with all the hopes of\ncheerfulness, and all the present comfort of delay, there was still such\nan evil hanging over her in the hour of explanation with Harriet, as\nmade it impossible for Emma to be ever perfectly at ease.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nMr. and Mrs. John Knightley were not detained long at Hartfield. The\nweather soon improved enough for those to move who must move; and Mr.\nWoodhouse having, as usual, tried to persuade his daughter to stay\nbehind with all her children, was obliged to see the whole party\nset off, and return to his lamentations over the destiny of poor\nIsabella;--which poor Isabella, passing her life with those she doated\non, full of their merits, blind to their faults, and always innocently\nbusy, might have been a model of right feminine happiness.\n\nThe evening of the very day on which they went brought a note from Mr.\nElton to Mr. Woodhouse, a long, civil, ceremonious note, to say, with\nMr. Elton's best compliments, \"that he was proposing to leave Highbury\nthe following morning in his way to Bath; where, in compliance with\nthe pressing entreaties of some friends, he had engaged to spend a few\nweeks, and very much regretted the impossibility he was under, from\nvarious circumstances of weather and business, of taking a personal\nleave of Mr. Woodhouse, of whose friendly civilities he should ever\nretain a grateful sense--and had Mr. Woodhouse any commands, should be\nhappy to attend to them.\"\n\nEmma was most agreeably surprized.--Mr. Elton's absence just at this\ntime was the very thing to be desired. She admired him for contriving\nit, though not able to give him much credit for the manner in which it\nwas announced. Resentment could not have been more plainly spoken than\nin a civility to her father, from which she was so pointedly excluded.\nShe had not even a share in his opening compliments.--Her name was not\nmentioned;--and there was so striking a change in all this, and such an\nill-judged solemnity of leave-taking in his graceful acknowledgments, as\nshe thought, at first, could not escape her father's suspicion.\n\nIt did, however.--Her father was quite taken up with the surprize of so\nsudden a journey, and his fears that Mr. Elton might never get safely to\nthe end of it, and saw nothing extraordinary in his language. It was a\nvery useful note, for it supplied them with fresh matter for thought\nand conversation during the rest of their lonely evening. Mr. Woodhouse\ntalked over his alarms, and Emma was in spirits to persuade them away\nwith all her usual promptitude.\n\nShe now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark. She had reason\nto believe her nearly recovered from her cold, and it was desirable that\nshe should have as much time as possible for getting the better of\nher other complaint before the gentleman's return. She went to Mrs.\nGoddard's accordingly the very next day, to undergo the necessary\npenance of communication; and a severe one it was.--She had to destroy\nall the hopes which she had been so industriously feeding--to appear in\nthe ungracious character of the one preferred--and acknowledge herself\ngrossly mistaken and mis-judging in all her ideas on one subject, all\nher observations, all her convictions, all her prophecies for the last\nsix weeks.\n\nThe confession completely renewed her first shame--and the sight of\nHarriet's tears made her think that she should never be in charity with\nherself again.\n\nHarriet bore the intelligence very well--blaming nobody--and in every\nthing testifying such an ingenuousness of disposition and lowly opinion\nof herself, as must appear with particular advantage at that moment to\nher friend.\n\nEmma was in the humour to value simplicity and modesty to the utmost;\nand all that was amiable, all that ought to be attaching, seemed on\nHarriet's side, not her own. Harriet did not consider herself as having\nany thing to complain of. The affection of such a man as Mr. Elton\nwould have been too great a distinction.--She never could have deserved\nhim--and nobody but so partial and kind a friend as Miss Woodhouse would\nhave thought it possible.\n\nHer tears fell abundantly--but her grief was so truly artless, that\nno dignity could have made it more respectable in Emma's eyes--and\nshe listened to her and tried to console her with all her heart and\nunderstanding--really for the time convinced that Harriet was the\nsuperior creature of the two--and that to resemble her would be more for\nher own welfare and happiness than all that genius or intelligence could\ndo.\n\nIt was rather too late in the day to set about being simple-minded and\nignorant; but she left her with every previous resolution confirmed of\nbeing humble and discreet, and repressing imagination all the rest of\nher life. Her second duty now, inferior only to her father's claims, was\nto promote Harriet's comfort, and endeavour to prove her own affection\nin some better method than by match-making. She got her to Hartfield,\nand shewed her the most unvarying kindness, striving to occupy and\namuse her, and by books and conversation, to drive Mr. Elton from her\nthoughts.\n\nTime, she knew, must be allowed for this being thoroughly done; and\nshe could suppose herself but an indifferent judge of such matters in\ngeneral, and very inadequate to sympathise in an attachment to Mr. Elton\nin particular; but it seemed to her reasonable that at Harriet's age,\nand with the entire extinction of all hope, such a progress might be\nmade towards a state of composure by the time of Mr. Elton's return, as\nto allow them all to meet again in the common routine of acquaintance,\nwithout any danger of betraying sentiments or increasing them.\n\nHarriet did think him all perfection, and maintained the non-existence\nof any body equal to him in person or goodness--and did, in truth,\nprove herself more resolutely in love than Emma had foreseen; but yet\nit appeared to her so natural, so inevitable to strive against an\ninclination of that sort _unrequited_, that she could not comprehend its\ncontinuing very long in equal force.\n\nIf Mr. Elton, on his return, made his own indifference as evident and\nindubitable as she could not doubt he would anxiously do, she could not\nimagine Harriet's persisting to place her happiness in the sight or the\nrecollection of him.\n\nTheir being fixed, so absolutely fixed, in the same place, was bad for\neach, for all three. Not one of them had the power of removal, or of\neffecting any material change of society. They must encounter each\nother, and make the best of it.\n\nHarriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her companions at Mrs.\nGoddard's; Mr. Elton being the adoration of all the teachers and great\ngirls in the school; and it must be at Hartfield only that she could\nhave any chance of hearing him spoken of with cooling moderation or\nrepellent truth. Where the wound had been given, there must the cure be\nfound if anywhere; and Emma felt that, till she saw her in the way of\ncure, there could be no true peace for herself.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\nMr. Frank Churchill did not come. When the time proposed drew near, Mrs.\nWeston's fears were justified in the arrival of a letter of excuse. For\nthe present, he could not be spared, to his \"very great mortification\nand regret; but still he looked forward with the hope of coming to\nRandalls at no distant period.\"\n\nMrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed--much more disappointed, in\nfact, than her husband, though her dependence on seeing the young man\nhad been so much more sober: but a sanguine temper, though for ever\nexpecting more good than occurs, does not always pay for its hopes by\nany proportionate depression. It soon flies over the present failure,\nand begins to hope again. For half an hour Mr. Weston was surprized and\nsorry; but then he began to perceive that Frank's coming two or three\nmonths later would be a much better plan; better time of year;\nbetter weather; and that he would be able, without any doubt, to stay\nconsiderably longer with them than if he had come sooner.\n\nThese feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs. Weston, of\na more apprehensive disposition, foresaw nothing but a repetition of\nexcuses and delays; and after all her concern for what her husband was\nto suffer, suffered a great deal more herself.\n\nEmma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care really about Mr.\nFrank Churchill's not coming, except as a disappointment at Randalls.\nThe acquaintance at present had no charm for her. She wanted, rather, to\nbe quiet, and out of temptation; but still, as it was desirable that she\nshould appear, in general, like her usual self, she took care to express\nas much interest in the circumstance, and enter as warmly into Mr.\nand Mrs. Weston's disappointment, as might naturally belong to their\nfriendship.\n\nShe was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley; and exclaimed quite\nas much as was necessary, (or, being acting a part, perhaps rather\nmore,) at the conduct of the Churchills, in keeping him away. She then\nproceeded to say a good deal more than she felt, of the advantage of\nsuch an addition to their confined society in Surry; the pleasure of\nlooking at somebody new; the gala-day to Highbury entire, which the\nsight of him would have made; and ending with reflections on the\nChurchills again, found herself directly involved in a disagreement\nwith Mr. Knightley; and, to her great amusement, perceived that she was\ntaking the other side of the question from her real opinion, and making\nuse of Mrs. Weston's arguments against herself.\n\n\"The Churchills are very likely in fault,\" said Mr. Knightley, coolly;\n\"but I dare say he might come if he would.\"\n\n\"I do not know why you should say so. He wishes exceedingly to come; but\nhis uncle and aunt will not spare him.\"\n\n\"I cannot believe that he has not the power of coming, if he made a\npoint of it. It is too unlikely, for me to believe it without proof.\"\n\n\"How odd you are! What has Mr. Frank Churchill done, to make you suppose\nhim such an unnatural creature?\"\n\n\"I am not supposing him at all an unnatural creature, in suspecting that\nhe may have learnt to be above his connexions, and to care very little\nfor any thing but his own pleasure, from living with those who have\nalways set him the example of it. It is a great deal more natural than\none could wish, that a young man, brought up by those who are proud,\nluxurious, and selfish, should be proud, luxurious, and selfish too. If\nFrank Churchill had wanted to see his father, he would have contrived it\nbetween September and January. A man at his age--what is he?--three or\nfour-and-twenty--cannot be without the means of doing as much as that.\nIt is impossible.\"\n\n\"That's easily said, and easily felt by you, who have always been your\nown master. You are the worst judge in the world, Mr. Knightley, of the\ndifficulties of dependence. You do not know what it is to have tempers\nto manage.\"\n\n\"It is not to be conceived that a man of three or four-and-twenty\nshould not have liberty of mind or limb to that amount. He cannot want\nmoney--he cannot want leisure. We know, on the contrary, that he has so\nmuch of both, that he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest haunts in\nthe kingdom. We hear of him for ever at some watering-place or other. A\nlittle while ago, he was at Weymouth. This proves that he can leave the\nChurchills.\"\n\n\"Yes, sometimes he can.\"\n\n\"And those times are whenever he thinks it worth his while; whenever\nthere is any temptation of pleasure.\"\n\n\"It is very unfair to judge of any body's conduct, without an intimate\nknowledge of their situation. Nobody, who has not been in the interior\nof a family, can say what the difficulties of any individual of that\nfamily may be. We ought to be acquainted with Enscombe, and with Mrs.\nChurchill's temper, before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew\ncan do. He may, at times, be able to do a great deal more than he can at\nothers.\"\n\n\"There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always do, if he chuses, and\nthat is, his duty; not by manoeuvring and finessing, but by vigour and\nresolution. It is Frank Churchill's duty to pay this attention to his\nfather. He knows it to be so, by his promises and messages; but if he\nwished to do it, it might be done. A man who felt rightly would say at\nonce, simply and resolutely, to Mrs. Churchill--'Every sacrifice of\nmere pleasure you will always find me ready to make to your convenience;\nbut I must go and see my father immediately. I know he would be hurt by\nmy failing in such a mark of respect to him on the present occasion.\nI shall, therefore, set off to-morrow.'--If he would say so to her\nat once, in the tone of decision becoming a man, there would be no\nopposition made to his going.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Emma, laughing; \"but perhaps there might be some made to his\ncoming back again. Such language for a young man entirely dependent, to\nuse!--Nobody but you, Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible. But you\nhave not an idea of what is requisite in situations directly opposite to\nyour own. Mr. Frank Churchill to be making such a speech as that to\nthe uncle and aunt, who have brought him up, and are to provide for\nhim!--Standing up in the middle of the room, I suppose, and speaking as\nloud as he could!--How can you imagine such conduct practicable?\"\n\n\"Depend upon it, Emma, a sensible man would find no difficulty in it. He\nwould feel himself in the right; and the declaration--made, of course,\nas a man of sense would make it, in a proper manner--would do him more\ngood, raise him higher, fix his interest stronger with the people he\ndepended on, than all that a line of shifts and expedients can ever do.\nRespect would be added to affection. They would feel that they could\ntrust him; that the nephew who had done rightly by his father, would do\nrightly by them; for they know, as well as he does, as well as all the\nworld must know, that he ought to pay this visit to his father; and\nwhile meanly exerting their power to delay it, are in their hearts not\nthinking the better of him for submitting to their whims. Respect for\nright conduct is felt by every body. If he would act in this sort of\nmanner, on principle, consistently, regularly, their little minds would\nbend to his.\"\n\n\"I rather doubt that. You are very fond of bending little minds; but\nwhere little minds belong to rich people in authority, I think they have\na knack of swelling out, till they are quite as unmanageable as great\nones. I can imagine, that if you, as you are, Mr. Knightley, were to be\ntransported and placed all at once in Mr. Frank Churchill's situation,\nyou would be able to say and do just what you have been recommending for\nhim; and it might have a very good effect. The Churchills might not have\na word to say in return; but then, you would have no habits of early\nobedience and long observance to break through. To him who has, it might\nnot be so easy to burst forth at once into perfect independence, and set\nall their claims on his gratitude and regard at nought. He may have as\nstrong a sense of what would be right, as you can have, without being so\nequal, under particular circumstances, to act up to it.\"\n\n\"Then it would not be so strong a sense. If it failed to produce equal\nexertion, it could not be an equal conviction.\"\n\n\"Oh, the difference of situation and habit! I wish you would try to\nunderstand what an amiable young man may be likely to feel in directly\nopposing those, whom as child and boy he has been looking up to all his\nlife.\"\n\n\"Our amiable young man is a very weak young man, if this be the first\noccasion of his carrying through a resolution to do right against the\nwill of others. It ought to have been a habit with him by this time, of\nfollowing his duty, instead of consulting expediency. I can allow for\nthe fears of the child, but not of the man. As he became rational, he\nought to have roused himself and shaken off all that was unworthy in\ntheir authority. He ought to have opposed the first attempt on their\nside to make him slight his father. Had he begun as he ought, there\nwould have been no difficulty now.\"\n\n\"We shall never agree about him,\" cried Emma; \"but that is nothing\nextraordinary. I have not the least idea of his being a weak young man:\nI feel sure that he is not. Mr. Weston would not be blind to folly,\nthough in his own son; but he is very likely to have a more yielding,\ncomplying, mild disposition than would suit your notions of man's\nperfection. I dare say he has; and though it may cut him off from some\nadvantages, it will secure him many others.\"\n\n\"Yes; all the advantages of sitting still when he ought to move, and\nof leading a life of mere idle pleasure, and fancying himself extremely\nexpert in finding excuses for it. He can sit down and write a fine\nflourishing letter, full of professions and falsehoods, and persuade\nhimself that he has hit upon the very best method in the world of\npreserving peace at home and preventing his father's having any right to\ncomplain. His letters disgust me.\"\n\n\"Your feelings are singular. They seem to satisfy every body else.\"\n\n\"I suspect they do not satisfy Mrs. Weston. They hardly can satisfy\na woman of her good sense and quick feelings: standing in a mother's\nplace, but without a mother's affection to blind her. It is on her\naccount that attention to Randalls is doubly due, and she must doubly\nfeel the omission. Had she been a person of consequence herself, he\nwould have come I dare say; and it would not have signified whether\nhe did or no. Can you think your friend behindhand in these sort of\nconsiderations? Do you suppose she does not often say all this to\nherself? No, Emma, your amiable young man can be amiable only in French,\nnot in English. He may be very 'aimable,' have very good manners, and be\nvery agreeable; but he can have no English delicacy towards the feelings\nof other people: nothing really amiable about him.\"\n\n\"You seem determined to think ill of him.\"\n\n\"Me!--not at all,\" replied Mr. Knightley, rather displeased; \"I do not\nwant to think ill of him. I should be as ready to acknowledge his merits\nas any other man; but I hear of none, except what are merely personal;\nthat he is well-grown and good-looking, with smooth, plausible manners.\"\n\n\"Well, if he have nothing else to recommend him, he will be a treasure\nat Highbury. We do not often look upon fine young men, well-bred and\nagreeable. We must not be nice and ask for all the virtues into the\nbargain. Cannot you imagine, Mr. Knightley, what a _sensation_ his\ncoming will produce? There will be but one subject throughout the\nparishes of Donwell and Highbury; but one interest--one object of\ncuriosity; it will be all Mr. Frank Churchill; we shall think and speak\nof nobody else.\"\n\n\"You will excuse my being so much over-powered. If I find him\nconversable, I shall be glad of his acquaintance; but if he is only a\nchattering coxcomb, he will not occupy much of my time or thoughts.\"\n\n\"My idea of him is, that he can adapt his conversation to the taste of\nevery body, and has the power as well as the wish of being universally\nagreeable. To you, he will talk of farming; to me, of drawing or music;\nand so on to every body, having that general information on all subjects\nwhich will enable him to follow the lead, or take the lead, just as\npropriety may require, and to speak extremely well on each; that is my\nidea of him.\"\n\n\"And mine,\" said Mr. Knightley warmly, \"is, that if he turn out any\nthing like it, he will be the most insufferable fellow breathing! What!\nat three-and-twenty to be the king of his company--the great man--the\npractised politician, who is to read every body's character, and make\nevery body's talents conduce to the display of his own superiority; to\nbe dispensing his flatteries around, that he may make all appear like\nfools compared with himself! My dear Emma, your own good sense could not\nendure such a puppy when it came to the point.\"\n\n\"I will say no more about him,\" cried Emma, \"you turn every thing to\nevil. We are both prejudiced; you against, I for him; and we have no\nchance of agreeing till he is really here.\"\n\n\"Prejudiced! I am not prejudiced.\"\n\n\"But I am very much, and without being at all ashamed of it. My love for\nMr. and Mrs. Weston gives me a decided prejudice in his favour.\"\n\n\"He is a person I never think of from one month's end to another,\" said\nMr. Knightley, with a degree of vexation, which made Emma immediately\ntalk of something else, though she could not comprehend why he should be\nangry.\n\nTo take a dislike to a young man, only because he appeared to be of a\ndifferent disposition from himself, was unworthy the real liberality of\nmind which she was always used to acknowledge in him; for with all the\nhigh opinion of himself, which she had often laid to his charge, she had\nnever before for a moment supposed it could make him unjust to the merit\nof another.\n\n\n\n\nVOLUME II\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nEmma and Harriet had been walking together one morning, and, in Emma's\nopinion, had been talking enough of Mr. Elton for that day. She could\nnot think that Harriet's solace or her own sins required more; and\nshe was therefore industriously getting rid of the subject as they\nreturned;--but it burst out again when she thought she had succeeded,\nand after speaking some time of what the poor must suffer in winter, and\nreceiving no other answer than a very plaintive--\"Mr. Elton is so good\nto the poor!\" she found something else must be done.\n\nThey were just approaching the house where lived Mrs. and Miss Bates.\nShe determined to call upon them and seek safety in numbers. There was\nalways sufficient reason for such an attention; Mrs. and Miss Bates\nloved to be called on, and she knew she was considered by the very few\nwho presumed ever to see imperfection in her, as rather negligent in\nthat respect, and as not contributing what she ought to the stock of\ntheir scanty comforts.\n\nShe had had many a hint from Mr. Knightley and some from her own heart,\nas to her deficiency--but none were equal to counteract the persuasion\nof its being very disagreeable,--a waste of time--tiresome women--and\nall the horror of being in danger of falling in with the second-rate and\nthird-rate of Highbury, who were calling on them for ever, and therefore\nshe seldom went near them. But now she made the sudden resolution of not\npassing their door without going in--observing, as she proposed it to\nHarriet, that, as well as she could calculate, they were just now quite\nsafe from any letter from Jane Fairfax.\n\nThe house belonged to people in business. Mrs. and Miss Bates occupied\nthe drawing-room floor; and there, in the very moderate-sized apartment,\nwhich was every thing to them, the visitors were most cordially and even\ngratefully welcomed; the quiet neat old lady, who with her knitting was\nseated in the warmest corner, wanting even to give up her place to\nMiss Woodhouse, and her more active, talking daughter, almost ready\nto overpower them with care and kindness, thanks for their visit,\nsolicitude for their shoes, anxious inquiries after Mr. Woodhouse's\nhealth, cheerful communications about her mother's, and sweet-cake from\nthe beaufet--\"Mrs. Cole had just been there, just called in for ten\nminutes, and had been so good as to sit an hour with them, and _she_ had\ntaken a piece of cake and been so kind as to say she liked it very much;\nand, therefore, she hoped Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith would do them\nthe favour to eat a piece too.\"\n\nThe mention of the Coles was sure to be followed by that of Mr. Elton.\nThere was intimacy between them, and Mr. Cole had heard from Mr. Elton\nsince his going away. Emma knew what was coming; they must have the\nletter over again, and settle how long he had been gone, and how much\nhe was engaged in company, and what a favourite he was wherever he went,\nand how full the Master of the Ceremonies' ball had been; and she went\nthrough it very well, with all the interest and all the commendation\nthat could be requisite, and always putting forward to prevent Harriet's\nbeing obliged to say a word.\n\nThis she had been prepared for when she entered the house; but meant,\nhaving once talked him handsomely over, to be no farther incommoded by\nany troublesome topic, and to wander at large amongst all the Mistresses\nand Misses of Highbury, and their card-parties. She had not been\nprepared to have Jane Fairfax succeed Mr. Elton; but he was actually\nhurried off by Miss Bates, she jumped away from him at last abruptly to\nthe Coles, to usher in a letter from her niece.\n\n\"Oh! yes--Mr. Elton, I understand--certainly as to dancing--Mrs. Cole\nwas telling me that dancing at the rooms at Bath was--Mrs. Cole was so\nkind as to sit some time with us, talking of Jane; for as soon as\nshe came in, she began inquiring after her, Jane is so very great a\nfavourite there. Whenever she is with us, Mrs. Cole does not know how to\nshew her kindness enough; and I must say that Jane deserves it as much\nas any body can. And so she began inquiring after her directly, saying,\n'I know you cannot have heard from Jane lately, because it is not her\ntime for writing;' and when I immediately said, 'But indeed we have, we\nhad a letter this very morning,' I do not know that I ever saw any body\nmore surprized. 'Have you, upon your honour?' said she; 'well, that is\nquite unexpected. Do let me hear what she says.'\"\n\nEmma's politeness was at hand directly, to say, with smiling interest--\n\n\"Have you heard from Miss Fairfax so lately? I am extremely happy. I\nhope she is well?\"\n\n\"Thank you. You are so kind!\" replied the happily deceived aunt, while\neagerly hunting for the letter.--\"Oh! here it is. I was sure it could\nnot be far off; but I had put my huswife upon it, you see, without being\naware, and so it was quite hid, but I had it in my hand so very lately\nthat I was almost sure it must be on the table. I was reading it to Mrs.\nCole, and since she went away, I was reading it again to my mother, for\nit is such a pleasure to her--a letter from Jane--that she can never\nhear it often enough; so I knew it could not be far off, and here it is,\nonly just under my huswife--and since you are so kind as to wish to hear\nwhat she says;--but, first of all, I really must, in justice to\nJane, apologise for her writing so short a letter--only two pages you\nsee--hardly two--and in general she fills the whole paper and crosses\nhalf. My mother often wonders that I can make it out so well. She often\nsays, when the letter is first opened, 'Well, Hetty, now I think\nyou will be put to it to make out all that checker-work'--don't you,\nma'am?--And then I tell her, I am sure she would contrive to make it out\nherself, if she had nobody to do it for her--every word of it--I am sure\nshe would pore over it till she had made out every word. And, indeed,\nthough my mother's eyes are not so good as they were, she can see\namazingly well still, thank God! with the help of spectacles. It is such\na blessing! My mother's are really very good indeed. Jane often says,\nwhen she is here, 'I am sure, grandmama, you must have had very strong\neyes to see as you do--and so much fine work as you have done too!--I\nonly wish my eyes may last me as well.'\"\n\nAll this spoken extremely fast obliged Miss Bates to stop for breath;\nand Emma said something very civil about the excellence of Miss\nFairfax's handwriting.\n\n\"You are extremely kind,\" replied Miss Bates, highly gratified; \"you who\nare such a judge, and write so beautifully yourself. I am sure there is\nnobody's praise that could give us so much pleasure as Miss Woodhouse's.\nMy mother does not hear; she is a little deaf you know. Ma'am,\"\naddressing her, \"do you hear what Miss Woodhouse is so obliging to say\nabout Jane's handwriting?\"\n\nAnd Emma had the advantage of hearing her own silly compliment repeated\ntwice over before the good old lady could comprehend it. She was\npondering, in the meanwhile, upon the possibility, without seeming very\nrude, of making her escape from Jane Fairfax's letter, and had almost\nresolved on hurrying away directly under some slight excuse, when Miss\nBates turned to her again and seized her attention.\n\n\"My mother's deafness is very trifling you see--just nothing at all. By\nonly raising my voice, and saying any thing two or three times over,\nshe is sure to hear; but then she is used to my voice. But it is very\nremarkable that she should always hear Jane better than she does me.\nJane speaks so distinct! However, she will not find her grandmama at all\ndeafer than she was two years ago; which is saying a great deal at my\nmother's time of life--and it really is full two years, you know, since\nshe was here. We never were so long without seeing her before, and as\nI was telling Mrs. Cole, we shall hardly know how to make enough of her\nnow.\"\n\n\"Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon?\"\n\n\"Oh yes; next week.\"\n\n\"Indeed!--that must be a very great pleasure.\"\n\n\"Thank you. You are very kind. Yes, next week. Every body is so\nsurprized; and every body says the same obliging things. I am sure she\nwill be as happy to see her friends at Highbury, as they can be to see\nher. Yes, Friday or Saturday; she cannot say which, because Colonel\nCampbell will be wanting the carriage himself one of those days. So very\ngood of them to send her the whole way! But they always do, you know. Oh\nyes, Friday or Saturday next. That is what she writes about. That is\nthe reason of her writing out of rule, as we call it; for, in the\ncommon course, we should not have heard from her before next Tuesday or\nWednesday.\"\n\n\"Yes, so I imagined. I was afraid there could be little chance of my\nhearing any thing of Miss Fairfax to-day.\"\n\n\"So obliging of you! No, we should not have heard, if it had not been\nfor this particular circumstance, of her being to come here so soon. My\nmother is so delighted!--for she is to be three months with us at\nleast. Three months, she says so, positively, as I am going to have the\npleasure of reading to you. The case is, you see, that the Campbells are\ngoing to Ireland. Mrs. Dixon has persuaded her father and mother to come\nover and see her directly. They had not intended to go over till the\nsummer, but she is so impatient to see them again--for till she married,\nlast October, she was never away from them so much as a week, which must\nmake it very strange to be in different kingdoms, I was going to say,\nbut however different countries, and so she wrote a very urgent letter\nto her mother--or her father, I declare I do not know which it was, but\nwe shall see presently in Jane's letter--wrote in Mr. Dixon's name as\nwell as her own, to press their coming over directly, and they would\ngive them the meeting in Dublin, and take them back to their country\nseat, Baly-craig, a beautiful place, I fancy. Jane has heard a great\ndeal of its beauty; from Mr. Dixon, I mean--I do not know that she ever\nheard about it from any body else; but it was very natural, you know,\nthat he should like to speak of his own place while he was paying his\naddresses--and as Jane used to be very often walking out with them--for\nColonel and Mrs. Campbell were very particular about their daughter's\nnot walking out often with only Mr. Dixon, for which I do not at all\nblame them; of course she heard every thing he might be telling Miss\nCampbell about his own home in Ireland; and I think she wrote us word\nthat he had shewn them some drawings of the place, views that he had\ntaken himself. He is a most amiable, charming young man, I believe. Jane\nwas quite longing to go to Ireland, from his account of things.\"\n\nAt this moment, an ingenious and animating suspicion entering Emma's\nbrain with regard to Jane Fairfax, this charming Mr. Dixon, and the\nnot going to Ireland, she said, with the insidious design of farther\ndiscovery,\n\n\"You must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax should be allowed to\ncome to you at such a time. Considering the very particular friendship\nbetween her and Mrs. Dixon, you could hardly have expected her to be\nexcused from accompanying Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.\"\n\n\"Very true, very true, indeed. The very thing that we have always been\nrather afraid of; for we should not have liked to have her at such a\ndistance from us, for months together--not able to come if any thing was\nto happen. But you see, every thing turns out for the best. They want\nher (Mr. and Mrs. Dixon) excessively to come over with Colonel and Mrs.\nCampbell; quite depend upon it; nothing can be more kind or pressing\nthan their _joint_ invitation, Jane says, as you will hear presently;\nMr. Dixon does not seem in the least backward in any attention. He is\na most charming young man. Ever since the service he rendered Jane at\nWeymouth, when they were out in that party on the water, and she, by the\nsudden whirling round of something or other among the sails, would have\nbeen dashed into the sea at once, and actually was all but gone, if he\nhad not, with the greatest presence of mind, caught hold of her habit--\n(I can never think of it without trembling!)--But ever since we had the\nhistory of that day, I have been so fond of Mr. Dixon!\"\n\n\"But, in spite of all her friends' urgency, and her own wish of seeing\nIreland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the time to you and Mrs. Bates?\"\n\n\"Yes--entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice; and Colonel\nand Mrs. Campbell think she does quite right, just what they should\nrecommend; and indeed they particularly _wish_ her to try her native\nair, as she has not been quite so well as usual lately.\"\n\n\"I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wisely. But Mrs.\nDixon must be very much disappointed. Mrs. Dixon, I understand, has\nno remarkable degree of personal beauty; is not, by any means, to be\ncompared with Miss Fairfax.\"\n\n\"Oh! no. You are very obliging to say such things--but certainly not.\nThere is no comparison between them. Miss Campbell always was absolutely\nplain--but extremely elegant and amiable.\"\n\n\"Yes, that of course.\"\n\n\"Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing! so long ago as the 7th of November,\n(as I am going to read to you,) and has never been well since. A long\ntime, is not it, for a cold to hang upon her? She never mentioned\nit before, because she would not alarm us. Just like her! so\nconsiderate!--But however, she is so far from well, that her kind\nfriends the Campbells think she had better come home, and try an air\nthat always agrees with her; and they have no doubt that three or four\nmonths at Highbury will entirely cure her--and it is certainly a great\ndeal better that she should come here, than go to Ireland, if she is\nunwell. Nobody could nurse her, as we should do.\"\n\n\"It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world.\"\n\n\"And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, and the Campbells\nleave town in their way to Holyhead the Monday following--as you will\nfind from Jane's letter. So sudden!--You may guess, dear Miss Woodhouse,\nwhat a flurry it has thrown me in! If it was not for the drawback of\nher illness--but I am afraid we must expect to see her grown thin, and\nlooking very poorly. I must tell you what an unlucky thing happened to\nme, as to that. I always make a point of reading Jane's letters through\nto myself first, before I read them aloud to my mother, you know, for\nfear of there being any thing in them to distress her. Jane desired me\nto do it, so I always do: and so I began to-day with my usual caution;\nbut no sooner did I come to the mention of her being unwell, than I\nburst out, quite frightened, with 'Bless me! poor Jane is ill!'--which\nmy mother, being on the watch, heard distinctly, and was sadly alarmed\nat. However, when I read on, I found it was not near so bad as I had\nfancied at first; and I make so light of it now to her, that she does\nnot think much about it. But I cannot imagine how I could be so off my\nguard. If Jane does not get well soon, we will call in Mr. Perry. The\nexpense shall not be thought of; and though he is so liberal, and so\nfond of Jane that I dare say he would not mean to charge any thing for\nattendance, we could not suffer it to be so, you know. He has a wife and\nfamily to maintain, and is not to be giving away his time. Well, now I\nhave just given you a hint of what Jane writes about, we will turn to\nher letter, and I am sure she tells her own story a great deal better\nthan I can tell it for her.\"\n\n\"I am afraid we must be running away,\" said Emma, glancing at Harriet,\nand beginning to rise--\"My father will be expecting us. I had no\nintention, I thought I had no power of staying more than five minutes,\nwhen I first entered the house. I merely called, because I would not\npass the door without inquiring after Mrs. Bates; but I have been so\npleasantly detained! Now, however, we must wish you and Mrs. Bates good\nmorning.\"\n\nAnd not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded. She regained\nthe street--happy in this, that though much had been forced on her\nagainst her will, though she had in fact heard the whole substance of\nJane Fairfax's letter, she had been able to escape the letter itself.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nJane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates's youngest\ndaughter.\n\nThe marriage of Lieut. Fairfax of the ----regiment of infantry,\nand Miss Jane Bates, had had its day of fame and pleasure, hope\nand interest; but nothing now remained of it, save the melancholy\nremembrance of him dying in action abroad--of his widow sinking under\nconsumption and grief soon afterwards--and this girl.\n\nBy birth she belonged to Highbury: and when at three years old, on\nlosing her mother, she became the property, the charge, the consolation,\nthe fondling of her grandmother and aunt, there had seemed every\nprobability of her being permanently fixed there; of her being taught\nonly what very limited means could command, and growing up with no\nadvantages of connexion or improvement, to be engrafted on what\nnature had given her in a pleasing person, good understanding, and\nwarm-hearted, well-meaning relations.\n\nBut the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave a change\nto her destiny. This was Colonel Campbell, who had very highly regarded\nFairfax, as an excellent officer and most deserving young man; and\nfarther, had been indebted to him for such attentions, during a severe\ncamp-fever, as he believed had saved his life. These were claims which\nhe did not learn to overlook, though some years passed away from the\ndeath of poor Fairfax, before his own return to England put any thing in\nhis power. When he did return, he sought out the child and took notice\nof her. He was a married man, with only one living child, a girl, about\nJane's age: and Jane became their guest, paying them long visits and\ngrowing a favourite with all; and before she was nine years old, his\ndaughter's great fondness for her, and his own wish of being a real\nfriend, united to produce an offer from Colonel Campbell of undertaking\nthe whole charge of her education. It was accepted; and from that period\nJane had belonged to Colonel Campbell's family, and had lived with them\nentirely, only visiting her grandmother from time to time.\n\nThe plan was that she should be brought up for educating others; the\nvery few hundred pounds which she inherited from her father making\nindependence impossible. To provide for her otherwise was out of Colonel\nCampbell's power; for though his income, by pay and appointments, was\nhandsome, his fortune was moderate and must be all his daughter's;\nbut, by giving her an education, he hoped to be supplying the means of\nrespectable subsistence hereafter.\n\nSuch was Jane Fairfax's history. She had fallen into good hands, known\nnothing but kindness from the Campbells, and been given an excellent\neducation. Living constantly with right-minded and well-informed people,\nher heart and understanding had received every advantage of discipline\nand culture; and Colonel Campbell's residence being in London, every\nlighter talent had been done full justice to, by the attendance of\nfirst-rate masters. Her disposition and abilities were equally worthy\nof all that friendship could do; and at eighteen or nineteen she was,\nas far as such an early age can be qualified for the care of children,\nfully competent to the office of instruction herself; but she was too\nmuch beloved to be parted with. Neither father nor mother could promote,\nand the daughter could not endure it. The evil day was put off. It was\neasy to decide that she was still too young; and Jane remained with\nthem, sharing, as another daughter, in all the rational pleasures of\nan elegant society, and a judicious mixture of home and amusement, with\nonly the drawback of the future, the sobering suggestions of her own\ngood understanding to remind her that all this might soon be over.\n\nThe affection of the whole family, the warm attachment of Miss\nCampbell in particular, was the more honourable to each party from\nthe circumstance of Jane's decided superiority both in beauty and\nacquirements. That nature had given it in feature could not be unseen\nby the young woman, nor could her higher powers of mind be unfelt by the\nparents. They continued together with unabated regard however, till the\nmarriage of Miss Campbell, who by that chance, that luck which so often\ndefies anticipation in matrimonial affairs, giving attraction to what is\nmoderate rather than to what is superior, engaged the affections of\nMr. Dixon, a young man, rich and agreeable, almost as soon as they were\nacquainted; and was eligibly and happily settled, while Jane Fairfax had\nyet her bread to earn.\n\nThis event had very lately taken place; too lately for any thing to be\nyet attempted by her less fortunate friend towards entering on her path\nof duty; though she had now reached the age which her own judgment had\nfixed on for beginning. She had long resolved that one-and-twenty\nshould be the period. With the fortitude of a devoted novitiate, she had\nresolved at one-and-twenty to complete the sacrifice, and retire from\nall the pleasures of life, of rational intercourse, equal society, peace\nand hope, to penance and mortification for ever.\n\nThe good sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could not oppose such\na resolution, though their feelings did. As long as they lived, no\nexertions would be necessary, their home might be hers for ever; and for\ntheir own comfort they would have retained her wholly; but this would\nbe selfishness:--what must be at last, had better be soon. Perhaps they\nbegan to feel it might have been kinder and wiser to have resisted the\ntemptation of any delay, and spared her from a taste of such enjoyments\nof ease and leisure as must now be relinquished. Still, however,\naffection was glad to catch at any reasonable excuse for not hurrying\non the wretched moment. She had never been quite well since the time of\ntheir daughter's marriage; and till she should have completely recovered\nher usual strength, they must forbid her engaging in duties, which, so\nfar from being compatible with a weakened frame and varying spirits,\nseemed, under the most favourable circumstances, to require something\nmore than human perfection of body and mind to be discharged with\ntolerable comfort.\n\nWith regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland, her account to her\naunt contained nothing but truth, though there might be some truths\nnot told. It was her own choice to give the time of their absence to\nHighbury; to spend, perhaps, her last months of perfect liberty with\nthose kind relations to whom she was so very dear: and the Campbells,\nwhatever might be their motive or motives, whether single, or double, or\ntreble, gave the arrangement their ready sanction, and said, that they\ndepended more on a few months spent in her native air, for the recovery\nof her health, than on any thing else. Certain it was that she was to\ncome; and that Highbury, instead of welcoming that perfect novelty which\nhad been so long promised it--Mr. Frank Churchill--must put up for the\npresent with Jane Fairfax, who could bring only the freshness of a two\nyears' absence.\n\nEmma was sorry;--to have to pay civilities to a person she did not like\nthrough three long months!--to be always doing more than she wished,\nand less than she ought! Why she did not like Jane Fairfax might be a\ndifficult question to answer; Mr. Knightley had once told her it was\nbecause she saw in her the really accomplished young woman, which she\nwanted to be thought herself; and though the accusation had been eagerly\nrefuted at the time, there were moments of self-examination in which\nher conscience could not quite acquit her. But \"she could never get\nacquainted with her: she did not know how it was, but there was such\ncoldness and reserve--such apparent indifference whether she pleased or\nnot--and then, her aunt was such an eternal talker!--and she was made\nsuch a fuss with by every body!--and it had been always imagined that\nthey were to be so intimate--because their ages were the same, every\nbody had supposed they must be so fond of each other.\" These were her\nreasons--she had no better.\n\nIt was a dislike so little just--every imputed fault was so magnified\nby fancy, that she never saw Jane Fairfax the first time after any\nconsiderable absence, without feeling that she had injured her; and\nnow, when the due visit was paid, on her arrival, after a two years'\ninterval, she was particularly struck with the very appearance and\nmanners, which for those two whole years she had been depreciating. Jane\nFairfax was very elegant, remarkably elegant; and she had herself the\nhighest value for elegance. Her height was pretty, just such as almost\nevery body would think tall, and nobody could think very tall; her\nfigure particularly graceful; her size a most becoming medium, between\nfat and thin, though a slight appearance of ill-health seemed to point\nout the likeliest evil of the two. Emma could not but feel all this; and\nthen, her face--her features--there was more beauty in them altogether\nthan she had remembered; it was not regular, but it was very pleasing\nbeauty. Her eyes, a deep grey, with dark eye-lashes and eyebrows, had\nnever been denied their praise; but the skin, which she had been used to\ncavil at, as wanting colour, had a clearness and delicacy which really\nneeded no fuller bloom. It was a style of beauty, of which elegance was\nthe reigning character, and as such, she must, in honour, by all her\nprinciples, admire it:--elegance, which, whether of person or of mind,\nshe saw so little in Highbury. There, not to be vulgar, was distinction,\nand merit.\n\nIn short, she sat, during the first visit, looking at Jane Fairfax with\ntwofold complacency; the sense of pleasure and the sense of rendering\njustice, and was determining that she would dislike her no longer. When\nshe took in her history, indeed, her situation, as well as her beauty;\nwhen she considered what all this elegance was destined to, what she was\ngoing to sink from, how she was going to live, it seemed impossible\nto feel any thing but compassion and respect; especially, if to every\nwell-known particular entitling her to interest, were added the highly\nprobable circumstance of an attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had\nso naturally started to herself. In that case, nothing could be more\npitiable or more honourable than the sacrifices she had resolved on.\nEmma was very willing now to acquit her of having seduced Mr. Dixon's\nactions from his wife, or of any thing mischievous which her imagination\nhad suggested at first. If it were love, it might be simple, single,\nsuccessless love on her side alone. She might have been unconsciously\nsucking in the sad poison, while a sharer of his conversation with her\nfriend; and from the best, the purest of motives, might now be\ndenying herself this visit to Ireland, and resolving to divide herself\neffectually from him and his connexions by soon beginning her career of\nlaborious duty.\n\nUpon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings,\nas made her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury\nafforded no young man worthy of giving her independence; nobody that she\ncould wish to scheme about for her.\n\nThese were charming feelings--but not lasting. Before she had committed\nherself by any public profession of eternal friendship for Jane Fairfax,\nor done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and errors, than\nsaying to Mr. Knightley, \"She certainly is handsome; she is better than\nhandsome!\" Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield with her grandmother\nand aunt, and every thing was relapsing much into its usual state.\nFormer provocations reappeared. The aunt was as tiresome as ever; more\ntiresome, because anxiety for her health was now added to admiration\nof her powers; and they had to listen to the description of exactly how\nlittle bread and butter she ate for breakfast, and how small a slice\nof mutton for dinner, as well as to see exhibitions of new caps and new\nworkbags for her mother and herself; and Jane's offences rose again.\nThey had music; Emma was obliged to play; and the thanks and praise\nwhich necessarily followed appeared to her an affectation of candour, an\nair of greatness, meaning only to shew off in higher style her own very\nsuperior performance. She was, besides, which was the worst of all, so\ncold, so cautious! There was no getting at her real opinion. Wrapt up in\na cloak of politeness, she seemed determined to hazard nothing. She was\ndisgustingly, was suspiciously reserved.\n\nIf any thing could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved on\nthe subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than any thing. She seemed bent\non giving no real insight into Mr. Dixon's character, or her own value\nfor his company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match. It was all\ngeneral approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated or distinguished.\nIt did her no service however. Her caution was thrown away. Emma saw\nits artifice, and returned to her first surmises. There probably _was_\nsomething more to conceal than her own preference; Mr. Dixon, perhaps,\nhad been very near changing one friend for the other, or been fixed only\nto Miss Campbell, for the sake of the future twelve thousand pounds.\n\nThe like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr. Frank Churchill\nhad been at Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they were a\nlittle acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma\nprocure as to what he truly was. \"Was he handsome?\"--\"She believed\nhe was reckoned a very fine young man.\" \"Was he agreeable?\"--\"He was\ngenerally thought so.\" \"Did he appear a sensible young man; a young\nman of information?\"--\"At a watering-place, or in a common London\nacquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were\nall that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than\nthey had yet had of Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his\nmanners pleasing.\" Emma could not forgive her.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nEmma could not forgive her;--but as neither provocation nor resentment\nwere discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party, and had\nseen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was\nexpressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with\nMr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might\nhave done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain enough\nto be very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her unjust to\nJane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement.\n\n\"A very pleasant evening,\" he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been\ntalked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers\nswept away;--\"particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some\nvery good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting\nat one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women;\nsometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss\nFairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing\nundone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument\nat her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence.\"\n\n\"I am happy you approved,\" said Emma, smiling; \"but I hope I am not\noften deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield.\"\n\n\"No, my dear,\" said her father instantly; \"_that_ I am sure you are not.\nThere is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing,\nyou are too attentive. The muffin last night--if it had been handed\nround once, I think it would have been enough.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; \"you are not often\ndeficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I\nthink you understand me, therefore.\"\n\nAn arch look expressed--\"I understand you well enough;\" but she said\nonly, \"Miss Fairfax is reserved.\"\n\n\"I always told you she was--a little; but you will soon overcome all\nthat part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its\nfoundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured.\"\n\n\"You think her diffident. I do not see it.\"\n\n\"My dear Emma,\" said he, moving from his chair into one close by her,\n\"you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant\nevening.\"\n\n\"Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions; and\namused to think how little information I obtained.\"\n\n\"I am disappointed,\" was his only answer.\n\n\"I hope every body had a pleasant evening,\" said Mr. Woodhouse, in his\nquiet way. \"I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I\nmoved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me.\nMiss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though\nshe speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs.\nBates too, in a different way. I like old friends; and Miss Jane\nFairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a\nvery well-behaved young lady indeed. She must have found the evening\nagreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma.\"\n\n\"True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax.\"\n\nEmma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least for the\npresent, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question--\n\n\"She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one's eyes from.\nI am always watching her to admire; and I do pity her from my heart.\"\n\nMr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to\nexpress; and before he could make any reply, Mr. Woodhouse, whose\nthoughts were on the Bates's, said--\n\n\"It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined! a\ngreat pity indeed! and I have often wished--but it is so little one can\nventure to do--small, trifling presents, of any thing uncommon--Now we\nhave killed a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg;\nit is very small and delicate--Hartfield pork is not like any other\npork--but still it is pork--and, my dear Emma, unless one could be sure\nof their making it into steaks, nicely fried, as ours are fried, without\nthe smallest grease, and not roast it, for no stomach can bear roast\npork--I think we had better send the leg--do not you think so, my dear?\"\n\n\"My dear papa, I sent the whole hind-quarter. I knew you would wish it.\nThere will be the leg to be salted, you know, which is so very nice, and\nthe loin to be dressed directly in any manner they like.\"\n\n\"That's right, my dear, very right. I had not thought of it before, but\nthat is the best way. They must not over-salt the leg; and then, if it\nis not over-salted, and if it is very thoroughly boiled, just as Serle\nboils ours, and eaten very moderately of, with a boiled turnip, and a\nlittle carrot or parsnip, I do not consider it unwholesome.\"\n\n\"Emma,\" said Mr. Knightley presently, \"I have a piece of news for you.\nYou like news--and I heard an article in my way hither that I think will\ninterest you.\"\n\n\"News! Oh! yes, I always like news. What is it?--why do you smile\nso?--where did you hear it?--at Randalls?\"\n\nHe had time only to say,\n\n\"No, not at Randalls; I have not been near Randalls,\" when the door was\nthrown open, and Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax walked into the room. Full\nof thanks, and full of news, Miss Bates knew not which to give quickest.\nMr. Knightley soon saw that he had lost his moment, and that not another\nsyllable of communication could rest with him.\n\n\"Oh! my dear sir, how are you this morning? My dear Miss Woodhouse--I\ncome quite over-powered. Such a beautiful hind-quarter of pork! You\nare too bountiful! Have you heard the news? Mr. Elton is going to be\nmarried.\"\n\nEmma had not had time even to think of Mr. Elton, and she was so\ncompletely surprized that she could not avoid a little start, and a\nlittle blush, at the sound.\n\n\"There is my news:--I thought it would interest you,\" said Mr.\nKnightley, with a smile which implied a conviction of some part of what\nhad passed between them.\n\n\"But where could _you_ hear it?\" cried Miss Bates. \"Where could you\npossibly hear it, Mr. Knightley? For it is not five minutes since I\nreceived Mrs. Cole's note--no, it cannot be more than five--or at least\nten--for I had got my bonnet and spencer on, just ready to come out--I\nwas only gone down to speak to Patty again about the pork--Jane was\nstanding in the passage--were not you, Jane?--for my mother was so\nafraid that we had not any salting-pan large enough. So I said I would\ngo down and see, and Jane said, 'Shall I go down instead? for I think\nyou have a little cold, and Patty has been washing the kitchen.'--'Oh!\nmy dear,' said I--well, and just then came the note. A Miss\nHawkins--that's all I know. A Miss Hawkins of Bath. But, Mr. Knightley,\nhow could you possibly have heard it? for the very moment Mr. Cole told\nMrs. Cole of it, she sat down and wrote to me. A Miss Hawkins--\"\n\n\"I was with Mr. Cole on business an hour and a half ago. He had just\nread Elton's letter as I was shewn in, and handed it to me directly.\"\n\n\"Well! that is quite--I suppose there never was a piece of news more\ngenerally interesting. My dear sir, you really are too bountiful. My\nmother desires her very best compliments and regards, and a thousand\nthanks, and says you really quite oppress her.\"\n\n\"We consider our Hartfield pork,\" replied Mr. Woodhouse--\"indeed it\ncertainly is, so very superior to all other pork, that Emma and I cannot\nhave a greater pleasure than--\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear sir, as my mother says, our friends are only too good\nto us. If ever there were people who, without having great wealth\nthemselves, had every thing they could wish for, I am sure it is us.\nWe may well say that 'our lot is cast in a goodly heritage.' Well, Mr.\nKnightley, and so you actually saw the letter; well--\"\n\n\"It was short--merely to announce--but cheerful, exulting, of course.\"--\nHere was a sly glance at Emma. \"He had been so fortunate as to--I forget\nthe precise words--one has no business to remember them. The information\nwas, as you state, that he was going to be married to a Miss Hawkins. By\nhis style, I should imagine it just settled.\"\n\n\"Mr. Elton going to be married!\" said Emma, as soon as she could speak.\n\"He will have every body's wishes for his happiness.\"\n\n\"He is very young to settle,\" was Mr. Woodhouse's observation. \"He had\nbetter not be in a hurry. He seemed to me very well off as he was. We\nwere always glad to see him at Hartfield.\"\n\n\"A new neighbour for us all, Miss Woodhouse!\" said Miss Bates, joyfully;\n\"my mother is so pleased!--she says she cannot bear to have the poor old\nVicarage without a mistress. This is great news, indeed. Jane, you have\nnever seen Mr. Elton!--no wonder that you have such a curiosity to see\nhim.\"\n\nJane's curiosity did not appear of that absorbing nature as wholly to\noccupy her.\n\n\"No--I have never seen Mr. Elton,\" she replied, starting on this appeal;\n\"is he--is he a tall man?\"\n\n\"Who shall answer that question?\" cried Emma. \"My father would say\n'yes,' Mr. Knightley 'no;' and Miss Bates and I that he is just the\nhappy medium. When you have been here a little longer, Miss Fairfax,\nyou will understand that Mr. Elton is the standard of perfection in\nHighbury, both in person and mind.\"\n\n\"Very true, Miss Woodhouse, so she will. He is the very best young\nman--But, my dear Jane, if you remember, I told you yesterday he\nwas precisely the height of Mr. Perry. Miss Hawkins,--I dare say, an\nexcellent young woman. His extreme attention to my mother--wanting\nher to sit in the vicarage pew, that she might hear the better, for my\nmother is a little deaf, you know--it is not much, but she does not\nhear quite quick. Jane says that Colonel Campbell is a little deaf. He\nfancied bathing might be good for it--the warm bath--but she says it did\nhim no lasting benefit. Colonel Campbell, you know, is quite our angel.\nAnd Mr. Dixon seems a very charming young man, quite worthy of him. It\nis such a happiness when good people get together--and they always do.\nNow, here will be Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins; and there are the Coles,\nsuch very good people; and the Perrys--I suppose there never was a\nhappier or a better couple than Mr. and Mrs. Perry. I say, sir,\" turning\nto Mr. Woodhouse, \"I think there are few places with such society as\nHighbury. I always say, we are quite blessed in our neighbours.--My dear\nsir, if there is one thing my mother loves better than another, it is\npork--a roast loin of pork--\"\n\n\"As to who, or what Miss Hawkins is, or how long he has been acquainted\nwith her,\" said Emma, \"nothing I suppose can be known. One feels that it\ncannot be a very long acquaintance. He has been gone only four weeks.\"\n\nNobody had any information to give; and, after a few more wonderings,\nEmma said,\n\n\"You are silent, Miss Fairfax--but I hope you mean to take an interest\nin this news. You, who have been hearing and seeing so much of late\non these subjects, who must have been so deep in the business on Miss\nCampbell's account--we shall not excuse your being indifferent about Mr.\nElton and Miss Hawkins.\"\n\n\"When I have seen Mr. Elton,\" replied Jane, \"I dare say I shall be\ninterested--but I believe it requires _that_ with me. And as it is some\nmonths since Miss Campbell married, the impression may be a little worn\noff.\"\n\n\"Yes, he has been gone just four weeks, as you observe, Miss Woodhouse,\"\nsaid Miss Bates, \"four weeks yesterday.--A Miss Hawkins!--Well, I had\nalways rather fancied it would be some young lady hereabouts; not that\nI ever--Mrs. Cole once whispered to me--but I immediately said, 'No, Mr.\nElton is a most worthy young man--but'--In short, I do not think I am\nparticularly quick at those sort of discoveries. I do not pretend to it.\nWhat is before me, I see. At the same time, nobody could wonder if\nMr. Elton should have aspired--Miss Woodhouse lets me chatter on, so\ngood-humouredly. She knows I would not offend for the world. How does\nMiss Smith do? She seems quite recovered now. Have you heard from Mrs.\nJohn Knightley lately? Oh! those dear little children. Jane, do you\nknow I always fancy Mr. Dixon like Mr. John Knightley. I mean in\nperson--tall, and with that sort of look--and not very talkative.\"\n\n\"Quite wrong, my dear aunt; there is no likeness at all.\"\n\n\"Very odd! but one never does form a just idea of any body beforehand.\nOne takes up a notion, and runs away with it. Mr. Dixon, you say, is\nnot, strictly speaking, handsome?\"\n\n\"Handsome! Oh! no--far from it--certainly plain. I told you he was\nplain.\"\n\n\"My dear, you said that Miss Campbell would not allow him to be plain,\nand that you yourself--\"\n\n\"Oh! as for me, my judgment is worth nothing. Where I have a regard,\nI always think a person well-looking. But I gave what I believed the\ngeneral opinion, when I called him plain.\"\n\n\"Well, my dear Jane, I believe we must be running away. The weather does\nnot look well, and grandmama will be uneasy. You are too obliging, my\ndear Miss Woodhouse; but we really must take leave. This has been a most\nagreeable piece of news indeed. I shall just go round by Mrs. Cole's;\nbut I shall not stop three minutes: and, Jane, you had better go home\ndirectly--I would not have you out in a shower!--We think she is the\nbetter for Highbury already. Thank you, we do indeed. I shall not\nattempt calling on Mrs. Goddard, for I really do not think she cares for\nany thing but _boiled_ pork: when we dress the leg it will be another\nthing. Good morning to you, my dear sir. Oh! Mr. Knightley is coming\ntoo. Well, that is so very!--I am sure if Jane is tired, you will be\nso kind as to give her your arm.--Mr. Elton, and Miss Hawkins!--Good\nmorning to you.\"\n\nEmma, alone with her father, had half her attention wanted by him while\nhe lamented that young people would be in such a hurry to marry--and to\nmarry strangers too--and the other half she could give to her own view\nof the subject. It was to herself an amusing and a very welcome piece\nof news, as proving that Mr. Elton could not have suffered long; but she\nwas sorry for Harriet: Harriet must feel it--and all that she could hope\nwas, by giving the first information herself, to save her from hearing\nit abruptly from others. It was now about the time that she was likely\nto call. If she were to meet Miss Bates in her way!--and upon its\nbeginning to rain, Emma was obliged to expect that the weather would\nbe detaining her at Mrs. Goddard's, and that the intelligence would\nundoubtedly rush upon her without preparation.\n\nThe shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been over five minutes,\nwhen in came Harriet, with just the heated, agitated look which\nhurrying thither with a full heart was likely to give; and the \"Oh! Miss\nWoodhouse, what do you think has happened!\" which instantly burst forth,\nhad all the evidence of corresponding perturbation. As the blow was\ngiven, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater kindness than in\nlistening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had to\ntell. \"She had set out from Mrs. Goddard's half an hour ago--she had\nbeen afraid it would rain--she had been afraid it would pour down\nevery moment--but she thought she might get to Hartfield first--she\nhad hurried on as fast as possible; but then, as she was passing by the\nhouse where a young woman was making up a gown for her, she thought she\nwould just step in and see how it went on; and though she did not seem\nto stay half a moment there, soon after she came out it began to rain,\nand she did not know what to do; so she ran on directly, as fast as\nshe could, and took shelter at Ford's.\"--Ford's was the principal\nwoollen-draper, linen-draper, and haberdasher's shop united; the shop\nfirst in size and fashion in the place.--\"And so, there she had\nset, without an idea of any thing in the world, full ten minutes,\nperhaps--when, all of a sudden, who should come in--to be sure it was\nso very odd!--but they always dealt at Ford's--who should come in, but\nElizabeth Martin and her brother!--Dear Miss Woodhouse! only think. I\nthought I should have fainted. I did not know what to do. I was sitting\nnear the door--Elizabeth saw me directly; but he did not; he was busy\nwith the umbrella. I am sure she saw me, but she looked away directly,\nand took no notice; and they both went to quite the farther end of the\nshop; and I kept sitting near the door!--Oh! dear; I was so miserable!\nI am sure I must have been as white as my gown. I could not go away\nyou know, because of the rain; but I did so wish myself anywhere in the\nworld but there.--Oh! dear, Miss Woodhouse--well, at last, I fancy, he\nlooked round and saw me; for instead of going on with her buyings, they\nbegan whispering to one another. I am sure they were talking of me; and\nI could not help thinking that he was persuading her to speak to me--(do\nyou think he was, Miss Woodhouse?)--for presently she came forward--came\nquite up to me, and asked me how I did, and seemed ready to shake hands,\nif I would. She did not do any of it in the same way that she used; I\ncould see she was altered; but, however, she seemed to _try_ to be very\nfriendly, and we shook hands, and stood talking some time; but I know no\nmore what I said--I was in such a tremble!--I remember she said she\nwas sorry we never met now; which I thought almost too kind! Dear, Miss\nWoodhouse, I was absolutely miserable! By that time, it was beginning to\nhold up, and I was determined that nothing should stop me from getting\naway--and then--only think!--I found he was coming up towards me\ntoo--slowly you know, and as if he did not quite know what to do; and\nso he came and spoke, and I answered--and I stood for a minute, feeling\ndreadfully, you know, one can't tell how; and then I took courage, and\nsaid it did not rain, and I must go; and so off I set; and I had not got\nthree yards from the door, when he came after me, only to say, if I was\ngoing to Hartfield, he thought I had much better go round by Mr. Cole's\nstables, for I should find the near way quite floated by this rain. Oh!\ndear, I thought it would have been the death of me! So I said, I was\nvery much obliged to him: you know I could not do less; and then he went\nback to Elizabeth, and I came round by the stables--I believe I did--but\nI hardly knew where I was, or any thing about it. Oh! Miss Woodhouse,\nI would rather done any thing than have it happen: and yet, you know,\nthere was a sort of satisfaction in seeing him behave so pleasantly and\nso kindly. And Elizabeth, too. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do talk to me and\nmake me comfortable again.\"\n\nVery sincerely did Emma wish to do so; but it was not immediately in\nher power. She was obliged to stop and think. She was not thoroughly\ncomfortable herself. The young man's conduct, and his sister's, seemed\nthe result of real feeling, and she could not but pity them. As Harriet\ndescribed it, there had been an interesting mixture of wounded affection\nand genuine delicacy in their behaviour. But she had believed them to be\nwell-meaning, worthy people before; and what difference did this make\nin the evils of the connexion? It was folly to be disturbed by it. Of\ncourse, he must be sorry to lose her--they must be all sorry. Ambition,\nas well as love, had probably been mortified. They might all have hoped\nto rise by Harriet's acquaintance: and besides, what was the value of\nHarriet's description?--So easily pleased--so little discerning;--what\nsignified her praise?\n\nShe exerted herself, and did try to make her comfortable, by considering\nall that had passed as a mere trifle, and quite unworthy of being dwelt\non,\n\n\"It might be distressing, for the moment,\" said she; \"but you seem to\nhave behaved extremely well; and it is over--and may never--can never,\nas a first meeting, occur again, and therefore you need not think about\nit.\"\n\nHarriet said, \"very true,\" and she \"would not think about it;\" but still\nshe talked of it--still she could talk of nothing else; and Emma, at\nlast, in order to put the Martins out of her head, was obliged to hurry\non the news, which she had meant to give with so much tender caution;\nhardly knowing herself whether to rejoice or be angry, ashamed or only\namused, at such a state of mind in poor Harriet--such a conclusion of\nMr. Elton's importance with her!\n\nMr. Elton's rights, however, gradually revived. Though she did not feel\nthe first intelligence as she might have done the day before, or an hour\nbefore, its interest soon increased; and before their first conversation\nwas over, she had talked herself into all the sensations of curiosity,\nwonder and regret, pain and pleasure, as to this fortunate Miss Hawkins,\nwhich could conduce to place the Martins under proper subordination in\nher fancy.\n\nEmma learned to be rather glad that there had been such a meeting. It\nhad been serviceable in deadening the first shock, without retaining any\ninfluence to alarm. As Harriet now lived, the Martins could not get\nat her, without seeking her, where hitherto they had wanted either the\ncourage or the condescension to seek her; for since her refusal of the\nbrother, the sisters never had been at Mrs. Goddard's; and a twelvemonth\nmight pass without their being thrown together again, with any\nnecessity, or even any power of speech.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nHuman nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting\nsituations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of\nbeing kindly spoken of.\n\nA week had not passed since Miss Hawkins's name was first mentioned in\nHighbury, before she was, by some means or other, discovered to have\nevery recommendation of person and mind; to be handsome, elegant, highly\naccomplished, and perfectly amiable: and when Mr. Elton himself arrived\nto triumph in his happy prospects, and circulate the fame of her merits,\nthere was very little more for him to do, than to tell her Christian\nname, and say whose music she principally played.\n\nMr. Elton returned, a very happy man. He had gone away rejected and\nmortified--disappointed in a very sanguine hope, after a series of what\nappeared to him strong encouragement; and not only losing the right\nlady, but finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong one. He\nhad gone away deeply offended--he came back engaged to another--and\nto another as superior, of course, to the first, as under such\ncircumstances what is gained always is to what is lost. He came back gay\nand self-satisfied, eager and busy, caring nothing for Miss Woodhouse,\nand defying Miss Smith.\n\nThe charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the usual advantages of\nperfect beauty and merit, was in possession of an independent fortune,\nof so many thousands as would always be called ten; a point of some\ndignity, as well as some convenience: the story told well; he had not\nthrown himself away--he had gained a woman of 10,000 l. or thereabouts;\nand he had gained her with such delightful rapidity--the first hour of\nintroduction had been so very soon followed by distinguishing notice;\nthe history which he had to give Mrs. Cole of the rise and progress\nof the affair was so glorious--the steps so quick, from the accidental\nrencontre, to the dinner at Mr. Green's, and the party at Mrs.\nBrown's--smiles and blushes rising in importance--with consciousness and\nagitation richly scattered--the lady had been so easily impressed--so\nsweetly disposed--had in short, to use a most intelligible phrase,\nbeen so very ready to have him, that vanity and prudence were equally\ncontented.\n\nHe had caught both substance and shadow--both fortune and affection, and\nwas just the happy man he ought to be; talking only of himself and\nhis own concerns--expecting to be congratulated--ready to be laughed\nat--and, with cordial, fearless smiles, now addressing all the young\nladies of the place, to whom, a few weeks ago, he would have been more\ncautiously gallant.\n\nThe wedding was no distant event, as the parties had only themselves to\nplease, and nothing but the necessary preparations to wait for; and\nwhen he set out for Bath again, there was a general expectation, which\na certain glance of Mrs. Cole's did not seem to contradict, that when he\nnext entered Highbury he would bring his bride.\n\nDuring his present short stay, Emma had barely seen him; but just enough\nto feel that the first meeting was over, and to give her the impression\nof his not being improved by the mixture of pique and pretension, now\nspread over his air. She was, in fact, beginning very much to wonder\nthat she had ever thought him pleasing at all; and his sight was so\ninseparably connected with some very disagreeable feelings, that,\nexcept in a moral light, as a penance, a lesson, a source of profitable\nhumiliation to her own mind, she would have been thankful to be assured\nof never seeing him again. She wished him very well; but he gave\nher pain, and his welfare twenty miles off would administer most\nsatisfaction.\n\nThe pain of his continued residence in Highbury, however, must\ncertainly be lessened by his marriage. Many vain solicitudes would be\nprevented--many awkwardnesses smoothed by it. A _Mrs._ _Elton_ would\nbe an excuse for any change of intercourse; former intimacy might sink\nwithout remark. It would be almost beginning their life of civility\nagain.\n\nOf the lady, individually, Emma thought very little. She was good enough\nfor Mr. Elton, no doubt; accomplished enough for Highbury--handsome\nenough--to look plain, probably, by Harriet's side. As to connexion,\nthere Emma was perfectly easy; persuaded, that after all his own vaunted\nclaims and disdain of Harriet, he had done nothing. On that article,\ntruth seemed attainable. _What_ she was, must be uncertain; but _who_\nshe was, might be found out; and setting aside the 10,000 l., it did not\nappear that she was at all Harriet's superior. She brought no name, no\nblood, no alliance. Miss Hawkins was the youngest of the two daughters\nof a Bristol--merchant, of course, he must be called; but, as the whole\nof the profits of his mercantile life appeared so very moderate, it\nwas not unfair to guess the dignity of his line of trade had been very\nmoderate also. Part of every winter she had been used to spend in Bath;\nbut Bristol was her home, the very heart of Bristol; for though the\nfather and mother had died some years ago, an uncle remained--in the law\nline--nothing more distinctly honourable was hazarded of him, than\nthat he was in the law line; and with him the daughter had lived. Emma\nguessed him to be the drudge of some attorney, and too stupid to rise.\nAnd all the grandeur of the connexion seemed dependent on the elder\nsister, who was _very_ _well_ _married_, to a gentleman in a _great_\n_way_, near Bristol, who kept two carriages! That was the wind-up of the\nhistory; that was the glory of Miss Hawkins.\n\nCould she but have given Harriet her feelings about it all! She had\ntalked her into love; but, alas! she was not so easily to be talked out\nof it. The charm of an object to occupy the many vacancies of Harriet's\nmind was not to be talked away. He might be superseded by another; he\ncertainly would indeed; nothing could be clearer; even a Robert Martin\nwould have been sufficient; but nothing else, she feared, would cure\nher. Harriet was one of those, who, having once begun, would be always\nin love. And now, poor girl! she was considerably worse from this\nreappearance of Mr. Elton. She was always having a glimpse of him\nsomewhere or other. Emma saw him only once; but two or three times every\nday Harriet was sure _just_ to meet with him, or _just_ to miss him,\n_just_ to hear his voice, or see his shoulder, _just_ to have something\noccur to preserve him in her fancy, in all the favouring warmth of\nsurprize and conjecture. She was, moreover, perpetually hearing about\nhim; for, excepting when at Hartfield, she was always among those who\nsaw no fault in Mr. Elton, and found nothing so interesting as\nthe discussion of his concerns; and every report, therefore, every\nguess--all that had already occurred, all that might occur in the\narrangement of his affairs, comprehending income, servants, and\nfurniture, was continually in agitation around her. Her regard was\nreceiving strength by invariable praise of him, and her regrets kept\nalive, and feelings irritated by ceaseless repetitions of Miss\nHawkins's happiness, and continual observation of, how much he seemed\nattached!--his air as he walked by the house--the very sitting of his\nhat, being all in proof of how much he was in love!\n\nHad it been allowable entertainment, had there been no pain to her\nfriend, or reproach to herself, in the waverings of Harriet's mind,\nEmma would have been amused by its variations. Sometimes Mr. Elton\npredominated, sometimes the Martins; and each was occasionally useful\nas a check to the other. Mr. Elton's engagement had been the cure of\nthe agitation of meeting Mr. Martin. The unhappiness produced by the\nknowledge of that engagement had been a little put aside by Elizabeth\nMartin's calling at Mrs. Goddard's a few days afterwards. Harriet had\nnot been at home; but a note had been prepared and left for her, written\nin the very style to touch; a small mixture of reproach, with a great\ndeal of kindness; and till Mr. Elton himself appeared, she had been much\noccupied by it, continually pondering over what could be done in return,\nand wishing to do more than she dared to confess. But Mr. Elton, in\nperson, had driven away all such cares. While he staid, the Martins were\nforgotten; and on the very morning of his setting off for Bath again,\nEmma, to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned, judged it best\nfor her to return Elizabeth Martin's visit.\n\nHow that visit was to be acknowledged--what would be necessary--and\nwhat might be safest, had been a point of some doubtful consideration.\nAbsolute neglect of the mother and sisters, when invited to come, would\nbe ingratitude. It must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of the\nacquaintance--!\n\nAfter much thinking, she could determine on nothing better, than\nHarriet's returning the visit; but in a way that, if they had\nunderstanding, should convince them that it was to be only a formal\nacquaintance. She meant to take her in the carriage, leave her at the\nAbbey Mill, while she drove a little farther, and call for her again\nso soon, as to allow no time for insidious applications or dangerous\nrecurrences to the past, and give the most decided proof of what degree\nof intimacy was chosen for the future.\n\nShe could think of nothing better: and though there was something in it\nwhich her own heart could not approve--something of ingratitude, merely\nglossed over--it must be done, or what would become of Harriet?\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nSmall heart had Harriet for visiting. Only half an hour before her\nfriend called for her at Mrs. Goddard's, her evil stars had led her\nto the very spot where, at that moment, a trunk, directed to _The Rev.\nPhilip Elton, White-Hart, Bath_, was to be seen under the operation of\nbeing lifted into the butcher's cart, which was to convey it to where\nthe coaches past; and every thing in this world, excepting that trunk\nand the direction, was consequently a blank.\n\nShe went, however; and when they reached the farm, and she was to be\nput down, at the end of the broad, neat gravel walk, which led between\nespalier apple-trees to the front door, the sight of every thing which\nhad given her so much pleasure the autumn before, was beginning to\nrevive a little local agitation; and when they parted, Emma observed her\nto be looking around with a sort of fearful curiosity, which determined\nher not to allow the visit to exceed the proposed quarter of an hour.\nShe went on herself, to give that portion of time to an old servant who\nwas married, and settled in Donwell.\n\nThe quarter of an hour brought her punctually to the white gate again;\nand Miss Smith receiving her summons, was with her without delay, and\nunattended by any alarming young man. She came solitarily down the\ngravel walk--a Miss Martin just appearing at the door, and parting with\nher seemingly with ceremonious civility.\n\nHarriet could not very soon give an intelligible account. She was\nfeeling too much; but at last Emma collected from her enough to\nunderstand the sort of meeting, and the sort of pain it was creating.\nShe had seen only Mrs. Martin and the two girls. They had received her\ndoubtingly, if not coolly; and nothing beyond the merest commonplace had\nbeen talked almost all the time--till just at last, when Mrs. Martin's\nsaying, all of a sudden, that she thought Miss Smith was grown, had\nbrought on a more interesting subject, and a warmer manner. In that very\nroom she had been measured last September, with her two friends. There\nwere the pencilled marks and memorandums on the wainscot by the window.\n_He_ had done it. They all seemed to remember the day, the hour,\nthe party, the occasion--to feel the same consciousness, the same\nregrets--to be ready to return to the same good understanding; and they\nwere just growing again like themselves, (Harriet, as Emma must suspect,\nas ready as the best of them to be cordial and happy,) when the carriage\nreappeared, and all was over. The style of the visit, and the shortness\nof it, were then felt to be decisive. Fourteen minutes to be given\nto those with whom she had thankfully passed six weeks not six months\nago!--Emma could not but picture it all, and feel how justly they might\nresent, how naturally Harriet must suffer. It was a bad business. She\nwould have given a great deal, or endured a great deal, to have had\nthe Martins in a higher rank of life. They were so deserving, that a\n_little_ higher should have been enough: but as it was, how could she\nhave done otherwise?--Impossible!--She could not repent. They must be\nseparated; but there was a great deal of pain in the process--so much\nto herself at this time, that she soon felt the necessity of a little\nconsolation, and resolved on going home by way of Randalls to\nprocure it. Her mind was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins. The\nrefreshment of Randalls was absolutely necessary.\n\nIt was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they heard that neither\n\"master nor mistress was at home;\" they had both been out some time; the\nman believed they were gone to Hartfield.\n\n\"This is too bad,\" cried Emma, as they turned away. \"And now we shall\njust miss them; too provoking!--I do not know when I have been so\ndisappointed.\" And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge her\nmurmurs, or to reason them away; probably a little of both--such being\nthe commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind. Presently the carriage\nstopt; she looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were\nstanding to speak to her. There was instant pleasure in the sight of\nthem, and still greater pleasure was conveyed in sound--for Mr. Weston\nimmediately accosted her with,\n\n\"How d'ye do?--how d'ye do?--We have been sitting with your father--glad\nto see him so well. Frank comes to-morrow--I had a letter this\nmorning--we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a certainty--he is at\nOxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be\nso. If he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days; I\nwas always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going to have\njust the right weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather. We shall\nenjoy him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could\nwish.\"\n\nThere was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the\ninfluence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston's, confirmed as it all was\nby the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not\nless to the purpose. To know that _she_ thought his coming certain was\nenough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in\ntheir joy. It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted spirits.\nThe worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was coming; and in\nthe rapidity of half a moment's thought, she hoped Mr. Elton would now\nbe talked of no more.\n\nMr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which\nallowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command,\nas well as the route and the method of his journey; and she listened,\nand smiled, and congratulated.\n\n\"I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield,\" said he, at the conclusion.\n\nEmma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his\nwife.\n\n\"We had better move on, Mr. Weston,\" said she, \"we are detaining the\ngirls.\"\n\n\"Well, well, I am ready;\"--and turning again to Emma, \"but you must\nnot be expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only\nhad _my_ account you know; I dare say he is really nothing\nextraordinary:\"--though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were\nspeaking a very different conviction.\n\nEmma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a\nmanner that appropriated nothing.\n\n\"Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o'clock,\" was Mrs.\nWeston's parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant only\nfor her.\n\n\"Four o'clock!--depend upon it he will be here by three,\" was Mr.\nWeston's quick amendment; and so ended a most satisfactory meeting.\nEmma's spirits were mounted quite up to happiness; every thing wore\na different air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as\nbefore. When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least\nmust soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw\nsomething like a look of spring, a tender smile even there.\n\n\"Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Oxford?\"--was a\nquestion, however, which did not augur much.\n\nBut neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once, and Emma\nwas now in a humour to resolve that they should both come in time.\n\nThe morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston's faithful\npupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, or twelve o'clock, that\nshe was to think of her at four.\n\n\"My dear, dear anxious friend,\"--said she, in mental soliloquy, while\nwalking downstairs from her own room, \"always overcareful for every\nbody's comfort but your own; I see you now in all your little fidgets,\ngoing again and again into his room, to be sure that all is right.\"\nThe clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall. \"'Tis twelve;\nI shall not forget to think of you four hours hence; and by this\ntime to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the\npossibility of their all calling here. I am sure they will bring him\nsoon.\"\n\nShe opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her\nfather--Mr. Weston and his son. They had been arrived only a few\nminutes, and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation of Frank's\nbeing a day before his time, and her father was yet in the midst of his\nvery civil welcome and congratulations, when she appeared, to have her\nshare of surprize, introduction, and pleasure.\n\nThe Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in interest, was actually\nbefore her--he was presented to her, and she did not think too much had\nbeen said in his praise; he was a _very_ good looking young man; height,\nair, address, all were unexceptionable, and his countenance had a great\ndeal of the spirit and liveliness of his father's; he looked quick and\nsensible. She felt immediately that she should like him; and there was\na well-bred ease of manner, and a readiness to talk, which convinced her\nthat he came intending to be acquainted with her, and that acquainted\nthey soon must be.\n\nHe had reached Randalls the evening before. She was pleased with the\neagerness to arrive which had made him alter his plan, and travel\nearlier, later, and quicker, that he might gain half a day.\n\n\"I told you yesterday,\" cried Mr. Weston with exultation, \"I told you\nall that he would be here before the time named. I remembered what I\nused to do myself. One cannot creep upon a journey; one cannot help\ngetting on faster than one has planned; and the pleasure of coming in\nupon one's friends before the look-out begins, is worth a great deal\nmore than any little exertion it needs.\"\n\n\"It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it,\" said the young\nman, \"though there are not many houses that I should presume on so far;\nbut in coming _home_ I felt I might do any thing.\"\n\nThe word _home_ made his father look on him with fresh complacency.\nEmma was directly sure that he knew how to make himself agreeable; the\nconviction was strengthened by what followed. He was very much pleased\nwith Randalls, thought it a most admirably arranged house, would hardly\nallow it even to be very small, admired the situation, the walk to\nHighbury, Highbury itself, Hartfield still more, and professed himself\nto have always felt the sort of interest in the country which none but\none's _own_ country gives, and the greatest curiosity to visit it. That\nhe should never have been able to indulge so amiable a feeling before,\npassed suspiciously through Emma's brain; but still, if it were a\nfalsehood, it was a pleasant one, and pleasantly handled. His manner had\nno air of study or exaggeration. He did really look and speak as if in a\nstate of no common enjoyment.\n\nTheir subjects in general were such as belong to an opening\nacquaintance. On his side were the inquiries,--\"Was she a\nhorsewoman?--Pleasant rides?--Pleasant walks?--Had they a large\nneighbourhood?--Highbury, perhaps, afforded society enough?--There were\nseveral very pretty houses in and about it.--Balls--had they balls?--Was\nit a musical society?\"\n\nBut when satisfied on all these points, and their acquaintance\nproportionably advanced, he contrived to find an opportunity, while\ntheir two fathers were engaged with each other, of introducing his\nmother-in-law, and speaking of her with so much handsome praise, so much\nwarm admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured to his\nfather, and her very kind reception of himself, as was an additional\nproof of his knowing how to please--and of his certainly thinking it\nworth while to try to please her. He did not advance a word of praise\nbeyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs. Weston; but,\nundoubtedly he could know very little of the matter. He understood\nwhat would be welcome; he could be sure of little else. \"His father's\nmarriage,\" he said, \"had been the wisest measure, every friend must\nrejoice in it; and the family from whom he had received such a blessing\nmust be ever considered as having conferred the highest obligation on\nhim.\"\n\nHe got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor's merits,\nwithout seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it\nwas to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse's\ncharacter, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor's. And at last, as if\nresolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its\nobject, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of\nher person.\n\n\"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,\" said he; \"but I\nconfess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a\nvery tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that\nI was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston.\"\n\n\"You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings,\"\nsaid Emma; \"were you to guess her to be _eighteen_, I should listen with\npleasure; but _she_ would be ready to quarrel with you for using such\nwords. Don't let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty\nyoung woman.\"\n\n\"I hope I should know better,\" he replied; \"no, depend upon it, (with a\ngallant bow,) that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand whom\nI might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my\nterms.\"\n\nEmma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from\ntheir knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her mind,\nhad ever crossed his; and whether his compliments were to be considered\nas marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must see more\nof him to understand his ways; at present she only felt they were\nagreeable.\n\nShe had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about. His quick\neye she detected again and again glancing towards them with a happy\nexpression; and even, when he might have determined not to look, she was\nconfident that he was often listening.\n\nHer own father's perfect exemption from any thought of the kind, the\nentire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion,\nwas a most comfortable circumstance. Happily he was not farther from\napproving matrimony than from foreseeing it.--Though always objecting\nto every marriage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand from\nthe apprehension of any; it seemed as if he could not think so ill of\nany two persons' understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it\nwere proved against them. She blessed the favouring blindness. He could\nnow, without the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise, without a\nglance forward at any possible treachery in his guest, give way to all\nhis natural kind-hearted civility in solicitous inquiries after Mr.\nFrank Churchill's accommodation on his journey, through the sad evils\nof sleeping two nights on the road, and express very genuine unmixed\nanxiety to know that he had certainly escaped catching cold--which,\nhowever, he could not allow him to feel quite assured of himself till\nafter another night.\n\nA reasonable visit paid, Mr. Weston began to move.--\"He must be going.\nHe had business at the Crown about his hay, and a great many errands for\nMrs. Weston at Ford's, but he need not hurry any body else.\" His son,\ntoo well bred to hear the hint, rose immediately also, saying,\n\n\"As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the opportunity\nof paying a visit, which must be paid some day or other, and therefore\nmay as well be paid now. I have the honour of being acquainted with\na neighbour of yours, (turning to Emma,) a lady residing in or near\nHighbury; a family of the name of Fairfax. I shall have no difficulty,\nI suppose, in finding the house; though Fairfax, I believe, is not\nthe proper name--I should rather say Barnes, or Bates. Do you know any\nfamily of that name?\"\n\n\"To be sure we do,\" cried his father; \"Mrs. Bates--we passed her\nhouse--I saw Miss Bates at the window. True, true, you are acquainted\nwith Miss Fairfax; I remember you knew her at Weymouth, and a fine girl\nshe is. Call upon her, by all means.\"\n\n\"There is no necessity for my calling this morning,\" said the young man;\n\"another day would do as well; but there was that degree of acquaintance\nat Weymouth which--\"\n\n\"Oh! go to-day, go to-day. Do not defer it. What is right to be done\ncannot be done too soon. And, besides, I must give you a hint, Frank;\nany want of attention to her _here_ should be carefully avoided. You saw\nher with the Campbells, when she was the equal of every body she mixed\nwith, but here she is with a poor old grandmother, who has barely enough\nto live on. If you do not call early it will be a slight.\"\n\nThe son looked convinced.\n\n\"I have heard her speak of the acquaintance,\" said Emma; \"she is a very\nelegant young woman.\"\n\nHe agreed to it, but with so quiet a \"Yes,\" as inclined her almost to\ndoubt his real concurrence; and yet there must be a very distinct sort\nof elegance for the fashionable world, if Jane Fairfax could be thought\nonly ordinarily gifted with it.\n\n\"If you were never particularly struck by her manners before,\" said she,\n\"I think you will to-day. You will see her to advantage; see her and\nhear her--no, I am afraid you will not hear her at all, for she has an\naunt who never holds her tongue.\"\n\n\"You are acquainted with Miss Jane Fairfax, sir, are you?\" said Mr.\nWoodhouse, always the last to make his way in conversation; \"then give\nme leave to assure you that you will find her a very agreeable young\nlady. She is staying here on a visit to her grandmama and aunt, very\nworthy people; I have known them all my life. They will be extremely\nglad to see you, I am sure; and one of my servants shall go with you to\nshew you the way.\"\n\n\"My dear sir, upon no account in the world; my father can direct me.\"\n\n\"But your father is not going so far; he is only going to the Crown,\nquite on the other side of the street, and there are a great many\nhouses; you might be very much at a loss, and it is a very dirty walk,\nunless you keep on the footpath; but my coachman can tell you where you\nhad best cross the street.\"\n\nMr. Frank Churchill still declined it, looking as serious as he could,\nand his father gave his hearty support by calling out, \"My good friend,\nthis is quite unnecessary; Frank knows a puddle of water when he sees\nit, and as to Mrs. Bates's, he may get there from the Crown in a hop,\nstep, and jump.\"\n\nThey were permitted to go alone; and with a cordial nod from one, and a\ngraceful bow from the other, the two gentlemen took leave. Emma remained\nvery well pleased with this beginning of the acquaintance, and could now\nengage to think of them all at Randalls any hour of the day, with full\nconfidence in their comfort.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nThe next morning brought Mr. Frank Churchill again. He came with Mrs.\nWeston, to whom and to Highbury he seemed to take very cordially. He had\nbeen sitting with her, it appeared, most companionably at home, till\nher usual hour of exercise; and on being desired to chuse their walk,\nimmediately fixed on Highbury.--\"He did not doubt there being very\npleasant walks in every direction, but if left to him, he should always\nchuse the same. Highbury, that airy, cheerful, happy-looking Highbury,\nwould be his constant attraction.\"--Highbury, with Mrs. Weston, stood\nfor Hartfield; and she trusted to its bearing the same construction with\nhim. They walked thither directly.\n\nEmma had hardly expected them: for Mr. Weston, who had called in for\nhalf a minute, in order to hear that his son was very handsome, knew\nnothing of their plans; and it was an agreeable surprize to her,\ntherefore, to perceive them walking up to the house together, arm in\narm. She was wanting to see him again, and especially to see him in\ncompany with Mrs. Weston, upon his behaviour to whom her opinion of him\nwas to depend. If he were deficient there, nothing should make amends\nfor it. But on seeing them together, she became perfectly satisfied. It\nwas not merely in fine words or hyperbolical compliment that he paid his\nduty; nothing could be more proper or pleasing than his whole manner to\nher--nothing could more agreeably denote his wish of considering her as\na friend and securing her affection. And there was time enough for Emma\nto form a reasonable judgment, as their visit included all the rest of\nthe morning. They were all three walking about together for an hour\nor two--first round the shrubberies of Hartfield, and afterwards\nin Highbury. He was delighted with every thing; admired Hartfield\nsufficiently for Mr. Woodhouse's ear; and when their going farther was\nresolved on, confessed his wish to be made acquainted with the whole\nvillage, and found matter of commendation and interest much oftener than\nEmma could have supposed.\n\nSome of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable feelings. He\nbegged to be shewn the house which his father had lived in so long, and\nwhich had been the home of his father's father; and on recollecting that\nan old woman who had nursed him was still living, walked in quest of\nher cottage from one end of the street to the other; and though in\nsome points of pursuit or observation there was no positive merit, they\nshewed, altogether, a good-will towards Highbury in general, which must\nbe very like a merit to those he was with.\n\nEmma watched and decided, that with such feelings as were now shewn, it\ncould not be fairly supposed that he had been ever voluntarily absenting\nhimself; that he had not been acting a part, or making a parade of\ninsincere professions; and that Mr. Knightley certainly had not done him\njustice.\n\nTheir first pause was at the Crown Inn, an inconsiderable house, though\nthe principal one of the sort, where a couple of pair of post-horses\nwere kept, more for the convenience of the neighbourhood than from any\nrun on the road; and his companions had not expected to be detained by\nany interest excited there; but in passing it they gave the history of\nthe large room visibly added; it had been built many years ago for\na ball-room, and while the neighbourhood had been in a particularly\npopulous, dancing state, had been occasionally used as such;--but such\nbrilliant days had long passed away, and now the highest purpose for\nwhich it was ever wanted was to accommodate a whist club established\namong the gentlemen and half-gentlemen of the place. He was immediately\ninterested. Its character as a ball-room caught him; and instead of\npassing on, he stopt for several minutes at the two superior sashed\nwindows which were open, to look in and contemplate its capabilities,\nand lament that its original purpose should have ceased. He saw no fault\nin the room, he would acknowledge none which they suggested. No, it\nwas long enough, broad enough, handsome enough. It would hold the\nvery number for comfort. They ought to have balls there at least every\nfortnight through the winter. Why had not Miss Woodhouse revived\nthe former good old days of the room?--She who could do any thing in\nHighbury! The want of proper families in the place, and the conviction\nthat none beyond the place and its immediate environs could be tempted\nto attend, were mentioned; but he was not satisfied. He could not be\npersuaded that so many good-looking houses as he saw around him, could\nnot furnish numbers enough for such a meeting; and even when particulars\nwere given and families described, he was still unwilling to admit that\nthe inconvenience of such a mixture would be any thing, or that there\nwould be the smallest difficulty in every body's returning into their\nproper place the next morning. He argued like a young man very much bent\non dancing; and Emma was rather surprized to see the constitution of\nthe Weston prevail so decidedly against the habits of the Churchills.\nHe seemed to have all the life and spirit, cheerful feelings, and social\ninclinations of his father, and nothing of the pride or reserve of\nEnscombe. Of pride, indeed, there was, perhaps, scarcely enough; his\nindifference to a confusion of rank, bordered too much on inelegance of\nmind. He could be no judge, however, of the evil he was holding cheap.\nIt was but an effusion of lively spirits.\n\nAt last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the Crown;\nand being now almost facing the house where the Bateses lodged, Emma\nrecollected his intended visit the day before, and asked him if he had\npaid it.\n\n\"Yes, oh! yes\"--he replied; \"I was just going to mention it. A very\nsuccessful visit:--I saw all the three ladies; and felt very much\nobliged to you for your preparatory hint. If the talking aunt had taken\nme quite by surprize, it must have been the death of me. As it was, I\nwas only betrayed into paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes\nwould have been all that was necessary, perhaps all that was proper; and\nI had told my father I should certainly be at home before him--but there\nwas no getting away, no pause; and, to my utter astonishment, I found,\nwhen he (finding me nowhere else) joined me there at last, that I had\nbeen actually sitting with them very nearly three-quarters of an hour.\nThe good lady had not given me the possibility of escape before.\"\n\n\"And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?\"\n\n\"Ill, very ill--that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look\nill. But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it? Ladies\ncan never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so\npale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health.--A most\ndeplorable want of complexion.\"\n\nEmma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss Fairfax's\ncomplexion. \"It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not\nallow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness and\ndelicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of\nher face.\" He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he had\nheard many people say the same--but yet he must confess, that to him\nnothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health. Where\nfeatures were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them all;\nand where they were good, the effect was--fortunately he need not\nattempt to describe what the effect was.\n\n\"Well,\" said Emma, \"there is no disputing about taste.--At least you\nadmire her except her complexion.\"\n\nHe shook his head and laughed.--\"I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her\ncomplexion.\"\n\n\"Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same society?\"\n\nAt this moment they were approaching Ford's, and he hastily exclaimed,\n\"Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of\ntheir lives, as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he\nsays, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford's.\nIf it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove\nmyself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must\nbuy something at Ford's. It will be taking out my freedom.--I dare say\nthey sell gloves.\"\n\n\"Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will\nbe adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because\nyou were Mr. Weston's son--but lay out half a guinea at Ford's, and your\npopularity will stand upon your own virtues.\"\n\nThey went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of \"Men's Beavers\"\nand \"York Tan\" were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he\nsaid--\"But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me,\nyou were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my _amor_\n_patriae_. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of\npublic fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in\nprivate life.\"\n\n\"I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her\nparty at Weymouth.\"\n\n\"And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a\nvery unfair one. It is always the lady's right to decide on the degree\nof acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.--I\nshall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow.\"\n\n\"Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But\nher account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very\nreserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any\nbody, that I really think you may say what you like of your acquaintance\nwith her.\"\n\n\"May I, indeed?--Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so\nwell. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a\nlittle in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set.\nColonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly,\nwarm-hearted woman. I like them all.\"\n\n\"You know Miss Fairfax's situation in life, I conclude; what she is\ndestined to be?\"\n\n\"Yes--(rather hesitatingly)--I believe I do.\"\n\n\"You get upon delicate subjects, Emma,\" said Mrs. Weston smiling;\n\"remember that I am here.--Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say\nwhen you speak of Miss Fairfax's situation in life. I will move a little\nfarther off.\"\n\n\"I certainly do forget to think of _her_,\" said Emma, \"as having ever\nbeen any thing but my friend and my dearest friend.\"\n\nHe looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment.\n\nWhen the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again, \"Did\nyou ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?\" said Frank\nChurchill.\n\n\"Ever hear her!\" repeated Emma. \"You forget how much she belongs to\nHighbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began.\nShe plays charmingly.\"\n\n\"You think so, do you?--I wanted the opinion of some one who\ncould really judge. She appeared to me to play well, that is, with\nconsiderable taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself.--I am\nexcessively fond of music, but without the smallest skill or right\nof judging of any body's performance.--I have been used to hear her's\nadmired; and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:--a\nman, a very musical man, and in love with another woman--engaged to\nher--on the point of marriage--would yet never ask that other woman\nto sit down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit down\ninstead--never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other.\nThat, I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some proof.\"\n\n\"Proof indeed!\" said Emma, highly amused.--\"Mr. Dixon is very musical,\nis he? We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you,\nthan Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year.\"\n\n\"Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a\nvery strong proof.\"\n\n\"Certainly--very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger\nthan, if _I_ had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable\nto me. I could not excuse a man's having more music than love--more ear\nthan eye--a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings.\nHow did Miss Campbell appear to like it?\"\n\n\"It was her very particular friend, you know.\"\n\n\"Poor comfort!\" said Emma, laughing. \"One would rather have a stranger\npreferred than one's very particular friend--with a stranger it might\nnot recur again--but the misery of having a very particular friend\nalways at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!--Poor\nMrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland.\"\n\n\"You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she\nreally did not seem to feel it.\"\n\n\"So much the better--or so much the worse:--I do not know which. But\nbe it sweetness or be it stupidity in her--quickness of friendship, or\ndulness of feeling--there was one person, I think, who must have felt\nit: Miss Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous\ndistinction.\"\n\n\"As to that--I do not--\"\n\n\"Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax's\nsensations from you, or from any body else. They are known to no human\nbeing, I guess, but herself. But if she continued to play whenever she\nwas asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chuses.\"\n\n\"There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all--\"\nhe began rather quickly, but checking himself, added, \"however, it is\nimpossible for me to say on what terms they really were--how it might\nall be behind the scenes. I can only say that there was smoothness\noutwardly. But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must be\na better judge of her character, and of how she is likely to conduct\nherself in critical situations, than I can be.\"\n\n\"I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have been children\nand women together; and it is natural to suppose that we should be\nintimate,--that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited\nher friends. But we never did. I hardly know how it has happened; a\nlittle, perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to take\ndisgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always was,\nby her aunt and grandmother, and all their set. And then, her reserve--I\nnever could attach myself to any one so completely reserved.\"\n\n\"It is a most repulsive quality, indeed,\" said he. \"Oftentimes very\nconvenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There is safety in reserve,\nbut no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person.\"\n\n\"Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then the attraction\nmay be the greater. But I must be more in want of a friend, or an\nagreeable companion, than I have yet been, to take the trouble of\nconquering any body's reserve to procure one. Intimacy between Miss\nFairfax and me is quite out of the question. I have no reason to think\nill of her--not the least--except that such extreme and perpetual\ncautiousness of word and manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea\nabout any body, is apt to suggest suspicions of there being something to\nconceal.\"\n\nHe perfectly agreed with her: and after walking together so long, and\nthinking so much alike, Emma felt herself so well acquainted with him,\nthat she could hardly believe it to be only their second meeting. He was\nnot exactly what she had expected; less of the man of the world in some\nof his notions, less of the spoiled child of fortune, therefore better\nthan she had expected. His ideas seemed more moderate--his feelings\nwarmer. She was particularly struck by his manner of considering Mr.\nElton's house, which, as well as the church, he would go and look at,\nand would not join them in finding much fault with. No, he could not\nbelieve it a bad house; not such a house as a man was to be pitied for\nhaving. If it were to be shared with the woman he loved, he could not\nthink any man to be pitied for having that house. There must be ample\nroom in it for every real comfort. The man must be a blockhead who\nwanted more.\n\nMrs. Weston laughed, and said he did not know what he was talking about.\nUsed only to a large house himself, and without ever thinking how many\nadvantages and accommodations were attached to its size, he could be no\njudge of the privations inevitably belonging to a small one. But Emma,\nin her own mind, determined that he _did_ know what he was talking\nabout, and that he shewed a very amiable inclination to settle early in\nlife, and to marry, from worthy motives. He might not be aware of the\ninroads on domestic peace to be occasioned by no housekeeper's room, or\na bad butler's pantry, but no doubt he did perfectly feel that Enscombe\ncould not make him happy, and that whenever he were attached, he would\nwillingly give up much of wealth to be allowed an early establishment.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nEmma's very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a little shaken the\nfollowing day, by hearing that he was gone off to London, merely to have\nhis hair cut. A sudden freak seemed to have seized him at breakfast, and\nhe had sent for a chaise and set off, intending to return to dinner,\nbut with no more important view that appeared than having his hair cut.\nThere was certainly no harm in his travelling sixteen miles twice over\non such an errand; but there was an air of foppery and nonsense in it\nwhich she could not approve. It did not accord with the rationality of\nplan, the moderation in expense, or even the unselfish warmth of heart,\nwhich she had believed herself to discern in him yesterday. Vanity,\nextravagance, love of change, restlessness of temper, which must be\ndoing something, good or bad; heedlessness as to the pleasure of his\nfather and Mrs. Weston, indifferent as to how his conduct might appear\nin general; he became liable to all these charges. His father only\ncalled him a coxcomb, and thought it a very good story; but that Mrs.\nWeston did not like it, was clear enough, by her passing it over as\nquickly as possible, and making no other comment than that \"all young\npeople would have their little whims.\"\n\nWith the exception of this little blot, Emma found that his visit\nhitherto had given her friend only good ideas of him. Mrs. Weston\nwas very ready to say how attentive and pleasant a companion he made\nhimself--how much she saw to like in his disposition altogether. He\nappeared to have a very open temper--certainly a very cheerful and\nlively one; she could observe nothing wrong in his notions, a great deal\ndecidedly right; he spoke of his uncle with warm regard, was fond of\ntalking of him--said he would be the best man in the world if he were\nleft to himself; and though there was no being attached to the aunt, he\nacknowledged her kindness with gratitude, and seemed to mean always to\nspeak of her with respect. This was all very promising; and, but for\nsuch an unfortunate fancy for having his hair cut, there was nothing to\ndenote him unworthy of the distinguished honour which her imagination\nhad given him; the honour, if not of being really in love with her,\nof being at least very near it, and saved only by her own\nindifference--(for still her resolution held of never marrying)--the\nhonour, in short, of being marked out for her by all their joint\nacquaintance.\n\nMr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account which must\nhave some weight. He gave her to understand that Frank admired her\nextremely--thought her very beautiful and very charming; and with so\nmuch to be said for him altogether, she found she must not judge him\nharshly. As Mrs. Weston observed, \"all young people would have their\nlittle whims.\"\n\nThere was one person among his new acquaintance in Surry, not so\nleniently disposed. In general he was judged, throughout the parishes of\nDonwell and Highbury, with great candour; liberal allowances were made\nfor the little excesses of such a handsome young man--one who smiled so\noften and bowed so well; but there was one spirit among them not to be\nsoftened, from its power of censure, by bows or smiles--Mr. Knightley.\nThe circumstance was told him at Hartfield; for the moment, he was\nsilent; but Emma heard him almost immediately afterwards say to himself,\nover a newspaper he held in his hand, \"Hum! just the trifling, silly\nfellow I took him for.\" She had half a mind to resent; but an instant's\nobservation convinced her that it was really said only to relieve his\nown feelings, and not meant to provoke; and therefore she let it pass.\n\nAlthough in one instance the bearers of not good tidings, Mr. and\nMrs. Weston's visit this morning was in another respect particularly\nopportune. Something occurred while they were at Hartfield, to make Emma\nwant their advice; and, which was still more lucky, she wanted exactly\nthe advice they gave.\n\nThis was the occurrence:--The Coles had been settled some years in\nHighbury, and were very good sort of people--friendly, liberal, and\nunpretending; but, on the other hand, they were of low origin, in trade,\nand only moderately genteel. On their first coming into the country,\nthey had lived in proportion to their income, quietly, keeping little\ncompany, and that little unexpensively; but the last year or two had\nbrought them a considerable increase of means--the house in town had\nyielded greater profits, and fortune in general had smiled on them. With\ntheir wealth, their views increased; their want of a larger house, their\ninclination for more company. They added to their house, to their number\nof servants, to their expenses of every sort; and by this time were,\nin fortune and style of living, second only to the family at Hartfield.\nTheir love of society, and their new dining-room, prepared every body\nfor their keeping dinner-company; and a few parties, chiefly among the\nsingle men, had already taken place. The regular and best families Emma\ncould hardly suppose they would presume to invite--neither Donwell, nor\nHartfield, nor Randalls. Nothing should tempt _her_ to go, if they did;\nand she regretted that her father's known habits would be giving\nher refusal less meaning than she could wish. The Coles were very\nrespectable in their way, but they ought to be taught that it was not\nfor them to arrange the terms on which the superior families would visit\nthem. This lesson, she very much feared, they would receive only from\nherself; she had little hope of Mr. Knightley, none of Mr. Weston.\n\nBut she had made up her mind how to meet this presumption so many weeks\nbefore it appeared, that when the insult came at last, it found her\nvery differently affected. Donwell and Randalls had received their\ninvitation, and none had come for her father and herself; and Mrs.\nWeston's accounting for it with \"I suppose they will not take the\nliberty with you; they know you do not dine out,\" was not quite\nsufficient. She felt that she should like to have had the power of\nrefusal; and afterwards, as the idea of the party to be assembled there,\nconsisting precisely of those whose society was dearest to her, occurred\nagain and again, she did not know that she might not have been tempted\nto accept. Harriet was to be there in the evening, and the Bateses. They\nhad been speaking of it as they walked about Highbury the day before,\nand Frank Churchill had most earnestly lamented her absence. Might\nnot the evening end in a dance? had been a question of his. The bare\npossibility of it acted as a farther irritation on her spirits; and\nher being left in solitary grandeur, even supposing the omission to be\nintended as a compliment, was but poor comfort.\n\nIt was the arrival of this very invitation while the Westons were at\nHartfield, which made their presence so acceptable; for though her first\nremark, on reading it, was that \"of course it must be declined,\" she so\nvery soon proceeded to ask them what they advised her to do, that their\nadvice for her going was most prompt and successful.\n\nShe owned that, considering every thing, she was not absolutely\nwithout inclination for the party. The Coles expressed themselves so\nproperly--there was so much real attention in the manner of it--so much\nconsideration for her father. \"They would have solicited the honour\nearlier, but had been waiting the arrival of a folding-screen from\nLondon, which they hoped might keep Mr. Woodhouse from any draught of\nair, and therefore induce him the more readily to give them the honour\nof his company.\" Upon the whole, she was very persuadable; and it being\nbriefly settled among themselves how it might be done without neglecting\nhis comfort--how certainly Mrs. Goddard, if not Mrs. Bates, might be\ndepended on for bearing him company--Mr. Woodhouse was to be talked\ninto an acquiescence of his daughter's going out to dinner on a day now\nnear at hand, and spending the whole evening away from him. As for _his_\ngoing, Emma did not wish him to think it possible, the hours would be\ntoo late, and the party too numerous. He was soon pretty well resigned.\n\n\"I am not fond of dinner-visiting,\" said he--\"I never was. No more is\nEmma. Late hours do not agree with us. I am sorry Mr. and Mrs. Cole\nshould have done it. I think it would be much better if they would come\nin one afternoon next summer, and take their tea with us--take us\nin their afternoon walk; which they might do, as our hours are so\nreasonable, and yet get home without being out in the damp of the\nevening. The dews of a summer evening are what I would not expose any\nbody to. However, as they are so very desirous to have dear Emma dine\nwith them, and as you will both be there, and Mr. Knightley too, to take\ncare of her, I cannot wish to prevent it, provided the weather be what\nit ought, neither damp, nor cold, nor windy.\" Then turning to Mrs.\nWeston, with a look of gentle reproach--\"Ah! Miss Taylor, if you had not\nmarried, you would have staid at home with me.\"\n\n\"Well, sir,\" cried Mr. Weston, \"as I took Miss Taylor away, it is\nincumbent on me to supply her place, if I can; and I will step to Mrs.\nGoddard in a moment, if you wish it.\"\n\nBut the idea of any thing to be done in a _moment_, was increasing,\nnot lessening, Mr. Woodhouse's agitation. The ladies knew better how\nto allay it. Mr. Weston must be quiet, and every thing deliberately\narranged.\n\nWith this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon composed enough for talking\nas usual. \"He should be happy to see Mrs. Goddard. He had a great regard\nfor Mrs. Goddard; and Emma should write a line, and invite her. James\ncould take the note. But first of all, there must be an answer written\nto Mrs. Cole.\"\n\n\"You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as possible. You will say\nthat I am quite an invalid, and go no where, and therefore must decline\ntheir obliging invitation; beginning with my _compliments_, of course.\nBut you will do every thing right. I need not tell you what is to be\ndone. We must remember to let James know that the carriage will be\nwanted on Tuesday. I shall have no fears for you with him. We have never\nbeen there above once since the new approach was made; but still I have\nno doubt that James will take you very safely. And when you get there,\nyou must tell him at what time you would have him come for you again;\nand you had better name an early hour. You will not like staying late.\nYou will get very tired when tea is over.\"\n\n\"But you would not wish me to come away before I am tired, papa?\"\n\n\"Oh! no, my love; but you will soon be tired. There will be a great many\npeople talking at once. You will not like the noise.\"\n\n\"But, my dear sir,\" cried Mr. Weston, \"if Emma comes away early, it will\nbe breaking up the party.\"\n\n\"And no great harm if it does,\" said Mr. Woodhouse. \"The sooner every\nparty breaks up, the better.\"\n\n\"But you do not consider how it may appear to the Coles. Emma's going\naway directly after tea might be giving offence. They are good-natured\npeople, and think little of their own claims; but still they must\nfeel that any body's hurrying away is no great compliment; and Miss\nWoodhouse's doing it would be more thought of than any other person's in\nthe room. You would not wish to disappoint and mortify the Coles, I am\nsure, sir; friendly, good sort of people as ever lived, and who have\nbeen your neighbours these _ten_ years.\"\n\n\"No, upon no account in the world, Mr. Weston; I am much obliged to\nyou for reminding me. I should be extremely sorry to be giving them any\npain. I know what worthy people they are. Perry tells me that Mr. Cole\nnever touches malt liquor. You would not think it to look at him, but\nhe is bilious--Mr. Cole is very bilious. No, I would not be the means\nof giving them any pain. My dear Emma, we must consider this. I am sure,\nrather than run the risk of hurting Mr. and Mrs. Cole, you would stay a\nlittle longer than you might wish. You will not regard being tired. You\nwill be perfectly safe, you know, among your friends.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, papa. I have no fears at all for myself; and I should have no\nscruples of staying as late as Mrs. Weston, but on your account. I am\nonly afraid of your sitting up for me. I am not afraid of your not being\nexceedingly comfortable with Mrs. Goddard. She loves piquet, you\nknow; but when she is gone home, I am afraid you will be sitting up by\nyourself, instead of going to bed at your usual time--and the idea of\nthat would entirely destroy my comfort. You must promise me not to sit\nup.\"\n\nHe did, on the condition of some promises on her side: such as that,\nif she came home cold, she would be sure to warm herself thoroughly; if\nhungry, that she would take something to eat; that her own maid should\nsit up for her; and that Serle and the butler should see that every\nthing were safe in the house, as usual.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nFrank Churchill came back again; and if he kept his father's dinner\nwaiting, it was not known at Hartfield; for Mrs. Weston was too anxious\nfor his being a favourite with Mr. Woodhouse, to betray any imperfection\nwhich could be concealed.\n\nHe came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at himself with a very\ngood grace, but without seeming really at all ashamed of what he had\ndone. He had no reason to wish his hair longer, to conceal any confusion\nof face; no reason to wish the money unspent, to improve his spirits.\nHe was quite as undaunted and as lively as ever; and, after seeing him,\nEmma thus moralised to herself:--\n\n\"I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly silly things\ndo cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent\nway. Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not always folly.--It\ndepends upon the character of those who handle it. Mr. Knightley, he is\n_not_ a trifling, silly young man. If he were, he would have done this\ndifferently. He would either have gloried in the achievement, or\nbeen ashamed of it. There would have been either the ostentation of\na coxcomb, or the evasions of a mind too weak to defend its own\nvanities.--No, I am perfectly sure that he is not trifling or silly.\"\n\nWith Tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing him again, and for\na longer time than hitherto; of judging of his general manners, and by\ninference, of the meaning of his manners towards herself; of guessing\nhow soon it might be necessary for her to throw coldness into her air;\nand of fancying what the observations of all those might be, who were\nnow seeing them together for the first time.\n\nShe meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being laid at Mr.\nCole's; and without being able to forget that among the failings of Mr.\nElton, even in the days of his favour, none had disturbed her more than\nhis propensity to dine with Mr. Cole.\n\nHer father's comfort was amply secured, Mrs. Bates as well as Mrs.\nGoddard being able to come; and her last pleasing duty, before she left\nthe house, was to pay her respects to them as they sat together after\ndinner; and while her father was fondly noticing the beauty of her\ndress, to make the two ladies all the amends in her power, by helping\nthem to large slices of cake and full glasses of wine, for whatever\nunwilling self-denial his care of their constitution might have obliged\nthem to practise during the meal.--She had provided a plentiful dinner\nfor them; she wished she could know that they had been allowed to eat\nit.\n\nShe followed another carriage to Mr. Cole's door; and was pleased to see\nthat it was Mr. Knightley's; for Mr. Knightley keeping no horses,\nhaving little spare money and a great deal of health, activity, and\nindependence, was too apt, in Emma's opinion, to get about as he could,\nand not use his carriage so often as became the owner of Donwell Abbey.\nShe had an opportunity now of speaking her approbation while warm from\nher heart, for he stopped to hand her out.\n\n\"This is coming as you should do,\" said she; \"like a gentleman.--I am\nquite glad to see you.\"\n\nHe thanked her, observing, \"How lucky that we should arrive at the same\nmoment! for, if we had met first in the drawing-room, I doubt whether\nyou would have discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usual.--You\nmight not have distinguished how I came, by my look or manner.\"\n\n\"Yes I should, I am sure I should. There is always a look of\nconsciousness or bustle when people come in a way which they know to be\nbeneath them. You think you carry it off very well, I dare say, but\nwith you it is a sort of bravado, an air of affected unconcern; I always\nobserve it whenever I meet you under those circumstances. _Now_ you have\nnothing to try for. You are not afraid of being supposed ashamed. You\nare not striving to look taller than any body else. _Now_ I shall really\nbe very happy to walk into the same room with you.\"\n\n\"Nonsensical girl!\" was his reply, but not at all in anger.\n\nEmma had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest of the party as\nwith Mr. Knightley. She was received with a cordial respect which could\nnot but please, and given all the consequence she could wish for.\nWhen the Westons arrived, the kindest looks of love, the strongest of\nadmiration were for her, from both husband and wife; the son approached\nher with a cheerful eagerness which marked her as his peculiar object,\nand at dinner she found him seated by her--and, as she firmly believed,\nnot without some dexterity on his side.\n\nThe party was rather large, as it included one other family, a proper\nunobjectionable country family, whom the Coles had the advantage of\nnaming among their acquaintance, and the male part of Mr. Cox's family,\nthe lawyer of Highbury. The less worthy females were to come in the\nevening, with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Smith; but already,\nat dinner, they were too numerous for any subject of conversation to be\ngeneral; and, while politics and Mr. Elton were talked over, Emma could\nfairly surrender all her attention to the pleasantness of her neighbour.\nThe first remote sound to which she felt herself obliged to attend, was\nthe name of Jane Fairfax. Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating something of\nher that was expected to be very interesting. She listened, and found\nit well worth listening to. That very dear part of Emma, her fancy,\nreceived an amusing supply. Mrs. Cole was telling that she had been\ncalling on Miss Bates, and as soon as she entered the room had\nbeen struck by the sight of a pianoforte--a very elegant looking\ninstrument--not a grand, but a large-sized square pianoforte; and the\nsubstance of the story, the end of all the dialogue which ensued of\nsurprize, and inquiry, and congratulations on her side, and explanations\non Miss Bates's, was, that this pianoforte had arrived from\nBroadwood's the day before, to the great astonishment of both aunt and\nniece--entirely unexpected; that at first, by Miss Bates's account,\nJane herself was quite at a loss, quite bewildered to think who could\npossibly have ordered it--but now, they were both perfectly satisfied\nthat it could be from only one quarter;--of course it must be from\nColonel Campbell.\n\n\"One can suppose nothing else,\" added Mrs. Cole, \"and I was only\nsurprized that there could ever have been a doubt. But Jane, it seems,\nhad a letter from them very lately, and not a word was said about it.\nShe knows their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as\nany reason for their not meaning to make the present. They might chuse\nto surprize her.\"\n\nMrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the\nsubject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell,\nand equally rejoiced that such a present had been made; and there were\nenough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and still\nlisten to Mrs. Cole.\n\n\"I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has given me\nmore satisfaction!--It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who\nplays so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed quite\na shame, especially considering how many houses there are where fine\ninstruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like giving ourselves\na slap, to be sure! and it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole,\nI really was ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in the\ndrawing-room, while I do not know one note from another, and our little\ngirls, who are but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing of\nit; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not\nany thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old\nspinet in the world, to amuse herself with.--I was saying this to\nMr. Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so\nparticularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself\nin the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so\nobliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and that\nreally is the reason why the instrument was bought--or else I am sure\nwe ought to be ashamed of it.--We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse\nmay be prevailed with to try it this evening.\"\n\nMiss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing\nmore was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole's, turned\nto Frank Churchill.\n\n\"Why do you smile?\" said she.\n\n\"Nay, why do you?\"\n\n\"Me!--I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell's being so rich\nand so liberal.--It is a handsome present.\"\n\n\"Very.\"\n\n\"I rather wonder that it was never made before.\"\n\n\"Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before.\"\n\n\"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must\nnow be shut up in London, untouched by any body.\"\n\n\"That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs.\nBates's house.\"\n\n\"You may _say_ what you chuse--but your countenance testifies that your\n_thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine.\"\n\n\"I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for\nacuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably\nsuspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what\nthere is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can\nbe?\"\n\n\"What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon. She must\nknow as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be; and\nperhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a young\nwoman's scheme than an elderly man's. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare say. I\ntold you that your suspicions would guide mine.\"\n\n\"If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend _Mr_. Dixon in\nthem.\"\n\n\"Mr. Dixon.--Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the\njoint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the other day, you\nknow, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance.\"\n\n\"Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an idea which I had\nentertained before.--I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions\nof either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting either\nthat, after making his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune\nto fall in love with _her_, or that he became conscious of a little\nattachment on her side. One might guess twenty things without guessing\nexactly the right; but I am sure there must be a particular cause for\nher chusing to come to Highbury instead of going with the Campbells\nto Ireland. Here, she must be leading a life of privation and penance;\nthere it would have been all enjoyment. As to the pretence of trying her\nnative air, I look upon that as a mere excuse.--In the summer it might\nhave passed; but what can any body's native air do for them in the\nmonths of January, February, and March? Good fires and carriages would\nbe much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and I dare\nsay in her's. I do not require you to adopt all my suspicions, though\nyou make so noble a profession of doing it, but I honestly tell you what\nthey are.\"\n\n\"And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability. Mr. Dixon's\npreference of her music to her friend's, I can answer for being very\ndecided.\"\n\n\"And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that?--A water\nparty; and by some accident she was falling overboard. He caught her.\"\n\n\"He did. I was there--one of the party.\"\n\n\"Were you really?--Well!--But you observed nothing of course, for it\nseems to be a new idea to you.--If I had been there, I think I should\nhave made some discoveries.\"\n\n\"I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but the fact, that\nMiss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and that Mr. Dixon caught\nher.--It was the work of a moment. And though the consequent shock and\nalarm was very great and much more durable--indeed I believe it was\nhalf an hour before any of us were comfortable again--yet that was too\ngeneral a sensation for any thing of peculiar anxiety to be\nobservable. I do not mean to say, however, that you might not have made\ndiscoveries.\"\n\nThe conversation was here interrupted. They were called on to share\nin the awkwardness of a rather long interval between the courses, and\nobliged to be as formal and as orderly as the others; but when the table\nwas again safely covered, when every corner dish was placed exactly\nright, and occupation and ease were generally restored, Emma said,\n\n\"The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me. I wanted to know\na little more, and this tells me quite enough. Depend upon it, we shall\nsoon hear that it is a present from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon.\"\n\n\"And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge of it we must\nconclude it to come from the Campbells.\"\n\n\"No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells. Miss Fairfax knows it is\nnot from the Campbells, or they would have been guessed at first. She\nwould not have been puzzled, had she dared fix on them. I may not have\nconvinced you perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced myself that Mr.\nDixon is a principal in the business.\"\n\n\"Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced. Your reasonings\ncarry my judgment along with them entirely. At first, while I supposed\nyou satisfied that Colonel Campbell was the giver, I saw it only as\npaternal kindness, and thought it the most natural thing in the world.\nBut when you mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how much more probable that it\nshould be the tribute of warm female friendship. And now I can see it in\nno other light than as an offering of love.\"\n\nThere was no occasion to press the matter farther. The conviction seemed\nreal; he looked as if he felt it. She said no more, other subjects\ntook their turn; and the rest of the dinner passed away; the dessert\nsucceeded, the children came in, and were talked to and admired amid the\nusual rate of conversation; a few clever things said, a few downright\nsilly, but by much the larger proportion neither the one nor the\nother--nothing worse than everyday remarks, dull repetitions, old news,\nand heavy jokes.\n\nThe ladies had not been long in the drawing-room, before the other\nladies, in their different divisions, arrived. Emma watched the entree\nof her own particular little friend; and if she could not exult in her\ndignity and grace, she could not only love the blooming sweetness and\nthe artless manner, but could most heartily rejoice in that light,\ncheerful, unsentimental disposition which allowed her so many\nalleviations of pleasure, in the midst of the pangs of disappointed\naffection. There she sat--and who would have guessed how many tears she\nhad been lately shedding? To be in company, nicely dressed herself and\nseeing others nicely dressed, to sit and smile and look pretty, and say\nnothing, was enough for the happiness of the present hour. Jane Fairfax\ndid look and move superior; but Emma suspected she might have been\nglad to change feelings with Harriet, very glad to have purchased the\nmortification of having loved--yes, of having loved even Mr. Elton in\nvain--by the surrender of all the dangerous pleasure of knowing herself\nbeloved by the husband of her friend.\n\nIn so large a party it was not necessary that Emma should approach her.\nShe did not wish to speak of the pianoforte, she felt too much in the\nsecret herself, to think the appearance of curiosity or interest fair,\nand therefore purposely kept at a distance; but by the others, the\nsubject was almost immediately introduced, and she saw the blush of\nconsciousness with which congratulations were received, the blush\nof guilt which accompanied the name of \"my excellent friend Colonel\nCampbell.\"\n\nMrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was particularly interested\nby the circumstance, and Emma could not help being amused at her\nperseverance in dwelling on the subject; and having so much to ask and\nto say as to tone, touch, and pedal, totally unsuspicious of that wish\nof saying as little about it as possible, which she plainly read in the\nfair heroine's countenance.\n\nThey were soon joined by some of the gentlemen; and the very first\nof the early was Frank Churchill. In he walked, the first and the\nhandsomest; and after paying his compliments en passant to Miss Bates\nand her niece, made his way directly to the opposite side of the circle,\nwhere sat Miss Woodhouse; and till he could find a seat by her, would\nnot sit at all. Emma divined what every body present must be thinking.\nShe was his object, and every body must perceive it. She introduced him\nto her friend, Miss Smith, and, at convenient moments afterwards, heard\nwhat each thought of the other. \"He had never seen so lovely a face, and\nwas delighted with her naivete.\" And she, \"Only to be sure it was paying\nhim too great a compliment, but she did think there were some looks a\nlittle like Mr. Elton.\" Emma restrained her indignation, and only turned\nfrom her in silence.\n\nSmiles of intelligence passed between her and the gentleman on first\nglancing towards Miss Fairfax; but it was most prudent to avoid speech.\nHe told her that he had been impatient to leave the dining-room--hated\nsitting long--was always the first to move when he could--that his\nfather, Mr. Knightley, Mr. Cox, and Mr. Cole, were left very busy over\nparish business--that as long as he had staid, however, it had been\npleasant enough, as he had found them in general a set of gentlemanlike,\nsensible men; and spoke so handsomely of Highbury altogether--thought it\nso abundant in agreeable families--that Emma began to feel she had been\nused to despise the place rather too much. She questioned him as to the\nsociety in Yorkshire--the extent of the neighbourhood about Enscombe,\nand the sort; and could make out from his answers that, as far as\nEnscombe was concerned, there was very little going on, that their\nvisitings were among a range of great families, none very near; and\nthat even when days were fixed, and invitations accepted, it was an even\nchance that Mrs. Churchill were not in health and spirits for going;\nthat they made a point of visiting no fresh person; and that, though\nhe had his separate engagements, it was not without difficulty, without\nconsiderable address _at_ _times_, that he could get away, or introduce\nan acquaintance for a night.\n\nShe saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that Highbury, taken at\nits best, might reasonably please a young man who had more retirement at\nhome than he liked. His importance at Enscombe was very evident. He did\nnot boast, but it naturally betrayed itself, that he had persuaded his\naunt where his uncle could do nothing, and on her laughing and noticing\nit, he owned that he believed (excepting one or two points) he could\n_with_ _time_ persuade her to any thing. One of those points on which\nhis influence failed, he then mentioned. He had wanted very much to\ngo abroad--had been very eager indeed to be allowed to travel--but she\nwould not hear of it. This had happened the year before. _Now_, he said,\nhe was beginning to have no longer the same wish.\n\nThe unpersuadable point, which he did not mention, Emma guessed to be\ngood behaviour to his father.\n\n\"I have made a most wretched discovery,\" said he, after a short pause.--\n\"I have been here a week to-morrow--half my time. I never knew days fly\nso fast. A week to-morrow!--And I have hardly begun to enjoy myself.\nBut just got acquainted with Mrs. Weston, and others!--I hate the\nrecollection.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent one whole day, out\nof so few, in having your hair cut.\"\n\n\"No,\" said he, smiling, \"that is no subject of regret at all. I have\nno pleasure in seeing my friends, unless I can believe myself fit to be\nseen.\"\n\nThe rest of the gentlemen being now in the room, Emma found herself\nobliged to turn from him for a few minutes, and listen to Mr. Cole. When\nMr. Cole had moved away, and her attention could be restored as before,\nshe saw Frank Churchill looking intently across the room at Miss\nFairfax, who was sitting exactly opposite.\n\n\"What is the matter?\" said she.\n\nHe started. \"Thank you for rousing me,\" he replied. \"I believe I have\nbeen very rude; but really Miss Fairfax has done her hair in so odd a\nway--so very odd a way--that I cannot keep my eyes from her. I never saw\nany thing so outree!--Those curls!--This must be a fancy of her own. I\nsee nobody else looking like her!--I must go and ask her whether it\nis an Irish fashion. Shall I?--Yes, I will--I declare I will--and you\nshall see how she takes it;--whether she colours.\"\n\nHe was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him standing before Miss\nFairfax, and talking to her; but as to its effect on the young lady,\nas he had improvidently placed himself exactly between them, exactly in\nfront of Miss Fairfax, she could absolutely distinguish nothing.\n\nBefore he could return to his chair, it was taken by Mrs. Weston.\n\n\"This is the luxury of a large party,\" said she:--\"one can get near\nevery body, and say every thing. My dear Emma, I am longing to talk\nto you. I have been making discoveries and forming plans, just like\nyourself, and I must tell them while the idea is fresh. Do you know how\nMiss Bates and her niece came here?\"\n\n\"How?--They were invited, were not they?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes--but how they were conveyed hither?--the manner of their\ncoming?\"\n\n\"They walked, I conclude. How else could they come?\"\n\n\"Very true.--Well, a little while ago it occurred to me how very sad\nit would be to have Jane Fairfax walking home again, late at night, and\ncold as the nights are now. And as I looked at her, though I never saw\nher appear to more advantage, it struck me that she was heated, and\nwould therefore be particularly liable to take cold. Poor girl! I could\nnot bear the idea of it; so, as soon as Mr. Weston came into the room,\nand I could get at him, I spoke to him about the carriage. You may guess\nhow readily he came into my wishes; and having his approbation, I made\nmy way directly to Miss Bates, to assure her that the carriage would be\nat her service before it took us home; for I thought it would be making\nher comfortable at once. Good soul! she was as grateful as possible, you\nmay be sure. 'Nobody was ever so fortunate as herself!'--but with many,\nmany thanks--'there was no occasion to trouble us, for Mr. Knightley's\ncarriage had brought, and was to take them home again.' I was quite\nsurprized;--very glad, I am sure; but really quite surprized. Such a\nvery kind attention--and so thoughtful an attention!--the sort of thing\nthat so few men would think of. And, in short, from knowing his\nusual ways, I am very much inclined to think that it was for their\naccommodation the carriage was used at all. I do suspect he would not\nhave had a pair of horses for himself, and that it was only as an excuse\nfor assisting them.\"\n\n\"Very likely,\" said Emma--\"nothing more likely. I know no man more\nlikely than Mr. Knightley to do the sort of thing--to do any thing\nreally good-natured, useful, considerate, or benevolent. He is not a\ngallant man, but he is a very humane one; and this, considering Jane\nFairfax's ill-health, would appear a case of humanity to him;--and for\nan act of unostentatious kindness, there is nobody whom I would fix on\nmore than on Mr. Knightley. I know he had horses to-day--for we arrived\ntogether; and I laughed at him about it, but he said not a word that\ncould betray.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Mrs. Weston, smiling, \"you give him credit for more simple,\ndisinterested benevolence in this instance than I do; for while Miss\nBates was speaking, a suspicion darted into my head, and I have never\nbeen able to get it out again. The more I think of it, the more probable\nit appears. In short, I have made a match between Mr. Knightley and Jane\nFairfax. See the consequence of keeping you company!--What do you say to\nit?\"\n\n\"Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax!\" exclaimed Emma. \"Dear Mrs. Weston, how\ncould you think of such a thing?--Mr. Knightley!--Mr. Knightley must not\nmarry!--You would not have little Henry cut out from Donwell?--Oh! no,\nno, Henry must have Donwell. I cannot at all consent to Mr. Knightley's\nmarrying; and I am sure it is not at all likely. I am amazed that you\nshould think of such a thing.\"\n\n\"My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think of it. I do not want\nthe match--I do not want to injure dear little Henry--but the idea has\nbeen given me by circumstances; and if Mr. Knightley really wished to\nmarry, you would not have him refrain on Henry's account, a boy of six\nyears old, who knows nothing of the matter?\"\n\n\"Yes, I would. I could not bear to have Henry supplanted.--Mr.\nKnightley marry!--No, I have never had such an idea, and I cannot adopt\nit now. And Jane Fairfax, too, of all women!\"\n\n\"Nay, she has always been a first favourite with him, as you very well\nknow.\"\n\n\"But the imprudence of such a match!\"\n\n\"I am not speaking of its prudence; merely its probability.\"\n\n\"I see no probability in it, unless you have any better foundation than\nwhat you mention. His good-nature, his humanity, as I tell you, would\nbe quite enough to account for the horses. He has a great regard for the\nBateses, you know, independent of Jane Fairfax--and is always glad to\nshew them attention. My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take to match-making.\nYou do it very ill. Jane Fairfax mistress of the Abbey!--Oh! no,\nno;--every feeling revolts. For his own sake, I would not have him do so\nmad a thing.\"\n\n\"Imprudent, if you please--but not mad. Excepting inequality of fortune,\nand perhaps a little disparity of age, I can see nothing unsuitable.\"\n\n\"But Mr. Knightley does not want to marry. I am sure he has not the\nleast idea of it. Do not put it into his head. Why should he marry?--He\nis as happy as possible by himself; with his farm, and his sheep, and\nhis library, and all the parish to manage; and he is extremely fond of\nhis brother's children. He has no occasion to marry, either to fill up\nhis time or his heart.\"\n\n\"My dear Emma, as long as he thinks so, it is so; but if he really loves\nJane Fairfax--\"\n\n\"Nonsense! He does not care about Jane Fairfax. In the way of love, I am\nsure he does not. He would do any good to her, or her family; but--\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Mrs. Weston, laughing, \"perhaps the greatest good he could\ndo them, would be to give Jane such a respectable home.\"\n\n\"If it would be good to her, I am sure it would be evil to himself; a\nvery shameful and degrading connexion. How would he bear to have Miss\nBates belonging to him?--To have her haunting the Abbey, and thanking\nhim all day long for his great kindness in marrying Jane?--'So very\nkind and obliging!--But he always had been such a very kind neighbour!'\nAnd then fly off, through half a sentence, to her mother's old\npetticoat. 'Not that it was such a very old petticoat either--for still\nit would last a great while--and, indeed, she must thankfully say that\ntheir petticoats were all very strong.'\"\n\n\"For shame, Emma! Do not mimic her. You divert me against my conscience.\nAnd, upon my word, I do not think Mr. Knightley would be much disturbed\nby Miss Bates. Little things do not irritate him. She might talk on; and\nif he wanted to say any thing himself, he would only talk louder, and\ndrown her voice. But the question is not, whether it would be a bad\nconnexion for him, but whether he wishes it; and I think he does. I have\nheard him speak, and so must you, so very highly of Jane Fairfax! The\ninterest he takes in her--his anxiety about her health--his concern that\nshe should have no happier prospect! I have heard him express himself\nso warmly on those points!--Such an admirer of her performance on the\npianoforte, and of her voice! I have heard him say that he could listen\nto her for ever. Oh! and I had almost forgotten one idea that occurred\nto me--this pianoforte that has been sent here by somebody--though\nwe have all been so well satisfied to consider it a present from the\nCampbells, may it not be from Mr. Knightley? I cannot help suspecting\nhim. I think he is just the person to do it, even without being in\nlove.\"\n\n\"Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in love. But I do not\nthink it is at all a likely thing for him to do. Mr. Knightley does\nnothing mysteriously.\"\n\n\"I have heard him lamenting her having no instrument repeatedly; oftener\nthan I should suppose such a circumstance would, in the common course of\nthings, occur to him.\"\n\n\"Very well; and if he had intended to give her one, he would have told\nher so.\"\n\n\"There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma. I have a very strong\nnotion that it comes from him. I am sure he was particularly silent when\nMrs. Cole told us of it at dinner.\"\n\n\"You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with it; as you have\nmany a time reproached me with doing. I see no sign of attachment--I\nbelieve nothing of the pianoforte--and proof only shall convince me that\nMr. Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax.\"\n\nThey combated the point some time longer in the same way; Emma rather\ngaining ground over the mind of her friend; for Mrs. Weston was the most\nused of the two to yield; till a little bustle in the room shewed them\nthat tea was over, and the instrument in preparation;--and at the same\nmoment Mr. Cole approaching to entreat Miss Woodhouse would do them the\nhonour of trying it. Frank Churchill, of whom, in the eagerness of her\nconversation with Mrs. Weston, she had been seeing nothing, except that\nhe had found a seat by Miss Fairfax, followed Mr. Cole, to add his very\npressing entreaties; and as, in every respect, it suited Emma best to\nlead, she gave a very proper compliance.\n\nShe knew the limitations of her own powers too well to attempt more than\nshe could perform with credit; she wanted neither taste nor spirit in\nthe little things which are generally acceptable, and could accompany\nher own voice well. One accompaniment to her song took her agreeably by\nsurprize--a second, slightly but correctly taken by Frank Churchill. Her\npardon was duly begged at the close of the song, and every thing usual\nfollowed. He was accused of having a delightful voice, and a perfect\nknowledge of music; which was properly denied; and that he knew nothing\nof the matter, and had no voice at all, roundly asserted. They sang\ntogether once more; and Emma would then resign her place to Miss\nFairfax, whose performance, both vocal and instrumental, she never could\nattempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely superior to her own.\n\nWith mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the\nnumbers round the instrument, to listen. Frank Churchill sang again.\nThey had sung together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth. But the\nsight of Mr. Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away half\nEmma's mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of\nMrs. Weston's suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united voices\ngave only momentary interruptions. Her objections to Mr. Knightley's\nmarrying did not in the least subside. She could see nothing but evil\nin it. It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John Knightley;\nconsequently to Isabella. A real injury to the children--a most\nmortifying change, and material loss to them all;--a very great\ndeduction from her father's daily comfort--and, as to herself, she could\nnot at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs.\nKnightley for them all to give way to!--No--Mr. Knightley must never\nmarry. Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell.\n\nPresently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her. They\ntalked at first only of the performance. His admiration was certainly\nvery warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have\nstruck her. As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his\nkindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was in\nthe spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate only\nhis disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own.\n\n\"I often feel concern,\" said she, \"that I dare not make our carriage\nmore useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish; but\nyou know how impossible my father would deem it that James should put-to\nfor such a purpose.\"\n\n\"Quite out of the question, quite out of the question,\" he\nreplied;--\"but you must often wish it, I am sure.\" And he smiled with\nsuch seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another\nstep.\n\n\"This present from the Campbells,\" said she--\"this pianoforte is very\nkindly given.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he replied, and without the smallest apparent\nembarrassment.--\"But they would have done better had they given\nher notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not\nenhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have\nexpected better judgment in Colonel Campbell.\"\n\nFrom that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had\nhad no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were\nentirely free from peculiar attachment--whether there were no actual\npreference--remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane's\nsecond song, her voice grew thick.\n\n\"That will do,\" said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud--\"you have\nsung quite enough for one evening--now be quiet.\"\n\nAnother song, however, was soon begged for. \"One more;--they would not\nfatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more.\"\nAnd Frank Churchill was heard to say, \"I think you could manage this\nwithout effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength of the\nsong falls on the second.\"\n\nMr. Knightley grew angry.\n\n\"That fellow,\" said he, indignantly, \"thinks of nothing but shewing off\nhis own voice. This must not be.\" And touching Miss Bates, who at that\nmoment passed near--\"Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing\nherself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no mercy on\nher.\"\n\nMiss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to\nbe grateful, before she stept forward and put an end to all farther\nsinging. Here ceased the concert part of the evening, for Miss Woodhouse\nand Miss Fairfax were the only young lady performers; but soon (within\nfive minutes) the proposal of dancing--originating nobody exactly knew\nwhere--was so effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole, that every\nthing was rapidly clearing away, to give proper space. Mrs. Weston,\ncapital in her country-dances, was seated, and beginning an irresistible\nwaltz; and Frank Churchill, coming up with most becoming gallantry to\nEmma, had secured her hand, and led her up to the top.\n\nWhile waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off,\nEmma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on\nher voice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr.\nKnightley. This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he\nwere to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur\nsomething. There was no immediate appearance. No; he was talking to Mrs.\nCole--he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody else,\nand he was still talking to Mrs. Cole.\n\nEmma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest was yet safe; and\nshe led off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment. Not more than\nfive couple could be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness of\nit made it very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a\npartner. They were a couple worth looking at.\n\nTwo dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed. It was\ngrowing late, and Miss Bates became anxious to get home, on her mother's\naccount. After some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to begin again,\nthey were obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful, and have done.\n\n\"Perhaps it is as well,\" said Frank Churchill, as he attended Emma to\nher carriage. \"I must have asked Miss Fairfax, and her languid dancing\nwould not have agreed with me, after yours.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nEmma did not repent her condescension in going to the Coles. The visit\nafforded her many pleasant recollections the next day; and all that she\nmight be supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion, must\nbe amply repaid in the splendour of popularity. She must have delighted\nthe Coles--worthy people, who deserved to be made happy!--And left a\nname behind her that would not soon die away.\n\nPerfect happiness, even in memory, is not common; and there were two\npoints on which she was not quite easy. She doubted whether she had not\ntransgressed the duty of woman by woman, in betraying her suspicions of\nJane Fairfax's feelings to Frank Churchill. It was hardly right; but it\nhad been so strong an idea, that it would escape her, and his submission\nto all that she told, was a compliment to her penetration, which made\nit difficult for her to be quite certain that she ought to have held her\ntongue.\n\nThe other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax; and\nthere she had no doubt. She did unfeignedly and unequivocally regret the\ninferiority of her own playing and singing. She did most heartily\ngrieve over the idleness of her childhood--and sat down and practised\nvigorously an hour and a half.\n\nShe was then interrupted by Harriet's coming in; and if Harriet's praise\ncould have satisfied her, she might soon have been comforted.\n\n\"Oh! if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax!\"\n\n\"Don't class us together, Harriet. My playing is no more like her's,\nthan a lamp is like sunshine.\"\n\n\"Oh! dear--I think you play the best of the two. I think you play quite\nas well as she does. I am sure I had much rather hear you. Every body\nlast night said how well you played.\"\n\n\"Those who knew any thing about it, must have felt the difference. The\ntruth is, Harriet, that my playing is just good enough to be praised,\nbut Jane Fairfax's is much beyond it.\"\n\n\"Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as she does, or\nthat if there is any difference nobody would ever find it out. Mr. Cole\nsaid how much taste you had; and Mr. Frank Churchill talked a great deal\nabout your taste, and that he valued taste much more than execution.\"\n\n\"Ah! but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet.\"\n\n\"Are you sure? I saw she had execution, but I did not know she had any\ntaste. Nobody talked about it. And I hate Italian singing.--There is no\nunderstanding a word of it. Besides, if she does play so very well, you\nknow, it is no more than she is obliged to do, because she will have to\nteach. The Coxes were wondering last night whether she would get into\nany great family. How did you think the Coxes looked?\"\n\n\"Just as they always do--very vulgar.\"\n\n\"They told me something,\" said Harriet rather hesitatingly; \"but it is\nnothing of any consequence.\"\n\nEmma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though fearful of its\nproducing Mr. Elton.\n\n\"They told me--that Mr. Martin dined with them last Saturday.\"\n\n\"Oh!\"\n\n\"He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to stay to\ndinner.\"\n\n\"Oh!\"\n\n\"They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox. I do not know\nwhat she meant, but she asked me if I thought I should go and stay there\nagain next summer.\"\n\n\"She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an Anne Cox should\nbe.\"\n\n\"She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there. He sat by her at\ndinner. Miss Nash thinks either of the Coxes would be very glad to marry\nhim.\"\n\n\"Very likely.--I think they are, without exception, the most vulgar\ngirls in Highbury.\"\n\nHarriet had business at Ford's.--Emma thought it most prudent to go with\nher. Another accidental meeting with the Martins was possible, and in\nher present state, would be dangerous.\n\nHarriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a word, was always\nvery long at a purchase; and while she was still hanging over muslins\nand changing her mind, Emma went to the door for amusement.--Much could\nnot be hoped from the traffic of even the busiest part of Highbury;--Mr.\nPerry walking hastily by, Mr. William Cox letting himself in at the\noffice-door, Mr. Cole's carriage-horses returning from exercise, or a\nstray letter-boy on an obstinate mule, were the liveliest objects she\ncould presume to expect; and when her eyes fell only on the butcher with\nhis tray, a tidy old woman travelling homewards from shop with her full\nbasket, two curs quarrelling over a dirty bone, and a string of dawdling\nchildren round the baker's little bow-window eyeing the gingerbread, she\nknew she had no reason to complain, and was amused enough; quite enough\nstill to stand at the door. A mind lively and at ease, can do with\nseeing nothing, and can see nothing that does not answer.\n\nShe looked down the Randalls road. The scene enlarged; two persons\nappeared; Mrs. Weston and her son-in-law; they were walking into\nHighbury;--to Hartfield of course. They were stopping, however, in the\nfirst place at Mrs. Bates's; whose house was a little nearer\nRandalls than Ford's; and had all but knocked, when Emma caught their\neye.--Immediately they crossed the road and came forward to her; and the\nagreeableness of yesterday's engagement seemed to give fresh pleasure to\nthe present meeting. Mrs. Weston informed her that she was going to call\non the Bateses, in order to hear the new instrument.\n\n\"For my companion tells me,\" said she, \"that I absolutely promised Miss\nBates last night, that I would come this morning. I was not aware of it\nmyself. I did not know that I had fixed a day, but as he says I did, I\nam going now.\"\n\n\"And while Mrs. Weston pays her visit, I may be allowed, I hope,\" said\nFrank Churchill, \"to join your party and wait for her at Hartfield--if\nyou are going home.\"\n\nMrs. Weston was disappointed.\n\n\"I thought you meant to go with me. They would be very much pleased.\"\n\n\"Me! I should be quite in the way. But, perhaps--I may be equally in the\nway here. Miss Woodhouse looks as if she did not want me. My aunt always\nsends me off when she is shopping. She says I fidget her to death; and\nMiss Woodhouse looks as if she could almost say the same. What am I to\ndo?\"\n\n\"I am here on no business of my own,\" said Emma; \"I am only waiting for\nmy friend. She will probably have soon done, and then we shall go home.\nBut you had better go with Mrs. Weston and hear the instrument.\"\n\n\"Well--if you advise it.--But (with a smile) if Colonel Campbell should\nhave employed a careless friend, and if it should prove to have an\nindifferent tone--what shall I say? I shall be no support to Mrs.\nWeston. She might do very well by herself. A disagreeable truth would be\npalatable through her lips, but I am the wretchedest being in the world\nat a civil falsehood.\"\n\n\"I do not believe any such thing,\" replied Emma.--\"I am persuaded that\nyou can be as insincere as your neighbours, when it is necessary; but\nthere is no reason to suppose the instrument is indifferent. Quite\notherwise indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax's opinion last night.\"\n\n\"Do come with me,\" said Mrs. Weston, \"if it be not very disagreeable to\nyou. It need not detain us long. We will go to Hartfield afterwards.\nWe will follow them to Hartfield. I really wish you to call with me. It\nwill be felt so great an attention! and I always thought you meant it.\"\n\nHe could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield to reward him,\nreturned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates's door. Emma watched them in,\nand then joined Harriet at the interesting counter,--trying, with all\nthe force of her own mind, to convince her that if she wanted plain\nmuslin it was of no use to look at figured; and that a blue ribbon, be\nit ever so beautiful, would still never match her yellow pattern. At\nlast it was all settled, even to the destination of the parcel.\n\n\"Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard's, ma'am?\" asked Mrs.\nFord.--\"Yes--no--yes, to Mrs. Goddard's. Only my pattern gown is at\nHartfield. No, you shall send it to Hartfield, if you please. But then,\nMrs. Goddard will want to see it.--And I could take the pattern gown\nhome any day. But I shall want the ribbon directly--so it had better go\nto Hartfield--at least the ribbon. You could make it into two parcels,\nMrs. Ford, could not you?\"\n\n\"It is not worth while, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the trouble of two\nparcels.\"\n\n\"No more it is.\"\n\n\"No trouble in the world, ma'am,\" said the obliging Mrs. Ford.\n\n\"Oh! but indeed I would much rather have it only in one. Then, if you\nplease, you shall send it all to Mrs. Goddard's--I do not know--No, I\nthink, Miss Woodhouse, I may just as well have it sent to Hartfield, and\ntake it home with me at night. What do you advise?\"\n\n\"That you do not give another half-second to the subject. To Hartfield,\nif you please, Mrs. Ford.\"\n\n\"Aye, that will be much best,\" said Harriet, quite satisfied, \"I should\nnot at all like to have it sent to Mrs. Goddard's.\"\n\nVoices approached the shop--or rather one voice and two ladies: Mrs.\nWeston and Miss Bates met them at the door.\n\n\"My dear Miss Woodhouse,\" said the latter, \"I am just run across to\nentreat the favour of you to come and sit down with us a little while,\nand give us your opinion of our new instrument; you and Miss Smith. How\ndo you do, Miss Smith?--Very well I thank you.--And I begged Mrs. Weston\nto come with me, that I might be sure of succeeding.\"\n\n\"I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are--\"\n\n\"Very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother is delightfully well;\nand Jane caught no cold last night. How is Mr. Woodhouse?--I am so glad\nto hear such a good account. Mrs. Weston told me you were here.--Oh!\nthen, said I, I must run across, I am sure Miss Woodhouse will allow me\njust to run across and entreat her to come in; my mother will be so\nvery happy to see her--and now we are such a nice party, she cannot\nrefuse.--'Aye, pray do,' said Mr. Frank Churchill, 'Miss Woodhouse's\nopinion of the instrument will be worth having.'--But, said I, I shall\nbe more sure of succeeding if one of you will go with me.--'Oh,' said\nhe, 'wait half a minute, till I have finished my job;'--For, would you\nbelieve it, Miss Woodhouse, there he is, in the most obliging manner in\nthe world, fastening in the rivet of my mother's spectacles.--The rivet\ncame out, you know, this morning.--So very obliging!--For my mother had\nno use of her spectacles--could not put them on. And, by the bye, every\nbody ought to have two pair of spectacles; they should indeed. Jane said\nso. I meant to take them over to John Saunders the first thing I did,\nbut something or other hindered me all the morning; first one thing,\nthen another, there is no saying what, you know. At one time Patty came\nto say she thought the kitchen chimney wanted sweeping. Oh, said I,\nPatty do not come with your bad news to me. Here is the rivet of your\nmistress's spectacles out. Then the baked apples came home, Mrs. Wallis\nsent them by her boy; they are extremely civil and obliging to us, the\nWallises, always--I have heard some people say that Mrs. Wallis can be\nuncivil and give a very rude answer, but we have never known any thing\nbut the greatest attention from them. And it cannot be for the value\nof our custom now, for what is our consumption of bread, you know?\nOnly three of us.--besides dear Jane at present--and she really eats\nnothing--makes such a shocking breakfast, you would be quite frightened\nif you saw it. I dare not let my mother know how little she eats--so I\nsay one thing and then I say another, and it passes off. But about the\nmiddle of the day she gets hungry, and there is nothing she likes so\nwell as these baked apples, and they are extremely wholesome, for I took\nthe opportunity the other day of asking Mr. Perry; I happened to meet\nhim in the street. Not that I had any doubt before--I have so often\nheard Mr. Woodhouse recommend a baked apple. I believe it is the only\nway that Mr. Woodhouse thinks the fruit thoroughly wholesome. We\nhave apple-dumplings, however, very often. Patty makes an excellent\napple-dumpling. Well, Mrs. Weston, you have prevailed, I hope, and these\nladies will oblige us.\"\n\nEmma would be \"very happy to wait on Mrs. Bates, &c.,\" and they did at\nlast move out of the shop, with no farther delay from Miss Bates than,\n\n\"How do you do, Mrs. Ford? I beg your pardon. I did not see you before.\nI hear you have a charming collection of new ribbons from town. Jane\ncame back delighted yesterday. Thank ye, the gloves do very well--only a\nlittle too large about the wrist; but Jane is taking them in.\"\n\n\"What was I talking of?\" said she, beginning again when they were all in\nthe street.\n\nEmma wondered on what, of all the medley, she would fix.\n\n\"I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of.--Oh! my mother's\nspectacles. So very obliging of Mr. Frank Churchill! 'Oh!' said he,\n'I do think I can fasten the rivet; I like a job of this kind\nexcessively.'--Which you know shewed him to be so very.... Indeed I must\nsay that, much as I had heard of him before and much as I had expected,\nhe very far exceeds any thing.... I do congratulate you, Mrs. Weston,\nmost warmly. He seems every thing the fondest parent could....\n'Oh!' said he, 'I can fasten the rivet. I like a job of that sort\nexcessively.' I never shall forget his manner. And when I brought out\nthe baked apples from the closet, and hoped our friends would be so very\nobliging as to take some, 'Oh!' said he directly, 'there is nothing\nin the way of fruit half so good, and these are the finest-looking\nhome-baked apples I ever saw in my life.' That, you know, was so\nvery.... And I am sure, by his manner, it was no compliment. Indeed they\nare very delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallis does them full justice--only\nwe do not have them baked more than twice, and Mr. Woodhouse made us\npromise to have them done three times--but Miss Woodhouse will be so\ngood as not to mention it. The apples themselves are the very finest\nsort for baking, beyond a doubt; all from Donwell--some of Mr.\nKnightley's most liberal supply. He sends us a sack every year; and\ncertainly there never was such a keeping apple anywhere as one of his\ntrees--I believe there is two of them. My mother says the orchard was\nalways famous in her younger days. But I was really quite shocked the\nother day--for Mr. Knightley called one morning, and Jane was eating\nthese apples, and we talked about them and said how much she enjoyed\nthem, and he asked whether we were not got to the end of our stock. 'I\nam sure you must be,' said he, 'and I will send you another supply; for\nI have a great many more than I can ever use. William Larkins let me\nkeep a larger quantity than usual this year. I will send you some more,\nbefore they get good for nothing.' So I begged he would not--for really\nas to ours being gone, I could not absolutely say that we had a great\nmany left--it was but half a dozen indeed; but they should be all kept\nfor Jane; and I could not at all bear that he should be sending us more,\nso liberal as he had been already; and Jane said the same. And when\nhe was gone, she almost quarrelled with me--No, I should not say\nquarrelled, for we never had a quarrel in our lives; but she was quite\ndistressed that I had owned the apples were so nearly gone; she wished\nI had made him believe we had a great many left. Oh, said I, my dear,\nI did say as much as I could. However, the very same evening William\nLarkins came over with a large basket of apples, the same sort of\napples, a bushel at least, and I was very much obliged, and went down\nand spoke to William Larkins and said every thing, as you may suppose.\nWilliam Larkins is such an old acquaintance! I am always glad to see\nhim. But, however, I found afterwards from Patty, that William said it\nwas all the apples of _that_ sort his master had; he had brought them\nall--and now his master had not one left to bake or boil. William did\nnot seem to mind it himself, he was so pleased to think his master had\nsold so many; for William, you know, thinks more of his master's profit\nthan any thing; but Mrs. Hodges, he said, was quite displeased at their\nbeing all sent away. She could not bear that her master should not be\nable to have another apple-tart this spring. He told Patty this, but bid\nher not mind it, and be sure not to say any thing to us about it, for\nMrs. Hodges _would_ be cross sometimes, and as long as so many sacks\nwere sold, it did not signify who ate the remainder. And so Patty told\nme, and I was excessively shocked indeed! I would not have Mr. Knightley\nknow any thing about it for the world! He would be so very.... I wanted\nto keep it from Jane's knowledge; but, unluckily, I had mentioned it\nbefore I was aware.\"\n\nMiss Bates had just done as Patty opened the door; and her visitors\nwalked upstairs without having any regular narration to attend to,\npursued only by the sounds of her desultory good-will.\n\n\"Pray take care, Mrs. Weston, there is a step at the turning. Pray take\ncare, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a dark staircase--rather darker\nand narrower than one could wish. Miss Smith, pray take care. Miss\nWoodhouse, I am quite concerned, I am sure you hit your foot. Miss\nSmith, the step at the turning.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nThe appearance of the little sitting-room as they entered, was\ntranquillity itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usual employment,\nslumbering on one side of the fire, Frank Churchill, at a table near\nher, most deedily occupied about her spectacles, and Jane Fairfax,\nstanding with her back to them, intent on her pianoforte.\n\nBusy as he was, however, the young man was yet able to shew a most happy\ncountenance on seeing Emma again.\n\n\"This is a pleasure,\" said he, in rather a low voice, \"coming at least\nten minutes earlier than I had calculated. You find me trying to be\nuseful; tell me if you think I shall succeed.\"\n\n\"What!\" said Mrs. Weston, \"have not you finished it yet? you would not\nearn a very good livelihood as a working silversmith at this rate.\"\n\n\"I have not been working uninterruptedly,\" he replied, \"I have been\nassisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her instrument stand steadily,\nit was not quite firm; an unevenness in the floor, I believe. You see\nwe have been wedging one leg with paper. This was very kind of you to be\npersuaded to come. I was almost afraid you would be hurrying home.\"\n\nHe contrived that she should be seated by him; and was sufficiently\nemployed in looking out the best baked apple for her, and trying to make\nher help or advise him in his work, till Jane Fairfax was quite ready\nto sit down to the pianoforte again. That she was not immediately ready,\nEmma did suspect to arise from the state of her nerves; she had not yet\npossessed the instrument long enough to touch it without emotion; she\nmust reason herself into the power of performance; and Emma could not\nbut pity such feelings, whatever their origin, and could not but resolve\nnever to expose them to her neighbour again.\n\nAt last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly given, the\npowers of the instrument were gradually done full justice to. Mrs.\nWeston had been delighted before, and was delighted again; Emma\njoined her in all her praise; and the pianoforte, with every proper\ndiscrimination, was pronounced to be altogether of the highest promise.\n\n\"Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ,\" said Frank Churchill, with a\nsmile at Emma, \"the person has not chosen ill. I heard a good deal of\nColonel Campbell's taste at Weymouth; and the softness of the upper\nnotes I am sure is exactly what he and _all_ _that_ _party_ would\nparticularly prize. I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either gave his\nfriend very minute directions, or wrote to Broadwood himself. Do not you\nthink so?\"\n\nJane did not look round. She was not obliged to hear. Mrs. Weston had\nbeen speaking to her at the same moment.\n\n\"It is not fair,\" said Emma, in a whisper; \"mine was a random guess. Do\nnot distress her.\"\n\nHe shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had very little\ndoubt and very little mercy. Soon afterwards he began again,\n\n\"How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your pleasure on this\noccasion, Miss Fairfax. I dare say they often think of you, and wonder\nwhich will be the day, the precise day of the instrument's coming to\nhand. Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to be going\nforward just at this time?--Do you imagine it to be the consequence\nof an immediate commission from him, or that he may have sent only\na general direction, an order indefinite as to time, to depend upon\ncontingencies and conveniences?\"\n\nHe paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid answering,\n\n\"Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell,\" said she, in a voice of\nforced calmness, \"I can imagine nothing with any confidence. It must be\nall conjecture.\"\n\n\"Conjecture--aye, sometimes one conjectures right, and sometimes one\nconjectures wrong. I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall make this\nrivet quite firm. What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard\nat work, if one talks at all;--your real workmen, I suppose, hold their\ntongues; but we gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a word--Miss\nFairfax said something about conjecturing. There, it is done. I have the\npleasure, madam, (to Mrs. Bates,) of restoring your spectacles, healed\nfor the present.\"\n\nHe was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter; to escape a\nlittle from the latter, he went to the pianoforte, and begged Miss\nFairfax, who was still sitting at it, to play something more.\n\n\"If you are very kind,\" said he, \"it will be one of the waltzes we\ndanced last night;--let me live them over again. You did not enjoy them\nas I did; you appeared tired the whole time. I believe you were glad we\ndanced no longer; but I would have given worlds--all the worlds one ever\nhas to give--for another half-hour.\"\n\nShe played.\n\n\"What felicity it is to hear a tune again which _has_ made one\nhappy!--If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth.\"\n\nShe looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played something\nelse. He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte, and turning\nto Emma, said,\n\n\"Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?--Cramer.--And here\nare a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one might\nexpect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of\nColonel Campbell, was not it?--He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music\nhere. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to\nhave been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing\nincomplete. True affection only could have prompted it.\"\n\nEmma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused;\nand when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the remains\nof a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness,\nthere had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in the\namusement, and much less compunction with respect to her.--This\namiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing very\nreprehensible feelings.\n\nHe brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.--Emma\ntook the opportunity of whispering,\n\n\"You speak too plain. She must understand you.\"\n\n\"I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least\nashamed of my meaning.\"\n\n\"But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea.\"\n\n\"I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now\na key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does\nwrong, she ought to feel it.\"\n\n\"She is not entirely without it, I think.\"\n\n\"I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this\nmoment--_his_ favourite.\"\n\nShortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr.\nKnightley on horse-back not far off.\n\n\"Mr. Knightley I declare!--I must speak to him if possible, just to\nthank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold;\nbut I can go into my mother's room you know. I dare say he will come\nin when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet\nso!--Our little room so honoured!\"\n\nShe was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the\ncasement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley's attention, and every\nsyllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as\nif it had passed within the same apartment.\n\n\"How d' ye do?--how d'ye do?--Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you\nfor the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready\nfor us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here.\"\n\nSo began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in\nhis turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say,\n\n\"How is your niece, Miss Bates?--I want to inquire after you all, but\nparticularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?--I hope she caught no cold\nlast night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is.\"\n\nAnd Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear\nher in any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave\nEmma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in\nsteady scepticism.\n\n\"So obliged to you!--so very much obliged to you for the carriage,\"\nresumed Miss Bates.\n\nHe cut her short with,\n\n\"I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you?\"\n\n\"Oh! dear, Kingston--are you?--Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she\nwanted something from Kingston.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for _you_?\"\n\n\"No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here?--Miss\nWoodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new pianoforte.\nDo put up your horse at the Crown, and come in.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said he, in a deliberating manner, \"for five minutes, perhaps.\"\n\n\"And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!--Quite delightful;\nso many friends!\"\n\n\"No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on\nto Kingston as fast as I can.\"\n\n\"Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see you.\"\n\n\"No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day, and hear the\npianoforte.\"\n\n\"Well, I am so sorry!--Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last\nnight; how extremely pleasant.--Did you ever see such dancing?--Was not\nit delightful?--Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any\nthing equal to it.\"\n\n\"Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss\nWoodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing that passes.\nAnd (raising his voice still more) I do not see why Miss Fairfax should\nnot be mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs.\nWeston is the very best country-dance player, without exception,\nin England. Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say\nsomething pretty loud about you and me in return; but I cannot stay to\nhear it.\"\n\n\"Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence--so\nshocked!--Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!\"\n\n\"What is the matter now?\"\n\n\"To think of your sending us all your store apples. You said you had\na great many, and now you have not one left. We really are so shocked!\nMrs. Hodges may well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here. You\nshould not have done it, indeed you should not. Ah! he is off. He never\ncan bear to be thanked. But I thought he would have staid now, and it\nwould have been a pity not to have mentioned.... Well, (returning to the\nroom,) I have not been able to succeed. Mr. Knightley cannot stop. He is\ngoing to Kingston. He asked me if he could do any thing....\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Jane, \"we heard his kind offers, we heard every thing.\"\n\n\"Oh! yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you know, the door was\nopen, and the window was open, and Mr. Knightley spoke loud. You must\nhave heard every thing to be sure. 'Can I do any thing for you at\nKingston?' said he; so I just mentioned.... Oh! Miss Woodhouse, must you\nbe going?--You seem but just come--so very obliging of you.\"\n\nEmma found it really time to be at home; the visit had already lasted\nlong; and on examining watches, so much of the morning was perceived\nto be gone, that Mrs. Weston and her companion taking leave also, could\nallow themselves only to walk with the two young ladies to Hartfield\ngates, before they set off for Randalls.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\nIt may be possible to do without dancing entirely. Instances have been\nknown of young people passing many, many months successively, without\nbeing at any ball of any description, and no material injury accrue\neither to body or mind;--but when a beginning is made--when the\nfelicities of rapid motion have once been, though slightly, felt--it\nmust be a very heavy set that does not ask for more.\n\nFrank Churchill had danced once at Highbury, and longed to dance again;\nand the last half-hour of an evening which Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded\nto spend with his daughter at Randalls, was passed by the two young\npeople in schemes on the subject. Frank's was the first idea; and his\nthe greatest zeal in pursuing it; for the lady was the best judge of the\ndifficulties, and the most solicitous for accommodation and appearance.\nBut still she had inclination enough for shewing people again how\ndelightfully Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse danced--for\ndoing that in which she need not blush to compare herself with Jane\nFairfax--and even for simple dancing itself, without any of the wicked\naids of vanity--to assist him first in pacing out the room they were in\nto see what it could be made to hold--and then in taking the dimensions\nof the other parlour, in the hope of discovering, in spite of all that\nMr. Weston could say of their exactly equal size, that it was a little\nthe largest.\n\nHis first proposition and request, that the dance begun at Mr. Cole's\nshould be finished there--that the same party should be collected,\nand the same musician engaged, met with the readiest acquiescence. Mr.\nWeston entered into the idea with thorough enjoyment, and Mrs. Weston\nmost willingly undertook to play as long as they could wish to dance;\nand the interesting employment had followed, of reckoning up exactly who\nthere would be, and portioning out the indispensable division of space\nto every couple.\n\n\"You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss\nCoxes five,\" had been repeated many times over. \"And there will be the\ntwo Gilberts, young Cox, my father, and myself, besides Mr. Knightley.\nYes, that will be quite enough for pleasure. You and Miss Smith, and\nMiss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss Coxes five; and for five\ncouple there will be plenty of room.\"\n\nBut soon it came to be on one side,\n\n\"But will there be good room for five couple?--I really do not think\nthere will.\"\n\nOn another,\n\n\"And after all, five couple are not enough to make it worth while to\nstand up. Five couple are nothing, when one thinks seriously about it.\nIt will not do to _invite_ five couple. It can be allowable only as the\nthought of the moment.\"\n\nSomebody said that _Miss_ Gilbert was expected at her brother's, and\nmust be invited with the rest. Somebody else believed _Mrs_. Gilbert\nwould have danced the other evening, if she had been asked. A word was\nput in for a second young Cox; and at last, Mr. Weston naming one family\nof cousins who must be included, and another of very old acquaintance\nwho could not be left out, it became a certainty that the five couple\nwould be at least ten, and a very interesting speculation in what\npossible manner they could be disposed of.\n\nThe doors of the two rooms were just opposite each other. \"Might not\nthey use both rooms, and dance across the passage?\" It seemed the\nbest scheme; and yet it was not so good but that many of them wanted a\nbetter. Emma said it would be awkward; Mrs. Weston was in distress about\nthe supper; and Mr. Woodhouse opposed it earnestly, on the score of\nhealth. It made him so very unhappy, indeed, that it could not be\npersevered in.\n\n\"Oh! no,\" said he; \"it would be the extreme of imprudence. I could not\nbear it for Emma!--Emma is not strong. She would catch a dreadful cold.\nSo would poor little Harriet. So you would all. Mrs. Weston, you would\nbe quite laid up; do not let them talk of such a wild thing. Pray do\nnot let them talk of it. That young man (speaking lower) is very\nthoughtless. Do not tell his father, but that young man is not quite\nthe thing. He has been opening the doors very often this evening,\nand keeping them open very inconsiderately. He does not think of the\ndraught. I do not mean to set you against him, but indeed he is not\nquite the thing!\"\n\nMrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge. She knew the importance of\nit, and said every thing in her power to do it away. Every door was now\nclosed, the passage plan given up, and the first scheme of dancing only\nin the room they were in resorted to again; and with such good-will on\nFrank Churchill's part, that the space which a quarter of an hour before\nhad been deemed barely sufficient for five couple, was now endeavoured\nto be made out quite enough for ten.\n\n\"We were too magnificent,\" said he. \"We allowed unnecessary room. Ten\ncouple may stand here very well.\"\n\nEmma demurred. \"It would be a crowd--a sad crowd; and what could be\nworse than dancing without space to turn in?\"\n\n\"Very true,\" he gravely replied; \"it was very bad.\" But still he went on\nmeasuring, and still he ended with,\n\n\"I think there will be very tolerable room for ten couple.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said she, \"you are quite unreasonable. It would be dreadful\nto be standing so close! Nothing can be farther from pleasure than to be\ndancing in a crowd--and a crowd in a little room!\"\n\n\"There is no denying it,\" he replied. \"I agree with you exactly. A crowd\nin a little room--Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of giving pictures\nin a few words. Exquisite, quite exquisite!--Still, however, having\nproceeded so far, one is unwilling to give the matter up. It would be\na disappointment to my father--and altogether--I do not know that--I am\nrather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very well.\"\n\nEmma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little\nself-willed, and that he would rather oppose than lose the pleasure of\ndancing with her; but she took the compliment, and forgave the rest.\nHad she intended ever to _marry_ him, it might have been worth while to\npause and consider, and try to understand the value of his preference,\nand the character of his temper; but for all the purposes of their\nacquaintance, he was quite amiable enough.\n\nBefore the middle of the next day, he was at Hartfield; and he entered\nthe room with such an agreeable smile as certified the continuance of\nthe scheme. It soon appeared that he came to announce an improvement.\n\n\"Well, Miss Woodhouse,\" he almost immediately began, \"your inclination\nfor dancing has not been quite frightened away, I hope, by the terrors\nof my father's little rooms. I bring a new proposal on the subject:--a\nthought of my father's, which waits only your approbation to be acted\nupon. May I hope for the honour of your hand for the two first dances\nof this little projected ball, to be given, not at Randalls, but at the\nCrown Inn?\"\n\n\"The Crown!\"\n\n\"Yes; if you and Mr. Woodhouse see no objection, and I trust you cannot,\nmy father hopes his friends will be so kind as to visit him there.\nBetter accommodations, he can promise them, and not a less grateful\nwelcome than at Randalls. It is his own idea. Mrs. Weston sees no\nobjection to it, provided you are satisfied. This is what we all feel.\nOh! you were perfectly right! Ten couple, in either of the Randalls\nrooms, would have been insufferable!--Dreadful!--I felt how right you\nwere the whole time, but was too anxious for securing _any_ _thing_\nto like to yield. Is not it a good exchange?--You consent--I hope you\nconsent?\"\n\n\"It appears to me a plan that nobody can object to, if Mr. and Mrs.\nWeston do not. I think it admirable; and, as far as I can answer for\nmyself, shall be most happy--It seems the only improvement that could\nbe. Papa, do you not think it an excellent improvement?\"\n\nShe was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was fully\ncomprehended; and then, being quite new, farther representations were\nnecessary to make it acceptable.\n\n\"No; he thought it very far from an improvement--a very bad plan--much\nworse than the other. A room at an inn was always damp and dangerous;\nnever properly aired, or fit to be inhabited. If they must dance, they\nhad better dance at Randalls. He had never been in the room at the Crown\nin his life--did not know the people who kept it by sight.--Oh! no--a\nvery bad plan. They would catch worse colds at the Crown than anywhere.\"\n\n\"I was going to observe, sir,\" said Frank Churchill, \"that one of the\ngreat recommendations of this change would be the very little danger\nof any body's catching cold--so much less danger at the Crown than at\nRandalls! Mr. Perry might have reason to regret the alteration, but\nnobody else could.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said Mr. Woodhouse, rather warmly, \"you are very much mistaken\nif you suppose Mr. Perry to be that sort of character. Mr. Perry is\nextremely concerned when any of us are ill. But I do not understand how\nthe room at the Crown can be safer for you than your father's house.\"\n\n\"From the very circumstance of its being larger, sir. We shall have no\noccasion to open the windows at all--not once the whole evening; and it\nis that dreadful habit of opening the windows, letting in cold air upon\nheated bodies, which (as you well know, sir) does the mischief.\"\n\n\"Open the windows!--but surely, Mr. Churchill, nobody would think of\nopening the windows at Randalls. Nobody could be so imprudent! I never\nheard of such a thing. Dancing with open windows!--I am sure, neither\nyour father nor Mrs. Weston (poor Miss Taylor that was) would suffer\nit.\"\n\n\"Ah! sir--but a thoughtless young person will sometimes step behind a\nwindow-curtain, and throw up a sash, without its being suspected. I have\noften known it done myself.\"\n\n\"Have you indeed, sir?--Bless me! I never could have supposed it. But I\nlive out of the world, and am often astonished at what I hear. However,\nthis does make a difference; and, perhaps, when we come to talk it\nover--but these sort of things require a good deal of consideration. One\ncannot resolve upon them in a hurry. If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be so\nobliging as to call here one morning, we may talk it over, and see what\ncan be done.\"\n\n\"But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited--\"\n\n\"Oh!\" interrupted Emma, \"there will be plenty of time for talking every\nthing over. There is no hurry at all. If it can be contrived to be at\nthe Crown, papa, it will be very convenient for the horses. They will be\nso near their own stable.\"\n\n\"So they will, my dear. That is a great thing. Not that James ever\ncomplains; but it is right to spare our horses when we can. If I could\nbe sure of the rooms being thoroughly aired--but is Mrs. Stokes to be\ntrusted? I doubt it. I do not know her, even by sight.\"\n\n\"I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because it will be\nunder Mrs. Weston's care. Mrs. Weston undertakes to direct the whole.\"\n\n\"There, papa!--Now you must be satisfied--Our own dear Mrs. Weston, who\nis carefulness itself. Do not you remember what Mr. Perry said, so many\nyears ago, when I had the measles? 'If _Miss_ _Taylor_ undertakes to\nwrap Miss Emma up, you need not have any fears, sir.' How often have I\nheard you speak of it as such a compliment to her!\"\n\n\"Aye, very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never forget it. Poor\nlittle Emma! You were very bad with the measles; that is, you would have\nbeen very bad, but for Perry's great attention. He came four times a day\nfor a week. He said, from the first, it was a very good sort--which\nwas our great comfort; but the measles are a dreadful complaint. I hope\nwhenever poor Isabella's little ones have the measles, she will send for\nPerry.\"\n\n\"My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment,\" said Frank\nChurchill, \"examining the capabilities of the house. I left them there\nand came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion, and hoping you\nmight be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot. I was\ndesired to say so from both. It would be the greatest pleasure to\nthem, if you could allow me to attend you there. They can do nothing\nsatisfactorily without you.\"\n\nEmma was most happy to be called to such a council; and her father,\nengaging to think it all over while she was gone, the two young people\nset off together without delay for the Crown. There were Mr. and Mrs.\nWeston; delighted to see her and receive her approbation, very busy and\nvery happy in their different way; she, in some little distress; and he,\nfinding every thing perfect.\n\n\"Emma,\" said she, \"this paper is worse than I expected. Look! in places\nyou see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot is more yellow and\nforlorn than any thing I could have imagined.\"\n\n\"My dear, you are too particular,\" said her husband. \"What does all that\nsignify? You will see nothing of it by candlelight. It will be as\nclean as Randalls by candlelight. We never see any thing of it on our\nclub-nights.\"\n\nThe ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant, \"Men never know\nwhen things are dirty or not;\" and the gentlemen perhaps thought each to\nhimself, \"Women will have their little nonsenses and needless cares.\"\n\nOne perplexity, however, arose, which the gentlemen did not disdain.\nIt regarded a supper-room. At the time of the ballroom's being built,\nsuppers had not been in question; and a small card-room adjoining, was\nthe only addition. What was to be done? This card-room would be wanted\nas a card-room now; or, if cards were conveniently voted unnecessary\nby their four selves, still was it not too small for any comfortable\nsupper? Another room of much better size might be secured for the\npurpose; but it was at the other end of the house, and a long awkward\npassage must be gone through to get at it. This made a difficulty. Mrs.\nWeston was afraid of draughts for the young people in that passage;\nand neither Emma nor the gentlemen could tolerate the prospect of being\nmiserably crowded at supper.\n\nMrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; merely sandwiches,\n&c., set out in the little room; but that was scouted as a wretched\nsuggestion. A private dance, without sitting down to supper, was\npronounced an infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women; and\nMrs. Weston must not speak of it again. She then took another line of\nexpediency, and looking into the doubtful room, observed,\n\n\"I do not think it _is_ so very small. We shall not be many, you know.\"\n\nAnd Mr. Weston at the same time, walking briskly with long steps through\nthe passage, was calling out,\n\n\"You talk a great deal of the length of this passage, my dear. It is a\nmere nothing after all; and not the least draught from the stairs.\"\n\n\"I wish,\" said Mrs. Weston, \"one could know which arrangement our guests\nin general would like best. To do what would be most generally pleasing\nmust be our object--if one could but tell what that would be.\"\n\n\"Yes, very true,\" cried Frank, \"very true. You want your neighbours'\nopinions. I do not wonder at you. If one could ascertain what the chief\nof them--the Coles, for instance. They are not far off. Shall I call\nupon them? Or Miss Bates? She is still nearer.--And I do not know\nwhether Miss Bates is not as likely to understand the inclinations of\nthe rest of the people as any body. I think we do want a larger council.\nSuppose I go and invite Miss Bates to join us?\"\n\n\"Well--if you please,\" said Mrs. Weston rather hesitating, \"if you think\nshe will be of any use.\"\n\n\"You will get nothing to the purpose from Miss Bates,\" said Emma. \"She\nwill be all delight and gratitude, but she will tell you nothing. She\nwill not even listen to your questions. I see no advantage in consulting\nMiss Bates.\"\n\n\"But she is so amusing, so extremely amusing! I am very fond of hearing\nMiss Bates talk. And I need not bring the whole family, you know.\"\n\nHere Mr. Weston joined them, and on hearing what was proposed, gave it\nhis decided approbation.\n\n\"Aye, do, Frank.--Go and fetch Miss Bates, and let us end the matter at\nonce. She will enjoy the scheme, I am sure; and I do not know a properer\nperson for shewing us how to do away difficulties. Fetch Miss Bates.\nWe are growing a little too nice. She is a standing lesson of how to be\nhappy. But fetch them both. Invite them both.\"\n\n\"Both sir! Can the old lady?\"...\n\n\"The old lady! No, the young lady, to be sure. I shall think you a great\nblockhead, Frank, if you bring the aunt without the niece.\"\n\n\"Oh! I beg your pardon, sir. I did not immediately recollect.\nUndoubtedly if you wish it, I will endeavour to persuade them both.\" And\naway he ran.\n\nLong before he reappeared, attending the short, neat, brisk-moving aunt,\nand her elegant niece,--Mrs. Weston, like a sweet-tempered woman and\na good wife, had examined the passage again, and found the evils of it\nmuch less than she had supposed before--indeed very trifling; and here\nended the difficulties of decision. All the rest, in speculation at\nleast, was perfectly smooth. All the minor arrangements of table and\nchair, lights and music, tea and supper, made themselves; or were left\nas mere trifles to be settled at any time between Mrs. Weston and Mrs.\nStokes.--Every body invited, was certainly to come; Frank had already\nwritten to Enscombe to propose staying a few days beyond his fortnight,\nwhich could not possibly be refused. And a delightful dance it was to\nbe.\n\nMost cordially, when Miss Bates arrived, did she agree that it must.\nAs a counsellor she was not wanted; but as an approver, (a much safer\ncharacter,) she was truly welcome. Her approbation, at once general\nand minute, warm and incessant, could not but please; and for another\nhalf-hour they were all walking to and fro, between the different rooms,\nsome suggesting, some attending, and all in happy enjoyment of the\nfuture. The party did not break up without Emma's being positively\nsecured for the two first dances by the hero of the evening, nor without\nher overhearing Mr. Weston whisper to his wife, \"He has asked her, my\ndear. That's right. I knew he would!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nOne thing only was wanting to make the prospect of the ball completely\nsatisfactory to Emma--its being fixed for a day within the granted\nterm of Frank Churchill's stay in Surry; for, in spite of Mr. Weston's\nconfidence, she could not think it so very impossible that the\nChurchills might not allow their nephew to remain a day beyond his\nfortnight. But this was not judged feasible. The preparations must take\ntheir time, nothing could be properly ready till the third week were\nentered on, and for a few days they must be planning, proceeding and\nhoping in uncertainty--at the risk--in her opinion, the great risk, of\nits being all in vain.\n\nEnscombe however was gracious, gracious in fact, if not in word. His\nwish of staying longer evidently did not please; but it was not opposed.\nAll was safe and prosperous; and as the removal of one solicitude\ngenerally makes way for another, Emma, being now certain of her\nball, began to adopt as the next vexation Mr. Knightley's provoking\nindifference about it. Either because he did not dance himself, or\nbecause the plan had been formed without his being consulted, he\nseemed resolved that it should not interest him, determined against its\nexciting any present curiosity, or affording him any future amusement.\nTo her voluntary communications Emma could get no more approving reply,\nthan,\n\n\"Very well. If the Westons think it worth while to be at all this\ntrouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say\nagainst it, but that they shall not chuse pleasures for me.--Oh! yes,\nI must be there; I could not refuse; and I will keep as much awake as\nI can; but I would rather be at home, looking over William Larkins's\nweek's account; much rather, I confess.--Pleasure in seeing\ndancing!--not I, indeed--I never look at it--I do not know who\ndoes.--Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward.\nThose who are standing by are usually thinking of something very\ndifferent.\"\n\nThis Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite angry. It was not\nin compliment to Jane Fairfax however that he was so indifferent, or so\nindignant; he was not guided by _her_ feelings in reprobating the ball,\nfor _she_ enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree. It made\nher animated--open hearted--she voluntarily said;--\n\n\"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball.\nWhat a disappointment it would be! I do look forward to it, I own, with\n_very_ great pleasure.\"\n\nIt was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would have preferred\nthe society of William Larkins. No!--she was more and more convinced\nthat Mrs. Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise. There was a great\ndeal of friendly and of compassionate attachment on his side--but no\nlove.\n\nAlas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. Knightley. Two\ndays of joyful security were immediately followed by the over-throw of\nevery thing. A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew's\ninstant return. Mrs. Churchill was unwell--far too unwell to do without\nhim; she had been in a very suffering state (so said her husband)\nwhen writing to her nephew two days before, though from her usual\nunwillingness to give pain, and constant habit of never thinking of\nherself, she had not mentioned it; but now she was too ill to trifle,\nand must entreat him to set off for Enscombe without delay.\n\nThe substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a note from Mrs.\nWeston, instantly. As to his going, it was inevitable. He must be gone\nwithin a few hours, though without feeling any real alarm for his aunt,\nto lessen his repugnance. He knew her illnesses; they never occurred but\nfor her own convenience.\n\nMrs. Weston added, \"that he could only allow himself time to hurry to\nHighbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there\nwhom he could suppose to feel any interest in him; and that he might be\nexpected at Hartfield very soon.\"\n\nThis wretched note was the finale of Emma's breakfast. When once it had\nbeen read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim. The\nloss of the ball--the loss of the young man--and all that the young man\nmight be feeling!--It was too wretched!--Such a delightful evening as\nit would have been!--Every body so happy! and she and her partner the\nhappiest!--\"I said it would be so,\" was the only consolation.\n\nHer father's feelings were quite distinct. He thought principally of\nMrs. Churchill's illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and as\nfor the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but they\nwould all be safer at home.\n\nEmma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if this\nreflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total want\nof spirits when he did come might redeem him. He felt the going away\nalmost too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He\nsat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing\nhimself, it was only to say,\n\n\"Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst.\"\n\n\"But you will come again,\" said Emma. \"This will not be your only visit\nto Randalls.\"\n\n\"Ah!--(shaking his head)--the uncertainty of when I may be able to\nreturn!--I shall try for it with a zeal!--It will be the object of\nall my thoughts and cares!--and if my uncle and aunt go to town this\nspring--but I am afraid--they did not stir last spring--I am afraid it\nis a custom gone for ever.\"\n\n\"Our poor ball must be quite given up.\"\n\n\"Ah! that ball!--why did we wait for any thing?--why not seize the\npleasure at once?--How often is happiness destroyed by preparation,\nfoolish preparation!--You told us it would be so.--Oh! Miss Woodhouse,\nwhy are you always so right?\"\n\n\"Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I would much\nrather have been merry than wise.\"\n\n\"If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father depends\non it. Do not forget your engagement.\"\n\nEmma looked graciously.\n\n\"Such a fortnight as it has been!\" he continued; \"every day more\nprecious and more delightful than the day before!--every day making\nme less fit to bear any other place. Happy those, who can remain at\nHighbury!\"\n\n\"As you do us such ample justice now,\" said Emma, laughing, \"I will\nventure to ask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first?\nDo not we rather surpass your expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure\nyou did not much expect to like us. You would not have been so long in\ncoming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury.\"\n\nHe laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment, Emma\nwas convinced that it had been so.\n\n\"And you must be off this very morning?\"\n\n\"Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back together, and I\nmust be off immediately. I am almost afraid that every moment will bring\nhim.\"\n\n\"Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss Fairfax and Miss\nBates? How unlucky! Miss Bates's powerful, argumentative mind might have\nstrengthened yours.\"\n\n\"Yes--I _have_ called there; passing the door, I thought it better. It\nwas a right thing to do. I went in for three minutes, and was detained\nby Miss Bates's being absent. She was out; and I felt it impossible not\nto wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one _must_\nlaugh at; but that one would not wish to slight. It was better to pay my\nvisit, then\"--\n\nHe hesitated, got up, walked to a window.\n\n\"In short,\" said he, \"perhaps, Miss Woodhouse--I think you can hardly be\nquite without suspicion\"--\n\nHe looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts. She hardly knew\nwhat to say. It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely\nserious, which she did not wish. Forcing herself to speak, therefore, in\nthe hope of putting it by, she calmly said,\n\n\"You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit,\nthen\"--\n\nHe was silent. She believed he was looking at her; probably reflecting\non what she had said, and trying to understand the manner. She heard\nhim sigh. It was natural for him to feel that he had _cause_ to sigh.\nHe could not believe her to be encouraging him. A few awkward moments\npassed, and he sat down again; and in a more determined manner said,\n\n\"It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given to\nHartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most warm\"--\n\nHe stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed.--He was more\nin love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say how it might\nhave ended, if his father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse\nsoon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him composed.\n\nA very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial. Mr.\nWeston, always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of\nprocrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that\nwas doubtful, said, \"It was time to go;\" and the young man, though he\nmight and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave.\n\n\"I shall hear about you all,\" said he; \"that is my chief consolation.\nI shall hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have engaged\nMrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise\nit. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really\ninterested in the absent!--she will tell me every thing. In her letters\nI shall be at dear Highbury again.\"\n\nA very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest \"Good-bye,\" closed the\nspeech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had been\nthe notice--short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry\nto part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his\nabsence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too\nmuch.\n\nIt was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his\narrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to\nthe last two weeks--indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation\nof seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his\nattentions, his liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy\nfortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common\ncourse of Hartfield days. To complete every other recommendation, he had\n_almost_ told her that he loved her. What strength, or what constancy of\naffection he might be subject to, was another point; but at present\nshe could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious\npreference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all the rest,\nmade her think that she _must_ be a little in love with him, in spite of\nevery previous determination against it.\n\n\"I certainly must,\" said she. \"This sensation of listlessness,\nweariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself,\nthis feeling of every thing's being dull and insipid about the house!--\nI must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world if I\nwere not--for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good to\nothers. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank\nChurchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening\nwith his dear William Larkins now if he likes.\"\n\nMr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not say\nthat he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have\ncontradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he\nwas sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable\nkindness added,\n\n\"You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out\nof luck; you are very much out of luck!\"\n\nIt was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest\nregret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure\nwas odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from\nheadache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball\ntaken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was\ncharity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of\nill-health.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nEmma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas\nonly varied as to the how much. At first, she thought it was a good\ndeal; and afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in hearing\nFrank Churchill talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever\nin seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him, and\nquite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was, how were\nhis spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his coming to\nRandalls again this spring. But, on the other hand, she could not admit\nherself to be unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be less disposed\nfor employment than usual; she was still busy and cheerful; and,\npleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have faults; and\nfarther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat drawing or\nworking, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress and close\nof their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing\nelegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his\nside was that she _refused_ _him_. Their affection was always to subside\ninto friendship. Every thing tender and charming was to mark their\nparting; but still they were to part. When she became sensible of this,\nit struck her that she could not be very much in love; for in spite of\nher previous and fixed determination never to quit her father, never\nto marry, a strong attachment certainly must produce more of a struggle\nthan she could foresee in her own feelings.\n\n\"I do not find myself making any use of the word _sacrifice_,\" said\nshe.--\"In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is\nthere any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not\nreally necessary to my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will\nnot persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am quite enough in love. I\nshould be sorry to be more.\"\n\nUpon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his feelings.\n\n\"_He_ is undoubtedly very much in love--every thing denotes it--very\nmuch in love indeed!--and when he comes again, if his affection\ncontinue, I must be on my guard not to encourage it.--It would be most\ninexcusable to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not that I\nimagine he can think I have been encouraging him hitherto. No, if he\nhad believed me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been\nso wretched. Could he have thought himself encouraged, his looks and\nlanguage at parting would have been different.--Still, however, I must\nbe on my guard. This is in the supposition of his attachment continuing\nwhat it now is; but I do not know that I expect it will; I do not look\nupon him to be quite the sort of man--I do not altogether build upon\nhis steadiness or constancy.--His feelings are warm, but I can imagine\nthem rather changeable.--Every consideration of the subject, in short,\nmakes me thankful that my happiness is not more deeply involved.--I\nshall do very well again after a little while--and then, it will be a\ngood thing over; for they say every body is in love once in their lives,\nand I shall have been let off easily.\"\n\nWhen his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it; and\nshe read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made her\nat first shake her head over her own sensations, and think she had\nundervalued their strength. It was a long, well-written letter, giving\nthe particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all the\naffection, gratitude, and respect which was natural and honourable,\nand describing every thing exterior and local that could be supposed\nattractive, with spirit and precision. No suspicious flourishes now of\napology or concern; it was the language of real feeling towards Mrs.\nWeston; and the transition from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast\nbetween the places in some of the first blessings of social life was\njust enough touched on to shew how keenly it was felt, and how much more\nmight have been said but for the restraints of propriety.--The charm\nof her own name was not wanting. _Miss_ _Woodhouse_ appeared more than\nonce, and never without a something of pleasing connexion, either a\ncompliment to her taste, or a remembrance of what she had said; and in\nthe very last time of its meeting her eye, unadorned as it was by any\nsuch broad wreath of gallantry, she yet could discern the effect of\nher influence and acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps of all\nconveyed. Compressed into the very lowest vacant corner were these\nwords--\"I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as you know, for Miss\nWoodhouse's beautiful little friend. Pray make my excuses and adieus\nto her.\" This, Emma could not doubt, was all for herself. Harriet was\nremembered only from being _her_ friend. His information and prospects\nas to Enscombe were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated;\nMrs. Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even in his own\nimagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls again.\n\nGratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the material\npart, its sentiments, she yet found, when it was folded up and returned\nto Mrs. Weston, that it had not added any lasting warmth, that she could\nstill do without the writer, and that he must learn to do without her.\nHer intentions were unchanged. Her resolution of refusal only grew more\ninteresting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent consolation\nand happiness. His recollection of Harriet, and the words which\nclothed it, the \"beautiful little friend,\" suggested to her the\nidea of Harriet's succeeding her in his affections. Was it\nimpossible?--No.--Harriet undoubtedly was greatly his inferior in\nunderstanding; but he had been very much struck with the loveliness\nof her face and the warm simplicity of her manner; and all the\nprobabilities of circumstance and connexion were in her favour.--For\nHarriet, it would be advantageous and delightful indeed.\n\n\"I must not dwell upon it,\" said she.--\"I must not think of it. I know\nthe danger of indulging such speculations. But stranger things have\nhappened; and when we cease to care for each other as we do now, it\nwill be the means of confirming us in that sort of true disinterested\nfriendship which I can already look forward to with pleasure.\"\n\nIt was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet's behalf, though it\nmight be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom; for evil in that quarter\nwas at hand. As Frank Churchill's arrival had succeeded Mr. Elton's\nengagement in the conversation of Highbury, as the latest interest\nhad entirely borne down the first, so now upon Frank Churchill's\ndisappearance, Mr. Elton's concerns were assuming the most irresistible\nform.--His wedding-day was named. He would soon be among them again; Mr.\nElton and his bride. There was hardly time to talk over the first letter\nfrom Enscombe before \"Mr. Elton and his bride\" was in every body's\nmouth, and Frank Churchill was forgotten. Emma grew sick at the sound.\nShe had had three weeks of happy exemption from Mr. Elton; and Harriet's\nmind, she had been willing to hope, had been lately gaining strength.\nWith Mr. Weston's ball in view at least, there had been a great deal of\ninsensibility to other things; but it was now too evident that she had\nnot attained such a state of composure as could stand against the actual\napproach--new carriage, bell-ringing, and all.\n\nPoor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the\nreasonings and soothings and attentions of every kind that Emma could\ngive. Emma felt that she could not do too much for her, that Harriet had\na right to all her ingenuity and all her patience; but it was heavy work\nto be for ever convincing without producing any effect, for ever agreed\nto, without being able to make their opinions the same. Harriet listened\nsubmissively, and said \"it was very true--it was just as Miss Woodhouse\ndescribed--it was not worth while to think about them--and she would not\nthink about them any longer\" but no change of subject could avail, and\nthe next half-hour saw her as anxious and restless about the Eltons as\nbefore. At last Emma attacked her on another ground.\n\n\"Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about Mr.\nElton's marrying, Harriet, is the strongest reproach you can make _me_.\nYou could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into.\nIt was all my doing, I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure\nyou.--Deceived myself, I did very miserably deceive you--and it will\nbe a painful reflection to me for ever. Do not imagine me in danger of\nforgetting it.\"\n\nHarriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager\nexclamation. Emma continued,\n\n\"I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake; think less, talk\nless of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for your own sake rather, I\nwould wish it to be done, for the sake of what is more important than my\ncomfort, a habit of self-command in you, a consideration of what is your\nduty, an attention to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the suspicions of\nothers, to save your health and credit, and restore your tranquillity.\nThese are the motives which I have been pressing on you. They are very\nimportant--and sorry I am that you cannot feel them sufficiently to act\nupon them. My being saved from pain is a very secondary consideration.\nI want you to save yourself from greater pain. Perhaps I may sometimes\nhave felt that Harriet would not forget what was due--or rather what\nwould be kind by me.\"\n\nThis appeal to her affections did more than all the rest. The idea of\nwanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she really\nloved extremely, made her wretched for a while, and when the violence\nof grief was comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt to\nwhat was right and support her in it very tolerably.\n\n\"You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life--Want\ngratitude to you!--Nobody is equal to you!--I care for nobody as I do\nfor you!--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been!\"\n\nSuch expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and\nmanner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so\nwell, nor valued her affection so highly before.\n\n\"There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart,\" said she afterwards to\nherself. \"There is nothing to be compared to it. Warmth and tenderness\nof heart, with an affectionate, open manner, will beat all the\nclearness of head in the world, for attraction, I am sure it will. It\nis tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so generally\nbeloved--which gives Isabella all her popularity.--I have it not--but\nI know how to prize and respect it.--Harriet is my superior in all the\ncharm and all the felicity it gives. Dear Harriet!--I would not change\nyou for the clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging female\nbreathing. Oh! the coldness of a Jane Fairfax!--Harriet is worth a\nhundred such--And for a wife--a sensible man's wife--it is invaluable. I\nmention no names; but happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nMrs. Elton was first seen at church: but though devotion might be\ninterrupted, curiosity could not be satisfied by a bride in a pew, and\nit must be left for the visits in form which were then to be paid, to\nsettle whether she were very pretty indeed, or only rather pretty, or\nnot pretty at all.\n\nEmma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or propriety, to make\nher resolve on not being the last to pay her respects; and she made a\npoint of Harriet's going with her, that the worst of the business might\nbe gone through as soon as possible.\n\nShe could not enter the house again, could not be in the same room to\nwhich she had with such vain artifice retreated three months ago, to\nlace up her boot, without _recollecting_. A thousand vexatious thoughts\nwould recur. Compliments, charades, and horrible blunders; and it was\nnot to be supposed that poor Harriet should not be recollecting too; but\nshe behaved very well, and was only rather pale and silent. The visit\nwas of course short; and there was so much embarrassment and occupation\nof mind to shorten it, that Emma would not allow herself entirely to\nform an opinion of the lady, and on no account to give one, beyond the\nnothing-meaning terms of being \"elegantly dressed, and very pleasing.\"\n\nShe did not really like her. She would not be in a hurry to find fault,\nbut she suspected that there was no elegance;--ease, but not elegance.--\nShe was almost sure that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride, there\nwas too much ease. Her person was rather good; her face not unpretty;\nbut neither feature, nor air, nor voice, nor manner, were elegant. Emma\nthought at least it would turn out so.\n\nAs for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear--but no, she would not\npermit a hasty or a witty word from herself about his manners. It was an\nawkward ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits, and a man\nhad need be all grace to acquit himself well through it. The woman\nwas better off; she might have the assistance of fine clothes, and the\nprivilege of bashfulness, but the man had only his own good sense to\ndepend on; and when she considered how peculiarly unlucky poor Mr.\nElton was in being in the same room at once with the woman he had just\nmarried, the woman he had wanted to marry, and the woman whom he had\nbeen expected to marry, she must allow him to have the right to look as\nlittle wise, and to be as much affectedly, and as little really easy as\ncould be.\n\n\"Well, Miss Woodhouse,\" said Harriet, when they had quitted the\nhouse, and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin; \"Well, Miss\nWoodhouse, (with a gentle sigh,) what do you think of her?--Is not she\nvery charming?\"\n\nThere was a little hesitation in Emma's answer.\n\n\"Oh! yes--very--a very pleasing young woman.\"\n\n\"I think her beautiful, quite beautiful.\"\n\n\"Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown.\"\n\n\"I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love.\"\n\n\"Oh! no--there is nothing to surprize one at all.--A pretty fortune; and\nshe came in his way.\"\n\n\"I dare say,\" returned Harriet, sighing again, \"I dare say she was very\nmuch attached to him.\"\n\n\"Perhaps she might; but it is not every man's fate to marry the woman\nwho loves him best. Miss Hawkins perhaps wanted a home, and thought this\nthe best offer she was likely to have.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Harriet earnestly, \"and well she might, nobody could ever\nhave a better. Well, I wish them happy with all my heart. And now, Miss\nWoodhouse, I do not think I shall mind seeing them again. He is just as\nsuperior as ever;--but being married, you know, it is quite a different\nthing. No, indeed, Miss Woodhouse, you need not be afraid; I can sit and\nadmire him now without any great misery. To know that he has not thrown\nhimself away, is such a comfort!--She does seem a charming young woman,\njust what he deserves. Happy creature! He called her 'Augusta.' How\ndelightful!\"\n\nWhen the visit was returned, Emma made up her mind. She could then see\nmore and judge better. From Harriet's happening not to be at Hartfield,\nand her father's being present to engage Mr. Elton, she had a quarter\nof an hour of the lady's conversation to herself, and could composedly\nattend to her; and the quarter of an hour quite convinced her that\nMrs. Elton was a vain woman, extremely well satisfied with herself, and\nthinking much of her own importance; that she meant to shine and be very\nsuperior, but with manners which had been formed in a bad school, pert\nand familiar; that all her notions were drawn from one set of people,\nand one style of living; that if not foolish she was ignorant, and that\nher society would certainly do Mr. Elton no good.\n\nHarriet would have been a better match. If not wise or refined herself,\nshe would have connected him with those who were; but Miss Hawkins, it\nmight be fairly supposed from her easy conceit, had been the best of\nher own set. The rich brother-in-law near Bristol was the pride of the\nalliance, and his place and his carriages were the pride of him.\n\nThe very first subject after being seated was Maple Grove, \"My brother\nMr. Suckling's seat;\"--a comparison of Hartfield to Maple Grove. The\ngrounds of Hartfield were small, but neat and pretty; and the house was\nmodern and well-built. Mrs. Elton seemed most favourably impressed\nby the size of the room, the entrance, and all that she could see or\nimagine. \"Very like Maple Grove indeed!--She was quite struck by the\nlikeness!--That room was the very shape and size of the morning-room\nat Maple Grove; her sister's favourite room.\"--Mr. Elton was appealed\nto.--\"Was not it astonishingly like?--She could really almost fancy\nherself at Maple Grove.\"\n\n\"And the staircase--You know, as I came in, I observed how very like the\nstaircase was; placed exactly in the same part of the house. I really\ncould not help exclaiming! I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, it is very\ndelightful to me, to be reminded of a place I am so extremely partial to\nas Maple Grove. I have spent so many happy months there! (with a little\nsigh of sentiment). A charming place, undoubtedly. Every body who\nsees it is struck by its beauty; but to me, it has been quite a home.\nWhenever you are transplanted, like me, Miss Woodhouse, you will\nunderstand how very delightful it is to meet with any thing at all like\nwhat one has left behind. I always say this is quite one of the evils of\nmatrimony.\"\n\nEmma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was fully sufficient\nfor Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be talking herself.\n\n\"So extremely like Maple Grove! And it is not merely the house--the\ngrounds, I assure you, as far as I could observe, are strikingly like.\nThe laurels at Maple Grove are in the same profusion as here, and stand\nvery much in the same way--just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse\nof a fine large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so exactly in\nmind! My brother and sister will be enchanted with this place. People\nwho have extensive grounds themselves are always pleased with any thing\nin the same style.\"\n\nEmma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a great idea that\npeople who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for the\nextensive grounds of any body else; but it was not worth while to attack\nan error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply,\n\n\"When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will think you\nhave overrated Hartfield. Surry is full of beauties.\"\n\n\"Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of England, you\nknow. Surry is the garden of England.\"\n\n\"Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many\ncounties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as\nSurry.\"\n\n\"No, I fancy not,\" replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile.\n\"I never heard any county but Surry called so.\"\n\nEmma was silenced.\n\n\"My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring, or summer\nat farthest,\" continued Mrs. Elton; \"and that will be our time for\nexploring. While they are with us, we shall explore a great deal, I dare\nsay. They will have their barouche-landau, of course, which holds four\nperfectly; and therefore, without saying any thing of _our_ carriage,\nwe should be able to explore the different beauties extremely well. They\nwould hardly come in their chaise, I think, at that season of the\nyear. Indeed, when the time draws on, I shall decidedly recommend their\nbringing the barouche-landau; it will be so very much preferable.\nWhen people come into a beautiful country of this sort, you know, Miss\nWoodhouse, one naturally wishes them to see as much as possible; and Mr.\nSuckling is extremely fond of exploring. We explored to King's-Weston\ntwice last summer, in that way, most delightfully, just after their\nfirst having the barouche-landau. You have many parties of that kind\nhere, I suppose, Miss Woodhouse, every summer?\"\n\n\"No; not immediately here. We are rather out of distance of the very\nstriking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of; and we\nare a very quiet set of people, I believe; more disposed to stay at home\nthan engage in schemes of pleasure.\"\n\n\"Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort. Nobody can\nbe more devoted to home than I am. I was quite a proverb for it at Maple\nGrove. Many a time has Selina said, when she has been going to Bristol,\n'I really cannot get this girl to move from the house. I absolutely must\ngo in by myself, though I hate being stuck up in the barouche-landau\nwithout a companion; but Augusta, I believe, with her own good-will,\nwould never stir beyond the park paling.' Many a time has she said so;\nand yet I am no advocate for entire seclusion. I think, on the contrary,\nwhen people shut themselves up entirely from society, it is a very\nbad thing; and that it is much more advisable to mix in the world in\na proper degree, without living in it either too much or too little. I\nperfectly understand your situation, however, Miss Woodhouse--(looking\ntowards Mr. Woodhouse), Your father's state of health must be a great\ndrawback. Why does not he try Bath?--Indeed he should. Let me recommend\nBath to you. I assure you I have no doubt of its doing Mr. Woodhouse\ngood.\"\n\n\"My father tried it more than once, formerly; but without receiving any\nbenefit; and Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare say, is not unknown to you,\ndoes not conceive it would be at all more likely to be useful now.\"\n\n\"Ah! that's a great pity; for I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, where the\nwaters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they give. In my Bath\nlife, I have seen such instances of it! And it is so cheerful a place,\nthat it could not fail of being of use to Mr. Woodhouse's spirits,\nwhich, I understand, are sometimes much depressed. And as to its\nrecommendations to _you_, I fancy I need not take much pains to dwell\non them. The advantages of Bath to the young are pretty generally\nunderstood. It would be a charming introduction for you, who have lived\nso secluded a life; and I could immediately secure you some of the best\nsociety in the place. A line from me would bring you a little host of\nacquaintance; and my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have\nalways resided with when in Bath, would be most happy to shew you any\nattentions, and would be the very person for you to go into public\nwith.\"\n\nIt was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite. The idea\nof her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an\n_introduction_--of her going into public under the auspices of a friend\nof Mrs. Elton's--probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the\nhelp of a boarder, just made a shift to live!--The dignity of Miss\nWoodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed!\n\nShe restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could have\ngiven, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; \"but their going to Bath was\nquite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced that\nthe place might suit her better than her father.\" And then, to prevent\nfarther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.\n\n\"I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon these occasions,\na lady's character generally precedes her; and Highbury has long known\nthat you are a superior performer.\"\n\n\"Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A superior\nperformer!--very far from it, I assure you. Consider from how partial\na quarter your information came. I am doatingly fond of\nmusic--passionately fond;--and my friends say I am not entirely devoid\nof taste; but as to any thing else, upon my honour my performance is\n_mediocre_ to the last degree. You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play\ndelightfully. I assure you it has been the greatest satisfaction,\ncomfort, and delight to me, to hear what a musical society I am got\ninto. I absolutely cannot do without music. It is a necessary of life to\nme; and having always been used to a very musical society, both at\nMaple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most serious sacrifice. I\nhonestly said as much to Mr. E. when he was speaking of my future\nhome, and expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should be\ndisagreeable; and the inferiority of the house too--knowing what I had\nbeen accustomed to--of course he was not wholly without apprehension.\nWhen he was speaking of it in that way, I honestly said that _the_\n_world_ I could give up--parties, balls, plays--for I had no fear of\nretirement. Blessed with so many resources within myself, the world was\nnot necessary to _me_. I could do very well without it. To those who had\nno resources it was a different thing; but my resources made me quite\nindependent. And as to smaller-sized rooms than I had been used to, I\nreally could not give it a thought. I hoped I was perfectly equal to any\nsacrifice of that description. Certainly I had been accustomed to every\nluxury at Maple Grove; but I did assure him that two carriages were not\nnecessary to my happiness, nor were spacious apartments. 'But,' said I,\n'to be quite honest, I do not think I can live without something of a\nmusical society. I condition for nothing else; but without music, life\nwould be a blank to me.'\"\n\n\"We cannot suppose,\" said Emma, smiling, \"that Mr. Elton would hesitate\nto assure you of there being a _very_ musical society in Highbury; and\nI hope you will not find he has outstepped the truth more than may be\npardoned, in consideration of the motive.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I have no doubts at all on that head. I am delighted to\nfind myself in such a circle. I hope we shall have many sweet little\nconcerts together. I think, Miss Woodhouse, you and I must establish a\nmusical club, and have regular weekly meetings at your house, or ours.\nWill not it be a good plan? If _we_ exert ourselves, I think we shall\nnot be long in want of allies. Something of that nature would be\nparticularly desirable for _me_, as an inducement to keep me in\npractice; for married women, you know--there is a sad story against\nthem, in general. They are but too apt to give up music.\"\n\n\"But you, who are so extremely fond of it--there can be no danger,\nsurely?\"\n\n\"I should hope not; but really when I look around among my acquaintance,\nI tremble. Selina has entirely given up music--never touches the\ninstrument--though she played sweetly. And the same may be said of Mrs.\nJeffereys--Clara Partridge, that was--and of the two Milmans, now Mrs.\nBird and Mrs. James Cooper; and of more than I can enumerate. Upon my\nword it is enough to put one in a fright. I used to be quite angry with\nSelina; but really I begin now to comprehend that a married woman has\nmany things to call her attention. I believe I was half an hour this\nmorning shut up with my housekeeper.\"\n\n\"But every thing of that kind,\" said Emma, \"will soon be in so regular a\ntrain--\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Mrs. Elton, laughing, \"we shall see.\"\n\nEmma, finding her so determined upon neglecting her music, had nothing\nmore to say; and, after a moment's pause, Mrs. Elton chose another\nsubject.\n\n\"We have been calling at Randalls,\" said she, \"and found them both at\nhome; and very pleasant people they seem to be. I like them extremely.\nMr. Weston seems an excellent creature--quite a first-rate favourite\nwith me already, I assure you. And _she_ appears so truly good--there is\nsomething so motherly and kind-hearted about her, that it wins upon one\ndirectly. She was your governess, I think?\"\n\nEmma was almost too much astonished to answer; but Mrs. Elton hardly\nwaited for the affirmative before she went on.\n\n\"Having understood as much, I was rather astonished to find her so very\nlady-like! But she is really quite the gentlewoman.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Weston's manners,\" said Emma, \"were always particularly good.\nTheir propriety, simplicity, and elegance, would make them the safest\nmodel for any young woman.\"\n\n\"And who do you think came in while we were there?\"\n\nEmma was quite at a loss. The tone implied some old acquaintance--and\nhow could she possibly guess?\n\n\"Knightley!\" continued Mrs. Elton; \"Knightley himself!--Was not it\nlucky?--for, not being within when he called the other day, I had never\nseen him before; and of course, as so particular a friend of Mr. E.'s,\nI had a great curiosity. 'My friend Knightley' had been so often\nmentioned, that I was really impatient to see him; and I must do my\ncaro sposo the justice to say that he need not be ashamed of his friend.\nKnightley is quite the gentleman. I like him very much. Decidedly, I\nthink, a very gentleman-like man.\"\n\nHappily, it was now time to be gone. They were off; and Emma could\nbreathe.\n\n\"Insufferable woman!\" was her immediate exclamation. \"Worse than I had\nsupposed. Absolutely insufferable! Knightley!--I could not have\nbelieved it. Knightley!--never seen him in her life before, and call\nhim Knightley!--and discover that he is a gentleman! A little upstart,\nvulgar being, with her Mr. E., and her _caro_ _sposo_, and her\nresources, and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery.\nActually to discover that Mr. Knightley is a gentleman! I doubt whether\nhe will return the compliment, and discover her to be a lady. I could\nnot have believed it! And to propose that she and I should unite to\nform a musical club! One would fancy we were bosom friends! And Mrs.\nWeston!--Astonished that the person who had brought me up should be a\ngentlewoman! Worse and worse. I never met with her equal. Much beyond\nmy hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any comparison. Oh! what would Frank\nChurchill say to her, if he were here? How angry and how diverted he\nwould be! Ah! there I am--thinking of him directly. Always the first\nperson to be thought of! How I catch myself out! Frank Churchill comes\nas regularly into my mind!\"--\n\nAll this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her father\nhad arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons' departure, and was\nready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending.\n\n\"Well, my dear,\" he deliberately began, \"considering we never saw her\nbefore, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she\nwas very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little\nquickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe\nI am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and\npoor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved\nyoung lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think\nhe had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not\nhaving been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I\nsaid that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought to\nhave gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews\nwhat a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage\nLane.\"\n\n\"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you.\"\n\n\"Yes: but a young lady--a bride--I ought to have paid my respects to her\nif possible. It was being very deficient.\"\n\n\"But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why\nshould you be so anxious to pay your respects to a _bride_? It ought to\nbe no recommendation to _you_. It is encouraging people to marry if you\nmake so much of them.\"\n\n\"No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would always\nwish to pay every proper attention to a lady--and a bride, especially,\nis never to be neglected. More is avowedly due to _her_. A bride, you\nknow, my dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who\nthey may.\"\n\n\"Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not know what\nis. And I should never have expected you to be lending your sanction to\nsuch vanity-baits for poor young ladies.\"\n\n\"My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter of mere\ncommon politeness and good-breeding, and has nothing to do with any\nencouragement to people to marry.\"\n\nEmma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and could not understand\n_her_. Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton's offences, and long, very long,\ndid they occupy her.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\nEmma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill\nopinion of Mrs. Elton. Her observation had been pretty correct. Such as\nMrs. Elton appeared to her on this second interview, such she appeared\nwhenever they met again,--self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant,\nand ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a little accomplishment,\nbut so little judgment that she thought herself coming with superior\nknowledge of the world, to enliven and improve a country neighbourhood;\nand conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in society as Mrs.\nElton's consequence only could surpass.\n\nThere was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at all differently from\nhis wife. He seemed not merely happy with her, but proud. He had the air\nof congratulating himself on having brought such a woman to Highbury,\nas not even Miss Woodhouse could equal; and the greater part of her\nnew acquaintance, disposed to commend, or not in the habit of judging,\nfollowing the lead of Miss Bates's good-will, or taking it for granted\nthat the bride must be as clever and as agreeable as she professed\nherself, were very well satisfied; so that Mrs. Elton's praise\npassed from one mouth to another as it ought to do, unimpeded by Miss\nWoodhouse, who readily continued her first contribution and talked with\na good grace of her being \"very pleasant and very elegantly dressed.\"\n\nIn one respect Mrs. Elton grew even worse than she had appeared at\nfirst. Her feelings altered towards Emma.--Offended, probably, by the\nlittle encouragement which her proposals of intimacy met with, she drew\nback in her turn and gradually became much more cold and distant; and\nthough the effect was agreeable, the ill-will which produced it was\nnecessarily increasing Emma's dislike. Her manners, too--and Mr.\nElton's, were unpleasant towards Harriet. They were sneering and\nnegligent. Emma hoped it must rapidly work Harriet's cure; but the\nsensations which could prompt such behaviour sunk them both very\nmuch.--It was not to be doubted that poor Harriet's attachment had been\nan offering to conjugal unreserve, and her own share in the story, under\na colouring the least favourable to her and the most soothing to him,\nhad in all likelihood been given also. She was, of course, the object\nof their joint dislike.--When they had nothing else to say, it must be\nalways easy to begin abusing Miss Woodhouse; and the enmity which\nthey dared not shew in open disrespect to her, found a broader vent in\ncontemptuous treatment of Harriet.\n\nMrs. Elton took a great fancy to Jane Fairfax; and from the first. Not\nmerely when a state of warfare with one young lady might be supposed to\nrecommend the other, but from the very first; and she was not satisfied\nwith expressing a natural and reasonable admiration--but without\nsolicitation, or plea, or privilege, she must be wanting to assist and\nbefriend her.--Before Emma had forfeited her confidence, and about the\nthird time of their meeting, she heard all Mrs. Elton's knight-errantry\non the subject.--\n\n\"Jane Fairfax is absolutely charming, Miss Woodhouse.--I quite rave\nabout Jane Fairfax.--A sweet, interesting creature. So mild and\nladylike--and with such talents!--I assure you I think she has very\nextraordinary talents. I do not scruple to say that she plays extremely\nwell. I know enough of music to speak decidedly on that point. Oh! she\nis absolutely charming! You will laugh at my warmth--but, upon my word,\nI talk of nothing but Jane Fairfax.--And her situation is so calculated\nto affect one!--Miss Woodhouse, we must exert ourselves and endeavour\nto do something for her. We must bring her forward. Such talent as hers\nmust not be suffered to remain unknown.--I dare say you have heard those\ncharming lines of the poet,\n\n        'Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,\n          'And waste its fragrance on the desert air.'\n\nWe must not allow them to be verified in sweet Jane Fairfax.\"\n\n\"I cannot think there is any danger of it,\" was Emma's calm answer--\"and\nwhen you are better acquainted with Miss Fairfax's situation and\nunderstand what her home has been, with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell, I\nhave no idea that you will suppose her talents can be unknown.\"\n\n\"Oh! but dear Miss Woodhouse, she is now in such retirement, such\nobscurity, so thrown away.--Whatever advantages she may have enjoyed\nwith the Campbells are so palpably at an end! And I think she feels it.\nI am sure she does. She is very timid and silent. One can see that she\nfeels the want of encouragement. I like her the better for it. I\nmust confess it is a recommendation to me. I am a great advocate for\ntimidity--and I am sure one does not often meet with it.--But in those\nwho are at all inferior, it is extremely prepossessing. Oh! I assure\nyou, Jane Fairfax is a very delightful character, and interests me more\nthan I can express.\"\n\n\"You appear to feel a great deal--but I am not aware how you or any of\nMiss Fairfax's acquaintance here, any of those who have known her longer\nthan yourself, can shew her any other attention than\"--\n\n\"My dear Miss Woodhouse, a vast deal may be done by those who dare to\nact. You and I need not be afraid. If _we_ set the example, many will\nfollow it as far as they can; though all have not our situations. _We_\nhave carriages to fetch and convey her home, and _we_ live in a style\nwhich could not make the addition of Jane Fairfax, at any time, the\nleast inconvenient.--I should be extremely displeased if Wright were to\nsend us up such a dinner, as could make me regret having asked _more_\nthan Jane Fairfax to partake of it. I have no idea of that sort of\nthing. It is not likely that I _should_, considering what I have been\nused to. My greatest danger, perhaps, in housekeeping, may be quite the\nother way, in doing too much, and being too careless of expense. Maple\nGrove will probably be my model more than it ought to be--for we do not\nat all affect to equal my brother, Mr. Suckling, in income.--However, my\nresolution is taken as to noticing Jane Fairfax.--I shall certainly have\nher very often at my house, shall introduce her wherever I can, shall\nhave musical parties to draw out her talents, and shall be constantly\non the watch for an eligible situation. My acquaintance is so very\nextensive, that I have little doubt of hearing of something to suit\nher shortly.--I shall introduce her, of course, very particularly to my\nbrother and sister when they come to us. I am sure they will like her\nextremely; and when she gets a little acquainted with them, her fears\nwill completely wear off, for there really is nothing in the manners\nof either but what is highly conciliating.--I shall have her very often\nindeed while they are with me, and I dare say we shall sometimes find a\nseat for her in the barouche-landau in some of our exploring parties.\"\n\n\"Poor Jane Fairfax!\"--thought Emma.--\"You have not deserved this. You\nmay have done wrong with regard to Mr. Dixon, but this is a punishment\nbeyond what you can have merited!--The kindness and protection of Mrs.\nElton!--'Jane Fairfax and Jane Fairfax.' Heavens! Let me not suppose\nthat she dares go about, Emma Woodhouse-ing me!--But upon my honour,\nthere seems no limits to the licentiousness of that woman's tongue!\"\n\nEmma had not to listen to such paradings again--to any so exclusively\naddressed to herself--so disgustingly decorated with a \"dear Miss\nWoodhouse.\" The change on Mrs. Elton's side soon afterwards appeared,\nand she was left in peace--neither forced to be the very particular\nfriend of Mrs. Elton, nor, under Mrs. Elton's guidance, the very active\npatroness of Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with others in a general\nway, in knowing what was felt, what was meditated, what was done.\n\nShe looked on with some amusement.--Miss Bates's gratitude for\nMrs. Elton's attentions to Jane was in the first style of guileless\nsimplicity and warmth. She was quite one of her worthies--the\nmost amiable, affable, delightful woman--just as accomplished and\ncondescending as Mrs. Elton meant to be considered. Emma's only surprize\nwas that Jane Fairfax should accept those attentions and tolerate Mrs.\nElton as she seemed to do. She heard of her walking with the Eltons,\nsitting with the Eltons, spending a day with the Eltons! This was\nastonishing!--She could not have believed it possible that the taste or\nthe pride of Miss Fairfax could endure such society and friendship as\nthe Vicarage had to offer.\n\n\"She is a riddle, quite a riddle!\" said she.--\"To chuse to remain here\nmonth after month, under privations of every sort! And now to chuse the\nmortification of Mrs. Elton's notice and the penury of her conversation,\nrather than return to the superior companions who have always loved her\nwith such real, generous affection.\"\n\nJane had come to Highbury professedly for three months; the Campbells\nwere gone to Ireland for three months; but now the Campbells had\npromised their daughter to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh\ninvitations had arrived for her to join them there. According to Miss\nBates--it all came from her--Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly.\nWould Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends\ncontrived--no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had\ndeclined it!\n\n\"She must have some motive, more powerful than appears, for refusing\nthis invitation,\" was Emma's conclusion. \"She must be under some sort\nof penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is great\nfear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.--She is _not_ to be\nwith the _Dixons_. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must she\nconsent to be with the Eltons?--Here is quite a separate puzzle.\"\n\nUpon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before\nthe few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this\napology for Jane.\n\n\"We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the Vicarage,\nmy dear Emma--but it is better than being always at home. Her aunt is a\ngood creature, but, as a constant companion, must be very tiresome. We\nmust consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for\nwhat she goes to.\"\n\n\"You are right, Mrs. Weston,\" said Mr. Knightley warmly, \"Miss Fairfax\nis as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of Mrs. Elton.\nCould she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have chosen\nher. But (with a reproachful smile at Emma) she receives attentions from\nMrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her.\"\n\nEmma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance; and she\nwas herself struck by his warmth. With a faint blush, she presently\nreplied,\n\n\"Such attentions as Mrs. Elton's, I should have imagined, would rather\ndisgust than gratify Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton's invitations I should\nhave imagined any thing but inviting.\"\n\n\"I should not wonder,\" said Mrs. Weston, \"if Miss Fairfax were to have\nbeen drawn on beyond her own inclination, by her aunt's eagerness in\naccepting Mrs. Elton's civilities for her. Poor Miss Bates may\nvery likely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater\nappearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in\nspite of the very natural wish of a little change.\"\n\nBoth felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a few\nminutes silence, he said,\n\n\"Another thing must be taken into consideration too--Mrs. Elton does\nnot talk _to_ Miss Fairfax as she speaks _of_ her. We all know the\ndifference between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest spoken\namongst us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond common\ncivility in our personal intercourse with each other--a something more\nearly implanted. We cannot give any body the disagreeable hints that we\nmay have been very full of the hour before. We feel things differently.\nAnd besides the operation of this, as a general principle, you may be\nsure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by her superiority both of mind\nand manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton treats her with all the\nrespect which she has a claim to. Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably\nnever fell in Mrs. Elton's way before--and no degree of vanity can\nprevent her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action, if\nnot in consciousness.\"\n\n\"I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax,\" said Emma. Little Henry\nwas in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her\nirresolute what else to say.\n\n\"Yes,\" he replied, \"any body may know how highly I think of her.\"\n\n\"And yet,\" said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch look, but soon\nstopping--it was better, however, to know the worst at once--she hurried\non--\"And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it\nis. The extent of your admiration may take you by surprize some day or\nother.\"\n\nMr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick\nleather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together, or\nsome other cause, brought the colour into his face, as he answered,\n\n\"Oh! are you there?--But you are miserably behindhand. Mr. Cole gave me\na hint of it six weeks ago.\"\n\nHe stopped.--Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston, and did not\nherself know what to think. In a moment he went on--\n\n\"That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss Fairfax, I dare\nsay, would not have me if I were to ask her--and I am very sure I shall\nnever ask her.\"\n\nEmma returned her friend's pressure with interest; and was pleased\nenough to exclaim,\n\n\"You are not vain, Mr. Knightley. I will say that for you.\"\n\nHe seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful--and in a manner which\nshewed him not pleased, soon afterwards said,\n\n\"So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fairfax?\"\n\n\"No indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much for match-making,\nfor me to presume to take such a liberty with you. What I said just now,\nmeant nothing. One says those sort of things, of course, without any\nidea of a serious meaning. Oh! no, upon my word I have not the smallest\nwish for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane any body. You would not come\nin and sit with us in this comfortable way, if you were married.\"\n\nMr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his reverie was, \"No,\nEmma, I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever take\nme by surprize.--I never had a thought of her in that way, I assure\nyou.\" And soon afterwards, \"Jane Fairfax is a very charming young\nwoman--but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault. She has\nnot the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife.\"\n\nEmma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault. \"Well,\" said\nshe, \"and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he was mistaken;\nhe asked my pardon and said no more. Cole does not want to be wiser or\nwittier than his neighbours.\"\n\n\"In that respect how unlike dear Mrs. Elton, who wants to be wiser and\nwittier than all the world! I wonder how she speaks of the Coles--what\nshe calls them! How can she find any appellation for them, deep enough\nin familiar vulgarity? She calls you, Knightley--what can she do for\nMr. Cole? And so I am not to be surprized that Jane Fairfax accepts\nher civilities and consents to be with her. Mrs. Weston, your argument\nweighs most with me. I can much more readily enter into the temptation\nof getting away from Miss Bates, than I can believe in the triumph of\nMiss Fairfax's mind over Mrs. Elton. I have no faith in Mrs. Elton's\nacknowledging herself the inferior in thought, word, or deed; or in her\nbeing under any restraint beyond her own scanty rule of good-breeding.\nI cannot imagine that she will not be continually insulting her visitor\nwith praise, encouragement, and offers of service; that she will not be\ncontinually detailing her magnificent intentions, from the procuring her\na permanent situation to the including her in those delightful exploring\nparties which are to take place in the barouche-landau.\"\n\n\"Jane Fairfax has feeling,\" said Mr. Knightley--\"I do not accuse her\nof want of feeling. Her sensibilities, I suspect, are strong--and her\ntemper excellent in its power of forbearance, patience, self-control;\nbut it wants openness. She is reserved, more reserved, I think, than\nshe used to be--And I love an open temper. No--till Cole alluded to my\nsupposed attachment, it had never entered my head. I saw Jane Fairfax\nand conversed with her, with admiration and pleasure always--but with no\nthought beyond.\"\n\n\"Well, Mrs. Weston,\" said Emma triumphantly when he left them, \"what do\nyou say now to Mr. Knightley's marrying Jane Fairfax?\"\n\n\"Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very much occupied by the\nidea of _not_ being in love with her, that I should not wonder if it\nwere to end in his being so at last. Do not beat me.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nEvery body in and about Highbury who had ever visited Mr. Elton, was\ndisposed to pay him attention on his marriage. Dinner-parties and\nevening-parties were made for him and his lady; and invitations flowed\nin so fast that she had soon the pleasure of apprehending they were\nnever to have a disengaged day.\n\n\"I see how it is,\" said she. \"I see what a life I am to lead among you.\nUpon my word we shall be absolutely dissipated. We really seem quite\nthe fashion. If this is living in the country, it is nothing very\nformidable. From Monday next to Saturday, I assure you we have not a\ndisengaged day!--A woman with fewer resources than I have, need not have\nbeen at a loss.\"\n\nNo invitation came amiss to her. Her Bath habits made evening-parties\nperfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove had given her a taste for\ndinners. She was a little shocked at the want of two drawing rooms, at\nthe poor attempt at rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury\ncard-parties. Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard and others, were a\ngood deal behind-hand in knowledge of the world, but she would soon shew\nthem how every thing ought to be arranged. In the course of the spring\nshe must return their civilities by one very superior party--in which\nher card-tables should be set out with their separate candles and\nunbroken packs in the true style--and more waiters engaged for the\nevening than their own establishment could furnish, to carry round the\nrefreshments at exactly the proper hour, and in the proper order.\n\nEmma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied without a dinner at\nHartfield for the Eltons. They must not do less than others, or she\nshould be exposed to odious suspicions, and imagined capable of pitiful\nresentment. A dinner there must be. After Emma had talked about it for\nten minutes, Mr. Woodhouse felt no unwillingness, and only made the\nusual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom of the table himself,\nwith the usual regular difficulty of deciding who should do it for him.\n\nThe persons to be invited, required little thought. Besides the\nEltons, it must be the Westons and Mr. Knightley; so far it was all of\ncourse--and it was hardly less inevitable that poor little Harriet must\nbe asked to make the eighth:--but this invitation was not given with\nequal satisfaction, and on many accounts Emma was particularly pleased\nby Harriet's begging to be allowed to decline it. \"She would rather not\nbe in his company more than she could help. She was not yet quite\nable to see him and his charming happy wife together, without feeling\nuncomfortable. If Miss Woodhouse would not be displeased, she would\nrather stay at home.\" It was precisely what Emma would have wished, had\nshe deemed it possible enough for wishing. She was delighted with the\nfortitude of her little friend--for fortitude she knew it was in her to\ngive up being in company and stay at home; and she could now invite the\nvery person whom she really wanted to make the eighth, Jane Fairfax.--\nSince her last conversation with Mrs. Weston and Mr. Knightley, she\nwas more conscience-stricken about Jane Fairfax than she had often\nbeen.--Mr. Knightley's words dwelt with her. He had said that Jane\nFairfax received attentions from Mrs. Elton which nobody else paid her.\n\n\"This is very true,\" said she, \"at least as far as relates to me, which\nwas all that was meant--and it is very shameful.--Of the same age--and\nalways knowing her--I ought to have been more her friend.--She will\nnever like me now. I have neglected her too long. But I will shew her\ngreater attention than I have done.\"\n\nEvery invitation was successful. They were all disengaged and all\nhappy.--The preparatory interest of this dinner, however, was not yet\nover. A circumstance rather unlucky occurred. The two eldest little\nKnightleys were engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of some\nweeks in the spring, and their papa now proposed bringing them, and\nstaying one whole day at Hartfield--which one day would be the very day\nof this party.--His professional engagements did not allow of his being\nput off, but both father and daughter were disturbed by its happening\nso. Mr. Woodhouse considered eight persons at dinner together as the\nutmost that his nerves could bear--and here would be a ninth--and Emma\napprehended that it would be a ninth very much out of humour at not\nbeing able to come even to Hartfield for forty-eight hours without\nfalling in with a dinner-party.\n\nShe comforted her father better than she could comfort herself, by\nrepresenting that though he certainly would make them nine, yet\nhe always said so little, that the increase of noise would be very\nimmaterial. She thought it in reality a sad exchange for herself, to\nhave him with his grave looks and reluctant conversation opposed to her\ninstead of his brother.\n\nThe event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse than to Emma. John\nKnightley came; but Mr. Weston was unexpectedly summoned to town and\nmust be absent on the very day. He might be able to join them in the\nevening, but certainly not to dinner. Mr. Woodhouse was quite at ease;\nand the seeing him so, with the arrival of the little boys and the\nphilosophic composure of her brother on hearing his fate, removed the\nchief of even Emma's vexation.\n\nThe day came, the party were punctually assembled, and Mr. John\nKnightley seemed early to devote himself to the business of being\nagreeable. Instead of drawing his brother off to a window while they\nwaited for dinner, he was talking to Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton,\nas elegant as lace and pearls could make her, he looked at in\nsilence--wanting only to observe enough for Isabella's information--but\nMiss Fairfax was an old acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could talk\nto her. He had met her before breakfast as he was returning from a walk\nwith his little boys, when it had been just beginning to rain. It was\nnatural to have some civil hopes on the subject, and he said,\n\n\"I hope you did not venture far, Miss Fairfax, this morning, or I am\nsure you must have been wet.--We scarcely got home in time. I hope you\nturned directly.\"\n\n\"I went only to the post-office,\" said she, \"and reached home before the\nrain was much. It is my daily errand. I always fetch the letters when\nI am here. It saves trouble, and is a something to get me out. A walk\nbefore breakfast does me good.\"\n\n\"Not a walk in the rain, I should imagine.\"\n\n\"No, but it did not absolutely rain when I set out.\"\n\nMr. John Knightley smiled, and replied,\n\n\"That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you were not six yards\nfrom your own door when I had the pleasure of meeting you; and Henry\nand John had seen more drops than they could count long before. The\npost-office has a great charm at one period of our lives. When you have\nlived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth going\nthrough the rain for.\"\n\nThere was a little blush, and then this answer,\n\n\"I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the midst of every\ndearest connexion, and therefore I cannot expect that simply growing\nolder should make me indifferent about letters.\"\n\n\"Indifferent! Oh! no--I never conceived you could become indifferent.\nLetters are no matter of indifference; they are generally a very\npositive curse.\"\n\n\"You are speaking of letters of business; mine are letters of\nfriendship.\"\n\n\"I have often thought them the worst of the two,\" replied he coolly.\n\"Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does.\"\n\n\"Ah! you are not serious now. I know Mr. John Knightley too well--I am\nvery sure he understands the value of friendship as well as any body. I\ncan easily believe that letters are very little to you, much less than\nto me, but it is not your being ten years older than myself which\nmakes the difference, it is not age, but situation. You have every\nbody dearest to you always at hand, I, probably, never shall again;\nand therefore till I have outlived all my affections, a post-office,\nI think, must always have power to draw me out, in worse weather than\nto-day.\"\n\n\"When I talked of your being altered by time, by the progress of years,\"\nsaid John Knightley, \"I meant to imply the change of situation which\ntime usually brings. I consider one as including the other. Time will\ngenerally lessen the interest of every attachment not within the daily\ncircle--but that is not the change I had in view for you. As an old\nfriend, you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten years hence\nyou may have as many concentrated objects as I have.\"\n\nIt was kindly said, and very far from giving offence. A pleasant \"thank\nyou\" seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quivering lip, a tear\nin the eye, shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh. Her attention was\nnow claimed by Mr. Woodhouse, who being, according to his custom on such\noccasions, making the circle of his guests, and paying his particular\ncompliments to the ladies, was ending with her--and with all his mildest\nurbanity, said,\n\n\"I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out this morning\nin the rain. Young ladies should take care of themselves.--Young ladies\nare delicate plants. They should take care of their health and their\ncomplexion. My dear, did you change your stockings?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, I did indeed; and I am very much obliged by your kind\nsolicitude about me.\"\n\n\"My dear Miss Fairfax, young ladies are very sure to be cared for.--I\nhope your good grand-mama and aunt are well. They are some of my very\nold friends. I wish my health allowed me to be a better neighbour. You\ndo us a great deal of honour to-day, I am sure. My daughter and I\nare both highly sensible of your goodness, and have the greatest\nsatisfaction in seeing you at Hartfield.\"\n\nThe kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down and feel that he\nhad done his duty, and made every fair lady welcome and easy.\n\nBy this time, the walk in the rain had reached Mrs. Elton, and her\nremonstrances now opened upon Jane.\n\n\"My dear Jane, what is this I hear?--Going to the post-office in the\nrain!--This must not be, I assure you.--You sad girl, how could you do\nsuch a thing?--It is a sign I was not there to take care of you.\"\n\nJane very patiently assured her that she had not caught any cold.\n\n\"Oh! do not tell _me_. You really are a very sad girl, and do not know\nhow to take care of yourself.--To the post-office indeed! Mrs. Weston,\ndid you ever hear the like? You and I must positively exert our\nauthority.\"\n\n\"My advice,\" said Mrs. Weston kindly and persuasively, \"I certainly do\nfeel tempted to give. Miss Fairfax, you must not run such risks.--Liable\nas you have been to severe colds, indeed you ought to be particularly\ncareful, especially at this time of year. The spring I always think\nrequires more than common care. Better wait an hour or two, or even\nhalf a day for your letters, than run the risk of bringing on your cough\nagain. Now do not you feel that you had? Yes, I am sure you are much too\nreasonable. You look as if you would not do such a thing again.\"\n\n\"Oh! she _shall_ _not_ do such a thing again,\" eagerly rejoined Mrs.\nElton. \"We will not allow her to do such a thing again:\"--and nodding\nsignificantly--\"there must be some arrangement made, there must indeed.\nI shall speak to Mr. E. The man who fetches our letters every morning\n(one of our men, I forget his name) shall inquire for yours too and\nbring them to you. That will obviate all difficulties you know; and from\n_us_ I really think, my dear Jane, you can have no scruple to accept\nsuch an accommodation.\"\n\n\"You are extremely kind,\" said Jane; \"but I cannot give up my early\nwalk. I am advised to be out of doors as much as I can, I must walk\nsomewhere, and the post-office is an object; and upon my word, I have\nscarcely ever had a bad morning before.\"\n\n\"My dear Jane, say no more about it. The thing is determined, that is\n(laughing affectedly) as far as I can presume to determine any thing\nwithout the concurrence of my lord and master. You know, Mrs. Weston,\nyou and I must be cautious how we express ourselves. But I do flatter\nmyself, my dear Jane, that my influence is not entirely worn out. If I\nmeet with no insuperable difficulties therefore, consider that point as\nsettled.\"\n\n\"Excuse me,\" said Jane earnestly, \"I cannot by any means consent to such\nan arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to your servant. If the errand\nwere not a pleasure to me, it could be done, as it always is when I am\nnot here, by my grandmama's.\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear; but so much as Patty has to do!--And it is a kindness to\nemploy our men.\"\n\nJane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered; but instead of\nanswering, she began speaking again to Mr. John Knightley.\n\n\"The post-office is a wonderful establishment!\" said she.--\"The\nregularity and despatch of it! If one thinks of all that it has to do,\nand all that it does so well, it is really astonishing!\"\n\n\"It is certainly very well regulated.\"\n\n\"So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears! So seldom that\na letter, among the thousands that are constantly passing about the\nkingdom, is even carried wrong--and not one in a million, I suppose,\nactually lost! And when one considers the variety of hands, and of bad\nhands too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the wonder.\"\n\n\"The clerks grow expert from habit.--They must begin with some quickness\nof sight and hand, and exercise improves them. If you want any farther\nexplanation,\" continued he, smiling, \"they are paid for it. That is\nthe key to a great deal of capacity. The public pays and must be served\nwell.\"\n\nThe varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and the usual\nobservations made.\n\n\"I have heard it asserted,\" said John Knightley, \"that the same sort\nof handwriting often prevails in a family; and where the same master\nteaches, it is natural enough. But for that reason, I should imagine\nthe likeness must be chiefly confined to the females, for boys have very\nlittle teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand they can\nget. Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I have not\nalways known their writing apart.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said his brother hesitatingly, \"there is a likeness. I know what\nyou mean--but Emma's hand is the strongest.\"\n\n\"Isabella and Emma both write beautifully,\" said Mr. Woodhouse; \"and\nalways did. And so does poor Mrs. Weston\"--with half a sigh and half a\nsmile at her.\n\n\"I never saw any gentleman's handwriting\"--Emma began, looking also at\nMrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending\nto some one else--and the pause gave her time to reflect, \"Now, how am\nI going to introduce him?--Am I unequal to speaking his name at once\nbefore all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout\nphrase?--Your Yorkshire friend--your correspondent in Yorkshire;--that\nwould be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.--No, I can pronounce\nhis name without the smallest distress. I certainly get better and\nbetter.--Now for it.\"\n\nMrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again--\"Mr. Frank Churchill\nwrites one of the best gentleman's hands I ever saw.\"\n\n\"I do not admire it,\" said Mr. Knightley. \"It is too small--wants\nstrength. It is like a woman's writing.\"\n\nThis was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against\nthe base aspersion. \"No, it by no means wanted strength--it was not a\nlarge hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any\nletter about her to produce?\" No, she had heard from him very lately,\nbut having answered the letter, had put it away.\n\n\"If we were in the other room,\" said Emma, \"if I had my writing-desk, I\nam sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of his.--Do not you\nremember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day?\"\n\n\"He chose to say he was employed\"--\n\n\"Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner to convince\nMr. Knightley.\"\n\n\"Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill,\" said Mr.\nKnightley dryly, \"writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will, of\ncourse, put forth his best.\"\n\nDinner was on table.--Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to, was\nready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be\nallowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying--\n\n\"Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading the way.\"\n\nJane's solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma.\nShe had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether\nthe wet walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected that it\n_had_; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in full\nexpectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had not been\nin vain. She thought there was an air of greater happiness than usual--a\nglow both of complexion and spirits.\n\nShe could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition and the\nexpense of the Irish mails;--it was at her tongue's end--but she\nabstained. She was quite determined not to utter a word that should hurt\nJane Fairfax's feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of the\nroom, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming to the\nbeauty and grace of each.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nWhen the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found it\nhardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;--with so\nmuch perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross\nJane Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to\nbe almost always either talking together or silent together. Mrs. Elton\nleft them no choice. If Jane repressed her for a little time, she\nsoon began again; and though much that passed between them was in a\nhalf-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton's side, there was no avoiding\na knowledge of their principal subjects: The post-office--catching\ncold--fetching letters--and friendship, were long under discussion;\nand to them succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant\nto Jane--inquiries whether she had yet heard of any situation likely to\nsuit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton's meditated activity.\n\n\"Here is April come!\" said she, \"I get quite anxious about you. June\nwill soon be here.\"\n\n\"But I have never fixed on June or any other month--merely looked\nforward to the summer in general.\"\n\n\"But have you really heard of nothing?\"\n\n\"I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet.\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the\ndifficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing.\"\n\n\"I not aware!\" said Jane, shaking her head; \"dear Mrs. Elton, who can\nhave thought of it as I have done?\"\n\n\"But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not know\nhow many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations. I saw\na vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of\nMr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every\nbody was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle.\nWax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all\nhouses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see\nyou in.\"\n\n\"Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer,\"\nsaid Jane. \"I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want\nit;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would\nnot wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present.\"\n\n\"Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me\ntrouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be\nmore interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in\na day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out\nfor any thing eligible.\"\n\n\"Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to\nher; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body\ntrouble.\"\n\n\"But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June,\nor say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before\nus. Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as you deserve,\nand your friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence,\nis not obtained at a moment's notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin\ninquiring directly.\"\n\n\"Excuse me, ma'am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no\ninquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends. When\nI am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of being\nlong unemployed. There are places in town, offices, where inquiry\nwould soon produce something--Offices for the sale--not quite of human\nflesh--but of human intellect.\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at\nthe slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend to\nthe abolition.\"\n\n\"I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade,\" replied Jane;\n\"governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely\ndifferent certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to\nthe greater misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies. But\nI only mean to say that there are advertising offices, and that by\napplying to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting with\nsomething that would do.\"\n\n\"Something that would do!\" repeated Mrs. Elton. \"Aye, _that_ may suit\nyour humble ideas of yourself;--I know what a modest creature you are;\nbut it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any\nthing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family\nnot moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of\nlife.\"\n\n\"You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent;\nit would be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications, I\nthink, would only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison.\nA gentleman's family is all that I should condition for.\"\n\n\"I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but I shall\nbe a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will be quite\non my side; with your superior talents, you have a right to move in the\nfirst circle. Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name\nyour own terms, have as many rooms as you like, and mix in the family\nas much as you chose;--that is--I do not know--if you knew the harp, you\nmight do all that, I am very sure; but you sing as well as play;--yes, I\nreally believe you might, even without the harp, stipulate for what\nyou chose;--and you must and shall be delightfully, honourably and\ncomfortably settled before the Campbells or I have any rest.\"\n\n\"You may well class the delight, the honour, and the comfort of such\na situation together,\" said Jane, \"they are pretty sure to be equal;\nhowever, I am very serious in not wishing any thing to be attempted\nat present for me. I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am\nobliged to any body who feels for me, but I am quite serious in wishing\nnothing to be done till the summer. For two or three months longer I\nshall remain where I am, and as I am.\"\n\n\"And I am quite serious too, I assure you,\" replied Mrs. Elton gaily,\n\"in resolving to be always on the watch, and employing my friends to\nwatch also, that nothing really unexceptionable may pass us.\"\n\nIn this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any thing till Mr.\nWoodhouse came into the room; her vanity had then a change of object,\nand Emma heard her saying in the same half-whisper to Jane,\n\n\"Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest!--Only think of his\ngallantry in coming away before the other men!--what a dear creature\nhe is;--I assure you I like him excessively. I admire all that quaint,\nold-fashioned politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease;\nmodern ease often disgusts me. But this good old Mr. Woodhouse, I wish\nyou had heard his gallant speeches to me at dinner. Oh! I assure you I\nbegan to think my caro sposo would be absolutely jealous. I fancy I\nam rather a favourite; he took notice of my gown. How do you like\nit?--Selina's choice--handsome, I think, but I do not know whether it\nis not over-trimmed; I have the greatest dislike to the idea of being\nover-trimmed--quite a horror of finery. I must put on a few ornaments\nnow, because it is expected of me. A bride, you know, must appear like\na bride, but my natural taste is all for simplicity; a simple style\nof dress is so infinitely preferable to finery. But I am quite in the\nminority, I believe; few people seem to value simplicity of dress,--show\nand finery are every thing. I have some notion of putting such a\ntrimming as this to my white and silver poplin. Do you think it will\nlook well?\"\n\nThe whole party were but just reassembled in the drawing-room when Mr.\nWeston made his appearance among them. He had returned to a late dinner,\nand walked to Hartfield as soon as it was over. He had been too much\nexpected by the best judges, for surprize--but there was great joy. Mr.\nWoodhouse was almost as glad to see him now, as he would have been sorry\nto see him before. John Knightley only was in mute astonishment.--That\na man who might have spent his evening quietly at home after a day\nof business in London, should set off again, and walk half a mile\nto another man's house, for the sake of being in mixed company till\nbed-time, of finishing his day in the efforts of civility and the noise\nof numbers, was a circumstance to strike him deeply. A man who had been\nin motion since eight o'clock in the morning, and might now have been\nstill, who had been long talking, and might have been silent, who had\nbeen in more than one crowd, and might have been alone!--Such a man, to\nquit the tranquillity and independence of his own fireside, and on the\nevening of a cold sleety April day rush out again into the world!--Could\nhe by a touch of his finger have instantly taken back his wife, there\nwould have been a motive; but his coming would probably prolong rather\nthan break up the party. John Knightley looked at him with amazement,\nthen shrugged his shoulders, and said, \"I could not have believed it\neven of _him_.\"\n\nMr. Weston meanwhile, perfectly unsuspicious of the indignation he was\nexciting, happy and cheerful as usual, and with all the right of being\nprincipal talker, which a day spent anywhere from home confers, was\nmaking himself agreeable among the rest; and having satisfied the\ninquiries of his wife as to his dinner, convincing her that none of all\nher careful directions to the servants had been forgotten, and spread\nabroad what public news he had heard, was proceeding to a family\ncommunication, which, though principally addressed to Mrs. Weston, he\nhad not the smallest doubt of being highly interesting to every body in\nthe room. He gave her a letter, it was from Frank, and to herself; he\nhad met with it in his way, and had taken the liberty of opening it.\n\n\"Read it, read it,\" said he, \"it will give you pleasure; only a few\nlines--will not take you long; read it to Emma.\"\n\nThe two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling and talking\nto them the whole time, in a voice a little subdued, but very audible to\nevery body.\n\n\"Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well, what do you say\nto it?--I always told you he would be here again soon, did not I?--Anne,\nmy dear, did not I always tell you so, and you would not believe me?--In\ntown next week, you see--at the latest, I dare say; for _she_ is as\nimpatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to be done; most\nlikely they will be there to-morrow or Saturday. As to her illness, all\nnothing of course. But it is an excellent thing to have Frank among us\nagain, so near as town. They will stay a good while when they do come,\nand he will be half his time with us. This is precisely what I wanted.\nWell, pretty good news, is not it? Have you finished it? Has Emma read\nit all? Put it up, put it up; we will have a good talk about it some\nother time, but it will not do now. I shall only just mention the\ncircumstance to the others in a common way.\"\n\nMrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion. Her looks\nand words had nothing to restrain them. She was happy, she knew she was\nhappy, and knew she ought to be happy. Her congratulations were warm and\nopen; but Emma could not speak so fluently. _She_ was a little occupied\nin weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand the degree of her\nagitation, which she rather thought was considerable.\n\nMr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too communicative\nto want others to talk, was very well satisfied with what she did say,\nand soon moved away to make the rest of his friends happy by a partial\ncommunication of what the whole room must have overheard already.\n\nIt was well that he took every body's joy for granted, or he might\nnot have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly\ndelighted. They were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to\nbe made happy;--from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but\nshe was so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would have\nbeen too positive an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs.\nElton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the subject\nwith her.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\n\"I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son to you,\"\nsaid Mr. Weston.\n\nMrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compliment intended her\nby such a hope, smiled most graciously.\n\n\"You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I presume,\" he\ncontinued--\"and know him to be my son, though he does not bear my name.\"\n\n\"Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance. I am sure Mr.\nElton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall both have great\npleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage.\"\n\n\"You are very obliging.--Frank will be extremely happy, I am sure.--\nHe is to be in town next week, if not sooner. We have notice of it in a\nletter to-day. I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my\nson's hand, presumed to open it--though it was not directed to me--it\nwas to Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent, I assure you. I\nhardly ever get a letter.\"\n\n\"And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr.\nWeston--(laughing affectedly) I must protest against that.--A most\ndangerous precedent indeed!--I beg you will not let your neighbours\nfollow your example.--Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we\nmarried women must begin to exert ourselves!--Oh! Mr. Weston, I could\nnot have believed it of you!\"\n\n\"Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of yourself, Mrs.\nElton.--This letter tells us--it is a short letter--written in a hurry,\nmerely to give us notice--it tells us that they are all coming up to\ntown directly, on Mrs. Churchill's account--she has not been well the\nwhole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her--so they are all to\nmove southward without loss of time.\"\n\n\"Indeed!--from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire?\"\n\n\"Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London, a\nconsiderable journey.\"\n\n\"Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than\nfrom Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people\nof large fortune?--You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr.\nSuckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me--but twice\nin one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four\nhorses.\"\n\n\"The evil of the distance from Enscombe,\" said Mr. Weston, \"is, that\nMrs. Churchill, _as_ _we_ _understand_, has not been able to leave the\nsofa for a week together. In Frank's last letter she complained, he\nsaid, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having\nboth his arm and his uncle's! This, you know, speaks a great degree of\nweakness--but now she is so impatient to be in town, that she means to\nsleep only two nights on the road.--So Frank writes word. Certainly,\ndelicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. You\nmust grant me that.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I always take the part of my\nown sex. I do indeed. I give you notice--You will find me a formidable\nantagonist on that point. I always stand up for women--and I assure you,\nif you knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn, you\nwould not wonder at Mrs. Churchill's making incredible exertions to\navoid it. Selina says it is quite horror to her--and I believe I have\ncaught a little of her nicety. She always travels with her own sheets;\nan excellent precaution. Does Mrs. Churchill do the same?\"\n\n\"Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that any other fine\nlady ever did. Mrs. Churchill will not be second to any lady in the land\nfor\"--\n\nMrs. Elton eagerly interposed with,\n\n\"Oh! Mr. Weston, do not mistake me. Selina is no fine lady, I assure\nyou. Do not run away with such an idea.\"\n\n\"Is not she? Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill, who is as thorough\na fine lady as any body ever beheld.\"\n\nMrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong in disclaiming so warmly.\nIt was by no means her object to have it believed that her sister was\n_not_ a fine lady; perhaps there was want of spirit in the pretence of\nit;--and she was considering in what way she had best retract, when Mr.\nWeston went on.\n\n\"Mrs. Churchill is not much in my good graces, as you may suspect--but\nthis is quite between ourselves. She is very fond of Frank, and\ntherefore I would not speak ill of her. Besides, she is out of health\nnow; but _that_ indeed, by her own account, she has always been. I would\nnot say so to every body, Mrs. Elton, but I have not much faith in Mrs.\nChurchill's illness.\"\n\n\"If she is really ill, why not go to Bath, Mr. Weston?--To Bath, or to\nClifton?\" \"She has taken it into her head that Enscombe is too cold for\nher. The fact is, I suppose, that she is tired of Enscombe. She has now\nbeen a longer time stationary there, than she ever was before, and she\nbegins to want change. It is a retired place. A fine place, but very\nretired.\"\n\n\"Aye--like Maple Grove, I dare say. Nothing can stand more retired from\nthe road than Maple Grove. Such an immense plantation all round it! You\nseem shut out from every thing--in the most complete retirement.--And\nMrs. Churchill probably has not health or spirits like Selina to enjoy\nthat sort of seclusion. Or, perhaps she may not have resources enough in\nherself to be qualified for a country life. I always say a woman cannot\nhave too many resources--and I feel very thankful that I have so many\nmyself as to be quite independent of society.\"\n\n\"Frank was here in February for a fortnight.\"\n\n\"So I remember to have heard. He will find an _addition_ to the society\nof Highbury when he comes again; that is, if I may presume to call\nmyself an addition. But perhaps he may never have heard of there being\nsuch a creature in the world.\"\n\nThis was too loud a call for a compliment to be passed by, and Mr.\nWeston, with a very good grace, immediately exclaimed,\n\n\"My dear madam! Nobody but yourself could imagine such a thing possible.\nNot heard of you!--I believe Mrs. Weston's letters lately have been full\nof very little else than Mrs. Elton.\"\n\nHe had done his duty and could return to his son.\n\n\"When Frank left us,\" continued he, \"it was quite uncertain when we\nmight see him again, which makes this day's news doubly welcome. It has\nbeen completely unexpected. That is, _I_ always had a strong persuasion\nhe would be here again soon, I was sure something favourable would turn\nup--but nobody believed me. He and Mrs. Weston were both dreadfully\ndesponding. 'How could he contrive to come? And how could it be supposed\nthat his uncle and aunt would spare him again?' and so forth--I always\nfelt that something would happen in our favour; and so it has, you see.\nI have observed, Mrs. Elton, in the course of my life, that if things\nare going untowardly one month, they are sure to mend the next.\"\n\n\"Very true, Mr. Weston, perfectly true. It is just what I used to say to\na certain gentleman in company in the days of courtship, when, because\nthings did not go quite right, did not proceed with all the rapidity\nwhich suited his feelings, he was apt to be in despair, and exclaim that\nhe was sure at this rate it would be _May_ before Hymen's saffron robe\nwould be put on for us. Oh! the pains I have been at to dispel those\ngloomy ideas and give him cheerfuller views! The carriage--we had\ndisappointments about the carriage;--one morning, I remember, he came to\nme quite in despair.\"\n\nShe was stopped by a slight fit of coughing, and Mr. Weston instantly\nseized the opportunity of going on.\n\n\"You were mentioning May. May is the very month which Mrs. Churchill\nis ordered, or has ordered herself, to spend in some warmer place than\nEnscombe--in short, to spend in London; so that we have the agreeable\nprospect of frequent visits from Frank the whole spring--precisely the\nseason of the year which one should have chosen for it: days almost at\nthe longest; weather genial and pleasant, always inviting one out, and\nnever too hot for exercise. When he was here before, we made the best\nof it; but there was a good deal of wet, damp, cheerless weather;\nthere always is in February, you know, and we could not do half that we\nintended. Now will be the time. This will be complete enjoyment; and I\ndo not know, Mrs. Elton, whether the uncertainty of our meetings, the\nsort of constant expectation there will be of his coming in to-day or\nto-morrow, and at any hour, may not be more friendly to happiness than\nhaving him actually in the house. I think it is so. I think it is the\nstate of mind which gives most spirit and delight. I hope you will be\npleased with my son; but you must not expect a prodigy. He is generally\nthought a fine young man, but do not expect a prodigy. Mrs. Weston's\npartiality for him is very great, and, as you may suppose, most\ngratifying to me. She thinks nobody equal to him.\"\n\n\"And I assure you, Mr. Weston, I have very little doubt that my opinion\nwill be decidedly in his favour. I have heard so much in praise of Mr.\nFrank Churchill.--At the same time it is fair to observe, that I am one\nof those who always judge for themselves, and are by no means implicitly\nguided by others. I give you notice that as I find your son, so I shall\njudge of him.--I am no flatterer.\"\n\nMr. Weston was musing.\n\n\"I hope,\" said he presently, \"I have not been severe upon poor Mrs.\nChurchill. If she is ill I should be sorry to do her injustice; but\nthere are some traits in her character which make it difficult for me to\nspeak of her with the forbearance I could wish. You cannot be ignorant,\nMrs. Elton, of my connexion with the family, nor of the treatment I have\nmet with; and, between ourselves, the whole blame of it is to be laid\nto her. She was the instigator. Frank's mother would never have been\nslighted as she was but for her. Mr. Churchill has pride; but his pride\nis nothing to his wife's: his is a quiet, indolent, gentlemanlike sort\nof pride that would harm nobody, and only make himself a little helpless\nand tiresome; but her pride is arrogance and insolence! And what\ninclines one less to bear, she has no fair pretence of family or blood.\nShe was nobody when he married her, barely the daughter of a gentleman;\nbut ever since her being turned into a Churchill she has out-Churchill'd\nthem all in high and mighty claims: but in herself, I assure you, she is\nan upstart.\"\n\n\"Only think! well, that must be infinitely provoking! I have quite\na horror of upstarts. Maple Grove has given me a thorough disgust to\npeople of that sort; for there is a family in that neighbourhood who\nare such an annoyance to my brother and sister from the airs they give\nthemselves! Your description of Mrs. Churchill made me think of them\ndirectly. People of the name of Tupman, very lately settled there, and\nencumbered with many low connexions, but giving themselves immense airs,\nand expecting to be on a footing with the old established families.\nA year and a half is the very utmost that they can have lived at West\nHall; and how they got their fortune nobody knows. They came from\nBirmingham, which is not a place to promise much, you know, Mr. Weston.\nOne has not great hopes from Birmingham. I always say there is something\ndireful in the sound: but nothing more is positively known of the\nTupmans, though a good many things I assure you are suspected; and\nyet by their manners they evidently think themselves equal even to\nmy brother, Mr. Suckling, who happens to be one of their nearest\nneighbours. It is infinitely too bad. Mr. Suckling, who has been eleven\nyears a resident at Maple Grove, and whose father had it before him--I\nbelieve, at least--I am almost sure that old Mr. Suckling had completed\nthe purchase before his death.\"\n\nThey were interrupted. Tea was carrying round, and Mr. Weston, having\nsaid all that he wanted, soon took the opportunity of walking away.\n\nAfter tea, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Elton sat down with Mr.\nWoodhouse to cards. The remaining five were left to their own powers,\nand Emma doubted their getting on very well; for Mr. Knightley seemed\nlittle disposed for conversation; Mrs. Elton was wanting notice, which\nnobody had inclination to pay, and she was herself in a worry of spirits\nwhich would have made her prefer being silent.\n\nMr. John Knightley proved more talkative than his brother. He was to\nleave them early the next day; and he soon began with--\n\n\"Well, Emma, I do not believe I have any thing more to say about the\nboys; but you have your sister's letter, and every thing is down at full\nlength there we may be sure. My charge would be much more concise than\nher's, and probably not much in the same spirit; all that I have to\nrecommend being comprised in, do not spoil them, and do not physic\nthem.\"\n\n\"I rather hope to satisfy you both,\" said Emma, \"for I shall do all\nin my power to make them happy, which will be enough for Isabella; and\nhappiness must preclude false indulgence and physic.\"\n\n\"And if you find them troublesome, you must send them home again.\"\n\n\"That is very likely. You think so, do not you?\"\n\n\"I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your father--or even\nmay be some encumbrance to you, if your visiting engagements continue to\nincrease as much as they have done lately.\"\n\n\"Increase!\"\n\n\"Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half-year has made a\ngreat difference in your way of life.\"\n\n\"Difference! No indeed I am not.\"\n\n\"There can be no doubt of your being much more engaged with company than\nyou used to be. Witness this very time. Here am I come down for only\none day, and you are engaged with a dinner-party!--When did it happen\nbefore, or any thing like it? Your neighbourhood is increasing, and you\nmix more with it. A little while ago, every letter to Isabella brought\nan account of fresh gaieties; dinners at Mr. Cole's, or balls at the\nCrown. The difference which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in your\ngoings-on, is very great.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said his brother quickly, \"it is Randalls that does it all.\"\n\n\"Very well--and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to have less\ninfluence than heretofore, it strikes me as a possible thing, Emma, that\nHenry and John may be sometimes in the way. And if they are, I only beg\nyou to send them home.\"\n\n\"No,\" cried Mr. Knightley, \"that need not be the consequence. Let them\nbe sent to Donwell. I shall certainly be at leisure.\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" exclaimed Emma, \"you amuse me! I should like to know how\nmany of all my numerous engagements take place without your being of\nthe party; and why I am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure to\nattend to the little boys. These amazing engagements of mine--what have\nthey been? Dining once with the Coles--and having a ball talked of,\nwhich never took place. I can understand you--(nodding at Mr. John\nKnightley)--your good fortune in meeting with so many of your friends at\nonce here, delights you too much to pass unnoticed. But you, (turning to\nMr. Knightley,) who know how very, very seldom I am ever two hours from\nHartfield, why you should foresee such a series of dissipation for me, I\ncannot imagine. And as to my dear little boys, I must say, that if Aunt\nEmma has not time for them, I do not think they would fare much better\nwith Uncle Knightley, who is absent from home about five hours where she\nis absent one--and who, when he is at home, is either reading to himself\nor settling his accounts.\"\n\nMr. Knightley seemed to be trying not to smile; and succeeded without\ndifficulty, upon Mrs. Elton's beginning to talk to him.\n\n\n\n\nVOLUME III\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nA very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy Emma as to the\nnature of her agitation on hearing this news of Frank Churchill. She\nwas soon convinced that it was not for herself she was feeling at all\napprehensive or embarrassed; it was for him. Her own attachment had\nreally subsided into a mere nothing; it was not worth thinking of;--but\nif he, who had undoubtedly been always so much the most in love of the\ntwo, were to be returning with the same warmth of sentiment which he had\ntaken away, it would be very distressing. If a separation of two\nmonths should not have cooled him, there were dangers and evils before\nher:--caution for him and for herself would be necessary. She did\nnot mean to have her own affections entangled again, and it would be\nincumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his.\n\nShe wished she might be able to keep him from an absolute declaration.\nThat would be so very painful a conclusion of their present\nacquaintance! and yet, she could not help rather anticipating something\ndecisive. She felt as if the spring would not pass without bringing a\ncrisis, an event, a something to alter her present composed and tranquil\nstate.\n\nIt was not very long, though rather longer than Mr. Weston had foreseen,\nbefore she had the power of forming some opinion of Frank Churchill's\nfeelings. The Enscombe family were not in town quite so soon as had been\nimagined, but he was at Highbury very soon afterwards. He rode down\nfor a couple of hours; he could not yet do more; but as he came from\nRandalls immediately to Hartfield, she could then exercise all her quick\nobservation, and speedily determine how he was influenced, and how she\nmust act. They met with the utmost friendliness. There could be no doubt\nof his great pleasure in seeing her. But she had an almost instant doubt\nof his caring for her as he had done, of his feeling the same tenderness\nin the same degree. She watched him well. It was a clear thing he was\nless in love than he had been. Absence, with the conviction probably\nof her indifference, had produced this very natural and very desirable\neffect.\n\nHe was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as ever, and seemed\ndelighted to speak of his former visit, and recur to old stories: and he\nwas not without agitation. It was not in his calmness that she read\nhis comparative difference. He was not calm; his spirits were evidently\nfluttered; there was restlessness about him. Lively as he was, it seemed\na liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but what decided her belief\non the subject, was his staying only a quarter of an hour, and hurrying\naway to make other calls in Highbury. \"He had seen a group of old\nacquaintance in the street as he passed--he had not stopped, he would\nnot stop for more than a word--but he had the vanity to think they would\nbe disappointed if he did not call, and much as he wished to stay longer\nat Hartfield, he must hurry off.\" She had no doubt as to his being less\nin love--but neither his agitated spirits, nor his hurrying away, seemed\nlike a perfect cure; and she was rather inclined to think it implied a\ndread of her returning power, and a discreet resolution of not trusting\nhimself with her long.\n\nThis was the only visit from Frank Churchill in the course of ten days.\nHe was often hoping, intending to come--but was always prevented. His\naunt could not bear to have him leave her. Such was his own account at\nRandall's. If he were quite sincere, if he really tried to come, it was\nto be inferred that Mrs. Churchill's removal to London had been of no\nservice to the wilful or nervous part of her disorder. That she was\nreally ill was very certain; he had declared himself convinced of it, at\nRandalls. Though much might be fancy, he could not doubt, when he looked\nback, that she was in a weaker state of health than she had been half a\nyear ago. He did not believe it to proceed from any thing that care\nand medicine might not remove, or at least that she might not have many\nyears of existence before her; but he could not be prevailed on, by all\nhis father's doubts, to say that her complaints were merely imaginary,\nor that she was as strong as ever.\n\nIt soon appeared that London was not the place for her. She could\nnot endure its noise. Her nerves were under continual irritation and\nsuffering; and by the ten days' end, her nephew's letter to Randalls\ncommunicated a change of plan. They were going to remove immediately to\nRichmond. Mrs. Churchill had been recommended to the medical skill of\nan eminent person there, and had otherwise a fancy for the place. A\nready-furnished house in a favourite spot was engaged, and much benefit\nexpected from the change.\n\nEmma heard that Frank wrote in the highest spirits of this arrangement,\nand seemed most fully to appreciate the blessing of having two months\nbefore him of such near neighbourhood to many dear friends--for the\nhouse was taken for May and June. She was told that now he wrote with\nthe greatest confidence of being often with them, almost as often as he\ncould even wish.\n\nEmma saw how Mr. Weston understood these joyous prospects. He was\nconsidering her as the source of all the happiness they offered. She\nhoped it was not so. Two months must bring it to the proof.\n\nMr. Weston's own happiness was indisputable. He was quite delighted.\nIt was the very circumstance he could have wished for. Now, it would be\nreally having Frank in their neighbourhood. What were nine miles to\na young man?--An hour's ride. He would be always coming over. The\ndifference in that respect of Richmond and London was enough to make\nthe whole difference of seeing him always and seeing him never. Sixteen\nmiles--nay, eighteen--it must be full eighteen to Manchester-street--was\na serious obstacle. Were he ever able to get away, the day would be\nspent in coming and returning. There was no comfort in having him in\nLondon; he might as well be at Enscombe; but Richmond was the very\ndistance for easy intercourse. Better than nearer!\n\nOne good thing was immediately brought to a certainty by this\nremoval,--the ball at the Crown. It had not been forgotten before,\nbut it had been soon acknowledged vain to attempt to fix a day. Now,\nhowever, it was absolutely to be; every preparation was resumed, and\nvery soon after the Churchills had removed to Richmond, a few lines from\nFrank, to say that his aunt felt already much better for the change, and\nthat he had no doubt of being able to join them for twenty-four hours at\nany given time, induced them to name as early a day as possible.\n\nMr. Weston's ball was to be a real thing. A very few to-morrows stood\nbetween the young people of Highbury and happiness.\n\nMr. Woodhouse was resigned. The time of year lightened the evil to him.\nMay was better for every thing than February. Mrs. Bates was engaged to\nspend the evening at Hartfield, James had due notice, and he sanguinely\nhoped that neither dear little Henry nor dear little John would have any\nthing the matter with them, while dear Emma were gone.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nNo misfortune occurred, again to prevent the ball. The day approached,\nthe day arrived; and after a morning of some anxious watching, Frank\nChurchill, in all the certainty of his own self, reached Randalls before\ndinner, and every thing was safe.\n\nNo second meeting had there yet been between him and Emma. The room\nat the Crown was to witness it;--but it would be better than a\ncommon meeting in a crowd. Mr. Weston had been so very earnest in his\nentreaties for her arriving there as soon as possible after themselves,\nfor the purpose of taking her opinion as to the propriety and comfort of\nthe rooms before any other persons came, that she could not refuse him,\nand must therefore spend some quiet interval in the young man's company.\nShe was to convey Harriet, and they drove to the Crown in good time, the\nRandalls party just sufficiently before them.\n\nFrank Churchill seemed to have been on the watch; and though he did not\nsay much, his eyes declared that he meant to have a delightful evening.\nThey all walked about together, to see that every thing was as it should\nbe; and within a few minutes were joined by the contents of another\ncarriage, which Emma could not hear the sound of at first, without great\nsurprize. \"So unreasonably early!\" she was going to exclaim; but she\npresently found that it was a family of old friends, who were coming,\nlike herself, by particular desire, to help Mr. Weston's judgment; and\nthey were so very closely followed by another carriage of cousins,\nwho had been entreated to come early with the same distinguishing\nearnestness, on the same errand, that it seemed as if half the company\nmight soon be collected together for the purpose of preparatory\ninspection.\n\nEmma perceived that her taste was not the only taste on which Mr. Weston\ndepended, and felt, that to be the favourite and intimate of a man\nwho had so many intimates and confidantes, was not the very first\ndistinction in the scale of vanity. She liked his open manners, but\na little less of open-heartedness would have made him a higher\ncharacter.--General benevolence, but not general friendship, made a\nman what he ought to be.--She could fancy such a man. The whole party\nwalked about, and looked, and praised again; and then, having nothing\nelse to do, formed a sort of half-circle round the fire, to observe\nin their various modes, till other subjects were started, that, though\n_May_, a fire in the evening was still very pleasant.\n\nEmma found that it was not Mr. Weston's fault that the number of privy\ncouncillors was not yet larger. They had stopped at Mrs. Bates's door\nto offer the use of their carriage, but the aunt and niece were to be\nbrought by the Eltons.\n\nFrank was standing by her, but not steadily; there was a restlessness,\nwhich shewed a mind not at ease. He was looking about, he was going to\nthe door, he was watching for the sound of other carriages,--impatient\nto begin, or afraid of being always near her.\n\nMrs. Elton was spoken of. \"I think she must be here soon,\" said he. \"I\nhave a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I have heard so much of her.\nIt cannot be long, I think, before she comes.\"\n\nA carriage was heard. He was on the move immediately; but coming back,\nsaid,\n\n\"I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her. I have never seen\neither Mr. or Mrs. Elton. I have no business to put myself forward.\"\n\nMr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the proprieties\npassed.\n\n\"But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!\" said Mr. Weston, looking about. \"We\nthought you were to bring them.\"\n\nThe mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for them now. Emma\nlonged to know what Frank's first opinion of Mrs. Elton might be; how\nhe was affected by the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of\ngraciousness. He was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion,\nby giving her very proper attention, after the introduction had passed.\n\nIn a few minutes the carriage returned.--Somebody talked of rain.--\"I\nwill see that there are umbrellas, sir,\" said Frank to his father:\n\"Miss Bates must not be forgotten:\" and away he went. Mr. Weston was\nfollowing; but Mrs. Elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion\nof his son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young man himself,\nthough by no means moving slowly, could hardly be out of hearing.\n\n\"A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston. You know I candidly told you\nI should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that I am extremely\npleased with him.--You may believe me. I never compliment. I think him\na very handsome young man, and his manners are precisely what I like and\napprove--so truly the gentleman, without the least conceit or puppyism.\nYou must know I have a vast dislike to puppies--quite a horror of them.\nThey were never tolerated at Maple Grove. Neither Mr. Suckling nor\nme had ever any patience with them; and we used sometimes to say very\ncutting things! Selina, who is mild almost to a fault, bore with them\nmuch better.\"\n\nWhile she talked of his son, Mr. Weston's attention was chained; but\nwhen she got to Maple Grove, he could recollect that there were ladies\njust arriving to be attended to, and with happy smiles must hurry away.\n\nMrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston. \"I have no doubt of its being our\ncarriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our coachman and horses are so\nextremely expeditious!--I believe we drive faster than any body.--What\na pleasure it is to send one's carriage for a friend!--I understand you\nwere so kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite unnecessary.\nYou may be very sure I shall always take care of _them_.\"\n\nMiss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentlemen, walked into\nthe room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to think it as much her duty as Mrs.\nWeston's to receive them. Her gestures and movements might be understood\nby any one who looked on like Emma; but her words, every body's words,\nwere soon lost under the incessant flow of Miss Bates, who came in\ntalking, and had not finished her speech under many minutes after her\nbeing admitted into the circle at the fire. As the door opened she was\nheard,\n\n\"So very obliging of you!--No rain at all. Nothing to signify. I do not\ncare for myself. Quite thick shoes. And Jane declares--Well!--(as soon\nas she was within the door) Well! This is brilliant indeed!--This is\nadmirable!--Excellently contrived, upon my word. Nothing wanting. Could\nnot have imagined it.--So well lighted up!--Jane, Jane, look!--did you\never see any thing? Oh! Mr. Weston, you must really have had Aladdin's\nlamp. Good Mrs. Stokes would not know her own room again. I saw her as\nI came in; she was standing in the entrance. 'Oh! Mrs. Stokes,' said\nI--but I had not time for more.\" She was now met by Mrs. Weston.--\"Very\nwell, I thank you, ma'am. I hope you are quite well. Very happy to hear\nit. So afraid you might have a headache!--seeing you pass by so often,\nand knowing how much trouble you must have. Delighted to hear it indeed.\nAh! dear Mrs. Elton, so obliged to you for the carriage!--excellent\ntime. Jane and I quite ready. Did not keep the horses a moment. Most\ncomfortable carriage.--Oh! and I am sure our thanks are due to you,\nMrs. Weston, on that score. Mrs. Elton had most kindly sent Jane a note,\nor we should have been.--But two such offers in one day!--Never were\nsuch neighbours. I said to my mother, 'Upon my word, ma'am--.' Thank\nyou, my mother is remarkably well. Gone to Mr. Woodhouse's. I made her\ntake her shawl--for the evenings are not warm--her large new shawl--\nMrs. Dixon's wedding-present.--So kind of her to think of my mother!\nBought at Weymouth, you know--Mr. Dixon's choice. There were three\nothers, Jane says, which they hesitated about some time. Colonel\nCampbell rather preferred an olive. My dear Jane, are you sure you did\nnot wet your feet?--It was but a drop or two, but I am so afraid:--but\nMr. Frank Churchill was so extremely--and there was a mat to step\nupon--I shall never forget his extreme politeness.--Oh! Mr. Frank\nChurchill, I must tell you my mother's spectacles have never been in\nfault since; the rivet never came out again. My mother often talks of\nyour good-nature. Does not she, Jane?--Do not we often talk of Mr. Frank\nChurchill?--Ah! here's Miss Woodhouse.--Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do\nyou do?--Very well I thank you, quite well. This is meeting quite\nin fairy-land!--Such a transformation!--Must not compliment, I know\n(eyeing Emma most complacently)--that would be rude--but upon my word,\nMiss Woodhouse, you do look--how do you like Jane's hair?--You are\na judge.--She did it all herself. Quite wonderful how she does her\nhair!--No hairdresser from London I think could.--Ah! Dr. Hughes I\ndeclare--and Mrs. Hughes. Must go and speak to Dr. and Mrs. Hughes for a\nmoment.--How do you do? How do you do?--Very well, I thank you. This\nis delightful, is not it?--Where's dear Mr. Richard?--Oh! there he is.\nDon't disturb him. Much better employed talking to the young ladies. How\ndo you do, Mr. Richard?--I saw you the other day as you rode through\nthe town--Mrs. Otway, I protest!--and good Mr. Otway, and Miss Otway\nand Miss Caroline.--Such a host of friends!--and Mr. George and Mr.\nArthur!--How do you do? How do you all do?--Quite well, I am much\nobliged to you. Never better.--Don't I hear another carriage?--Who can\nthis be?--very likely the worthy Coles.--Upon my word, this is charming\nto be standing about among such friends! And such a noble fire!--I am\nquite roasted. No coffee, I thank you, for me--never take coffee.--A\nlittle tea if you please, sir, by and bye,--no hurry--Oh! here it comes.\nEvery thing so good!\"\n\nFrank Churchill returned to his station by Emma; and as soon as Miss\nBates was quiet, she found herself necessarily overhearing the discourse\nof Mrs. Elton and Miss Fairfax, who were standing a little way behind\nher.--He was thoughtful. Whether he were overhearing too, she could not\ndetermine. After a good many compliments to Jane on her dress and look,\ncompliments very quietly and properly taken, Mrs. Elton was evidently\nwanting to be complimented herself--and it was, \"How do you like\nmy gown?--How do you like my trimming?--How has Wright done my\nhair?\"--with many other relative questions, all answered with patient\npoliteness. Mrs. Elton then said, \"Nobody can think less of dress in\ngeneral than I do--but upon such an occasion as this, when every body's\neyes are so much upon me, and in compliment to the Westons--who I have\nno doubt are giving this ball chiefly to do me honour--I would not wish\nto be inferior to others. And I see very few pearls in the room except\nmine.--So Frank Churchill is a capital dancer, I understand.--We shall\nsee if our styles suit.--A fine young man certainly is Frank Churchill.\nI like him very well.\"\n\nAt this moment Frank began talking so vigorously, that Emma could not\nbut imagine he had overheard his own praises, and did not want to hear\nmore;--and the voices of the ladies were drowned for a while, till\nanother suspension brought Mrs. Elton's tones again distinctly\nforward.--Mr. Elton had just joined them, and his wife was exclaiming,\n\n\"Oh! you have found us out at last, have you, in our seclusion?--I was\nthis moment telling Jane, I thought you would begin to be impatient for\ntidings of us.\"\n\n\"Jane!\"--repeated Frank Churchill, with a look of surprize and\ndispleasure.--\"That is easy--but Miss Fairfax does not disapprove it, I\nsuppose.\"\n\n\"How do you like Mrs. Elton?\" said Emma in a whisper.\n\n\"Not at all.\"\n\n\"You are ungrateful.\"\n\n\"Ungrateful!--What do you mean?\" Then changing from a frown to a\nsmile--\"No, do not tell me--I do not want to know what you mean.--Where\nis my father?--When are we to begin dancing?\"\n\nEmma could hardly understand him; he seemed in an odd humour. He walked\noff to find his father, but was quickly back again with both Mr. and\nMrs. Weston. He had met with them in a little perplexity, which must be\nlaid before Emma. It had just occurred to Mrs. Weston that Mrs. Elton\nmust be asked to begin the ball; that she would expect it; which\ninterfered with all their wishes of giving Emma that distinction.--Emma\nheard the sad truth with fortitude.\n\n\"And what are we to do for a proper partner for her?\" said Mr. Weston.\n\"She will think Frank ought to ask her.\"\n\nFrank turned instantly to Emma, to claim her former promise; and\nboasted himself an engaged man, which his father looked his most perfect\napprobation of--and it then appeared that Mrs. Weston was wanting _him_\nto dance with Mrs. Elton himself, and that their business was to help to\npersuade him into it, which was done pretty soon.--Mr. Weston and Mrs.\nElton led the way, Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse followed.\nEmma must submit to stand second to Mrs. Elton, though she had always\nconsidered the ball as peculiarly for her. It was almost enough to make\nher think of marrying. Mrs. Elton had undoubtedly the advantage, at this\ntime, in vanity completely gratified; for though she had intended to\nbegin with Frank Churchill, she could not lose by the change. Mr. Weston\nmight be his son's superior.--In spite of this little rub, however,\nEmma was smiling with enjoyment, delighted to see the respectable length\nof the set as it was forming, and to feel that she had so many hours\nof unusual festivity before her.--She was more disturbed by Mr.\nKnightley's not dancing than by any thing else.--There he was, among\nthe standers-by, where he ought not to be; he ought to be dancing,--not\nclassing himself with the husbands, and fathers, and whist-players, who\nwere pretending to feel an interest in the dance till their rubbers were\nmade up,--so young as he looked!--He could not have appeared to greater\nadvantage perhaps anywhere, than where he had placed himself. His tall,\nfirm, upright figure, among the bulky forms and stooping shoulders of\nthe elderly men, was such as Emma felt must draw every body's eyes;\nand, excepting her own partner, there was not one among the whole row of\nyoung men who could be compared with him.--He moved a few steps nearer,\nand those few steps were enough to prove in how gentlemanlike a manner,\nwith what natural grace, he must have danced, would he but take the\ntrouble.--Whenever she caught his eye, she forced him to smile; but\nin general he was looking grave. She wished he could love a ballroom\nbetter, and could like Frank Churchill better.--He seemed often\nobserving her. She must not flatter herself that he thought of her\ndancing, but if he were criticising her behaviour, she did not feel\nafraid. There was nothing like flirtation between her and her partner.\nThey seemed more like cheerful, easy friends, than lovers. That Frank\nChurchill thought less of her than he had done, was indubitable.\n\nThe ball proceeded pleasantly. The anxious cares, the incessant\nattentions of Mrs. Weston, were not thrown away. Every body seemed\nhappy; and the praise of being a delightful ball, which is seldom\nbestowed till after a ball has ceased to be, was repeatedly given in\nthe very beginning of the existence of this. Of very important, very\nrecordable events, it was not more productive than such meetings usually\nare. There was one, however, which Emma thought something of.--The two\nlast dances before supper were begun, and Harriet had no partner;--the\nonly young lady sitting down;--and so equal had been hitherto the\nnumber of dancers, that how there could be any one disengaged was the\nwonder!--But Emma's wonder lessened soon afterwards, on seeing Mr. Elton\nsauntering about. He would not ask Harriet to dance if it were possible\nto be avoided: she was sure he would not--and she was expecting him\nevery moment to escape into the card-room.\n\nEscape, however, was not his plan. He came to the part of the room where\nthe sitters-by were collected, spoke to some, and walked about in front\nof them, as if to shew his liberty, and his resolution of maintaining\nit. He did not omit being sometimes directly before Miss Smith, or\nspeaking to those who were close to her.--Emma saw it. She was not yet\ndancing; she was working her way up from the bottom, and had therefore\nleisure to look around, and by only turning her head a little she saw\nit all. When she was half-way up the set, the whole group were exactly\nbehind her, and she would no longer allow her eyes to watch; but Mr.\nElton was so near, that she heard every syllable of a dialogue which\njust then took place between him and Mrs. Weston; and she perceived that\nhis wife, who was standing immediately above her, was not only\nlistening also, but even encouraging him by significant glances.--The\nkind-hearted, gentle Mrs. Weston had left her seat to join him and say,\n\"Do not you dance, Mr. Elton?\" to which his prompt reply was, \"Most\nreadily, Mrs. Weston, if you will dance with me.\"\n\n\"Me!--oh! no--I would get you a better partner than myself. I am no\ndancer.\"\n\n\"If Mrs. Gilbert wishes to dance,\" said he, \"I shall have great\npleasure, I am sure--for, though beginning to feel myself rather an old\nmarried man, and that my dancing days are over, it would give me very\ngreat pleasure at any time to stand up with an old friend like Mrs.\nGilbert.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a young lady\ndisengaged whom I should be very glad to see dancing--Miss Smith.\" \"Miss\nSmith!--oh!--I had not observed.--You are extremely obliging--and if I\nwere not an old married man.--But my dancing days are over, Mrs. Weston.\nYou will excuse me. Any thing else I should be most happy to do, at your\ncommand--but my dancing days are over.\"\n\nMrs. Weston said no more; and Emma could imagine with what surprize and\nmortification she must be returning to her seat. This was Mr. Elton! the\namiable, obliging, gentle Mr. Elton.--She looked round for a moment; he\nhad joined Mr. Knightley at a little distance, and was arranging himself\nfor settled conversation, while smiles of high glee passed between him\nand his wife.\n\nShe would not look again. Her heart was in a glow, and she feared her\nface might be as hot.\n\nIn another moment a happier sight caught her;--Mr. Knightley leading\nHarriet to the set!--Never had she been more surprized, seldom more\ndelighted, than at that instant. She was all pleasure and gratitude,\nboth for Harriet and herself, and longed to be thanking him; and though\ntoo distant for speech, her countenance said much, as soon as she could\ncatch his eye again.\n\nHis dancing proved to be just what she had believed it, extremely good;\nand Harriet would have seemed almost too lucky, if it had not been for\nthe cruel state of things before, and for the very complete enjoyment\nand very high sense of the distinction which her happy features\nannounced. It was not thrown away on her, she bounded higher than ever,\nflew farther down the middle, and was in a continual course of smiles.\n\nMr. Elton had retreated into the card-room, looking (Emma trusted) very\nfoolish. She did not think he was quite so hardened as his wife, though\ngrowing very like her;--_she_ spoke some of her feelings, by observing\naudibly to her partner,\n\n\"Knightley has taken pity on poor little Miss Smith!--Very good-natured,\nI declare.\"\n\nSupper was announced. The move began; and Miss Bates might be heard from\nthat moment, without interruption, till her being seated at table and\ntaking up her spoon.\n\n\"Jane, Jane, my dear Jane, where are you?--Here is your tippet. Mrs.\nWeston begs you to put on your tippet. She says she is afraid there will\nbe draughts in the passage, though every thing has been done--One door\nnailed up--Quantities of matting--My dear Jane, indeed you must.\nMr. Churchill, oh! you are too obliging! How well you put it on!--so\ngratified! Excellent dancing indeed!--Yes, my dear, I ran home, as I\nsaid I should, to help grandmama to bed, and got back again, and\nnobody missed me.--I set off without saying a word, just as I told you.\nGrandmama was quite well, had a charming evening with Mr. Woodhouse, a\nvast deal of chat, and backgammon.--Tea was made downstairs, biscuits\nand baked apples and wine before she came away: amazing luck in some\nof her throws: and she inquired a great deal about you, how you were\namused, and who were your partners. 'Oh!' said I, 'I shall not forestall\nJane; I left her dancing with Mr. George Otway; she will love to tell\nyou all about it herself to-morrow: her first partner was Mr. Elton,\nI do not know who will ask her next, perhaps Mr. William Cox.' My dear\nsir, you are too obliging.--Is there nobody you would not rather?--I am\nnot helpless. Sir, you are most kind. Upon my word, Jane on one arm, and\nme on the other!--Stop, stop, let us stand a little back, Mrs. Elton is\ngoing; dear Mrs. Elton, how elegant she looks!--Beautiful lace!--Now we\nall follow in her train. Quite the queen of the evening!--Well, here we\nare at the passage. Two steps, Jane, take care of the two steps. Oh! no,\nthere is but one. Well, I was persuaded there were two. How very odd!\nI was convinced there were two, and there is but one. I never saw any\nthing equal to the comfort and style--Candles everywhere.--I was telling\nyou of your grandmama, Jane,--There was a little disappointment.--The\nbaked apples and biscuits, excellent in their way, you know; but there\nwas a delicate fricassee of sweetbread and some asparagus brought in at\nfirst, and good Mr. Woodhouse, not thinking the asparagus quite boiled\nenough, sent it all out again. Now there is nothing grandmama loves\nbetter than sweetbread and asparagus--so she was rather disappointed,\nbut we agreed we would not speak of it to any body, for fear of\nits getting round to dear Miss Woodhouse, who would be so very much\nconcerned!--Well, this is brilliant! I am all amazement! could not have\nsupposed any thing!--Such elegance and profusion!--I have seen nothing\nlike it since--Well, where shall we sit? where shall we sit? Anywhere,\nso that Jane is not in a draught. Where _I_ sit is of no consequence.\nOh! do you recommend this side?--Well, I am sure, Mr. Churchill--only\nit seems too good--but just as you please. What you direct in this house\ncannot be wrong. Dear Jane, how shall we ever recollect half the dishes\nfor grandmama? Soup too! Bless me! I should not be helped so soon, but\nit smells most excellent, and I cannot help beginning.\"\n\nEmma had no opportunity of speaking to Mr. Knightley till after supper;\nbut, when they were all in the ballroom again, her eyes invited\nhim irresistibly to come to her and be thanked. He was warm in his\nreprobation of Mr. Elton's conduct; it had been unpardonable rudeness;\nand Mrs. Elton's looks also received the due share of censure.\n\n\"They aimed at wounding more than Harriet,\" said he. \"Emma, why is it\nthat they are your enemies?\"\n\nHe looked with smiling penetration; and, on receiving no answer, added,\n\"_She_ ought not to be angry with you, I suspect, whatever he may\nbe.--To that surmise, you say nothing, of course; but confess, Emma,\nthat you did want him to marry Harriet.\"\n\n\"I did,\" replied Emma, \"and they cannot forgive me.\"\n\nHe shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence with it, and he\nonly said,\n\n\"I shall not scold you. I leave you to your own reflections.\"\n\n\"Can you trust me with such flatterers?--Does my vain spirit ever tell\nme I am wrong?\"\n\n\"Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit.--If one leads you wrong,\nI am sure the other tells you of it.\"\n\n\"I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in Mr. Elton. There is\na littleness about him which you discovered, and which I did not: and I\nwas fully convinced of his being in love with Harriet. It was through a\nseries of strange blunders!\"\n\n\"And, in return for your acknowledging so much, I will do you the\njustice to say, that you would have chosen for him better than he has\nchosen for himself.--Harriet Smith has some first-rate qualities, which\nMrs. Elton is totally without. An unpretending, single-minded, artless\ngirl--infinitely to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to such a\nwoman as Mrs. Elton. I found Harriet more conversable than I expected.\"\n\nEmma was extremely gratified.--They were interrupted by the bustle of\nMr. Weston calling on every body to begin dancing again.\n\n\"Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what are you all\ndoing?--Come Emma, set your companions the example. Every body is lazy!\nEvery body is asleep!\"\n\n\"I am ready,\" said Emma, \"whenever I am wanted.\"\n\n\"Whom are you going to dance with?\" asked Mr. Knightley.\n\nShe hesitated a moment, and then replied, \"With you, if you will ask\nme.\"\n\n\"Will you?\" said he, offering his hand.\n\n\"Indeed I will. You have shewn that you can dance, and you know we are\nnot really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper.\"\n\n\"Brother and sister! no, indeed.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nThis little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma considerable\npleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball, which\nshe walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoy.--She was extremely\nglad that they had come to so good an understanding respecting the\nEltons, and that their opinions of both husband and wife were so much\nalike; and his praise of Harriet, his concession in her favour, was\npeculiarly gratifying. The impertinence of the Eltons, which for a few\nminutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been the\noccasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked forward\nto another happy result--the cure of Harriet's infatuation.--From\nHarriet's manner of speaking of the circumstance before they quitted the\nballroom, she had strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were suddenly\nopened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not the superior\ncreature she had believed him. The fever was over, and Emma could\nharbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by injurious\ncourtesy. She depended on the evil feelings of the Eltons for\nsupplying all the discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther\nrequisite.--Harriet rational, Frank Churchill not too much in love, and\nMr. Knightley not wanting to quarrel with her, how very happy a summer\nmust be before her!\n\nShe was not to see Frank Churchill this morning. He had told her that he\ncould not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at Hartfield, as he was\nto be at home by the middle of the day. She did not regret it.\n\nHaving arranged all these matters, looked them through, and put them all\nto rights, she was just turning to the house with spirits freshened up\nfor the demands of the two little boys, as well as of their grandpapa,\nwhen the great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons entered whom she\nhad never less expected to see together--Frank Churchill, with Harriet\nleaning on his arm--actually Harriet!--A moment sufficed to convince\nher that something extraordinary had happened. Harriet looked white\nand frightened, and he was trying to cheer her.--The iron gates and the\nfront-door were not twenty yards asunder;--they were all three soon in\nthe hall, and Harriet immediately sinking into a chair fainted away.\n\nA young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered,\nand surprizes be explained. Such events are very interesting, but the\nsuspense of them cannot last long. A few minutes made Emma acquainted\nwith the whole.\n\nMiss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour boarder at Mrs.\nGoddard's, who had been also at the ball, had walked out together, and\ntaken a road, the Richmond road, which, though apparently public enough\nfor safety, had led them into alarm.--About half a mile beyond Highbury,\nmaking a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each side, it became\nfor a considerable stretch very retired; and when the young ladies\nhad advanced some way into it, they had suddenly perceived at a small\ndistance before them, on a broader patch of greensward by the side, a\nparty of gipsies. A child on the watch, came towards them to beg; and\nMiss Bickerton, excessively frightened, gave a great scream, and calling\non Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight hedge at\nthe top, and made the best of her way by a short cut back to Highbury.\nBut poor Harriet could not follow. She had suffered very much from cramp\nafter dancing, and her first attempt to mount the bank brought on such\na return of it as made her absolutely powerless--and in this state, and\nexceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain.\n\nHow the trampers might have behaved, had the young ladies been more\ncourageous, must be doubtful; but such an invitation for attack could\nnot be resisted; and Harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen children,\nheaded by a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and impertinent\nin look, though not absolutely in word.--More and more frightened, she\nimmediately promised them money, and taking out her purse, gave them a\nshilling, and begged them not to want more, or to use her ill.--She\nwas then able to walk, though but slowly, and was moving away--but her\nterror and her purse were too tempting, and she was followed, or rather\nsurrounded, by the whole gang, demanding more.\n\nIn this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling and\nconditioning, they loud and insolent. By a most fortunate chance his\nleaving Highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance\nat this critical moment. The pleasantness of the morning had induced\nhim to walk forward, and leave his horses to meet him by another road,\na mile or two beyond Highbury--and happening to have borrowed a pair\nof scissors the night before of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to\nrestore them, he had been obliged to stop at her door, and go in for a\nfew minutes: he was therefore later than he had intended; and being\non foot, was unseen by the whole party till almost close to them. The\nterror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then\ntheir own portion. He had left them completely frightened; and Harriet\neagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength\nenough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were quite overcome.\nIt was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other\nplace.\n\nThis was the amount of the whole story,--of his communication and of\nHarriet's as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.--He dared\nnot stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him\nnot another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of her\nsafety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people\nin the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the grateful\nblessings that she could utter for her friend and herself.\n\nSuch an adventure as this,--a fine young man and a lovely young woman\nthrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain\nideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at\nleast. Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a mathematician\nhave seen what she did, have witnessed their appearance together, and\nheard their history of it, without feeling that circumstances had been\nat work to make them peculiarly interesting to each other?--How much\nmore must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with speculation and\nforesight!--especially with such a groundwork of anticipation as her\nmind had already made.\n\nIt was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had ever\noccurred before to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no\nrencontre, no alarm of the kind;--and now it had happened to the very\nperson, and at the very hour, when the other very person was chancing\nto pass by to rescue her!--It certainly was very extraordinary!--And\nknowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind of each at this\nperiod, it struck her the more. He was wishing to get the better of his\nattachment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr. Elton.\nIt seemed as if every thing united to promise the most interesting\nconsequences. It was not possible that the occurrence should not be\nstrongly recommending each to the other.\n\nIn the few minutes' conversation which she had yet had with him, while\nHarriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her terror,\nher naivete, her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm, with a\nsensibility amused and delighted; and just at last, after Harriet's\nown account had been given, he had expressed his indignation at the\nabominable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every thing was\nto take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted.\nShe would not stir a step, nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of\ninterference. There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive scheme.\nIt was no more than a wish. Beyond it she would on no account proceed.\n\nEmma's first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of\nwhat had passed,--aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion: but\nshe soon felt that concealment must be impossible. Within half an hour\nit was known all over Highbury. It was the very event to engage those\nwho talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and servants in\nthe place were soon in the happiness of frightful news. The last night's\nball seemed lost in the gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as he sat,\nand, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without their\npromising never to go beyond the shrubbery again. It was some comfort\nto him that many inquiries after himself and Miss Woodhouse (for his\nneighbours knew that he loved to be inquired after), as well as Miss\nSmith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and he had\nthe pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all very\nindifferent--which, though not exactly true, for she was perfectly well,\nand Harriet not much otherwise, Emma would not interfere with. She had\nan unhappy state of health in general for the child of such a man,\nfor she hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not invent\nillnesses for her, she could make no figure in a message.\n\nThe gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took\nthemselves off in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury might have\nwalked again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history\ndwindled soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her\nnephews:--in her imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and\nJohn were still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the\ngipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the\nslightest particular from the original recital.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nA very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one\nmorning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down\nand hesitating, thus began:\n\n\"Miss Woodhouse--if you are at leisure--I have something that I should\nlike to tell you--a sort of confession to make--and then, you know, it\nwill be over.\"\n\nEmma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak. There was a\nseriousness in Harriet's manner which prepared her, quite as much as her\nwords, for something more than ordinary.\n\n\"It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish,\" she continued, \"to have\nno reserves with you on this subject. As I am happily quite an altered\ncreature in _one_ _respect_, it is very fit that you should have\nthe satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say more than is\nnecessary--I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and\nI dare say you understand me.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Emma, \"I hope I do.\"\n\n\"How I could so long a time be fancying myself!...\" cried Harriet,\nwarmly. \"It seems like madness! I can see nothing at all extraordinary\nin him now.--I do not care whether I meet him or not--except that of the\ntwo I had rather not see him--and indeed I would go any distance round\nto avoid him--but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire\nher nor envy her, as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, and\nall that, but I think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable--I shall\nnever forget her look the other night!--However, I assure you, Miss\nWoodhouse, I wish her no evil.--No, let them be ever so happy together,\nit will not give me another moment's pang: and to convince you that I\nhave been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy--what I ought to\nhave destroyed long ago--what I ought never to have kept--I know that\nvery well (blushing as she spoke).--However, now I will destroy it\nall--and it is my particular wish to do it in your presence, that you\nmay see how rational I am grown. Cannot you guess what this parcel\nholds?\" said she, with a conscious look.\n\n\"Not the least in the world.--Did he ever give you any thing?\"\n\n\"No--I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have valued\nvery much.\"\n\nShe held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words _Most_\n_precious_ _treasures_ on the top. Her curiosity was greatly excited.\nHarriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience. Within\nabundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box,\nwhich Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but,\nexcepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister.\n\n\"Now,\" said Harriet, \"you _must_ recollect.\"\n\n\"No, indeed I do not.\"\n\n\"Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could forget what\npassed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very last\ntimes we ever met in it!--It was but a very few days before I had my\nsore throat--just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came--I think the\nvery evening.--Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new\npenknife, and your recommending court-plaister?--But, as you had none\nabout you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took\nmine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he\ncut it smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left, before he\ngave it back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making\na treasure of it--so I put it by never to be used, and looked at it now\nand then as a great treat.\"\n\n\"My dearest Harriet!\" cried Emma, putting her hand before her face,\nand jumping up, \"you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear.\nRemember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this\nrelic--I knew nothing of that till this moment--but the cutting the\nfinger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none\nabout me!--Oh! my sins, my sins!--And I had plenty all the while in my\npocket!--One of my senseless tricks!--I deserve to be under a continual\nblush all the rest of my life.--Well--(sitting down again)--go on--what\nelse?\"\n\n\"And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected\nit, you did it so naturally.\"\n\n\"And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!\"\nsaid Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided\nbetween wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, \"Lord\nbless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a\npiece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I\nnever was equal to this.\"\n\n\"Here,\" resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, \"here is something\nstill more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because\nthis is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister\nnever did.\"\n\nEmma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of an\nold pencil,--the part without any lead.\n\n\"This was really his,\" said Harriet.--\"Do not you remember one\nmorning?--no, I dare say you do not. But one morning--I forget exactly\nthe day--but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_\n_evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was\nabout spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about\nbrewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out\nhis pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and\nit would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the\ntable as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I\ndared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment.\"\n\n\"I do remember it,\" cried Emma; \"I perfectly remember it.--Talking\nabout spruce-beer.--Oh! yes--Mr. Knightley and I both saying we\nliked it, and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I\nperfectly remember it.--Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was\nnot he? I have an idea he was standing just here.\"\n\n\"Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.--It is very odd, but I cannot\nrecollect.--Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I\nam now.\"--\n\n\"Well, go on.\"\n\n\"Oh! that's all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say--except that\nI am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to see\nme do it.\"\n\n\"My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in\ntreasuring up these things?\"\n\n\"Yes, simpleton as I was!--but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I\ncould forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you\nknow, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was--but\nhad not resolution enough to part with them.\"\n\n\"But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?--I have not\na word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be\nuseful.\"\n\n\"I shall be happier to burn it,\" replied Harriet. \"It has a disagreeable\nlook to me. I must get rid of every thing.--There it goes, and there is\nan end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton.\"\n\n\"And when,\" thought Emma, \"will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill?\"\n\nShe had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was already\nmade, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had _told_ no\nfortune, might be proved to have made Harriet's.--About a fortnight\nafter the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite\nundesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the\ninformation she received more valuable. She merely said, in the course\nof some trivial chat, \"Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise\nyou to do so and so\"--and thought no more of it, till after a minute's\nsilence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, \"I shall never\nmarry.\"\n\nEmma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a\nmoment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied,\n\n\"Never marry!--This is a new resolution.\"\n\n\"It is one that I shall never change, however.\"\n\nAfter another short hesitation, \"I hope it does not proceed from--I hope\nit is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?\"\n\n\"Mr. Elton indeed!\" cried Harriet indignantly.--\"Oh! no\"--and Emma could\njust catch the words, \"so superior to Mr. Elton!\"\n\nShe then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no\nfarther?--should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?--Perhaps\nHarriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she were\ntotally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear too\nmuch; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been, such\nan open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly\nresolved.--She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at\nonce, all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always\nbest. She had previously determined how far she would proceed, on any\napplication of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the\njudicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.--She was decided,\nand thus spoke--\n\n\"Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your\nresolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from\nan idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly your\nsuperior in situation to think of you. Is not it so?\"\n\n\"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to suppose--\nIndeed I am not so mad.--But it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a\ndistance--and to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of\nthe world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so\nproper, in me especially.\"\n\n\"I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he rendered you\nwas enough to warm your heart.\"\n\n\"Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!--The very\nrecollection of it, and all that I felt at the time--when I saw him\ncoming--his noble look--and my wretchedness before. Such a change! In\none moment such a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness!\"\n\n\"It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.--Yes,\nhonourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.--But that\nit will be a fortunate preference is more that I can promise. I do not\nadvise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage\nfor its being returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be\nwisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any rate do not\nlet them carry you far, unless you are persuaded of his liking you. Be\nobservant of him. Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I\ngive you this caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on\nthe subject. I am determined against all interference. Henceforward I\nknow nothing of the matter. Let no name ever pass our lips. We were very\nwrong before; we will be cautious now.--He is your superior, no doubt,\nand there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature; but\nyet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there have been\nmatches of greater disparity. But take care of yourself. I would not\nhave you too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured your\nraising your thoughts to _him_, is a mark of good taste which I shall\nalways know how to value.\"\n\nHarriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was\nvery decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her friend.\nIts tendency would be to raise and refine her mind--and it must be\nsaving her from the danger of degradation.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nIn this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance, June opened upon\nHartfield. To Highbury in general it brought no material change. The\nEltons were still talking of a visit from the Sucklings, and of the use\nto be made of their barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax was still at her\ngrandmother's; and as the return of the Campbells from Ireland was again\ndelayed, and August, instead of Midsummer, fixed for it, she was likely\nto remain there full two months longer, provided at least she were able\nto defeat Mrs. Elton's activity in her service, and save herself from\nbeing hurried into a delightful situation against her will.\n\nMr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to himself, had certainly\ntaken an early dislike to Frank Churchill, was only growing to dislike\nhim more. He began to suspect him of some double dealing in his pursuit\nof Emma. That Emma was his object appeared indisputable. Every thing\ndeclared it; his own attentions, his father's hints, his mother-in-law's\nguarded silence; it was all in unison; words, conduct, discretion, and\nindiscretion, told the same story. But while so many were devoting him\nto Emma, and Emma herself making him over to Harriet, Mr. Knightley\nbegan to suspect him of some inclination to trifle with Jane Fairfax. He\ncould not understand it; but there were symptoms of intelligence between\nthem--he thought so at least--symptoms of admiration on his side, which,\nhaving once observed, he could not persuade himself to think entirely\nvoid of meaning, however he might wish to escape any of Emma's errors\nof imagination. _She_ was not present when the suspicion first arose.\nHe was dining with the Randalls family, and Jane, at the Eltons'; and he\nhad seen a look, more than a single look, at Miss Fairfax, which, from\nthe admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed somewhat out of place. When he was\nagain in their company, he could not help remembering what he had seen;\nnor could he avoid observations which, unless it were like Cowper and\nhis fire at twilight,\n\n\"Myself creating what I saw,\"\n\nbrought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of private\nliking, of private understanding even, between Frank Churchill and Jane.\n\nHe had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend\nhis evening at Hartfield. Emma and Harriet were going to walk; he joined\nthem; and, on returning, they fell in with a larger party, who, like\nthemselves, judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as the\nweather threatened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates\nand her niece, who had accidentally met. They all united; and, on\nreaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of\nvisiting that would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in\nand drink tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to it immediately; and\nafter a pretty long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons listened\nto, she also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse's most\nobliging invitation.\n\nAs they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on horseback.\nThe gentlemen spoke of his horse.\n\n\"By the bye,\" said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently, \"what\nbecame of Mr. Perry's plan of setting up his carriage?\"\n\nMrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, \"I did not know that he ever had\nany such plan.\"\n\n\"Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months ago.\"\n\n\"Me! impossible!\"\n\n\"Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as what\nwas certainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was\nextremely happy about it. It was owing to _her_ persuasion, as she\nthought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You\nmust remember it now?\"\n\n\"Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment.\"\n\n\"Never! really, never!--Bless me! how could it be?--Then I must have\ndreamt it--but I was completely persuaded--Miss Smith, you walk as if\nyou were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home.\"\n\n\"What is this?--What is this?\" cried Mr. Weston, \"about Perry and a\ncarriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad he can\nafford it. You had it from himself, had you?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" replied his son, laughing, \"I seem to have had it from\nnobody.--Very odd!--I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston's having\nmentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all\nthese particulars--but as she declares she never heard a syllable of\nit before, of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer.\nI dream of every body at Highbury when I am away--and when I have gone\nthrough my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs.\nPerry.\"\n\n\"It is odd though,\" observed his father, \"that you should have had such\na regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you\nshould be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry's setting up his carriage! and\nhis wife's persuading him to it, out of care for his health--just\nwhat will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a little\npremature. What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream!\nAnd at others, what a heap of absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your dream\ncertainly shews that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent.\nEmma, you are a great dreamer, I think?\"\n\nEmma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before her guests to\nprepare her father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach of Mr.\nWeston's hint.\n\n\"Why, to own the truth,\" cried Miss Bates, who had been trying in vain\nto be heard the last two minutes, \"if I must speak on this subject,\nthere is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have--I do not mean\nto say that he did not dream it--I am sure I have sometimes the oddest\ndreams in the world--but if I am questioned about it, I must acknowledge\nthat there was such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry herself\nmentioned it to my mother, and the Coles knew of it as well as\nourselves--but it was quite a secret, known to nobody else, and only\nthought of about three days. Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should\nhave a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one morning\nbecause she thought she had prevailed. Jane, don't you remember\ngrandmama's telling us of it when we got home? I forget where we\nhad been walking to--very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to\nRandalls. Mrs. Perry was always particularly fond of my mother--indeed\nI do not know who is not--and she had mentioned it to her in confidence;\nshe had no objection to her telling us, of course, but it was not to go\nbeyond: and, from that day to this, I never mentioned it to a soul that\nI know of. At the same time, I will not positively answer for my having\nnever dropt a hint, because I know I do sometimes pop out a thing before\nI am aware. I am a talker, you know; I am rather a talker; and now and\nthen I have let a thing escape me which I should not. I am not like\nJane; I wish I were. I will answer for it _she_ never betrayed the least\nthing in the world. Where is she?--Oh! just behind. Perfectly remember\nMrs. Perry's coming.--Extraordinary dream, indeed!\"\n\nThey were entering the hall. Mr. Knightley's eyes had preceded Miss\nBates's in a glance at Jane. From Frank Churchill's face, where\nhe thought he saw confusion suppressed or laughed away, he had\ninvoluntarily turned to hers; but she was indeed behind, and too busy\nwith her shawl. Mr. Weston had walked in. The two other gentlemen waited\nat the door to let her pass. Mr. Knightley suspected in Frank\nChurchill the determination of catching her eye--he seemed watching her\nintently--in vain, however, if it were so--Jane passed between them\ninto the hall, and looked at neither.\n\nThere was no time for farther remark or explanation. The dream must be\nborne with, and Mr. Knightley must take his seat with the rest round the\nlarge modern circular table which Emma had introduced at Hartfield, and\nwhich none but Emma could have had power to place there and persuade her\nfather to use, instead of the small-sized Pembroke, on which two of his\ndaily meals had, for forty years been crowded. Tea passed pleasantly,\nand nobody seemed in a hurry to move.\n\n\"Miss Woodhouse,\" said Frank Churchill, after examining a table behind\nhim, which he could reach as he sat, \"have your nephews taken away their\nalphabets--their box of letters? It used to stand here. Where is it?\nThis is a sort of dull-looking evening, that ought to be treated rather\nas winter than summer. We had great amusement with those letters one\nmorning. I want to puzzle you again.\"\n\nEmma was pleased with the thought; and producing the box, the table\nwas quickly scattered over with alphabets, which no one seemed so much\ndisposed to employ as their two selves. They were rapidly forming words\nfor each other, or for any body else who would be puzzled. The quietness\nof the game made it particularly eligible for Mr. Woodhouse, who had\noften been distressed by the more animated sort, which Mr. Weston had\noccasionally introduced, and who now sat happily occupied in lamenting,\nwith tender melancholy, over the departure of the \"poor little boys,\"\nor in fondly pointing out, as he took up any stray letter near him, how\nbeautifully Emma had written it.\n\nFrank Churchill placed a word before Miss Fairfax. She gave a slight\nglance round the table, and applied herself to it. Frank was next to\nEmma, Jane opposite to them--and Mr. Knightley so placed as to see them\nall; and it was his object to see as much as he could, with as little\napparent observation. The word was discovered, and with a faint smile\npushed away. If meant to be immediately mixed with the others, and\nburied from sight, she should have looked on the table instead of\nlooking just across, for it was not mixed; and Harriet, eager after\nevery fresh word, and finding out none, directly took it up, and fell to\nwork. She was sitting by Mr. Knightley, and turned to him for help. The\nword was _blunder_; and as Harriet exultingly proclaimed it, there was a\nblush on Jane's cheek which gave it a meaning not otherwise ostensible.\nMr. Knightley connected it with the dream; but how it could all be,\nwas beyond his comprehension. How the delicacy, the discretion of his\nfavourite could have been so lain asleep! He feared there must be some\ndecided involvement. Disingenuousness and double dealing seemed to meet\nhim at every turn. These letters were but the vehicle for gallantry and\ntrick. It was a child's play, chosen to conceal a deeper game on Frank\nChurchill's part.\n\nWith great indignation did he continue to observe him; with great alarm\nand distrust, to observe also his two blinded companions. He saw a short\nword prepared for Emma, and given to her with a look sly and demure. He\nsaw that Emma had soon made it out, and found it highly entertaining,\nthough it was something which she judged it proper to appear to censure;\nfor she said, \"Nonsense! for shame!\" He heard Frank Churchill next say,\nwith a glance towards Jane, \"I will give it to her--shall I?\"--and as\nclearly heard Emma opposing it with eager laughing warmth. \"No, no, you\nmust not; you shall not, indeed.\"\n\nIt was done however. This gallant young man, who seemed to love without\nfeeling, and to recommend himself without complaisance, directly handed\nover the word to Miss Fairfax, and with a particular degree of sedate\ncivility entreated her to study it. Mr. Knightley's excessive curiosity\nto know what this word might be, made him seize every possible moment\nfor darting his eye towards it, and it was not long before he saw it\nto be _Dixon_. Jane Fairfax's perception seemed to accompany his;\nher comprehension was certainly more equal to the covert meaning,\nthe superior intelligence, of those five letters so arranged. She was\nevidently displeased; looked up, and seeing herself watched, blushed\nmore deeply than he had ever perceived her, and saying only, \"I did not\nknow that proper names were allowed,\" pushed away the letters with even\nan angry spirit, and looked resolved to be engaged by no other word\nthat could be offered. Her face was averted from those who had made the\nattack, and turned towards her aunt.\n\n\"Aye, very true, my dear,\" cried the latter, though Jane had not spoken\na word--\"I was just going to say the same thing. It is time for us to be\ngoing indeed. The evening is closing in, and grandmama will be looking\nfor us. My dear sir, you are too obliging. We really must wish you good\nnight.\"\n\nJane's alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt had\npreconceived. She was immediately up, and wanting to quit the table; but\nso many were also moving, that she could not get away; and Mr. Knightley\nthought he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed towards\nher, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined. She was afterwards\nlooking for her shawl--Frank Churchill was looking also--it was growing\ndusk, and the room was in confusion; and how they parted, Mr. Knightley\ncould not tell.\n\nHe remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of\nwhat he had seen; so full, that when the candles came to assist his\nobservations, he must--yes, he certainly must, as a friend--an anxious\nfriend--give Emma some hint, ask her some question. He could not see her\nin a situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her. It was\nhis duty.\n\n\"Pray, Emma,\" said he, \"may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the\npoignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw the\nword, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the\none, and so very distressing to the other.\"\n\nEmma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true\nexplanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she was\nreally ashamed of having ever imparted them.\n\n\"Oh!\" she cried in evident embarrassment, \"it all meant nothing; a mere\njoke among ourselves.\"\n\n\"The joke,\" he replied gravely, \"seemed confined to you and Mr.\nChurchill.\"\n\nHe had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather\nbusy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in\ndoubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference--fruitless\ninterference. Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to\ndeclare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her,\nto risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference,\nrather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the\nremembrance of neglect in such a cause.\n\n\"My dear Emma,\" said he at last, with earnest kindness, \"do you\nthink you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the\ngentleman and lady we have been speaking of?\"\n\n\"Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why\ndo you make a doubt of it?\"\n\n\"Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or\nthat she admired him?\"\n\n\"Never, never!\" she cried with a most open eagerness--\"Never, for the\ntwentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could\nit possibly come into your head?\"\n\n\"I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between\nthem--certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be\npublic.\"\n\n\"Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can\nvouchsafe to let your imagination wander--but it will not do--very sorry\nto check you in your first essay--but indeed it will not do. There is no\nadmiration between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which\nhave caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances--feelings\nrather of a totally different nature--it is impossible exactly to\nexplain:--there is a good deal of nonsense in it--but the part which is\ncapable of being communicated, which is sense, is, that they are as far\nfrom any attachment or admiration for one another, as any two beings in\nthe world can be. That is, I _presume_ it to be so on her side, and I\ncan _answer_ for its being so on his. I will answer for the gentleman's\nindifference.\"\n\nShe spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satisfaction\nwhich silenced, Mr. Knightley. She was in gay spirits, and would have\nprolonged the conversation, wanting to hear the particulars of his\nsuspicions, every look described, and all the wheres and hows of a\ncircumstance which highly entertained her: but his gaiety did not meet\nhers. He found he could not be useful, and his feelings were too much\nirritated for talking. That he might not be irritated into an absolute\nfever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse's tender habits required almost\nevery evening throughout the year, he soon afterwards took a hasty\nleave, and walked home to the coolness and solitude of Donwell Abbey.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nAfter being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs.\nSuckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification\nof hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn. No such\nimportation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at\npresent. In the daily interchange of news, they must be again restricted\nto the other topics with which for a while the Sucklings' coming had\nbeen united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill, whose health\nseemed every day to supply a different report, and the situation of Mrs.\nWeston, whose happiness it was to be hoped might eventually be as much\nincreased by the arrival of a child, as that of all her neighbours was\nby the approach of it.\n\nMrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the delay of a great deal\nof pleasure and parade. Her introductions and recommendations must all\nwait, and every projected party be still only talked of. So she thought\nat first;--but a little consideration convinced her that every thing\nneed not be put off. Why should not they explore to Box Hill though\nthe Sucklings did not come? They could go there again with them in the\nautumn. It was settled that they should go to Box Hill. That there was\nto be such a party had been long generally known: it had even given the\nidea of another. Emma had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see what\nevery body found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had agreed\nto chuse some fine morning and drive thither. Two or three more of the\nchosen only were to be admitted to join them, and it was to be done in a\nquiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior to the bustle and\npreparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic parade of the\nEltons and the Sucklings.\n\nThis was so very well understood between them, that Emma could not but\nfeel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing from Mr. Weston\nthat he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and sister had\nfailed her, that the two parties should unite, and go together; and that\nas Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it was to be, if she\nhad no objection. Now, as her objection was nothing but her very great\ndislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must already be perfectly\naware, it was not worth bringing forward again:--it could not be done\nwithout a reproof to him, which would be giving pain to his wife; and\nshe found herself therefore obliged to consent to an arrangement which\nshe would have done a great deal to avoid; an arrangement which would\nprobably expose her even to the degradation of being said to be of Mrs.\nElton's party! Every feeling was offended; and the forbearance of her\noutward submission left a heavy arrear due of secret severity in her\nreflections on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr. Weston's temper.\n\n\"I am glad you approve of what I have done,\" said he very comfortably.\n\"But I thought you would. Such schemes as these are nothing without\nnumbers. One cannot have too large a party. A large party secures its\nown amusement. And she is a good-natured woman after all. One could not\nleave her out.\"\n\nEmma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private.\n\nIt was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and Mrs. Elton\nwas growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as to\npigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every thing\ninto sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be only a few days,\nbefore the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured\non, and it was all melancholy stagnation. Mrs. Elton's resources were\ninadequate to such an attack.\n\n\"Is not this most vexatious, Knightley?\" she cried.--\"And such weather\nfor exploring!--These delays and disappointments are quite odious. What\nare we to do?--The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing\ndone. Before this time last year I assure you we had had a delightful\nexploring party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston.\"\n\n\"You had better explore to Donwell,\" replied Mr. Knightley. \"That may\nbe done without horses. Come, and eat my strawberries. They are ripening\nfast.\"\n\nIf Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed so,\nfor his proposal was caught at with delight; and the \"Oh! I should like\nit of all things,\" was not plainer in words than manner. Donwell was\nfamous for its strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the invitation:\nbut no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have been enough to tempt\nthe lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere. She promised him again\nand again to come--much oftener than he doubted--and was extremely\ngratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing compliment\nas she chose to consider it.\n\n\"You may depend upon me,\" said she. \"I certainly will come. Name your\nday, and I will come. You will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax?\"\n\n\"I cannot name a day,\" said he, \"till I have spoken to some others whom\nI would wish to meet you.\"\n\n\"Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carte-blanche.--I am Lady\nPatroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring friends with me.\"\n\n\"I hope you will bring Elton,\" said he: \"but I will not trouble you to\ngive any other invitations.\"\n\n\"Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider--you need not be afraid\nof delegating power to _me_. I am no young lady on her preferment.\nMarried women, you know, may be safely authorised. It is my party. Leave\nit all to me. I will invite your guests.\"\n\n\"No,\"--he calmly replied,--\"there is but one married woman in the world\nwhom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell, and\nthat one is--\"\n\n\"--Mrs. Weston, I suppose,\" interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.\n\n\"No--Mrs. Knightley;--and till she is in being, I will manage such\nmatters myself.\"\n\n\"Ah! you are an odd creature!\" she cried, satisfied to have no one\npreferred to herself.--\"You are a humourist, and may say what you\nlike. Quite a humourist. Well, I shall bring Jane with me--Jane and her\naunt.--The rest I leave to you. I have no objections at all to meeting\nthe Hartfield family. Don't scruple. I know you are attached to them.\"\n\n\"You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call on Miss\nBates in my way home.\"\n\n\"That's quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:--but as you like. It\nis to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing. I\nshall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging\non my arm. Here,--probably this basket with pink ribbon. Nothing can be\nmore simple, you see. And Jane will have such another. There is to be\nno form or parade--a sort of gipsy party. We are to walk about\nyour gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under\ntrees;--and whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out\nof doors--a table spread in the shade, you know. Every thing as natural\nand simple as possible. Is not that your idea?\"\n\n\"Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will be to have\nthe table spread in the dining-room. The nature and the simplicity of\ngentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think is\nbest observed by meals within doors. When you are tired of eating\nstrawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house.\"\n\n\"Well--as you please; only don't have a great set out. And, by the bye,\ncan I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion?--Pray be\nsincere, Knightley. If you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to inspect\nanything--\"\n\n\"I have not the least wish for it, I thank you.\"\n\n\"Well--but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper is extremely\nclever.\"\n\n\"I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clever, and\nwould spurn any body's assistance.\"\n\n\"I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all to come on\ndonkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me--and my caro sposo walking by. I\nreally must talk to him about purchasing a donkey. In a country life\nI conceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman have ever\nso many resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut up at\nhome;--and very long walks, you know--in summer there is dust, and in\nwinter there is dirt.\"\n\n\"You will not find either, between Donwell and Highbury. Donwell Lane is\nnever dusty, and now it is perfectly dry. Come on a donkey, however, if\nyou prefer it. You can borrow Mrs. Cole's. I would wish every thing to\nbe as much to your taste as possible.\"\n\n\"That I am sure you would. Indeed I do you justice, my good friend.\nUnder that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner, I know you have the\nwarmest heart. As I tell Mr. E., you are a thorough humourist.--Yes,\nbelieve me, Knightley, I am fully sensible of your attention to me in\nthe whole of this scheme. You have hit upon the very thing to please\nme.\"\n\nMr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade. He\nwished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as well as Emma, to join the party;\nand he knew that to have any of them sitting down out of doors to\neat would inevitably make him ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not, under the\nspecious pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or two spent at\nDonwell, be tempted away to his misery.\n\nHe was invited on good faith. No lurking horrors were to upbraid him for\nhis easy credulity. He did consent. He had not been at Donwell for two\nyears. \"Some very fine morning, he, and Emma, and Harriet, could go\nvery well; and he could sit still with Mrs. Weston, while the dear girls\nwalked about the gardens. He did not suppose they could be damp now,\nin the middle of the day. He should like to see the old house again\nexceedingly, and should be very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton, and\nany other of his neighbours.--He could not see any objection at all to\nhis, and Emma's, and Harriet's going there some very fine morning. He\nthought it very well done of Mr. Knightley to invite them--very kind\nand sensible--much cleverer than dining out.--He was not fond of dining\nout.\"\n\nMr. Knightley was fortunate in every body's most ready concurrence. The\ninvitation was everywhere so well received, that it seemed as if, like\nMrs. Elton, they were all taking the scheme as a particular compliment\nto themselves.--Emma and Harriet professed very high expectations of\npleasure from it; and Mr. Weston, unasked, promised to get Frank over to\njoin them, if possible; a proof of approbation and gratitude which could\nhave been dispensed with.--Mr. Knightley was then obliged to say that\nhe should be glad to see him; and Mr. Weston engaged to lose no time in\nwriting, and spare no arguments to induce him to come.\n\nIn the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that the party to\nBox Hill was again under happy consideration; and at last Donwell was\nsettled for one day, and Box Hill for the next,--the weather appearing\nexactly right.\n\nUnder a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer, Mr. Woodhouse was\nsafely conveyed in his carriage, with one window down, to partake of\nthis al-fresco party; and in one of the most comfortable rooms in the\nAbbey, especially prepared for him by a fire all the morning, he was\nhappily placed, quite at his ease, ready to talk with pleasure of what\nhad been achieved, and advise every body to come and sit down, and not\nto heat themselves.--Mrs. Weston, who seemed to have walked there on\npurpose to be tired, and sit all the time with him, remained, when\nall the others were invited or persuaded out, his patient listener and\nsympathiser.\n\nIt was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that as soon as she was\nsatisfied of her father's comfort, she was glad to leave him, and look\naround her; eager to refresh and correct her memory with more particular\nobservation, more exact understanding of a house and grounds which must\never be so interesting to her and all her family.\n\nShe felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance with\nthe present and future proprietor could fairly warrant, as she viewed\nthe respectable size and style of the building, its suitable, becoming,\ncharacteristic situation, low and sheltered--its ample gardens\nstretching down to meadows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey, with\nall the old neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight--and its abundance\nof timber in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance\nhad rooted up.--The house was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike\nit, covering a good deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many\ncomfortable, and one or two handsome rooms.--It was just what it ought\nto be, and it looked what it was--and Emma felt an increasing respect\nfor it, as the residence of a family of such true gentility, untainted\nin blood and understanding.--Some faults of temper John Knightley had;\nbut Isabella had connected herself unexceptionably. She had given them\nneither men, nor names, nor places, that could raise a blush. These were\npleasant feelings, and she walked about and indulged them till it\nwas necessary to do as the others did, and collect round the\nstrawberry-beds.--The whole party were assembled, excepting Frank\nChurchill, who was expected every moment from Richmond; and Mrs. Elton,\nin all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and her basket,\nwas very ready to lead the way in gathering, accepting, or\ntalking--strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be thought or\nspoken of.--\"The best fruit in England--every body's favourite--always\nwholesome.--These the finest beds and finest sorts.--Delightful to\ngather for one's self--the only way of really enjoying them.--Morning\ndecidedly the best time--never tired--every sort good--hautboy\ninfinitely superior--no comparison--the others hardly eatable--hautboys\nvery scarce--Chili preferred--white wood finest flavour of all--price\nof strawberries in London--abundance about Bristol--Maple\nGrove--cultivation--beds when to be renewed--gardeners thinking exactly\ndifferent--no general rule--gardeners never to be put out of their\nway--delicious fruit--only too rich to be eaten much of--inferior\nto cherries--currants more refreshing--only objection to gathering\nstrawberries the stooping--glaring sun--tired to death--could bear it no\nlonger--must go and sit in the shade.\"\n\nSuch, for half an hour, was the conversation--interrupted only once by\nMrs. Weston, who came out, in her solicitude after her son-in-law, to\ninquire if he were come--and she was a little uneasy.--She had some\nfears of his horse.\n\nSeats tolerably in the shade were found; and now Emma was obliged\nto overhear what Mrs. Elton and Jane Fairfax were talking of.--A\nsituation, a most desirable situation, was in question. Mrs. Elton had\nreceived notice of it that morning, and was in raptures. It was not\nwith Mrs. Suckling, it was not with Mrs. Bragge, but in felicity and\nsplendour it fell short only of them: it was with a cousin of Mrs.\nBragge, an acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a lady known at Maple Grove.\nDelightful, charming, superior, first circles, spheres, lines, ranks,\nevery thing--and Mrs. Elton was wild to have the offer closed with\nimmediately.--On her side, all was warmth, energy, and triumph--and she\npositively refused to take her friend's negative, though Miss Fairfax\ncontinued to assure her that she would not at present engage in any\nthing, repeating the same motives which she had been heard to urge\nbefore.--Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being authorised to write an\nacquiescence by the morrow's post.--How Jane could bear it at all, was\nastonishing to Emma.--She did look vexed, she did speak pointedly--and\nat last, with a decision of action unusual to her, proposed a\nremoval.--\"Should not they walk? Would not Mr. Knightley shew them the\ngardens--all the gardens?--She wished to see the whole extent.\"--The\npertinacity of her friend seemed more than she could bear.\n\nIt was hot; and after walking some time over the gardens in a scattered,\ndispersed way, scarcely any three together, they insensibly followed one\nanother to the delicious shade of a broad short avenue of limes, which\nstretching beyond the garden at an equal distance from the river, seemed\nthe finish of the pleasure grounds.--It led to nothing; nothing but a\nview at the end over a low stone wall with high pillars, which seemed\nintended, in their erection, to give the appearance of an approach to\nthe house, which never had been there. Disputable, however, as might be\nthe taste of such a termination, it was in itself a charming walk, and\nthe view which closed it extremely pretty.--The considerable slope, at\nnearly the foot of which the Abbey stood, gradually acquired a steeper\nform beyond its grounds; and at half a mile distant was a bank of\nconsiderable abruptness and grandeur, well clothed with wood;--and at\nthe bottom of this bank, favourably placed and sheltered, rose the\nAbbey Mill Farm, with meadows in front, and the river making a close and\nhandsome curve around it.\n\nIt was a sweet view--sweet to the eye and the mind. English verdure,\nEnglish culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright, without being\noppressive.\n\nIn this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the others assembled; and\ntowards this view she immediately perceived Mr. Knightley and Harriet\ndistinct from the rest, quietly leading the way. Mr. Knightley and\nHarriet!--It was an odd tete-a-tete; but she was glad to see it.--There\nhad been a time when he would have scorned her as a companion, and\nturned from her with little ceremony. Now they seemed in pleasant\nconversation. There had been a time also when Emma would have been sorry\nto see Harriet in a spot so favourable for the Abbey Mill Farm; but now\nshe feared it not. It might be safely viewed with all its appendages of\nprosperity and beauty, its rich pastures, spreading flocks, orchard in\nblossom, and light column of smoke ascending.--She joined them at the\nwall, and found them more engaged in talking than in looking around. He\nwas giving Harriet information as to modes of agriculture, etc. and Emma\nreceived a smile which seemed to say, \"These are my own concerns. I have\na right to talk on such subjects, without being suspected of\nintroducing Robert Martin.\"--She did not suspect him. It was too old\na story.--Robert Martin had probably ceased to think of Harriet.--They\ntook a few turns together along the walk.--The shade was most\nrefreshing, and Emma found it the pleasantest part of the day.\n\nThe next remove was to the house; they must all go in and eat;--and they\nwere all seated and busy, and still Frank Churchill did not come. Mrs.\nWeston looked, and looked in vain. His father would not own himself\nuneasy, and laughed at her fears; but she could not be cured of wishing\nthat he would part with his black mare. He had expressed himself as to\ncoming, with more than common certainty. \"His aunt was so much better,\nthat he had not a doubt of getting over to them.\"--Mrs. Churchill's\nstate, however, as many were ready to remind her, was liable to such\nsudden variation as might disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable\ndependence--and Mrs. Weston was at last persuaded to believe, or to say,\nthat it must be by some attack of Mrs. Churchill that he was\nprevented coming.--Emma looked at Harriet while the point was under\nconsideration; she behaved very well, and betrayed no emotion.\n\nThe cold repast was over, and the party were to go out once more to see\nwhat had not yet been seen, the old Abbey fish-ponds; perhaps get as far\nas the clover, which was to be begun cutting on the morrow, or, at\nany rate, have the pleasure of being hot, and growing cool again.--Mr.\nWoodhouse, who had already taken his little round in the highest part\nof the gardens, where no damps from the river were imagined even by him,\nstirred no more; and his daughter resolved to remain with him, that\nMrs. Weston might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise and\nvariety which her spirits seemed to need.\n\nMr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr. Woodhouse's\nentertainment. Books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos, corals,\nshells, and every other family collection within his cabinets, had been\nprepared for his old friend, to while away the morning; and the kindness\nhad perfectly answered. Mr. Woodhouse had been exceedingly well amused.\nMrs. Weston had been shewing them all to him, and now he would shew them\nall to Emma;--fortunate in having no other resemblance to a child, than\nin a total want of taste for what he saw, for he was slow, constant, and\nmethodical.--Before this second looking over was begun, however, Emma\nwalked into the hall for the sake of a few moments' free observation of\nthe entrance and ground-plot of the house--and was hardly there, when\nJane Fairfax appeared, coming quickly in from the garden, and with a\nlook of escape.--Little expecting to meet Miss Woodhouse so soon, there\nwas a start at first; but Miss Woodhouse was the very person she was in\nquest of.\n\n\"Will you be so kind,\" said she, \"when I am missed, as to say that I am\ngone home?--I am going this moment.--My aunt is not aware how late it\nis, nor how long we have been absent--but I am sure we shall be wanted,\nand I am determined to go directly.--I have said nothing about it to any\nbody. It would only be giving trouble and distress. Some are gone to the\nponds, and some to the lime walk. Till they all come in I shall not be\nmissed; and when they do, will you have the goodness to say that I am\ngone?\"\n\n\"Certainly, if you wish it;--but you are not going to walk to Highbury\nalone?\"\n\n\"Yes--what should hurt me?--I walk fast. I shall be at home in twenty\nminutes.\"\n\n\"But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone. Let my\nfather's servant go with you.--Let me order the carriage. It can be\nround in five minutes.\"\n\n\"Thank you, thank you--but on no account.--I would rather walk.--And\nfor _me_ to be afraid of walking alone!--I, who may so soon have to\nguard others!\"\n\nShe spoke with great agitation; and Emma very feelingly replied, \"That\ncan be no reason for your being exposed to danger now. I must order the\ncarriage. The heat even would be danger.--You are fatigued already.\"\n\n\"I am,\"--she answered--\"I am fatigued; but it is not the sort of\nfatigue--quick walking will refresh me.--Miss Woodhouse, we all know\nat times what it is to be wearied in spirits. Mine, I confess, are\nexhausted. The greatest kindness you can shew me, will be to let me have\nmy own way, and only say that I am gone when it is necessary.\"\n\nEmma had not another word to oppose. She saw it all; and entering into\nher feelings, promoted her quitting the house immediately, and\nwatched her safely off with the zeal of a friend. Her parting look was\ngrateful--and her parting words, \"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of\nbeing sometimes alone!\"--seemed to burst from an overcharged heart, and\nto describe somewhat of the continual endurance to be practised by her,\neven towards some of those who loved her best.\n\n\"Such a home, indeed! such an aunt!\" said Emma, as she turned back into\nthe hall again. \"I do pity you. And the more sensibility you betray of\ntheir just horrors, the more I shall like you.\"\n\nJane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had only\naccomplished some views of St. Mark's Place, Venice, when Frank\nChurchill entered the room. Emma had not been thinking of him, she had\nforgotten to think of him--but she was very glad to see him. Mrs. Weston\nwould be at ease. The black mare was blameless; _they_ were right\nwho had named Mrs. Churchill as the cause. He had been detained by\na temporary increase of illness in her; a nervous seizure, which had\nlasted some hours--and he had quite given up every thought of coming,\ntill very late;--and had he known how hot a ride he should have, and\nhow late, with all his hurry, he must be, he believed he should not have\ncome at all. The heat was excessive; he had never suffered any thing\nlike it--almost wished he had staid at home--nothing killed him\nlike heat--he could bear any degree of cold, etc., but heat was\nintolerable--and he sat down, at the greatest possible distance from the\nslight remains of Mr. Woodhouse's fire, looking very deplorable.\n\n\"You will soon be cooler, if you sit still,\" said Emma.\n\n\"As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again. I could very ill be\nspared--but such a point had been made of my coming! You will all be\ngoing soon I suppose; the whole party breaking up. I met _one_ as I\ncame--Madness in such weather!--absolute madness!\"\n\nEmma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that Frank Churchill's\nstate might be best defined by the expressive phrase of being out of\nhumour. Some people were always cross when they were hot. Such might be\nhis constitution; and as she knew that eating and drinking were often\nthe cure of such incidental complaints, she recommended his taking\nsome refreshment; he would find abundance of every thing in the\ndining-room--and she humanely pointed out the door.\n\n\"No--he should not eat. He was not hungry; it would only make him\nhotter.\" In two minutes, however, he relented in his own favour; and\nmuttering something about spruce-beer, walked off. Emma returned all her\nattention to her father, saying in secret--\n\n\"I am glad I have done being in love with him. I should not like a man\nwho is so soon discomposed by a hot morning. Harriet's sweet easy temper\nwill not mind it.\"\n\nHe was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable meal, and came\nback all the better--grown quite cool--and, with good manners, like\nhimself--able to draw a chair close to them, take an interest in their\nemployment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he should be so late.\nHe was not in his best spirits, but seemed trying to improve them; and,\nat last, made himself talk nonsense very agreeably. They were looking\nover views in Swisserland.\n\n\"As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad,\" said he. \"I shall\nnever be easy till I have seen some of these places. You will have my\nsketches, some time or other, to look at--or my tour to read--or my\npoem. I shall do something to expose myself.\"\n\n\"That may be--but not by sketches in Swisserland. You will never go to\nSwisserland. Your uncle and aunt will never allow you to leave England.\"\n\n\"They may be induced to go too. A warm climate may be prescribed for\nher. I have more than half an expectation of our all going abroad. I\nassure you I have. I feel a strong persuasion, this morning, that I\nshall soon be abroad. I ought to travel. I am tired of doing nothing. I\nwant a change. I am serious, Miss Woodhouse, whatever your penetrating\neyes may fancy--I am sick of England--and would leave it to-morrow, if\nI could.\"\n\n\"You are sick of prosperity and indulgence. Cannot you invent a few\nhardships for yourself, and be contented to stay?\"\n\n\"_I_ sick of prosperity and indulgence! You are quite mistaken. I do\nnot look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged. I am thwarted\nin every thing material. I do not consider myself at all a fortunate\nperson.\"\n\n\"You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first came. Go and\neat and drink a little more, and you will do very well. Another slice of\ncold meat, another draught of Madeira and water, will make you nearly on\na par with the rest of us.\"\n\n\"No--I shall not stir. I shall sit by you. You are my best cure.\"\n\n\"We are going to Box Hill to-morrow;--you will join us. It is not\nSwisserland, but it will be something for a young man so much in want of\na change. You will stay, and go with us?\"\n\n\"No, certainly not; I shall go home in the cool of the evening.\"\n\n\"But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow morning.\"\n\n\"No--It will not be worth while. If I come, I shall be cross.\"\n\n\"Then pray stay at Richmond.\"\n\n\"But if I do, I shall be crosser still. I can never bear to think of you\nall there without me.\"\n\n\"These are difficulties which you must settle for yourself. Chuse your\nown degree of crossness. I shall press you no more.\"\n\nThe rest of the party were now returning, and all were soon collected.\nWith some there was great joy at the sight of Frank Churchill; others\ntook it very composedly; but there was a very general distress and\ndisturbance on Miss Fairfax's disappearance being explained. That it was\ntime for every body to go, concluded the subject; and with a short final\narrangement for the next day's scheme, they parted. Frank Churchill's\nlittle inclination to exclude himself increased so much, that his last\nwords to Emma were,\n\n\"Well;--if _you_ wish me to stay and join the party, I will.\"\n\nShe smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a summons from Richmond\nwas to take him back before the following evening.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nThey had a very fine day for Box Hill; and all the other outward\ncircumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and punctuality, were in\nfavour of a pleasant party. Mr. Weston directed the whole, officiating\nsafely between Hartfield and the Vicarage, and every body was in good\ntime. Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates and her niece, with\nthe Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback. Mrs. Weston remained with Mr.\nWoodhouse. Nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got there.\nSeven miles were travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and every body\nhad a burst of admiration on first arriving; but in the general amount\nof the day there was deficiency. There was a languor, a want of spirits,\na want of union, which could not be got over. They separated too much\ninto parties. The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley took charge of\nMiss Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank Churchill.\nAnd Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make them harmonise better. It seemed\nat first an accidental division, but it never materially varied. Mr. and\nMrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no unwillingness to mix, and be as agreeable\nas they could; but during the two whole hours that were spent on the\nhill, there seemed a principle of separation, between the other parties,\ntoo strong for any fine prospects, or any cold collation, or any\ncheerful Mr. Weston, to remove.\n\nAt first it was downright dulness to Emma. She had never seen Frank\nChurchill so silent and stupid. He said nothing worth hearing--looked\nwithout seeing--admired without intelligence--listened without knowing\nwhat she said. While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet\nshould be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable.\n\nWhen they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great deal better,\nfor Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first object.\nEvery distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to her.\nTo amuse her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he cared\nfor--and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered, was gay\nand easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the admission\nto be gallant, which she had ever given in the first and most animating\nperiod of their acquaintance; but which now, in her own estimation,\nmeant nothing, though in the judgment of most people looking on it must\nhave had such an appearance as no English word but flirtation could very\nwell describe. \"Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse flirted together\nexcessively.\" They were laying themselves open to that very phrase--and\nto having it sent off in a letter to Maple Grove by one lady, to\nIreland by another. Not that Emma was gay and thoughtless from any\nreal felicity; it was rather because she felt less happy than she had\nexpected. She laughed because she was disappointed; and though she liked\nhim for his attentions, and thought them all, whether in friendship,\nadmiration, or playfulness, extremely judicious, they were not winning\nback her heart. She still intended him for her friend.\n\n\"How much I am obliged to you,\" said he, \"for telling me to come\nto-day!--If it had not been for you, I should certainly have lost all\nthe happiness of this party. I had quite determined to go away again.\"\n\n\"Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what about, except that you\nwere too late for the best strawberries. I was a kinder friend than you\ndeserved. But you were humble. You begged hard to be commanded to come.\"\n\n\"Don't say I was cross. I was fatigued. The heat overcame me.\"\n\n\"It is hotter to-day.\"\n\n\"Not to my feelings. I am perfectly comfortable to-day.\"\n\n\"You are comfortable because you are under command.\"\n\n\"Your command?--Yes.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self-command. You had,\nsomehow or other, broken bounds yesterday, and run away from your own\nmanagement; but to-day you are got back again--and as I cannot be always\nwith you, it is best to believe your temper under your own command\nrather than mine.\"\n\n\"It comes to the same thing. I can have no self-command without a\nmotive. You order me, whether you speak or not. And you can be always\nwith me. You are always with me.\"\n\n\"Dating from three o'clock yesterday. My perpetual influence could not\nbegin earlier, or you would not have been so much out of humour before.\"\n\n\"Three o'clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I had seen you\nfirst in February.\"\n\n\"Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But (lowering her voice)--nobody\nspeaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be talking\nnonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people.\"\n\n\"I say nothing of which I am ashamed,\" replied he, with lively\nimpudence. \"I saw you first in February. Let every body on the Hill\nhear me if they can. Let my accents swell to Mickleham on one side,\nand Dorking on the other. I saw you first in February.\" And then\nwhispering--\"Our companions are excessively stupid. What shall we do\nto rouse them? Any nonsense will serve. They _shall_ talk. Ladies\nand gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is,\npresides) to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking\nof?\"\n\nSome laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss Bates said a great\ndeal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse's presiding; Mr.\nKnightley's answer was the most distinct.\n\n\"Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all\nthinking of?\"\n\n\"Oh! no, no\"--cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she could--\"Upon no\naccount in the world. It is the very last thing I would stand the brunt\nof just now. Let me hear any thing rather than what you are all thinking\nof. I will not say quite all. There are one or two, perhaps, (glancing\nat Mr. Weston and Harriet,) whose thoughts I might not be afraid of\nknowing.\"\n\n\"It is a sort of thing,\" cried Mrs. Elton emphatically, \"which _I_\nshould not have thought myself privileged to inquire into. Though,\nperhaps, as the _Chaperon_ of the party--_I_ never was in any\ncircle--exploring parties--young ladies--married women--\"\n\nHer mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he murmured, in reply,\n\n\"Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed--quite unheard\nof--but some ladies say any thing. Better pass it off as a joke. Every\nbody knows what is due to _you_.\"\n\n\"It will not do,\" whispered Frank to Emma; \"they are most of them\naffronted. I will attack them with more address. Ladies and gentlemen--I\nam ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of\nknowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires\nsomething very entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here\nare seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very\nentertaining already,) and she only demands from each of you either one\nthing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated--or two\nthings moderately clever--or three things very dull indeed, and she\nengages to laugh heartily at them all.\"\n\n\"Oh! very well,\" exclaimed Miss Bates, \"then I need not be uneasy.\n'Three things very dull indeed.' That will just do for me, you know. I\nshall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth,\nshan't I? (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on every\nbody's assent)--Do not you all think I shall?\"\n\nEmma could not resist.\n\n\"Ah! ma'am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me--but you will be\nlimited as to number--only three at once.\"\n\nMiss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not\nimmediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not\nanger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her.\n\n\"Ah!--well--to be sure. Yes, I see what she means, (turning to Mr.\nKnightley,) and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very\ndisagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend.\"\n\n\"I like your plan,\" cried Mr. Weston. \"Agreed, agreed. I will do my\nbest. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?\"\n\n\"Low, I am afraid, sir, very low,\" answered his son;--\"but we shall be\nindulgent--especially to any one who leads the way.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said Emma, \"it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr.\nWeston's shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me\nhear it.\"\n\n\"I doubt its being very clever myself,\" said Mr. Weston. \"It is too much\na matter of fact, but here it is.--What two letters of the alphabet are\nthere, that express perfection?\"\n\n\"What two letters!--express perfection! I am sure I do not know.\"\n\n\"Ah! you will never guess. You, (to Emma), I am certain, will never\nguess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?\"\n\nUnderstanding and gratification came together. It might be a very\nindifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and\nenjoy in it--and so did Frank and Harriet.--It did not seem to touch\nthe rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr.\nKnightley gravely said,\n\n\"This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston\nhas done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body\nelse. _Perfection_ should not have come quite so soon.\"\n\n\"Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused,\" said Mrs. Elton; \"_I_\nreally cannot attempt--I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had\nan acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all\npleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy!--You know\nwho I mean (nodding to her husband). These kind of things are very\nwell at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of\nplace, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country in summer.\nMiss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have witty\nthings at every body's service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I have a\ngreat deal of vivacity in my own way, but I really must be allowed to\njudge when to speak and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please,\nMr. Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself. We have nothing\nclever to say--not one of us.\n\n\"Yes, yes, pray pass _me_,\" added her husband, with a sort of sneering\nconsciousness; \"_I_ have nothing to say that can entertain Miss\nWoodhouse, or any other young lady. An old married man--quite good for\nnothing. Shall we walk, Augusta?\"\n\n\"With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so long on one spot.\nCome, Jane, take my other arm.\"\n\nJane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off.\n\"Happy couple!\" said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out of\nhearing:--\"How well they suit one another!--Very lucky--marrying as they\ndid, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place!--They only knew\neach other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly lucky!--for as to\nany real knowledge of a person's disposition that Bath, or any public\nplace, can give--it is all nothing; there can be no knowledge. It is\nonly by seeing women in their own homes, among their own set, just as\nthey always are, that you can form any just judgment. Short of that, it\nis all guess and luck--and will generally be ill-luck. How many a man\nhas committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest\nof his life!\"\n\nMiss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her own\nconfederates, spoke now.\n\n\"Such things do occur, undoubtedly.\"--She was stopped by a cough. Frank\nChurchill turned towards her to listen.\n\n\"You were speaking,\" said he, gravely. She recovered her voice.\n\n\"I was only going to observe, that though such unfortunate circumstances\ndo sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot imagine them to be\nvery frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may arise--but there is\ngenerally time to recover from it afterwards. I would be understood to\nmean, that it can be only weak, irresolute characters, (whose happiness\nmust be always at the mercy of chance,) who will suffer an unfortunate\nacquaintance to be an inconvenience, an oppression for ever.\"\n\nHe made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in submission; and soon\nafterwards said, in a lively tone,\n\n\"Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever I\nmarry, I hope some body will chuse my wife for me. Will you? (turning to\nEmma.) Will you chuse a wife for me?--I am sure I should like any body\nfixed on by you. You provide for the family, you know, (with a smile at\nhis father). Find some body for me. I am in no hurry. Adopt her, educate\nher.\"\n\n\"And make her like myself.\"\n\n\"By all means, if you can.\"\n\n\"Very well. I undertake the commission. You shall have a charming wife.\"\n\n\"She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes. I care for nothing else.\nI shall go abroad for a couple of years--and when I return, I shall come\nto you for my wife. Remember.\"\n\nEmma was in no danger of forgetting. It was a commission to touch every\nfavourite feeling. Would not Harriet be the very creature described?\nHazle eyes excepted, two years more might make her all that he wished.\nHe might even have Harriet in his thoughts at the moment; who could say?\nReferring the education to her seemed to imply it.\n\n\"Now, ma'am,\" said Jane to her aunt, \"shall we join Mrs. Elton?\"\n\n\"If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready. I was\nready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. We shall\nsoon overtake her. There she is--no, that's somebody else. That's one\nof the ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her.--Well, I\ndeclare--\"\n\nThey walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. Knightley. Mr. Weston,\nhis son, Emma, and Harriet, only remained; and the young man's spirits\nnow rose to a pitch almost unpleasant. Even Emma grew tired at last of\nflattery and merriment, and wished herself rather walking quietly about\nwith any of the others, or sitting almost alone, and quite unattended\nto, in tranquil observation of the beautiful views beneath her. The\nappearance of the servants looking out for them to give notice of the\ncarriages was a joyful sight; and even the bustle of collecting and\npreparing to depart, and the solicitude of Mrs. Elton to have _her_\ncarriage first, were gladly endured, in the prospect of the quiet drive\nhome which was to close the very questionable enjoyments of this day of\npleasure. Such another scheme, composed of so many ill-assorted people,\nshe hoped never to be betrayed into again.\n\nWhile waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Knightley by her side. He\nlooked around, as if to see that no one were near, and then said,\n\n\"Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do: a\nprivilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps, but I must still use it.\nI cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance. How could you be\nso unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in your wit to\na woman of her character, age, and situation?--Emma, I had not thought\nit possible.\"\n\nEmma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off.\n\n\"Nay, how could I help saying what I did?--Nobody could have helped it.\nIt was not so very bad. I dare say she did not understand me.\"\n\n\"I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She has talked of\nit since. I wish you could have heard how she talked of it--with what\ncandour and generosity. I wish you could have heard her honouring your\nforbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions, as she was for\never receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be\nso irksome.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" cried Emma, \"I know there is not a better creature in the world:\nbut you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculous are most\nunfortunately blended in her.\"\n\n\"They are blended,\" said he, \"I acknowledge; and, were she prosperous,\nI could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over\nthe good. Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless\nabsurdity to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you for any\nliberties of manner. Were she your equal in situation--but, Emma,\nconsider how far this is from being the case. She is poor; she has sunk\nfrom the comforts she was born to; and, if she live to old age, must\nprobably sink more. Her situation should secure your compassion. It was\nbadly done, indeed! You, whom she had known from an infant, whom she had\nseen grow up from a period when her notice was an honour, to have you\nnow, in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at her,\nhumble her--and before her niece, too--and before others, many of whom\n(certainly _some_,) would be entirely guided by _your_ treatment\nof her.--This is not pleasant to you, Emma--and it is very far from\npleasant to me; but I must, I will,--I will tell you truths while I can;\nsatisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel, and\ntrusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice than you\ncan do now.\"\n\nWhile they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage; it was\nready; and, before she could speak again, he had handed her in. He had\nmisinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted, and her\ntongue motionless. They were combined only of anger against herself,\nmortification, and deep concern. She had not been able to speak; and, on\nentering the carriage, sunk back for a moment overcome--then reproaching\nherself for having taken no leave, making no acknowledgment, parting in\napparent sullenness, she looked out with voice and hand eager to shew a\ndifference; but it was just too late. He had turned away, and the horses\nwere in motion. She continued to look back, but in vain; and soon, with\nwhat appeared unusual speed, they were half way down the hill, and\nevery thing left far behind. She was vexed beyond what could have been\nexpressed--almost beyond what she could conceal. Never had she felt so\nagitated, mortified, grieved, at any circumstance in her life. She was\nmost forcibly struck. The truth of this representation there was no\ndenying. She felt it at her heart. How could she have been so brutal,\nso cruel to Miss Bates! How could she have exposed herself to such ill\nopinion in any one she valued! And how suffer him to leave her without\nsaying one word of gratitude, of concurrence, of common kindness!\n\nTime did not compose her. As she reflected more, she seemed but to feel\nit more. She never had been so depressed. Happily it was not necessary\nto speak. There was only Harriet, who seemed not in spirits herself,\nfagged, and very willing to be silent; and Emma felt the tears running\ndown her cheeks almost all the way home, without being at any trouble to\ncheck them, extraordinary as they were.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nThe wretchedness of a scheme to Box Hill was in Emma's thoughts all the\nevening. How it might be considered by the rest of the party, she could\nnot tell. They, in their different homes, and their different ways,\nmight be looking back on it with pleasure; but in her view it was\na morning more completely misspent, more totally bare of rational\nsatisfaction at the time, and more to be abhorred in recollection, than\nany she had ever passed. A whole evening of back-gammon with her father,\nwas felicity to it. _There_, indeed, lay real pleasure, for there she\nwas giving up the sweetest hours of the twenty-four to his comfort; and\nfeeling that, unmerited as might be the degree of his fond affection and\nconfiding esteem, she could not, in her general conduct, be open to any\nsevere reproach. As a daughter, she hoped she was not without a heart.\nShe hoped no one could have said to her, \"How could you be so unfeeling\nto your father?--I must, I will tell you truths while I can.\" Miss\nBates should never again--no, never! If attention, in future, could do\naway the past, she might hope to be forgiven. She had been often remiss,\nher conscience told her so; remiss, perhaps, more in thought than fact;\nscornful, ungracious. But it should be so no more. In the warmth of true\ncontrition, she would call upon her the very next morning, and it should\nbe the beginning, on her side, of a regular, equal, kindly intercourse.\n\nShe was just as determined when the morrow came, and went early, that\nnothing might prevent her. It was not unlikely, she thought, that she\nmight see Mr. Knightley in her way; or, perhaps, he might come in\nwhile she were paying her visit. She had no objection. She would not be\nashamed of the appearance of the penitence, so justly and truly hers.\nHer eyes were towards Donwell as she walked, but she saw him not.\n\n\"The ladies were all at home.\" She had never rejoiced at the sound\nbefore, nor ever before entered the passage, nor walked up the stairs,\nwith any wish of giving pleasure, but in conferring obligation, or of\nderiving it, except in subsequent ridicule.\n\nThere was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of moving and talking.\nShe heard Miss Bates's voice, something was to be done in a hurry; the\nmaid looked frightened and awkward; hoped she would be pleased to wait a\nmoment, and then ushered her in too soon. The aunt and niece seemed both\nescaping into the adjoining room. Jane she had a distinct glimpse of,\nlooking extremely ill; and, before the door had shut them out, she heard\nMiss Bates saying, \"Well, my dear, I shall _say_ you are laid down upon\nthe bed, and I am sure you are ill enough.\"\n\nPoor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as if she did not\nquite understand what was going on.\n\n\"I am afraid Jane is not very well,\" said she, \"but I do not know; they\n_tell_ me she is well. I dare say my daughter will be here presently,\nMiss Woodhouse. I hope you find a chair. I wish Hetty had not gone. I am\nvery little able--Have you a chair, ma'am? Do you sit where you like? I\nam sure she will be here presently.\"\n\nEmma seriously hoped she would. She had a moment's fear of Miss Bates\nkeeping away from her. But Miss Bates soon came--\"Very happy and\nobliged\"--but Emma's conscience told her that there was not the same\ncheerful volubility as before--less ease of look and manner. A very\nfriendly inquiry after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead the way to a\nreturn of old feelings. The touch seemed immediate.\n\n\"Ah! Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are!--I suppose you have heard--and\nare come to give us joy. This does not seem much like joy, indeed, in\nme--(twinkling away a tear or two)--but it will be very trying for us\nto part with her, after having had her so long, and she has a dreadful\nheadache just now, writing all the morning:--such long letters, you\nknow, to be written to Colonel Campbell, and Mrs. Dixon. 'My dear,' said\nI, 'you will blind yourself'--for tears were in her eyes perpetually.\nOne cannot wonder, one cannot wonder. It is a great change; and though\nshe is amazingly fortunate--such a situation, I suppose, as no\nyoung woman before ever met with on first going out--do not think us\nungrateful, Miss Woodhouse, for such surprising good fortune--(again\ndispersing her tears)--but, poor dear soul! if you were to see what a\nheadache she has. When one is in great pain, you know one cannot feel\nany blessing quite as it may deserve. She is as low as possible. To\nlook at her, nobody would think how delighted and happy she is to have\nsecured such a situation. You will excuse her not coming to you--she is\nnot able--she is gone into her own room--I want her to lie down upon the\nbed. 'My dear,' said I, 'I shall say you are laid down upon the bed:'\nbut, however, she is not; she is walking about the room. But, now that\nshe has written her letters, she says she shall soon be well. She will\nbe extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, but your\nkindness will excuse her. You were kept waiting at the door--I was quite\nashamed--but somehow there was a little bustle--for it so happened that\nwe had not heard the knock, and till you were on the stairs, we did not\nknow any body was coming. 'It is only Mrs. Cole,' said I, 'depend upon\nit. Nobody else would come so early.' 'Well,' said she, 'it must be\nborne some time or other, and it may as well be now.' But then Patty\ncame in, and said it was you. 'Oh!' said I, 'it is Miss Woodhouse: I am\nsure you will like to see her.'--'I can see nobody,' said she; and\nup she got, and would go away; and that was what made us keep you\nwaiting--and extremely sorry and ashamed we were. 'If you must go, my\ndear,' said I, 'you must, and I will say you are laid down upon the\nbed.'\"\n\nEmma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had been long growing\nkinder towards Jane; and this picture of her present sufferings acted\nas a cure of every former ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing but\npity; and the remembrance of the less just and less gentle sensations of\nthe past, obliged her to admit that Jane might very naturally resolve on\nseeing Mrs. Cole or any other steady friend, when she might not bear\nto see herself. She spoke as she felt, with earnest regret and\nsolicitude--sincerely wishing that the circumstances which she collected\nfrom Miss Bates to be now actually determined on, might be as much for\nMiss Fairfax's advantage and comfort as possible. \"It must be a severe\ntrial to them all. She had understood it was to be delayed till Colonel\nCampbell's return.\"\n\n\"So very kind!\" replied Miss Bates. \"But you are always kind.\"\n\nThere was no bearing such an \"always;\" and to break through her dreadful\ngratitude, Emma made the direct inquiry of--\n\n\"Where--may I ask?--is Miss Fairfax going?\"\n\n\"To a Mrs. Smallridge--charming woman--most superior--to have the charge\nof her three little girls--delightful children. Impossible that any\nsituation could be more replete with comfort; if we except, perhaps,\nMrs. Suckling's own family, and Mrs. Bragge's; but Mrs. Smallridge is\nintimate with both, and in the very same neighbourhood:--lives only four\nmiles from Maple Grove. Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom Miss Fairfax owes--\"\n\n\"Yes, our good Mrs. Elton. The most indefatigable, true friend. She\nwould not take a denial. She would not let Jane say, 'No;' for when Jane\nfirst heard of it, (it was the day before yesterday, the very morning\nwe were at Donwell,) when Jane first heard of it, she was quite decided\nagainst accepting the offer, and for the reasons you mention; exactly\nas you say, she had made up her mind to close with nothing till Colonel\nCampbell's return, and nothing should induce her to enter into any\nengagement at present--and so she told Mrs. Elton over and over\nagain--and I am sure I had no more idea that she would change her\nmind!--but that good Mrs. Elton, whose judgment never fails her, saw\nfarther than I did. It is not every body that would have stood out in\nsuch a kind way as she did, and refuse to take Jane's answer; but she\npositively declared she would _not_ write any such denial yesterday, as\nJane wished her; she would wait--and, sure enough, yesterday evening it\nwas all settled that Jane should go. Quite a surprize to me! I had not\nthe least idea!--Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and told her at once, that\nupon thinking over the advantages of Mrs. Smallridge's situation, she\nhad come to the resolution of accepting it.--I did not know a word of it\ntill it was all settled.\"\n\n\"You spent the evening with Mrs. Elton?\"\n\n\"Yes, all of us; Mrs. Elton would have us come. It was settled so, upon\nthe hill, while we were walking about with Mr. Knightley. 'You _must_\n_all_ spend your evening with us,' said she--'I positively must have you\n_all_ come.'\"\n\n\"Mr. Knightley was there too, was he?\"\n\n\"No, not Mr. Knightley; he declined it from the first; and though I\nthought he would come, because Mrs. Elton declared she would not let him\noff, he did not;--but my mother, and Jane, and I, were all there, and\na very agreeable evening we had. Such kind friends, you know, Miss\nWoodhouse, one must always find agreeable, though every body seemed\nrather fagged after the morning's party. Even pleasure, you know, is\nfatiguing--and I cannot say that any of them seemed very much to have\nenjoyed it. However, _I_ shall always think it a very pleasant party,\nand feel extremely obliged to the kind friends who included me in it.\"\n\n\"Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of it, had been\nmaking up her mind the whole day?\"\n\n\"I dare say she had.\"\n\n\"Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome to her and all her\nfriends--but I hope her engagement will have every alleviation that is\npossible--I mean, as to the character and manners of the family.\"\n\n\"Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse. Yes, indeed, there is every thing\nin the world that can make her happy in it. Except the Sucklings and\nBragges, there is not such another nursery establishment, so liberal\nand elegant, in all Mrs. Elton's acquaintance. Mrs. Smallridge, a most\ndelightful woman!--A style of living almost equal to Maple Grove--and as\nto the children, except the little Sucklings and little Bragges, there\nare not such elegant sweet children anywhere. Jane will be treated with\nsuch regard and kindness!--It will be nothing but pleasure, a life of\npleasure.--And her salary!--I really cannot venture to name her salary\nto you, Miss Woodhouse. Even you, used as you are to great sums, would\nhardly believe that so much could be given to a young person like Jane.\"\n\n\"Ah! madam,\" cried Emma, \"if other children are at all like what I\nremember to have been myself, I should think five times the amount of\nwhat I have ever yet heard named as a salary on such occasions, dearly\nearned.\"\n\n\"You are so noble in your ideas!\"\n\n\"And when is Miss Fairfax to leave you?\"\n\n\"Very soon, very soon, indeed; that's the worst of it. Within a\nfortnight. Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry. My poor mother does not\nknow how to bear it. So then, I try to put it out of her thoughts, and\nsay, Come ma'am, do not let us think about it any more.\"\n\n\"Her friends must all be sorry to lose her; and will not Colonel and\nMrs. Campbell be sorry to find that she has engaged herself before their\nreturn?\"\n\n\"Yes; Jane says she is sure they will; but yet, this is such a situation\nas she cannot feel herself justified in declining. I was so astonished\nwhen she first told me what she had been saying to Mrs. Elton, and when\nMrs. Elton at the same moment came congratulating me upon it! It was\nbefore tea--stay--no, it could not be before tea, because we were\njust going to cards--and yet it was before tea, because I remember\nthinking--Oh! no, now I recollect, now I have it; something happened\nbefore tea, but not that. Mr. Elton was called out of the room before\ntea, old John Abdy's son wanted to speak with him. Poor old John, I\nhave a great regard for him; he was clerk to my poor father twenty-seven\nyears; and now, poor old man, he is bed-ridden, and very poorly with the\nrheumatic gout in his joints--I must go and see him to-day; and so will\nJane, I am sure, if she gets out at all. And poor John's son came to\ntalk to Mr. Elton about relief from the parish; he is very well to do\nhimself, you know, being head man at the Crown, ostler, and every thing\nof that sort, but still he cannot keep his father without some help;\nand so, when Mr. Elton came back, he told us what John ostler had been\ntelling him, and then it came out about the chaise having been sent to\nRandalls to take Mr. Frank Churchill to Richmond. That was what happened\nbefore tea. It was after tea that Jane spoke to Mrs. Elton.\"\n\nMiss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how perfectly new this\ncircumstance was to her; but as without supposing it possible that she\ncould be ignorant of any of the particulars of Mr. Frank Churchill's\ngoing, she proceeded to give them all, it was of no consequence.\n\nWhat Mr. Elton had learned from the ostler on the subject, being the\naccumulation of the ostler's own knowledge, and the knowledge of the\nservants at Randalls, was, that a messenger had come over from Richmond\nsoon after the return of the party from Box Hill--which messenger,\nhowever, had been no more than was expected; and that Mr. Churchill had\nsent his nephew a few lines, containing, upon the whole, a tolerable\naccount of Mrs. Churchill, and only wishing him not to delay coming\nback beyond the next morning early; but that Mr. Frank Churchill having\nresolved to go home directly, without waiting at all, and his horse\nseeming to have got a cold, Tom had been sent off immediately for the\nCrown chaise, and the ostler had stood out and seen it pass by, the boy\ngoing a good pace, and driving very steady.\n\nThere was nothing in all this either to astonish or interest, and it\ncaught Emma's attention only as it united with the subject which already\nengaged her mind. The contrast between Mrs. Churchill's importance in\nthe world, and Jane Fairfax's, struck her; one was every thing, the\nother nothing--and she sat musing on the difference of woman's destiny,\nand quite unconscious on what her eyes were fixed, till roused by Miss\nBates's saying,\n\n\"Aye, I see what you are thinking of, the pianoforte. What is to become\nof that?--Very true. Poor dear Jane was talking of it just now.--'You\nmust go,' said she. 'You and I must part. You will have no business\nhere.--Let it stay, however,' said she; 'give it houseroom till Colonel\nCampbell comes back. I shall talk about it to him; he will settle for\nme; he will help me out of all my difficulties.'--And to this day, I do\nbelieve, she knows not whether it was his present or his daughter's.\"\n\nNow Emma was obliged to think of the pianoforte; and the remembrance of\nall her former fanciful and unfair conjectures was so little pleasing,\nthat she soon allowed herself to believe her visit had been long enough;\nand, with a repetition of every thing that she could venture to say of\nthe good wishes which she really felt, took leave.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nEmma's pensive meditations, as she walked home, were not interrupted;\nbut on entering the parlour, she found those who must rouse her. Mr.\nKnightley and Harriet had arrived during her absence, and were sitting\nwith her father.--Mr. Knightley immediately got up, and in a manner\ndecidedly graver than usual, said,\n\n\"I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare,\nand therefore must now be gone directly. I am going to London, to spend\na few days with John and Isabella. Have you any thing to send or say,\nbesides the 'love,' which nobody carries?\"\n\n\"Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden scheme?\"\n\n\"Yes--rather--I have been thinking of it some little time.\"\n\nEmma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked unlike himself. Time,\nhowever, she thought, would tell him that they ought to be friends\nagain. While he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going--her father\nbegan his inquiries.\n\n\"Well, my dear, and did you get there safely?--And how did you find my\nworthy old friend and her daughter?--I dare say they must have been very\nmuch obliged to you for coming. Dear Emma has been to call on Mrs.\nand Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before. She is always so\nattentive to them!\"\n\nEmma's colour was heightened by this unjust praise; and with a\nsmile, and shake of the head, which spoke much, she looked at Mr.\nKnightley.--It seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in\nher favour, as if his eyes received the truth from her's, and all that\nhad passed of good in her feelings were at once caught and honoured.--\nHe looked at her with a glow of regard. She was warmly gratified--and in\nanother moment still more so, by a little movement of more than common\nfriendliness on his part.--He took her hand;--whether she had not\nherself made the first motion, she could not say--she might, perhaps,\nhave rather offered it--but he took her hand, pressed it, and certainly\nwas on the point of carrying it to his lips--when, from some fancy or\nother, he suddenly let it go.--Why he should feel such a scruple, why\nhe should change his mind when it was all but done, she could not\nperceive.--He would have judged better, she thought, if he had not\nstopped.--The intention, however, was indubitable; and whether it was\nthat his manners had in general so little gallantry, or however else it\nhappened, but she thought nothing became him more.--It was with him,\nof so simple, yet so dignified a nature.--She could not but recall the\nattempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect amity.--He left\nthem immediately afterwards--gone in a moment. He always moved with the\nalertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but\nnow he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance.\n\nEmma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished she\nhad left her ten minutes earlier;--it would have been a great pleasure\nto talk over Jane Fairfax's situation with Mr. Knightley.--Neither\nwould she regret that he should be going to Brunswick Square, for she\nknew how much his visit would be enjoyed--but it might have happened\nat a better time--and to have had longer notice of it, would have been\npleasanter.--They parted thorough friends, however; she could not\nbe deceived as to the meaning of his countenance, and his unfinished\ngallantry;--it was all done to assure her that she had fully recovered\nhis good opinion.--He had been sitting with them half an hour, she\nfound. It was a pity that she had not come back earlier!\n\nIn the hope of diverting her father's thoughts from the disagreeableness\nof Mr. Knightley's going to London; and going so suddenly; and going on\nhorseback, which she knew would be all very bad; Emma communicated her\nnews of Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the effect was justified;\nit supplied a very useful check,--interested, without disturbing him. He\nhad long made up his mind to Jane Fairfax's going out as governess, and\ncould talk of it cheerfully, but Mr. Knightley's going to London had\nbeen an unexpected blow.\n\n\"I am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so comfortably\nsettled. Mrs. Elton is very good-natured and agreeable, and I dare say\nher acquaintance are just what they ought to be. I hope it is a dry\nsituation, and that her health will be taken good care of. It ought to\nbe a first object, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor's always was with me.\nYou know, my dear, she is going to be to this new lady what Miss Taylor\nwas to us. And I hope she will be better off in one respect, and not be\ninduced to go away after it has been her home so long.\"\n\nThe following day brought news from Richmond to throw every thing else\ninto the background. An express arrived at Randalls to announce the\ndeath of Mrs. Churchill! Though her nephew had had no particular reason\nto hasten back on her account, she had not lived above six-and-thirty\nhours after his return. A sudden seizure of a different nature from any\nthing foreboded by her general state, had carried her off after a short\nstruggle. The great Mrs. Churchill was no more.\n\nIt was felt as such things must be felt. Every body had a degree of\ngravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for the\nsurviving friends; and, in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where\nshe would be buried. Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops\nto folly, she has nothing to do but to die; and when she stoops to be\ndisagreeable, it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame.\nMrs. Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was\nnow spoken of with compassionate allowances. In one point she was fully\njustified. She had never been admitted before to be seriously ill. The\nevent acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and all the selfishness of\nimaginary complaints.\n\n\"Poor Mrs. Churchill! no doubt she had been suffering a great deal:\nmore than any body had ever supposed--and continual pain would try the\ntemper. It was a sad event--a great shock--with all her faults, what\nwould Mr. Churchill do without her? Mr. Churchill's loss would be\ndreadful indeed. Mr. Churchill would never get over it.\"--Even Mr.\nWeston shook his head, and looked solemn, and said, \"Ah! poor woman,\nwho would have thought it!\" and resolved, that his mourning should be as\nhandsome as possible; and his wife sat sighing and moralising over her\nbroad hems with a commiseration and good sense, true and steady. How it\nwould affect Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both. It was also\na very early speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs. Churchill,\nthe grief of her husband--her mind glanced over them both with awe and\ncompassion--and then rested with lightened feelings on how Frank might\nbe affected by the event, how benefited, how freed. She saw in a moment\nall the possible good. Now, an attachment to Harriet Smith would have\nnothing to encounter. Mr. Churchill, independent of his wife, was feared\nby nobody; an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into any thing by his\nnephew. All that remained to be wished was, that the nephew should form\nthe attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the cause, Emma could feel\nno certainty of its being already formed.\n\nHarriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with great self-command.\nWhat ever she might feel of brighter hope, she betrayed nothing. Emma\nwas gratified, to observe such a proof in her of strengthened character,\nand refrained from any allusion that might endanger its maintenance.\nThey spoke, therefore, of Mrs. Churchill's death with mutual\nforbearance.\n\nShort letters from Frank were received at Randalls, communicating all\nthat was immediately important of their state and plans. Mr. Churchill\nwas better than could be expected; and their first removal, on the\ndeparture of the funeral for Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a very\nold friend in Windsor, to whom Mr. Churchill had been promising a\nvisit the last ten years. At present, there was nothing to be done for\nHarriet; good wishes for the future were all that could yet be possible\non Emma's side.\n\nIt was a more pressing concern to shew attention to Jane Fairfax, whose\nprospects were closing, while Harriet's opened, and whose engagements\nnow allowed of no delay in any one at Highbury, who wished to shew her\nkindness--and with Emma it was grown into a first wish. She had scarcely\na stronger regret than for her past coldness; and the person, whom she\nhad been so many months neglecting, was now the very one on whom she\nwould have lavished every distinction of regard or sympathy. She wanted\nto be of use to her; wanted to shew a value for her society, and testify\nrespect and consideration. She resolved to prevail on her to spend a day\nat Hartfield. A note was written to urge it. The invitation was refused,\nand by a verbal message. \"Miss Fairfax was not well enough to write;\"\nand when Mr. Perry called at Hartfield, the same morning, it appeared\nthat she was so much indisposed as to have been visited, though against\nher own consent, by himself, and that she was suffering under severe\nheadaches, and a nervous fever to a degree, which made him doubt the\npossibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge's at the time proposed.\nHer health seemed for the moment completely deranged--appetite quite\ngone--and though there were no absolutely alarming symptoms, nothing\ntouching the pulmonary complaint, which was the standing apprehension\nof the family, Mr. Perry was uneasy about her. He thought she had\nundertaken more than she was equal to, and that she felt it so herself,\nthough she would not own it. Her spirits seemed overcome. Her\npresent home, he could not but observe, was unfavourable to a nervous\ndisorder:--confined always to one room;--he could have wished it\notherwise--and her good aunt, though his very old friend, he must\nacknowledge to be not the best companion for an invalid of that\ndescription. Her care and attention could not be questioned; they were,\nin fact, only too great. He very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived\nmore evil than good from them. Emma listened with the warmest concern;\ngrieved for her more and more, and looked around eager to discover some\nway of being useful. To take her--be it only an hour or two--from\nher aunt, to give her change of air and scene, and quiet rational\nconversation, even for an hour or two, might do her good; and the\nfollowing morning she wrote again to say, in the most feeling language\nshe could command, that she would call for her in the carriage at any\nhour that Jane would name--mentioning that she had Mr. Perry's decided\nopinion, in favour of such exercise for his patient. The answer was only\nin this short note:\n\n\"Miss Fairfax's compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any\nexercise.\"\n\nEmma felt that her own note had deserved something better; but it was\nimpossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality shewed\nindisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might best\ncounteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the\nanswer, therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. Bates's,\nin the hope that Jane would be induced to join her--but it would not\ndo;--Miss Bates came to the carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing\nwith her most earnestly in thinking an airing might be of the greatest\nservice--and every thing that message could do was tried--but all in\nvain. Miss Bates was obliged to return without success; Jane was\nquite unpersuadable; the mere proposal of going out seemed to make her\nworse.--Emma wished she could have seen her, and tried her own powers;\nbut, almost before she could hint the wish, Miss Bates made it appear\nthat she had promised her niece on no account to let Miss Woodhouse in.\n\"Indeed, the truth was, that poor dear Jane could not bear to see any\nbody--any body at all--Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be denied--and\nMrs. Cole had made such a point--and Mrs. Perry had said so much--but,\nexcept them, Jane would really see nobody.\"\n\nEmma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the Mrs. Perrys,\nand the Mrs. Coles, who would force themselves anywhere; neither could\nshe feel any right of preference herself--she submitted, therefore, and\nonly questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece's appetite and diet,\nwhich she longed to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates\nwas very unhappy, and very communicative; Jane would hardly eat any\nthing:--Mr. Perry recommended nourishing food; but every thing\nthey could command (and never had any body such good neighbours) was\ndistasteful.\n\nEmma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly, to an\nexamination of her stores; and some arrowroot of very superior quality\nwas speedily despatched to Miss Bates with a most friendly note. In half\nan hour the arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from Miss\nBates, but \"dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being sent\nback; it was a thing she could not take--and, moreover, she insisted on\nher saying, that she was not at all in want of any thing.\"\n\nWhen Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen wandering\nabout the meadows, at some distance from Highbury, on the afternoon of\nthe very day on which she had, under the plea of being unequal to any\nexercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in the carriage,\nshe could have no doubt--putting every thing together--that Jane was\nresolved to receive no kindness from _her_. She was sorry, very sorry.\nHer heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more pitiable\nfrom this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action, and\ninequality of powers; and it mortified her that she was given so little\ncredit for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend: but\nshe had the consolation of knowing that her intentions were good, and of\nbeing able to say to herself, that could Mr. Knightley have been privy\nto all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even have seen\ninto her heart, he would not, on this occasion, have found any thing to\nreprove.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nOne morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill's decease, Emma was\ncalled downstairs to Mr. Weston, who \"could not stay five minutes,\nand wanted particularly to speak with her.\"--He met her at the\nparlour-door, and hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of\nhis voice, sunk it immediately, to say, unheard by her father,\n\n\"Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning?--Do, if it be\npossible. Mrs. Weston wants to see you. She must see you.\"\n\n\"Is she unwell?\"\n\n\"No, no, not at all--only a little agitated. She would have ordered the\ncarriage, and come to you, but she must see you _alone_, and that you\nknow--(nodding towards her father)--Humph!--Can you come?\"\n\n\"Certainly. This moment, if you please. It is impossible to refuse what\nyou ask in such a way. But what can be the matter?--Is she really not\nill?\"\n\n\"Depend upon me--but ask no more questions. You will know it all in\ntime. The most unaccountable business! But hush, hush!\"\n\nTo guess what all this meant, was impossible even for Emma. Something\nreally important seemed announced by his looks; but, as her friend was\nwell, she endeavoured not to be uneasy, and settling it with her father,\nthat she would take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon out of\nthe house together and on their way at a quick pace for Randalls.\n\n\"Now,\"--said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the sweep gates,--\"now\nMr. Weston, do let me know what has happened.\"\n\n\"No, no,\"--he gravely replied.--\"Don't ask me. I promised my wife to\nleave it all to her. She will break it to you better than I can. Do not\nbe impatient, Emma; it will all come out too soon.\"\n\n\"Break it to me,\" cried Emma, standing still with terror.--\"Good\nGod!--Mr. Weston, tell me at once.--Something has happened in Brunswick\nSquare. I know it has. Tell me, I charge you tell me this moment what it\nis.\"\n\n\"No, indeed you are mistaken.\"--\n\n\"Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.--Consider how many of my dearest\nfriends are now in Brunswick Square. Which of them is it?--I charge you\nby all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment.\"\n\n\"Upon my word, Emma.\"--\n\n\"Your word!--why not your honour!--why not say upon your honour, that\nit has nothing to do with any of them? Good Heavens!--What can be to be\n_broke_ to me, that does not relate to one of that family?\"\n\n\"Upon my honour,\" said he very seriously, \"it does not. It is not in\nthe smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of\nKnightley.\"\n\nEmma's courage returned, and she walked on.\n\n\"I was wrong,\" he continued, \"in talking of its being _broke_ to you.\nI should not have used the expression. In fact, it does not concern\nyou--it concerns only myself,--that is, we hope.--Humph!--In short, my\ndear Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don't\nsay that it is not a disagreeable business--but things might be much\nworse.--If we walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls.\"\n\nEmma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort. She\nasked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and\nthat soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money\nconcern--something just come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the\ncircumstances of the family,--something which the late event at Richmond\nhad brought forward. Her fancy was very active. Half a dozen natural\nchildren, perhaps--and poor Frank cut off!--This, though very\nundesirable, would be no matter of agony to her. It inspired little more\nthan an animating curiosity.\n\n\"Who is that gentleman on horseback?\" said she, as they\nproceeded--speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret,\nthan with any other view.\n\n\"I do not know.--One of the Otways.--Not Frank;--it is not Frank, I\nassure you. You will not see him. He is half way to Windsor by this\ntime.\"\n\n\"Has your son been with you, then?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes--did not you know?--Well, well, never mind.\"\n\nFor a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone much more guarded\nand demure,\n\n\"Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did.\"\n\nThey hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.--\"Well, my dear,\" said\nhe, as they entered the room--\"I have brought her, and now I hope you\nwill soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in\ndelay. I shall not be far off, if you want me.\"--And Emma distinctly\nheard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room,--\"I have\nbeen as good as my word. She has not the least idea.\"\n\nMrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation,\nthat Emma's uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she\neagerly said,\n\n\"What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I\nfind, has occurred;--do let me know directly what it is. I have been\nwalking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense.\nDo not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your\ndistress, whatever it may be.\"\n\n\"Have you indeed no idea?\" said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice.\n\"Cannot you, my dear Emma--cannot you form a guess as to what you are to\nhear?\"\n\n\"So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess.\"\n\n\"You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;\"\n(resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.) \"He has\nbeen here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand. It is\nimpossible to express our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a\nsubject,--to announce an attachment--\"\n\nShe stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, and then of\nHarriet.\n\n\"More than an attachment, indeed,\" resumed Mrs. Weston; \"an\nengagement--a positive engagement.--What will you say, Emma--what will\nany body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are\nengaged;--nay, that they have been long engaged!\"\n\nEmma even jumped with surprize;--and, horror-struck, exclaimed,\n\n\"Jane Fairfax!--Good God! You are not serious? You do not mean it?\"\n\n\"You may well be amazed,\" returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her eyes,\nand talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to recover--\n\"You may well be amazed. But it is even so. There has been a solemn\nengagement between them ever since October--formed at Weymouth, and\nkept a secret from every body. Not a creature knowing it but\nthemselves--neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.--It is so\nwonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost\nincredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.--I thought I knew him.\"\n\nEmma scarcely heard what was said.--Her mind was divided between two\nideas--her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and\npoor Harriet;--and for some time she could only exclaim, and require\nconfirmation, repeated confirmation.\n\n\"Well,\" said she at last, trying to recover herself; \"this is a\ncircumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at\nall comprehend it. What!--engaged to her all the winter--before either\nof them came to Highbury?\"\n\n\"Engaged since October,--secretly engaged.--It has hurt me, Emma, very\nmuch. It has hurt his father equally. _Some_ _part_ of his conduct we\ncannot excuse.\"\n\nEmma pondered a moment, and then replied, \"I will not pretend _not_ to\nunderstand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured\nthat no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are\napprehensive of.\"\n\nMrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma's countenance was as\nsteady as her words.\n\n\"That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my\npresent perfect indifference,\" she continued, \"I will farther tell you,\nthat there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I\ndid like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him--nay,\nwas attached--and how it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder.\nFortunately, however, it did cease. I have really for some time past,\nfor at least these three months, cared nothing about him. You may\nbelieve me, Mrs. Weston. This is the simple truth.\"\n\nMrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find\nutterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her more good\nthan any thing else in the world could do.\n\n\"Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself,\" said she. \"On\nthis point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you\nmight be attached to each other--and we were persuaded that it was so.--\nImagine what we have been feeling on your account.\"\n\n\"I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a matter of grateful\nwonder to you and myself. But this does not acquit _him_, Mrs. Weston;\nand I must say, that I think him greatly to blame. What right had he\nto come among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners\nso _very_ disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to please, as\nhe certainly did--to distinguish any one young woman with persevering\nattention, as he certainly did--while he really belonged to\nanother?--How could he tell what mischief he might be doing?--How could\nhe tell that he might not be making me in love with him?--very wrong,\nvery wrong indeed.\"\n\n\"From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather imagine--\"\n\n\"And how could _she_ bear such behaviour! Composure with a witness!\nto look on, while repeated attentions were offering to another woman,\nbefore her face, and not resent it.--That is a degree of placidity,\nwhich I can neither comprehend nor respect.\"\n\n\"There were misunderstandings between them, Emma; he said so expressly.\nHe had not time to enter into much explanation. He was here only a\nquarter of an hour, and in a state of agitation which did not allow\nthe full use even of the time he could stay--but that there had been\nmisunderstandings he decidedly said. The present crisis, indeed,\nseemed to be brought on by them; and those misunderstandings might very\npossibly arise from the impropriety of his conduct.\"\n\n\"Impropriety! Oh! Mrs. Weston--it is too calm a censure. Much, much\nbeyond impropriety!--It has sunk him, I cannot say how it has sunk him\nin my opinion. So unlike what a man should be!--None of that upright\nintegrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that disdain of\ntrick and littleness, which a man should display in every transaction of\nhis life.\"\n\n\"Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part; for though he has been wrong\nin this instance, I have known him long enough to answer for his having\nmany, very many, good qualities; and--\"\n\n\"Good God!\" cried Emma, not attending to her.--\"Mrs. Smallridge, too!\nJane actually on the point of going as governess! What could he mean by\nsuch horrible indelicacy? To suffer her to engage herself--to suffer her\neven to think of such a measure!\"\n\n\"He knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I can fully acquit\nhim. It was a private resolution of hers, not communicated to him--or at\nleast not communicated in a way to carry conviction.--Till yesterday, I\nknow he said he was in the dark as to her plans. They burst on him, I do\nnot know how, but by some letter or message--and it was the discovery of\nwhat she was doing, of this very project of hers, which determined him\nto come forward at once, own it all to his uncle, throw himself on\nhis kindness, and, in short, put an end to the miserable state of\nconcealment that had been carrying on so long.\"\n\nEmma began to listen better.\n\n\"I am to hear from him soon,\" continued Mrs. Weston. \"He told me at\nparting, that he should soon write; and he spoke in a manner which\nseemed to promise me many particulars that could not be given now. Let\nus wait, therefore, for this letter. It may bring many extenuations. It\nmay make many things intelligible and excusable which now are not to\nbe understood. Don't let us be severe, don't let us be in a hurry to\ncondemn him. Let us have patience. I must love him; and now that I am\nsatisfied on one point, the one material point, I am sincerely anxious\nfor its all turning out well, and ready to hope that it may. They must\nboth have suffered a great deal under such a system of secresy and\nconcealment.\"\n\n\"_His_ sufferings,\" replied Emma dryly, \"do not appear to have done him\nmuch harm. Well, and how did Mr. Churchill take it?\"\n\n\"Most favourably for his nephew--gave his consent with scarcely a\ndifficulty. Conceive what the events of a week have done in that family!\nWhile poor Mrs. Churchill lived, I suppose there could not have been a\nhope, a chance, a possibility;--but scarcely are her remains at rest in\nthe family vault, than her husband is persuaded to act exactly opposite\nto what she would have required. What a blessing it is, when undue\ninfluence does not survive the grave!--He gave his consent with very\nlittle persuasion.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" thought Emma, \"he would have done as much for Harriet.\"\n\n\"This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the light this\nmorning. He stopped at Highbury, at the Bates's, I fancy, some time--and\nthen came on hither; but was in such a hurry to get back to his uncle,\nto whom he is just now more necessary than ever, that, as I tell you,\nhe could stay with us but a quarter of an hour.--He was very much\nagitated--very much, indeed--to a degree that made him appear quite\na different creature from any thing I had ever seen him before.--In\naddition to all the rest, there had been the shock of finding her so\nvery unwell, which he had had no previous suspicion of--and there was\nevery appearance of his having been feeling a great deal.\"\n\n\"And do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on with such\nperfect secresy?--The Campbells, the Dixons, did none of them know of\nthe engagement?\"\n\nEmma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little blush.\n\n\"None; not one. He positively said that it had been known to no being in\nthe world but their two selves.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Emma, \"I suppose we shall gradually grow reconciled to the\nidea, and I wish them very happy. But I shall always think it a\nvery abominable sort of proceeding. What has it been but a system of\nhypocrisy and deceit,--espionage, and treachery?--To come among us with\nprofessions of openness and simplicity; and such a league in secret\nto judge us all!--Here have we been, the whole winter and spring,\ncompletely duped, fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of truth\nand honour, with two people in the midst of us who may have been\ncarrying round, comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments and\nwords that were never meant for both to hear.--They must take the\nconsequence, if they have heard each other spoken of in a way not\nperfectly agreeable!\"\n\n\"I am quite easy on that head,\" replied Mrs. Weston. \"I am very sure\nthat I never said any thing of either to the other, which both might not\nhave heard.\"\n\n\"You are in luck.--Your only blunder was confined to my ear, when you\nimagined a certain friend of ours in love with the lady.\"\n\n\"True. But as I have always had a thoroughly good opinion of Miss\nFairfax, I never could, under any blunder, have spoken ill of her; and\nas to speaking ill of him, there I must have been safe.\"\n\nAt this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little distance from the window,\nevidently on the watch. His wife gave him a look which invited him\nin; and, while he was coming round, added, \"Now, dearest Emma, let me\nintreat you to say and look every thing that may set his heart at ease,\nand incline him to be satisfied with the match. Let us make the best of\nit--and, indeed, almost every thing may be fairly said in her favour. It\nis not a connexion to gratify; but if Mr. Churchill does not feel that,\nwhy should we? and it may be a very fortunate circumstance for him, for\nFrank, I mean, that he should have attached himself to a girl of such\nsteadiness of character and good judgment as I have always given her\ncredit for--and still am disposed to give her credit for, in spite of\nthis one great deviation from the strict rule of right. And how much may\nbe said in her situation for even that error!\"\n\n\"Much, indeed!\" cried Emma feelingly. \"If a woman can ever be\nexcused for thinking only of herself, it is in a situation like Jane\nFairfax's.--Of such, one may almost say, that 'the world is not their's,\nnor the world's law.'\"\n\nShe met Mr. Weston on his entrance, with a smiling countenance,\nexclaiming,\n\n\"A very pretty trick you have been playing me, upon my word! This was a\ndevice, I suppose, to sport with my curiosity, and exercise my talent of\nguessing. But you really frightened me. I thought you had lost half\nyour property, at least. And here, instead of its being a matter of\ncondolence, it turns out to be one of congratulation.--I congratulate\nyou, Mr. Weston, with all my heart, on the prospect of having one of the\nmost lovely and accomplished young women in England for your daughter.\"\n\nA glance or two between him and his wife, convinced him that all was as\nright as this speech proclaimed; and its happy effect on his spirits was\nimmediate. His air and voice recovered their usual briskness: he shook\nher heartily and gratefully by the hand, and entered on the subject in\na manner to prove, that he now only wanted time and persuasion to think\nthe engagement no very bad thing. His companions suggested only what\ncould palliate imprudence, or smooth objections; and by the time they\nhad talked it all over together, and he had talked it all over again\nwith Emma, in their walk back to Hartfield, he was become perfectly\nreconciled, and not far from thinking it the very best thing that Frank\ncould possibly have done.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\n\"Harriet, poor Harriet!\"--Those were the words; in them lay the\ntormenting ideas which Emma could not get rid of, and which constituted\nthe real misery of the business to her. Frank Churchill had behaved very\nill by herself--very ill in many ways,--but it was not so much _his_\nbehaviour as her _own_, which made her so angry with him. It was the\nscrape which he had drawn her into on Harriet's account, that gave the\ndeepest hue to his offence.--Poor Harriet! to be a second time the\ndupe of her misconceptions and flattery. Mr. Knightley had spoken\nprophetically, when he once said, \"Emma, you have been no friend\nto Harriet Smith.\"--She was afraid she had done her nothing but\ndisservice.--It was true that she had not to charge herself, in this\ninstance as in the former, with being the sole and original author of\nthe mischief; with having suggested such feelings as might otherwise\nnever have entered Harriet's imagination; for Harriet had acknowledged\nher admiration and preference of Frank Churchill before she had ever\ngiven her a hint on the subject; but she felt completely guilty\nof having encouraged what she might have repressed. She might have\nprevented the indulgence and increase of such sentiments. Her influence\nwould have been enough. And now she was very conscious that she ought\nto have prevented them.--She felt that she had been risking her friend's\nhappiness on most insufficient grounds. Common sense would have directed\nher to tell Harriet, that she must not allow herself to think of him,\nand that there were five hundred chances to one against his ever caring\nfor her.--\"But, with common sense,\" she added, \"I am afraid I have had\nlittle to do.\"\n\nShe was extremely angry with herself. If she could not have been angry\nwith Frank Churchill too, it would have been dreadful.--As for Jane\nFairfax, she might at least relieve her feelings from any present\nsolicitude on her account. Harriet would be anxiety enough; she need\nno longer be unhappy about Jane, whose troubles and whose ill-health\nhaving, of course, the same origin, must be equally under cure.--Her\ndays of insignificance and evil were over.--She would soon be well, and\nhappy, and prosperous.--Emma could now imagine why her own attentions\nhad been slighted. This discovery laid many smaller matters open. No\ndoubt it had been from jealousy.--In Jane's eyes she had been a rival;\nand well might any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be\nrepulsed. An airing in the Hartfield carriage would have been the rack,\nand arrowroot from the Hartfield storeroom must have been poison. She\nunderstood it all; and as far as her mind could disengage itself from\nthe injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she acknowledged that\nJane Fairfax would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond her\ndesert. But poor Harriet was such an engrossing charge! There was little\nsympathy to be spared for any body else. Emma was sadly fearful\nthat this second disappointment would be more severe than the first.\nConsidering the very superior claims of the object, it ought; and\njudging by its apparently stronger effect on Harriet's mind, producing\nreserve and self-command, it would.--She must communicate the painful\ntruth, however, and as soon as possible. An injunction of secresy had\nbeen among Mr. Weston's parting words. \"For the present, the whole\naffair was to be completely a secret. Mr. Churchill had made a point of\nit, as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently lost;\nand every body admitted it to be no more than due decorum.\"--Emma had\npromised; but still Harriet must be excepted. It was her superior duty.\n\nIn spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it almost\nridiculous, that she should have the very same distressing and delicate\noffice to perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through by\nherself. The intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to her,\nshe was now to be anxiously announcing to another. Her heart beat quick\non hearing Harriet's footstep and voice; so, she supposed, had poor Mrs.\nWeston felt when _she_ was approaching Randalls. Could the event of\nthe disclosure bear an equal resemblance!--But of that, unfortunately,\nthere could be no chance.\n\n\"Well, Miss Woodhouse!\" cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room--\"is\nnot this the oddest news that ever was?\"\n\n\"What news do you mean?\" replied Emma, unable to guess, by look or\nvoice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint.\n\n\"About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so strange? Oh!--you\nneed not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has told me\nhimself. I met him just now. He told me it was to be a great secret;\nand, therefore, I should not think of mentioning it to any body but you,\nbut he said you knew it.\"\n\n\"What did Mr. Weston tell you?\"--said Emma, still perplexed.\n\n\"Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank Churchill\nare to be married, and that they have been privately engaged to one\nanother this long while. How very odd!\"\n\nIt was, indeed, so odd; Harriet's behaviour was so extremely odd,\nthat Emma did not know how to understand it. Her character appeared\nabsolutely changed. She seemed to propose shewing no agitation, or\ndisappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery. Emma looked at\nher, quite unable to speak.\n\n\"Had you any idea,\" cried Harriet, \"of his being in love with her?--You,\nperhaps, might.--You (blushing as she spoke) who can see into every\nbody's heart; but nobody else--\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" said Emma, \"I begin to doubt my having any such talent.\nCan you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached\nto another woman at the very time that I was--tacitly, if not\nopenly--encouraging you to give way to your own feelings?--I never\nhad the slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank\nChurchill's having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You may be very\nsure that if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly.\"\n\n\"Me!\" cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished. \"Why should you caution\nme?--You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill.\"\n\n\"I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject,\" replied\nEmma, smiling; \"but you do not mean to deny that there was a time--and\nnot very distant either--when you gave me reason to understand that you\ndid care about him?\"\n\n\"Him!--never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake me?\"\nturning away distressed.\n\n\"Harriet!\" cried Emma, after a moment's pause--\"What do you mean?--Good\nHeaven! what do you mean?--Mistake you!--Am I to suppose then?--\"\n\nShe could not speak another word.--Her voice was lost; and she sat down,\nwaiting in great terror till Harriet should answer.\n\nHarriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned from\nher, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it was\nin a voice nearly as agitated as Emma's.\n\n\"I should not have thought it possible,\" she began, \"that you could have\nmisunderstood me! I know we agreed never to name him--but considering\nhow infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should not have\nthought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other person.\nMr. Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would ever look at him in\nthe company of the other. I hope I have a better taste than to think of\nMr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And that you should\nhave been so mistaken, is amazing!--I am sure, but for believing that\nyou entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I\nshould have considered it at first too great a presumption almost,\nto dare to think of him. At first, if you had not told me that more\nwonderful things had happened; that there had been matches of greater\ndisparity (those were your very words);--I should not have dared to\ngive way to--I should not have thought it possible--But if _you_, who\nhad been always acquainted with him--\"\n\n\"Harriet!\" cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely--\"Let us understand\neach other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you\nspeaking of--Mr. Knightley?\"\n\n\"To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else--and so\nI thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as\npossible.\"\n\n\"Not quite,\" returned Emma, with forced calmness, \"for all that you then\nsaid, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost\nassert that you had _named_ Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service\nMr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the\ngipsies, was spoken of.\"\n\n\"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!\"\n\n\"My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on\nthe occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment;\nthat considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely\nnatural:--and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to\nyour sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations had\nbeen in seeing him come forward to your rescue.--The impression of it is\nstrong on my memory.\"\n\n\"Oh, dear,\" cried Harriet, \"now I recollect what you mean; but I\nwas thinking of something very different at the time. It was not the\ngipsies--it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No! (with some\nelevation) I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance--of Mr.\nKnightley's coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not\nstand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room. That\nwas the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that\nwas the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to every\nother being upon earth.\"\n\n\"Good God!\" cried Emma, \"this has been a most unfortunate--most\ndeplorable mistake!--What is to be done?\"\n\n\"You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? At\nleast, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the\nother had been the person; and now--it _is_ possible--\"\n\nShe paused a few moments. Emma could not speak.\n\n\"I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse,\" she resumed, \"that you should feel a\ngreat difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You must\nthink one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But\nI hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing--that if--strange as it may\nappear--. But you know they were your own words, that _more_ wonderful\nthings had happened, matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place than\nbetween Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such\na thing even as this, may have occurred before--and if I should be so\nfortunate, beyond expression, as to--if Mr. Knightley should really--if\n_he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will\nnot set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But\nyou are too good for that, I am sure.\"\n\nHarriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look at\nher in consternation, and hastily said,\n\n\"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully--\"I must say that I\nhave.\"\n\nEmma's eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating,\nin a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient\nfor making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers,\nonce opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched--she\nadmitted--she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse\nthat Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank\nChurchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet's having\nsome hope of a return? It darted through her, with the speed of an\narrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself!\n\nHer own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same\nfew minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed\nher before. How improperly had she been acting by Harriet! How\ninconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been\nher conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on! It struck her\nwith dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in the\nworld. Some portion of respect for herself, however, in spite of all\nthese demerits--some concern for her own appearance, and a strong sense\nof justice by Harriet--(there would be no need of _compassion_ to the\ngirl who believed herself loved by Mr. Knightley--but justice required\nthat she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave Emma the\nresolution to sit and endure farther with calmness, with even apparent\nkindness.--For her own advantage indeed, it was fit that the utmost\nextent of Harriet's hopes should be enquired into; and Harriet had done\nnothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had been so voluntarily\nformed and maintained--or to deserve to be slighted by the person, whose\ncounsels had never led her right.--Rousing from reflection, therefore,\nand subduing her emotion, she turned to Harriet again, and, in a more\ninviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as to the subject which\nhad first introduced it, the wonderful story of Jane Fairfax, that was\nquite sunk and lost.--Neither of them thought but of Mr. Knightley and\nthemselves.\n\nHarriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad\nto be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge, and\nsuch a friend as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to give\nthe history of her hopes with great, though trembling delight.--Emma's\ntremblings as she asked, and as she listened, were better concealed than\nHarriet's, but they were not less. Her voice was not unsteady; but her\nmind was in all the perturbation that such a development of self, such\na burst of threatening evil, such a confusion of sudden and perplexing\nemotions, must create.--She listened with much inward suffering, but\nwith great outward patience, to Harriet's detail.--Methodical, or well\narranged, or very well delivered, it could not be expected to be; but it\ncontained, when separated from all the feebleness and tautology of\nthe narration, a substance to sink her spirit--especially with the\ncorroborating circumstances, which her own memory brought in favour of\nMr. Knightley's most improved opinion of Harriet.\n\nHarriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since\nthose two decisive dances.--Emma knew that he had, on that occasion,\nfound her much superior to his expectation. From that evening, or at\nleast from the time of Miss Woodhouse's encouraging her to think of him,\nHarriet had begun to be sensible of his talking to her much more than he\nhad been used to do, and of his having indeed quite a different manner\ntowards her; a manner of kindness and sweetness!--Latterly she had been\nmore and more aware of it. When they had been all walking together,\nhe had so often come and walked by her, and talked so very\ndelightfully!--He seemed to want to be acquainted with her. Emma knew it\nto have been very much the case. She had often observed the change, to\nalmost the same extent.--Harriet repeated expressions of approbation\nand praise from him--and Emma felt them to be in the closest agreement\nwith what she had known of his opinion of Harriet. He praised her for\nbeing without art or affectation, for having simple, honest, generous,\nfeelings.--She knew that he saw such recommendations in Harriet; he\nhad dwelt on them to her more than once.--Much that lived in Harriet's\nmemory, many little particulars of the notice she had received from\nhim, a look, a speech, a removal from one chair to another, a compliment\nimplied, a preference inferred, had been unnoticed, because unsuspected,\nby Emma. Circumstances that might swell to half an hour's relation,\nand contained multiplied proofs to her who had seen them, had passed\nundiscerned by her who now heard them; but the two latest occurrences to\nbe mentioned, the two of strongest promise to Harriet, were not without\nsome degree of witness from Emma herself.--The first, was his walking\nwith her apart from the others, in the lime-walk at Donwell, where they\nhad been walking some time before Emma came, and he had taken pains (as\nshe was convinced) to draw her from the rest to himself--and at first,\nhe had talked to her in a more particular way than he had ever done\nbefore, in a very particular way indeed!--(Harriet could not recall\nit without a blush.) He seemed to be almost asking her, whether her\naffections were engaged.--But as soon as she (Miss Woodhouse) appeared\nlikely to join them, he changed the subject, and began talking about\nfarming:--The second, was his having sat talking with her nearly half\nan hour before Emma came back from her visit, the very last morning of\nhis being at Hartfield--though, when he first came in, he had said that\nhe could not stay five minutes--and his having told her, during their\nconversation, that though he must go to London, it was very much against\nhis inclination that he left home at all, which was much more (as\nEmma felt) than he had acknowledged to _her_. The superior degree of\nconfidence towards Harriet, which this one article marked, gave her\nsevere pain.\n\nOn the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she did, after a\nlittle reflection, venture the following question. \"Might he not?--Is\nnot it possible, that when enquiring, as you thought, into the state of\nyour affections, he might be alluding to Mr. Martin--he might have\nMr. Martin's interest in view? But Harriet rejected the suspicion with\nspirit.\n\n\"Mr. Martin! No indeed!--There was not a hint of Mr. Martin. I hope I\nknow better now, than to care for Mr. Martin, or to be suspected of it.\"\n\nWhen Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to her dear Miss\nWoodhouse, to say whether she had not good ground for hope.\n\n\"I never should have presumed to think of it at first,\" said she, \"but\nfor you. You told me to observe him carefully, and let his behaviour\nbe the rule of mine--and so I have. But now I seem to feel that I may\ndeserve him; and that if he does chuse me, it will not be any thing so\nvery wonderful.\"\n\nThe bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many bitter feelings,\nmade the utmost exertion necessary on Emma's side, to enable her to say\non reply,\n\n\"Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr. Knightley is the last\nman in the world, who would intentionally give any woman the idea of his\nfeeling for her more than he really does.\"\n\nHarriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a sentence so\nsatisfactory; and Emma was only saved from raptures and fondness, which\nat that moment would have been dreadful penance, by the sound of her\nfather's footsteps. He was coming through the hall. Harriet was too\nmuch agitated to encounter him. \"She could not compose herself--\nMr. Woodhouse would be alarmed--she had better go;\"--with most ready\nencouragement from her friend, therefore, she passed off through another\ndoor--and the moment she was gone, this was the spontaneous burst of\nEmma's feelings: \"Oh God! that I had never seen her!\"\n\nThe rest of the day, the following night, were hardly enough for her\nthoughts.--She was bewildered amidst the confusion of all that had\nrushed on her within the last few hours. Every moment had brought a\nfresh surprize; and every surprize must be matter of humiliation to\nher.--How to understand it all! How to understand the deceptions she had\nbeen thus practising on herself, and living under!--The blunders, the\nblindness of her own head and heart!--she sat still, she walked about,\nshe tried her own room, she tried the shrubbery--in every place, every\nposture, she perceived that she had acted most weakly; that she had\nbeen imposed on by others in a most mortifying degree; that she had\nbeen imposing on herself in a degree yet more mortifying; that she\nwas wretched, and should probably find this day but the beginning of\nwretchedness.\n\nTo understand, thoroughly understand her own heart, was the first\nendeavour. To that point went every leisure moment which her father's\nclaims on her allowed, and every moment of involuntary absence of mind.\n\nHow long had Mr. Knightley been so dear to her, as every feeling\ndeclared him now to be? When had his influence, such influence begun?--\nWhen had he succeeded to that place in her affection, which Frank\nChurchill had once, for a short period, occupied?--She looked back;\nshe compared the two--compared them, as they had always stood in her\nestimation, from the time of the latter's becoming known to her--and as\nthey must at any time have been compared by her, had it--oh! had it, by\nany blessed felicity, occurred to her, to institute the comparison.--She\nsaw that there never had been a time when she did not consider Mr.\nKnightley as infinitely the superior, or when his regard for her had not\nbeen infinitely the most dear. She saw, that in persuading herself,\nin fancying, in acting to the contrary, she had been entirely under a\ndelusion, totally ignorant of her own heart--and, in short, that she had\nnever really cared for Frank Churchill at all!\n\nThis was the conclusion of the first series of reflection. This was\nthe knowledge of herself, on the first question of inquiry, which\nshe reached; and without being long in reaching it.--She was most\nsorrowfully indignant; ashamed of every sensation but the one revealed\nto her--her affection for Mr. Knightley.--Every other part of her mind\nwas disgusting.\n\nWith insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the secret of every\nbody's feelings; with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange every\nbody's destiny. She was proved to have been universally mistaken; and\nshe had not quite done nothing--for she had done mischief. She had\nbrought evil on Harriet, on herself, and she too much feared, on Mr.\nKnightley.--Were this most unequal of all connexions to take place, on\nher must rest all the reproach of having given it a beginning; for his\nattachment, she must believe to be produced only by a consciousness of\nHarriet's;--and even were this not the case, he would never have known\nHarriet at all but for her folly.\n\nMr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!--It was a union to distance every\nwonder of the kind.--The attachment of Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax\nbecame commonplace, threadbare, stale in the comparison, exciting no\nsurprize, presenting no disparity, affording nothing to be said or\nthought.--Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!--Such an elevation on her\nside! Such a debasement on his! It was horrible to Emma to think how it\nmust sink him in the general opinion, to foresee the smiles, the sneers,\nthe merriment it would prompt at his expense; the mortification and\ndisdain of his brother, the thousand inconveniences to himself.--Could\nit be?--No; it was impossible. And yet it was far, very far, from\nimpossible.--Was it a new circumstance for a man of first-rate abilities\nto be captivated by very inferior powers? Was it new for one, perhaps\ntoo busy to seek, to be the prize of a girl who would seek him?--Was\nit new for any thing in this world to be unequal, inconsistent,\nincongruous--or for chance and circumstance (as second causes) to direct\nthe human fate?\n\nOh! had she never brought Harriet forward! Had she left her where she\nought, and where he had told her she ought!--Had she not, with a\nfolly which no tongue could express, prevented her marrying the\nunexceptionable young man who would have made her happy and respectable\nin the line of life to which she ought to belong--all would have been\nsafe; none of this dreadful sequel would have been.\n\nHow Harriet could ever have had the presumption to raise her thoughts to\nMr. Knightley!--How she could dare to fancy herself the chosen of such\na man till actually assured of it!--But Harriet was less humble, had\nfewer scruples than formerly.--Her inferiority, whether of mind or\nsituation, seemed little felt.--She had seemed more sensible of Mr.\nElton's being to stoop in marrying her, than she now seemed of Mr.\nKnightley's.--Alas! was not that her own doing too? Who had been at\npains to give Harriet notions of self-consequence but herself?--Who but\nherself had taught her, that she was to elevate herself if possible,\nand that her claims were great to a high worldly establishment?--If\nHarriet, from being humble, were grown vain, it was her doing too.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nTill now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma had never known\nhow much of her happiness depended on being _first_ with Mr. Knightley,\nfirst in interest and affection.--Satisfied that it was so, and feeling\nit her due, she had enjoyed it without reflection; and only in the\ndread of being supplanted, found how inexpressibly important it had\nbeen.--Long, very long, she felt she had been first; for, having no\nfemale connexions of his own, there had been only Isabella whose claims\ncould be compared with hers, and she had always known exactly how far\nhe loved and esteemed Isabella. She had herself been first with him for\nmany years past. She had not deserved it; she had often been negligent\nor perverse, slighting his advice, or even wilfully opposing him,\ninsensible of half his merits, and quarrelling with him because he would\nnot acknowledge her false and insolent estimate of her own--but still,\nfrom family attachment and habit, and thorough excellence of mind, he\nhad loved her, and watched over her from a girl, with an endeavour to\nimprove her, and an anxiety for her doing right, which no other creature\nhad at all shared. In spite of all her faults, she knew she was dear\nto him; might she not say, very dear?--When the suggestions of hope,\nhowever, which must follow here, presented themselves, she could not\npresume to indulge them. Harriet Smith might think herself not unworthy\nof being peculiarly, exclusively, passionately loved by Mr. Knightley.\n_She_ could not. She could not flatter herself with any idea of\nblindness in his attachment to _her_. She had received a very recent\nproof of its impartiality.--How shocked had he been by her behaviour to\nMiss Bates! How directly, how strongly had he expressed himself to her\non the subject!--Not too strongly for the offence--but far, far too\nstrongly to issue from any feeling softer than upright justice and\nclear-sighted goodwill.--She had no hope, nothing to deserve the name\nof hope, that he could have that sort of affection for herself which was\nnow in question; but there was a hope (at times a slight one, at\ntimes much stronger,) that Harriet might have deceived herself, and be\noverrating his regard for _her_.--Wish it she must, for his sake--be the\nconsequence nothing to herself, but his remaining single all his life.\nCould she be secure of that, indeed, of his never marrying at all, she\nbelieved she should be perfectly satisfied.--Let him but continue the\nsame Mr. Knightley to her and her father, the same Mr. Knightley to\nall the world; let Donwell and Hartfield lose none of their precious\nintercourse of friendship and confidence, and her peace would be\nfully secured.--Marriage, in fact, would not do for her. It would be\nincompatible with what she owed to her father, and with what she felt\nfor him. Nothing should separate her from her father. She would not\nmarry, even if she were asked by Mr. Knightley.\n\nIt must be her ardent wish that Harriet might be disappointed; and she\nhoped, that when able to see them together again, she might at least\nbe able to ascertain what the chances for it were.--She should see them\nhenceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedly as she had\nhitherto misunderstood even those she was watching, she did not know how\nto admit that she could be blinded here.--He was expected back every\nday. The power of observation would be soon given--frightfully soon it\nappeared when her thoughts were in one course. In the meanwhile, she\nresolved against seeing Harriet.--It would do neither of them good,\nit would do the subject no good, to be talking of it farther.--She was\nresolved not to be convinced, as long as she could doubt, and yet had\nno authority for opposing Harriet's confidence. To talk would be only to\nirritate.--She wrote to her, therefore, kindly, but decisively, to beg\nthat she would not, at present, come to Hartfield; acknowledging it to\nbe her conviction, that all farther confidential discussion of _one_\ntopic had better be avoided; and hoping, that if a few days were allowed\nto pass before they met again, except in the company of others--she\nobjected only to a tete-a-tete--they might be able to act as if they\nhad forgotten the conversation of yesterday.--Harriet submitted, and\napproved, and was grateful.\n\nThis point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to tear Emma's\nthoughts a little from the one subject which had engrossed them,\nsleeping or waking, the last twenty-four hours--Mrs. Weston, who had\nbeen calling on her daughter-in-law elect, and took Hartfield in her\nway home, almost as much in duty to Emma as in pleasure to herself, to\nrelate all the particulars of so interesting an interview.\n\nMr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates's, and gone through his\nshare of this essential attention most handsomely; but she having then\ninduced Miss Fairfax to join her in an airing, was now returned with\nmuch more to say, and much more to say with satisfaction, than a quarter\nof an hour spent in Mrs. Bates's parlour, with all the encumbrance of\nawkward feelings, could have afforded.\n\nA little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of it while her\nfriend related. Mrs. Weston had set off to pay the visit in a good deal\nof agitation herself; and in the first place had wished not to go at all\nat present, to be allowed merely to write to Miss Fairfax instead, and\nto defer this ceremonious call till a little time had passed, and Mr.\nChurchill could be reconciled to the engagement's becoming known; as,\nconsidering every thing, she thought such a visit could not be paid\nwithout leading to reports:--but Mr. Weston had thought differently; he\nwas extremely anxious to shew his approbation to Miss Fairfax and her\nfamily, and did not conceive that any suspicion could be excited by it;\nor if it were, that it would be of any consequence; for \"such things,\"\nhe observed, \"always got about.\" Emma smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston\nhad very good reason for saying so. They had gone, in short--and very\ngreat had been the evident distress and confusion of the lady. She had\nhardly been able to speak a word, and every look and action had shewn\nhow deeply she was suffering from consciousness. The quiet, heart-felt\nsatisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her\ndaughter--who proved even too joyous to talk as usual, had been a\ngratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene. They were both so truly\nrespectable in their happiness, so disinterested in every sensation;\nthought so much of Jane; so much of every body, and so little of\nthemselves, that every kindly feeling was at work for them. Miss\nFairfax's recent illness had offered a fair plea for Mrs. Weston to\ninvite her to an airing; she had drawn back and declined at first, but,\non being pressed had yielded; and, in the course of their drive,\nMrs. Weston had, by gentle encouragement, overcome so much of her\nembarrassment, as to bring her to converse on the important subject.\nApologies for her seemingly ungracious silence in their first reception,\nand the warmest expressions of the gratitude she was always feeling\ntowards herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily open the cause; but\nwhen these effusions were put by, they had talked a good deal of the\npresent and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs. Weston was\nconvinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief to her\ncompanion, pent up within her own mind as every thing had so long been,\nand was very much pleased with all that she had said on the subject.\n\n\"On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment of so\nmany months,\" continued Mrs. Weston, \"she was energetic. This was one\nof her expressions. 'I will not say, that since I entered into the\nengagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have\nnever known the blessing of one tranquil hour:'--and the quivering lip,\nEmma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my heart.\"\n\n\"Poor girl!\" said Emma. \"She thinks herself wrong, then, for having\nconsented to a private engagement?\"\n\n\"Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed\nto blame herself. 'The consequence,' said she, 'has been a state of\nperpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all the punishment\nthat misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct. Pain is no\nexpiation. I never can be blameless. I have been acting contrary to all\nmy sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken,\nand the kindness I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me\nought not to be.' 'Do not imagine, madam,' she continued, 'that I was\ntaught wrong. Do not let any reflection fall on the principles or the\ncare of the friends who brought me up. The error has been all my own;\nand I do assure you that, with all the excuse that present circumstances\nmay appear to give, I shall yet dread making the story known to Colonel\nCampbell.'\"\n\n\"Poor girl!\" said Emma again. \"She loves him then excessively, I\nsuppose. It must have been from attachment only, that she could be\nled to form the engagement. Her affection must have overpowered her\njudgment.\"\n\n\"Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him.\"\n\n\"I am afraid,\" returned Emma, sighing, \"that I must often have\ncontributed to make her unhappy.\"\n\n\"On your side, my love, it was very innocently done. But she\nprobably had something of that in her thoughts, when alluding to the\nmisunderstandings which he had given us hints of before. One natural\nconsequence of the evil she had involved herself in,\" she said, \"was\nthat of making her _unreasonable_. The consciousness of having done\namiss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious\nand irritable to a degree that must have been--that had been--hard for\nhim to bear. 'I did not make the allowances,' said she, 'which I ought\nto have done, for his temper and spirits--his delightful spirits, and\nthat gaiety, that playfulness of disposition, which, under any other\ncircumstances, would, I am sure, have been as constantly bewitching to\nme, as they were at first.' She then began to speak of you, and of the\ngreat kindness you had shewn her during her illness; and with a blush\nwhich shewed me how it was all connected, desired me, whenever I had\nan opportunity, to thank you--I could not thank you too much--for every\nwish and every endeavour to do her good. She was sensible that you had\nnever received any proper acknowledgment from herself.\"\n\n\"If I did not know her to be happy now,\" said Emma, seriously, \"which,\nin spite of every little drawback from her scrupulous conscience, she\nmust be, I could not bear these thanks;--for, oh! Mrs. Weston, if there\nwere an account drawn up of the evil and the good I have done Miss\nFairfax!--Well (checking herself, and trying to be more lively), this\nis all to be forgotten. You are very kind to bring me these interesting\nparticulars. They shew her to the greatest advantage. I am sure she is\nvery good--I hope she will be very happy. It is fit that the fortune\nshould be on his side, for I think the merit will be all on hers.\"\n\nSuch a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs. Weston. She thought\nwell of Frank in almost every respect; and, what was more, she loved him\nvery much, and her defence was, therefore, earnest. She talked with a\ngreat deal of reason, and at least equal affection--but she had too much\nto urge for Emma's attention; it was soon gone to Brunswick Square or\nto Donwell; she forgot to attempt to listen; and when Mrs. Weston ended\nwith, \"We have not yet had the letter we are so anxious for, you know,\nbut I hope it will soon come,\" she was obliged to pause before she\nanswered, and at last obliged to answer at random, before she could at\nall recollect what letter it was which they were so anxious for.\n\n\"Are you well, my Emma?\" was Mrs. Weston's parting question.\n\n\"Oh! perfectly. I am always well, you know. Be sure to give me\nintelligence of the letter as soon as possible.\"\n\nMrs. Weston's communications furnished Emma with more food for\nunpleasant reflection, by increasing her esteem and compassion, and her\nsense of past injustice towards Miss Fairfax. She bitterly regretted\nnot having sought a closer acquaintance with her, and blushed for the\nenvious feelings which had certainly been, in some measure, the cause.\nHad she followed Mr. Knightley's known wishes, in paying that attention\nto Miss Fairfax, which was every way her due; had she tried to know her\nbetter; had she done her part towards intimacy; had she endeavoured\nto find a friend there instead of in Harriet Smith; she must, in all\nprobability, have been spared from every pain which pressed on her\nnow.--Birth, abilities, and education, had been equally marking one as\nan associate for her, to be received with gratitude; and the other--what\nwas she?--Supposing even that they had never become intimate friends;\nthat she had never been admitted into Miss Fairfax's confidence on this\nimportant matter--which was most probable--still, in knowing her as\nshe ought, and as she might, she must have been preserved from the\nabominable suspicions of an improper attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she\nhad not only so foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but had so\nunpardonably imparted; an idea which she greatly feared had been made a\nsubject of material distress to the delicacy of Jane's feelings, by the\nlevity or carelessness of Frank Churchill's. Of all the sources of evil\nsurrounding the former, since her coming to Highbury, she was persuaded\nthat she must herself have been the worst. She must have been a\nperpetual enemy. They never could have been all three together, without\nher having stabbed Jane Fairfax's peace in a thousand instances; and on\nBox Hill, perhaps, it had been the agony of a mind that would bear no\nmore.\n\nThe evening of this day was very long, and melancholy, at Hartfield.\nThe weather added what it could of gloom. A cold stormy rain set in, and\nnothing of July appeared but in the trees and shrubs, which the wind was\ndespoiling, and the length of the day, which only made such cruel sights\nthe longer visible.\n\nThe weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could only be kept tolerably\ncomfortable by almost ceaseless attention on his daughter's side, and by\nexertions which had never cost her half so much before. It reminded\nher of their first forlorn tete-a-tete, on the evening of Mrs. Weston's\nwedding-day; but Mr. Knightley had walked in then, soon after tea,\nand dissipated every melancholy fancy. Alas! such delightful proofs of\nHartfield's attraction, as those sort of visits conveyed, might shortly\nbe over. The picture which she had then drawn of the privations of the\napproaching winter, had proved erroneous; no friends had deserted them,\nno pleasures had been lost.--But her present forebodings she feared\nwould experience no similar contradiction. The prospect before her now,\nwas threatening to a degree that could not be entirely dispelled--that\nmight not be even partially brightened. If all took place that\nmight take place among the circle of her friends, Hartfield must be\ncomparatively deserted; and she left to cheer her father with the\nspirits only of ruined happiness.\n\nThe child to be born at Randalls must be a tie there even dearer than\nherself; and Mrs. Weston's heart and time would be occupied by it.\nThey should lose her; and, probably, in great measure, her husband\nalso.--Frank Churchill would return among them no more; and Miss\nFairfax, it was reasonable to suppose, would soon cease to belong to\nHighbury. They would be married, and settled either at or near Enscombe.\nAll that were good would be withdrawn; and if to these losses, the\nloss of Donwell were to be added, what would remain of cheerful or\nof rational society within their reach? Mr. Knightley to be no longer\ncoming there for his evening comfort!--No longer walking in at all\nhours, as if ever willing to change his own home for their's!--How was\nit to be endured? And if he were to be lost to them for Harriet's sake;\nif he were to be thought of hereafter, as finding in Harriet's society\nall that he wanted; if Harriet were to be the chosen, the first,\nthe dearest, the friend, the wife to whom he looked for all the best\nblessings of existence; what could be increasing Emma's wretchedness but\nthe reflection never far distant from her mind, that it had been all her\nown work?\n\nWhen it came to such a pitch as this, she was not able to refrain from\na start, or a heavy sigh, or even from walking about the room for a\nfew seconds--and the only source whence any thing like consolation\nor composure could be drawn, was in the resolution of her own better\nconduct, and the hope that, however inferior in spirit and gaiety might\nbe the following and every future winter of her life to the past, it\nwould yet find her more rational, more acquainted with herself, and\nleave her less to regret when it were gone.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nThe weather continued much the same all the following morning; and\nthe same loneliness, and the same melancholy, seemed to reign at\nHartfield--but in the afternoon it cleared; the wind changed into a\nsofter quarter; the clouds were carried off; the sun appeared; it was\nsummer again. With all the eagerness which such a transition gives, Emma\nresolved to be out of doors as soon as possible. Never had the exquisite\nsight, smell, sensation of nature, tranquil, warm, and brilliant after\na storm, been more attractive to her. She longed for the serenity they\nmight gradually introduce; and on Mr. Perry's coming in soon after\ndinner, with a disengaged hour to give her father, she lost no time\nill hurrying into the shrubbery.--There, with spirits freshened, and\nthoughts a little relieved, she had taken a few turns, when she saw Mr.\nKnightley passing through the garden door, and coming towards her.--It\nwas the first intimation of his being returned from London. She had\nbeen thinking of him the moment before, as unquestionably sixteen miles\ndistant.--There was time only for the quickest arrangement of mind. She\nmust be collected and calm. In half a minute they were together. The\n\"How d'ye do's\" were quiet and constrained on each side. She asked after\ntheir mutual friends; they were all well.--When had he left them?--Only\nthat morning. He must have had a wet ride.--Yes.--He meant to walk with\nher, she found. \"He had just looked into the dining-room, and as he was\nnot wanted there, preferred being out of doors.\"--She thought he neither\nlooked nor spoke cheerfully; and the first possible cause for it,\nsuggested by her fears, was, that he had perhaps been communicating his\nplans to his brother, and was pained by the manner in which they had\nbeen received.\n\nThey walked together. He was silent. She thought he was often looking\nat her, and trying for a fuller view of her face than it suited her to\ngive. And this belief produced another dread. Perhaps he wanted to\nspeak to her, of his attachment to Harriet; he might be watching for\nencouragement to begin.--She did not, could not, feel equal to lead the\nway to any such subject. He must do it all himself. Yet she could\nnot bear this silence. With him it was most unnatural. She\nconsidered--resolved--and, trying to smile, began--\n\n\"You have some news to hear, now you are come back, that will rather\nsurprize you.\"\n\n\"Have I?\" said he quietly, and looking at her; \"of what nature?\"\n\n\"Oh! the best nature in the world--a wedding.\"\n\nAfter waiting a moment, as if to be sure she intended to say no more, he\nreplied,\n\n\"If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have heard that\nalready.\"\n\n\"How is it possible?\" cried Emma, turning her glowing cheeks towards\nhim; for, while she spoke, it occurred to her that he might have called\nat Mrs. Goddard's in his way.\n\n\"I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston this morning, and\nat the end of them he gave me a brief account of what had happened.\"\n\nEmma was quite relieved, and could presently say, with a little more\ncomposure,\n\n\"_You_ probably have been less surprized than any of us, for you have\nhad your suspicions.--I have not forgotten that you once tried to give\nme a caution.--I wish I had attended to it--but--(with a sinking voice\nand a heavy sigh) I seem to have been doomed to blindness.\"\n\nFor a moment or two nothing was said, and she was unsuspicious of having\nexcited any particular interest, till she found her arm drawn within\nhis, and pressed against his heart, and heard him thus saying, in a tone\nof great sensibility, speaking low,\n\n\"Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound.--Your own excellent\nsense--your exertions for your father's sake--I know you will not allow\nyourself--.\" Her arm was pressed again, as he added, in a more\nbroken and subdued accent, \"The feelings of the warmest\nfriendship--Indignation--Abominable scoundrel!\"--And in a louder,\nsteadier tone, he concluded with, \"He will soon be gone. They will soon\nbe in Yorkshire. I am sorry for _her_. She deserves a better fate.\"\n\nEmma understood him; and as soon as she could recover from the flutter\nof pleasure, excited by such tender consideration, replied,\n\n\"You are very kind--but you are mistaken--and I must set you right.--\nI am not in want of that sort of compassion. My blindness to what was\ngoing on, led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed\nof, and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things which may\nwell lay me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other reason\nto regret that I was not in the secret earlier.\"\n\n\"Emma!\" cried he, looking eagerly at her, \"are you, indeed?\"--but\nchecking himself--\"No, no, I understand you--forgive me--I am pleased\nthat you can say even so much.--He is no object of regret, indeed! and\nit will not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the acknowledgment\nof more than your reason.--Fortunate that your affections were not\nfarther entangled!--I could never, I confess, from your manners, assure\nmyself as to the degree of what you felt--I could only be certain that\nthere was a preference--and a preference which I never believed him to\ndeserve.--He is a disgrace to the name of man.--And is he to be rewarded\nwith that sweet young woman?--Jane, Jane, you will be a miserable\ncreature.\"\n\n\"Mr. Knightley,\" said Emma, trying to be lively, but really confused--\"I\nam in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot let you continue in your\nerror; and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such an impression, I\nhave as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that I never have been\nat all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might be natural\nfor a woman to feel in confessing exactly the reverse.--But I never\nhave.\"\n\nHe listened in perfect silence. She wished him to speak, but he would\nnot. She supposed she must say more before she were entitled to his\nclemency; but it was a hard case to be obliged still to lower herself in\nhis opinion. She went on, however.\n\n\"I have very little to say for my own conduct.--I was tempted by his\nattentions, and allowed myself to appear pleased.--An old story,\nprobably--a common case--and no more than has happened to hundreds of my\nsex before; and yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets up\nas I do for Understanding. Many circumstances assisted the temptation.\nHe was the son of Mr. Weston--he was continually here--I always found\nhim very pleasant--and, in short, for (with a sigh) let me swell out the\ncauses ever so ingeniously, they all centre in this at last--my vanity\nwas flattered, and I allowed his attentions. Latterly, however--for some\ntime, indeed--I have had no idea of their meaning any thing.--I thought\nthem a habit, a trick, nothing that called for seriousness on my side.\nHe has imposed on me, but he has not injured me. I have never been\nattached to him. And now I can tolerably comprehend his behaviour. He\nnever wished to attach me. It was merely a blind to conceal his real\nsituation with another.--It was his object to blind all about him; and\nno one, I am sure, could be more effectually blinded than myself--except\nthat I was _not_ blinded--that it was my good fortune--that, in short, I\nwas somehow or other safe from him.\"\n\nShe had hoped for an answer here--for a few words to say that her\nconduct was at least intelligible; but he was silent; and, as far as she\ncould judge, deep in thought. At last, and tolerably in his usual tone,\nhe said,\n\n\"I have never had a high opinion of Frank Churchill.--I can suppose,\nhowever, that I may have underrated him. My acquaintance with him has\nbeen but trifling.--And even if I have not underrated him hitherto, he\nmay yet turn out well.--With such a woman he has a chance.--I have no\nmotive for wishing him ill--and for her sake, whose happiness will be\ninvolved in his good character and conduct, I shall certainly wish him\nwell.\"\n\n\"I have no doubt of their being happy together,\" said Emma; \"I believe\nthem to be very mutually and very sincerely attached.\"\n\n\"He is a most fortunate man!\" returned Mr. Knightley, with energy. \"So\nearly in life--at three-and-twenty--a period when, if a man chuses a\nwife, he generally chuses ill. At three-and-twenty to have drawn such\na prize! What years of felicity that man, in all human calculation,\nhas before him!--Assured of the love of such a woman--the disinterested\nlove, for Jane Fairfax's character vouches for her disinterestedness;\nevery thing in his favour,--equality of situation--I mean, as far as\nregards society, and all the habits and manners that are important;\nequality in every point but one--and that one, since the purity of her\nheart is not to be doubted, such as must increase his felicity, for it\nwill be his to bestow the only advantages she wants.--A man would always\nwish to give a woman a better home than the one he takes her from;\nand he who can do it, where there is no doubt of _her_ regard, must,\nI think, be the happiest of mortals.--Frank Churchill is, indeed, the\nfavourite of fortune. Every thing turns out for his good.--He meets\nwith a young woman at a watering-place, gains her affection, cannot even\nweary her by negligent treatment--and had he and all his family sought\nround the world for a perfect wife for him, they could not have found\nher superior.--His aunt is in the way.--His aunt dies.--He has only to\nspeak.--His friends are eager to promote his happiness.--He had used\nevery body ill--and they are all delighted to forgive him.--He is a\nfortunate man indeed!\"\n\n\"You speak as if you envied him.\"\n\n\"And I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the object of my envy.\"\n\nEmma could say no more. They seemed to be within half a sentence\nof Harriet, and her immediate feeling was to avert the subject, if\npossible. She made her plan; she would speak of something totally\ndifferent--the children in Brunswick Square; and she only waited for\nbreath to begin, when Mr. Knightley startled her, by saying,\n\n\"You will not ask me what is the point of envy.--You are determined, I\nsee, to have no curiosity.--You are wise--but _I_ cannot be wise. Emma,\nI must tell you what you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the\nnext moment.\"\n\n\"Oh! then, don't speak it, don't speak it,\" she eagerly cried. \"Take a\nlittle time, consider, do not commit yourself.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said he, in an accent of deep mortification, and not\nanother syllable followed.\n\nEmma could not bear to give him pain. He was wishing to confide in\nher--perhaps to consult her;--cost her what it would, she would listen.\nShe might assist his resolution, or reconcile him to it; she might give\njust praise to Harriet, or, by representing to him his own independence,\nrelieve him from that state of indecision, which must be more\nintolerable than any alternative to such a mind as his.--They had\nreached the house.\n\n\"You are going in, I suppose?\" said he.\n\n\"No,\"--replied Emma--quite confirmed by the depressed manner in which\nhe still spoke--\"I should like to take another turn. Mr. Perry is not\ngone.\" And, after proceeding a few steps, she added--\"I stopped you\nungraciously, just now, Mr. Knightley, and, I am afraid, gave you\npain.--But if you have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or\nto ask my opinion of any thing that you may have in contemplation--as\na friend, indeed, you may command me.--I will hear whatever you like. I\nwill tell you exactly what I think.\"\n\n\"As a friend!\"--repeated Mr. Knightley.--\"Emma, that I fear is a\nword--No, I have no wish--Stay, yes, why should I hesitate?--I\nhave gone too far already for concealment.--Emma, I accept your\noffer--Extraordinary as it may seem, I accept it, and refer myself to\nyou as a friend.--Tell me, then, have I no chance of ever succeeding?\"\n\nHe stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and the expression\nof his eyes overpowered her.\n\n\"My dearest Emma,\" said he, \"for dearest you will always be, whatever\nthe event of this hour's conversation, my dearest, most beloved\nEmma--tell me at once. Say 'No,' if it is to be said.\"--She could\nreally say nothing.--\"You are silent,\" he cried, with great animation;\n\"absolutely silent! at present I ask no more.\"\n\nEmma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment. The\ndread of being awakened from the happiest dream, was perhaps the most\nprominent feeling.\n\n\"I cannot make speeches, Emma:\" he soon resumed; and in a tone of\nsuch sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably\nconvincing.--\"If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it\nmore. But you know what I am.--You hear nothing but truth from me.--I\nhave blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other\nwoman in England would have borne it.--Bear with the truths I would\ntell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. The\nmanner, perhaps, may have as little to recommend them. God knows, I have\nbeen a very indifferent lover.--But you understand me.--Yes, you see,\nyou understand my feelings--and will return them if you can. At present,\nI ask only to hear, once to hear your voice.\"\n\nWhile he spoke, Emma's mind was most busy, and, with all the wonderful\nvelocity of thought, had been able--and yet without losing a word--to\ncatch and comprehend the exact truth of the whole; to see that Harriet's\nhopes had been entirely groundless, a mistake, a delusion, as complete a\ndelusion as any of her own--that Harriet was nothing; that she was every\nthing herself; that what she had been saying relative to Harriet\nhad been all taken as the language of her own feelings; and that her\nagitation, her doubts, her reluctance, her discouragement, had been all\nreceived as discouragement from herself.--And not only was there time\nfor these convictions, with all their glow of attendant happiness; there\nwas time also to rejoice that Harriet's secret had not escaped her, and\nto resolve that it need not, and should not.--It was all the service\nshe could now render her poor friend; for as to any of that heroism of\nsentiment which might have prompted her to entreat him to transfer his\naffection from herself to Harriet, as infinitely the most worthy of the\ntwo--or even the more simple sublimity of resolving to refuse him at\nonce and for ever, without vouchsafing any motive, because he could not\nmarry them both, Emma had it not. She felt for Harriet, with pain and\nwith contrition; but no flight of generosity run mad, opposing all that\ncould be probable or reasonable, entered her brain. She had led her\nfriend astray, and it would be a reproach to her for ever; but her\njudgment was as strong as her feelings, and as strong as it had ever\nbeen before, in reprobating any such alliance for him, as most unequal\nand degrading. Her way was clear, though not quite smooth.--She spoke\nthen, on being so entreated.--What did she say?--Just what she ought,\nof course. A lady always does.--She said enough to shew there need not\nbe despair--and to invite him to say more himself. He _had_ despaired at\none period; he had received such an injunction to caution and silence,\nas for the time crushed every hope;--she had begun by refusing to hear\nhim.--The change had perhaps been somewhat sudden;--her proposal of\ntaking another turn, her renewing the conversation which she had\njust put an end to, might be a little extraordinary!--She felt its\ninconsistency; but Mr. Knightley was so obliging as to put up with it,\nand seek no farther explanation.\n\nSeldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure;\nseldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a\nlittle mistaken; but where, as in this case, though the conduct is\nmistaken, the feelings are not, it may not be very material.--Mr.\nKnightley could not impute to Emma a more relenting heart than she\npossessed, or a heart more disposed to accept of his.\n\nHe had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own influence. He had\nfollowed her into the shrubbery with no idea of trying it. He had come,\nin his anxiety to see how she bore Frank Churchill's engagement, with no\nselfish view, no view at all, but of endeavouring, if she allowed him an\nopening, to soothe or to counsel her.--The rest had been the work of\nthe moment, the immediate effect of what he heard, on his feelings. The\ndelightful assurance of her total indifference towards Frank Churchill,\nof her having a heart completely disengaged from him, had given birth\nto the hope, that, in time, he might gain her affection himself;--but\nit had been no present hope--he had only, in the momentary conquest of\neagerness over judgment, aspired to be told that she did not forbid his\nattempt to attach her.--The superior hopes which gradually opened were\nso much the more enchanting.--The affection, which he had been asking\nto be allowed to create, if he could, was already his!--Within half\nan hour, he had passed from a thoroughly distressed state of mind, to\nsomething so like perfect happiness, that it could bear no other name.\n\n_Her_ change was equal.--This one half-hour had given to each the same\nprecious certainty of being beloved, had cleared from each the same\ndegree of ignorance, jealousy, or distrust.--On his side, there had been\na long-standing jealousy, old as the arrival, or even the expectation,\nof Frank Churchill.--He had been in love with Emma, and jealous of Frank\nChurchill, from about the same period, one sentiment having probably\nenlightened him as to the other. It was his jealousy of Frank Churchill\nthat had taken him from the country.--The Box Hill party had decided\nhim on going away. He would save himself from witnessing again\nsuch permitted, encouraged attentions.--He had gone to learn to be\nindifferent.--But he had gone to a wrong place. There was too much\ndomestic happiness in his brother's house; woman wore too amiable a form\nin it; Isabella was too much like Emma--differing only in those striking\ninferiorities, which always brought the other in brilliancy before\nhim, for much to have been done, even had his time been longer.--He had\nstayed on, however, vigorously, day after day--till this very morning's\npost had conveyed the history of Jane Fairfax.--Then, with the gladness\nwhich must be felt, nay, which he did not scruple to feel, having never\nbelieved Frank Churchill to be at all deserving Emma, was there so much\nfond solicitude, so much keen anxiety for her, that he could stay no\nlonger. He had ridden home through the rain; and had walked up directly\nafter dinner, to see how this sweetest and best of all creatures,\nfaultless in spite of all her faults, bore the discovery.\n\nHe had found her agitated and low.--Frank Churchill was a villain.--\nHe heard her declare that she had never loved him. Frank Churchill's\ncharacter was not desperate.--She was his own Emma, by hand and word,\nwhen they returned into the house; and if he could have thought of Frank\nChurchill then, he might have deemed him a very good sort of fellow.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nWhat totally different feelings did Emma take back into the house from\nwhat she had brought out!--she had then been only daring to hope for\na little respite of suffering;--she was now in an exquisite flutter of\nhappiness, and such happiness moreover as she believed must still be\ngreater when the flutter should have passed away.\n\nThey sat down to tea--the same party round the same table--how often\nit had been collected!--and how often had her eyes fallen on the same\nshrubs in the lawn, and observed the same beautiful effect of the\nwestern sun!--But never in such a state of spirits, never in any thing\nlike it; and it was with difficulty that she could summon enough of her\nusual self to be the attentive lady of the house, or even the attentive\ndaughter.\n\nPoor Mr. Woodhouse little suspected what was plotting against him in the\nbreast of that man whom he was so cordially welcoming, and so anxiously\nhoping might not have taken cold from his ride.--Could he have seen the\nheart, he would have cared very little for the lungs; but without the\nmost distant imagination of the impending evil, without the slightest\nperception of any thing extraordinary in the looks or ways of either,\nhe repeated to them very comfortably all the articles of news he had\nreceived from Mr. Perry, and talked on with much self-contentment,\ntotally unsuspicious of what they could have told him in return.\n\nAs long as Mr. Knightley remained with them, Emma's fever continued;\nbut when he was gone, she began to be a little tranquillised and\nsubdued--and in the course of the sleepless night, which was the tax\nfor such an evening, she found one or two such very serious points\nto consider, as made her feel, that even her happiness must have some\nalloy. Her father--and Harriet. She could not be alone without feeling\nthe full weight of their separate claims; and how to guard the comfort\nof both to the utmost, was the question. With respect to her father,\nit was a question soon answered. She hardly knew yet what Mr. Knightley\nwould ask; but a very short parley with her own heart produced the most\nsolemn resolution of never quitting her father.--She even wept over\nthe idea of it, as a sin of thought. While he lived, it must be only an\nengagement; but she flattered herself, that if divested of the danger of\ndrawing her away, it might become an increase of comfort to him.--How\nto do her best by Harriet, was of more difficult decision;--how to spare\nher from any unnecessary pain; how to make her any possible atonement;\nhow to appear least her enemy?--On these subjects, her perplexity\nand distress were very great--and her mind had to pass again and\nagain through every bitter reproach and sorrowful regret that had ever\nsurrounded it.--She could only resolve at last, that she would still\navoid a meeting with her, and communicate all that need be told by\nletter; that it would be inexpressibly desirable to have her removed\njust now for a time from Highbury, and--indulging in one scheme\nmore--nearly resolve, that it might be practicable to get an invitation\nfor her to Brunswick Square.--Isabella had been pleased with Harriet;\nand a few weeks spent in London must give her some amusement.--She did\nnot think it in Harriet's nature to escape being benefited by novelty\nand variety, by the streets, the shops, and the children.--At any rate,\nit would be a proof of attention and kindness in herself, from whom\nevery thing was due; a separation for the present; an averting of the\nevil day, when they must all be together again.\n\nShe rose early, and wrote her letter to Harriet; an employment which\nleft her so very serious, so nearly sad, that Mr. Knightley, in walking\nup to Hartfield to breakfast, did not arrive at all too soon; and half\nan hour stolen afterwards to go over the same ground again with him,\nliterally and figuratively, was quite necessary to reinstate her in a\nproper share of the happiness of the evening before.\n\nHe had not left her long, by no means long enough for her to have the\nslightest inclination for thinking of any body else, when a letter was\nbrought her from Randalls--a very thick letter;--she guessed what it\nmust contain, and deprecated the necessity of reading it.--She was now\nin perfect charity with Frank Churchill; she wanted no explanations, she\nwanted only to have her thoughts to herself--and as for understanding\nany thing he wrote, she was sure she was incapable of it.--It must be\nwaded through, however. She opened the packet; it was too surely so;--a\nnote from Mrs. Weston to herself, ushered in the letter from Frank to\nMrs. Weston.\n\n\"I have the greatest pleasure, my dear Emma, in forwarding to you the\nenclosed. I know what thorough justice you will do it, and have scarcely\na doubt of its happy effect.--I think we shall never materially disagree\nabout the writer again; but I will not delay you by a long preface.--We\nare quite well.--This letter has been the cure of all the little\nnervousness I have been feeling lately.--I did not quite like your looks\non Tuesday, but it was an ungenial morning; and though you will never\nown being affected by weather, I think every body feels a north-east\nwind.--I felt for your dear father very much in the storm of Tuesday\nafternoon and yesterday morning, but had the comfort of hearing last\nnight, by Mr. Perry, that it had not made him ill.\n\n                              \"Yours ever,\n                                                       \"A. W.\"\n\n                       [To Mrs. Weston.]\n\n\n                                                       WINDSOR-JULY.\nMY DEAR MADAM,\n\n\"If I made myself intelligible yesterday, this letter will be\nexpected; but expected or not, I know it will be read with candour and\nindulgence.--You are all goodness, and I believe there will be need of\neven all your goodness to allow for some parts of my past conduct.--But\nI have been forgiven by one who had still more to resent. My courage\nrises while I write. It is very difficult for the prosperous to be\nhumble. I have already met with such success in two applications for\npardon, that I may be in danger of thinking myself too sure of yours,\nand of those among your friends who have had any ground of offence.--You\nmust all endeavour to comprehend the exact nature of my situation when I\nfirst arrived at Randalls; you must consider me as having a secret which\nwas to be kept at all hazards. This was the fact. My right to place\nmyself in a situation requiring such concealment, is another question.\nI shall not discuss it here. For my temptation to _think_ it a right,\nI refer every caviller to a brick house, sashed windows below, and\ncasements above, in Highbury. I dared not address her openly; my\ndifficulties in the then state of Enscombe must be too well known to\nrequire definition; and I was fortunate enough to prevail, before we\nparted at Weymouth, and to induce the most upright female mind in the\ncreation to stoop in charity to a secret engagement.--Had she refused, I\nshould have gone mad.--But you will be ready to say, what was your\nhope in doing this?--What did you look forward to?--To any thing, every\nthing--to time, chance, circumstance, slow effects, sudden bursts,\nperseverance and weariness, health and sickness. Every possibility of\ngood was before me, and the first of blessings secured, in obtaining her\npromises of faith and correspondence. If you need farther explanation,\nI have the honour, my dear madam, of being your husband's son, and\nthe advantage of inheriting a disposition to hope for good, which no\ninheritance of houses or lands can ever equal the value of.--See\nme, then, under these circumstances, arriving on my first visit to\nRandalls;--and here I am conscious of wrong, for that visit might have\nbeen sooner paid. You will look back and see that I did not come till\nMiss Fairfax was in Highbury; and as _you_ were the person slighted, you\nwill forgive me instantly; but I must work on my father's compassion, by\nreminding him, that so long as I absented myself from his house, so long\nI lost the blessing of knowing you. My behaviour, during the very\nhappy fortnight which I spent with you, did not, I hope, lay me open to\nreprehension, excepting on one point. And now I come to the principal,\nthe only important part of my conduct while belonging to you, which\nexcites my own anxiety, or requires very solicitous explanation. With\nthe greatest respect, and the warmest friendship, do I mention Miss\nWoodhouse; my father perhaps will think I ought to add, with the deepest\nhumiliation.--A few words which dropped from him yesterday spoke his\nopinion, and some censure I acknowledge myself liable to.--My behaviour\nto Miss Woodhouse indicated, I believe, more than it ought.--In order to\nassist a concealment so essential to me, I was led on to make more than\nan allowable use of the sort of intimacy into which we were immediately\nthrown.--I cannot deny that Miss Woodhouse was my ostensible object--but\nI am sure you will believe the declaration, that had I not been\nconvinced of her indifference, I would not have been induced by any\nselfish views to go on.--Amiable and delightful as Miss Woodhouse is,\nshe never gave me the idea of a young woman likely to be attached; and\nthat she was perfectly free from any tendency to being attached to me,\nwas as much my conviction as my wish.--She received my attentions with\nan easy, friendly, goodhumoured playfulness, which exactly suited me.\nWe seemed to understand each other. From our relative situation, those\nattentions were her due, and were felt to be so.--Whether Miss Woodhouse\nbegan really to understand me before the expiration of that fortnight,\nI cannot say;--when I called to take leave of her, I remember that I was\nwithin a moment of confessing the truth, and I then fancied she was not\nwithout suspicion; but I have no doubt of her having since detected me,\nat least in some degree.--She may not have surmised the whole, but her\nquickness must have penetrated a part. I cannot doubt it. You will find,\nwhenever the subject becomes freed from its present restraints, that it\ndid not take her wholly by surprize. She frequently gave me hints of it.\nI remember her telling me at the ball, that I owed Mrs. Elton gratitude\nfor her attentions to Miss Fairfax.--I hope this history of my conduct\ntowards her will be admitted by you and my father as great extenuation\nof what you saw amiss. While you considered me as having sinned against\nEmma Woodhouse, I could deserve nothing from either. Acquit me here, and\nprocure for me, when it is allowable, the acquittal and good wishes\nof that said Emma Woodhouse, whom I regard with so much brotherly\naffection, as to long to have her as deeply and as happily in love as\nmyself.--Whatever strange things I said or did during that fortnight,\nyou have now a key to. My heart was in Highbury, and my business was to\nget my body thither as often as might be, and with the least suspicion.\nIf you remember any queernesses, set them all to the right account.--Of\nthe pianoforte so much talked of, I feel it only necessary to say, that\nits being ordered was absolutely unknown to Miss F--, who would never\nhave allowed me to send it, had any choice been given her.--The\ndelicacy of her mind throughout the whole engagement, my dear madam,\nis much beyond my power of doing justice to. You will soon, I earnestly\nhope, know her thoroughly yourself.--No description can describe her.\nShe must tell you herself what she is--yet not by word, for never\nwas there a human creature who would so designedly suppress her own\nmerit.--Since I began this letter, which will be longer than I foresaw,\nI have heard from her.--She gives a good account of her own health; but\nas she never complains, I dare not depend. I want to have your opinion\nof her looks. I know you will soon call on her; she is living in dread\nof the visit. Perhaps it is paid already. Let me hear from you without\ndelay; I am impatient for a thousand particulars. Remember how few\nminutes I was at Randalls, and in how bewildered, how mad a state: and\nI am not much better yet; still insane either from happiness or\nmisery. When I think of the kindness and favour I have met with, of her\nexcellence and patience, and my uncle's generosity, I am mad with joy:\nbut when I recollect all the uneasiness I occasioned her, and how little\nI deserve to be forgiven, I am mad with anger. If I could but see her\nagain!--But I must not propose it yet. My uncle has been too good for me\nto encroach.--I must still add to this long letter. You have not heard\nall that you ought to hear. I could not give any connected detail\nyesterday; but the suddenness, and, in one light, the unseasonableness\nwith which the affair burst out, needs explanation; for though the event\nof the 26th ult., as you will conclude, immediately opened to me the\nhappiest prospects, I should not have presumed on such early measures,\nbut from the very particular circumstances, which left me not an hour to\nlose. I should myself have shrunk from any thing so hasty, and she\nwould have felt every scruple of mine with multiplied strength and\nrefinement.--But I had no choice. The hasty engagement she had entered\ninto with that woman--Here, my dear madam, I was obliged to leave off\nabruptly, to recollect and compose myself.--I have been walking over\nthe country, and am now, I hope, rational enough to make the rest of\nmy letter what it ought to be.--It is, in fact, a most mortifying\nretrospect for me. I behaved shamefully. And here I can admit, that\nmy manners to Miss W., in being unpleasant to Miss F., were highly\nblameable. _She_ disapproved them, which ought to have been enough.--My\nplea of concealing the truth she did not think sufficient.--She was\ndispleased; I thought unreasonably so: I thought her, on a thousand\noccasions, unnecessarily scrupulous and cautious: I thought her even\ncold. But she was always right. If I had followed her judgment, and\nsubdued my spirits to the level of what she deemed proper, I should have\nescaped the greatest unhappiness I have ever known.--We quarrelled.--\nDo you remember the morning spent at Donwell?--_There_ every little\ndissatisfaction that had occurred before came to a crisis. I was late;\nI met her walking home by herself, and wanted to walk with her, but she\nwould not suffer it. She absolutely refused to allow me, which I then\nthought most unreasonable. Now, however, I see nothing in it but a very\nnatural and consistent degree of discretion. While I, to blind the\nworld to our engagement, was behaving one hour with objectionable\nparticularity to another woman, was she to be consenting the next to a\nproposal which might have made every previous caution useless?--Had we\nbeen met walking together between Donwell and Highbury, the truth must\nhave been suspected.--I was mad enough, however, to resent.--I doubted\nher affection. I doubted it more the next day on Box Hill; when,\nprovoked by such conduct on my side, such shameful, insolent neglect\nof her, and such apparent devotion to Miss W., as it would have been\nimpossible for any woman of sense to endure, she spoke her resentment in\na form of words perfectly intelligible to me.--In short, my dear\nmadam, it was a quarrel blameless on her side, abominable on mine; and\nI returned the same evening to Richmond, though I might have staid with\nyou till the next morning, merely because I would be as angry with\nher as possible. Even then, I was not such a fool as not to mean to\nbe reconciled in time; but I was the injured person, injured by her\ncoldness, and I went away determined that she should make the first\nadvances.--I shall always congratulate myself that you were not of\nthe Box Hill party. Had you witnessed my behaviour there, I can hardly\nsuppose you would ever have thought well of me again. Its effect upon\nher appears in the immediate resolution it produced: as soon as she\nfound I was really gone from Randalls, she closed with the offer of that\nofficious Mrs. Elton; the whole system of whose treatment of her, by the\nbye, has ever filled me with indignation and hatred. I must not quarrel\nwith a spirit of forbearance which has been so richly extended towards\nmyself; but, otherwise, I should loudly protest against the share of it\nwhich that woman has known.--'Jane,' indeed!--You will observe that I\nhave not yet indulged myself in calling her by that name, even to you.\nThink, then, what I must have endured in hearing it bandied between\nthe Eltons with all the vulgarity of needless repetition, and all the\ninsolence of imaginary superiority. Have patience with me, I shall soon\nhave done.--She closed with this offer, resolving to break with me\nentirely, and wrote the next day to tell me that we never were to meet\nagain.--_She_ _felt_ _the_ _engagement_ _to_ _be_ _a_ _source_ _of_\n_repentance_ _and_ _misery_ _to_ _each_: _she_ _dissolved_ _it_.--This\nletter reached me on the very morning of my poor aunt's death. I\nanswered it within an hour; but from the confusion of my mind, and the\nmultiplicity of business falling on me at once, my answer, instead of\nbeing sent with all the many other letters of that day, was locked up in\nmy writing-desk; and I, trusting that I had written enough, though but\na few lines, to satisfy her, remained without any uneasiness.--I was\nrather disappointed that I did not hear from her again speedily; but I\nmade excuses for her, and was too busy, and--may I add?--too cheerful\nin my views to be captious.--We removed to Windsor; and two\ndays afterwards I received a parcel from her, my own letters all\nreturned!--and a few lines at the same time by the post, stating her\nextreme surprize at not having had the smallest reply to her last; and\nadding, that as silence on such a point could not be misconstrued,\nand as it must be equally desirable to both to have every subordinate\narrangement concluded as soon as possible, she now sent me, by a safe\nconveyance, all my letters, and requested, that if I could not directly\ncommand hers, so as to send them to Highbury within a week, I would\nforward them after that period to her at--: in short, the full direction\nto Mr. Smallridge's, near Bristol, stared me in the face. I knew the\nname, the place, I knew all about it, and instantly saw what she had\nbeen doing. It was perfectly accordant with that resolution of character\nwhich I knew her to possess; and the secrecy she had maintained, as to\nany such design in her former letter, was equally descriptive of its\nanxious delicacy. For the world would not she have seemed to threaten\nme.--Imagine the shock; imagine how, till I had actually detected my\nown blunder, I raved at the blunders of the post.--What was to be\ndone?--One thing only.--I must speak to my uncle. Without his sanction I\ncould not hope to be listened to again.--I spoke; circumstances were\nin my favour; the late event had softened away his pride, and he was,\nearlier than I could have anticipated, wholly reconciled and complying;\nand could say at last, poor man! with a deep sigh, that he wished I\nmight find as much happiness in the marriage state as he had done.--I\nfelt that it would be of a different sort.--Are you disposed to pity\nme for what I must have suffered in opening the cause to him, for my\nsuspense while all was at stake?--No; do not pity me till I reached\nHighbury, and saw how ill I had made her. Do not pity me till I saw her\nwan, sick looks.--I reached Highbury at the time of day when, from my\nknowledge of their late breakfast hour, I was certain of a good chance\nof finding her alone.--I was not disappointed; and at last I was not\ndisappointed either in the object of my journey. A great deal of very\nreasonable, very just displeasure I had to persuade away. But it is\ndone; we are reconciled, dearer, much dearer, than ever, and no moment's\nuneasiness can ever occur between us again. Now, my dear madam, I will\nrelease you; but I could not conclude before. A thousand and a thousand\nthanks for all the kindness you have ever shewn me, and ten thousand for\nthe attentions your heart will dictate towards her.--If you think me in\na way to be happier than I deserve, I am quite of your opinion.--Miss\nW. calls me the child of good fortune. I hope she is right.--In one\nrespect, my good fortune is undoubted, that of being able to subscribe\nmyself,\n\n                    Your obliged and affectionate Son,\n\n                                          F. C. WESTON CHURCHILL.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\nThis letter must make its way to Emma's feelings. She was obliged, in\nspite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the\njustice that Mrs. Weston foretold. As soon as she came to her own name,\nit was irresistible; every line relating to herself was interesting,\nand almost every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the subject\ncould still maintain itself, by the natural return of her former regard\nfor the writer, and the very strong attraction which any picture of\nlove must have for her at that moment. She never stopt till she had gone\nthrough the whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he had\nbeen wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had supposed--and he had\nsuffered, and was very sorry--and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and\nso much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that\nthere was no being severe; and could he have entered the room, she must\nhave shaken hands with him as heartily as ever.\n\nShe thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again,\nshe desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston's wishing it to\nbe communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so\nmuch to blame in his conduct.\n\n\"I shall be very glad to look it over,\" said he; \"but it seems long. I\nwill take it home with me at night.\"\n\nBut that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she\nmust return it by him.\n\n\"I would rather be talking to you,\" he replied; \"but as it seems a\nmatter of justice, it shall be done.\"\n\nHe began--stopping, however, almost directly to say, \"Had I been offered\nthe sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his mother-in-law a few\nmonths ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference.\"\n\nHe proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a\nsmile, observed, \"Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his\nway. One man's style must not be the rule of another's. We will not be\nsevere.\"\n\n\"It will be natural for me,\" he added shortly afterwards, \"to speak my\nopinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you.\nIt will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it--\"\n\n\"Not at all. I should wish it.\"\n\nMr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity.\n\n\"He trifles here,\" said he, \"as to the temptation. He knows he is wrong,\nand has nothing rational to urge.--Bad.--He ought not to have formed the\nengagement.--'His father's disposition:'--he is unjust, however, to his\nfather. Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright\nand honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort\nbefore he endeavoured to gain it.--Very true; he did not come till Miss\nFairfax was here.\"\n\n\"And I have not forgotten,\" said Emma, \"how sure you were that he might\nhave come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely--but you\nwere perfectly right.\"\n\n\"I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--had\n_you_ not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him.\"\n\nWhen he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it\naloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the\nhead; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as\nthe subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady\nreflection, thus--\n\n\"Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous\ngame. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.--No judge of\nhis own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and\nregardless of little besides his own convenience.--Fancying you to have\nfathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue,\nthat he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert\nthe understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more\nand more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each\nother?\"\n\nEmma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account,\nwhich she could not give any sincere explanation of.\n\n\"You had better go on,\" said she.\n\nHe did so, but very soon stopt again to say, \"the pianoforte! Ah! That\nwas the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether\nthe inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A\nboyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a\nwoman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense\nwith; and he did know that she would have prevented the instrument's\ncoming if she could.\"\n\nAfter this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill's\nconfession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for\nmore than a word in passing.\n\n\"I perfectly agree with you, sir,\"--was then his remark. \"You did behave\nvery shamefully. You never wrote a truer line.\" And having gone through\nwhat immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his\npersisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax's sense of right,\nhe made a fuller pause to say, \"This is very bad.--He had induced her\nto place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme difficulty and\nuneasiness, and it should have been his first object to prevent her from\nsuffering unnecessarily.--She must have had much more to contend\nwith, in carrying on the correspondence, than he could. He should have\nrespected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such; but hers were\nall reasonable. We must look to her one fault, and remember that she\nhad done a wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that she\nshould have been in such a state of punishment.\"\n\nEmma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew\nuncomfortable. Her own behaviour had been so very improper! She was\ndeeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look. It was all read,\nhowever, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and,\nexcepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear\nof giving pain--no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist.\n\n\"There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the\nEltons,\" was his next observation.--\"His feelings are natural.--What!\nactually resolve to break with him entirely!--She felt the engagement to\nbe a source of repentance and misery to each--she dissolved it.--What a\nview this gives of her sense of his behaviour!--Well, he must be a most\nextraordinary--\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, read on.--You will find how very much he suffers.\"\n\n\"I hope he does,\" replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resuming the letter.\n\"'Smallridge!'--What does this mean? What is all this?\"\n\n\"She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge's children--a\ndear friend of Mrs. Elton's--a neighbour of Maple Grove; and, by the\nbye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton bears the disappointment?\"\n\n\"Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to read--not even of\nMrs. Elton. Only one page more. I shall soon have done. What a letter\nthe man writes!\"\n\n\"I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him.\"\n\n\"Well, there _is_ feeling here.--He does seem to have suffered in\nfinding her ill.--Certainly, I can have no doubt of his being fond of\nher. 'Dearer, much dearer than ever.' I hope he may long continue to\nfeel all the value of such a reconciliation.--He is a very liberal\nthanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands.--'Happier than I\ndeserve.' Come, he knows himself there. 'Miss Woodhouse calls me the\nchild of good fortune.'--Those were Miss Woodhouse's words, were they?--\nAnd a fine ending--and there is the letter. The child of good fortune!\nThat was your name for him, was it?\"\n\n\"You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I am; but still\nyou must, at least I hope you must, think the better of him for it. I\nhope it does him some service with you.\"\n\n\"Yes, certainly it does. He has had great faults, faults of\ninconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his opinion\nin thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves: but still as he\nis, beyond a doubt, really attached to Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it\nmay be hoped, have the advantage of being constantly with her, I am very\nready to believe his character will improve, and acquire from hers the\nsteadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants. And now, let me talk\nto you of something else. I have another person's interest at present\nso much at heart, that I cannot think any longer about Frank Churchill.\nEver since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been hard at work\non one subject.\"\n\nThe subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected, gentlemanlike\nEnglish, such as Mr. Knightley used even to the woman he was in love\nwith, how to be able to ask her to marry him, without attacking the\nhappiness of her father. Emma's answer was ready at the first word.\n\"While her dear father lived, any change of condition must be impossible\nfor her. She could never quit him.\" Part only of this answer, however,\nwas admitted. The impossibility of her quitting her father, Mr.\nKnightley felt as strongly as herself; but the inadmissibility of any\nother change, he could not agree to. He had been thinking it over most\ndeeply, most intently; he had at first hoped to induce Mr. Woodhouse to\nremove with her to Donwell; he had wanted to believe it feasible, but\nhis knowledge of Mr. Woodhouse would not suffer him to deceive himself\nlong; and now he confessed his persuasion, that such a transplantation\nwould be a risk of her father's comfort, perhaps even of his life, which\nmust not be hazarded. Mr. Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!--No, he felt\nthat it ought not to be attempted. But the plan which had arisen on the\nsacrifice of this, he trusted his dearest Emma would not find in any\nrespect objectionable; it was, that he should be received at Hartfield;\nthat so long as her father's happiness in other words his life--required\nHartfield to continue her home, it should be his likewise.\n\nOf their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already had her own passing\nthoughts. Like him, she had tried the scheme and rejected it; but such\nan alternative as this had not occurred to her. She was sensible of all\nthe affection it evinced. She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must\nbe sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; that\nin living constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there\nwould be much, very much, to be borne with. She promised to think of it,\nand advised him to think of it more; but he was fully convinced, that no\nreflection could alter his wishes or his opinion on the subject. He had\ngiven it, he could assure her, very long and calm consideration; he had\nbeen walking away from William Larkins the whole morning, to have his\nthoughts to himself.\n\n\"Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for,\" cried Emma. \"I am sure\nWilliam Larkins will not like it. You must get his consent before you\nask mine.\"\n\nShe promised, however, to think of it; and pretty nearly promised,\nmoreover, to think of it, with the intention of finding it a very good\nscheme.\n\nIt is remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many, points of view in\nwhich she was now beginning to consider Donwell Abbey, was never\nstruck with any sense of injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as\nheir-expectant had formerly been so tenaciously regarded. Think she must\nof the possible difference to the poor little boy; and yet she only\ngave herself a saucy conscious smile about it, and found amusement in\ndetecting the real cause of that violent dislike of Mr. Knightley's\nmarrying Jane Fairfax, or any body else, which at the time she had\nwholly imputed to the amiable solicitude of the sister and the aunt.\n\nThis proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continuing at\nHartfield--the more she contemplated it, the more pleasing it became.\nHis evils seemed to lessen, her own advantages to increase, their mutual\ngood to outweigh every drawback. Such a companion for herself in the\nperiods of anxiety and cheerlessness before her!--Such a partner in\nall those duties and cares to which time must be giving increase of\nmelancholy!\n\nShe would have been too happy but for poor Harriet; but every blessing\nof her own seemed to involve and advance the sufferings of her friend,\nwho must now be even excluded from Hartfield. The delightful family\nparty which Emma was securing for herself, poor Harriet must, in mere\ncharitable caution, be kept at a distance from. She would be a loser in\nevery way. Emma could not deplore her future absence as any deduction\nfrom her own enjoyment. In such a party, Harriet would be rather a\ndead weight than otherwise; but for the poor girl herself, it seemed a\npeculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing her in such a state of\nunmerited punishment.\n\nIn time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten, that is,\nsupplanted; but this could not be expected to happen very early. Mr.\nKnightley himself would be doing nothing to assist the cure;--not\nlike Mr. Elton. Mr. Knightley, always so kind, so feeling, so truly\nconsiderate for every body, would never deserve to be less worshipped\nthan now; and it really was too much to hope even of Harriet, that she\ncould be in love with more than _three_ men in one year.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nIt was a very great relief to Emma to find Harriet as desirous as\nherself to avoid a meeting. Their intercourse was painful enough by\nletter. How much worse, had they been obliged to meet!\n\nHarriet expressed herself very much as might be supposed, without\nreproaches, or apparent sense of ill-usage; and yet Emma fancied there\nwas a something of resentment, a something bordering on it in her style,\nwhich increased the desirableness of their being separate.--It might be\nonly her own consciousness; but it seemed as if an angel only could have\nbeen quite without resentment under such a stroke.\n\nShe had no difficulty in procuring Isabella's invitation; and she was\nfortunate in having a sufficient reason for asking it, without resorting\nto invention.--There was a tooth amiss. Harriet really wished, and\nhad wished some time, to consult a dentist. Mrs. John Knightley was\ndelighted to be of use; any thing of ill health was a recommendation to\nher--and though not so fond of a dentist as of a Mr. Wingfield, she was\nquite eager to have Harriet under her care.--When it was thus settled\non her sister's side, Emma proposed it to her friend, and found her\nvery persuadable.--Harriet was to go; she was invited for at least a\nfortnight; she was to be conveyed in Mr. Woodhouse's carriage.--It was\nall arranged, it was all completed, and Harriet was safe in Brunswick\nSquare.\n\nNow Emma could, indeed, enjoy Mr. Knightley's visits; now she could\ntalk, and she could listen with true happiness, unchecked by that sense\nof injustice, of guilt, of something most painful, which had haunted her\nwhen remembering how disappointed a heart was near her, how much might\nat that moment, and at a little distance, be enduring by the feelings\nwhich she had led astray herself.\n\nThe difference of Harriet at Mrs. Goddard's, or in London, made perhaps\nan unreasonable difference in Emma's sensations; but she could not think\nof her in London without objects of curiosity and employment, which must\nbe averting the past, and carrying her out of herself.\n\nShe would not allow any other anxiety to succeed directly to the place\nin her mind which Harriet had occupied. There was a communication before\nher, one which _she_ only could be competent to make--the confession of\nher engagement to her father; but she would have nothing to do with it\nat present.--She had resolved to defer the disclosure till Mrs. Weston\nwere safe and well. No additional agitation should be thrown at this\nperiod among those she loved--and the evil should not act on herself\nby anticipation before the appointed time.--A fortnight, at least, of\nleisure and peace of mind, to crown every warmer, but more agitating,\ndelight, should be hers.\n\nShe soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure, to employ half an\nhour of this holiday of spirits in calling on Miss Fairfax.--She ought\nto go--and she was longing to see her; the resemblance of their present\nsituations increasing every other motive of goodwill. It would be a\n_secret_ satisfaction; but the consciousness of a similarity of prospect\nwould certainly add to the interest with which she should attend to any\nthing Jane might communicate.\n\nShe went--she had driven once unsuccessfully to the door, but had not\nbeen into the house since the morning after Box Hill, when poor Jane had\nbeen in such distress as had filled her with compassion, though all the\nworst of her sufferings had been unsuspected.--The fear of being still\nunwelcome, determined her, though assured of their being at home, to\nwait in the passage, and send up her name.--She heard Patty announcing\nit; but no such bustle succeeded as poor Miss Bates had before made so\nhappily intelligible.--No; she heard nothing but the instant reply of,\n\"Beg her to walk up;\"--and a moment afterwards she was met on the stairs\nby Jane herself, coming eagerly forward, as if no other reception of her\nwere felt sufficient.--Emma had never seen her look so well, so lovely,\nso engaging. There was consciousness, animation, and warmth; there was\nevery thing which her countenance or manner could ever have wanted.--\nShe came forward with an offered hand; and said, in a low, but very\nfeeling tone,\n\n\"This is most kind, indeed!--Miss Woodhouse, it is impossible for me\nto express--I hope you will believe--Excuse me for being so entirely\nwithout words.\"\n\nEmma was gratified, and would soon have shewn no want of words, if the\nsound of Mrs. Elton's voice from the sitting-room had not checked\nher, and made it expedient to compress all her friendly and all her\ncongratulatory sensations into a very, very earnest shake of the hand.\n\nMrs. Bates and Mrs. Elton were together. Miss Bates was out, which\naccounted for the previous tranquillity. Emma could have wished Mrs.\nElton elsewhere; but she was in a humour to have patience with every\nbody; and as Mrs. Elton met her with unusual graciousness, she hoped the\nrencontre would do them no harm.\n\nShe soon believed herself to penetrate Mrs. Elton's thoughts, and\nunderstand why she was, like herself, in happy spirits; it was being in\nMiss Fairfax's confidence, and fancying herself acquainted with what was\nstill a secret to other people. Emma saw symptoms of it immediately in\nthe expression of her face; and while paying her own compliments to Mrs.\nBates, and appearing to attend to the good old lady's replies, she saw\nher with a sort of anxious parade of mystery fold up a letter which she\nhad apparently been reading aloud to Miss Fairfax, and return it into\nthe purple and gold reticule by her side, saying, with significant nods,\n\n\"We can finish this some other time, you know. You and I shall not want\nopportunities. And, in fact, you have heard all the essential already. I\nonly wanted to prove to you that Mrs. S. admits our apology, and is\nnot offended. You see how delightfully she writes. Oh! she is a sweet\ncreature! You would have doated on her, had you gone.--But not a word\nmore. Let us be discreet--quite on our good behaviour.--Hush!--You\nremember those lines--I forget the poem at this moment:\n\n        \"For when a lady's in the case,\n        \"You know all other things give place.\"\n\nNow I say, my dear, in _our_ case, for _lady_, read----mum! a word to\nthe wise.--I am in a fine flow of spirits, an't I? But I want to set\nyour heart at ease as to Mrs. S.--_My_ representation, you see, has\nquite appeased her.\"\n\nAnd again, on Emma's merely turning her head to look at Mrs. Bates's\nknitting, she added, in a half whisper,\n\n\"I mentioned no _names_, you will observe.--Oh! no; cautious as a\nminister of state. I managed it extremely well.\"\n\nEmma could not doubt. It was a palpable display, repeated on every\npossible occasion. When they had all talked a little while in harmony of\nthe weather and Mrs. Weston, she found herself abruptly addressed with,\n\n\"Do not you think, Miss Woodhouse, our saucy little friend here is\ncharmingly recovered?--Do not you think her cure does Perry the highest\ncredit?--(here was a side-glance of great meaning at Jane.) Upon my\nword, Perry has restored her in a wonderful short time!--Oh! if you had\nseen her, as I did, when she was at the worst!\"--And when Mrs. Bates\nwas saying something to Emma, whispered farther, \"We do not say a word\nof any _assistance_ that Perry might have; not a word of a certain young\nphysician from Windsor.--Oh! no; Perry shall have all the credit.\"\n\n\"I have scarce had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Woodhouse,\" she\nshortly afterwards began, \"since the party to Box Hill. Very pleasant\nparty. But yet I think there was something wanting. Things did not\nseem--that is, there seemed a little cloud upon the spirits of some.--So\nit appeared to me at least, but I might be mistaken. However, I think\nit answered so far as to tempt one to go again. What say you both to our\ncollecting the same party, and exploring to Box Hill again, while the\nfine weather lasts?--It must be the same party, you know, quite the\nsame party, not _one_ exception.\"\n\nSoon after this Miss Bates came in, and Emma could not help being\ndiverted by the perplexity of her first answer to herself, resulting,\nshe supposed, from doubt of what might be said, and impatience to say\nevery thing.\n\n\"Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, you are all kindness.--It is impossible\nto say--Yes, indeed, I quite understand--dearest Jane's prospects--that\nis, I do not mean.--But she is charmingly recovered.--How is Mr.\nWoodhouse?--I am so glad.--Quite out of my power.--Such a happy little\ncircle as you find us here.--Yes, indeed.--Charming young man!--that\nis--so very friendly; I mean good Mr. Perry!--such attention to\nJane!\"--And from her great, her more than commonly thankful delight\ntowards Mrs. Elton for being there, Emma guessed that there had been a\nlittle show of resentment towards Jane, from the vicarage quarter,\nwhich was now graciously overcome.--After a few whispers, indeed, which\nplaced it beyond a guess, Mrs. Elton, speaking louder, said,\n\n\"Yes, here I am, my good friend; and here I have been so long, that\nanywhere else I should think it necessary to apologise; but, the truth\nis, that I am waiting for my lord and master. He promised to join me\nhere, and pay his respects to you.\"\n\n\"What! are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr. Elton?--That will\nbe a favour indeed! for I know gentlemen do not like morning visits, and\nMr. Elton's time is so engaged.\"\n\n\"Upon my word it is, Miss Bates.--He really is engaged from morning to\nnight.--There is no end of people's coming to him, on some pretence or\nother.--The magistrates, and overseers, and churchwardens, are always\nwanting his opinion. They seem not able to do any thing without\nhim.--'Upon my word, Mr. E.,' I often say, 'rather you than I.--I do\nnot know what would become of my crayons and my instrument, if I had\nhalf so many applicants.'--Bad enough as it is, for I absolutely neglect\nthem both to an unpardonable degree.--I believe I have not played a bar\nthis fortnight.--However, he is coming, I assure you: yes, indeed, on\npurpose to wait on you all.\" And putting up her hand to screen her\nwords from Emma--\"A congratulatory visit, you know.--Oh! yes, quite\nindispensable.\"\n\nMiss Bates looked about her, so happily--!\n\n\"He promised to come to me as soon as he could disengage himself\nfrom Knightley; but he and Knightley are shut up together in deep\nconsultation.--Mr. E. is Knightley's right hand.\"\n\nEmma would not have smiled for the world, and only said, \"Is Mr. Elton\ngone on foot to Donwell?--He will have a hot walk.\"\n\n\"Oh! no, it is a meeting at the Crown, a regular meeting. Weston and\nCole will be there too; but one is apt to speak only of those who\nlead.--I fancy Mr. E. and Knightley have every thing their own way.\"\n\n\"Have not you mistaken the day?\" said Emma. \"I am almost certain that\nthe meeting at the Crown is not till to-morrow.--Mr. Knightley was at\nHartfield yesterday, and spoke of it as for Saturday.\"\n\n\"Oh! no, the meeting is certainly to-day,\" was the abrupt answer, which\ndenoted the impossibility of any blunder on Mrs. Elton's side.--\"I do\nbelieve,\" she continued, \"this is the most troublesome parish that ever\nwas. We never heard of such things at Maple Grove.\"\n\n\"Your parish there was small,\" said Jane.\n\n\"Upon my word, my dear, I do not know, for I never heard the subject\ntalked of.\"\n\n\"But it is proved by the smallness of the school, which I have heard\nyou speak of, as under the patronage of your sister and Mrs. Bragge; the\nonly school, and not more than five-and-twenty children.\"\n\n\"Ah! you clever creature, that's very true. What a thinking brain you\nhave! I say, Jane, what a perfect character you and I should make, if we\ncould be shaken together. My liveliness and your solidity would produce\nperfection.--Not that I presume to insinuate, however, that _some_\npeople may not think _you_ perfection already.--But hush!--not a word,\nif you please.\"\n\nIt seemed an unnecessary caution; Jane was wanting to give her words,\nnot to Mrs. Elton, but to Miss Woodhouse, as the latter plainly saw.\nThe wish of distinguishing her, as far as civility permitted, was very\nevident, though it could not often proceed beyond a look.\n\nMr. Elton made his appearance. His lady greeted him with some of her\nsparkling vivacity.\n\n\"Very pretty, sir, upon my word; to send me on here, to be an\nencumbrance to my friends, so long before you vouchsafe to come!--But\nyou knew what a dutiful creature you had to deal with. You knew I should\nnot stir till my lord and master appeared.--Here have I been sitting\nthis hour, giving these young ladies a sample of true conjugal\nobedience--for who can say, you know, how soon it may be wanted?\"\n\nMr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed thrown away.\nHis civilities to the other ladies must be paid; but his subsequent\nobject was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and the\nwalk he had had for nothing.\n\n\"When I got to Donwell,\" said he, \"Knightley could not be found. Very\nodd! very unaccountable! after the note I sent him this morning, and the\nmessage he returned, that he should certainly be at home till one.\"\n\n\"Donwell!\" cried his wife.--\"My dear Mr. E., you have not been to\nDonwell!--You mean the Crown; you come from the meeting at the Crown.\"\n\n\"No, no, that's to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knightley\nto-day on that very account.--Such a dreadful broiling morning!--I went\nover the fields too--(speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,) which made\nit so much the worse. And then not to find him at home! I assure you\nI am not at all pleased. And no apology left, no message for me. The\nhousekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being expected.--Very\nextraordinary!--And nobody knew at all which way he was gone. Perhaps\nto Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps into his woods.--Miss\nWoodhouse, this is not like our friend Knightley!--Can you explain it?\"\n\nEmma amused herself by protesting that it was very extraordinary,\nindeed, and that she had not a syllable to say for him.\n\n\"I cannot imagine,\" said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indignity as a wife\nought to do,) \"I cannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you, of\nall people in the world! The very last person whom one should expect to\nbe forgotten!--My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I am\nsure he must.--Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric;--and his\nservants forgot it. Depend upon it, that was the case: and very likely\nto happen with the Donwell servants, who are all, I have often observed,\nextremely awkward and remiss.--I am sure I would not have such a\ncreature as his Harry stand at our sideboard for any consideration. And\nas for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds her very cheap indeed.--She promised\nWright a receipt, and never sent it.\"\n\n\"I met William Larkins,\" continued Mr. Elton, \"as I got near the house,\nand he told me I should not find his master at home, but I did not\nbelieve him.--William seemed rather out of humour. He did not know what\nwas come to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly ever get the\nspeech of him. I have nothing to do with William's wants, but it really\nis of very great importance that _I_ should see Knightley to-day; and it\nbecomes a matter, therefore, of very serious inconvenience that I should\nhave had this hot walk to no purpose.\"\n\nEmma felt that she could not do better than go home directly. In\nall probability she was at this very time waited for there; and Mr.\nKnightley might be preserved from sinking deeper in aggression towards\nMr. Elton, if not towards William Larkins.\n\nShe was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax determined to\nattend her out of the room, to go with her even downstairs; it gave her\nan opportunity which she immediately made use of, to say,\n\n\"It is as well, perhaps, that I have not had the possibility. Had you\nnot been surrounded by other friends, I might have been tempted to\nintroduce a subject, to ask questions, to speak more openly than might\nhave been strictly correct.--I feel that I should certainly have been\nimpertinent.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" cried Jane, with a blush and an hesitation which Emma thought\ninfinitely more becoming to her than all the elegance of all her usual\ncomposure--\"there would have been no danger. The danger would have\nbeen of my wearying you. You could not have gratified me more than\nby expressing an interest--. Indeed, Miss Woodhouse, (speaking more\ncollectedly,) with the consciousness which I have of misconduct, very\ngreat misconduct, it is particularly consoling to me to know that those\nof my friends, whose good opinion is most worth preserving, are not\ndisgusted to such a degree as to--I have not time for half that I could\nwish to say. I long to make apologies, excuses, to urge something for\nmyself. I feel it so very due. But, unfortunately--in short, if your\ncompassion does not stand my friend--\"\n\n\"Oh! you are too scrupulous, indeed you are,\" cried Emma warmly, and\ntaking her hand. \"You owe me no apologies; and every body to whom you\nmight be supposed to owe them, is so perfectly satisfied, so delighted\neven--\"\n\n\"You are very kind, but I know what my manners were to you.--So\ncold and artificial!--I had always a part to act.--It was a life of\ndeceit!--I know that I must have disgusted you.\"\n\n\"Pray say no more. I feel that all the apologies should be on my side.\nLet us forgive each other at once. We must do whatever is to be done\nquickest, and I think our feelings will lose no time there. I hope you\nhave pleasant accounts from Windsor?\"\n\n\"Very.\"\n\n\"And the next news, I suppose, will be, that we are to lose you--just as\nI begin to know you.\"\n\n\"Oh! as to all that, of course nothing can be thought of yet. I am here\ntill claimed by Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.\"\n\n\"Nothing can be actually settled yet, perhaps,\" replied Emma,\nsmiling--\"but, excuse me, it must be thought of.\"\n\nThe smile was returned as Jane answered,\n\n\"You are very right; it has been thought of. And I will own to you, (I\nam sure it will be safe), that so far as our living with Mr. Churchill\nat Enscombe, it is settled. There must be three months, at least, of\ndeep mourning; but when they are over, I imagine there will be nothing\nmore to wait for.\"\n\n\"Thank you, thank you.--This is just what I wanted to be assured\nof.--Oh! if you knew how much I love every thing that is decided and\nopen!--Good-bye, good-bye.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nMrs. Weston's friends were all made happy by her safety; and if the\nsatisfaction of her well-doing could be increased to Emma, it was by\nknowing her to be the mother of a little girl. She had been decided in\nwishing for a Miss Weston. She would not acknowledge that it was with\nany view of making a match for her, hereafter, with either of Isabella's\nsons; but she was convinced that a daughter would suit both father\nand mother best. It would be a great comfort to Mr. Weston, as he grew\nolder--and even Mr. Weston might be growing older ten years hence--to\nhave his fireside enlivened by the sports and the nonsense, the freaks\nand the fancies of a child never banished from home; and Mrs. Weston--no\none could doubt that a daughter would be most to her; and it would be\nquite a pity that any one who so well knew how to teach, should not have\ntheir powers in exercise again.\n\n\"She has had the advantage, you know, of practising on me,\" she\ncontinued--\"like La Baronne d'Almane on La Comtesse d'Ostalis, in Madame\nde Genlis' Adelaide and Theodore, and we shall now see her own little\nAdelaide educated on a more perfect plan.\"\n\n\"That is,\" replied Mr. Knightley, \"she will indulge her even more than\nshe did you, and believe that she does not indulge her at all. It will\nbe the only difference.\"\n\n\"Poor child!\" cried Emma; \"at that rate, what will become of her?\"\n\n\"Nothing very bad.--The fate of thousands. She will be disagreeable\nin infancy, and correct herself as she grows older. I am losing all my\nbitterness against spoilt children, my dearest Emma. I, who am owing all\nmy happiness to _you_, would not it be horrible ingratitude in me to be\nsevere on them?\"\n\nEmma laughed, and replied: \"But I had the assistance of all your\nendeavours to counteract the indulgence of other people. I doubt whether\nmy own sense would have corrected me without it.\"\n\n\"Do you?--I have no doubt. Nature gave you understanding:--Miss Taylor\ngave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite\nas likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what\nright has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to\nfeel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did\nyou any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the\ntenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without\ndoating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors,\nhave been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least.\"\n\n\"I am sure you were of use to me,\" cried Emma. \"I was very often\ninfluenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I\nam very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be\nspoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her\nas you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is\nthirteen.\"\n\n\"How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your\nsaucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I\nmay, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I\ndid not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad\nfeelings instead of one.\"\n\n\"What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches\nin such affectionate remembrance.\"\n\n\"'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from\nhabit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want\nyou to call me something else, but I do not know what.\"\n\n\"I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about\nten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as\nyou made no objection, I never did it again.\"\n\n\"And cannot you call me 'George' now?\"\n\n\"Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I\nwill not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by\ncalling you Mr. K.--But I will promise,\" she added presently, laughing\nand blushing--\"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name.\nI do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in\nwhich N. takes M. for better, for worse.\"\n\nEmma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important\nservice which his better sense would have rendered her, to the\nadvice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly\nfollies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a\nsubject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned\nbetween them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being\nthought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy,\nand a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were\ndeclining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other\ncircumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that\nher intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on\nIsabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being\nobliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to\nthe pain of having made Harriet unhappy.\n\nIsabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be\nexpected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which\nappeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but,\nsince that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet\ndifferent from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure,\nwas no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing\nwith the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and\nhopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer;\nher fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John\nKnightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain\ntill they could bring her back.\n\n\"John does not even mention your friend,\" said Mr. Knightley. \"Here is\nhis answer, if you like to see it.\"\n\nIt was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma\naccepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know\nwhat he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her\nfriend was unmentioned.\n\n\"John enters like a brother into my happiness,\" continued Mr. Knightley,\n\"but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have,\nlikewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making\nflourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in\nher praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes.\"\n\n\"He writes like a sensible man,\" replied Emma, when she had read the\nletter. \"I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the\ngood fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not\nwithout hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as\nyou think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different\nconstruction, I should not have believed him.\"\n\n\"My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--\"\n\n\"He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two,\"\ninterrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--\"much less, perhaps, than\nhe is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the\nsubject.\"\n\n\"Emma, my dear Emma--\"\n\n\"Oh!\" she cried with more thorough gaiety, \"if you fancy your brother\ndoes not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret,\nand hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing\n_you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on\nyour side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not\nsink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards\noppressed worth can go no farther.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" he cried, \"I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as\nJohn will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be\nhappy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice\nit?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by\nsurprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the\nkind.\"\n\n\"If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having\nsome thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly\nunprepared for that.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my\nfeelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any\ndifference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at\nthis time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I\nsuppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them\nthe other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much\nas usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems\nalways tired now.'\"\n\nThe time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other\npersons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently\nrecovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that\nher gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to\nannounce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her\nfather at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr.\nKnightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have\nfailed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come\nat such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was\nforced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a\nmore decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself.\nShe must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she\ncould command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then,\nin a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be\nobtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty,\nsince it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr.\nKnightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the\nconstant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next\nto his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world.\n\nPoor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried\nearnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of\nhaving always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be\na great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella,\nand poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him\naffectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must\nnot class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them\nfrom Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not\ngoing from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing\nno change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she\nwas very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr.\nKnightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did\nhe not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did,\nshe was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr.\nKnightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters,\nwho so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached\nto him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That\nwas all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should\nbe glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it\nwas.--Why could not they go on as they had done?\n\nMr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome,\nthe idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To\nEmma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond\npraise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon\nused to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all\nthe assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest\napprobation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to\nconsider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled,\nand, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance\nof the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed\nupon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be\nguided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some\nfeelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some\ntime or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very\nbad if the marriage did take place.\n\nMrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she\nsaid to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized,\nnever more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she\nsaw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in\nurging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as\nto think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect\nso proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one\nrespect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible,\nso singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely\nhave attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself\nbeen the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it\nlong ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma\nwould have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr.\nKnightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such\nan arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr.\nWoodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for\na marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe\nand Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr.\nWeston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish\nthe subject better than by saying--\"Those matters will take care of\nthemselves; the young people will find a way.\" But here there was\nnothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was\nall right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name.\nIt was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without\none real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it.\n\nMrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections\nas these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could\nincrease her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have\noutgrown its first set of caps.\n\nThe news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston\nhad his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to\nfamiliarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages\nof the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife;\nbut the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he\nwas not far from believing that he had always foreseen it.\n\n\"It is to be a secret, I conclude,\" said he. \"These matters are always a\nsecret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be\ntold when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion.\"\n\nHe went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that\npoint. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest\ndaughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed,\nof course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately\nafterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they\nhad calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it\nwould be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening\nwonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity.\n\nIn general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and\nothers might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their\nall removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys;\nand another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet,\nupon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one\nhabitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any\nsatisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife;\nhe only hoped \"the young lady's pride would now be contented;\" and\nsupposed \"she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;\" and,\non the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, \"Rather\nhe than I!\"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--\"Poor\nKnightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him.\"--She was extremely\nconcerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good\nqualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in\nlove--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all\npleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine\nwith them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor\nfellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh!\nno; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every\nthing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that\nshe had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living\ntogether. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who\nhad tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first\nquarter.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\nTime passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would\nbe arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one\nmorning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when\nMr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the\nfirst chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began\nwith,\n\n\"I have something to tell you, Emma; some news.\"\n\n\"Good or bad?\" said she, quickly, looking up in his face.\n\n\"I do not know which it ought to be called.\"\n\n\"Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not\nto smile.\"\n\n\"I am afraid,\" said he, composing his features, \"I am very much afraid,\nmy dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it.\"\n\n\"Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases\nor amuses you, should not please and amuse me too.\"\n\n\"There is one subject,\" he replied, \"I hope but one, on which we do not\nthink alike.\" He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on\nher face. \"Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet\nSmith.\"\n\nHer cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though\nshe knew not what.\n\n\"Have you heard from her yourself this morning?\" cried he. \"You have, I\nbelieve, and know the whole.\"\n\n\"No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me.\"\n\n\"You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet\nSmith marries Robert Martin.\"\n\nEmma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes,\nin eager gaze, said, \"No, this is impossible!\" but her lips were closed.\n\n\"It is so, indeed,\" continued Mr. Knightley; \"I have it from Robert\nMartin himself. He left me not half an hour ago.\"\n\nShe was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement.\n\n\"You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were\nthe same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one\nor the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not\ntalk much on the subject.\"\n\n\"You mistake me, you quite mistake me,\" she replied, exerting herself.\n\"It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I\ncannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say,\nthat Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he\nhas even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it.\"\n\n\"I mean that he has done it,\" answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but\ndetermined decision, \"and been accepted.\"\n\n\"Good God!\" she cried.--\"Well!\"--Then having recourse to her workbasket,\nin excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite\nfeelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be\nexpressing, she added, \"Well, now tell me every thing; make this\nintelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was\nmore surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how\nhas it been possible?\"\n\n\"It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago,\nand I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send\nto John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was\nasked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were\ngoing to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our\nbrother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could\nnot resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused;\nand my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he\ndid--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an\nopportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak\nin vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is\ndeserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this\nmorning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first\non my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of\nthe how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much\nlonger history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute\nparticulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our\ncommunications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that\nRobert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing;\nand that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that\non quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John\nKnightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry;\nand that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith\nrather uneasy.\"\n\nHe stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she\nwas sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness.\nShe must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed\nhim; and after observing her a little while, he added,\n\n\"Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you\nunhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His\nsituation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your\nfriend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him\nas you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight\nyou.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend\nin better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is\nsaying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William\nLarkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin.\"\n\nHe wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not\nto smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering,\n\n\"You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think\nHarriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than\n_his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they\nare. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You\ncannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared\nI was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined\nagainst him, much more, than she was before.\"\n\n\"You ought to know your friend best,\" replied Mr. Knightley; \"but I\nshould say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be\nvery, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her.\"\n\nEmma could not help laughing as she answered, \"Upon my word, I believe\nyou know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you\nperfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him.\nI could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you\nmisunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business,\nshows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of\nso many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was\ncertain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox.\"\n\nThe contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert\nMartin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong\nwas the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's\nside, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis,\n\"No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin,\" that she was\nreally expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature.\nIt could not be otherwise.\n\n\"Do you dare say this?\" cried Mr. Knightley. \"Do you dare to suppose me\nso great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do\nyou deserve?\"\n\n\"Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with\nany other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are\nyou quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and\nHarriet now are?\"\n\n\"I am quite sure,\" he replied, speaking very distinctly, \"that he\ntold me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing\ndoubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that\nit must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew\nof no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of\nher relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done,\nthan to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he\nsaid, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day.\"\n\n\"I am perfectly satisfied,\" replied Emma, with the brightest smiles,\n\"and most sincerely wish them happy.\"\n\n\"You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before.\"\n\n\"I hope so--for at that time I was a fool.\"\n\n\"And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all\nHarriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for\nRobert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much\nin love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often\ntalked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes,\nindeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor\nMartin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations,\nI am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good\nnotions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in\nthe affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no\ndoubt, she may thank you for.\"\n\n\"Me!\" cried Emma, shaking her head.--\"Ah! poor Harriet!\"\n\nShe checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more\npraise than she deserved.\n\nTheir conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her\nfather. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a\nstate of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be\ncollected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she\nhad moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she\ncould be fit for nothing rational.\n\nHer father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the\nhorses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she\nhad, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing.\n\nThe joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be\nimagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of\nHarriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for\nsecurity.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of\nhim, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own.\nNothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility\nand circumspection in future.\n\nSerious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her\nresolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the\nvery midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the\ndoleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet!\n\nNow there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a\npleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin.\n\nHigh in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the\nreflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would\nsoon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to\npractise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him\nthat full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to\nwelcome as a duty.\n\nIn the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not\nalways listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in\nspeech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his\nbeing obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be\ndisappointed.\n\nThey arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly\nhad they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks\nfor coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the\nblind, of two figures passing near the window.\n\n\"It is Frank and Miss Fairfax,\" said Mrs. Weston. \"I was just going to\ntell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He\nstays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the\nday with us.--They are coming in, I hope.\"\n\nIn half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to\nsee him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing\nrecollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a\nconsciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all\nsat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that\nEmma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long\nfelt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane,\nwould yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the\nparty, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a\nwant of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank\nChurchill to draw near her and say,\n\n\"I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message\nin one of Mrs. Weston's letters. I hope time has not made you less\nwilling to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said.\"\n\n\"No, indeed,\" cried Emma, most happy to begin, \"not in the least. I am\nparticularly glad to see and shake hands with you--and to give you joy\nin person.\"\n\nHe thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak with\nserious feeling of his gratitude and happiness.\n\n\"Is not she looking well?\" said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.\n\"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs. Weston\ndoat upon her.\"\n\nBut his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after\nmentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of\nDixon.--Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing.\n\n\"I can never think of it,\" she cried, \"without extreme shame.\"\n\n\"The shame,\" he answered, \"is all mine, or ought to be. But is it\npossible that you had no suspicion?--I mean of late. Early, I know, you\nhad none.\"\n\n\"I never had the smallest, I assure you.\"\n\n\"That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near--and I wish I\nhad--it would have been better. But though I was always doing wrong\nthings, they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no\nservice.--It would have been a much better transgression had I broken\nthe bond of secrecy and told you every thing.\"\n\n\"It is not now worth a regret,\" said Emma.\n\n\"I have some hope,\" resumed he, \"of my uncle's being persuaded to pay a\nvisit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her. When the Campbells\nare returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue there, I trust,\ntill we may carry her northward.--But now, I am at such a distance from\nher--is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?--Till this morning, we have not\nonce met since the day of reconciliation. Do not you pity me?\"\n\nEmma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden accession of gay\nthought, he cried,\n\n\"Ah! by the bye,\" then sinking his voice, and looking demure for the\nmoment--\"I hope Mr. Knightley is well?\" He paused.--She coloured and\nlaughed.--\"I know you saw my letter, and think you may remember my wish\nin your favour. Let me return your congratulations.--I assure you that\nI have heard the news with the warmest interest and satisfaction.--He is\na man whom I cannot presume to praise.\"\n\nEmma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in the same style; but\nhis mind was the next moment in his own concerns and with his own Jane,\nand his next words were,\n\n\"Did you ever see such a skin?--such smoothness! such delicacy!--and\nyet without being actually fair.--One cannot call her fair. It is a\nmost uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair--a most\ndistinguishing complexion! So peculiarly the lady in it.--Just colour\nenough for beauty.\"\n\n\"I have always admired her complexion,\" replied Emma, archly; \"but\ndo not I remember the time when you found fault with her for being so\npale?--When we first began to talk of her.--Have you quite forgotten?\"\n\n\"Oh! no--what an impudent dog I was!--How could I dare--\"\n\nBut he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma could not help\nsaying,\n\n\"I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at that time, you\nhad very great amusement in tricking us all.--I am sure you had.--I am\nsure it was a consolation to you.\"\n\n\"Oh! no, no, no--how can you suspect me of such a thing? I was the most\nmiserable wretch!\"\n\n\"Not quite so miserable as to be insensible to mirth. I am sure it was a\nsource of high entertainment to you, to feel that you were taking us\nall in.--Perhaps I am the readier to suspect, because, to tell you the\ntruth, I think it might have been some amusement to myself in the same\nsituation. I think there is a little likeness between us.\"\n\nHe bowed.\n\n\"If not in our dispositions,\" she presently added, with a look of true\nsensibility, \"there is a likeness in our destiny; the destiny which bids\nfair to connect us with two characters so much superior to our own.\"\n\n\"True, true,\" he answered, warmly. \"No, not true on your side. You can\nhave no superior, but most true on mine.--She is a complete angel. Look\nat her. Is not she an angel in every gesture? Observe the turn of her\nthroat. Observe her eyes, as she is looking up at my father.--You will\nbe glad to hear (inclining his head, and whispering seriously) that my\nuncle means to give her all my aunt's jewels. They are to be new set.\nI am resolved to have some in an ornament for the head. Will not it be\nbeautiful in her dark hair?\"\n\n\"Very beautiful, indeed,\" replied Emma; and she spoke so kindly, that he\ngratefully burst out,\n\n\"How delighted I am to see you again! and to see you in such excellent\nlooks!--I would not have missed this meeting for the world. I should\ncertainly have called at Hartfield, had you failed to come.\"\n\nThe others had been talking of the child, Mrs. Weston giving an account\nof a little alarm she had been under, the evening before, from the\ninfant's appearing not quite well. She believed she had been foolish,\nbut it had alarmed her, and she had been within half a minute of sending\nfor Mr. Perry. Perhaps she ought to be ashamed, but Mr. Weston had been\nalmost as uneasy as herself.--In ten minutes, however, the child had\nbeen perfectly well again. This was her history; and particularly\ninteresting it was to Mr. Woodhouse, who commended her very much for\nthinking of sending for Perry, and only regretted that she had not done\nit. \"She should always send for Perry, if the child appeared in the\nslightest degree disordered, were it only for a moment. She could not be\ntoo soon alarmed, nor send for Perry too often. It was a pity, perhaps,\nthat he had not come last night; for, though the child seemed well now,\nvery well considering, it would probably have been better if Perry had\nseen it.\"\n\nFrank Churchill caught the name.\n\n\"Perry!\" said he to Emma, and trying, as he spoke, to catch Miss\nFairfax's eye. \"My friend Mr. Perry! What are they saying about Mr.\nPerry?--Has he been here this morning?--And how does he travel now?--Has\nhe set up his carriage?\"\n\nEmma soon recollected, and understood him; and while she joined in the\nlaugh, it was evident from Jane's countenance that she too was really\nhearing him, though trying to seem deaf.\n\n\"Such an extraordinary dream of mine!\" he cried. \"I can never think of\nit without laughing.--She hears us, she hears us, Miss Woodhouse. I see\nit in her cheek, her smile, her vain attempt to frown. Look at her. Do\nnot you see that, at this instant, the very passage of her own letter,\nwhich sent me the report, is passing under her eye--that the whole\nblunder is spread before her--that she can attend to nothing else,\nthough pretending to listen to the others?\"\n\nJane was forced to smile completely, for a moment; and the smile partly\nremained as she turned towards him, and said in a conscious, low, yet\nsteady voice,\n\n\"How you can bear such recollections, is astonishing to me!--They\n_will_ sometimes obtrude--but how you can court them!\"\n\nHe had a great deal to say in return, and very entertainingly; but\nEmma's feelings were chiefly with Jane, in the argument; and on leaving\nRandalls, and falling naturally into a comparison of the two men, she\nfelt, that pleased as she had been to see Frank Churchill, and really\nregarding him as she did with friendship, she had never been more\nsensible of Mr. Knightley's high superiority of character. The happiness\nof this most happy day, received its completion, in the animated\ncontemplation of his worth which this comparison produced.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\n\nIf Emma had still, at intervals, an anxious feeling for Harriet, a\nmomentary doubt of its being possible for her to be really cured of her\nattachment to Mr. Knightley, and really able to accept another man from\nunbiased inclination, it was not long that she had to suffer from the\nrecurrence of any such uncertainty. A very few days brought the party\nfrom London, and she had no sooner an opportunity of being one hour\nalone with Harriet, than she became perfectly satisfied--unaccountable\nas it was!--that Robert Martin had thoroughly supplanted Mr. Knightley,\nand was now forming all her views of happiness.\n\nHarriet was a little distressed--did look a little foolish at first:\nbut having once owned that she had been presumptuous and silly, and\nself-deceived, before, her pain and confusion seemed to die away with\nthe words, and leave her without a care for the past, and with the\nfullest exultation in the present and future; for, as to her friend's\napprobation, Emma had instantly removed every fear of that nature, by\nmeeting her with the most unqualified congratulations.--Harriet was\nmost happy to give every particular of the evening at Astley's, and the\ndinner the next day; she could dwell on it all with the utmost delight.\nBut what did such particulars explain?--The fact was, as Emma could now\nacknowledge, that Harriet had always liked Robert Martin; and that his\ncontinuing to love her had been irresistible.--Beyond this, it must ever\nbe unintelligible to Emma.\n\nThe event, however, was most joyful; and every day was giving her fresh\nreason for thinking so.--Harriet's parentage became known. She proved\nto be the daughter of a tradesman, rich enough to afford her the\ncomfortable maintenance which had ever been hers, and decent enough to\nhave always wished for concealment.--Such was the blood of gentility\nwhich Emma had formerly been so ready to vouch for!--It was likely to\nbe as untainted, perhaps, as the blood of many a gentleman: but what\na connexion had she been preparing for Mr. Knightley--or for the\nChurchills--or even for Mr. Elton!--The stain of illegitimacy,\nunbleached by nobility or wealth, would have been a stain indeed.\n\nNo objection was raised on the father's side; the young man was treated\nliberally; it was all as it should be: and as Emma became acquainted\nwith Robert Martin, who was now introduced at Hartfield, she fully\nacknowledged in him all the appearance of sense and worth which could\nbid fairest for her little friend. She had no doubt of Harriet's\nhappiness with any good-tempered man; but with him, and in the home he\noffered, there would be the hope of more, of security, stability, and\nimprovement. She would be placed in the midst of those who loved her,\nand who had better sense than herself; retired enough for safety,\nand occupied enough for cheerfulness. She would be never led into\ntemptation, nor left for it to find her out. She would be respectable\nand happy; and Emma admitted her to be the luckiest creature in the\nworld, to have created so steady and persevering an affection in such a\nman;--or, if not quite the luckiest, to yield only to herself.\n\nHarriet, necessarily drawn away by her engagements with the Martins,\nwas less and less at Hartfield; which was not to be regretted.--The\nintimacy between her and Emma must sink; their friendship must change\ninto a calmer sort of goodwill; and, fortunately, what ought to be,\nand must be, seemed already beginning, and in the most gradual, natural\nmanner.\n\nBefore the end of September, Emma attended Harriet to church, and saw\nher hand bestowed on Robert Martin with so complete a satisfaction, as\nno remembrances, even connected with Mr. Elton as he stood before them,\ncould impair.--Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely saw Mr. Elton,\nbut as the clergyman whose blessing at the altar might next fall on\nherself.--Robert Martin and Harriet Smith, the latest couple engaged of\nthe three, were the first to be married.\n\nJane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was restored to the\ncomforts of her beloved home with the Campbells.--The Mr. Churchills\nwere also in town; and they were only waiting for November.\n\nThe intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as they dared, by\nEmma and Mr. Knightley.--They had determined that their marriage ought\nto be concluded while John and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to\nallow them the fortnight's absence in a tour to the seaside, which was\nthe plan.--John and Isabella, and every other friend, were agreed in\napproving it. But Mr. Woodhouse--how was Mr. Woodhouse to be induced\nto consent?--he, who had never yet alluded to their marriage but as a\ndistant event.\n\nWhen first sounded on the subject, he was so miserable, that they were\nalmost hopeless.--A second allusion, indeed, gave less pain.--He\nbegan to think it was to be, and that he could not prevent it--a very\npromising step of the mind on its way to resignation. Still, however, he\nwas not happy. Nay, he appeared so much otherwise, that his daughter's\ncourage failed. She could not bear to see him suffering, to know\nhim fancying himself neglected; and though her understanding almost\nacquiesced in the assurance of both the Mr. Knightleys, that when\nonce the event were over, his distress would be soon over too, she\nhesitated--she could not proceed.\n\nIn this state of suspense they were befriended, not by any sudden\nillumination of Mr. Woodhouse's mind, or any wonderful change of his\nnervous system, but by the operation of the same system in another\nway.--Mrs. Weston's poultry-house was robbed one night of all her\nturkeys--evidently by the ingenuity of man. Other poultry-yards in\nthe neighbourhood also suffered.--Pilfering was _housebreaking_ to Mr.\nWoodhouse's fears.--He was very uneasy; and but for the sense of his\nson-in-law's protection, would have been under wretched alarm every\nnight of his life. The strength, resolution, and presence of mind of the\nMr. Knightleys, commanded his fullest dependence. While either of them\nprotected him and his, Hartfield was safe.--But Mr. John Knightley must\nbe in London again by the end of the first week in November.\n\nThe result of this distress was, that, with a much more voluntary,\ncheerful consent than his daughter had ever presumed to hope for at the\nmoment, she was able to fix her wedding-day--and Mr. Elton was called\non, within a month from the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin, to\njoin the hands of Mr. Knightley and Miss Woodhouse.\n\nThe wedding was very much like other weddings, where the parties have\nno taste for finery or parade; and Mrs. Elton, from the particulars\ndetailed by her husband, thought it all extremely shabby, and very\ninferior to her own.--\"Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a\nmost pitiful business!--Selina would stare when she heard of it.\"--But,\nin spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence,\nthe predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the\nceremony, were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union.\n\n\n\nFINIS\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLADY SUSAN\n\nby Jane Austen\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nLADY SUSAN VERNON TO MR. VERNON\n\n\nLangford, Dec.\n\nMY DEAR BROTHER,--I can no longer refuse myself the pleasure of\nprofiting by your kind invitation when we last parted of spending some\nweeks with you at Churchhill, and, therefore, if quite convenient to you\nand Mrs. Vernon to receive me at present, I shall hope within a few\ndays to be introduced to a sister whom I have so long desired to be\nacquainted with. My kind friends here are most affectionately\nurgent with me to prolong my stay, but their hospitable and cheerful\ndispositions lead them too much into society for my present situation\nand state of mind; and I impatiently look forward to the hour when I\nshall be admitted into Your delightful retirement.\n\nI long to be made known to your dear little children, in whose hearts I\nshall be very eager to secure an interest I shall soon have need for all\nmy fortitude, as I am on the point of separation from my own daughter.\nThe long illness of her dear father prevented my paying her that\nattention which duty and affection equally dictated, and I have too\nmuch reason to fear that the governess to whose care I consigned her was\nunequal to the charge. I have therefore resolved on placing her at one\nof the best private schools in town, where I shall have an opportunity\nof leaving her myself in my way to you. I am determined, you see, not to\nbe denied admittance at Churchhill. It would indeed give me most painful\nsensations to know that it were not in your power to receive me.\n\nYour most obliged and affectionate sister,\n\nS. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nLADY SUSAN VERNON TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nLangford.\n\n\nYou were mistaken, my dear Alicia, in supposing me fixed at this place\nfor the rest of the winter: it grieves me to say how greatly you were\nmistaken, for I have seldom spent three months more agreeably than\nthose which have just flown away. At present, nothing goes smoothly; the\nfemales of the family are united against me. You foretold how it would\nbe when I first came to Langford, and Mainwaring is so uncommonly\npleasing that I was not without apprehensions for myself. I remember\nsaying to myself, as I drove to the house, \"I like this man, pray Heaven\nno harm come of it!\" But I was determined to be discreet, to bear in\nmind my being only four months a widow, and to be as quiet as possible:\nand I have been so, my dear creature; I have admitted no one's\nattentions but Mainwaring's. I have avoided all general flirtation\nwhatever; I have distinguished no creature besides, of all the numbers\nresorting hither, except Sir James Martin, on whom I bestowed a little\nnotice, in order to detach him from Miss Mainwaring; but, if the world\ncould know my motive THERE they would honour me. I have been called an\nunkind mother, but it was the sacred impulse of maternal affection, it\nwas the advantage of my daughter that led me on; and if that daughter\nwere not the greatest simpleton on earth, I might have been rewarded for\nmy exertions as I ought.\n\nSir James did make proposals to me for Frederica; but Frederica, who\nwas born to be the torment of my life, chose to set herself so violently\nagainst the match that I thought it better to lay aside the scheme for\nthe present. I have more than once repented that I did not marry him\nmyself; and were he but one degree less contemptibly weak I certainly\nshould: but I must own myself rather romantic in that respect, and\nthat riches only will not satisfy me. The event of all this is very\nprovoking: Sir James is gone, Maria highly incensed, and Mrs. Mainwaring\ninsupportably jealous; so jealous, in short, and so enraged against\nme, that, in the fury of her temper, I should not be surprized at her\nappealing to her guardian, if she had the liberty of addressing him:\nbut there your husband stands my friend; and the kindest, most amiable\naction of his life was his throwing her off for ever on her marriage.\nKeep up his resentment, therefore, I charge you. We are now in a sad\nstate; no house was ever more altered; the whole party are at war, and\nMainwaring scarcely dares speak to me. It is time for me to be gone; I\nhave therefore determined on leaving them, and shall spend, I hope, a\ncomfortable day with you in town within this week. If I am as little\nin favour with Mr. Johnson as ever, you must come to me at 10 Wigmore\nstreet; but I hope this may not be the case, for as Mr. Johnson, with\nall his faults, is a man to whom that great word \"respectable\" is always\ngiven, and I am known to be so intimate with his wife, his slighting me\nhas an awkward look.\n\nI take London in my way to that insupportable spot, a country village;\nfor I am really going to Churchhill. Forgive me, my dear friend, it is\nmy last resource. Were there another place in England open to me I would\nprefer it. Charles Vernon is my aversion; and I am afraid of his wife.\nAt Churchhill, however, I must remain till I have something better in\nview. My young lady accompanies me to town, where I shall deposit her\nunder the care of Miss Summers, in Wigmore street, till she becomes a\nlittle more reasonable. She will made good connections there, as the\ngirls are all of the best families. The price is immense, and much\nbeyond what I can ever attempt to pay.\n\nAdieu, I will send you a line as soon as I arrive in town.\n\nYours ever,\n\nS. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nMRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nMy dear Mother,--I am very sorry to tell you that it will not be in our\npower to keep our promise of spending our Christmas with you; and we are\nprevented that happiness by a circumstance which is not likely to\nmake us any amends. Lady Susan, in a letter to her brother-in-law, has\ndeclared her intention of visiting us almost immediately; and as such\na visit is in all probability merely an affair of convenience, it is\nimpossible to conjecture its length. I was by no means prepared for such\nan event, nor can I now account for her ladyship's conduct; Langford\nappeared so exactly the place for her in every respect, as well from\nthe elegant and expensive style of living there, as from her particular\nattachment to Mr. Mainwaring, that I was very far from expecting so\nspeedy a distinction, though I always imagined from her increasing\nfriendship for us since her husband's death that we should, at some\nfuture period, be obliged to receive her. Mr. Vernon, I think, was a\ngreat deal too kind to her when he was in Staffordshire; her behaviour\nto him, independent of her general character, has been so inexcusably\nartful and ungenerous since our marriage was first in agitation that no\none less amiable and mild than himself could have overlooked it all;\nand though, as his brother's widow, and in narrow circumstances, it was\nproper to render her pecuniary assistance, I cannot help thinking\nhis pressing invitation to her to visit us at Churchhill perfectly\nunnecessary. Disposed, however, as he always is to think the best of\neveryone, her display of grief, and professions of regret, and general\nresolutions of prudence, were sufficient to soften his heart and make\nhim really confide in her sincerity; but, as for myself, I am still\nunconvinced, and plausibly as her ladyship has now written, I cannot\nmake up my mind till I better understand her real meaning in coming to\nus. You may guess, therefore, my dear madam, with what feelings I look\nforward to her arrival. She will have occasion for all those attractive\npowers for which she is celebrated to gain any share of my regard; and\nI shall certainly endeavour to guard myself against their influence,\nif not accompanied by something more substantial. She expresses a\nmost eager desire of being acquainted with me, and makes very gracious\nmention of my children but I am not quite weak enough to suppose a woman\nwho has behaved with inattention, if not with unkindness, to her own\nchild, should be attached to any of mine. Miss Vernon is to be placed at\na school in London before her mother comes to us which I am glad of, for\nher sake and my own. It must be to her advantage to be separated from\nher mother, and a girl of sixteen who has received so wretched an\neducation, could not be a very desirable companion here. Reginald has\nlong wished, I know, to see the captivating Lady Susan, and we shall\ndepend on his joining our party soon. I am glad to hear that my father\ncontinues so well; and am, with best love, &c.,\n\nCATHERINE VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nMR. DE COURCY TO MRS. VERNON\n\n\nParklands.\n\n\nMy dear Sister,--I congratulate you and Mr. Vernon on being about to\nreceive into your family the most accomplished coquette in England. As a\nvery distinguished flirt I have always been taught to consider her, but\nit has lately fallen In my way to hear some particulars of her conduct\nat Langford: which prove that she does not confine herself to that sort\nof honest flirtation which satisfies most people, but aspires to the\nmore delicious gratification of making a whole family miserable. By her\nbehaviour to Mr. Mainwaring she gave jealousy and wretchedness to his\nwife, and by her attentions to a young man previously attached to Mr.\nMainwaring's sister deprived an amiable girl of her lover.\n\nI learnt all this from Mr. Smith, now in this neighbourhood (I have\ndined with him, at Hurst and Wilford), who is just come from Langford\nwhere he was a fortnight with her ladyship, and who is therefore well\nqualified to make the communication.\n\nWhat a woman she must be! I long to see her, and shall certainly accept\nyour kind invitation, that I may form some idea of those bewitching\npowers which can do so much--engaging at the same time, and in the same\nhouse, the affections of two men, who were neither of them at liberty to\nbestow them--and all this without the charm of youth! I am glad to find\nMiss Vernon does not accompany her mother to Churchhill, as she has not\neven manners to recommend her; and, according to Mr. Smith's account, is\nequally dull and proud. Where pride and stupidity unite there can be\nno dissimulation worthy notice, and Miss Vernon shall be consigned to\nunrelenting contempt; but by all that I can gather Lady Susan possesses\na degree of captivating deceit which it must be pleasing to witness and\ndetect. I shall be with you very soon, and am ever,\n\nYour affectionate brother,\n\nR. DE COURCY.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\n\nLADY SUSAN VERNON TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nI received your note, my dear Alicia, just before I left town, and\nrejoice to be assured that Mr. Johnson suspected nothing of your\nengagement the evening before. It is undoubtedly better to deceive him\nentirely, and since he will be stubborn he must be tricked. I arrived\nhere in safety, and have no reason to complain of my reception from Mr.\nVernon; but I confess myself not equally satisfied with the behaviour of\nhis lady. She is perfectly well-bred, indeed, and has the air of a woman\nof fashion, but her manners are not such as can persuade me of her being\nprepossessed in my favour. I wanted her to be delighted at seeing me.\nI was as amiable as possible on the occasion, but all in vain. She does\nnot like me. To be sure when we consider that I DID take some pains to\nprevent my brother-in-law's marrying her, this want of cordiality is not\nvery surprizing, and yet it shows an illiberal and vindictive spirit\nto resent a project which influenced me six years ago, and which never\nsucceeded at last.\n\nI am sometimes disposed to repent that I did not let Charles buy\nVernon Castle, when we were obliged to sell it; but it was a trying\ncircumstance, especially as the sale took place exactly at the time\nof his marriage; and everybody ought to respect the delicacy of those\nfeelings which could not endure that my husband's dignity should be\nlessened by his younger brother's having possession of the family\nestate. Could matters have been so arranged as to prevent the necessity\nof our leaving the castle, could we have lived with Charles and kept\nhim single, I should have been very far from persuading my husband to\ndispose of it elsewhere; but Charles was on the point of marrying\nMiss De Courcy, and the event has justified me. Here are children in\nabundance, and what benefit could have accrued to me from his purchasing\nVernon? My having prevented it may perhaps have given his wife an\nunfavourable impression, but where there is a disposition to dislike,\na motive will never be wanting; and as to money matters it has not\nwithheld him from being very useful to me. I really have a regard\nfor him, he is so easily imposed upon! The house is a good one, the\nfurniture fashionable, and everything announces plenty and elegance.\nCharles is very rich I am sure; when a man has once got his name in a\nbanking-house he rolls in money; but they do not know what to do with\nit, keep very little company, and never go to London but on business. We\nshall be as stupid as possible. I mean to win my sister-in-law's heart\nthrough the children; I know all their names already, and am going to\nattach myself with the greatest sensibility to one in particular, a\nyoung Frederic, whom I take on my lap and sigh over for his dear uncle's\nsake.\n\nPoor Mainwaring! I need not tell you how much I miss him, how\nperpetually he is in my thoughts. I found a dismal letter from him on\nmy arrival here, full of complaints of his wife and sister, and\nlamentations on the cruelty of his fate. I passed off the letter as his\nwife's, to the Vernons, and when I write to him it must be under cover\nto you.\n\nEver yours, S. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n\nMRS. VERNON TO MR. DE COURCY\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nWell, my dear Reginald, I have seen this dangerous creature, and must\ngive you some description of her, though I hope you will soon be able to\nform your own judgment she is really excessively pretty; however you may\nchoose to question the allurements of a lady no longer young, I must,\nfor my own part, declare that I have seldom seen so lovely a woman\nas Lady Susan. She is delicately fair, with fine grey eyes and dark\neyelashes; and from her appearance one would not suppose her more than\nfive and twenty, though she must in fact be ten years older, I was\ncertainly not disposed to admire her, though always hearing she was\nbeautiful; but I cannot help feeling that she possesses an uncommon\nunion of symmetry, brilliancy, and grace. Her address to me was so\ngentle, frank, and even affectionate, that, if I had not known how much\nshe has always disliked me for marrying Mr. Vernon, and that we had\nnever met before, I should have imagined her an attached friend. One\nis apt, I believe, to connect assurance of manner with coquetry, and to\nexpect that an impudent address will naturally attend an impudent mind;\nat least I was myself prepared for an improper degree of confidence in\nLady Susan; but her countenance is absolutely sweet, and her voice and\nmanner winningly mild. I am sorry it is so, for what is this but deceit?\nUnfortunately, one knows her too well. She is clever and agreeable, has\nall that knowledge of the world which makes conversation easy, and talks\nvery well, with a happy command of language, which is too often used, I\nbelieve, to make black appear white. She has already almost persuaded me\nof her being warmly attached to her daughter, though I have been so long\nconvinced to the contrary. She speaks of her with so much tenderness and\nanxiety, lamenting so bitterly the neglect of her education, which she\nrepresents however as wholly unavoidable, that I am forced to recollect\nhow many successive springs her ladyship spent in town, while her\ndaughter was left in Staffordshire to the care of servants, or a\ngoverness very little better, to prevent my believing what she says.\n\nIf her manners have so great an influence on my resentful heart, you\nmay judge how much more strongly they operate on Mr. Vernon's generous\ntemper. I wish I could be as well satisfied as he is, that it was really\nher choice to leave Langford for Churchhill; and if she had not stayed\nthere for months before she discovered that her friend's manner of\nliving did not suit her situation or feelings, I might have believed\nthat concern for the loss of such a husband as Mr. Vernon, to whom her\nown behaviour was far from unexceptionable, might for a time make her\nwish for retirement. But I cannot forget the length of her visit to the\nMainwarings, and when I reflect on the different mode of life which she\nled with them from that to which she must now submit, I can only suppose\nthat the wish of establishing her reputation by following though late\nthe path of propriety, occasioned her removal from a family where she\nmust in reality have been particularly happy. Your friend Mr. Smith's\nstory, however, cannot be quite correct, as she corresponds regularly\nwith Mrs. Mainwaring. At any rate it must be exaggerated. It is scarcely\npossible that two men should be so grossly deceived by her at once.\n\nYours, &c.,\n\nCATHERINE VERNON\n\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\n\nLADY SUSAN VERNON TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nMy dear Alicia,--You are very good in taking notice of Frederica, and\nI am grateful for it as a mark of your friendship; but as I cannot have\nany doubt of the warmth of your affection, I am far from exacting so\nheavy a sacrifice. She is a stupid girl, and has nothing to recommend\nher. I would not, therefore, on my account, have you encumber one moment\nof your precious time by sending for her to Edward Street, especially\nas every visit is so much deducted from the grand affair of education,\nwhich I really wish to have attended to while she remains at Miss\nSummers's. I want her to play and sing with some portion of taste and\na good deal of assurance, as she has my hand and arm and a tolerable\nvoice. I was so much indulged in my infant years that I was never\nobliged to attend to anything, and consequently am without the\naccomplishments which are now necessary to finish a pretty woman. Not\nthat I am an advocate for the prevailing fashion of acquiring a perfect\nknowledge of all languages, arts, and sciences. It is throwing time\naway to be mistress of French, Italian, and German: music, singing,\nand drawing, &c., will gain a woman some applause, but will not add\none lover to her list--grace and manner, after all, are of the greatest\nimportance. I do not mean, therefore, that Frederica's acquirements\nshould be more than superficial, and I flatter myself that she will not\nremain long enough at school to understand anything thoroughly. I hope\nto see her the wife of Sir James within a twelvemonth. You know on what\nI ground my hope, and it is certainly a good foundation, for school must\nbe very humiliating to a girl of Frederica's age. And, by-the-by, you\nhad better not invite her any more on that account, as I wish her to\nfind her situation as unpleasant as possible. I am sure of Sir James at\nany time, and could make him renew his application by a line. I shall\ntrouble you meanwhile to prevent his forming any other attachment when\nhe comes to town. Ask him to your house occasionally, and talk to him of\nFrederica, that he may not forget her. Upon the whole, I commend my own\nconduct in this affair extremely, and regard it as a very happy instance\nof circumspection and tenderness. Some mothers would have insisted on\ntheir daughter's accepting so good an offer on the first overture; but I\ncould not reconcile it to myself to force Frederica into a marriage from\nwhich her heart revolted, and instead of adopting so harsh a measure\nmerely propose to make it her own choice, by rendering her thoroughly\nuncomfortable till she does accept him--but enough of this tiresome\ngirl. You may well wonder how I contrive to pass my time here, and for\nthe first week it was insufferably dull. Now, however, we begin to mend,\nour party is enlarged by Mrs. Vernon's brother, a handsome young man,\nwho promises me some amusement. There is something about him which\nrather interests me, a sort of sauciness and familiarity which I shall\nteach him to correct. He is lively, and seems clever, and when I have\ninspired him with greater respect for me than his sister's kind offices\nhave implanted, he may be an agreeable flirt. There is exquisite\npleasure in subduing an insolent spirit, in making a person\npredetermined to dislike acknowledge one's superiority. I have\ndisconcerted him already by my calm reserve, and it shall be my\nendeavour to humble the pride of these self important De Courcys still\nlower, to convince Mrs. Vernon that her sisterly cautions have been\nbestowed in vain, and to persuade Reginald that she has scandalously\nbelied me. This project will serve at least to amuse me, and prevent\nmy feeling so acutely this dreadful separation from you and all whom I\nlove.\n\nYours ever,\n\nS. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\n\nMRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nMy dear Mother,--You must not expect Reginald back again for some time.\nHe desires me to tell you that the present open weather induces him to\naccept Mr. Vernon's invitation to prolong his stay in Sussex, that\nthey may have some hunting together. He means to send for his horses\nimmediately, and it is impossible to say when you may see him in Kent. I\nwill not disguise my sentiments on this change from you, my dear mother,\nthough I think you had better not communicate them to my father, whose\nexcessive anxiety about Reginald would subject him to an alarm which\nmight seriously affect his health and spirits. Lady Susan has certainly\ncontrived, in the space of a fortnight, to make my brother like her.\nIn short, I am persuaded that his continuing here beyond the time\noriginally fixed for his return is occasioned as much by a degree of\nfascination towards her, as by the wish of hunting with Mr. Vernon, and\nof course I cannot receive that pleasure from the length of his visit\nwhich my brother's company would otherwise give me. I am, indeed,\nprovoked at the artifice of this unprincipled woman; what stronger\nproof of her dangerous abilities can be given than this perversion of\nReginald's judgment, which when he entered the house was so decidedly\nagainst her! In his last letter he actually gave me some particulars of\nher behaviour at Langford, such as he received from a gentleman who knew\nher perfectly well, which, if true, must raise abhorrence against her,\nand which Reginald himself was entirely disposed to credit. His opinion\nof her, I am sure, was as low as of any woman in England; and when he\nfirst came it was evident that he considered her as one entitled neither\nto delicacy nor respect, and that he felt she would be delighted with\nthe attentions of any man inclined to flirt with her. Her behaviour, I\nconfess, has been calculated to do away with such an idea; I have\nnot detected the smallest impropriety in it--nothing of vanity, of\npretension, of levity; and she is altogether so attractive that I should\nnot wonder at his being delighted with her, had he known nothing of her\nprevious to this personal acquaintance; but, against reason, against\nconviction, to be so well pleased with her, as I am sure he is, does\nreally astonish me. His admiration was at first very strong, but no more\nthan was natural, and I did not wonder at his being much struck by the\ngentleness and delicacy of her manners; but when he has mentioned her of\nlate it has been in terms of more extraordinary praise; and yesterday he\nactually said that he could not be surprised at any effect produced\non the heart of man by such loveliness and such abilities; and when I\nlamented, in reply, the badness of her disposition, he observed that\nwhatever might have been her errors they were to be imputed to her\nneglected education and early marriage, and that she was altogether a\nwonderful woman. This tendency to excuse her conduct or to forget it, in\nthe warmth of admiration, vexes me; and if I did not know that Reginald\nis too much at home at Churchhill to need an invitation for lengthening\nhis visit, I should regret Mr. Vernon's giving him any. Lady Susan's\nintentions are of course those of absolute coquetry, or a desire\nof universal admiration; I cannot for a moment imagine that she has\nanything more serious in view; but it mortifies me to see a young man of\nReginald's sense duped by her at all.\n\nI am, &c.,\n\nCATHERINE VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\n\nMRS. JOHNSON TO LADY S. VERNON\n\n\nEdward Street.\n\n\nMy dearest Friend,--I congratulate you on Mr. De Courcy's arrival, and\nI advise you by all means to marry him; his father's estate is, we know,\nconsiderable, and I believe certainly entailed. Sir Reginald is very\ninfirm, and not likely to stand in your way long. I hear the young man\nwell spoken of; and though no one can really deserve you, my dearest\nSusan, Mr. De Courcy may be worth having. Mainwaring will storm of\ncourse, but you easily pacify him; besides, the most scrupulous point of\nhonour could not require you to wait for HIS emancipation. I have seen\nSir James; he came to town for a few days last week, and called several\ntimes in Edward Street. I talked to him about you and your daughter, and\nhe is so far from having forgotten you, that I am sure he would marry\neither of you with pleasure. I gave him hopes of Frederica's relenting,\nand told him a great deal of her improvements. I scolded him for making\nlove to Maria Mainwaring; he protested that he had been only in joke,\nand we both laughed heartily at her disappointment; and, in short, were\nvery agreeable. He is as silly as ever.\n\nYours faithfully,\n\nALICIA.\n\n\n\n\n\nX\n\n\nLADY SUSAN VERNON TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nI am much obliged to you, my dear Friend, for your advice respecting\nMr. De Courcy, which I know was given with the full conviction of its\nexpediency, though I am not quite determined on following it. I cannot\neasily resolve on anything so serious as marriage; especially as I\nam not at present in want of money, and might perhaps, till the old\ngentleman's death, be very little benefited by the match. It is true\nthat I am vain enough to believe it within my reach. I have made him\nsensible of my power, and can now enjoy the pleasure of triumphing\nover a mind prepared to dislike me, and prejudiced against all my\npast actions. His sister, too, is, I hope, convinced how little the\nungenerous representations of anyone to the disadvantage of another will\navail when opposed by the immediate influence of intellect and manner. I\nsee plainly that she is uneasy at my progress in the good opinion of\nher brother, and conclude that nothing will be wanting on her part to\ncounteract me; but having once made him doubt the justice of her opinion\nof me, I think I may defy, her. It has been delightful to me to watch\nhis advances towards intimacy, especially to observe his altered manner\nin consequence of my repressing by the cool dignity of my deportment\nhis insolent approach to direct familiarity. My conduct has been equally\nguarded from the first, and I never behaved less like a coquette in the\nwhole course of my life, though perhaps my desire of dominion was never\nmore decided. I have subdued him entirely by sentiment and serious\nconversation, and made him, I may venture to say, at least half in love\nwith me, without the semblance of the most commonplace flirtation. Mrs.\nVernon's consciousness of deserving every sort of revenge that it can\nbe in my power to inflict for her ill-offices could alone enable her\nto perceive that I am actuated by any design in behaviour so gentle\nand unpretending. Let her think and act as she chooses, however. I have\nnever yet found that the advice of a sister could prevent a young\nman's being in love if he chose. We are advancing now to some kind of\nconfidence, and in short are likely to be engaged in a sort of platonic\nfriendship. On my side you may be sure of its never being more, for if\nI were not attached to another person as much as I can be to anyone, I\nshould make a point of not bestowing my affection on a man who had dared\nto think so meanly of me. Reginald has a good figure and is not unworthy\nthe praise you have heard given him, but is still greatly inferior\nto our friend at Langford. He is less polished, less insinuating than\nMainwaring, and is comparatively deficient in the power of saying those\ndelightful things which put one in good humour with oneself and all the\nworld. He is quite agreeable enough, however, to afford me amusement,\nand to make many of those hours pass very pleasantly which would\notherwise be spent in endeavouring to overcome my sister-in-law's\nreserve, and listening to the insipid talk of her husband. Your account\nof Sir James is most satisfactory, and I mean to give Miss Frederica a\nhint of my intentions very soon.\n\nYours, &c.,\n\nS. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXI\n\n\nMRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY\n\n\nChurchhill\n\n\nI really grow quite uneasy, my dearest mother, about Reginald, from\nwitnessing the very rapid increase of Lady Susan's influence. They are\nnow on terms of the most particular friendship, frequently engaged in\nlong conversations together; and she has contrived by the most artful\ncoquetry to subdue his judgment to her own purposes. It is impossible\nto see the intimacy between them so very soon established without some\nalarm, though I can hardly suppose that Lady Susan's plans extend to\nmarriage. I wish you could get Reginald home again on any plausible\npretence; he is not at all disposed to leave us, and I have given him as\nmany hints of my father's precarious state of health as common decency\nwill allow me to do in my own house. Her power over him must now be\nboundless, as she has entirely effaced all his former ill-opinion,\nand persuaded him not merely to forget but to justify her conduct. Mr.\nSmith's account of her proceedings at Langford, where he accused her of\nhaving made Mr. Mainwaring and a young man engaged to Miss Mainwaring\ndistractedly in love with her, which Reginald firmly believed when he\ncame here, is now, he is persuaded, only a scandalous invention. He\nhas told me so with a warmth of manner which spoke his regret at having\nbelieved the contrary himself. How sincerely do I grieve that she\never entered this house! I always looked forward to her coming with\nuneasiness; but very far was it from originating in anxiety for\nReginald. I expected a most disagreeable companion for myself, but could\nnot imagine that my brother would be in the smallest danger of being\ncaptivated by a woman with whose principles he was so well acquainted,\nand whose character he so heartily despised. If you can get him away it\nwill be a good thing.\n\nYours, &c.,\n\nCATHERINE VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXII\n\n\nSIR REGINALD DE COURCY TO HIS SON\n\n\nParklands.\n\n\nI know that young men in general do not admit of any enquiry even from\ntheir nearest relations into affairs of the heart, but I hope, my dear\nReginald, that you will be superior to such as allow nothing for a\nfather's anxiety, and think themselves privileged to refuse him their\nconfidence and slight his advice. You must be sensible that as an only\nson, and the representative of an ancient family, your conduct in life\nis most interesting to your connections; and in the very important\nconcern of marriage especially, there is everything at stake--your own\nhappiness, that of your parents, and the credit of your name. I do not\nsuppose that you would deliberately form an absolute engagement of that\nnature without acquainting your mother and myself, or at least, without\nbeing convinced that we should approve of your choice; but I cannot help\nfearing that you may be drawn in, by the lady who has lately attached\nyou, to a marriage which the whole of your family, far and near, must\nhighly reprobate. Lady Susan's age is itself a material objection, but\nher want of character is one so much more serious, that the difference\nof even twelve years becomes in comparison of small amount. Were you not\nblinded by a sort of fascination, it would be ridiculous in me to repeat\nthe instances of great misconduct on her side so very generally known.\n\nHer neglect of her husband, her encouragement of other men, her\nextravagance and dissipation, were so gross and notorious that no one\ncould be ignorant of them at the time, nor can now have forgotten them.\nTo our family she has always been represented in softened colours by\nthe benevolence of Mr. Charles Vernon, and yet, in spite of his generous\nendeavours to excuse her, we know that she did, from the most selfish\nmotives, take all possible pains to prevent his marriage with Catherine.\n\nMy years and increasing infirmities make me very desirous of seeing you\nsettled in the world. To the fortune of a wife, the goodness of my own\nwill make me indifferent, but her family and character must be equally\nunexceptionable. When your choice is fixed so that no objection can be\nmade to it, then I can promise you a ready and cheerful consent; but it\nis my duty to oppose a match which deep art only could render possible,\nand must in the end make wretched. It is possible her behaviour may\narise only from vanity, or the wish of gaining the admiration of a man\nwhom she must imagine to be particularly prejudiced against her; but it\nis more likely that she should aim at something further. She is poor,\nand may naturally seek an alliance which must be advantageous to\nherself; you know your own rights, and that it is out of my power to\nprevent your inheriting the family estate. My ability of distressing\nyou during my life would be a species of revenge to which I could hardly\nstoop under any circumstances.\n\nI honestly tell you my sentiments and intentions: I do not wish to work\non your fears, but on your sense and affection. It would destroy every\ncomfort of my life to know that you were married to Lady Susan Vernon;\nit would be the death of that honest pride with which I have hitherto\nconsidered my son; I should blush to see him, to hear of him, to think\nof him. I may perhaps do no good but that of relieving my own mind by\nthis letter, but I felt it my duty to tell you that your partiality for\nLady Susan is no secret to your friends, and to warn you against her.\nI should be glad to hear your reasons for disbelieving Mr. Smith's\nintelligence; you had no doubt of its authenticity a month ago. If\nyou can give me your assurance of having no design beyond enjoying\nthe conversation of a clever woman for a short period, and of yielding\nadmiration only to her beauty and abilities, without being blinded by\nthem to her faults, you will restore me to happiness; but, if you cannot\ndo this, explain to me, at least, what has occasioned so great an\nalteration in your opinion of her.\n\nI am, &c., &c,\n\nREGINALD DE COURCY\n\n\n\n\n\nXIII\n\n\nLADY DE COURCY TO MRS. VERNON\n\n\nParklands.\n\n\nMy dear Catherine,--Unluckily I was confined to my room when your last\nletter came, by a cold which affected my eyes so much as to prevent my\nreading it myself, so I could not refuse Your father when he offered\nto read it to me, by which means he became acquainted, to my great\nvexation, with all your fears about your brother. I had intended to\nwrite to Reginald myself as soon as my eyes would let me, to point out,\nas well as I could, the danger of an intimate acquaintance, with so\nartful a woman as Lady Susan, to a young man of his age, and high\nexpectations. I meant, moreover, to have reminded him of our being quite\nalone now, and very much in need of him to keep up our spirits these\nlong winter evenings. Whether it would have done any good can never be\nsettled now, but I am excessively vexed that Sir Reginald should know\nanything of a matter which we foresaw would make him so uneasy. He\ncaught all your fears the moment he had read your letter, and I am sure\nhe has not had the business out of his head since. He wrote by the same\npost to Reginald a long letter full of it all, and particularly asking\nan explanation of what he may have heard from Lady Susan to contradict\nthe late shocking reports. His answer came this morning, which I shall\nenclose to you, as I think you will like to see it. I wish it was more\nsatisfactory; but it seems written with such a determination to think\nwell of Lady Susan, that his assurances as to marriage, &c., do not set\nmy heart at ease. I say all I can, however, to satisfy your father, and\nhe is certainly less uneasy since Reginald's letter. How provoking it\nis, my dear Catherine, that this unwelcome guest of yours should not\nonly prevent our meeting this Christmas, but be the occasion of so much\nvexation and trouble! Kiss the dear children for me.\n\nYour affectionate mother,\n\nC. DE COURCY.\n\n\n\n\n\nXIV\n\n\nMR. DE COURCY TO SIR REGINALD\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nMy dear Sir,--I have this moment received your letter, which has given\nme more astonishment than I ever felt before. I am to thank my sister,\nI suppose, for having represented me in such a light as to injure me\nin your opinion, and give you all this alarm. I know not why she should\nchoose to make herself and her family uneasy by apprehending an\nevent which no one but herself, I can affirm, would ever have thought\npossible. To impute such a design to Lady Susan would be taking from her\nevery claim to that excellent understanding which her bitterest enemies\nhave never denied her; and equally low must sink my pretensions to\ncommon sense if I am suspected of matrimonial views in my behaviour\nto her. Our difference of age must be an insuperable objection, and I\nentreat you, my dear father, to quiet your mind, and no longer harbour\na suspicion which cannot be more injurious to your own peace than to our\nunderstandings. I can have no other view in remaining with Lady Susan,\nthan to enjoy for a short time (as you have yourself expressed it) the\nconversation of a woman of high intellectual powers. If Mrs. Vernon\nwould allow something to my affection for herself and her husband in the\nlength of my visit, she would do more justice to us all; but my sister\nis unhappily prejudiced beyond the hope of conviction against Lady\nSusan. From an attachment to her husband, which in itself does honour to\nboth, she cannot forgive the endeavours at preventing their union, which\nhave been attributed to selfishness in Lady Susan; but in this case, as\nwell as in many others, the world has most grossly injured that lady, by\nsupposing the worst where the motives of her conduct have been doubtful.\nLady Susan had heard something so materially to the disadvantage of my\nsister as to persuade her that the happiness of Mr. Vernon, to whom she\nwas always much attached, would be wholly destroyed by the marriage. And\nthis circumstance, while it explains the true motives of Lady Susan's\nconduct, and removes all the blame which has been so lavished on her,\nmay also convince us how little the general report of anyone ought to\nbe credited; since no character, however upright, can escape the\nmalevolence of slander. If my sister, in the security of retirement,\nwith as little opportunity as inclination to do evil, could not avoid\ncensure, we must not rashly condemn those who, living in the world and\nsurrounded with temptations, should be accused of errors which they are\nknown to have the power of committing.\n\nI blame myself severely for having so easily believed the slanderous\ntales invented by Charles Smith to the prejudice of Lady Susan, as I\nam now convinced how greatly they have traduced her. As to Mrs.\nMainwaring's jealousy it was totally his own invention, and his account\nof her attaching Miss Mainwaring's lover was scarcely better founded.\nSir James Martin had been drawn in by that young lady to pay her some\nattention; and as he is a man of fortune, it was easy to see HER views\nextended to marriage. It is well known that Miss M. is absolutely on the\ncatch for a husband, and no one therefore can pity her for losing, by\nthe superior attractions of another woman, the chance of being able to\nmake a worthy man completely wretched. Lady Susan was far from intending\nsuch a conquest, and on finding how warmly Miss Mainwaring resented her\nlover's defection, determined, in spite of Mr. and Mrs. Mainwaring's\nmost urgent entreaties, to leave the family. I have reason to imagine\nshe did receive serious proposals from Sir James, but her removing to\nLangford immediately on the discovery of his attachment, must acquit her\non that article with any mind of common candour. You will, I am sure, my\ndear Sir, feel the truth of this, and will hereby learn to do justice to\nthe character of a very injured woman. I know that Lady Susan in coming\nto Churchhill was governed only by the most honourable and amiable\nintentions; her prudence and economy are exemplary, her regard for Mr.\nVernon equal even to HIS deserts; and her wish of obtaining my sister's\ngood opinion merits a better return than it has received. As a mother\nshe is unexceptionable; her solid affection for her child is shown by\nplacing her in hands where her education will be properly attended to;\nbut because she has not the blind and weak partiality of most mothers,\nshe is accused of wanting maternal tenderness. Every person of sense,\nhowever, will know how to value and commend her well-directed affection,\nand will join me in wishing that Frederica Vernon may prove more worthy\nthan she has yet done of her mother's tender care. I have now, my dear\nfather, written my real sentiments of Lady Susan; you will know from\nthis letter how highly I admire her abilities, and esteem her character;\nbut if you are not equally convinced by my full and solemn assurance\nthat your fears have been most idly created, you will deeply mortify and\ndistress me.\n\nI am, &c., &c.,\n\nR. DE COURCY.\n\n\n\n\n\nXV\n\n\nMRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY\n\n\nChurchhill\n\n\nMy dear Mother,--I return you Reginald's letter, and rejoice with all\nmy heart that my father is made easy by it: tell him so, with my\ncongratulations; but, between ourselves, I must own it has only\nconvinced ME of my brother's having no PRESENT intention of marrying\nLady Susan, not that he is in no danger of doing so three months hence.\nHe gives a very plausible account of her behaviour at Langford; I wish\nit may be true, but his intelligence must come from herself, and I\nam less disposed to believe it than to lament the degree of intimacy\nsubsisting, between them implied by the discussion of such a subject. I\nam sorry to have incurred his displeasure, but can expect nothing better\nwhile he is so very eager in Lady Susan's justification. He is very\nsevere against me indeed, and yet I hope I have not been hasty in\nmy judgment of her. Poor woman! though I have reasons enough for\nmy dislike, I cannot help pitying her at present, as she is in real\ndistress, and with too much cause. She had this morning a letter from\nthe lady with whom she has placed her daughter, to request that Miss\nVernon might be immediately removed, as she had been detected in an\nattempt to run away. Why, or whither she intended to go, does not\nappear; but, as her situation seems to have been unexceptionable, it is\na sad thing, and of course highly distressing to Lady Susan. Frederica\nmust be as much as sixteen, and ought to know better; but from what\nher mother insinuates, I am afraid she is a perverse girl. She has\nbeen sadly neglected, however, and her mother ought to remember it. Mr.\nVernon set off for London as soon as she had determined what should be\ndone. He is, if possible, to prevail on Miss Summers to let Frederica\ncontinue with her; and if he cannot succeed, to bring her to Churchhill\nfor the present, till some other situation can be found for her.\nHer ladyship is comforting herself meanwhile by strolling along the\nshrubbery with Reginald, calling forth all his tender feelings, I\nsuppose, on this distressing occasion. She has been talking a great deal\nabout it to me. She talks vastly well; I am afraid of being ungenerous,\nor I should say, TOO well to feel so very deeply; but I will not look\nfor her faults; she may be Reginald's wife! Heaven forbid it! but why\nshould I be quicker-sighted than anyone else? Mr. Vernon declares that\nhe never saw deeper distress than hers, on the receipt of the letter;\nand is his judgment inferior to mine? She was very unwilling that\nFrederica should be allowed to come to Churchhill, and justly enough, as\nit seems a sort of reward to behaviour deserving very differently; but\nit was impossible to take her anywhere else, and she is not to remain\nhere long. \"It will be absolutely necessary,\" said she, \"as you, my dear\nsister, must be sensible, to treat my daughter with some severity while\nshe is here; a most painful necessity, but I will ENDEAVOUR to submit to\nit. I am afraid I have often been too indulgent, but my poor Frederica's\ntemper could never bear opposition well: you must support and encourage\nme; you must urge the necessity of reproof if you see me too lenient.\"\nAll this sounds very reasonable. Reginald is so incensed against the\npoor silly girl. Surely it is not to Lady Susan's credit that he should\nbe so bitter against her daughter; his idea of her must be drawn from\nthe mother's description. Well, whatever may be his fate, we have the\ncomfort of knowing that we have done our utmost to save him. We must\ncommit the event to a higher power.\n\nYours ever, &c.,\n\nCATHERINE VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXVI\n\n\nLADY SUSAN TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nNever, my dearest Alicia, was I so provoked in my life as by a letter\nthis morning from Miss Summers. That horrid girl of mine has been trying\nto run away. I had not a notion of her being such a little devil before,\nshe seemed to have all the Vernon milkiness; but on receiving the letter\nin which I declared my intention about Sir James, she actually attempted\nto elope; at least, I cannot otherwise account for her doing it. She\nmeant, I suppose, to go to the Clarkes in Staffordshire, for she has no\nother acquaintances. But she shall be punished, she shall have him. I\nhave sent Charles to town to make matters up if he can, for I do not\nby any means want her here. If Miss Summers will not keep her, you must\nfind me out another school, unless we can get her married immediately.\nMiss S. writes word that she could not get the young lady to assign\nany cause for her extraordinary conduct, which confirms me in my own\nprevious explanation of it, Frederica is too shy, I think, and too much\nin awe of me to tell tales, but if the mildness of her uncle should get\nanything out of her, I am not afraid. I trust I shall be able to make my\nstory as good as hers. If I am vain of anything, it is of my eloquence.\nConsideration and esteem as surely follow command of language as\nadmiration waits on beauty, and here I have opportunity enough for the\nexercise of my talent, as the chief of my time is spent in conversation.\n\nReginald is never easy unless we are by ourselves, and when the weather\nis tolerable, we pace the shrubbery for hours together. I like him on\nthe whole very well; he is clever and has a good deal to say, but he\nis sometimes impertinent and troublesome. There is a sort of ridiculous\ndelicacy about him which requires the fullest explanation of whatever he\nmay have heard to my disadvantage, and is never satisfied till he thinks\nhe has ascertained the beginning and end of everything. This is one sort\nof love, but I confess it does not particularly recommend itself to me.\nI infinitely prefer the tender and liberal spirit of Mainwaring, which,\nimpressed with the deepest conviction of my merit, is satisfied that\nwhatever I do must be right; and look with a degree of contempt on\nthe inquisitive and doubtful fancies of that heart which seems always\ndebating on the reasonableness of its emotions. Mainwaring is indeed,\nbeyond all compare, superior to Reginald--superior in everything but the\npower of being with me! Poor fellow! he is much distracted by jealousy,\nwhich I am not sorry for, as I know no better support of love. He has\nbeen teazing me to allow of his coming into this country, and lodging\nsomewhere near INCOG.; but I forbade everything of the kind. Those women\nare inexcusable who forget what is due to themselves, and the opinion of\nthe world.\n\nYours ever, S. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXVII\n\n\nMRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nMy dear Mother,--Mr. Vernon returned on Thursday night, bringing his\nniece with him. Lady Susan had received a line from him by that day's\npost, informing her that Miss Summers had absolutely refused to allow of\nMiss Vernon's continuance in her academy; we were therefore prepared for\nher arrival, and expected them impatiently the whole evening. They came\nwhile we were at tea, and I never saw any creature look so frightened as\nFrederica when she entered the room. Lady Susan, who had been shedding\ntears before, and showing great agitation at the idea of the meeting,\nreceived her with perfect self-command, and without betraying the\nleast tenderness of spirit. She hardly spoke to her, and on Frederica's\nbursting into tears as soon as we were seated, took her out of the room,\nand did not return for some time. When she did, her eyes looked very red\nand she was as much agitated as before. We saw no more of her daughter.\nPoor Reginald was beyond measure concerned to see his fair friend in\nsuch distress, and watched her with so much tender solicitude, that I,\nwho occasionally caught her observing his countenance with exultation,\nwas quite out of patience. This pathetic representation lasted the whole\nevening, and so ostentatious and artful a display has entirely convinced\nme that she did in fact feel nothing. I am more angry with her than ever\nsince I have seen her daughter; the poor girl looks so unhappy that my\nheart aches for her. Lady Susan is surely too severe, for Frederica\ndoes not seem to have the sort of temper to make severity necessary.\nShe looks perfectly timid, dejected, and penitent. She is very\npretty, though not so handsome as her mother, nor at all like her. Her\ncomplexion is delicate, but neither so fair nor so blooming as Lady\nSusan's, and she has quite the Vernon cast of countenance, the oval face\nand mild dark eyes, and there is peculiar sweetness in her look when she\nspeaks either to her uncle or me, for as we behave kindly to her we have\nof course engaged her gratitude.\n\nHer mother has insinuated that her temper is intractable, but I never\nsaw a face less indicative of any evil disposition than hers; and from\nwhat I can see of the behaviour of each to the other, the invariable\nseverity of Lady Susan and the silent dejection of Frederica, I am\nled to believe as heretofore that the former has no real love for her\ndaughter, and has never done her justice or treated her affectionately.\nI have not been able to have any conversation with my niece; she is shy,\nand I think I can see that some pains are taken to prevent her being\nmuch with me. Nothing satisfactory transpires as to her reason for\nrunning away. Her kind-hearted uncle, you may be sure, was too fearful\nof distressing her to ask many questions as they travelled. I wish it\nhad been possible for me to fetch her instead of him. I think I should\nhave discovered the truth in the course of a thirty-mile journey. The\nsmall pianoforte has been removed within these few days, at Lady Susan's\nrequest, into her dressing-room, and Frederica spends great part of the\nday there, practising as it is called; but I seldom hear any noise when\nI pass that way; what she does with herself there I do not know. There\nare plenty of books, but it is not every girl who has been running\nwild the first fifteen years of her life, that can or will read. Poor\ncreature! the prospect from her window is not very instructive, for that\nroom overlooks the lawn, you know, with the shrubbery on one side,\nwhere she may see her mother walking for an hour together in earnest\nconversation with Reginald. A girl of Frederica's age must be childish\nindeed, if such things do not strike her. Is it not inexcusable to give\nsuch an example to a daughter? Yet Reginald still thinks Lady Susan the\nbest of mothers, and still condemns Frederica as a worthless girl! He\nis convinced that her attempt to run away proceeded from no, justifiable\ncause, and had no provocation. I am sure I cannot say that it HAD,\nbut while Miss Summers declares that Miss Vernon showed no signs of\nobstinacy or perverseness during her whole stay in Wigmore Street, till\nshe was detected in this scheme, I cannot so readily credit what Lady\nSusan has made him, and wants to make me believe, that it was merely\nan impatience of restraint and a desire of escaping from the tuition of\nmasters which brought on the plan of an elopement. O Reginald, how is\nyour judgment enslaved! He scarcely dares even allow her to be handsome,\nand when I speak of her beauty, replies only that her eyes have no\nbrilliancy! Sometimes he is sure she is deficient in understanding, and\nat others that her temper only is in fault. In short, when a person is\nalways to deceive, it is impossible to be consistent. Lady Susan\nfinds it necessary that Frederica should be to blame, and probably has\nsometimes judged it expedient to excuse her of ill-nature and sometimes\nto lament her want of sense. Reginald is only repeating after her\nladyship.\n\nI remain, &c., &c.,\n\nCATHERINE VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXVIII\n\n\nFROM THE SAME TO THE SAME\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nMy dear Mother,--I am very glad to find that my description of Frederica\nVernon has interested you, for I do believe her truly deserving of your\nregard; and when I have communicated a notion which has recently struck\nme, your kind impressions in her favour will, I am sure, be heightened.\nI cannot help fancying that she is growing partial to my brother. I so\nvery often see her eyes fixed on his face with a remarkable expression\nof pensive admiration. He is certainly very handsome; and yet more,\nthere is an openness in his manner that must be highly prepossessing,\nand I am sure she feels it so. Thoughtful and pensive in general, her\ncountenance always brightens into a smile when Reginald says anything\namusing; and, let the subject be ever so serious that he may be\nconversing on, I am much mistaken if a syllable of his uttering escapes\nher. I want to make him sensible of all this, for we know the power\nof gratitude on such a heart as his; and could Frederica's artless\naffection detach him from her mother, we might bless the day which\nbrought her to Churchhill. I think, my dear mother, you would not\ndisapprove of her as a daughter. She is extremely young, to be sure,\nhas had a wretched education, and a dreadful example of levity in her\nmother; but yet I can pronounce her disposition to be excellent, and her\nnatural abilities very good. Though totally without accomplishments, she\nis by no means so ignorant as one might expect to find her, being fond\nof books and spending the chief of her time in reading. Her mother\nleaves her more to herself than she did, and I have her with me as much\nas possible, and have taken great pains to overcome her timidity. We\nare very good friends, and though she never opens her lips before her\nmother, she talks enough when alone with me to make it clear that, if\nproperly treated by Lady Susan, she would always appear to much greater\nadvantage. There cannot be a more gentle, affectionate heart; or more\nobliging manners, when acting without restraint; and her little cousins\nare all very fond of her.\n\nYour affectionate daughter,\n\nC. VERNON\n\n\n\n\n\nXIX\n\n\nLADY SUSAN TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nYou will be eager, I know, to hear something further of Frederica, and\nperhaps may think me negligent for not writing before. She arrived with\nher uncle last Thursday fortnight, when, of course, I lost no time in\ndemanding the cause of her behaviour; and soon found myself to have been\nperfectly right in attributing it to my own letter. The prospect of\nit frightened her so thoroughly, that, with a mixture of true girlish\nperverseness and folly, she resolved on getting out of the house and\nproceeding directly by the stage to her friends, the Clarkes; and had\nreally got as far as the length of two streets in her journey when\nshe was fortunately missed, pursued, and overtaken. Such was the first\ndistinguished exploit of Miss Frederica Vernon; and, if we consider that\nit was achieved at the tender age of sixteen, we shall have room for\nthe most flattering prognostics of her future renown. I am excessively\nprovoked, however, at the parade of propriety which prevented Miss\nSummers from keeping the girl; and it seems so extraordinary a piece of\nnicety, considering my daughter's family connections, that I can only\nsuppose the lady to be governed by the fear of never getting her money.\nBe that as it may, however, Frederica is returned on my hands; and,\nhaving nothing else to employ her, is busy in pursuing the plan of\nromance begun at Langford. She is actually falling in love with Reginald\nDe Courcy! To disobey her mother by refusing an unexceptionable offer\nis not enough; her affections must also be given without her mother's\napprobation. I never saw a girl of her age bid fairer to be the sport\nof mankind. Her feelings are tolerably acute, and she is so charmingly\nartless in their display as to afford the most reasonable hope of her\nbeing ridiculous, and despised by every man who sees her.\n\nArtlessness will never do in love matters; and that girl is born a\nsimpleton who has it either by nature or affectation. I am not yet\ncertain that Reginald sees what she is about, nor is it of much\nconsequence. She is now an object of indifference to him, and she would\nbe one of contempt were he to understand her emotions. Her beauty is\nmuch admired by the Vernons, but it has no effect on him. She is in high\nfavour with her aunt altogether, because she is so little like myself,\nof course. She is exactly the companion for Mrs. Vernon, who dearly\nloves to be firm, and to have all the sense and all the wit of the\nconversation to herself: Frederica will never eclipse her. When she\nfirst came I was at some pains to prevent her seeing much of her aunt;\nbut I have relaxed, as I believe I may depend on her observing the rules\nI have laid down for their discourse. But do not imagine that with all\nthis lenity I have for a moment given up my plan of her marriage. No; I\nam unalterably fixed on this point, though I have not yet quite decided\non the manner of bringing it about. I should not chuse to have the\nbusiness brought on here, and canvassed by the wise heads of Mr. and\nMrs. Vernon; and I cannot just now afford to go to town. Miss Frederica\nmust therefore wait a little.\n\nYours ever,\n\nS. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXX\n\n\nMRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY\n\n\nChurchhill\n\n\nWe have a very unexpected guest with us at present, my dear Mother: he\narrived yesterday. I heard a carriage at the door, as I was sitting with\nmy children while they dined; and supposing I should be wanted, left the\nnursery soon afterwards, and was half-way downstairs, when Frederica,\nas pale as ashes, came running up, and rushed by me into her own room.\nI instantly followed, and asked her what was the matter. \"Oh!\" said\nshe, \"he is come--Sir James is come, and what shall I do?\" This was no\nexplanation; I begged her to tell me what she meant. At that moment we\nwere interrupted by a knock at the door: it was Reginald, who came, by\nLady Susan's direction, to call Frederica down. \"It is Mr. De Courcy!\"\nsaid she, colouring violently. \"Mamma has sent for me; I must go.\"\nWe all three went down together; and I saw my brother examining the\nterrified face of Frederica with surprize. In the breakfast-room we\nfound Lady Susan, and a young man of gentlemanlike appearance, whom she\nintroduced by the name of Sir James Martin--the very person, as you may\nremember, whom it was said she had been at pains to detach from Miss\nMainwaring; but the conquest, it seems, was not designed for herself,\nor she has since transferred it to her daughter; for Sir James is now\ndesperately in love with Frederica, and with full encouragement from\nmamma. The poor girl, however, I am sure, dislikes him; and though his\nperson and address are very well, he appears, both to Mr. Vernon and\nme, a very weak young man. Frederica looked so shy, so confused, when\nwe entered the room, that I felt for her exceedingly. Lady Susan behaved\nwith great attention to her visitor; and yet I thought I could perceive\nthat she had no particular pleasure in seeing him. Sir James talked a\ngreat deal, and made many civil excuses to me for the liberty he had\ntaken in coming to Churchhill--mixing more frequent laughter with his\ndiscourse than the subject required--said many things over and over\nagain, and told Lady Susan three times that he had seen Mrs. Johnson\na few evenings before. He now and then addressed Frederica, but more\nfrequently her mother. The poor girl sat all this time without opening\nher lips--her eyes cast down, and her colour varying every instant;\nwhile Reginald observed all that passed in perfect silence. At length\nLady Susan, weary, I believe, of her situation, proposed walking; and\nwe left the two gentlemen together, to put on our pelisses. As we went\nupstairs Lady Susan begged permission to attend me for a few moments in\nmy dressing-room, as she was anxious to speak with me in private. I led\nher thither accordingly, and as soon as the door was closed, she said:\n\"I was never more surprized in my life than by Sir James's arrival,\nand the suddenness of it requires some apology to you, my dear sister;\nthough to ME, as a mother, it is highly flattering. He is so extremely\nattached to my daughter that he could not exist longer without seeing\nher. Sir James is a young man of an amiable disposition and excellent\ncharacter; a little too much of the rattle, perhaps, but a year or two\nwill rectify THAT: and he is in other respects so very eligible a match\nfor Frederica, that I have always observed his attachment with the\ngreatest pleasure; and am persuaded that you and my brother will give\nthe alliance your hearty approbation. I have never before mentioned the\nlikelihood of its taking place to anyone, because I thought that whilst\nFrederica continued at school it had better not be known to exist;\nbut now, as I am convinced that Frederica is too old ever to submit to\nschool confinement, and have, therefore, begun to consider her union\nwith Sir James as not very distant, I had intended within a few days to\nacquaint yourself and Mr. Vernon with the whole business. I am sure, my\ndear sister, you will excuse my remaining silent so long, and agree\nwith me that such circumstances, while they continue from any cause\nin suspense, cannot be too cautiously concealed. When you have the\nhappiness of bestowing your sweet little Catherine, some years hence, on\na man who in connection and character is alike unexceptionable, you\nwill know what I feel now; though, thank Heaven, you cannot have all my\nreasons for rejoicing in such an event. Catherine will be amply provided\nfor, and not, like my Frederica, indebted to a fortunate\nestablishment for the comforts of life.\" She concluded by demanding\nmy congratulations. I gave them somewhat awkwardly, I believe; for, in\nfact, the sudden disclosure of so important a matter took from me the\npower of speaking with any clearness, She thanked me, however, most\naffectionately, for my kind concern in the welfare of herself and\ndaughter; and then said: \"I am not apt to deal in professions, my\ndear Mrs. Vernon, and I never had the convenient talent of affecting\nsensations foreign to my heart; and therefore I trust you will believe\nme when I declare, that much as I had heard in your praise before I knew\nyou, I had no idea that I should ever love you as I now do; and I\nmust further say that your friendship towards me is more particularly\ngratifying because I have reason to believe that some attempts were made\nto prejudice you against me. I only wish that they, whoever they are,\nto whom I am indebted for such kind intentions, could see the terms on\nwhich we now are together, and understand the real affection we feel\nfor each other; but I will not detain you any longer. God bless you, for\nyour goodness to me and my girl, and continue to you all your present\nhappiness.\" What can one say of such a woman, my dear mother? Such\nearnestness such solemnity of expression! and yet I cannot help\nsuspecting the truth of everything she says. As for Reginald, I believe\nhe does not know what to make of the matter. When Sir James came, he\nappeared all astonishment and perplexity; the folly of the young man and\nthe confusion of Frederica entirely engrossed him; and though a little\nprivate discourse with Lady Susan has since had its effect, he is still\nhurt, I am sure, at her allowing of such a man's attentions to her\ndaughter. Sir James invited himself with great composure to remain here\na few days--hoped we would not think it odd, was aware of its being very\nimpertinent, but he took the liberty of a relation; and concluded by\nwishing, with a laugh, that he might be really one very soon. Even Lady\nSusan seemed a little disconcerted by this forwardness; in her heart I\nam persuaded she sincerely wished him gone. But something must be done\nfor this poor girl, if her feelings are such as both I and her uncle\nbelieve them to be. She must not be sacrificed to policy or ambition,\nand she must not be left to suffer from the dread of it. The girl whose\nheart can distinguish Reginald De Courcy, deserves, however he may\nslight her, a better fate than to be Sir James Martin's wife. As soon\nas I can get her alone, I will discover the real truth; but she seems to\nwish to avoid me. I hope this does not proceed from anything wrong, and\nthat I shall not find out I have thought too well of her. Her\nbehaviour to Sir James certainly speaks the greatest consciousness and\nembarrassment, but I see nothing in it more like encouragement. Adieu,\nmy dear mother.\n\nYours, &c.,\n\nC. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXI\n\n\nMISS VERNON TO MR DE COURCY\n\n\nSir,--I hope you will excuse this liberty; I am forced upon it by the\ngreatest distress, or I should be ashamed to trouble you. I am very\nmiserable about Sir James Martin, and have no other way in the world of\nhelping myself but by writing to you, for I am forbidden even speaking\nto my uncle and aunt on the subject; and this being the case, I am\nafraid my applying to you will appear no better than equivocation, and\nas if I attended to the letter and not the spirit of mamma's commands.\nBut if you do not take my part and persuade her to break it off, I shall\nbe half distracted, for I cannot bear him. No human being but YOU could\nhave any chance of prevailing with her. If you will, therefore, have the\nunspeakably great kindness of taking my part with her, and persuading\nher to send Sir James away, I shall be more obliged to you than it is\npossible for me to express. I always disliked him from the first: it is\nnot a sudden fancy, I assure you, sir; I always thought him silly and\nimpertinent and disagreeable, and now he is grown worse than ever. I\nwould rather work for my bread than marry him. I do not know how\nto apologize enough for this letter; I know it is taking so great a\nliberty. I am aware how dreadfully angry it will make mamma, but I\nremember the risk.\n\nI am, Sir, your most humble servant,\n\nF. S. V.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXII\n\n\nLADY SUSAN TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nThis is insufferable! My dearest friend, I was never so enraged before,\nand must relieve myself by writing to you, who I know will enter into\nall my feelings. Who should come on Tuesday but Sir James Martin! Guess\nmy astonishment, and vexation--for, as you well know, I never wished him\nto be seen at Churchhill. What a pity that you should not have known\nhis intentions! Not content with coming, he actually invited himself to\nremain here a few days. I could have poisoned him! I made the best of\nit, however, and told my story with great success to Mrs. Vernon, who,\nwhatever might be her real sentiments, said nothing in opposition to\nmine. I made a point also of Frederica's behaving civilly to Sir James,\nand gave her to understand that I was absolutely determined on her\nmarrying him. She said something of her misery, but that was all. I have\nfor some time been more particularly resolved on the match from seeing\nthe rapid increase of her affection for Reginald, and from not feeling\nsecure that a knowledge of such affection might not in the end awaken\na return. Contemptible as a regard founded only on compassion must make\nthem both in my eyes, I felt by no means assured that such might not be\nthe consequence. It is true that Reginald had not in any degree grown\ncool towards me; but yet he has lately mentioned Frederica spontaneously\nand unnecessarily, and once said something in praise of her person.\nHE was all astonishment at the appearance of my visitor, and at first\nobserved Sir James with an attention which I was pleased to see not\nunmixed with jealousy; but unluckily it was impossible for me really\nto torment him, as Sir James, though extremely gallant to me, very\nsoon made the whole party understand that his heart was devoted to my\ndaughter. I had no great difficulty in convincing De Courcy, when we\nwere alone, that I was perfectly justified, all things considered,\nin desiring the match; and the whole business seemed most comfortably\narranged. They could none of them help perceiving that Sir James was no\nSolomon; but I had positively forbidden Frederica complaining to Charles\nVernon or his wife, and they had therefore no pretence for interference;\nthough my impertinent sister, I believe, wanted only opportunity for\ndoing so. Everything, however, was going on calmly and quietly; and,\nthough I counted the hours of Sir James's stay, my mind was entirely\nsatisfied with the posture of affairs. Guess, then, what I must feel at\nthe sudden disturbance of all my schemes; and that, too, from a quarter\nwhere I had least reason to expect it. Reginald came this morning into\nmy dressing-room with a very unusual solemnity of countenance, and after\nsome preface informed me in so many words that he wished to reason with\nme on the impropriety and unkindness of allowing Sir James Martin to\naddress my daughter contrary to her inclinations. I was all amazement.\nWhen I found that he was not to be laughed out of his design, I calmly\nbegged an explanation, and desired to know by what he was impelled, and\nby whom commissioned, to reprimand me. He then told me, mixing in\nhis speech a few insolent compliments and ill-timed expressions of\ntenderness, to which I listened with perfect indifference, that my\ndaughter had acquainted him with some circumstances concerning herself,\nSir James, and me which had given him great uneasiness. In short, I\nfound that she had in the first place actually written to him to request\nhis interference, and that, on receiving her letter, he had conversed\nwith her on the subject of it, in order to understand the particulars,\nand to assure himself of her real wishes. I have not a doubt but that\nthe girl took this opportunity of making downright love to him. I am\nconvinced of it by the manner in which he spoke of her. Much good may\nsuch love do him! I shall ever despise the man who can be gratified by\nthe passion which he never wished to inspire, nor solicited the avowal\nof. I shall always detest them both. He can have no true regard for\nme, or he would not have listened to her; and SHE, with her little\nrebellious heart and indelicate feelings, to throw herself into the\nprotection of a young man with whom she has scarcely ever exchanged\ntwo words before! I am equally confounded at HER impudence and HIS\ncredulity. How dared he believe what she told him in my disfavour! Ought\nhe not to have felt assured that I must have unanswerable motives for\nall that I had done? Where was his reliance on my sense and goodness\nthen? Where the resentment which true love would have dictated against\nthe person defaming me--that person, too, a chit, a child, without\ntalent or education, whom he had been always taught to despise? I\nwas calm for some time; but the greatest degree of forbearance may be\novercome, and I hope I was afterwards sufficiently keen. He endeavoured,\nlong endeavoured, to soften my resentment; but that woman is a\nfool indeed who, while insulted by accusation, can be worked on by\ncompliments. At length he left me, as deeply provoked as myself; and\nhe showed his anger more. I was quite cool, but he gave way to the most\nviolent indignation; I may therefore expect it will the sooner subside,\nand perhaps his may be vanished for ever, while mine will be found still\nfresh and implacable. He is now shut up in his apartment, whither I\nheard him go on leaving mine. How unpleasant, one would think, must be\nhis reflections! but some people's feelings are incomprehensible. I have\nnot yet tranquillised myself enough to see Frederica. SHE shall not soon\nforget the occurrences of this day; she shall find that she has poured\nforth her tender tale of love in vain, and exposed herself for ever\nto the contempt of the whole world, and the severest resentment of her\ninjured mother.\n\nYour affectionate\n\nS. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\nXXIII\n\n\nMRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nLet me congratulate you, my dearest Mother! The affair which has given\nus so much anxiety is drawing to a happy conclusion. Our prospect is\nmost delightful, and since matters have now taken so favourable a turn,\nI am quite sorry that I ever imparted my apprehensions to you; for the\npleasure of learning that the danger is over is perhaps dearly purchased\nby all that you have previously suffered. I am so much agitated by\ndelight that I can scarcely hold a pen; but am determined to send you\na few short lines by James, that you may have some explanation of what\nmust so greatly astonish you, as that Reginald should be returning to\nParklands. I was sitting about half an hour ago with Sir James in\nthe breakfast parlour, when my brother called me out of the room. I\ninstantly saw that something was the matter; his complexion was raised,\nand he spoke with great emotion; you know his eager manner, my dear\nmother, when his mind is interested. \"Catherine,\" said he, \"I am going\nhome to-day; I am sorry to leave you, but I must go: it is a great while\nsince I have seen my father and mother. I am going to send James forward\nwith my hunters immediately; if you have any letter, therefore, he can\ntake it. I shall not be at home myself till Wednesday or Thursday, as I\nshall go through London, where I have business; but before I leave you,\"\nhe continued, speaking in a lower tone, and with still greater energy,\n\"I must warn you of one thing--do not let Frederica Vernon be made\nunhappy by that Martin. He wants to marry her; her mother promotes the\nmatch, but she cannot endure the idea of it. Be assured that I speak\nfrom the fullest conviction of the truth of what I say; I Know that\nFrederica is made wretched by Sir James's continuing here. She is a\nsweet girl, and deserves a better fate. Send him away immediately; he is\nonly a fool: but what her mother can mean, Heaven only knows! Good bye,\"\nhe added, shaking my hand with earnestness; \"I do not know when you will\nsee me again; but remember what I tell you of Frederica; you MUST make\nit your business to see justice done her. She is an amiable girl, and\nhas a very superior mind to what we have given her credit for.\" He then\nleft me, and ran upstairs. I would not try to stop him, for I know what\nhis feelings must be. The nature of mine, as I listened to him, I need\nnot attempt to describe; for a minute or two I remained in the same\nspot, overpowered by wonder of a most agreeable sort indeed; yet it\nrequired some consideration to be tranquilly happy. In about ten minutes\nafter my return to the parlour Lady Susan entered the room. I concluded,\nof course, that she and Reginald had been quarrelling; and looked with\nanxious curiosity for a confirmation of my belief in her face. Mistress\nof deceit, however, she appeared perfectly unconcerned, and after\nchatting on indifferent subjects for a short time, said to me, \"I find\nfrom Wilson that we are going to lose Mr. De Courcy--is it true that\nhe leaves Churchhill this morning?\" I replied that it was. \"He told\nus nothing of all this last night,\" said she, laughing, \"or even this\nmorning at breakfast; but perhaps he did not know it himself. Young men\nare often hasty in their resolutions, and not more sudden in forming\nthan unsteady in keeping them. I should not be surprised if he were to\nchange his mind at last, and not go.\" She soon afterwards left the room.\nI trust, however, my dear mother, that we have no reason to fear an\nalteration of his present plan; things have gone too far. They must have\nquarrelled, and about Frederica, too. Her calmness astonishes me. What\ndelight will be yours in seeing him again; in seeing him still worthy\nyour esteem, still capable of forming your happiness! When I next\nwrite I shall be able to tell you that Sir James is gone, Lady Susan\nvanquished, and Frederica at peace. We have much to do, but it shall\nbe done. I am all impatience to hear how this astonishing change was\neffected. I finish as I began, with the warmest congratulations.\n\nYours ever, &c.,\n\nCATH. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXIV\n\n\nFROM THE SAME TO THE SAME\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nLittle did I imagine, my dear Mother, when I sent off my last letter,\nthat the delightful perturbation of spirits I was then in would undergo\nso speedy, so melancholy a reverse. I never can sufficiently regret that\nI wrote to you at all. Yet who could have foreseen what has happened?\nMy dear mother, every hope which made me so happy only two hours ago has\nvanished. The quarrel between Lady Susan and Reginald is made up, and we\nare all as we were before. One point only is gained. Sir James Martin is\ndismissed. What are we now to look forward to? I am indeed disappointed;\nReginald was all but gone, his horse was ordered and all but brought\nto the door; who would not have felt safe? For half an hour I was in\nmomentary expectation of his departure. After I had sent off my letter\nto you, I went to Mr. Vernon, and sat with him in his room talking over\nthe whole matter, and then determined to look for Frederica, whom I had\nnot seen since breakfast. I met her on the stairs, and saw that she was\ncrying. \"My dear aunt,\" said she, \"he is going--Mr. De Courcy is going,\nand it is all my fault. I am afraid you will be very angry with me, but\nindeed I had no idea it would end so.\" \"My love,\" I replied, \"do not\nthink it necessary to apologize to me on that account. I shall feel\nmyself under an obligation to anyone who is the means of sending my\nbrother home, because,\" recollecting myself, \"I know my father wants\nvery much to see him. But what is it you have done to occasion all\nthis?\" She blushed deeply as she answered: \"I was so unhappy about Sir\nJames that I could not help--I have done something very wrong, I know;\nbut you have not an idea of the misery I have been in: and mamma had\nordered me never to speak to you or my uncle about it, and--\" \"You\ntherefore spoke to my brother to engage his interference,\" said I, to\nsave her the explanation. \"No, but I wrote to him--I did indeed, I got\nup this morning before it was light, and was two hours about it; and\nwhen my letter was done I thought I never should have courage to give\nit. After breakfast however, as I was going to my room, I met him in the\npassage, and then, as I knew that everything must depend on that moment,\nI forced myself to give it. He was so good as to take it immediately. I\ndared not look at him, and ran away directly. I was in such a fright I\ncould hardly breathe. My dear aunt, you do not know how miserable I\nhave been.\" \"Frederica\" said I, \"you ought to have told me all your\ndistresses. You would have found in me a friend always ready to assist\nyou. Do you think that your uncle or I should not have espoused your\ncause as warmly as my brother?\" \"Indeed, I did not doubt your kindness,\"\nsaid she, colouring again, \"but I thought Mr. De Courcy could do\nanything with my mother; but I was mistaken: they have had a dreadful\nquarrel about it, and he is going away. Mamma will never forgive me,\nand I shall be worse off than ever.\" \"No, you shall not,\" I replied;\n\"in such a point as this your mother's prohibition ought not to have\nprevented your speaking to me on the subject. She has no right to\nmake you unhappy, and she shall NOT do it. Your applying, however, to\nReginald can be productive only of good to all parties. I believe it\nis best as it is. Depend upon it that you shall not be made unhappy any\nlonger.\" At that moment how great was my astonishment at seeing Reginald\ncome out of Lady Susan's dressing-room. My heart misgave me instantly.\nHis confusion at seeing me was very evident. Frederica immediately\ndisappeared. \"Are you going?\" I said; \"you will find Mr. Vernon in his\nown room.\" \"No, Catherine,\" he replied, \"I am not going. Will you let\nme speak to you a moment?\" We went into my room. \"I find,\" he continued,\nhis confusion increasing as he spoke, \"that I have been acting with my\nusual foolish impetuosity. I have entirely misunderstood Lady Susan, and\nwas on the point of leaving the house under a false impression of\nher conduct. There has been some very great mistake; we have been all\nmistaken, I fancy. Frederica does not know her mother. Lady Susan means\nnothing but her good, but she will not make a friend of her. Lady Susan\ndoes not always know, therefore, what will make her daughter happy.\nBesides, I could have no right to interfere. Miss Vernon was mistaken in\napplying to me. In short, Catherine, everything has gone wrong, but it\nis now all happily settled. Lady Susan, I believe, wishes to speak to\nyou about it, if you are at leisure.\" \"Certainly,\" I replied, deeply\nsighing at the recital of so lame a story. I made no comments, however,\nfor words would have been vain.\n\nReginald was glad to get away, and I went to Lady Susan, curious,\nindeed, to hear her account of it. \"Did I not tell you,\" said she with\na smile, \"that your brother would not leave us after all?\" \"You did,\nindeed,\" replied I very gravely; \"but I flattered myself you would be\nmistaken.\" \"I should not have hazarded such an opinion,\" returned she,\n\"if it had not at that moment occurred to me that his resolution of\ngoing might be occasioned by a conversation in which we had been this\nmorning engaged, and which had ended very much to his dissatisfaction,\nfrom our not rightly understanding each other's meaning. This idea\nstruck me at the moment, and I instantly determined that an accidental\ndispute, in which I might probably be as much to blame as himself,\nshould not deprive you of your brother. If you remember, I left the room\nalmost immediately. I was resolved to lose no time in clearing up those\nmistakes as far as I could. The case was this--Frederica had set herself\nviolently against marrying Sir James.\" \"And can your ladyship wonder\nthat she should?\" cried I with some warmth; \"Frederica has an excellent\nunderstanding, and Sir James has none.\" \"I am at least very far from\nregretting it, my dear sister,\" said she; \"on the contrary, I am\ngrateful for so favourable a sign of my daughter's sense. Sir James is\ncertainly below par (his boyish manners make him appear worse); and had\nFrederica possessed the penetration and the abilities which I could have\nwished in my daughter, or had I even known her to possess as much as she\ndoes, I should not have been anxious for the match.\" \"It is odd that\nyou should alone be ignorant of your daughter's sense!\" \"Frederica never\ndoes justice to herself; her manners are shy and childish, and besides\nshe is afraid of me. During her poor father's life she was a spoilt\nchild; the severity which it has since been necessary for me to show\nhas alienated her affection; neither has she any of that brilliancy\nof intellect, that genius or vigour of mind which will force itself\nforward.\" \"Say rather that she has been unfortunate in her education!\"\n\"Heaven knows, my dearest Mrs. Vernon, how fully I am aware of that; but\nI would wish to forget every circumstance that might throw blame on the\nmemory of one whose name is sacred with me.\" Here she pretended to cry;\nI was out of patience with her. \"But what,\" said I, \"was your ladyship\ngoing to tell me about your disagreement with my brother?\" \"It\noriginated in an action of my daughter's, which equally marks her want\nof judgment and the unfortunate dread of me I have been mentioning--she\nwrote to Mr. De Courcy.\" \"I know she did; you had forbidden her speaking\nto Mr. Vernon or to me on the cause of her distress; what could she do,\ntherefore, but apply to my brother?\" \"Good God!\" she exclaimed, \"what an\nopinion you must have of me! Can you possibly suppose that I was\naware of her unhappiness! that it was my object to make my own child\nmiserable, and that I had forbidden her speaking to you on the subject\nfrom a fear of your interrupting the diabolical scheme? Do you think\nme destitute of every honest, every natural feeling? Am I capable of\nconsigning HER to everlasting: misery whose welfare it is my first\nearthly duty to promote? The idea is horrible!\" \"What, then, was your\nintention when you insisted on her silence?\" \"Of what use, my dear\nsister, could be any application to you, however the affair might stand?\nWhy should I subject you to entreaties which I refused to attend to\nmyself? Neither for your sake nor for hers, nor for my own, could such\na thing be desirable. When my own resolution was taken I could nor\nwish for the interference, however friendly, of another person. I was\nmistaken, it is true, but I believed myself right.\" \"But what was this\nmistake to which your ladyship so often alludes! from whence arose so\nastonishing a misconception of your daughter's feelings! Did you not\nknow that she disliked Sir James?\" \"I knew that he was not absolutely\nthe man she would have chosen, but I was persuaded that her objections\nto him did not arise from any perception of his deficiency. You must\nnot question me, however, my dear sister, too minutely on this point,\"\ncontinued she, taking me affectionately by the hand; \"I honestly own\nthat there is something to conceal. Frederica makes me very unhappy! Her\napplying to Mr. De Courcy hurt me particularly.\" \"What is it you mean\nto infer,\" said I, \"by this appearance of mystery? If you think your\ndaughter at all attached to Reginald, her objecting to Sir James could\nnot less deserve to be attended to than if the cause of her objecting\nhad been a consciousness of his folly; and why should your ladyship,\nat any rate, quarrel with my brother for an interference which, you must\nknow, it is not in his nature to refuse when urged in such a manner?\"\n\n\"His disposition, you know, is warm, and he came to expostulate with\nme; his compassion all alive for this ill-used girl, this heroine in\ndistress! We misunderstood each other: he believed me more to blame than\nI really was; I considered his interference less excusable than I\nnow find it. I have a real regard for him, and was beyond expression\nmortified to find it, as I thought, so ill bestowed We were both warm,\nand of course both to blame. His resolution of leaving Churchhill is\nconsistent with his general eagerness. When I understood his intention,\nhowever, and at the same time began to think that we had been perhaps\nequally mistaken in each other's meaning, I resolved to have an\nexplanation before it was too late. For any member of your family I must\nalways feel a degree of affection, and I own it would have sensibly hurt\nme if my acquaintance with Mr. De Courcy had ended so gloomily. I have\nnow only to say further, that as I am convinced of Frederica's having\na reasonable dislike to Sir James, I shall instantly inform him that he\nmust give up all hope of her. I reproach myself for having even, though\ninnocently, made her unhappy on that score. She shall have all the\nretribution in my power to make; if she value her own happiness as much\nas I do, if she judge wisely, and command herself as she ought, she may\nnow be easy. Excuse me, my dearest sister, for thus trespassing on your\ntime, but I owe it to my own character; and after this explanation I\ntrust I am in no danger of sinking in your opinion.\" I could have\nsaid, \"Not much, indeed!\" but I left her almost in silence. It was\nthe greatest stretch of forbearance I could practise. I could not have\nstopped myself had I begun. Her assurance! her deceit! but I will not\nallow myself to dwell on them; they will strike you sufficiently. My\nheart sickens within me. As soon as I was tolerably composed I returned\nto the parlour. Sir James's carriage was at the door, and he, merry\nas usual, soon afterwards took his leave. How easily does her ladyship\nencourage or dismiss a lover! In spite of this release, Frederica still\nlooks unhappy: still fearful, perhaps, of her mother's anger; and though\ndreading my brother's departure, jealous, it may be, of his staying. I\nsee how closely she observes him and Lady Susan, poor girl! I have now\nno hope for her. There is not a chance of her affection being returned.\nHe thinks very differently of her from what he used to do; he does her\nsome justice, but his reconciliation with her mother precludes every\ndearer hope. Prepare, my dear mother, for the worst! The probability of\ntheir marrying is surely heightened! He is more securely hers than ever.\nWhen that wretched event takes place, Frederica must belong wholly to\nus. I am thankful that my last letter will precede this by so little, as\nevery moment that you can be saved from feeling a joy which leads only\nto disappointment is of consequence.\n\nYours ever, &c.,\n\nCATHERINE VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXV\n\n\nLADY SUSAN TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nI call on you, dear Alicia, for congratulations: I am my own self, gay\nand triumphant! When I wrote to you the other day I was, in truth, in\nhigh irritation, and with ample cause. Nay, I know not whether I ought\nto be quite tranquil now, for I have had more trouble in restoring\npeace than I ever intended to submit to--a spirit, too, resulting from\na fancied sense of superior integrity, which is peculiarly insolent! I\nshall not easily forgive him, I assure you. He was actually on the point\nof leaving Churchhill! I had scarcely concluded my last, when Wilson\nbrought me word of it. I found, therefore, that something must be done;\nfor I did not choose to leave my character at the mercy of a man whose\npassions are so violent and so revengeful. It would have been trifling\nwith my reputation to allow of his departing with such an impression in\nmy disfavour; in this light, condescension was necessary. I sent\nWilson to say that I desired to speak with him before he went; he came\nimmediately. The angry emotions which had marked every feature when we\nlast parted were partially subdued. He seemed astonished at the summons,\nand looked as if half wishing and half fearing to be softened by what I\nmight say. If my countenance expressed what I aimed at, it was composed\nand dignified; and yet, with a degree of pensiveness which might\nconvince him that I was not quite happy. \"I beg your pardon, sir, for\nthe liberty I have taken in sending for you,\" said I; \"but as I have\njust learnt your intention of leaving this place to-day, I feel it my\nduty to entreat that you will not on my account shorten your visit here\neven an hour. I am perfectly aware that after what has passed between\nus it would ill suit the feelings of either to remain longer in the same\nhouse: so very great, so total a change from the intimacy of friendship\nmust render any future intercourse the severest punishment; and your\nresolution of quitting Churchhill is undoubtedly in unison with our\nsituation, and with those lively feelings which I know you to possess.\nBut, at the same time, it is not for me to suffer such a sacrifice as it\nmust be to leave relations to whom you are so much attached, and are so\ndear. My remaining here cannot give that pleasure to Mr. and Mrs. Vernon\nwhich your society must; and my visit has already perhaps been too long.\nMy removal, therefore, which must, at any rate, take place soon, may,\nwith perfect convenience, be hastened; and I make it my particular\nrequest that I may not in any way be instrumental in separating a\nfamily so affectionately attached to each other. Where I go is of\nno consequence to anyone; of very little to myself; but you are of\nimportance to all your connections.\" Here I concluded, and I hope you\nwill be satisfied with my speech. Its effect on Reginald justifies some\nportion of vanity, for it was no less favourable than instantaneous. Oh,\nhow delightful it was to watch the variations of his countenance while I\nspoke! to see the struggle between returning tenderness and the remains\nof displeasure. There is something agreeable in feelings so easily\nworked on; not that I envy him their possession, nor would, for the\nworld, have such myself; but they are very convenient when one wishes\nto influence the passions of another. And yet this Reginald, whom a\nvery few words from me softened at once into the utmost submission, and\nrendered more tractable, more attached, more devoted than ever, would\nhave left me in the first angry swelling of his proud heart without\ndeigning to seek an explanation. Humbled as he now is, I cannot forgive\nhim such an instance of pride, and am doubtful whether I ought not to\npunish him by dismissing him at once after this reconciliation, or\nby marrying and teazing him for ever. But these measures are each too\nviolent to be adopted without some deliberation; at present my thoughts\nare fluctuating between various schemes. I have many things to compass:\nI must punish Frederica, and pretty severely too, for her application to\nReginald; I must punish him for receiving it so favourably, and for the\nrest of his conduct. I must torment my sister-in-law for the insolent\ntriumph of her look and manner since Sir James has been dismissed; for,\nin reconciling Reginald to me, I was not able to save that ill-fated\nyoung man; and I must make myself amends for the humiliation to which\nI have stooped within these few days. To effect all this I have various\nplans. I have also an idea of being soon in town; and whatever may be\nmy determination as to the rest, I shall probably put THAT project\nin execution; for London will be always the fairest field of action,\nhowever my views may be directed; and at any rate I shall there be\nrewarded by your society, and a little dissipation, for a ten weeks'\npenance at Churchhill. I believe I owe it to my character to complete\nthe match between my daughter and Sir James after having so long\nintended it. Let me know your opinion on this point. Flexibility of\nmind, a disposition easily biassed by others, is an attribute which you\nknow I am not very desirous of obtaining; nor has Frederica any claim\nto the indulgence of her notions at the expense of her mother's\ninclinations. Her idle love for Reginald, too! It is surely my duty to\ndiscourage such romantic nonsense. All things considered, therefore, it\nseems incumbent on me to take her to town and marry her immediately to\nSir James. When my own will is effected contrary to his, I shall have\nsome credit in being on good terms with Reginald, which at present, in\nfact, I have not; for though he is still in my power, I have given up\nthe very article by which our quarrel was produced, and at best the\nhonour of victory is doubtful. Send me your opinion on all these\nmatters, my dear Alicia, and let me know whether you can get lodgings to\nsuit me within a short distance of you.\n\nYour most attached\n\nS. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXVI\n\n\nMRS. JOHNSON TO LADY SUSAN\n\n\nEdward Street.\n\n\nI am gratified by your reference, and this is my advice: that you come\nto town yourself, without loss of time, but that you leave Frederica\nbehind. It would surely be much more to the purpose to get yourself well\nestablished by marrying Mr. De Courcy, than to irritate him and the rest\nof his family by making her marry Sir James. You should think more of\nyourself and less of your daughter. She is not of a disposition to do\nyou credit in the world, and seems precisely in her proper place at\nChurchhill, with the Vernons. But you are fitted for society, and it\nis shameful to have you exiled from it. Leave Frederica, therefore,\nto punish herself for the plague she has given you, by indulging that\nromantic tender-heartedness which will always ensure her misery enough,\nand come to London as soon as you can. I have another reason for urging\nthis: Mainwaring came to town last week, and has contrived, in spite\nof Mr. Johnson, to make opportunities of seeing me. He is absolutely\nmiserable about you, and jealous to such a degree of De Courcy that it\nwould be highly unadvisable for them to meet at present. And yet, if you\ndo not allow him to see you here, I cannot answer for his not committing\nsome great imprudence--such as going to Churchhill, for instance, which\nwould be dreadful! Besides, if you take my advice, and resolve to marry\nDe Courcy, it will be indispensably necessary to you to get Mainwaring\nout of the way; and you only can have influence enough to send him back\nto his wife. I have still another motive for your coming: Mr. Johnson\nleaves London next Tuesday; he is going for his health to Bath, where,\nif the waters are favourable to his constitution and my wishes, he will\nbe laid up with the gout many weeks. During his absence we shall be able\nto chuse our own society, and to have true enjoyment. I would ask you to\nEdward Street, but that once he forced from me a kind of promise never\nto invite you to my house; nothing but my being in the utmost distress\nfor money should have extorted it from me. I can get you, however,\na nice drawing-room apartment in Upper Seymour Street, and we may be\nalways together there or here; for I consider my promise to Mr. Johnson\nas comprehending only (at least in his absence) your not sleeping in the\nhouse. Poor Mainwaring gives me such histories of his wife's jealousy.\nSilly woman to expect constancy from so charming a man! but she always\nwas silly--intolerably so in marrying him at all, she the heiress of a\nlarge fortune and he without a shilling: one title, I know, she might\nhave had, besides baronets. Her folly in forming the connection was so\ngreat that, though Mr. Johnson was her guardian, and I do not in general\nshare HIS feelings, I never can forgive her.\n\nAdieu. Yours ever,\n\nALICIA.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXVII\n\n\nMRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nThis letter, my dear Mother, will be brought you by Reginald. His long\nvisit is about to be concluded at last, but I fear the separation takes\nplace too late to do us any good. She is going to London to see her\nparticular friend, Mrs. Johnson. It was at first her intention that\nFrederica should accompany her, for the benefit of masters, but we\noverruled her there. Frederica was wretched in the idea of going, and\nI could not bear to have her at the mercy of her mother; not all the\nmasters in London could compensate for the ruin of her comfort. I\nshould have feared, too, for her health, and for everything but her\nprinciples--there I believe she is not to be injured by her mother, or\nher mother's friends; but with those friends she must have mixed (a very\nbad set, I doubt not), or have been left in total solitude, and I can\nhardly tell which would have been worse for her. If she is with her\nmother, moreover, she must, alas! in all probability be with Reginald,\nand that would be the greatest evil of all. Here we shall in time be in\npeace, and our regular employments, our books and conversations, with\nexercise, the children, and every domestic pleasure in my power to\nprocure her, will, I trust, gradually overcome this youthful attachment.\nI should not have a doubt of it were she slighted for any other woman in\nthe world than her own mother. How long Lady Susan will be in town, or\nwhether she returns here again, I know not. I could not be cordial in my\ninvitation, but if she chuses to come no want of cordiality on my part\nwill keep her away. I could not help asking Reginald if he intended\nbeing in London this winter, as soon as I found her ladyship's\nsteps would be bent thither; and though he professed himself quite\nundetermined, there was something in his look and voice as he spoke\nwhich contradicted his words. I have done with lamentation; I look upon\nthe event as so far decided that I resign myself to it in despair. If he\nleaves you soon for London everything will be concluded.\n\nYour affectionate, &c.,\n\nC. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXVIII\n\n\nMRS. JOHNSON TO LADY SUSAN\n\n\nEdward Street.\n\n\nMy dearest Friend,--I write in the greatest distress; the most\nunfortunate event has just taken place. Mr. Johnson has hit on the most\neffectual manner of plaguing us all. He had heard, I imagine, by some\nmeans or other, that you were soon to be in London, and immediately\ncontrived to have such an attack of the gout as must at least delay his\njourney to Bath, if not wholly prevent it. I am persuaded the gout is\nbrought on or kept off at pleasure; it was the same when I wanted to\njoin the Hamiltons to the Lakes; and three years ago, when I had a fancy\nfor Bath, nothing could induce him to have a gouty symptom.\n\nI am pleased to find that my letter had so much effect on you, and that\nDe Courcy is certainly your own. Let me hear from you as soon as you\narrive, and in particular tell me what you mean to do with Mainwaring.\nIt is impossible to say when I shall be able to come to you; my\nconfinement must be great. It is such an abominable trick to be ill here\ninstead of at Bath that I can scarcely command myself at all. At Bath\nhis old aunts would have nursed him, but here it all falls upon me; and\nhe bears pain with such patience that I have not the common excuse for\nlosing my temper.\n\nYours ever,\n\nALICIA.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXIX\n\n\nLADY SUSAN VERNON TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nUpper Seymour Street.\n\n\nMy dear Alicia,--There needed not this last fit of the gout to make\nme detest Mr. Johnson, but now the extent of my aversion is not to\nbe estimated. To have you confined as nurse in his apartment! My dear\nAlicia, of what a mistake were you guilty in marrying a man of his age!\njust old enough to be formal, ungovernable, and to have the gout; too\nold to be agreeable, too young to die. I arrived last night about five,\nhad scarcely swallowed my dinner when Mainwaring made his appearance.\nI will not dissemble what real pleasure his sight afforded me, nor how\nstrongly I felt the contrast between his person and manners and those of\nReginald, to the infinite disadvantage of the latter. For an hour or two\nI was even staggered in my resolution of marrying him, and though this\nwas too idle and nonsensical an idea to remain long on my mind, I do not\nfeel very eager for the conclusion of my marriage, nor look forward with\nmuch impatience to the time when Reginald, according to our agreement,\nis to be in town. I shall probably put off his arrival under some\npretence or other. He must not come till Mainwaring is gone. I am still\ndoubtful at times as to marrying; if the old man would die I might not\nhesitate, but a state of dependance on the caprice of Sir Reginald will\nnot suit the freedom of my spirit; and if I resolve to wait for that\nevent, I shall have excuse enough at present in having been scarcely ten\nmonths a widow. I have not given Mainwaring any hint of my intention, or\nallowed him to consider my acquaintance with Reginald as more than the\ncommonest flirtation, and he is tolerably appeased. Adieu, till we meet;\nI am enchanted with my lodgings.\n\nYours ever,\n\nS. VERNON.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXX\n\n\nLADY SUSAN VERNON TO MR. DE COURCY\n\n\nUpper Seymour Street.\n\n\nI have received your letter, and though I do not attempt to conceal that\nI am gratified by your impatience for the hour of meeting, I yet\nfeel myself under the necessity of delaying that hour beyond the time\noriginally fixed. Do not think me unkind for such an exercise of my\npower, nor accuse me of instability without first hearing my reasons.\nIn the course of my journey from Churchhill I had ample leisure for\nreflection on the present state of our affairs, and every review has\nserved to convince me that they require a delicacy and cautiousness of\nconduct to which we have hitherto been too little attentive. We have\nbeen hurried on by our feelings to a degree of precipitation which ill\naccords with the claims of our friends or the opinion of the world. We\nhave been unguarded in forming this hasty engagement, but we must not\ncomplete the imprudence by ratifying it while there is so much reason\nto fear the connection would be opposed by those friends on whom you\ndepend. It is not for us to blame any expectations on your father's side\nof your marrying to advantage; where possessions are so extensive as\nthose of your family, the wish of increasing them, if not strictly\nreasonable, is too common to excite surprize or resentment. He has a\nright to require; a woman of fortune in his daughter-in-law, and I am\nsometimes quarrelling with myself for suffering you to form a connection\nso imprudent; but the influence of reason is often acknowledged too late\nby those who feel like me. I have now been but a few months a widow,\nand, however little indebted to my husband's memory for any happiness\nderived from him during a union of some years, I cannot forget that the\nindelicacy of so early a second marriage must subject me to the censure\nof the world, and incur, what would be still more insupportable, the\ndispleasure of Mr. Vernon. I might perhaps harden myself in time against\nthe injustice of general reproach, but the loss of HIS valued esteem\nI am, as you well know, ill-fitted to endure; and when to this may be\nadded the consciousness of having injured you with your family, how am I\nto support myself? With feelings so poignant as mine, the conviction of\nhaving divided the son from his parents would make me, even with you,\nthe most miserable of beings. It will surely, therefore, be advisable to\ndelay our union--to delay it till appearances are more promising--till\naffairs have taken a more favourable turn. To assist us In such a\nresolution I feel that absence will be necessary. We must not meet.\nCruel as this sentence may appear, the necessity of pronouncing it,\nwhich can alone reconcile it to myself, will be evident to you when you\nhave considered our situation in the light in which I have found myself\nimperiously obliged to place it. You may be--you must be--well assured\nthat nothing but the strongest conviction of duty could induce me\nto wound my own feelings by urging a lengthened separation, and of\ninsensibility to yours you will hardly suspect me. Again, therefore,\nI say that we ought not, we must not, yet meet. By a removal for some\nmonths from each other we shall tranquillise the sisterly fears of Mrs.\nVernon, who, accustomed herself to the enjoyment of riches, considers\nfortune as necessary everywhere, and whose sensibilities are not of a\nnature to comprehend ours. Let me hear from you soon--very soon. Tell me\nthat you submit to my arguments, and do not reproach me for using such.\nI cannot bear reproaches: my spirits are not so high as to need being\nrepressed. I must endeavour to seek amusement, and fortunately many\nof my friends are in town; amongst them the Mainwarings; you know how\nsincerely I regard both husband and wife.\n\nI am, very faithfully yours,\n\nS. VERNON\n\n\n\n\n\nXXXI\n\n\nLADY SUSAN TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nUpper Seymour Street.\n\n\nMy dear Friend,--That tormenting creature, Reginald, is here. My letter,\nwhich was intended to keep him longer in the country, has hastened him\nto town. Much as I wish him away, however, I cannot help being pleased\nwith such a proof of attachment. He is devoted to me, heart and soul.\nHe will carry this note himself, which is to serve as an introduction to\nyou, with whom he longs to be acquainted. Allow him to spend the evening\nwith you, that I may be in no danger of his returning here. I have told\nhim that I am not quite well, and must be alone; and should he call\nagain there might be confusion, for it is impossible to be sure of\nservants. Keep him, therefore, I entreat you, in Edward Street. You will\nnot find him a heavy companion, and I allow you to flirt with him as\nmuch as you like. At the same time, do not forget my real interest; say\nall that you can to convince him that I shall be quite wretched if he\nremains here; you know my reasons--propriety, and so forth. I would\nurge them more myself, but that I am impatient to be rid of him, as\nMainwaring comes within half an hour. Adieu!\n\nS VERNON\n\n\n\n\n\nXXXII\n\n\nMRS. JOHNSON TO LADY SUSAN\n\n\nEdward Street.\n\n\nMy dear Creature,--I am in agonies, and know not what to do. Mr. De\nCourcy arrived just when he should not. Mrs. Mainwaring had that instant\nentered the house, and forced herself into her guardian's presence,\nthough I did not know a syllable of it till afterwards, for I was out\nwhen both she and Reginald came, or I should have sent him away at all\nevents; but she was shut up with Mr. Johnson, while he waited in the\ndrawing-room for me. She arrived yesterday in pursuit of her husband,\nbut perhaps you know this already from himself. She came to this house\nto entreat my husband's interference, and before I could be aware of\nit, everything that you could wish to be concealed was known to him, and\nunluckily she had wormed out of Mainwaring's servant that he had visited\nyou every day since your being in town, and had just watched him to your\ndoor herself! What could I do! Facts are such horrid things! All is by\nthis time known to De Courcy, who is now alone with Mr. Johnson. Do not\naccuse me; indeed, it was impossible to prevent it. Mr. Johnson has for\nsome time suspected De Courcy of intending to marry you, and would\nspeak with him alone as soon as he knew him to be in the house. That\ndetestable Mrs. Mainwaring, who, for your comfort, has fretted herself\nthinner and uglier than ever, is still here, and they have been all\ncloseted together. What can be done? At any rate, I hope he will plague\nhis wife more than ever. With anxious wishes, Yours faithfully,\n\nALICIA.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXXIII\n\n\nLADY SUSAN TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nUpper Seymour Street.\n\n\nThis eclaircissement is rather provoking. How unlucky that you should\nhave been from home! I thought myself sure of you at seven! I am\nundismayed however. Do not torment yourself with fears on my account;\ndepend on it, I can make my story good with Reginald. Mainwaring is just\ngone; he brought me the news of his wife's arrival. Silly woman, what\ndoes she expect by such manoeuvres? Yet I wish she had stayed quietly\nat Langford. Reginald will be a little enraged at first, but by\nto-morrow's dinner, everything will be well again.\n\nAdieu!\n\nS. V.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXXIV\n\n\nMR. DE COURCY TO LADY SUSAN\n\n\n--Hotel\n\n\nI write only to bid you farewell, the spell is removed; I see you as\nyou are. Since we parted yesterday, I have received from indisputable\nauthority such a history of you as must bring the most mortifying\nconviction of the imposition I have been under, and the absolute\nnecessity of an immediate and eternal separation from you. You\ncannot doubt to what I allude. Langford! Langford! that word will be\nsufficient. I received my information in Mr. Johnson's house, from Mrs.\nMainwaring herself. You know how I have loved you; you can intimately\njudge of my present feelings, but I am not so weak as to find indulgence\nin describing them to a woman who will glory in having excited their\nanguish, but whose affection they have never been able to gain.\n\nR. DE COURCY.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXXV\n\n\nLADY SUSAN TO MR. DE COURCY\n\n\nUpper Seymour Street.\n\n\nI will not attempt to describe my astonishment in reading the note this\nmoment received from you. I am bewildered in my endeavours to form\nsome rational conjecture of what Mrs. Mainwaring can have told you\nto occasion so extraordinary a change in your sentiments. Have I not\nexplained everything to you with respect to myself which could bear a\ndoubtful meaning, and which the ill-nature of the world had interpreted\nto my discredit? What can you now have heard to stagger your esteem for\nme? Have I ever had a concealment from you? Reginald, you agitate\nme beyond expression, I cannot suppose that the old story of Mrs.\nMainwaring's jealousy can be revived again, or at least be LISTENED to\nagain. Come to me immediately, and explain what is at present absolutely\nincomprehensible. Believe me the single word of Langford is not of such\npotent intelligence as to supersede the necessity of more. If we ARE to\npart, it will at least be handsome to take your personal leave--but\nI have little heart to jest; in truth, I am serious enough; for to be\nsunk, though but for an hour, in your esteem Is a humiliation to which I\nknow not how to submit. I shall count every minute till your arrival.\n\nS. V.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXXVI\n\n\nMR. DE COURCY TO LADY SUSAN\n\n\n----Hotel.\n\n\nWhy would you write to me? Why do you require particulars? But, since\nit must be so, I am obliged to declare that all the accounts of your\nmisconduct during the life, and since the death of Mr. Vernon, which had\nreached me, in common with the world in general, and gained my entire\nbelief before I saw you, but which you, by the exertion of your\nperverted abilities, had made me resolved to disallow, have been\nunanswerably proved to me; nay more, I am assured that a connection,\nof which I had never before entertained a thought, has for some time\nexisted, and still continues to exist, between you and the man whose\nfamily you robbed of its peace in return for the hospitality with which\nyou were received into it; that you have corresponded with him ever\nsince your leaving Langford; not with his wife, but with him, and that\nhe now visits you every day. Can you, dare you deny it? and all this at\nthe time when I was an encouraged, an accepted lover! From what have I\nnot escaped! I have only to be grateful. Far from me be all complaint,\nevery sigh of regret. My own folly had endangered me, my preservation I\nowe to the kindness, the integrity of another; but the unfortunate Mrs.\nMainwaring, whose agonies while she related the past seemed to threaten\nher reason, how is SHE to be consoled! After such a discovery as this,\nyou will scarcely affect further wonder at my meaning in bidding you\nadieu. My understanding is at length restored, and teaches no less to\nabhor the artifices which had subdued me than to despise myself for the\nweakness on which their strength was founded.\n\nR. DE COURCY.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXXVII\n\n\nLADY SUSAN TO MR. DE COURCY\n\n\nUpper Seymour Street.\n\n\nI am satisfied, and will trouble you no more when these few lines are\ndismissed. The engagement which you were eager to form a fortnight ago\nis no longer compatible with your views, and I rejoice to find that\nthe prudent advice of your parents has not been given in vain. Your\nrestoration to peace will, I doubt not, speedily follow this act of\nfilial obedience, and I flatter myself with the hope of surviving my\nshare in this disappointment.\n\nS. V.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXXVIII\n\n\nMRS. JOHNSON TO LADY SUSAN VERNON\n\n\nEdward Street\n\n\nI am grieved, though I cannot be astonished at your rupture with Mr.\nDe Courcy; he has just informed Mr. Johnson of it by letter. He leaves\nLondon, he says, to-day. Be assured that I partake in all your feelings,\nand do not be angry if I say that our intercourse, even by letter, must\nsoon be given up. It makes me miserable; but Mr. Johnson vows that if I\npersist in the connection, he will settle in the country for the rest of\nhis life, and you know it is impossible to submit to such an extremity\nwhile any other alternative remains. You have heard of course that the\nMainwarings are to part, and I am afraid Mrs. M. will come home to us\nagain; but she is still so fond of her husband, and frets so much about\nhim, that perhaps she may not live long. Miss Mainwaring is just come to\ntown to be with her aunt, and they say that she declares she will have\nSir James Martin before she leaves London again. If I were you, I would\ncertainly get him myself. I had almost forgot to give you my opinion of\nMr. De Courcy; I am really delighted with him; he is full as handsome, I\nthink, as Mainwaring, and with such an open, good-humoured countenance,\nthat one cannot help loving him at first sight. Mr. Johnson and he\nare the greatest friends in the world. Adieu, my dearest Susan, I wish\nmatters did not go so perversely. That unlucky visit to Langford! but I\ndare say you did all for the best, and there is no defying destiny.\n\nYour sincerely attached\n\nALICIA.\n\n\n\n\n\nXXXIX\n\n\nLADY SUSAN TO MRS. JOHNSON\n\n\nUpper Seymour Street.\n\nMy dear Alicia,--I yield to the necessity which parts us. Under\ncircumstances you could not act otherwise. Our friendship cannot\nbe impaired by it, and in happier times, when your situation is as\nindependent as mine, it will unite us again in the same intimacy as\never. For this I shall impatiently wait, and meanwhile can safely assure\nyou that I never was more at ease, or better satisfied with myself and\neverything about me than at the present hour. Your husband I abhor,\nReginald I despise, and I am secure of never seeing either again. Have\nI not reason to rejoice? Mainwaring is more devoted to me than ever; and\nwere we at liberty, I doubt if I could resist even matrimony offered by\nHIM. This event, if his wife live with you, it may be in your power to\nhasten. The violence of her feelings, which must wear her out, may be\neasily kept in irritation. I rely on your friendship for this. I am now\nsatisfied that I never could have brought myself to marry Reginald, and\nam equally determined that Frederica never shall. To-morrow, I shall\nfetch her from Churchhill, and let Maria Mainwaring tremble for the\nconsequence. Frederica shall be Sir James's wife before she quits my\nhouse, and she may whimper, and the Vernons may storm, I regard them\nnot. I am tired of submitting my will to the caprices of others; of\nresigning my own judgment in deference to those to whom I owe no duty,\nand for whom I feel no respect. I have given up too much, have been too\neasily worked on, but Frederica shall now feel the difference. Adieu,\ndearest of friends; may the next gouty attack be more favourable! and\nmay you always regard me as unalterably yours,\n\nS. VERNON\n\n\n\n\n\nXL\n\n\nLADY DE COURCY TO MRS. VERNON\n\n\nMy dear Catherine,--I have charming news for you, and if I had not sent\noff my letter this morning you might have been spared the vexation of\nknowing of Reginald's being gone to London, for he is returned. Reginald\nis returned, not to ask our consent to his marrying Lady Susan, but to\ntell us they are parted for ever. He has been only an hour in the house,\nand I have not been able to learn particulars, for he is so very low\nthat I have not the heart to ask questions, but I hope we shall soon\nknow all. This is the most joyful hour he has ever given us since the\nday of his birth. Nothing is wanting but to have you here, and it is our\nparticular wish and entreaty that you would come to us as soon as you\ncan. You have owed us a visit many long weeks; I hope nothing will make\nit inconvenient to Mr. Vernon; and pray bring all my grand-children; and\nyour dear niece is included, of course; I long to see her. It has been\na sad, heavy winter hitherto, without Reginald, and seeing nobody from\nChurchhill. I never found the season so dreary before; but this happy\nmeeting will make us young again. Frederica runs much in my thoughts,\nand when Reginald has recovered his usual good spirits (as I trust he\nsoon will) we will try to rob him of his heart once more, and I am full\nof hopes of seeing their hands joined at no great distance.\n\nYour affectionate mother,\n\nC. DE COURCY\n\n\n\n\n\nXLI\n\n\nMRS. VERNON TO LADY DE COURCY\n\n\nChurchhill.\n\n\nMy dear Mother,--Your letter has surprized me beyond measure! Can it be\ntrue that they are really separated--and for ever? I should be overjoyed\nif I dared depend on it, but after all that I have seen how can one be\nsecure And Reginald really with you! My surprize is the greater because\non Wednesday, the very day of his coming to Parklands, we had a most\nunexpected and unwelcome visit from Lady Susan, looking all cheerfulness\nand good-humour, and seeming more as if she were to marry him when she\ngot to London than as if parted from him for ever. She stayed nearly two\nhours, was as affectionate and agreeable as ever, and not a syllable,\nnot a hint was dropped, of any disagreement or coolness between them.\nI asked her whether she had seen my brother since his arrival in town;\nnot, as you may suppose, with any doubt of the fact, but merely to see\nhow she looked. She immediately answered, without any embarrassment,\nthat he had been kind enough to call on her on Monday; but she believed\nhe had already returned home, which I was very far from crediting. Your\nkind invitation is accepted by us with pleasure, and on Thursday next we\nand our little ones will be with you. Pray heaven, Reginald may not be\nin town again by that time! I wish we could bring dear Frederica too,\nbut I am sorry to say that her mother's errand hither was to fetch her\naway; and, miserable as it made the poor girl, it was impossible to\ndetain her. I was thoroughly unwilling to let her go, and so was her\nuncle; and all that could be urged we did urge; but Lady Susan declared\nthat as she was now about to fix herself in London for several months,\nshe could not be easy if her daughter were not with her for masters,\n&c. Her manner, to be sure, was very kind and proper, and Mr. Vernon\nbelieves that Frederica will now be treated with affection. I wish I\ncould think so too. The poor girl's heart was almost broke at taking\nleave of us. I charged her to write to me very often, and to remember\nthat if she were in any distress we should be always her friends. I took\ncare to see her alone, that I might say all this, and I hope made her a\nlittle more comfortable; but I shall not be easy till I can go to town\nand judge of her situation myself. I wish there were a better prospect\nthan now appears of the match which the conclusion of your letter\ndeclares your expectations of. At present, it is not very likely,\n\nYours ever, &c.,\n\nC. VERNON\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCONCLUSION\n\n\nThis correspondence, by a meeting between some of the parties, and a\nseparation between the others, could not, to the great detriment of the\nPost Office revenue, be continued any longer. Very little assistance\nto the State could be derived from the epistolary intercourse of Mrs.\nVernon and her niece; for the former soon perceived, by the style\nof Frederica's letters, that they were written under her mother's\ninspection! and therefore, deferring all particular enquiry till she\ncould make it personally in London, ceased writing minutely or often.\nHaving learnt enough, in the meanwhile, from her open-hearted brother,\nof what had passed between him and Lady Susan to sink the latter lower\nthan ever in her opinion, she was proportionably more anxious to get\nFrederica removed from such a mother, and placed under her own care;\nand, though with little hope of success, was resolved to leave nothing\nunattempted that might offer a chance of obtaining her sister-in-law's\nconsent to it. Her anxiety on the subject made her press for an early\nvisit to London; and Mr. Vernon, who, as it must already have appeared,\nlived only to do whatever he was desired, soon found some accommodating\nbusiness to call him thither. With a heart full of the matter, Mrs.\nVernon waited on Lady Susan shortly after her arrival in town, and was\nmet with such an easy and cheerful affection, as made her almost turn\nfrom her with horror. No remembrance of Reginald, no consciousness of\nguilt, gave one look of embarrassment; she was in excellent spirits, and\nseemed eager to show at once by ever possible attention to her brother\nand sister her sense of their kindness, and her pleasure in their\nsociety. Frederica was no more altered than Lady Susan; the same\nrestrained manners, the same timid look in the presence of her mother as\nheretofore, assured her aunt of her situation being uncomfortable, and\nconfirmed her in the plan of altering it. No unkindness, however, on the\npart of Lady Susan appeared. Persecution on the subject of Sir James was\nentirely at an end; his name merely mentioned to say that he was not in\nLondon; and indeed, in all her conversation, she was solicitous only for\nthe welfare and improvement of her daughter, acknowledging, in terms of\ngrateful delight, that Frederica was now growing every day more and more\nwhat a parent could desire. Mrs. Vernon, surprized and incredulous,\nknew not what to suspect, and, without any change in her own views,\nonly feared greater difficulty in accomplishing them. The first hope\nof anything better was derived from Lady Susan's asking her whether she\nthought Frederica looked quite as well as she had done at Churchhill, as\nshe must confess herself to have sometimes an anxious doubt of London's\nperfectly agreeing with her. Mrs. Vernon, encouraging the doubt,\ndirectly proposed her niece's returning with them into the country. Lady\nSusan was unable to express her sense of such kindness, yet knew not,\nfrom a variety of reasons, how to part with her daughter; and as, though\nher own plans were not yet wholly fixed, she trusted it would ere long\nbe in her power to take Frederica into the country herself, concluded by\ndeclining entirely to profit by such unexampled attention. Mrs. Vernon\npersevered, however, in the offer of it, and though Lady Susan continued\nto resist, her resistance in the course of a few days seemed somewhat\nless formidable. The lucky alarm of an influenza decided what might not\nhave been decided quite so soon. Lady Susan's maternal fears were then\ntoo much awakened for her to think of anything but Frederica's removal\nfrom the risk of infection; above all disorders in the world she most\ndreaded the influenza for her daughter's constitution!\n\nFrederica returned to Churchhill with her uncle and aunt; and three\nweeks afterwards, Lady Susan announced her being married to Sir James\nMartin. Mrs. Vernon was then convinced of what she had only suspected\nbefore, that she might have spared herself all the trouble of urging\na removal which Lady Susan had doubtless resolved on from the first.\nFrederica's visit was nominally for six weeks, but her mother, though\ninviting her to return in one or two affectionate letters, was very\nready to oblige the whole party by consenting to a prolongation of her\nstay, and in the course of two months ceased to write of her absence,\nand in the course of two or more to write to her at all. Frederica was\ntherefore fixed in the family of her uncle and aunt till such time as\nReginald De Courcy could be talked, flattered, and finessed into an\naffection for her which, allowing leisure for the conquest of his\nattachment to her mother, for his abjuring all future attachments, and\ndetesting the sex, might be reasonably looked for in the course of a\ntwelvemonth. Three months might have done it in general, but Reginald's\nfeelings were no less lasting than lively. Whether Lady Susan was or\nwas not happy in her second choice, I do not see how it can ever be\nascertained; for who would take her assurance of it on either side of\nthe question? The world must judge from probabilities; she had nothing\nagainst her but her husband, and her conscience. Sir James may seem to\nhave drawn a harder lot than mere folly merited; I leave him, therefore,\nto all the pity that anybody can give him. For myself, I confess that I\ncan pity only Miss Mainwaring; who, coming to town, and putting herself\nto an expense in clothes which impoverished her for two years, on\npurpose to secure him, was defrauded of her due by a woman ten years\nolder than herself.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLOVE AND FREINDSHIP AND OTHER EARLY WORKS\n\nA Collection of Juvenile Writings\n\nBy Jane Austen\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Note: A few very small changes have been made to this\nversion: Italics have been converted to capitals. The British 'pound'\nsymbol has been converted to 'L'; but in general the author's erratic\nspelling, punctuation and capitalisations have been retained.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n     Love and Freindship\n     Lesley Castle\n     The History of England\n     Collection of Letters\n     Scraps\n\n\n\n\n\nLOVE AND FREINDSHIP\n\n\n\n  TO MADAME LA COMTESSE DE FEUILLIDE THIS NOVEL\n  IS INSCRIBED BY HER\n  OBLIGED HUMBLE SERVANT\n\n  THE AUTHOR.\n\n\n  \"Deceived in Freindship and Betrayed in Love.\"\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the FIRST From ISABEL to LAURA\n\nHow often, in answer to my repeated intreaties that you would give my\nDaughter a regular detail of the Misfortunes and Adventures of your\nLife, have you said \"No, my freind never will I comply with your request\ntill I may be no longer in Danger of again experiencing such dreadful\nones.\"\n\nSurely that time is now at hand. You are this day 55. If a woman\nmay ever be said to be in safety from the determined Perseverance of\ndisagreeable Lovers and the cruel Persecutions of obstinate Fathers,\nsurely it must be at such a time of Life. Isabel\n\n\n\n\nLETTER 2nd LAURA to ISABEL\n\nAltho' I cannot agree with you in supposing that I shall never again be\nexposed to Misfortunes as unmerited as those I have already experienced,\nyet to avoid the imputation of Obstinacy or ill-nature, I will gratify\nthe curiosity of your daughter; and may the fortitude with which I have\nsuffered the many afflictions of my past Life, prove to her a useful\nlesson for the support of those which may befall her in her own. Laura\n\n\n\n\nLETTER 3rd LAURA to MARIANNE\n\nAs the Daughter of my most intimate freind I think you entitled to that\nknowledge of my unhappy story, which your Mother has so often solicited\nme to give you.\n\nMy Father was a native of Ireland and an inhabitant of Wales; my Mother\nwas the natural Daughter of a Scotch Peer by an italian Opera-girl--I\nwas born in Spain and received my Education at a Convent in France.\n\nWhen I had reached my eighteenth Year I was recalled by my Parents to\nmy paternal roof in Wales. Our mansion was situated in one of the most\nromantic parts of the Vale of Uske. Tho' my Charms are now considerably\nsoftened and somewhat impaired by the Misfortunes I have undergone, I\nwas once beautiful. But lovely as I was the Graces of my Person were the\nleast of my Perfections. Of every accomplishment accustomary to my sex,\nI was Mistress. When in the Convent, my progress had always exceeded my\ninstructions, my Acquirements had been wonderfull for my age, and I had\nshortly surpassed my Masters.\n\nIn my Mind, every Virtue that could adorn it was centered; it was the\nRendez-vous of every good Quality and of every noble sentiment.\n\nA sensibility too tremblingly alive to every affliction of my Freinds,\nmy Acquaintance and particularly to every affliction of my own, was my\nonly fault, if a fault it could be called. Alas! how altered now! Tho'\nindeed my own Misfortunes do not make less impression on me than they\never did, yet now I never feel for those of an other. My accomplishments\ntoo, begin to fade--I can neither sing so well nor Dance so gracefully\nas I once did--and I have entirely forgot the MINUET DELA COUR. Adeiu.\nLaura.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER 4th Laura to MARIANNE\n\nOur neighbourhood was small, for it consisted only of your Mother. She\nmay probably have already told you that being left by her Parents\nin indigent Circumstances she had retired into Wales on eoconomical\nmotives. There it was our freindship first commenced. Isobel was then\none and twenty. Tho' pleasing both in her Person and Manners (between\nourselves) she never possessed the hundredth part of my Beauty or\nAccomplishments. Isabel had seen the World. She had passed 2 Years at\none of the first Boarding-schools in London; had spent a fortnight in\nBath and had supped one night in Southampton.\n\n\"Beware my Laura (she would often say) Beware of the insipid Vanities\nand idle Dissipations of the Metropolis of England; Beware of the\nunmeaning Luxuries of Bath and of the stinking fish of Southampton.\"\n\n\"Alas! (exclaimed I) how am I to avoid those evils I shall never\nbe exposed to? What probability is there of my ever tasting the\nDissipations of London, the Luxuries of Bath, or the stinking Fish of\nSouthampton? I who am doomed to waste my Days of Youth and Beauty in an\nhumble Cottage in the Vale of Uske.\"\n\nAh! little did I then think I was ordained so soon to quit that humble\nCottage for the Deceitfull Pleasures of the World. Adeiu Laura.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER 5th LAURA to MARIANNE\n\nOne Evening in December as my Father, my Mother and myself, were\narranged in social converse round our Fireside, we were on a sudden\ngreatly astonished, by hearing a violent knocking on the outward door of\nour rustic Cot.\n\nMy Father started--\"What noise is that,\" (said he.) \"It sounds like a\nloud rapping at the door\"--(replied my Mother.) \"it does indeed.\" (cried\nI.) \"I am of your opinion; (said my Father) it certainly does appear\nto proceed from some uncommon violence exerted against our unoffending\ndoor.\" \"Yes (exclaimed I) I cannot help thinking it must be somebody who\nknocks for admittance.\"\n\n\"That is another point (replied he;) We must not pretend to determine\non what motive the person may knock--tho' that someone DOES rap at the\ndoor, I am partly convinced.\"\n\nHere, a 2d tremendous rap interrupted my Father in his speech, and\nsomewhat alarmed my Mother and me.\n\n\"Had we better not go and see who it is? (said she) the servants are\nout.\" \"I think we had.\" (replied I.) \"Certainly, (added my Father)\nby all means.\" \"Shall we go now?\" (said my Mother,) \"The sooner the\nbetter.\" (answered he.) \"Oh! let no time be lost\" (cried I.)\n\nA third more violent Rap than ever again assaulted our ears. \"I am\ncertain there is somebody knocking at the Door.\" (said my Mother.)\n\"I think there must,\" (replied my Father) \"I fancy the servants are\nreturned; (said I) I think I hear Mary going to the Door.\" \"I'm glad of\nit (cried my Father) for I long to know who it is.\"\n\nI was right in my conjecture; for Mary instantly entering the Room,\ninformed us that a young Gentleman and his Servant were at the door, who\nhad lossed their way, were very cold and begged leave to warm themselves\nby our fire.\n\n\"Won't you admit them?\" (said I.) \"You have no objection, my Dear?\"\n(said my Father.) \"None in the World.\" (replied my Mother.)\n\nMary, without waiting for any further commands immediately left the room\nand quickly returned introducing the most beauteous and amiable Youth, I\nhad ever beheld. The servant she kept to herself.\n\nMy natural sensibility had already been greatly affected by the\nsufferings of the unfortunate stranger and no sooner did I first behold\nhim, than I felt that on him the happiness or Misery of my future Life\nmust depend. Adeiu Laura.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER 6th LAURA to MARIANNE\n\nThe noble Youth informed us that his name was Lindsay--for particular\nreasons however I shall conceal it under that of Talbot. He told us that\nhe was the son of an English Baronet, that his Mother had been for many\nyears no more and that he had a Sister of the middle size. \"My Father\n(he continued) is a mean and mercenary wretch--it is only to such\nparticular freinds as this Dear Party that I would thus betray his\nfailings. Your Virtues my amiable Polydore (addressing himself to my\nfather) yours Dear Claudia and yours my Charming Laura call on me to\nrepose in you, my confidence.\" We bowed. \"My Father seduced by the false\nglare of Fortune and the Deluding Pomp of Title, insisted on my giving\nmy hand to Lady Dorothea. No never exclaimed I. Lady Dorothea is lovely\nand Engaging; I prefer no woman to her; but know Sir, that I scorn to\nmarry her in compliance with your Wishes. No! Never shall it be said\nthat I obliged my Father.\"\n\nWe all admired the noble Manliness of his reply. He continued.\n\n\"Sir Edward was surprised; he had perhaps little expected to meet with\nso spirited an opposition to his will. \"Where, Edward in the name of\nwonder (said he) did you pick up this unmeaning gibberish? You have\nbeen studying Novels I suspect.\" I scorned to answer: it would have\nbeen beneath my dignity. I mounted my Horse and followed by my faithful\nWilliam set forth for my Aunts.\"\n\n\"My Father's house is situated in Bedfordshire, my Aunt's in Middlesex,\nand tho' I flatter myself with being a tolerable proficient in\nGeography, I know not how it happened, but I found myself entering this\nbeautifull Vale which I find is in South Wales, when I had expected to\nhave reached my Aunts.\"\n\n\"After having wandered some time on the Banks of the Uske without\nknowing which way to go, I began to lament my cruel Destiny in the\nbitterest and most pathetic Manner. It was now perfectly dark, not a\nsingle star was there to direct my steps, and I know not what might have\nbefallen me had I not at length discerned thro' the solemn Gloom that\nsurrounded me a distant light, which as I approached it, I discovered\nto be the chearfull Blaze of your fire. Impelled by the combination\nof Misfortunes under which I laboured, namely Fear, Cold and Hunger I\nhesitated not to ask admittance which at length I have gained; and\nnow my Adorable Laura (continued he taking my Hand) when may I hope\nto receive that reward of all the painfull sufferings I have undergone\nduring the course of my attachment to you, to which I have ever aspired.\nOh! when will you reward me with Yourself?\"\n\n\"This instant, Dear and Amiable Edward.\" (replied I.). We were\nimmediately united by my Father, who tho' he had never taken orders had\nbeen bred to the Church. Adeiu Laura\n\n\n\n\nLETTER 7th LAURA to MARIANNE\n\nWe remained but a few days after our Marriage, in the Vale of Uske.\nAfter taking an affecting Farewell of my Father, my Mother and my\nIsabel, I accompanied Edward to his Aunt's in Middlesex. Philippa\nreceived us both with every expression of affectionate Love. My arrival\nwas indeed a most agreable surprise to her as she had not only been\ntotally ignorant of my Marriage with her Nephew, but had never even had\nthe slightest idea of there being such a person in the World.\n\nAugusta, the sister of Edward was on a visit to her when we arrived.\nI found her exactly what her Brother had described her to be--of the\nmiddle size. She received me with equal surprise though not with equal\nCordiality, as Philippa. There was a disagreable coldness and Forbidding\nReserve in her reception of me which was equally distressing and\nUnexpected. None of that interesting Sensibility or amiable simpathy\nin her manners and Address to me when we first met which should have\ndistinguished our introduction to each other. Her Language was neither\nwarm, nor affectionate, her expressions of regard were neither animated\nnor cordial; her arms were not opened to receive me to her Heart, tho'\nmy own were extended to press her to mine.\n\nA short Conversation between Augusta and her Brother, which I\naccidentally overheard encreased my dislike to her, and convinced me\nthat her Heart was no more formed for the soft ties of Love than for the\nendearing intercourse of Freindship.\n\n\"But do you think that my Father will ever be reconciled to this\nimprudent connection?\" (said Augusta.)\n\n\"Augusta (replied the noble Youth) I thought you had a better opinion of\nme, than to imagine I would so abjectly degrade myself as to consider\nmy Father's Concurrence in any of my affairs, either of Consequence\nor concern to me. Tell me Augusta with sincerity; did you ever know\nme consult his inclinations or follow his Advice in the least trifling\nParticular since the age of fifteen?\"\n\n\"Edward (replied she) you are surely too diffident in your own praise.\nSince you were fifteen only! My Dear Brother since you were five years\nold, I entirely acquit you of ever having willingly contributed to the\nsatisfaction of your Father. But still I am not without apprehensions\nof your being shortly obliged to degrade yourself in your own eyes by\nseeking a support for your wife in the Generosity of Sir Edward.\"\n\n\"Never, never Augusta will I so demean myself. (said Edward). Support!\nWhat support will Laura want which she can receive from him?\"\n\n\"Only those very insignificant ones of Victuals and Drink.\" (answered\nshe.)\n\n\"Victuals and Drink! (replied my Husband in a most nobly contemptuous\nManner) and dost thou then imagine that there is no other support for\nan exalted mind (such as is my Laura's) than the mean and indelicate\nemployment of Eating and Drinking?\"\n\n\"None that I know of, so efficacious.\" (returned Augusta).\n\n\"And did you then never feel the pleasing Pangs of Love, Augusta?\n(replied my Edward). Does it appear impossible to your vile and\ncorrupted Palate, to exist on Love? Can you not conceive the Luxury of\nliving in every distress that Poverty can inflict, with the object of\nyour tenderest affection?\"\n\n\"You are too ridiculous (said Augusta) to argue with; perhaps however\nyou may in time be convinced that...\"\n\nHere I was prevented from hearing the remainder of her speech, by the\nappearance of a very Handsome young Woman, who was ushured into the Room\nat the Door of which I had been listening. On hearing her announced by\nthe Name of \"Lady Dorothea,\" I instantly quitted my Post and followed\nher into the Parlour, for I well remembered that she was the Lady,\nproposed as a Wife for my Edward by the Cruel and Unrelenting Baronet.\n\nAltho' Lady Dorothea's visit was nominally to Philippa and Augusta, yet\nI have some reason to imagine that (acquainted with the Marriage and\narrival of Edward) to see me was a principal motive to it.\n\nI soon perceived that tho' Lovely and Elegant in her Person and tho'\nEasy and Polite in her Address, she was of that inferior order of\nBeings with regard to Delicate Feeling, tender Sentiments, and refined\nSensibility, of which Augusta was one.\n\nShe staid but half an hour and neither in the Course of her Visit,\nconfided to me any of her secret thoughts, nor requested me to confide\nin her, any of Mine. You will easily imagine therefore my Dear Marianne\nthat I could not feel any ardent affection or very sincere Attachment\nfor Lady Dorothea. Adeiu Laura.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER 8th LAURA to MARIANNE, in continuation\n\nLady Dorothea had not left us long before another visitor as unexpected\na one as her Ladyship, was announced. It was Sir Edward, who informed\nby Augusta of her Brother's marriage, came doubtless to reproach him for\nhaving dared to unite himself to me without his Knowledge. But Edward\nforeseeing his design, approached him with heroic fortitude as soon as\nhe entered the Room, and addressed him in the following Manner.\n\n\"Sir Edward, I know the motive of your Journey here--You come with the\nbase Design of reproaching me for having entered into an indissoluble\nengagement with my Laura without your Consent. But Sir, I glory in the\nAct--. It is my greatest boast that I have incurred the displeasure of\nmy Father!\"\n\nSo saying, he took my hand and whilst Sir Edward, Philippa, and Augusta\nwere doubtless reflecting with admiration on his undaunted Bravery, led\nme from the Parlour to his Father's Carriage which yet remained at the\nDoor and in which we were instantly conveyed from the pursuit of Sir\nEdward.\n\nThe Postilions had at first received orders only to take the London\nroad; as soon as we had sufficiently reflected However, we ordered them\nto Drive to M----. the seat of Edward's most particular freind, which\nwas but a few miles distant.\n\nAt M----. we arrived in a few hours; and on sending in our names were\nimmediately admitted to Sophia, the Wife of Edward's freind. After\nhaving been deprived during the course of 3 weeks of a real freind (for\nsuch I term your Mother) imagine my transports at beholding one, most\ntruly worthy of the Name. Sophia was rather above the middle size; most\nelegantly formed. A soft languor spread over her lovely features, but\nincreased their Beauty--. It was the Charectarestic of her Mind--. She\nwas all sensibility and Feeling. We flew into each others arms and after\nhaving exchanged vows of mutual Freindship for the rest of our Lives,\ninstantly unfolded to each other the most inward secrets of our\nHearts--. We were interrupted in the delightfull Employment by the\nentrance of Augustus, (Edward's freind) who was just returned from a\nsolitary ramble.\n\nNever did I see such an affecting Scene as was the meeting of Edward and\nAugustus.\n\n\"My Life! my Soul!\" (exclaimed the former) \"My adorable angel!\" (replied\nthe latter) as they flew into each other's arms. It was too pathetic\nfor the feelings of Sophia and myself--We fainted alternately on a sofa.\nAdeiu Laura.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the 9th From the same to the same\n\nTowards the close of the day we received the following Letter from\nPhilippa.\n\n\"Sir Edward is greatly incensed by your abrupt departure; he has\ntaken back Augusta to Bedfordshire. Much as I wish to enjoy again your\ncharming society, I cannot determine to snatch you from that, of such\ndear and deserving Freinds--When your Visit to them is terminated, I\ntrust you will return to the arms of your\" \"Philippa.\"\n\nWe returned a suitable answer to this affectionate Note and after\nthanking her for her kind invitation assured her that we would certainly\navail ourselves of it, whenever we might have no other place to go to.\nTho' certainly nothing could to any reasonable Being, have appeared more\nsatisfactory, than so gratefull a reply to her invitation, yet I know\nnot how it was, but she was certainly capricious enough to be displeased\nwith our behaviour and in a few weeks after, either to revenge our\nConduct, or releive her own solitude, married a young and illiterate\nFortune-hunter. This imprudent step (tho' we were sensible that it would\nprobably deprive us of that fortune which Philippa had ever taught us to\nexpect) could not on our own accounts, excite from our exalted minds a\nsingle sigh; yet fearfull lest it might prove a source of endless misery\nto the deluded Bride, our trembling Sensibility was greatly affected\nwhen we were first informed of the Event. The affectionate Entreaties of\nAugustus and Sophia that we would for ever consider their House as our\nHome, easily prevailed on us to determine never more to leave them, In\nthe society of my Edward and this Amiable Pair, I passed the happiest\nmoments of my Life; Our time was most delightfully spent, in mutual\nProtestations of Freindship, and in vows of unalterable Love, in which\nwe were secure from being interrupted, by intruding and disagreable\nVisitors, as Augustus and Sophia had on their first Entrance in the\nNeighbourhood, taken due care to inform the surrounding Families, that\nas their happiness centered wholly in themselves, they wished for no\nother society. But alas! my Dear Marianne such Happiness as I then\nenjoyed was too perfect to be lasting. A most severe and unexpected Blow\nat once destroyed every sensation of Pleasure. Convinced as you must be\nfrom what I have already told you concerning Augustus and Sophia, that\nthere never were a happier Couple, I need not I imagine, inform you that\ntheir union had been contrary to the inclinations of their Cruel\nand Mercenery Parents; who had vainly endeavoured with obstinate\nPerseverance to force them into a Marriage with those whom they had ever\nabhorred; but with a Heroic Fortitude worthy to be related and admired,\nthey had both, constantly refused to submit to such despotic Power.\n\nAfter having so nobly disentangled themselves from the shackles of\nParental Authority, by a Clandestine Marriage, they were determined\nnever to forfeit the good opinion they had gained in the World, in\nso doing, by accepting any proposals of reconciliation that might be\noffered them by their Fathers--to this farther tryal of their noble\nindependance however they never were exposed.\n\nThey had been married but a few months when our visit to them commenced\nduring which time they had been amply supported by a considerable sum of\nmoney which Augustus had gracefully purloined from his unworthy father's\nEscritoire, a few days before his union with Sophia.\n\nBy our arrival their Expenses were considerably encreased tho' their\nmeans for supplying them were then nearly exhausted. But they, Exalted\nCreatures! scorned to reflect a moment on their pecuniary Distresses and\nwould have blushed at the idea of paying their Debts.--Alas! what was\ntheir Reward for such disinterested Behaviour! The beautifull Augustus\nwas arrested and we were all undone. Such perfidious Treachery in the\nmerciless perpetrators of the Deed will shock your gentle nature Dearest\nMarianne as much as it then affected the Delicate sensibility of\nEdward, Sophia, your Laura, and of Augustus himself. To compleat such\nunparalelled Barbarity we were informed that an Execution in the House\nwould shortly take place. Ah! what could we do but what we did! We\nsighed and fainted on the sofa. Adeiu Laura.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER 10th LAURA in continuation\n\nWhen we were somewhat recovered from the overpowering Effusions of our\ngrief, Edward desired that we would consider what was the most prudent\nstep to be taken in our unhappy situation while he repaired to his\nimprisoned freind to lament over his misfortunes. We promised that we\nwould, and he set forwards on his journey to Town. During his absence\nwe faithfully complied with his Desire and after the most mature\nDeliberation, at length agreed that the best thing we could do was\nto leave the House; of which we every moment expected the officers\nof Justice to take possession. We waited therefore with the greatest\nimpatience, for the return of Edward in order to impart to him the\nresult of our Deliberations. But no Edward appeared. In vain did we\ncount the tedious moments of his absence--in vain did we weep--in\nvain even did we sigh--no Edward returned--. This was too cruel, too\nunexpected a Blow to our Gentle Sensibility--we could not support it--we\ncould only faint. At length collecting all the Resolution I was Mistress\nof, I arose and after packing up some necessary apparel for Sophia and\nmyself, I dragged her to a Carriage I had ordered and we instantly set\nout for London. As the Habitation of Augustus was within twelve miles\nof Town, it was not long e'er we arrived there, and no sooner had we\nentered Holboun than letting down one of the Front Glasses I enquired of\nevery decent-looking Person that we passed \"If they had seen my Edward?\"\n\nBut as we drove too rapidly to allow them to answer my repeated\nEnquiries, I gained little, or indeed, no information concerning him.\n\"Where am I to drive?\" said the Postilion. \"To Newgate Gentle Youth\n(replied I), to see Augustus.\" \"Oh! no, no, (exclaimed Sophia) I cannot\ngo to Newgate; I shall not be able to support the sight of my Augustus\nin so cruel a confinement--my feelings are sufficiently shocked by\nthe RECITAL, of his Distress, but to behold it will overpower my\nSensibility.\" As I perfectly agreed with her in the Justice of her\nSentiments the Postilion was instantly directed to return into the\nCountry. You may perhaps have been somewhat surprised my Dearest\nMarianne, that in the Distress I then endured, destitute of any support,\nand unprovided with any Habitation, I should never once have remembered\nmy Father and Mother or my paternal Cottage in the Vale of Uske. To\naccount for this seeming forgetfullness I must inform you of a trifling\ncircumstance concerning them which I have as yet never mentioned. The\ndeath of my Parents a few weeks after my Departure, is the circumstance\nI allude to. By their decease I became the lawfull Inheritress of their\nHouse and Fortune. But alas! the House had never been their own and\ntheir Fortune had only been an Annuity on their own Lives. Such is\nthe Depravity of the World! To your Mother I should have returned with\nPleasure, should have been happy to have introduced to her, my charming\nSophia and should with Chearfullness have passed the remainder of my\nLife in their dear Society in the Vale of Uske, had not one obstacle\nto the execution of so agreable a scheme, intervened; which was the\nMarriage and Removal of your Mother to a distant part of Ireland. Adeiu\nLaura.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER 11th LAURA in continuation\n\n\"I have a Relation in Scotland (said Sophia to me as we left London) who\nI am certain would not hesitate in receiving me.\" \"Shall I order the Boy\nto drive there?\" said I--but instantly recollecting myself, exclaimed,\n\"Alas I fear it will be too long a Journey for the Horses.\" Unwilling\nhowever to act only from my own inadequate Knowledge of the Strength and\nAbilities of Horses, I consulted the Postilion, who was entirely of my\nOpinion concerning the Affair. We therefore determined to change Horses\nat the next Town and to travel Post the remainder of the Journey--. When\nwe arrived at the last Inn we were to stop at, which was but a few miles\nfrom the House of Sophia's Relation, unwilling to intrude our Society on\nhim unexpected and unthought of, we wrote a very elegant and well\npenned Note to him containing an account of our Destitute and melancholy\nSituation, and of our intention to spend some months with him in\nScotland. As soon as we had dispatched this Letter, we immediately\nprepared to follow it in person and were stepping into the Carriage\nfor that Purpose when our attention was attracted by the Entrance of\na coroneted Coach and 4 into the Inn-yard. A Gentleman considerably\nadvanced in years descended from it. At his first Appearance my\nSensibility was wonderfully affected and e'er I had gazed at him a 2d\ntime, an instinctive sympathy whispered to my Heart, that he was my\nGrandfather. Convinced that I could not be mistaken in my conjecture I\ninstantly sprang from the Carriage I had just entered, and following the\nVenerable Stranger into the Room he had been shewn to, I threw myself\non my knees before him and besought him to acknowledge me as his Grand\nChild. He started, and having attentively examined my features, raised\nme from the Ground and throwing his Grand-fatherly arms around my Neck,\nexclaimed, \"Acknowledge thee! Yes dear resemblance of my Laurina and\nLaurina's Daughter, sweet image of my Claudia and my Claudia's Mother,\nI do acknowledge thee as the Daughter of the one and the Grandaughter of\nthe other.\" While he was thus tenderly embracing me, Sophia astonished\nat my precipitate Departure, entered the Room in search of me. No sooner\nhad she caught the eye of the venerable Peer, than he exclaimed with\nevery mark of Astonishment--\"Another Grandaughter! Yes, yes, I see you\nare the Daughter of my Laurina's eldest Girl; your resemblance to the\nbeauteous Matilda sufficiently proclaims it. \"Oh!\" replied Sophia, \"when\nI first beheld you the instinct of Nature whispered me that we were in\nsome degree related--But whether Grandfathers, or Grandmothers, I could\nnot pretend to determine.\" He folded her in his arms, and whilst they\nwere tenderly embracing, the Door of the Apartment opened and a most\nbeautifull young Man appeared. On perceiving him Lord St. Clair started\nand retreating back a few paces, with uplifted Hands, said, \"Another\nGrand-child! What an unexpected Happiness is this! to discover in the\nspace of 3 minutes, as many of my Descendants! This I am certain is\nPhilander the son of my Laurina's 3d girl the amiable Bertha; there\nwants now but the presence of Gustavus to compleat the Union of my\nLaurina's Grand-Children.\"\n\n\"And here he is; (said a Gracefull Youth who that instant entered the\nroom) here is the Gustavus you desire to see. I am the son of Agatha\nyour Laurina's 4th and youngest Daughter,\" \"I see you are indeed;\nreplied Lord St. Clair--But tell me (continued he looking fearfully\ntowards the Door) tell me, have I any other Grand-children in the\nHouse.\" \"None my Lord.\" \"Then I will provide for you all without farther\ndelay--Here are 4 Banknotes of 50L each--Take them and remember I\nhave done the Duty of a Grandfather.\" He instantly left the Room and\nimmediately afterwards the House. Adeiu, Laura.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the 12th LAURA in continuation\n\nYou may imagine how greatly we were surprised by the sudden departure\nof Lord St Clair. \"Ignoble Grand-sire!\" exclaimed Sophia. \"Unworthy\nGrandfather!\" said I, and instantly fainted in each other's arms. How\nlong we remained in this situation I know not; but when we recovered\nwe found ourselves alone, without either Gustavus, Philander, or the\nBanknotes. As we were deploring our unhappy fate, the Door of the\nApartment opened and \"Macdonald\" was announced. He was Sophia's cousin.\nThe haste with which he came to our releif so soon after the receipt\nof our Note, spoke so greatly in his favour that I hesitated not to\npronounce him at first sight, a tender and simpathetic Freind. Alas!\nhe little deserved the name--for though he told us that he was much\nconcerned at our Misfortunes, yet by his own account it appeared that\nthe perusal of them, had neither drawn from him a single sigh, nor\ninduced him to bestow one curse on our vindictive stars--. He told\nSophia that his Daughter depended on her returning with him to\nMacdonald-Hall, and that as his Cousin's freind he should be happy\nto see me there also. To Macdonald-Hall, therefore we went, and were\nreceived with great kindness by Janetta the Daughter of Macdonald, and\nthe Mistress of the Mansion. Janetta was then only fifteen; naturally\nwell disposed, endowed with a susceptible Heart, and a simpathetic\nDisposition, she might, had these amiable qualities been properly\nencouraged, have been an ornament to human Nature; but unfortunately her\nFather possessed not a soul sufficiently exalted to admire so promising\na Disposition, and had endeavoured by every means on his power\nto prevent it encreasing with her Years. He had actually so far\nextinguished the natural noble Sensibility of her Heart, as to prevail\non her to accept an offer from a young Man of his Recommendation. They\nwere to be married in a few months, and Graham, was in the House when\nwe arrived. WE soon saw through his character. He was just such a Man as\none might have expected to be the choice of Macdonald. They said he was\nSensible, well-informed, and Agreable; we did not pretend to Judge of\nsuch trifles, but as we were convinced he had no soul, that he had\nnever read the sorrows of Werter, and that his Hair bore not the least\nresemblance to auburn, we were certain that Janetta could feel no\naffection for him, or at least that she ought to feel none. The very\ncircumstance of his being her father's choice too, was so much in his\ndisfavour, that had he been deserving her, in every other respect yet\nTHAT of itself ought to have been a sufficient reason in the Eyes of\nJanetta for rejecting him. These considerations we were determined to\nrepresent to her in their proper light and doubted not of meeting with\nthe desired success from one naturally so well disposed; whose errors in\nthe affair had only arisen from a want of proper confidence in her own\nopinion, and a suitable contempt of her father's. We found her indeed\nall that our warmest wishes could have hoped for; we had no difficulty\nto convince her that it was impossible she could love Graham, or that it\nwas her Duty to disobey her Father; the only thing at which she rather\nseemed to hesitate was our assertion that she must be attached to some\nother Person. For some time, she persevered in declaring that she knew\nno other young man for whom she had the the smallest Affection; but upon\nexplaining the impossibility of such a thing she said that she beleived\nshe DID LIKE Captain M'Kenrie better than any one she knew besides. This\nconfession satisfied us and after having enumerated the good Qualities\nof M'Kenrie and assured her that she was violently in love with him, we\ndesired to know whether he had ever in any wise declared his affection\nto her.\n\n\"So far from having ever declared it, I have no reason to imagine that\nhe has ever felt any for me.\" said Janetta. \"That he certainly adores\nyou (replied Sophia) there can be no doubt--. The Attachment must be\nreciprocal. Did he never gaze on you with admiration--tenderly press\nyour hand--drop an involantary tear--and leave the room abruptly?\"\n\"Never (replied she) that I remember--he has always left the room indeed\nwhen his visit has been ended, but has never gone away particularly\nabruptly or without making a bow.\" Indeed my Love (said I) you must be\nmistaken--for it is absolutely impossible that he should ever have left\nyou but with Confusion, Despair, and Precipitation. Consider but for a\nmoment Janetta, and you must be convinced how absurd it is to suppose\nthat he could ever make a Bow, or behave like any other Person.\"\nHaving settled this Point to our satisfaction, the next we took into\nconsideration was, to determine in what manner we should inform M'Kenrie\nof the favourable Opinion Janetta entertained of him.... We at length\nagreed to acquaint him with it by an anonymous Letter which Sophia drew\nup in the following manner.\n\n\"Oh! happy Lover of the beautifull Janetta, oh! amiable Possessor of\nHER Heart whose hand is destined to another, why do you thus delay a\nconfession of your attachment to the amiable Object of it? Oh! consider\nthat a few weeks will at once put an end to every flattering Hope that\nyou may now entertain, by uniting the unfortunate Victim of her father's\nCruelty to the execrable and detested Graham.\"\n\n\"Alas! why do you thus so cruelly connive at the projected Misery of\nher and of yourself by delaying to communicate that scheme which had\ndoubtless long possessed your imagination? A secret Union will at once\nsecure the felicity of both.\"\n\nThe amiable M'Kenrie, whose modesty as he afterwards assured us had\nbeen the only reason of his having so long concealed the violence of\nhis affection for Janetta, on receiving this Billet flew on the wings of\nLove to Macdonald-Hall, and so powerfully pleaded his Attachment to her\nwho inspired it, that after a few more private interveiws, Sophia and\nI experienced the satisfaction of seeing them depart for Gretna-Green,\nwhich they chose for the celebration of their Nuptials, in preference\nto any other place although it was at a considerable distance from\nMacdonald-Hall. Adeiu Laura.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the 13th LAURA in continuation\n\nThey had been gone nearly a couple of Hours, before either Macdonald or\nGraham had entertained any suspicion of the affair. And they might not\neven then have suspected it, but for the following little Accident.\nSophia happening one day to open a private Drawer in Macdonald's Library\nwith one of her own keys, discovered that it was the Place where he\nkept his Papers of consequence and amongst them some bank notes of\nconsiderable amount. This discovery she imparted to me; and having\nagreed together that it would be a proper treatment of so vile a Wretch\nas Macdonald to deprive him of money, perhaps dishonestly gained, it was\ndetermined that the next time we should either of us happen to go that\nway, we would take one or more of the Bank notes from the drawer. This\nwell meant Plan we had often successfully put in Execution; but alas!\non the very day of Janetta's Escape, as Sophia was majestically removing\nthe 5th Bank-note from the Drawer to her own purse, she was suddenly\nmost impertinently interrupted in her employment by the entrance of\nMacdonald himself, in a most abrupt and precipitate Manner. Sophia (who\nthough naturally all winning sweetness could when occasions demanded it\ncall forth the Dignity of her sex) instantly put on a most forbidding\nlook, and darting an angry frown on the undaunted culprit, demanded in\na haughty tone of voice \"Wherefore her retirement was thus insolently\nbroken in on?\" The unblushing Macdonald, without even endeavouring to\nexculpate himself from the crime he was charged with, meanly endeavoured\nto reproach Sophia with ignobly defrauding him of his money... The\ndignity of Sophia was wounded; \"Wretch (exclaimed she, hastily replacing\nthe Bank-note in the Drawer) how darest thou to accuse me of an Act,\nof which the bare idea makes me blush?\" The base wretch was still\nunconvinced and continued to upbraid the justly-offended Sophia in such\nopprobious Language, that at length he so greatly provoked the gentle\nsweetness of her Nature, as to induce her to revenge herself on him by\ninforming him of Janetta's Elopement, and of the active Part we had\nboth taken in the affair. At this period of their Quarrel I entered the\nLibrary and was as you may imagine equally offended as Sophia at the\nill-grounded accusations of the malevolent and contemptible Macdonald.\n\"Base Miscreant! (cried I) how canst thou thus undauntedly endeavour to\nsully the spotless reputation of such bright Excellence? Why dost thou\nnot suspect MY innocence as soon?\" \"Be satisfied Madam (replied he) I\nDO suspect it, and therefore must desire that you will both leave this\nHouse in less than half an hour.\"\n\n\"We shall go willingly; (answered Sophia) our hearts have long detested\nthee, and nothing but our freindship for thy Daughter could have induced\nus to remain so long beneath thy roof.\"\n\n\"Your Freindship for my Daughter has indeed been most powerfully exerted\nby throwing her into the arms of an unprincipled Fortune-hunter.\"\n(replied he)\n\n\"Yes, (exclaimed I) amidst every misfortune, it will afford us some\nconsolation to reflect that by this one act of Freindship to Janetta,\nwe have amply discharged every obligation that we have received from her\nfather.\"\n\n\"It must indeed be a most gratefull reflection, to your exalted minds.\"\n(said he.)\n\nAs soon as we had packed up our wardrobe and valuables, we left\nMacdonald Hall, and after having walked about a mile and a half we\nsate down by the side of a clear limpid stream to refresh our exhausted\nlimbs. The place was suited to meditation. A grove of full-grown Elms\nsheltered us from the East--. A Bed of full-grown Nettles from the\nWest--. Before us ran the murmuring brook and behind us ran the\nturn-pike road. We were in a mood for contemplation and in a Disposition\nto enjoy so beautifull a spot. A mutual silence which had for some time\nreigned between us, was at length broke by my exclaiming--\"What a lovely\nscene! Alas why are not Edward and Augustus here to enjoy its Beauties\nwith us?\"\n\n\"Ah! my beloved Laura (cried Sophia) for pity's sake forbear recalling\nto my remembrance the unhappy situation of my imprisoned Husband. Alas,\nwhat would I not give to learn the fate of my Augustus! to know if he is\nstill in Newgate, or if he is yet hung. But never shall I be able so far\nto conquer my tender sensibility as to enquire after him. Oh! do not\nI beseech you ever let me again hear you repeat his beloved name--. It\naffects me too deeply--. I cannot bear to hear him mentioned it wounds\nmy feelings.\"\n\n\"Excuse me my Sophia for having thus unwillingly offended you--\" replied\nI--and then changing the conversation, desired her to admire the noble\nGrandeur of the Elms which sheltered us from the Eastern Zephyr. \"Alas!\nmy Laura (returned she) avoid so melancholy a subject, I intreat you.\nDo not again wound my Sensibility by observations on those elms. They\nremind me of Augustus. He was like them, tall, magestic--he possessed\nthat noble grandeur which you admire in them.\"\n\nI was silent, fearfull lest I might any more unwillingly distress her by\nfixing on any other subject of conversation which might again remind her\nof Augustus.\n\n\"Why do you not speak my Laura? (said she after a short pause) \"I cannot\nsupport this silence you must not leave me to my own reflections; they\never recur to Augustus.\"\n\n\"What a beautifull sky! (said I) How charmingly is the azure varied by\nthose delicate streaks of white!\"\n\n\"Oh! my Laura (replied she hastily withdrawing her Eyes from a momentary\nglance at the sky) do not thus distress me by calling my Attention to\nan object which so cruelly reminds me of my Augustus's blue sattin\nwaistcoat striped in white! In pity to your unhappy freind avoid a\nsubject so distressing.\" What could I do? The feelings of Sophia were\nat that time so exquisite, and the tenderness she felt for Augustus so\npoignant that I had not power to start any other topic, justly fearing\nthat it might in some unforseen manner again awaken all her sensibility\nby directing her thoughts to her Husband. Yet to be silent would be\ncruel; she had intreated me to talk.\n\nFrom this Dilemma I was most fortunately releived by an accident truly\napropos; it was the lucky overturning of a Gentleman's Phaeton, on the\nroad which ran murmuring behind us. It was a most fortunate accident\nas it diverted the attention of Sophia from the melancholy reflections\nwhich she had been before indulging. We instantly quitted our seats and\nran to the rescue of those who but a few moments before had been in so\nelevated a situation as a fashionably high Phaeton, but who were\nnow laid low and sprawling in the Dust. \"What an ample subject for\nreflection on the uncertain Enjoyments of this World, would not that\nPhaeton and the Life of Cardinal Wolsey afford a thinking Mind!\" said I\nto Sophia as we were hastening to the field of Action.\n\nShe had not time to answer me, for every thought was now engaged by the\nhorrid spectacle before us. Two Gentlemen most elegantly attired\nbut weltering in their blood was what first struck our Eyes--we\napproached--they were Edward and Augustus--. Yes dearest Marianne they\nwere our Husbands. Sophia shreiked and fainted on the ground--I screamed\nand instantly ran mad--. We remained thus mutually deprived of our\nsenses, some minutes, and on regaining them were deprived of them\nagain. For an Hour and a Quarter did we continue in this unfortunate\nsituation--Sophia fainting every moment and I running mad as often. At\nlength a groan from the hapless Edward (who alone retained any share\nof life) restored us to ourselves. Had we indeed before imagined that\neither of them lived, we should have been more sparing of our Greif--but\nas we had supposed when we first beheld them that they were no more,\nwe knew that nothing could remain to be done but what we were about.\nNo sooner did we therefore hear my Edward's groan than postponing our\nlamentations for the present, we hastily ran to the Dear Youth and\nkneeling on each side of him implored him not to die--. \"Laura (said He\nfixing his now languid Eyes on me) I fear I have been overturned.\"\n\nI was overjoyed to find him yet sensible.\n\n\"Oh! tell me Edward (said I) tell me I beseech you before you die, what\nhas befallen you since that unhappy Day in which Augustus was arrested\nand we were separated--\"\n\n\"I will\" (said he) and instantly fetching a deep sigh, Expired--. Sophia\nimmediately sank again into a swoon--. MY greif was more audible. My\nVoice faltered, My Eyes assumed a vacant stare, my face became as pale\nas Death, and my senses were considerably impaired--.\n\n\"Talk not to me of Phaetons (said I, raving in a frantic, incoherent\nmanner)--Give me a violin--. I'll play to him and sooth him in his\nmelancholy Hours--Beware ye gentle Nymphs of Cupid's Thunderbolts, avoid\nthe piercing shafts of Jupiter--Look at that grove of Firs--I see a Leg\nof Mutton--They told me Edward was not Dead; but they deceived me--they\ntook him for a cucumber--\" Thus I continued wildly exclaiming on my\nEdward's Death--. For two Hours did I rave thus madly and should not\nthen have left off, as I was not in the least fatigued, had not Sophia\nwho was just recovered from her swoon, intreated me to consider that\nNight was now approaching and that the Damps began to fall. \"And\nwhither shall we go (said I) to shelter us from either?\" \"To that white\nCottage.\" (replied she pointing to a neat Building which rose up amidst\nthe grove of Elms and which I had not before observed--) I agreed and we\ninstantly walked to it--we knocked at the door--it was opened by an old\nwoman; on being requested to afford us a Night's Lodging, she informed\nus that her House was but small, that she had only two Bedrooms, but\nthat However we should be wellcome to one of them. We were satisfied and\nfollowed the good woman into the House where we were greatly cheered\nby the sight of a comfortable fire--. She was a widow and had only one\nDaughter, who was then just seventeen--One of the best of ages; but\nalas! she was very plain and her name was Bridget..... Nothing therfore\ncould be expected from her--she could not be supposed to possess either\nexalted Ideas, Delicate Feelings or refined Sensibilities--. She was\nnothing more than a mere good-tempered, civil and obliging young woman;\nas such we could scarcely dislike here--she was only an Object of\nContempt--. Adeiu Laura.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the 14th LAURA in continuation\n\nArm yourself my amiable young Freind with all the philosophy you are\nMistress of; summon up all the fortitude you possess, for alas! in the\nperusal of the following Pages your sensibility will be most severely\ntried. Ah! what were the misfortunes I had before experienced and which\nI have already related to you, to the one I am now going to inform you\nof. The Death of my Father and my Mother and my Husband though almost\nmore than my gentle Nature could support, were trifles in comparison\nto the misfortune I am now proceeding to relate. The morning after\nour arrival at the Cottage, Sophia complained of a violent pain in her\ndelicate limbs, accompanied with a disagreable Head-ake She attributed\nit to a cold caught by her continued faintings in the open air as the\nDew was falling the Evening before. This I feared was but too probably\nthe case; since how could it be otherwise accounted for that I should\nhave escaped the same indisposition, but by supposing that the\nbodily Exertions I had undergone in my repeated fits of frenzy had so\neffectually circulated and warmed my Blood as to make me proof against\nthe chilling Damps of Night, whereas, Sophia lying totally inactive\non the ground must have been exposed to all their severity. I was most\nseriously alarmed by her illness which trifling as it may appear to\nyou, a certain instinctive sensibility whispered me, would in the End be\nfatal to her.\n\nAlas! my fears were but too fully justified; she grew gradually\nworse--and I daily became more alarmed for her. At length she was\nobliged to confine herself solely to the Bed allotted us by our worthy\nLandlady--. Her disorder turned to a galloping Consumption and in a few\ndays carried her off. Amidst all my Lamentations for her (and violent\nyou may suppose they were) I yet received some consolation in the\nreflection of my having paid every attention to her, that could be\noffered, in her illness. I had wept over her every Day--had bathed her\nsweet face with my tears and had pressed her fair Hands continually in\nmine--. \"My beloved Laura (said she to me a few Hours before she died)\ntake warning from my unhappy End and avoid the imprudent conduct which\nhad occasioned it... Beware of fainting-fits... Though at the time they\nmay be refreshing and agreable yet beleive me they will in the end, if\ntoo often repeated and at improper seasons, prove destructive to your\nConstitution... My fate will teach you this.. I die a Martyr to my greif\nfor the loss of Augustus.. One fatal swoon has cost me my Life.. Beware\nof swoons Dear Laura.... A frenzy fit is not one quarter so pernicious;\nit is an exercise to the Body and if not too violent, is I dare say\nconducive to Health in its consequences--Run mad as often as you chuse;\nbut do not faint--\"\n\nThese were the last words she ever addressed to me.. It was her dieing\nAdvice to her afflicted Laura, who has ever most faithfully adhered to\nit.\n\nAfter having attended my lamented freind to her Early Grave, I\nimmediately (tho' late at night) left the detested Village in which\nshe died, and near which had expired my Husband and Augustus. I had not\nwalked many yards from it before I was overtaken by a stage-coach,\nin which I instantly took a place, determined to proceed in it to\nEdinburgh, where I hoped to find some kind some pitying Freind who would\nreceive and comfort me in my afflictions.\n\nIt was so dark when I entered the Coach that I could not distinguish\nthe Number of my Fellow-travellers; I could only perceive that they were\nmany. Regardless however of anything concerning them, I gave myself up\nto my own sad Reflections. A general silence prevailed--A silence, which\nwas by nothing interrupted but by the loud and repeated snores of one of\nthe Party.\n\n\"What an illiterate villain must that man be! (thought I to myself) What\na total want of delicate refinement must he have, who can thus shock our\nsenses by such a brutal noise! He must I am certain be capable of every\nbad action! There is no crime too black for such a Character!\" Thus\nreasoned I within myself, and doubtless such were the reflections of my\nfellow travellers.\n\nAt length, returning Day enabled me to behold the unprincipled Scoundrel\nwho had so violently disturbed my feelings. It was Sir Edward the father\nof my Deceased Husband. By his side sate Augusta, and on the same seat\nwith me were your Mother and Lady Dorothea. Imagine my surprise at\nfinding myself thus seated amongst my old Acquaintance. Great as was my\nastonishment, it was yet increased, when on looking out of Windows,\nI beheld the Husband of Philippa, with Philippa by his side, on the\nCoachbox and when on looking behind I beheld, Philander and Gustavus in\nthe Basket. \"Oh! Heavens, (exclaimed I) is it possible that I should\nso unexpectedly be surrounded by my nearest Relations and Connections?\"\nThese words roused the rest of the Party, and every eye was directed to\nthe corner in which I sat. \"Oh! my Isabel (continued I throwing myself\nacross Lady Dorothea into her arms) receive once more to your Bosom the\nunfortunate Laura. Alas! when we last parted in the Vale of Usk, I was\nhappy in being united to the best of Edwards; I had then a Father and\na Mother, and had never known misfortunes--But now deprived of every\nfreind but you--\"\n\n\"What! (interrupted Augusta) is my Brother dead then? Tell us I intreat\nyou what is become of him?\" \"Yes, cold and insensible Nymph, (replied I)\nthat luckless swain your Brother, is no more, and you may now glory in\nbeing the Heiress of Sir Edward's fortune.\"\n\nAlthough I had always despised her from the Day I had overheard her\nconversation with my Edward, yet in civility I complied with hers and\nSir Edward's intreaties that I would inform them of the whole melancholy\naffair. They were greatly shocked--even the obdurate Heart of Sir Edward\nand the insensible one of Augusta, were touched with sorrow, by the\nunhappy tale. At the request of your Mother I related to them every\nother misfortune which had befallen me since we parted. Of the\nimprisonment of Augustus and the absence of Edward--of our arrival\nin Scotland--of our unexpected Meeting with our Grand-father and our\ncousins--of our visit to Macdonald-Hall--of the singular service we\nthere performed towards Janetta--of her Fathers ingratitude for it.. of\nhis inhuman Behaviour, unaccountable suspicions, and barbarous treatment\nof us, in obliging us to leave the House.. of our lamentations on the\nloss of Edward and Augustus and finally of the melancholy Death of my\nbeloved Companion.\n\nPity and surprise were strongly depictured in your Mother's countenance,\nduring the whole of my narration, but I am sorry to say, that to the\neternal reproach of her sensibility, the latter infinitely predominated.\nNay, faultless as my conduct had certainly been during the whole course\nof my late misfortunes and adventures, she pretended to find fault with\nmy behaviour in many of the situations in which I had been placed. As\nI was sensible myself, that I had always behaved in a manner which\nreflected Honour on my Feelings and Refinement, I paid little attention\nto what she said, and desired her to satisfy my Curiosity by informing\nme how she came there, instead of wounding my spotless reputation with\nunjustifiable Reproaches. As soon as she had complyed with my wishes in\nthis particular and had given me an accurate detail of every thing that\nhad befallen her since our separation (the particulars of which if you\nare not already acquainted with, your Mother will give you) I applied to\nAugusta for the same information respecting herself, Sir Edward and Lady\nDorothea.\n\nShe told me that having a considerable taste for the Beauties of Nature,\nher curiosity to behold the delightful scenes it exhibited in that part\nof the World had been so much raised by Gilpin's Tour to the Highlands,\nthat she had prevailed on her Father to undertake a Tour to Scotland and\nhad persuaded Lady Dorothea to accompany them. That they had arrived at\nEdinburgh a few Days before and from thence had made daily Excursions\ninto the Country around in the Stage Coach they were then in, from one\nof which Excursions they were at that time returning. My next enquiries\nwere concerning Philippa and her Husband, the latter of whom I learned\nhaving spent all her fortune, had recourse for subsistence to the talent\nin which, he had always most excelled, namely, Driving, and that\nhaving sold every thing which belonged to them except their Coach, had\nconverted it into a Stage and in order to be removed from any of his\nformer Acquaintance, had driven it to Edinburgh from whence he went to\nSterling every other Day. That Philippa still retaining her affection\nfor her ungratefull Husband, had followed him to Scotland and generally\naccompanied him in his little Excursions to Sterling. \"It has only been\nto throw a little money into their Pockets (continued Augusta) that my\nFather has always travelled in their Coach to veiw the beauties of the\nCountry since our arrival in Scotland--for it would certainly have been\nmuch more agreable to us, to visit the Highlands in a Postchaise\nthan merely to travel from Edinburgh to Sterling and from Sterling\nto Edinburgh every other Day in a crowded and uncomfortable Stage.\" I\nperfectly agreed with her in her sentiments on the affair, and secretly\nblamed Sir Edward for thus sacrificing his Daughter's Pleasure for the\nsake of a ridiculous old woman whose folly in marrying so young a man\nought to be punished. His Behaviour however was entirely of a peice\nwith his general Character; for what could be expected from a man who\npossessed not the smallest atom of Sensibility, who scarcely knew the\nmeaning of simpathy, and who actually snored--. Adeiu Laura.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the 15th LAURA in continuation.\n\nWhen we arrived at the town where we were to Breakfast, I was determined\nto speak with Philander and Gustavus, and to that purpose as soon as\nI left the Carriage, I went to the Basket and tenderly enquired after\ntheir Health, expressing my fears of the uneasiness of their situation.\nAt first they seemed rather confused at my appearance dreading no doubt\nthat I might call them to account for the money which our Grandfather\nhad left me and which they had unjustly deprived me of, but finding\nthat I mentioned nothing of the Matter, they desired me to step into\nthe Basket as we might there converse with greater ease. Accordingly I\nentered and whilst the rest of the party were devouring green tea and\nbuttered toast, we feasted ourselves in a more refined and sentimental\nManner by a confidential Conversation. I informed them of every thing\nwhich had befallen me during the course of my life, and at my request\nthey related to me every incident of theirs.\n\n\"We are the sons as you already know, of the two youngest Daughters\nwhich Lord St Clair had by Laurina an italian opera girl. Our mothers\ncould neither of them exactly ascertain who were our Father, though it\nis generally beleived that Philander, is the son of one Philip Jones\na Bricklayer and that my Father was one Gregory Staves a Staymaker of\nEdinburgh. This is however of little consequence for as our Mothers were\ncertainly never married to either of them it reflects no Dishonour on\nour Blood, which is of a most ancient and unpolluted kind. Bertha (the\nMother of Philander) and Agatha (my own Mother) always lived together.\nThey were neither of them very rich; their united fortunes had\noriginally amounted to nine thousand Pounds, but as they had always\nlived on the principal of it, when we were fifteen it was diminished to\nnine Hundred. This nine Hundred they always kept in a Drawer in one\nof the Tables which stood in our common sitting Parlour, for the\nconvenience of having it always at Hand. Whether it was from this\ncircumstance, of its being easily taken, or from a wish of being\nindependant, or from an excess of sensibility (for which we were always\nremarkable) I cannot now determine, but certain it is that when we had\nreached our 15th year, we took the nine Hundred Pounds and ran away.\nHaving obtained this prize we were determined to manage it with eoconomy\nand not to spend it either with folly or Extravagance. To this purpose\nwe therefore divided it into nine parcels, one of which we devoted to\nVictuals, the 2d to Drink, the 3d to Housekeeping, the 4th to Carriages,\nthe 5th to Horses, the 6th to Servants, the 7th to Amusements, the 8th\nto Cloathes and the 9th to Silver Buckles. Having thus arranged our\nExpences for two months (for we expected to make the nine Hundred Pounds\nlast as long) we hastened to London and had the good luck to spend it in\n7 weeks and a Day which was 6 Days sooner than we had intended. As soon\nas we had thus happily disencumbered ourselves from the weight of\nso much money, we began to think of returning to our Mothers, but\naccidentally hearing that they were both starved to Death, we gave over\nthe design and determined to engage ourselves to some strolling Company\nof Players, as we had always a turn for the Stage. Accordingly we\noffered our services to one and were accepted; our Company was\nindeed rather small, as it consisted only of the Manager his wife\nand ourselves, but there were fewer to pay and the only inconvenience\nattending it was the Scarcity of Plays which for want of People to fill\nthe Characters, we could perform. We did not mind trifles however--.\nOne of our most admired Performances was MACBETH, in which we were\ntruly great. The Manager always played BANQUO himself, his Wife my LADY\nMACBETH. I did the THREE WITCHES and Philander acted ALL THE REST. To\nsay the truth this tragedy was not only the Best, but the only Play\nthat we ever performed; and after having acted it all over England, and\nWales, we came to Scotland to exhibit it over the remainder of Great\nBritain. We happened to be quartered in that very Town, where you came\nand met your Grandfather--. We were in the Inn-yard when his Carriage\nentered and perceiving by the arms to whom it belonged, and knowing\nthat Lord St Clair was our Grandfather, we agreed to endeavour to get\nsomething from him by discovering the Relationship--. You know how well\nit succeeded--. Having obtained the two Hundred Pounds, we instantly\nleft the Town, leaving our Manager and his Wife to act MACBETH by\nthemselves, and took the road to Sterling, where we spent our little\nfortune with great ECLAT. We are now returning to Edinburgh in order to\nget some preferment in the Acting way; and such my Dear Cousin is our\nHistory.\"\n\nI thanked the amiable Youth for his entertaining narration, and after\nexpressing my wishes for their Welfare and Happiness, left them in\ntheir little Habitation and returned to my other Freinds who impatiently\nexpected me.\n\nMy adventures are now drawing to a close my dearest Marianne; at least\nfor the present.\n\nWhen we arrived at Edinburgh Sir Edward told me that as the Widow of his\nson, he desired I would accept from his Hands of four Hundred a year. I\ngraciously promised that I would, but could not help observing that the\nunsimpathetic Baronet offered it more on account of my being the Widow\nof Edward than in being the refined and amiable Laura.\n\nI took up my Residence in a Romantic Village in the Highlands\nof Scotland where I have ever since continued, and where I can\nuninterrupted by unmeaning Visits, indulge in a melancholy solitude, my\nunceasing Lamentations for the Death of my Father, my Mother, my Husband\nand my Freind.\n\nAugusta has been for several years united to Graham the Man of all\nothers most suited to her; she became acquainted with him during her\nstay in Scotland.\n\nSir Edward in hopes of gaining an Heir to his Title and Estate, at the\nsame time married Lady Dorothea--. His wishes have been answered.\n\nPhilander and Gustavus, after having raised their reputation by their\nPerformances in the Theatrical Line at Edinburgh, removed to Covent\nGarden, where they still exhibit under the assumed names of LUVIS and\nQUICK.\n\nPhilippa has long paid the Debt of Nature, Her Husband however still\ncontinues to drive the Stage-Coach from Edinburgh to Sterling:--Adeiu my\nDearest Marianne. Laura.\n\nFinis\n\nJune 13th 1790.\n\n\n\n\n*****\n\n\n\n\nAN UNFINISHED NOVEL IN LETTERS\n\n\nTo HENRY THOMAS AUSTEN Esqre.\n\nSir\n\nI am now availing myself of the Liberty you have frequently honoured\nme with of dedicating one of my Novels to you. That it is unfinished, I\ngreive; yet fear that from me, it will always remain so; that as far\nas it is carried, it should be so trifling and so unworthy of you, is\nanother concern to your obliged humble Servant\n\nThe Author\n\n\nMessrs Demand and Co--please to pay Jane Austen Spinster the sum of one\nhundred guineas on account of your Humble Servant.\n\nH. T. Austen\n\nL105. 0. 0.\n\n*****\n\n\n\n\nLESLEY CASTLE\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the FIRST is from Miss MARGARET LESLEY to Miss CHARLOTTE\nLUTTERELL. Lesley Castle Janry 3rd--1792.\n\nMy Brother has just left us. \"Matilda (said he at parting) you and\nMargaret will I am certain take all the care of my dear little one, that\nshe might have received from an indulgent, and affectionate and amiable\nMother.\" Tears rolled down his cheeks as he spoke these words--the\nremembrance of her, who had so wantonly disgraced the Maternal character\nand so openly violated the conjugal Duties, prevented his adding\nanything farther; he embraced his sweet Child and after saluting Matilda\nand Me hastily broke from us and seating himself in his Chaise, pursued\nthe road to Aberdeen. Never was there a better young Man! Ah! how little\ndid he deserve the misfortunes he has experienced in the Marriage state.\nSo good a Husband to so bad a Wife! for you know my dear Charlotte that\nthe Worthless Louisa left him, her Child and reputation a few weeks ago\nin company with Danvers and dishonour. Never was there a sweeter face, a\nfiner form, or a less amiable Heart than Louisa owned! Her child already\npossesses the personal Charms of her unhappy Mother! May she inherit\nfrom her Father all his mental ones! Lesley is at present but five and\ntwenty, and has already given himself up to melancholy and Despair;\nwhat a difference between him and his Father! Sir George is 57 and still\nremains the Beau, the flighty stripling, the gay Lad, and sprightly\nYoungster, that his Son was really about five years back, and that HE\nhas affected to appear ever since my remembrance. While our father is\nfluttering about the streets of London, gay, dissipated, and Thoughtless\nat the age of 57, Matilda and I continue secluded from Mankind in our\nold and Mouldering Castle, which is situated two miles from Perth on a\nbold projecting Rock, and commands an extensive veiw of the Town and its\ndelightful Environs. But tho' retired from almost all the World, (for\nwe visit no one but the M'Leods, The M'Kenzies, the M'Phersons, the\nM'Cartneys, the M'Donalds, The M'kinnons, the M'lellans, the M'kays,\nthe Macbeths and the Macduffs) we are neither dull nor unhappy; on the\ncontrary there never were two more lively, more agreable or more witty\ngirls, than we are; not an hour in the Day hangs heavy on our Hands. We\nread, we work, we walk, and when fatigued with these Employments releive\nour spirits, either by a lively song, a graceful Dance, or by some smart\nbon-mot, and witty repartee. We are handsome my dear Charlotte, very\nhandsome and the greatest of our Perfections is, that we are entirely\ninsensible of them ourselves. But why do I thus dwell on myself! Let me\nrather repeat the praise of our dear little Neice the innocent Louisa,\nwho is at present sweetly smiling in a gentle Nap, as she reposes on the\nsofa. The dear Creature is just turned of two years old; as handsome as\ntho' 2 and 20, as sensible as tho' 2 and 30, and as prudent as tho' 2\nand 40. To convince you of this, I must inform you that she has a very\nfine complexion and very pretty features, that she already knows the two\nfirst letters in the Alphabet, and that she never tears her frocks--. If\nI have not now convinced you of her Beauty, Sense and Prudence, I have\nnothing more to urge in support of my assertion, and you will therefore\nhave no way of deciding the Affair but by coming to Lesley-Castle, and\nby a personal acquaintance with Louisa, determine for yourself. Ah! my\ndear Freind, how happy should I be to see you within these venerable\nWalls! It is now four years since my removal from School has separated\nme from you; that two such tender Hearts, so closely linked together by\nthe ties of simpathy and Freindship, should be so widely removed from\neach other, is vastly moving. I live in Perthshire, You in Sussex. We\nmight meet in London, were my Father disposed to carry me there, and\nwere your Mother to be there at the same time. We might meet at Bath,\nat Tunbridge, or anywhere else indeed, could we but be at the same place\ntogether. We have only to hope that such a period may arrive. My Father\ndoes not return to us till Autumn; my Brother will leave Scotland in a\nfew Days; he is impatient to travel. Mistaken Youth! He vainly flatters\nhimself that change of Air will heal the Wounds of a broken Heart! You\nwill join with me I am certain my dear Charlotte, in prayers for the\nrecovery of the unhappy Lesley's peace of Mind, which must ever be\nessential to that of your sincere freind M. Lesley.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the SECOND From Miss C. LUTTERELL to Miss M. LESLEY in answer.\nGlenford Febry 12\n\nI have a thousand excuses to beg for having so long delayed thanking you\nmy dear Peggy for your agreable Letter, which beleive me I should not\nhave deferred doing, had not every moment of my time during the last\nfive weeks been so fully employed in the necessary arrangements for\nmy sisters wedding, as to allow me no time to devote either to you or\nmyself. And now what provokes me more than anything else is that the\nMatch is broke off, and all my Labour thrown away. Imagine how great\nthe Dissapointment must be to me, when you consider that after having\nlaboured both by Night and by Day, in order to get the Wedding dinner\nready by the time appointed, after having roasted Beef, Broiled Mutton,\nand Stewed Soup enough to last the new-married Couple through the\nHoney-moon, I had the mortification of finding that I had been Roasting,\nBroiling and Stewing both the Meat and Myself to no purpose. Indeed my\ndear Freind, I never remember suffering any vexation equal to what I\nexperienced on last Monday when my sister came running to me in the\nstore-room with her face as White as a Whipt syllabub, and told me that\nHervey had been thrown from his Horse, had fractured his Scull and was\npronounced by his surgeon to be in the most emminent Danger. \"Good God!\n(said I) you dont say so? Why what in the name of Heaven will become\nof all the Victuals! We shall never be able to eat it while it is good.\nHowever, we'll call in the Surgeon to help us. I shall be able to manage\nthe Sir-loin myself, my Mother will eat the soup, and You and the Doctor\nmust finish the rest.\" Here I was interrupted, by seeing my poor Sister\nfall down to appearance Lifeless upon one of the Chests, where we keep\nour Table linen. I immediately called my Mother and the Maids, and at\nlast we brought her to herself again; as soon as ever she was sensible,\nshe expressed a determination of going instantly to Henry, and was so\nwildly bent on this Scheme, that we had the greatest Difficulty in the\nWorld to prevent her putting it in execution; at last however more by\nForce than Entreaty we prevailed on her to go into her room; we laid\nher upon the Bed, and she continued for some Hours in the most dreadful\nConvulsions. My Mother and I continued in the room with her, and when\nany intervals of tolerable Composure in Eloisa would allow us, we joined\nin heartfelt lamentations on the dreadful Waste in our provisions which\nthis Event must occasion, and in concerting some plan for getting rid of\nthem. We agreed that the best thing we could do was to begin eating them\nimmediately, and accordingly we ordered up the cold Ham and Fowls, and\ninstantly began our Devouring Plan on them with great Alacrity. We would\nhave persuaded Eloisa to have taken a Wing of a Chicken, but she would\nnot be persuaded. She was however much quieter than she had been;\nthe convulsions she had before suffered having given way to an almost\nperfect Insensibility. We endeavoured to rouse her by every means in our\npower, but to no purpose. I talked to her of Henry. \"Dear Eloisa (said\nI) there's no occasion for your crying so much about such a trifle. (for\nI was willing to make light of it in order to comfort her) I beg you\nwould not mind it--You see it does not vex me in the least; though\nperhaps I may suffer most from it after all; for I shall not only be\nobliged to eat up all the Victuals I have dressed already, but must if\nHenry should recover (which however is not very likely) dress as much\nfor you again; or should he die (as I suppose he will) I shall still\nhave to prepare a Dinner for you whenever you marry any one else. So\nyou see that tho' perhaps for the present it may afflict you to think\nof Henry's sufferings, Yet I dare say he'll die soon, and then his pain\nwill be over and you will be easy, whereas my Trouble will last much\nlonger for work as hard as I may, I am certain that the pantry cannot be\ncleared in less than a fortnight.\" Thus I did all in my power to console\nher, but without any effect, and at last as I saw that she did not seem\nto listen to me, I said no more, but leaving her with my Mother I took\ndown the remains of The Ham and Chicken, and sent William to ask how\nHenry did. He was not expected to live many Hours; he died the same day.\nWe took all possible care to break the melancholy Event to Eloisa in the\ntenderest manner; yet in spite of every precaution, her sufferings on\nhearing it were too violent for her reason, and she continued for many\nhours in a high Delirium. She is still extremely ill, and her Physicians\nare greatly afraid of her going into a Decline. We are therefore\npreparing for Bristol, where we mean to be in the course of the next\nweek. And now my dear Margaret let me talk a little of your affairs; and\nin the first place I must inform you that it is confidently reported,\nyour Father is going to be married; I am very unwilling to beleive so\nunpleasing a report, and at the same time cannot wholly discredit it. I\nhave written to my freind Susan Fitzgerald, for information concerning\nit, which as she is at present in Town, she will be very able to give\nme. I know not who is the Lady. I think your Brother is extremely\nright in the resolution he has taken of travelling, as it will perhaps\ncontribute to obliterate from his remembrance, those disagreable Events,\nwhich have lately so much afflicted him--I am happy to find that\ntho' secluded from all the World, neither you nor Matilda are dull or\nunhappy--that you may never know what it is to, be either is the wish of\nyour sincerely affectionate C.L.\n\nP. S. I have this instant received an answer from my freind Susan, which\nI enclose to you, and on which you will make your own reflections.\n\nThe enclosed LETTER\n\nMy dear CHARLOTTE You could not have applied for information concerning\nthe report of Sir George Lesleys Marriage, to any one better able to\ngive it you than I am. Sir George is certainly married; I was myself\npresent at the Ceremony, which you will not be surprised at when I\nsubscribe myself your Affectionate Susan Lesley\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the THIRD From Miss MARGARET LESLEY to Miss C. LUTTERELL Lesley\nCastle February the 16th\n\nI have made my own reflections on the letter you enclosed to me, my\nDear Charlotte and I will now tell you what those reflections were.\nI reflected that if by this second Marriage Sir George should have a\nsecond family, our fortunes must be considerably diminushed--that if\nhis Wife should be of an extravagant turn, she would encourage him\nto persevere in that gay and Dissipated way of Life to which little\nencouragement would be necessary, and which has I fear already proved\nbut too detrimental to his health and fortune--that she would now become\nMistress of those Jewels which once adorned our Mother, and which Sir\nGeorge had always promised us--that if they did not come into\nPerthshire I should not be able to gratify my curiosity of beholding my\nMother-in-law and that if they did, Matilda would no longer sit at\nthe head of her Father's table--. These my dear Charlotte were the\nmelancholy reflections which crowded into my imagination after perusing\nSusan's letter to you, and which instantly occurred to Matilda when she\nhad perused it likewise. The same ideas, the same fears, immediately\noccupied her Mind, and I know not which reflection distressed her most,\nwhether the probable Diminution of our Fortunes, or her own Consequence.\nWe both wish very much to know whether Lady Lesley is handsome and what\nis your opinion of her; as you honour her with the appellation of your\nfreind, we flatter ourselves that she must be amiable. My Brother is\nalready in Paris. He intends to quit it in a few Days, and to begin his\nroute to Italy. He writes in a most chearfull manner, says that the air\nof France has greatly recovered both his Health and Spirits; that he has\nnow entirely ceased to think of Louisa with any degree either of Pity or\nAffection, that he even feels himself obliged to her for her Elopement,\nas he thinks it very good fun to be single again. By this, you may\nperceive that he has entirely regained that chearful Gaiety, and\nsprightly Wit, for which he was once so remarkable. When he first became\nacquainted with Louisa which was little more than three years ago, he\nwas one of the most lively, the most agreable young Men of the age--.\nI beleive you never yet heard the particulars of his first acquaintance\nwith her. It commenced at our cousin Colonel Drummond's; at whose house\nin Cumberland he spent the Christmas, in which he attained the age of\ntwo and twenty. Louisa Burton was the Daughter of a distant Relation of\nMrs. Drummond, who dieing a few Months before in extreme poverty, left\nhis only Child then about eighteen to the protection of any of his\nRelations who would protect her. Mrs. Drummond was the only one who\nfound herself so disposed--Louisa was therefore removed from a miserable\nCottage in Yorkshire to an elegant Mansion in Cumberland, and from\nevery pecuniary Distress that Poverty could inflict, to every elegant\nEnjoyment that Money could purchase--. Louisa was naturally ill-tempered\nand Cunning; but she had been taught to disguise her real Disposition,\nunder the appearance of insinuating Sweetness, by a father who but too\nwell knew, that to be married, would be the only chance she would\nhave of not being starved, and who flattered himself that with such\nan extroidinary share of personal beauty, joined to a gentleness of\nManners, and an engaging address, she might stand a good chance of\npleasing some young Man who might afford to marry a girl without a\nShilling. Louisa perfectly entered into her father's schemes and was\ndetermined to forward them with all her care and attention. By dint of\nPerseverance and Application, she had at length so thoroughly disguised\nher natural disposition under the mask of Innocence, and Softness, as to\nimpose upon every one who had not by a long and constant intimacy with\nher discovered her real Character. Such was Louisa when the hapless\nLesley first beheld her at Drummond-house. His heart which (to use\nyour favourite comparison) was as delicate as sweet and as tender as a\nWhipt-syllabub, could not resist her attractions. In a very few Days,\nhe was falling in love, shortly after actually fell, and before he had\nknown her a Month, he had married her. My Father was at first highly\ndispleased at so hasty and imprudent a connection; but when he found\nthat they did not mind it, he soon became perfectly reconciled to the\nmatch. The Estate near Aberdeen which my brother possesses by the bounty\nof his great Uncle independant of Sir George, was entirely sufficient\nto support him and my Sister in Elegance and Ease. For the first\ntwelvemonth, no one could be happier than Lesley, and no one more\namiable to appearance than Louisa, and so plausibly did she act and\nso cautiously behave that tho' Matilda and I often spent several weeks\ntogether with them, yet we neither of us had any suspicion of her real\nDisposition. After the birth of Louisa however, which one would have\nthought would have strengthened her regard for Lesley, the mask she had\nso long supported was by degrees thrown aside, and as probably she then\nthought herself secure in the affection of her Husband (which did indeed\nappear if possible augmented by the birth of his Child) she seemed\nto take no pains to prevent that affection from ever diminushing. Our\nvisits therefore to Dunbeath, were now less frequent and by far less\nagreable than they used to be. Our absence was however never either\nmentioned or lamented by Louisa who in the society of young Danvers\nwith whom she became acquainted at Aberdeen (he was at one of the\nUniversities there,) felt infinitely happier than in that of Matilda and\nyour freind, tho' there certainly never were pleasanter girls than we\nare. You know the sad end of all Lesleys connubial happiness; I will not\nrepeat it--. Adeiu my dear Charlotte; although I have not yet mentioned\nanything of the matter, I hope you will do me the justice to beleive\nthat I THINK and FEEL, a great deal for your Sisters affliction. I do\nnot doubt but that the healthy air of the Bristol downs will intirely\nremove it, by erasing from her Mind the remembrance of Henry. I am my\ndear Charlotte yrs ever M. L.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the FOURTH From Miss C. LUTTERELL to Miss M. LESLEY Bristol\nFebruary 27th\n\nMy Dear Peggy I have but just received your letter, which being directed\nto Sussex while I was at Bristol was obliged to be forwarded to me here,\nand from some unaccountable Delay, has but this instant reached me--.\nI return you many thanks for the account it contains of Lesley's\nacquaintance, Love and Marriage with Louisa, which has not the less\nentertained me for having often been repeated to me before.\n\nI have the satisfaction of informing you that we have every reason to\nimagine our pantry is by this time nearly cleared, as we left Particular\norders with the servants to eat as hard as they possibly could, and to\ncall in a couple of Chairwomen to assist them. We brought a cold Pigeon\npye, a cold turkey, a cold tongue, and half a dozen Jellies with us,\nwhich we were lucky enough with the help of our Landlady, her husband,\nand their three children, to get rid of, in less than two days after\nour arrival. Poor Eloisa is still so very indifferent both in Health and\nSpirits, that I very much fear, the air of the Bristol downs, healthy as\nit is, has not been able to drive poor Henry from her remembrance.\n\nYou ask me whether your new Mother in law is handsome and amiable--I\nwill now give you an exact description of her bodily and mental charms.\nShe is short, and extremely well made; is naturally pale, but rouges a\ngood deal; has fine eyes, and fine teeth, as she will take care to let\nyou know as soon as she sees you, and is altogether very pretty. She is\nremarkably good-tempered when she has her own way, and very lively when\nshe is not out of humour. She is naturally extravagant and not very\naffected; she never reads anything but the letters she receives from me,\nand never writes anything but her answers to them. She plays, sings and\nDances, but has no taste for either, and excells in none, tho' she says\nshe is passionately fond of all. Perhaps you may flatter me so far as to\nbe surprised that one of whom I speak with so little affection should\nbe my particular freind; but to tell you the truth, our freindship arose\nrather from Caprice on her side than Esteem on mine. We spent two or\nthree days together with a Lady in Berkshire with whom we both happened\nto be connected--. During our visit, the Weather being remarkably bad,\nand our party particularly stupid, she was so good as to conceive\na violent partiality for me, which very soon settled in a downright\nFreindship and ended in an established correspondence. She is probably\nby this time as tired of me, as I am of her; but as she is too Polite\nand I am too civil to say so, our letters are still as frequent and\naffectionate as ever, and our Attachment as firm and sincere as when it\nfirst commenced. As she had a great taste for the pleasures of London,\nand of Brighthelmstone, she will I dare say find some difficulty in\nprevailing on herself even to satisfy the curiosity I dare say she feels\nof beholding you, at the expence of quitting those favourite haunts of\nDissipation, for the melancholy tho' venerable gloom of the castle you\ninhabit. Perhaps however if she finds her health impaired by too much\namusement, she may acquire fortitude sufficient to undertake a Journey\nto Scotland in the hope of its Proving at least beneficial to her\nhealth, if not conducive to her happiness. Your fears I am sorry to say,\nconcerning your father's extravagance, your own fortunes, your Mothers\nJewels and your Sister's consequence, I should suppose are but too well\nfounded. My freind herself has four thousand pounds, and will probably\nspend nearly as much every year in Dress and Public places, if she can\nget it--she will certainly not endeavour to reclaim Sir George from the\nmanner of living to which he has been so long accustomed, and there is\ntherefore some reason to fear that you will be very well off, if you get\nany fortune at all. The Jewels I should imagine too will undoubtedly be\nhers, and there is too much reason to think that she will preside at\nher Husbands table in preference to his Daughter. But as so melancholy a\nsubject must necessarily extremely distress you, I will no longer dwell\non it--.\n\nEloisa's indisposition has brought us to Bristol at so unfashionable a\nseason of the year, that we have actually seen but one genteel family\nsince we came. Mr and Mrs Marlowe are very agreable people; the ill\nhealth of their little boy occasioned their arrival here; you may\nimagine that being the only family with whom we can converse, we are\nof course on a footing of intimacy with them; we see them indeed almost\nevery day, and dined with them yesterday. We spent a very pleasant\nDay, and had a very good Dinner, tho' to be sure the Veal was terribly\nunderdone, and the Curry had no seasoning. I could not help wishing\nall dinner-time that I had been at the dressing it--. A brother of Mrs\nMarlowe, Mr Cleveland is with them at present; he is a good-looking\nyoung Man, and seems to have a good deal to say for himself. I tell\nEloisa that she should set her cap at him, but she does not at all\nseem to relish the proposal. I should like to see the girl married and\nCleveland has a very good estate. Perhaps you may wonder that I do not\nconsider myself as well as my Sister in my matrimonial Projects; but\nto tell you the truth I never wish to act a more principal part at a\nWedding than the superintending and directing the Dinner, and therefore\nwhile I can get any of my acquaintance to marry for me, I shall never\nthink of doing it myself, as I very much suspect that I should not have\nso much time for dressing my own Wedding-dinner, as for dressing that of\nmy freinds. Yours sincerely C. L.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the FIFTH Miss MARGARET LESLEY to Miss CHARLOTTE LUTTERELL\nLesley-Castle March 18th\n\nOn the same day that I received your last kind letter, Matilda received\none from Sir George which was dated from Edinburgh, and informed us that\nhe should do himself the pleasure of introducing Lady Lesley to us on\nthe following evening. This as you may suppose considerably surprised\nus, particularly as your account of her Ladyship had given us reason to\nimagine there was little chance of her visiting Scotland at a time that\nLondon must be so gay. As it was our business however to be delighted at\nsuch a mark of condescension as a visit from Sir George and Lady Lesley,\nwe prepared to return them an answer expressive of the happiness we\nenjoyed in expectation of such a Blessing, when luckily recollecting\nthat as they were to reach the Castle the next Evening, it would be\nimpossible for my father to receive it before he left Edinburgh, we\ncontented ourselves with leaving them to suppose that we were as happy\nas we ought to be. At nine in the Evening on the following day,\nthey came, accompanied by one of Lady Lesleys brothers. Her Ladyship\nperfectly answers the description you sent me of her, except that I do\nnot think her so pretty as you seem to consider her. She has not a\nbad face, but there is something so extremely unmajestic in her little\ndiminutive figure, as to render her in comparison with the elegant\nheight of Matilda and Myself, an insignificant Dwarf. Her curiosity to\nsee us (which must have been great to bring her more than four hundred\nmiles) being now perfectly gratified, she already begins to mention\ntheir return to town, and has desired us to accompany her. We cannot\nrefuse her request since it is seconded by the commands of our Father,\nand thirded by the entreaties of Mr. Fitzgerald who is certainly one\nof the most pleasing young Men, I ever beheld. It is not yet determined\nwhen we are to go, but when ever we do we shall certainly take our\nlittle Louisa with us. Adeiu my dear Charlotte; Matilda unites in best\nwishes to you, and Eloisa, with yours ever M. L.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the SIXTH LADY LESLEY to Miss CHARLOTTE LUTTERELL Lesley-Castle\nMarch 20th\n\nWe arrived here my sweet Freind about a fortnight ago, and I already\nheartily repent that I ever left our charming House in Portman-square\nfor such a dismal old weather-beaten Castle as this. You can form no\nidea sufficiently hideous, of its dungeon-like form. It is actually\nperched upon a Rock to appearance so totally inaccessible, that I\nexpected to have been pulled up by a rope; and sincerely repented having\ngratified my curiosity to behold my Daughters at the expence of being\nobliged to enter their prison in so dangerous and ridiculous a manner.\nBut as soon as I once found myself safely arrived in the inside of\nthis tremendous building, I comforted myself with the hope of having my\nspirits revived, by the sight of two beautifull girls, such as the Miss\nLesleys had been represented to me, at Edinburgh. But here again, I\nmet with nothing but Disappointment and Surprise. Matilda and Margaret\nLesley are two great, tall, out of the way, over-grown, girls, just of\na proper size to inhabit a Castle almost as large in comparison as\nthemselves. I wish my dear Charlotte that you could but behold these\nScotch giants; I am sure they would frighten you out of your wits.\nThey will do very well as foils to myself, so I have invited them to\naccompany me to London where I hope to be in the course of a fortnight.\nBesides these two fair Damsels, I found a little humoured Brat here who\nI beleive is some relation to them, they told me who she was, and gave\nme a long rigmerole story of her father and a Miss SOMEBODY which I have\nentirely forgot. I hate scandal and detest Children. I have been plagued\never since I came here with tiresome visits from a parcel of Scotch\nwretches, with terrible hard-names; they were so civil, gave me so many\ninvitations, and talked of coming again so soon, that I could not help\naffronting them. I suppose I shall not see them any more, and yet as\na family party we are so stupid, that I do not know what to do with\nmyself. These girls have no Music, but Scotch airs, no Drawings but\nScotch Mountains, and no Books but Scotch Poems--and I hate everything\nScotch. In general I can spend half the Day at my toilett with a great\ndeal of pleasure, but why should I dress here, since there is not a\ncreature in the House whom I have any wish to please. I have just had\na conversation with my Brother in which he has greatly offended me, and\nwhich as I have nothing more entertaining to send you I will gave you\nthe particulars of. You must know that I have for these 4 or 5 Days past\nstrongly suspected William of entertaining a partiality to my eldest\nDaughter. I own indeed that had I been inclined to fall in love with any\nwoman, I should not have made choice of Matilda Lesley for the object\nof my passion; for there is nothing I hate so much as a tall Woman: but\nhowever there is no accounting for some men's taste and as William is\nhimself nearly six feet high, it is not wonderful that he should be\npartial to that height. Now as I have a very great affection for my\nBrother and should be extremely sorry to see him unhappy, which I\nsuppose he means to be if he cannot marry Matilda, as moreover I know\nthat his circumstances will not allow him to marry any one without a\nfortune, and that Matilda's is entirely dependant on her Father, who\nwill neither have his own inclination nor my permission to give her\nanything at present, I thought it would be doing a good-natured action\nby my Brother to let him know as much, in order that he might choose\nfor himself, whether to conquer his passion, or Love and Despair.\nAccordingly finding myself this Morning alone with him in one of the\nhorrid old rooms of this Castle, I opened the cause to him in the\nfollowing Manner.\n\n\"Well my dear William what do you think of these girls? for my part, I\ndo not find them so plain as I expected: but perhaps you may think me\npartial to the Daughters of my Husband and perhaps you are right--They\nare indeed so very like Sir George that it is natural to think\"--\n\n\"My Dear Susan (cried he in a tone of the greatest amazement) You do not\nreally think they bear the least resemblance to their Father! He is so\nvery plain!--but I beg your pardon--I had entirely forgotten to whom I\nwas speaking--\"\n\n\"Oh! pray dont mind me; (replied I) every one knows Sir George is\nhorribly ugly, and I assure you I always thought him a fright.\"\n\n\"You surprise me extremely (answered William) by what you say both with\nrespect to Sir George and his Daughters. You cannot think your Husband\nso deficient in personal Charms as you speak of, nor can you surely see\nany resemblance between him and the Miss Lesleys who are in my opinion\nperfectly unlike him and perfectly Handsome.\"\n\n\"If that is your opinion with regard to the girls it certainly is no\nproof of their Fathers beauty, for if they are perfectly unlike him and\nvery handsome at the same time, it is natural to suppose that he is very\nplain.\"\n\n\"By no means, (said he) for what may be pretty in a Woman, may be very\nunpleasing in a Man.\"\n\n\"But you yourself (replied I) but a few minutes ago allowed him to be\nvery plain.\"\n\n\"Men are no Judges of Beauty in their own Sex.\" (said he).\n\n\"Neither Men nor Women can think Sir George tolerable.\"\n\n\"Well, well, (said he) we will not dispute about HIS Beauty, but your\nopinion of his DAUGHTERS is surely very singular, for if I understood\nyou right, you said you did not find them so plain as you expected to\ndo!\"\n\n\"Why, do YOU find them plainer then?\" (said I).\n\n\"I can scarcely beleive you to be serious (returned he) when you speak\nof their persons in so extroidinary a Manner. Do not you think the Miss\nLesleys are two very handsome young Women?\"\n\n\"Lord! No! (cried I) I think them terribly plain!\"\n\n\"Plain! (replied He) My dear Susan, you cannot really think so! Why\nwhat single Feature in the face of either of them, can you possibly find\nfault with?\"\n\n\"Oh! trust me for that; (replied I). Come I will begin with the\neldest--with Matilda. Shall I, William?\" (I looked as cunning as I could\nwhen I said it, in order to shame him).\n\n\"They are so much alike (said he) that I should suppose the faults of\none, would be the faults of both.\"\n\n\"Well, then, in the first place; they are both so horribly tall!\"\n\n\"They are TALLER than you are indeed.\" (said he with a saucy smile.)\n\n\"Nay, (said I), I know nothing of that.\"\n\n\"Well, but (he continued) tho' they may be above the common size, their\nfigures are perfectly elegant; and as to their faces, their Eyes are\nbeautifull.\"\n\n\"I never can think such tremendous, knock-me-down figures in the least\ndegree elegant, and as for their eyes, they are so tall that I never\ncould strain my neck enough to look at them.\"\n\n\"Nay, (replied he) I know not whether you may not be in the right in not\nattempting it, for perhaps they might dazzle you with their Lustre.\"\n\n\"Oh! Certainly. (said I, with the greatest complacency, for I assure\nyou my dearest Charlotte I was not in the least offended tho' by what\nfollowed, one would suppose that William was conscious of having given\nme just cause to be so, for coming up to me and taking my hand, he said)\n\"You must not look so grave Susan; you will make me fear I have offended\nyou!\"\n\n\"Offended me! Dear Brother, how came such a thought in your head!\n(returned I) No really! I assure you that I am not in the least\nsurprised at your being so warm an advocate for the Beauty of these\ngirls.\"--\n\n\"Well, but (interrupted William) remember that we have not yet\nconcluded our dispute concerning them. What fault do you find with their\ncomplexion?\"\n\n\"They are so horridly pale.\"\n\n\"They have always a little colour, and after any exercise it is\nconsiderably heightened.\"\n\n\"Yes, but if there should ever happen to be any rain in this part of\nthe world, they will never be able raise more than their common\nstock--except indeed they amuse themselves with running up and Down\nthese horrid old galleries and Antichambers.\"\n\n\"Well, (replied my Brother in a tone of vexation, and glancing an\nimpertinent look at me) if they HAVE but little colour, at least, it is\nall their own.\"\n\nThis was too much my dear Charlotte, for I am certain that he had the\nimpudence by that look, of pretending to suspect the reality of mine.\nBut you I am sure will vindicate my character whenever you may hear\nit so cruelly aspersed, for you can witness how often I have protested\nagainst wearing Rouge, and how much I always told you I disliked it. And\nI assure you that my opinions are still the same.--. Well, not bearing\nto be so suspected by my Brother, I left the room immediately, and have\nbeen ever since in my own Dressing-room writing to you. What a long\nletter have I made of it! But you must not expect to receive such from\nme when I get to Town; for it is only at Lesley castle, that one has\ntime to write even to a Charlotte Lutterell.--. I was so much vexed by\nWilliam's glance, that I could not summon Patience enough, to stay and\ngive him that advice respecting his attachment to Matilda which had\nfirst induced me from pure Love to him to begin the conversation; and\nI am now so thoroughly convinced by it, of his violent passion for her,\nthat I am certain he would never hear reason on the subject, and I\nshall there fore give myself no more trouble either about him or his\nfavourite. Adeiu my dear girl--Yrs affectionately Susan L.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the SEVENTH From Miss C. LUTTERELL to Miss M. LESLEY Bristol the\n27th of March\n\nI have received Letters from you and your Mother-in-law within this week\nwhich have greatly entertained me, as I find by them that you are both\ndownright jealous of each others Beauty. It is very odd that two pretty\nWomen tho' actually Mother and Daughter cannot be in the same House\nwithout falling out about their faces. Do be convinced that you are both\nperfectly handsome and say no more of the Matter. I suppose this letter\nmust be directed to Portman Square where probably (great as is your\naffection for Lesley Castle) you will not be sorry to find yourself. In\nspite of all that people may say about Green fields and the Country\nI was always of opinion that London and its amusements must be very\nagreable for a while, and should be very happy could my Mother's income\nallow her to jockey us into its Public-places, during Winter. I always\nlonged particularly to go to Vaux-hall, to see whether the cold Beef\nthere is cut so thin as it is reported, for I have a sly suspicion that\nfew people understand the art of cutting a slice of cold Beef so well\nas I do: nay it would be hard if I did not know something of the Matter,\nfor it was a part of my Education that I took by far the most pains\nwith. Mama always found me HER best scholar, tho' when Papa was\nalive Eloisa was HIS. Never to be sure were there two more different\nDispositions in the World. We both loved Reading. SHE preferred\nHistories, and I Receipts. She loved drawing, Pictures, and I drawing\nPullets. No one could sing a better song than she, and no one make a\nbetter Pye than I.--And so it has always continued since we have been\nno longer children. The only difference is that all disputes on the\nsuperior excellence of our Employments THEN so frequent are now no more.\nWe have for many years entered into an agreement always to admire\neach other's works; I never fail listening to HER Music, and she is as\nconstant in eating my pies. Such at least was the case till Henry Hervey\nmade his appearance in Sussex. Before the arrival of his Aunt in our\nneighbourhood where she established herself you know about a twelvemonth\nago, his visits to her had been at stated times, and of equal and\nsettled Duration; but on her removal to the Hall which is within a walk\nfrom our House, they became both more frequent and longer. This as you\nmay suppose could not be pleasing to Mrs Diana who is a professed enemy\nto everything which is not directed by Decorum and Formality, or which\nbears the least resemblance to Ease and Good-breeding. Nay so great was\nher aversion to her Nephews behaviour that I have often heard her give\nsuch hints of it before his face that had not Henry at such times been\nengaged in conversation with Eloisa, they must have caught his Attention\nand have very much distressed him. The alteration in my Sisters\nbehaviour which I have before hinted at, now took place. The Agreement\nwe had entered into of admiring each others productions she no\nlonger seemed to regard, and tho' I constantly applauded even every\nCountry-dance, she played, yet not even a pidgeon-pye of my making could\nobtain from her a single word of approbation. This was certainly enough\nto put any one in a Passion; however, I was as cool as a cream-cheese\nand having formed my plan and concerted a scheme of Revenge, I was\ndetermined to let her have her own way and not even to make her a single\nreproach. My scheme was to treat her as she treated me, and tho' she\nmight even draw my own Picture or play Malbrook (which is the only tune\nI ever really liked) not to say so much as \"Thank you Eloisa;\" tho'\nI had for many years constantly hollowed whenever she played, BRAVO,\nBRAVISSIMO, ENCORE, DA CAPO, ALLEGRETTO, CON EXPRESSIONE, and POCO\nPRESTO with many other such outlandish words, all of them as Eloisa told\nme expressive of my Admiration; and so indeed I suppose they are, as I\nsee some of them in every Page of every Music book, being the sentiments\nI imagine of the composer.\n\nI executed my Plan with great Punctuality. I can not say success, for\nalas! my silence while she played seemed not in the least to displease\nher; on the contrary she actually said to me one day \"Well Charlotte,\nI am very glad to find that you have at last left off that ridiculous\ncustom of applauding my Execution on the Harpsichord till you made\nmy head ake, and yourself hoarse. I feel very much obliged to you for\nkeeping your admiration to yourself.\" I never shall forget the very\nwitty answer I made to this speech. \"Eloisa (said I) I beg you would\nbe quite at your Ease with respect to all such fears in future, for\nbe assured that I shall always keep my admiration to myself and my own\npursuits and never extend it to yours.\" This was the only very severe\nthing I ever said in my Life; not but that I have often felt myself\nextremely satirical but it was the only time I ever made my feelings\npublic.\n\nI suppose there never were two Young people who had a greater affection\nfor each other than Henry and Eloisa; no, the Love of your Brother for\nMiss Burton could not be so strong tho' it might be more violent. You\nmay imagine therefore how provoked my Sister must have been to have\nhim play her such a trick. Poor girl! she still laments his Death with\nundiminished constancy, notwithstanding he has been dead more than six\nweeks; but some People mind such things more than others. The ill state\nof Health into which his loss has thrown her makes her so weak, and so\nunable to support the least exertion, that she has been in tears all\nthis Morning merely from having taken leave of Mrs. Marlowe who with her\nHusband, Brother and Child are to leave Bristol this morning. I am sorry\nto have them go because they are the only family with whom we have here\nany acquaintance, but I never thought of crying; to be sure Eloisa\nand Mrs Marlowe have always been more together than with me, and have\ntherefore contracted a kind of affection for each other, which does not\nmake Tears so inexcusable in them as they would be in me. The Marlowes\nare going to Town; Cliveland accompanies them; as neither Eloisa nor I\ncould catch him I hope you or Matilda may have better Luck. I know not\nwhen we shall leave Bristol, Eloisa's spirits are so low that she is\nvery averse to moving, and yet is certainly by no means mended by her\nresidence here. A week or two will I hope determine our Measures--in the\nmean time believe me and etc--and etc--Charlotte Lutterell.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the EIGHTH Miss LUTTERELL to Mrs MARLOWE Bristol April 4th\n\nI feel myself greatly obliged to you my dear Emma for such a mark of\nyour affection as I flatter myself was conveyed in the proposal you made\nme of our Corresponding; I assure you that it will be a great releif to\nme to write to you and as long as my Health and Spirits will allow\nme, you will find me a very constant correspondent; I will not say\nan entertaining one, for you know my situation suffciently not to be\nignorant that in me Mirth would be improper and I know my own Heart too\nwell not to be sensible that it would be unnatural. You must not expect\nnews for we see no one with whom we are in the least acquainted, or in\nwhose proceedings we have any Interest. You must not expect scandal\nfor by the same rule we are equally debarred either from hearing or\ninventing it.--You must expect from me nothing but the melancholy\neffusions of a broken Heart which is ever reverting to the Happiness\nit once enjoyed and which ill supports its present wretchedness. The\nPossibility of being able to write, to speak, to you of my lost Henry\nwill be a luxury to me, and your goodness will not I know refuse to read\nwhat it will so much releive my Heart to write. I once thought that to\nhave what is in general called a Freind (I mean one of my own sex\nto whom I might speak with less reserve than to any other person)\nindependant of my sister would never be an object of my wishes, but how\nmuch was I mistaken! Charlotte is too much engrossed by two confidential\ncorrespondents of that sort, to supply the place of one to me, and I\nhope you will not think me girlishly romantic, when I say that to\nhave some kind and compassionate Freind who might listen to my sorrows\nwithout endeavouring to console me was what I had for some time wished\nfor, when our acquaintance with you, the intimacy which followed it and\nthe particular affectionate attention you paid me almost from the first,\ncaused me to entertain the flattering Idea of those attentions being\nimproved on a closer acquaintance into a Freindship which, if you were\nwhat my wishes formed you would be the greatest Happiness I could\nbe capable of enjoying. To find that such Hopes are realised is a\nsatisfaction indeed, a satisfaction which is now almost the only one I\ncan ever experience.--I feel myself so languid that I am sure were you\nwith me you would oblige me to leave off writing, and I cannot give you\na greater proof of my affection for you than by acting, as I know you\nwould wish me to do, whether Absent or Present. I am my dear Emmas\nsincere freind E. L.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the NINTH Mrs MARLOWE to Miss LUTTERELL Grosvenor Street, April\n10th\n\nNeed I say my dear Eloisa how wellcome your letter was to me I cannot\ngive a greater proof of the pleasure I received from it, or of the\nDesire I feel that our Correspondence may be regular and frequent than\nby setting you so good an example as I now do in answering it before the\nend of the week--. But do not imagine that I claim any merit in being\nso punctual; on the contrary I assure you, that it is a far greater\nGratification to me to write to you, than to spend the Evening either at\na Concert or a Ball. Mr Marlowe is so desirous of my appearing at some\nof the Public places every evening that I do not like to refuse him, but\nat the same time so much wish to remain at Home, that independant of\nthe Pleasure I experience in devoting any portion of my Time to my\nDear Eloisa, yet the Liberty I claim from having a letter to write of\nspending an Evening at home with my little Boy, you know me well enough\nto be sensible, will of itself be a sufficient Inducement (if one is\nnecessary) to my maintaining with Pleasure a Correspondence with you.\nAs to the subject of your letters to me, whether grave or merry, if they\nconcern you they must be equally interesting to me; not but that I think\nthe melancholy Indulgence of your own sorrows by repeating them and\ndwelling on them to me, will only encourage and increase them, and\nthat it will be more prudent in you to avoid so sad a subject; but yet\nknowing as I do what a soothing and melancholy Pleasure it must afford\nyou, I cannot prevail on myself to deny you so great an Indulgence, and\nwill only insist on your not expecting me to encourage you in it, by my\nown letters; on the contrary I intend to fill them with such lively Wit\nand enlivening Humour as shall even provoke a smile in the sweet but\nsorrowfull countenance of my Eloisa.\n\nIn the first place you are to learn that I have met your sisters three\nfreinds Lady Lesley and her Daughters, twice in Public since I have been\nhere. I know you will be impatient to hear my opinion of the Beauty of\nthree Ladies of whom you have heard so much. Now, as you are too ill and\ntoo unhappy to be vain, I think I may venture to inform you that I\nlike none of their faces so well as I do your own. Yet they are all\nhandsome--Lady Lesley indeed I have seen before; her Daughters I beleive\nwould in general be said to have a finer face than her Ladyship, and yet\nwhat with the charms of a Blooming complexion, a little Affectation and\na great deal of small-talk, (in each of which she is superior to the\nyoung Ladies) she will I dare say gain herself as many admirers as the\nmore regular features of Matilda, and Margaret. I am sure you will agree\nwith me in saying that they can none of them be of a proper size for\nreal Beauty, when you know that two of them are taller and the other\nshorter than ourselves. In spite of this Defect (or rather by reason\nof it) there is something very noble and majestic in the figures of the\nMiss Lesleys, and something agreably lively in the appearance of their\npretty little Mother-in-law. But tho' one may be majestic and the other\nlively, yet the faces of neither possess that Bewitching sweetness of\nmy Eloisas, which her present languor is so far from diminushing. What\nwould my Husband and Brother say of us, if they knew all the fine things\nI have been saying to you in this letter. It is very hard that a pretty\nwoman is never to be told she is so by any one of her own sex without\nthat person's being suspected to be either her determined Enemy, or\nher professed Toad-eater. How much more amiable are women in that\nparticular! One man may say forty civil things to another without our\nsupposing that he is ever paid for it, and provided he does his Duty by\nour sex, we care not how Polite he is to his own.\n\nMrs Lutterell will be so good as to accept my compliments, Charlotte,\nmy Love, and Eloisa the best wishes for the recovery of her Health and\nSpirits that can be offered by her affectionate Freind E. Marlowe.\n\nI am afraid this letter will be but a poor specimen of my Powers in the\nwitty way; and your opinion of them will not be greatly increased when I\nassure you that I have been as entertaining as I possibly could.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the TENTH From Miss MARGARET LESLEY to Miss CHARLOTTE LUTTERELL\nPortman Square April 13th\n\nMY DEAR CHARLOTTE We left Lesley-Castle on the 28th of last Month,\nand arrived safely in London after a Journey of seven Days; I had the\npleasure of finding your Letter here waiting my Arrival, for which you\nhave my grateful Thanks. Ah! my dear Freind I every day more regret the\nserene and tranquil Pleasures of the Castle we have left, in exchange\nfor the uncertain and unequal Amusements of this vaunted City. Not that\nI will pretend to assert that these uncertain and unequal Amusements\nare in the least Degree unpleasing to me; on the contrary I enjoy them\nextremely and should enjoy them even more, were I not certain that every\nappearance I make in Public but rivetts the Chains of those unhappy\nBeings whose Passion it is impossible not to pity, tho' it is out of my\npower to return. In short my Dear Charlotte it is my sensibility for\nthe sufferings of so many amiable young Men, my Dislike of the extreme\nadmiration I meet with, and my aversion to being so celebrated both in\nPublic, in Private, in Papers, and in Printshops, that are the reasons\nwhy I cannot more fully enjoy, the Amusements so various and pleasing\nof London. How often have I wished that I possessed as little Personal\nBeauty as you do; that my figure were as inelegant; my face as unlovely;\nand my appearance as unpleasing as yours! But ah! what little chance\nis there of so desirable an Event; I have had the small-pox, and must\ntherefore submit to my unhappy fate.\n\nI am now going to intrust you my dear Charlotte with a secret which has\nlong disturbed the tranquility of my days, and which is of a kind to\nrequire the most inviolable Secrecy from you. Last Monday se'night\nMatilda and I accompanied Lady Lesley to a Rout at the Honourable Mrs\nKickabout's; we were escorted by Mr Fitzgerald who is a very amiable\nyoung Man in the main, tho' perhaps a little singular in his Taste--He\nis in love with Matilda--. We had scarcely paid our Compliments to the\nLady of the House and curtseyed to half a score different people when my\nAttention was attracted by the appearance of a Young Man the most lovely\nof his Sex, who at that moment entered the Room with another Gentleman\nand Lady. From the first moment I beheld him, I was certain that on him\ndepended the future Happiness of my Life. Imagine my surprise when he\nwas introduced to me by the name of Cleveland--I instantly recognised\nhim as the Brother of Mrs Marlowe, and the acquaintance of my Charlotte\nat Bristol. Mr and Mrs M. were the gentleman and Lady who accompanied\nhim. (You do not think Mrs Marlowe handsome?) The elegant address of Mr\nCleveland, his polished Manners and Delightful Bow, at once confirmed my\nattachment. He did not speak; but I can imagine everything he would have\nsaid, had he opened his Mouth. I can picture to myself the cultivated\nUnderstanding, the Noble sentiments, and elegant Language which would\nhave shone so conspicuous in the conversation of Mr Cleveland. The\napproach of Sir James Gower (one of my too numerous admirers) prevented\nthe Discovery of any such Powers, by putting an end to a Conversation we\nhad never commenced, and by attracting my attention to himself. But oh!\nhow inferior are the accomplishments of Sir James to those of his so\ngreatly envied Rival! Sir James is one of the most frequent of our\nVisitors, and is almost always of our Parties. We have since often met\nMr and Mrs Marlowe but no Cleveland--he is always engaged some where\nelse. Mrs Marlowe fatigues me to Death every time I see her by her\ntiresome Conversations about you and Eloisa. She is so stupid! I live in\nthe hope of seeing her irrisistable Brother to night, as we are going to\nLady Flambeaus, who is I know intimate with the Marlowes. Our party will\nbe Lady Lesley, Matilda, Fitzgerald, Sir James Gower, and myself. We see\nlittle of Sir George, who is almost always at the gaming-table. Ah! my\npoor Fortune where art thou by this time? We see more of Lady L. who\nalways makes her appearance (highly rouged) at Dinner-time. Alas! what\nDelightful Jewels will she be decked in this evening at Lady Flambeau's!\nYet I wonder how she can herself delight in wearing them; surely she\nmust be sensible of the ridiculous impropriety of loading her little\ndiminutive figure with such superfluous ornaments; is it possible that\nshe can not know how greatly superior an elegant simplicity is to the\nmost studied apparel? Would she but Present them to Matilda and me, how\ngreatly should we be obliged to her, How becoming would Diamonds be on\nour fine majestic figures! And how surprising it is that such an Idea\nshould never have occurred to HER. I am sure if I have reflected in this\nmanner once, I have fifty times. Whenever I see Lady Lesley dressed in\nthem such reflections immediately come across me. My own Mother's Jewels\ntoo! But I will say no more on so melancholy a subject--let me entertain\nyou with something more pleasing--Matilda had a letter this morning from\nLesley, by which we have the pleasure of finding that he is at Naples\nhas turned Roman-Catholic, obtained one of the Pope's Bulls for\nannulling his 1st Marriage and has since actually married a Neapolitan\nLady of great Rank and Fortune. He tells us moreover that much the same\nsort of affair has befallen his first wife the worthless Louisa who is\nlikewise at Naples had turned Roman-catholic, and is soon to be married\nto a Neapolitan Nobleman of great and Distinguished merit. He says,\nthat they are at present very good Freinds, have quite forgiven all\npast errors and intend in future to be very good Neighbours. He invites\nMatilda and me to pay him a visit to Italy and to bring him his little\nLouisa whom both her Mother, Step-mother, and himself are equally\ndesirous of beholding. As to our accepting his invitation, it is at\nPresent very uncertain; Lady Lesley advises us to go without loss of\ntime; Fitzgerald offers to escort us there, but Matilda has some doubts\nof the Propriety of such a scheme--she owns it would be very agreable.\nI am certain she likes the Fellow. My Father desires us not to be in a\nhurry, as perhaps if we wait a few months both he and Lady Lesley will\ndo themselves the pleasure of attending us. Lady Lesley says no, that\nnothing will ever tempt her to forego the Amusements of Brighthelmstone\nfor a Journey to Italy merely to see our Brother. \"No (says the\ndisagreable Woman) I have once in my life been fool enough to travel I\ndont know how many hundred Miles to see two of the Family, and I found\nit did not answer, so Deuce take me, if ever I am so foolish again.\"So\nsays her Ladyship, but Sir George still Perseveres in saying that\nperhaps in a month or two, they may accompany us. Adeiu my Dear\nCharlotte Yrs faithful Margaret Lesley.\n\n\n*****\n\n\n\n\nTHE HISTORY OF ENGLAND\n\nFROM THE REIGN OF HENRY THE 4TH TO THE DEATH OF CHARLES THE 1ST\n\nBY A PARTIAL, PREJUDICED, AND IGNORANT HISTORIAN.\n\n*****\n\nTo Miss Austen, eldest daughter of the Rev. George Austen, this work is\ninscribed with all due respect by THE AUTHOR.\n\n\nN.B. There will be very few Dates in this History.\n\n\nTHE HISTORY OF ENGLAND\n\n\nHENRY the 4th\n\nHenry the 4th ascended the throne of England much to his own\nsatisfaction in the year 1399, after having prevailed on his cousin and\npredecessor Richard the 2nd, to resign it to him, and to retire for the\nrest of his life to Pomfret Castle, where he happened to be murdered.\nIt is to be supposed that Henry was married, since he had certainly four\nsons, but it is not in my power to inform the Reader who was his wife.\nBe this as it may, he did not live for ever, but falling ill, his son\nthe Prince of Wales came and took away the crown; whereupon the King\nmade a long speech, for which I must refer the Reader to Shakespear's\nPlays, and the Prince made a still longer. Things being thus settled\nbetween them the King died, and was succeeded by his son Henry who had\npreviously beat Sir William Gascoigne.\n\n\nHENRY the 5th\n\nThis Prince after he succeeded to the throne grew quite reformed and\namiable, forsaking all his dissipated companions, and never thrashing\nSir William again. During his reign, Lord Cobham was burnt alive, but I\nforget what for. His Majesty then turned his thoughts to France, where\nhe went and fought the famous Battle of Agincourt. He afterwards married\nthe King's daughter Catherine, a very agreable woman by Shakespear's\naccount. In spite of all this however he died, and was succeeded by his\nson Henry.\n\n\nHENRY the 6th\n\nI cannot say much for this Monarch's sense. Nor would I if I could, for\nhe was a Lancastrian. I suppose you know all about the Wars between him\nand the Duke of York who was of the right side; if you do not, you had\nbetter read some other History, for I shall not be very diffuse in this,\nmeaning by it only to vent my spleen AGAINST, and shew my Hatred TO all\nthose people whose parties or principles do not suit with mine, and not\nto give information. This King married Margaret of Anjou, a Woman whose\ndistresses and misfortunes were so great as almost to make me who hate\nher, pity her. It was in this reign that Joan of Arc lived and made such\na ROW among the English. They should not have burnt her--but they did.\nThere were several Battles between the Yorkists and Lancastrians, in\nwhich the former (as they ought) usually conquered. At length they were\nentirely overcome; The King was murdered--The Queen was sent home--and\nEdward the 4th ascended the Throne.\n\n\nEDWARD the 4th\n\nThis Monarch was famous only for his Beauty and his Courage, of which\nthe Picture we have here given of him, and his undaunted Behaviour\nin marrying one Woman while he was engaged to another, are sufficient\nproofs. His Wife was Elizabeth Woodville, a Widow who, poor Woman! was\nafterwards confined in a Convent by that Monster of Iniquity and Avarice\nHenry the 7th. One of Edward's Mistresses was Jane Shore, who has had\na play written about her, but it is a tragedy and therefore not worth\nreading. Having performed all these noble actions, his Majesty died, and\nwas succeeded by his son.\n\n\nEDWARD the 5th\n\nThis unfortunate Prince lived so little a while that nobody had him to\ndraw his picture. He was murdered by his Uncle's Contrivance, whose name\nwas Richard the 3rd.\n\n\nRICHARD the 3rd\n\nThe Character of this Prince has been in general very severely treated\nby Historians, but as he was a YORK, I am rather inclined to suppose him\na very respectable Man. It has indeed been confidently asserted that he\nkilled his two Nephews and his Wife, but it has also been declared that\nhe did not kill his two Nephews, which I am inclined to beleive true;\nand if this is the case, it may also be affirmed that he did not kill\nhis Wife, for if Perkin Warbeck was really the Duke of York, why might\nnot Lambert Simnel be the Widow of Richard. Whether innocent or guilty,\nhe did not reign long in peace, for Henry Tudor E. of Richmond as great\na villain as ever lived, made a great fuss about getting the Crown and\nhaving killed the King at the battle of Bosworth, he succeeded to it.\n\n\nHENRY the 7th\n\nThis Monarch soon after his accession married the Princess Elizabeth of\nYork, by which alliance he plainly proved that he thought his own right\ninferior to hers, tho' he pretended to the contrary. By this Marriage he\nhad two sons and two daughters, the elder of which Daughters was married\nto the King of Scotland and had the happiness of being grandmother\nto one of the first Characters in the World. But of HER, I shall have\noccasion to speak more at large in future. The youngest, Mary, married\nfirst the King of France and secondly the D. of Suffolk, by whom she had\none daughter, afterwards the Mother of Lady Jane Grey, who tho' inferior\nto her lovely Cousin the Queen of Scots, was yet an amiable young woman\nand famous for reading Greek while other people were hunting. It was in\nthe reign of Henry the 7th that Perkin Warbeck and Lambert Simnel before\nmentioned made their appearance, the former of whom was set in the\nstocks, took shelter in Beaulieu Abbey, and was beheaded with the Earl\nof Warwick, and the latter was taken into the Kings kitchen. His Majesty\ndied and was succeeded by his son Henry whose only merit was his not\nbeing quite so bad as his daughter Elizabeth.\n\n\nHENRY the 8th\n\nIt would be an affront to my Readers were I to suppose that they were\nnot as well acquainted with the particulars of this King's reign as I am\nmyself. It will therefore be saving THEM the task of reading again what\nthey have read before, and MYSELF the trouble of writing what I do not\nperfectly recollect, by giving only a slight sketch of the principal\nEvents which marked his reign. Among these may be ranked Cardinal\nWolsey's telling the father Abbott of Leicester Abbey that \"he was come\nto lay his bones among them,\" the reformation in Religion and the King's\nriding through the streets of London with Anna Bullen. It is however\nbut Justice, and my Duty to declare that this amiable Woman was entirely\ninnocent of the Crimes with which she was accused, and of which her\nBeauty, her Elegance, and her Sprightliness were sufficient proofs, not\nto mention her solemn Protestations of Innocence, the weakness of the\nCharges against her, and the King's Character; all of which add some\nconfirmation, tho' perhaps but slight ones when in comparison with those\nbefore alledged in her favour. Tho' I do not profess giving many dates,\nyet as I think it proper to give some and shall of course make choice\nof those which it is most necessary for the Reader to know, I think it\nright to inform him that her letter to the King was dated on the 6th of\nMay. The Crimes and Cruelties of this Prince, were too numerous to be\nmentioned, (as this history I trust has fully shown;) and nothing can\nbe said in his vindication, but that his abolishing Religious Houses and\nleaving them to the ruinous depredations of time has been of infinite\nuse to the landscape of England in general, which probably was a\nprincipal motive for his doing it, since otherwise why should a Man who\nwas of no Religion himself be at so much trouble to abolish one which\nhad for ages been established in the Kingdom. His Majesty's 5th Wife\nwas the Duke of Norfolk's Neice who, tho' universally acquitted of the\ncrimes for which she was beheaded, has been by many people supposed to\nhave led an abandoned life before her Marriage--of this however I have\nmany doubts, since she was a relation of that noble Duke of Norfolk who\nwas so warm in the Queen of Scotland's cause, and who at last fell a\nvictim to it. The Kings last wife contrived to survive him, but with\ndifficulty effected it. He was succeeded by his only son Edward.\n\n\nEDWARD the 6th\n\nAs this prince was only nine years old at the time of his Father's\ndeath, he was considered by many people as too young to govern, and the\nlate King happening to be of the same opinion, his mother's Brother the\nDuke of Somerset was chosen Protector of the realm during his minority.\nThis Man was on the whole of a very amiable Character, and is somewhat\nof a favourite with me, tho' I would by no means pretend to affirm that\nhe was equal to those first of Men Robert Earl of Essex, Delamere, or\nGilpin. He was beheaded, of which he might with reason have been proud,\nhad he known that such was the death of Mary Queen of Scotland; but\nas it was impossible that he should be conscious of what had never\nhappened, it does not appear that he felt particularly delighted with\nthe manner of it. After his decease the Duke of Northumberland had the\ncare of the King and the Kingdom, and performed his trust of both so\nwell that the King died and the Kingdom was left to his daughter in law\nthe Lady Jane Grey, who has been already mentioned as reading Greek.\nWhether she really understood that language or whether such a study\nproceeded only from an excess of vanity for which I beleive she was\nalways rather remarkable, is uncertain. Whatever might be the cause,\nshe preserved the same appearance of knowledge, and contempt of what\nwas generally esteemed pleasure, during the whole of her life, for\nshe declared herself displeased with being appointed Queen, and while\nconducting to the scaffold, she wrote a sentence in Latin and another in\nGreek on seeing the dead Body of her Husband accidentally passing that\nway.\n\n\nMARY\n\nThis woman had the good luck of being advanced to the throne of England,\nin spite of the superior pretensions, Merit, and Beauty of her Cousins\nMary Queen of Scotland and Jane Grey. Nor can I pity the Kingdom for the\nmisfortunes they experienced during her Reign, since they fully deserved\nthem, for having allowed her to succeed her Brother--which was a double\npeice of folly, since they might have foreseen that as she died without\nchildren, she would be succeeded by that disgrace to humanity, that\npest of society, Elizabeth. Many were the people who fell martyrs to the\nprotestant Religion during her reign; I suppose not fewer than a dozen.\nShe married Philip King of Spain who in her sister's reign was famous\nfor building Armadas. She died without issue, and then the dreadful\nmoment came in which the destroyer of all comfort, the deceitful\nBetrayer of trust reposed in her, and the Murderess of her Cousin\nsucceeded to the Throne.----\n\n\nELIZABETH\n\nIt was the peculiar misfortune of this Woman to have bad\nMinisters---Since wicked as she herself was, she could not have\ncommitted such extensive mischeif, had not these vile and abandoned Men\nconnived at, and encouraged her in her Crimes. I know that it has by\nmany people been asserted and beleived that Lord Burleigh, Sir Francis\nWalsingham, and the rest of those who filled the cheif offices of State\nwere deserving, experienced, and able Ministers. But oh! how blinded\nsuch writers and such Readers must be to true Merit, to Merit despised,\nneglected and defamed, if they can persist in such opinions when they\nreflect that these men, these boasted men were such scandals to their\nCountry and their sex as to allow and assist their Queen in confining\nfor the space of nineteen years, a WOMAN who if the claims of\nRelationship and Merit were of no avail, yet as a Queen and as one who\ncondescended to place confidence in her, had every reason to expect\nassistance and protection; and at length in allowing Elizabeth to bring\nthis amiable Woman to an untimely, unmerited, and scandalous Death. Can\nany one if he reflects but for a moment on this blot, this everlasting\nblot upon their understanding and their Character, allow any praise to\nLord Burleigh or Sir Francis Walsingham? Oh! what must this bewitching\nPrincess whose only freind was then the Duke of Norfolk, and whose\nonly ones now Mr Whitaker, Mrs Lefroy, Mrs Knight and myself, who was\nabandoned by her son, confined by her Cousin, abused, reproached and\nvilified by all, what must not her most noble mind have suffered when\ninformed that Elizabeth had given orders for her Death! Yet she bore\nit with a most unshaken fortitude, firm in her mind; constant in her\nReligion; and prepared herself to meet the cruel fate to which she\nwas doomed, with a magnanimity that would alone proceed from conscious\nInnocence. And yet could you Reader have beleived it possible that\nsome hardened and zealous Protestants have even abused her for that\nsteadfastness in the Catholic Religion which reflected on her so\nmuch credit? But this is a striking proof of THEIR narrow souls and\nprejudiced Judgements who accuse her. She was executed in the Great Hall\nat Fortheringay Castle (sacred Place!) on Wednesday the 8th of February\n1586--to the everlasting Reproach of Elizabeth, her Ministers, and of\nEngland in general. It may not be unnecessary before I entirely conclude\nmy account of this ill-fated Queen, to observe that she had been accused\nof several crimes during the time of her reigning in Scotland, of which\nI now most seriously do assure my Reader that she was entirely innocent;\nhaving never been guilty of anything more than Imprudencies into which\nshe was betrayed by the openness of her Heart, her Youth, and her\nEducation. Having I trust by this assurance entirely done away every\nSuspicion and every doubt which might have arisen in the Reader's mind,\nfrom what other Historians have written of her, I shall proceed to\nmention the remaining Events that marked Elizabeth's reign. It was about\nthis time that Sir Francis Drake the first English Navigator who sailed\nround the World, lived, to be the ornament of his Country and his\nprofession. Yet great as he was, and justly celebrated as a sailor,\nI cannot help foreseeing that he will be equalled in this or the next\nCentury by one who tho' now but young, already promises to answer all\nthe ardent and sanguine expectations of his Relations and Freinds,\namongst whom I may class the amiable Lady to whom this work is\ndedicated, and my no less amiable self.\n\nThough of a different profession, and shining in a different sphere of\nLife, yet equally conspicuous in the Character of an Earl, as Drake was\nin that of a Sailor, was Robert Devereux Lord Essex. This unfortunate\nyoung Man was not unlike in character to that equally unfortunate\none FREDERIC DELAMERE. The simile may be carried still farther, and\nElizabeth the torment of Essex may be compared to the Emmeline of\nDelamere. It would be endless to recount the misfortunes of this noble\nand gallant Earl. It is sufficient to say that he was beheaded on the\n25th of Feb, after having been Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, after having\nclapped his hand on his sword, and after performing many other services\nto his Country. Elizabeth did not long survive his loss, and died so\nmiserable that were it not an injury to the memory of Mary I should pity\nher.\n\n\nJAMES the 1st\n\nThough this King had some faults, among which and as the most principal,\nwas his allowing his Mother's death, yet considered on the whole I\ncannot help liking him. He married Anne of Denmark, and had several\nChildren; fortunately for him his eldest son Prince Henry died before\nhis father or he might have experienced the evils which befell his\nunfortunate Brother.\n\nAs I am myself partial to the roman catholic religion, it is with\ninfinite regret that I am obliged to blame the Behaviour of any Member\nof it: yet Truth being I think very excusable in an Historian, I am\nnecessitated to say that in this reign the roman Catholics of England\ndid not behave like Gentlemen to the protestants. Their Behaviour\nindeed to the Royal Family and both Houses of Parliament might justly\nbe considered by them as very uncivil, and even Sir Henry Percy tho'\ncertainly the best bred man of the party, had none of that general\npoliteness which is so universally pleasing, as his attentions were\nentirely confined to Lord Mounteagle.\n\nSir Walter Raleigh flourished in this and the preceeding reign, and is\nby many people held in great veneration and respect--But as he was an\nenemy of the noble Essex, I have nothing to say in praise of him, and\nmust refer all those who may wish to be acquainted with the particulars\nof his life, to Mr Sheridan's play of the Critic, where they will\nfind many interesting anecdotes as well of him as of his friend Sir\nChristopher Hatton.--His Majesty was of that amiable disposition which\ninclines to Freindship, and in such points was possessed of a keener\npenetration in discovering Merit than many other people. I once heard an\nexcellent Sharade on a Carpet, of which the subject I am now on reminds\nme, and as I think it may afford my Readers some amusement to FIND IT\nOUT, I shall here take the liberty of presenting it to them.\n\nSHARADE My first is what my second was to King James the 1st, and you\ntread on my whole.\n\nThe principal favourites of his Majesty were Car, who was afterwards\ncreated Earl of Somerset and whose name perhaps may have some share\nin the above mentioned Sharade, and George Villiers afterwards Duke of\nBuckingham. On his Majesty's death he was succeeded by his son Charles.\n\n\nCHARLES the 1st\n\nThis amiable Monarch seems born to have suffered misfortunes equal to\nthose of his lovely Grandmother; misfortunes which he could not deserve\nsince he was her descendant. Never certainly were there before so many\ndetestable Characters at one time in England as in this Period of its\nHistory; never were amiable men so scarce. The number of them throughout\nthe whole Kingdom amounting only to FIVE, besides the inhabitants\nof Oxford who were always loyal to their King and faithful to his\ninterests. The names of this noble five who never forgot the duty of\nthe subject, or swerved from their attachment to his Majesty, were as\nfollows--The King himself, ever stedfast in his own support--Archbishop\nLaud, Earl of Strafford, Viscount Faulkland and Duke of Ormond, who were\nscarcely less strenuous or zealous in the cause. While the VILLIANS\nof the time would make too long a list to be written or read; I shall\ntherefore content myself with mentioning the leaders of the Gang.\nCromwell, Fairfax, Hampden, and Pym may be considered as the original\nCausers of all the disturbances, Distresses, and Civil Wars in which\nEngland for many years was embroiled. In this reign as well as in that\nof Elizabeth, I am obliged in spite of my attachment to the Scotch,\nto consider them as equally guilty with the generality of the English,\nsince they dared to think differently from their Sovereign, to forget\nthe Adoration which as STUARTS it was their Duty to pay them, to rebel\nagainst, dethrone and imprison the unfortunate Mary; to oppose, to\ndeceive, and to sell the no less unfortunate Charles. The Events of this\nMonarch's reign are too numerous for my pen, and indeed the recital\nof any Events (except what I make myself) is uninteresting to me; my\nprincipal reason for undertaking the History of England being to Prove\nthe innocence of the Queen of Scotland, which I flatter myself with\nhaving effectually done, and to abuse Elizabeth, tho' I am rather\nfearful of having fallen short in the latter part of my scheme.--As\ntherefore it is not my intention to give any particular account of the\ndistresses into which this King was involved through the misconduct and\nCruelty of his Parliament, I shall satisfy myself with vindicating him\nfrom the Reproach of Arbitrary and tyrannical Government with which he\nhas often been charged. This, I feel, is not difficult to be done, for\nwith one argument I am certain of satisfying every sensible and well\ndisposed person whose opinions have been properly guided by a good\nEducation--and this Argument is that he was a STUART.\n\nFinis Saturday Nov: 26th 1791.\n\n\n*****\n\n\n\n\nA COLLECTION OF LETTERS\n\n\n\n\nTo Miss COOPER\n\nCOUSIN Conscious of the Charming Character which in every Country, and\nevery Clime in Christendom is Cried, Concerning you, with Caution and\nCare I Commend to your Charitable Criticism this Clever Collection\nof Curious Comments, which have been Carefully Culled, Collected and\nClassed by your Comical Cousin\n\nThe Author.\n\n*****\n\n\n\n\nA COLLECTION OF LETTERS\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the FIRST From a MOTHER to her FREIND.\n\nMy Children begin now to claim all my attention in different Manner from\nthat in which they have been used to receive it, as they are now arrived\nat that age when it is necessary for them in some measure to become\nconversant with the World, My Augusta is 17 and her sister scarcely a\ntwelvemonth younger. I flatter myself that their education has been such\nas will not disgrace their appearance in the World, and that THEY will\nnot disgrace their Education I have every reason to beleive. Indeed they\nare sweet Girls--. Sensible yet unaffected--Accomplished yet Easy--.\nLively yet Gentle--. As their progress in every thing they have learnt\nhas been always the same, I am willing to forget the difference of age,\nand to introduce them together into Public. This very Evening is fixed\non as their first ENTREE into Life, as we are to drink tea with Mrs Cope\nand her Daughter. I am glad that we are to meet no one, for my Girls\nsake, as it would be awkward for them to enter too wide a Circle on the\nvery first day. But we shall proceed by degrees.--Tomorrow Mr Stanly's\nfamily will drink tea with us, and perhaps the Miss Phillips's will meet\nthem. On Tuesday we shall pay Morning Visits--On Wednesday we are to\ndine at Westbrook. On Thursday we have Company at home. On Friday we\nare to be at a Private Concert at Sir John Wynna's--and on Saturday\nwe expect Miss Dawson to call in the Morning--which will complete my\nDaughters Introduction into Life. How they will bear so much dissipation\nI cannot imagine; of their spirits I have no fear, I only dread their\nhealth.\n\nThis mighty affair is now happily over, and my Girls are OUT. As the\nmoment approached for our departure, you can have no idea how the sweet\nCreatures trembled with fear and expectation. Before the Carriage drove\nto the door, I called them into my dressing-room, and as soon as they\nwere seated thus addressed them. \"My dear Girls the moment is now\narrived when I am to reap the rewards of all my Anxieties and Labours\ntowards you during your Education. You are this Evening to enter a World\nin which you will meet with many wonderfull Things; Yet let me warn\nyou against suffering yourselves to be meanly swayed by the Follies and\nVices of others, for beleive me my beloved Children that if you do--I\nshall be very sorry for it.\" They both assured me that they would ever\nremember my advice with Gratitude, and follow it with attention; That\nthey were prepared to find a World full of things to amaze and to shock\nthem: but that they trusted their behaviour would never give me reason\nto repent the Watchful Care with which I had presided over their infancy\nand formed their Minds--\" \"With such expectations and such intentions\n(cried I) I can have nothing to fear from you--and can chearfully\nconduct you to Mrs Cope's without a fear of your being seduced by her\nExample, or contaminated by her Follies. Come, then my Children (added\nI) the Carriage is driving to the door, and I will not a moment delay\nthe happiness you are so impatient to enjoy.\" When we arrived at\nWarleigh, poor Augusta could scarcely breathe, while Margaret was all\nLife and Rapture. \"The long-expected Moment is now arrived (said she)\nand we shall soon be in the World.\"--In a few Moments we were in Mrs\nCope's parlour, where with her daughter she sate ready to receive us.\nI observed with delight the impression my Children made on them--. They\nwere indeed two sweet, elegant-looking Girls, and tho' somewhat abashed\nfrom the peculiarity of their situation, yet there was an ease in their\nManners and address which could not fail of pleasing--. Imagine my\ndear Madam how delighted I must have been in beholding as I did, how\nattentively they observed every object they saw, how disgusted with some\nThings, how enchanted with others, how astonished at all! On the whole\nhowever they returned in raptures with the World, its Inhabitants, and\nManners. Yrs Ever--A. F.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the SECOND From a YOUNG LADY crossed in Love to her freind\n\nWhy should this last disappointment hang so heavily on my spirits? Why\nshould I feel it more, why should it wound me deeper than those I\nhave experienced before? Can it be that I have a greater affection for\nWilloughby than I had for his amiable predecessors? Or is it that our\nfeelings become more acute from being often wounded? I must suppose my\ndear Belle that this is the Case, since I am not conscious of being more\nsincerely attached to Willoughby than I was to Neville, Fitzowen, or\neither of the Crawfords, for all of whom I once felt the most lasting\naffection that ever warmed a Woman's heart. Tell me then dear Belle why\nI still sigh when I think of the faithless Edward, or why I weep when I\nbehold his Bride, for too surely this is the case--. My Freinds are all\nalarmed for me; They fear my declining health; they lament my want\nof spirits; they dread the effects of both. In hopes of releiving my\nmelancholy, by directing my thoughts to other objects, they have invited\nseveral of their freinds to spend the Christmas with us. Lady Bridget\nDarkwood and her sister-in-law, Miss Jane are expected on Friday; and\nColonel Seaton's family will be with us next week. This is all most\nkindly meant by my Uncle and Cousins; but what can the presence of a\ndozen indefferent people do to me, but weary and distress me--. I will\nnot finish my Letter till some of our Visitors are arrived.\n\nFriday Evening Lady Bridget came this morning, and with her, her sweet\nsister Miss Jane--. Although I have been acquainted with this charming\nWoman above fifteen Years, yet I never before observed how lovely she\nis. She is now about 35, and in spite of sickness, sorrow and Time is\nmore blooming than I ever saw a Girl of 17. I was delighted with her,\nthe moment she entered the house, and she appeared equally pleased with\nme, attaching herself to me during the remainder of the day. There is\nsomething so sweet, so mild in her Countenance, that she seems more than\nMortal. Her Conversation is as bewitching as her appearance; I could not\nhelp telling her how much she engaged my admiration--. \"Oh! Miss Jane\n(said I)--and stopped from an inability at the moment of expressing\nmyself as I could wish--Oh! Miss Jane--(I repeated)--I could not think\nof words to suit my feelings--She seemed waiting for my speech--. I\nwas confused--distressed--my thoughts were bewildered--and I could only\nadd--\"How do you do?\" She saw and felt for my Embarrassment and with\nadmirable presence of mind releived me from it by saying--\"My dear\nSophia be not uneasy at having exposed yourself--I will turn the\nConversation without appearing to notice it. \"Oh! how I loved her for\nher kindness!\" Do you ride as much as you used to do?\" said she--. \"I\nam advised to ride by my Physician. We have delightful Rides round us,\nI have a Charming horse, am uncommonly fond of the Amusement, replied\nI quite recovered from my Confusion, and in short I ride a great deal.\"\n\"You are in the right my Love,\" said she. Then repeating the following\nline which was an extempore and equally adapted to recommend both Riding\nand Candour--\n\n\"Ride where you may, Be Candid where you can,\" she added,\" I rode once,\nbut it is many years ago--She spoke this in so low and tremulous a\nVoice, that I was silent--. Struck with her Manner of speaking I could\nmake no reply. \"I have not ridden, continued she fixing her Eyes on my\nface, since I was married.\" I was never so surprised--\"Married, Ma'am!\"\nI repeated. \"You may well wear that look of astonishment, said she,\nsince what I have said must appear improbable to you--Yet nothing is\nmore true than that I once was married.\"\n\n\"Then why are you called Miss Jane?\"\n\n\"I married, my Sophia without the consent or knowledge of my father the\nlate Admiral Annesley. It was therefore necessary to keep the secret\nfrom him and from every one, till some fortunate opportunity might offer\nof revealing it--. Such an opportunity alas! was but too soon given in\nthe death of my dear Capt. Dashwood--Pardon these tears, continued Miss\nJane wiping her Eyes, I owe them to my Husband's memory. He fell my\nSophia, while fighting for his Country in America after a most happy\nUnion of seven years--. My Children, two sweet Boys and a Girl, who\nhad constantly resided with my Father and me, passing with him and with\nevery one as the Children of a Brother (tho' I had ever been an only\nChild) had as yet been the comforts of my Life. But no sooner had\nI lossed my Henry, than these sweet Creatures fell sick and died--.\nConceive dear Sophia what my feelings must have been when as an Aunt I\nattended my Children to their early Grave--. My Father did not survive\nthem many weeks--He died, poor Good old man, happily ignorant to his\nlast hour of my Marriage.'\n\n\"But did not you own it, and assume his name at your husband's death?\"\n\n\"No; I could not bring myself to do it; more especially when in my\nChildren I lost all inducement for doing it. Lady Bridget, and yourself\nare the only persons who are in the knowledge of my having ever been\neither Wife or Mother. As I could not Prevail on myself to take the\nname of Dashwood (a name which after my Henry's death I could never hear\nwithout emotion) and as I was conscious of having no right to that of\nAnnesley, I dropt all thoughts of either, and have made it a point of\nbearing only my Christian one since my Father's death.\" She paused--\"Oh!\nmy dear Miss Jane (said I) how infinitely am I obliged to you for so\nentertaining a story! You cannot think how it has diverted me! But have\nyou quite done?\"\n\n\"I have only to add my dear Sophia, that my Henry's elder Brother dieing\nabout the same time, Lady Bridget became a Widow like myself, and as we\nhad always loved each other in idea from the high Character in which we\nhad ever been spoken of, though we had never met, we determined to live\ntogether. We wrote to one another on the same subject by the same post,\nso exactly did our feeling and our actions coincide! We both eagerly\nembraced the proposals we gave and received of becoming one family, and\nhave from that time lived together in the greatest affection.\"\n\n\"And is this all? said I, I hope you have not done.\"\n\n\"Indeed I have; and did you ever hear a story more pathetic?\"\n\n\"I never did--and it is for that reason it pleases me so much, for when\none is unhappy nothing is so delightful to one's sensations as to hear\nof equal misery.\"\n\n\"Ah! but my Sophia why are YOU unhappy?\"\n\n\"Have you not heard Madam of Willoughby's Marriage?\"\n\n\"But my love why lament HIS perfidy, when you bore so well that of many\nyoung Men before?\"\n\n\"Ah! Madam, I was used to it then, but when Willoughby broke his\nEngagements I had not been dissapointed for half a year.\"\n\n\"Poor Girl!\" said Miss Jane.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the THIRD From a YOUNG LADY in distressed Circumstances to her\nfreind\n\nA few days ago I was at a private Ball given by Mr Ashburnham. As my\nMother never goes out she entrusted me to the care of Lady Greville who\ndid me the honour of calling for me in her way and of allowing me to sit\nforwards, which is a favour about which I am very indifferent especially\nas I know it is considered as confering a great obligation on me \"So\nMiss Maria (said her Ladyship as she saw me advancing to the door of the\nCarriage) you seem very smart to night--MY poor Girls will appear quite\nto disadvantage by YOU--I only hope your Mother may not have distressed\nherself to set YOU off. Have you got a new Gown on?\"\n\n\"Yes Ma'am.\" replied I with as much indifference as I could assume.\n\n\"Aye, and a fine one too I think--(feeling it, as by her permission I\nseated myself by her) I dare say it is all very smart--But I must\nown, for you know I always speak my mind, that I think it was quite a\nneedless piece of expence--Why could not you have worn your old striped\none? It is not my way to find fault with People because they are poor,\nfor I always think that they are more to be despised and pitied than\nblamed for it, especially if they cannot help it, but at the same time I\nmust say that in my opinion your old striped Gown would have been quite\nfine enough for its Wearer--for to tell you the truth (I always speak my\nmind) I am very much afraid that one half of the people in the room will\nnot know whether you have a Gown on or not--But I suppose you intend to\nmake your fortune to night--. Well, the sooner the better; and I wish\nyou success.\"\n\n\"Indeed Ma'am I have no such intention--\"\n\n\"Who ever heard a young Lady own that she was a Fortune-hunter?\" Miss\nGreville laughed but I am sure Ellen felt for me.\n\n\"Was your Mother gone to bed before you left her?\" said her Ladyship.\n\n\"Dear Ma'am, said Ellen it is but nine o'clock.\"\n\n\"True Ellen, but Candles cost money, and Mrs Williams is too wise to be\nextravagant.\"\n\n\"She was just sitting down to supper Ma'am.\"\n\n\"And what had she got for supper?\" \"I did not observe.\" \"Bread and\nCheese I suppose.\" \"I should never wish for a better supper.\" said\nEllen. \"You have never any reason replied her Mother, as a better is\nalways provided for you.\" Miss Greville laughed excessively, as she\nconstantly does at her Mother's wit.\n\nSuch is the humiliating Situation in which I am forced to appear while\nriding in her Ladyship's Coach--I dare not be impertinent, as my Mother\nis always admonishing me to be humble and patient if I wish to make my\nway in the world. She insists on my accepting every invitation of Lady\nGreville, or you may be certain that I would never enter either her\nHouse, or her Coach with the disagreable certainty I always have of\nbeing abused for my Poverty while I am in them.--When we arrived at\nAshburnham, it was nearly ten o'clock, which was an hour and a half\nlater than we were desired to be there; but Lady Greville is too\nfashionable (or fancies herself to be so) to be punctual. The Dancing\nhowever was not begun as they waited for Miss Greville. I had not been\nlong in the room before I was engaged to dance by Mr Bernard, but just\nas we were going to stand up, he recollected that his Servant had got\nhis white Gloves, and immediately ran out to fetch them. In the mean\ntime the Dancing began and Lady Greville in passing to another room went\nexactly before me--She saw me and instantly stopping, said to me though\nthere were several people close to us,\n\n\"Hey day, Miss Maria! What cannot you get a partner? Poor Young Lady!\nI am afraid your new Gown was put on for nothing. But do not despair;\nperhaps you may get a hop before the Evening is over.\" So saying, she\npassed on without hearing my repeated assurance of being engaged, and\nleaving me very much provoked at being so exposed before every one--Mr\nBernard however soon returned and by coming to me the moment he entered\nthe room, and leading me to the Dancers my Character I hope was cleared\nfrom the imputation Lady Greville had thrown on it, in the eyes of all\nthe old Ladies who had heard her speech. I soon forgot all my vexations\nin the pleasure of dancing and of having the most agreable partner in\nthe room. As he is moreover heir to a very large Estate I could see that\nLady Greville did not look very well pleased when she found who had been\nhis Choice--She was determined to mortify me, and accordingly when we\nwere sitting down between the dances, she came to me with more than her\nusual insulting importance attended by Miss Mason and said loud enough\nto be heard by half the people in the room, \"Pray Miss Maria in what\nway of business was your Grandfather? for Miss Mason and I cannot agree\nwhether he was a Grocer or a Bookbinder.\" I saw that she wanted to\nmortify me, and was resolved if I possibly could to Prevent her seeing\nthat her scheme succeeded. \"Neither Madam; he was a Wine Merchant.\"\n\"Aye, I knew he was in some such low way--He broke did not he?\" \"I\nbeleive not Ma'am.\" \"Did not he abscond?\" \"I never heard that he did.\"\n\"At least he died insolvent?\" \"I was never told so before.\" \"Why, was\nnot your FATHER as poor as a Rat\" \"I fancy not.\" \"Was not he in the\nKings Bench once?\" \"I never saw him there.\" She gave me SUCH a look, and\nturned away in a great passion; while I was half delighted with myself\nfor my impertinence, and half afraid of being thought too saucy. As Lady\nGreville was extremely angry with me, she took no further notice of\nme all the Evening, and indeed had I been in favour I should have been\nequally neglected, as she was got into a Party of great folks and she\nnever speaks to me when she can to anyone else. Miss Greville was with\nher Mother's party at supper, but Ellen preferred staying with the\nBernards and me. We had a very pleasant Dance and as Lady G--slept all\nthe way home, I had a very comfortable ride.\n\nThe next day while we were at dinner Lady Greville's Coach stopped at\nthe door, for that is the time of day she generally contrives it should.\nShe sent in a message by the servant to say that \"she should not get out\nbut that Miss Maria must come to the Coach-door, as she wanted to speak\nto her, and that she must make haste and come immediately--\" \"What an\nimpertinent Message Mama!\" said I--\"Go Maria--\" replied she--Accordingly\nI went and was obliged to stand there at her Ladyships pleasure though\nthe Wind was extremely high and very cold.\n\n\"Why I think Miss Maria you are not quite so smart as you were last\nnight--But I did not come to examine your dress, but to tell you that\nyou may dine with us the day after tomorrow--Not tomorrow, remember, do\nnot come tomorrow, for we expect Lord and Lady Clermont and Sir Thomas\nStanley's family--There will be no occasion for your being very fine\nfor I shant send the Carriage--If it rains you may take an umbrella--\"\nI could hardly help laughing at hearing her give me leave to keep myself\ndry--\"And pray remember to be in time, for I shant wait--I hate my\nVictuals over-done--But you need not come before the time--How does\nyour Mother do? She is at dinner is not she?\" \"Yes Ma'am we were in the\nmiddle of dinner when your Ladyship came.\" \"I am afraid you find it very\ncold Maria.\" said Ellen. \"Yes, it is an horrible East wind--said her\nMother--I assure you I can hardly bear the window down--But you are used\nto be blown about by the wind Miss Maria and that is what has made your\nComplexion so rudely and coarse. You young Ladies who cannot often ride\nin a Carriage never mind what weather you trudge in, or how the wind\nshews your legs. I would not have my Girls stand out of doors as you do\nin such a day as this. But some sort of people have no feelings either\nof cold or Delicacy--Well, remember that we shall expect you on Thursday\nat 5 o'clock--You must tell your Maid to come for you at night--There\nwill be no Moon--and you will have an horrid walk home--My compts to\nYour Mother--I am afraid your dinner will be cold--Drive on--\" And away\nshe went, leaving me in a great passion with her as she always does.\nMaria Williams.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the FOURTH From a YOUNG LADY rather impertinent to her freind\n\nWe dined yesterday with Mr Evelyn where we were introduced to a very\nagreable looking Girl his Cousin. I was extremely pleased with her\nappearance, for added to the charms of an engaging face, her manner and\nvoice had something peculiarly interesting in them. So much so, that\nthey inspired me with a great curiosity to know the history of her Life,\nwho were her Parents, where she came from, and what had befallen her,\nfor it was then only known that she was a relation of Mr Evelyn, and\nthat her name was Grenville. In the evening a favourable opportunity\noffered to me of attempting at least to know what I wished to know, for\nevery one played at Cards but Mrs Evelyn, My Mother, Dr Drayton, Miss\nGrenville and myself, and as the two former were engaged in a whispering\nConversation, and the Doctor fell asleep, we were of necessity obliged\nto entertain each other. This was what I wished and being determined not\nto remain in ignorance for want of asking, I began the Conversation in\nthe following Manner.\n\n\"Have you been long in Essex Ma'am?\"\n\n\"I arrived on Tuesday.\"\n\n\"You came from Derbyshire?\"\n\n\"No, Ma'am! appearing surprised at my question, from Suffolk.\" You will\nthink this a good dash of mine my dear Mary, but you know that I am not\nwanting for Impudence when I have any end in veiw. \"Are you pleased with\nthe Country Miss Grenville? Do you find it equal to the one you have\nleft?\"\n\n\"Much superior Ma'am in point of Beauty.\" She sighed. I longed to know\nfor why.\n\n\"But the face of any Country however beautiful said I, can be but a poor\nconsolation for the loss of one's dearest Freinds.\" She shook her\nhead, as if she felt the truth of what I said. My Curiosity was so much\nraised, that I was resolved at any rate to satisfy it.\n\n\"You regret having left Suffolk then Miss Grenville?\" \"Indeed I do.\"\n\"You were born there I suppose?\" \"Yes Ma'am I was and passed many happy\nyears there--\"\n\n\"That is a great comfort--said I--I hope Ma'am that you never spent any\nunhappy one's there.\"\n\n\"Perfect Felicity is not the property of Mortals, and no one has a right\nto expect uninterrupted Happiness.--Some Misfortunes I have certainly\nmet with.\"\n\n\"WHAT Misfortunes dear Ma'am? replied I, burning with impatience to know\nevery thing. \"NONE Ma'am I hope that have been the effect of any wilfull\nfault in me.\" \"I dare say not Ma'am, and have no doubt but that any\nsufferings you may have experienced could arise only from the cruelties\nof Relations or the Errors of Freinds.\" She sighed--\"You seem unhappy\nmy dear Miss Grenville--Is it in my power to soften your Misfortunes?\"\n\"YOUR power Ma'am replied she extremely surprised; it is in NO ONES\npower to make me happy.\" She pronounced these words in so mournfull and\nsolemn an accent, that for some time I had not courage to reply. I\nwas actually silenced. I recovered myself however in a few moments and\nlooking at her with all the affection I could, \"My dear Miss Grenville\nsaid I, you appear extremely young--and may probably stand in need of\nsome one's advice whose regard for you, joined to superior Age, perhaps\nsuperior Judgement might authorise her to give it. I am that person, and\nI now challenge you to accept the offer I make you of my Confidence and\nFreindship, in return to which I shall only ask for yours--\"\n\n\"You are extremely obliging Ma'am--said she--and I am highly flattered\nby your attention to me--But I am in no difficulty, no doubt, no\nuncertainty of situation in which any advice can be wanted. Whenever I\nam however continued she brightening into a complaisant smile, I shall\nknow where to apply.\"\n\nI bowed, but felt a good deal mortified by such a repulse; still however\nI had not given up my point. I found that by the appearance of sentiment\nand Freindship nothing was to be gained and determined therefore to\nrenew my attacks by Questions and suppositions. \"Do you intend staying\nlong in this part of England Miss Grenville?\"\n\n\"Yes Ma'am, some time I beleive.\"\n\n\"But how will Mr and Mrs Grenville bear your absence?\"\n\n\"They are neither of them alive Ma'am.\" This was an answer I did not\nexpect--I was quite silenced, and never felt so awkward in my Life---.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER the FIFTH From a YOUNG LADY very much in love to her Freind\n\nMy Uncle gets more stingy, my Aunt more particular, and I more in love\nevery day. What shall we all be at this rate by the end of the year! I\nhad this morning the happiness of receiving the following Letter from my\ndear Musgrove.\n\nSackville St: Janry 7th It is a month to day since I first beheld my\nlovely Henrietta, and the sacred anniversary must and shall be kept in\na manner becoming the day--by writing to her. Never shall I forget the\nmoment when her Beauties first broke on my sight--No time as you well\nknow can erase it from my Memory. It was at Lady Scudamores. Happy Lady\nScudamore to live within a mile of the divine Henrietta! When the lovely\nCreature first entered the room, oh! what were my sensations? The sight\nof you was like the sight ofa wonderful fine Thing. I started--I gazed\nat her with admiration--She appeared every moment more Charming, and the\nunfortunate Musgrove became a captive to your Charms before I had time\nto look about me. Yes Madam, I had the happiness of adoring you, an\nhappiness for which I cannot be too grateful. \"What said he to himself\nis Musgrove allowed to die for Henrietta? Enviable Mortal! and may he\npine for her who is the object of universal admiration, who is adored\nby a Colonel, and toasted by a Baronet! Adorable Henrietta how beautiful\nyou are! I declare you are quite divine! You are more than Mortal.\nYou are an Angel. You are Venus herself. In short Madam you are the\nprettiest Girl I ever saw in my Life--and her Beauty is encreased in her\nMusgroves Eyes, by permitting him to love her and allowing me to hope.\nAnd ah! Angelic Miss Henrietta Heaven is my witness how ardently I do\nhope for the death of your villanous Uncle and his abandoned Wife, since\nmy fair one will not consent to be mine till their decease has placed\nher in affluence above what my fortune can procure--. Though it is an\nimprovable Estate--. Cruel Henrietta to persist in such a resolution! I\nam at Present with my sister where I mean to continue till my own house\nwhich tho' an excellent one is at Present somewhat out of repair, is\nready to receive me. Amiable princess of my Heart farewell--Of that\nHeart which trembles while it signs itself Your most ardent Admirer and\ndevoted humble servt. T. Musgrove.\n\nThere is a pattern for a Love-letter Matilda! Did you ever read such\na master-piece of Writing? Such sense, such sentiment, such purity of\nThought, such flow of Language and such unfeigned Love in one sheet?\nNo, never I can answer for it, since a Musgrove is not to be met with\nby every Girl. Oh! how I long to be with him! I intend to send him the\nfollowing in answer to his Letter tomorrow.\n\nMy dearest Musgrove--. Words cannot express how happy your Letter made\nme; I thought I should have cried for joy, for I love you better than\nany body in the World. I think you the most amiable, and the handsomest\nMan in England, and so to be sure you are. I never read so sweet a\nLetter in my Life. Do write me another just like it, and tell me you are\nin love with me in every other line. I quite die to see you. How shall\nwe manage to see one another? for we are so much in love that we cannot\nlive asunder. Oh! my dear Musgrove you cannot think how impatiently I\nwait for the death of my Uncle and Aunt--If they will not Die soon, I\nbeleive I shall run mad, for I get more in love with you every day of my\nLife.\n\nHow happy your Sister is to enjoy the pleasure of your Company in her\nhouse, and how happy every body in London must be because you are there.\nI hope you will be so kind as to write to me again soon, for I never\nread such sweet Letters as yours. I am my dearest Musgrove most truly\nand faithfully yours for ever and ever Henrietta Halton.\n\nI hope he will like my answer; it is as good a one as I can write\nthough nothing to his; Indeed I had always heard what a dab he was at\na Love-letter. I saw him you know for the first time at Lady\nScudamores--And when I saw her Ladyship afterwards she asked me how I\nliked her Cousin Musgrove?\n\n\"Why upon my word said I, I think he is a very handsome young Man.\"\n\n\"I am glad you think so replied she, for he is distractedly in love with\nyou.\"\n\n\"Law! Lady Scudamore said I, how can you talk so ridiculously?\"\n\n\"Nay, t'is very true answered she, I assure you, for he was in love with\nyou from the first moment he beheld you.\"\n\n\"I wish it may be true said I, for that is the only kind of love I\nwould give a farthing for--There is some sense in being in love at first\nsight.\"\n\n\"Well, I give you Joy of your conquest, replied Lady Scudamore, and\nI beleive it to have been a very complete one; I am sure it is not a\ncontemptible one, for my Cousin is a charming young fellow, has seen a\ngreat deal of the World, and writes the best Love-letters I ever read.\"\n\nThis made me very happy, and I was excessively pleased with my conquest.\nHowever, I thought it was proper to give myself a few Airs--so I said to\nher--\n\n\"This is all very pretty Lady Scudamore, but you know that we young\nLadies who are Heiresses must not throw ourselves away upon Men who have\nno fortune at all.\"\n\n\"My dear Miss Halton said she, I am as much convinced of that as you can\nbe, and I do assure you that I should be the last person to encourage\nyour marrying anyone who had not some pretensions to expect a fortune\nwith you. Mr Musgrove is so far from being poor that he has an estate of\nseveral hundreds an year which is capable of great Improvement, and an\nexcellent House, though at Present it is not quite in repair.\"\n\n\"If that is the case replied I, I have nothing more to say against\nhim, and if as you say he is an informed young Man and can write a\ngood Love-letter, I am sure I have no reason to find fault with him\nfor admiring me, tho' perhaps I may not marry him for all that Lady\nScudamore.\"\n\n\"You are certainly under no obligation to marry him answered her\nLadyship, except that which love himself will dictate to you, for if I\nam not greatly mistaken you are at this very moment unknown to yourself,\ncherishing a most tender affection for him.\"\n\n\"Law, Lady Scudamore replied I blushing how can you think of such a\nthing?\"\n\n\"Because every look, every word betrays it, answered she; Come my dear\nHenrietta, consider me as a freind, and be sincere with me--Do not you\nprefer Mr Musgrove to any man of your acquaintance?\"\n\n\"Pray do not ask me such questions Lady Scudamore, said I turning away\nmy head, for it is not fit for me to answer them.\"\n\n\"Nay my Love replied she, now you confirm my suspicions. But why\nHenrietta should you be ashamed to own a well-placed Love, or why refuse\nto confide in me?\"\n\n\"I am not ashamed to own it; said I taking Courage. I do not refuse to\nconfide in you or blush to say that I do love your cousin Mr Musgrove,\nthat I am sincerely attached to him, for it is no disgrace to love a\nhandsome Man. If he were plain indeed I might have had reason to be\nashamed of a passion which must have been mean since the object would\nhave been unworthy. But with such a figure and face, and such beautiful\nhair as your Cousin has, why should I blush to own that such superior\nmerit has made an impression on me.\"\n\n\"My sweet Girl (said Lady Scudamore embracing me with great affection)\nwhat a delicate way of thinking you have in these matters, and what a\nquick discernment for one of your years! Oh! how I honour you for such\nNoble Sentiments!\"\n\n\"Do you Ma'am said I; You are vastly obliging. But pray Lady Scudamore\ndid your Cousin himself tell you of his affection for me I shall like\nhim the better if he did, for what is a Lover without a Confidante?\"\n\n\"Oh! my Love replied she, you were born for each other. Every word\nyou say more deeply convinces me that your Minds are actuated by the\ninvisible power of simpathy, for your opinions and sentiments so exactly\ncoincide. Nay, the colour of your Hair is not very different. Yes my\ndear Girl, the poor despairing Musgrove did reveal to me the story of\nhis Love--. Nor was I surprised at it--I know not how it was, but I had\na kind of presentiment that he would be in love with you.\"\n\n\"Well, but how did he break it to you?\"\n\n\"It was not till after supper. We were sitting round the fire\ntogether talking on indifferent subjects, though to say the truth the\nConversation was cheifly on my side for he was thoughtful and silent,\nwhen on a sudden he interrupted me in the midst of something I was\nsaying, by exclaiming in a most Theatrical tone--\n\nYes I'm in love I feel it now And Henrietta Halton has undone me\n\n\"Oh! What a sweet way replied I, of declaring his Passion! To make such\na couple of charming lines about me! What a pity it is that they are not\nin rhime!\"\n\n\"I am very glad you like it answered she; To be sure there was a great\ndeal of Taste in it. And are you in love with her, Cousin? said I. I am\nvery sorry for it, for unexceptionable as you are in every respect, with\na pretty Estate capable of Great improvements, and an excellent House\ntho' somewhat out of repair, yet who can hope to aspire with success\nto the adorable Henrietta who has had an offer from a Colonel and\nbeen toasted by a Baronet\"--\"THAT I have--\" cried I. Lady Scudamore\ncontinued. \"Ah dear Cousin replied he, I am so well convinced of the\nlittle Chance I can have of winning her who is adored by thousands, that\nI need no assurances of yours to make me more thoroughly so. Yet surely\nneither you or the fair Henrietta herself will deny me the exquisite\nGratification of dieing for her, of falling a victim to her Charms. And\nwhen I am dead\"--continued her--\n\n\"Oh Lady Scudamore, said I wiping my eyes, that such a sweet Creature\nshould talk of dieing!\"\n\n\"It is an affecting Circumstance indeed, replied Lady Scudamore.\" \"When\nI am dead said he, let me be carried and lain at her feet, and perhaps\nshe may not disdain to drop a pitying tear on my poor remains.\"\n\n\"Dear Lady Scudamore interrupted I, say no more on this affecting\nsubject. I cannot bear it.\"\n\n\"Oh! how I admire the sweet sensibility of your Soul, and as I would not\nfor Worlds wound it too deeply, I will be silent.\"\n\n\"Pray go on.\" said I. She did so.\n\n\"And then added he, Ah! Cousin imagine what my transports will be when\nI feel the dear precious drops trickle on my face! Who would not die\nto haste such extacy! And when I am interred, may the divine Henrietta\nbless some happier Youth with her affection, May he be as tenderly\nattached to her as the hapless Musgrove and while HE crumbles to dust,\nMay they live an example of Felicity in the Conjugal state!\"\n\nDid you ever hear any thing so pathetic? What a charming wish, to be\nlain at my feet when he was dead! Oh! what an exalted mind he must have\nto be capable of such a wish! Lady Scudamore went on.\n\n\"Ah! my dear Cousin replied I to him, such noble behaviour as this, must\nmelt the heart of any woman however obdurate it may naturally be;\nand could the divine Henrietta but hear your generous wishes for her\nhappiness, all gentle as is her mind, I have not a doubt but that she\nwould pity your affection and endeavour to return it.\" \"Oh! Cousin\nanswered he, do not endeavour to raise my hopes by such flattering\nassurances. No, I cannot hope to please this angel of a Woman, and the\nonly thing which remains for me to do, is to die.\" \"True Love is ever\ndesponding replied I, but I my dear Tom will give you even greater\nhopes of conquering this fair one's heart, than I have yet given you, by\nassuring you that I watched her with the strictest attention during the\nwhole day, and could plainly discover that she cherishes in her bosom\nthough unknown to herself, a most tender affection for you.\"\n\n\"Dear Lady Scudamore cried I, This is more than I ever knew!\"\n\n\"Did not I say that it was unknown to yourself? I did not, continued\nI to him, encourage you by saying this at first, that surprise might\nrender the pleasure still Greater.\" \"No Cousin replied he in a languid\nvoice, nothing will convince me that I can have touched the heart of\nHenrietta Halton, and if you are deceived yourself, do not attempt\ndeceiving me.\" \"In short my Love it was the work of some hours for me to\nPersuade the poor despairing Youth that you had really a preference for\nhim; but when at last he could no longer deny the force of my arguments,\nor discredit what I told him, his transports, his Raptures, his Extacies\nare beyond my power to describe.\"\n\n\"Oh! the dear Creature, cried I, how passionately he loves me! But dear\nLady Scudamore did you tell him that I was totally dependant on my Uncle\nand Aunt?\"\n\n\"Yes, I told him every thing.\"\n\n\"And what did he say.\"\n\n\"He exclaimed with virulence against Uncles and Aunts; Accused the laws\nof England for allowing them to Possess their Estates when wanted by\ntheir Nephews or Neices, and wished HE were in the House of Commons,\nthat he might reform the Legislature, and rectify all its abuses.\"\n\n\"Oh! the sweet Man! What a spirit he has!\" said I.\n\n\"He could not flatter himself he added, that the adorable Henrietta\nwould condescend for his sake to resign those Luxuries and that splendor\nto which she had been used, and accept only in exchange the Comforts\nand Elegancies which his limited Income could afford her, even supposing\nthat his house were in Readiness to receive her. I told him that it\ncould not be expected that she would; it would be doing her an injustice\nto suppose her capable of giving up the power she now possesses and so\nnobly uses of doing such extensive Good to the poorer part of her fellow\nCreatures, merely for the gratification of you and herself.\"\n\n\"To be sure said I, I AM very Charitable every now and then. And what\ndid Mr Musgrove say to this?\"\n\n\"He replied that he was under a melancholy necessity of owning the truth\nof what I said, and that therefore if he should be the happy Creature\ndestined to be the Husband of the Beautiful Henrietta he must bring\nhimself to wait, however impatiently, for the fortunate day, when she\nmight be freed from the power of worthless Relations and able to bestow\nherself on him.\"\n\nWhat a noble Creature he is! Oh! Matilda what a fortunate one I am, who\nam to be his Wife! My Aunt is calling me to come and make the pies, so\nadeiu my dear freind, and beleive me yours etc--H. Halton.\n\nFinis.\n\n\n\n\n*****\n\n\n\nSCRAPS\n\n\nTo Miss FANNY CATHERINE AUSTEN\n\nMY Dear Neice As I am prevented by the great distance between Rowling\nand Steventon from superintending your Education myself, the care of\nwhich will probably on that account devolve on your Father and Mother,\nI think it is my particular Duty to Prevent your feeling as much as\npossible the want of my personal instructions, by addressing to you on\npaper my Opinions and Admonitions on the conduct of Young Women, which\nyou will find expressed in the following pages.--I am my dear Neice Your\naffectionate Aunt The Author.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FEMALE PHILOSOPHER\n\nA LETTER\n\nMy Dear Louisa Your friend Mr Millar called upon us yesterday in his way\nto Bath, whither he is going for his health; two of his daughters were\nwith him, but the eldest and the three Boys are with their Mother in\nSussex. Though you have often told me that Miss Millar was remarkably\nhandsome, you never mentioned anything of her Sisters' beauty; yet they\nare certainly extremely pretty. I'll give you their description.--Julia\nis eighteen; with a countenance in which Modesty, Sense and Dignity are\nhappily blended, she has a form which at once presents you with Grace,\nElegance and Symmetry. Charlotte who is just sixteen is shorter than her\nSister, and though her figure cannot boast the easy dignity of\nJulia's, yet it has a pleasing plumpness which is in a different way as\nestimable. She is fair and her face is expressive sometimes of softness\nthe most bewitching, and at others of Vivacity the most striking.\nShe appears to have infinite Wit and a good humour unalterable; her\nconversation during the half hour they set with us, was replete with\nhumourous sallies, Bonmots and repartees; while the sensible, the\namiable Julia uttered sentiments of Morality worthy of a heart like her\nown. Mr Millar appeared to answer the character I had always received\nof him. My Father met him with that look of Love, that social Shake, and\ncordial kiss which marked his gladness at beholding an old and valued\nfreind from whom thro' various circumstances he had been separated\nnearly twenty years. Mr Millar observed (and very justly too) that\nmany events had befallen each during that interval of time, which gave\noccasion to the lovely Julia for making most sensible reflections on the\nmany changes in their situation which so long a period had occasioned,\non the advantages of some, and the disadvantages of others. From\nthis subject she made a short digression to the instability of human\npleasures and the uncertainty of their duration, which led her to\nobserve that all earthly Joys must be imperfect. She was proceeding to\nillustrate this doctrine by examples from the Lives of great Men when\nthe Carriage came to the Door and the amiable Moralist with her Father\nand Sister was obliged to depart; but not without a promise of spending\nfive or six months with us on their return. We of course mentioned you,\nand I assure you that ample Justice was done to your Merits by all.\n\"Louisa Clarke (said I) is in general a very pleasant Girl, yet\nsometimes her good humour is clouded by Peevishness, Envy and Spite. She\nneither wants Understanding or is without some pretensions to Beauty,\nbut these are so very trifling, that the value she sets on her personal\ncharms, and the adoration she expects them to be offered are at once a\nstriking example of her vanity, her pride, and her folly.\" So said I,\nand to my opinion everyone added weight by the concurrence of their own.\nYour affectionate Arabella Smythe.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FIRST ACT OF A COMEDY\n\nCHARACTERS Popgun Maria Charles Pistolletta Postilion Hostess Chorus of\nploughboys Cook and                      and\nStrephon Chloe\n\nSCENE--AN INN\n\nENTER Hostess, Charles, Maria, and Cook.\n\nHostess to Maria) If the gentry in the Lion should want beds, shew them\nnumber 9.\n\nMaria) Yes Mistress.--EXIT Maria\n\nHostess to Cook) If their Honours in the Moon ask for the bill of fare,\ngive it them.\n\nCook) I wull, I wull. EXIT Cook.\n\nHostess to Charles) If their Ladyships in the Sun ring their\nBell--answerit.\n\nCharles) Yes Madam. EXEUNT Severally.\n\n\nSCENE CHANGES TO THE MOON, and discovers Popgun and Pistoletta.\n\nPistoletta) Pray papa how far is it to London?\n\nPopgun) My Girl, my Darling, my favourite of all my Children, who art\nthe picture of thy poor Mother who died two months ago, with whom I am\ngoing to Town to marry to Strephon, and to whom I mean to bequeath my\nwhole Estate, it wants seven Miles.\n\n\nSCENE CHANGES TO THE SUN--\n\nENTER Chloe and a chorus of ploughboys.\n\nChloe) Where am I? At Hounslow.--Where go I? To London--. What to do? To\nbe married--. Unto whom? Unto Strephon. Who is he? A Youth. Then I will\nsing a song.\n\nSONG I go to Town And when I come down, I shall be married to Streephon *\n[*Note the two e's] And that to me will be fun.\n\nChorus) Be fun, be fun, be fun, And that to me will be fun.\n\nENTER Cook--Cook) Here is the bill of fare.\n\nChloe reads) 2 Ducks, a leg of beef, a stinking partridge, and a\ntart.--I will have the leg of beef and the partridge. EXIT Cook. And now\nI will sing another song.\n\nSONG--I am going to have my dinner, After which I shan't be thinner, I\nwish I had here Strephon For he would carve the partridge if it should\nbe a tough one.\n\nChorus) Tough one, tough one, tough one For he would carve the partridge\nif it Should be a tough one. EXIT Chloe and Chorus.--\n\nSCENE CHANGES TO THE INSIDE OF THE LION.\n\nEnter Strephon and Postilion. Streph:) You drove me from Staines to this\nplace, from whence I mean to go to Town to marry Chloe. How much is your\ndue?\n\nPost:) Eighteen pence. Streph:) Alas, my freind, I have but a bad guinea\nwith which I mean to support myself in Town. But I will pawn to you an\nundirected Letter that I received from Chloe.\n\nPost:) Sir, I accept your offer.\n\nEND OF THE FIRST ACT.\n\n\n\n\nA LETTER from a YOUNG LADY, whose feelings being too strong for\nher Judgement led her into the commission of Errors which her Heart\ndisapproved.\n\nMany have been the cares and vicissitudes of my past life, my beloved\nEllinor, and the only consolation I feel for their bitterness is that on\na close examination of my conduct, I am convinced that I have strictly\ndeserved them. I murdered my father at a very early period of my Life, I\nhave since murdered my Mother, and I am now going to murder my Sister. I\nhave changed my religion so often that at present I have not an idea of\nany left. I have been a perjured witness in every public tryal for these\nlast twelve years; and I have forged my own Will. In short there is\nscarcely a crime that I have not committed--But I am now going to\nreform. Colonel Martin of the Horse guards has paid his Addresses to me,\nand we are to be married in a few days. As there is something singular\nin our Courtship, I will give you an account of it. Colonel Martin is\nthe second son of the late Sir John Martin who died immensely rich, but\nbequeathing only one hundred thousand pound apeice to his three younger\nChildren, left the bulk of his fortune, about eight Million to the\npresent Sir Thomas. Upon his small pittance the Colonel lived tolerably\ncontented for nearly four months when he took it into his head to\ndetermine on getting the whole of his eldest Brother's Estate. A new\nwill was forged and the Colonel produced it in Court--but nobody would\nswear to it's being the right will except himself, and he had sworn so\nmuch that Nobody beleived him. At that moment I happened to be passing\nby the door of the Court, and was beckoned in by the Judge who told the\nColonel that I was a Lady ready to witness anything for the cause of\nJustice, and advised him to apply to me. In short the Affair was soon\nadjusted. The Colonel and I swore to its' being the right will, and Sir\nThomas has been obliged to resign all his illgotten wealth. The Colonel\nin gratitude waited on me the next day with an offer of his hand--. I am\nnow going to murder my Sister. Yours Ever, Anna Parker.\n\n\n\n\nA TOUR THROUGH WALES--in a LETTER from a YOUNG LADY--\n\nMy Dear Clara I have been so long on the ramble that I have not till now\nhad it in my power to thank you for your Letter--. We left our dear home\non last Monday month; and proceeded on our tour through Wales, which is\na principality contiguous to England and gives the title to the Prince\nof Wales. We travelled on horseback by preference. My Mother rode upon\nour little poney and Fanny and I walked by her side or rather ran, for\nmy Mother is so fond of riding fast that she galloped all the way. You\nmay be sure that we were in a fine perspiration when we came to our\nplace of resting. Fanny has taken a great many Drawings of the Country,\nwhich are very beautiful, tho' perhaps not such exact resemblances\nas might be wished, from their being taken as she ran along. It would\nastonish you to see all the Shoes we wore out in our Tour. We determined\nto take a good Stock with us and therefore each took a pair of our own\nbesides those we set off in. However we were obliged to have them both\ncapped and heelpeiced at Carmarthen, and at last when they were quite\ngone, Mama was so kind as to lend us a pair of blue Sattin Slippers, of\nwhich we each took one and hopped home from Hereford delightfully---I am\nyour ever affectionate Elizabeth Johnson.\n\n\n\n\n\nA TALE.\n\nA Gentleman whose family name I shall conceal, bought a small Cottage in\nPembrokeshire about two years ago. This daring Action was suggested to\nhim by his elder Brother who promised to furnish two rooms and a Closet\nfor him, provided he would take a small house near the borders of an\nextensive Forest, and about three Miles from the Sea. Wilhelminus gladly\naccepted the offer and continued for some time searching after such a\nretreat when he was one morning agreably releived from his suspence by\nreading this advertisement in a Newspaper.\n\nTO BE LETT A Neat Cottage on the borders of an extensive forest and\nabout three Miles from the Sea. It is ready furnished except two rooms\nand a Closet.\n\nThe delighted Wilhelminus posted away immediately to his brother, and\nshewed him the advertisement. Robertus congratulated him and sent him\nin his Carriage to take possession of the Cottage. After travelling for\nthree days and six nights without stopping, they arrived at the Forest\nand following a track which led by it's side down a steep Hill over\nwhich ten Rivulets meandered, they reached the Cottage in half an hour.\nWilhelminus alighted, and after knocking for some time without receiving\nany answer or hearing any one stir within, he opened the door which\nwas fastened only by a wooden latch and entered a small room, which he\nimmediately perceived to be one of the two that were unfurnished--From\nthence he proceeded into a Closet equally bare. A pair of stairs that\nwent out of it led him into a room above, no less destitute, and these\napartments he found composed the whole of the House. He was by no means\ndispleased with this discovery, as he had the comfort of reflecting that\nhe should not be obliged to lay out anything on furniture himself--. He\nreturned immediately to his Brother, who took him the next day to every\nShop in Town, and bought what ever was requisite to furnish the two\nrooms and the Closet, In a few days everything was completed, and\nWilhelminus returned to take possession of his Cottage. Robertus\naccompanied him, with his Lady the amiable Cecilia and her two lovely\nSisters Arabella and Marina to whom Wilhelminus was tenderly attached,\nand a large number of Attendants.--An ordinary Genius might probably\nhave been embarrassed, in endeavouring to accomodate so large a party,\nbut Wilhelminus with admirable presence of mind gave orders for the\nimmediate erection of two noble Tents in an open spot in the Forest\nadjoining to the house. Their Construction was both simple and\nelegant--A couple of old blankets, each supported by four sticks, gave\na striking proof of that taste for architecture and that happy ease in\novercoming difficulties which were some of Wilhelminus's most striking\nVirtues.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPRIDE AND PREJUDICE\n\nBy Jane Austen\n\n\n\nChapter 1\n\n\nIt is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession\nof a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.\n\nHowever little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his\nfirst entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds\nof the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property\nof some one or other of their daughters.\n\n\"My dear Mr. Bennet,\" said his lady to him one day, \"have you heard that\nNetherfield Park is let at last?\"\n\nMr. Bennet replied that he had not.\n\n\"But it is,\" returned she; \"for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she\ntold me all about it.\"\n\nMr. Bennet made no answer.\n\n\"Do you not want to know who has taken it?\" cried his wife impatiently.\n\n\"_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.\"\n\nThis was invitation enough.\n\n\"Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken\nby a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came\ndown on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much\ndelighted with it, that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he\nis to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to\nbe in the house by the end of next week.\"\n\n\"What is his name?\"\n\n\"Bingley.\"\n\n\"Is he married or single?\"\n\n\"Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or\nfive thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!\"\n\n\"How so? How can it affect them?\"\n\n\"My dear Mr. Bennet,\" replied his wife, \"how can you be so tiresome! You\nmust know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them.\"\n\n\"Is that his design in settling here?\"\n\n\"Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he\n_may_ fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as\nsoon as he comes.\"\n\n\"I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send\nthem by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are\nas handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley may like you the best of the\nparty.\"\n\n\"My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of beauty, but\nI do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now. When a woman has five\ngrown-up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty.\"\n\n\"In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.\"\n\n\"But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into\nthe neighbourhood.\"\n\n\"It is more than I engage for, I assure you.\"\n\n\"But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would\nbe for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to\ngo, merely on that account, for in general, you know, they visit no\nnewcomers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for _us_ to\nvisit him if you do not.\"\n\n\"You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very\nglad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my\nhearty consent to his marrying whichever he chooses of the girls; though\nI must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy.\"\n\n\"I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the\nothers; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so\ngood-humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving _her_ the preference.\"\n\n\"They have none of them much to recommend them,\" replied he; \"they are\nall silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of\nquickness than her sisters.\"\n\n\"Mr. Bennet, how _can_ you abuse your own children in such a way? You\ntake delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves.\"\n\n\"You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They\nare my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration\nthese last twenty years at least.\"\n\n\"Ah, you do not know what I suffer.\"\n\n\"But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four\nthousand a year come into the neighbourhood.\"\n\n\"It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you will not\nvisit them.\"\n\n\"Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them\nall.\"\n\nMr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour,\nreserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had\nbeen insufficient to make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind\nwas less difficult to develop. She was a woman of mean understanding,\nlittle information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented,\nshe fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her\ndaughters married; its solace was visiting and news.\n\n\n\nChapter 2\n\n\nMr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He\nhad always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring\nhis wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was\npaid she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following\nmanner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he\nsuddenly addressed her with:\n\n\"I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.\"\n\n\"We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes,\" said her mother\nresentfully, \"since we are not to visit.\"\n\n\"But you forget, mamma,\" said Elizabeth, \"that we shall meet him at the\nassemblies, and that Mrs. Long promised to introduce him.\"\n\n\"I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces\nof her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion\nof her.\"\n\n\"No more have I,\" said Mr. Bennet; \"and I am glad to find that you do\nnot depend on her serving you.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply, but, unable to contain\nherself, began scolding one of her daughters.\n\n\"Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for Heaven's sake! Have a little\ncompassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.\"\n\n\"Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,\" said her father; \"she times\nthem ill.\"\n\n\"I do not cough for my own amusement,\" replied Kitty fretfully. \"When is\nyour next ball to be, Lizzy?\"\n\n\"To-morrow fortnight.\"\n\n\"Aye, so it is,\" cried her mother, \"and Mrs. Long does not come back\ntill the day before; so it will be impossible for her to introduce him,\nfor she will not know him herself.\"\n\n\"Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce\nMr. Bingley to _her_.\"\n\n\"Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him\nmyself; how can you be so teasing?\"\n\n\"I honour your circumspection. A fortnight's acquaintance is certainly\nvery little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a\nfortnight. But if _we_ do not venture somebody else will; and after all,\nMrs. Long and her daughters must stand their chance; and, therefore, as\nshe will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I will\ntake it on myself.\"\n\nThe girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only, \"Nonsense,\nnonsense!\"\n\n\"What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?\" cried he. \"Do\nyou consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on\nthem, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you _there_. What say you,\nMary? For you are a young lady of deep reflection, I know, and read\ngreat books and make extracts.\"\n\nMary wished to say something sensible, but knew not how.\n\n\"While Mary is adjusting her ideas,\" he continued, \"let us return to Mr.\nBingley.\"\n\n\"I am sick of Mr. Bingley,\" cried his wife.\n\n\"I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did not you tell me that before? If\nI had known as much this morning I certainly would not have called\non him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we\ncannot escape the acquaintance now.\"\n\nThe astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of Mrs.\nBennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though, when the first tumult of joy\nwas over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the\nwhile.\n\n\"How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should\npersuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to\nneglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! and it is such a\ngood joke, too, that you should have gone this morning and never said a\nword about it till now.\"\n\n\"Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,\" said Mr. Bennet; and,\nas he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife.\n\n\"What an excellent father you have, girls!\" said she, when the door was\nshut. \"I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness;\nor me, either, for that matter. At our time of life it is not so\npleasant, I can tell you, to be making new acquaintances every day; but\nfor your sakes, we would do anything. Lydia, my love, though you _are_\nthe youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next\nball.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Lydia stoutly, \"I am not afraid; for though I _am_ the\nyoungest, I'm the tallest.\"\n\nThe rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would\nreturn Mr. Bennet's visit, and determining when they should ask him to\ndinner.\n\n\n\nChapter 3\n\n\nNot all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five\ndaughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her\nhusband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him\nin various ways--with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and\ndistant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all, and they were at\nlast obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour,\nLady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been\ndelighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely\nagreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly\nwith a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of\ndancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively\nhopes of Mr. Bingley's heart were entertained.\n\n\"If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,\"\nsaid Mrs. Bennet to her husband, \"and all the others equally well\nmarried, I shall have nothing to wish for.\"\n\nIn a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet's visit, and sat about\nten minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being\nadmitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had\nheard much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more\nfortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining from an upper\nwindow that he wore a blue coat, and rode a black horse.\n\nAn invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already\nhad Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her\nhousekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley\nwas obliged to be in town the following day, and, consequently, unable\nto accept the honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite\ndisconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town\nso soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that\nhe might be always flying about from one place to another, and never\nsettled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears\na little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to get\na large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley\nwas to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly.\nThe girls grieved over such a number of ladies, but were comforted the\nday before the ball by hearing, that instead of twelve he brought only\nsix with him from London--his five sisters and a cousin. And when\nthe party entered the assembly room it consisted of only five\naltogether--Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and\nanother young man.\n\nMr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant\ncountenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women,\nwith an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely\nlooked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention\nof the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and\nthe report which was in general circulation within five minutes\nafter his entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen\npronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he\nwas much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great\nadmiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust\nwhich turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be\nproud; to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all\nhis large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most\nforbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared\nwith his friend.\n\nMr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal\npeople in the room; he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance,\nwas angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving\none himself at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for\nthemselves. What a contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced\nonly once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being\nintroduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in\nwalking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party.\nHis character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man\nin the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there again.\nAmongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of\nhis general behaviour was sharpened into particular resentment by his\nhaving slighted one of her daughters.\n\nElizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit\ndown for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been\nstanding near enough for her to hear a conversation between him and Mr.\nBingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes, to press his friend\nto join it.\n\n\"Come, Darcy,\" said he, \"I must have you dance. I hate to see you\nstanding about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better\ndance.\"\n\n\"I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am\nparticularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this\nit would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not\nanother woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to\nstand up with.\"\n\n\"I would not be so fastidious as you are,\" cried Mr. Bingley, \"for a\nkingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in\nmy life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see\nuncommonly pretty.\"\n\n\"_You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,\" said Mr.\nDarcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.\n\n\"Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one\nof her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I\ndare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.\"\n\n\"Which do you mean?\" and turning round he looked for a moment at\nElizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said:\n\"She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt _me_; I am in no\nhumour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted\nby other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her\nsmiles, for you are wasting your time with me.\"\n\nMr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth\nremained with no very cordial feelings toward him. She told the story,\nhowever, with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively,\nplayful disposition, which delighted in anything ridiculous.\n\nThe evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs.\nBennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield\nparty. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been\ndistinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this as\nher mother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane's\npleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most\naccomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been\nfortunate enough never to be without partners, which was all that they\nhad yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good\nspirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they\nwere the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up. With\na book he was regardless of time; and on the present occasion he had a\ngood deal of curiosity as to the events of an evening which had raised\nsuch splendid expectations. He had rather hoped that his wife's views on\nthe stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found out that he had a\ndifferent story to hear.\n\n\"Oh! my dear Mr. Bennet,\" as she entered the room, \"we have had a most\ndelightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there.\nJane was so admired, nothing could be like it. Everybody said how well\nshe looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her quite beautiful, and danced with\nher twice! Only think of _that_, my dear; he actually danced with her\ntwice! and she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second\ntime. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand\nup with her! But, however, he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody\ncan, you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going\ndown the dance. So he inquired who she was, and got introduced, and\nasked her for the two next. Then the two third he danced with Miss King,\nand the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane again,\nand the two sixth with Lizzy, and the _Boulanger_--\"\n\n\"If he had had any compassion for _me_,\" cried her husband impatiently,\n\"he would not have danced half so much! For God's sake, say no more of\nhis partners. O that he had sprained his ankle in the first dance!\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear, I am quite delighted with him. He is so excessively\nhandsome! And his sisters are charming women. I never in my life saw\nanything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace upon Mrs.\nHurst's gown--\"\n\nHere she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any\ndescription of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch\nof the subject, and related, with much bitterness of spirit and some\nexaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.\n\n\"But I can assure you,\" she added, \"that Lizzy does not lose much by not\nsuiting _his_ fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at\nall worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that there was no enduring\nhim! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very\ngreat! Not handsome enough to dance with! I wish you had been there, my\ndear, to have given him one of your set-downs. I quite detest the man.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 4\n\n\nWhen Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in\nher praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister just how very\nmuch she admired him.\n\n\"He is just what a young man ought to be,\" said she, \"sensible,\ngood-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners!--so much\nease, with such perfect good breeding!\"\n\n\"He is also handsome,\" replied Elizabeth, \"which a young man ought\nlikewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete.\"\n\n\"I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I\ndid not expect such a compliment.\"\n\n\"Did not you? I did for you. But that is one great difference between\nus. Compliments always take _you_ by surprise, and _me_ never. What\ncould be more natural than his asking you again? He could not help\nseeing that you were about five times as pretty as every other woman\nin the room. No thanks to his gallantry for that. Well, he certainly is\nvery agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a\nstupider person.\"\n\n\"Dear Lizzy!\"\n\n\"Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general.\nYou never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good and agreeable\nin your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in your\nlife.\"\n\n\"I would not wish to be hasty in censuring anyone; but I always speak\nwhat I think.\"\n\n\"I know you do; and it is _that_ which makes the wonder. With _your_\ngood sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of\nothers! Affectation of candour is common enough--one meets with it\neverywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design--to take the\ngood of everybody's character and make it still better, and say nothing\nof the bad--belongs to you alone. And so you like this man's sisters,\ntoo, do you? Their manners are not equal to his.\"\n\n\"Certainly not--at first. But they are very pleasing women when you\nconverse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother, and keep\nhis house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a very charming\nneighbour in her.\"\n\nElizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced; their behaviour at\nthe assembly had not been calculated to please in general; and with more\nquickness of observation and less pliancy of temper than her sister,\nand with a judgement too unassailed by any attention to herself, she\nwas very little disposed to approve them. They were in fact very fine\nladies; not deficient in good humour when they were pleased, nor in the\npower of making themselves agreeable when they chose it, but proud and\nconceited. They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the\nfirst private seminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand\npounds, were in the habit of spending more than they ought, and of\nassociating with people of rank, and were therefore in every respect\nentitled to think well of themselves, and meanly of others. They were of\na respectable family in the north of England; a circumstance more deeply\nimpressed on their memories than that their brother's fortune and their\nown had been acquired by trade.\n\nMr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly a hundred\nthousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an\nestate, but did not live to do it. Mr. Bingley intended it likewise, and\nsometimes made choice of his county; but as he was now provided with a\ngood house and the liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of those\nwho best knew the easiness of his temper, whether he might not spend the\nremainder of his days at Netherfield, and leave the next generation to\npurchase.\n\nHis sisters were anxious for his having an estate of his own; but,\nthough he was now only established as a tenant, Miss Bingley was by no\nmeans unwilling to preside at his table--nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had\nmarried a man of more fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider\nhis house as her home when it suited her. Mr. Bingley had not been of\nage two years, when he was tempted by an accidental recommendation\nto look at Netherfield House. He did look at it, and into it for\nhalf-an-hour--was pleased with the situation and the principal\nrooms, satisfied with what the owner said in its praise, and took it\nimmediately.\n\nBetween him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of\ngreat opposition of character. Bingley was endeared to Darcy by the\neasiness, openness, and ductility of his temper, though no disposition\ncould offer a greater contrast to his own, and though with his own he\nnever appeared dissatisfied. On the strength of Darcy's regard, Bingley\nhad the firmest reliance, and of his judgement the highest opinion.\nIn understanding, Darcy was the superior. Bingley was by no means\ndeficient, but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty,\nreserved, and fastidious, and his manners, though well-bred, were not\ninviting. In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley\nwas sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually\ngiving offense.\n\nThe manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was sufficiently\ncharacteristic. Bingley had never met with more pleasant people or\nprettier girls in his life; everybody had been most kind and attentive\nto him; there had been no formality, no stiffness; he had soon felt\nacquainted with all the room; and, as to Miss Bennet, he could not\nconceive an angel more beautiful. Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a\ncollection of people in whom there was little beauty and no fashion, for\nnone of whom he had felt the smallest interest, and from none received\neither attention or pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty,\nbut she smiled too much.\n\nMrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so--but still they admired\nher and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl, and one\nwhom they would not object to know more of. Miss Bennet was therefore\nestablished as a sweet girl, and their brother felt authorized by such\ncommendation to think of her as he chose.\n\n\n\nChapter 5\n\n\nWithin a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets\nwere particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been formerly in trade\nin Meryton, where he had made a tolerable fortune, and risen to the\nhonour of knighthood by an address to the king during his mayoralty.\nThe distinction had perhaps been felt too strongly. It had given him a\ndisgust to his business, and to his residence in a small market town;\nand, in quitting them both, he had removed with his family to a house\nabout a mile from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge,\nwhere he could think with pleasure of his own importance, and,\nunshackled by business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all\nthe world. For, though elated by his rank, it did not render him\nsupercilious; on the contrary, he was all attention to everybody. By\nnature inoffensive, friendly, and obliging, his presentation at St.\nJames's had made him courteous.\n\nLady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a\nvaluable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The eldest\nof them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven, was\nElizabeth's intimate friend.\n\nThat the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk over\na ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the assembly\nbrought the former to Longbourn to hear and to communicate.\n\n\"_You_ began the evening well, Charlotte,\" said Mrs. Bennet with civil\nself-command to Miss Lucas. \"_You_ were Mr. Bingley's first choice.\"\n\n\"Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.\"\n\n\"Oh! you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice. To be\nsure that _did_ seem as if he admired her--indeed I rather believe he\n_did_--I heard something about it--but I hardly know what--something\nabout Mr. Robinson.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson; did not\nI mention it to you? Mr. Robinson's asking him how he liked our Meryton\nassemblies, and whether he did not think there were a great many\npretty women in the room, and _which_ he thought the prettiest? and his\nanswering immediately to the last question: 'Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet,\nbeyond a doubt; there cannot be two opinions on that point.'\"\n\n\"Upon my word! Well, that is very decided indeed--that does seem as\nif--but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know.\"\n\n\"_My_ overhearings were more to the purpose than _yours_, Eliza,\" said\nCharlotte. \"Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend,\nis he?--poor Eliza!--to be only just _tolerable_.\"\n\n\"I beg you would not put it into Lizzy's head to be vexed by his\nill-treatment, for he is such a disagreeable man, that it would be quite\na misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night that he\nsat close to her for half-an-hour without once opening his lips.\"\n\n\"Are you quite sure, ma'am?--is not there a little mistake?\" said Jane.\n\"I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her.\"\n\n\"Aye--because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he\ncould not help answering her; but she said he seemed quite angry at\nbeing spoke to.\"\n\n\"Miss Bingley told me,\" said Jane, \"that he never speaks much,\nunless among his intimate acquaintances. With _them_ he is remarkably\nagreeable.\"\n\n\"I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very\nagreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how it\nwas; everybody says that he is eat up with pride, and I dare say he had\nheard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage, and had come to\nthe ball in a hack chaise.\"\n\n\"I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,\" said Miss Lucas, \"but I\nwish he had danced with Eliza.\"\n\n\"Another time, Lizzy,\" said her mother, \"I would not dance with _him_,\nif I were you.\"\n\n\"I believe, ma'am, I may safely promise you _never_ to dance with him.\"\n\n\"His pride,\" said Miss Lucas, \"does not offend _me_ so much as pride\noften does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so\nvery fine a young man, with family, fortune, everything in his favour,\nshould think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a _right_\nto be proud.\"\n\n\"That is very true,\" replied Elizabeth, \"and I could easily forgive\n_his_ pride, if he had not mortified _mine_.\"\n\n\"Pride,\" observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her\nreflections, \"is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have\never read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed; that human\nnature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us\nwho do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some\nquality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different\nthings, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may\nbe proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of\nourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.\"\n\n\"If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,\" cried a young Lucas, who came with\nhis sisters, \"I should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of\nfoxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine a day.\"\n\n\"Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,\" said Mrs.\nBennet; \"and if I were to see you at it, I should take away your bottle\ndirectly.\"\n\nThe boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she\nwould, and the argument ended only with the visit.\n\n\n\nChapter 6\n\n\nThe ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit\nwas soon returned in due form. Miss Bennet's pleasing manners grew on\nthe goodwill of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was\nfound to be intolerable, and the younger sisters not worth speaking to,\na wish of being better acquainted with _them_ was expressed towards\nthe two eldest. By Jane, this attention was received with the greatest\npleasure, but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment\nof everybody, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them;\nthough their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value as arising in\nall probability from the influence of their brother's admiration. It\nwas generally evident whenever they met, that he _did_ admire her and\nto _her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference\nwhich she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a\nway to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it\nwas not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane\nunited, with great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and a\nuniform cheerfulness of manner which would guard her from the suspicions\nof the impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas.\n\n\"It may perhaps be pleasant,\" replied Charlotte, \"to be able to impose\non the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be\nso very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill\nfrom the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and\nit will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in\nthe dark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every\nattachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all\n_begin_ freely--a slight preference is natural enough; but there are\nvery few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without\nencouragement. In nine cases out of ten a women had better show _more_\naffection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he\nmay never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.\"\n\n\"But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If I can\nperceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton, indeed, not to\ndiscover it too.\"\n\n\"Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane's disposition as you do.\"\n\n\"But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to conceal\nit, he must find it out.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But, though Bingley and Jane\nmeet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and, as they\nalways see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that\nevery moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should\ntherefore make the most of every half-hour in which she can command his\nattention. When she is secure of him, there will be more leisure for\nfalling in love as much as she chooses.\"\n\n\"Your plan is a good one,\" replied Elizabeth, \"where nothing is in\nquestion but the desire of being well married, and if I were determined\nto get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I should adopt it. But\nthese are not Jane's feelings; she is not acting by design. As yet,\nshe cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard nor of its\nreasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four\ndances with him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house,\nand has since dined with him in company four times. This is not quite\nenough to make her understand his character.\"\n\n\"Not as you represent it. Had she merely _dined_ with him, she might\nonly have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must\nremember that four evenings have also been spent together--and four\nevenings may do a great deal.\"\n\n\"Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they\nboth like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect to any other\nleading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has been unfolded.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Charlotte, \"I wish Jane success with all my heart; and\nif she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a\nchance of happiness as if she were to be studying his character for a\ntwelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If\nthe dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other or\never so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the\nleast. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to\nhave their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as\npossible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your\nlife.\"\n\n\"You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it is not\nsound, and that you would never act in this way yourself.\"\n\nOccupied in observing Mr. Bingley's attentions to her sister, Elizabeth\nwas far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some\ninterest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely\nallowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the\nball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise. But no\nsooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she hardly\nhad a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered\nuncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To\nthis discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had\ndetected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry\nin her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and\npleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those\nof the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of\nthis she was perfectly unaware; to her he was only the man who made\nhimself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough\nto dance with.\n\nHe began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards conversing\nwith her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so\ndrew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas's, where a large party were\nassembled.\n\n\"What does Mr. Darcy mean,\" said she to Charlotte, \"by listening to my\nconversation with Colonel Forster?\"\n\n\"That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.\"\n\n\"But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see\nwhat he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by\nbeing impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him.\"\n\nOn his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have\nany intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such\na subject to him; which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she\nturned to him and said:\n\n\"Did you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly\nwell just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at\nMeryton?\"\n\n\"With great energy; but it is always a subject which makes a lady\nenergetic.\"\n\n\"You are severe on us.\"\n\n\"It will be _her_ turn soon to be teased,\" said Miss Lucas. \"I am going\nto open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.\"\n\n\"You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me\nto play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken\na musical turn, you would have been invaluable; but as it is, I would\nreally rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of\nhearing the very best performers.\" On Miss Lucas's persevering, however,\nshe added, \"Very well, if it must be so, it must.\" And gravely glancing\nat Mr. Darcy, \"There is a fine old saying, which everybody here is of\ncourse familiar with: 'Keep your breath to cool your porridge'; and I\nshall keep mine to swell my song.\"\n\nHer performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song\nor two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that\nshe would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her\nsister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in\nthe family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always\nimpatient for display.\n\nMary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her\napplication, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited\nmanner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she\nhad reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with\nmuch more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the\nend of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by\nScotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who,\nwith some of the Lucases, and two or three officers, joined eagerly in\ndancing at one end of the room.\n\nMr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of\npassing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too\nmuch engrossed by his thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas was\nhis neighbour, till Sir William thus began:\n\n\"What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy! There\nis nothing like dancing after all. I consider it as one of the first\nrefinements of polished society.\"\n\n\"Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst\nthe less polished societies of the world. Every savage can dance.\"\n\nSir William only smiled. \"Your friend performs delightfully,\" he\ncontinued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group; \"and I doubt\nnot that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy.\"\n\n\"You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do\nyou often dance at St. James's?\"\n\n\"Never, sir.\"\n\n\"Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?\"\n\n\"It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it.\"\n\n\"You have a house in town, I conclude?\"\n\nMr. Darcy bowed.\n\n\"I had once had some thought of fixing in town myself--for I am fond\nof superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of\nLondon would agree with Lady Lucas.\"\n\nHe paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not disposed\nto make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was\nstruck with the action of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to\nher:\n\n\"My dear Miss Eliza, why are you not dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow\nme to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You\ncannot refuse to dance, I am sure when so much beauty is before you.\"\nAnd, taking her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy who, though\nextremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly\ndrew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William:\n\n\"Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you\nnot to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.\"\n\nMr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the honour of\nher hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did Sir William at\nall shake her purpose by his attempt at persuasion.\n\n\"You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny\nme the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the\namusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us\nfor one half-hour.\"\n\n\"Mr. Darcy is all politeness,\" said Elizabeth, smiling.\n\n\"He is, indeed; but, considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza,\nwe cannot wonder at his complaisance--for who would object to such a\npartner?\"\n\nElizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not\ninjured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with some\ncomplacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley:\n\n\"I can guess the subject of your reverie.\"\n\n\"I should imagine not.\"\n\n\"You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings\nin this manner--in such society; and indeed I am quite of your opinion.\nI was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the noise--the\nnothingness, and yet the self-importance of all those people! What would\nI give to hear your strictures on them!\"\n\n\"Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more\nagreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure\nwhich a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.\"\n\nMiss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he\nwould tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections.\nMr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity:\n\n\"Miss Elizabeth Bennet.\"\n\n\"Miss Elizabeth Bennet!\" repeated Miss Bingley. \"I am all astonishment.\nHow long has she been such a favourite?--and pray, when am I to wish you\njoy?\"\n\n\"That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's\nimagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love\nto matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy.\"\n\n\"Nay, if you are serious about it, I shall consider the matter is\nabsolutely settled. You will be having a charming mother-in-law, indeed;\nand, of course, she will always be at Pemberley with you.\"\n\nHe listened to her with perfect indifference while she chose to\nentertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced her\nthat all was safe, her wit flowed long.\n\n\n\nChapter 7\n\n\nMr. Bennet's property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two\nthousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed,\nin default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother's\nfortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply\nthe deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and\nhad left her four thousand pounds.\n\nShe had a sister married to a Mr. Phillips, who had been a clerk to\ntheir father and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in\nLondon in a respectable line of trade.\n\nThe village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most\nconvenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted\nthither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt and\nto a milliner's shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family,\nCatherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions;\ntheir minds were more vacant than their sisters', and when nothing\nbetter offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning\nhours and furnish conversation for the evening; and however bare of news\nthe country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some\nfrom their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with\nnews and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the\nneighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the\nheadquarters.\n\nTheir visits to Mrs. Phillips were now productive of the most\ninteresting intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge\nof the officers' names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a\nsecret, and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr.\nPhillips visited them all, and this opened to his nieces a store of\nfelicity unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and\nMr. Bingley's large fortune, the mention of which gave animation\nto their mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the\nregimentals of an ensign.\n\nAfter listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr.\nBennet coolly observed:\n\n\"From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two\nof the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but\nI am now convinced.\"\n\nCatherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with perfect\nindifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter,\nand her hope of seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the\nnext morning to London.\n\n\"I am astonished, my dear,\" said Mrs. Bennet, \"that you should be so\nready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly\nof anybody's children, it should not be of my own, however.\"\n\n\"If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of it.\"\n\n\"Yes--but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.\"\n\n\"This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I\nhad hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must\nso far differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly\nfoolish.\"\n\n\"My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of\ntheir father and mother. When they get to our age, I dare say they will\nnot think about officers any more than we do. I remember the time when\nI liked a red coat myself very well--and, indeed, so I do still at my\nheart; and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year,\nshould want one of my girls I shall not say nay to him; and I thought\nColonel Forster looked very becoming the other night at Sir William's in\nhis regimentals.\"\n\n\"Mamma,\" cried Lydia, \"my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain\nCarter do not go so often to Miss Watson's as they did when they first\ncame; she sees them now very often standing in Clarke's library.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with\na note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited\nfor an answer. Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was\neagerly calling out, while her daughter read,\n\n\"Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say? Well,\nJane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love.\"\n\n\"It is from Miss Bingley,\" said Jane, and then read it aloud.\n\n\"MY DEAR FRIEND,--\n\n\"If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and me,\nwe shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives,\nfor a whole day's tete-a-tete between two women can never end without a\nquarrel. Come as soon as you can on receipt of this. My brother and the\ngentlemen are to dine with the officers.--Yours ever,\n\n\"CAROLINE BINGLEY\"\n\n\"With the officers!\" cried Lydia. \"I wonder my aunt did not tell us of\n_that_.\"\n\n\"Dining out,\" said Mrs. Bennet, \"that is very unlucky.\"\n\n\"Can I have the carriage?\" said Jane.\n\n\"No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to\nrain; and then you must stay all night.\"\n\n\"That would be a good scheme,\" said Elizabeth, \"if you were sure that\nthey would not offer to send her home.\"\n\n\"Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley's chaise to go to Meryton,\nand the Hursts have no horses to theirs.\"\n\n\"I had much rather go in the coach.\"\n\n\"But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are\nwanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are they not?\"\n\n\"They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them.\"\n\n\"But if you have got them to-day,\" said Elizabeth, \"my mother's purpose\nwill be answered.\"\n\nShe did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the horses\nwere engaged. Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her\nmother attended her to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a\nbad day. Her hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone long before\nit rained hard. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was\ndelighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission;\nJane certainly could not come back.\n\n\"This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!\" said Mrs. Bennet more than\nonce, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the\nnext morning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her\ncontrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield\nbrought the following note for Elizabeth:\n\n\"MY DEAREST LIZZY,--\n\n\"I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be\nimputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will not\nhear of my returning till I am better. They insist also on my seeing Mr.\nJones--therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear of his having been\nto me--and, excepting a sore throat and headache, there is not much the\nmatter with me.--Yours, etc.\"\n\n\"Well, my dear,\" said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note\naloud, \"if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness--if she\nshould die, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of\nMr. Bingley, and under your orders.\"\n\n\"Oh! I am not afraid of her dying. People do not die of little trifling\ncolds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays there, it is\nall very well. I would go and see her if I could have the carriage.\"\n\nElizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her, though\nthe carriage was not to be had; and as she was no horsewoman, walking\nwas her only alternative. She declared her resolution.\n\n\"How can you be so silly,\" cried her mother, \"as to think of such a\nthing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get\nthere.\"\n\n\"I shall be very fit to see Jane--which is all I want.\"\n\n\"Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,\" said her father, \"to send for the\nhorses?\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is nothing\nwhen one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back by dinner.\"\n\n\"I admire the activity of your benevolence,\" observed Mary, \"but every\nimpulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my opinion,\nexertion should always be in proportion to what is required.\"\n\n\"We will go as far as Meryton with you,\" said Catherine and Lydia.\nElizabeth accepted their company, and the three young ladies set off\ntogether.\n\n\"If we make haste,\" said Lydia, as they walked along, \"perhaps we may\nsee something of Captain Carter before he goes.\"\n\nIn Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one\nof the officers' wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing\nfield after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing\nover puddles with impatient activity, and finding herself at last\nwithin view of the house, with weary ankles, dirty stockings, and a face\nglowing with the warmth of exercise.\n\nShe was shown into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were\nassembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of surprise.\nThat she should have walked three miles so early in the day, in such\ndirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and\nMiss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in contempt\nfor it. She was received, however, very politely by them; and in their\nbrother's manners there was something better than politeness; there\nwas good humour and kindness. Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr.\nHurst nothing at all. The former was divided between admiration of the\nbrilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as\nto the occasion's justifying her coming so far alone. The latter was\nthinking only of his breakfast.\n\nHer inquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered. Miss\nBennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish, and not\nwell enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be taken to her\nimmediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the fear of giving\nalarm or inconvenience from expressing in her note how much she longed\nfor such a visit, was delighted at her entrance. She was not equal,\nhowever, to much conversation, and when Miss Bingley left them\ntogether, could attempt little besides expressions of gratitude for the\nextraordinary kindness she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended\nher.\n\nWhen breakfast was over they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth\nbegan to like them herself, when she saw how much affection and\nsolicitude they showed for Jane. The apothecary came, and having\nexamined his patient, said, as might be supposed, that she had caught\na violent cold, and that they must endeavour to get the better of it;\nadvised her to return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The advice\nwas followed readily, for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head\nached acutely. Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment; nor were\nthe other ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had, in\nfact, nothing to do elsewhere.\n\nWhen the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go, and very\nunwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage, and she only\nwanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane testified such concern\nin parting with her, that Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer\nof the chaise to an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the present.\nElizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was dispatched to\nLongbourn to acquaint the family with her stay and bring back a supply\nof clothes.\n\n\n\nChapter 8\n\n\nAt five o'clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half-past six\nElizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil inquiries which then\npoured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of distinguishing the\nmuch superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley's, she could not make a very\nfavourable answer. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing\nthis, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how\nshocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked\nbeing ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter: and their\nindifference towards Jane when not immediately before them restored\nElizabeth to the enjoyment of all her former dislike.\n\nTheir brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she could\nregard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his\nattentions to herself most pleasing, and they prevented her feeling\nherself so much an intruder as she believed she was considered by the\nothers. She had very little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley was\nengrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so; and as for Mr.\nHurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he was an indolent man, who lived only to\neat, drink, and play at cards; who, when he found her to prefer a plain\ndish to a ragout, had nothing to say to her.\n\nWhen dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley\nbegan abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her manners were\npronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence;\nshe had no conversation, no style, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst thought the\nsame, and added:\n\n\"She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent\nwalker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really\nlooked almost wild.\"\n\n\"She did, indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very\nnonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering about the\ncountry, because her sister had a cold? Her hair, so untidy, so blowsy!\"\n\n\"Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep\nin mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been let down to\nhide it not doing its office.\"\n\n\"Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,\" said Bingley; \"but this was\nall lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably\nwell when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite\nescaped my notice.\"\n\n\"_You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,\" said Miss Bingley; \"and I am\ninclined to think that you would not wish to see _your_ sister make such\nan exhibition.\"\n\n\"Certainly not.\"\n\n\"To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is,\nabove her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! What could she mean by\nit? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence,\na most country-town indifference to decorum.\"\n\n\"It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,\" said\nBingley.\n\n\"I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,\" observed Miss Bingley in a half whisper, \"that\nthis adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes.\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" he replied; \"they were brightened by the exercise.\" A\nshort pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again:\n\n\"I have an excessive regard for Miss Jane Bennet, she is really a very\nsweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with\nsuch a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is\nno chance of it.\"\n\n\"I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney on\nMeryton.\"\n\n\"Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.\"\n\n\"That is capital,\" added her sister, and they both laughed heartily.\n\n\"If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside,\" cried Bingley, \"it\nwould not make them one jot less agreeable.\"\n\n\"But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any\nconsideration in the world,\" replied Darcy.\n\nTo this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their\nhearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of\ntheir dear friend's vulgar relations.\n\nWith a renewal of tenderness, however, they returned to her room on\nleaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee.\nShe was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till\nlate in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her sleep, and\nwhen it seemed to her rather right than pleasant that she should go\ndownstairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole\nparty at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting\nthem to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the\nexcuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay\nbelow, with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.\n\n\"Do you prefer reading to cards?\" said he; \"that is rather singular.\"\n\n\"Miss Eliza Bennet,\" said Miss Bingley, \"despises cards. She is a great\nreader, and has no pleasure in anything else.\"\n\n\"I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,\" cried Elizabeth; \"I am\n_not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.\"\n\n\"In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,\" said Bingley; \"and\nI hope it will be soon increased by seeing her quite well.\"\n\nElizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards the\ntable where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her\nothers--all that his library afforded.\n\n\"And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own\ncredit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more\nthan I ever looked into.\"\n\nElizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those\nin the room.\n\n\"I am astonished,\" said Miss Bingley, \"that my father should have left\nso small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at\nPemberley, Mr. Darcy!\"\n\n\"It ought to be good,\" he replied, \"it has been the work of many\ngenerations.\"\n\n\"And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying\nbooks.\"\n\n\"I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as\nthese.\"\n\n\"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of\nthat noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be\nhalf as delightful as Pemberley.\"\n\n\"I wish it may.\"\n\n\"But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that\nneighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a\nfiner county in England than Derbyshire.\"\n\n\"With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it.\"\n\n\"I am talking of possibilities, Charles.\"\n\n\"Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get\nPemberley by purchase than by imitation.\"\n\nElizabeth was so much caught with what passed, as to leave her very\nlittle attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew\nnear the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his\neldest sister, to observe the game.\n\n\"Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?\" said Miss Bingley; \"will\nshe be as tall as I am?\"\n\n\"I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or\nrather taller.\"\n\n\"How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me\nso much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so extremely accomplished\nfor her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.\"\n\n\"It is amazing to me,\" said Bingley, \"how young ladies can have patience\nto be so very accomplished as they all are.\"\n\n\"All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?\"\n\n\"Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens, and\nnet purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this, and I am sure\nI never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being\ninformed that she was very accomplished.\"\n\n\"Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,\" said Darcy, \"has\ntoo much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no\notherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. But I am very\nfar from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I\ncannot boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen, in the whole range of my\nacquaintance, that are really accomplished.\"\n\n\"Nor I, I am sure,\" said Miss Bingley.\n\n\"Then,\" observed Elizabeth, \"you must comprehend a great deal in your\nidea of an accomplished woman.\"\n\n\"Yes, I do comprehend a great deal in it.\"\n\n\"Oh! certainly,\" cried his faithful assistant, \"no one can be really\nesteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met\nwith. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing,\ndancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides\nall this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of\nwalking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word\nwill be but half-deserved.\"\n\n\"All this she must possess,\" added Darcy, \"and to all this she must\nyet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by\nextensive reading.\"\n\n\"I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women.\nI rather wonder now at your knowing _any_.\"\n\n\"Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility of all\nthis?\"\n\n\"I never saw such a woman. I never saw such capacity, and taste, and\napplication, and elegance, as you describe united.\"\n\nMrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her\nimplied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who\nanswered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with\nbitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all\nconversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the\nroom.\n\n\"Elizabeth Bennet,\" said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her,\n\"is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the\nother sex by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it\nsucceeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art.\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly,\" replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed,\n\"there is a meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend\nto employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is\ndespicable.\"\n\nMiss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to\ncontinue the subject.\n\nElizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and\nthat she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones being sent for\nimmediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could\nbe of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most\neminent physicians. This she would not hear of; but she was not so\nunwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled\nthat Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet\nwere not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters\ndeclared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness,\nhowever, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief\nto his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every\nattention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister.\n\n\n\nChapter 9\n\n\nElizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister's room, and in the\nmorning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the\ninquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid,\nand some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his\nsisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a\nnote sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her\nown judgement of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and\nits contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her\ntwo youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast.\n\nHad she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been\nvery miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was\nnot alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her\nrestoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She\nwould not listen, therefore, to her daughter's proposal of being carried\nhome; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think\nit at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss\nBingley's appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughter all\nattended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes\nthat Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected.\n\n\"Indeed I have, sir,\" was her answer. \"She is a great deal too ill to be\nmoved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass\na little longer on your kindness.\"\n\n\"Removed!\" cried Bingley. \"It must not be thought of. My sister, I am\nsure, will not hear of her removal.\"\n\n\"You may depend upon it, Madam,\" said Miss Bingley, with cold civility,\n\"that Miss Bennet will receive every possible attention while she\nremains with us.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.\n\n\"I am sure,\" she added, \"if it was not for such good friends I do not\nknow what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers\na vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is\nalways the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest\ntemper I have ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are\nnothing to _her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a\ncharming prospect over the gravel walk. I do not know a place in the\ncountry that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it\nin a hurry, I hope, though you have but a short lease.\"\n\n\"Whatever I do is done in a hurry,\" replied he; \"and therefore if I\nshould resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five\nminutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here.\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,\" said Elizabeth.\n\n\"You begin to comprehend me, do you?\" cried he, turning towards her.\n\n\"Oh! yes--I understand you perfectly.\"\n\n\"I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen\nthrough I am afraid is pitiful.\"\n\n\"That is as it happens. It does not follow that a deep, intricate\ncharacter is more or less estimable than such a one as yours.\"\n\n\"Lizzy,\" cried her mother, \"remember where you are, and do not run on in\nthe wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.\"\n\n\"I did not know before,\" continued Bingley immediately, \"that you were a\nstudier of character. It must be an amusing study.\"\n\n\"Yes, but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at\nleast that advantage.\"\n\n\"The country,\" said Darcy, \"can in general supply but a few subjects for\nsuch a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and\nunvarying society.\"\n\n\"But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be\nobserved in them for ever.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning\na country neighbourhood. \"I assure you there is quite as much of _that_\ngoing on in the country as in town.\"\n\nEverybody was surprised, and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment,\nturned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete\nvictory over him, continued her triumph.\n\n\"I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, for\nmy part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal\npleasanter, is it not, Mr. Bingley?\"\n\n\"When I am in the country,\" he replied, \"I never wish to leave it;\nand when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their\nadvantages, and I can be equally happy in either.\"\n\n\"Aye--that is because you have the right disposition. But that\ngentleman,\" looking at Darcy, \"seemed to think the country was nothing\nat all.\"\n\n\"Indeed, Mamma, you are mistaken,\" said Elizabeth, blushing for her\nmother. \"You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there was not\nsuch a variety of people to be met with in the country as in the town,\nwhich you must acknowledge to be true.\"\n\n\"Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting\nwith many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few\nneighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four-and-twenty families.\"\n\nNothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his\ncountenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eyes towards\nMr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of\nsaying something that might turn her mother's thoughts, now asked her if\nCharlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since _her_ coming away.\n\n\"Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir\nWilliam is, Mr. Bingley, is not he? So much the man of fashion! So\ngenteel and easy! He had always something to say to everybody. _That_\nis my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very\nimportant, and never open their mouths, quite mistake the matter.\"\n\n\"Did Charlotte dine with you?\"\n\n\"No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince-pies. For\nmy part, Mr. Bingley, I always keep servants that can do their own work;\n_my_ daughters are brought up very differently. But everybody is to\njudge for themselves, and the Lucases are a very good sort of girls,\nI assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that I think\nCharlotte so _very_ plain--but then she is our particular friend.\"\n\n\"She seems a very pleasant young woman.\"\n\n\"Oh! dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself\nhas often said so, and envied me Jane's beauty. I do not like to boast\nof my own child, but to be sure, Jane--one does not often see anybody\nbetter looking. It is what everybody says. I do not trust my own\npartiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a man at my brother\nGardiner's in town so much in love with her that my sister-in-law was\nsure he would make her an offer before we came away. But, however, he\ndid not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses\non her, and very pretty they were.\"\n\n\"And so ended his affection,\" said Elizabeth impatiently. \"There has\nbeen many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first\ndiscovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!\"\n\n\"I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love,\" said Darcy.\n\n\"Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is\nstrong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I\nam convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.\"\n\nDarcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth\ntremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to\nspeak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs.\nBennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to\nJane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was\nunaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be\ncivil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part\nindeed without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and\nsoon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of\nher daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to\neach other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the\nyoungest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming\ninto the country to give a ball at Netherfield.\n\nLydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion\nand good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose\naffection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high\nanimal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the\nattention of the officers, to whom her uncle's good dinners, and her own\neasy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very\nequal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and\nabruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most\nshameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this\nsudden attack was delightful to their mother's ear:\n\n\"I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when\nyour sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of\nthe ball. But you would not wish to be dancing when she is ill.\"\n\nLydia declared herself satisfied. \"Oh! yes--it would be much better to\nwait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter\nwould be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball,\" she\nadded, \"I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel\nForster it will be quite a shame if he does not.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned\ninstantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the\nremarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however,\ncould not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of\nall Miss Bingley's witticisms on _fine eyes_.\n\n\n\nChapter 10\n\n\nThe day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss\nBingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who\ncontinued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined\ntheir party in the drawing-room. The loo-table, however, did not appear.\nMr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching\nthe progress of his letter and repeatedly calling off his attention by\nmessages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and\nMrs. Hurst was observing their game.\n\nElizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in\nattending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual\ncommendations of the lady, either on his handwriting, or on the evenness\nof his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern\nwith which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was\nexactly in union with her opinion of each.\n\n\"How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!\"\n\nHe made no answer.\n\n\"You write uncommonly fast.\"\n\n\"You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.\"\n\n\"How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a\nyear! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!\"\n\n\"It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of yours.\"\n\n\"Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.\"\n\n\"I have already told her so once, by your desire.\"\n\n\"I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend\npens remarkably well.\"\n\n\"Thank you--but I always mend my own.\"\n\n\"How can you contrive to write so even?\"\n\nHe was silent.\n\n\"Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp;\nand pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful\nlittle design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss\nGrantley's.\"\n\n\"Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At\npresent I have not room to do them justice.\"\n\n\"Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you\nalways write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?\"\n\n\"They are generally long; but whether always charming it is not for me\nto determine.\"\n\n\"It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter with\nease, cannot write ill.\"\n\n\"That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,\" cried her\nbrother, \"because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much for\nwords of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?\"\n\n\"My style of writing is very different from yours.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" cried Miss Bingley, \"Charles writes in the most careless way\nimaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.\"\n\n\"My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them--by which\nmeans my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.\"\n\n\"Your humility, Mr. Bingley,\" said Elizabeth, \"must disarm reproof.\"\n\n\"Nothing is more deceitful,\" said Darcy, \"than the appearance of\nhumility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an\nindirect boast.\"\n\n\"And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?\"\n\n\"The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in\nwriting, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of\nthought and carelessness of execution, which, if not estimable, you\nthink at least highly interesting. The power of doing anything with\nquickness is always prized much by the possessor, and often without any\nattention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs.\nBennet this morning that if you ever resolved upon quitting Netherfield\nyou should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of\npanegyric, of compliment to yourself--and yet what is there so very\nlaudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business\nundone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or anyone else?\"\n\n\"Nay,\" cried Bingley, \"this is too much, to remember at night all the\nfoolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour,\nI believe what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this\nmoment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless\nprecipitance merely to show off before the ladies.\"\n\n\"I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that\nyou would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as\ndependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were\nmounting your horse, a friend were to say, 'Bingley, you had better\nstay till next week,' you would probably do it, you would probably not\ngo--and at another word, might stay a month.\"\n\n\"You have only proved by this,\" cried Elizabeth, \"that Mr. Bingley did\nnot do justice to his own disposition. You have shown him off now much\nmore than he did himself.\"\n\n\"I am exceedingly gratified,\" said Bingley, \"by your converting what my\nfriend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am\nafraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means\nintend; for he would certainly think better of me, if under such a\ncircumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I\ncould.\"\n\n\"Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intentions\nas atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?\"\n\n\"Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter; Darcy must speak for\nhimself.\"\n\n\"You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call mine,\nbut which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to\nstand according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet,\nthat the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and\nthe delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering\none argument in favour of its propriety.\"\n\n\"To yield readily--easily--to the _persuasion_ of a friend is no merit\nwith you.\"\n\n\"To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of\neither.\"\n\n\"You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of\nfriendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make\none readily yield to a request, without waiting for arguments to reason\none into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have\nsupposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the\ncircumstance occurs before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour\nthereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend,\nwhere one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no\nvery great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying\nwith the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?\"\n\n\"Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to\narrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to\nappertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting\nbetween the parties?\"\n\n\"By all means,\" cried Bingley; \"let us hear all the particulars, not\nforgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have more\nweight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure\nyou, that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with\nmyself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not\nknow a more awful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in\nparticular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening,\nwhen he has nothing to do.\"\n\nMr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that he was\nrather offended, and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly\nresented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with her\nbrother for talking such nonsense.\n\n\"I see your design, Bingley,\" said his friend. \"You dislike an argument,\nand want to silence this.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss\nBennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very\nthankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me.\"\n\n\"What you ask,\" said Elizabeth, \"is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr.\nDarcy had much better finish his letter.\"\n\nMr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.\n\nWhen that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth\nfor an indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with some alacrity\nto the pianoforte; and, after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead\nthe way which the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she\nseated herself.\n\nMrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus employed,\nElizabeth could not help observing, as she turned over some music-books\nthat lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy's eyes were fixed\non her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of\nadmiration to so great a man; and yet that he should look at her\nbecause he disliked her, was still more strange. She could only imagine,\nhowever, at last that she drew his notice because there was something\nmore wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in\nany other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked\nhim too little to care for his approbation.\n\nAfter playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by\na lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near\nElizabeth, said to her:\n\n\"Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an\nopportunity of dancing a reel?\"\n\nShe smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some\nsurprise at her silence.\n\n\"Oh!\" said she, \"I heard you before, but I could not immediately\ndetermine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say 'Yes,'\nthat you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always\ndelight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of\ntheir premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell\nyou, that I do not want to dance a reel at all--and now despise me if\nyou dare.\"\n\n\"Indeed I do not dare.\"\n\nElizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his\ngallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her\nmanner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody; and Darcy\nhad never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really\nbelieved, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he\nshould be in some danger.\n\nMiss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her great\nanxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received some\nassistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth.\n\nShe often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of\ntheir supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance.\n\n\"I hope,\" said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery\nthe next day, \"you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this\ndesirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue;\nand if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after\nofficers. And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to\ncheck that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence,\nwhich your lady possesses.\"\n\n\"Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Phillips be placed\nin the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great-uncle the\njudge. They are in the same profession, you know, only in different\nlines. As for your Elizabeth's picture, you must not have it taken, for\nwhat painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?\"\n\n\"It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their\ncolour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, might be\ncopied.\"\n\nAt that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and\nElizabeth herself.\n\n\"I did not know that you intended to walk,\" said Miss Bingley, in some\nconfusion, lest they had been overheard.\n\n\"You used us abominably ill,\" answered Mrs. Hurst, \"running away without\ntelling us that you were coming out.\"\n\nThen taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk\nby herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness,\nand immediately said:\n\n\"This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the\navenue.\"\n\nBut Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them,\nlaughingly answered:\n\n\"No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and appear\nto uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a\nfourth. Good-bye.\"\n\nShe then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the hope of\nbeing at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered\nas to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening.\n\n\n\nChapter 11\n\n\nWhen the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her\nsister, and seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the\ndrawing-room, where she was welcomed by her two friends with many\nprofessions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable\nas they were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared.\nTheir powers of conversation were considerable. They could describe an\nentertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh\nat their acquaintance with spirit.\n\nBut when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object;\nMiss Bingley's eyes were instantly turned toward Darcy, and she had\nsomething to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed\nhimself to Miss Bennet, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst also\nmade her a slight bow, and said he was \"very glad;\" but diffuseness\nand warmth remained for Bingley's salutation. He was full of joy and\nattention. The first half-hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she\nshould suffer from the change of room; and she removed at his desire\nto the other side of the fireplace, that she might be further from\nthe door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to anyone\nelse. Elizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great\ndelight.\n\nWhen tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the\ncard-table--but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr.\nDarcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open\npetition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and\nthe silence of the whole party on the subject seemed to justify her. Mr.\nHurst had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch himself on one of the\nsofas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same;\nand Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets\nand rings, joined now and then in her brother's conversation with Miss\nBennet.\n\nMiss Bingley's attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr.\nDarcy's progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own; and she\nwas perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She\ncould not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her\nquestion, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be\namused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the\nsecond volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, \"How pleasant\nit is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no\nenjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a\nbook! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not\nan excellent library.\"\n\nNo one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and\ncast her eyes round the room in quest for some amusement; when hearing\nher brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly\ntowards him and said:\n\n\"By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at\nNetherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult\nthe wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are\nnot some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a\npleasure.\"\n\n\"If you mean Darcy,\" cried her brother, \"he may go to bed, if he\nchooses, before it begins--but as for the ball, it is quite a settled\nthing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough, I shall send\nround my cards.\"\n\n\"I should like balls infinitely better,\" she replied, \"if they were\ncarried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably\ntedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much\nmore rational if conversation instead of dancing were made the order of\nthe day.\"\n\n\"Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be\nnear so much like a ball.\"\n\nMiss Bingley made no answer, and soon afterwards she got up and walked\nabout the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well; but\nDarcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In\nthe desperation of her feelings, she resolved on one effort more, and,\nturning to Elizabeth, said:\n\n\"Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a\nturn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so\nlong in one attitude.\"\n\nElizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley\nsucceeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked\nup. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as\nElizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was\ndirectly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing that\nhe could imagine but two motives for their choosing to walk up and down\nthe room together, with either of which motives his joining them would\ninterfere. \"What could he mean? She was dying to know what could be his\nmeaning?\"--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him?\n\n\"Not at all,\" was her answer; \"but depend upon it, he means to be severe\non us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing\nabout it.\"\n\nMiss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in\nanything, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his\ntwo motives.\n\n\"I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,\" said he, as soon\nas she allowed him to speak. \"You either choose this method of passing\nthe evening because you are in each other's confidence, and have secret\naffairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures\nappear to the greatest advantage in walking; if the first, I would be\ncompletely in your way, and if the second, I can admire you much better\nas I sit by the fire.\"\n\n\"Oh! shocking!\" cried Miss Bingley. \"I never heard anything so\nabominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?\"\n\n\"Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,\" said Elizabeth. \"We\ncan all plague and punish one another. Tease him--laugh at him. Intimate\nas you are, you must know how it is to be done.\"\n\n\"But upon my honour, I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has\nnot yet taught me _that_. Tease calmness of manner and presence of\nmind! No, no--feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will\nnot expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a\nsubject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself.\"\n\n\"Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!\" cried Elizabeth. \"That is an\nuncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would\nbe a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintances. I dearly love a\nlaugh.\"\n\n\"Miss Bingley,\" said he, \"has given me more credit than can be.\nThe wisest and the best of men--nay, the wisest and best of their\nactions--may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in\nlife is a joke.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" replied Elizabeth--\"there are such people, but I hope I\nam not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise and good.\nFollies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, _do_ divert me, I own,\nand I laugh at them whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are precisely\nwhat you are without.\"\n\n\"Perhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has been the study\nof my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong\nunderstanding to ridicule.\"\n\n\"Such as vanity and pride.\"\n\n\"Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real\nsuperiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.\"\n\nElizabeth turned away to hide a smile.\n\n\"Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,\" said Miss Bingley;\n\"and pray what is the result?\"\n\n\"I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it\nhimself without disguise.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Darcy, \"I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough,\nbut they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch\nfor. It is, I believe, too little yielding--certainly too little for the\nconvenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others\nso soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings\nare not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper\nwould perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost\nforever.\"\n\n\"_That_ is a failing indeed!\" cried Elizabeth. \"Implacable resentment\n_is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I\nreally cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me.\"\n\n\"There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular\nevil--a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.\"\n\n\"And _your_ defect is to hate everybody.\"\n\n\"And yours,\" he replied with a smile, \"is willfully to misunderstand\nthem.\"\n\n\"Do let us have a little music,\" cried Miss Bingley, tired of a\nconversation in which she had no share. \"Louisa, you will not mind my\nwaking Mr. Hurst?\"\n\nHer sister had not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was\nopened; and Darcy, after a few moments' recollection, was not sorry for\nit. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention.\n\n\n\nChapter 12\n\n\nIn consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the\nnext morning to their mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for\nthem in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on\nher daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which\nwould exactly finish Jane's week, could not bring herself to receive\nthem with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at\nleast not to Elizabeth's wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs.\nBennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage\nbefore Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley\nand his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them\nvery well. Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively\nresolved--nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the\ncontrary, as being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long,\nshe urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley's carriage immediately, and at\nlength it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield\nthat morning should be mentioned, and the request made.\n\nThe communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was\nsaid of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work\non Jane; and till the morrow their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was\nthen sorry that she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike\nof one sister much exceeded her affection for the other.\n\nThe master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so\nsoon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be\nsafe for her--that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where\nshe felt herself to be right.\n\nTo Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence--Elizabeth had been at\nNetherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked--and Miss\nBingley was uncivil to _her_, and more teasing than usual to himself.\nHe wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration\nshould _now_ escape him, nothing that could elevate her with the hope\nof influencing his felicity; sensible that if such an idea had been\nsuggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight\nin confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke\nten words to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were\nat one time left by themselves for half-an-hour, he adhered most\nconscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her.\n\nOn Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost\nall, took place. Miss Bingley's civility to Elizabeth increased at last\nvery rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted,\nafter assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her\nto see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most\ntenderly, she even shook hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of\nthe whole party in the liveliest of spirits.\n\nThey were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet\nwondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much\ntrouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again. But their\nfather, though very laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really\nglad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The\nevening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of\nits animation, and almost all its sense by the absence of Jane and\nElizabeth.\n\nThey found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough-bass and human\nnature; and had some extracts to admire, and some new observations of\nthreadbare morality to listen to. Catherine and Lydia had information\nfor them of a different sort. Much had been done and much had been said\nin the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers\nhad dined lately with their uncle, a private had been flogged, and it\nhad actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married.\n\n\n\nChapter 13\n\n\n\"I hope, my dear,\" said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at\nbreakfast the next morning, \"that you have ordered a good dinner to-day,\nbecause I have reason to expect an addition to our family party.\"\n\n\"Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am sure,\nunless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in--and I hope _my_ dinners\nare good enough for her. I do not believe she often sees such at home.\"\n\n\"The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a stranger.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled. \"A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr.\nBingley, I am sure! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see Mr.\nBingley. But--good Lord! how unlucky! There is not a bit of fish to be\ngot to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell--I must speak to Hill this\nmoment.\"\n\n\"It is _not_ Mr. Bingley,\" said her husband; \"it is a person whom I\nnever saw in the whole course of my life.\"\n\nThis roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of being\neagerly questioned by his wife and his five daughters at once.\n\nAfter amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus explained:\n\n\"About a month ago I received this letter; and about a fortnight ago\nI answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and requiring\nearly attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead,\nmay turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases.\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear,\" cried his wife, \"I cannot bear to hear that mentioned.\nPray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing\nin the world, that your estate should be entailed away from your own\nchildren; and I am sure, if I had been you, I should have tried long ago\nto do something or other about it.\"\n\nJane and Elizabeth tried to explain to her the nature of an entail. They\nhad often attempted to do it before, but it was a subject on which\nMrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of reason, and she continued to rail\nbitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of\nfive daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.\n\n\"It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,\" said Mr. Bennet, \"and\nnothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn.\nBut if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps be a little\nsoftened by his manner of expressing himself.\"\n\n\"No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think it is very impertinent of\nhim to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false\nfriends. Why could he not keep on quarreling with you, as his father did\nbefore him?\"\n\n\"Why, indeed; he does seem to have had some filial scruples on that\nhead, as you will hear.\"\n\n\"Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, 15th October.\n\n\"Dear Sir,--\n\n\"The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured\nfather always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have had the\nmisfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal the breach; but\nfor some time I was kept back by my own doubts, fearing lest it might\nseem disrespectful to his memory for me to be on good terms with anyone\nwith whom it had always pleased him to be at variance.--'There, Mrs.\nBennet.'--My mind, however, is now made up on the subject, for having\nreceived ordination at Easter, I have been so fortunate as to be\ndistinguished by the patronage of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de\nBourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has\npreferred me to the valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be\nmy earnest endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her\nladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which\nare instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman, moreover, I\nfeel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of peace in\nall families within the reach of my influence; and on these grounds I\nflatter myself that my present overtures are highly commendable, and\nthat the circumstance of my being next in the entail of Longbourn estate\nwill be kindly overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the\noffered olive-branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the\nmeans of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for\nit, as well as to assure you of my readiness to make them every possible\namends--but of this hereafter. If you should have no objection to\nreceive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting\non you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o'clock, and\nshall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday se'ennight\nfollowing, which I can do without any inconvenience, as Lady Catherine\nis far from objecting to my occasional absence on a Sunday, provided\nthat some other clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day.--I\nremain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and\ndaughters, your well-wisher and friend,\n\n\"WILLIAM COLLINS\"\n\n\"At four o'clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman,\"\nsaid Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. \"He seems to be a most\nconscientious and polite young man, upon my word, and I doubt not will\nprove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so\nindulgent as to let him come to us again.\"\n\n\"There is some sense in what he says about the girls, however, and if\nhe is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to\ndiscourage him.\"\n\n\"Though it is difficult,\" said Jane, \"to guess in what way he can mean\nto make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his\ncredit.\"\n\nElizabeth was chiefly struck by his extraordinary deference for Lady\nCatherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying\nhis parishioners whenever it were required.\n\n\"He must be an oddity, I think,\" said she. \"I cannot make him\nout.--There is something very pompous in his style.--And what can he\nmean by apologising for being next in the entail?--We cannot suppose he\nwould help it if he could.--Could he be a sensible man, sir?\"\n\n\"No, my dear, I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the\nreverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his\nletter, which promises well. I am impatient to see him.\"\n\n\"In point of composition,\" said Mary, \"the letter does not seem\ndefective. The idea of the olive-branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I\nthink it is well expressed.\"\n\nTo Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were in any\ndegree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should\ncome in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had\nreceived pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for\ntheir mother, Mr. Collins's letter had done away much of her ill-will,\nand she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure which\nastonished her husband and daughters.\n\nMr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great\npoliteness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the\nladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in\nneed of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a\ntall, heavy-looking young man of five-and-twenty. His air was grave and\nstately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated\nbefore he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of\ndaughters; said he had heard much of their beauty, but that in this\ninstance fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did\nnot doubt her seeing them all in due time disposed of in marriage. This\ngallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers; but Mrs.\nBennet, who quarreled with no compliments, answered most readily.\n\n\"You are very kind, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may\nprove so, for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so\noddly.\"\n\n\"You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.\"\n\n\"Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you\nmust confess. Not that I mean to find fault with _you_, for such things\nI know are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates\nwill go when once they come to be entailed.\"\n\n\"I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins, and\ncould say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing\nforward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies that I come\nprepared to admire them. At present I will not say more; but, perhaps,\nwhen we are better acquainted--\"\n\nHe was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each\nother. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins's admiration. The\nhall, the dining-room, and all its furniture, were examined and praised;\nand his commendation of everything would have touched Mrs. Bennet's\nheart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his\nown future property. The dinner too in its turn was highly admired; and\nhe begged to know to which of his fair cousins the excellency of its\ncooking was owing. But he was set right there by Mrs. Bennet, who\nassured him with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a\ngood cook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He\nbegged pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she declared\nherself not at all offended; but he continued to apologise for about a\nquarter of an hour.\n\n\n\nChapter 14\n\n\nDuring dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants\nwere withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his\nguest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to\nshine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady\nCatherine de Bourgh's attention to his wishes, and consideration for\nhis comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen\nbetter. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him\nto more than usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect\nhe protested that \"he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in\na person of rank--such affability and condescension, as he had himself\nexperienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to\napprove of both of the discourses which he had already had the honour of\npreaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings,\nand had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of\nquadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many\npeople he knew, but _he_ had never seen anything but affability in her.\nShe had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she\nmade not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the\nneighbourhood nor to his leaving the parish occasionally for a week or\ntwo, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to\nmarry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had\nonce paid him a visit in his humble parsonage, where she had perfectly\napproved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed\nto suggest some herself--some shelves in the closet upstairs.\"\n\n\"That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,\" said Mrs. Bennet, \"and\nI dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies\nin general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?\"\n\n\"The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane\nfrom Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence.\"\n\n\"I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any family?\"\n\n\"She has only one daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very\nextensive property.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, \"then she is better off than\nmany girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she handsome?\"\n\n\"She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says\nthat, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far superior to the\nhandsomest of her sex, because there is that in her features which marks\nthe young lady of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly\nconstitution, which has prevented her from making that progress in many\naccomplishments which she could not have otherwise failed of, as I am\ninformed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still\nresides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends\nto drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies.\"\n\n\"Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at\ncourt.\"\n\n\"Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town;\nand by that means, as I told Lady Catherine one day, has deprived the\nBritish court of its brightest ornaments. Her ladyship seemed pleased\nwith the idea; and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to\noffer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable\nto ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that\nher charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most\nelevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by\nher. These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and\nit is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to\npay.\"\n\n\"You judge very properly,\" said Mr. Bennet, \"and it is happy for you\nthat you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask\nwhether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the\nmoment, or are the result of previous study?\"\n\n\"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I\nsometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant\ncompliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to\ngive them as unstudied an air as possible.\"\n\nMr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd\nas he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment,\nmaintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance,\nand, except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner\nin his pleasure.\n\nBy tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad\nto take his guest into the drawing-room again, and, when tea was over,\nglad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily\nassented, and a book was produced; but, on beholding it (for everything\nannounced it to be from a circulating library), he started back, and\nbegging pardon, protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at\nhim, and Lydia exclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some\ndeliberation he chose Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the\nvolume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three\npages, she interrupted him with:\n\n\"Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Phillips talks of turning away\nRichard; and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me\nso herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more\nabout it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town.\"\n\nLydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr.\nCollins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said:\n\n\"I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books\nof a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes\nme, I confess; for, certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to\nthem as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin.\"\n\nThen turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at\nbackgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted\nvery wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements.\nMrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia's\ninterruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would\nresume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his\nyoung cousin no ill-will, and should never resent her behaviour as any\naffront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared\nfor backgammon.\n\n\n\nChapter 15\n\n\nMr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had\nbeen but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part\nof his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and\nmiserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he\nhad merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it any useful\nacquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up had\ngiven him originally great humility of manner; but it was now a\ngood deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in\nretirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected\nprosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de\nBourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which\nhe felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness,\nmingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a\nclergyman, and his right as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of\npride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility.\n\nHaving now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended to\nmarry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had\na wife in view, as he meant to choose one of the daughters, if he found\nthem as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report.\nThis was his plan of amends--of atonement--for inheriting their father's\nestate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and\nsuitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own\npart.\n\nHis plan did not vary on seeing them. Miss Bennet's lovely face\nconfirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of what\nwas due to seniority; and for the first evening _she_ was his settled\nchoice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a\nquarter of an hour's tete-a-tete with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a\nconversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally\nto the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress might be found for it at\nLongbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general\nencouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on. \"As to\nher _younger_ daughters, she could not take upon her to say--she could\nnot positively answer--but she did not _know_ of any prepossession; her\n_eldest_ daughter, she must just mention--she felt it incumbent on her\nto hint, was likely to be very soon engaged.\"\n\nMr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth--and it was soon\ndone--done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. Elizabeth, equally\nnext to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course.\n\nMrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have\ntwo daughters married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of\nthe day before was now high in her good graces.\n\nLydia's intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every sister\nexcept Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them,\nat the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him,\nand have his library to himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed\nhim after breakfast; and there he would continue, nominally engaged with\none of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr.\nBennet, with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such\ndoings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been\nalways sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told\nElizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other room of the\nhouse, he was used to be free from them there; his civility, therefore,\nwas most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their\nwalk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact much better fitted for a walker\nthan a reader, was extremely pleased to close his large book, and go.\n\nIn pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his\ncousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The attention of\nthe younger ones was then no longer to be gained by him. Their eyes were\nimmediately wandering up in the street in quest of the officers, and\nnothing less than a very smart bonnet indeed, or a really new muslin in\na shop window, could recall them.\n\nBut the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom\nthey had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking\nwith another officer on the other side of the way. The officer was\nthe very Mr. Denny concerning whose return from London Lydia came\nto inquire, and he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the\nstranger's air, all wondered who he could be; and Kitty and Lydia,\ndetermined if possible to find out, led the way across the street, under\npretense of wanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately\nhad just gained the pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, had\nreached the same spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated\npermission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with\nhim the day before from town, and he was happy to say had accepted a\ncommission in their corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the\nyoung man wanted only regimentals to make him completely charming.\nHis appearance was greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of\nbeauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address.\nThe introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness\nof conversation--a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and\nunassuming; and the whole party were still standing and talking together\nvery agreeably, when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy\nand Bingley were seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the\nladies of the group, the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and\nbegan the usual civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and\nMiss Bennet the principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to\nLongbourn on purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated\nit with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes\non Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by the sight of the\nstranger, and Elizabeth happening to see the countenance of both as they\nlooked at each other, was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting.\nBoth changed colour, one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham,\nafter a few moments, touched his hat--a salutation which Mr. Darcy just\ndeigned to return. What could be the meaning of it? It was impossible to\nimagine; it was impossible not to long to know.\n\nIn another minute, Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have noticed what\npassed, took leave and rode on with his friend.\n\nMr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of\nMr. Phillip's house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia's\npressing entreaties that they should come in, and even in spite of\nMrs. Phillips's throwing up the parlour window and loudly seconding the\ninvitation.\n\nMrs. Phillips was always glad to see her nieces; and the two eldest,\nfrom their recent absence, were particularly welcome, and she was\neagerly expressing her surprise at their sudden return home, which, as\ntheir own carriage had not fetched them, she should have known nothing\nabout, if she had not happened to see Mr. Jones's shop-boy in the\nstreet, who had told her that they were not to send any more draughts to\nNetherfield because the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility\nwas claimed towards Mr. Collins by Jane's introduction of him. She\nreceived him with her very best politeness, which he returned with\nas much more, apologising for his intrusion, without any previous\nacquaintance with her, which he could not help flattering himself,\nhowever, might be justified by his relationship to the young ladies who\nintroduced him to her notice. Mrs. Phillips was quite awed by such an\nexcess of good breeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon\nput to an end by exclamations and inquiries about the other; of whom,\nhowever, she could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that\nMr. Denny had brought him from London, and that he was to have a\nlieutenant's commission in the ----shire. She had been watching him the\nlast hour, she said, as he walked up and down the street, and had Mr.\nWickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued the\noccupation, but unluckily no one passed windows now except a few of the\nofficers, who, in comparison with the stranger, were become \"stupid,\ndisagreeable fellows.\" Some of them were to dine with the Phillipses\nthe next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr.\nWickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn\nwould come in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Phillips\nprotested that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery\ntickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such\ndelights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr.\nCollins repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured\nwith unwearying civility that they were perfectly needless.\n\nAs they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass\nbetween the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either\nor both, had they appeared to be in the wrong, she could no more explain\nsuch behaviour than her sister.\n\nMr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by admiring\nMrs. Phillips's manners and politeness. He protested that, except Lady\nCatherine and her daughter, he had never seen a more elegant woman;\nfor she had not only received him with the utmost civility, but even\npointedly included him in her invitation for the next evening, although\nutterly unknown to her before. Something, he supposed, might be\nattributed to his connection with them, but yet he had never met with so\nmuch attention in the whole course of his life.\n\n\n\nChapter 16\n\n\nAs no objection was made to the young people's engagement with their\naunt, and all Mr. Collins's scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for\na single evening during his visit were most steadily resisted, the coach\nconveyed him and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton; and\nthe girls had the pleasure of hearing, as they entered the drawing-room,\nthat Mr. Wickham had accepted their uncle's invitation, and was then in\nthe house.\n\nWhen this information was given, and they had all taken their seats, Mr.\nCollins was at leisure to look around him and admire, and he was so much\nstruck with the size and furniture of the apartment, that he declared he\nmight almost have supposed himself in the small summer breakfast\nparlour at Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey much\ngratification; but when Mrs. Phillips understood from him what\nRosings was, and who was its proprietor--when she had listened to the\ndescription of only one of Lady Catherine's drawing-rooms, and found\nthat the chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all\nthe force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a comparison\nwith the housekeeper's room.\n\nIn describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her mansion,\nwith occasional digressions in praise of his own humble abode, and\nthe improvements it was receiving, he was happily employed until the\ngentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs. Phillips a very attentive\nlistener, whose opinion of his consequence increased with what she\nheard, and who was resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as\nsoon as she could. To the girls, who could not listen to their cousin,\nand who had nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine\ntheir own indifferent imitations of china on the mantelpiece, the\ninterval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last, however.\nThe gentlemen did approach, and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room,\nElizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing him before, nor thinking\nof him since, with the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration.\nThe officers of the ----shire were in general a very creditable,\ngentlemanlike set, and the best of them were of the present party; but\nMr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and\nwalk, as _they_ were superior to the broad-faced, stuffy uncle Phillips,\nbreathing port wine, who followed them into the room.\n\nMr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was\nturned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated\nhimself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into\nconversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, made her feel\nthat the commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered\ninteresting by the skill of the speaker.\n\nWith such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham and the\nofficers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; to the young\nladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a kind\nlistener in Mrs. Phillips, and was by her watchfulness, most abundantly\nsupplied with coffee and muffin. When the card-tables were placed, he\nhad the opportunity of obliging her in turn, by sitting down to whist.\n\n\"I know little of the game at present,\" said he, \"but I shall be glad\nto improve myself, for in my situation in life--\" Mrs. Phillips was very\nglad for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason.\n\nMr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he\nreceived at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there\nseemed danger of Lydia's engrossing him entirely, for she was a most\ndetermined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets,\nshe soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets\nand exclaiming after prizes to have attention for anyone in particular.\nAllowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore\nat leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear\nhim, though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be\ntold--the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not\neven mention that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly\nrelieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far\nNetherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in\na hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there.\n\n\"About a month,\" said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject\ndrop, added, \"He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I\nunderstand.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Mr. Wickham; \"his estate there is a noble one. A clear\nten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more\ncapable of giving you certain information on that head than myself, for\nI have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my\ninfancy.\"\n\nElizabeth could not but look surprised.\n\n\"You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after\nseeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting\nyesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?\"\n\n\"As much as I ever wish to be,\" cried Elizabeth very warmly. \"I have\nspent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very\ndisagreeable.\"\n\n\"I have no right to give _my_ opinion,\" said Wickham, \"as to his being\nagreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him\ntoo long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_\nto be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general\nastonish--and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly\nanywhere else. Here you are in your own family.\"\n\n\"Upon my word, I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in\nthe neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in\nHertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will not find\nhim more favourably spoken of by anyone.\"\n\n\"I cannot pretend to be sorry,\" said Wickham, after a short\ninterruption, \"that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond\ntheir deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The\nworld is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his\nhigh and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen.\"\n\n\"I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an\nill-tempered man.\" Wickham only shook his head.\n\n\"I wonder,\" said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, \"whether he is\nlikely to be in this country much longer.\"\n\n\"I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I\nwas at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will\nnot be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.\"\n\n\"Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_\nwishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms,\nand it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for\navoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim before all the world, a sense\nof very great ill-usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he\nis. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men\nthat ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never\nbe in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by\na thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been\nscandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and\neverything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the\nmemory of his father.\"\n\nElizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with\nall her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented further inquiry.\n\nMr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the\nneighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that\nhe had yet seen, and speaking of the latter with gentle but very\nintelligible gallantry.\n\n\"It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,\" he added,\n\"which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I knew it to be\na most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me\nfurther by his account of their present quarters, and the very great\nattentions and excellent acquaintances Meryton had procured them.\nSociety, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and\nmy spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society.\nA military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have\nnow made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I\nwas brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in\npossession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we\nwere speaking of just now.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\"\n\n\"Yes--the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best\nliving in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me.\nI cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply,\nand thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given\nelsewhere.\"\n\n\"Good heavens!\" cried Elizabeth; \"but how could _that_ be? How could his\nwill be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal redress?\"\n\n\"There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to\ngive me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the\nintention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it--or to treat it as a merely\nconditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim\nto it by extravagance, imprudence--in short anything or nothing. Certain\nit is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was\nof an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no\nless certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done\nanything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and\nI may have spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too freely. I can\nrecall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort\nof men, and that he hates me.\"\n\n\"This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.\"\n\n\"Some time or other he _will_ be--but it shall not be by _me_. Till I\ncan forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_.\"\n\nElizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than\never as he expressed them.\n\n\"But what,\" said she, after a pause, \"can have been his motive? What can\nhave induced him to behave so cruelly?\"\n\n\"A thorough, determined dislike of me--a dislike which I cannot but\nattribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me\nless, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon\nattachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early in life. He had\nnot a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort\nof preference which was often given me.\"\n\n\"I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked\nhim. I had not thought so very ill of him. I had supposed him to be\ndespising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of\ndescending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as\nthis.\"\n\nAfter a few minutes' reflection, however, she continued, \"I _do_\nremember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of\nhis resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition\nmust be dreadful.\"\n\n\"I will not trust myself on the subject,\" replied Wickham; \"I can hardly\nbe just to him.\"\n\nElizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, \"To\ntreat in such a manner the godson, the friend, the favourite of his\nfather!\" She could have added, \"A young man, too, like _you_, whose very\ncountenance may vouch for your being amiable\"--but she contented herself\nwith, \"and one, too, who had probably been his companion from childhood,\nconnected together, as I think you said, in the closest manner!\"\n\n\"We were born in the same parish, within the same park; the greatest\npart of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house,\nsharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _My_\nfather began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Phillips,\nappears to do so much credit to--but he gave up everything to be of\nuse to the late Mr. Darcy and devoted all his time to the care of the\nPemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most\nintimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to\nbe under the greatest obligations to my father's active superintendence,\nand when, immediately before my father's death, Mr. Darcy gave him a\nvoluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to\nbe as much a debt of gratitude to _him_, as of his affection to myself.\"\n\n\"How strange!\" cried Elizabeth. \"How abominable! I wonder that the very\npride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you! If from no better\nmotive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest--for\ndishonesty I must call it.\"\n\n\"It _is_ wonderful,\" replied Wickham, \"for almost all his actions may\nbe traced to pride; and pride had often been his best friend. It has\nconnected him nearer with virtue than with any other feeling. But we are\nnone of us consistent, and in his behaviour to me there were stronger\nimpulses even than pride.\"\n\n\"Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?\"\n\n\"Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give his money\nfreely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the\npoor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride--for he is very proud of what\nhis father was--have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family,\nto degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the\nPemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride,\nwhich, with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and\ncareful guardian of his sister, and you will hear him generally cried up\nas the most attentive and best of brothers.\"\n\n\"What sort of girl is Miss Darcy?\"\n\nHe shook his head. \"I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to\nspeak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother--very, very\nproud. As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond\nof me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is\nnothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen,\nand, I understand, highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her\nhome has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her\neducation.\"\n\nAfter many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not\nhelp reverting once more to the first, and saying:\n\n\"I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley,\nwho seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable,\nbe in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other? Do you\nknow Mr. Bingley?\"\n\n\"Not at all.\"\n\n\"He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr.\nDarcy is.\"\n\n\"Probably not; but Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not\nwant abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth\nhis while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is\na very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His\npride never deserts him; but with the rich he is liberal-minded, just,\nsincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable--allowing something\nfor fortune and figure.\"\n\nThe whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round\nthe other table and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin\nElizabeth and Mrs. Phillips. The usual inquiries as to his success was\nmade by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every\npoint; but when Mrs. Phillips began to express her concern thereupon,\nhe assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least\nimportance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged\nthat she would not make herself uneasy.\n\n\"I know very well, madam,\" said he, \"that when persons sit down to a\ncard-table, they must take their chances of these things, and happily I\nam not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There\nare undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady\nCatherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding\nlittle matters.\"\n\nMr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for\na few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation\nwas very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh.\n\n\"Lady Catherine de Bourgh,\" she replied, \"has very lately given him\na living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her\nnotice, but he certainly has not known her long.\"\n\n\"You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy\nwere sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's\nconnections. I never heard of her existence till the day before\nyesterday.\"\n\n\"Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is\nbelieved that she and her cousin will unite the two estates.\"\n\nThis information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss\nBingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her\naffection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already\nself-destined for another.\n\n\"Mr. Collins,\" said she, \"speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her\ndaughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship,\nI suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his\npatroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman.\"\n\n\"I believe her to be both in a great degree,\" replied Wickham; \"I have\nnot seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked\nher, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the\nreputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe\nshe derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from\nher authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride for her\nnephew, who chooses that everyone connected with him should have an\nunderstanding of the first class.\"\n\nElizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and\nthey continued talking together, with mutual satisfaction till supper\nput an end to cards, and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr.\nWickham's attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise\nof Mrs. Phillips's supper party, but his manners recommended him to\neverybody. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done\ngracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could\nthink of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all\nthe way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name\nas they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia\ntalked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the\nfish she had won; and Mr. Collins in describing the civility of Mr. and\nMrs. Phillips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses\nat whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing\nthat he crowded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage\nbefore the carriage stopped at Longbourn House.\n\n\n\nChapter 17\n\n\nElizabeth related to Jane the next day what had passed between Mr.\nWickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern; she\nknew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr.\nBingley's regard; and yet, it was not in her nature to question the\nveracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham. The\npossibility of his having endured such unkindness, was enough to\ninterest all her tender feelings; and nothing remained therefore to be\ndone, but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each,\nand throw into the account of accident or mistake whatever could not be\notherwise explained.\n\n\"They have both,\" said she, \"been deceived, I dare say, in some way\nor other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps\nmisrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to\nconjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them,\nwithout actual blame on either side.\"\n\n\"Very true, indeed; and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say on\nbehalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the\nbusiness? Do clear _them_ too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of\nsomebody.\"\n\n\"Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my\nopinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light\nit places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father's favourite in such\na manner, one whom his father had promised to provide for. It is\nimpossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his\ncharacter, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so\nexcessively deceived in him? Oh! no.\"\n\n\"I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley's being imposed on, than\nthat Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me\nlast night; names, facts, everything mentioned without ceremony. If it\nbe not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his\nlooks.\"\n\n\"It is difficult indeed--it is distressing. One does not know what to\nthink.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon; one knows exactly what to think.\"\n\nBut Jane could think with certainty on only one point--that Mr. Bingley,\nif he _had_ been imposed on, would have much to suffer when the affair\nbecame public.\n\nThe two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery, where this\nconversation passed, by the arrival of the very persons of whom they had\nbeen speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their personal\ninvitation for the long-expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed\nfor the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see their\ndear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and repeatedly\nasked what she had been doing with herself since their separation. To\nthe rest of the family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet\nas much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to\nthe others. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats with an\nactivity which took their brother by surprise, and hurrying off as if\neager to escape from Mrs. Bennet's civilities.\n\nThe prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every\nfemale of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in\ncompliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered\nby receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a\nceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the\nsociety of her two friends, and the attentions of her brother; and\nElizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr.\nWickham, and of seeing a confirmation of everything in Mr. Darcy's look\nand behavior. The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia depended\nless on any single event, or any particular person, for though they\neach, like Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham,\nhe was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a ball\nwas, at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her family that she\nhad no disinclination for it.\n\n\"While I can have my mornings to myself,\" said she, \"it is enough--I\nthink it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements.\nSociety has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those\nwho consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for\neverybody.\"\n\nElizabeth's spirits were so high on this occasion, that though she did\nnot often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not help asking\nhim whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley's invitation, and if\nhe did, whether he would think it proper to join in the evening's\namusement; and she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no\nscruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke\neither from the Archbishop, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to\ndance.\n\n\"I am by no means of the opinion, I assure you,\" said he, \"that a ball\nof this kind, given by a young man of character, to respectable people,\ncan have any evil tendency; and I am so far from objecting to dancing\nmyself, that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair\ncousins in the course of the evening; and I take this opportunity of\nsoliciting yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially,\na preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right\ncause, and not to any disrespect for her.\"\n\nElizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed being\nengaged by Mr. Wickham for those very dances; and to have Mr. Collins\ninstead! her liveliness had never been worse timed. There was no help\nfor it, however. Mr. Wickham's happiness and her own were perforce\ndelayed a little longer, and Mr. Collins's proposal accepted with as\ngood a grace as she could. She was not the better pleased with his\ngallantry from the idea it suggested of something more. It now first\nstruck her, that _she_ was selected from among her sisters as worthy\nof being mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a\nquadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible visitors.\nThe idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed his increasing\ncivilities toward herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a\ncompliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more astonished than\ngratified herself by this effect of her charms, it was not long before\nher mother gave her to understand that the probability of their marriage\nwas extremely agreeable to _her_. Elizabeth, however, did not choose\nto take the hint, being well aware that a serious dispute must be the\nconsequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and\ntill he did, it was useless to quarrel about him.\n\nIf there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the\nyounger Miss Bennets would have been in a very pitiable state at this\ntime, for from the day of the invitation, to the day of the ball, there\nwas such a succession of rain as prevented their walking to Meryton\nonce. No aunt, no officers, no news could be sought after--the very\nshoe-roses for Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have\nfound some trial of her patience in weather which totally suspended the\nimprovement of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than\na dance on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and\nMonday endurable to Kitty and Lydia.\n\n\n\nChapter 18\n\n\nTill Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in\nvain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a\ndoubt of his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty\nof meeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that\nmight not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than\nusual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all\nthat remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than\nmight be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose\nthe dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy's\npleasure in the Bingleys' invitation to the officers; and though\nthis was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was\npronounced by his friend Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and who\ntold them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business the\nday before, and was not yet returned; adding, with a significant smile,\n\"I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if\nhe had not wanted to avoid a certain gentleman here.\"\n\nThis part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by\nElizabeth, and, as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for\nWickham's absence than if her first surmise had been just, every\nfeeling of displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate\ndisappointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to\nthe polite inquiries which he directly afterwards approached to make.\nAttendance, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She\nwas resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned away\nwith a degree of ill-humour which she could not wholly surmount even in\nspeaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality provoked her.\n\nBut Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect\nof her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her\nspirits; and having told all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she had\nnot seen for a week, she was soon able to make a voluntary transition\nto the oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her particular\nnotice. The first two dances, however, brought a return of distress;\nthey were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn,\napologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without being\naware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a disagreeable\npartner for a couple of dances can give. The moment of her release from\nhim was ecstasy.\n\nShe danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of talking of\nWickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked. When those dances\nwere over, she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with\nher, when she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy who took\nher so much by surprise in his application for her hand, that,\nwithout knowing what she did, she accepted him. He walked away again\nimmediately, and she was left to fret over her own want of presence of\nmind; Charlotte tried to console her:\n\n\"I dare say you will find him very agreeable.\"\n\n\"Heaven forbid! _That_ would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find\na man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an\nevil.\"\n\nWhen the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her\nhand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her in a whisper, not to be a\nsimpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant\nin the eyes of a man ten times his consequence. Elizabeth made no\nanswer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which\nshe was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and\nreading in her neighbours' looks, their equal amazement in beholding\nit. They stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to\nimagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at\nfirst was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would\nbe the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made\nsome slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again\nsilent. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time\nwith:--\"It is _your_ turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked\nabout the dance, and _you_ ought to make some sort of remark on the size\nof the room, or the number of couples.\"\n\nHe smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be\nsaid.\n\n\"Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may\nobserve that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. But\n_now_ we may be silent.\"\n\n\"Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?\"\n\n\"Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be\nentirely silent for half an hour together; and yet for the advantage of\n_some_, conversation ought to be so arranged, as that they may have the\ntrouble of saying as little as possible.\"\n\n\"Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you\nimagine that you are gratifying mine?\"\n\n\"Both,\" replied Elizabeth archly; \"for I have always seen a great\nsimilarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial,\ntaciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say\nsomething that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to\nposterity with all the eclat of a proverb.\"\n\n\"This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,\"\nsaid he. \"How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot pretend to say. _You_\nthink it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.\"\n\n\"I must not decide on my own performance.\"\n\nHe made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone down\nthe dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often\nwalk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and, unable to resist\nthe temptation, added, \"When you met us there the other day, we had just\nbeen forming a new acquaintance.\"\n\nThe effect was immediate. A deeper shade of _hauteur_ overspread his\nfeatures, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though blaming herself\nfor her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a\nconstrained manner said, \"Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners\nas may ensure his _making_ friends--whether he may be equally capable of\n_retaining_ them, is less certain.\"\n\n\"He has been so unlucky as to lose _your_ friendship,\" replied Elizabeth\nwith emphasis, \"and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all\nhis life.\"\n\nDarcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the subject. At\nthat moment, Sir William Lucas appeared close to them, meaning to pass\nthrough the set to the other side of the room; but on perceiving Mr.\nDarcy, he stopped with a bow of superior courtesy to compliment him on\nhis dancing and his partner.\n\n\"I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear sir. Such very\nsuperior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong to the\nfirst circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not\ndisgrace you, and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated,\nespecially when a certain desirable event, my dear Eliza (glancing at\nher sister and Bingley) shall take place. What congratulations will then\nflow in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy:--but let me not interrupt you, sir. You\nwill not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that\nyoung lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.\"\n\nThe latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but Sir\nWilliam's allusion to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his\neyes were directed with a very serious expression towards Bingley and\nJane, who were dancing together. Recovering himself, however, shortly,\nhe turned to his partner, and said, \"Sir William's interruption has made\nme forget what we were talking of.\"\n\n\"I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have\ninterrupted two people in the room who had less to say for themselves.\nWe have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we\nare to talk of next I cannot imagine.\"\n\n\"What think you of books?\" said he, smiling.\n\n\"Books--oh! no. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same\nfeelings.\"\n\n\"I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be\nno want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.\"\n\n\"No--I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of\nsomething else.\"\n\n\"The _present_ always occupies you in such scenes--does it?\" said he,\nwith a look of doubt.\n\n\"Yes, always,\" she replied, without knowing what she said, for her\nthoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared\nby her suddenly exclaiming, \"I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy,\nthat you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was\nunappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its _being\ncreated_.\"\n\n\"I am,\" said he, with a firm voice.\n\n\"And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?\"\n\n\"I hope not.\"\n\n\"It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion,\nto be secure of judging properly at first.\"\n\n\"May I ask to what these questions tend?\"\n\n\"Merely to the illustration of _your_ character,\" said she, endeavouring\nto shake off her gravity. \"I am trying to make it out.\"\n\n\"And what is your success?\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"I do not get on at all. I hear such different\naccounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.\"\n\n\"I can readily believe,\" answered he gravely, \"that reports may vary\ngreatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were\nnot to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to\nfear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.\"\n\n\"But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another\nopportunity.\"\n\n\"I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,\" he coldly replied.\nShe said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in\nsilence; and on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree,\nfor in Darcy's breast there was a tolerable powerful feeling towards\nher, which soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against\nanother.\n\nThey had not long separated, when Miss Bingley came towards her, and\nwith an expression of civil disdain accosted her:\n\n\"So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George Wickham!\nYour sister has been talking to me about him, and asking me a thousand\nquestions; and I find that the young man quite forgot to tell you, among\nhis other communication, that he was the son of old Wickham, the late\nMr. Darcy's steward. Let me recommend you, however, as a friend, not to\ngive implicit confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr. Darcy's\nusing him ill, it is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he has\nalways been remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated\nMr. Darcy in a most infamous manner. I do not know the particulars, but\nI know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the least to blame, that he\ncannot bear to hear George Wickham mentioned, and that though my brother\nthought that he could not well avoid including him in his invitation to\nthe officers, he was excessively glad to find that he had taken himself\nout of the way. His coming into the country at all is a most insolent\nthing, indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you,\nMiss Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite's guilt; but really,\nconsidering his descent, one could not expect much better.\"\n\n\"His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be the same,\" said\nElizabeth angrily; \"for I have heard you accuse him of nothing worse\nthan of being the son of Mr. Darcy's steward, and of _that_, I can\nassure you, he informed me himself.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a sneer.\n\"Excuse my interference--it was kindly meant.\"\n\n\"Insolent girl!\" said Elizabeth to herself. \"You are much mistaken\nif you expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as this. I see\nnothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the malice of Mr.\nDarcy.\" She then sought her eldest sister, who has undertaken to make\ninquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane met her with a smile of\nsuch sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently\nmarked how well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the evening.\nElizabeth instantly read her feelings, and at that moment solicitude for\nWickham, resentment against his enemies, and everything else, gave way\nbefore the hope of Jane's being in the fairest way for happiness.\n\n\"I want to know,\" said she, with a countenance no less smiling than her\nsister's, \"what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But perhaps you have\nbeen too pleasantly engaged to think of any third person; in which case\nyou may be sure of my pardon.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Jane, \"I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing\nsatisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of\nhis history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which have\nprincipally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the good conduct,\nthe probity, and honour of his friend, and is perfectly convinced that\nMr. Wickham has deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he has\nreceived; and I am sorry to say by his account as well as his sister's,\nMr. Wickham is by no means a respectable young man. I am afraid he has\nbeen very imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy's regard.\"\n\n\"Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?\"\n\n\"No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.\"\n\n\"This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am\nsatisfied. But what does he say of the living?\"\n\n\"He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has heard\nthem from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it was left to\nhim _conditionally_ only.\"\n\n\"I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley's sincerity,\" said Elizabeth warmly;\n\"but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances only. Mr.\nBingley's defense of his friend was a very able one, I dare say; but\nsince he is unacquainted with several parts of the story, and has learnt\nthe rest from that friend himself, I shall venture to still think of\nboth gentlemen as I did before.\"\n\nShe then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each, and on\nwhich there could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth listened with\ndelight to the happy, though modest hopes which Jane entertained of Mr.\nBingley's regard, and said all in her power to heighten her confidence\nin it. On their being joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew\nto Miss Lucas; to whose inquiry after the pleasantness of her last\npartner she had scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them,\nand told her with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as\nto make a most important discovery.\n\n\"I have found out,\" said he, \"by a singular accident, that there is now\nin the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to overhear the\ngentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who does the honours of\nthe house the names of his cousin Miss de Bourgh, and of her mother Lady\nCatherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would have\nthought of my meeting with, perhaps, a nephew of Lady Catherine de\nBourgh in this assembly! I am most thankful that the discovery is made\nin time for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to\ndo, and trust he will excuse my not having done it before. My total\nignorance of the connection must plead my apology.\"\n\n\"You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy!\"\n\n\"Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it earlier.\nI believe him to be Lady Catherine's _nephew_. It will be in my power to\nassure him that her ladyship was quite well yesterday se'nnight.\"\n\nElizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme, assuring him\nthat Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without introduction\nas an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment to his aunt; that\nit was not in the least necessary there should be any notice on either\nside; and that if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in\nconsequence, to begin the acquaintance. Mr. Collins listened to her\nwith the determined air of following his own inclination, and, when she\nceased speaking, replied thus:\n\n\"My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world in\nyour excellent judgement in all matters within the scope of your\nunderstanding; but permit me to say, that there must be a wide\ndifference between the established forms of ceremony amongst the laity,\nand those which regulate the clergy; for, give me leave to observe that\nI consider the clerical office as equal in point of dignity with\nthe highest rank in the kingdom--provided that a proper humility of\nbehaviour is at the same time maintained. You must therefore allow me to\nfollow the dictates of my conscience on this occasion, which leads me to\nperform what I look on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to\nprofit by your advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant\nguide, though in the case before us I consider myself more fitted by\neducation and habitual study to decide on what is right than a young\nlady like yourself.\" And with a low bow he left her to attack Mr.\nDarcy, whose reception of his advances she eagerly watched, and whose\nastonishment at being so addressed was very evident. Her cousin prefaced\nhis speech with a solemn bow and though she could not hear a word of\nit, she felt as if hearing it all, and saw in the motion of his lips the\nwords \"apology,\" \"Hunsford,\" and \"Lady Catherine de Bourgh.\" It vexed\nher to see him expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him\nwith unrestrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him time\nto speak, replied with an air of distant civility. Mr. Collins, however,\nwas not discouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy's contempt seemed\nabundantly increasing with the length of his second speech, and at the\nend of it he only made him a slight bow, and moved another way. Mr.\nCollins then returned to Elizabeth.\n\n\"I have no reason, I assure you,\" said he, \"to be dissatisfied with my\nreception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the attention. He answered\nme with the utmost civility, and even paid me the compliment of saying\nthat he was so well convinced of Lady Catherine's discernment as to be\ncertain she could never bestow a favour unworthily. It was really a very\nhandsome thought. Upon the whole, I am much pleased with him.\"\n\nAs Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she turned\nher attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley; and the\ntrain of agreeable reflections which her observations gave birth to,\nmade her perhaps almost as happy as Jane. She saw her in idea settled in\nthat very house, in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection\ncould bestow; and she felt capable, under such circumstances, of\nendeavouring even to like Bingley's two sisters. Her mother's thoughts\nshe plainly saw were bent the same way, and she determined not to\nventure near her, lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to\nsupper, therefore, she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which\nplaced them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to find\nthat her mother was talking to that one person (Lady Lucas) freely,\nopenly, and of nothing else but her expectation that Jane would soon\nbe married to Mr. Bingley. It was an animating subject, and Mrs. Bennet\nseemed incapable of fatigue while enumerating the advantages of the\nmatch. His being such a charming young man, and so rich, and living but\nthree miles from them, were the first points of self-gratulation; and\nthen it was such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of\nJane, and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as\nshe could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her younger\ndaughters, as Jane's marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of\nother rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at her time of life to be\nable to consign her single daughters to the care of their sister, that\nshe might not be obliged to go into company more than she liked. It was\nnecessary to make this circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on\nsuch occasions it is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs.\nBennet to find comfort in staying home at any period of her life. She\nconcluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be equally\nfortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing there was no\nchance of it.\n\nIn vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her mother's\nwords, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible\nwhisper; for, to her inexpressible vexation, she could perceive that the\nchief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to them. Her\nmother only scolded her for being nonsensical.\n\n\"What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am\nsure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say\nnothing _he_ may not like to hear.\"\n\n\"For heaven's sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be for you\nto offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to his friend by\nso doing!\"\n\nNothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her mother would\ntalk of her views in the same intelligible tone. Elizabeth blushed and\nblushed again with shame and vexation. She could not help frequently\nglancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though every glance convinced her of what\nshe dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her mother, she was\nconvinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression\nof his face changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and\nsteady gravity.\n\nAt length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady Lucas, who\nhad been long yawning at the repetition of delights which she saw no\nlikelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts of cold ham and\nchicken. Elizabeth now began to revive. But not long was the interval of\ntranquillity; for, when supper was over, singing was talked of, and\nshe had the mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty,\npreparing to oblige the company. By many significant looks and silent\nentreaties, did she endeavour to prevent such a proof of complaisance,\nbut in vain; Mary would not understand them; such an opportunity of\nexhibiting was delightful to her, and she began her song. Elizabeth's\neyes were fixed on her with most painful sensations, and she watched her\nprogress through the several stanzas with an impatience which was very\nill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving, amongst the thanks\nof the table, the hint of a hope that she might be prevailed on to\nfavour them again, after the pause of half a minute began another.\nMary's powers were by no means fitted for such a display; her voice was\nweak, and her manner affected. Elizabeth was in agonies. She looked at\nJane, to see how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly talking to\nBingley. She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making signs\nof derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued, however,\nimperturbably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his\ninterference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the hint,\nand when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud, \"That will do\nextremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough. Let the other\nyoung ladies have time to exhibit.\"\n\nMary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted; and\nElizabeth, sorry for her, and sorry for her father's speech, was afraid\nher anxiety had done no good. Others of the party were now applied to.\n\n\"If I,\" said Mr. Collins, \"were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I\nshould have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an\nair; for I consider music as a very innocent diversion, and perfectly\ncompatible with the profession of a clergyman. I do not mean, however,\nto assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time\nto music, for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The\nrector of a parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make\nsuch an agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not\noffensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time\nthat remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care\nand improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making\nas comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light importance\nthat he should have attentive and conciliatory manner towards everybody,\nespecially towards those to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit\nhim of that duty; nor could I think well of the man who should omit an\noccasion of testifying his respect towards anybody connected with the\nfamily.\" And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech, which had\nbeen spoken so loud as to be heard by half the room. Many stared--many\nsmiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr. Bennet himself, while his\nwife seriously commended Mr. Collins for having spoken so sensibly,\nand observed in a half-whisper to Lady Lucas, that he was a remarkably\nclever, good kind of young man.\n\nTo Elizabeth it appeared that, had her family made an agreement to\nexpose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it would\nhave been impossible for them to play their parts with more spirit or\nfiner success; and happy did she think it for Bingley and her sister\nthat some of the exhibition had escaped his notice, and that his\nfeelings were not of a sort to be much distressed by the folly which he\nmust have witnessed. That his two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should\nhave such an opportunity of ridiculing her relations, was bad enough,\nand she could not determine whether the silent contempt of the\ngentleman, or the insolent smiles of the ladies, were more intolerable.\n\nThe rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was teased by\nMr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her side, and though\nhe could not prevail on her to dance with him again, put it out of her\npower to dance with others. In vain did she entreat him to stand up with\nsomebody else, and offer to introduce him to any young lady in the room.\nHe assured her, that as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to it;\nthat his chief object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to\nher and that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her\nthe whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. She owed\nher greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often joined them, and\ngood-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins's conversation to herself.\n\nShe was at least free from the offense of Mr. Darcy's further notice;\nthough often standing within a very short distance of her, quite\ndisengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She felt it to be the\nprobable consequence of her allusions to Mr. Wickham, and rejoiced in\nit.\n\nThe Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart, and, by\na manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet, had to wait for their carriage a quarter of\nan hour after everybody else was gone, which gave them time to see how\nheartily they were wished away by some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her\nsister scarcely opened their mouths, except to complain of fatigue, and\nwere evidently impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed\nevery attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by so doing threw a\nlanguor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by the\nlong speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr. Bingley and his\nsisters on the elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and\npoliteness which had marked their behaviour to their guests. Darcy said\nnothing at all. Mr. Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene.\nMr. Bingley and Jane were standing together, a little detached from the\nrest, and talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a\nsilence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was too\nmuch fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of \"Lord,\nhow tired I am!\" accompanied by a violent yawn.\n\nWhen at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly\ncivil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn, and\naddressed herself especially to Mr. Bingley, to assure him how happy he\nwould make them by eating a family dinner with them at any time, without\nthe ceremony of a formal invitation. Bingley was all grateful pleasure,\nand he readily engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on\nher, after his return from London, whither he was obliged to go the next\nday for a short time.\n\nMrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied, and quitted the house under the\ndelightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary preparations of\nsettlements, new carriages, and wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly\nsee her daughter settled at Netherfield in the course of three or four\nmonths. Of having another daughter married to Mr. Collins, she thought\nwith equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal, pleasure.\nElizabeth was the least dear to her of all her children; and though the\nman and the match were quite good enough for _her_, the worth of each\nwas eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.\n\n\n\nChapter 19\n\n\nThe next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his\ndeclaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of time, as\nhis leave of absence extended only to the following Saturday, and having\nno feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at\nthe moment, he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all the\nobservances, which he supposed a regular part of the business. On\nfinding Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together,\nsoon after breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words:\n\n\"May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth,\nwhen I solicit for the honour of a private audience with her in the\ncourse of this morning?\"\n\nBefore Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise, Mrs.\nBennet answered instantly, \"Oh dear!--yes--certainly. I am sure Lizzy\nwill be very happy--I am sure she can have no objection. Come, Kitty, I\nwant you upstairs.\" And, gathering her work together, she was hastening\naway, when Elizabeth called out:\n\n\"Dear madam, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must excuse\nme. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not hear. I am\ngoing away myself.\"\n\n\"No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you to stay where you are.\" And upon\nElizabeth's seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about to\nescape, she added: \"Lizzy, I _insist_ upon your staying and hearing Mr.\nCollins.\"\n\nElizabeth would not oppose such an injunction--and a moment's\nconsideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to get it\nover as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down again and tried to\nconceal, by incessant employment the feelings which were divided between\ndistress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as soon as\nthey were gone, Mr. Collins began.\n\n\"Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from\ndoing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You\nwould have been less amiable in my eyes had there _not_ been this little\nunwillingness; but allow me to assure you, that I have your respected\nmother's permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the\npurport of my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to\ndissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as\nsoon as I entered the house, I singled you out as the companion of\nmy future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this\nsubject, perhaps it would be advisable for me to state my reasons for\nmarrying--and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with the design\nof selecting a wife, as I certainly did.\"\n\nThe idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run away\nwith by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing, that she could\nnot use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him further,\nand he continued:\n\n\"My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for\nevery clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example\nof matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am convinced that it will\nadd very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly--which perhaps I ought\nto have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and\nrecommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling\npatroness. Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked\ntoo!) on this subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I\nleft Hunsford--between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was\narranging Miss de Bourgh's footstool, that she said, 'Mr. Collins, you\nmust marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose\na gentlewoman for _my_ sake; and for your _own_, let her be an active,\nuseful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small\nincome go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as\nyou can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.' Allow me, by the\nway, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice\nand kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the\nadvantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond\nanything I can describe; and your wit and vivacity, I think, must be\nacceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and\nrespect which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general\nintention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my views\nwere directed towards Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I\ncan assure you there are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that\nbeing, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honoured\nfather (who, however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy\nmyself without resolving to choose a wife from among his daughters, that\nthe loss to them might be as little as possible, when the melancholy\nevent takes place--which, however, as I have already said, may not\nbe for several years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and\nI flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And now nothing\nremains for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the\nviolence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and\nshall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well\naware that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds\nin the four per cents, which will not be yours till after your mother's\ndecease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head,\ntherefore, I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure yourself that\nno ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married.\"\n\nIt was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.\n\n\"You are too hasty, sir,\" she cried. \"You forget that I have made no\nanswer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my thanks for\nthe compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour of\nyour proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than to\ndecline them.\"\n\n\"I am not now to learn,\" replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the\nhand, \"that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the\nman whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their\nfavour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second, or even a\nthird time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just\nsaid, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.\"\n\n\"Upon my word, sir,\" cried Elizabeth, \"your hope is a rather\nextraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not\none of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so\ndaring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second\ntime. I am perfectly serious in my refusal. You could not make _me_\nhappy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who\ncould make you so. Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I\nam persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the\nsituation.\"\n\n\"Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,\" said Mr. Collins\nvery gravely--\"but I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all\ndisapprove of you. And you may be certain when I have the honour of\nseeing her again, I shall speak in the very highest terms of your\nmodesty, economy, and other amiable qualification.\"\n\n\"Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You\nmust give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment\nof believing what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by\nrefusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise.\nIn making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your\nfeelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn\nestate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach. This matter may\nbe considered, therefore, as finally settled.\" And rising as she\nthus spoke, she would have quitted the room, had Mr. Collins not thus\naddressed her:\n\n\"When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the subject, I\nshall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given\nme; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present, because I\nknow it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on\nthe first application, and perhaps you have even now said as much to\nencourage my suit as would be consistent with the true delicacy of the\nfemale character.\"\n\n\"Really, Mr. Collins,\" cried Elizabeth with some warmth, \"you puzzle me\nexceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form\nof encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as\nto convince you of its being one.\"\n\n\"You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your\nrefusal of my addresses is merely words of course. My reasons for\nbelieving it are briefly these: It does not appear to me that my hand is\nunworthy your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer would\nbe any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections\nwith the family of de Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are\ncircumstances highly in my favour; and you should take it into further\nconsideration, that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no\nmeans certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you. Your\nportion is unhappily so small that it will in all likelihood undo\nthe effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must\ntherefore conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me,\nI shall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by\nsuspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females.\"\n\n\"I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to that kind\nof elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I would\nrather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere. I thank you\nagain and again for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but\nto accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect\nforbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant\nfemale, intending to plague you, but as a rational creature, speaking\nthe truth from her heart.\"\n\n\"You are uniformly charming!\" cried he, with an air of awkward\ngallantry; \"and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the express\nauthority of both your excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of\nbeing acceptable.\"\n\nTo such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would make\nno reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, if\nhe persisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering\nencouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered\nin such a manner as to be decisive, and whose behavior at least could\nnot be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.\n\n\n\nChapter 20\n\n\nMr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his\nsuccessful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule\nto watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open\nthe door and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she\nentered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and herself in\nwarm terms on the happy prospect or their nearer connection. Mr. Collins\nreceived and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then\nproceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result\nof which he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the\nrefusal which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow\nfrom her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her character.\n\nThis information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet; she would have been\nglad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage\nhim by protesting against his proposals, but she dared not believe it,\nand could not help saying so.\n\n\"But, depend upon it, Mr. Collins,\" she added, \"that Lizzy shall be\nbrought to reason. I will speak to her about it directly. She is a very\nheadstrong, foolish girl, and does not know her own interest but I will\n_make_ her know it.\"\n\n\"Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,\" cried Mr. Collins; \"but if\nshe is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would\naltogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who\nnaturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If therefore she\nactually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not\nto force her into accepting me, because if liable to such defects of\ntemper, she could not contribute much to my felicity.\"\n\n\"Sir, you quite misunderstand me,\" said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. \"Lizzy is\nonly headstrong in such matters as these. In everything else she is as\ngood-natured a girl as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and\nwe shall very soon settle it with her, I am sure.\"\n\nShe would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her\nhusband, called out as she entered the library, \"Oh! Mr. Bennet, you\nare wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You must come and make\nLizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him, and if you\ndo not make haste he will change his mind and not have _her_.\"\n\nMr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them\non her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the least altered by\nher communication.\n\n\"I have not the pleasure of understanding you,\" said he, when she had\nfinished her speech. \"Of what are you talking?\"\n\n\"Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins,\nand Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy.\"\n\n\"And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems an hopeless business.\"\n\n\"Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her\nmarrying him.\"\n\n\"Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the\nlibrary.\n\n\"Come here, child,\" cried her father as she appeared. \"I have sent for\nyou on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made\nyou an offer of marriage. Is it true?\" Elizabeth replied that it was.\n\"Very well--and this offer of marriage you have refused?\"\n\n\"I have, sir.\"\n\n\"Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your\naccepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?\"\n\n\"Yes, or I will never see her again.\"\n\n\"An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must\nbe a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you\nagain if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again\nif you _do_.\"\n\nElizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning,\nbut Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the\naffair as she wished, was excessively disappointed.\n\n\"What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, in talking this way? You promised me to\n_insist_ upon her marrying him.\"\n\n\"My dear,\" replied her husband, \"I have two small favours to request.\nFirst, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the\npresent occasion; and secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the\nlibrary to myself as soon as may be.\"\n\nNot yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did\nMrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again;\ncoaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane\nin her interest; but Jane, with all possible mildness, declined\ninterfering; and Elizabeth, sometimes with real earnestness, and\nsometimes with playful gaiety, replied to her attacks. Though her manner\nvaried, however, her determination never did.\n\nMr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed.\nHe thought too well of himself to comprehend on what motives his cousin\ncould refuse him; and though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other\nway. His regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her\ndeserving her mother's reproach prevented his feeling any regret.\n\nWhile the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend\nthe day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to\nher, cried in a half whisper, \"I am glad you are come, for there is such\nfun here! What do you think has happened this morning? Mr. Collins has\nmade an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him.\"\n\nCharlotte hardly had time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty,\nwho came to tell the same news; and no sooner had they entered the\nbreakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on\nthe subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating\nher to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her\nfamily. \"Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,\" she added in a melancholy tone,\n\"for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me. I am cruelly used,\nnobody feels for my poor nerves.\"\n\nCharlotte's reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth.\n\n\"Aye, there she comes,\" continued Mrs. Bennet, \"looking as unconcerned\nas may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided\nshe can have her own way. But I tell you, Miss Lizzy--if you take it\ninto your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way,\nyou will never get a husband at all--and I am sure I do not know who is\nto maintain you when your father is dead. I shall not be able to keep\nyou--and so I warn you. I have done with you from this very day. I told\nyou in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you again,\nand you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking\nto undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in talking\nto anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have\nno great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it\nis always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied.\"\n\nHer daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that\nany attempt to reason with her or soothe her would only increase the\nirritation. She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of\nthem, till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered the room with\nan air more stately than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to\nthe girls, \"Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold\nyour tongues, and let me and Mr. Collins have a little conversation\ntogether.\"\n\nElizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but\nLydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte,\ndetained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after\nherself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little\ncuriosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending\nnot to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet began the projected\nconversation: \"Oh! Mr. Collins!\"\n\n\"My dear madam,\" replied he, \"let us be for ever silent on this point.\nFar be it from me,\" he presently continued, in a voice that marked his\ndispleasure, \"to resent the behaviour of your daughter. Resignation\nto inevitable evils is the evil duty of us all; the peculiar duty of a\nyoung man who has been so fortunate as I have been in early preferment;\nand I trust I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt\nof my positive happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with her hand;\nfor I have often observed that resignation is never so perfect as\nwhen the blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our\nestimation. You will not, I hope, consider me as showing any disrespect\nto your family, my dear madam, by thus withdrawing my pretensions to\nyour daughter's favour, without having paid yourself and Mr. Bennet the\ncompliment of requesting you to interpose your authority in my\nbehalf. My conduct may, I fear, be objectionable in having accepted my\ndismission from your daughter's lips instead of your own. But we are all\nliable to error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair.\nMy object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with due\nconsideration for the advantage of all your family, and if my _manner_\nhas been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to apologise.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 21\n\n\nThe discussion of Mr. Collins's offer was now nearly at an end, and\nElizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings necessarily\nattending it, and occasionally from some peevish allusions of her\nmother. As for the gentleman himself, _his_ feelings were chiefly\nexpressed, not by embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid her,\nbut by stiffness of manner and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke\nto her, and the assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of\nhimself were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose\ncivility in listening to him was a seasonable relief to them all, and\nespecially to her friend.\n\nThe morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet's ill-humour or ill\nhealth. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth\nhad hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did\nnot appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on\nSaturday, and to Saturday he meant to stay.\n\nAfter breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to inquire if Mr. Wickham\nwere returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball.\nHe joined them on their entering the town, and attended them to their\naunt's where his regret and vexation, and the concern of everybody, was\nwell talked over. To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged\nthat the necessity of his absence _had_ been self-imposed.\n\n\"I found,\" said he, \"as the time drew near that I had better not meet\nMr. Darcy; that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so\nmany hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes\nmight arise unpleasant to more than myself.\"\n\nShe highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a full\ndiscussion of it, and for all the commendation which they civilly\nbestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with\nthem to Longbourn, and during the walk he particularly attended to\nher. His accompanying them was a double advantage; she felt all the\ncompliment it offered to herself, and it was most acceptable as an\noccasion of introducing him to her father and mother.\n\nSoon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came\nfrom Netherfield. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little,\nhot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady's fair, flowing hand; and\nElizabeth saw her sister's countenance change as she read it, and saw\nher dwelling intently on some particular passages. Jane recollected\nherself soon, and putting the letter away, tried to join with her usual\ncheerfulness in the general conversation; but Elizabeth felt an anxiety\non the subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no\nsooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from Jane\ninvited her to follow her upstairs. When they had gained their own room,\nJane, taking out the letter, said:\n\n\"This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains has surprised me a good\ndeal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on\ntheir way to town--and without any intention of coming back again. You\nshall hear what she says.\"\n\nShe then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information\nof their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly,\nand of their meaning to dine in Grosvenor Street, where Mr. Hurst had a\nhouse. The next was in these words: \"I do not pretend to regret anything\nI shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend;\nbut we will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many returns of that\ndelightful intercourse we have known, and in the meanwhile may\nlessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most unreserved\ncorrespondence. I depend on you for that.\" To these highflown\nexpressions Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of distrust;\nand though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she saw\nnothing in it really to lament; it was not to be supposed that their\nabsence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bingley's being there; and as\nto the loss of their society, she was persuaded that Jane must cease to\nregard it, in the enjoyment of his.\n\n\"It is unlucky,\" said she, after a short pause, \"that you should not be\nable to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not\nhope that the period of future happiness to which Miss Bingley looks\nforward may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful\nintercourse you have known as friends will be renewed with yet greater\nsatisfaction as sisters? Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by\nthem.\"\n\n\"Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into\nHertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you:\"\n\n\"When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which\ntook him to London might be concluded in three or four days; but as we\nare certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when\nCharles gets to town he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have\ndetermined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend\nhis vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintances are\nalready there for the winter; I wish that I could hear that you, my\ndearest friend, had any intention of making one of the crowd--but of\nthat I despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may\nabound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your\nbeaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the\nthree of whom we shall deprive you.\"\n\n\"It is evident by this,\" added Jane, \"that he comes back no more this\nwinter.\"\n\n\"It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean that he _should_.\"\n\n\"Why will you think so? It must be his own doing. He is his own\nmaster. But you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage which\nparticularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_.\"\n\n\"Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister; and, to confess the truth,\n_we_ are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think\nGeorgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments;\nand the affection she inspires in Louisa and myself is heightened into\nsomething still more interesting, from the hope we dare entertain of\nher being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before\nmentioned to you my feelings on this subject; but I will not leave the\ncountry without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them\nunreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already; he will have\nfrequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing;\nher relations all wish the connection as much as his own; and a sister's\npartiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most\ncapable of engaging any woman's heart. With all these circumstances to\nfavour an attachment, and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest\nJane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness\nof so many?\"\n\n\"What do you think of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?\" said Jane as she\nfinished it. \"Is it not clear enough? Does it not expressly declare that\nCaroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she is\nperfectly convinced of her brother's indifference; and that if she\nsuspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to\nput me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?\"\n\n\"Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear it?\"\n\n\"Most willingly.\"\n\n\"You shall have it in a few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is\nin love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him\nto town in hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he\ndoes not care about you.\"\n\nJane shook her head.\n\n\"Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. No one who has ever seen you\ntogether can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley, I am sure, cannot. She\nis not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr.\nDarcy for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the\ncase is this: We are not rich enough or grand enough for them; and she\nis the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion\nthat when there has been _one_ intermarriage, she may have less trouble\nin achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and\nI dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But,\nmy dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley\ntells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest\ndegree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on\nTuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that, instead\nof being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend.\"\n\n\"If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,\" replied Jane, \"your\nrepresentation of all this might make me quite easy. But I know the\nfoundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving\nanyone; and all that I can hope in this case is that she is deceiving\nherself.\"\n\n\"That is right. You could not have started a more happy idea, since you\nwill not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived, by all means.\nYou have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer.\"\n\n\"But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in\naccepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry\nelsewhere?\"\n\n\"You must decide for yourself,\" said Elizabeth; \"and if, upon mature\ndeliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is\nmore than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by\nall means to refuse him.\"\n\n\"How can you talk so?\" said Jane, faintly smiling. \"You must know that\nthough I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could\nnot hesitate.\"\n\n\"I did not think you would; and that being the case, I cannot consider\nyour situation with much compassion.\"\n\n\"But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be\nrequired. A thousand things may arise in six months!\"\n\nThe idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost\ncontempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's\ninterested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those\nwishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man\nso totally independent of everyone.\n\nShe represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt\non the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect.\nJane's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope,\nthough the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that\nBingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart.\n\nThey agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the\nfamily, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct;\nbut even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern,\nand she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen\nto go away just as they were all getting so intimate together. After\nlamenting it, however, at some length, she had the consolation that Mr.\nBingley would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the\nconclusion of all was the comfortable declaration, that though he had\nbeen invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two\nfull courses.\n\n\n\nChapter 22\n\n\nThe Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases and again during the\nchief of the day was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins.\nElizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. \"It keeps him in good\nhumour,\" said she, \"and I am more obliged to you than I can express.\"\nCharlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and\nthat it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was\nvery amiable, but Charlotte's kindness extended farther than Elizabeth\nhad any conception of; its object was nothing else than to secure her\nfrom any return of Mr. Collins's addresses, by engaging them towards\nherself. Such was Miss Lucas's scheme; and appearances were so\nfavourable, that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost\nsecure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very\nsoon. But here she did injustice to the fire and independence of his\ncharacter, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next\nmorning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw\nhimself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins,\nfrom a conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to\nconjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known\ntill its success might be known likewise; for though feeling almost\nsecure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging,\nhe was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday.\nHis reception, however, was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas\nperceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and\ninstantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had\nshe dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there.\n\nIn as short a time as Mr. Collins's long speeches would allow,\neverything was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as\nthey entered the house he earnestly entreated her to name the day that\nwas to make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must\nbe waived for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with\nhis happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature must\nguard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its\ncontinuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure\nand disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that\nestablishment were gained.\n\nSir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent;\nand it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins's present\ncircumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom\nthey could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were\nexceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate, with more\ninterest than the matter had ever excited before, how many years longer\nMr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided\nopinion, that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the\nLongbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife\nshould make their appearance at St. James's. The whole family, in short,\nwere properly overjoyed on the occasion. The younger girls formed hopes\nof _coming out_ a year or two sooner than they might otherwise have\ndone; and the boys were relieved from their apprehension of Charlotte's\ndying an old maid. Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had\ngained her point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were\nin general satisfactory. Mr. Collins, to be sure, was neither sensible\nnor agreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must\nbe imaginary. But still he would be her husband. Without thinking highly\neither of men or matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it was\nthe only provision for well-educated young women of small fortune,\nand however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest\npreservative from want. This preservative she had now obtained; and at\nthe age of twenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, she felt all\nthe good luck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business\nwas the surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship\nshe valued beyond that of any other person. Elizabeth would wonder,\nand probably would blame her; and though her resolution was not to be\nshaken, her feelings must be hurt by such a disapprobation. She resolved\nto give her the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins,\nwhen he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had\npassed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very\ndutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the\ncuriosity excited by his long absence burst forth in such very direct\nquestions on his return as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was\nat the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to\npublish his prosperous love.\n\nAs he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the\nfamily, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved\nfor the night; and Mrs. Bennet, with great politeness and cordiality,\nsaid how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever\nhis engagements might allow him to visit them.\n\n\"My dear madam,\" he replied, \"this invitation is particularly\ngratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and\nyou may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as\npossible.\"\n\nThey were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for\nso speedy a return, immediately said:\n\n\"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my\ngood sir? You had better neglect your relations than run the risk of\noffending your patroness.\"\n\n\"My dear sir,\" replied Mr. Collins, \"I am particularly obliged to you\nfor this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so\nmaterial a step without her ladyship's concurrence.\"\n\n\"You cannot be too much upon your guard. Risk anything rather than her\ndispleasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us\nagain, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home,\nand be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence.\"\n\n\"Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such\naffectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive\nfrom me a letter of thanks for this, and for every other mark of your\nregard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, though\nmy absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now\ntake the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my\ncousin Elizabeth.\"\n\nWith proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally\nsurprised that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to\nunderstand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her\nyounger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him.\nShe rated his abilities much higher than any of the others; there was\na solidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though by no\nmeans so clever as herself, she thought that if encouraged to read\nand improve himself by such an example as hers, he might become a very\nagreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of this\nkind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a\nprivate conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before.\n\nThe possibility of Mr. Collins's fancying himself in love with her\nfriend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two; but\nthat Charlotte could encourage him seemed almost as far from\npossibility as she could encourage him herself, and her astonishment was\nconsequently so great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and\nshe could not help crying out:\n\n\"Engaged to Mr. Collins! My dear Charlotte--impossible!\"\n\nThe steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her\nstory, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a\nreproach; though, as it was no more than she expected, she soon regained\nher composure, and calmly replied:\n\n\"Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you think it incredible\nthat Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman's good opinion,\nbecause he was not so happy as to succeed with you?\"\n\nBut Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong effort\nfor it, was able to assure with tolerable firmness that the prospect of\ntheir relationship was highly grateful to her, and that she wished her\nall imaginable happiness.\n\n\"I see what you are feeling,\" replied Charlotte. \"You must be surprised,\nvery much surprised--so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to marry\nyou. But when you have had time to think it over, I hope you will be\nsatisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic, you know; I never\nwas. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins's\ncharacter, connection, and situation in life, I am convinced that my\nchance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on\nentering the marriage state.\"\n\nElizabeth quietly answered \"Undoubtedly;\" and after an awkward pause,\nthey returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not stay much\nlonger, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard.\nIt was a long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so\nunsuitable a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins's making two offers\nof marriage within three days was nothing in comparison of his being now\naccepted. She had always felt that Charlotte's opinion of matrimony was\nnot exactly like her own, but she had not supposed it to be possible\nthat, when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better\nfeeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins was a\nmost humiliating picture! And to the pang of a friend disgracing herself\nand sunk in her esteem, was added the distressing conviction that it\nwas impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot she had\nchosen.\n\n\n\nChapter 23\n\n\nElizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what\nshe had heard, and doubting whether she was authorised to mention\nit, when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter, to\nannounce her engagement to the family. With many compliments to them,\nand much self-gratulation on the prospect of a connection between the\nhouses, he unfolded the matter--to an audience not merely wondering, but\nincredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than politeness,\nprotested he must be entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always unguarded and\noften uncivil, boisterously exclaimed:\n\n\"Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? Do not you know\nthat Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?\"\n\nNothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne\nwithout anger such treatment; but Sir William's good breeding carried\nhim through it all; and though he begged leave to be positive as to the\ntruth of his information, he listened to all their impertinence with the\nmost forbearing courtesy.\n\nElizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so unpleasant\na situation, now put herself forward to confirm his account, by\nmentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte herself; and\nendeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her mother and sisters\nby the earnestness of her congratulations to Sir William, in which she\nwas readily joined by Jane, and by making a variety of remarks on the\nhappiness that might be expected from the match, the excellent character\nof Mr. Collins, and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London.\n\nMrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a great deal while\nSir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than her feelings\nfound a rapid vent. In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving\nthe whole of the matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins\nhad been taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be\nhappy together; and fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two\ninferences, however, were plainly deduced from the whole: one, that\nElizabeth was the real cause of the mischief; and the other that she\nherself had been barbarously misused by them all; and on these two\npoints she principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could\nconsole and nothing could appease her. Nor did that day wear out her\nresentment. A week elapsed before she could see Elizabeth without\nscolding her, a month passed away before she could speak to Sir William\nor Lady Lucas without being rude, and many months were gone before she\ncould at all forgive their daughter.\n\nMr. Bennet's emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion, and such\nas he did experience he pronounced to be of a most agreeable sort; for\nit gratified him, he said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had\nbeen used to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and\nmore foolish than his daughter!\n\nJane confessed herself a little surprised at the match; but she said\nless of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for their happiness;\nnor could Elizabeth persuade her to consider it as improbable. Kitty\nand Lydia were far from envying Miss Lucas, for Mr. Collins was only a\nclergyman; and it affected them in no other way than as a piece of news\nto spread at Meryton.\n\nLady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to retort\non Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well married; and she\ncalled at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to say how happy she was,\nthough Mrs. Bennet's sour looks and ill-natured remarks might have been\nenough to drive happiness away.\n\nBetween Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept them\nmutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded that\nno real confidence could ever subsist between them again. Her\ndisappointment in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her\nsister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her opinion could\nnever be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious,\nas Bingley had now been gone a week and nothing more was heard of his\nreturn.\n\nJane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting\nthe days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised\nletter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to\ntheir father, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a\ntwelvemonth's abode in the family might have prompted. After discharging\nhis conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them, with many\nrapturous expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection\nof their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was\nmerely with the view of enjoying her society that he had been so ready\nto close with their kind wish of seeing him again at Longbourn, whither\nhe hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; for Lady Catherine,\nhe added, so heartily approved his marriage, that she wished it to take\nplace as soon as possible, which he trusted would be an unanswerable\nargument with his amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him\nthe happiest of men.\n\nMr. Collins's return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of\npleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary, she was as much disposed to\ncomplain of it as her husband. It was very strange that he should come\nto Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient\nand exceedingly troublesome. She hated having visitors in the house\nwhile her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the\nmost disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and\nthey gave way only to the greater distress of Mr. Bingley's continued\nabsence.\n\nNeither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day after\nday passed away without bringing any other tidings of him than the\nreport which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming no more to\nNetherfield the whole winter; a report which highly incensed Mrs.\nBennet, and which she never failed to contradict as a most scandalous\nfalsehood.\n\nEven Elizabeth began to fear--not that Bingley was indifferent--but that\nhis sisters would be successful in keeping him away. Unwilling as\nshe was to admit an idea so destructive of Jane's happiness, and so\ndishonorable to the stability of her lover, she could not prevent its\nfrequently occurring. The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters\nand of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss\nDarcy and the amusements of London might be too much, she feared, for\nthe strength of his attachment.\n\nAs for Jane, _her_ anxiety under this suspense was, of course, more\npainful than Elizabeth's, but whatever she felt she was desirous of\nconcealing, and between herself and Elizabeth, therefore, the subject\nwas never alluded to. But as no such delicacy restrained her mother,\nan hour seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her\nimpatience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he\ndid not come back she would think herself very ill used. It needed\nall Jane's steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable\ntranquillity.\n\nMr. Collins returned most punctually on Monday fortnight, but his\nreception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his\nfirst introduction. He was too happy, however, to need much attention;\nand luckily for the others, the business of love-making relieved them\nfrom a great deal of his company. The chief of every day was spent by\nhim at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time\nto make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed.\n\nMrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of\nanything concerning the match threw her into an agony of ill-humour,\nand wherever she went she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight\nof Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her successor in that house, she\nregarded her with jealous abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see\nthem, she concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and\nwhenever she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that\nthey were talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself\nand her daughters out of the house, as soon as Mr. Bennet were dead. She\ncomplained bitterly of all this to her husband.\n\n\"Indeed, Mr. Bennet,\" said she, \"it is very hard to think that Charlotte\nLucas should ever be mistress of this house, that I should be forced to\nmake way for _her_, and live to see her take her place in it!\"\n\n\"My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for\nbetter things. Let us flatter ourselves that I may be the survivor.\"\n\nThis was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and therefore, instead of\nmaking any answer, she went on as before.\n\n\"I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If it was\nnot for the entail, I should not mind it.\"\n\n\"What should not you mind?\"\n\n\"I should not mind anything at all.\"\n\n\"Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such\ninsensibility.\"\n\n\"I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for anything about the entail. How\nanyone could have the conscience to entail away an estate from one's own\ndaughters, I cannot understand; and all for the sake of Mr. Collins too!\nWhy should _he_ have it more than anybody else?\"\n\n\"I leave it to yourself to determine,\" said Mr. Bennet.\n\n\n\nChapter 24\n\n\nMiss Bingley's letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first\nsentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for\nthe winter, and concluded with her brother's regret at not having had\ntime to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left\nthe country.\n\nHope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest\nof the letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the\nwriter, that could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy's praise occupied\nthe chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on, and Caroline\nboasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict\nthe accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former\nletter. She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother's being an\ninmate of Mr. Darcy's house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of\nthe latter with regard to new furniture.\n\nElizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this,\nheard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern\nfor her sister, and resentment against all others. To Caroline's\nassertion of her brother's being partial to Miss Darcy she paid no\ncredit. That he was really fond of Jane, she doubted no more than she\nhad ever done; and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she\ncould not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness\nof temper, that want of proper resolution, which now made him the slave\nof his designing friends, and led him to sacrifice of his own happiness\nto the caprice of their inclination. Had his own happiness, however,\nbeen the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in\nwhatever manner he thought best, but her sister's was involved in it, as\nshe thought he must be sensible himself. It was a subject, in short,\non which reflection would be long indulged, and must be unavailing. She\ncould think of nothing else; and yet whether Bingley's regard had really\ndied away, or were suppressed by his friends' interference; whether\nhe had been aware of Jane's attachment, or whether it had escaped his\nobservation; whatever were the case, though her opinion of him must be\nmaterially affected by the difference, her sister's situation remained\nthe same, her peace equally wounded.\n\nA day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her feelings to\nElizabeth; but at last, on Mrs. Bennet's leaving them together, after a\nlonger irritation than usual about Netherfield and its master, she could\nnot help saying:\n\n\"Oh, that my dear mother had more command over herself! She can have no\nidea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But\nI will not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall\nall be as we were before.\"\n\nElizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said\nnothing.\n\n\"You doubt me,\" cried Jane, slightly colouring; \"indeed, you have\nno reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my\nacquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear,\nand nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not _that_ pain. A\nlittle time, therefore--I shall certainly try to get the better.\"\n\nWith a stronger voice she soon added, \"I have this comfort immediately,\nthat it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it\nhas done no harm to anyone but myself.\"\n\n\"My dear Jane!\" exclaimed Elizabeth, \"you are too good. Your sweetness\nand disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say\nto you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you\ndeserve.\"\n\nMiss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back\nthe praise on her sister's warm affection.\n\n\"Nay,\" said Elizabeth, \"this is not fair. _You_ wish to think all the\nworld respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody. I only want\nto think _you_ perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not\nbe afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your\nprivilege of universal good-will. You need not. There are few people\nwhom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see\nof the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms\nmy belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the\nlittle dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or\nsense. I have met with two instances lately, one I will not mention; the\nother is Charlotte's marriage. It is unaccountable! In every view it is\nunaccountable!\"\n\n\"My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will\nruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference\nof situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins's respectability, and\nCharlotte's steady, prudent character. Remember that she is one of a\nlarge family; that as to fortune, it is a most eligible match; and be\nready to believe, for everybody's sake, that she may feel something like\nregard and esteem for our cousin.\"\n\n\"To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no one else\ncould be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I persuaded that\nCharlotte had any regard for him, I should only think worse of her\nunderstanding than I now do of her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a\nconceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man; you know he is, as well as\nI do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the woman who married him\ncannot have a proper way of thinking. You shall not defend her, though\nit is Charlotte Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual,\nchange the meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade\nyourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility of\ndanger security for happiness.\"\n\n\"I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,\" replied\nJane; \"and I hope you will be convinced of it by seeing them happy\ntogether. But enough of this. You alluded to something else. You\nmentioned _two_ instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but I entreat\nyou, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking _that person_ to blame, and\nsaying your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy\nourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively young man\nto be always so guarded and circumspect. It is very often nothing but\nour own vanity that deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than\nit does.\"\n\n\"And men take care that they should.\"\n\n\"If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea\nof there being so much design in the world as some persons imagine.\"\n\n\"I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley's conduct to design,\"\nsaid Elizabeth; \"but without scheming to do wrong, or to make others\nunhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness,\nwant of attention to other people's feelings, and want of resolution,\nwill do the business.\"\n\n\"And do you impute it to either of those?\"\n\n\"Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by saying what\nI think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you can.\"\n\n\"You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him?\"\n\n\"Yes, in conjunction with his friend.\"\n\n\"I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can\nonly wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me, no other woman can\nsecure it.\"\n\n\"Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his\nhappiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they\nmay wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great\nconnections, and pride.\"\n\n\"Beyond a doubt, they _do_ wish him to choose Miss Darcy,\" replied Jane;\n\"but this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have\nknown her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love\nher better. But, whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely\nthey should have opposed their brother's. What sister would think\nherself at liberty to do it, unless there were something very\nobjectionable? If they believed him attached to me, they would not try\nto part us; if he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an\naffection, you make everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most\nunhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been\nmistaken--or, at least, it is light, it is nothing in comparison of what\nI should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it in\nthe best light, in the light in which it may be understood.\"\n\nElizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley's\nname was scarcely ever mentioned between them.\n\nMrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no\nmore, and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account\nfor it clearly, there was little chance of her ever considering it with\nless perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to convince her of what she\ndid not believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely the\neffect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw her\nno more; but though the probability of the statement was admitted at\nthe time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet's best\ncomfort was that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.\n\nMr. Bennet treated the matter differently. \"So, Lizzy,\" said he one day,\n\"your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate her. Next to\nbeing married, a girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then.\nIt is something to think of, and it gives her a sort of distinction\namong her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to\nbe long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough in\nMeryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham\nbe _your_ man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not\nall expect Jane's good fortune.\"\n\n\"True,\" said Mr. Bennet, \"but it is a comfort to think that whatever of\nthat kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will make\nthe most of it.\"\n\nMr. Wickham's society was of material service in dispelling the gloom\nwhich the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn\nfamily. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now\nadded that of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had already\nheard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him,\nwas now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was\npleased to know how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they\nhad known anything of the matter.\n\nMiss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be\nany extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the society\nof Hertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always pleaded for\nallowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes--but by everybody else\nMr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.\n\n\n\nChapter 25\n\n\nAfter a week spent in professions of love and schemes of felicity,\nMr. Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of\nSaturday. The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his\nside, by preparations for the reception of his bride; as he had reason\nto hope, that shortly after his return into Hertfordshire, the day would\nbe fixed that was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave of his\nrelations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished his fair\ncousins health and happiness again, and promised their father another\nletter of thanks.\n\nOn the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving\nher brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend the Christmas\nat Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly\nsuperior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield\nladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived\nby trade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so\nwell-bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger\nthan Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Phillips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant\nwoman, and a great favourite with all her Longbourn nieces. Between the\ntwo eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a particular regard.\nThey had frequently been staying with her in town.\n\nThe first part of Mrs. Gardiner's business on her arrival was to\ndistribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When this was\ndone she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen.\nMrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They\nhad all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her\ngirls had been upon the point of marriage, and after all there was\nnothing in it.\n\n\"I do not blame Jane,\" she continued, \"for Jane would have got Mr.\nBingley if she could. But Lizzy! Oh, sister! It is very hard to think\nthat she might have been Mr. Collins's wife by this time, had it not\nbeen for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very room,\nand she refused him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have\na daughter married before I have, and that the Longbourn estate is just\nas much entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful people indeed,\nsister. They are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of\nthem, but so it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted\nso in my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves\nbefore anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is the\ngreatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us, of\nlong sleeves.\"\n\nMrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before,\nin the course of Jane and Elizabeth's correspondence with her, made her\nsister a slight answer, and, in compassion to her nieces, turned the\nconversation.\n\nWhen alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. \"It\nseems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane,\" said she. \"I am\nsorry it went off. But these things happen so often! A young man, such\nas you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl\nfor a few weeks, and when accident separates them, so easily forgets\nher, that these sort of inconsistencies are very frequent.\"\n\n\"An excellent consolation in its way,\" said Elizabeth, \"but it will not\ndo for _us_. We do not suffer by _accident_. It does not often\nhappen that the interference of friends will persuade a young man of\nindependent fortune to think no more of a girl whom he was violently in\nlove with only a few days before.\"\n\n\"But that expression of 'violently in love' is so hackneyed, so\ndoubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is as\noften applied to feelings which arise from a half-hour's acquaintance,\nas to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how _violent was_ Mr. Bingley's\nlove?\"\n\n\"I never saw a more promising inclination; he was growing quite\ninattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every time\nthey met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball he\noffended two or three young ladies, by not asking them to dance; and I\nspoke to him twice myself, without receiving an answer. Could there be\nfiner symptoms? Is not general incivility the very essence of love?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes!--of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt. Poor\nJane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get\nover it immediately. It had better have happened to _you_, Lizzy; you\nwould have laughed yourself out of it sooner. But do you think she\nwould be prevailed upon to go back with us? Change of scene might be\nof service--and perhaps a little relief from home may be as useful as\nanything.\"\n\nElizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded\nof her sister's ready acquiescence.\n\n\"I hope,\" added Mrs. Gardiner, \"that no consideration with regard to\nthis young man will influence her. We live in so different a part of\ntown, all our connections are so different, and, as you well know, we go\nout so little, that it is very improbable that they should meet at all,\nunless he really comes to see her.\"\n\n\"And _that_ is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his\nfriend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in such\na part of London! My dear aunt, how could you think of it? Mr. Darcy may\nperhaps have _heard_ of such a place as Gracechurch Street, but he\nwould hardly think a month's ablution enough to cleanse him from its\nimpurities, were he once to enter it; and depend upon it, Mr. Bingley\nnever stirs without him.\"\n\n\"So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does not Jane\ncorrespond with his sister? _She_ will not be able to help calling.\"\n\n\"She will drop the acquaintance entirely.\"\n\nBut in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to place this\npoint, as well as the still more interesting one of Bingley's being\nwithheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude on the subject which\nconvinced her, on examination, that she did not consider it entirely\nhopeless. It was possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that\nhis affection might be reanimated, and the influence of his friends\nsuccessfully combated by the more natural influence of Jane's\nattractions.\n\nMiss Bennet accepted her aunt's invitation with pleasure; and the\nBingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the same time, than as she\nhoped by Caroline's not living in the same house with her brother,\nshe might occasionally spend a morning with her, without any danger of\nseeing him.\n\nThe Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the Phillipses,\nthe Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its\nengagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment\nof her brother and sister, that they did not once sit down to a family\ndinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always\nmade part of it--of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and\non these occasion, Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth's\nwarm commendation, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing them,\nfrom what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their preference\nof each other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy; and\nshe resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before she left\nHertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of encouraging such\nan attachment.\n\nTo Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure,\nunconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago,\nbefore her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very\npart of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many\nacquaintances in common; and though Wickham had been little there since\nthe death of Darcy's father, it was yet in his power to give her fresher\nintelligence of her former friends than she had been in the way of\nprocuring.\n\nMrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by\ncharacter perfectly well. Here consequently was an inexhaustible subject\nof discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberley with the minute\ndescription which Wickham could give, and in bestowing her tribute of\npraise on the character of its late possessor, she was delighting both\nhim and herself. On being made acquainted with the present Mr. Darcy's\ntreatment of him, she tried to remember some of that gentleman's\nreputed disposition when quite a lad which might agree with it, and\nwas confident at last that she recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam\nDarcy formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured boy.\n\n\n\nChapter 26\n\n\nMrs. Gardiner's caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given\non the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone; after\nhonestly telling her what she thought, she thus went on:\n\n\"You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because\nyou are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking\nopenly. Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve\nyourself or endeavour to involve him in an affection which the want\nof fortune would make so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against\n_him_; he is a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune he\nought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is, you\nmust not let your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all\nexpect you to use it. Your father would depend on _your_ resolution and\ngood conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father.\"\n\n\"My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.\"\n\n\"Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.\"\n\n\"Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of\nmyself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I\ncan prevent it.\"\n\n\"Elizabeth, you are not serious now.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon, I will try again. At present I am not in love with\nMr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison,\nthe most agreeable man I ever saw--and if he becomes really attached to\nme--I believe it will be better that he should not. I see the imprudence\nof it. Oh! _that_ abominable Mr. Darcy! My father's opinion of me does\nme the greatest honour, and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My\nfather, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I\nshould be very sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy; but\nsince we see every day that where there is affection, young people\nare seldom withheld by immediate want of fortune from entering into\nengagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many\nof my fellow-creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that it\nwould be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not\nto be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first\nobject. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short,\nI will do my best.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so very\noften. At least, you should not _remind_ your mother of inviting him.\"\n\n\"As I did the other day,\" said Elizabeth with a conscious smile: \"very\ntrue, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do not imagine\nthat he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been\nso frequently invited this week. You know my mother's ideas as to the\nnecessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my\nhonour, I will try to do what I think to be the wisest; and now I hope\nyou are satisfied.\"\n\nHer aunt assured her that she was, and Elizabeth having thanked her for\nthe kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice\nbeing given on such a point, without being resented.\n\nMr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted\nby the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode with the Lucases,\nhis arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was\nnow fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think\nit inevitable, and even repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured tone, that\nshe \"_wished_ they might be happy.\" Thursday was to be the wedding day,\nand on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she\nrose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother's ungracious and\nreluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her\nout of the room. As they went downstairs together, Charlotte said:\n\n\"I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.\"\n\n\"_That_ you certainly shall.\"\n\n\"And I have another favour to ask you. Will you come and see me?\"\n\n\"We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.\"\n\n\"I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to\ncome to Hunsford.\"\n\nElizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the\nvisit.\n\n\"My father and Maria are coming to me in March,\" added Charlotte, \"and I\nhope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as\nwelcome as either of them.\"\n\nThe wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from\nthe church door, and everybody had as much to say, or to hear, on\nthe subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their\ncorrespondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that\nit should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never\naddress her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over,\nand though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the\nsake of what had been, rather than what was. Charlotte's first letters\nwere received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be\ncuriosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would\nlike Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce herself to\nbe; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte\nexpressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She\nwrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing\nwhich she could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and\nroads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine's behaviour was most\nfriendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins's picture of Hunsford and\nRosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait\nfor her own visit there to know the rest.\n\nJane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce their\nsafe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped it\nwould be in her power to say something of the Bingleys.\n\nHer impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience\ngenerally is. Jane had been a week in town without either seeing or\nhearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that\nher last letter to her friend from Longbourn had by some accident been\nlost.\n\n\"My aunt,\" she continued, \"is going to-morrow into that part of the\ntown, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor Street.\"\n\nShe wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley.\n\"I did not think Caroline in spirits,\" were her words, \"but she was very\nglad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming\nto London. I was right, therefore, my last letter had never reached\nher. I inquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much\nengaged with Mr. Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that\nMiss Darcy was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was\nnot long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall\nsee them soon here.\"\n\nElizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her that\naccident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister's being in town.\n\nFour weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to\npersuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be\nblind to Miss Bingley's inattention. After waiting at home every morning\nfor a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the\nvisitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet more,\nthe alteration of her manner would allow Jane to deceive herself no\nlonger. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister will\nprove what she felt.\n\n\"My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in her\nbetter judgement, at my expense, when I confess myself to have been\nentirely deceived in Miss Bingley's regard for me. But, my dear sister,\nthough the event has proved you right, do not think me obstinate if I\nstill assert that, considering what her behaviour was, my confidence was\nas natural as your suspicion. I do not at all comprehend her reason for\nwishing to be intimate with me; but if the same circumstances were to\nhappen again, I am sure I should be deceived again. Caroline did not\nreturn my visit till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I\nreceive in the meantime. When she did come, it was very evident that\nshe had no pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal apology, for not\ncalling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and was\nin every respect so altered a creature, that when she went away I was\nperfectly resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity,\nthough I cannot help blaming her. She was very wrong in singling me out\nas she did; I can safely say that every advance to intimacy began on\nher side. But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been acting\nwrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for her brother is the\ncause of it. I need not explain myself farther; and though _we_ know\nthis anxiety to be quite needless, yet if she feels it, it will easily\naccount for her behaviour to me; and so deservedly dear as he is to\nhis sister, whatever anxiety she must feel on his behalf is natural and\namiable. I cannot but wonder, however, at her having any such fears now,\nbecause, if he had at all cared about me, we must have met, long ago.\nHe knows of my being in town, I am certain, from something she said\nherself; and yet it would seem, by her manner of talking, as if she\nwanted to persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Darcy. I\ncannot understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should\nbe almost tempted to say that there is a strong appearance of duplicity\nin all this. But I will endeavour to banish every painful thought,\nand think only of what will make me happy--your affection, and the\ninvariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from you very\nsoon. Miss Bingley said something of his never returning to Netherfield\nagain, of giving up the house, but not with any certainty. We had better\nnot mention it. I am extremely glad that you have such pleasant accounts\nfrom our friends at Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir William and\nMaria. I am sure you will be very comfortable there.--Yours, etc.\"\n\nThis letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned as she\nconsidered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister at least.\nAll expectation from the brother was now absolutely over. She would not\neven wish for a renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on\nevery review of it; and as a punishment for him, as well as a possible\nadvantage to Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr.\nDarcy's sister, as by Wickham's account, she would make him abundantly\nregret what he had thrown away.\n\nMrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise\nconcerning that gentleman, and required information; and Elizabeth\nhad such to send as might rather give contentment to her aunt than to\nherself. His apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over,\nhe was the admirer of some one else. Elizabeth was watchful enough to\nsee it all, but she could see it and write of it without material pain.\nHer heart had been but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied\nwith believing that _she_ would have been his only choice, had fortune\npermitted it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most\nremarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering himself\nagreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in this case than\nin Charlotte's, did not quarrel with him for his wish of independence.\nNothing, on the contrary, could be more natural; and while able to\nsuppose that it cost him a few struggles to relinquish her, she was\nready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very\nsincerely wish him happy.\n\nAll this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating the\ncircumstances, she thus went on: \"I am now convinced, my dear aunt, that\nI have never been much in love; for had I really experienced that pure\nand elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name, and\nwish him all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only cordial\ntowards _him_; they are even impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find\nout that I hate her at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to\nthink her a very good sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My\nwatchfulness has been effectual; and though I certainly should be a more\ninteresting object to all my acquaintances were I distractedly in love\nwith him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance.\nImportance may sometimes be purchased too dearly. Kitty and Lydia take\nhis defection much more to heart than I do. They are young in the\nways of the world, and not yet open to the mortifying conviction that\nhandsome young men must have something to live on as well as the plain.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 27\n\n\nWith no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise\ndiversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and\nsometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take\nElizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of\ngoing thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on the plan\nand she gradually learned to consider it herself with greater pleasure\nas well as greater certainty. Absence had increased her desire of seeing\nCharlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There\nwas novelty in the scheme, and as, with such a mother and such\nuncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change\nwas not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would moreover give her\na peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have\nbeen very sorry for any delay. Everything, however, went on smoothly,\nand was finally settled according to Charlotte's first sketch. She was\nto accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement\nof spending a night in London was added in time, and the plan became\nperfect as plan could be.\n\nThe only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss her,\nand who, when it came to the point, so little liked her going, that he\ntold her to write to him, and almost promised to answer her letter.\n\nThe farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on\nhis side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that\nElizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the\nfirst to listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner\nof bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of\nwhat she was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their\nopinion of her--their opinion of everybody--would always coincide, there\nwas a solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her to\nhim with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced that,\nwhether married or single, he must always be her model of the amiable\nand pleasing.\n\nHer fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her\nthink him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a\ngood-humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say\nthat could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much\ndelight as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but\nshe had known Sir William's too long. He could tell her nothing new of\nthe wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were\nworn out, like his information.\n\nIt was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early\nas to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner's\ndoor, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival; when\nthey entered the passage she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth,\nlooking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and\nlovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls,\nwhose eagerness for their cousin's appearance would not allow them to\nwait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen\nher for a twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and\nkindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and\nshopping, and the evening at one of the theatres.\n\nElizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first object was her\nsister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to\nher minute inquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her\nspirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however,\nto hope that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the\nparticulars also of Miss Bingley's visit in Gracechurch Street, and\nrepeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and\nherself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the\nacquaintance.\n\nMrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham's desertion, and\ncomplimented her on bearing it so well.\n\n\"But my dear Elizabeth,\" she added, \"what sort of girl is Miss King? I\nshould be sorry to think our friend mercenary.\"\n\n\"Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs,\nbetween the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end,\nand avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me,\nbecause it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get\na girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is\nmercenary.\"\n\n\"If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know\nwhat to think.\"\n\n\"She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her.\"\n\n\"But he paid her not the smallest attention till her grandfather's death\nmade her mistress of this fortune.\"\n\n\"No--what should he? If it were not allowable for him to gain _my_\naffections because I had no money, what occasion could there be for\nmaking love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally\npoor?\"\n\n\"But there seems an indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her\nso soon after this event.\"\n\n\"A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant\ndecorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does not object to it,\nwhy should _we_?\"\n\n\"_Her_ not objecting does not justify _him_. It only shows her being\ndeficient in something herself--sense or feeling.\"\n\n\"Well,\" cried Elizabeth, \"have it as you choose. _He_ shall be\nmercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish.\"\n\n\"No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry, you know,\nto think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire.\"\n\n\"Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in\nDerbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not\nmuch better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow\nwhere I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has\nneither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones\nworth knowing, after all.\"\n\n\"Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment.\"\n\nBefore they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the\nunexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in\na tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.\n\n\"We have not determined how far it shall carry us,\" said Mrs. Gardiner,\n\"but, perhaps, to the Lakes.\"\n\nNo scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her\nacceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. \"Oh, my dear,\ndear aunt,\" she rapturously cried, \"what delight! what felicity! You\ngive me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What\nare young men to rocks and mountains? Oh! what hours of transport\nwe shall spend! And when we _do_ return, it shall not be like other\ntravellers, without being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We\n_will_ know where we have gone--we _will_ recollect what we have seen.\nLakes, mountains, and rivers shall not be jumbled together in our\nimaginations; nor when we attempt to describe any particular scene,\nwill we begin quarreling about its relative situation. Let _our_\nfirst effusions be less insupportable than those of the generality of\ntravellers.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 28\n\n\nEvery object in the next day's journey was new and interesting to\nElizabeth; and her spirits were in a state of enjoyment; for she had\nseen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health,\nand the prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight.\n\nWhen they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was in\nsearch of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view.\nThe palings of Rosings Park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth\nsmiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants.\n\nAt length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the\nroad, the house standing in it, the green pales, and the laurel hedge,\neverything declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte\nappeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate which\nled by a short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of\nthe whole party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing\nat the sight of each other. Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the\nliveliest pleasure, and Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with\ncoming when she found herself so affectionately received. She saw\ninstantly that her cousin's manners were not altered by his marriage;\nhis formal civility was just what it had been, and he detained her some\nminutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his inquiries after all her\nfamily. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing out the\nneatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as soon as they\nwere in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time, with ostentatious\nformality to his humble abode, and punctually repeated all his wife's\noffers of refreshment.\n\nElizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help\nin fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its\naspect and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her,\nas if wishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But\nthough everything seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to\ngratify him by any sigh of repentance, and rather looked with wonder at\nher friend that she could have so cheerful an air with such a companion.\nWhen Mr. Collins said anything of which his wife might reasonably be\nashamed, which certainly was not unseldom, she involuntarily turned her\neye on Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a faint blush; but\nin general Charlotte wisely did not hear. After sitting long enough to\nadmire every article of furniture in the room, from the sideboard to\nthe fender, to give an account of their journey, and of all that had\nhappened in London, Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the\ngarden, which was large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of\nwhich he attended himself. To work in this garden was one of his most\nrespectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of countenance\nwith which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and\nowned she encouraged it as much as possible. Here, leading the way\nthrough every walk and cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an\ninterval to utter the praises he asked for, every view was pointed out\nwith a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind. He could number the\nfields in every direction, and could tell how many trees there were in\nthe most distant clump. But of all the views which his garden, or which\nthe country or kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with the\nprospect of Rosings, afforded by an opening in the trees that bordered\nthe park nearly opposite the front of his house. It was a handsome\nmodern building, well situated on rising ground.\n\nFrom his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two meadows;\nbut the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white\nfrost, turned back; and while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte\ntook her sister and friend over the house, extremely well pleased,\nprobably, to have the opportunity of showing it without her husband's\nhelp. It was rather small, but well built and convenient; and everything\nwas fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency of which\nElizabeth gave Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be\nforgotten, there was really an air of great comfort throughout, and by\nCharlotte's evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must be often\nforgotten.\n\nShe had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It\nwas spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining\nin, observed:\n\n\"Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine\nde Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will\nbe delighted with her. She is all affability and condescension, and I\ndoubt not but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice\nwhen service is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying she\nwill include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she\nhonours us during your stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is\ncharming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed\nto walk home. Her ladyship's carriage is regularly ordered for us. I\n_should_ say, one of her ladyship's carriages, for she has several.\"\n\n\"Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed,\" added\nCharlotte, \"and a most attentive neighbour.\"\n\n\"Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of\nwoman whom one cannot regard with too much deference.\"\n\nThe evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news,\nand telling again what had already been written; and when it closed,\nElizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to meditate upon\nCharlotte's degree of contentment, to understand her address in guiding,\nand composure in bearing with, her husband, and to acknowledge that it\nwas all done very well. She had also to anticipate how her visit\nwould pass, the quiet tenor of their usual employments, the vexatious\ninterruptions of Mr. Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse with\nRosings. A lively imagination soon settled it all.\n\nAbout the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready\nfor a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in\nconfusion; and, after listening a moment, she heard somebody running\nupstairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after her. She opened\nthe door and met Maria in the landing place, who, breathless with\nagitation, cried out--\n\n\"Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the dining-room, for\nthere is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make\nhaste, and come down this moment.\"\n\nElizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing more,\nand down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the lane, in\nquest of this wonder; It was two ladies stopping in a low phaeton at the\ngarden gate.\n\n\"And is this all?\" cried Elizabeth. \"I expected at least that the pigs\nwere got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her\ndaughter.\"\n\n\"La! my dear,\" said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, \"it is not\nLady Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them;\nthe other is Miss de Bourgh. Only look at her. She is quite a little\ncreature. Who would have thought that she could be so thin and small?\"\n\n\"She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all this wind.\nWhy does she not come in?\"\n\n\"Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours\nwhen Miss de Bourgh comes in.\"\n\n\"I like her appearance,\" said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas. \"She\nlooks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well. She will\nmake him a very proper wife.\"\n\nMr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in conversation\nwith the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth's high diversion, was\nstationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the greatness\nbefore him, and constantly bowing whenever Miss de Bourgh looked that\nway.\n\nAt length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on, and\nthe others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw the two\ngirls than he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, which\nCharlotte explained by letting them know that the whole party was asked\nto dine at Rosings the next day.\n\n\n\nChapter 29\n\n\nMr. Collins's triumph, in consequence of this invitation, was complete.\nThe power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to his wondering\nvisitors, and of letting them see her civility towards himself and his\nwife, was exactly what he had wished for; and that an opportunity\nof doing it should be given so soon, was such an instance of Lady\nCatherine's condescension, as he knew not how to admire enough.\n\n\"I confess,\" said he, \"that I should not have been at all surprised by\nher ladyship's asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening at\nRosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that it\nwould happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this? Who\ncould have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine there\n(an invitation, moreover, including the whole party) so immediately\nafter your arrival!\"\n\n\"I am the less surprised at what has happened,\" replied Sir William,\n\"from that knowledge of what the manners of the great really are, which\nmy situation in life has allowed me to acquire. About the court, such\ninstances of elegant breeding are not uncommon.\"\n\nScarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but their\nvisit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in what\nthey were to expect, that the sight of such rooms, so many servants, and\nso splendid a dinner, might not wholly overpower them.\n\nWhen the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to Elizabeth--\n\n\"Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady\nCatherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us which\nbecomes herself and her daughter. I would advise you merely to put on\nwhatever of your clothes is superior to the rest--there is no occasion\nfor anything more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you\nfor being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank\npreserved.\"\n\nWhile they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different\ndoors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much\nobjected to be kept waiting for her dinner. Such formidable accounts of\nher ladyship, and her manner of living, quite frightened Maria Lucas\nwho had been little used to company, and she looked forward to her\nintroduction at Rosings with as much apprehension as her father had done\nto his presentation at St. James's.\n\nAs the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a\nmile across the park. Every park has its beauty and its prospects; and\nElizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she could not be in such\nraptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene to inspire, and was but\nslightly affected by his enumeration of the windows in front of the\nhouse, and his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally\ncost Sir Lewis de Bourgh.\n\nWhen they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria's alarm was every\nmoment increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly calm.\nElizabeth's courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing of Lady\nCatherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary talents or\nmiraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money or rank she thought\nshe could witness without trepidation.\n\nFrom the entrance-hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a\nrapturous air, the fine proportion and the finished ornaments, they\nfollowed the servants through an ante-chamber, to the room where Lady\nCatherine, her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. Her ladyship,\nwith great condescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins had\nsettled it with her husband that the office of introduction should\nbe hers, it was performed in a proper manner, without any of those\napologies and thanks which he would have thought necessary.\n\nIn spite of having been at St. James's Sir William was so completely\nawed by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage\nenough to make a very low bow, and take his seat without saying a word;\nand his daughter, frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge\nof her chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth found herself\nquite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her\ncomposedly. Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked\nfeatures, which might once have been handsome. Her air was not\nconciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them such as to make her\nvisitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered formidable by\nsilence; but whatever she said was spoken in so authoritative a tone,\nas marked her self-importance, and brought Mr. Wickham immediately to\nElizabeth's mind; and from the observation of the day altogether, she\nbelieved Lady Catherine to be exactly what he represented.\n\nWhen, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment\nshe soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the\ndaughter, she could almost have joined in Maria's astonishment at her\nbeing so thin and so small. There was neither in figure nor face any\nlikeness between the ladies. Miss de Bourgh was pale and sickly; her\nfeatures, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very\nlittle, except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance\nthere was nothing remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening\nto what she said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before\nher eyes.\n\nAfter sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows to\nadmire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point out its beauties,\nand Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much better worth\nlooking at in the summer.\n\nThe dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants and\nall the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised; and, as he had\nlikewise foretold, he took his seat at the bottom of the table, by her\nladyship's desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish\nnothing greater. He carved, and ate, and praised with delighted\nalacrity; and every dish was commended, first by him and then by Sir\nWilliam, who was now enough recovered to echo whatever his son-in-law\nsaid, in a manner which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear.\nBut Lady Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and\ngave most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the table proved\na novelty to them. The party did not supply much conversation. Elizabeth\nwas ready to speak whenever there was an opening, but she was seated\nbetween Charlotte and Miss de Bourgh--the former of whom was engaged in\nlistening to Lady Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all\ndinner-time. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little\nMiss de Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish, and fearing\nshe was indisposed. Maria thought speaking out of the question, and the\ngentlemen did nothing but eat and admire.\n\nWhen the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to\nbe done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any\nintermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every\nsubject in so decisive a manner, as proved that she was not used to\nhave her judgement controverted. She inquired into Charlotte's domestic\nconcerns familiarly and minutely, gave her a great deal of advice as\nto the management of them all; told her how everything ought to be\nregulated in so small a family as hers, and instructed her as to the\ncare of her cows and her poultry. Elizabeth found that nothing was\nbeneath this great lady's attention, which could furnish her with an\noccasion of dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse\nwith Mrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and\nElizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew\nthe least, and who she observed to Mrs. Collins was a very genteel,\npretty kind of girl. She asked her, at different times, how many sisters\nshe had, whether they were older or younger than herself, whether any of\nthem were likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where they\nhad been educated, what carriage her father kept, and what had been\nher mother's maiden name? Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of\nher questions but answered them very composedly. Lady Catherine then\nobserved,\n\n\"Your father's estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think. For your\nsake,\" turning to Charlotte, \"I am glad of it; but otherwise I see no\noccasion for entailing estates from the female line. It was not thought\nnecessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh's family. Do you play and sing, Miss\nBennet?\"\n\n\"A little.\"\n\n\"Oh! then--some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our\ninstrument is a capital one, probably superior to----You shall try it\nsome day. Do your sisters play and sing?\"\n\n\"One of them does.\"\n\n\"Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned. The Miss\nWebbs all play, and their father has not so good an income as yours. Do\nyou draw?\"\n\n\"No, not at all.\"\n\n\"What, none of you?\"\n\n\"Not one.\"\n\n\"That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother\nshould have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters.\"\n\n\"My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates London.\"\n\n\"Has your governess left you?\"\n\n\"We never had any governess.\"\n\n\"No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home\nwithout a governess! I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must\nhave been quite a slave to your education.\"\n\nElizabeth could hardly help smiling as she assured her that had not been\nthe case.\n\n\"Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess, you\nmust have been neglected.\"\n\n\"Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as\nwished to learn never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to\nread, and had all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be\nidle, certainly might.\"\n\n\"Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent, and if I had\nknown your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage\none. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady\nand regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is\nwonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that\nway. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces\nof Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and\nit was but the other day that I recommended another young person,\nwho was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite\ndelighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalf's\ncalling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. 'Lady\nCatherine,' said she, 'you have given me a treasure.' Are any of your\nyounger sisters out, Miss Bennet?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, all.\"\n\n\"All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the second. The\nyounger ones out before the elder ones are married! Your younger sisters\nmust be very young?\"\n\n\"Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps _she_ is full young to be\nmuch in company. But really, ma'am, I think it would be very hard upon\nyounger sisters, that they should not have their share of society and\namusement, because the elder may not have the means or inclination to\nmarry early. The last-born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth\nat the first. And to be kept back on _such_ a motive! I think it would\nnot be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind.\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" said her ladyship, \"you give your opinion very decidedly\nfor so young a person. Pray, what is your age?\"\n\n\"With three younger sisters grown up,\" replied Elizabeth, smiling, \"your\nladyship can hardly expect me to own it.\"\n\nLady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer;\nand Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever\ndared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.\n\n\"You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, therefore you need not\nconceal your age.\"\n\n\"I am not one-and-twenty.\"\n\nWhen the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the card-tables\nwere placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat\ndown to quadrille; and as Miss de Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the\ntwo girls had the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her\nparty. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was\nuttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson\nexpressed her fears of Miss de Bourgh's being too hot or too cold, or\nhaving too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the\nother table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking--stating the mistakes\nof the three others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins\nwas employed in agreeing to everything her ladyship said, thanking her\nfor every fish he won, and apologising if he thought he won too many.\nSir William did not say much. He was storing his memory with anecdotes\nand noble names.\n\nWhen Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they chose,\nthe tables were broken up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins,\ngratefully accepted and immediately ordered. The party then gathered\nround the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they were\nto have on the morrow. From these instructions they were summoned by\nthe arrival of the coach; and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr.\nCollins's side and as many bows on Sir William's they departed. As soon\nas they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her cousin\nto give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, for\nCharlotte's sake, she made more favourable than it really was. But her\ncommendation, though costing her some trouble, could by no means satisfy\nMr. Collins, and he was very soon obliged to take her ladyship's praise\ninto his own hands.\n\n\n\nChapter 30\n\n\nSir William stayed only a week at Hunsford, but his visit was long\nenough to convince him of his daughter's being most comfortably settled,\nand of her possessing such a husband and such a neighbour as were not\noften met with. While Sir William was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his\nmorning to driving him out in his gig, and showing him the country; but\nwhen he went away, the whole family returned to their usual employments,\nand Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her\ncousin by the alteration, for the chief of the time between breakfast\nand dinner was now passed by him either at work in the garden or in\nreading and writing, and looking out of the window in his own book-room,\nwhich fronted the road. The room in which the ladies sat was backwards.\nElizabeth had at first rather wondered that Charlotte should not prefer\nthe dining-parlour for common use; it was a better sized room, and had a\nmore pleasant aspect; but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent\nreason for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been\nmuch less in his own apartment, had they sat in one equally lively; and\nshe gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement.\n\nFrom the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and\nwere indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what carriages went\nalong, and how often especially Miss de Bourgh drove by in her phaeton,\nwhich he never failed coming to inform them of, though it happened\nalmost every day. She not unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and\nhad a few minutes' conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever\nprevailed upon to get out.\n\nVery few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to Rosings, and\nnot many in which his wife did not think it necessary to go likewise;\nand till Elizabeth recollected that there might be other family livings\nto be disposed of, she could not understand the sacrifice of so many\nhours. Now and then they were honoured with a call from her ladyship,\nand nothing escaped her observation that was passing in the room during\nthese visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work,\nand advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement\nof the furniture; or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she\naccepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding\nout that Mrs. Collins's joints of meat were too large for her family.\n\nElizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady was not in\ncommission of the peace of the county, she was a most active magistrate\nin her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were carried to her\nby Mr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to\nbe quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she sallied forth into the\nvillage to settle their differences, silence their complaints, and scold\nthem into harmony and plenty.\n\nThe entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week;\nand, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being only one\ncard-table in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart\nof the first. Their other engagements were few, as the style of living\nin the neighbourhood in general was beyond Mr. Collins's reach. This,\nhowever, was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the whole she spent her time\ncomfortably enough; there were half-hours of pleasant conversation with\nCharlotte, and the weather was so fine for the time of year that she had\noften great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where she\nfrequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine, was\nalong the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was\na nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but herself, and\nwhere she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine's curiosity.\n\nIn this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away.\nEaster was approaching, and the week preceding it was to bring an\naddition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be\nimportant. Elizabeth had heard soon after her arrival that Mr. Darcy was\nexpected there in the course of a few weeks, and though there were not\nmany of her acquaintances whom she did not prefer, his coming would\nfurnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and\nshe might be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley's designs on him\nwere, by his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently\ndestined by Lady Catherine, who talked of his coming with the greatest\nsatisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration, and\nseemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen by\nMiss Lucas and herself.\n\nHis arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was walking\nthe whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane,\nin order to have the earliest assurance of it, and after making his\nbow as the carriage turned into the Park, hurried home with the great\nintelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his\nrespects. There were two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for\nMr. Darcy had brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of\nhis uncle Lord ----, and, to the great surprise of all the party, when\nMr. Collins returned, the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte had seen\nthem from her husband's room, crossing the road, and immediately running\ninto the other, told the girls what an honour they might expect, adding:\n\n\"I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy would\nnever have come so soon to wait upon me.\"\n\nElizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment,\nbefore their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly\nafterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam,\nwho led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and\naddress most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been\nused to look in Hertfordshire--paid his compliments, with his usual\nreserve, to Mrs. Collins, and whatever might be his feelings toward her\nfriend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely\ncurtseyed to him without saying a word.\n\nColonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the\nreadiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but\nhis cousin, after having addressed a slight observation on the house and\ngarden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without speaking to anybody.\nAt length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to inquire of\nElizabeth after the health of her family. She answered him in the usual\nway, and after a moment's pause, added:\n\n\"My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never\nhappened to see her there?\"\n\nShe was perfectly sensible that he never had; but she wished to see\nwhether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed between\nthe Bingleys and Jane, and she thought he looked a little confused as he\nanswered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The\nsubject was pursued no farther, and the gentlemen soon afterwards went\naway.\n\n\n\nChapter 31\n\n\nColonel Fitzwilliam's manners were very much admired at the Parsonage,\nand the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasures\nof their engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they\nreceived any invitation thither--for while there were visitors in the\nhouse, they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day,\nalmost a week after the gentlemen's arrival, that they were honoured by\nsuch an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to\ncome there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very little\nof Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had called at the\nParsonage more than once during the time, but Mr. Darcy they had seen\nonly at church.\n\nThe invitation was accepted of course, and at a proper hour they joined\nthe party in Lady Catherine's drawing-room. Her ladyship received\nthem civilly, but it was plain that their company was by no means so\nacceptable as when she could get nobody else; and she was, in fact,\nalmost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them, especially to Darcy,\nmuch more than to any other person in the room.\n\nColonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them; anything was a\nwelcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins's pretty friend had\nmoreover caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by her, and\ntalked so agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying\nat home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so\nwell entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much\nspirit and flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself,\nas well as of Mr. Darcy. _His_ eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned\ntowards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship, after a\nwhile, shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not\nscruple to call out:\n\n\"What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking\nof? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.\"\n\n\"We are speaking of music, madam,\" said he, when no longer able to avoid\na reply.\n\n\"Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I\nmust have my share in the conversation if you are speaking of music.\nThere are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment\nof music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt,\nI should have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her health\nhad allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have performed\ndelightfully. How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?\"\n\nMr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister's proficiency.\n\n\"I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,\" said Lady\nCatherine; \"and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel\nif she does not practice a good deal.\"\n\n\"I assure you, madam,\" he replied, \"that she does not need such advice.\nShe practises very constantly.\"\n\n\"So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write\nto her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often\ntell young ladies that no excellence in music is to be acquired without\nconstant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that she\nwill never play really well unless she practises more; and though Mrs.\nCollins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told\nher, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs.\nJenkinson's room. She would be in nobody's way, you know, in that part\nof the house.\"\n\nMr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt's ill-breeding, and made\nno answer.\n\nWhen coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having\npromised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the instrument. He\ndrew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then\ntalked, as before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away\nfrom her, and making with his usual deliberation towards the pianoforte\nstationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer's\ncountenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first\nconvenient pause, turned to him with an arch smile, and said:\n\n\"You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear\nme? I will not be alarmed though your sister _does_ play so well. There\nis a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the\nwill of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate\nme.\"\n\n\"I shall not say you are mistaken,\" he replied, \"because you could not\nreally believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have\nhad the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find\ngreat enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are\nnot your own.\"\n\nElizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to\nColonel Fitzwilliam, \"Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of\nme, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky\nin meeting with a person so able to expose my real character, in a part\nof the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of\ncredit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention all\nthat you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire--and, give me leave to\nsay, very impolitic too--for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such\nthings may come out as will shock your relations to hear.\"\n\n\"I am not afraid of you,\" said he, smilingly.\n\n\"Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,\" cried Colonel\nFitzwilliam. \"I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.\"\n\n\"You shall hear then--but prepare yourself for something very dreadful.\nThe first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know,\nwas at a ball--and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced\nonly four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain\nknowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a\npartner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.\"\n\n\"I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly\nbeyond my own party.\"\n\n\"True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well, Colonel\nFitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Darcy, \"I should have judged better, had I sought an\nintroduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.\"\n\n\"Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?\" said Elizabeth, still\naddressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. \"Shall we ask him why a man of sense and\neducation, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend\nhimself to strangers?\"\n\n\"I can answer your question,\" said Fitzwilliam, \"without applying to\nhim. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.\"\n\n\"I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,\" said Darcy,\n\"of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot\ncatch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their\nconcerns, as I often see done.\"\n\n\"My fingers,\" said Elizabeth, \"do not move over this instrument in the\nmasterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same\nforce or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I\nhave always supposed it to be my own fault--because I will not take the\ntrouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe _my_ fingers as\ncapable as any other woman's of superior execution.\"\n\nDarcy smiled and said, \"You are perfectly right. You have employed your\ntime much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can\nthink anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.\"\n\nHere they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know\nwhat they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began playing again.\nLady Catherine approached, and, after listening for a few minutes, said\nto Darcy:\n\n\"Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss if she practised more, and\ncould have the advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion\nof fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne's. Anne would have\nbeen a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn.\"\n\nElizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he assented to his\ncousin's praise; but neither at that moment nor at any other could she\ndiscern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his behaviour to Miss\nde Bourgh she derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he might have\nbeen just as likely to marry _her_, had she been his relation.\n\nLady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth's performance, mixing\nwith them many instructions on execution and taste. Elizabeth received\nthem with all the forbearance of civility, and, at the request of the\ngentlemen, remained at the instrument till her ladyship's carriage was\nready to take them all home.\n\n\n\nChapter 32\n\n\nElizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to Jane\nwhile Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village,\nwhen she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain signal of a\nvisitor. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to\nbe Lady Catherine, and under that apprehension was putting away her\nhalf-finished letter that she might escape all impertinent questions,\nwhen the door opened, and, to her very great surprise, Mr. Darcy, and\nMr. Darcy only, entered the room.\n\nHe seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for his\nintrusion by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies were\nto be within.\n\nThey then sat down, and when her inquiries after Rosings were made,\nseemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely\nnecessary, therefore, to think of something, and in this emergence\nrecollecting _when_ she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and\nfeeling curious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty\ndeparture, she observed:\n\n\"How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy!\nIt must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you\nall after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day\nbefore. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?\"\n\n\"Perfectly so, I thank you.\"\n\nShe found that she was to receive no other answer, and, after a short\npause added:\n\n\"I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever\nreturning to Netherfield again?\"\n\n\"I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend\nvery little of his time there in the future. He has many friends, and\nis at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually\nincreasing.\"\n\n\"If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for\nthe neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we\nmight possibly get a settled family there. But, perhaps, Mr. Bingley did\nnot take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as\nfor his own, and we must expect him to keep it or quit it on the same\nprinciple.\"\n\n\"I should not be surprised,\" said Darcy, \"if he were to give it up as\nsoon as any eligible purchase offers.\"\n\nElizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his\nfriend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the\ntrouble of finding a subject to him.\n\nHe took the hint, and soon began with, \"This seems a very comfortable\nhouse. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr.\nCollins first came to Hunsford.\"\n\n\"I believe she did--and I am sure she could not have bestowed her\nkindness on a more grateful object.\"\n\n\"Mr. Collins appears to be very fortunate in his choice of a wife.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed, his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one\nof the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made\nhim happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding--though\nI am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the\nwisest thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and in a\nprudential light it is certainly a very good match for her.\"\n\n\"It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so easy a\ndistance of her own family and friends.\"\n\n\"An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.\"\n\n\"And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day's\njourney. Yes, I call it a _very_ easy distance.\"\n\n\"I should never have considered the distance as one of the _advantages_\nof the match,\" cried Elizabeth. \"I should never have said Mrs. Collins\nwas settled _near_ her family.\"\n\n\"It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond\nthe very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far.\"\n\nAs he spoke there was a sort of smile which Elizabeth fancied she\nunderstood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and\nNetherfield, and she blushed as she answered:\n\n\"I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her\nfamily. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many\nvarying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expenses of\ntravelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the\ncase _here_. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not\nsuch a one as will allow of frequent journeys--and I am persuaded my\nfriend would not call herself _near_ her family under less than _half_\nthe present distance.\"\n\nMr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, \"_You_ cannot\nhave a right to such very strong local attachment. _You_ cannot have\nbeen always at Longbourn.\"\n\nElizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of\nfeeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and\nglancing over it, said, in a colder voice:\n\n\"Are you pleased with Kent?\"\n\nA short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either side\ncalm and concise--and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte\nand her sister, just returned from her walk. The tete-a-tete surprised\nthem. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which had occasioned his intruding\non Miss Bennet, and after sitting a few minutes longer without saying\nmuch to anybody, went away.\n\n\"What can be the meaning of this?\" said Charlotte, as soon as he was\ngone. \"My dear, Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he would never\nhave called us in this familiar way.\"\n\nBut when Elizabeth told of his silence; it did not seem very likely,\neven to Charlotte's wishes, to be the case; and after various\nconjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from\nthe difficulty of finding anything to do, which was the more probable\nfrom the time of year. All field sports were over. Within doors there\nwas Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard-table, but gentlemen cannot\nalways be within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the\npleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the\ntwo cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither\nalmost every day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes\nseparately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their\naunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he\nhad pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course recommended\nhim still more; and Elizabeth was reminded by her own satisfaction in\nbeing with him, as well as by his evident admiration of her, of her\nformer favourite George Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw\nthere was less captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners,\nshe believed he might have the best informed mind.\n\nBut why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage, it was more difficult\nto understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there\nten minutes together without opening his lips; and when he did speak,\nit seemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice--a sacrifice\nto propriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really\nanimated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel\nFitzwilliam's occasionally laughing at his stupidity, proved that he was\ngenerally different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told\nher; and as she would liked to have believed this change the effect\nof love, and the object of that love her friend Eliza, she set herself\nseriously to work to find it out. She watched him whenever they were at\nRosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success. He\ncertainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that\nlook was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often\ndoubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it\nseemed nothing but absence of mind.\n\nShe had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his\nbeing partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs.\nCollins did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of\nraising expectations which might only end in disappointment; for in her\nopinion it admitted not of a doubt, that all her friend's dislike would\nvanish, if she could suppose him to be in her power.\n\n\nIn her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying\nColonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison the most pleasant man; he\ncertainly admired her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but,\nto counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had considerable patronage\nin the church, and his cousin could have none at all.\n\n\n\nChapter 33\n\n\nMore than once did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the park,\nunexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the\nmischance that should bring him where no one else was brought, and, to\nprevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him at first that\nit was a favourite haunt of hers. How it could occur a second time,\ntherefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and even a third. It seemed like\nwilful ill-nature, or a voluntary penance, for on these occasions it was\nnot merely a few formal inquiries and an awkward pause and then away,\nbut he actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He\nnever said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking\nor of listening much; but it struck her in the course of their third\nrencontre that he was asking some odd unconnected questions--about\nher pleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her\nopinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins's happiness; and that in speaking of\nRosings and her not perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to\nexpect that whenever she came into Kent again she would be staying\n_there_ too. His words seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel\nFitzwilliam in his thoughts? She supposed, if he meant anything, he must\nmean an allusion to what might arise in that quarter. It distressed\nher a little, and she was quite glad to find herself at the gate in the\npales opposite the Parsonage.\n\nShe was engaged one day as she walked, in perusing Jane's last letter,\nand dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not written in\nspirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy, she saw\non looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her. Putting away the\nletter immediately and forcing a smile, she said:\n\n\"I did not know before that you ever walked this way.\"\n\n\"I have been making the tour of the park,\" he replied, \"as I generally\ndo every year, and intend to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are\nyou going much farther?\"\n\n\"No, I should have turned in a moment.\"\n\nAnd accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage\ntogether.\n\n\"Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?\" said she.\n\n\"Yes--if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He\narranges the business just as he pleases.\"\n\n\"And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least\npleasure in the great power of choice. I do not know anybody who seems\nmore to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy.\"\n\n\"He likes to have his own way very well,\" replied Colonel Fitzwilliam.\n\"But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it\nthan many others, because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak\nfeelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and\ndependence.\"\n\n\"In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of\neither. Now seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and\ndependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going\nwherever you chose, or procuring anything you had a fancy for?\"\n\n\"These are home questions--and perhaps I cannot say that I have\nexperienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater\nweight, I may suffer from want of money. Younger sons cannot marry where\nthey like.\"\n\n\"Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often\ndo.\"\n\n\"Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not many\nin my rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to\nmoney.\"\n\n\"Is this,\" thought Elizabeth, \"meant for me?\" and she coloured at the\nidea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, \"And pray, what\nis the usual price of an earl's younger son? Unless the elder brother is\nvery sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds.\"\n\nHe answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt\na silence which might make him fancy her affected with what had passed,\nshe soon afterwards said:\n\n\"I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of\nhaving someone at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a\nlasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps, his sister does as well\nfor the present, and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he\nlikes with her.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Colonel Fitzwilliam, \"that is an advantage which he must\ndivide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy.\"\n\n\"Are you indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make? Does your\ncharge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes a\nlittle difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she\nmay like to have her own way.\"\n\nAs she spoke she observed him looking at her earnestly; and the manner\nin which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to\ngive them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other\ngot pretty near the truth. She directly replied:\n\n\"You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare\nsay she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a\nvery great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and\nMiss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them.\"\n\n\"I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentlemanlike man--he\nis a great friend of Darcy's.\"\n\n\"Oh! yes,\" said Elizabeth drily; \"Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr.\nBingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.\"\n\n\"Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ take care of him in\nthose points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in\nour journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to\nhim. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that\nBingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture.\"\n\n\"What is it you mean?\"\n\n\"It is a circumstance which Darcy could not wish to be generally known,\nbecause if it were to get round to the lady's family, it would be an\nunpleasant thing.\"\n\n\"You may depend upon my not mentioning it.\"\n\n\"And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be\nBingley. What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated himself\non having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most\nimprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other\nparticulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing\nhim the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from\nknowing them to have been together the whole of last summer.\"\n\n\"Did Mr. Darcy give you reasons for this interference?\"\n\n\"I understood that there were some very strong objections against the\nlady.\"\n\n\"And what arts did he use to separate them?\"\n\n\"He did not talk to me of his own arts,\" said Fitzwilliam, smiling. \"He\nonly told me what I have now told you.\"\n\nElizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with\nindignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she\nwas so thoughtful.\n\n\"I am thinking of what you have been telling me,\" said she. \"Your\ncousin's conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?\"\n\n\"You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?\"\n\n\"I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his\nfriend's inclination, or why, upon his own judgement alone, he was to\ndetermine and direct in what manner his friend was to be happy.\nBut,\" she continued, recollecting herself, \"as we know none of the\nparticulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed\nthat there was much affection in the case.\"\n\n\"That is not an unnatural surmise,\" said Fitzwilliam, \"but it is a\nlessening of the honour of my cousin's triumph very sadly.\"\n\nThis was spoken jestingly; but it appeared to her so just a picture\nof Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an answer, and\ntherefore, abruptly changing the conversation talked on indifferent\nmatters until they reached the Parsonage. There, shut into her own room,\nas soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption\nof all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other\npeople could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There\ncould not exist in the world _two_ men over whom Mr. Darcy could have\nsuch boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures\ntaken to separate Bingley and Jane she had never doubted; but she had\nalways attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and arrangement\nof them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him, _he_ was\nthe cause, his pride and caprice were the cause, of all that Jane had\nsuffered, and still continued to suffer. He had ruined for a while\nevery hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart in the\nworld; and no one could say how lasting an evil he might have inflicted.\n\n\"There were some very strong objections against the lady,\" were Colonel\nFitzwilliam's words; and those strong objections probably were, her\nhaving one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in\nbusiness in London.\n\n\"To Jane herself,\" she exclaimed, \"there could be no possibility of\nobjection; all loveliness and goodness as she is!--her understanding\nexcellent, her mind improved, and her manners captivating. Neither\ncould anything be urged against my father, who, though with some\npeculiarities, has abilities Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain, and\nrespectability which he will probably never reach.\" When she thought of\nher mother, her confidence gave way a little; but she would not allow\nthat any objections _there_ had material weight with Mr. Darcy, whose\npride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from the want of\nimportance in his friend's connections, than from their want of sense;\nand she was quite decided, at last, that he had been partly governed\nby this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of retaining Mr.\nBingley for his sister.\n\nThe agitation and tears which the subject occasioned, brought on a\nheadache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening, that, added to\nher unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her\ncousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins,\nseeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go and as much\nas possible prevented her husband from pressing her; but Mr. Collins\ncould not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine's being rather\ndispleased by her staying at home.\n\n\n\nChapter 34\n\n\nWhen they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself\nas much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the\nexamination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her\nbeing in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any\nrevival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering.\nBut in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that\ncheerfulness which had been used to characterise her style, and which,\nproceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself and kindly\ndisposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth\nnoticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an\nattention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's\nshameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict, gave her\na keener sense of her sister's sufferings. It was some consolation\nto think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the\nnext--and, a still greater, that in less than a fortnight she should\nherself be with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of\nher spirits, by all that affection could do.\n\nShe could not think of Darcy's leaving Kent without remembering that\nhis cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear\nthat he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not\nmean to be unhappy about him.\n\nWhile settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the\ndoor-bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its\nbeing Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in\nthe evening, and might now come to inquire particularly after her.\nBut this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently\naffected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the\nroom. In an hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her\nhealth, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better.\nShe answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and\nthen getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but\nsaid not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her\nin an agitated manner, and thus began:\n\n\"In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be\nrepressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love\nyou.\"\n\nElizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured,\ndoubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement;\nand the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for her,\nimmediately followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides\nthose of the heart to be detailed; and he was not more eloquent on the\nsubject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority--of\nits being a degradation--of the family obstacles which had always\nopposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to\nthe consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his\nsuit.\n\nIn spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to\nthe compliment of such a man's affection, and though her intentions did\nnot vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to\nreceive; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she\nlost all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to\nanswer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with\nrepresenting to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite\nof all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with\nexpressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of\nhis hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt\nof a favourable answer. He _spoke_ of apprehension and anxiety, but\nhis countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could\nonly exasperate farther, and, when he ceased, the colour rose into her\ncheeks, and she said:\n\n\"In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to\nexpress a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however\nunequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should\nbe felt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude, I would now thank you. But I\ncannot--I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly\nbestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to\nanyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be\nof short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented\nthe acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in\novercoming it after this explanation.\"\n\nMr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed\non her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than\nsurprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance\nof his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the\nappearance of composure, and would not open his lips till he believed\nhimself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's feelings\ndreadful. At length, with a voice of forced calmness, he said:\n\n\"And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting!\nI might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little _endeavour_ at\ncivility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.\"\n\n\"I might as well inquire,\" replied she, \"why with so evident a desire\nof offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me\nagainst your will, against your reason, and even against your character?\nWas not this some excuse for incivility, if I _was_ uncivil? But I have\nother provocations. You know I have. Had not my feelings decided against\nyou--had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you\nthink that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has\nbeen the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most\nbeloved sister?\"\n\nAs she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion\nwas short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she\ncontinued:\n\n\"I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can\nexcuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You dare not,\nyou cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if not the only means\nof dividing them from each other--of exposing one to the censure of the\nworld for caprice and instability, and the other to its derision for\ndisappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest\nkind.\"\n\nShe paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening\nwith an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse.\nHe even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.\n\n\"Can you deny that you have done it?\" she repeated.\n\nWith assumed tranquillity he then replied: \"I have no wish of denying\nthat I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your\nsister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_ I have been\nkinder than towards myself.\"\n\nElizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection,\nbut its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her.\n\n\"But it is not merely this affair,\" she continued, \"on which my dislike\nis founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of you was\ndecided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received\nmany months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to\nsay? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself?\nor under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others?\"\n\n\"You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns,\" said Darcy,\nin a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.\n\n\"Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an\ninterest in him?\"\n\n\"His misfortunes!\" repeated Darcy contemptuously; \"yes, his misfortunes\nhave been great indeed.\"\n\n\"And of your infliction,\" cried Elizabeth with energy. \"You have reduced\nhim to his present state of poverty--comparative poverty. You have\nwithheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for\nhim. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence\nwhich was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this!\nand yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and\nridicule.\"\n\n\"And this,\" cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room,\n\"is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me!\nI thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this\ncalculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps,\" added he, stopping in\nhis walk, and turning towards her, \"these offenses might have been\noverlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the\nscruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These\nbitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater\npolicy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of\nmy being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by\nreflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.\nNor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and\njust. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your\nconnections?--to congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose\ncondition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?\"\n\nElizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to\nthe utmost to speak with composure when she said:\n\n\"You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your\ndeclaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared the concern\nwhich I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more\ngentlemanlike manner.\"\n\nShe saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued:\n\n\"You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that\nwould have tempted me to accept it.\"\n\nAgain his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an\nexpression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on:\n\n\"From the very beginning--from the first moment, I may almost say--of\nmy acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest\nbelief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of\nthe feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of\ndisapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a\ndislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the\nlast man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.\"\n\n\"You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your\nfeelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been.\nForgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best\nwishes for your health and happiness.\"\n\nAnd with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him\nthe next moment open the front door and quit the house.\n\nThe tumult of her mind, was now painfully great. She knew not how\nto support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for\nhalf-an-hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed,\nwas increased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of\nmarriage from Mr. Darcy! That he should have been in love with her for\nso many months! So much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of\nall the objections which had made him prevent his friend's marrying\nher sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his\nown case--was almost incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired\nunconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable\npride--his shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to\nJane--his unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could\nnot justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr.\nWickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon\novercame the pity which the consideration of his attachment had for\na moment excited. She continued in very agitated reflections till the\nsound of Lady Catherine's carriage made her feel how unequal she was to\nencounter Charlotte's observation, and hurried her away to her room.\n\n\n\nChapter 35\n\n\nElizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations\nwhich had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the\nsurprise of what had happened; it was impossible to think of anything\nelse; and, totally indisposed for employment, she resolved, soon after\nbreakfast, to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding\ndirectly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy's\nsometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park,\nshe turned up the lane, which led farther from the turnpike-road. The\npark paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed one\nof the gates into the ground.\n\nAfter walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was\ntempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and\nlook into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent had\nmade a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the\nverdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk,\nwhen she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which\nedged the park; he was moving that way; and, fearful of its being Mr.\nDarcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now\nnear enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced\nher name. She had turned away; but on hearing herself called, though\nin a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the\ngate. He had by that time reached it also, and, holding out a letter,\nwhich she instinctively took, said, with a look of haughty composure,\n\"I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you.\nWill you do me the honour of reading that letter?\" And then, with a\nslight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight.\n\nWith no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity,\nElizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still increasing wonder,\nperceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter-paper, written\nquite through, in a very close hand. The envelope itself was likewise\nfull. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated\nfrom Rosings, at eight o'clock in the morning, and was as follows:--\n\n\"Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension\nof its containing any repetition of those sentiments or renewal of those\noffers which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any\nintention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes\nwhich, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the\neffort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion,\nshould have been spared, had not my character required it to be written\nand read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand\nyour attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I\ndemand it of your justice.\n\n\"Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of equal\nmagnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was,\nthat, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley\nfrom your sister, and the other, that I had, in defiance of various\nclaims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate\nprosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. Wilfully and\nwantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged\nfavourite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other\ndependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect\nits exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two young\npersons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could\nbear no comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was last\nnight so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope\nto be in the future secured, when the following account of my actions\nand their motives has been read. If, in the explanation of them, which\nis due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which\nmay be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity\nmust be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd.\n\n\"I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with\nothers, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any other young\nwoman in the country. But it was not till the evening of the dance\nat Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a serious\nattachment. I had often seen him in love before. At that ball, while I\nhad the honour of dancing with you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir\nWilliam Lucas's accidental information, that Bingley's attentions to\nyour sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage.\nHe spoke of it as a certain event, of which the time alone could\nbe undecided. From that moment I observed my friend's behaviour\nattentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss\nBennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also\nwatched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever,\nbut without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced\nfrom the evening's scrutiny, that though she received his attentions\nwith pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of\nsentiment. If _you_ have not been mistaken here, _I_ must have been\nin error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter\nprobable. If it be so, if I have been misled by such error to inflict\npain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not\nscruple to assert, that the serenity of your sister's countenance and\nair was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction\nthat, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be\neasily touched. That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is\ncertain--but I will venture to say that my investigation and decisions\nare not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did not believe\nher to be indifferent because I wished it; I believed it on impartial\nconviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. My objections to the\nmarriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have\nthe utmost force of passion to put aside, in my own case; the want of\nconnection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. But\nthere were other causes of repugnance; causes which, though still\nexisting, and existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had\nmyself endeavoured to forget, because they were not immediately before\nme. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your\nmother's family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison to that\ntotal want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by\nherself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your\nfather. Pardon me. It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern\nfor the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this\nrepresentation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that, to\nhave conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure,\nis praise no less generally bestowed on you and your elder sister, than\nit is honourable to the sense and disposition of both. I will only say\nfarther that from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties\nwas confirmed, and every inducement heightened which could have led\nme before, to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy\nconnection. He left Netherfield for London, on the day following, as\nyou, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning.\n\n\"The part which I acted is now to be explained. His sisters' uneasiness\nhad been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of feeling was\nsoon discovered, and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in\ndetaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in\nLondon. We accordingly went--and there I readily engaged in the office\nof pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a choice. I\ndescribed, and enforced them earnestly. But, however this remonstrance\nmight have staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose\nthat it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been\nseconded by the assurance that I hesitated not in giving, of your\nsister's indifference. He had before believed her to return his\naffection with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley has great\nnatural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgement than on his\nown. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself, was\nno very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into\nHertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the\nwork of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much. There\nis but one part of my conduct in the whole affair on which I do not\nreflect with satisfaction; it is that I condescended to adopt the\nmeasures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister's being in\ntown. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley; but her\nbrother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might have met without\nill consequence is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me\nenough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this\nconcealment, this disguise was beneath me; it is done, however, and it\nwas done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no\nother apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister's feelings, it\nwas unknowingly done and though the motives which governed me may to\nyou very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn\nthem.\n\n\"With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured\nMr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his\nconnection with my family. Of what he has _particularly_ accused me I\nam ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more\nthan one witness of undoubted veracity.\n\n\"Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many\nyears the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good\nconduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to\nbe of service to him; and on George Wickham, who was his godson, his\nkindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at\nschool, and afterwards at Cambridge--most important assistance, as his\nown father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have\nbeen unable to give him a gentleman's education. My father was not only\nfond of this young man's society, whose manner were always engaging; he\nhad also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be\nhis profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is\nmany, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different\nmanner. The vicious propensities--the want of principle, which he was\ncareful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape\nthe observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself,\nand who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr.\nDarcy could not have. Here again I shall give you pain--to what degree\nyou only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham\nhas created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from\nunfolding his real character--it adds even another motive.\n\n\"My excellent father died about five years ago; and his attachment to\nMr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he particularly\nrecommended it to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner\nthat his profession might allow--and if he took orders, desired that a\nvaluable family living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There\nwas also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long\nsurvive mine, and within half a year from these events, Mr. Wickham\nwrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders,\nhe hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more\nimmediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he\ncould not be benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying\nlaw, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would\nbe a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than believed\nhim to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to\nhis proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman; the\nbusiness was therefore soon settled--he resigned all claim to assistance\nin the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to\nreceive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection\nbetween us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him\nto Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town I believe he chiefly\nlived, but his studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free\nfrom all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation.\nFor about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the\nincumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to\nme again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he assured\nme, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He\nhad found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely\nresolved on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in\nquestion--of which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was\nwell assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could not\nhave forgotten my revered father's intentions. You will hardly blame\nme for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every\nrepetition to it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of\nhis circumstances--and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me\nto others as in his reproaches to myself. After this period every\nappearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But\nlast summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.\n\n\"I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself,\nand which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold\nto any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your\nsecrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to\nthe guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself.\nAbout a year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment formed\nfor her in London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided\nover it, to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by\ndesign; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him\nand Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and\nby her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,\nwhose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to\nher as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and\nto consent to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her\nexcuse; and after stating her imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed\nthe knowledge of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two\nbefore the intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the\nidea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as\na father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and\nhow I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings prevented\nany public exposure; but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place\nimmediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr.\nWickham's chief object was unquestionably my sister's fortune, which\nis thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of\nrevenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have\nbeen complete indeed.\n\n\"This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have\nbeen concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as\nfalse, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr.\nWickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he\nhad imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered\nat. Ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning either,\ndetection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in\nyour inclination.\n\n\"You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night; but\nI was not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to\nbe revealed. For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more\nparticularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our\nnear relationship and constant intimacy, and, still more, as one of\nthe executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted\nwith every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of _me_\nshould make _my_ assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by\nthe same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be\nthe possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some\nopportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the\nmorning. I will only add, God bless you.\n\n\"FITZWILLIAM DARCY\"\n\n\n\nChapter 36\n\n\nIf Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to\ncontain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of\nits contents. But such as they were, it may well be supposed how eagerly\nshe went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited.\nHer feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did\nshe first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power;\nand steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could have no explanation\nto give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong\nprejudice against everything he might say, she began his account of what\nhad happened at Netherfield. She read with an eagerness which hardly\nleft her power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing what the\nnext sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of\nthe one before her eyes. His belief of her sister's insensibility she\ninstantly resolved to be false; and his account of the real, the worst\nobjections to the match, made her too angry to have any wish of doing\nhim justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied\nher; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and\ninsolence.\n\nBut when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham--when\nshe read with somewhat clearer attention a relation of events which,\nif true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which\nbore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself--her\nfeelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition.\nAstonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished\nto discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, \"This must be false!\nThis cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!\"--and when she had\ngone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the\nlast page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not\nregard it, that she would never look in it again.\n\nIn this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on\nnothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the letter\nwas unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she\nagain began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and\ncommanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence.\nThe account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what\nhe had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though\nshe had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own\nwords. So far each recital confirmed the other; but when she came to the\nwill, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living\nwas fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was\nimpossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the\nother; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did\nnot err. But when she read and re-read with the closest attention, the\nparticulars immediately following of Wickham's resigning all pretensions\nto the living, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three\nthousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down\nthe letter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be\nimpartiality--deliberated on the probability of each statement--but with\nlittle success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read\non; but every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had\nbelieved it impossible that any contrivance could so represent as to\nrender Mr. Darcy's conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a\nturn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole.\n\nThe extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay at\nMr. Wickham's charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could\nbring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his\nentrance into the ----shire Militia, in which he had engaged at the\npersuasion of the young man who, on meeting him accidentally in town,\nhad there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life\nnothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As\nto his real character, had information been in her power, she had\nnever felt a wish of inquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had\nestablished him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried\nto recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of\nintegrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of\nMr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those\ncasual errors under which she would endeavour to class what Mr. Darcy\nhad described as the idleness and vice of many years' continuance. But\nno such recollection befriended her. She could see him instantly before\nher, in every charm of air and address; but she could remember no more\nsubstantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and\nthe regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After\npausing on this point a considerable while, she once more continued to\nread. But, alas! the story which followed, of his designs on Miss\nDarcy, received some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel\nFitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she was\nreferred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam\nhimself--from whom she had previously received the information of his\nnear concern in all his cousin's affairs, and whose character she had no\nreason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to\nhim, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and\nat length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never\nhave hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his\ncousin's corroboration.\n\nShe perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation\nbetween Wickham and herself, in their first evening at Mr. Phillips's.\nMany of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was _now_\nstruck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and\nwondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting\nhimself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions\nwith his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear\nof seeing Mr. Darcy--that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that\n_he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball\nthe very next week. She remembered also that, till the Netherfield\nfamily had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but\nherself; but that after their removal it had been everywhere discussed;\nthat he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy's\ncharacter, though he had assured her that respect for the father would\nalways prevent his exposing the son.\n\nHow differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned!\nHis attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and\nhatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer\nthe moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at anything.\nHis behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had\neither been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying\nhis vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most\nincautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter\nand fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not\nbut allow Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago asserted\nhis blamelessness in the affair; that proud and repulsive as were his\nmanners, she had never, in the whole course of their acquaintance--an\nacquaintance which had latterly brought them much together, and given\nher a sort of intimacy with his ways--seen anything that betrayed him\nto be unprincipled or unjust--anything that spoke him of irreligious\nor immoral habits; that among his own connections he was esteemed and\nvalued--that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a brother, and that\nshe had often heard him speak so affectionately of his sister as to\nprove him capable of _some_ amiable feeling; that had his actions been\nwhat Mr. Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of everything\nright could hardly have been concealed from the world; and that\nfriendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man as\nMr. Bingley, was incomprehensible.\n\nShe grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham\ncould she think without feeling she had been blind, partial, prejudiced,\nabsurd.\n\n\"How despicably I have acted!\" she cried; \"I, who have prided myself\non my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have\noften disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified\nmy vanity in useless or blameable mistrust! How humiliating is this\ndiscovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could\nnot have been more wretchedly blind! But vanity, not love, has been my\nfolly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect\nof the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted\nprepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were\nconcerned. Till this moment I never knew myself.\"\n\nFrom herself to Jane--from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line\nwhich soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy's explanation\n_there_ had appeared very insufficient, and she read it again. Widely\ndifferent was the effect of a second perusal. How could she deny that\ncredit to his assertions in one instance, which she had been obliged to\ngive in the other? He declared himself to be totally unsuspicious of her\nsister's attachment; and she could not help remembering what Charlotte's\nopinion had always been. Neither could she deny the justice of his\ndescription of Jane. She felt that Jane's feelings, though fervent, were\nlittle displayed, and that there was a constant complacency in her air\nand manner not often united with great sensibility.\n\nWhen she came to that part of the letter in which her family were\nmentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her sense\nof shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly\nfor denial, and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded as\nhaving passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first\ndisapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind\nthan on hers.\n\nThe compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed,\nbut it could not console her for the contempt which had thus been\nself-attracted by the rest of her family; and as she considered\nthat Jane's disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest\nrelations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt\nby such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything she\nhad ever known before.\n\nAfter wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every\nvariety of thought--re-considering events, determining probabilities,\nand reconciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and\nso important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made\nher at length return home; and she entered the house with the wish\nof appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such\nreflections as must make her unfit for conversation.\n\nShe was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each\ncalled during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes, to take\nleave--but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least\nan hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her\ntill she could be found. Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern\nin missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no\nlonger an object; she could think only of her letter.\n\n\n\nChapter 37\n\n\nThe two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning, and Mr. Collins having\nbeen in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting obeisance, was\nable to bring home the pleasing intelligence, of their appearing in very\ngood health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the\nmelancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings. To Rosings he then\nhastened, to console Lady Catherine and her daughter; and on his return\nbrought back, with great satisfaction, a message from her ladyship,\nimporting that she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of\nhaving them all to dine with her.\n\nElizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that, had\nshe chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to her as\nher future niece; nor could she think, without a smile, of what her\nladyship's indignation would have been. \"What would she have said? how\nwould she have behaved?\" were questions with which she amused herself.\n\nTheir first subject was the diminution of the Rosings party. \"I assure\nyou, I feel it exceedingly,\" said Lady Catherine; \"I believe no one\nfeels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I am particularly\nattached to these young men, and know them to be so much attached to\nme! They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The\ndear Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy\nseemed to feel it most acutely, more, I think, than last year. His\nattachment to Rosings certainly increases.\"\n\nMr. Collins had a compliment, and an allusion to throw in here, which\nwere kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter.\n\nLady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed out of\nspirits, and immediately accounting for it by herself, by supposing that\nshe did not like to go home again so soon, she added:\n\n\"But if that is the case, you must write to your mother and beg that\nyou may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your\ncompany, I am sure.\"\n\n\"I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation,\" replied\nElizabeth, \"but it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town\nnext Saturday.\"\n\n\"Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I expected\nyou to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There\ncan be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly\nspare you for another fortnight.\"\n\n\"But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return.\"\n\n\"Oh! your father of course may spare you, if your mother can. Daughters\nare never of so much consequence to a father. And if you will stay\nanother _month_ complete, it will be in my power to take one of you as\nfar as London, for I am going there early in June, for a week; and as\nDawson does not object to the barouche-box, there will be very good room\nfor one of you--and indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I\nshould not object to taking you both, as you are neither of you large.\"\n\n\"You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our\noriginal plan.\"\n\nLady Catherine seemed resigned. \"Mrs. Collins, you must send a servant\nwith them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea\nof two young women travelling post by themselves. It is highly improper.\nYou must contrive to send somebody. I have the greatest dislike in\nthe world to that sort of thing. Young women should always be properly\nguarded and attended, according to their situation in life. When my\nniece Georgiana went to Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her\nhaving two men-servants go with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter of\nMr. Darcy, of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have appeared with\npropriety in a different manner. I am excessively attentive to all those\nthings. You must send John with the young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I\nam glad it occurred to me to mention it; for it would really be\ndiscreditable to _you_ to let them go alone.\"\n\n\"My uncle is to send a servant for us.\"\n\n\"Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad you\nhave somebody who thinks of these things. Where shall you change horses?\nOh! Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at the Bell, you will be\nattended to.\"\n\nLady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their journey,\nand as she did not answer them all herself, attention was necessary,\nwhich Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or, with a mind so\noccupied, she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection must be\nreserved for solitary hours; whenever she was alone, she gave way to it\nas the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a solitary\nwalk, in which she might indulge in all the delight of unpleasant\nrecollections.\n\nMr. Darcy's letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She\nstudied every sentence; and her feelings towards its writer were at\ntimes widely different. When she remembered the style of his address,\nshe was still full of indignation; but when she considered how unjustly\nshe had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned against\nherself; and his disappointed feelings became the object of compassion.\nHis attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect; but she\ncould not approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal,\nor feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past\nbehaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and regret; and in\nthe unhappy defects of her family, a subject of yet heavier chagrin.\nThey were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at\nthem, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his\nyoungest daughters; and her mother, with manners so far from right\nherself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently\nunited with Jane in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine\nand Lydia; but while they were supported by their mother's indulgence,\nwhat chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited,\nirritable, and completely under Lydia's guidance, had been always\naffronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless, would\nscarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While\nthere was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt with him; and while\nMeryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they would be going there\nforever.\n\nAnxiety on Jane's behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr. Darcy's\nexplanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good opinion,\nheightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was proved\nto have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame, unless any\ncould attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his friend. How\ngrievous then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every\nrespect, so replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had\nbeen deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family!\n\nWhen to these recollections was added the development of Wickham's\ncharacter, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had\nseldom been depressed before, were now so much affected as to make it\nalmost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful.\n\nTheir engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of\nher stay as they had been at first. The very last evening was spent\nthere; and her ladyship again inquired minutely into the particulars of\ntheir journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing,\nand was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right\nway, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the\nwork of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh.\n\nWhen they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, wished them\na good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford again next year;\nand Miss de Bourgh exerted herself so far as to curtsey and hold out her\nhand to both.\n\n\n\nChapter 38\n\n\nOn Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few\nminutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of\npaying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary.\n\n\"I know not, Miss Elizabeth,\" said he, \"whether Mrs. Collins has yet\nexpressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I am very\ncertain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for\nit. The favor of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We\nknow how little there is to tempt anyone to our humble abode. Our plain\nmanner of living, our small rooms and few domestics, and the little we\nsee of the world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like\nyourself; but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension,\nand that we have done everything in our power to prevent your spending\nyour time unpleasantly.\"\n\nElizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She\nhad spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of being with\nCharlotte, and the kind attentions she had received, must make _her_\nfeel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified, and with a more smiling\nsolemnity replied:\n\n\"It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have passed your time not\ndisagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most fortunately\nhaving it in our power to introduce you to very superior society, and,\nfrom our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of varying the\nhumble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that your Hunsford\nvisit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation with regard to\nLady Catherine's family is indeed the sort of extraordinary advantage\nand blessing which few can boast. You see on what a footing we are. You\nsee how continually we are engaged there. In truth I must acknowledge\nthat, with all the disadvantages of this humble parsonage, I should\nnot think anyone abiding in it an object of compassion, while they are\nsharers of our intimacy at Rosings.\"\n\nWords were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he was\nobliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility\nand truth in a few short sentences.\n\n\"You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into\nHertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself at least that you will\nbe able to do so. Lady Catherine's great attentions to Mrs. Collins you\nhave been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust it does not appear\nthat your friend has drawn an unfortunate--but on this point it will be\nas well to be silent. Only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth,\nthat I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in\nmarriage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one mind and one way of\nthinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of\ncharacter and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each\nother.\"\n\nElizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where that was\nthe case, and with equal sincerity could add, that she firmly believed\nand rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was not sorry, however, to\nhave the recital of them interrupted by the lady from whom they sprang.\nPoor Charlotte! it was melancholy to leave her to such society! But she\nhad chosen it with her eyes open; and though evidently regretting that\nher visitors were to go, she did not seem to ask for compassion. Her\nhome and her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and all their\ndependent concerns, had not yet lost their charms.\n\nAt length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels\nplaced within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate\nparting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by\nMr. Collins, and as they walked down the garden he was commissioning her\nwith his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his thanks\nfor the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his\ncompliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her\nin, Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed,\nwhen he suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had\nhitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies at Rosings.\n\n\"But,\" he added, \"you will of course wish to have your humble respects\ndelivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you\nwhile you have been here.\"\n\nElizabeth made no objection; the door was then allowed to be shut, and\nthe carriage drove off.\n\n\"Good gracious!\" cried Maria, after a few minutes' silence, \"it seems\nbut a day or two since we first came! and yet how many things have\nhappened!\"\n\n\"A great many indeed,\" said her companion with a sigh.\n\n\"We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there twice!\nHow much I shall have to tell!\"\n\nElizabeth added privately, \"And how much I shall have to conceal!\"\n\nTheir journey was performed without much conversation, or any alarm; and\nwithin four hours of their leaving Hunsford they reached Mr. Gardiner's\nhouse, where they were to remain a few days.\n\nJane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her\nspirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her\naunt had reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at\nLongbourn there would be leisure enough for observation.\n\nIt was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even for\nLongbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy's proposals. To know\nthat she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish\nJane, and must, at the same time, so highly gratify whatever of her own\nvanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such a temptation\nto openness as nothing could have conquered but the state of indecision\nin which she remained as to the extent of what she should communicate;\nand her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried\ninto repeating something of Bingley which might only grieve her sister\nfurther.\n\n\n\nChapter 39\n\n\nIt was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies set out\ntogether from Gracechurch Street for the town of ----, in Hertfordshire;\nand, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet's carriage\nwas to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman's\npunctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room upstairs.\nThese two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily employed\nin visiting an opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on guard, and\ndressing a salad and cucumber.\n\nAfter welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set\nout with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming,\n\"Is not this nice? Is not this an agreeable surprise?\"\n\n\"And we mean to treat you all,\" added Lydia, \"but you must lend us the\nmoney, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there.\" Then, showing\nher purchases--\"Look here, I have bought this bonnet. I do not think\nit is very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall\npull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any\nbetter.\"\n\nAnd when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect\nunconcern, \"Oh! but there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and\nwhen I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I\nthink it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what\none wears this summer, after the ----shire have left Meryton, and they\nare going in a fortnight.\"\n\n\"Are they indeed!\" cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction.\n\n\"They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to\ntake us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme;\nand I dare say would hardly cost anything at all. Mamma would like to\ngo too of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall\nhave!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" thought Elizabeth, \"_that_ would be a delightful scheme indeed,\nand completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton, and a whole\ncampful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset already by one poor\nregiment of militia, and the monthly balls of Meryton!\"\n\n\"Now I have got some news for you,\" said Lydia, as they sat down at\ntable. \"What do you think? It is excellent news--capital news--and about\na certain person we all like!\"\n\nJane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told he need\nnot stay. Lydia laughed, and said:\n\n\"Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the\nwaiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse\nthings said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I am glad\nhe is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for\nmy news; it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is it not?\nThere is no danger of Wickham's marrying Mary King. There's for you! She\nis gone down to her uncle at Liverpool: gone to stay. Wickham is safe.\"\n\n\"And Mary King is safe!\" added Elizabeth; \"safe from a connection\nimprudent as to fortune.\"\n\n\"She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.\"\n\n\"But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,\" said Jane.\n\n\"I am sure there is not on _his_. I will answer for it, he never cared\nthree straws about her--who could about such a nasty little freckled\nthing?\"\n\nElizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such\ncoarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the _sentiment_\nwas little other than her own breast had harboured and fancied liberal!\n\nAs soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was\nordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their\nboxes, work-bags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty's and\nLydia's purchases, were seated in it.\n\n\"How nicely we are all crammed in,\" cried Lydia. \"I am glad I bought my\nbonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another bandbox! Well, now\nlet us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way\nhome. And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all\nsince you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any\nflirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband\nbefore you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare.\nShe is almost three-and-twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not\nbeing married before three-and-twenty! My aunt Phillips wants you so to\nget husbands, you can't think. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr.\nCollins; but _I_ do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord!\nhow I should like to be married before any of you; and then I would\nchaperon you about to all the balls. Dear me! we had such a good piece\nof fun the other day at Colonel Forster's. Kitty and me were to spend\nthe day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the\nevening; (by the bye, Mrs. Forster and me are _such_ friends!) and so\nshe asked the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen\nwas forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We\ndressed up Chamberlayne in woman's clothes on purpose to pass for a\nlady, only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Colonel and Mrs.\nForster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were forced to borrow\none of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny,\nand Wickham, and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in, they\ndid not know him in the least. Lord! how I laughed! and so did Mrs.\nForster. I thought I should have died. And _that_ made the men suspect\nsomething, and then they soon found out what was the matter.\"\n\nWith such kinds of histories of their parties and good jokes, did\nLydia, assisted by Kitty's hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her\ncompanions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she\ncould, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham's name.\n\nTheir reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane\nin undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet\nsay voluntarily to Elizabeth:\n\n\"I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.\"\n\nTheir party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases\ncame to meet Maria and hear the news; and various were the subjects that\noccupied them: Lady Lucas was inquiring of Maria, after the welfare and\npoultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet was doubly engaged, on one\nhand collecting an account of the present fashions from Jane, who sat\nsome way below her, and, on the other, retailing them all to the younger\nLucases; and Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other person's,\nwas enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who\nwould hear her.\n\n\"Oh! Mary,\" said she, \"I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun!\nAs we went along, Kitty and I drew up the blinds, and pretended there\nwas nobody in the coach; and I should have gone so all the way, if Kitty\nhad not been sick; and when we got to the George, I do think we behaved\nvery handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest cold\nluncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have treated\nyou too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought we never\nshould have got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then\nwe were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so loud, that\nanybody might have heard us ten miles off!\"\n\nTo this Mary very gravely replied, \"Far be it from me, my dear sister,\nto depreciate such pleasures! They would doubtless be congenial with the\ngenerality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms for\n_me_--I should infinitely prefer a book.\"\n\nBut of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to\nanybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all.\n\nIn the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk\nto Meryton, and to see how everybody went on; but Elizabeth steadily\nopposed the scheme. It should not be said that the Miss Bennets could\nnot be at home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers.\nThere was another reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Mr.\nWickham again, and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The\ncomfort to _her_ of the regiment's approaching removal was indeed beyond\nexpression. In a fortnight they were to go--and once gone, she hoped\nthere could be nothing more to plague her on his account.\n\nShe had not been many hours at home before she found that the Brighton\nscheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under\nfrequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her\nfather had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were\nat the same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though often\ndisheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at last.\n\n\n\nChapter 40\n\n\nElizabeth's impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could\nno longer be overcome; and at length, resolving to suppress every\nparticular in which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be\nsurprised, she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene\nbetween Mr. Darcy and herself.\n\nMiss Bennet's astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly\npartiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly\nnatural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was\nsorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so\nlittle suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved for the\nunhappiness which her sister's refusal must have given him.\n\n\"His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,\" said she, \"and certainly\nought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his\ndisappointment!\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" replied Elizabeth, \"I am heartily sorry for him; but he has\nother feelings, which will probably soon drive away his regard for me.\nYou do not blame me, however, for refusing him?\"\n\n\"Blame you! Oh, no.\"\n\n\"But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?\"\n\n\"No--I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.\"\n\n\"But you _will_ know it, when I tell you what happened the very next\nday.\"\n\nShe then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far\nas they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this for poor Jane!\nwho would willingly have gone through the world without believing that\nso much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind, as was here\ncollected in one individual. Nor was Darcy's vindication, though\ngrateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery.\nMost earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and\nseek to clear the one without involving the other.\n\n\"This will not do,\" said Elizabeth; \"you never will be able to make both\nof them good for anything. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied\nwith only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just\nenough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting\nabout pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Darcy's;\nbut you shall do as you choose.\"\n\nIt was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane.\n\n\"I do not know when I have been more shocked,\" said she. \"Wickham so\nvery bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! Dear Lizzy, only\nconsider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and with the\nknowledge of your ill opinion, too! and having to relate such a thing\nof his sister! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it\nso.\"\n\n\"Oh! no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so\nfull of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am\ngrowing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion\nmakes me saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will\nbe as light as a feather.\"\n\n\"Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness in his\ncountenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner!\"\n\n\"There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those\ntwo young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the\nappearance of it.\"\n\n\"I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it as you\nused to do.\"\n\n\"And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike\nto him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one's genius, such an\nopening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually\nabusive without saying anything just; but one cannot always be laughing\nat a man without now and then stumbling on something witty.\"\n\n\"Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat\nthe matter as you do now.\"\n\n\"Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I may say unhappy. And\nwith no one to speak to about what I felt, no Jane to comfort me and say\nthat I had not been so very weak and vain and nonsensical as I knew I\nhad! Oh! how I wanted you!\"\n\n\"How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions\nin speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they _do_ appear wholly\nundeserved.\"\n\n\"Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most\nnatural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There\nis one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I\nought, or ought not, to make our acquaintances in general understand\nWickham's character.\"\n\nMiss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, \"Surely there can be no\noccasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your opinion?\"\n\n\"That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised me\nto make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular\nrelative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to\nmyself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his\nconduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy\nis so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in\nMeryton to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal\nto it. Wickham will soon be gone; and therefore it will not signify to\nanyone here what he really is. Some time hence it will be all found out,\nand then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At\npresent I will say nothing about it.\"\n\n\"You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for\never. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and anxious to\nre-establish a character. We must not make him desperate.\"\n\nThe tumult of Elizabeth's mind was allayed by this conversation. She had\ngot rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight,\nand was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she might wish\nto talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind,\nof which prudence forbade the disclosure. She dared not relate the other\nhalf of Mr. Darcy's letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she\nhad been valued by her friend. Here was knowledge in which no one\ncould partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect\nunderstanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off\nthis last encumbrance of mystery. \"And then,\" said she, \"if that very\nimprobable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to\ntell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The\nliberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!\"\n\nShe was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real\nstate of her sister's spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a\nvery tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself\nin love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment,\nand, from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than most first\nattachments often boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance,\nand prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense, and all her\nattention to the feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the\nindulgence of those regrets which must have been injurious to her own\nhealth and their tranquillity.\n\n\"Well, Lizzy,\" said Mrs. Bennet one day, \"what is your opinion _now_ of\nthis sad business of Jane's? For my part, I am determined never to speak\nof it again to anybody. I told my sister Phillips so the other day. But\nI cannot find out that Jane saw anything of him in London. Well, he is\na very undeserving young man--and I do not suppose there's the least\nchance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of\nhis coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have inquired of\neverybody, too, who is likely to know.\"\n\n\"I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any more.\"\n\n\"Oh well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. Though I\nshall always say he used my daughter extremely ill; and if I was her, I\nwould not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure Jane will\ndie of a broken heart; and then he will be sorry for what he has done.\"\n\nBut as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation,\nshe made no answer.\n\n\"Well, Lizzy,\" continued her mother, soon afterwards, \"and so the\nCollinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope\nit will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an\nexcellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her\nmother, she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in _their_\nhousekeeping, I dare say.\"\n\n\"No, nothing at all.\"\n\n\"A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes. _they_ will\ntake care not to outrun their income. _They_ will never be distressed\nfor money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often\ntalk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it as\nquite their own, I dare say, whenever that happens.\"\n\n\"It was a subject which they could not mention before me.\"\n\n\"No; it would have been strange if they had; but I make no doubt they\noften talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an\nestate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. I should be\nashamed of having one that was only entailed on me.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 41\n\n\nThe first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was\nthe last of the regiment's stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies\nin the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost\nuniversal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink,\nand sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very\nfrequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and\nLydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such\nhard-heartedness in any of the family.\n\n\"Good Heaven! what is to become of us? What are we to do?\" would they\noften exclaim in the bitterness of woe. \"How can you be smiling so,\nLizzy?\"\n\nTheir affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what\nshe had herself endured on a similar occasion, five-and-twenty years\nago.\n\n\"I am sure,\" said she, \"I cried for two days together when Colonel\nMiller's regiment went away. I thought I should have broken my heart.\"\n\n\"I am sure I shall break _mine_,\" said Lydia.\n\n\"If one could but go to Brighton!\" observed Mrs. Bennet.\n\n\"Oh, yes!--if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so\ndisagreeable.\"\n\n\"A little sea-bathing would set me up forever.\"\n\n\"And my aunt Phillips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of good,\"\nadded Kitty.\n\nSuch were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through\nLongbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense\nof pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy's\nobjections; and never had she been so much disposed to pardon his\ninterference in the views of his friend.\n\nBut the gloom of Lydia's prospect was shortly cleared away; for she\nreceived an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the colonel of\nthe regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a\nvery young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour\nand good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of\ntheir _three_ months' acquaintance they had been intimate _two_.\n\nThe rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster,\nthe delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely\nto be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister's feelings, Lydia\nflew about the house in restless ecstasy, calling for everyone's\ncongratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever;\nwhilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repined at her fate\nin terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish.\n\n\"I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as Lydia,\"\nsaid she, \"Though I am _not_ her particular friend. I have just as much\nright to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am two years older.\"\n\nIn vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make\nher resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from\nexciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she\nconsidered it as the death warrant of all possibility of common sense\nfor the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her were it\nknown, she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her\ngo. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia's general\nbehaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of\nsuch a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more\nimprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must\nbe greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said:\n\n\"Lydia will never be easy until she has exposed herself in some public\nplace or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so\nlittle expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present\ncircumstances.\"\n\n\"If you were aware,\" said Elizabeth, \"of the very great disadvantage to\nus all which must arise from the public notice of Lydia's unguarded and\nimprudent manner--nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you\nwould judge differently in the affair.\"\n\n\"Already arisen?\" repeated Mr. Bennet. \"What, has she frightened away\nsome of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such\nsqueamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity\nare not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of pitiful fellows who\nhave been kept aloof by Lydia's folly.\"\n\n\"Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not\nof particular, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our\nimportance, our respectability in the world must be affected by the\nwild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark\nLydia's character. Excuse me, for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear\nfather, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and\nof teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of\nher life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character\nwill be fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt\nthat ever made herself or her family ridiculous; a flirt, too, in the\nworst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond\nyouth and a tolerable person; and, from the ignorance and emptiness\nof her mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion of that universal\ncontempt which her rage for admiration will excite. In this danger\nKitty also is comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain,\nignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh! my dear father, can you\nsuppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever\nthey are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the\ndisgrace?\"\n\nMr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject, and\naffectionately taking her hand said in reply:\n\n\"Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known\nyou must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less\nadvantage for having a couple of--or I may say, three--very silly\nsisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to\nBrighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will\nkeep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an\nobject of prey to anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance\neven as a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find\nwomen better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being\nthere may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow\nmany degrees worse, without authorising us to lock her up for the rest\nof her life.\"\n\nWith this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion\ncontinued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not\nin her nature, however, to increase her vexations by dwelling on\nthem. She was confident of having performed her duty, and to fret\nover unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her\ndisposition.\n\nHad Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her\nfather, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their\nunited volubility. In Lydia's imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised\nevery possibility of earthly happiness. She saw, with the creative eye\nof fancy, the streets of that gay bathing-place covered with officers.\nShe saw herself the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them\nat present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp--its tents\nstretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young\nand the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the view, she\nsaw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six\nofficers at once.\n\nHad she known her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and such\nrealities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could have\nbeen understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly the same.\nLydia's going to Brighton was all that consoled her for her melancholy\nconviction of her husband's never intending to go there himself.\n\nBut they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures\ncontinued, with little intermission, to the very day of Lydia's leaving\nhome.\n\nElizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been\nfrequently in company with him since her return, agitation was pretty\nwell over; the agitations of formal partiality entirely so. She had even\nlearnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted\nher, an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present\nbehaviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure,\nfor the inclination he soon testified of renewing those intentions which\nhad marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve, after\nwhat had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern for him in\nfinding herself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous\ngallantry; and while she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the\nreproof contained in his believing, that however long, and for whatever\ncause, his attentions had been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified,\nand her preference secured at any time by their renewal.\n\nOn the very last day of the regiment's remaining at Meryton, he dined,\nwith other of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth\ndisposed to part from him in good humour, that on his making some\ninquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she\nmentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam's and Mr. Darcy's having both spent three\nweeks at Rosings, and asked him, if he was acquainted with the former.\n\nHe looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment's\nrecollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen\nhim often; and, after observing that he was a very gentlemanlike man,\nasked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour.\nWith an air of indifference he soon afterwards added:\n\n\"How long did you say he was at Rosings?\"\n\n\"Nearly three weeks.\"\n\n\"And you saw him frequently?\"\n\n\"Yes, almost every day.\"\n\n\"His manners are very different from his cousin's.\"\n\n\"Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves upon acquaintance.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" cried Mr. Wickham with a look which did not escape her. \"And\npray, may I ask?--\" But checking himself, he added, in a gayer tone, \"Is\nit in address that he improves? Has he deigned to add aught of civility\nto his ordinary style?--for I dare not hope,\" he continued in a lower\nand more serious tone, \"that he is improved in essentials.\"\n\n\"Oh, no!\" said Elizabeth. \"In essentials, I believe, he is very much\nwhat he ever was.\"\n\nWhile she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to\nrejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a\nsomething in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive\nand anxious attention, while she added:\n\n\"When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that\nhis mind or his manners were in a state of improvement, but that, from\nknowing him better, his disposition was better understood.\"\n\nWickham's alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated\nlook; for a few minutes he was silent, till, shaking off his\nembarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of\naccents:\n\n\"You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Darcy, will readily\ncomprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume\neven the _appearance_ of what is right. His pride, in that direction,\nmay be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must only\ndeter him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only\nfear that the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been\nalluding, is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good\nopinion and judgement he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always\noperated, I know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be\nimputed to his wish of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I\nam certain he has very much at heart.\"\n\nElizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a\nslight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on\nthe old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge\nhim. The rest of the evening passed with the _appearance_, on his\nside, of usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to distinguish\nElizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a\nmutual desire of never meeting again.\n\nWhen the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton,\nfrom whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation\nbetween her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the\nonly one who shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs.\nBennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter,\nand impressive in her injunctions that she should not miss the\nopportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible--advice which\nthere was every reason to believe would be well attended to; and in\nthe clamorous happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more\ngentle adieus of her sisters were uttered without being heard.\n\n\n\nChapter 42\n\n\nHad Elizabeth's opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could\nnot have formed a very pleasing opinion of conjugal felicity or domestic\ncomfort. Her father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance\nof good humour which youth and beauty generally give, had married a\nwoman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind had very early in\ntheir marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect,\nesteem, and confidence had vanished for ever; and all his views\nof domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of\na disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own\nimprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often\nconsole the unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of\nthe country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his principal\nenjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted, than as\nher ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not\nthe sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his\nwife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true\nphilosopher will derive benefit from such as are given.\n\nElizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her\nfather's behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but\nrespecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of\nherself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to\nbanish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation\nand decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own\nchildren, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so\nstrongly as now the disadvantages which must attend the children of so\nunsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising\nfrom so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents, which, rightly used,\nmight at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters, even\nif incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife.\n\nWhen Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham's departure she found little\nother cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties\nabroad were less varied than before, and at home she had a mother and\nsister whose constant repinings at the dullness of everything around\nthem threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty\nmight in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbers\nof her brain were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition\ngreater evil might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all\nher folly and assurance by a situation of such double danger as a\nwatering-place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what\nhas been sometimes found before, that an event to which she had been\nlooking with impatient desire did not, in taking place, bring all the\nsatisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to\nname some other period for the commencement of actual felicity--to have\nsome other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by\nagain enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the\npresent, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes\nwas now the object of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation\nfor all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness of her mother\nand Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included Jane in the\nscheme, every part of it would have been perfect.\n\n\"But it is fortunate,\" thought she, \"that I have something to wish for.\nWere the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain.\nBut here, by carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret in my\nsister's absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of\npleasure realised. A scheme of which every part promises delight can\nnever be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by\nthe defence of some little peculiar vexation.\"\n\nWhen Lydia went away she promised to write very often and very minutely\nto her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and\nalways very short. Those to her mother contained little else than that\nthey were just returned from the library, where such and such officers\nhad attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as\nmade her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which\nshe would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a\nviolent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going off to\nthe camp; and from her correspondence with her sister, there was still\nless to be learnt--for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were\nmuch too full of lines under the words to be made public.\n\nAfter the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, good\nhumour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn. Everything wore\na happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter came\nback again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet\nwas restored to her usual querulous serenity; and, by the middle of\nJune, Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without\ntears; an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope that by\nthe following Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable as not to\nmention an officer above once a day, unless, by some cruel and malicious\narrangement at the War Office, another regiment should be quartered in\nMeryton.\n\nThe time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now fast\napproaching, and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter\narrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and\ncurtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from\nsetting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again\nwithin a month, and as that left too short a period for them to go so\nfar, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with\nthe leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up\nthe Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour, and, according to the\npresent plan, were to go no farther northwards than Derbyshire. In that\ncounty there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three\nweeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The\ntown where she had formerly passed some years of her life, and where\nthey were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of\nher curiosity as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth,\nDovedale, or the Peak.\n\nElizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on seeing\nthe Lakes, and still thought there might have been time enough. But it\nwas her business to be satisfied--and certainly her temper to be happy;\nand all was soon right again.\n\nWith the mention of Derbyshire there were many ideas connected. It was\nimpossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its\nowner. \"But surely,\" said she, \"I may enter his county without impunity,\nand rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me.\"\n\nThe period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away\nbefore her uncle and aunt's arrival. But they did pass away, and Mr.\nand Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at\nLongbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two\nyounger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their\ncousin Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and\nsweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every\nway--teaching them, playing with them, and loving them.\n\nThe Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the\nnext morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement.\nOne enjoyment was certain--that of suitableness of companions;\na suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear\ninconveniences--cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure--and affection\nand intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were\ndisappointments abroad.\n\nIt is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire,\nnor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither\nlay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, Birmingham, etc. are\nsufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present\nconcern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner's\nformer residence, and where she had lately learned some acquaintance\nstill remained, they bent their steps, after having seen all the\nprincipal wonders of the country; and within five miles of Lambton,\nElizabeth found from her aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not\nin their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In\ntalking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed\nan inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his\nwillingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.\n\n\"My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard\nso much?\" said her aunt; \"a place, too, with which so many of your\nacquaintances are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you\nknow.\"\n\nElizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at\nPemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She\nmust own that she was tired of seeing great houses; after going over so\nmany, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.\n\nMrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. \"If it were merely a fine house\nrichly furnished,\" said she, \"I should not care about it myself; but\nthe grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the\ncountry.\"\n\nElizabeth said no more--but her mind could not acquiesce. The\npossibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly\noccurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea, and\nthought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt than to run such\na risk. But against this there were objections; and she finally resolved\nthat it could be the last resource, if her private inquiries to the\nabsence of the family were unfavourably answered.\n\nAccordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid\nwhether Pemberley were not a very fine place? what was the name of its\nproprietor? and, with no little alarm, whether the family were down for\nthe summer? A most welcome negative followed the last question--and her\nalarms now being removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of\ncuriosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the\nnext morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and\nwith a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike\nto the scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.\n\n\n\nChapter 43\n\n\nElizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of\nPemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned\nin at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.\n\nThe park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They\nentered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through\na beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.\n\nElizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired\nevery remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for\nhalf-a-mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable\neminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by\nPemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which\nthe road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone\nbuilding, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of\nhigh woody hills; and in front, a stream of some natural importance was\nswelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks\nwere neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She\nhad never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural\nbeauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were\nall of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt that\nto be mistress of Pemberley might be something!\n\nThey descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and,\nwhile examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehension of\nmeeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been\nmistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the\nhall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to\nwonder at her being where she was.\n\nThe housekeeper came; a respectable-looking elderly woman, much less\nfine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They\nfollowed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well proportioned\nroom, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went\nto a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, which\nthey had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance,\nwas a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and\nshe looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its\nbanks and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it,\nwith delight. As they passed into other rooms these objects were taking\ndifferent positions; but from every window there were beauties to be\nseen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to\nthe fortune of its proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of\nhis taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of\nsplendour, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.\n\n\"And of this place,\" thought she, \"I might have been mistress! With\nthese rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of\nviewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and\nwelcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt. But no,\"--recollecting\nherself--\"that could never be; my uncle and aunt would have been lost to\nme; I should not have been allowed to invite them.\"\n\nThis was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something very like\nregret.\n\nShe longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master was really\nabsent, but had not the courage for it. At length however, the question\nwas asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs.\nReynolds replied that he was, adding, \"But we expect him to-morrow, with\na large party of friends.\" How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own\njourney had not by any circumstance been delayed a day!\n\nHer aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached and saw the\nlikeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other miniatures,\nover the mantelpiece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it.\nThe housekeeper came forward, and told them it was a picture of a young\ngentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought\nup by him at his own expense. \"He is now gone into the army,\" she added;\n\"but I am afraid he has turned out very wild.\"\n\nMrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not\nreturn it.\n\n\"And that,\" said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures,\n\"is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the\nother--about eight years ago.\"\n\n\"I have heard much of your master's fine person,\" said Mrs. Gardiner,\nlooking at the picture; \"it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell\nus whether it is like or not.\"\n\nMrs. Reynolds respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this\nintimation of her knowing her master.\n\n\"Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?\"\n\nElizabeth coloured, and said: \"A little.\"\n\n\"And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma'am?\"\n\n\"Yes, very handsome.\"\n\n\"I am sure I know none so handsome; but in the gallery upstairs you\nwill see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late\nmaster's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to\nbe then. He was very fond of them.\"\n\nThis accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them.\n\nMrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn\nwhen she was only eight years old.\n\n\"And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?\" said Mrs. Gardiner.\n\n\"Oh! yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so\naccomplished!--She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is\na new instrument just come down for her--a present from my master; she\ncomes here to-morrow with him.\"\n\nMr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant, encouraged her\ncommunicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either\nby pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her\nmaster and his sister.\n\n\"Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?\"\n\n\"Not so much as I could wish, sir; but I dare say he may spend half his\ntime here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months.\"\n\n\"Except,\" thought Elizabeth, \"when she goes to Ramsgate.\"\n\n\"If your master would marry, you might see more of him.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is\ngood enough for him.\"\n\nMr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, \"It is\nvery much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so.\"\n\n\"I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that knows him,\"\nreplied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; and she\nlistened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, \"I have\nnever known a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever\nsince he was four years old.\"\n\nThis was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her\nideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been her firmest opinion.\nHer keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more, and was\ngrateful to her uncle for saying:\n\n\"There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in\nhaving such a master.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I could\nnot meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are\ngood-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and\nhe was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the\nworld.\"\n\nElizabeth almost stared at her. \"Can this be Mr. Darcy?\" thought she.\n\n\"His father was an excellent man,\" said Mrs. Gardiner.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him--just\nas affable to the poor.\"\n\nElizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs.\nReynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subjects\nof the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the\nfurniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family\nprejudice to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her\nmaster, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his\nmany merits as they proceeded together up the great staircase.\n\n\"He is the best landlord, and the best master,\" said she, \"that ever\nlived; not like the wild young men nowadays, who think of nothing but\nthemselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but will give\nhim a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never saw\nanything of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away\nlike other young men.\"\n\n\"In what an amiable light does this place him!\" thought Elizabeth.\n\n\"This fine account of him,\" whispered her aunt as they walked, \"is not\nquite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend.\"\n\n\"Perhaps we might be deceived.\"\n\n\"That is not very likely; our authority was too good.\"\n\nOn reaching the spacious lobby above they were shown into a very pretty\nsitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than\nthe apartments below; and were informed that it was but just done to\ngive pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room when\nlast at Pemberley.\n\n\"He is certainly a good brother,\" said Elizabeth, as she walked towards\none of the windows.\n\nMrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy's delight, when she should enter\nthe room. \"And this is always the way with him,\" she added. \"Whatever\ncan give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in a moment. There\nis nothing he would not do for her.\"\n\nThe picture-gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms, were\nall that remained to be shown. In the former were many good paintings;\nbut Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such as had been already\nvisible below, she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss\nDarcy's, in crayons, whose subjects were usually more interesting, and\nalso more intelligible.\n\nIn the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have\nlittle to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked in quest of\nthe only face whose features would be known to her. At last it arrested\nher--and she beheld a striking resemblance to Mr. Darcy, with such a\nsmile over the face as she remembered to have sometimes seen when he\nlooked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture, in earnest\ncontemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery.\nMrs. Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father's\nlifetime.\n\nThere was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth's mind, a more gentle\nsensation towards the original than she had ever felt at the height of\ntheir acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds\nwas of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise\nof an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she\nconsidered how many people's happiness were in his guardianship!--how\nmuch of pleasure or pain was it in his power to bestow!--how much of\ngood or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought\nforward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she\nstood before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his\neyes upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of\ngratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its warmth, and\nsoftened its impropriety of expression.\n\nWhen all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen,\nthey returned downstairs, and, taking leave of the housekeeper, were\nconsigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall-door.\n\nAs they walked across the hall towards the river, Elizabeth turned back\nto look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while the former\nwas conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself\nsuddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.\n\nThey were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his\nappearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes\ninstantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with the deepest\nblush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from\nsurprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party,\nand spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least\nof perfect civility.\n\nShe had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach,\nreceived his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be\novercome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture\nthey had just been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two\nthat they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener's expression of surprise, on\nbeholding his master, must immediately have told it. They stood a little\naloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused,\nscarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer\nshe returned to his civil inquiries after her family. Amazed at the\nalteration of his manner since they last parted, every sentence that\nhe uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the\nimpropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the few\nminutes in which they continued were some of the most uncomfortable in\nher life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he spoke, his accent\nhad none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his inquiries as\nto the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her having stayed in\nDerbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the\ndistraction of his thoughts.\n\nAt length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few\nmoments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took\nleave.\n\nThe others then joined her, and expressed admiration of his figure; but\nElizabeth heard not a word, and wholly engrossed by her own feelings,\nfollowed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and vexation. Her\ncoming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged thing in the\nworld! How strange it must appear to him! In what a disgraceful light\nmight it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if she had purposely\nthrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she come? Or, why did he\nthus come a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes\nsooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his discrimination;\nfor it was plain that he was that moment arrived--that moment alighted\nfrom his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and again over\nthe perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so strikingly\naltered--what could it mean? That he should even speak to her was\namazing!--but to speak with such civility, to inquire after her family!\nNever in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified, never\nhad he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What\na contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put\nhis letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, or how to account\nfor it.\n\nThey had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and\nevery step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer\nreach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it was some time\nbefore Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered\nmechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and\nseemed to direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she\ndistinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that\none spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then\nwas. She longed to know what at the moment was passing in his mind--in\nwhat manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything,\nshe was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he\nfelt himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice which was\nnot like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in\nseeing her she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with\ncomposure.\n\nAt length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind\naroused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself.\n\nThey entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a while,\nascended some of the higher grounds; when, in spots where the opening of\nthe trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of the\nvalley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods overspreading\nmany, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish\nof going round the whole park, but feared it might be beyond a walk.\nWith a triumphant smile they were told that it was ten miles round.\nIt settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which\nbrought them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods,\nto the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They crossed\nit by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene;\nit was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the\nvalley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the stream,\nand a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered it.\nElizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed the\nbridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner,\nwho was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only\nof returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was,\ntherefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house\non the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their\nprogress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the\ntaste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the\noccasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the\nman about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this\nslow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment\nwas quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy\napproaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here\nless sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before\nthey met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared\nfor an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with\ncalmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed,\nshe felt that he would probably strike into some other path. The idea\nlasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the\nturning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance, she saw\nthat he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his\npoliteness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place;\nbut she had not got beyond the words \"delightful,\" and \"charming,\" when\nsome unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of\nPemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed,\nand she said no more.\n\nMrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked\nher if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends.\nThis was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared;\nand she could hardly suppress a smile at his being now seeking the\nacquaintance of some of those very people against whom his pride had\nrevolted in his offer to herself. \"What will be his surprise,\" thought\nshe, \"when he knows who they are? He takes them now for people of\nfashion.\"\n\nThe introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their\nrelationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore\nit, and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he\ncould from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the\nconnection was evident; he sustained it, however, with fortitude, and\nso far from going away, turned his back with them, and entered into\nconversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased,\ncould not but triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had\nsome relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most\nattentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every\nexpression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence,\nhis taste, or his good manners.\n\nThe conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr. Darcy\ninvite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he\nchose while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time\nto supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of\nthe stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was\nwalking arm-in-arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of wonder.\nElizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment\nmust be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and\ncontinually was she repeating, \"Why is he so altered? From what can\nit proceed? It cannot be for _me_--it cannot be for _my_ sake that his\nmanners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a\nchange as this. It is impossible that he should still love me.\"\n\nAfter walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two\ngentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to\nthe brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious\nwater-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated\nin Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found\nElizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred\nher husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on\ntogether. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him\nto know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the\nplace, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been\nvery unexpected--\"for your housekeeper,\" she added, \"informed us that\nyou would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we\nleft Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected\nin the country.\" He acknowledged the truth of it all, and said that\nbusiness with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours\nbefore the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. \"They\nwill join me early to-morrow,\" he continued, \"and among them are some\nwho will claim an acquaintance with you--Mr. Bingley and his sisters.\"\n\nElizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly\ndriven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been the last\nmentioned between them; and, if she might judge by his complexion, _his_\nmind was not very differently engaged.\n\n\"There is also one other person in the party,\" he continued after a\npause, \"who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow\nme, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance\nduring your stay at Lambton?\"\n\nThe surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great\nfor her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt\nthat whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her\nmust be the work of her brother, and, without looking farther, it was\nsatisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made\nhim think really ill of her.\n\nThey now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth\nwas not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and\npleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her was a compliment of\nthe highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had\nreached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a\nmile behind.\n\nHe then asked her to walk into the house--but she declared herself not\ntired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time much might\nhave been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but\nthere seemed to be an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected\nthat she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale\nwith great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly--and her\npatience and her ideas were nearly worn our before the tete-a-tete was\nover. On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's coming up they were all pressed to go\ninto the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and\nthey parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the\nladies into the carriage; and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him\nwalking slowly towards the house.\n\nThe observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them\npronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they had expected.\n\"He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming,\" said her uncle.\n\n\"There _is_ something a little stately in him, to be sure,\" replied her\naunt, \"but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now\nsay with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud, I\nhave seen nothing of it.\"\n\n\"I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more\nthan civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such\nattention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling.\"\n\n\"To be sure, Lizzy,\" said her aunt, \"he is not so handsome as Wickham;\nor, rather, he has not Wickham's countenance, for his features\nare perfectly good. But how came you to tell me that he was so\ndisagreeable?\"\n\nElizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had liked\nhim better when they had met in Kent than before, and that she had never\nseen him so pleasant as this morning.\n\n\"But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,\" replied\nher uncle. \"Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him\nat his word, as he might change his mind another day, and warn me off\nhis grounds.\"\n\nElizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his character, but\nsaid nothing.\n\n\"From what we have seen of him,\" continued Mrs. Gardiner, \"I really\nshould not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by\nanybody as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look.\nOn the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when he\nspeaks. And there is something of dignity in his countenance that would\nnot give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But, to be sure, the\ngood lady who showed us his house did give him a most flaming character!\nI could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal\nmaster, I suppose, and _that_ in the eye of a servant comprehends every\nvirtue.\"\n\nElizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of\nhis behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them to understand, in\nas guarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from\nhis relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different\nconstruction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor\nWickham's so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In\nconfirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary\ntransactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming\nher authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on.\n\nMrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now\napproaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to\nthe charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out\nto her husband all the interesting spots in its environs to think of\nanything else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning's walk they\nhad no sooner dined than she set off again in quest of her former\nacquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of a\nintercourse renewed after many years' discontinuance.\n\nThe occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth\nmuch attention for any of these new friends; and she could do nothing\nbut think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy's civility, and, above\nall, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister.\n\n\n\nChapter 44\n\n\nElizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit\nher the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was consequently\nresolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning.\nBut her conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their\narrival at Lambton, these visitors came. They had been walking about the\nplace with some of their new friends, and were just returning to the inn\nto dress themselves for dining with the same family, when the sound of a\ncarriage drew them to a window, and they saw a gentleman and a lady in\na curricle driving up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognizing\nthe livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of her\nsurprise to her relations by acquainting them with the honour which she\nexpected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and the embarrassment\nof her manner as she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many\nof the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a new idea on\nthe business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they felt that\nthere was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such a\nquarter than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these\nnewly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of\nElizabeth's feelings was at every moment increasing. She was quite\namazed at her own discomposure; but amongst other causes of disquiet,\nshe dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much\nin her favour; and, more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally\nsuspected that every power of pleasing would fail her.\n\nShe retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she walked\nup and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw such looks of\ninquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made everything worse.\n\nMiss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction\ntook place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see that her new\nacquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself. Since her\nbeing at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud;\nbut the observation of a very few minutes convinced her that she was\nonly exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain even a word from\nher beyond a monosyllable.\n\nMiss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and, though\nlittle more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance\nwomanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother; but there\nwas sense and good humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly\nunassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her as\nacute and unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much\nrelieved by discerning such different feelings.\n\nThey had not long been together before Mr. Darcy told her that Bingley\nwas also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time to express her\nsatisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when Bingley's quick\nstep was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the room. All\nElizabeth's anger against him had been long done away; but had she still\nfelt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected\ncordiality with which he expressed himself on seeing her again. He\ninquired in a friendly, though general way, after her family, and looked\nand spoke with the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done.\n\nTo Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting personage\nthan to herself. They had long wished to see him. The whole party before\nthem, indeed, excited a lively attention. The suspicions which had just\narisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece directed their observation towards\neach with an earnest though guarded inquiry; and they soon drew from\nthose inquiries the full conviction that one of them at least knew\nwhat it was to love. Of the lady's sensations they remained a little\nin doubt; but that the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was\nevident enough.\n\nElizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain the\nfeelings of each of her visitors; she wanted to compose her own, and\nto make herself agreeable to all; and in the latter object, where she\nfeared most to fail, she was most sure of success, for those to whom she\nendeavoured to give pleasure were prepossessed in her favour. Bingley\nwas ready, Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined, to be pleased.\n\nIn seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister; and, oh!\nhow ardently did she long to know whether any of his were directed in\na like manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he talked less than on\nformer occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with the notion\nthat, as he looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But,\nthough this might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his\nbehaviour to Miss Darcy, who had been set up as a rival to Jane. No look\nappeared on either side that spoke particular regard. Nothing occurred\nbetween them that could justify the hopes of his sister. On this point\nshe was soon satisfied; and two or three little circumstances occurred\nere they parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted a\nrecollection of Jane not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of saying\nmore that might lead to the mention of her, had he dared. He observed\nto her, at a moment when the others were talking together, and in a tone\nwhich had something of real regret, that it \"was a very long time since\nhe had had the pleasure of seeing her;\" and, before she could reply,\nhe added, \"It is above eight months. We have not met since the 26th of\nNovember, when we were all dancing together at Netherfield.\"\n\nElizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he afterwards\ntook occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of the rest, whether\n_all_ her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the question,\nnor in the preceding remark; but there was a look and a manner which\ngave them meaning.\n\nIt was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself;\nbut, whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an expression of general\ncomplaisance, and in all that he said she heard an accent so removed\nfrom _hauteur_ or disdain of his companions, as convinced her that\nthe improvement of manners which she had yesterday witnessed however\ntemporary its existence might prove, had at least outlived one day. When\nshe saw him thus seeking the acquaintance and courting the good opinion\nof people with whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a\ndisgrace--when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to the\nvery relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected their last\nlively scene in Hunsford Parsonage--the difference, the change was\nso great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she could hardly\nrestrain her astonishment from being visible. Never, even in the company\nof his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations\nat Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please, so free from\nself-consequence or unbending reserve, as now, when no importance\ncould result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the\nacquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed would draw\ndown the ridicule and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and\nRosings.\n\nTheir visitors stayed with them above half-an-hour; and when they arose\nto depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing\ntheir wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner\nat Pemberley, before they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a\ndiffidence which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations,\nreadily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing\nhow _she_, whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its\nacceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming however,\nthat this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment than\nany dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of\nsociety, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for\nher attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on.\n\nBingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Elizabeth\nagain, having still a great deal to say to her, and many inquiries to\nmake after all their Hertfordshire friends. Elizabeth, construing all\nthis into a wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was pleased, and on\nthis account, as well as some others, found herself, when their\nvisitors left them, capable of considering the last half-hour with some\nsatisfaction, though while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been\nlittle. Eager to be alone, and fearful of inquiries or hints from her\nuncle and aunt, she stayed with them only long enough to hear their\nfavourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress.\n\nBut she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's curiosity; it was\nnot their wish to force her communication. It was evident that she was\nmuch better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had before any idea of;\nit was evident that he was very much in love with her. They saw much to\ninterest, but nothing to justify inquiry.\n\nOf Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far\nas their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They could\nnot be untouched by his politeness; and had they drawn his character\nfrom their own feelings and his servant's report, without any reference\nto any other account, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known\nwould not have recognized it for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest,\nhowever, in believing the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible\nthat the authority of a servant who had known him since he was four\nyears old, and whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be\nhastily rejected. Neither had anything occurred in the intelligence of\ntheir Lambton friends that could materially lessen its weight. They had\nnothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably had, and if not,\nit would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants of a small market-town\nwhere the family did not visit. It was acknowledged, however, that he\nwas a liberal man, and did much good among the poor.\n\nWith respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was not held\nthere in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns with the\nson of his patron were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well-known\nfact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind\nhim, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged.\n\nAs for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening more than\nthe last; and the evening, though as it passed it seemed long, was not\nlong enough to determine her feelings towards _one_ in that mansion;\nand she lay awake two whole hours endeavouring to make them out. She\ncertainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she\nhad almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him,\nthat could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his\nvaluable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some\ntime ceased to be repugnant to her feeling; and it was now heightened\ninto somewhat of a friendlier nature, by the testimony so highly in\nhis favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light,\nwhich yesterday had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem,\nthere was a motive within her of goodwill which could not be overlooked.\nIt was gratitude; gratitude, not merely for having once loved her,\nbut for loving her still well enough to forgive all the petulance and\nacrimony of her manner in rejecting him, and all the unjust accusations\naccompanying her rejection. He who, she had been persuaded, would avoid\nher as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this accidental meeting, most\neager to preserve the acquaintance, and without any indelicate display\nof regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where their two selves only\nwere concerned, was soliciting the good opinion of her friends, and bent\non making her known to his sister. Such a change in a man of so much\npride exciting not only astonishment but gratitude--for to love, ardent\nlove, it must be attributed; and as such its impression on her was of a\nsort to be encouraged, as by no means unpleasing, though it could not be\nexactly defined. She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to him,\nshe felt a real interest in his welfare; and she only wanted to know how\nfar she wished that welfare to depend upon herself, and how far it would\nbe for the happiness of both that she should employ the power, which her\nfancy told her she still possessed, of bringing on her the renewal of\nhis addresses.\n\nIt had been settled in the evening between the aunt and the niece, that\nsuch a striking civility as Miss Darcy's in coming to see them on the\nvery day of her arrival at Pemberley, for she had reached it only to a\nlate breakfast, ought to be imitated, though it could not be equalled,\nby some exertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that\nit would be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following\nmorning. They were, therefore, to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though when\nshe asked herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply.\n\nMr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme had been\nrenewed the day before, and a positive engagement made of his meeting\nsome of the gentlemen at Pemberley before noon.\n\n\n\nChapter 45\n\n\nConvinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley's dislike of her had\noriginated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how unwelcome her\nappearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know with how\nmuch civility on that lady's side the acquaintance would now be renewed.\n\nOn reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the saloon,\nwhose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows\nopening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody\nhills behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts\nwhich were scattered over the intermediate lawn.\n\nIn this house they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting there\nwith Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived in\nLondon. Georgiana's reception of them was very civil, but attended with\nall the embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the fear\nof doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves inferior\nthe belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and her niece,\nhowever, did her justice, and pitied her.\n\nBy Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only by a curtsey; and,\non their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be,\nsucceeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a\ngenteel, agreeable-looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind\nof discourse proved her to be more truly well-bred than either of the\nothers; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from\nElizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she\nwished for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a\nshort sentence when there was least danger of its being heard.\n\nElizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss Bingley,\nand that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without\ncalling her attention. This observation would not have prevented her\nfrom trying to talk to the latter, had they not been seated at an\ninconvenient distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity\nof saying much. Her own thoughts were employing her. She expected every\nmoment that some of the gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she\nfeared that the master of the house might be amongst them; and whether\nshe wished or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After\nsitting in this manner a quarter of an hour without hearing Miss\nBingley's voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold\ninquiry after the health of her family. She answered with equal\nindifference and brevity, and the others said no more.\n\nThe next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the\nentrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the\nfinest fruits in season; but this did not take place till after many\na significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been\ngiven, to remind her of her post. There was now employment for the whole\nparty--for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the\nbeautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches soon collected\nthem round the table.\n\nWhile thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding whether\nshe most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by the\nfeelings which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but\na moment before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to\nregret that he came.\n\nHe had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three other\ngentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had left him\nonly on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to\nGeorgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear than Elizabeth wisely\nresolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed; a resolution the more\nnecessary to be made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she\nsaw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them,\nand that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour\nwhen he first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive\ncuriosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley's, in spite of the\nsmiles which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its\nobjects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attentions\nto Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother's\nentrance, exerted herself much more to talk, and Elizabeth saw that he\nwas anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded\nas much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss\nBingley saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the\nfirst opportunity of saying, with sneering civility:\n\n\"Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ----shire Militia removed from Meryton?\nThey must be a great loss to _your_ family.\"\n\nIn Darcy's presence she dared not mention Wickham's name; but Elizabeth\ninstantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and the\nvarious recollections connected with him gave her a moment's distress;\nbut exerting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she\npresently answered the question in a tolerably detached tone. While\nshe spoke, an involuntary glance showed her Darcy, with a heightened\ncomplexion, earnestly looking at her, and his sister overcome with\nconfusion, and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what\npain she was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would\nhave refrained from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose\nElizabeth by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she believed\nher partial, to make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in\nDarcy's opinion, and, perhaps, to remind the latter of all the follies\nand absurdities by which some part of her family were connected\nwith that corps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss Darcy's\nmeditated elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where secrecy\nwas possible, except to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley's connections\nher brother was particularly anxious to conceal it, from the very\nwish which Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming\nhereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and without\nmeaning that it should effect his endeavour to separate him from Miss\nBennet, it is probable that it might add something to his lively concern\nfor the welfare of his friend.\n\nElizabeth's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion; and\nas Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to\nWickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able\nto speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely\nrecollected her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which\nhad been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth seemed to have\nfixed them on her more and more cheerfully.\n\nTheir visit did not continue long after the question and answer above\nmentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their carriage Miss\nBingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth's person,\nbehaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join her. Her brother's\nrecommendation was enough to ensure her favour; his judgement could not\nerr. And he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana\nwithout the power of finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When\nDarcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to\nhim some part of what she had been saying to his sister.\n\n\"How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy,\" she\ncried; \"I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she is since\nthe winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing\nthat we should not have known her again.\"\n\nHowever little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented\nhimself with coolly replying that he perceived no other alteration than\nher being rather tanned, no miraculous consequence of travelling in the\nsummer.\n\n\"For my own part,\" she rejoined, \"I must confess that I never could\nsee any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no\nbrilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose\nwants character--there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are\ntolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes,\nwhich have sometimes been called so fine, I could never see anything\nextraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do\nnot like at all; and in her air altogether there is a self-sufficiency\nwithout fashion, which is intolerable.\"\n\nPersuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not\nthe best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always\nwise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the\nsuccess she expected. He was resolutely silent, however, and, from a\ndetermination of making him speak, she continued:\n\n\"I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all\nwere to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect\nyour saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, '_She_\na beauty!--I should as soon call her mother a wit.' But afterwards she\nseemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at\none time.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, \"but _that_\nwas only when I first saw her, for it is many months since I have\nconsidered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.\"\n\nHe then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of\nhaving forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself.\n\nMrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred during their\nvisit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested them\nboth. The look and behaviour of everybody they had seen were discussed,\nexcept of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked\nof his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit--of everything but\nhimself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of\nhim, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece's\nbeginning the subject.\n\n\n\nChapter 46\n\n\nElizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from\nJane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been\nrenewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but\non the third her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the\nreceipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that\nit had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as\nJane had written the direction remarkably ill.\n\nThey had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and\nher uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by\nthemselves. The one missent must first be attended to; it had been\nwritten five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their\nlittle parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded;\nbut the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident\nagitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect:\n\n\"Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a\nmost unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you--be\nassured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia.\nAn express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed,\nfrom Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland\nwith one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our\nsurprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am\nvery, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing\nto hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood.\nThoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step\n(and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is\ndisinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing.\nOur poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How\nthankful am I that we never let them know what has been said against\nhim; we must forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about\ntwelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at\neight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have\npassed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect\nhim here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of\ntheir intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor\nmother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly\nknow what I have written.\"\n\nWithout allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing\nwhat she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter instantly seized the\nother, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it\nhad been written a day later than the conclusion of the first.\n\n\"By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter; I\nwish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my\nhead is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest\nLizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you,\nand it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as the marriage between Mr. Wickham\nand our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has\ntaken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone\nto Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the\nday before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia's short\nletter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna\nGreen, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that W.\nnever intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was\nrepeated to Colonel F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B.\nintending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham,\nbut no further; for on entering that place, they removed into a hackney\ncoach, and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that\nis known after this is, that they were seen to continue the London road.\nI know not what to think. After making every possible inquiry on that\nside London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing\nthem at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but\nwithout any success--no such people had been seen to pass through. With\nthe kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions\nto us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved\nfor him and Mrs. F., but no one can throw any blame on them. Our\ndistress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the\nworst, but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make\nit more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to pursue\ntheir first plan; and even if _he_ could form such a design against a\nyoung woman of Lydia's connections, which is not likely, can I suppose\nher so lost to everything? Impossible! I grieve to find, however, that\nColonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage; he shook his\nhead when I expressed my hopes, and said he feared W. was not a man to\nbe trusted. My poor mother is really ill, and keeps her room. Could she\nexert herself, it would be better; but this is not to be expected. And\nas to my father, I never in my life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has\nanger for having concealed their attachment; but as it was a matter of\nconfidence, one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you\nhave been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as the\nfirst shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not\nso selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu! I\ntake up my pen again to do what I have just told you I would not; but\ncircumstances are such that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to\ncome here as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well,\nthat I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have still something\nmore to ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel\nForster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do I am sure\nI know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any\nmeasure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to\nbe at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such an exigence, my\nuncle's advice and assistance would be everything in the world; he will\nimmediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.\"\n\n\"Oh! where, where is my uncle?\" cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat\nas she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing\na moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door it was\nopened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous\nmanner made him start, and before he could recover himself to speak,\nshe, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia's situation,\nhastily exclaimed, \"I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find\nMr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not\nan instant to lose.\"\n\n\"Good God! what is the matter?\" cried he, with more feeling than\npoliteness; then recollecting himself, \"I will not detain you a minute;\nbut let me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are\nnot well enough; you cannot go yourself.\"\n\nElizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she felt how\nlittle would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back\nthe servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless\nan accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and\nmistress home instantly.\n\nOn his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support herself, and\nlooking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her,\nor to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration,\n\"Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you\npresent relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill.\"\n\n\"No, I thank you,\" she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. \"There\nis nothing the matter with me. I am quite well; I am only distressed by\nsome dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn.\"\n\nShe burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could\nnot speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say\nsomething indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate\nsilence. At length she spoke again. \"I have just had a letter from Jane,\nwith such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My younger\nsister has left all her friends--has eloped; has thrown herself into\nthe power of--of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton.\n_You_ know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no\nconnections, nothing that can tempt him to--she is lost for ever.\"\n\nDarcy was fixed in astonishment. \"When I consider,\" she added in a yet\nmore agitated voice, \"that I might have prevented it! I, who knew what\nhe was. Had I but explained some part of it only--some part of what I\nlearnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not\nhave happened. But it is all--all too late now.\"\n\n\"I am grieved indeed,\" cried Darcy; \"grieved--shocked. But is it\ncertain--absolutely certain?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced\nalmost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to\nScotland.\"\n\n\"And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?\"\n\n\"My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle's\nimmediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in half-an-hour. But\nnothing can be done--I know very well that nothing can be done. How is\nsuch a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have\nnot the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!\"\n\nDarcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.\n\n\"When _my_ eyes were opened to his real character--Oh! had I known what\nI ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not--I was afraid of doing too\nmuch. Wretched, wretched mistake!\"\n\nDarcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking\nup and down the room in earnest meditation, his brow contracted, his air\ngloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. Her\npower was sinking; everything _must_ sink under such a proof of family\nweakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither\nwonder nor condemn, but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing\nconsolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It\nwas, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own\nwishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved\nhim, as now, when all love must be vain.\n\nBut self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia--the\nhumiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all, soon swallowed\nup every private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief,\nElizabeth was soon lost to everything else; and, after a pause of\nseveral minutes, was only recalled to a sense of her situation by\nthe voice of her companion, who, in a manner which, though it spoke\ncompassion, spoke likewise restraint, said, \"I am afraid you have been\nlong desiring my absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my\nstay, but real, though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything\ncould be either said or done on my part that might offer consolation to\nsuch distress! But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may\nseem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I\nfear, prevent my sister's having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley\nto-day.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us to Miss Darcy. Say that\nurgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as\nlong as it is possible, I know it cannot be long.\"\n\nHe readily assured her of his secrecy; again expressed his sorrow for\nher distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present\nreason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her relations, with only\none serious, parting look, went away.\n\nAs he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they\nshould ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as\nhad marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a\nretrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full\nof contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those\nfeelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would\nformerly have rejoiced in its termination.\n\nIf gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth's\nchange of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if\notherwise--if regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or\nunnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on\na first interview with its object, and even before two words have been\nexchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she had given\nsomewhat of a trial to the latter method in her partiality for Wickham,\nand that its ill success might, perhaps, authorise her to seek the other\nless interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him\ngo with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia's infamy must\nproduce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched\nbusiness. Never, since reading Jane's second letter, had she entertained\na hope of Wickham's meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought,\ncould flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least\nof her feelings on this development. While the contents of the first\nletter remained in her mind, she was all surprise--all astonishment that\nWickham should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry\nfor money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared\nincomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment\nas this she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not suppose\nLydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement without the intention\nof marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither her virtue\nnor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy prey.\n\nShe had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that\nLydia had any partiality for him; but she was convinced that Lydia\nwanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one\nofficer, sometimes another, had been her favourite, as their attentions\nraised them in her opinion. Her affections had continually been\nfluctuating but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and\nmistaken indulgence towards such a girl--oh! how acutely did she now\nfeel it!\n\nShe was wild to be at home--to hear, to see, to be upon the spot to\nshare with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a\nfamily so deranged, a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and\nrequiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing\ncould be done for Lydia, her uncle's interference seemed of the utmost\nimportance, and till he entered the room her impatience was severe. Mr.\nand Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing by the servant's\naccount that their niece was taken suddenly ill; but satisfying them\ninstantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their\nsummons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on the postscript\nof the last with trembling energy, though Lydia had never been a\nfavourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be deeply\nafflicted. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after the\nfirst exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner promised every\nassistance in his power. Elizabeth, though expecting no less, thanked\nhim with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated by one spirit,\neverything relating to their journey was speedily settled. They were to\nbe off as soon as possible. \"But what is to be done about Pemberley?\"\ncried Mrs. Gardiner. \"John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for\nus; was it so?\"\n\n\"Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement.\n_That_ is all settled.\"\n\n\"What is all settled?\" repeated the other, as she ran into her room to\nprepare. \"And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real\ntruth? Oh, that I knew how it was!\"\n\nBut wishes were vain, or at least could only serve to amuse her in the\nhurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure\nto be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was\nimpossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of\nbusiness as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to\nbe written to all their friends at Lambton, with false excuses for their\nsudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr.\nGardiner meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing\nremained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of\nthe morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could\nhave supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.\n\n\n\nChapter 47\n\n\n\"I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth,\" said her uncle, as they\ndrove from the town; \"and really, upon serious consideration, I am much\nmore inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does on the\nmatter. It appears to me so very unlikely that any young man should\nform such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or\nfriendless, and who was actually staying in his colonel's family, that I\nam strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends\nwould not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the\nregiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is\nnot adequate to the risk!\"\n\n\"Do you really think so?\" cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment.\n\n\"Upon my word,\" said Mrs. Gardiner, \"I begin to be of your uncle's\nopinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and\ninterest, for him to be guilty of. I cannot think so very ill of\nWickham. Can you yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him up, as to believe\nhim capable of it?\"\n\n\"Not, perhaps, of neglecting his own interest; but of every other\nneglect I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I\ndare not hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland if that had been\nthe case?\"\n\n\"In the first place,\" replied Mr. Gardiner, \"there is no absolute proof\nthat they are not gone to Scotland.\"\n\n\"Oh! but their removing from the chaise into a hackney coach is such\na presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be found on the\nBarnet road.\"\n\n\"Well, then--supposing them to be in London. They may be there, though\nfor the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptional purpose. It is\nnot likely that money should be very abundant on either side; and it\nmight strike them that they could be more economically, though less\nexpeditiously, married in London than in Scotland.\"\n\n\"But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their\nmarriage be private? Oh, no, no--this is not likely. His most particular\nfriend, you see by Jane's account, was persuaded of his never intending\nto marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some money. He\ncannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia--what attraction has she\nbeyond youth, health, and good humour that could make him, for her sake,\nforego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what\nrestraint the apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on a\ndishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I know\nnothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But as to your\nother objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Lydia has\nno brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from my father's\nbehaviour, from his indolence and the little attention he has ever\nseemed to give to what was going forward in his family, that _he_ would\ndo as little, and think as little about it, as any father could do, in\nsuch a matter.\"\n\n\"But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love of him\nas to consent to live with him on any terms other than marriage?\"\n\n\"It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed,\" replied Elizabeth, with\ntears in her eyes, \"that a sister's sense of decency and virtue in such\na point should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say.\nPerhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young; she has never\nbeen taught to think on serious subjects; and for the last half-year,\nnay, for a twelvemonth--she has been given up to nothing but amusement\nand vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle\nand frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in her way.\nSince the ----shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love,\nflirtation, and officers have been in her head. She has been doing\neverything in her power by thinking and talking on the subject, to give\ngreater--what shall I call it? susceptibility to her feelings; which are\nnaturally lively enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of\nperson and address that can captivate a woman.\"\n\n\"But you see that Jane,\" said her aunt, \"does not think so very ill of\nWickham as to believe him capable of the attempt.\"\n\n\"Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be\ntheir former conduct, that she would think capable of such an attempt,\ntill it were proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what\nWickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every\nsense of the word; that he has neither integrity nor honour; that he is\nas false and deceitful as he is insinuating.\"\n\n\"And do you really know all this?\" cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity\nas to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.\n\n\"I do indeed,\" replied Elizabeth, colouring. \"I told you, the other day,\nof his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you yourself, when last at\nLongbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man who had behaved\nwith such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other\ncircumstances which I am not at liberty--which it is not worth while to\nrelate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From\nwhat he said of Miss Darcy I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud,\nreserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He\nmust know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found\nher.\"\n\n\"But does Lydia know nothing of this? can she be ignorant of what you\nand Jane seem so well to understand?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes!--that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw\nso much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was\nignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home, the ----shire\nwas to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight's time. As that was the\ncase, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it\nnecessary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could\nit apparently be to any one, that the good opinion which all the\nneighbourhood had of him should then be overthrown? And even when it was\nsettled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening\nher eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could be\nin any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such a\nconsequence as _this_ could ensue, you may easily believe, was far\nenough from my thoughts.\"\n\n\"When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I\nsuppose, to believe them fond of each other?\"\n\n\"Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either\nside; and had anything of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware\nthat ours is not a family on which it could be thrown away. When first\nhe entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all\nwere. Every girl in or near Meryton was out of her senses about him for\nthe first two months; but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular\nattention; and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and\nwild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment,\nwho treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites.\"\n\n                          * * * * *\n\nIt may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added\nto their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by\nits repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during\nthe whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent.\nFixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could find\nno interval of ease or forgetfulness.\n\nThey travelled as expeditiously as possible, and, sleeping one night\non the road, reached Longbourn by dinner time the next day. It was a\ncomfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied\nby long expectations.\n\nThe little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing\non the steps of the house as they entered the paddock; and, when the\ncarriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their\nfaces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of\ncapers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome.\n\nElizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them a hasty kiss,\nhurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down from her\nmother's apartment, immediately met her.\n\nElizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the\neyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether anything had been\nheard of the fugitives.\n\n\"Not yet,\" replied Jane. \"But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope\neverything will be well.\"\n\n\"Is my father in town?\"\n\n\"Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word.\"\n\n\"And have you heard from him often?\"\n\n\"We have heard only twice. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday to say\nthat he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I\nparticularly begged him to do. He merely added that he should not write\nagain till he had something of importance to mention.\"\n\n\"And my mother--how is she? How are you all?\"\n\n\"My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly\nshaken. She is upstairs and will have great satisfaction in seeing you\nall. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank\nHeaven, are quite well.\"\n\n\"But you--how are you?\" cried Elizabeth. \"You look pale. How much you\nmust have gone through!\"\n\nHer sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well; and their\nconversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were\nengaged with their children, was now put an end to by the approach\nof the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and\nthanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears.\n\nWhen they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth\nhad already asked were of course repeated by the others, and they soon\nfound that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of\ngood, however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested had not yet\ndeserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that\nevery morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father,\nto explain their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce their marriage.\n\nMrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes'\nconversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with\ntears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous\nconduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill-usage;\nblaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the\nerrors of her daughter must principally be owing.\n\n\"If I had been able,\" said she, \"to carry my point in going to Brighton,\nwith all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but poor dear Lydia\nhad nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out\nof their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their\nside, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing if she had been\nwell looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the\ncharge of her; but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor dear child!\nAnd now here's Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight Wickham,\nwherever he meets him and then he will be killed, and what is to become\nof us all? The Collinses will turn us out before he is cold in his\ngrave, and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what we\nshall do.\"\n\nThey all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after\ngeneral assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her\nthat he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr.\nBennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia.\n\n\"Do not give way to useless alarm,\" added he; \"though it is right to be\nprepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain.\nIt is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more we\nmay gain some news of them; and till we know that they are not married,\nand have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as\nlost. As soon as I get to town I shall go to my brother, and make\nhim come home with me to Gracechurch Street; and then we may consult\ntogether as to what is to be done.\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear brother,\" replied Mrs. Bennet, \"that is exactly what I\ncould most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out,\nwherever they may be; and if they are not married already, _make_ them\nmarry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but\ntell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them,\nafter they are married. And, above all, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting.\nTell him what a dreadful state I am in, that I am frighted out of my\nwits--and have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me--such\nspasms in my side and pains in my head, and such beatings at heart, that\nI can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear Lydia not to\ngive any directions about her clothes till she has seen me, for she does\nnot know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother, how kind you are! I\nknow you will contrive it all.\"\n\nBut Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavours\nin the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well\nin her hopes as her fear; and after talking with her in this manner till\ndinner was on the table, they all left her to vent all her feelings on\nthe housekeeper, who attended in the absence of her daughters.\n\nThough her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real\noccasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to\noppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her\ntongue before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged it\nbetter that _one_ only of the household, and the one whom they could\nmost trust should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the\nsubject.\n\nIn the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been\ntoo busily engaged in their separate apartments to make their appearance\nbefore. One came from her books, and the other from her toilette. The\nfaces of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change was visible\nin either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or the anger\nwhich she had herself incurred in this business, had given more of\nfretfulness than usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was\nmistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance\nof grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table:\n\n\"This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much talked of.\nBut we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of\neach other the balm of sisterly consolation.\"\n\nThen, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added,\n\"Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful\nlesson: that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable; that one\nfalse step involves her in endless ruin; that her reputation is no less\nbrittle than it is beautiful; and that she cannot be too much guarded in\nher behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex.\"\n\nElizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed\nto make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such\nkind of moral extractions from the evil before them.\n\nIn the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for\nhalf-an-hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of\nthe opportunity of making any inquiries, which Jane was equally eager to\nsatisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel\nof this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss\nBennet could not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued\nthe subject, by saying, \"But tell me all and everything about it which\nI have not already heard. Give me further particulars. What did Colonel\nForster say? Had they no apprehension of anything before the elopement\ntook place? They must have seen them together for ever.\"\n\n\"Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality,\nespecially on Lydia's side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so\ngrieved for him! His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He\n_was_ coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had\nany idea of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension\nfirst got abroad, it hastened his journey.\"\n\n\"And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of\ntheir intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?\"\n\n\"Yes; but, when questioned by _him_, Denny denied knowing anything of\ntheir plans, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not\nrepeat his persuasion of their not marrying--and from _that_, I am\ninclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before.\"\n\n\"And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a\ndoubt, I suppose, of their being really married?\"\n\n\"How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I felt\na little uneasy--a little fearful of my sister's happiness with him\nin marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite\nright. My father and mother knew nothing of that; they only felt how\nimprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural\ntriumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia's last letter\nshe had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their\nbeing in love with each other, many weeks.\"\n\n\"But not before they went to Brighton?\"\n\n\"No, I believe not.\"\n\n\"And did Colonel Forster appear to think well of Wickham himself? Does\nhe know his real character?\"\n\n\"I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly\ndid. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad\naffair has taken place, it is said that he left Meryton greatly in debt;\nbut I hope this may be false.\"\n\n\"Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him,\nthis could not have happened!\"\n\n\"Perhaps it would have been better,\" replied her sister. \"But to expose\nthe former faults of any person without knowing what their present\nfeelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions.\"\n\n\"Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to his\nwife?\"\n\n\"He brought it with him for us to see.\"\n\nJane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These\nwere the contents:\n\n\"MY DEAR HARRIET,\n\n\"You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help\nlaughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am\nmissed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who,\nI shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the world I\nlove, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without him, so think\nit no harm to be off. You need not send them word at Longbourn of my\ngoing, if you do not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater,\nwhen I write to them and sign my name 'Lydia Wickham.' What a good joke\nit will be! I can hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to\nPratt for not keeping my engagement, and dancing with him to-night.\nTell him I hope he will excuse me when he knows all; and tell him I will\ndance with him at the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I shall\nsend for my clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell\nSally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown before they are\npacked up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster. I hope you will\ndrink to our good journey.\n\n\"Your affectionate friend,\n\n\"LYDIA BENNET.\"\n\n\"Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!\" cried Elizabeth when she had\nfinished it. \"What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment!\nBut at least it shows that _she_ was serious on the subject of their\njourney. Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her\nside a _scheme_ of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it!\"\n\n\"I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten\nminutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in\nsuch confusion!\"\n\n\"Oh! Jane,\" cried Elizabeth, \"was there a servant belonging to it who\ndid not know the whole story before the end of the day?\"\n\n\"I do not know. I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a time is\nvery difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I endeavoured to\ngive her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so\nmuch as I might have done! But the horror of what might possibly happen\nalmost took from me my faculties.\"\n\n\"Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not look\nwell. Oh that I had been with you! you have had every care and anxiety\nupon yourself alone.\"\n\n\"Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every\nfatigue, I am sure; but I did not think it right for either of them.\nKitty is slight and delicate; and Mary studies so much, that her hours\nof repose should not be broken in on. My aunt Phillips came to Longbourn\non Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till\nThursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all. And\nLady Lucas has been very kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to\ncondole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters', if\nthey should be of use to us.\"\n\n\"She had better have stayed at home,\" cried Elizabeth; \"perhaps she\n_meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see\ntoo little of one's neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence\ninsufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied.\"\n\nShe then proceeded to inquire into the measures which her father had\nintended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter.\n\n\"He meant I believe,\" replied Jane, \"to go to Epsom, the place where\nthey last changed horses, see the postilions and try if anything could\nbe made out from them. His principal object must be to discover the\nnumber of the hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come\nwith a fare from London; and as he thought that the circumstance of a\ngentleman and lady's removing from one carriage into another might\nbe remarked he meant to make inquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow\ndiscover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he\ndetermined to make inquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible\nto find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any\nother designs that he had formed; but he was in such a hurry to be gone,\nand his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had difficulty in finding\nout even so much as this.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 48\n\n\nThe whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next\nmorning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him.\nHis family knew him to be, on all common occasions, a most negligent and\ndilatory correspondent; but at such a time they had hoped for exertion.\nThey were forced to conclude that he had no pleasing intelligence to\nsend; but even of _that_ they would have been glad to be certain. Mr.\nGardiner had waited only for the letters before he set off.\n\nWhen he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving constant\ninformation of what was going on, and their uncle promised, at parting,\nto prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to Longbourn, as soon as he could,\nto the great consolation of his sister, who considered it as the only\nsecurity for her husband's not being killed in a duel.\n\nMrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few\ndays longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable\nto her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a\ngreat comfort to them in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also\nvisited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of\ncheering and heartening them up--though, as she never came without\nreporting some fresh instance of Wickham's extravagance or irregularity,\nshe seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found\nthem.\n\nAll Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three months\nbefore, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be in debt\nto every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with\nthe title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family.\nEverybody declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world;\nand everybody began to find out that they had always distrusted the\nappearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above\nhalf of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of\nher sister's ruin more certain; and even Jane, who believed still less\nof it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now come\nwhen, if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before entirely\ndespaired of, they must in all probability have gained some news of\nthem.\n\nMr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday his wife received a\nletter from him; it told them that, on his arrival, he had immediately\nfound out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch Street;\nthat Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival,\nbut without gaining any satisfactory information; and that he was now\ndetermined to inquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet\nthought it possible they might have gone to one of them, on their first\ncoming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself\ndid not expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was\neager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added that Mr.\nBennet seemed wholly disinclined at present to leave London and promised\nto write again very soon. There was also a postscript to this effect:\n\n\"I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if\npossible, from some of the young man's intimates in the regiment,\nwhether Wickham has any relations or connections who would be likely to\nknow in what part of town he has now concealed himself. If there were\nanyone that one could apply to with a probability of gaining such a\nclue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we have\nnothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do everything in\nhis power to satisfy us on this head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps,\nLizzy could tell us what relations he has now living, better than any\nother person.\"\n\nElizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference to her\nauthority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give any information\nof so satisfactory a nature as the compliment deserved. She had never\nheard of his having had any relations, except a father and mother, both\nof whom had been dead many years. It was possible, however, that some of\nhis companions in the ----shire might be able to give more information;\nand though she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the application\nwas a something to look forward to.\n\nEvery day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious\npart of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters\nwas the grand object of every morning's impatience. Through letters,\nwhatever of good or bad was to be told would be communicated, and every\nsucceeding day was expected to bring some news of importance.\n\nBut before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived for\ntheir father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins; which, as Jane\nhad received directions to open all that came for him in his absence,\nshe accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his\nletters always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as\nfollows:\n\n\"MY DEAR SIR,\n\n\"I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation\nin life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now\nsuffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter from\nHertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs. Collins and myself\nsincerely sympathise with you and all your respectable family, in\nyour present distress, which must be of the bitterest kind, because\nproceeding from a cause which no time can remove. No arguments shall be\nwanting on my part that can alleviate so severe a misfortune--or that\nmay comfort you, under a circumstance that must be of all others the\nmost afflicting to a parent's mind. The death of your daughter would\nhave been a blessing in comparison of this. And it is the more to\nbe lamented, because there is reason to suppose as my dear Charlotte\ninforms me, that this licentiousness of behaviour in your daughter has\nproceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence; though, at the same time,\nfor the consolation of yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think\nthat her own disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be\nguilty of such an enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever that may be,\nyou are grievously to be pitied; in which opinion I am not only joined\nby Mrs. Collins, but likewise by Lady Catherine and her daughter, to\nwhom I have related the affair. They agree with me in apprehending that\nthis false step in one daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of\nall the others; for who, as Lady Catherine herself condescendingly says,\nwill connect themselves with such a family? And this consideration leads\nme moreover to reflect, with augmented satisfaction, on a certain event\nof last November; for had it been otherwise, I must have been involved\nin all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me then advise you, dear sir, to\nconsole yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy child\nfrom your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of her\nown heinous offense.\n\n\"I am, dear sir, etc., etc.\"\n\nMr. Gardiner did not write again till he had received an answer from\nColonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send.\nIt was not known that Wickham had a single relationship with whom he\nkept up any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one\nliving. His former acquaintances had been numerous; but since he\nhad been in the militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of\nparticular friendship with any of them. There was no one, therefore,\nwho could be pointed out as likely to give any news of him. And in the\nwretched state of his own finances, there was a very powerful motive for\nsecrecy, in addition to his fear of discovery by Lydia's relations, for\nit had just transpired that he had left gaming debts behind him to a\nvery considerable amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than a\nthousand pounds would be necessary to clear his expenses at Brighton.\nHe owed a good deal in town, but his debts of honour were still more\nformidable. Mr. Gardiner did not attempt to conceal these particulars\nfrom the Longbourn family. Jane heard them with horror. \"A gamester!\"\nshe cried. \"This is wholly unexpected. I had not an idea of it.\"\n\nMr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see their\nfather at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered\nspiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours, he had yielded\nto his brother-in-law's entreaty that he would return to his family, and\nleave it to him to do whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable\nfor continuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did\nnot express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering\nwhat her anxiety for his life had been before.\n\n\"What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia?\" she cried. \"Sure he\nwill not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Wickham,\nand make him marry her, if he comes away?\"\n\nAs Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that she\nand the children should go to London, at the same time that Mr. Bennet\ncame from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their\njourney, and brought its master back to Longbourn.\n\nMrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and her\nDerbyshire friend that had attended her from that part of the world. His\nname had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece; and\nthe kind of half-expectation which Mrs. Gardiner had formed, of their\nbeing followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing. Elizabeth had\nreceived none since her return that could come from Pemberley.\n\nThe present unhappy state of the family rendered any other excuse for\nthe lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore, could be\nfairly conjectured from _that_, though Elizabeth, who was by this time\ntolerably well acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware\nthat, had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of\nLydia's infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought,\none sleepless night out of two.\n\nWhen Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual\nphilosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the\nhabit of saying; made no mention of the business that had taken him\naway, and it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of\nit.\n\nIt was not till the afternoon, when he had joined them at tea, that\nElizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly\nexpressing her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, \"Say\nnothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing,\nand I ought to feel it.\"\n\n\"You must not be too severe upon yourself,\" replied Elizabeth.\n\n\"You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone\nto fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have\nbeen to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression.\nIt will pass away soon enough.\"\n\n\"Do you suppose them to be in London?\"\n\n\"Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?\"\n\n\"And Lydia used to want to go to London,\" added Kitty.\n\n\"She is happy then,\" said her father drily; \"and her residence there\nwill probably be of some duration.\"\n\nThen after a short silence he continued:\n\n\"Lizzy, I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your advice to me\nlast May, which, considering the event, shows some greatness of mind.\"\n\nThey were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her mother's\ntea.\n\n\"This is a parade,\" he cried, \"which does one good; it gives such an\nelegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit in my\nlibrary, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble as\nI can; or, perhaps, I may defer it till Kitty runs away.\"\n\n\"I am not going to run away, papa,\" said Kitty fretfully. \"If I should\never go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia.\"\n\n\"_You_ go to Brighton. I would not trust you so near it as Eastbourne\nfor fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and\nyou will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter into\nmy house again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be\nabsolutely prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters.\nAnd you are never to stir out of doors till you can prove that you have\nspent ten minutes of every day in a rational manner.\"\n\nKitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry.\n\n\"Well, well,\" said he, \"do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good\ngirl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of\nthem.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 49\n\n\nTwo days after Mr. Bennet's return, as Jane and Elizabeth were walking\ntogether in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper\ncoming towards them, and, concluding that she came to call them to their\nmother, went forward to meet her; but, instead of the expected summons,\nwhen they approached her, she said to Miss Bennet, \"I beg your pardon,\nmadam, for interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some\ngood news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask.\"\n\n\"What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town.\"\n\n\"Dear madam,\" cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, \"don't you know\nthere is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He has been here\nthis half-hour, and master has had a letter.\"\n\nAway ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech. They\nran through the vestibule into the breakfast-room; from thence to the\nlibrary; their father was in neither; and they were on the point of\nseeking him upstairs with their mother, when they were met by the\nbutler, who said:\n\n\"If you are looking for my master, ma'am, he is walking towards the\nlittle copse.\"\n\nUpon this information, they instantly passed through the hall once\nmore, and ran across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately\npursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of the paddock.\n\nJane, who was not so light nor so much in the habit of running as\nElizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for breath,\ncame up with him, and eagerly cried out:\n\n\"Oh, papa, what news--what news? Have you heard from my uncle?\"\n\n\"Yes I have had a letter from him by express.\"\n\n\"Well, and what news does it bring--good or bad?\"\n\n\"What is there of good to be expected?\" said he, taking the letter from\nhis pocket. \"But perhaps you would like to read it.\"\n\nElizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up.\n\n\"Read it aloud,\" said their father, \"for I hardly know myself what it is\nabout.\"\n\n\"Gracechurch Street, Monday, August 2.\n\n\"MY DEAR BROTHER,\n\n\"At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such as,\nupon the whole, I hope it will give you satisfaction. Soon after you\nleft me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what part of\nLondon they were. The particulars I reserve till we meet; it is enough\nto know they are discovered. I have seen them both--\"\n\n\"Then it is as I always hoped,\" cried Jane; \"they are married!\"\n\nElizabeth read on:\n\n\"I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find there\nwas any intention of being so; but if you are willing to perform the\nengagements which I have ventured to make on your side, I hope it will\nnot be long before they are. All that is required of you is, to assure\nto your daughter, by settlement, her equal share of the five thousand\npounds secured among your children after the decease of yourself and\nmy sister; and, moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her,\nduring your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions\nwhich, considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying with,\nas far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by\nexpress, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You\nwill easily comprehend, from these particulars, that Mr. Wickham's\ncircumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to be.\nThe world has been deceived in that respect; and I am happy to say there\nwill be some little money, even when all his debts are discharged, to\nsettle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune. If, as I conclude\nwill be the case, you send me full powers to act in your name throughout\nthe whole of this business, I will immediately give directions to\nHaggerston for preparing a proper settlement. There will not be the\nsmallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore stay quiet at\nLongbourn, and depend on my diligence and care. Send back your answer as\nfast as you can, and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it\nbest that my niece should be married from this house, of which I hope\nyou will approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as\nanything more is determined on. Yours, etc.,\n\n\"EDW. GARDINER.\"\n\n\"Is it possible?\" cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. \"Can it be\npossible that he will marry her?\"\n\n\"Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we thought him,\" said her\nsister. \"My dear father, I congratulate you.\"\n\n\"And have you answered the letter?\" cried Elizabeth.\n\n\"No; but it must be done soon.\"\n\nMost earnestly did she then entreaty him to lose no more time before he\nwrote.\n\n\"Oh! my dear father,\" she cried, \"come back and write immediately.\nConsider how important every moment is in such a case.\"\n\n\"Let me write for you,\" said Jane, \"if you dislike the trouble\nyourself.\"\n\n\"I dislike it very much,\" he replied; \"but it must be done.\"\n\nAnd so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house.\n\n\"And may I ask--\" said Elizabeth; \"but the terms, I suppose, must be\ncomplied with.\"\n\n\"Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little.\"\n\n\"And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man!\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there\nare two things that I want very much to know; one is, how much money\nyour uncle has laid down to bring it about; and the other, how am I ever\nto pay him.\"\n\n\"Money! My uncle!\" cried Jane, \"what do you mean, sir?\"\n\n\"I mean, that no man in his senses would marry Lydia on so slight a\ntemptation as one hundred a year during my life, and fifty after I am\ngone.\"\n\n\"That is very true,\" said Elizabeth; \"though it had not occurred to me\nbefore. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh!\nit must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has\ndistressed himself. A small sum could not do all this.\"\n\n\"No,\" said her father; \"Wickham's a fool if he takes her with a farthing\nless than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him,\nin the very beginning of our relationship.\"\n\n\"Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be\nrepaid?\"\n\nMr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued\nsilent till they reached the house. Their father then went on to the\nlibrary to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room.\n\n\"And they are really to be married!\" cried Elizabeth, as soon as they\nwere by themselves. \"How strange this is! And for _this_ we are to be\nthankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness,\nand wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice. Oh, Lydia!\"\n\n\"I comfort myself with thinking,\" replied Jane, \"that he certainly would\nnot marry Lydia if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind\nuncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten\nthousand pounds, or anything like it, has been advanced. He has children\nof his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand\npounds?\"\n\n\"If he were ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been,\" said\nElizabeth, \"and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall\nexactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has\nnot sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never\nbe requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal\nprotection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage as\nyears of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is\nactually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now,\nshe will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she\nfirst sees my aunt!\"\n\n\"We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,\" said\nJane: \"I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to\nmarry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of\nthinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself\nthey will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in\ntime make their past imprudence forgotten.\"\n\n\"Their conduct has been such,\" replied Elizabeth, \"as neither you, nor\nI, nor anybody can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it.\"\n\nIt now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood\nperfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library,\ntherefore, and asked their father whether he would not wish them to make\nit known to her. He was writing and, without raising his head, coolly\nreplied:\n\n\"Just as you please.\"\n\n\"May we take my uncle's letter to read to her?\"\n\n\"Take whatever you like, and get away.\"\n\nElizabeth took the letter from his writing-table, and they went upstairs\ntogether. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one communication\nwould, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for good news,\nthe letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself. As\nsoon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner's hope of Lydia's being soon\nmarried, her joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its\nexuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she\nhad ever been fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter\nwould be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her\nfelicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct.\n\n\"My dear, dear Lydia!\" she cried. \"This is delightful indeed! She will\nbe married! I shall see her again! She will be married at sixteen!\nMy good, kind brother! I knew how it would be. I knew he would manage\neverything! How I long to see her! and to see dear Wickham too! But the\nclothes, the wedding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardiner about\nthem directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him\nhow much he will give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell,\nKitty, for Hill. I will put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear\nLydia! How merry we shall be together when we meet!\"\n\nHer eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the violence of\nthese transports, by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr.\nGardiner's behaviour laid them all under.\n\n\"For we must attribute this happy conclusion,\" she added, \"in a great\nmeasure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has pledged himself to\nassist Mr. Wickham with money.\"\n\n\"Well,\" cried her mother, \"it is all very right; who should do it but\nher own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my children\nmust have had all his money, you know; and it is the first time we have\never had anything from him, except a few presents. Well! I am so happy!\nIn a short time I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well\nit sounds! And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in\nsuch a flutter, that I am sure I can't write; so I will dictate, and\nyou write for me. We will settle with your father about the money\nafterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately.\"\n\nShe was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and\ncambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had\nnot Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait till her\nfather was at leisure to be consulted. One day's delay, she observed,\nwould be of small importance; and her mother was too happy to be quite\nso obstinate as usual. Other schemes, too, came into her head.\n\n\"I will go to Meryton,\" said she, \"as soon as I am dressed, and tell the\ngood, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come back, I can call\non Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and order the carriage.\nAn airing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do\nanything for you in Meryton? Oh! Here comes Hill! My dear Hill, have you\nheard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be married; and you shall\nall have a bowl of punch to make merry at her wedding.\"\n\nMrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received her\ncongratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this folly, took\nrefuge in her own room, that she might think with freedom.\n\nPoor Lydia's situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it was\nno worse, she had need to be thankful. She felt it so; and though, in\nlooking forward, neither rational happiness nor worldly prosperity could\nbe justly expected for her sister, in looking back to what they had\nfeared, only two hours ago, she felt all the advantages of what they had\ngained.\n\n\n\nChapter 50\n\n\nMr. Bennet had very often wished before this period of his life that,\ninstead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an annual sum for\nthe better provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived\nhim. He now wished it more than ever. Had he done his duty in that\nrespect, Lydia need not have been indebted to her uncle for whatever\nof honour or credit could now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of\nprevailing on one of the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be\nher husband might then have rested in its proper place.\n\nHe was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage to anyone\nshould be forwarded at the sole expense of his brother-in-law, and he\nwas determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his assistance,\nand to discharge the obligation as soon as he could.\n\nWhen first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly\nuseless, for, of course, they were to have a son. The son was to join\nin cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age, and the widow\nand younger children would by that means be provided for. Five daughters\nsuccessively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs.\nBennet, for many years after Lydia's birth, had been certain that he\nwould. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then\ntoo late to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy, and her\nhusband's love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their\nincome.\n\nFive thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs. Bennet and\nthe children. But in what proportions it should be divided amongst the\nlatter depended on the will of the parents. This was one point, with\nregard to Lydia, at least, which was now to be settled, and Mr. Bennet\ncould have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him. In\nterms of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother,\nthough expressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect\napprobation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil the\nengagements that had been made for him. He had never before supposed\nthat, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would\nbe done with so little inconvenience to himself as by the present\narrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds a year the loser by the\nhundred that was to be paid them; for, what with her board and pocket\nallowance, and the continual presents in money which passed to her\nthrough her mother's hands, Lydia's expenses had been very little within\nthat sum.\n\nThat it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was\nanother very welcome surprise; for his wish at present was to have as\nlittle trouble in the business as possible. When the first transports\nof rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were over, he\nnaturally returned to all his former indolence. His letter was soon\ndispatched; for, though dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick\nin its execution. He begged to know further particulars of what he\nwas indebted to his brother, but was too angry with Lydia to send any\nmessage to her.\n\nThe good news spread quickly through the house, and with proportionate\nspeed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter with decent\nphilosophy. To be sure, it would have been more for the advantage\nof conversation had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the\nhappiest alternative, been secluded from the world, in some distant\nfarmhouse. But there was much to be talked of in marrying her; and the\ngood-natured wishes for her well-doing which had proceeded before from\nall the spiteful old ladies in Meryton lost but a little of their spirit\nin this change of circumstances, because with such an husband her misery\nwas considered certain.\n\nIt was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been downstairs; but on this\nhappy day she again took her seat at the head of her table, and in\nspirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her\ntriumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object\nof her wishes since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of\naccomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on those\nattendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new carriages, and\nservants. She was busily searching through the neighbourhood for a\nproper situation for her daughter, and, without knowing or considering\nwhat their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and\nimportance.\n\n\"Haye Park might do,\" said she, \"if the Gouldings could quit it--or the\ngreat house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but Ashworth is\ntoo far off! I could not bear to have her ten miles from me; and as for\nPulvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful.\"\n\nHer husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the\nservants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her: \"Mrs.\nBennet, before you take any or all of these houses for your son and\ndaughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into _one_ house in this\nneighbourhood they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage the\nimpudence of either, by receiving them at Longbourn.\"\n\nA long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was firm. It\nsoon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with amazement and horror,\nthat her husband would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his\ndaughter. He protested that she should receive from him no mark of\naffection whatever on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend\nit. That his anger could be carried to such a point of inconceivable\nresentment as to refuse his daughter a privilege without which her\nmarriage would scarcely seem valid, exceeded all she could believe\npossible. She was more alive to the disgrace which her want of new\nclothes must reflect on her daughter's nuptials, than to any sense of\nshame at her eloping and living with Wickham a fortnight before they\ntook place.\n\nElizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the distress of\nthe moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted with their fears for\nher sister; for since her marriage would so shortly give the\nproper termination to the elopement, they might hope to conceal its\nunfavourable beginning from all those who were not immediately on the\nspot.\n\nShe had no fear of its spreading farther through his means. There were\nfew people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently depended;\nbut, at the same time, there was no one whose knowledge of a sister's\nfrailty would have mortified her so much--not, however, from any fear\nof disadvantage from it individually to herself, for, at any rate,\nthere seemed a gulf impassable between them. Had Lydia's marriage been\nconcluded on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that\nMr. Darcy would connect himself with a family where, to every other\nobjection, would now be added an alliance and relationship of the\nnearest kind with a man whom he so justly scorned.\n\nFrom such a connection she could not wonder that he would shrink. The\nwish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself of his\nfeeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation survive such a\nblow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she\nhardly knew of what. She became jealous of his esteem, when she could no\nlonger hope to be benefited by it. She wanted to hear of him, when there\nseemed the least chance of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that\nshe could have been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they\nshould meet.\n\nWhat a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that the\nproposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago, would now\nhave been most gladly and gratefully received! He was as generous, she\ndoubted not, as the most generous of his sex; but while he was mortal,\nthere must be a triumph.\n\nShe began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in\ndisposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and\ntemper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It\nwas an union that must have been to the advantage of both; by her ease\nand liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved;\nand from his judgement, information, and knowledge of the world, she\nmust have received benefit of greater importance.\n\nBut no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what\nconnubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and\nprecluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their\nfamily.\n\nHow Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence,\nshe could not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could\nbelong to a couple who were only brought together because their passions\nwere stronger than their virtue, she could easily conjecture.\n\n                          * * * * *\n\nMr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet's\nacknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurance of his eagerness to\npromote the welfare of any of his family; and concluded with entreaties\nthat the subject might never be mentioned to him again. The principal\npurport of his letter was to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved\non quitting the militia.\n\n\"It was greatly my wish that he should do so,\" he added, \"as soon as\nhis marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me, in\nconsidering the removal from that corps as highly advisable, both on\nhis account and my niece's. It is Mr. Wickham's intention to go into\nthe regulars; and among his former friends, there are still some who\nare able and willing to assist him in the army. He has the promise of an\nensigncy in General ----'s regiment, now quartered in the North. It\nis an advantage to have it so far from this part of the kingdom. He\npromises fairly; and I hope among different people, where they may each\nhave a character to preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have\nwritten to Colonel Forster, to inform him of our present arrangements,\nand to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr. Wickham\nin and near Brighton, with assurances of speedy payment, for which I\nhave pledged myself. And will you give yourself the trouble of carrying\nsimilar assurances to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin\na list according to his information? He has given in all his debts; I\nhope at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions,\nand all will be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment,\nunless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from Mrs.\nGardiner, that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all before she\nleaves the South. She is well, and begs to be dutifully remembered to\nyou and your mother.--Yours, etc.,\n\n\"E. GARDINER.\"\n\nMr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham's removal\nfrom the ----shire as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But Mrs. Bennet\nwas not so well pleased with it. Lydia's being settled in the North,\njust when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her company,\nfor she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in\nHertfordshire, was a severe disappointment; and, besides, it was such a\npity that Lydia should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted\nwith everybody, and had so many favourites.\n\n\"She is so fond of Mrs. Forster,\" said she, \"it will be quite shocking\nto send her away! And there are several of the young men, too, that she\nlikes very much. The officers may not be so pleasant in General ----'s\nregiment.\"\n\nHis daughter's request, for such it might be considered, of being\nadmitted into her family again before she set off for the North,\nreceived at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth,\nwho agreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister's feelings and\nconsequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by her parents,\nurged him so earnestly yet so rationally and so mildly, to receive her\nand her husband at Longbourn, as soon as they were married, that he was\nprevailed on to think as they thought, and act as they wished. And their\nmother had the satisfaction of knowing that she would be able to show\nher married daughter in the neighbourhood before she was banished to the\nNorth. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore, he sent\nhis permission for them to come; and it was settled, that as soon as\nthe ceremony was over, they should proceed to Longbourn. Elizabeth was\nsurprised, however, that Wickham should consent to such a scheme, and\nhad she consulted only her own inclination, any meeting with him would\nhave been the last object of her wishes.\n\n\n\nChapter 51\n\n\nTheir sister's wedding day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt for her\nprobably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to\nmeet them at ----, and they were to return in it by dinner-time. Their\narrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets, and Jane more especially,\nwho gave Lydia the feelings which would have attended herself, had she\nbeen the culprit, and was wretched in the thought of what her sister\nmust endure.\n\nThey came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room to receive\nthem. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet as the carriage drove up to\nthe door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed,\nanxious, uneasy.\n\nLydia's voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown open, and\nshe ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and\nwelcomed her with rapture; gave her hand, with an affectionate smile,\nto Wickham, who followed his lady; and wished them both joy with an\nalacrity which shewed no doubt of their happiness.\n\nTheir reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite\nso cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely\nopened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was\nenough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet\nwas shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy,\nand fearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their\ncongratulations; and when at length they all sat down, looked eagerly\nround the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and\nobserved, with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been\nthere.\n\nWickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his manners\nwere always so pleasing, that had his character and his marriage been\nexactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he\nclaimed their relationship, would have delighted them all. Elizabeth had\nnot before believed him quite equal to such assurance; but she sat down,\nresolving within herself to draw no limits in future to the impudence\nof an impudent man. She blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of the\ntwo who caused their confusion suffered no variation of colour.\n\nThere was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither\nof them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to sit near\nElizabeth, began inquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood,\nwith a good humoured ease which she felt very unable to equal in her\nreplies. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the\nworld. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led\nvoluntarily to subjects which her sisters would not have alluded to for\nthe world.\n\n\"Only think of its being three months,\" she cried, \"since I went away;\nit seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been things\nenough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away, I am sure\nI had no more idea of being married till I came back again! though I\nthought it would be very good fun if I was.\"\n\nHer father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked\nexpressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw anything of\nwhich she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, \"Oh! mamma, do the\npeople hereabouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might not;\nand we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was determined he\nshould know it, and so I let down the side-glass next to him, and took\noff my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that\nhe might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like anything.\"\n\nElizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room;\nand returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to\nthe dining parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with\nanxious parade, walk up to her mother's right hand, and hear her say\nto her eldest sister, \"Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go\nlower, because I am a married woman.\"\n\nIt was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment\nfrom which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good\nspirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Phillips, the Lucases, and\nall their other neighbours, and to hear herself called \"Mrs. Wickham\"\nby each of them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to show her\nring, and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.\n\n\"Well, mamma,\" said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast\nroom, \"and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I\nam sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half\nmy good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get\nhusbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go.\"\n\n\"Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don't\nat all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?\"\n\n\"Oh, lord! yes;--there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all\nthings. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We\nshall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some\nballs, and I will take care to get good partners for them all.\"\n\n\"I should like it beyond anything!\" said her mother.\n\n\"And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters\nbehind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the\nwinter is over.\"\n\n\"I thank you for my share of the favour,\" said Elizabeth; \"but I do not\nparticularly like your way of getting husbands.\"\n\nTheir visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham\nhad received his commission before he left London, and he was to join\nhis regiment at the end of a fortnight.\n\nNo one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so short; and\nshe made the most of the time by visiting about with her daughter, and\nhaving very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to\nall; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did\nthink, than such as did not.\n\nWickham's affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth had expected\nto find it; not equal to Lydia's for him. She had scarcely needed her\npresent observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that\ntheir elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather\nthan by his; and she would have wondered why, without violently caring\nfor her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain\nthat his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and\nif that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity\nof having a companion.\n\nLydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every\noccasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did every\nthing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds on\nthe first of September, than any body else in the country.\n\nOne morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two\nelder sisters, she said to Elizabeth:\n\n\"Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe. You\nwere not by, when I told mamma and the others all about it. Are not you\ncurious to hear how it was managed?\"\n\n\"No really,\" replied Elizabeth; \"I think there cannot be too little said\non the subject.\"\n\n\"La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were\nmarried, you know, at St. Clement's, because Wickham's lodgings were in\nthat parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven\no'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others\nwere to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in\nsuch a fuss! I was so afraid, you know, that something would happen to\nput it off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And there was\nmy aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as\nif she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in\nten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed\nto know whether he would be married in his blue coat.\"\n\n\"Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never\nbe over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt\nwere horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you'll believe\nme, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a\nfortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or anything. To be sure London was\nrather thin, but, however, the Little Theatre was open. Well, and so\njust as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon\nbusiness to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once\nthey get together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I\ndid not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we\nwere beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he\ncame back again in ten minutes' time, and then we all set out. However,\nI recollected afterwards that if he had been prevented going, the\nwedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well.\"\n\n\"Mr. Darcy!\" repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.\n\n\"Oh, yes!--he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious\nme! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised\nthem so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!\"\n\n\"If it was to be secret,\" said Jane, \"say not another word on the\nsubject. You may depend upon my seeking no further.\"\n\n\"Oh! certainly,\" said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; \"we will\nask you no questions.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Lydia, \"for if you did, I should certainly tell you\nall, and then Wickham would be angry.\"\n\nOn such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her\npower, by running away.\n\nBut to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least\nit was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at\nher sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people,\nwhere he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go.\nConjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her\nbrain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as\nplacing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She\ncould not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper,\nwrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what\nLydia had dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been\nintended.\n\n\"You may readily comprehend,\" she added, \"what my curiosity must be\nto know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively\nspeaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such\na time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it--unless it is,\nfor very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems\nto think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with\nignorance.\"\n\n\"Not that I _shall_, though,\" she added to herself, as she finished\nthe letter; \"and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable\nmanner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it\nout.\"\n\nJane's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to\nElizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad\nof it;--till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any\nsatisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.\n\n\n\nChapter 52\n\n\nElizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter as\nsoon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it\nthan, hurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to\nbe interrupted, she sat down on one of the benches and prepared to\nbe happy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not\ncontain a denial.\n\n\"Gracechurch street, Sept. 6.\n\n\"MY DEAR NIECE,\n\n\"I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole morning\nto answering it, as I foresee that a _little_ writing will not comprise\nwhat I have to tell you. I must confess myself surprised by your\napplication; I did not expect it from _you_. Don't think me angry,\nhowever, for I only mean to let you know that I had not imagined such\ninquiries to be necessary on _your_ side. If you do not choose to\nunderstand me, forgive my impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised\nas I am--and nothing but the belief of your being a party concerned\nwould have allowed him to act as he has done. But if you are really\ninnocent and ignorant, I must be more explicit.\n\n\"On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most\nunexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up with him several\nhours. It was all over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so\ndreadfully racked as _yours_ seems to have been. He came to tell Mr.\nGardiner that he had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were,\nand that he had seen and talked with them both; Wickham repeatedly,\nLydia once. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day\nafter ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting for\nthem. The motive professed was his conviction of its being owing to\nhimself that Wickham's worthlessness had not been so well known as to\nmake it impossible for any young woman of character to love or confide\nin him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and\nconfessed that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his private\nactions open to the world. His character was to speak for itself. He\ncalled it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and endeavour to remedy\nan evil which had been brought on by himself. If he _had another_\nmotive, I am sure it would never disgrace him. He had been some days\nin town, before he was able to discover them; but he had something to\ndirect his search, which was more than _we_ had; and the consciousness\nof this was another reason for his resolving to follow us.\n\n\"There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago\ngoverness to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed from her charge on some cause\nof disapprobation, though he did not say what. She then took a large\nhouse in Edward-street, and has since maintained herself by letting\nlodgings. This Mrs. Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with\nWickham; and he went to her for intelligence of him as soon as he got to\ntown. But it was two or three days before he could get from her what he\nwanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery and\ncorruption, for she really did know where her friend was to be found.\nWickham indeed had gone to her on their first arrival in London, and had\nshe been able to receive them into her house, they would have taken up\ntheir abode with her. At length, however, our kind friend procured the\nwished-for direction. They were in ---- street. He saw Wickham, and\nafterwards insisted on seeing Lydia. His first object with her, he\nacknowledged, had been to persuade her to quit her present disgraceful\nsituation, and return to her friends as soon as they could be prevailed\non to receive her, offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But\nhe found Lydia absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared\nfor none of her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not hear\nof leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some time or\nother, and it did not much signify when. Since such were her feelings,\nit only remained, he thought, to secure and expedite a marriage, which,\nin his very first conversation with Wickham, he easily learnt had never\nbeen _his_ design. He confessed himself obliged to leave the regiment,\non account of some debts of honour, which were very pressing; and\nscrupled not to lay all the ill-consequences of Lydia's flight on her\nown folly alone. He meant to resign his commission immediately; and as\nto his future situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He\nmust go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew he should have\nnothing to live on.\n\n\"Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your sister at once. Though\nMr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would have been able\nto do something for him, and his situation must have been benefited by\nmarriage. But he found, in reply to this question, that Wickham still\ncherished the hope of more effectually making his fortune by marriage in\nsome other country. Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely\nto be proof against the temptation of immediate relief.\n\n\"They met several times, for there was much to be discussed. Wickham of\ncourse wanted more than he could get; but at length was reduced to be\nreasonable.\n\n\"Every thing being settled between _them_, Mr. Darcy's next step was to\nmake your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in Gracechurch\nstreet the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardiner could not be\nseen, and Mr. Darcy found, on further inquiry, that your father was\nstill with him, but would quit town the next morning. He did not judge\nyour father to be a person whom he could so properly consult as your\nuncle, and therefore readily postponed seeing him till after the\ndeparture of the former. He did not leave his name, and till the next\nday it was only known that a gentleman had called on business.\n\n\"On Saturday he came again. Your father was gone, your uncle at home,\nand, as I said before, they had a great deal of talk together.\n\n\"They met again on Sunday, and then _I_ saw him too. It was not all\nsettled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express was sent off to\nLongbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I fancy, Lizzy, that\nobstinacy is the real defect of his character, after all. He has been\naccused of many faults at different times, but _this_ is the true one.\nNothing was to be done that he did not do himself; though I am sure (and\nI do not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it), your\nuncle would most readily have settled the whole.\n\n\"They battled it together for a long time, which was more than either\nthe gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your uncle\nwas forced to yield, and instead of being allowed to be of use to his\nniece, was forced to put up with only having the probable credit of it,\nwhich went sorely against the grain; and I really believe your letter\nthis morning gave him great pleasure, because it required an explanation\nthat would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where\nit was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no farther than yourself, or Jane\nat most.\n\n\"You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done for the young\npeople. His debts are to be paid, amounting, I believe, to considerably\nmore than a thousand pounds, another thousand in addition to her own\nsettled upon _her_, and his commission purchased. The reason why all\nthis was to be done by him alone, was such as I have given above. It\nwas owing to him, to his reserve and want of proper consideration, that\nWickham's character had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he\nhad been received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth\nin _this_; though I doubt whether _his_ reserve, or _anybody's_ reserve,\ncan be answerable for the event. But in spite of all this fine talking,\nmy dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured that your uncle would\nnever have yielded, if we had not given him credit for _another\ninterest_ in the affair.\n\n\"When all this was resolved on, he returned again to his friends, who\nwere still staying at Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be in\nLondon once more when the wedding took place, and all money matters were\nthen to receive the last finish.\n\n\"I believe I have now told you every thing. It is a relation which\nyou tell me is to give you great surprise; I hope at least it will not\nafford you any displeasure. Lydia came to us; and Wickham had constant\nadmission to the house. _He_ was exactly what he had been, when I\nknew him in Hertfordshire; but I would not tell you how little I was\nsatisfied with her behaviour while she staid with us, if I had not\nperceived, by Jane's letter last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming\nhome was exactly of a piece with it, and therefore what I now tell\nyou can give you no fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most\nserious manner, representing to her all the wickedness of what she had\ndone, and all the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If she\nheard me, it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not listen. I was\nsometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my dear Elizabeth and\nJane, and for their sakes had patience with her.\n\n\"Mr. Darcy was punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you,\nattended the wedding. He dined with us the next day, and was to leave\ntown again on Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my\ndear Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying (what I was never bold\nenough to say before) how much I like him. His behaviour to us has,\nin every respect, been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire. His\nunderstanding and opinions all please me; he wants nothing but a little\nmore liveliness, and _that_, if he marry _prudently_, his wife may teach\nhim. I thought him very sly;--he hardly ever mentioned your name. But\nslyness seems the fashion.\n\n\"Pray forgive me if I have been very presuming, or at least do not\npunish me so far as to exclude me from P. I shall never be quite happy\ntill I have been all round the park. A low phaeton, with a nice little\npair of ponies, would be the very thing.\n\n\"But I must write no more. The children have been wanting me this half\nhour.\n\n\"Yours, very sincerely,\n\n\"M. GARDINER.\"\n\nThe contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits,\nin which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the\ngreatest share. The vague and unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had\nproduced of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister's\nmatch, which she had feared to encourage as an exertion of goodness too\ngreat to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the\npain of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true!\nHe had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on himself all\nthe trouble and mortification attendant on such a research; in which\nsupplication had been necessary to a woman whom he must abominate and\ndespise, and where he was reduced to meet, frequently meet, reason\nwith, persuade, and finally bribe, the man whom he always most wished to\navoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had\ndone all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her\nheart did whisper that he had done it for her. But it was a hope shortly\nchecked by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her vanity\nwas insufficient, when required to depend on his affection for her--for\na woman who had already refused him--as able to overcome a sentiment so\nnatural as abhorrence against relationship with Wickham. Brother-in-law\nof Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from the connection. He had,\nto be sure, done much. She was ashamed to think how much. But he had\ngiven a reason for his interference, which asked no extraordinary\nstretch of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel he had been\nwrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising it; and\nthough she would not place herself as his principal inducement, she\ncould, perhaps, believe that remaining partiality for her might assist\nhis endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be materially\nconcerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that they were\nunder obligations to a person who could never receive a return. They\nowed the restoration of Lydia, her character, every thing, to him. Oh!\nhow heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation she had ever\nencouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed towards him. For\nherself she was humbled; but she was proud of him. Proud that in a cause\nof compassion and honour, he had been able to get the better of himself.\nShe read over her aunt's commendation of him again and again. It\nwas hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even sensible of some\npleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how steadfastly both she\nand her uncle had been persuaded that affection and confidence subsisted\nbetween Mr. Darcy and herself.\n\nShe was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one's\napproach; and before she could strike into another path, she was\novertaken by Wickham.\n\n\"I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?\" said he,\nas he joined her.\n\n\"You certainly do,\" she replied with a smile; \"but it does not follow\nthat the interruption must be unwelcome.\"\n\n\"I should be sorry indeed, if it were. We were always good friends; and\nnow we are better.\"\n\n\"True. Are the others coming out?\"\n\n\"I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to\nMeryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our uncle and aunt, that\nyou have actually seen Pemberley.\"\n\nShe replied in the affirmative.\n\n\"I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much\nfor me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the\nold housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of\nme. But of course she did not mention my name to you.\"\n\n\"Yes, she did.\"\n\n\"And what did she say?\"\n\n\"That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had--not turned\nout well. At such a distance as _that_, you know, things are strangely\nmisrepresented.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had\nsilenced him; but he soon afterwards said:\n\n\"I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other\nseveral times. I wonder what he can be doing there.\"\n\n\"Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh,\" said\nElizabeth. \"It must be something particular, to take him there at this\ntime of year.\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I\nunderstood from the Gardiners that you had.\"\n\n\"Yes; he introduced us to his sister.\"\n\n\"And do you like her?\"\n\n\"Very much.\"\n\n\"I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year\nor two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad\nyou liked her. I hope she will turn out well.\"\n\n\"I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age.\"\n\n\"Did you go by the village of Kympton?\"\n\n\"I do not recollect that we did.\"\n\n\"I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have had. A\nmost delightful place!--Excellent Parsonage House! It would have suited\nme in every respect.\"\n\n\"How should you have liked making sermons?\"\n\n\"Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty,\nand the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to\nrepine;--but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The\nquiet, the retirement of such a life would have answered all my ideas\nof happiness! But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the\ncircumstance, when you were in Kent?\"\n\n\"I have heard from authority, which I thought _as good_, that it was\nleft you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron.\"\n\n\"You have. Yes, there was something in _that_; I told you so from the\nfirst, you may remember.\"\n\n\"I _did_ hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making was not\nso palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you actually\ndeclared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business\nhad been compromised accordingly.\"\n\n\"You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember\nwhat I told you on that point, when first we talked of it.\"\n\nThey were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked fast\nto get rid of him; and unwilling, for her sister's sake, to provoke him,\nshe only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile:\n\n\"Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let\nus quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of one\nmind.\"\n\nShe held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry, though\nhe hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house.\n\n\n\nChapter 53\n\n\nMr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation that he\nnever again distressed himself, or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth,\nby introducing the subject of it; and she was pleased to find that she\nhad said enough to keep him quiet.\n\nThe day of his and Lydia's departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet was\nforced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means\nentered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle, was likely to\ncontinue at least a twelvemonth.\n\n\"Oh! my dear Lydia,\" she cried, \"when shall we meet again?\"\n\n\"Oh, lord! I don't know. Not these two or three years, perhaps.\"\n\n\"Write to me very often, my dear.\"\n\n\"As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for\nwriting. My sisters may write to _me_. They will have nothing else to\ndo.\"\n\nMr. Wickham's adieus were much more affectionate than his wife's. He\nsmiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.\n\n\"He is as fine a fellow,\" said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of\nthe house, \"as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to\nus all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas\nhimself to produce a more valuable son-in-law.\"\n\nThe loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days.\n\n\"I often think,\" said she, \"that there is nothing so bad as parting with\none's friends. One seems so forlorn without them.\"\n\n\"This is the consequence, you see, Madam, of marrying a daughter,\" said\nElizabeth. \"It must make you better satisfied that your other four are\nsingle.\"\n\n\"It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is married,\nbut only because her husband's regiment happens to be so far off. If\nthat had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon.\"\n\nBut the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was shortly\nrelieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope, by an\narticle of news which then began to be in circulation. The housekeeper\nat Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the arrival of her\nmaster, who was coming down in a day or two, to shoot there for several\nweeks. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and\nsmiled and shook her head by turns.\n\n\"Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister,\" (for Mrs.\nPhillips first brought her the news). \"Well, so much the better. Not\nthat I care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am\nsure _I_ never want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome\nto come to Netherfield, if he likes it. And who knows what _may_ happen?\nBut that is nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to\nmention a word about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?\"\n\n\"You may depend on it,\" replied the other, \"for Mrs. Nicholls was in\nMeryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose\nto know the truth of it; and she told me that it was certain true. He\ncomes down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was\ngoing to the butcher's, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat on\nWednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks just fit to be killed.\"\n\nMiss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without changing\ncolour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to\nElizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said:\n\n\"I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the present\nreport; and I know I appeared distressed. But don't imagine it was from\nany silly cause. I was only confused for the moment, because I felt that\nI _should_ be looked at. I do assure you that the news does not affect\nme either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes\nalone; because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of\n_myself_, but I dread other people's remarks.\"\n\nElizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him in\nDerbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming there with no\nother view than what was acknowledged; but she still thought him partial\nto Jane, and she wavered as to the greater probability of his coming\nthere _with_ his friend's permission, or being bold enough to come\nwithout it.\n\n\"Yet it is hard,\" she sometimes thought, \"that this poor man cannot\ncome to a house which he has legally hired, without raising all this\nspeculation! I _will_ leave him to himself.\"\n\nIn spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be her\nfeelings in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily\nperceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed,\nmore unequal, than she had often seen them.\n\nThe subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their parents,\nabout a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.\n\n\"As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear,\" said Mrs. Bennet, \"you\nwill wait on him of course.\"\n\n\"No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised, if I\nwent to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it ended in\nnothing, and I will not be sent on a fool's errand again.\"\n\nHis wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention\nwould be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his returning to\nNetherfield.\n\n\"'Tis an etiquette I despise,\" said he. \"If he wants our society,\nlet him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not spend my hours\nin running after my neighbours every time they go away and come back\nagain.\"\n\n\"Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do not wait\non him. But, however, that shan't prevent my asking him to dine here, I\nam determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon. That will\nmake thirteen with ourselves, so there will be just room at table for\nhim.\"\n\nConsoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her\nhusband's incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that her\nneighbours might all see Mr. Bingley, in consequence of it, before\n_they_ did. As the day of his arrival drew near:\n\n\"I begin to be sorry that he comes at all,\" said Jane to her sister. \"It\nwould be nothing; I could see him with perfect indifference, but I can\nhardly bear to hear it thus perpetually talked of. My mother means well;\nbut she does not know, no one can know, how much I suffer from what she\nsays. Happy shall I be, when his stay at Netherfield is over!\"\n\n\"I wish I could say anything to comfort you,\" replied Elizabeth; \"but it\nis wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the usual satisfaction\nof preaching patience to a sufferer is denied me, because you have\nalways so much.\"\n\nMr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of servants,\ncontrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the period of anxiety\nand fretfulness on her side might be as long as it could. She counted\nthe days that must intervene before their invitation could be sent;\nhopeless of seeing him before. But on the third morning after his\narrival in Hertfordshire, she saw him, from her dressing-room window,\nenter the paddock and ride towards the house.\n\nHer daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane resolutely\nkept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother, went\nto the window--she looked,--she saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat down\nagain by her sister.\n\n\"There is a gentleman with him, mamma,\" said Kitty; \"who can it be?\"\n\n\"Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do not\nknow.\"\n\n\"La!\" replied Kitty, \"it looks just like that man that used to be with\nhim before. Mr. what's-his-name. That tall, proud man.\"\n\n\"Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!--and so it does, I vow. Well, any friend of\nMr. Bingley's will always be welcome here, to be sure; but else I must\nsay that I hate the very sight of him.\"\n\nJane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little\nof their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness\nwhich must attend her sister, in seeing him almost for the first time\nafter receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable\nenough. Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and their\nmother talked on, of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be\ncivil to him only as Mr. Bingley's friend, without being heard by either\nof them. But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be\nsuspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew Mrs.\nGardiner's letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him.\nTo Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she had refused,\nand whose merit she had undervalued; but to her own more extensive\ninformation, he was the person to whom the whole family were indebted\nfor the first of benefits, and whom she regarded herself with an\ninterest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and just as\nwhat Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his coming--at his\ncoming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again,\nwas almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing his altered\nbehaviour in Derbyshire.\n\nThe colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half a\nminute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to\nher eyes, as she thought for that space of time that his affection and\nwishes must still be unshaken. But she would not be secure.\n\n\"Let me first see how he behaves,\" said she; \"it will then be early\nenough for expectation.\"\n\nShe sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without daring to\nlift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of\nher sister as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little\npaler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the\ngentlemen's appearing, her colour increased; yet she received them with\ntolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any\nsymptom of resentment or any unnecessary complaisance.\n\nElizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down\nagain to her work, with an eagerness which it did not often command. She\nhad ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious, as usual; and,\nshe thought, more as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, than as\nshe had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother's\npresence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but\nnot an improbable, conjecture.\n\nBingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period\nsaw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs.\nBennet with a degree of civility which made her two daughters ashamed,\nespecially when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of\nher curtsey and address to his friend.\n\nElizabeth, particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the latter\nthe preservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy,\nwas hurt and distressed to a most painful degree by a distinction so ill\napplied.\n\nDarcy, after inquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a question\nwhich she could not answer without confusion, said scarcely anything. He\nwas not seated by her; perhaps that was the reason of his silence; but\nit had not been so in Derbyshire. There he had talked to her friends,\nwhen he could not to herself. But now several minutes elapsed without\nbringing the sound of his voice; and when occasionally, unable to resist\nthe impulse of curiosity, she raised her eyes to his face, she as often\nfound him looking at Jane as at herself, and frequently on no object but\nthe ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please, than when\nthey last met, were plainly expressed. She was disappointed, and angry\nwith herself for being so.\n\n\"Could I expect it to be otherwise!\" said she. \"Yet why did he come?\"\n\nShe was in no humour for conversation with anyone but himself; and to\nhim she had hardly courage to speak.\n\nShe inquired after his sister, but could do no more.\n\n\"It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away,\" said Mrs. Bennet.\n\nHe readily agreed to it.\n\n\"I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People _did_ say\nyou meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas; but, however, I hope\nit is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood,\nsince you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled. And one of my\nown daughters. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you must have\nseen it in the papers. It was in The Times and The Courier, I know;\nthough it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, 'Lately,\nGeorge Wickham, Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,' without there being a\nsyllable said of her father, or the place where she lived, or anything.\nIt was my brother Gardiner's drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to\nmake such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?\"\n\nBingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth\ndared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could\nnot tell.\n\n\"It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married,\"\ncontinued her mother, \"but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very\nhard to have her taken such a way from me. They are gone down to\nNewcastle, a place quite northward, it seems, and there they are to stay\nI do not know how long. His regiment is there; for I suppose you have\nheard of his leaving the ----shire, and of his being gone into the\nregulars. Thank Heaven! he has _some_ friends, though perhaps not so\nmany as he deserves.\"\n\nElizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such\nmisery of shame, that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew from her,\nhowever, the exertion of speaking, which nothing else had so effectually\ndone before; and she asked Bingley whether he meant to make any stay in\nthe country at present. A few weeks, he believed.\n\n\"When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley,\" said her mother,\n\"I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you please on Mr.\nBennet's manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you, and\nwill save all the best of the covies for you.\"\n\nElizabeth's misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious\nattention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present as had\nflattered them a year ago, every thing, she was persuaded, would be\nhastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant, she felt\nthat years of happiness could not make Jane or herself amends for\nmoments of such painful confusion.\n\n\"The first wish of my heart,\" said she to herself, \"is never more to\nbe in company with either of them. Their society can afford no pleasure\nthat will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me never see either\none or the other again!\"\n\nYet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no\ncompensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from observing\nhow much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the admiration of her\nformer lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little;\nbut every five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He\nfound her as handsome as she had been last year; as good natured, and\nas unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no\ndifference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded\nthat she talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged,\nthat she did not always know when she was silent.\n\nWhen the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her\nintended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at\nLongbourn in a few days time.\n\n\"You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley,\" she added, \"for when\nyou went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with\nus, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure\nyou, I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep\nyour engagement.\"\n\nBingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of\nhis concern at having been prevented by business. They then went away.\n\nMrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine\nthere that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did\nnot think anything less than two courses could be good enough for a man\non whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride\nof one who had ten thousand a year.\n\n\n\nChapter 54\n\n\nAs soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits;\nor in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that\nmust deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her.\n\n\"Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,\" said she,\n\"did he come at all?\"\n\nShe could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.\n\n\"He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when\nhe was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If\nhe no longer cares for me, why silent? Teasing, teasing, man! I will\nthink no more about him.\"\n\nHer resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach\nof her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look, which showed her\nbetter satisfied with their visitors, than Elizabeth.\n\n\"Now,\" said she, \"that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly\neasy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by\nhis coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly\nseen that, on both sides, we meet only as common and indifferent\nacquaintance.\"\n\n\"Yes, very indifferent indeed,\" said Elizabeth, laughingly. \"Oh, Jane,\ntake care.\"\n\n\"My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger now?\"\n\n\"I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with\nyou as ever.\"\n\n                          * * * * *\n\nThey did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs. Bennet, in\nthe meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes, which the good\nhumour and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour's visit, had\nrevived.\n\nOn Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two\nwho were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their punctuality\nas sportsmen, were in very good time. When they repaired to the\ndining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take\nthe place, which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by\nher sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore\nto invite him to sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to\nhesitate; but Jane happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was\ndecided. He placed himself by her.\n\nElizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend.\nHe bore it with noble indifference, and she would have imagined that\nBingley had received his sanction to be happy, had she not seen his eyes\nlikewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing\nalarm.\n\nHis behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as showed an\nadmiration of her, which, though more guarded than formerly, persuaded\nElizabeth, that if left wholly to himself, Jane's happiness, and his\nown, would be speedily secured. Though she dared not depend upon the\nconsequence, she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It\ngave her all the animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in\nno cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her as the table\ncould divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little\nsuch a situation would give pleasure to either, or make either appear to\nadvantage. She was not near enough to hear any of their discourse, but\nshe could see how seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and\ncold was their manner whenever they did. Her mother's ungraciousness,\nmade the sense of what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth's mind;\nand she would, at times, have given anything to be privileged to tell\nhim that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of the\nfamily.\n\nShe was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity of\nbringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not pass away\nwithout enabling them to enter into something more of conversation than\nthe mere ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious\nand uneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room, before the\ngentlemen came, was wearisome and dull to a degree that almost made her\nuncivil. She looked forward to their entrance as the point on which all\nher chance of pleasure for the evening must depend.\n\n\"If he does not come to me, _then_,\" said she, \"I shall give him up for\never.\"\n\nThe gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have\nanswered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the table,\nwhere Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee,\nin so close a confederacy that there was not a single vacancy near her\nwhich would admit of a chair. And on the gentlemen's approaching, one of\nthe girls moved closer to her than ever, and said, in a whisper:\n\n\"The men shan't come and part us, I am determined. We want none of them;\ndo we?\"\n\nDarcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed him with\nher eyes, envied everyone to whom he spoke, had scarcely patience enough\nto help anybody to coffee; and then was enraged against herself for\nbeing so silly!\n\n\"A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish enough to\nexpect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex, who would not\nprotest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman?\nThere is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings!\"\n\nShe was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his coffee cup\nhimself; and she seized the opportunity of saying:\n\n\"Is your sister at Pemberley still?\"\n\n\"Yes, she will remain there till Christmas.\"\n\n\"And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to Scarborough,\nthese three weeks.\"\n\nShe could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to converse\nwith her, he might have better success. He stood by her, however, for\nsome minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young lady's whispering\nto Elizabeth again, he walked away.\n\nWhen the tea-things were removed, and the card-tables placed, the ladies\nall rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined by him,\nwhen all her views were overthrown by seeing him fall a victim to her\nmother's rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated\nwith the rest of the party. She now lost every expectation of pleasure.\nThey were confined for the evening at different tables, and she had\nnothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side\nof the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.\n\nMrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to\nsupper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of the\nothers, and she had no opportunity of detaining them.\n\n\"Well girls,\" said she, as soon as they were left to themselves, \"What\nsay you to the day? I think every thing has passed off uncommonly well,\nI assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The\nvenison was roasted to a turn--and everybody said they never saw so\nfat a haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the\nLucases' last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges\nwere remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French\ncooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater\nbeauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And\nwhat do you think she said besides? 'Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her\nat Netherfield at last.' She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good\na creature as ever lived--and her nieces are very pretty behaved girls,\nand not at all handsome: I like them prodigiously.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen enough of\nBingley's behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she would get him at\nlast; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy\nhumour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at\nnot seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals.\n\n\"It has been a very agreeable day,\" said Miss Bennet to Elizabeth. \"The\nparty seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we\nmay often meet again.\"\n\nElizabeth smiled.\n\n\"Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me.\nI assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an\nagreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am\nperfectly satisfied, from what his manners now are, that he never had\nany design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed\nwith greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally\npleasing, than any other man.\"\n\n\"You are very cruel,\" said her sister, \"you will not let me smile, and\nare provoking me to it every moment.\"\n\n\"How hard it is in some cases to be believed!\"\n\n\"And how impossible in others!\"\n\n\"But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I\nacknowledge?\"\n\n\"That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to\ninstruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive\nme; and if you persist in indifference, do not make me your confidante.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 55\n\n\nA few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His\nfriend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in\nten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably\ngood spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many\nexpressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere.\n\n\"Next time you call,\" said she, \"I hope we shall be more lucky.\"\n\nHe should be particularly happy at any time, etc. etc.; and if she would\ngive him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them.\n\n\"Can you come to-morrow?\"\n\nYes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was\naccepted with alacrity.\n\nHe came, and in such very good time that the ladies were none of them\ndressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing\ngown, and with her hair half finished, crying out:\n\n\"My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is\ncome. He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss\nBennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss\nLizzy's hair.\"\n\n\"We will be down as soon as we can,\" said Jane; \"but I dare say Kitty is\nforwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago.\"\n\n\"Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick!\nWhere is your sash, my dear?\"\n\nBut when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down\nwithout one of her sisters.\n\nThe same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in the\nevening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his\ncustom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of\nthe five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at\nElizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any\nimpression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last\nKitty did, she very innocently said, \"What is the matter mamma? What do\nyou keep winking at me for? What am I to do?\"\n\n\"Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you.\" She then sat still\nfive minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she\nsuddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, \"Come here, my love, I want to\nspeak to you,\" took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look\nat Elizabeth which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her\nentreaty that _she_ would not give in to it. In a few minutes, Mrs.\nBennet half-opened the door and called out:\n\n\"Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you.\"\n\nElizabeth was forced to go.\n\n\"We may as well leave them by themselves you know;\" said her mother, as\nsoon as she was in the hall. \"Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in\nmy dressing-room.\"\n\nElizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained\nquietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned\ninto the drawing-room.\n\nMrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every\nthing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His\nease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their\nevening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the\nmother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command\nof countenance particularly grateful to the daughter.\n\nHe scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went\naway, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs.\nBennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband.\n\nAfter this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed\nbetween the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in\nthe happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy\nreturned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably\npersuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's\nconcurrence.\n\nBingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent\nthe morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more\nagreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption\nor folly in Bingley that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into\nsilence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric, than the\nother had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner;\nand in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get\nevery body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter\nto write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea;\nfor as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be\nwanted to counteract her mother's schemes.\n\nBut on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she\nsaw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother\nhad been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her\nsister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in\nearnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of\nboth, as they hastily turned round and moved away from each other, would\nhave told it all. Their situation was awkward enough; but _hers_ she\nthought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and\nElizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as\nwell as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few\nwords to her sister, ran out of the room.\n\nJane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give\npleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest\nemotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.\n\n\"'Tis too much!\" she added, \"by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh!\nwhy is not everybody as happy?\"\n\nElizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth,\na delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of\nkindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not\nallow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be\nsaid for the present.\n\n\"I must go instantly to my mother;\" she cried. \"I would not on any\naccount trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it\nfrom anyone but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to\nknow that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear\nfamily! how shall I bear so much happiness!\"\n\nShe then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the\ncard party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty.\n\nElizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease\nwith which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many\nprevious months of suspense and vexation.\n\n\"And this,\" said she, \"is the end of all his friend's anxious\ncircumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the\nhappiest, wisest, most reasonable end!\"\n\nIn a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her\nfather had been short and to the purpose.\n\n\"Where is your sister?\" said he hastily, as he opened the door.\n\n\"With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment, I dare say.\"\n\nHe then shut the door, and, coming up to her, claimed the good wishes\nand affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed\nher delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with\ngreat cordiality; and then, till her sister came down, she had to listen\nto all he had to say of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections;\nand in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his\nexpectations of felicity to be rationally founded, because they had for\nbasis the excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of\nJane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and\nhimself.\n\nIt was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of\nMiss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as\nmade her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped\nher turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent or\nspeak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings,\nthough she talked to Bingley of nothing else for half an hour; and when\nMr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly showed\nhow really happy he was.\n\nNot a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their\nvisitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he\nturned to his daughter, and said:\n\n\"Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman.\"\n\nJane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his\ngoodness.\n\n\"You are a good girl;\" he replied, \"and I have great pleasure in\nthinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your\ndoing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are\neach of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so\neasy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will\nalways exceed your income.\"\n\n\"I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters would be\nunpardonable in me.\"\n\n\"Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet,\" cried his wife, \"what are you\ntalking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year, and very likely\nmore.\" Then addressing her daughter, \"Oh! my dear, dear Jane, I am so\nhappy! I am sure I shan't get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it\nwould be. I always said it must be so, at last. I was sure you could not\nbe so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when\nhe first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was\nthat you should come together. Oh! he is the handsomest young man that\never was seen!\"\n\nWickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition her\nfavourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her younger\nsisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness\nwhich she might in future be able to dispense.\n\nMary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and Kitty\nbegged very hard for a few balls there every winter.\n\nBingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at Longbourn;\ncoming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after\nsupper; unless when some barbarous neighbour, who could not be enough\ndetested, had given him an invitation to dinner which he thought himself\nobliged to accept.\n\nElizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister; for\nwhile he was present, Jane had no attention to bestow on anyone else;\nbut she found herself considerably useful to both of them in those hours\nof separation that must sometimes occur. In the absence of Jane, he\nalways attached himself to Elizabeth, for the pleasure of talking of\nher; and when Bingley was gone, Jane constantly sought the same means of\nrelief.\n\n\"He has made me so happy,\" said she, one evening, \"by telling me that he\nwas totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I had not believed\nit possible.\"\n\n\"I suspected as much,\" replied Elizabeth. \"But how did he account for\nit?\"\n\n\"It must have been his sister's doing. They were certainly no friends to\nhis acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he might have\nchosen so much more advantageously in many respects. But when they see,\nas I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will\nlearn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though we\ncan never be what we once were to each other.\"\n\n\"That is the most unforgiving speech,\" said Elizabeth, \"that I ever\nheard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again\nthe dupe of Miss Bingley's pretended regard.\"\n\n\"Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last November,\nhe really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of _my_ being\nindifferent would have prevented his coming down again!\"\n\n\"He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of his\nmodesty.\"\n\nThis naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his diffidence, and\nthe little value he put on his own good qualities. Elizabeth was pleased\nto find that he had not betrayed the interference of his friend; for,\nthough Jane had the most generous and forgiving heart in the world, she\nknew it was a circumstance which must prejudice her against him.\n\n\"I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!\" cried\nJane. \"Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed\nabove them all! If I could but see _you_ as happy! If there _were_ but\nsuch another man for you!\"\n\n\"If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy as\nyou. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your\nhappiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and, perhaps, if I have very\ngood luck, I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time.\"\n\nThe situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be long a\nsecret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Phillips,\nand she ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all her\nneighbours in Meryton.\n\nThe Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the\nworld, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run away,\nthey had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune.\n\n\n\nChapter 56\n\n\nOne morning, about a week after Bingley's engagement with Jane had been\nformed, as he and the females of the family were sitting together in the\ndining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window, by the\nsound of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and four driving up\nthe lawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors, and besides, the\nequipage did not answer to that of any of their neighbours. The horses\nwere post; and neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who\npreceded it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that\nsomebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet to avoid\nthe confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the\nshrubbery. They both set off, and the conjectures of the remaining three\ncontinued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown\nopen and their visitor entered. It was Lady Catherine de Bourgh.\n\nThey were of course all intending to be surprised; but their\nastonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the part of Mrs.\nBennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly unknown to them, even\ninferior to what Elizabeth felt.\n\nShe entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious, made no\nother reply to Elizabeth's salutation than a slight inclination of the\nhead, and sat down without saying a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her\nname to her mother on her ladyship's entrance, though no request of\nintroduction had been made.\n\nMrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such\nhigh importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After sitting\nfor a moment in silence, she said very stiffly to Elizabeth,\n\n\"I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady, I suppose, is your\nmother.\"\n\nElizabeth replied very concisely that she was.\n\n\"And _that_ I suppose is one of your sisters.\"\n\n\"Yes, madam,\" said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to Lady Catherine.\n\"She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all is lately married,\nand my eldest is somewhere about the grounds, walking with a young man\nwho, I believe, will soon become a part of the family.\"\n\n\"You have a very small park here,\" returned Lady Catherine after a short\nsilence.\n\n\"It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say; but I\nassure you it is much larger than Sir William Lucas's.\"\n\n\"This must be a most inconvenient sitting room for the evening, in\nsummer; the windows are full west.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner, and then\nadded:\n\n\"May I take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left Mr. and\nMrs. Collins well.\"\n\n\"Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last.\"\n\nElizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her from\nCharlotte, as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But no\nletter appeared, and she was completely puzzled.\n\nMrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take some\nrefreshment; but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not very politely,\ndeclined eating anything; and then, rising up, said to Elizabeth,\n\n\"Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness\non one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you\nwill favour me with your company.\"\n\n\"Go, my dear,\" cried her mother, \"and show her ladyship about the\ndifferent walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage.\"\n\nElizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her parasol,\nattended her noble guest downstairs. As they passed through the\nhall, Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and\ndrawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be decent\nlooking rooms, walked on.\n\nHer carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her\nwaiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk\nthat led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for\nconversation with a woman who was now more than usually insolent and\ndisagreeable.\n\n\"How could I ever think her like her nephew?\" said she, as she looked in\nher face.\n\nAs soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the following\nmanner:--\n\n\"You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my\njourney hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I\ncome.\"\n\nElizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.\n\n\"Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able to account\nfor the honour of seeing you here.\"\n\n\"Miss Bennet,\" replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, \"you ought to\nknow, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere _you_ may\nchoose to be, you shall not find _me_ so. My character has ever been\ncelebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such\nmoment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most\nalarming nature reached me two days ago. I was told that not only your\nsister was on the point of being most advantageously married, but that\nyou, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would, in all likelihood, be soon\nafterwards united to my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I\n_know_ it must be a scandalous falsehood, though I would not injure him\nso much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved\non setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to\nyou.\"\n\n\"If you believed it impossible to be true,\" said Elizabeth, colouring\nwith astonishment and disdain, \"I wonder you took the trouble of coming\nso far. What could your ladyship propose by it?\"\n\n\"At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted.\"\n\n\"Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family,\" said Elizabeth\ncoolly, \"will be rather a confirmation of it; if, indeed, such a report\nis in existence.\"\n\n\"If! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been\nindustriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a\nreport is spread abroad?\"\n\n\"I never heard that it was.\"\n\n\"And can you likewise declare, that there is no foundation for it?\"\n\n\"I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. You may\nask questions which I shall not choose to answer.\"\n\n\"This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied. Has\nhe, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?\"\n\n\"Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible.\"\n\n\"It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of his\nreason. But your arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation,\nhave made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You\nmay have drawn him in.\"\n\n\"If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.\"\n\n\"Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such\nlanguage as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world,\nand am entitled to know all his dearest concerns.\"\n\n\"But you are not entitled to know mine; nor will such behaviour as this,\never induce me to be explicit.\"\n\n\"Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the\npresumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy is\nengaged to my daughter. Now what have you to say?\"\n\n\"Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will\nmake an offer to me.\"\n\nLady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied:\n\n\"The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy,\nthey have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of\n_his_ mother, as well as of hers. While in their cradles, we planned\nthe union: and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would\nbe accomplished in their marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of\ninferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to\nthe family! Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends? To his\ntacit engagement with Miss de Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of\npropriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say that from his earliest\nhours he was destined for his cousin?\"\n\n\"Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is\nno other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not\nbe kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to\nmarry Miss de Bourgh. You both did as much as you could in planning the\nmarriage. Its completion depended on others. If Mr. Darcy is neither\nby honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make\nanother choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?\"\n\n\"Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it. Yes,\nMiss Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or\nfriends, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will\nbe censured, slighted, and despised, by everyone connected with him.\nYour alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned\nby any of us.\"\n\n\"These are heavy misfortunes,\" replied Elizabeth. \"But the wife of Mr.\nDarcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily\nattached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause\nto repine.\"\n\n\"Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude\nfor my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that\nscore? Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came\nhere with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will\nI be dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person's\nwhims. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment.\"\n\n\"_That_ will make your ladyship's situation at present more pitiable;\nbut it will have no effect on me.\"\n\n\"I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and my\nnephew are formed for each other. They are descended, on the maternal\nside, from the same noble line; and, on the father's, from respectable,\nhonourable, and ancient--though untitled--families. Their fortune on\nboth sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of\nevery member of their respective houses; and what is to divide them?\nThe upstart pretensions of a young woman without family, connections,\nor fortune. Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If you\nwere sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere in\nwhich you have been brought up.\"\n\n\"In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that\nsphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman's daughter; so far we are\nequal.\"\n\n\"True. You _are_ a gentleman's daughter. But who was your mother?\nWho are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their\ncondition.\"\n\n\"Whatever my connections may be,\" said Elizabeth, \"if your nephew does\nnot object to them, they can be nothing to _you_.\"\n\n\"Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?\"\n\nThough Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady\nCatherine, have answered this question, she could not but say, after a\nmoment's deliberation:\n\n\"I am not.\"\n\nLady Catherine seemed pleased.\n\n\"And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?\"\n\n\"I will make no promise of the kind.\"\n\n\"Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more\nreasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that\nI will ever recede. I shall not go away till you have given me the\nassurance I require.\"\n\n\"And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into\nanything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry\nyour daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise make their\nmarriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, would\nmy refusing to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on his cousin?\nAllow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which you have\nsupported this extraordinary application have been as frivolous as the\napplication was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my character, if\nyou think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. How far your\nnephew might approve of your interference in his affairs, I cannot tell;\nbut you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg,\ntherefore, to be importuned no farther on the subject.\"\n\n\"Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the\nobjections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I am\nno stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister's infamous\nelopement. I know it all; that the young man's marrying her was a\npatched-up business, at the expence of your father and uncles. And is\nsuch a girl to be my nephew's sister? Is her husband, is the son of his\nlate father's steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth!--of what are\nyou thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?\"\n\n\"You can now have nothing further to say,\" she resentfully answered.\n\"You have insulted me in every possible method. I must beg to return to\nthe house.\"\n\nAnd she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they turned\nback. Her ladyship was highly incensed.\n\n\"You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew!\nUnfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you\nmust disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?\"\n\n\"Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know my sentiments.\"\n\n\"You are then resolved to have him?\"\n\n\"I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner,\nwhich will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without\nreference to _you_, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me.\"\n\n\"It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the\nclaims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in\nthe opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world.\"\n\n\"Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude,\" replied Elizabeth, \"have any\npossible claim on me, in the present instance. No principle of either\nwould be violated by my marriage with Mr. Darcy. And with regard to the\nresentment of his family, or the indignation of the world, if the former\n_were_ excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment's\nconcern--and the world in general would have too much sense to join in\nthe scorn.\"\n\n\"And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very well.\nI shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet, that your\nambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped to find you\nreasonable; but, depend upon it, I will carry my point.\"\n\nIn this manner Lady Catherine talked on, till they were at the door of\nthe carriage, when, turning hastily round, she added, \"I take no leave\nof you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your mother. You deserve\nno such attention. I am most seriously displeased.\"\n\nElizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade her\nladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it herself. She\nheard the carriage drive away as she proceeded up stairs. Her mother\nimpatiently met her at the door of the dressing-room, to ask why Lady\nCatherine would not come in again and rest herself.\n\n\"She did not choose it,\" said her daughter, \"she would go.\"\n\n\"She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was prodigiously\ncivil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the Collinses were\nwell. She is on her road somewhere, I dare say, and so, passing through\nMeryton, thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had\nnothing particular to say to you, Lizzy?\"\n\nElizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for to\nacknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible.\n\n\n\nChapter 57\n\n\nThe discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary visit threw\nElizabeth into, could not be easily overcome; nor could she, for many\nhours, learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine, it\nappeared, had actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings,\nfor the sole purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr.\nDarcy. It was a rational scheme, to be sure! but from what the report\nof their engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine;\ntill she recollected that _his_ being the intimate friend of Bingley,\nand _her_ being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the\nexpectation of one wedding made everybody eager for another, to supply\nthe idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her\nsister must bring them more frequently together. And her neighbours\nat Lucas Lodge, therefore (for through their communication with the\nCollinses, the report, she concluded, had reached Lady Catherine), had\nonly set that down as almost certain and immediate, which she had looked\nforward to as possible at some future time.\n\nIn revolving Lady Catherine's expressions, however, she could not help\nfeeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her persisting\nin this interference. From what she had said of her resolution to\nprevent their marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she must meditate\nan application to her nephew; and how _he_ might take a similar\nrepresentation of the evils attached to a connection with her, she dared\nnot pronounce. She knew not the exact degree of his affection for his\naunt, or his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose\nthat he thought much higher of her ladyship than _she_ could do; and it\nwas certain that, in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with _one_,\nwhose immediate connections were so unequal to his own, his aunt would\naddress him on his weakest side. With his notions of dignity, he would\nprobably feel that the arguments, which to Elizabeth had appeared weak\nand ridiculous, contained much good sense and solid reasoning.\n\nIf he had been wavering before as to what he should do, which had often\nseemed likely, the advice and entreaty of so near a relation might\nsettle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy as dignity\nunblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady\nCatherine might see him in her way through town; and his engagement to\nBingley of coming again to Netherfield must give way.\n\n\"If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise should come to his\nfriend within a few days,\" she added, \"I shall know how to understand\nit. I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of his\nconstancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting me, when he might\nhave obtained my affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him\nat all.\"\n\n                          * * * * *\n\nThe surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their visitor had\nbeen, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied it, with the same\nkind of supposition which had appeased Mrs. Bennet's curiosity; and\nElizabeth was spared from much teasing on the subject.\n\nThe next morning, as she was going downstairs, she was met by her\nfather, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.\n\n\"Lizzy,\" said he, \"I was going to look for you; come into my room.\"\n\nShe followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had to\ntell her was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner\nconnected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it\nmight be from Lady Catherine; and she anticipated with dismay all the\nconsequent explanations.\n\nShe followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat down. He\nthen said,\n\n\"I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me\nexceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its\ncontents. I did not know before, that I had two daughters on the brink\nof matrimony. Let me congratulate you on a very important conquest.\"\n\nThe colour now rushed into Elizabeth's cheeks in the instantaneous\nconviction of its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the aunt;\nand she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained\nhimself at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to\nherself; when her father continued:\n\n\"You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such matters\nas these; but I think I may defy even _your_ sagacity, to discover the\nname of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins.\"\n\n\"From Mr. Collins! and what can _he_ have to say?\"\n\n\"Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with\ncongratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of\nwhich, it seems, he has been told by some of the good-natured, gossiping\nLucases. I shall not sport with your impatience, by reading what he says\non that point. What relates to yourself, is as follows: 'Having thus\noffered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on\nthis happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another;\nof which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter\nElizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after\nher elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate may\nbe reasonably looked up to as one of the most illustrious personages in\nthis land.'\n\n\"Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this?\" 'This young\ngentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with every thing the heart of\nmortal can most desire,--splendid property, noble kindred, and extensive\npatronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin\nElizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur by a precipitate\nclosure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be\ninclined to take immediate advantage of.'\n\n\"Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out:\n\n\"'My motive for cautioning you is as follows. We have reason to imagine\nthat his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with\na friendly eye.'\n\n\"_Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_\nsurprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man within\nthe circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie\nmore effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any\nwoman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at you in his\nlife! It is admirable!\"\n\nElizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could only force\none most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so\nlittle agreeable to her.\n\n\"Are you not diverted?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes. Pray read on.\"\n\n\"'After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last\nnight, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she\nfelt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that on the score of some\nfamily objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give her\nconsent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty\nto give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and\nher noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run\nhastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned.' Mr.\nCollins moreover adds, 'I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia's sad\nbusiness has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their\nliving together before the marriage took place should be so generally\nknown. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain\nfrom declaring my amazement at hearing that you received the young\ncouple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an\nencouragement of vice; and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should\nvery strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them,\nas a Christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their\nnames to be mentioned in your hearing.' That is his notion of Christian\nforgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his dear Charlotte's\nsituation, and his expectation of a young olive-branch. But, Lizzy, you\nlook as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be _missish_,\nI hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For what do we\nlive, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our\nturn?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" cried Elizabeth, \"I am excessively diverted. But it is so\nstrange!\"\n\n\"Yes--_that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man\nit would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference, and _your_\npointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate\nwriting, I would not give up Mr. Collins's correspondence for any\nconsideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving\nhim the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and\nhypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine\nabout this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?\"\n\nTo this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as it had\nbeen asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by\nhis repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her\nfeelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when she\nwould rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her, by\nwhat he said of Mr. Darcy's indifference, and she could do nothing but\nwonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of\nhis seeing too little, she might have fancied too much.\n\n\n\nChapter 58\n\n\nInstead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, as\nElizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy\nwith him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine's\nvisit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time\nto tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat\nin momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed\ntheir all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the\nhabit of walking; Mary could never spare time; but the remaining five\nset off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others\nto outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy\nwere to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty\nwas too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a\ndesperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same.\n\nThey walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon\nMaria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern,\nwhen Kitty left them she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the\nmoment for her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was\nhigh, she immediately said:\n\n\"Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving\nrelief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding yours. I\ncan no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my\npoor sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to\nacknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest\nof my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.\"\n\n\"I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,\" replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise\nand emotion, \"that you have ever been informed of what may, in a\nmistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardiner\nwas so little to be trusted.\"\n\n\"You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to\nme that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could\nnot rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again,\nin the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced\nyou to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the\nsake of discovering them.\"\n\n\"If you _will_ thank me,\" he replied, \"let it be for yourself alone.\nThat the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other\ninducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your\n_family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought\nonly of _you_.\"\n\nElizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause,\nher companion added, \"You are too generous to trifle with me. If your\nfeelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. _My_\naffections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence\nme on this subject for ever.\"\n\nElizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of\nhis situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not\nvery fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone\nso material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make\nher receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The\nhappiness which this reply produced, was such as he had probably never\nfelt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as\nwarmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth\nbeen able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the\nexpression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him;\nbut, though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of\nfeelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his\naffection every moment more valuable.\n\nThey walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to\nbe thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She\nsoon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding\nto the efforts of his aunt, who did call on him in her return through\nLondon, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the\nsubstance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on\nevery expression of the latter which, in her ladyship's apprehension,\npeculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance; in the belief that\nsuch a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise\nfrom her nephew which she had refused to give. But, unluckily for her\nladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.\n\n\"It taught me to hope,\" said he, \"as I had scarcely ever allowed myself\nto hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain that,\nhad you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have\nacknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly.\"\n\nElizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, \"Yes, you know enough\nof my frankness to believe me capable of _that_. After abusing you so\nabominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all\nyour relations.\"\n\n\"What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your\naccusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my\nbehaviour to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was\nunpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.\"\n\n\"We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that\nevening,\" said Elizabeth. \"The conduct of neither, if strictly examined,\nwill be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved\nin civility.\"\n\n\"I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I\nthen said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of\nit, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your\nreproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: 'had you behaved in a\nmore gentlemanlike manner.' Those were your words. You know not, you can\nscarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;--though it was some time,\nI confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.\"\n\n\"I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an\nimpression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such\na way.\"\n\n\"I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper\nfeeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never\nforget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible\nway that would induce you to accept me.\"\n\n\"Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at\nall. I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it.\"\n\nDarcy mentioned his letter. \"Did it,\" said he, \"did it soon make you\nthink better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its\ncontents?\"\n\nShe explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her\nformer prejudices had been removed.\n\n\"I knew,\" said he, \"that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was\nnecessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part\nespecially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the\npower of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might\njustly make you hate me.\"\n\n\"The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the\npreservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my\nopinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily\nchanged as that implies.\"\n\n\"When I wrote that letter,\" replied Darcy, \"I believed myself perfectly\ncalm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a\ndreadful bitterness of spirit.\"\n\n\"The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The\nadieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings\nof the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now\nso widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant\ncircumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some\nof my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you\npleasure.\"\n\n\"I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. Your\nretrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment\narising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is much better, of\ninnocence. But with me, it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude\nwhich cannot, which ought not, to be repelled. I have been a selfish\nbeing all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I\nwas taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I\nwas given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit.\nUnfortunately an only son (for many years an only child), I was spoilt\nby my parents, who, though good themselves (my father, particularly, all\nthat was benevolent and amiable), allowed, encouraged, almost taught\nme to be selfish and overbearing; to care for none beyond my own family\ncircle; to think meanly of all the rest of the world; to wish at least\nto think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I\nwas, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have been\nbut for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You\ntaught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you,\nI was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception.\nYou showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman\nworthy of being pleased.\"\n\n\"Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?\"\n\n\"Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be\nwishing, expecting my addresses.\"\n\n\"My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally, I assure\nyou. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead me\nwrong. How you must have hated me after _that_ evening?\"\n\n\"Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began to take\na proper direction.\"\n\n\"I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me, when we met at\nPemberley. You blamed me for coming?\"\n\n\"No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise.\"\n\n\"Your surprise could not be greater than _mine_ in being noticed by you.\nMy conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I\nconfess that I did not expect to receive _more_ than my due.\"\n\n\"My object then,\" replied Darcy, \"was to show you, by every civility in\nmy power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped to\nobtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you\nsee that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes\nintroduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an\nhour after I had seen you.\"\n\nHe then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance, and of her\ndisappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally leading to\nthe cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution of\nfollowing her from Derbyshire in quest of her sister had been formed\nbefore he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness\nthere had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must\ncomprehend.\n\nShe expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject to\neach, to be dwelt on farther.\n\nAfter walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know\nanything about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that\nit was time to be at home.\n\n\"What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!\" was a wonder which\nintroduced the discussion of their affairs. Darcy was delighted with\ntheir engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information of\nit.\n\n\"I must ask whether you were surprised?\" said Elizabeth.\n\n\"Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.\"\n\n\"That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much.\" And\nthough he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much\nthe case.\n\n\"On the evening before my going to London,\" said he, \"I made a\nconfession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I\ntold him of all that had occurred to make my former interference in his\naffairs absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had\nthe slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself\nmistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent\nto him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was\nunabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together.\"\n\nElizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his\nfriend.\n\n\"Did you speak from your own observation,\" said she, \"when you told him\nthat my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?\"\n\n\"From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visits\nwhich I had lately made here; and I was convinced of her affection.\"\n\n\"And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to\nhim.\"\n\n\"It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had\nprevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but\nhis reliance on mine made every thing easy. I was obliged to confess\none thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not\nallow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months\nlast winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was\nangry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained\nin any doubt of your sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me\nnow.\"\n\nElizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful\nfriend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but she checked\nherself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laughed at,\nand it was rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness\nof Bingley, which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he\ncontinued the conversation till they reached the house. In the hall they\nparted.\n\n\n\nChapter 59\n\n\n\"My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?\" was a question\nwhich Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she entered their room,\nand from all the others when they sat down to table. She had only to\nsay in reply, that they had wandered about, till she was beyond her own\nknowledge. She coloured as she spoke; but neither that, nor anything\nelse, awakened a suspicion of the truth.\n\nThe evening passed quietly, unmarked by anything extraordinary. The\nacknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged were silent.\nDarcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth;\nand Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather _knew_ that she was happy\nthan _felt_ herself to be so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment,\nthere were other evils before her. She anticipated what would be felt\nin the family when her situation became known; she was aware that no\none liked him but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a\ndislike which not all his fortune and consequence might do away.\n\nAt night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far\nfrom Miss Bennet's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here.\n\n\"You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be!--engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no,\nyou shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible.\"\n\n\"This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on you; and\nI am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I am\nin earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we are\nengaged.\"\n\nJane looked at her doubtingly. \"Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much\nyou dislike him.\"\n\n\"You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot. Perhaps I\ndid not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases as\nthese, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever\nremember it myself.\"\n\nMiss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more\nseriously assured her of its truth.\n\n\"Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you,\" cried\nJane. \"My dear, dear Lizzy, I would--I do congratulate you--but are you\ncertain? forgive the question--are you quite certain that you can be\nhappy with him?\"\n\n\"There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already, that\nwe are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased,\nJane? Shall you like to have such a brother?\"\n\n\"Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more\ndelight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you\nreally love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do anything rather than\nmarry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought\nto do?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do, when I\ntell you all.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am\nafraid you will be angry.\"\n\n\"My dearest sister, now _be_ serious. I want to talk very seriously. Let\nme know every thing that I am to know, without delay. Will you tell me\nhow long you have loved him?\"\n\n\"It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began.\nBut I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds\nat Pemberley.\"\n\nAnother entreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the\ndesired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances\nof attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Bennet had nothing\nfurther to wish.\n\n\"Now I am quite happy,\" said she, \"for you will be as happy as myself.\nI always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you,\nI must always have esteemed him; but now, as Bingley's friend and your\nhusband, there can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But\nLizzy, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you\ntell me of what passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know\nof it to another, not to you.\"\n\nElizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling\nto mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made\nher equally avoid the name of his friend. But now she would no longer\nconceal from her his share in Lydia's marriage. All was acknowledged,\nand half the night spent in conversation.\n\n                          * * * * *\n\n\"Good gracious!\" cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the next\nmorning, \"if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here again with\nour dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always\ncoming here? I had no notion but he would go a-shooting, or something or\nother, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him?\nLizzy, you must walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley's\nway.\"\n\nElizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal; yet\nwas really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an\nepithet.\n\nAs soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively, and\nshook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information;\nand he soon afterwards said aloud, \"Mrs. Bennet, have you no more lanes\nhereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?\"\n\n\"I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty,\" said Mrs. Bennet, \"to walk\nto Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has\nnever seen the view.\"\n\n\"It may do very well for the others,\" replied Mr. Bingley; \"but I am\nsure it will be too much for Kitty. Won't it, Kitty?\" Kitty owned that\nshe had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great curiosity to see\nthe view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently consented. As she went\nup stairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her, saying:\n\n\"I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that\ndisagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind it: it is\nall for Jane's sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking\nto him, except just now and then. So, do not put yourself to\ninconvenience.\"\n\nDuring their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet's consent should be\nasked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved to herself the\napplication for her mother's. She could not determine how her mother\nwould take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur\nwould be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man. But whether she\nwere violently set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it\nwas certain that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit\nto her sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear\nthe first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her\ndisapprobation.\n\n                          * * * * *\n\nIn the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library, she saw\nMr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on seeing it was\nextreme. She did not fear her father's opposition, but he was going to\nbe made unhappy; and that it should be through her means--that _she_,\nhis favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be\nfilling him with fears and regrets in disposing of her--was a wretched\nreflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when,\nlooking at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes\nhe approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while\npretending to admire her work said in a whisper, \"Go to your father, he\nwants you in the library.\" She was gone directly.\n\nHer father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious.\n\"Lizzy,\" said he, \"what are you doing? Are you out of your senses, to be\naccepting this man? Have not you always hated him?\"\n\nHow earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been more\nreasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have spared her from\nexplanations and professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give;\nbut they were now necessary, and she assured him, with some confusion,\nof her attachment to Mr. Darcy.\n\n\"Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich, to be\nsure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than Jane.\nBut will they make you happy?\"\n\n\"Have you any other objection,\" said Elizabeth, \"than your belief of my\nindifference?\"\n\n\"None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but\nthis would be nothing if you really liked him.\"\n\n\"I do, I do like him,\" she replied, with tears in her eyes, \"I love him.\nIndeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not\nknow what he really is; then pray do not pain me by speaking of him in\nsuch terms.\"\n\n\"Lizzy,\" said her father, \"I have given him my consent. He is the kind\nof man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse anything, which he\ncondescended to ask. I now give it to _you_, if you are resolved on\nhaving him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know\nyour disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor\nrespectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband; unless you looked\nup to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the\ngreatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape\ndiscredit and misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing\n_you_ unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are\nabout.\"\n\nElizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply; and\nat length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was really the object\nof her choice, by explaining the gradual change which her estimation of\nhim had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that his affection\nwas not the work of a day, but had stood the test of many months'\nsuspense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities, she did\nconquer her father's incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.\n\n\"Well, my dear,\" said he, when she ceased speaking, \"I have no more to\nsay. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have parted with\nyou, my Lizzy, to anyone less worthy.\"\n\nTo complete the favourable impression, she then told him what Mr. Darcy\nhad voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with astonishment.\n\n\"This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did every thing;\nmade up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow's debts, and got him\nhis commission! So much the better. It will save me a world of trouble\nand economy. Had it been your uncle's doing, I must and _would_ have\npaid him; but these violent young lovers carry every thing their own\nway. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow; he will rant and storm about\nhis love for you, and there will be an end of the matter.\"\n\nHe then recollected her embarrassment a few days before, on his reading\nMr. Collins's letter; and after laughing at her some time, allowed her\nat last to go--saying, as she quitted the room, \"If any young men come\nfor Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am quite at leisure.\"\n\nElizabeth's mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and, after\nhalf an hour's quiet reflection in her own room, she was able to join\nthe others with tolerable composure. Every thing was too recent for\ngaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away; there was no longer\nanything material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity\nwould come in time.\n\nWhen her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she followed her,\nand made the important communication. Its effect was most extraordinary;\nfor on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and unable to\nutter a syllable. Nor was it under many, many minutes that she could\ncomprehend what she heard; though not in general backward to credit\nwhat was for the advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a\nlover to any of them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in\nher chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless herself.\n\n\"Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy! Who would\nhave thought it! And is it really true? Oh! my sweetest Lizzy! how rich\nand how great you will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages\nyou will have! Jane's is nothing to it--nothing at all. I am so\npleased--so happy. Such a charming man!--so handsome! so tall!--Oh, my\ndear Lizzy! pray apologise for my having disliked him so much before. I\nhope he will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Every thing\nthat is charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh,\nLord! What will become of me. I shall go distracted.\"\n\nThis was enough to prove that her approbation need not be doubted: and\nElizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard only by herself,\nsoon went away. But before she had been three minutes in her own room,\nher mother followed her.\n\n\"My dearest child,\" she cried, \"I can think of nothing else! Ten\nthousand a year, and very likely more! 'Tis as good as a Lord! And a\nspecial licence. You must and shall be married by a special licence. But\nmy dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond of,\nthat I may have it to-morrow.\"\n\nThis was a sad omen of what her mother's behaviour to the gentleman\nhimself might be; and Elizabeth found that, though in the certain\npossession of his warmest affection, and secure of her relations'\nconsent, there was still something to be wished for. But the morrow\npassed off much better than she expected; for Mrs. Bennet luckily stood\nin such awe of her intended son-in-law that she ventured not to speak to\nhim, unless it was in her power to offer him any attention, or mark her\ndeference for his opinion.\n\nElizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains to get\nacquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that he was rising\nevery hour in his esteem.\n\n\"I admire all my three sons-in-law highly,\" said he. \"Wickham, perhaps,\nis my favourite; but I think I shall like _your_ husband quite as well\nas Jane's.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 60\n\n\nElizabeth's spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr.\nDarcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. \"How could\nyou begin?\" said she. \"I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when\nyou had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first\nplace?\"\n\n\"I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which\nlaid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I\nknew that I _had_ begun.\"\n\n\"My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners--my behaviour\nto _you_ was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke\nto you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now be sincere;\ndid you admire me for my impertinence?\"\n\n\"For the liveliness of your mind, I did.\"\n\n\"You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little less.\nThe fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious\nattention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking,\nand looking, and thinking for _your_ approbation alone. I roused, and\ninterested you, because I was so unlike _them_. Had you not been really\namiable, you would have hated me for it; but in spite of the pains you\ntook to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and\nin your heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously\ncourted you. There--I have saved you the trouble of accounting for\nit; and really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly\nreasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of me--but nobody thinks\nof _that_ when they fall in love.\"\n\n\"Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane while she was\nill at Netherfield?\"\n\n\"Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it\nby all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are\nto exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me\nto find occasions for teasing and quarrelling with you as often as may\nbe; and I shall begin directly by asking you what made you so unwilling\nto come to the point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first\ncalled, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you called, did\nyou look as if you did not care about me?\"\n\n\"Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement.\"\n\n\"But I was embarrassed.\"\n\n\"And so was I.\"\n\n\"You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner.\"\n\n\"A man who had felt less, might.\"\n\n\"How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that\nI should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how long you\n_would_ have gone on, if you had been left to yourself. I wonder when\nyou _would_ have spoken, if I had not asked you! My resolution of\nthanking you for your kindness to Lydia had certainly great effect.\n_Too much_, I am afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if our comfort\nsprings from a breach of promise? for I ought not to have mentioned the\nsubject. This will never do.\"\n\n\"You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly fair. Lady\nCatherine's unjustifiable endeavours to separate us were the means of\nremoving all my doubts. I am not indebted for my present happiness to\nyour eager desire of expressing your gratitude. I was not in a humour\nto wait for any opening of yours. My aunt's intelligence had given me\nhope, and I was determined at once to know every thing.\"\n\n\"Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy,\nfor she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down to\nNetherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed?\nor had you intended any more serious consequence?\"\n\n\"My real purpose was to see _you_, and to judge, if I could, whether I\nmight ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or what I avowed to\nmyself, was to see whether your sister were still partial to Bingley,\nand if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since made.\"\n\n\"Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine what is to\nbefall her?\"\n\n\"I am more likely to want more time than courage, Elizabeth. But it\nought to be done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it shall be\ndone directly.\"\n\n\"And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you and\nadmire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady once did. But\nI have an aunt, too, who must not be longer neglected.\"\n\nFrom an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr. Darcy\nhad been over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs. Gardiner's\nlong letter; but now, having _that_ to communicate which she knew would\nbe most welcome, she was almost ashamed to find that her uncle and\naunt had already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as\nfollows:\n\n\"I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have done,\nfor your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of particulars; but to say the\ntruth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than really existed.\nBut _now_ suppose as much as you choose; give a loose rein to your\nfancy, indulge your imagination in every possible flight which the\nsubject will afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you\ncannot greatly err. You must write again very soon, and praise him a\ngreat deal more than you did in your last. I thank you, again and again,\nfor not going to the Lakes. How could I be so silly as to wish it! Your\nidea of the ponies is delightful. We will go round the Park every day. I\nam the happiest creature in the world. Perhaps other people have said so\nbefore, but not one with such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she\nonly smiles, I laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world that\nhe can spare from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas.\nYours, etc.\"\n\nMr. Darcy's letter to Lady Catherine was in a different style; and still\ndifferent from either was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr. Collins, in reply\nto his last.\n\n\"DEAR SIR,\n\n\"I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will soon\nbe the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as you can.\nBut, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has more to give.\n\n\"Yours sincerely, etc.\"\n\nMiss Bingley's congratulations to her brother, on his approaching\nmarriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote even\nto Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and repeat all her\nformer professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but she was\naffected; and though feeling no reliance on her, could not help writing\nher a much kinder answer than she knew was deserved.\n\nThe joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar information,\nwas as sincere as her brother's in sending it. Four sides of paper were\ninsufficient to contain all her delight, and all her earnest desire of\nbeing loved by her sister.\n\nBefore any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any congratulations\nto Elizabeth from his wife, the Longbourn family heard that the\nCollinses were come themselves to Lucas Lodge. The reason of this\nsudden removal was soon evident. Lady Catherine had been rendered\nso exceedingly angry by the contents of her nephew's letter, that\nCharlotte, really rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get away till\nthe storm was blown over. At such a moment, the arrival of her friend\nwas a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth, though in the course of their\nmeetings she must sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when she\nsaw Mr. Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of\nher husband. He bore it, however, with admirable calmness. He could even\nlisten to Sir William Lucas, when he complimented him on carrying away\nthe brightest jewel of the country, and expressed his hopes of their all\nmeeting frequently at St. James's, with very decent composure. If he did\nshrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir William was out of sight.\n\nMrs. Phillips's vulgarity was another, and perhaps a greater, tax on his\nforbearance; and though Mrs. Phillips, as well as her sister, stood in\ntoo much awe of him to speak with the familiarity which Bingley's good\nhumour encouraged, yet, whenever she _did_ speak, she must be vulgar.\nNor was her respect for him, though it made her more quiet, at all\nlikely to make her more elegant. Elizabeth did all she could to shield\nhim from the frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep\nhim to herself, and to those of her family with whom he might converse\nwithout mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings arising\nfrom all this took from the season of courtship much of its pleasure, it\nadded to the hope of the future; and she looked forward with delight to\nthe time when they should be removed from society so little pleasing\nto either, to all the comfort and elegance of their family party at\nPemberley.\n\n\n\nChapter 61\n\n\nHappy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got\nrid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride\nshe afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley, and talked of Mrs. Darcy, may\nbe guessed. I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the\naccomplishment of her earnest desire in the establishment of so many\nof her children produced so happy an effect as to make her a sensible,\namiable, well-informed woman for the rest of her life; though perhaps it\nwas lucky for her husband, who might not have relished domestic felicity\nin so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous and\ninvariably silly.\n\nMr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection for her\ndrew him oftener from home than anything else could do. He delighted in\ngoing to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected.\n\nMr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. So near\na vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not desirable even to\n_his_ easy temper, or _her_ affectionate heart. The darling wish of his\nsisters was then gratified; he bought an estate in a neighbouring county\nto Derbyshire, and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source\nof happiness, were within thirty miles of each other.\n\nKitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with\nher two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had generally\nknown, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable a\ntemper as Lydia; and, removed from the influence of Lydia's example,\nshe became, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less\nignorant, and less insipid. From the further disadvantage of Lydia's\nsociety she was of course carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham\nfrequently invited her to come and stay with her, with the promise of\nballs and young men, her father would never consent to her going.\n\nMary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was necessarily\ndrawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Bennet's being quite\nunable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix more with the world, but\nshe could still moralize over every morning visit; and as she was no\nlonger mortified by comparisons between her sisters' beauty and her own,\nit was suspected by her father that she submitted to the change without\nmuch reluctance.\n\nAs for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution from\nthe marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the conviction that\nElizabeth must now become acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude\nand falsehood had before been unknown to her; and in spite of every\nthing, was not wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be prevailed on\nto make his fortune. The congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received\nfrom Lydia on her marriage, explained to her that, by his wife at least,\nif not by himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this\neffect:\n\n\"MY DEAR LIZZY,\n\n\"I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my dear\nWickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you so\nrich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will think of us.\nI am sure Wickham would like a place at court very much, and I do not\nthink we shall have quite money enough to live upon without some help.\nAny place would do, of about three or four hundred a year; but however,\ndo not speak to Mr. Darcy about it, if you had rather not.\n\n\"Yours, etc.\"\n\nAs it happened that Elizabeth had _much_ rather not, she endeavoured in\nher answer to put an end to every entreaty and expectation of the kind.\nSuch relief, however, as it was in her power to afford, by the practice\nof what might be called economy in her own private expences, she\nfrequently sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an\nincome as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in\ntheir wants, and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to\ntheir support; and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or\nherself were sure of being applied to for some little assistance\ntowards discharging their bills. Their manner of living, even when the\nrestoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the\nextreme. They were always moving from place to place in quest of a cheap\nsituation, and always spending more than they ought. His affection for\nher soon sunk into indifference; hers lasted a little longer; and\nin spite of her youth and her manners, she retained all the claims to\nreputation which her marriage had given her.\n\nThough Darcy could never receive _him_ at Pemberley, yet, for\nElizabeth's sake, he assisted him further in his profession. Lydia was\noccasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone to enjoy himself\nin London or Bath; and with the Bingleys they both of them frequently\nstaid so long, that even Bingley's good humour was overcome, and he\nproceeded so far as to talk of giving them a hint to be gone.\n\nMiss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy's marriage; but as she\nthought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she\ndropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as\nattentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility\nto Elizabeth.\n\nPemberley was now Georgiana's home; and the attachment of the sisters\nwas exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each\nother even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion\nin the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with\nan astonishment bordering on alarm at her lively, sportive, manner of\ntalking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect\nwhich almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open\npleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen\nin her way. By Elizabeth's instructions, she began to comprehend that\na woman may take liberties with her husband which a brother will not\nalways allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself.\n\nLady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew;\nand as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character in\nher reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him\nlanguage so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time\nall intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion,\nhe was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation;\nand, after a little further resistance on the part of his aunt, her\nresentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity\nto see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait\non them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had\nreceived, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the\nvisits of her uncle and aunt from the city.\n\nWith the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms.\nDarcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever\nsensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing\nher into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                         SENSE & SENSIBILITY\n\n\n\n                                  BY\n\n                             JANE AUSTEN\n\n\n\n                         WITH AN INTRODUCTION\n\n\n                                  BY\n\n                            AUSTIN DOBSON\n\n\n\n                             ILLUSTRATED\n\n\n                                  BY\n\n                             HUGH THOMSON\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                  LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED\n\n                   NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n\n                                 1902\n\n\n\n        _First Edition with Hugh Thomson's Illustrations_ 1896\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n                         Transcriber's Note:\n\nThe Table of Contents is not part of the original book. The illustration\non page 290 is missing from the book. The Introduction ends abruptly.\nSeems incomplete.\n\n\n       [Illustration: _Mr. Dashwood introduced him._--P. 219.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\nLIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS\nCHAPTER I\nCHAPTER II\nCHAPTER III\nCHAPTER IV\nCHAPTER V\nCHAPTER VI\nCHAPTER VII\nCHAPTER VIII\nCHAPTER IX\nCHAPTER X\nCHAPTER XI\nCHAPTER XII\nCHAPTER XIII\nCHAPTER XIV\nCHAPTER XV\nCHAPTER XVI\nCHAPTER XVII\nCHAPTER XVIII\nCHAPTER XIX\nCHAPTER XX\nCHAPTER XXI\nCHAPTER XXII\nCHAPTER XXIII\nCHAPTER XXIV\nCHAPTER XXV\nCHAPTER XXVI\nCHAPTER XXVII\nCHAPTER XXVIII\nCHAPTER XXIX\nCHAPTER XXX\nCHAPTER XXXI\nCHAPTER XXXII\nCHAPTER XXXIII\nCHAPTER XXXIV\nCHAPTER XXXV\nCHAPTER XXXVI\nCHAPTER XXXVII\nCHAPTER XXXVIII\nCHAPTER XXXIX\nCHAPTER XL\nCHAPTER XLI\nCHAPTER XLII\nCHAPTER XLIII\nCHAPTER XLIV\nCHAPTER XLV\nCHAPTER XLVI\nCHAPTER XLVII\nCHAPTER XLVIII\nCHAPTER XLIX\nCHAPTER L\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nWith the title of _Sense and Sensibility_ is connected one of those minor\nproblems which delight the cummin-splitters of criticism. In the _Cecilia_\nof Madame D'Arblay--the forerunner, if not the model, of Miss Austen--is a\nsentence which at first sight suggests some relationship to the name of\nthe book which, in the present series, inaugurated Miss Austen's novels.\n'The whole of this unfortunate business'--says a certain didactic Dr.\nLyster, talking in capitals, towards the end of volume three of\n_Cecilia_--'has been the result of PRIDE and PREJUDICE,' and looking to\nthe admitted familiarity of Miss Austen with Madame D'Arblay's work, it\nhas been concluded that Miss Austen borrowed from _Cecilia_, the title of\nher second novel. But here comes in the little problem to which we have\nreferred. _Pride and Prejudice_ it is true, was written and finished\nbefore _Sense and Sensibility_--its original title for several years being\n_First Impressions_. Then, in 1797, the author fell to work upon an older\nessay in letters _a la_ Richardson, called _Elinor and Marianne_, which\nshe re-christened _Sense and Sensibility._ This, as we know, was her first\npublished book; and whatever may be the connection between the title of\n_Pride and Prejudice_ and the passage in _Cecilia_, there is an obvious\nconnection between the title of _Pride and Prejudice_ and the _title of\nSense and Sensibility_. If Miss Austen re-christened _Elinor and\nMarianne_ before she changed the title of _First Impressions_, as she well\nmay have, it is extremely unlikely that the name of _Pride and Prejudice_\nhas anything to do with _Cecilia_ (which, besides, had been published at\nleast twenty years before). Upon the whole, therefore, it is most likely\nthat the passage in Madame D'Arblay is a mere coincidence; and that in\n_Sense and Sensibility_, as well as in the novel that succeeded it in\npublication, Miss Austen, after the fashion of the old morality plays,\nsimply substituted the leading characteristics of her principal personages\nfor their names. Indeed, in _Sense and Sensibility_ the sense of Elinor,\nand the sensibility (or rather _sensiblerie_) of Marianne, are markedly\nemphasised in the opening pages of the book But Miss Austen subsequently,\nand, as we think, wisely, discarded in her remaining efforts the cheap\nattraction of an alliterative title. _Emma_ and _Persuasion, Northanger\nAbbey_ and _Mansfield Park_, are names far more in consonance with the\nquiet tone of her easy and unobtrusive art.\n\n_Elinor and Marianne_ was originally written about 1792. After the\ncompletion--or partial completion, for it was again revised in\n1811--of _First Impressions_ (subsequently _Pride and Prejudice_),\nMiss Austen set about recasting _Elinor and Marianne_, then composed\nin the form of letters; and she had no sooner accomplished this task,\nthan she began _Northanger Abbey_. It would be interesting to know to\nwhat extent she remodelled _Sense and Sensibility_ in 1797-98, for we\nare told that previous to its publication in 1811 she again devoted a\nconsiderable time to its preparation for the press, and it is clear\nthat this does not mean the correction of proofs alone, but also a\npreliminary revision of MS. Especially would it be interesting if we\ncould ascertain whether any of its more finished passages, _e.g._ the\nadmirable conversation between the Miss Dashwoods and Willoughby in\nchapter x., were the result of those fallow and apparently barren\nyears at Bath and Southampton, or whether they were already part of\nthe second version of 1797-98. But upon this matter the records are\nmute. A careful examination of the correspondence published by Lord\nBrabourne in 1884 only reveals two definite references to _Sense and\nSensibility_ and these are absolutely unfruitful in suggestion. In\nApril 1811 she speaks of having corrected two sheets of 'S and S,'\nwhich she has scarcely a hope of getting out in the following June;\nand in September, an extract from the diary of another member of the\nfamily indirectly discloses the fact that the book had by that time\nbeen published. This extract is a brief reference to a letter which\nhad been received from Cassandra Austen, begging her correspondent not\nto mention that Aunt Jane wrote _Sense and Sensibility._ Beyond these\nminute items of information, and the statement--already referred to in\nthe Introduction to _Pride and Prejudice_--that she considered herself\noverpaid for the labour she had bestowed upon it, absolutely nothing\nseems to have been preserved by her descendants respecting her first\nprinted effort. In the absence of particulars some of her critics have\nfallen to speculate upon the reason which made her select it, and not\n_Pride and Prejudice_, for her debut; and they have, perhaps\nnaturally, found in the fact a fresh confirmation of that traditional\nblindness of authors to their own best work, which is one of the\ncommonplaces of literary history. But this is to premise that she\n_did_ regard it as her masterpiece, a fact which, apart from this\naccident of priority of issue, is, as far as we are aware, nowhere\nasserted. A simpler solution is probably that, of the three novels she\nhad written or sketched by 1811, _Pride and Prejudice_ was languishing\nunder the stigma of having been refused by one bookseller without the\nformality of inspection, while _Northanger Abbey_ was lying _perdu_ in\nanother bookseller's drawer at Bath. In these circumstances it is\nintelligible that she should turn to _Sense and Sensibility_, when, at\nlength--upon the occasion of a visit to her brother in London in the\nspring of 1811--Mr. T. Egerton of the 'Military Library,' Whitehall,\ndawned upon the horizon as a practicable publisher.\n\nBy the time _Sense and Sensibility_ left the press, Miss Austen was\nagain domiciled at Chawton Cottage. For those accustomed to the\nswarming reviews of our day, with their Babel of notices, it may seem\nstrange that there should be no record of the effect produced, seeing\nthat, as already stated, the book sold well enough to enable its\nputter-forth to hand over to its author what Mr. Gargery, in _Great\nExpectations_, would have described as 'a cool L150.' Surely Mr.\nEgerton, who had visited Miss Austen at Sloane Street, must have later\nconveyed to her some intelligence of the way in which her work had\nbeen welcomed by the public. But if he did, it is no longer\ndiscoverable. Mr. Austen Leigh, her first and best biographer, could\nfind no account either of the publication or of the author's feelings\nthereupon. As far as it is possible to judge, the critical verdicts\nshe obtained were mainly derived from her own relatives and intimate\nfriends, and some of these latter--if one may trust a little anthology\nwhich she herself collected, and from which Mr. Austen Leigh prints\nextracts--must have been more often exasperating than sympathetic. The\nlong chorus of intelligent approval by which she was afterwards\ngreeted did not begin to be really audible before her death, and her\n'fit audience' during her lifetime must have been emphatically 'few,'\nOf two criticisms which came out in the _Quarterly_ early in the\ncentury, she could only have seen one, that of 1815; the other, by\nArchbishop Whately, the first which treated her in earnest, did not\nappear until she had been three years dead. Dr. Whately deals mainly\nwith _Mansfield Park_ and _Persuasion_; his predecessor professed to\nreview _Emma_, though he also gives brief summaries of _Sense and\nSensibility_ and _Pride and Prejudice_. Mr. Austen Leigh, we think,\nspeaks too contemptuously of this initial notice of 1815. If, at\ncertain points, it is half-hearted and inadequate, it is still fairly\naccurate in its recognition of Miss Austen's supreme merit, as\ncontrasted with her contemporaries--to wit, her skill in investing the\nfortunes of ordinary characters and the narrative of common\noccurrences with all the sustained excitement of romance. The Reviewer\npoints out very justly that this kind of work, 'being deprived of all\nthat, according to Bayes, goes \"to elevate and surprise,\" must make\namends by displaying depth of knowledge and dexterity of execution.'\nAnd in these qualities, even with such living competitors of her own\nsex as Miss Edgeworth and Miss Brunton (whose _Self-control_ came out\nin the same year as _Sense and Sensibility_), he does not scruple to\ndeclare that 'Miss Austen stands almost alone.' If he omits to lay\nstress upon her judgment, her nice sense of fitness, her restraint,\nher fine irony, and the delicacy of her artistic touch, something must\nbe allowed for the hesitations and reservations which invariably beset\nthe critical pioneer.\n\nTo contend, however, for a moment that the present volume is Miss\nAusten's greatest, as it was her first published, novel, would be a\nmere exercise in paradox. There are, who swear by _Persuasion_; there\nare, who prefer _Emma_ and _Mansfield Park_; there is a large\ncontingent for _Pride and Prejudice_; and there is even a section\nwhich advocates the pre-eminence of _Northanger Abbey_. But no one, as\nfar as we can remember, has ever put _Sense and Sensibility_ first,\nnor can we believe that its author did so herself. And yet it is she\nherself who has furnished the standard by which we judge it, and it is\nby comparison with _Pride and Prejudice_, in which the leading\ncharacters are also two sisters, that we assess and depress its merit.\nThe Elinor and Marianne of _Sense and Sensibility_ are only inferior\nwhen they are contrasted with the Elizabeth and Jane of _Pride and\nPrejudice_; and even then, it is probably because we personally like\nthe handsome and amiable Jane Bennet rather better than the obsolete\nsurvival of the sentimental novel represented by Marianne Dashwood.\nDarcy and Bingley again are much more 'likeable' (to use Lady\nQueensberry's word) than the colourless Edward Ferrars and the\nstiff-jointed Colonel Brandon. Yet it might not unfairly be contended\nthat there is more fidelity to what Mr. Thomas Hardy has termed\n'life's little ironies' in Miss Austen's disposal of the two Miss\nDashwoods than there is in her disposal of the heroines of _Pride and\nPrejudice_. Every one does not get a Bingley, or a Darcy (with a\npark); but a good many sensible girls like Elinor pair off contentedly\nwith poor creatures like Edward Ferrars, while not a few enthusiasts\nlike Marianne decline at last upon middle-aged colonels with flannel\nwaistcoats. George Eliot, we fancy, would have held that the fates of\nElinor and Marianne were more probable than the fortunes of Jane and\nEliza Bennet. That, of the remaining characters, there is certainly\nnone to rival Mr. Bennet, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, or the\nineffable Mr. Collins, of _Pride and Prejudice_, is true; but we\nconfess to a kindness for vulgar matchmaking Mrs. Jennings with her\nstill-room 'parmaceti for an inward bruise' in the shape of a glass of\nold Constantia; and for the diluted Squire Western, Sir John\nMiddleton, whose horror of being alone carries him to the point of\nrejoicing in the acquisition of _two_ to the population of London.\nExcellent again are Mr. Palmer and his wife; excellent, in their\nsordid veracity, the self-seeking figures of the Miss Steeles. But the\npearls of the book must be allowed to be that egregious amateur in\ntoothpick-cases, Mr. Robert Ferrars (with his excursus in chapter\nxxxvi. on life in a cottage), and the admirably-matched Mr. and Mrs.\nJohn Dashwood. Miss Austen herself has never done anything better than\nthe inimitable and oft-quoted chapter wherein is debated between the\nlast-named pair the momentous matter of the amount to be devoted to\nMrs. Dashwood and her daughters; while the suggestion in chapters\nxxxiii. and xxxiv. that the owner of Norland was once within some\nthousands of having to sell out at a loss, deserves to be remembered\nwith that other memorable escape of Sir Roger de Coverley's ancestor,\nwho was only not killed in the civil wars because 'he was sent out of\nthe field upon a private message, the day before the battle of\nWorcester.'\n\nOf local colouring there is as little in _Sense and Sensibility_ as in\n_Pride and Prejudice_. It is not unlikely that some memories of\nSteventon may survive in Norland; and it may be noted that there is\nactually a Barton Place to the north of Exeter, not far from Lord\nIddesleigh's well-known seat of Upton Pynes. It is scarcely possible,\nalso, not to believe that, in Mrs. Jennings's description of\nDelaford--'a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I call a nice\nold-fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in\nwith great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in\nthe country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner!'--Miss Austen had\nin mind some real Hampshire or Devonshire country house. In any case,\nit comes nearer a picture than what we usually get from her pen. 'Then\nthere is a dovecote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a very pretty\ncanal; and everything, in short, that one could wish for; and,\nmoreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile\nfrom the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, for if you only go and sit\nup in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the\ncarriages that pass along.' The last lines suggest those quaint\n'gazebos' and alcoves, which, in the coaching days, were so often to\nbe found perched at the roadside, where one might sit and watch the\nDover or Canterbury stage go whirling by. Of genteel accomplishments\nthere is a touch In the 'landscape in coloured silks' which Charlotte\nPalmer had worked at school (chap, xxvi.); and of old remedies for the\nlost art of swooning, in the 'lavender drops' of chapter xxix. The\nmention of a dance as a 'little hop' in chapter ix. reads like a\npremature instance of middle Victorian slang. But nothing is new--even\nin a novel--and 'hop,' in this sense, is at least as old as _Joseph\nAndrews_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nLIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\nMr. Dashwood introduced him             _Frontispiece_\n\nHis son's son, a child of four years old\n\n\"I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it\"\n\nSo shy before company\n\nThey sang together\n\nHe cut off a long lock of her hair\n\n\"I have found you out in spite of all your tricks\"\n\nApparently In violent affliction\n\nBegging her to stop\n\nCame to take a survey of the guest\n\n\"I declare they are quite charming\"\n\nMischievous tricks\n\nDrinking to her best affections\n\nAmiably bashful\n\n\"I can answer for it,\" said Mrs. Jennings\n\nAt that moment she first perceived him\n\n\"How fond he was of it!\"\n\nOffered him one of Folly's puppies\n\nA very smart beau\n\nIntroduced to Mrs. Jennings\n\nMrs. Jennings assured him directly that she should not stand\nupon ceremony\n\nMrs. Ferrars\n\nDrawing him a little aside\n\nIn a whisper\n\n\"You have heard, I suppose\"\n\nTalking over the business\n\n\"She put in the feather last night\"\n\nListening at the door\n\nBoth gained considerable amusement\n\n\"Of one thing I may assure you\"\n\nShowing her child to the housekeeper\n\nThe gardener's lamentations\n\nOpened a window-shutter\n\n\"I entreat you to stay\"\n\n\"I was formally dismissed\"\n\n\"I have entered many a shop to avoid your sight\"\n\n\"And see how the children go on\"\n\n\"I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is married\"\n\nIt _was_ Edward\n\n\"Everything in such respectable condition\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nThe family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex. Their estate\nwas large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of\ntheir property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so\nrespectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their\nsurrounding acquaintance. The late owner of this estate was a single\nman, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his\nlife, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister. But her\ndeath, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great\nalteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and\nreceived into his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood,\nthe legal inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he\nintended to bequeath it. In the society of his nephew and niece, and\ntheir children, the old Gentleman's days were comfortably spent. His\nattachment to them all increased. The constant attention of Mr. and\nMrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from\ninterest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid\ncomfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the\nchildren added a relish to his existence.\n\nBy a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son: by his present\nlady, three daughters. The son, a steady respectable young man, was\namply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large,\nand half of which devolved on him on his coming of age. By his own\nmarriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his\nwealth. To him therefore the succession to the Norland estate was not\nso really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent\nof what might arise to them from their father's inheriting that\nproperty, could be but small. Their mother had nothing, and their\nfather only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the\nremaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her\nchild, and he had only a life-interest in it.\n\nThe old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every\nother will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure. He was neither so\nunjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew; but\nhe left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the\nbequest. Mr. Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife\nand daughters than for himself or his son; but to his son, and his\nson's son, a child of four years old, it was secured, in such a way,\nas to leave to himself no power of providing for those who were most\ndear to him, and who most needed a provision by any charge on the\nestate, or by any sale of its valuable woods. The whole was tied up\nfor the benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his\nfather and mother at Norland, had so far gained on the affections of\nhis uncle, by such attractions as are by no means unusual in children\nof two or three years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest\ndesire of having his own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of\nnoise, as to outweigh all the value of all the attention which, for\nyears, he had received from his niece and her daughters. He meant not\nto be unkind, however, and, as a mark of his affection for the three\ngirls, he left them a thousand pounds a-piece.\n\nMr. Dashwood's disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper\nwas cheerful and sanguine; and he might reasonably hope to live many\nyears, and by living economically, lay by a considerable sum from the\nproduce of an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate\nimprovement. But the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was\nhis only one twelvemonth. He survived his uncle no longer; and ten\nthousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained\nfor his widow and daughters.\n\nHis son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him Mr.\nDashwood recommended, with all the strength and urgency which illness\ncould command, the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters.\n\nMr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the\nfamily; but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at\nsuch a time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to make\nthem comfortable. His father was rendered easy by such an assurance,\nand Mr. John Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there\nmight prudently be in his power to do for them.\n\n[Illustration: _His son's son, a child of four years old._]\n\nHe was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted\nand rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well\nrespected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of\nhis ordinary duties. Had he married a more amiable woman, he might\nhave been made still more respectable than he was: he might even have\nbeen made amiable himself; for he was very young when he married, and\nvery fond of his wife. But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature\nof himself; more narrow-minded and selfish.\n\nWhen he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to\nincrease the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand\npounds a-piece. He then really thought himself equal to it. The\nprospect of four thousand a-year, in addition to his present income,\nbesides the remaining half of his own mother's fortune, warmed his\nheart, and made him feel capable of generosity. \"Yes, he would give\nthem three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome! It would\nbe enough to make them completely easy. Three thousand pounds! he\ncould spare so considerable a sum with little inconvenience.\" He\nthought of it all day long, and for many days successively, and he did\nnot repent.\n\nNo sooner was his father's funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood,\nwithout sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law,\narrived with her child and their attendants. No one could dispute her\nright to come; the house was her husband's from the moment of his\nfather's decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the\ngreater, and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's situation, with only common\nfeelings, must have been highly unpleasing. But in _her_ mind there\nwas a sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any\noffence of the kind, by whomsoever given or received, was to her a\nsource of immovable disgust. Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a\nfavourite with any of her husband's family; but she had had no\nopportunity, till the present, of showing them with how little\nattention to the comfort of other people she could act when occasion\nrequired it.\n\nSo acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so\nearnestly did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the\narrival of the latter, she would have quitted the house for ever, had\nnot the entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on\nthe propriety of going, and her own tender love for all her three\nchildren determined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid\na breach with their brother.\n\nElinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed\na strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified\nher, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother, and\nenabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all,\nthat eagerness of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led\nto imprudence. She had an excellent heart; her disposition was\naffectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern\nthem: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn; and which\none of her sisters had resolved never to be taught.\n\nMarianne's abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to Elinor's.\nShe was sensible and clever; but eager in everything: her sorrows, her\njoys, could have no moderation. She was generous, amiable,\ninteresting: she was everything but prudent. The resemblance between\nher and her mother was strikingly great.\n\nElinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister's sensibility; but\nby Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cherished. They encouraged each\nother now in the violence of their affliction. The agony of grief\nwhich overpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought\nfor, was created again and again. They gave themselves up wholly to\ntheir sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection\nthat could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation\nin future. Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could\nstruggle, she could exert herself. She could consult with her brother,\ncould receive her sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with\nproper attention; and could strive to rouse her mother to similar\nexertion, and encourage her to similar forbearance.\n\nMargaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl;\nbut as she had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne's romance,\nwithout having much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair\nto equal her sisters at a more advanced period of life.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nMrs. John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of Norland; and her\nmother and sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors.\nAs such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; and by\nher husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody\nbeyond himself, his wife, and their child. He really pressed them,\nwith some earnestness, to consider Norland as their home; and, as no\nplan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as remaining there till she\ncould accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his\ninvitation was accepted.\n\nA continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former\ndelight, was exactly what suited her mind. In seasons of cheerfulness,\nno temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater\ndegree, that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness\nitself. But in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy,\nand as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy.\n\nMrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband intended\nto do for his sisters. To take three thousand pounds from the fortune\nof their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most\ndreadful degree. She begged him to think again on the subject. How\ncould he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child\ntoo, of so large a sum? And what possible claim could the Miss\nDashwoods, who were related to him only by half blood, which she\nconsidered as no relationship at all, have on his generosity to so\nlarge an amount. It was very well known that no affection was ever\nsupposed to exist between the children of any man by different\nmarriages; and why was he to ruin himself, and their poor little\nHarry, by giving away all his money to his half sisters?\n\n\"It was my father's last request to me,\" replied her husband, \"that I\nshould assist his widow and daughters.\"\n\n\"He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say; ten to one but he\nwas light-headed at the time. Had he been in his right senses, he\ncould not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away\nhalf your fortune from your own child.\"\n\n\"He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he only\nrequested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their\nsituation more comfortable than it was in his power to do. Perhaps it\nwould have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself. He could\nhardly suppose I should neglect them. But as he required the promise,\nI could not do less than give it; at least I thought so at the time.\nThe promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed. Something\nmust be done for them whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new\nhome.\"\n\n\"Well, then, _let_ something be done for them; but _that_ something\nneed not be three thousand pounds. Consider,\" she added, \"that when\nthe money is once parted with, it never can return. Your sisters will\nmarry, and it will be gone for ever. If, indeed, it could be restored\nto our poor little boy--\"\n\n\"Why, to be sure,\" said her husband, very gravely, \"that would make\ngreat difference. The time may come when Harry will regret that so\nlarge a sum was parted with. If he should have a numerous family, for\ninstance, it would be a very convenient addition.\"\n\n\"To be sure it would.\"\n\n\"Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were\ndiminished one half. Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious\nincrease to their fortunes!\"\n\n\"Oh! beyond anything great! What brother on earth would do half so\nmuch for his sisters, even if _really_ his sisters! And as it is--only\nhalf blood! But you have such a generous spirit!\"\n\n\"I would not wish to do any thing mean,\" he replied. \"One had rather,\non such occasions, do too much than too little. No one, at least, can\nthink I have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can\nhardly expect more.\"\n\n\"There is no knowing what _they_ may expect,\" said the lady, \"but we\nare not to think of their expectations: the question is, what you can\nafford to do.\"\n\n\"Certainly; and I think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds\na-piece. As it is, without any addition of mine, they will each have\nabout three thousand pounds on their mother's death--a very\ncomfortable fortune for any young woman.\"\n\n\"To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no\naddition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst\nthem. If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do\nnot, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of\nten thousand pounds.\"\n\n\"That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the\nwhole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother\nwhile she lives, rather than for them--something of the annuity kind I\nmean. My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself.\nA hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable.\"\n\nHis wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this\nplan.\n\n\"To be sure,\" said she, \"it is better than parting with fifteen\nhundred pounds at once. But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live\nfifteen years we shall be completely taken in.\"\n\n\"Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that\npurchase.\"\n\n\"Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when\nthere is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and\nhealthy, and hardly forty. An annuity is a very serious business; it\ncomes over and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it. You\nare not aware of what you are doing. I have known a great deal of the\ntrouble of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment of\nthree to old superannuated servants by my father's will, and it is\namazing how disagreeable she found it. Twice every year these\nannuities were to be paid; and then there was the trouble of getting\nit to them; and then one of them was said to have died, and afterwards\nit turned out to be no such thing. My mother was quite sick of it. Her\nincome was not her own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it;\nand it was the more unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money\nwould have been entirely at my mother's disposal, without any\nrestriction whatever. It has given me such an abhorrence of annuities,\nthat I am sure I would not pin myself down to the payment of one for\nall the world.\"\n\n\"It is certainly an unpleasant thing,\" replied Mr. Dashwood, \"to have\nthose kind of yearly drains on one's income. One's fortune, as your\nmother justly says, is _not_ one's own. To be tied down to the regular\npayment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it\ntakes away one's independence.\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it. They think\nthemselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises\nno gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever I did should be done at\nmy own discretion entirely. I would not bind myself to allow them any\nthing yearly. It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a\nhundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses.\"\n\n\"I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should\nbe no annuity in the case; whatever I may give them occasionally will\nbe of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they\nwould only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger\nincome, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the\nyear. It will certainly be much the best way. A present of fifty\npounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for\nmoney, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my\nfather.\"\n\n\"To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within\nmyself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at\nall. The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might\nbe reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a\ncomfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things,\nand sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever\nthey are in season. I'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther;\nindeed, it would be very strange and unreasonable if he did. Do but\nconsider, my dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your\nmother-in-law and her daughters may live on the interest of seven\nthousand pounds, besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the\ngirls, which brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of\ncourse, they will pay their mother for their board out of it.\nAltogether, they will have five hundred a-year amongst them, and what\non earth can four women want for more than that?--They will live so\ncheap! Their housekeeping will be nothing at all. They will have no\ncarriage, no horses, and hardly any servants; they will keep no\ncompany, and can have no expenses of any kind! Only conceive how\ncomfortable they will be! Five hundred a year! I am sure I cannot\nimagine how they will spend half of it; and as to your giving them\nmore, it is quite absurd to think of it. They will be much more able\nto give _you_ something.\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" said Mr. Dashwood, \"I believe you are perfectly right.\nMy father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than\nwhat you say. I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil\nmy engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you\nhave described. When my mother removes into another house my services\nshall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can. Some little\npresent of furniture too may be acceptable then.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" returned Mrs. John Dashwood. \"But, however, _one_ thing\nmust be considered. When your father and mother moved to Norland,\nthough the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and\nlinen was saved, and is now left to your mother. Her house will\ntherefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it.\"\n\n\"That is a material consideration undoubtedly. A valuable legacy\nindeed! And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant\naddition to our own stock here.\"\n\n\"Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what\nbelongs to this house. A great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for\nany place _they_ can ever afford to live in. But, however, so it is.\nYour father thought only of _them_ And I must say this: that you owe\nno particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we\nvery well know that if he could, he would have left almost everything\nin the world to _them._\"\n\nThis argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever of\ndecision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be\nabsolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the\nwidow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts\nas his own wife pointed out.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nMrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months; not from any\ndisinclination to move when the sight of every well known spot ceased\nto raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while; for when\nher spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other\nexertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy\nremembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her\ninquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for\nto remove far from that beloved spot was impossible. But she could\nhear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and\nease, and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier\njudgment rejected several houses as too large for their income, which\nher mother would have approved.\n\n[Illustration: \"_I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it._\"]\n\nMrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise\non the part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last\nearthly reflections. She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no\nmore than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her\ndaughters' sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was\npersuaded that a much smaller provision than 7000L would support her\nin affluence. For their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his own\nheart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to\nhis merit before, in believing him incapable of generosity. His\nattentive behaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that\ntheir welfare was dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied\non the liberality of his intentions.\n\nThe contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for\nher daughter-in-law, was very much increased by the farther knowledge\nof her character, which half a year's residence in her family\nafforded; and perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or\nmaternal affection on the side of the former, the two ladies might\nhave found it impossible to have lived together so long, had not a\nparticular circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility,\naccording to the opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters'\ncontinuance at Norland.\n\nThis circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and\nthe brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentlemanlike and pleasing young\nman, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister's\nestablishment at Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of\nhis time there.\n\nSome mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of\ninterest, for Edward Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died\nvery rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence,\nfor, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the\nwill of his mother. But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either\nconsideration. It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable,\nthat he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the partiality.\nIt was contrary to every doctrine of her's that difference of fortune\nshould keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of\ndisposition; and that Elinor's merit should not be acknowledged by\nevery one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.\n\nEdward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any\npeculiar graces of person or address. He was not handsome, and his\nmanners required intimacy to make them pleasing. He was too diffident\nto do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome,\nhis behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart.\nHis understanding was good, and his education had given it solid\nimprovement. But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to\nanswer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him\ndistinguished as--they hardly knew what. They wanted him to make a\nfine figure in the world in some manner or other. His mother wished to\ninterest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to\nsee him connected with some of the great men of the day. Mrs. John\nDashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these\nsuperior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her\nambition to see him driving a barouche. But Edward had no turn for\ngreat men or barouches. All his wishes centered in domestic comfort\nand the quiet of private life. Fortunately he had a younger brother\nwho was more promising.\n\nEdward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged\nmuch of Mrs. Dashwood's attention; for she was, at that time, in such\naffliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects. She saw\nonly that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. He\ndid not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed\nconversation. She was first called to observe and approve him farther,\nby a reflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on the\ndifference between him and his sister. It was a contrast which\nrecommended him most forcibly to her mother.\n\n\"It is enough,\" said she; \"to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough.\nIt implies everything amiable. I love him already.\"\n\n\"I think you will like him,\" said Elinor, \"when you know more of him.\"\n\n\"Like him!\" replied her mother with a smile. \"I feel no sentiment of\napprobation inferior to love.\"\n\n\"You may esteem him.\"\n\n\"I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him. Her manners\nwere attaching, and soon banished his reserve. She speedily\ncomprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for Elinor\nperhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his\nworth: and even that quietness of manner, which militated against all\nher established ideas of what a young man's address ought to be, was\nno longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his\ntemper affectionate.\n\nNo sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to\nElinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and\nlooked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching.\n\n\"In a few months, my dear Marianne,\" said she, \"Elinor will, in all\nprobability be settled for life. We shall miss her; but _she_ will be\nhappy.\"\n\n\"Oh! Mamma, how shall we do without her?\"\n\n\"My love, it will be scarcely a separation. We shall live within a few\nmiles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives. You will\ngain a brother--a real, affectionate brother. I have the highest\nopinion in the world of Edward's heart. But you look grave, Marianne;\ndo you disapprove your sister's choice?\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Marianne, \"I may consider it with some surprise.\nEdward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet--he is not\nthe kind of young man; there is something wanting--his figure is not\nstriking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man\nwho could seriously attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit,\nthat fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides\nall this, I am afraid, Mamma, he has no real taste. Music seems\nscarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor's drawings very\nmuch, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their\nworth. It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while\nshe draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as\na lover, not as a connoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters must be\nunited. I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every\npoint coincide with my own. He must enter into all my feelings; the\nsame books, the same music must charm us both. Oh! mama, how\nspiritless, how tame was Edward's manner in reading to us last night!\nI felt for my sister most severely. Yet she bore it with so much\ncomposure, she seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly keep my\nseat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost\ndriven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such\ndreadful indifference!\"\n\n\"He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant\nprose. I thought so at the time; but you _would_ give him Cowper.\"\n\n\"Nay, Mamma, if he is not to be animated by Cowper!--but we must allow\nfor difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she\nmay overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broke _my_\nheart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility.\nMama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I\nshall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He\nmust have all Edward's virtues, and his person and manners must\nornament his goodness with every possible charm.\"\n\n\"Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early in\nlife to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate\nthan your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your\ndestiny be different from her's!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\n\"What a pity it is, Elinor,\" said Marianne, \"that Edward should have\nno taste for drawing.\"\n\n\"No taste for drawing!\" replied Elinor, \"why should you think so? He\ndoes not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the\nperformances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means\ndeficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of\nimproving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he\nwould have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such\nmatters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on\nany picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste,\nwhich in general direct him perfectly right.\"\n\nMarianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but\nthe kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by\nthe drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous\ndelight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet,\nthough smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister\nfor that blind partiality to Edward which produced it.\n\n\"I hope, Marianne,\" continued Elinor, \"you do not consider him as\ndeficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot,\nfor your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were\nyour opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him.\"\n\nMarianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of\nher sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was\nimpossible. At length she replied:\n\n\"Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing\nequal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many\nopportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his\ninclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion\nin the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that\nis worthy and amiable.\"\n\n\"I am sure,\" replied Elinor, with a smile, \"that his dearest friends\ncould not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not\nperceive how you could express yourself more warmly.\"\n\nMarianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.\n\n\"Of his sense and his goodness,\" continued Elinor, \"no one can, I\nthink, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in\nunreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his\nprinciples can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps\nhim silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth.\nBut of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from\npeculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I\nhave been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been\nwholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I\nhave seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard\nhis opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole,\nI venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of\nbooks exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just\nand correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every\nrespect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person.\nAt first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person\ncan hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which\nare uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is\nperceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really\nhandsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne?\"\n\n\"I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When\nyou tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection\nin his face, than I now do in his heart.\"\n\nElinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she\nhad been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood\nvery high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but\nshe required greater certainty of it to make Marianne's conviction of\ntheir attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her\nmother conjectured one moment, they believed the next--that with them,\nto wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain\nthe real state of the case to her sister.\n\n\"I do not attempt to deny,\" said she, \"that I think very highly of\nhim--that I greatly esteem, that I like him.\"\n\nMarianne here burst forth with indignation--\n\n\"Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than\ncold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I\nwill leave the room this moment.\"\n\nElinor could not help laughing. \"Excuse me,\" said she; \"and be assured\nthat I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my\nown feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared;\nbelieve them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the\nsuspicion--the hope--of his affection for me may warrant, without\nimprudence or folly. But farther than this you must not believe. I am\nby no means assured of his regard for me. There are moments when the\nextent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known,\nyou cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own\npartiality, by believing or calling it more than it is. In my heart I\nfeel little--scarcely any doubt of his preference. But there are other\npoints to be considered besides his inclination. He is very far from\nbeing independent. What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from\nFanny's occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never\nbeen disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if\nEdward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in\nhis way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a\ngreat fortune or high rank.\"\n\nMarianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother\nand herself had outstripped the truth.\n\n\"And you really are not engaged to him!\" said she. \"Yet it certainly\nsoon will happen. But two advantages will proceed from this delay. I\nshall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity\nof improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must\nbe so indispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh! if he\nshould be so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw\nhimself, how delightful it would be!\"\n\nElinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not\nconsider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as\nMarianne had believed it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about\nhim which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something\nalmost as unpromising. A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel\nit, need not give him more than inquietude. It would not be likely to\nproduce that dejection of mind which frequently attended him. A more\nreasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation which\nforbade the indulgence of his affection. She knew that his mother\nneither behaved to him so as to make his home comfortable at present,\nnor to give him any assurance that he might form a home for himself,\nwithout strictly attending to her views for his aggrandizement. With\nsuch a knowledge as this, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on\nthe subject. She was far from depending on that result of his\npreference of her, which her mother and sister still considered as\ncertain. Nay, the longer they were together the more doubtful seemed\nthe nature of his regard; and sometimes, for a few painful minutes,\nshe believed it to be no more than friendship.\n\nBut, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when\nperceived by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time,\n(which was still more common,) to make her uncivil. She took the first\nopportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking\nto her so expressively of her brother's great expectations, of Mrs.\nFerrars's resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the\ndanger attending any young woman who attempted to _draw him in_, that\nMrs. Dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to\nbe calm. She gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and\ninstantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the\ninconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor\nshould not be exposed another week to such insinuations.\n\nIn this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the\npost, which contained a proposal particularly well timed. It was the\noffer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of\nher own, a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire. The\nletter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit\nof friendly accommodation. He understood that she was in need of a\ndwelling; and though the house he now offered her was merely a\ncottage, he assured her that everything should be done to it which she\nmight think necessary, if the situation pleased her. He earnestly\npressed her, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to\ncome with her daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own\nresidence, from whence she might judge, herself, whether Barton\nCottage, for the houses were in the same parish, could, by any\nalteration, be made comfortable to her. He seemed really anxious to\naccommodate them and the whole of his letter was written in so\nfriendly a style as could not fail of giving pleasure to his cousin;\nmore especially at a moment when she was suffering under the cold and\nunfeeling behaviour of her nearer connections. She needed no time for\ndeliberation or inquiry. Her resolution was formed as she read. The\nsituation of Barton, in a county so far distant from Sussex as\nDevonshire, which, but a few hours before, would have been a\nsufficient objection to outweigh every possible advantage belonging to\nthe place, was now its first recommendation. To quit the neighbourhood\nof Norland was no longer an evil; it was an object of desire; it was a\nblessing, in comparison of the misery of continuing her\ndaughter-in-law's guest; and to remove for ever from that beloved\nplace would be less painful than to inhabit or visit it while such a\nwoman was its mistress. She instantly wrote Sir John Middleton her\nacknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance of his proposal;\nand then hastened to show both letters to her daughters, that she\nmight be secure of their approbation before her answer were sent.\n\nElinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle\nat some distance from Norland, than immediately amongst their present\nacquaintance. On _that_ head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose\nher mother's intention of removing into Devonshire. The house, too, as\ndescribed by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so\nuncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on either\npoint; and, therefore, though it was not a plan which brought any\ncharm to her fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of\nNorland beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother\nfrom sending a letter of acquiescence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nNo sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged\nherself in the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife\nthat she was provided with a house, and should incommode them no\nlonger than till every thing were ready for her inhabiting it. They\nheard her with surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her\nhusband civilly hoped that she would not be settled far from Norland.\nShe had great satisfaction in replying that she was going into\nDevonshire. Edward turned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and,\nin a voice of surprise and concern, which required no explanation to\nher, repeated, \"Devonshire! Are you, indeed, going there? So far from\nhence! And to what part of it?\" She explained the situation. It was\nwithin four miles northward of Exeter.\n\n\"It is but a cottage,\" she continued, \"but I hope to see many of my\nfriends in it. A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends\nfind no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will\nfind none in accommodating them.\"\n\nShe concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John\nDashwood to visit her at Barton; and to Edward she gave one with still\ngreater affection. Though her late conversation with her\ndaughter-in-law had made her resolve on remaining at Norland no longer\nthan was unavoidable, it had not produced the smallest effect on her\nin that point to which it principally tended. To separate Edward and\nElinor was as far from being her object as ever; and she wished to\nshow Mrs. John Dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her brother,\nhow totally she disregarded her disapprobation of the match.\n\nMr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly\nsorry he was that she had taken a house at such a distance from\nNorland as to prevent his being of any service to her in removing her\nfurniture. He really felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for\nthe very exertion to which he had limited the performance of his\npromise to his father was by this arrangement rendered impracticable.\nThe furniture was all sent around by water. It chiefly consisted of\nhousehold linen, plate, china, and books, with a handsome pianoforte\nof Marianne's. Mrs. John Dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh:\nshe could not help feeling it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood's income\nwould be so trifling in comparison with their own, she should have any\nhandsome article of furniture.\n\nMrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready\nfurnished, and she might have immediate possession. No difficulty\narose on either side in the agreement; and she waited only for the\ndisposal of her effects at Norland, and to determine her future\nhousehold, before she set off for the west; and this, as she was\nexceedingly rapid in the performance of everything that interested\nher, was soon done. The horses which were left her by her husband had\nbeen sold soon after his death, and an opportunity now offering of\ndisposing of her carriage, she agreed to sell that likewise at the\nearnest advice of her eldest daughter. For the comfort of her\nchildren, had she consulted only her own wishes, she would have kept\nit; but the discretion of Elinor prevailed. _Her_ wisdom too limited\nthe number of their servants to three; two maids and a man, with whom\nthey were speedily provided from amongst those who had formed their\nestablishment at Norland.\n\nThe man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into\nDevonshire, to prepare the house for their mistress's arrival; for as\nLady Middleton was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred\ngoing directly to the cottage to being a visitor at Barton Park; and\nshe relied so undoubtingly on Sir John's description of the house, as\nto feel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her\nown. Her eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from\ndiminution by the evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the\nprospect of her removal; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted\nto be concealed under a cold invitation to her to defer her departure.\nNow was the time when her son-in-law's promise to his father might\nwith particular propriety be fulfilled. Since he had neglected to do\nit on first coming to the estate, their quitting his house might be\nlooked on as the most suitable period for its accomplishment. But Mrs.\nDashwood began shortly to give over every hope of the kind, and to be\nconvinced, from the general drift of his discourse, that his\nassistance extended no farther than their maintenance for six months\nat Norland. He so frequently talked of the increasing expenses of\nhousekeeping, and of the perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man\nof any consequence in the world was beyond calculation exposed to,\nthat he seemed rather to stand in need of more money himself than to\nhave any design of giving money away.\n\nIn a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir John Middleton's\nfirst letter to Norland, every thing was so far settled in their\nfuture abode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters to begin\ntheir journey.\n\nMany were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so\nmuch beloved. \"Dear, dear Norland!\" said Marianne, as she wandered\nalone before the house, on the last evening of their being there;\n\"when shall I cease to regret you!--when learn to feel a home\nelsewhere! Oh! happy house, could you know what I suffer in now\nviewing you from this spot, from whence perhaps I may view you no\nmore! And you, ye well-known trees!--but you will continue the same.\nNo leaf will decay because we are removed, nor any branch become\nmotionless although we can observe you no longer! No; you will\ncontinue the same; unconscious of the pleasure or the regret you\noccasion, and insensible of any change in those who walk under your\nshade! But who will remain to enjoy you?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nThe first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a\ndisposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant. But as they\ndrew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a\ncountry which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a\nview of Barton Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. It\nwas a pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture. After\nwinding along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house. A\nsmall green court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat\nwicket gate admitted them into it.\n\nAs a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact;\nbut as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the\nroof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were\nthe walls covered with honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly\nthrough the house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance\nwas a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were\nthe offices and the stairs. Four bedrooms and two garrets formed the\nrest of the house. It had not been built many years and was in good\nrepair. In comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed!--but\nthe tears which recollection called forth as they entered the house\nwere soon dried away. They were cheered by the joy of the servants on\ntheir arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear\nhappy. It was very early in September; the season was fine, and from\nfirst seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they\nreceived an impression in its favour which was of material service in\nrecommending it to their lasting approbation.\n\nThe situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately\nbehind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open\ndowns, the others cultivated and woody. The village of Barton was\nchiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the\ncottage windows. The prospect in front was more extensive; it\ncommanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country\nbeyond. The hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley\nin that direction; under another name, and in another course, it\nbranched out again between two of the steepest of them.\n\nWith the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the\nwhole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered\nmany additions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was\na delight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to\nsupply all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments. \"As\nfor the house itself, to be sure,\" said she, \"it is too small for our\nfamily, but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the\npresent, as it is too late in the year for improvements. Perhaps in\nthe spring, if I have plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we may\nthink about building. These parlors are both too small for such\nparties of our friends as I hope to see often collected here; and I\nhave some thoughts of throwing the passage into one of them with\nperhaps a part of the other, and so leave the remainder of that other\nfor an entrance; this, with a new drawing room which may be easily\nadded, and a bed-chamber and garret above, will make it a very snug\nlittle cottage. I could wish the stairs were handsome. But one must\nnot expect every thing; though I suppose it would be no difficult\nmatter to widen them. I shall see how much I am before-hand with the\nworld in the spring, and we will plan our improvements accordingly.\"\n\nIn the mean time, till all these alterations could be made from the\nsavings of an income of five hundred a-year by a woman who never\nsaved in her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the\nhouse as it was; and each of them was busy in arranging their\nparticular concerns, and endeavoring, by placing around them books and\nother possessions, to form themselves a home. Marianne's pianoforte\nwas unpacked and properly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were\naffixed to the walls of their sitting room.\n\nIn such employments as these they were interrupted soon after\nbreakfast the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called\nto welcome them to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation from\nhis own house and garden in which theirs might at present be\ndeficient. Sir John Middleton was a good looking man about forty. He\nhad formerly visited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young\ncousins to remember him. His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured;\nand his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. Their\narrival seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to\nbe an object of real solicitude to him. He said much of his earnest\ndesire of their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and\npressed them so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they\nwere better settled at home, that, though his entreaties were carried\nto a point of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give\noffence. His kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour\nafter he left them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit\narrived from the park, which was followed before the end of the day by\na present of game. He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their\nletters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the\nsatisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day.\n\nLady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her\nintention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon as she could be assured\nthat her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was\nanswered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced\nto them the next day.\n\n[Illustration: _So shy before company._]\n\nThey were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of\ntheir comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her\nappearance was favourable to their wishes. Lady Middleton was not more\nthan six or seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall\nand striking, and her address graceful. Her manners had all the\nelegance which her husband's wanted. But they would have been improved\nby some share of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long\nenough to detract something from their first admiration, by showing\nthat, though perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had\nnothing to say for herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or\nremark.\n\nConversation however was not wanted, for Sir John was very chatty, and\nLady Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her\ntheir eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which\nmeans there was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in\ncase of extremity, for they had to enquire his name and age, admire\nhis beauty, and ask him questions which his mother answered for him,\nwhile he hung about her and held down his head, to the great surprise\nof her ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as\nhe could make noise enough at home. On every formal visit a child\nought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse. In the\npresent case it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were\nmost like his father or mother, and in what particular he resembled\neither, for of course every body differed, and every body was\nastonished at the opinion of the others.\n\nAn opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods of debating on\nthe rest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house\nwithout securing their promise of dining at the park the next day.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nBarton Park was about half a mile from the cottage. The ladies had\npassed near it in their way along the valley, but it was screened from\ntheir view at home by the projection of a hill. The house was large\nand handsome; and the Middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality\nand elegance. The former was for Sir John's gratification, the latter\nfor that of his lady. They were scarcely ever without some friends\nstaying with them in the house, and they kept more company of every\nkind than any other family in the neighbourhood. It was necessary to\nthe happiness of both; for however dissimilar in temper and outward\nbehaviour, they strongly resembled each other in that total want of\ntalent and taste which confined their employments, unconnected with\nsuch as society produced, within a very narrow compass. Sir John was a\nsportsman, Lady Middleton a mother. He hunted and shot, and she\nhumoured her children; and these were their only resources. Lady\nMiddleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all\nthe year round, while Sir John's independent employments were in\nexistence only half the time. Continual engagements at home and\nabroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies of nature and\neducation; supported the good spirits of Sir John, and gave exercise\nto the good breeding of his wife.\n\nLady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and of\nall her domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her\ngreatest enjoyment in any of their parties. But Sir John's\nsatisfaction in society was much more real; he delighted in collecting\nabout him more young people than his house would hold, and the noisier\nthey were the better was he pleased. He was a blessing to all the\njuvenile part of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever\nforming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in\nwinter his private balls were numerous enough for any young lady who\nwas not suffering under the insatiable appetite of fifteen.\n\nThe arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy\nto him, and in every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants\nhe had now procured for his cottage at Barton. The Miss Dashwoods were\nyoung, pretty, and unaffected. It was enough to secure his good\nopinion; for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to\nmake her mind as captivating as her person. The friendliness of his\ndisposition made him happy in accommodating those, whose situation\nmight be considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate. In\nshowing kindness to his cousins therefore he had the real satisfaction\nof a good heart; and in settling a family of females only in his\ncottage, he had all the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a sportsman,\nthough he esteems only those of his sex who are sportsmen likewise, is\nnot often desirous of encouraging their taste by admitting them to a\nresidence within his own manor.\n\nMrs. Dashwood and her daughters were met at the door of the house by\nSir John, who welcomed them to Barton Park with unaffected sincerity;\nand as he attended them to the drawing room repeated to the young\nladies the concern which the same subject had drawn from him the day\nbefore, at being unable to get any smart young men to meet them. They\nwould see, he said, only one gentleman there besides himself; a\nparticular friend who was staying at the park, but who was neither\nvery young nor very gay. He hoped they would all excuse the smallness\nof the party, and could assure them it should never happen so again.\nHe had been to several families that morning in hopes of procuring\nsome addition to their number, but it was moonlight and every body was\nfull of engagements. Luckily Lady Middleton's mother had arrived at\nBarton within the last hour, and as she was a very cheerful agreeable\nwoman, he hoped the young ladies would not find it so very dull as\nthey might imagine. The young ladies, as well as their mother, were\nperfectly satisfied with having two entire strangers of the party, and\nwished for no more.\n\nMrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton's mother, was a good-humoured, merry,\nfat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and\nrather vulgar. She was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner\nwas over had said many witty things on the subject of lovers and\nhusbands; hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex,\nand pretended to see them blush whether they did or not. Marianne was\nvexed at it for her sister's sake, and turned her eyes towards Elinor\nto see how she bore these attacks, with an earnestness which gave\nElinor far more pain than could arise from such common-place raillery\nas Mrs. Jennings's.\n\nColonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed no more adapted by\nresemblance of manner to be his friend, than Lady Middleton was to be\nhis wife, or Mrs. Jennings to be Lady Middleton's mother. He was\nsilent and grave. His appearance however was not unpleasing, in spite\nof his being in the opinion of Marianne and Margaret an absolute old\nbachelor, for he was on the wrong side of five and thirty; but though\nhis face was not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his\naddress was particularly gentlemanlike.\n\nThere was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them as\ncompanions to the Dashwoods; but the cold insipidity of Lady Middleton\nwas so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity\nof Colonel Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir John and his\nmother-in-law was interesting. Lady Middleton seemed to be roused to\nenjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children after\ndinner, who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to\nevery kind of discourse except what related to themselves.\n\nIn the evening, as Marianne was discovered to be musical, she was\ninvited to play. The instrument was unlocked, every body prepared to\nbe charmed, and Marianne, who sang very well, at their request went\nthrough the chief of the songs which Lady Middleton had brought into\nthe family on her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since in\nthe same position on the pianoforte, for her ladyship had celebrated\nthat event by giving up music, although by her mother's account, she\nhad played extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it.\n\nMarianne's performance was highly applauded. Sir John was loud in his\nadmiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation\nwith the others while every song lasted. Lady Middleton frequently\ncalled him to order, wondered how any one's attention could be\ndiverted from music for a moment, and asked Marianne to sing a\nparticular song which Marianne had just finished. Colonel Brandon\nalone, of all the party, heard her without being in raptures. He paid\nher only the compliment of attention; and she felt a respect for him\non the occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by their\nshameless want of taste. His pleasure in music, though it amounted not\nto that ecstatic delight which alone could sympathize with her own,\nwas estimable when contrasted against the horrible insensibility of\nthe others; and she was reasonable enough to allow that a man of five\nand thirty might well have outlived all acuteness of feeling and every\nexquisite power of enjoyment. She was perfectly disposed to make every\nallowance for the colonel's advanced state of life which humanity\nrequired.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nMrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure. She had only two\ndaughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and\nshe had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the\nworld. In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as\nfar as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting\nweddings among all the young people of her acquaintance. She was\nremarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the\nadvantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady\nby insinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind of\ndiscernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton decisively to\npronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne\nDashwood. She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening\nof their being together, from his listening so attentively while she\nsang to them; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons'\ndining at the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to\nher again. It must be so. She was perfectly convinced of it. It would\nbe an excellent match, for _he_ was rich, and _she_ was handsome. Mrs.\nJennings had been anxious to see Colonel Brandon well married, ever\nsince her connection with Sir John first brought him to her knowledge;\nand she was always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty\ngirl.\n\nThe immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for\nit supplied her with endless jokes against them both. At the park she\nlaughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne. To the former\nher raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself,\nperfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first\nincomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew\nwhether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence,\nfor she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel's\nadvanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor.\n\nMrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than\nherself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy\nof her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability\nof wishing to throw ridicule on his age.\n\n\"But at least, Mamma, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation,\nthough you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. Colonel Brandon\nis certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be\n_my_ father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must\nhave long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous!\nWhen is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not\nprotect him?\"\n\n\"Infirmity!\" said Elinor, \"do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I can\neasily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my\nmother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use\nof his limbs!\"\n\n\"Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the\ncommonest infirmity of declining life?\"\n\n\"My dearest child,\" said her mother, laughing, \"at this rate you must\nbe in continual terror of _my_ decay; and it must seem to you a\nmiracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty.\"\n\n\"Mamma, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel\nBrandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of\nlosing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer.\nBut thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Elinor, \"thirty-five and seventeen had better not have\nany thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any\nchance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I\nshould not think Colonel Brandon's being thirty-five any objection to\nhis marrying _her_ .\"\n\n\"A woman of seven and twenty,\" said Marianne, after pausing a moment,\n\"can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be\nuncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might\nbring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the\nprovision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman\ntherefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of\nconvenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be\nno marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem\nonly a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at\nthe expense of the other.\"\n\n\"It would be impossible, I know,\" replied Elinor, \"to convince you\nthat a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five\nanything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to\nher. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to\nthe constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced\nto complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic\nfeel in one of his shoulders.\"\n\n\"But he talked of flannel waistcoats,\" said Marianne; \"and with me a\nflannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps,\nrheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and\nthe feeble.\"\n\n\"Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him\nhalf so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to\nyou in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?\"\n\nSoon after this, upon Elinor's leaving the room, \"Mamma,\" said\nMarianne, \"I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot\nconceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. We have now\nbeen here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but\nreal indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay. What else\ncan detain him at Norland?\"\n\n\"Had you any idea of his coming so soon?\" said Mrs. Dashwood. \"I had\nnone. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the\nsubject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want\nof pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of\nhis coming to Barton. Does Elinor expect him already?\"\n\n\"I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must.\"\n\n\"I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her\nyesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bed-chamber, she\nobserved that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not\nlikely that the room would be wanted for some time.\"\n\n\"How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it! But the whole of\ntheir behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how\ncomposed were their last adieus! How languid their conversation the\nlast evening of their being together! In Edward's farewell there was\nno distinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an\naffectionate brother to both. Twice did I leave them purposely\ntogether in the course of the last morning, and each time did he most\nunaccountably follow me out of the room. And Elinor, in quitting\nNorland and Edward, cried not as I did. Even now her self-command is\ninvariable. When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try to\navoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nThe Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to\nthemselves. The house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding\nthem, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had\ngiven to Norland half its charms were engaged in again with far\ngreater enjoyment than Norland had been able to afford, since the loss\nof their father. Sir John Middleton, who called on them every day for\nthe first fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much\noccupation at home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them\nalways employed.\n\nTheir visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for, in\nspite of Sir John's urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the\nneighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at\ntheir service, the independence of Mrs. Dashwood's spirit overcame the\nwish of society for her children; and she was resolute in declining to\nvisit any family beyond the distance of a walk. There were but few who\ncould be so classed; and it was not all of them that were attainable.\nAbout a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding\nvalley of Allenham, which issued from that of Barton, as formerly\ndescribed, the girls had, in one of their earliest walks, discovered\nan ancient respectable looking mansion which, by reminding them a\nlittle of Norland, interested their imagination and made them wish to\nbe better acquainted with it. But they learnt, on enquiry, that its\npossessor, an elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately\ntoo infirm to mix with the world, and never stirred from home.\n\nThe whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks. The high\ndowns which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to\nseek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy\nalternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their\nsuperior beauties; and towards one of these hills did Marianne and\nMargaret one memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the\npartial sunshine of a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the\nconfinement which the settled rain of the two preceding days had\noccasioned. The weather was not tempting enough to draw the two others\nfrom their pencil and their book, in spite of Marianne's declaration\nthat the day would be lastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud\nwould be drawn off from their hills; and the two girls set off\ntogether.\n\nThey gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at\nevery glimpse of blue sky; and when they caught in their faces the\nanimating gales of a high south-westerly wind, they pitied the fears\nwhich had prevented their mother and Elinor from sharing such\ndelightful sensations.\n\n\"Is there a felicity in the world,\" said Marianne, \"superior to\nthis?--Margaret, we will walk here at least two hours.\"\n\nMargaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind,\nresisting it with laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer,\nwhen suddenly the clouds united over their heads, and a driving rain\nset full in their face. Chagrined and surprised, they were obliged,\nthough unwillingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their\nown house. One consolation however remained for them, to which the\nexigence of the moment gave more than usual propriety,--it was that of\nrunning with all possible speed down the steep side of the hill which\nled immediately to their garden gate.\n\nThey set off. Marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step\nbrought her suddenly to the ground; and Margaret, unable to stop\nherself to assist her, was involuntarily hurried along, and reached\nthe bottom in safety.\n\nA gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was\npassing up the hill and within a few yards of Marianne, when her\naccident happened. He put down his gun and ran to her assistance. She\nhad raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in\nher fall, and she was scarcely able to stand. The gentleman offered\nhis services; and perceiving that her modesty declined what her\nsituation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without farther\ndelay, and carried her down the hill. Then passing through the garden,\nthe gate of which had been left open by Margaret, he bore her directly\ninto the house, whither Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his\nhold till he had seated her in a chair in the parlour.\n\nElinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and\nwhile the eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a\nsecret admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he\napologized for his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so\nfrank and so graceful that his person, which was uncommonly handsome,\nreceived additional charms from his voice and expression. Had he been\neven old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs.\nDashwood would have been secured by any act of attention to her child;\nbut the influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to\nthe action which came home to her feelings.\n\nShe thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address\nwhich always attended her, invited him to be seated. But this he\ndeclined, as he was dirty and wet. Mrs. Dashwood then begged to know\nto whom she was obliged. His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his\npresent home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him\nthe honour of calling tomorrow to enquire after Miss Dashwood. The\nhonour was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself\nstill more interesting, in the midst of a heavy rain.\n\nHis manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the\ntheme of general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised\nagainst Marianne received particular spirit from his exterior\nattractions. Marianne herself had seen less of his person than the\nrest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting\nher up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their\nentering the house. But she had seen enough of him to join in all the\nadmiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her\npraise. His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn\nfor the hero of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the\nhouse with so little previous formality, there was a rapidity of\nthought which particularly recommended the action to her. Every\ncircumstance belonging to him was interesting. His name was good, his\nresidence was in their favourite village, and she soon found out that\nof all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming. Her\nimagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a\nsprained ankle was disregarded.\n\nSir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather\nthat morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne's accident\nbeing related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any\ngentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allenham.\n\n\"Willoughby!\" cried Sir John; \"what, is _he_ in the country? That is\ngood news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on\nThursday.\"\n\n\"You know him then,\" said Mrs. Dashwood.\n\n\"Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year.\"\n\n\"And what sort of a young man is he?\"\n\n\"As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent\nshot, and there is not a bolder rider in England.\"\n\n\"And is that all you can say for him?\" cried Marianne, indignantly.\n\"But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his\npursuits, his talents, and genius?\"\n\nSir John was rather puzzled.\n\n\"Upon my soul,\" said he, \"I do not know much about him as to all\n_that._ But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the\nnicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with\nhim today?\"\n\nBut Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr.\nWilloughby's pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his\nmind.\n\n\"But who is he?\" said Elinor. \"Where does he come from? Has he a house\nat Allenham?\"\n\nOn this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he\ntold them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the\ncountry; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady\nat Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he\nwas to inherit; adding, \"Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I\ncan tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own\nin Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up\nto my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss\nMarianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will\nbe jealous, if she does not take care.\"\n\n\"I do not believe,\" said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile,\n\"that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of\n_my_ daughters towards what you call _catching him._ It is not an\nemployment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with\nus, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what\nyou say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose\nacquaintance will not be ineligible.\"\n\n\"He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived,\" repeated\nSir John. \"I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he\ndanced from eight o'clock till four, without once sitting down.\"\n\n\"Did he indeed?\" cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, \"and with\nelegance, with spirit?\"\n\n\"Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert.\"\n\n\"That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever\nbe his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and\nleave him no sense of fatigue.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye, I see how it will be,\" said Sir John, \"I see how it will\nbe. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor\nBrandon.\"\n\n\"That is an expression, Sir John,\" said Marianne, warmly, \"which I\nparticularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit\nis intended; and 'setting one's cap at a man,' or 'making a conquest,'\nare the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and\nif their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago\ndestroyed all its ingenuity.\"\n\nSir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as\nheartily as if he did, and then replied--\n\n\"Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other.\nPoor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth\nsetting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling\nabout and spraining of ankles.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nMarianne's preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision,\nstyled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to\nmake his personal enquiries. He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with\nmore than politeness; with a kindness which Sir John's account of him\nand her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the\nvisit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection,\nand domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced\nhim. Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview\nto be convinced.\n\nMiss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a\nremarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form,\nthough not so correct as her sister's, in having the advantage of\nheight, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in\nthe common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was\nless violently outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very brown,\nbut, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant;\nher features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in\nher eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an\neagerness, which could hardily be seen without delight. From\nWilloughby their expression was at first held back, by the\nembarrassment which the remembrance of his assistance created. But\nwhen this passed away, when her spirits became collected, when she saw\nthat to the perfect good-breeding of the gentleman, he united\nfrankness and vivacity, and above all, when she heard him declare,\nthat of music and dancing he was passionately fond, she gave him such\na look of approbation as secured the largest share of his discourse to\nherself for the rest of his stay.\n\nIt was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her\nto talk. She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and\nshe had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily\ndiscovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and\nthat it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that\nrelated to either. Encouraged by this to a further examination of his\nopinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her\nfavourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so\nrapturous a delight, that any young man of five and twenty must have\nbeen insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the\nexcellence of such works, however disregarded before. Their taste was\nstrikingly alike. The same books, the same passages were idolized by\neach; or if any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no\nlonger than till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her\neyes could be displayed. He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught\nall her enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they\nconversed with the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance.\n\n\"Well, Marianne,\" said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, \"for _one_\nmorning I think you have done pretty well. You have already\nascertained Mr. Willoughby's opinion in almost every matter of\nimportance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are\ncertain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have\nreceived every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper.\nBut how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such\nextraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? You will soon\nhave exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice to\nexplain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages,\nand then you can have nothing farther to ask.\"\n\n\"Elinor,\" cried Marianne, \"is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so\nscanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too\nhappy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of\ndecorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been\nreserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful:--had I talked only of the\nweather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this\nreproach would have been spared.\"\n\n\"My love,\" said her mother, \"you must not be offended with Elinor--she\nwas only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of\nwishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new\nfriend.\" Marianne was softened in a moment.\n\nWilloughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their\nacquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He\ncame to them every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his\nexcuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day\ngave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had\nceased to be possible, by Marianne's perfect recovery. She was\nconfined for some days to the house; but never had any confinement\nbeen less irksome. Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick\nimagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was\nexactly formed to engage Marianne's heart, for with all this, he\njoined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind\nwhich was now roused and increased by the example of her own, and\nwhich recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else.\n\nHis society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They read,\nthey talked, they sang together; his musical talents were\nconsiderable; and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which\nEdward had unfortunately wanted.\n\nIn Mrs. Dashwood's estimation he was as faultless as in Marianne's;\nand Elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he\nstrongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too\nmuch what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons\nor circumstances. In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other\npeople, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of\nundivided attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too\neasily the forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution\nwhich Elinor could not approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne\ncould say in its support.\n\nMarianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized\nher at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her\nideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable. Willoughby was\nall that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour and in every\nbrighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour\ndeclared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his abilities\nwere strong.\n\n[Illustration: _They sang together._]\n\nHer mother too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their\nmarriage had been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led before\nthe end of a week to hope and expect it; and secretly to congratulate\nherself on having gained two such sons-in-law as Edward and\nWilloughby.\n\nColonel Brandon's partiality for Marianne, which had so\nearly been discovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to\nElinor, when it ceased to be noticed by them. Their attention and wit\nwere drawn off to his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which the\nother had incurred before any partiality arose, was removed when his\nfeelings began really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to\nsensibility. Elinor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that\nthe sentiments which Mrs. Jennings had assigned him for her own\nsatisfaction, were now actually excited by her sister; and that\nhowever a general resemblance of disposition between the parties might\nforward the affection of Mr. Willoughby, an equally striking\nopposition of character was no hindrance to the regard of Colonel\nBrandon. She saw it with concern; for what could a silent man of five\nand thirty hope, when opposed to a very lively one of five and twenty?\nand as she could not even wish him successful, she heartily wished him\nindifferent. She liked him--in spite of his gravity and reserve, she\nbeheld in him an object of interest. His manners, though serious, were\nmild; and his reserve appeared rather the result of some oppression of\nspirits than of any natural gloominess of temper. Sir John had dropped\nhints of past injuries and disappointments, which justified her belief\nof his being an unfortunate man, and she regarded him with respect and\ncompassion.\n\nPerhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted\nby Willoughby and Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for being\nneither lively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits.\n\n\"Brandon is just the kind of man,\" said Willoughby one day, when they\nwere talking of him together, \"whom every body speaks well of, and\nnobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody\nremembers to talk to.\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I think of him,\" cried Marianne.\n\n\"Do not boast of it, however,\" said Elinor, \"for it is injustice in\nboth of you. He is highly esteemed by all the family at the park, and\nI never see him myself without taking pains to converse with him.\"\n\n\"That he is patronised by _you_,\" replied Willoughby, \"is certainly in\nhis favour; but as for the esteem of the others, it is a reproach in\nitself. Who would submit to the indignity of being approved by such a\nwoman as Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, that could command the\nindifference of any body else?\"\n\n\"But perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and Marianne will\nmake amends for the regard of Lady Middleton and her mother. If their\npraise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are not more\nundiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust.\"\n\n\"In defence of your _protege_ you can even be saucy.\"\n\n\"My _protege_, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense will\nalways have attractions for me. Yes, Marianne, even in a man between\nthirty and forty. He has seen a great deal of the world; has been\nabroad, has read, and has a thinking mind. I have found him capable of\ngiving me much information on various subjects; and he has always\nanswered my inquiries with readiness of good-breeding and good\nnature.\"\n\n\"That is to say,\" cried Marianne contemptuously, \"he has told you,\nthat in the East Indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are\ntroublesome.\"\n\n\"He _would_ have told me so, I doubt not, had I made any such\ninquiries, but they happened to be points on which I had been\npreviously informed.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Willoughby, \"his observations may have extended to the\nexistence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins.\"\n\n\"I may venture to say that _his_ observations have stretched much\nfurther than _your_ candour. But why should you dislike him?\"\n\n\"I do not dislike him. I consider him, on the contrary, as a very\nrespectable man, who has every body's good word, and nobody's notice;\nwho, has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to\nemploy, and two new coats every year.\"\n\n\"Add to which,\" cried Marianne, \"that he has neither genius, taste,\nnor spirit. That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no\nardour, and his voice no expression.\"\n\n\"You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass,\" replied Elinor,\n\"and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the\ncommendation I am able to give of him is comparatively cold and\ninsipid. I can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred,\nwell-informed, of gentle address, and, I believe, possessing an\namiable heart.\"\n\n\"Miss Dashwood,\" cried Willoughby, \"you are now using me unkindly. You\nare endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me against my\nwill. But it will not do. You shall find me as stubborn as you can be\nartful. I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel\nBrandon; he threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine; he\nhas found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I cannot persuade\nhim to buy my brown mare. If it will be any satisfaction to you,\nhowever, to be told, that I believe his character to be in other\nrespects irreproachable, I am ready to confess it. And in return for\nan acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me\nthe privilege of disliking him as much as ever.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\nLittle had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined when they first\ncame into Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy\ntheir time as shortly presented themselves, or that they should have\nsuch frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them\nlittle leisure for serious employment. Yet such was the case. When\nMarianne was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad,\nwhich Sir John had been previously forming, were put into execution.\nThe private balls at the park then began; and parties on the water\nwere made and accomplished as often as a showery October would allow.\nIn every meeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and\nfamiliarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly\ncalculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the\nDashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of\nMarianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving,\nin her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her\naffection.\n\nElinor could not be surprised at their attachment. She only wished\nthat it were less openly shown; and once or twice did venture to\nsuggest the propriety of some self-command to Marianne. But Marianne\nabhorred all concealment where no real disgrace could attend\nunreserve; and to aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in\nthemselves illaudable, appeared to her not merely an unnecessary\neffort, but a disgraceful subjection of reason to common-place and\nmistaken notions. Willoughby thought the same; and their behaviour at\nall times, was an illustration of their opinions.\n\nWhen he was present she had no eyes for any one else. Every thing he\ndid, was right. Every thing he said, was clever. If their evenings at\nthe park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the\nrest of the party to get her a good hand. If dancing formed the\namusement of the night, they were partners for half the time; and when\nobliged to separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand\ntogether and scarcely spoke a word to any body else. Such conduct made\nthem of course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not\nshame, and seemed hardly to provoke them.\n\nMrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left\nher no inclination for checking this excessive display of them. To her\nit was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young\nand ardent mind.\n\nThis was the season of happiness to Marianne. Her heart was devoted to\nWilloughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she brought with\nher from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought\nit possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her\npresent home.\n\nElinor's happiness was not so great. Her heart was not so much at\nease, nor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure. They afforded\nher no companion that could make amends for what she had left behind,\nnor that could teach her to think of Norland with less regret than\never. Neither Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the\nconversation she missed; although the latter was an everlasting\ntalker, and from the first had regarded her with a kindness which\nensured her a large share of her discourse. She had already repeated\nher own history to Elinor three or four times; and had Elinor's memory\nbeen equal to her means of improvement, she might have known very\nearly in their acquaintance all the particulars of Mr. Jennings's last\nillness, and what he said to his wife a few minutes before he died.\nLady Middleton was more agreeable than her mother only in being more\nsilent. Elinor needed little observation to perceive that her reserve\nwas a mere calmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do.\nTowards her husband and mother she was the same as to them; and\nintimacy was therefore neither to be looked for nor desired. She had\nnothing to say one day that she had not said the day before. Her\ninsipidity was invariable, for even her spirits were always the same;\nand though she did not oppose the parties arranged by her husband,\nprovided every thing were conducted in style and her two eldest\nchildren attended her, she never appeared to receive more enjoyment\nfrom them than she might have experienced in sitting at home; and so\nlittle did her presence add to the pleasure of the others, by any\nshare in their conversation, that they were sometimes only reminded of\nher being amongst them by her solicitude about her troublesome boys.\n\nIn Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find\na person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities,\nexcite the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion.\nWilloughby was out of the question. Her admiration and regard, even\nher sisterly regard, was all his own; but he was a lover; his\nattentions were wholly Marianne's, and a far less agreeable man might\nhave been more generally pleasing. Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for\nhimself, had no such encouragement to think only of Marianne, and in\nconversing with Elinor he found the greatest consolation for the\nindifference of her sister.\n\nElinor's compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect\nthat the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him.\nThis suspicion was given by some words which accidentally dropped from\nhim one evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by\nmutual consent, while the others were dancing. His eyes were fixed on\nMarianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint\nsmile, \"Your sister, I understand, does not approve of second\nattachments.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Elinor, \"her opinions are all romantic.\"\n\n\"Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist.\"\n\n\"I believe she does. But how she contrives it without reflecting on\nthe character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know\nnot. A few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable\nbasis of common sense and observation; and then they may be more easy\nto define and to justify than they now are, by any body but herself.\"\n\n\"This will probably be the case,\" he replied; \"and yet there is\nsomething so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is\nsorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions.\"\n\n\"I cannot agree with you there,\" said Elinor. \"There are\ninconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne's, which all the\ncharms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her\nsystems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at\nnought; and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look\nforward to as her greatest possible advantage.\"\n\nAfter a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying--\n\n\"Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a\nsecond attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body? Are those\nwho have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the\ninconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be\nequally indifferent during the rest of their lives?\"\n\n\"Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiae of her principles.\nI only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a second\nattachment's being pardonable.\"\n\n\"This,\" said he, \"cannot hold; but a change, a total change of\nsentiments--No, no, do not desire it; for when the romantic\nrefinements of a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently\nare they succeeded by such opinions as are but too common, and too\ndangerous! I speak from experience. I once knew a lady who in temper\nand mind greatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like\nher, but who from an enforced change--from a series of unfortunate\ncircumstances--\" Here he stopped suddenly; appeared to think that he\nhad said too much, and by his countenance gave rise to conjectures,\nwhich might not otherwise have entered Elinor's head. The lady would\nprobably have passed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss\nDashwood that what concerned her ought not to escape his lips. As it\nwas, it required but a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion\nwith the tender recollection of past regard. Elinor attempted no more.\nBut Marianne, in her place, would not have done so little. The whole\nstory would have been speedily formed under her active imagination;\nand every thing established in the most melancholy order of disastrous\nlove.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nAs Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning the\nlatter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of\nall that she knew before of Marianne's imprudence and want of thought,\nsurprised her by its extravagant testimony of both. Marianne told her,\nwith the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a horse, one\nthat he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was\nexactly calculated to carry a woman. Without considering that it was\nnot in her mother's plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter\nher resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the\nservant, and keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable\nto receive them, she had accepted the present without hesitation, and\ntold her sister of it in raptures.\n\n\"He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it,\"\nshe added, \"and when it arrives we will ride every day. You shall\nshare its use with me. Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the\ndelight of a gallop on some of these downs.\"\n\nMost unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to\ncomprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for\nsome time she refused to submit to them. As to an additional servant,\nthe expense would be a trifle; Mamma she was sure would never object\nto it; and any horse would do for _him_; he might always get one at\nthe park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient. Elinor\nthen ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present\nfrom a man so little, or at least so lately known to her. This was too\nmuch.\n\n\"You are mistaken, Elinor,\" said she warmly, \"in supposing I know very\nlittle of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed, but I am much\nbetter acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the\nworld, except yourself and mama. It is not time or opportunity that is\nto determine intimacy; it is disposition alone. Seven years would be\ninsufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven\ndays are more than enough for others. I should hold myself guilty of\ngreater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from\nWilloughby. Of John I know very little, though we have lived together\nfor years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed.\"\n\nElinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more. She knew her\nsister's temper. Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach\nher the more to her own opinion. But by an appeal to her affection for\nher mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent\nmother must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she\nconsented to this increase of establishment, Marianne was shortly\nsubdued; and she promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent\nkindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby when she saw\nhim next, that it must be declined.\n\nShe was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the\ncottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to\nhim in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his\npresent. The reasons for this alteration were at the same time\nrelated, and they were such as to make further entreaty on his side\nimpossible. His concern however was very apparent; and after\nexpressing it with earnestness, he added, in the same low voice, \"But,\nMarianne, the horse is still yours, though you cannot use it now. I\nshall keep it only till you can claim it. When you leave Barton to\nform your own establishment in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall\nreceive you.\"\n\nThis was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the\nsentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her\nsister by her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so\ndecided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between\nthem. From that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each\nother; and the belief of it created no other surprise than that she,\nor any of their friends, should be left by tempers so frank, to\ndiscover it by accident.\n\nMargaret related something to her the next day, which placed this\nmatter in a still clearer light. Willoughby had spent the preceding\nevening with them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the\nparlour with only him and Marianne, had had opportunity for\nobservations, which, with a most important face, she communicated to\nher eldest sister, when they were next by themselves.\n\n\"Oh, Elinor!\" she cried, \"I have such a secret to tell you about\nMarianne. I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon.\"\n\n\"You have said so,\" replied Elinor, \"almost every day since they first\nmet on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I\nbelieve, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round\nher neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great\nuncle.\"\n\n\"But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be\nmarried very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair.\"\n\n\"Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some great uncle of\n_his_.\"\n\n\"But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne's. I am almost sure it is, for I\nsaw him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and mama went out\nof the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as\ncould be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently\nhe took up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it\nwas all tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a\npiece of white paper; and put it into his pocket-book.\"\n\nFor such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not\nwithhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance\nwas in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself.\n\nMargaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory\nto her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the\npark, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor's particular\nfavourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her,\nMargaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, \"I must not\ntell, may I, Elinor?\"\n\nThis of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too.\nBut the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed\non a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a\nstanding joke with Mrs. Jennings.\n\n[Illustration: _He cut off a long lock of her hair._]\n\nMarianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good\nto the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to\nMargaret--\n\n\"Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to\nrepeat them.\"\n\n\"I never had any conjectures about it,\" replied Margaret; \"it was you\nwho told me of it yourself.\"\n\nThis increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly\npressed to say something more.\n\n\"Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it,\" said Mrs.\nJennings. \"What is the gentleman's name?\"\n\n\"I must not tell, ma'am. But I know very well what it is; and I know\nwhere he is too.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be\nsure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say.\"\n\n\"No, _that_ he is not. He is of no profession at all.\"\n\n\"Margaret,\" said Marianne with great warmth, \"you know that all this\nis an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in\nexistence.\"\n\n\"Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such\na man once, and his name begins with an F.\"\n\nMost grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this\nmoment, \"that it rained very hard,\" though she believed the\ninterruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her\nladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as\ndelighted her husband and mother. The idea however started by her, was\nimmediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion\nmindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of\nrain by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked\nMarianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of\ndifferent people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so\neasily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her.\n\nA party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see\na very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a\nbrother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not\nbe seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict\norders on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful,\nand Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be\nallowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit\nthem, at least, twice every summer for the last ten years. They\ncontained a noble piece of water--a sail on which was to a form a\ngreat part of the morning's amusement; cold provisions were to be\ntaken, open carriages only to be employed, and every thing conducted\nin the usual style of a complete party of pleasure.\n\nTo some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking,\nconsidering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the\nlast fortnight; and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was\npersuaded by Elinor to stay at home.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nTheir intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from\nwhat Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through,\nfatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate,\nfor they did not go at all.\n\nBy ten o'clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they\nwere to breakfast. The morning was rather favourable, though it had\nrained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky,\nand the sun frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and\ngood humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the\ngreatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise.\n\nWhile they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the\nrest there was one for Colonel Brandon:--he took it, looked at the\ndirection, changed colour, and immediately left the room.\n\n\"What is the matter with Brandon?\" said Sir John.\n\nNobody could tell.\n\n\"I hope he has had no bad news,\" said Lady Middleton. \"It must be\nsomething extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my\nbreakfast table so suddenly.\"\n\nIn about five minutes he returned.\n\n\"No bad news, Colonel, I hope;\" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he\nentered the room.\n\n\"None at all, ma'am, I thank you.\"\n\n\"Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is\nworse.\"\n\n\"No, ma'am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business.\"\n\n\"But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a\nletter of business? Come, come, this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear\nthe truth of it.\"\n\n\"My dear madam,\" said Lady Middleton, \"recollect what you are saying.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?\" said\nMrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter's reproof.\n\n\"No, indeed, it is not.\"\n\n\"Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well.\"\n\n\"Whom do you mean, ma'am?\" said he, colouring a little.\n\n\"Oh! you know who I mean.\"\n\n\"I am particularly sorry, ma'am,\" said he, addressing Lady Middleton,\n\"that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which\nrequires my immediate attendance in town.\"\n\n\"In town!\" cried Mrs. Jennings. \"What can you have to do in town at\nthis time of year?\"\n\n\"My own loss is great,\" he continued, \"in being obliged to leave so\nagreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence\nis necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell.\"\n\nWhat a blow upon them all was this!\n\n\"But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon,\" said\nMarianne, eagerly, \"will it not be sufficient?\"\n\nHe shook his head.\n\n\"We must go,\" said Sir John. \"It shall not be put off when we are so\nnear it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all.\"\n\n\"I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to\ndelay my journey for one day!\"\n\n\"If you would but let us know what your business is,\" said Mrs.\nJennings, \"we might see whether it could be put off or not.\"\n\n\"You would not be six hours later,\" said Willoughby, \"if you were to\ndefer your journey till our return.\"\n\n\"I cannot afford to lose _one_ hour.\"\n\nElinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, \"There\nare some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of\nthem. He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this\ntrick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was\nof his own writing.\"\n\n\"I have no doubt of it,\" replied Marianne.\n\n\"There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of\nold,\" said Sir John, \"when once you are determined on anything. But,\nhowever, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the\ntwo Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked\nup from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his\nusual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell.\"\n\nColonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of\ndisappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be\nunavoidable.\n\n\"Well, then, when will you come back again?\"\n\n\"I hope we shall see you at Barton,\" added her ladyship, \"as soon as\nyou can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to\nWhitwell till you return.\"\n\n\"You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in\nmy power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all.\"\n\n\"Oh! he must and shall come back,\" cried Sir John. \"If he is not here\nby the end of the week, I shall go after him.\"\n\n\"Ay, so do, Sir John,\" cried Mrs. Jennings, \"and then perhaps you may\nfind out what his business is.\"\n\n\"I do not want to pry into other men's concerns. I suppose it is\nsomething he is ashamed of.\"\n\nColonel Brandon's horses were announced.\n\n\"You do not go to town on horseback, do you?\" added Sir John.\n\n\"No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post.\"\n\n\"Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you\nhad better change your mind.\"\n\n\"I assure you it is not in my power.\"\n\nHe then took leave of the whole party.\n\n\"Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this\nwinter, Miss Dashwood?\"\n\n\"I am afraid, none at all.\"\n\n\"Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to\ndo.\"\n\nTo Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.\n\n\"Come Colonel,\" said Mrs. Jennings, \"before you go, do let us know\nwhat you are going about.\"\n\nHe wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the\nroom.\n\nThe complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto\nrestrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and\nagain how provoking it was to be so disappointed.\n\n\"I can guess what his business is, however,\" said Mrs. Jennings\nexultingly.\n\n\"Can you, ma'am?\" said almost every body.\n\n\"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure.\"\n\n\"And who is Miss Williams?\" asked Marianne.\n\n\"What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have\nheard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear; a\nvery near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the\nyoung ladies.\" Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor,\n\"She is his natural daughter.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\"\n\n\"Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel\nwill leave her all his fortune.\"\n\nWhen Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret\non so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as\nthey were all got together, they must do something by way of being\nhappy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although\nhappiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a\ntolerable composure of mind by driving about the country. The\ncarriages were then ordered; Willoughby's was first, and Marianne\nnever looked happier than when she got into it. He drove through the\npark very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of\nthem was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the\nreturn of all the rest. They both seemed delighted with their drive;\nbut said only in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while\nthe others went on the downs.\n\nIt was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that\nevery body should be extremely merry all day long. Some more of the\nCareys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down\nnearly twenty to table, which Sir John observed with great\ncontentment. Willoughby took his usual place between the two elder\nMiss Dashwoods. Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor's right hand; and they had\nnot been long seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and\nsaid to Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, \"I have found you\nout in spite of all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning.\"\n\nMarianne coloured, and replied very hastily, \"Where, pray?\"\n\n\"Did not you know,\" said Willoughby, \"that we had been out in my\ncurricle?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined\nto find out _where_ you had been to. I hope you like your house, Miss\nMarianne. It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you,\nI hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when\nI was there six years ago.\"\n\nMarianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Jennings laughed\nheartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they\nhad been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr.\nWilloughby's groom; and that she had by that method been informed that\nthey had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in\nwalking about the garden and going all over the house.\n\nElinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very\nunlikely that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter\nthe house while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the\nsmallest acquaintance.\n\nAs soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about it;\nand great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance\nrelated by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true. Marianne was quite angry\nwith her for doubting it.\n\n\"Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that we\ndid not see the house? Is not it what you have often wished to do\nyourself?\"\n\n\"Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and\nwith no other companion than Mr. Willoughby.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"_I have found you out in spite of all your tricks._\"]\n\n\"Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to\nshow that house; and as he went in an open carriage, it was\nimpossible to have any other companion. I never spent a pleasanter\nmorning in my life.\"\n\n\"I am afraid,\" replied Elinor, \"that the pleasantness of an employment\ndoes not always evince its propriety.\"\n\n\"On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for\nif there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have\nbeen sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting\nwrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure.\"\n\n\"But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very\nimpertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of\nyour own conduct?\"\n\n\"If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of\nimpropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our\nlives. I value not her censure any more than I should do her\ncommendation. I am not sensible of having done anything wrong in\nwalking over Mrs. Smith's grounds, or in seeing her house. They will\none day be Mr. Willoughby's, and--\"\n\n\"If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be\njustified in what you have done.\"\n\nShe blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her;\nand after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her\nsister again, and said with great good humour, \"Perhaps, Elinor, it\n_was_ rather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby\nwanted particularly to show me the place; and it is a charming house,\nI assure you. There is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs;\nof a nice comfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture\nit would be delightful. It is a corner room, and has windows on two\nsides. On one side you look across the bowling-green, behind the\nhouse, to a beautiful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view\nof the church and village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills\nthat we have so often admired. I did not see it to advantage, for\nnothing could be more forlorn than the furniture; but if it were newly\nfitted up--a couple of hundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it\none of the pleasantest summer-rooms in England.\"\n\nCould Elinor have listened to her without interruption from the\nothers, she would have described every room in the house with equal\ndelight.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nThe sudden termination of Colonel Brandon's visit at the park, with\nhis steadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind, and raised\nthe wonder of Mrs. Jennings for two or three days; she was a great\nwonderer, as every one must be who takes a very lively interest in all\nthe comings and goings of all their acquaintance. She wondered, with\nlittle intermission what could be the reason of it; was sure there\nmust be some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that\ncould have befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not\nescape them all.\n\n\"Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure,\" said she.\n\"I could see it in his face. Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances\nmay be bad. The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two\nthousand a year, and his brother left everything sadly involved. I do\nthink he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else\ncan it be? I wonder whether it is so. I would give anything to know\nthe truth of it. Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I\ndare say it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her.\nMay be she is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I\nhave a notion she is always rather sickly. I would lay any wager it is\nabout Miss Williams. It is not so very likely he should be distressed\nin his circumstances _now_, for he is a very prudent man, and to be\nsure must have cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it can\nbe! May be his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over.\nHis setting off in such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him\nout of all his trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the\nbargain.\"\n\nSo wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings. Her opinion varying with every\nfresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose.\nElinor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel\nBrandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly\naway, which Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides\nthat the circumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting\namazement or variety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise\ndisposed of. It was engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her\nsister and Willoughby on the subject, which they must know to be\npeculiarly interesting to them all. As this silence continued, every\nday made it appear more strange and more incompatible with the\ndisposition of both. Why they should not openly acknowledge to her\nmother and herself, what their constant behaviour to each other\ndeclared to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine.\n\nShe could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in\ntheir power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no\nreason to believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at\nabout six or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which\nthat income could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained\nof his poverty. But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by\nthem relative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at\nall, she could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to\ntheir general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered\nher mind of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to\nprevent her making any inquiry of Marianne.\n\nNothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than\nWilloughby's behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing\ntenderness which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of the\nfamily it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The\ncottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many\nmore of his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general\nengagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him\nout in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest\nof the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his\nfavourite pointer at her feet.\n\nOne evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the\ncountry, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of\nattachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood's happening\nto mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he\nwarmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had\nestablished as perfect with him.\n\n\"What!\" he exclaimed, \"Improve this dear cottage! No. _That_ I will\nnever consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch\nto its size, if my feelings are regarded.\"\n\n\"Do not be alarmed,\" said Miss Dashwood, \"nothing of the kind will be\ndone; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it.\"\n\n\"I am heartily glad of it,\" he cried. \"May she always be poor, if she\ncan employ her riches no better.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not\nsacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one\nwhom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it\nthat whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in\nthe spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it\nin a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this\nplace as to see no defect in it?\"\n\n\"I am,\" said he. \"To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as\nthe only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I\nrich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again\nin the exact plan of this cottage.\"\n\n\"With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose,\" said\nElinor.\n\n\"Yes,\" cried he in the same eager tone, \"with all and every thing\nbelonging to it--in no one convenience or inconvenience about it,\nshould the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under\nsuch a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at\nBarton.\"\n\n\"I flatter myself,\" replied Elinor, \"that even under the disadvantage\nof better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your\nown house as faultless as you now do this.\"\n\n\"There certainly are circumstances,\" said Willoughby, \"which might\ngreatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of\nmy affection, which no other can possibly share.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were\nfixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she\nunderstood him.\n\n\"How often did I wish,\" added he, \"when I was at Allenham this time\ntwelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within\nview of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one\nshould live in it. How little did I then think that the very first\nnews I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country,\nwould be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate\nsatisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of\nprescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account\nfor. Must it not have been so, Marianne?\" speaking to her in a lowered\nvoice. Then continuing his former tone, he said, \"And yet this house\nyou would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by\nimaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance\nfirst began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by\nus together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance,\nand every body would be eager to pass through the room which has\nhitherto contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort\nthan any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world\ncould possibly afford.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should\nbe attempted.\n\n\"You are a good woman,\" he warmly replied. \"Your promise makes me\neasy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me\nthat not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever\nfind you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will\nalways consider me with the kindness which has made everything\nbelonging to you so dear to me.\"\n\nThe promise was readily given, and Willoughby's behaviour during the\nwhole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness.\n\n\"Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?\" said Mrs. Dashwood, when he was\nleaving them. \"I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must\nwalk to the park, to call on Lady Middleton.\"\n\nHe engaged to be with them by four o'clock.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\nMrs. Dashwood's visit to Lady Middleton took place the next day, and\ntwo of her daughters went with her; but Marianne excused herself from\nbeing of the party, under some trifling pretext of employment; and her\nmother, who concluded that a promise had been made by Willoughby the\nnight before of calling on her while they were absent, was perfectly\nsatisfied with her remaining at home.\n\nOn their return from the park they found Willoughby's curricle and\nservant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced\nthat her conjecture had been just. So far it was all as she had\nforeseen; but on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had\ntaught her to expect. They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne\ncame hastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with\nher handkerchief at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs.\nSurprised and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had\njust quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning\nagainst the mantelpiece with his back towards them. He turned round\non their coming in, and his countenance showed that he strongly\npartook of the emotion which overpowered Marianne.\n\n\"Is anything the matter with her?\" cried Mrs. Dashwood as she\nentered:--\"is she ill?\"\n\n\"I hope not,\" he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a forced\nsmile presently added, \"It is I who may rather expect to be ill--for I\nam now suffering under a very heavy disappointment!\"\n\n\"Disappointment?\"\n\n\"Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with you. Mrs. Smith has\nthis morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent\ncousin, by sending me on business to London. I have just received my\ndispatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham; and by way of\nexhilaration I am now come to take my farewell of you.\"\n\n\"To London!--and are you going this morning?\"\n\n\"Almost this moment.\"\n\n[Illustration: _Apparently in violent affliction._]\n\n\"This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith must be obliged, and her\nbusiness will not detain you from us long I hope.\"\n\nHe coloured as he replied, \"You are very kind, but I have no idea of\nreturning into Devonshire immediately. My visits to Mrs. Smith are\nnever repeated within the twelvemonth.\"\n\n\"And is Mrs. Smith your only friend? Is Allenham the only house in the\nneighbourhood to which you will be welcome? For shame, Willoughby, can\nyou wait for an invitation here?\"\n\nHis colour increased; and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only\nreplied, \"You are too good.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise. Elinor felt equal\namazement. For a few moments every one was silent. Mrs. Dashwood first\nspoke.\n\n\"I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton cottage you\nwill always be welcome; for I will not press you to return here\nimmediately, because you only can judge how far _that_ might be\npleasing to Mrs. Smith; and on this head I shall be no more disposed\nto question your judgment than to doubt your inclination.\"\n\n\"My engagements at present,\" replied Willoughby, confusedly, \"are of\nsuch a nature--that--I dare not flatter myself--\"\n\nHe stopped. Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and\nanother pause succeeded. This was broken by Willoughby, who said with\na faint smile, \"It is folly to linger in this manner. I will not\ntorment myself any longer by remaining among friends whose society it\nis impossible for me now to enjoy.\"\n\nHe then hastily took leave of them all and left the room. They saw him\nstep into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight.\n\nMrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the\nparlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this\nsudden departure occasioned.\n\nElinor's uneasiness was at least equal to her mother's. She thought of\nwhat had just passed with anxiety and distrust. Willoughby's behaviour\nin taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of\ncheerfulness, and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother's\ninvitation--a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike\nhimself--greatly disturbed her. One moment she feared that no serious\ndesign had ever been formed on his side; and the next that some\nunfortunate quarrel had taken place between him and her sister. The\ndistress in which Marianne had quitted the room was such as a serious\nquarrel could most reasonably account for, though when she considered\nwhat Marianne's love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible.\n\nBut whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her\nsister's affliction was indubitable; and she thought with the\ntenderest compassion of that violent sorrow which Marianne was in all\nprobability not merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and\nencouraging as a duty.\n\nIn about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were\nred, her countenance was not uncheerful.\n\n\"Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor,\" said she,\nas she sat down to work, \"and with how heavy a heart does he travel?\"\n\n\"It is all very strange. So suddenly to be gone! It seems but the work\nof a moment. And last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so\naffectionate? And now, after only ten minutes notice,--gone too\nwithout intending to return! Something more than what he owned to us\nmust have happened. He did not speak, he did not behave like himself.\n_You_ must have seen the difference as well as I. What can it be? Can\nthey have quarrelled? Why else should he have shown such unwillingness\nto accept your invitation here?\"\n\n\"It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see\n_that._ He had not the power of accepting it. I have thought it all\nover I assure you, and I can perfectly account for every thing that at\nfirst seemed strange to me as well as to you.\"\n\n\"Can you, indeed!\"\n\n\"Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way; but\nyou, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can--it will not satisfy\n_you_, I know; but you shall not talk _me_ out of my trust in it. I am\npersuaded that Mrs. Smith suspects his regard for Marianne,\ndisapproves of it, (perhaps because she has other views for him,) and\non that account is eager to get him away; and that the business which\nshe sends him off to transact is invented as an excuse to dismiss\nhim. This is what I believe to have happened. He is, moreover, aware\nthat she _does_ disapprove the connection, he dares not therefore at\npresent confess to her his engagement with Marianne, and he feels\nhimself obliged, from his dependent situation, to give into her\nschemes, and absent himself from Devonshire for a while. You will tell\nme, I know, that this may or may _not_ have happened; but I will\nlisten to no cavil, unless you can point out any other method of\nunderstanding the affair as satisfactory at this. And now, Elinor,\nwhat have you to say?\"\n\n\"Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer.\"\n\n\"Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have\nhappened. Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings! You had\nrather take evil upon credit than good. You had rather look out for\nmisery for Marianne, and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology\nfor the latter. You are resolved to think him blamable, because he\ntook leave of us with less affection than his usual behaviour has\nshown. And is no allowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits\ndepressed by recent disappointment? Are no probabilities to be\naccepted, merely because they are not certainties? Is nothing due to\nthe man whom we have all such reason to love, and no reason in the\nworld to think ill of?--to the possibility of motives unanswerable in\nthemselves, though unavoidably secret for a while? And, after all,\nwhat is it you suspect him of?\"\n\n\"I can hardly tell myself. But suspicion of something unpleasant is\nthe inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed\nin him. There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of\nthe allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be\ncandid in my judgment of every body. Willoughby may undoubtedly have\nvery sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that he has.\nBut it would have been more like Willoughby to acknowledge them at\nonce. Secrecy may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at\nits being practiced by him.\"\n\n\"Do not blame him, however, for departing from his character, where\nthe deviation is necessary. But you really do admit the justice of\nwhat I have said in his defence?--I am happy--and he is acquitted.\"\n\n\"Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they\n_are_ engaged) from Mrs. Smith; and if that is the case, it must be\nhighly expedient for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at\npresent. But this is no excuse for their concealing it from us.\"\n\n\"Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and\nMarianne of concealment? This is strange indeed, when your eyes have\nbeen reproaching them every day for incautiousness.\"\n\n\"I want no proof of their affection,\" said Elinor; \"but of their\nengagement I do.\"\n\n\"I am perfectly satisfied of both.\"\n\n\"Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of\nthem.\"\n\n\"I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly. Has\nnot his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last\nfortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future\nwife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation?\nHave we not perfectly understood each other? Has not my consent been\ndaily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate\nrespect? My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement? How\ncould such a thought occur to you? How is it to be supposed that\nWilloughby, persuaded as he must be of your sister's love, should\nleave her, and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of\nhis affection,--that they should part without a mutual exchange of\nconfidence?\"\n\n\"I confess,\" replied Elinor, \"that every circumstance except _one_ is\nin favour of their engagement; but that _one_ is the total silence of\nboth on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other.\"\n\n\"How strange this is! You must think wretchedly indeed of Willoughby,\nif, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the\nnature of the terms on which they are together. Has he been acting a\npart in his behaviour to your sister all this time? Do you suppose him\nreally indifferent to her?\"\n\n\"No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her I am sure.\"\n\n\"But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such\nindifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to\nhim.\"\n\n\"You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this\nmatter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are\nfainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away. If we\nfind they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed.\"\n\n\"A mighty concession indeed! If you were to see them at the altar, you\nwould suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious girl! But I\nrequire no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to\njustify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly\nopen and unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister's wishes. It must be\nWilloughby therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man of\nhonour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to\ncreate alarm? can he be deceitful?\"\n\n\"I hope not, I believe not,\" cried Elinor. \"I love Willoughby,\nsincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more\npainful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will\nnot encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his\nmanners this morning; he did not speak like himself, and did not\nreturn your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be\nexplained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He\nhad just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest\naffliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs.\nSmith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware\nthat by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away\nfor some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part\nby our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a\ncase, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more\nto his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general\ncharacter;--but I will not raise objections against any one's conduct\non so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself,\nor a deviation from what I may think right and consistent.\"\n\n\"You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be\nsuspected. Though _we_ have not known him long, he is no stranger in\nthis part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage?\nHad he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately,\nit might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging\neverything to me at once: but this is not the case. It is an\nengagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage\nmust be at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it\ncan be observed, may now be very advisable.\"\n\nThey were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was then\nat liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to\nacknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all.\n\nThey saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the\nroom and took her place at the table without saying a word. Her eyes\nwere red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then\nrestrained with difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all, could\nneither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother's silently\npressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree of\nfortitude was quite overcome, she burst into tears and left the room.\n\nThis violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening. She\nwas without any power, because she was without any desire of command\nover herself. The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby\noverpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most\nanxiously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if\nthey spoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings\nconnected with him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nMarianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able\nto sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby. She\nwould have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next\nmorning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than\nwhen she lay down in it. But the feelings which made such composure a\ndisgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it. She was awake the\nwhole night, and she wept the greatest part of it. She got up with a\nheadache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment;\ngiving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding\nall attempt at consolation from either. Her sensibility was potent\nenough!\n\nWhen breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered about\nthe village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment\nand crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.\n\nThe evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling. She played\nover every favourite song that she had been used to play to\nWilloughby, every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined,\nand sat at the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had\nwritten out for her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther\nsadness could be gained; and this nourishment of grief was every day\napplied. She spent whole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing\nand crying; her voice often totally suspended by her tears. In books\ntoo, as well as in music, she courted the misery which a contrast\nbetween the past and present was certain of giving. She read nothing\nbut what they had been used to read together.\n\nSuch violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it\nsunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these\nemployments, to which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and\nsilent meditations, still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as\nlively as ever.\n\nNo letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by Marianne.\nHer mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy. But Mrs.\nDashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at\nleast satisfied herself.\n\n\"Remember, Elinor,\" said she, \"how very often Sir John fetches our\nletters himself from the post, and carries them to it. We have already\nagreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it\ncould not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through\nSir John's hands.\"\n\nElinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a\nmotive sufficient for their silence. But there was one method so\ndirect, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real\nstate of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she\ncould not help suggesting it to her mother.\n\n\"Why do you not ask Marianne at once,\" said she, \"whether she is or\nshe is not engaged to Willoughby? From you, her mother, and so kind,\nso indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence. It would\nbe the natural result of your affection for her. She used to be all\nunreserve, and to you more especially.\"\n\n\"I would not ask such a question for the world. Supposing it possible\nthat they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry\ninflict! At any rate it would be most ungenerous. I should never\ndeserve her confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of\nwhat is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one. I know\nMarianne's heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall\nnot be the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances\nmake the revealment of it eligible. I would not attempt to force the\nconfidence of any one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty\nwould prevent the denial which her wishes might direct.\"\n\nElinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister's\nyouth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common\ncare, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic\ndelicacy.\n\nIt was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned before\nMarianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed,\nwere not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour;\nbut one evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of\nShakespeare, exclaimed--\n\n\"We have never finished _Hamlet_, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went\naway before we could get through it. We will put it by, that when he\ncomes again--; But it may be months, perhaps, before _that_ happens.\"\n\n\"Months!\" cried Marianne, with strong surprise. \"No--nor many weeks.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave Elinor\npleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of\nconfidence in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions.\n\nOne morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne was\nprevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of\nwandering away by herself. Hitherto she had carefully avoided every\ncompanion in her rambles. If her sisters intended to walk on the\ndowns, she directly stole away towards the lanes; if they talked of\nthe valley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never\nbe found when the others set off. But at length she was secured by the\nexertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion.\nThey walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence,\nfor Marianne's _mind_ could not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied\nwith gaining one point, would not then attempt more. Beyond the\nentrance of the valley, where the country, though still rich, was less\nwild and more open, a long stretch of the road which they had\ntravelled on first coming to Barton, lay before them; and on reaching\nthat point, they stopped to look around them, and examine a prospect\nwhich formed the distance of their view from the cottage, from a spot\nwhich they had never happened to reach in any of their walks before.\n\nAmongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated\none; it was a man on horseback riding towards them. In a few minutes\nthey could distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment\nafterwards Marianne rapturously exclaimed--\n\n\"It is he; it is indeed--I know it is!\" and was hastening to meet him,\nwhen Elinor cried out--\n\n\"Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken. It is not Willoughby. The\nperson is not tall enough for him, and has not his air.\"\n\n\"He has, he has,\" cried Marianne, \"I am sure he has. His air, his\ncoat, his horse. I knew how soon he would come.\"\n\nShe walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne\nfrom particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being\nWilloughby, quickened her pace and kept up with her. They were soon\nwithin thirty yards of the gentleman. Marianne looked again; her heart\nsunk within her; and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying back,\nwhen the voices of both her sisters were raised to detain her; a\nthird, almost as well known as Willoughby's, joined them in begging\nher to stop, and she turned round with surprise to see and welcome\nEdward Ferrars.\n\n[Illustration: _Begging her to stop._]\n\nHe was the only person in the world who could at that moment be\nforgiven for not being Willoughby; the only one who could have gained\na smile from her; but she dispersed her tears to smile on _him_, and\nin her sister's happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment.\n\nHe dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with\nthem to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them.\n\nHe was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by\nMarianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him\nthan even Elinor herself. To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between\nEdward and her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable\ncoldness which she had often observed at Norland in their mutual\nbehaviour. On Edward's side, more particularly, there was a deficiency\nof all that a lover ought to look and say on such an occasion. He was\nconfused, seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked\nneither rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by\nquestions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection. Marianne\nsaw and listened with increasing surprise. She began almost to feel a\ndislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her,\nby carrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a\ncontrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother elect.\n\nAfter a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and enquiries\nof meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London. No,\nhe had been in Devonshire a fortnight.\n\n\"A fortnight!\" she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the\nsame county with Elinor without seeing her before.\n\nHe looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying with\nsome friends near Plymouth.\n\n\"Have you been lately in Sussex?\" said Elinor.\n\n\"I was at Norland about a month ago.\"\n\n\"And how does dear, dear Norland look?\" cried Marianne.\n\n\"Dear, dear Norland,\" said Elinor, \"probably looks much as it always\ndoes at this time of the year--the woods and walks thickly covered\nwith dead leaves.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" cried Marianne, \"with what transporting sensation have I\nformerly seen them fall! How have I delighted, as I walked, to see\nthem driven in showers about me by the wind! What feelings have they,\nthe season, the air altogether inspired! Now there is no one to regard\nthem. They are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven\nas much as possible from the sight.\"\n\n\"It is not every one,\" said Elinor, \"who has your passion for dead\nleaves.\"\n\n\"No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood. But\n_sometimes_ they are.\" As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a\nfew moments; but rousing herself again, \"Now, Edward,\" said she,\ncalling his attention to the prospect, \"here is Barton valley. Look up\nto it, and be tranquil if you can. Look at those hills! Did you ever\nsee their equals? To the left is Barton park, amongst those woods and\nplantations. You may see the end of the house. And there, beneath that\nfarthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage.\"\n\n\"It is a beautiful country,\" he replied; \"but these bottoms must be\ndirty in winter.\"\n\n\"How can you think of dirt, with such objects before you?\"\n\n\"Because,\" replied he, smiling, \"among the rest of the objects before\nme, I see a very dirty lane.\"\n\n\"How strange!\" said Marianne to herself as she walked on.\n\n\"Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here? Are the Middletons pleasant\npeople?\"\n\n\"No, not all,\" answered Marianne; \"we could not be more unfortunately\nsituated.\"\n\n\"Marianne,\" cried her sister, \"how can you say so? How can you be so\nunjust? They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars; and towards\nus have behaved in the friendliest manner. Have you forgot, Marianne,\nhow many pleasant days we have owed to them?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Marianne, in a low voice, \"nor how many painful moments.\"\n\nElinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention to their\nvisitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by\ntalking of their present residence, its conveniences, &c. extorting\nfrom him occasional questions and remarks. His coldness and reserve\nmortified her severely; she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to\nregulate her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present,\nshe avoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated\nhim as she thought he ought to be treated from the family connection.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nMrs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his\ncoming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural.\nHer joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder. He received\nthe kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not\nstand against such a reception. They had begun to fail him before he\nentered the house, and they were quite overcome by the captivating\nmanners of Mrs. Dashwood. Indeed a man could not very well be in love\nwith either of her daughters, without extending the passion to her;\nand Elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like\nhimself. His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his\ninterest in their welfare again became perceptible. He was not in\nspirits, however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was\nattentive, and kind; but still he was not in spirits. The whole family\nperceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of\nliberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all\nselfish parents.\n\n\"What are Mrs. Ferrars's views for you at present, Edward?\" said she,\nwhen dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire; \"are you still\nto be a great orator in spite of yourself?\"\n\n\"No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents\nthan inclination for a public life!\"\n\n\"But how is your fame to be established? for famous you must be to\nsatisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no\naffection for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may find\nit a difficult matter.\"\n\n\"I shall not attempt it. I have no wish to be distinguished; and have\nevery reason to hope I never shall. Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced\ninto genius and eloquence.\"\n\n\"You have no ambition, I well know. Your wishes are all moderate.\"\n\n\"As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe. I wish as\nwell as every body else to be perfectly happy; but, like every body\nelse it must be in my own way. Greatness will not make me so.\"\n\n\"Strange that it would!\" cried Marianne. \"What have wealth or grandeur\nto do with happiness?\"\n\n\"Grandeur has but little,\" said Elinor, \"but wealth has much to do\nwith it.\"\n\n\"Elinor, for shame!\" said Marianne, \"money can only give happiness\nwhere there is nothing else to give it. Beyond a competence, it can\nafford no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Elinor, smiling, \"we may come to the same point.\n_Your_ competence and _my_ wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and\nwithout them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every\nkind of external comfort must be wanting. Your ideas are only more\nnoble than mine. Come, what is your competence?\"\n\n\"About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than _that._\"\n\nElinor laughed. \"_Two_ thousand a year! _One_ is my wealth! I guessed\nhow it would end.\"\n\n\"And yet two thousand a-year is a very moderate income,\" said\nMarianne. \"A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller. I am sure\nI am not extravagant in my demands. A proper establishment of\nservants, a carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on\nless.\"\n\nElinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their\nfuture expenses at Combe Magna.\n\n\"Hunters!\" repeated Edward; \"but why must you have hunters? Every body\ndoes not hunt.\"\n\nMarianne coloured as she replied, \"But most people do.\"\n\n\"I wish,\" said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, \"that somebody\nwould give us all a large fortune a-piece!\"\n\n\"Oh that they would!\" cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with\nanimation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary\nhappiness.\n\n\"We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose,\" said Elinor, \"in spite\nof the insufficiency of wealth.\"\n\n\"Oh dear!\" cried Margaret, \"how happy I should be! I wonder what I\nshould do with it!\"\n\nMarianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.\n\n\"I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself,\" said Mrs.\nDashwood, \"if my children were all to be rich without my help.\"\n\n\"You must begin your improvements on this house,\" observed Elinor,\n\"and your difficulties will soon vanish.\"\n\n\"What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London,\"\nsaid Edward, \"in such an event! What a happy day for booksellers,\nmusic-sellers, and print-shops! You, Miss Dashwood, would give a\ngeneral commission for every new print of merit to be sent you--and as\nfor Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music\nenough in London to content her. And books!--Thomson, Cowper,\nScott--she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up\nevery copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands;\nand she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old\ntwisted tree. Should not you, Marianne? Forgive me, if I am very\nsaucy. But I was willing to show you that I had not forgot our old\ndisputes.\"\n\n\"I love to be reminded of the past, Edward--whether it be melancholy\nor gay, I love to recall it--and you will never offend me by talking\nof former times. You are very right in supposing how my money would be\nspent; some of it, at least--my loose cash--would certainly be\nemployed in improving my collection of music and books.\"\n\n\"And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the\nauthors or their heirs.\"\n\n\"No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it.\"\n\n\"Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who\nwrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever\nbe in love more than once in their life--for your opinion on that\npoint is unchanged, I presume?\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed. It is\nnot likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them.\"\n\n\"Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see,\" said Elinor, \"she is not\nat all altered.\"\n\n\"She is only grown a little more grave than she was.\"\n\n\"Nay, Edward,\" said Marianne, \"you need not reproach me. You are not\nvery gay yourself.\"\n\n\"Why should you think so!\" replied he, with a sigh. \"But gaiety never\nwas a part of _my_ character.\"\n\n\"Nor do I think it a part of Marianne's,\" said Elinor; \"I should\nhardly call her a lively girl--she is very earnest, very eager in all\nshe does--sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation--but\nshe is not often really merry.\"\n\n\"I believe you are right,\" he replied, \"and yet I have always set her\ndown as a lively girl.\"\n\n\"I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes,\" said\nElinor, \"in a total misapprehension of character in some point or\nother: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or\nstupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the\ndeception originated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of\nthemselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them,\nwithout giving oneself time to deliberate and judge.\"\n\n\"But I thought it was right, Elinor,\" said Marianne, \"to be guided\nwholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were\ngiven us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has\nalways been your doctrine, I am sure.\"\n\n\"No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of\nthe understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the\nbehaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess,\nof having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with\ngreater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their\nsentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?\"\n\n\"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of\ngeneral civility,\" said Edward to Elinor, \"Do you gain no ground?\"\n\n\"Quite the contrary,\" replied Elinor, looking expressively at\nMarianne.\n\n\"My judgment,\" he returned, \"is all on your side of the question; but\nI am afraid my practice is much more on your sister's. I never wish to\noffend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I\nam only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought\nthat I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I\nam so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!\"\n\n\"Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers,\" said\nElinor.\n\n\"She knows her own worth too well for false shame,\" replied Edward.\n\"Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or\nother. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy\nand graceful, I should not be shy.\"\n\n\"But you would still be reserved,\" said Marianne, \"and that is worse.\"\n\nEdward started. \"Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?\"\n\n\"Yes, very.\"\n\n\"I do not understand you,\" replied he, colouring. \"Reserved!--how, in\nwhat manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?\"\n\nElinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the\nsubject, she said to him, \"Do not you know my sister well enough to\nunderstand what she means? Do not you know she calls every one\nreserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as\nrapturously as herself?\"\n\nEdward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him\nin their fullest extent--and he sat for some time silent and dull.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\nElinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His\nvisit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own\nenjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was\nunhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still\ndistinguished her by the same affection which once she had felt no\ndoubt of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference\nseemed very uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her\ncontradicted one moment what a more animated look had intimated the\npreceding one.\n\nHe joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning\nbefore the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to\npromote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to\nthemselves. But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour\ndoor open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself\ncome out.\n\n\"I am going into the village to see my horses,\" said he, \"as you are\nnot yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEdward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding\ncountry; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the\nvalley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher\nsituation than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole,\nwhich had exceedingly pleased him. This was a subject which ensured\nMarianne's attention, and she was beginning to describe her own\nadmiration of these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the\nobjects that had particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her\nby saying, \"You must not enquire too far, Marianne: remember I have no\nknowledge in the picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance\nand want of taste if we come to particulars. I shall call hills steep,\nwhich ought to be bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to\nbe irregular and rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought\nonly to be indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere.\nYou must be satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give. I\ncall it a very fine country,--the hills are steep, the woods seem full\nof fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug,--with rich\nmeadows and several neat farm houses scattered here and there. It\nexactly answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty\nwith utility--and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you\nadmire it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and\npromontories, grey moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me.\nI know nothing of the picturesque.\"\n\n\"I am afraid it is but too true,\" said Marianne; \"but why should you\nboast of it?\"\n\n\"I suspect,\" said Elinor, \"that to avoid one kind of affectation,\nEdward here falls into another. Because he believes many people\npretend to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really\nfeel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater\nindifference and less discrimination in viewing them himself than he\npossesses. He is fastidious and will have an affectation of his own.\"\n\n\"It is very true,\" said Marianne, \"that admiration of landscape\nscenery is become a mere jargon. Every body pretends to feel and tries\nto describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what\npicturesque beauty was. I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I\nhave kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to\ndescribe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and\nmeaning.\"\n\n\"I am convinced,\" said Edward, \"that you really feel all the delight\nin a fine prospect which you profess to feel. But, in return, your\nsister must allow me to feel no more than I profess. I like a fine\nprospect, but not on picturesque principles. I do not like crooked,\ntwisted, blasted trees. I admire them much more if they are tall,\nstraight, and flourishing. I do not like ruined, tattered cottages. I\nam not fond of nettles or thistles, or heath blossoms. I have more\npleasure in a snug farm-house than a watch-tower,--and a troop of\ntidy, happy villages please me better than the finest banditti in the\nworld.\"\n\nMarianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her\nsister. Elinor only laughed.\n\nThe subject was continued no farther; and Marianne remained\nthoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention.\nShe was sitting by Edward, and in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood,\nhis hand passed so directly before her, as to make a ring, with a\nplait of hair in the centre, very conspicuous on one of his fingers.\n\n\"I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward,\" she cried. \"Is that\nFanny's hair? I remember her promising to give you some. But I should\nhave thought her hair had been darker.\"\n\nMarianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt; but when she saw\nhow much she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of\nthought could not be surpassed by his. He coloured very deeply, and\ngiving a momentary glance at Elinor, replied, \"Yes; it is my sister's\nhair. The setting always casts a different shade on it, you know.\"\n\nElinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise. That the hair\nwas her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne;\nthe only difference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne\nconsidered as a free gift from her sister, Elinor was conscious must\nhave been procured by some theft or contrivance unknown to herself.\nShe was not in a humour, however, to regard it as an affront, and\naffecting to take no notice of what passed, by instantly talking of\nsomething else, she internally resolved henceforward to catch every\nopportunity of eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyond all\ndoubt, that it was exactly the shade of her own.\n\nEdward's embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an absence of\nmind still more settled. He was particularly grave the whole morning.\nMarianne severely censured herself for what she had said; but her own\nforgiveness might have been more speedy, had she known how little\noffence it had given her sister.\n\nBefore the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir John and Mrs.\nJennings, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the\ncottage, came to take a survey of the guest. With the assistance of\nhis mother-in-law, Sir John was not long in discovering that the name\nof Ferrars began with an F. and this prepared a future mine of\nraillery against the devoted Elinor, which nothing but the newness of\ntheir acquaintance with Edward could have prevented from being\nimmediately sprung. But, as it was, she only learned, from some very\nsignificant looks, how far their penetration, founded on Margaret's\ninstructions, extended.\n\nSir John never came to the Dashwoods without either inviting them to\ndine at the park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening.\nOn the present occasion, for the better entertainment of their\nvisitor, towards whose amusement he felt himself bound to contribute,\nhe wished to engage them for both.\n\n\"You _must_ drink tea with us to night,\" said he, \"for we shall be\nquite alone; and tomorrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we\nshall be a large party.\"\n\nMrs. Jennings enforced the necessity. \"And who knows but you may raise\na dance,\" said she. \"And that will tempt _you_, Miss Marianne.\"\n\n\"A dance!\" cried Marianne. \"Impossible! Who is to dance?\"\n\n[Illustration: _Came to take a survey of the guest._]\n\n\"Who? why yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers to be sure.\nWhat! you thought nobody could dance because a certain person that\nshall be nameless is gone!\"\n\n\"I wish with all my soul,\" cried Sir John, \"that Willoughby were among\nus again.\"\n\nThis, and Marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward. \"And who\nis Willoughby?\" said he, in a low voice, to Miss Dashwood, by whom he\nwas sitting.\n\nShe gave him a brief reply. Marianne's countenance was more\ncommunicative. Edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning\nof others, but such of Marianne's expressions as had puzzled him\nbefore; and when their visitors left them, he went immediately round\nher, and said, in a whisper, \"I have been guessing. Shall I tell you\nmy guess?\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Shall I tell you.\"\n\n\"Certainly.\"\n\n\"Well then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts.\"\n\nMarianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling at\nthe quiet archness of his manner, and after a moment's silence, said--\n\n\"Oh, Edward! How can you?--But the time will come I hope--I am sure\nyou will like him.\"\n\n\"I do not doubt it,\" replied he, rather astonished at her earnestness\nand warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of\nher acquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing\nbetween Mr. Willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to\nmention it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\n\nEdward remained a week at the cottage; he was earnestly pressed by\nMrs. Dashwood to stay longer; but, as if he were bent only on\nself-mortification, he seemed resolved to be gone when his enjoyment\namong his friends was at the height. His spirits, during the last two\nor three days, though still very unequal, were greatly improved--he\ngrew more and more partial to the house and environs--never spoke of\ngoing away without a sigh--declared his time to be wholly\ndisengaged--even doubted to what place he should go when he left\nthem--but still, go he must. Never had any week passed so quickly--he\ncould hardly believe it to be gone. He said so repeatedly; other\nthings he said too, which marked the turn of his feelings and gave the\nlie to his actions. He had no pleasure at Norland; he detested being\nin town; but either to Norland or London, he must go. He valued their\nkindness beyond any thing, and his greatest happiness was in being\nwith them. Yet, he must leave them at the end of a week, in spite of\ntheir wishes and his own, and without any restraint on his time.\n\nElinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to his\nmother's account; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whose\ncharacter was so imperfectly known to her, as to be the general excuse\nfor every thing strange on the part of her son. Disappointed, however,\nand vexed as she was, and sometimes displeased with his uncertain\nbehaviour to herself, she was very well disposed on the whole to\nregard his actions with all the candid allowances and generous\nqualifications, which had been rather more painfully extorted from\nher, for Willoughby's service, by her mother. His want of spirits, of\nopenness, and of consistency, were most usually attributed to his want\nof independence, and his better knowledge of Mrs. Ferrars's\ndisposition and designs. The shortness of his visit, the steadiness of\nhis purpose in leaving them, originated in the same fettered\ninclination, the same inevitable necessity of temporizing with his\nmother. The old well-established grievance of duty against will,\nparent against child, was the cause of all. She would have been glad\nto know when these difficulties were to cease, this opposition was to\nyield, when Mrs. Ferrars would be reformed, and her son be at liberty\nto be happy. But from such vain wishes she was forced to turn for\ncomfort to the renewal of her confidence in Edward's affection, to the\nremembrance of every mark of regard in look or word which fell from\nhim while at Barton, and above all to that flattering proof of it\nwhich he constantly wore round his finger.\n\n\"I think, Edward,\" said Mrs. Dashwood, as they were at breakfast the\nlast morning, \"you would be a happier man if you had any profession to\nengage your time and give an interest to your plans and actions. Some\ninconvenience to your friends, indeed, might result from it--you would\nnot be able to give them so much of your time. But (with a smile) you\nwould be materially benefited in one particular at least--you would\nknow where to go when you left them.\"\n\n\"I do assure you,\" he replied, \"that I have long thought on this\npoint, as you think now. It has been, and is, and probably will always\nbe a heavy misfortune to me, that I have had no necessary business to\nengage me, no profession to give me employment, or afford me any thing\nlike independence. But unfortunately my own nicety, and the nicety of\nmy friends, have made me what I am, an idle, helpless being. We never\ncould agree in our choice of a profession. I always preferred the\nchurch, as I still do. But that was not smart enough for my family.\nThey recommended the army. That was a great deal too smart for me. The\nlaw was allowed to be genteel enough; many young men, who had chambers\nin the Temple, made a very good appearance in the first circles, and\ndrove about town in very knowing gigs. But I had no inclination for\nthe law, even in this less abstruse study of it, which my family\napproved. As for the navy, it had fashion on its side, but I was too\nold when the subject was first started to enter it; and, at length, as\nthere was no necessity for my having any profession at all, as I might\nbe as dashing and expensive without a red coat on my back as with one,\nidleness was pronounced on the whole to be most advantageous and\nhonourable, and a young man of eighteen is not in general so earnestly\nbent on being busy as to resist the solicitations of his friends to do\nnothing. I was therefore entered at Oxford and have been properly idle\never since.\"\n\n\"The consequence of which, I suppose, will be,\" said Mrs. Dashwood,\n\"since leisure has not promoted your own happiness, that your sons\nwill be brought up to as many pursuits, employments, professions, and\ntrades as Columella's.\"\n\n\"They will be brought up,\" said he, in a serious accent, \"to be as\nunlike myself as is possible. In feeling, in action, in condition, in\nevery thing.\"\n\n\"Come, come; this is all an effusion of immediate want of spirits,\nEdward. You are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that any one unlike\nyourself must be happy. But remember that the pain of parting from\nfriends will be felt by every body at times, whatever be their\neducation or state. Know your own happiness. You want nothing but\npatience--or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope. Your\nmother will secure to you, in time, that independence you are so\nanxious for; it is her duty, and it will, it must ere long become her\nhappiness to prevent your whole youth from being wasted in discontent.\nHow much may not a few months do?\"\n\n\"I think,\" replied Edward, \"that I may defy many months to produce any\ngood to me.\"\n\nThis desponding turn of mind, though it could not be communicated to\nMrs. Dashwood, gave additional pain to them all in the parting, which\nshortly took place, and left an uncomfortable impression on Elinor's\nfeelings especially, which required some trouble and time to subdue.\nBut as it was her determination to subdue it, and to prevent herself\nfrom appearing to suffer more than what all her family suffered on his\ngoing away, she did not adopt the method so judiciously employed by\nMarianne, on a similar occasion, to augment and fix her sorrow, by\nseeking silence, solitude and idleness. Their means were as different\nas their objects, and equally suited to the advancement of each.\n\nElinor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as he was out of the\nhouse, busily employed herself the whole day, neither sought nor\navoided the mention of his name, appeared to interest herself almost\nas much as ever in the general concerns of the family, and if, by this\nconduct, she did not lessen her own grief, it was at least prevented\nfrom unnecessary increase, and her mother and sisters were spared much\nsolicitude on her account.\n\nSuch behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared no\nmore meritorious to Marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her.\nThe business of self-command she settled very easily;--with strong\naffections it was impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit.\nThat her sister's affections _were_ calm, she dared not deny, though\nshe blushed to acknowledge it; and of the strength of her own, she\ngave a very striking proof, by still loving and respecting that\nsister, in spite of this mortifying conviction.\n\nWithout shutting herself up from her family, or leaving the house in\ndetermined solitude to avoid them, or lying awake the whole night to\nindulge meditation, Elinor found every day afforded her leisure enough\nto think of Edward, and of Edward's behaviour, in every possible\nvariety which the different state of her spirits at different times\ncould produce,--with tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and\ndoubt. There were moments in abundance, when, if not by the absence of\nher mother and sisters, at least by the nature of their employments,\nconversation was forbidden among them, and every effect of solitude\nwas produced. Her mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts could\nnot be chained elsewhere; and the past and the future, on a subject so\ninteresting, must be before her, must force her attention, and engross\nher memory, her reflection, and her fancy.\n\nFrom a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she was\nroused one morning, soon after Edward's leaving them, by the arrival\nof company. She happened to be quite alone. The closing of the little\ngate, at the entrance of the green court in front of the house, drew\nher eyes to the window, and she saw a large party walking up to the\ndoor. Amongst them were Sir John and Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings,\nbut there were two others, a gentleman and lady, who were quite\nunknown to her. She was sitting near the window, and as soon as Sir\nJohn perceived her, he left the rest of the party to the ceremony of\nknocking at the door, and stepping across the turf, obliged her to\nopen the casement to speak to him, though the space was so short\nbetween the door and the window, as to make it hardly possible to\nspeak at one without being heard at the other.\n\n\"Well,\" said he, \"we have brought you some strangers. How do you like\nthem?\"\n\n\"Hush! they will hear you.\"\n\n\"Never mind if they do. It is only the Palmers. Charlotte is very\npretty, I can tell you. You may see her if you look this way.\"\n\nAs Elinor was certain of seeing her in a couple of minutes, without\ntaking that liberty, she begged to be excused.\n\n\"Where is Marianne? Has she run away because we are come? I see her\ninstrument is open.\"\n\n\"She is walking, I believe.\"\n\nThey were now joined by Mrs. Jennings, who had not patience enough to\nwait till the door was opened before she told _her_ story. She came\nhallooing to the window, \"How do you do, my dear? How does Mrs.\nDashwood do? And where are your sisters? What! all alone! you will be\nglad of a little company to sit with you. I have brought my other son\nand daughter to see you. Only think of their coming so suddenly! I\nthought I heard a carriage last night, while we were drinking our tea,\nbut it never entered my head that it could be them. I thought of\nnothing but whether it might not be Colonel Brandon come back again;\nso I said to Sir John, I do think I hear a carriage; perhaps it is\nColonel Brandon come back again--\"\n\nElinor was obliged to turn from her, in the middle of her story, to\nreceive the rest of the party; Lady Middleton introduced the two\nstrangers; Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret came down stairs at the same\ntime, and they all sat down to look at one another, while Mrs.\nJennings continued her story as she walked through the passage into\nthe parlour, attended by Sir John.\n\nMrs. Palmer was several years younger than Lady Middleton, and totally\nunlike her in every respect. She was short and plump, had a very\npretty face, and the finest expression of good humour in it that could\npossibly be. Her manners were by no means so elegant as her sister's,\nbut they were much more prepossessing. She came in with a smile,\nsmiled all the time of her visit, except when she laughed, and smiled\nwhen she went away. Her husband was a grave looking young man of five\nor six and twenty, with an air of more fashion and sense than his\nwife, but of less willingness to please or be pleased. He entered the\nroom with a look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies,\nwithout speaking a word, and, after briefly surveying them and their\napartments, took up a newspaper from the table, and continued to read\nit as long as he stayed.\n\nMrs. Palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature with\na turn for being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before\nher admiration of the parlour and every thing in it burst forth.\n\n\"Well! what a delightful room this is! I never saw anything so\ncharming! Only think, Mamma, how it is improved since I was here last!\nI always thought it such a sweet place, ma'am! (turning to Mrs.\nDashwood) but you have made it so charming! Only look, sister, how\ndelightful every thing is! How I should like such a house for myself!\nShould not you, Mr. Palmer?\"\n\nMr. Palmer made her no answer, and did not even raise his eyes from\nthe newspaper.\n\n\"Mr. Palmer does not hear me,\" said she, laughing; \"he never does\nsometimes. It is so ridiculous!\"\n\nThis was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood; she had never been used to\nfind wit in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking\nwith surprise at them both.\n\nMrs. Jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and\ncontinued her account of their surprise, the evening before, on seeing\ntheir friends, without ceasing till every thing was told. Mrs. Palmer\nlaughed heartily at the recollection of their astonishment, and every\nbody agreed, two or three times over, that it had been quite an\nagreeable surprise.\n\n\"You may believe how glad we all were to see them,\" added Mrs.\nJennings, leaning forward towards Elinor, and speaking in a low voice\nas if she meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on\ndifferent sides of the room; \"but, however, I can't help wishing they\nhad not travelled quite so fast, nor made such a long journey of it,\nfor they came all round by London upon account of some business, for\nyou know (nodding significantly and pointing to her daughter) it was\nwrong in her situation. I wanted her to stay at home and rest this\nmorning, but she would come with us; she longed so much to see you\nall!\"\n\nMrs. Palmer laughed, and said it would not do her any harm.\n\n\"She expects to be confined in February,\" continued Mrs. Jennings.\n\nLady Middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and\ntherefore exerted herself to ask Mr. Palmer if there was any news in\nthe paper.\n\n\"No, none at all,\" he replied, and read on.\n\n\"Here comes Marianne,\" cried Sir John. \"Now, Palmer, you shall see a\nmonstrous pretty girl.\"\n\nHe immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and\nushered her in himself. Mrs. Jennings asked her, as soon as she\nappeared, if she had not been to Allenham; and Mrs. Palmer laughed so\nheartily at the question, as to show she understood it. Mr. Palmer\nlooked up on her entering the room, stared at her some minutes, and\nthen returned to his newspaper. Mrs. Palmer's eye was now caught by\nthe drawings which hung round the room. She got up to examine them.\n\n[Illustration: \"_I declare they are quite charming_.\"]\n\n\"Oh! dear, how beautiful these are! Well! how delightful! Do but look,\nmama, how sweet! I declare they are quite charming; I could look at\nthem for ever.\" And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot that\nthere were any such things in the room.\n\nWhen Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid down\nthe newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all around.\n\n\"My love, have you been asleep?\" said his wife, laughing.\n\nHe made her no answer; and only observed, after again examining the\nroom, that it was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked.\nHe then made his bow, and departed with the rest.\n\nSir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at\nthe park. Mrs. Dashwood, who did not choose to dine with them oftener\nthan they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account;\nher daughters might do as they pleased. But they had no curiosity to\nsee how Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of\npleasure from them in any other way. They attempted, therefore,\nlikewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was uncertain, and not\nlikely to be good. But Sir John would not be satisfied--the carriage\nshould be sent for them and they must come. Lady Middleton too, though\nshe did not press their mother, pressed them. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs.\nPalmer joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a\nfamily party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield.\n\n\"Why should they ask us?\" said Marianne, as soon as they were gone.\n\"The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very\nhard terms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying\neither with them, or with us.\"\n\n\"They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now,\" said Elinor, \"by\nthese frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them\na few weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their parties are\ngrown tedious and dull. We must look for the change elsewhere.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\n\nAs the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next\nday, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as\ngood humoured and merry as before. She took them all most\naffectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them\nagain.\n\n\"I am so glad to see you!\" said she, seating herself between Elinor\nand Marianne, \"for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come,\nwhich would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. We must\ngo, for the Westons come to us next week you know. It was quite a\nsudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the\ncarriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I\nwould go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me any\nthing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet\nagain in town very soon, I hope.\"\n\nThey were obliged to put an end to such an expectation.\n\n\"Not go to town!\" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, \"I shall be quite\ndisappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in world for\nyou, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I am\nsure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am\nconfined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public.\"\n\nThey thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties.\n\n\"Oh, my love,\" cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered\nthe room--\"you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to\ntown this winter.\"\n\nHer love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies,\nbegan complaining of the weather.\n\n\"How horrid all this is!\" said he. \"Such weather makes every thing and\nevery body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as\nwithout, by rain. It makes one detest all one's acquaintance. What the\ndevil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house?\nHow few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the\nweather.\"\n\nThe rest of the company soon dropt in.\n\n\"I am afraid, Miss Marianne,\" said Sir John, \"you have not been able\nto take your usual walk to Allenham today.\"\n\nMarianne looked very grave and said nothing.\n\n\"Oh, don't be so sly before us,\" said Mrs. Palmer; \"for we know all\nabout it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think\nhe is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the\ncountry, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say.\"\n\n\"Much nearer thirty,\" said her husband.\n\n\"Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but\nthey say it is a sweet pretty place.\"\n\n\"As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life,\" said Mr. Palmer.\n\nMarianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed\nher interest in what was said.\n\n\"Is it very ugly?\" continued Mrs. Palmer--\"then it must be some other\nplace that is so pretty I suppose.\"\n\nWhen they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with\nregret that they were only eight all together.\n\n\"My dear,\" said he to his lady, \"it is very provoking that we should\nbe so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?\"\n\n\"Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before,\nthat it could not be done? They dined with us last.\"\n\n\"You and I, Sir John,\" said Mrs. Jennings, \"should not stand upon such\nceremony.\"\n\n\"Then you would be very ill-bred,\" cried Mr. Palmer.\n\n\"My love you contradict every body,\" said his wife with her usual\nlaugh. \"Do you know that you are quite rude?\"\n\n\"I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother\nill-bred.\"\n\n\"Ay, you may abuse me as you please,\" said the good-natured old lady,\n\"you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back\nagain. So there I have the whip hand of you.\"\n\nCharlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid\nof her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her,\nas they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more\nthoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs.\nPalmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her\nhusband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was\nhighly diverted.\n\n\"Mr. Palmer is so droll!\" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. \"He is\nalways out of humour.\"\n\nElinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him\ncredit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred\nas he wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by\nfinding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable\nbias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly\nwoman,--but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any\nsensible man to be lastingly hurt by it. It was rather a wish of\ndistinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment\nof every body, and his general abuse of every thing before him. It was\nthe desire of appearing superior to other people. The motive was too\ncommon to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by\nestablishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to\nattach any one to him except his wife.\n\n\"Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood,\" said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, \"I have\ngot such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and\nspend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do,--and come\nwhile the Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be!\nIt will be quite delightful!--My love,\" applying to her husband,\n\"don't you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" he replied, with a sneer--\"I came into Devonshire with no\nother view.\"\n\n\"There now,\"--said his lady, \"you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you\ncannot refuse to come.\"\n\nThey both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation.\n\n\"But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of all\nthings. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful.\nYou cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay\nnow, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing\nagainst the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I\nnever saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very\nfatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him.\"\n\nElinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the\nhardship of such an obligation.\n\n\"How charming it will be,\" said Charlotte, \"when he is in\nParliament!--won't it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to\nsee all his letters directed to him with an M.P. But do you know, he\nsays, he will never frank for me? He declares he won't. Don't you, Mr.\nPalmer?\"\n\nMr. Palmer took no notice of her.\n\n\"He cannot bear writing, you know,\" she continued; \"he says it is\nquite shocking.\"\n\n\"No,\" said he, \"I never said any thing so irrational. Don't palm all\nyour abuses of languages upon me.\"\n\n\"There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him!\nSometimes he won't speak to me for half a day together, and then he\ncomes out with something so droll--all about any thing in the world.\"\n\nShe surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room,\nby asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively.\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Elinor; \"he seems very agreeable.\"\n\n\"Well--I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant;\nand Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can\ntell you, and you can't think how disappointed he will be if you don't\ncome to Cleveland. I can't imagine why you should object to it.\"\n\nElinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing\nthe subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable\nthat as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to\ngive some more particular account of Willoughby's general character,\nthan could be gathered from the Middletons' partial acquaintance with\nhim; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of\nhis merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She\nbegan by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland,\nand whether they were intimately acquainted with him.\n\n\"Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well,\" replied Mrs. Palmer;--\"Not\nthat I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in\ntown. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while\nhe was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before, but I was with my\nuncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great\ndeal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily\nthat we should never have been in the country together. He is very\nlittle at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do\nnot think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you\nknow, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about\nhim, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of\nit, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know.\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" replied Elinor, \"you know much more of the matter than\nI do, if you have any reason to expect such a match.\"\n\n\"Don't pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body\ntalks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town.\"\n\n\"My dear Mrs. Palmer!\"\n\n\"Upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in\nBond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly.\"\n\n\"You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely you\nmust be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not\nbe interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect\nColonel Brandon to do.\"\n\n\"But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how\nit happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and\nso we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and\nanother, and I said to him, 'So, Colonel, there is a new family come\nto Barton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very\npretty, and that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby\nof Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you\nhave been in Devonshire so lately.'\"\n\n\"And what did the Colonel say?\"\n\n\"Oh--he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true,\nso from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite\ndelightful, I declare! When is it to take place?\"\n\n\"Mr. Brandon was very well I hope?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but\nsay fine things of you.\"\n\n\"I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and I\nthink him uncommonly pleasing.\"\n\n\"So do I. He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should\nbe so grave and so dull. Mamma says _he_ was in love with your sister\ntoo. I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly\never falls in love with any body.\"\n\n\"Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?\" said\nElinor.\n\n\"Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are\nacquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all\nthink him extremely agreeable I assure you. Nobody is more liked than\nMr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. She\nis a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he\nis much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and\nagreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her. However, I don't\nthink her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you; for I think\nyou both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too I am sure,\nthough we could not get him to own it last night.\"\n\nMrs. Palmer's information respecting Willoughby was not very material;\nbut any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to her.\n\n\"I am so glad we are got acquainted at last,\" continued Charlotte.\n\"And now I hope we shall always be great friends. You can't think how\nmuch I longed to see you! It is so delightful that you should live at\nthe cottage! Nothing can be like it, to be sure! And I am so glad your\nsister is going to be well married! I hope you will be a great deal at\nCombe Magna. It is a sweet place, by all accounts.\"\n\n\"You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have not you?\"\n\n\"Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married. He was a particular\nfriend of Sir John's. I believe,\" she added in a low voice, \"he would\nhave been very glad to have had me, if he could. Sir John and Lady\nMiddleton wished it very much. But mama did not think the match good\nenough for me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the\nColonel, and we should have been married immediately.\"\n\n\"Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John's proposal to your mother\nbefore it was made? Had he never owned his affection to yourself?\"\n\n\"Oh, no; but if mama had not objected to it, I dare say he would have\nliked it of all things. He had not seen me then above twice, for it\nwas before I left school. However, I am much happier as I am. Mr.\nPalmer is the kind of man I like.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\n\nThe Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two families\nat Barton were again left to entertain each other. But this did not\nlast long; Elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her head,\nhad hardly done wondering at Charlotte's being so happy without a\ncause, at Mr. Palmer's acting so simply, with good abilities, and at\nthe strange unsuitableness which often existed between husband and\nwife, before Sir John's and Mrs. Jennings's active zeal in the cause\nof society, procured her some other new acquaintance to see and\nobserve.\n\nIn a morning's excursion to Exeter, they had met with two young\nladies, whom Mrs. Jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be\nher relations, and this was enough for Sir John to invite them\ndirectly to the park, as soon as their present engagements at Exeter\nwere over. Their engagements at Exeter instantly gave way before such\nan invitation, and Lady Middleton was thrown into no little alarm on\nthe return of Sir John, by hearing that she was very soon to receive a\nvisit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, and of whose\nelegance--whose tolerable gentility even--she could have no proof; for\nthe assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for\nnothing at all. Their being her relations too made it so much the\nworse; and Mrs. Jennings's attempts at consolation were therefore\nunfortunately founded, when she advised her daughter not to care about\ntheir being so fashionable; because they were all cousins and must put\nup with one another. As it was impossible, however, now to prevent\ntheir coming, Lady Middleton resigned herself to the idea of it, with\nall the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting herself with\nmerely giving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or\nsix times every day.\n\nThe young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no means ungenteel\nor unfashionable. Their dress was very smart, their manners very\ncivil, they were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the\nfurniture, and they happened to be so doatingly fond of children that\nLady Middleton's good opinion was engaged in their favour before they\nhad been an hour at the Park. She declared them to be very agreeable\ngirls indeed, which for her ladyship was enthusiastic admiration. Sir\nJohn's confidence in his own judgment rose with this animated praise,\nand he set off directly for the cottage to tell the Miss Dashwoods of\nthe Miss Steeles' arrival, and to assure them of their being the\nsweetest girls in the world. From such commendation as this, however,\nthere was not much to be learned; Elinor well knew that the sweetest\ngirls in the world were to be met with in every part of England, under\nevery possible variation of form, face, temper and understanding. Sir\nJohn wanted the whole family to walk to the Park directly and look at\nhis guests. Benevolent, philanthropic man! It was painful to him even\nto keep a third cousin to himself.\n\n\"Do come now,\" said he--\"pray come--you must come--I declare you shall\ncome--You can't think how you will like them. Lucy is monstrous\npretty, and so good humoured and agreeable! The children are all\nhanging about her already, as if she was an old acquaintance. And they\nboth long to see you of all things, for they have heard at Exeter that\nyou are the most beautiful creatures in the world; and I have told\nthem it is all very true, and a great deal more. You will be delighted\nwith them I am sure. They have brought the whole coach full of\nplaythings for the children. How can you be so cross as not to come?\nWhy they are your cousins, you know, after a fashion. _You_ are my\ncousins, and they are my wife's, so you must be related.\"\n\nBut Sir John could not prevail. He could only obtain a promise of\ntheir calling at the Park within a day or two, and then left them in\namazement at their indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their\nattractions to the Miss Steeles, as he had been already boasting of\nthe Miss Steeles to them.\n\nWhen their promised visit to the Park and consequent introduction to\nthese young ladies took place, they found in the appearance of the\neldest, who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible\nface, nothing to admire; but in the other, who was not more than two\nor three and twenty, they acknowledged considerable beauty; her\nfeatures were pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a smartness\nof air, which though it did not give actual elegance or grace, gave\ndistinction to her person. Their manners were particularly civil, and\nElinor soon allowed them credit for some kind of sense, when she saw\nwith what constant and judicious attention they were making themselves\nagreeable to Lady Middleton. With her children they were in continual\nraptures, extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring\ntheir whims; and such of their time as could be spared from the\nimportunate demands which this politeness made on it, was spent in\nadmiration of whatever her ladyship was doing, if she happened to be\ndoing any thing, or in taking patterns of some elegant new dress, in\nwhich her appearance the day before had thrown them into unceasing\ndelight. Fortunately for those who pay their court through such\nfoibles, a fond mother, though, in pursuit of praise for her children,\nthe most rapacious of human beings, is likewise the most credulous;\nher demands are exorbitant; but she will swallow any thing; and the\nexcessive affection and endurance of the Miss Steeles towards her\noffspring were viewed therefore by Lady Middleton without the smallest\nsurprise or distrust. She saw with maternal complacency all the\nimpertinent encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins\nsubmitted. She saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their\nears, their work-bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen\naway, and felt no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment. It\nsuggested no other surprise than that Elinor and Marianne should sit\nso composedly by, without claiming a share in what was passing.\n\n\"John is in such spirits today!\" said she, on his taking Miss Steele's\npocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window--\"He is full of\nmonkey tricks.\"\n\nAnd soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one of the\nsame lady's fingers, she fondly observed, \"How playful William is!\"\n\n[Illustration: _Mischievous tricks._]\n\n\"And here is my sweet little Annamaria,\" she added, tenderly caressing\na little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the\nlast two minutes; \"And she is always so gentle and quiet--Never was\nthere such a quiet little thing!\"\n\nBut unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship's\nhead dress slightly scratching the child's neck, produced from this\npattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone\nby any creature professedly noisy. The mother's consternation was\nexcessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and\nevery thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which\naffection could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little\nsufferer. She was seated in her mother's lap, covered with kisses, her\nwound bathed with lavender-water, by one of the Miss Steeles, who was\non her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by\nthe other. With such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to\ncease crying. She still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two\nbrothers for offering to touch her, and all their united soothings\nwere ineffectual till Lady Middleton luckily remembering that in a\nscene of similar distress last week, some apricot marmalade had been\nsuccessfully applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly\nproposed for this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of\nscreams in the young lady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that\nit would not be rejected. She was carried out of the room therefore in\nher mother's arms, in quest of this medicine, and as the two boys\nchose to follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay\nbehind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room\nhad not known for many hours.\n\n\"Poor little creatures!\" said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone.\n\"It might have been a very sad accident.\"\n\n\"Yet I hardly know how,\" cried Marianne, \"unless it had been under\ntotally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of\nheightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in\nreality.\"\n\n\"What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!\" said Lucy Steele.\n\nMarianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not\nfeel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor therefore the\nwhole task of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell.\nShe did her best when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton\nwith more warmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy.\n\n\"And Sir John too,\" cried the elder sister, \"what a charming man he\nis!\"\n\nHere too, Miss Dashwood's commendation, being only simple and just,\ncame in without any eclat. She merely observed that he was perfectly\ngood humoured and friendly.\n\n\"And what a charming little family they have! I never saw such fine\nchildren in my life. I declare I quite doat upon them already, and\nindeed I am always distractedly fond of children.\"\n\n\"I should guess so,\" said Elinor, with a smile, \"from what I have\nwitnessed this morning.\"\n\n\"I have a notion,\" said Lucy, \"you think the little Middletons rather\ntoo much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it\nis so natural in Lady Middleton; and for my part, I love to see\nchildren full of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame\nand quiet.\"\n\n\"I confess,\" replied Elinor, \"that while I am at Barton Park, I never\nthink of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence.\"\n\nA short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss\nSteele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now\nsaid rather abruptly, \"And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood?\nI suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex.\"\n\nIn some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of\nthe manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was.\n\n\"Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?\" added Miss\nSteele.\n\n\"We have heard Sir John admire it excessively,\" said Lucy, who seemed\nto think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister.\n\n\"I think every one _must_ admire it,\" replied Elinor, \"who ever saw\nthe place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate\nits beauties as we do.\"\n\n\"And had you a great many smart beaux there? I suppose you have not so\nmany in this part of the world; for my part, I think they are a vast\naddition always.\"\n\n\"But why should you think,\" said Lucy, looking ashamed of her sister,\n\"that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as\nSussex?\"\n\n\"Nay, my dear, I'm sure I don't pretend to say that there an't. I'm\nsure there's a vast many smart beaux in Exeter; but you know, how\ncould I tell what smart beaux there might be about Norland; and I was\nonly afraid the Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they\nhad not so many as they used to have. But perhaps you young ladies may\nnot care about the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with\nthem. For my part, I think they are vastly agreeable, provided they\ndress smart and behave civil. But I can't bear to see them dirty and\nnasty. Now there's Mr. Rose at Exeter, a prodigious smart young man,\nquite a beau, clerk to Mr. Simpson, you know, and yet if you do but\nmeet him of a morning, he is not fit to be seen. I suppose your\nbrother was quite a beau, Miss Dashwood, before he married, as he was\nso rich?\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" replied Elinor, \"I cannot tell you, for I do not\nperfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. But this I can say, that\nif he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still for there is\nnot the smallest alteration in him.\"\n\n\"Oh! dear! one never thinks of married men's being beaux--they have\nsomething else to do.\"\n\n\"Lord! Anne,\" cried her sister, \"you can talk of nothing but\nbeaux;--you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing\nelse.\" And then to turn the discourse, she began admiring the house\nand the furniture.\n\nThis specimen of the Miss Steeles was enough. The vulgar freedom and\nfolly of the eldest left her no recommendation, and as Elinor was not\nblinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want\nof real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish\nof knowing them better.\n\nNot so the Miss Steeles. They came from Exeter, well provided with\nadmiration for the use of Sir John Middleton, his family, and all his\nrelations, and no niggardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair\ncousins, whom they declared to be the most beautiful, elegant,\naccomplished, and agreeable girls they had ever beheld, and with whom\nthey were particularly anxious to be better acquainted. And to be\nbetter acquainted therefore, Elinor soon found was their inevitable\nlot, for as Sir John was entirely on the side of the Miss Steeles,\ntheir party would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of\nintimacy must be submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or\ntwo together in the same room almost every day. Sir John could do no\nmore; but he did not know that any more was required: to be together\nwas, in his opinion, to be intimate, and while his continual schemes\nfor their meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of their being\nestablished friends.\n\nTo do him justice, he did every thing in his power to promote their\nunreserve, by making the Miss Steeles acquainted with whatever he knew\nor supposed of his cousins' situations in the most delicate\nparticulars,--and Elinor had not seen them more than twice, before the\neldest of them wished her joy on her sister's having been so lucky as\nto make a conquest of a very smart beau since she came to Barton.\n\n\"'Twill be a fine thing to have her married so young to be sure,\" said\nshe, \"and I hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious handsome. And I\nhope you may have as good luck yourself soon,--but perhaps you may\nhave a friend in the corner already.\"\n\nElinor could not suppose that Sir John would be more nice in\nproclaiming his suspicions of her regard for Edward, than he had been\nwith respect to Marianne; indeed it was rather his favourite joke of\nthe two, as being somewhat newer and more conjectural; and since\nEdward's visit, they had never dined together without his drinking to\nher best affections with so much significancy and so many nods and\nwinks, as to excite general attention. The letter F had been likewise\ninvariably brought forward, and found productive of such countless\njokes, that its character as the wittiest letter in the alphabet had\nbeen long established with Elinor.\n\nThe Miss Steeles, as she expected, had now all the benefit of these\njokes, and in the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know the\nname of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often impertinently\nexpressed, was perfectly of a piece with her general inquisitiveness\ninto the concerns of their family. But Sir John did not sport long\nwith the curiosity which he delighted to raise, for he had at least as\nmuch pleasure in telling the name, as Miss Steele had in hearing it.\n\n\"His name is Ferrars,\" said he, in a very audible whisper; \"but pray\ndo not tell it, for it's a great secret.\"\n\n[Illustration: _Drinking to her best affections._]\n\n\"Ferrars!\" repeated Miss Steele; \"Mr. Ferrars is the happy man, is he?\nWhat! your sister-in-law's brother, Miss Dashwood? a very agreeable\nyoung man to be sure; I know him very well.\"\n\n\"How can you say so, Anne?\" cried Lucy, who generally made an\namendment to all her sister's assertions. \"Though we have seen him\nonce or twice at my uncle's, it is rather too much to pretend to know\nhim very well.\"\n\nElinor heard all this with attention and surprise. \"And who was this\nuncle? Where did he live? How came they acquainted?\" She wished very\nmuch to have the subject continued, though she did not choose to join\nin it herself; but nothing more of it was said, and for the first time\nin her life, she thought Mrs. Jennings deficient either in curiosity\nafter petty information, or in a disposition to communicate it. The\nmanner in which Miss Steele had spoken of Edward, increased her\ncuriosity; for it struck her as being rather ill-natured, and\nsuggested the suspicion of that lady's knowing, or fancying herself to\nknow something to his disadvantage. But her curiosity was unavailing,\nfor no farther notice was taken of Mr. Ferrars's name by Miss Steele\nwhen alluded to, or even openly mentioned by Sir John.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\n\nMarianne, who had never much toleration for any thing like\nimpertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of\ntaste from herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from\nthe state of her spirits, to be pleased with the Miss Steeles, or to\nencourage their advances; and to the invariable coldness of her\nbehaviour towards them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on\ntheir side, Elinor principally attributed that preference of herself\nwhich soon became evident in the manners of both, but especially of\nLucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation, or of\nstriving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank\ncommunication of her sentiments.\n\nLucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing;\nand as a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her\nagreeable; but her powers had received no aid from education: she was\nignorant and illiterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement,\nher want of information in the most common particulars, could not be\nconcealed from Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to\nappear to advantage. Elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of\nabilities which education might have rendered so respectable; but she\nsaw, with less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy,\nof rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her\nassiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have\nno lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined\ninsincerity with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their\nmeeting in conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward\nothers made every show of attention and deference towards herself\nperfectly valueless.\n\n\"You will think my question an odd one, I dare say,\" said Lucy to her\none day, as they were walking together from the park to the\ncottage--\"but pray, are you personally acquainted with your\nsister-in-law's mother, Mrs. Ferrars?\"\n\nElinor _did_ think the question a very odd one, and her countenance\nexpressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars.\n\n\"Indeed!\" replied Lucy; \"I wonder at that, for I thought you must have\nseen her at Norland sometimes. Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what\nsort of a woman she is?\"\n\n\"No,\" returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward's\nmother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent\ncuriosity; \"I know nothing of her.\"\n\n\"I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such\na way,\" said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; \"but\nperhaps there may be reasons--I wish I might venture; but however I\nhope you will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be\nimpertinent.\"\n\nElinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in\nsilence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by\nsaying, with some hesitation--\n\n\"I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am sure I\nwould rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person\nwhose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I\nshould not have the smallest fear of trusting _you_; indeed, I should\nbe very glad of your advice how to manage in such and uncomfortable\nsituation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble\n_you._ I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars.\"\n\n\"I am sorry I do _not_,\" said Elinor, in great astonishment, \"if it\ncould be of any use to _you_ to know my opinion of her. But really I\nnever understood that you were at all connected with that family, and\ntherefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry\ninto her character.\"\n\n\"I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But\nif I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs.\nFerrars is certainly nothing to me at present--but the time _may_\ncome--how soon it will come must depend upon herself--when we may be\nvery intimately connected.\"\n\nShe looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side\nglance at her companion to observe its effect on her.\n\n\"Good heavens!\" cried Elinor, \"what do you mean? Are you acquainted\nwith Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?\" And she did not feel much\ndelighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law.\n\n\"No,\" replied Lucy, \"not to Mr. _Robert_ Ferrars--I never saw him in\nmy life; but,\" fixing her eyes upon Elinor, \"to his eldest brother.\"\n\nWhat felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as\npainful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the\nassertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement,\nunable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and\nthough her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt\nin no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.\n\n\"You may well be surprised,\" continued Lucy; \"for to be sure you could\nhave had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the\nsmallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was\nalways meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully\nkept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it\nbut Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not\nfelt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I\nreally thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs.\nFerrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not\nthink Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted\nyou, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all\nyour family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods\nquite as his own sisters.\"--She paused.\n\n[Illustration: _Amiably bashful._]\n\nElinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she\nheard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself\nto speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner,\nwhich tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude--\"May I ask\nif your engagement is of long standing?\"\n\n\"We have been engaged these four years.\"\n\n\"Four years!\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nElinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it.\n\n\"I did not know,\" said she, \"that you were even acquainted till the\nother day.\"\n\n\"Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my\nuncle's care, you know, a considerable while.\"\n\n\"Your uncle!\"\n\n\"Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?\"\n\n\"I think I have,\" replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which\nincreased with her increase of emotion.\n\n\"He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near\nPlymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me\nwas often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was\nformed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he\nwas almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter\ninto it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of\nhis mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so\nprudent as I ought to have been. Though you do not know him so well as\nme, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he\nis very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but after\na moment's reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward's\nhonour and love, and her companion's falsehood--\"Engaged to Mr. Edward\nFerrars!--I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me,\nthat really--I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake\nof person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars.\"\n\n\"We can mean no other,\" cried Lucy, smiling. \"Mr. Edward Ferrars, the\neldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your\nsister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must\nallow that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on\nwho all my happiness depends.\"\n\n\"It is strange,\" replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity, \"that I\nshould never have heard him even mention your name.\"\n\n\"No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has\nbeen to keep the matter secret. You knew nothing of me, or my family,\nand, therefore, there could be no _occasion_ for ever mentioning my\nname to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister's\nsuspecting any thing, _that_ was reason enough for his not mentioning\nit.\"\n\nShe was silent. Elinor's security sunk; but her self-command did not\nsink with it.\n\n\"Four years you have been engaged,\" said she with a firm voice.\n\n\"Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor\nEdward! It puts him quite out of heart.\" Then taking a small miniature\nfrom her pocket, she added, \"To prevent the possibility of mistake, be\nso good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be\nsure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was\ndrew for. I have had it above these three years.\"\n\nShe put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the\npainting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or\nher wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind,\nshe could have none of its being Edward's face. She returned it almost\ninstantly, acknowledging the likeness.\n\n\"I have never been able,\" continued Lucy, \"to give him my picture in\nreturn, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so\nanxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first\nopportunity.\"\n\n\"You are quite in the right,\" replied Elinor calmly. They then\nproceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first.\n\n\"I am sure,\" said she, \"I have no doubt in the world of your\nfaithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what\nimportance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she\nwould never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I\nfancy she is an exceeding proud woman.\"\n\n\"I certainly did not seek your confidence,\" said Elinor; \"but you do\nme no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your\nsecret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so\nunnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being\nacquainted with it could not add to its safety.\"\n\nAs she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover\nsomething in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest\npart of what she had been saying; but Lucy's countenance suffered no\nchange.\n\n\"I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you,\"\nsaid she, \"in telling you all this. I have not known you long to be\nsure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by\ndescription a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as\nif you was an old acquaintance. Besides in the present case, I really\nthought some explanation was due to you after my making such\nparticular inquiries about Edward's mother; and I am so unfortunate,\nthat I have not a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne is the only\nperson that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she\ndoes me a great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of\nher betraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you\nmust perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world\nt'other day, when Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she\nshould out with it all. You can't think how much I go through in my\nmind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what I\nhave suffered for Edward's sake these last four years. Every thing in\nsuch suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom--we can hardly\nmeet above twice a-year. I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite\nbroke.\"\n\nHere she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very\ncompassionate.\n\n\"Sometimes,\" continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, \"I think whether\nit would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely.\"\nAs she said this, she looked directly at her companion. \"But then at\nother times I have not resolution enough for it. I cannot bear the\nthoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of\nsuch a thing would do. And on my own account too--so dear as he is to\nme--I don't think I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to\ndo in such a case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself?\"\n\n\"Pardon me,\" replied Elinor, startled by the question; \"but I can give\nyou no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct\nyou.\"\n\n\"To be sure,\" continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on both\nsides, \"his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor\nEdward is so cast down by it! Did you not think him dreadful\nlow-spirited when he was at Barton? He was so miserable when he left\nus at Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him\nquite ill.\"\n\n\"Did he come from your uncle's, then, when he visited us?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he\ncame directly from town?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh\ncircumstance in favour of Lucy's veracity; \"I remember he told us,\nthat he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth.\"\nShe remembered too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning\nnothing farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect\neven to their names.\n\n\"Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?\" repeated Lucy.\n\n\"We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived.\"\n\n\"I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was\nthe matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more\nthan a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected. Poor\nfellow!--I am afraid it is just the same with him now; for he writes\nin wretched spirits. I heard from him just before I left Exeter;\"\ntaking a letter from her pocket and carelessly showing the direction\nto Elinor. \"You know his hand, I dare say, a charming one it is; but\nthat is not written so well as usual. He was tired, I dare say, for he\nhad just filled the sheet to me as full as possible.\"\n\nElinor saw that it _was_ his hand, and she could doubt no longer. This\npicture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been\naccidentally obtained; it might not have been Edward's gift; but a\ncorrespondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a\npositive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else; for a few\nmoments, she was almost overcome--her heart sunk within her, and she\ncould hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably necessary; and she\nstruggled so resolutely against the oppression of her feelings, that\nher success was speedy, and for the time complete.\n\n\"Writing to each other,\" said Lucy, returning the letter into her\npocket, \"is the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes, I\nhave one other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even\n_that._ If he had but my picture, he says he should be easy. I gave\nhim a lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at Longstaple last,\nand that was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture.\nPerhaps you might notice the ring when you saw him?\"\n\n\"I did,\" said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was\nconcealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt\nbefore. She was mortified, shocked, confounded.\n\nFortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the\nconversation could be continued no farther. After sitting with them a\nfew minutes, the Miss Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was\nthen at liberty to think and be wretched.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\n\nHowever small Elinor's general dependence on Lucy's veracity might be,\nit was impossible for her on serious reflection to suspect it in the\npresent case, where no temptation could be answerable to the folly of\ninventing a falsehood of such a description. What Lucy had asserted to\nbe true, therefore, Elinor could not, dared not longer doubt;\nsupported as it was too on every side by such probabilities and\nproofs, and contradicted by nothing but her own wishes. Their\nopportunity of acquaintance in the house of Mr. Pratt was a foundation\nfor the rest, at once indisputable and alarming; and Edward's visit\nnear Plymouth, his melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at\nhis own prospects, his uncertain behaviour towards herself, the\nintimate knowledge of the Miss Steeles as to Norland and their family\nconnections, which had often surprised her, the picture, the letter,\nthe ring, formed altogether such a body of evidence, as overcame\nevery fear of condemning him unfairly, and established as a fact,\nwhich no partiality could set aside, his ill-treatment of herself. Her\nresentment of such behaviour, her indignation at having been its dupe,\nfor a short time made her feel only for herself; but other ideas,\nother considerations, soon arose. Had Edward been intentionally\ndeceiving her? Had he feigned a regard for her which he did not feel?\nWas his engagement to Lucy an engagement of the heart? No; whatever it\nmight once have been, she could not believe it such at present. His\naffection was all her own. She could not be deceived in that. Her\nmother, sisters, Fanny, all had been conscious of his regard for her\nat Norland; it was not an illusion of her own vanity. He certainly\nloved her. What a softener of the heart was this persuasion! How much\ncould it not tempt her to forgive! He had been blamable, highly\nblamable, in remaining at Norland after he first felt her influence\nover him to be more than it ought to be. In that, he could not be\ndefended; but if he had injured her, how much more had he injured\nhimself; if her case were pitiable, his was hopeless. His imprudence\nhad made her miserable for a while; but it seemed to have deprived\nhimself of all chance of ever being otherwise. She might in time\nregain tranquillity; but _he_, what had he to look forward to? Could\nhe ever be tolerably happy with Lucy Steele; could he, were his\naffection for herself out of the question, with his integrity, his\ndelicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife like\nher--illiterate, artful, and selfish?\n\nThe youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to\nevery thing but her beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding\nyears--years, which if rationally spent, give such improvement to the\nunderstanding, must have opened his eyes to her defects of education,\nwhile the same period of time, spent on her side in inferior society\nand more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps robbed her of that simplicity\nwhich might once have given an interesting character to her beauty.\n\nIf in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself, his\ndifficulties from his mother had seemed great, how much greater were\nthey now likely to be, when the object of his engagement was\nundoubtedly inferior in connections, and probably inferior in fortune\nto herself. These difficulties, indeed, with a heart so alienated\nfrom Lucy, might not press very hard upon his patience; but melancholy\nwas the state of the person by whom the expectation of family\nopposition and unkindness, could be felt as a relief!\n\nAs these considerations occurred to her in painful succession, she\nwept for him, more than for herself. Supported by the conviction of\nhaving done nothing to merit her present unhappiness, and consoled by\nthe belief that Edward had done nothing to forfeit her esteem, she\nthought she could even now, under the first smart of the heavy blow,\ncommand herself enough to guard every suspicion of the truth from her\nmother and sisters. And so well was she able to answer her own\nexpectations, that when she joined them at dinner only two hours after\nshe had first suffered the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one\nwould have supposed from the appearance of the sisters, that Elinor\nwas mourning in secret over obstacles which must divide her for ever\nfrom the object of her love, and that Marianne was internally dwelling\non the perfections of a man, of whose whole heart she felt thoroughly\npossessed, and whom she expected to see in every carriage which drove\nnear their house.\n\nThe necessity of concealing from her mother and Marianne, what had\nbeen entrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to\nunceasing exertion, was no aggravation of Elinor's distress. On the\ncontrary it was a relief to her, to be spared the communication of\nwhat would give such affliction to them, and to be saved likewise from\nhearing that condemnation of Edward, which would probably flow from\nthe excess of their partial affection for herself, and which was more\nthan she felt equal to support.\n\nFrom their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could receive\nno assistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress,\nwhile her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their\nexample nor from their praise. She was stronger alone, and her own\ngood sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken,\nher appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as with regrets so\npoignant and so fresh, it was possible for them to be.\n\nMuch as she had suffered from her first conversation with Lucy on the\nsubject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this for\nmore reasons than one. She wanted to hear many particulars of their\nengagement repeated again, she wanted more clearly to understand what\nLucy really felt for Edward, whether there were any sincerity in her\ndeclaration of tender regard for him, and she particularly wanted to\nconvince Lucy, by her readiness to enter on the matter again, and her\ncalmness in conversing on it, that she was no otherwise interested in\nit than as a friend, which she very much feared her involuntary\nagitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least\ndoubtful. That Lucy was disposed to be jealous of her appeared very\nprobable: it was plain that Edward had always spoken highly in her\npraise, not merely from Lucy's assertion, but from her venturing to\ntrust her on so short a personal acquaintance, with a secret so\nconfessedly and evidently important. And even Sir John's joking\nintelligence must have had some weight. But indeed, while Elinor\nremained so well assured within herself of being really beloved by\nEdward, it required no other consideration of probabilities to make it\nnatural that Lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her very\nconfidence was a proof. What other reason for the disclosure of the\naffair could there be, but that Elinor might be informed by it of\nLucy's superior claims on Edward, and be taught to avoid him in\nfuture? She had little difficulty in understanding thus much of her\nrival's intentions, and while she was firmly resolved to act by her as\nevery principle of honour and honesty directed, to combat her own\naffection for Edward and to see him as little as possible; she could\nnot deny herself the comfort of endeavouring to convince Lucy that her\nheart was unwounded. And as she could now have nothing more painful to\nhear on the subject than had already been told, she did not mistrust\nher own ability of going through a repetition of particulars with\ncomposure.\n\nBut it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could be\ncommanded, though Lucy was as well disposed as herself to take\nadvantage of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine\nenough to allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most\neasily separate themselves from the others; and though they met at\nleast every other evening either at the park or cottage, and chiefly\nat the former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake of\nconversation. Such a thought would never enter either Sir John or\nLady Middleton's head; and therefore very little leisure was ever\ngiven for a general chat, and none at all for particular discourse.\nThey met for the sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together,\nplaying at cards, or consequences, or any other game that was\nsufficiently noisy.\n\nOne or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording\nElinor any chance of engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John called at\nthe cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they\nwould all dine with Lady Middleton that day, as he was obliged to\nattend the club at Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone,\nexcept her mother and the two Miss Steeles. Elinor, who foresaw a\nfairer opening for the point she had in view, in such a party as this\nwas likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil\nand well-bred direction of Lady Middleton than when her husband united\nthem together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the\ninvitation; Margaret, with her mother's permission, was equally\ncompliant, and Marianne, though always unwilling to join any of their\nparties, was persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to have her\nseclude herself from any chance of amusement, to go likewise.\n\nThe young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved from\nthe frightful solitude which had threatened her. The insipidity of the\nmeeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected; it produced not one\nnovelty of thought or expression, and nothing could be less\ninteresting than the whole of their discourse both in the dining\nparlour and drawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied\nthem, and while they remained there, she was too well convinced of the\nimpossibility of engaging Lucy's attention to attempt it. They quitted\nit only with the removal of the tea-things. The card-table was then\nplaced, and Elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever\nentertained a hope of finding time for conversation at the park. They\nall rose up in preparation for a round game.\n\n\"I am glad,\" said Lady Middleton to Lucy, \"you are not going to finish\npoor little Annamaria's basket this evening; for I am sure it must\nhurt your eyes to work filigree by candlelight. And we will make the\ndear little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and\nthen I hope she will not much mind it.\"\n\nThis hint was enough, Lucy recollected herself instantly and replied,\n\"Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only waiting\nto know whether you can make your party without me, or I should have\nbeen at my filigree already. I would not disappoint the little angel\nfor all the world: and if you want me at the card-table now, I am\nresolved to finish the basket after supper.\"\n\n\"You are very good, I hope it won't hurt your eyes:--will you ring the\nbell for some working candles? My poor little girl would be sadly\ndisappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow, for\nthough I told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon\nhaving it done.\"\n\nLucy directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with\nan alacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to infer that she could\ntaste no greater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt\nchild.\n\nLady Middleton proposed a rubber of Casino to the others. No one made\nany objection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to the\nforms of general civility, exclaimed, \"Your Ladyship will have the\ngoodness to excuse _me_--you know I detest cards. I shall go to the\npiano-forte; I have not touched it since it was tuned.\" And without\nfarther ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument.\n\nLady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that _she_ had never\nmade so rude a speech.\n\n\"Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma'am,\"\nsaid Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; \"and I do not\nmuch wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever\nheard.\"\n\nThe remaining five were now to draw their cards.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" continued Elinor, \"if I should happen to cut out, I may be\nof some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and\nthere is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be\nimpossible I think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening. I\nshould like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in\nit.\"\n\n\"Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help,\" cried\nLucy, \"for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there\nwas; and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Annamaria\nafter all.\"\n\n\"Oh! that would be terrible, indeed,\" said Miss Steele. \"Dear little\nsoul, how I do love her!\"\n\n\"You are very kind,\" said Lady Middleton to Elinor; \"and as you\nreally like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut\nin till another rubber, or will you take your chance now?\"\n\nElinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by\na little of that address which Marianne could never condescend to\npractise, gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same\ntime. Lucy made room for her with ready attention, and the two fair\nrivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and, with the\nutmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work. The pianoforte at\nwhich Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her own thoughts, had\nby this time forgotten that any body was in the room besides herself,\nwas luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now judged she might\nsafely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting\nsubject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\n\nIn a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began.\n\n\"I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with,\nif I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on\nits subject. I will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward\nagain.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" cried Lucy warmly, \"for breaking the ice; you have set my\nheart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid I had offended\nyou by what I told you that Monday.\"\n\n\"Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me,\" and Elinor spoke\nit with the truest sincerity, \"nothing could be farther from my\nintention than to give you such an idea. Could you have a motive for\nthe trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?\"\n\n\"And yet I do assure you,\" replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes full of\nmeaning, \"there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your\nmanner that made me quite uncomfortable. I felt sure that you was\nangry with me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for\nhaving took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs. But I am\nvery glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not\nblame me. If you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my\nheart speaking to you of what I am always thinking of every moment of\nmy life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing else I am\nsure.\"\n\n\"Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you,\nto acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall\nnever have reason to repent it. Your case is a very unfortunate one;\nyou seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have\nneed of all your mutual affection to support you under them. Mr.\nFerrars, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother.\"\n\n\"He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to\nmarry upon that, though for my own part, I could give up every\nprospect of more without a sigh. I have been always used to a very\nsmall income, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love\nhim too well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all\nthat his mother might give him if he married to please her. We must\nwait, it may be for many years. With almost every other man in the\nworld, it would be an alarming prospect; but Edward's affection and\nconstancy nothing can deprive me of I know.\"\n\n\"That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly\nsupported by the same trust in your's. If the strength of your\nreciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under\nmany circumstances it naturally would during a four years' engagement,\nyour situation would have been pitiable, indeed.\"\n\nLucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her\ncountenance from every expression that could give her words a\nsuspicious tendency.\n\n\"Edward's love for me,\" said Lucy, \"has been pretty well put to the\ntest, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and\nit has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt\nit now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment's alarm\non that account from the first.\"\n\nElinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion.\n\nLucy went on. \"I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from\nour different situations in life, from his being so much more in the\nworld than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for\nsuspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had\nbeen the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or\nany lowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had\ntalked more of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less\nhappy at Longstaple than he used to be. I do not mean to say that I am\nparticularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case\nI am sure I could not be deceived.\"\n\n\"All this,\" thought Elinor, \"is very pretty; but it can impose upon\nneither of us.\"\n\n\"But what,\" said she after a short silence, \"are your views? or have\nyou none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars's death, which is a\nmelancholy and shocking extremity?--Is her son determined to submit to\nthis, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in\nwhich it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure\nfor a while by owning the truth?\"\n\n\"If we could be certain that it would be only for a while! But Mrs.\nFerrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of\nanger upon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to Robert,\nand the idea of that, for Edward's sake, frightens away all my\ninclination for hasty measures.\"\n\n\"And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness\nbeyond reason.\"\n\nLucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.\n\n\"Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?\" asked Elinor.\n\n\"Not at all--I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his\nbrother--silly and a great coxcomb.\"\n\n\"A great coxcomb!\" repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those\nwords by a sudden pause in Marianne's music. \"Oh, they are talking of\ntheir favourite beaux, I dare say.\"\n\n\"No sister,\" cried Lucy, \"you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux\nare _not_ great coxcombs.\"\n\n\"I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood's is not,\" said Mrs. Jennings,\nlaughing heartily; \"for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved\nyoung men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly little\ncreature, there is no finding out who _she_ likes.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"_I can answer for it,\" said Mrs. Jennings._]\n\n\"Oh,\" cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them, \"I dare\nsay Lucy's beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss\nDashwood's.\"\n\nElinor blushed in spite of herself. Lucy bit her lip, and looked\nangrily at her sister. A mutual silence took place for some time. Lucy\nfirst put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though Marianne was\nthen giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent\nconcerto--\n\n\"I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into my\nhead, for bringing matters to bear; indeed I am bound to let you into\nthe secret, for you are a party concerned. I dare say you have seen\nenough of Edward to know that he would prefer the church to every\nother profession; now my plan is that he should take orders as soon as\nhe can, and then through your interest, which I am sure you would be\nkind enough to use out of friendship for him, and I hope out of some\nregard to me, your brother might be persuaded to give him Norland\nliving; which I understand is a very good one, and the present\nincumbent not likely to live a great while. That would be enough for\nus to marry upon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest.\"\n\n\"I should always be happy,\" replied Elinor, \"to show any mark of my\nesteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do you not perceive that my\ninterest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary? He is\nbrother to Mrs. John Dashwood--_that_ must be recommendation enough to\nher husband.\"\n\n\"But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward's going into\norders.\"\n\n\"Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very little.\"\n\nThey were again silent for many minutes. At length Lucy exclaimed with\na deep sigh--\n\n\"I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at\nonce by dissolving the engagement. We seem so beset with difficulties\non every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we\nshould be happier perhaps in the end. But you will not give me your\nadvice, Miss Dashwood?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated\nfeelings, \"on such a subject I certainly will not. You know very well\nthat my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the\nside of your wishes.\"\n\n\"Indeed you wrong me,\" replied Lucy, with great solemnity; \"I know\nnobody of whose judgment I think so highly as I do of yours; and I do\nreally believe, that if you was to say to me, 'I advise you by all\nmeans to put an end to your engagement with Edward Ferrars, it will be\nmore for the happiness of both of you,' I should resolve upon doing it\nimmediately.\"\n\nElinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward's future wife, and\nreplied, \"This compliment would effectually frighten me from giving\nany opinion on the subject had I formed one. It raises my influence\nmuch too high; the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached\nis too much for an indifferent person.\"\n\n\"'Tis because you are an indifferent person,\" said Lucy, with some\npique, and laying a particular stress on those words, \"that your\njudgment might justly have such weight with me. If you could be\nsupposed to be biased in any respect by your own feelings, your\nopinion would not be worth having.\"\n\nElinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might\nprovoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve;\nand was even partly determined never to mention the subject again.\nAnother pause therefore of many minutes' duration, succeeded this\nspeech, and Lucy was still the first to end it.\n\n\"Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?\" said she with all\nher accustomary complacency.\n\n\"Certainly not.\"\n\n\"I am sorry for that,\" returned the other, while her eyes brightened\nat the information, \"it would have gave me such pleasure to meet you\nthere! But I dare say you will go for all that. To be sure, your\nbrother and sister will ask you to come to them.\"\n\n\"It will not be in my power to accept their invitation if they do.\"\n\n\"How unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meeting you there.\nAnne and me are to go the latter end of January to some relations who\nhave been wanting us to visit them these several years! But I only go\nfor the sake of seeing Edward. He will be there in February, otherwise\nLondon would have no charms for me; I have not spirits for it.\"\n\nElinor was soon called to the card-table by the conclusion of the\nfirst rubber, and the confidential discourse of the two ladies was\ntherefore at an end, to which both of them submitted without any\nreluctance, for nothing had been said on either side to make them\ndislike each other less than they had done before; and Elinor sat down\nto the card table with the melancholy persuasion that Edward was not\nonly without affection for the person who was to be his wife; but that\nhe had not even the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which\nsincere affection on _her_ side would have given, for self-interest\nalone could induce a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which\nshe seemed so thoroughly aware that he was weary.\n\nFrom this time the subject was never revived by Elinor, and when\nentered on by Lucy, who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing\nit, and was particularly careful to inform her confidante, of her\nhappiness whenever she received a letter from Edward, it was treated\nby the former with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon as\ncivility would allow; for she felt such conversations to be an\nindulgence which Lucy did not deserve, and which were dangerous to\nherself.\n\nThe visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was lengthened far beyond\nwhat the first invitation implied. Their favour increased; they could\nnot be spared; Sir John would not hear of their going; and in spite of\ntheir numerous and long arranged engagements in Exeter, in spite of\nthe absolute necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately, which\nwas in full force at the end of every week, they were prevailed on to\nstay nearly two months at the park, and to assist in the due\ncelebration of that festival which requires a more than ordinary share\nof private balls and large dinners to proclaim its importance.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\n\nThough Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion of\nthe year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not\nwithout a settled habitation of her own. Since the death of her\nhusband, who had traded with success in a less elegant part of the\ntown, she had resided every winter in a house in one of the streets\nnear Portman Square. Towards this home, she began on the approach of\nJanuary to turn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and\nvery unexpectedly by them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood to\naccompany her. Elinor, without observing the varying complexion of her\nsister, and the animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan,\nimmediately gave a grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she\nbelieved herself to be speaking their united inclinations. The reason\nalleged was their determined resolution of not leaving their mother at\nthat time of the year. Mrs. Jennings received the refusal with some\nsurprise, and repeated her invitation immediately.\n\n\"Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I _do_\nbeg you will favour me with your company, for I've quite set my heart\nupon it. Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I\nshan't put myself at all out of my way for you. It will only be\nsending Betty by the coach, and I hope I can afford _that._ We three\nshall be able to go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town,\nif you do not like to go wherever I do, well and good, you may always\ngo with one of my daughters. I am sure your mother will not object to\nit; for I have had such good luck in getting my own children off my\nhands that she will think me a very fit person to have the charge of\nyou; and if I don't get one of you at least well married before I have\ndone with you, it shall not be my fault. I shall speak a good word for\nyou to all the young men, you may depend upon it.\"\n\n\"I have a notion,\" said Sir John, \"that Miss Marianne would not object\nto such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it. It is very\nhard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss\nDashwood does not wish it. So I would advise you two, to set off for\ntown, when you are tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss\nDashwood about it.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" cried Mrs. Jennings, \"I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of\nMiss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only\nthe more the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable\nfor them to be together; because, if they got tired of me, they might\ntalk to one another, and laugh at my old ways behind my back. But one\nor the other, if not both of them, I must have. Lord bless me! how do\nyou think I can live poking by myself, I who have been always used\ntill this winter to have Charlotte with me. Come, Miss Marianne, let\nus strike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change her\nmind by and bye, why so much the better.\"\n\n\"I thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you,\" said Marianne, with warmth:\n\"your invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and it would give\nme such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable of,\nto be able to accept it. But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother,--I\nfeel the justice of what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made\nless happy, less comfortable by our absence--Oh! no, nothing should\ntempt me to leave her. It should not, must not be a struggle.\"\n\nMrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could spare\nthem perfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her sister, and\nsaw to what indifference to almost every thing else she was carried by\nher eagerness to be with Willoughby again, made no farther direct\nopposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother's\ndecision, from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any\nsupport in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not\napprove of for Marianne, and which on her own account she had\nparticular reasons to avoid. Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her\nmother would be eager to promote--she could not expect to influence\nthe latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which\nshe had never been able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared\nnot explain the motive of her own disinclination for going to London.\nThat Marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs.\nJennings' manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should overlook\nevery inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be\nmost wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object,\nwas such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object\nto her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared\nto witness.\n\nOn being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that\nsuch an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her\ndaughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to\nherself, how much the heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of\ntheir declining the offer upon _her_ account; insisted on their both\naccepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with her usual\ncheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to them all,\nfrom this separation.\n\n\"I am delighted with the plan,\" she cried, \"it is exactly what I could\nwish. Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves.\nWhen you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and\nhappily together with our books and our music! You will find Margaret\nso improved when you come back again! I have a little plan of\nalteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without\nany inconvenience to any one. It is very right that you _should_ go to\ntown; I would have every young woman of your condition in life\nacquainted with the manners and amusements of London. You will be\nunder the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to\nyou I can have no doubt. And in all probability you will see your\nbrother, and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife,\nwhen I consider whose son he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly\nestranged from each other.\"\n\n\"Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness,\" said Elinor, \"you\nhave been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which\noccurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion,\ncannot be so easily removed.\"\n\nMarianne's countenance sunk.\n\n\"And what,\" said Mrs. Dashwood, \"is my dear prudent Elinor going to\nsuggest? What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward? Do let\nme hear a word about the expense of it.\"\n\n\"My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings's\nheart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or\nwhose protection will give us consequence.\"\n\n\"That is very true,\" replied her mother, \"but of her society,\nseparately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing\nat all, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady\nMiddleton.\"\n\n\"If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings,\" said\nMarianne, \"at least it need not prevent _my_ accepting her invitation.\nI have no such scruples, and I am sure I could put up with every\nunpleasantness of that kind with very little effort.\"\n\nElinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards\nthe manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in\npersuading Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved\nwithin herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go\nlikewise, as she did not think it proper that Marianne should be left\nto the sole guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should\nbe abandoned to the mercy of Marianne for all the comfort of her\ndomestic hours. To this determination she was the more easily\nreconciled, by recollecting that Edward Ferrars, by Lucy's account,\nwas not to be in town before February; and that their visit, without\nany unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished.\n\n\"I will have you _both_ go,\" said Mrs. Dashwood; \"these objections are\nnonsensical. You will have much pleasure in being in London, and\nespecially in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to\nanticipate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of\nsources; she would, perhaps, expect some from improving her\nacquaintance with her sister-in-law's family.\"\n\nElinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken her\nmother's dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that the\nshock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on\nthis attack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to\nbegin her design by saying, as calmly as she could, \"I like Edward\nFerrars very much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the\nrest of the family, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me,\nwhether I am ever known to them or not.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood smiled, and said nothing. Marianne lifted up her eyes in\nastonishment, and Elinor conjectured that she might as well have held\nher tongue.\n\nAfter very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the\ninvitation should be fully accepted. Mrs. Jennings received the\ninformation with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness\nand care; nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her. Sir John was\ndelighted; for to a man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of\nbeing alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in\nLondon, was something. Even Lady Middleton took the trouble of being\ndelighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as\nfor the Miss Steeles, especially Lucy, they had never been so happy in\ntheir lives as this intelligence made them.\n\nElinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with\nless reluctance than she had expected to feel. With regard to herself,\nit was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not, and\nwhen she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her\nsister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all\nher usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she\ncould not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow\nherself to distrust the consequence.\n\nMarianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the\nperturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone. Her\nunwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness;\nand at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive.\nHer mother's affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was the only one\nof the three, who seemed to consider the separation as any thing short\nof eternal.\n\nTheir departure took place in the first week in January. The\nMiddletons were to follow in about a week. The Miss Steeles kept their\nstation at the park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the\nfamily.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\n\nElinor could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings, and\nbeginning a journey to London under her protection, and as her guest,\nwithout wondering at her own situation, so short had their\nacquaintance with that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age\nand disposition, and so many had been her objections against such a\nmeasure only a few days before! But these objections had all, with\nthat happy ardour of youth which Marianne and her mother equally\nshared, been overcome or overlooked; and Elinor, in spite of every\noccasional doubt of Willoughby's constancy, could not witness the\nrapture of delightful expectation which filled the whole soul and\nbeamed in the eyes of Marianne, without feeling how blank was her own\nprospect, how cheerless her own state of mind in the comparison, and\nhow gladly she would engage in the solicitude of Marianne's situation\nto have the same animating object in view, the same possibility of\nhope. A short, a very short time however must now decide what\nWilloughby's intentions were; in all probability he was already in\ntown. Marianne's eagerness to be gone declared her dependence on\nfinding him there; and Elinor was resolved not only upon gaining every\nnew light as to his character which her own observation or the\nintelligence of others could give her, but likewise upon watching his\nbehaviour to her sister with such zealous attention, as to ascertain\nwhat he was and what he meant, before many meetings had taken place.\nShould the result of her observations be unfavourable, she was\ndetermined at all events to open the eyes of her sister; should it be\notherwise, her exertions would be of a different nature--she must then\nlearn to avoid every selfish comparison, and banish every regret which\nmight lessen her satisfaction in the happiness of Marianne.\n\nThey were three days on their journey, and Marianne's behaviour as\nthey travelled was a happy specimen of what future complaisance and\ncompanionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be expected to be. She sat in\nsilence almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely\never voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque\nbeauty within their view drew from her an exclamation of delight\nexclusively addressed to her sister. To atone for this conduct\ntherefore, Elinor took immediate possession of the post of civility\nwhich she had assigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to\nMrs. Jennings, talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her\nwhenever she could; and Mrs. Jennings on her side treated them both\nwith all possible kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their\nease and enjoyment, and only disturbed that she could not make them\nchoose their own dinners at the inn, nor extort a confession of their\npreferring salmon to cod, or boiled fowls to veal cutlets. They\nreached town by three o'clock the third day, glad to be released,\nafter such a journey, from the confinement of a carriage, and ready to\nenjoy all the luxury of a good fire.\n\nThe house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up, and the young\nladies were immediately put in possession of a very comfortable\napartment. It had formerly been Charlotte's, and over the mantelpiece\nstill hung a landscape in coloured silks of her performance, in proof\nof her having spent seven years at a great school in town to some\neffect.\n\nAs dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their\narrival, Elinor determined to employ the interval in writing to her\nmother, and sat down for that purpose. In a few moments Marianne did\nthe same. \"I am writing home, Marianne,\" said Elinor; \"had not you\nbetter defer your letter for a day or two?\"\n\n\"I am _not_ going to write to my mother,\" replied Marianne, hastily,\nand as if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry. Elinor said no more;\nit immediately struck her that she must then be writing to Willoughby;\nand the conclusion which as instantly followed was, that, however\nmysteriously they might wish to conduct the affair, they must be\nengaged. This conviction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave her\npleasure, and she continued her letter with greater alacrity.\nMarianne's was finished in a very few minutes; in length it could be\nno more than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, and directed with\neager rapidity. Elinor thought she could distinguish a large W in the\ndirection; and no sooner was it complete than Marianne, ringing the\nbell, requested the footman who answered it to get that letter\nconveyed for her to the two-penny post. This decided the matter at\nonce.\n\nHer spirits still continued very high; but there was a flutter in them\nwhich prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this\nagitation increased as the evening drew on. She could scarcely eat any\ndinner, and when they afterwards returned to the drawing room, seemed\nanxiously listening to the sound of every carriage.\n\nIt was a great satisfaction to Elinor that Mrs. Jennings, by being\nmuch engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing.\nThe tea things were brought in, and already had Marianne been\ndisappointed more than once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a\nloud one was suddenly heard which could not be mistaken for one at any\nother house, Elinor felt secure of its announcing Willoughby's\napproach, and Marianne, starting up, moved towards the door. Every\nthing was silent; this could not be borne many seconds; she opened\nthe door, advanced a few steps towards the stairs, and after listening\nhalf a minute, returned into the room in all the agitation which a\nconviction of having heard him would naturally produce; in the ecstasy\nof her feelings at that instant she could not help exclaiming, \"Oh,\nElinor, it is Willoughby, indeed it is!\" and seemed almost ready to\nthrow herself into his arms, when Colonel Brandon appeared.\n\nIt was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she\nimmediately left the room. Elinor was disappointed too; but at the\nsame time her regard for Colonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her;\nand she felt particularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister\nshould perceive that she experienced nothing but grief and\ndisappointment in seeing him. She instantly saw that it was not\nunnoticed by him, that he even observed Marianne as she quitted the\nroom, with such astonishment and concern, as hardly left him the\nrecollection of what civility demanded towards herself.\n\n\"Is your sister ill?\" said he.\n\nElinor answered in some distress that she was, and then talked of\nhead-aches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of every thing to\nwhich she could decently attribute her sister's behaviour.\n\nHe heard her with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect\nhimself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of\nhis pleasure at seeing them in London, making the usual inquiries\nabout their journey, and the friends they had left behind.\n\nIn this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side,\nthey continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts\nof both engaged elsewhere. Elinor wished very much to ask whether\nWilloughby were then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by\nany enquiry after his rival; and at length, by way of saying\nsomething, she asked if he had been in London ever since she had seen\nhim last. \"Yes,\" he replied, with some embarrassment, \"almost ever\nsince; I have been once or twice at Delaford for a few days, but it\nhas never been in my power to return to Barton.\"\n\nThis, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back to\nher remembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with\nthe uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to Mrs. Jennings, and\nshe was fearful that her question had implied much more curiosity on\nthe subject than she had ever felt.\n\nMrs. Jennings soon came in. \"Oh! Colonel,\" said she, with her usual\nnoisy cheerfulness, \"I am monstrous glad to see you--sorry I could not\ncome before--beg your pardon, but I have been forced to look about me\na little, and settle my matters; for it is a long while since I have\nbeen at home, and you know one has always a world of little odd things\nto do after one has been away for any time; and then I have had\nCartwright to settle with. Lord, I have been as busy as a bee ever\nsince dinner! But pray, Colonel, how came you to conjure out that I\nshould be in town today?\"\n\n\"I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Palmer's, where I have been\ndining.\"\n\n\"Oh, you did; well, and how do they all do at their house? How does\nCharlotte do? I warrant you she is a fine size by this time.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well, and I am commissioned to tell you,\nthat you will certainly see her to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Ay, to be sure, I thought as much. Well, Colonel, I have brought two\nyoung ladies with me, you see--that is, you see but one of them now,\nbut there is another somewhere. Your friend, Miss Marianne, too--which\nyou will not be sorry to hear. I do not know what you and Mr.\nWilloughby will do between you about her. Ay, it is a fine thing to be\nyoung and handsome. Well! I was young once, but I never was very\nhandsome--worse luck for me. However, I got a very good husband, and I\ndon't know what the greatest beauty can do more. Ah! poor man! he has\nbeen dead these eight years and better. But Colonel, where have you\nbeen to since we parted? And how does your business go on? Come, come,\nlet's have no secrets among friends.\"\n\nHe replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but\nwithout satisfying her in any. Elinor now began to make the tea, and\nMarianne was obliged to appear again.\n\nAfter her entrance, Colonel Brandon became more thoughtful and silent\nthan he had been before, and Mrs. Jennings could not prevail on him to\nstay long. No other visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies were\nunanimous in agreeing to go early to bed.\n\nMarianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy looks.\nThe disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the\nexpectation of what was to happen that day. They had not long finished\ntheir breakfast before Mrs. Palmer's barouche stopped at the door, and\nin a few minutes she came laughing into the room: so delighted to see\nthem all, that it was hard to say whether she received most pleasure\nfrom meeting her mother or the Miss Dashwoods again. So surprised at\ntheir coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all\nalong; so angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after\nhaving declined her own, though at the same time she would never have\nforgiven them if they had not come!\n\n\"Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see you,\" said she; \"What do you think\nhe said when he heard of your coming with Mamma? I forget what it was\nnow, but it was something so droll!\"\n\nAfter an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable chat,\nor in other words, in every variety of inquiry concerning all their\nacquaintance on Mrs. Jennings's side, and in laughter without cause on\nMrs. Palmer's, it was proposed by the latter that they should all\naccompany her to some shops where she had business that morning, to\nwhich Mrs. Jennings and Elinor readily consented, as having likewise\nsome purchases to make themselves; and Marianne, though declining it\nat first was induced to go likewise.\n\nWherever they went, she was evidently always on the watch. In Bond\nStreet especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were in\nconstant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her\nmind was equally abstracted from every thing actually before them,\nfrom all that interested and occupied the others. Restless and\ndissatisfied every where, her sister could never obtain her opinion of\nany article of purchase, however it might equally concern them both:\nshe received no pleasure from anything; was only impatient to be at\nhome again, and could with difficulty govern her vexation at the\ntediousness of Mrs. Palmer, whose eye was caught by every thing\npretty, expensive, or new; who was wild to buy all, could determine on\nnone, and dawdled away her time in rapture and indecision.\n\nIt was late in the morning before they returned home; and no sooner\nhad they entered the house than Marianne flew eagerly up stairs, and\nwhen Elinor followed, she found her turning from the table with a\nsorrowful countenance, which declared that no Willoughby had been\nthere.\n\n\"Has no letter been left here for me since we went out?\" said she to\nthe footman who then entered with the parcels. She was answered in the\nnegative. \"Are you quite sure of it?\" she replied. \"Are you certain\nthat no servant, no porter has left any letter or note?\"\n\nThe man replied that none had.\n\n\"How very odd!\" said she, in a low and disappointed voice, as she\nturned away to the window.\n\n\"How odd, indeed!\" repeated Elinor within herself, regarding her\nsister with uneasiness. \"If she had not known him to be in town she\nwould not have written to him, as she did; she would have written to\nCombe Magna; and if he is in town, how odd that he should neither come\nnor write! Oh! my dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting an\nengagement between a daughter so young, a man so little known, to be\ncarried on in so doubtful, so mysterious a manner! I long to inquire;\nand how will _my_ interference be borne.\"\n\nShe determined, after some consideration, that if appearances\ncontinued many days longer as unpleasant as they now were, she would\nrepresent in the strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some\nserious enquiry into the affair.\n\nMrs. Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jennings's intimate\nacquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with\nthem. The former left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening\nengagements; and Elinor was obliged to assist in making a whist table\nfor the others. Marianne was of no use on these occasions, as she\nwould never learn the game; but though her time was therefore at her\nown disposal, the evening was by no means more productive of pleasure\nto her than to Elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of\nexpectation and the pain of disappointment. She sometimes endeavoured\nfor a few minutes to read; but the book was soon thrown aside, and she\nreturned to the more interesting employment of walking backwards and\nforwards across the room, pausing for a moment whenever she came to\nthe window, in hopes of distinguishing the long-expected rap.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\n\n\"If this open weather holds much longer,\" said Mrs. Jennings, when\nthey met at breakfast the following morning, \"Sir John will not like\nleaving Barton next week; 'tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a\nday's pleasure. Poor souls! I always pity them when they do; they seem\nto take it so much to heart.\"\n\n\"That is true,\" cried Marianne, in a cheerful voice, and walking to\nthe window as she spoke, to examine the day. \"I had not thought of\nthat. This weather will keep many sportsmen in the country.\"\n\nIt was a lucky recollection, all her good spirits were restored by it.\n\"It is charming weather for _them_ indeed,\" she continued, as she sat\ndown to the breakfast table with a happy countenance. \"How much they\nmust enjoy it! But\" (with a little return of anxiety) \"it cannot be\nexpected to last long. At this time of the year, and after such a\nseries of rain, we shall certainly have very little more of it. Frosts\nwill soon set in, and in all probability with severity. In another day\nor two perhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly last longer--nay,\nperhaps it may freeze tonight!\"\n\n\"At any rate,\" said Elinor, wishing to prevent Mrs. Jennings from\nseeing her sister's thoughts as clearly as she did, \"I dare say we\nshall have Sir John and Lady Middleton in town by the end of next\nweek.\"\n\n\"Ay, my dear, I'll warrant you we do. Mary always has her own way.\"\n\n\"And now,\" silently conjectured Elinor, \"she will write to Combe by\nthis day's post.\"\n\nBut if she _did_, the letter was written and sent away with a privacy\nwhich eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact. Whatever the\ntruth of it might be, and far as Elinor was from feeling thorough\ncontentment about it, yet while she saw Marianne in spirits, she could\nnot be very uncomfortable herself. And Marianne was in spirits; happy\nin the mildness of the weather, and still happier in her expectation\nof a frost.\n\nThe morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the houses of Mrs.\nJennings's acquaintance to inform them of her being in town; and\nMarianne was all the time busy in observing the direction of the wind,\nwatching the variations of the sky and imagining an alteration in the\nair.\n\n\"Don't you find it colder than it was in the morning, Elinor? There\nseems to me a very decided difference. I can hardly keep my hands warm\neven in my muff. It was not so yesterday, I think. The clouds seem\nparting too, the sun will be out in a moment, and we shall have a\nclear afternoon.\"\n\nElinor was alternately diverted and pained; but Marianne persevered,\nand saw every night in the brightness of the fire, and every morning\nin the appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symptoms of\napproaching frost.\n\nThe Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs.\nJennings's style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her\nbehaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind. Every thing in her\nhousehold arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and\nexcepting a few old city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton's regret,\nshe had never dropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction\ncould at all discompose the feelings of her young companions. Pleased\nto find herself more comfortably situated in that particular than she\nhad expected, Elinor was very willing to compound for the want of much\nreal enjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, whether at\nhome or abroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her.\n\nColonel Brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was with\nthem almost every day; he came to look at Marianne and talk to Elinor,\nwho often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him than from\nany other daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time with much\nconcern his continued regard for her sister. She feared it was a\nstrengthening regard. It grieved her to see the earnestness with which\nhe often watched Marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse than\nwhen at Barton.\n\nAbout a week after their arrival, it became certain that Willoughby\nwas also arrived. His card was on the table when they came in from the\nmorning's drive.\n\n\"Good God!\" cried Marianne, \"he has been here while we were out.\"\nElinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ventured\nto say, \"Depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow.\" But Marianne\nseemed hardly to hear her, and on Mrs. Jennings's entrance, escaped\nwith the precious card.\n\nThis event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor, restored to those\nof her sister all, and more than all, their former agitation. From\nthis moment her mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him\nevery hour of the day, made her unfit for any thing. She insisted on\nbeing left behind, the next morning, when the others went out.\n\nElinor's thoughts were full of what might be passing in Berkeley\nStreet during their absence; but a moment's glance at her sister when\nthey returned was enough to inform her, that Willoughby had paid no\nsecond visit there. A note was just then brought in, and laid on the\ntable.\n\n\"For me!\" cried Marianne, stepping hastily forward.\n\n\"No, ma'am, for my mistress.\"\n\nBut Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up.\n\n\"It is indeed for Mrs. Jennings; how provoking!\"\n\n\"You are expecting a letter, then?\" said Elinor, unable to be longer\nsilent.\n\n\"Yes, a little--not much.\"\n\nAfter a short pause. \"You have no confidence in me, Marianne.\"\n\n\"Nay, Elinor, this reproach from _you_--you who have confidence in no\none!\"\n\n\"Me!\" returned Elinor in some confusion; \"indeed, Marianne, I have\nnothing to tell.\"\n\n\"Nor I,\" answered Marianne with energy, \"our situations then are\nalike. We have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you do\nnot communicate, and I, because I conceal nothing.\"\n\nElinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she was\nnot at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to\npress for greater openness in Marianne.\n\nMrs. Jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read it\naloud. It was from Lady Middleton, announcing their arrival in Conduit\nStreet the night before, and requesting the company of her mother and\ncousins the following evening. Business on Sir John's part, and a\nviolent cold on her own, prevented their calling in Berkeley Street.\nThe invitation was accepted; but when the hour of appointment drew\nnear, necessary as it was in common civility to Mrs. Jennings, that\nthey should both attend her on such a visit, Elinor had some\ndifficulty in persuading her sister to go, for still she had seen\nnothing of Willoughby; and therefore was not more indisposed for\namusement abroad, than unwilling to run the risk of his calling again\nin her absence.\n\nElinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not\nmaterially altered by a change of abode, for although scarcely settled\nin town, Sir John had contrived to collect around him, nearly twenty\nyoung people, and to amuse them with a ball. This was an affair,\nhowever, of which Lady Middleton did not approve. In the country, an\nunpremeditated dance was very allowable; but in London, where the\nreputation of elegance was more important and less easily attained, it\nwas risking too much for the gratification of a few girls, to have it\nknown that Lady Middleton had given a small dance of eight or nine\ncouple, with two violins, and a mere side-board collation.\n\nMr. and Mrs. Palmer were of the party; from the former, whom they had\nnot seen before since their arrival in town, as he was careful to\navoid the appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and\ntherefore never came near her, they received no mark of recognition on\ntheir entrance. He looked at them slightly, without seeming to know\nwho they were, and merely nodded to Mrs. Jennings from the other side\nof the room. Marianne gave one glance round the apartment as she\nentered: it was enough--_he_ was not there--and she sat down, equally\nill-disposed to receive or communicate pleasure. After they had been\nassembled about an hour, Mr. Palmer sauntered towards the Miss\nDashwoods to express his surprise on seeing them in town, though\nColonel Brandon had been first informed of their arrival at his house,\nand he had himself said something very droll on hearing that they were\nto come.\n\n\"I thought you were both in Devonshire,\" said he.\n\n\"Did you?\" replied Elinor.\n\n\"When do you go back again?\"\n\n\"I do not know.\" And thus ended their discourse.\n\nNever had Marianne been so unwilling to dance in her life, as she was\nthat evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise. She\ncomplained of it as they returned to Berkeley Street.\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" said Mrs. Jennings, \"we know the reason of all that very\nwell; if a certain person who shall be nameless, had been there, you\nwould not have been a bit tired: and to say the truth it was not very\npretty of him not to give you the meeting when he was invited.\"\n\n\"Invited!\" cried Marianne.\n\n\"So my daughter Middleton told me, for it seems Sir John met him\nsomewhere in the street this morning.\" Marianne said no more, but\nlooked exceedingly hurt. Impatient in this situation to be doing\nsomething that might lead to her sister's relief, Elinor resolved to\nwrite the next morning to her mother, and hoped by awakening her fears\nfor the health of Marianne, to procure those inquiries which had been\nso long delayed; and she was still more eagerly bent on this measure\nby perceiving after breakfast on the morrow, that Marianne was again\nwriting to Willoughby, for she could not suppose it to be to any other\nperson.\n\nAbout the middle of the day, Mrs. Jennings went out by herself on\nbusiness, and Elinor began her letter directly, while Marianne, too\nrestless for employment, too anxious for conversation, walked from one\nwindow to the other, or sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation.\nElinor was very earnest in her application to her mother, relating all\nthat had passed, her suspicions of Willoughby's inconstancy, urging\nher by every plea of duty and affection to demand from Marianne an\naccount of her real situation with respect to him.\n\nHer letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and\nColonel Brandon was announced. Marianne, who had seen him from the\nwindow, and who hated company of any kind, left the room before he\nentered it. He looked more than usually grave, and though expressing\nsatisfaction at finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat in\nparticular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a word.\nElinor, persuaded that he had some communication to make in which her\nsister was concerned, impatiently expected its opening. It was not the\nfirst time of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for, more than\nonce before, beginning with the observation of \"your sister looks\nunwell to-day,\" or \"your sister seems out of spirits,\" he had\nappeared on the point, either of disclosing, or of inquiring,\nsomething particular about her. After a pause of several minutes,\ntheir silence was broken, by his asking her in a voice of some\nagitation, when he was to congratulate her on the acquisition of a\nbrother? Elinor was not prepared for such a question, and having no\nanswer ready, was obliged to adopt the simple and common expedient, of\nasking what he meant? He tried to smile as he replied, \"your sister's\nengagement to Mr. Willoughby is very generally known.\"\n\n\"It cannot be generally known,\" returned Elinor, \"for her own family\ndo not know it.\"\n\nHe looked surprised and said, \"I beg your pardon, I am afraid my\ninquiry has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secrecy\nintended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally\ntalked of.\"\n\n\"How can that be? By whom can you have heard it mentioned?\"\n\n\"By many--by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom you\nare most intimate, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons. But\nstill I might not have believed it, for where the mind is perhaps\nrather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to\nsupport its doubts, if I had not, when the servant let me in today,\naccidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to Mr. Willoughby in\nyour sister's writing. I came to inquire, but I was convinced before I\ncould ask the question. Is every thing finally settled? Is it\nimpossible to-? But I have no right, and I could have no chance of\nsucceeding. Excuse me, Miss Dashwood. I believe I have been wrong in\nsaying so much, but I hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I\nhave the strongest dependence. Tell me that it is all absolutely\nresolved on, that any attempt, that in short concealment, if\nconcealment be possible, is all that remains.\"\n\nThese words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct avowal of his love for\nher sister, affected her very much. She was not immediately able to\nsay anything, and even when her spirits were recovered, she debated\nfor a short time, on the answer it would be most proper to give. The\nreal state of things between Willoughby and her sister was so little\nknown to herself, that in endeavouring to explain it, she might be as\nliable to say too much as too little. Yet as she was convinced that\nMarianne's affection for Willoughby, could leave no hope of Colonel\nBrandon's success, whatever the event of that affection might be, and\nat the same time wished to shield her conduct from censure, she\nthought it most prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say\nmore than she really knew or believed. She acknowledged, therefore,\nthat though she had never been informed by themselves of the terms on\nwhich they stood with each other, of their mutual affection she had no\ndoubt, and of their correspondence she was not astonished to hear.\n\nHe listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak,\nrose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion,\n\"to your sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he\nmay endeavour to deserve her,\"--took leave, and went away.\n\nElinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation, to\nlessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points; she was left, on\nthe contrary, with a melancholy impression of Colonel Brandon's\nunhappiness, and was prevented even from wishing it removed, by her\nanxiety for the very event that must confirm it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\n\nNothing occurred during the next three or four days, to make Elinor\nregret what she had done, in applying to her mother; for Willoughby\nneither came nor wrote. They were engaged about the end of that time\nto attend Lady Middleton to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept\naway by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this\nparty, Marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and\nseeming equally indifferent whether she went or staid, prepared,\nwithout one look of hope or one expression of pleasure. She sat by the\ndrawing-room fire after tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton's\narrival, without once stirring from her seat, or altering her\nattitude, lost in her own thoughts, and insensible of her sister's\npresence; and when at last they were told that Lady Middleton waited\nfor them at the door, she started as if she had forgotten that any one\nwas expected.\n\nThey arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as\nthe string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended\nthe stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to\nanother in an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up,\nquite full of company, and insufferably hot. When they had paid their\ntribute of politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were\npermitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and\ninconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add. After some\ntime spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to\nCassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and\nElinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great\ndistance from the table.\n\nThey had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived\nWilloughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest\nconversation with a very fashionable looking young woman. She soon\ncaught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to\nspeak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see\nher; and then continued his discourse with the same lady. Elinor\nturned involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be\nunobserved by her. At that moment she first perceived him, and her\nwhole countenance glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved\ntowards him instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her.\n\n\"Good heavens!\" she exclaimed, \"he is there--he is there--Oh! why does\nhe not look at me? why cannot I speak to him?\"\n\n\"Pray, pray be composed,\" cried Elinor, \"and do not betray what you\nfeel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet.\"\n\nThis however was more than she could believe herself; and to be\ncomposed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne,\nit was beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of impatience which\naffected every feature.\n\n[Illustration: _At that moment she first perceived him._]\n\nAt last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up,\nand pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to\nhim. He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than\nMarianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to\nobserve her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs.\nDashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed\nof all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a\nword. But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her\nface was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest\nemotion, \"Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you\nnot received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?\"\n\nHe could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and\nhe held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was\nevidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and\nsaw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment's pause, he\nspoke with calmness.\n\n\"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday,\nand very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find\nyourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope.\"\n\n\"But have you not received my notes?\" cried Marianne in the wildest\nanxiety. \"Here is some mistake I am sure--some dreadful mistake. What\ncan be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven's sake tell\nme, what is the matter?\"\n\nHe made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment\nreturned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom\nhe had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant\nexertion, he recovered himself again, and after saying, \"Yes, I had\nthe pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town,\nwhich you were so good as to send me,\" turned hastily away with a\nslight bow and joined his friend.\n\nMarianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into\nher chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried\nto screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with\nlavender water.\n\n\"Go to him, Elinor,\" she cried, as soon as she could speak, \"and force\nhim to come to me. Tell him I must see him again--must speak to him\ninstantly. I cannot rest--I shall not have a moment's peace till this\nis explained--some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh, go to him\nthis moment.\"\n\n\"How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. This is\nnot the place for explanations. Wait only till tomorrow.\"\n\nWith difficulty however could she prevent her from following him\nherself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at\nleast, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him\nwith more privacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne\ncontinued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her\nfeelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw\nWilloughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and\ntelling Marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking\nto him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She\ninstantly begged her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them\nhome, as she was too miserable to stay a minute longer.\n\nLady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed\nthat Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her\nwish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they\ndeparted as soon as the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was\nspoken during their return to Berkeley Street. Marianne was in a\nsilent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings\nwas luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room,\nwhere hartshorn restored her a little to herself. She was soon\nundressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her\nsister then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs.\nJennings, had leisure enough for thinking over the past.\n\nThat some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and\nMarianne she could not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of it,\nseemed equally clear; for however Marianne might still feed her own\nwishes, _she_ could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or\nmisapprehension of any kind. Nothing but a thorough change of\nsentiment could account for it. Her indignation would have been still\nstronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which\nseemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented\nher from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with\nthe affections of her sister from the first, without any design that\nwould bear investigation. Absence might have weakened his regard, and\nconvenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a\nregard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt.\n\nAs for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already\nhave given her, and on those still more severe which might await her\nin its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest\nconcern. Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she\ncould _esteem_ Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided\nin future, her mind might be always supported. But every circumstance\nthat could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery\nof Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby--in an immediate and\nirreconcilable rupture with him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\n\nBefore the housemaid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun\ngained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne,\nonly half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for\nthe sake of all the little light she could command from it, and\nwriting as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. In this\nsituation, Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first\nperceived her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent\nanxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness--\n\n\"Marianne, may I ask--\"\n\n\"No, Elinor,\" she replied, \"ask nothing; you will soon know all.\"\n\nThe sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no\nlonger than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return\nof the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she could\ngo on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still\nobliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of\nher feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the\nlast time to Willoughby.\n\nElinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power;\nand she would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had\nnot Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous\nirritability, not to speak to her for the world. In such\ncircumstances, it was better for both that they should not be long\ntogether; and the restless state of Marianne's mind not only prevented\nher from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but\nrequiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her\nwander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of\nevery body.\n\nAt breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and\nElinor's attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in\npitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to\nengage Mrs. Jennings's notice entirely to herself.\n\nAs this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a\nconsiderable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it,\nround the common working table, when a letter was delivered to\nMarianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a\ndeath-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who saw as\nplainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must come\nfrom Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her\nhardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremor as\nmade her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings's notice. That\ngood lady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from\nWilloughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she\ntreated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it\nto her liking. Of Elinor's distress, she was too busily employed in\nmeasuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and\ncalmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she\nsaid--\n\n\"Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my\nlife! _My_ girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish\nenough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature. I\nhope, from the bottom of my heart, he won't keep her waiting much\nlonger, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn.\nPray, when are they to be married?\"\n\nElinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment,\nobliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore,\ntrying to smile, replied, \"And have you really, Ma'am, talked yourself\ninto a persuasion of my sister's being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I\nthought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to\nimply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive\nyourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me\nmore than to hear of their being going to be married.\"\n\n\"For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so? Don't we\nall know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in\nlove with each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see\nthem together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I\nknow that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding\nclothes? Come, come, this won't do. Because you are so sly about it\nyourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such\nthing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever\nso long. I tell every body of it and so does Charlotte.\"\n\n\"Indeed, Ma'am,\" said Elinor, very seriously, \"you are mistaken.\nIndeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and\nyou will find that you have though you will not believe me now.\"\n\nMrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more,\nand eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried\naway to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne\nstretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand,\nand two or three others laying by her. Elinor drew near, but without\nsaying a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed\nher affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of\ntears, which at first was scarcely less violent than Marianne's. The\nlatter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of\nthis behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction,\nshe put all the letters into Elinor's hands; and then covering her\nface with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony. Elinor, who\nknew that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its\ncourse, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat\nspent itself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby's letter, read as\nfollows:--\n\n\"Bond Street, January.\n\n\"MY DEAR MADAM,\n\n     \"I have just had the honour of receiving your letter, for\n     which I beg to return my sincere acknowledgments. I am much\n     concerned to find there was anything in my behaviour last\n     night that did not meet your approbation; and though I am\n     quite at a loss to discover in what point I could be so\n     unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat your forgiveness of\n     what I can assure you to have been perfectly unintentional.\n     I shall never reflect on my former acquaintance with your\n     family in Devonshire without the most grateful pleasure, and\n     flatter myself it will not be broken by any mistake or\n     misapprehension of my actions. My esteem for your whole\n     family is very sincere; but if I have been so unfortunate as\n     to give rise to a belief of more than I felt, or meant to\n     express, I shall reproach myself for not having been more\n     guarded in my professions of that esteem. That I should ever\n     have meant more you will allow to be impossible, when you\n     understand that my affections have been long engaged\n     elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before\n     this engagement is fulfilled. It is with great regret that I\n     obey your commands in returning the letters with which I\n     have been honoured from you, and the lock of hair, which you\n     so obligingly bestowed on me.\n\nI am, dear Madam,\n\nYour most obedient humble servant,\n\n\"JOHN WILLOUGHBY.\"\n\nWith what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss\nDashwood, may be imagined. Though aware, before she began it, that it\nmust bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their\nseparation for ever, she was not aware that such language could be\nsuffered to announce it; nor could she have supposed Willoughby\ncapable of departing so far from the appearance of every honourable\nand delicate feeling--so far from the common decorum of a gentleman,\nas to send a letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of\nbringing with his desire of a release any professions of regret,\nacknowledged no breach of faith, denied all peculiar affection\nwhatever;--a letter of which every line was an insult, and which\nproclaimed its writer to be deep in hardened villainy.\n\nShe paused over it for some time with indignant astonishment; then\nread it again and again; but every perusal only served to increase\nher abhorrence of the man, and so bitter were her feelings against\nhim, that she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might wound\nMarianne still deeper by treating their disengagement, not as a loss\nto her of any possible good but as an escape from the worst and most\nirremediable of all evils,--a connection, for life, with an\nunprincipled man, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the most\nimportant.\n\nIn her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the\ndepravity of that mind which could dictate it, and probably, on the\nvery different mind of a very different person, who had no other\nconnection whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him with\nevery thing that passed, Elinor forgot the immediate distress of her\nsister, forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and\nso entirely forgot how long she had been in the room, that when on\nhearing a carriage drive up to the door, she went to the window to see\nwho could be coming so unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to\nperceive Mrs. Jennings's chariot, which she knew had not been ordered\ntill one. Determined not to quit Marianne, though hopeless of\ncontributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away to excuse\nherself from attending Mrs. Jennings, on account of her sister being\nindisposed. Mrs. Jennings, with a thoroughly good-humoured concern for\nits cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and Elinor, after seeing\nher safe off, returned to Marianne, whom she found attempting to rise\nfrom the bed, and whom she reached just in time to prevent her from\nfalling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want of proper rest\nand food; for it was many days since she had any appetite, and many\nnights since she had really slept; and now, when her mind was no\nlonger supported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this\nwas felt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous\nfaintness. A glass of wine, which Elinor procured for her directly,\nmade her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express some\nsense of her kindness, by saying, \"Poor Elinor! how unhappy I make\nyou!\"\n\n\"I only wish,\" replied her sister, \"there were any thing I _could_ do,\nwhich might be of comfort to you.\"\n\nThis, as every thing else would have been, was too much for Marianne,\nwho could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, \"Oh! Elinor, I\nam miserable, indeed,\" before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.\n\nElinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in\nsilence.\n\n\"Exert yourself, dear Marianne,\" she cried, \"if you would not kill\nyourself and all who love you. Think of your mother; think of her\nmisery while _you_ suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself.\"\n\n\"I cannot, I cannot,\" cried Marianne; \"leave me, leave me, if I\ndistress you; leave me, hate me, forget me! but do not torture me so.\nOh! how easy for those, who have no sorrow of their own to talk of\nexertion! Happy, happy Elinor, _you_ cannot have an idea of what I\nsuffer.\"\n\n\"Do you call _me_ happy, Marianne? Ah! if you knew! And can you\nbelieve me to be so, while I see you so wretched!\"\n\n\"Forgive me, forgive me,\" throwing her arms round her sister's neck;\n\"I know you feel for me; I know what a heart you have; but yet you\nare--you must be happy; Edward loves you--what, oh what, can do away\nsuch happiness as that?\"\n\n\"Many, many circumstances,\" said Elinor, solemnly.\n\n\"No, no, no,\" cried Marianne wildly, \"he loves you, and only you. You\n_can_ have no grief.\"\n\n\"I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state.\"\n\n\"And you will never see me otherwise. Mine is a misery which nothing\ncan do away.\"\n\n\"You must not talk so, Marianne. Have you no comforts? no friends? Is\nyour loss such as leaves no opening for consolation? Much as you\nsuffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of\nhis character had been delayed to a later period;--if your engagement\nhad been carried on for months and months, as it might have been,\nbefore he chose to put an end to it. Every additional day of unhappy\nconfidence, on your side, would have made the blow more dreadful.\"\n\n\"Engagement!\" cried Marianne, \"there has been no engagement.\"\n\n\"No engagement!\"\n\n\"No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him. He has broken no faith\nwith me.\"\n\n\"But he told you that he loved you.\"\n\n\"Yes--no--never absolutely. It was every day implied, but never\nprofessedly declared. Sometimes I thought it had been--but it never\nwas.\"\n\n\"Yet you wrote to him?\"\n\n\"Yes: could that be wrong after all that had passed? But I cannot\ntalk.\"\n\nElinor said no more, and turning again to the three letters which now\nraised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over the\ncontents of all. The first, which was what her sister had sent him on\ntheir arrival in town, was to this effect:--\n\n\"Berkeley Street, January.\n\n     \"How surprised you will be, Willoughby, on receiving this;\n     and I think you will feel something more than surprise, when\n     you know that I am in town. An opportunity of coming hither,\n     though with Mrs. Jennings, was a temptation we could not\n     resist. I wish you may receive this in time to come here\n     tonight, but I will not depend on it. At any rate I shall\n     expect you to-morrow. For the present, adieu.\n\nM.D.\"\n\nHer second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance\nat the Middletons', was in these words:--\n\n     \"I cannot express my disappointment in having missed you the\n     day before yesterday, nor my astonishment at not having\n     received any answer to a note which I sent you above a week\n     ago. I have been expecting to hear from you, and still more\n     to see you, every hour of the day. Pray call again as soon\n     as possible, and explain the reason of my having expected\n     this in vain. You had better come earlier another time,\n     because we are generally out by one. We were last night at\n     Lady Middleton's, where there was a dance. I have been told\n     that you were asked to be of the party. But could it be so?\n     You must be very much altered indeed since we parted, if\n     that could be the case, and you not there. But I will not\n     suppose this possible, and I hope very soon to receive your\n     personal assurance of its being otherwise.\n\nM.D.\"\n\nThe contents of her last note to him were these:--\n\n     \"What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by your behaviour last\n     night? Again I demand an explanation of it. I was prepared\n     to meet you with the pleasure which our separation naturally\n     produced,--with the familiarity which our intimacy at Barton\n     appeared to me to justify. I was repulsed indeed! I have\n     passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse a conduct\n     which can scarcely be called less than insulting; but though\n     I have not yet been able to form any reasonable apology for\n     your behaviour, I am perfectly ready to hear your\n     justification of it. You have perhaps been misinformed, or\n     purposely deceived, in something concerning me, which may\n     have lowered me in your opinion. Tell me what it is, explain\n     the grounds on which you acted, and I shall be satisfied, in\n     being able to satisfy you. It would grieve me indeed to be\n     obliged to think ill of you; but if I am to do it, if I am\n     to learn that you are not what we have hitherto believed\n     you, that your regard for us all was insincere, that your\n     behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let it be told\n     as soon as possible. My feelings are at present in a state\n     of dreadful indecision; I wish to acquit you, but certainty\n     on either side will be ease to what I now suffer. If your\n     sentiments are no longer what they were, you will return my\n     notes, and the lock of my hair which is in your possession.\n\nM.D.\"\n\nThat such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have\nbeen so answered, Elinor, for Willoughby's sake, would have been\nunwilling to believe. But her condemnation of him did not blind her to\nthe impropriety of their having been written at all; and she was\nsilently grieving over the imprudence which had hazarded such\nunsolicited proofs of tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding,\nand most severely condemned by the event, when Marianne, perceiving\nthat she had finished the letters, observed to her that they contained\nnothing but what any one would have written in the same situation.\n\n\"I felt myself,\" she added, \"to be as solemnly engaged to him, as if\nthe strictest legal covenant had bound us to each other.\"\n\n\"I can believe it,\" said Elinor; \"but unfortunately he did not feel\nthe same.\"\n\n\"He _did_ feel the same, Elinor--for weeks and weeks he felt it. I\nknow he did. Whatever may have changed him now, (and nothing but the\nblackest art employed against me can have done it), I was once as dear\nto him as my own soul could wish. This lock of hair, which now he can\nso readily give up, was begged of me with the most earnest\nsupplication. Had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard his\nvoice at that moment! Have you forgot the last evening of our being\ntogether at Barton? The morning that we parted too! When he told me\nthat it might be many weeks before we met again--his distress--can I\never forget his distress?\"\n\nFor a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion had\npassed away, she added, in a firmer tone--\n\n\"Elinor, I have been cruelly used; but not by Willoughby.\"\n\n\"Dearest Marianne, who but himself? By whom can he have been\ninstigated?\"\n\n\"By all the world, rather than by his own heart. I could rather\nbelieve every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me\nin his opinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty. This\nwoman of whom he writes--whoever she be--or any one, in short, but\nyour own dear self, mama, and Edward, may have been so barbarous to\nbely me. Beyond you three, is there a creature in the world whom I\nwould not rather suspect of evil than Willoughby, whose heart I know\nso well?\"\n\nElinor would not contend, and only replied, \"Whoever may have been so\ndetestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph,\nmy dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own\ninnocence and good intentions supports your spirits. It is a\nreasonable and laudable pride which resists such malevolence.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" cried Marianne, \"misery such as mine has no pride. I care\nnot who knows that I am wretched. The triumph of seeing me so may be\nopen to all the world. Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer little may be\nproud and independent as they like--may resist insult, or return\nmortification--but I cannot. I must feel--I must be wretched--and they\nare welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can.\"\n\n\"But for my mother's sake and mine--\"\n\n\"I would do more than for my own. But to appear happy when I am so\nmiserable--oh! who can require it?\"\n\nAgain they were both silent. Elinor was employed in walking\nthoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire,\nwithout knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerning\nobjects through the other; and Marianne, seated at the foot of the\nbed, with her head leaning against one of its posts, again took up\nWilloughby's letter, and, after shuddering over every sentence,\nexclaimed--\n\n\"It is too much! Oh, Willoughby, Willoughby, could this be yours!\nCruel, cruel--nothing can acquit you. Elinor, nothing can. Whatever he\nmight have heard against me, ought he not to have suspended his\nbelief? ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power\nof clearing myself? 'The lock of hair, (repeating it from the letter,)\nwhich you so obligingly bestowed on me'--that is unpardonable.\nWilloughby, where was your heart when you wrote those words? Oh,\nbarbarously insolent!--Elinor, can he be justified?\"\n\n\"No, Marianne, in no possible way.\"\n\n\"And yet this woman--who knows what her art may have been?--how long\nit may have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her!--Who\nis she?--Who can she be?--Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young\nand attractive among his female acquaintance?--Oh! no one, no one:--he\ntalked to me only of myself.\"\n\nAnother pause ensued; Marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended\nthus:--\n\n\"Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort mama. Can not we be\ngone to-morrow?\"\n\n\"To-morrow, Marianne!\"\n\n\"Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby's sake--and\nnow who cares for me? Who regards me?\"\n\n\"It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings much\nmore than civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent\nsuch a hasty removal as that.\"\n\n\"Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannot stay here long,\nI cannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people.\nThe Middletons and Palmers--how am I to bear their pity? The pity of\nsuch a woman as Lady Middleton! Oh, what would _he_ say to that!\"\n\nElinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so; but\nno attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and body\nshe moved from one posture to another, till growing more and more\nhysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at\nall, and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for\nassistance. Some lavender drops, however, which she was at length\npersuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till Mrs. Jennings\nreturned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\n\nMrs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and\nwithout waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the\ndoor and walked in with a look of real concern.\n\n\"How do you do my dear?\" said she in a voice of great compassion to\nMarianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer.\n\n\"How is she, Miss Dashwood? Poor thing! she looks very bad. No\nwonder. Ay, it is but too true. He is to be married very soon--a\ngood-for-nothing fellow! I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told\nme of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend\nof Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it;\nand I was almost ready to sink as it was. Well, said I, all I can say\nis, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance\nabominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his\nheart out. And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it. I\nhave no notion of men's going on in this way; and if ever I meet him\nagain, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a\nday. But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne--he is not the\nonly young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty face\nyou will never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I won't disturb her\nany longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and have done\nwith. The Parrys and Sandersons luckily are coming tonight you know,\nand that will amuse her.\"\n\nShe then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she\nsupposed her young friend's affliction could be increased by noise.\n\nMarianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with\nthem. Elinor even advised her against it. But \"no, she would go down;\nshe could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less.\"\nElinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive,\nthough believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner,\nsaid no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could,\nwhile Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into\nthe dining room as soon as they were summoned to it.\n\nWhen there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was\ncalmer than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had\nshe been conscious of half Mrs. Jennings's well-meant but ill-judged\nattentions to her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but\nnot a syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts\npreserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before her.\n\nElinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings's kindness, though its\neffusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous,\nmade her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities,\nwhich her sister could not make or return for herself. Their good\nfriend saw that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was\ndue to her which might make her at all less so. She treated her\ntherefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a\nfavourite child on the last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have\nthe best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy\nin the house, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the\nday. Had not Elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a\ncheck to all mirth, she could have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings's\nendeavours to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety of\nsweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. As soon, however, as the\nconsciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on\nMarianne, she could stay no longer. With a hasty exclamation of\nMisery, and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got\nup and hurried out of the room.\n\n\"Poor soul!\" cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, \"how it\ngrieves me to see her! And I declare if she is not gone away without\nfinishing her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to\ndo her any good. I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I\nwould send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to\nme, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill! But when there\nis plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord\nbless you! they care no more about such things!\"\n\n\"The lady then,--Miss Grey I think you called her,--is very rich?\"\n\n\"Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? a smart,\nstylish girl they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very\nwell, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family\nare all rich together. Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it\nwon't come before it's wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No\nwonder! dashing about with his curricle and hunters! Well, it don't\nsignify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes\nlove to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to\nfly off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is\nready to have him. Why don't he, in such a case, sell his horses, let\nhis house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once?\nI warrant you, Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till\nmatters came round. But that won't do nowadays; nothing in the way\nof pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age.\"\n\n\"Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is? Is she said to be\namiable?\"\n\n\"I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her\nmentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day\nMiss Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison\nwould not be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison\ncould never agree.\"\n\n\"And who are the Ellisons?\"\n\n\"Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age and may choose for\nherself; and a pretty choice she has made!--What now,\" after pausing a\nmoment, \"your poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan\nby herself. Is there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear, it\nseems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by and by we shall have a\nfew friends, and that will amuse her a little. What shall we play at?\nShe hates whist I know; but is there no round game she cares for?\"\n\n\"Dear ma'am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Marianne, I dare say,\nwill not leave her room again this evening. I shall persuade her if I\ncan to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest.\"\n\n\"Aye, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her own\nsupper, and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and\nso cast down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been\nhanging over her head as long as that. And so the letter that came\ntoday finished it! Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I\nwould not have joked her about it for all my money. But then you know,\nhow should I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being nothing but\na common love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at\nabout them. Lord! how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be when\nthey hear it! If I had my senses about me I might have called in\nConduit Street in my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see\nthem to-morrow.\"\n\n\"It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer and\nSir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slightest\nallusion to what has passed, before my sister. Their own good-nature\nmust point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing\nabout it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to\nmyself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my\ndear madam will easily believe.\"\n\n\"Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear\nit talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a\nword about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time.\nNo more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very\nthoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I\ncertainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such\nthings, the better, the sooner 'tis blown over and forgot. And what\ndoes talking ever do you know?\"\n\n\"In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many\ncases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances\nwhich, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to\nbecome the public conversation. I must do _this_ justice to Mr.\nWilloughby--he has broken no positive engagement with my sister.\"\n\n\"Law, my dear! Don't pretend to defend him. No positive engagement\nindeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the\nvery rooms they were to live in hereafter!\"\n\nElinor, for her sister's sake, could not press the subject farther,\nand she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby's; since,\nthough Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the\nenforcement of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides,\nMrs. Jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again.\n\n\"Well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an ill wind, for it will be\nall the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye,\nthat he will. Mind me, now, if they an't married by Mid-summer. Lord!\nhow he'll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight. It will\nbe all to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year\nwithout debt or drawback--except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I\nhad forgot her; but she may be 'prenticed out at a small cost, and\nthen what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you;\nexactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and\nconveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered\nwith the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in\none corner! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were\nthere! Then, there is a dovecote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a\nvery pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for;\nand, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile\nfrom the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, for if you only go and sit\nup in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the\ncarriages that pass along. Oh! 'tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in\nthe village, and the parsonage-house within a stone's throw. To my\nfancy, a thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are\nforced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour\nnearer than your mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon\nas I can. One shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down. If we\n_can_ but put Willoughby out of her head!\"\n\n\"Ay, if we can do that, Ma'am,\" said Elinor, \"we shall do very well\nwith or without Colonel Brandon.\" And then rising, she went away to\njoin Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room,\nleaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which,\ntill Elinor's entrance, had been her only light.\n\n\"You had better leave me,\" was all the notice that her sister received\nfrom her.\n\n\"I will leave you,\" said Elinor, \"if you will go to bed.\" But this,\nfrom the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first\nrefused to do. Her sister's earnest, though gentle persuasion,\nhowever, soon softened her to compliance, and Elinor saw her lay her\naching head on the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some\nquiet rest before she left her.\n\nIn the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined by\nMrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand.\n\n\"My dear,\" said she, entering, \"I have just recollected that I have\nsome of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that ever was\ntasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister. My poor\nhusband! how fond he was of it! Whenever he had a touch of his old\ncolicky gout, he said it did him more good than any thing else in the\nworld. Do take it to your sister.\"\n\n\"Dear Ma'am,\" replied Elinor, smiling at the difference of the\ncomplaints for which it was recommended, \"how good you are! But I have\njust left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I think\nnothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me\nleave, I will drink the wine myself.\"\n\nMrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes\nearlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and Elinor, as she\nswallowed the chief of it, reflected, that though its effects on a\ncolicky gout were, at present, of little importance to her, its\nhealing powers, on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried\non herself as on her sister.\n\nColonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner\nof looking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied\nthat he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in short,\nthat he was already aware of what occasioned her absence. Mrs.\nJennings was not struck by the same thought; for soon after his\nentrance, she walked across the room to the tea-table where Elinor\npresided, and whispered, \"The Colonel looks as grave as ever you see.\nHe knows nothing of it; do tell him, my dear.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"_How fond he was of it!_\"]\n\nHe shortly afterwards drew a chair close to her's, and, with a look\nwhich perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after\nher sister.\n\n\"Marianne is not well,\" said she. \"She has been indisposed all day,\nand we have persuaded her to go to bed.\"\n\n\"Perhaps, then,\" he hesitatingly replied, \"what I heard this morning\nmay be--there may be more truth in it than I could believe possible at\nfirst.\"\n\n\"What did you hear?\"\n\n\"That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think--in short, that a man,\nwhom I _knew_ to be engaged--but how shall I tell you? If you know it\nalready, as surely you must, I may be spared.\"\n\n\"You mean,\" answered Elinor, with forced calmness, \"Mr. Willoughby's\nmarriage with Miss Grey. Yes, we _do_ know it all. This seems to have\nbeen a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first\nunfolded it to us. Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable! Where did you hear\nit?\"\n\n\"In a stationer's shop in Pall Mall, where I had business. Two ladies\nwere waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other\nan account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting\nconcealment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all. The name\nof Willoughby, John Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my\nattention; and what followed was a positive assertion that every thing\nwas now finally settled respecting his marriage with Miss Grey--it was\nno longer to be a secret--it would take place even within a few weeks,\nwith many particulars of preparations and other matters. One thing,\nespecially, I remember, because it served to identify the man still\nmore:--as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe\nMagna, his seat in Somersetshire. My astonishment!--but it would be\nimpossible to describe what I felt. The communicative lady I learnt,\non inquiry,--for I stayed in the shop till they were gone,--was a Mrs.\nEllison, and that, as I have been since informed, is the name of Miss\nGrey's guardian.\"\n\n\"It is. But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty thousand\npounds? In that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation.\"\n\n\"It may be so; but Willoughby is capable--at least I think--\" He\nstopped a moment; then added in a voice which seemed to distrust\nitself, \"And your sister,--how did she,--\"\n\n\"Her sufferings have been very severe. I have only to hope that they\nmay be proportionately short. It has been, it is a most cruel\naffliction. Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard;\nand even now, perhaps--but _I_ am almost convinced that he never was\nreally attached to her. He has been very deceitful! and, in some\npoints, there seems a hardness of heart about him.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Colonel Brandon, \"there is, indeed! But your sister does\nnot--I think you said so--she does not consider quite as you do?\"\n\n\"You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would still\njustify him if she could.\"\n\nHe made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the\ntea-things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was\nnecessarily dropped. Mrs. Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure\nwhile they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of Miss\nDashwood's communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel\nBrandon's side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of\nhope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening\nmore serious and thoughtful than usual.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\n\nFrom a night of more sleep than she had expected, Marianne awoke the\nnext morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had\nclosed her eyes.\n\nElinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt;\nand before breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject\nagain and again; and with the same steady conviction and affectionate\ncounsel on Elinor's side, the same impetuous feelings and varying\nopinions on Marianne's, as before. Sometimes she could believe\nWilloughby to be as unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at\nothers, lost every consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him.\nAt one moment she was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all\nthe world, at another she would seclude herself from it for ever, and\nat a third could resist it with energy. In one thing, however, she\nwas uniform, when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was\npossible, the presence of Mrs. Jennings, and in a determined silence\nwhen obliged to endure it. Her heart was hardened against the belief\nof Mrs. Jennings's entering into her sorrows with any compassion.\n\n\"No, no, no, it cannot be,\" she cried; \"she cannot feel. Her kindness\nis not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness. All that she wants\nis gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it.\"\n\nElinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which her\nsister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable\nrefinement of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her\non the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a\npolished manner. Like half the rest of the world, if more than half\nthere be that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities\nand an excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid. She\nexpected from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own,\nand she judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their\nactions on herself. Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters\nwere together in their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart\nof Mrs. Jennings still lower in her estimation; because, through her\nown weakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself,\nthough Mrs. Jennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost\ngood-will.\n\nWith a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling,\nfrom the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room,\nsaying--\n\n\"Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do you good.\"\n\nMarianne heard enough. In one moment her imagination placed before her\na letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition,\nexplanatory of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and\ninstantly followed by Willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the\nroom to enforce, at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the\nassurances of his letter. The work of one moment was destroyed by the\nnext. The hand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was\nbefore her; and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed\nsuch an ecstasy of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant,\nshe had never suffered.\n\nThe cruelty of Mrs. Jennings, no language, within her reach in her\nmoments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could\nreproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with\npassionate violence;--a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its\nobject, that after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still\nreferring her to the letter of comfort. But the letter, when she was\ncalm enough to read it, brought little comfort. Willoughby filled\nevery page. Her mother, still confident of their engagement, and\nrelying as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by\nElinor's application, to entreat from Marianne greater openness\ntowards them both; and this, with such tenderness towards her, such\naffection for Willoughby, and such a conviction of their future\nhappiness in each other, that she wept with agony through the whole of\nit.\n\nAll her impatience to be at home again now returned; her mother was\ndearer to her than ever; dearer through the very excess of her\nmistaken confidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be\ngone. Elinor, unable herself to determine whether it were better for\nMarianne to be in London or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own\nexcept of patience till their mother's wishes could be known; and at\nlength she obtained her sister's consent to wait for that knowledge.\n\nMrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could not be easy\ntill the Middletons and Palmers were able to grieve as much as\nherself; and positively refusing Elinor's offered attendance, went out\nalone for the rest of the morning. Elinor, with a very heavy heart,\naware of the pain she was going to communicate, and perceiving, by\nMarianne's letter, how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation\nfor it, then sat down to write her mother an account of what had\npassed, and entreat her directions for the future; while Marianne, who\ncame into the drawing-room on Mrs. Jennings's going away, remained\nfixed at the table where Elinor wrote, watching the advancement of her\npen, grieving over her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving\nstill more fondly over its effect on her mother.\n\nIn this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when\nMarianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was\nstartled by a rap at the door.\n\n\"Who can this be?\" cried Elinor. \"So early too! I thought we _had_\nbeen safe.\"\n\nMarianne moved to the window--\n\n\"It is Colonel Brandon!\" said she, with vexation. \"We are never safe\nfrom _him._\"\n\n\"He will not come in, as Mrs. Jennings is from home.\"\n\n\"I will not trust to _that_,\" retreating to her own room. \"A man who\nhas nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion\non that of others.\"\n\nThe event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on\ninjustice and error; for Colonel Brandon _did_ come in; and Elinor,\nwho was convinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither,\nand who saw _that_ solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look,\nand in his anxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive\nher sister for esteeming him so lightly.\n\n\"I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street,\" said he, after the first\nsalutation, \"and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more\neasily encouraged, because I thought it probable that I might find you\nalone, which I was very desirous of doing. My object--my wish--my sole\nwish in desiring it--I hope, I believe it is--is to be a means of\ngiving comfort;--no, I must not say comfort--not present comfort--but\nconviction, lasting conviction to your sister's mind. My regard for\nher, for yourself, for your mother--will you allow me to prove it, by\nrelating some circumstances which nothing but a _very_ sincere\nregard--nothing but an earnest desire of being useful--I think I am\njustified--though where so many hours have been spent in convincing\nmyself that I am right, is there not some reason to fear I may be\nwrong?\" He stopped.\n\n\"I understand you,\" said Elinor. \"You have something to tell me of Mr.\nWilloughby, that will open his character farther. Your telling it will\nbe the greatest act of friendship that can be shown Marianne. _My_\ngratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to\nthat end, and _hers_ must be gained by it in time. Pray, pray let me\nhear it.\"\n\n\"You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last October,--but\nthis will give you no idea--I must go farther back. You will find me a\nvery awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to begin. A\nshort account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it _shall_\nbe a short one. On such a subject,\" sighing heavily, \"can I have\nlittle temptation to be diffuse.\"\n\nHe stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went\non.\n\n\"You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation--(it is not to be\nsupposed that it could make any impression on you)--a conversation\nbetween us one evening at Barton Park--it was the evening of a\ndance--in which I alluded to a lady I had once known, as resembling,\nin some measure, your sister Marianne.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" answered Elinor, \"I have _not_ forgotten it.\" He looked\npleased by this remembrance, and added--\n\n\"If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender\nrecollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well\nin mind as person. The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of\nfancy and spirits. This lady was one of my nearest relations, an\norphan from her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father. Our\nages were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were\nplayfellows and friends. I cannot remember the time when I did not\nlove Eliza; and my affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as\nperhaps, judging from my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you\nmight think me incapable of having ever felt. Her's, for me, was, I\nbelieve, fervent as the attachment of your sister to Mr. Willoughby\nand it was, though from a different cause, no less unfortunate. At\nseventeen she was lost to me for ever. She was married--married\nagainst her inclination to my brother. Her fortune was large, and our\nfamily estate much encumbered. And this, I fear, is all that can be\nsaid for the conduct of one, who was at once her uncle and guardian.\nMy brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her. I had hoped\nthat her regard for me would support her under any difficulty, and for\nsome time it did; but at last the misery of her situation, for she\nexperienced great unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and though\nshe had promised me that nothing--but how blindly I relate! I have\nnever told you how this was brought on. We were within a few hours of\neloping together for Scotland. The treachery, or the folly, of my\ncousin's maid betrayed us. I was banished to the house of a relation\nfar distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement,\ntill my father's point was gained. I had depended on her fortitude too\nfar, and the blow was a severe one, but had her marriage been happy,\nso young as I then was, a few months must have reconciled me to it,\nor at least I should not have now to lament it. This however was not\nthe case. My brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not\nwhat they ought to have been, and from the first he treated her\nunkindly. The consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so\ninexperienced as Mrs. Brandon's, was but too natural. She resigned\nherself at first to all the misery of her situation; and happy had it\nbeen if she had not lived to overcome those regrets which the\nremembrance of me occasioned. But can we wonder that, with such a\nhusband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to advise or\nrestrain her (for my father lived only a few months after their\nmarriage, and I was with my regiment in the East Indies) she should\nfall? Had I remained in England, perhaps--but I meant to promote the\nhappiness of both by removing from her for years, and for that purpose\nhad procured my exchange. The shock which her marriage had given me,\"\nhe continued, in a voice of great agitation, \"was of trifling\nweight--was nothing to what I felt when I heard, about two years\nafterwards, of her divorce. It was _that_ which threw this\ngloom,--even now the recollection of what I suffered--\"\n\nHe could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes\nabout the room. Elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by\nhis distress, could not speak. He saw her concern, and coming to her,\ntook her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect. A few\nminutes more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure.\n\n\"It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I returned\nto England. My first care, when I _did_ arrive, was of course to seek\nfor her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy. I could\nnot trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to\nfear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of\nsin. Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor\nsufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from my\nbrother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months\nbefore to another person. He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it,\nthat her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to\ndispose of it for some immediate relief. At last, however, and after I\nhad been six months in England, I _did_ find her. Regard for a former\nservant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me\nto visit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and\nthere, in the same house, under a similar confinement, was my\nunfortunate sister. So altered--so faded--worn down by acute suffering\nof every kind! hardly could I believe the melancholy and sickly figure\nbefore me, to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl,\non whom I had once doted. What I endured in so beholding her--but I\nhave no right to wound your feelings by attempting to describe it--I\nhave pained you too much already. That she was, to all appearance, in\nthe last stage of a consumption, was--yes, in such a situation it was\nmy greatest comfort. Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time\nfor a better preparation for death; and that was given. I saw her\nplaced in comfortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; I visited\nher every day during the rest of her short life: I was with her in her\nlast moments.\"\n\nAgain he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor spoke her feelings in\nan exclamation of tender concern, at the fate of his unfortunate\nfriend.\n\n\"Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended,\" said he, \"by the\nresemblance I have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation.\nTheir fates, their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural\nsweet disposition of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a\nhappier marriage, she might have been all that you will live to see\nthe other be. But to what does all this lead? I seem to have been\ndistressing you for nothing. Ah! Miss Dashwood--a subject such as\nthis--untouched for fourteen years--it is dangerous to handle it at\nall! I _will_ be more collected--more concise. She left to my care her\nonly child, a little girl, the offspring of her first guilty\nconnection, who was then about three years old. She loved the child,\nand had always kept it with her. It was a valued, a precious trust to\nme; and gladly would I have discharged it in the strictest sense, by\nwatching over her education myself, had the nature of our situations\nallowed it; but I had no family, no home; and my little Eliza was\ntherefore placed at school. I saw her there whenever I could, and\nafter the death of my brother, (which happened about five years ago,\nand which left to me the possession of the family property,) she\nvisited me at Delaford. I called her a distant relation; but I am\nwell aware that I have in general been suspected of a much nearer\nconnection with her. It is now three years ago (she had just reached\nher fourteenth year,) that I removed her from school, to place her\nunder the care of a very respectable woman, residing in Dorsetshire,\nwho had the charge of four or five other girls of about the same time\nof life; and for two years I had every reason to be pleased with her\nsituation. But last February, almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly\ndisappeared. I had allowed her, (imprudently, as it has since turned\nout,) at her earnest desire, to go to Bath with one of her young\nfriends, who was attending her father there for his health. I knew him\nto be a very good sort of man, and I thought well of his\ndaughter--better than she deserved, for, with a most obstinate and\nill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would give no clue, though\nshe certainly knew all. He, her father, a well-meaning, but not a\nquick-sighted man, could really, I believe, give no information; for\nhe had been generally confined to the house, while the girls were\nranging over the town and making what acquaintance they chose; and he\ntried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was convinced himself, of\nhis daughter's being entirely unconcerned in the business. In short, I\ncould learn nothing but that she was gone; all the rest, for eight\nlong months, was left to conjecture. What I thought, what I feared,\nmay be imagined; and what I suffered too.\"\n\n\"Good heavens!\" cried Elinor, \"could it be--could Willoughby!\"--\n\n\"The first news that reached me of her,\" he continued, \"came in a\nletter from herself, last October. It was forwarded to me from\nDelaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended party\nto Whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly,\nwhich I am sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body,\nand which I believe gave offence to some. Little did Mr. Willoughby\nimagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in\nbreaking up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one\nwhom he had made poor and miserable; but _had_ he known it, what would\nit have availed? Would he have been less gay or less happy in the\nsmiles of your sister? No, he had already done that, which no man who\n_can_ feel for another would do. He had left the girl whose youth and\ninnocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with\nno creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address! He\nhad left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor\nrelieved her.\"\n\n\"This is beyond every thing!\" exclaimed Elinor.\n\n\"His character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, and worse\nthan both. Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess\nwhat I must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever,\nand on being assured that she was to marry him: guess what I must have\nfelt for all your sakes. When I came to you last week and found you\nalone, I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to\ndo when it _was_ known. My behaviour must have seemed strange to you\nthen; but now you will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so\ndeceived; to see your sister--but what could I do? I had no hope of\ninterfering with success; and sometimes I thought your sister's\ninfluence might yet reclaim him. But now, after such dishonorable\nusage, who can tell what were his designs on her. Whatever they may\nhave been, however, she may now, and hereafter doubtless _will_, turn\nwith gratitude towards her own condition, when she compares it with\nthat of my poor Eliza, when she considers the wretched and hopeless\nsituation of this poor girl, and pictures her to herself, with an\naffection for him so strong, still as strong as her own, and with a\nmind tormented by self-reproach, which must attend her through life.\nSurely this comparison must have its use with her. She will feel her\nown sufferings to be nothing. They proceed from no misconduct, and can\nbring no disgrace. On the contrary, every friend must be made still\nmore her friend by them. Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for\nher fortitude under it, must strengthen every attachment. Use your own\ndiscretion, however, in communicating to her what I have told you. You\nmust know best what will be its effect; but had I not seriously, and\nfrom my heart believed it might be of service, might lessen her\nregrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this\naccount of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem to\nhave been intended to raise myself at the expense of others.\"\n\nElinor's thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness;\nattended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage\nto Marianne, from the communication of what had passed.\n\n\"I have been more pained,\" said she, \"by her endeavors to acquit him\nthan by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most\nperfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first\nshe will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have\nyou,\" she continued, after a short silence, \"ever seen Mr. Willoughby\nsince you left him at Barton?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he replied gravely, \"once I have. One meeting was unavoidable.\"\n\nElinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying--\n\n\"What? have you met him to--\"\n\n\"I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most\nreluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town,\nwhich was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he\nto defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the\nmeeting, therefore, never got abroad.\"\n\nElinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a\nsoldier she presumed not to censure it.\n\n\"Such,\" said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, \"has been the unhappy\nresemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so\nimperfectly have I discharged my trust!\"\n\n\"Is she still in town?\"\n\n\"No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near\nher delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there\nshe remains.\"\n\nRecollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor\nfrom her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again\nthe same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion\nand esteem for him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\n\nWhen the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss\nDashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was\nnot entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne\nappeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to\nit all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither\nobjection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and\nseemed to show by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But\nthough this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt\n_was_ carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the\neffect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he\ncalled, in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind\nof compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less\nviolently irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched.\nHer mind did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection.\nShe felt the loss of Willoughby's character yet more heavily than she\nhad felt the loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss\nWilliams, the misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his\ndesigns might _once_ have been on herself, preyed altogether so much\non her spirits, that she could not bring herself to speak of what she\nfelt even to Elinor; and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave\nmore pain to her sister than could have been communicated by the most\nopen and most frequent confession of them.\n\nTo give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and\nanswering Elinor's letter would be only to give a repetition of what\nher daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly\nless painful than Marianne's, and an indignation even greater than\nElinor's. Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other,\narrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her\nanxious solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would bear up with\nfortitude under this misfortune. Bad indeed must the nature of\nMarianne's affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude!\nmortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which\n_she_ could wish her not to indulge!\n\nAgainst the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had\ndetermined that it would be better for Marianne to be any where, at\nthat time, than at Barton, where every thing within her view would be\nbringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by\nconstantly placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen\nhim there. She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all\nmeans not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length of\nwhich, though never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to\ncomprise at least five or six weeks. A variety of occupations, of\nobjects, and of company, which could not be procured at Barton, would\nbe inevitable there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at\ntimes, into some interest beyond herself, and even into some\namusement, much as the ideas of both might now be spurned by her.\n\nFrom all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered her\nto be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his\nacquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her\nfriends. Design could never bring them in each other's way: negligence\ncould never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in\nits favour in the crowd of London than even in the retirement of\nBarton, where it might force him before her while paying that visit at\nAllenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from foreseeing at\nfirst as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain\none.\n\nShe had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where\nthey were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his\nwife were to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged\nit right that they should sometimes see their brother.\n\nMarianne had promised to be guided by her mother's opinion, and she\nsubmitted to it therefore without opposition, though it proved\nperfectly different from what she wished and expected, though she felt\nit to be entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by\nrequiring her longer continuance in London it deprived her of the only\npossible alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal sympathy of her\nmother, and doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent\nher ever knowing a moment's rest.\n\nBut it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought\nevil to herself would bring good to her sister; and Elinor, on the\nother hand, suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid\nEdward entirely, comforted herself by thinking, that though their\nlonger stay would therefore militate against her own happiness, it\nwould be better for Marianne than an immediate return into Devonshire.\n\nHer carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing Willoughby's\nname mentioned, was not thrown away. Marianne, though without knowing\nit herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor\nSir John, nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her.\nElinor wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards\nherself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day\nafter day to the indignation of them all.\n\nSir John, could not have thought it possible. \"A man of whom he had\nalways had such reason to think well! Such a good-natured fellow! He\ndid not believe there was a bolder rider in England! It was an\nunaccountable business. He wished him at the devil with all his heart.\nHe would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for\nall the world! No, not if it were to be by the side of Barton covert,\nand they were kept watching for two hours together. Such a scoundrel\nof a fellow! such a deceitful dog! It was only the last time they met\nthat he had offered him one of Folly's puppies! and this was the end\nof it!\"\n\nMrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry. \"She was determined to\ndrop his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she\nhad never been acquainted with him at all. She wished with all her\nheart Combe Magna was not so near Cleveland; but it did not signify,\nfor it was a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much\nthat she was resolved never to mention his name again, and she should\ntell everybody she saw, how good-for-nothing he was.\"\n\nThe rest of Mrs. Palmer's sympathy was shown in procuring all the\nparticulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and\ncommunicating them to Elinor. She could soon tell at what coachmaker's\nthe new carriage was building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby's\nportrait was drawn, and at what warehouse Miss Grey's clothes might be\nseen.\n\n[Illustration: _Offered him one of Folly's puppies._]\n\nThe calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was a\nhappy relief to Elinor's spirits, oppressed as they often were by\nthe clamorous kindness of the others. It was a great comfort to her to\nbe sure of exciting no interest in _one_ person at least among their\ncircle of friends: a great comfort to know that there was _one_ who\nwould meet her without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any\nanxiety for her sister's health.\n\nEvery qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the\nmoment, to more than its real value; and she was sometimes worried\ndown by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more\nindispensable to comfort than good-nature.\n\nLady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day,\nor twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, \"It is very\nshocking, indeed!\" and by the means of this continual though gentle\nvent, was able not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from the first\nwithout the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them without\nrecollecting a word of the matter; and having thus supported the\ndignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was\nwrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend to the\ninterest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (though\nrather against the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs. Willoughby would\nat once be a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her\nas soon as she married.\n\nColonel Brandon's delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome\nto Miss Dashwood. He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate\ndiscussion of her sister's disappointment, by the friendly zeal with\nwhich he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with\nconfidence. His chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing\npast sorrows and present humiliations, was given in the pitying eye\nwith which Marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of her\nvoice whenever (though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or\ncould oblige herself to speak to him. _These_ assured him that his\nexertion had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and\n_these_ gave Elinor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter;\nbut Mrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that\nthe Colonel continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither\nprevail on him to make the offer himself, nor commission her to make\nit for him, began, at the end of two days, to think that, instead of\nMid-summer, they would not be married till Michaelmas, and by the end\nof a week that it would not be a match at all. The good understanding\nbetween the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather to declare that\nthe honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would\nall be made over to _her_; and Mrs. Jennings had, for some time ceased\nto think at all of Mrs. Ferrars.\n\nEarly in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby's\nletter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he\nwas married. She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to\nherself, as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she\nwas desirous that Marianne should not receive the first notice of it\nfrom the public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every\nmorning.\n\nShe received the news with resolute composure; made no observation on\nit, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would\nburst out, and for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly less\npitiable than when she first learnt to expect the event.\n\nThe Willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and Elinor now\nhoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to\nprevail on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow\nfirst fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before.\n\nAbout this time the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at their cousin's\nhouse in Bartlett's Buildings, Holborn, presented themselves again\nbefore their more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley Streets; and\nwere welcomed by them all with great cordiality.\n\nElinor only was sorry to see them. Their presence always gave her\npain, and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the\noverpowering delight of Lucy in finding her _still_ in town.\n\n\"I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here\n_still_,\" said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word.\n\"But I always thought I _should_ I was almost sure you would not leave\nLondon yet awhile; though you _told_ me, you know, at Barton, that you\nshould not stay above a _month._ But I thought, at the time, that you\nwould most likely change your mind when it came to the point. It would\nhave been such a great pity to have went away before your brother and\nsister came. And now to be sure you will be in no _hurry_ to be gone.\nI am amazingly glad you did not keep to _your word._\"\n\nElinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her\nself-command to make it appear that she did _not._\n\n\"Well, my dear,\" said Mrs. Jennings, \"and how did you travel?\"\n\n\"Not in the stage, I assure you,\" replied Miss Steele, with quick\nexultation; \"we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to\nattend us. Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we'd join\nhim in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or\ntwelve shillings more than we did.\"\n\n\"Oh, oh!\" cried Mrs. Jennings; \"very pretty, indeed! and the Doctor is\na single man, I warrant you.\"\n\n\"There now,\" said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering, \"everybody laughs\nat me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why. My cousins say they\nare sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare I never\nthink about him from one hour's end to another. 'Lord! here comes your\nbeau, Nancy,' my cousin said t'other day, when she saw him crossing\nthe street to the house. My beau, indeed! said I--I cannot think who\nyou mean. The Doctor is no beau of mine.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking--but it won't do--the Doctor is\nthe man, I see.\"\n\n\"No, indeed!\" replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, \"and I\nbeg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of.\"\n\nMrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she\ncertainly would _not_, and Miss Steele was made completely happy.\n\n\"I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss\nDashwood, when they come to town,\" said Lucy, returning, after a\ncessation of hostile hints, to the charge.\n\n\"No, I do not think we shall.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I dare say you will.\"\n\nElinor would not humour her by farther opposition.\n\n\"What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for\nso long a time together!\"\n\n\"Long a time, indeed!\" interposed Mrs. Jennings. \"Why, their visit is\nbut just begun!\"\n\n[Illustration: _A very smart beau._]\n\nLucy was silenced.\n\n\"I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood,\" said Miss\nSteele. \"I am sorry she is not well--\" for Marianne had left the room\non their arrival.\n\n\"You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the\npleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with\nnervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation.\"\n\n\"Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and\nme!--I think she might see _us_; and I am sure we would not speak a\nword.\"\n\nElinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sister was\nperhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore\nnot able to come to them.\n\n\"Oh, if that's all,\" cried Miss Steele, \"we can just as well go and\nsee _her._\"\n\nElinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but\nshe was saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy's sharp reprimand,\nwhich now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness\nto the manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of\nthe other.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\n\nAfter some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister's entreaties,\nand consented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for\nhalf an hour. She expressly conditioned, however, for paying no\nvisits, and would do no more than accompany them to Gray's in\nSackville Street, where Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the\nexchange of a few old-fashioned jewels of her mother.\n\nWhen they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there\nwas a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call;\nand as she had no business at Gray's, it was resolved, that while her\nyoung friends transacted their's, she should pay her visit and return\nfor them.\n\nOn ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people\nbefore them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to\ntend to their orders; and they were obliged to wait. All that could be\ndone was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to\npromise the quickest succession; one gentleman only was standing\nthere, and it is probable that Elinor was not without hope of exciting\nhis politeness to a quicker despatch. But the correctness of his eye,\nand the delicacy of his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness. He\nwas giving orders for a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size,\nshape, and ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining\nand debating for a quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the\nshop, were finally arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no\nleisure to bestow any other attention on the two ladies, than what was\ncomprised in three or four very broad stares; a kind of notice which\nserved to imprint on Elinor the remembrance of a person and face, of\nstrong, natural, sterling insignificance, though adorned in the first\nstyle of fashion.\n\nMarianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and\nresentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and on\nthe puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of\nthe different toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by\nremaining unconscious of it all; for she was as well able to collect\nher thoughts within herself, and be as ignorant of what was passing\naround her, in Mr. Gray's shop, as in her own bedroom.\n\nAt last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls,\nall received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the\nlast day on which his existence could be continued without the\npossession of the toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely\ncare, and bestowing another glance on the Miss Dashwoods, but such a\none as seemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off\nwith a happy air of real conceit and affected indifference.\n\nElinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point\nof concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her\nside. She turned her eyes towards his face, and found him with some\nsurprise to be her brother.\n\n[Illustration: _Introduced to Mrs. Jennings._]\n\nTheir affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a very\ncreditable appearance in Mr. Gray's shop. John Dashwood was really far\nfrom being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave them\nsatisfaction; and his inquiries after their mother were respectful and\nattentive.\n\nElinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two days.\n\n\"I wished very much to call upon you yesterday,\" said he, \"but it was\nimpossible, for we were obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts\nat Exeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs.\nFerrars. Harry was vastly pleased. _This_ morning I had fully intended\nto call on you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one\nhas always so much to do on first coming to town. I am come here to\nbespeak Fanny a seal. But tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able\nto call in Berkeley Street, and be introduced to your friend Mrs.\nJennings. I understand she is a woman of very good fortune. And the\nMiddletons too, you must introduce me to _them_. As my mother-in-law's\nrelations, I shall be happy to show them every respect. They are\nexcellent neighbours to you in the country, I understand.\"\n\n\"Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort, their friendliness\nin every particular, is more than I can express.\"\n\n\"I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed.\nBut so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they are\nrelated to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to\nmake your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected. And so you\nare most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for\nnothing! Edward brought us a most charming account of the place: the\nmost complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all\nseemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. It was a great satisfaction to us\nto hear it, I assure you.\"\n\nElinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to\nbe spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs.\nJennings's servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for\nthem at the door.\n\nMr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs.\nJennings at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being\nable to call on them the next day, took leave.\n\n[Illustration: _Mrs. Jennings assured him directly that she should not\nstand upon ceremony._]\n\nHis visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an apology from\ntheir sister-in-law, for not coming too; \"but she was so much engaged\nwith her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where.\"\nMrs. Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not\nstand upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like\nit, and she should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and\nbring her sisters to see her. His manners to _them_, though calm, were\nperfectly kind; to Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil; and on\nColonel Brandon's coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a\ncuriosity which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be\nrich, to be equally civil to _him._\n\nAfter staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him\nto Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton.\nThe weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. As soon as\nthey were out of the house, his enquiries began.\n\n\"Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune?\"\n\n\"Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire.\"\n\n\"I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think,\nElinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable\nestablishment in life.\"\n\n\"Me, brother! what do you mean?\"\n\n\"He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What\nis the amount of his fortune?\"\n\n\"I believe about two thousand a year.\"\n\n\"Two thousand a-year;\" and then working himself up to a pitch of\nenthusiastic generosity, he added, \"Elinor, I wish with all my heart\nit were _twice_ as much, for your sake.\"\n\n\"Indeed I believe you,\" replied Elinor; \"but I am very sure that\nColonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying _me._\n\n\"You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very little\ntrouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be\nundecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his\nfriends may all advise him against it. But some of those little\nattentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix\nhim, in spite of himself. And there can be no reason why you should\nnot try for him. It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on\nyour side--in short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is\nquite out of the question, the objections are insurmountable--you have\ntoo much sense not to see all that. Colonel Brandon must be the man;\nand no civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with\nyou and your family. It is a match that must give universal\nsatisfaction. In short, it is a kind of thing that,\" lowering his\nvoice to an important whisper, \"will be exceedingly welcome to _all\nparties._\" Recollecting himself, however, he added, \"That is, I mean\nto say--your friends are all truly anxious to see you well settled;\nFanny particularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, I\nassure you. And her mother too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured\nwoman, I am sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much\nthe other day.\"\n\nElinor would not vouchsafe any answer.\n\n\"It would be something remarkable, now,\" he continued, \"something\ndroll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling at the\nsame time. And yet it is not very unlikely.\"\n\n\"Is Mr. Edward Ferrars,\" said Elinor, with resolution, \"going to be\nmarried?\"\n\n\"It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation.\nHe has a most excellent mother. Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost\nliberality, will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if\nthe match takes place. The lady is the Hon. Miss Morton, only daughter\nof the late Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds. A very desirable\nconnection on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking place\nin time. A thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away,\nto make over for ever; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble spirit. To give\nyou another instance of her liberality:--The other day, as soon as we\ncame to town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us just\nnow, she put bank-notes into Fanny's hands to the amount of two\nhundred pounds. And extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a\ngreat expense while we are here.\"\n\nHe paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to\nsay--\n\n\"Your expenses both in town and country must certainly be\nconsiderable; but your income is a large one.\"\n\n\"Not so large, I dare say, as many people suppose. I do not mean to\ncomplain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope\nwill in time be better. The enclosure of Norland Common, now carrying\non, is a most serious drain. And then I have made a little purchase\nwithin this half year; East Kingham Farm, you must remember the place,\nwhere old Gibson used to live. The land was so very desirable for me\nin every respect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that I\nfelt it my duty to buy it. I could not have answered it to my\nconscience to let it fall into any other hands. A man must pay for his\nconvenience; and it _has_ cost me a vast deal of money.\"\n\n\"More than you think it really and intrinsically worth.\"\n\n\"Why, I hope not that. I might have sold it again, the next day, for\nmore than I gave: but, with regard to the purchase-money, I might have\nbeen very unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were at that time so low,\nthat if I had not happened to have the necessary sum in my banker's\nhands, I must have sold out to very great loss.\"\n\nElinor could only smile.\n\n\"Other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first coming\nto Norland. Our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the\nStanhill effects that remained at Norland (and very valuable they\nwere) to your mother. Far be it from me to repine at his doing so; he\nhad an undoubted right to dispose of his own property as he chose,\nbut, in consequence of it, we have been obliged to make large\npurchases of linen, china, &c. to supply the place of what was taken\naway. You may guess, after all these expenses, how very far we must be\nfrom being rich, and how acceptable Mrs. Ferrars's kindness is.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Elinor; \"and assisted by her liberality, I hope you\nmay yet live to be in easy circumstances.\"\n\n\"Another year or two may do much towards it,\" he gravely replied; \"but\nhowever there is still a great deal to be done. There is not a stone\nlaid of Fanny's green-house, and nothing but the plan of the\nflower-garden marked out.\"\n\n\"Where is the green-house to be?\"\n\n\"Upon the knoll behind the house. The old walnut trees are all come\ndown to make room for it. It will be a very fine object from many\nparts of the park, and the flower-garden will slope down just before\nit, and be exceedingly pretty. We have cleared away all the old thorns\nthat grew in patches over the brow.\"\n\nElinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very\nthankful that Marianne was not present, to share the provocation.\n\nHaving now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away the\nnecessity of buying a pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters, in\nhis next visit at Gray's his thoughts took a cheerfuller turn, and he\nbegan to congratulate Elinor on having such a friend as Mrs. Jennings.\n\n\"She seems a most valuable woman indeed--Her house, her style of\nliving, all bespeak an exceeding good income; and it is an\nacquaintance that has not only been of great use to you hitherto, but\nin the end may prove materially advantageous. Her inviting you to town\nis certainly a vast thing in your favour; and indeed, it speaks\naltogether so great a regard for you, that in all probability when she\ndies you will not be forgotten. She must have a great deal to leave.\"\n\n\"Nothing at all, I should rather suppose; for she has only her\njointure, which will descend to her children.\"\n\n\"But it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income. Few\npeople of common prudence will do _that_; and whatever she saves, she\nwill be able to dispose of.\"\n\n\"And do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to her\ndaughters, than to us?\"\n\n\"Her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore I\ncannot perceive the necessity of her remembering them farther.\nWhereas, in my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and\ntreating you in this kind of way, she has given you a sort of claim on\nher future consideration, which a conscientious woman would not\ndisregard. Nothing can be kinder than her behaviour; and she can\nhardly do all this, without being aware of the expectation it raises.\"\n\n\"But she raises none in those most concerned. Indeed, brother, your\nanxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far.\"\n\n\"Why, to be sure,\" said he, seeming to recollect himself, \"people have\nlittle, have very little in their power. But, my dear Elinor, what is\nthe matter with Marianne?--she looks very unwell, has lost her colour,\nand is grown quite thin. Is she ill?\"\n\n\"She is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her for several\nweeks.\"\n\n\"I am sorry for that. At her time of life, any thing of an illness\ndestroys the bloom for ever! Her's has been a very short one! She was\nas handsome a girl last September, as I ever saw; and as likely to\nattract the man. There was something in her style of beauty, to\nplease them particularly. I remember Fanny used to say that she would\nmarry sooner and better than you did; not but what she is exceedingly\nfond of _you_, but so it happened to strike her. She will be mistaken,\nhowever. I question whether Marianne _now_, will marry a man worth\nmore than five or six hundred a-year, at the utmost, and I am very\nmuch deceived if _you_ do not do better. Dorsetshire! I know very\nlittle of Dorsetshire; but, my dear Elinor, I shall be exceedingly\nglad to know more of it; and I think I can answer for your having\nFanny and myself among the earliest and best pleased of your\nvisitors.\"\n\nElinor tried very seriously to convince him that there was no\nlikelihood of her marrying Colonel Brandon; but it was an expectation\nof too much pleasure to himself to be relinquished, and he was really\nresolved on seeking an intimacy with that gentleman, and promoting the\nmarriage by every possible attention. He had just compunction enough\nfor having done nothing for his sisters himself, to be exceedingly\nanxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an offer from\nColonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means\nof atoning for his own neglect.\n\nThey were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton at home, and Sir John\ncame in before their visit ended. Abundance of civilities passed on\nall sides. Sir John was ready to like anybody, and though Mr. Dashwood\ndid not seem to know much about horses, he soon set him down as a very\ngood-natured fellow: while Lady Middleton saw enough of fashion in his\nappearance to think his acquaintance worth having; and Mr. Dashwood\nwent away delighted with both.\n\n\"I shall have a charming account to carry to Fanny,\" said he, as he\nwalked back with his sister. \"Lady Middleton is really a most elegant\nwoman! Such a woman as I am sure Fanny will be glad to know. And Mrs.\nJennings too, an exceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so elegant\nas her daughter. Your sister need not have any scruple even of\nvisiting _her_, which, to say the truth, has been a little the case,\nand very naturally; for we only knew that Mrs. Jennings was the widow\nof a man who had got all his money in a low way; and Fanny and Mrs.\nFerrars were both strongly prepossessed, that neither she nor her\ndaughters were such kind of women as Fanny would like to associate\nwith. But now I can carry her a most satisfactory account of both.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV\n\n\nMrs. John Dashwood had so much confidence in her husband's judgment,\nthat she waited the very next day both on Mrs. Jennings and her\ndaughter; and her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former,\neven the woman with whom her sisters were staying, by no means\nunworthy her notice; and as for Lady Middleton, she found her one of\nthe most charming women in the world!\n\nLady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs. Dashwood. There was a\nkind of cold hearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually\nattracted them; and they sympathised with each other in an insipid\npropriety of demeanor, and a general want of understanding.\n\nThe same manners, however, which recommended Mrs. John Dashwood to the\ngood opinion of Lady Middleton did not suit the fancy of Mrs.\nJennings, and to _her_ she appeared nothing more than a little\nproud-looking woman of uncordial address, who met her husband's\nsisters without any affection, and almost without having anything to\nsay to them; for of the quarter of an hour bestowed on Berkeley\nStreet, she sat at least seven minutes and a half in silence.\n\nElinor wanted very much to know, though she did not choose to ask,\nwhether Edward was then in town; but nothing would have induced Fanny\nvoluntarily to mention his name before her, till able to tell her that\nhis marriage with Miss Morton was resolved on, or till her husband's\nexpectations on Colonel Brandon were answered; because she believed\nthem still so very much attached to each other, that they could not be\ntoo sedulously divided in word and deed on every occasion. The\nintelligence however, which _she_ would not give, soon flowed from\nanother quarter. Lucy came very shortly to claim Elinor's compassion\non being unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in town with Mr.\nand Mrs. Dashwood. He dared not come to Bartlett's Buildings for fear\nof detection, and though their mutual impatience to meet, was not to\nbe told, they could do nothing at present but write.\n\nEdward assured them himself of his being in town, within a very short\ntime, by twice calling in Berkeley Street. Twice was his card found on\nthe table, when they returned from their morning's engagements. Elinor\nwas pleased that he had called; and still more pleased that she had\nmissed him.\n\nThe Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the Middletons,\nthat, though not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined\nto give them--a dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began,\ninvited them to dine in Harley Street, where they had taken a very\ngood house for three months. Their sisters and Mrs. Jennings were\ninvited likewise, and John Dashwood was careful to secure Colonel\nBrandon, who, always glad to be where the Miss Dashwoods were,\nreceived his eager civilities with some surprise, but much more\npleasure. They were to meet Mrs. Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn\nwhether her sons were to be of the party. The expectation of seeing\n_her_, however, was enough to make her interested in the engagement;\nfor though she could now meet Edward's mother without that strong\nanxiety which had once promised to attend such an introduction, though\nshe could now see her with perfect indifference as to her opinion of\nherself, her desire of being in company with Mrs. Ferrars, her\ncuriosity to know what she was like, was as lively as ever.\n\nThe interest with which she thus anticipated the party, was soon\nafterwards increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing\nthat the Miss Steeles were also to be at it.\n\nSo well had they recommended themselves to Lady Middleton, so\nagreeable had their assiduities made them to her, that though Lucy was\ncertainly not so elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as\nready as Sir John to ask them to spend a week or two in Conduit\nStreet; and it happened to be particularly convenient to the Miss\nSteeles, as soon as the Dashwoods' invitation was known, that their\nvisit should begin a few days before the party took place.\n\nTheir claims to the notice of Mrs. John Dashwood, as the nieces of\nthe gentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother,\nmight not have done much, however, towards procuring them seats at her\ntable; but as Lady Middleton's guests they must be welcome; and Lucy,\nwho had long wanted to be personally known to the family, to have a\nnearer view of their characters and her own difficulties, and to have\nan opportunity of endeavouring to please them, had seldom been happier\nin her life, than she was on receiving Mrs. John Dashwood's card.\n\nOn Elinor its effect was very different. She began immediately to\ndetermine, that Edward who lived with his mother, must be asked as his\nmother was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for the\nfirst time, after all that passed, in the company of Lucy!--she hardly\nknew how she could bear it!\n\nThese apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, and\ncertainly not at all on truth. They were relieved however, not by her\nown recollection, but by the good will of Lucy, who believed herself\nto be inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that Edward\ncertainly would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped to\nbe carrying the pain still farther by persuading her that he was kept\naway by the extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal\nwhen they were together.\n\nThe important Tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies\nto this formidable mother-in-law.\n\n\"Pity me, dear Miss Dashwood!\" said Lucy, as they walked up the stairs\ntogether--for the Middletons arrived so directly after Mrs. Jennings,\nthat they all followed the servant at the same time--\"There is nobody\nhere but you, that can feel for me. I declare I can hardly stand. Good\ngracious!--In a moment I shall see the person that all my happiness\ndepends on--that is to be my mother!\"--\n\nElinor could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the\npossibility of its being Miss Morton's mother, rather than her own,\nwhom they were about to behold; but instead of doing that, she assured\nher, and with great sincerity, that she did pity her--to the utter\namazement of Lucy, who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at\nleast to be an object of irrepressible envy to Elinor.\n\nMrs. Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality, in\nher figure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect. Her\ncomplexion was sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and\nnaturally without expression; but a lucky contraction of the brow had\nrescued her countenance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it\nthe strong characters of pride and ill nature. She was not a woman of\nmany words; for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to\nthe number of her ideas; and of the few syllables that did escape her,\nnot one fell to the share of Miss Dashwood, whom she eyed with the\nspirited determination of disliking her at all events.\n\nElinor could not _now_ be made unhappy by this behaviour. A few months\nago it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs.\nFerrars' power to distress her by it now; and the difference of her\nmanners to the Miss Steeles, a difference which seemed purposely made\nto humble her more, only amused her. She could not but smile to see\nthe graciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very\nperson--for Lucy was particularly distinguished--whom of all others,\nhad they known as much as she did, they would have been most anxious\nto mortify; while she herself, who had comparatively no power to wound\nthem, sat pointedly slighted by both. But while she smiled at a\ngraciousness so misapplied, she could not reflect on the mean-spirited\nfolly from which it sprung, nor observe the studied attentions with\nwhich the Miss Steeles courted its continuance, without thoroughly\ndespising them all four.\n\nLucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and Miss\nSteele wanted only to be teased about Dr. Davies to be perfectly\nhappy.\n\nThe dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every\nthing bespoke the Mistress's inclination for show, and the Master's\nability to support it. In spite of the improvements and additions\nwhich were making to the Norland estate, and in spite of its owner\nhaving once been within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell\nout at a loss, nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which he had\ntried to infer from it; no poverty of any kind, except of\nconversation, appeared; but there, the deficiency was considerable.\nJohn Dashwood had not much to say for himself that was worth hearing,\nand his wife had still less. But there was no peculiar disgrace in\nthis; for it was very much the case with the chief of their visitors,\nwho almost all laboured under one or other of these disqualifications\nfor being agreeable--Want of sense, either natural or improved--want\nof elegance--want of spirits--or want of temper.\n\nWhen the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this\npoverty was particularly evident, for the gentlemen _had_ supplied the\ndiscourse with some variety--the variety of politics, inclosing land,\nand breaking horses--but then it was all over; and one subject only\nengaged the ladies till coffee came in, which was the comparative\nheights of Harry Dashwood, and Lady Middleton's second son William,\nwho were nearly of the same age.\n\nHad both the children been there, the affair might have been\ndetermined too easily by measuring them at once; but as Harry only was\npresent, it was all conjectural assertion on both sides; and every\nbody had a right to be equally positive in their opinion, and to\nrepeat it over and over again as often as they liked.\n\nThe parties stood thus:--\n\nThe two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the\ntallest, politely decided in favour of the other. The two\ngrandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity, were\nequally earnest in support of their own descendant.\n\nLucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other,\nthought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could\nnot conceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world\nbetween them; and Miss Steele, with yet greater address gave it, as\nfast as she could, in favour of each.\n\nElinor, having once delivered her opinion on William's side, by which\nshe offended Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny still more, did not see the\nnecessity of enforcing it by any farther assertion; and Marianne, when\ncalled on for her's, offended them all, by declaring that she had no\nopinion to give, as she had never thought about it.\n\nBefore her removing from Norland, Elinor had painted a very pretty\npair of screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted\nand brought home, ornamented her present drawing room; and these\nscreens, catching the eye of John Dashwood on his following the other\ngentlemen into the room, were officiously handed by him to Colonel\nBrandon for his admiration.\n\n\"These are done by my eldest sister,\" said he; \"and you, as a man of\ntaste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them. I do not know whether\nyou have ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she\nis in general reckoned to draw extremely well.\"\n\nThe Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship,\nwarmly admired the screens, as he would have done any thing painted by\nMiss Dashwood; and on the curiosity of the others being of course\nexcited, they were handed round for general inspection. Mrs. Ferrars,\nnot aware of their being Elinor's work, particularly requested to look\nat them; and after they had received gratifying testimony of Lady\nMiddleton's approbation, Fanny presented them to her mother,\nconsiderately informing her, at the same time, that they were done by\nMiss Dashwood.\n\n\"Hum\"--said Mrs. Ferrars--\"very pretty,\"--and without regarding them\nat all, returned them to her daughter.\n\nPerhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude\nenough,--for, colouring a little, she immediately said--\n\n\"They are very pretty, ma'am--an't they?\" But then again, the dread of\nhaving been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over\nher, for she presently added, \"Do you not think they are something in\nMiss Morton's style of painting, Ma'am?--She _does_ paint most\ndelightfully!--How beautifully her last landscape is done!\"\n\n\"Beautifully indeed! But _she_ does every thing well.\"\n\nMarianne could not bear this. She was already greatly displeased with\nMrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor's\nexpense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant\nby it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth--\n\n\"This is admiration of a very particular kind! what is Miss Morton to\nus? who knows, or who cares, for her?--it is Elinor of whom _we_ think\nand speak.\"\n\nAnd so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law's hands,\nto admire them herself as they ought to be admired.\n\n[Illustration: _Mrs. Ferrars._]\n\nMrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more\nstiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, \"Miss\nMorton is Lord Morton's daughter.\"\n\nFanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at\nhis sister's audacity. Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne's warmth\nthan she had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon's eyes, as\nthey were fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was\namiable in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a\nsister slighted in the smallest point.\n\nMarianne's feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs.\nFerrars's general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretell\nsuch difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart\ntaught her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of\naffectionate sensibility, she moved after a moment, to her sister's\nchair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to\nhers, said in a low, but eager, voice--\n\n\"Dear, dear Elinor, don't mind them. Don't let them make _you_\nunhappy.\"\n\nShe could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her\nface on Elinor's shoulder, she burst into tears. Every body's\nattention was called, and almost every body was concerned. Colonel\nBrandon rose up and went to them without knowing what he did. Mrs.\nJennings, with a very intelligent \"Ah! poor dear,\" immediately gave\nher her salts; and Sir John felt so desperately enraged against the\nauthor of this nervous distress, that he instantly changed his seat to\none close by Lucy Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account\nof the whole shocking affair.\n\nIn a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to put an end\nto the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits\nretained the impression of what had passed, the whole evening.\n\n\"Poor Marianne!\" said her brother to Colonel Brandon, in a low voice,\nas soon as he could secure his attention: \"She has not such good\nhealth as her sister,--she is very nervous,--she has not Elinor's\nconstitution;--and one must allow that there is something very trying\nto a young woman who _has been_ a beauty in the loss of her personal\nattractions. You would not think it perhaps, but Marianne _was_\nremarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as Elinor. Now\nyou see it is all gone.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV\n\n\nElinor's curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars was satisfied. She had found in\nher every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between\nthe families undesirable. She had seen enough of her pride, her\nmeanness, and her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend\nall the difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and\nretarded the marriage, of Edward and herself, had he been otherwise\nfree;--and she had seen almost enough to be thankful for her _own_\nsake, that one greater obstacle preserved her from suffering under any\nother of Mrs. Ferrars's creation, preserved her from all dependence\nupon her caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion. Or at least,\nif she did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward's being\nfettered to Lucy, she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, she\n_ought_ to have rejoiced.\n\nShe wondered that Lucy's spirits could be so very much elevated by the\ncivility of Mrs. Ferrars;--that her interest and her vanity should so\nvery much blind her as to make the attention which seemed only paid\nher because she was _not Elinor_ appear a compliment to herself--or to\nallow her to derive encouragement from a preference only given her,\nbecause her real situation was unknown. But that it was so, had not\nonly been declared by Lucy's eyes at the time, but was declared over\nagain the next morning more openly, for at her particular desire, Lady\nMiddleton set her down in Berkeley Street on the chance of seeing\nElinor alone, to tell her how happy she was.\n\nThe chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon\nafter she arrived, carried Mrs. Jennings away.\n\n\"My dear friend,\" cried Lucy, as soon as they were by themselves, \"I\ncome to talk to you of my happiness. Could anything be so flattering\nas Mrs. Ferrars's way of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable\nas she was! You know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her; but the\nvery moment I was introduced, there was such an affability in her\nbehaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to\nme. Now was not it so? You saw it all; and was not you quite struck\nwith it?\"\n\n\"She was certainly very civil to you.\"\n\n\"Civil!--Did you see nothing but only civility?--I saw a vast deal\nmore. Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me!--No pride,\nno hauteur, and your sister just the same--all sweetness and\naffability!\"\n\nElinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her to\nown that she had reason for her happiness; and Elinor was obliged to\ngo on.\n\n\"Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement,\" said she, \"nothing\ncould be more flattering than their treatment of you;--but as that was\nnot the case--\"\n\n\"I guessed you would say so,\" replied Lucy quickly--\"but there was no\nreason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she\ndid not, and her liking me is every thing. You shan't talk me out of\nmy satisfaction. I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no\ndifficulties at all, to what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a\ncharming woman, and so is your sister. They are both delightful women,\nindeed!--I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs.\nDashwood was!\"\n\nTo this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.\n\n\"Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?--you seem low--you don't speak;--sure you\nan't well.\"\n\n\"I never was in better health.\"\n\n\"I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it. I\nshould be sorry to have _you_ ill; you, that have been the greatest\ncomfort to me in the world!--Heaven knows what I should have done\nwithout your friendship.\"--\n\nElinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success.\nBut it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied--\n\n\"Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to\nEdward's love, it is the greatest comfort I have. Poor Edward!--But\nnow there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty\noften, for Lady Middleton's delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall\nbe a good deal in Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half\nhis time with his sister--besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars\nwill visit now;--and Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so good\nto say more than once, they should always be glad to see me. They are\nsuch charming women!--I am sure if ever you tell your sister what I\nthink of her, you cannot speak too high.\"\n\nBut Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she\n_should_ tell her sister. Lucy continued.\n\n\"I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took\na dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for\ninstance, without saying a word, and never after had took any notice\nof me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way--you know what I\nmean--if I had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should\nhave gave it all up in despair. I could not have stood it. For where\nshe _does_ dislike, I know it is most violent.\"\n\nElinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by\nthe door's being thrown open, the servant's announcing Mr. Ferrars,\nand Edward's immediately walking in.\n\nIt was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each showed that\nit was so. They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to\nhave as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to\nadvance farther into it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest\nform, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had\nfallen on them. They were not only all three together, but were\ntogether without the relief of any other person. The ladies recovered\nthemselves first. It was not Lucy's business to put herself forward,\nand the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. She could\ntherefore only _look_ her tenderness, and after slightly addressing\nhim, said no more.\n\nBut Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and\nher own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment's\nrecollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost\neasy, and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still\nimproved them. She would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the\nconsciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from\nsaying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much\nregretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley Street.\nShe would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as\na friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes\nof Lucy, though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her.\n\nHer manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage\nenough to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the\nladies in a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his\nsex might make it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of\nLucy's, nor could his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor's.\n\nLucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no\ncontribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word;\nand almost every thing that _was_ said, proceeded from Elinor, who was\nobliged to volunteer all the information about her mother's health,\ntheir coming to town, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about,\nbut never did.\n\nHer exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself\nso heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching\nMarianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it,\nand _that_ in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several\nminutes on the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude,\nbefore she went to her sister. When that was once done, however, it\nwas time for the raptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne's joy\nhurried her into the drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure in seeing\nhim was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and\nstrongly spoken. She met him with a hand that would be taken, and a\nvoice that expressed the affection of a sister.\n\n\"Dear Edward!\" she cried, \"this is a moment of great happiness!--This\nwould almost make amends for every thing?\"\n\nEdward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such\nwitnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all\nsat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was\nlooking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and\nsometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other\nshould be checked by Lucy's unwelcome presence. Edward was the first\nto speak, and it was to notice Marianne's altered looks, and express\nhis fear of her not finding London agree with her.\n\n\"Oh, don't think of me!\" she replied with spirited earnestness, though\nher eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, \"don't think of _my_\nhealth. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both.\"\n\nThis remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor\nto conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no\nvery benignant expression.\n\n\"Do you like London?\" said Edward, willing to say any thing that might\nintroduce another subject.\n\n\"Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none.\nThe sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and\nthank Heaven! you are what you always were!\"\n\nShe paused--no one spoke.\n\n\"I think, Elinor,\" she presently added, \"we must employ Edward to take\ncare of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we\nshall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to\naccept the charge.\"\n\nPoor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even\nhimself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace\nit to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied,\nand soon talked of something else.\n\n\"We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull, so\nwretchedly dull!--But I have much to say to you on that head, which\ncannot be said now.\"\n\nAnd with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her\nfinding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her\nbeing particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in\nprivate.\n\n\"But why were you not there, Edward?--Why did you not come?\"\n\n\"I was engaged elsewhere.\"\n\n\"Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met?\"\n\n\"Perhaps, Miss Marianne,\" cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on\nher, \"you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have\nno mind to keep them, little as well as great.\"\n\nElinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the\nsting; for she calmly replied--\n\n\"Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that\nconscience only kept Edward from Harley Street. And I really believe\nhe _has_ the most delicate conscience in the world; the most\nscrupulous in performing every engagement, however minute, and however\nit may make against his interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful\nof giving pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of\nbeing selfish, of any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so, and I will\nsay it. What! are you never to hear yourself praised!--Then you must\nbe no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem,\nmust submit to my open commendation.\"\n\nThe nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened\nto be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her\nauditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon\ngot up to go away.\n\n\"Going so soon!\" said Marianne; \"my dear Edward, this must not be.\"\n\nAnd drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy\ncould not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he\nwould go; and Lucy, who would have outstayed him, had his visit lasted\ntwo hours, soon afterwards went away.\n\n\"What can bring her here so often?\" said Marianne, on her leaving\nthem. \"Could not she see that we wanted her gone!--how teasing to\nEdward!\"\n\n\"Why so?--we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest known\nto him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see her as\nwell as ourselves.\"\n\nMarianne looked at her steadily, and said, \"You know, Elinor, that\nthis is a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to\nhave your assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case,\nyou ought to recollect that I am the last person in the world to do\nit. I cannot descend to be tricked out of assurances, that are not\nreally wanted.\"\n\nShe then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more,\nfor bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give\nno information that would convince Marianne; and painful as the\nconsequences of her still continuing in an error might be, she was\nobliged to submit to it. All that she could hope, was that Edward\nwould not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing\nMarianne's mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of\nthe pain that had attended their recent meeting--and this she had\nevery reason to expect.\n\n[Illustration: _Drawing him a little aside._]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI\n\n\nWithin a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to the\nworld, that the lady of Thomas Palmer, Esq. was safely delivered of a\nson and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least\nto all those intimate connections who knew it before.\n\nThis event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings's happiness, produced a\ntemporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a\nlike degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished\nto be as much as possible with Charlotte, she went thither every\nmorning as soon as she was dressed, and did not return till late in\nthe evening; and the Miss Dashwoods, at the particular request of the\nMiddletons, spent the whole of every day, in Conduit Street. For their\nown comfort they would much rather have remained, at least all the\nmorning, in Mrs. Jennings's house; but it was not a thing to be urged\nagainst the wishes of everybody. Their hours were therefore made over\nto Lady Middleton and the two Miss Steeles, by whom their company, in\nfact was as little valued, as it was professedly sought.\n\nThey had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former; and\nby the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on\n_their_ ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to\nmonopolize. Though nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton's\nbehaviour to Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at all.\nBecause they neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not\nbelieve them good-natured; and because they were fond of reading, she\nfancied them satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was to\nbe satirical; but _that_ did not signify. It was censure in common\nuse, and easily given.\n\nTheir presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy. It checked the\nidleness of one, and the business of the other. Lady Middleton was\nashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was\nproud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they would\ndespise her for offering. Miss Steele was the least discomposed of the\nthree, by their presence; and it was in their power to reconcile her\nto it entirely. Would either of them only have given her a full and\nminute account of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr.\nWilloughby, she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the\nsacrifice of the best place by the fire after dinner, which their\narrival occasioned. But this conciliation was not granted; for though\nshe often threw out expressions of pity for her sister to Elinor, and\nmore than once dropt a reflection on the inconstancy of beaux before\nMarianne, no effect was produced, but a look of indifference from the\nformer, or of disgust in the latter. An effort even yet lighter might\nhave made her their friend. Would they only have laughed at her about\nthe Doctor! But so little were they, anymore than the others, inclined\nto oblige her, that if Sir John dined from home, she might spend a\nwhole day without hearing any other raillery on the subject, than what\nshe was kind enough to bestow on herself.\n\nAll these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally\nunsuspected by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing\nfor the girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young\nfriends every night, on having escaped the company of a stupid old\nwoman so long. She joined them sometimes at Sir John's, sometimes at\nher own house; but wherever it was, she always came in excellent\nspirits, full of delight and importance, attributing Charlotte's well\ndoing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail\nof her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough to desire.\nOne thing _did_ disturb her; and of that she made her daily complaint.\nMr. Palmer maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among his\nsex, of all infants being alike; and though she could plainly\nperceive, at different times, the most striking resemblance between\nthis baby and every one of his relations on both sides, there was no\nconvincing his father of it; no persuading him to believe that it was\nnot exactly like every other baby of the same age; nor could he even\nbe brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the\nfinest child in the world.\n\nI come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time\nbefell Mrs. John Dashwood. It so happened that while her two sisters\nwith Mrs. Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another\nof her acquaintance had dropt in--a circumstance in itself not\napparently likely to produce evil to her. But while the imaginations\nof other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our\nconduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's happiness\nmust in some measure be always at the mercy of chance. In the present\ninstance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun\ntruth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Miss\nDashwoods, and understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood's sisters, she\nimmediately concluded them to be staying in Harley Street; and this\nmisconstruction produced within a day or two afterwards, cards of\ninvitation for them as well as for their brother and sister, to a\nsmall musical party at her house. The consequence of which was, that\nMrs. John Dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly\ngreat inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Dashwoods,\nbut, what was still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness\nof appearing to treat them with attention: and who could tell that\nthey might not expect to go out with her a second time? The power of\ndisappointing them, it was true, must always be her's. But that was\nnot enough; for when people are determined on a mode of conduct which\nthey know to be wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of any\nthing better from them.\n\nMarianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit of\ngoing out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to\nher, whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and\nmechanically for every evening's engagement, though without expecting\nthe smallest amusement from any, and very often without knowing, till\nthe last moment, where it was to take her.\n\nTo her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent, as\nnot to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her\ntoilet, which it received from Miss Steele in the first five minutes\nof their being together, when it was finished. Nothing escaped _her_\nminute observation and general curiosity; she saw every thing, and\nasked every thing; was never easy till she knew the price of every\npart of Marianne's dress; could have guessed the number of her gowns\naltogether with better judgment than Marianne herself, and was not\nwithout hopes of finding out before they parted, how much her washing\ncost per week, and how much she had every year to spend upon herself.\nThe impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally\nconcluded with a compliment, which though meant as its douceur, was\nconsidered by Marianne as the greatest impertinence of all; for after\nundergoing an examination into the value and make of her gown, the\ncolour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she was almost\nsure of being told that upon \"her word she looked vastly smart, and\nshe dared to say she would make a great many conquests.\"\n\nWith such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present\noccasion, to her brother's carriage; which they were ready to enter\nfive minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very\nagreeable to their sister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house\nof her acquaintance, and was there hoping for some delay on their part\nthat might inconvenience either herself or her coachman.\n\nThe events of this evening were not very remarkable. The party, like\nother musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real\ntaste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all;\nand the performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation,\nand that of their immediate friends, the first private performers in\nEngland.\n\nAs Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no\nscruple of turning her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it\nsuited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and\nvioloncello, would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the\nroom. In one of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of\nyoung men, the very he, who had given them a lecture on\ntoothpick-cases at Gray's. She perceived him soon afterwards looking\nat herself, and speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just\ndetermined to find out his name from the latter, when they both came\ntowards her, and Mr. Dashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert\nFerrars.\n\nHe addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow\nwhich assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was\nexactly the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by Lucy. Happy\nhad it been for her, if her regard for Edward had depended less on his\nown merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations! For then his\nbrother's bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the\nill-humour of his mother and sister would have begun. But while she\nwondered at the difference of the two young men, she did not find that\nthe emptiness of conceit of the one, put her out of all charity with\nthe modesty and worth of the other. Why they _were_ different, Robert\nexclaimed to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour's\nconversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme\n_gaucherie_ which he really believed kept him from mixing in proper\nsociety, he candidly and generously attributed it much less to any\nnatural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education;\nwhile he himself, though probably without any particular, any material\nsuperiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school,\nwas as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man.\n\n\"Upon my soul,\" he added, \"I believe it is nothing more; and so I\noften tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. 'My dear Madam,'\nI always say to her, 'you must make yourself easy. The evil is now\nirremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing. Why would you\nbe persuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to\nplace Edward under private tuition, at the most critical time of his\nlife? If you had only sent him to Westminster as well as myself,\ninstead of sending him to Mr. Pratt's, all this would have been\nprevented.' This is the way in which I always consider the matter, and\nmy mother is perfectly convinced of her error.\"\n\nElinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her\ngeneral estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not\nthink of Edward's abode in Mr. Pratt's family, with any satisfaction.\n\n\"You reside in Devonshire, I think,\"--was his next observation, \"in a\ncottage near Dawlish.\"\n\nElinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather\nsurprising to him that anybody could live in Devonshire, without\nliving near Dawlish. He bestowed his hearty approbation however on\ntheir species of house.\n\n\"For my own part,\" said he, \"I am excessively fond of a cottage; there\nis always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. And I protest,\nif I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and build one\nmyself, within a short distance of London, where I might drive myself\ndown at any time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy. I\nadvise every body who is going to build, to build a cottage. My friend\nLord Courtland came to me the other day on purpose to ask my advice,\nand laid before me three different plans of Bonomi's. I was to decide\non the best of them. 'My dear Courtland,' said I, immediately throwing\nthem all into the fire, 'do not adopt either of them, but by all means\nbuild a cottage.' And that I fancy, will be the end of it.\n\n\"Some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space in\na cottage; but this is all a mistake. I was last month at my friend\nElliott's, near Dartford. Lady Elliott wished to give a dance. 'But\nhow can it be done?' said she; 'my dear Ferrars, do tell me how it is\nto be managed. There is not a room in this cottage that will hold ten\ncouple, and where can the supper be?' I immediately saw that there\ncould be no difficulty in it, so I said, 'My dear Lady Elliott, do not\nbe uneasy. The dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease;\ncard-tables may be placed in the drawing-room; the library may be open\nfor tea and other refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the\nsaloon.' Lady Elliott was delighted with the thought. We measured the\ndining-room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen couple, and the\naffair was arranged precisely after my plan. So that, in fact, you\nsee, if people do but know how to set about it, every comfort may be\nas well enjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious dwelling.\"\n\nElinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the\ncompliment of rational opposition.\n\nAs John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister,\nhis mind was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a\nthought struck him during the evening, which he communicated to his\nwife, for her approbation, when they got home. The consideration of\nMrs. Dennison's mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had\nsuggested the propriety of their being really invited to become such,\nwhile Mrs. Jennings's engagements kept her from home. The expense\nwould be nothing, the inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an\nattention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be\nrequisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his\nfather. Fanny was startled at the proposal.\n\n\"I do not see how it can be done,\" said she, \"without affronting Lady\nMiddleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise I should be\nexceedingly glad to do it. You know I am always ready to pay them any\nattention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shows. But\nthey are Lady Middleton's visitors. How can I ask them away from her?\"\n\nHer husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her\nobjection. \"They had already spent a week in this manner in Conduit\nStreet, and Lady Middleton could not be displeased at their giving the\nsame number of days to such near relations.\"\n\nFanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said--\n\n\"My love I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power.\nBut I had just settled within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend\na few days with us. They are very well behaved, good kind of girls;\nand I think the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very\nwell by Edward. We can ask your sisters some other year, you know; but\nthe Miss Steeles may not be in town any more. I am sure you will like\nthem; indeed, you _do_ like them, you know, very much already, and so\ndoes my mother; and they are such favourites with Harry!\"\n\nMr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting the Miss\nSteeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution\nof inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly\nsuspecting that another year would make the invitation needless, by\nbringing Elinor to town as Colonel Brandon's wife, and Marianne as\n_their_ visitor.\n\nFanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had\nprocured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company\nand her sister's, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady\nMiddleton could spare them. This was enough to make Lucy really and\nreasonably happy. Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her,\nherself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views! Such\nan opportunity of being with Edward and his family was, above all\nthings, the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the\nmost gratifying to her feelings! It was an advantage that could not\nbe too gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the\nvisit to Lady Middleton, which had not before had any precise limits,\nwas instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days'\ntime.\n\nWhen the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within ten minutes after\nits arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the\nexpectations of Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed\non so short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will\ntowards her arose from something more than merely malice against\nherself; and might be brought, by time and address, to do every thing\nthat Lucy wished. Her flattery had already subdued the pride of Lady\nMiddleton, and made an entry into the close heart of Mrs. John\nDashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of\ngreater.\n\nThe Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor\nof their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event.\nSir John, who called on them more than once, brought home such\naccounts of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking.\nMrs. Dashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in\nher life, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book\nmade by some emigrant; called Lucy by her Christian name; and did not\nknow whether she should ever be able to part with them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII\n\n\nMrs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother\nfelt it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her;\nand, contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day,\nreturned from that period to her own home, and her own habits, in\nwhich she found the Miss Dashwoods very ready to resume their former\nshare.\n\nAbout the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in\nBerkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit\nto Mrs. Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by\nherself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to\nhear something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea,\nbegan directly to justify it, by saying--\n\n\"Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am. What is it?\"\n\n\"Something so strange! But you shall hear it all. When I got to Mr.\nPalmer's, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was\nsure it was very ill--it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples.\nSo I looked at it directly, and, 'Lord! my dear,' says I, 'it is\nnothing in the world, but the red gum--' and nurse said just the same.\nBut Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent\nfor; and luckily he happened to just come in from Harley Street, so he\nstepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw the child, he said\njust as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and\nthen Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he was going away again, it\ncame into my head, I am sure I do not know how I happened to think of\nit, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any news. So upon\nthat, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know\nsomething or other, and at last he said in a whisper, 'For fear any\nunpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to\ntheir sister's indisposition, I think it advisable to say, that I\nbelieve there is no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will\ndo very well.'\"\n\n\"What! is Fanny ill?\"\n\n[Illustration: _In a whisper._]\n\n\"That is exactly what I said, my dear. 'Lord!' says I, 'is Mrs.\nDashwood ill?' So then it all came out; and the long and the short of\nthe matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this. Mr. Edward Ferrars,\nthe very young man I used to joke with you about (but however, as it\nturns out, I am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), Mr.\nEdward Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to\nmy cousin Lucy! There's for you, my dear! And not a creature knowing a\nsyllable of the matter, except Nancy! Could you have believed such a\nthing possible? There is no great wonder in their liking one another;\nbut that matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody\nsuspect it! _That_ is strange! I never happened to see them together,\nor I am sure I should have found it out directly. Well, and so this\nwas kept a great secret, for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, and neither she nor\nyour brother or sister suspected a word of the matter: till this very\nmorning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, but no\nconjurer, popt it all out. 'Lord!' thinks she to herself, 'they are\nall so fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about\nit;' and so, away she went to your sister, who was sitting all alone\nat her carpet-work, little suspecting what was to come--for she had\njust been saying to your brother, only five minutes before, that she\nthought to make a match between Edward and some Lord's daughter or\nother, I forget who. So you may think what a blow it was to all her\nvanity and pride. She fell into violent hysterics immediately, with\nsuch screams as reached your brother's ears, as he was sitting in his\nown dressing-room down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his\nsteward in the country. So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene\ntook place, for Lucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming\nwhat was going on. Poor soul! I pity _her._ And I must say, I think\nshe was used very hardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and\nsoon drove her into a fainting fit. Nancy, she fell upon her knees,\nand cried bitterly; and your brother, he walked about the room, and\nsaid he did not know what to do. Mrs. Dashwood declared they should\nnot stay a minute longer in the house, and your brother was forced to\ngo down upon _his_ knees too, to persuade her to let them stay till\nthey had packed up their clothes. _Then_ she fell into hysterics\nagain, and he was so frightened that he would send for Mr. Donavan,\nand Mr. Donavan found the house in all this uproar. The carriage was\nat the door ready to take my poor cousins away, and they were just\nstepping in as he came off; poor Lucy in such a condition, he says,\nshe could hardly walk; and Nancy, she was almost as bad. I declare, I\nhave no patience with your sister; and I hope, with all my heart, it\nwill be a match in spite of her. Lord! what a taking poor Mr. Edward\nwill be in when he hears of it! To have his love used so scornfully!\nfor they say he is monstrous fond of her, as well he may. I should not\nwonder, if he was to be in the greatest passion!--and Mr. Donavan\nthinks just the same. He and I had a great deal of talk about it; and\nthe best of all is, that he is gone back again to Harley Street, that\nhe may be within call when Mrs. Ferrars is told of it, for she was\nsent for as soon as ever my cousins left the house, for your sister\nwas sure _she_ would be in hysterics too; and so she may, for what I\ncare. I have no pity for either of them. I have no notion of people's\nmaking such a to-do about money and greatness. There is no reason on\nearth why Mr. Edward and Lucy should not marry; for I am sure Mrs.\nFerrars may afford to do very well by her son, and though Lucy has\nnext to nothing herself, she knows better than any body how to make\nthe most of every thing; I dare say, if Mrs. Ferrars would only allow\nhim five hundred a-year, she would make as good an appearance with it\nas any body else would with eight. Lord! how snug they might live in\nsuch another cottage as yours--or a little bigger--with two maids, and\ntwo men; and I believe I could help them to a housemaid, for my Betty\nhas a sister out of place, that would fit them exactly.\"\n\nHere Mrs. Jennings ceased, and as Elinor had had time enough to\ncollect her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make\nsuch observations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to\nproduce. Happy to find that she was not suspected of any extraordinary\ninterest in it; that Mrs. Jennings (as she had of late often hoped\nmight be the case) had ceased to imagine her at all attached to\nEdward; and happy above all the rest, in the absence of Marianne, she\nfelt very well able to speak of the affair without embarrassment, and\nto give her judgment, as she believed, with impartiality on the\nconduct of every one concerned in it.\n\nShe could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event\nreally was; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its\nbeing possible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of\nEdward and Lucy. What Mrs. Ferrars would say and do, though there\ncould not be a doubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still\nmore anxious to know how Edward would conduct himself. For _him_ she\nfelt much compassion;--for Lucy very little--and it cost her some\npains to procure that little;--for the rest of the party none at all.\n\nAs Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor soon saw the\nnecessity of preparing Marianne for its discussion. No time was to be\nlost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth,\nand in endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others,\nwithout betraying that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any\nresentment against Edward.\n\nElinor's office was a painful one. She was going to remove what she\nreally believed to be her sister's chief consolation,--to give such\nparticulars of Edward as she feared would ruin him for ever in her\ngood opinion,-and to make Marianne, by a resemblance in their\nsituations, which to _her_ fancy would seem strong, feel all her own\ndisappointment over again. But unwelcome as such a task must be, it\nwas necessary to be done, and Elinor therefore hastened to perform it.\n\nShe was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to\nrepresent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the\nself-command she had practised since her first knowledge of Edward's\nengagement, might suggest a hint of what was practicable to Marianne.\nHer narration was clear and simple; and though it could not be given\nwithout emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agitation, nor\nimpetuous grief. _That_ belonged rather to the hearer, for Marianne\nlistened with horror, and cried excessively. Elinor was to be the\ncomforter of others in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and\nall the comfort that could be given by assurances of her own composure\nof mind, and a very earnest vindication of Edward from every charge\nbut of imprudence, was readily offered.\n\nBut Marianne for some time would give credit to neither. Edward seemed\na second Willoughby; and acknowledging as Elinor did, that she _had_\nloved him most sincerely, could she feel less than herself! As for\nLucy Steele, she considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely\nincapable of attaching a sensible man, that she could not be persuaded\nat first to believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former affection of\nEdward for her. She would not even admit it to have been natural; and\nElinor left her to be convinced that it was so, by that which only\ncould convince her, a better knowledge of mankind.\n\nHer first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact\nof the engagement, and the length of time it had existed. Marianne's\nfeelings had then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of\ndetail; and for some time all that could be done was to soothe her\ndistress, lessen her alarms, and combat her resentment. The first\nquestion on her side, which led to farther particulars, was--\n\n\"How long has this been known to you, Elinor? has he written to you?\"\n\n\"I have known it these four months. When Lucy first came to Barton\nPark last November, she told me in confidence of her engagement.\"\n\nAt these words, Marianne's eyes expressed the astonishment which her\nlips could not utter. After a pause of wonder, she exclaimed--\n\n\"Four months!--Have you known of this four months?\"\n\nElinor confirmed it.\n\n\"What!--while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your\nheart?--And I have reproached you for being happy!\"--\n\n\"It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the reverse!\"\n\n\"Four months!\" cried Marianne again. \"So calm! so cheerful! how have\nyou been supported?\"\n\n\"By feeling that I was doing my duty. My promise to Lucy, obliged me\nto be secret. I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of\nthe truth; and I owed it to my family and friends, not to create in\nthem a solicitude about me, which it could not be in my power to\nsatisfy.\"\n\nMarianne seemed much struck.\n\n\"I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother,\" added\nElinor; \"and once or twice I have attempted it; but without betraying\nmy trust, I never could have convinced you.\"\n\n\"Four months! and yet you loved him!\"\n\n\"Yes. But I did not love only him;--and while the comfort of others\nwas dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt.\nNow, I can think and speak of it with little emotion. I would not have\nyou suffer on my account; for I assure you I no longer suffer\nmaterially myself. I have many things to support me. I am not\nconscious of having provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of\nmy own, I have borne it as much as possible without spreading it\nfarther. I acquit Edward of essential misconduct. I wish him very\nhappy; and I am so sure of his always doing his duty, that though now\nhe may harbour some regret, in the end he must become so. Lucy does\nnot want sense, and that is the foundation on which every thing good\nmay be built. And after all, Marianne, after all that is bewitching in\nthe idea of a single and constant attachment, and all that can be said\nof one's happiness depending entirely on any particular person, it is\nnot meant--it is not fit--it is not possible that it should be so.\nEdward will marry Lucy; he will marry a woman superior in person and\nunderstanding to half her sex; and time and habit will teach him to\nforget that he ever thought another superior to _her._\"\n\n\"If such is your way of thinking,\" said Marianne, \"if the loss of what\nis most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your\nresolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be\nwondered at. They are brought more within my comprehension.\"\n\n\"I understand you. You do not suppose that I have ever felt much. For\nfour months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind, without\nbeing at liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it\nwould make you and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained\nto you, yet unable to prepare you for it in the least. It was told\nme,--it was in a manner forced on me by the very person herself, whose\nprior engagement ruined all my prospects; and told me, as I thought,\nwith triumph. This person's suspicions, therefore, I have had to\noppose, by endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most\ndeeply interested;--and it has not been only once;--I have had her\nhopes and exultation to listen to again and again. I have known myself\nto be divided from Edward for ever, without hearing one circumstance\nthat could make me less desire the connection. Nothing has proved him\nunworthy; nor has anything declared him indifferent to me. I have had\nto contend against the unkindness of his sister, and the insolence of\nhis mother; and have suffered the punishment of an attachment, without\nenjoying its advantages. And all this has been going on at a time,\nwhen, as you know too well, it has not been my only unhappiness. If\nyou can think me capable of ever feeling, surely you may suppose that\nI have suffered _now._ The composure of mind with which I have brought\nmyself at present to consider the matter, the consolation that I have\nbeen willing to admit, have been the effect of constant and painful\nexertion; they did not spring up of themselves; they did not occur to\nrelieve my spirits at first. No, Marianne. _Then_, if I had not been\nbound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely--not\neven what I owed to my dearest friends--from openly showing that I was\n_very_ unhappy.\"--\n\nMarianne was quite subdued.\n\n\"Oh! Elinor,\" she cried, \"you have made me hate myself for ever. How\nbarbarous have I been to you!--you, who have been my only comfort, who\nhave borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only\nsuffering for me! Is this my gratitude? Is this the only return I can\nmake you? Because your merit cries out upon myself, I have been trying\nto do it away.\"\n\nThe tenderest caresses followed this confession. In such a frame of\nmind as she was now in, Elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from her\nwhatever promise she required; and at her request, Marianne engaged\nnever to speak of the affair to any one with the least appearance of\nbitterness;--to meet Lucy without betraying the smallest increase of\ndislike to her;--and even to see Edward himself, if chance should\nbring them together, without any diminution of her usual cordiality.\nThese were great concessions;--but where Marianne felt that she had\ninjured, no reparation could be too much for her to make.\n\nShe performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration. She\nattended to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say upon the subject, with\nan unchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard\nthree times to say, \"Yes, ma'am.\"--She listened to her praise of Lucy\nwith only moving from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings\ntalked of Edward's affection, it cost her only a spasm in her throat.\nSuch advances towards heroism in her sister, made Elinor feel equal to\nany thing herself.\n\nThe next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from their\nbrother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful\naffair, and bring them news of his wife.\n\n\"You have heard, I suppose,\" said he with great solemnity, as soon as\nhe was seated, \"of the very shocking discovery that took place under\nour roof yesterday.\"\n\nThey all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech.\n\n[Illustration: \"_You have heard, I suppose._\"]\n\n\"Your sister,\" he continued, \"has suffered dreadfully. Mrs. Ferrars\ntoo--in short it has been a scene of such complicated distress--but\nI will hope that the storm may be weathered without our being any of\nus quite overcome. Poor Fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday. But\nI would not alarm you too much. Donavan says there is nothing\nmaterially to be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her\nresolution equal to any thing. She has borne it all, with the\nfortitude of an angel! She says she never shall think well of anybody\nagain; and one cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived!--meeting\nwith such ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shown, so much\nconfidence had been placed! It was quite out of the benevolence of her\nheart, that she had asked these young women to her house; merely\nbecause she thought they deserved some attention, were harmless,\nwell-behaved girls, and would be pleasant companions; for otherwise we\nboth wished very much to have invited you and Marianne to be with us,\nwhile your kind friend there, was attending her daughter. And now to\nbe so rewarded! 'I wish, with all my heart,' says poor Fanny in her\naffectionate way, 'that we had asked your sisters instead of them.'\"\n\nHere he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on.\n\n\"What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered, when first Fanny broke it to her, is\nnot to be described. While she with the truest affection had been\nplanning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed\nthat he could be all the time secretly engaged to another\nperson!--such a suspicion could never have entered her head! If she\nsuspected _any_ prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in _that_\nquarter. '_There_ to be sure,' said she, 'I might have thought myself\nsafe.' She was quite in an agony. We consulted together, however, as\nto what should be done, and at last she determined to send for Edward.\nHe came. But I am sorry to relate what ensued. All that Mrs. Ferrars\ncould say to make him put an end to the engagement, assisted too as\nyou may well suppose by my arguments, and Fanny's entreaties, was of\nno avail. Duty, affection, every thing was disregarded. I never\nthought Edward so stubborn, so unfeeling before. His mother explained\nto him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying Miss Morton; told\nhim she would settle on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of\nland-tax, brings in a good thousand a-year; offered even, when matters\ngrew desperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition to this,\nif he still persisted in this low connection, represented to him the\ncertain penury that must attend the match. His own two thousand pounds\nshe protested should be his all; she would never see him again; and so\nfar would she be from affording him the smallest assistance, that if\nhe were to enter into any profession with a view of better support,\nshe would do all in her power to prevent him advancing in it.\"\n\nHere Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands\ntogether, and cried, \"Gracious God! can this be possible!\"\n\n\"Well may you wonder, Marianne,\" replied her brother, \"at the\nobstinacy which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation\nis very natural.\"\n\nMarianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and\nforbore.\n\n\"All this, however,\" he continued, \"was urged in vain. Edward said\nvery little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner.\nNothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would\nstand to it, cost him what it might.\"\n\n\"Then,\" cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be\nsilent, \"he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr.\nDashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a\nrascal. I have some little concern in the business, as well as\nyourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not a\nbetter kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good\nhusband.\"\n\nJohn Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not\nopen to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially\nanybody of good fortune. He therefore replied, without any\nresentment--\n\n\"I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours,\nmadam. Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman,\nbut in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible.\nAnd to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under\nher uncle's care, the son of a woman especially of such very large\nfortune as Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little\nextraordinary. In short, I do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour\nof any person whom you have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish\nher extremely happy; and Mrs. Ferrars's conduct throughout the whole,\nhas been such as every conscientious, good mother, in like\ncircumstances, would adopt. It has been dignified and liberal. Edward\nhas drawn his own lot, and I fear it will be a bad one.\"\n\nMarianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor's heart wrung\nfor the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother's threats, for a\nwoman who could not reward him.\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said Mrs. Jennings, \"and how did it end?\"\n\n\"I am sorry to say, ma'am, in a most unhappy rupture:--Edward is\ndismissed for ever from his mother's notice. He left her house\nyesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do\nnot know; for _we_ of course can make no inquiry.\"\n\n\"Poor young man!--and what is to become of him?\"\n\n\"What, indeed, ma'am! It is a melancholy consideration. Born to the\nprospect of such affluence! I cannot conceive a situation more\ndeplorable. The interest of two thousand pounds--how can a man live on\nit?--and when to that is added the recollection, that he might, but\nfor his own folly, within three months have been in the receipt of two\nthousand, five hundred a-year (for Miss Morton has thirty thousand\npounds,) I cannot picture to myself a more wretched condition. We must\nall feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally out of our\npower to assist him.\"\n\n\"Poor young man!\" cried Mrs. Jennings, \"I am sure he should be very\nwelcome to bed and board at my house; and so I would tell him if I\ncould see him. It is not fit that he should be living about at his own\ncharge now, at lodgings and taverns.\"\n\nElinor's heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward, though\nshe could not forbear smiling at the form of it.\n\n\"If he would only have done as well by himself,\" said John Dashwood,\n\"as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have been\nin his proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing. But as it\nis, it must be out of anybody's power to assist him. And there is one\nthing more preparing against him, which must be worse than all--his\nmother has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle\n_that_ estate upon Robert immediately, which might have been Edward's,\non proper conditions. I left her this morning with her lawyer,\ntalking over the business.\"\n\n[Illustration: _Talking over the business._]\n\n\"Well!\" said Mrs. Jennings, \"that is _her_ revenge. Everybody has a\nway of their own. But I don't think mine would be, to make one son\nindependent, because another had plagued me.\"\n\nMarianne got up and walked about the room.\n\n\"Can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man,\" continued John,\n\"than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which\nmight have been his own? Poor Edward! I feel for him sincerely.\"\n\nA few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded his\nvisit; and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really\nbelieved there was no material danger in Fanny's indisposition, and\nthat they need not therefore be very uneasy about it, he went away;\nleaving the three ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present\noccasion, as far at least as it regarded Mrs. Ferrars's conduct, the\nDashwoods', and Edward's.\n\nMarianne's indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room; and\nas her vehemence made reserve impossible in Elinor, and unnecessary in\nMrs. Jennings, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon the\nparty.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII\n\n\nMrs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward's conduct, but\nonly Elinor and Marianne understood its true merit. _They_ only knew\nhow little he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small\nwas the consolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that\ncould remain to him in the loss of friends and fortune. Elinor gloried\nin his integrity; and Marianne forgave all his offences in compassion\nfor his punishment. But though confidence between them was, by this\npublic discovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a subject\non which either of them were fond of dwelling when alone. Elinor\navoided it upon principle, as tending to fix still more upon her\nthoughts, by the too warm, too positive assurances of Marianne, that\nbelief of Edward's continued affection for herself which she rather\nwished to do away; and Marianne's courage soon failed her, in trying\nto converse upon a topic which always left her more dissatisfied with\nherself than ever, by the comparison it necessarily produced between\nElinor's conduct and her own.\n\nShe felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sister had\nhoped, to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain of\ncontinual self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never\nexerted herself before; but it brought only the torture of penitence,\nwithout the hope of amendment. Her mind was so much weakened that she\nstill fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only\ndispirited her more.\n\nNothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs\nin Harley Street, or Bartlett's Buildings. But though so much of the\nmatter was known to them already, that Mrs. Jennings might have had\nenough to do in spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking\nafter more, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort\nand inquiry to her cousins as soon as she could; and nothing but the\nhindrance of more visitors than usual, had prevented her going to them\nwithin that time.\n\nThe third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so\nfine, so beautiful a Sunday as to draw many to Kensington Gardens,\nthough it was only the second week in March. Mrs. Jennings and Elinor\nwere of the number; but Marianne, who knew that the Willoughbys were\nagain in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose rather\nto stay at home, than venture into so public a place.\n\nAn intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them soon after they\nentered the Gardens, and Elinor was not sorry that by her continuing\nwith them, and engaging all Mrs. Jennings's conversation, she was\nherself left to quiet reflection. She saw nothing of the Willoughbys,\nnothing of Edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could by\nany chance whether grave or gay, be interesting to her. But at last\nshe found herself with some surprise, accosted by Miss Steele, who,\nthough looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting\nthem, and on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of\nMrs. Jennings, left her own party for a short time, to join their's.\nMrs. Jennings immediately whispered to Elinor--\n\n\"Get it all out of her, my dear. She will tell you any thing if you\nask. You see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke.\"\n\nIt was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings's curiosity and Elinor's too,\nthat she would tell any thing _without_ being asked; for nothing would\notherwise have been learnt.\n\n\"I am so glad to meet you;\" said Miss Steele, taking her familiarly by\nthe arm--\"for I wanted to see you of all things in the world.\" And\nthen lowering her voice, \"I suppose Mrs. Jennings has heard all about\nit. Is she angry?\"\n\n\"Not at all, I believe, with you.\"\n\n\"That is a good thing. And Lady Middleton, is _she_ angry?\"\n\n\"I cannot suppose it possible that she should.\"\n\n\"I am monstrous glad of it. Good gracious! I have had such a time of\nit! I never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life. She vowed at first she\nwould never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me\nagain, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are\nas good friends as ever. Look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put\nin the feather last night. There now, _you_ are going to laugh at me\ntoo. But why should not I wear pink ribbons? I do not care if it _is_\nthe Doctor's favourite colour. I am sure, for my part, I should never\nhave known he _did_ like it better than any other colour, if he had\nnot happened to say so. My cousins have been so plaguing me! I declare\nsometimes I do not know which way to look before them.\"\n\nShe had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to say,\nand therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to\nthe first.\n\n\"Well, but Miss Dashwood,\" speaking triumphantly, \"people may say what\nthey choose about Mr. Ferrars's declaring he would not have Lucy, for\nit is no such thing I can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such\nill-natured reports to be spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think\nabout it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set\nit down for certain.\"\n\n\"I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assure you,\"\nsaid Elinor.\n\n[Illustration: \"_She put in the feather last night._\"]\n\n\"Oh, did not you? But it _was_ said, I know, very well, and by more\nthan one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses\ncould expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with\nthirty thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had\nnothing at all; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself. And besides\nthat, my cousin Richard said himself, that when it came to the point\nhe was afraid Mr. Ferrars would be off; and when Edward did not come\nnear us for three days, I could not tell what to think myself; and I\nbelieve in my heart Lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away\nfrom your brother's Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all\nThursday, Friday, and Saturday, and did not know what was become of\nhim. Once Lucy thought to write to him, but then her spirits rose\nagainst that. However this morning he came just as we came home from\nchurch; and then it all came out, how he had been sent for Wednesday\nto Harley Street, and been talked to by his mother and all of them,\nand how he had declared before them all that he loved nobody but Lucy,\nand nobody but Lucy would he have. And how he had been so worried by\nwhat passed, that as soon as he had went away from his mother's house,\nhe had got upon his horse, and rid into the country, some where or\nother; and how he had stayed about at an inn all Thursday and Friday,\non purpose to get the better of it. And after thinking it all over and\nover again, he said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune,\nand no nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the\nengagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but\ntwo thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to\ngo into orders, as he had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a\ncuracy, and how was they to live upon that?--He could not bear to\nthink of her doing no better, and so he begged, if she had the least\nmind for it, to put an end to the matter directly, and leave him shift\nfor himself. I heard him say all this as plain as could possibly be.\nAnd it was entirely for _her_ sake, and upon _her_ account, that he\nsaid a word about being off, and not upon his own. I will take my oath\nhe never dropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to\nmarry Miss Morton, or any thing like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would\nnot give ear to such kind of talking; so she told him directly (with a\ngreat deal about sweet and love, you know, and all that--Oh, la! one\ncan't repeat such kind of things you know)--she told him directly, she\nhad not the least mind in the world to be off, for she could live with\nhim upon a trifle, and how little so ever he might have, she should be\nvery glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind. So then\nhe was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should\ndo, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait\nto be married till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any\nmore, for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was\ncome in her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so\nI was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if\nshe would like to go, but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just\nrun up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with\nthe Richardsons.\"\n\n\"I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them,\" said Elinor;\n\"you were all in the same room together, were not you?\"\n\n\"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love\nwhen any body else is by? Oh, for shame!--To be sure you must know\nbetter than that. (Laughing affectedly.)--No, no; they were shut up in\nthe drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at\nthe door.\"\n\n\"How!\" cried Elinor; \"have you been repeating to me what you only\nlearnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it\nbefore; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me\nparticulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known\nyourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?\"\n\n\"Oh, la! there is nothing in _that._ I only stood at the door, and\nheard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same\nby me; for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many\nsecrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or\nbehind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said.\"\n\nElinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be\nkept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind.\n\n[Illustration: _Listening at the door._]\n\n\"Edward talks of going to Oxford soon,\" said she; \"but now he is\nlodging at No. --, Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother is,\nan't she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I\nshan't say anything against them to _you_; and to be sure they did\nsend us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for.\nAnd for my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask\nus for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however,\nnothing was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of\nsight. Edward have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go\nthere for a time; and after _that_, as soon as he can light upon a\nBishop, he will be ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get! Good\ngracious! (giggling as she spoke) I'd lay my life I know what my\ncousins will say, when they hear of it. They will tell me I should\nwrite to the Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new living. I\nknow they will; but I am sure I would not do such a thing for all the\nworld. 'La!' I shall say directly, 'I wonder how you could think of\nsuch a thing? I write to the Doctor, indeed!'\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Elinor, \"it is a comfort to be prepared against the\nworst. You have got your answer ready.\"\n\nMiss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach\nof her own party made another more necessary.\n\n\"Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I had a vast deal more to say to\nyou, but I must not stay away from them not any longer. I assure you\nthey are very genteel people. He makes a monstrous deal of money, and\nthey keep their own coach. I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings\nabout it myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear she is not\nin anger against us, and Lady Middleton the same; and if anything\nshould happen to take you and your sister away, and Mrs. Jennings\nshould want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and stay\nwith her for as long a time as she likes. I suppose Lady Middleton\nwon't ask us any more this bout. Good-bye; I am sorry Miss Marianne was\nnot here. Remember me kindly to her. La! if you have not got your\nspotted muslin on!--I wonder you was not afraid of its being torn.\"\n\nSuch was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to pay\nher farewell compliments to Mrs. Jennings, before her company was\nclaimed by Mrs. Richardson; and Elinor was left in possession of\nknowledge which might feed her powers of reflection some time, though\nshe had learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen\nand foreplanned in her own mind. Edward's marriage with Lucy was as\nfirmly determined on, and the time of its taking place remained as\nabsolutely uncertain, as she had concluded it would be;--every thing\ndepended, exactly after her expectation, on his getting that\npreferment, of which, at present, there seemed not the smallest\nchance.\n\nAs soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings was eager for\ninformation; but as Elinor wished to spread as little as possible\nintelligence that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained,\nshe confined herself to the brief repetition of such simple\nparticulars, as she felt assured that Lucy, for the sake of her own\nconsequence, would choose to have known. The continuance of their\nengagement, and the means that were able to be taken for promoting its\nend, was all her communication; and this produced from Mrs. Jennings\nthe following natural remark:--\n\n\"Wait for his having a living!--ay, we all know how _that_ will\nend:--they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it,\nwill set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest\nof his two thousand pounds, and what little matter Mr. Steele and Mr.\nPratt can give her. Then they will have a child every year! and Lord\nhelp 'em! how poor they will be!--I must see what I can give them\ntowards furnishing their house. Two maids and two men, indeed!--as I\ntalked of t'other day. No, no, they must get a stout girl of all\nworks. Betty's sister would never do for them _now._\"\n\nThe next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from\nLucy herself. It was as follows:\n\n\"Bartlett's Building, March.\n\n     \"I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the liberty I take\n     of writing to her; but I know your friendship for me will\n     make you pleased to hear such a good account of myself and\n     my dear Edward, after all the troubles we have went through\n     lately, therefore will make no more apologies, but proceed\n     to say that, thank God! though we have suffered dreadfully,\n     we are both quite well now, and as happy as we must always\n     be in one another's love. We have had great trials, and\n     great persecutions, but however, at the same time,\n     gratefully acknowledge many friends, yourself not the least\n     among them, whose great kindness I shall always thankfully\n     remember, as will Edward too, who I have told of it. I am\n     sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise dear Mrs.\n     Jennings, I spent two happy hours with him yesterday\n     afternoon, he would not hear of our parting, though\n     earnestly did I, as I thought my duty required, urge him to\n     it for prudence sake, and would have parted for ever on the\n     spot, would he consent to it; but he said it should never\n     be, he did not regard his mother's anger, while he could\n     have my affections; our prospects are not very bright, to be\n     sure, but we must wait, and hope for the best; he will be\n     ordained shortly; and should it ever be in your power to\n     recommend him to any body that has a living to bestow, am\n     very sure you will not forget us, and dear Mrs. Jennings\n     too, trust she will speak a good word for us to Sir John, or\n     Mr. Palmer, or any friend that may be able to assist us.\n     Poor Anne was much to blame for what she did, but she did it\n     for the best, so I say nothing; hope Mrs. Jennings won't\n     think it too much trouble to give us a call, should she come\n     this way any morning, 'twould be a great kindness, and my\n     cousins would be proud to know her. My paper reminds me to\n     conclude; and begging to be most gratefully and respectfully\n     remembered to her, and to Sir John, and Lady Middleton, and\n     the dear children, when you chance to see them, and love to\n     Miss Marianne,\n\n\"I am, etc., etc.\"\n\nAs soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded to\nbe its writer's real design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs.\nJennings, who read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and\npraise.\n\n\"Very well indeed!--how prettily she writes!--aye, that was quite\nproper to let him be off if he would. That was just like Lucy. Poor\nsoul! I wish I _could_ get him a living, with all my heart. She calls\nme dear Mrs. Jennings, you see. She is a good-hearted girl as ever\nlived. Very well upon my word. That sentence is very prettily turned.\nYes, yes, I will go and see her, sure enough. How attentive she is, to\nthink of every body!--Thank you, my dear, for showing it me. It is as\npretty a letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy's head and heart great\ncredit.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX\n\n\nThe Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town,\nand Marianne's impatience to be gone increased every day. She sighed\nfor the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that\nif any place could give her ease, Barton must do it. Elinor was hardly\nless anxious than herself for their removal, and only so much less\nbent on its being effected immediately, as that she was conscious of\nthe difficulties of so long a journey, which Marianne could not be\nbrought to acknowledge. She began, however, seriously to turn her\nthoughts towards its accomplishment, and had already mentioned their\nwishes to their kind hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence\nof her good-will, when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining\nthem from home yet a few weeks longer, appeared to Elinor altogether\nmuch more eligible than any other. The Palmers were to remove to\nCleveland about the end of March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs.\nJennings, with both her friends, received a very warm invitation from\nCharlotte to go with them. This would not, in itself, have been\nsufficient for the delicacy of Miss Dashwood;--but it was enforced\nwith so much real politeness by Mr. Palmer himself, as, joined to the\nvery great amendment of his manners towards them since her sister had\nbeen known to be unhappy, induced her to accept it with pleasure.\n\nWhen she told Marianne what she had done, however, her first reply was\nnot very auspicious.\n\n\"Cleveland!\"--she cried, with great agitation. \"No, I cannot go to\nCleveland.\"--\n\n\"You forget,\" said Elinor gently, \"that its situation is not--that it\nis not in the neighbourhood of--\"\n\n\"But it is in Somersetshire. I cannot go into Somersetshire. There,\nwhere I looked forward to going;--no, Elinor, you cannot expect me to\ngo there.\"\n\nElinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such\nfeelings;--she only endeavoured to counteract them by working on\nothers;--represented it, therefore, as a measure which would fix the\ntime of her returning to that dear mother, whom she so much wished to\nsee, in a more eligible, more comfortable manner, than any other plan\ncould do, and perhaps without any greater delay. From Cleveland, which\nwas within a few miles of Bristol, the distance to Barton was not\nbeyond one day, though a long day's journey; and their mother's\nservant might easily come there to attend them down; and as there\ncould be no occasion of their staying above a week at Cleveland, they\nmight now be at home in little more than three weeks' time. As\nMarianne's affection for her mother was sincere, it must triumph with\nlittle difficulty, over the imaginary evils she had started.\n\nMrs. Jennings was so far from being weary of her guest, that she\npressed them very earnestly to return with her again from Cleveland.\nElinor was grateful for the attention, but it could not alter her\ndesign; and their mother's concurrence being readily gained, every\nthing relative to their return was arranged as far as it could\nbe;--and Marianne found some relief in drawing up a statement of the\nhours that were yet to divide her from Barton.\n\n\"Ah! Colonel, I do not know what you and I shall do without the Miss\nDashwoods;\"--was Mrs. Jennings's address to him when he first called\non her, after their leaving her was settled--\"for they are quite\nresolved upon going home from the Palmers;--and how forlorn we shall\nbe, when I come back!--Lord! we shall sit and gape at one another as\ndull as two cats.\"\n\nPerhaps Mrs. Jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their\nfuture ennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give\nhimself an escape from it; and if so, she had soon afterwards good\nreason to think her object gained; for, on Elinor's moving to the\nwindow to take more expeditiously the dimensions of a print, which she\nwas going to copy for her friend, he followed her to it with a look of\nparticular meaning, and conversed with her there for several minutes.\nThe effect of his discourse on the lady too, could not escape her\nobservation, for though she was too honorable to listen, and had even\nchanged her seat, on purpose that she might _not_ hear, to one close\nby the piano forte on which Marianne was playing, she could not keep\nherself from seeing that Elinor changed colour, attended with\nagitation, and was too intent on what he said to pursue her\nemployment. Still farther in confirmation of her hopes, in the\ninterval of Marianne's turning from one lesson to another, some words\nof the Colonel's inevitably reached her ear, in which he seemed to be\napologising for the badness of his house. This set the matter beyond a\ndoubt. She wondered, indeed, at his thinking it necessary to do so;\nbut supposed it to be the proper etiquette. What Elinor said in reply\nshe could not distinguish, but judged from the motion of her lips,\nthat she did not think _that_ any material objection;--and Mrs.\nJennings commended her in her heart for being so honest. They then\ntalked on for a few minutes longer without her catching a syllable,\nwhen another lucky stop in Marianne's performance brought her these\nwords in the Colonel's calm voice,--\n\n\"I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.\"\n\nAstonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost\nready to cry out, \"Lord! what should hinder it?\"--but checking her\ndesire, confined herself to this silent ejaculation.\n\n\"This is very strange!--sure he need not wait to be older.\"\n\nThis delay on the Colonel's side, however, did not seem to offend or\nmortify his fair companion in the least, for on their breaking up the\nconference soon afterwards, and moving different ways, Mrs. Jennings\nvery plainly heard Elinor say, and with a voice which showed her to\nfeel what she said--\n\n\"I shall always think myself very much obliged to you.\"\n\nMrs. Jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only wondered that\nafter hearing such a sentence, the Colonel should be able to take\nleave of them, as he immediately did, with the utmost sang-froid, and\ngo away without making her any reply!--She had not thought her old\nfriend could have made so indifferent a suitor.\n\nWhat had really passed between them was to this effect.\n\n\"I have heard,\" said he, with great compassion, \"of the injustice your\nfriend Mr. Ferrars has suffered from his family; for if I understand\nthe matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them for\npersevering in his engagement with a very deserving young woman. Have\nI been rightly informed?--Is it so?--\"\n\nElinor told him that it was.\n\n\"The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,\"--he replied, with great\nfeeling,--\"of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people\nlong attached to each other, is terrible. Mrs. Ferrars does not know\nwhat she may be doing--what she may drive her son to. I have seen Mr.\nFerrars two or three times in Harley Street, and am much pleased with\nhim. He is not a young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted\nin a short time, but I have seen enough of him to wish him well for\nhis own sake, and as a friend of yours, I wish it still more. I\nunderstand that he intends to take orders. Will you be so good as to\ntell him that the living of Delaford, now just vacant, as I am\ninformed by this day's post, is his, if he think it worth his\nacceptance--but _that_, perhaps, so unfortunately circumstanced as he\nis now, it may be nonsense to appear to doubt; I only wish it were\nmore valuable. It is a rectory, but a small one; the late incumbent, I\nbelieve, did not make more than 200 L per annum, and though it is\ncertainly capable of improvement, I fear, not to such an amount as to\nafford him a very comfortable income. Such as it is, however, my\npleasure in presenting him to it, will be very great. Pray assure him\nof it.\"\n\nElinor's astonishment at this commission could hardly have been\ngreater, had the Colonel been really making her an offer of his hand.\nThe preferment, which only two days before she had considered as\nhopeless for Edward, was already provided to enable him to marry;--and\n_she_, of all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it!--Her\nemotion was such as Mrs. Jennings had attributed to a very different\ncause;--but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might\nhave a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence,\nand her gratitude for the particular friendship, which together\nprompted Colonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly\nexpressed. She thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of\nEdward's principles and disposition with that praise which she knew\nthem to deserve; and promised to undertake the commission with\npleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an office\nto another. But at the same time, she could not help thinking that no\none could so well perform it as himself. It was an office in short,\nfrom which, unwilling to give Edward the pain of receiving an\nobligation from _her_, she would have been very glad to be spared\nherself; but Colonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining\nit likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through her\nmeans, that she would not on any account make farther opposition.\nEdward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had heard\nhis address from Miss Steele. She could undertake therefore to inform\nhim of it, in the course of the day. After this had been settled,\nColonel Brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so\nrespectable and agreeable a neighbour, and _then_ it was that he\nmentioned with regret, that the house was small and indifferent; an\nevil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed her to do, made very\nlight of, at least as far as regarded its size.\n\n\"The smallness of the house,\" said she, \"I cannot imagine any\ninconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family\nand income.\"\n\nBy which the Colonel was surprised to find that _she_ was considering\nMr. Ferrars's marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation;\nfor he did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply\nsuch an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to\nsettle on, and he said so.\n\n\"This little rectory _can_ do no more than make Mr. Ferrars\ncomfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry\nto say that my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly\nmore extensive. If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in\nmy power to serve him farther, I must think very differently of him\nfrom what I now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I\nsincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now doing indeed,\nseems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what\nmust be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must\nstill be a distant good;--at least, I am afraid it cannot take place\nvery soon.\"\n\nSuch was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended\nthe delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of\nwhat really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they\nstood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their\nparting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited,\nnor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of\nmarriage.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL\n\n\n\"Well, Miss Dashwood,\" said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as\nsoon as the gentleman had withdrawn, \"I do not ask you what the\nColonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I _tried_\nto keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand\nhis business. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life,\nand I wish you joy of it with all my heart.\"\n\n\"Thank you, ma'am,\" said Elinor. \"It is a matter of great joy to me;\nand I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are\nnot many men who would act as he has done. Few people who have so\ncompassionate a heart! I never was more astonished in my life.\"\n\n\"Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an't the least astonished at it\nin the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more\nlikely to happen.\"\n\n\"You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel's general benevolence;\nbut at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very\nsoon occur.\"\n\n\"Opportunity!\" repeated Mrs. Jennings--\"Oh! as to that, when a man has\nonce made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon\nfind an opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and\nagain; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I\nshall soon know where to look for them.\"\n\n\"You mean to go to Delaford after them I suppose,\" said Elinor, with a\nfaint smile.\n\n\"Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed. And as to the house being a bad one,\nI do not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as\never I saw.\"\n\n\"He spoke of its being out of repair.\"\n\n\"Well, and whose fault is that? why don't he repair it? who should do\nit but himself?\"\n\nThey were interrupted by the servant's coming in to announce the\ncarriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to\ngo, said--\n\n\"Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out.\nBut, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be\nquite alone. I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind\nis too full of the matter to care for company; and besides, you must\nlong to tell your sister all about it.\"\n\nMarianne had left the room before the conversation began.\n\n\"Certainly, ma'am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall not\nmention it at present to any body else.\"\n\n\"Oh! very well,\" said Mrs. Jennings rather disappointed. \"Then you\nwould not have me tell it to Lucy, for I think of going as far as\nHolborn to-day.\"\n\n\"No, ma'am, not even Lucy if you please. One day's delay will not be\nvery material; and till I have written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it\nought not to be mentioned to any body else. I shall do _that_\ndirectly. It is of importance that no time should be lost with him,\nfor he will of course have much to do relative to his ordination.\"\n\nThis speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly. Why Mr.\nFerrars was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she\ncould not immediately comprehend. A few moments' reflection, however,\nproduced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed--\n\n\"Oh, ho! I understand you. Mr. Ferrars is to be the man. Well, so much\nthe better for him. Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness;\nand I am very glad to find things are so forward between you. But, my\ndear, is not this rather out of character? Should not the Colonel\nwrite himself? Sure, he is the proper person.\"\n\nElinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings's\nspeech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore\nonly replied to its conclusion.\n\n\"Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one\nto announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself.\"\n\n\"And so _you_ are forced to do it. Well _that_ is an odd kind of\ndelicacy! However, I will not disturb you (seeing her preparing to\nwrite.) You know your own concerns best. So good-bye, my dear. I have\nnot heard of any thing to please me so well since Charlotte was\nbrought to bed.\"\n\nAnd away she went; but returning again in a moment--\n\n\"I have just been thinking of Betty's sister, my dear. I should be\nvery glad to get her so good a mistress. But whether she would do for\na lady's maid, I am sure I can't tell. She is an excellent housemaid,\nand works very well at her needle. However, you will think of all that\nat your leisure.\"\n\n\"Certainly, ma'am,\" replied Elinor, not hearing much of what she said,\nand more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of the subject.\n\nHow she should begin--how she should express herself in her note to\nEdward, was now all her concern. The particular circumstances between\nthem made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have\nbeen the easiest thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too\nmuch or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with the pen\nin her hand, till broken in on by the entrance of Edward himself.\n\nHe had met Mrs. Jennings at the door in her way to the carriage, as he\ncame to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising for not\nreturning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that Miss\nDashwood was above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular\nbusiness.\n\nElinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her\nperplexity, that however difficult it might be to express herself\nproperly by letter, it was at least preferable to giving the\ninformation by word of mouth, when her visitor entered, to force her\nupon this greatest exertion of all. Her astonishment and confusion\nwere very great on his so sudden appearance. She had not seen him\nbefore since his engagement became public, and therefore not since his\nknowing her to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of\nwhat she had been thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her\nfeel particularly uncomfortable for some minutes. He too was much\ndistressed; and they sat down together in a most promising state of\nembarrassment. Whether he had asked her pardon for his intrusion on\nfirst coming into the room, he could not recollect; but determining to\nbe on the safe side, he made his apology in form as soon as he could\nsay any thing, after taking a chair.\n\n\"Mrs. Jennings told me,\" said he, \"that you wished to speak with me,\nat least I understood her so--or I certainly should not have intruded\non you in such a manner; though at the same time, I should have been\nextremely sorry to leave London without seeing you and your sister;\nespecially as it will most likely be some time--it is not probable\nthat I should soon have the pleasure of meeting you again. I go to\nOxford tomorrow.\"\n\n\"You would not have gone, however,\" said Elinor, recovering herself,\nand determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon as\npossible, \"without receiving our good wishes, even if we had not been\nable to give them in person. Mrs. Jennings was quite right in what she\nsaid. I have something of consequence to inform you of, which I was on\nthe point of communicating by paper. I am charged with a most\nagreeable office (breathing rather faster than usual as she spoke.)\nColonel Brandon, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me to\nsay, that understanding you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure\nin offering you the living of Delaford now just vacant, and only\nwishes it were more valuable. Allow me to congratulate you on having\nso respectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in his wish that\nthe living--it is about two hundred a-year--were much more\nconsiderable, and such as might better enable you to--as might be more\nthan a temporary accommodation to yourself--such, in short, as might\nestablish all your views of happiness.\"\n\nWhat Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be\nexpected that any one else should say for him. He _looked_ all the\nastonishment which such unexpected, such unthought-of information\ncould not fail of exciting; but he said only these two words--\n\n\"Colonel Brandon!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the\nworst was over, \"Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his\nconcern for what has lately passed--for the cruel situation in which\nthe unjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you--a concern\nwhich I am sure Marianne, myself, and all your friends, must share;\nand likewise as a proof of his high esteem for your general character,\nand his particular approbation of your behaviour on the present\noccasion.\"\n\n\"Colonel Brandon give _me_ a living!--Can it be possible?\"\n\n\"The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find\nfriendship any where.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied be, with sudden consciousness, \"not to find it in _you_;\nfor I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe it all.\nI feel it--I would express it if I could--but, as you well know, I am\nno orator.\"\n\n\"You are very much mistaken. I do assure you that you owe it entirely,\nat least almost entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon's\ndiscernment of it. I have had no hand in it. I did not even know, till\nI understood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it ever\noccurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift. As a\nfriend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps--indeed I know he _has_,\nstill greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe\nnothing to my solicitation.\"\n\nTruth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but\nshe was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of\nEdward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably\ncontributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently\nentered it. For a short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had\nceased to speak;--at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he\nsaid--\n\n\"Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability. I have\nalways heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems\nhim highly. He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners\nperfectly the gentleman.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" replied Elinor, \"I believe that you will find him, on\nfarther acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you\nwill be such very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is\nalmost close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that\nhe _should_ be all this.\"\n\nEdward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her\na look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that\nhe might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the\nmansion-house much greater.\n\n\"Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street,\" said he, soon\nafterwards, rising from his chair.\n\nElinor told him the number of the house.\n\n\"I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not\nallow me to give _you_; to assure him that he has made me a very--an\nexceedingly happy man.\"\n\nElinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very\nearnest assurance on _her_ side of her unceasing good wishes for his\nhappiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on\n_his_, with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the\npower of expressing it.\n\n\"When I see him again,\" said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him\nout, \"I shall see him the husband of Lucy.\"\n\nAnd with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the\npast, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of\nEdward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent.\n\nWhen Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people\nwhom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a\ngreat deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important\nsecret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to\nit again as soon as Elinor appeared.\n\n\"Well, my dear,\" she cried, \"I sent you up the young man. Did not I do\nright?--And I suppose you had no great difficulty--You did not find\nhim very unwilling to accept your proposal?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am; _that_ was not very likely.\"\n\n\"Well, and how soon will he be ready?--For it seems all to depend upon\nthat.\"\n\n\"Really,\" said Elinor, \"I know so little of these kind of forms, that\nI can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation\nnecessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his\nordination.\"\n\n\"Two or three months!\" cried Mrs. Jennings; \"Lord! my dear, how calmly\nyou talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord\nbless me!--I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience!--And\nthough one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I\ndo think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him.\nSure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that\nis in orders already.\"\n\n\"My dear ma'am,\" said Elinor, \"what can you be thinking of? Why,\nColonel Brandon's only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars.\"\n\n\"Lord bless you, my dear! Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the\nColonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr.\nFerrars!\"\n\n[Illustration: _Both gained considerable amusement_]\n\nThe deception could not continue after this; and an explanation\nimmediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement\nfor the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for\nMrs. Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and\nstill without forfeiting her expectation of the first.\n\n\"Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one,\" said she, after the\nfirst ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, \"and very\nlikely _may_ be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I\nthought, for a house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on\nthe ground-floor, and I think the housekeeper told me could make up\nfifteen beds! and to you too, that had been used to live in Barton\ncottage! It seems quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch up the\nColonel to do some thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for\nthem, before Lucy goes to it.\"\n\n\"But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living's\nbeing enough to allow them to marry.\"\n\n\"The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year\nhimself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less. Take my word\nfor it, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at Delaford\nParsonage before Michaelmas; and I am sure I shan't go if Lucy an't\nthere.\"\n\nElinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not\nwaiting for any thing more.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI\n\n\nEdward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with\nhis happiness to Lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he\nreached Bartlett's Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs.\nJennings, who called on her again the next day with her\ncongratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in\nher life.\n\nHer own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain;\nand she joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their\nbeing all comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before\nMichaelmas. So far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to\ngive Elinor that credit which Edward _would_ give her, that she spoke\nof her friendship for them both with the most grateful warmth, was\nready to own all their obligation to her, and openly declared that no\nexertion for their good on Miss Dashwood's part, either present or\nfuture, would ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing\nany thing in the world for those she really valued. As for Colonel\nBrandon, she was not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was\nmoreover truly anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly\nconcerns; anxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and\nscarcely resolved to avail herself, at Delaford, as far as she\npossibly could, of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his\npoultry.\n\nIt was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley\nStreet, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his\nwife's indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, Elinor began to feel\nit necessary to pay her a visit. This was an obligation, however,\nwhich not only opposed her own inclination, but which had not the\nassistance of any encouragement from her companions. Marianne, not\ncontented with absolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent to\nprevent her sister's going at all; and Mrs. Jennings, though her\ncarriage was always at Elinor's service, so very much disliked Mrs.\nJohn Dashwood, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after\nthe late discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking\nEdward's part, could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company\nagain. The consequence was, that Elinor set out by herself to pay a\nvisit, for which no one could really have less inclination, and to run\nthe risk of a tete-a-tete with a woman, whom neither of the others had\nso much reason to dislike.\n\nMrs. Dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from the\nhouse, her husband accidentally came out. He expressed great pleasure\nin meeting Elinor, told her that he had been just going to call in\nBerkeley Street, and, assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to\nsee her, invited her to come in.\n\nThey walked up stairs in to the drawing-room. Nobody was there.\n\n\"Fanny is in her own room, I suppose,\" said he:--\"I will go to her\npresently, for I am sure she will not have the least objection in the\nworld to seeing _you._ Very far from it, indeed. _Now_ especially\nthere cannot be--but however, you and Marianne were always great\nfavourites. Why would not Marianne come?\"--\n\nElinor made what excuse she could for her.\n\n\"I am not sorry to see you alone,\" he replied, \"for I have a good deal\nto say to you. This living of Colonel Brandon's--can it be true?--has\nhe really given it to Edward?--I heard it yesterday by chance, and was\ncoming to you on purpose to enquire farther about it.\"\n\n\"It is perfectly true. Colonel Brandon has given the living of\nDelaford to Edward.\"\n\n\"Really!--Well, this is very astonishing!--no relationship!--no\nconnection between them!--and now that livings fetch such a\nprice!--what was the value of this?\"\n\n\"About two hundred a year.\"\n\n\"Very well--and for the next presentation to a living of that\nvalue--supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly, and\nlikely to vacate it soon--he might have got I dare say--fourteen\nhundred pounds. And how came he not to have settled that matter before\nthis person's death? _Now_ indeed it would be too late to sell it, but\na man of Colonel Brandon's sense!--I wonder he should be so\nimprovident in a point of such common, such natural, concern!--Well, I\nam convinced that there is a vast deal of inconsistency in almost\nevery human character. I suppose, however--on recollection--that the\ncase may probably be _this._ Edward is only to hold the living till\nthe person to whom the Colonel has really sold the presentation, is\nold enough to take it. Aye, aye, that is the fact, depend upon it.\"\n\nElinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating that\nshe had herself been employed in conveying the offer from Colonel\nBrandon to Edward, and, therefore, must understand the terms on which\nit was given, obliged him to submit to her authority.\n\n\"It is truly astonishing!\"--he cried, after hearing what she\nsaid--\"what could be the Colonel's motive?\"\n\n\"A very simple one--to be of use to Mr. Ferrars.\"\n\n\"Well, well; whatever Colonel Brandon may be, Edward is a very lucky\nman. You will not mention the matter to Fanny, however, for though I\nhave broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well,--she will not like\nto hear it much talked of.\"\n\nElinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that she\nthought Fanny might have borne with composure, an acquisition of\nwealth to her brother, by which neither she nor her child could be\npossibly impoverished.\n\n\"Mrs. Ferrars,\" added he, lowering his voice to the tone becoming so\nimportant a subject, \"knows nothing about it at present, and I believe\nit will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as may\nbe. When the marriage takes place, I fear she must hear of it all.\"\n\n\"But why should such precaution be used? Though it is not to be\nsupposed that Mrs. Ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in\nknowing that her son has money enough to live upon,--for _that_ must\nbe quite out of the question; yet why, upon her late behaviour, is she\nsupposed to feel at all? She has done with her son, she cast him off\nfor ever, and has made all those over whom she had any influence, cast\nhim off likewise. Surely, after doing so, she cannot be imagined\nliable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account--she\ncannot be interested in any thing that befalls him. She would not be\nso weak as to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the\nanxiety of a parent!\"\n\n\"Ah! Elinor,\" said John, \"your reasoning is very good, but it is\nfounded on ignorance of human nature. When Edward's unhappy match\ntakes place, depend upon it his mother will feel as much as if she had\nnever discarded him; and, therefore every circumstance that may\naccelerate that dreadful event, must be concealed from her as much as\npossible. Mrs. Ferrars can never forget that Edward is her son.\"\n\n\"You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have escaped her\nmemory by _this_ time.\"\n\n\"You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs. Ferrars is one of the most\naffectionate mothers in the world.\"\n\nElinor was silent.\n\n\"We think _now_,\"--said Mr. Dashwood, after a short pause, \"of\n_Robert's_ marrying Miss Morton.\"\n\nElinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother's\ntone, calmly replied--\n\n\"The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair.\"\n\n\"Choice!--how do you mean?\"\n\n\"I only mean that I suppose, from your manner of speaking, it must be\nthe same to Miss Morton whether she marry Edward or Robert.\"\n\n\"Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert will now to all\nintents and purposes be considered as the eldest son;--and as to any\nthing else, they are both very agreeable young men: I do not know that\none is superior to the other.\"\n\nElinor said no more, and John was also for a short time silent. His\nreflections ended thus.\n\n\"Of _one_ thing, my dear sister,\" kindly taking her hand, and speaking\nin an awful whisper,--\"I may assure you; and I _will_ do it, because I\nknow it must gratify you. I have good reason to think--indeed I have\nit from the best authority, or I should not repeat it, for otherwise\nit would be very wrong to say any thing about it,--but I have it from\nthe very best authority,--not that I ever precisely heard Mrs. Ferrars\nsay it herself--but her daughter _did_, and I have it from her,--that\nin short, whatever objections there might be against a certain--a\ncertain connection, you understand me,--it would have been far\npreferable to her, it would not have given her half the vexation that\n_this_ does. I was exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferrars\nconsidered it in that light; a very gratifying circumstance you know\nto us all. 'It would have been beyond comparison,' she said, 'the\nleast evil of the two, and she would be glad to compound _now_ for\nnothing worse.' But however, all that is quite out of the\nquestion,--not to be thought of or mentioned. As to any attachment you\nknow, it never could be; all that is gone by. But I thought I would\njust tell you of this, because I knew how much it must please you. Not\nthat you have any reason to regret, my dear Elinor. There is no doubt\nof your doing exceedingly well,--quite as well, or better, perhaps,\nall things considered. Has Colonel Brandon been with you lately?\"\n\nElinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity, and raise her\nself-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind;--and she was\ntherefore glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much in reply\nherself, and from the danger of hearing any thing more from her\nbrother, by the entrance of Mr. Robert Ferrars. After a few moments'\nchat, John Dashwood, recollecting that Fanny was yet uninformed of her\nsister's being there, quitted the room in quest of her; and Elinor was\nleft to improve her acquaintance with Robert, who, by the gay\nunconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner while enjoying so\nunfair a division of his mother's love and liberality, to the\nprejudice of his banished brother, earned only by his own dissipated\ncourse of life, and that brother's integrity, was confirming her most\nunfavourable opinion of his head and heart.\n\n[Illustration: \"_Of one thing I may assure you._\"]\n\nThey had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before he began to\nspeak of Edward; for he, too, had heard of the living, and was very\ninquisitive on the subject. Elinor repeated the particulars of it, as\nshe had given them to John; and their effect on Robert, though very\ndifferent, was not less striking than it had been on _him._ He laughed\nmost immoderately. The idea of Edward's being a clergyman, and living\nin a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure;--and when to\nthat was added the fanciful imagery of Edward reading prayers in a\nwhite surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage between John\nSmith and Mary Brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous.\n\nElinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity, the\nconclusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed\non him with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited. It was a\nlook, however, very well bestowed, for it relieved her own feelings,\nand gave no intelligence to him. He was recalled from wit to wisdom,\nnot by any reproof of her's, but by his own sensibility.\n\n\"We may treat it as a joke,\" said he, at last, recovering from the\naffected laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine\ngaiety of the moment; \"but, upon my soul, it is a most serious\nbusiness. Poor Edward! he is ruined for ever. I am extremely sorry for\nit; for I know him to be a very good-hearted creature,--as\nwell-meaning a fellow perhaps, as any in the world. You must not judge\nof him, Miss Dashwood, from _your_ slight acquaintance. Poor Edward!\nHis manners are certainly not the happiest in nature. But we are not\nall born, you know, with the same powers,--the same address. Poor\nfellow! to see him in a circle of strangers! to be sure it was\npitiable enough; but upon my soul, I believe he has as good a heart as\nany in the kingdom; and I declare and protest to you I never was so\nshocked in my life, as when it all burst forth. I could not believe\nit. My mother was the first person who told me of it; and I, feeling\nmyself called on to act with resolution, immediately said to her,--'My\ndear madam, I do not know what you may intend to do on the occasion,\nbut as for myself, I must say, that if Edward does marry this young\nwoman, I never will see him again.' That was what I said immediately.\nI was most uncommonly shocked, indeed! Poor Edward! he has done for\nhimself completely,--shut himself out for ever from all decent\nsociety! but, as I directly said to my mother, I am not in the least\nsurprised at it; from his style of education, it was always to be\nexpected. My poor mother was half frantic.\"\n\n\"Have you ever seen the lady?\"\n\n\"Yes; once, while she was staying in this house, I happened to drop in\nfor ten minutes; and I saw quite enough of her. The merest awkward\ncountry girl, without style, or elegance, and almost without beauty. I\nremember her perfectly. Just the kind of girl I should suppose likely\nto captivate poor Edward. I offered immediately, as soon as my mother\nrelated the affair to me, to talk to him myself, and dissuade him from\nthe match; but it was too late _then_, I found, to do any thing, for\nunluckily, I was not in the way at first, and knew nothing of it till\nafter the breach had taken place, when it was not for me, you know, to\ninterfere. But had I been informed of it a few hours earlier, I think\nit is most probable that something might have been hit on. I certainly\nshould have represented it to Edward in a very strong light. 'My dear\nfellow,' I should have said, 'consider what you are doing. You are\nmaking a most disgraceful connection, and such a one as your family\nare unanimous in disapproving.' I cannot help thinking, in short, that\nmeans might have been found. But now it is all too late. He must be\nstarved, you know, that is certain; absolutely starved.\"\n\nHe had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance\nof Mrs. John Dashwood put an end to the subject. But though _she_\nnever spoke of it out of her own family, Elinor could see its\ninfluence on her mind, in the something like confusion of countenance\nwith which she entered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour\nto herself. She even proceeded so far as to be concerned to find that\nElinor and her sister were so soon to leave town, as she had hoped to\nsee more of them;--an exertion in which her husband, who attended her\ninto the room, and hung enamoured over her accents, seemed to\ndistinguish every thing that was most affectionate and graceful.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII\n\n\nOne other short call in Harley Street, in which Elinor received her\nbrother's congratulations on their travelling so far towards Barton\nwithout any expense, and on Colonel Brandon's being to follow them to\nCleveland in a day or two, completed the intercourse of the brother\nand sisters in town;--and a faint invitation from Fanny, to come to\nNorland whenever it should happen to be in their way, which of all\nthings was the most unlikely to occur, with a more warm, though less\npublic, assurance, from John to Elinor, of the promptitude with which\nhe should come to see her at Delaford, was all that foretold any\nmeeting in the country.\n\nIt amused her to observe that all her friends seemed determined to\nsend her to Delaford;--a place, in which, of all others, she would now\nleast choose to visit, or wish to reside; for not only was it\nconsidered as her future home by her brother and Mrs. Jennings, but\neven Lucy, when they parted, gave her a pressing invitation to visit\nher there.\n\nVery early in April, and tolerably early in the day, the two parties\nfrom Hanover Square and Berkeley Street set out from their respective\nhomes, to meet, by appointment, on the road. For the convenience of\nCharlotte and her child, they were to be more than two days on their\njourney, and Mr. Palmer, travelling more expeditiously with Colonel\nBrandon, was to join them at Cleveland soon after their arrival.\n\nMarianne, few as had been her hours of comfort in London, and eager as\nshe had long been to quit it, could not, when it came to the point,\nbid adieu to the house in which she had for the last time enjoyed\nthose hopes, and that confidence, in Willoughby, which were now\nextinguished for ever, without great pain. Nor could she leave the\nplace in which Willoughby remained, busy in new engagements, and new\nschemes, in which _she_ could have no share, without shedding many\ntears.\n\nElinor's satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was more positive.\nShe had no such object for her lingering thoughts to fix on, she left\nno creature behind, from whom it would give her a moment's regret to\nbe divided for ever, she was pleased to be free herself from the\npersecution of Lucy's friendship, she was grateful for bringing her\nsister away unseen by Willoughby since his marriage, and she looked\nforward with hope to what a few months of tranquility at Barton might\ndo towards restoring Marianne's peace of mind, and confirming her own.\n\nTheir journey was safely performed. The second day brought them into\nthe cherished, or the prohibited, county of Somerset, for as such was\nit dwelt on by turns in Marianne's imagination; and in the forenoon of\nthe third they drove up to Cleveland.\n\nCleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated on a sloping\nlawn. It had no park, but the pleasure-grounds were tolerably\nextensive; and like every other place of the same degree of\nimportance, it had its open shrubbery, and closer wood walk, a road of\nsmooth gravel winding round a plantation, led to the front, the lawn\nwas dotted over with timber, the house itself was under the\nguardianship of the fir, the mountain-ash, and the acacia, and a thick\nscreen of them altogether, interspersed with tall Lombardy poplars,\nshut out the offices.\n\nMarianne entered the house with a heart swelling with emotion from the\nconsciousness of being only eighty miles from Barton, and not thirty\nfrom Combe Magna; and before she had been five minutes within its\nwalls, while the others were busily helping Charlotte to show her\nchild to the housekeeper, she quitted it again, stealing away through\nthe winding shrubberies, now just beginning to be in beauty, to gain a\ndistant eminence; where, from its Grecian temple, her eye, wandering\nover a wide tract of country to the south-east, could fondly rest on\nthe farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and fancy that from their\nsummits Combe Magna might be seen.\n\nIn such moments of precious, invaluable misery, she rejoiced in tears\nof agony to be at Cleveland; and as she returned by a different\ncircuit to the house, feeling all the happy privilege of country\nliberty, of wandering from place to place in free and luxurious\nsolitude, she resolved to spend almost every hour of every day while\nshe remained with the Palmers, in the indulgence of such solitary\nrambles.\n\n[Illustration: _Showing her child to the housekeeper._]\n\nShe returned just in time to join the others as they quitted the\nhouse, on an excursion through its more immediate premises; and the\nrest of the morning was easily whiled away, in lounging round the\nkitchen garden, examining the bloom upon its walls, and listening to\nthe gardener's lamentations upon blights, in dawdling through the\ngreen-house, where the loss of her favourite plants, unwarily exposed,\nand nipped by the lingering frost, raised the laughter of\nCharlotte,--and in visiting her poultry-yard, where, in the\ndisappointed hopes of her dairy-maid, by hens forsaking their nests,\nor being stolen by a fox, or in the rapid decrease of a promising\nyoung brood, she found fresh sources of merriment.\n\nThe morning was fine and dry, and Marianne, in her plan of employment\nabroad, had not calculated for any change of weather during their stay\nat Cleveland. With great surprise therefore, did she find herself\nprevented by a settled rain from going out again after dinner. She had\ndepended on a twilight walk to the Grecian temple, and perhaps all\nover the grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp would not have\ndeterred her from it; but a heavy and settled rain even _she_ could\nnot fancy dry or pleasant weather for walking.\n\nTheir party was small, and the hours passed quietly away. Mrs. Palmer\nhad her child, and Mrs. Jennings her carpet-work; they talked of the\nfriends they had left behind, arranged Lady Middleton's engagements,\nand wondered whether Mr. Palmer and Colonel Brandon would get farther\nthan Reading that night. Elinor, however little concerned in it,\njoined in their discourse; and Marianne, who had the knack of finding\nher way in every house to the library, however it might be avoided by\nthe family in general, soon procured herself a book.\n\nNothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer's side that constant and friendly\ngood humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome. The\nopenness and heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that want\nof recollection and elegance which made her often deficient in the\nforms of politeness; her kindness, recommended by so pretty a face,\nwas engaging; her folly, though evident was not disgusting, because it\nwas not conceited; and Elinor could have forgiven every thing but her\nlaugh.\n\n[Illustration: _The gardener's lamentations._]\n\nThe two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner,\naffording a pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome\nvariety to their conversation, which a long morning of the same\ncontinued rain had reduced very low.\n\nElinor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer, and in that little had seen\nso much variety in his address to her sister and herself, that she\nknew not what to expect to find him in his own family. She found him,\nhowever, perfectly the gentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors,\nand only occasionally rude to his wife and her mother; she found him\nvery capable of being a pleasant companion, and only prevented from\nbeing so always, by too great an aptitude to fancy himself as much\nsuperior to people in general, as he must feel himself to be to Mrs.\nJennings and Charlotte. For the rest of his character and habits, they\nwere marked, as far as Elinor could perceive, with no traits at all\nunusual in his sex and time of life. He was nice in his eating,\nuncertain in his hours; fond of his child, though affecting to slight\nit; and idled away the mornings at billiards, which ought to have been\ndevoted to business. She liked him, however, upon the whole, much\nbetter than she had expected, and in her heart was not sorry that she\ncould like him no more; not sorry to be driven by the observation of\nhis epicurism, his selfishness, and his conceit, to rest with\ncomplacency on the remembrance of Edward's generous temper, simple\ntaste, and diffident feelings.\n\nOf Edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now received\nintelligence from Colonel Brandon, who had been into Dorsetshire\nlately; and who, treating her at once as the disinterested friend of\nMr. Ferrars, and the kind of confidant of himself, talked to her a\ngreat deal of the parsonage at Delaford, described its deficiencies,\nand told her what he meant to do himself towards removing them. His\nbehaviour to her in this, as well as in every other particular, his\nopen pleasure in meeting her after an absence of only ten days, his\nreadiness to converse with her, and his deference for her opinion,\nmight very well justify Mrs. Jennings's persuasion of his attachment,\nand would have been enough, perhaps, had not Elinor still, as from the\nfirst, believed Marianne his real favourite, to make her suspect it\nherself. But as it was, such a notion had scarcely ever entered her\nhead, except by Mrs. Jennings's suggestion; and she could not help\nbelieving herself the nicest observer of the two: she watched his\neyes, while Mrs. Jennings thought only of his behaviour; and while his\nlooks of anxious solicitude on Marianne's feeling, in her head and\nthroat, the beginning of a heavy cold, because unexpressed by words,\nentirely escaped the latter lady's observation,--_she_ could discover\nin them the quick feelings, and needless alarm of a lover.\n\nTwo delightful twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of her\nbeing there, not merely on the dry gravel of the shrubbery, but all\nover the grounds, and especially in the most distant parts of them,\nwhere there was something more of wildness than in the rest, where the\ntrees were the oldest, and the grass was the longest and wettest,\nhad--assisted by the still greater imprudence of sitting in her wet\nshoes and stockings--given Marianne a cold so violent as, though for a\nday or two trifled with or denied, would force itself by increasing\nailments on the concern of every body, and the notice of herself.\nPrescriptions poured in from all quarters, and as usual, were all\ndeclined. Though heavy and feverish, with a pain in her limbs, and a\ncough, and a sore throat, a good night's rest was to cure her\nentirely; and it was with difficulty that Elinor prevailed on her,\nwhen she went to bed, to try one or two of the simplest of the\nremedies.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII\n\n\nMarianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry\nreplied that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by\nengaging in her accustomary employments. But a day spent in sitting\nshivering over the fire with a book in her hand, which she was unable\nto read, or in lying, weary and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much\nin favour of her amendment; and when, at last, she went early to bed,\nmore and more indisposed, Colonel Brandon was only astonished at her\nsister's composure, who, though attending and nursing her the whole\nday, against Marianne's inclination, and forcing proper medicines on\nher at night, trusted, like Marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of\nsleep, and felt no real alarm.\n\nA very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the\nexpectation of both; and when Marianne, after persisting in rising,\nconfessed herself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to her\nbed, Elinor was very ready to adopt Mrs. Jennings's advice, of sending\nfor the Palmers' apothecary.\n\nHe came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood to\nexpect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet,\nby pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing\nthe word \"infection\" to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs.\nPalmer, on her baby's account. Mrs. Jennings, who had been inclined\nfrom the first to think Marianne's complaint more serious than Elinor,\nnow looked very grave on Mr. Harris's report, and confirming\nCharlotte's fears and caution, urged the necessity of her immediate\nremoval with her infant; and Mr. Palmer, though treating their\napprehensions as idle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife\ntoo great to be withstood. Her departure, therefore, was fixed on; and\nwithin an hour after Mr. Harris's arrival, she set off, with her\nlittle boy and his nurse, for the house of a near relation of Mr.\nPalmer's, who lived a few miles on the other side of Bath; whither her\nhusband promised, at her earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or\ntwo; and whither she was almost equally urgent with her mother to\naccompany her. Mrs. Jennings, however, with a kindness of heart which\nmade Elinor really love her, declared her resolution of not stirring\nfrom Cleveland as long as Marianne remained ill, and of endeavouring,\nby her own attentive care, to supply to her the place of the mother\nshe had taken her from; and Elinor found her on every occasion a most\nwilling and active helpmate, desirous to share in all her fatigues,\nand often by her better experience in nursing, of material use.\n\nPoor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and\nfeeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope that tomorrow\nwould find her recovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have\nproduced, but for this unlucky illness, made every ailment severe; for\non that day they were to have begun their journey home; and, attended\nthe whole way by a servant of Mrs. Jennings, were to have taken their\nmother by surprise on the following forenoon. The little she said was\nall in lamentation of this inevitable delay; though Elinor tried to\nraise her spirits, and make her believe, as she _then_ really believed\nherself, that it would be a very short one.\n\nThe next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the\npatient; she certainly was not better, and, except that there was no\namendment, did not appear worse. Their party was now farther reduced;\nfor Mr. Palmer, though very unwilling to go as well from real humanity\nand good-nature, as from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away\nby his wife, was persuaded at last by Colonel Brandon to perform his\npromise of following her; and while he was preparing to go, Colonel\nBrandon himself, with a much greater exertion, began to talk of going\nlikewise. Here, however, the kindness of Mrs. Jennings interposed most\nacceptably; for to send the Colonel away while his love was in so much\nuneasiness on her sister's account, would be to deprive them both, she\nthought, of every comfort; and therefore telling him at once that his\nstay at Cleveland was necessary to herself, that she should want him\nto play at piquet of an evening, while Miss Dashwood was above with\nher sister, &c. she urged him so strongly to remain, that he, who was\ngratifying the first wish of his own heart by a compliance, could not\nlong even affect to demur; especially as Mrs. Jennings's entreaty was\nwarmly seconded by Mr. Palmer, who seemed to feel a relief to himself,\nin leaving behind him a person so well able to assist or advise Miss\nDashwood in any emergence.\n\nMarianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these arrangements.\nShe knew not that she had been the means of sending the owners of\nCleveland away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival. It\ngave her no surprise that she saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer; and as it\ngave her likewise no concern, she never mentioned her name.\n\nTwo days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer's departure, and her\nsituation continued, with little variation, the same. Mr. Harris, who\nattended her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and\nMiss Dashwood was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others\nwas by no means so cheerful. Mrs. Jennings had determined very early\nin the seizure that Marianne would never get over it, and Colonel\nBrandon, who was chiefly of use in listening to Mrs. Jennings's\nforebodings, was not in a state of mind to resist their influence. He\ntried to reason himself out of fears, which the different judgment of\nthe apothecary seemed to render absurd; but the many hours of each day\nin which he was left entirely alone, were but too favourable for the\nadmission of every melancholy idea, and he could not expel from his\nmind the persuasion that he should see Marianne no more.\n\nOn the morning of the third day however, the gloomy anticipations of\nboth were almost done away; for when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared\nhis patient materially better. Her pulse was much stronger, and every\nsymptom more favourable than on the preceding visit. Elinor, confirmed\nin every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her\nletters to her mother, she had pursued her own judgment rather than\nher friend's, in making very light of the indisposition which delayed\nthem at Cleveland; and almost fixing on the time when Marianne would\nbe able to travel.\n\nBut the day did not close so auspiciously as it began. Towards the\nevening Marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and\nuncomfortable than before. Her sister, however, still sanguine, was\nwilling to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of\nhaving sat up to have her bed made; and carefully administering the\ncordials prescribed, saw her, with satisfaction, sink at last into a\nslumber, from which she expected the most beneficial effects. Her\nsleep, though not so quiet as Elinor wished to see it, lasted a\nconsiderable time; and anxious to observe the result of it herself,\nshe resolved to sit with her during the whole of it. Mrs. Jennings,\nknowing nothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to\nbed; her maid, who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating\nherself in the housekeeper's room, and Elinor remained alone with\nMarianne.\n\nThe repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and her\nsister, who watched, with unremitting attention her continual change\nof posture, and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of\ncomplaint which passed her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from\nso painful a slumber, when Marianne, suddenly awakened by some\naccidental noise in the house, started hastily up, and, with feverish\nwildness, cried out,--\n\n\"Is mama coming?--\"\n\n\"Not yet,\" cried the other, concealing her terror, and assisting\nMarianne to lie down again, \"but she will be here, I hope, before it\nis long. It is a great way, you know, from hence to Barton.\"\n\n\"But she must not go round by London,\" cried Marianne, in the same\nhurried manner. \"I shall never see her, if she goes by London.\"\n\nElinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and, while\nattempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse. It was lower and\nquicker than ever! and Marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her\nalarm increased so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly\nfor Mr. Harris, and despatching a messenger to Barton for her mother.\nTo consult with Colonel Brandon on the best means of effecting the\nlatter, was a thought which immediately followed the resolution of its\nperformance; and as soon she had rung up the maid to take her place by\nher sister, she hastened down to the drawing-room, where she knew he\nwas generally to be found at a much later hour than the present.\n\nIt was no time for hesitation. Her fears and her difficulties were\nimmediately before him. Her fears, he had no courage, no confidence to\nattempt the removal of; he listened to them in silent despondence; but\nher difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that\nseemed to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his\nmind, he offered himself as the messenger who should fetch Mrs.\nDashwood. Elinor made no resistance that was not easily overcome. She\nthanked him with brief, though fervent gratitude, and while he went to\nhurry off his servant with a message to Mr. Harris, and an order for\npost-horses directly, she wrote a few lines to her mother.\n\nThe comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon--or\nsuch a companion for her mother,--how gratefully was it felt!--a\ncompanion whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve,\nand whose friendship might soothe her!--as far as the shock of such a\nsummons _could_ be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his\nassistance, would lessen it.\n\n_He_, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness\nof a collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost\ndespatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which she might\nlook for his return. Not a moment was lost in delay of any kind. The\nhorses arrived, even before they were expected, and Colonel Brandon\nonly pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words\nspoken too low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage. It was\nthen about twelve o'clock, and she returned to her sister's apartment\nto wait for the arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the\nrest of the night. It was a night of almost equal suffering to both.\nHour after hour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium on\nMarianne's side, and in the most cruel anxiety on Elinor's, before Mr.\nHarris appeared. Her apprehensions once raised, paid by their excess\nfor all her former security; and the servant who sat up with her, for\nshe would not allow Mrs. Jennings to be called, only tortured her\nmore, by hints of what her mistress had always thought.\n\nMarianne's ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on her\nmother, and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the\nheart of poor Elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled with\nso many days of illness, and wretched for some immediate relief,\nfancied that all relief might soon be in vain, that every thing had\nbeen delayed too long, and pictured to herself her suffering mother\narriving too late to see this darling child, or to see her rational.\n\nShe was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if _he_ could\nnot come, for some other advice, when the former--but not till after\nfive o'clock--arrived. His opinion, however, made some little amends\nfor his delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected and\nunpleasant alteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger to\nbe material, and talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treatment\nmust procure, with a confidence which, in a lesser degree, was\ncommunicated to Elinor. He promised to call again in the course of\nthree or four hours, and left both the patient and her anxious\nattendant more composed than he had found them.\n\nWith strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to\ntheir aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the morning of what had passed.\nHer former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her\nno doubt of the event; and though trying to speak comfort to Elinor,\nher conviction of her sister's danger would not allow her to offer the\ncomfort of hope. Her heart was really grieved. The rapid decay, the\nearly death of a girl so young, so lovely as Marianne, must have\nstruck a less interested person with concern. On Mrs. Jennings's\ncompassion she had other claims. She had been for three months her\ncompanion, was still under her care, and she was known to have been\ngreatly injured, and long unhappy. The distress of her sister too,\nparticularly a favourite, was before her;--and as for their mother,\nwhen Mrs. Jennings considered that Marianne might probably be to _her_\nwhat Charlotte was to herself, her sympathy in _her_ sufferings was\nvery sincere.\n\nMr. Harris was punctual in his second visit; but he came to be\ndisappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce. His\nmedicines had failed; the fever was unabated; and Marianne only more\nquiet--not more herself--remained in a heavy stupor. Elinor, catching\nall, and more than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in\nfurther advice. But he judged it unnecessary: he had still something\nmore to try, some more fresh application, of whose success he was as\nconfident as the last, and his visit concluded with encouraging\nassurances which reached the ear, but could not enter the heart of\nMiss Dashwood. She was calm, except when she thought of her mother;\nbut she was almost hopeless; and in this state she continued till\nnoon, scarcely stirring from her sister's bed, her thoughts wandering\nfrom one image of grief, one suffering friend to another, and her\nspirits oppressed to the utmost by the conversation of Mrs. Jennings,\nwho scrupled not to attribute the severity and danger of this attack\nto the many weeks of previous indisposition which Marianne's\ndisappointment had brought on. Elinor felt all the reasonableness of\nthe idea, and it gave fresh misery to her reflections.\n\nAbout noon, however, she began--but with a caution--a dread of\ndisappointment which for some time kept her silent, even to her\nfriend--to fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her\nsister's pulse; she waited, watched, and examined it again and again;\nand at last, with an agitation more difficult to bury under exterior\ncalmness, than all her foregoing distress, ventured to communicate her\nhopes. Mrs. Jennings, though forced, on examination, to acknowledge a\ntemporary revival, tried to keep her young friend from indulging a\nthought of its continuance; and Elinor, conning over every injunction\nof distrust, told herself likewise not to hope. But it was too late.\nHope had already entered; and feeling all its anxious flutter, she\nbent over her sister to watch--she hardly knew for what. Half an hour\npassed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed her. Others even\narose to confirm it. Her breath, her skin, her lips, all flattered\nElinor with signs of amendment; and Marianne fixed her eyes on her\nwith a rational, though languid, gaze. Anxiety and hope now oppressed\nher in equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity till the\narrival of Mr. Harris at four o'clock; when his assurances, his\nfelicitations on a recovery in her sister even surpassing his\nexpectation, gave her confidence, comfort, and tears of joy.\n\nMarianne was in every respect materially better, and he declared her\nentirely out of danger. Mrs. Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the\npartial justification of her forebodings which had been found in their\nlate alarm, allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted,\nwith unfeigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the\nprobability of an entire recovery.\n\nElinor could not be cheerful. Her joy was of a different kind, and led\nto any thing rather than to gaiety. Marianne restored to life, health,\nfriends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with\nsensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent\ngratitude;--but it lead to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words,\nno smiles. All within Elinor's breast was satisfaction, silent and\nstrong.\n\nShe continued by the side of her sister, with little intermission the\nwhole afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her\nenfeebled spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every\nlook and every breath. The possibility of a relapse would of course,\nin some moments, occur to remind her of what anxiety was; but when she\nsaw, on her frequent and minute examination, that every symptom of\nrecovery continued, and saw Marianne at six o'clock sink into a quiet,\nsteady, and to all appearance comfortable, sleep, she silenced every\ndoubt.\n\nThe time was now drawing on, when Colonel Brandon might be expected\nback. At ten o'clock, she trusted, or at least not much later her\nmother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must\nnow be travelling towards them. The Colonel, too!--perhaps scarcely\nless an object of pity! Oh! how slow was the progress of time which\nyet kept them in ignorance!\n\nAt seven o'clock, leaving Marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined\nMrs. Jennings in the drawing-room to tea. Of breakfast she had been\nkept by her fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating\nmuch; and the present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of\ncontent as she brought to it, was particularly welcome. Mrs. Jennings\nwould have persuaded her, at its conclusion, to take some rest before\nher mother's arrival, and allow _her_ to take her place by Marianne;\nbut Elinor had no sense of fatigue, no capability of sleep at that\nmoment about her, and she was not to be kept away from her sister an\nunnecessary instant. Mrs. Jennings therefore attending her up stairs\ninto the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right,\nleft her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to\nher own room to write letters and sleep.\n\nThe night was cold and stormy. The wind roared round the house, and\nthe rain beat against the windows; but Elinor, all happiness within,\nregarded it not. Marianne slept through every blast; and the\ntravellers, they had a rich reward in store, for every present\ninconvenience.\n\nThe clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Elinor would have been\nconvinced that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the\nhouse; and so strong was the persuasion that she _did_, in spite of\nthe _almost_ impossibility of their being already come, that she moved\ninto the adjoining dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to be\nsatisfied of the truth. She instantly saw that her ears had not\ndeceived her. The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in\nview. By their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be\ndrawn by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poor\nmother's alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity.\n\nNever in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as at\nthat moment. The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the\ncarriage stopped the door,--of her doubt--her dread,--perhaps her\ndespair!--and of what _she_ had to tell! with such knowledge it was\nimpossible to be calm. All that remained to be done was to be speedy;\nand, therefore staying only till she could leave Mrs. Jennings's maid\nwith her sister, she hurried down stairs.\n\nThe bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby,\nassured her that they were already in the house. She rushed to the\ndrawing-room,--she entered it,--and saw only Willoughby.\n\n[Illustration: _Opened a window-shutter._]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV\n\n\nElinor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him,\nobeyed the first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the\nroom, and her hand was already on the lock, when its action was\nsuspended by his hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of\ncommand than supplication--\n\n\"Miss Dashwood, for half an hour--for ten minutes--I entreat you to\nstay.\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" she replied with firmness, \"I shall _not_ stay. Your\nbusiness cannot be with _me._ The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell\nyou that Mr. Palmer was not in the house.\"\n\n\"Had they told me,\" he cried with vehemence, \"that Mr. Palmer and all\nhis relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the\ndoor. My business is with you, and only you.\"\n\n\"With me!\"--in the utmost amazement;--\"well, sir--be quick--and if you\ncan--less violent.\"\n\n\"Sit down, and I will be both.\"\n\nShe hesitated; she knew not what to do. The possibility of Colonel\nBrandon's arriving and finding her there, came across her. But she had\npromised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor was\nengaged. After a moment's recollection, therefore, concluding that\nprudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best\npromote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down. He\ntook the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said by\neither.\n\n\"Pray be quick, sir,\" said Elinor, impatiently; \"I have no time to\nspare.\"\n\nHe was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to\nhear her.\n\n\"Your sister,\" said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards--\"is out\nof danger. I heard it from the servant. God be praised!--But is it\ntrue? is it really true?\"\n\nElinor would not speak. He repeated the inquiry with yet greater\neagerness.\n\n\"For God's sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?\"\n\n[Illustration: \"_I entreat you to stay._\"]\n\n\"We hope she is.\"\n\nHe rose up, and walked across the room.\n\n\"Had I known as much half an hour ago--But since I _am_\nhere,\"--speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to his\nseat,--\"what does it signify?--For once, Miss Dashwood--it will be the\nlast time, perhaps--let us be cheerful together. I am in a fine mood\nfor gaiety. Tell me honestly,\"--a deeper glow overspreading his\ncheeks, \"do you think me most a knave or a fool?\"\n\nElinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began to\nthink that he must be in liquor;--the strangeness of such a visit, and\nof such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this\nimpression she immediately rose, saying--\n\n\"Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe--I am not\nat leisure to remain with you longer. Whatever your business may be\nwith me, will it be better recollected and explained to-morrow.\"\n\n\"I understand you,\" he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice\nperfectly calm; \"yes, I am very drunk. A pint of porter with my cold\nbeef at Marlborough was enough to over-set me.\"\n\n\"At Marlborough!\"--cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to understand\nwhat he would be at.\n\n\"Yes,--I left London this morning at eight o'clock, and the only ten\nminutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a\nnuncheon at Marlborough.\"\n\nThe steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he\nspoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might\nbring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she\nsaid, after a moment's recollection--\n\n\"Mr. Willoughby, you _ought_ to feel, and I certainly _do_, that after\nwhat has passed--your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself\nupon my notice, requires a very particular excuse. What is it, that\nyou mean by it?\"--\n\n\"I mean,\"--said he, with serious energy--\"if I can, to make you hate\nme one degree less than you do _now._ I mean to offer some kind of\nexplanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole\nheart to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a\nblockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like\nforgiveness from Ma----, from your sister.\"\n\n\"Is this the real reason of your coming?\"\n\n\"Upon my soul it is,\" was his answer, with a warmth which brought all\nthe former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made\nher think him sincere.\n\n\"If that is all, you may be satisfied already; for Marianne _does_,\nshe has _long_ forgiven you.\"\n\n\"Has she?\" he cried, in the same eager tone. \"Then she has forgiven me\nbefore she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again, and\non more reasonable grounds. _Now_ will you listen to me?\"\n\nElinor bowed her assent.\n\n\"I do not know,\" said he, after a pause of expectation on her side,\nand thoughtfulness on his own, \"how _you_ may have accounted for my\nbehaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have\nimputed to me. Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me,--it is\nworth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing. When I first\nbecame intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other\nview in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was\nobliged to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done\nbefore. Your sister's lovely person and interesting manners could not\nbut please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a\nkind--It is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what _she_\nwas, that my heart should have been so insensible! But at first I must\nconfess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless of her happiness,\nthinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had\nalways been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by\nevery means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any\ndesign of returning her affection.\"\n\nMiss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most\nangry contempt, stopped him, by saying--\n\n\"It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for\nme to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed\nby any thing. Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the\nsubject.\"\n\n\"I insist on you hearing the whole of it,\" he replied, \"My fortune was\nnever large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of\nassociating with people of better income than myself. Every year\nsince my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my\ndebts; and though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set\nme free; yet that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it\nhad been for some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances\nby marrying a woman of fortune. To attach myself to your sister,\ntherefore, was not a thing to be thought of; and with a meanness,\nselfishness, cruelty, which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even\nof yours, Miss Dashwood, can ever reprobate too much,--I was acting in\nthis manner, trying to engage her regard, without a thought of\nreturning it. But one thing may be said for me: even in that horrid\nstate of selfish vanity, I did not know the extent of the injury I\nmeditated, because I did not _then_ know what it was to love. But have\nI ever known it? Well may it be doubted; for, had I really loved,\ncould I have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to avarice? or, what is\nmore, could I have sacrificed hers? But I have done it. To avoid a\ncomparative poverty, which her affection and her society would have\ndeprived of all its horrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence,\nlost every thing that could make it a blessing.\"\n\n\"You did then,\" said Elinor, a little softened, \"believe yourself at\none time attached to her?\"\n\n\"To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such tenderness!\nIs there a man on earth who could have done it? Yes, I found myself,\nby insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours\nof my life were what I spent with her when I felt my intentions were\nstrictly honourable, and my feelings blameless. Even _then_, however,\nwhen fully determined on paying my addresses to her, I allowed myself\nmost improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment of doing it,\nfrom an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my\ncircumstances were so greatly embarrassed. I will not reason here--nor\nwill I stop for _you_ to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse\nthan absurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was\nalready bound. The event has proved, that I was a cunning fool,\nproviding with great circumspection for a possible opportunity of\nmaking myself contemptible and wretched for ever. At last, however, my\nresolution was taken, and I had determined, as soon as I could engage\nher alone, to justify the attentions I had so invariably paid her, and\nopenly assure her of an affection which I had already taken such pains\nto display. But in the interim--in the interim of the very few hours\nthat were to pass, before I could have an opportunity of speaking with\nher in private--a circumstance occurred--an unlucky circumstance--to\nruin all my resolution, and with it all my comfort. A discovery took\nplace,\"--here he hesitated and looked down. \"Mrs. Smith had somehow or\nother been informed, I imagine by some distant relation, whose\ninterest it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a\nconnection--but I need not explain myself farther,\" he added, looking\nat her with an heightened colour and an enquiring eye,--\"your\nparticular intimacy--you have probably heard the whole story long\nago.\"\n\n\"I have,\" returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heart\nanew against any compassion for him, \"I have heard it all. And how you\nwill explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, I\nconfess is beyond my comprehension.\"\n\n\"Remember,\" cried Willoughby, \"from whom you received the account.\nCould it be an impartial one? I acknowledge that her situation and her\ncharacter ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean to justify\nmyself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have\nnothing to urge--that because she was injured she was irreproachable,\nand because _I_ was a libertine, _she_ must be a saint. If the\nviolence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding--I do not\nmean, however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved better\ntreatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the\ntenderness which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any\nreturn. I wish--I heartily wish it had never been. But I have injured\nmore than herself; and I have injured one, whose affection for\nme--(may I say it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose\nmind--Oh! how infinitely superior!\"\n\n\"Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl--I must say\nit, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well\nbe--your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do\nnot think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of\nunderstanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours.\nYou must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in\nDevonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was\nreduced to the extremest indigence.\"\n\n\"But, upon my soul, I did _not_ know it,\" he warmly replied; \"I did\nnot recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction; and common\nsense might have told her how to find it out.\"\n\n\"Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?\"\n\n\"She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be\nguessed. The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her\nignorance of the world,--every thing was against me. The matter itself\nI could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it. She was\npreviously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in\ngeneral, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention,\nthe very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on her, in my\npresent visit. In short, it ended in a total breach. By one measure I\nmight have saved myself. In the height of her morality, good woman!\nshe offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza. That could\nnot be; and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house.\nThe night following this affair--I was to go the next morning--was\nspent by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be. The\nstruggle was great, but it ended too soon. My affection for Marianne,\nmy thorough conviction of her attachment to me--it was all\ninsufficient to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of\nthose false ideas of the necessity of riches, which I was naturally\ninclined to feel, and expensive society had increased. I had reason to\nbelieve myself secure of my present wife, if I chose to address her,\nand I persuaded myself to think that nothing else in common prudence\nremained for me to do. A heavy scene however awaited me, before I\ncould leave Devonshire: I was engaged to dine with you on that very\nday; some apology was therefore necessary for my breaking this\nengagement. But whether I should write this apology, or deliver it in\nperson, was a point of long debate. To see Marianne, I felt, would be\ndreadful, and I even doubted whether I could see her again, and keep\nto my resolution. In that point, however, I undervalued my own\nmagnanimity, as the event declared; for I went, I saw her, and saw her\nmiserable, and left her miserable;--and left her hoping never to see\nher again.\"\n\n\"Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby?\" said Elinor, reproachfully; \"a\nnote would have answered every purpose. Why was it necessary to\ncall?\"\n\n[Illustration: \"_I was formally dismissed._\"]\n\n\"It was necessary to my own pride. I could not bear to leave the\ncountry in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the\nneighbourhood, to suspect any part of what had really passed between\nMrs. Smith and myself, and I resolved therefore on calling at the\ncottage, in my way to Honiton. The sight of your dear sister, however,\nwas really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, I found her alone.\nYou were all gone I do not know where. I had left her only the evening\nbefore, so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right! A\nfew hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and I remember how\nhappy, how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage to\nAllenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with every body! But in\nthis, our last interview of friendship, I approached her with a sense\nof guilt that almost took from me the power of dissembling. Her\nsorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret, when I told her that I\nwas obliged to leave Devonshire so immediately--I never shall forget\nit--united too with such reliance, such confidence in me! Oh, God!\nwhat a hard-hearted rascal I was!\"\n\nThey were both silent for a few moments. Elinor first spoke.\n\n\"Did you tell her that you should soon return?\"\n\n\"I do not know what I told her,\" he replied, impatiently; \"less than\nwas due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more\nthan was justified by the future. I cannot think of it. It won't do.\nThen came your dear mother to torture me farther, with all her\nkindness and confidence. Thank Heaven! it _did_ torture me. I was\nmiserable. Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it\ngives me to look back on my own misery. I owe such a grudge to myself\nfor the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past\nsufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now. Well, I\nwent, left all that I loved, and went to those to whom, at best, I was\nonly indifferent. My journey to town--travelling with my own horses,\nand therefore so tediously--no creature to speak to--my own\nreflections so cheerful--when I looked forward every thing so\ninviting!--when I looked back at Barton, the picture so soothing!--oh,\nit was a blessed journey!\"\n\nHe stopped.\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient for\nhis departure, \"and this is all?\"\n\n\"Ah!--no,--have you forgot what passed in town? That infamous letter?\nDid she show it you?\"\n\n\"Yes, I saw every note that passed.\"\n\n\"When the first of hers reached me (as it immediately did, for I was\nin town the whole time,) what I felt is, in the common phrase, not to\nbe expressed; in a more simple one--perhaps too simple to raise any\nemotion, my feelings were very, very painful. Every line, every word\nwas--in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here,\nwould forbid--a dagger to my heart. To know that Marianne was in town\nwas, in the same language, a thunderbolt. Thunderbolts and daggers!\nwhat a reproof would she have given me! her taste, her opinions--I\nbelieve they are better known to me than my own, and I am sure they\nare dearer.\"\n\nElinor's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this\nextraordinary conversation, was now softened again;--yet she felt it\nher duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last.\n\n\"This is not right, Mr. Willoughby. Remember that you are married.\nRelate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to\nhear.\"\n\n\"Marianne's note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as in\nformer days, that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been\nseparated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of\nfaith in the constancy of mine as ever, awakened all my remorse. I say\nawakened, because time and London, business and dissipation, had in\nsome measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine hardened\nvillain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and choosing to fancy\nthat she too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself of\nour past attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my\nshoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach,\novercoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, 'I shall be\nheartily glad to hear she is well married.' But this note made me know\nmyself better. I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than any\nother woman in the world, and that I was using her infamously. But\nevery thing was then just settled between Miss Grey and me. To retreat\nwas impossible. All that I had to do, was to avoid you both. I sent no\nanswer to Marianne, intending by that to preserve myself from her\nfarther notice; and for some time I was even determined not to call\nin Berkeley Street; but at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of\na cool, common acquaintance than anything else, I watched you all\nsafely out of the house one morning, and left my name.\"\n\n\"Watched us out of the house!\"\n\n\"Even so. You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, how\noften I was on the point of falling in with you. I have entered many a\nshop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by. Lodging as I did\nin Bond Street, there was hardly a day in which I did not catch a\nglimpse of one or other of you; and nothing but the most constant\nwatchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep\nout of your sight, could have separated us so long. I avoided the\nMiddletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was\nlikely to prove an acquaintance in common. Not aware of their being in\ntown, however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of\nhis coming, and the day after I had called at Mrs. Jennings's. He\nasked me to a party, a dance at his house in the evening. Had he _not_\ntold me as an inducement that you and your sister were to be there, I\nshould have felt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near him. The\nnext morning brought another short note from Marianne--still\naffectionate, open, artless, confiding--everything that could make\n_my_ conduct most hateful. I could not answer it. I tried--but could\nnot frame a sentence. But I thought of her, I believe, every moment of\nthe day. If you _can_ pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it\nwas _then._ With my head and heart full of your sister, I was forced\nto play the happy lover to another woman! Those three or four weeks\nwere worse than all. Well, at last, as I need not tell you, you were\nforced on me; and what a sweet figure I cut! what an evening of agony\nit was! Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me\nWilloughby in such a tone! Oh, God! holding out her hand to me, asking\nme for an explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such\nspeaking solicitude on my face! and Sophia, jealous as the devil on\nthe other hand, looking all that was--Well, it does not signify; it is\nover now. Such an evening! I ran away from you all as soon as I could;\nbut not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face as white as death.\n_That_ was the last, last look I ever had of her; the last manner in\nwhich she appeared to me. It was a horrid sight! yet when I thought\nof her to-day as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me to\nimagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those, who saw her\nlast in this world. She was before me, constantly before me, as I\ntravelled, in the same look and hue.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"_I have entered many a shop to avoid your sight._\"]\n\nA short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby first\nrousing himself, broke it thus:\n\n\"Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is certainly better,\ncertainly out of danger?\"\n\n\"We are assured of it.\"\n\n\"Your poor mother, too!--doting on Marianne.\"\n\n\"But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter; have you any thing\nto say about that?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, _that_ in particular. Your sister wrote to me again, you\nknow, the very next morning. You saw what she said. I was breakfasting\nat the Ellisons,--and her letter, with some others, was brought to me\nthere from my lodgings. It happened to catch Sophia's eye before it\ncaught mine;--and its size, the elegance of the paper, the hand-writing\naltogether, immediately gave her a suspicion. Some vague report had\nreached her before of my attachment to some young lady in Devonshire,\nand what had passed within her observation the preceding evening had\nmarked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous than ever.\nAffecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is delightful in a\nwoman one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read its contents.\nShe was well paid for her impudence. She read what made her wretched.\nHer wretchedness I could have borne, but her passion--her malice--at all\nevents it must be appeased. And, in short, what do you think of my\nwife's style of letter-writing?--delicate--tender--truly feminine--was\nit not?\"\n\n\"Your wife! The letter was in your own hand-writing.\"\n\n\"Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as\nI was ashamed to put my name to. The original was all her own--her own\nhappy thoughts and gentle diction. But what could I do! we were\nengaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed--but I am\ntalking like a fool. Preparation! Day! In honest words, her money was\nnecessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to be\ndone to prevent a rupture. And after all, what did it signify to my\ncharacter in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what\nlanguage my answer was couched? It must have been only to one end. My\nbusiness was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with\na bow or a bluster was of little importance. 'I am ruined for ever in\ntheir opinion,' said I to myself; 'I am shut out for ever from their\nsociety, they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter\nwill only make them think me a blackguard one.' Such were my\nreasonings, as, in a sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my\nwife's words, and parted with the last relics of Marianne. Her three\nnotes--unluckily they were all in my pocket-book, or I should have\ndenied their existence, and hoarded them for ever--I was forced to put\nthem up, and could not even kiss them. And the lock of hair--that too\nI had always carried about me in the same pocket-book, which was now\nsearched by Madam with the most ingratiating virulence,--the dear\nlock--all, every memento was torn from me.\"\n\n\"You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable,\" said Elinor,\nwhile her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate\nemotion; \"you ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs.\nWilloughby or my sister. You had made your own choice. It was not\nforced on you. Your wife has a claim to your politeness, to your\nrespect, at least. She must be attached to you, or she would not have\nmarried you. To treat her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly\nis no atonement to Marianne--nor can I suppose it a relief to your own\nconscience.\"\n\n\"Do not talk to me of my wife,\" said he with a heavy sigh. \"She does\nnot deserve your compassion. She knew I had no regard for her when we\nmarried. Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be\nhappy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay. And now do you pity\nme, Miss Dashwood? or have I said all this to no purpose? Am I,--be\nit only one degree,--am I less guilty in your opinion than I was\nbefore? My intentions were not always wrong. Have I explained away any\npart of my guilt?\"\n\n\"Yes, you have certainly removed something--a little. You have proved\nyourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You have\nproved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But I hardly\nknow--the misery that you have inflicted--I hardly know what could\nhave made it worse.\"\n\n\"Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what I have\nbeen telling you?--Let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as\nwell as in yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me already. Let me\nbe able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my\npresent feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural,\nmore gentle, less dignified, forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and my\npenitence--tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if\nyou will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever.\"\n\n\"I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be\ncalled, your justification. But you have not explained to me the\nparticular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her\nillness.\"\n\n\"Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton,\nand when he saw who I was, for the first time these two months--he\nspoke to me. That he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen\nwithout surprise or resentment. Now, however, his good-natured,\nhonest, stupid soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for\nyour sister, could not resist the temptation of telling me what he\nknew ought to, though probably he did not think it _would_, vex me\nhorridly. As bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that\nMarianne Dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland--a letter\nthat morning received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most\nimminent--the Palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c. I was too much\nshocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even to the\nundiscerning Sir John. His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer;\nand so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he\nalmost shook me by the hand while he reminded me of an old promise\nabout a pointer puppy. What I felt on hearing that your sister was\ndying, and dying too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth,\nscorning, hating me in her latest moments--for how could I tell what\nhorrid projects might not have been imputed? _One_ person I was sure\nwould represent me as capable of any thing. What I felt was dreadful!\nMy resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock this morning I was\nin my carriage. Now you know all.\"\n\nElinor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed on the\nirreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent\nhabits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the\ncharacter, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person\nand talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a\nfeeling, affectionate temper. The world had made him extravagant and\nvain--Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish.\nVanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of\nanother, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or\nat least its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each\nfaulty propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to\npunishment. The attachment, from which against honour, against\nfeeling, against every better interest he had outwardly torn himself,\nnow, when no longer allowable, governed every thought; and the\nconnection, for the sake of which he had, with little scruple, left\nher sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to\nhimself of a far more incurable nature. From a reverie of this kind\nshe was recalled at the end of some minutes by Willoughby, who,\nrousing himself from a reverie at least equally painful, started up in\npreparation for going, and said--\n\n\"There is no use in staying here; I must be off.\"\n\n\"Are you going back to town?\"\n\n\"No--to Combe Magna. I have business there; from thence to town in a\nday or two. Good bye.\"\n\nHe held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers;--he\npressed it with affection.\n\n\"And you _do_ think something better of me than you did?\"--said he,\nletting it fall, and leaning against the mantelpiece as if forgetting\nhe was to go.\n\nElinor assured him that she did;--that she forgave, pitied, wished him\nwell--was even interested in his happiness--and added some gentle\ncounsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer was\nnot very encouraging.\n\n\"As to that,\" said he, \"I must rub through the world as well as I can.\nDomestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowed\nto think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions,\nit may be the means--it may put me on my guard--at least, it may be\nsomething to live for. Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever.\nWere I even by any blessed chance at liberty again--\"\n\nElinor stopped him with a reproof.\n\n\"Well,\"--he replied--\"once more good bye. I shall now go away and live\nin dread of one event.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Your sister's marriage.\"\n\n\"You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is\nnow.\"\n\n\"But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one should\nbe the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear--but I will not\nstay to rob myself of all your compassionate good-will, by showing that\nwhere I have most injured I can least forgive. Good bye,--God bless\nyou!\"\n\nAnd with these words, he almost ran out of the room.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLV\n\n\nElinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the\nsound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a\ncrowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness\nwas the general result, to think even of her sister.\n\nWilloughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the\nmost worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited\na degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which\nmade her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with\na tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged\nwithin herself--to his wishes than to his merits. She felt that his\ninfluence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought\nnot in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction,\nthat open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to\npossess; and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not\neven innocent to indulge. But she felt that it was so, long, long\nbefore she could feel his influence less.\n\nWhen at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her\njust awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of\nher hopes. Elinor's heart was full. The past, the present, the future,\nWilloughby's visit, Marianne's safety, and her mother's expected\narrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept\noff every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful of\nbetraying herself to her sister. Short was the time, however, in which\nthat fear could affect her, for within half an hour after Willoughby's\nleaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the sound of\nanother carriage. Eager to save her mother from every unnecessary\nmoment's horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the hall, and\nreached the outward door just in time to receive and support her as\nshe entered it.\n\nMrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced\nalmost the conviction of Marianne's being no more, had no voice to\ninquire after her, no voice even for Elinor; but _she_, waiting\nneither for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief;\nand her mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment\nas much overcome by her happiness, as she had been before by her\nfears. She was supported into the drawing-room between her daughter\nand her friend; and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable\nto speak, embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at\nintervals to press Colonel Brandon's hand, with a look which spoke at\nonce her gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in\nthe bliss of the moment. He shared it, however, in a silence even\ngreater than her own.\n\nAs soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was\nher first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child,\nrendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger.\nElinor's delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only\nchecked by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther\nsleep;--but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when\nthe life of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in knowing\nher mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for\nconversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by\nevery nurse around her. Mrs. Dashwood _would_ sit up with her all\nnight; and Elinor, in compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to\nbed. But the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours\nof the most wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by\nirritation of spirits. Willoughby, \"poor Willoughby,\" as she now\nallowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would\nnot but have heard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now\nacquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before. But her\npromise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful. She\ndreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne\nmight be; doubted whether after such an explanation she could ever be\nhappy with another; and for a moment wished Willoughby a widower.\nThen, remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved herself, felt that to\n_his_ sufferings and _his_ constancy far more than to his rival's, the\nreward of her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than Mrs.\nWilloughby's death.\n\nThe shock of Colonel Brandon's errand at Barton had been much softened\nto Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her\nuneasiness about Marianne, that she had already determined to set out\nfor Cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any further\nintelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival,\nthat the Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret\naway, as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be\ninfection.\n\nMarianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness\nof Mrs. Dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she\nrepeatedly declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world.\nElinor could not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without\nsometimes wondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward. But\nMrs. Dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own\ndisappointment which Elinor had sent her, was led away by the\nexuberance of her joy to think only of what would increase it.\nMarianne was restored to her from a danger in which, as she now began\nto feel, her own mistaken judgment in encouraging the unfortunate\nattachment to Willoughby, had contributed to place her; and in her\nrecovery she had yet another source of joy unthought of by Elinor. It\nwas thus imparted to her, as soon as any opportunity of private\nconference between them occurred.\n\n\"At last we are alone. My Elinor, you do not yet know all my\nhappiness. Colonel Brandon loves Marianne. He has told me so himself.\"\n\nHer daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and\nnot surprised, was all silent attention.\n\n\"You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your\ncomposure now. Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my\nfamily, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's marrying one of you\nas the object most desirable. And I believe Marianne will be the most\nhappy with him of the two.\"\n\nElinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because\nsatisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their\nage, characters, or feelings, could be given;--but her mother must\nalways be carried away by her imagination on any interesting subject,\nand therefore instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.\n\n\"He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled. It came\nout quite unawares, quite undesignedly. I, you may well believe, could\ntalk of nothing but my child;--he could not conceal his distress; I\nsaw that it equalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere\nfriendship, as the world now goes, would not justify so warm a\nsympathy--or rather, not thinking at all, I suppose--giving way to\nirresistible feelings, made me acquainted with his earnest, tender,\nconstant, affection for Marianne. He has loved her, my Elinor, ever\nsince the first moment of seeing her.\"\n\nHere, however, Elinor perceived,--not the language, not the\nprofessions of Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her\nmother's active fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her\nas it chose.\n\n\"His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby\never felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or constant,\nwhich ever we are to call it, has subsisted through all the knowledge\nof dear Marianne's unhappy prepossession for that worthless young man!\nand without selfishness, without encouraging a hope! could he have\nseen her happy with another. Such a noble mind! such openness, such\nsincerity! No one can be deceived in _him._\"\n\n\"Colonel Brandon's character,\" said Elinor, \"as an excellent man, is\nwell established.\"\n\n\"I know it is,\" replied her mother seriously, \"or after such a\nwarning, I should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to\nbe pleased by it. But his coming for me as he did, with such active,\nsuch ready friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of\nmen.\"\n\n\"His character, however,\" answered Elinor, \"does not rest on _one_ act\nof kindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of\nthe case, would have prompted him. To Mrs. Jennings, to the\nMiddletons, he has been long and intimately known; they equally love\nand respect him; and even my own knowledge of him, though lately\nacquired, is very considerable; and so highly do I value and esteem\nhim, that if Marianne can be happy with him, I shall be as ready as\nyourself to think our connection the greatest blessing to us in the\nworld. What answer did you give him? Did you allow him to hope?\"\n\n\"Oh! my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself.\nMarianne might at that moment be dying. But he did not ask for hope or\nencouragement. His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible\neffusion to a soothing friend, not an application to a parent. Yet\nafter a time I _did_ say, for at first I was quite overcome, that if\nshe lived, as I trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in\npromoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful\nsecurity, I have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every\nencouragement in my power. Time, a very little time, I tell him, will\ndo everything; Marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a\nman as Willoughby. His own merits must soon secure it.\"\n\n\"To judge from the Colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet made\nhim equally sanguine.\"\n\n\"No. He thinks Marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any change\nin it under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again\nfree, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a\ndifference of age and disposition he could ever attach her. There,\nhowever, he is quite mistaken. His age is only so much beyond hers as\nto be an advantage, as to make his character and principles\nfixed;--and his disposition, I am well convinced, is exactly the very\none to make your sister happy. And his person, his manners too, are\nall in his favour. My partiality does not blind me; he certainly is\nnot so handsome as Willoughby--but at the same time, there is\nsomething much more pleasing in his countenance. There was always a\nsomething,--if you remember,--in Willoughby's eyes at times, which I\ndid not like.\"\n\nElinor could _not_ remember it;--but her mother, without waiting for\nher assent, continued--\n\n\"And his manners, the Colonel's manners are not only more pleasing to\nme than Willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to\nbe more solidly attaching to Marianne. Their gentleness, their\ngenuine attention to other people, and their manly unstudied\nsimplicity is much more accordant with her real disposition, than the\nliveliness--often artificial, and often ill-timed of the other. I am\nvery sure myself, that had Willoughby turned out as really amiable, as\nhe has proved himself the contrary, Marianne would yet never have been\nso happy with _him_ as she will be with Colonel Brandon.\"\n\nShe paused. Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her\ndissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence.\n\n\"At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me,\" added Mrs.\nDashwood, \"even if I remain at Barton; and in all probability,--for I\nhear it is a large village,--indeed there certainly _must_ be some\nsmall house or cottage close by, that would suit us quite as well as\nour present situation.\"\n\nPoor Elinor!--here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford!--but\nher spirit was stubborn.\n\n\"His fortune too!--for at my time of life you know, everybody cares\nabout _that_;--and though I neither know nor desire to know, what it\nreally is, I am sure it must be a good one.\"\n\nHere they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and\nElinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to\nher friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVI\n\n\nMarianne's illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long\nenough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength,\nand her mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to\nenable her to remove, within four days after the arrival of the\nlatter, into Mrs. Palmer's dressing-room. When there, at her own\nparticular request, for she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to\nhim for fetching her mother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit her.\n\nHis emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and in\nreceiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was\nsuch, as, in Elinor's conjecture, must arise from something more than\nhis affection for Marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to\nothers; and she soon discovered in his melancholy eye and varying\ncomplexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many\npast scenes of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblance\nbetween Marianne and Eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened\nby the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness,\nand the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.\n\nMrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, but\nwith a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to\nvery different effect, saw nothing in the Colonel's behaviour but what\narose from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the\nactions and words of Marianne she persuaded herself to think that\nsomething more than gratitude already dawned.\n\nAt the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger\nevery twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her\ndaughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton. On _her_\nmeasures depended those of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could not\nquit Cleveland during the Dashwoods' stay; and Colonel Brandon was\nsoon brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there\nas equally determinate, if not equally indispensable. At his and Mrs.\nJennings's united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to\naccept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better\naccommodation of her sick child; and the Colonel, at the joint\ninvitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active\ngood-nature made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well\nas herself, engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the\ncottage, in the course of a few weeks.\n\nThe day of separation and departure arrived; and Marianne, after\ntaking so particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so\nearnestly grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due\nto her own heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and\nbidding Colonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was\ncarefully assisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed\nanxious that she should engross at least half. Mrs. Dashwood and\nElinor then followed, and the others were left by themselves, to talk\nof the travellers, and feel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings\nwas summoned to her chaise to take comfort in the gossip of her maid\nfor the loss of her two young companions; and Colonel Brandon\nimmediately afterwards took his solitary way to Delaford.\n\nThe Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journey\non both, without essential fatigue. Every thing that the most zealous\naffection, the most solicitous care could do to render her\ncomfortable, was the office of each watchful companion, and each found\ntheir reward in her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits. To\nElinor, the observation of the latter was particularly grateful. She,\nwho had seen her week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by\nanguish of heart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor\nfortitude to conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally\nshare, an apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as\nshe trusted of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to\ncontentment and cheerfulness.\n\nAs they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which\nevery field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful\nrecollection, she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her\nface from their notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window. But\nhere, Elinor could neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she\nassisted Marianne from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw\nonly an emotion too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender\nthan pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. In the whole\nof her subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened\nto reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common\nsitting-room, than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of\nresolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the\nsight of every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could\nbe connected. She said little, but every sentence aimed at\ncheerfulness, and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed\naway without the atonement of a smile. After dinner she would try her\npiano-forte. She went to it; but the music on which her eye first\nrested was an opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some\nof their favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name\nin his hand-writing. That would not do. She shook her head, put the\nmusic aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained\nof feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again;\ndeclaring however with firmness as she did so, that she should in\nfuture practice much.\n\nThe next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. On the\ncontrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked\nand spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of\nMargaret's return, and talking of the dear family party which would\nthen be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as\nthe only happiness worth a wish.\n\n\"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength,\" said\nshe, \"we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the\nfarm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will\nwalk to Sir John's new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland;\nand we will often go the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its\nfoundations as far as we are told they once reached. I know we shall\nbe happy. I know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never to be\nlater in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall\ndivide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan,\nand am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own\nlibrary is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing\nbeyond mere amusement. But there are many works well worth reading at\nthe Park; and there are others of more modern production which I know\nI can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six hours a-day, I\nshall gain in the course of a twelvemonth a great deal of instruction\nwhich I now feel myself to want.\"\n\nElinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this;\nthough smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her\nto the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work\nin introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and\nvirtuous self-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh when she\nremembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared\nshe had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of\nMarianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy\ntranquillity. Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved\nto wait till her sister's health were more secure, before she\nappointed it. But the resolution was made only to be broken.\n\n[Illustration: \"_And see how the children go on._\"]\n\nMarianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was\nfine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out. But at last a\nsoft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter's\nwishes and the mother's confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor's\narm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in\nthe lane before the house.\n\nThe sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne in\nan exercise hitherto untried since her illness required;--and they had\nadvanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the\nhill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned\ntowards it, Marianne calmly said--\n\n\"There, exactly there,\"--pointing with one hand, \"on that projecting\nmound,--there I fell; and there I first saw Willoughby.\"\n\nHer voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added,\n\n\"I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the\nspot! shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?\" hesitatingly it was\nsaid. \"Or will it be wrong? I can talk of it now, I hope, as I ought\nto do.\"\n\nElinor tenderly invited her to be open.\n\n\"As for regret,\" said Marianne, \"I have done with that, as far as _he_\nis concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have\nbeen for him, but what they are _now._ At present, if I could be\nsatisfied on one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not\n_always_ acting a part, not _always_ deceiving me; but above all, if I\ncould be assured that he never was so _very_ wicked as my fears have\nsometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate girl--\"\n\nShe stopped. Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered--\n\n\"If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy.\"\n\n\"Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it; for not only is it\nhorrible to suspect a person, who has been what _he_ has been to _me_,\nof such designs, but what must it make me appear to myself? What in a\nsituation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could\nexpose me to--\"\n\n\"How then,\" asked her sister, \"would you account for his behaviour?\"\n\n\"I would suppose him--Oh, how gladly would I suppose him!--only\nfickle, very, very fickle.\"\n\nElinor said no more. She was debating within herself on the\neligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till\nMarianne were in stronger health; and they crept on for a few minutes\nin silence.\n\n\"I am not wishing him too much good,\" said Marianne at last with a\nsigh, \"when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant\nthan my own. He will suffer enough in them.\"\n\n\"Do you compare your conduct with his?\"\n\n\"No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with\nyours.\"\n\n\"Our situations have borne little resemblance.\"\n\n\"They have borne more than our conduct. Do not, my dearest Elinor, let\nyour kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure. My illness\nhas made me think. It has given me leisure and calmness for serious\nrecollection. Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I was\nperfectly able to reflect. I considered the past: I saw in my own\nbehaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last autumn,\nnothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of kindness\nto others. I saw that my own feelings had prepared my sufferings, and\nthat my want of fortitude under them had almost led me to the grave. My\nillness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself by such\nnegligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the time to be wrong.\nHad I died, it would have been self-destruction. I did not know my\ndanger till the danger was removed; but with such feelings as these\nreflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery,--wonder that the very\neagerness of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to my God,\nand to you all, did not kill me at once. Had I died, in what peculiar\nmisery should I have left you, my nurse, my friend, my sister! You, who\nhad seen all the fretful selfishness of my latter days; who had known\nall the murmurings of my heart! How should I have lived in _your_\nremembrance! My mother too! How could you have consoled her! I cannot\nexpress my own abhorrence of myself. Whenever I looked towards the past,\nI saw some duty neglected, or some failing indulged. Every body seemed\ninjured by me. The kindness, the unceasing kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I\nhad repaid with ungrateful contempt. To the Middletons, to the Palmers,\nthe Steeles, to every common acquaintance even, I had been insolent and\nunjust; with a heart hardened against their merits, and a temper\nirritated by their very attention. To John, to Fanny, yes, even to them,\nlittle as they deserve, I had given less than their due. But you, you\nabove all, above my mother, had been wronged by me. I, and only I, knew\nyour heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?--not to any\ncompassion that could benefit you or myself. Your example was before me;\nbut to what avail? Was I more considerate of you and your comfort? Did I\nimitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking any part\nin those offices of general complaisance or particular gratitude which\nyou had hitherto been left to discharge alone? No; not less when I knew\nyou to be unhappy, than when I had believed you at ease, did I turn away\nfrom every exertion of duty or friendship; scarcely allowing sorrow to\nexist but with me, regretting only _that_ heart which had deserted and\nwronged me, and leaving you, for I professed an unbounded affection, to\nbe miserable for my sake.\"\n\nHere ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor,\nimpatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly\nthat praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well\ndeserved. Marianne pressed her hand and replied--\n\n\"You are very good. The future must be my proof. I have laid down my\nplan, and if I am capable of adhering to it--my feelings shall be\ngoverned and my temper improved. They shall no longer worry others,\nnor torture myself. I shall now live solely for my family. You, my\nmother, and Margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you will\nshare my affections entirely between you. From you, from my home, I\nshall never again have the smallest incitement to move; and if I do\nmix in other society, it will be only to show that my spirit is\nhumbled, my heart amended, and that I can practise the civilities, the\nlesser duties of life, with gentleness and forbearance. As for\nWilloughby--to say that I shall soon or that I shall ever forget him,\nwould be idle. His remembrance can be overcome by no change of\ncircumstances or opinions. But it shall be regulated, it shall be\nchecked by religion, by reason, by constant employment.\"\n\nShe paused--and added in a low voice, \"If I could but know _his_\nheart, everything would become easy.\"\n\nElinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or\nimpropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at\nall nearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as\nreflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself\nleading to the fact.\n\nShe managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her\nanxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief\npoints on which Willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his\nrepentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard.\nMarianne said not a word. She trembled, her eyes were fixed on the\nground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them. A\nthousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge\none. She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand,\nunknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears\ncovered her cheeks.\n\nElinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they\nreached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her\ncuriosity must be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked\nof nothing but Willoughby, and their conversation together; and was\ncarefully minute in every particular of speech and look, where\nminuteness could be safely indulged. As soon as they entered the\nhouse, Marianne with a kiss of gratitude and these two words just\narticulate through her tears, \"Tell mama,\" withdrew from her sister\nand walked slowly up stairs. Elinor would not attempt to disturb a\nsolitude so reasonable as what she now sought; and with a mind\nanxiously pre-arranging its result, and a resolution of reviving the\nsubject again, should Marianne fail to do it, she turned into the\nparlour to fulfill her parting injunction.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVII\n\n\nMrs. Dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former\nfavourite. She rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his\nimputed guilt;--she was sorry for him;--she wished him happy. But the\nfeelings of the past could not be recalled. Nothing could restore him\nwith a faith unbroken--a character unblemished, to Marianne. Nothing\ncould do away the knowledge of what the latter had suffered through\nhis means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza. Nothing\ncould replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the\ninterests of Colonel Brandon.\n\nHad Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby's story from\nhimself,--had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence\nof his countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion\nwould have been greater. But it was neither in Elinor's power, nor in\nher wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her retailed\nexplanation, as had at first been called forth in herself. Reflection\nhad given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own opinion of\nWilloughby's deserts; she wished, therefore, to declare only the\nsimple truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his\ncharacter, without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy\nastray.\n\nIn the evening, when they were all three together, Marianne began\nvoluntarily to speak of him again; but that it was not without an\neffort, the restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for\nsome time previously sitting, her rising colour, as she spoke, and her\nunsteady voice, plainly showed.\n\n\"I wish to assure you both,\" said she, \"that I see every thing--as you\ncan desire me to do.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing\ntenderness, had not Elinor, who really wished to hear her sister's\nunbiased opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence. Marianne\nslowly continued--\n\n\"It is a great relief to me--what Elinor told me this morning--I have\nnow heard exactly what I wished to hear.\"--For some moments her voice\nwas lost; but recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness\nthan before--\"I am now perfectly satisfied, I wish for no change. I\nnever could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or\nlater I must have known, all this. I should have had no confidence, no\nesteem. Nothing could have done it away to my feelings.\"\n\n\"I know it--I know it,\" cried her mother. \"Happy with a man of\nlibertine practices!--With one who so injured the peace of the dearest\nof our friends, and the best of men!--No--my Marianne has not a heart\nto be made happy with such a man!--Her conscience, her sensitive\nconscience, would have felt all that the conscience of her husband\nought to have felt.\"\n\nMarianne sighed, and repeated, \"I wish for no change.\"\n\n\"You consider the matter,\" said Elinor, \"exactly as a good mind and a\nsound understanding must consider it; and I dare say you perceive, as\nwell as myself, not only in this, but in many other circumstances,\nreason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved\nyou in many certain troubles and disappointments, in which you would\nhave been poorly supported by an affection, on his side, much less\ncertain. Had you married, you must have been always poor. His\nexpensiveness is acknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct\ndeclares that self-denial is a word hardly understood by him. His\ndemands and your inexperience together, on a small, very small income,\nmust have brought on distresses which would not be the _less_ grievous\nto you, from having been entirely unknown and unthought of before.\n_Your_ sense of honour and honesty would have led you, I know, when\naware of your situation, to attempt all the economy that would appear\nto you possible: and, perhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched\nonly on your own comfort, you might have been suffered to practice it,\nbut beyond that--and how little could the utmost of your single\nmanagement do to stop the ruin which had begun before your marriage?\nbeyond _that_, had you endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge\n_his_ enjoyments, is it not to be feared, that instead of prevailing\non feelings so selfish to consent to it, you would have lessened your\nown influence on his heart, and made him regret the connection which\nhad involved him in such difficulties?\"\n\nMarianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the word \"Selfish?\" in a\ntone that implied, \"do you really think him selfish?\"\n\n\"The whole of his behaviour,\" replied Elinor, \"from the beginning to\nthe end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness. It was\nselfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which\nafterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession\nof it, and which finally carried him from Barton. His own enjoyment,\nor his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle.\"\n\n\"It is very true. _My_ happiness never was his object.\"\n\n\"At present,\" continued Elinor, \"he regrets what he has done. And why\ndoes he regret it?--Because he finds it has not answered towards\nhimself. It has not made him happy. His circumstances are now\nunembarrassed--he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks\nonly that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than\nyourself. But does it follow that had he married you, he would have\nbeen happy?--The inconveniences would have been different. He would\nthen have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they\nare removed, he now reckons as nothing. He would have had a wife of\nwhose temper he could make no complaint, but he would have been always\nnecessitous--always poor; and probably would soon have learned to rank\nthe innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far\nmore importance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a\nwife.\"\n\n\"I have not a doubt of it,\" said Marianne; \"and I have nothing to\nregret--nothing but my own folly.\"\n\n\"Rather say your mother's imprudence, my child,\" said Mrs. Dashwood;\n\"_she_ must be answerable.\"\n\nMarianne would not let her proceed;--and Elinor, satisfied that each\nfelt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that\nmight weaken her sister's spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first\nsubject, immediately continued--\n\n\"One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the\nstory--that all Willoughby's difficulties have arisen from the first\noffence against virtue, in his behaviour to Eliza Williams. That crime\nhas been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present\ndiscontents.\"\n\nMarianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led\nby it to an enumeration of Colonel Brandon's injuries and merits, warm\nas friendship and design could unitedly dictate. Her daughter did not\nlook, however, as if much of it were heard by her.\n\nElinor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or three\nfollowing days, that Marianne did not continue to gain strength as she\nhad done; but while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried\nto appear cheerful and easy, her sister could safely trust to the\neffect of time upon her health.\n\nMargaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each\nother, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if not pursuing their\nusual studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to\nBarton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future.\n\nElinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward. She had heard\nnothing of him since her leaving London, nothing new of his plans,\nnothing certain even of his present abode. Some letters had passed\nbetween her and her brother, in consequence of Marianne's illness; and\nin the first of John's, there had been this sentence:--\"We know\nnothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so\nprohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford\"; which\nwas all the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence,\nfor his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters.\nShe was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures.\n\nTheir man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business; and\nwhen, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his\nmistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary\ncommunication--\n\n\"I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is married.\"\n\nMarianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her\nturning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. Mrs. Dashwood,\nwhose eyes, as she answered the servant's inquiry, had intuitively\ntaken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by Elinor's\ncountenance how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards,\nalike distressed by Marianne's situation, knew not on which child to\nbestow her principal attention.\n\nThe servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense\nenough to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood's assistance,\nsupported her into the other room. By that time, Marianne was rather\nbetter, and her mother leaving her to the care of Margaret and the\nmaid, returned to Elinor, who, though still much disordered, had so\nfar recovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just\nbeginning an inquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his intelligence.\nMrs. Dashwood immediately took all that trouble on herself; and Elinor\nhad the benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it.\n\n[Illustration: \"_I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is\nmarried._\"]\n\n\"Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas?\"\n\n\"I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma'am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady\ntoo, Miss Steele as was. They was stopping in a chaise at the door of\nthe New London Inn, as I went there with a message from Sally at the\nPark to her brother, who is one of the post-boys. I happened to look\nup as I went by the chaise, and so I see directly it was the youngest\nMiss Steele; so I took off my hat, and she knew me and called to me,\nand inquired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies, especially Miss\nMarianne, and bid me I should give her compliments and Mr. Ferrars's,\ntheir best compliments and service, and how sorry they was they had\nnot time to come on and see you, but they was in a great hurry to go\nforwards, for they was going further down for a little while, but\nhowever, when they come back, they'd make sure to come and see you.\"\n\n\"But did she tell you she was married, Thomas?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am. She smiled, and said how she had changed her name since\nshe was in these parts. She was always a very affable and free-spoken\nyoung lady, and very civil behaved. So, I made free to wish her joy.\"\n\n\"Was Mr. Ferrars in the carriage with her?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look\nup;--he never was a gentleman much for talking.\"\n\nElinor's heart could easily account for his not putting himself\nforward; and Mrs. Dashwood probably found the same explanation.\n\n\"Was there no one else in the carriage?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am, only they two.\"\n\n\"Do you know where they came from?\"\n\n\"They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy--Mrs. Ferrars told me.\"\n\n\"And are they going farther westward?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am--but not to bide long. They will soon be back again, and\nthen they'd be sure and call here.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but Elinor knew better than\nto expect them. She recognised the whole of Lucy in the message, and\nwas very confident that Edward would never come near them. She\nobserved in a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably going\ndown to Mr. Pratt's, near Plymouth.\n\nThomas's intelligence seemed over. Elinor looked as if she wished to\nhear more.\n\n\"Did you see them off, before you came away?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am--the horses were just coming out, but I could not bide any\nlonger; I was afraid of being late.\"\n\n\"Did Mrs. Ferrars look well?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was\nalways a very handsome young lady--and she seemed vastly contented.\"\n\nMrs. Dashwood could think of no other question, and Thomas and the\ntablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed.\nMarianne had already sent to say, that she should eat nothing more.\nMrs. Dashwood's and Elinor's appetites were equally lost, and Margaret\nmight think herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness as\nboth her sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had\noften had to be careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to\ngo without her dinner before.\n\nWhen the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and\nElinor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a\nsimilarity of thoughtfulness and silence. Mrs. Dashwood feared to\nhazard any remark, and ventured not to offer consolation. She now\nfound that she had erred in relying on Elinor's representation of\nherself; and justly concluded that every thing had been expressly\nsoftened at the time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness,\nsuffering as she then had suffered for Marianne. She found that she\nhad been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her\ndaughter, to think the attachment, which once she had so well\nunderstood, much slighter in reality, than she had been wont to\nbelieve, or than it was now proved to be. She feared that under this\npersuasion she had been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to\nher Elinor; that Marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged,\nmore immediately before her, had too much engrossed her tenderness,\nand led her away to forget that in Elinor she might have a daughter\nsuffering almost as much, certainly with less self-provocation, and\ngreater fortitude.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVIII\n\n\nElinor now found the difference between the expectation of an\nunpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it,\nand certainty itself. She now found, that in spite of herself, she had\nalways admitted a hope, while Edward remained single, that something\nwould occur to prevent his marrying Lucy; that some resolution of his\nown, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of\nestablishment for the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of\nall. But he was now married; and she condemned her heart for the\nlurking flattery, which so much heightened the pain of the\nintelligence.\n\nThat he should be married soon, before (as she imagined) he could be\nin orders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the\nliving, surprised her a little at first. But she soon saw how likely\nit was that Lucy, in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure\nhim, should overlook every thing but the risk of delay. They were\nmarried, married in town, and now hastening down to her uncle's. What\nhad Edward felt on being within four miles from Barton, on seeing her\nmother's servant, on hearing Lucy's message!\n\nThey would soon, she supposed, be settled at\nDelaford;--Delaford,--that place in which so much conspired to give\nher an interest; which she wished to be acquainted with, and yet\ndesired to avoid. She saw them in an instant in their parsonage-house;\nsaw in Lucy, the active, contriving manager, uniting at once a desire\nof smart appearance with the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be\nsuspected of half her economical practices; pursuing her own interest\nin every thought, courting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs.\nJennings, and of every wealthy friend. In Edward, she knew not what\nshe saw, nor what she wished to see. Happy or unhappy, nothing pleased\nher; she turned away her head from every sketch of him.\n\nElinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in London\nwould write to them to announce the event, and give farther\nparticulars,--but day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no\ntidings. Though uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault\nwith every absent friend. They were all thoughtless or indolent.\n\n\"When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma'am?\" was an inquiry which\nsprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on.\n\n\"I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see, than to\nhear from him again. I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should\nnot be surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day.\"\n\nThis was gaining something, something to look forward to. Colonel\nBrandon must have some information to give.\n\nScarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on\nhorseback drew her eyes to the window. He stopped at their gate. It\nwas a gentleman, it was Colonel Brandon himself. Now she could hear\nmore; and she trembled in expectation of it. But--it was _not_ Colonel\nBrandon--neither his air--nor his height. Were it possible, she must\nsay it must be Edward. She looked again. He had just dismounted;--she\ncould not be mistaken,--it _was_ Edward. She moved away and sat down.\n\"He comes from Mr. Pratt's purposely to see us. I _will_ be calm, I\n_will_ be mistress of myself.\"\n\nIn a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the\nmistake. She saw her mother and Marianne change colour; saw them look\nat herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other. She would have\ngiven the world to be able to speak--and to make them understand that\nshe hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to\nhim;--but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their\nown discretion.\n\nNot a syllable passed aloud. They all waited in silence for the\nappearance of their visitor. His footsteps were heard along the gravel\npath; in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before\nthem.\n\nHis countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for\nElinor. His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if\nfearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one.\nMrs. Dashwood, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of\nthat daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be\nguided in every thing, met with a look of forced complacency, gave him\nher hand, and wished him joy.\n\n[Illustration: _It was Edward._]\n\nHe coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply. Elinor's lips\nhad moved with her mother's, and, when the moment of action was over,\nshe wished that she had shaken hands with him too. But it was then too\nlate, and with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again\nand talked of the weather.\n\nMarianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal\nher distress; and Margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole\nof the case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and\ntherefore took a seat as far from him as she could, and maintained a\nstrict silence.\n\nWhen Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very\nawful pause took place. It was put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who\nfelt obliged to hope that he had left Mrs. Ferrars very well. In a\nhurried manner, he replied in the affirmative.\n\nAnother pause.\n\nElinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own\nvoice, now said--\n\n\"Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple?\"\n\n\"At Longstaple!\" he replied, with an air of surprise. \"No, my mother\nis in town.\"\n\n\"I meant,\" said Elinor, taking up some work from the table, \"to\ninquire for Mrs. _Edward_ Ferrars.\"\n\nShe dared not look up;--but her mother and Marianne both turned their\neyes on him. He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and,\nafter some hesitation, said,--\n\n\"Perhaps you mean--my brother--you mean Mrs.--Mrs. _Robert_ Ferrars.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Robert Ferrars!\"--was repeated by Marianne and her mother in an\naccent of the utmost amazement;--and though Elinor could not speak,\neven _her_ eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder. He\nrose from his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not\nknowing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and\nwhile spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to\npieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice--\n\n\"Perhaps you do not know--you may not have heard that my brother is\nlately married to--to the youngest--to Miss Lucy Steele.\"\n\nHis words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but\nElinor, who sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of\nsuch agitation as made her hardly know where she was.\n\n\"Yes,\" said he, \"they were married last week, and are now at Dawlish.\"\n\nElinor could sit it no longer. She almost ran out of the room, and as\nsoon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first\nshe thought would never cease. Edward, who had till then looked any\nwhere, rather than at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw, or\neven heard, her emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a\nreverie, which no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of\nMrs. Dashwood could penetrate, and at last, without saying a word,\nquitted the room, and walked out towards the village, leaving the\nothers in the greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his\nsituation, so wonderful and so sudden,--a perplexity which they had no\nmeans of lessening but by their own conjectures.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIX\n\n\nUnaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might\nappear to the whole family, it was certain that Edward was free; and\nto what purpose that freedom would be employed was easily\npre-determined by all;--for after experiencing the blessings of _one_\nimprudent engagement, contracted without his mother's consent, as he\nhad already done for more than four years, nothing less could be\nexpected of him in the failure of _that_, than the immediate\ncontraction of another.\n\nHis errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one. It was only to ask\nElinor to marry him;--and considering that he was not altogether\ninexperienced in such a question, it might be strange that he should\nfeel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much in\nneed of encouragement and fresh air.\n\nHow soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however,\nhow soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he\nexpressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly\ntold. This only need be said;--that when they all sat down to table at\nfour o'clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his\nlady, engaged her mother's consent, and was not only in the rapturous\nprofession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason and truth, one\nof the happiest of men. His situation indeed was more than commonly\njoyful. He had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to\nswell his heart, and raise his spirits. He was released without any\nreproach to himself, from an entanglement which had long formed his\nmisery, from a woman whom he had long ceased to love; and elevated at\nonce to that security with another, which he must have thought of\nalmost with despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with\ndesire. He was brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to\nhappiness; and the change was openly spoken in such a genuine,\nflowing, grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in\nhim before.\n\nHis heart was now open to Elinor, all its weaknesses, all its errors\nconfessed, and his first boyish attachment to Lucy treated with all\nthe philosophic dignity of twenty-four.\n\n\"It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side,\" said he, \"the\nconsequence of ignorance of the world and want of employment. Had my\nbrother given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen\nfrom the care of Mr. Pratt, I think, nay, I am sure, it would never\nhave happened; for though I left Longstaple with what I thought, at\nthe time, a most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had I\nthen had any pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at a\ndistance from her for a few months, I should very soon have outgrown\nthe fancied attachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as\nin such case I must have done. But instead of having any thing to do,\ninstead of having any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to\nchoose any myself, I returned home to be completely idle; and for the\nfirst twelvemonth afterwards I had not even the nominal employment,\nwhich belonging to the university would have given me; for I was not\nentered at Oxford till I was nineteen. I had therefore nothing in the\nworld to do, but to fancy myself in love; and as my mother did not\nmake my home in every respect comfortable, as I had no friend, no\ncompanion in my brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not\nunnatural for me to be very often at Longstaple, where I always felt\nmyself at home, and was always sure of a welcome; and accordingly I\nspent the greatest part of my time there from eighteen to nineteen:\nLucy appeared everything that was amiable and obliging. She was pretty\ntoo--at least I thought so _then_; and I had seen so little of other\nwomen, that I could make no comparisons, and see no defects.\nConsidering everything, therefore, I hope, foolish as our engagement\nwas, foolish as it has since in every way been proved, it was not at\nthe time an unnatural or an inexcusable piece of folly.\"\n\nThe change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the\nhappiness of the Dashwoods, was such--so great--as promised them all,\nthe satisfaction of a sleepless night. Mrs. Dashwood, too happy to be\ncomfortable, knew not how to love Edward, nor praise Elinor enough,\nhow to be enough thankful for his release without wounding his\ndelicacy, nor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained\nconversation together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and\nsociety of both.\n\nMarianne could speak _her_ happiness only by tears. Comparisons would\noccur--regrets would arise;--and her joy, though sincere as her love\nfor her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor\nlanguage.\n\nBut Elinor--how are _her_ feelings to be described? From the moment of\nlearning that Lucy was married to another, that Edward was free, to\nthe moment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly\nfollowed, she was every thing by turns but tranquil. But when the\nsecond moment had passed, when she found every doubt, every solicitude\nremoved, compared her situation with what so lately it had been,--saw\nhim honourably released from his former engagement,--saw him instantly\nprofiting by the release, to address herself and declare an affection\nas tender, as constant as she had ever supposed it to be,--she was\noppressed, she was overcome by her own felicity; and happily disposed\nas is the human mind to be easily familiarized with any change for the\nbetter, it required several hours to give sedateness to her spirits,\nor any degree of tranquillity to her heart.\n\nEdward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week;--for whatever\nother claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a\nweek should be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor's company, or\nsuffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and\nthe future;--for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of\nincessant talking will despatch more subjects than can really be in\ncommon between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it is\ndifferent. Between _them_ no subject is finished, no communication is\neven made, till it has been made at least twenty times over.\n\nLucy's marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all,\nformed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers;--and\nElinor's particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her in\nevery view, as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable\ncircumstances she had ever heard. How they could be thrown together,\nand by what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of\nwhose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any\nadmiration,--a girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose\naccount that brother had been thrown off by his family--it was beyond\nher comprehension to make out. To her own heart it was a delightful\naffair, to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her\nreason, her judgment, it was completely a puzzle.\n\nEdward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that, perhaps,\nat first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so\nworked on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all\nthe rest. Elinor remembered what Robert had told her in Harley Street,\nof his opinion of what his own mediation in his brother's affairs\nmight have done, if applied to in time. She repeated it to Edward.\n\n\"_That_ was exactly like Robert,\" was his immediate observation. \"And\n_that_,\" he presently added, \"might perhaps be in _his_ head when the\nacquaintance between them first began. And Lucy perhaps at first might\nthink only of procuring his good offices in my favour. Other designs\nmight afterward arise.\"\n\nHow long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally\nat a loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had\nremained for choice ever since his quitting London, he had had no\nmeans of hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very\nlast were neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual. Not\nthe smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him\nfor what followed;--and when at last it burst on him in a letter from\nLucy herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified\nbetween the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. He\nput the letter into Elinor's hands.\n\n\"DEAR SIR,\n\n     \"Being very sure I have long lost your affections, I have\n     thought myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and\n     have no doubt of being as happy with him as I once used to\n     think I might be with you; but I scorn to accept a hand\n     while the heart was another's. Sincerely wish you happy in\n     your choice, and it shall not be my fault if we are not\n     always good friends, as our near relationship now makes\n     proper. I can safely say I owe you no ill-will, and am sure\n     you will be too generous to do us any ill offices. Your\n     brother has gained my affections entirely, and as we could\n     not live without one another, we are just returned from the\n     altar, and are now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks,\n     which place your dear brother has great curiosity to see,\n     but thought I would first trouble you with these few lines,\n     and shall always remain--\n\n     \"Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister,\n\n     \"LUCY FERRARS.\"\n\n     \"I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture\n     the first opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls--but the\n     ring with my hair you are very welcome to keep.\"\n\nElinor read and returned it without any comment.\n\n\"I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition,\" said Edward.\n\"For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by _you_ in\nformer days. In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife! how I have\nblushed over the pages of her writing! and I believe I may say that\nsince the first half year of our foolish business this is the only\nletter I ever received from her, of which the substance made me any\namends for the defect of the style.\"\n\n\"However it may have come about,\" said Elinor, after a pause,--\"they\nare certainly married. And your mother has brought on herself a most\nappropriate punishment. The independence she settled on Robert,\nthrough resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his\nown choice; and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand\na-year, to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for\nintending to do. She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert's\nmarrying Lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her.\"\n\n\"She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite. She\nwill be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him\nmuch sooner.\"\n\nIn what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew\nnot, for no communication with any of his family had yet been\nattempted by him. He had quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours\nafter Lucy's letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the\nnearest road to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of\nconduct, with which that road did not hold the most intimate\nconnection. He could do nothing till he were assured of his fate with\nMiss Dashwood; and by his rapidity in seeking _that_ fate, it is to be\nsupposed, in spite of the jealousy with which he had once thought of\nColonel Brandon, in spite of the modesty with which he rated his own\ndeserts, and the politeness with which he talked of his doubts, he did\nnot, upon the whole, expect a very cruel reception. It was his\nbusiness, however, to say that he _did_, and he said it very prettily.\nWhat he might say on the subject a twelvemonth after, must be referred\nto the imagination of husbands and wives.\n\nThat Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of\nmalice against him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to\nElinor; and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her\ncharacter, had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost\nmeanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his eyes had been long opened,\neven before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her ignorance and a\nwant of liberality in some of her opinions, they had been equally\nimputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter\nreached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed,\ngood-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself. Nothing but\nsuch a persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an\nengagement, which, long before the discovery of it laid him open to\nhis mother's anger, had been a continual source of disquiet and regret\nto him.\n\n\"I thought it my duty,\" said he, \"independent of my feelings, to give\nher the option of continuing the engagement or not, when I was\nrenounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend\nin the world to assist me. In such a situation as that, where there\nseemed nothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living\ncreature, how could I suppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly\ninsisted on sharing my fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but\nthe most disinterested affection was her inducement? And even now, I\ncannot comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage\nit could be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the\nsmallest regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world.\nShe could not foresee that Colonel Brandon would give me a living.\"\n\n\"No; but she might suppose that something would occur in your favour;\nthat your own family might in time relent. And at any rate, she lost\nnothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it\nfettered neither her inclination nor her actions. The connection was\ncertainly a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration\namong her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred, it\nwould be better for her to marry _you_ than be single.\"\n\nEdward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have\nbeen more natural than Lucy's conduct, nor more self-evident than the\nmotive of it.\n\nElinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence\nwhich compliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them\nat Norland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy.\n\n\"Your behaviour was certainly very wrong,\" said she; \"because--to say\nnothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to\nfancy and expect _what_, as you were _then_ situated, could never be.\"\n\nHe could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken\nconfidence in the force of his engagement.\n\n\"I was simple enough to think, that because my _faith_ was plighted to\nanother, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that the\nconsciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred\nas my honour. I felt that I admired you, but I told myself it was only\nfriendship; and till I began to make comparisons between yourself and\nLucy, I did not know how far I was got. After that, I suppose, I _was_\nwrong in remaining so much in Sussex, and the arguments with which I\nreconciled myself to the expediency of it, were no better than\nthese:--The danger is my own; I am doing no injury to anybody but\nmyself.\"\n\nElinor smiled, and shook her head.\n\nEdward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon's being expected at the\nCottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted with\nhim, but to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer\nresented his giving him the living of Delaford--\"Which, at present,\"\nsaid he, \"after thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the\noccasion, he must think I have never forgiven him for offering.\"\n\n_Now_ he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the\nplace. But so little interest had he taken in the matter, that he owed\nall his knowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the\nparish, condition of the land, and rate of the tithes, to Elinor\nherself, who had heard so much of it from Colonel Brandon, and heard\nit with so much attention, as to be entirely mistress of the subject.\n\nOne question after this only remained undecided, between them, one\ndifficulty only was to be overcome. They were brought together by\nmutual affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends;\ntheir intimate knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness\ncertain--and they only wanted something to live upon. Edward had two\nthousand pounds, and Elinor one, which, with Delaford living, was all\nthat they could call their own; for it was impossible that Mrs.\nDashwood should advance anything; and they were neither of them quite\nenough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a-year\nwould supply them with the comforts of life.\n\nEdward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in his\nmother towards him; and on _that_ he rested for the residue of their\nincome. But Elinor had no such dependence; for since Edward would\nstill be unable to marry Miss Morton, and his choosing herself had\nbeen spoken of in Mrs. Ferrars's flattering language as only a lesser\nevil than his choosing Lucy Steele, she feared that Robert's offence\nwould serve no other purpose than to enrich Fanny.\n\nAbout four days after Edward's arrival Colonel Brandon appeared, to\ncomplete Mrs. Dashwood's satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of\nhaving, for the first time since her living at Barton, more company\nwith her than her house would hold. Edward was allowed to retain the\nprivilege of first comer, and Colonel Brandon therefore walked every\nnight to his old quarters at the Park; from whence he usually returned\nin the morning, early enough to interrupt the lovers' first\ntete-a-tete before breakfast.\n\nA three weeks' residence at Delaford, where, in his evening hours at\nleast, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between\nthirty-six and seventeen, brought him to Barton in a temper of mind\nwhich needed all the improvement in Marianne's looks, all the kindness\nof her welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother's language, to\nmake it cheerful. Among such friends, however, and such flattery, he\ndid revive. No rumour of Lucy's marriage had yet reached him:--he knew\nnothing of what had passed; and the first hours of his visit were\nconsequently spent in hearing and in wondering. Every thing was\nexplained to him by Mrs. Dashwood, and he found fresh reason to\nrejoice in what he had done for Mr. Ferrars, since eventually it\npromoted the interest of Elinor.\n\nIt would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the good\nopinion of each other, as they advanced in each other's acquaintance,\nfor it could not be otherwise. Their resemblance in good principles\nand good sense, in disposition and manner of thinking, would probably\nhave been sufficient to unite them in friendship, without any other\nattraction; but their being in love with two sisters, and two sisters\nfond of each other, made that mutual regard inevitable and immediate,\nwhich might otherwise have waited the effect of time and judgment.\n\nThe letters from town, which a few days before would have made every\nnerve in Elinor's body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read\nwith less emotion that mirth. Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the\nwonderful tale, to vent her honest indignation against the jilting\ngirl, and pour forth her compassion towards poor Mr. Edward, who, she\nwas sure, had quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by\nall accounts, almost broken-hearted, at Oxford. \"I do think,\" she\ncontinued, \"nothing was ever carried on so sly; for it was but two\ndays before Lucy called and sat a couple of hours with me. Not a soul\nsuspected anything of the matter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul! came\ncrying to me the day after, in a great fright for fear of Mrs.\nFerrars, as well as not knowing how to get to Plymouth; for Lucy it\nseems borrowed all her money before she went off to be married, on\npurpose we suppose to make a show with, and poor Nancy had not seven\nshillings in the world;--so I was very glad to give her five guineas\nto take her down to Exeter, where she thinks of staying three or four\nweeks with Mrs. Burgess, in hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with the\nDoctor again. And I must say that Lucy's crossness not to take them\nalong with them in the chaise is worse than all. Poor Mr. Edward! I\ncannot get him out of my head, but you must send for him to Barton,\nand Miss Marianne must try to comfort him.\"\n\nMr. Dashwood's strains were more solemn. Mrs. Ferrars was the most\nunfortunate of women--poor Fanny had suffered agonies of\nsensibility--and he considered the existence of each, under such a\nblow, with grateful wonder. Robert's offence was unpardonable, but\nLucy's was infinitely worse. Neither of them were ever again to be\nmentioned to Mrs. Ferrars; and even, if she might hereafter be induced\nto forgive her son, his wife should never be acknowledged as her\ndaughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence. The secrecy with\nwhich everything had been carried on between them, was rationally\ntreated as enormously heightening the crime, because, had any\nsuspicion of it occurred to the others, proper measures would have\nbeen taken to prevent the marriage; and he called on Elinor to join\nwith him in regretting that Lucy's engagement with Edward had not\nrather been fulfilled, than that she should thus be the means of\nspreading misery farther in the family. He thus continued:--\n\n\"Mrs. Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward's name, which does not\nsurprise us; but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been\nreceived from him on the occasion. Perhaps, however, he is kept silent\nby his fear of offending, and I shall, therefore, give him a hint, by\na line to Oxford, that his sister and I both think a letter of proper\nsubmission from him, addressed perhaps to Fanny, and by her shown to\nher mother, might not be taken amiss; for we all know the tenderness\nof Mrs. Ferrars's heart, and that she wishes for nothing so much as to\nbe on good terms with her children.\"\n\nThis paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct of\nEdward. It determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not\nexactly in the manner pointed out by their brother and sister.\n\n\"A letter of proper submission!\" repeated he; \"would they have me beg\nmy mother's pardon for Robert's ingratitude to _her_, and breach of\nhonour to _me_? I can make no submission. I am grown neither humble\nnor penitent by what has passed. I am grown very happy; but that would\nnot interest. I know of no submission that _is_ proper for me to\nmake.\"\n\n\"You may certainly ask to be forgiven,\" said Elinor, \"because you have\noffended;--and I should think you might _now_ venture so far as to\nprofess some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew\non you your mother's anger.\"\n\nHe agreed that he might.\n\n\"And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be\nconvenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as\nimprudent in _her_ eyes as the first.\"\n\nHe had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the idea of a\nletter of proper submission; and therefore, to make it easier to him,\nas he declared a much greater willingness to make mean concessions by\nword of mouth than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing\nto Fanny, he should go to London, and personally entreat her good\noffices in his favour. \"And if they really _do_ interest themselves,\"\nsaid Marianne, in her new character of candour, \"in bringing about a\nreconciliation, I shall think that even John and Fanny are not\nentirely without merit.\"\n\nAfter a visit on Colonel Brandon's side of only three or four days,\nthe two gentlemen quitted Barton together. They were to go immediately\nto Delaford, that Edward might have some personal knowledge of his\nfuture home, and assist his patron and friend in deciding on what\nimprovements were needed to it; and from thence, after staying there a\ncouple of nights, he was to proceed on his journey to town.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER L\n\n\nAfter a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferrars, just so violent\nand so steady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always\nseemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, Edward\nwas admitted to her presence, and pronounced to be again her son.\n\nHer family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating. For many years of\nher life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of\nEdward a few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the similar\nannihilation of Robert had left her for a fortnight without any; and\nnow, by the resuscitation of Edward, she had one again.\n\nIn spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did not\nfeel the continuance of his existence secure, till he had revealed his\npresent engagement; for the publication of that circumstance, he\nfeared, might give a sudden turn to his constitution, and carry him\noff as rapidly as before. With apprehensive caution therefore it was\nrevealed, and he was listened to with unexpected calmness. Mrs.\nFerrars at first reasonably endeavoured to dissuade him from marrying\nMiss Dashwood, by every argument in her power; told him, that in Miss\nMorton he would have a woman of higher rank and larger fortune; and\nenforced the assertion, by observing that Miss Morton was the daughter\nof a nobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while Miss Dashwood was\nonly the daughter of a private gentleman with no more than _three_;\nbut when she found that, though perfectly admitting the truth of her\nrepresentation, he was by no means inclined to be guided by it, she\njudged it wisest, from the experience of the past, to submit; and\ntherefore, after such an ungracious delay as she owed to her own\ndignity, and as served to prevent every suspicion of good-will, she\nissued her decree of consent to the marriage of Edward and Elinor.\n\nWhat she would engage to do towards augmenting their income was next\nto be considered; and here it plainly appeared, that though Edward was\nnow her only son, he was by no means her eldest; for while Robert was\ninevitably endowed with a thousand pounds a-year, not the smallest\nobjection was made against Edward's taking orders for the sake of two\nhundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was anything promised either for\nthe present or in future, beyond the ten thousand pounds, which had\nbeen given with Fanny.\n\nIt was as much, however, as was desired, and more than was expected,\nby Edward and Elinor; and Mrs. Ferrars herself, by her shuffling\nexcuses, seemed the only person surprised at her not giving more.\n\nWith an income quite sufficient to their wants thus secured to them,\nthey had nothing to wait for after Edward was in possession of the\nliving, but the readiness of the house, to which Colonel Brandon, with\nan eager desire for the accommodation of Elinor, was making\nconsiderable improvements; and after waiting some time for their\ncompletion, after experiencing, as usual, a thousand disappointments\nand delays from the unaccountable dilatoriness of the workmen, Elinor,\nas usual, broke through the first positive resolution of not marrying\ntill every thing was ready, and the ceremony took place in Barton\nchurch early in the autumn.\n\nThe first month after their marriage was spent with their friend at\nthe Mansion-house; from whence they could superintend the progress of\nthe Parsonage, and direct every thing as they liked on the\nspot;--could choose papers, project shrubberies, and invent a sweep.\nMrs. Jennings's prophecies, though rather jumbled together, were\nchiefly fulfilled; for she was able to visit Edward and his wife in\ntheir Parsonage by Michaelmas, and she found in Elinor and her\nhusband, as she really believed, one of the happiest couples in the\nworld. They had in fact nothing to wish for, but the marriage of\nColonel Brandon and Marianne, and rather better pasturage for their\ncows.\n\nThey were visited on their first settling by almost all their\nrelations and friends. Mrs. Ferrars came to inspect the happiness\nwhich she was almost ashamed of having authorised; and even the\nDashwoods were at the expense of a journey from Sussex to do them\nhonour.\n\n\"I will not say that I am disappointed, my dear sister,\" said John, as\nthey were walking together one morning before the gates of Delaford\nHouse, \"_that_ would be saying too much, for certainly you have been\none of the most fortunate young women in the world, as it is. But, I\nconfess, it would give me great pleasure to call Colonel Brandon\nbrother. His property here, his place, his house,--every thing is in\nsuch respectable and excellent condition! And his woods,--I have not\nseen such timber any where in Dorsetshire, as there is now standing in\nDelaford Hanger! And though, perhaps, Marianne may not seem exactly\nthe person to attract him, yet I think it would altogether be\nadvisable for you to have them now frequently staying with you, for as\nColonel Brandon seems a great deal at home, nobody can tell what may\nhappen; for, when people are much thrown together, and see little of\nanybody else,--and it will always be in your power to set her off to\nadvantage, and so forth. In short, you may as well give her a chance;\nYou understand me.\"\n\nBut though Mrs. Ferrars _did_ come to see them, and always treated\nthem with the make-believe of decent affection, they were never\ninsulted by her real favour and preference. _That_ was due to the\nfolly of Robert, and the cunning of his wife; and it was earned by\nthem before many months had passed away. The selfish sagacity of the\nlatter, which had at first drawn Robert into the scrape, was the\nprincipal instrument of his deliverance from it; for her respectful\nhumility, assiduous attentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as the\nsmallest opening was given for their exercise, reconciled Mrs. Ferrars\nto his choice, and re-established him completely in her favour.\n\n[Illustration: _Everything in such respectable condition_]\n\nThe whole of Lucy's behaviour in the affair, and the prosperity which\ncrowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a most encouraging\ninstance of what an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest,\nhowever its progress may be apparently obstructed, will do in securing\nevery advantage of fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time\nand conscience. When Robert first sought her acquaintance, and\nprivately visited her in Bartlett's Buildings, it was only with the\nview imputed to him by his brother. He merely meant to persuade her to\ngive up the engagement; and as there could be nothing to overcome but\nthe affection of both, he naturally expected that one or two\ninterviews would settle the matter. In that point, however, and that\nonly, he erred; for though Lucy soon gave him hopes that his eloquence\nwould convince her in _time_, another visit, another conversation, was\nalways wanted to produce this conviction. Some doubts always lingered\nin her mind when they parted, which could only be removed by another\nhalf hour's discourse with himself. His attendance was by this means\nsecured, and the rest followed in course. Instead of talking of\nEdward, they came gradually to talk only of Robert,--a subject on\nwhich he had always more to say than on any other, and in which she\nsoon betrayed an interest even equal to his own; and in short, it\nbecame speedily evident to both, that he had entirely supplanted his\nbrother. He was proud of his conquest, proud of tricking Edward, and\nvery proud of marrying privately without his mother's consent. What\nimmediately followed is known. They passed some months in great\nhappiness at Dawlish; for she had many relations and old acquaintances\nto cut--and he drew several plans for magnificent cottages; and from\nthence returning to town, procured the forgiveness of Mrs. Ferrars, by\nthe simple expedient of asking it, which, at Lucy's instigation, was\nadopted. The forgiveness, at first, indeed, as was reasonable,\ncomprehended only Robert; and Lucy, who had owed his mother no duty\nand therefore could have transgressed none, still remained some weeks\nlonger unpardoned. But perseverance in humility of conduct and\nmessages, in self-condemnation for Robert's offence, and gratitude for\nthe unkindness she was treated with, procured her in time the haughty\nnotice which overcame her by its graciousness, and led soon\nafterwards, by rapid degrees, to the highest state of affection and\ninfluence. Lucy became as necessary to Mrs. Ferrars, as either Robert\nor Fanny; and while Edward was never cordially forgiven for having\nonce intended to marry her, and Elinor, though superior to her in\nfortune and birth, was spoken of as an intruder, _she_ was in every\nthing considered, and always openly acknowledged, to be a favourite\nchild. They settled in town, received very liberal assistance from\nMrs. Ferrars, were on the best terms imaginable with the Dashwoods;\nand setting aside the jealousies and ill-will continually subsisting\nbetween Fanny and Lucy, in which their husbands of course took a part,\nas well as the frequent domestic disagreements between Robert and Lucy\nthemselves, nothing could exceed the harmony in which they all lived\ntogether.\n\nWhat Edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, might have\npuzzled many people to find out; and what Robert had done to succeed\nto it, might have puzzled them still more. It was an arrangement,\nhowever, justified in its effects, if not in its cause; for nothing\never appeared in Robert's style of living or of talking to give a\nsuspicion of his regretting the extent of his income, as either\nleaving his brother too little, or bringing himself too much;--and if\nEdward might be judged from the ready discharge of his duties in every\nparticular, from an increasing attachment to his wife and his home,\nand from the regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be supposed\nno less contented with his lot, no less free from every wish of an\nexchange.\n\nElinor's marriage divided her as little from her family as could well\nbe contrived, without rendering the cottage at Barton entirely\nuseless, for her mother and sisters spent much more than half their\ntime with her. Mrs. Dashwood was acting on motives of policy as well\nas pleasure in the frequency of her visits at Delaford; for her wish\nof bringing Marianne and Colonel Brandon together was hardly less\nearnest, though rather more liberal than what John had expressed. It\nwas now her darling object. Precious as was the company of her\ndaughter to her, she desired nothing so much as to give up its\nconstant enjoyment to her valued friend; and to see Marianne settled\nat the mansion-house was equally the wish of Edward and Elinor. They\neach felt his sorrows, and their own obligations, and Marianne, by\ngeneral consent, was to be the reward of all.\n\nWith such a confederacy against her--with a knowledge so intimate of\nhis goodness--with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself,\nwhich at last, though long after it was observable to everybody\nelse--burst on her--what could she do?\n\nMarianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. She was born to\ndiscover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her\nconduct, her most favourite maxims. She was born to overcome an\naffection formed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no\nsentiment superior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily\nto give her hand to another!--and _that_ other, a man who had suffered\nno less than herself under the event of a former attachment, whom, two\nyears before, she had considered too old to be married,--and who still\nsought the constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat!\n\nBut so it was. Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible\npassion, as once she had fondly flattered herself with expecting,\ninstead of remaining even for ever with her mother, and finding her\nonly pleasures in retirement and study, as afterwards in her more calm\nand sober judgment she had determined on,--she found herself at\nnineteen, submitting to new attachments, entering on new duties,\nplaced in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a family, and the\npatroness of a village.\n\nColonel Brandon was now as happy, as all those who best loved him,\nbelieved he deserved to be;--in Marianne he was consoled for every\npast affliction;--her regard and her society restored his mind to\nanimation, and his spirits to cheerfulness; and that Marianne found\nher own happiness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and\ndelight of each observing friend. Marianne could never love by halves;\nand her whole heart became, in time, as much devoted to her husband,\nas it had once been to Willoughby.\n\nWilloughby could not hear of her marriage without a pang; and his\npunishment was soon afterwards complete in the voluntary forgiveness\nof Mrs. Smith, who, by stating his marriage with a woman of character,\nas the source of her clemency, gave him reason for believing that had\nhe behaved with honour towards Marianne, he might at once have been\nhappy and rich. That his repentance of misconduct, which thus brought\nits own punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted;--nor that he\nlong thought of Colonel Brandon with envy, and of Marianne with\nregret. But that he was for ever inconsolable, that he fled from\nsociety, or contracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died of a\nbroken heart, must not be depended on--for he did neither. He lived to\nexert, and frequently to enjoy himself. His wife was not always out of\nhumour, nor his home always uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses\nand dogs, and in sporting of every kind, he found no inconsiderable\ndegree of domestic felicity.\n\nFor Marianne, however, in spite of his incivility in surviving her\nloss, he always retained that decided regard which interested him in\nevery thing that befell her, and made her his secret standard of\nperfection in woman; and many a rising beauty would be slighted by him\nin after-days as bearing no comparison with Mrs. Brandon.\n\nMrs. Dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the cottage, without\nattempting a removal to Delaford; and fortunately for Sir John and\nMrs. Jennings, when Marianne was taken from them, Margaret had\nreached an age highly suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible\nfor being supposed to have a lover.\n\nBetween Barton and Delaford, there was that constant communication\nwhich strong family affection would naturally dictate;--and among the\nmerits and the happiness of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked\nas the least considerable, that though sisters, and living almost\nwithin sight of each other, they could live without disagreement\nbetween themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands.\n\nTHE END\n\n\n\n\n\n","id":"31100"},{"text":"\n\n\n\n\n\n   Note de transcription:\n   Les erreurs clairement introduites par le typographe ont été\n   corrigées.\n\n   La référence à l'auteur et à l'oeuvre originale a été ajoutée\n   (publié de façon anonyme).\n\n\n\n\n   RAISON ET SENSIBILITÉ.\n\n\n   DE L'IMPRIMERIE DE D'HAUTEL,\n\n   rue de la Harpe, no. 80.\n\n\n\n\n   RAISON\n\n   ET\n\n   SENSIBILITÉ,\n\n   OU\n\n   LES DEUX MANIÈRES D'AIMER.\n\n   D'APRÈS L'OEUVRE ORIGINALE\n\n   SENSE AND SENSIBILITY\n\n   DE Mme JANE AUSTEN\n\n   TRADUIT LIBREMENT DE L'ANGLAIS,\n\n   PAR\n\n   Mme ISABELLE DE MONTOLIEU.\n\n   TOME PREMIER.\n\n   A PARIS,\n\n   CHEZ ARTHUS-BERTRAND, LIBRAIRE,\n\n   RUE HAUTEFEUILLE, No. 23.\n\n   1815.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   RAISON\n\n   ET\n\n   SENSIBILITÉ.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE PREMIER.\n\n\nLa famille des Dashwood était depuis long-temps établie dans le comté\nde Sussex. Leurs domaines étaient étendus, et leur résidence habituelle\nétait à Norland-Park, au centre de leurs propriétés, où plusieurs\ngénérations avaient vécu avec honneur, aimées et respectées de leurs\nvassaux et de leurs voisins.\n\nLe dernier possesseur de ces biens, était un vieux célibataire, qui\npendant long-temps avait vécu avec une soeur chargée de diriger\nl'économie de sa maison, en même temps qu'elle était sa fidèle\ncompagne. Elle mourut dix ans avant lui, et pour réparer cette perte,\nil invita un neveu, qui devait hériter de ses terres, à venir vivre\nauprès de lui avec toute sa famille. Ce neveu, M. Henri Dashwood\nétait marié, et il avait des enfans. Le bon vieillard trouva dans\nleur société un bonheur qui lui était inconnu, et son attachement\npour eux tous s'augmenta chaque jour. Monsieur et madame Henri\nDashwood soignèrent sa vieillesse bien moins par intérêt que par\nbonté de coeur, et la gaîté des enfans, et leurs douces caresses\nanimèrent le soir de sa vie et la prolongèrent.\n\nM. Henri Dashwood avait un fils d'un premier mariage et trois filles\nde sa seconde femme. Son fils John était en possession d'une belle\nfortune provenante de sa mère, qui avait été très-riche. Econome par\ncaractère, il ne fit aucune folle dépense, et se maria de bonne heure\nà miss Fanny Ferrars, jeune personne riche aussi, qui ajouta encore\nà sa fortune. La succession de la terre de Norland ne lui était donc\npas aussi nécessaire qu'à ses trois soeurs qui n'avaient pas les\nmêmes espérances; leur mère n'avait rien du tout à leur laisser, et\nleur père ne pouvait disposer que de sept mille livres sterling. Tout\nle reste de sa fortune devait revenir après lui à son fils, attendu\nqu'il n'avait eu pendant sa vie que la jouissance de la moitié du\nbien de sa première femme.\n\nLe vieux oncle mourut; son testament fut ouvert, et comme il arrive\npresque toujours, il fit beaucoup de mécontens. M. Henri Dashwood\ndevait naturellement s'attendre à être le seul héritier, et l'était\nen effet, mais de manière à détruire pour lui la valeur de cet\nhéritage, auquel il n'attachait de prix que pour faire un sort à sa\nfemme et à ses trois filles, son fils étant déjà si avantageusement\npourvu du côté de la fortune. Mais à sa grande surprise son oncle,\nqui paraissait aussi les aimer tendrement, avait cependant substitué\ntous ses biens à ce fils et à son enfant âgé de trois ou quatre ans;\ntellement que M. Henri Dashwood n'avait plus le pouvoir d'en aliéner\nla moindre partie pour faire un sort à sa femme et à ses filles.\nPendant les dernières années de la vie du vieillard, M. John\nDashwood et sa femme avaient eu soin de lui faire beaucoup de\nvisites, et d'amener avec eux leur petit garçon, qui caressait le\nvieux oncle, l'appelait _bon grand papa_, jouait autour de lui,\nl'amusait de son petit babil, et même de ses sottises enfantines, et\nqui finit par lui faire oublier toutes les attentions que ses nièces\nlui avaient prodiguées pendant des années. Il leur laissait\ncependant à chacune mille pièces, comme une marque d'amitié; mais\nc'était tout ce qu'elles avaient à prétendre de son héritage.\n\nM. Henri Dashwood fut d'abord consterné de ces dispositions; il se\nconsola cependant, en pensant que quoiqu'il fût déja grand-père, il\npouvait raisonnablement espérer de vivre encore bien des années, et\nde faire d'assez fortes économies sur ses grands revenus pour\nlaisser après lui une somme considérable. Mais sur quoi peut compter\nl'homme mortel! M. Dashwood ne survécut que quelques mois à son\noncle, et de cette fortune si long-temps attendue, il ne resta à sa\nfemme et à ses trois filles que dix mille pièces, y compris le legs\ndes trois mille. Aussitôt que M. Henri Dashwood se sentit en danger,\nil fit venir son fils, et lui recommanda sa belle mère et ses trois\nsoeurs, avec toute la force de la tendresse paternelle.\n\nM. John Dashwood n'avait pas la sensibilité de son père et de toute\nsa famille; cependant ému par la solennité du moment et par les tendres\nsupplications du meilleur des pères, il lui promit de faire tout ce\nqui dépendrait de lui pour le bonheur des êtres si chers à son\ncoeur. Les derniers instans du mourant furent adoucis par cette\nassurance; il expira doucement dans les bras de sa femme et de ses\nfilles, au désespoir de sa perte, et son fils, assis à quelques pas\nplus loin, réfléchissait à sa promesse, et à ce qu'il pouvait et\ndevait faire pour la remplir. Dans le fond il était alors très-bien\ndisposé pour cela. Quoiqu'il fût naturellement froid et très-égoïste,\nil jouissait cependant d'une bonne réputation; il était respecté comme\nun jeune homme qui avait des moeurs, qui s'était toujours conduit\navec sagesse et prudence, et qui remplissait exactement les devoirs de\nfils, de père, de mari et ceux de société. S'il avait eu une compagne\nplus aimable, il aurait joui de plus d'estime encore, et l'aurait\nmieux mérité. Il s'était marié fort jeune; et passionnément amoureux\nde sa femme, elle avait pris sur lui beaucoup d'empire. Un esprit\ntrès-étroit, des nerfs très-irritables, un coeur qui n'aimait\nqu'elle-même et son enfant, parce qu'il était à elle et qu'il lui\nressemblait: voilà en deux mots le portrait de madame John Dashwood.\n\nAllons, dit M. John Dashwood en lui-même à la suite de ses réflexions,\nil faut tenir ce que j'ai promis à mon père mourant, il faut faire à\nmes soeurs un présent qui les dédommage de leur perte et qui\naugmente leur bien-être. Si je leur donnais mille pièces à chacune; il\nme semble que ce serait fort honnête, et je ne puis pas faire moins;\nma fortune s'augmente à présent par la mort de mon père de quatre\nmille livres sterling par année des biens de mon vieux oncle, sans\nparler de la moitié du bien de ma mère dont mon père jouissait. Tout\ncela ajouté à mes revenus actuels, me met en état d'être généreux avec\nmes soeurs... Oui, oui, je leur donnerai trois mille guinées, et je\ncrois que c'est assez beau et qu'on parlera dans le monde de ma\nlibéralité. Trois mille pièces ajoutées aux trois mille qu'elles ont\neues de leur bon oncle et aux sept mille dont leur mère jouit, les\nmettront complètement à leur aise. Quatre femmes ne peuvent pas\ndépenser beaucoup, et trois mille pièces c'est une belle somme; elles\npourront faire des épargnes considérables. Allons, j'en suis bien\naise; je l'ai promis à mon père mourant, et j'y suis résolu. Il pensa\nde même tout le jour, et même plusieurs jours consécutivement sans\nqu'il s'en repentît; il ne leur en parla pas encore dans le premier\nmoment de leur douleur, mais il en prit l'engagement avec lui-même.\n\nLes funérailles ne furent pas plutôt achevées, que madame John\nDashwood, sans en avertir sa belle-mère, arriva à Norland-Park, avec\nson fils et tous leurs domestiques. Personne ne pouvait lui disputer\nle droit d'y venir, puisque du moment du décès de leur père, cette\nterre leur appartenait; mais le peu de délicatesse de ce procédé\naurait été senti même par une femme ordinaire, et madame Dashwood\nla mère, avec une sensibilité romanesque, un sens parfait des\nconvenances, ne pouvait qu'être très-blessée de cette négligence.\nMadame John Dashwood n'avait jamais cherché à se faire aimer de la\nfamille de son mari (à l'exception cependant du vieux oncle) mais\njusqu'alors ne vivant pas avec eux, elle avait eu peu d'occasion de\nleur prouver combien ils devaient peu compter sur des attentions\nconsolantes de sa part.\n\nMadame Dashwood fut si aigrie de cette conduite peu amicale, et\ndésirait si vivement de le faire sentir à sa belle-fille, qu'à\nl'arrivée de cette dernière, elle aurait quitté pour toujours la\nmaison, si sa fille aînée ne lui avait fait observer qu'il ne\nfallait pas se brouiller avec leur frère. Elle céda à ses prières,\nà ses représentations et, pour l'amour de ses trois filles,\nconsentit à rester pour le moment à Norland-Park.\n\nElinor sa fille aînée, dont les avis étaient presque toujours suivis,\npossédait une force d'esprit, une raison éclairée, un jugement prompt\net sûr, qui la rendaient très capable d'être à dix-neuf ans le\nconseil de sa mère, et lui assuraient le droit de contredire\nquelquefois, pour leur avantage à toutes, une vivacité d'esprit et\nd'imagination, qui chez madame Dashwood ressemblait souvent à\nl'imprudence; mais Elinor n'abusait pas de cet empire. Elle avait un\ncoeur excellent, elle était douce, affectionnée, ses sentimens\nétaient très-vifs, mais elle savait les gouverner; c'est une science\nbien utile aux femmes, que sa mère n'avait jamais apprise, et qu'une\nde ses soeurs, celle qui la suivait immédiatement, avait résolu de\nne jamais pratiquer.\n\nPour l'intelligence, l'esprit et les talens, Maria ne le cédait en\nrien à Elinor; mais sa sensibilité toujours en mouvement, n'était\njamais réprimée par la raison. Elle s'abandonnait sans mesure et\nsans retenue à toutes ses impressions; ses chagrins, ses joies\nétaient toujours extrêmes; elle était d'ailleurs aimable, généreuse,\nintéressante sous tous les rapports, et même par la chaleur de son\ncoeur. Elle avait toutes les vertus, excepté la prudence. Sa\nressemblance avec sa mère était frappante; aussi était-elle sa\nfavorite décidée.\n\nElinor voyait avec peine l'excès de la sensibilité de sa soeur,\ntandis que leur mère en était enchantée, et l'excitait au lieu de la\nréprimer. Elles s'encouragèrent l'une l'autre dans leur affliction,\nla renouvelaient volontairement, et sans cesse, par toutes les\nréflexions qui pouvaient l'augmenter, et n'admettaient aucune espèce\nde consolation, pas même dans l'avenir. Elinor était tout aussi\nprofondément affligée, mais elle s'efforçait de surmonter sa douleur,\net d'être utile à tout ce qui l'entourait. Elle prit sur elle\nde mettre chaque chose en règle avec son frère pour recevoir sa\nbelle-soeur à son arrivée, et lui aider dans son établissement.\nPar cette sage conduite, elle parvint à relever un peu l'esprit\nabattu de sa mère, et à lui donner au moins le désir de l'imiter.\n\nSa soeur cadette, la jeune Emma, n'était encore qu'une enfant;\nmais à douze ans elle promettait déjà d'être dans quelques années\naussi belle et aussi aimable que ses soeurs.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE II.\n\n\nMadame John Dashwood fut donc installée par elle-même dame et\nmaîtresse de Norland-Park, et sa belle-mère et ses belles-soeurs\nréduites à n'y paraître plus que comme étrangères et presque par\ngrace. Elles étaient traitées par madame Dashwood avec une froide\ncivilité, et par leur frère avec autant de tendresse qu'il pouvait en\ntémoigner à d'autres qu'à lui-même, à sa femme et à son enfant. Il les\npressa, et même avec assez de vivacité, de regarder Norland comme leur\ndemeure. Madame Dashwood n'ayant encore aucun autre endroit où elle\npût se fixer, accepta son invitation jusqu'à ce qu'elle eût trouvé une\nmaison à louer dans le voisinage: rester dans un lieu où tout lui\nretraçait et son bonheur passé, et la perte qu'elle avait faite, était\nexactement ce qui lui plaisait et lui convenait le mieux. Dans le\ntemps du plaisir, personne n'avait plus de cette franche gaîté, de cet\nenjouement qui rejette toute sensation pénible, personne ne possédait\nà un plus haut degré cette confiance dans le bonheur, cet espoir dans\nsa durée, qui est déjà le bonheur lui-même; mais dans le chagrin elle\nrepoussait de même toute idée de consolation, et s'y livrait en entier\navec une sorte de volupté.\n\nM. John Dashwood fit part à sa femme de son projet de faire présent\nà chacune de ses soeurs de mille guinées, et comme on peut le\npenser, elle fut loin de l'approuver: trois mille pièces ôtées de\nla fortune de son cher petit garçon, n'étaient pas une bagatelle!\nElle regardait comme inconcevable que le tendre père d'un enfant\naussi charmant, pût seulement en avoir la pensée; elle le supplia\nd'y réfléchir encore. N'était-ce pas faire un tort irréparable à son\nfils unique! sa conscience lui permettait-elle de le priver d'une\ntelle somme! et quel droit avaient mesdemoiselles Dashwood, qui\nn'étaient que ses _demi-soeurs_, (ce qu'elle regardait à peine comme\nune parenté), sur cet excès de générosité? Il était reçu dans le\nmonde, qu'aucune affection ne pouvait être supposée entre des enfans\nde deux lits différens. Leur père avait déjà fait grand tort à son\nfils en se remariant et en ayant trois filles, auxquelles il avait\n_injustement_ donné tout ce dont il pouvait disposer; et vous\nvoulez, dit-elle, encore ruiner votre pauvre petit Henri, en donnant\nà vos _demi-soeurs_ tout son argent. Tout cela fut dit avec ce ton\nde conviction et de tendresse maternelle, qui ne manquait jamais son\neffet sur le faible John. Cette fois cependant il ne céda pas\nd'abord.--C'était (lui disait-il) la dernière requête de mon père\nexpirant, que je prendrais soin de sa veuve et de ses filles.--Il ne\nsavait pas lui-même ce qu'il disait, j'en suis bien sûre, répliqua\nmadame Dashwood. Tous les gens à l'agonie disent de même; ils\nrecommandent les survivans les uns aux autres; leur tête n'y est\nplus, ce n'est que leur coeur qui leur parle encore pour ceux\nqu'ils ont aimés, et qu'ils sont près de quitter. Si ses idées\navaient été bien nettes et qu'il n'eût pas rêvé à demi, il n'aurait\njamais imaginé de vous faire une demande aussi ridicule que celle\nd'ôter à votre enfant la moitié de sa fortune.\n\n--Mon père, ma chère Fanny, n'a stipulé aucune somme, il me demanda\nseulement de rendre la situation de sa femme et de ses filles aussi\n_comfortable_[1] qu'il était en mon pouvoir. Peut-être aurait-il\nmieux fait de s'en rapporter tout-à-fait à moi; il ne pouvait pas\nsupposer que je les négligerais, mais enfin il a exigé de moi cette\npromesse; je l'ai faite, et je veux la remplir. Je dois faire\nquelque chose pour mes soeurs avant qu'elles quittent Norland pour\ns'établir ailleurs.\n\n       [1]: Ce mot _comfortable_ n'a point de vrai synonyme\n       en français, il en faut beaucoup pour exprimer toutes les\n       idées qu'il renferme. C'est aisance, bien-être, agrément,\n       commodité, consolation; il s'adopte au moral comme au\n       physique. Ce serait une vraie acquisition pour notre langue,\n       et sans oser me flatter d'avoir le droit de le naturaliser,\n       je veux au moins essayer de m'en servir dans cet ouvrage; il\n       le mériterait autant et mieux que bien d'autres qu'on a\n       empruntés de l'anglais et dont on se sert journellement.\n       (_Note du traducteur._)\n\n--Eh bien! à la bonne heure. _Quelque chose_; mais il n'est pas\nnécessaire que ce _quelque chose_ soit trois mille pièces. Passe\nencore si vos soeurs étaient âgées et que cet argent pût revenir une\nfois à votre fils; mais considérez qu'une fois donné, vous ne le\nretrouverez plus. Vos soeurs sont jeunes et jolies; si vous les\ndotez de cette manière, elles se marieront bientôt, et vos trois\nmille guinées seront perdues pour toujours. Des familles étrangères\nen jouiront, les dissiperont, et notre cher petit Henri en sera\nprivé; je vous demande, s'il y a là l'ombre de la justice.\n\n--Vous avez raison, Fanny, dit gravement John Dashwood, parfaitement\nraison; c'est peu de chose à présent relativement à ma fortune, mais\nle temps peut venir que notre cher fils regrettera beaucoup cette\nsomme: si par exemple il avait une nombreuse famille.\n\n--Eh! mais sans doute, et je parie qu'il aura beaucoup d'enfans, ce\ncher petit.\n\n--Peut-être bien! Ainsi, chère amie, il vaudrait mieux en effet\ndiminuer la somme de moitié, qu'en dites-vous? Cinq cents pièces à\nchacune ce serait encore une prodigieuse augmentation à leur fortune.\n\n--Prodigieuse, immense, incroyable! Quel frère dans le monde ferait\ncela pour ses soeurs, même pour des soeurs réelles? et des\ndemi-soeurs! mais vous avez toujours été trop généreux, mon cher\nJohn.\n\n--Il vaut mieux dans de telles occasions faire trop que trop peu, dit\nJohn en se rengorgeant; personne au moins ne dira que je n'ai pas\nfait assez. Elles-mêmes ne s'attendent sûrement pas que je leur donne\nautant.\n\n--Elles n'ont rien du tout à attendre, reprit aigrement Fanny; ainsi\nil n'est pas question de leurs espérances, mais de ce que vous pouvez\nleur donner, et je trouve....\n\n--Certainement je trouve aussi que cinq cents pièces sont bien\nsuffisantes, interrompit John, sans que j'y ajoute rien. Elles auront\nchacune à la mort de leur mère trois mille trois cent trente-trois\npièces; fortune très-considérable pour toute jeune femme.\n\n--Oui vraiment trois mille trois cent trente-trois; je n'avais pas\nfait ce calcul, et c'est vraiment immense! trois mille trois cent\ntrente-trois pièces! c'est énorme.\n\n--Et même quelque chose de plus, dit John en calculant sur ses\ndoigts. Dix mille pièces, divisées en trois. Oui c'est bien cela.\nTrois mille trois cent trente-trois et quelque chose en sus.\n\n--Alors, mon cher, je ne conçois pas, je vous l'avoue, que vous vous\ncroyiez obligé d'y ajouter la moindre chose. Dix mille pièces à\npartager entr'elles, c'est plus que suffisant. Si elles se marient,\nc'est une très-belle dot, et elles épouseront sûrement des hommes\nriches; si elles ne se marient pas elles vivront très-_comfortablement_\nensemble avec dix mille livres.\n\n--Cela est vrai, très-vrai, dit John en se promenant avec l'air de\nréfléchir; ainsi dites-moi, ma chère, s'il ne vaudrait pas mieux\nfaire quelque chose pour la mère, pendant qu'elle vit, une rente\nannuelle? Mes soeurs en profiteront autant que si c'était à elles.\nCent pièces par année par exemple; il me semble que pour une vieille\nfemme qui vit dans la retraite, c'est bien honnête: qu'en\npensez-vous, Fanny?\n\n--Il est sûr, dit-elle, que cela vaut beaucoup mieux que de se séparer\nde quinze cents livres tout à-la-fois... Mais je réfléchis que si\nmadame Dashwood allait vivre vingt ans, alors nous serions en perte.\n\n--Vingt ans, chère Fanny! vous plaisantez; elle ne vivra pas la\nmoitié de ce temps-là; elle est trop sensible, trop nerveuse.\n\n--J'en conviens; mais n'avez-vous pas observé que rien ne prolonge la\nvie comme une rente viagère! C'est une affaire très-sérieuse que de\ns'engager à payer une rente annuelle. Vous ne savez pas quel ennui\nvous allez vous donner, et comme on est malheureux quand le moment de\nl'échéance arrive. C'est précisément alors qu'on aurait une dépense\nindispensable à faire pour soi-même, et que cet argent qui se trouve\nlà ferait plaisir, et il faut le donner à d'autres; c'est vraiment\ninsupportable! Ma mère devait payer de petites rentes à trois vieux\ndomestiques par le testament de mon père; j'ai souvent été témoin du\nchagrin, de l'ennui que cela lui donnait. Ses revenus n'étaient plus\nà elle, disait-elle. Et ces bonnes gens qui n'avaient garde de\nmourir! elle en était tout-à-fait impatientée. Aussi j'ai pris une\ntelle horreur des rentes viagères, que pour rien dans le monde je ne\nvoudrais m'engager à en payer, quelle que petite qu'elle fût. Pensez\ny bien, mon cher.\n\n--Il est sûr qu'il n'est pas du tout agréable que quelqu'un ait des\ndroits sur notre revenu; être obligé à un paiement régulier, tel\nmois, tel jour, cela blesse l'indépendance.\n\n--Ajoutez, mon cher, qu'après tout, on ne vous en sait aucun gré.\nCette rente est assurée; vous ne faites en la donnant que ce que vous\ndevez, et on n'en a nulle reconnaissance. Si j'étais de vous, je\nvoudrais n'être lié par rien et pouvoir donner ce qu'il me plairait,\net quand il me plairait. Vous serez charmé peut-être de pouvoir\nmettre de côté, cent ou cinquante pièces pour quelque dépense de\nfantaisie que vous ne pouvez prévoir.\n\n--Je crois que vous parlez très-sensément, ma chère Fanny, et je\nsuivrai vos bons conseils; ce sera beaucoup mieux en effet que de\nleur donner une rente fixe. Ayant un revenu plus considérable, elles\naugmenteraient leur train, leurs dépenses, et au bout de l'année,\nelles n'en seraient pas plus riches. Oui, oui, cela sera beaucoup\nmieux; un petit présent de vingt, de trente pièces de temps en temps,\npréviendra tout embarras d'argent, et j'aurai rempli la promesse que\nj'ai faite à mon père.\n\n--Parfaitement bien, et je vous le répète, mon cher, je suis\nconvaincue qu'il n'a jamais eu dans la pensée que vous dussiez leur\ndonner de l'argent. L'assistance, les secours qu'il demandait pour\nelles, étaient seulement ce qu'on peut attendre d'un bon frère: comme\npar exemple de leur aider à trouver une petite maison jolie et\ncommode; de leur prêter vos chevaux pour transporter leurs effets; de\nleur envoyer quelquefois du poisson, du gibier, des fruits dans leur\nsaison. Je parie ma vie que c'est là seulement ce qu'il entendait, et\nil ne pouvait vouloir autre chose. Pensez comme votre belle-mère sera\nbien avec l'intérêt de sept mille pièces, et vos soeurs avec celui\nde trois mille; elles auront par an cinq cents pièces de revenu, et\nqu'ont-elles besoin d'en avoir davantage? Elles ne dépenseront pas\ncela; leur ménage sera si peu de chose. Elles n'auront ni carosse, ni\nchevaux, tout au plus une fille pour les servir; elles ne recevront\npoint de compagnie, et n'auront presque aucune dépense à faire. Ainsi\nvous voyez qu'elles seront à merveille, et qu'il ne leur manquera\nrien. Cinq cents pièces par an! je ne peux imaginer à quoi elles en\nemploieront la moitié; et leur donner quelque chose de plus serait\ntout-à-fait absurde. Vous verrez que ce sont elles plutôt qui\npourront vous donner quelque chose et faire souvent quelque joli\nprésent à leur petit neveu.\n\n--Sur ma parole, dit M. John Dashwood en se frottant les mains, vous\navez parfaitement raison. Mon père ne prétendait rien de plus, je le\ncomprends à présent, et je veux strictement remplir mes engagemens\npar toutes les preuves de tendresse et de bonté fraternelles que vous\nm'indiquez; car votre coeur est excellent, chère Fanny, et je vous\nrends bien justice. Il est charmant à vous d'être aussi bonne pour\nmes soeurs et ma belle-mère. Quand elles iront s'établir ailleurs,\nje leur rendrai, et vous aussi, tous les petits services qui pourront\nleur être utiles: quelques présens de meubles par exemple, de\nporcelaines. Enfin je puis m'en rapporter à vous.\n\n--Oh! bien certainement tout ce qui pourra leur convenir..... Mais\ncependant, réfléchissez à une chose. Quand votre vieux oncle fit\nvenir ici votre père et votre belle-mère, il les établit chez lui.\nTout le mobilier de Stanhill, la porcelaine, la vaisselle, le linge,\ntout fut soigneusement enfermé, et votre père, comme vous le savez, a\nlégué ces objets à sa femme. Leur maison sera donc meublée et garnie\nau-delà de ce qu'elle pourra contenir; ainsi elles n'auront besoin de\nrien.\n\n--De rien du tout; je n'y pensais pas. C'est un très-beau legs\nqu'elles ont eu là, en vérité! et la vaisselle, par exemple, nous\naurait bien fort convenu pour augmenter la nôtre, à présent que nous\naurons souvent du monde à demeure.\n\n--Et le beau déjeuner de porcelaine de la Chine; combien je le\nregrette! il est beaucoup plus beau que celui qui est ici, et suivant\nmon opinion, dix fois trop beau et trop grand pour leur situation\nactuelle. Votre père n'a pensé qu'à elles; je trouve, mon cher, que\nvous pourriez fort bien le leur faire sentir avec délicatesse, et les\nengager à nous laisser tant de choses qui vont leur devenir inutiles\net qui nous conviendraient bien mieux. Mais certainement vous ne\ndevez pas avoir beaucoup de reconnaissance pour la mémoire d'un père\nqui, s'il avait pu, leur aurait laissé tout au monde et rien à vous;\net vous leur donneriez encore quelque chose... Ce serait à mon avis\nune duperie et une faiblesse dont je vous connais incapable.\nL'extrême bonté de votre coeur peut quelquefois vous entraîner trop\nloin; mais la fermeté de votre caractère et la force de votre\njugement, vous ramènent bientôt dans le droit chemin.\n\nCet argument était irrésistible. Ce que John Dashwood craignait le\nplus, c'était de passer pour un homme faible et dupé, et sans qu'il\ns'en doutât, il ne faisait et ne pensait que ce que voulait madame\nJohn Dashwood: il finit donc par déclarer, que non-seulement il\nserait inutile, mais injuste et ridicule de rien faire pour ses\nsoeurs, au-delà des petits services de bon voisinage, que sa femme\nlui avait indiqués, et que c'était à elles au contraire à leur donner\nce qui pourrait leur convenir.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE III.\n\n\nMadame Dashwood passa plusieurs mois à Norland, non plus cependant\npar la crainte de quitter un lieu qui nourrissait sa douleur; elle\ns'y était livrée d'abord avec trop de violence pour qu'elle pût\ndurer au même point. Peu-à-peu elle cessa d'éprouver ces émotions\ndéchirantes que la vue de chaque place où elle avait été avec son\nmari excitait chez elle. Son esprit redevint capable d'autre chose\nque de chercher par de mélancoliques souvenirs à augmenter son\naffliction. Dès qu'elle en fut à ce point, elle s'impatienta au\ncontraire de quitter le château, et fut infatigable dans ses\nrecherches pour trouver une demeure qui pût lui convenir, qui ne\nl'éloignât pas trop d'un séjour où elle avait été si heureuse, et où\npeut-être elle pourrait retrouver encore, si non le bonheur, au moins\nune vie tranquille avec ses chères enfans; mais elle n'en put trouver\naucune qui répondît à-la-fois à ses idées de bien-être et à la\nprudence de sa fille aînée, dont le jugement éclairé rejeta plusieurs\nmaisons trop grandes pour leurs revenus, que sa mère aurait désirées.\n\nMadame Dashwood qui n'avait point quitté son mari pendant sa dernière\nmaladie, avait appris par lui la promesse solennelle de son fils en\nleur faveur, qui avait adouci les derniers momens du mourant. Elle ne\ndoutait pas plus de sa sincérité à la tenir qu'il n'en avait douté\nlui-même, et pensait avec satisfaction que ses filles trouveraient\ndans leur frère un appui et un bienfaiteur. Quant à elle-même, ayant\ntoujours vécu dans l'aisance et sans avoir besoin de calculer ses\ndépenses, elle était persuadée que le revenu de sept mille livres\nsterling la ferait vivre dans l'abondance. Pour son beau-fils aussi\nelle se réjouissait du plaisir qu'il aurait à servir de père à ses\njeunes soeurs, à leur procurer toutes les petites jouissances dont\nelles avaient l'habitude et se reprochait de ne lui avoir pas\ntoujours rendu toute la justice qu'il méritait, lors qu'elle l'avait\nquelquefois soupçonné d'avarice ou d'égoïsme. «C'est parce qu'il\ns'était laissé influencer par sa femme, pensait-elle, qu'il a donné\nlieu à ce soupçon; mais à présent qu'il a vécu avec nous, qu'il nous\nconnaît, il a appris à nous aimer, et elle n'aura plus le pouvoir\nd'altérer son amitié. Nous lui sommes chères parce que nous l'étions\nà son père; toute sa conduite avec nous prouve combien il s'intéresse\nà notre bonheur, et il s'attachera plus encore à nous par sa propre\ngénérosité.» Pendant long-temps madame Dashwood s'abandonna à cet\nespoir; il était dans son caractère de croire aveuglément tout ce\nqu'elle désirait.\n\nElle avait encore un autre espoir auquel elle donna bientôt le nom\nde _certitude_, et qui lui faisait supporter et la prolongation de\nson séjour à Norland, et la froideur presque méprisante de sa\nbelle-fille, et tous les désagrémens d'un séjour où naguère elle\nétait maîtresse; et cet espoir qui devint bientôt pour elle une\nréalité, était fondé sur l'attachement que M. Edward Ferrars, le\nfrère de madame John Dashwood, paraissait avoir pour sa fille aînée,\nla sage et prudente Elinor. Ce jeune homme avait accompagné sa soeur\net son beau-frère à Norland; depuis il y avait passé la plus grande\npartie de son temps, et il était facile de voir ce qui le retenait.\n\nBien des mères auraient encouragé ce sentiment par des motifs\nd'intérêt, car M. Edward Ferrars était le fils aîné d'une famille\ntrès-riche, et son père était mort depuis long-temps; d'autres\nl'auraient réprimé par des motifs de prudence, car Edward Ferrars\ndépendait absolument de sa mère, à qui, à l'exception d'une\ntrès-petite somme, la fortune entière appartenait. Elle pouvait en\ndisposer suivant sa volonté, et madame Ferrars n'aurait certainement\npas approuvé les liaisons de son fils avec une jeune personne sans\nbiens. Mais madame Dashwood n'était ni intéressée ni prudente; la\nrichesse d'Edward et sa dépendance ne se présentèrent pas une fois à\nsa pensée. Elle vit seulement qu'il paraissait aimable, qu'il aimait\nsa fille, qu'Elinor ne repoussait pas ses soins; il ne lui en fallait\npas davantage pour décider dans sa tête qu'ils devaient être unis.\nSuivant ses principes, la différence de fortune était la chose du\nmonde la plus indifférente quand les coeurs étaient d'accord, et\nqu'il y avait des rapports de caractère. Edward avait senti tout le\nmérite d'Elinor, ce qui prouve qu'il en avait lui-même, et du même\ngenre, et que plus rien ne pourrait les séparer.\n\nEdward Ferrars n'avait rien cependant de ce qui peut séduire au\npremier moment. Il n'était point beau; il avait peu de graces, et\nplutôt une espèce de gaucherie dans les manières, suite d'une\nexcessive timidité; il avait besoin d'être encouragé, et ce n'était\nque dans une société intime qu'il pouvait plaire; il avait trop de\ndéfiance de lui-même, trop de réserve et de retenue pour le grand\nmonde. Mais quand une fois il avait surmonté cette disposition\nnaturelle, il devenait très-aimable, et tout indiquait chez lui un\ncoeur ouvert, sensible et capable de tous les sentimens généreux.\nIl avait l'esprit simple, naturel et cultivé par une bonne éducation,\nmais il n'avait aucun talent brillant. Rien en lui ne pouvait\nrépondre aux voeux de sa mère et de sa soeur, qui désiraient avec\nardeur qu'il se distinguât... Par quoi? elles n'auraient pu le dire\nelles-mêmes positivement, par tout ce qui distingue un gentilhomme\ntrès-riche. Elles auraient voulu qu'il fît une grande figure dans le\nmonde, d'une manière ou d'une autre, et qu'on parlât de lui. Madame\nFerrars aurait désiré qu'il eût une opinion prononcée en politique,\nqu'il entrât dans le parlement, ou du moins qu'il se liât avec\nquelque orateur célébre en attendant qu'il le devînt lui-même. Madame\nJohn Dashwood se serait contentée que son frère fût cité par son\nélégance, par ses talens, ne fût-ce même que par celui de conduire un\ncaricle de manière à faire effet.--Mais hélas! Edward n'aimait ni les\ngrands hommes ni aucune des folies à la mode chez les jeunes gens.\nToute son ambition, tous ses voeux se bornaient à une vie\ntranquille et retirée au sein du bonheur domestique; heureusement au\nreste pour sa mère et pour sa soeur, il avait un jeune frère qui\npromettait davantage: leur plus grand regret était qu'il ne fût pas\nl'aîné.\n\nEdward se mettait si peu en avant, qu'il avait passé plusieurs\nsemaines à Norland, sans attirer du tout l'attention de madame\nDashwood. Tout occupée de sa douleur, elle vit seulement qu'il était\ntranquille, et qu'il ne cherchait pas à troubler son affliction par\nune gaîté importune ou par des conversations hors de propos. Elle fut\nensuite prévenue en sa faveur par une réflexion d'Elinor qui\nremarquait un jour combien il ressemblait peu à Fanny; c'était la\nmeilleure recommandation auprès de madame Dashwood.--Il suffit,\ndit-elle, qu'il ne ressemble pas à sa soeur pour faire son éloge;\nc'est dire qu'il est aimable, et pour cela seul je l'aime déja.--Je\nvous assure, maman, qu'il vous plaira quand vous le connaîtrez\nmieux.--Je n'en doute pas, mais que puis-je faire de plus que de\nl'aimer?--Vous l'estimerez.--Je n'ai jamais imaginé qu'on pût séparer\nl'estime de l'amitié.--Ni moi non plus, dit Elinor, et M. Edward\nFerrars mérite l'une et l'autre.\n\nDe ce moment madame Dashwood commença à bâtir son château en Espagne,\net à se rapprocher de ce jeune homme qui devait devenir son fils. Sa\nmanière avec lui fut si tendre, si amicale, que bientôt toute réserve\nfut bannie et qu'il se montra tel qu'il était, avec tout son vrai\nmérite et son _admiration_ pour Elinor. Il n'osa pas dire plus, mais\nla bonne mère acheva le reste dans sa pensée, et fut aussi convaincue\nde son ardent amour pour sa fille, que de toutes ses vertus. Sa\ntranquillité, sa froideur apparente, sa gravité si peu ordinaire à\nson âge, devinrent même à ses yeux un mérite de plus, quand elle vit\nque tout cela ne nuisait point à la chaleur réelle de son coeur et à\nla vivacité de ses sentimens. Elinor, pensait-elle, serait bien\ningrate, si elle n'aimait pas ce bon jeune homme autant qu'elle en\nest aimée. Mais Elinor ne pouvait avoir un tort ni un défaut; elle\nn'a donc point d'ingratitude; elle éprouve aussi le sentiment qu'elle\ninspire. Ils sont égaux en vertus, en amour; que faut-il de plus? ils\nfurent créés l'un pour l'autre: et voilà sa vive imagination aussi\ncertaine de leur mariage, que si elle les avait vus devant l'autel.\n\n--Dans quelques mois, ma chère Maria, dit-elle un jour à sa seconde\nfille, dans quelques mois notre Elinor sera probablement établie pour\nla vie; nous la perdrons, mais elle sera si heureuse!\n\n--Ah, maman! comment pourrons-nous vivre sans elle? Elinor est notre\name, notre guide, notre tout dans ce monde.\n\n--Ma chère enfant, ce sera à peine une séparation. Nous vivrons près\nd'elle, et nous pourrons nous voir tous les jours; vous gagnerez un\nsecond frère, un bon, un tendre frère; j'ai la plus haute opinion\nd'Edward..... Mais vous êtes bien sérieuse, Maria, est-ce que vous\ndésapprouvez le choix de votre soeur?\n\n--J'avoue, dit Maria, que j'en suis au moins surprise. Edward est\ntrès-aimable, et comme un ami je l'aime tendrement. Mais cependant,\nce n'est pas l'homme.... Il manque quelque chose.... Sa figure n'est\npoint remarquable; il n'a point ces graces, cet attrait, que je\nm'attendais à trouver chez l'homme qui devait s'unir à ma soeur.\nSes yeux sont grands, ils sont beaux peut-être, mais ils n'ont pas ce\nfeu, cette expression qui annoncent à-la-fois la sensibilité et\nl'intelligence, et qui pénètrent dans le coeur. D'un autre côté,\nmaman, je crains qu'il n'ait pas ce goût des beaux arts qui prouve\nune vraie sensibilité; la musique a peu d'attrait pour lui, et\nquoiqu'il admire beaucoup les dessins d'Elinor, ce n'est point\nl'admiration de quelqu'un qui s'y connaît. Il est évident que malgré\ntoute son attention pendant qu'elle dessine, il n'y entend rien du\ntout; il admire au hasard plutôt son ouvrage que son talent, et comme\nun amoureux plutôt qu'en connaisseur: pour me satisfaire il faudrait\nqu'il fût tous les deux. Je ne pourrais pas être heureuse avec un\nhomme qui ne partagerait pas en tout point mes sentimens, mes goûts;\nil faut qu'il voie, qu'il sente, qu'il juge exactement comme moi: la\nmême lecture, le même dessin, la même musique, doivent saisir au même\ninstant deux ames unies par une sympathie absolument nécessaire au\nbonheur. Ah, maman! avez vous entendu avec quelle monotonie, quel\ncalme, Edward nous lisait hier les vers délicieux de Cowper? Je\nsouffrais réellement pour ma soeur; elle le supportait avec une\ndouceur incroyable! moi je pouvais à peine me contenir: entendre\ncette belle poésie qui m'a si souvent extasiée, l'entendre lire avec\nce calme imperturbable, avec cette incroyable indifférence.......\nNon, non, je ne concevrai jamais qu'on puisse aimer un homme qui lit\nde cette manière.\n\n--Eh bien! ma chère Maria, je ne sais pourquoi cette manière me\nplaisait assez; j'entendais mieux les pensées que lorsque vous\ndéclamez si vivement. Edward prononce si bien, il a un si beau son de\nvoix, tant de simplicité.--Non, non, maman, ce n'est pas ainsi qu'on\ndoit lire Cowper, et si Cowper ne l'anime pas, c'est qu'il ne peut\nêtre animé. Elinor ne sent pas comme moi sans doute, et peut-être,\nmalgré cela, sera-t-elle heureuse avec lui; pour moi je ne pourrais\nl'être avec quelqu'un qui met si peu de feu et de sentiment dans sa\nlecture. Ah! maman, plus je connais le monde, et plus je suis\nconvaincue que je ne rencontrerai jamais un homme que je puisse\nréellement aimer: il me faut trop de choses. Je voudrais les vertus\nd'Edward, ma vive sensibilité, et par-dessus, toutes les graces et\ntoutes les perfections, dans la manière et dans l'extérieur: tout\ncela ne se trouvera jamais réuni.\n\n--C'est difficile, il est vrai; mais vous n'avez que dix-huit ans, ma\nchère enfant, il n'est pas encore temps de désespérer d'un tel\nbonheur. Vous venez de me tracer le portrait de votre père quand il\nm'offrit son coeur et sa main, et toujours il m'a paru aussi\nparfait. Pourquoi seriez-vous moins heureuse que votre mère? puisse\nseulement votre félicité sur la terre être plus durable que la\nsienne.\n\nElles s'embrassèrent en versant des larmes, qui n'étaient pas sans\ndouceur.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE IV.\n\n\nQuel dommage, Elinor, dit Maria à sa soeur, qu'Edward n'ait aucun\ngoût pour le dessin!\n\n--Aucun goût pour le dessin! pourquoi pensez-vous cela? Il ne dessine\npas lui-même, il est vrai; mais il a le plus grand plaisir à voir de\nbons ouvrages en dessin et en peinture, et il sait les admirer. Je\nvous assure même qu'il a beaucoup de goût naturel pour cet art,\nquoiqu'il n'ait pas eu d'occasion de l'étudier. S'il l'avait\nentrepris, je crois qu'il aurait eu un vrai talent; il se défie de\nson propre jugement en cela comme en toute autre chose, et ne se\nhasarde pas à donner son opinion, mais il a un sentiment intérieur de\nce qui est beau, et un goût simple et sûr qui le dirige très-bien.\n\nElinor défendit son ami avec plus de vivacité qu'à l'ordinaire, et\nMaria craignant de l'avoir offensée, ne dit plus rien contre le goût\nnaturel d'Edward, mais sans en avoir meilleure opinion. Cette froide\napprobation qu'il donnait aux talens, sans en avoir lui-même, était\ntrop loin de cet enthousiasme, de ces ravissemens qui, dans son idée,\nétaient la marque certaine du goût: cependant en souriant en\nelle-même de l'aveugle présomption d'Elinor, elle lui en sut beaucoup\nde gré.\n\nJ'espère, ma chère Maria, continua Elinor, que vous ne croyez pas\nvous-même qu'Edward manque de goût ou de sensibilité? Toute votre\nconduite avec lui est si parfaitement amicale; et je sais que si vous\naviez cette opinion de lui, à peine pourriez-vous prendre sur vous\nd'être polie.\n\nMaria ne sut que répondre: elle ne voulait pas blesser les sentimens\nde sa soeur, et dire ce qu'elle ne pensait pas lui était\nimpossible. Après un instant de silence, elle lui dit: Ne soyez pas\noffensée, chère Elinor, si mes éloges ne répondent pas exactement à\nl'idée que vous avez de son mérite; j'ai moins d'occasion que vous de\ndiscerner toutes ses qualités, de connaître ses inclinations, ses\ngoûts, de lire dans son coeur et dans son esprit; mais je vous\nassure que j'ai la plus haute opinion de sa bonté, de sa raison, de\nson bon sens, et je pense que personne n'est plus digne que lui\nd'inspirer une sincère amitié.\n\nEn vérité, dit Elinor en souriant, ses plus chers amis doivent être\nsatisfaits de cet éloge, et je ne vois pas ce qu'on pourrait y\najouter.\n\nMaria fut contente de ce que sa soeur était aussi vîte appaisée. Il\nest impossible, dit Elinor, lorsqu'on connaît Edward, lorsqu'on l'a\nentendu parler, de douter un instant de son jugement droit et de sa\nbonté; ses excellens principes, son esprit même sont quelquefois\nvoilés par son excessive timidité, qui le rend trop souvent\nsilencieux. Vous, Maria, vous le connaissez assez pour rendre justice\nà ses solides vertus, mais _ses goûts, ses inclinations_, comme vous\nles appelez, je conviens que vous avez eu moins d'occasions que moi de\nles distinguer dans les premiers temps de notre malheur. Vous vous\nêtes consacrée entièrement à notre bonne mère; pendant que vous étiez\nensemble, je l'ai vu journellement, j'ai causé avec lui sur plusieurs\nsujets, j'ai étudié ses sentimens et entendu ses opinions sur\ndifférens objets de littérature et de goût, et je puis vous assurer\nque je ne hasarde point trop en vous disant qu'il a non-seulement\nbeaucoup d'instruction, mais un sentiment naturel très-vif pour tout\nce qui est digne d'admiration. Il a fait d'excellentes lectures avec\nbeaucoup de plaisir et de discernement; son imagination est vive, ses\nobservations justes et correctes, et son goût délicat et pur. Son\nextérieur même gagne à être mieux connu. A la première vue, sa figure\nn'a rien de remarquable, à l'exception cependant de ses yeux qui sont\ntrès-beaux, et de la douceur de sa physionomie; mais lorsqu'on le\nconnaît mieux, on le juge bien différemment. Je vous assure qu'à\nprésent il me paraît presque beau, ou je trouve au moins qu'il plaît\nmieux que s'il était beau. Qu'en dites-vous, Maria?\n\n--Je dis que je le trouverai bientôt plus que beau, si je ne le fais\npas encore. Quand vous me direz, Elinor, de l'aimer comme un frère,\net qu'il fera votre bonheur, je vous promets de ne plus lui trouver\naucun défaut.\n\nElinor rougit beaucoup à cette déclaration, et fut fâchée contre\nelle-même de s'être trahie en parlant d'Edward avec trop de feu. Elle\nsentait bien à quel point il l'intéressait; elle était persuadée que\ncet intérêt était réciproque, mais elle n'en avait pas cependant une\nconviction assez positive pour que les propos de Maria lui fussent\nagréables. Elle comprit fort bien les conjectures de sa mère et de sa\nsoeur; elle savait qu'avec elles tous leurs voeux étaient de\nl'espoir, et tout espoir certitude. Elinor avait à peine de l'espoir,\net voulut saisir cette occasion de dire à Maria l'exacte vérité de sa\nsituation.--Je ne prétends point vous nier, lui dit-elle, en se\nremettant, quelle haute opinion j'ai de lui; je l'estime, il\nm'intéresse, mais.--Estime, intérêt, interrompit vivement Maria,\ninsensible Elinor!... ces expressions sont dictées par un coeur\nglacé; répétez ces froides paroles, et je vous quitte à l'instant.\n\nElinor ne put s'empêcher de rire. Excusez-moi, dit-elle, je n'ai pas\nje vous assure la moindre intention de vous chasser en vous parlant\navec calme de mes sentimens. Croyez les si vous voulez plus forts que\nje ne l'avoue, et tels que son mérite, et le soupçon, l'espoir, si\nvous le voulez, de son affection pour moi, doivent me les inspirer,\nsans imprudence ou folie; mais je vous prie de ne pas aller plus loin:\nje n'ai pas la moindre assurance de la nature de cette affection. Il y\na des momens où son existence même me semble douteuse, et jusqu'à ce\nque les sentimens d'Edward me soient entièrement dévoilés, vous ne\ndevez pas être surprise que j'évite de donner aux miens quelques\nencouragemens, d'en parler avec exagération, de leur donner un autre\nnom que celui _d'intérêt_ et d'_estime_. J'avoue que j'ai peu ou même\npoint de doute sur sa préférence; mais il y a d'autres considérations\nà écouter; il ne faut pas ne voir que son inclination et la mienne. Il\nest loin d'être indépendant. Je ne connais pas sa mère; mais à en\njuger sur ce que dit Fanny, nous ne devons pas être disposées à la\ncroire d'un caractère facile, et je suis bien trompée si Edward ne\nprévoit pas de sa part beaucoup de difficultés, s'il voulait épouser\nune femme qui n'eût ni rang ni fortune: et peut-être est-ce là la\nvraie cause de son silence.\n\nMaria eut l'air très-étonnée en apprenant combien l'imagination de sa\nmère et la sienne propre étaient allées au-delà de la vérité.\nRéellement, s'écria-t-elle, vous n'êtes pas engagés l'un à l'autre?\nmais du moins cela ne peut tarder, et je trouve deux avantages à ce\ndélai: je ne vous perdrai pas sitôt, et pendant ce temps-là Edward\nprendra plus de goût pour votre occupation favorite, la peinture, où\nvous réussissez si bien; votre talent doit développer le sien. Oh!\ns'il pouvait être assez stimulé par votre génie pour parvenir à\ndessiner lui-même: c'est cela qui serait indispensable à votre\nbonheur. Imaginez, Elinor, combien vous seriez heureuse. Occupés de\nmême, à côté l'un de l'autre, comme ce serait délicieux. Elinor\nsourit. Il y aurait peut-être, dit-elle, jalousie de talens; j'aime\nautant que mon mari n'ait pas les mêmes, et qu'il aime à me lire, par\nexemple, pendant que je dessinerais. Maria allait dire quelque chose\nsur la lecture insipide des vers de Cowper, mais elle s'arrêta à\ntemps, et sortit de la chambre.\n\nElinor avait dit à sa soeur l'exacte vérité; tout lui disait qu'Edward\nl'aimait, excepté lui-même. Emu, ravi à côté d'elle, suivant tous ses\npas, tous ses mouvemens, écoutant chaque mot qu'elle prononçait; cent\nfois elle l'avait cru sur le point de lui faire l'aveu de son amour,\nmais cet aveu n'avait jamais été prononcé. Quelquefois elle le voyait\ntomber dans un tel abattement, qu'elle ne savait à quoi l'attribuer;\nce ne pouvait être à la crainte de n'être pas aimé: malgré sa prudence\net sa retenue, Elinor était trop franche, trop sincère pour affecter\nune indifférence qui n'était pas dans son coeur; elle lui témoignait\nassez d'intérêt pour le rassurer et lui laisser espérer d'obtenir un\njour un sentiment plus tendre. Ce n'était donc pas la cause de sa\ntristesse; elle en trouvait une plus naturelle dans la dépendance de\nsa situation, qui lui défendait de se livrer à un sentiment inutile.\nElle savait que madame Ferrars n'avait jamais cherché à rendre sa\nmaison agréable à son fils, ni à lui donner les moyens de s'établir\nailleurs, et ne cessait de lui répéter qu'il devait chercher à\naugmenter sa fortune, et que la sienne était à cette condition. Il\nétait donc impossible qu'Elinor fût tout-à-fait à son aise et qu'elle\nnourrît les mêmes espérances que sa mère et sa soeur; et même plus ils\nse voyaient, plus elle doutait que l'attachement d'Edward fût de\nl'amour. Elle croyait ne voir en lui que les symptômes d'une tendre et\nsimple amitié. Mais que ce fût _amour_ ou _amitié_, c'était assez pour\ninquiéter madame John Dashwood, dès qu'elle s'en fut aperçue. Elle\nsaisit la première occasion de parler devant sa belle-mère des grandes\nespérances de son frère qui était soumis aux volontés d'une mère, des\nprojets que celle-ci formait pour la réputation de ses fils, et du\ndanger extrême que courrait une jeune personne qui chercherait à\nattirer l'un d'eux dans quelque piège, et qui serait un obstacle aux\nvastes projets de leur mère. Madame Dashwood ne put ni feindre de ne\npas l'entendre, ni l'entendre avec calme; elle répondit avec orgueil\net dignité et quitta la chambre à l'instant, bien décidée à quitter\naussi immédiatement une maison où sa chère Elinor était exposée à de\ntelles insinuations, où l'on ne sentait pas tout ce qu'elle valait.\n\nElle allait en parler à ses filles et prendre ses mesures pour leur\nprompt départ, sans savoir où aller, lorsqu'elle reçut par la poste,\nune lettre qui contenait une proposition arrivée fort-à-propos pour la\ntirer de peine: c'était l'offre d'une petite maison qu'on lui cédait\nà un prix très modéré, et qui appartenait à un de ses parens, un\nbaronnet, sir Georges Middleton, qui demeurait dans le Devonshire.\nLa lettre était du baronnet lui-même, écrite avec la plus cordiale\namitié. Il avait appris, disait-il, que ses cousines cherchaient\nune demeure simple et petite; celle qu'il leur offrait n'était\nprécisément qu'une _chaumière_; mais si elles voulaient l'accepter,\nil l'arrangerait de manière qu'elle fût agréable et commode à habiter.\nIl pressait vivement madame Dashwood, après lui avoir donné une légère\ndescription de la maison et des environs, de venir avec ses filles à\nBarton-Park, où il résidait; que là elles pourraient juger si la\n_chaumière_ de Barton pouvait leur convenir et décideraient les\nréparations nécessaires. Il paraissait désirer vivement de les\narranger dans son voisinage; et son style amical et franc, plut\nextrêmement à madame Dashwood, qui n'avait pas soutenu de relation\navec ce parent éloigné qui la traitait avec tant d'obligeance, pendant\nqu'elle souffrait de la froideur et de l'insensibilité d'une parente\nbien plus proche.\n\nElle n'eut pas besoin de beaucoup de temps pour délibérer; sa\nrésolution fut prise avant que la lettre fût achevée. La situation de\nBarton, et la grande distance de Devonshire à Sussex, qui la veille\nencore aurait été un motif de refus, fut alors sa recommandation\nprincipale. Quitter le voisinage de Norland n'était plus un malheur;\nc'était une bénédiction, et plus elle serait loin de sa méchante\nbelle-fille, plus elle serait heureuse.\n\nElle annonçait donc sans différer à sir Georges Middleton, toute sa\nreconnaissance de ses bontés et sa prompte acceptation; elle se hâta\nensuite d'aller lire les deux lettres à ses filles, pour avoir leur\napprobation, avant d'envoyer sa réponse. Elinor avait toujours pensé\nqu'il serait plus prudent de s'établir à quelque distance de Norland;\nelle fut donc loin de s'opposer au désir de sa mère d'aller en\nDevonshire. La simplicité de leur demeure, le peu d'argent qu'elle\nleur coûterait, le voisinage et la protection d'un bon parent, tout\nallait à merveille suivant les désirs de sa raison. Son coeur\naurait voulu peut-être que la distance eût été moins grande, mais\nElinor lui imposa silence, donna son plein consentement, et prépara\ntout pour leur prompt départ.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE V.\n\n\nA peine la réponse fut partie, que madame Dashwood voulut se donner le\nplaisir d'annoncer à son beau-fils, et surtout à Fanny, qu'elle était\npourvue d'une demeure, et qu'elles ne les incommoderaient que peu de\njours encore pendant qu'on préparait leur habitation. Fanny ne dit\nrien, son mari exprima seulement qu'il espérait que ce ne serait pas\nloin de Norland. Madame Dashwood répondit avec l'air du plaisir que\nc'était en Devonshire. Edward qui était présent, et déjà fort triste\net silencieux, s'écria vivement avec l'expression de la surprise et du\nchagrin: En Devonshire, est-il possible! si loin d'ici! et dans quelle\npartie du Devonshire? Elle expliqua la situation: Barton-Park,\ndit-elle, est à quatre milles de la ville d'Exeter, et la maison que\nmon cousin nous offre touche presque à la sienne; ce n'est, dit-il,\nqu'une _chaumière_ qu'il arrangera commodément pour nous! J'espère que\nnos vrais amis ne dédaigneront pas de venir nous voir; et quelque\npetite que soit notre demeure, il y aura toujours place pour ceux qui\nne trouveront pas que la course soit trop longue. Elle conclut en\ninvitant poliment M. et madame John Dashwood à la visiter à Barton, et\ndemanda la même chose à Edward d'une manière plus pressante et plus\namicale. Malgré son dernier entretien avec madame John Dashwood qui\nl'avait décidée à quitter Norland, son espoir du mariage de sa fille\naînée avec Edward n'avait pas du tout diminué. Elle croyait que\nl'amour du jeune homme et le mérite d'Elinor aplaniraient tous les\nobstacles, et elle était bien aise de montrer à sa belle-fille, en\ninvitant son frère, que tout ce qu'elle avait dit là-dessus n'avait\npas eu le moindre effet; mais elle attendait encore celui de la\npromesse de John à son père, et le beau présent qu'il destinait sans\ndoute à ses soeurs. Elle attendit en vain, il fallut se contenter de\ncomplimens très-polis sur le regret d'être autant séparé d'elles, et\nsur ce que cette grande distance le privait même du plaisir de leur\nêtre utile pour le transport de leurs meubles et de leurs coffres:\ntout cela devait aller par eau. Madame John Dashwood eut le chagrin de\nvoir partir pour Barton les porcelaines et la vaisselle qu'elle avait\nenviées. Cependant ses belles-soeurs prièrent leur mère de lui laisser\nle beau déjeûner, qu'elle louait outre mesure, et qu'elle accepta\ncomme quelque chose qui lui serait dû. Elle soupira encore à chaque\nobjet de valeur qu'elle voyait empaqueter. «Il est bien dur,\npensait-elle, que des personnes dont le revenu est si inférieur au\nmien aient une maison aussi bien fournie que la mienne.» Le piano-forte\nde Maria, qui était de la première force sur cet instrument, était\nbeaucoup meilleur et plus beau que le sien; elle en fit la remarque\navec aigreur, et aurait volontiers accepté un échange, qui ne lui fut\npas proposé. Il n'y eut que les livres d'études qu'elle vit partir\nsans regret; elle en faisait peu d'usage, et son mari avait une belle\nbibliothèque, où il permit à ses soeurs de prendre quelques ouvrages\nfavoris qui leur manquaient: ce fut tout ce qu'elles eurent de lui,\navec une légère invitation de différer leur départ autant que cela\nleur conviendrait. J'ai promis à mon père, dit-il avec quelque\nembarras, de vous aider dans toutes les occasions, et je veux tenir\nma promesse; ainsi vous pouvez rester chez moi jusqu'à ce que tout\nsoit prêt à Barton pour vous recevoir. Alors seulement madame Dashwood\ncomprit qu'elle n'avait plus rien à en attendre. Il lui offrit encore\nde lui acheter (très-bon marché) les chevaux et le carosse que son\nmari lui avait laissés et qui, dit-il, ne seraient plus à son usage,\npuisque sans doute elle n'aurait point d'équipage. Madame Dashwood\naurait voulu pouvoir lui dire qu'à son âge elle pouvait encore moins\ns'en passer, et qu'elle voulait l'emmener; mais la prudente Elinor lui\nfit sentir qu'un équipage consumerait la moitié au moins de leur\nrevenu, et ne convenait guère dans une simple petite demeure. Elle\ncéda, ainsi que pour le nombre de leurs domestiques, qui fut fixé à\ntrois femmes et un valet-de-chambre, qu'elles choisirent parmi leurs\nanciens serviteurs, qui tous auraient voulu les suivre. Le laquais et\nune des femmes furent envoyés avec les effets pour préparer la maison\nà recevoir leur maîtresse.\n\nComme lady Middleton était entièrement inconnue à madame Dashwood,\nelle préféra d'aller directement s'établir à la chaumière, plutôt que\nd'être en visite au château de Barton-Park. Il lui tardait à présent\nd'être chez elle; elle ne voulait plus avoir d'obligation à personne\npour son entretien; elle se voyait en perspective heureuse, tranquille,\nn'entendant plus aucun propos désagréable, et ne regrettait plus\naucune de ces jouissances de luxe. Comment aurait-elle envié quelque\nchose à son beau-fils, il ne cessait de se plaindre des dépenses\nexcessives que lui coûtait à présent l'entretien d'une grande maison,\nd'un nombreux domestique: un homme riche, répétait-il, est condamné\nd'avoir sans cesse sa bourse à la main, et c'est très-désagréable.\nPauvre John! disait madame Dashwood, il semble avoir bien plus\nd'envie d'augmenter son argent que d'en donner.\n\nLe jour de leur départ arriva enfin, et quoique bien aise à quelques\négards de s'éloigner de Norland, bien des larmes furent versées en le\nquittant. Cher, cher Norland, disait Maria en se promenant seule la\nveille de son départ sur le boulingrin devant la maison, demeure si\nlong-temps celle du bonheur quand cesserai-je de vous regretter?\nquand apprendrai-je à me trouver bien ailleurs? Hélas! mes pieds ne\nfouleront plus ce gazon, mes yeux ne verront plus cette contrée où\nj'étais autrefois si heureuse! Et vous beaux arbres, je ne verrai\nplus le balancement de votre feuillage, je ne me reposerai plus sous\nvotre bienfaisant ombrage: je pars, je vous quitte, et ici tout\nrestera de même, aucune feuille ne séchera par mon absence, aucun\noiseau n'interrompra son chant; que vous importe qui vous voie, qui\nvous entende. Désormais personne, non personne au monde ne vous\nverra, ne vous entendra avec autant de plaisir que moi. Ainsi Maria\nexcitait elle-même sa sensibilité et son chagrin, et versait des\nlarmes amères sur tout ce qu'elle laissait, pendant qu'Elinor, qui\nregrettait bien autre chose que des arbres et des oiseaux,\ns'efforçait de surmonter, ou du moins de cacher ses regrets pour ne\npas affliger sa mère.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE VI.\n\n\nLa première partie de leur voyage se passa dans une disposition\nmélancolique qui leur convenait trop bien pour être un sentiment\npénible; mais en avançant dans la contrée qu'elles devaient habiter,\nun intérêt, une curiosité bien naturelle surmonta leur tristesse, et\nla vue de la charmante vallée de Barton, la changea presque en gaîté.\nC'est un pays cultivé, agréable, bien boisé, et riche en beaux\npâturages. Après l'avoir traversé pendant un mille, elles arrivèrent\nà leur maison: une petite cour gazonnée la séparait du chemin; une\njolie porte à clair-voie en fermait l'entrée. La maison, à laquelle\nsir Georges avait donné le nom trop modeste de _Chaumière_, n'était\nni grande ni ornée, mais commode et bien arrangée; le bâtiment\nrégulier, le toît point couvert en chaume, mais en belle ardoise; les\ncontrevents n'étaient pas peints en vert, ni les murailles couvertes\nde chèvrefeuille; elle avait plutôt l'air d'une jolie ferme ou petite\nmaison de campagne. Une allée au rez-de-chaussée traversait la\nmaison, et conduisait de la cour au jardin. De chaque côté de\nl'entrée il y avait deux chambres environ de seize pieds en carré, et\nderrière se trouvaient la cuisine et les escaliers; quatre chambres à\ncoucher et deux cabinets dans le haut formaient le reste de la\nmaison: elle était bâtie depuis peu d'années, et très-propre. En\ncomparaison de l'immense château de Norland, c'était sans doute une\nchétive demeure; mais si ce souvenir fit couler quelques larmes,\nelles furent bientôt séchées. En entrant dans la maison, chacune\nd'elles s'efforça de paraître heureuse et contente, et bientôt elles\nle furent en effet; la joie avec laquelle leurs bons domestiques les\nreçurent, en les félicitant de leur heureuse arrivée dans cette jolie\nhabitation, dont ils étaient enchantés, se communiqua à leur coeur.\nAu grand château de Norland ils étaient confondus dans le nombre des\nserviteurs; dans cette petite maison, plus rapprochés de leurs\nmaîtresses, ils devenaient presque des amis. La saison aussi\ncontribuait à égayer leur établissement, on était au commencement de\nseptembre, le temps était beau et serein, ce qui n'est point\nindifférent. Un beau jour, un ciel pur et sans nuage répandent un\ncharme de plus sur les objets qu'on voit pour la première fois; on\nreçoit d'abord une impression favorable qui ne s'efface plus dans la\nsuite.\n\nLa situation de la maison était charmante, des collines s'élevaient\nimmédiatement derrière et la garantissaient du vent du nord; des deux\ncôtés s'étendaient des plaines, les unes ouvertes et cultivées,\nd'autres boisées. Le beau village de Barton était situé sur une de\nces collines, et faisait une vue très agréable des fenêtres de la\nmaison; au devant elle était plus étendue et commandait la vallée\nentière, et même la contrée adjacente. Les collines rapprochées de la\nchaumière terminaient le vallon dans cette direction; mais sous un\nautre nom il s'étendait au-delà et se laissait apercevoir entre les\ndeux pentes des collines les plus escarpées, ce qui formait en face\nde la chaumière un point de vue enchanteur.\n\nMadame Dashwood fut d'abord très satisfaite de la maison sous tous\nles rapports; ce qui manquait même à quelqu'un accoutumé à plus de\ngrandeur et d'élégance, était pour elle une source de jouissances. Un\nde ses plus grands plaisirs était d'augmenter et d'embellir ses\ndemeures; comme dans ce moment elle venait de vendre son équipage et\nquelques meubles de trop, elle avait de l'argent tout prêt pour\nsuppléer à ce qui pouvait manquer aux appartemens. Pour la maison\nelle-même (disait-elle) il est sûr qu'elle est trop petite pour notre\nfamille, mais nous tâcherons de nous y arranger pour le moment; la\nsaison est trop avancée pour rien entreprendre. Mais si j'ai assez\nd'argent au printemps, et j'ose répondre que j'en aurai, nous\npourrons alors penser à bâtir: ces chambres ne sont, ni l'une ni\nl'autre, assez grandes pour y rassembler tous les amis qui viendront\nchez moi, comme je l'espère; mais j'ai dans l'esprit de réunir ce\npassage, et même une partie de l'une des chambres avec l'autre, pour\navoir un joli salon. Le reste servira d'antichambre en ajoutant une\naîle à la maison; on aurait de plus dans le bas un petit salon\nlorsqu'on n'est qu'en famille: au-dessus une chambre à coucher, une\nde domestique dans la mansarde, et nous aurons alors une charmante\npetite maison. Il serait à souhaiter aussi que l'escalier fût plus\nbeau, mais on ne peut pas tout avoir, quoique je suppose qu'il ne\nserait pas difficile de l'élargir. Enfin nous verrons ce que j'aurai\ndevant moi au printemps, et je m'arrangerai en conséquence pour mon\nplan.\n\nEn attendant que ces réparations pussent se faire, sur un revenu de\ncinq cents pièces par une femme qui n'en avait jamais économisé une\nen sa vie, elles furent assez sages pour se contenter de la maison\ntelle qu'elle était. Elinor laissa sa mère s'amuser de ses projets,\net, sans la contredire, se promit bien qu'ils ne seraient pas\nexécutés. Chacune d'elles se mit à s'arranger de son mieux; leurs\nlivres et leurs jolis meubles furent placés de la manière la plus\ncommode pour en jouir à chaque instant. Le bon piano de Maria dans la\nchambre de réunion qui prit le nom de salon, et les beaux dessins\nd'Elinor en ornèrent les murs recouverts d'un simple papier uni avec\nune jolie bordure. Elles étaient au milieu de cette occupation,\nlorsqu'elles furent interrompues par la visite du propriétaire, sir\nGeorges Middleton, qui venait leur souhaiter la bienvenue, et leur\noffrir tout ce qui pourrait leur être utile dans les premiers momens;\ntout ce qu'il y avait dans sa maison et dans ses jardins était à leur\nservice. Il connaissait déja madame Dashwood, lui ayant précédemment\nfait une visite à Stanhill, mais il y avait trop long-temps pour que\nses jeunes cousines pussent se rappeler de lui. C'était un homme\nd'environ quarante ans, d'une belle et bonne figure; la joie et la\nsanté respiraient sur sa physionomie; sa manière franche et amicale\nressemblait au style de ses lettres. L'arrivée de ses parentes\nparaissait lui causer la plus grande satisfaction, et leur félicité\nlui donner une réelle sollicitude. Il exprima avec une extrême\ncordialité son désir de vivre ensemble en bons voisins, amis et\nparens, et les pressa si instamment de venir dîner tous les jours\nchez lui jusqu'à ce que leur établissement fût formé, que quoiqu'il\ninsistât un peu au-delà de la politesse, elles ne purent en être\noffensées ni s'y refuser.\n\nSa bonté n'était pas seulement en paroles, car une heure après les\navoir laissées, elles reçurent un panier plein de beaux fruits et de\nbons légumes, lequel fut suivi avant la fin du jour d'un présent de\ngibier. Il insista aussi pour faire chercher ou envoyer leurs lettres\nà la poste avec les siennes, et leur faire passer chaque jour les\npapiers nouvelles.\n\nLady Middleton avait envoyé par son mari un message fort poli: son\nintention, disait-elle, était de les voir dès qu'elle serait sûre de\nne pas les embarrasser; et comme la réponse tout aussi polie\ntémoignait l'impatience de faire sa connaissance, Milady fit son\nintroduction à _Barton-Chaumière_, le jour suivant.\n\nMadame Dashwood et ses filles avaient en effet assez de curiosité de\nvoir une personne qui aurait autant d'influence sur leur agrément\njournalier, et la première apparence leur fut on ne peut plus\nfavorable. Lady Middleton n'avait que vingt-six ou vingt-sept ans;\nelle était belle, ses traits réguliers, sa figure gracieuse, sa\ntaille élégante et élancée; et son maintien plein de grace prévenait\nd'abord extrêmement; elle avait toute la mesure et l'élégance dont\nsir Georges était dépourvu, mais on regrettait bientôt qu'elle n'eût\npas un peu de sa franchise. Sa visite fut assez longue pour diminuer\npeu à peu l'admiration que son premier abord avait excitée. Elle\nétait sans doute parfaitement bien élevée, mais froide, réservée,\nsans aucun mouvement, et sa conversation, en très bons termes et très\nsoignée, était aussi très insipide, et n'allait pas au-delà des lieux\ncommuns.\n\nL'entretien cependant se soutint assez bien, grace au babil non\ninterrompu de sir Georges, et au soin que lady Middleton avait eu\nd'amener son fils aîné, un beau petit garçon de six ans, qui dans un\npareil cas est un sujet inépuisable, lorsqu'on n'en a pas d'autre à\ntraiter. On s'informe de son âge, de son nom, on admire sa beauté, on\nle trouve grand ou petit pour son âge, on lui fait des questions\nauxquelles sa mère répond pour lui, pendant que l'enfant penché sur\nelle, chiffonne sa robe, baisse sa tête et ne dit mot, à la grande\nsurprise de sa maman, qui s'étonne de sa timidité en compagnie, et\nraconte comme il est bruyant à la maison et toutes ses gentillesses.\nDans les visites de cérémonie, un enfant devrait être de la partie,\ncomme une provision de discours. Dans celle-ci dix minutes au moins\nfurent employées à déterminer si le petit ressemblait à son père ou à\nsa mère, en quoi il leur ressemblait: chacun était d'un avis\ndifférent, ce qui anima encore l'entretien.\n\nElles eurent bientôt l'occasion de discuter sur les autres enfans,\nmilady en avait quatre, et sir Georges ne voulut pas partir sans\navoir leur promesse positive de dîner au parc le lendemain.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE VII.\n\n\nBarton-Park était tout au plus à un demi mille de la _Chaumière_; les\nquatre dames avaient passé très près en traversant la vallée; mais\nune colline l'avait dérobé à leur vue. Le bâtiment était grand et\nbeau, et tel que doit l'être la demeure d'un riche gentilhomme qui\nfait un bel usage de sa fortune, et qui reçoit chez lui avec\nhospitalité et avec élégance: la première regardait le baronnet, et\nla seconde sa femme. Sir Georges tenait à avoir toujours sa maison\nremplie de ses amis et de ses connaissances; et lady Middleton à ce\nque sa maison fût citée comme celle de tout le comté qui était montée\nsur le meilleur ton. La société leur était nécessaire à tous deux,\nquoique leur manière de recevoir fût très différente; ils avaient\ncependant un grand rapport dans le manque total de talens et de\nmoyens pour employer leur temps dans la retraite. Sir Georges n'était\nqu'un bon vivant et un habile chasseur, et sa femme une belle dame et\nune mère faible, sans autre occupation que d'arranger avec élégance\nses chambres et sa personne, et de gâter ses enfans d'un bout de\nl'année à l'autre. Les plaisirs de sir Georges étaient plus variés:\ntantôt il chassait le renard; tantôt il tuait du gibier pour sa table\net celle de ses amis; tantôt il recevait du monde chez lui; tantôt il\nallait en chercher ailleurs. Jamais ils n'étaient seuls en famille,\net ce mouvement continuel du grand monde avait l'avantage\nd'entretenir la bonne humeur du mari, de développer les talens de la\nfemme pour une bonne tenue de maison, et de cacher leur ignorance et\nle rétrécissement de leurs idées. Lady Middleton était contente au\npossible lorsqu'on vantait l'ordonnance de sa table, la recherche de\nses meubles, et la jolie figure de ses enfans; elle ne demandait pas\nd'autre jouissance. Il fallait de plus à sir Georges que la compagnie\nqu'il rassemblait s'amusât beaucoup, ou du moins en eût l'air; plus\nson salon était rempli de jeunes gens bien gais, plus on y faisait de\nbruit, plus il était content. C'était une bénédiction pour toute la\njeunesse du voisinage, à laquelle il ne cessait de donner et de\nprocurer des plaisirs. Pendant l'été il arrangeait continuellement de\ncharmantes parties de campagne, des haltes de chasse dans ses bois,\ndes promenades nombreuses à cheval, en phaëton, et dès que l'hiver\narrivait, les bals étaient assez fréquens chez lui pour satisfaire\nles danseurs les plus intrépides, à la tête desquels il était encore\navec l'ardeur et la gaîté de vingt ans. L'arrivée d'une nouvelle\nfamille dans les environs lui causait toujours une grande joie, s'il\ny avait surtout des jeunes gens en âge d'augmenter le nombre de ses\nconvives, ensorte qu'il fut enchanté sous tous les rapports des\nnouveaux habitans de sa jolie chaumière. Trois charmantes jeunes\nfilles, simples, naturelles, n'ayant aucune prétention, aucune\naffectation; une mère bonne, indulgente, qui n'avait pas de plus\ngrands plaisirs que ceux de ses enfans: c'était vraiment une\nacquisition précieuse. Elles avaient encore pour lui un mérite de\nplus, celui d'avoir été malheureuses par le changement subit de leur\nsituation. Son bon coeur trouvait une satisfaction réelle en\nétablissant ses cousines près de lui, et en leur rendant la vie assez\ndouce pour qu'elles n'eussent aucun regret de leur opulence passée.\nElles auront, pensait-il, une aussi bonne table et plus d'amusement\nqu'elles n'en avaient dans leur grand château pendant la vie de leur\noncle, et sans doute elles trouveront qu'un joyeux cousin vaut encore\nmieux.\n\nDès qu'il les vit de sa fenêtre arriver à Barton-Park, il courut\nau-devant d'elles pour les introduire dans sa demeure, où il les\nreçut avec sa bonhomie et sa gaîté ordinaires, en leur disant qu'il\nespérait qu'elles y viendraient presque tous les jours. «Je n'ai\nqu'un chagrin, leur dit-il, en les conduisant au salon, c'est de ne\npas avoir pu donner de jeunesse aujourd'hui à mes petites cousines;\non aurait pu danser un peu dans la soirée, et à votre âge cela fait\ntoujours plaisir. J'ai couru ce matin chez plusieurs de mes voisins\ndans l'espoir d'avoir un nombreux rassemblement, et mon malheur a\nvoulu qu'ils fussent tous engagés; vous voudrez bien m'excuser cette\nfois, cela n'arrivera plus je vous le promets. Vous trouverez donc\nseulement aujourd'hui un gentilhomme de mes intimes amis, qui passe\nquelque temps au Parc, mais qui n'est malheureusement ni bien jeune,\nni bien gai. J'ai vu le moment où nous n'aurions absolument que lui,\nheureusement madame Jennings, la mère de ma femme est arrivée il y a\nune heure pour passer quelque temps avec nous, et celle-là est aussi\ngaie, aussi animée, aussi agréable que si elle n'avait que dix-huit\nans. Ainsi j'espère que mes jeunes cousines ne s'ennuieront pas trop.\nMadame Dashwood trouvera là une bonne maman avec qui elle pourra\ns'entretenir, et demain tout ira mieux et nous serons plus nombreux.»\nElles l'assurèrent toutes les trois qu'elles étaient enchantées qu'il\nn'y eût pas plus de monde, et qu'elles n'en désiraient pas davantage.\n\nMadame Jennings, la mère de lady Middleton, était une femme entre\ndeux âges, avec assez d'embonpoint, aussi gaie que son gendre,\nparlant beaucoup, et ayant l'air si contente, si heureuse, si\namicale, qu'on était d'abord avec elle aussi à son aise qu'avec une\nancienne connaissance; sa manière était un peu commune, et\ncontrastait plaisamment avec celle de sa fille. Elle se mit d'abord\nsur le ton de la plaisanterie avec les jeunes Dashwood; elle leur\nparla d'amour, de mariage, leur demanda si elles avaient laissé leur\ncoeur à Sussex, et prétendait les avoir vues rougir.\n\nMaria souffrait pour sa soeur, et la regardait de manière à\nl'embarrasser beaucoup plus que les railleries de madame Jennings.\n\nLe colonel Brandon, l'ami de sir Georges, ne lui ressemblait pas plus\nque lady Middleton ne ressemblait à sa mère. Il était grave et\nsilencieux; sa figure n'avait rien de déplaisant, malgré l'opinion de\nMaria, qui lui trouvait, disait-elle, toute la mine d'un vieux\ncélibataire; il n'avait cependant que trente-cinq ans, mais c'est\nêtre vieux en effet pour une fille de dix-huit ans. D'ailleurs le\nsoleil de l'Inde, où il avait séjourné long-temps et fait la guerre,\navait bruni son teint, ce qui avec sa gravité lui donnait l'air plus\nâgé. Mais sans être beau, sa physionomie avait quelque chose de\nsensible, qui le rendait intéressant, et toute sa manière avait de la\nnoblesse. Il plut beaucoup à Elinor, quoiqu'il fît peu d'attention à\nelle, et qu'il regardât souvent Maria, dont la figure était en effet\nplus frappante. Il parla fort peu, mais son silence même et sa\ngravité étaient plus agréables aux dames Dashwood, que les\nplaisanteries un peu trop familières de madame Jennings, la joie un\npeu trop bruyante de son gendre, et la froide insipidité de lady\nMiddleton, qui n'était occupée que du service de sa table. Ses idées\nprirent un instant un autre cours par l'entrée bruyante de ses quatre\nenfans, qui se jetèrent tous à-la-fois sur elle, déchirèrent sa robe,\nse disputèrent, pleurèrent, firent un tapage affreux, et occupèrent à\neux seuls la compagnie pendant le temps qu'ils en firent partie. A\ndéfaut d'autres amusemens, leur père joua avec eux, et l'on n'eut un\npeu de repos que lorsque l'heure de leur coucher arriva.\n\nDans la soirée on découvrit que Maria était musicienne et on la pria\nde se mettre au piano; l'instrument fut ouvert, et chacun l'entoura\nen préparant d'avance ses éloges. On la pria de chanter, ce qu'elle\nfit très-bien, et à la requête de sir Georges, elle chanta à livre\nouvert un épithalame dont on avait composé la musique et les paroles\npour son mariage, et qui depuis lors était resté dans la même\nposition sur le piano. Lady Middleton raconta que le jour de ses\nnoces, elle avait donné un beau concert très bien exécuté; sa mère\najouta qu'elle avait beaucoup de talent, et que c'était grand dommage\nqu'elle l'eût négligé. Lady Middleton répondit d'un ton glacé,\nqu'elle aimait la musique avec passion, mais qu'une maîtresse de\nmaison, une mère de famille, n'avait plus un seul moment à y donner.\n\nLe jeu de Maria fut extrêmement applaudi, mais sir Georges exprimait\nson admiration si haut et frappait si fort des mains, même pendant le\nchant, qu'à peine on pouvait l'entendre. Lady Middleton lui imposait\nsilence, s'étonnait qu'on pût dire un mot quand on entendait une\nmusique aussi délicieuse qui captivait toute son attention et\ndemandait ensuite à Maria un air qu'elle venait de finir, sans que\nlady Middleton l'eût remarqué. Madame Jennings aussi fut très-vive\ndans ses applaudissemens; mais on voyait que sans s'y entendre du\ntout elle était vraiment amusée et contente, et qu'elle voulait\nencourager la jeune musicienne. Le colonel Brandon seul fit peu\nd'éloges, mais il avait l'air ému et touché. Maria le remarqua au son\nde sa voix, lorsqu'il lui fit un léger compliment, et lui en sut plus\nde gré que s'il avait exprimé, comme les autres, un ravissement\nexagéré et sans goût ni connaissance de l'art. Elle vit qu'il aimait\nréellement la musique pour la musique elle-même, et s'il n'y mettait\npas l'enthousiasme qui pouvait répondre au sien, elle n'en accusa que\nson âge. Il sent encore, disait-elle à sa soeur, le charme d'une\nbonne musique, mais il n'en est plus transporté comme on l'est dans\nla jeunesse; et c'est tout simple, on se calme avec les années, et\nmoi-même si j'arrive une fois à trente cinq ans, je deviendrai\npeut-être plus raisonnable, mais il y a encore bien du temps jusqu'à\nce que j'aie atteint et l'âge et la froideur du bon colonel Brandon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE VIII.\n\n\nMadame Jennings était veuve d'un homme qui avait fait une grande\nfortune dans le commerce; elle en avait eu un ample douaire, et deux\nfilles riches et jolies, qui furent bientôt mariées. Elle venait de\nmarier la cadette depuis quelques mois, et n'avait plus rien à faire\nque de marier le reste du monde: car selon elle, il n'y avait de\nbonheur sur la terre que dans un bon mariage. D'après cette opinion,\net la bonté de son coeur, elle n'était occupée qu'à projeter des\nnoces entre les jeunes gens de sa connaissance; elle y mettait un\nzèle et une activité extrêmes, et faisait tout ce qui dépendait\nd'elle, pour amener, disait-elle, _les choses à bien_. Elle avait une\nhabileté remarquable pour découvrir les attachemens réciproques, même\navant ceux qui devaient les éprouver; elle avait plus d'une fois pris\nla rougeur de la vanité pour celle de l'amour, en disant à l'oreille\nd'une jeune personne, que monsieur un tel, avait une ardente passion\npour elle, qu'elle en était sûre, etc., etc. Le jour même de son\narrivée, en suivant les regards du colonel Brandon, et en l'examinant\npendant que Maria chantait, elle eut le prompt discernement de\ndécouvrir qu'il en était passionnément amoureux. Le second jour la\nconfirma dans cette idée. Il ne lui parlait point et la regardait\nsouvent; signe certain d'amour: il ne louait pas son chant, mais il\nécoutait avec attention; signe d'amour. Une fois elle avait entendu\nun soupir étouffé, elle en était sûre, et alors il n'y eut plus le\nmoindre doute. Ce sera, dit-elle, un charmant mariage des deux côtés,\ncar il est riche et elle est belle. Depuis que madame Jennings avait\nappris à connaître le colonel chez son gendre, elle avait un vif\ndésir de le marier, et dès qu'elle voyait une jeune fille, elle avait\nenvie de lui procurer un bon mari. Elle trouvait ici une double\njouissance, pour elle-même dans le plaisir de railler le colonel\nquand il était au Park, et Maria quand elle allait à la chaumière. Le\ncolonel répondait peu de chose, peut-être était-il flatté, peut-être\nindifférent; mais Maria ne comprit pas d'abord ce que madame Jennings\nvoulait dire, et quand enfin cette dernière se fut expliquée plus\nclairement, elle ne savait si elle devait rire de cette absurdité ou\nse mettre en colère de ce qui lui paraissait une impertinence, non\npas pour elle; il lui était assez égal d'avoir fait ou non la\nconquête du vieux colonel: mais elle trouvait mauvais qu'on ne\nrespectât pas son âge, et croyait que les railleries de madame\nJennings ne pouvaient porter que sur lui. Ce n'est peut-être pas la\nfaute de ce bon colonel s'il n'est pas marié, disait-elle à sa mère\net à sa soeur, et c'est bien mal à madame Jennings de se moquer\nainsi de lui.\n\nMadame Dashwood qui n'avait que cinq ans de plus que le colonel, ne\nle trouvait pas aussi vieux qu'il le paraissait à la jeune\nimagination de sa fille; elle voulut justifier au moins madame\nJennings de l'intention de jeter du ridicule sur son âge.\n\n--Mais au moins, maman, dit Maria, vous ne pouvez nier l'absurdité de\ncette accusation, et si ce n'est pas méchanceté, c'est du moins\nprofonde bêtise. Le colonel Brandon est peut-être un peu moins âgé\nque madame Jennings, mais il est assez vieux pour être mon père; et\nmême en supposant qu'un homme puisse encore être amoureux à son âge,\nce n'est du moins pas le colonel qui a l'air si grave, si sérieux, et\nqui sent déjà les infirmités de la vieillesse.\n\n--Les infirmités! s'écria Elinor! ou prenez-vous cela, Maria? le\ncolonel Brandon infirme! Je peux aisément supposer qu'il vous\nparaisse plus vieux qu'à ma mère, mais non pas que vous le trouviez\ninfirme; il a l'air de la meilleure santé.\n\n--Ne l'avez-vous pas entendu se plaindre hier de rhumatisme? N'est-ce\npas la maladie la plus commune aux vieillards? N'a-t-il pas dit qu'il\nvoulait mettre une veste de flanelle? et la flanelle ne vous\nprésente-t-elle pas l'idée de la vieillesse et de tous les maux qui\nen sont la suite? Pour moi, je le vois d'abord avec la veste de\nflanelle, la crampe, la goutte, les douleurs, le rhumatisme, et tout\nce qui s'en suit.\n\n--S'il s'était plaint d'un violent accès de fièvre, Maria, vous\nauriez trouvé au contraire que cela lui aurait ôté bien des années.\nConvenez qu'il y a quelque chose de très-intéressant dans un accès de\nfièvre? Ces yeux brillans, ces joues colorées, ce mouvement accéléré\ndu pouls vous plairaient beaucoup plus qu'un léger rhumatisme à\nl'épaule, dont le colonel se plaignait hier par un jour froid et\nhumide.\n\nMaria sourit d'abord de ce badinage, puis tomba dans la rêverie; un\ninstant après elle demanda à sa soeur un livre que celle-ci avait\ndans sa chambre. Elinor sortit pour aller le chercher; dès qu'elle\nfut dehors, Maria s'approcha vivement de sa mère. J'ai pris ce\nprétexte de renvoyer Elinor, lui dit-elle, pour vous parler d'une\ncrainte qui m'a saisie tout-à-coup quand elle a parlé de fièvre. Je\nsuis sûre qu'Edward Ferrars est très-malade, ne le pensez-vous pas\naussi? Voici quinze jours que nous sommes ici, et il n'y a pas encore\nparu: rien autre chose qu'une maladie sérieuse ne peut expliquer ce\nretard. Qu'est-ce qui pourrait le retenir à Norland quand Elinor est\nici? Je ne comprends pas qu'elle ne soit pas aussi malade\nd'inquiétude.\n\n--Aviez-vous donc quelque idée qu'il dût venir aussitôt, répondit\nmadame Dashwood? Je ne le croyais pas, bien au contraire; si j'avais\neu sur lui quelque inquiétude, ç'aurait été plutôt en me rappelant\nqu'il n'avait pas eu beaucoup d'empressement à accepter mon\ninvitation quand je le priai de venir nous voir. Est-ce donc\nqu'Elinor l'attendait déjà?\n\n--Nous n'en avons point parlé, maman, mais il me semble que cela va\nsans dire.\n\n--Moi, je crois, ma fille, que vous vous trompez; je lui parlai hier\nde quelques petites réparations à faire à la chambre destinée aux\nvisiteurs; elle observa que rien ne pressait, et que de long-temps\ncette chambre ne serait occupée.\n\n--C'est bien singulier, dit Maria! Quelle peut être leur idée! au\nreste toute leur conduite est inexplicable d'un bout à l'autre. Si\nvous aviez vu la froideur de leur dernier adieu, si vous aviez\nentendu comme leur entretien était simple et presque languissant la\ndernière soirée. Edward ne mit aucune distinction dans ses adieux\nentre Elinor et moi; c'étaient pour toutes deux les bons souhaits\nd'un frère affectionne, et rien, rien de plus pour elle. Quelquefois\nje les laissais exprès, croyant peut-être qu'ils étaient gênés par ma\nprésence; eh bien! croiriez-vous qu'il restât près d'elle? Il sortait\navec moi, ou immédiatement après. Et Elinor! elle ne pleurait pas\nmême autant que moi en quittant Norland, et actuellement elle a\ntout-à-fait l'air consolée. La voit-on abattue, mélancolique?\nCherche-t-elle à éviter la société? Parait-elle seulement distraite\nou rêveuse? Non, maman, je ne sais plus qu'en penser, elle déroute\ntoutes mes notions sur l'amour.\n\n--Et les miennes aussi, dit madame Dashwood; mais Elinor est si sage,\nsi raisonnable, que nous ne pouvons pas nous permettre de la\ncondamner.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE IX.\n\n\nLa famille Dashwood était actuellement tout-à-fait établie à Barton,\net s'y trouvait mieux de jour en jour. Leur habitation simple et\ncommode, leur petit jardin, tout ce qui les entourait leur était\ndevenu familier; et leurs occupations journalières, qui avaient tant\nd'attrait pour ces jeunes personnes à Norland, avant la mort de leur\nbon père, et qui depuis ce triste événement avaient perdu plus de la\nmoitié de leur charme, se retrouvaient en entier dans cette demeure.\nElles n'éprouvaient que des sentimens doux et consolans, et la mère\net les trois filles ne cessaient de se féliciter de leur changement\nde demeure. Sir Georges Middleton venait les visiter tous les matins,\net n'ayant pas l'habitude de voir sa femme occupée à rien d'agréable\nou d'utile, il ne pouvait assez s'étonner de les trouver toujours à\ntravailler ou à étudier. Elles n'avaient presque pas d'autres visites\nque la sienne; car malgré ses sollicitations réitérées de leur faire\nfaire connaissance avec tout son voisinage, en leur disant que son\néquipage serait toujours à leur service, l'esprit indépendant de\nmadame Dashwood s'y était absolument refusé, et l'avait emporté même\nsur son désir de l'amusement de ses filles. Elle déclara positivement\nqu'elle ne verrait que les personnes chez qui elle pourrait aller à\npied en se promenant. Le nombre de celles-là était fort borné, et\nmême la maison la plus rapprochée de la chaumière, après le park, ne\nleur offrait pas de ressource de société. Dans une de leurs\nexcursions du matin, les jeunes filles avaient découvert, environ à\nun mille et demi de la chaumière, dans l'étroite et charmante vallée\nd'Altenham, qui suivait celle de Barton, un ancien et respectable\nchâteau, qui en leur rappelant celui de Norland, intéressa leur\nimagination, et piqua leur curiosité. Elles s'informèrent à qui il\nappartenait; elles apprirent avec regret que c'était à une dame âgée,\nd'un très-excellent caractère, nommée madame Smith, mais malheureusement\ntrop infirme pour être en société, qu'elle ne sortait jamais de chez\nelle, et n'y recevait personne.\n\nToute la contrée abondait en promenades délicieuses et variées. La\nvallée offrait dans les jours de chaleur des ombrages frais, et de\npresque toutes les fenêtres de la maison, l'on voyait des collines\nqui invitaient d'aller respirer sur leur sommet un air pur et\nvivifiant, et d'aller admirer les plus beaux points de vue. Il avait\nplu pendant deux jours, et les habitantes de la chaumière avaient été\nretenues chez elles. Dans la matinée du troisième jour, le temps\nétait encore douteux, mais Maria, ennuyée de la retraite, voulut\nfaire une promenade: on apercevait quelques rayons de soleil à\ntravers des nuages pluvieux. Madame Dashwood et Elinor refusèrent de\nl'accompagner; l'une préféra ses livres, et l'autre, ses pinceaux, au\ndanger d'être mouillées. Maria persista, assura que le temps serait\nparfait au haut de la colline, et prenant sous le bras sa petite\nsoeur Emma, toujours en train de courir, elles prirent le chemin de\nla colline la plus rapprochée. Elles la montèrent avec gaîté, riant\nde la peur de leur maman et de leur soeur Elinor, se félicitant\nd'avoir eu plus de courage, admirant comme le ciel devenait bleu,\ncomme l'herbe et le feuillage étaient verts et rafraîchis, comme un\nair agréable soufflait autour d'elles. Non, disait Maria, il n'y a\npoint au monde de félicité supérieure! Emma, si tu le veux, nous nous\npromènerons au moins pendant deux heures.\n\nDe tout mon coeur, dit la petite, et je plains bien Elinor et maman\nde n'être pas avec nous.\n\nAinsi s'encourageant l'une l'autre, elles poursuivirent leur route,\nquoique le ciel commençât de s'obscurcir, et le vent d'être plus\nfort, quand soudainement les nuages réunis au-dessus de leur tête\nfondirent en eau, et qu'une averse de grosse pluie tomba sur elles.\n\nSurprises et chagrines, elles s'arrêtèrent; pas un arbre, pas un\nabri! Elles étaient alors au-dessus de la colline, et la maison la\nplus rapprochée était leur chaumière. Nous serons bientôt en bas, dit\nEmma en prenant sa course; on descend bien plus vîte qu'on ne monte:\nviens, Maria, prenons le sentier qui mène directement devant notre\nporte. Maria s'élance aussi, et dans leur robe blanche, descendant\naussi rapidement, elles devaient ressembler, à quelque distance, aux\nboules de neige qui commencent les avalanches. Maria était sur le\npoint d'atteindre sa soeur, lorsqu'un faux pas sur cette pente\nrapide et glissante la fait tomber. Emma la voit à terre, entend son\ncri, mais involontairement entraînée par la vîtesse de sa course, il\nlui est impossible de s'arrêter pour aller à son secours. Elle arrive\nau bas de la colline en sûreté, et court dans la maison, pour que\nleur domestique vienne soutenir sa soeur, si par malheur elle ne\npeut pas marcher seule.\n\nUn gentilhomme avec un fusil et deux chiens qui le suivaient avait\npassé sur la colline, et se trouvait à vingt pas de Maria quand son\naccident lui arriva; il jeta son fusil, et courut pour lui aider à se\nrelever. Elle-même l'avait essayé, mais son pied s'était trouvé\nengagé, et elle s'était donné une telle entorse, qu'il lui fût\nimpossible de rester debout. Elle venait de retomber encore, et\nparaissait souffrir beaucoup, quand le chasseur arriva près d'elle.\nIl lui offrit ses services; mais voyant que sa modestie refusait ce\nque sa situation rendait nécessaire, il l'enleva dans ses bras sans\nqu'elle pût s'en défendre, et d'un pas sûr et ferme, quoique très\nprompt, il la porta au bas de la colline. La porte de leur jardin\nn'était qu'à quelques pas; Emma l'avait laissée ouverte: il y entra,\nle traversa rapidement, et suivant immédiatement Emma qui venait\nd'arriver et qui ouvrait la porte de la chambre, il y porta Maria, et\nne la quitta que quand il l'eût placée dans un fauteuil.\n\nElinor et sa mère se levèrent en grande surprise lorsqu'ils\nentrèrent, elles ne comprenaient rien à ce qu'elles voyaient. Emma et\nle beau jeune homme (car il était jeune et beau) parlaient à la fois:\nla douleur de Maria et la confusion de la manière dont elle avait été\namenée lui imposaient silence. Madame Dashwood fit taire Emma, et\nl'_ange gardien_ de Maria (car il ressemblait vraiment à un ange), en\ndemandant excuse de la manière dont il s'était introduit, raconta ce\nqui en était la cause, avec tant de grace et de sensibilité, que\nl'admiration déjà excitée par une figure d'une beauté remarquable,\nredoubla encore par le son de sa voix et par son expression. Quand il\naurait été vieux, laid et d'une figure commune, la reconnaissance de\nmadame Dashwood aurait été la même pour le service rendu à son enfant\nchéri, mais l'influence de la jeunesse, de la beauté, de l'élégance,\ndonna un intérêt de plus à cette action, et réveilla tous ses\nsentimens.\n\nElle le remercia mille et mille fois, et avec cette douceur, cette\npolitesse qui régnaient dans toutes ses manières, elle l'invita de\ns'asseoir; mais il s'y refusa absolument étant très-mouillé, et\npensant que la malade avait besoin de soins, que sa présence\nretardait peut-être. Il prit congé de ces dames; madame Dashwood\nn'insista pas, mais le pria de lui faire au moins connaître à qui\nelle avait cette obligation. Il répondit que son nom était\nWilloughby, et sa demeure actuelle le château d'Altenham, qu'il\nespérait qu'on voudrait lui permettre de venir le lendemain\ns'informer du pied foulé de mademoiselle Dashwood; ce qui lui fut\naccordé avec plaisir. Il partit alors, et, pour se rendre encore plus\nintéressant, par des torrens de pluie.\n\nAussitôt que le pied de Maria fut pansé, et même en le soignant,\nl'entretien ne tarit pas sur lui; c'était à laquelle admirerait le\nplus sa figure mâle et d'une beauté peu commune, la grace et la\nnoblesse de son maintien, le choix de ses expressions, sa galanterie\nchevaleresque avec Maria, que ses soeurs plaisantèrent un peu sur\nson embarras en se voyant enlevée par un être qu'à sa beauté elle\naurait pu prendre pour le chasseur Endémion ou pour Adonis. Elle\nl'avait beaucoup moins regardé que les autres; émue, interdite et de\nsa chute et de la manière dont elle était revenue chez elle, elle\ncachait avec sa main, sur laquelle elle s'appuyait, la rougeur de ses\njoues; mais cependant elle l'avait assez vu pour joindre ses éloges à\nceux de sa famille, avec ce feu, cette vivacité qui embellissaient\ntous ses discours. Elle avoua que c'était précisément là l'idéal\nqu'elle s'était toujours formé d'un héros de roman, et dans son\naction quand il l'avait emportée si promptement sans lui donner, ni\nse donner à lui-même le temps de la réflexion, il y avait une\nrapidité de pensée qui lui plaisait extrêmement. Chaque circonstance\nqui lui était relative était intéressante; son nom était bon, sa\nrésidence dans leur village favori, des chiens remarquablement beaux\naussi dans leur espèce, et qui l'avaient accompagné jusque dans le\nsalon, lui paraissaient très-attachés, parce que sans doute il était\nbon pour eux; enfin Maria trouva bientôt, qu'une veste de chasse\nétait le costume qui séyait le mieux à un jeune homme. Son\nimagination était occupée, ses réflexions agréables, son coeur\ndoucement agité, et la douleur de son entorse à peine sentie.\n\nSir Georges vint à la chaumière dès que le premier intervalle de beau\ntemps lui permit de sortir; il apprit l'accident de Maria qui, avant\nqu'on eût achevé de le lui raconter, lui demanda vivement s'il\nconnaissait un gentilhomme du nom de Willoughby, demeurant à\nAltenham.\n\nWilloughby! s'écria-t-il, quoi, ce cher garçon est ici! C'est une\nbonne nouvelle; j'irai à Altenham demain, et je l'inviterai à dîner\npour jeudi.\n\n--Vous le connaissez donc beaucoup, dit madame Dashwood?\n\n--Si je le connais! bien sûrement; il vient à Altenham toutes les\nannées.\n\n--Et quelle opinion avez-vous de lui, sir Georges?\n\n--La meilleure du monde; un excellent garçon, je vous assure. Il\nchasse bien, il danse à merveille, et il n'y a pas en Angleterre un\nhomme qui monte à cheval plus hardiment.\n\nEt c'est là tout ce que vous avez à dire de lui, s'écria Maria\nindignée? Sa personne et ses manières sont, il est vrai, au-dessus de\ntout éloge, il n'y a qu'à le voir un moment; mais quel est son\ncaractère quand on le connaît plus intimement? Quels sont ses goûts,\nses talens, son génie? Aime-t-il la littérature, les beaux-arts, la\nbonne compagnie?\n\nSir Georges parut embarrassé. Sur mon ame, dit-il, je ne puis pas\nvous répondre un mot sur tout cela; mais je puis vous dire qu'il est\nun agréable et bon camarade, et qu'il a les plus jolies petites\nchiennes d'arrêt que j'aie vues de ma vie. Les avait-il avec lui\naujourd'hui? Elles sont noires, le museau et les pattes marqués de\nfeu, une tache blanche au poitrail; deux charmantes petites bêtes,\nsur mon honneur.\n\nIl avait des chiens qui sautaient beaucoup autour de lui, dit Maria;\nmais elle n'avait pas plus remarqué leur manteau et leur espèce, que\nsir Georges le génie et le caractère de leur maître.\n\nMais qui est-il? dit Elinor. D'où est-ce qu'il vient? A-t-il une\nmaison à Altenham?\n\nSur ce point sir Georges pouvait mieux répondre. Il leur dit que M.\nWilloughby n'avait aucune propriété dans le comté, qu'il demeurait au\nchâteau d'Altenham, chez la vieille dame Smith, qui était sa grande\ntante, et dont il devait hériter. Oui, oui, miss Elinor, c'est une\nbonne _capture_ à faire, je puis vous l'assurer; et outre cet\nhéritage, qui ne lui manquera pas, car il fait bien sa cour à la\nvieille dame, il possède déjà une très-jolie terre en Sommerset\nShire, et si j'étais à votre place je ne le céderais pas à ma soeur\ncadette, en dépit de ses roulades en bas des collines. Que diable!\nmademoiselle Maria ne peut pas espérer de garder pour elle seule tous\nnos beaux garçons; le colonel Brandon sera jaloux, si vous n'y prenez\ngarde.\n\nJe ne crois pas, dit madame Dashwood, avec un aimable sourire, que M.\nWilloughby soit en danger d'être capturé comme vous dites, par l'une\nou l'autre de mes filles; elles n'ont pas été élevées à cet emploi\ndans leur enfance, et n'y entendent rien. Vos _beaux garçons_, de\nmême que _les riches_ peuvent être fort tranquilles avec nous; je\nsuis charmée cependant d'apprendre par ce que vous dites, que ce bon\njeune homme est estimable et bien né, et qu'on peut le recevoir.\n\nOui, oui, reprend sir Georges, c'est un très-bon et très-aimable\ngarçon. L'automne dernier à un petit bal au Park, je me rappelle\nqu'il dansa depuis huit heures du soir jusqu'à quatre heures du\nmatin, sans s'asseoir une seule fois.\n\n--Vraiment, dit Maria avec ses charmans yeux étincelans, et sans\nparaître fatigué!\n\n--Lui! Pas du tout; à huit heures du matin il était à cheval pour la\nchasse.\n\n--Eh bien! dit Maria, j'aime cela; un jeune homme doit être ainsi.\nQuoiqu'il fasse, il doit y être entièrement, sans se lasser, sans se\nrebuter. Je suis sûre qu'il ferait de même pour tout, pour ses\naffaires, pour ses devoirs.\n\n--Quant à cela je l'ignore, dit sir Georges; mais ce que je vois\nclairement, c'est qu'il a fait votre conquête, miss Maria, et que le\npauvre Brandon n'a plus qu'à se retirer.\n\n--Je ne sais ce que vous voulez dire, dit Maria avec un peu de\nfierté, je déteste cette expression de _conquête_; je ne songe point\nà faire des conquêtes, je vous assure, et personne n'a fait la\nmienne.\n\nSir Georges éclata de rire. Que vous le vouliez, ou non, vous en\nferez, lui dit-il, et quelqu'un une fois fera la vôtre. Je vois ce\nqui va arriver, je vois très-bien; et il s'en alla en répétant:\nHeureux Willoughby! Pauvre Brandon!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE X.\n\n\nL'ange gardien de Maria (comme Emma appelait avec plus d'élégance que\nde précision M. Willoughby) arriva de bonne heure le matin suivant.\nIl fut reçu par madame Dashwood avec plus que de la politesse; elle y\nmit une forte nuance d'affabilité, et sa reconnaissance, et le\ntémoignage que sir Georges lui avait rendu, se réunissaient en sa\nfaveur. De son côté il put s'assurer pendant cette visite de tout le\nmérite de la famille dans laquelle le hasard l'avait introduit.\nManières nobles, esprit, bonté, affection mutuelle; tout s'y trouvait\nréuni. Quant à leurs charmes personnels, il n'avait pas eu besoin\nd'une seconde visite pour en être convaincu, et c'est ici le moment\nde tracer en peu de mots le portrait de la mère et des trois\nsoeurs.\n\nMadame Dashwood avait été charmante, sans être ce qu'on appelle une\nbeauté. C'était une brune, claire, des yeux bruns, des traits qui\nn'avaient d'abord rien de remarquable, mais dont chacun avait son\nattrait particulier, et cet accord qui fait le charme d'une\nphysionomie. La sienne était très-mobile; tout ce qui se passait dans\nson ame s'y peignait à l'instant. Ses yeux étaient pleins\nd'expression, et son sourire annonçait la bienveillance et la bonté.\nSa taille était moyenne et bien prise; à quarante ans elle avait\nconservé cet avantage et elle marchait aussi bien, aussi légèrement\nque ses filles. En la voyant de loin on l'aurait prise pour leur\nsoeur; mais de près on s'apercevait que ce visage agréable encore,\nétait flétri par des impressions vives, et que ses yeux, un peu\néteints, avaient versé bien des larmes.\n\nElinor avait les cheveux, les cils, les sourcils de la même teinte\nque ceux de sa mère, c'est-à-dire, châtains bruns, mais elle avait\nainsi que son père, les yeux d'un beau bleu foncé, et son regard\nétait plein de douceur et de sensibilité; une belle peau, peu colorée\nsans pâleur, et tous les traits réguliers. Elle était petite, et sa\nfigure pleine de grace était remarquablement jolie; tous ses\nmouvemens étaient doux et moëlleux.\n\nMaria était beaucoup plus frappante de beauté, quoique ses traits ne\nfussent pas aussi corrects que ceux de sa soeur; mais sa\nphysionomie était plus animée. Elle était grande, élancée, tous les\ndétails charmans; le port et le mouvement de sa tête avaient quelque\nchose d'enchanteur. Ses cheveux étaient noirs ainsi que ses yeux,\ndans lesquels brillaient une vie, une intelligence telle qu'un seul\nde ses regards disait toute sa pensée et pénétrait au fond de l'ame.\nSon teint était assez brun, mais plus coloré que celui d'Elinor, et\nsa peau unie, transparente, lui donnait un éclat singulier. Son\nsourire, qui ressemblait à celui de sa mère, avait une expression de\nfinesse et en même-temps de bonté, qui le rendait irrésistible. Son\nfront ombragé à demi par ses cheveux et ses sourcils d'ébène était\nparfait. Il était impossible de la voir sans s'écrier: Ah! quelle est\nbelle! quelle charmante créature!\n\nEmma à treize ans promettait d'être aussi bien jolie à dix-huit; elle\nétait blonde et très-blanche, gaie, vive, légère, naïve, une figure\nspirituelle et gracieuse; c'était une délicieuse enfant.\n\nTelles étaient les quatre femmes au milieu desquelles se trouvait le\nbeau Willoughby; ses yeux allaient de l'une à l'autre, mais\ns'attachèrent bientôt tout-à-fait sur Maria. La veille, sa souffrance\net plus encore son embarras l'avaient empêchée de paraître à son\navantage, à peine avait-elle osé regarder celui qui venait de la\nporter dans ses bras; mais ce jour-ci rassurée par l'accueil qu'il\nrecevait de sa mère, par sa propre reconnaissance, par ce qu'elle\navait appris de lui, elle reprit sa vivacité, son aisance naturelle.\nElle lui parla, elle l'écouta, et put bientôt se convaincre par\nelle-même qu'il avait l'usage du monde, le ton parfait, qu'il\nunissait la politesse à la franchise, la douceur à la vivacité; et\nquand elle l'entendit déclarer qu'il aimait la musique _avecpassion_,\nalors ses beaux yeux brillèrent de tout leur éclat, et il put y lire\nla permission de profiter du voisinage et de revenir souvent sans avoir\nbesoin de prétexte.\n\nAvec Maria il n'y avait qu'à nommer un de ses amusemens favoris pour\nla faire parler avec enthousiasme; elle ne pouvait pas rester froide\net silencieuse, et ne mettait ni timidité, ni réserve dans ses\ndiscussions, qu'elle savait rendre très-intéressantes. Dès qu'elle\neût découvert que Willoughby avait les mêmes goûts, et que leur\npassion de musique et de danse était mutuelle, leur entretien\ns'anima, et ils se trouvèrent penser sur tous les points exactement à\nl'unisson, porter les mêmes jugemens sur les compositeurs, sur les\ndifférentes danses, et ce sujet fut long-temps inépuisable.\n\nEncouragée par ces rapports à pousser plus loin son examen, elle\nparla de littérature et de ses auteurs favoris, et retrouva encore la\nmême sympathie. Leur goût était exactement semblable: les mêmes\nlivres, les mêmes passages les avaient frappés, ou s'il y avait\nquelque légère différence, si quelque objection s'élevait, c'était\nseulement pour que Maria pût déployer son éloquence irrésistible. Il\naurait fallu qu'un jeune homme de vingt-cinq ans fût bien insensible,\npour ne pas céder à la force des argumens sortis d'une aussi belle\nbouche, et accompagnés d'un regard qui portait la conviction au\ncoeur. Willoughby finissait par acquiescer à toutes ses décisions,\npartager son enthousiasme, et long-temps avant la fin de la visite,\nils conversaient avec la familiarité d'une ancienne connaissance.\n\nFort bien, Maria, dit Elinor, aussitôt qu'il les eut laissées, pour\nune matinée vous êtes bien avancée dans vos découvertes sur notre\nnouveau voisin. Vous avez déjà pénétré son opinion sur toutes les\nmatières importantes; vous savez ce qu'il pense de Shakespear, de\nCowper, de Scott; vous êtes certaine qu'il apprécie ces auteurs comme\nil le doit, qu'il sent comme vous leurs beautés; vous avez reçu\nl'assurance de son admiration pour Pope, pour Milton: mais si notre\nconnaissance avec M. Willoughby doit se prolonger, je suis un peu en\npeine de vos entretiens. A la manière dont vous y allez dès le\npremier jour, vous aurez bientôt épuisé tous les sujets; une visite\nsuffira pour lui faire expliquer ses sentimens sur la peinture, une\nautre sur l'amour et le mariage, et vous n'aurez plus rien à lui\ndemander.\n\nElinor, s'écria Maria, êtes-vous sincère, êtes-vous juste?\nCroyez-vous donc mes idées si bornées? mais non, j'entends ce que\nvous voulez dire; ma grave Elinor, ma raisonnable soeur trouve que\nj'ai été trop à mon aise, trop franche, trop heureuse! j'ai manqué,\nsans doute, au decorum, j'ai été ouverte et sincère quand je devais\nêtre réservée, maussade, ennuyeuse et hypocrite. Si je n'avais parlé\nà M. Willoughby que du temps, des chemins, de la vue, et que je\nn'eusse ouvert la bouche que toutes les dix minutes, ce reproche\nm'aurait été épargné.\n\nMon cher amour, dit madame Dashwood, vous ne devez pas être fâchée\ncontre Elinor; c'est un badinage. Je la gronderais moi-même si elle\nétait capable de mal interpréter votre entretien avec notre nouvel\nami: vous avez été tous les deux très-aimables. Maria fut adoucie, et\ndonna la main à sa mère et à sa soeur. Willoughby de son côté\nprouva tout le prix qu'il attachait aux bontés de la famille\nDashwood, en venant les réclamer chaque jour, et souvent deux fois\npar jour. Son prétexte fut d'abord de s'informer de l'accident de\nMaria, mais avant même que son pied fût guéri, il n'avait plus besoin\nde prétexte, et il était reçu comme un intime ami aurait pu l'être.\nMaria fut obligée d'être quelques jours sans marcher; cette\ncontrainte lui eût été insupportable avant sa chute, à présent elle\naurait voulu prolonger son mal, pour ne point sortir et avoir\ntoujours Willoughby à côté d'elle. Chaque jour, chaque instant il lui\nparaissait plus aimable. Beaucoup de connaissances et d'esprit, avec\nsi peu de prétentions; une imagination si vive et si brillante; une\nrépartie si prompte; tant de feu dans ses expressions et de\nsensibilité dans son coeur; cette exaltation qui colore tous les\nobjets, et joint à tous ces avantages une figure si belle, si noble,\nune physionomie à-la-fois animée et régulière, et un son de voix\nenchanteur, etc. etc.: voilà ce que Maria trouvait et répétait en\nallant toujours en _crescendo_ d'éloges. Peut-être son pinceau\nétait-il un peu trop flatteur, mais il est sûr que ce jeune homme\nparaissait à tous égards formé pour lui plaire et l'attacher, et\nremplissait à merveille cette destination. Sa société devint\npeu-à-peu absolument nécessaire au bonheur de Maria et à son\nexistence. Ils lisaient, ils parlaient, ils chantaient ensemble; son\ntalent pour la musique égalait presque celui de Maria, et il\ndéclamait les beaux vers de Cowper, avec cette chaleur, ce sentiment\nde la belle poésie, qui manquait si totalement au pauvre Edward\nFerrars.\n\nMadame Dashwood qui ne voyait que par les yeux de sa chère Maria, qui\nla trouvait parfaite en tout point, aimait celui qu'elle aimait et\nqui avait tant de rapports avec elle; la sage Elinor même le trouvait\ntrès-séduisant, mais ne pouvait s'empêcher de blâmer en lui, ainsi\nque dans sa soeur, cette franchise excessive, ou plutôt cette\nimprudence qui leur faisaient dire tout ce qu'ils pensaient sur\nchaque sujet, sans aucune attention aux personnes et aux\ncirconstances. Peu importait à Willoughby de blesser ou de contredire\nl'opinion des autres, pourvu qu'il flattât celle de l'objet d'une\npréférence qu'il déclarait et prouvait hautement, en n'ayant\nd'attention que pour Maria, en ne voyant qu'elle seule au milieu du\ncercle le plus nombreux. Elinor trouvait à cette conduite un manque\nde délicatesse pour celle qu'il préférait et de politesse pour les\nautres, qu'elle ne pouvait pas approuver en dépit de tout ce que\nMaria pouvait dire pour l'excuser.\n\nElle commençait à s'apercevoir, la pauvre Maria, qu'elle avait eu\ntort à dix-huit ans de désespérer de trouver un homme qui réalisât\nses idées de perfection; Willoughby lui paraissait tout ce que son\nimagination pouvait créer de plus accompli. C'était sans doute son\nbon ange qui l'avait amené là au moment de sa chute; la sympathie\navait agi sur tous deux au même instant; avant la création du monde,\nils étaient destinés à se rencontrer, à s'aimer, à s'unir pour la\nvie; leur mariage était écrit au ciel de tout temps; ce rapport inouï\ndans leurs opinions, leurs goûts, leurs sentimens en était la preuve,\net toute sa conduite lui assurait qu'il y pensait sérieusement.\n\nMadame Dashwood aussi, avant que quinze jours se fussent écoulés,\npensa exactement comme sa fille; mais peut-être un peu plus qu'elle\naux richesses dont sir Georges lui avait parlé, et secrètement elle\nse félicitait d'avoir obtenu du sort deux gendres tels qu'Edward\nFerrars et Willoughby.\n\nLa préférence du colonel Brandon pour Maria, qui avait été sitôt\ndécouverte par ses amis, fut remarquée par Elinor quand tous les\nautres cessèrent d'y faire attention. On ne remarqua plus que son\nheureux rival, et madame Jennings voyant bien positivement qu'il n'y\navait nul espoir de mariage avec le colonel, l'abandonna\ncomplètement, et dit qu'elle s'était trompée pour la première fois de\nsa vie, que le colonel Brandon ne songeait pas à Maria, qu'il était\nen effet trop âgé pour elle, que le jeune et charmant Willoughby lui\nconvenait beaucoup mieux, et qu'ils étaient faits l'un pour l'autre.\n\nElinor pensait tout autrement sur le colonel. Elle découvrit\nseulement alors que son attachement pour Maria n'était que trop réel.\nLe redoublement de sa tristesse, une émotion pénible qu'il cherchait\nà cacher, et qui perçait malgré lui quand Maria causait avec\nWilloughby; tout confirmait à Elinor qu'il était très-amoureux et\ntrès-malheureux. Quel espoir pouvait avoir un homme de trente-cinq\nans, sombre et silencieux, opposé à un amant de dix ans plus jeune et\nvingt fois plus séduisant? elle sentait bien que ce dernier convenait\nmieux à Maria sous tous les rapports, mais elle ne pouvait s'empêcher\nde plaindre du fond du coeur le colonel, et de désirer qu'il pût\nretrouver son indifférence, puisque son amour ne pouvait avoir aucun\nsuccès. Elle l'aimait; et malgré sa gravité et sa réserve, il lui\ninspirait un grand intérêt. Ses manières quoique sérieuses étaient\ndouces, et cette réserve paraissait plutôt être la suite de quelque\npeine; que la disposition naturelle de son caractère. Sir Georges\navait insinué quelques mots qui justifiaient ses soupçons, qu'il\navait été malheureux, et d'après cela il lui inspirait du respect et\nde la compassion. Peut-être que cette estime et cette tendre pitié\ns'augmentèrent par la légèreté avec laquelle Maria et Willoughby\nparlaient de lui: parce qu'il n'était ni jeune ni brillant, ils\nparaissaient décidés à ne lui trouver aucun mérite.\n\nLe colonel Brandon, disait un jour Willoughby, est précisément de\ncette espèce d'homme dont chacun dit du bien et que personne ne\nrecherche; on est, dit-on enchanté de le voir, et on n'a rien à lui\ndire.\n\n--C'est exactement ce que je pense de lui, s'écria Maria. Ne vous en\nvantez pas dit Elinor, car c'est une grande injustice. Il est aimé et\nhautement estimé par tous les individus de la famille du Park, qui\nsont charmés de l'avoir chez eux; et moi je ne le vois jamais sans\ndésirer de causer avec lui.\n\n--Votre protection, mademoiselle, dit Willoughby, prouve certainement\nen sa faveur; mais quant à l'estime des habitans du Park, vous me\npermettrez de la prendre plutôt comme un reproche. Celui qui\nrechercherait l'approbation de lady Middleton et de madame Jennings,\nne trouverait que l'indifférence de toutes les autres femmes.\n\n--Mais peut-être, dit Elinor, que votre critique, et celle de Maria,\ncontrebalanceraient le suffrage de lady Middleton et de sa mère: si\nleur éloge est une censure, votre censure est peut-être un éloge;\nelles ne sont pas plus incapables de discerner le vrai mérite, que\nvous êtes injustes et prévenus.\n\n--Je ne reconnais pas votre douceur ordinaire à ce reproche, dit\nMaria; le désir de défendre votre protégé, vous rend un peu méchante\navec nous.\n\n--N'êtes-vous pas bien aise, Maria, que je sache défendre mes amis!\nMon protégé (comme vous l'appelez) est à-la-fois sensible et\nraisonnable, ce qui a toujours eu un grand attrait pour moi; oui,\nMaria, même dans un homme entre trente et quarante. Il a très-bien vu\nle monde, il a voyagé avec fruit, il a lu, il a réfléchi. Je l'ai\ntrouvé très en état de m'instruire sur plusieurs objets; il a\ntoujours répondu à mes questions avec la politesse et la complaisance\nd'un homme bien né et instruit sans pédanterie.\n\n--Oui, oui, s'écria Maria légèrement, il vous a appris que le soleil\ndes grandes Indes était brûlant, et que les mousquites y sont\ninsupportables.\n\n--Il me l'aurait dit, sans doute, si je le lui avais demandé; mes\nquestions n'ont pas eu pour objet ce que je sais déjà.\n\n--Peut être, dit Willoughby, qu'il a été en état de vous parler des\nNababs, des différentes castes, des palanquins, des éléphans, des\nfemmes de toutes couleurs; c'est un entretien très-touchant,\ntrès-intéressant et très instructif.\n\n--Il n'est du moins pas méchant, dit Elinor. Mais je vous en prie, M.\nWilloughby, qu'est-ce que vous a fait le colonel Brandon, et pourquoi\nlui donnez-vous des ridicules?\n\n--Moi! en aucune manière; j'ai beaucoup de considération pour lui, je\nvous assure; je le regarde comme un homme très-respectable, qui ne\nfait de mal à personne, qui a plus d'argent qu'il n'en peut dépenser,\nplus de temps qu'il n'en peut employer, et plus d'années qu'il ne\nvoudrait.\n\n--Ajoutez à ce portrait, dit Maria, qu'il n'a ni génie, ni goût, ni\nesprit; que son imagination n'a rien de brillant, ses sentimens point\nde chaleur, et sa voix point d'expression.\n\n--Vous décidez ses imperfections en masse avec tant de vivacité, dit\nElinor, que tout ce que je pourrais dire paraîtrait insipide et\nfroid, comme il vous paraît lui-même; je dirai donc seulement qu'il\nest bon, sensible, indulgent, que son esprit est assez orné pour\nn'avoir nul besoin de briller en dépréciant l'esprit des autres, et\nque son coeur ne le lui permettrait pas.\n\n--Ah! miss Dashwood, s'écria Willoughby, vous en usez mal avec moi;\nvous tâchez de me désarmer par la raison, mais vous n'y réussirez\npas. J'ai trois grands motifs de haïr le colonel Brandon, contre\nlesquels vous n'avez rien à dire: il m'a menacé de la pluie un jour\nque je désirais le beau tems; il a trouvé des défauts dans mon\nnouveau caricle, et je n'ai pu le persuader d'acheter ma jument\nbrune. Vous conviendrez que voilà des griefs impardonnables. Je veux\nbien convenir avec vous cependant qu'à tout autre égard, son\ncaractère est irréprochable; mais en faveur de cet aveu, accordez-moi\nde rire quelquefois un peu en parlant de lui avec mademoiselle Maria.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XI.\n\n\nLorsque mesdames Dashwood vinrent s'établir dans ce qu'on appelait\n(improprement il est vrai) une chaumière, elles ne s'attendaient\nguère qu'elles y trouveraient presque les plaisirs de la ville, ou du\nmoins assez d'engagemens et de visites pour qu'il leur restât trop\npeu de temps à donner à des occupations sérieuses; c'est cependant ce\nqu'il leur arriva. Dès que Maria fut rétablie, les plans d'amusement\nde sir Georges commencèrent avec une grande activité. Des bals à la\nmaison du Park, des parties sur l'eau, des courses à cheval ou en\ncaricle, se succédèrent sans interruption. Un très-beau mois\nd'octobre favorisait les promenades du matin; on revenait dîner chez\nlady Middleton, et la danse, le jeu, la musique remplissaient les\nsoirées. Willoughby ne manquait pas l'occasion de s'y rencontrer, et\nl'aisance, la familiarité que sir Georges établissait dans ses\nparties étaient exactement calculées pour augmenter l'inclination\nréciproque qui s'établissait entre lui et Maria, pour leur faire\nremarquer encore davantage leur perfections mutuelles, le rapport de\nleurs goûts et de leurs talens, et la préférence décidée qu'ils\ns'accordaient l'un à l'autre. Elinor n'était pas du tout surprise de\nleur attachement; elle aurait voulu seulement qu'ils l'eussent un peu\nmoins manifesté, et deux ou trois fois elle usa doucement de ses\ndroits réunis de soeur aînée et d'amie pour adresser à ce sujet\nquelques tendres exhortations à Maria et lui faire sentir la\nnécessité de prendre de l'empire sur elle-même. Mais Maria détestait,\nabhorrait la dissimulation; elle la regardait comme une fausseté\nimpardonnable, et cacher des sentimens qui n'avaient rien en\neux-mêmes de condamnable, lui paraissait non-seulement un effort\ninutile, mais une ridicule prétention de la raison opposée à\nl'élévation des sentimens. Willoughby pensait de même, et leur\nconduite à tout égard montrait clairement leur opinion. Quand il\nétait présent, elle n'avait des yeux que pour lui; tout ce qu'il\nfaisait était juste; tout ce qu'il disait était charmant. Si dans la\nsoirée on jouait aux cartes, elle ne s'intéressait qu'à son jeu; si\non dansait, il était son partner pour toute la soirée, et s'ils\nétaient obligés de se séparer une ou deux contredanses, ils tâchaient\nau moins d'être près l'un de l'autre. Lorsqu'on ne dansait pas ils\nétaient toujours et toujours à causer dans un coin du salon; si on se\npromenait c'était lui qui la conduisait dans son caricle. Une telle\nconduite excitait comme on le comprend les railleries de toute la\nsociété, mais ils s'en embarrassaient fort peu, et cherchaient plutôt\nà les provoquer.\n\nMadame Dashwood au lieu de gronder sa fille comme elle l'aurait dû,\net de la retenir au moins par l'obéissance, puisque la raison n'avait\npas de prise sur elle, partageait tous ses sentimens avec une chaleur\npresque égale à celle de Maria. Elle avait un de ces coeurs qui\nn'ont point d'âge et ne vieillissent jamais. Tout cela lui paraissait\nla conséquence très-naturelle d'une forte inclination entre deux\njeunes gens vifs et sensibles qui se rendaient mutuellement justice.\nAu lieu de retenir Maria, elle renchérissait sur l'éloge de\nWilloughby; elle le comparait à feu son époux, et sa fille à\nelle-même dans le temps de leurs amours. Ah! comme c'était pour Maria\nle temps du bonheur! Qu'on se rappelle le charme d'une première\npassion, de ce sentiment si nouveau, si ardent qui s'empare de l'ame\nentière, et celle de Maria était formée pour l'éprouver dans toute sa\nforce. Aussi s'attacha-t-elle à Willoughby mille fois davantage qu'à\nsa propre existence. Elle le voyait à chaque instant sans remords,\nsans contrainte, puisque c'était sous les yeux de sa mère, qui\nl'approuvait, et que toutes les deux trouvaient de jour en jour de\nnouveaux motifs de l'aimer davantage. Norland et Sussex, et toute sa\nvie passée étaient effacés de sa mémoire; elle n'existait plus qu'en\nDevonshire, et pour son adoré Willoughby.\n\nLa pauvre Elinor n'était pas aussi heureuse; son coeur ne goûtait\npas le même bonheur. Il était encore à Norland, et rien autour d'elle\nne pouvait remplacer ce qu'elle y avait laissé. Ce n'était assurément\nni lady Middleton, ni madame Jennings qui pouvaient la dédommager des\nentretiens dont elle gardait un si tendre souvenir. La dernière, il\nest vrai, était une excellente femme, mais une parleuse éternelle; et\ncomme au premier instant Elinor était devenue sa favorite, c'était\ntoujours à elle qu'elle adressait ses discours. Elle lui avait déjà\nraconté son histoire cinq ou six fois; Elinor savait toutes les\nparticularités de son mariage et de celui de ses filles, tous les\ndétails de la maladie de monsieur Jennings, tout ce que le pauvre\ncher homme lui avait dit en mourant, etc. Lady Middleton plaisait\nmieux à Elinor, mais elle eut bientôt remarqué qu'elle ne parlait\npas, parce qu'elle n'avait rien à dire, et que ce calme, qui d'abord\nallait assez bien à sa belle physionomie et lui donnait un grand air\nde décence et de retenue, n'était qu'un manque total d'idées et de\nsentimens. On restait toujours avec elle au même point; et depuis sa\npremière visite à la chaumière, toujours également froide et polie,\nleur liaison ne s'était pas avancée d'une ligne. Elle disait\naujourd'hui ce qu'elle avait dit hier, et presque dans les mêmes\ntermes; son insipidité était invariable, son humeur était toujours la\nmême. Quoiqu'elle ne s'opposât point aux parties de son mari, qu'elle\nveillât à ce que tout fût dans les règles, et que ses deux plus\ngrands enfans fussent toujours avec elle, elle ne paraissait y\nprendre aucun plaisir, mais aussi n'en recevoir aucune peine. Elle ne\ns'ennuyait ni ne s'amusait; il lui était égal d'être là ou ailleurs;\nelle était avec son mari et sa mère, de même qu'avec les étrangers,\net sa présence ajoutait si peu de chose à la société, qu'on aurait\noublié qu'elle était là, si des enfans bruyans et gâtés n'avaient pas\nété autour d'elle. Ce n'était donc pas une ressource pour Elinor, et\nde toutes leurs nouvelles connaissances, le colonel Brandon était le\nseul qui excitât en elle l'intérêt de l'amitié, et avec qui elle pût\ns'entretenir avec plaisir. Willoughby lui était indifférent. Elle le\ntrouvait assez aimable; mais il l'était rarement pour elle; toutes\nses attentions, tous ses propos s'adressaient à Maria. Cette dernière\nlaissait, il est vrai, le colonel Brandon entièrement à sa soeur.\nIl trouvait sans doute dans l'aimable entretien d'Elinor quelque\nconsolation de la parfaite indifférence de celle qui, malgré lui,\noccupait son coeur et sa pensée; mais cette indifférence redoublait\nsa tristesse habituelle, et sa conversation n'était rien moins que\ngaie. Elinor le plaignait sincèrement, d'autant qu'elle avait lieu de\ncroire que ce n'était pas la première fois qu'il était malheureux en\namour. Un soir, pendant que tous les autres dansaient, ils voulurent\nse reposer, et s'assirent à côté l'un de l'autre. Les yeux du colonel\nétaient fixés sur Maria, qui dansait avec Willoughby. Il dit avec un\ntriste sourire: votre soeur, à ce qu'on m'assure, n'approuve pas\nles seconds attachemens; elle pense qu'on ne doit aimer qu'une fois.\n\n--Oui, répliqua Elinor, ses opinions sont un peu romanesques.\n\n--Ou plutôt, à ce que j'imagine, elle croit qu'un second attachement\nne peut pas exister.\n\n--Je crois que c'est-là son idée; mais comment ne réfléchit-elle pas\nsur le caractère de notre bon père qui s'est marié deux fois par\ninclination. Elle est encore bien jeune, et se fait des illusions;\ndans quelques années ses opinions seront établies sur des bases plus\nréelles: alors il sera plus aisé de les définir et de les justifier;\nà présent je lui en laisse le soin.\n\n--Oui, dit le colonel, c'est probablement ce qui arrivera; cependant\nil y a quelque chose de si aimable dans les préjugés d'un jeune\ncoeur, qu'on est presque fâché du moment où il y renonce pour\nadopter les opinions générales.\n\n--Je ne puis être de votre avis, dit Elinor; il y a des inconvéniens\ndans la manière de voir et de sentir de Maria que tous les charmes de\nl'enthousiasme et de l'ignorance du monde ne peuvent compenser. Son\nsystème a le funeste effet de nourrir son esprit de chimères qui\nl'égarent, et qui la rendront malheureuse quand la triste réalité les\ndissipera. Plus de vraie connaissance du monde lui serait à ce que je\ncrois bien avantageuse.\n\nLe colonel resta un moment en silence, puis il reprit avec un peu\nd'émotion dans la voix: est-ce que votre soeur ne fait aucune\ndistinction dans ses objections contre un second attachement? Est-ce\nque ceux qui ont été malheureux dans un premier choix, ou par\nl'inconstance de son objet, ou par l'entraînement des circonstances\ndoivent rester indifférens tout le reste de leur vie!\n\n--Je vous assure, colonel, répondit Elinor, que je ne connais pas son\nsystème en détail, je sais seulement que je ne lui ai jamais entendu\nadmettre qu'un second amour pût être pardonnable.\n\n--Ainsi, dit-il, il faudrait un changement total dans ses idées....\nMais non, non, je ne le désire pas. Quand les idées romanesques d'un\njeune esprit sont forcées de s'évanouir, combien souvent sont-elles\nremplacées par des principes trop communs hélas! dans le monde, et\ntrop dangereux. J'en parle d'après l'expérience. J'ai connu une jeune\ndame qui ressemblait extrêmement à votre soeur en tout point; même\nchaleur de coeur; même vivacité d'esprit; elle pensait et jugeait\ncomme elle, et par un changement forcé, par une série de\ncirconstances malheureuses..... Ici il s'arrêta soudainement, comme\ns'il avait pensé qu'il en disait trop, et donna lieu ainsi à des\nconjectures, qui sans cela ne seraient jamais entrées dans la tête\nd'Elinor. Cette dame n'aurait nullement excité ses soupçons, mais le\ntrouble visible du colonel, son interruption convainquit mademoiselle\nDashwood que ce qui la concernait était un triste secret, et de là\nelle fut conduite naturellement à croire que l'émotion du colonel en\nparlant d'elle était relative à un tendre souvenir. Elle se tut, et\nne lui fit aucune question. Avec Maria cela n'aurait pas fini ainsi:\nl'histoire entière se serait achevée dans son active imagination, si\nelle n'avait pu en obtenir la confidence, comme la plus mélancolique\nhistoire d'un amour malheureux.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XII.\n\n\nElinor et Maria se promenaient ensemble le matin suivant; la dernière\nconfia à sa soeur quelque chose, qui, malgré toutes les preuves\nqu'elle avait de l'imprudence de Maria et de son manque de raison, la\nsurprit par l'excès de son extravagance.\n\nMaria lui apprit avec un transport de joie, que Willoughby lui avait\nfait présent d'un cheval; c'était une jument charmante qu'il avait\nélevée lui-même à Haute-Combe, sa campagne de Sommerset-Shire, et qui\nétait exactement un cheval de femme, doux, sage, vif et d'une bonne\nhauteur. Sans considérer qu'il n'entrait pas dans le plan de sa mère\nd'avoir des chevaux, que si elle y consentait en faveur de ce don, il\nfaudrait en acheter un autre pour un domestique, puis engager un\npalefrenier pour en avoir soin, et après tout cela bâtir une écurie\npour le loger, elle avait accepté cet inconcevable présent sans\nhésiter, et le dit à sa soeur avec ravissement. Il compte,\najouta-t-elle, envoyer un de ces jours son jokey en Sommerset-Shire\npour la chercher, et quand elle sera arrivée, nous la monterons tous\nles jours, escortées par Willoughby; nous irons tour-à-tour, vous et\nmoi, car, ma chère Elinor, vous en userez tout comme moi. Imaginez le\ndélice de galoper dans cette plaine, de grimper à cheval ces\ncollines.\n\nElinor souffrait de faire évanouir ce songe de félicité; il le\nfallait cependant. Elle rassembla son courage, et tâcha de lui faire\ncomprendre avec tendresse et raison qu'elle devait y renoncer. Maria\nne voulait d'abord rien entendre; elle avait réponse à tout; elle\nétait sûre que sa maman n'y ferait nulle objection; un domestique de\nplus serait une bagatelle; tout cheval serait bon pour lui, il en\nemprunterait au Park, et pour écurie le plus simple hangar serait\nsuffisant. Alors Elinor essaya d'élever quelques doutes sur\nl'inconvenance d'accepter un présent d'un jeune homme, qu'elle\nconnaissait aussi peu. C'en était trop, et les yeux noirs de Maria\nbrillèrent d'indignation.\n\nVous vous trompez, Elinor, dit-elle vivement, en supposant que je\nconnaisse peu Willoughby; il n'y a pas long-temps il est vrai que je\nle vois, mais je le connais plus que qui que ce soit au monde,\nexcepté vous et maman. Ce n'est ni le temps, ni l'occasion qui\ndéterminent les liaisons du coeur; c'est uniquement la sympathie,\nune disposition réciproque qui entraîne irrésistiblement. Dix ans\nsont quelquefois insuffisans pour connaître à fond quelqu'un qu'on\nvoit tous les jours; et avec d'autres, dix jours, dix heures mêmes\nsont plus que suffisantes. Tenez, par exemple, je croirais plutôt me\nrendre coupable d'imprudence en acceptant un cheval de mon frère que\nde Willoughby. Je connais très-peu John, quoique nous ayons vécu\nensemble des années; mais sur Willoughby mon jugement est formé, et\nje le connais comme moi-même.\n\nElinor crut qu'il était plus sage de ne plus dire un mot sur un sujet\nqui tenait si fort à coeur à sa soeur; elle la connaissait assez\npour savoir que là dessus elle n'entendrait pas raison, et\ns'affermirait encore plus dans son idée; il lui restait d'ailleurs un\nmoyen plus sûr de réussir. Maria chérissait sa mère, et dès qu'Elinor\nlui eut représenté que madame Dashwood ferait des sacrifices et\ns'imposerait à elle-même des privations pour que sa fille chérie eût\nce plaisir, elle y renonça à l'instant, et promit de ne pas même\ntenter la bonté de sa mère et de ne pas lui parler de cette offre,\nqu'elle refuserait elle-même positivement la première fois qu'elle\nverrait Willoughby.\n\nElle fut fidèle à sa parole, et quand Willoughby vint à la chaumière\nle même jour, Elinor (à sa grande satisfaction) entendit Maria lui\nexprimer à voix basse tout son regret de ne pouvoir accepter le\ncheval qu'il voulait lui donner. Elle lui dit les motifs qui lui\navaient fait changer d'avis, et avec assez de fermeté pour qu'il\nn'essayât pas de les détruire; son chagrin cependant fut\ntrès-apparent, et après l'avoir exprimé avec vivacité, il ajouta\naussi à voix basse: Eh bien! Maria, ce cheval est encore à vous,\nquoique vous ne puissiez pas vous en servir à présent. Je vous le\ngarderai jusqu'à ce que vous vouliez le réclamer; quand vous\nquitterez Barton pour vous établir dans une plus grande maison, ma\nReine Mab (c'est son nom), vous y recevra.\n\nC'est tout ce que put entendre Elinor; et de la manière dont ces mots\nfurent prononcés, en nommant _Maria_ par son nom de baptême, elle\njugea leur intimité tout-à-fait décidée, d'un commun accord. De ce\nmoment elle ne douta pas qu'ils ne fussent engagés l'un à l'autre\npour se marier incessamment, et n'eut pas d'autre surprise,\nconnaissant leur franchise à tous deux, que de l'apprendre par\nhasard.\n\nEmma lui raconta quelque chose le jour suivant qui la confirma\ntout-à-fait dans cette idée. Willoughby passa toute la journée avec\nelles; pendant que madame Dashwood et Elinor s'habillaient, Emma\nresta seule au salon avec lui et Maria, et la petite fine mouche,\nsans avoir l'air de les regarder, faisait des observations, qu'elle\ncommuniqua ainsi à sa soeur aînée.--O Elinor! j'ai un grand secret\nà vous dire sur Maria; je suis sûre qu'elle se mariera bientôt avec\nM. Willoughby.\n\n--Vous avez dit ainsi, Emma, depuis le premier jour que vous l'avez\nrencontré sur la colline, et il n'y avait pas une semaine qu'il était\nreçu chez nous que vous étiez certaine que Maria portait son portrait\nau cou, et quand vous avez un jour tiré malicieusement par derrière\nle cordon qui l'attachait, c'était.... la miniature de notre vieux\nbon oncle que vous avez mise au jour.\n\n--Oui, c'est vrai; mais à présent c'est tout autre chose; je suis\nsûre qu'ils vont bientôt se marier, car il a dans son portefeuille\nune grosse boucle des cheveux de Maria.\n\n--Prenez garde, Emma, c'est peut-être les cheveux de quelque grande\ntante, de madame Smith.\n\n--Non, non, vous dis-je, c'est bien de Maria; j'en suis bien sûre,\ncar je les lui ai vu couper. Hier, quand vous et maman sortîtes de la\nchambre, il s'approcha tout près d'elle sur le dos de sa chaise; et\nils parlèrent ensemble si bas que je ne pouvais rien entendre, mais\nil me semblait qu'il lui demandait quelque chose. Elle secouait ainsi\nla tête, comme pour dire non: mais en même temps elle sourit en le\nregardant, comme pour dire oui. Alors il prit des ciseaux et coupa\nune longue boucle de ses cheveux, de ceux qui retombaient sur sa\nnuque; il les baisa plus de vingt fois, et les enveloppant dans une\nfeuille de papier, il les cacha dans son portefeuille. Qu'avez-vous à\ndire à présent, mademoiselle Elinor? n'est-il pas vrai qu'ils sont\nengagés?\n\nIl fallut bien croire Emma, et d'autant plus facilement que son\nrapport était à l'unisson de ce qu'elle voyait chaque jour; mais la\nsagacité de la petite ne s'exerçait pas toujours sur Maria, et la\nprudente Elinor n'en fut pas à l'abri. La bonne madame Jennings dont\nle plus grand plaisir était de railler et d'embarrasser les jeunes\nfilles par des questions d'amour, et de découvrir le secret de leur\ncoeur, attaqua la petite Emma sur le compte de sa soeur aînée. Il\nétait impossible, dit-elle, qu'étant aussi jolie, elle n'eût pas un\namoureux, et elle avait la plus grande curiosité de savoir son nom.\n\nLa petite rougit, et se tournant vers sa soeur: puis-je le nommer,\nlui dit-elle? Tout le monde éclata de rire; Elinor même essaya de\nrire aussi, mais ce fut un effort pénible. Elle était convaincue\nqu'Emma n'avait et ne pouvait avoir en vue qu'Edward Ferrars, dont\nelle n'aurait pu entendre le nom sans une émotion qui aurait excité\nles railleries de madame Jennings.\n\nMaria sentit vivement aussi ce que sa soeur devait souffrir, mais\nelle augmenta plutôt que de diminuer son trouble. Elle rougit\nbeaucoup aussi et dit en colère à Emma: Rappelez-vous, Emma, que\nquelles que soient vos conjectures, vous n'avez pas le droit de les\nrépéter.\n\n--Je n'ai point de conjectures, répondit la petite; c'est vous,\nMaria, qui m'avez appris le nom de l'amoureux d'Elinor.\n\nLes éclats de rire recommencèrent. Emma fut vivement pressée de dire\nce nom; elle s'en défendit: Non, non, Madame, voyez comme Maria est\nfâchée; non, je ne veux pas le dire, mais je sais bien qui c'est, et\noù il est.\n\n--Oh! pour ce dernier point, mon enfant, j'en sais autant que vous,\ndit M. Jennings, c'est à Norland, j'en suis sûre.... Je parie que\nc'est le curé de la paroisse!\n\n--Non, non, pas du tout, ce n'est point un curé, je vous assure.\n\n--Non! et bien qu'est-il donc? militaire sans doute.\n\n--Encore moins, il n'est rien du tout.... que l'amoureux d'Elinor.\n\n--Emma, dit Maria en colère, vous savez fort bien que tout cela est\nvine invention de votre part, et que cette personne n'est rien sans\ndoute, puisqu'elle n'existe pas.\n\n--Ah mon Dieu! s'écria Emma, il est donc mort dernièrement, car je\nsais fort bien qu'il existait, et que les premières lettres de son\nnom étaient un _E_ et une _F_.\n\nElinor s'était un peu éloignée sous quelque prétexte, mais elle\nentendait tout et elle était au supplice. Pour la première fois lady\nMiddleton lui parut très-aimable en observant qu'il pleuvait\nbeaucoup, et ramenant l'attention de chacun sur le temps et les\nnuages. C'était moins pour obliger Elinor que pour faire cesser un\nentretien qui l'ennuyait; mais le colonel Brandon saisit cette idée,\nparla de la pluie avec milady, puis de la gentillesse de la petite\nSélina, puis de la bonté du thé, puis de l'élégance du service, et\nl'amour d'Elinor fut oublié. Mais il ne lui fut pas facile de se\nremettre de son trouble, et jamais elle n'avait mieux senti combien\nce nom l'intéressait.\n\nDans le cours de la soirée sir Georges proposa une partie de campagne\npour le lendemain; il s'agissait d'aller voir une très-belle terre à\ndouze mille de Barton, appartenant à un beau-frère du colonel\nBrandon. Il était absent, et il avait laissé les ordres les plus\nstricts pour que personne n'entrât chez lui que ceux que le colonel\namènerait. Sir Georges vantait excessivement toutes les beautés de\ncette maison et des jardins, et sans doute il pouvait en parler, car\ndepuis dix ans, il y conduisait au moins deux fois, chaque été les\nhôtes qu'il avait chez lui. Il y avait entr'autres une immense pièce\nd'eau et une grande chaloupe qui devait former un des plus grands\namusemens de la journée. On y porterait des viandes froides, des\nvins; on irait en calêche ouverte, en phaéton, en caricle, et chaque\nchose fut arrangée pour en faire une vraie partie de plaisir.\n\nQuelques personnes de la compagnie pensaient différemment; la saison\nétait trop avancée, et le temps trop humide pour aller chercher le\nplaisir aussi loin; il avait plu tous les jours pendant la quinzaine;\nmadame Dashwood était déjà très-enrhumée, et à la prière instante\nd'Elinor, elle consentit à n'en pas être et à rester chez elle.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XIII.\n\n\nLa partie projetée tourna très différemment de ce qu'on avait\nimaginé; les uns y voyaient un plaisir parfait, quelques-uns de\nl'ennui, d'autres de la fatigue. Il n'y eut rien de tout cela; elle\nmanqua au moment où on s'y attendait le moins.\n\nA dix heures toute la société était au Parc, où on devait déjeûner\namplement avant le départ. Sir Georges ne se possédait pas de joie.\nIl avait plu toute la nuit, mais le temps s'était éclairci sur le\nmatin, les nuages se dispersaient à l'horison, et le soleil\nparaissait. Nous aurons un temps de Dieu, disait-il, et vous verrez\nWhitwell dans toute sa gloire. Tout le monde était en train et de\nbonne humeur; on était décidé à s'amuser quoiqu'il arrivât, et l'on\nse montait en gaîté.\n\nPendant le déjeûner on apporta les lettres. Il y en avait une pour le\ncolonel Brandon; il la prit, regarda l'adresse, pâlit et quitta\nimmédiatement la chambre.\n\n--Qu'est-ce qui arrive à Brandon, dit sir Georges!\n\nPersonne ne répondit.\n\n--J'espère qu'il n'a pas reçu de mauvaises nouvelles, dit lady\nMiddleton; mais il faut que ce soit quelque chose de bien\nextraordinaire pour laisser ma table de déjeûner si brusquement.\n\nDans moins de cinq minutes il rentra.\n\n--Point de mauvaises nouvelles j'espère, lui dit madame Jennings, au\nmoment où il ouvrit la porte.\n\n--Non, madame, aucune; je vous remercie de votre intérêt.\n\n--Très-vif en vérité. Est-ce d'Avignon! j'espère que votre soeur\nn'est pas plus malade!\n\n--Non, madame, ma lettre est de Londres, et c'est simplement une\nlettre d'affaires.\n\n--Mais comment se fait-il que la seule écriture vous ait autant\ntroublé? Venez, venez à côté de moi, cher colonel, racontez-moi ce\nque c'est; quelque chose d'intéressant pour vous, j'en suis sûre.\n\n--Ma chère maman, dit lady Middleton, laissez de grace le colonel\nachever son déjeûner. Voilà votre tasse, colonel. Il la prit et la\nbut rapidement sans s'asseoir.--Peut-être est-ce pour vous dire que\nvotre cousine Fanny se marie? est-cela, dit madame Jennings?\n\n--Non, madame pas du tout.\n\n--Eh bien donc! je sais ce que c'est, et qui vous écrit, colonel;\nj'espère qu'elle se porte bien.\n\n--Qui? madame, dit le colonel en rougissant un peu.\n\n--Oh vous savez très-bien de qui je veux parler.\n\nLe colonel impatienté ne répondit pas; il s'adressa à lady\nMiddleton.--Je suis très-fâché, milady, lui dit-il, d'avoir reçu\ncette lettre ce matin; elle m'oblige à partir de suite pour Londres.\n\n--Pour Londres! s'écria madame Jennings: quelle folie, et que peut-on\navoir à faire à Londres dans cette saison.\n\n--C'est moi qui perd le plus, dit-il, en étant forcé de quitter une\nsociété aussi agréable; mais ce qui me chagrine surtout, c'est que je\ncrains de faire manquer la partie de ce matin, et que ma présence ne\nsoit absolument nécessaire pour être admis à Whitwell.\n\nTout le monde fut consterné.\n\n--Mais si vous écriviez un billet à la concierge, M. Brandon, dit\nvivement Maria, ne serait-ce pas suffisant?\n\n--Je crains que non mademoiselle.\n\n--Il faut absolument que vous veniez avec nous, s'écria sir Georges;\nil n'y a point d'affaire plus importante au monde que de ne pas\ndéranger une partie sur le point de commencer. Renvoyez votre départ\npour la ville à demain, Brandon; voilà tout.\n\n--Je voudrais que cela me fût possible, dit-il avec fermeté; mais je\nne puis retarder mon départ d'un jour.\n\n--Si vous vouliez seulement nous dire de quoi il est question, dit\nmadame Jennings, et nous conter votre affaire, nous déciderions si\nelle est si pressée ou si vous pouvez rester.\n\n--Vous ne perdrez que cinq ou six heures, dit Willoughby, si vous\nvouliez seulement différer jusqu'à notre retour.\n\n--Je ne puis pas perdre seulement une heure, répondit le colonel.\n\nElinor entendit Willoughby qui disait à voix basse à Maria:--Il est\nde ces gens maussades qui ne peuvent supporter une partie de plaisir;\nil avait peur de s'enrhumer ou d'être mouillé, j'en suis sûr, et il a\ninventé cela pour faire manquer celle-ci. Je voudrais parier\ncinquante guinées que cette lettre est de sa main.\n\n--Je n'en doute pas, dit Maria.\n\n--Il n'y a pas moyen de vous persuader, dit sir Georges, quand une\nfois vous avez mis quelque chose dans votre tête; je sais cela depuis\nlong-temps: voyez cependant combien vous nous contrariez.\n\nLe colonel répéta encore tout son chagrin d'en être la cause, mais\ndéclara que son départ était inévitable.\n\n--Eh bien donc! quand vous reverra-t-on?\n\n--Bientôt j'espère, ajouta lady Middleton, et nous remettrons la\npartie de Whitwell à votre retour; j'aurai le temps de tout mieux\narranger.\n\n--Vous êtes très obligeante, madame, mais mon retour est si\nincertain, que je n'ose prendre aucun engagement.\n\n--Je vous déclare, dit sir Georges, que si vous n'êtes pas ici à la\nfin de la semaine, je vais vous chercher.\n\n--Oui, oui, sir Georges, faites cela, s'écria madame Jennings; vous\nsaurez alors ce que c'est que cette affaire, et vous me le direz.\n\nOn vint avertir le colonel que son cheval était prêt.--Vous n'allez\npas à cheval jusqu'en ville, dit sir Georges?\n\n--Non: seulement jusqu'à la première poste.\n\n--Eh bien! je vous souhaite un bon voyage, entêté que vous êtes;\nallons un effort de complaisance; renvoyez ce cheval.\n\n--Je vous jure que cela n'est pas en mon pouvoir.\n\nIl prit congé de toute la compagnie, qui lui rendit son salut avec\nhumeur, à l'exception d'Elinor qui n'avait pas dit un mot pour le\nretenir, et qui le salua avec affection.--N'y a-t-il aucune chance,\nmademoiselle Elinor, lui dit-il, de vous voir à Londres cet hiver\navec votre soeur?\n\n--Je crains qu'il n'y en ait point.\n\n--Je vous dis donc adieu pour plus long-temps que je ne voudrais,\ndit-il avec émotion. Il lui prit la main qu'il serra doucement, et\nfit un simple salut à Maria. Madame Jennings voulait encore le\nretenir pour lui faire dire son secret; mais il lui souhaita le\nbonjour, et quitta la chambre avec sir Georges.\n\nLes plaintes, les regrets, les lamentations, les reproches, les\nsarcasmes, les conjectures, que la politesse avaient retenus,\néclatèrent à la fois dès qu'ils furent sortis, lorsque madame\nJennings fit taire tout le monde en disant: Je crois que j'ai deviné\nl'_importante_ affaire qui nous a tous rendus si malheureux.\n\n--Quoi donc? chère dame, qu'est-ce que vous croyez? dites-vite,\ns'écria chacun.\n\n--Je suis sûre que c'est pour miss Williams.\n\n--Et qui est miss Williams, demanda Maria?\n\n--Quoi! vous ne connaissez pas miss Williams! vous en avez au moins\nentendu parler?\n\n--Pas du tout, je vous jure.\n\n--Eh bien! miss Williams, dit-elle avec un sourire fin, est une\nproche parente du colonel, très proche en vérité; je ne veux pas dire\nen toute lettre à quel degré pour ne pas blesser les oreilles des\njeunes dames; et baissant un peu la voix, elle dit à Elinor: c'est sa\nfille naturelle.\n\n--Vraiment! vous me surprenez.\n\n--Oui, comme je vous le dis, et le colonel l'aime comme ses yeux; je\nsuis sûre qu'il lui laissera toute sa fortune.\n\nSir Georges rentra, et se joignit de grand coeur au regret général;\nmais il finit par observer que puisqu'on était rassemblé, il fallait\nau moins faire tous ensemble quelque chose qui serait peut-être aussi\ndivertissant. Après quelques consultations, on convint qu'on irait\ncourir de côté et d'autre, suivant sa fantaisie, pendant quelques\nheures, puis qu'on reviendrait dîner au Parc. Lady Middleton trouva\nque c'était beaucoup plus convenable que de dîner en plein air.\nElinor fut du même avis par d'autres motifs. Les voitures furent\nordonnées; l'élégant caricle de Willoughby fut prêt le premier. On\ncomprend qu'il devait conduire Maria, et jamais celle-ci n'avait paru\nplus heureuse qu'en se plaçant à côté de lui; et vraiment c'était le\nplus beau couple qu'il fût possible de voir. Ils partirent comme\nl'éclair et furent bientôt hors de vue, et on n'entendit plus parler\nd'eux jusqu'au retour général. Ils étaient partis les premiers, ils\nrevinrent les derniers. Tous deux paraissaient enchantés de leur\npromenade dont ils ne donnèrent aucun détail; ils dirent seulement\nque pour rouler plus vîte, ils étaient restés dans la plaine. Les\nautres, pour jouir de la vue, s'étaient promenés sur les hauteurs.\n\nSir Georges avait décidé que pour se consoler du départ du colonel,\non s'amuserait toute la journée, et qu'on danserait après dîner. Il y\navait, outre la compagnie ordinaire, toute la nombreuse famille Carey\nde Nerrton. On était vingt personnes à table, ce que sir Georges\nremarqua avec grand plaisir. Willoughby prit sa place accoutumée\nentre Elinor et Maria. Il n'y avait pas long-temps qu'ils étaient\nassis, lorsque madame Jennings se penchant entre Elinor et\nWilloughby, prit le bras de Maria, et lui dit, assez haut pour être\nentendue de tous deux: Je sais où vous êtes allés ce matin, miss\nMaria; je l'ai découvert malgré tous vos beaux mystères. Maria rougit\net dit vivement: Où donc, Madame?\n\n--Ne saviez-vous pas, dit Willoughby, que nous nous étions promenés\ndans mon caricle?\n\n--Oui, oui, Monsieur, je le savais bien, mais j'étais décidée de\nsavoir aussi où ce caricle vous avait menés, et je le sais. J'espère,\nmiss Maria, que votre future maison est de votre goût? Elle est à mon\ngré une des plus grandes et des plus belles que je connaisse, et\nquand je viendrai vous voir, j'espère que je la trouverai bien\narrangée et meublée de neuf. Les meubles actuels sont trop antiques,\nn'est-ce pas? c'est la seule chose à quoi j'aie trouvé à redire quand\nj'y fus il y a six ans, et vous ne les aurez pas trouvés en meilleur\nétat ce matin.\n\nMaria se détourna en grande confusion. Madame Jennings rit aux\néclats, et conta ensuite à Elinor qu'elle avait chargé sa\nfemme-de-chambre Betty, adroite autant que gentille, de savoir du\njockey de M. Willoughby où son maître avait conduit miss Dashwood, et\nqu'ainsi elle avait appris positivement qu'il l'avait menée au\nchâteau d'Altenham, et qu'ils avaient passé toute la matinée à se\npromener dans la maison et dans les jardins.\n\nElinor pouvait à peine le croire; il lui semblait également inouï à\nM. Willoughby de l'avoir proposé et à Maria d'avoir consenti d'aller\ndans la maison où vivait une femme respectable, qu'elle ne\nconnaissait point, et chez qui elle ne pouvait être admise.\n\nAussitôt qu'on fut sorti de table, elle prit sa soeur à part et le\nlui demanda, et à sa grande surprise, elle trouva que tout ce que\nmadame Jennings avait dit était exactement vrai. Maria était\ntout-à-fait revenue de son premier moment de trouble, et se fâcha\npresque de ce que sa soeur en doutait.\n\n--Qu'est-ce qui vous étonne donc, Elinor, lui dit-elle? pourquoi\nserais-je pas allée voir Altenham, puisque j'en avais une si bonne\noccasion? ne vous ai-je pas entendue dire vous-même que vous en\nauriez grande envie?--Oui, Maria, mais j'aurais attendu que madame\nSmith n'y fût plus ou voulût m'y recevoir, et je n'y serais surtout\npas allée seule avec M. Willoughby.\n\n--M. Willoughby est cependant la seule personne qui ait quelque droit\nde m'y introduire, et qui puisse me montrer en détail la maison et\nles jardins. Son caricle ne contient que deux places, et je ne\npouvais avoir personne avec moi. Je vous assure, Elinor, que dans\ntoute ma vie je n'ai passé une plus délicieuse matinée.\n\n--Il est fâcheux, reprit doucement Elinor, que le plaisir et la\nconvenance n'aillent pas toujours ensemble.\n\n--Au contraire, Elinor, cela vaut beaucoup mieux, et ce que vous\ndites est la plus forte preuve en ma faveur. Si j'avais blessé le\nmoins du monde les convenances ou la décence, j'en aurais eu le\nsentiment: vous m'accorderez j'espère qu'on sent toujours quelque\nchose de pénible quand on fait ce qui n'est pas bien, et avec cette\nconviction je vous assure que je n'aurais eu nul plaisir.\n\n--Mais, ma chère Maria, dit Elinor avec une extrême tendresse, ne\npensez-vous pas aussi qu'un sentiment plus vif encore peut aveugler?\nvous vous êtes déja trop exposée peut-être à de malicieuses\nremarques; ne commencez-vous pas à vous douter que vous y avez\npeut-être donné lieu, et votre promenade peut les augmenter? Madame\nJennings......\n\n--Madame Jennings et ses sottes railleries, interrompit Maria, me\nsont très-indifférentes; tout le monde, et vous-même Elinor, vous y\nêtes sans cesse exposés; je n'attache pas plus de prix à sa censure\nqu'à son approbation. Je n'ai point du tout le sentiment d'avoir fait\nquelque chose de mal en me promenant dans les jardins de madame\nSmith, ou en voyant sa maison; elle doit un jour appartenir à M.\nWilloughby, et.....\n\n--Lors même qu'elle devrait aussi vous appartenir, dit Elinor, cela\nne justifie point ce que vous avez fait.\n\nMaria rougit beaucoup, mais plutôt de plaisir que de peine, et après\nquelques minutes de silence elle passa un bras autour de sa soeur,\net lui dit avec son charmant sourire: peut-être, Elinor, ai-je fait\nune étourderie en allant à Altenham, pardonnez-la moi, je ne puis\nm'en repentir, M. Willoughby avait la passion de me le montrer, et\nc'est une charmante habitation je vous assure: il y a surtout un\npetit salon au premier étage, précisément comme il le faut pour un\nétablissement de tous les jours. Lorsqu'il sera meublé avec élégance,\nil sera délicieux; il est situé à l'angle de la maison, et il y a\ndeux vues différentes, d'un côté sur le boulingrin, et au-delà sur un\nbeau grand bois; de l'autre côté c'est l'église et le village, et\nderrière, cette belle colline que nous avons si souvent admirée.\nEncore n'ai-je pas vu le salon à son avantage, les meubles sont si\nantiques! mais, comme dit Willoughby, avec quelques centaines de\nguinées nous en ferons..... on peut en faire la plus charmante\nchambre d'été de toute l'Angleterre.\n\nAinsi finit le sermon d'Elinor; elle ne dit plus rien, et Maria\nallait continuer sa description d'Altenham avec le même feu, quand\nelles furent appelées pour la danse. C'était Willoughby; elle lui\ndonna la main, et dansa toute la soirée avec lui sans se rappeler un\nmot de ce que lui avait dit sa soeur.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XIV.\n\n\nLe départ soudain du colonel Brandon et la fermeté qu'il avait mise à\nen cacher la cause, excitèrent la plus vive curiosité chez madame\nJennings, et pendant trois ou quatre jours elle en fut occupée au\npoint, que la course de Maria avec Willoughby fut tout-à-fait mise de\ncôté. Elle avait deviné juste; elle était contente et n'y pensait\nplus. Elle était trop bonne pour se plaire à tourmenter ces pauvres\njeunes gens, qui s'aimaient comme on doit s'aimer à leur âge, qui\nrivalisaient tous deux en beauté: rien de plus naturel, et il n'y\navait rien à dire. Mais ce colonel que peut-il lui être arrivé? Elle\nerrait de conjecture en conjecture; c'était sûrement quelque chose de\ntrès-fâcheux; elle avait vu cela sur son visage; et la voilà à penser\nà toutes les espèces de maux et de malheurs qui pouvaient tomber sur\nlui. Pauvre cher homme! j'en suis vraiment effrayée! c'est peut-être\nune affaire dangereuse, une banqueroute, que sais-je! il est possible\nqu'à ce moment il soit entièrement ruiné. Sa belle terre de Delafort\nn'a jamais rendu plus de deux mille louis par an, et son frère lui a\nlaissé beaucoup de dettes, je sais cela positivement; mais que ne\ndonnerais-je pas pour savoir à présent la vérité et le vrai but de ce\nvoyage à Londres, si pressé qu'il ne peut le retarder d'une heure?\nPeut-être que cela regarde miss Williams, et en rassemblant toutes\nles circonstances, je sais que c'est cela même. Il rougit quand je la\nnommai; ne l'avez-vous pas remarqué? moi j'étais en face de lui, je\nle regardais au blanc des yeux, et je ne me trompe pas. Peut-être\nest-elle malade à Londres, peut-être morte; rien dans le monde de\nplus vraisemblable; j'ai une idée qu'elle est très délicate. Je parie\ntout au monde que cette lettre regardait miss Williams. Non, non, ce\nn'est pas une banqueroute; il est trop prudent et trop sage! A moins,\nquoiqu'il en dise, que ce ne soit sa soeur qui le demande à\nAvignon; il est très bon frère, et cela expliquerait cette grande\npresse. Enfin à la bonne heure! qu'est-ce que cela me fait à moi?\nquoique ce soit, on le saura pourtant un jour. Je souhaite de tout\nmon coeur d'apprendre qu'il soit hors de peine et qu'il ait une\nbonne femme par-dessus le marché.\n\nC'était à Elinor que madame Jennings adressait toutes ces\nconjectures, en s'étonnant beaucoup qu'elle ne partageât pas son\ninquiétude. Elinor s'intéressait infiniment au colonel, mais elle ne\nvoyait aucune raison de s'alarmer pour lui; elle était d'ailleurs\ntrop occupée des amours de sa soeur et de Willoughby, et de\nl'extraordinaire silence que tous les deux gardaient sur leur projet\nde mariage, pour s'inquiéter d'autre chose. Elle ne savait comment\nexpliquer ce mystère, incompatible avec leur caractère à tous les\ndeux, tandis qu'ils n'en mettaient pas même assez dans leur\ninclination réciproque. Pourquoi ne pas s'ouvrir entièrement soit à\nelle, soit à madame Dashwood? Cette dernière ne se conduisait pas de\nmanière à faire craindre un refus à Willoughby, qu'elle comblait\nd'amitiés comme s'il eût déja été son beau-fils; et quand toute sa\nconduite disait qu'il aspirait à le devenir, pourquoi continuait-il à\nse taire? Elinor ne pouvait l'imaginer.\n\nElle comprenait bien cependant qu'il était possible que quoique\nWilloughby fût très amoureux de Maria il ne fût pas le maître de\nl'épouser immédiatement; il était indépendant, il est vrai, mais tant\nque madame Smith vivrait, il n'était pas assez riche pour s'établir.\nSa terre de Haute-Combe ne lui rapportait, d'après sir Georges, que\nsix ou sept cents pièces par an, qui lui suffisaient à peine pour sa\nvie de garçon, et souvent il s'était plaint devant elles de sa\npauvreté. Malgré cela il était singulier qu'avec l'extrême franchise\ndont il faisait profession, et que Maria mettait sans cesse à la tête\nde toutes les vertus, il ne leur échappât jamais un mot ni à l'un ni\nà l'autre sur un projet d'union qu'ils formaient bien certainement.\nMais étaient-ils réellement engagés ensemble? Toute leur conduite\nl'affirmait et surtout cette course à Altenham; cependant quelquefois\nune espèce de doute traversait l'esprit d'Elinor et l'empêchait\nd'avoir une explication avec sa soeur. Si vive, si sensible, si peu\nraisonnable, lui pardonnerait-elle l'ombre d'un doute sur celui\nqu'elle aimait si passionnément? souvent aussi Elinor reprenait en\nlui une entière confiance. Toute sa conduite était si franche, si\nouverte, qu'il croyait peut-être n'avoir pas besoin de s'expliquer\nplus clairement. Il était avec Maria le plus tendre et le plus\nattentif des amans, et avec sa mère et ses soeurs, le fils et le\nfrère le plus affectionné; il avait l'air de les regarder toutes\ncomme ses parentes et la chaumière comme sa maison. Il y passait bien\nplus de temps qu'à Altenham, et lorsqu'il n'y avait pas d'engagement\ngénéral au Parc, il y restait des jours entiers à côté de Maria, son\nchien favori couché à ses pieds, lisant, faisant de la musique comme\ns'il eût fait déja partie de la famille.\n\nUne soirée particulièrement, environ une semaine après le départ du\ncolonel, son coeur sembla s'ouvrir avec plus d'abandon et\nd'attachement pour tous les objets qui l'entouraient. Il était comme\nà l'ordinaire seul avec la mère et les trois soeurs, quand madame\nDashwood parla de ses projets d'agrandir et d'embellir la maison le\nprintemps suivant. Aussitôt il rejeta cette idée avec beaucoup de feu\net de sentiment, comme ne pouvant supporter la pensée d'aucun\nchangement dans un lieu qui lui était si cher tel qu'il était, et qui\nlui paraissait parfait. «Quoi! s'écria-t-il, embellir cette chère\ndemeure! non, non, je n'y consentirai jamais; pas une pierre ne doit\nêtre ajoutée à ces murs, pas un coin ne doit être changé, si vous\navez le moindre égard à mes sentimens.»\n\nMadame Dashwood sourit et lui tendit la main en silence, mais avec\nl'air attendri. Ne soyez pas alarmé, mon cher Willoughby, dit Elinor\ngaîment; maman fait beaucoup de projets; cela ne coûte rien, mais il\nn'en est pas de même de l'exécution, et nous ne serons jamais assez\nriches pour bâtir. J'en suis charmé, s'écria-t-il; puissiez-vous\ntoujours être pauvres, si vous ne savez pas mieux employer vos\nrichesses.\n\n--Bien obligée du souhait, Willoughby, dit madame Dashwood; mais\nsoyez assuré que je sacrifierais sans peine tous mes projets\nd'embellissement à ce touchant sentiment d'affection locale que vous\nvenez d'exprimer. Fiez-vous à moi là-dessus; quelque riche que je\ndevienne, je ne dépenserai pas mon argent d'une manière qui vous\nserait aussi pénible. Mais êtes-vous réellement assez attaché à cette\nmaison pour n'y voir aucun défaut?--Aucun je vous le jure, dit-il,\navec feu; je vous dirai plus, je la regarde comme le seul endroit sur\nla terre qui me donne l'idée du parfait bonheur domestique, et si\nj'étais, moi, assez riche pour bâtir, je jetterais bas ma grande\nmaison de Haute-Combe, pour la rebâtir exactement sur le plan de\nvotre chaumière.\n\n--Sans oublier cet étroit et sombre escalier, et la cuisine qui fume?\ndit Elinor.\n\n--Oui, sans rien oublier; exactement comme ceci; les petits\ninconvéniens mêmes: ils tiennent aussi à des souvenirs, et la moindre\nvariation m'avertirait que ce n'est pas la chaumière de Barton. Oh!\nje pourrais peut-être alors être aussi heureux à Haute-Combe que je\nl'ai été ici!\n\n--J'espère, reprit Elinor, que même avec le désavantage d'un grand\nescalier et d'un beau salon, vous trouverez aussi le bonheur dans\nvotre maison.\n\n--Il y a certainement, dit Willoughby, des circonstances qui\npourraient aussi me la rendre bien chère; mais cette demeure-ci aura\ntoujours des droits sur mon affection qu'aucune autre ne peut avoir.\n\nOh! qui rendra l'expression de plaisir, de bonheur, de tendresse, de\npassion qui se peignit alors dans les yeux de madame Dashwood et de\nMaria; c'étaient l'amour maternel et l'autre amour dans toute leur\nforce. Toutes les deux regardèrent l'aimable enthousiaste de la\nchaumière, de manière à lui dire qu'on l'avait entendu.\n\n--Combien de fois ai-je souhaité, ajouta-t-il, quand je venais à\nAltenham que cette charmante demeure fût habitée. Jamais dans mes\npromenades je n'ai passé devant sans admirer sa situation, sans\nregretter que personne n'y vécût. Avec quel plaisir j'appris en\narrivant cette année chez madame Smith, que ce voeu était exaucé!\nJ'éprouvai une satisfaction, un tel intérêt pour cet événement qui\nm'était si étranger, que je ne puis l'expliquer que comme un\npressentiment du bonheur qui m'attendait; ne le pensez-vous pas pas\naussi Maria, dit-il, un peu plus bas en se penchant de son côté, et\ncontinuant plus haut, il dit vivement: et vous voudriez gâter cette\ndemeure, madame Dashwood; vous voudriez lui ôter le charme de sa\nsimplicité, et ce cher petit salon, où notre connaissance a commencé,\noù j'apportai Maria dans mes bras, où j'ai passé au milieu de vous\ntous tant d'heures délicieuses; vous voudriez le dégrader, en faire\nune allée où tout le monde passerait pour entrer dans un salon plus\ngrand, plus beau peut-être, mais qui n'aurait jamais pour moi le prix\nde celui-ci, où tout parle à mon coeur, où on est si bien, si\nagréablement établi.\n\nMadame Dashwood lui promit encore que rien n'y serait changé.\n\n--Vous êtes la meilleure des femmes et des mères, lui dit-il, en\nserrant sa main entre les siennes; cette promesse commence déja à me\nrendre heureux. Étendez-la plus loin (le coeur d'Elinor battit),\ndites moi que non-seulement votre maison restera toujours la même,\nmais que j'y trouverai toute ma vie cette affection, cette bonté avec\nlaquelle vous m'avez reçu, et qui m'a rendu cette demeure si chère.\n\nIl n'en dit pas davantage. Elinor aurait voulu quelques mots de plus;\nmais Maria avait l'air si contente qu'elle le fut aussi. Madame\nDashwood lui fit la promesse qu'il demandait, et la conduite de\nWilloughby pendant toute cette soirée, témoigna son affection et son\nbonheur.\n\nVenez dîner demain avec nous, mon cher Willoughby, lui dit madame\nDashwood, quand il sortit, sans cela nous ne nous verrions pas de la\njournée; nous voulons aller au Park faire une visite à lady\nMiddleton, mais nous reviendrons de bonne heure. Il l'accepta et\npromit d'être chez elles avant quatre heures le lendemain.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XV.\n\n\nMadame Dashwood et deux de ses filles, l'aînée et la cadette,\npartirent après déjeûner pour leur visite projetée au Park; Maria\ns'excusa d'en être sous quelque léger prétexte d'occupation. Sa mère\nprésuma que Willoughby avait à lui parler et lui avait promis de\nvenir pendant leur absence; elle le trouva très naturel au point où\nils en étaient, et ne fit nulle objection. Ai-je deviné, dit madame\nDashwood à Elinor en riant, lorsqu'à leur retour, environ sur les\ntrois heures, elles trouvèrent en effet le caricle du jeune homme\ndevant la porte de la chaumière avec son domestique. Elle se hâta\nd'entrer avec gaîté, et croyait aussi trouver les jeunes amoureux\nbien contens; mais à peine eût-elle ouvert la porte du passage qui\nconduisait au petit salon, qu'à sa surprise, elle en vit sortir Maria\nqui paraissait dans une grande affliction. Son mouchoir couvrait ses\nyeux et on entendait des sanglots: sans faire aucune attention à sa\nmère et à ses soeurs, elle traversa rapidement l'allée et monta\nl'escalier. Surprises et alarmées, elles entrèrent dans la chambre\nqu'elle venait de quitter, dans laquelle elles trouvèrent Willoughby\nassis près du feu, la tête appuyée contre le chambranle de la\ncheminée, et leur tournant le dos. Il se leva quand il les entendit\nentrer; et sa contenance abattue et ses yeux aussi pleins de larmes,\ntémoignèrent assez qu'il partageait fortement l'affliction de Maria.\n\n--Qu'est-ce qu'a ma fille, dit vivement madame Dashwood en entrant?\nlui serait-il arrivé quelque accident?\n\n--J'espère que non, madame, dit Willoughby, en essayant de sourire;\nc'est moi plutôt qui dois m'attendre à être malade, car j'éprouve la\nplus cruelle contrariété.\n\n--Vous, monsieur, quoi donc!\n\n--Oui, madame, cruelle en vérité. Je ne puis avoir l'honneur de dîner\navec vous. Madame Smith use du pouvoir des riches sur un pauvre\ndiable de cousin; elle m'envoie à Londres pour une affaire pressée.\nJ'ai reçu mes dépêches et pris congé d'Altenham, et je suis venu,\nmadame, m'excuser auprès de vous, et vous faire mes adieux.\n\n--A Londres! vous allez à Londres ce matin!\n\n--Dans ce moment.\n\n--C'est précisément comme le colonel Brandon, dit Emma; mais au moins\nM. Willoughby ne fait pas manquer une partie de plaisir en allant à\nLondres.\n\n--C'est moi qui perds tout le mien, reprit-il en soupirant, tout mon\nbonheur.\n\n--Pour peu de temps, j'espère, dit madame Dashwood, mais _peu_ c'est\nquelquefois beaucoup. Faites bien vîte les affaires de madame Smith,\net revenez plus vîte encore auprès de vos amis. Quand peut-on espérer\nde vous revoir? Il rougit et répondit avec embarras: Vous êtes trop\nbonne, madame, mais je n'ai aucun espoir... Je ne crois pas revenir\nen Devonshire cette année; l'année prochaine peut-être... Je ne fais\nà madame Smith qu'une visite dans l'année.\n\n--Est-ce que madame Smith est votre seule amie, dit madame Dashwood\navec un sourire mélé de reproche et d'amitié; est-ce qu'Altenham est\nla seule maison en Devonshire où vous soyez sûr d'être bien reçu?\nEst-ce chez moi, cher Willoughby, que vous attendrez une invitation?\n\nSa rougeur augmenta, des larmes remplirent de nouveau ses yeux, et la\ntête baissée sans regarder madame Dashwood, il lui dit seulement:\nVous êtes trop bonne.\n\nMadame Dashwood surprise, regarda Elinor, et vit dans ses yeux\nqu'elle ne l'était pas moins. Pour quelques momens tout le monde\ngarda le silence; madame Dashwood le rompit la première.\n\nJe vous répète encore, mon jeune ami, lui dit-elle, qu'en tous temps\nvous serez le bien-venu à la chaumière de Barton; je ne vous presse\nplus d'y revenir immédiatement, c'est à vous seul de juger de ce qui\npeut plaire ou déplaire à madame Smith. Sur ce point je ne veux pas\nplus douter de votre jugement que de votre inclination. Dites-moi\nseulement que nous nous reverrons le plutôt que vous le pourrez.\n\nMes engagemens sont pour le moment si nombreux, madame, et d'une\ntelle nature, que je.... je n'ose me flatter..... Je ne puis\ndire...... Il s'arrêta, et tout témoignait son embarras et sa\nconfusion.\n\nMadame Dashwood était trop étonnée pour pouvoir parler. Un autre\nsilence suivit; il fut cette fois rompu par Willoughby, qui dit avec\nune gaîté forcée. Allons il faut partir, il faut s'arracher de cette\nchère chaumière. C'est une folie de prolonger son tourment en restant\nplus long-temps dans des lieux qu'on regrette et avec une société\ndont on ne peut plus jouir. Adieu! il fit un salut de la main, sortit\npromptement. Elles le virent de la fenêtre monter lestement dans son\ncaricle, et dans une minute il fut hors de vue.\n\nMadame Dashwood ne put prononcer que ce seul mot: ma pauvre Maria! Et\nsortit aussi, en faisant signe de la main à ses deux filles de ne pas\nle suivre. L'inquiétude d'Elinor était égale au moins à celle de sa\nmère, et peut-être même plus profonde. Tous ses doutes sur les\nsentimens ou plutôt sur les intentions de Willoughby revinrent\nà-la-fois dans son esprit. Cet inconcevable départ, ses adieux bien\nplus inconcevables encore, son embarras, son affectation de gaîté, la\nmanière marquée dont il avait repoussé l'invitation amicale de sa\nmère; toute sa conduite, en un mot, si différente de la ville et de\nlui-même, la confondait d'étonnement. Ne sachant que penser, elle eut\nl'idée que quelque querelle d'amant avait eu lieu entre sa soeur et\nlui; la tristesse avec laquelle Maria avait quitté la chambre avant\nson départ, et le laissant seul, pouvait autoriser l'idée d'une\nbrouillerie. Mais d'un autre côté, quand elle se rappelait avec\nquelle passion Maria l'aimait, adoptait à l'instant toutes ses idées,\nne voyait, ne pensait que d'après lui, une querelle lui semblait\npresque impossible.\n\n--Mais enfin, quelque fût le motif et les particularités de leur\nséparation, l'affliction de sa soeur était indubitable, et elle\npensait avec la plus tendre compassion au violent chagrin auquel\nMaria se livrait par sentiment, et qu'elle regardait même comme un\ndevoir. Elle aurait voulu tout de suite aller auprès d'elle pour\nessayer de l'adoucir; mais sa mère y était sans doute et y réussirait\nmieux encore, leurs ames étant tout-à-fait à l'unisson. Elle attendit\nson retour avec impatience; elle ne revint qu'au bout d'une\ndemi-heure, et quoique ses yeux fussent rouges sa physionomie était\nplus sereine.\n\n--Vous avez vu Maria, maman, lui dit Elinor, comment est-elle!\n\n--Je ne l'ai pas vue; elle est enfermée dans sa chambre; elle pleure,\net m'a conjurée de la laisser seule quelque temps. Pauvre enfant! ses\nlarmes sont bien naturelles; laissons passer ce premier moment sans\nla tourmenter d'inutiles consolations.\n\n--Elinor ne répondit rien; elle aurait voulu que les larmes de sa\nsoeur se fussent séchées sur le sein de sa mère, qu'elle eût ouvert\nsa porte. Elles prirent leurs ouvrages, et s'assirent en silence.\nEmma sortit pour prendre ses leçons par l'ordre de sa mère. Notre\ncher Willoughby est déja à quelques milles de Barton, dit madame\nDashwood après quelques minutes, et Dieu sait, Elinor, comme il\nvoyage tristement. Elinor étouffait, elle avait besoin qu'un mot de\nsa mère l'encourageât à ouvrir son coeur. Tout cela est bien\nétrange, répondit-elle! s'en aller si subitement; ce départ a l'air\nd'un mauvais songe. Aujourd'hui à quelques milles de nous, et hier il\nétait là à cette place, si heureux, si gai, si affectionné, comme\ns'il devait y passer sa vie, et actuellement il part sans projet de\nretour, sans savoir s'il nous reverra, et il nous quitte d'une\nmanière si singulière, avec un embarras si marqué! Il faut qu'il soit\narrivé depuis hier quelque chose qu'il n'a pas voulu dire; il n'était\nplus le franc, le tendre Willoughby d'hier. Vous avez sûrement senti\ncette différence tout comme moi, maman! Peut-être se sont-ils\nquerellés. Sur quoi! je ne puis le concevoir, ni cependant expliquer\nautrement son peu d'empressement d'accepter votre invitation.\n\n--Ce n'est pas l'inclination qui lui manquait, Elinor; je l'ai vu\nbien clairement. Il ne dépendait pas de lui de l'accepter. Au premier\nmoment je trouvais toutes ses manières aussi singulières que vous les\ntrouvez vous-même; mais je viens d'y réfléchir avec calme, et je puis\nvous assurer que je le comprends à merveille et que je puis tout\nexpliquer.\n\n--Vous le pouvez, maman!\n\n--Oui, ma fille; je me suis tout expliqué à moi-même de la manière la\nplus satisfaisante; mais vous, Elinor, qui doutez toujours de\nl'amour, vous ne serez pas satisfaite: je vous prie cependant de ne\npas me dire un mot contre ma confiance en Willoughby; elle est\nentière et complète. Je suis donc persuadée que madame Smith, qu'il a\nun si grand intérêt à ménager, soupçonne son attachement pour Maria\net le désaprouve, peut-être parce qu'elle a d'autres vues sur lui.\nElle a donc désiré de l'éloigner, et elle a inventé quelque affaire\npressée pour lui faire quitter le voisinage de Barton. Voilà je crois\nce qui est arrivé. Il n'a sans doute pas encore osé lui avouer ses\nengagemens avec Maria, et il est obligé, bien à contre coeur, de\nlui obéir pour le moment et de quitter quelque temps le Devonshire.\nVous me direz, je le sais, que cela peut être ou ne pas être; mais je\nne veux écouter aucun doute, à moins que vous ne puissiez m'expliquer\nla chose d'une manière aussi satisfaisante. A présent, Elinor,\nqu'avez-vous à dire?\n\n--Rien, ma mère; vous aviez prévu ma réponse; ce que vous croyez peut\nêtre vrai, peut être faux: nous n'en savons rien, mais lequel des\ndeux que ce soit mes inquiétudes sont les mêmes.\n\n--Fille insensible! dit madame Dashwood avec un peu de dépit, vous\nvoulez croire le mal plutôt que le bien; vous préférez voir\nWilloughby coupable et votre soeur à jamais malheureuse, plutôt que\nd'admettre ce qui peut le justifier. Il a pris congé de nous,\ndites-vous avec moins d'affection qu'à l'ordinaire: n'accordez-vous\ndonc rien au chagrin qui l'oppressait? Le pauvre garçon ne savait ce\nqu'il disait ni ce qu'il nous entendait dire seulement; à mes yeux la\nsingularité de sa conduite dans cet instant est plutôt une preuve de\nson amour et de sa sincérité.\n\n--De son amour peut-être, dit Elinor; je connais peu les effets de\nl'amour, mais de sa sincérité!! Ah! ma mère ne pensez-vous pas qu'un\nentier aveu de son amour, des difficultés qui se présentaient pour le\nmoment, et de ses intentions de les surmonter, nous l'aurait encore\nmieux prouvée. Sans doute il est des cas où le secret est nécessaire;\nmais encore je ne puis m'empêcher d'être surprise que lui, Willoughby\nen ait été capable. Peut-être en effet est-il obligé de cacher ses\nengagemens avec ma soeur (si du moins ils sont engagés) à madame\nSmith, mais je ne vois aucune raison pour nous les cacher à nous.\n\n--Pour les cacher, Elinor! ai-je bien entendu? est-ce bien vous qui\nreprochez de la dissimulation à Willoughby et à Maria, quand chaque\njour, chaque instant vos regards leur reprochaient de n'en avoir pas\nassez?\n\n--Je ne manque pas de preuves de leur amour, maman, mais bien de\nleurs engagemens.\n\n--Je suis aussi sûre de l'un que de l'autre.\n\n--Alors je me tais et je suis contente; mais pardon: j'ai cru que ni\nl'un ni l'autre ne vous en avaient parlé.\n\n--Ni l'un ni l'autre, il est vrai; mais qu'ai-je besoin de paroles\nquand les actions parlent si ouvertement? Est-ce que toute la\nconduite de Willoughby avec Maria, et avec nous toutes, n'a pas\nprouvé positivement qu'il l'aimait et la considérait comme sa future\ncompagne, et nous, comme ses parentes de coeur et de choix?\nN'a-t-il pas demandé tous les jours mon consentement par ses regards,\nses attentions, son tendre respect? Ne le lui ai-je pas donné\ntacitement en souffrant ses assiduités auprès de ma fille? O mon\nElinor, comment pouvez-vous douter qu'ils ne soient solennellement\nengagés l'un à l'autre par des promesses positives? Comment\npouvez-vous supposer que Willoughby, persuadé de l'amour de votre\nsoeur, comme il doit l'être, pourrait la quitter, et pour\nlong-temps peut-être, sans s'assurer de la retrouver un jour pour la\nvie? Pourquoi penserions-nous mal d'un homme que nous avons tant de\nmotifs d'aimer, quoique nous ne le connaissions pas depuis\nlong-temps? Il n'est pas étranger ici; et qui nous a dit un seul mot\nà son désavantage? Vous voyez comme il est aimé de mon cousin sir\nGeorges, qui s'intéresse assez à nous pour nous avoir averties s'il y\navait quelque chose à dire contre lui. Au contraire ne cherche-t-il\npas toujours dans ses parties à le rapprocher de Maria? Non, non, je\nn'ai aucun doute, aucune crainte; il reviendra j'en suis convaincue.\nEn attendant, Elinor, je vous prie de ne pas déchirer davantage le\ncoeur de votre pauvre soeur en ayant l'air de douter de lui. La\npauvre enfant aura bien assez de peine à supporter son absence.\n\n--Je me tairai avec elle, maman, et je désire de tout mon coeur de\nm'être trompée; j'aime Willoughby, et un soupçon sur son intégrité ne\npeut pas vous être plus pénible qu'à moi. S'il nous écrit, si une\ncorrespondance s'établit entre lui et ma soeur, je n'aurai plus\naucun doute.\n\n--Vraiment, vous accordez cela! quand vous les verrez devant l'autel,\nvous vous douterez alors qu'ils vont se marier.\n\nElles furent interrompues par l'entrée d'Emma. Elinor put réfléchir\nsur leur entretien; elle voulait aller tâcher d'être admise auprès de\nsa soeur; mais madame Dashwood l'en empêcha. Il fallait,\ndisait-elle, laisser au moins cette matinée à son affliction, après\nquoi l'espoir de l'avenir la calmerait.\n\nElles ne la virent donc qu'au moment du dîner. Maria entra dans la\nchambre à manger sans dire une parole; ses yeux étaient rouges et\nhumides; elle semblait retenir ses larmes avec difficulté; elle\névitait les regards, et ne pouvait ni parler ni manger. Après\nquelques momens sa mère lui pressa tendrement la main. Maria voulut\nlever les yeux sur elle, mais ils se tournèrent sur la place que\nWilloughby aurait occupée; son faible courage l'abandonna; elle\nfondit en larmes, et quitta la chambre.\n\nElle rentra un quart-d'heure après; mais l'oppression de son coeur\ncontinua de même toute la soirée. Elle était sans pouvoir sur\nelle-même, parce qu'elle ne voulait même pas commander à son\naffliction; la plus légère mention de ce qui pouvait avoir quelque\nrapport à Willoughby, la décomposait entièrement, et quoique sa mère\net ses soeurs eussent la plus tendre attention de ne rien lui dire\nqui pût renouveler sa douleur, il aurait fallu ne pas parler du tout\npour l'éviter. Elle avait tellement identifié sa vie, ses pensées,\nses actions avec Willoughby, qu'on ne pouvait parler de rien qui n'y\neût quelque rapport.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XVI.\n\n\nMaria se serait trouvée impardonnable si elle eût été capable de\nfermer l'oeil la première nuit après le départ de Willoughby. Elle\naurait été honteuse le matin de se présenter à sa famille avec un\nteint reposé, et n'ayant pas autant besoin de repos qu'avant de se\nmettre au lit; mais il n'y avait point de danger qu'elle eût le tort\nde dormir dans cette circonstance. Elle ne ferma pas l'oeil de\ntoute la nuit, et en passa une grande partie dans les larmes. Elle se\nleva avec un grand mal de tête, toujours incapable de parler, ne\nprenant de nourriture que ce qu'il fallait pour ne pas mourir de\nfaim, donnant par là beaucoup de chagrin à sa mère et à ses soeurs,\net rejetant toutes leurs consolations. Maria sans doute était _très\nsensible_, mais n'avait pas l'ombre de raison.\n\nQuand elle avait fini de déjeûner ou de voir déjeûner, elle allait se\npromener seule, errait dans le village d'Altenham ou sur la colline\noù elle avait rencontré Willoughby, se nourrissait des souvenirs de\nson bonheur passé, et pleurait amèrement sur son malheur actuel.\nVoilà quel était le principal emploi de ses matinées, et les soirées\nse passaient à-peu-près de même, à rêver, appuyée sur sa main, ou ses\nregards attachés sur la colline. Quelquefois elle allait à son piano,\net jouait tous les airs que Willoughby aimait, où leurs voix avaient\nété si souvent réunies; elle suivait chaque ligne de musique qu'il\navait écrite pour elle, jusqu'à ce que son coeur fût près de se\nrompre; elle passait ainsi tous les jours des heures entières devant\nson piano, chantant et pleurant alternativement, sa voix souvent\ntotalement arrêtée par ses sanglots. Dans ses lectures aussi bien que\ndans sa musique, elle ne cherchait que ce qui pouvait nourrir son\nchagrin et ses regrets; elle ne lisait rien que ce qu'ils avaient lu\nensemble, et le moindre passage relatif à sa situation, renouvelait\net augmentait sa douleur.\n\nUne telle violence d'affliction ne pouvait pas, il est vrai, durer\ntoujours au même point; au bout de quelques jours, sans s'affaiblir,\nelle se calma et devint une profonde mélancolie. Mais ses\noccupations, ses promenades solitaires, ses méditations furent les\nmêmes et produisaient encore des effusions de larmes.\n\nAucune lettre de Willoughby n'arriva, et Maria ne paraissait point en\nattendre. Sa mère était surprise, et Elinor inquiète, mais madame\nDashwood trouvait toujours des explications pour tout ce qui pouvait\naccuser Willoughby d'indifférence.--Rappelez-vous, Elinor, dit-elle,\ncombien souvent sir Georges va prendre lui-même nos lettres à la\nposte et nous les apporte; Willoughby devant qui il nous les a\nsouvent remises, le sait très bien. Nous avons supposé vous et moi\nque le secret était peut-être nécessaire, et peut-il y en avoir dans\nleur correspondance si elle passe par les mains de sir Georges, qui\nconnaît sans doute l'écriture de son jeune ami.\n\nElinor en convint, et tâcha d'y trouver un motif suffisant pour\nexpliquer son silence. Mais il y avait un moyen si simple, si naturel\nde savoir exactement le fond de cette affaire et s'ils étaient\nengagés ensemble ou non, qu'elle ne pût s'empêcher de le suggérer à\nsa mère.\n\n--Pourquoi, maman, lui dit-elle, ne le demandez-vous pas à Maria? de\nla part d'une mère si tendre, si indulgente, cette question ne peut\npas l'offenser: elle est le résultat naturel de votre affection pour\nMaria. Elle est par caractère franche, candide, disposée à la\nconfiance, et surtout avec vous particulièrement.\n\n--C'est précisément pour cela que je ne voudrais pour rien au monde,\nrépondit madame Dashwood, lui faire une telle question. Supposons\nqu'il soit possible (ce que je ne crois pas), qu'ils ne soient pas\nengagés et qu'elle ait des doutes sur lui, combien cela\nn'ajouterait-il pas à sa douleur d'être forcée d'en convenir? Je ne\nmériterais pas sa confiance, si je voulais l'obliger à confesser ce\nqu'elle voudrait peut-être qui fût ignoré de tout le monde. Je\nconnais le coeur de Maria, je sais combien elle m'aime, et que je\nserai la première à savoir ce qui la touche, quand elle pourra me le\ndire. Ou elle n'a aucun doute sur la constance de Willoughby, alors\nje dois être tranquille; ou elle en a, et il serait affreux pour elle\nde me le dire. Je ne tenterai jamais de forcer la confiance de\npersonne, et moins encore celle de mon enfant, à qui le devoir fait\nune loi de ne pas me la refuser, lors même qu'elle le voudrait.\n\nElinor trouvait que cette générosité était poussée trop loin avec une\nfille aussi jeune, et qui avait un tel besoin de guide et de conseil;\nelle le dit à sa mère, mais ce fut en vain. Le sens commun, la\nprudence, la raison, tout cédait le pas chez madame Dashwood à une\ndélicatesse romanesque et à son faible pour Maria.\n\nIl se passa bien des jours avant que le nom même de Willoughby fût\nprononcé devant Maria par quelqu'un de sa famille. Sir Georges et\nmadame Jennings n'étaient pas aussi discrets, et la firent souffrir\ndoublement plus d'une fois par leurs sarcasmes sur sa tristesse. Mais\nun jour madame Dashwood prit par hasard un volume de Shakespear, et\ns'écria sans y penser; Ah! c'est Hamlet, que nous n'avions pas fini,\nnotre cher Willoughby avait commencé à nous le lire, j'attendais son\nretour pour l'acheter, mais comme il se passera peut-être des mois\navant qu'il revienne....\n\nDes mois! s'écria Maria avec l'accent de la terreur, le ciel m'en\npréserve; non, non, des semaines tout au plus.\n\nMadame Dashwood fut fâchée de ce qui lui était échappé; Elinor au\ncontraire en fut charmée; la réponse de Maria montrait une confiance\nentière en Willoughby et une connaissance de ses intentions.\n\nUn matin, environ douze ou quinze jours après son départ, Elinor\nobtint de Maria de se promener avec elle comme elles faisaient\nprécédemment avant que le chagrin lui fît préférer de se promener\nseule. Elle évitait avec soin la compagnie de ses soeurs; si elles\nallaient sur les collines, elle s'échappait dans la plaine, et\ngrimpait bien vîte les collines lorsqu'elle les voyait descendre. Il\nétait donc très difficile de la trouver; mais Elinor, qui blâmait ce\ngoût de solitude, fit si bien que Maria n'osa pas l'éviter. Elles se\npromenèrent au travers de la vallée, appuyées amicalement l'une sur\nl'autre, mais se parlant peu. Maria aimait mieux rester à ses\npensées, et Elinor contente d'avoir obtenu qu'elle l'accompagnât, ne\nvoulait rien exiger de plus. Elles arrivèrent insensiblement à\nl'entrée de la vallée, où la contrée était plus ouverte et présentait\nune vue plus étendue; elles s'arrêtèrent à la contempler, leurs\npromenades ne les ayant point encore conduites à cette place.\nAu-devant d'elles se dessinait au loin la route de Londres, qui par\nses sinuosités faisait un effet agréable dans le paysage.\n\nElles en firent la remarque ensemble, Elinor avec admiration, Maria\navec un redoublement de tristesse, c'était celle que Willoughby avait\ntraversée et qui conduisait à Londres.\n\nAu milieu des objets de cette scène, elles en découvrirent un qui\nparaissait animé; peu d'instants après elles distinguèrent un homme à\ncheval, suivi d'un domestique, qui s'avançait de leur côté; elles le\nvirent ensuite plus distinctement, mais sans pouvoir cependant le\nreconnaître. Les yeux de Maria étaient attachés sur lui, et sur\nchacun de ses traits; on voyait son émotion qui s'augmentait à mesure\nque le cavalier approchait. Enfin levant ses mains jointes au ciel:\nelle s'écria tout-à-coup avec ravissement, c'est lui, c'est bien lui,\nje le reconnais; qui serait-ce que mon Willoughby! et quittant le\nbras de sa soeur elle courut à sa rencontre. Elinor la suivit plus\ndoucement, en lui criant: Arrêtez, Maria, que faites-vous? Vous vous\ntrompez, ce n'est point Willoughby; ce cavalier n'est pas aussi\ngrand, il n'a pas du tout sa tournure.\n\nC'est lui, c'est bien lui, disait Maria en courant, j'en suis sûre;\nc'est la couleur de ses cheveux, c'est son habit, son cheval. Ah! je\nle savais bien qu'il ne tarderait pas à revenir: elle doubla le pas.\nElinor convaincue que ce n'était pas Willoughby, effrayée de voir sa\nsoeur courir ainsi au-devant d'un étranger, marcha plus vîte aussi\npour la joindre et l'arrêter. Elles furent bientôt à trente pas du\ngentilhomme à cheval; Maria s'arrête enfin, regarde encore, se sent\nprès de défaillir en voyant alors clairement qu'elle s'est trompée,\nque ce n'est pas son ami, et se retournant brusquement, elle court en\narrière aussi vîte qu'elle est venue. Elinor au contraire s'arrête,\nen conjurant Maria de le faire aussi. Une autre voix presque aussi\nbien connue que celle de Willoughby le lui demande aussi. Elle se\nretourne avec surprise, et voit tout près d'elle Edward Ferrars.\n\nC'était la seule personne au monde à qui dans ce moment elle pût\npardonner de n'être pas Willoughby, le seul qui pût obtenir une\nparole d'elle; aussi s'efforça-t-elle de sourire en lui souhaitant\nla bien-venue, et le bonheur de sa soeur lui fit oublier un instant\nson _désapointement_[2].\n\n       [2]: Mot que la langue anglaise a pris au vieux\n       français, et qu'on ferait bien de reprendre. _Contrariété_\n       qui l'a remplacé ne présente point la même idée, et dans ce\n       cas-ci _désapointement_ est le seul qui puisse convenir.\n\nIl descendit de son cheval qu'il remit à son domestique, et revint\navec les deux soeurs à Barton-Chaumière où il venait leur faire une\nvisite. Elles lui témoignèrent leur plaisir de le revoir,\nprincipalement Maria qui mit plus de chaleur dans sa réception\nqu'Elinor. La conduite de cette dernière dans un moment aussi\nintéressant que le retour de celui qu'elle aimait aurait étrangement\nsurpris Maria, si elle n'avait pas été une continuation de son\ninconcevable froideur, quand elle l'avait quitté à Norland. Edward\nl'étonnait plus encore, elle savait comment Elinor était prudente et\nréservée; mais un homme, un amoureux aussi glacé lui paraissait un\nêtre contre nature; elle ne pouvait en revenir, et vraiment sans être\naussi vive, aussi sensible que Maria, on pouvait en être surpris.\nPassé le premier instant, où il avait témoigné un peu d'émotion en\nles retrouvant, rien dans sa manière n'annonçait ses sentimens pour\nElinor; il ne la distinguait par aucune marque d'affection; à peine\nparaissait-il sensible au plaisir de la revoir; à peine ses regards\nse portaient-ils sur elle, il était plutôt triste que content, il ne\nparlait que lorsqu'il était obligé de répondre à leurs questions.\nMaria l'examinait avec une surprise qui s'augmentait à chaque\ninstant; il était cependant à-peu-près tel qu'il avait toujours été,\nmais Willoughby avait tout fait oublier à Maria; elle pensait que\ntous les amoureux devaient être comme lui. L'extrême contraste de la\nconduite d'Edward la révolta, et ne daignant plus s'occuper de lui,\nelle retomba dans le cours habituel de ses pensées.\n\nAprès un court silence qui succéda à la surprise et aux premières\nquestions, Maria demanda à Edward s'il venait directement de Londres.\n\n--Non, répondit-il avec un peu de confusion, il y a environ quinze\njours que je suis en Devonshire.\n\n--En Devonshire quinze jours! répéta Maria surprise comme on peut le\npenser qu'il eût été quinze jours dans le voisinage d'Elinor sans\nchercher à la voir. Il répondit avec un air très peiné qu'il avait\npassé ce temps là près de Plymouth avec quelques amis.\n\n--Avez-vous été dernièrement à Norland, demanda Elinor?\n\n--Il y a environ un mois. Votre frère et ma soeur étaient fort\nbien.\n\n--Et ce cher Norland, dit Maria, comment est-il à présent, bien beau\nn'est-ce pas?\n\n--Je suppose, dit Elinor, que votre cher Norland est comme il l'est\ntoujours à la fin de l'automne, les bois et les sentiers couverts de\nfeuilles mortes.\n\n--Oh! s'écria Maria, avec quelles ravissantes sensations je voyais\ntomber ces feuilles! quelles délices, quand je me promenais, de les\nvoir tourbillonner autour de moi, emportées par le vent ou entraînées\ndans le ruisseau! Quel sentiment de douce mélancolie m'inspiraient\nces arbres défeuillés, cet air sombre d'automne, ces feuilles jaunes\net flétries qui raisonnaient sous mes pas. Actuellement personne ne\nles admire, personne ne les regarde, on les dédaigne, et on se hâte\nde les ôter.\n\n--Tout le monde, dit Elinor, n'a pas la même passion que vous pour\nles feuilles mortes.\n\n--Non, il est vrai, mes sentimens sont rarement partagés et compris.\nMais quelquefois ils l'ont été, dit-elle avec un profond soupir! il\nsuffit d'un seul être qui sente comme moi.... Elle se tut et tomba\npour quelques instans dans une profonde rêverie. Elle en sortit\ntout-à-coup, et reprenant toute sa vivacité: Arrêtez-vous, Edward,\ndit-elle, regardez et restez calme si vous le pouvez. Voilà la vallée\nde Barton, plus loin la délicieuse vallée d'Altenham; regardez ces\ncollines, ce mouvement de terrain, avez-vous jamais rien vu qui soit\négal à ceci? à gauche, c'est le parc de Barton, au milieu de ses bois\net de ses plantations; et là, derrière cette colline qui s'élève et\nse dessine avec tant de grace, est notre chaumière.\n\n--C'est une belle contrée, dit tranquillement Edward, mais ces fonds\ndoivent être bien boueux en hiver?\n\n--Grand Dieu! comment pouvez-vous penser à la boue avec de tels\nobjets sous vos yeux?\n\n--C'est, dit-il en souriant, parce que je vois au milieu de ces\nobjets, un chemin étroit et impraticable.\n\n--Quel étrange homme vous êtes, dit-elle avec un mouvement\nd'indignation.\n\n--Avez-vous, reprit-il, un agréable voisinage? les Middleton sont-ils\naimables?\n\n--Rien moins que cela, dit Maria, et à cet égard nous ne pouvons pas\nêtre plus mal placées.\n\nMaria, s'écria Elinor, comment pouvez-vous parler ainsi? c'est une\nfamille très respectable, M. Ferrars, qui se conduit avec nous de la\nmanière la plus amicale. Avez-vous donc oublié, Maria, combien de\njours agréables nous leurs devons?\n\n--Non, dit Maria à voix basse, ni combien de pénibles momens.\n\nElinor n'eut pas l'air de l'entendre, et dirigea toute son attention\nsur leur ami, tâchant de cacher son trouble intérieur en soutenant la\nconversation sur tous les objets qui se présentaient à son esprit. Sa\nfroideur, sa réserve la mortifiaient intérieurement au moins autant\nque Maria; elle était blessée, presque en colère, mais résolue de\nrégler sa conduite avec lui plutôt sur le passé que sur le présent.\nPour ne pas troubler le plaisir que cette visite ferait à sa mère,\nelle évita avec soin de montrer aucune apparence de chagrin ou de\nressentiment, et le traita amicalement comme elle pensait qu'il\ndevait l'être, vu leurs relations de famille.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XVII.\n\n\nMadame Dashwood ne fut pas du tout surprise en voyant entrer Edward.\nDans son opinion rien n'était plus naturel que sa visite à Barton,\nelle l'était bien plus qu'il n'y fût pas encore venu; aussi le\nreçut-elle avec de telles expressions de joie et d'amitié, que sa\nréserve et sa froideur ne purent tenir contre un tel accueil. Elles\navaient déja diminué avant d'entrer dans la maison, la manière toute\nnaturelle d'Elinor, l'avait un peu ranimé; celle de madame Dashwood\nsi bonne, si amicale, le mit entièrement à son aise. Elle était si\nparfaitement aimable, qu'un homme ne pouvait être amoureux de l'une\nde ses filles, sans l'être aussi de la mère; et il n'eut pas causé\nune demi-heure avec elle, qu'Elinor eut la satisfaction de le voir\naussi bien à son gré qu'elle l'avait toujours vu. Son affection pour\ntoute la famille se réveilla en entier, ainsi que son tendre intérêt\npour leur bonheur. Il n'était pas gai cependant, un poids semblait\npeser sur son coeur; il fit l'éloge de leur habitation, il admira\nla vue, il fut attentif, bon, aimable, mais il avait un fond de\ntristesse qu'elles remarquèrent toutes. Madame Dashwood l'attribua à\nquelque manque de libéralité de sa mère, et s'indigna intérieurement\ncontre les parens avares. Quelles sont à présent les vues de madame\nFerrars sur vous, Edward, lui dit-elle, lorsqu'après dîner ils\ncausaient autour du feu; devez-vous encore être un grand orateur en\ndépit de vous-même?\n\n--Non, madame, ma mère est à présent convaincue que je n'ai pas plus\nde talens que d'inclination pour la politique.\n\n--Mais comment donc deviendrez-vous célèbre? car il faut absolument\nqu'on parle de vous dans le monde pour satisfaire votre famille; et\nmon cher Edward, il faut vous rendre justice, n'ayant aucun goût de\ndépense, aucun désir d'obtenir une place, aucune envie de briller et\nde faire parade de votre savoir, cela vous sera difficile.\n\n--Vous dites très vrai, madame, je n'ai comme vous le dites aucun\ndésir d'être distingué, et j'ai toutes les raisons possibles\nd'espérer que je ne le serai jamais. Grâce au ciel, on ne peut pas\nm'obliger d'avoir du génie et de l'éloquence!\n\n--Vous en auriez autant et plus que beaucoup de gens qui s'en\nvantent, si vous vouliez vous mettre en avant, mais vous n'avez point\nd'ambition et tous vos désirs sont modérés.\n\n--Comme ceux de tout le monde, madame; je désire autant que qui que\nce soit d'être parfaitement heureux, mais je veux l'être à ma\nmanière, et chacun, je crois, en dit autant. Ni la richesse ni les\ngrandeurs ne peuvent faire mon bonheur.\n\n--Je le crois bien, dit Maria, qu'est-ce que la richesse et les\ngrandeurs ont à démêler avec le bonheur?\n\n--Les grandeurs fort peu, dit Elinor, mais l'argent beaucoup plus.\n\n--Elinor, est-ce bien vous qui dites cela? s'écria Maria, l'argent ne\npeut donner le bonheur qu'à ceux qui n'ont pas d'autres moyens d'être\nheureux. Tout ce qui est au-dessus du nécessaire est inutile, et ne\npeut donner aucune satisfaction réelle.\n\n--Peut-être, dit en souriant Elinor, nous arriverons au même point;\nvotre _nécessaire_ et ma _richesse_ seront je crois à-peu-près\nsemblables; voyons à combien fixez-vous votre nécessaire?\n\n--A dix-huit cents ou deux mille pièces de revenu, pas plus que cela.\n\n--Elinor rit: deux mille pièces de revenu! je me croirais trop riche\navec mille.\n\n--Et cependant deux mille sont un revenu très borné, dit Maria; une\nfamille de gens comme il faut ne peut pas s'entretenir à moins. Je\nsuis sûre qu'il n'y a nulle extravagance dans ma demande; ce qu'il\nfaut de domestiques, une voiture, un caricle, un train de chasse\nn'exigent pas moins.\n\n--Elinor sourit encore, en la voyant décrire d'avance sa vie de\nHaute-Combe.\n\n--Un train de chasse! dit Edward, au nom du ciel pourquoi voulez-vous\nen avoir un? êtes-vous devenue la Diane de ces bois?\n\n--Maria rougit; non.... je ne chasse pas.... mais....\n\n--Ah! j'entends, le possesseur de vos deux mille guinées peut être un\nchasseur.\n\n--Je voudrais, dit Emma, qu'une bonne fée nous rendît toutes bien\nriches.\n\n--Et moi aussi, s'écria Maria, avec ses yeux brillans de plaisir, en\npensant avec qui elle partagerait ses richesses.\n\n--J'accepte aussi le don de la fée, dit Elinor, avec la même pensée\nsecrète.\n\n--Ah! que nous serions heureuses, dit la petite Emma en frappant les\nmains de joie; mais je ne sais pas à quoi j'emploierais mon argent!\n\n--Pour moi, dit la bonne maman, je ne sais ce que je ferais d'une\ngrande fortune, si mes enfans étaient toutes riches sans mon secours.\n\n--Votre coeur, maman, dit Elinor, trouverait assez d'enfans pour\nqui vous seriez la bonne fée; et puis les embellissemens de notre\nchaumière.\n\n--Moi, dit Edward, je vous vois, mesdames, établies dans une des plus\nbelles places de Londres. Ah! quel heureux jour pour les libraires,\nles magasins de musique, de gravures. Vous, miss Elinor, vous vous\nferiez d'abord un cabinet des plus beaux tableaux; pour Maria, il n'y\naurait pas assez de bonne musique à Londres, elle ferait arriver\ntoute celle d'Italie, ses livres, et les fameux poëtes; elle\nachetterait les éditions entières, pour qu'elles ne tombassent pas en\ndes mains indignes... Pardon, Maria, je n'ai pas, comme vous le\nvoyez, oublié nos anciennes disputes.\n\n--J'aime tout ce qui me rappelle le passé, Edward, lui dit-elle; que\nce soit gai ou mélancolique, vous ne m'offenserez jamais en me le\nrappelant. Vous avez raison d'ailleurs en supposant que j'achetterais\nbeaucoup de livres et de musique; mais ma fortune cependant ne serait\npas toute employée à cet usage, je vous assure.\n\n--Vous en donneriez une partie, je parie, à l'auteur qui prendrait la\ndéfense de votre maxime favorite, et qui prouverait qu'on ne peut\naimer qu'une fois en la vie; car votre opinion n'est pas changée, je\nsuppose.\n\n--Moins que jamais; à mon âge les opinions sont fixées.\n\n--Maria, dit Elinor, est ferme dans ses principes, comme vous le\nvoyez, elle n'a pas du tout changé.\n\n--Seulement, dit Edward, je la trouve un peu plus grave.\n\n--Je puis vous faire le même reproche, dit-elle, vous n'êtes pas trop\ngai vous-même.\n\n--Pourquoi pensez-vous cela, répondit-il en étouffant un soupir? la\ngaîté n'a jamais fait partie de mon caractère.\n\n--Ni de celui de Maria, dit Elinor; elle sent très vivement, et\ns'exprime de même; quand un sujet l'anime, elle en parle avec feu;\nmais le plus souvent, elle n'est pas réellement disposée à la gaîté.\n\n--Je crois que vous avez raison, dit Edward. Cependant elle passera\ntoujours pour une jeune personne très-vive et très-animée.\n\n--On se trompe bien souvent, reprit Elinor, en jugeant le caractère\nou l'esprit de ceux que l'on ne voit que dans le monde; on est\nquelquefois entraîné, ou par ce qu'on dit soi-même, ou par ce qu'on\nentend dire aux autres. Maria est très franche, et se laisse aller à\ndire tout ce qui lui passe dans la tête sans se donner le tems de\nréfléchir; c'est là notre querelle habituelle. Quelquefois, avec un\ncoeur excellent, elle dit des choses qui feraient douter de sa\nbonté; et moi qui sais comme elle est bonne dans le fond, je n'aime\npas à la voir mal jugée.\n\n--Maria embrassa sa soeur et lui dit: il me suffit que vous et tous\nceux que j'aime me rendent justice. L'opinion de ceux qui me sont\nindifférens m'est aussi très indifférente. Je suis sûre, Edward, que\nvous êtes de mon avis, car vous ne vous donnez pas grand peine non\nplus pour paraître aimable envers ceux dont vous ne vous souciez pas.\n\n--J'en conviens, répondit-il, et je m'en blâme; je suis tout-à-fait\ndans le fond de l'avis de votre soeur. Cette politesse générale,\nqui rend si agréable en société, est bien préférable à votre\nfranchise et à ma maussaderie; je le sens; mais il ne dépend pas de\nmoi d'être autrement; je suis si ridiculement timide, que cela me\nrend souvent négligent et presque impoli, quoique je n'aie jamais\nl'intention d'offenser personne. Je crois que j'étais destiné par la\nnature à la vie simple et retirée; tant je suis mal à mon aise dans\nle grand monde.\n\n--Maria ne peut pas donner sa timidité pour excuse, dit Elinor.\n\n--Elle connaît trop bien ses avantages pour être timide, répliqua\nEdward, la timidité est toujours l'effet du sentiment de son\ninfériorité. Si je pouvais me persuader que mes manières sont aisées\net gracieuses je ne serais pas timide.\n\n--Vous seriez toujours réservé, dit Maria, et c'est encore pis.\n\n--Réservé! Maria, dit-il, qu'entendez-vous par là?\n\n--Caché, mystérieux, si vous l'aimez mieux, renfermant vos sentimens\nen vous-même.\n\n--Je ne vous entends pas davantage, dit-il en rougissant; caché,\nmystérieux, en quelle manière? qu'ai-je donc à confier?...\npouvez-vous supposer.......\n\n--Je ne suppose rien, monsieur, dit Maria dédaigneusement.\n\nL'émotion d'Edward n'échappa point à Elinor; elle en fut surprise,\nmais s'efforça de rire de cette attaque. Ne connaissez-vous pas assez\nma soeur, lui dit-elle, pour comprendre ce qu'elle vient de dire?\nNe savez-vous pas qu'elle appelle être _réservé_, lorsqu'on n'est pas\ntoujours dans l'enthousiasme et le ravissement?\n\nEdward ne répondit rien; mais il redevint sérieux, occupé, et resta\nquelque temps absorbé dans ses pensées.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XVIII.\n\n\nElinor vit avec une grande inquiétude l'abattement de son ami; sa\nvisite ne put lui procurer une satisfaction complète, puisque\nlui-même ne paraissait pas en éprouver. Il était évident qu'il avait\nune peine secrète au fond de l'ame; elle aurait voulu du moins voir\naussi clairement qu'il conservait pour elle cette tendre affection\nqu'elle croyait lui avoir inspirée. Mais actuellement rien ne lui\nparaissait plus incertain; et l'extrême réserve de ses manières\ncontredisait un jour ce qu'un regard plus animé, une inflexion de\nvoix plus tendre lui avaient fait espérer la veille.\n\nIl les joignit elle et Maria le lendemain au déjeûner avant que les\ndeux autres dames fussent descendues. Maria persuadée que plus il\nétait silencieux, en général plus il désirait d'être seul avec\nElinor, les quitta sous quelque prétexte. Mais avant qu'elle fût à la\nmoitié des escaliers, elle entendit ouvrir la porte de la chambre;\ncurieuse elle se retourne, et à son grand étonnement elle vit Edward\nprêt à sortir de la maison; elle ne put retenir un cri de surprise!\nBon Dieu; où allez-vous donc, lui cria-t-elle?\n\n--Comme vous n'êtes pas encore rassemblées pour le déjeûner, je vais\nvoir mes chevaux au village, et je reviendrai bientôt. Maria leva les\nyeux au ciel et rentra près d'Elinor; elle la trouva debout devant la\nfenêtre. Si Maria l'eût bien regardée, peut-être aurait-elle surpris\nquelques larmes dans ses yeux, mais elles rentrèrent bientôt\nen-dedans, et le déjeûner fut préparé comme à l'ordinaire.\n\nEdward revint avec assez d'admiration de la contrée, pour se\nraccommoder un peu avec Maria; dans sa course au village, il avait vu\nplusieurs parties de la vallée à leur avantage, et le village lui-même\nsitué plus haut que la chaumière présentait un point de vue qui\nl'avait enchanté. C'était un de ces sujets de conversation qui\nélectrisait toujours Maria. Elle commença à décrire avec feu sa\npropre admiration, et à dépeindre avec un détail minutieux chaque objet\nqui l'avait particulièrement frappée, quand Edward l'interrompit.\n--N'allez pas trop loin, Maria, lui dit-il, rappelez-vous que je\nn'entends rien au pittoresque, et que je vous ai souvent blessée malgré\nmoi, par mon ignorance de ce qu'il faut admirer. Je suis très capable\nd'appeler _montueuse_ et _pénible_ une colline que je devrais nommer\n_hardie_ et _majestueuse_; _raboteux_ ce qui doit être _irrégulier_, ou\nd'oublier qu'un lointain que je ne vois pas, est voilé par une brume.\nIl faudrait apprendre la langue de l'enthousiasme, et j'avoue que je\nl'ignore. Soyez contente de l'admiration que je puis donner; je trouve\nque c'est un très beau pays. Les collines sont bien découpées, les\nbois me semblent pleins de beaux arbres; les vallées sont agréablement\nsituées, embellies de riches prairies, et de plusieurs jolies fermes\nrépandues çà et là. Il répond exactement à toutes mes idées d'un beau\npays, parce qu'il unit la beauté avec l'utilité, et j'ose dire aussi\nqu'il est très _pittoresque_, puisque vous l'admirez; je puis croire\naisément qu'il est plein de rocs mousseux, de bosquets épais, de petits\nruisseaux murmurans; mais tout cela est perdu pour moi. Vous savez\nque je n'ai rien de pittoresque dans mes goûts.\n\n--Je crains que ce ne soit que trop vrai, dit Maria, mais pourquoi\nvoulez-vous vous en glorifier?\n\n--J'ai peur, dit Elinor, que pour éviter un genre d'affectation,\nEdward ne tombe dans un autre. Parce qu'il a vu quelques personnes\nprétendre à l'admiration de la belle nature bien au-dessus de ce\nqu'elles sentaient, dégoûté de cette prétention, il donne dans\nl'excès contraire, et il affecte plus d'indifférence pour ces objets\nqu'il n'en a réellement.\n\n--Je n'ai je vous assure nulle prétention à l'indifférence pour les\nvraies beautés de la nature; je les aime et je les admire, mais non\npas peut-être d'après les règles _pittoresques_; je préfère un bel\narbre bien grand, bien droit, bien formé à un vieux tronc tordu,\npenché, rabougri, couvert de plantes parasites, j'ai plus de plaisir\nà voir une ferme en bon état, qu'à voir une ruine ou une vieille\ntour.\n\nMaria regarda Edward avec mépris, et sa soeur avec compassion. La\nconversation tomba. Maria demeura pensive et silencieuse, jusqu'à ce\nqu'un nouvel objet réveillât son attention. Elle était assise près\nd'Edward, et celui-ci en prenant sa tasse de thé, passa sa main si\ndirectement devant elle, qu'elle ne put s'empêcher de remarquer à son\ndoigt un anneau avec une natte de cheveux.\n\n--Je ne vous ai jamais vu porter de bague, Edward, lui dit-elle,\nmontrez-moi celle-là; sont-ce des cheveux de Fanny? Je me rappelle\nqu'elle vous en avait promis; ses cheveux me paraissaient plus\nfoncés, ce n'est pas d'elle.\n\nMaria comme à son ordinaire avait parlé sans réfléchir, mais quand\nelle vit combien elle avait fait de peine à Edward, elle fut plus\nfâchée que lui-même de son étourderie. Il rougit jusqu'au blanc des\nyeux, jeta un regard rapide sur Elinor, et dit enfin: oui, ce sont\ndes cheveux de ma soeur; le travail change toujours les nuances.\n\nElinor avait rencontré son regard, il pénétra au fond de son ame, ce\nseul regard lui avait dit que ces cheveux étaient les siens; Maria en\nétait tout aussi persuadée. La seule différence c'est qu'elle croyait\nque c'était un don d'Elinor; et que celle-ci qui savait en conscience\nqu'elle ne lui avait point donné de ses cheveux, crut qu'il s'en\nétait procuré par quelque moyen inconnu, ou qu'il les avait coupés\npar derrière sans qu'elle s'en fût aperçue, lorsqu'elle avait quitté\nNorland. La couleur était bien la même, et la rougeur et le regard\nd'Edward avaient porté dans son coeur cette douce conviction. Elle\nétait bien loin de lui en vouloir, et n'ayant plus l'air d'y faire\nattention, elle parla d'autre chose. L'embarras d'Edward dura quelque\ntemps, et finit par une tristesse encore plus marquée, et qui dura la\nmatinée entière.\n\nMaria se reprocha vivement ce qui lui était échappé; elle aurait été\nplus indulgente pour elle-même, si elle avait pu savoir combien peu\nsa soeur était offensée, et le plaisir secret qu'elle lui avait\nprocuré.\n\nDans le milieu du jour on eut la visite de sir Georges et de madame\nJennings, qui ayant entendu dire qu'un gentilhomme était arrivé à la\nChaumière, venaient savoir qui c'était. Avec le secours de sa\nbelle-mère, sir Georges ne fut pas long-temps à découvrir que le nom\nd'Edward Ferrars commençait par un E. et un F., et que c'était là\nl'amoureux d'Elinor, dont la petite Emma avait parlé. Cette\ndécouverte aurait valu beaucoup de railleries à la pauvre Elinor, si\nla présence d'Edward qu'ils connaissaient aussi peu, ne les avait pas\nretenus. Mais ni les coups-d'oeils significatifs, ni les sourires\nmalins ne lui furent épargnés. Sir Georges ne venait jamais chez les\nDashwood sans les inviter à prendre le thé au Parc dans la soirée ou\nà dîner le lendemain. Cette fois en l'honneur du nouveau venu, qu'il\nétait fier de contribuer à amuser; l'invitation fut pour le soir et\npour le lendemain.\n\n--Venez tous prendre le thé avec nous ce soir, dit-il, nous sommes\ntout-à-fait seuls, mais demain nous avons beaucoup de monde, et il\nfaut absolument dîner au Parc.\n\nMadame Jennings les pressa d'accepter. On dansera dans la soirée,\ndit-elle, et cela doit tenter miss Maria.\n\n--Danser! s'écria-t-elle, impossible; qui peut penser à danser!\n\n--Qui! vous même, ma belle, et la petite Emma, et les Carey, et les\nWhitalers. Comment, ma chère, vous pensez de bonne foi que personne\nne peut danser, parce que quelqu'un... que je ne nomme pas est parti!\n\n--Je voudrais de toute mon ame, dit sir Georges, que Willoughby fût\nencore avec nous.\n\nCes mots et la rougeur de Maria donnèrent de nouveaux soupçons à\nEdward. Qui donc est ce Willoughby, demanda-t-il à voix basse à\nElinor, près de qui il était assis? Elle le lui dit en peu de mots;\nmais la contenance et la physionomie de Maria parlaient plus\nclairement. Edward en vit assez pour comprendre ce qui en était, et\nquand les visiteurs furent partis, il s'approcha d'elle et lui dit à\ndemi voix: J'ai deviné; dois-je vous dire ce que j'ai deviné?\n\n--Quoi donc?.... Qu'entendez-vous?\n\n--Dois-je le dire?\n\n--Certainement.\n\n--Eh bien, j'ai deviné que M. Willoughby chasse.\n\n--Maria fut surprise et confuse, cependant elle ne put s'empêcher de\nrire de sa douce et fine raillerie, et après un moment de silence,\nelle lui dit: Oh Edward! comment pouvez-vous... Mais le temps viendra\noù j'oserai.... Je suis sûre que vous l'aimerez.\n\n--Je n'en doute pas, répondit-il avec amitié. Cet aveu naïf de Maria\nl'avait touché; il croyait qu'il y avait une plaisanterie établie sur\nelle et sur Willoughby sans conséquence, et que Maria s'en\ndéfendrait, ou plaisanterait elle-même. Mais elle avait répondu tout\nautrement qu'il ne s'y attendait; et il sentit que c'était plus\nsérieux qu'il ne l'avait cru.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XIX.\n\n\nEdward passa une semaine à la chaumière, il fut vivement pressé par\nmadame Dashwood d'y rester plus long-temps; mais on aurait dit qu'il\nétait décidé à se mortifier lui-même, il prit tout-à-coup la\nrésolution de quitter ses amis au moment où il sentait le plus le\nbonheur de les revoir. Son humeur dans les derniers jours, quoique\ntoujours inégale était cependant beaucoup plus agréable. Il\nparaissait chaque jour plus content de l'habitation et des environs;\nil ne parlait jamais de son départ qu'avec un soupir; il avouait que\nrien ne le rappelait ailleurs; il était même incertain où il irait on\nles quittant, mais cependant il voulait partir. Jamais, disait-il,\naucune semaine de sa vie ne lui avait paru plus courte; jamais il\nn'avait été plus complètement heureux! Ses paroles, ses regards, des\nattentions légères, mais qui de sa part disaient beaucoup, tout\ndevait rassurer Elinor sur ses sentimens; mais cependant sa conduite\ndevait la surprendre. Libre de prolonger son séjour auprès d'elle,\npourquoi cette obstination de partir? Il n'avait aucun plaisir à\nNorland, il détestait Londres, et il voulait aller à Norland ou à\nLondres. Il appréciait leurs bontés, leur amitié au-delà de tout; son\nplus grand bonheur était d'en jouir, et cependant il voulait les\nquitter à la fin de la semaine malgré elles et malgré lui, et sans\navoir rien à faire qui fût un obstacle à leurs désirs mutuels.\n\nMais Elinor n'était ni susceptible ni défiante, elle mit sur le\ncompte de madame Ferrars tout ce qui l'étonnait dans la conduite de\nson fils. Il était heureux qu'Edward eût une mère dont le caractère\nlui était si peu connu qu'il pouvait servir d'excuse pour tout ce qui\nparaissait étrange dans la manière d'être d'Edward. Sa réserve, sa\nfroideur, ses inégalités, son départ, tout fut mis sur le compte de\ncette mère. Elle en estima davantage son ami de ne pas lui résister\nouvertement, et d'attendre en silence le moment où il serait le\nmaître de déclarer ses sentimens et ses intentions. Elle ne craignait\npas de grandes difficultés de la part d'une famille déja alliée à la\nsienne; elle aurait bien sûrement l'appui de son frère, et sa\nbelle-soeur même n'oserait pas faire autrement que son mari. Edward\nétait assez riche pour n'écouter que le choix de son coeur en se\ndonnant une compagne, lorsqu'à tout autre égard ce choix était\nhonorable. Si madame Ferrars avait l'air de s'y opposer, c'était\nmoins par rapport à elle que pour tenir son fils dans sa dépendance\ntant qu'elle en avait le droit; et sans doute il jugeait plus sage et\nplus prudent de ne pas la heurter encore, de temporiser avec elle, et\npar sa condescendance actuelle de mériter la sienne quand le moment\nserait arrivé. Ainsi rassurée sur sa conduite, Elinor chercha et\ntrouva la consolation de son départ dans le souvenir de chaque preuve\nde son affection, de chaque regard pendant cette semaine si vîte\nécoulée, et surtout de cet anneau qu'il portait à son doigt, et qui\nplus que le reste encore l'assurait de sa constance. Quand il lui\nserait resté quelques doutes, ils se seraient tous évanouis au moment\nde son départ. Il était l'image vivante de la tristesse et des\nregrets; à peine pouvait-il retenir ses larmes; il ne pouvait cacher\ncombien son coeur était oppressé. Maria fut enfin contente de lui,\net lui exprima aussi à sa manière animée ses regrets de le voir\npartir. Elinor avait assez à faire à garder bonne contenance, et\nmadame Dashwood essayait de remonter un peu son futur gendre. Vous\nêtes mélancolique, mon cher Edward, lui disait-elle; sans doute il\nest toujours triste de se séparer de ses amis, mais il n'y a\nd'ailleurs nulle circonstance affligeante, vous pouvez revenir quand\nvous le voudrez, et nous désirons tous que ce soit bientôt, n'est-ce\npas, Elinor?.... Vous êtes à tout égard un heureux jeune homme, il ne\nvous manque qu'un peu de patience, ou si vous voulez lui donner un\nnom plus doux, de l'espoir. Votre mère vous gêne peut-être un peu\ndans ce moment; mais enfin celui de votre indépendance viendra\nbientôt. Madame Ferrars assurera votre bonheur, c'est son devoir, et\nsans doute sa volonté.\n\n--Je ne suis pas né pour le bonheur, dit-il en secouant la tête\ntristement.\n\nC'était le moment du départ, sa tristesse augmenta la peine que\nchacune en ressentait, et laissa surtout une forte impression dans\nl'ame d'Elinor; mais elle était déterminée à la surmonter. Elle\nemploya toutes les forces dont elle était capable à cacher ce qu'elle\nsouffrait; elle n'adopta pas la méthode dont Maria s'était servie\navec tant de succès, dans une occasion semblable, pour augmenter et\nfixer son chagrin, par le silence, la solitude, l'oisiveté. Dès\nqu'Edward fut parti, Elinor se mit à son dessin, et employa utilement\net agréablement la journée, sans chercher à parler de lui, et sans\néviter d'en parler, prenant intérêt à tout ce qui se disait. Si par\ncette sage conduite elle ne diminua pas ses peines, elle prévint au\nmoins qu'elles ne s'augmentassent inutilement, et sa mère et ses\nsoeurs n'eurent aucune inquiétude sur son compte. Sans se séparer\nde sa famille, sans les quitter pour se promener seule, sans passer\nses nuits blanches, Elinor trouvait encore fort bien le temps de\ns'occuper d'Edward et de sa conduite, avec les variations de la\ndisposition de son ame, avec tendresse, pitié, blâme, approbation,\nconfiance, doute, etc., etc. Elle pouvait commander à ses actions, à\nsa manière extérieure, mais non pas à ses pensées; et le passé et le\nfutur se présentaient successivement à son imagination. Maria qui\npouvait à peine lui pardonner le calme avec lequel elle supportait\nl'absence d'Edward, et qui l'attribuait à une sorte d'apathie de\ncaractère qui la rendait incapable d'éprouver une forte passion,\naurait été bien étonnée si elle avait pu lire dans le coeur de sa\nsoeur, de le trouver rempli d'un sentiment pour le moins aussi vif,\net peut-être plus tendre que le sien pour Willoughby.\n\nPeu de jours après le départ d'Edward, Elinor était seule dans le\nsalon, devant sa table à dessiner, et plongée dans ses rêveries,\nlorsqu'elle en fut tirée par un bruit de voix dans la petite cour\nverte; elle leva les yeux vers la fenêtre, et vit beaucoup de monde\nprès de la porte. C'était sir Georges, sa femme, sa belle-mère, mais\nil y avait de plus un monsieur et une dame qu'elle ne connaissait\npoint. Elle était assise près de la fenêtre, et dès que sir Georges\nl'eut aperçue, il laissa les autres frapper à la porte, et traversant\nle gazon, il l'obligea d'ouvrir la fenêtre pour lui parler, quoique\nla distance entre la fenêtre et la porte fût si petite qu'il était\nimpossible qu'ils ne fussent pas entendus.\n\n--Eh bien! dit-il, je vous amène une visite qui vous fera plaisir\nj'en suis sûr: devinez qui.\n\n--Je ne le puis.... Mais chut, on nous entendra.\n\n--A la bonne heure; c'est seulement mon beau-frère et ma\nbelle-soeur Palmer. Madame Jennings a, comme, vous savez, marié sa\nfille cadette il y a six mois à M. Palmer, très aimable jeune homme\ncomme vous verrez. Charlotte est très jolie, je vous assure: avancez\nun peu la tête vous pourrez la voir.\n\nComme Elinor était certaine de la voir tout à son aise dans quelques\nminutes, sans faire une impolitesse, elle n'avança point.\n\n--Où est Maria, dit sir Georges, s'est-elle sauvée quand elle nous a\nvus? Son piano est ouvert. Depuis que quelqu'un que je sais bien\nn'est plus là, elle ne peut souffrir personne.\n\n--Non, je vous assure, j'étais seule, je crois qu'elle se promène.\n\nIls furent joints par madame Jennings, qui n'eut pas la patience\nd'attendre qu'on eût ouvert la porte pour causer avec sa chère\nElinor. Eh bon jour! chère enfant, comment vous portez-vous? Un peu\ntriste, je présume, c'est tout simple; et votre mère et vos soeurs?\nC'est mal à elles de vous laisser ainsi à vos regrets; mais nous\nvoici pour vous distraire. Je vous amène ma fille cadette et mon fils\nPalmer; vous en serez charmée. Ce n'est pas pour la vanter, mais\nc'est un vrai bijou que ma Charlotte! Ils sont arrivés hier soir au\nmoment où nous les attendions le moins. Nous étions à prendre le thé,\nj'entends le bruit d'un carrosse; jamais il ne m'entra dans l'esprit\nque ce fût mes enfans; je pensais que c'était le colonel Brandon qui\nrevenait; je dis à sir Georges, j'entends une voiture, je parie que\nc'est Brandon. Il faudra bien qu'il nous conte ce qu'il est allé\nfaire à Londres. Sir Georges se lève et....\n\nElinor fut obligée de lui tourner le dos au milieu de son\nintéressante histoire, pour recevoir le reste de la compagnie. Lady\nMiddleton présenta sa soeur et son beau-frère. Madame Dashwood et\nEmma descendirent en même temps, et tout le monde s'assit. On se\nregarda mutuellement avec curiosité, on dit quelques lieux communs.\nMadame Jennings rentra avec sir Georges et continua son histoire.\n\nMadame Charlotte Palmer était de quelques années plus jeune que lady\nMiddleton, et totalement différente et pour la figure et pour les\nmanières, quoiqu'elle fût dans le fond tout aussi insipide, mais dans\nun autre genre; ce qui prouve que l'insipidité même peut varier. Elle\nétait petite et grasse, son teint était beau, tous ses traits jolis\net gracieux, et une expression de gaîté et de contentement ne\nl'abandonnait jamais. Sa figure n'avait ni la noblesse, ni la beauté\nde celle de sa soeur, mais elle était beaucoup plus prévenante.\nElle entra en souriant, elle sourit tout le temps de sa visite,\nexcepté quand elle riait, et sourit encore en s'en allant.\n\nSon mari formait avec elle un parfait contraste. C'était un homme de\nvingt-cinq à vingt-six ans, d'une assez belle figure; aussi grand et\nmince qu'elle était courte et ronde, aussi brun qu'elle était\nblanche, aussi grave et sérieux qu'elle était gaie et riante, aussi\nimportant qu'elle était affable: enfin au physique et au moral\nc'étaient deux êtres d'une nature différente. Il entra dans la\nchambre d'un air assez dédaigneux, salua légèrement les dames, sans\ndire un seul mot s'assit auprès d'une table, jeta un regard rapide\nsur elles et sur l'appartement, prit un papier nouvelle qui était sur\nla table, et le parcourut tout le temps de la visite.\n\nMadame Palmer au contraire fut à peine assise, que son admiration\npour tout ce qu'elle voyait éclata. Ah! mesdames, quelle délicieuse\nhabitation! que ce salon est commode et bien arrangé! Voyez, maman,\ncombien tout ceci est embelli depuis que je ne l'ai vu. J'ai toujours\ntrouve le site délicieux; mais vous en avez fait tout ce qu'il y a de\nplus charmant. Vous ne m'aviez pas dit, ma soeur, avec quel goût\ntout ceci est arrangé. Ah! combien j'aimerais avoir une maison comme\ncelle-ci! Cela n'est-il pas, possible, mon cher amour?\n\nM. Palmer ne répondit rien, et ne leva pas les yeux de dessus le\npapier qu'il tenait.\n\n--C'est à vous que je parle, mon amour. (Même silence) M. Palmer ne\nveut pas m'entendre, dit-elle en riant; cela lui arrive souvent. Il\nest si drôle quelquefois, M. Palmer; c'est qu'il a beaucoup, beaucoup\nd'esprit, et il est absorbé dans ses pensées: elle rit encore. Madame\nDashwood les regarda tous deux d'un air étonne.\n\nMadame Jennings de son côté achevait l'histoire de sa surprise de la\nveille et ne la finit que lorsqu'il n'y eut plus rien à dire. Madame\nPalmer rit aux éclats de l'étonnement qu'on avait eu au Parc, en les\nvoyant arriver; et lady Middleton prit sur elle de dire bien\nfroidement, que c'était une agréable surprise.\n\n--Vous pouvez penser combien j'étais charmée de les voir, reprit\nmadame Jennings, mais, ajouta-t-elle en se penchant vers Elinor,\nj'étais fâchée qu'ils eussent fait un si long voyage, car ils sont\nvenus de Londres tout d'une traite, et.... une jeune mariée.... Vous\ncomprenez.... il y avait du danger dans sa situation. Je voulais au\nmoins qu'elle se reposât tout le jour; mais retenez ces jeunes\nfemmes! Elle a absolument voulu venir avec nous, elle languissait de\nvous voir.\n\nMadame Palmer rit, baissa les yeux, dit que ce qui faisait plaisir\nn'était jamais dangereux.\n\n--Elle n'entend rien encore à cela, reprit sa mère; une première\ngrossesse... Vous comprenez. Elle doit je pense accoucher en février.\n\nLady Middleton excédée d'une conversation aussi triviale,\nl'interrompit pour demander à M. Palmer, s'il y avait quelque chose\nde nouveau dans les papiers.\n\n--Rien du tout, madame, ennuyeux à périr; et il continua de les lire.\n\n--Ah, je vois venir la belle Maria, dit sir Georges; je vous\nconseille de cesser votre lecture, Palmer, si vous voulez voir une\ndes plus belles personnes que vous ayez jamais vues. Il alla\nau-devant d'elle dans l'entrée, la prit par la main et la fit entrer.\nA peine eût-elle paru que madame Jennings lui demanda si elle venait\nd'Altenham. Madame Palmer éclata de rire à cette question, et prouva\npar-là qu'elle la comprenait. M. Palmer se leva, la regarda pendant\nquelques minutes, puis se rassit et reprit son papier nouvelle.\nMadame Palmer ne se rassit pas, elle alla examiner les dessins qui\ngarnissaient les murs et son déluge d'admiration recommença. Ah! que\nc'est beau! que c'est délicieux! Regardez donc, maman, je n'ai jamais\nrien vu de si charmant; je serais toute une journée à les regarder.\nAprès en avoir vu un ou deux, elle se rassit, sans penser qu'il y en\navait encore une douzaine.\n\nBientôt après lady Middleton donna le signal du départ. Alors M.\nPalmer se leva d'un air important, posa le papier, étendit les bras\nen bâillant, et regarda avec distraction autour de lui.\n\n--Avez-vous dormi, mon amour, lui dit sa femme en riant? On dirait\nque vous vous réveillez.\n\nIl ne fit aucune réponse et après avoir examiné la chambre; il\nobserva judicieusement qu'elle était trop basse et que le plafond\nétait voûté: ce sont les seuls mots qu'il prononça; il salua comme en\nentrant, et sortit avec les autres.\n\nSir Georges avait été très pressant pour que les habitantes de la\nChaumière vinssent passer toute la journée le lendemain au Parc.\nMadame Dashwood avait là-dessus sa petite fierté, et ne se souciait\npas de dîner au Parc plus souvent qu'on ne dînait à la Chaumière;\nelle refusa donc absolument pour elle, et laissa ses filles\nmaîtresses de faire ce qui leur ferait plaisir. Mais elles n'avaient\nplus de curiosité de voir rire madame Palmer, bâiller son mari, et\nd'entendre les éternelles histoires de madame Jennings; elles\nessayèrent aussi de s'en dispenser. Le temps était incertain; elles\nne voulaient pas quitter leur mère. Sir Georges avait réponse à tout,\net ne voulut entendre aucune excuse. Miss Emma resterait; il\nenverrait son carosse. Mesdames Jennings et Palmer se joignirent à\nses supplications; lady Middleton même les pressa de venir. Ils\navaient tous l'air de craindre également de rester en famille. Elles\nfurent obligées de céder.\n\n--Ils sont persécutans, dit Maria, lorsqu'ils furent partis. Le loyer\nde la Chaumière est bas, mais en vérité, nous payons trop cher encore\ns'il faut aller amuser tous ceux qui viennent chez eux, ou leur mener\ntous ceux qui viennent chez nous. Ils pourraient avoir telles visites\nque vous seriez bien aise de voir, dit Elinor, et nous ne pouvons\nreconnaître leurs bontés pour nous que par notre complaisance.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XX.\n\n\nLe lendemain il pleuvait des torrens; Elinor et Maria espéraient que\nce temps les dispenserait du dîner du Parc; mais de très bonne heure\narriva l'équipage de sir Georges; il fallut bien aller. Toutes les\ndeux auraient mieux aimé rester à leurs occupations et à leurs\npensées habituelles.\n\nA peine furent-elles entrées au salon, que la petite madame Palmer,\naussi joyeuse que la veille, vint à elles les bras ouverts comme si\nelles eussent été amies intimes, et riant aux éclats: elle leur\nexprima de sa manière affable et triviale, sa joie de les revoir.\nElle s'assit entr'elles deux, et leur prenant à chacune une main: Que\nje suis enchantée que vous soyez venues, leur dit-elle; j'en\ndésespérais quand j'ai vu ce temps, et puis j'ai pensé que c'était\nune raison de plus pour ne pas rester seules chez soi à regarder\ntomber la pluie. A votre âge le temps ne fait rien quand il s'agit de\ns'amuser, et nous nous amuserons beaucoup. Il aurait été bien cruel\nque vous ne fussiez pas venues, car nous repartons demain à ce que M.\nPalmer vient de me dire; je croyais rester au moins quatre jours, et\nj'en étais charmée. Je ne me doutais pas de ce voyage ci; M. Palmer\nme dit tout-à-coup l'autre matin: Charlotte, je vais à Barton,\nvoulez-vous y venir? Il est si drôle M. Palmer, jamais il ne me dit\nrien qu'au moment même. Ce matin il m'a dit en se levant: Charlotte,\nnous repartons demain. Vous ne sauriez croire combien il est enchanté\nd'avoir fait votre connaissance; moi, je suis désolée de vous quitter\ndéja, mais nous nous retrouverons cet hiver à Londres. (Et sa\ndésolation s'exprima par un éclat de rire).\n\nMesdemoiselles Dashwood lui dirent qu'elles n'iraient sûrement pas à\nla ville.\n\nNe pas venir à la ville! Rester à la campagne après Noël! Mais c'est\nimpossible, il faut absolument y venir; je vous arrêterai une\ncharmante maison tout près de la nôtre en Hanovre Square, je vous\nservirai de chaperon partout où vous voudrez aller quand votre maman\nvoudra rester; vous savez que les femmes mariées ont ce privilège: et\nun éclat de rire suivit cette remarque.\n\nElles la remercièrent et répétèrent leur intention positive de ne\npoint aller à Londres.\n\nM. Palmer entra avec sa mine importante et refrognée. Ah! _mon\namour_, lui dit sa femme, venez vous joindre à moi pour persuader à\nces dames d'aller cet hiver à Londres; on ne peut rien vous refuser.\n\nSon _amour_ ne fit aucune réponse, salua légèrement; puis allant à la\nfenêtre, il regarda les nuages en étendant les bras et bâillant. Quel\nhorrible temps, dit-il, il fait paraître tout insupportable! La pluie\nà cet excès est aussi ennuyeuse en-dedans qu'en dehors: Aussi pour\nquoi diable! sir Georges n'a-t-il pas un billard dans sa maison? que\nveut-il qu'on fasse chez lui quand il pleut? A quoi veut-il qu'on\ns'amuse? Combien peu de gens savent s'arranger chez eux. Sir Georges\nest aussi désagréable que le temps. Il s'enfonça dans un fauteuil\navec l'air de très mauvaise humeur.\n\nLe reste de la compagnie entra. Je crains, mademoiselle Maria, lui\ndit sir Georges, que vous n'ayez pas pu faire aujourd'hui votre\npélerinage à Altenham.\n\nElle prit un air de dignité et ne répondit rien.\n\n--Ah ne soyez pas si mystérieuse avec nous, chère Maria, dit madame\nPalmer, nous savons tout je vous assure, et j'admire votre bon goût,\ncar il est très bel homme, notre terre n'est pas très loin de la\nsienne, pas plus de neuf milles, je crois.\n\n--Beaucoup plus de trente, dit son mari.\n\n--Oh bien c'est à-peu-près de même. Je n'ai jamais vu sa maison, mais\non dit qu'elle est très jolie.\n\n--C'est la plus laide et la plus abominable maison que j'aie vue en\nma vie, dit monsieur Palmer.\n\nMaria garda le silence, mais toute sa contenance trahissait l'intérêt\nqu'elle prenait à cet entretien.\n\n--Mon amour, dit madame Palmer en riant, vous êtes en humeur de\ncontredire aujourd'hui.\n\n--Aujourd'hui comme toujours, répondit-il, quand on dit devant moi\ndes bêtises ou des faussetés.\n\nCharlotte éclata de rire. Il était impossible d'avoir une gaîté plus\nsoutenue, d'être plus décidée en dépit de tout de se trouver\nparfaitement heureuse; l'indifférence étudiée de son mari, son\ninsolence, son mécontentement, son dédain ne lui donnaient aucun\nchagrin: plus il était dur avec elle, plus elle riait de bon coeur.\n\n--M. Palmer est si plaisant, disait-elle à voix basse à Elinor, il\nest toujours de mauvaise humeur.\n\nCertainement il ne se montrait pas d'une manière aimable; mais sous\ncette apparence rude et grossière, Elinor, dont le tact était parfait\npour démêler le fond des caractères, crut remarquer par plusieurs\npetites observations qu'il n'était ni aussi rude, ni aussi mal élevé\nqu'il voulait le paraître. Son caractère s'était peut-être aigri en\ndécouvrant, après quelques mois de mariage, qu'il était enchaîné pour\nla vie avec une femme assez jolie, très bonne enfant, mais n'ayant\npas une idée, et niaise dans toute l'étendue du terme. Son rire\néternel finissait par l'impatienter à ne pouvoir le cacher. Il avait\nde plus cet amour-propre qu'on retrouve chez plusieurs hommes, et\nsouvent même à côté de l'esprit, quoiqu'il n'en soit pas une preuve,\net qui lui persuadait qu'il était très supérieur à la plupart de ceux\nqu'il rencontrait. Sa supériorité sur sa femme était trop décidée\npour qu'on pût la contester. Il s'accoutuma bientôt à l'étendre sur\ntous ceux qu'il voyait; et c'est là ce qui produisait cet air de\ndédain et d'ennui de tout, qu'il portait dans le monde. Il croyait se\ndistinguer par là des autres hommes, et c'était son plus ardent\ndésir. Mais Elinor n'en fut pas moins convaincue que s'il pouvait\nconsentir à se laisser aller à son naturel, il pourrait être fort\naimable. Elle sentit déja qu'elle préférait l'inégalité de son\nhumeur, qui n'était pas sans originalité, à la bonne humeur de sa\nfemme, à ses éclats de rire sans sujet qui revenaient à chaque\ninstant, à son ton commun, et à son manque total d'esprit et de tact.\n\n--Oh! mes chères miss Dashwood, leur dit-elle après quelques momens,\nil me vient une charmante pensée; il faut absolument que vous veniez\npasser quelque temps chez moi à Cleveland aux fêtes de Noël. Vous\nsavez bien, ma chère Maria, que nous sommes voisins de Haute-Combe;\ncela sera délicieux! vous y serez si heureuses, et moi aussi de vous\ny voir. Mon amour, ne désirez-vous pas beaucoup d'avoir les dames\nDashwood à Cleveland.\n\n--Certainement, répliqua-t-il d'un ton ironique, je n'avais pas\nd'autres vues en venant à Barton.\n\n--Vous voyez à présent, dit Charlotte, que M. Palmer compte sur vous,\nainsi vous ne pouvez refuser.\n\nToutes les deux prouvèrent qu'elles le pouvaient, et refusèrent\ndécidément.\n\nCharlotte en parut très surprise. Je ne comprends pas, dit-elle,\nqu'on puisse refuser quelque chose à M. Palmer. Ne le trouvez-vous\npas l'homme du monde le plus aimable, dit-elle bas à Elinor? il est\nquelquefois des jours entiers sans me parler; mais avec vous ce ne\nsera pas ainsi. Vous lui plaisez beaucoup, je vous assure; et il sera\ntout-à-fait de mauvaise humeur si vous ne venez pas à Cleveland. Je\nne comprends pas quelle objection vous pouvez faire. Une seule, dit\nElinor, c'est que cela ne se peut pas; et pour éviter de nouvelles\npersécutions, elle changea de sujet. Elle avait envie de savoir\nquelques particularités sur Willoughby, sur son caractère, sur\nson genre de vie. Madame Palmer étant sa voisine de campagne, et\naimant beaucoup à causer, pouvait lui donner des détails qui\nl'intéresseraient relativement à Maria. Elle lui demanda donc si M.\nWilloughby venait souvent à Cleveland, et s'ils le connaissaient\nparticulièrement.\n\n--O mon Dieu, oui! je le connais extrêmement, dit madame Palmer; il\nest vrai que je ne lui ai jamais parlé, mais je suis sûre que je le\nreconnaîtrais entre mille: il est si beau! je l'ai rencontré\nquelquefois à Londres; je me suis aussi trouvée une fois ici quand il\nétait à Altenham. Ah! non, je me rappelle que c'était maman qui\nl'avait vu et qui m'en a parlé. Nous l'aurions sûrement vu\ntrès-souvent à Cleveland; mais il vient très-peu à Haute-Combe, je\ncrois; et puis M. Palmer ne lui a jamais fait de visite, parce qu'il\nest de l'opposition. Vous voyez que je le connais très bien, et je\nsais bien aussi pourquoi vous vous informez de lui; c'est qu'il doit\népouser votre soeur; j'en suis transportée de joie, elle sera ma\nvoisine, et nous nous verrons tous les jours.\n\n--Je vous assure, dit Elinor, que vous en savez plus que moi\nlà-dessus. Qui donc vous a parlé de ce projet de mariage?\n\n--Qui? tout le monde; je n'ai pas entendu autre chose en passant à\nLondres.\n\n--A Londres! c'est impossible, ma chère dame.\n\n--Sur mon honneur, rien n'est plus vrai. Je rencontrai le colonel\nBrandon lundi matin, à Bendstreet, comme nous allions partir, et il\nme le dit positivement.\n\n--Vous me surprenez beaucoup. Le colonel Brandon vous l'a dit!\nsûrement vous vous êtes trompée. Lors même que ce serait vrai, je ne\npuis croire que le colonel Brandon l'ait dit à quelqu'un qui n'y\nprenait nul intérêt.\n\n--Mais je vous assure qu'il me l'a dit: tenez, je vais vous conter\ntout ce qui s'est passé à cette occasion. Quand nous nous\nrencontrâmes, il nous aborda, et nous commençâmes à parler de notre\nvoyage à Barton et de choses et d'autres; enfin je lui dis: maman\nm'écrit, colonel, qu'il y a une nouvelle famille à la Chaumière, des\ndemoiselles excessivement jolies, je dis ainsi en vérité, et que la\nplus jolie des trois doit épouser M. Willoughby de Haute-Combe.\nEst-ce vrai, je vous en prie, colonel? vous devez le savoir puisque\nvous avez été dernièrement en Devonshire.\n\n--Et qu'est-ce que vous répondit le colonel?\n\n--Oh! rien, presque rien; mais il devint rouge, et puis pâle. J'ai\nbien vu cela; c'est comme s'il avait dit que c'était bien vrai et de\nce moment j'en ai été certaine. Comme ce sera délicieux! ce mariage\naura-t-il lieu bientôt?\n\nElinor dédaigna de répondre. M. Brandon se portait bien, j'espère,\ndit-elle après un instant de silence.\n\n--Oh! oui, très-bien, et il était si plein de vos mérites, que je ne\nsais ce qu'il ne m'a pas dit de vous.\n\n--Je suis bien flattée de son suffrage; il me paraît un excellent\nhomme, et il me plaît beaucoup.\n\n--Et à moi aussi, je vous assure; c'est un charmant homme que le\ncolonel Brandon. C'est seulement grand dommage qu'il soit si sombre\net si ennuyeux. Maman dit qu'il était aussi amoureux de votre\nsoeur; moi je ne puis le croire, il est si grave; je ne l'ai jamais\nvu amoureux de personne.\n\n--Est-ce que M. Willoughby est répandu dans la bonne société de\nSommerset-shire, dit encore Elinor?\n\n--Oh oui! très répandu: je ne crois pas cependant que beaucoup de\ngens le connaissent; Haute-Combe est si loin et il y est si peu; mais\non le trouve très-agréable, je vous assure; personne n'est plus aimé\nque lui de toutes les femmes; vous pouvez le dire à votre soeur.\nElle est bien heureuse d'avoir fait sa connaissance; il est si riche!\nAu reste elle est très-belle aussi, et rien n'est trop beau pour\nelle. Cependant, je vous assure que je vous trouve, moi, presque\naussi jolie qu'elle, et M. Palmer aussi; car il disait hier au soir\nqu'il ne pouvait pas vous distinguer. Quant à moi je vous admire\nbeaucoup toutes deux; je suis charmée d'avoir fait votre\nconnaissance, et j'espère vous revoir souvent. Il me vient une\ncharmante pensée; il faut à présent que vous épousiez le colonel\nBrandon: ne le voulez-vous pas? cela peut fort bien aller à présent.\n\nElinor ne put s'empêcher de rire. Pourquoi _à présent_ demanda-t-elle?\n\n--Pourquoi? ah! je sais bien pourquoi je dis cela, et je veux bien\nvous le dire; c'est qu'à présent je suis mariée: voyez, c'est\nl'intime ami de mon beau-frère. Sir Georges et maman s'étaient mis\ndans la tête qu'il devait m'épouser; ma soeur aussi le désirait\nbeaucoup; c'était une affaire arrangée. Mais le colonel n'en parla\npoint; sans quoi on nous aurait mariés immédiatement. Maman dit\ncependant que j'étais trop jeune; et aussitôt après M. Palmer me fit\nla cour, et je l'aime beaucoup mieux; il est si drôle M. Palmer,\nc'est justement le mari qu'il me fallait pour être heureuse.\n\nElinor cessa l'entretien sans avoir rien appris de ce qu'elle voulait\nsavoir, et fatiguée de tout ce qu'elle avait entendu.\n\nFIN DU PREMIER VOLUME.\n\n\n\n\n   Mots remplacés:\n   Page 017: irrépable remplacé par irréparable (un tort irréparable).\n   Page 031: déjeuner remplacé par déjeûner.\n   Page 037: altéter par altérer\n   (elle n'aura plus le pouvoir d'altérer).\n   Page 048: impertubable par imperturbable (ce calme imperturbable).\n   Page 055: lorqu'on remplacé par lorsqu'on\n   (lorsqu'on le connaît mieux).\n   Page 070: at-attendit supprimé at.\n   Page 110: Quest-ce remplacé par Qu'est-ce\n   (Qu'est-ce qui pourrait le retenir).\n   Page 124: sallon remplacé par salon\n   (accompagné jusque dans le salon).\n   Page 128: céderai par céderais (je ne le céderais pas).\n   Page 129: parce que remplacé par par ce que\n   (je suis charmée... par ce que vous dites).\n   Page 130: remplacé feroit par feraité\n   (je suis sûre qu'il ferait de même).\n   Page 154: remplacé madedemoiselle par mademoiselle.\n   Page 170: galopper par galoper (Imaginez le délice de galoper).\n   Page 175: sallon par salon (Emma resta seule au salon).\n   Page 187: qu'elle par quelle (quelle folie).\n   Page 193: porche par proche (très proche en vérité).\n   Page 213: jeterais par jetterais\n   (je jetterais bas ma grande maison).\n   Page 215: suppression de double pas\n   (ne le pensez-vous pas aussi Maria, dit-il,).\n   Page 216: là remplacé par la (Etendez-la plus loin).\n   Page 227: yoyage par voyage (comme il voyage).\n   Page 230: suppression de double est\n   (Voilà je crois ce qui est arrivé).\n   Page 234: assuidités par assiduités.\n   Page 271: parce qu'on remlacé par par ce qu'on\n   (par ce qu'on entend dire aux autres).\n   Page 255: tourbilloner remplacé par tourbillonner.\n   Page 309: suppression double vous (partout où vous voudrez aller).\n   Page 310: réfrognée inexistant dictionnaires-->refrognée\n   ou renfrognée (avec sa mine importante et refrognée).\n   Page 311: remplacé pélérinage par pélerinage.\n\n   Harmonisation pour:\n   Dashwood, Williams, Smith, Willoughby, Jennings, Cleveland, Ferrars.\n   surtout, ame(s), grace(s), long-temps.\n\n   Non harmonisé (conservé les deux orthographes):\n   déja et déjà.\n   très- et très.\n   vite et vîte.\n   bienvenu(e) et bien-venu(e).\n\n   Mots inadaptés conservés:\n   D'empire (p 007)\n   (elle avait pris sur lui beaucoup d'empire).\n   Partner (p 158)\n   (il était son partner pour toute la soirée).\n   Est-cela (p 189)\n   (que votre cousine Fanny se marie? est-cela, dit madame Jennings).\n\n\n\n\n","id":"33388"},{"text":"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n  Au lecteur\n\n  Madame de Montolieu a traduit «librement» «Sense and Sensibility».\n  Elle a notamment changé les prénoms de certains personnages du roman\n  de Jane Austen, dont le nom n'apparaît pas dans la version papier.\n\n  La ponctuation n'a pas été modifiée hormis quelques corrections\n  mineures.\n\n  L'orthographe a été conservée. Seuls quelques mots ont été modifiés.\n  La liste des modifications se trouve à la fin du texte.\n\n\n\n\n  RAISON\n\n  ET\n\n  SENSIBILITÉ.\n\n\n\n\n  RAISON\n\n  ET\n\n  SENSIBILITÉ,\n\n  OU\n  LES DEUX MANIÈRES D'AIMER.\n\n\n  PAR\n\n\n  JANE AUSTEN\n\n\n  TRADUIT LIBREMENT DE L'ANGLAIS,\n  PAR\n\n  MME ISABELLE DE MONTOLIEU.\n\n\n  TOME SECOND.\n\n\n  A PARIS,\n  CHEZ ARTHUS-BERTRAND, LIBRAIRE,\n  RUE HAUTEFEUILLE, Nº. 23.\n\n  1815.\n\n\n\n\nRAISON\n\nET\n\nSENSIBILITÉ.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXI.\n\n\nLes Palmer repartirent le jour suivant; et la famille de Barton-Park et\ncelle de Barton-Chaumière, restèrent seules chacune chez soi, à la\ngrande satisfaction de la dernière. Mais ce ne fut pas pour long-temps.\nCes dames avaient à peine eu celui d'oublier la joyeuse madame Palmer et\nson rude _amour_, et de réfléchir à la différence d'humeur de ce couple,\n(ce qui ne se trouve au reste que trop souvent dans le mariage) que sir\nGeorges et madame Jennings leur procurèrent matière à d'autres\nobservations.\n\nIl leur était impossible de ne pas chercher une société nouvelle; et\npour se désennuyer dans leur solitude, ils firent un matin une excursion\nà Exeter; ils rencontrèrent là par hasard deux parentes éloignées de\nmadame Jennings; mais ce fut assez pour que sir Georges les invitât tout\nde suite à venir passer quelque temps au Parc. Extrêmement flattées\nd'être appelées _cousines_ par un baronnet et de faire la connaissance\nde leur illustre parente, lady Middleton, elles n'eurent rien de plus\npressé que d'accepter l'invitation pour le lendemain, et de laisser les\namis obscurs chez qui elles logeaient.\n\nLady Middleton fut au désespoir, au retour de son mari, d'apprendre\nqu'elle allait avoir chez elle, à sa table, dans son élégant salon, deux\nprovinciales qu'elle ne connaissait point, qui sans doute seraient\ngauches, mal mises et qui auraient mauvaise tournure. En vain son mari\net sa mère la rassuraient et lui disaient que mesdemoiselles Stéeles\nétaient deux charmantes personnes. Elle se défiait de leur goût, et\ntremblait de les voir arriver. Ce titre de _cousine_ qui n'était point\ndu bon ton, et qu'elles lui donneraient sans doute à tout propos la\nfaisait frémir. Mais qu'y faire? elles étaient invitées, elles avaient\naccepté, il fallait bien les recevoir; lady Middleton s'y résigna. Elle\nconnaissait trop bien l'usage pour manquer à la politesse; mais elle se\npromit seulement d'y joindre toute la dignité et la froideur\nconvenable; elle fut d'ailleurs un peu consolée en apprenant que\nmesdemoiselles Stéeles étaient jeunes encore et qu'on pouvait au moins\nles faire danser et les lier avec mesdemoiselles Dashwood, qui ne lui\nplaisaient pas infiniment.\n\nElles arrivèrent; et lady Middleton en fut beaucoup plus contente\nqu'elle ne se l'était imaginé. Leur toilette n'était pas trop éloignée\nde la mode; leur abord fut très poli sans trop d'empressement; et le\nterrible mot de _cousine_ ne sortit pas de leur bouche. En échange celui\nde _milady_ fut souvent répété, avec des extases sans fin sur le goût de\nses appartemens, sur la beauté des meubles. Quand ce vint au tour des\nenfans ce fut un enchantement dont on ne peut se faire d'idée. Jamais\nelles n'avaient vu d'aussi charmantes petites créatures; c'étaient\nvraiment de petits anges. Enfin le hasard les servit si bien pour\nprendre lady Middleton par ses faibles, qu'avant une heure elle avait\nfait réparation entière aux protégées de sa mère et de son mari à qui\nelle déclara que c'étaient les deux plus charmantes jeunes filles qu'il\ny eût au monde, et les remercia de les avoir invitées. L'éloge et\nl'hyperbole étaient si rares dans sa bouche, que sir Georges en fut\naussi fier que si cela l'eût regardé lui-même, et que, pressé de faire\nparade de ses aimables cousines et de son discernement, il partit à\nl'instant pour la Chaumière. Il fallait, toute affaire cessante,\napprendre à mesdemoiselles Dashwood l'arrivée des deux plus _charmantes\nfilles qu'il y eût au monde_. Dans sa joie de l'approbation de sa femme,\nil mettait ses parentes mêmes avant les siennes propres. Elinor sourit à\ncet éloge qui allait toujours en croissant.--Venez, venez, disait-il; il\nfaut que vous veniez tout de suite; vous serez enchantées, ravies! elles\nont gagné le coeur de lady Middleton au premier moment; ce sera de même\navec vous, vous verrez. Lucy, la cadette, qui est très-belle, est aussi\ngaie qu'agréable! mes enfans sont déja autour d'elle comme autour de\nleur maman. Elles ont rempli leur voiture de joujoux et de bonbons.\nN'est-ce pas une charmante attention? elles languissent de vous voir, et\nvous êtes proches parentes; elles sont les cousines de ma femme, et\nvous, les miennes. On leur a dit à Exeter, que vous étiez aussi les\nplus belles personnes du monde. Je le leur ai confirmé, et j'ai dit bien\nd'autres choses encore, en sorte qu'elles meurent d'impatience de se\nlier avec vous.... Vous riez, Elinor.\n\n--Oui, sir Georges, j'admire le hasard étonnant qui rassemble à Barton\nles cinq plus belles personnes de l'univers.\n\n--Eh bien! vous verrez si je mens, et si ce n'est pas comme je vous le\ndis. Venez donc, vous regretterez ensuite tous les momens où vous\nn'aurez pas été ensemble.\n\nTout ce qu'il put obtenir, ce fut la promesse d'aller le lendemain faire\nvisite aux nouvelles venues. Il s'en alla surpris de cette indifférence.\nTout autre que lui aurait soupçonné qu'elle avait pour motif la rivalité\nde perfections; mais sir Georges n'imaginait jamais le mal, et n'en eut\npas l'idée. De retour chez lui, il vanta ses cousines aux demoiselles\nStéeles avec le même feu, en sorte que chacune d'elles devait s'attendre\nà voir des êtres parfaits. Mais Elinor qui connaissait l'optimisme du\nbaronnet et son enchantement pour les nouvelles connaissances, rabattait\nbeaucoup de ses éloges, et Maria ne s'en occupait point.\n\nQuand elles arrivèrent le lendemain au Parc pour faire leur visite, sir\nGeorges les présenta les unes aux autres avec la même emphase qu'il\navait mise à leurs éloges; et l'on comprend qu'elles s'examinèrent avec\nattention.\n\nL'aînée des demoiselles Stéeles, miss Anna, avait près de trente ans,\nassez d'embonpoint, un de ces visages insignifians qui n'expriment rien\ndu tout, et de qui on n'a rien à dire ni en bien ni en mal. Lucy, le\nprodige de beauté de sir Georges, était en effet très jolie; ses traits\nétaient réguliers, son regard, perçant. Elle avait dans sa tournure\nquelque chose qui n'était ni de la grace ni de l'élégance, mais qui la\nfaisait remarquer. Leur abord fut très-poli. Avec lady Middleton c'était\nplus que de la politesse, c'étaient des attentions recherchées, de la\nsouplesse, une flatterie adroite, quoique continuelle, et qui persuada à\nElinor qu'elles ne manquaient pas d'une sorte d'esprit. Elles parlaient\navec ravissement des enfans, de leur beauté, de leur intelligence; elles\njouaient avec eux, supportaient tous leurs caprices, répondaient sans se\nlasser à leurs questions importunes; avec milady elles admiraient\nl'arrangement de la maison, la bonté des mets, le goût de sa parure, lui\ndemandaient des patrons de ses broderies, des modèles de ses chiffons,\nlui offraient de lui aider dans ses ouvrages, ou de faire mille\nbagatelles pour amuser les enfans. Lady Middleton écoutait\ncomplaisamment toutes ces flatteries, et trouvait ses nouvelles cousines\ntoujours plus aimables et d'une affection inépuisable. Les enfans en\ngénéral tourmentent à proportion de ce qu'on les gâte; et ceux qui\ns'occupent sans cesse d'eux et qui cèdent à toutes leurs fantaisies, en\nsont les premières victimes. Mais les demoiselles Stéeles souffraient\ntout avec une patience qui leur gagna en entier le coeur de la faible\nmère. Les rubans de leur ceinture dénoués, leurs cheveux défaits, leurs\nboucles d'oreilles tordues, leurs bracelets décrochés, toutes leurs\nbagues tirées de leurs doigts et roulant sur le plancher, leur corbeille\nd'ouvrage renversée, leurs ciseaux perdus; tout cela était charmant. Ils\navaient une activité adorable, une grâce parfaite dans leurs petits\nmouvemens. On les laissait grimper sur les genoux, chiffonner les robes;\ntout était délicieux! La maman applaudissait par un sourire, et ne\ns'étonnait que de l'apathie de mesdemoiselles Dashwood qui ne prenaient\nnulle part à ces jeux. Pour l'ordinaire elles caressaient les enfans,\nmais sans s'en laisser tourmenter. Ce jour-là les nouvelles venues s'en\nemparèrent tellement, et les rendirent si insupportables qu'elles se\ntinrent prudemment à l'écart.\n\nGeorges est très-gentil, très-animé aujourd'hui, dit lady Middleton en\nvoyant son fils aîné prendre le mouchoir de mademoiselle Anna et le\njeter par la fenêtre; c'est un petit malicieux. Williams sera votre\npetit amoureux, miss Lucy, je vois cela. L'enfant lui pinçait le bras à\nlui faire un noir; il eut un baiser pour récompense de la souffrante\nLucy. Et ma chère petite Selina, dit cette dernière, en prenant sur ses\ngenoux une petite fille de trois ans, l'idole de sa mère, et par\nconséquent la plus méchante. Elle resta par hasard sans bouger pendant\ndeux minutes. Charmante enfant! est-elle toujours si douce, si\ntranquille? c'est un modèle de sagesse. Malheureusement en\nl'embrassant, une des épingles de Lucy toucha le cou de la petite, et\nce modèle de sagesse fit de tels cris et donna des coups si violens de\nsa petite main sur celle de Lucy, qu'elle fut obligée de la mettre à\nterre; mais elle s'y mit aussi à côté d'elle, et la couvrait de baisers\nen jetant la coupable épingle, et en demandant mille et mille pardons à\nl'enfant et à sa mère, qui avait couru chercher de l'eau, et qui\nbassinait la plaie, qu'à peine on pouvait voir, pendant que Lucy,\ntoujours à genoux, donnait à la petite des morceaux de sucre l'un après\nl'autre. Mais l'enfant voyant ce que lui procuraient ses cris, n'avait\ngarde de se taire; au contraire elle les redoublait et battait tout le\nmonde avec un de ses petits poings fermés: l'autre était plein de\nmorceaux de sucre. Ses frères voulurent lui en prendre, ils eurent\nchacun un bon coup de pied. Enfin rien ne pouvant l'appaiser, sa mère se\nrappela que sa chère petite Selina qui souffrait sûrement beaucoup,\naimait passionnément la marmelade d'abricot; et l'enfant à ce mot ayant\ncessé ses cris une seconde, elle lui en promit et l'emporta pour lui\ndonner de cet excellent remède. Ses frères qui espéraient en avoir leur\npart, la suivirent, quoique leur mère leur ordonnât de rester; et pour\nquelques momens les jeunes dames furent tranquilles. Charmante petite\ncréature, dit miss Anna, cet accident aurait pu être affreux!\n\n--Je ne crois pas qu'il y ait danger de mort, dit Maria en souriant\nironiquement; elle en reviendra.\n\n--Je ne me consolerai jamais d'avoir été la cause de cet accident, dit\nLucy; une enfant si aimable, et que sa mère aime si passionnément!\nQuelle femme enchanteresse que lady Middleton! si belle, si élégante et\nsi sensible! ne le trouvez-vous pas, mademoiselle?\n\nMaria garda le silence; il lui était impossible de dire ce qu'elle ne\npensait pas. Elinor toujours prête à réparer ses impolitesses, loua les\ngrâces et l'air noble de lady Middleton.\n\n--Et sir Georges, dit l'aînée, quel homme aimable! je le crois plein\nd'esprit; du moins il en annonce beaucoup.\n\n--C'est le meilleur des hommes, dit Elinor, toujours de bonne humeur,\nexcellent mari, bon père, bon ami.\n\n--Et quelle charmante petite famille! je n'ai jamais vu de plus beaux\nenfans. On comprend facilement l'excessive tendresse de leur mère pour\nces angéliques petites créatures. On pourrait peut-être les trouver un\npeu gâtés, un peu turbulens; mais j'aime les enfans pleins de vie et de\nfeu; je ne puis les supporter timides et tranquilles; aussi j'adore\nceux-ci.\n\n--C'est ce qui m'a paru, dit Elinor, et je vous trouve heureuse d'avoir\nce goût à Barton.\n\nOn se tut sur ce sujet. Après une pause, mademoiselle Stéeles l'aînée\ndemanda brusquement à Elinor: Aimez-vous le Devonshire? Je suppose que\nvous avez bien regretté Sussex.\n\nUn peu surprise de la familiarité de cette question, Elinor répondit\nseulement, oui, mademoiselle.\n\n--Je comprends cela; Norland est une magnifique habitation, et passer de\nlà dans une chaumière, c'est assez triste.\n\n--Une chaumière telle que celle où notre parent sir Georges Middleton a\nbien voulu nous placer, ne donne lieu à aucun regret, dit vivement\nMaria.\n\nLucy lança à sa soeur un regard terrassant et se hâta de dire que dans\ntout ce que sir Georges et milady arrangeaient, on reconnaissait leur\ngoût; mais qu'ils leur avaient dit que Norland était une des plus belles\ncampagnes de l'Angleterre.\n\n--Elle est très-belle en effet, dit Elinor, mais je crois qu'il y en a\nde plus belles encore, et il n'y a que peu ou point de chaumière comme\nla nôtre.\n\n--Mais aussi pourquoi lui donner ce nom, dit miss Anna, cela présente\nune idée?...\n\n--Ne voyez-vous pas, ma soeur, dit Lucy, que c'est un nom de fantaisie,\nun nom romanesque?\n\nAnna se tut humblement; puis elle reprit bientôt ainsi: Aviez-vous des\nélégans à Sussex? Je suppose qu'ici ils sont assez rares, et quant à moi\nje trouve que rien n'embellit plus un séjour que d'y voir beaucoup\nd'élégans. Cela anime la vie; ne le trouvez-vous pas aussi? Encore un\nregard de Lucy fit baisser les yeux à sa soeur. Qu'est-ce que vous\nvoulez dire, Anna? et sur quoi pensez-vous qu'il n'y ait pas de jeunes\ngens très-bien à tout égard en Devonshire comme à Sussex?\n\n--Je sais bien, Lucy, qu'il y a de très-jolis garçons à Exeter, dit\nAnna; mais ils ne sont pas reçus ici; et je craignais que les\ndemoiselles Dashwood ne s'ennuyassent à Barton si elles n'en voient\npoint; c'est pourquoi je leur demandais si elles en voyaient beaucoup à\nNorland. Je voudrais par exemple qu'elles pussent rencontrer M. Rose\nd'Exeter, le clerc de M. Simpson, vous savez bien, Lucy; c'est un beau\njeune homme celui-là, et tout-à-fait élégant. Je pense que si votre\nfrère vous ressemble, il devait être charmant avant d'être marié, et il\nétait si riche! c'était un merveilleux, n'est-ce pas, un véritable\nélégant? j'aurais bien voulu le rencontrer.\n\n--Je ne puis en vérité vous répondre là-dessus, dit Elinor; je ne\ncomprends pas parfaitement ce que vous entendez par un merveilleux. Tout\nce que je puis vous dire, c'est que si mon frère en était un avant son\nmariage, il l'est encore, car il n'est pas du tout changé.\n\n--Ah mon Dieu, quelle idée! un homme marié élégant! je ne puis me\nreprésenter cela. Les hommes mariés me sont à moi très-indifférens.\n\n--Mais, Anna, lui dit sa soeur, n'avez-vous rien autre chose à dire que\nde parler des jeunes gens et des élégans? Mesdemoiselles Dashwood vont\ncroire que vous n'avez rien autre chose dans l'esprit. Alors changeant\nde propos elle parla de chiffons, de modes, et d'autres objets aussi\nintéressans.\n\nLes _deux plus charmantes personnes du monde_ étaient jugées dans\nl'esprit d'Elinor et de Maria. La commune familiarité de l'aînée et son\nmauvais ton, la mirent entièrement de côté. La cadette était mieux\ncertainement; mais comme Elinor n'était ni aveuglée par sa beauté, ni\nprévenue par son regard, elle ne trouva rien à côté de cela qui fût en\nrapport avec elle et qui pût lui plaire. Elles quittèrent donc la maison\nsans désirer de les mieux connaître.\n\nIl n'en était pas ainsi chez mesdemoiselles Stéeles. Elles arrivaient\nd'Exeter, décidées à trouver tout parfait à Barton; et les maîtres, et\nla maison, et les enfans, et les chevaux, et les chiens, et les meubles,\net les belles cousines: tout était l'objet des éloges les plus outrés.\nIl était difficile d'exagérer sur mesdemoiselles Dashwood; aussi\nfurent-elles déclarées les personnes les plus belles, les plus\nélégantes, les plus accomplies en tout point qu'il fût possible de\nvoir, et celles dont elles désiraient le plus passionnément faire des\nintimes amies. Sir Georges ne le désirait pas moins, et fit tout ce qui\ndépendait de lui pour former cette liaison. Elinor vit qu'elle ne\npouvait s'y refuser tout-à-fait; et qu'il fallait au moins se soumettre\nà être assises à côté les unes des autres quelques heures dans la\njournée. Sir Georges n'en demandait pas plus: dans ses idées d'amitié,\nil suffisait de se voir en société, et de causer ou de danser ensemble\npour être intimes amies. De son côté pour accélérer cette intimité, il\nconfia aux demoiselles Stéeles tout ce qu'il savait ou supposait de la\nsituation des dames de la Chaumière. Et dès leur troisième rencontre,\nmademoiselle Stéeles l'aînée félicita Elinor sur ce que sa soeur avait\nfait la conquête du beau, de l'élégant Willoughby. Il est sûr, lui\ndit-elle, que c'est une chose très-agréable que de se marier jeune avec\nun si bel homme; car on m'assure qu'il est vraiment d'une figure\nremarquable, que c'est un véritable élégant; et votre soeur est bien\nheureuse. J'espère que vous trouverez aussi bientôt un bon parti, car il\nn'est point agréable, je vous assure, de voir passer ses cadettes avant\nsoi: mais peut-être votre choix est-il déjà fait en secret. Elinor se\nsentit rougir; elle ne pouvait pas se flatter que sir Georges fût plus\ndiscret dans ses soupçons et dans ses conjectures sur elle que sur sa\nsoeur; il la plaisantait même de préférence depuis la visite d'Edward.\nIl n'avait jamais dîné ensemble sans qu'il bût à la lettre F. depuis le\ncommencement du dîner jusqu'à la fin, en regardant Elinor. Dès que les\nmiss Stéeles eurent entendu cette plaisanterie, elles furent\ntrès-curieuses d'en savoir davantage, et tourmentèrent sir Georges pour\nqu'il leur dît en entier le nom de l'heureux mortel au sujet duquel il\nraillait Elinor; il se fit peu presser, et il eut autant de plaisir à le\ndire que miss Anna à l'entendre.\n\n--Son nom est Ferrars, dit-il à demi voix; mais je vous en prie n'en\nparlez pas, c'est encore un secret.\n\n--Ferrars! répéta Anna, est-il possible? Le jeune Ferrars, le frère de\nvotre belle-soeur, miss Elinor, est donc l'heureux mortel dont parle\nsir Georges; eh bien! j'en suis charmée pour plusieurs raisons: c'est un\ntrès-agréable jeune homme, je le connais très-bien, c'est un élégant.\nCette dénomination ne convenait nullement à Edward, mais c'était le mot\nfavori d'Anna pour parler d'un jeune homme du bon ton. Elinor émue de\nl'entendre nommer comme son amant avoué, fit peu d'attention à ce mot;\nelle fut plus surprise d'entendre Lucy dire assez aigrement à sa soeur,\nqu'elle contrariait sans cesse. Comment pouvez-vous dire, Anna, que nous\nle connaissons très-bien? nous l'avons vu par hasard une fois ou deux\nchez mon oncle, et ce n'est pas le connaître? vous savez fort bien que\nje ne connais pas du tout messieurs Ferrars.\n\n--Elinor écoutait avec attention: Qui était cet oncle? où demeurait-il?\ncomment Edward le connaissait-il? Elle aurait voulu que l'entretien\ncontinuât, sans pourtant s'y joindre elle-même; mais on ne dit rien de\nplus, et pour la première fois elle trouva madame Jennings bien peu\ncurieuse ou bien discrète. La manière dont Lucy avait parlé d'Edward\nl'avait frappée et lui donnait l'idée qu'elle savait ou croyait savoir\nquelque chose à son désavantage. Sa curiosité ne fut point satisfaite,\nle nom de M. Ferrars ne fut plus prononcé ni par les deux soeurs ni par\nsir Georges.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXII.\n\n\nMaria ne pouvait avoir la moindre indulgence pour des personnes aussi\ncommunes, aussi peu instruites, et qui n'avaient avec elle aucune espèce\nde rapport d'esprit et de goût; elle les écoutait à peine, ne leur\nparlait jamais, et par sa froideur soutenue leur ôta bientôt tout espoir\nde liaison. Elles se retournèrent entièrement du côté d'Elinor, plus\naffable et plus honnête, et qui l'était plus encore pour réparer les\ntorts de Maria. Lucy principalement parut s'attacher véritablement à\nelle, cherchait toutes les occasions de s'en rapprocher, de l'engager\ndans des conversations particulières, enfin de lui témoigner une amitié\nà laquelle un bon coeur, tel que celui d'Elinor n'est jamais insensible.\nLucy Stéeles d'ailleurs ne manquait pas d'une sorte d'esprit naturel;\nses remarques étaient souvent justes et amusantes, et pour une\ndemi-heure elle pouvait être une compagne assez agréable; mais elle\nn'avait aucune des ressources que donne une bonne éducation. Elle était\nignorante autant qu'on peut l'être; toute sa littérature se bornait à\nquelques mauvais romans; elle ne pouvait parler sur aucun sujet un peu\nrelevé, et malgré tous ses efforts pour paraître à son avantage, et se\nmettre autant que possible au niveau d'Elinor, qui tâchait de son côté\nde se mettre au sien, il y avait trop de distance entr'elles, pour que\nmademoiselle Dashwood pût jamais en faire une amie. Le manque\nd'éducation et de connaissances n'aurait pas été peut-être un obstacle\ninsurmontable; un bon coeur, un caractère aimable lui auraient bien vîte\nfait pardonner son ignorance, mais Elinor eut bientôt remarqué chez Lucy\nun manque de délicatesse, de sincérité, et de cette rectitude de\nprincipes qui sont la première base d'une intime liaison. Il lui fut\nimpossible alors de trouver quelque plaisir dans la société d'une\npersonne qui joignait la fausseté à l'ignorance, dont le manque\nd'instruction rendait l'entretien insipide, et qui par ses basses\nadulations pour les habitans du Parc, dont elle se moquait ensuite avec\nElinor, ôtait à celle-ci toute espèce de confiance dans l'amitié\nqu'elle lui témoignait. Elle aurait voulu en conséquence l'éloigner un\npeu plus, mais Lucy mettait tant de zèle et d'activité à se rapprocher\nd'elle, que cela n'était pas facile.\n\nUn jour Lucy l'avait accompagnée du Parc à la Chaumière; elles étaient\nseules, et après quelques momens d'hésitation, Lucy dit à Elinor: vous\nallez trouver ma question bizarre; dites-moi, je vous en prie si vous\nconnaissez particulièrement la mère de votre belle soeur, madame\nFerrars? Elinor trouva en effet la question extraordinaire, et, sa\ncontenance l'exprima, en répondant qu'elle n'avait jamais vu madame\nFerrars.\n\n--En vérité, dit Lucy, c'est étonnant! je pensais que vous l'aviez vue\nau moins quelquefois à Norland, et que vous pourriez me donner quelques\ndétails sur sa manière, sur sa tournure, sur son caractère.\n\n--Non, répondit Elinor, en s'efforçant de cacher son opinion réelle sur\nla mère d'Edward, et n'ayant aucune envie de satisfaire ce qui lui\nparaissait une impertinente curiosité, non, je ne sais rien d'elle.\n\n--Je vois, lui dit Lucy, en la regardant attentivement, que vous me\ntrouvez très-étrange de vous questionner ainsi sur cette dame; mais\npeut-être ai-je mes raisons. Je voudrais pouvoir vous les dire,\ncependant, j'espère que vous me rendrez la justice de croire que ce\nn'est point une sotte curiosité.\n\nElinor répondit quelques mots polis. Elles se promenèrent quelques\nminutes, en gardant le silence. Il fut rompu par Lucy qui renouvela\nl'entretien, en disant avec hésitation: Je ne puis supporter que\nvous me soupçonniez d'être une curieuse impertinente; tout, tout au\nmonde plutôt que d'être mal jugée par une personne dont j'ai une si\nhaute opinion. Et comme je suis sûre de n'avoir rien à risquer en me\nconfiant entièrement à vous, je m'y décide. Je serais charmée aussi\nd'avoir votre avis sur la manière dont je dois me conduire dans une\nsituation très délicate, très critique; je suis très fâchée que vous ne\nconnaissiez pas madame Ferrars.\n\n--J'en suis fâchée aussi, dit Elinor, toujours plus étonnée, si mon\nopinion sur elle pouvait vous être de quelque utilité; mais je ne puis\nle comprendre. Je n'ai jamais entendu dire que vous eussiez la moindre\nrelation avec cette famille, et je suis, je l'avoue, un peu surprise de\nvotre excessive curiosité sur le caractère de cette dame.\n\n--Votre surprise est très naturelle, reprit Lucy, et je ne dois pas m'en\nétonner, mais elle cesserait bientôt si j'osais tout vous dire. Madame\nFerrars ne m'est certainement rien à présent, mais le temps peut\nvenir.... et.... cela dépend d'elle, où nos relations seront très\nintimes: elle baissa les jeux avec l'air d'une aimable confusion, mais\nles releva bientôt sur Elinor, pour observer l'effet de sa demi\nconfidence.\n\n--Bon Dieu, s'écria Elinor, que voulez-vous dire? Etes-vous engagée avec\nM. Robert Ferrars? Elle ne pouvait imaginer autre chose, mais elle\nn'était pas du tout flattée de l'idée d'avoir Lucy Stéeles pour\nbelle-soeur.\n\n--Non, répliqua Lucy, non pas à Robert Ferrars, que je n'ai jamais vu,\nmais.... à son frère aîné; et en disant cela son regard perçant était\nattaché sur Elinor, comme pour lire au fond de son âme.\n\nQu'est-ce qu'Elinor sentit dans ce moment! Une surprise qui aurait été\naussi pénible que violente, si une incrédulité presque complète ne\nl'avait pas suivie. Elle regarda Lucy dans un silencieux étonnement,\nincapable de deviner le motif d'une telle confidence, et quoiqu'elle eût\npâli et qu'elle se sentît très émue, elle n'eût aucune crainte de\ns'évanouir ou d'avoir une attaque de nerfs, et persista dans sa défiance\nde la véracité de Lucy. Je vois et je comprends votre surprise, lui dit\ncette dernière, car vous ne pouviez en avoir aucune idée. Jamais il ne\nm'est échappé un seul mot ni avec vous ni avec personne, qui ait pu\ntrahir notre secret; il a été si fidèlement gardé par moi que pas un\nseul de mes parens ni de mes amis, excepté Anna, ne peut s'en douter, et\njamais je ne vous l'aurais confié, si je n'avais pas eu la certitude de\nvotre discrétion, et si je n'avais pas été entraînée par la crainte que\nmes questions sur madame Ferrars ne vous parussent aussi trop ridicules.\nQuant à M. Ferrars, je ne crains nullement qu'il soit fâché de ma\nconfiance envers une personne qu'il estime autant; je connais la haute\nopinion qu'il a de toute votre famille, et je sais qu'il vous regarde\nvous et Maria comme des soeurs.... Elle s'arrêta.... Elinor aussi garda\nquelque temps le silence; son étonnement était trop grand pour pouvoir\nlui répondre; mais enfin elle s'efforça de parler et de parler\ntranquillement, et dit avec assez de calme: Puis-je vous demander si\nvotre engagement existe depuis long-temps?\n\n--Oh oui! bien long-temps; il y a quatre ans.\n\n--Quatre ans!\n\n--Oui, j'étais bien jeune alors, et c'est mon excuse.\n\n--Je ne me suis pas doutée, dit Elinor, que vous le connussiez jusqu'à\nl'autre jour que votre soeur en parla.\n\n--Oui, la pauvre Anna; je tremble toujours dès quelle ouvre la bouche.\nNotre connaissance est cependant de vieille date, elle a commencé\nlorsqu'il était près de Plymouth sous les soins de mon oncle.\n\n--De votre oncle!\n\n--Oui, M. Pratt, son tuteur, chez qui sa mère l'avait placé. Est-ce\nqu'il ne vous a jamais parlé de M. Pratt?\n\n--Oui, je me le rappelle, répondit Elinor, avec une force d'esprit qui\ns'augmentait ainsi que son émotion.\n\n--Il a vécu près de cinq ans chez mon oncle, à Longstaple, près de\nPlymouth, depuis quinze ans jusqu'à vingt; c'est là où notre\nconnaissance a commencé. Ma soeur et moi nous étions souvent chez notre\noncle; notre engagement s'est formé une année après qu'il fût hors de\ntutelle, et il avait alors vingt-un ans. Il en a vingt-cinq à présent,\net nous ne sommes pas plus avancés, parce que quoiqu'il soit majeur et\nque son engagement soit valable, il dépend entièrement de sa mère pour\nla fortune. Sans doute j'eus tort de consentir à ce qu'il s'engageât\nsans l'aveu et l'approbation de sa mère, mais j'étais trop jeune et je\nl'aimais trop pour être aussi prudente que je l'aurais dû. Quoique vous\nne le connaissiez pas aussi bien que moi, miss Elinor, vous l'avez vu\nassez souvent pour convenir qu'il a tout ce qu'il faut pour attacher\nsincèrement une femme qui préfère les qualités de l'âme et de l'esprit\naux avantages frivoles.\n\n--Certainement, dit Elinor, sans réflexion et entraînée par la vérité de\ncette assertion; mais cette vérité même renouvela ses doutes sur la\nsincérité de Lucy, et sa confiance en l'honneur et l'amour d'Edward.\nEngagée avec M. Ferrars, reprit-elle, je vous avoue que je suis\ntellement surprise de ce que vous me dites que.... je vous demande mille\npardons, mais il y a sûrement quelque erreur de nom; nous ne parlons\nsûrement pas du même M. Ferrars.\n\n--Nous ne pouvons parler d'un autre, dit Lucy en souriant. M. Edward\nFerrars, le fils aîné de madame Ferrars de Park-street, le frère de\nvotre belle-soeur madame Fanny Dashwood: voilà celui que j'entends, et\nvous m'accorderez je pense, que je ne puis pas me tromper sur le nom de\ncelui de qui mon bonheur dépend.\n\n--Il est étrange, dit Elinor, que je ne l'aie jamais entendu parler ni\nde vous ni de votre soeur.\n\n--Mais non! pas du tout! si vous considérez notre position, rien n'est\nmoins étrange. Notre premier soin à tous deux était de cacher\nentièrement notre secret; vous ne connaissiez ni moi ni ma famille, il\nn'avait donc aucune occasion de me nommer devant vous. Il avait surtout\nun extrême effroi que sa soeur n'eût quelque soupçon; il valait mieux\nlaisser ignorer et mon nom et mon existence, jusqu'à ce qu'elle fût\ntout-à-fait liée à la sienne.\n\nLa sécurité d'Elinor commença à diminuer, mais non pas son empire sur\nelle-même.\n\n--Vous êtes donc engagée avec lui depuis quatre ans, dit Elinor d'une\nvoix assez ferme.\n\n--Oui; et le ciel sait combien nous attendrons encore! Ce pauvre Edward!\nIl est près de perdre patience. Sortant alors de sa poche une petite\nboîte à portrait, elle ajouta: Pour prévenir tout soupçon d'erreur, et\nvous prouver que c'est bien votre ami Edward que j'aime et dont je suis\naimée, ayez la bonté de regarder cette miniature; sans doute elle lui\nfait tort, mais il est cependant très reconnaissable; il me l'a donnée\nil y a environ trois ans. Elle la mit en parlant entre les mains\nd'Elinor, qui ne put alors conserver de doute sur la véracité de Lucy.\nC'était bien Edward; c'étaient ses traits si bien gravés dans son coeur\net dans son souvenir. Elle le rendit en étouffant un profond soupir, et\nen convenant de la ressemblance.\n\n--Je n'ai jamais pu, continua Lucy, lui donner le mien en retour, ce qui\nme chagrine beaucoup, car il le désire passionnément; mais je suis\ndécidée à présent à saisir la première occasion de me faire peindre pour\nlui. Vous qui peignez si bien, chère Elinor, si sous le prétexte de le\nfaire pour vous même, vous étiez assez bonne.\n\n--Je ne me suis jamais appliquée à la ressemblance, dit Elinor; mais\nvous trouverez sûrement d'autres moyens, et vous en avez tout-à-fait le\ndroit.\n\nElles marchèrent quelque temps en silence. Lucy parla la première.\n\n--Je ne doute pas, lui dit-elle, de votre fidélité à garder un secret\ndont vous devez sentir toute l'importance. Nous serions perdus si sa\nmère venait à l'apprendre; elle ne consentira jamais volontairement à\ncette union; je n'ai ni rang ni fortune, et je la crois très haute et\nfort avare.\n\n--Je n'ai certainement pas cherché votre confiance, répondit Elinor, et\nvous me rendez justice en croyant que je ne la trahirai pas. Votre\nsecret est en sûreté avec moi; mais pardon si je vous exprime ma\nsurprise d'une confidence inutile. Vous auriez dû sentir que de me le\ndire n'ajoutait rien à cette sûreté, et vous ne connaissez pas depuis\nassez long-temps _la belle-soeur de madame John Dashwood_ pour être\nparfaitement sûre qu'elle ne soit pas indiscrète. A présent je puis vous\nrassurer, mais je ne le pouvais pas avant de le savoir. En disant cela\nelle regardait fixement Lucy, espérant de découvrir quelque chose dans\nson regard, peut-être la fausseté d'une grande partie de ce qu'elle\navait dit; mais sa physionomie ne changea pas du tout; elle serra\ndoucement la main d'Elinor.--Je crains, lui dit-elle, que vous ne\ntrouviez que j'aie pris avec vous une trop grande liberté, en vous\nconfiant ma situation; je ne vous connais pas depuis long-temps, il est\nvrai, pas du moins personnellement; car je connaissais parfaitement et\nvous et toute votre famille depuis bien des années par tout ce que m'en\navait dit Edward. Aussi dès le premier instant où je vous ai vue, il m'a\nsemblé que je voyais une ancienne connaissance; et puis, pensez comme je\nsuis malheureuse. Je n'ai pas une amie à qui je puisse demander des\n_conseils_; Anna est la seule personne qui sache ma position, et vous\navez pu vous apercevoir qu'elle n'a aucun jugement. Elle m'est plutôt à\ncharge qu'utile, et me met continuellement en crainte sur notre secret.\nJ'eus une affreuse émotion l'autre jour quand sir Georges nomma Edward;\nje crus qu'elle allait tout dire. En vérité, je m'étonne que je vive\nencore après tout ce que j'ai souffert pour lui pendant ces quatre\nannées! Toujours en suspens, en crainte, en incertitude. Le voyant si\nrarement, nous nous rencontrons à peine deux fois l'année; je ne\ncomprends pas que mon coeur ne se soit pas brisé. Ici elle mit son\nmouchoir sur ses yeux; mais Elinor à l'ordinaire si bonne, si\ncompatissante ne se sentit pas la moindre pitié.\n\n--Quelquefois, continua Lucy, je pense qu'il vaudrait mieux pour tous\ndeux rompre entièrement; mais je n'en ai pas le courage. Je ne puis\nsupporter la pensée de le rendre si malheureux et je sais que cette\nidée seule aurait cet effet; d'ailleurs il m'est si cher à moi-même! Je\nne crois pas que cela me soit possible.... Quelle est là-dessus votre\npensée, mademoiselle Dashwood? qu'est-ce que vous feriez à ma place? Et\ntoujours ce regard perçant était attaché sur elle.\n\n--Pardonnez-moi de grâce, répondit Elinor; il m'est impossible de vous\ndonner de conseils dans de telles circonstances. Votre propre jugement\ndoit vous diriger.\n\n--Il est sûr, dit Lucy, après quelques minutes, que sa mère ne\nl'abandonnera jamais entièrement. Elle est si riche que même en\ndiminuant sa fortune de moitié, il lui resterait encore de quoi vivre,\net pourvu que je vive avec lui, le plus ou le moins m'est bien égal.\nMais le pauvre Edward se désole de ce que rien ne se décide; ne\nl'avez-vous pas trouvé bien triste quand il est venu ici? Il était si\nabattu, si malheureux quand il me quitta à Longstaple, que je tremblais\nque vous ne le crussiez très-malade.\n\n--Venait-il de chez votre oncle quand il nous a fait visite?\n\n--Oh oui, sans doute! Il a passé quinze jours avec nous; avez vous cru\nqu'il venait de la ville?\n\n--Non, répliqua Elinor, toujours plus frappée des preuves de la véracité\nde Lucy; je me souviens qu'il nous a dit qu'il avait passé quinze jours\navec des amis près de Plymouth; elle se rappela aussi sa propre surprise\ndans le temps, de ce qu'il ne parlait plus de ses amis, et semblait même\néviter de prononcer leur nom.\n\n--Avez-vous remarqué son abattement, dit Lucy?\n\n--Oui en vérité, principalement à son arrivée.\n\n--Je l'avais supplié cependant de surmonter sa douleur, de peur de vous\ndonner des soupçons; mais il était si triste de ne pouvoir passer plus\nde quinze jours avec nous, et il me voyait si affectée! Pauvre Edward!\nJe crains qu'il ne soit encore dans le même état. Ses lettres sont\ntout-à-fait mélancoliques; j'en ai reçu une de lui la veille de mon\ndépart d'Exeter: Elle la tira d'un porte-feuille, et négligemment laissa\nvoir l'adresse à Elinor. Vous connaissez sûrement sa main, lui dit-elle;\nson écriture est charmante, mais elle n'est pas aussi soignée qu'à\nl'ordinaire. Il était fatigué, car le papier est complètement rempli.\nElinor vit que c'était bien de la main d'Edward, et ne put plus\nconserver de doutes. Le portrait pouvait avoir été obtenu par quelque\nhasard; mais une correspondance suivie était une preuve positive de leur\nattachement. Aucune autre raison ne pouvait l'autoriser. Pendant\nquelques momens elle fut sur le point de se trahir; son coeur battait\navec violence, elle pouvait à peine marcher. Mais elle combattit avec\ntant de force contre son sentiment, que le succès fut prompt et complet,\net que même le regard perçant de sa compagne, ne put pénétrer dans son\nintérieur.\n\n--Nous écrire continuellement l'un à l'autre, dit Lucy en renfermant sa\nlettre, est le seul moyen de nous consoler dans nos longues\nséparations. Moi cependant j'en ai un autre dans son portrait; mais le\npauvre Edward en est privé. Il dit que s'il avait le mien il serait\nmoins malheureux. Je lui ai du moins donné dernièrement une boucle de\nmes cheveux renfermée dans le cristal d'une bague: c'est un\ndédommagement; mais non pas tel qu'un portrait. N'avez-vous fait aucune\nattention à cet anneau? Le portait-il à Barton?\n\n--Oui, dit Elinor d'une voix ferme avec laquelle elle cherchait à cacher\nune émotion et une souffrance telles qu'elle n'en avait point encore\néprouvée. Elle était à la fois désolée, blessée, mortifiée, confondue;\nelle éprouvait tout ce qu'il y a de plus cruel et de plus déchirant.\n\nHeureusement elles arrivèrent à la Chaumière; et la conversation finit.\nAprès s'être reposée quelques minutes, mademoiselle Stéeles retourna au\nParc; et la malheureuse Elinor fut en liberté de se livrer à ses tristes\nréflexions.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXIII.\n\n\nQuelque peu de confiance qu'eût en général Elinor dans la véracité de\nLucy, il lui était impossible de la suspecter dans cette occasion, ni de\ncomprendre quel motif aurait pu l'engager d'inventer cette histoire. Il\ny avait non-seulement des probabilités, mais des preuves; et rien ne\ncontredisait Lucy, excepté son propre désir. Leur liaison presqu'au\nsortir de l'enfance dans la maison de M. Pratt; et la visite d'Edward\nprès de Plymouth; et sa mélancolie, et l'inégalité de sa conduite avec\nElinor; et la grande connaissance que mesdemoiselles Stéeles avaient de\nNorland, et de toutes les relations de la famille Dashwood, ce qui\nl'avait souvent surprise; et le portrait, et la lettre, et l'anneau:\ntout cela lui fournissait des preuves si convaincantes, que sa raison ne\npouvait se refuser à la croire. Au premier moment, lorsqu'elle fut\nforcée d'admettre la parfaite vérité de tout ce que Lucy venait de lui\ndire, son ressentiment contre Edward, son indignation d'avoir été\ntrompée l'emportèrent même sur sa douleur. Mais bientôt d'autres idées,\nd'autres considérations s'élevèrent. Edward avait-il eu l'intention de\nla tromper? avait-il feint avec elle un sentiment qu'il n'avait pas? Son\ncoeur était-il de moitié dans ses engagemens avec Lucy? Non; et s'ils\nont été une fois dictés par un amour de jeunesse, elle ne peut croire\nque cet amour existe encore à présent; elle a trop bien vu que c'était\nelle qu'il aimait pour n'en être pas convaincue. Un homme peut tromper\navec de fausses paroles; Edward n'a pas prononcé le mot d'amour à\nElinor; mais tout chez lui l'a prouvé, et son trouble, et ses regards,\net le son tremblant de sa voix, et ses attentions si soutenues. Non, ce\nn'est point une erreur; ni son coeur ni son amour-propre ne l'ont\négarée. Sa mère, ses soeurs, Fanny, tout ce qui l'entourait à Norland\ns'en est aperçu. Certainement elle est aimée; et cette persuasion\nconsole son coeur, calme ses peines et la dispose à pardonner. Il était\nblâmable cependant, hautement blâmable d'être resté à Norland lorsqu'il\nsentit qu'il l'aimait plus qu'il ne devait l'aimer. A cet égard elle ne\npouvait le justifier; mais s'il lui avait fait du mal par cette\nimprudence, combien ne s'en était-il pas fait davantage à lui-même! La\nsituation d'Elinor était triste sans doute, mais celle d'Edward était\nsans espoir. Elle était bien malheureuse dans ce moment, mais la raison\nguérirait peut-être la plaie de son coeur; tandis qu'Edward en détachant\nle sien de la femme à qui il était engagé, s'était privé lui-même de\ntout espoir de bonheur. Elle retrouverait sa tranquillité, mais lui\nserait pour la vie livré à l'infortune. Pouvait-il espérer d'être\nheureux avec une femme telle que Lucy Stéeles? A présent que le bandeau\nde l'amour était levé, même en mettant son inclination pour Elinor hors\nde la question, pouvait-il avec sa loyauté, sa délicatesse, son esprit\ncultivé être heureux avec une compagne ignorante, artificieuse, sans\néducation, vaine, flatteuse, intéressée? A dix-huit et dix-neuf ans il\nest si facile à un homme d'être entraîné par la beauté, par les\nprévenances d'une jeune fille qui peut-être cherchait à l'attirer, et\nd'être aveuglé sur ses défauts. Mais les quatre années suivantes,\npendant lesquelles il avait acquis chaque jour plus de connaissances,\nplus d'expérience, une raison plus éclairée, devaient avoir ouvert ses\nyeux sur les vices de caractère de cette jeune personne, augmentés sans\ndoute par la pauvre société où elle avait vécu, par un goût vif de\nplaisir et de frivolité, qui peut-être lui avait ôté cette simplicité de\nla première jeunesse, qui donne un caractère si intéressant à une jolie\nfigure. Si, comme Elinor devait le croire d'après les insinuations de\nsa belle-soeur, il y avait des difficultés du côté de la mère d'Edward\npour l'épouser, combien en trouverait-il davantage lorsqu'il serait\nquestion d'une personne qui lui est aussi inférieure en naissance, en\nbonne éducation, et probablement même en fortune? Ces difficultés, il\nest vrai, ne devaient pas l'effrayer beaucoup; mais quel triste sort que\nd'attendre peut-être sa liberté du mécontentement de sa mère et de son\nopposition à ses volontés.\n\nCes pensées, ces réflexions qui se succédaient les unes aux autres\naugmentèrent beaucoup sa tristesse. Elle pleura sur lui plus que sur\nelle même. Soutenue par la conviction de n'avoir rien fait pour mériter\nson malheur, et consolée par la croyance qu'Edward était encore digne\nde son estime, elle espéra qu'elle pourrait actuellement supporter ce\ncruel chagrin avec courage, et prendre assez de force sur elle-même pour\nle cacher à sa mère et à sa soeur. Elle en était si capable que, deux\nheures après avoir perdu pour jamais tout espoir d'être unie à celui\nqu'elle aimait si tendrement, elle parut à dîner avec un tel calme qu'on\nn'aurait jamais soupçonné, en la voyant à côté de la mélancolique Maria,\nque c'était elle qui était séparée pour toujours de l'objet de son\namour, et que Maria convaincue de posséder en entier les affections de\ncelui qu'elle aimait, espérait le voir arriver d'un moment à l'autre.\n\nLa nécessité de cacher à sa famille l'_important_ secret que Lucy lui\navait confié, fut un motif de plus pour elle de s'exercer à cacher en\nmême temps le sien. Ce fut aussi une consolation de leur épargner ce qui\nleur aurait sûrement donné beaucoup d'affliction, et, à elle-même celle\nd'entendre blâmer Edward. Elles ne l'aimaient pas comme elle. Il\nn'aurait pas trouvé autant d'indulgence; et prendre son parti, le\ndéfendre avait bien aussi son danger. Elle voulait chercher peu-à-peu à\ns'en détacher, au lieu de nourrir son sentiment; elle savait qu'elle ne\ntrouverait auprès d'elles ni conseil, ni aide pour une peine de cette\nnature. Leur chagrin, leur colère ajouteraient à son malheur; et son\ncourage ne pourrait que s'affaiblir. Elle était plus forte seule; sa\npropre raison la servait mieux; et sa fermeté se soutint si bien qu'on\nn'aperçut pas chez elle le moindre changement, et qu'elle fut\ninvariablement aussi gaie, aussi sereine en apparence, quoique ses\nregrets et sa douleur intérieure fussent chaque jour plus poignants.\n\nMais plus elle avait souffert de sa première conversation avec Lucy,\nplus elle désirait connaître mieux en détail les particularités de leurs\nengagemens, découvrir ce que Lucy sentait réellement au fond de son\ncoeur, si son amour pour Edward était vraiment tendre et sincère, et\ns'il y avait pour lui quelque chance de bonheur dans cette union. Alors\nelle aurait moins souffert. Elle voulait aussi prouver à Lucy par sa\npromptitude à parler d'Edward la première avec calme, qu'elle ne le\nregardait que comme un ami. Elle craignait que son agitation\ninvolontaire dans leur entretien du matin n'eût découvert en entier à\nLucy ce qui jusqu'alors avait du moins été incertain. Il lui paraissait\ntout-à-fait probable que Lucy fût jalouse d'elle. Sans doute Edward lui\navait parlé d'Elinor avec éloge, avec intérêt; Lucy elle-même en était\nconvenue. Les railleries de sir Georges sur les lettres initiales de son\nnom, devaient aussi avoir éveillé les soupçons; et d'ailleurs Elinor\nétait elle-même trop sûre d'être aimée d'Edward pour ne pas l'être de la\njalousie de Lucy dont la confiance était une preuve. Quel autre motif\ndonner pour excuser la révélation d'un secret important, et jusqu'alors\nsi bien gardé, que celui de lui apprendre que Lucy avait des droits plus\nanciens et plus sacrés, et de l'engager à éviter à l'avenir la société\nd'Edward. Il était facile à Elinor de comprendre les intentions de sa\nrivale. Mais décidée comme elle l'était à se conduire d'après les\nprincipes que l'honneur et la délicatesse lui dictaient, elle résolut de\ncombattre son affection pour Edward, de le voir aussi peu qu'il lui\nserait possible. Elle ne pouvait se refuser la consolation de tâcher de\nconvaincre Lucy que ce sacrifice lui coûtait peu, et qu'elle ne\nregardait M. Ferrars que comme un ami de la famille. Elle ne pouvait\nplus rien entendre qui lui fît plus de peine que ce qu'elle avait déja\nentendu; elle n'aurait plus l'émotion de la surprise, et elle se croyait\nsûre d'apprendre sans trop d'agitation ce qu'elle ignorait encore.\n\nMais il lui fut impossible de satisfaire immédiatement sa curiosité;\nquoique Lucy fût aussi bien disposée à parler encore qu'elle-même\nl'était à l'entendre. Une suite de mauvais temps empêcha de se promener,\net quoiqu'elles se vissent tous les jours soit au Parc soit à la\nChaumière, c'était au salon en présence de tout le monde. Elles\nn'avaient aucun prétexte pour se retirer à l'écart; sir Georges ne\nl'aurait pas permis, à peine tolérait-il quelques momens de conversation\ngénérale. On se réunissait pour manger et rire ensemble, pour jouer aux\ncartes, danser, chanter, faire du bruit et des folies.\n\nOn s'était déja rencontré plusieurs fois de cette manière, sans\nqu'Elinor eût la moindre occasion d'engager avec Lucy un entretien\nparticulier, quand sir Georges vint un matin à la Chaumière, et demanda\naux dames Dashwood comme une charité de venir dîner avec lady Middleton.\nIl était obligé pour une affaire d'aller à Exeter, et lorsqu'il n'était\npas là, tout languissait au Parc, et ces dames couraient le risque de\nmourir d'ennui. Elinor espérant trouver plus de moyens d'arriver à son\nbut et de causer avec Lucy dans l'absence de sir Georges, accepta\nd'abord l'invitation. Madame Dashwood aimait toujours mieux rester chez\nelle avec ses livres et sa petite Emma; et Maria qui aurait préféré\nrester aussi dans sa romanesque solitude, ne put refuser d'accompagner\nsa soeur aînée.\n\nElles allèrent donc au Parc, et lady Middleton fut heureusement\npréservée de l'effrayante solitude qui la menaçait. L'insipidité de\ncette journée fut telle que mesdemoiselles Dashwood l'avaient prévu.\nComme il n'y avait rien pour l'amour et le mariage, madame Jennings fut\nplus silencieuse qu'à l'ordinaire, et mesdemoiselles Stéeles encore plus\nprodigues de flatteries. Les enfans vinrent au dessert faire leur tapage\naccoutumé, et pendant qu'ils furent là, Lucy s'en occupa toute seule.\nIls restèrent jusqu'après le thé, qui fut remplacé par la table de jeu.\nElinor commençait à désespérer d'être un instant seule avec Lucy. On\nproposa un jeu général, et toutes les dames se levèrent pour se placer\nautour de la table.\n\n--Je suis charmée, dit lady Middleton à Lucy, que vous ne finissiez pas\nle panier de ma pauvre petite Selina cette soirée; vous seriez fatiguée\nen travaillant à ce petit filigramme à la lumière. La chère petite\npleurera peut-être un peu demain matin lorsqu'elle ne le trouvera pas\nfini; mais nous lui donnerons quelqu'autre chose et j'espère qu'elle se\nconsolera. Ce mot était assez pour faire sentir à l'humble cousine ce\nque la faible mère attendait d'elle; aussi répondit-elle à l'instant:\nvous vous trompez, milady; pour rien dans le monde, je ne manquerai de\nparole à ma chère petite amie. J'attendais avec impatience que tout le\nmonde fût au jeu pour me mettre à l'ouvrage; je ne voudrais pas\nchagriner mon doux petit ange pour tous les plaisirs possibles. Il n'y\nen a pas de plus vif pour moi que de travailler pour elle; et j'ai\nrésolu de finir ce soir son panier.\n\n--Vous êtes trop bonne, chère Lucy: sonnez, je vous prie pour qu'on\nvous donne des lumières; ménagez vos yeux, je vous en conjure. Combien\nma petite fille sera contente! je lui ai dit que je ne croyais pas qu'il\nfût fini; et elle m'a répondu en secouant sa petite tête, que je ne\nsavais ce que je disais, et que sa chère Lucy lui ferait sûrement son\npanier.\n\nLucy courut auprès de la table d'ouvrage avec vivacité et gaîté, comme\nsi le plus grand bonheur de sa vie eût été de faire un panier de\nfiligramme pour une enfant gâtée.\n\nLady Middleton proposa alors de faire un wisk. Personne ne fit\nd'objection que Maria, qui avec son impolitesse ordinaire demanda qu'on\nvoulût bien l'excuser. Milady, dit-elle, sait que je déteste le jeu; je\npréfère si vous le permettez toucher du piano; et sans attendre la\nréponse, sans aucune cérémonie, elle alla s'asseoir devant l'instrument.\nLady Middleton leva les yeux au ciel comme pour le remercier de ce\nqu'elle était plus polie et mieux élevée que Maria. Elinor avait espéré\nde pouvoir se dispenser de jouer pour causer avec Lucy; le refus de sa\nsoeur la contrariait donc plus que personne, et cependant elle chercha à\nl'excuser auprès de lady Middleton. Ma soeur, lui dit-elle, ne sait pas\nrésister quand elle vient au Parc au plaisir de jouer sur votre piano;\nc'est le meilleur, dit-elle, qu'elle ait jamais rencontré; et lady\nMiddleton enchantée d'avoir le meilleur des pianos, fut tout-à-fait\nremise.\n\nOn n'était plus que quatre pour la partie. Elinor allait se soumettre à\nson sort; lorsque Lucy s'écria tout-à-coup: ah! comme je suis fâchée que\nmademoiselle Emma ne soit pas ici; elle m'aurait aidée à rouler le\npapier. Je crains fort que malgré mon désir, je ne puisse pas achever ce\nsoir mon panier.\n\n--Si je n'étais pas obligée de jouer, dit Elinor, je m'offrirais bien\nvolontiers pour cet ouvrage, d'autant plus que j'aurais désiré apprendre\nde vous à faire ces jolis paniers.\n\n--Eh bien, ma chère, nous vous laisserons libre, dit lady Middleton, qui\ntremblait que sa petite Selina n'eût pas tout ce dont elle avait envie.\nN'est-ce pas, mesdames, nous jouerons fort bien nous trois, en laissant\nun jeu découvert? Puisque vous voulez bien aider à Lucy, ma chère\nElinor, Selina en sera fort reconnaissante. Je n'aime pas à la faire\npleurer; cela dérange sa jolie physionomie..... Ne le trouvez-vous pas?\n\nLes choses s'arrangèrent ainsi: la partie à trois commença gaîment.\nMaria touchait son piano comme si elle eût été seule dans le salon. La\ntable d'ouvrage était assez éloignée pour qu'Elinor pût espérer de\nn'être pas entendue; les deux belles rivales s'assirent donc à côté\nl'une de l'autre dans la plus touchante harmonie pour travailler\nensemble au panier de Sélina.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXIV.\n\n\nElinor rassembla toutes ses forces et commença ainsi: Je ne mériterais\npas la confiance dont vous m'avez honorée, mademoiselle, si je n'avais\naucun désir de la conserver, et si je ne m'intéressais à vous. Je ne\nvous fais donc nulle excuse de reprendre l'entretien de l'autre jour.\n\n--Je vous remercie, dit vivement Lucy, de m'en parler la première; vous\nme mettez tout-à-fait à mon aise. Je craignais de vous avoir offensée,\net je n'osais plus entamer un sujet qui ne peut avoir beaucoup d'intérêt\npour vous.\n\n--M'offenser! dit Elinor; comment pouvez-vous le supposer? Jamais ce ne\nfut mon intention de vous donner cette idée. Quel motif auriez-vous pu\navoir pour cette confiance qui ne fut pas peu honorable et peu flatteuse\npour moi?\n\n--Et cependant, je vous assure, reprit Lucy, (ses petits yeux plus\nperçans que jamais fixés sur Elinor) je vous assure qu'il m'a semblé que\nvous l'aviez reçue avec une froideur, un déplaisir qui me fit un vrai\nchagrin. Vous aviez l'air fâchée contre moi; et je m'étais vivement\nreproché de vous avoir ennuyée de mes affaires; mais je suis enchantée\nde trouver que cette crainte était imaginaire et que je n'ai pas encouru\nvotre blâme. Si vous saviez quelle consolation j'éprouve à vous ouvrir\nmon coeur, à pouvoir vous parler de ce qui m'occupe sans cesse! je\nconnais assez votre bonté pour être sûre de votre indulgence.\n\n--Je comprends très-bien, dit Elinor, le plaisir qu'on trouve à parler\nde ce qu'on aime, et soyez assurée que vous n'aurez jamais sujet de vous\nen repentir. Votre situation est malheureuse; vous semblez entourée de\ndifficultés, et vous avez besoin de votre mutuelle affection pour la\nsupporter. M. Ferrars à ce que je crois dépend entièrement de sa mère.\n\n--Il a seulement deux mille pièces à lui. Ce serait une folie de se\nmarier avec cela; quoique de mon côté je renoncerais à la fortune de sa\nmère sans un soupir. Je suis accoutumée à vivre sur un mince revenu, et\nje supporterais même la pauvreté avec lui, mais je l'aime trop pour\nvouloir le priver de tout ce que sa mère fera pour lui, si elle le\nmarie à son gré. Il nous faut donc attendre, et peut-être plusieurs\nannées encore. Avec tout autre homme qu'avec Edward ce délai serait\ninquiétant, mais je me repose entièrement sur son amour et sur sa\nconstance.\n\n--Cette conviction est tout pour vous, et sans doute M. Ferrars attend\nla même chose de vous. Si la constance de l'un des deux s'était\ndémentie, comme il n'est que trop souvent arrivé, l'autre aurait été\nbien à plaindre.\n\nLucy la regarda encore de manière à la déconcerter, si Elinor n'avait\npas rassemblé d'avance toutes ses forces pour que sa contenance ne pût\ndonner aucun soupçon.--L'amour d'Edward, dit Lucy, a été mis à de\ngrandes épreuves par de bien longues absences depuis notre engagement,\net il les a si bien soutenues, que je serais impardonnable d'en douter\nun instant; je puis affirmer qu'il ne m'a jamais donné une minute\nd'alarme ou d'inquiétude. Elinor sourit et soupira à cette assertion;\nLucy n'eut pas l'air de s'en apercevoir, et continua. Je suis jalouse\npar caractère, dit-elle, et nos différentes situations, lui vivant dans\nle grand monde et moi si retirée, et nos continuelles séparations\nauraient pu facilement réveiller ma jalousie. La plus légère altération\ndans sa conduite avec moi, une tristesse dont je n'aurais pu deviner la\ncause, ou s'il avait parlé d'une femme avec plus d'intérêt que de toutes\nles autres, ou si je l'avais vu moins heureux que de coutume à\nLongstaple, tout cela m'aurait d'abord mise sur le chemin de la vérité,\net je suis sûre qu'il lui serait impossible de me tromper.\n\nElinor garda encore quelques instans le silence; elle se rappelait\nconfusément toutes les preuves d'une affection tendre et sincère qu'elle\navait remarquées chez Edward; enfin elle se surmonta autant qu'il lui\nfût possible.--Quels sont donc vos projets? lui dit-elle, n'en avez-vous\npoint d'autres que celui d'attendre la mort de madame Ferrars? Ce serait\nune extrémité bien triste et bien cruelle! Ou bien son fils est-il\ndécidé à se soumettre à l'ennui de plusieurs années d'attente, et à vous\nenvelopper dans le malheur et dans les désagrémens qui en seront la\nsuite inévitable, plutôt que de courir le risque de déplaire à sa mère\nen lui avouant la vérité? peut-être aussi que son courroux céderait au\ntemps, à l'amour maternel, aux bons procédés, à la tendresse de sa\nbelle-fille.\n\n--Oh, si nous pouvions en être sûrs! mais non, madame Ferrars est\norgueilleuse, intéressée, opiniâtre, et dans le premier moment de sa\ncolère donnerait tout à son fils Robert qui est son favori; et cette\nseule idée m'effraie pour Edward au point de ne pouvoir me déterminer à\nprendre un parti décisif.\n\n--Mais je trouve que dans cette occasion, Lucy, vous vous oubliez trop\nvous-même; votre désintéressement passe les bornes de la raison.\n\n--Lucy chercha encore à lire avec son regard pénétrant jusqu'au fond de\nl'âme d'Elinor, et il y eut un grand moment de silence.\n\n--Connaissez-vous M. Robert Ferrars? demanda Elinor.\n\n--Non, du tout; je ne l'ai jamais vu, mais je le crois bien différent de\nson frère; avec une plus belle figure, qu'il ne songe qu'à parer, c'est\nun petit maître, un élégant dans toute la force du terme.\n\n--Ici Maria finit une des parties de son concerto, et Anna Stéeles\nentendit cette dernière phrase. Un petit maître, un élégant, dit-elle!\ntout en faisant leur panier, ces dames se font leurs confidences, elles\nparlent de leurs amoureux.\n\n--Je puis répondre pour Elinor, dit madame Jennings en éclatant de rire,\net vous dire que vous vous trompez; son amoureux loin d'être un petit\nmaître, est le jeune homme le plus simple, le plus modeste, le plus\nréservé que j'aie vu de ma vie. Pour Lucy, je ne connais pas le sien,\nmais à en juger par ses yeux, je crois qu'il lui en faut un plus gentil,\nplus empressé, plus éveillé, n'est-ce pas?\n\n--Eh bien! madame, vous vous trompez aussi, reprit Anna; je puis assurer\nque l'amoureux de Lucy ressemble en tout point à celui de miss Elinor.\n\n--Elinor se sentit rougir en dépit d'elle-même. Lucy mordit ses lèvres,\net regarda sa soeur à la faire rentrer en terre. Le jeu recommença, le\npiano aussi et les deux rivales après un peu de silence recommencèrent\nleur entretien. Ce fut Lucy qui rapprochant sa chaise de celle\nd'Elinor, lui dit à demi voix.\n\n--Je vais donc, chère miss Dashwood, puisque vous êtes assez bonne pour\ny prendre quelque intérêt, vous dire le plan que j'ai formé depuis\nquelque temps; j'espère qu'Edward l'approuvera, et je désire d'autant\nplus de vous en parler que vous pourrez nous servir. J'ose tout attendre\nde votre amitié pour lui et de votre bonté pour moi, et voici ce que\nc'est. Vous connaissez assez Edward pour avoir remarqué que dans le\nchoix d'une vocation, son goût aurait été pour l'église, et que si sa\nmère l'avait permis, il aurait préféré cet état à tout autre. Mon plan\nactuel serait donc qu'il se décidât à entrer dans les ordres, et à se\nfaire consacrer aussitôt qu'il pourrait; alors j'ose être sûre que vous\nuseriez de tout votre pouvoir sur votre frère pour lui persuader de lui\ndonner le bénéfice de sa terre de Norland, qu'on dit très-considérable.\nLe plus grand obstacle à notre mariage serait levé; nous aurions assez\npour vivre en attendant la chance du reste.\n\n--Je serais heureuse, dit Elinor, de pouvoir donner à M. Ferrars des\npreuves de mon estime et de mon amitié, mais je ne vois pas en vérité\nque vous ayez besoin de moi dans cette occasion, je vous serais\ntout-à-fait inutile. M. Ferrars est frère de madame John Dashwood, et sa\nrecommandation vaudra mieux que la mienne auprès de son mari.\n\n--Mais madame John n'approuverait pas plus que sa mère, que son frère\nentrât dans les ordres et m'épousât.\n\n--Alors je soupçonne que ma recommandation aurait peu de poids.\n\nIl y eût un assez long silence; Lucy le rompit par un profond soupir. Je\ncrois, dit-elle, oui je crois que ce qu'il y aurait de plus sage serait\nde finir cette affaire en rompant d'un mutuel accord notre engagement.\nNous sommes de tous les côtés si entourés de difficultés, que quoique\ncette rupture nous rendit bien malheureux pour le moment, nous serions\npeut-être plus heureux tous les deux par la suite.... Qu'en pensez-vous,\nmiss Dashwood, ne voulez-vous pas me donner votre avis?\n\n--Non, répondit Elinor avec un sourire qui cachait l'agitation de son\ncoeur, non: sur un tel sujet cela ne m'est pas possible; vous savez\ntrès-bien que mon opinion n'aurait aucun poids sur vous, à moins qu'elle\nne fût conforme à vos désirs.\n\n--En vérité vous me faites tort, dit Lucy d'un ton de dignité; je ne\nconnais personne dont j'estime autant le suffrage et dont le jugement me\nparaisse aussi sûr que le vôtre. Je crois de bonne foi que si vous me\ndisiez: je vous conseille de rompre tout engagement avec Edward Ferrars,\nvous en serez tous les deux plus heureux, oui, je crois que je me\ndéciderais à les rompre immédiatement avec lui.\n\nElinor était si convaincue du contraire qu'elle rougit de la fausseté de\nla future femme d'Edward. «Ce compliment, dit-elle, augmenterait mon\neffroi de vous dire mon opinion, si j'en avais une. Vous élevez\nbeaucoup trop mon influence. Le pouvoir de désunir deux amans si\ntendrement attachés l'un à l'autre, est beaucoup trop grand pour une\npersonne indifférente.\n\n--C'est parce que vous êtes absolument étrangère à cette affaire, dit\nLucy d'un ton un peu piqué, que votre opinion aurait sur moi beaucoup\nd'influence et pourrait me décider; si on pouvait supposer que vous\neussiez là-dedans le moindre intérêt personnel, elle n'aurait plus aucun\npoids.\n\nElinor crut plus sage de ne rien répondre; elle se trouvait entraînée\npar cet entretien dans une espèce de réserve qui lui semblait toucher à\nla dissimulation avec une personne qui n'en avait point pour elle.\nD'ailleurs elle n'en avait que trop appris, et se promit bien de ne\nplus renouveler cette pénible et inutile confidence: elle parla de leur\nouvrage, de quelques autres sujets indifférens, après lesquels Lucy lui\ndemanda du ton de la plus tendre amitié, si elles comptaient passer une\npartie de l'hiver à Londres.\n\n--Certainement non, dit Elinor.\n\n--J'en suis très-fâchée, reprit Lucy pendant que ses yeux brillaient de\nplaisir, j'aurais été si heureuse de vous y rencontrer. Mais je suis\nsûre que vous y viendrez; votre frère et votre belle-soeur vous\ninviteront sûrement chez eux.\n\n--Il ne me sera pas possible d'accepter leur invitation.\n\n--Combien c'est malheureux pour moi! je m'étais réjouie d'avance de\nvous y retrouver. Anna et moi nous comptons y aller à la fin de janvier\nchez des parens à qui nous l'avons promis depuis bien des années; mais\nmoi j'y vais seulement pour voir Edward qui doit y être en février, sans\ncet espoir Londres n'aurait aucun attrait pour moi. Ici l'entretien\nconfidentiel fut interrompu; Elinor fut demandée auprès de la table à\njeu pour la décision d'un coup; et lady Middleton ayant envie de voir\nfaire le joli panier de sa petite Sélina, pria Elinor de prendre sa\nplace, ce qu'elle accepta avec plaisir. Elle n'avait plus rien à dire à\nLucy, de qui elle n'avait pas pris une idée plus avantageuse; elle avait\nau contraire une persuasion plus positive encore, et bien douloureuse,\nqu'Edward ne pouvait pas aimer la femme qu'il avait promis d'épouser,\net qu'il n'avait aucune chance de bonheur dans une union avec une\npersonne sans aucun rapport avec lui, qui serait repoussée de toute sa\nfamille, et qui avait assez peu de délicatesse pour vouloir, malgré\ncela, forcer un homme à tenir ses engagemens, quand elle paraissait\nelle-même persuadée qu'il serait malheureux.\n\nDe ce moment elle ne chercha plus les confidences de Lucy; mais cette\ndernière ne laissait échapper aucune occasion de les continuer, de lui\nparler de son bonheur quand elle avait reçu une lettre d'Edward. Quand\nElinor ne pouvait les éviter, elle les recevait avec une tranquillité et\nun calme apparent sans faire de réflexions, sans alonger un entretien\ndangereux pour elle-même et inutile à Lucy, dont elle trouvait chaque\njour le caractère moins agréable.\n\nLa visite de mesdemoiselles Stéeles chez leurs parens de Barton-Park se\nprolongea bien au-delà du temps qu'on leur avait d'abord demandé. Leur\nfaveur croissait au point qu'on ne pouvait penser à se séparer. Sélina\njetait les hauts cris quand Lucy feignait de vouloir la quitter, et sa\nmaman lui demandait alors en grâce de rester; en sorte que malgré leurs\nnombreux engagemens à Exeter, elles restèrent au Parc plus de deux mois,\net y passèrent les fêtes de Noël, que sir Georges rendit aussi\nbrillantes et aussi animées qu'il lui fut possible.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXV.\n\n\nMadame Jennings s'attachait tous les jours davantage aux habitans de la\nChaumière et surtout à Elinor. La parfaite bonté du caractère de cette\nfemme, l'amitié qu'elle leur témoignait si franchement, leur faisaient\noublier ses petits défauts, si légers en comparaison de ses excellentes\nqualités. Madame Dashwood qui voyait en elle la meilleure, la plus\nindulgente des mères, lui pardonnait bien volontiers son ton un peu trop\ntrivial et ses manières un peu vulgaires, Emma s'amusait de sa franche\net grosse gaîté; Elinor toujours bonne, toujours simple, indulgente par\ncaractère, disposée à la bienveillance et à trouver que les qualités du\ncoeur valent bien celles de l'esprit, aimait beaucoup la bonne Jennings,\net ne s'apercevait presque plus de ce qui lui manquait: mais Maria, la\nsensible, la délicate Maria ne pouvait s'accoutumer à son langage, à ses\nmanières, et tout en convenant cependant qu'elle avait assez de chaleur\ndans les sentimens, et de complaisance pour ceux des jeunes gens, elle\najoutait toujours: Quel dommage que son esprit et son goût n'y répondent\npas! et fuyait sa société autant qu'il lui était possible.\n\nAux approches de la fin de l'année, madame Jennings commença à tourner\nses pensées vers Londres, et à désirer d'y retourner. Après la mort de\nson mari, qui s'était enrichi dans le commerce, elle quitta la cité et\nprit une très-élégante maison près de Portman Square. Ses filles\navaient épousé l'une un baronnet, l'autre un bon gentilhomme; elle\npassait toute la belle saison chez l'une ou chez l'autre, et l'hiver les\nréunissait à la ville. Cette année elle avait prolongé son séjour à\nBarton en faveur du voisinage; mais lorsqu'enfin elle se fut décidée à\npartir, elle demanda un jour aux demoiselles Dashwood de l'accompagner à\nLondres et d'y demeurer quelque temps avec elle, en les assurant avec sa\ncordialité accoutumée, qu'elle ne pouvait plus se passer de leur\nsociété. Maria rougit de plaisir à cette invitation, et ses yeux\ns'animèrent. Elinor n'y fit nulle attention, et croyant que sa soeur\npensait là-dessus comme elle, elle exprima sa reconnaissance à madame\nJennings en l'accompagnant d'un refus positif. Le motif qu'elle\nalléguait était leur résolution décidée de ne point quitter leur mère,\net surtout pendant l'hiver.\n\nMadame Jennings parut surprise et répéta son invitation, en les pressant\nvivement de l'accepter. Vous comprenez bien, jeunes filles, dit-elle,\nque j'ai déjà demandé l'avis de la maman, il est tout-à-fait conforme au\nmien. Elle est charmée que vous alliez un peu respirer l'air de Londres;\nainsi c'est tout arrangé, et j'ai mis dans mon coeur de vous avoir chez\nmoi. Vous ne me gênerez pas du tout; ma maison est assez grande à\nprésent, que j'ai marié Charlotte, et quant au voyage, j'envoie Betti la\npremière par le coche pour nous recevoir. Nous pouvons très-bien tenir\ntrois dans ma chaise; une fois en ville, tout ira de soi-même. Si vous\nme trouvez trop vieille, si vous vous ennuyez chez moi ou dans ma\nsociété, vous pourrez toujours aller avec l'une de mes filles. Vous\nvoyez comme je les ai bien mariées; si je n'en fais pas autant de vous\nce ne sera pas ma faute, et peut-être avant la fin de l'hiver le\nserez-vous toutes les deux.\n\n--J'ai un soupçon, dit sir Georges, que si on consulte mademoiselle\nMaria, elle n'aura aucune objection contre ce projet; mais sa soeur\naînée sera plus difficile à gagner. Ai-je deviné miss Maria? je parie\nque oui.\n\n--Et vous avez raison, dit-elle avec sa franchise ordinaire, oui, je\nl'avoue, je serai parfaitement contente d'aller à Londres cet hiver; ce\nserait un si grand bonheur pour moi, qu'à peine puis-je l'exprimer.\nC'est vous dire, chère dame, que votre invitation vous assure pour\njamais ma plus tendre reconnaissance.\n\nElinor entendit très-bien ce que sa soeur voulait dire et ce qui\nl'attirait si puissamment à Londres. Elle devait y trouver Willoughby;\nque fallait-il de plus? Elinor aimait Maria trop tendrement pour pouvoir\nse résoudre à l'affliger en mettant trop d'obstacles à ce qu'elle\ndésirait avec tant d'ardeur; pressée donc de nouveau par madame\nJennings, elle se contenta cette fois de s'en remettre à la décision de\nleur mère, qui par bonté pour ses filles, disait-elle, avait cédé à\nl'envie de leur procurer un plaisir, mais qui souffrirait certainement\nde se séparer d'elles. A peine eut-elle achevé cette phrase, que Maria\nreprit la parole avec plus de vivacité encore que la première fois en\ns'écriant: Ah, mon Dieu! ma soeur, croyez vous réellement que notre\ndépart lui serait si pénible? alors il n'y faut pas songer. Ma bonne, ma\ntendre mère! non, non, nous ne devons pas la quitter, si notre absence\nla chagrine, si elle est moins heureuse, moins bien soignée. Ah! non,\nnon, rien au monde ne pourrait me forcer à la laisser; n'est-ce pas,\nElinor, il n'en est plus question.\n\nElinor embrassa tendrement sa soeur, et reconnut là cette chaleur de\nsentiment qui l'entraînait également d'un côté ou d'un autre suivant\nl'avis de son coeur, mais elle n'osa pas se flatter qu'elle persistât\nlong-temps dans cette sage résolution. En effet, lorsqu'elles\nrentrèrent chez elles, elles trouvèrent leur bonne maman transportée de\nl'idée de ce voyage et des plaisirs que ses filles auraient à Londres;\net sans doute aussi son orgueil maternel était flatté, en pensant\ncombien elles seraient admirées. Maria reprit bien vîte alors son envie\nde partir, dès qu'elle se crut sûre de ne plus chagriner sa mère; et dès\nque celle-ci vit combien sa fille chérie le désirait, elle devint plus\npressante et finit par l'ordonner positivement. Elle ne voulut entendre\naucune objection, insista pour le départ, et détailla avec sa vivacité\nordinaire, tous les avantages qui devaient en résulter.\n\nC'est précisément, disait-elle, ce que je souhaitais le plus au monde,\nsans oser le demander à cette bonne madame Jennings, mais les coeurs de\nmère s'entendent; et le sien a deviné mon désir. Emma a été un peu trop\ndissipée cet été; son éducation en a souffert. Seule avec elle, je m'en\noccuperai uniquement, je lui donnerai des leçons. Nous lirons; nous\nferons de la musique ensemble; et lorsque vous reviendrez, vous serez,\nj'en suis sûre, surprises de ses progrès. J'ai aussi un petit plan de\nquelques réparations dans vos chambres, qui se feront sans inconvénient\npendant votre absence; et je suis charmée que vous ayez l'occasion de\nvoir et de connaître les manières et les amusemens de la bonne compagnie\nde Londres, où peut-être votre goût et vos talens se perfectionneront.\nVous entendrez de la musique excellente, Maria. Vous verrez des\ncollections de superbes tableaux, Elinor, et ce qui vaut mieux encore\nvous retrouverez là votre frère; et, quels que soient ses torts, ou\nplutôt ceux de sa femme, quand je songe qu'il est le fils de mon cher\nHenri, je ne puis supporter que vous soyez si entièrement étrangers les\nuns aux autres. Vous n'avez pas l'air aussi contente que je le voudrais,\nma chère Elinor.\n\n--Je l'avoue, maman, dit-elle; quoique votre extrême bonté pour nous\nvous fasse lever tous les obstacles à ce voyage, j'en vois encore un\ncependant qui me paraît presque insurmontable.\n\nMaria fit un mouvement de dépit et baissa la tête d'un air boudeur.\n\n--Eh quoi donc? dit madame Dashwood, qu'est-ce que ma prudente Elinor\ntrouve à redire à ce plan? Quel formidable obstacle sa raison va-t-elle\nmettre en avant? Je vous prie au moins de ne pas dire un mot sur la\ndépense; je pourvoirai à tout ce qu'il faudra; et les filles de M. Henri\nDashwood, paraîtront dans le monde comme elles doivent y paraître;\nAllons, parlez sage Elinor, dit-elle avec son charmant sourire, quelles\nsont vos objections?\n\n--Mon objection, ma mère, me coûterait à dire, si ce n'était pas\nabsolument entre nous. J'aime madame Jennings de tout mon coeur; j'ai la\nmeilleure opinion d'elle et de son caractère; je sais que nous pouvons\ncompter sur des soins vraiment maternels. Mais son ton, et peut-être ses\nrelations de société ne sont pas ce que vous désirez pour vos filles.\nElle ne peut ni nous protéger ni nous donner aucune considération dans\nle monde; et mon frère lui-même trouvera mauvais peut-être, ou du moins\nma belle-soeur, que nous demeurions chez elle.\n\n--C'est vrai à quelques égards, répliqua sa mère; mais vous serez très\npeu dans sa société, et vous paraîtrez toujours en public avec lady\nMiddleton. D'ailleurs madame Jennings est riche, tient une bonne maison,\nest belle-mère d'un baronnet; il n'en faut pas davantage à Fanny, et\nmême à John, pour la trouver de très bonne compagnie.\n\n--Si Elinor est effrayée d'aller à Londres avec madame Jennings, dit\nMaria, elle peut rester ici. Moi, je n'ai point de tels scrupules, et il\nm'en coûtera peu de me mettre au-dessus de cet inconvénient avec une\npersonne aussi bonne, aussi obligeante.\n\nElinor ne put s'empêcher de sourire en pensant combien elle avait eu de\npeine à persuader Maria d'être seulement polie avec cette femme qu'elle\navait déclarée, dès le premier abord, être la personne la plus commune\net la plus ennuyeuse qu'elle eût jamais rencontrée. Son indulgence\nactuelle était une si forte preuve de son envie de rejoindre Willoughby,\nque, malgré toute la répugnance qu'Elinor avait pour ce voyage, vu\nqu'elle pouvait y rencontrer Edward, elle résolut de ne pas abandonner à\nelle-même une jeune personne aussi passionnée, et la pauvre madame\nJennings au soin de veiller sur elle et à l'ennui de n'avoir pas même\nl'agrément de sa société; car elle était convaincue que Maria passerait\nseule dans sa chambre tous les momens où elle ne serait pas avec\nWilloughby, pour penser à lui en liberté. Elle se décida donc à être du\nvoyage, d'autant plus qu'elle se rappela que Lucy lui avait dit\nqu'Edward ne serait à la ville qu'au mois de février, et qu'elle\nespérait être alors de retour à la Chaumière.\n\n--Allons c'est donc arrangé, dit madame Dashwood; vous y irez toutes\ndeux, et vous verrez que vous vous amuserez extrêmement à Londres,\nsurtout en y étant ensembles. Elinor principalement y trouvera un grand\navantage, en ayant l'occasion de faire la connaissance de la famille de\nsa belle-soeur et de voir madame Ferrars.\n\nElinor rougit; elle avait eu souvent le désir de prévenir sa mère de\nl'état des choses, pour que le coup fût moins frappant quand elle\napprendrait la vérité; mais c'était le secret de Lucy, qu'elle ne\npouvait pas trahir. Elle se contenta donc de dire avec beaucoup de\ncalme: J'aime Edward Ferrars, et je serai toujours charmée de le voir;\nmais quant au reste de sa famille, il m'est complètement indifférent de\nles connaître ou non.\n\nMadame Dashwood sourit et ne dit rien. Maria leva les yeux au ciel avec\nl'air de l'étonnement et du scandale. La chose étant décidée, madame\nJennings reçut dans la journée les remercîmens de la mère et\nl'acceptation de ses filles, qui la mit dans une grande joie; elle donna\ntoutes les assurances imaginables des soins qu'elle en aurait, ce dont\nmadame Dashwood n'avait aucun doute. Sir Georges aussi fut enchanté,\nc'étaient deux personnes de plus pour ses dîners, ses bals et ses\nassemblées. Lady Middleton leur dit en termes choisis et civils qu'elle\nserait charmée de les retrouver à Londres. Les deux miss Stéeles, et\nsurtout Lucy, assurèrent que cette nouvelle les rendait tout-à-fait\nheureuses.\n\nElinor prit enfin son parti de ce voyage; quoique très-raisonnable, elle\nn'était pas insensible au plaisir de voir Londres pour la première fois.\nD'ailleurs sa mère en était si contente, et sa soeur si transportée de\njoie, qu'elle ne put se défendre de partager leur plaisir. Maria n'était\nplus pensive, plus soupirante, plus mélancolique; elle reprit toute sa\ngaîté, tout son enthousiasme, et redevint plus belle, plus brillante\nqu'elle ne l'avait jamais été. Elle attendait le moment de partir avec\nune grande impatience, et, quand le jour si désiré arriva, quand il\nfallut dire adieu à sa mère, son coeur parut près de se rompre; elle\nétait baignée de larmes, et dans cet instant elle aurait volontiers\nconsenti à rester, quitte à en pleurer tout le reste de l'hiver. Madame\nDashwood était aussi très-affectée. Elinor fut la seule qui par son\ncourage adoucit le chagrin de la séparation, en répétant combien elle\nserait courte, et en parlant du jour du retour.\n\nC'étaient les premiers jours de janvier. Les Middleton devaient suivre\ndans une semaine; et les chères cousines Stéeles rester avec eux au\nParc, jusqu'au jour du départ.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXVI.\n\n\nLa prudente Elinor ne pouvait pas se trouver dans l'équipage de madame\nJennings, commençant un voyage sous sa protection et devant vivre chez\nelle, sans s'étonner beaucoup de cette situation. Une si courte\nconnaissance, tant de différence dans leurs âges, dans leurs manières,\ndans leur état, lui auraient paru des objections insurmontables. Mais\nces objections avaient cédé sans la moindre difficulté à la passion de\nsa soeur, au désir de sa mère. La bonne Elinor en dépit de ses\nréflexions et de ses doutes sur la constance de Willoughby, ne pouvait\npas être témoin du ravissement de Maria, de l'espoir du bonheur qui\nbrillait dans ses yeux, sans se rappeler douloureusement combien son\nsort était différent, et que tout espoir, tout bonheur étaient anéantis\npour elle. Il ne lui restait pas même le doute. Elle excusait d'autant\nplus volontiers Maria, qu'elle sentait combien ce voyage aurait eu aussi\nde charmes pour elle, s'il avait été animé par la même perspective; elle\nétait aussi bien aise d'accompagner sa soeur, ou pour partager son\nbonheur si son Willoughby était fidèle et lui offrait sa main, ou pour\nadoucir ses peines dans le cas contraire. La chose serait bientôt\ndécidée; suivant les apparences il était à Londres, puisque Maria était\nsi pressée de s'y rendre. Elinor qui n'avait plus d'autre objet en vue\net qui prenait un si vif intérêt au bonheur de sa soeur, était bien\ndécidée à tâcher d'acquérir toutes les lumières possibles sur le vrai\ncaractère d'un homme qui avait autant d'influence sur sa soeur et de\nsurveiller sa conduite avec tout le zèle de l'amitié. Si le résultat de\nses observations n'était pas favorable à Willoughby, elle voulait à tout\nprix éclairer sa soeur sur les dangers de son attachement; si au\ncontraire elle l'en jugeait digne, elle voulait se préserver elle-même\nde faire des comparaisons, et d'envier son sort, et pouvoir se livrer\nentièrement à la satisfaction de la voir heureuse.\n\nLeur voyage dura trois jours. La conduite de Maria pendant ce temps là\nfut la preuve de ce que madame Jennings pouvait attendre d'elle, si\nelles avaient été en tête à tête. Dans ses regards animés brillaient,\nil est vrai, la joie et l'espérance; mais toute entière à ses sentimens,\nà ses pensées, plongée dans ses tendres méditations, elle n'ouvrait la\nbouche que pour s'informer de la distance où on était de Londres, dire\nau cocher d'aller plus vîte, ou s'extasier sur quelques points de vue\nromantiques, et ne s'adressait alors qu'à sa soeur. En échange, Elinor\nprit le parti d'être polie pour deux, et de tâcher à force d'attentions\nque madame Jennings ne remarquât pas la conduite de sa soeur; elle\ncausait avec elle, riait avec elle, écoutait des histoires triviales\ncent fois répétées; et madame Jennings de son côté leur témoignait à\ntoutes deux toute la bonté imaginable, était en continuelle sollicitude\npour leur bien-être et leur plaisir, consultait leurs goûts pour\ncommander leur dîner aux auberges, et ne se fâchait contre Maria que\nlorsqu'elle se refusait à le dire ou qu'elle ne mangeait pas.\n\nElles arrivèrent à la ville le troisième jour, à quatre heures de\nl'après-midi, charmées de sortir de leur voiture où elles étaient fort\nserrées, et de se reposer auprès d'un bon feu.\n\nLa maison était belle; les appartemens meublés avec élégance; tout\nannonçait le bien-être d'une riche veuve. Mesdemoiselles Dashwood furent\nmises en possession des chambres que lady Middleton et madame Palmer\noccupaient avant leur mariage. Elles étaient encore ornées de paysages\nbrodés en soie, en chenille, preuve parlante de la bonne éducation\nqu'elles avaient reçue dans les meilleures pensions de Londres. Comme\nl'heure du dîner de madame Jennings était fixée à sept, Elinor voulut\nemployer cet intervalle à écrire à sa mère, et s'assit pour cet effet\ndevant une table. Maria vint bientôt la joindre et se plaça vis-à-vis\nd'elle, en prenant aussi une feuille de papier et en choisissant une\nplume.\n\n--J'écris à maman, lui dit Elinor, qui avait déja commencé; ne\nferiez-vous pas mieux, Maria, de différer votre lettre d'un jour ou\ndeux?\n\n--Je ne veux pas écrire à la Chaumière, dit Maria; et commençant\ntrès-vîte comme pour éviter les questions. Elinor n'en fit point,\npersuadée sans qu'elle l'eût demandé, qu'elle écrivait à Willoughby, et\nconcluant de là que quelque mystérieuse que fût leur correspondance,\nelle existait certainement, et que Maria était sûre de ses intentions,\net vraisemblablement engagée avec lui. Cette idée qui traversa\nrapidement sa pensée lui fit un grand plaisir et anima son style. Elle\nvoulut le faire partager à sa bonne mère. «Maria, lui dit-elle, vous\nécrira par le premier courrier, et vous dira sans doute combien elle est\nheureuse,» etc., etc., etc. Sa lettre se remplissait des détails de leur\nvoyage et de leur arrivée, etc. Celle de Maria qui n'était qu'un billet\nfut bientôt finie, pliée et cachetée. Elinor jeta un regard sur\nl'adresse et distingua un grand W, qui ne lui laissa plus de doute.\nMaria sonna, et pria le laquais qui vint de porter cette lettre à la\npetite poste; elle continua à être très-animée; mais c'était plutôt de\nl'agitation que de la gaîté, et cette agitation s'augmentait\ngraduellement. Elle pût à peine manger quelque chose, et, quand elles\nfurent rentrées dans le salon, elle n'écoutait pas même ce qu'on disait,\nn'était attentive qu'au roulement des carosses et courait sans cesse du\ncoin du feu à celui de la fenêtre, où elle resta enfin debout, pour voir\ntout ce qui se passait dans la rue. Elinor était charmée que madame\nJennings occupée ailleurs, n'en fût pas témoin.\n\nL'heure du thé les réunit. Maria était alors dans un état d'émotion\npresque douloureux à force d'être vif. Chaque coup de marteau dans les\nmaisons voisines la faisait rougir et pâlir, lorsqu'elle voyait qu'elle\ns'était trompée. Enfin un beaucoup plus fort fut l'annonce d'une\nvisite. Aucune autre personne que celle à qui elle avait écrit ne\npouvait savoir encore leur arrivée. Elinor ne douta pas qu'on ne vînt\nannoncer M. Willoughby; et Maria s'approcha de la porte par un mouvement\ninvolontaire, l'ouvrit, écouta au-dessus de l'escalier et entendit une\nvoix d'homme demander si mesdames Dashwood étaient au logis; elle rentra\ndans un trouble qui tenait presque du délire, et s'approchant d'Elinor,\nelle lui dit en se jetant dans ses bras: Oh! c'est lui, c'est bien lui!\nElinor lui avait à peine dit: Au nom du ciel! chère Maria,\ncalmez-vous,.... que la porte s'ouvre, et.... le colonel Brandon paraît.\nMaria au désespoir, sort de la chambre, même sans le saluer. Il la\nsuivit des yeux avec un étonnement douloureux; mais se remettant\npromptement, il s'approcha d'Elinor, et lui souhaita le bonjour, ayant\nl'air content de la revoir. Elinor était fâchée sans doute du\n_désapointement_ de sa soeur; mais elle l'était encore plus de son\nimpolitesse pour un homme aussi estimable. Il était cruel pour lui\nd'être reçu de cette manière par une femme à qui il était si tendrement\nattaché. Elle espéra que peut-être il n'y avait pas fait attention; mais\nà peine l'eût-elle salué avec l'air de l'amitié, qu'il lui demanda d'une\nvoix altérée si mademoiselle Maria était malade.\n\n--Oui, monsieur, lui dit-elle, en saisissant cette idée, elle est sujète\nà des vertiges; et la fatigue du voyage a augmenté cette disposition:\nc'est sans doute ce qui l'a obligée à sortir. Il l'écouta avec la plus\ngrande attention, tomba dans une sorte de rêverie dont il sortit\ntout-à-coup en parlant à Elinor de leur séjour à Londres, du plaisir\nqu'il avait eu à l'apprendre, et en lui donnant des nouvelles de madame\nDashwood, d'Emma, de ses amis du Parc.\n\nIls continuèrent à s'entretenir en apparence avec calme, mais tous les\ndeux occupés de tout autre chose que de leur conversation. Elinor\nmourrait d'envie de lui demander si Willoughby était à Londres; mais\nelle craignait d'augmenter sa peine, en lui parlant de son rival; enfin\npour amener peut-être l'entretien sur ce sujet, elle lui demanda si\nlui-même avait toujours habité Londres depuis qu'il avait quitté\nBarton-Park.\n\n--Oui, répliqua-t-il, avec quelque embarras, presque toujours; j'ai été\ndeux ou trois fois à Delafort pour peu de jours; mais bien malgré moi,\nje vous assure, je n'ai pu retourner au Parc.\n\nLa manière de répondre triste, embarrassée, rappela à Elinor le moment\nde son départ et toutes les conjectures de madame Jennings. Elle\ncraignait d'avoir témoigné une curiosité indiscrète, et se tut.\n\nMadame Jennings entra, et salua le colonel avec sa gaîté accoutumée.--Je\nsuis enchantée de vous voir, cher colonel, et bien fâchée de ne m'être\npas trouvée là quand vous êtes entré; j'avais comme vous comprenez mille\nchoses à faire et à ranger chez moi, après une si longue absence; mais à\nprésent je puis sortir de mon salon quand je voudrai, on ne le trouvera\npas vide, et personne ne s'apercevra que la vieille maman Jennings\nn'est pas là. N'est-ce pas, colonel, que j'ai fait de jolies recrues?\nMais, je vous en conjure, comment avez-vous appris que nous étions à la\nville; je n'ai pas encore vu une âme?\n\n--J'ai eu le plaisir de l'apprendre chez madame Palmer où j'ai dîné.\n\n--Ah! ah! chez ma Charlotte: donnez m'en bien vîte des nouvelles.\nAurai-je bientôt un petit fils?\n\n--Madame Palmer est très-bien; et je suis chargé de vous dire qu'elle\nviendra sûrement vous voir demain.\n\n--Je l'espère. Où donc est Maria? Vous ne l'avez pas vue encore,\ncolonel? Ne suis-je pas bonne de vous l'avoir amenée? Mais comment vous\narrangerez vous avec M. Willoughby? J'ai grand peur pour vous, colonel.\nAh! la charmante chose que d'être jeune et belle! J'ai été jeune aussi,\net si je n'étais pas belle comme Maria, ni jolie comme Elinor, je n'en\nai pas moins eu un bon mari qui m'aimait de tout son coeur. Qu'aurais-je\npu avoir de mieux avec la plus grande beauté? Si seulement il vivait\nencore! Voici huit ans que je le pleure: (et sa physionomie épanouie de\njoie comme à l'ordinaire, prit une expression un peu moins animée, ses\nyeux brillans de gaîté s'humectèrent.) Allons, allons ne parlons plus de\ncela, c'est inutile, les larmes ne me le rendront pas, parlons plutôt\ndes vivans. Vous êtes-vous bien amusé, colonel, depuis que vous nous\navez quittés si cruellement à Barton? Eh bien! après avoir bien crié\ncontre vous, on prit son parti de votre absence, et on s'amusa tout\nautant: demandez à mademoiselle Maria si elle s'en aperçut. Je devinai à\nl'instant où elle était allée avec son beau conducteur; mais pour votre\naffaire si pressante, je n'ai que des conjectures: à présent que tout\nest fini, dites-moi ce que c'était. Point de secrets entre amis.\n\nIl répondit avec sa douceur et sa politesse accoutumées, mais sans\nsatisfaire en rien sa curiosité. Elinor se mit à préparer le thé. Madame\nJennings fit appeler Maria qui fut obligée de paraître. Elle salua le\ncolonel avec une profonde tristesse et une parfaite indifférence. Il\ndevint peu-à-peu tout aussi triste et aussi absorbé qu'elle, et malgré\nles persécutions de madame Jennings pour qu'il passât la soirée avec ces\ndames, il s'en alla immédiatement après le thé.\n\nAucune autre visite ne se présenta. L'abattement de Maria augmentait à\nmesure qu'elle perdait l'espoir; et de très-bonne heure chacune alla se\ncoucher.\n\nMaria se leva le lendemain rayonnante d'espérance; _son désapointement_\nde la veille était oublié. Il était impossible que cette journée ne fût\npas plus heureuse. Le déjeûner était presque fini quand madame Palmer\nentra en riant aux éclats, et pouvant à peine dire et répéter combien\nelle était contente de revoir sa bonne mère et ses chères amies. Elle\nétait à-la-fois surprise de leur arrivée, en colère de ce qu'elles\navaient refusé son invitation, bien aise qu'elles eussent accepté celle\nde sa mère. Et M. Palmer, ajouta-t-elle, comme il s'impatiente de vous\nvoir! Il n'a jamais voulu venir, quoi qu'il n'eût rien autre chose à\nfaire; mais il était de mauvaise humeur, il est toujours si drôle, M.\nPalmer.\n\nAprès une heure ou deux passées à causer sans rien dire, à rire sans\nsujet, à parler de plusieurs individus dont les demoiselles Dashwood ne\nconnaissaient pas le nom, madame Palmer leur proposa de les mener dans\nquelques magasins pour faire leurs emplètes. Maria aurait préféré de\nrester; mais enfin désirant aussi d'acheter quelques parures, espérant\nfaire quelque heureuse rencontre, elle se laissa entraîner. Partout où\nelles allèrent, son unique occupation fut de veiller à la porte des\nmagasins où elles entraient sur tout ce qui passait dans la rue. Ses\nyeux étaient sans cesse en activité, attachés sur les trottoirs, et\npénétraient au fond des voitures; et quand elle était forcée de venir\ndonner son opinion sur quelque objet de mode, c'était avec une telle\ndistraction, qu'il était facile de voir qu'elle pensait à toute autre\nchose. Les couleurs de son teint variaient à chaque instant. Sa soeur\nsouffrait presqu'autant qu'elle de la voir dans cette agitation. On ne\nput obtenir son avis sur aucune emplète; rien ne lui plaisait, rien\nn'attirait son attention. Elle ne témoignait qu'une extrême impatience\nde retourner à la maison. Elinor qui voyait à regret sa soeur se donner\nen spectacle, aurait aussi désiré la ramener; mais il n'était pas facile\nde l'obtenir de madame Jennings et de sa fille. La première causait avec\ntous les marchands, s'informait des modes, des nouvelles, etc.; l'autre\nse faisait tout montrer, essayait tout, admirait tout, n'achetait rien\net riait sans cesse. Il était donc assez tard lorsqu'elles rentrèrent au\nlogis. Maria courut à perdre haleine; et quand Elinor entra, elle la\ntrouva avec un mélange de dépit de ce que Willoughby n'était pas venu,\net de plaisir de ne l'avoir pas manqué.\n\n--Est-ce qu'il n'est venu aucune lettre pour moi? dit-elle au laquais\nqui apportait les papiers.--Non, madame.--En êtes-vous sûr?\ninformez-vous s'il n'est venu personne me demander. Il ressortit, et\nrevint bientôt en disant: non, madame, personne. C'est cruel, c'est\nétonnant, dit-elle à voix basse en retournant vers la fenêtre. Elinor la\nregarda avec inquiétude. Oh ma mère! pensait-elle, combien vous avez eu\ntort de permettre un engagement de coeur entre une fille si jeune et si\npassionnée et un jeune homme si peu connu et si mystérieux.--Chère\nMaria, dit-elle à sa soeur, vous êtes mal à votre aise, je le vois, et\nje le comprends.\n\n--Pas du tout, dit Maria en s'efforçant de sourire, je n'éprouve qu'une\nimpatience très-naturelle en vérité; mais je n'ai pas le moindre doute,\net je serais très-blessée qu'on me témoignât la moindre défiance sur un\nami que j'estime autant que j'aime, et qui m'expliquera sûrement\naujourd'hui ce qui m'étonne sans me fâcher. Elinor se tut;\nqu'aurait-elle pu dire? mais elle se promit si Willoughby ne paraissait\npas de quelques jours de représenter à sa mère la nécessité de parler à\nMaria.\n\nMadame Palmer et une amie intime de madame Jennings, qu'elle avait\nrencontrée, vinrent dîner et passer la soirée avec elles. La\ncomplaisante Elinor consentit à faire un wisk avec ces dames. Maria ne\nsavait aucun jeu, et n'était pas complaisante. Sa soirée, bien plus\npénible que celle de sa soeur, s'écoula dans le trouble, l'anxiété, et\nle tourment d'une attente sans cesse trompée. Elle essaya de lire, mais\nsans le pouvoir; son ouvrage de broderie n'eut pas plus de succès. Elle\nrêva au coin du feu, se promena, de la porte à la fenêtre, soupira\nbeaucoup, et fit bien pitié à sa soeur.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXVII.\n\n\n--Si le temps continue d'être aussi beau pour la saison, dit madame\nJennings en déjeûnant, sir Georges ne quittera pas encore Barton; il lui\nen coûterait trop de perdre un jour de chasse.\n\n--Ah! c'est vrai, s'écria Maria avec gaîté, et en courant à la fenêtre\npour examiner le temps, je n'y avais pas pensé. Ces beaux jours d'hiver\ndoivent inviter tous les chasseurs à rester à la campagne. Cette idée\nreleva ses esprits et lui rendit tout son espoir. Willoughby chasseur\ndéterminé, n'était sûrement pas à Londres; il n'avait pas reçu sa\nlettre. Son absence, son silence étaient expliqués; et tous les nuages\nélevés dans l'âme de Maria furent dissipés. Madame Jennings avait eu là\nune heureuse idée.\n\n--Il est sûr, dit Maria en s'asseyant à la table du déjeûner, et en\nprenant une tartine qu'elle mangea avec appétit, il est sûr qu'il fait\nun délicieux temps de chasse; comme ils doivent être heureux! mais\nj'espère cependant... je crois, veux-je dire, qu'il ne durera pas\nlong-temps; dans cette saison, c'est impossible. Nous aurons bientôt de\nla neige, de la gelée, qui rappellera tous les chasseurs et tout le\nmonde en ville. Cette extrême douceur de temps ne peut pas durer; dans\nun jour ou deux peut-être il y aura du changement: voyez comme le jour\nest clair! il peut geler cette nuit, et demain....\n\n--Et dans peu de jours nous aurons sir Georges et lady Middleton, dit\nElinor pour détourner l'attention de madame Jennings. Actuellement,\npensait-elle, je suis sûre que Maria écrira à Haute-Combe par le\ncourrier de ce soir.\n\nEcrivit-elle en effet? c'est ce qu'il fut impossible de découvrir. Mais\nelle continua d'être de très-bonne humeur; heureuse de penser que\nWilloughby était à la chasse, plus heureuse encore d'espérer qu'il\narriverait bientôt.\n\nLa matinée se passa en course chez des marchands, ou à laisser des\ncartes chez les connaissances de madame Jennings pour les informer de\nson retour en ville. Maria qui n'avait plus la crainte de manquer\nWilloughby en sortant, ou l'espoir de le rencontrer dehors, alla où l'on\nvoulut et fut assez bonne enfant. Mais sa principale occupation était\nd'observer la direction du vent et les variations de l'atmosphère. Ne\ntrouvez-vous pas qu'il fait beaucoup plus froid qu'hier, Elinor, lui\ndisait-elle? cela augmente sensiblement; je suis sûre qu'il gèlera cette\nnuit, et..... Elle se taisait; mais Elinor achevait intérieurement sa\nphrase, et les chasseurs rentreront en ville. Elle était en même temps\namusée et peinée de cette vivacité de sentiment qui faisait passer\ntour-à-tour sa soeur du désespoir à la joie, et rapporter tout à\nl'unique objet dont elle était occupée.\n\nQuelques jours se passèrent sans gelée et sans Willoughby; et Maria les\ntrouva longs et ennuyeux. Ni elle ni Elinor ne pouvaient cependant se\nplaindre en aucune manière de leur genre de vie chez madame Jennings;\nil était tout autre qu'Elinor ne l'avait imaginé. La maison située dans\nle beau quartier de _Berkeley-Street_ était montée sur un grand ton\nd'élégance et d'aisance. A l'exception de quelques vieilles\nconnaissances de la cité, dont lady Middleton n'avait pu obtenir\nl'expulsion, toute la société de madame Jennings était très-distinguée.\nElle présenta ses jeunes amies de manière à leur attirer mille\npolitesses. La figure très-remarquable de Maria, les grâces d'Elinor,\nleur gagnèrent bientôt l'admiration et l'amitié de tous ceux à qui\nmadame Jennings les présentait. Mais dans les premiers temps de leur\nséjour à Londres leurs plaisirs se bornèrent à quelques rassemblemens\npeu nombreux, soit chez madame Jennings, soit ailleurs, où Elinor\nfaisait tous les soirs un grave wisk, tandis que Maria s'ennuyait à la\nmort, en comptant les jours et les heures, en soupirant après les\nfrimats qui devaient lui ramener son ami.\n\nLe colonel Brandon ayant reçu une invitation de madame Jennings pour\ntous les jours, n'en laissait point passer sans venir prendre le thé\navec ces dames, lorsqu'elles restaient à la maison. Il regardait Maria;\nil parlait à Elinor, qui le trouvait chaque jour plus aimable et plus\nintéressant, et qui voyait avec un vrai chagrin que son amour pour\nMaria, loin de diminuer le moins du monde, augmentait visiblement. Il\nlui parlait peu; mais ses regards ne l'abandonnaient pas; il suivait\ntous les mouvemens de cette figure si belle, si expressive, paraissait\nau ciel lorsqu'elle lui adressait la parole, et tombait dans une sombre\nmélancolie, quand elle ne lui parlait pas.\n\nEnviron une semaine après leur arrivée en ville, en rentrant un matin\naprès une promenade en voiture, elles trouvèrent une carte sur la table\navec le nom de Willoughby. Maria la saisit avec une émotion qui fit\ncraindre à sa soeur qu'elle ne se trouvât mal; Bon Dieu, s'écria-t-elle,\nquel bonheur, il est enfin à Londres! Mais quel chagrin qu'il soit venu\npendant notre absence! et que je suis fâchée que nous soyons sorties ce\nmatin! Des larmes remplirent ses beaux yeux. Elinor très-touchée, lui\ndit, qu'il reviendrait sûrement le lendemain. J'en suis sûre à présent,\ndit Maria en pressant contre son coeur la précieuse carte. Madame\nJennings entra; elle s'échappa en emportant avec elle la carte et le\nnom qui lui annonçait un bonheur si passionnément désiré. Elinor fut\ncontente et de la joie de Maria et de pouvoir enfin étudier Willoughby.\nMais Maria reprit toutes ses agitations à un plus haut degré; elle n'eut\nplus un instant de tranquillité. L'attente de voir d'un instant à\nl'autre entrer cet être adoré, la rendait incapable de tout. Elle ne\nparlait ni n'écoutait plus, et dès le lendemain, elle refusa\npositivement, sur un léger prétexte, d'accompagner madame Jennings et sa\nsoeur à la promenade accoutumée du matin. Elinor n'insista pas et n'osa\nrefuser à madame Jennings d'aller avec elle; mais malgré tous ses\nefforts elle fut presque d'aussi mauvaise compagnie que l'aurait été sa\nsoeur. Elle ne pouvait détourner ses pensées de la visite de\nWilloughby, dont elle n'avait aucun doute; elle voyait, elle sentait\nl'émotion de Maria, et regrettait de n'être pas avec elle pour la\nsoutenir, et pour juger avec plus de calme les dispositions de\nWilloughby.\n\nA son retour qu'elle pressa autant qu'il lui fut possible, elle vit au\npremier regard qu'elle jeta sur sa soeur, que Willoughby n'était pas\nvenu. Maria était l'image parlante d'un abattement tout près du\ndésespoir. Elinor la regardait avec la plus tendre compassion, lorsque\nle laquais entra en tenant un billet. Maria courut au devant de lui,\nl'arracha de ses mains, en disant vivement: Pour moi! est-ce qu'on\nattend?\n\n--Non, madame, c'est pour ma maîtresse. Elle avait déja lu l'adresse et\njeté le billet avec dépit sur la table.--Pour Madame Jennings, et rien\npour moi! c'est désespérant en vérité, c'est pour en mourir.\n\n--Vous attendiez donc une lettre? dit Elinor, incapable de garder plus\nlong-temps le silence. Maria ne répondit rien; ses yeux étaient pleins\nde larmes.\n\n--Vous n'avez aucune confiance en moi, chère Maria, continua Elinor\naprès une courte pause.\n\n--Ce reproche est singulier de votre part, Elinor, vous qui n'avez de\nconfiance en personne.\n\n--Moi! répondit Elinor avec quelque embarras, je n'ai rien à confier.\n\n--Ni moi, sans doute, répondit Maria avec énergie; nos situations sont\ndonc tout-à-fait semblables. Nous n'avons rien à nous dire l'une à\nl'autre, vous parce que vous cachez tout, moi parce que je ne cache\nrien. Mais quand vous me donnerez l'exemple d'une confiance plus\nparticulière, alors je le suivrai. Elinor se tut en étouffant un soupir;\nqu'aurait-elle pu dire? Le secret qui oppressait son coeur n'était pas\nle sien; elle ne pouvait le trahir; et pourquoi parler d'un homme\nqu'elle voulait oublier, d'un sentiment dont elle voulait triompher.\nMais elle sentit qu'elle ne pouvait pas dans de telles circonstances\nexiger la confiance de Maria.\n\nMadame Jennings entra, ouvrit son billet et le lut tout haut. Il était\nde sa fille lady Marie Middleton qui lui annonçait leur arrivée à\nLondres le soir précédent, et la priait ainsi que ses belles cousines de\nvenir passer la soirée chez elle. Les occupations de sir Georges, et de\nson côté un peu de rhume, les empêchaient de venir à Berkeley-Street.\nL'invitation fut acceptée; mais quand l'heure d'y aller arriva, Elinor\neut beaucoup de peine à persuader à Maria qu'elle ne pouvait honnêtement\ns'en dispenser. Willoughby n'avait point paru, n'avait point écrit; et\nle tourment d'une attente continuelle et toujours trompée, avait\ntellement irrité les nerfs de cette pauvre jeune fille, qu'elle\nassurait, sans en dire la cause, n'être pas en état de sortir. Mais un\nmotif plus fort de rester au logis, était la crainte de manquer encore\nla visite tant désirée. Madame Jennings vint de nouveau au secours\nd'Elinor par ses sages réflexions.--Il faut bien que vous veniez, Maria,\nlui dit-elle, car je parie que sir Georges, aura rassemblé tous les\namis de Barton-Park. Maria rougit et courut chercher son schall.\n\nElles furent reçues à Conduit-Street, comme elles l'étaient au Parc,\navec l'élégante cérémonie et la froide politesse de lady Middleton, et\navec la bruyante cordialité et la bonne humeur de sir Georges. Soyez les\nbien-venues, mes belles voisines, dit-il en leur serrant la main, j'ai\ninvité pour ce soir une douzaine de couples de jeunes gens. J'aurai deux\nviolons, et nous nous amuserons. Ce n'était pas trop l'avis de ma femme;\nmais le mien a prévalu, et je pense que vous serez de mon parti. J'ai\nbien couru ce matin pour arranger cela. A Londres, c'est plus difficile\nqu'à Barton; il y a plus de monde, mais aussi plus de plaisirs.\n\nEn effet lady Middleton, quoiqu'elle aimât la danse, aimait mieux encore\nune belle représentation; elle trouvait qu'à la campagne un bal\nimpromptu pouvait passer; mais à Londres elle craignait de compromettre\nsa réputation d'élégance, lorsque l'on saurait que l'on avait dansé chez\nlady Middleton avec deux violons seulement et une simple collation.\n\nM. et madame Palmer étaient de la partie. Mesdemoiselles Dashwood\nn'avaient point vu le premier depuis leur arrivée, non plus que sa\nbelle-mère, qu'il traitait avec une indifférence mal déguisée sous un\nair de dignité et d'importance. Il les salua légèrement lorsqu'elles\nentrèrent, sans avancer d'un pas et sans les regarder, pendant que sa\nfemme les étouffait de caresses, et riait aux éclats de ce que _son\ncher amour_ n'avait pas l'air de les reconnaître.--Ce sont\nMesdemoiselles Dashwood, M. Palmer. Il fit comme s'il ne l'entendait\npas...--M. Palmer, c'est ma mère. Eh bien! voyez comme il est drôle, il\nest dans ses humeurs de ne pas m'écouter.\n\nMaria en faisait bien autant. En entrant elle parcourut le salon d'un\nregard; il n'y était pas, et pour elle il n'y avait personne. Elle\ns'assit tristement dans un coin, également mal disposée pour avoir du\nplaisir ou pour en donner. Il y avait environ une heure qu'ils étaient\nrassemblés, lorsque M. Palmer sortant de sa rêverie, s'avança en\nbâillant auprès d'Elinor, exprima sa surprise de les voir en ville,\nquoique ce fût chez lui que le colonel Brandon eût appris leur arrivée.\nD'honneur, je croyais que vous passiez tout l'hiver en Devonshire.\n\n--Vraiment, dit Elinor en riant.\n\n--Quand y retournez-vous?\n\n--Je l'ignore. Les violons arrivèrent; la conversation finit; on se\nprépara à danser. Jamais Maria n'avait été si peu en train. Enfin cette\nmortelle soirée finit, sans avoir encore vu Willoughby. Je n'ai de ma\nvie été plus fatiguée, dit Maria en entrant dans la voiture; le parquet\nn'a point d'élasticité.\n\n--Ne cherchez pas chicane à ce pauvre parquet, dit en riant madame\nJennings; vous l'auriez trouvé assez bon si vous l'aviez parcouru avec\nquelqu'un que je ne veux pas nommer; vous ne seriez alors pas du tout\nfatiguée. A dire vrai, ce n'est pas trop honnête à lui de ne pas venir\ndanser avec vous, quand il était invité.\n\n--Invité! s'écria Maria, il était invité!\n\n--Oui, ma fille me l'a dit, et sir Georges aussi, qui l'a rencontré ce\nmatin, et l'a fort pressé de venir.\n\nMaria ne dit plus rien, mais sa contenance annonçait combien elle était\nblessée. Elinor l'était aussi, et résolut d'écrire à sa mère le matin\nsuivant, d'éveiller ses craintes sur la santé de Maria, et de l'engager\nà exiger sa confiance. Elle fut confirmée dans cette résolution en\ns'apercevant le lendemain après déjeûner que Maria écrivait à\nWilloughby. Car à qui d'autre qu'à lui pouvait-elle écrire?\n\nAvant dîner madame Jennings sortit pour quelques affaires. Elinor\ncommença sa lettre. Maria trop inquiète pour lire, trop agitée pour\ntravailler, allait d'une fenêtre à l'autre, ou se promenait dans la\nchambre les bras croisés, ou assise devant le feu dans une attitude\nmélancolique.\n\nElinor fut très-pressante dans ses supplications à leur mère; elle lui\nracontait tout ce qui s'était passé depuis leur arrivée, ses soupçons\nsur l'inconstance de Willoughby, et la conjurait au nom de ses devoirs\nde mère et de sa tendresse pour Maria, d'exiger d'elle un aveu positif\nde sa situation.\n\nSa lettre était à peine finie, qu'un coup de marteau annonça une visite.\nMaria fatiguée d'espérer, se hâta de sortir pour ne pas entendre\nannoncer une autre personne que Willoughby. Un regard amical sur Elinor\nfut interprété par cette dernière comme une prière muette de la faire\ndemander si c'était _lui_. Ce n'était pas _lui_; c'était encore le bon\ncolonel Brandon. Il paraissait plus triste qu'à l'ordinaire. Après avoir\nexprimé à Elinor sa satisfaction de la trouver seule, comme s'il avait\nquelque chose de particulier à lui dire, il s'assit à côté d'elle en\nsilence, et comme oppressé de ses pensées. Elinor persuadée qu'il avait\nquelque chose à lui communiquer qui concernait sa soeur, attendait\nimpatiemment qu'il commençât. Ce n'était pas la première fois qu'elle\navait cette conviction. Souvent déja, quand Maria sortait ou restait\nrêveuse dans un coin du salon, le colonel s'approchait d'Elinor, lui\ndisait avec l'air du plus grand intérêt: mademoiselle Maria n'est pas\nbien aujourd'hui, ou bien: Votre soeur est bien absorbée.... Il\ns'arrêtait, il hésitait. Elle voyait dans son regard qu'il avait quelque\nchose à dire de plus, qu'il n'osait pas prononcer. Cette fois après\nquelques instans d'hésitation, après s'être levé et rassis, il lui\ndemanda d'une voix tremblante quand il pourrait la féliciter de\nl'acquisition d'un frère. Elinor n'était pas préparée à cette question,\net n'ayant pas de réponse prête, elle fut obligée de dire, comme on dit\ntoujours: je n'entends pas.... je ne comprends pas.... parlez-vous de\nmon frère John! Sont-ils arrivés!.....\n\nIl essaya de sourire et répliqua avec une espèce d'effort: Vous ne\nvoulez pas me comprendre. J'entends.... les engagemens de votre soeur\navec M. Willoughby de Haute-Combe.... Ils sont connus généralement; et\nj'ai cru....\n\n--Ils ne peuvent être connus, dit Elinor, puisque la famille les ignore.\n\nIl parut très-surpris.--Je vous demande mille pardons, dit-il; je crains\nà présent que mes questions n'aient été très-indiscrètes; mais je ne\npouvais imaginer qu'il y eût du mystère, puisqu'ils correspondent\nouvertement, et que tout le monde parle de leur mariage.\n\n--Tout le monde en parle dites-vous! vous me surprenez toujours\ndavantage. Dites-moi, je vous en prie, par qui vous en avez été informé.\n\n--Par plusieurs personnes. Il y en a que vous ne connaissez pas,\nd'autres avec qui vous êtes très-liée, comme par exemple madame\nJennings, les Palmer, les Middleton. Malgré cela, je ne l'aurais pas\ncru, parce qu'on cherche toujours à douter de ce que l'on craint, mais\nl'autre matin en entrant ici, je vis accidentellement une lettre entre\nles mains du domestique, qui ne cherchait pas à la cacher. Elle était\nadressée à M. Willoughby et de l'écriture de votre soeur. Je vous ai\ndemandé si elle se mariait, mais j'en étais déja convaincu. Est-ce que\ntout est conclu définitivement? ne me reste-t-il aucun espoir? Mais non,\nlors même qu'il y aurait des obstacles insurmontables, je n'ai aucun\ndroit, aucune chance de jamais succéder.... De grace excusez-moi, bonne\nElinor; j'en dis trop sans doute et j'ai grand tort, mais je sais à\npeine ce que je dis et je me confie entièrement en votre prudence.\nDites-moi que tout est arrangé quoiqu'il faille encore garder le secret\nquelque temps. Ah! combien j'ai besoin d'être sûr que mon malheur soit\ndécidé, de ne plus rester en suspens, et d'employer toutes les forces de\nmon ame à me guérir d'un sentiment inutile et coupable!\n\nCes paroles incohérentes, cet aveu positif de son amour pour Maria,\naffectèrent beaucoup Elinor, au point même de l'empêcher de parler; et,\nquand elle se sentit un peu remise, il succéda à ce trouble un extrême\nembarras de répondre convenablement. L'état réel des choses entre sa\nsoeur et M. Willoughby lui était trop peu connu pour qu'elle ne craignît\npas de la compromettre en disant trop ou trop peu. Cependant, comme elle\nétait convaincue de l'affection de sa soeur pour Willoughby, qui ne\nlaissait aucun espoir au colonel quelque fût l'événement, étant bien\naise d'ailleurs d'épargner à Maria le blâme auquel elle donnait lieu si\nsouvent, elle jugea plus prudent d'en avouer davantage qu'elle n'en\ncroyait elle-même: elle lui dit donc que quoi qu'elle n'eût jamais été\ninformée par eux-mêmes des termes où ils en étaient, elle n'avait aucun\ndoute de leur affection mutuelle, et qu'elle n'était pas surprise\nd'apprendre leur correspondance.\n\nLe colonel l'écouta avec une silencieuse attention, et, quand elle eut\ncessé de parler, il se leva et dit avec une voix émue: Je souhaite à\nvotre soeur tous les bonheurs imaginables. Puisse-t-elle, puisse\nWilloughby mériter la félicité qui leur est destinée! Il la salua de la\nmain, leva les yeux au ciel avec l'expression la plus douloureuse, et\npartit.\n\nElinor resta triste et pensive. Cet entretien loin de lui avoir apporté\nquelque consolation, laissait un poids sur son coeur. Ses espérances du\nmariage de sa soeur s'étaient, il est vrai, renouvelées; mais\nserait-elle heureuse? Les voeux du colonel avaient quelque chose de\nsombre; il semblait en douter. Le malheur de cet homme intéressant\nl'affligeait aussi. Elle déplorait la fatalité qui l'avait entraîné dans\nun amour sans espoir; et cette conformité dans leur situation redoublait\nencore l'intérêt qu'il lui inspirait. Pauvre Brandon! s'écriait-elle; et\nson coeur oppressé disait ainsi: Pauvre Elinor! Elle ne savait plus ce\nqu'elle devait désirer, et, sur quelque objet qu'elle arrêtât sa pensée,\nc'était avec un sentiment douloureux.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXVIII.\n\n\nTrois ou quatre jours s'écoulèrent sans qu'Elinor eût à regretter\nd'avoir averti sa mère. Willoughby ne vint, ni n'écrivit. L'inquiétude\nde Maria se calma peu-à-peu, et fut remplacée par un abattement, un\ndécouragement complets. Elle restait, des heures entières assise à la\nmême place, presque sans mouvement, ne faisant plus nulle attention aux\ncoups de marteau ni à ceux qui entraient, ni à ce qu'on disait autour\nd'elle; elle aurait oublié de manger, de s'habiller, de se coucher, de\nse lever, si Elinor n'y avait pas pensé pour elle, et ne l'eût pas\navertie absolument de tout ce qu'il fallait faire; alors sans dire oui\nou non, elle faisait machinalement ce que lui disait sa soeur; elle\nsortait ou restait avec une égale indifférence, et sans avoir jamais une\nexpression de plaisir ou d'espoir. Sur la fin de la semaine, elles\nétaient engagées dans une grande assemblée où lady Middleton devait les\nconduire. Madame Palmer très-avancée dans sa grossesse était indisposée;\net sa mère restait auprès d'elle; elle avait prié ses jeunes amies de ne\npas manquer à cet engagement. Elinor désirait aussi faire sortir Maria\nde son apathie; et cette réunion chez une femme très-riche et très à la\nmode, devait être fort belle. Comme à l'ordinaire la triste Maria ne se\nmit en peine de rien, se laissa parer par sa soeur, sans même se\nregarder au miroir, s'assit dans le salon jusqu'au moment de l'arrivée\nde lady Middleton, penchée sur sa main sans ouvrir la bouche, perdue\ndans ses pensées, et sans paraître s'apercevoir de la présence d'Elinor;\nquand on l'avertit que lady Middleton les attendait dans sa voiture,\nelle tressaillit, comme si elle n'eût attendu personne.\n\nAprès avoir eu assez de peine à s'approcher de la maison où se tenait\nl'assemblée, à cause de la foule des équipages qui obstruaient la rue,\nelles firent leur introduction dans un salon splendide, très-illuminé,\net si rempli de monde, qu'on pouvait à peine respirer, et que la chaleur\nétait insupportable. Lady Middleton les amena auprès de la dame qui les\navait invitées. Elles la saluèrent, et il leur fut permis de se mêler\ndans la foule et de prendre leur part de la presse et de la chaleur,\nque leur arrivée augmentait encore. Après quelques momens employés à se\npromener avec grand peine d'un coin du salon à l'autre, lady Middleton\narrangea une partie de cassino qui était son jeu favori. Mesdemoiselles\nDashwood préférèrent ne pas jouer, et s'assirent à peu de distance de la\ntable de jeu. Maria retomba dans ses sombres rêveries; Elinor s'amusait\nà regarder cette quantité d'individus qui se rassemblaient avec l'espoir\ndu plaisir, et qui plus ou moins avaient tous l'air ennuyé et fatigué.\nEn promenant ses regards de côté et d'autre, ils tombèrent sur un objet\nqui lui donna une forte émotion.... C'était Willoughby debout devant une\njeune personne mise dans toute la recherche de la mode, et avec qui il\ntenait une conversation très-animée. Dans un mouvement ses yeux\nrencontrèrent ceux d'Elinor; il la salua, mais sans faire un pas pour se\nrapprocher d'elle et de Maria, qu'il voyait aussi très-bien; il continua\nà parler à la jeune dame. Involontairement Elinor se tourna vers sa\nsoeur pour la prévenir, si elle ne l'avait pas encore vu, de peur\nqu'elle ne se donnât en spectacle; mais c'était trop tard, elle venait\nde l'apercevoir. Toute sa physionomie exprimait un bonheur qui tenait\npresque du délire.--C'est lui! s'écria-t-elle en se levant pour courir à\nlui, si sa soeur ne l'avait pas retenue. Bon Dieu! il est là, dit-elle à\nElinor, il est là; oh! s'il pouvait me voir! Pourquoi ne me regarde-t-il\npas? Pourquoi m'empêchez-vous d'aller lui parler? Oh! laissez moi\naller.\n\n--Je vous en prie, dit Elinor à voix basse, soyez plus calme; ne\ntrahissez pas ainsi vos sentimens devant tout le monde; est-ce à vous,\nMaria, à faire un seul pas? Laissez-le venir. Peut-être il ne vous a pas\nvue encore.\n\nEtre calme et dans un tel moment, ah! c'était bien plus qu'elle ne\npouvait l'espérer de Maria. Aussi voyant qu'elle l'écoutait à peine,\nelle lui serra tendrement la main: Pour l'amour de moi, Maria, lui\ndit-elle, rasseyez-vous; si vous m'aimez je vous en demande cette\npreuve. Maria se rassit à l'instant même, en lui rendant son serrement\nde main, mais avec un mouvement convulsif; elle avait un tremblement\ngénéral; ses joues et ses lèvres étaient pâles comme la mort et tous ses\ntraits étaient altérés.\n\nEnfin Willoughby après les avoir regardées encore toutes deux,\ns'approcha lentement. Alors Maria prononça son nom; ses yeux se\nranimèrent; et un faible sourire parut sur ses lèvres. Il s'avança, et\ns'adressa plutôt à Elinor qu'à Maria sans regarder cette dernière; il\ncherchait visiblement à éviter son regard; il s'informa de madame\nDashwood, de mademoiselle Emma, demanda s'il y avait long-temps qu'elles\nétaient à la ville. Toute la présence d'esprit d'Elinor l'avait\nabandonnée. Elle était incapable de prononcer une parole, et s'attendait\nque Maria allait tomber sans connaissance. Celle-ci reprit au contraire\ntoute sa vivacité; un rouge vif colora ses joues; et d'une voix\ntrès-altérée, elle dit: Bon Dieu! Willoughby, est-ce bien vous? Que vous\nai-je fait? N'avez-vous pas reçu ma lettre? Ne voulez-vous pas me\nregarder, me parler? n'avez-vous rien à me dire? Elinor examinait avec\nsoin la physionomie et la contenance de Willoughby pendant que Maria lui\nparlait. Il changea plusieurs fois de couleur et paraissait évidemment\ntrès-mal à son aise; il faisait des efforts inouïs pour paraître\ntranquille; il y parvint et répondit avec politesse: J'ai eu l'honneur,\nmesdames, de me présenter chez vous jeudi passé; j'ai beaucoup regretté\nde n'avoir pas eu le bonheur de vous rencontrer à la maison, non plus\nque madame Jennings. Vous avez trouvé ma carte, j'espère.\n\n--Mais avez-vous reçu mes billets? s'écria Maria dans la plus grande\nanxiété. Il y a entre nous quelque erreur, j'en suis sûre, quelque\nterrible erreur! Quelle peut être la cause de cette inconcevable\nfroideur? Willoughby, pour l'amour du ciel, dites-le moi, expliquez\nvous.\n\n--Pour l'amour du ciel, parlez plus bas, dit Elinor qui était sur les\népines qu'on ne l'entendît, ou plutôt taisez-vous, ce n'est pas le\nmoment.\n\nCe conseil ne pouvait regarder Willoughby, qui ne répondait pas un mot.\nIl pâlit et reprit sa contenance embarrassée. Elinor jeta les yeux sur\nla jeune dame à qui il avait parlé précédemment; elle rencontra un\nregard inquiet, curieux, impératif. Willoughby le vit aussi; alors se\nretournant vers Maria, il lui dit à demi-voix: Oui, mademoiselle, j'ai\neu le plaisir de recevoir la nouvelle de votre arrivée à Londres, avec\nbien de la reconnaissance; et les saluant toutes deux assez légèrement,\nil alla rejoindre sa société.\n\nMaria qui s'était levée pour lui parler, fut obligée de se rasseoir, si\npâle, si tremblante, qu'Elinor s'attendait à chaque instant à la voir\ns'évanouir. Elle avait dans son sac un flacon de sel qu'elle lui donna,\nen se penchant vers elle pour empêcher qu'elle ne fût remarquée. Allez\nauprès de lui, chère Elinor, dit Maria dès qu'elle put articuler un mot;\nje ne puis me soutenir; mais vous, vous qui êtes si bonne, allez, exigez\nde lui de venir me parler, me dire un seul mot, un seul. Je ne puis\nrester ainsi, je ne puis avoir un instant de paix jusqu'à ce qu'il m'ait\nexpliqué.... Quelque affreux malentendu, quelque calomnie.... Oh! qu'il\nvienne, qu'il parle, ou je meurs.\n\n--C'est impossible, chère Maria, dit Elinor, tout-à-fait impossible! Il\nn'est pas seul; nous ne pouvons nous expliquer ici. Quelques heures de\npatience; attendez seulement à demain.\n\nSi l'émotion de Maria ne l'avait pas retenue forcément sur son siége,\njamais sa soeur n'aurait pu l'obtenir; mais heureusement après quelques\nminutes elle vit Willoughby sortir par la porte d'entrée; elle le dit à\nMaria. Jusqu'alors l'excès de son agitation, et le désir et l'espoir de\nlui parler avaient retenu ses larmes; mais lorsqu'elle sut qu'il avait\nquitté la salle, elle sentit qu'elle allait ou se trouver mal ou fondre\nen larmes; elle supplia sa soeur d'aller prier lady Middleton de la\nramener en Berkeley-street; elle ne pouvait pas, lui dit-elle, rester\nune seule heure de plus.\n\nQuoique lady Middleton fût au milieu d'un robers, elle était trop polie\npour ne pas quitter sa partie au moment où elle apprit que Maria n'était\npas bien; elle remit son jeu à une amie, et partit dès qu'on put avoir\nle carosse. Elinor prit pour prétexte que la chaleur avait incommodé\nMaria. Celle-ci ne dit pas un mot; ce ne fut qu'à des soupirs qu'on\ns'apercevait qu'elle était là. A leur arrivée à la maison, Elinor apprit\navec plaisir que madame Jennings n'était pas encore rentrée; elle se\nhâta de conduire Maria dans leur chambre; elle la déshabilla, la mit au\nlit, lui donna quelques calmans pour ses nerfs qui étaient\ntrès-attaqués, ne lui fit ni question, ni reproche, et à sa prière la\nlaissa seule. Elle alla au salon attendre le retour de madame Jennings,\net eut tout le loisir de méditer sur ce qui venait de se passer.\n\nElle ne pouvait plus douter qu'il n'y eût quelque espèce d'engagement\nentre sa soeur et Willoughby, et il lui paraissait tout aussi positif\nque ce dernier avait changé, et voulait rompre. Sa conduite ne pouvait\navoir pour excuse aucune erreur, aucun malentendu, puisqu'il avouait\navoir reçu ses lettres. Rien autre chose qu'un changement total dans ses\nsentimens ou dans ses intentions ne pouvait l'expliquer. L'indignation\nd'Elinor contre lui aurait été à son comble, si elle n'avait pas été\ntémoin de son extrême embarras, de sa rougeur, de sa pâleur: ce qui\nprouvait au moins qu'il reconnaissait ses torts, et empêchait qu'on le\ncrût un homme sans principes de morale et d'humanité, qui aurait cherché\nà gagner l'affection d'une pauvre jeune fille, sans amour et sans une\nintention honorable. Bonne Elinor! elle ignorait encore combien un tel\ncaractère est commun dans le grand monde! combien d'hommes vraiment\ncruels se font un jeu d'inspirer un sentiment qu'ils ne partagent pas,\nde blesser à mort un coeur innocent et sensible, et d'assimiler ainsi,\ndans leurs plaisirs criminels, l'imprudente jeune fille qui les écoute,\nau gibier qu'ils poursuivent, et qu'ils blessent ou tuent sans remords.\nElinor n'avait pas cette idée de Willoughby; elle se rappelait cet air\nde franchise et de bonté qui dès le premier moment les avait toutes\ncaptivées; elle voyait encore ses regards pleins d'amour sur Maria, et\nses paroles si tendres, si pleines d'un sentiment honnête, vrai,\ndélicat, lorsqu'il conjurait madame Dashwood de ne rien changer à la\nChaumière. Non, non, Willoughby, ne peut les avoir trompées; il aimait\npassionnément Maria; elle n'a là-dessus aucun doute. Mais l'absence peut\navoir affaibli cet amour; un autre objet peut l'avoir entraîné.\nPeut-être aussi est-il forcé d'agir comme il le fait par quelque\ncirconstance impérieuse. Il lui en coûte au moins beaucoup; elle l'a vu\ndans chacun de ses traits; et l'excellente Elinor dans son désir de le\ntrouver moins coupable, lui savait presque gré d'avoir le courage\nd'éviter sa soeur s'il ne l'aimait plus, et de ne pas chercher à\nentretenir un sentiment inutile. Mais pour le moment Maria n'en était\npas moins très-malheureuse! Elinor ne pouvait penser sans le plus\nprofond chagrin à l'effet que cette rencontre si désirée et si cruelle\ndevait avoir sur un caractère aussi peu modéré et qui s'abandonnait avec\ntant de violence à toutes les impressions. Sa propre situation gagnait à\nprésent dans la comparaison; elle était aussi séparée pour toujours\nd'Edward, mais elle pouvait encore l'estimer entièrement, elle pouvait\nau moins se croire encore aimée tendrement comme _une amie_. Puisqu'un\nautre titre lui était interdit, celui-là et l'idée de pouvoir encore\nêtre quelque chose pour lui, consolaient un peu son coeur; mais toutes\nles circonstances agravaient le sort de Maria, et plus que tout encore\nson caractère. Une immédiate et complète rupture avec Willoughby devait\navoir lieu, et comment la soutiendrait-elle?\n\nLorsqu'elle rentra dans leur appartement, Maria était assoupie ou\nfeignait de l'être. Elinor se jeta toute habillée sur son lit, laissant\nla porte de communication ouverte pour voler à son secours au moindre\nbruit. La nuit fut passablement tranquille. Elinor lasse de réfléchir\ns'était endormie, lorsqu'elle fut réveillée par des sanglots. Le jour\nd'une sombre matinée de janvier commençait à poindre; elle se leva\npromptement et passa dans la chambre de Maria; elle la trouva levée\naussi, à moitié habillée, à genoux, dans l'embrâsure de la fenêtre pour\navoir plus de clarté, et devant un siége sur lequel elle écrivait,\naussi vîte qu'un déluge de larmes qui coulaient sur son papier pouvait\nle lui permettre. Elinor la considéra quelque temps en silence avec le\ncoeur déchiré; puis elle lui dit avec l'accent le plus tendre: Chère\nMaria, combien je m'afflige de vous voir dans cet état. Le temps du\nmystère est passé, ne voulez-vous pas me confier....\n\n--Non, non, Elinor, répondit-elle, ne demandez rien en ce moment:\nbientôt vous saurez tout. Elle continua d'écrire et de pleurer avec une\ntelle violence, qu'elle était souvent obligée de poser sa plume pour se\nlivrer à l'excès de son chagrin. Elinor s'était assise à quelque\ndistance, et si sa douleur était plus concentrée, elle n'en était pas\nmoins vive. Ces mots: _Bientôt vous saurez tout_, la glaçaient de\nterreur. Grand Dieu que lui restait-il encore à apprendre! Cependant ses\ncraintes étaient vagues, obscures, incertaines, ne portaient pas sur la\nconduite de Maria; Elinor avait elle-même l'âme trop pure pour concevoir\nune pareille idée; elle connaissait d'ailleurs trop bien la noblesse du\ncaractère de Maria, ses sentimens élevés, son enthousiasme de la vertu\npour imaginer même un instant qu'elle eût pu les oublier.\n\nLorsque Maria eût fini sa lettre, elle sonna pour que la fille de la\nmaison vînt allumer le feu. Pendant ce temps-là elle acheva de\ns'habiller, cacheta sa lettre et la lui remit pour l'envoyer à l'instant\nà son adresse, puis vint s'asseoir sur le sopha à côté d'Elinor, et la\ntête enfoncée sur un des coussins, recommença à s'abandonner à son\ndésespoir. Elinor fit tout ce qui dépendait d'elle pour la\ntranquilliser, la calmer, ne se permit aucune question, et lui dit\nseulement qu'elle ne désirait de savoir le détail de ses peines que pour\nles adoucir. Mais lorsque Maria pouvait parler, c'était pour la conjurer\nde ne lui rien demander encore, et véritablement ses nerfs étaient dans\nun tel état d'irritabilité, qu'elle n'aurait pas pu avoir une\nconversation suivie. Je vous fais un mal affreux, chère Elinor, lui\ndit-elle; il vaut mieux nous séparer jusqu'à ce qu'il me soit\npossible.... Ma tête... mes yeux, j'ai besoin d'un peu d'air. Elle\nouvrit la fenêtre, y resta quelque temps, sortit de la chambre, rentra,\nressortit encore; elle était dans une agitation qui ne lui permettait\npas de rester en place, mais ce mouvement parut la calmer assez pour\npouvoir descendre avec Elinor, lorsqu'on vint les avertir pour le\ndéjeûner.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXIX.\n\n\nElle descendit donc appuyée sur le bras de sa soeur, s'assit à la table\ndu déjeûner, mais n'essaya pas même de boire ni de manger la moindre\nchose; toute l'attention d'Elinor était employée, non à la plaindre ou à\nla presser, mais à détourner entièrement sur elle-même celle de madame\nJennings. Comme le déjeûner était le repas favori de la maîtresse de la\nmaison, il durait long-temps; quand il fut fini elles s'assirent autour\nd'une table d'ouvrage. Elinor montrait le sien à madame Jennings et lui\nexpliquait quelque chose; Maria travaillait pour avoir un prétexte de\nbaisser les yeux et de se taire, lorsque le domestique entra et lui\nremit une lettre. Elle s'en saisit vivement, regarda l'adresse, devint\npâle comme la mort, et se hâta de sortir de la chambre. Elinor comprit\nde qui elle était, comme si elle avait vu la signature, et fut si émue\nqu'elle craignit de ne pouvoir le cacher à madame Jennings. La bonne\ndame vit seulement que Maria avait reçu une lettre de Willoughby, et\nl'en plaisanta, mais comme elle était très-occupée à mesurer des\naiguillées de laine pour le morceau de tapisserie qu'elle brodait, elle\nne s'aperçut pas du trouble d'Elinor. Aussitôt que Maria fut sortie,\nelle dit en riant: En vérité, chère Elinor, je n'ai encore vu de ma vie\nune tête de jeune fille aussi complètement tournée que celle de Maria;\nla pauvre enfant se meurt d'amour! Si elle n'en devient pas folle\ntout-à-fait, elle sera bienheureuse. J'espère qu'on ne la fera pas\nattendre trop long-temps, car il est vraiment triste de la voir ainsi\nrêveuse, mélancolique, et ayant l'air si abattu. Dites-moi, je vous en\nprie, quand le mariage aura lieu, et pourquoi Willoughby ne vient pas\nici tous les jours pour l'égayer? A-t-il peur de moi? Il a tort, j'aime\nbeaucoup les jeunes gens bien amoureux, quand le mariage doit suivre, et\nil serait le bien venu.\n\nJamais Elinor n'avait été moins en train de causer que dans ce moment,\nmais la question était trop directe pour n'y pas répondre; elle essaya\ndonc de sourire. Avez-vous donc réellement, madame, lui dit-elle, une\nsérieuse persuasion que ma soeur est engagée avec M. Willoughby? J'ai\ntoujours cru que vous plaisantiez, mais une question si positive n'est\nplus, un badinage, et il faut aussi que j'y réponde sérieusement, et que\nje vous assure que rien au monde ne me surprendrait plus que ce mariage,\net qu'il n'en est pas question.\n\n--Fi donc! Miss Dashwood, dit toujours en riant madame Jennings, comment\npouvez-vous parler ainsi! Est-ce que nous n'avons pas tous vus que leur\nmariage était arrêté? N'avons-nous pas été témoins de la naissance de\nleur passion au premier moment où ils se sont rencontrés et de ses\nprogrès? Ne les ai-je pas vus à Barton, chaque jour et tous les jours\nensemble, du consentement de madame Dashwood, qui traitait déja\nWilloughby comme un fils. Allons, allons, vous ne me ferez pas croire\nqu'elle se fût conduite ainsi, si elle n'avait pas été sûre de son fait.\nJ'aime l'amour moi, dans le coeur des jeunes gens, c'est de leur âge;\nmais j'aurais bien voulu voir que sir Georges et M. Palmer eussent\naffiché ainsi mes filles, avant d'avoir dit en toutes lettres: Nous\nvoulons les épouser. Non, non cela n'est pas possible! Et quand je\ndemandai à votre maman de vous emmener avec moi, c'est précisément, me\ndit-elle, ce que je désirais le plus au monde que mes filles apprissent\nà connaître le genre de vie de Londres avant leur mariage, qui ne peut\ntarder. Et le jour du départ elle me dit: Je vous recommande ma chère\nMaria. Elinor est assez prudente pour que je n'en sois pas en peine;\nmais je vous prie, madame Jennings, d'aider à Maria dans ses emplètes;\nje veux bien qu'elle s'achète tout ce qui sera nécessaire, et j'y\npourvoirai, mais non pas tout ce qui lui passera par la tête. N'est-il\npas positif qu'elle entendait les emplètes de noce? Et à présent vous\nallez me nier qu'il soit question de mariage; parce que vous êtes\nmystérieuse pour vous-même, vous croyez que personne n'a ni d'yeux ni\nd'oreilles; mais quant à moi j'en suis si sûre que je l'ai dit à tout le\nmonde, et Charlotte en a fait de même.\n\n--En vérité, madame, dit Elinor très-sérieusement, vous êtes dans\nl'erreur. Vous avez mal fait de répandre une chose dont vous n'aviez pas\nune assurance positive; vous en conviendrez vous-même, quoique vous ne\nvouliez pas me croire à présent.\n\nMadame Jennings rit encore, appela Elinor, une petite mystérieuse, etc.\nMais Elinor n'était pas d'humeur de plaisanter, et très-impatiente\nd'ailleurs de savoir ce que Willoughby avait écrit, elle se tut et\nsortit. En ouvrant la porte de la chambre de Maria, elle la vit couchée\nà demi sur son lit dans l'agonie de la douleur, tenant une lettre\nouverte et deux ou trois autres autour d'elle. Elinor s'approcha sans\nparler, s'assit sur le lit, prit la main de sa soeur, la baisa plusieurs\nfois avec la plus tendre affection, et en versant elle-même des larmes\npresque aussi abondantes que celles de Maria.\n\nCette dernière quoiqu'incapable de parler semblait sentir parfaitement\nla tendresse de cette conduite. Elle pressait la main d'Elinor contre ce\npauvre coeur déchiré, comme pour en adoucir la blessure. Après quelque\ntemps ainsi passé dans une affliction mutuelle, elle mit la lettre\nqu'elle tenait entre les mains d'Elinor, et couvrant son visage de son\nmouchoir, jeta presque des cris de désespoir. Elinor qui pensait qu'un\nchagrin aussi violent devait avoir son explosion, et que sa soeur\nsouffrirait bien davantage en tâchant de le réprimer, si même cela lui\nétait possible, la laissa s'y livrer, et ouvrant vivement la lettre de\nWilloughby, lut ce qui suit.\n\n  MADEMOISELLE,\n\n  «Je viens de recevoir dans ce moment la lettre dont vous avez bien voulu\n  m'honorer, et dont je vous témoigne toute ma reconnaissance. Je suis\n  consterné d'apprendre qu'il y ait eu quelque chose hier au soir dans ma\n  conduite avec vous qui n'ait pas mérité votre approbation, quoiqu'il me\n  soit impossible de découvrir en quoi j'ai eu le malheur de vous\n  déplaire; je vous en demande mille pardons, et je vous assure que\n  c'était absolument sans intention. Je n'ai jamais pensé à mon séjour en\n  Devonshire, et à ma connaissance avec votre famille sans le plus grand\n  plaisir, et j'ose me flatter que ce léger malentendu n'y portera nulle\n  atteinte. Mon estime pour toutes les dames Dashwood est très-sincère,\n  mais si j'ai été assez malheureux pour avoir donné lieu de croire à\n  quelques sentimens plus vifs ou particuliers, je me reprocherais\n  beaucoup d'avoir peut-être témoigné trop vivement cette estime. Vous\n  serez bien convaincue, mademoiselle, qu'il m'était impossible d'aller\n  au-delà quand vous apprendrez que depuis long-temps mes affections\n  étaient engagées ailleurs, et que dans quelques semaines ma main suivra\n  le don de mon coeur.\n\n  «C'est avec grand regret que j'obéis à vos ordres en vous rendant toutes\n  les lettres dont vous m'avez honoré, et la boucle de vos beaux cheveux\n  que vous aviez bien voulu me donner avec tant de complaisance.\n\n  «Je suis, mademoiselle, avec une parfaite estime, votre très-humble et\n  très-obéissant serviteur,\n\n  James WILLOUGHBY».\n\nIl est facile de comprendre avec quelle profonde indignation, Elinor lut\ncette étrange lettre, écrite avec cette froideur, cette dureté à celle\ndont il connaissait si bien les qualités distinguées et l'excessive\nsensibilité, que cependant il blessait si cruellement. Oh! combien son\nintérêt, sa tendre pitié redoubla pour son innocente Maria, qui n'avait\nà se reprocher que des imprudences presque autorisées par sa mère et la\nnoble confiance d'un coeur trop tendre et trop crédule, dont elle était\nsi punie. En commençant à lire cette lettre, Elinor était déja bien\nconvaincue qu'elle contenait l'aveu de l'inconstance de Willoughby; mais\njamais jamais elle ne l'aurait soupçonné capable d'un tel manque de\ndélicatesse, et de toute espèce de procédés et de sensibilité en\nécrivant une lettre aussi cruelle, une lettre qui non-seulement\nn'exprimait aucun regret, aucun aveu d'inconstance ou d'obstacles\ninsurmontables, mais par laquelle il niait même d'avoir eu pour sa\nvictime aucune espèce d'affection, une lettre enfin dont chaque ligne\nétait une insulte, et prouvait combien celui qui l'avait écrite était\nméprisable. Elle resta quelque temps dans un muet étonnement et ne\npouvant à peine en croire ses yeux. Elle la relut encore, et encore, et\nchaque lecture ne servait qu'à augmenter sa haine contre cet homme.\nL'amertume de ce sentiment était telle qu'elle n'osait essayer de parler\nde peur d'enfoncer encore plus avant le poignard dans le coeur de la\npauvre Maria. Elle regardait cependant comme un bonheur qu'elle eût\néchappé à l'horreur d'être liée pour la vie à un homme sans principes,\nsans honneur, sans délicatesse, enfin tel qu'il lui paraissait, le plus\nfaux et le plus dur des hommes; mais ce n'était pas le moment de le\nfaire sentir à Maria. Ses méditations sur le contenu de cette lettre, et\nsur l'insensibilité et la fausseté de celui qui l'avait écrite, la\nconduisirent naturellement à réfléchir sur le caractère d'autres\npersonnes qui sans être peut-être aussi dépravées que Willoughby, ne\npouvaient non plus que rendre malheureux ceux à qui elles seraient liées\npour la vie. Lady Stéeles vint se placer dans son imagination pas\ntrès-loin de Willoughby; elle oublia quelques instans les peines de sa\nsoeur pour s'occuper des siennes, ou plutôt elles se confondirent et\nformèrent une masse de pensées douloureuses qui l'absorbèrent tellement\nqu'elle ne songea pas à lire les trois autres lettres que Maria avait\nposées sur ses genoux, et qui sans doute étaient celles que Willoughby\nlui avait renvoyées. Les sanglots de Maria avaient cessé, mais elle\navait encore la tête dans les coussins, elle était encore incapable de\nparler et d'entendre. Elinor perdue dans ses réflexions ne savait pas\nelle-même combien il y avait de temps qu'elle était là, quand elle\nentendit rouler un carosse devant la porte. Elle regarda à la fenêtre\npour savoir qui pouvait venir de si bonne heure; c'était la voiture de\nmadame Jennings, avec qui elle devait sortir. Décidée à ne pas quitter\nMaria, quoique sans espoir de la soulager, elle courut s'excuser auprès\nde leur bonne hôtesse, en lui disant que sa soeur était indisposée.\nMadame Jennings l'approuva, sortit seule; et bien vîte Elinor retourna\nprès de Maria. Elle la trouva essayant de se lever, mais ses jambes\ntremblantes ne pouvaient la soutenir, et sa soeur vint fort à propos\npour l'empêcher de tomber sur le plancher, ce qui n'aurait pas été\nétonnant depuis plusieurs jours, elle ne mangeait presque rien, et ses\nnuits se passaient sans sommeil. Beaucoup de faiblesse et de vertige en\nétaient la suite inévitable. Jusqu'alors elle avait été soutenue par la\nfièvre de l'attente et de l'espérance; tout était fini pour elle, plus\nd'attente, plus d'espoir, même de revoir celui qui remplissait encore en\nentier son coeur; elle succombait sous le poids du chagrin. Un mal de\ntête violent, des crispations d'estomac, et plusieurs faiblesses\nalarmèrent Elinor. Elle eut recours à tout ce qu'elle put imaginer pour\nla remettre et la ranimer, elle y parvint avec peine. Maria reprit ses\nsens, et put lui témoigner combien elle était touchée de sa bonté.\nPauvre Elinor, lui dit-elle, combien je vous rends malheureuse, combien\nde peine je vous donne!\n\n--Je voudrais seulement, lui répondit Elinor, savoir comment je pourrais\nvous donner quelques consolations.\n\nCe mot était trop pour Maria; mais quelle que chose qu'Elinor eût pu lui\ndire il en eût été de même. Ah! non, non, dit-elle, plus de consolation\npour moi! je suis trop malheureuse! et sa voix s'éteignit de nouveau\ndans les sanglots et les larmes. Elinor ne pouvait presque plus\nsupporter de la voir dans cet état.\n\n--Tâchez de vous calmer, chère Maria, lui dit-elle, si vous ne voulez\npas vous tuer vous-même et tous ceux qui vous aiment. Pensez à votre\nmère, pensez combien vos souffrances l'affligeraient. Pour elle vous\ntrouverez des forces dans votre coeur.\n\n--Je ne le puis, je ne le puis, s'écria Maria; laissez-moi, si je vous\ntourmente, laissez-moi, haïssez-moi, abandonnez-moi, mais ne me torturez\npas en exigeant l'impossible. Oh! combien il est facile à ceux qui n'ont\naucune peine personnelle de parler de force et de courage. Heureuse!\nmille fois heureuse Elinor! vous ne pouvez avoir aucune idée de ce que\nje souffre.\n\n--Vous me nommez heureuse, Maria, ah! si vous saviez.....\n\nMaria la regarda avec un tel effroi, qu'elle se hâta d'ajouter.--Si\nvous saviez combien je sens votre douleur! Pouvez-vous me croire\nheureuse quand je vous vois aussi souffrante!\n\n--Pardonnez-moi, oh! pardonnez-moi, lui dit Maria en jetant ses bras\nautour du cou de sa soeur; je connais votre coeur, je sais qu'il souffre\npour moi, mais je voulais dire que vous seriez sûrement heureuse une\nfois. Edward vous aime, il n'a jamais aimé que vous seule au monde. Ah!\nqu'est-ce qu'un tel bonheur ne peut pas compenser, et rien ne peut vous\nl'ôter.\n\n--Rien, Maria! Mille, mille circonstances peuvent le détruire à jamais.\n\n--Non, non, non, s'écria Maria avec véhémence, il vous aime, vous serez\nà lui pour la vie; le malheur ne peut vous atteindre.\n\n--Le malheur, chère Maria, va presque toujours à la suite de la vie; et\nje ne puis avoir aucun plaisir tant que je vous verrai dans cet état.\n\n--Et jamais vous ne me verrez autrement; mon malheur durera autant que\nmoi. Oh! puissions-nous bientôt finir ensemble!\n\n--Vous ne devez pas parler ainsi, Maria. N'avez-vous donc point d'amis?\nL'amour est-il tout pour vous? Est-ce que vous ne voyez autour de vous\nnulle consolation? Pensez, Maria, que vous auriez souffert mille fois\nplus encore si vous aviez quelque chose à vous reprocher de vraiment\nrépréhensible, si seulement cet homme faux et cruel s'était amusé à\nprolonger votre erreur, à ne dévoiler son odieux caractère qu'après vous\navoir entraînée dans une suite d'imprudences. Chaque jour de confiance\nen sa foi, en son honneur, augmentait le danger, et aurait rendu le coup\nplus cruel, lorsqu'il aurait enfin, comme aujourd'hui, rompu ses\nengagemens, et trahi ses sermens et sa foi.\n\n--Ses sermens, ses engagemens, dit Maria, que voulez-vous dire, Elinor?\nil ne m'a point fait de serment, il n'y avait entre nous nul engagement.\n\n--Bon Dieu! nul engagement s'écria Elinor.\n\n--Non, non, s'écria aussi Maria, il n'est pas aussi indigne, aussi\nméprisable que vous paraissez le croire; il n'a du moins trahi nul\nserment; il n'a pas manqué de foi. Et au milieu de sa douleur une\nexpression de joie brilla dans ses yeux, en pouvant justifier celui\nqu'elle adorait encore.\n\n--Mais du moins il vous a dit qu'il vous aimait.\n\n--Oui.... non.... jamais entièrement. Vous l'avez vu, vous l'avez\nentendu. Jamais il ne m'a parlé plus clairement, plus positivement en\nparticulier que devant vous et ma mère. Tout dans sa conduite me le\nprouvait; mais sa bouche ne me l'a pas prononcé. C'est moi, moi seule\nqui me suis trompée; et jamais il ne m'a aimée! Un nouveau déluge de\nlarmes suivit cette déchirante pensée.\n\n--Cependant vous lui aviez écrit; vous saviez par lui sans doute que\nvous le trouveriez à Londres?\n\n--Il me dit en me quittant qu'il y serait, _s'il vivait encore_, dans\nles premiers jours de janvier. Ah! pouvais-je croire, pouvais-je penser\nque celui qui supposait que la douleur de se séparer de moi pouvait le\nfaire mourir, ne m'avait jamais aimée! Il me dit qu'il ne m'écrirait\npas de peur que sir Georges ne vît ses lettres, mais il me donna son\nadresse. Je n'ai pas osé lui écrire de la Chaumière, puisque nos lettres\npartaient du Parc, mais je lui écrivis d'ici à l'instant de mon arrivée.\nOh! Elinor, pouvais-je faire autrement? Les voilà mes lettres,\nméprisées, ah Dieu, Dieu! elle cacha encore son visage sur le coussin.\nElinor prit les trois lettres, et lut ce qui suit.\n\n  Berkeley-Street, janvier.\n\n  «Comme vous allez être surpris, mon cher Willoughby! et laissez-moi me\n  flatter que ce n'est pas seulement de la surprise que vous éprouverez,\n  en apprenant que je suis à Londres. Une invitation de la bonne madame\n  Jennings était un bonheur auquel je n'ai pas pu résister, non plus qu'à\n  vous l'apprendre à l'instant même de mon arrivée. Je suis bien sûre que\n  si mon billet vous parvient à temps, vous viendrez dès ce soir et que\n  vous partagerez mon impatience; du moins je vous verrai bien sûrement\n  demain; et croyez qu'à Londres comme à la Chaumière vous trouverez\n  toujours une fidèle et tendre amie.»\n\n  M. D.\n\nSon second billet avait été écrit le lendemain du petit bal des\nMiddleton, et contenait ce qui suit:\n\n  «Je ne puis vous exprimer mon chagrin de vous avoir manqué avant hier,\n  lorsque j'ai trouvé votre carte au retour d'une promenade; mais enfin\n  vous êtes à la ville et vous savez où je suis. Mais pourquoi n'ai-je pas\n  reçu un seul mot de vous en réponse au billet que je vous ai écrit il y\n  a huit jours, au moment de mon arrivée? D'une heure à l'autre, d'un\n  instant à l'autre, j'espérais vous voir entrer ou du moins avoir une\n  lettre. Je vous en conjure Willoughby, ne prolongez pas ce supplice;\n  revenez le plutôt qu'il vous sera possible; venez m'expliquer ce que je\n  ne puis comprendre. Venez plus matin; madame Jennings sort toujours à\n  une heure, et je n'ose lui refuser de l'accompagner, quoique je l'aie\n  déjà fait dans un vain espoir. Ce même espoir toujours trompé, m'avait\n  engagée d'aller hier chez lady Middleton, où nous eûmes un petit  bal.\n  On m'assure que vous y étiez invité; mais je ne puis le croire, puisque\n  vous n'y êtes pas venu. Il faudrait que vous fussiez étrangement changé\n  depuis notre séparation, si vous refusiez volontairement l'occasion de\n  revoir vos amies de la Chaumière; mais je ne veux pas même le supposer,\n  et j'espère que je recevrai bientôt de votre bouche l'assurance que vous\n  êtes toujours le même pour votre M. D.»\n\nLa troisième datée de ce matin même était ainsi conçue:\n\n   «Que dois-je penser Willoughby? A quoi dois-je attribuer votre étrange\n  conduite d'hier au soir? Je vous en demande encore l'explication.\n  J'étais préparée à vous revoir  avec tant de plaisir après une absence\n  qui m'avait paru si longue, à vous retrouver tel que vous étiez au\n  moment de notre séparation, aimable, tendre, affectionné, enfin ce que\n  vous étiez à Barton du matin au soir, et ce que vous n'êtes plus à\n  Londres. Quelques semaines peuvent-elles avoir changé à ce point vos\n  sentimens? Qu'est-il arrivé? Que vous ai-je fait, moi qui n'ai cessé de\n  penser à vous, de hâter par mes voeux le moment de vous revoir, ce\n  moment qui devait être si doux, et que vous avez su rendre si cruel!\n  J'ai passé une nuit entière sans sommeil, tâchant en vain de comprendre\n  ou d'excuser une conduite aussi barbare, aussi contraire à ce que\n  j'attendais de vous; je n'ai pu  découvrir aucun motif, rien qui pût me\n  l'expliquer; mais je n'en suis pas moins prête à entendre votre\n  justification, à croire encore qu'elle dépend de vous. Peut-être qu'on\n  m'a calomniée auprès de vous; je ne croyais pas avoir d'ennemis, ni que\n  Willoughby pût ajouter foi à des rapports contre moi; mais comment\n  puis-je expliquer autrement votre inconcevable froideur? Dites-moi ce\n  que c'est avec cette franchise dont vous faites profession et que\n  j'aimais tant à trouver en vous; dites-le moi, et j'aurai la\n  satisfaction inexprimable de vous rassurer sur tous les points. Je\n  serais bien malheureuse en vérité, si j'étais forcée de penser mal de\n  vous, d'apprendre que vous n'êtes pas ce que  j'ai cru, que vous n'avez\n  pas été sincère dans vos expressions d'attachement pour ma famille, et\n  pour moi particulièrement; mais s'il en était ainsi, je veux aussi le\n  savoir. Je suis actuellement dans un état d'indécision et de trouble\n  plus affreux mille fois que la certitude du malheur. Je désire bien\n  vivement que vous puissiez vous justifier; mais ce que je demande,\n  _c'est la vérité_. Si elle vous coûte trop à dire, renvoyez-moi\n  seulement mes billets et la boucle de cheveux que vous avez emportée; je\n  vous comprendrai et..... Ah! Willoughby, il est impossible que vous ne\n  vouliez plus être l'ami de M. D.»\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXX.\n\n\nElinor avait tremblé de lire ces lettres, elle s'attendait qu'elles\nétaient écrites avec tout le feu de la passion qui dévorait sa pauvre\nsoeur, et qu'elle trouverait peut-être dans l'excès de cette passion la\ncause si ce n'est l'excuse de la conduite de Willoughby. Les hommes trop\nsouvent incapables de ressentir la passion qu'ils inspirent en sont\nennuyés lorsque le goût léger qui les a entraînés n'existe plus. Mais\nces lettres si simples, si tendres, si pleines d'affection et d'une\nconfiance illimitée et celle de Willoughby si dure, si glacée, si\ninsultante, redoublèrent sa tendre pitié pour sa soeur; mais cependant\nelle n'en blâmait pas moins son imprudence d'avoir donné de telles\npreuves de tendresse à un homme qui ne les demandait pas, qui lui avait\nà peine prononcé le mot d'amour, et qui leur était connu depuis si peu\nde temps. Sir Georges leur avait fait l'éloge de ses talens pour la\nchasse, pour la danse, mais n'avait pas dit un mot de son caractère.\nLui-même il est vrai s'était annoncé d'une manière aimable; mais tout\njeune homme qui veut plaire, et qui en a les moyens, s'annonce de même;\net bien certainement du moins, il avait voulu plaire à Maria, et n'avait\npu se faire illusion sur la nature du sentiment qu'il lui inspirait, et\nqu'il avait si bien l'air de partager que la prudente Elinor même y\navait été trompée, et que la crédulité de la vive et sensible Maria\nétait bien excusable. Son seul tort était de s'être trop livrée à son\nsentiment et à ses espérances; et certes elle en était trop punie pour\npouvoir le lui reprocher.\n\nLorsque Maria vit que sa soeur avait fini sa lecture et réfléchissait en\nsilence, elle lui fit observer que ses lettres ne contenaient rien que\ntoute autre qu'elle n'eût écrit dans la même situation: je me regardais,\ndit-elle, comme étant aussi solennellement engagée avec lui, que si un\ncontrat légal nous eût liés. Cette sympathie qui nous avait entraînés\nl'un vers l'autre au premier instant, ce rapport de nos goûts, de nos\ncaractères: tout enfin me paraissait la voix du ciel qui nous avait\ndestinés l'un à l'autre.\n\n--Malheureusement, dit Elinor, il ne voyait ni ne sentait de même.\n\n--Oui, Elinor, pendant tout le temps qu'il a passé près de nous il\nvoyait, il sentait comme moi, j'en suis aussi sûre que de mon propre\ncoeur. Sans doute le sien a changé, mais ce n'est pas sa faute; l'art le\nplus diabolique a été employé pour le détacher de moi. Quand il me\nquitta je lui étais aussi chère que mon coeur pouvait le désirer, et\nqu'il m'était cher à moi-même! Cette boucle de cheveux qu'il m'a\nrenvoyée si vîte à ma première demande, par combien d'instances\nréitérées ne l'avait-il pas obtenue? Si vous aviez vu son regard, si\nvous aviez entendu le son de sa voix lorsqu'il me suppliait de la lui\nlaisser couper; et la dernière soirée de la Chaumière, l'avez-vous\noubliée, Elinor? et le matin quand il vint prendre congé de moi, son\ndésespoir, ses larmes! Les hommes peuvent-ils pleurer à volonté? Les\nlarmes, cette espèce de soulagement que la nature accorde aux femmes, ne\nsont-elles pas chez eux la preuve d'un coeur vraiment touché? Oh! si\nvous aviez vu son affliction à la seule pensée de se séparer de moi pour\nquelques semaines! Non jamais, jamais je ne puis l'oublier!\n\nElle fut quelques instans sans pouvoir parler; mais quand son émotion\nfut un peu calmée, elle ajouta avec fermeté: Elinor, on m'a traitée\ncruellement; mais ce n'est pas Willoughby.\n\n--Chère Maria, quel autre que lui faut il en accuser? Par qui peut-il\navoir été influencé?\n\n--Par tout le monde, plutôt que par son propre coeur. Je croirais\nplutôt que tous ceux que je connais se sont ligués contre moi, que de le\ncroire coupable d'une telle cruauté. Cette femme de qui il parle peut\nêtre.... ou tout autre, je n'excepte que vous, maman, Emma et Edward,\ntous, tous les autres peuvent m'avoir calomniée. Excepté vous quatre, il\nn'existe personne que je ne puisse soupçonner, plutôt que Willoughby\ndont le coeur m'est si bien connu. On s'est vengé sans doute de ce que\nje préférais la société de l'homme du monde le plus aimable, à la\nsottise, à l'insipidité, au manque total de goût et d'esprit. Je me suis\nfait des ennemis par la franchise de mon caractère qui ne peut se plier\nni à dissimuler, ni à flatter.\n\nElinor ne voulut pas dans ce moment disputer avec elle; elle lui dit\nseulement: Chère Maria, si vous croyez avoir des ennemis assez méchans,\nassez détestables pour vous nuire par des calomnies, laissez leurs torts\nretomber sur eux-mêmes, et que le sentiment de votre innocence et de vos\nbonnes intentions relève votre âme; ne leur donnez pas l'indigne\ntriomphe de vous avoir rendue aussi malheureuse. C'est un louable et\nraisonnable orgueil que celui qui nous donne le sentiment de notre\npropre dignité et qui nous élève au-dessus de la méchanceté et de la\nmalveillance.\n\n--Non, non, s'écria Maria, un malheur tel que le mien ne laisse aucun\norgueil; il m'est égal que tout le monde sache combien je souffre. Que\nm'importe leur triomphe? il ne peut rien ajouter à ma misère. Elinor,\nElinor, il est bien faible le chagrin qui peut s'adoucir par la fierté,\nqui peut s'élever au-dessus de l'insulte et de la mortification; il peut\nalors s'effacer entièrement, tandis que le mien ne s'effacera jamais; je\nne puis le surmonter. On peut jouir du mal qu'on m'a fait tant qu'on\nvoudra, sans l'augmenter ni l'affaiblir. Je n'ai plus aucun sentiment de\nfierté; je n'ai, je ne puis avoir que celui de mon malheur.\n\n--Mais pour l'amour de ma mère, pour le mien, Maria, ne pouvez-vous rien\nsur vous-même?\n\n--Ah! pour vous deux je voudrais faire tout ce qui dépendrait de moi;\nmais paraître heureuse quand je suis au désespoir, ah! qui pourrait\nl'exiger.\n\nElles restèrent quelque temps en silence. Elinor, se promenait du feu à\nla fenêtre et de la fenêtre au feu, les bras croisés, les yeux baissés,\nabsorbée dans ses pensées, sans sentir la chaleur du feu et sans rien\nvoir au travers des vitres. Maria assise sur le pied de son lit, sa tête\nappuyée contre une des colonnes, tenant dans ses mains la lettre de\nWilloughby, la relisant phrase par phrase, s'écria enfin tout-à-coup:\nAh! c'est trop, c'est trop cruel! Ah! Willoughby, Willoughby, est-ce\nbien vous qui m'écrivez ainsi? Ne fais-je pas un songe affreux? Non\nrien, rien ne peut vous justifier; non rien, Elinor, quoiqu'on ait pu\nlui dire contre moi. Ne devait-il pas suspendre son jugement?\nEnvoie-t-on un criminel au supplice sans l'entendre? Ne devait-il pas me\nle dire quand je le lui demandais instamment, et me donner le pouvoir de\nme justifier. (Elle reprit la lettre.) _Cette boucle de cheveux que\nvous m'aviez donnée avec tant de complaisance._ Ah! cela seul est\nimpardonnable, Willoughby. Est-ce votre coeur, est-ce votre conscience\nqui vous a dicté cette insolente phrase? Non, Elinor, rien ne peut\nl'excuser.\n\n--Non, Maria, je le pense aussi.\n\n--Mais cette femme, cette femme, à qui il va dit-il donner son coeur et\nsa main, cette heureuse femme! qui sait avec quel art, quelle séduction,\nelle l'aura enchaîné. Il l'aimait déjà, dit-il, et depuis long-temps.\nAh! sans doute quand elle a vu qu'il allait lui échapper et combien il\nm'était attaché, elle aura tout fait pour le retenir, pour me bannir de\nson coeur; mais qui peut-elle être? Jamais je ne l'ai entendu parler\nd'une seule femme jeune, belle, séduisante: L'est-elle, Elinor? Vous\nl'avez vue; moi, je n'ai vu que Willoughby. Est-elle mieux, beaucoup\nmieux que la pauvre Maria? Ah! sans doute puisqu'il m'abandonne pour\nelle; mais peut-elle l'aimer comme moi. Ah! Willoughby, pourquoi ne\nm'avoir jamais parlé d'elle? Alors j'aurais respecté ses droits sur\nvous: mais jamais jamais il ne m'a parlé que de moi-même.\n\nIl y eut une autre pause. Maria était très-agitée; elle se leva et\ns'approchant d'Elinor, elle saisit sa main: Chère Elinor, lui dit-elle,\nje veux retourner à Barton auprès de maman; ne pouvons-nous partir\ndemain?\n\n--Demain, Maria!\n\n--Oui demain. Pourquoi resterai-je ici? J'y suis venue seulement pour\nWilloughby; qui ferai-je? Qui m'intéresse à Londres? Ah personne,\npersonne! J'y suis comme dans un désert.\n\n--Il serait je crois impossible de partir demain, dit Elinor; nous\ndevons à madame Jennings plus que de la politesse; et la quitter aussi\nbrusquement après les bontés qu'elle a pour vous, ce serait\ntrès-malhonnête.\n\n--Eh bien donc! dans deux jours; mais en vérité, je ne puis rester plus\nlong-temps, je ne puis m'exposer aux remarques, aux questions de tous\nces gens, des Middleton, des Palmer; comment supporter leur pitié? La\npitié de lady Middleton!.... Ah! que dirait-il lui-même s'il le savait?\n\n--Je crois, chère Maria, qu'un si prompt départ ferait beaucoup plus\ncauser encore. Mais dans ce moment, chère amie, tâchez de trouver un peu\nde repos; couchez-vous; soyez physiquement tranquille; et vos esprits\nse calmeront insensiblement. Maria suivit un instant ce conseil, mais\nreprit bientôt toute son agitation. Aucune place, aucune attitude ne lui\nconvenait. Sa soeur ne put obtenir d'elle qu'elle restât couchée. Il lui\nreprit une attaque de nerfs assez violente. Elinor craignait d'être\nobligée d'appeler quelqu'un à son secours; mais elle craignait encore\nplus de la laisser voir dans cet état. Une forte dose d'éther la remit\npeu à peu; elle resta assez faible pour être tranquille, et sans bouger\nsur un sopha jusqu'au retour de madame Jennings, qui entra immédiatement\ndans leur chambre sans se faire annoncer. Elle entr'ouvrit la porte et\nregarda avec l'air très-affligé. Elinor alla au-devant d'elle; elle\nentra. Comment allez-vous, ma chère? dit-elle à Maria, avec le ton de\nla compassion. (Celle-ci détourna la tête sans répondre.) Comment\nest-elle, mademoiselle Elinor? Pauvre petite! Elle a l'air bien malade,\net cela n'est pas étonnant. Hélas! il n'est que trop vrai, il se marie\nbientôt ce grand vaurien. Je viens de l'apprendre; madame Taylor me l'a\ndit il n'y a pas une demi-heure; elle le tenait d'une intime amie de\nmiss Grey elle-même, sans quoi je n'aurais pu le croire: j'étais près de\ntomber d'étonnement. «Eh bien! lui ai-je dit, tout ce que je sais, et ce\nqui est la vérité même, c'est qu'il s'est conduit abominablement avec\nune jeune dame de ma connaissance, à qui il a fait croire qu'il l'aimait\nà la passion, tandis qu'il en courtisait une autre. Je désire de tout\nmon coeur, pour le bien que je lui veux, que sa femme le rende bien\nmalheureux: ainsi j'ai dit, ainsi je dirai, vous pouvez y compter, mes\nchères amies. Je n'ai aucune idée qu'un homme se conduise de cette\nmanière. Et qu'il ne dise pas que non; car je l'ai vu de mes propres\nyeux, et comme miss Maria l'aimait, et comme j'aurais parié ma tête\nqu'il l'aimait aussi et qu'il n'épouserait qu'elle. Ah! si jamais je le\nrencontre, fût-ce à côté de sa femme, je lui reprocherai bien sa\nconduite, je vous en réponds. Mais consolez-vous, chère Maria, ce n'est\npas le seul jeune homme dans le monde, et avec votre jolie mine vous ne\nmanquerez pas d'admirateurs. Allons, courage, ma pauvre petite! je ne\nveux pas vous troubler plus long-temps; vous vous retenez de pleurer\npour moi je parie; il vaut mieux pleurer tout à-la-fois, et que cela\nsoit fait. J'ai invité pour ce soir mesdames Parcy et les Sawnderson;\nelles sont gaies comme vous savez, elles vous distrairont. Elle s'en\nalla doucement sur la pointe des pieds, comme si le bruit avait pu\naugmenter l'affliction de sa jeune amie.\n\nLe reste de la matinée s'écoula assez tranquillement. Maria était\nsombre, parlait peu, soupirait beaucoup, mais fut plus calme, et à la\ngrande surprise de sa soeur, elle voulut descendre pour le dîner. Elinor\ns'y opposait, mais elle le voulut; elle le supporterait très-bien,\ndit-elle, et donnerait moins de peine que de la servir en haut. Elinor\napprouva ce motif, l'habilla en malade aussi bien qu'elle pût, et se\ntint prête pour la conduire à la salle à manger quand on les\nappellerait.\n\nElles descendirent; Maria appuyée sur sa soeur, pâle, abattue et les\nyeux bien rouges, se mit à table et plus calme que sa soeur ne l'avait\nespéré. Si elle avait essayé de parler ou qu'elle eût entendu la moitié\nde tout ce que madame Jennings disait, son calme ne se serait pas aussi\nbien soutenu, mais pas un mot n'échappa de ses lèvres, et la\nconcentration de ses pensées l'empêcha de faire attention à ce qui se\npassait autour d'elle. La bonne madame Jennings ne pensait pas que ses\nattentions poussées jusqu'au ridicule, la tourmentaient plutôt que de\nlui faire du bien: Elinor qui rendait justice à ses bonnes intentions,\nlui en témoignait sa reconnaissance et faisait son possible pour\nqu'elle laissât Maria tranquille, mais elle ne pouvait pas lui persuader\nque les peines de l'âme ne doivent pas être traitées comme une migraine\nou des maux purement physiques. Madame Jennings voyait Maria\nmalheureuse, et la traitait avec l'indulgente tendresse d'une mère pour\nun enfant malade. Maria devait avoir la meilleure place vers le feu, le\nmeilleur mets, le meilleur vin, le meilleur fauteuil; elle cherchait\ntout ce qu'elle pouvait imaginer pour l'amuser, ou la tenter de manger\nen lui présentant une variété d'entremets, de dessert, de confitures de\ntoute espèce. Si Elinor n'avait pas vu par la contenance de sa soeur que\ntoute plaisanterie lui serait insupportable, elle n'aurait pu s'empêcher\nde rire avec elle des recettes de la bonne dame contre un chagrin\nd'amour. A la fin cependant elle fut si pressante et lui répéta si\nsouvent que tout ce qu'elle lui présentait lui ferait sûrement du bien,\nque Maria ne pouvant ni l'accepter, ni s'en défendre, prit le parti de\nretourner dans sa chambre; elle se leva avec une expression douloureuse,\net fit signe à sa soeur de ne pas la suivre.\n\n--Pauvre enfant! s'écria madame Jennings aussitôt qu'elle fut loin,\ncombien je suis peinée de la voir ainsi! Voyez, elle s'est en allée sans\nfinir ses cerises à l'eau-de-vie; rien ne l'aurait mieux fortifiée; mais\nplus rien ne lui fait plaisir. Si je pouvais découvrir quelque chose\nqu'elle aimât, j'irai le lui chercher au bout de la ville. N'est-ce pas\nodieux qu'un homme abandonne ainsi une si jolie personne! Mais voilà ce\nque c'est; quand il y a tant d'argent d'un côté et presque point de\nl'autre, la balance l'emporte.\n\n--Cette dame donc, dit Elinor, cette miss Grey (n'est-ce pas ainsi que\nvous l'appelez), vous dites qu'elle est très-riche!\n\nCinquante mille pièces, ma chère; on est toujours belle avec une telle\ndot. L'avez-vous vue à l'assemblée? elle est élégante, bien faite, mais\npoint jolie. J'ai connu son oncle dont elle a hérité; toute cette\nfamille est riche à millions, et cela tente un jeune homme qui aime la\ndépense, et les chiens, et les chevaux, et les caricles, et les\néquipages de toute espèce, et la bonne table. Je veux bien cela, mais il\nne faut pas tourner la tête à une pauvre jeune fille qui n'a rien, lui\nfaire espérer le mariage, et puis la planter là quand il en trouve une\nqui veut payer sa belle figure et toutes ses fantaisies.\n\n--Savez-vous, madame, si miss Grey est aimable?\n\n--Je n'ai jamais entendu faire d'elle d'autre éloge que d'être riche et\nélégante; elle a toujours les premières modes; seulement madame Taylor\nm'a dit aujourd'hui que monsieur et madame Elison ne seraient pas fâchés\ndu tout qu'elle se mariât, parce qu'ils n'allaient point ensemble.\n\n--Et qui sont ces Elison?\n\n--Son tuteur, ma chère, chez qui elle vit; mais dès qu'elle a pu\nchoisir, elle a préféré le beau Willoughby. Le joli choix qu'elle a fait\nlà! elle le payera sur ma parole.--Elle s'arrêta un moment. «Elle est\nallée dans sa chambre la pauvre petite je suppose; il faut retourner\nauprès d'elle, ce serait cruel de la laisser seule, la pauvre enfant!\nJ'ai quelques amis ce soir, il faut qu'elle vienne; on jouera à tout ce\nqu'elle voudra; elle n'aime pas le wisk, c'est trop sérieux, je\ncomprends cela; nous ferons un vingt et un, un trente et quarante, une\nmacédoine, enfin tout ce qui pourra l'amuser. Chère dame, dit Elinor,\nvotre bonté est tout-à-fait inutile; ma soeur n'est pas en état de\nquitter sa chambre ce soir. Je vais lui persuader de se mettre au lit de\nbonne heure; un parfait repos est ce qui convient le mieux à ses nerfs.\n\n--Oui, oui, je crois que c'est le mieux; il faut qu'elle ordonne\nelle-même son souper, et qu'elle dorme. C'est donc cela qui la rendait\nsi triste ces dernières semaines? Je suppose qu'elle s'en doutait la\npauvre enfant, quand elle ne voyait point venir son amoureux; moi je n'y\ncomprenais rien, et lorsqu'il ne vint pas au bal chez ma fille, j'aurais\nbien pu alors me douter de quelque chose. Mais ce sont des querelles\nd'amans, pensai-je en moi-même; ils se raccommoderont et ne s'en\naimeront que mieux. C'est donc cette lettre qu'elle a reçue ce matin qui\na tout fini? Pauvre petite! Si j'avais pu deviner ce que c'était, je me\nserais bien gardée de la railler, mais qui pouvait penser une telle\nchose? Ah! combien sir Georges et Mary vont être étonnés quand ils\nl'apprendront! Je suis fâchée de n'être pas allée chez eux en revenant\npour le leur dire, mais j'irai demain sûrement.\n\nIl est inutile j'en suis sûre, chère dame, de vous recommander de prier\nvos filles et vos gendres de ne pas nommer M. Willoughby devant ma\nsoeur, de ne pas faire la moindre allusion à ce qui s'est passé; leur\nbon coeur et le vôtre suffiront pour prévenir ce qui serait vraiment une\ncruauté. Et à moi-même moins on m'en parlera plus on m'épargnera de\npeine, et certainement vous devez le comprendre, vous qui êtes la bonté\nmême.\n\nMon Dieu cela va sans dire, il serait terrible pour vous et pour votre\npauvre soeur d'en entendre parler; on la ferait tomber en faiblesse,\nj'en suis sûre; je ne lui en dirai pas un mot. Vous avez bien vu à dîner\nque j'ai parlé de tout autre chose. J'en avertirai sir Georges et sa\nfemme, et ils se tairont aussi; à quoi sert-il de parler?\n\n--Souvent à faire beaucoup de mal, dit Elinor, à dire plus qu'on ne\nsait, plus qu'il n'y a. Le public juge sur l'événement, ignore les\ncirconstances et parle de ce qu'il ne sait qu'imparfaitement. Dans ce\ncas par exemple, tous nos amis, je suppose, blâmeront beaucoup M.\nWilloughby; et sans doute il a eu des torts, mais non pas celui dont on\nl'accusera sûrement. Je dois lui rendre la justice que s'il a manqué aux\nprocédés il n'a pas manqué à ses sermens, et qu'il n'avait nul\nengagement positif avec ma soeur.\n\n--Bon Dieu, ma chère, vous n'allez pas à présent le défendre! Point\nd'engagement positif, dites-vous! Après l'avoir menée au château\nd'Altenham, et lui avoir montré l'appartement qu'ils devaient habiter un\njour.\n\nPour l'amour de sa soeur, Elinor ne voulut pas presser cette discussion.\nMaria pouvait y perdre, et Willoughby y gagnait très-peu. Après un court\nsilence madame Jennings reprit la parole avec son hilarité ordinaire.\n\n--Eh bien! ma chère, il n'y a pas grand perte dans le fond, et le\ncolonel Brandon n'en sera pas fâché. Voulez-vous parier qu'il épousera\nMaria vers le milieu de l'été. Mon Dieu, quelle joie va lui donner cette\nnouvelle! j'espère qu'il viendra ce soir, j'aime à voir des gens\nheureux. C'est un bien meilleur parti pour votre soeur; deux mille\npièces de revenu valent mieux que six cents: c'est je crois tout ce que\nrapporte Haute-Combe, et madame Smith n'est pas encore morte. Delafort,\nla terre du colonel, est bien autre chose que Haute-Combe, et même que\nBarton. Il y vient les meilleurs fruits possibles; il y a un canal\ndélicieux, une grande route, une jolie église, qui n'est pas à un quart\nde mille, et le presbytère à côté, qui peut faire un bon voisinage. Je\nvous assure que c'est une charmante terre; je me réjouis d'y aller voir\nMaria quand elle y sera établie, et cela ne peut manquer. Il y a bien\nl'obstacle de sa fille, de cet enfant de l'amour, miss Williams, comme\non l'appelle; mais il la mariera; une bonne petite dot en fera\nl'affaire, et il n'en sera pas moins un excellent parti, si nous pouvons\nmettre Willoughby hors de la tête de votre soeur.\n\n--J'espère bien que nous y parviendrons, madame, et même sans le\ncolonel, dit Elinor; alors elle se leva et alla joindre Maria, qu'elle\ntrouva comme elle s'y attendait rêvant à ses chagrins, à côté d'un feu à\ndemi-éteint, et sans autre lumière.\n\n--Pourquoi revenir, Elinor? vous feriez mieux de me laisser, ce fut tout\nce qu'elle lui dit.\n\n--Je vous laisserai, lui répondit-elle, si vous voulez vous coucher.\nElle s'y refusa d'abord; mais Elinor ne se rebuta pas, la pressa\ndoucement, lui aida à se déshabiller, et moitié par persuasion, moitié\npar complaisance Maria y consentit. Sa soeur eut la consolation de voir\nsa pauvre tête fatiguée de pleurs sur son oreiller, et de la laisser sur\nle point de trouver un peu de repos et d'oubli de ses peines dans un\ndoux sommeil. Elle alla rejoindre madame Jennings, et la rencontra\ntenant un gobelet à moitié plein. Ma chère, lui dit-elle, je me suis\nrappelé que j'avais encore une bouteille de vieux vin de Constance, et\nje suis allée la chercher pour votre soeur. Mon pauvre mari en faisait\nun grand usage quand il avait une goutte remontée: il assurait que rien\nne lui faisait plus de bien. Faites en prendre à votre soeur; j'allais\nlui en porter. Chère dame, dit Elinor en souriant de l'efficacité d'un\nremède contre la goutte dans cette circonstance, vous êtes trop bonne,\nen vérité. Je viens de faire mettre Maria au lit, elle dort j'espère à\nce moment, et rien ne peut lui faire plus de bien que le repos. Si vous\nvoulez me le permettre, dit-elle en prenant le gobelet, c'est moi qui\nboirai cet excellent vin à la santé de la meilleure des femmes et des\namies.\n\n--Et à celle de la pauvre petite malade d'amour, dit la bonne dame.\nN'est-il pas bon? Je vous le dis, il la guérira et fortifiera son coeur;\nnous lui en donnerons demain, et tout ira à merveille.\n\nQuelques momens après la société attendue arriva. Madame Jennings les\nreçut, et Elinor alla présider à la table à thé.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXXI.\n\n\nAinsi que madame Jennings l'avait prévu, le colonel Brandon entra\npendant qu'Elinor préparait le thé, et par sa manière de regarder autour\nde la chambre, elle comprit à l'instant qu'il s'attendait à n'y pas\ntrouver Maria, qu'il le désirait et qu'il savait déja ce qui\noccasionnait son absence. Madame Jennings n'eut pas la même idée, car\ndès qu'il fut entré, elle traversa la chambre, vint près de la table à\nthé où Elinor présidait, et lui dit à l'oreille: le colonel a l'air bien\nsérieux, ma chère, sûrement il ne sait rien de l'affaire. Dites-lui bien\nvîte que Maria est libre; vous verrez comme il changera de physionomie.\nElinor sourit sans répondre. Quelques momens après le colonel s'approcha\nd'elle, et avec un regard qui lui confirma qu'elle n'avait rien à lui\napprendre, il s'assit à côté d'elle et lui demanda des nouvelles de sa\nsoeur.\n\n--Maria n'est pas bien, dit-elle, elle a été indisposée tout le jour, et\nnous lui avons persuadé de se mettre au lit.\n\n--Peut-être, dit-il en hésitant beaucoup, ce que j'ai entendu dire ce\nmatin.... peut-être est-ce plus vrai que je n'ai d'abord voulu le\ncroire?\n\n--Qu'avez-vous entendu dire?\n\n--Qu'un gentilhomme que j'avais de fortes raisons de penser..... de\ncroire..... d'être sûr même qu'il était engagé..... avec votre soeur.\nMais pourquoi me le demander? vous le savez, j'en suis certain. Je l'ai\nvu en entrant à l'altération de vos traits, à l'absence de votre soeur;\népargnez-moi la peine de le dire.\n\n--Eh bien donc! dit Elinor, je suppose que vous entendez le mariage de\nM. Willoughby avec mademoiselle Grey; il paraît que c'est aujourd'hui\nque ce bruit a éclaté, où l'avez vous appris?\n\n--Dans un magasin à Pall-Mall où j'avais affaire. Deux dames en\nparlaient ensemble si haut qu'il m'était impossible de ne pas les\nentendre. Le nom de James Willoughby fréquemment répété attira mon\nattention; celui de mademoiselle Grey s'y joignit, et fut suivi d'une\nassertion positive de leur mariage, qui doit avoir lieu dans quelques\nsemaines. Aussitôt que la cérémonie sera faite, a ajouté l'une d'elles,\nils partiront pour Haute-Combe, la terre que M. James Willoughby possède\nen Sommerset-Shire.... Ah! miss Elinor, mon étonnement à cette\nnouvelle.... Mais il me serait impossible d'exprimer ce que j'ai senti.\nCette dame, à ce que j'ai appris, se nomme Elison, son mari est tuteur\nde mademoiselle Grey; ainsi elle doit être bien informée, et l'on ne\npeut en douter.\n\n--Nous n'en doutons nullement, dit Elinor; mais vous a-t-on dit aussi\nqu'elle a cinquante mille livres? Il me semble que ce mot explique tout.\n\n--Peut-être, mais n'excuse rien, dit le colonel, et Willoughby..... Il\ns'arrêta un moment, et sans achever sa phrase commencée, il ajouta en\nchangeant de ton: Et votre soeur, comment est elle?\n\n--Elle a beaucoup souffert, mais j'ai l'espoir que plus son chagrin a\nété violent, plus il sera court; elle a été, et elle est encore dans une\ncruelle affliction. Jusqu'à hier elle n'avait eu je crois aucun doute\nsur ses sentimens et même actuellement elle voudrait encore pouvoir le\njustifier. Quant à moi je suis presque convaincue qu'il ne lui a jamais\nété réellement attaché. Mais combien il a été trompeur, artificieux, et\nmême en dernier lieu il a montré une dureté de coeur qui m'a\nexcessivement surprise.--L'habitude d'avoir, ou de feindre de l'amour\npour toutes les jolies femmes qu'on rencontre doit produire cet effet,\nreprit le colonel, et Willoughby..... Mais ne disiez-vous pas que votre\nsoeur ne voit pas sa conduite sous le même jour que vous.--Vous\nconnaissez l'extrême sensibilité de Maria, colonel; il lui en coûte\ntrop de condamner sévèrement quelqu'un qu'elle a autant aimé.\n\nIl ne répondit rien. Le thé était fini, on arrangea les parties de jeu,\net l'entretien fut interrompu. Madame Jennings tout en jouant regardait\nle colonel avec surprise. Elle s'était attendue que la nouvelle du\nmariage de son rival le transporterait de joie, et qu'elle aurait le\nplaisir de le voir aussi gai, aussi animé que s'il n'avait que vingt\nans, et il lui paraissait au contraire plus sérieux encore qu'à\nl'ordinaire. Il se dispensa de jouer et sortit bientôt. On ne comprend\nplus rien aux hommes, dit-elle le soir à Elinor, j'aurais juré aussi\nqu'il aimait Maria.\n\nLa nuit fut meilleure pour cette dernière qu'Elinor ne l'avait espéré;\nson abattement lui procura un peu de sommeil; mais en s'éveillant le\nlendemain elle retrouva le même poids sur son coeur. Elinor pour la\nsoulager l'engagea à parler du triste sujet qui l'oppressait, et avant\nqu'on les appelât pour le déjeûner, elles avaient traité à fond ce\nsujet, avec la même conviction du côté d'Elinor, et avec ses tendres et\nraisonnables conseils, et du côté de Maria avec les mêmes sentimens\nimpétueux et les mêmes variations. Quelquefois elle croyait Willoughby\naussi malheureux et aussi innocent qu'elle même; dans d'autres momens\nelle repoussait toute consolation et toute excuse, et le voyait le plus\ncoupable des hommes: quelquefois elle était absolument indifférente au\njugement du public et voulait se montrer avec toute sa douleur;\nl'instant d'après elle voulait se séquestrer pour toujours: tantôt\nabattue à ne pouvoir presque pas parler ni faire un mouvement, tantôt se\nrelevant avec énergie. Dans un seul point elle ne changeait jamais,\nc'était d'éviter autant que possible la présence de madame Jennings, et\nquand elle ne le pouvait, de garder un opiniâtre silence. Il fut\nimpossible à sa soeur de lui persuader que madame Jennings entrait dans\nses peines avec une vraie compassion. Non, non, répondait elle, c'est\nimpossible; la sensibilité n'est pas dans sa nature. Vous le voyez, elle\nconnaît et sent si peu mon chagrin, qu'elle croit pouvoir l'adoucir par\ndes boissons ou par des mets plus recherchés. Elle me plaint comme elle\nplaindrait son chat, si on lui avait marché sur la patte, et rien de\nplus. Tout ce qu'elle aime c'est de causer, de raconter, et elle n'est\npas fâchée dans le fond d'en avoir un nouveau sujet.\n\nQuoiqu'il y eût bien là-dedans quelque vérité, Elinor connaissait trop\nbien l'excellent coeur de madame Jennings pour ne pas repousser ce\nqu'elle appelait une injustice; mais elle ne put convaincre Maria, qui\nétait presque toujours influencée dans ses jugemens par la grande\nimportance qu'elle mettait à une sorte de délicatesse raffinée et de\nsensibilité romanesque, au bon goût, au bon ton, aux grâces. Maria de\nmême que bien des personnes, avec un caractère bon, généreux, un esprit\nélevé, une sincérité parfaite, n'était ni juste ni raisonnable, et\nparaissait quelquefois exactement le contraire de ce qu'elle était\nréellement lorsqu'elle se laissait aller à ses impressions exagérées.\nElle exigeait des autres les mêmes sentimens, les mêmes opinions qu'elle\navait, et jugeait de leurs motifs par l'effet immédiat de leurs actions\nsur son esprit. Sa mère à-peu-près dans le même genre, et fière de\ntrouver dans une fille aussi jeune, cet esprit vif et pénétrant, ce\nsentiment du beau, cet enthousiasme qui la rendait si éloquente et qui\nanimait si bien sa charmante physionomie, avait plutôt augmenté cette\ndisposition qu'elle n'avait cherché à l'affaiblir ou à la régler.\nLorsque Maria alla trop loin, sa mère riait et disait: mon Elinor est\nraisonnable pour deux et cela se calmera avec les années; oubliant que\nles années ne changent point le caractère, et peuvent tout au plus le\nmodifier: et madame Dashwood elle-même en était la preuve.\n\nUne légère circonstance vint encore mettre madame Jennings plus bas dans\nl'estime de Maria, en lui causant une nouvelle source de peines, et\ncependant cette bonne femme n'était guidée que par l'impulsion de son\nexcellent coeur et de sa bonne volonté.\n\nLes deux soeurs étaient remontées dans leur chambre après déjeûner;\nelles discutaient encore sur madame Jennings, lorsque celle-ci entra\navec une lettre sortant à demi de ses mains, et la figure aussi gaie,\naussi contente, aussi riante, que si elle rapportait à Maria tout son\nbonheur. Que me donnerez-vous, lui dit elle, en entrant, pour ce que je\nvous apporte? Voilà le meilleur des remèdes, (en montrant un bout de la\nlettre.) Le coeur de Maria lui battait au point de lui ôter la force\nd'aller arracher des mains de madame Jennings cette précieuse lettre;\nson imagination la lisait déjà en entier. Elle était de Willoughby, cela\nn'était pas douteux, pleine de tendresse, de repentir, expliquant tout\nce qui s'était passé, satisfaisante, convaincante, et bientôt suivie de\nWilloughby lui-même, se précipitant dans la chambre, tombant à ses\npieds, et confirmant par l'éloquence de son regard les assurances de sa\nlettre. D'après l'expression des yeux de madame Jennings et de ses\nsignes à Elinor, elle crut que lui-même était le porteur de cette lettre\net qu'il attendait en bas la permission d'entrer; comment sans cela\nmadame Jennings aurait-elle su ce que renfermait cette lettre.--Hélas!\nce tableau si rapide et si charmant fut bientôt effacé. La lettre est\nposée devant elle d'un air triomphant, et déja Maria a reconnu sur\nl'adresse l'écriture de sa mère, qui, pour la première fois de sa vie,\nserra douloureusement son coeur. Son espérance avait été si complète et\nsi vive, que l'instant qui la détruisit fut un des plus cruels qu'elle\neût encore passés! Il lui semblait n'avoir souffert que dans ce moment.\n\nLa cruauté de madame Jennings en la trompant ainsi, (car elle lui\nsupposa une intention qu'elle n'avait jamais eue) lui parut au-dessus du\nreproche; elle n'eut d'autre expression qu'un déluge de larmes, qui ne\nfurent pas interprétées de cette manière par celle qui les faisait\ncouler. Elle crut au contraire que c'était un excès d'attendrissement\ncausé par la vue d'une lettre de sa mère, et après avoir répété: Pauvre\nenfant, pauvre enfant! Elle est si nerveuse que le plaisir même la fait\npleurer; elle sortit sans avoir le moindre sentiment de sa maladresse;\ncar c'était un manque de tact d'annoncer ainsi une lettre qui devait\narriver tout naturellement. Toute autre qu'elle aurait prévu l'erreur de\nMaria et la lui aurait épargnée.\n\nPassé le premier moment, Maria éprouva un sentiment de remords d'avoir\naussi mal reçu une lettre de sa mère. Elle la reprit, la pressa contre\nses lèvres, essuya ses yeux et la lettre même mouillée de ses larmes,\net l'ouvrit avec un tendre respect; hélas! elle n'y trouva aucune\nconsolation. Le nom de Willoughby remplissait chaque page; madame\nDashwood se confiant encore en son amour, en son honneur, ne croyant pas\npossible qu'on pût se lasser d'aimer sa Maria, mais réveillée par les\ncraintes et les soupçons d'Elinor, cherchait à relever l'espérance de sa\nfille chérie, sollicitait seulement son entière confiance, lui\ntémoignait une affection sincère pour Willoughby, qui ne pouvait,\ndisait-elle, les avoir trompées, et une telle conviction de leur bonheur\nlorsqu'ils seraient unis, que le désespoir de Maria en lisant cette\nlettre devint une espèce d'agonie. Heureusement ses larmes avaient\ncommencé avant de la lire; elles continuèrent et furent un soulagement.\nElle cessa enfin de pleurer, et témoigna alors la plus vive impatience\nde retourner auprès de sa mère; elle seule entrerait dans ses sentimens,\ncomprendrait sa douleur; elle seule avait senti combien Willoughby\nméritait d'être aimé; elle seule lui pardonnerait de l'aimer encore\nmalgré sa perfidie. Elle voulait partir ce matin même, et pria Elinor de\nsonner pour demander une voiture.\n\nCe départ si prompt, si soudain n'était pas du tout de l'avis d'Elinor;\noutre l'émotion affreuse que ce retour inattendu donnerait à leur mère,\nqu'il fallait au moins en prévenir, et ses doutes sur le bien qu'il\nferait à Maria, elle craignait avec raison qu'une absence si brusque\ndans un tel moment ne nuisît à sa réputation, et redoutait même les\nsoupçons et les propos de madame Jennings, excitée par la colère où ce\ndépart la mettrait sûrement: elle tâcha donc sans lui dire les motifs\nqui l'auraient encore plus exaspérée, de faire entendre raison à sa\nsoeur. Elle lui dit qu'il fallait au moins avoir le consentement de leur\nmère; que leur frère étant attendu tous les jours à Londres, trouverait\nfort mauvais qu'elles partissent au moment de son arrivée; et la raison\nse fit enfin entendre à Maria.\n\nMadame Jennings sortit ce matin là plutôt que de coutume, et ne demanda\npoint à Elinor de la suivre; il lui tardait que les Middleton et les\nPalmer sussent tout ce qui se passait, et pussent aussi s'affliger sur\nMaria et s'indigner contre Willoughby. Dès qu'elle fut partie, Maria\nconjura sa soeur d'écrire à leur mère, de lui dire toute sa douleur, et\nde lui demander la permission de retourner auprès d'elle. Elinor s'assit\npour cette pénible tâche; Maria placée vis-à-vis d'elle, dans le salon\nde madame Jennings, appuyée sur la même table où sa soeur écrivait,\ntantôt suivait le mouvement de sa plume, tantôt rêvait, sa main sur ses\nyeux, et s'affligeait aussi du chagrin que cette lettre causerait à sa\nbonne mère: il y avait une heure qu'elles étaient ainsi, quand un coup\nde marteau à la porte fit tressaillir Maria.\n\nQui peut venir, dit Elinor, de si bonne heure? J'espérais que nous\nétions à l'abri d'une visite. Maria était déja à côté de la fenêtre.\n\nQui serait-ce que le colonel Brandon, dit-elle avec humeur? est-on\njamais à l'abri de le voir entrer? je ne veux pas le voir, et je\nm'échappe. Un homme qui ne sait que faire de son temps envahit toujours\ncelui des autres; elle sortit par la salle à manger pour éviter de le\nrencontrer.\n\nElinor qui voulait achever sa lettre, hésitait si elle le recevrait dans\nl'absence de madame Jennings, mais il ne se fit point annoncer; il\nentra, et son regard mélancolique, le son de voix altéré avec lequel il\ndemanda des nouvelles de Maria, convainquit Elinor que c'était le seul\nbut de sa visite; elle pouvait à peine pardonner à sa soeur l'espèce\nd'aversion qu'elle témoignait à ce digne homme.\n\nJ'ai rencontré madame Jennings à Bonds-street, dit-il ensuite à Elinor;\nelle m'a engagé à venir auprès de vous, et j'étais charmé, je vous\nl'avoue, mademoiselle, de cette occasion de vous parler sans témoins; je\nle désirais d'autant plus, que je vous jure que mon seul motif, mon seul\nvoeu, mon seul espoir est de donner peut-être quelques _consolations_.\nMais, non; ce n'est pas le mot, bien au contraire, et je ne sais de\nquelle expression me servir... de donner à votre soeur une conviction\ndéchirante peut-être au premier moment, mais qui puisse contribuer à\nguérir son coeur. Mon attachement pour elle et mon estime pour vous, et\npour votre excellente mère m'ont décidé à vous confier quelques\ncirconstances.... Mais je vous en conjure, bonne Elinor, ne voyez dans\ncette confiance que mon ardent désir de vous être utile et aucun intérêt\npersonnel. Je sais bien que quelque chose qu'il arrive, je n'ai aucun\nespoir; mais quoique j'aie passé bien des heures à me convaincre\nmoi-même qu'il était de mon devoir de vous parler, j'ai besoin encore de\nvotre aveu pour m'y décider.\n\nJe vous entends, dit Elinor, vous avez quelque chose à me dire sur M.\nWilloughby qui dévoilera son caractère. Vous dites que c'est la plus\nforte preuve d'amitié que vous puissiez donner à ma soeur: ma\nreconnaissance vous est donc bien assurée. Si ce que vous avez à me\nconfier tend à la guérir plutôt de sa malheureuse inclination, parlez,\nje vous en conjure, je suis prête à vous entendre.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXXII.\n\n\nVous me trouverez, dit le bon colonel à Elinor, un très-maussade\nnarrateur; je sais à peine par où commencer le récit que j'ai à vous\nfaire. Quand je quittai Barton le dernier octobre.... mais il faut que\nje prenne mon récit de plus loin, il faut que je vous parle de ma propre\nhistoire. Je vous promets d'être bref, et vous pouvez vous fier à moi;\nc'est un sujet sur lequel je crains de demeurer long-temps, (et ces mots\nfurent accompagnés d'un profond soupir). Il s'arrêta un moment comme\ncherchant à rassembler ses idées; ensuite il poursuivit.\n\n--Vous avez probablement miss Dashwood, oublié une conversation que\nj'eus avec vous un soir à Barton-Park pendant qu'on dansait; je vous\nparlais d'une dame que j'avais connue autrefois, qui ressemblait à\nbeaucoup d'égards à votre soeur Maria.\n\n--Je ne l'ai point oubliée, s'écria Elinor; je pourrais, je crois, vous\ndire vos mêmes paroles; mais qui pourrait rendre l'expression de\nsentiment avec lequel vous parliez de cette femme?\n\n--Je l'avoue, dit le colonel, c'était avec une bien vive émotion que je\nremarquai dans votre soeur une ressemblance frappante à plusieurs égards\navec cette femme qui n'existe plus depuis long-temps. Ce n'est pas\npeut-être dans le détail des traits que ce rapport existe, quoi qu'il y\nen ait aussi; la figure de Maria est plus belle, mais c'est la même\nexpression de physionomie, le même regard, la même chaleur de coeur, la\nmême vivacité d'imagination, le même caractère. Elisa était ma proche\nparente. Orpheline dès son enfance, elle fut mise sous la tutelle de mon\npère. Je n'avais qu'une année de plus qu'elle, et nous étions élevés\nensemble. Elle était la compagne de mes jeux et mon intime amie; je ne\npuis me rappeler le temps où je n'aimais pas Elisa, et mon affection\ncroissant avec les années devint enfin un sentiment passionné. En me\njugeant sur ma gravité actuelle, vous m'avez cru peut-être incapable\nd'un sentiment exalté; il l'était au point que ni le temps ni sa mort\nn'ont pu l'éteindre, et qu'au moment où je vis votre soeur, qui me la\nrappelait si parfaitement, il se réveilla avec une nouvelle force.\nElisa m'aimait aussi; son attachement pour moi était aussi vif, aussi\npassionné que celui de votre soeur pour Willoughby; jugez donc si je\nl'excuse, si je le comprends. Vous, sage Elinor, vous qui savez placer\nvos sentimens, sous l'égide de la raison, vous ne devez pas comprendre\nle moment où l'on n'entend plus sa voix, où celle de l'amour est seule\nécoutée; (ici des larmes remplirent les yeux d'Elinor) mais votre\nsensibilité vous rend indulgente pour les faiblesses du coeur, et j'en\nabuse peut-être. Un sourire d'Elinor et même ses larmes lui dirent de\ncontinuer.\n\nLa fortune d'Elisa était considérable; nous n'y avions jamais pensé.\nElle était destinée à mon frère aîné; nous l'ignorions tous les deux. Il\nvoyageait avec un gouverneur et connaissait à peine sa jeune cousine,\nqu'il avait jusqu'alors regardée comme un enfant. Lorsqu'il revint dans\nla maison paternelle il avait vingt-quatre ans, Elisa dix-sept, et moi\ndix-huit. Mon père alors nous dévoilant ses desseins, ordonna à sa nièce\nde se préparer à donner sa main à mon frère; il aimait passionnément ce\nfils, qui pendant six ans avait été son fils unique, et ne pouvant lui\nlaisser assez de fortune à son gré, il voulait lui assurer celle de sa\npupille. Voilà je crois la seule excuse que je puisse alléguer pour\ncelui qui était à la fois l'oncle et le tuteur de cette jeune victime.\nProsternée à ses pieds, Elisa en avouant notre amour implora en vain sa\npitié; en vain offrîmes-nous d'un commun accord de céder à mon frère\ncette fortune qui nous rendait si malheureux. Mon père traita et notre\nattachement et cette proposition de folies enfantines, qu'il ne lui\nétait pas même permis d'écouter, et persista durement dans ses projets,\nen disant qu'il saurait bien se faire obéir d'elle ainsi que de mon\nfrère, qui sans aimer du tout sa cousine, consentait cependant à\nl'épouser. Au désespoir, et décidés à tout plutôt qu'à renoncer l'un à\nl'autre, nous formâmes un projet d'évasion. Le jour était fixé; nous\ndevions fuir en Ecosse: nous fûmes trahis par la femme-de-chambre de ma\ncousine. Mon père en fureur me bannit de sa maison; il m'envoya chez un\nparent dont les terres étaient très-éloignées, avec l'injonction de me\nsurveiller, ce dont il s'acquitta avec dureté. Elisa renfermée dans sa\nchambre, privée de toute société, de tout plaisir, fut traitée plus\nrigoureusement encore. Elle me promit en nous séparant que rien au monde\nne pourrait ébranler sa constance, et avant que l'année fût écoulée, on\nm'apprit en me rendant ma liberté que j'avais trop compté sur le courage\nd'une fille de dix-sept ans, que celui d'Elisa avait cédé à l'ennui de\nsa situation, (peut-être aux mauvais traitemens,) et que celle qui\ndevait être ma femme, ma compagne, était actuellement ma belle-soeur.\n\nCe coup qui nous séparait à jamais fut terrible! Cependant j'étais bien\njeune, et si j'avais pu croire qu'elle fût heureuse avec mon frère,\npeut-être aurais-je fini par prendre mon parti. Mais pouvait-elle l'être\navec un homme qui sans l'aimer, et seulement pour sa fortune,\nconsentait à l'épouser malgré elle, lui connaissant un autre\nattachement, et condamnant son frère au désespoir et à l'exil; car mon\npère sans même me revoir, me plaça dans un régiment qui passait aux\nGrandes-Indes, ce qui me fit plaisir. Je n'aurais pas pu revoir Elisa\ndans notre nouvelle situation, et je n'aurais pas voulu l'exposer aux\nsoupçons de son mari ni renouveler par ma présence le souvenir d'un\nsentiment que je désirais alors qu'elle pût oublier.\n\nJe vous ai dit qu'elle ressemblait à votre soeur; vous savez donc déjà\nqu'elle était belle, séduisante, que son coeur et son imagination\nétaient toujours en mouvement. En un seul point elle différait de Maria;\nelle n'avait pas comme votre soeur la sauve-garde d'un système arrêté,\ncelui de n'aimer qu'une fois en sa vie (ici il soupira profondément).\nElinor qui ne croyait pas aux systèmes arrêtés d'une fille de dix-huit\nans ne put s'empêcher de sourire à demi. Le colonel continua, mais avec\nune peine visible. Combien ce qu'il me reste à vous apprendre me coûte à\nprononcer, dit-il avec un accent étouffé; il ne faut pas moins que le\nmotif qui me conduit ici pour m'y décider.\n\nElinor l'encouragea par un regard plein d'amitié.\n\nMon père mourut peu de mois après ce mariage. Elisa si jeune encore,\nsans expérience, livrée à elle-même avec une vivacité de caractère qui\naurait demandé d'être guidée, se trouvait unie à un mari qui n'avait\npour elle ni attachement ni aucune de ces attentions qui gagnent par\ndegré un coeur aimant; il la traitait même avec dureté. Oh! qui\npourrait ne pas la plaindre; si elle avait eu seulement un ami pour\nl'avertir des dangers de sa situation! mais la malheureuse Elisa ne\ntrouva qu'un séducteur qui la conduisit à sa perte.... Si j'étais resté\nen Angleterre peut-être... mais je croyais assurer son bonheur par mon\nabsence bien plus que par ma présence, et dans le seul motif de rendre\nla paix à son coeur, je la prolongeai plus que je n'aurais dû. Ce que\nj'avais ressenti en apprenant son mariage n'était rien auprès de ce que\nj'éprouvai lorsque deux ans après j'appris son divorce, demandé par un\népoux justement outragé. C'est là ce qui m'a jeté dans cette tristesse\nque je n'ai pu vaincre.... même actuellement le souvenir de ce que j'ai\nsouffert....\n\nIl ne put continuer, et se levant il se promena vivement dans le salon\npendant quelques minutes. Elinor affectée par ce récit, et plus encore\npar l'émotion qu'il lui avait causée, ne pouvait lui parler; après\nquelques instans elle fut à lui, et le conjura de cesser une narration\nqui lui faisait autant de peine. Non, lui dit-il, après avoir baisé sa\nmain avec un tendre respect, il faut que vous sachiez tout; je n'ai pas\ntouché encore ce qui peut vous intéresser; daignez m'écouter quelques\ninstans de plus: ils se rassirent à côté l'un de l'autre, et il reprit\nainsi.\n\nJe fus encore trois années depuis ce malheureux événement sans retourner\nen Angleterre. Mon premier soin quand j'arrivai fut de la chercher, mais\nmes recherches furent vaines. Je ne pus arriver qu'à son premier\nséducteur, qu'elle avait abandonné, et tout donnait lieu de penser que\ndès lors elle s'était toujours plus enfoncée dans le mal. Mon frère en\nse séparant d'elle pour raison d'inconduite, n'avait pas été obligé de\nlui rendre toute sa fortune, et ce qu'il lui donnait annuellement ne\npouvait lui suffire. J'appris de lui qu'une autre personne s'était\nprésentée pour toucher cette rente; il imaginait donc, et avec un calme\ndont je fus révolté, que ses _extravagances_ l'avaient obligée de\ndisposer dans un moment de pressant besoin de la seule chose qui lui\nrestât pour vivre. Je ne pus supporter cette idée; ma cousine, l'amie de\nmon enfance, l'amante de ma jeunesse, ma soeur, mon Elisa réduite à la\nmisère, me poursuivait sans relâche. Je recommençai de nouveau mes\nrecherches dans tous les lieux où le malheur et le désespoir pouvait\nl'avoir conduite, sûr qu'elle n'était pas morte, puisque son annuité se\npayait encore. L'individu qui la touchait ne put me donner que des\nrenseignemens obscurs. Enfin après six mois de courses inutiles, je la\ntrouvai par hasard. J'appris qu'un ancien domestique de mon père avait\neu du malheur et venait d'être enfermé pour dettes; j'allai le délivrer,\net dans la même maison d'arrêt, et pour la même cause, était aussi mon\ninfortunée soeur, si changée, si flétrie par des peines de toute espèce,\nqu'à peine pus-je la reconnaître. Ce fut elle qui me reconnut à\nl'instant, et qui me nommant avec un cri déchirant et en se cachant le\nvisage entre les mains, m'apprit que j'avais devant moi l'objet de tant\nde recherches: cette figure si maigre, si triste, où l'on voyait à peine\nquelque trace de beauté, c'était mon Elisa, c'était celle que j'avais\nadorée, et quittée dans la fleur de la jeunesse, de la santé, d'une\nsurabondance de vie et de sentimens. Ce que je souffris en la retrouvant\nainsi!.... Mais non, je n'ai pas le droit d'exciter votre sensibilité\npour une étrangère, quand vous avez assez de vos peines; je me suis même\ntrop étendu sur un sujet si douloureux. Suivant les apparences, Elisa\nétait au dernier degré de la consomption, et son malheur et le mien\nétaient au point, que ce fut une consolation. La vie ne pouvait plus\navoir d'autre prix pour elle, que celui de lui donner le temps de se\npréparer à la mort, et ce temps lui fut accordé. Ce jour même elle fut\nplacée dans un bel appartement, entourée de tous les soins nécessaires:\nje la visitai chaque jour pendant le reste de sa courte vie, et je reçus\nson dernier soupir.\n\nIl s'arrêta encore. Elinor lui témoigna avec l'expression la plus\nsincère, la part qu'elle prenait au triste sort de son amie.\n\nVotre soeur, j'espère, dit-il, ne peut-être offensée par la ressemblance\nqui m'a frappé entre elle et ma pauvre infortunée parente. Leur destin\nne peut jamais avoir le moindre rapport, et si les dispositions\nnaturelles de mon Elisa avaient été soutenues par une soeur comme\nElinor, ou par un heureux mariage, elle aurait été sûrement tout ce que\nMaria sera un jour, quand cet orage de son coeur aura dissipé les\nillusions, trop romanesques peut-être, mais bien séduisantes, auxquelles\nson imagination s'est livrée. Mais à quoi mène cette déplorable\nhistoire? Allez-vous penser. Peut-être à avancer le moment où votre\nsoeur bannira de sa pensée celui qui ne la méritait pas; pardonnez donc,\nsi dans ce but j'ai risqué de vous faire partager la pénible émotion que\nce récit m'a donné. Depuis quinze ans que j'ai fermé les yeux d'Elisa,\nc'est la première fois que ce nom toujours présent à ma pensée est sorti\nde ma bouche; je n'ai pas même voulu que sa fille le portât.\n\n--Sa fille! interrompit Elinor, serait-ce?....\n\n--Madame Jennings vous a peut-être parlé de miss Williams? J'ai vu par\nquelques mots qu'elle connaissait son existence et le tendre intérêt\nque je prends à cette jeune personne, qui ne sera pas hélas! plus\nheureuse que celle qui lui fit le triste présent de la vie sous de si\nfâcheux auspices. Cette enfant fruit de sa coupable liaison, âgée de\ntrois ans, était avec elle; elle la chérissait et ne l'avait point\nquittée, ce qui m'a prouvé qu'elle était vraie lorsqu'elle m'a juré\nqu'elle n'avait pas d'autre faute à se reprocher, et que le repentir\nseul lui avait fait quitter le père de cet enfant. Elle me le dit encore\nen expirant et en me recommandant sa fille, que je promis de regarder\ncomme si elle était la mienne. Je sentis tout le prix de sa confiance,\net je lui aurais bien volontiers servi de père dans le sens le plus\nstrict, en veillant moi-même sur son éducation, si ma situation me\nl'avait permis, mais je n'avais ni famille, ni demeure qui\nm'appartinssent; ainsi je fus forcé de placer ma petite pupille dans une\npension, sous le nom de Caroline Williams; ce dernier est mon nom de\nbaptême que je me plus à lui donner. Je la vis aussi souvent qu'il me\nfut possible, et depuis la mort de mon frère, arrivée il y a cinq ans,\nqui me laissa la propriété de tous les biens de la famille, elle m'a\nsouvent visité à Delafort. Je la présentais comme une parente dont\nj'avais été nommé le tuteur, mais je me doute qu'on a soupçonné dans le\nmonde qu'elle me tenait de plus près. Résolu de la traiter comme ma\nfille, je n'ai pas démenti ce bruit, puisqu'également sa naissance\nn'était ni légitime ni avouée. Il y a trois ans que la trouvant grande\net formée pour son âge, (elle avait alors quatorze ans), je l'ôtai de\nla pension où elle était depuis la mort de sa mère, pour la placer sous\nles soins d'une femme très-respectable qui réside en Dorsetshire, et\ns'est chargée de surveiller l'éducation de cinq ou six jeunes personnes.\nPendant deux ans je fus parfaitement content de ma fille adoptive. Aussi\njolie que sa mère, elle paraissait plus posée, plus calme: sa maîtresse\nqui l'aimait beaucoup avait en elle tant de confiance, qu'elle me\nsollicita de lui permettre de passer quelques semaines à Bath, avec les\nparens de l'une de ses jeunes amies qui désiraient sa société pour leur\nfille. Je connaissais cette famille sous un jour avantageux. La santé de\nCaroline avait toujours été délicate; je pensais que cette course et les\nbains la fortifieraient, et j'eus l'imprudence d'y consentir: c'est là\nsans doute où elle fit la connaissance qui lui a été si fatale! J'ai su\ndepuis que le père de son amie ayant été retenu par la goutte à la\nmaison, était soigné par sa femme, et que les deux jeunes amies allaient\nseules dans les promenades ou à leurs emplètes du matin. Quoique l'amie\nde Caroline n'ait jamais voulu convenir de rien, j'ai lieu de croire\nqu'elle était confidente de son inclination et la favorisait. De retour\nà leur pension, Caroline ne fut plus la même; rêveuse, inégale\ninattentive, elle s'échappait souvent pour se promener seule dans les\nenvirons: la maîtresse la menaça de m'avertir. Enfin au mois de février,\nil y a à présent une année, elle sortit un jour comme à l'ordinaire, et\nne revint pas. Après un jour ou deux passés en recherches inutiles, je\nfus averti de sa disparition. J'accourus, et tout ce que je pus\napprendre c'est qu'elle s'en était allée. Pendant huit mois je fus livré\nà des conjectures dont l'une détruisait l'autre et me replongeait dans\nune incertitude cruelle! Tout ce que je pus découvrir, c'est qu'un jeune\nhomme d'une figure, d'une beauté remarquable, avait souvent été vu dans\nles environs, se promenant avec elle; mais je ne pus avoir aucune\nlumière sur son nom.\n\nOh ciel! s'écria Elinor, serait-ce?.... Est-il possible que ce soit\nWilloughby! Sans lui répondre le colonel continua.\n\nToutes les recherches pour découvrir quelques traces de sa demeure ayant\nété inutiles, je tombai dans un sombre abattement, dont mon ami sir\nGeorges Middleton eut la bonté de s'inquiéter; il m'invita de passer\nquelque temps à Barton-Park pour me distraire. Je ne lui avais point\nconfié la cause de mon chagrin, espérant d'un jour à l'autre retrouver\nma brebis égarée, et sauver au moins sa réputation. J'avais besoin de\nfuir les lieux où je l'avais vue, où je ne la voyais plus, et j'acceptai\nla proposition de mon ami. C'est alors que je fis la connaissance des\nintéressantes parentes de sir Georges; c'est là que je vis avec un\ntrouble que je ne pus cacher l'image vivante de ma pauvre Elisa, image\nqui me fit une impression d'autant plus vive, d'autant plus douloureuse,\nqu'elle me retraça en même-temps et la perte de la mère et celle du\ndépôt qu'elle avait confié à mes soins. Vous fûtes souvent témoin de ma\nmélancolie; elle vous intéressa et rebuta peut-être la vive et brillante\nMaria. Bientôt un autre objet vint l'occuper en entier, et m'enlever\nmême la faible espérance de pouvoir jamais lui plaire. Je combattais\nentre la nécessité de partir et le désir de rester, lorsque je reçus\ninopinément une lettre de Caroline elle-même, dans les premiers jours\nd'octobre; elle me fut renvoyée de ma terre de Delafort où elle était\nadressée. Je la reçus le matin du jour où nous devions tous aller à\nWithwell; vous vîtes l'émotion qu'elle me donna et qui fut d'autant plus\nvive que l'écriture, les expressions de ma pauvre repentante pupille me\nfirent présumer qu'elle était très-malade et qu'elle avait un pressant\nbesoin de mon secours. Elle me disait où je la trouverais, c'était dans\nun hameau tellement retiré, que je ne fus pas surpris qu'elle eût\néchappé à toutes mes recherches: je n'avais donc pas un instant à\nperdre, et je résolus de partir tout de suite pour aller la chercher. Je\nparus fort étrange, fort entêté; vous seule ne fîtes aucun effort pour\nme retenir, et pardonnez si j'ose croire que vous étiez celle qui me\nregrettait le plus. Je partis très-inquiet de l'état où je trouverais ma\nfille adoptive, et le coeur serré du regard courroucé de Maria, qui ne\nme pardonnait pas de faire manquer cette partie. Oh! combien j'étais\nalors loin de me douter que cet heureux Willoughby, dont les regards me\nreprochaient l'impolitesse de mon départ, fut celui qui en était la\ncause, et lui-même s'il avait su que j'allais au secours de celle qu'il\navait perdue, abandonnée! mais en aurait-il été moins gai, moins\nsatisfait? Un sourire de Maria ne lui faisait-il pas oublier les larmes\nde ma pauvre Caroline. Non, non, l'homme capable de laisser la jeune\nfille dont il a séduit l'innocence, de la laisser dans la misère et dans\nl'abandon, sans asile, sans amis, sans secours, ignorant sa retraite, et\nqui pendant que sa victime meurt de sa douleur, médite peut-être la\nperte d'une autre, non un tel être n'est pas susceptible de remords! Il\navait quitté Caroline en lui promettant de revenir bientôt; il n'était\npas revenu, il ne lui avait pas écrit, il ne pensait plus à elle.\n\nUn mouvement involontaire avait fait baisser les yeux à Elinor, comme si\nelle avait eu honte pour sa soeur d'avoir été même sans le savoir\ncomplice d'une telle perfidie; elle les releva pleins d'indignation:\nc'est au-dessus, dit-elle, de tout ce que je pouvais imaginer! Mais mon\ncher colonel, pourquoi... Elle s'arrêta tremblant elle-même du reproche\nqu'elle se croyait en droit de lui faire.\n\nJe vous entends, dit-il, pourquoi ne vous ai-je pas avertie plutôt? Non,\nje ne puis vous exprimer ce que j'ai souffert depuis mon retour!\nCombattant chaque jour, chaque instant avec moi-même, pour vous cacher\nou vous découvrir cette histoire. Lorsque je vis que Willoughby ne\nretournait point à Barton, j'espérai que quelque incident vous avait\ndévoilé son caractère, ou que sa légèreté l'avait entraîné loin de\nMaria, et qu'il n'était plus dangereux pour elle; mais quand je vis,\nquand j'appris de vous-même qu'elle l'aimait plus tendrement, plus\npassionnément que jamais; quand le bruit de leur mariage se répandit\ngénéralement; quand je sus qu'ils étaient en correspondance, alors\nqu'aurais-je pu dire? Mon intérêt personnel dans toute cette affaire\nétait si grand, si.... compliqué, qu'il m'était peut-être interdit de\nm'en mêler, lorsque tout était conclu. Je n'aurais peut-être persuadé\npersonne, et Maria blessée, désespérée, et par moi! m'offrait un tableau\naffreux à soutenir. Willoughby sans doute avait été rendu à la vertu par\nl'empire irrésistible d'une famille telle que la vôtre, et des charmes\nde Maria; il avait continué à l'adorer, et j'osais espérer que revenu de\nses erreurs de jeunesse, il la rendrait heureuse. Jamais je n'avais eu\nl'espoir que ma pauvre Caroline pût devenir sa compagne, vu la tache de\nsa naissance, celle même de sa séduction. Sans doute il fut bien\ncoupable avec elle; mais dans ce siècle, si l'on comptait trop\nsévèrement les torts de cette espèce, quel jeune homme serait digne\nd'obtenir la main d'une femme honnête? et celle qui allait appartenir à\nWilloughby réunissait tant de perfections, qu'elle devait sans doute\nfixer son inconstance. Voilà, chère Elinor, les motifs de mon silence;\nj'allais jusqu'à me persuader que dans ma situation, c'était un devoir\nde me taire; cependant un sentiment intérieur m'a souvent engagé à\nm'ouvrir entièrement à vous, et si je vous avais trouvée seule la\nsemaine passée, quelques rapports sur Willoughby, sur la cour qu'il\nfaisait publiquement à miss Grey et la tristesse de Maria, m'auraient\nenfin décidé à vous parler. Je vins ici déterminé à vous faire connaître\nla vérité, je commençai une explication; vous m'interrompîtes en\nm'assurant que vous ne croyiez point que le mariage de votre soeur eût\nlieu; alors je me retins. Pourquoi nuire sans nécessité à un homme qui\nme regarde déja comme son ennemi, que j'ai déja puni de sa perfidie?\nMais actuellement qu'il en agit aussi indignement avec Maria, je n'ai\nplus de ménagement à garder, et je dois faire connaître à votre soeur le\ndanger qu'elle a couru en s'attachant à un homme sans principes, sans\nmoeurs, sans délicatesse, qui lui destinait sans doute le même sort qu'à\nma pauvre Caroline, s'il avait pu triompher aussi facilement. Ah!\nquelque soit son chagrin actuel, il doit se changer en reconnaissance\npour l'Être-Suprême qui a veillé sur elle, et l'a garantie des pièges\ndont elle était environnée. Qu'elle compare son sort avec celui de ma\npauvre enfant trompée aussi dans le premier choix de son coeur, et\nn'ayant plus la consolation de sa propre innocence; qu'elle se\nreprésente cette jeune fille avec une passion dans le coeur aussi forte,\naussi vive que la sienne, et peut-être augmentée par ses sacrifices,\ntourmentée de l'abandon de celui qu'elle aime, et pour qui elle a\nrenoncé à sa propre estime, et des reproches cruels de sa conscience,\nqui ne cesseront jamais. Il est impossible que Maria ne trouve pas alors\nses souffrances bien légères; elles ne procèdent pas d'elle-même, elle a\nconservé dans son entier sa propre estime et celle de tous ses amis.\nUne tendre compassion de son malheur, le respect pour la dignité avec\nlaquelle elle le supportera sans doute, ne peuvent qu'augmenter leur\namitié; et peut-être que celui qu'elle regrette, parce qu'elle le voit\nencore sous le bandeau des illusions de l'amour, cessera de l'intéresser\nquand il lui sera mieux connu. Usez, chère Elinor, de votre prudence, de\nvotre discernement pour lui communiquer ce que je viens de vous dire.\nVous pouvez bien mieux que moi juger de son effet et de ce que vous\ndevez lui apprendre ou lui cacher; mais si je n'avais pas cru de bonne\nfoi et dans ma conscience que cette histoire pût vous être utile pour\nadoucir ses regrets, je ne me serais jamais permis de vous troubler par\nle détail de mes propres afflictions et par un récit d'où l'on peut\nprésumer que je cherchais à me relever aux dépens des autres.\n\nElinor le remercia avec l'expression de la plus tendre reconnaissance,\net lui dit qu'elle pensait comme lui que cette communication serait\navantageuse à sa soeur. J'ai été plus peinée, dit-elle, de la voir\nessayer de le justifier que de tout le reste. Elle ne peut supporter\nqu'on l'accuse ni qu'on le soupçonne; mais ici il y a plus que des\nsoupçons, c'est une certitude de son indignité qui doit faire effet sur\nun caractère tel que celui de Maria. Quoique d'abord elle en souffrira\nbeaucoup, je suis presque sûre de l'efficacité de ce remède.... Après un\ncourt silence elle ajouta: Avez-vous revu M. Willoughby depuis que vous\nl'avez quitté à Barton?\n\n--Oui, répondit gravement le colonel, je l'ai vu une fois.... notre\nrencontre était inévitable.\n\n--Elinor frappée de son accent le regarda avec étonnement, en lui\ndisant, expliquez-vous! comment? où l'avez-vous rencontré?\n\n--Il n'y avait qu'une seule manière..... Caroline m'avoua enfin,\nquoiqu'avec beaucoup de peine le nom de son séducteur; je ne pouvais pas\nlaisser passer son indigne action sans lui dire mon opinion sur sa\nconduite avec la jeune fille confiée à mes soins. Je lui écrivis à\nAltenham dans des termes qui l'obligèrent à se rendre directement à\nLondres, où je lui donnais rendez-vous. Il y fut exact, car l'homme qui\nmanque aux lois de l'honneur avec un sexe faible et sans défense, n'a\ngarde d'y manquer avec son propre sexe. Nous nous rencontrâmes donc, lui\npour défendre et moi pour punir sa conduite. Il fut blessé au bras; je\nn'en voulais pas à sa vie, et lors même que le désir de la conserver\nl'aurait engagé à m'offrir de réparer ses torts en épousant Caroline, je\nn'y aurais pas consenti. L'exemple de sa mère m'a trop fait sentir les\ndangers d'une union qui n'est pas fondée sur un attachement et une\nestime réciproques. J'aime mieux consoler mon enfant d'une faiblesse\nexcusable, peut-être, dans un âge aussi tendre, que de l'exposer à\ndevenir bien plus coupable, en l'unissant à un homme dont les principes\nsont aussi relâchés. Désolé de n'avoir pas su prévenir le malheur de la\nfille de mon Elisa, d'avoir si mal répondu à sa confiance, je consacre\nle reste de ma vie à adoucir ses peines, à la réconcilier avec\nelle-même, à la consoler d'une faute qu'elle peut encore réparer à force\nde vertus, et en remplissant tous les devoirs qui lui sont imposés.\n\n--Est-elle à Londres?\n\n--Non, sa santé avait besoin d'un air plus pur. Je la trouvai près de\ndevenir mère. Son fils qui sera le mien, l'occupe uniquement. Je l'ai\nplacée à la campagne chez des gens dont je suis sûr, comme une jeune\nveuve; et si l'on peut croire à l'efficacité d'un profond et sincère\nrepentir, le ciel lui a pardonné une faute aussi chèrement payée.\n\nSe rappelant tout-à-coup que Maria avait peut-être besoin de sa soeur,\nque madame Jennings allait rentrer, il termina sa visite, recevant\nencore tous les remercîmens d'Elinor, et la laissant pleine d'estime\npour lui, de compassion pour sa fille adoptive et d'indignation contre\nWilloughby.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXXIII.\n\n\nElinor trouva bientôt l'occasion de répéter cette conversation à sa\nsoeur; mais l'effet fut très-différent de ce qu'elle avait imaginé.\nMaria n'eut pas l'air d'avoir un seul doute; elle écouta le récit avec\nla plus ferme et la plus soumise attention, sans faire aucune remarque,\naucune objection, sans interrompre cette narration par la moindre\nexclamation douloureuse. Elle n'essaya point de justifier Willoughby;\nelle versait des larmes, et semblait convenir par son silence qu'elle\nsentait que c'était impossible. Toute sa conduite prouva à Elinor que la\nconviction de cette perfidie avait frappé son esprit, mais sans guérir\nson coeur. Elle vit aussi avec satisfaction, mais avec une grande\nsurprise, qu'elle ne cherchait plus à éviter le colonel Brandon. Quand\nil entrait dans le salon elle ne sortait plus; elle ne lui parlait pas\nla première, mais elle lui répondait avec beaucoup de politesse et même\navec une sorte de respect, et ne se permettait plus un seul mot contre\nlui. Ce pauvre colonel, disait-elle à Elinor, comme je l'ai mal jugé! Il\na aimé passionnément, et il a été trahi; ah! combien je le plains. En\ntout elle était plus calme, plus résignée en apparence; mais elle n'en\nparaissait pas moins malheureuse. Son esprit avait pris une assiette\nplus tranquille, mais aussi plus mélancolique; et toujours elle était\nplongée dans un profond abattement. Elle sentit plus pesamment la perte\ndes vertus et du caractère qu'elle avait supposés à Willoughby, qu'elle\nn'avait senti celle de son coeur. La séduction de mademoiselle Williams;\nl'abandon qui en avait été la suite; la misère de cette pauvre jeune\nfille, qui contrastait si fort avec la gaîté brillante de son séducteur;\nun doute sur les desseins qu'il pouvait avoir eus sur elle-même,\nlorsqu'il feignait si bien un amour qu'il n'avait peut-être pas: tout\ncela réuni l'oppressait au point de ne pouvoir plus même en parler avec\nElinor; et nourrissant en silence le chagrin qui la dévorait, elle\ncausait plus de peine à sa soeur que si elle le lui avait confié du\nmatin au soir.\n\nElles recevaient de leur mère de fréquentes lettres qui n'étaient qu'une\nrépétition de tout ce que Maria avait dit et senti. Sa douleur égalait\npresque celle de cette dernière, et son indignation surpassait celle\nd'Elinor. Des pages entières arrivaient tous les jours, pour dire et\nredire toutes ses pensées, tous ses sentimens, pour exprimer sa\nsollicitude sur sa chère Maria, pour la supplier d'avoir un courage dont\nelle ne lui donnait pas l'exemple, et pour la recommander à Elinor.\nMalgré son désir de les revoir toutes les deux, elle insistait\npositivement pour qu'elles ne revinssent pas encore à Barton; ce lieu\nplus que tout autre retracerait à sa pauvre Maria son bonheur passé, et\nnourrirait son amour et son affliction: à chaque place, disait-elle,\nelle verrait en imagination Willoughby comme elle l'avait vu, tendre,\nempressé, uniquement occupé d'elle et des moyens de lui plaire.... et\nl'imprudente mère ne songeait pas qu'en présentant elle-même ce tableau\nà Maria, elle lui faisait tout le mal qu'elle voulait éviter. Elinor vit\navec chagrin que chaque lettre de la Chaumière redoublait la tristesse\nde sa soeur; elle en vint à croire qu'en effet madame Dashwood faisait\nmieux de ne pas la rappeler auprès d'elle, et qu'elles ne feraient que\ns'exciter ensemble aux regrets et à la douleur. Madame Dashwood les\nengageait à profiter de l'invitation et de la générosité de madame\nJennings, et à rester au moins pendant les six semaines qu'elle avait\nfixées pour leur séjour à Londres: une variété d'objets, d'occupations,\nde société, pourraient peut-être, disait-elle, distraire sa chère Maria\nde ses tristes pensées et lui procurer quelqu'autre objet d'intérêt. La\nrencontre fortuite de Willoughby ne l'inquiétait point; elle n'était pas\nà craindre; tous leurs amis, toutes leurs connaissances partageaient\nsans doute son indignation et n'auraient garde de l'inviter. Maria avait\nmême moins de chance de le rencontrer qu'à Barton; il pouvait être\nobligé d'un jour à l'autre de faire une visite à madame Smith à\nAltenham, à l'occasion de son mariage, et même d'y amener sa femme, ce\nqui serait absolument insupportable, et ne manquerait pas d'arriver. Un\nautre motif se joignait encore à ceux-là pour engager ses filles à\nrester à Londres. Une lettre de M. John Dashwood lui avait annoncé que\ndans le milieu de février ils y seraient établis en famille. Elle\ndésirait beaucoup que ses filles fussent à même de voir leur frère; sans\nle dire elle pensait aussi que son Elinor gagnerait sûrement le coeur de\nmadame Ferrars, et qu'elle verrait au moins une de ses filles heureuse\net bien établie. Maria avait promis de se laisser guider par l'opinion\nde sa mère; elle s'y soumit donc sans opposition, quoique la sienne fût\nabsolument contraire. Maman se trompe sur tous les points, pensait-elle;\nen me faisant rester à Londres, elle me prive des consolations que je\ntrouverais dans sa tendre sympathie pour l'excès de mon malheur, et je\nne serais pas forcée de voir une société dont le manque total de goût et\nde sentimens me repousse et me blesse, et avec laquelle je ne puis\nespérer un seul instant de repos. La seule chose qui lui fît prendre\nson parti sur cette décision, fut l'avantage d'Elinor, qui pourrait voir\nEdward journellement chez sa soeur. Elinor de son côté, pensant qu'avec\ndes relations de famille aussi intimes, elle ne pourrait pas toujours\néviter Edward, fortifiait son âme pour s'accoutumer à le voir, non plus\ncomme son futur époux, mais comme celui de Lucy Stéeles, et croyait\nainsi que sa mère, que dans les dispositions mélancoliques de Maria, un\npeu des distractions de la ville lui valait mieux qu'une solitude,\nremplie de si dangereux souvenirs.\n\nSes soins pour que sa soeur n'entendît jamais le nom de Willoughby\nprononcé devant elle, ne furent pas sans succès. Ni madame Jennings, ni\naucun de ses enfans, sans en excepter la babillarde petite dame Palmer,\nne parlaient jamais de lui devant elle; mais ils s'en dédommageaient\namplement lorsqu'elle n'était pas avec eux, ce qui arrivait souvent; et\nla pauvre Elinor était obligée de supporter seule leur curiosité, leur\nindignation, et, ce qui était pire encore, leur pitié pour sa soeur. Sir\nGeorges pouvait à peine croire que cela fût possible; un homme dont il\navait toujours eu bonne opinion, un si bon garçon, le meilleur écuyer et\nle plus habile chasseur de l'Angleterre! et quel danseur infatigable!\nC'était une chose incroyable; il le donnait à tous les diables du plus\nprofond de son coeur; il ne lui dirait plus une seule parole pour tous\nles biens du monde, à ce scélérat, à ce trompeur! pas même, disait-il,\ns'il m'offrait une de ses charmantes petites chiennes; non, non, tout\nest fini avec lui.\n\nMadame Palmer exprimait aussi sa colère à sa manière, sans savoir ce\nqu'elle disait; elle était décidée aussi à rompre avec lui, et\nremerciait le ciel de ne pas le connaître. Elle le haïssait au point de\nne pouvoir parler de lui, et contait à tout le monde ce qu'elle en\nsavait: ce fut par elle qu'Elinor apprit toutes les particularités du\nmariage, chez quel sellier les voitures se faisaient, et quel peintre\npeignait les miniatures de l'époux et de l'épouse, et dans quel magasin\non pouvait voir les parures étalées, etc. etc. Lady Middleton dit le\npremier jour: en vérité un homme de la bonne société ne devait pas se\nconduire ainsi. N'avoir pas l'air de connaître une personne chez qui il\na été reçu si poliment, une parente de sir Georges, c'est très-mal.\nEnsuite elle n'en parla plus du tout; mais ayant appris que madame\nWilloughby était une élégante qui donnait le ton et se mettait à\nmerveille, elle pensa qu'elle embellirait ses assemblées, et se promit\nde lui envoyer des cartes de visites et de l'inviter au premier _rout_\nqu'elle donnerait. En attendant sa polie indifférence plaisait mieux à\nElinor que le bruyant et humiliant intérêt des autres personnes de leur\nsociété, que celui même de madame Jennings, qui disait à tout le monde,\ncomme cette pauvre Maria était malade de chagrin; comme c'était une\npitié de la voir à table sans manger, quoiqu'elle lui donnât les\nmeilleures choses du monde. Mais qu'y faire? tout cela n'est pas le\ntraître Willoughby; c'est lui qu'elle voudrait, et je ne puis pas le lui\nrendre, etc. etc. M. Palmer qui n'avait pas l'air de se douter qu'il y\neût au monde une Maria Dashwood et un James Willoughby, était dans ce\nmoment celui de leur société qui convenait le mieux à Elinor, excepté\ncependant le bon colonel qui ne parlait de Maria que sur le ton de la\nplus extrême délicatesse, et, avec qui Elinor pouvait causer avec une\nconfiance entière. Il trouvait dans l'amitié que cette aimable fille lui\ntémoignait et dans la manière beaucoup plus affable de Maria, la\nrécompense du zèle amical qu'il avait montré, en découvrant et ses\nchagrins et ses humiliations. Depuis qu'elle savait qu'il était\ntrès-sensible, et qu'il avait été malheureux en amour, elle le voyait\nsous un tout autre point de vue: il l'intéressait, et Elinor se flattait\nque cet intérêt s'augmenterait peu-à-peu. Mais madame Jennings qui avait\nmis dans sa tête que ce mariage se ferait au milieu de l'été, trouvait\nque les choses ne s'avançaient point assez. Le colonel lui paraissait\ntout aussi grave et silencieux qu'à l'ordinaire, malgré les petits\nencouragemens qu'elle lui donnait en lui disant tous les soirs: Colonel,\nvous reviendrez demain, n'est-ce pas? et en jetant un coup-d'oeil fin\nsur la pensive Maria. Malgré tout cela, il ne s'était pas encore adressé\nà elle pour parler en sa faveur, et n'osa pas s'offrir lui-même. Au bout\nde quelques jours elle commença à penser que ce mariage n'aurait lieu\nqu'en automne, et à la fin de la semaine elle décida qu'il ne se ferait\njamais. La bonne intelligence qui régnait entre Elinor et le colonel, et\nleurs _aparté_, lui persuadèrent qu'il s'était tourné du côté de\nl'aînée, et que la belle terre de Delafort, le canal, les bosquets et le\nmaître seraient bientôt en sa possession. Edward Ferrars ne paraissait\npoint; Elinor n'en parlait jamais, et madame Jennings l'oublia\ncomplètement.\n\nAu commencement de février, quinze jours après la réception de la lettre\nde Willoughby, Elinor eut la pénible tâche d'apprendre à sa soeur qu'il\nétait marié. Elle avait prié madame Jennings, qui savait tout par madame\nPalmer, de l'informer dès que la cérémonie aurait eu lieu, pour que\nMaria ne l'apprît pas par les papiers qu'elle lisait tous les matins\navec empressement.\n\nElle reçut cette nouvelle avec un calme affecté, auquel on voyait\nqu'elle s'était préparée. Elle ne fit nulle observation, elle ne versa\npoint de larmes; mais elle s'enferma dans sa chambre toute la matinée,\net quand elle en sortit, elle était presque dans le même état que le\njour qu'elle reçut la fatale nouvelle.\n\nLes nouveaux époux quittèrent la ville dès qu'ils furent mariés. Elinor\nfut soulagée de sentir qu'il n'y avait plus de danger de les rencontrer,\net que sa soeur, qui n'était pas sortie une seule fois de la maison\ndepuis son chagrin, pourrait au moins prendre l'air, se promener, et\nreprendre par degrés sa vie accoutumée.\n\nPeu de jours après, les deux demoiselles Stéeles arrivèrent chez un de\nleurs modestes parens à Holborn; mais elles n'eurent rien de plus pressé\nque de se présenter chez leurs connaissances du bon ton, chez leur\ncousine milady Middleton, et à Berkeley-Street chez leur tante madame\nJennings. Elles y furent reçues avec cordialité, quoique la politesse de\nlady Middleton eût une nuance de protection de plus qu'elle n'avait à\nBarton. Elinor fut la seule qui dans le fond de son coeur fût fâchée de\nles voir; la présence de Lucy lui faisait éprouver une véritable peine;\nelle ne savait comment répondre à ses exagérations de fausse amitié qui\nla rendaient toujours plus méprisable.--J'aurais été désespérée, ma\nchère miss Dashwood, de ne pas vous trouver _encore_ ici, lui\ndisait-elle, en pesant sur ce mot avec emphase; mais j'avais toujours\nespéré que vous y _seriez_. J'étais sûre que vous _resteriez_ à Londres,\nau moins tout le mois _de février_, quoique vous m'eussiez _dit_ et\nassuré à Barton que vous repartiriez _avant_; mais déja alors j'étais\nconvaincue que vous changeriez d'idée. Il aurait été cruel, il est vrai,\nde partir avant l'arrivée de votre frère, de votre belle-soeur..... et\nde _la famille_. Actuellement je suis sûre que vous n'êtes pas du tout\npressée de vous en aller. Je suis au comble de la joie que vous n'ayez\npas tenu _votre parole_.\n\nElinor la comprit parfaitement, et mit en usage toute la force de son\nesprit pour qu'elle ne s'en aperçût pas.--Je suppose que vous irez\ndemeurer avec monsieur et madame John Dashwood dès qu'ils seront à la\nville, reprit Lucy avec affectation.\n\n--Non, je ne le crois pas, répondit Elinor.\n\n--Oh! oui, oui, j'en suis sûre, il en sera tout de même que de votre\nretour à la Chaumière au bout d'un mois. Elinor lui laissa croire ce\nqu'elle voulait et ne répondit rien.\n\n--Comme c'est délicieux pour vous, chère Elinor, que votre maman vous\npermette une si _longue_ absence et puisse se passer de vous aussi\nlong-temps.\n\n--Aussi long-temps! s'écria madame Jennings; ne dites donc pas cela,\nLucy; leur visite ne fait que de commencer.\n\nLucy se tut avec l'air mécontent.\n\n--Je suis fâchée que nous ne puissions pas voir votre soeur, dit\nmademoiselle Anna, est-ce qu'elle est malade? On prétend qu'elle a ses\nraisons, et je les comprends bien. On ne trouve pas facilement un homme\ntel que M. Willoughby, et c'est vraiment une grande perte. Elle est donc\nbien désolée, la pauvre Maria?\n\n--Elle le sera certainement, mesdames, de n'avoir pas le plaisir de vous\nvoir, dit Elinor avec une noble simplicité; elle a aujourd'hui un\ntrès-grand mal de tête qui la force à garder sa chambre.\n\n--Un mal de tête! quel malheur! je la plains beaucoup je vous assure;\nmais ne pourrait-elle pas également voir d'anciennes amies de campagne\ncomme nous, avec qui elle peut ouvrir son coeur en entier? Rien ne\nsoulage mieux: nous allons monter chez elle.\n\n--Je crois, dit Elinor un peu sèchement, que pour la migraine le silence\net le repos valent mieux. Elle commençait à les trouver impertinentes au\npoint qu'elle ne pouvait presque plus se modérer. Lucy lui épargna la\npeine d'une réprimande; elle en fit une très-sèche à sa soeur aînée sur\nson manque d'usage et de politesse. Elinor trouva que celle qui grondait\naurait mieux encore mérité la gronderie, et la vit partir avec plaisir.\n\nFIN DU SECOND VOLUME.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n  Liste des modifications:\n\n  page  12: «Midleton» remplacé par «Middleton»\n  page  32: suppression d'un «avec» (en disant avec hésitation)\n  page  39: suppression d'un «que» (voilà celui que j'entends)\n  page  43: «peut-êrte» par «peut-être»\n  page  68: «piano» par «pianos» (le meilleur des pianos)\n  page  72: «enchanté» par «enchantée» (mais je suis enchantée de\n              trouver)\n  page  88: suppression d'un «en» (et sa maman lui demandait alors\n              en grâce)\n  page  97: «ayiez» par «ayez» (et je suis charmée que vous ayez)\n  page  98: «obstacle» par «obstacles» (lever tous les obstacles)\n  page 100: «barronnet» par «baronnet» (est belle-mère d'un baronnet)\n  page 113: «courier» par «courrier» (vous écrira par le premier\n              courrier)\n  page 118: suppression d'un «vous» (Je suis enchantée de vous voir)\n  page 123: «trotoirs» par «trottoirs»\n  page 128: «toute» par «tout» (et lui rendit tout son espoir)\n  page 129: «Cet» par «Cette» (Cette extrême douceur)\n  page 161: «regreté» par «regretté» (j'ai beaucoup regretté)\n          : suppression de «n'a» (j'ai beaucoup regretté de n'avoir\n              pas eu le bonheur)\n          : suppression d'un «plus» (dans la plus grande anxiété)\n  page 162: rajouté «il» (à qui il avait parlé)\n  page 175: «l'attentention» par «l'attention»\n  page 185: «souponné»  par «soupçonné» (jamais elle ne l'aurait\n              soupçonné)\n  page 205: «Malheusement» par «malheureusement»\n  page 206: «la» par «le» (et le matin quand il vint)\n  page 229: «l'a» par «la» (mais il la mariera)\n  page 230: «touva» par «trouva» (qu'elle trouva)\n  page 238: «ving» par «vingt» (s'il n'avait que vingt ans)\n  page 260: «fuire» par «fuir» (nous devions fuir)\n  page 262: «aurai» par «aurais» (et je n'aurais pas voulu l'exposer)\n  page 267: suppression d'un «le» (dans tous les lieux où le malheur)\n  page 268: suppression d'un «droit» (je n'ai pas le droit d'exciter)\n  page 277: «expression» par «expressions» (les expressions de ma\n              pauvre)\n  page 283: suppression d'un «un» (en s'attachant à un homme)\n            «triomper» par «triompher» (s'il avait pu triompher)\n  page 286: «chercher» par «cherchais» (que je cherchais à me relever)\n          : «reconaissance» par «reconnaissance» (la plus tendre\n              reconnaissance)\n  page 309: «vraiement» par «vraiment» (c'est vraiment une grande\n              perte)\n\n  homogénéisation:\n    «Berkeley-street» pages: 139, 165\n    «politesse» pages: 140, 214\n    «Willoughby» pages: 160, 182, 247\n\n\n\n\n\n","id":"35151"},{"text":"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n  Au lecteur\n\n  Madame de Montolieu a traduit «librement» «Sense and Sensibility».\n  Elle a notamment changé les prénoms de certains personnages du roman\n  de Jane Austen, dont le nom n'apparaît pas dans la version papier.\n\n  La ponctuation n'a pas été modifiée hormis quelques corrections\n  mineures.\n\n  L'orthographe a été conservée. Seuls quelques mots ont été modifiés.\n  La liste des modifications se trouve à la fin du texte.\n\n\n\n\n  RAISON\n\n  ET\n\n  SENSIBILITÉ.\n\n\n\n\n  RAISON\n\n  ET\n\n  SENSIBILITÉ,\n\n  OU\n  LES DEUX MANIÈRES D'AIMER.\n\n\n  PAR\n\n\n  JANE AUSTEN\n\n\n  TRADUIT LIBREMENT DE L'ANGLAIS,\n  PAR\n\n  MME ISABELLE DE MONTOLIEU.\n\n\n  TOME TROISIÈME.\n\n\n  A PARIS,\n  CHEZ ARTHUS-BERTRAND, LIBRAIRE,\n  RUE HAUTEFEUILLE, Nº. 23.\n\n  1815.\n\n\n\n\nRAISON\n\nET\n\nSENSIBILITÉ.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXXIV.\n\n\nAprès quelques oppositions, Maria céda aux prières de sa soeur et\nconsentit à sortir un matin avec elle et avec madame Jennings pour une\ndemi-heure. Elle y mit la condition de ne faire aucune visite et\nd'accompagner seulement sa soeur jusques chez le fameux bijoutier Grays,\nà _Pakeville-Street_, où Elinor voulait changer quelques vieux diamans\nde sa mère contre des bijoux plus à la mode.\n\nQuand elles arrivèrent à la porte, madame Jennings se rappela qu'il y\navait à l'autre bout de la rue une dame de sa connaissance qu'elle\ndésirait de voir, et comme elle n'avait rien à faire chez le bijoutier,\nelle dit à ses jeunes amies d'entrer sans elle, et qu'elle viendrait les\nreprendre après avoir fait sa visite.\n\nElles montèrent, et comme ce magasin était à la mode, et qu'on ne\npouvait pas décemment porter un bijou, s'il n'était pas monté par M.\nGrays, elles y trouvèrent une telle quantité de monde, qu'il ne leur fut\npas même possible de parvenir jusqu'à lui et qu'il fallut attendre.\nElles s'assirent au bout du comptoir, du côté où il y avait le moins de\nfoule. Un seul homme, d'après l'attention qu'il exigeait de l'ouvrier à\nqui il parlait, commandait sans doute quelque chose de précieux. Elinor\nespéra cependant que voyant deux femmes attendre qu'il eût fini, il\naurait la politesse de se hâter. Mais après les avoir lorgnées l'une\naprès l'autre, avec une très-élégante lorgnette attachée à une chaîne\nd'or de Venise, et les avoir saluées légèrement, il recommença à parler\nau bijoutier, à lui expliquer dans le plus minutieux détail ce qu'il\ndemandait: c'était une petite boîte à cure-dents pour lui; et jusqu'à ce\nque la grandeur, la forme, les ornemens fussent expliqués, il s'écoula\nau moins un quart d'heure. Il se fit ensuite montrer tous les étuis à\ncure-dents du magasin, les loua, les dénigra, en parla comme de la chose\nla plus essentielle, déclara qu'il n'y avait de bien dans ce genre que\nce qui sortait de son imagination, et recommença son explication\nminutieuse. De temps en temps sa main très-blanche, ornée de quelques\nbagues de fantaisie, reprenait sa lorgnette et la dirigeait négligemment\nsur les deux soeurs. Il chercha ensuite au milieu de cent breloques qui\npendaient à sa montre un cachet emblématique dont la monture était aussi\nde son imagination. Quoiqu'Elinor n'eût jamais vu un seul des\nmerveilleux petits-maîtres qui viennent étaler leurs grâces dans les\nmagasins, aux ventes, aux promenades, elle comprit que celui-ci en était\nun. Sa figure soignée avec toute la recherche et l'extravagance de la\nmode, aurait été belle s'il en avait été moins occupé; ses traits\nétaient réguliers, mais complètement insignifians; ses yeux grands et\nd'une belle couleur n'exprimaient que le contentement de lui-même; son\nsourire seul aurait paru assez agréable à Elinor, parce qu'il lui\nrappelait celui d'Edward, s'il n'avait pas souri continuellement avec\naffectation, et seulement pour montrer ses belles dents.\n\nAprès s'en être amusée un instant, elle le trouva insupportable et\nsurtout très-malhonnête de faire attendre aussi long-temps des femmes\npour un objet aussi peu important, et de les regarder comme un objet de\ncuriosité. Maria ne savait pas seulement qu'il était là. Pensive, les\nyeux baissés, elle n'était pas dans le magasin de M. Grays, dont le nom\nqui avait un léger rapport avec celui de M. Willoughby, avait ramené\ntoutes ses idées de ce côté, et elle ne se doutait non plus de ce qui se\npassait autour d'elle, que si elle avait été dans sa chambre.\n\nEnfin l'importante affaire de l'étui à cure-dents fut décidée. L'ivoire,\nles perles, l'or, eurent chacun leur place assignée; et le jeune\nmerveilleux ayant fixé le nombre de jours qu'il pourrait encore vivre,\nsans la possession de sa _délicieuse_ boîte, mit ses gants avec soin,\nfit sonner sa répétition, jeta encore un regard sur les dames plutôt\npour captiver que pour exprimer l'admiration, et sortit avec cet air\nheureux que donne la persuasion de son mérite.\n\nElinor le remplaça auprès du bijoutier à la mode, dit ce qu'elle\nvoulait, montra son écrin, et elle était près de conclure son marché\nlorsqu'un autre gentilhomme entre, s'approche. Elle jette les yeux sur\nlui; c'était son frère M. John Dashwood.\n\nLeur reconnaissance et le plaisir qu'ils eurent à se retrouver, firent\névènement dans le magasin de M. Grays. John Dashwood assez bon homme\nquand il ne lui en coûtait rien et que sa femme n'était pas là, fut\nréellement bien aise de rencontrer ses soeurs. Il leur témoigna beaucoup\nd'amitié, et s'informa de leur mère et d'Emma avec respect et tendresse.\nElle lui demanda de son côté des nouvelles de Fanny et de son fils.\nToute la famille était à la ville depuis deux jours.\n\n--Je désirais beaucoup d'aller hier vous faire une visite, dit-il; mais\nc'était impossible, mon petit Henri avait envie de voir les bêtes\nsauvages, la ménagerie; il fallut bien lui obéir, et le reste du jour\nse passa avec madame Ferrars. Ce matin décidément, je voulais aller en\nBerkeley-Street pour vous voir, si je pouvais en trouver le moment; mais\nici on n'en trouve point pour faire ce qu'on veut. Je suis venu ici\nacheter un collier à Fanny; elle ne peut sortir avec celui de l'année\npassée. Mais demain bien certainement, rien ne m'empêchera de me\nprésenter chez votre amie madame Jennings. On m'assure que c'est une\nfemme assez riche et qui a une jolie maison. Et son gendre le chevalier\nMiddleton, et milady Middleton? cela sonne très-bien, en vérité. C'est\nvotre cousin, n'est-ce pas? Vous m'y présenterez comme cousin de ma\nbelle-mère. Je dois des respects à un homme de ce rang. Ce sont de bons\nvoisins pour vous, m'a-t-on dit.\n\n--Excellens en vérité! Leur attention pour notre bien-être en général,\nleur obligeance en chaque occasion, vont plus loin qu'il n'est possible\nde l'exprimer.\n\n--Je suis charmé de savoir cela, excessivement charmé sur ma parole!\nmais cela doit être ainsi; ils sont vos parens, et très-riches. Il va\nsans dire que vous devez vous attendre à tout ce qu'ils peuvent faire\npour rendre votre situation plus agréable. Ainsi vous êtes commodément\nétablies dans votre hermitage, et vous n'y manquez de rien. Edward nous\nen a parlé avec enthousiasme; c'est, assure-t-il, ce qu'il a vu de plus\ncharmant dans ce genre; et vous avez à tout égard, au-delà de ce qu'il\nfaut. Ç'a été une grande satisfaction pour nous, je vous assure,\nd'apprendre que des parens qui ne vous connaissaient point, se\nconduisaient si bien avec vous, et que vous ne manquiez de rien.\n\nElinor était honteuse, non pas pour elle, mais pour son frère, et ne fut\npas fâchée d'être dispensée de lui répondre par l'arrivée du domestique\nde madame Jennings, qui vint avertir ces dames que sa maîtresse les\nattendait à la porte. M. Dashwood les accompagna et fut présenté à\nmadame Jennings à la portière du carosse. Elle l'invita cordialement à\nvenir souvent voir ses soeurs. Il promit qu'il y viendrait sans manquer\nle lendemain, et les quitta; il vint en effet. Madame Jennings\ns'attendait aussi que madame John Dashwood viendrait voir ses\nbelles-soeurs; Elinor en doutait, et Maria plus encore. Celle-ci la\nconnaissait trop bien pour rien attendre d'elle. En effet, leur frère\nvint seul; il apportait pour excuse qu'elle était toujours avec sa mère\net n'avait pas un instant de libre. Madame Jennings trop bonne femme\npour être exigeante, lui assura qu'entre amis on était sans cérémonie,\nque l'amie de ses belles-soeurs devait être aussi celle de sa femme, et\nqu'elles iraient la voir les premières. M. Dashwood fut amical avec ses\nsoeurs, excessivement poli avec madame Jennings, et un peu en peine de\nsavoir comment il fallait être avec le colonel Brandon qui vint quelques\nmomens après lui. Il lui fut présenté sous son nom et sous son titre.\nMadame Jennings y joignit celui d'_ami_ de la maison; mais cela ne\nsuffisait pas à M. John Dashwood pour régler le degré de politesse. Il\nfallait savoir au juste combien il avait de revenu: aussi se\ncontenta-t-il de le regarder avec curiosité, et d'être honnête de\nmanière à pouvoir ensuite l'être plus ou moins, suivant _sa valeur_ et\nses rentes.\n\nAprès être resté une demi-heure, il se leva et pria Elinor de venir avec\nlui à Conduit-Street, pour l'introduire chez sir Georges et lady\nMiddleton. Le temps était beau; elle y consentit, et prit le bras de son\nfrère. A peine furent-ils dehors de la maison, qu'il lui demanda: Qui\nest donc ce colonel Brandon, Elinor, a-t-il de la fortune?\n\n--Oui, il a une belle terre en Dorsetshire.\n\n--J'en suis charmé, reprit M. Dashwood. Il a très-bon ton cet homme-là.\nJe lui crois un très-bon caractère, et, d'après la manière dont il vous\na saluée, je pense que je puis vous féliciter sur l'espoir d'un bon\nétablissement.\n\n--Moi! mon frère, que voulez-vous dire?\n\n--Il vous aime; cela n'est pas douteux. Je l'ai bien observé, et j'en\nsuis convaincu. A combien monte sa fortune?\n\n--On dit qu'il a deux mille pièces de revenu.\n\n--Deux mille pièces! Je voudrais de tout mon coeur, ma chère Elinor,\ndit-il avec un air de générosité, comme si son souhait était un présent,\nje voudrais qu'il en eût le double.\n\n--Je vous en remercie pour lui, dit Elinor en riant; mais pour moi cela\nm'est assez égal. Je suis très-sûre que le colonel Brandon n'a pas la\nmoindre idée de m'épouser.\n\n--Vous vous trompez, Elinor, vous vous trompez beaucoup; avec un peu de\nsoins et de peine de votre côté vous vous assurez cette conquête.\nPeut-être n'est-il pas encore décidé; votre peu de fortune peut le faire\nbalancer. Sans doute sa famille est contre vous; c'est tout simple, et\ncela doit-être ainsi. Mais quelques-uns de ces petits encouragemens que\nles jolies femmes savent si bien donner, le décideront en dépit de\nlui-même; et je ne vois aucune raison qui puisse vous en empêcher. Je\nn'imagine pas qu'un premier attachement de votre côté puisse influer.\nVous n'êtes pas romanesque, vous Elinor,.... et en un mot vous savez\nfort bien qu'un attachement de cette nature est hors de la question....\nVous avez assez d'esprit pour me comprendre et assez de raison pour\nsentir qu'il y a des obstacles insurmontables. Non, non, le colonel\nBrandon, voilà celui sur lequel vous devez jeter vos vues; et de ma part\naucune politesse, aucune attention, ne sera épargnée pour qu'il se\nplaise avec vous et votre famille. Je l'inviterai à dîner au premier\njour, je vous le promets. C'est une affaire qui nous donnerait à tous\nune vraie satisfaction. Vous devez sentir, dit-il en baissant la voix\nd'un air important, que cela ferait plaisir à tout le monde.... Toute ma\nfamille désire excessivement, Elinor, de vous voir bien établie. Fanny\nparticulièrement a votre intérêt à coeur, je vous assure, et sa mère\naussi, madame Ferrars, qui ne vous connaît pas encore, mais qui a\nsouvent entendu parler de vous, et qui est une très-bonne femme. Elle\ndisait l'autre jour qu'elle donnerait tout au monde pour vous voir bien\nmariée.--A tout autre qu'à son fils, pensa Elinor sans le dire. Pauvre\ndame. Ferrars! ce n'est pas moi qui vous donnerai du chagrin!\n\n--Vous ne répondez pas, reprit M. Dashwood; vous êtes convaincue, je le\nvois; et l'affaire ira. Ce serait une chose très remarquable et très\nplaisante d'avoir deux noces en même temps dans la famille et que Fanny\nmariât son frère et moi ma soeur; cela n'est pas impossible.\n\n--Est-ce que M. Ferrars doit se marier? demanda Elinor avec fermeté.\n\n--Cela n'est pas encore conclu, répondit-il; mais il en est fort\nquestion. Il a une si excellente mère! Madame Ferrars avec une\nlibéralité que l'on voit rarement chez une femme aussi riche, lui donne\nmille livres sterling par année en faveur de ce mariage. Aussi est-ce un\nparti qu'il ne faut pas laisser échapper: c'est mademoiselle Morton, la\nfille unique de feu lord Morton, qui aura le jour de son mariage trente\nmille pièces. Edward, comme vous le savez, est très-aimable; il a un bon\ncaractère, tout ce qu'il faut pour rendre une femme très-heureuse. Ainsi\nc'est un mariage très-sortable des deux côtés, et qui se fera sûrement.\nEdward doit à sa mère de n'y mettre aucun obstacle. Une mère qui se\nprive pour son fils d'un revenu de mille pièces; c'est superbe! Il lui\nen reste encore deux mille; mais elle a deux autres enfans, Fanny et\nRobert. Elle ne les oublie pas non plus; elle est si généreuse, si\nnoble! L'autre jour quand nous arrivâmes à la ville, pensant qu'un peu\nd'argent nous ferait plaisir, elle glissa dans la main de Fanny un\nbillet de banque de deux cents pièces. Jugez comme cela venait à propos!\n\n--Est-ce que vous auriez fait quelque perte d'argent, dit Elinor, essuyé\nquelque banqueroute?\n\n--Non, non rassurez-vous; je ne place mon argent qu'en lieu sûr: il n'y\na rien à craindre. Mais mon Dieu! dans ces temps-ci on a tant de\ndépenses à faire, et qui s'augmentent quand on vient à Londres. Voyez il\nfaut un collier neuf à Fanny. Elle donnera bien le vieux en paiement;\nmais il y a toujours la façon. Je veux aussi vous donner, mes chères\nsoeurs, à chacune une petite paire de boucles d'oreilles. Quand nous\nretournerons chez Grays vous choisirez. Vous n'en achetiez pas ce matin,\nj'espère? Il serait piquant que vous m'eussiez prévenu.\n\n--Non, non, mon frère, rassurez-vous; nous n'en avons pas besoin du\ntout. Notre bonne maman a voulu absolument nous donner quelques-uns de\nses bijoux, plus que nous n'en voulions, et je les faisais\nremonter.--Bien, fort bien, j'en suis charmé; c'est très-bien fait. Quel\nbesoin en a-t-elle à la campagne? Enfin vous avez vu ma bonne volonté.\nJ'ai promis à mon père, à ses derniers momens, d'avoir soin de vous. On\nne manque pas à une parole de cette espèce; et vous auriez eu déja\nquelques petits présens de ma part, si je n'avais pas eu de grandes\ndépenses à faire à Norland.\n\n--A Norland! avez-vous fait des changemens?\n\n--Oui, quelques uns; d'abord des emplètes considérables de linge, de\nporcelaines, de meubles, pour remplacer ceux que notre respectable père\na légués à votre mère. Je ne m'en plains pas; il avait bien le droit de\nles donner à qui il voulait. Mais enfin il a fallu beaucoup d'argent\npour ces emplètes; et pour y suppléer j'ai coupé l'avenue des grand\normes et beaucoup éclairci le bois de chêne; j'ai fait ôter tous ces\nvieux arbres que Maria trouvait si beaux. Vous ne sauriez croire comme\nc'est plus joli à présent que tout est découvert. J'ai vendu tous ces\nbois; n'ai-je pas bien fait, Elinor, qu'en dites-vous?\n\nElinor ne répondait pas; elle était en idée sous ces beaux ombrages qui\nn'existaient plus. Pauvre Maria, pensait-elle, tu perds à-la-fois tout\nce que ton coeur aimait! Il trouvera encore des soupirs, ce pauvre\ncoeur, pour les vieux arbres de Norland.\n\n--Vous avez aussi agi très-prudemment, continua John Dashwood, en vous\nliant avec cette madame Jennings. Sa maison est très-bien meublée; son\néquipage, annonce qu'elle est très-bien dans ses affaires; et c'est une\nconnaissance qui peut vous être très-utile pour le présent et pour\nl'avenir. Son invitation prouve combien elle vous aime: car enfin deux\npersonnes de plus dans un ménage sont quelque chose. Mais, à la manière\ndont elle parle de vous, je parie qu'elle ne s'en tiendra pas là, et\nqu'à sa mort vous ne serez pas oubliées. Elle laissera sûrement quelque\nbonne somme; et j'en suis charmé pour vous.\n\n--Je crois, dit Elinor, qu'elle ne laissera que ce qui doit revenir à\nses enfans.\n\n--Bon! bon! moi je suis sûr qu'elle fait des épargnes et qu'elles seront\npour vous. Ne m'a-t-elle pas dit: _vos soeurs remplacent mes filles_;\nn'était-ce pas clair? Qu'avez-vous à dire à cela?\n\n--Nous les remplaçons dans leurs chambres, et rien de plus. Elle aime\nbeaucoup ses filles et ses petits-enfans, et ne leur préférera pas des\nétrangères; cela ne serait ni juste ni naturel.\n\n--Ses filles sont très-bien mariées; et je ne vois pas la nécessité de\nleur donner plus qu'il ne leur revient de droit. Ses bontés inouïes pour\nvous, vous donnent lieu de prétendre à un bon legs après elle; ce serait\nvous tromper que d'en agir autrement.\n\n--Nous ne demandons que son amitié, dit Elinor; et pardonnez, mon frère,\nsi je vous avoue que votre intérêt pour notre prospérité va beaucoup\ntrop loin.\n\n--Non, non, pas du tout. J'ai promis à notre bon père de m'intéresser à\nvous dans toutes les occasions, et rien n'est plus juste. Mais, ma chère\nElinor, parlons d'autre chose. Qu'est-ce qu'il y a avec Maria? Elle\nn'est plus la même; elle a perdu ses belles couleurs; elle a maigri; ses\nyeux sont battus; elle n'a plus de gaîté, de vivacité; est-elle malade?\n\n--Elle n'est pas bien; elle a depuis quelques semaines des maux de nerfs\net de tête.\n\n--J'en suis fâché, très fâché! Dans la jeunesse il suffit d'une maladie\npour détruire la fleur de la beauté; et voyez en combien peu de temps!\nEn septembre passé quand elle quitta Norland, c'était la plus belle\nfille qu'on pût voir. Elle avait précisément ce genre de beauté qui\nplaît aux hommes et les attire. Je pensais aussi qu'elle trouverait\nbientôt un bon parti. Je me rappelle que Fanny disait souvent que\nquoiqu'elle fût votre cadette, elle se marierait plutôt et mieux que\nvous. Elle s'est trompée cependant: c'est tout au plus à présent, si\nMaria trouve un parti de cinq ou six cents pièces de rente; et vous,\nElinor, vous allez en avoir un de deux mille...... en Dorsetshire.....\ndites-vous.... Je connais peu le Dorsetshire, mais je me réjouis\nbeaucoup de voir votre belle terre. Dès que vous y serez établie, vous\npouvez compter sur la visite de nous deux Fanny et moi. Nous serons\ncharmés de passer là quelque temps avec vous et le bon colonel.\n\nElinor s'efforça très-sérieusement de lui ôter l'idée que le colonel\nsongeât à l'épouser; mais ce fut en vain. Ce projet lui plaisait trop\npour qu'il y renonçât. Il persista à dire qu'il ferait tout ce qui\ndépendait de lui pour décider la chose qui était déja bien commencée, et\nque dès le lendemain il irait voir le colonel, et lui ferait un bel\néloge d'Elinor. Ce pauvre John Dashwood! il avait justement assez de\nconscience pour sentir qu'il n'avait point rempli ses promesses à son\npère relativement à ses soeurs, et pour désirer que le colonel Brandon\net madame Jennings voulussent bien les dédommager de sa négligence.\n\nIls eurent le bonheur de trouver lady Middleton chez elle; et sir\nGeorges rentra bientôt après. Elinor présenta son frère; et des deux\ncôtés l'on se fit beaucoup de civilités. Sir Georges était toujours prêt\nà aimer tout le monde; et quoique M. Dashwood ne s'entendît ni en\nchevaux ni en chiens, il promettait d'être un assez bon convive. Lady\nMiddleton trouva sa tournure élégante et son ton parfait, parce qu'il\navait admiré son salon; et M. Dashwood fut enchanté de tous les deux.\n\n--Quel charmant récit j'aurai à faire à Fanny de ma matinée, dit-il à\nsa soeur en la ramenant chez madame Jennings; et comme elle en sera\ncontente! Il n'y a que la santé de la pauvre Maria; mais elle se\nremettra. Lady Middleton est une femme charmante, tout-à-fait dans le\ngenre de Fanny. Elles se conviendront à merveille, j'en suis sûr! et sir\nGeorges est très-aimable. Il donne souvent à manger, n'est-ce pas, et\ndes assemblées et des fêtes? Il m'a invité à tout ce qu'il y aurait chez\nlui. C'est une bonne connaissance à faire; et je vous en remercie,\nElinor. Votre madame Jennings aussi est une excellente femme, quoique\nmoins élégante que sa fille; mais aussi n'est-elle pas lady. J'espère\nbien cependant que votre belle-soeur n'aura plus aucun scrupule de la\nvoir: car je vous confesse à présent que c'est pour cela qu'elle n'est\npas venue avec moi ce matin. Nous savions qu'elle est veuve d'un homme\nqui s'était enrichi dans le commerce; et ni madame Dashwood ni madame\nFerrars ne se souciaient de voir cette famille. Mais cela changera quand\nje leur dirai comme elle a l'air opulente. Le salon de lady Middleton\nest plus orné que le nôtre; et je crains seulement un peu que Fanny ne\nveuille l'imiter. Mais enfin ils sont riches, très-aimables; et j'espère\nque nous nous verrons souvent. Ils étaient devant la maison de madame\nJennings, et ils se séparèrent.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXXV.\n\n\nMadame Fanny Dashwood avait une telle confiance dans le jugement de son\nmari, que dès le jour suivant elle vint en personne faire visite à\nmadame Jennings et à lady Middleton; et cette confiance ne fut pas\ntrompée. La vieille amie de ses belles-soeurs, quoiqu'un peu commune,\nlui plut assez par ses prévenances; et lady Middleton l'enchanta\ncomplètement par son bon ton et son élégance. Cet enchantement fut\nréciproque. Il y avait entre ces deux femmes une sympathie de froideur\nde coeur et de petitesse d'esprit, qui devait nécessairement les attirer\nl'une vers l'autre. Elles avaient la même insipidité dans la\nconversation, la même nullité d'idées. Seulement Fanny avait un fond\nd'avarice et d'envie qui se manifestait en toute occasion, et lady\nMiddleton une indifférence parfaite pour tout le monde, excepté pour ses\nenfans. Madame Dashwood lui plut mieux qu'une autre femme sans qu'elle\neût pu dire pourquoi. Mais ce n'était pas de l'amitié, elle en était\nincapable. Fanny ne réussit pas aussi bien auprès de madame Jennings qui\nlui trouva l'air fier, impertinent, et qui vit qu'elle ne faisait aucun\nfrais pour plaire, qu'elle n'avait rien d'aimable ni d'affectueux même\navec ses charmantes belles-soeurs à qui elle parlait à peine, et qu'elle\nne s'informait point de la santé de Maria qu'elle devait trouver\nchangée. En effet elle ne disait rien à Elinor, ne témoignait aucun\nintérêt pour leurs plaisirs, leur demandait à peine des nouvelles de\nleur mère d'un air glacé, et sans écouter la réponse. Elle ne fut avec\nelles qu'un quart-d'heure, et resta au moins sept minutes en silence. La\nbonne et vive madame Jennings en fut indignée, et ne se gêna pas de le\ndire lorsque Fanny fut partie. Elinor aurait fort désiré d'apprendre\nd'elle si Edward était à Londres. Mais Fanny n'avait garde de prononcer\ndevant elle le nom de son frère, jusqu'à ce que le mariage de l'un avec\nmiss Morton, et de l'autre avec le colonel Brandon, les eût séparés à\njamais. Elle les croyait encore trop attachés l'un à l'autre pour ne pas\ntrembler tant qu'ils seraient libres; et son étude continuelle était de\nchercher à les éloigner de toutes manières. Elle ne parla donc point de\nson frère. Mais Elinor apprit d'un autre côté ce qu'elle voulait savoir.\nLucy vint réclamer sa compassion sur le malheur qu'elle éprouvait de\nn'avoir point encore vu son cher Edward, quoiqu'il fût venu à Londres\navec M. et madame Dashwood pour se rapprocher d'elle. Mais il n'osait\npas venir la voir chez ses parens d'Holborn qui ne le connaissaient\npoint; et malgré leur mutuelle impatience, tout ce qu'ils pouvaient\nfaire pour le moment, c'était de s'écrire tous les jours.\n\nElinor, qui ne pouvait se fier tout-à-fait à la véracité de Lucy, et qui\nvoyait le but de ses confidences, doutait encore; mais elle ne tarda pas\nd'avoir la conviction qu'Edward était véritablement à la ville. Deux\nfois en rentrant à la maison elle apprit qu'il était venu et trouva sa\ncarte. Par une contrariété naturelle au coeur humain, elle fut bien aise\nqu'il eût pensé à venir, et plus aise encore de n'y avoir pas été.\n\nM. John Dashwood ne perdait pas de vue le mariage supposé de sa soeur\naînée avec le colonel Brandon; ainsi qu'il l'avait dit, il voulut\nl'inviter à dîner chez lui. Il ne fallait pas moins qu'un motif de cette\nimportance pour les décider lui et sa femme à cette dépense. Fanny y\nconsentit cette fois, et par l'espoir qu'Elinor en épouserait un autre\nque son frère, et par celui d'être invitée à son tour aux fréquentes\nfêtes de sir Georges et à ses dîners qui étaient en grande réputation,\ntant pour le talent de son cuisinier, que par l'élégance du service:\nc'était donc semer pour recueillir. En effet peu de jours après que la\nconnaissance fut faite, on reçut une invitation en forme pour dîner le\njeudi suivant chez madame John Dashwood à Harley-Street, où ils avaient\nloué pour trois mois une jolie maison. Ses deux belles-soeurs, madame\nJennings, les Middleton et M. Palmer acceptèrent. Charlotte sur le point\nd'accoucher ne sortait plus. Le colonel Brandon fut surpris d'être du\nnombre des convives, ne connaissant pas du tout madame Dashwood et\nn'ayant vu qu'un instant son mari, qui ne lui avait fait qu'un accueil\ndemi poli; mais il aimait trop à être avec mesdemoiselles Dashwood pour\nen refuser l'occasion. Madame Ferrars devait aussi en être. Mais on ne\nnomma point ses fils; et Elinor n'osa pas s'informer s'ils y seraient.\nQuelques mois auparavant elle aurait été vivement émue de la seule\npensée de se rencontrer avec la mère d'Edward, et de lui être présentée,\nactuellement elle pouvait la voir relativement à elle-même avec une\ncomplète indifférence; elle le croyait du moins, et rejeta entièrement\nsur la curiosité, l'intérêt qu'elle mettait à la connaître. Cet intérêt,\nmais non pas son plaisir, acquit un degré de plus en apprenant que Lucy\nStéeles serait aussi de la partie. D'après ce qu'elle savait de la\nhauteur de madame Ferrars, la bonne Elinor, sans aimer Lucy, ne pouvait\ns'empêcher de la plaindre d'avance de la manière dont elle en serait\ntraitée, ce qui lui serait d'autant plus sensible qu'elle s'y était\nvolontairement exposée. Dès que celle-ci apprit ce dîner, elle se hâta\nde rappeler une invitation assez vague que lady Middleton avait faite\naux deux soeurs Stéeles lorsqu'elles se séparèrent à Barton, de passer\nune quinzaine de jours chez elle à Londres. Lady Middleton l'avait\noubliée; mais l'adroite Lucy porta à la petite Sélina un joli panier\nplein de bonbons, et lui souffla de demander à sa maman que ses bonnes\namies Stéeles vinssent demeurer avec elle. Les demandes de Sélina\nn'étaient jamais refusées; une heure après la voiture de lady Middleton\narriva à Holborn, avec une prière instante aux demoiselles Stéeles de se\nrendre sans délai aux désirs de Sélina, avant que la charmante petite\npleurât, ce qui lui faisait un mal affreux. Une fois établies chez leurs\nnobles parens, elles devaient être invitées avec eux, et elles avaient\nun droit de plus de l'être chez madame Dashwood à qui elles n'étaient\npas entièrement inconnues, au moins de nom, puisque leur oncle avait été\ninstituteur de son frère. Mais il suffisait qu'elles fussent logées chez\nlady Middleton, et qu'elle les protégeât pour être bien reçues. Lucy\nétait au comble de la joie; elle allait enfin être introduite dans cette\nfamille qui devait être un jour la sienne. Elle pourrait satisfaire sa\ncuriosité, les examiner, juger des difficultés qu'elle aurait à\nsurmonter, avoir une occasion de leur plaire. Elle n'avait pas encore eu\ndans sa vie un aussi grand plaisir qu'en recevant la carte de madame\nDashwood. Mais ce plaisir aurait été diminué de moitié si elle n'avait\npu y joindre le chagrin de sa rivale: elle se hâta d'aller lui faire\npart de son bonheur. Elinor eut beaucoup de peine à lui cacher ce\nqu'elle ressentait, et n'y réussit peut-être pas, car la joie de Lucy\naugmenta en voyant un nuage sur le front d'Elinor, lorsqu'elle lui dit\nqu'Edward y serait sûrement: à moins, ajouta-t-elle, qu'il ne craigne de\nse trahir. Il lui était impossible lorsque nous étions ensemble de\ncacher l'excès de son affection; et cette raison l'empêchera peut-être\nd'y venir. Quelque cruel que fût ce motif pour la pauvre Elinor, elle en\ndésirait au moins l'effet. Voir Edward pour la première fois depuis leur\nséparation, et le voir avec Lucy! Elle croyait à peine pouvoir le\nsupporter.\n\nCe jeudi si désiré, si redouté, qui devait mettre les deux jeunes\nrivales en présence de la future belle-mère arriva. Elinor avait acheté\nla veille une charmante toque en fleurs avec des plumes blanches dont\nelle voulait se parer ce jour-là. Lucy qui venait continuellement chez\nmadame Jennings, pour y voir sa _chère_ amie, se trouva là quand on\nl'apporta. Elinor l'essaya. Elle lui séyait à ravir; et malgré toute sa\nraison, elle ne fut point fâchée de le trouver elle-même. Le jeudi matin\nLucy arriva, plus caressante, plus tendre qu'à l'ordinaire. Elle avait\nhonte, dit-elle, de ce qu'elle venait lui demander; mais sa chère Elinor\nétait si fort au-dessus de ces bagatelles; elle avait si peu besoin de\nparure; elle était si indifférente sur ce moyen de plaire en ayant tant\nd'autres; et pour cette grande occasion il était si essentiel à Lucy de\nles tous employer. Elle devait à Edward de se faire aussi jolie qu'il\nlui serait possible la première fois qu'elle paraissait devant sa mère.\nSi Edward lui-même s'y trouvait, c'était un motif de plus qu'Elinor\ndevait comprendre. Elle espérait donc de sa complaisance, de son amitié,\nqu'elle voudrait bien pour ce jour-là renoncer à la jolie toque qui la\ncoiffait si élégamment, et la lui prêter. Elle avoua en rougissant\nqu'elle n'était pas assez en fonds dans ce moment pour s'en acheter une\nsemblable, ce qu'elle aurait fait sûrement, eût-elle dû la prendre à\ncrédit, si elle n'avait pas compté sur la bonté de sa _chère_ Elinor.\nMademoiselle Dashwood frémit de penser qu'elle avait failli arriver au\ndîner coiffée exactement comme Lucy, et se trouva heureuse en\ncomparaison de lui céder si jolie toque, qu'elle regrettait bien un\npeu.... mais qu'elle pria Lucy d'accepter. Cette dernière s'en empara\nbien vîte, également enchantée qu'elle fût sur sa tête et non sur celle\nd'Elinor. Bon Dieu! ma chère, lui dit-elle, plaignez-moi, je vous en\nconjure! Vous êtes la seule personne qui saura ce que je souffre. A\npeine puis-je marcher tant je suis émue en pensant que dans quelques\nheures je verrai la personne dont tout mon bonheur dépend, celle qui\ndoit être ma mère! Mettez-vous à ma place.... mais c'est impossible; il\nfaut aimer Edward comme je l'aime, pour comprendre l'état où je suis.\n\nElinor aurait pu diminuer cette émotion ou la faire changer de nature,\nen lui disant que vraisemblablement c'était la belle-mère de miss\nMorton plutôt que la sienne qu'elle allait voir. Elle ne le dit pas,\nmais elle lui assura avec tant de sincérité qu'elle la plaignait\ninfiniment, que Lucy en fut presque piquée. Elle espérait être pour\nmademoiselle Dashwood un objet d'envie plutôt que de compassion.\n\nEnfin elles arrivèrent chez madame John Dashwood. Sa mère au haut bout\nde la chambre étalait dans un grand fauteuil sa chétive personne, et\nsaluait à peine avec un air de protection. Elle était petite, maigre, se\ntenait extrêmement droite, avait de la roideur dans tous ses mouvemens;\nsa physionomie était sombre ou du moins très sérieuse; elle ne se\npermettait de sourire que lorsqu'elle disait un sarcasme; son teint\nétait brun tirant sur le jaune; ses traits assez petits, et sans beauté.\nUne contraction habituelle de ses sourcils empêchait sa physionomie\nd'être complètement insignifiante, mais lui donnait en échange une forte\nexpression d'orgueil et même de méchanceté. Elle ne parlait pas\nbeaucoup, contre la règle générale; elle proportionnait le nombre de ses\nparoles à celui de ses idées; et dans le peu de syllabes honnêtes qui\nlui échappèrent à l'arrivée des hôtes de sa fille qui lui furent\nprésentés, il n'y en eut pas une seule adressée aux demoiselles\nDashwood, qu'elle regardait intérieurement, avec dédain et avec\nmalveillance.\n\nCette conduite ne pouvait plus influer sur le bonheur d'Elinor. Peu de\nmois auparavant elle en aurait été excessivement blessée et affligée;\nmais il n'était plus au pouvoir de madame Ferrars de produire cet effet\nsur elle; et la différence de sa manière avec les demoiselles Stéeles,\ndont le seul but était d'humilier encore mesdemoiselles Dashwood,\nl'amusa au contraire beaucoup. Elle ne pouvait s'empêcher de sourire de\nl'air affable et presque amical avec lequel la mère et la fille\ndistinguèrent Lucy surtout, et des peines que celle-ci se donnait pour\nleur plaire, peines qui allaient jusqu'à la bassesse. Madame Ferrars\navait un vieux petit bichon, seul être qu'elle pût aimer et qui ne la\nquittait point. Lucy le caressait exactement comme elle caressait Sélina\nMiddleton. Elle s'extasiait sur cette charmante petite créature, allait\nlui ouvrir la porte s'il voulait sortir, et l'attendait pour le\nrapporter à sa maîtresse. Elle admirait l'éclat du beau satin cramoisi\nde la robe de madame Ferrars et la beauté de ses points. Elle allait\nchauffer le coussin qui était sous les pieds de cette dame. Quand lady\nMiddleton s'éloignait un peu, elle déclarait que madame John Dashwood\nétait la plus belle femme qu'elle eût vue de sa vie, et qu'elle\nressemblait beaucoup à sa mère, etc. etc. Enfin à force de flatteries,\nelle se rendit si agréable à l'une et à l'autre, que même madame\nFerrars, qui ne s'humanisait jamais avec ceux qu'elle regardait comme\nses inférieurs, lui adressa quelques mots obligeans, et déclara que ces\njeunes miss Stéeles avaient le ton de la meilleure éducation, et que\nbien des demoiselles qui se croyaient des modèles, n'en approchaient\npas. Elle lança en même temps un regard sur Elinor qui riait en\nelle-même, en pensant à quel point la faveur et les grâces de madame\nFerrars étaient mal placées, et qu'elles se changeraient bien\npromptement en fureur, si elle se doutait que cette jeune audacieuse,\nqu'elle trouvait si charmante, parce qu'elle n'était pas Elinor, pensait\nà épouser son fils. Fanny faillit à lui en donner l'idée: mesdemoiselles\nStéeles, dit-elle à sa mère, sont les nièces de M. Pratt chez qui Edward\na étudié.--Vraiment, dit madame Ferrars en relevant le sourcil; vous\nconnaissez donc mon fils?--Très-peu, madame, dit Lucy avec assurance,\nnous ne demeurons pas auprès de mon oncle.--Tant mieux pour vous, dit\nmadame Ferrars avec humeur; il n'entend rien à l'éducation. Lucy\nredoubla ses flatteries qui lui réussirent de nouveau. Elle était au\ntroisième ciel, en se voyant ainsi distinguée, et ne daignait plus\nparler à Elinor. La grosse Anna même se rengorgeait avec fierté, en\npensant qu'elle était la soeur de la future belle-fille de madame\nFerrars.\n\nMaria était encore plus rêveuse, plus silencieuse qu'à l'ordinaire. A sa\ntristesse habituelle, se joignait le chagrin qu'elle supposait à Elinor\nde ne pas voir Edward, et celui qu'elle en ressentait elle-même. Elle\nl'aimait déja comme un frère favori, et bien plus que celui qu'elle\ntenait de la nature. L'homme qui devait faire le bonheur de sa chère\nElinor était au premier rang dans son coeur. Elle était venue presque\navec plaisir à ce dîner, malgré son aversion pour la plupart des\nconvives, dans l'unique espoir de voir Edward; et cet espoir était\ntrompé. Edward n'y était pas. Elle regardait sa soeur avec un étonnement\ndouloureux, et ne pouvait comprendre qu'elle eût la force de supporter\nune mésaventure aussi cruelle. Le colonel Brandon placé entre les deux\nsoeurs se serait trouvé fort heureux, si la politesse fastidieuse du\nmaître, et même de la maîtresse de la maison, lui avait laissé le temps\nd'en jouir. Tous les meilleurs mets, tous les meilleurs vins lui étaient\nadressés. M. Dashwood lui demandait son opinion surtout, et s'y rangeait\nà l'instant. Dès qu'il y avait un moment de silence entre lui et ses\nvoisines, il disait à ses soeurs: allons, mesdemoiselles, parlez à votre\naimable voisin; ne souffrez pas qu'il s'ennuie. On aurait dit que la\nfête était pour lui seul, et il ne pouvait comprendre le but de tant\nd'honnêtetés dont il était fatigué. Le dîner était magnifique, ainsi que\nles donnent ceux qui invitent rarement; et ni le nombre des plats ni\ncelui des laquais n'annonçaient cette pauvreté dont il s'était plaint à\nsa soeur. Elle ne se faisait sentir que dans la conversation. Mais il\nest vrai que de ce côté là le déficit était considérable, tant chez les\nmaîtres du logis que chez la plupart des convives: manque de raison,\nmanque d'esprit, soit naturel soit cultivé, manque de goût, manque de\ngaîté, manque enfin de tout ce qui rend un repas agréable.\n\nQuand les dames suivant l'usage se retirèrent après dîner pour le café,\ncette pauvreté fut encore plus en évidence. Les hommes mettaient au\nmoins quelque variété dans le discours, quelques mots de politique, de\nchasse, d'agriculture; mais il n'en fut plus question. On avait épuisé\navant dîner l'article des meubles et des parures. A la grande\nsatisfaction de Lucy sa toque avait été fort admirée, et la simple\ncoiffure d'Elinor, qui n'était que ses jolis cheveux bruns retenus par\nun fil de perles, regardée avec dédain: en sorte qu'après une longue\ndigression sur la bonté du café, le seul sujet d'entretien fut de\ncomparer la grandeur d'Henri Dashwood et celle de Williams. Le second\nfils de lady Middleton, qui étaient à-peu-près du même âge. Si les\nenfans avaient été là tous les deux, la question aurait été promptement\ndécidée en les mesurant; mais il n'y avait là qu'Henri, et il fallut\ns'en rapporter à l'opinion des témoins. Celle des demoiselles Stéeles,\nqui passaient leur vie avec les petits Middleton, fut surtout demandée\npar leur mère, et de cette manière qui veut dire: décidez en ma faveur.\nN'est-ce pas, Lucy, que Williams a au moins deux doigts de plus qu'Henri\nDashwood? Lucy fut horriblement embarrassée. A qui fera-t-elle sa cour?\nenfin l'amour l'emporta sur l'amitié, et après avoir un peu hésité, elle\ndit qu'elle croyait....... qu'il lui semblait que M. Henri avait\nquelques lignes de plus. Lady Middleton exprima par un regard son\nmécontentement; mais Lucy fut dédommagée par un doux sourire de la soeur\nd'Edward. Elinor trouva sa flatterie d'autant plus méprisable qu'il\nétait évident que le petit Williams était beaucoup plus grand que son\nneveu; elle le dit quand on lui demanda son avis. Fanny et madame\nFerrars répondirent avec aigreur qu'elle se trompait; et Maria déplut à\ntout le monde en disant qu'elle n'y avait fait nulle attention. Bientôt\nune autre bagatelle mit en scène sa vivacité de sentiment et\nl'irritabilité de ses nerfs.\n\nAvant de quitter Norland, Elinor avait peint à sa belle-soeur de\ncharmans écrans de cheminée; ils venaient d'être montés dans le dernier\ngoût. Les hommes étaient rentrés au salon et entouraient le feu. John\nDashwood allant toujours à son but, en prit un et le montra au colonel.\n\n--Voyez, lui dit-il, c'est ma soeur Elinor qui a peint cela; vous qui\nêtes un homme de goût, vous les admirerez. Je ne sais si vous connaissez\nson talent pour le dessin; elle passe généralement pour en avoir\nbeaucoup.\n\nLe colonel sans être grand connaisseur en peinture les admira\ninfiniment. La curiosité générale fut excitée, et les écrans passèrent\nde main en main. Lorsqu'ils furent dans celles de madame Ferrars, qui ne\ns'y entendait pas du tout, et qui ne pouvait se résoudre à louer Elinor,\nelle les fit passer à sa voisine sans dire un seul mot d'éloges.--Ils\nsont peints par mademoiselle Dashwood l'aînée, ma mère, dit Fanny; ne\nles trouvez-vous pas très-jolis? Elinor surprise de la courtoisie de sa\nbelle-soeur, lui en savait gré; mais sa reconnaissance ne fut pas de\nlongue durée. Fanny ajouta: Regardez-les, maman, voyez si ce n'est pas\nà-peu-près le même genre de dessin que ceux de mademoiselle Morton; mais\ncelle-ci peint encore plus délicieusement. Le dernier paysage qu'elle a\nfait est vraiment très-remarquable.--Extrêmement beau, dit madame\nFerrars; elle excelle dans tout ce qu'elle fait, et rien ne peut lui\nêtre comparé; mais aussi elle a une éducation si brillante, tant de\ntalens naturels!\n\nMaria, la sensible, la vive Maria ne put supporter ce qu'elle regarda\ncomme un outrage à sa soeur; elle était déja très-irritée du ton et de\nla manière de madame Ferrars, mais de tels éloges donnés à une autre\naux dépens d'Elinor, provoquèrent son ressentiment. Quoiqu'elle n'eût\nencore aucune idée des projets sur mademoiselle Morton, mais cédant\ncomme à son ordinaire à son premier mouvement, elle dit avec vivacité:\nVoilà en vérité une singulière manière de voir et d'admirer les ouvrages\nde ma soeur! en faire un objet de comparaison pour les rabaisser, c'est\ndu moins peu obligeant. Qui est cette demoiselle Morton à qui personne\nne peut être comparé? à propos de quoi est-il question d'elle et de ses\ntalens? qui intéresse-t-elle ici? et mon Elinor nous intéresse tous.\nAlors prenant les écrans de la main de sa belle-soeur et les montrant\nencore au colonel; il faut, dit-elle, n'avoir pas le moindre goût, le\nmoindre sentiment du beau pour ne pas les admirer, et pour penser à\nautre chose quand on les voit.\n\nMadame Ferrars rougit de colère; ses petits yeux s'enflammèrent; ses\nsourcils s'élevèrent d'un demi pouce et se touchèrent.--Je croyais,\ndit-elle, que tout le monde ici savait que miss Morton est la fille de\nfeu lord Morton; j'oubliais que mesdemoiselles Dashwood ne sont jamais\nvenues à Londres et ne peuvent connaître le beau monde.\n\nFanny avait aussi l'air très-courroucée; et son mari était tout effrayé\nde l'audace de Maria. Il s'approcha d'elle, la mena dans l'embrasure de\nla fenêtre, et lui dit à voix basse: Est-ce qu'Elinor ne vous a pas dit\nqu'Edward doit épouser miss Morton? Vous auriez mieux fait de vous\ntaire.--Edward! épouser miss Morton! s'écria Maria; jamais, jamais,\nc'est impossible! et poussée par son sentiment pour sa soeur chérie,\nainsi méprisée et rejetée par toute une famille qui devait l'adorer,\nelle vint s'asseoir à côté d'elle, passant un bras autour de son cou, et\nposant sa joue contre la sienne, elle lui dit à l'oreille: Chère, chère\nElinor, ne souffrez pas que de telles gens aient le pouvoir de vous\nrendre malheureuse; ne craignez rien; Edward ne pense pas ainsi. Je le\nconnais, j'ose vous répondre de sa fidélité; en dépit d'eux et de leurs\nprojets, il n'aime, il n'épousera que vous.\n\nElinor touchée de l'affection de sa soeur, mais désolée des preuves\nqu'elle lui en donnait dans ce moment, la conjura de se calmer, de se\ntaire, tandis qu'elle-même ne pouvait à peine retenir les larmes qui\nremplirent ses yeux au propos de Maria. Celle-ci les sentit sur sa joue:\ntu pleures, lui dit-elle. Les méchans font pleurer mon Elinor; et alors\nelle fondit en larmes. L'attention de chacun fut excitée; et tout le\nmonde eut l'air consterné. Le colonel Brandon qui depuis le commencement\nde cette scène avait eu les yeux attachés sur Maria, l'admirait bien\nplus qu'il ne la blâmait. Ce coeur si brûlant, cette sensibilité si\nactive pour ceux qu'elle aimait autant que pour elle même, l'attachaient\ntoujours davantage à cette jeune personne. Lorsqu'elle éclata en pleurs\net en sanglots, il se leva, vint près d'elle presque involontairement,\net prit sa main qu'il serra entre les siennes. Elinor soutenait sur son\nsein la tête de sa soeur, et ne pensait plus à Edward. Madame Jennings\ndisait! pauvre enfant! pauvre petite! la moindre chose attaque ses\nnerfs! et elle lui faisait respirer son flacon de sels. Madame Ferrars\nlevait les épaules en parlant à sa fille; Lady Middleton regardait avec\nson air glacé; M. Palmer bâillait près du feu en tenant les malheureux\nécrans, cause première de ce trouble; les deux Stéeles riaient et\nchuchotaient dans un coin; sir Georges était enragé contre le traître\nWilloughby, seul auteur, disait-il, de cette faiblesse de nerfs, et\ns'établissant entre les deux petites cousines Stéeles, qui étaient\nencore ses favorites, il leur conta toute l'affaire, qu'elles savaient\naussi bien que lui, en s'emportant contre l'homme abominable qui\nmettait une fille charmante dans cet état.\n\nAu bout de quelques minutes, Maria fut un peu remise. Elinor voulait la\nfaire passer dans une autre chambre; mais madame Dashwood dit qu'il n'y\nen avait point de libre, que l'attaque de nerfs une fois passée, Maria\nserait aussi bien au salon: elle resta donc à côté d'Elinor, et sans\ndire un mot de la soirée.\n\n--Pauvre Maria! disait son frère à voix basse au colonel Brandon; elle\nn'a pas une aussi forte santé que sa soeur, elle est très-nerveuse, au\nlieu qu'Elinor n'est jamais malade. Je suis sûr qu'elle n'a pas coûté\nune guinée en médecin depuis qu'elle est au monde; mais la pauvre Maria!\nsa santé est détruite aussi bien que sa beauté, et c'est sans doute ce\ndernier point qui l'afflige: c'est bien naturel en vérité; si jeune\nencore! Pourriez-vous croire qu'il y a peu de mois qu'elle était belle à\nfrapper, presque aussi belle qu'Elinor? A présent, quelle différence!\nElinor est charmante et ne changera jamais; c'est un genre de beauté qui\nsera toujours le même, je puis en répondre.\n\n--Je l'espère, dit le colonel, et que mademoiselle Maria retrouvera\nbientôt ses charmes.... Hélas! elle n'en avait encore que trop pour lui,\net jamais elle ne lui avait paru aussi intéressante, aussi digne de\ntoute son adoration.\n\nAprès le thé on fit des parties de jeu. Mesdames Ferrars et Jennings\ns'établirent à un grave whist avec sir Georges et M. Palmer. Elinor fut\nsurprise de cet arrangement; le colonel Brandon, à qui son frère et sa\nbelle-soeur avaient fait tant d'honneurs, avait dans son idée plus de\ndroit à cette partie, et par son âge et par son habileté au whist, que\nM. Palmer, qui malgré son apathie ne parut pas trop content d'être le\npartener des deux grands-mères. Mais M. Dashwood n'avait garde de\nséparer sa soeur Elinor de son futur époux le colonel Brandon. Lady\nMiddleton n'aimait que le cassino; et le colonel ne le savait presque\npas, mais n'importe; il fallut bon gré malgré qu'il se mît à cette\npartie, ainsi qu'Elinor qui aurait bien préféré ne pas jouer et rester\navec sa soeur; mais elle eut beau conjurer ou son frère ou Fanny de\nprendre sa place, elle ne put l'obtenir. M. Dashwood se mit à côté du\ncolonel pour lui apprendre le cassino. Anna Stéeles fit le quatrième.\nFanny se mit en cinquième dans la partie des mères. Lucy tantôt à côté\nd'elle lui parlait de tout ce qui pouvait lui plaire, tantôt à côté de\nmadame Ferrars s'intéressait à son jeu, vantait son habileté au whist, à\nlaquelle la bonne dame avait de grandes prétentions, enfin faisait sa\ncour de son mieux. Maria était laissée seule à ses tristes pensées, et\nne s'en plaignait pas. Absorbée dans ses réflexions, dans ses souvenirs,\net bien loin du salon de madame John Dashwood, elle n'entendit pas même\nouvrir la porte et Fanny s'écrier: Ah! voilà mon frère. Mais Elinor ne\nl'entendit que trop; son sang reflua vers son coeur qui battit avec\nviolence; et ses yeux baissés sur ses cartes, sans en distinguer une,\nelle s'efforça de reprendre son courage accoutumé. Enfin quand elle crut\ny avoir réussi, elle tourna ses regards d'abord sur Lucy, qui était\nrestée à sa place, dont la physionomie n'exprimait rien, mais dont les\nyeux perçans suivaient celui qui venait d'entrer. Elinor était placée de\nmanière à ne pas le voir, et n'en était pas fâchée, lorsque son frère\ns'écrie: Ah! vous voilà enfin, Robert, d'où diable venez-vous? Nous\navons dîné depuis deux heures. Elinor respire; ce n'est pas Edward.\nRobert s'avance auprès de son beau-frère; elle reconnaît d'abord le\nmerveilleux à la boîte à cure-dents qui l'avait si fort impatientée chez\nle bijoutier. Sans doute il la reconnut aussi; il la salua d'une\ninclination de tête d'un air affecté. Son costume avait toute\nl'extravagance de la mode française, encore exagérée, et présentait\nvraiment quelque chose de très-ridicule: une crête ébouriffée, un col de\nchemise remontant jusqu'aux coins des yeux, un fraque étroit, un gilet\nde deux doigts, un pantalon qui lui montait jusque sous les bras, un\nfracas de cachets et de bagues, un bouquet à la boutonnière, enfin tout\nce qui constituait alors l'élégance des jeunes gens qu'on appelait _des\nincroyables_. L'émotion d'Elinor avait fait place à l'étonnement; elle\nne pouvait comprendre que ce fût là le frère du simple, du timide\nEdward. Il dit légèrement à son beau-frère, que, sur sa parole, il avait\ntout-à-fait oublié son dîner; que, dans la foule de ses engagemens, ces\noublis lui arrivaient souvent; et promenant sa lorgnette sur les jeunes\ndames, il daigna ajouter: Sans doute j'ai beaucoup perdu... Cette\nlangoureuse beauté auprès de la cheminée, est-ce une de vos soeurs,\nJohn? en désignant Maria.\n\n--Oui, la cadette, très-jolie autrefois sur mon honneur; mais la pauvre\nenfant est malade. Robert ne l'écoutait pas; sa lorgnette était dirigée\nsur la jolie toque à plumes de Lucy. Cette petite personne est\ndélicieusement coiffée, reprit-il, mais je dis délicieusement! Cela\nvient de Paris; je crois l'avoir remarqué au magasin d'Hustley;\ntrès-jolie sur ma parole; du dernier goût!\n\n--Et la jeune personne aussi; c'est miss Lucy Stéeles, parente de lady\nMiddleton. Et Edward où diable se tient-il?\n\n--Où je ne suis pas sans doute. Nous n'allons point ensemble; il y a\nhuit jours que je ne l'ai vu. Il s'approcha de sa mère dont il était le\nfavori, et qui lui dit: Bon jour, Robert, avec un air assez affable. Il\nadressa quelques mots à Lucy sur sa délicieuse coiffure, dont elle eut\nl'air très-flattée. Peu après les parties finirent, et l'on prit congé\nles uns des autres, au grand plaisir des deux soeurs à qui la journée\navait été ennuyeuse et pénible.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXXVI.\n\n\nLe désir qu'Elinor avait eu de voir la mère d'Edward était plus que\nsatisfait; il était anéanti. Et, de tout son coeur, elle désirait\nactuellement ne pas se retrouver avec elle. Elle avait assez de son\norgueil, de son dédain, de son esprit étroit et vain, et de sa\nprévention décidée contre les soeurs de son gendre; elle voyait\nclairement à présent toutes les difficultés et les retards qu'il y\naurait eu à son mariage avec Edward, lors même qu'il eût été libre. Il\nétait le seul de cette famille qui lui fût agréable. La fatuité et les\nprétentions de l'élégant Robert lui étaient insupportables; et madame\nJohn Dashwood n'ayant jamais cherché à gagner l'amitié de ses belles\nsoeurs, ne leur en avait jamais témoigné. Elle se trouva donc presque\nheureuse qu'un obstacle insurmontable la préserva du malheur d'être sous\nla dépendance de madame Ferrars, d'être obligée de se soumettre à ses\ncaprices et de supporter sa mauvaise humeur; et si elle n'avait pas\nencore la force de se réjouir qu'Edward fût engagé avec Lucy, elle\nl'attribuait uniquement à la certitude qu'il ne serait pas heureux avec\nelle. Si sa rivale avait été plus aimable, elle aurait pris tout-à-fait\nson parti de renoncer pour sa part à un bonheur aussi chèrement acheté\nque d'être la fille de madame Ferrars et la soeur de M. Robert. Elle ne\ncomprenait pas que Lucy eût attaché autant de prix aux honnêtetés d'une\nfemme qui ne lui en avait fait que parce qu'elle n'était pas Elinor, et\nque la vérité ne lui était pas connue. Il fallait que Lucy fût\ncomplètement aveuglée par la vanité pour n'avoir pas senti que cette\npréférence arrachée à demi par ses flatteries, n'était pas du tout pour\nl'_amante d'Edward_, pas même pour Lucy Stéeles, mais pour la jeune\nfille qui paraissait à côté de celle qu'on voulait mortifier. Lucy le\nvoyait si peu sous ce jour, que dès le lendemain matin elle arriva à\nBerkeley-Street avec l'espoir de trouver Elinor seule, et de lui dire\ntout son bonheur; elle eut celui de venir au moment où madame Jennings\nallait sortir.\n\n--Chère amie, dit Lucy à Elinor, que je suis contente de pouvoir vous\nparler en liberté, vous dire combien je suis heureuse! Pouvez-vous\nimaginer quelque chose de plus flatteur que la manière dont madame\nFerrars me traita hier? Comme elle était bonne, affable! Vous savez\ncombien je la redoutais; certes, j'avais bien tort. Dès le premier\nmoment où je lui fus présentée, je vis sur sa physionomie quelque chose\nqui me disait que je lui plaisais extrêmement; et toute sa conduite avec\nmoi l'a confirmé. N'est-ce pas que c'était ainsi? vous l'aurez vu tout\ncomme moi. N'en avez-vous pas été frappée?\n\n--Elle était certainement très-polie avec vous.\n\n--Polie! est-ce que vous n'avez vu que de la politesse? Pour moi j'ai vu\nbeaucoup plus. Avec quelle bonté elle m'a distinguée de tout le monde!\nni orgueil ni hauteur quoique je sois une pauvre jeune personne qu'elle\nvoyait aussi pour la première fois. Elle n'a presque adressé la parole\nqu'à _moi_ seule, et votre belle-soeur de même. Quelle femme adorable!\ntoute douceur, toute affabilité, si bonne, si prévenante! Quel bonheur\npour vous que votre frère ait épousé une femme aussi aimable.\n\nElinor pour éviter de répondre, voulut changer d'entretien; mais Lucy la\npressa tellement de convenir de son bonheur, qu'elle ne pût s'en\ndéfendre.--Indubitablement, lui dit-elle, rien ne pourrait être plus\nheureux et plus flatteur pour vous que la conduite de madame Ferrars, si\nelle connaissait vos engagemens avec son fils, mais ce n'est pas le cas,\net.....\n\n--J'étais sûre d'avance que vous me répondriez cela, interrompit Lucy;\nmais vous conviendrez au moins qu'il ne peut y avoir aucune raison au\nmonde qui obligeât madame Ferrars à feindre de m'aimer, si je ne lui\nplaisais pas; et elle a marqué une prévention si flatteuse pour moi, et\npour _moi seule_, que vous ne pouvez m'ôter la satisfaction d'y croire.\nJe suis sûre à présent que tout finira bien, et que je ne trouverai\npoint les difficultés que je craignais. Madame Ferrars et sa fille sont\ndeux femmes charmantes, adorables, qui me paraissent sans défauts; et\npeut-être me font-elles l'honneur de penser la même chose de moi; car\nj'ai vu et senti qu'il y avait entre nous un attrait mutuel. Je suis\nétonnée que vous ne m'ayez jamais dit combien votre belle-soeur est\nagréable!\n\nElinor n'essaya pas même de répondre; qu'aurait-elle pu dire?\n\n--Etes-vous malade, miss Dashwood? dit Lucy, vous semblez si triste, si\nabattue! Vous ne parlez pas; sûrement vous n'êtes pas bien, lui dit la\nméchante fille avec son regard abominable.\n\n--Je ne me suis jamais mieux portée; répondit Elinor.\n\n--J'en suis vraiment charmée; mais vous n'en avez pas l'air du tout. Je\nserais consternée si vous tombiez malade, vous qui _partagez_ si bien\ntout ce qui m'arrive. Le ciel sait ce que j'aurais fait sans votre\namitié.\n\nElinor essaya de répondre quelque chose d'honnête; mais elle le fit si\nfroidement qu'il eût mieux valu se taire. Cependant Lucy en parut\nsatisfaite.\n\n--En vérité, lui dit-elle, je n'ai pas le moindre doute sur l'intérêt\nque vous prenez à mes confidences et à mon bonheur; et après l'amour\nd'Edward, votre amitié est ce que je prise le plus. Pauvre Edward! si\nseulement il avait été là; s'il avait vu sa mère et sa soeur me traiter\ncomme si j'étais déja de la famille! mais à présent il en sera souvent\ntémoin, et tout s'arrange à merveille. Lady Middleton et madame John\nDashwood s'aiment déja à la folie; elles vont se lier intimement, et\nnous serons sans cesse les uns chez les autres. Edward passe sa vie,\ndit-on, chez sa soeur. Lady Middleton fera de fréquentes visites à\nmadame Dashwood; et votre belle-soeur a eu la bonté de me dire qu'elle\nserait toujours charmée de me voir. Ah! quelle délicieuse femme! Si\nvous lui dites une fois ce que je pense d'elle, vous ne pourrez pas\nexagérer mes éloges. Elinor garda encore le silence; et Lucy continua:\nJe suis sûre, que je me serais aperçue au premier moment si madame\nFerrars avait mauvaise opinion de moi. Elle m'aurait fait seulement\ncomme à d'_autres_ une révérence cérémoniale, sans dire un mot, ne\nfaisant plus nulle attention à moi, ne me regardant qu'avec dédain...\nVous comprenez sûrement ce que je veux dire. Si j'avais été traitée\nainsi, il ne me resterait pas l'ombre d'espérance, je n'aurais même pas\npu rester en sa présence. Je sais que, lorsqu'on lui déplaît, elle est\ntrès-violente, et n'en revient jamais.\n\nElinor n'eut pas le temps de répliquer quelque chose à son malin\ntriomphe. La porte s'ouvrit; le laquais annonça M. Ferrars qui entra\nimmédiatement.\n\nCe fut un moment très-pénible pour les uns et pour les autres; tous les\ntrois eurent l'air très-embarrassé. Edward paraissait avoir plus envie\nde reculer que d'avancer. Ce qu'ils désiraient tous d'éviter, une\nrencontre en tiers, arrivait de la manière la plus désagréable. Non\nseulement ils étaient tous les trois ensemble, mais ils y étaient sans\nle moindre intermédiaire, sans personne qui pût soutenir l'entretien, et\nvenir à leur secours. Les dames se remirent les premières. Ce n'était\npas à Lucy à se mettre en avant; vis-à-vis de lui l'apparence du secret\ndevait encore être gardée. Elle ne fit donc que le regarder tendrement,\nle saluer légèrement, et garder le silence. Elinor qui le voyait pour\nla première fois depuis leur arrivée et qui ne devait pas avoir l'air de\nrien savoir, avait un rôle bien plus difficile. Mais autant pour lui que\npour elle, elle désirait si vivement d'avoir un maintien naturel, que\npassé le premier moment elle put le saluer d'une manière aisée et\npresque comme à l'ordinaire. Un second effort sur elle-même la rendit si\nbien maîtresse de ses impressions, que ni son regard, ni ses paroles, ni\nle son de sa voix ne purent trahir ce qui se passait dans son intérieur.\nElle ne voulut pas que la présence de Lucy l'empêchât de témoigner à un\nancien ami, son plaisir de le revoir, et son regret de ne s'être pas\ntrouvée à la maison quand il y était venu. Ni les regards pénétrans de\nsa rivale, ni l'embarras de sa position, ni son dépit secret ne la\ndétournèrent de remplir ce qu'elle regardait comme un devoir envers le\nfrère de sa belle-soeur, et l'homme qu'elle estimait. Cette manière\ndonna quelque assurance à Edward, et le courage de s'avancer et de\ns'asseoir. Mais son embarras dura beaucoup plus long-temps; ce qui au\nreste lui était naturel, quoique très-rare chez la plupart des hommes,\nqui ne se laissent pas influencer par des rivalités de femmes, dont leur\namour-propre jouit. Mais Edward n'était pas susceptible de ce genre de\nvanité; et pour être tout-à-fait à son aise dans cette circonstance, il\nfallait ou l'insensibilité de Lucy ou la conscience sans reproche\nd'Elinor; et le pauvre Edward n'avait ni l'un ni l'autre de ces moyens\nde tranquillité.\n\nLucy avec une mine froide, réservée, semblait déterminée à observer, à\nécouter et à ne point se mêler d'un entretien où naturellement elle\ndevait être étrangère. Edward ne disait que des monosyllabes, en sorte\nque la conversation reposait en entier sur Elinor, et qu'elle en était\nseule chargée. Elle fut obligée de parler la première de la santé de sa\nmère, d'Emma, de leur arrivée à Londres, de leur séjour, de tout ce dont\nEdward aurait dû s'informer, s'il avait pu parler.\n\nAprès quelques minutes, ayant elle-même besoin de respirer, et voulant\nlaisser quelques momens de liberté aux deux amans, sous le prétexte de\nchercher Maria, elle sortit héroïquement, et resta même quelque temps\ndans le vestibule avant d'entrer chez sa soeur. Maria n'eut pas la même\ndiscrétion; dès qu'elle eut entendu le nom d'Edward, elle courut\nimmédiatement au salon. Le plaisir qu'elle eut en le voyant lui fit\noublier un instant toutes ses peines; il fut, comme tous ses sentimens,\ntrès-vif et exprimé avec chaleur. Cher Edward, lui dit-elle en lui\ntendant la main avec toute l'affection d'une soeur et d'une amie, enfin\nvous voilà! Combien je m'impatientais de vous revoir! et ce moment me\ndédommage de tout.\n\nEdward était dans une extrême émotion; il aurait voulu exprimer ce qu'il\nsentait, mais devant un tel témoin, qui prêtait toute son attention pour\nne perdre ni un regard ni une parole, qu'aurait-il pu dire? Il pressa\ndoucement la main de Maria sans répondre. Puis on se rassit; et pour un\nmoment chacun garda le silence les yeux baissés, à l'exception de Maria\nqui regardant avec sensibilité tantôt Edward, tantôt Elinor, aurait\nvoulu réunir leurs mains dans les siennes, que leur bonheur lui tînt\nlieu du sien propre, et qui regrettait seulement que le plaisir de se\nretrouver fût troublé par la présence importune d'un tiers aussi\nétranger, aussi indifférent que Lucy.\n\nEdward parla le premier; ce fut pour exprimer son inquiétude sur le\nchangement de Maria. Vous n'avez pas, lui dit-il, l'air de santé que\nvous aviez à Barton. Je crains que la vie de Londres ne vous convienne\npas.\n\n--Oh! ne pensez pas à moi, lui dit-elle avec le ton de la gaîté,\nquoique ses yeux se remplissent de larmes au souvenir des jours heureux\nqu'elle avait passés à Barton; ne songez pas à moi. Elinor est\ntrès-bien, vous le voyez; c'est assez pour vous et pour moi.\n\nCe mot touchant n'était pas fait pour mettre plus à l'aise Elinor et\nEdward, ni pour se concilier l'amitié de Lucy qui lança à Maria un\nregard indigné dont celle-ci ne s'aperçut pas.\n\n--Est-ce que vous aimez le séjour de Londres? reprit Edward pour dire\nquelque chose et pour détourner la conversation sur un autre sujet.\n\n--Non, pas du tout, répondit Maria; j'en attendais beaucoup de plaisir,\nje n'y en ai trouvé aucun. Celui de vous voir, cher Edward, est le\npremier que j'aie goûté. Je remercie le ciel de ce que nous vous\nretrouvons toujours le même; et un profond soupir suivit ces mots.\n\nElle s'arrêta; et personne ne continua. Je pense une chose, ma chère\nElinor, reprit-elle, puisque nous avons retrouvé Edward, nous nous\nmettrons sous sa protection pour retourner à Barton. Dans une semaine ou\ndeux tout au plus nous serons prêtes à partir. Je suppose, et je suis\nbien sûre, Edward, que vous accepterez d'être notre protecteur dans ce\npetit voyage, et que vous voudrez bien nous accompagner.\n\nLe pauvre Edward murmura quelques mots que personne ne comprit,\npeut-être pas lui-même. Lucy rougit, puis pâlit, et toussa vivement. Un\nregard d'Edward moitié sévère, moitié suppliant, la calma. Il était\nvraiment au supplice. Maria qui vit son agitation, la mit absolument sur\nle compte de l'impatience et du dépit que lui faisait éprouver la\nprésence d'une étrangère dans ce moment de réunion, et parfaitement\nsatisfaite de lui, elle voulut à son tour le calmer, en insinuant à Lucy\nd'abréger sa visite.\n\n--Nous avons passé hier la journée entière à Harley-Street chez votre\nsoeur et la nôtre, lui dit-elle. Ah! quelle longue journée! j'ai cru\nqu'elle ne finirait jamais..... mais j'ai beaucoup de choses à vous dire\nà ce sujet qu'on ne peut dire actuellement..... enfin cette journée fut\nplus pénible qu'agréable. Mais pourquoi n'y étiez-vous pas, Edward?\nç'aurait été plus agréable pour nous. Pourquoi n'y-êtes-vous pas venu?\n\n--J'avais le malheur d'être engagé ailleurs.\n\n--Bon! engagé! on se dégage de tout quand on peut être avec des amies\ncomme Elinor et Maria.\n\nLe moment parut propice à la méchante Lucy, pour se venger de\nMaria.--Vous pensez peut-être, mademoiselle, lui dit-elle, que les\nhommes ne sont point tenus de garder leurs engagemens, quand il leur\nvient dans la tête de les rompre.\n\nElinor rougit de colère; mais Maria parut entièrement indifférente à\ncette attaque, et répliqua avec calme: non en vérité, je ne crois point\ndu tout ce que vous dites. Je suis très-sûre que c'est la fidélité à un\nengagement plus ancien qui a empêché Edward de venir hier voir sa\nsoeur; je crois réellement qu'il a la conscience la plus délicate et la\nplus scrupuleuse qu'on puisse avoir, et qu'il ne manquera jamais de sa\nvie à une promesse donnée, lors même que ce serait contre son intérêt ou\nson plaisir. Je n'ai jamais connu quelqu'un qui craignît davantage de\ncauser à qui que ce soit la moindre peine, de ne pas répondre à ce qu'on\nattend de lui, de ne pas remplir tous ses devoirs importans ou non sans\nsubterfuge, et quoiqu'il puisse lui en coûter: voilà comme est Edward;\net je dois lui rendre cette justice. Comme vous avez l'air confus et\npeiné, Edward! Quoi! n'avez-vous jamais entendu faire votre éloge? si\nvous le craignez, vous ne devez pas être mon ami; car il faut que ceux\nqui acceptent mon estime et mon amitié se soumettent à entendre, devant\neux-mêmes, tout ce que je pense d'eux, soit en bien soit en mal.\n\nTout ce qu'elle dit convenait si bien au cas actuel; et il fut si\ndifficile à Edward de le supporter, que ne pouvant plus soutenir sa\nposition, il se leva et voulut sortir.\n\n--Nous quitter aussitôt! dit Maria, non, mon cher Edward, cela ne se\npeut. Rasseyez-vous, et restez, je vous en conjure; et, le tirant un peu\nà l'écart, elle lui dit à l'oreille en jetant un coup-d'oeil sur Lucy:\nattendez qu'elle soit partie, je vous en supplie! elle s'en ira bientôt;\nil y a des siècles qu'elle est là. Mais cette invitation manqua son\neffet. Il n'en sortit pas moins; et Lucy qui était décidée à ne pas\npartir la première, fût-il resté deux heures, s'en alla bientôt après\nlui. Maria était de si mauvaise humeur qu'elle la salua à peine.\n\n--Qu'est-ce donc qui peut l'attirer si souvent ici, dit-elle à sa soeur,\ndès que Lucy eut tourné le dos? ne pouvait-elle pas voir facilement\ncomme nous désirions tous son départ? Combien Edward était tourmenté!\n\n--Pourquoi donc, dit Elinor, Lucy serait-elle une étrangère pour lui? il\na demeuré chez son oncle près de Plymouth; il la connaît depuis plus\nlong-temps que nous: il est très-naturel qu'il ait aussi du plaisir à la\nvoir. Du plaisir! Edward du plaisir à voir Lucy Stéeles qu'il a vue\npeut-être deux ou trois fois comme une petite fille! Si même il l'a\nremarquée et reconnue, ce que je ne crois pas à l'air qu'il avait avec\nelle, il aurait bien voulu la voir loin d'ici. Je ne sais pas, Elinor,\nquelle est votre idée en me parlant d'Edward avec cette indifférence, ou\nen le supposant indifférent lui-même au plaisir d'être avec vous? il n'y\navait qu'à le voir pour sentir comme il était tourmenté. Aussi ai-je été\naujourd'hui très-contente de sa manière, et très-mécontente de la vôtre,\nElinor. Pas un mot d'amitié, pas un effort pour le retenir ou pour faire\nen aller Lucy. Si c'est là ce qu'on appelle être sage et prudente, que\nle ciel me préserve de l'être! moi je dis que c'est ingratitude ou\nfausseté. Ce pauvre Edward, comme il avait l'air malheureux! Je ne sais\ncomment vous avez eu le courage de le laisser sortir ainsi. Elle se\nretira elle-même en disant cela. Elinor en fut bien aise; elle n'aurait\nsu que lui répondre, liée comme elle l'était par sa promesse à Lucy de\ngarder son secret; et quelque pénibles que fussent pour elle l'erreur de\nMaria et les propos qui en étaient la suite, elle était forcée de s'y\nsoumettre. Son seul espoir était qu'Edward ne s'exposerait pas souvent à\nrenouveler un entretien aussi cruel, et qu'il ferait tous ses efforts\npour l'éviter. Mais elle-même! pourrait-elle alors se dérober aux\nconjectures, aux plaintes, et même aux reproches de Maria sur la rareté\ndes visites d'Edward. Sous tous les rapports Elinor était vraiment\ntrès-malheureuse, et elle avait besoin de tout son courage pour\nsupporter une situation aussi désagréable, et qui suivant les apparences\ndurerait encore long-temps.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXXVII.\n\n\nPeu de jours après cette rencontre les papiers-nouvelles annoncèrent au\npublic que madame Charlotte Palmer, femme de M. Thomas Palmer, écuyer,\nétait heureusement délivrée d'un fils: très-intéressant article pour la\nbonne grand'mère Jennings, qui le savait déja puisqu'elle avait assisté\nà la naissance du petit héritier, mais qui n'en eut pas moins de plaisir\nà le lire sur les papiers.\n\nCet évènement qui la rendait heureuse au suprême degré, produisit\nquelque changement dans l'emploi de son temps, et dans la vie de ses\njeunes amies. Elle voulait être autant que possible auprès de la\nnouvelle maman et de ce cher petit nouveau-né, qu'elle aimait déja à la\nfolie; elle y allait chaque matin dès qu'elle était habillée, et ne\nrentrait chez elle que très-tard dans la soirée. Elle pria sa fille\naînée, lady Middleton, d'inviter mesdemoiselles Dashwood à passer de\nleur côté toute leur journée chez elle à Conduit-Street. Elles auraient\nbien préféré rester au moins la matinée dans la maison de madame\nJennings; mais elles n'osèrent pas le demander, ni se refuser à\nl'invitation polie de lady Middleton. Elles passèrent donc leur temps\navec cette dame et les demoiselles Stéeles, qui ne leur plaisaient ni à\nl'une ni à l'autre, et qui ne sentaient pas non plus le prix de leur\nsociété. Lady Middleton se conduisait avec une extrême politesse qui\nn'était même que des complimens sans fin et des cérémonies\ntrès-ennuyeuses; mais dans le fond elle ne les aimait pas du tout.\nD'abord elles ne gâtaient ni ne louaient les enfans; puis elles aimaient\nla lecture, que lady Middleton ne regardait que comme une chose qui fait\nperdre du temps. Aussi trouvait-elle Elinor trop instruite, trop\nraisonnable, quoiqu'elle n'affichât jamais l'instruction, et qu'elle ne\nfît point parade de sa raison. Comme elle passait pour être à-la-fois\nbonne, spirituelle et bien élevée, lady Middleton croyait qu'elle était\nla seule dont on pût vanter le bon ton et la bonne éducation. Elle\ntrouvait Maria capricieuse et satyrique, sans trop savoir peut-être ce\nque signifiaient ces deux mots. Mais enfin comme elles étaient en visite\nchez sa mère qui les lui avait recommandées, elle les accablait\nd'honnêtetés et d'attentions, au grand désespoir des deux Stéeles, qui\ncroyaient que c'était autant qu'on leur ôtait, et qu'elles seules\navaient droit à l'amitié de leur _cousine lady Middleton_. La présence\nde mesdemoiselles Dashwood les gênait. Lady Middleton était honteuse de\nne rien faire devant elles, et Lucy de faire trop. Celle-ci s'était fort\nbien aperçue que ses flatteries continuelles leur faisaient pitié, et\nn'osait pas s'y livrer sans la moindre retenue, comme à son ordinaire,\nen leur présence. Mademoiselle Anna était celle qui en souffrait le\nmoins. Il n'aurait même tenu qu'à mesdemoiselles Dashwood de la captiver\nentièrement. Elles n'auraient eu pour cela qu'à lui confier en détail\ntoute l'histoire de Willoughby et de Maria, dont elle était fort\ncurieuse, et la plaisanter sur M. Donavar, le médecin de la maison,\nqu'on faisait venir au moindre petit mal des enfans, et sur qui la\ngrosse Anna avait fondé toutes ses prétentions; c'était alors l'éternel\nsujet des railleries de sir Georges. Docteur, disait-il, quand Donavar\nentrait, tâtez, je vous prie, le pouls de mademoiselle Anna, vous allez\nle trouver bien ému; voyez comme son teint s'anime! elle a beaucoup de\nfièvre, j'en suis sûr; et votre pouls, docteur, n'est pas beaucoup plus\ntranquille. Alors Anna baissait ses petits yeux, d'un air enfantin et\nmodeste, puis les relevait tous pétillans sur le docteur. En général,\nelle n'était jamais plus contente que lorsque sir Georges commençait de\nparler de lui. Il y a trois jours que le docteur n'est venu, Anna, lui\ndisait-il; vous allez en maigrir: faites pleurer Williams ou Sélina, la\nmaman l'enverra bientôt chercher. Il ne demandera pas mieux que d'avoir\nun prétexte de vous rendre ses hommages, etc. etc. Elle avalait tout\ncela avec délice, et ne doutait pas d'avoir fait cette conquête.\n\nElinor qui souffrait de la voir tourner en ridicule, n'y ajoutait rien;\ntandis que la grosse Anna à qui ce silence déplaisait, était tout près\nde la croire jalouse de sa conquête du docteur Donavar. Quand sir\nGeorges dînait dehors, ce qui arrivait assez souvent, la pauvre Anna\npassait toute la journée, sans entendre d'autres plaisanteries sur le\ndocteur que celles qu'elle se faisait à elle-même.\n\nCes petites jalousies, ces petits mécontentemens étaient si ignorés de\nmadame Jennings, qu'elle croyait que ces quatre jeunes filles se\ndélectaient d'être ensemble; et tous les soirs en revenant, elle\nfélicitait ses jeunes amies d'avoir encore échappé ce jour-là à la\nsociété de la vieille grand-mère. Elle les rejoignait quelquefois chez\nsir Georges, où elle venait donner à sa fille aînée des nouvelles de\nl'accouchée, que l'indifférente lady écoutait à peine; mais n'importe\nmadame Jennings allait son train. Elle attribuait le rétablissement de\nCharlotte à ses soins, et donnait sur la mère et sur l'enfant des\ndétails minutieux, qui n'intéressaient que la curiosité d'Anna. Heureuse\nde faire entrer là son cher docteur, qui était aussi celui des Palmer,\ncelle-ci racontait à son tour ce qu'il lui avait dit à ce sujet. Ne\nvous a-t-il pas dit aussi, s'écriait madame Jennings, comme mon\npetit-fils est bien venu, qu'il est gras et beau comme un petit ange,\nqu'il ressemble à Charlotte et à Palmer. Mais une seule chose m'afflige,\nc'est que son père, qui est bon cependant, assure que tous les enfans de\ncet âge sont de même, et ne veut pas convenir que le sien soit le plus\nbel enfant du monde; sans vous déplaire, Mary, vos enfans sont\ntrès-bien, mais ils n'en approchent pas.\n\n--Il est impossible, dit Lucy en caressant la petite, que qui que ce\nsoit au monde l'emporte en beauté sur Sélina.\n\nLady Middleton un peu consolée, lui accorda toutes ses bonnes grâces et\nlui fit un joli présent dans la soirée; de manière que Lucy trouva que\nle métier de flatteuse était bon et facile.\n\nLa liaison qui s'était établie entre les maisons Middleton et Dashwood\noccasionnait de fréquentes rencontres. Un jour qu'Elinor et Maria,\nétaient en visite chez leur belle-soeur, il y vint une dame du haut\nrang, qui ne connaissant point les particularités de cette famille, ne\nmit pas en doute qu'ils ne logeassent tous ensemble. Deux jours après,\ncette dame donnant un concert, envoya chez madame John Dashwood des\ncartes d'invitation pour elle et pour ses belles-soeurs. Madame John n'y\nvit d'abord que le désagrément de leur envoyer sa voiture et l'ennui de\nles y accompagner; lady Middleton n'y étant pas invitée, elles ne\npouvaient y aller seules. Fanny se promit bien de dire à tout le monde\nque ses belles-soeurs ne logeaient pas chez elle. Maria par l'habitude\nde faire le jour ce qu'elle avait fait la veille même et par\nl'indifférence qu'elle mettait à faire une chose plutôt qu'une autre,\navait été amenée par degré à reprendre le genre de vie de Londres et à\nsortir tous les soirs, sans attendre ni désirer le moindre amusement, et\nsouvent sans savoir jusqu'au dernier moment où elle allait. Sa toilette\nl'occupait si peu, que si sa soeur n'y avait pas pensé pour elle, elle\nserait restée dans sa robe du matin. Mais quand, après un ennui qu'elle\nsupportait à peine, elle était enfin parée, commençait un autre\nsupplice; c'était l'inventaire que faisait Anna Stéeles de toutes les\npièces de son ajustement l'une après l'autre. Rien n'échappait à son\ninsatiable curiosité et à sa minutieuse observation. Elle voyait tout,\nelle touchait tout, elle voulait savoir le prix de tout, elle calculait\nle nombre des robes de Maria, et combien le blanchissage devait lui\ncoûter par semaine, et à combien sa toilette devait lui revenir par an.\nMaria en était excédée; mais ce qui lui déplaisait plus encore était le\ncompliment qui suivait toujours cet examen. «Eh bien, miss Maria, vous\nvoilà très-bien mise et très-belle encore, quoiqu'on en dise:\nConsolez-vous, c'est moi qui vous le promets, vous allez faire encore\nbien des conquêtes; et tous les jeunes gens ne seront peut-être pas\nlégers et perfides. Mademoiselle Elinor est très-bien aussi. A présent\nque vous avez si fort maigri, on ne dirait pas qu'elle est l'aînée; et\nelle aura bien sa part d'adorateurs».\n\nAvec de tels encouragemens elles attendaient ce soir-là le carosse de\nleur frère. Comme elles étaient prêtes, elles y entrèrent sur-le-champ\nau grand désespoir de Fanny qui avait espéré qu'elles ne le seraient pas\nencore et qu'elle pourrait rejeter le retard sur ses belles-soeurs.\n\nLes évènemens de cette soirée ne furent pas remarquables. Le concert\nd'amateurs, était, comme ils le sont d'ordinaire extrêmement médiocre,\nquoique, dans leur propre estime et dans celle de la dame qui les avait\nrassemblés, ce fussent les premiers talens d'Angleterre. Au reste, à\nMaria près qui était très-forte sur le piano, mais qui ne faisait nulle\nattention à la musique, le reste de l'assemblée était peu en état d'en\njuger. On était là plutôt pour voir et se faire voir, que pour écouter.\nAussi Elinor qui n'était point musicienne et n'y avait nulle prétention,\nne se fit pas scrupule de détourner ses yeux de l'amphithéâtre de\nmusique pour regarder d'autres objets. Dans le nombre des femmes elle en\nremarqua une à l'excès de sa parure, d'ailleurs très-peu jolie, mais\ngrande et bien faite, et entourée de tous les élégans, parmi lesquels\nelle eut bientôt reconnu Robert Ferrars à son costume exagéré et à sa\nlorgnette avec laquelle il regardait toutes les femmes, avec une fatuité\ninsupportable. Bientôt son tour vint d'être regardée; et Robert lui-même\ns'avança avec nonchalance, et s'assit à côté d'elle. Bonjour, ma vieille\nconnaissance, lui dit-il d'un ton léger.\n\n--Monsieur, vous vous méprenez sans doute, lui dit Elinor, surprise de\nce ton; je n'ai pas du tout l'honneur de vous connaître.\n\n--Allons donc, vous plaisantez; n'avons-nous pas passé une heure\nensemble chez Grays, l'autre matin? Je vous reconnus à l'instant l'autre\nsoir chez votre frère, qui je crois est le mien aussi: ainsi vous voyez\nque nous sommes intimes. D'ailleurs, dit-il, en souriant d'un air qu'il\ncroyait bien fin, je suis aussi le frère d'Edward; et l'on assure que\nvous ne le haïssez pas du tout, et qu'il est encore plus que moi votre\nancienne connaissance.\n\n--Monsieur, je ne hais personne, et nullement Edward Ferrars que j'aime\net que j'estime depuis long-temps.\n\n--Eh bien, d'honneur! c'est très naïf, dit Robert en éclatant de rire.\nVous me prenez pour confident! Je suis peu accoutumé à ce rôle, mais je\nm'y ferai, et en ami, je veux vous donner un conseil; c'est de ne plus\npenser à Edward: sa mère a d'autres vues. D'ailleurs il est impossible,\nabsolument impossible que vous le trouviez aimable.\n\n--Monsieur, dit Elinor avec fermeté, sans avoir sur lui aucune\nprétention qui puisse contrarier les vues de madame Ferrars, je trouve\n_son fils aîné_ très-aimable; et il me le paraît plus encore, depuis que\nje le compare à d'autres.\n\n--Ah bien, par exemple! c'est très-plaisant ce que vous dites-là. On ne\ns'attendait pas à ce qu'Edward gagnât à être comparé à d'autres. Allons,\nconvenez donc qu'il est impossible d'être plus gauche, plus maussade,\nmis avec moins de goût. Il faudrait une étrange prévention pour nier\ncela.\n\n--J'ai cette prévention, monsieur, et malgré votre éloge fraternel, je\npersiste à la croire très-bien fondée.\n\n--Allons, allons, vous plaisantez, je vois cela. Puis-je vous offrir une\npastille, mademoiselle Dashwood, dit il, en ouvrant une petite\nbonbonnière d'écaille blonde à étoiles d'or? A propos n'avez-vous pas\nenvie de voir la boîte à cure-dents que je commandais l'autre jour?\nDélicieuse! parole d'honneur, elle a réussi à ravir. Grays est unique\npour saisir mes idées.... Mais pardon, madame Willoughby m'appelle.\n\n--Madame Willoughby! s'écria Elinor, où donc est-elle?\n\n--Là; cette femme si bien mise. Personne à Londres ne se met comme\nelle. J'excepte cependant cette charmante toque que je vis l'autre soir\nsur la tête de je ne sais qui. Vous y étiez je crois? d'honneur! Cette\ncoiffure m'a tourné la tête. Comment se nomme la jeune personne?\n\n--Mademoiselle Lucy Stéeles, une nièce de M. Pratt chez lequel votre\nfrère a demeuré.\n\n--Ah Dieu! M. Pratt. Ah! je vous en conjure, mademoiselle, si vous ne\nvoulez pas que je meure de vapeurs, ne me parlez pas de M. Pratt! c'est\ngrâce à lui qu'Edward est si complètement maussade. Je l'ai dit souvent\nà madame Ferrars: ne vous en prenez qu'à vous, ma mère, si votre fils\naîné est à peine présentable dans le beau monde; si vous l'aviez envoyé\ncomme moi à Westminster au lieu de le remettre aux soins de M. Pratt,\nvous voyez ce qu'il serait. Elle est convaincue de son erreur; mais\nc'est trop tard; le pli est pris.\n\nElinor ne répondit rien; elle n'aurait pas voulu qu'Edward ressemblât à\nson frère, mais son séjour chez l'oncle de Lucy Stéeles ne lui était\nguère plus agréable.\n\nEnfin l'élégant Robert la quitta et lui fit plaisir; elle était sur les\népines en pensant que Maria pourrait voir madame Willoughby ou seulement\nentendre son nom, et que Willoughby peut-être était lui-même dans le\nsalon; cependant elle ne l'avait point aperçu. Elle regarda encore; il\nn'y était pas; et Maria émue par la musique, plus rêveuse, plus\nmélancolique encore qu'à l'ordinaire, n'avait rien vu, rien entendu.\nElinor aurait voulu la prévenir, mais elle n'était pas à côté d'elle.\nHeureusement que Fanny qui n'aimait pas la musique, et qui s'ennuyait,\navait demandé ses chevaux de bonne heure, et elle se retira avec ses\nbelles-soeurs avant la fin du concert, et sans que Maria se fût doutée\nque madame Willoughby y était. Elles laissèrent à leur porte M. et\nmadame Dashwood, et retournèrent chez madame Jennings qui les attendait.\n\nLe soir même M. John Dashwood eut avec sa femme un entretien aigre-doux\nqui avait pour objet mesdemoiselles Dashwood. Pendant le concert, qui ne\nl'amusait pas plus qu'elle, il avait eu le temps de réfléchir; et une\nidée l'avait frappée. La maîtresse de la maison, lady Dennison avait\nsupposé que ses soeurs demeuraient chez lui: il était donc convenable\nqu'elles y fussent, et il manquait aux devoirs d'un frère, en laissant\nses soeurs loger et manger chez des étrangers. L'opinion avait un grand\npouvoir sur lui; d'un autre côté sa conscience lui reprochait si souvent\nde n'avoir point tenu la promesse faite à son père, qu'il crut devoir\nl'appaiser, en les prenant quelques temps chez lui. La dépense serait\npeu de chose; Elinor était petite mangeuse, et Maria, si languissante. A\npeine furent-ils rentrés qu'il en fit la proposition à sa femme, qui en\nfrémit de tout son corps, et tâcha de parer le coup.--Je ne demanderais\npas mieux, mon cher John; vous savez combien j'aime tout ce qui tient à\nvous. Mais voyez dans ce moment-ci, je craindrais d'offenser beaucoup\nlady Middleton chez qui elles passent toutes leurs journées; il serait\ntout-à-fait malhonnête de la priver de leur compagnie. J'en suis\ntrès-fâchée; car vous voyez combien j'aime à être avec vos soeurs, mon\ncher John, à les produire dans le monde, à leur prêter ma voiture.....\n\n--Oui, oui, je vous rends justice, chère Fanny; mais dans cette\noccasion, je ne sens pas la force de votre objection. Elles ne demeurent\npoint chez lady Middleton; et sous aucun rapport, elle ne peut être\nfâchée qu'elles viennent passer quelques jours chez leur belle-soeur.\nVous voyez que tout le monde pense que cela doit être ainsi.\n\n--Oui, oui lady Dennison qui ne sait ce qu'elle dit. Enfin, mon cher,\nvous avez toujours raison; et je crois comme vous que cela\nconviendrait; mais malheureusement j'ai invité mesdemoiselles Stéeles à\npasser quelque temps avec nous. Ce sont de bonnes filles,\ntrès-complaisantes, point gênantes, dont on fait tout ce qu'on veut, et\nc'est une attention que je leur devais, mon frère Edward ayant été élevé\nchez leur oncle Pratt, ainsi que je l'ai appris l'autre jour. Nous\npouvons avoir vos soeurs quand nous voudrons, soit à Norland, soit un\nautre hiver à Londres. Peut-être mesdemoiselles Stéeles n'y reviendront\nplus. Enfin je les ai déja invitées; et plus elles sont dépendantes et\nsans fortune, plus on leur doit d'égards. Vous qui avez tant de\ndélicatesse et de générosité, mon cher John, vous sentez cela mieux que\npersonne, j'en suis sûre; je le suis aussi qu'elles vous amuseront\nbeaucoup plus que vos soeurs; elles sont gaies et très-gentilles. Ma\nmère est passionnée de Lucy, et c'est aussi la favorite de notre cher\npetit Henri.\n\nQue répondre à de tels argumens? M. Dashwood fut convaincu; il convint\nde la nécessité d'avoir les demoiselles Stéeles; et sa conscience\ns'appaisa par le souvenir du beau dîner qu'il avait donné au colonel\nBrandon, et par l'espoir que l'année suivante Elinor serait madame\nBrandon, aurait une bonne maison à Londres, et que Maria vivrait avec\nelle. Fanny tout à-la-fois contente d'être échappée au malheur d'avoir\nses belles-soeurs, et fière de l'esprit qu'elle y avait mis, écrivit le\nmatin suivant un billet à Lucy qu'elle antidata de deux jours, et où\nelle la priait ainsi que mademoiselle Anna de lui faire le plaisir de\nvenir passer quelques jours chez elle, aussitôt que lady Middleton\nvoudrait les lui céder. On comprend combien Lucy fut heureuse. Aller\ndemeurer chez la soeur d'Edward, qui en l'invitant semblait travailler\npour elle! on peut cette fois pardonner à Lucy de se livrer à l'espoir.\nUne occasion journalière de voir Edward, de gagner l'amitié de sa\nfamille, lui parut une chose si essentielle, qu'il ne fallait pas\ndifférer. Après avoir fait sentir à sa soeur l'avantage qui pouvait en\nrésulter, elle la fit consentir d'autant plus facilement à quitter les\nMiddleton, que le docteur Donavar était aussi le médecin des Dashwood,\net de plus lié particulièrement avec John. L'espoir de le voir plus\nsouvent la consola de n'avoir plus à entendre les railleries de sir\nGeorges. Elles se préparèrent donc à y aller dès le lendemain. Lady\nMiddleton en prit son parti avec l'indifférence qu'elle mettait à tout\nce qui ne la regardait pas directement.\n\nOn comprend qu'à peine Elinor fut arrivée, que Lucy lui montra en\ntriomphe le pressant billet de Fanny; et pour la première fois elle\npartagea l'espérance de Lucy. Une telle preuve de bonté, une prévenance\nsi marquée avec de jeunes personnes que Fanny connaissait aussi peu,\nelle qui, à l'ordinaire était si peu obligeante, témoignaient que l'on\navait du moins beaucoup de bonne volonté et de bienveillance, qui avec\nle temps et l'adresse de Lucy pourraient mener à quelque chose de plus.\nComme Elinor ignorait le projet que son frère avait eu de les inviter,\nil ne lui vint pas dans l'idée que mesdemoiselles Stéeles eussent servi\nde prétexte à Fanny pour ne pas les recevoir. Elles y allèrent donc dès\nle lendemain, et furent reçues de manière à laisser tout croire de\nl'effet de cette préférence. Fanny avait fait sentir à son mari qu'il\nétait très-dangereux de rapprocher Elinor d'Edward dans un moment où on\ntraitait de son mariage, au lieu que les petites Stéeles, qu'il\nconnaissait à peine, étaient à tout égard sans danger pour lui. Quant à\nelle-même elle en faisait deux complaisantes assidues qui lui faisaient\nses chiffons, servaient le thé, arrangeaient le feu, ramassaient son\nmouchoir, amusaient son enfant; elle trouvait toutes ces attentions\nserviles très-agréables et très commodes. Sir Georges qui les allait\nvoir quelquefois, ne parlait que de l'amitié de madame John Dashwood\npour ses petites cousines. Elle était plus enchantée d'elles, et surtout\nde Lucy qu'elle ne l'avait jamais été de toute autre jeune personne;\nelle ne les appelait plus que _sa chère Lucy, sa chère Anna_, leur avait\nfait présent à chacune d'un petit porte-feuille d'aiguilles, et disait\nqu'elle ne savait comment elle ferait pour se séparer de ses aimables et\nchères amies.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXXVIII.\n\n\nMadame Palmer était si bien au bout de quinze jours, que sa mère ne\ntrouva plus nécessaire de lui donner tout son temps, et se contenta de\nla visiter une ou deux fois par jour. Elle revint à sa maison, à ses\nhabitudes, à ses jeunes amies, à qui elle racontait avec soin tout ce\nqu'elle apprenait dans ses courses. La troisième ou quatrième matinée,\nen revenant de chez sa fille, elle entra dans le salon, où Elinor\ntravaillait seule, avec un air d'importance, comme pour la préparer à\nentendre quelque chose d'extraordinaire.\n\n--Bon Dieu! ma chère Elinor, est-ce que vous savez la nouvelle?\n\nElinor eut un instant l'idée qu'elle voulait parler du retour de\nWilloughby, dont elle avait déja prévenu Maria; elle le lui dit.\n\n--Mon Dieu non, ma chère, il s'agit bien d'autre chose vraiment!\nQu'est-ce que me font les Willoughby à présent? Rien du tout je vous\nassure; je les laisse pour ce qu'ils sont. Qu'ils aillent, qu'ils\nviennent peu m'importe. Mais ce que je viens d'apprendre, devinez-le si\nvous pouvez en cent, en mille.\n\n--Ce sera peut être plutôt fait de me le dire, chère dame, dit en riant\nElinor.\n\n--Allons, allons je le veux bien; c'est si étrange! écoutez donc. Quand\nje suis entrée chez Charlotte, je l'ai trouvée, la pauvre petite mère,\nfort en peine pour son enfant. Elle croyait qu'il allait mourir, il\ncriait, il ne voulait rien prendre et était tout couvert de petits\nboutons rouges. Je l'examinai, et je lui dis: Eh mon Dieu! ma chère\nCharlotte, calmez-vous, ce n'est rien au monde que la rougeole; et la\nnourrice dit de même. Mais madame Palmer ne fut pas contente qu'on n'eût\nenvoyé chercher le docteur Donavar. On y alla, et on eut le bonheur de\nle trouver précisément comme il revenait de Harley-Street, de chez votre\nfrère. Il vint à la minute et dit comme moi que c'était la rougeole,\nqu'il n'y avait rien à craindre; alors Charlotte a été bien contente.\nElinor l'écoutait avec intérêt, mais ne pouvait s'empêcher de sourire de\nl'importance de cette nouvelle de grand'mère.--M'y voici, dit la bonne\nJennings, à ma nouvelle. Comme le docteur sortait, je m'avisai de lui\ndire en riant: Ah! ah! docteur, je sais fort bien ce qui vous attire si\nsouvent à Harley-Street chez M. John Dashwood; vous courtisez Anna\nStéeles, m'a-t-on dit, et nous deviendrons cousins peut-être. Il rit\naussi; puis reprenant un air grave et mystérieux, il s'approcha de moi,\net me dit: Ce n'est point du tout pour mademoiselle Anna que je suis\nallé aujourd'hui chez John Dashwood, c'est pour sa femme qui est mal,\ntrès-mal je vous assure.\n\n--Bon Dieu! s'écria Elinor, Fanny est malade.\n\n--Voilà exactement ce qu'il m'a dit, ma chère; et j'ai crié tout comme\nvous, quoique je ne l'aime guères; mais quand on est malade ou mort\ntout s'oublie.\n\n--Rassurez-vous, madame, m'a-t-il répondu, et rassurez aussi les jeunes\nmiss Dashwood; leur belle-soeur n'en mourra pas puisque la colère ne l'a\npas étouffée; mais elle n'en a pas été loin.\n\n--La colère! Fanny! eh mon Dieu! contre qui? dit Elinor.\n\n--J'ai demandé la même chose, et voici ce que j'ai appris. M. Edward\nFerrars, le frère aîné de madame Dashwood, ce même jeune homme sur\nlequel je vous raillais à Barton, vous savez bien, mais à présent je\nserais bien fâchée que vous lui eussiez donné votre coeur! (Elinor ne\ndemanda plus rien, elle écouta dans une grande émotion) eh bien! cet\nEdward Ferrars, ne vous aimait point, ma chère; il paraît qu'il était\nengagé depuis long-temps avec ma cousine Lucy. Pas une créature humaine\nne s'en est doutée, excepté Anna. Auriez-vous cru cela possible? Quant à\nleur amour il n'y a rien là d'extraordinaire: Lucy est gentille, elle\nest vive, alerte, et précisément de cette espèce de jeunes filles qui\nplaisent aux garçons timides, parce qu'elles font toutes les avances.\nMais que cette amourette soit allée si loin et depuis si long-temps,\nsans que personne l'ait su ni soupçonné, c'est cela qui est étrange. Je\nne les ai jamais vus ensemble, car je suis bien sûre que je l'aurais\ntout de suite deviné. Mais ce grand secret était si bien gardé que ni\nmadame Ferrars, ni votre belle-soeur ne le soupçonnaient, ni personne au\nmonde. C'était dans la famille à qui caresserait le plus Lucy; Edward y\nvenait fort peu. Voilà que ce matin la pauvre Anna, bonne fille sans\nmalice comme vous savez a découvert le pot aux roses.\n\nIls sont tous si passionnés de Lucy, pensait-elle, que je suis sûre\nqu'il n'y aura pas la moindre difficulté, et que madame Dashwood va\nsauter de joie. Ce matin donc elle est entrée auprès de votre\nbelle-soeur, qui était seule dans son cabinet, et qui ne se doutait\nguères de ce qu'elle allait apprendre. Il n'y avait pas cinq minutes\nqu'elle avait dit à son mari que son frère paraissait à présent\nindifférent pour toutes les femmes, et qu'elle était sûre qu'on\nl'amènerait bientôt à épouser milady, je ne sais qui, et voilà qu'Anna\nlui dit comme la plus belle chose du monde qu'il est engagé avec Lucy.\nVous pouvez penser quel coup c'était pour son orgueil et sa vanité!\nElle s'est mise dans une telle fureur qu'il lui a pris de violens maux\nde nerfs, et elle poussait de tels cris, que votre frère qui était en\nbas dans sa chambre, écrivant à son intendant de Norland, les a\nentendus. Il est accouru vers sa pauvre femme; alors une autre scène a\ncommencé. Lucy entra aussi tout effrayée pour donner des secours à sa\nchère Fanny: jugez comme elle fut reçue! Pauvre petite! je la plains\nbeaucoup; et elle n'a pas été traitée doucement j'en réponds, car votre\nsoeur était, dit-on, comme une furie, et n'a cessé ses injures que\nlorsqu'un nouvel accès la fait évanouir. Anna était à deux genoux en\npleurant amèrement, et quand on y pense bien c'était la plus\nmalheureuse; tout le monde la grondait; sa soeur au désespoir qu'elle\neût trahi son secret, l'a battue, dit-on, avant de sortir de la chambre;\net elle n'a pas comme Lucy un amant et un mari pour se consoler: le\ndocteur Donavar ne la reverra guères. Votre frère se promenait, allait\ndu haut en bas sans savoir que dire ni que faire. Dès que Fanny put\nparler, ce fut pour déclarer qu'elle ne prétendait pas que ces _ingrates\nStéeles_ fussent un instant de plus chez elle. Votre frère fut obligé de\nse mettre aussi à deux genoux pour lui persuader de les laisser au moins\nfaire leurs paquets. Mais ses accès de maux de nerfs se succédaient\nd'une manière si effrayante, qu'il prit le parti d'envoyer chercher le\ndocteur Donavar, qui trouva toute la maison en rumeur. Le carosse était\nà la porte pour emmener mes pauvres cousines chez leurs parens à\nHolborn; elles descendaient l'escalier, quand il arriva. La pauvre Lucy\npouvait à peine marcher; Anna était à moitié folle de douleur. Pour moi\nje déclare que je suis furieuse contre votre belle-soeur, et que je\ndésire de tout mon coeur qu'ils se marient en dépit d'elle. Bon Dieu!\ndans quel état sera le pauvre Edward quand il apprendra cela! sa\nbien-aimée traitée avec ce mépris. On dit qu'il l'aime passionnément, et\nqu'il sera capable de tout; et je le conçois très-bien. M. Donavar pense\nde même; nous en avons jasé ensemble, pendant une demi-heure. Enfin il\nm'a quittée pour y retourner; il avait grande envie d'y être quand\nmadame Ferrars y arrivera. Madame Dashwood l'a fait prier de venir dès\nque mes pauvres cousines ont été parties; elle est sûre que sa mère va\naussi tomber en syncope: ce qu'il y a de certain c'est que ce ne sera\npas moi qui la ferai revenir; je ne les plains ni l'une ni l'autre. Je\nn'ai encore vu de ma vie deux femmes faire tant de cas du rang et des\nrichesses. Je ne vois pas pourquoi Edward Ferrars n'épouserait pas Lucy\nStéeles. Elle n'est pas fille de lord, cela est vrai; mais ce n'est pas\nla femme qui fait le mari, et n'a-t-on pas souvent vu de pareils\nmariages. Ma fille Mary n'est-elle pas milady; n'en déplaise à ces\nbelles dames? Lucy n'a rien ou presque rien, c'est vrai aussi; mais elle\na des charmes et du savoir faire. Personne n'est plus gentille dans une\nmaison; cela met la main à tout, et si madame Ferrars leur donne\nseulement cinq cents pièces par année, elle brillera autant qu'une\nautre avec mille. Ah! comme ils seraient bien dans une petite maison\ncomme la vôtre, ni plus ni moins, avec deux filles pour les servir et un\ndomestique pour le mari! Que faut-il de plus pour être heureux quand on\ns'aime? Et je crois que je pourrais leur procurer une bonne\nfemme-de-chambre, la propre soeur de ma Betty, qui leur conviendrait\nparfaitement. Ici Madame Jennings arrêta son flux de paroles, et comme\nElinor avait eu le temps de rassembler ses idées, elle put répondre\ncomme le sujet le demandait. Il n'y avait presque rien de nouveau pour\nelle; elle était préparée à cet événement, et ne fut point soupçonnée\nd'y prendre un intérêt particulier; car depuis long-temps madame\nJennings avait cessé de la croire attachée à Edward. Heureuse de\nl'absence de Maria elle se sentit très-capable de parler de cette\naffaire sans embarras et de donner son sentiment avec impartialité.\n\nElle savait à peine elle-même ce qu'elle désirait, mais elle s'efforçait\nde rejeter de son esprit toute idée que cela pût finir autrement que par\nle mariage d'Edward et de Lucy. Elle était inquiète de ce que ferait\nmadame Ferrars pour l'empêcher, et bien plus inquiète encore de la\nmanière dont Edward se conduirait. Il n'était plus lié à Lucy par\nl'amour, elle en était sûre; mais il l'était par l'honneur, et quoique\nl'idée de le perdre fût bien cruelle, elle l'était moins que celle qu'il\npût manquer à un tel engagement. Elle sentait beaucoup de compassion\npour lui, très peu pour Lucy, et pas du tout pour les autres.\n\nComme madame Jennings ne pouvait parler d'aucun autre sujet, il devenait\nindispensable d'y préparer Maria. Il n'y avait pas de temps à perdre\npour la détromper, lui faire connaître l'exacte vérité, et tâcher de\nl'amener à en entendre parler sans trahir ni son chagrin relativement à\nsa soeur, ni son ressentiment contre Edward.\n\nLa tâche d'Elinor était pénible; elle allait détruire la seule\nconsolation de sa soeur, qui lui disait souvent: Chère Elinor, le\nmeilleur moyen que j'aie pour ne pas m'occuper de Willoughby, c'est de\npenser à Edward, au bonheur dont vous jouirez ensemble, et de me dire\nque vous le méritez plus que moi. Et il fallait renverser, anéantir\npeut-être la bonne opinion qu'elle avait de lui, et par une\nressemblance dans leur situation que son imagination rendrait plus\nfrappante qu'elle ne l'était en effet, réveiller en elle le sentiment de\nses propres peines. Mais il le fallait, et Elinor se hâta de la joindre\net de commencer son récit. Elle était loin de vouloir lui dépeindre ses\npropres sentimens et lui parler de ses souffrances, à moins que\nl'exemple de l'empire qu'elle prenait sur elle-même depuis qu'elle\nconnaissait l'engagement d'Edward, ne pût encourager Maria à l'imiter.\nSa narration fut claire et simple, et quoiqu'elle ne pût la faire sans\némotion, elle ne fut accompagnée ni d'une agitation violente ni d'un\nchagrin immodéré. Il n'en fut pas de même de Maria, elle l'écouta avec\nhorreur et fit les hauts cris: Elinor fut obligée de la calmer pour ses\npropres peines, comme elle l'avait fait pour les siennes. Mais tout ce\nqu'elle put lui dire ne fit qu'augmenter son indignation, que relever\nencore à ses yeux le mérite d'Elinor, et conséquemment que rendre plus\nsensible les torts de celui qui s'était joué de son bonheur, qui avait\npu en aimer une autre qu'elle. Elle n'admettait pas même en sa faveur\nqu'il n'eût agi que par imprudence, le seul tort que selon Elinor on pût\nlui reprocher.\n\nMais Maria pendant long-temps ne voulut rien entendre. Edward était un\nsecond Willoughby et bien plus coupable encore. Puisqu'Elinor convenait\nde l'avoir aimé sincèrement, elle devait sentir tout ce que Maria avait\nsenti. Quant à Lucy Stéeles, elle lui paraissait si peu aimable, si peu\nfaite pour attacher un homme sensible, qu'elle ne voulait pas d'abord\ncroire, ni ensuite pardonner l'affection qu'elle avait inspirée à\nEdward, même en considérant que celui-ci n'avait alors que dix-huit ans;\nelle ne voulait pas même admettre que ce goût fut naturel chez un homme,\nvivant seul à la campagne avec cette jeune personne. Il semblait à\nl'entendre qu'Edward aurait dû garder son coeur libre de tout sentiment\njusqu'au moment où il devait voir Elinor.\n\nMaria avait bien écouté sa soeur tant qu'elle avait ignoré qu'Edward\nétait engagé avec Lucy Stéeles; elle ne savait point les détails et\nn'était pas en état de les entendre. Pendant long-temps tout ce que put\nfaire Elinor, fut de l'adoucir, de calmer son ressentiment. Enfin Maria\nlui demanda depuis combien de temps elle savait cet odieux événement, et\nsi c'était Edward qui le lui avait écrit.\n\n--Je le sais depuis quatre mois, dit Elinor, et non par lui. Quand Lucy\nvint à Barton ce dernier novembre, elle me le confia sous le sceau du\nsecret.\n\nA ces paroles les yeux de Maria exprimèrent le plus grand étonnement; à\npeine ses lèvres purent se mouvoir; enfin elle s'écria: Dieu! vous le\nsavez depuis quatre mois, et par celle qui l'emportait sur vous. Elinor\nle confirma. Ah! chère Elinor, dit elle en fondant en larmes et se\njetant au cou de sa soeur; quoi, pendant que vous m'avez soignée avec\ntant de tendresse, de calme, de raison, un chagrin si semblable au mien\npesait sur votre coeur! Ah Dieu! et je vous reprochais d'être heureuse.\n(Elle cacha son visage sur l'épaule de sa soeur; et ses larmes\nredoublèrent.)\n\n--Chère Maria, ne vous reprochez rien, vous ne pouviez savoir quels\nétaient mes tourmens, dit Elinor.\n\n--Quatre mois! s'écria encore Maria, si calme, si souvent gaie. Oh!\nElinor! qu'est-ce qui vous a soutenue?\n\n--Le sentiment que je faisais mon devoir. Ma promesse à Lucy m'obligeait\nau secret; je lui devais donc à elle de ne rien dire ni de ne rien faire\nqui pût trahir la vérité. Je devais à ma famille, à mes amis de ne pas\nexciter leur sollicitude sur moi, en leur laissant remarquer que j'avais\nun chagrin caché, que je ne pouvais leur confier; enfin je me devais à\nmoi-même de ne pas paraître trop humiliée et trop malheureuse aux yeux\nde ma rivale, et à Edward de ne pas augmenter la peine qu'il aura\npeut-être à tenir ses promesses.\n\nMaria parut très-frappée. J'ai souvent désiré, continua Elinor, de\ndétromper vous et ma mère sur vos espérances. Une fois ou deux je l'ai\nmême tenté; mais sans trahir ma foi, sans pouvoir vous donner une preuve\npositive, vous ne l'auriez pas voulu croire.\n\n--Quatre mois si tranquille en apparence! et cependant vous l'aimiez,\ndit Maria avec le regard et le ton du doute?\n\n--Oui je l'aime, répondit Elinor avec candeur et sentiment; mais je ne\nl'aime pas uniquement, et j'étais bien aise d'épargner à ceux qui me\nsont chers aussi, le chagrin de me voir malheureuse. Je travaillais en\nsilence, pendant que cet événement était un secret pour tout le monde,\nexcepté pour moi seule, à le supporter avec courage quand il éclaterait.\nCe moment est arrivé, et je vous assure que je puis en parler à présent\nsans trop d'émotion. Je vous conjure donc, chère Maria, de ne pas\nsouffrir pour moi plus que je ne souffre moi-même. Ne comparez pas votre\nmalheur au mien; ils n'ont pas plus de rapports que nos caractères. Je\nperds plus que vous peut-être en perdant Edward, mais j'ai plusieurs\nmotifs de consolation que vous n'aviez pas. Je puis encore estimer\nEdward, et je le justifie de tout tort essentiel; je désire son bonheur\net je l'espère, quoiqu'il n'ait pas peut-être, la compagne qui lui\naurait convenu, parce qu'il sera soutenu comme moi par le sentiment\nd'avoir fait ce que sa conscience lui dictait. S'il éprouve d'abord\nquelques regrets, je le connais assez pour être sûre qu'il en aurait\ndavantage encore, s'il était parjure, et qu'ils se calmeront peu-à-peu.\nLucy ne manque ni d'esprit ni de bon sens; ses défauts tiennent à son\nmanque total d'éducation. Elle aime Edward, je l'espère du moins;\npourrait-elle ne pas l'aimer? Elle se modèlera sur lui; elle acquerra\nles vertus qui lui manquent, et qu'il possède à un si haut degré. Il l'a\naimée une fois, il l'aimera plus encore lorsqu'elle le méritera, et que\nles qualités, les vertus de sa femme seront son ouvrage; il oubliera\nj'espère qu'une autre lui avait paru supérieure.\n\n--Il n'a point aimé Lucy, dit vivement Maria; il ne l'aimera jamais....\nou il n'a jamais aimé Elinor. Bien certainement un coeur, tel que celui\nque vous supposez à Edward, ne peut s'attacher deux fois, et à deux\nobjets aussi différens.\n\n--Vous en revenez toujours à votre système de constance éternelle, ma\nchère Maria. Il prouve non seulement votre sensibilité, mais aussi,\npermettez-moi de vous le dire, l'exaltation un peu trop romanesque de\nvotre esprit qui vous entraîne au-delà de la réalité. Quoi! parce qu'on\na eu le malheur d'être trompé dans un premier attachement, on aurait\nencore celui de ne pouvoir plus s'attacher à personne? et parce qu'un\ncoeur sincère et sensible a été déchiré, rien ne guérira sa blessure, et\nil doit rester isolé pendant toute l'existence? Non, non cela ne\npeut-être, non je ne puis le croire, et....\n\n--Ainsi, interrompit vivement Maria, c'est la sage, la prudente Elinor,\nqui pense que l'on peut ainsi passer sa vie, d'attachement en\nattachement; car si vous supposez la possibilité d'aimer deux fois, il\nn'y a plus de bornes; pourquoi pas trois, dix, vingt, trente! comment\nsoutenir cette idée?\n\nNon pas, chère Maria, dit Elinor en souriant, mais je crois que celui ou\ncelle qui a été trompé une fois ne le sera pas deux. Un second\nattachement n'aura peut-être pas la vivacité du premier, mais il n'en\naura ni la promptitude ni l'illusion; et l'on cherchera à bien connaître\nla personne avant de s'y attacher; on n'aimera que ce qu'on estime, et\nalors on l'aimera toujours.\n\n--Cependant dit Maria, vous avez bien cru connaître Edward?\n\n--Et je le crois encore; Edward ne m'a point trompée, et s'il était\nlibre, j'ose assurer que je n'aurais jamais aimé que lui; mais il ne\nl'est plus, et je dois effacer de mon coeur tout autre sentiment que\nl'estime; s'il épouse Lucy, et s'il ne l'épouse pas je dois renoncer\nmême à l'estime.... Mais je ne veux seulement pas le supposer.\n\n--Je crois, dit Maria, que vous n'aurez pas grand peine à triompher de\ntous vos sentimens, si la perte de celui que vous aimiez vous touche\naussi peu. Votre courage, votre empire sur vous-même sont peut-être\nmoins étonnans.... et votre malheur est alors en effet très-supportable.\n\n--Je vous entends Maria, vous supposez que je ne suis pas susceptible\nd'un attachement vif, et que par conséquent je ne suis pas\ntrès-malheureuse. Vous vous trompez; j'ai tendrement aimé Edward, et\nj'ai cru l'être de lui; j'ai long-temps nourri l'espoir enchanteur\nd'être sa compagne, et la certitude que nous serions heureux ensemble.\nLe coup qui m'a frappée était complètement inattendu, et m'a laissée\nsans espérance et sans consolation. Pendant quatre mois j'ai porté seule\ntout le poids de ma douleur, sans avoir la liberté de la soulager en la\nconfiant à une amie, ayant non seulement mon propre chagrin à supporter,\nmais aussi le sentiment du vôtre et de celui de ma mère quand vous\nviendriez à l'apprendre, et n'osant pas même vous y préparer. J'avais su\nmon malheur par la personne même dont les droits plus anciens que les\nmiens et plus sacrés, puisqu'ils reposaient sur une promesse solennelle,\nm'ôtaient toute espérance, et j'avais cru voir dans cette confidence un\ntriomphe et des soupçons jaloux qui m'obligeaient à montrer une complète\nindifférence pour celui qui m'intéressait si vivement. J'étais obligée\nd'entendre sans cesse le détail de leur amour, de leurs projets, et dans\nces cruels détails pas un mot, pas une circonstance qui pût me consoler\nde perdre Edward pour jamais en me le montrant moins digne de mon\naffection. Au contraire tous les éloges de Lucy, tout ce qu'elle me\ndisait de lui justifiait mon opinion en augmentant mes regrets. Vous\navez vu comme j'ai été traitée ici par sa mère et par sa soeur. J'ai\nsouffert la punition d'un amour auquel je devais renoncer, et tout cela\ndans un moment où j'avais encore à supporter le malheur d'une soeur\nchérie. Ah Maria! si vous ne me jugez pas tout-à-fait insensible, vous\ndevez penser que j'ai bien assez souffert. Cette fermeté, ce courage qui\nvous étonnent sont le fruit de mes constans efforts pendant tout le\ntemps que j'étais forcée de me taire; si j'avais pu vous en parler dans\nles premiers momens, vous m'auriez trouvée peut-être aussi faible que je\nvous parais forte à présent; ah! je n'aurais pas même alors pu vous\ncacher à quel point j'étais malheureuse!\n\nMaria fut tout-à-fait convaincue, et ses larmes recommencèrent à couler.\nOh Elinor! s'écria-t-elle, combien je me hais moi-même. Comme j'ai été\nbarbare avec vous! vous qui étiez mon seul soutien, vous qui avez\nsupporté mon désespoir, qui sembliez seulement souffrir pour moi; et je\nvous accusais d'insensibilité, vous la plus tendre, la meilleure des\nsoeurs; c'était là ma reconnaissance. Parce que je ne pouvais atteindre\nà votre mérite, j'essayais de le nier ou du moins de l'affaiblir, de\nmême que je refusais de croire à l'énormité de votre malheur, que vous\nsupportiez avec tant de calme et de résignation.\n\nLes plus tendres caresses entre les deux soeurs suivirent cette scène.\nDans la disposition actuelle de Maria, Elinor eut peu de peine à obtenir\nce qu'elle désirait. Maria s'engagea à ne parler jamais d'Edward ni de\nLucy avec amertume; à ne témoigner à cette dernière ni mépris, ni haine,\nni colère, dans le cas où elle la rencontrerait, et même à voir Edward\nsi l'occasion s'en présentait avec la même cordialité. Tout cela était\nbeaucoup pour Maria, mais fâchée comme elle était d'avoir injurié sa\nsoeur, il n'était rien qu'elle n'eût fait pour le réparer. Elle tint ses\npromesses d'une manière admirable; elle entendit tous les bavardages de\nmadame Jennings sur ce sujet, sans disputer avec elle ou la contredire\nen rien, et répétant souvent: oui, madame, vous avez raison; elle écouta\nmême l'éloge de Lucy sans indignation; et quand madame Jennings disait\ncomme Edward l'adorait, elle en fut quitte pour un léger spasme. Elinor\nfut si enchantée d'elle et de son héroïsme, que ce fut une consolation\npour elle. Hélas la pauvre Elinor ne se doutait pas combien cet effort\nétait pénible à Maria. Sa santé qui se soutenait dans une espèce de\nlangueur depuis son malheur, succomba tout-à-fait quand le malheur de sa\nsoeur se joignit au sien. Obligée de cacher toutes ses impressions, tous\nles sentimens violens qui assaillaient à-la-fois son coeur, il lui\nsemblait quelquefois qu'il allait se briser. Ses nuits étaient sans\nsommeil, ses jours sans tranquillité; mais elle eut bien moins de peine\nà cacher ce qu'elle souffrait au physique, que son indignation sur\nl'engagement d'Edward; elle le cacha donc aussi bien qu'il lui fut\npossible. Elinor sans cesse auprès d'elle s'apercevait peu de son\nchangement graduel, de sa pâleur, de sa maigreur, qui frappaient ceux\nqui la voyaient moins habituellement; mais le nombre en était petit.\nElle recommença à ne pas sortir de chez elle: la crainte de rencontrer\nM. ou madame Willoughby fut son prétexte auprès d'Elinor, qui comprenait\ntrop bien ce motif pour la presser, et qui n'ayant elle-même aucune\nenvie de se trouver avec eux ou avec Edward, resta aussi plus souvent à\nla maison.\n\nLe lendemain de son entretien avec Elinor, elle eut une autre épreuve à\nsoutenir: ce fut une visite de son frère qui vint tout exprès pour\nparler de la terrible affaire, et apporter à ses soeurs des nouvelles de\nsa femme.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXXIX.\n\n\nVous avez entendu parler à ce que je suppose, dit-il avec une grande\nsolennité dès qu'il fut assis, de la _choquante_ découverte qui se fit\nhier chez nous-mêmes?\n\nTout le monde restant en silence, il se recueillit aussi un moment pour\nparler avec la dignité convenable; il avait espéré qu'une foule de\nquestions le tireraient d'affaire; et qu'il n'aurait qu'à répondre; on\nne lui en faisait point. Il fallut donc pérorer tout seul, et\nl'éloquence n'était pas le partage du pauvre John.\n\nVotre soeur, dit-il enfin, a souffert considérablement; le docteur\nDonavar... mais j'y reviendrai ensuite. Il faut d'abord vous dire que\nmadame Ferrars a aussi été très-affectée, et c'est bien naturel. En un\nmot c'était une scène de contrariétés, tellement compliquée..... mais il\nfaut espérer que cet orage menaçant passera sans qu'aucun de nous y\nsuccombe. Il se rengorgea tout fier d'avoir trouvé cette belle\nmétaphore. Malgré son chagrin il fut impossible à Maria de s'empêcher de\nsourire; il s'en aperçut: Oui riez, Maria, vous ne rirez pas, je crois,\nquand vous saurez que vous avez failli perdre votre belle-soeur. Pauvre\nFanny! elle a été tout le jour hier en convulsions... mais je ne veux\npas trop vous alarmer; Donavar assure qu'il n'y a nul danger. Sa\nconstitution est bonne, et son courage vraiment admirable; elle a\nsupporté ce coup avec la fermeté d'un ange.... elle dit que de sa vie\nelle n'aura plus de confiance en personne, et je le comprends après\navoir été si cruellement trompée! Avoir trouvé une telle ingratitude\naprès tant de bontés et tant de générosité! je crois qu'elle vous aurait\nplutôt mille fois soupçonnée Elinor, plutôt que cette Lucy. C'était par\nexcès d'amitié qu'elle avait invité ces jeunes personnes à venir\ndemeurer chez nous; elle trouvait qu'elles méritaient cette faveur,\nqu'elles étaient attentives, empressées, toujours prêtes à dire des\nchoses flatteuses à tout le monde, à faire tout ce qu'Henri voulait, et\nmille jolis petits ouvrages, enfin que c'étaient deux compagnes\ntrès-agréables; car sans cela elle vous aurait invitées toutes les deux\nà rester avec nous, pendant que votre bonne amie soignait sa fille: et\npuis être ainsi récompensé! Je voudrais à présent de tout mon coeur,\ndit-elle, de ce ton affectueux que vous lui connaissez, que nous\neussions invité vos soeurs, puisqu'il n'est pas question de ce que nous\navons craint..... Ici John s'arrêta en s'admirant d'avoir si bien parlé,\net afin d'être remercié de la bonté de Fanny; ce qui fut fait avec un\nair d'ironie que John ne remarqua point. Il continua: Ce que la pauvre\nmadame Ferrars a souffert quand sa fille lui apprit la chose, ne peut\nêtre décrit! Pendant qu'avec une affection vraiment maternelle, elle\narrangeait pour son fils un superbe mariage, apprendre tout-à-coup qu'il\nest engagé avec une autre, et quelle autre bon Dieu! une petite fille\nsans naissance, sans fortune, venant on ne sait d'où..... Ici la tante\nJennings voulut éclater. Elinor la retint en lui serrant doucement la\nmain; elle se tut pour le moment. Jamais de la vie, continua John un tel\nsoupçon ne lui serait entré dans la tête, et si elle le croyait attaché\nà quelqu'un, c'était tout d'un autre côté..... vous m'entendez? et\nmoi-même, et Fanny nous pensions de même. Enfin cette bonne mère était à\nl'agonie. Nous nous consultâmes ensemble cependant sur ce qu'il y avait\nà faire, et elle se décida à envoyer chercher Edward. Il vint\nimmédiatement. Mais je suis fâché, vraiment fâché d'avoir à raconter ce\nqui suit; et d'ailleurs vous en savez assez, je pense. Je vous ai dit la\ncause du mal de Fanny, vous savez qu'elle est mieux; cela vous suffit,\nje crois. Le reste s'apprendra en son temps.\n\n--Non, non, mon frère, s'écria Elinor, dites tout; nous voulons tout\nsavoir. Le sort d'Ed...... de M. Ferrars nous intéresse aussi..\nQu'a-t-il dit? que veut-il faire?\n\n--Il ne mérite guère cet intérêt; et je vous avoue que j'aurais attendu\nautre chose de lui; je suis vraiment indigné! Croiriez-vous que malgré\ntout ce que sa mère, sa soeur et moi-même, dont l'avis n'est pas à\ndédaigner, nous avons pu lui dire et lui représenter pour rompre son\nengagement, tout a été inutile? la bonne Fanny est allée jusqu'à la\nprière: devoir, affection, tout a été sans effet. Je n'aurais jamais pu\ncroire qu'Edward fût aussi entêté, aussi insensible! Sa mère a eu la\ncondescendance de lui expliquer ce qu'il pouvait attendre de sa\nlibéralité, s'il consentait à épouser miss Morton; elle lui a dit\nqu'elle lui donnerait ses terres de Norfolk, qui rapportent clair et net\nmille pièces de revenu; elle lui a même offert à la fin douze cent\npièces, lui déclarant en même-temps que s'il persistait dans sa basse\nliaison, il pouvait s'attendre à la misère la plus complète; que les\ndeux milles pièces de capital qui sont à lui, et qu'elle ne peut lui\nôter, seraient tout ce qu'il aurait jamais à prétendre; qu'elle ne le\nverrait plus, et que loin de lui prêter jamais la moindre assistance\ns'il voulait prendre un état pour gagner quelque chose, elle ferait tout\nson possible pour lui nuire et l'empêcher d'obtenir une place.... Elinor\néleva les yeux au ciel avec une expression impossible à rendre. Maria\nau comble de l'indignation, joignit les mains et s'écria: Grand Dieu!\ncela est-il possible?\n\n--Je comprends votre étonnement, Maria, dit John Dashwood, d'une\nobstination qui a pu résister à de tels argumens. Votre exclamation est\ntrès-juste. Elle allait répondre; mais Elinor lui jeta un regard\nsuppliant, et qui disait en même-temps, à qui voulez-vous parler? Elle\nle comprit et se tut; mais ses yeux parlaient pour elle.\n\n--Tout, continua John, fut inutile. Edward dit peu de choses, mais de la\nmanière la plus ferme et la plus décidée. Je l'ai promis, et je tiendrai\nmes engagemens. Voilà tout ce que nous pûmes obtenir de lui. Vous voyez\nà présent comme on peut se fier aux apparences. Qui aurait cru Edward\ncapable de répondre ainsi à sa mère?\n\n--Moi, dit enfin madame Jennings, qui brûlait de parler; dès que je l'ai\nconnu je l'ai regardé comme un honnête homme, et je pense que s'il avait\ncédé, il aurait agi comme un coquin et un parjure. J'ai quelques mots\naussi à dire dans cette affaire; ainsi, M. Dashwood, je vous prie de\nm'excuser si je vous dis ma façon de penser. Lucy Stéeles est ma\ncousine, et celle aussi de lady Middleton, dont le nom et le titre\nvalent bien autant que ceux de madame Ferrars. Quant à Lucy elle n'est\npas riche, et ce n'est pas sa faute; mais elle est jolie et gentille, on\nne peut pas lui nier cela, et elle mérite aussi bien qu'une autre\nd'avoir un bon mari. Vous ne saviez pas d'où elle venait; et bien vous\nallez le savoir: son père était mon cousin issu de germain.\n\nJohn Dashwood fut très-étonné; mais il était d'une nature pacifique, et\njamais il ne cherchait à offenser personne, surtout si c'était quelqu'un\nde riche: loin donc de se fâcher contre madame Jennings, il fut sur le\npoint de lui demander pardon. Je vous assure, madame, lui dit-il, que je\nne veux manquer de respect à aucun de vos parens. J'ignorais que\nmesdemoiselles Stéeles eussent l'honneur de vous appartenir.\nMademoiselle Lucy m'a toujours paru une jeune personne très-méritante,\ntrès-aimable, et pour qui nous avions, j'ose le dire, beaucoup d'amitié.\nMais dans le cas présent, vous comprenez qu'une liaison est impossible;\net si vous me permettez de vous le dire, être entrée dans un secret\nengagement avec un jeune homme de famille riche, comme M. Ferrars, qui\nétait remis aux soins de son oncle, est peut-être.... comment dirai-je\ncela.... un peu extraordinaire. En un mot, je ne me permets aucune\nréflexion sur la conduite d'une personne à qui vous vous intéressez,\nmadame Jennings. Nous souhaitons tous qu'elle soit heureuse; mais j'en\ndoute fort; car madame Ferrars tiendra sa parole. Elle agit comme une\nbonne mère, et selon sa conscience; elle s'est montrée désintéressée,\nlibérale et juste. Doit-on traiter un enfant désobéissant comme un\nenfant soumis? Voyez Fanny; elle consulte encore sa mère, sur tout ce\nqu'elle fait, comme si elle n'était pas mariée; et quoiqu'elle m'aime à\nla folie, je suis sûr qu'elle ne m'aurait jamais épousé, si madame\nFerrars l'avait menacée comme elle a fait Edward. Il a rejeté le bon\nlot qui lui était offert; et je crains qu'il n'en ait un bien mauvais.\n\nMaria soupira profondément; et le coeur de la pauvre Elinor était\ndéchiré en pensant à ce qu'Edward devait avoir souffert pour une femme\nqui ne pouvait le récompenser.\n\n--Eh bien! monsieur, dit madame Jennings, comment cela a-t-il fini?\n\n--Je suis fâché, madame, d'avoir à vous l'apprendre, par une rupture\ncomplète entre la mère et le fils. Edward est rejeté pour toujours; et\nmadame Ferrars n'a plus que deux enfans, Robert et Fanny. Edward a\nquitté hier la maison; mais est-il parti ou resté en ville, c'est ce que\nj'ignore. Vous comprenez que nous ne pouvons plus avoir de relations\navec lui.\n\n--Pauvre jeune homme! s'écria Elinor, que va-t-il devenir?\n\n--Le mari de Lucy Stéeles sans doute, dit John, est un pauvre misérable\nqui aura à peine de quoi se nourrir; c'est fort triste, et cependant\nvoilà ce qui est sûr. Né avec l'espoir d'une telle fortune, et se voir\nréduit presque à rien; je ne puis concevoir une situation plus\ndéplorable! L'intérêt de deux mille pièces! Comment un homme peut-il\nvivre avec cela? et ajoutez encore à cela le souvenir qu'il aurait pu\ns'il n'avait pas été un fou, avoir les deux mille pièces de revenu, et\ncinq cents par dessus, car mademoiselle Morton aura le jour de sa noce\ntrente mille pièces. Je ne puis me peindre un pareil sort! Nous le\nsentons vivement sa soeur et moi, je vous assure, et d'autant plus qu'il\nn'est pas en notre pouvoir de l'assister, sans désobéir à notre mère et\ncourir peut-être les mêmes risques que lui.\n\n--Pauvre jeune homme! s'écria encore madame Jennings; il serait le\ntrès-bien venu s'il voulait venir loger et manger chez moi. Je le lui\ndirais si je pouvais le voir.\n\nLe coeur d'Elinor la remercia de sa bonté pour Edward.\n\n--S'il avait voulu, madame, il aurait une bonne maison, où il aurait pu\nnous inviter très souvent. A présent tout est fini, et si jamais il a\nune chaumière ou quelque logement semblable, je doute que personne soit\ntenté d'aller le voir; on y ferait maigre chère. Ce qu'il y a de pis,\nc'est que c'est sans retour; car il se prépare quelque chose contre lui,\net on ne s'en tiendra pas aux menaces. Madame Ferrars s'est déterminée\navec sa bonté et sa justice accoutumée, à donner immédiatement à Robert\nce que devait avoir Edward, et à lui assurer mille pièces par an. Je\nviens de la laisser avec son avocat parlant de cette affaire.\n\n--Bien, dit madame Jennings, elle se venge; et chacun, à sa manière. La\nmienne ne serait pas de rendre un de mes fils indépendant, parce que\nl'autre m'aurait blessée.\n\nMaria se leva et se promena dans la chambre.\n\n--Y a-t-il quelque chose de plus piquant, dit John, de plus désespérant\nque de voir son frère cadet en possession d'un bien qui devait vous\nappartenir. Pauvre Edward! il est bien coupable, mais aussi bien à\nplaindre.\n\nIl se leva et prit congé d'elles, en leur assurant sans cesse que Fanny\nn'était point en danger, et qu'elles pouvaient être tranquilles, qu'il\nn'y avait lieu à aucune inquiétude.\n\nA peine fut-il sorti que les trois dames unanimes dans leurs sentimens,\nlouèrent la noble conduite et le désintéressement d'Edward, autant\nqu'elles blâmèrent mesdames Ferrars et Dashwood. L'indignation de Maria\néclata avec violence. Elinor ne disait rien; mais elle admirait et\nplaignait Edward de toute la force de son coeur. Madame Jennings était\nde leur avis à toutes deux; elle mit beaucoup de chaleur dans ses éloges\nde la conduite d'Edward, dont la possession de sa chère Lucy serait la\nrécompense. Elinor et Maria savaient seules combien il y avait de mérite\nà lui d'avoir écouté la voix de l'honneur aux dépens de la perte de sa\nfortune et de celle même de tout son bonheur, et combien son\ndédommagement serait peu de chose, excepté cependant celui du témoignage\nde sa conscience, qui l'emporte surtout chez un honnête homme. Elinor\nétait fière de la vertu de celui qu'elle aimait; et Maria lui pardonnait\nses torts par compassion pour son malheur. Mais quoiqu'il n'y eût plus\nactuellement de secret à garder, et qu'on pût en parler librement,\nc'était un sujet de conversation que les deux soeurs évitaient dans leur\ntête-à-tête autant qu'il leur était possible. Elinor parce qu'elle\npréférait en détourner sa pensée, et Maria parce qu'elle redoutait la\ncomparaison qu'elle ne pouvait s'empêcher de faire elle-même de sa\nconduite avec celle de sa soeur. Elle la sentait vivement cette\ndifférence, mais non pas comme Elinor l'avait espéré, pour y puiser des\nforces et du courage; elle n'y trouvait qu'un nouveau sujet de peine,\npar les reproches amers qu'elle se faisait elle-même de n'avoir pas\nmontré plus de fermeté, ni su cacher aussi sa douleur dans les\ncommencemens. A présent sa santé détruite influait sur son moral; elle\nse trouvait trop faible pour rien tenter, et se laissait toujours plus\naller à son abattement.\n\nPendant deux jours elles n'apprirent rien de nouveau; mais elles en\nsavaient assez pour occuper la tête et la langue de madame Jennings, qui\nse décida à aller faire une visite à Holborn à ses cousines Stéeles,\nplus encore par curiosité que par intérêt.\n\nLe troisième jour était un dimanche, et le temps était si beau pour la\nsaison (c'était la seconde semaine de mars), qu'elle eut envie d'aller\nse promener dans les jardins de Kensington, où il y aurait sûrement\nbeaucoup de monde, et proposa à Elinor de l'accompagner. Je parie, lui\ndit-elle, que nous trouverons là les Stéeles, et que je n'aurai pas\nbesoin d'aller plus loin. Je n'ai pas trop d'envie, s'il faut le dire,\nde faire connaissance avec les parens chez qui elles demeurent, ce sont\ndes gens un peu communs. Vous comprenez à présent; j'ai pris un autre\nton, d'autres habitudes. J'irai pourtant à Holborn si elles ne sont pas\nà Kensington, et si vous ne voulez pas venir avec moi, je vous enverrai\nchez votre frère; mais pourquoi ne feriez-vous pas une visite à cette\nchère Lucy qui vous aime tant, et dans une occasion si importante?\nPeut-être vous y trouverez M. Ferrars, et vous leur feriez votre\ncompliment en même-temps. Elinor dit seulement qu'elle serait bien aise\nd'aller savoir des nouvelles de sa belle-soeur, et se prépara à suivre\nmadame Jennings. La languissante Maria qui craignait de rencontrer\nWilloughby, préféra de rester.\n\nLe jardin était en effet rempli de promeneurs. Une intime connaissance\nde madame Jennings vint les joindre. Elinor les laissa causer ensemble\net s'abandonna à ses réflexions, tout en regardant avec un peu d'effroi\nautour d'elle, et en tremblant de rencontrer Edward ou Willoughby. Elle\nne vit ni l'un ni l'autre, et pendant long-temps personne qui pût\ninterrompre le cours de ses pensées. Mais au détour d'une allée, elles\nvirent au milieu d'un groupe de promeneurs la grosse Anna Stéeles, plus\nparée qu'à l'ordinaire et couverte de rubans couleur de rose. Dès\nqu'elle aperçut Elinor, elle quitta ses amis et vint auprès d'elle,\nd'abord avec un peu de timidité; mais madame Jennings la salua si\namicalement et Elinor si poliment, qu'elle reprit courage et dit à sa\ncompagnie de continuer sans elle, qu'elle se promènerait un peu avec ces\ndames. Pendant ce temps-là madame Jennings disait à l'oreille d'Elinor:\nallez avec elle, ma chère, et faites la causer, elle vous dira tout ce\nque vous voudrez; vous voyez que je ne puis quitter madame Clarke.\nElinor n'éprouva pas de difficultés pour exécuter les ordres de madame\nJennings; Anna vint passer familièrement son bras dans celui de miss\nDashwood, et l'entraîna en avant. Ce qui fut heureux pour la curiosité\nde madame Jennings c'est qu'Anna parla tant qu'on voulut sans la\nprovoquer, car Elinor ne lui fit pas une seule question.\n\n--Je suis charmée de vous avoir rencontrée, dit mademoiselle Stéeles; je\ndésirais vous voir plus que toute autre, et baissant la voix: Vous avez\nappris la grande nouvelle, je suppose. Madame Jennings est-elle bien en\ncolère?\n\n--Contre vous! non pas du tout je vous assure.\n\n--Eh bien! voilà déja une bonne chose; et lady Middleton est-elle bien\nfâchée?\n\n--Je ne l'ai pas vue, mais je ne puis le supposer.\n\n--Allons! voilà du bonheur, et je suis bien contente. Ah! mon Dieu, mon\nDieu, miss Dashwood, j'en ai bien eu assez à supporter de colère, et de\nvotre belle-soeur, et de Lucy. Je n'avais encore jamais vu Lucy dans une\ntelle rage contre moi; et cependant elle me gronde souvent, comme vous\nsavez, parce qu'elle a, dit-elle, beaucoup plus d'esprit que moi. Je n'y\npeux rien; chacun est comme il peut dans ce bas monde. Elle jura au\npremier moment que de sa vie elle ne me broderait plus un seul bonnet,\nqu'elle ne m'aiderait plus à m'habiller; car, voyez, elle fait tout cela\nbeaucoup mieux que moi. Mais à présent elle est tout-à-fait revenue, et\nbien aise que j'aie parlé; elle s'en mariera plutôt: aussi, regardez,\nelle m'a donné ce ruban qu'elle a retourné et bouclé sur mon chapeau.\nAh! miss Dashwood, je sais bien que vous allez rire, et ce que vous me\ndirez; mais pourquoi ne mettrais-je pas des rubans roses? Est-ce ma\nfaute, si c'est la couleur favorite du docteur Donavar, et s'il trouve\nqu'elle me va bien? Jamais je ne l'aurais deviné, s'il ne m'avait pas\ndit l'autre jour: Je crois, miss Anna, que vous avez le même teinturier\npour vos rubans que pour vos joues, car c'est la même nuance. N'était-ce\npas joli cela, miss Dashwood? Je crois bien que mon visage devint alors\nplus rouge que mon ruban. Mais depuis j'ai toujours mis des rubans\ncouleur de rose, vous comprenez; et Lucy m'a fait bien plaisir de me\ndonner le sien. Mes cousines me font un peu enrager là-dessus; mais\nqu'est-ce que cela me fait? si je le rencontre, il me dira quelque\njolie chose là-dessus.\n\nElinor qui n'avait rien à dire sur les rubans et l'amour d'Anna, et qui\ndésirait savoir autre chose, prit sur elle de lui demander des nouvelles\nde sa soeur, et pourquoi elle n'était pas à Kensington.\n\n--Pourquoi! cela se demande-t-il? C'est qu'elle a son amoureux auprès\nd'elle, et qu'il a mieux aimé lui parler en liberté que de se promener.\nLe docteur Donavar aurait aussi pu dans ce moment complimenter Elinor\nsur la teinte de ses joues. Nous commencions à être tous bien en peine,\ncontinua Anna; c'est mercredi que l'affaire se découvrit, et que nous\nfûmes renvoyées de chez votre frère, et nous n'avions pas entendu parler\nd'Edward, ni jeudi, ni vendredi, ni samedi. Nous ne savions pas ce\nqu'il était devenu; et ma cousine Godby, et ma tante Spark, et mon\ncousin Richard, tout le monde disait à Lucy de prendre son parti, que M.\nFerrars ne serait pas pour elle, qu'il faudrait qu'il fût hors de sens\nde rejeter une femme qui a trente mille pièces, pour en prendre une qui\nn'a rien du tout; et Richard disait que quant à lui, il ne le ferait pas\npour rien au monde.\n\n--Je puis l'obliger à m'épouser, disait Lucy; j'ai ses promesses signées\nde lui. Il ne s'en fallait que d'un mois ou deux qu'il ne fût majeur.\n\n--Quand il ne s'en faudrait que d'un jour, disait Richard, rien ne\nl'oblige à les tenir; et s'il faut plaider, on ne plaide pas sans\nargent, et vous en donnera qui voudra. Lucy ne savait que dire; elle\nvoulait lui écrire, mais elle ne savait où adresser sa lettre. Enfin ce\nmatin comme nous revenions de l'église, il est arrivé, un peu triste, il\nm'a semblé, mais il y a bien de quoi! Il nous a tout raconté; et ce que\nsa mère lui a dit et ce qu'il a répondu, qu'il voulait Lucy, seulement\nLucy, et aucune autre, puisqu'il le lui avait promis; et comme sa mère\nlà-dessus l'avait déshérité et chassé de chez elle. Lucy était bien\ntriste aussi en entendant cela, vous comprenez; mais Edward a pourtant\ndeux mille guinées qu'on ne peut lui ôter; et qui sait si Lucy\ntrouverait si vîte un autre mari? Elle a pensé tout cela, et elle a dit\nà Edward qu'il pourrait fort bien vivre là-dessus.\n\n--Je vous en conjure, chère Lucy, lui disait-il, pensez-y bien, je ne\nveux pas vous entraîner à votre perte, et quoique je sois prêt à tenir\nmes engagemens, je vous dégage des vôtres, si vous pensez que je ne sois\nplus assez riche pour vous épouser. Je ne puis supporter de vous placer\ndans une situation qui peut devenir déplorable. Si quelque malheur me\nfaisait perdre mes deux mille livres, je serais sans ressource\nquelconque. J'ai bien l'idée d'entrer dans les ordres et de suivre la\ncarrière de l'église; mais sans protection, je ne puis prétendre qu'à\nune simple cure; et vous savez que c'est bien peu, de chose. Vous êtes\ndonc libre, Lucy: renoncez à moi si vous le préférez. Je comprendrai vos\nraisons et je n'en serai pas du tout blessé. C'est pour votre intérêt\nseul que je vous le propose; car pour le mien mon sort est fixé! Je ne\npuis obéir à ma mère; elle m'a rejeté, si je n'épousais pas mademoiselle\nMorton, et je ne l'épouserai jamais. Si vous consentez à rompre notre\nengagement, j'ai assez pour moi seul, et jamais je ne me marierai.\n\n--Et qu'a répondu Lucy? demanda Elinor dans une grande agitation.\n\n--Vous concevez bien qu'elle n'a pas voulu entendre parler de rupture.\nLe pauvre garçon! Moi j'étais prête à pleurer de l'entendre parler\nainsi. Ma soeur lui a dit bien des choses, vous vous en doutez. Il ne\nconvient pas à nous qui ne sommes pas encore mariées de répéter des\npropos d'amour. Vous comprenez ce qu'elle pouvait dire; qu'elle voulait\nl'épouser absolument; qu'elle aimait mieux vivre de rien avec lui et\npartager sa bonne ou sa mauvaise fortune. Sûrement il était bien heureux\net bien touché; car il s'est levé et s'est promené dans la chambre; et\nj'ai vu qu'il essuyait ses yeux: tenez il a pressé son mouchoir dessus\ncomme cela. Pourquoi aurait-il fait ainsi s'il n'avait pas pleuré de\njoie? Ensuite il s'est assis près de ma soeur, il lui a pris la main et\nlui a dit.... attendez que je me le rappelle; oui, oui c'est bien ainsi;\nil lui a dit: Chère Lucy, je vous remercie de votre confiance en mon\nhonneur et de votre attachement pour moi. Ils ne seront pas trompés; et\nje m'efforcerai de vous rendre heureuse. Il fallait entendre comme il\nsoupirait en finissant. Ils sont ensuite convenus ensemble, qu'il irait\ndirectement à Oxford prendre les ordres, et qu'ils attendraient pour se\nmarier qu'il pût avoir une bonne cure où ils pussent se loger: Voilà\ntout ce que j'ai entendu. Ma cousine est venue me dire que madame\nRichardson était en bas dans son carosse et voulait mener une de nous à\nKensington; j'ai donc été forcée d'entrer dans la chambre et de les\ninterrompre pour demander à Lucy si elle voulait y aller, mais elle n'a\npas voulu quitter Edward. J'en ai été bien aise à cause de mon joli\nchapeau rose, vous comprenez; je n'ai eu que le temps de l'attacher, de\nmettre mes souliers de soie, et me voici bien contente de vous voir et\nde vous conter tout cela.\n\n--Il y a une seule chose dans votre récit que je ne comprends pas, dit\nElinor. Vous êtes entrée dans la chambre et vous les avez interrompus,\nn'étiez-vous donc pas avec eux?\n\n--Non certainement je n'y étais pas, dit Anna fièrement; croyez-vous que\nje ne sache pas que les amoureux aiment à être seuls? et puis Lucy\nm'aurait bien grondée. Non, non, dès qu'il est entré, je suis sortie;\nmais j'ai tout vu et tout entendu par le trou de la serrure.\n\n--Comment! s'écria Elinor, vous m'avez répété ce que vous avez appris de\ncette manière? Je suis fâchée de ne l'avoir pas su auparavant; car bien\nsûrement je n'aurais pas souffert que vous me donnassiez le moindre\ndétail d'un entretien que vous deviez ignorer vous-même. C'est mal à\nvous, j'ose vous le dire, de surprendre ainsi les secrets de votre\nsoeur.\n\n--Eh! pourquoi pas, dit Anna en riant, il n'y a point de mal à cela. Je\nsuis bien sûre que Lucy ferait de même. Quand mon amie, miss Scharp\nvient me voir et me conter ses amours, car elle a un amoureux aussi qui\nl'aime bien, Lucy se cache toujours dans le cabinet ou derrière le\nparavent pour nous écouter. Comment saurait-on ce qu'on veut cacher si\non n'écoutait pas? D'ailleurs ne sais-je pas tout depuis long-temps?\nn'étais-je pas sa confidente?\n\n--Sans doute, dit Elinor, elle aime Edward bien tendrement?\n\n--Oh! oui passionnément, surtout dans les commencemens; à présent, entre\nnous, elle le trouve un peu froid. Elle dit que c'est bien dommage qu'il\nne soit pas beau et gentil comme son frère; mais enfin elle l'aime assez\npour l'épouser, et elle fait bien. Il n'en viendrait peut-être pas un\nautre; et puis saurait-on dans le monde si c'est elle qui ne l'a pas\nvoulu? Chacun croirait que c'est lui; et voyez le bel honneur! Lucy\nn'est pas si bête.\n\n--Pauvre Edward, pensa Elinor, à quelle femme va-t-il être associé!....\n\n--Les amis de miss Stéeles revinrent. Voilà les Richardson, dit-elle; il\nfaut que j'aille les rejoindre. Bon! je crois que le docteur est avec\neux; que vais-je faire? On dira que c'est pour lui que je reviens.\nAdieu! chère Elinor. Je n'ai pas le temps de parler à madame Jennings;\ndites-lui que je suis bien contente qu'elle ne soit pas fâchée, et à\nlady Middleton aussi. Quand vous serez rentrées, si madame Jennings veut\nde nous, elle n'a qu'à dire..... Bon! les Richardson me font signe;\nadieu! et elle courut au-devant d'eux et du cher docteur.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XL.\n\n\nMesdames Clarke et Jennings se promenèrent encore quelque temps. Elinor\nen silence à côté d'elles réfléchissait à ce que venait de lui dire\nAnna. Elle n'avait appris dans le fond que ce qu'elle avait prévu. Le\nmariage de Lucy et d'Edward était décidé. Le moment seulement était\nencore incertain. Tout dépendait de cette cure ou de ce bénéfice; et il\navait peu de chance d'en trouver un tout de suite. Ces sortes de places\nveulent de grandes poursuites. Edward était trop timide, et peut-être\ntrop fier pour solliciter, et n'avait pas de protecteur. Madame Ferrars\nne manquerait pas, ainsi qu'elle l'avait annoncé, de lui nuire auprès\nde leurs connaissances, en le représentant comme un fils entêté et\nrebelle; et si Lucy lasse d'attendre..... mais non; tout prouve qu'elle\ntient à se marier, et à devenir madame Ferrars à tout prix.\n\nDès que l'amie de madame Jennings les eut quittées, elles remontèrent en\ncarrosse, et madame Jennings questionna Elinor sur ce qu'elle avait\n_accroché_ de mademoiselle Stéeles. Mais Elinor n'aimant pas à répéter\ndes propos écoutés en fraude par le trou de la serrure, se contenta de\nlui dire ce qu'elle était sûre que Lucy aurait dit elle-même, que son\nengagement avec Edward subsistait, et leur projet d'établissement: ce\nfut tout ce que madame Jennings put obtenir.\n\n--Comment, dit-elle, ils veulent attendre pour se marier qu'il ait un\nbénéfice! mais c'est de la folie; tout le monde sait avec quelle\ndifficulté cela s'obtient. Ceux qui ont à nommer à un bénéfice le\ndonnent à un de leurs parens, ou les vendent bien cher. Peut-être qu'on\nlui fera de belles promesses pendant une année ou deux, puis il faudra\nqu'il se contente d'être vicaire de quelque paroisse pour trente ou\nquarante pièces. L'intérêt de ses deux mille, cent ou deux cents\npeut-être que l'oncle Pratt donnera pour l'honneur de marier sa nièce à\nson noble pupile: voilà tout ce qu'ils auront pour vivre, les pauvres\ngens! et avec cela un enfant toutes les années. Ils me font bien pitié!\nil faut que je voie ce que je pourrai leur donner pour meubler leur\npresbytère. Quant à la soeur de ma Betty, ce n'est pas ce qu'il leur\nconvient; il ne leur faut qu'une fille de campagne qui fasse toute la\nbesogne, et un homme pour travailler au jardin: voilà tout ce qu'il leur\nfaut, et pas davantage.\n\nLe matin suivant Elinor reçut par la petite poste une lettre de Lucy qui\ncontenait ce qui suit, et qui était assez mal orthographiée.\n\n  _Holborn._\n\n  «J'espère que ma chère Elinor excusera la liberté que je prends de lui\n  écrire; mais je sais que son amitié pour moi lui fera trouver un grand\n  plaisir à apprendre que je vais bientôt être heureuse avec mon cher\n  Edward, après bien des peines et des traverses. Nous avons bien\n  souffert; mais à présent tout va bien, et notre amour mutuel est et\n  sera pour nous une source inépuisable de bonheur. Nous avons eu bien\n  des épreuves, bien des persécutions; mais décidés comme nous l'étions\n  à tout surmonter, nous avons tout souffert avec courage. Une amie\n  comme vous fait plus de bien que les ennemis ne peuvent faire de mal.\n  J'ai dit à Edward comme vous aviez été bonne pour moi, et je vous\n  assure qu'il en est bien reconnaissant. Je suis sûre que vous et la\n  chère madame Jennings vous serez bien aises d'apprendre que je viens\n  de passer deux heures avec mon bien-aimé Edward, et que j'en suis\n  contente à tout égard. Il n'est rien qu'il ne soit prêt à sacrifier à\n  sa Lucy, et jamais il n'a voulu entendre parler de nous séparer,\n  quelque chose que j'aie pu lui dire; car je pensais qu'il était de mon\n  devoir, quoiqu'il pût m'en coûter, de l'inviter à ne pas se brouiller\n  avec sa mère et à ne pas renoncer à sa fortune. Je suis même allée\n  jusqu'à lui offrir de partir à l'instant même et de ne pas revenir à\n  Londres qu'il ne fût marié; mais il a repoussé vivement cette idée. Il\n  m'a juré que jamais il n'épouserait que moi, et que la colère de sa\n  mère n'était rien pour lui, puisque je l'aimais, et qu'il ne\n  regretterait aucune fortune avec moi. Il est sûr que nos espérances ne\n  sont pas brillantes; mais nous attendons, et peut-être que tout ira\n  mieux que nous ne le pensons. Il va prendre les ordres incessamment,\n  et s'il peut avoir un bénéfice, ne fût-il que de cent pièces de\n  revenu, et une bonne habitation, nous vivrons très-bien. S'il était en\n  votre pouvoir, chère Elinor, de nous recommander à ceux qui ont un\n  bénéfice à donner, ne nous oubliez pas, je vous en prie, et dites\n  quelques bonnes paroles pour nous à sir Georges, à M. Palmer, au\n  colonel Brandon, etc., etc., etc. Je serai plus heureuse encore si\n  c'est à vous que je dois mon bonheur. Je suis sûre que vous avez été\n  très-inquiète en apprenant la fatale découverte du secret que seule\n  vous saviez, et que vous avez si bien gardé. Ma soeur Anna qui cause\n  toujours sans savoir ce qu'elle dit, n'a pas été aussi discrète. Mais\n  comme son intention était bonne, et qu'elle a avancé mon bonheur, je\n  ne m'en plains pas.\n\n  «Dites à madame Jennings que j'ai été trop troublée pour pouvoir lui\n  faire une visite; mais que si elle voulait venir à Holborn un de ces\n  matins, ce serait une grande bonté de sa part. Mes cousins seraient\n  fiers de faire sa connaissance. Mon papier finit et m'oblige à vous\n  quitter. Je vous prie de me rappeler au souvenir de sir Georges, de\n  lady Middleton, de madame Palmer, et de tous les charmans enfans. Mes\n  plus tendres amitiés à mademoiselle Maria. Je suis bien sûre que celle\n  qui fait profession d'aimer et d'estimer mon Edward, est bien\n  contente de le savoir sur la route du bonheur.\n\n  Je suis votre très-obéissante servante, LUCY STÉELES.\n\nDès qu'Elinor eut fini de lire, elle remit la lettre entre les mains de\nmadame Jennings, pensant que c'était un des buts dans lesquels elle\navait été écrite. L'autre n'était pas douteux: elle voulait jouir de son\ntriomphe en humiliant sa rivale. Elinor se rappelait ce que la simple\nAnna lui avait raconté de l'entretien d'Edward et de Lucy; comme c'était\nlui qui l'avait pressée de rompre, et qu'elle l'avait absolument refusé.\nElle disait exactement le contraire; et cette petite fausseté inutile\nfit de la peine à Elinor. Sa seule consolation aurait été le bonheur\nd'Edward; et tout lui disait qu'il était impossible, jusqu'à cette\nlettre écrite d'un style si commun et dans un si mauvais esprit.\nCependant tout était décidé; c'était l'épouse d'Edward, c'était sa\nrivale heureuse, triomphante. Elle chercha à oublier ses torts, à croire\nqu'elle se les exagérait peut-être, et que du moins Lucy aimerait\npassionnément son mari, et s'en ferait aimer. Madame Jennings moins\ndifficile lisait et admirait la lettre de sa jeune parente.--Très-bien,\ntrès-joliment tournée; et ce qu'elle lui demande à Edward, très-généreux\nen vérité; et je ne suis pas surprise qu'il ne l'ait pas accepté. Il\nl'en aimera davantage. Pauvres enfans! leur amour me touche au fond de\nl'âme. Je voudrais leur procurer un bénéfice de tout mon coeur. Voyez,\nelle m'appelle sa _chère_ dame Jennings. Bon coeur de fille s'il en fut\njamais! Oui, oui, j'irai la voir et l'embrasser bien sûrement. Comme\nelle est attentive; comme elle n'oublie personne, pas même les enfans!\nC'est la plus jolie lettre que j'aie vue de ma vie; elle me donne grande\nopinion du coeur et de l'esprit de Lucy. M. Ferrars, vous le verrez,\nsera heureux comme un prince, avec une telle femme.\n\nQuelques jours s'écoulèrent encore sans rien amener de nouveau qu'une\nimpatience très-vive et très-naturelle de Maria de quitter Londres. La\ncrainte de rencontrer Willoughby ou d'en entendre parler, l'obligeait de\nrester chez elle comme dans une prison. Elle soupirait après le plein\nair, la liberté, et sur-tout après sa mère. Elinor ne le désirait pas\nmoins, mais ne savait comment l'effectuer. Il ne convenait pas à deux\njeunes personnes de faire seules un si grand voyage; et la santé si\nchancelante de Maria y était encore un obstacle. A peine Elinor\ncroyait-elle qu'elle pût le supporter; elle en parla à leur bonne\nhôtesse, et la consulta sur les meilleurs moyens de lever ces\ndifficultés. Madame Jennings résista à l'idée de leur départ avec toute\nl'éloquence de sa bonne volonté et de sa tendre amitié; mais Elinor\nmettant toujours en avant la santé de Maria, le besoin évident pour elle\nde respirer un air plus pur que celui de Londres, et son désir d'être à\nla campagne, madame Jennings fit une proposition qu'Elinor trouva\ntrès-acceptable. Les Palmer devaient partir pour leur terre de Cléveland\nsur la fin de mars, c'est-à-dire dans une quinzaine de jours; et\nCharlotte avait prié sa mère d'y venir avec ses deux jeunes amies\npasser la semaine de Pâques. M. Palmer s'était joint aussi à sa femme\npour les en presser avec beaucoup de politesse. Ses manières avaient\ntout-à-fait changé depuis que sa femme lui avait donné un fils. Il\naimait cet enfant à la folie; et celle qui le lui avait donné s'en\nressentait; il était plus tendre avec elle, plus honnête avec sa\nbelle-mère, à qui il savait gré d'aimer aussi passionnément le petit\ngarçon, et plus poli, plus doux en général avec tout le monde, et\nsur-tout avec mesdemoiselles Dashwood. Le malheur et le changement de\nMaria l'intéressaient; et il aimait à causer agréablement avec Elinor.\nOn se rappelle qu'elle l'avait d'abord jugé plus favorablement que ses\nmanières n'y donnaient lieu. Elle était bien-aise de son côté qu'il eût\njustifié l'idée qu'elle avait eue de lui. Charlotte elle-même dans son\nnouvel état de mère, qui l'occupait beaucoup, était aussi devenue moins\ninsignifiante. En sorte qu'Elinor consentit sans peine à ce projet qui\nles rapprochait d'ailleurs beaucoup de Barton. Mais il fallait que Maria\nle voulût aussi; et dès les premiers mots qu'Elinor lui en dit, elle\ns'écria vivement et dans une grande agitation: Non, non, je ne puis\naller à Cléveland; ne savez-vous pas?.... n'avez vous pas pensé?.... Oh!\nnon, non, je ne puis y aller.\n\n--Vous oubliez vous-même, dit doucement Elinor, que Cléveland n'est pas\ndans le voisinage de.... qu'il y a plus de trente milles de distance....\net....\n\n--Mais enfin il est en Sommersetshire; là où je croyais.... Là où mes\npensées ont erré si souvent. Non, Elinor, n'espérez pas de m'y voir\njamais.\n\nElinor ne pouvait pas disputer avec elle sur un sentiment; mais elle\ntâcha d'en réveiller un autre dans le coeur de sa soeur, en lui\nreprésentant que ce serait un moyen de rejoindre plutôt et d'une manière\nplus sûre et plus convenable qu'aucune autre, leur chère et bonne mère\nqu'elle désirait si ardemment de revoir. De Cléveland, qui n'était qu'à\nquelques milles de Bristol, il n'y avait pas plus d'une bonne journée\npour se rendre à Barton. Madame Palmer leur donnerait sûrement son\ncarosse, et les accompagnerait peut être jusqu'à Bristol, où le\ndomestique de leur mère viendrait les prendre et les escorter jusques\nchez elles. Rien ne nous oblige, dit-elle à Maria, à rester plus d'une\nsemaine à Cléveland: ainsi dans moins de trois semaines nous pouvons\nêtre à notre chère Chaumière.\n\nMaria n'eut rien à répondre. Son affection pour sa mère triompha avec\npeu de difficulté de ces obstacles imaginaires. Elle réfléchit elle-même\nque Willoughby et sa femme étant encore à Londres, elle n'aurait pas la\nchance de les voir dans le Sommersetshire et elle consentit à y aller.\n\nMadame Jennings fut la plus contrariée; elle avait espéré ramener encore\nses jeunes amies chez elle en revenant de Cléveland, les garder jusqu'au\ntemps où elle irait chez son gendre Middleton, et les reconduire\nelle-même à leur mère. Elinor fut reconnaissante de ce projet, mais ne\nchangea rien à leur dessein. On l'écrivit à madame Dashwood, qui en fut\ntrès contente. Ainsi leur retour fut arrangé de cette manière; et Maria\nqui ne croyait trouver de consolation qu'à Barton, comptait les heures\nqui la séparaient du moment où elle reverrait cette demeure chérie et la\nmeilleure des mères. Le malheur de sa soeur l'avait accablée de nouveau\npresque plus que le sien propre. D'abord elle aimait Elinor plus\nqu'elle-même; puis il lui semblait que c'était une injustice du sort de\nne pas tout accorder à une personne qui avait autant de mérite et de\nperfections.\n\nLe colonel Brandon venait à-peu-près tous les jours. Madame Jennings se\nhâta de lui dire la résolution de ses jeunes amies d'aller à Barton de\nchez les Palmer; que deviendrons-nous, colonel, lui dit-elle, sans ces\nchères filles qui veulent m'abandonner? Et quand vous viendrez me voir,\n(si du moins vous venez, encore), et que vous verrez leur place vide et\nla bonne vieille maman Jennings seule et triste dans un coin du salon,\nqu'aurons-nous de mieux à faire que de bâiller ensemble et de pleurer\nleur absence?\n\nLa bonne Jennings espérait que cette peinture de leur futur ennui,\nl'amènerait enfin à parler et à offrir sa main à Elinor, dont elle le\ncroyait fort épris. Elle crut parfaitement y avoir réussi, quand elle le\nvit s'approcher d'Elinor qui travaillait à côté de la fenêtre à prendre\nla dimension d'un dessin qu'elle voulait laisser à leur amie. Elle\nentendit qu'il lui demandait à demi-voix la permission de lui dire\nquelque chose. Madame Jennings assise sur le sopha était assez éloignée\nd'eux pour ne pas les entendre, d'ailleurs elle était séparée d'eux par\nle piano-forte où Maria était établie; mais elle put remarquer que dès\nles premiers mots du colonel, la physionomie d'Elinor avait exprimé une\ngrande surprise, mêlée d'une vive émotion, qu'elle avait rougi et laissé\nson travail. Maria cessa un moment son jeu pour choisir un autre\nmorceau; alors quelques paroles du colonel vinrent frapper l'oreille de\nmadame Jennings qui sans en avoir l'air ne pouvait s'empêcher d'écouter.\nElle entendit qu'il lui parlait de son habitation future. Delafort,\ndisait-il, est situé dans un beau pays; et les environs sont agréables;\nmais la maison quoique commode, est petite, mal bâtie. J'y ferai toutes\nles réparations nécessaires, etc.\n\nIl n'y avait plus de doute, Elinor devait l'habiter. Mais madame\nJennings trouvait ce compliment et ces réparations assez inutiles, et\nDelafort assez beau pour une personne qui habitait la chaumière de\nBarton; mais sans doute, c'était l'étiquette et l'usage: aussi\nentendit-elle avec plaisir Elinor lui répondre avec un doux sourire que\nce ne serait point un obstacle. Le piano avait recommencé; elle\nn'entendit plus rien; mais l'entretien s'animait. Le colonel avait l'air\nsatisfait, et Elinor attendrie et reconnaissante. Nous y voilà,\npensait-elle, on ira seulement à la chaumière demander la bénédiction\nmaternelle. Dans moins d'un mois je la ramène ici pour faire ses\nemplètes de noce, et avant six semaines tout sera fini. Un autre\nsilence de Maria lui permit d'entendre le colonel qui disait d'une voix\ntrès-calme: Je crains que l'événement que je désire ne puisse pas avoir\nlieu de sitôt. Étonnée et choquée de ce que c'était l'amoureux qui\nsemblait demander un délai, elle allait dire quelques mots de surprise;\nmais elle pensa encore que c'était sans doute ainsi que faisaient les\ngens du bon ton, d'autant plus qu'Elinor loin de paraître le moins du\nmonde fâchée, lui dit en souriant: et moi, monsieur, j'espère au\ncontraire qu'à présent il n'y aura plus d'obstacle, et que votre\ngénéreux sentiment aura bientôt sa récompense.\n\nC'est clair cela, pensa madame Jennings. On pourrait peut-être trouver\ncela singulier; quant à moi, j'aime cette franchise. Mais elle fut\nsurprise après cela de voir le colonel quitter Elinor de sang-froid, et\nbientôt après sortir de la chambre: il faut convenir, pensa-t-elle, que\nle cher homme est un peu glacé; mais il n'est plus très-jeune, et si son\namour est moins ardent il durera plus long-temps.\n\nVoici ce qui s'était passé entr'eux pendant cet entretien.\n\n--J'ai entendu parler, mademoiselle, lui avait dit le colonel, de\nl'injustice que votre ami M. Edward Ferrars a soufferte de sa famille.\nSi je suis bien informé, il a été entièrement repoussé par sa mère,\nparce qu'il persévère dans ses engagemens avec une jeune personne qu'il\naime, dont il est aimé, dont sa mère et sa soeur faisaient beaucoup de\ncas et qui demeurait même chez la dernière comme une amie intime.\nEst-ce vrai, mademoiselle, je m'en rapporte à vous?\n\nElinor dit que rien n'était plus vrai.\n\n--La cruauté et le danger de séparer deux jeunes coeurs attachés l'un à\nl'autre depuis long-temps, dit avec sentiment le colonel, m'ont\ntoujours paru une des responsabilités les plus terribles. Il s'agit du\nbonheur ou du malheur, non-seulement dans cette vie, mais aussi dans\nl'autre. Ma triste expérience là-dessus me fait trembler. Madame Ferrars\nne sait pas ce qu'elle fait, et où elle pouvait entraîner son fils. Le\nmalheur d'être déshérité est bien léger auprès de celui qui l'attendait\ndans un mariage forcé, et auprès des remords d'avoir manqué à sa\nparole. Je l'estime de sa noble résistance; je ne l'ai vu que deux ou\ntrois fois; mais il m'a plu dès le premier moment. C'est un jeune homme\nplein de mérite, sans aucun des ridicules et des travers si fréquens que\nl'on a lorsqu'on est élevé avec l'espoir d'une brillante fortune. Je\nm'intéresse à lui pour lui-même et parce qu'il est votre ami, et je\nvoudrais que dans ce moment fâcheux, cet intérêt pût lui être utile.\nJ'apprends qu'il va se faire consacrer et prendre le parti de l'église,\net je le loue encore d'avoir préféré cet état à d'autres plus brillans\net moins respectables. Voudriez-vous avoir la bonté de lui dire que le\nbénéfice de ma terre de Delafort se trouve heureusement vacant; j'en ai\neu l'avis ces derniers jours, et s'il veut bien l'accepter, je serais\ncharmé qu'il puisse lui convenir? dans ces malheureuses circonstances\nj'ai peut-être le droit de l'espérer; et mon regret est qu'il ne soit\npas plus considérable. Le dernier recteur en tirait deux cents livres\npar année; mais je le crois très-susceptible d'amélioration. Ce n'est\npas sans doute une place aussi considérable qu'il le mériterait; mais\ntelle qu'elle est, s'il veut bien l'accepter, j'ai un grand plaisir à la\nlui offrir, et je vous prie de l'en assurer.\n\nL'étonnement d'Elinor en recevant cette commission aurait à peine été\nplus grand, s'il lui avait fait l'offre de sa main. Cette place qu'elle\ncroyait qu'Edward n'obtiendrait de bien long-temps, et peut être jamais,\nlui était offerte. Il n'y avait plus d'obstacle à son mariage; et\nc'était elle qui était appelée à le lui apprendre; c'était en partie\npour elle qu'on la lui donnait. Elle éprouvait là-dessus un tel mélange\nde sentimens contradictoires, qu'il n'est pas étonnant que madame\nJennings ait attribué son émotion à une cause plus directe. Mais bientôt\ntout sentiment personnel s'effaça du coeur pur et noble d'Elinor. Elle\nne sentit plus qu'une profonde estime et une vive reconnaissance pour le\ngénéreux colonel qui se privait lui-même de l'avantage qu'il pouvait\nretirer de son bénéfice, pour obliger un homme intéressant et malheureux\nqu'il regardait comme l'ami d'Elinor. Elle le remercia de tout son\ncoeur, lui parla d'Edward avec les éloges qu'elle savait qu'il méritait,\net promit de se charger de cette commission avec plaisir, si réellement\nil préférait qu'un autre que lui-même en fût chargé; mais elle lui fit\nobserver que rien ne pouvait rendre cette heureuse nouvelle plus\nagréable à M. Ferrars que de l'apprendre de la bouche même de son\nbienfaiteur. Elle désirait bien en être dispensée, et pour elle-même et\npour Edward, qui souffrirait peut-être de lui avoir cette obligation;\nmais le colonel par des motifs de délicatesse parut désirer si vivement\nque ce fût elle qui voulût bien remplir cet office, qu'elle n'osa plus\nfaire d'objection. Edward devait encore être à Londres; Anna lui avait\ndit son adresse: elle résolut de lui écrire le même jour. Lorsque cela\nfut arrangé, le colonel la pria encore de dire à son ami, combien\nlui-même se trouvait heureux de s'assurer un si respectable et si bon\nvoisinage. C'est alors qu'il parla avec regret de la petitesse de la\nmaison et de son peu d'élégance, et qu'Elinor lui répondit, comme madame\nJennings l'avait entendu, que ce ne serait pas un obstacle: une petite\nhabitation, ajouta-t-elle, sera mieux proportionnée à leur fortune.\n\nLe colonel parut surpris qu'Edward eut l'idée de se marier d'abord. Les\nrevenus du bénéfice de Delafort, dit-il, seraient suffisans pour un\ncélibataire; mais pour une famille qui s'augmentera peut-être beaucoup,\net avec les habitudes de M. Ferrars, et une jeune femme qui me paraît\naimer assez le monde et la parure, il me paraît impossible qu'il ait\nassez; et je le trouverais imprudent de s'établir avec cela: aussi je\nne le lui offre qu'en attendant mieux, et je ferai tout ce qui dépendra\nde moi pour lui en procurer un meilleur, qui le mette à même de vivre\nagréablement en famille. Ce que je fais à présent mérite à peine votre\nreconnaissance, puisque je n'avance pas le bonheur de votre ami, et je\ncrains fort, je l'avoue, que l'événement que je désire ne puisse avoir\nlieu de sitôt.\n\nTelles étaient les paroles par où le colonel finit, auxquelles Elinor\nrépondit comme on l'a vu, et que madame Jennings interpréta à sa\nmanière. Elle fut bien un peu surprise d'entendre Elinor remercier\nencore le colonel lorsqu'il sortit, et l'assurer de sa reconnaissance.\nCes gens du grand monde, pensa-t elle, ont de singulières manières.\nQuand j'épousai feu mon cher Jennings, il était aussi plus riche que\nmoi; je ne pensai point à le remercier de m'épouser puisqu'il m'aimait,\net je trouvai que c'était à lui d'être reconnaissant. Mais sans doute ce\nsont là les belles manières.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XLI.\n\n\nMaria sortit aussi, et madame Jennings en fut charmée; il lui tardait\nd'être seule avec Elinor et de lui faire son compliment. Eh bien! ma\nchère, lui dit-elle en souriant avec son air de sagacité, je ne vous\ndemande pas ce que vous disait le colonel, car, quoique, sur ma parole,\nje fisse tout ce que je pouvais pour ne pas écouter, je n'ai pu\nm'empêcher d'en entendre assez pour m'expliquer toute l'affaire. Je vous\nassure que jamais rien ne m'a fait plus de plaisir, et je vous en\nfélicite de tout mon coeur.\n\n--Je vous remercie, madame, dit Elinor; c'est sûrement un grand plaisir\npour moi, qu'une chose que je croyais ne pouvoir s'effectuer de bien\nlong-temps, et peut-être jamais, se soit aussi vîte décidée; et je sens\nla bonté du colonel, de s'être adressé à moi plutôt qu'à d'autres. Peu\nd'hommes agiraient aussi généreusement que lui; peu, fort peu ont un\naussi bon coeur et sont aussi désintéressés. Je n'ai jamais été plus\nsurprise.\n\n--Vraiment, ma chère, vous êtes aussi par trop modeste; à quelle\npersonne vouliez-vous qu'il s'adressât, qui lui convînt mieux que vous?\nQuant à moi, je n'ai pas du tout été surprise; j'y ai souvent pensé ces\nderniers temps, et j'étais sûre qu'il en viendrait là.\n\n--Vous en avez jugé sûrement d'après la connaissance que vous aviez\navant moi de l'humanité du colonel, et d'après sa bonté; mais du moins\nvous ne pouviez prévoir qu'il trouverait aussitôt l'occasion de\nl'exercer.\n\n--L'occasion! répéta madame Jennings; ah! quant à cela, lorsqu'un homme\ns'est mis une chose dans la tête, l'occasion s'en trouve toujours. Eh\nbien! ma chère, la noce suivra bientôt je suppose; et je verrai un\ncouple heureux s'il en fut jamais.\n\n--Il faut l'espérer, dit Elinor avec un triste sourire. Vous viendrez à\nDelafort bientôt après sans doute.\n\n--Ah! ma chère, bien sûrement, et je suppose qu'il y aura place pour\nmoi, quoique la maison soit _petite_, au dire du colonel; mais ne le\ncroyez pas; je vous assure, moi, qu'elle est belle et bonne. Je ne sais\npas ce qu'il y aurait à réparer: au reste si cela l'amuse, il faut le\nlaisser faire; il est assez riche pour se donner ce plaisir.\n\nElles furent interrompues par le domestique qui vint dire que le carosse\nétait à la porte; et madame Jennings qui devait sortir, se leva pour se\npréparer.\n\n--Eh bien! ma chère, dit-elle, il faut que je vous quitte avant de vous\navoir dit la moitié de ce que je pense; mais nous en jaserons dans la\nsoirée, où nous serons tout-à-fait seules. Si le colonel revient comme\nje suppose, il ne sera pas de trop; mais nous ne recevrons que lui. Vous\ndevez avoir trop d'affaires dans la tête pour vous soucier de compagnie.\nAdieu, donc je vous laisse; aussi bien vous devez languir de le dire à\nvotre soeur.--Je le lui dirai sûrement, répondit Elinor, mais pour le\nmoment je vous prie de n'en parler à personne. Madame Jennings eut l'air\nd'être un peu contrariée.--Très-bien, dit-elle, je comprends; mais Lucy\ncependant qui a eu toute confiance en vous, il me semble qu'il est juste\nqu'elle le sache la première, et je vais la voir ce matin.\n\n--Non, non, madame, dit vivement Elinor, sur-tout pas à Lucy je vous en\nconjure. Un délai d'un jour ne sera pas bien fâcheux pour elle; et\njusqu'à ce que je l'aie écrit à M. Ferrars, ainsi que je l'ai promis au\ncolonel, je préfère que personne ne le sache. Je vais lui écrire à\nl'instant; il n'y a pas de temps à perdre pour qu'il se fasse consacrer\nle plutôt possible.\n\nMadame Jennings paraît d'abord assez surprise, mais après un instant de\nréflexion elle crut avoir saisi ce qu'Elinor voulait dire, que sans\ndoute le premier acte ecclésiastique du nouveau pasteur Ferrars, serait\nde bénir le mariage du colonel et d'Elinor, et qu'on voulait saisir\ncette occasion de lui faire un beau présent.\n\n--J'entends, j'entends, dit elle; c'est vrai cela; c'est très-joli, très\ngénéreux de la part du colonel, et c'est bien, parce qu'Edward est votre\nami; car lui le connaît à peine. Je suis charmée de voir que tout soit\ndéja si bien arrangé entre vous. C'est là sans doute pourquoi il parlait\nde délai.... Très-généreux en vérité! Mais, ma chère, il faut pourtant\nque votre vieille amie vous dise une chose. Il me semble que ce n'est\npas à vous à écrire là-dessus à M. Ferrars; le colonel aurait dû s'en\ncharger; cela aurait mieux convenu.\n\nElinor rougit beaucoup. Pauvre Elinor! Sans se l'avouer à elle-même,\nelle était bien-aise d'écrire encore une fois à Edward avant qu'il\nappartînt à une autre femme, et de lui apprendre la première son\nbonheur.\n\n--Pourquoi donc cela n'est-il pas convenable, madame? Comme vous le\ndisiez, M. Ferrars est mon ami et non pas celui du colonel. M. Brandon\nest si délicat qu'il a préféré que ce fût moi qui le proposasse à\nEdward; et je le lui ai promis.\n\n--A la bonne heure donc; il ne faut pas commencer par le désobliger;\nmais c'est une singulière espèce de délicatesse. Allons, allons, mes\nchevaux m'attendent; et je vous laisse écrire. Je vous promets le\nsecret pour aujourd'hui puisque vous le voulez, mais demain je le dis à\ntout le monde, je vous en avertis. Elle sortit, puis rentra tout de\nsuite: A propos, ma chère, je pense à la soeur de ma Betty; je serai\ncharmée qu'elle ait une si bonne maîtresse. Elle s'entend à tout; je la\nferai venir; vous en serez enchantée; c'est précisément tout ce qu'il\nfaut à Delafort. Vous y penserez à votre loisir.\n\nElinor l'entendit à peine, lui répondit: oui, madame, certainement, pour\nla faire en aller; elle pensait à sa lettre à Edward. Dès qu'elle fut\nseule, elle prit la plume. Par où commencer? Que lui dire? Elle\ncraignait également d'être trop ou trop peu amicale. La plume dans une\nmain, la tête appuyée sur l'autre, elle réfléchissait profondément, à ce\nqui aurait été la chose du monde la plus aisée pour toute autre\npersonne, et se félicitait cependant d'avoir à lui écrire plutôt que de\nlui parler, lorsqu'elle fut interrompue dans le cours de ses pensées par\nquelqu'un qui entrait discrètement, et c'était.... celui qui en était\nl'objet, c'était Edward.\n\nL'étonnement et la confusion d'Elinor furent au comble. Elle n'avait pas\nvu Edward depuis que ses engagemens étaient connus et qu'il savait par\nLucy que depuis long-temps elle en était instruite. Tremblante,\ninterdite, elle se leva, balbutia quelques paroles, lui offrit un siége,\net resta en silence. Il n'était pas moins embarrassé; son émotion était\nvisible: Enfin il lui demanda pardon de la manière dont il s'était\nintroduit lui-même au salon sans se faire annoncer.\n\n--Je venais, lui dit-il, me présenter avant mon départ chez madame\nJennings et chez vous, mesdames. J'ai rencontré votre amie sur\nl'escalier. Elle m'a obligeamment pressé d'entrer, en me disant que je\ntrouverais mademoiselle Dashwood au salon, occupée à.... Enfin que vous\naviez à me communiquer une affaire très-importante et qui me\nsurprendrait beaucoup. J'ai cru devoir vous épargner la peine de me\nl'écrire, d'autant que je quitte Londres demain, et que de long-temps,\nde très-long-temps peut-être, je n'aurai pas le bonheur de vous revoir.\nJ'aurais été bien malheureux de partir sans prendre congé de vous et de\nmademoiselle Maria; demain je vais à Oxford.\n\n--Vous ne seriez sûrement pas parti, dit Elinor, sans recevoir nos bons\nvoeux, lors même que je n'aurais pas eu le plaisir de vous voir. Madame\nJennings vous a dit la vérité; j'ai quelque chose d'important à vous\ncommuniquer, et j'allais vous écrire quand vous êtes entré. Edward\nrougit, et s'avança avec une extrême curiosité.--Je suis chargée,\nmonsieur, dit-elle en parlant plus vîte qu'à l'ordinaire, d'une\ncommission qui vous sera très-agréable. Le colonel Brandon, qui était\nici il y a au plus un quart-d'heure, m'a chargée de vous dire qu'ayant\nappris que votre intention est de vous faire consacrer et de suivre la\ncarrière de l'église, il a le plaisir de pouvoir vous offrir le bénéfice\nde sa terre de Delafort, qui se trouve vacant, et que son seul regret\nest qu'il ne soit pas plus considérable. Permettez-moi de vous\nféliciter d'avoir un ami tel que lui, qui sait apprécier le mérite, et\nque vous trouverez disposé de toute manière à vous obliger. La cure ne\nrapporte que deux cents livres sterling, mais peut, dit-il, rendre\ndavantage. Je joins mes voeux aux siens pour que vous en ayez dans la\nsuite une plus avantageuse; mais dans ce moment j'espère... nous\nespérons qu'elle pourra vous suffire, et que.... cet établissement....\naccélérera.... enfin, que vous y trouverez tout le bonheur que vos amis\nvous souhaitent.\n\nCe qu'Edward éprouvait dans ce moment ne peut être rendu; mais ce\nn'était pas de la joie. Une surprise extrême mêlée d'un sentiment\ntrès-douloureux, voilà ce que sa physionomie exprimait. Le sort en\nétait jeté; il n'avait plus de prétexte de retarder son mariage.\n\n--Dieu! que dites-vous, s'écria-t-il, en sortant de cet état de stupeur?\nà peine puis-je croire ce que j'entends! le colonel Brandon...\n\n--Oui, reprit Elinor, qui retrouvait au contraire toute sa fermeté, le\ncolonel Brandon a pris le plus vif intérêt à ce qui vient de se passer\ndans votre famille, à la cruelle situation qui en a été la suite; et\ncroyez aussi que Maria, moi, tous vos amis y ont pris la part la plus\nsincère. Le colonel se trouve heureux de pouvoir vous donner une preuve\nde sa haute estime pour votre caractère et de son entière approbation de\nvotre conduite dans cette occasion.\n\n--Le colonel me donne un bénéfice, à moi! Cela est-il possible? s'écria\nencore Edward.\n\n--La dureté de vos parens vous a-t-elle fait croire, mon cher Edward,\nque vous ne trouveriez de l'amitié nulle part? Vous vous seriez bien\ntrompé.\n\n--Non, répliqua-t-il avec attendrissement; j'étais bien sûr de trouver\ndans votre coeur intérêt et compassion; je suis convaincu que c'est à\nvotre bonté seule que je dois celle du colonel. Oh! Elinor! Elinor! il\ns'arrêta, se leva, puis se rapprochant encore d'elle dans une émotion\ninexprimable: Je ne puis rien dire de ce que je sens, reprit-il en\nappuyant sa main sur son coeur; mais c'est à vous que je dois tout, car\nc'est votre estime que j'ai voulu mériter, et que peut-être j'avais\nmérité de perdre.\n\n--Vous, Edward! jamais.\n\n--Non, non, je vous devais plus de confiance; mais ce fatal secret\nn'était pas le mien seul; et jamais, jamais, je n'aurais pu.... ange de\nbonté, c'est par des bienfaits que vous vous vengez de ma dissimulation.\n\n--Vous vous trompez, monsieur, dit Elinor en s'efforçant de cacher son\némotion; je vous assure que vous devez la protection et l'amitié du\ncolonel Brandon à votre propre mérite et à son discernement; je n'y ai\naucune part; je ne savais pas même qu'il eût un bénéfice dont il pût\ndisposer. Peut-être a-t-il eu plus de plaisir encore à le donner à un de\nnos amis; mais sur ma parole vous ne devez rien à mes sollicitations.\n\nLa vérité l'obligeait à convenir qu'elle avait quelque part dans cette\naction; mais en même-temps elle craignait si fort de paraître la\nbienfaitrice d'Edward, qu'elle prononça cette dernière phrase avec\nhésitation; et cet embarras donna un degré de certitude de plus au\nsoupçon qui venait de s'élever dans l'esprit d'Edward. Il resta quelque\ntemps enseveli dans ses pensées après qu'Elinor eut cessé de parler; à\nla fin il dit avec un peu d'effort: Le colonel Brandon est un homme d'un\ntrès-grand mérite, et qui jouit de l'estime générale. J'ai toujours\nentendu parler de lui avec les plus grands éloges. Votre frère en fait\nbeaucoup de cas.... et vous aussi sans doute; ses manières ont beaucoup\nde noblesse, et sûrement son coeur.... ici il s'arrêta.... est aussi bon\nque sensible, dit Elinor en achevant la phrase commencée. Plus vous le\nconnaîtrez, plus vous trouverez qu'il mérite tout le bien qu'on vous a\ndit de lui, et vous le verrez souvent; car le presbytère touche presque\nau château, ce qui vous fera un très agréable voisinage. Edward ne\nrépondit rien, mais jeta sur elle un regard si sérieux, si triste même,\nqu'il semblait dire que ce voisinage loin de lui paraître agréable était\nun grand malheur pour lui. Il se leva immédiatement après, en demandant\nà Elinor si la demeure du colonel n'était pas à Saint-James-Street. Elle\nrépondit affirmativement, et lui dit le numéro. Il faut, que j'aille lui\nfaire les remercîmens que vous ne voulez pas recevoir. Elinor ne tenta\npas de le retenir. Ils se séparèrent avec plus d'embarras qu'au\ncommencement. Elle lui renouvela ses voeux pour son bonheur, _sous tous\nles rapports et dans tous les changemens de situation_. Il voulut\nrépondre de même; ses paroles expirèrent sur ses lèvres, à peine put-il\narticuler: Elinor, puissiez-vous être heureuse.... et il disparut.\n\n--Heureuse! répéta-t-elle en soupirant; quand je le reverrai, si jamais\nje le revois, il sera le mari de Lucy. Des larmes remplirent ses yeux.\nElle resta assise à la même place, cherchant à se rappeler chaque mot\nqu'il avait prononcé, à comprendre ses sentimens. Hélas! elle ne pouvait\nse dissimuler qu'il n'avait pas l'air plus heureux, que c'était même\ntout le contraire, depuis que son sort était assuré.\n\nMadame Jennings rentra; quoiqu'elle eût fait beaucoup de visites et\nqu'elle eût sans doute bien des choses à dire, elle était tellement\noccupée du grand secret, qu'elle entama d'abord ce sujet en entrant au\nsalon.\n\n--Eh bien! ma chère, dit-elle, vous n'avez pas eu besoin d'écrire; je\nvous ai envoyé le jeune homme lui-même. N'ai-je pas bien fait? Je\nsuppose qu'il n'y a pas eu grande difficulté, et que vous l'avez trouvé\ntout disposé à accepter votre proposition.\n\n--Oui sans doute, madame; il est allé d'ici chez le colonel pour le\nremercier.\n\n--Fort bien! mais sera-t-il prêt bientôt? il ne faut pas qu'il fasse\ntrop attendre pour le mariage, puisqu'il ne peut pas se faire sans lui.\n\n--Non bien certainement, dit Elinor en riant, mais il faut qu'on\nl'attende. Je ne sais pas du tout combien il lui faut de temps pour sa\nconsécration: je n'en puis parler que par conjecture, trois ou quatre\nmois peut-être.\n\n--Trois ou quatre mois! s'écria madame Jennings, Seigneur! ma chère,\navec quelle tranquillité vous en parlez! Croyez-vous que le colonel\nveuille attendre trois ou quatre mois? Il y a de quoi perdre toute\npatience. Je suis charmée qu'il saisisse cette occasion de faire quelque\nbien au pauvre Edward Ferrars; mais pourtant attendre trois ou quatre\nmois, pour lui c'est un peu fort. Il aurait facilement trouvé quelque\necclésiastique qui ferait tout aussi bien et qu'on aurait pu avoir tout\nde suite.\n\n--Oui, ma chère dame, dit Elinor, on en trouverait beaucoup; mais le\nseul motif du colonel Brandon est d'être utile à M. Ferrars, et non pas\nà quelqu'autre.\n\n--Que le ciel me bénisse! s'écria la bonne Jennings en éclatant de rire;\n_son seul motif!_ vous ne me persuaderez pas que le colonel n'ait\nd'autre motif en se mariant que de donner vingt-cinq guinées à M.\nFerrars.\n\nL'erreur ne pouvait pas durer plus long-temps, et l'explication qui eut\nlieu, les amusa beaucoup sans qu'il y eût rien à perdre ni pour l'une ni\npour l'autre. Au contraire madame Jennings échangea un plaisir pour un\nautre, et sans perdre l'espoir du premier. Allons, dit-elle, à la\nSaint-Michel j'espère aller voir Lucy dans son presbytère et la trouver\nbien établie; et qui sait encore si je ne pourrai pas faire d'une pierre\ndeux coups et visiter en même temps la maîtresse du château; car cela\nviendra un jour, je vous le promets; et vous serez les deux couples les\nplus heureux qu'il y ait jamais eu au monde.\n\nElinor soupira; elle était bien sûre quant à elle de ne pas avoir sa\npart de ce bonheur.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XLII.\n\n\nAprès que le triste Edward eut fait au colonel ses remercîmens pour une\nfaveur dont il se serait bien passé, il alla à Holborn faire part de\n_son bonheur_ à Lucy. Il faut que pendant la route il ait fait sur\nlui-même des efforts bien extraordinaires, car Lucy assura à madame\nJennings, qui vint le jour suivant la féliciter, qu'elle ne l'avait vu\nde sa vie _aussi gai, aussi heureux_ qu'en lui apprenant cette nouvelle.\nSon propre bonheur à elle était plus certain. Elle se joignit de grand\ncoeur à l'espoir de madame Jennings d'être établie à la Saint-Michel au\npresbytère de Delafort; elle parut aussi très-disposée à croire\nqu'Elinor s'était intéressée pour eux auprès du colonel; elle vanta\nbeaucoup son amitié pour elle et pour son futur mari, et déclara qu'il\nn'y avait rien qu'elle ne pût en attendre, et qu'elle savait que\nmademoiselle Dashwood ferait tout pour ceux qu'elle aimait. Quant au\ncolonel Brandon, elle dit qu'elle le reverrait comme un Dieu\nbienfaisant. Madame Jennings ne put alors s'empêcher de dire qu'elle\nespérait bien qu'il épouserait Elinor, et que ce serait pour eux une\ngrande augmentation de bonheur. Certainement, dit Lucy avec dépit; mais\nEdward m'a assuré que le colonel lui procurerait bientôt un meilleur\nbénéfice; sans doute je regretterai beaucoup le voisinage d'Elinor, mais\nil faut avant tout, penser à ce qui est le plus avantageux, et deux\ncents pièces ne sont pas grand chose. Mais je tâcherai, ajouta-t-elle,\nde lui faire rendre davantage; j'ai dit à Edward de me laisser le soin\ndu domaine; et il y est tout disposé. Pendant qu'il fera et débitera ses\nsermons, je lèverai les dîmes; j'aurai soin de la laiterie, de la\nbasse-cour, du jardin; je ferai vendre nos denrées, et quand j'aurai mis\nde côté pendant l'été une bonne petite somme, je pourrai aller m'amuser\nà Londres un mois ou deux après Noël. Lorsque vous n'aurez personne pour\nvous tenir compagnie, ma chère cousine Jennings, je serai fort à votre\nservice. Edward restera à Delafort; il ne s'ennuie jamais seul. Oh!\ncomme nous allons être heureux! c'est dommage seulement qu'il n'ait pas\nun peu de la gaîté et de la gentillesse de son frère, qui est toujours\nprêt à rire et à causer, au lieu qu'Edward peut être des heures entières\nà lire. Moi je ne connais rien de plus ennuyeux; mais à présent j'aurai\nassez à faire de mon côté quand je serai là, et je n'y serai pas\ntoujours, etc. etc. Madame Jennings revint à la maison en assurant que\nLucy était la plus aimable des filles, et serait la plus heureuse des\nfemmes.\n\nIl y avait au moins une semaine qu'on n'avait aperçu John Dashwood, ni\nentendu parler de lui. Elinor n'avait point vu sa belle-soeur depuis son\nindisposition, et jugea qu'elle devait lui faire une visite. Cette\nobligation n'était rien moins qu'un plaisir; et elle n'y fut point\nencouragée par ses deux compagnes. Non-seulement Maria refusa\nabsolument d'y aller, en disant qu'elle était plus malade que Fanny,\nmais elle fit aussi tout ce qu'elle put pour qu'Elinor n'y allât pas.\nMadame Jennings lui dit que son carrosse était à son service; mais\nqu'elle ne l'accompagnerait pas chez une femme dont les airs et la\nhauteur lui étaient insupportables. J'aurais cependant eu du plaisir,\ndit-elle, à la voir humiliée et piquée du choix de son frère, à lui dire\ncombien je l'approuve, et à lui apprendre qu'Edward va se marier et\nn'aura plus besoin d'eux. Mais qui sait si je la trouverais encore aussi\nfâchée qu'elle veut le paraître; son orgueil et son avarice doivent se\nlivrer un combat. Elle est blessée que sa belle-soeur ne soit pas la\nfille d'un lord; mais elle est bien aise peut-être de l'espoir d'avoir\nsa part de l'héritage de son frère. Oh! l'odieuse femme, et que je vous\nplains de vous croire obligée de la voir.\n\nLa bonne Elinor pensait peut-être de même, mais ne voulut pas en\nconvenir; elle prit le parti de Fanny autant qu'il lui fut possible, et\ntoujours prête à remplir les devoirs mêmes qui lui coûtaient le plus,\nelle se mit en chemin pour Harley-Street.\n\nMadame Dashwood fit dire qu'elle n'était pas encore assez bien pour\nrecevoir qui que ce fût. Mais avant que le carrosse eût tourné pour\nrevenir à Berkeley-Street, John Dashwood sortit de la maison et vint à\nla portière avec sa manière accoutumée. Il fit un bon accueil à sa\nsoeur; il lui dit qu'il allait dans ce moment à Berkeley-Street pour la\nvoir, et lui assura que Fanny ne savait sûrement pas que ce fût elle et\nqu'elle lui ferait grand plaisir; il l'invita donc à descendre de\nvoiture et à passer quelques momens avec eux. Elinor qui dans le fond\naimait son frère se laissait toujours prendre à son air de bonhomie et\nelle consentit à entrer avec lui. Il la conduisit au salon, où il n'y\navait personne.--Fanny est dans sa chambre, je crois, dit John; la\npauvre femme n'est point bien encore; un si rude coup! mais elle n'aura\naucune raison pour ne point recevoir votre visite, j'en suis sûr. Je\nvais la prévenir que vous avez voulu entrer malgré son refus; elle en\nsera très-flattée. A présent, Elinor, elle n'a plus aucun motif de vous\ncraindre; vous comprenez ce que je veux dire, et vous allez être sa\ngrande favorite, et Maria aussi. Pourquoi n'est-elle pas venue avec\nvous? toujours malade, je parie; c'est fort triste en vérité. L'air de\nla campagne la remettra: point d'autres remèdes surtout, celui-là ne lui\ncoûtera rien; et les médecins et les remèdes sont si chers! Je sais ce\nqu'il nous en coûte pour ce mal de Fanny, et c'est pourtant la faute\nd'Edward...... Enfin chère Elinor, je ne suis point fâché de vous voir\nseule, car j'ai beaucoup de choses à vous dire. Est-il vrai d'abord que\nle colonel Brandon ait donné son bénéfice de Delafort à Edward? Je\nl'appris hier par hasard, et j'allais chez vous exprès pour m'en\ninformer. Je ne le crois pas du tout, et je fus sur le point de proposer\nun pari; cela n'est pas vrai, n'est-ce pas? Combien je me repens de\nn'avoir pas parié!\n\n--Vous avez très-bien fait, car rien n'est plus vrai. Le colonel Brandon\na donné son bénéfice de Delafort à Edward.\n\n--Réellement! eh bien! y a-t-il rien de plus étonnant! Ni parenté, ni\nliaison, et lui donner (car il l'a _donné_, dites-vous) un bénéfice dont\nil pouvait tirer beaucoup, beaucoup d'argent. De quelle valeur est-il?\n\n--Environ de deux cents pièces de revenu.\n\n--Très-bien, très-joli revenu; et pour commencer avoir un bénéfice de\ncette valeur! Edward n'est pas malheureux. Le colonel aurait pu le\nvendre quinze cents pièces, peut-être deux mille. Je suis confondu: un\nhomme de sens comme le paraît le colonel! On a bien raison de dire\nqu'il y a chez tous les humains un grain de folie. Il est possible\ncependant en y pensant bien qu'il y ait quelque chose là dessous; je\ncrois que je le devine. Le colonel l'aura vendu à quelque jeune homme de\nfamille riche, qui n'a pas encore l'âge requis, et Edward l'occupe\njusqu'à ce temps-là, et tirera la moitié du revenu. Cent pièces pour\nquelqu'un qui n'a rien, c'est très-honnête. Je parie que j'ai mis le\ndoigt dessus: cela explique tout.\n\nElinor assura que non très-positivement. Elle raconta qu'elle avait été\nemployée elle-même à faire à Edward l'offre du colonel; qu'elle était\nsans aucune réserve, et que le seul regret du colonel était que son\nbénéfice ne fût pas plus considérable.\n\n--Je ne puis en revenir, s'écria John; c'est vraiment étonnant! Quel\npeut être le motif du colonel?\n\n--Un très-simple, le désir d'être utile à M. Ferrars.\n\n--En vérité, chère Elinor, je croirais plutôt que c'est le désir de vous\nplaire, si vous pouviez encore vous intéresser le moins du monde à\nEdward; mais après ce qu'il vous a fait! Vous courtiser, laisser croire\nà tout le monde qu'il vous était attaché, indisposer votre belle-soeur\ncontre vous à cette occasion, et puis être engagé à une autre, qui ne\nvous vaut pas; c'est mal cela, très-mal, et vous devez le détester plus\nque personne; mais vous avez un si bon coeur! Ecoutez, ne parlez pas à\nFanny de ce bénéfice. Je lui en ai dit un mot, et elle l'a très-bien\npris; mais elle n'aime pas à entendre parler de son frère.\n\nElinor eut peine à s'empêcher de lui dire que Fanny pouvait supporter\navec calme une acquisition de fortune à son frère, qui ne lui ôtait rien\nà elle-même.\n\nMadame Ferrars, ajouta John en baissant la voix et d'un air important,\nne sait rien de cela, et nous voulons le lui cacher autant qu'il sera\npossible. Quand le mariage d'Edward aura lieu, nous tâcherons aussi\nqu'elle l'ignore, au moins quelque temps.\n\n--Mais pourquoi toutes ces précautions? dit Elinor; il n'est pas à\nsupposer que madame Ferrars puisse avoir la moindre satisfaction ou la\nmoindre peine en apprenant que son fils a de quoi vivre. Elle a prouvé\npar sa conduite avec lui qu'elle n'y prenait plus nul intérêt; elle ne\nle regarde plus comme son fils puisqu'elle l'a repoussé pour toujours.\nSûrement on ne peut imaginer qu'elle éprouve à son égard quelque\nimpression de chagrin ou de joie, qu'elle s'intéresse à ce qui lui\narrive. Elle n'a pas privé volontairement son enfant de tout secours\npour conserver la sollicitude d'une mère.\n\n--Oh! Elinor dit John, n'ayant pas trop l'air de comprendre dans quel\nsens elle parlait, votre raisonnement est très-bon; mais il n'est pas\ndans la nature. Madame Ferrars a repoussé loin d'elle un fils ingrat et\ndésobéissant; mais elle ne peut pas oublier qu'il est son fils.\n\n--Vous me surprenez; je croyais que cela était sorti de sa mémoire.\n\n--Vous parlez en femme piquée contre Edward, et je le comprends; mais\ncela n'empêche pas que madame Ferrars ne soit une des plus tendres mères\nqu'il y ait au monde.\n\nElinor garda le silence.\n\n--Nous espérons à présent, continua-t-il, que Robert épousera\nmademoiselle Morton.\n\nElinor sourit de la grave importance de son frère.--Je suppose,\ndit-elle, que cette jeune dame n'a pas de choix dans cette affaire.\n\n--De choix! qu'entendez vous par-là?\n\n--J'entends que d'après ce que vous me dites, on peut supposer qu'il est\nindifférent à mademoiselle Morton d'épouser Edward ou Robert.\n\n--Certainement! il ne peut y avoir aucune différence, à présent que\nRobert est comme un fils unique; c'est d'ailleurs un jeune homme\ntrès-agréable, et très-supérieur à son frère.\n\nElinor ne dit plus rien. John fut aussi silencieux quelques momens; il\navait l'air de réfléchir.--Encore une chose, ma chère soeur, dit-il\ntrès-bas en lui prenant la main; j'étais à penser si je devais vous le\ndire, mais le plaisir de vous en faire part l'emporte sur la prudence;\net quoique Fanny de qui je le tiens m'ait bien recommandé le secret, je\nne puis le garder avec vous; vous ne me trahirez pas. Eh bien! j'ai de\nfortes raisons de penser que madame Ferrars a dit à sa fille, que\nquelques objections qu'elle eût sur une certaine liaison, que nous\navions tous soupçonnée, vous m'entendez, Elinor, elle l'aurait beaucoup\npréférée à ce qui est, et elle n'en aurait pas eu la moitié tant de\npeine. J'ai été enchanté d'entendre que madame Ferrars pensât ainsi;\nc'est une circonstance très-avantageuse pour vous, et pour nous tous.\nC'eût été, a-t-elle dit à Fanny, beaucoup moins fâcheux sans\ncomparaison, qu'il se fût vraiment attaché à l'une de vos belles soeurs;\net elle voudrait bien à présent qu'il en fût ainsi. Mais il n'en est\nplus question, puisqu'il n'y a jamais songé, et qu'il n'avait nul\nattachement pour vous. Seulement j'ai voulu vous le dire, parce que\ncette préférence de la mère de ma femme doit vous flatter infiniment.\nMais vous, ma chère Elinor, vous ne devez avoir aucun regret; il n'y a\npas de doute que vous serez très-bien établie, et tout considéré, mieux\nqu'avec Edward. Delafort est à ce que je crois une plus belle terre que\ncelle que madame Ferrars destinait à son fils. Avez-vous vu le colonel\nBrandon dernièrement? Quand vous serez sa femme, j'espère que vous\nl'engagerez à mieux-veiller à ses intérêts, et à ne pas donner au\npremier venu, ce qui peut lui rapporter beaucoup à lui-même.\n\nElinor était indignée. Elle en avait assez entendu, non pas pour\nsatisfaire sa vanité ou pour flatter son amour-propre, mais pour irriter\nses nerfs et la faire repentir de sa visite. Elle fut charmée d'être\ndispensée de répondre, ou d'entendre encore quelques sots propos, par\nl'arrivée de M. Robert Ferrars, qui vint étaler ses grâces et sa parure\ndevant la grande glace du salon de sa soeur. Après quelques mots\ninsignifians John Dashwood se rappela que Fanny ne savait pas encore\nqu'Elinor était là. Il sortit pour l'en informer, et laissa sa soeur\ntête à tête avec le beau Robert, qui par sa gaîté, son contentement de\nlui-même, sa suffisance et son air important, semblait jouir de n'avoir\nplus à partager avec son frère, l'amour et les libéralités de leur mère,\net donnait à Elinor une aussi mauvaise opinion de son coeur que de sa\ntête. Elle espérait au moins qu'il ne lui parlerait point d'Edward; mais\nelle était dans l'erreur. Deux minutes ne furent pas écoulées, qu'après\nun éclat de rire assez long, il lui demanda en riant toujours, s'il\nétait vrai qu'Edward allât prendre les ordres et dût être pasteur au\nvillage de Delafort? Elinor le confirma, et lui répéta ce qu'elle avait\nappris à John. Alors ses éclats de rire immodérés recommencèrent; l'idée\nde voir Edward en surplis et dans une chaire, publiant les bans de\nmariage des villageois, leur donnant la bénédiction nuptiale, baptisant\nleurs petits-enfans, le divertissait outre mesure.--Au surplus,\ndisait-il, je lui ai toujours trouvé la tournure d'un vrai curé de\nvillage; si sérieux, si modeste, si peu élégant. Pauvre Edward! la\nnature l'avait fait pour cela, et son éducation l'a achevé. Se\ndouterait-on que nous sommes frères? Jamais vous ne l'auriez pensé, j'en\nsuis bien sûr: et il se regardait encore dans la glace et recommençait à\nrire.\n\n--Non en vérité, monsieur, dit Elinor en jetant sur lui un coup d'oeil\nméprisant; il n'y a entre vous deux nul rapport. Elle attendit avec une\nimmuable gravité que son accès de gaîté folle fût passé. Tout-à-coup il\ncessa de rire.--Mais qu'avez-vous donc, mademoiselle Dashwood, lui\ndit-il, vous êtes aussi sérieuse qu'Edward; vous lui auriez cent fois\nmieux convenu que cette petite fille si gaie, si animée. Savez-vous\nqu'elle me fait grande pitié, cette pauvre petite Lucy? Il y avait de\nl'étoffe pour en faire une élégante, une femme à la mode; et devenir la\nfemme d'un grave pasteur, être enterrée dans un presbytère, en bonnet\nrond, un grand chapeau de paille, au lieu de cette délicieuse coiffure,\nde ces plumes flottantes! elle est vraiment très à plaindre. Et ce\npauvre Edward! je plaisante; mais sur mon ame, je suis très-touché de\nson malheur; le voilà ruiné pour toujours. On peut faire une folie\nd'amour quand on est riche, à la bonne heure. Epouser un jolie fille,\nbraver tous ses parens, suivre sa tête, faire parler de soi: tout cela\npeut être assez plaisant; mais il faut avoir une fortune indépendante,\net ne pas risquer de tout perdre. Pauvre garçon! C'est la meilleure\ncréature qui existe. Ses manières, sa figure, tout cela est misérable;\nmais tout le monde n'est pas né avec les mêmes avantages. C'est le plus\nhonnête garçon des trois royaumes; au reste, à quoi cela sert-il dans le\nmonde? Vous le voyez, à se rendre ridicule, à faire des folies par excès\nde vertu. Tient-on tout ce qu'on promet? A sa place j'aurais épousé\nmademoiselle Morton et ses trente mille livres, et comme Lucy Stéeles\nest beaucoup plus jolie, je l'aurais priée de m'aimer toujours. Il ne\nserait pas au point où il en est. Pauvre Edward! il s'est ruiné lui-même\ncomplètement, le voilà séquestré de toute société décente. Pour moi je\nl'ai dit d'abord à madame Ferrars. Ma chère mère, je ne sais ce que vous\nferez dans cette occasion; mais si Edward épouse cette jeune fille, je\nsuis décidé à ne plus le voir. Je lui offris de lui parler, de le\ndissuader de ce mariage; mais c'était trop tard, la rupture avait eu\nlieu. Ma mère me promit ce qu'elle aurait donné à Edward. Je ne pouvais\npas en conscience agir contre mes propres intérêts; mais j'en suis\nfâché, très-fâché! Je pouvais mieux me passer que lui de fortune, ne le\ntrouvez-vous pas, mademoiselle Mais cependant elle ne gâte rien aux\nautres avantages. Pour le pauvre Edward, il n'aura qu'une jolie femme,\ndont il sera bientôt las, et une cure de deux cents livres qui ne le\nnourrira pas la moitié de l'année: et voilà le beau sort qu'il s'est\nfait.\n\nRobert aurait parlé sur ce ton la journée entière; Elinor ne l'écoutait\nplus du tout. L'entrée de madame John Dashwood fit taire l'un et sortir\nl'autre de sa profonde rêverie. Fanny avait une nuance d'embarras avec\nElinor, comme se reprochant de l'avoir accusée à tort d'aimer Edward et\nd'en être aimée. Celle-là du moins ne lui en parla point, et tâcha\nd'être plus cordiale qu'à l'ordinaire; elle poussa la bonté jusqu'à dire\nqu'elle était fâchée qu'elles quittassent la ville, et qu'elle espérait\nles voir l'été à Norland. Son mari était extasié de sa politesse et de\nses grâces; en accompagnant Elinor à sa voiture, il lui dit qu'elle\ndevait être bien contente de sa belle-soeur et de sa visite. Je vous\npromets, ajouta-t-il, pour elle comme pour moi, que nous serons des\npremiers à vous visiter à Delafort, car je vois que tout s'achemine là,\npuisque le colonel doit vous aller joindre à Cléveland. Il la loua\nbeaucoup aussi avec sa parcimonie ordinaire d'un arrangement qui les\nfaisait retourner à Barton sans rien dépenser.\n\nComme Edward n'était plus à Londres et qu'elle ne craignait pas de le\nrencontrer, elle prit le parti d'aller faire une courte visite à Lucy,\nqui la reçut, avec transport, ne lui parla que de son bonheur, et lui\nfit une invitation pressante de venir la voir dans son presbytère à\nDelafort. Elinor riait de ce que tout le monde l'envoyait à Delafort,\nendroit dans l'univers qu'elle désirait le moins d'habiter; son unique\ndésir étant actuellement d'éviter toutes les occasions de revoir Edward.\n\nFIN DU TROISIÈME VOLUME.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n  Liste des modifications:\n\n  page  51: «doigs» remplacé par «doigts» (deux doigts de plus)\n  page  67: «à près» par «après» (Peu après les parties finirent)\n  page  78: «passsé» par «passé» (que passé le premier moment)\n  page 135: «s'étoit» par «s'était» (qui s'était joué)\n          : «ou» par «on» (le seul tort que selon Elinor on pût lui\n              reprocher)\n  page 136: «dit» par «dix» (celui-ci n'avait alors que dix-huit ans)\n  page 137: «à peines» par «à peine» (à peine ses lèvres purent)\n  page 155: «qu'elle» par «quelle» (et quelle autre)\n  page 161: «amititié» par «amitié» ( beaucoup d'amitié)\n  page 164: «cens» par «cents» (et cinq cents par dessus)\n  page 184: «long-tems» par «long-temps» ( D'ailleurs ne sais-je\n              pas tout depuis long-temps?)\n  page 218: «suprise» par «surprise»\n  page 228: suppression d'un «ce» (voilà ce que sa physionomie exprimait)\n  page 233: suppression d'un «les» (dans tous les changemens)\n\n  homogénéisation:\n    «Sommersetshire» page: 202\n    «Ferrars» pages: 221, 251\n    «Stéeles» page: 66\n\n\n\n\n","id":"35163"},{"text":"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n  Au lecteur\n\n  Cette version électronique reproduit dans son intégralité\n  la version originale.\n\n  La ponctuation n'a pas été modifiée hormis quelques corrections\n  mineures.\n\n  L'orthographe a été conservée. Seuls quelques mots ont été modifiés.\n  La liste des modifications se trouve à la fin du texte.\n\n\n\n\n  MISS AUSTEN\n\n\n  PERSUASION\n\n\n  ROMAN TRADUIT DE L'ANGLAIS\n  PAR\n\n  Mme LETORSAY\n\n\n  PARIS\n  LIBRAIRIE HACHETTE ET Cie\n  79, BOULEVARD SAINT-GERMAIN, 79\n\n  1882\n\n\n\n\nPERSUASION\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE PREMIER\n\n\nSir Walter Elliot, de Kellynch-Hall, dans le comté de Somerset, n'avait\njamais touché un livre pour son propre amusement, si ce n'est le livre\nhéraldique.\n\nLà il trouvait de l'occupation dans les heures de désoeuvrement, et de\nla consolation dans les heures de chagrin. Devant ces vieux parchemins,\nil éprouvait un sentiment de respect et d'admiration. Là, toutes les\nsensations désagréables provenant des affaires domestiques se\nchangeaient en pitié et en mépris. Quand il feuilletait les innombrables\ntitres créés dans le siècle dernier, si chaque feuille lui était\nindifférente, une seule avait constamment pour lui le même intérêt,\nc'était la page où le volume favori s'ouvrait toujours:\n\n  _Famille Elliot, de Kellynch-Hall_:\n\n  _Walter Elliot, né le 1er mars 1760; épousa, le 15 juillet 1784_,\n\n  _Élisabeth, fille de Jacques Stevenson, esquire de South-Park, comté\n  de Glocester, laquelle mourut en 1800. Il en eut_:\n\n  _Élisabeth, née le 1er juin 1785_,\n\n  _Anna, née le 9 aoust 1787_,\n\n  _Un fils mort-né le 5 novembre 1789_,\n\n  _et Marie, née le 20 novembre 1791._\n\nTel était le paragraphe sorti des mains de l'imprimeur; mais Sir Walter\ny avait ajouté pour sa propre instruction, et pour celle de sa famille,\nà la suite de la date de naissance de Marie:\n\n  «Mariée le 16 décembre 1810 à Charles Musgrove, esquire d'Uppercross,\n  comté de Somerset.»\n\nPuis venait l'histoire de l'ancienne et respectable famille: le premier\nde ses membres s'établissant dans Cheshire, exerçant la fonction de haut\nshérif; représentant un bourg dans trois parlements successifs, et créé\nbaronnet dans la première année du règne de Charles II. Le livre\nmentionnait aussi les femmes; le tout formant deux pages in-folio,\naccompagné des armoiries et terminé par l'indication suivante:\n«Résidence principale: Kellynch-Hall, comté de Somerset.»\n\nPuis, de la main de Sir Walter:\n\n  «Héritier présomptif: William Walter Elliot, esquire,\n  arrière-petit-fils du second Sir Walter.»\n\nLa vanité était le commencement et la fin du caractère de Sir Elliot:\nvanité personnelle, et vanité de rang.\n\nIl avait été remarquablement beau dans sa jeunesse, et à\ncinquante-quatre ans, étant très bien conservé, il avait plus de\nprétentions à la beauté que bien des femmes, et il était plus satisfait\nde sa place dans la société que le valet d'un lord de fraîche date. A\nses yeux, la beauté n'était inférieure qu'à la noblesse, et le _Sir\nWalter Elliot_, qui réunissait tous ces dons, était l'objet constant de\nson propre respect et de sa vénération.\n\nIl dut à sa belle figure et à sa noblesse d'épouser une femme très\nsupérieure à lui. Lady Elliot avait été une excellente femme, sensée et\naimable, dont le jugement et la raison ne la trompèrent jamais, si ce\nn'est en s'éprenant de Sir Walter.\n\nElle supporta, cacha ou déguisa ses défauts, et pendant dix-sept ans le\nfit respecter. Elle ne fut pas très heureuse, mais ses devoirs, ses\namis, ses enfants l'attachèrent assez à la vie, pour qu'elle la quittât\navec regret.\n\nTrois filles, dont les aînées avaient, l'une seize ans, l'autre\nquatorze, furent un terrible héritage et une lourde charge pour un père\nfaible et vain. Mais elle avait une amie, femme sensée et respectable,\nqui s'était décidée, par attachement pour elle, à habiter tout près, au\nvillage de Kellynch. Lady Elliot se reposa sur elle pour maintenir les\nbons principes qu'elle avait tâché de donner à ses filles.\n\nCette amie n'épousa pas Sir Walter, quoique leur connaissance eût pu le\nfaire supposer.\n\nTreize années s'étaient écoulées depuis la mort de lady Elliot, et ils\nrestaient proches voisins et amis intimes, mais rien de plus.\n\nIl n'est pas étonnant que lady Russel n'eût pas songé à un second\nmariage; car elle possédait une belle fortune, était d'un âge mûr, et\nd'un caractère sérieux, mais le célibat de Sir Walter s'explique moins\nfacilement.\n\nLa vérité est qu'il avait essuyé plusieurs refus à des demandes en\nmariage très déraisonnables. Dès lors, il se posa comme un bon père qui\nse dévoue pour ses filles. En réalité, pour l'aînée seule, il était\ndisposé à faire quelque chose, mais à condition de ne pas se gêner.\nÉlisabeth, à seize ans, avait succédé à tous les droits et à la\nconsidération de sa mère.\n\nElle était fort belle et ressemblait à son père, sur qui elle avait une\ngrande influence; aussi avaient-ils toujours été d'accord. Les deux\nautres filles de Sir Walter étaient, à son avis, d'une valeur\ninférieure.\n\nMarie avait acquis une légère importance en devenant Mme Musgrove; mais\nAnna, avec une distinction d'esprit et une douceur de caractère que\ntoute personne intelligente savait apprécier, n'était rien pour son\npère, ni pour sa soeur.\n\nOn ne faisait aucun cas de ce qu'elle disait, et elle devait toujours\ns'effacer; enfin elle n'était qu'Anna.\n\nLady Russel aimait ses soeurs, mais dans Anna seulement elle voyait\nrevivre son amie.\n\nQuelques années auparavant, Anna était une très jolie fille, mais sa\nfraîcheur disparut vite, et son père, qui ne l'admirait guère quand elle\nétait dans tout son éclat, car ses traits délicats et ses doux yeux\nbruns étaient trop différents des siens, ne trouvait plus rien en elle\nqui pût exciter son estime, maintenant qu'elle était fanée et amincie.\n\nIl n'avait jamais espéré voir le nom d'Anna sur une autre page de son\nlivre favori. Toute alliance égale reposait sur Élisabeth, car Marie,\nentrée dans une notable et riche famille de province, lui avait fait\nplus d'honneur qu'elle n'en avait reçu. Un jour ou l'autre, Élisabeth se\nmarierait selon son rang.\n\nIl arrive parfois qu'une femme est plus belle à vingt-neuf ans que dix\nans plus tôt. Quand elle n'a eu ni chagrins, ni maladies, c'est souvent\nune époque de la vie où la beauté n'a rien perdu de ses charmes.\n\nChez Élisabeth, il en était ainsi: c'était toujours la belle miss\nElliot, et Sir Elliot était à moitié excusable d'oublier l'âge de sa\nfille, et de se croire lui-même aussi jeune qu'autrefois au milieu des\nruines qui l'entouraient. Il voyait avec chagrin Anna se faner, Marie\ngrossir, ses voisins vieillir et les rides se creuser rapidement autour\ndes yeux de lady Russel.\n\nÉlisabeth n'était pas aussi satisfaite que son père. Depuis treize ans,\nelle était maîtresse de Kellynch-Hall, présidant et dirigeant avec une\nassurance et une décision qui ne la rajeunissaient pas.\n\nPendant treize ans, elle avait fait les honneurs du logis, établissant\nles lois domestiques, assise dans le landau à la place d'honneur, et\nayant le pas immédiatement après lady Russel dans tous les salons et à\ntous les dîners. Treize hivers l'avaient vue ouvrir chaque bal de\ncérémonie donné dans le voisinage, et les fleurs de treize printemps\navaient fleuri depuis qu'elle allait, avec son père, jouir des plaisirs\nde Londres pendant quelques semaines. Elle se rappelait tout cela, et la\nconscience de ses vingt-neuf ans lui donnait des appréhensions et\nquelques regrets. Elle se savait aussi belle que jamais, mais elle\nsentait s'approcher les années dangereuses, et aurait voulu être\ndemandée par quelque baronnet avant la fin de l'année. Elle aurait pu\nalors feuilleter le livre par excellence avec autant de joie\nqu'autrefois; mais voir toujours la date de sa naissance, et pas d'autre\nmariage que celui de sa jeune soeur, lui rendait le livre odieux; et\nplus d'une fois, le voyant ouvert, elle le repoussa en détournant les\nyeux.\n\nD'ailleurs elle avait eu une déception que ce livre lui rappelait\ntoujours. L'héritier présomptif, ce même William Walter Elliot dont les\ndroits avaient été si généreusement reconnus par son père, avait refusé\nsa main. Quand elle était toute petite fille, et qu'elle espérait\nn'avoir point de frère, elle avait songé déjà à épouser William, et\nc'était aussi l'intention de son père. Après la mort de sa femme, Sir\nWalter rechercha la connaissance d'Elliot. Ses ouvertures ne furent pas\nreçues avec empressement, mais il persévéra, mettant tout sur le compte\nde la timidité du jeune homme. Dans un de leurs voyages à Londres,\nÉlisabeth était alors dans tout l'éclat de sa beauté et de sa fraîcheur,\nWilliam ne put refuser une invitation.\n\nC'était alors un jeune étudiant en droit, Élisabeth le trouva\nextrêmement agréable et se confirma dans ses projets. Il fut invité à\nKellynch. On en parla et on l'attendit jusqu'au bout de l'année, mais il\nne vint pas. Le printemps suivant, on le revit à Londres. Les mêmes\navances lui furent faites, mais en vain. Enfin on apprit qu'il était\nmarié.\n\nAu lieu de chercher fortune dans la voie tracée à l'héritier de Sir\nWalter, il avait acheté l'indépendance en épousant une femme riche, de\nnaissance inférieure.\n\nSir Walter fut irrité; il aurait voulu être consulté, comme chef de\nfamille, surtout après avoir fait si publiquement des avances au jeune\nhomme; car on les avait vus ensemble au Tattersall et à la Chambre des\nCommunes. Il exprima son mécontentement.\n\nMais M. Elliot n'y fit guère attention, et même n'essaya point de\ns'excuser; il se montra aussi peu désireux d'être compté dans la famille\nque Sir Walter l'en jugeait indigne, et toute relation cessa.\n\nÉlisabeth se rappelait cette histoire avec colère; elle avait aimé\nl'homme pour lui-même et plus encore parce qu'il était l'héritier de Sir\nWalter; avec lui seul, son orgueil voyait un mariage convenable, elle le\nreconnaissait pour son égal. Cependant il s'était si mal conduit, qu'il\nméritait d'être oublié. On aurait pu lui pardonner son mariage, car on\nne lui supposait pas d'enfants, mais il avait parlé légèrement et même\navec mépris de la famille Elliot et des honneurs qui devaient être les\nsiens. On ne pouvait lui pardonner cela. Telles étaient les pensées\nd'Élisabeth; telles étaient les préoccupations et les agitations\ndestinées à varier la monotonie de sa vie élégante, oisive et\nsomptueuse, et à remplir les vides qu'aucune habitude utile au dehors,\naucuns talents à l'intérieur ne venaient occuper.\n\nMais bientôt d'autres préoccupations s'ajoutèrent à celles-là: son père\navait des embarras d'argent. Elle savait qu'il était venu habiter la\nbaronnie pour payer ses lourdes dettes, et pour mettre fin aux\ninsinuations désagréables de son homme d'affaires, M. Shepherd. Le\ndomaine de Kellynch était bon, mais insuffisant pour la représentation\nque Sir Walter jugeait nécessaire. Tant qu'avait vécu lady Elliot,\nl'ordre, la modération et l'économie avaient contenu les dépenses dans\nles limites des revenus; mais cet équilibre avait disparu avec elle: les\ndettes augmentaient; elles étaient connues, et il devenait impossible de\nles cacher entièrement à Élisabeth. L'hiver dernier, Sir Walter avait\nproposé déjà quelques diminutions dans les dépenses, et, pour rendre\njustice à Élisabeth, elle avait indiqué deux réformes: supprimer\nquelques charités inutiles, et ne point renouveler l'ameublement du\nsalon. Elle eut aussi l'heureuse idée de ne plus donner d'étrennes à\nAnna. Mais ces mesures étaient insuffisantes; Sir Walter fut obligé de\nle confesser, et Élisabeth ne trouva pas d'autre remède plus efficace.\nComme lui, elle se trouvait malheureuse et maltraitée par le sort.\n\nSir Walter ne pouvait disposer que d'une petite partie de son domaine,\net encore était-elle hypothéquée. Jamais il n'aurait voulu vendre, se\ndéshonorer à ce point. Le domaine de Kellynch devait être transmis\nintact à ses héritiers.\n\nLes deux amis intimes, M. Shepherd et lady Russel, furent appelés à\ndonner un conseil; ils devaient trouver quelque expédient pour réduire\nles dépenses sans faire souffrir Sir Walter et sa fille dans leur\norgueil ou dans leurs fantaisies.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE II\n\n\nM. Shepherd était un homme habile et prudent. Quelle que fût son opinion\nsur Sir Walter, il voulait laisser à un autre que lui le rôle\ndésagréable; il s'excusa, se permettant toutefois de recommander une\ndéférence absolue pour l'excellent jugement de lady Russel.\n\nCelle-ci prit le sujet en grande considération et y apporta un zèle\ninquiet. C'était plutôt une femme de bon sens que d'imagination. La\ndifficulté à résoudre était grande: lady Russel avait une stricte\nintégrité et un délicat sentiment d'honneur; mais elle souhaitait de\nménager les sentiments de Sir Walter et le rang de la famille. C'était\nune personne bonne, bienveillante, charitable et capable d'une solide\namitié; très correcte dans sa conduite, stricte dans ses idées de\ndécorum, et un modèle de savoir-vivre.\n\nSon esprit était très pratique et cultivé; mais elle donnait au rang et\nà la noblesse une valeur exagérée, qui la rendait aveugle aux défauts\ndes possesseurs de ces biens.\n\nVeuve d'un simple chevalier, elle estimait très haut un baronnet, et Sir\nWalter avait droit à sa compassion et à ses attentions, non seulement\ncomme un vieil ami, un voisin attentif, un seigneur obligeant, mari de\nson amie, père d'Anna et de ses soeurs, mais parce qu'il était Sir\nWalter.\n\nIl fallait faire des réformes sans aucun doute, mais elle se tourmentait\npour donner à ses amis le moins d'ennuis possible. Elle traça des plans\nd'économie, fit d'exacts calculs, et enfin prit l'avis d'Anna, qu'on\nn'avait pas jugé à propos de consulter, et elle subit son influence. Les\nréformes d'Anna portèrent sur l'honorabilité aux dépens de\nl'ostentation. Elle voulait des mesures plus énergiques, un plus prompt\nacquittement des dettes, une plus grande indifférence pour tout ce qui\nn'était pas justice et équité.\n\n«Si nous pouvons persuader tout cela à votre père, dit lady Russel en\nrelisant ses notes, ce sera beaucoup. S'il adopte ces réformes, dans\nsept ans il sera libéré, et j'espère le convaincre que sa considération\nn'en sera pas ébranlée, et que sa vraie dignité sera loin d'en être\namoindrie aux yeux des gens raisonnables.\n\n«En réalité, que fera-t-il, si ce n'est ce que beaucoup de nos premières\nfamilles ont fait, ou devraient faire? Il n'y aura rien là de singulier,\net c'est de la singularité que nous souffrons le plus. Après tout, celui\nqui a fait des dettes doit les payer; et tout en faisant la part des\nidées d'un gentilhomme, le caractère d'honnête homme passe avant tout.»\n\nC'était d'après ce principe qu'Anna voulait voir son père agir. Elle\nconsidérait comme un devoir indispensable de satisfaire les créanciers\nen faisant rapidement toutes les réformes possibles, et ne voyait aucune\ndignité en dehors de cela.\n\nElle comptait sur l'influence de lady Russel pour persuader une réforme\ncomplète; elle savait que le sacrifice de deux chevaux ne serait guère\nmoins pénible que celui de quatre, ainsi que toutes les légères\nréductions proposées par son amie. Comment les sévères réformes d'Anna\nauraient-elles été acceptées, puisque celles de lady Russel n'eurent\naucun succès?\n\nQuoi! supprimer tout confortable! Les voyages, Londres, les domestiques\net les chevaux, la table; retranchements de tous côtés! Ne pas vivre\ndécemment comme un simple gentilhomme! Non!\n\nOn aimait mieux quitter Kellynch que de rester dans des conditions si\ndéshonorantes!\n\nQuitter Kellynch! L'idée fut aussitôt saisie par Shepherd, qui avait un\nintérêt aux réformes de Sir Walter, et qui était persuadé qu'on ne\npouvait rien faire sans un changement de résidence. Puisque l'idée en\nétait venue, il n'eut aucun scrupule à confesser qu'il était du même\navis. Il ne croyait pas que Sir Walter pût réellement changer sa manière\nde vivre dans une maison qui avait à soutenir un tel caractère\nd'honorabilité et de représentation. Partout ailleurs il pourrait faire\nce qu'il voudrait, et sa maison serait toujours prise pour modèle. Après\nquelques jours de doute et d'indécision, la grande question du\nchangement de résidence fut décidée.\n\nOn pouvait choisir Londres, Bath, ou une autre habitation aux environs\nde Kellynch. L'objet de l'ambition d'Anna eût été de posséder une petite\nmaison dans le voisinage de lady Russel, près de Marie, et de voir\nparfois les ombrages et les prairies de Kellynch. Mais sa destinée était\nd'avoir toujours l'inverse de ce qu'elle désirait. Elle n'aimait pas\nBath, mais Bath devait être sa résidence.\n\nSir Walter penchait pour Londres, mais M. Shepherd n'en voulait pas pour\nlui, et il fut assez habile pour le dissuader et lui faire préférer\nBath: là il pourrait comparativement faire figure à peu de frais.\n\nLes deux avantages de Bath avaient été pris en grande considération: sa\ndistance de Kellynch, seulement cinquante milles, et le séjour qu'y\nfaisait lady Russel pendant une partie de l'hiver. A la grande\nsatisfaction de cette dernière, Sir Walter et Élisabeth en arrivèrent à\ncroire qu'ils ne perdraient rien à Bath en considération et en plaisirs.\nLady Russel fut obligée d'aller contre les désirs de sa chère Anna.\nC'était en demander trop à Sir Walter que de s'établir dans une petite\nmaison du voisinage. Anna, elle-même, y aurait trouvé des mortifications\nplus grandes qu'elle ne le prévoyait, et pour Sir Walter, elles eussent\nété terribles. Lady Russel considérait l'antipathie d'Anna pour Bath\ncomme une prévention erronée provenant de trois années de pension\npassées là après la mort de sa mère, et en second lieu de ce qu'elle\nn'était pas en bonne disposition d'esprit pendant le seul hiver qu'elle\ny eût passé avec elle.\n\nLady Russel adorait Bath et s'imaginait que tout le monde devait penser\ncomme elle. Sa jeune amie pourrait passer les mois les plus chauds avec\nelle à Kellynch-Lodge. Ce changement serait bon pour sa santé et pour\nson esprit. Anna avait trop peu vu le monde; elle n'était pas gaie: plus\nde société lui ferait du bien.\n\nPuis, Sir Walter, habitant dans le voisinage de Kellynch, aurait\nsouffert de voir sa maison aux mains d'un autre; c'eût été une trop rude\népreuve. Il fallait louer Kellynch-Hall. Mais ce fut un profond secret,\nrenfermé dans leur petit cercle.\n\nSir Walter eût été trop humilié qu'on l'apprît. M. Shepherd avait\nprononcé une fois le mot «avertissement», mais n'avait pas osé le\nredire.\n\nSir Walter en méprisait la seule idée et défendait qu'on y fît la\nmoindre allusion. Il ne consentirait à louer que comme sollicité à\nl'imprévu, par un locataire exceptionnel, acceptant toutes ses\nconditions comme une grande faveur.\n\nNous approuvons bien vite ce que nous aimons. Lady Russel avait encore\nune autre raison d'être contente du départ projeté de Sir Walter.\nÉlisabeth avait formé une intimité qu'il était désirable de rompre.\n\nLa fille de M. Shepherd, mal mariée, était revenue chez son père, avec\ndeux enfants. C'était une femme habile qui connaissait l'art de plaire,\nau moins à Kellynch-Hall. Elle avait si bien su se faire accepter de\nmiss Elliot, qu'elle y avait fait plusieurs séjours, malgré les\nprudentes insinuations de lady Russel, qui trouvait cette amitié\ndéplacée.\n\nLady Russel avait peu d'influence sur Élisabeth et semblait l'aimer\nplutôt par devoir que par inclination. Celle-ci n'avait pour elle que\ndes égards et de la politesse, mais jamais lady Russel n'avait réussi à\nfaire prévaloir ses avis; elle était très peinée de voir Anna exclue si\ninjustement des voyages à Londres et avait insisté fortement à plusieurs\nreprises pour qu'elle en fît partie. Elle s'était efforcée souvent de\nfaire profiter Élisabeth de son jugement et de son expérience, mais\ntoujours en vain. Miss Elliot avait sa volonté, et jamais elle n'avait\nfait une opposition plus décidée à lady Russel, qu'en choisissant Mme\nClay et en délaissant une soeur si distinguée, pour donner son affection\net sa confiance là où il ne devait y avoir que de simples relations de\npolitesse.\n\nLady Russel considérait Mme Clay comme une amie dangereuse, et d'une\nposition inférieure; et son changement de résidence, qui la laisserait\nde côté et permettrait à miss Elliot de choisir une intimité plus\nconvenable, lui semblait une chose de première importance.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE III\n\n\n«Permettez-moi de vous faire observer, Sir Walter,» dit M. Shepherd un\nmatin à Kellynch-Hall, en dépliant le journal, «que la situation\nactuelle nous est très favorable. Cette paix ramènera à terre tous les\nriches officiers de la marine. Ils auront besoin de maisons. Est-il un\nmeilleur moment pour choisir de bons locataires? Si un riche amiral se\nprésentait, Sir Walter?\n\n--Ce serait un heureux mortel, Shepherd,» répondit Sir Walter. «C'est\ntout ce que j'ai à remarquer. En vérité, Kellynch-Hall serait pour lui\nla plus belle de toutes les prises, n'est-ce pas, Shepherd?»\n\nM. Shepherd sourit, comme c'était son devoir, à ce jeu de mots, et\najouta:\n\n«J'ose affirmer, Sir Walter, qu'en fait d'affaires les officiers de\nmarine sont très accommodants. J'en sais quelque chose. Ils ont des\nidées libérales, et ce sont les meilleurs locataires qu'on puisse voir.\nPermettez-moi donc de suggérer que si votre intention venait à être\nconnue, ce qui est très possible (car il est très difficile à Sir Walter\nde celer à la curiosité publique ses actions et ses desseins; tandis que\nmoi, John Shepherd, je puis cacher mes affaires, car personne ne perd\nson temps à m'observer); je dis donc que je ne serais pas surpris,\nmalgré notre prudence, si quelque rumeur de la vérité transpirait au\ndehors; dans ce cas, des offres seront faites, et je pense que quelque\nriche commandant de la marine sera digne de notre attention, et\npermettez-moi d'ajouter que deux heures me suffisent pour accourir ici,\net vous épargner la peine de répondre.»\n\nSir Walter ne répondit que par un signe de tête; mais bientôt, se levant\net arpentant la chambre, il dit ironiquement:\n\n«Il y a peu d'officiers de marine qui ne soient surpris, j'imagine,\nd'habiter un tel domaine.\n\n--Ils béniront leur bonne fortune,» dit Mme Clay (son père l'avait\namenée, rien n'étant si bon pour sa santé qu'une promenade à Kellynch).\n«Mais je pense, comme mon père, qu'un marin serait un très désirable\nlocataire. J'en ai connu beaucoup. Ils sont si scrupuleux, et si larges\nen affaires! Si vous leur laissez vos beaux tableaux, Sir Walter, ils\nseront en sûreté: tout sera parfaitement soigné. Les jardins et les\nmassifs seront presque aussi bien entretenus qu'actuellement. Ne\ncraignez pas, miss Elliot, que vos jolies fleurs soient négligées.\n\n--Quant à cela, répondit froidement Sir Walter, si je me décidais à\nlouer, j'hésiterais à accorder certains privilèges; je ne suis pas\ndisposé à faire des faveurs à un locataire. Sans doute le parc lui sera\nouvert, et il n'en trouverait pas beaucoup d'aussi vastes.\n\n»Quant aux restrictions que je puis imposer sur la jouissance des\nréserves de chasse, c'est autre chose. L'idée d'en donner l'entrée ne me\nsourit guère, et je recommanderais volontiers à miss Elliot de se tenir\nen garde pour ses parterres.»\n\nAprès un court silence, M. Shepherd hasarda: «Dans ce cas, il y a des\nusages établis, qui rendent chaque chose simple et facile entre\npropriétaire et locataire. Vos intérêts, Sir Walter, sont en mains\nsûres: comptez sur moi pour qu'on n'empiète pas sur vos droits. Qu'on me\npermette de le dire: je suis plus jaloux des droits de Sir Walter, qu'il\nne l'est lui-même.»\n\nIci, Anna prit la parole.\n\n«Il me semble que l'armée navale, qui a tant fait pour nous, a autant de\ndroits que toute autre classe à une maison confortable. La vie des\nmarins est assez rude pour cela, il faut le reconnaître.\n\n--Ce que dit miss Anna est très vrai, répondit M. Shepherd.\n\n--Certainement,» ajouta sa fille.\n\nMais bientôt après, Sir Walter fit cette remarque: «La profession a son\nutilité, mais je serais très fâché qu'un de mes amis lui appartînt.\n\n--Vraiment? répondit-on avec un regard de surprise.\n\n--Oui; sous deux rapports elle me déplaît. D'abord c'est un moyen pour\nun homme de naissance obscure d'obtenir une distinction qui ne lui est\npas due, d'arriver à des honneurs que ses ancêtres n'ont jamais rêvés;\npuis elle détruit totalement la beauté et la jeunesse. Un marin vieillit\nplus vite qu'un autre. J'ai toujours remarqué cela. Il risque par sa\nlaideur de devenir un objet d'horreur pour lui-même, et il court la\nchance de voir le fils d'un domestique de son père arriver à un grade\nau-dessus du sien.\n\n»Voici un exemple à l'appui de ce que je dis. Au printemps dernier,\nj'étais en compagnie de deux hommes:\n\n»Lord Saint-Yves, dont le père a été ministre de campagne, presque sans\npain. Je dus céder le pas à Lord Saint-Yves, et à un certain amiral\nBaldwin, le plus laid personnage qu'on puisse imaginer. Une figure\nmartelée couleur d'acajou; tout était lignes et rides: trois cheveux\ngris d'un côté, et rien qu'un soupçon de poudre. «Au nom du ciel! quel\nest ce vieux garçon? dis-je à un ami qui se trouvait là.--Mon cher,\nc'est l'amiral Baldwin. Quel âge lui donnez-vous?--Soixante ans,\ndis-je.--Quarante, répondit-il. Pas davantage.»\n\n»Figurez-vous mon étonnement. Je n'oublierai pas facilement l'amiral\nBaldwin. Je n'ai jamais vu un exemple si déplorable de la vie de mer; et\nc'est la même chose pour tous, à quelque différence près. Ballottés par\ntous les temps, dans tous les climats, ils arrivent à n'avoir plus\nfigure humaine. C'est fâcheux qu'ils ne meurent pas subitement avant\nd'arriver à l'âge de l'amiral Baldwin.\n\n--Ah! vraiment, Sir Walter, vous êtes trop sévère, dit Mme Clay. Ayez un\npeu de pitié des pauvres gens. Nous ne sommes pas tous nés beaux, et la\nmer n'embellit pas certainement. J'ai souvent remarqué que les marins\nvivent longtemps. Ils perdent de bonne heure l'air jeune. Mais n'en\nest-il pas ainsi dans beaucoup d'autres professions? Les soldats ne\nsont pas mieux traités, et même dans les professions plus tranquilles,\nil y a une fatigue d'esprit, sinon de corps, qui s'ajoute dans le visage\nd'un homme au travail du temps. Le légiste se consume, le médecin sort à\ntoute heure, et par tous les temps, et même le prêtre est obligé\nd'entrer dans des chambres infectes, et d'exposer sa santé et sa\npersonne à des miasmes empoisonnés. En réalité, les avantages physiques\nn'appartiennent qu'à ceux qui ne sont pas forcés d'avoir un état; qui\nvivent sur leur propriété, employant le temps à leur guise, sans se\ntourmenter pour acquérir. A ceux-là seuls sont réservés les dons de la\nsanté et les plus grands avantages physiques.»\n\nIl semblait que M. Shepherd, dans ses efforts pour disposer Sir Walter\nen faveur d'un marin, eût été doué d'une seconde vue, car la première\noffre vint d'un amiral Croft, dont son correspondant de Londres lui\navait parlé.\n\nSelon le rapport qu'il se hâta d'en faire à Kellynch, l'amiral, natif de\nSomersetshire et possesseur d'une très belle fortune, désirait s'établir\ndans son pays, et était venu à Tauton chercher dans les annonces s'il\ntrouverait quelque chose à sa convenance dans le voisinage; n'en\ntrouvant pas et entendant dire que Kellynch était peut-être à louer, il\ns'était présenté chez M. Shepherd pour avoir des renseignements\ndétaillés.\n\nIl avait montré un vif désir de louer, et fourni la preuve qu'il était\nun locataire recommandable.\n\n«Qui est-ce que l'amiral Croft?» demanda Sir Walter d'un ton froid et\nsoupçonneux.\n\nM. Shepherd répondit qu'il était noble, et Anna ajouta:\n\n«Il est vice-amiral: il était à Trafalgar; depuis, il a été aux Indes,\net y est resté, je crois, plusieurs années.\n\n--Alors il est convenu, dit Sir Walter, que sa figure est aussi jaune\nque les parements et les collets d'habits de ma livrée.»\n\nM. Shepherd se hâta de l'assurer que l'amiral avait une figure cordiale,\navenante, un peu hâlée et fatiguée, il est vrai; mais qu'il avait des\nmanières de parfait gentleman; que probablement il ne ferait aucune\ndifficulté quant aux conditions; qu'il cherchait avant tout, et\nimmédiatement, une maison confortable; qu'il payerait la convenance, et\nn'aurait pas été surpris si Sir Walter avait demandé davantage. M.\nShepherd fut éloquent, et donna sur la famille de l'amiral tous les\ndétails qui faisaient de celui-ci un locataire désirable. Il était marié\net sans enfants, c'est ce qu'on pouvait désirer de mieux. Il avait vu\nMme Croft, qui avait assisté à leur conversation.\n\n«C'est une vraie Lady, fine, et qui cause bien. Elle a fait plus de\nquestions sur la maison, les conditions, les impôts, que l'amiral\nlui-même. Elle semble plus familière que lui avec les affaires. J'ai\nappris aussi qu'elle n'est pas inconnue dans cette contrée, pas plus que\nson mari. Elle est la soeur d'un gentilhomme qui demeurait à Montfort,\nil y a quelques années. Quel était donc son nom, Pénélope? ma chère,\naidez-moi. Le frère de Mme Croft?»\n\nMme Clay causait avec miss Elliot d'une façon si animée, qu'elle\nn'entendit pas.\n\n«Je n'ai aucune idée de ce que vous voulez dire, Shepherd, dit Sir\nWalter. Je ne me rappelle aucun gentilhomme demeurant à Montfort, depuis\nle vieux gouverneur Trent.\n\n--Par exemple, c'est trop fort, je crois que j'oublierai bientôt mon\nnom. Un nom que je connaissais si bien; ainsi que le gentleman, je l'ai\nvu cent fois. Il vint me consulter sur un délit de voisin, saisi sur le\nfait: un des domestiques du fermier s'introduisant dans son jardin, un\nmur éboulé, des pommes volées; puis, malgré mon avis, une transaction\neut lieu. C'est vraiment singulier.\n\n--Je suppose que vous voulez parler de M. Wenvorth, dit Anna.\n\n--C'est bien cela. Il eut la cure de Montfort pendant deux ans. Vous\ndevez vous le rappeler.\n\n--Wenvorth? ah! oui, le ministre de Montfort, vous m'avez dérouté par le\nmot gentilhomme. Je croyais que vous parliez d'un homme possédant des\npropriétés. M. Wenvorth n'en avait aucune, je crois. C'est un nom\ninconnu, il n'est pas allié aux Straffort. On se demande comment les\nnoms de notre noblesse deviennent si communs?»\n\nM. Shepherd, s'apercevant que cette parenté des Croft ne leur faisait\naucun bien dans l'esprit de Sir Walter, n'en parla plus et mit tout son\nzèle à s'étendre sur ce qui leur était favorable: leur âge, leur\nfortune, la haute idée qu'ils s'étaient faite de Kellynch; ajoutant\nqu'ils ne désiraient rien tant que d'être les locataires de Sir Walter.\nCela eût semblé un goût extraordinaire vraiment, s'ils avaient pu\nconnaître les devoirs d'un locataire de Sir Walter.\n\nL'affaire réussit cependant, quoique Sir Walter regardât d'un mauvais\noeil quiconque prétendait habiter sa maison, trouvant qu'on était trop\nheureux de l'obtenir, même aux plus dures conditions.\n\nIl autorisa M. Shepherd à négocier la location et à prendre jour avec\nl'amiral pour visiter la propriété. Sir Walter ne brillait pas par le\njugement; il comprit cependant qu'on pouvait difficilement trouver un\nmeilleur locataire. Sa vanité était flattée du rang de l'amiral. «J'ai\nloué ma maison à l'amiral Croft» sonnerait bien mieux qu'à «monsieur un\ntel», qui exige toujours un mot d'explication. L'importance d'un amiral\ns'annonce de soi, mais il n'éclipse jamais un baronnet. Dans leurs\nrelations réciproques, Sir Elliot aurait toujours le pas. Élisabeth\ndésirait si fort un changement, qu'elle ne dit pas un mot qui pût\nretarder la décision. Anna quitta la chambre pour rafraîchir ses joues\nbrûlantes; elle alla dans son allée favorite et se dit avec un doux\nsoupir: «Dans quelques mois peut-être, il sera ici.»\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE IV\n\n\nCe n'était pas M. Wenvorth le ministre, mais Frédéric Wenvorth, son\nfrère, qui, nommé commandant après l'action de Saint-Domingue, s'était\nétabli, en attendant de l'emploi, dans le comté de Somerset, dans l'été\nde 1806, et avait loué pour six mois à Montfort. C'était alors un jeune\nhomme remarquablement beau, intelligent, spirituel et brillant, et Anna\nétait une très jolie fille, douce, modeste, gracieuse et sensée. Ils se\nconnurent, s'éprirent rapidement l'un de l'autre. Ils jouirent bien peu\nde cette félicité exquise. Sir Walter, sans refuser positivement son\nconsentement, manifesta un grand étonnement, une grande froideur et une\nferme résolution de ne rien faire pour sa fille. Il trouvait cette\nalliance dégradante, et lady Russel, avec un orgueil plus excusable et\nplus modéré, la considérait comme très fâcheuse. Anna Elliot! avec sa\nbeauté, sa naissance, son esprit, épouser à dix-neuf ans un jeune homme\nqui n'avait d'autre recommandation que sa personne, d'autre espoir de\nfortune que les chances incertaines de sa profession, et pas de\nrelations qui puissent l'aider à obtenir de l'avancement! La pensée\nseule de ce mariage l'affligeait; elle devait l'empêcher si elle avait\nquelque pouvoir sur Anna.\n\nLe capitaine Wenvorth avait eu de la chance et gagné beaucoup d'argent\ncomme capitaine; mais il dépensait facilement ce qui arrivait de même,\net il n'avait rien acquis. Plein d'ardeur et de confiance, il comptait\nobtenir bientôt un navire. Il avait toujours été heureux, il le serait\nencore.\n\nCette confiance, exprimée avec tant de chaleur, avait quelque chose de\nsi séduisant, qu'elle suffisait à Anna; mais lady Russel en jugeait\nautrement. Ce caractère ardent, cette intrépidité d'esprit, lui\nsemblaient plutôt un mal. Il était brillant et téméraire; elle goûtait\npeu l'esprit, et elle avait pour l'imprudence presque un sentiment\nd'horreur. Elle condamna cette liaison à tous égards.\n\nCombattre une telle opposition était impossible pour la douce Anna. Elle\naurait pu résister au mauvais vouloir de son père, même sans être\nencouragée par un regard ou une bonne parole de sa soeur; mais lady\nRussel, qu'elle avait toujours aimée et respectée, si ferme et si\ntendre dans ses conseils, ne pouvait pas les donner en vain. Son\nopposition ne provenait pas d'une prudence égoïste: si elle n'avait pas\ncru consulter plus encore le bien du jeune homme que celui de sa\nfilleule, elle n'aurait pas empêché ce mariage.\n\nCette conscience du devoir rempli fut la principale consolation de lady\nRussel, dans cette rupture.\n\nElle en avait grand besoin, car elle avait à lutter contre l'opinion, et\ncontre Wenvorth. Celui-ci quitta le pays.\n\nQuelques mois avaient vu le commencement et la fin de leur liaison; mais\nle chagrin d'Anna fut durable. Ce souvenir assombrit sa jeunesse, et\nelle perdit sa fraîcheur et sa gaieté.\n\nSept années s'étaient écoulées depuis, et le temps seul avait un peu\neffacé ces tristes impressions. Aucun voyage, aucun événement extérieur\nn'était venu la distraire. Dans leur petit cercle, elle n'avait vu\npersonne qu'elle pût comparer à Wenvorth; son esprit raffiné, son goût\ndélicat, n'avaient pu trouver l'oubli dans un attachement nouveau.\n\nElle avait vingt-deux ans, quand un jeune homme, qui bientôt après fut\nagréé par sa soeur, sollicita sa main. Lady Russel déplora le refus\nd'Anna, car Charles Musgrove était le fils aîné d'un homme dont\nl'importance et les propriétés ne le cédaient qu'à Sir Walter. Il avait\nun bon caractère, de bonnes manières, et lady Russel se serait réjouie\nde voir Anna mariée aussi près d'elle et affranchie de la partialité de\nson père.\n\nMais Anna n'avait accepté aucun avis, et sa marraine, sans regretter le\npassé, désespéra presque, en lui voyant refuser ce mariage, de la voir\nentrer dans un état qui convenait si bien à son coeur aimant et à ses\nhabitudes domestiques.\n\nCe sujet d'entretien fut écarté pour toujours, et elles ne purent savoir\nni l'une ni l'autre si elles avaient changé d'opinion; mais Anna, à\nvingt-sept ans, pensait autrement qu'à dix-neuf. Elle ne blâmait pas\nlady Russel; cependant si une jeune fille dans une situation semblable\nlui eût demandé son avis, elle ne lui aurait pas imposé un chagrin\nimmédiat en échange d'un bien futur et incertain.\n\nElle pensait qu'en dépit de la désapprobation de sa famille; malgré tous\nles soucis attachés à la profession de marin; malgré tous les retards et\nles désappointements, elle eût été plus heureuse en l'épousant qu'en le\nrefusant, dût-elle avoir une part plus qu'ordinaire de soucis et\nd'inquiétudes, sans parler de la situation actuelle de Wenvorth, qui\ndépassait déjà ce qu'on aurait pu espérer.\n\nLa confiance qu'il avait en lui-même avait été justifiée. Son génie et\nson ardeur l'avaient guidé et inspiré. Il s'était distingué, avait\navancé en grade, et possédait maintenant une belle fortune; elle le\nsavait par les journaux, et n'avait aucune raison de le croire marié.\n\nCombien Anna eût été éloquente dans ses conseils! Combien elle préférait\nune inclination réciproque et une joyeuse confiance dans l'avenir à ces\nprécautions exagérées qui entravent la vie et insultent la Providence!\n\nDans sa jeunesse on l'avait forcée à être prudente plus tard elle devint\nromanesque, conséquence naturelle d'un commencement contre nature.\nL'arrivée du capitaine Wenvorth à Kellynch ne pouvait que raviver son\nchagrin.\n\nElle dut se raisonner beaucoup, et fut longtemps avant de pouvoir\nsupporter ce sujet continuel de conversation. Elle y fut aidée par la\nparfaite indifférence des trois seules personnes de son entourage qui\navaient le secret du passé, et qui semblaient l'avoir oublié; le frère\nde Wenvorth avait connu, il est vrai, leur liaison, mais il avait depuis\nlongtemps quitté le pays; c'était en outre un homme très sensé et un\ncélibataire. Elle était sûre de sa discrétion.\n\nMme Croft, soeur de Wenvorth, était alors hors d'Angleterre avec son\nmari; Marie, soeur d'Anna, était en pension; et les uns par orgueil, les\nautres par délicatesse ne l'avaient pas initiée au secret.\n\nAnna espérait donc que l'arrivée des Croft ne lui amènerait aucune\nmortification.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE V\n\n\nLe jour fixé pour la visite de l'amiral et de sa femme à Kellynch, Anna\ncrut devoir aller se promener, puis elle regretta de les avoir manqués.\n\nMme Croft et Élisabeth se plurent réciproquement, et l'affaire qu'elles\ndésiraient toutes deux fut bientôt conclue. L'amiral était si gai, si\nouvert, son caractère était si généreux et si confiant, que Sir Walter\nfut influencé favorablement. Il lui fit un accueil d'autant plus poli,\nqu'il savait par M. Shepherd que l'amiral le considérait comme un modèle\nde bonnes manières.\n\nLa maison, l'ameublement, les parterres, les conditions du bail, tout\nfut trouvé bien, et les clercs de M. Shepherd se mirent à l'oeuvre sans\nchanger un mot aux arrangements préliminaires.\n\nSir Walter déclara sans hésiter que l'amiral était le plus beau marin\nqu'il eût encore vu, et alla jusqu'à dire que, s'il se faisait coiffer\npar son valet de chambre, il ne craindrait point d'être vu en sa\ncompagnie.\n\nL'amiral, avec une cordialité sympathique, dit en sortant à sa femme:\n\n«Je pensais bien, ma chère, que tout s'arrangerait, malgré ce qu'on nous\na dit à Tauton. Le baronnet n'est pas un aigle, mais il n'est pas\nméchant.»\n\nOn voit que, de part et d'autre, les compliments se valaient.\n\nLes Croft devaient prendre possession à la Saint-Michel, et Sir Walter\nproposait d'aller à Bath le mois précédent. Il n'y avait pas de temps à\nperdre pour se préparer.\n\nLady Russel savait qu'Anna ne serait pas consultée dans le choix de\nl'habitation nouvelle. Elle aurait voulu ne la conduire à Bath qu'après\nNoël; mais, devant s'absenter de chez elle, elle ne pouvait lui donner\nl'hospitalité en attendant. Anna, tout en regrettant de ne pouvoir jouir\nà la campagne des mois si doux de l'automne, sentait qu'il valait mieux\nne pas rester.\n\nMais un devoir à remplir l'appela ailleurs. Marie, qui était souvent\nsouffrante, et qui s'écoutait beaucoup, avait besoin d'Anna à tout\npropos. Elle se trouva indisposée, et demanda, ou plutôt réclama, la\ncompagnie de sa soeur. «Je ne puis m'en passer,» écrivait Marie; et\nÉlisabeth avait répondu:\n\n«Anna n'a rien de mieux à faire que de rester avec vous; on n'a pas\nbesoin d'elle à Bath.»\n\nÊtre réclamée comme une aide, quoique d'une manière peu aimable, vaut\nencore mieux que d'être repoussée. Anna, heureuse d'être utile et\nd'avoir un devoir à remplir, consentit aussitôt.\n\nCette invitation soulagea lady Russel d'un grand embarras. Il fut\nconvenu qu'Anna n'irait pas sans elle à Bath, et qu'elle partagerait son\ntemps entre Uppercross-Cottage et Kellynch-Lodge.\n\nTout était donc pour le mieux, mais lady Russel fut saisie d'étonnement\nen apprenant que Mme Clay allait à Bath avec Sir Walter et Élisabeth,\nqui la considéraient comme une compagne très utile pour leur\ninstallation. Lady Russel s'inquiéta, et fut surtout affligée de\nl'injure qu'on faisait à sa filleule en lui préférant Mme Clay.\n\nAnna était devenue insensible à ces affronts, mais elle sentait\négalement l'imprudence d'un tel arrangement. Joignant à une grande dose\nd'observation la connaissance malheureusement trop complète du caractère\nde son père, elle prévoyait les plus fâcheux résultats de cette\nintimité. Elle ne croyait pas qu'il eût encore aucune velléité d'épouser\nMme Clay, qui était marquée de la petite vérole, avait de vilaines\ndents et de lourdes mains, toutes choses qu'il critiquait sévèrement en\nson absence. Mais elle était jeune et d'une figure agréable, et son\nesprit délié, ses manières assidues avaient des séductions plus\ndangereuses qu'un attrait purement physique.\n\nAnna sentait si vivement le danger, qu'elle ne put s'empêcher de le\nfaire voir à sa soeur. Elle avait peu d'espoir d'être écoutée, mais elle\npensait qu'Élisabeth serait plus à plaindre qu'elle-même, si une\npareille chose arrivait, et qu'elle pourrait lui reprocher de ne l'avoir\npas avertie.\n\nElle parla, et Élisabeth parut offensée; elle ne pouvait concevoir\ncomment un aussi absurde soupçon était venu à sa soeur. Elle répondit\navec indignation que son père et Mme Clay savaient parfaitement se tenir\nà leur place.\n\n«Mme Clay, dit-elle avec chaleur, n'oublie jamais qui elle est. Je\nconnais mieux que vous ses sentiments, et je vous assure qu'en fait de\nmariage, ils sont particulièrement délicats. Elle réprouve plus\nfortement que personne toute inégalité de condition et de rang.\n\n»Quant à mon père, je n'aurais jamais cru qu'il pût être soupçonné, lui\nqui ne s'est pas remarié à cause de nous. Si Mme Clay était une très\nbelle personne, je reconnais que sa présence ici serait dangereuse, non\npas que rien au monde puisse engager mon père à faire un mariage\ndégradant; mais parce qu'il pourrait éprouver un sentiment qui le\nrendrait malheureux. Je crois que la pauvre Mme Clay, qui, malgré tous\nses mérites, n'a jamais passé pour jolie, peut rester ici en toute\nsûreté. On croirait que vous n'avez jamais entendu mon père parler de\nses imperfections, et vous l'avez entendu vingt fois. Ces dents, et ces\nmarques de petite vérole! Je suis moins dégoûtée que lui, et j'ai connu\nune personne qui n'en était pas défigurée. Mais il en a horreur, vous le\nsavez.\n\n--Il n'y a presque point de défaut physique, dit Anna, que des manières\nagréables ne puissent faire oublier.\n\n--Je pense très différemment, dit Élisabeth d'un ton sec. Des manières\nagréables peuvent rehausser de beaux traits, mais elles ne peuvent en\nchanger de vulgaires. Mais comme j'ai à cela plus d'intérêt que\npersonne, je trouve vos avis inutiles.»\n\nAnna fut très contente d'avoir achevé ce qu'elle avait à dire, et crut\navoir bien agi. Élisabeth, quoique mécontente de l'insinuation, pouvait\nen faire son profit.\n\nLe landau mena à Bath pour la dernière fois Sir Walter, Élisabeth et Mme\nClay. Ils étaient tous de très bonne humeur, et Sir Walter était même\ndisposé à rendre un salut de condescendance aux fermiers et aux paysans\naffligés qui se trouveraient sur son passage.\n\nPendant ce temps, Anna, triste mais calme, montait à la Lodge, où elle\ndevait passer la dernière semaine.\n\nSon amie n'était pas plus gaie: elle sentait très vivement cette\nséparation.\n\nLa respectabilité de cette famille lui était aussi chère que la sienne,\net l'habitude avait rendu précieuses les relations quotidiennes. Il\nétait pénible de regarder les jardins déserts, et encore plus de penser\naux nouveaux propriétaires. Pour échapper à cette triste vue, et pour\néviter les Croft, elle s'était décidée à s'en aller quand Anna la\nquitterait. Elles partirent donc ensemble, et Anna descendit à\nUppercross, première station du voyage de lady Russel.\n\nUppercross est un village de moyenne grandeur, qui, il y a quelques\nannées, était tout à fait dans le vieux style anglais. Il contenait\nseulement deux maisons supérieures d'apparence à celles des fermiers et\ndes laboureurs: celle du squire avec ses hauts murs, ses portes massives\net ses vieux arbres, solide et antique; et la cure, compacte, ramassée,\nenfermée dans un jardin bien soigné, avec une vigne et des poiriers\npalissant les murs. Mais, au mariage du jeune squire, la ferme avait été\nchangée en cottage pour sa résidence; et le Cottage Uppercross, avec sa\nvéranda, ses fenêtres françaises, et ses autres agréments, attirait\nl'oeil du voyageur à un quart de mille, aussi bien que l'imposante\nGreat-House avec ses dépendances.\n\nAnna était venue souvent là. Elle connaissait les chemins d'Uppercross\naussi bien que ceux de Kellynch. Les deux familles se voyaient si\nsouvent, allant à toute heure l'une chez l'autre, qu'Anna fut presque\nsurprise de trouver Marie seule.\n\nMais étant seule, elle devait nécessairement être souffrante et de\nmauvaise humeur. Marie, mieux douée qu'Élisabeth, ne valait pas sa soeur\nAnna comme intelligence et comme caractère.\n\nQuand elle était bien portante, heureuse et entourée, elle était gaie et\naimable, mais la moindre indisposition l'abattait. Elle n'avait aucune\nressource contre la solitude, et, ayant hérité de la personnalité des\nElliot, elle était toujours prête à se croire négligée et méconnue.\n\nPhysiquement, elle était inférieure à ses deux soeurs et n'avait jamais\nété que ce qu'on appelle généralement «une belle fille».\n\nEn ce moment, elle était couchée sur un divan dans le salon, dont\nl'élégant ameublement avait été fané par quatre étés successifs et la\nprésence de deux enfants.\n\nL'arrivée d'Anna fut saluée par ces mots:\n\n«Ah! vous voilà enfin! je commençais à croire que vous ne viendriez pas.\nJe suis si malade que je puis à peine parler. Je n'ai pas vu depuis le\nmatin une créature vivante.\n\n--Je suis fâchée de vous trouver souffrante, répondit Anna, vous m'aviez\ndonné jeudi de bonnes nouvelles de votre santé.\n\n--Oui, je parais toujours mieux portante que je ne suis. Depuis quelque\ntemps, je suis loin d'aller bien. Je ne crois pas, dans toute ma vie,\navoir été si souffrante que ce matin. J'aurais pu me trouver mal, et\npersonne pour me soigner. Ainsi lady Russel n'a pas voulu entrer? je ne\ncrois pas qu'elle soit venue ici trois fois cet été.»\n\nAnna s'étant informée de son beau-frère, Marie lui répondit:\n\n«Charles est à la chasse; je ne l'ai pas aperçu depuis sept heures du\nmatin. Il a voulu partir, quoiqu'il ait vu combien j'étais souffrante;\nil disait ne pas rester longtemps, mais il est une heure, et il n'est\npas rentré. Je n'ai pas vu une âme pendant toute cette longue matinée.\n\n--Vous avez eu vos petits garçons avec vous?\n\n--Oui, tant que j'ai pu supporter leur bruit; mais ils sont si\nindisciplinés qu'ils me font plus de mal que de bien. Le petit Charles\nne m'écoute pas, et Walter devient aussi méchant que lui.\n\n--Vous allez bientôt vous trouver mieux, dit gaiement Anna. Vous savez\nque je vous guéris toujours. Comment se portent vos voisins de\nGreat-House?\n\n--Je n'en sais rien, je ne les ai pas vus aujourd'hui, excepté M.\nMusgrove, qui s'est arrêté et m'a parlé à la fenêtre, mais sans\ndescendre de cheval, quoique je lui aie dit combien j'étais souffrante.\nPersonne n'est venu près de moi. Cela ne convenait pas aux misses\nMusgrove; sans doute elles n'aiment pas à se déranger.\n\n--Elles peuvent encore venir, il est de bonne heure.\n\n--Je n'ai pas besoin d'elles; elles parlent et rient beaucoup trop pour\nmoi. Je suis très malade, Anna. C'était peu aimable à vous de ne pas\nvenir jeudi.\n\n--Ma chère Marie, rappelez-vous les bonnes nouvelles que vous m'avez\ndonnées de votre santé. Le ton de votre lettre était gai, et vous disiez\nque rien ne pressait pour mon arrivée; et puis mon désir était de rester\navec lady Russel jusqu'à la fin. J'ai été si occupée que je ne pouvais\nquitter Kellynch plus tôt.\n\n--Mon Dieu! qu'avez-vous eu à faire?\n\n--Beaucoup de choses: je ne puis tout me rappeler. J'ai fait une copie\ndu catalogue des livres et tableaux de mon père. J'ai été souvent au\njardin avec Mackensie, tâchant de lui faire comprendre quelles sont les\nplantes d'Élisabeth destinées à lady Russel. J'ai eu mes livres, ma\nmusique à arranger, et à refaire toutes mes malles, pour n'avoir pas\ncompris d'abord ce qu'il fallait emporter. Enfin, j'ai été visiter\ntoutes les maisons de la paroisse. Tout cela prend beaucoup de temps.\n\n--Ah! mais vous ne me parlez pas de notre dîner chez les Pools, hier?\n\n--Vous y êtes donc allée? Je croyais que vous aviez dû y renoncer?\n\n--Oh! j'y suis allée! Je me portais très bien hier. Jusqu'à ce matin je\nn'étais pas malade; n'y pas aller aurait semblé singulier.\n\n--J'en suis très contente: j'espère que vous vous êtes amusée?\n\n--Pas trop. On sait d'avance le dîner et les personnes qui y seront.\nQuel ennui de n'avoir pas une voiture à soi! M. et Mme Musgrove m'ont\nemmenée, et nous étions trop serrés. Ils sont si gros, et occupent tant\nde place! J'étais entassée au fond avec Henriette et Louisa. Voilà très\nprobablement la cause de mon malaise.»\n\nLa patience et la bonne humeur d'Anna apportèrent bientôt un soulagement\nà Marie, qui put s'asseoir, et espéra pouvoir se lever pour dîner. Puis,\noubliant qu'elle était malade, elle alla à l'autre bout de la chambre,\narrangea des fleurs, mangea quelque chose et se trouva assez bien pour\nproposer une petite promenade.\n\n«Où allons-nous? dit-elle: sans doute vous n'irez pas à Great-House\navant qu'on vous ait fait visite?\n\n--Mais si, dit Anna; je ne suis pas sur l'étiquette avec les dames\nMusgrove.\n\n--Oh! c'est à elles de venir, elles doivent savoir ce qui est dû à ma\nsoeur. Cependant nous pouvons y entrer avant de faire notre promenade.»\n\nAnna avait toujours trouvé très fâcheuse cette façon de comprendre les\nrelations; mais, croyant qu'on avait à se plaindre de part et d'autre,\nelle avait cessé de s'en occuper. Elles allèrent à Great-House. On les\nintroduisit dans un antique parloir carré, au parquet brillant et orné\nd'un maigre tapis. Mais les filles de la maison donnaient à cette pièce\nl'air de désordre indispensable, avec un grand piano à queue, une harpe,\ndes jardinières, et de petites tables dans tous les coins. Oh! si les\noriginaux des portraits accrochés à la boiserie, si les gentilshommes\nhabillés de velours brun, et les dames, en satin bleu, avaient vu ce\nbouleversement de l'ordre et de la propreté! Les portraits eux-mêmes\nsemblaient saisis d'étonnement!\n\nLes Musgrove, comme leur maison, représentaient deux époques. Les\nparents étaient dans le vieux style anglais, les enfants, dans le\nnouveau. M. et Mme Musgrove étaient de très bonnes gens, affectueux et\nhospitaliers, sans grande éducation et sans aucune élégance. Leurs\nenfants avaient un esprit et des façons plus modernes. La famille était\nnombreuse, mais c'étaient encore des enfants, excepté Charles, Louisa et\nHenriette, jeunes filles de dix-neuf et vingt ans, qui avaient rapporté\nà la maison le bagage ordinaire des talents de pension, et n'avaient,\ncomme mille autres jeunes filles, rien à faire que d'être gaies,\nheureuses, et suivre les modes. Leurs vêtements étaient parfaits, leurs\nfigures assez jolies, leur esprit extrêmement bon, et leurs manières\nsimples et agréables. Elles étaient très appréciées à la maison, et très\nrecherchées au dehors. Anna les trouvait fort heureuses; mais cependant,\nsoutenue, comme nous le sommes tous, par le sentiment de sa supériorité,\nelle n'aurait pas voulu changer contre toutes leurs jouissances son\nesprit cultivé et élégant.\n\nElle n'enviait que la bonne intelligence qui semblait régner entre\nelles, et cette mutuelle affection qu'elle-même avait si peu connue.\nElles furent reçues très cordialement, et Anna ne trouva rien à\ncritiquer. La demi-heure s'écoula en causerie agréable, et Anna ne fut\npas peu surprise de voir les misses Musgrove les accompagner à la\npromenade sur l'invitation pressante de Marie.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE VI\n\n\nAnna n'avait pas besoin de cette visite pour savoir qu'un changement de\nsociété amène un changement total de conversation, d'opinions et\nd'idées. Elle aurait voulu que les Elliot pussent voir combien leurs\naffaires, traitées avec une telle solennité à Kellynch, avaient ici peu\nd'importance. Cependant elle sentit qu'elle avait encore besoin d'une\nleçon, car elle avait compté sur plus de curiosité et de sympathie\nqu'elle n'en trouva. On lui avait bien dit: «Ainsi, miss Anna, votre\npère et votre soeur sont partis?» Ou bien: «J'espère que nous irons\naussi à Bath cet hiver; mais nous comptons loger dans un beau quartier.»\nOu bien, Marie disait: «En vérité! comme je m'amuserai seule ici pendant\nque vous serez à Bath!»\n\nAnna se promettait de ne plus éprouver à l'avenir de telles déceptions,\net pensait avec reconnaissance au bonheur inexprimable d'avoir une amie\nvraie et sympathique comme lady Russel.\n\nCependant elle trouvait très juste que chaque société dictât ses sujets\nde conversation. Les messieurs Musgrove avaient leur chasse, leurs\nchevaux, leurs chiens, leurs journaux. Les dames avaient les soins\nd'intérieur, la toilette, les voisins, la danse et la musique. Anna,\ndevant passer deux mois à Uppercross, devait meubler son imagination et\nsa mémoire avec les choses d'Uppercross. Elle ne redoutait pas ces deux\nmois. Marie était abordable et accessible à son influence. Anna était\nsur un pied de bonne amitié avec son beau-frère; les enfants l'aimaient\npresque autant et la respectaient plus que leur mère. Ils étaient pour\nelle une source d'intérêt, d'amusement et d'occupation.\n\nCharles était poli et agréable; il était certainement, comme esprit et\ncomme bon sens, supérieur à sa femme. Cependant Anna et lady Russel\npensaient qu'une femme intelligente aurait pu donner à son caractère\nplus de suite, à ses habitudes plus d'élégance, à ses occupations plus\nd'utilité et de sens pratique. Il ne mettait beaucoup d'ardeur à rien,\nsi ce n'est au jeu, et il gaspillait son temps.\n\nIl était d'un caractère gai, s'affectant peu des doléances de sa femme;\nil supportait son manque de bon sens avec une patience qui émerveillait\nAnna, et en définitive, malgré quelques petites querelles (où les deux\nparties appelaient Anna, à son grand regret), ce couple pouvait passer\npour heureux. Il y avait une chose sur laquelle ils étaient toujours\nparfaitement d'accord: le besoin d'argent et le désir de recevoir un\ncadeau de M. Musgrove. Quant à l'éducation de leurs enfants, la théorie\nde Charles était meilleure que celle de sa femme. «Je les gouvernerais\ntrès bien, si Marie ne s'en mêlait pas,» disait-il, et Anna trouvait que\nc'était assez vrai. Mais quand Marie répondait à cela: «Charles gâte\ntellement les enfants que je ne puis en venir à bout,» Anna n'était\njamais tentée de dire que c'était vrai.\n\nCe qu'il y avait de moins agréable dans son séjour, c'était d'être la\nconfidente de tous les partis. On savait qu'elle avait quelque influence\nsur sa soeur, et l'on voulait qu'elle s'en servît, même au delà du\npossible. «Tâchez donc de persuader à Marie de ne pas toujours se croire\nmalade,» disait Charles. Et Marie disait: «Je crois que si Charles me\nvoyait mourante, il dirait encore que ce n'est rien. Vous pouvez, Anna,\nlui persuader que je suis plus malade que je ne l'avoue.» Ou bien: «Je\nn'aime pas à envoyer les enfants à Great-House, quoique leur grand'mère\nles demande toujours. Elle les gâte tellement, et leur donne tant de\nfriandises qu'ils reviennent malades et grognons pour le reste de la\njournée.»\n\nEt Mme Musgrove mère, aussitôt qu'elle était seule avec Anna, disait:\n\n«Ah! miss Anna! si seulement Mme Charles avait un peu de votre méthode\navec les enfants! Ils sont tout autres avec vous! Il faut convenir\nqu'ils sont bien gâtés! Ils sont aussi beaux et aussi bien portants que\npossible, les chers petits, mais ma belle-fille ne sait pas s'y prendre\navec eux! Mon Dieu! qu'ils sont ennuyeux quelquefois! Je vous assure que\nc'est là ce qui m'empêche de les avoir autant que je voudrais. Je crois\nque Marie est mécontente que je ne les invite pas plus souvent, mais\nvous savez combien il est désagréable d'avoir des enfants qu'il faut\ngronder à chaque instant: «Ne faites pas ceci, ne «touchez pas à cela,»\nou qu'on ne peut tenir tranquilles qu'en leur donnant trop de gâteaux.»\n\nMarie disait encore: «Mme Musgrove croit ses domestiques si fidèles que\nce serait un crime de mettre cela en question; mais je n'exagère pas en\ndisant que sa cuisinière et sa femme de chambre flânent toute la journée\ndans le village. Je les rencontre partout, et je ne vais pas deux fois\ndans la chambre des enfants sans rencontrer l'une des deux. Si Jémina\nn'était pas la créature la plus fidèle et la plus sûre, cela suffirait\npour la gâter.»\n\nEt Mme Musgrove:\n\n«Je me fais une loi de ne jamais me mêler des affaires de ma\nbelle-fille, mais je vous dirai, miss Anna, (parce que vous pouvez y\nremédier), que je n'ai pas bonne opinion de sa femme de chambre,\nj'entends d'étranges histoires. Elle est toujours dehors, et s'habille\ncomme une dame. C'en est assez pour perdre tous les autres domestiques.\nMarie ne voit que par ses yeux; mais je vous avertis: soyez sur vos\ngardes, parce que, si vous découvrez quelque chose, il ne faut pas\ncraindre de le dire.»\n\nMarie se plaignait aussi de n'avoir pas à table la place qui lui était\ndue. Quand, à Great-House, il y avait d'autres invités, on la plaçait\ncomme si elle était de la maison.\n\nUn jour qu'Anna se promenait avec les misses Musgrove, l'une d'elles,\nparlant de noblesse et de susceptibilités de rang, dit: «Je n'ai aucun\nscrupule à vous dire, parce qu'on sait que vous y êtes indifférente,\ncombien quelques personnes sont absurdes pour garder leur rang.\nCependant je voudrais qu'on pût faire comprendre à Marie qu'elle ne\ndevrait pas être si tenace, et surtout ne pas se mettre toujours à la\nplace de ma mère. Personne ne doute de son droit à cet égard, mais il\nserait plus convenable de ne pas toujours le garder. Ce n'est pas que\nmaman s'en soucie le moins du monde, mais beaucoup de personnes le\nremarquent.»\n\nComment Anna aurait-elle pu concilier tout le monde? Elle ne pouvait\nqu'écouter patiemment, apaiser les griefs; excuser l'un, puis l'autre;\nles engager à l'indulgence nécessaire entre voisins, surtout quand il\ns'agissait de sa soeur.\n\nSa visite eut du reste un bon résultat; le changement de place lui fit\ndu bien, et Marie, ayant une compagne assidue, se plaignit moins. Les\nrelations quotidiennes avec l'autre famille étaient très agréables, mais\nAnna pensait que tout n'aurait pas été si bien sans la présence de M. et\nde Mme Musgrove, ou les rires, les causeries et les chansons des jeunes\nfilles. Elle était meilleure musicienne que celles-ci; mais, n'ayant ni\nvoix, ni connaissance de la harpe, ni parents indulgents pour s'extasier\nsur son jeu, on ne pensait guère à lui demander de jouer, sinon par\nsimple politesse, ou pour laisser reposer les autres.\n\nElle savait depuis longtemps qu'en jouant elle ne faisait plaisir qu'à\nelle-même. Excepté pendant une courte période de sa vie, elle n'avait\njamais, depuis la mort de sa mère chérie, connu le bonheur d'être\nécoutée et encouragée. Elle y était accoutumée, et la partialité de M.\net Mme Musgrove pour leurs filles, loin de la vexer, lui faisait plutôt\nplaisir, à cause de l'amitié qu'elle leur portait.\n\nQuelques personnes augmentaient parfois le cercle de Great-House. Il y\navait peu de voisins, mais les Musgrove voyaient tout le monde, et\navaient plus de dîners et de visites qu'aucune autre famille. Ils\nétaient très populaires.\n\nLes jeunes filles aimaient passionnément la danse, et les soirées se\nterminaient souvent par un petit bal improvisé. A quelques minutes\nd'Uppercross habitait une famille de cousins, moins riches, qui\nrecevaient tous leurs plaisirs des Musgrove. Ils venaient n'importe\nquand, organisaient un jeu ou un bal à l'improviste, et Anna, qui\npréférait à un rôle plus actif s'asseoir au piano, leur jouait des\ndanses de village pendant une heure de suite, obligeance qui attirait\nsur son talent musical l'attention des Musgrove, et lui valait souvent\nce compliment: «Très bien, miss Anna, très bien, vraiment. Bonté du\nciel! Comme vos petits doigts courent sur le piano!»\n\nAinsi passèrent les trois premières semaines, puis vint la Saint-Michel,\net le coeur d'Anna retourna à Kellynch. La maison aimée occupée par\nd'autres! D'autres gens jouissant des chambres, des meubles, des\nbosquets et des points de vue! Elle ne put penser à autre chose le 29\nseptembre, et Marie, remarquant le quantième du mois, fit cette\nsympathique remarque: «Mon Dieu! n'est-ce pas aujourd'hui que les Croft\nentrent à Kellynch? Je suis contente de n'y avoir pas pensé plus tôt.\nCela m'impressionne désagréablement.»\n\nLes Croft prirent possession avec une exactitude militaire. Une visite\nleur était due. Marie déplora cette nécessité: personne ne savait\ncombien cela la faisait souffrir. Elle reculerait autant qu'elle\npourrait. Néanmoins elle n'eut pas un moment de repos tant que Charles\nne l'y eut pas conduite, et, quand elle revint, son agitation n'avait\nrien que d'agréable.\n\nAnna se réjouit sincèrement qu'il n'y eût pas de place pour elle dans la\nvoiture. Elle désirait cependant voir les Croft, et fut contente d'être\nà la maison quand ils rendirent la visite. Charles était absent. Tandis\nque l'amiral, assis près de Marie, se rendait agréable en s'occupant des\npetits garçons, Mme Croft s'entretenait avec Anna, qui put ainsi\nétablir une ressemblance avec son frère, sinon dans les traits, du moins\ndans la voix et la tournure d'esprit.\n\nMme Croft, sans être grande ni grosse, avait une carrure et une\nprestance qui donnaient de l'importance à sa personne. Elle avait de\nbrillants yeux noirs, de belles dents et une figure agréable; mais son\nteint hâlé et rougi par la vie sur mer lui donnait quelques années de\nplus que ses trente-huit ans. Ses manières ouvertes, aisées et décidées\nn'avaient aucune rudesse et ne manquaient pas de bonne humeur. Anna crut\navec plaisir aux sentiments de considération exprimés pour la famille et\npour elle-même, car, dès le premier moment, elle s'était assurée que Mme\nCroft n'avait aucun soupçon du passé. Tranquille sur ce point, elle se\nsentait pleine de force et de courage, quand ces mots de Mme Croft lui\ndonnèrent un coup subit:\n\n«C'est vous, n'est-ce pas, et non votre soeur que mon frère eut le\nplaisir de connaître quand il était dans ce pays?»\n\nAnna espérait avoir dépassé l'âge où l'on rougit; mais certainement elle\nfut émue.\n\n«Peut-être ne savez-vous pas qu'il est marié?»\n\nElle ne sut quoi répondre; et quand Mme Croft expliqua qu'il s'agissait\ndu ministre Wenvorth, elle fut heureuse de n'avoir rien dit qui pût la\ntrahir. Il était bien naturel que Mme Croft pensât à Edouard Wenvorth\nplutôt qu'à Frédéric. Honteuse de l'avoir oublié, elle s'informa avec\nintérêt de leur ancien voisin.\n\nLe reste de la conversation n'offrit rien de remarquable, mais en\npartant, elle entendit l'amiral dire à Marie:\n\n«Nous attendons un frère de Mme Croft, je crois que vous le connaissez\nde nom!»\n\nIl fut interrompu par les petits garçons, qui s'accrochaient à lui comme\nà un vieil ami et ne voulaient pas le laisser partir: il leur offrit de\nles emporter dans ses poches, et fut bientôt trop accaparé pour finir sa\nphrase ou se souvenir de ce qu'il avait dit.\n\nAnna tâcha de se persuader qu'il s'agissait toujours d'Edouard Wenvorth;\nmais cela ne l'empêcha point de se demander si l'on avait parlé de cela\ndans l'autre maison, où les Croft étaient allés d'abord.\n\nOn attendait ce soir-là au cottage la famille de Great-House. Tout à\ncoup Louisa entra seule, disant qu'elle était venue à pied pour laisser\nplus de place à la harpe qu'on apportait. «Et je vais vous dire\npourquoi, dit-elle: Papa et maman sont tout tristes ce soir, maman\nsurtout; elle pense au pauvre Richard; et nous avons eu l'idée\nd'apporter la harpe, qui l'amuse plus que le piano. Je vais vous dire ce\nqui la rend si triste. Mme Croft nous a dit ce matin que son frère, le\ncapitaine Wenvorth, est rentré en Angleterre, et ira prochainement les\nvoir. Maman s'est souvenue que Wenvorth est le nom du capitaine de notre\nfrère Richard. Elle a relu ses lettres, et maintenant elle ne pense qu'à\nson pauvre fils qu'elle a perdu. Soyons aussi gaies que possible, pour\nque sa pensée ne s'appesantisse pas sur un si triste sujet.»\n\nLa vérité de cette pathétique histoire était que les Musgrove avaient eu\nle malheur d'avoir un fils mauvais sujet, et la chance de le perdre\navant qu'il eût atteint sa vingtième année. On l'avait fait marin, parce\nqu'il était stupide et ingouvernable; on se souciait très peu de lui,\nmais assez pour ce qu'il valait. Il ne fut guère regretté quand la\nnouvelle de sa mort arriva à Uppercross, deux années auparavant. Ses\nsoeurs faisaient aujourd'hui pour lui tout ce qu'elles pouvaient faire\nen l'appelant «_pauvre Richard_», mais en réalité il n'avait été rien de\nplus que le lourd, insensible et inutile Dick Musgrove; n'ayant droit,\nvivant ou mort, qu'à ce diminutif de son nom.\n\nIl avait été plusieurs années en mer, et dans le cours de ces\nchangements fréquents pour les mousses dont le capitaine désire se\ndébarrasser, il avait été six mois sur la frégate _Laconia_, commandée\npar le capitaine Frédéric Wenvorth, et sous l'influence de ce dernier,\nil avait écrit à ses parents les deux seules lettres désintéressées\nqu'ils eussent jamais reçues de lui; les autres n'étaient que des\ndemandes d'argent. Il disait toujours du bien de son capitaine, mais ses\nparents s'en souciaient si peu qu'ils n'y avaient fait aucune attention,\net si Mme Musgrove fut frappée par le nom de Wenvorth associé avec celui\nde son fils, c'était par un de ces phénomènes de la mémoire assez\nfréquents chez les personnes distraites.\n\nElle avait relu les lettres de ce fils perdu pour toujours, et cette\nlecture, après un si long intervalle, alors que les fautes étaient\noubliées, l'avait affectée plus profondément que la nouvelle de sa mort.\nM. Musgrove l'était aussi, mais à un moindre degré, et en arrivant au\ncottage ils avaient besoin d'être écoutés et égayés.\n\nCe fut une nouvelle épreuve pour Anna d'entendre parler de Wenvorth, et\nrépéter son nom si souvent, d'entendre disputer sur les dates, et\naffirmer enfin que ce ne pouvait être que le capitaine Wenvorth, ce\nbeau jeune homme qu'on avait rencontré plusieurs fois en revenant de\nClifton huit années auparavant. Elle vit qu'il fallait s'accoutumer à ce\nsupplice, et tâcher de devenir insensible à cette arrivée. Non seulement\nil était attendu prochainement, mais les Musgrove, reconnaissants des\nbontés qu'il avait eues pour leur fils, et pleins de respect pour le\ncaractère que Dick leur avait dépeint, désiraient vivement faire sa\nconnaissance. Cette résolution contribua à leur faire passer une soirée\nagréable.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE VII\n\n\nQuelques jours plus tard, on sut que le capitaine était à Kellynch. M.\nMusgrove lui fit visite et revint enchanté. Il l'avait invité à dîner\navec les Croft pour la semaine suivante, et n'avait pu, à son grand\nregret, fixer un jour plus rapproché. Anna calcula qu'elle n'avait plus\nqu'une semaine de tranquillité; mais elle faillit rencontrer le\ncapitaine, qui rendit aussitôt à M. Musgrove sa visite. Elle et Marie se\ndirigeaient vers Great-House quand on vint leur dire que l'aîné des\npetits garçons avait fait une chute grave: l'enfant avait une luxation\nde la colonne vertébrale. On revint en toute hâte. Anna dut être partout\nà la fois, chercher le docteur, avertir le père, s'occuper de la mère\npour empêcher une attaque de nerfs, diriger les domestiques, renvoyer le\nplus jeune enfant, soigner et soulager le pauvre malade, enfin donner\ndes nouvelles aux Musgrove, dont l'arrivée lui donna plus d'embarras que\nd'aide.\n\nLe retour de son beau-frère la soulagea beaucoup; il pouvait au moins\nprendre soin de sa femme. Le docteur examina l'enfant, remit la fracture\net parla ensuite à voix basse et d'un air inquiet au père et à la mère.\nCependant il donna bon espoir, et l'on put aller dîner plus\ntranquillement. Les deux jeunes filles restèrent quelques instants après\nle départ de leurs parents pour raconter la visite du capitaine; dire\ncombien elles étaient enchantées et contentes que leur père l'eût invité\nà dîner pour le lendemain. Il avait accepté d'une manière charmante,\ncomme s'il comprenait le motif de cette politesse. Il avait parlé et agi\navec une grâce si exquise, qu'il leur avait tourné la tête. Elles\ns'échappèrent en courant, plus occupées du capitaine que du petit\ngarçon.\n\nLa même histoire et les mêmes ravissements se répétèrent le soir, quand\nelles vinrent avec leur père prendre des nouvelles de l'enfant. M.\nMusgrove confirma ces louanges. Il ne pouvait reculer l'invitation faite\nle matin au capitaine, et regrettait que les habitants du cottage ne\npussent venir aussi. Ils ne voudraient sans doute pas quitter l'enfant.\n«Oh! non,» s'écrièrent le père et la mère. Mais bientôt Charles changea\nd'avis; puisque l'enfant allait si bien, il pouvait aller passer une\nheure à Great-House après le dîner. Mais sa femme s'y opposa:\n\n«Oh! non, Charles, je ne souffrirai pas que vous sortiez. Si quelque\nchose arrivait!»\n\nL'enfant eut une bonne nuit et alla mieux le lendemain; le docteur ne\nvoyait rien d'alarmant, et Charles commença à trouver inutile de se\nséquestrer ainsi. L'enfant devait rester couché, et s'amuser aussi\ntranquillement que possible. Mais que pouvait faire le père? C'était\nl'affaire d'une femme, et ce serait absurde à lui de s'enfermer à la\nmaison. D'ailleurs son père désirait beaucoup le présenter à Wenvorth.\nAu retour de la chasse, il déclara audacieusement qu'il allait\ns'habiller et dîner chez son père.\n\n«Votre soeur est avec vous, ma chère, et vous-même, vous n'aimeriez pas\nà quitter l'enfant. Je suis inutile ici, Anna m'enverra chercher s'il\nest nécessaire.»\n\nLes femmes comprennent généralement quand l'opposition est inutile.\nMarie vit que Charles était décidé à partir. Elle ne dit rien, mais\naussitôt qu'elle fut seule avec Anna:\n\n«Ainsi on nous laisse seules nous distraire comme nous pourrons avec ce\npauvre enfant malade, et pas une âme pour nous tenir compagnie le soir.\nJe le prévoyais; je n'ai pas de chance; s'il survient une chose\ndésagréable, les hommes s'en dispensent. Charles ne vaut pas mieux que\nles autres. Il n'a pas de coeur; laisser ainsi son pauvre petit garçon!\nIl dit qu'il va mieux. Sait-il s'il n'y aura point un changement\nsoudain, dans une demi-heure? Je ne croyais pas Charles si égoïste.\nAinsi, il va s'amuser, et parce que je suis la pauvre mère, il ne m'est\npas permis de bouger; et cependant je suis moins capable que personne de\nsoigner l'enfant. Précisément parce que je suis sa mère, on ne devrait\npas me mettre à une telle épreuve. Je ne suis pas de force à la\nsupporter. Vous savez combien j'ai souffert des nerfs hier?\n\n--C'était l'effet d'une commotion soudaine; j'espère que rien n'arrivera\nqui puisse nous effrayer. J'ai bien compris les instructions du docteur,\net je ne crains rien. Vraiment, Marie, je ne suis pas surprise que votre\nmari soit sorti. Ce n'est pas l'affaire des hommes.\n\n--Il me semble que je suis aussi bonne mère qu'une autre; mais ma\nprésence n'est pas plus utile ici que celle de Charles. Je ne puis pas\ntoujours gronder et tourmenter un pauvre petit malade. Vous avez vu, ce\nmatin, quand je lui disais de se tenir tranquille, il s'est mis à donner\ndes coups de pied autour de lui. Je n'ai pas la patience qu'il faut\npour cela.\n\n--Seriez-vous tranquille si vous passiez votre soirée loin de lui?\n\n--Pourquoi non? son père le fait bien. Jémina certainement est si\nsoigneuse. Charles aurait pu dire à son père que nous irions tous. Je ne\nsuis pas plus inquiète que lui. Hier, c'était bien différent, mais\naujourd'hui!\n\n--Eh bien! si vous croyez qu'il n'est pas trop tard pour avertir,\nlaissez-moi soigner le petit Charles. M. et Mme Musgrove ne trouveront\npas mauvais que je reste avec lui.\n\n--Parlez-vous sérieusement? dit Marie les yeux brillants. Mon Dieu\nquelle bonne idée! En vérité, autant que j'y aille. Je ne sers à rien\nici, n'est-ce pas? et cela me tourmente. Vous n'avez pas les sentiments\nd'une mère: vous êtes la personne qu'il faut. Jules vous obéit au\nmoindre mot. Ah! bien certainement j'irai, car on désire beaucoup que je\nfasse connaissance avec le capitaine, et cela ne vous fait rien de\nrester seule. Quelle excellente idée! Je vais le dire à Charles, et je\nserai bientôt prête. Vous nous enverrez chercher, s'il le faut, mais\nj'espère que rien d'alarmant ne surviendra. Je n'irais pas, croyez-le\nbien, si je n'étais tout à fait tranquille sur mon cher enfant.»\n\nElle alla frapper à la porte de son mari, et Anna l'entendit dire d'un\nton joyeux:\n\n«Je vais avec vous, Charles, car je ne suis pas plus nécessaire que vous\nici. Si je m'enfermais toujours avec l'enfant, je n'aurais aucune\ninfluence sur lui. Anna restera: elle se charge d'en prendre soin. Elle\nme l'a proposé elle-même. Ainsi, je vais avec vous, ce qui sera beaucoup\nmieux, car je n'ai pas dîné à Great-House depuis mardi.\n\n--Anna est bien bonne, répondit son mari, je suis fort content que vous\ny alliez. Mais n'est-il pas bien dur de la laisser seule à la maison\npour garder notre enfant malade?»\n\nAnna put alors plaider sa propre cause; elle le fit de manière à ne lui\nlaisser aucun scrupule. Charles tâcha d'obtenir, mais en vain, qu'elle\nvînt les rejoindre le soir. Bientôt elle eut le plaisir de les voir\npartir contents, quelque peu motivé que fût leur bonheur. Quant à elle,\nelle éprouvait autant de contentement qu'il lui était donné d'en avoir\njamais. Elle se savait indispensable à l'enfant, et que lui importait\nque Frédéric Wenvorth se rendît agréable aux autres, à une demi-lieue de\nlà?\n\nElle se demandait s'il envisageait cette rencontre avec indifférence, ou\navec déplaisir. S'il avait désiré la revoir, il n'aurait pas attendu\njusque-là, puisque les événements lui avaient donné l'indépendance qui\nlui manquait d'abord.\n\nCharles et Marie revinrent ravis de leur nouvelle connaissance et de\nleur soirée. On avait causé, chanté, fait de la musique.\n\nLe capitaine avait des manières charmantes; ni timidité, ni réserve; il\nsemblait être une ancienne connaissance. Il devait, le lendemain,\nchasser avec Charles, et déjeuner avec lui à Great-House. Il s'était\ninformé d'Anna comme d'une personne qu'il aurait très peu connue,\nvoulant peut-être, comme elle, échapper à une présentation quand ils se\nrencontreraient.\n\nAnna et Marie étaient encore à table le lendemain matin, quand Charles\nvint pour chercher ses chiens. Ses soeurs le suivaient avec Wenvorth,\nqui avait voulu saluer Marie. Celle-ci fut très flattée de cette\nattention et enchantée de le recevoir, tandis qu'Anna était agitée par\nmille sentiments dont le plus consolant était qu'il ne resterait pas\nlongtemps. Son regard rencontra celui du capitaine; il fit de la tête un\nléger salut, puis il parla à Marie, dit quelques mots aux misses\nMusgrove; un moment la chambre sembla animée et remplie; puis Charles\nvint à la fenêtre dire que tout était prêt. Anna resta seule, achevant\nde déjeuner comme elle put.\n\n«C'est fini, se répétait-elle avec une joie nerveuse. Le plus difficile\nest fait.» Elle l'avait vu! Ils s'étaient trouvés encore une fois dans\nla même chambre!\n\nBientôt, cependant, elle se raisonna, et s'efforça d'être moins émue.\nPresque huit années s'étaient écoulées depuis que tout était rompu.\nCombien il était absurde de ressentir encore une agitation que le temps\naurait dû effacer! Que de changements huit ans pouvaient apporter! tous\nrésumés en un mot: l'oubli du passé! C'était presque le tiers de sa\npropre vie. Hélas, il fallait bien le reconnaître, pour des sentiments\nemprisonnés, ce temps n'est rien. Comment devait-elle interpréter les\nsentiments de Wenvorth? Désirait-il l'éviter? Un moment après, elle se\nhaïssait pour cette folle question. Malgré toute sa sagesse, elle s'en\nfaisait une autre, que Marie vint résoudre, en lui disant brusquement:\n\n«Le capitaine, qui a été si attentif pour moi, n'a pas été très galant à\nvotre égard, Anna. Henriette lui a demandé ce qu'il pensait de vous, et\nil a répondu qu'il ne vous aurait pas reconnue, que vous étiez changée.»\n\nEn général, Marie manquait d'égards pour sa soeur, mais cette fois elle\nne soupçonna pas quelle blessure elle lui faisait.\n\n«Changée à ne pas me reconnaître!...»\n\nElle se soumit en silence, mais profondément humiliée. C'était donc\nvrai! et elle ne pouvait pas lui rendre la pareille, car lui n'avait pas\nvieilli. Les années qui avaient détruit la beauté de la jeune fille\navaient donné à Wenvorth un regard plus brillant, un air plus mâle, plus\nouvert, et n'avaient nullement diminué ses avantages physiques. C'était\ntoujours le même Frédéric Wenvorth!\n\n«Si changée qu'il ne l'aurait pas reconnue!» Ces mots ne pouvaient\nsortir de son esprit. Mais bientôt elle fut bien aise de les avoir\nentendus: ils étaient faits pour la refroidir et calmer son agitation.\n\nFrédéric ne pensait pas qu'on répéterait ses paroles; il l'avait trouvée\ntristement changée et avait dit son impression. Il ne pardonnait pas à\nAnna Elliot; elle l'avait rejeté, abandonné, elle avait montré une\nfaiblesse de caractère, que la nature confiante, décidée, du jeune homme\nne supportait pas. Elle l'avait sacrifié pour satisfaire d'autres\npersonnes. C'était de la timidité et de la faiblesse.\n\nIl avait eu pour elle un profond attachement et n'avait jamais vu\ndepuis une femme qui l'égalât; mais il n'entrait maintenant qu'un\nsentiment de curiosité dans le désir de la revoir. Elle avait perdu pour\ntoujours son pouvoir.\n\nMaintenant il était riche et désirait se marier. Il était prêt à donner\nson coeur à toute jeune fille aimable qui se présenterait à lui, excepté\nAnna Elliot. Il disait à sa soeur: «Je demande une jeune fille entre\nquinze et trente ans; un peu de beauté, quelques sourires, quelques\nflatteries pour les marins, et je suis un homme perdu. N'est-ce pas\nassez pour rendre aimable un homme qui n'a pas eu la société des\nfemmes?»\n\nIl disait cela pour être contredit. Son oeil fier et brillant disait\nqu'il se savait séduisant, et il ne pensait guère à Anna en désignant\nainsi la femme qu'il voudrait rencontrer: «Un esprit fort, uni à une\ngrande douceur.»\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE VIII\n\n\nA dater de ce jour, le capitaine et Anna se trouvèrent souvent ensemble.\nIls dînèrent chez M. Musgrove, car la santé de l'enfant ne pouvait pas\nservir plus longtemps de prétexte à sa tante.\n\nLe passé devait sans doute se présenter souvent à leur mémoire. Dès le\npremier soir la profession du capitaine l'amena à dire: «En telle\nannée............ avant d'embarquer.......,» etc. Sa voix ne tremblait\npas, mais Anna était sûre qu'elle était associée à son passé. Autrefois,\nils étaient tout l'un pour l'autre: maintenant plus rien. Ils ne se\nparlaient pas, eux qui autrefois, au milieu de la plus nombreuse\nréunion, eussent trouvé impossible de ne pas se parler! Jamais, à\nl'exception de l'amiral et de sa femme, on n'eût trouvé deux coeurs\naussi unis qu'ils l'étaient autrefois.\n\nMaintenant ils étaient moins que des étrangers l'un pour l'autre.\n\nQuand Frédéric parlait, c'était pour elle la même voix, le même esprit.\nCeux qui l'entouraient, étant très ignorants des choses de la marine,\nlui faisaient mille questions. Les misses Musgrove étaient tout oreilles\nlorsqu'il décrivait la vie à bord, les repas, les occupations de chaque\nheure; et leur surprise, en apprenant les arrangements et l'installation\nd'un navire, faisait surgir quelque plaisante réponse, qui rappelait à\nAnna le temps où elle était elle-même ignorante de ces choses. Elle\naussi avait été plaisantée pour avoir cru qu'on vivait à bord sans\nprovisions, sans cuisinier ni domestiques, et qu'on n'avait ni cuillers\nni fourchettes.\n\nUn soupir de Mme Musgrove l'éveilla de sa rêverie:\n\n«Ah! mademoiselle, lui dit-elle tout bas, si le ciel m'avait conservé\nmon pauvre fils, il serait un autre homme, aujourd'hui!»\n\nAnna réprima un sourire, et écouta patiemment Mme Musgrove, qui continua\nà soulager son coeur.\n\nQuand elle put donner son attention à ce qui se faisait autour d'elle,\nelle vit que les misses Musgrove avaient apporté la liste navale pour y\nchercher les noms des navires que le capitaine avait commandés.\n\n«Votre premier navire était l'_Aspic_.\n\n--Vous ne le trouverez pas ici. Il a été usé et démoli; j'ai été son\ndernier capitaine, alors qu'il était presque hors de service. Je fus\nenvoyé avec lui aux Indes orientales. L'Amirauté s'amuse à envoyer de\ntemps en temps quelques centaines d'hommes en mer dans un navire hors de\nservice, mais comme elle en a beaucoup à surveiller, parmi les mille\nnavires qui peuvent sombrer, il s'en trouve quelquefois un qui est\nencore bon.\n\n--Bah! s'écria l'amiral. Quelles sornettes débitent ces jeunes gens! On\nne vit jamais un meilleur sloop que l'_Aspic_ dans son temps. Vous\nn'auriez pas trouvé son égal, à ce vieux sloop! Frédéric a été un\nheureux garçon de l'avoir! Il fut demandé par vingt personnes qui le\nméritaient mieux que lui. Heureux garçon, de réussir si vite avec si peu\nde protection!\n\n--Je compris mon bonheur, amiral, je vous assure, répondit Wenvorth avec\nun grand sérieux. J'étais aussi content que vous pouvez le désirer.\nJ'avais, dans ce temps-là, un grand motif pour m'embarquer. J'avais\nbesoin de faire quelque chose.\n\n--Vous avez raison. Qu'est-ce qu'un jeune homme comme vous pouvait faire\nà terre pendant six grands mois? Si un homme n'est pas marié, il faut\nqu'il retourne bien vite en mer.\n\n--Capitaine Wenvorth, dit Louisa, vous avez dû être bien vexé, en\nmontant sur l'_Aspic_, de voir quel vieux navire on vous avait donné?\n\n--Je savais d'avance ce qu'il était, dit-il en riant. Je n'avais pas\nplus de découvertes à faire que vous n'en auriez pour une vieille\npelisse prêtée à vos connaissances, de temps immémorial, et qui vous\nserait enfin prêtée à vous-même un jour de pluie. Ah! c'était mon cher\nvieil _Aspic_. Il faisait ce que je voulais. Je savais que nous\ncoulerions à fond ensemble, ou qu'il ferait ma fortune. Je n'ai jamais\neu avec lui deux jours de mauvais temps, et après avoir pris bon nombre\nde corsaires, j'eus le bonheur d'accoster, l'été suivant, la frégate\nfrançaise que je cherchais; je la remorquai à Plymouth. Par une autre\nbonne chance, nous n'étions pas depuis six heures dans le Sund, qu'un\nvent s'éleva qui aurait achevé notre pauvre _Aspic_. Il dura quatre\njours et quatre nuits. Vingt-quatre heures plus tard, il ne serait resté\ndu vaillant capitaine Wenvorth qu'un paragraphe dans les journaux, et,\nson navire n'étant qu'un sloop, personne n'y aurait fait attention.»\n\nAnna frémit intérieurement, mais les misses Musgrove purent exprimer\nlibrement leur pitié et leur horreur.\n\n«C'est alors, sans doute, dit Mme Musgrove à voix basse, qu'il prit le\ncommandement de la _Laconia_ et prit à bord notre pauvre cher fils?\nCharles, demandez au capitaine où il prit votre frère; je l'oublie\ntoujours.\n\n--Ce fut à Gibraltar, ma mère. Dick y était resté malade avec une\nrecommandation de son premier capitaine pour le capitaine Wenvorth.\n\n--Oh! dites-lui qu'il ne craigne pas de nommer le pauvre Dick devant\nmoi, car ce sera plutôt un plaisir d'entendre parler de lui par un si\nbon ami.»\n\nCharles, sans doute moins tranquille sur les conséquences, répondit par\nun signe de tête et s'éloigna.\n\nLes jeunes filles se mirent à chercher la _Laconia_, et le capitaine se\ndonna le plaisir de la trouver lui-même, ajoutant que c'était un de ses\nmeilleurs amis.\n\n«Ah! c'étaient de bons jours, quand je commandais la _Laconia_. J'ai\ngagné bien de l'argent avec elle! Mon ami et moi, nous fîmes une si\nbelle croisière aux Indes occidentales! Pauvre Harville! Vous savez, ma\nsoeur, qu'il avait encore plus besoin d'argent que moi. Il était marié,\nl'excellent garçon! Je n'oublierai jamais combien il fut heureux à cause\nde sa femme. J'aurais voulu qu'il fût là l'été suivant, quand j'eus le\nmême bonheur dans la Méditerranée.\n\n--Ce fut un beau jour pour nous, que celui où vous fûtes nommé capitaine\nde ce navire, dit Mme Musgrove. Nous n'oublierons jamais ce que vous\navez fait.»\n\nL'émotion lui coupait la voix, et Wenvorth, qui n'entendait qu'à demi,\net ne songeait nullement à Dick, attendait la suite avec surprise.\n\n«Maman pense à mon frère Richard,» dit Louisa à voix basse.\n\n--Pauvre cher enfant! continua Mme Musgrove. Il était devenu si rangé,\nsi bon sous vos ordres, et nous écrivait de si bonnes lettres! Ah! plût\nà Dieu qu'il ne vous eût jamais quitté!»\n\nEn entendant cela, une expression fugitive traversa la figure de\nWenvorth: un pli de sa bouche et un certain regard convainquirent Anna\nqu'il n'était pas de l'avis de Mme Musgrove, et qu'il avait eu\nprobablement quelque peine à se débarrasser de Dick; mais ce fut si\nrapide qu'elle seule s'en aperçut. Un instant après, il était sérieux et\nmaître de lui; il vint s'asseoir à côté de Mme Musgrove, et causa de son\nfils avec une grâce naturelle qui témoignait de sa sympathie pour tout\nsentiment vrai. Anna était assise à l'autre coin du divan, séparée de\nlui par la vaste corpulence de Mme Musgrove, plus faite pour\nreprésenter la bonne humeur et la bonne chère, que la tendresse et le\nsentiment, et tandis qu'Anna s'abritait derrière elle pour cacher son\nagitation, la façon dont le capitaine écoutait les doléances de Mme\nMusgrove et ses larges soupirs n'était pas sans mérite.\n\nLe chagrin n'est pas nécessairement en rapport avec la constitution. Une\ngrosse personne a aussi bien le droit d'être affligée profondément que\nla plus gracieuse femme. Néanmoins, il y a des contrastes que la raison\nadmet, mais qui froissent le goût et attirent le ridicule.\n\nL'amiral, après avoir fait quelques tours dans la chambre, les mains\nderrière le dos, s'approcha de Wenvorth, et, tout à ses propres pensées,\nil lui dit, sans s'occuper s'il l'interrompait:\n\n«Si vous aviez été une semaine plus tard à Lisbonne, Frédéric, vous\nauriez eu à bord lady Marie Grierson et ses filles.\n\n--Je suis heureux alors de n'avoir pas été là.»\n\nL'amiral le plaisanta sur son manque de galanterie: il se défendit, tout\nen déclarant qu'il n'admettrait jamais une femme à son bord, si ce n'est\npour un bal, ou en visite.\n\n«Ce n'est point faute de galanterie, dit-il, mais par l'impossibilité\nd'avoir dans un navire le confortable nécessaire aux femmes, et auquel\nelles ont droit. Je ne puis souffrir d'avoir une femme à bord, et aucun\nnavire commandé par moi n'en recevra jamais.»\n\nSa soeur s'écria:\n\n«Ah! Frédéric! est-ce vous qui dites cela? Quel raffinement inutile! Les\nfemmes sont aussi bien à bord que dans la meilleure maison d'Angleterre.\nJe ne sais rien de supérieur aux arrangements d'un navire. Je déclare\nque je n'ai pas plus de confortable à Kellynch que dans les cinq navires\nque j'ai habités.\n\n--Il n'est pas question de cela, dit Frédéric; vous étiez avec votre\nmari, et la seule femme à bord.\n\n--Mais vous avez bien pris, de Portsmouth à Plymouth, Mme Harville, sa\nsoeur, sa cousine et trois enfants! Où était donc alors votre superfine\net extraordinaire galanterie?\n\n--Absorbée dans mon amitié, Sophie; je voulais être utile à la femme\nd'un collègue, et j'aurais transporté au bout du monde tout ce que\nHarville aurait voulu. Mais croyez bien que je regardais cela comme une\nchose fâcheuse.\n\n--Mon cher Frédéric, ce que vous dites ne signifie rien. Que\ndeviendrions-nous, nous autres pauvres femmes de marins, si les autres\npensaient comme vous?\n\n--Cela ne m'empêcha pas, comme vous voyez, de conduire Mme Harville et\nsa famille à Plymouth.\n\n--Mais je n'aime pas à vous entendre parler comme un beau gentilhomme\ns'adressant à de belles ladies: nous n'avons pas la prétention d'être\ntoujours sur l'eau douce.\n\n--Ah! ma chère, dit l'amiral, quand il aura une femme, il parlera\nautrement. Si nous avons le bonheur d'avoir une autre guerre, il fera\ncomme nous, et sera reconnaissant qu'on lui amène sa femme.\n\n--Je me tais, dit Wenvorth, puisque les gens mariés m'attaquent. Ah! je\npenserai autrement quand je serai marié! Eh bien! non. On me répond si:\nje n'ai plus rien à dire.»\n\nIl se leva, et s'éloigna.\n\n«Vous avez dû voyager beaucoup? dit Mme Musgrove à Mme Croft.\n\n--Oui, madame. Pendant les quinze premières années de mon mariage, j'ai\ntraversé quatre fois l'Atlantique, j'ai été aux Indes orientales, sans\ncompter différents endroits voisins de l'Angleterre: Cork, Lisbonne,\nGibraltar. Mais je n'ai jamais été au delà des tropiques ni dans les\nIndes occidentales, car je n'appelle pas de ce nom Bermude ou Bahama.»\n\nMme Musgrove, qui ne connaissait pas un seul de ces noms, n'eut rien à\nrépondre.\n\n«Je vous assure, madame, dit Mme Croft, que rien ne surpasse les\ncommodités d'un navire de guerre; j'entends celui d'un rang supérieur.\nLe plus heureux temps de ma vie a été à bord. J'étais avec mon mari, et,\ngrâce à Dieu, j'ai toujours eu une excellente santé; aucun climat ne\nm'est mauvais. Je n'ai jamais connu le mal de mer. La seule fois que\nj'ai souffert fut l'hiver que je passai seule à Deal, quand l'amiral\nétait dans les mers du Nord. N'ayant pas de nouvelles, je vivais dans de\ncontinuelles craintes et je ne savais que faire de mon temps.\n\n--Oui, répondit Mme Musgrove, rien n'est si triste qu'une séparation. Je\nle sais par moi-même. Quand M. Musgrove va aux assises, je ne suis\ntranquille que quand il est revenu.»\n\nOn dansa pour terminer la soirée. Anna offrit ses services, et fut\nheureuse de passer inaperçue. Ce fut une joyeuse soirée. Le capitaine\navait le plus d'entrain de tous. Il était l'objet des attentions et des\ndéférences de tout le monde. Louisa et Henriette semblaient si occupées\nde lui que, sans leur amitié réciproque, on eût pu les croire rivales.\nQuoi d'étonnant s'il était un peu gâté par de telles flatteries?\n\nTelles étaient les pensées d'Anna, tandis que ses doigts couraient\nmachinalement sur le piano. Pendant un moment, elle sentit qu'il la\nregardait, qu'il observait ses traits altérés, cherchant peut-être à y\nretrouver ce qui l'avait charmé autrefois. Il demanda quelque chose;\nelle entendit qu'on répondait:\n\n«Oh non! elle ne danse plus; elle préfère jouer, et elle n'est jamais\nfatiguée.»\n\nElle avait quitté le piano; il prit sa place, essayant de noter un air\ndont il voulait donner une idée aux misses Musgrove. Elle s'approcha par\nhasard; alors il se leva et avec une politesse étudiée:\n\n«Je vous demande pardon, mademoiselle, c'est votre place;» et malgré le\nrefus d'Anna il se retira.\n\nElle en avait assez! Cette froide et cérémonieuse politesse était plus\nqu'elle n'en pouvait supporter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE IX\n\n\nLe capitaine Wenvorth était venu à Kellynch comme chez lui, pour y\nrester autant qu'il lui plairait; car il était aimé par l'amiral comme\nun frère. Il avait fait le projet d'aller voir son frère, dans le comté\nde Shrop, mais l'attrait d'Uppercross l'y fit renoncer. Il y avait tant\nd'amitié, de flatterie, quelque chose de si séduisant dans la réception\nqu'on lui faisait; les parents étaient si hospitaliers, les enfants si\naimables, qu'il ne put s'arracher de là.\n\nBientôt on le vit chaque jour à Uppercross. Les Musgrove n'étaient pas\nplus empressés à l'inviter que lui à venir, surtout le matin, car\nl'amiral et sa femme sortaient toujours ensemble quand il n'y avait\npersonne au château. Ils s'intéressaient à leur nouvelle propriété et\nvisitaient leurs prairies, leurs bestiaux, ou faisaient volontiers un\ntour en voiture.\n\nL'intimité du capitaine était à peine établie à Uppercross, quand\nCharles Hayter y revint, et en prit ombrage.\n\nCharles Hayter était l'aîné des cousins. C'était un très aimable et\nagréable jeune homme, et jusqu'à l'arrivée de Wenvorth, un grand\nattachement semblait exister entre lui et Henriette. Il était dans les\nordres, mais sa présence n'étant pas exigée à la cure, il vivait chez\nson père à une demi-lieue d'Uppercross.\n\nUne courte absence avait privé Henriette de ses attentions, et en\nrevenant il vit avec chagrin qu'on avait pris sa place.\n\nMme Musgrove et Mme Hayter étaient soeurs, mais leur mariage leur avait\nfait une position très différente. Tandis que les Musgrove étaient les\npremiers de la contrée, la vie mesquine et retirée des Hayter,\nl'éducation peu soignée des enfants, les auraient placés en dehors de la\nsociété sans leurs relations avec Uppercross.\n\nLe fils aîné était seul excepté; il était très supérieur à sa famille\ncomme manières et culture d'esprit.\n\nLes deux familles avaient toujours été dans des termes excellents, car\nd'un côté il n'y avait pas d'orgueil; de l'autre, pas d'envie. Les\nmisses Musgrove avaient seulement une conscience de leur supériorité\nqui leur faisait patronner leurs cousines avec plaisir.\n\nHenriette semblait avoir oublié son cousin; on se demandait si elle\nétait aimée du capitaine. Laquelle des deux soeurs préférait-il?\nHenriette était peut-être plus jolie, Louisa plus intelligente. Les\nparents, soit ignorance du monde, soit confiance dans la prudence de\nleurs filles, semblaient laisser tout au hasard et ne se préoccuper de\nrien.\n\nAu cottage, c'était différent. Le jeune ménage semblait plus disposé à\nfaire des conjectures, et Anna eut bientôt à écouter leurs opinions sur\nla préférence de Wenvorth. Charles penchait pour Louisa, Marie pour\nHenriette, et tous les deux s'accordaient à dire qu'un mariage avec\nl'une ou avec l'autre serait extrêmement désirable. Wenvorth avait dû,\nd'après ses propres paroles, gagner 50,000 livres pendant la guerre;\nc'était une fortune, et s'il survenait une autre guerre, il était homme\nà se distinguer.\n\n«Dieu! s'écriait Marie, s'il allait s'élever aux plus grands honneurs!\nS'il était créé baronnet! Lady Wenvorth! cela sonne très bien. Quelle\nchance pour Henriette. C'est elle qui prendrait ma place en ce cas, et\ncela ne lui déplairait pas. Mais après tout, ce ne serait qu'une\nnouvelle noblesse, et je n'en fais pas grand cas.»\n\nMarie aurait voulu qu'Henriette fût préférée pour mettre fin aux\nprétentions de Hayter. Elle regardait comme une véritable infortune pour\nelle et pour ses enfants que de nouveaux liens de parenté s'établissent\navec cette famille.\n\n«Si l'on considère, disait-elle, les alliances que les Musgrove ont\nfaites, Henriette n'a pas le droit de déchoir, et de faire un choix\ndésagréable aux personnes principales de sa famille, en leur donnant des\nalliés d'une condition inférieure. Qui est Charles Hayter, je vous prie?\nRien qu'un ministre de campagne. C'est un mariage très inférieur pour\nmiss Musgrove d'Uppercross.» Son mari ne partageait pas son avis, car\nson cousin, qu'il aimait beaucoup, était un fils aîné, et avait ainsi\ndroit à sa considération.\n\n«Vous êtes absurde, Marie, disait-il. Charles Hayter a beaucoup de\nchance d'obtenir quelque chose de l'évêque; et puis, il est fils aîné,\net il héritera d'une jolie propriété. L'état de Winthrop n'a pas moins\nde deux cent cinquante acres, outre la ferme de Tauton, une des\nmeilleures de la contrée. Charles est un bon garçon, et quand il aura\nWinthrop, il vivra autrement qu'aujourd'hui. Un homme qui a une telle\npropriété n'est pas à dédaigner. Non, Henriette pourrait trouver plus\nmal. Si elle épouse Hayter, et que Louisa puisse avoir Wenvorth, je\nserai très satisfait.»\n\nCette conversation avait lieu le lendemain d'un dîner à Uppercross: Anna\nétait restée à la maison sous le prétexte d'une migraine, et avait eu le\ndouble avantage d'éviter Wenvorth et de ne pas être prise pour arbitre.\nElle aurait voulu que le capitaine se décidât vite, car elle\nsympathisait avec les souffrances de Hayter, pour qui tout était\npréférable à cette incertitude. Il avait été très froissé et très\ninquiet des façons de sa cousine. Pouvait-il si vite être devenu pour\nelle un étranger? Il n'avait été absent que deux dimanches. Quand il\nétait parti, elle s'intéressait à son changement de cure, pour obtenir\ncelle d'Uppercross du Dr Shirley, malade et infirme. Quand il revint,\nhélas! tout intérêt avait disparu. Il raconta ses démarches, et\nHenriette ne lui prêta qu'une oreille distraite. Elle semblait avoir\noublié toute cette affaire.\n\nUn matin, le capitaine entra dans le salon du cottage, où Anna était\nseule avec le petit malade couché sur le divan.\n\nLa surprise de la trouver seule le priva de sa présence d'esprit\nhabituelle, il tressaillit.\n\n«Je croyais les misses Musgrove ici;» puis il alla vers la fenêtre pour\nse remettre et décider quelle attitude il prendrait.\n\n«Elles sont en haut avec ma soeur, et vont bientôt descendre,» répondit\nAnna toute confuse.\n\nSi l'enfant ne l'avait pas appelée, elle serait sortie pour délivrer le\ncapitaine aussi bien qu'elle-même. Il resta à la fenêtre, et après avoir\npoliment demandé des nouvelles du petit garçon, il garda le silence.\nAnna s'agenouilla devant l'enfant, qui lui demandait quelque chose, et\nils restèrent ainsi quelques instants, quand, à sa grande satisfaction,\nelle vit entrer quelqu'un. C'était Charles Hayter, qui ne fut guère plus\ncontent de trouver là le capitaine, que celui-ci ne l'avait été d'y\ntrouver Anna.\n\nTout ce qu'elle put dire fut:\n\n«Comment vous portez-vous? Veuillez vous asseoir. Mon frère et ma soeur\nvont descendre.»\n\nWenvorth quitta la fenêtre et parut disposé à causer avec Hayter, mais,\nvoyant celui-ci prendre un journal, il retourna à la fenêtre. Bientôt la\nporte restée entr'ouverte fut poussée par l'autre petit garçon, enfant\nde deux ans, décidé et hardi. Il alla au divan et réclama une friandise;\ncomme il ne s'en trouvait pas là, il demanda un jouet; il s'accrocha à\nla robe de sa tante, et elle ne put s'en débarrasser. Elle pria,\nordonna, voulut le repousser, mais l'enfant trouvait grand plaisir à\ngrimper sur son dos:\n\n«Walter, ôtez-vous, méchant enfant, je suis très mécontente de vous.\n\n--Walter, cria Charles Hayter, pourquoi n'obéissez-vous pas?\nEntendez-vous votre tante? Venez près de moi, Walter, venez près du\ncousin Charles.»\n\nWalter ne bougea pas. Tout à coup, elle se trouva débarrassée. Quelqu'un\nenlevait l'enfant, détachait les petites mains qui entouraient le cou\nd'Anna, et emportait le petit garçon avant qu'elle sût que c'était le\ncapitaine.\n\nElle ne put dire un mot pour le remercier, tant ses sensations étaient\ntumultueuses. L'action du capitaine, la manière silencieuse dont il\nl'avait accomplie, le bruit qu'il fit ensuite en jouant avec l'enfant\npour éviter les remerciements et toute conversation avec elle, tout cela\ndonna à Anna une telle confusion de pensées qu'elle ne put se remettre,\net, voyant entrer Marie et les misses Musgrove, elle se hâta de quitter\nla chambre. Si elle était restée, c'était là l'occasion d'étudier les\nquatre personnes qui s'y trouvaient.\n\nIl était évident que Charles Hayter n'avait aucune sympathie pour\nWenvorth. Elle se souvint qu'il avait dit au petit Walter, d'un ton\nvexé, après l'intervention du capitaine:\n\n«Il fallait m'obéir, Walter; je vous avais dit de ne pas tourmenter\nvotre tante.»\n\nIl était donc mécontent que Wenvorth eût fait ce qu'il aurait dû faire\nlui-même? Mais elle ne pouvait guère s'intéresser aux sentiments des\nautres, avant d'avoir mis un peu d'ordre dans les siens.\n\nElle était honteuse d'elle-même, humiliée d'être si agitée, si abattue\npour une bagatelle; mais cela était, et il lui fallut beaucoup de\nsolitude et de réflexion pour se remettre.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE X\n\n\nLes occasions ne manquèrent pas pour faire de nouvelles remarques. Elle\navait vu assez souvent les deux jeunes gens et les deux jeunes filles\nensemble pour avoir une opinion, mais elle était trop sage pour la\nlaisser voir à la maison. Elle n'aurait satisfait ni le mari ni la\nfemme.\n\nElle supposait que Louisa était préférée à sa soeur, mais sa mémoire et\nson expérience lui disaient que le capitaine n'éprouvait d'amour ni pour\nl'une ni pour l'autre. Le sentiment qu'elles avaient pour lui était\npeut-être plus vif; c'était de l'admiration qui pouvait devenir de\nl'amour. Cependant quelquefois Henriette semblait indécise entre Hayter\net Wenvorth. Anna eût voulu les éclairer tous sur leur situation, et\nleur montrer les maux auxquels ils s'exposaient. Elle n'attribuait à\naucun d'eux une mauvaise pensée, et se disait avec joie que le capitaine\nne se doutait pas du mal qu'il causait; il n'avait aucune fatuité et ne\nconnaissait pas sans doute les projets de Hayter. Seulement il avait\ntort d'accepter les attentions des deux jeunes filles.\n\nBientôt cependant Hayter sembla abandonner la place. Trois jours se\npassèrent sans qu'on le vît; il refusa même une invitation à dîner. M.\nMusgrove l'ayant trouvé chez lui entouré de gros livres en avait conclu\nqu'il usait sa santé au travail. Marie pensait qu'il était positivement\nrefusé par Henriette, tandis que son mari, au contraire, l'attendait\nchaque jour. Enfin Anna l'approuvait de s'absenter.\n\nVers cette époque, par une belle matinée de novembre, Charles Musgrove\net le capitaine étaient à la chasse. Anna et Marie, tranquillement\nassises, travaillaient au cottage, quand les misses Musgrove passèrent\net, s'approchant de la fenêtre, dirent qu'elles allaient faire une\npromenade, trop longue pour Marie. Celle-ci, un peu choquée, répondit:\n\n«Mais si! j'irais volontiers, j'aime les longues promenades.»\n\nAnna vit aux regards des jeunes filles que c'était là précisément ce\nqu'elles ne voulaient pas, et admira de nouveau cette habitude de\nfamille qui mettait dans la nécessité de tout dire et de tout faire\nensemble, sans le désirer. Elle tâcha de dissuader Marie d'y aller;\nmais, n'y réussissant pas, elle pensa qu'il valait mieux accepter aussi,\npour elle-même, l'invitation beaucoup plus cordiale des misses Musgrove,\ncar sa présence pouvait être utile pour retourner avec sa soeur et ne\npas entraver leurs plans.\n\n«Qui leur fait supposer que je ne puis faire une longue promenade?\ndisait Marie en montant l'escalier. On semble croire que je ne suis pas\nbonne marcheuse, et cependant elles n'auraient pas été contentes si\nj'avais refusé. Quand on vient ainsi vous demander quelque chose, est-ce\nqu'on peut dire: Non?...»\n\nAu moment où elles se mettaient en route, les chasseurs revinrent. Ils\navaient emmené un jeune chien qui avait gâté leur chasse et avancé leur\nretour. Ils étaient donc tout disposés à se promener.\n\nSi Anna avait pu le prévoir, elle serait restée à la maison. Elle se dit\nqu'il était trop tard pour reculer, et ils partirent tous les six dans\nla direction choisie par les misses Musgrove. Quand le chemin devenait\nplus étroit, Anna s'arrangeait pour marcher avec son frère et sa soeur;\nelle ne voulait pas gêner les autres. Son plaisir à elle était l'air et\nl'exercice, la vue des derniers rayons de soleil sur les feuilles\njaunies; et aussi de se répéter tout bas quelques-unes des poétiques\ndescriptions de l'automne, saison qui a une si puissante influence sur\nles âmes délicates et tendres. Tout en occupant son esprit de ces\nrêveries, de ces citations, il lui fut impossible de ne pas entendre la\nconversation du capitaine avec les deux soeurs. C'était un simple\nbavardage animé, comme il convient à des jeunes gens sur un pied\nd'intimité. Il causait plus avec Louisa qu'avec Henriette. La première y\nmettait plus d'entrain que l'autre. Elle dit quelque chose qui frappa\nAnna. Après avoir admiré à plusieurs reprises cette splendide journée,\nle capitaine ajouta:\n\n«Quel beau temps pour l'amiral et pour ma soeur! Ils font ce matin une\nlongue promenade en voiture: nous pourrons les voir en haut de ces\ncollines. Ils ont dit qu'ils viendraient de ce côté. Je me demande où\nils verseront aujourd'hui? Ah! cela leur arrive souvent; mais ma soeur\nne s'en préoccupe pas.\n\n--Pour moi, dit Louisa, à sa place j'en ferais autant. Si j'aimais\nquelqu'un comme elle aime l'amiral, rien ne pourrait m'en séparer, et\nj'aimerais mieux être versée par lui que menée en sûreté par un autre.»\n\nCela fut dit avec enthousiasme.\n\n«Vraiment, s'écria-t-il, du même ton. Je vous admire.» Puis il y eut un\nsilence.\n\nAnna oublia un instant les citations poétiques des douces scènes de\nl'automne; il ne lui resta à la mémoire qu'un tendre sonnet rempli des\ndescriptions de l'année expirante emportant avec elle le bonheur et les\nimages de jeunesse, d'espoir et de printemps.\n\nVoyant qu'on prenait un autre sentier: «N'est-ce pas le chemin de\nWenthrop?» dit-elle. Mais personne ne l'entendit.\n\nOn se dirigeait en effet vers Wenthrop, et après une montée douce à\ntravers de grands enclos, où la charrue du laboureur, préparant un\nnouveau printemps, démentait les poésies mélancoliques, on gagna le\nsommet d'une haute colline qui séparait Uppercross de Wenthrop.\nWenthrop, qu'on aperçut alors en bas, était une laide et vulgaire\nmaison, à toit peu élevé, entourée de granges et de bâtiments de ferme.\n\n«Est-ce là Wenthrop? dit Marie, je n'en avais aucune idée. Je crois que\nnous ferons mieux de retourner. Je suis très fatiguée.»\n\nHenriette, un peu mal à l'aise, et n'apercevant pas Charles Hayter aux\nenvirons, était prête à faire ce que Marie désirait, mais Charles\nMusgrove dit non, et Louisa dit non, avec plus d'énergie encore, et,\nprenant sa soeur à part, elle parut discuter vivement.\n\nCharles déclara d'une façon très nette qu'il irait voir sa tante,\npuisqu'il en était si près, et il s'efforça de persuader sa femme; mais\nc'était un des points sur lesquels elle montrait sa volonté: elle refusa\nabsolument, et tout dans sa figure indiquait qu'elle n'irait pas.\n\nAprès un court débat, il fut convenu que Charles et Henriette\ndescendraient la colline, et que les autres resteraient en haut. Marie\nsaisit un moment pour dire au capitaine, en jetant autour d'elle un\nregard méprisant:\n\n«C'est bien désagréable d'avoir des parents semblables; je n'y suis pas\nallée deux fois dans ma vie.»\n\nIl eut un sourire de commande, et se détourna avec un regard de mépris,\nqu'Anna vit parfaitement.\n\nLouisa, qui avait fait quelques pas avec Henriette, les rejoignit, et\nMarie s'assit sur un tronc d'arbre. Tant qu'on fut autour d'elle, elle\nfut contente, mais quand Louisa se fut éloignée avec Wenvorth pour\ncueillir des noisettes, elle trouva son siège mauvais, et alla à sa\nrecherche. Anna s'assit sur un talus, et entendit derrière elle Wenvorth\net Louisa, qui se frayaient un passage dans une haie. Louisa semblait\ntrès animée et disait:\n\n«Je l'ai fait partir; je trouvais absurde qu'elle ne fît pas cette\nvisite. Ce n'est pas moi qui me laisserais influencer pour faire ce que\nje ne veux pas. Quand j'ai décidé quelque chose, je le fais. Henriette\nallait renoncer à aller à Wenthrop par une complaisance ridicule.\n\n--Alors, sans vous, elle n'y serait pas allée?\n\n--Mais oui, j'ai honte de le dire.\n\n--Elle est bien heureuse d'avoir auprès d'elle un caractère tel que le\nvôtre. Ce que vous venez de dire confirme mes observations. Je ne veux\npas feindre d'ignorer ce dont il s'agit: je vois que cette visite est\nautre chose qu'une simple visite de politesse. Si votre soeur ne sait\npas résister à une demande quelconque dans une circonstance si peu\nimportante, je les plains tous deux quand il s'agira de choses graves\ndemandant force et fermeté. Votre soeur est une aimable personne, mais\nvous êtes ferme et décidée: si vous voulez la diriger pour son bonheur,\ndonnez-lui autant de votre caractère que vous pourrez. Mais vous l'avez\nsans doute toujours fait. Le pire des maux est un caractère faible et\nindécis sur lequel on ne peut compter. On n'est jamais sûr qu'une bonne\nimpression sera durable. Que ceux qui veulent être heureux soient\nfermes.»\n\nIl cueillit une noisette. «Voici, dit-il, une noisette belle et saine\nqui a résisté aux tempêtes de l'automne. Pas une tache, pas une piqûre.\nTandis que ses soeurs ont été foulées aux pieds, cette noisette, dit-il\navec une solennité burlesque, est encore en possession de tout le\nbonheur auquel une noisette peut prétendre.» Puis, revenant au ton\nsérieux:\n\n«Mon premier souhait pour ceux que j'aime est la fermeté. Si Louisa\nMusgrove veut être belle et heureuse à l'automne de sa vie, elle\ncultivera toutes les forces de son âme.»\n\nIl ne reçut pas de réponse. Anna eût été surprise que Louisa pût\nrépondre promptement à des paroles témoignant un si vif intérêt. Elle\ncomprenait ce que Louisa ressentait. Quant à elle, elle n'osait bouger,\nde peur d'être vue. Un buisson de houx la protégeait. Ils s'éloignèrent:\nelle entendit Louisa, qui disait:\n\n«Marie a un assez bon naturel, mais elle m'irrite quelquefois par sa\ndéraison et son orgueil. Elle en a beaucoup trop, de l'orgueil des\nElliot! Nous aurions tant désiré que Charles épousât Anna au lieu de\nMarie. Vous savez qu'il a demandé Anna?»\n\nLe capitaine répondit après un silence:\n\n«Voulez-vous dire qu'elle l'a refusé?\n\n--Oui, certainement.\n\n--A quelle époque?\n\n--Je ne sais pas au juste, car nous étions en pension alors. Je crois\nque ce fut un an avant d'épouser Marie. Mes parents pensent que sa\ngrande amie, lady Russel, empêcha ce mariage, elle ne trouva pas Charles\nassez lettré, et persuada à Anna de refuser.»\n\nLes voix s'éloignèrent, et Anna n'entendit plus rien. D'abord immobile\nd'étonnement, elle eut beaucoup de peine à se lever. Elle n'avait point\neu le sort de ceux qui écoutent: on n'avait dit d'elle aucun mal; mais\nelle avait entendu des choses très pénibles. Elle vit comment elle était\njugée par le capitaine; et il avait eu, en parlant d'elle, un mélange de\ncuriosité et d'intérêt qui l'agitait extrêmement.\n\nElle rejoignit Marie, et quand toute la compagnie fut réunie, elle\néprouva quelque soulagement à s'isoler au milieu de tous.\n\nCharles et Henriette ramenèrent Hayter avec eux. Anna ne chercha pas à\ncomprendre ce qui s'était passé, mais il était certain qu'il y avait eu\ndu froid entre eux, et que maintenant ils semblaient très heureux,\nquoique Henriette parût un peu confuse. Dès ce moment, ils s'occupèrent\nexclusivement l'un de l'autre.\n\nMaintenant tout désignait Louisa pour le capitaine, et ils marchaient\naussi côte à côte. Dans la vaste prairie que les promeneurs\ntraversaient, ils formaient trois groupes. Anna appartenait au moins\nanimé des trois. Elle rejoignit Charles et Marie et se trouva assez\nfatiguée pour accepter le bras de son beau-frère, qui était alors\nmécontent de sa femme. Marie s'était montrée peu aimable et en subissait\nen ce moment les conséquences. Son mari lui quittait le bras à chaque\ninstant pour couper avec sa cravache des têtes d'orties le long de la\nhaie: elle se plaignit selon son habitude, mais Charles les quittant\ntoutes deux pour courir après une belette, elles purent à peine le\nsuivre.\n\nAu sortir de la prairie, ils furent rejoints par la voiture de l'amiral,\nqui s'avançait dans la même direction qu'eux. Apprenant la longue course\nqu'avaient entreprise les jeunes gens, il offrit obligeamment une place\nà celle des dames qui serait la plus fatiguée. Il pouvait lui éviter un\nmille, puisqu'ils passaient par Uppercross. L'invitation fut refusée par\nles misses Musgrove, qui n'étaient pas fatiguées, et par Marie, qui fut\noffensée de n'avoir pas été demandée avant toute autre, ou parce que\nl'orgueil des Elliot, comme disait Louisa, ne pouvait accepter d'être en\ntiers dans une voiture à un seul cheval.\n\nOn allait se séparer, quand le capitaine dit tout bas quelques mots à sa\nsoeur.\n\n«Miss Elliot, dit celle-ci, vous devez être fatiguée: laissez-nous le\nplaisir de vous reconduire. Il y a largement place pour trois; si nous\nétions aussi minces que vous, on pourrait tenir quatre. Venez, je vous\nen prie.»\n\nL'hésitation n'était pas permise à Anna. L'amiral insista aussi. Refuser\nétait impossible. Le capitaine se tourna vers elle, et, sans dire un\nmot, l'aida tranquillement à monter en voiture.\n\nOui, il avait fait cela! Elle était là, assise par la volonté et les\nmains de Frédéric! Il avait vu sa fatigue, et avait voulu qu'elle se\nreposât. Elle fut touchée de cette manifestation de ses sentiments. Elle\ncomprit sa pensée. Il ne pouvait pas lui pardonner, mais il ne voulait\npas qu'elle souffrît. Il y était poussé par un sentiment d'affection\nqu'il ne s'avouait pas à lui-même. Elle ne pouvait y penser sans un\nmélange de joie et de chagrin.\n\nElle répondit d'abord distraitement aux bienveillantes remarques de ses\ncompagnons. On était à moitié chemin, quand elle s'aperçut qu'on parlait\nde Frédéric!\n\n«Il veut certainement épouser l'une des deux, dit l'amiral; mais cela\nne nous dit pas laquelle.\n\n--Il y va depuis assez longtemps pour savoir ce qu'il veut. C'est la\npaix qui est cause de tout cela. Si la guerre éclatait, il serait\nbientôt décidé. Nous autres marins, miss Elliot, nous ne pouvons pas\nfaire longtemps notre cour en temps de guerre. Combien s'écoula-t-il de\ntemps, ma chère, entre notre première entrevue et notre installation à\nYarmouth?\n\n--Nous ferons mieux de n'en rien dire, dit gaîment Mme Croft, car si\nmiss Elliot savait combien ce fut vite fait, elle ne croirait jamais que\nnous ayons pu être heureux. Cependant je vous connaissais de réputation\nlongtemps auparavant.\n\n--Et moi j'avais entendu parler de vous comme d'une jolie fille.\nFallait-il attendre davantage? Je n'aime pas à avoir longtemps de\npareils projets en tête. Je voudrais que Frédéric découvrît ses\nbatteries, et amenât une de ces jeunes misses à Kellynch. Elles\ntrouveraient de la compagnie. Elles sont charmantes toutes deux, je les\ndistingue à peine l'une de l'autre.\n\n--Elles sont très simples et très gracieuses vraiment, dit Mme Croft\nd'un ton moins enthousiaste, ce qui fit supposer à Anna qu'elle ne les\ntrouvait pas tout à fait dignes de son frère. «C'est une famille très\nrespectable, d'excellentes gens. Mon cher amiral, faites donc\nattention, nous allons verser.» Elle prit les rênes et évita l'obstacle,\npuis empêcha la voiture de tomber dans une ornière, ou d'accrocher une\ncharrette. Anna s'amusa à penser que cette manière de conduire\nressemblait peut-être à celle dont ils faisaient leurs affaires. Cette\npensée la conduisit jusqu'au cottage.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XI\n\n\nL'époque du retour de lady Russel approchait, le jour était même fixé,\net Anna, qui devait la rejoindre à Kellynch, commençait à craindre les\ninconvénients qui en pourraient résulter. Elle allait se trouver à un\nmille du capitaine; elle irait à la même église; les deux familles se\nverraient.\n\nD'un autre côté, il était si souvent à Uppercross, qu'elle semblerait\nplutôt l'éviter qu'aller au-devant de lui. Elle ne pouvait donc qu'y\ngagner, ainsi qu'en changeant la société de Marie contre celle de lady\nRussel.\n\nElle aurait voulu ne pas rencontrer le capitaine dans cette maison qui\navait vu leurs premières entrevues. Ce souvenir était trop pénible; mais\nelle craignait encore plus une rencontre entre lady Russel et le\ncapitaine. Ils ne s'aimaient pas; l'une était trop calme, l'autre pas\nassez.\n\nLa fin de son séjour à Uppercross fut marquée par un événement\ninattendu.\n\nWenvorth s'était absenté pour aller voir son ami Harville, installé à\nLyme pour l'hiver avec sa famille. Il ne s'était jamais complètement\nrétabli d'une blessure reçue deux années auparavant.\n\nQuand Wenvorth revint, la description de ce beau pays excita tant\nd'enthousiasme qu'on résolut d'y aller tous ensemble. Les jeunes gens\nsurtout désiraient ardemment voir Lyme. Les parents auraient voulu\nremettre le voyage au printemps suivant, mais quoiqu'on fût en novembre,\nle temps n'était pas mauvais.\n\nLouisa désirait y aller, mais surtout montrer que quand elle voulait une\nchose, elle se faisait. Elle décida ses parents, et le voyage fut\nrésolu.\n\nOn renonça à l'idée d'aller et revenir le même jour pour ne pas fatiguer\nles chevaux de M. Musgrove, et l'on se réunit de bonne heure pour\ndéjeuner à Great-House. Mais il était déjà midi quand on atteignit Lyme.\nAprès avoir commandé le dîner, on alla voir la mer. La saison était trop\navancée pour offrir les distractions des villes d'eau, mais la\nremarquable situation de la ville, dont la principale rue descend\npresque à pic vers la mer, l'avenue qui longe la charmante petite baie,\nsi animée pendant la belle saison, la promenade du Cobb, et la belle\nligne de rochers qui s'étend à l'est de la ville, toutes ces choses\nattirent l'oeil du voyageur, et quand on a vu Lyme une fois, on veut le\nrevoir encore. Il faut voir aussi Charmouth avec ses collines, ses\nlongues lignes de terrains et sa baie tranquille et solitaire, cernée\npar de sombres rochers. On est là si bien à contempler rêveusement la\nmer! Il faut voir la partie haute de Lyme avec ses bois, et surtout Pumy\navec ses verts abîmes, creusés entre les rochers où poussent pêle-mêle\ndes arbres forestiers et des arbres fruitiers; sites attestant le long\ntravail du temps qui a préparé ces endroits merveilleux, égalés\nseulement par les sites fameux de Wight! Il faut avoir vu et revu ces\nendroits pour connaître la beauté de Lyme.\n\nNos amis se dirigèrent vers la maison des Harville, située sur le Cobb;\nle capitaine y entra seul et en sortit bientôt avec M. et Mme Harville\net le capitaine Benwick.\n\nBenwick avait été commandant sur la _Laconia_. Les louanges que Wenvorth\navait faites de lui l'avaient mis dans une haute estime à Uppercross,\nmais l'histoire de sa vie privée l'avait rendu encore plus intéressant.\nIl avait épousé la soeur de Harville et venait de la perdre. La fortune\nleur était arrivée après deux ans d'attente, et Fanny était morte trop\ntôt pour voir la promotion de son mari. Il aimait sa femme et la\nregrettait autant qu'homme peut le faire. C'était une de ces natures qui\nsouffrent le plus, parce qu'elles sentent le plus. Sérieux, calme,\nréservé, il aimait la lecture et les occupations sédentaires.\n\nLa mort de sa femme resserra encore l'amitié entre les Harville et lui;\nil vint demeurer avec eux. Harville avait loué à Lyme pour six mois; sa\nsanté, ses goûts, son peu de fortune l'y attiraient; tandis que la\nbeauté du pays, la solitude de l'hiver convenaient à l'état d'esprit de\nBenwick. «Cependant, se disait Anna, son âme ne peut être plus triste\nque la mienne. Je ne puis croire que toutes ses espérances soient\nflétries. Il est plus jeune que moi, sinon de fait, du moins comme\nsentiment; plus jeune aussi parce qu'il est homme. Il se consolera avec\nune autre, et sera encore heureux.»\n\nLe capitaine Harville était grand, brun, d'un aspect aimable et\nbienveillant, mais il boitait un peu: ses traits accentués et son manque\nde santé lui donnaient l'air plus âgé que Wenvorth. Benwick était et\nparaissait le plus jeune des trois, et semblait petit, comparé aux deux\nautres. Il avait un air doux et mélancolique et parlait peu.\n\nHarville, sans égaler Wenvorth comme manières, était un parfait\ngentleman, simple, cordial, obligeant. Mme Harville, un peu moins\ndistinguée que son mari, paraissait très bonne. Leur accueil aux amis de\nWenvorth fut charmant.\n\nLe repas commandé à l'auberge servit d'excuse pour refuser leur\ninvitation à dîner. Mais ils parurent presque blessés que Wenvorth n'eût\npas amené ses amis sans qu'il fût besoin de les inviter.\n\nTout cela montrait tant d'amitié pour le capitaine, et un sentiment\nd'hospitalité si rare et si séduisant; si différent des invitations\nbanales, des dîners de cérémonie et d'apparat, qu'Anna se dit avec une\nprofonde tristesse: «Voilà quels auraient été mes amis!»\n\nOn entra dans la maison. Les chambres étaient si petites qu'il semblait\nimpossible d'y recevoir. Anna admira les arrangements ingénieux du\ncapitaine Harville pour tirer parti du peu d'espace, remédier aux\ninconvénients d'une maison meublée, et défendre les portes et les\nfenêtres contre les tempêtes de l'hiver.\n\nLe contraste entre les meubles vulgaires et indispensables fournis par\nle propriétaire, et les objets de bois précieux, admirablement\ntravaillés, que le capitaine avait rapportés de lointains voyages,\ndonnait à Anna un autre sentiment que le plaisir. Ces objets\nrappelaient la profession de Wenvorth, ses travaux, ses habitudes, et\nces images du bonheur domestique lui étaient pénibles et agréables à la\nfois.\n\nLe capitaine Harville ne lisait pas, mais il avait confectionné de très\njolies tablettes pour les livres de Benwick. Son infirmité l'empêchait\nde prendre beaucoup d'exercice, mais son esprit ingénieux lui\nfournissait constamment de l'occupation à l'intérieur. Il peignait,\nvernissait, menuisait et collait; il faisait des jouets pour les\nenfants, et perfectionnait les navettes, et quand il n'avait plus rien à\nfaire, il travaillait dans un coin à son filet de pêche.\n\nQuand Anna sortit de la maison, il lui sembla qu'elle laissait le\nbonheur derrière elle. Louisa, qui marchait à son côté, était dans le\nravissement. Elle admirait le caractère des officiers de marine: leur\namabilité, leur camaraderie, leur franchise et leur droiture. Elle\nsoutenait que les marins valent mieux que tous les autres, comme coeur\net comme esprit; et que seuls ils méritent d'être respectés et aimés.\n\nOn alla dîner, et l'on était si content que tout fut trouvé bon: les\nexcuses de l'hôtelier sur la saison avancée et le peu de ressources à\nLyme étaient inutiles.\n\nAnna s'accoutumait au capitaine Wenvorth plus qu'elle n'eût jamais cru;\nelle n'avait aucun ennui d'être assise à la même table que lui, et\nd'échanger quelques mots polis.\n\nHarville amena son ami; et tandis que lui et Wenvorth racontaient pour\namuser la compagnie nombre d'histoires dont ils étaient les héros, le\nhasard plaça Benwick à côté d'Anna. Elle se mit à causer avec lui par\nune impulsion de bonté naturelle; il était timide et distrait, mais les\nmanières gracieuses d'Anna, son air engageant et doux produisirent leur\neffet, et elle fut bien payée de sa peine.\n\nIl avait certes un goût très cultivé en fait de poésie; et Anna eut le\ndouble plaisir de lui être agréable en lui fournissant un sujet de\nconversation que son entourage ne lui donnait pas, et de lui être utile\nen l'engageant à surmonter sa tristesse: cela fut amené par la\nconversation, car, quoique timide, il laissa voir que ses sentiments ne\ndemandaient qu'à s'épancher. Ils parlèrent de la poésie, de la richesse\nde l'époque actuelle, et, après une courte comparaison entre les plus\ngrands poètes, ils cherchèrent s'il fallait donner la préférence à\nMarmion ou à la dame du Lac, à la fiancée d'Abydos ou au Giaour; il\nmontra qu'il connaissait bien les tendres chants de l'un, les\ndescriptions passionnées et l'agonie désespérée de l'autre. Sa voix\ntremblait en récitant les plaintes d'un coeur brisé, ou d'une âme\naccablée par le malheur, et semblait solliciter la sympathie.\n\nAnna lui demanda s'il faisait de la poésie sa lecture habituelle; elle\nespérait que non, car le sort des poètes est d'être malheureux, et il\nn'est pas donné à ceux qui éprouvent des sentiments vifs d'en goûter les\njouissances dans la vie réelle.\n\nBenwick laissa voir qu'il était touché de cette allusion à son état\nd'esprit; cela enhardit Anna, et, sentant que son esprit avait un droit\nde priorité sur Benwick, elle l'engagea à faire dans ses lectures une\nplus grande place à la prose; et comme il lui demandait de préciser,\nelle nomma quelques-uns de nos meilleurs moralistes, des collections de\nlettres admirables, des mémoires de nobles esprits malheureux; tout ce\nqui lui parut propre à élever et fortifier l'âme par les plus hauts\npréceptes et les plus forts exemples de résignation morale et\nreligieuse.\n\nBenwick écoutait attentivement, et, tout en secouant la tête pour\nmontrer son peu de foi en l'efficacité des livres pour un chagrin comme\nle sien, il prit note des livres qu'elle lui recommandait et promit de\nles lire.\n\nLa soirée finie, Anna s'amusa de l'idée qu'elle était venue passer un\njour à Lyme pour prêcher la patience et la résignation à un jeune homme\nqu'elle n'avait jamais vu.\n\nEn y réfléchissant davantage, elle craignit d'avoir, comme les grands\nmoralistes et les prédicateurs, été éloquente sur un point qui n'était\npas en rapport avec sa conduite.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XII\n\n\nLe lendemain matin, Anna et Henriette descendirent sur la plage pour\nregarder la marée montante, qu'un léger vent du sud-est amenait en\nlarges nappes sur le rivage uni.\n\nAprès avoir admiré ensemble la mer, et aspiré avec délices cette brise\nmatinale, Henriette dit soudain:\n\n«Oui, je suis convaincue que l'air de la mer fait du bien. Il a rendu un\nbien grand service au docteur Shirley après sa maladie, au printemps\ndernier. Il a dit lui-même qu'un mois passé à Lyme lui a fait plus de\nbien que tous les remèdes, et que la mer le rajeunit. C'est fâcheux\nqu'il n'y demeure pas toute l'année. Il ferait mieux de quitter\nUppercross et de se fixer à Lyme. Ne trouvez-vous pas, Anna? Convenez\navec moi que c'est la meilleure chose qu'il puisse faire pour lui et\npour Mme Shirley. Elle a ici des cousines et beaucoup de connaissances\nqui lui rendront le pays agréable, et puis, elle sera bien aise d'avoir\nici un médecin à sa portée, en cas d'une nouvelle attaque. Je trouve\nbien triste que ces excellentes gens, qui ont fait du bien toute leur\nvie, passent leurs dernières années dans un endroit tel qu'Uppercross,\noù, excepté notre famille, ils n'ont personne à voir. Ses amis devraient\nl'engager à venir: il aurait facilement une dispense de résidence. Mais\npourra-t-on lui persuader de quitter sa paroisse? Il est si scrupuleux!\nNe trouvez-vous pas qu'il l'est trop, et qu'il y a une conscience\nexagérée à sacrifier sa santé pour des devoirs qu'un autre remplirait\naussi bien? S'il venait à Lyme, il ne serait qu'à six lieues, et\npourrait savoir ce qui se passe dans sa paroisse.»\n\nAnna sourit plus d'une fois pendant ce discours. Elle était aussi prête\nà sympathiser avec Henriette qu'avec Benwick. Elle dit tout ce qu'on\npouvait dire de raisonnable et d'à-propos. Elle comprenait les droits du\ndocteur Shirley à la retraite et la nécessité d'un remplaçant; elle\npoussa l'obligeance jusqu'à insinuer qu'il vaudrait mieux que ce dernier\nfût marié.\n\n«Je voudrais, dit Henriette très contente, que lady Russel demeurât à\nUppercross et fût dans l'intimité du docteur. On m'a toujours dit\nqu'elle a une grande influence sur ses amis. Je la crains parce qu'elle\nest très perspicace, mais je la respecte beaucoup et je la voudrais voir\nà Uppercross.»\n\nAnna s'amusa de voir que les intérêts d'Henriette mettraient lady Russel\nen faveur. Elle n'eut pas le temps de répondre, car Louisa et Wenvorth\ns'approchaient. Ils proposèrent de retourner ensemble à la ville.\nArrivés à l'escalier qui conduisait à la plage, ils virent devant eux un\ngentilhomme qui s'effaça pour leur livrer passage.\n\nAnna surprit le regard d'admiration qu'il attacha sur elle, et n'y fut\npas insensible. Elle était très jolie ce jour-là, la brise du matin\navait rendu la fraîcheur à son teint, et donné de l'éclat à ses yeux. Il\nétait évident que l'inconnu l'admirait. Wenvorth s'en aperçut et jeta à\nAnna un regard rapide et brillant qui semblait dire: «Cet homme vous\nadmire, et moi je reconnais maintenant Anna Elliot.»\n\nAprès avoir un peu flâné par la ville, on revint à l'auberge. Anna, en\nse rendant de sa chambre dans la salle à manger, rencontra l'inconnu,\nqui sortait de son appartement. Elle avait déjà deviné que c'était\nl'étranger, et que c'était son groom qu'elle avait aperçu près de la\nmaison. Maître et domestique étaient en deuil. Il la regarda encore et\ns'excusa de sa brusque apparition avec une grâce charmante. Il\nparaissait avoir trente ans: ses traits, sans être beaux, étaient si\nagréables qu'Anna eut le désir de le connaître.\n\nLe déjeuner était à peine fini quand le bruit d'une voiture attira les\nconvives à la fenêtre. C'était un curricle conduit par un groom en\ndeuil. Tous les regards curieux virent le maître sortir à son tour,\naccompagné des saluts obséquieux de l'aubergiste. Il monta en voiture et\nsaisit les rênes.\n\n«Ah! c'est celui que nous avons rencontré déjà, dit le capitaine\nWenvorth en jetant un regard à Anna. «Pouvez-vous, dit-il à\nl'aubergiste, nous dire le nom du gentleman qui vient de partir?\n\n--C'est un gentleman très riche, M. Elliot, arrivé la nuit dernière de\nSydmouth. Il va à Bath, et de là à Londres.»\n\nElliot! on se regarda en répétant ce nom.\n\n«Dieu! s'écria Marie, ce doit être notre cousin, Anna, n'est-ce pas le\nplus proche héritier de mon père? Dites-moi, monsieur, dit-elle en\ns'adressant à l'aubergiste, n'avez-vous pas entendu dire qu'il\nappartient à la famille de Kellynch?\n\n--Non, madame, il n'a rien dit de particulier à cet égard, mais le groom\na dit que son maître sera un jour baronnet.\n\n--Vous voyez! s'écria Marie ravie; héritier de Sir Walter! Soyez sûrs\nque ses domestiques prennent soin de le publier partout où il va. Je\nregrette de ne l'avoir pas mieux regardé. Quel malheur! Si j'avais été\navertie à temps, les présentations auraient pu se faire. Trouvez-vous\nqu'il ressemble aux Elliot? Je l'ai à peine regardé; j'examinais les\nchevaux. Il est surprenant que ses armoiries ne m'aient pas frappée. Son\nmanteau les cachait, autrement je les aurais remarquées, et la livrée\naussi.\n\n--Si nous rassemblons toutes ces circonstances, dit Wenvorth, il faut\nsupposer que la Providence a voulu que nous ne soyons pas présentés à\nvotre cousin.»\n\nAnna fit tranquillement remarquer à Marie que, depuis nombre d'années,\nleur père et M. Elliot n'étaient pas dans des termes à rendre une\nprésentation désirable.\n\nCependant elle éprouvait une satisfaction secrète d'avoir vu son cousin,\net de savoir que le futur propriétaire de Kellynch était un vrai\ngentleman. Elle se garda bien de dire qu'elle l'avait rencontré dans le\ncorridor: Marie se fût froissée que sa soeur eût reçu une politesse dont\nelle n'avait pas eu sa part.\n\n«Vous parlerez sans doute de cette rencontre quand vous écrirez à Bath,\ndit Marie. Il faut que mon père le sache: n'y manquez pas.»\n\nMarie n'écrivait jamais à Bath, la fatigue d'une froide et ennuyeuse\ncorrespondance reposait sur sa soeur.\n\nBientôt M. et Mme Harville et Benwick vinrent chercher la compagnie pour\nfaire une dernière promenade autour de Lyme. On partit, et Benwick se\nrapprocha d'Anna. On parla encore de Walter Scott et de lord Byron, sans\npouvoir être du même avis, quand le hasard amena Harville auprès d'Anna.\n\n«Miss Elliot, lui dit-il tout bas, vous avez fait une bonne action, en\nfaisant causer ce pauvre garçon. Il faudrait qu'il eût plus souvent\nvotre compagnie; c'est mauvais pour lui d'être confiné ici. Mais, que\nvoulez-vous, nous n'y pouvons rien. Nous ne pouvons pas nous séparer.\n\n--Non, dit Anna, mais le temps est un grand consolateur, et votre ami\nest en deuil depuis bien peu de temps. C'est depuis l'été dernier, je\ncrois?\n\n--Oui, en juin, dit-il avec un profond soupir.\n\n--Et il ne l'a pas su tout de suite?\n\n--Seulement les premiers jours d'août, en revenant du Cap. Je n'étais\npas là pour le préparer: qui pouvait le faire, si ce n'est ce bon\ncapitaine Wenvorth? Il écrivit pour demander un congé, voyagea jour et\nnuit et ne quitta pas le pauvre Benwick pendant une semaine; personne\nque lui ne pouvait le consoler. Si vous saviez combien nous l'aimons!»\n\nOn ramena les Harville chez eux, puis on voulut revoir une dernière fois\nle Cobb. Anna se trouva encore près de Benwick. Lord Byron et les _Mers\nbleues_ ne pouvaient pas manquer d'être cités en présence de la mer;\nmais bientôt leur attention fut attirée ailleurs. On descendait les\nmarches qui facilitent la pente raide du Cobb; Louisa seule préféra\nsauter comme elle l'avait déjà fait avec l'aide de Wenvorth. Il résista\nd'abord: elle insista et obtint ce qu'elle voulait. Pour montrer sa\njoie, elle remonta les marches et voulut sauter de nouveau. Cette fois,\nle capitaine résista davantage, car il trouvait le saut dangereux.\n\nElle sourit en disant: «Je suis décidée à sauter.» Il avança les mains,\nmais elle s'élança trop vite, et tomba sur le pavé du Cobb! On la releva\névanouie; ni sang ni blessure visible; mais les yeux étaient fermés, le\npouls ne battait plus, elle avait la pâleur de la mort. Ce moment fut\nhorrible pour tous.\n\nLe capitaine s'agenouilla et la prit entre ses bras; il était aussi pâle\nqu'elle, et la regardait, muet de douleur. «Elle est morte, s'écria\nMarie, saisissant le bras de son mari, déjà glacé de terreur. Henriette\ns'évanouit et serait tombée si Benwick et Anna ne l'avaient soutenue.\n\nWenvorth, qui semblait accablé, s'écria d'un ton de désespoir: «Personne\nne viendra-t-il m'aider?\n\n--Allez-y! pour l'amour de Dieu, allez-y, s'écria Anna. Je peux soutenir\nHenriette. Frottez-lui les mains, les tempes; tenez voici des sels.»\n\nBenwick obéit, et Charles se dégageant de sa femme, ils soulevèrent\nLouisa et la soutinrent entre eux deux. On fit ce qu'Anna avait dit,\nmais en vain tandis que Wenvorth chancelant s'appuyait contre le mur, et\ns'écriait avec le plus profond désespoir:\n\n«Ah! ciel! son père et sa mère!\n\n--Un médecin, dit Anna.»\n\nCes mots semblèrent l'électriser; il s'élançait déjà, quand Anna dit\nvivement:\n\n«Ne vaudrait-il pas mieux que ce fût le capitaine Benwick? il sait où\ndemeure le docteur.»\n\nCette observation parut si juste, que Benwick confia à Charles ce pauvre\ncorps évanoui et disparut en un instant.\n\nIl serait difficile de dire lequel des trois était le plus malheureux,\nde Wenvorth, d'Anna ou de Charles. Ce dernier, penché sur Louisa,\nsanglotait, et quand il tournait les yeux, il voyait son autre soeur\névanouie, et sa femme, presque en proie à une crise nerveuse, qui\nl'appelait à son aide.\n\nAnna, tout en s'occupant d'Henriette avec tout le zèle que l'instinct\nlui suggérait, s'efforçait encore de consoler les autres. Elle apaisait\nMarie, ranimait Charles, rendait un peu de calme au capitaine. Ces deux\nderniers semblaient se laisser diriger par elle.\n\n«Anna, s'écria Charles, que faut-il faire, au nom du ciel?\n\n--Ne vaudrait-il pas mieux la porter à l'auberge?\n\n--Oui, c'est cela, s'écria Wenvorth. Je vais la porter; Charles, prenez\nsoin des autres.»\n\nLe bruit de l'accident s'était bientôt répandu. Les bateliers et les\nouvriers du Cobb se rassemblaient pour contempler une jeune femme morte.\nHenriette fut confiée à l'un d'eux. Anna marchait à côté de Louisa.\nCharles soutenait sa femme: ils reprirent le chemin qu'ils venaient de\ntraverser si joyeux, un moment auparavant, maintenant si désolés! Les\nHarville vinrent à leur rencontre. Benwick, en passant, les avait\navertis.\n\nHarville était un homme de sang-froid et de ressources. Après quelques\nmots échangés avec sa femme, il décida que Louisa serait transportée\nchez lui. Il ne voulut écouter aucune objection et fut obéi. Tandis que\nMme Harville faisait porter Louisa dans son propre lit, son mari\nadministrait à tous des soins, des cordiaux. Louisa ouvrit une fois les\nyeux, puis les referma. Ce fut une preuve de vie qui fut utile à sa\nsoeur. L'alternative de crainte et d'espoir empêcha Henriette de\nretomber dans son évanouissement. Marie aussi fut plus calme. Le médecin\narriva plus vite qu'on n'espérait. Pendant son examen, chacun éprouvait\nune angoisse cruelle. Mais il y avait de l'espoir; la tête avait reçu un\nfort ébranlement, le médecin en avait vu de plus graves. Ils en\nressentirent tous une joie profonde et l'on adressa au ciel les plus\nfervents remerciements. Anna se dit qu'elle n'oublierait jamais le\nregard et l'accent de Wenvorth disant: «Dieu soit loué!» non plus que\nson attitude, les bras croisés sur la table, et la tête dans ses mains,\ncomme s'il était écrasé par ses émotions, et cherchait à se calmer par\nla prière et le silence.\n\nIl fallait pourtant prendre un parti. Louisa ne pouvait être\ntransportée; mais les Harville avaient déjà tout prévu: Benwick céderait\nsa chambre, et l'on improviserait des lits pour ceux qui voudraient\ncoucher. Mme Harville offrait de se charger de Louisa: c'était une\ngarde-malade experte; et sa bonne d'enfants était une seconde elle-même.\nLouisa serait veillée nuit et jour. Tout cela fut dit d'un accent\nsincère et vrai, qui était irrésistible.\n\nCharles, Anna et Wenvorth se demandaient avec effroi comment on pourrait\nporter la triste nouvelle à Uppercross. La matinée était fort avancée.\nOn se désolait, quand Wenvorth s'écria: «Il n'y a pas de temps à perdre,\nles minutes sont précieuses. L'un de nous doit partir immédiatement.\nMusgrove, est-ce vous ou moi?»\n\nCharles répondit qu'il ne pouvait supporter l'idée de quitter Louisa.\nHenriette voulait aussi rester, mais elle fut forcée de reconnaître\nqu'elle ne serait utile à rien, elle qui s'était trouvée mal en voyant\nl'accident de sa soeur. Elle réfléchit à la douleur de ses parents, et\nconsentit à partir.\n\nA ce moment, Anna, sortant de la chambre de Louisa, entendit Wenvorth\nqui disait:\n\n«C'est entendu, Musgrove, vous restez, et je ramène votre soeur à la\nmaison. Mais si quelqu'un reste ici pour aider Mme Harville, ce ne peut\nêtre que miss Anna, si elle le veut bien: elle a toutes les qualités\npour cela; d'ailleurs votre femme veut sans doute retourner auprès de\nses enfants.»\n\nAnna, entendant ces paroles, resta d'abord immobile d'émotion. Elle\nentra dans la chambre.\n\n«Vous resterez pour la soigner, j'en suis sûr, lui dit-il avec un élan\net une douceur qui semblaient rappeler le passé.» Elle rougit fortement,\net lui, reprenant possession de lui-même, s'éloigna.\n\nElle dit qu'elle était prête, et heureuse de rester, qu'elle y avait\npensé, et souhaité qu'on lui permît de le faire. Un lit à terre dans la\nchambre de Louisa lui suffirait, si Mme Harville le trouvait bon.\n\nWenvorth proposa de prendre une chaise de poste pour aller plus vite; et\nd'envoyer demain, de bonne heure, l'équipage à Uppercross pour donner\ndes nouvelles de Louisa.\n\nQuand Marie sut ce qu'on avait décidé, elle se récria. Elle se plaignit\navec amertume de l'injustice qui lui faisait préférer Anna: elle, la\nsoeur de Louisa. Pourquoi ne serait-elle pas aussi utile qu'Anna! et la\nlaisser retourner sans son mari! Non, c'était vraiment trop dur! Elle en\ndit tant que Charles dut céder.\n\nJamais Anna ne s'était soumise avec plus de répugnance aux fantaisies\njalouses de Marie. Elle partit pour la ville, avec Henriette, Charles et\nBenwick. Pendant le trajet, elle revit les endroits qui lui rappelaient\nles plus petits détails de la matinée: ici elle avait écouté les projets\nd'Henriette; plus loin, elle avait vu M. Elliot; mais elle ne put donner\nqu'un moment à tout ce qui n'était pas Louisa.\n\nLe capitaine Benwick fut très attentif pour Anna; l'accident arrivé ce\njour-là les avait tous unis davantage; elle sentait pour lui un\nredoublement de bienveillance, et pensait même avec plaisir que c'était\npeut-être une occasion pour elle et lui de se connaître davantage.\nWenvorth les attendait avec une chaise de poste au bas de la rue. Anna\nfut froissée de son air surpris quand il la vit venir au lieu de Marie,\net de l'exclamation qui lui échappa quand Charles lui eut dit pourquoi.\nElle crut qu'elle n'était appréciée qu'en raison de son utilité.\n\nElle s'efforça d'être calme et juste. Pour l'amour de Wenvorth, elle eût\nsoigné Louisa avec un zèle infatigable. Elle espéra qu'il ne serait pas\nlongtemps assez injuste pour croire qu'elle avait reculé devant cette\ntâche.\n\nAprès avoir aidé Henriette à monter, Wenvorth s'assit entre elles deux;\nce fut ainsi qu'Anna étonnée et émue, quitta Lyme. Ce long trajet\nmodifierait-il leurs relations? quelle serait la conversation? Elle ne\npouvait rien prévoir. Il s'occupa d'Henriette, se tournant toujours\nvers elle, cherchant à soutenir son espoir, à relever son courage. Il\ntâchait d'avoir l'air calme pour lui épargner toute agitation. Une fois\nseulement, comme elle déplorait la malencontreuse promenade sur le Cobb,\nil ne put se contenir, et s'écria:\n\n«Ne parlez pas de cela, de grâce, Ah! Dieu! si j'avais refusé au moment\nfatal! Si j'avais fait mon devoir! Mais elle était si vive, si résolue,\ncette chère et douce Louisa.»\n\nAnna se demandait s'il était encore aussi sûr des avantages et du\nbonheur attachés à la fermeté de caractère, et s'il ne pensait pas que\ncette qualité, comme toute autre, a ses limites. Il ne pouvait guère\nmanquer de reconnaître qu'un caractère facile a plus de chance de\nbonheur qu'un caractère très résolu.\n\nOn allait vite; la route semblait à Anna moitié moins longue que la\nveille. Cependant la nuit était venue quand on arriva à Uppercross.\nHenriette, immobile dans un coin de la voiture, la tête enveloppée dans\nson châle, semblait s'être endormie en pleurant. Wenvorth se pencha vers\nAnna et lui dit à voix basse: «J'ai songé à ce qu'il y a de mieux à\nfaire. Henriette ne pourra supporter le premier moment; ne feriez-vous\npas mieux de rester dans la voiture avec elle, tandis que je vais\nannoncer la nouvelle aux parents?»\n\nCet appel à son jugement lui fit plaisir, c'était une preuve d'amitié et\nde déférence.\n\nQuand Wenvorth eut dit aux parents la triste nouvelle, quand il les vit\nun peu plus calmes, et Henriette contente d'être avec eux, il retourna à\nLyme aussitôt que les chevaux furent reposés.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XIII\n\n\nAnna passa à Great-House les deux dernières journées de son séjour à\nUppercross. Sa société et ses conseils furent d'un grand secours aux\nMusgrove, dans la situation d'esprit où ils se trouvaient. Ils eurent\ndes nouvelles de Lyme le lendemain, et Charles arriva quelques heures\naprès pour donner plus de détails. Louisa n'était pas plus mal; on ne\npouvait pas espérer une guérison rapide, mais l'accident n'aurait pas de\nsuites fâcheuses. Il ne pouvait tarir sur les louanges de Harville et de\nsa femme. Celle-ci avait décidé Charles et Marie à aller coucher à\nl'hôtel.\n\nMarie avait eu une crise nerveuse le matin, puis elle avait été se\npromener avec Benwick. Son mari espérait que cela lui ferait du bien.\n\nCharles revint encore le lendemain donner de meilleures nouvelles: la\nmalade avait de plus longs intervalles de lucidité. Le capitaine\nWenvorth paraissait installé à Lyme.\n\nLe jour suivant, quand Anna se prépara à partir, ce fut un chagrin\ngénéral. Il semblait qu'on ne pût rien faire sans elle. Alors elle leur\nsuggéra l'idée d'aller tous s'installer à Lyme jusqu'à ce que Louisa pût\nêtre transportée. On viendrait ainsi en aide à Mme Harville, en prenant\nses enfants.\n\nCe projet fut accepté avec empressement. Anna les aida à faire leurs\npréparatifs, et, les ayant vus partir, elle resta seule pour mettre tout\nen ordre.\n\nQuel contraste dans ces deux maisons si animées quelques jours\nauparavant! Excepté les enfants de sa soeur, elle était seule à\nUppercross. Mais si Louisa guérissait, le bonheur reparaîtrait ici plus\ngrand qu'avant. Quelques mois encore, et ces chambres, maintenant si\ndésertes, seraient remplies de la joie et de la gaîté de l'amour\nheureux, si inconnu à Anna Elliot! Une heure entière de réflexions\nsemblables par un sombre jour de novembre, avec une petite pluie serrée\nqui empêchait de rien distinguer au dehors, c'en était assez pour que la\nvoiture de lady Russel fût accueillie avec joie. Et cependant, en\nquittant Mansion-House, en jetant un regard d'adieu au cottage, avec sa\ntriste véranda ruisselant de pluie; en regardant à travers les vitres\nles humbles maisons du village, Anna ne put se défendre d'un sentiment\nde tristesse. Uppercross lui était cher. Il lui rappelait bien des\npeines, maintenant adoucies; quelques essais d'amitié et de\nréconciliation, auxquels elle ne devait plus songer; de tout cela il ne\nlui restait rien que le souvenir!\n\nElle n'était pas rentrée à Kellynch depuis le mois de septembre. Ce fut\ncette fois dans l'élégante et moderne habitation de son amie qu'elle\ndescendit, y apportant une joie mêlée d'inquiétude, car lady Russel\nconnaissait les visites de Wenvorth à Uppercross.\n\nElle trouva Anna rajeunie, et lui fit compliment de sa bonne mine. Anna\nse réjouit de ces louanges, car, en les ajoutant à la silencieuse\nadmiration d'Elliot, elle put espérer qu'un second printemps de jeunesse\net de beauté lui était donné. Elle s'aperçut d'un changement dans son\npropre esprit en causant avec lady Russel. Quand elle était arrivée à\nKellynch, elle n'avait pas trouvé d'abord la sympathie qu'elle espérait.\nMais peu à peu ses préoccupations changèrent d'objet. Elle oublia son\npère, sa soeur et Bath et quand, revenue à Kellynch, lady Russel lui en\nparla, exprimant sa satisfaction de les savoir bien installés à\nCamben-Place, elle eût été confuse qu'on sût qu'elle ne pensait qu'à\nLyme et à Louisa, et à toutes ses connaissances là-bas. L'amitié des\nHarville et du capitaine Benwick la touchait bien plus que la maison de\nson père, ou l'intimité de sa soeur avec Mme Clay. Mais elle était\nforcée de paraître s'intéresser autant que lady Russel à ce qui la\ntouchait pourtant de plus près que toute autre. Il y eut d'abord un peu\nde gêne dans leur conversation. Wenvorth ne pouvait manquer d'être\nnommé, en parlant de l'accident arrivé à Lyme: Anna n'osait regarder\nlady Russel en prononçant le nom de Wenvorth. Elle s'avisa d'un\nexpédient: elle raconta brièvement l'attachement de Wenvorth et de\nLouisa l'un pour l'autre. Une fois cela fait, elle n'éprouva plus\nd'embarras. Lady Russel se contenta d'écouter tranquillement, et de leur\nsouhaiter tout le bonheur possible, mais elle éprouva un plaisir amer en\nvoyant l'homme qui, huit ans auparavant, avait paru apprécier Anna\nElliot, se contenter de Louisa Musgrove.\n\nLes premiers jours n'eurent d'autre diversion que quelques bonnes\nnouvelles de Lyme sur la santé de Louisa. Anna ne sut jamais comment\nelles lui parvinrent.\n\nLady Russel ne voulut pas remettre davantage ses visites de politesse.\nElle dit à Anna d'un ton décidé:\n\n«Je dois aller voir M. et Mme Croft. Aurez-vous le courage de\nm'accompagner dans cette maison? C'est une épreuve pour nous deux.\n\n--C'est vous qui en souffrirez le plus probablement; vous n'avez pas\nencore pris votre parti de ce changement. En restant dans le voisinage,\nje m'y suis accoutumée.»\n\nElle aurait pu ajouter qu'elle avait une haute opinion des Croft, et\ntrouvait son père heureux d'avoir de tels locataires. Elle sentait que\nla paroisse avait un bon exemple, et les pauvres, aide et secours. Elle\nne pouvait s'empêcher de reconnaître que Kellynch était en de meilleures\nmains qu'auparavant.\n\nCette conviction était certainement pénible et mortifiante, mais elle\nlui épargnait la souffrance que devait éprouver lady Russel en\nretournant dans cette maison.\n\nElle ne songeait point à se dire:\n\n«Ces chambres devraient être habitées par nous. Oh! combien elles sont\ndéchues de leur destination! Une ancienne famille obligée de céder la\nplace à des étrangers!»\n\nNon, excepté en pensant à sa mère, qui avait demeuré là, elle n'avait\naucun soupir de regret.\n\nMme Croft semblait l'avoir prise en grande amitié, et, dans cette\nvisite, elle eut des attentions particulières. On causa surtout du\ntriste accident arrivé à Lyme... Wenvorth avait apporté des nouvelles;\nil s'était particulièrement informé de miss Elliot, et exprimait\nl'espoir que tout ce qu'elle avait fait ne l'avait pas trop fatiguée.\nCela fit un vif plaisir à Anna.\n\nQuant au triste accident, deux dames si sensées ne pouvaient avoir\nqu'une même opinion.\n\nC'était pour elles la conséquence de beaucoup d'étourderie et\nd'imprudence. Les suites en seraient très graves, et il était terrible\nde penser à la longue convalescence encore douteuse de miss Musgrove,\nexposée à se ressentir longtemps de cet ébranlement. L'amiral résuma\ntout, en disant:\n\n«Voilà une triste affaire; c'est là, pour un jeune homme, une nouvelle\nmanière de faire sa cour. Briser la tête de sa fiancée, puis mettre un\nemplâtre dessus. N'est-ce pas, miss Elliot?»\n\nLes manières de l'amiral n'étaient pas complètement du goût de lady\nRussel, mais elles ravissaient Anna. Cette bonté de coeur et cette\nsimplicité de caractère étaient pour elle irrésistibles.\n\n«C'est vraiment très ennuyeux pour vous de nous voir ici, dit-il tout à\ncoup, sortant d'une rêverie. Je n'y avais pas encore pensé. Ne faites\npas de cérémonies, montez et visitez toute la maison, si bon vous\nsemble.\n\n--Une autre fois, monsieur; je vous remercie; pas à présent.\n\n--Eh bien, quand vous voudrez. Vous verrez vos ombrelles accrochées à\ncette porte. N'est-ce pas un bon endroit? Non, sans doute, car vous\nmettiez les vôtres dans la chambre du sommelier. Chacun a ses habitudes\net ses idées. Nous avons fait très peu de changements, continua-t-il\naprès une pause.\n\n»Celui de la porte de la buanderie a été une grande amélioration. On se\ndemande comment vous avez pu supporter si longtemps la façon dont elle\ns'ouvrait? Vous direz à Sir Walter ce que nous avons fait; M. Shepherd\npense que la maison n'a jamais eu de meilleur changement.\n\n»Nous pouvons nous rendre cette justice: tout ce que nous avons fait a\nété pour le mieux. C'est ma femme qui en a le mérite. J'ai fait moi-même\npeu de chose, si ce n'est d'enlever les grandes glaces de mon cabinet de\ntoilette, qui était celui de votre père: un homme excellent, et un\nvéritable gentleman; mais il me semble, miss Elliot, qu'il est bien tiré\nà quatre épingles pour son âge. Que de glaces, mon Dieu! il n'y a pas\nmoyen de s'échapper à soi-même. Je suis très commodément maintenant\navec mon petit miroir dans un coin, et une autre grande chose dont je\nn'approche jamais.»\n\nAnna, amusée en dépit d'elle-même, ne savait que répondre, et l'amiral,\ncraignant d'avoir été impoli, ajouta:\n\n«La première fois que vous écrirez à votre bon père, miss Elliot,\nfaites-lui mes compliments; dites-lui que tout ici est à notre goût, et\nque nous n'y trouvons aucun défaut. Il faut avouer que la cheminée de la\nsalle à manger fume un peu, mais seulement quand le vent est grand et\nvient du nord, ce qui n'arrive pas trois fois par hiver, et sachez bien\nque nous n'avons pas encore trouvé de maison aussi agréable que\ncelle-ci, dites-le-lui, il sera content.»\n\nLes Croft, en rendant à lady Russel sa visite, annoncèrent qu'ils\nallaient voir des parents dans le Nord. Ainsi disparut tout danger de\nrencontrer le capitaine Wenvorth à Kellynch. Anna sourit en pensant\ncombien elle s'était tourmentée à ce sujet.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XIV\n\n\nCharles et Marie furent les premiers à retourner à Uppercross. Ils ne\ntardèrent pas à revenir à Lodge. On sut par eux que Louisa commençait à\nse lever, mais elle était encore très faible, très impressionnable, et\nil était impossible de dire quand elle pourrait voyager.\n\nMarie avait eu des ennuis, mais son long séjour prouvait qu'elle avait\neu plus de plaisir que de peine. Charles Hayter était venu plus souvent,\nil est vrai, qu'elle n'aurait voulu; puis, chez les Harville, il n'y\navait qu'un domestique pour servir à table, et au commencement on\nn'avait pas donné à Marie la première place. Mais on lui avait fait de\nsi gracieuses excuses, quand on avait su de qui elle était fille, et\nl'on avait été si prévenant ensuite; on lui avait prêté des livres, et\nl'on avait fait si souvent de jolies promenades, que la balance était en\nfaveur de Lyme. Tout cela, joint à la conviction d'être très utile, lui\navait fait passer une agréable quinzaine.\n\nAnna s'informa de Benwick. La figure de Marie se rembrunit aussitôt.\nCharles se mit à rire:\n\n«Oh! Benwick va très bien, dit Marie; mais c'est un drôle de garçon. Il\nne sait ce qu'il veut. Nous lui avons demandé de venir passer quelques\njours chez nous; Charles devait l'emmener à la chasse. Il paraissait\ntrès content, quand, mardi soir, il donna une singulière excuse: Il ne\nchassait jamais; on ne l'avait pas compris: il avait promis ceci, puis\ncela, etc.; enfin il ne venait pas. Il a sans doute craint de s'ennuyer,\nmais en vérité j'aurais cru que nous étions assez gais au cottage pour\nle _coeur brisé_ du capitaine Benwick.»\n\nCharles dit en riant:\n\n«Mais, Marie, vous savez bien ce qu'il en est.\n\n»Voici votre oeuvre, dit-il à Anna. Il s'imaginait vous trouver ici;\nquand il a su que vous étiez à une lieue de nous, il n'a pas eu le\ncourage de venir. Voilà la vérité; parole d'honneur.»\n\nMarie laissa tomber la conversation, soit qu'elle ne jugeât pas Benwick\ndigne de prétendre à une miss Elliot, soit qu'elle ne reconnût pas à\nAnna le pouvoir de rendre Uppercross plus attrayant.\n\nJe laisse ce point à décider au lecteur.\n\nLe bon vouloir d'Anna cependant n'en fut point diminué. Elle dit qu'on\nla flattait trop, et continua à questionner.\n\n«Oh! il parle de vous dans des termes....»\n\nMarie l'interrompit:\n\n«Je vous assure, Charles, que je ne l'ai pas entendu nommer Anna deux\nfois.\n\n--Je n'en sais rien, mais il vous admire beaucoup. Sa tête est remplie\ndes lectures que vous lui avez recommandées, et il désire en causer avec\nvous. Il a découvert... oh! je ne puis me rappeler quoi, quelque chose\nde très beau. Il expliquait cela à Henriette, et, parlant de vous, il\nprononçait les mots: élégance, douceur, beauté. Oh! je l'ai entendu,\nMarie; vous étiez dans l'autre chambre: il ne pouvait tarir sur les\nperfections de miss Elliot.\n\n--Il faut convenir, dit Marie avec vivacité, que, s'il a dit cela, ce\nn'est pas à sa louange: sa femme est morte en juin dernier. Un coeur\npareil n'est pas désirable; n'est-ce pas, lady Russel?\n\n--Et je vous affirme que vous le verrez bientôt, dit Charles, il n'a pas\neu le courage de venir au cottage, mais il trouvera quelque jour la\nroute de Kellynch, comptez-y. Je lui ai dit que l'église méritait d'être\nvue, et comme il a du goût pour ces sortes de choses il aura là un bon\nprétexte. Il a écouté avidement, et je suis sûr qu'il viendra bientôt.\nAinsi je vous avertis, lady Russel.\n\n--Les amis d'Anna seront toujours les bienvenus chez moi, répondit-elle\nobligeamment.\n\n--Oh! dit Marie, quant à être une connaissance d'Anna, il est plutôt la\nmienne, car je l'ai vu tous les jours de cette quinzaine.\n\n--Eh bien, je serai très heureuse de voir le capitaine Benwick comme\nvotre connaissance à toutes deux.\n\n--Vous ne trouverez rien de très agréable en lui, je vous assure: c'est\nl'homme le plus ennuyeux qu'on puisse voir. Il s'est promené sur la\nplage avec moi, plusieurs fois, sans dire un mot. Il n'est pas bien\nélevé, et il est certain que vous ne l'aimerez pas.\n\n--En cela, nous différons, dit Anna. Je crois que lady Russel l'aimera,\net que son esprit lui plaira tellement qu'elle ne trouvera aucun défaut\nà ses manières.\n\n--Je pense comme vous, dit Charles. Il a justement ce qu'il faut pour\nlady Russel. Donnez-lui un livre, et il lira toute la journée.\n\n--Oui, s'écria railleusement Marie. Il méditera sur son livre, et ne\nsaura pas si on lui parle, ou si on laisse tomber ses ciseaux.\nCroyez-vous que lady Russel aime cela?»\n\nLady Russel ne put s'empêcher de rire: «En vérité, dit-elle, je n'aurais\npas supposé que l'opinion d'une personne calme et positive comme moi pût\nêtre appréciée si différemment. Je suis vraiment curieuse de voir celui\nqui peut donner lieu à des idées si opposées. Il faut le décider à venir\nici. Soyez sûre, alors, Marie, que je dirai mon opinion; mais je suis\ndécidée à ne pas le juger d'avance.\n\n--Vous ne l'aimerez pas, je vous en réponds.»\n\nLady Russel causa d'autre chose. Marie parla avec animation de la\nrencontre de M. Elliot.\n\n«C'est un homme, dit lady Russel, que je ne désire pas voir. Son refus\nd'être en bons termes avec le chef de la famille m'a laissé une\nimpression défavorable.»\n\nCette réflexion abattit l'enthousiasme de Marie et l'arrêta court dans\nsa description.\n\nAnna n'osa faire de questions sur Wenvorth, mais elle sut qu'il était\nmoins inquiet à mesure que Louisa se remettait. Il n'avait pas vu Louisa\net craignait tellement l'émotion d'une entrevue avec elle, qu'il avait\nrésolu de s'absenter une dizaine de jours. A partir de ce moment, lady\nRussel et Anna pensèrent souvent à Benwick. Lady Russel ne pouvait\nentendre sonner sans croire aussitôt que c'était lui, et Anna, chaque\nfois qu'elle sortait, se demandait en rentrant si elle allait le trouver\nà la maison.\n\nCependant on ne vit pas Benwick.\n\nÉtait-il moins désireux de venir que Charles ne le croyait, ou était-ce\ntimidité de sa part? Après l'avoir attendu une semaine, lady Russel le\ndéclara indigne de l'intérêt qu'il avait commencé à lui inspirer.\n\nLes Musgrove revinrent pour les vacances de leurs enfants et ramenèrent\navec eux ceux de Mme Harville. Henriette resta avec Louisa. Lady Russel\net Anna allèrent faire visite à Mansion-House: la maison avait déjà\nrepris quelque gaîté. Mme Musgrove, entourée des petits Harville, les\nprotégeait contre la tyrannie des enfants du cottage. D'un côté on\nvoyait une table occupée par les jeunes filles babillardes, découpant\ndes papiers d'or et de soie; d'un autre, des plateaux chargés de\npâtisseries auxquelles les joyeux garçons faisaient fête. Un brillant\nfeu de Noël faisait entendre son pétillement en dépit du bruit. Charles\net Marie étaient là aussi; M. Musgrove s'entretenait avec lady Russel et\nne parvenait pas à se faire entendre, assourdi par les cris des enfants\nqu'il avait sur les genoux. C'était un beau tableau de famille. Anna,\njugeant les choses d'après son tempérament, trouvait que cet ouragan\ndomestique n'était guère fait pour calmer les nerfs de Louisa, si elle\neût été là; mais Mme Musgrove n'en jugeait pas ainsi. Après avoir\nchaudement remercié Anna de tous ses services, et récapitulé tout ce\nqu'elle-même avait souffert, elle dit, en jetant un regard heureux\nautour d'elle, que rien ne pouvait lui faire plus de bien que cette\npetite gaîté tranquille.\n\nAnna apprit que Louisa se rétablissait à vue d'oeil. Les Harville\navaient promis de la ramener à Uppercross et d'y rester quelque temps.\n\n«Je me souviendrai à l'avenir qu'il ne faut pas venir ici pendant les\nvacances de Noël,» dit lady Russel une fois montée en voiture.\n\nPeu de temps après, elle arriva à Bath par un pluvieux après-midi,\nlongeant la longue suite de rues depuis Old-Bridge jusqu'à Camben-Place,\néclaboussée par les équipages, assourdie par le bruit des charrettes et\ndes camions, par les cris de marchands de journaux et de gâteaux, ceux\ndes laitières et des piétons, elle ne se plaignit pas: non, c'étaient là\ndes bruits appartenant aux plaisirs de l'hiver. Elle se sentait\nrenaître, et, comme Mme Musgrove, elle pensait, mais sans le dire,\nqu'après avoir été longtemps à la campagne, rien n'était si bon pour\nelle qu'une petite distraction tranquille.\n\nAnna n'était pas de cet avis: elle persistait dans son antipathie pour\nBath. Elle aperçut la longue suite de maisons enfumées, sans éprouver le\ndésir de les voir de plus près: le trajet, quoique désagréable, lui\nsembla trop rapide, car personne ne la désirait, et elle donna un\nsouvenir de regret à la gaîté bruyante d'Uppercross et à la solitude de\nKellynch-Lodge.\n\nLa dernière lettre d'Élisabeth lui annonçait que M. Elliot était à Bath.\nIl était venu plusieurs fois à Camben-Place et s'était montré\nextrêmement attentif. Si Élisabeth et son père ne se trompaient pas, il\nles recherchait avec autant de soin qu'il en avait mis à les éviter.\nCela était fort étonnant. Lady Russel était très curieuse et très\nperplexe, et rétractait déjà ce qu'elle avait dit à Anna: «Un homme\nqu'elle n'avait aucun désir de voir.» Maintenant elle désirait vivement\nle voir; s'il cherchait réellement à se réconcilier, il fallait lui\npardonner de s'être écarté de la famille. Anna n'y mettait pas autant\nd'animation, mais elle préférait le revoir, et elle n'aurait pu en dire\nautant de bien d'autres à Bath. Elle descendit à Camben-Place, et lady\nRussel à son appartement, rue River.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XV\n\n\nSir Walter avait loué dans le quartier aristocratique une maison de\ngrande apparence dont lui et Élisabeth étaient très satisfaits. Anna\navait le coeur triste en entrant; elle voyait devant elle un\nemprisonnement de plusieurs mois, et se disait avec anxiété: «Ah! quand\npartirai-je?»\n\nElle fut reçue cependant avec une cordialité inattendue qui lui fit du\nbien. Son père et sa soeur furent contents de l'avoir pour lui montrer\nla maison et l'ameublement; puis elle faisait un vis-à-vis à table, ce\nqui était plus gai. Mme Clay fut très aimable et souriante, c'était son\nhabitude. Tout le monde était de bonne humeur, et bientôt Anna en sut la\ncause.\n\nAprès quelques questions insignifiantes, la conversation n'eut plus\nd'autre sujet que Bath: on se souciait peu de Kellynch, et pas du tout\nd'Uppercross.\n\nBath avait complètement répondu à leur attente: leur maison était la\nplus belle de Camben-Place, leurs salons supérieurs à tous ceux qu'ils\navaient vus, aussi bien par l'arrangement que par le goût du mobilier.\nIls étaient recherchés partout; ils avaient refusé nombre de\nprésentations, et encore à présent beaucoup de personnes inconnues\ndéposaient leurs cartes.\n\nQuelles sources de plaisir! Anna pouvait-elle s'étonner que son père et\nÉlisabeth fussent heureux? Non; mais elle s'attristait à la pensée que\nson père eût abdiqué les devoirs et la dignité d'un lord résidant sur\nses terres, et qu'il n'en eût aucun regret; que les petitesses d'une\npetite ville pussent satisfaire sa vanité.\n\nElle soupirait, mais elle sourit quand Élisabeth, les portes ouvertes à\ndeux battants, passa radieuse d'un salon dans un autre; elle s'étonna\nque celle qui avait été maîtresse de Kellynch pût trouver de quoi\nsatisfaire son orgueil dans un espace de trente pieds de long. Mais ce\nn'était pas cela seul qui causait leur bonheur: c'était la présence de\nM. Elliot; non seulement on lui pardonnait; mais on en raffolait. Il\navait passé quinze jours à Bath et, dès son arrivée, avait déposé sa\ncarte à Camben-Place. Il y fut ensuite très assidu, et montra une telle\nfranchise, une telle hâte à s'excuser du passé, et un si grand désir\nd'être reçu à l'avenir comme un parent, que la bonne entente\nd'autrefois fut complètement rétablie. Il se justifia à tous égards; son\nimpolitesse apparente venait d'un malentendu. Il avait cru qu'on voulait\nrompre avec lui, et s'était retiré par délicatesse. Il était indigné\nqu'on eût pu l'accuser d'avoir parlé de la famille sans respect; lui,\nqui s'était toujours vanté d'être un Elliot, et qui avait, sur la\nparenté, des idées trop strictes pour l'époque actuelle! Son caractère\net sa conduite démentaient cette accusation. Sir Walter pouvait en\nappeler à tous ceux qui connaissaient M. Elliot, et, certainement, les\nefforts qu'il avait faits pour se réconcilier avec la famille étaient\nune preuve en sa faveur.\n\nCe fut le colonel Wallis, son ami intime, qui fournit une excuse pour le\nmariage de M. Elliot. Il avait connu la femme de son ami; elle n'était\npas de famille noble, mais elle était instruite, bien élevée et riche et\nadorait William Elliot. Voilà ce qui l'avait séduit, et non sa fortune.\n\nTout cela atténuait beaucoup sa faute, et Sir Walter l'excusa\ncomplètement: il l'avait reçu, invité à dîner, et M. Elliot paraissait\ntrès heureux.\n\nAnna écoutait, mais sans comprendre.\n\nTout en faisant la part de l'exagération, elle sentait qu'il y avait\nquelque chose d'inexplicable dans la conduite actuelle de M. Elliot,\ndans son désir si vif de renouer des relations si longtemps\ninterrompues. Matériellement parlant, il n'y gagnait rien, puisque le\ndomaine et le titre de Kellynch lui revenaient en tout cas. Elle ne\ntrouvait qu'une solution: c'était peut-être à cause d'Élisabeth. Sa\nsoeur était certainement très belle, ses manières étaient distinguées et\nélégantes; et Elliot, qui ne l'avait vue qu'en public, ne connaissait\npeut-être pas son caractère. Anna se demandait avec inquiétude comment\nÉlisabeth pourrait soutenir un examen plus attentif, et souhaitait\nqu'Elliot ne fût pas trop perspicace. Mme Clay encourageait Élisabeth\ndans la pensée qu'Elliot la recherchait; elles échangeaient des regards\nqu'Anna surprit au passage.\n\nSir Walter rendait justice à William Elliot, à son élégance, à sa figure\nagréable, mais il déplorait son attitude penchée, défaut que le temps\navait augmenté. Il convenait aussi qu'il avait vieilli; tandis que M.\nElliot affirmait que Sir Walter n'avait pas changé depuis dix ans.\n\nOn ne parla, le soir, que de M. Elliot et de M. Wallis; Sir Walter\ndésirait connaître Mme Wallis; on la disait très jolie; cela le\ndédommagerait des laids visages qu'il rencontrait à chaque instant dans\nles rues. C'était là le fléau de Bath. Un jour il avait compté\nquatre-vingt-sept femmes, sans en trouver une passable. Il est vrai que\nc'était par un froid brouillard du matin. Les hommes étaient autant\nd'épouvantails dont les rues étaient pleines. A la manière dont les\nfemmes regardaient le colonel Wallis, quand il marchait au bras de Sir\nWalter, on pouvait juger combien rarement elles voyaient un bel homme.\nVoilà ce que disait le modeste Sir Walter; mais sa fille et Mme Clay ne\nlui permettaient pas de s'effacer ainsi et affirmaient qu'il avait au\nmoins aussi bon air que le colonel, dont les cheveux étaient gris.\n\n«Quelle figure a Marie? dit Sir Walter, à l'apogée de sa bonne humeur.\nLa dernière fois que je l'ai vue, elle avait le nez rouge, mais j'espère\nque cela ne lui arrive pas tous les jours.\n\n--Oh! non; c'était tout à fait accidentel; depuis la Saint-Michel, elle\na bonne mine et se porte bien.\n\n--Si je ne craignais pas de lui donner la tentation de sortir par ce\nvent et de se gâter le teint, je lui enverrais un chapeau neuf et une\npelisse.»\n\nOn frappa à la porte. Qui pouvait-ce être à dix heures? Mme Clay\nreconnut la manière de frapper de M. Elliot. Il fut introduit avec\ncérémonie; Anna se retira un peu à l'écart, tandis qu'il s'excusait de\nvenir à cette heure, mais il avait voulu savoir si Élisabeth et son\namie n'avaient pas pris froid la nuit dernière.\n\nQuand les politesses furent échangées, Sir Walter présenta sa plus jeune\nfille, et Anna, souriante et rougissante, montra à M. Elliot le joli\nvisage qu'il n'avait point oublié.\n\nIl fut aussi charmé que surpris; ses yeux brillèrent de plaisir; il fit\nallusion au passé, et sollicita les droits d'une ancienne connaissance.\nSa physionomie parut à Anna aussi agréable qu'à Lyme. Ses manières\nétaient si aisées, si charmantes, qu'elle ne pouvait le comparer qu'à\nune seule personne.\n\nIl s'assit et anima la conversation. Il savait choisir ses sujets,\ns'arrêter quand il fallait. Son ton, ses expressions annonçaient\nbeaucoup de tact. Il demanda à Anna ce qu'elle pensait de Lyme, et\ns'étendit surtout sur l'heureux hasard qui les avait réunis dans la même\nauberge.\n\nQuand elle lui raconta leur voyage à Lyme, il regretta doublement sa\nsoirée solitaire dans la chambre voisine. Il avait entendu des voix\njoyeuses, et aurait souhaité de se joindre à eux, mais il ne soupçonnait\nguère qu'il pouvait y prétendre. Cela le guérirait, dit-il, de cette\nabsurde habitude de ne questionner jamais. Bientôt, sentant qu'il ne\ndevait pas s'adresser uniquement à Anna, il rendit la conversation plus\ngénérale. Il voulut entendre le récit de l'accident, et Anna put\ncomparer l'intérêt avec lequel il écoutait, à l'air indifférent de Sir\nWalter et d'Élisabeth.\n\nL'élégante petite pendule aux sons argentins avait frappé onze heures\navant que M. Elliot ni personne se fût aperçu qu'il était resté une\nheure. Anna n'aurait jamais cru passer si bien sa première soirée à\nBath.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XVI\n\n\nIl y avait une chose qu'Anna désirait connaître par-dessus tout:\nc'étaient les sentiments de son père pour Mme Clay. Après quelques\nheures passées à la maison, elle était loin d'être tranquille.\n\nLe lendemain matin, en descendant déjeuner, elle eut lieu de comprendre\nque cette dame avait trouvé un prétexte pour s'en aller, car Élisabeth\nrépondit tout bas:\n\n«Ce n'est pas une raison, je vous assure; elle ne m'est rien, comparée à\nvous.» Puis elle entendit son père, qui disait:\n\n«Chère madame, cela ne doit pas être. Vous n'avez rien vu à Bath, et\nn'avez fait que vous rendre utile. Il ne faut pas nous fuir maintenant.\nIl faut rester, pour faire connaissance avec la belle madame Wallis. Je\nsais que la vue de la beauté est une réelle satisfaction pour votre\nesprit délicat.»\n\nIl avait quelque chose de si vif dans les yeux et dans la voix, qu'Anna\nne fut pas surprise du regard que Mme Clay jeta à Élisabeth. Elle ne\npouvait résister à de si vives instances: elle resta. Sir Walter, se\ntrouvant seul avec Anna, lui fit compliment de sa bonne mine. Il lui\ntrouvait les joues plus pleines, le teint plus clair et plus frais.\nEmployait-elle quelque chose de particulier? Peut-être du _gowland_.\nNon! rien du tout? Cela le surprenait, et il ajouta:\n\n«Vous n'avez qu'à continuer ainsi: vous ne pouvez pas être mieux qu'à\nprésent. Autrement, je vous conseillerais le constant usage du _gowland_\npendant le printemps. Sur ma recommandation, Mme Clay l'a employé, et\nvous en voyez le résultat: ses marques de petite vérole ont disparu.»\n\nSi Élisabeth avait pu l'entendre! Ces louanges l'auraient d'autant plus\nétonnée que les marques en question n'avaient pas du tout disparu.\n\nMais il faut subir sa destinée, se dit Anna. Si Élisabeth se mariait, le\nmariage de son père serait un mal moins grand. Quant à elle, elle\npouvait demeurer avec lady Russel.\n\nLa politesse et le savoir-vivre de celle-ci furent mis à l'épreuve quand\nelle vit Mme Clay en si grande faveur et Anna si négligée. Elle était\naussi vexée que peut l'être une personne qui passe son temps à prendre\nles eaux, à lire les nouvelles et à faire des visites.\n\nQuand elle connut davantage M. Elliot, elle devint plus charitable pour\nlui ou plus indifférente pour les autres. Il se recommandait par ses\nmanières. Elle lui trouvait un esprit si sérieux et si agréable qu'elle\nfut prête à s'écrier: «Est-ce là M. Elliot?» et qu'elle ne pouvait\nimaginer un homme plus parfait: intelligence, jugement, connaissance du\nmonde, et avec cela un coeur affectueux. Il avait des sentiments\nd'honneur et de famille, ni orgueil, ni faiblesse; il vivait sans faste,\nmais avec la libéralité d'un homme riche. Il s'en rapportait à son\npropre jugement dans les choses importantes, mais ne heurtait pas\nl'opinion publique lorsqu'il s'agissait de décorum. Il était ferme,\nobservateur, modéré et sincère, ne se laissant emporter ni par son\nhumeur, ni par son égoïsme, déguisés sous le nom de sentiments élevés,\net cependant il était touché par tout ce qui était aimable et bon. Il\nappréciait tous les bonheurs de la vie domestique, qualité que possèdent\nrarement les caractères enthousiastes et remuants. Lady Russel était\npersuadée qu'il n'avait pas été heureux en mariage; le colonel Wallis le\ndisait; mais cela ne l'avait point aigri; et lady Russel commençait à\nle soupçonner de songer à un nouveau choix. Sa satisfaction à cet égard,\net nous verrons pourquoi, l'emportait sur l'ennui que lui donnait Mme\nClay.\n\nAnna savait déjà par expérience que son excellente amie et elle\npouvaient différer d'avis; elle ne fut donc pas surprise que lady Russel\nne vît dans la conduite de M. Elliot qu'un grand désir de\nréconciliation. Anna se permit cependant de sourire en nommant\nÉlisabeth. Lady Russel écouta, regarda et fit cette prudente réponse:\n«Élisabeth? très bien, nous verrons!» Anna dut s'en contenter.\n\nQuoi qu'il en soit, M. Elliot était à coup sûr leur plus agréable\nconnaissance à Bath; elle ne trouvait personne aussi bien que lui, et\ntrouvait un grand plaisir à parler de Lyme, qu'il désirait revoir autant\nqu'elle-même. Ils se rappelèrent nombre de fois leur première rencontre;\nil lui dit quel plaisir sa vue lui avait fait: elle avait deviné, et se\nrappelait aussi le regard qu'un autre lui avait jeté.\n\nLeurs opinions n'étaient pas toujours semblables. Elle s'aperçut qu'il\npartageait sur la noblesse les idées de Sir Walter et d'Élisabeth. Le\njournal annonça un matin l'arrivée de la douairière, vicomtesse\nDalrymph, et de sa fille, l'_honorable_ miss Carteret. A partir de ce\nmoment, la tranquillité fut bannie de Camben-Place, car les Dalrymph\nétaient cousins des Elliot, et la difficulté était d'être présentés\nselon les règles. Ce fut un grand sujet de perplexité. Anna n'avait pas\nencore vu son père ni sa soeur en relation avec la noblesse, et son\ndésappointement fut grand. Elle avait espéré qu'ils avaient une plus\nhaute idée d'eux-mêmes et se trouva réduite à leur souhaiter plus\nd'orgueil, car _nos cousins, les Dalrymph_, résonnaient tout le jour à\nses oreilles.\n\nA la mort du dernier vicomte, Sir Walter, étant malade, avait négligé de\nrépondre à la lettre de faire part qui lui fut envoyée. On lui rendit la\npareille à la mort de lady Elliot: il fallait réparer cette malheureuse\nnégligence, et être reçus comme cousins: ce fut une grave question pour\nlady Russel et pour M. Elliot. Lady Dalrymph avait pris une maison pour\ntrois mois à Laura-Place, et allait vivre grandement. Elle avait été à\nBath l'année précédente, et lady Russel l'avait entendu vanter comme une\nfemme charmante. Il fallait renouer, si l'on pouvait le faire sans\ncompromettre la dignité des Elliot.\n\nSir Walter se décida à écrire à sa noble cousine une longue lettre\nd'explications et de regrets. Personne ne put admirer cette épître,\nmais elle obtint le résultat désiré: c'étaient trois lignes de\ngriffonnage de la douairière vicomtesse: «Elle était très honorée, et\nserait très heureuse de faire leur connaissance.»\n\nLe plus difficile était fait; il ne restait plus qu'à en goûter les\ndouceurs. On fit visite à Laura-Place; on reçut les cartes de la\ndouairière, vicomtesse de Dalrymph, et de l'_honorable_ miss Carteret.\nCes cartes furent mises en évidence, et l'on allait partout répétant\n«nos cousines de Laura-Place».\n\nAnna était confuse de l'agitation causée par ces dames, d'autant plus\nqu'elles étaient très ordinaires. Lady Dalrymph avait acquis le titre de\nfemme «charmante» parce qu'elle avait un sourire et une réponse pour\nchacun. Quant à miss Carteret, elle était si vulgaire et si gauche, que\nsans sa noblesse on ne l'aurait pas supportée à Camben-Place.\n\nLady Russel confessa qu'elle s'attendait à mieux, mais que c'était une\nbelle relation; et quand Anna s'aventura à donner son opinion, M. Elliot\nconvint que ces dames n'étaient rien par elles-mêmes, mais qu'elles\navaient une valeur comme relations de famille et de bonne compagnie.\nAnna sourit.\n\n«J'appelle bonne compagnie, dit-elle à M. Elliot, les personnes\ninstruites, intelligentes et qui savent causer.\n\n--Vous vous trompez, répondit-il doucement. Ce n'est pas là la bonne\ncompagnie: c'est la meilleure. La bonne compagnie demande seulement de\nla naissance, de bonnes manières et de l'éducation, et même, elle n'est\npas exigeante sur ce dernier point: très peu d'instruction ne fait pas\nmal du tout. Ma cousine Anna secoue la tête: elle n'est pas satisfaite:\nelle est difficile.\n\n»Ma chère cousine, dit-il en s'asseyant près d'elle, vous avez plus de\ndroits qu'une autre d'être difficile. Mais cela vous servira-t-il à\nquelque chose? En serez-vous plus heureuse? N'est-il pas plus sage\nd'accepter la société de ces bonnes dames, et d'en avoir les avantages?\nSoyez sûre qu'elles brilleront aux premières places cet hiver, et cette\nparenté donnera à votre famille (permettez-moi de dire à _notre\nfamille_) le degré de considération que nous pouvons désirer.\n\n--Oui, soupira Anna, notre parenté sera suffisamment connue. Je crois\nqu'on a pris trop de peine pour cela. Il faut croire, dit-elle en\nsouriant, que j'ai plus d'orgueil que vous tous, mais j'avoue que je\nsuis vexée de cet empressement à faire connaître notre parenté, qui\ndoit leur être parfaitement indifférente.\n\n--Pardonnez-moi, ma chère cousine; vous êtes injuste dans votre propre\ncause. Peut-être qu'à Londres, avec notre simple train de vie, il en\nserait ainsi; mais à Bath, Sir Walter Elliot et sa famille seront\ntoujours appréciés à leur valeur.\n\n--Eh bien! dit Anna, je suis trop orgueilleuse pour me réjouir d'un\naccueil dû à l'endroit où je suis.\n\n--J'aime votre indignation, dit-il; elle est très naturelle; mais vous\nêtes à Bath, et il s'agit d'y paraître avec la dignité et la\nconsidération qui appartiennent de droit à Sir Walter Elliot. Vous\nparlez d'orgueil: on me dit orgueilleux, je le suis, et ne désire pas\nparaître autre; car notre orgueil à tous deux, si l'on cherchait bien,\nest de même nature, quoiqu'il semble différent. Sur un point, ma chère\ncousine (continua-t-il en parlant plus bas, quoiqu'il n'y eût personne\ndans la chambre), je suis sûr que nous sommes du même avis. Vous devez\nsentir que toute nouvelle connaissance que fera votre père parmi ses\négaux ou ses supérieurs peut servir à le détacher de ceux qui sont\nau-dessous de lui.» Il regardait en parlant ainsi le siège que Mme Clay\navait occupé. C'était un commentaire suffisant; Anna fut contente de\nvoir qu'il n'aimait pas Mme Clay, et elle le trouva plus qu'excusable,\nen faveur du but qu'il poursuivait, de chercher de hautes relations à\nson père.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XVII\n\n\nTandis que Sir Walter et Élisabeth se lançaient dans le grand monde,\nAnna renouait une connaissance d'un genre très différent.\n\nElle avait appris qu'une de ses anciennes compagnes demeurait à Bath.\nMme Shmith (autrefois miss Hamilton), âgée de trois ans de plus qu'Anna,\navait été très bonne pour elle, quand elle entra à quatorze ans dans une\npension, après la mort de sa mère. Elle fit ce qu'elle put pour adoucir\nle chagrin d'Anna, qui en garda un souvenir reconnaissant. Miss Hamilton\nquitta la pension un an après et épousa bientôt un homme riche.\n\nDepuis deux ans, elle était veuve et pauvre. Son mari était un\nextravagant qui dissipa sa fortune, et laissa des affaires embrouillées.\nElle eut des ennuis de toute espèce.\n\nUne fièvre rhumatismale qui attaqua enfin les jambes la rendit infirme.\nElle était venue à Bath pour se guérir et demeurait près des bains\nchauds, vivant très modestement, sans domestique, et par conséquent\nexclue de la société. Anna, sachant par une amie commune que sa visite\nserait agréable; ne perdit pas de temps: elle ne dit rien chez elle, et\nconsulta seulement lady Russel, qui l'approuva et la conduisit dans sa\nvoiture près du logement de Mme Shmith.\n\nLes deux anciennes amies renouvelèrent connaissance. Au premier moment,\nil y eut un peu de gêne et d'émotion: douze ans s'étaient écoulés, et\nelles se trouvaient mutuellement changées. Anna n'était plus la\nsilencieuse, timide et rougissante jeune fille de quinze ans, mais une\nélégante jeune femme, ayant toutes les beautés, excepté la fraîcheur,\naux manières aussi agréables que parfaites; et douze ans avaient\ntransformé la belle et fière miss Hamilton en une pauvre veuve infirme,\nrecevant comme une faveur la visite de son ancienne protégée.\n\nMais le premier malaise de leur rencontre fit bientôt place au charme\ndes vieux souvenirs. Anna trouva dans Mme Shmith le bon sens et les\nmanières agréables auxquels elle s'attendait, et une disposition à la\ncauserie et à la gaîté au delà de son attente. Ni les plaisirs du monde\noù elle avait beaucoup vécu, ni la condition présente, pas plus que la\nmaladie ou le chagrin, n'avaient fermé son coeur, ni éteint sa gaîté.\n\nA la seconde visite, elle causa très librement, et l'étonnement d'Anna\nredoubla. Elle ne pouvait guère imaginer une situation plus triste que\ncelle de son amie. Elle avait perdu un mari qu'elle adorait, une fortune\nà laquelle elle était accoutumée; elle n'avait pas d'enfants pour la\nrattacher à la vie et au bonheur; aucun parent pour l'aider dans des\naffaires embarrassées; pas même de santé pour supporter tout le reste.\n\nElle s'accommodait d'un parloir bruyant, et d'une chambre obscure par\nderrière; elle ne pouvait bouger sans l'aide de l'unique servante de\nl'hôtel, et elle ne sortait que pour être portée aux bains chauds. En\ndépit de tout cela, Anna avait lieu de croire que son amie n'avait que\ndes minutes de langueur et d'accablement, contre des heures d'activité\net de distraction.\n\nComment cela se pouvait-il!\n\nElle conclut que ce n'était pas seulement de la force et de la\nrésignation. Une âme soumise peut être patiente; une forte intelligence\npeut être courageuse; mais il y avait là quelque chose de plus: cette\nélasticité d'esprit. Cette disposition à être consolée, cette faculté\nde trouver des occupations qui la détachaient d'elle-même: tout cela\nvenait de sa seule nature. C'est le plus beau don du ciel, et Anna\nvoyait là une grâce spéciale, destinée à remplacer tout le reste.\n\nMme Shmith avait eu une époque de profond découragement. En arrivant à\nBath, elle était bien plus invalide qu'alors, car elle avait eu un\nrefroidissement en voyage, et s'était mise au lit, avec de vives et\ncontinuelles souffrances. Et cela parmi des étrangers, sans pouvoir se\npasser d'une garde, et dans une situation pécuniaire très gênée.\n\nElle avait subi toutes ces choses et disait qu'il en était résulté un\nbien. Elle s'était sentie en bonnes mains. Elle connaissait trop le\nmonde pour attendre un attachement soudain et désintéressé; mais sa\npropriétaire s'était montrée très bonne, et la soeur de cette dame,\ngarde-malade et alors sans emploi, l'avait admirablement soignée, et\navait été pour elle une amie précieuse.\n\n«Aussitôt que je pus faire usage de mes mains, elle me montra à\ntricoter, ce qui me fut une grande distraction, et à faire ces paniers,\nces pelotes et ces porte-cartes avec lesquels vous me trouvez si\noccupée. Ils me fournissent les moyens de faire un peu de bien à\nquelques pauvres familles du voisinage.\n\n»Ma garde dispose de mes marchandises, et les fait acheter à ses\nclients. Elle saisit toujours le bon moment. Vous savez que quand on a\néchappé à un grand danger, on a le coeur plus ouvert, et Mme Rock sait\nquand il faut parler. C'est une femme habile, sensée et intelligente,\nqui comprend la nature humaine. Elle a un fond de bon sens et\nd'observation qui la rend infiniment supérieure, comme compagne, à un\nmillier de celles qui, ayant reçu la meilleure éducation, ne trouvent\nrien digne d'elles. Appelez cela commérage, si vous voulez; mais quand\nla garde Rock a une demi-heure de loisir à me donner, je suis sûre\nqu'elle me dira quelque chose d'amusant et d'utile, quelque chose qui\nnous fait mieux connaître nos semblables. On aime à savoir ce qui se\npasse et quelle est la plus nouvelle manière d'être frivole et vain.\nPour moi, qui vis seule, sa conversation est une fête.\n\n--Je vous crois aisément; les femmes de cette classe voient et entendent\nbien des choses, et si elles sont intelligentes, elles valent la peine\nd'être écoutées. Elles voient la nature humaine non pas seulement dans\nses folies, mais dans les circonstances les plus intéressantes et les\nplus touchantes. Combien d'exemples passent sous leurs yeux,\nd'attachements ardents, désintéressés et dévoués; d'héroïsme, de\ncourage, de patience et de résignation! Combien d'exemples des plus\nnobles sacrifices! Une chambre de malade peut fournir matière à des\nvolumes.\n\n--Oui, dit Mme Shmith d'un air de doute; cela peut arriver, mais pas\ndans le sens élevé que vous dites. Par-ci par-là la nature humaine peut\nêtre grande en temps d'épreuves, mais en général c'est sa faiblesse et\nnon sa force qui se montre dans une chambre de malade. On y entend\nparler d'égoïsme et d'impatience plus que de générosité et de courage.\nIl y a si peu de réelle amitié dans le monde! et malheureusement,\ndit-elle d'une voix basse et tremblante, il y en a tant qui oublient de\npenser sérieusement jusqu'à ce qu'il soit trop tard.»\n\nAnna vit la souffrance cachée sous ces paroles. Le mari n'avait pas fait\nson devoir, et la femme avait été conduite dans une société qui lui\navait donné sur les hommes une plus mauvaise opinion qu'ils ne le\nméritaient. Mme Shmith secoua cette émotion momentanée et ajouta bientôt\nd'un ton différent:\n\n«La situation actuelle de mon amie Mme Rock n'a rien en ce moment qui\npuisse m'intéresser beaucoup. Elle garde Mme Wallis,\nde Marlboroug-Buildings, femme très jolie, très mondaine, sotte et\ndépensière, et naturellement elle ne pourra parler que de dentelles et\nde chiffons. Je veux cependant tirer parti de Mme Wallis. Elle est très\nriche, et il faut qu'elle achète toutes les choses chères que j'ai en ce\nmoment.»\n\nAnna était allée plusieurs fois chez son amie avant que l'existence de\ncelle-ci fût connue à Camben-Place. A la fin, il fallut en parler. Sir\nWalter, Élisabeth et Mme Clay revinrent un matin de Laura-Place avec une\ninvitation imprévue de lady Dalrymph pour cette même soirée qu'Anna\ndevait passer chez son amie. Elle était certaine que lady Dalrymph les\ninvitait parce qu'étant retenue chez elle par un refroidissement, elle\nétait bien aise d'user de la parenté qui s'était imposée à elle. Anna\ns'excusa en disant qu'elle était invitée chez une amie de pension.\nÉlisabeth et Sir Walter, qui ne s'intéressaient guère à cela, la\nquestionnèrent cependant, et quand ils surent de quoi il s'agissait, se\nmontrèrent l'une dédaigneuse, l'autre sévère.\n\n«Westgate-Buildings, dit Sir Walter, et c'est miss Elliot qui va là! Une\nMme Shmith! une veuve! Et qui était son mari? un des cinq mille Shmith\nqu'on rencontre partout! Et qu'a-t-elle pour attirer? Elle est vieille\net malade. Sur ma parole, miss Anna Elliot, vous avez un goût\nextraordinaire! Tout ce qui révolte les autres: basse compagnie,\nlogement misérable, air vicié; tout ce qui est repoussant vous attire.\nMais vous pouvez sûrement remettre à demain cette vieille dame? Elle\nn'est pas si près de sa fin qu'elle ne puisse vivre un jour de plus?\nQuel âge a-t-elle? Quarante ans!\n\n--Seulement trente et un. Mais je ne crois pas pouvoir remettre ma\nvisite, parce que c'est la seule soirée qui nous convienne à toutes\ndeux. Elle va aux bains chauds demain; et vous savez que nous sommes\ninvités pour le reste de la semaine.\n\n--Qu'est-ce que lady Russel pense de cette connaissance? dit Élisabeth.\n\n--Elle n'y voit rien à blâmer; au contraire, elle l'approuve, et m'y a\nsouvent conduite dans sa voiture.\n\n--Westgate-Buildings a dû être surpris de voir un équipage sur ses\npavés, fit observer Sir Walter. La veuve de Sir Henri Russel n'a pas de\ncouronne, il est vrai, sur ses armoiries; néanmoins, c'est un bel\néquipage, et l'on sait sans doute qu'il contient une miss Elliot. Mme\nveuve Shmith! demeurant à Westgate-Buildings! Une pauvre veuve, ayant à\npeine de quoi vivre! entre trente et quarante ans! une simple Mme Shmith\nest l'amie intime de miss Elliot, qui la préfère à sa noble parenté\nd'Écosse et d'Irlande; Mme Shmith! quel nom!»\n\nA ce moment, Mme Clay jugea convenable de quitter la chambre. Anna\naurait bien voulu prendre la défense de son amie, mais elle se tut, par\nrespect pour son père. Elle le laissa se souvenir que Mme Shmith n'était\npas la seule veuve à Bath, entre trente et quarante ans, ayant peu de\nfortune et ne possédant aucun titre de noblesse.\n\nElle tint son engagement, et les autres tinrent le leur. Il va sans dire\nque, le lendemain, elle entendit raconter la délicieuse soirée.\n\nSir Walter et Élisabeth s'étaient empressés d'inviter, de la part de sa\nseigneurie, lady Russel et M. Elliot. Celui-ci avait laissé là le\ncolonel Wallis pour venir, et lady Russel était venue, quoiqu'elle eût\ndéjà disposé autrement de sa soirée. Par elle, Anna sut tout ce qui\ns'était dit. Son amie et M. Elliot avaient causé d'elle. On l'avait\ndésirée, regrettée; on avait approuvé le motif de son absence; sa bonne\net affectueuse visite à une ancienne compagne malade et pauvre avait\nravi M. Elliot. Il trouvait, comme lady Russel, qu'Anna était une jeune\nfille extraordinaire, un modèle de perfection en tous genres.\n\nAnna ne pouvait se savoir si hautement appréciée par un galant homme\nsans éprouver les émotions que lady Russel cherchait à faire naître.\n\nCelle-ci avait son opinion faite sur M. Elliot. Elle était convaincue\nqu'il recherchait Anna, et le trouvait digne d'elle. Elle calculait\ncombien de semaines lui restaient jusqu'à la fin de son deuil, pour\nqu'il pût déployer toutes ses séductions.\n\nElle ne dit qu'à demi ce qu'elle pensait, hasardant seulement quelques\nmots sur la possibilité d'une telle alliance. Anna l'écoutait en\nrougissant, et secouait doucement la tête.\n\n«Je ne suis pas une faiseuse de mariages, vous le savez, dit lady\nRussel. Je connais trop bien l'incertitude des prévisions humaines. Je\ndis seulement que si M. Elliot vous recherchait et que vous fussiez\ndisposée à l'accepter, il y aurait là des éléments de bonheur.\n\n--M. Elliot est un homme très aimable, et que j'estime beaucoup, mais\nnous ne nous convenons pas.»\n\nLady Russel répondit seulement:\n\n«J'avoue que ma plus grande joie serait de vous voir la maîtresse de\nKellynch, la future lady Elliot, occupant la place de votre chère mère,\nsuccédant à tous ses droits, à sa popularité, à toutes ses vertus. Vous\nêtes le portrait de votre mère, ma chère Anna, au physique et au moral,\net si vous preniez sa place, votre seule supériorité sur elle serait\nd'être plus justement appréciée qu'elle ne le fut.»\n\nAnna se leva et s'éloigna pour se remettre de l'émotion que cette\npeinture excitait en elle: son imagination et son coeur étaient séduits.\n\nToutes ces images avaient un charme irrésistible. Lady Russel n'ajouta\npas un mot, laissant Anna à ses réflexions, et se disant que si M.\nElliot plaidait en ce moment sa cause.....\n\nEn résumé, elle croyait ce qu'Anna ne croyait pas encore. Celle-ci,\nvenant à penser à M. Elliot plaidant lui-même sa cause, se trouva\nsubitement refroidie, et se dit qu'elle ne l'accepterait jamais.\nQuoiqu'elle le fréquentât depuis un mois, elle ne pouvait dire qu'elle\nle connaissait; elle voyait bien que c'était un homme sensé, aimable,\nqu'il causait bien, et professait de bonnes opinions. Il avait le\nsentiment du devoir, et elle ne pouvait le trouver en défaut sur aucun\npoint, mais cependant elle n'aurait pas voulu répondre de lui. Elle se\nméfiait du passé, sinon du présent. Quelques mots prononcés parfois lui\ndonnaient des soupçons; et qui pouvait répondre des sentiments d'un\nhomme habile et prudent, qui feignait peut-être d'être ce qu'il n'était\npas?\n\nM. Elliot n'était pas ouvert: le bien ou le mal n'excitait en lui aucun\nélan de plaisir ou d'indignation. Pour Anna, c'était un grand défaut:\nelle adorait la franchise et l'enthousiasme.\n\nElle se fiait plus à la sincérité de ceux qui disent parfois une parole\nirréfléchie qu'à ceux dont la présence d'esprit ne fait jamais défaut,\net dont la langue ne se trompe jamais. M. Elliot savait plaire à tous;\nil lui avait parlé ouvertement de Mme Clay, et cependant il était aussi\naimable avec elle qu'avec toute autre. Lady Russel en voyait plus ou\nmoins que sa jeune amie, car elle n'avait aucune défiance. Elle ne\npouvait imaginer un homme plus parfait, et rien ne lui eût été plus doux\nque de voir sa bien-aimée Anna lui donner la main dans l'église de\nKellynch, au prochain automne.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XVIII\n\n\nOn était au commencement de février. Anna était depuis un mois à Bath,\net attendait impatiemment des nouvelles d'Uppercross et de Lyme. Depuis\ntrois semaines elle n'en avait pas reçu: elle savait seulement\nqu'Henriette était de retour à la maison et que Louisa était encore à\nLyme. Elle y pensait un soir plus que de coutume, quand une lettre de\nMarie lui fut remise avec les compliments de M. et Mme Croft.\n\n«Comment! les Croft sont à Bath? dit Sir Walter; que vous envoient-ils?\n\n--Une lettre d'Uppercross-Cottage, mon père.\n\n--Oh! ces lettres sont des passeports commodes pour être reçus.\nNéanmoins, j'aurais en tout cas visité les Croft. Je sais ce que je dois\nà mon locataire.»\n\n  «Ma chère Anna, disait la lettre, je ne m'excuse pas de mon silence,\n  parce qu'on ne doit guère se soucier des lettres à Bath. Vous êtes\n  trop heureuse pour penser à Uppercross. Notre Noël a été très triste.\n  les Musgrove n'ont pas donné un seul dîner. Je ne compte pas les\n  Hayter. Les vacances sont enfin finies. Nous n'en avons jamais eu\n  d'aussi longues quand nous étions enfants. La maison a été débarrassée\n  hier, excepté des petits Harville, et vous serez surprise d'apprendre\n  qu'ils ne sont pas venus chez moi une seule fois. Mme Harville est une\n  étrange mère de s'en séparer si longtemps. Ce ne sont pas de jolis\n  enfants, mais Mme Musgrove semble les aimer autant et même plus que\n  les siens.\n\n  »Quel affreux temps nous avons eu! Vous ne vous en apercevez pas à\n  Bath avec vos pavés propres. A la campagne, c'est autre chose.\n\n  »Je n'ai pas eu une seule visite depuis la deuxième semaine de\n  janvier, excepté Charles Hayter, qui est venu trop souvent.\n\n  »Entre nous, c'est grand dommage qu'Henriette ne soit pas restée à\n  Lyme aussi longtemps que Louisa, cela l'aurait tenue loin de lui. La\n  voiture vient de partir pour ramener demain Louisa et les Harville.\n  Nous ne sommes invités à dîner avec eux que le surlendemain, tant on\n  craint la fatigue du voyage pour Louisa, ce qui n'est pas probable si\n  l'on pense aux soins dont elle est l'objet. J'aimerais bien mieux y\n  dîner demain.\n\n  »Je suis bien aise que vous trouviez M. Elliot si aimable, et je\n  voudrais le connaître aussi. Mais j'ai la mauvaise chance de n'être\n  jamais là quand il y a quelque chose d'agréable. Je suis la dernière\n  de la famille dont on s'occupe.\n\n  »Quel temps immense Mme Clay passe avec Élisabeth! A-t-elle\n  l'intention de s'en aller jamais? Pensez-vous que nous serions invités\n  si elle laissait la place libre? Je puis très bien laisser mes enfants\n  à Great-House pendant un mois ou six semaines.\n\n  »J'ai entendu dire que les Croft partaient pour Bath: ils n'ont pas eu\n  l'attention de demander mes commissions; ils ne sont guère polis! Nous\n  les voyons à peine, et c'est réellement de leur part un manque\n  d'égards.\n\n  »Charles se joint à moi pour vous dire mille choses amicales.\n\n  »Votre soeur affectionnée,\n\n      »Marie M.\n\n  »_P. S._--Je suis fâchée de vous dire que je suis loin d'aller bien,\n  et Jémina vient d'apprendre chez le boucher qu'il y a beaucoup\n  d'angines ici. Je crois que j'en aurai une, car mes maux de gorge sont\n  toujours plus dangereux que ceux des autres.»\n\nAinsi finissait la première partie, à laquelle avait été ajouté ceci:\n\n  «J'ai laissé ma lettre ouverte afin de vous dire comment Louisa a\n  supporté le voyage; et j'en suis très contente, car j'ai beaucoup à\n  ajouter. D'abord j'ai reçu hier un mot de Mme Croft, demandant si\n  j'avais quelque chose à vous envoyer: une lettre très bonne, très\n  amicale, et adressée à moi, comme cela doit être. L'amiral ne semble\n  pas très malade, et j'espère sincèrement que Bath lui fera du bien. Je\n  serai vraiment heureuse quand ils reviendront: nous ne pouvons pas\n  nous passer d'une si aimable famille.\n\n  »Maintenant, parlons de Louisa: vous serez bien étonnée. Elle est\n  arrivée mardi. Le soir, en allant prendre de ses nouvelles, nous fûmes\n  surpris de ne pas trouver Benwick, car il avait été invité aussi. Et\n  devinez-vous pourquoi il n'y était pas? Il fait la cour à Louisa, et\n  n'a pas voulu venir avant d'avoir reçu la réponse de M. Musgrove à sa\n  demande écrite. Je serais surprise que vous sachiez cela, car on ne\n  m'en a rien dit. Nous sommes très contents, car ce mariage, quoique\n  moins bon que celui du capitaine Wenvorth, est un million de fois\n  meilleur que celui de Charles Hayter. M. Musgrove a donné son\n  consentement. On attend le capitaine Benwick.\n\n  »Charles se demande ce que dira Wenvorth, mais vous vous souvenez que\n  je n'ai jamais cru à son attachement pour Louisa.\n\n  »Et voilà la fin de la supposition que Benwick était votre adorateur!\n\n  »Il est incompréhensible pour moi que Charles ait pu se mettre cela\n  dans la tête.»\n\nJamais Anna ne fut plus surprise. Le capitaine Benwick et Louisa\nMusgrove! C'était trop étonnant pour le croire.\n\nSir Walter désirait savoir si les Croft voyageaient à quatre chevaux,\ns'ils allaient habiter un assez beau quartier pour qu'on pût aller les\nvoir.\n\n«Comment se porte Marie?» dit Élisabeth. Et sans attendre la réponse:\n\n«Qu'est-ce qui amène les Croft à Bath?\n\n--C'est à cause du général, qui a la goutte.\n\n--La goutte et la décrépitude! dit Sir Walter, pauvre vieux gentilhomme!\n\n--Connaissent-ils quelqu'un ici? demanda Élisabeth.\n\n--Je ne sais pas. Mais, à l'âge de l'amiral et avec sa profession, il ne\ndoit pas manquer de connaissances dans une ville comme Bath.\n\n--Je pense, dit posément Sir Walter, que l'amiral sera connu ici comme\nlocataire de Kellynch. Élisabeth, pouvons-nous nous aventurer à les\nprésenter à Laura-Place?\n\n--Je ne crois pas; nous sommes cousins de lady Dalrymph, et nous ne\ndevons pas lui imposer des connaissances qu'elle pourrait désapprouver.\nIl vaut mieux laisser les Croft avec leurs égaux.»\n\nCe fut tout l'intérêt qu'Élisabeth prit à la lettre de Marie, et quand\nMme Clay se fut informée poliment de Mme Musgrove et de ses charmants\nenfants, on laissa Anna tranquille.\n\nUne fois dans sa chambre, elle chercha à comprendre. Peut-être Wenvorth,\ns'apercevant qu'il n'aimait pas Louisa, s'était-il retiré? Elle ne\npouvait admettre l'idée de légèreté ou de trahison.\n\nLe capitaine Benwick et Louisa Musgrove! La vive et gaie Louisa, et le\ntriste et sentimental Benwick! les derniers entre tous qui semblaient se\nconvenir! Mais ils s'étaient trouvés ensemble pendant plusieurs\nsemaines; ils avaient vécu dans le même petit cercle. Louisa relevant de\nmaladie était plus intéressante, et Benwick moins inconsolable. Anna, au\nlieu de tirer du présent les mêmes conclusions que Marie, soupçonnait\nque Benwick avait eu un commencement d'inclination pour elle. Mais elle\nn'en tirait point vanité. Benwick lui avait été reconnaissant de la\nsympathie qu'elle lui avait montrée. Il avait un coeur aimant.\n\nElle pensait qu'ils pouvaient être heureux: lui gagnerait de la gaîté,\nelle de l'enthousiasme pour Byron ou Walter Scott. Mais c'était déjà\nfait probablement; la poésie avait rapproché leurs coeurs. L'idée de\nLouisa, devenue personne littéraire et sentimentale, était amusante.\n\nL'accident arrivé à Lyme avait pu avoir une influence sur sa santé et\nson caractère aussi bien que sur sa destinée.\n\nNon, ce n'était pas le regret qui, en dépit d'elle-même, faisait battre\nle coeur d'Anna et lui mettait la rougeur aux joues, quand elle pensait\nque Wenvorth était libre! Elle avait honte d'analyser ses sentiments.\nIls ressemblaient trop à de la joie: une joie immense.\n\nLes Croft, à la parfaite satisfaction de Sir Walter, se logèrent dans\nGay-Street. Dès lors il ne rougit pas de les connaître, et parla\nbeaucoup plus de l'amiral que celui-ci n'avait jamais parlé de lui. Les\nCroft apportaient à Bath leur habitude de province d'être toujours\nensemble. La marche était ordonnée à l'amiral pour guérir sa goutte, et\nAnna les rencontrait partout. Ils étaient pour elle l'image du bonheur.\nElle les suivait longtemps des yeux, ravie de pouvoir s'imaginer ce\nqu'ils disaient marchant côte à côte, heureux et indépendants; ou de\nvoir quelle cordiale poignée de mains l'amiral donnait à un ami, et le\ngroupe animé qu'il formait parfois avec d'autres marins. Mme Croft, au\nmilieu d'eux, paraissait aussi intelligente et aussi fine qu'aucun des\nofficiers qui l'entouraient.\n\nUn matin, Anna, traversant Milton-Street, rencontra l'amiral; il était\nseul, et si occupé à regarder des gravures, qu'il ne la vit pas d'abord.\nQuand il l'eut aperçue, il dit avec sa bonne humeur habituelle: «Ah!\nc'est vous. Vous me voyez planté devant ce tableau: je ne puis passer\nici sans m'y arrêter. Mais est-ce là un bateau? Regardez. En avez-vous\njamais vu un pareil? Vos peintres sont étonnants, s'ils croient qu'on\nvoudrait risquer sa vie dans cette vieille coquille de noix informe. Et\ncependant, voilà deux personnages qui y semblent parfaitement à l'aise.\nIls regardent les rochers et les montagnes comme s'ils n'allaient pas\nêtre culbutés, ce qui arrivera certainement. Maintenant, où allez-vous?\nPuis-je vous accompagner, ou faire quelque chose pour vous?\n\n--Non, merci, à moins de faire route avec moi. Je vais à la maison.\n\n--Certainement, de tout mon coeur. Nous ferons une bonne promenade, et\nj'ai quelque chose à vous dire. Prenez mon bras; je ne me sens pas à\nl'aise si je n'ai pas le bras d'une femme.\n\n--Vous avez quelque chose à me dire?\n\n--Oui; mais voici un ami, le capitaine Bridgdem. Je veux seulement lui\ndemander comment il va, en passant. Il est surpris de me voir avec une\nautre femme que la mienne. La pauvre âme est prise par la jambe; elle a\nau talon une ampoule presque aussi large qu'une pièce de cinq francs.\nVoyez-vous l'amiral Brand qui vient vers nous avec son frère? Habits\nrâpés tous deux; je suis content qu'ils soient de l'autre côté de la\nrue. Sophie ne peut pas les souffrir. Ils m'ont joué autrefois un vilain\ntour, je vous conterai cela. Voici le vieux Sir Archibald et son\npetit-fils. Regardez, il nous voit. Il vous envoie un baiser, et vous\nprend pour ma femme. Ah! la paix est venue trop tôt pour ce jeune homme.\nPauvre vieux Sir Archibald!\n\n»Aimez-vous Bath, miss Elliot? Bath me convient très bien; nous\nrencontrons toujours quelque vieil ami. On est sûr de pouvoir bavarder,\npuis, rentrés chez nous, nous nous plongeons dans nos fauteuils, et nous\nsommes aussi bien qu'à Kellynch.»\n\nAnna le pressa de lui dire ce qu'il avait à lui communiquer. Mais elle\nfut obligée d'attendre, car l'amiral s'était mis en tête de ne parler\nque sur la place Belmont.\n\n«Maintenant, dit-il, vous allez entendre quelque chose de surprenant;\nmais d'abord dites-moi le nom de la cadette des misses Musgrove. Je\nl'oublie toujours.»\n\nAnna la nomma.\n\n«Oui, Louisa Musgrove, c'est cela. Si les jeunes filles n'avaient pas\nd'aussi beaux noms, et s'appelaient simplement Sophie ou Marie, je ne me\ntromperais jamais. Eh bien! nous pensions que cette miss Louisa allait\népouser Frédéric. Depuis quelque temps il lui faisait la cour. On se\ndemandait seulement pourquoi ils attendaient, quand arriva l'accident de\nLyme. Frédéric, au lieu de rester à Lyme, alla à Plymouth, puis il\npartit pour aller voir Édouard, et il y est encore. Nous ne l'avons pas\nvu depuis novembre. Sophie elle-même n'y comprend rien. Mais aujourd'hui\nles choses ont pris le tour le plus étrange, car cette jeune miss\nMusgrove, au lieu d'épouser Frédéric, se marie avec James Benwick. Vous\nle connaissez?\n\n--Un peu.\n\n--Eh bien, ils doivent être mariés déjà, car je ne vois pas pourquoi ils\nattendraient.\n\n--Le capitaine Benwick est un homme très aimable, et on lui donne un\nexcellent caractère.\n\n--Oh! oui, il n'y a rien à dire contre lui. Il n'est commandant que de\nl'année dernière, il est vrai, et le moment est mauvais pour avoir de\nl'avancement, mais je ne lui connais pas d'autre défaut. C'est un\nexcellent garçon, un officier actif et zélé, plus que vous ne le croyez,\npeut-être, car son air tranquille ne lui rend pas justice.\n\n--Vous vous trompez, monsieur; les manières du capitaine ne me font pas\nsupposer qu'il manque d'énergie. Je les trouve très agréables, et je\nsuis sûre qu'elles plaisent généralement.\n\n--Bien, bien; les dames sont les meilleurs juges; mais James Benwick est\nun peu trop tranquille pour moi. C'est probablement l'effet de notre\npartialité, mais Sophie et moi, nous préférons les manières de Frédéric.\n\n--Je n'avais pas l'intention, dit Anna après un peu d'hésitation, de\ncomparer les deux amis.»\n\nMais l'amiral l'interrompit:\n\n«La nouvelle du mariage est certainement vraie, il n'y a pas là de\ncancans. Nous le savons par Frédéric lui-même, qui l'a écrit à sa soeur.\nJe pense qu'ils sont tous à Uppercross.»\n\nAnna ne put résister à la tentation de dire:\n\n«J'espère, amiral, qu'il n'y a rien dans la lettre du capitaine qui\npuisse vous faire de peine. Il semblait exister un attachement entre lui\net Louisa à l'automne dernier; mais j'aime à croire qu'il s'en est allé\nde part et d'autre sans déchirement! J'espère que le capitaine n'a à se\nplaindre de personne.\n\n--Non, certainement; Frédéric n'est pas un homme à gémir et à se\nplaindre. Il a trop d'esprit pour cela. Si la jeune fille en préfère un\nautre, qu'elle le prenne.\n\n--Vous avez raison; j'espère seulement que le capitaine n'a pas à se\nplaindre de son ami. Je serais bien fâchée que leur amitié fût détruite,\nou même refroidie par une chose semblable.\n\n--Oui, oui, je vous comprends. Mais sa lettre n'en dit rien. Il ne\ntémoigne pas même le plus léger étonnement.»\n\nAnna ne fut pas aussi convaincue que l'amiral. Mais il était inutile\nd'en demander davantage.\n\n«Pauvre Frédéric, dit l'amiral; il faut qu'il recommence à nouveaux\nfrais. Sophie doit lui écrire de venir; il y a ici de jolies filles, il\nme semble. Il serait inutile d'aller à Uppercross à présent, car l'autre\nmiss Musgrove est recherchée par son cousin, le jeune ministre. Ne\npensez-vous pas, miss Elliot, qu'il fera mieux de venir à Bath?»\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XIX\n\n\nTandis que l'amiral parlait de Wenvorth, celui-ci était déjà en route.\nAnna l'aperçut la première fois qu'elle sortit. Elle était avec sa\nsoeur, M. Elliot et Mme Clay; on traversait la rue Nelson, il commençait\nà pleuvoir. Les dames entrèrent dans un magasin, tandis que M. Elliot\ns'avançait vers lady Dalrymph, dont la voiture stationnait à quelques\npas de là, et lui demandait de prendre ces dames.\n\nMais la calèche ne contenait que quatre places, et miss Carteret était\navec sa mère.\n\nUne place appartenait de droit à miss Elliot l'aînée; mais il y eut un\ndébat de politesse entre Mme Clay et Anna, pour la seconde place.\n\nAnna se souciait peu de la pluie et préférait marcher; Mme Clay ne la\ncraignait pas non plus, et était d'ailleurs solidement chaussée. Mais\nmiss Elliot affirma que Mme Clay avait déjà pris froid; et M. Elliot\nsoutint que les bottines d'Anna étaient les plus solides; cela mit fin\nau débat. Tout à coup, Anna, assise près de la fenêtre, aperçut\nWenvorth, qui descendait la rue. Elle ne put s'empêcher de tressaillir,\ntout en se disant que c'était absurde. Pendant quelques minutes, elle ne\nvit rien; tout était confus autour d'elle. Quand elle put se remettre,\non attendait encore la voiture, et M. Elliot s'apprêtait à faire une\ncommission pour Mme Clay.\n\nElle alla vers la porte pour voir s'il pleuvait. Quel autre motif\naurait-elle eu? Le capitaine devait être parti.\n\nElle rebroussa chemin en voyant entrer le capitaine Wenvorth lui-même\navec plusieurs dames et gentlemen. La vue d'Anna parut le troubler; il\nrougit extrêmement.\n\nPour la première fois, elle trahissait moins d'émotion que lui. Elle\navait pu se préparer, et pourtant elle était émue.\n\nIl lui dit quelques mots. Il n'était ni froid ni amical, mais\nembarrassé.\n\nAnna vit avec peine, mais sans surprise, qu'Élisabeth ne voulait pas\nreconnaître M. Elliot. Il n'attendait qu'un signe d'elle pour la saluer,\nmais elle se détourna avec une froideur glaciale. Bientôt un domestique\nannonça la voiture de lady Dalrymph.\n\nLa pluie recommençait; il y eut dans la petite boutique un mouvement\nqui apprit aux assistants que lady Dalrymph venait chercher miss Elliot.\nAlors le capitaine, se tournant vers Anna, lui offrit ses services\nplutôt par son attitude que par ses paroles.\n\n«Je vous remercie, dit-elle. Je ne monte pas en voiture; il n'y a pas de\nplace, et je préfère marcher.\n\n--Mais il pleut.\n\n--Oh! très peu; je n'y prends pas garde».\n\nAprès un silence, il dit, en montrant son parapluie:\n\n«Quoique arrivé d'hier, je me suis déjà équipé pour Bath. Prenez-le si\nvous tenez à marcher; mais il serait plus prudent de me laisser chercher\nune voiture.»\n\nElle refusa, disant qu'elle attendait M. Elliot. Elle parlait encore\nquand il entra. Wenvorth le reconnut, c'était bien celui qu'il avait vu\nà Lyme s'arrêter sur l'escalier pour admirer Anna. Sa manière d'être et\nses façons étaient celles d'un parent, ou d'un ami privilégié. Il lui\noffrit son bras. En sortant, Anna ne put jeter à Wenvorth qu'un bonjour,\naccompagné d'un doux et timide regard.\n\nQuand ils furent partis, les dames qui étaient avec le capitaine se\nmirent à parler d'eux.\n\n«Miss Elliot ne déplaît pas à son cousin, je crois?\n\n--Oh! c'est assez clair. On peut deviner ce qui arrivera. Il est\ntoujours avec eux. Il vit à moitié dans la famille. Il a très bon air.\n\n--Oui, et miss Atkinson, qui a dîné une fois avec lui, dit qu'elle n'a\njamais vu un homme plus aimable.\n\n--Quand on regarde bien miss Elliot, on la trouve jolie. J'avoue que je\nla préfère à sa soeur, malgré l'avis général.\n\n--Moi aussi.\n\n--Oh! sans comparaison. Mais les hommes sont tous enthousiastes de miss\nElliot. Anna est trop délicate pour eux.»\n\nAnna aurait bien voulu ne pas causer. Son cousin était plein\nd'attention, et choisissait des sujets propres à l'intéresser, soit des\nlouanges sensées et justes de lady Russel, soit des insinuations contre\nMme Clay. Mais Anna ne pouvait en ce moment penser qu'à Wenvorth. Elle\nne pouvait deviner ce qu'il pensait, ni être calme. Elle espérait être\nsage et raisonnable plus tard; mais, hélas! elle devait s'avouer qu'elle\nne l'était pas encore.\n\nS'il restait à Bath, lady Russel ne pouvait manquer de le voir. Le\nreconnaîtrait-elle? Qu'en résulterait-il? Déjà elle avait dû dire à son\namie que Louisa allait épouser Benwick et avait été gênée en voyant la\nsurprise de lady Russel, qui ne connaissait pas bien la situation.\n\nLe lendemain, Anna, en descendant la rue Pulleney avec lady Russel,\naperçut Wenvorth sur le trottoir opposé, et ne le perdit plus de vue.\nQuand il fut plus près, elle regarda lady Russel et vit qu'elle\nobservait attentivement Wenvorth. A la difficulté qu'elle avait à en\ndétacher ses yeux, Anna comprit qu'il exerçait sur lady Russel une sorte\nde fascination. Elle paraissait étonnée que huit années passées dans des\npays étrangers et dans le service actif ne lui eussent rien enlevé de sa\nbonne mine.\n\nA la fin, lady Russel détourna la tête:\n\n«Vous vous demandez sans doute ce qui a arrêté mes yeux si longtemps: je\nregardais à une fenêtre des rideaux dont lady Alis m'a parlé.»\n\nAnna soupira et rougit de pitié et de dédain soit pour son amie, soit\npour elle-même. Ce qui la vexait le plus, c'est qu'elle n'avait pu\ns'assurer s'il les avait aperçues.\n\nUn jour ou deux se passèrent sans le voir, et Anna, s'imaginant plus\nforte qu'elle n'était, attendait avec impatience un concert donné pour\nle bénéfice d'une personne patronnée par lady Dalrymph. On disait qu'il\nserait bon, et Wenvorth aimait passionnément la musique. Elle désirait\ncauser quelques instants avec lui, et se sentait le courage de lui\nadresser la parole. Ni lady Russel, ni Élisabeth n'avaient voulu le\nreconnaître, et elle pensait qu'elle lui devait une réparation.\n\nElle avait promis à Mme Shmith de passer la soirée avec elle. Elle y\nentra un instant, lui promettant une plus longue visite le lendemain.\n\n«Certainement, dit Mme Shmith; seulement vous me raconterez tout. Où\nallez-vous?»\n\nAnna le lui dit, et ne reçut pas de réponse. Mais quand elle sortit, Mme\nShmith lui dit d'un air moitié sérieux, moitié malin:\n\n«Ne manquez pas de venir demain. Quelque chose me dit que bientôt vous\nne viendrez plus.»\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XX\n\n\nSir Walter, ses deux filles et Mme Clay arrivèrent les premiers au\nconcert, et, en attendant lady Dalrymph, s'assirent auprès du feu; à\npeine y étaient-ils que le capitaine Wenvorth entra. Anna se trouvait\nprès de la porte, elle s'avança vers lui et lui dit un bonsoir gracieux.\nIl se mit à causer avec elle, malgré les regards du père et de la soeur.\nAnna ne les voyait pas, mais entendait leurs chuchotements, et quand\nelle vit Wenvorth saluer de loin, elle comprit que Sir Walter avait bien\nvoulu lui faire un léger salut. Après avoir parlé de Bath et du concert,\nil lui dit en souriant et en rougissant un peu:\n\n«Je vous ai à peine vue depuis la journée passée à Lyme. Je crains que\nvous n'ayez souffert de cette émotion, d'autant plus que vous l'avez\nrenfermée.»\n\nElle l'assura qu'elle n'avait pas souffert.\n\n«Ce fut un terrible moment,» dit-il, et il passa sa main sur ses yeux,\ncomme si ce souvenir était encore trop pénible, mais bientôt il ajouta\nen souriant:\n\n«Cette journée cependant a eu des conséquences qui ne sont pas\nterribles. Quand vous eûtes la présence d'esprit de suggérer que c'était\nà Benwick de trouver un médecin, vous ne pensiez guère que c'était lui\nqui avait le plus d'intérêt à la guérison de Louisa.\n\n--Cela est certain. Mais j'espère que ce sera un heureux mariage. Ils\nont tous deux de bons principes et un bon caractère.\n\n--Oui, dit-il, mais ici finit la ressemblance. Je les souhaite heureux\nde toute mon âme. Ils n'auront ni lutte à soutenir, ni caprices, ni\nopposition, ni retards. Tout cela est beaucoup plus que.......»\n\nIl s'arrêta: un souvenir soudain lui donna un peu de cette émotion qui\nfaisait rougir Anna et lui faisait tenir les yeux baissés. Il affermit\nsa voix, et continua:\n\n«J'avoue que je trouve entre eux une différence d'esprit trop grande.\nLouisa est une aimable jeune fille, douce et assez intelligente, mais\nBenwick est quelque chose de plus. C'est un homme instruit, un esprit\ndélicat, et j'avoue que je suis étonné de son choix. S'il avait été\npréféré par elle et l'eût aimée par reconnaissance, c'est différent;\nmais il semble, au contraire, qu'il y ait eu chez lui un attachement\nsoudain, et cela me surprend. Un homme comme lui! un coeur presque\nbrisé! Fanny Harville était une créature supérieure, et il l'aimait\nsincèrement. Un homme ne doit pas guérir, et ne guérit pas d'un tel\namour pour une telle femme.»\n\nAnna éprouva en un moment mille sensations de plaisir et de confusion.\nElle sentait son coeur battre plus vite. Il lui fut impossible de\ncontinuer ce sujet, mais, sentant la nécessité de parler, elle prit un\ndétour:\n\n«Êtes-vous resté longtemps à Lyme?\n\n--Environ quinze jours. Je ne pouvais pas m'éloigner tant que Louisa\nétait en danger. J'avais eu une part trop grande dans ce malheur pour\nêtre tranquille. C'était ma faute. Elle n'aurait pas été si obstinée, si\nj'avais été moins faible. J'ai exploré les environs de Lyme, qui sont\ntrès beaux; et plus je voyais, plus je trouvais à admirer.\n\n--J'aimerais bien à revoir Lyme, dit Anna.\n\n--Vraiment, je ne l'aurais pas cru. La scène de désolation à laquelle\nvous avez été mêlée, la fatigue et la contention d'esprit que vous avez\néprouvées auraient dû vous dégoûter de Lyme.\n\n--Les dernières heures furent certainement pénibles, répondit Anna,\nmais le souvenir d'un chagrin passé devient un plaisir, et ce n'est pas\nle seul souvenir que Lyme m'ait laissé. Nous y avons eu beaucoup de\nplaisir. J'ai voyagé si peu que tout endroit nouveau m'intéresse. Il y a\nde réelles beautés à Lyme. Il ne me reste que des impressions\nagréables,» dit-elle en rougissant un peu.\n\nA ce moment la porte s'ouvrit.\n\n«Lady Dalrymph,» s'écria-t-on joyeusement, et Sir Walter et sa fille\ns'avancèrent avec empressement au-devant d'elle. Anna fut séparée du\ncapitaine Wenvorth, mais elle en avait appris en dix minutes plus\nqu'elle n'eût osé espérer. Elle cacha son agitation et sa joie sous les\nbanalités de la conversation. Elle se sentait polie et bonne, et\ndisposée à plaindre tous ceux qui n'étaient pas aussi heureux qu'elle.\n\nOn entra dans la salle du concert. Élisabeth, au bras de miss Carteret,\nregardait le large dos de la douairière vicomtesse Dalrymph et semblait\nau comble du bonheur.\n\nEt Anna?....... Mais ce serait insulter à son bonheur que de le\ncomparer à celui de sa soeur. L'un prenait sa source dans une vanité\négoïste, l'autre dans un noble attachement.\n\nAnna ne voyait rien autour d'elle. Son bonheur était en elle-même. Ses\nyeux brillaient, ses joues brûlaient, mais elle n'en savait rien. Elle\nne pensait qu'à cette dernière demi-heure. Les expressions du capitaine,\nle sujet qu'il avait choisi, et plus encore son air et son regard, ne\npouvaient laisser à Anna aucun doute. Son étonnement touchant Benwick,\nses idées sur une première affection, les phrases qu'il n'avait pu\nfinir, ses yeux qui se détournaient: tout disait à Anna que ce coeur lui\nrevenait enfin; que la colère et le ressentiment n'existaient plus, et\nqu'ils étaient remplacés par l'ancienne tendresse. Oui, il l'aimait; ces\npensées et les images qu'elles suggéraient l'absorbaient entièrement.\n\nQuand chacun fut assis à sa place, elle chercha des yeux Wenvorth, mais\nelle ne le vit pas, et le concert commença. M. Elliot s'était arrangé de\nfaçon à être placé près d'Anna. Miss Elliot, assise entre ses deux\ncousines et l'objet des attentions du colonel Wallis, était très\nsatisfaite. Anna était dans une disposition d'esprit à jouir de la\nmusique; pendant l'entr'acte elle expliquait à M. Elliot les paroles\nd'une chanson italienne. «Voici à peu près le sens, dit-elle, car une\nchanson d'amour ne se peut guère traduire, et je ne suis pas très\nsavante.\n\n--Oui, je vois que vous ne savez rien, vous vous bornez à traduire\nfidèlement, élégamment ces inversions et ces obscurités de la langue\nitalienne. Ne parlez plus de votre ignorance, en voici une preuve\ncomplète.\n\n--J'accepte vos éloges comme une bienveillante politesse, mais je ne\nvoudrais pas subir un examen sérieux.\n\n--Je n'ai pas fréquenté Camben-Place si longtemps sans apprécier miss\nAnna Elliot. Elle est trop modeste pour que le monde connaisse la moitié\nde ses perfections, et chez toute autre femme cette modestie ne serait\npas naturelle.\n\n--De grâce, arrêtez: c'est trop de flatterie. Que va-t-on jouer\nmaintenant? dit-elle en regardant le programme.\n\n--Je vous connais peut-être, dit M. Elliot en baissant la voix, depuis\nplus longtemps que vous ne pensez.\n\n--Vraiment! comment cela se peut-il? Vous ne pouvez me connaître que\ndepuis mon arrivée à Bath.\n\n--Je vous connaissais par ouï-dire, longtemps avant. On vous a dépeinte\nà moi. Votre personne, vos goûts, vos talents, tout est présent à mon\nesprit.»\n\nM. Elliot ne se trompait pas en espérant éveiller l'intérêt d'Anna. On\néprouve un charme mystérieux et irrésistible à être connue depuis\nlongtemps sans le savoir. Elle le questionna, mais en vain. Il était\nravi qu'on l'interrogeât, mais il ne voulait rien dire.\n\n«Non, non, plus tard peut-être, mais pas maintenant.»\n\nAnna se dit que ce ne pouvait être que M. Wenvorth, le frère du\ncapitaine, qui avait parlé d'elle.\n\n«Le nom d'Anna Elliot m'intéresse depuis longtemps, ajouta-t-il, et, si\nj'osais, j'exprimerais le désir qu'elle n'en change jamais.»\n\nTout à coup une autre voix attira son attention. Son père parlait à lady\nDalrymph.\n\n«C'est un très bel homme, disait-il.\n\n--Oui, dit lady Dalrymph. Il a plus grand air que les gens qu'on voit\ngénéralement à Bath. N'est-il pas Irlandais?\n\n--Son nom est Wenvorth, capitaine de marine. Sa soeur est la femme de M.\nCroft, mon locataire à Kellynch, dans le comté de Somerset.»\n\nAnna, ayant suivi la direction des regards de son père, aperçut le\ncapitaine, debout au milieu d'un groupe. Quand leurs yeux se\nrencontrèrent, il lui sembla qu'il détournait les siens.\n\nMais la musique recommença, et elle fut forcée d'y donner son\nattention. Quand elle regarda de nouveau, il était parti.\n\nLa première partie du concert étant finie, quelques personnes\nproposèrent d'aller prendre du thé. Anna resta assise à côté de lady\nRussel, et fut débarrassée de M. Elliot. Elle était décidée à parler à\nWenvorth si le hasard l'amenait auprès d'elle, malgré la présence de\nlady Russel, qui l'avait certainement aperçu. La salle se remplit de\nnouveau, et Anna eut à entendre une longue heure de musique. Elle était\nfort agitée, et ne pouvait être tranquille tant qu'elle n'aurait pas\néchangé avec lui un regard ami.\n\nElle se plaça à dessein à l'extrémité d'une banquette, avec une place\nvide auprès d'elle. Bientôt Wenvorth s'approcha, mais avec hésitation;\nil avait un air grave; le changement était frappant. Elle pensa que son\npère ou lady Russel l'avait peut-être blessé... Il parla du concert, dit\nqu'il espérait de meilleur chant et qu'il ne serait pas fâché d'en voir\nla fin. Mais elle défendit si bien les chanteurs, tout en tenant compte,\nd'une manière charmante, de l'opinion du capitaine qu'il répondit par un\nsourire et que sa figure s'éclaircit.\n\nAlors il parut plus à l'aise, et jeta même un regard sur le banc pour y\nprendre place à côté d'Anna. A ce moment elle se sentit toucher\nl'épaule; c'était M. Elliot qui la priait de vouloir bien expliquer\nencore l'italien. Miss Carteret désirait comprendre ce qu'on allait\nchanter.\n\nAnna ne put refuser, mais jamais elle n'avait fait à la politesse un\nplus grand sacrifice.\n\nQuand elle se retourna vers le capitaine, il lui dit adieu\nprécipitamment.\n\n«Cette chanson ne mérite-t-elle pas qu'on reste? dit Anna soudainement\npoussée à encourager Wenvorth.\n\n--Non, dit-il d'un ton singulier. Rien ici n'est digne de me retenir.»\nEt il partit.\n\nIl était donc jaloux de M. Elliot. C'était là le seul motif plausible.\nAurait-elle pu le croire trois heures auparavant! Ce fut un moment de\njoie exquise. Mais, hélas! combien différentes furent les pensées qui\nsuivirent! Comment apaiser cette jalousie? Comment pourrait-il jamais\nconnaître les vrais sentiments d'Anna?\n\nLes attentions de M. Elliot la firent souffrir horriblement, ce\nsoir-là.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXI\n\n\nLe lendemain Anna se rappela avec plaisir sa promesse à Mme Shmith. Elle\nserait absente quand M. Elliot viendrait, car l'éviter était maintenant\nson seul désir. Elle éprouvait cependant pour lui une grande\nbienveillance; elle lui devait de la reconnaissance et de l'estime. Mais\nWenvorth existait seul pour elle, soit qu'elle dût être unie à lui, soit\nqu'elle en fût séparée pour toujours. Jamais peut-être les rues de Bath\nn'avaient été traversées par de pareils rêves d'amour.\n\nCe matin-là son amie sembla particulièrement reconnaissante, car elle\ncomptait à peine sur sa visite. Elle demanda des détails, et Anna se fit\nun plaisir de lui raconter la soirée. Ses traits étaient animés par le\nsouvenir. Mais ce n'était pas assez pour la curieuse Mme Shmith, qui\ndemanda des détails particuliers sur les personnes.\n\n«Les petites Durand étaient-elles là, la bouche ouverte pour gober la\nmusique, comme des moineaux qui demandent la becquée. Elles ne manquent\njamais un concert.\n\n--Je ne les ai pas vues. Mais j'ai entendu dire qu'elles étaient dans la\nsalle.\n\n--Et la vieille lady Maclean? Elle devait être dans votre voisinage, car\nvous étiez certainement aux places d'honneur, près de l'orchestre, avec\nlady Dalrymph?\n\n--Non, c'est ce que je craignais; mais heureusement lady Dalrymph\ncherche toujours à être le plus loin possible, et il paraît que je n'ai\npas vu grand'chose.\n\n--Oh! assez pour votre amusement, il me semble, et puis vous aviez mieux\nà faire. Je vois dans vos yeux que vous avez eu une soirée agréable.\nVous causiez dans les entr'actes?»\n\nAnna sourit. «Que voyez-vous dans mes yeux?\n\n--Votre visage me dit que vous étiez hier avec la personne que vous\ntrouvez la plus aimable entre toutes, et qui vous intéresse plus que\nl'univers entier.»\n\nUne rougeur s'étendit sur les joues d'Anna; elle ne put répondre.\n\n«Et cela étant, continua Mme Shmith après un silence, vous saurez\ncombien j'apprécie votre visite. C'est vraiment bien bon de votre part,\nvous qui avez tant d'autres invitations.»\n\nLa pénétration de Mme Shmith saisit Anna d'étonnement et de confusion;\nelle ne pouvait imaginer comment elle savait quelque chose sur Wenvorth.\n\n«Dites-moi, je vous prie, continua Mme Shmith; M. Elliot sait-il que je\nsuis à Bath, et que vous me connaissez?\n\n--M. Elliot! reprit Anna surprise, mais elle se reprit aussitôt, et\najouta d'un air indifférent: Vous le connaissez?\n\n--Je l'ai connu beaucoup autrefois, dit madame Shmith gravement; mais\nc'est fini maintenant.\n\n--Vous ne m'en avez jamais rien dit! Si je l'avais su, j'aurais eu le\nplaisir de lui parler de vous.\n\n--Pour dire la vérité, dit Mme Shmith reprenant son air gai, c'est\nexactement le plaisir que je vous prie de me faire. M. Elliot peut\nm'être très utile, et si vous avez la bonté, chère miss Elliot, de\nprendre ma cause en main, elle sera gagnée.\n\n--J'en serais extrêmement heureuse: j'espère que vous ne doutez pas de\nmon désir de vous être utile, répondit Anna, mais vous me supposez une\nplus grande influence que je n'en ai. Je suis parente de M. Elliot, à ce\ntitre seulement n'hésitez pas à m'employer.»\n\nMme Shmith lui jeta un regard pénétrant, puis, souriant, elle lui dit:\n\n«J'ai été un peu trop vite à ce que je vois. Pardonnez-le-moi, j'aurais\ndû attendre une déclaration officielle. Mais, chère miss Elliot,\ndites-moi, comme à une vieille amie, quand je pourrai parler. Me\nsera-t-il permis, la semaine prochaine, de penser que tout est décidé,\net de bâtir mes projets égoïstes sur le bonheur de M. Elliot?\n\n--Non, répondit Anna; ni la semaine prochaine, ni les suivantes. Rien de\nce que vous pensez ne se fera. Je ne dois pas épouser M. Elliot. Qui\nvous le fait croire?»\n\nMme Shmith la regarda avec attention, sourit, secoua la tête et dit:\n\n«Je crois que vous ne serez pas cruelle quand le moment sera arrivé.\nJusque-là, nous autres femmes, nous ne voulons rien avouer. Tout homme\nqui ne nous a pas encore demandées est censé refusé. Laissez-moi plaider\npour mon ancien ami. Où trouverez-vous un mari plus gentleman, un homme\nplus aimable? Laissez-moi recommander M. Elliot. Je suis sûre que le\ncolonel Wallis ne vous a dit de lui que du bien; et qui peut le mieux\nconnaître que le colonel Wallis?\n\n--Ma chère madame Shmith, il n'y a pas un an que Mme Elliot est morte.\nVotre supposition n'est pas admissible.\n\n--Oh! si ce sont là vos seules objections! dit Mme Shmith d'un air\nmalin, M. Elliot est sauvé, et je ne m'inquiète plus de lui. Ne\nm'oubliez pas quand vous serez mariée: voilà tout. Dites-lui que je suis\nvotre amie, et il m'obligera plus facilement qu'aujourd'hui. J'espère,\nchère miss Elliot, que vous serez très heureuse. M. Elliot a assez de\nbon sens pour apprécier la valeur d'une femme telle que vous. Votre\nbonheur ne fera pas naufrage comme le mien. Vous avez la fortune, et\nvous connaissez le caractère de votre fiancé. D'autres ne l'entraîneront\npas à sa ruine.\n\n--Oui, dit Anna, je peux croire tout le bien possible de mon cousin. Son\ncaractère paraît ferme et décidé, et j'ai pour lui un grand respect.\nMais je ne le connais pas depuis longtemps, et ce n'est pas un homme\nqu'on puisse connaître vite. Ne comprenez-vous pas qu'il ne m'est rien?\nS'il demandait ma main, je refuserais. Je vous assure que M. Elliot\nn'était pour rien dans le plaisir que j'ai eu hier soir. Ce n'est pas M.\nElliot qui.....»\n\nElle s'arrêta, et rougit fortement, regrettant d'en avoir tant dit.\nPuis, impatiente d'échapper à de nouvelles remarques, elle voulut savoir\npourquoi Mme Shmith s'était imaginé qu'elle épouserait M. Elliot.\n\n«D'abord, pour vous avoir vus souvent ensemble. J'ai pensé, comme tout\nle monde, que vos parents et vos amis désiraient cette union. Mais c'est\ndepuis deux jours seulement que j'en ai entendu parler.\n\n--Vraiment, on en a parlé!\n\n--Avez-vous regardé la femme qui vous a introduite hier soir? C'était la\ngarde, Mme Rock, qui, par parenthèse, était très curieuse de vous voir\net très contente de se trouver là. C'est elle qui m'a dit que vous\népousiez M. Elliot.\n\n--Elle n'a pu dire grand'chose sur des bruits qui n'ont aucun\nfondement,» dit Anna en riant.\n\nMme Shmith ne répondit pas.\n\n«Dois-je dire à M. Elliot que vous êtes à Bath?\n\n--Non, certainement. Je vous remercie; ne vous occupez pas de moi.\n\n--Vous disiez avoir connu M. Elliot pendant longtemps?\n\n--Oui.\n\n--Pas avant son mariage, sans doute?\n\n--Il n'était pas marié quand je l'ai connu.\n\n--Et vous étiez très liée avec lui?\n\n--Intimement.\n\n--Vraiment! alors dites-moi ce qu'il était à cette époque: je suis\ncurieuse de le savoir. Était-il tel qu'aujourd'hui?\n\n--Je ne l'ai pas vu depuis trois ans,» répondit Mme Shmith d'une voix si\ngrave, que continuer ce sujet devenait impossible.\n\nLa curiosité d'Anna en fut accrue. Elles restèrent toutes deux\nsilencieuses; enfin Mme Shmith dit:\n\n«Je vous demande pardon, chère miss Elliot, mais j'étais incertaine sur\nce que je devais faire, et je me décide à vous laisser connaître le vrai\ncaractère de M. Elliot. Je crois maintenant que vous n'avez pas\nl'intention de l'accepter. Mais on ne sait ce qui peut arriver; vous\npourriez un jour ou l'autre penser différemment. Écoutez la vérité:\n\n»M. Elliot est un homme sans coeur et sans conscience; un être prudent,\nrusé et froid, qui ne pense qu'à lui, qui, pour son bien-être ou son\nintérêt, commettrait une cruauté, une trahison, s'il n'y trouvait aucun\nrisque. Il est capable d'abandonner ceux qu'il a entraînés à la ruine\nsans le moindre remords. Il n'a aucun sentiment de justice ni de\ncompassion. Oh! il n'a pas de coeur, et son âme est noire.»\n\nElle s'arrêta, voyant l'air surpris d'Anna, et ajouta d'un ton plus\ncalme:\n\n«Mes expressions vous étonnent; il faut faire la part d'une femme\nirritée et maltraitée, mais j'essayerai de me dominer. Je ne veux pas le\ndécrier. Je vous dirai seulement ce qu'il a été pour moi.\n\n»Il était, avant mon mariage, l'ami intime de mon cher mari, qui le\ncroyait aussi bon que lui-même. M. Elliot me plut aussi beaucoup, et\nj'eus de lui une haute opinion. A dix-neuf ans on ne raisonne pas\nbeaucoup. Nous vivions très largement: il avait moins d'aisance que\nnous, et demeurait au temple; c'est à peine s'il pouvait soutenir son\nrang. Mais notre maison était la sienne; il y était le bienvenu; on le\nregardait comme un frère. Mon pauvre Henri, qui avait l'esprit le plus\nfin et le plus généreux, aurait partagé avec lui jusqu'à son dernier\nsou, et je sais qu'il est venu souvent à son aide.\n\n--Ce doit être alors, dit Anna, qu'il connut mon père et ma soeur. Je\nn'ai jamais compris sa conduite avec eux ni son mariage; cela ne\ns'accorde guère avec ce qu'il paraît être aujourd'hui.\n\n--Je sais tout! s'écria Mme Shmith. Il fut présenté à Sir Walter avant\nque je le connusse, mais il en parlait souvent. Je sais qu'il refusa les\navances qu'on lui fit. Je sais aussi tout ce qui a rapport à son\nmariage. Sa femme était d'une condition inférieure; je l'ai connue\npendant les deux dernières années de sa vie.\n\n--On m'a dit que ce ne fut pas un heureux mariage, dit Anna. Mais\nj'aimerais à savoir pourquoi il repoussa les avances de mon père.\n\n--M. Elliot, continua Mme Shmith, avait alors le désir de faire\nrapidement fortune par un riche mariage. Il n'avait aucun secret pour\nmoi; il me le dit, et me parlait souvent de votre père et de votre\nsoeur.\n\n--Peut-être, dit Anna frappée d'une idée soudaine, lui avez-vous\nquelquefois parlé de moi?\n\n--Très souvent: je me vantais de connaître ma chère Anna, et je disais\nque vous ne ressembliez guère à........»\n\nElle s'arrêta brusquement.\n\n«Cela m'explique ce que m'a dit M. Elliot hier soir. Je n'y comprenais\nrien. Mais je vous ai interrompue: alors M. Elliot fit un mariage\nd'argent? et c'est là sans doute ce qui vous ouvrit les yeux sur son\ncaractère?»\n\nIci Mme Shmith hésita:\n\n«Oh! ces choses sont trop communes pour frapper beaucoup. J'étais très\njeune, gaie et insouciante. Je ne pensais qu'au plaisir. La maladie et\nle chagrin m'ont donné d'autres idées. Mais alors je ne voyais rien de\nrépréhensible dans ce que faisait M. Elliot. Chercher son bien avant\ntout me paraissait naturel.\n\n--Mais sa femme n'était-elle pas de basse condition?\n\n--Oui, c'était là mon objection, mais il ne voulut rien entendre. De\nl'argent, c'était tout ce qu'il voulait. Le père était vitrier, le\ngrand-père boucher. Mais elle était jolie, elle avait eu de l'éducation,\net ses cousines l'avaient conduite dans la société. Le hasard lui fit\nrencontrer Elliot: elle l'aima. Il s'assura seulement du chiffre de la\nfortune. Il n'attachait pas d'importance, comme aujourd'hui, à son rang.\nKellynch devait lui revenir un jour; mais en attendant il ne se souciait\nguère de l'honneur de la famille. Je lui ai souvent entendu dire que si\nune baronnie s'achetait il vendrait la sienne pour mille francs, y\ncompris les armoiries et la devise, le nom et la livrée. Mais ce serait\nmal de raconter tout ce qu'il disait sur ce sujet, et cependant je dois\nvous donner des preuves.\n\n--Je n'en ai pas besoin: ce que vous m'avez dit s'accorde bien avec tout\nce que nous avons entendu dire. Je suis curieuse de savoir pourquoi il\nest si différent maintenant?\n\n--Pour ma propre satisfaction, restez, et soyez assez bonne pour aller\nprendre dans ma chambre une petite boîte incrustée que vous trouverez\nsur la tablette du cabinet.»\n\nAnna fit ce que son amie désirait, et la boîte fut placée devant Mme\nShmith. Elle soupira en l'ouvrant et dit:\n\n«Elle est pleine de lettres de M. Elliot à mon mari. J'en cherche une\nécrite avant mon mariage et qui a été conservée par hasard. La voici; je\nne l'ai pas brûlée, parce qu'étant peu satisfaite de M. Elliot, j'ai\nvoulu conserver les preuves de notre ancienne intimité:\n\n  «Cher Shmith, j'ai reçu votre lettre. Votre bonté m'accable. Je\n  voudrais que les coeurs comme le vôtre fussent moins rares; mais j'ai\n  vécu vingt-trois ans dans le monde, et je n'ai rien vu de pareil. Je\n  n'ai pas besoin d'argent en ce moment. Félicitez-moi: je suis\n  débarrassé de Sir Walter et de sa fille. Ils sont retournés à\n  Kellynch, et m'ont fait presque jurer de les visiter cet été. Mais\n  quand j'irai, ce sera accompagné d'un arpenteur, pour savoir le\n  meilleur parti qu'on peut tirer de la propriété. Le baronnet pourrait\n  bien se remarier; il est assez fou pour cela.\n\n  »S'il le fait, il me laissera en paix, ce qui est une compensation\n  pour l'héritage.\n\n  »Je voudrais avoir un autre nom que Elliot; j'en suis écoeuré.\n  Heureusement je puis quitter celui de Walter, et je souhaite que vous\n  ne me le jetiez jamais à la face, voulant pour le reste de ma vie me\n  dire\n\n    »Votre dévoué\n\n  »WILLIAM ELLIOT.»\n\nAnna ne put lire cette lettre sans rougir; ce que voyant, dit Mme\nShmith:\n\n«Les expressions sont assez insolentes. Elles vous peignent l'homme.\nPeut-on être plus clair?»\n\nAnna fut quelque temps à se remettre du trouble et de la mortification\nqu'elle avait éprouvés.\n\nElle fut obligée de se dire avant de recouvrer le calme nécessaire, que\ncette lecture était la violation du secret d'une lettre, et qu'on ne\ndevait juger personne sur un pareil témoignage.\n\n«Je vous remercie, dit-elle. Voici bien la preuve complète de ce que\nvous m'avez dit. Mais pourquoi se lier avec nous, à présent?\n\n--Vous allez le savoir: je vous ai montré ce qu'était M. Elliot, il y a\ndouze ans; je vais vous le montrer tel qu'il est aujourd'hui. Je ne puis\nvous donner des preuves écrites, mais un témoignage verbal authentique.\nIl désire réellement vous épouser. Ses intentions sont très sincères.\nMon autorité en ceci est le colonel Wallis.\n\n--Vous le connaissez donc?\n\n--Non, la chose ne me vient pas si directement, mais la source n'en est\npas moins bonne. M. Elliot parle à coeur ouvert de ses projets de\nmariage au colonel Wallis, qui me paraît un caractère sensé, prudent et\nobservateur. Mais il a une jolie femme très sotte, à qui il dit tout ce\nqu'il fait; celle-ci répète tout à sa garde, qui me le redit.\n\n--Ma chère Mme Shmith, votre autorité est en faute. Les idées que M.\nElliot a sur moi n'expliquent aucunement ses efforts pour se réconcilier\navec mon père. Ils étaient déjà sur un pied d'intimité quand je suis\narrivée à Bath.\n\n--Oui, je sais cela, mais..... Écoutez-moi seulement: vous jugerez\nbientôt s'il faut y croire, en écoutant quelques particularités que vous\npourrez immédiatement contredire ou confirmer. Il vous avait vue et\nadmirée avant d'aller à Bath sans vous connaître, est-ce vrai?\n\n--Oui, je l'ai vu à Lyme.\n\n--Bien. Le premier point reconnu vrai, accordez quelque confiance à mon\namie. Il vous vit à Lyme, et vous lui plûtes tellement qu'il fut ravi de\nvous retrouver à Camben-Place, sous le nom de miss Anna Elliot. Dès ce\nmoment, ses visites eurent un double motif. Mon historien dit que l'amie\nde votre soeur est à Bath depuis le commencement de septembre; que c'est\nune femme habile, insinuante; une belle personne, pauvre et..... qui\ndoit désirer s'appeler lady Elliot; et l'on se demande avec surprise\npourquoi miss Elliot semble ne pas voir le danger.»\n\nIci, Mme Shmith s'arrêta un moment; mais, Anna gardant le silence, elle\ncontinua:\n\n«Ceux qui connaissent la famille voyaient les choses ainsi, longtemps\navant votre arrivée. Le colonel Wallis, ami de M. Elliot, avait l'oeil\nsur votre père et étudiait avec intérêt ce qui se passe ici; il mit M.\nElliot au courant des cancans. Celui-ci a complètement changé d'avis\npour ce qui touche le rang et les relations; et maintenant qu'il est\nriche, il s'est accoutumé à étayer son bonheur sur sa baronnie future.\nIl ne peut supporter l'idée de ne pas être Sir Walter. Vous pouvez\ndeviner que les nouvelles apportées par son ami ne lui ont pas été\nagréables. Il a résolu de s'établir à Bath et de se lier avec la\nfamille, afin de s'assurer du danger et de circonvenir la dame, s'il\nétait nécessaire, et le colonel a promis de l'aider. Le seul but de M.\nElliot était d'abord d'étudier Mme Clay et Sir Walter, quand votre\narrivée y ajouta un autre motif. Mais je n'ai pas besoin d'entrer dans\ndes détails, et vous pouvez vous souvenir de ce qui s'est passé depuis.\n\n--Oui, dit Anna; ce que vous me dites s'accorde avec ce que j'ai vu. La\nruse a toujours quelque chose d'offensif; et les manoeuvres de l'égoïsme\net de la duplicité sont révoltantes; mais rien de ce que j'ai entendu ne\nme surprend, j'ai toujours supposé à sa conduite un motif caché.\nJ'aimerais à connaître sa pensée sur la probabilité de l'événement qu'il\nredoute.\n\n--Il pense que Mme Clay sait qu'il voit son jeu, qu'elle le craint, et\nque sa présence l'empêche d'agir comme elle le voudrait. Mais il partira\nun jour ou l'autre, et je ne vois pas comment il pourra être jamais\ntranquille, tant qu'elle gardera son influence. Mme Wallis a une idée\namusante, c'est de mettre dans votre contrat de mariage avec M. Elliot\nque votre père n'épousera pas Mme Clay. Cela ne l'empêchera pas, dit Mme\nRock, d'en épouser une autre.\n\n--Je suis très enchantée de savoir tout cela; il me sera peut-être plus\npénible de me trouver avec lui, mais je saurai mieux comment il faut\nagir. M. Elliot est décidément un homme mondain et rusé qui n'a d'autres\nprincipes pour le guider que l'égoïsme.»\n\nMais Mme Shmith n'en avait pas fini avec M. Elliot. Il avait entraîné\nson mari à sa ruine; et Anna put se convaincre que M. Shmith avait un\ncoeur aimant, un caractère facile et insouciant, et une intelligence\ntrès médiocre; que son ami le dominait et probablement le méprisait.\nDevenu riche lui-même, M. Elliot s'inquiéta peu des embarras financiers\nde son ami, qui mourut juste à temps pour ne pas savoir sa ruine. Mais\nils avaient assez connu la gêne pour savoir qu'il ne fallait pas compter\nsur M. Elliot. Cependant M. Shmith, par une confiance qui faisait plus\nd'honneur à son coeur qu'à son jugement, le nomma son exécuteur\ntestamentaire; il refusa, malgré les prières de Mme Shmith, ne voulant\npas s'engager dans des tracas inutiles. Cette ingratitude équivalait\npour Anna presque à un crime. Elle écouta cette histoire, comprenant que\nce récit soulageait son amie, et s'étonnant seulement de son calme\nhabituel. Mme Shmith, en apprenant le mariage d'Anna, avait espéré\nobtenir par son intermédiaire un service de M. Elliot. C'était pour\nrecouvrer une propriété dans les Indes, dont les revenus étaient sous le\nséquestre; elle était forcée de renoncer à cet espoir.\n\nAnna ne put s'empêcher de s'étonner que Mme Shmith eût d'abord parlé si\nfavorablement de M. Elliot.\n\n«Ma chère, lui répondit-elle, je regardais votre mariage comme certain,\net je ne pouvais vous dire sur lui la vérité; mais mon coeur souffrait\nquand je vous parlais de bonheur. Cependant M. Elliot a des qualités,\net, avec une femme comme vous, il ne fallait pas désespérer. Sa première\nfemme fut malheureuse, mais elle était ignorante et sotte, et il ne\nl'avait jamais aimée. J'espérais qu'il en serait autrement pour vous.»\n\nAnna frissonna à la pensée de ce qu'elle aurait souffert. Était-il\npossible qu'elle eût consentie à devenir lady Elliot? Et lequel des deux\neût été le plus misérable, quand le temps aurait tout fait connaître,\nmais trop tard.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXII\n\n\nUne fois rentrée chez elle, Anna se mit à penser à tout cela; elle était\nsoulagée de pouvoir juger M. Elliot librement et de ne lui plus devoir\naucune amitié. Cependant elle sentait combien son père serait froissé;\nelle se préoccupait du chagrin et du désappointement de lady Russel,\nmais il fallait tout lui dire et attendre tranquillement la suite des\névénements. En arrivant chez elle, elle apprit que M. Elliot était venu,\nmais qu'il reviendrait le soir.\n\nJe ne pensais pas à l'inviter, dit Élisabeth d'un air qu'elle affectait\nde rendre insouciant; mais il désirait tellement venir, du moins à ce\nque dit Mme Clay.\n\n--Oui, vraiment, dit celle-ci; je n'ai jamais vu solliciter une\ninvitation d'une manière plus pressante. J'étais réellement en peine\npour lui, car votre soeur, impitoyable, semble décidée à être cruelle.\n\n--Oh! s'écria Élisabeth, je suis trop accoutumée à ces choses pour en\nêtre touchée. Mais quand j'ai vu combien il regrettait de ne pas\nrencontrer mon père, j'ai cédé. Ils paraissent tous deux tellement à\nleur avantage quand ils sont ensemble. Leurs façons sont si parfaites;\net M. Elliot est si respectueux!\n\n--Cela est charmant, dit Mme Clay n'osant cependant regarder Anna. Ils\nsont comme père et fils. Chère miss Elliot, ne puis-je pas le dire?\n\n--Oh! je laisse chacun dire ce qu'il veut; s'il vous plaît de penser\nainsi! Mais il me semble que ses attentions ressemblent à celles de tout\nle monde.\n\n--Ma chère miss Elliot! dit Mme Clay levant les mains et les yeux au\nciel et affectant un silence étudié.\n\n--Ma chère Pénélope, ne prenez pas l'alarme. Je l'ai invité, puis\ncongédié avec un sourire: j'ai eu pitié de lui.»\n\nAnna admira la dissimulation de Mme Clay, qui paraissait attendre avec\nun tel plaisir celui qui venait contre-carrer ses plans.\n\nIl était impossible qu'elle ne détestât pas M. Elliot, et cependant il\nlui fallait prendre un air calme, obligeant et se montrer satisfaite\nd'être une simple amie pour Sir Walter, tandis qu'elle aurait bien voulu\nêtre autre chose.\n\nAnna éprouva, en voyant M. Elliot, un pénible embarras. Maintenant\nqu'elle voyait clairement sa fausseté, sa déférence et ses attentions\npour Sir Walter étaient odieuses; et, songeant à sa conduite avec M.\nShmith, elle pouvait à peine supporter ses sourires, son air affable et\nl'expression de ses sentiments artificiels. Elle ne voulait ni\nexplications, ni rupture, mais être aussi froide que la parenté le\npermettait. Elle fut bien aise d'apprendre qu'il quittait Bath pour deux\njours.\n\nLe lendemain elle annonça son intention d'aller passer la matinée chez\nlady Russel.\n\n«Très bien, dit Élisabeth: faites-lui mes compliments; c'est tout ce que\nj'ai à lui dire. Rendez-lui aussi cet ennuyeux livre qu'elle a voulu me\nprêter. Je ne puis pourtant pas m'ennuyer à lire tous les poèmes ou\ntoutes les statistiques qui paraissent. Lady Russel est insupportable\navec ses nouvelles publications. Je l'ai trouvée horriblement mise hier\nsoir; mais il n'est pas nécessaire que vous le lui disiez. Je croyais\nqu'elle avait un peu de goût, et j'ai eu honte d'elle. Un air officiel\net apprêté. Et elle se tient si raide! Faites-lui mes meilleurs\ncompliments, cela va sans dire.\n\n--Et les miens aussi, ajouta Sir Walter, et vous pouvez dire que j'ai\nl'intention d'aller bientôt la voir. Soyez polie. Mais je me\ncontenterai de laisser ma carte, il ne faut pas faire de visites le\nmatin à de vieilles femmes. Si seulement elle mettait du rouge, elle ne\ncraindrait pas qu'on la voie. La dernière fois que j'y suis allé, les\njalousies ont été baissées immédiatement.»\n\nTandis qu'il parlait, on frappa, et M. et Mme Charles Musgrove furent\nintroduits. La surprise fut grande: mais Anna seule fut contente; les\nautres étaient indifférents. Cependant, aussitôt qu'on sut qu'ils\nn'avaient pas l'intention de s'installer à la maison, Sir Walter et\nÉlisabeth devinrent plus aimables et firent les honneurs de la maison.\nÉlisabeth conduisit Marie dans un autre salon pour lui en faire admirer\nles magnificences.\n\nAnna, restée seule avec Charles, sut alors que Henriette et Benwick\nétaient du voyage. Voici comment ceci avait été décidé. Ce dernier ayant\naffaire à Bath, Charles s'était proposé pour venir avec lui; mais Marie\nne supporta pas l'idée de rester seule et mit tout projet en suspens.\nHeureusement Mme Musgrove mère se décida à venir à Bath avec Henriette\npour acheter les toilettes de noces de ses deux filles, et elle emmena\nMarie.\n\nAnna apprit que, Charles Hayter ayant obtenu une cure provisoire, les\ndeux familles avaient consenti au mariage de leurs enfants.\n\n«Je suis bien heureuse d'apprendre, dit Anna, que les deux soeurs qui\ns'aiment tant et qui ont un égal mérite, aient trouvé une situation\négale. J'espère que votre père et votre mère sont tout à fait heureux.\n\n--Mon père aimerait autant que ses futurs gendres fussent plus riches;\nmais c'est là leur seul défaut. Marier deux filles à la fois n'est pas\nune opération financière très agréable; cela diminue singulièrement les\nressources de mon père. Je ne dis pas que mes soeurs n'y aient pas\ndroit: mon père s'est toujours montré très libéral envers moi. Mais\nMarie n'approuve qu'à demi le mariage de Henriette: elle ne rend pas\njustice à Hayter, et ne pense pas assez à Wenthrop. Je ne puis lui faire\nadmettre la valeur de la propriété. C'est un mariage qui a de l'avenir.\nJ'ai toujours aimé Charles, et je ne cesserai pas de l'aimer\naujourd'hui.\n\n--J'espère que Louisa est tout à fait guérie?»\n\nIl répondit avec hésitation:\n\n«Oui, je la crois guérie; mais elle est bien changée, on ne la voit plus\ncourir, rire et danser. Si l'on ferme une porte trop fort, elle\ntressaille et s'agite; et Benwick s'assoit près d'elle, lui parle bas\net lui lit des vers tout le long du jour.»\n\nAnna ne put s'empêcher de rire:\n\n«Cela n'est pas de votre goût; mais je crois que c'est un excellent\njeune homme.\n\n--Certainement; personne n'en doute, j'apprécie fort Benwick; quand on\npeut le décider à parler, il cause bien. Ses lectures ne lui ont fait\naucun tort, car il se bat aussi volontiers qu'il lit. Nous avons eu\nlundi dernier une fameuse chasse aux rats dans les granges de mon père,\net il y a joué un si beau rôle que je l'en aime davantage.»\n\nIci Charles fut obligé d'aller admirer les glaces et les porcelaines de\nChine; mais Anna en avait entendu assez pour être au courant et pour se\nréjouir. Cependant elle soupira; mais ce n'était pas un soupir d'envie:\nelle eût bien voulu avoir la même part de bonheur que les autres sans\ndiminuer la leur. La visite se passa gaiement; Marie était de bonne\nhumeur, et si satisfaite du voyage dans le landau à quatre chevaux de sa\nbelle-mère, qu'elle était disposée à admirer tout ce qu'on lui montrait.\nSon importance personnelle était rehaussée par ce bel appartement.\n\nÉlisabeth sentait qu'il fallait inviter à dîner les Musgrove, mais elle\nne pouvait supporter l'idée qu'ils verraient une diminution de\nserviteurs et de représentation, eux si inférieurs aux Elliot de\nKellynch! Ce fut un combat entre les convenances et la vanité. Celle-ci\neut le dessus, et Élisabeth fut satisfaite. Elle se dit:\n\n«Ce sont de vieilles idées de province sur l'hospitalité. On sait que\nnous ne donnons pas de dîners; personne ici ne le fait, et je suis sûre\nqu'une invitation ne serait pas agréable à Mme Musgrove: elle est gênée\navec nous, et hors de son monde. Je les inviterai pour la soirée de\ndemain; ce sera une nouveauté et un plaisir: ils n'ont jamais vu deux\nsalons comme ceux-ci. Ils seront ravis, ce sera une petite réunion\nchoisie.»\n\nMarie fut parfaitement contente de cette invitation; on devait la\nprésenter à M. Elliot et aux illustres cousines, et rien ne pouvait lui\nêtre plus agréable. Anna sortit avec Charles et sa femme. Elle avait\nhâte de revoir ses amis d'Uppercross, et elle reçut le meilleur accueil.\n\nHenriette, dont l'âme était épanouie par le bonheur, fut bienveillante\net gracieuse. Mme Musgrove était reconnaissante des services d'Anna. Ce\nfut une expansion, une chaleur, une sincérité qui la ravirent d'autant\nplus qu'elle en était privée chez elle. Elle fut invitée ou plutôt\nréclamée comme un membre de la famille, et elle reprit en retour ses\nhabitudes serviables, écoutant l'histoire de Louisa et d'Henriette,\ndonnant son avis sur les achats, recommandant tels magasins,\ns'interrompant pour aider Marie dans ses comptes, chercher ses clefs ou\ntâcher de la convaincre qu'elle n'avait été dupe de personne, car Marie,\ntout en s'amusant à regarder les passants par la fenêtre, ne pouvait\ns'empêcher de laisser travailler son imagination.\n\nUne nombreuse compagnie arrivant dans un hôtel y porte beaucoup de bruit\net de mouvement; et Anna n'avait pas été là une demi-heure, que la vaste\nsalle était à moitié remplie de boîtes et de paquets; puis vinrent les\namies de Mme Musgrove, et, bientôt après, Harville et Wenvorth. Il\nsembla à Anna qu'il était dans la même disposition d'esprit que le jour\ndu concert, et qu'il voulait l'éviter. Elle s'efforça d'être calme et se\nraisonna ainsi: «Si nous nous aimons encore, nos coeurs finiront par se\ncomprendre; la destinée ne nous a pas rapprochés pour que nous nous\ncherchions des querelles absurdes.»\n\n«Anna, s'écria Marie, voici Mme Clay debout sous la colonnade avec un\nmonsieur près d'elle. Ils semblent causer intimement. Comment se\nnomme-t-il? Venez; dites-le-moi. Mon Dieu! je me souviens; c'est M.\nElliot.\n\n--Non, s'écria Anna vivement, ce ne peut être lui. Il a dû quitter Bath\nce matin à neuf heures, et il ne reviendra que demain.»\n\nElle sentit que Wenvorth la regardait, ce qui la vexa et l'embarrassa et\nlui fit regretter ce qu'elle avait dit.\n\nMarie, voulant qu'on supposât qu'elle connaissait son cousin, se mit à\nparler des ressemblances de famille, affirma que c'était M. Elliot, et\nappela encore Anna pour regarder elle-même. Mais Anna ne bougea pas. Son\nmalaise cependant augmenta quand elle vit les sourires et les regards\nd'intelligence échangés entre deux ou trois dames, comme si elles se\ncroyaient dans le secret. Il était évident qu'on avait causé d'elle.\n\n«Venez voir, s'écria Marie; ils se séparent et se donnent la main.\nEst-ce que vous ne reconnaîtriez pas M. Elliot? Vous semblez avoir\noublié Lyme.»\n\nPour cacher son embarras, Anna alla vivement à la fenêtre. Elle s'assura\nque c'étaient Mme Clay et M. Elliot, et, réprimant sa surprise, elle dit\ntranquillement:\n\n«Oui, c'est M. Elliot. Il a changé son heure de départ, voilà tout; ou\nje puis m'être trompée.»\n\nElle revint s'asseoir avec l'espoir consolant d'avoir paru indifférente.\nLes dames partirent; Charles, après avoir maudit leur visite, dit:\n\n«Mère, j'ai fait quelque chose qui vous fera plaisir; j'ai loué une loge\npour demain, et j'ai invité Wenvorth, je suis sûr qu'Anna ne sera pas\nfâchée de venir avec nous. N'ai-je pas bien fait?\n\n--Bonté du ciel, s'écria Marie. Qu'avez-vous fait? Avez-vous oublié que\nnous sommes engagés à Camben-Place, et que nous y rencontrerons lady\nDalrymph, M. Elliot et les principaux parents de la famille?\n\n--Bah, répondit Charles; qu'est-ce que c'est qu'une soirée? Votre père\npouvait nous inviter à dîner, s'il voulait nous voir. Faites ce que vous\nvoudrez; moi, j'irai au spectacle.\n\n--Oh! Charles, ce serait abominable, quand vous avez promis.\n\n--Non; j'ai seulement salué et souri, en disant: «Trop heureux!» Ce\nn'est pas là une promesse.\n\n--Vous irez, Charles; ce serait impardonnable d'y manquer. On doit nous\nprésenter; il y a toujours eu une grande liaison entre les Dalrymph et\nnous. Et M. Elliot est l'héritier de mon père; des attentions lui sont\ndues à ce titre.\n\n--Ne me parlez pas d'héritiers, s'écria Charles: je ne suis pas de ceux\nqui négligent le pouvoir régnant pour s'incliner devant l'astre nouveau.\nSi je n'y allais pas pour votre père, il serait scandaleux d'y aller\npour son héritier. Qu'est-ce que M. Elliot est pour moi?»\n\nCette expression d'insouciance ranima Anna, qui vit le capitaine\nregarder et écouter avec attention. Aux dernières paroles de Charles, il\nla regarda.\n\nCharles et Marie continuaient à discuter le projet de spectacle: Mme\nMusgrove s'interposa.\n\n«Il vaut mieux y renoncer, Charles, et demander la loge pour mardi. Ce\nserait dommage d'être séparés, et nous y perdrions aussi miss Anna; et\nsi elle n'est pas avec nous, ni Henriette ni moi nous ne nous soucions\ndu spectacle.»\n\nAnna fut sincèrement reconnaissante de ces paroles; elle dit d'un ton\ndécidé: «S'il ne dépendait que de moi, madame, la soirée à la maison ne\nserait pas le plus petit obstacle. Je n'ai aucun plaisir à ces\nprésentations, et je serais trop heureuse d'aller au théâtre avec vous.»\n\nElle sentit qu'on l'observait, et n'osa pas même lever les yeux pour\nvoir l'effet de ses paroles. On convint du mardi. Charles se réserva\nseulement de taquiner sa femme en déclarant qu'il irait seul au\nspectacle, si personne ne voulait y aller. Le capitaine Wenvorth quitta\nsa place, et vint s'arrêter comme par hasard devant Anna.\n\n«Vous n'avez pas été assez longtemps à Bath, dit-il, pour jouir des\nsoirées qu'on y donne.\n\n--Ces soirées ne me plaisent pas, je ne suis pas joueuse.\n\n--Je sais que vous ne l'étiez pas autrefois; mais le temps opère de\ngrands changements.\n\n--Je n'ai pas tant changé,» dit-elle; puis elle s'arrêta, craignant\nquelque interprétation.\n\nQuelques instants après, il dit, comme si c'était une réflexion\nsoudaine:\n\n«Il y a un siècle, vraiment: huit ans et demi!»\n\nAnna ne put savoir s'il en aurait dit davantage; Henriette demanda à\nsortir, et Anna dissimula sa contrariété; elle se dit que si Henriette\nl'avait su, elle en aurait eu pitié, elle qui était si sûre de\nl'affection de son fiancé.\n\nSir Walter et Élisabeth vinrent interrompre leurs apprêts de départ:\nleur présence apporta un froid général. Anna se sentit oppressée, et vit\nla même impression autour d'elle. Le bien-être, la liberté, la gaîté,\ndisparurent; un froid maintien, un silence compassé, une conversation\ninsipide, accueillirent son père et sa soeur. Quelle mortification\nc'était pour elle!\n\nCependant elle eut une satisfaction: le capitaine Wenvorth fut salué par\nsa soeur plus gracieusement que la première fois. Élisabeth renouvela\nson invitation pour tous les Musgrove, «une soirée intime,» dit-elle,\net, posant sur la table les lettres d'invitation qu'elle avait\napportées, elle adressa un sourire à Wenvorth en lui en présentant une.\nElle avait réfléchi qu'un homme d'une telle tournure ferait bien dans\nson salon, et elle consentait à oublier le passé.\n\nQuand Sir Walter et Élisabeth furent partis, l'animation et la gaîté\nreparurent, excepté pour Anna. Elle pensait à la manière douteuse dont\nWenvorth avait remercié plutôt qu'accepté l'invitation, montrant plus de\nsurprise que de plaisir. Elle savait qu'il ne pouvait regarder cette\ninvitation comme une excuse pour le passé. Il tint la carte dans sa main\naprès leur départ, comme s'il réfléchissait à tout cela.\n\n«Pensez-donc qu'Élisabeth a invité tout le monde, chuchota Marie assez\nhaut pour être entendue. Je ne suis pas surprise que le capitaine soit\nravi. Vous voyez qu'il ne peut pas se séparer de sa carte.»\n\nAnna saisit le regard de Wenvorth; elle vit sa joue rougir, et sa bouche\nexprimer le mépris.\n\nElle se détourna pour ne pas en voir davantage.\n\nOn se sépara. Anna, sollicitée de rester à dîner, refusa. Elle avait\nbesoin de calme et de silence après les agitations de la journée.\n\nRevenue à Camben-Place, elle eut à entendre tous les projets d'Élisabeth\net de Mme Clay pour la soirée, tous les détails d'embellissement,\nl'énumération des invités, tout ce qui ferait de cette soirée la plus\nélégante qu'on eût jamais vue à Bath. Pendant ce temps, elle était\nobsédée par une pensée unique:\n\n«Viendra-t-il?» Elle ne pouvait deviner s'il se croirait obligé de\nvenir. Elle oublia un moment sa préoccupation pour dire à Mme Clay\nqu'elle l'avait vue causer avec M. Elliot. Elle crut voir sur sa figure\nune certaine confusion, qui pouvait bien être causée par des reproches\nou des observations de M. Elliot.\n\nElle s'écria cependant d'un air assez naturel:\n\n«Ah! c'est vrai! ma chère. Croiriez-vous, miss Elliot, que j'ai\nrencontré M. Elliot dans la rue Bath? Je n'ai jamais été plus étonnée;\nnous avons fait quelques pas ensemble. Quelque chose l'avait empêché de\npartir; je ne sais plus quoi, car j'étais pressée et je ne pouvais guère\nattendre... Il voulait savoir à quelle heure il pourrait être reçu\ndemain, il ne pensait qu'à votre soirée, et moi aussi, et même depuis\nque je suis rentrée; sans cela, cette rencontre ne me serait pas si\nentièrement sortie de la mémoire.»\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXIII\n\n\nAnna ayant promis d'aller chez les Musgrove, elle remit au lendemain la\nvisite à lady Russel. Un jour de plus était accordé à la bonne\nréputation de M. Elliot, comme à la sultane Sheherazade des _Mille et\nune Nuits_.\n\nLe mauvais temps la mit en retard, et quand elle arriva chez les\nMusgrove, elle y trouva Mme Croft, Harville et Wenvorth. Marie et\nHenriette ne l'avaient pas attendue; mais elles avaient recommandé à Mme\nMusgrove de la retenir jusqu'à leur retour.\n\nElle dut se soumettre, et fut bientôt plongée dans toutes les agitations\nque l'extrême bonheur et l'extrême chagrin peuvent procurer.\n\nDeux minutes après son arrivée, Wenvorth dit à Harville:\n\n«Nous écrirons la lettre en question, Harville, si vous voulez me donner\nce qu'il faut pour écrire.»\n\nTout étant préparé, il s'approcha de la table et, tournant le dos à\ntous, il s'absorba dans sa lettre.\n\nMme Musgrove racontait à Mme Croft comment le mariage de sa fille\ns'était décidé, avec cet insupportable chuchotement que tout le monde\npeut entendre. Anna ne put éviter d'entendre certains détails et des\nrabâchages insipides que Mme Croft écoutait avec une attention\nbienveillante. Anna espérait que Wenvorth n'entendait pas.\n\n«Tout bien considéré, disait Mme Musgrove, nous avons jugé convenable de\nne pas attendre davantage; Charles Hayter se mourait d'impatience. Je ne\nhais rien tant que les longs engagements; six mois, un an tout au plus,\nmais pas davantage.\n\n--C'est précisément ce que j'allais vous dire; surtout quand on ignore\ns'il ne surviendra pas quelque obstacle; je trouve cela très imprudent,\net les parents devraient l'empêcher autant qu'ils peuvent. J'aimerais\nmieux voir les jeunes gens se marier avec un petit revenu, et lutter\navec les difficultés de la vie que d'être liés longtemps d'avance.»\n\nAnna trouvait là un intérêt inattendu. Elle s'appliqua ces paroles,\nsentit un frémissement parcourir tout son corps, et jeta\ninvolontairement un regard sur la table. Le capitaine avait cessé\nd'écrire: il écouta et se retourna pour lui jeter un regard rapide et\nprofond.\n\nLes deux dames continuèrent à redire les mêmes vérités, à les renforcer\npar des exemples. Mais Anna n'entendit qu'un bruit de voix; tout était\nconfusion dans son esprit.\n\nHarville, qui n'avait rien entendu, s'approcha d'une fenêtre et parut\ninviter Anna à le rejoindre. Il la regarda avec un sourire et fit un\npetit mouvement de tête qui disait: «Venez, j'ai quelque chose à vous\ndire.»\n\nAnna alla vers lui; alors il reprit l'expression sérieuse et pensive qui\nlui était habituelle.\n\n«Voyez, dit-il, déployant un paquet qu'il avait dans la main et montrant\nune miniature. Connaissez-vous cette personne?\n\n--Certainement, capitaine.\n\n--Et vous pouvez deviner à qui ce portrait est destiné. Mais, dit-il\nd'une voix grave, il n'a pas été fait pour elle. Miss Elliot, vous\nrappelez-vous notre promenade à Lyme? Nous nous affligions pour lui. Je\nne croyais guère alors. Mais, n'importe. La peinture a été faite au Cap.\nHarville rencontra là un jeune artiste allemand, et pour remplir une\npromesse faite à ma pauvre soeur, il posa, et lui rapporta ce portrait.\nJe suis chargé maintenant de le donner à une autre femme. Quelle\ncommission pour moi! mais qui pouvait la faire? Je ne suis pas fâché,\nvraiment, de la laisser à un autre, dit-il en désignant Wenvorth. Le\ncapitaine s'en charge; c'est pour cela qu'il écrit.» Et il ajouta, avec\nune lèvre tremblante: «Pauvre Fanny! Elle ne l'aurait pas oublié sitôt!\n\n--Non, dit Anna d'une voix pénétrée, je le crois facilement.\n\n--Ce n'était pas dans sa nature: elle l'adorait.\n\n--Une femme qui aime vraiment est ainsi.»\n\nHarville eut un sourire qui signifiait: «Réclamez-vous pour votre sexe?»\net Anna répondit, en souriant aussi: «Oui, nous ne sommes pas si\noublieuses que vous; c'est peut-être notre destinée plutôt que notre\nmérite. Nous n'y pouvons rien. Nous vivons à l'intérieur, tranquilles,\nrenfermées, et nous n'existons que par le sentiment. Vous êtes forcés à\nl'action; vous avez toujours quelque affaire qui vous ramène dans le\nmonde; le changement et l'occupation continuels affaiblissent bientôt\nvos impressions.\n\n--En admettant (ce que je ne fais pas) que votre assertion soit vraie,\nelle ne s'applique pas à Benwick. Il n'a pas été forcé à l'action; la\npaix l'a ramené à terre à ce moment-là, et depuis il a toujours vécu\navec nous.\n\n--C'est très vrai, dit Anna; je l'avais oublié. Mais qu'allez-vous\nrépondre à cela, capitaine? Si le changement ne vient pas des\ncirconstances extérieures, il vient du dedans, de la nature de l'homme,\nce doit être le cas du capitaine Benwick.\n\n--Non, non, je n'admets pas que ce soit la nature de l'homme plus que de\nla femme d'oublier ceux qu'on aime ou qu'on a aimés. Je crois le\ncontraire. Il y a une véritable analogie entre notre corps et notre\nesprit; là où le corps est le plus fort, le sentiment l'est aussi: il\nest capable de supporter une plus rude épreuve, comme d'affronter un\nplus mauvais temps.\n\n--Vos sentiments peuvent être les plus forts, dit Anna; mais le même\nesprit d'analogie m'autorise à dire que les nôtres sont les plus\ntendres. L'homme est plus robuste que la femme, mais il ne vit pas plus\nlongtemps, ce qui explique mes idées sur la nature de ses affections.\nS'il en était autrement, ce serait trop cruel pour vous. Vous avez à\nlutter avec des dangers, des souffrances; vous travaillez et vous\nfatiguez votre temps; votre santé, votre vie, ne sont pas à vous. Ce\nserait cruel vraiment (ceci fut dit d'une voix tremblante) si les\nsentiments des femmes étaient ajoutés à tout cela.\n\n--Nous ne serons jamais d'accord sur ce point,» commença Harville, quand\nun léger bruit attira son attention. La plume de Wenvorth était tombée\nde ses mains, et Anna tressaillit en s'apercevant qu'il était plus près\nqu'elle ne croyait.\n\n--Avez-vous fini votre lettre? dit Harville.\n\n--Pas encore, quelques lignes seulement: j'aurai fini dans cinq minutes.\n\n--Rien ne presse; je suis très bien ancré ici, dit-il en souriant à\nAnna; bien approvisionné; je ne manque de rien. Eh bien, miss Elliot,\ndit-il en baissant la voix, comme je vous le disais, nous ne serons\njamais d'accord sur ce point; aucun homme ni aucune femme ne peuvent\nl'être sans doute: mais laissez-moi vous dire que l'histoire est contre\nvous, en prose et en vers. Si j'avais autant de mémoire que Benwick,\nj'apporterais cinquante citations pour appuyer ma thèse. Je ne crois pas\navoir ouvert dans ma vie un seul livre qui n'ait parlé de l'inconstance\ndes femmes. Chansons et proverbes: tout en parle. Mais, direz-vous\npeut-être, ils ont été écrits par des hommes?\n\n--Oui, s'il vous plaît, ne prenons pas pour arbitres les livres. Les\nhommes, en écrivant l'histoire, ont sur nous tous les avantages; ils ont\nplus d'instruction, et la plume est dans leurs mains. Je n'admets pas\nque les livres prouvent quelque chose.\n\n--Mais quelle preuve aurons-nous?\n\n--Nous n'en aurons jamais. Nous débutons chacun avec une prévention en\nfaveur de notre propre sexe; nous y ajoutons toutes les preuves que nous\npouvons trouver à l'appui, et précisément ces preuves ne peuvent être\ndonnées sans trahir un secret.\n\n--Ah! s'écria Harville d'un ton profondément ému, si je pouvais vous\nfaire comprendre tout ce qu'éprouve un homme, quand, jetant un dernier\nregard sur sa femme et ses enfants, il suit des yeux le bateau qui les\nemporte, et se demande s'il les reverra jamais. Si je pouvais vous dire\nla joie de son âme quand il les revoit après une longue absence; quand\nil a calculé l'heure de leur retour, et qu'il les voit arriver un jour\nplus tôt, comme si le ciel leur avait donné des ailes! Si je pouvais\nvous dire tout ce qu'un homme peut faire et supporter; tout ce qu'il\npeut se glorifier de faire pour ses chers trésors! Je parle seulement de\nceux qui ont un coeur! dit-il en appuyant la main sur sa poitrine.\n\n--Ah! dit Anna vivement; je rends justice à vos sentiments et aux hommes\nqui vous ressemblent. Je mériterais le mépris si j'osais supposer que la\nvéritable affection et la confiance appartiennent seulement aux femmes.\nNon, je vous crois capables dans le mariage de toutes les grandes et\nnobles choses. Je crois que vous pouvez supporter beaucoup tant que...\n(permettez-moi de le dire), tant que vous avez un but. Je veux dire tant\nque la femme que vous aimez existe et vit pour vous. Le seul privilège\nque je réclame pour mon sexe (et il n'est pas très enviable, n'en soyez\npas jaloux), c'est d'aimer plus longtemps quand il n'y a plus ni vie ni\nespoir.» Elle ne put en dire davantage; son coeur était trop plein, sa\npoitrine trop oppressée.\n\n--Vous êtes une bonne âme, s'écria le capitaine lui posant la main sur\nle bras avec affection. Il n'y a pas moyen de se quereller avec vous. Et\npuis ma langue est liée quand je pense à Benwick.»\n\nLeur attention fut appelée ailleurs: Mme Croft s'en allait.\n\n«Nous nous séparons ici, je crois, Frédéric. Je retourne chez moi, et\nvous, vous avez un rendez-vous avec votre ami. Ce soir, nous aurons le\nplaisir de nous rencontrer tous à votre soirée,» dit-elle à Anna. «Nous\navons reçu hier l'invitation de votre soeur, et j'ai compris que\nFrédéric était invité aussi. Vous êtes libre, n'est-ce pas, Frédéric?»\n\nWenvorth pliait sa lettre à la hâte, il ne put ou ne voulut pas répondre\nà cela.\n\n«Oui, dit-il, nous nous séparons; mais nous vous suivrons bientôt,\nc'est-à-dire Harville, si vous êtes prêt, je le suis dans une minute; je\nsais que vous ne serez pas fâché d'être dehors.»\n\nWenvorth, ayant cacheté rapidement sa lettre, semblait pressé de partir.\nAnna n'y comprenait rien. Harville lui dit un amical adieu; mais de\nWenvorth elle n'eut pas un mot, pas un regard, quand il sortit.\n\nElle n'avait eu que le temps de s'approcher de la table, quand la porte\ns'ouvrit, et qu'il rentra. Il s'excusa, disant qu'il avait oublié ses\ngants; il s'approcha de la table, et, tirant une lettre de dessous les\nautres papiers, la mit sous les yeux d'Anna en la regardant d'un air\nsuppliant, puis il sortit avant que Mme Musgrove eût le temps de voir\ns'il était entré.\n\nAnna fut agitée au delà de toute expression. La lettre, dont l'adresse\n«Miss A. E.» était à peine lisible, était celle qu'il avait pliée si\nrapidement. On croyait qu'il écrivait à Benwick, et c'était à elle! La\nvie d'Anna dépendait du contenu de cette lettre! Mais tout était\npréférable à l'attente. Mme Musgrove était occupée ailleurs, et Anna\nput, sans être aperçue, lire ce qui suit:\n\n  «Je ne puis me taire plus longtemps. Il faut que je vous écrive. Vous\n  me percez le coeur! Ne me dites pas qu'il est trop tard! que ces\n  précieux sentiments sont perdus pour toujours. Je m'offre à vous avec\n  un coeur qui vous appartient encore plus que lorsque vous l'avez brisé\n  il y a huit ans. Ne dites pas que l'homme oublie plus tôt que la\n  femme, que son amour meurt plus vite. Je n'ai jamais aimé que vous. Je\n  puis avoir été injuste, j'ai été faible et vindicatif, mais jamais\n  inconstant. C'est pour vous seule que je suis venu à Bath, c'est à\n  vous seule que je pense; ne l'avez-vous pas vu? N'auriez-vous pas\n  compris mes désirs? Je n'aurais pas attendu depuis dix jours, si\n  j'avais connu vos sentiments comme je crois que vous avez deviné les\n  miens. Je puis à peine écrire. J'entends des mots qui m'accablent.\n  Vous baissez la voix, mais j'entends les sons de cette voix qui sont\n  perdus pour les autres. Trop bonne et trop parfaite créature! vous\n  nous rendez justice, en vérité, en croyant les hommes capables de\n  constance. Croyez à ce sentiment inaltérable chez\n\n  F. W.\n\n  »Il faut que je parte, incertain de mon sort: mais je reviendrai ici,\n  ou j'irai vous rejoindre. Un mot, un regard suffira pour me dire si je\n  dois entrer ce soir ou jamais chez votre père.»\n\nAprès cette lecture, Anna fut longtemps à se remettre. Chaque instant\naugmentait son agitation: elle était comme écrasée de bonheur et avant\nqu'elle pût sortir de cet état violent, Charles, Marie et Henriette\nrentrèrent.\n\nElle s'efforça d'être calme, mais elle ne comprit pas un mot de ce qu'on\ndisait. Elle fut obligée de s'excuser et de dire qu'elle était\nsouffrante. On remarqua alors qu'elle était très pâle, qu'elle\nparaissait agitée et préoccupée, et l'on ne voulut pas sortir sans elle.\nCela était cruel!... Si seulement on était parti, lui laissant la\ntranquille possession de cette chambre! mais voir tout le monde autour\nd'elle lui donnait le vertige et la désespérait. Elle dit qu'elle\nvoulait retourner chez elle.\n\n«Certainement, ma chère, dit Mme Musgrove; partez vite, et prenez soin\nde vous, afin d'être bien remise ce soir. Charles, demandez une voiture;\nelle ne peut pas marcher.»\n\nAller en voiture, c'était là le pire, perdre la possibilité de dire deux\nmots au capitaine! Elle ne pouvait supporter cette pensée. Elle protesta\nvivement, et on la laissa enfin partir.\n\n«Soyez assez bonne, madame, dit-elle en sortant, pour dire à ces\nmessieurs que nous espérons les avoir tous ce soir, et particulièrement\nle capitaine Benwick et M. Wenvorth.»\n\nElle craignait quelque malentendu qui gâterait son bonheur. Une autre\ncontrariété survint: Charles voulut l'accompagner, cela était cruel,\nmais elle ne pouvait s'y refuser.\n\nArrivés à la rue Union, un pas rapide et qui lui était familier se fit\nentendre derrière eux. Elle eut le temps de se préparer à voir Wenvorth.\nIl les rejoignit, puis parut indécis sur ce qu'il devait faire; il se\ntut et la regarda. Elle soutint ce regard en rougissant. Alors\nl'indécision de Wenvorth cessa et il marcha à côté d'elle.\n\nCharles, frappé d'une pensée soudaine, dit tout à coup:\n\n«Capitaine, où allez-vous? A Gay-Street, ou plus loin?\n\n--Je n'en sais rien, dit Wenvorth surpris.\n\n--Allez-vous près de Camben-Place? parce qu'alors je n'ai aucun scrupule\nà vous prier de me remplacer, et de donner votre bras à Anna. Elle est\nun peu souffrante ce matin et ne doit pas aller seule si loin; et il\nfaut que j'aille chez mon armurier. Il m'a promis de me faire voir un\nsuperbe fusil qu'il va expédier, et si je n'y vais pas tout de suite il\nsera trop tard.»\n\nWenvorth n'avait aucune objection à faire à cela, il s'empressa\nd'accepter, réprimant un sourire et une joie folle.\n\nUne minute après, Charles était au bout de la rue, et Wenvorth et Anna\nse dirigeaient vers la promenade tranquille, pour causer librement\npendant cette heure bénie, qu'ils se rappelleraient toujours avec\nbonheur. Là ils échangèrent de nouveau ces sentiments et ces promesses\nqui avaient déjà une fois engagé leur avenir et qui avaient été suivis\nde longues années de séparation et d'indifférence. Ils se rappelèrent le\npassé, plus parfaitement heureux qu'ils ne l'avaient jamais été, plus\ntendres, plus éprouvés, plus certains de la fidélité et de l'attachement\nl'un de l'autre; plus disposés à agir, et plus justifiés en le faisant.\nIls montaient lentement la pente douce, ne voyant rien autour d'eux, ni\nles passants qui les coudoyaient. Ils s'expliquaient et se racontaient,\nsans se lasser jamais, les journées précédentes. C'était bien la\njalousie qui avait dirigé toute la conduite de Wenvorth; mais il n'avait\njamais aimé qu'elle. Il avait voulu l'oublier, et croyait y avoir\nréussi. Il s'était cru indifférent, tandis qu'il n'était qu'irrité; il\navait été injuste pour les qualités d'Anna, parce qu'il en avait\nsouffert. Maintenant elle était pour lui la perfection absolue, mais il\nreconnaissait qu'à Uppercross seulement il avait appris à lui rendre\njustice, et qu'à Lyme seulement il avait commencé à se connaître\nlui-même. L'admiration de M. Elliot pour Anna avait réveillé son\naffection, et les incidents du Cobb et la suite avaient établi la\nsupériorité d'Anna.\n\nIl avait fait des efforts inutiles pour s'attacher à Louisa, sans se\ndouter qu'une autre femme avait déjà pris possession de son coeur. Il\navait appris alors à distinguer la fermeté de principes, de l'entêtement\net de l'amour-propre; un esprit résolu et équilibré, d'un esprit\ntéméraire. Tout contribuait à élever dans son estime la femme qu'il\navait perdue; et il commençait à déplorer l'orgueil et la folie qui\nl'avaient empêché de la regagner quand elle était sur sa route.\n\nDès lors sa punition avait commencé. A peine délivré du remords et de\nl'horreur causés par l'accident de Lyme, il s'était aperçu qu'il n'était\nplus libre.\n\n«Je découvris, dit-il, que Harville me considérait comme engagé avec\nLouisa. L'honneur me commandait de l'épouser, puisque j'avais été\nimprudent. Je n'avais pas le droit d'essayer si je pourrais m'attacher à\nune de ces jeunes filles, au risque de faire naître des bruits fâcheux.\nJ'avais péché, j'en devais subir les conséquences. Je me décidai à\nquitter Lyme, j'aurais voulu affaiblir par tous les moyens possibles\nles sentiments que j'avais pu inspirer. J'allai chez mon frère, il me\nparla de vous, il me demanda si vous étiez changée. Il ne soupçonnait\nguère qu'à mes yeux vous ne pouviez jamais changer.»\n\nAnna sourit, car il est bien doux à vingt-huit ans de s'entendre dire\nqu'on n'a perdu aucun des charmes de la jeunesse. Elle comparait cet\nhommage avec d'autres paroles qu'il avait dites, et le savourait\ndélicieusement.\n\nIl en était là, déplorant son aveuglement et son orgueil, quand\nl'étonnante et heureuse nouvelle du mariage de Louisa lui rendit sa\nliberté.\n\n«Ce fut la fin de mes plus grands tourments, car dès lors la route du\nbonheur m'était ouverte; mais attendre dans l'inaction eût été trop\nterrible. J'allai à Bath. Me pardonnez-vous d'y être arrivé avec un peu\nd'espoir? Je savais que vous aviez refusé un homme plus riche que moi;\nmais vous voir entourée de personnes malveillantes à mon égard; voir\nvotre cousin causant et souriant, et savoir que tous ceux qui avaient\nquelque influence sur vous désiraient ce mariage, quand même vous auriez\nde l'indifférence ou de la répulsion, n'était-ce pas assez pour me\nrendre fou?\n\n--Il fallait ne pas me soupçonner, dit Anna, le cas était si différent.\nSi j'ai eu tort en cédant autrefois à la persuasion, souvenez-vous\nqu'elle était exercée pour mon bien, je cédais au devoir. Mais ici on ne\npouvait invoquer aucun devoir pour me faire épouser un homme qui m'était\nindifférent.\n\n--Je ne pouvais pas raisonner ainsi. J'étais la proie de ces vieux\nsentiments dont j'avais tant souffert. Je me souvenais seulement que\nvous m'aviez abandonné croyant aux autres plutôt qu'à moi, et qu'enfin\nvous étiez encore avec la même personne qui vous avait guidée, dans\ncette année de malheur.\n\n--J'aurais cru, dit Anna, que ma manière d'être pouvait vous épargner\ntout ce chagrin?\n\n--Non; vous aviez l'air aisé d'une personne qui est engagée ailleurs, et\ncependant j'étais décidé à vous revoir.»\n\nAnna rentra chez elle, plus heureuse que personne ici n'aurait pu\ncomprendre. Tous les sentiments pénibles du matin étaient dissipés: son\nbonheur était si grand, que, pour contenir sa joie, elle fut obligée de\nse dire qu'elle ne pouvait pas durer. Elle alla s'enfermer dans sa\nchambre, pour pouvoir en jouir ensuite avec plus de calme.\n\nLe soir vint, les salons se remplirent. C'était une soirée banale, trop\nnombreuse pour être intime, pas assez pour être animée.\n\nCependant jamais soirée ne parut plus courte à Anna. Jolie et\nrougissante d'émotion et de bonheur, elle fut généralement admirée.\n\nElle ne trouvait là que des indifférents ou des gens sympathiques, les\npremiers elle les laissait de côté; elle causait gaîment avec les\nautres, puis elle échangeait quelques mots avec Wenvorth, et elle\nsentait qu'il était là! Ce fut dans un de ces courts moments qu'elle lui\ndit:\n\n«J'ai tâché de me juger impartialement, et je crois que j'ai fait mon\ndevoir en me laissant influencer par l'amie qui me servait de mère. Je\nne veux pas dire pourtant qu'elle ne se trompait pas: l'avenir lui a\ndonné tort. Quant à moi, je ne voudrais jamais dans une circonstance\nsemblable imposer mon avis. Mais si j'avais désobéi, j'aurais été\ntourmentée par ma conscience; aujourd'hui je n'ai rien à me reprocher,\net je crois que le sentiment du devoir n'est pas le plus mauvais lot\nd'une femme en ce monde.»\n\nIl regarda Anna, puis lady Russel:\n\n«Je ne lui pardonne pas encore; mais j'espère plus tard être bien avec\nelle.\n\n--Je me suis demandé aussi si je n'avais pas été moi-même mon plus grand\nennemi. Dites-moi, si je vous avais écrit, quand je fus nommé commandant\nde la _Laconia_, m'auriez-vous répondu? M'auriez-vous promis votre main?\n\n--Oui, je l'aurais fait!» fut toute sa réponse; mais le ton était\ndécisif.\n\n--Mon Dieu! s'écria-t-il; est-ce vrai? j'y pensais et je le souhaitais,\ncomme le couronnement de tous mes succès, mais j'étais trop orgueilleux\npour vous demander une seconde fois. Si j'avais voulu vous comprendre et\nvous rendre justice, six années de réparation et de souffrance m'eussent\nété épargnées! Ce m'est une douleur d'un nouveau genre. Je me suis\naccoutumé à croire que je méritais tout ce qui m'arrivait d'heureux.\nComme d'autres grands hommes dans les revers, ajouta-t-il avec un\nsourire, je dois m'efforcer de soumettre mon esprit à ma destinée. Je\ndois apprendre à me trouver heureux plus que je ne mérite.»\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XXIV\n\n\nQui peut douter de la suite de l'histoire? Quand deux jeunes gens se\nmettent en tête de se marier, ils sont sûrs, par la persévérance,\nd'arriver à leur but, quelque pauvres, quelque imprudents qu'ils soient.\nC'est là peut-être une dangereuse morale, mais je crois que c'est la\nvraie, et si ceux-là réussissent, comment _un capitaine Wenvorth_ et une\n_Anna Elliot_, ayant toute la maturité de l'esprit, la conscience du\ndroit et une fortune indépendante, n'auraient-ils pas renversé tous les\nobstacles?\n\nIls n'en rencontrèrent pas beaucoup, en réalité, car ils n'eurent\nd'autre opposition que le manque de gracieuseté et d'affection.\n\nSir Walter ne fit aucune objection, et Élisabeth se contenta de paraître\nfroide et indifférente. Le capitaine Wenvorth, avec son mérite personnel\net ses 25,000 livres, n'était plus un zéro. On le trouvait digne de\nrechercher la fille d'un baronnet dépensier et absurde, qui n'avait pas\neu assez de bon sens pour se maintenir dans la situation où la\nProvidence l'avait placé, et qui ne pouvait donner à sa fille qu'une\npetite portion des 10,000 livres venant de sa mère.\n\nSir Walter, malgré sa vanité, était loin de penser que ce fût là un\nmauvais mariage. Au contraire, quand il vit Wenvorth davantage à la\nlumière du jour (et il le regarda bien), il fut frappé de sa bonne mine,\net il sentit que cette supériorité physique pouvait entrer en balance\navec le rang de sa fille.\n\nTout cela, aidé d'un nom bien sonnant, disposa Sir Walter à préparer sa\nplume avec bonne grâce pour insérer le mariage dans le livre d'honneur.\n\nLa seule personne dont l'opposition pouvait causer une sérieuse\ninquiétude était lady Russel. Anna savait que cette dame aurait quelque\npeine à renoncer à M. Elliot et qu'elle devrait faire des efforts pour\nrendre justice à Wenvorth.\n\nIl lui fallait reconnaître qu'elle s'était trompée doublement; que, les\nmanières de Wenvorth ne convenant pas à ses idées, elle avait été trop\nprompte à lui attribuer un caractère d'une impétuosité dangereuse; que,\nles manières de M. Elliot lui ayant plu précisément par leur correction\net leur élégance, leur politesse et leur aménité, elle avait été trop\nprompte à y reconnaître un esprit bien équilibré.\n\nElle avait à faire une nouvelle provision d'opinions et d'espérances.\n\nIl y a chez quelques personnes une pénétration naturelle que\nl'expérience ne peut égaler. Lady Russel avait été moins douée que sa\njeune amie; mais c'était une excellente femme, et si elle avait la\nprétention d'avoir un bon jugement, elle voulait, avant tout, le bonheur\nd'Anna.\n\nQuand la gêne du premier moment fut passée, elle se mit à aimer comme\nune mère l'homme qui assurait le bonheur de son enfant.\n\nDe toute la famille, Marie fut probablement la plus satisfaite. Ce\nmariage augmentait sa considération, et elle pouvait se flatter d'y\navoir contribué en gardant Anna avec elle pendant l'automne. Elle était\nfort contente que Wenvorth fût plus riche que Benwick ou Hayter, car sa\npropre soeur devait être au-dessus des soeurs de son mari.\n\nElle eut à souffrir, peut-être, de voir reprendre à Anna son droit\nd'aînesse dans la société, et de la voir propriétaire d'un joli landau;\nmais elle avait un avenir qu'Anna n'avait pas. Son mari était fils aîné,\net il hériterait d'Uppercross; et si elle pouvait empêcher Wenvorth\nd'être fait baronnet, elle ne voudrait pas changer avec Anna.\n\nIl est à désirer que la soeur aînée soit également satisfaite de son\nsort, car un changement n'est pas probable. Elle a eu la mortification\nde voir M. Elliot se retirer, et personne ne s'est présenté qui puisse\nfaire naître en elle le moindre espoir.\n\nLa nouvelle du mariage d'Anna fut pour M. Elliot un événement inattendu.\nIl dérangeait ses plans de bonheur conjugal et son espoir de garder Sir\nWalter célibataire, en le surveillant de près.\n\nQuoique dérouté et désappointé, il pouvait encore faire quelque chose\npour son propre plaisir et son intérêt. Il quitta Bath, et Mme Clay,\ns'en allant bientôt après, le bruit courut qu'elle s'était établie à\nLondres sous sa protection. On vit alors qu'il avait joué double jeu et\nqu'il était résolu à empêcher cette femme artificieuse de l'évincer.\n\nChez Mme Clay, la passion l'avait emporté sur l'intérêt, elle était\nrusée cependant aussi bien que passionnée; et l'on se demande\naujourd'hui qui des deux sera le plus habile: si M. Elliot, après\nl'avoir empêchée d'épouser Sir Walter, ne sera pas amené à en faire sa\nfemme.\n\nSir Walter et Élisabeth furent sans nul doute froissés et vexés en\ndécouvrant la duplicité de Mme Clay. Ils ont, il est vrai, pour se\nconsoler leur _grande_ cousine, mais ils sentiront bientôt que le métier\nde courtisan n'est pas toujours agréable.\n\nAnna n'eut qu'un nuage à son bonheur; ce fut de voir que personne dans\nsa famille n'était digne de Wenvorth. La disproportion de fortune ne lui\ndonna pas un moment de regret; mais ne pouvoir offrir à son mari\nl'accueil bienveillant d'une famille respectable, en échange de\nl'accueil empressé de ses beaux-frères et belles-soeurs, fut pour elle\nune source de chagrin.\n\nElle n'avait dans le monde que deux amies à ajouter à ceux de son mari:\nlady Russel et Mme Shmith; il était tout disposé à aimer la première,\net, pourvu qu'on ne l'obligeât pas à dire qu'elle avait eu raison de les\nséparer, il voulait bien lui reconnaître toutes les autres qualités.\n\nQuant à Mme Shmith, elle avait des titres pour être aimée tout de suite:\nles bons offices qu'elle avait rendus à Anna. Elle acquit deux amis au\nlieu d'une, et fut la première à les visiter. Le capitaine s'acquitta\nenvers elle en lui faisant recouvrer sa propriété des Indes.\n\nCette augmentation de revenu, jointe à une amélioration de santé et à\nla fréquentation d'aussi bons amis, entretint sa gaîté et sa vivacité,\net elle défia alors les plus grandes richesses d'ajouter à son\ncontentement; mais la source de son bonheur était en elle et dans son\ncaractère, comme celui d'Anna était dans son coeur aimant. Anna était\ntout tendresse, et Wenvorth l'aima autant qu'elle en était digne. La\ncrainte de la guerre fut la seule ombre à son bonheur. Elle se\nglorifiait d'être la femme d'un marin, mais il fallait payer cette\ngloire par les alarmes dues à cette profession, où les vertus\ndomestiques brillent peut-être d'un plus vif éclat que les vertus\npatriotiques.\n\n\n\n\nTABLE\n\n                    Pages\n  CHAPITRE     I        1\n     --       II       11\n     --      III       18\n     --       IV       28\n     --        V       34\n     --       VI       47\n     --      VII       60\n     --     VIII       70\n     --       IX       81\n     --        X       89\n     --       XI      102\n     --      XII      111\n     --     XIII      126\n     --      XIV      134\n     --       XV      142\n     --      XVI      149\n     --     XVII      158\n     --    XVIII      170\n     --      XIX      182\n     --       XX      188\n     --      XXI      197\n     --     XXII      214\n     --    XXIII      228\n     --     XXIV      246\n\n\n  Châteauroux.--Typog. et Stér. A. MAJESTÉ.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n    Liste des modifications:\n\n  page   2: «1874» remplacé par «1784» (épousa, le 15 juillet 1784)\n  page  12: «pu'il» par «qu'il»(parce qu'il était Sir Walter)\n  page  32: «eur» par «leur» (il est vrai, leur liaison, mais il avait)\n  page  36: «eur» par «leur» (comme une compagne très utile pour leur\n              installation.)\n  page  56: «Louisia» par «Louisa» (Tout à coup Louisa entra seule)\n  page  89: «exéprience» par «expérience» (mais sa mémoire et son\n              expérience)\n  page  92: «eu» par «en» (nous pourrons les voir en haut)\n  page  96: «ees» par «des» (de l'orgueil des Elliot)\n  page 103: «Qppercross» par «Uppercross» (La fin de son séjour à\n              Uppercross)\n  page 116: «Scot» par «Scott» (On parla encore de Walter Scott)\n  page 207: «boîe» par «boîte» (et la boîte fut placée)\n  page 219: «sastisfaite» par «satisfaite» (et si satisfaite du voyage)\n  page 231: «Famy» par «Fanny» («Pauvre Fanny! Elle ne l'aurait pas\n              oublié sitôt!)\n\n  «Anne» a été remplacé par «Anna» dans les pages: 2, 46, 62, 79.\n  «Louise» par «Louisa» dans les pages: 44, 45, 79, 83.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n","id":"36777"},{"text":"produced from scanned images of public domain material\nfrom the Internet Archive.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n_PRIDE AND PREJUDICE_\n\n_A PLAY_\n\n[Illustration: \"_Mr. Darcy, I have never desired your good opinion, and\nyou have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly._\"]\n\n\n\n\n_PRIDE AND PREJUDICE_\n\n_A PLAY_\n\n_FOUNDED ON JANE AUSTEN'S\nNOVEL_\n\n_BY_\n\n_MRS. STEELE MACKAYE_\n\n[Illustration: colophon]\n\n_NEW YORK_\n_DUFFIELD AND COMPANY_\n_1906_\n\n\n                 COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY DUFFIELD & COMPANY.\n\n                        Published September, 1906.\n\n                                  ------\n\n                         SPECIAL COPYRIGHT NOTICE.\n\n     This play is fully protected by copyright, all requirements of the\n     law having been complied with. Performances may be given only with\n     the written permission of Duffield & Company, agents for Mrs.\n     Steele Mackaye, owner of the acting rights.\n\n     Extract from the law relating to copyright:\n\n     \"SEC. 4996. Any person publicly performing or representing any\n     dramatic or musical composition for which a copyright has been\n     obtained, without the consent of the proprietor of said dramatic or\n     musical composition or his heirs or assigns, shall be liable for\n     damages therefor, such damages in all cases to be assessed at such\n     sum not less than one hundred dollars for the first and fifty\n     dollars for every subsequent performance as to the Court shall\n     appear just. If the unlawful performance and representation be\n     wilful and not for profit, such person or persons shall be guilty\n     of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction be imprisoned for a period\n     not exceeding one year.\"\n\n\n\n\nPERSONS OF THE PLAY\n\n\n     MR. DARCY--(OF PEMBERLEY, DERBYSHIRE). \"_Possessed of a fine tall\n     person, handsome features, noble mien, and ... ten thousand a year\n     ... clever ... haughty, reserved and fastidious; his manners,\n     though well-bred, were not inviting. 'Some people call him proud,'\n     said Mrs. Reynolds, the housekeeper at Pemberley, 'but I am sure I\n     never saw anything of it.... He is the best landlord and the best\n     master that ever lived.'_\"\n\n     MR. BINGLEY--(OF NETHERFIELD, HERTFORDSHIRE, DARCY'S FRIEND).\n     \"_Just what a young man ought to be; sensible and good-humoured,\n     lively ... such happy manners! So much ease, with such perfect good\n     breeding.... Also handsome, which a young man ought likewise to be\n     if he possibly can._\"\n\n     COLONEL FITZWILLIAM--(COUSIN TO DARCY). \"_About thirty, not\n     handsome, but in person and address most truly the gentleman._\"\n\n     MR. BENNET--(OF LONGBOURN). \"_An odd mixture of quick parts,\n     sarcastic humour, reserve and caprice. He was fond of the country\n     and of books, and from these tastes had arisen his principal\n     enjoyments._\"\n\n     MR. COLLINS--(A COUSIN OF MR. BENNET, AND NEXT IN THE ENTAIL OF\n     LONGBOURN ESTATE.) \"_A tall, heavy-looking young man of\n     five-and-twenty. His air was grave and stately, and his manners\n     very formal. His veneration for his patroness, Lady Catherine de\n     Bourg, mingling with a very good opinion of himself and of his\n     authority as a clergyman ... made him altogether a mixture of pride\n     and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility._\"\n\n     SIR WILLIAM LUCAS--(AN INTIMATE FRIEND AND NEIGHBOUR OF THE\n     BENNETS). \"_Formerly in trade in Meryton ... he had risen to the\n     honour of knighthood by an address to the King during his\n     mayoralty. The distinction had ... given him a disgust to his\n     business, and, ... quitting it, he had removed ... to Lucas Lodge,\n     where he could think with pleasure of his own importance, and ...\n     occupy himself solely in being civil to all the world._\"\n\n     COLONEL FORSTER--(THE COLONEL OF THE REGIMENT STATIONED AT\n     MERYTON).\n\n     MR. WICKHAM--(AN OFFICER IN THE REGIMENT). \"_Endowed with all the\n     best parts of beauty--a fine countenance, a good figure, and a very\n     pleasing address. As false and deceitful as he is insinuating._\"\n\n     MR. DENNY--(ANOTHER OFFICER IN THE REGIMENT).\n\n     HARRIS--(THE BUTLER AT LONGBOURN).\n\n     MRS. BENNET--(THE WIFE OF MR. BENNET). \"_A woman of mean\n     understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she\n     was discontented she fancied herself nervous. The business of her\n     life was to get her daughters married; its solace was visiting and\n     news._\"\n\n     JANE--(ELDEST DAUGHTER OF MR. AND MRS. BENNET). \"_She united with\n     great strength of feeling a composure of temper and a uniform\n     cheerfulness of manner. Her mild and steady candour always pleaded\n     allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes._\"\n\n     ELIZABETH--(THEIR SECOND DAUGHTER). \"_Although not so handsome as\n     Jane, her face was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful\n     expression of her dark eyes. She had a lively, playful disposition,\n     which delighted in anything ridiculous, with more quickness of\n     observation and less pliancy of temper than her sister. There was a\n     mixture of sweetness and archness in her manner which made it\n     difficult for her to affront anybody._\"\n\n     LYDIA--(THEIR YOUNGEST DAUGHTER). \"_A stout, well-grown girl of\n     fifteen, with a fine complexion and a good-humoured countenance--a\n     favourite with her mother, whose affection had brought her into\n     public at an early age._\"\n\n     LADY LUCAS--(THE WIFE OF SIR WILLIAM). \"_Not too clever to be a\n     valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet._\"\n\n     CHARLOTTE LUCAS--(DAUGHTER OF SIR WILLIAM AND LADY LUCAS). \"_A\n     sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven, ...\n     Elizabeth's intimate friend._\"\n\n     MISS BINGLEY--(SISTER OF MR. BINGLEY). \"_A very fine lady ... but\n     proud and conceited._\"\n\n     LADY CATHERINE DE BOURG--(AUNT OF DARCY AND PATRONESS OF MR.\n     COLLINS). \"_A tall, large woman, with strongly marked features,\n     which might once have been handsome. Her air was not\n     conciliating.... Whatever she said, was spoken in so authoritative\n     a tone as marked her self-importance._\"\n\n     HILL--(THE HOUSEKEEPER AT LONGBOURN).\n\n     MARTHA--(THE MAID AT MR. COLLINS'S PARSONAGE).\n\n\n\n\nACT I\n\nTHE DRAWING-ROOM AT LONGBOURN\n\nACT II\n\nTHE ORANGERY AT NETHERFIELD\n\nONE MONTH LATER\n\nACT III\n\nMR. COLLINS'S PARSONAGE AT HUNSFORD\n\nTHREE MONTHS LATER\n\nACT IV\n\nTHE SHRUBBERY AT LONGBOURN\n\nONE WEEK LATER\n\nPLACE: ENGLAND TIME: 1796\n\n     \"In the novels of the last hundred years there are vast numbers of\n     young ladies with whom it might be a pleasure to fall in love,--but\n     to live with and to marry, I do not know that any of them can come\n     into competition with _Elizabeth Bennet_.\"--GEORGE SAINTSBURY.\n     Preface to the Peacock Edition of \"Pride and Prejudice.\"\n\n\n\n\nACT I\n\n\n\n\nPRIDE AND PREJUDICE\n\nA PLAY\n\n\n\n\nACT I\n\n\n_The drawing-room at Longbourn. At the back, wide glass doors open upon\na terrace which overlooks an English landscape. It is winter, and coals\nare burning in the fireplace. On each side of the glass doors are\nrounded recesses with windows. On one side of the room a door opens into\nthe library. On the other side is a door to the hall--the chief entrance\nof the house. The room is handsomely furnished in eighteenth century\nstyle._ MR. _and_ MRS. BENNET _are discovered sitting on either side of\nthe table._ MRS. BENNET _is knitting--_MR. BENNET _reading._\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_After a slight pause and laying down her knitting._]\n\nMy dear Mr. Bennet, did not you hear me? Did you know that Netherfield\nPark is let at last?\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\n[_Continues reading and does not answer._]\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Impatiently._] Do not you want to know who has taken it?\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\n[_Ceases reading and looks up at her with an amused smile._] You want to\ntell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_With animation._] Why, my dear, you must know Lady Lucas says that\nNetherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune from the North of\nEngland. His name is Bingley, and he is _single_, my dear. Think of\nthat, Mr. Bennet! A single man of large fortune; four or five thousand\npounds a year. What a fine thing for our girls!\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nHow so? How can it affect them?\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nMy dear Mr. Bennet, how can you be so tiresome! You must know that I am\nthinking of his marrying one of them.\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nIs that his design in settling here?\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nDesign!--Nonsense! How can you talk so? But it is very likely that he\nwill fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as\nsoon as you can. Consider your daughters, Mr. Bennet! Only think what an\nestablishment it would be for one of them! Sir William and Lady Lucas\nare determined to go merely on that account. Indeed you must go, for it\nwill be impossible for us to visit him if _you_ do not.\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\n[_Who has risen during this last speech and now stands with his back to\nthe fire, facing_ MRS. BENNET.] You are overscrupulous, surely. I dare\nsay Mr. Bingley will be very glad to see you, and I will send a few\nlines to assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying whichever he\nchooses of the girls--though I must throw in a good word for my little\nLizzy.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Sharply._] I desire you will do no such thing! Lizzy is not a bit\nbetter than the others. She is not half as handsome as Jane, nor as\ngood-humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving her the preference.\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nNot unless she deserves it, my dear. But in this particular instance my\npoor little Lizzy is the only one who is unprovided for. Lydia and the\nothers belong in the schoolroom, and you tell me that Mr. Collins has\nalready spoken for Jane.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nOh, that odious Mr. Collins! I wish he had never come here. I wish I\nmight never hear his name again!\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nMr. Collins odious! You surprise me! I thought that he had won your full\napproval.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Fretfully._] Oh, well, since he had to be your cousin, and since you\n_will_ not do anything about the entail, I suppose it will be a mercy if\nhe does marry Jane. [_Half crying._] But I do think, Mr. Bennet, it is\nthe hardest thing in the world that we have no son of our own, so that\nyour property has to be entailed away from your own wife and children,\nso if you should die, we may all be turned out of the house whenever\nthis Mr. Collins pleases. [_In bewailing tone._] He certainly does seem\nto have all the luck in the world. Here he has just got this good living\nfrom that grand Lady Catherine de Bourg.\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nBut, my dear, that will soon be _your_ luck, as well. You forget that\nyour daughter is to profit by it.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nWell, perhaps. I don't know about _that_, but, [_With renewed\nexcitement._] I _do_ know that it is too monstrous that after you are\ngone I shall be forced to make way for this man and live to see him\nmaster in this house!\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nMy dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for better\nthings. Let us flatter ourselves that I may be the survivor.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_This is not very consoling to_ MRS. BENNET; _and therefore, instead of\nmaking answer, she goes on as before._] If it was not for the entail I\nshould not mind it.\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nWhat should not you mind?\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nI should not mind anything at all.\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nLet us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such\ninsensibility. But it certainly is a most iniquitous affair, and nothing\ncan clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn. However,\nyou know he is doing his best to mend matters. He has not only\nhandsomely apologised for his fault, but he has now assured us of his\nreadiness to make every possible amends by marrying one of the girls.\nSurely, my dear, you must acknowledge that this plan is excessively\ngenerous on his part.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Dolefully._] Well, I suppose it might be worse.\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\n[_Cheerfully._] Decidedly worse. With Jane so well settled, and a single\nman like Mr. Bingley in prospect, I think you should be quite cheerful.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Excited once more._] Mr. Bingley! We shall never know Mr. Bingley. Oh,\nMr. Bennet, you take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my\npoor nerves.\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nYou mistake, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my\nold friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these\ntwenty years at least.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nAh! You do not know what I suffer.\n\n\nLYDIA.\n\n[_Bursting into the room, followed by_ JANE.] Oh, that horrid practice!\n[_Looking back at_ JANE.] Jane does so keep me at it. [_Throwing herself\ninto a chair._] La, I'm tired to death.\n\n\nJANE.\n\n[_Who sees that her mother is half crying, goes and stands behind her\nchair, puts her hand affectionately on her shoulder, and bends over\nher._] Does your head ache, mamma?\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nOf course my head aches. Your father is so teasing. I cannot persuade\nhim to call on Mr. Bingley at Netherfield, so I suppose we shall never\nknow him.\n\n\nJANE.\n\n[_Smiling._] But you forget, mamma, that we shall meet him at the\nassemblies, and Lady Lucas has promised to introduce him.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nI do not believe Lady Lucas will do any such thing. She has daughters of\nher own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion of\nher.\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nNo more have I, and I am glad to find that you do not depend on her\nserving you.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nI may have to depend on her after all, Mr. Bennet, since you will do\nnothing to help me. [_Fretfully to_ LYDIA, _who has been yawning and\ncoughing._] Don't keep coughing, Lydia, for Heaven's sake! Have a little\ncompassion on my nerves.\n\n[LYDIA _pouts and looks unutterable things._]\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nLydia has no discretion in her coughs. She times them ill.\n\n\nLYDIA.\n\nI do not cough for my own amusement, papa. Jane, when is your next ball?\n\n\nJANE.\n\nTo-morrow fortnight.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Starting excitedly._] Ay, so it is--and Lady Lucas does not come back\ntill the day before. So you see it will be impossible for her to\nintroduce Mr. Bingley, for she will not know him herself.\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nThen, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and _you_ can\nintroduce Mr. Bingley to _her_.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nImpossible, Mr. Bennet, when I am not acquainted with him myself. How\ncan you be so teasing?\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nI honour your circumspection. A fortnight's acquaintance is certainly\nvery little. But if _we_ do not venture, somebody else will, and if\n_you_ decline the office _I_ will take it upon myself.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_As the two girls stare at their father._] Oh, nonsense--nonsense! I am\nsick of Mr. Bingley!\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nI am sorry to hear that; but why did not you tell me so before? If I had\nknown as much a week ago, I certainly should not have called upon him.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Springing from her chair and throwing her arms about_ MR. BENNET'S\n_neck._] What! You have really called upon him? Oh, how good in you, my\ndear Mr. Bennet!\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nIt is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit--and as he\nwill very likely return it at any time, and bring his friend, Mr. Darcy,\nwith him--we cannot now avoid the acquaintance of Mr. Bingley and his\nparty.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nOh, my dear Mr. Bennet, I was sure you loved your girls too well to\nneglect such an acquaintance. [MR. BENNET _deftly takes her hands from\nhis shoulders. She stands looking fondly at him._] Well, how pleased I\nam! And it was such a good joke that you should have already paid Mr.\nBingley a visit and never said a word about it.\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nYes. Yes. Well, I must go to the library. [_He goes to the door, but\nstops for a moment._] Now, Lydia, you can cough as much as you choose.\n[_He goes out._]\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Looking after_ MR. BENNET.] What an excellent father you have, girls!\n[_Turns to the girls._] I do not know how you will ever make him amends\nfor his kindness, or me either, for that matter. At our time of life it\nis not so pleasant to be making new acquaintances every day. But for\nyour sakes we would do anything. [_Looking about her._] Where is Lizzy?\nLydia, my love, where is your sister?\n\n\nLYDIA.\n\nOh, she is out walking with Charlotte Lucas and that dismal Mr. Collins.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nLizzy--out walking with Mr. Collins? Why didn't _you_ go, Jane?\n\n\nJANE.\n\nI had to practise with Lydia.\n\n\nLYDIA.\n\nI'm sure I would have excused you. But what is Mr. Collins here for,\nmamma? I am sure I caught Mr. Wickham and Colonel Forster laughing at\nhim the day we went to Meryton. Why does papa have a cousin like that?\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nHe really cannot help it. It is the entail, my love--[_Mysteriously._]\nBut I hope that all you girls will be very civil to him, Jane\nespecially.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nI--mamma?\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Embarrassed._] Yes--my love.--You see----\n\n[_She is interrupted by the sound of laughter outside, and_ ELIZABETH'S\n_voice._]\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nVery well, Mr. Collins.\n\n[MRS. BENNET _makes a sudden awed gesture of silence to the girls, who\nfail to understand._ ELIZABETH _enters by the glass doors. She is\ndressed in winter walking costume: a large hat,--fur-trimmed pelerine,\nand a large muff. She stops in the doorway and looks at_ MRS. BENNET,\n_half puzzled and smiling._]\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nWell, what is it, mamma? What is the matter?\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nNothing. Hush! What have you done with Mr. Collins?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Laughing._] Oh, Mr. Collins is safe! He has gone round to the\nlibrary.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_With a sigh of relief._] How providential!\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Looking back._] But I have brought someone else with me.\n\n[MR. WICKHAM _and_ CHARLOTTE LUCAS _come in gaily._]\n\n\nALL.\n\n[_Exclaiming._] Oh, Mr. Wickham!\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\n[_To_ MRS. BENNET.] How do you do, Mrs. Bennet? This is indeed a\npleasure. [_Going over to_ JANE.] Miss Bennet, I am _so_ glad to see\nyou. [_Reproachfully._] You were not with our party! [_To_ LYDIA.] Why\ndo you never come to Meryton, Miss Lydia? Mr. Denny is quite downcast.\n\n\nLYDIA.\n\n[_Pouting._] La, Mr. Denny!\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\nAnd many others beside him, Miss Lydia.\n\n[LYDIA _giggles._ WICKHAM _returns to_ MRS. BENNET.]\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nWell, 'tis an age since we saw you, Mr. Wickham. What _have_ you been\ndoing?\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\nColonel Forster keeps me so busy that I have no time for enjoyment.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYes, Mr. Wickham bears all the marks of an harassed and overworked man.\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\n[_Bowing to_ ELIZABETH.] Thank you, Miss Elizabeth. You have given me\nthe very terms I needed. [_To_ MRS. BENNET.] You see before you, Mrs.\nBennet, an harassed and overworked man. Miss Elizabeth will bear witness\nthat I was on my way to a business appointment when I yielded to\ntemptation and went off for a walk with her and Miss Lucas and their\nirreproachable escort.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nAnd Miss Elizabeth will also testify that you yielded with the celerity\nand ease of long practice.\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\n[_Laughing; to_ ELIZABETH.] But in this case who was the tempter?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nOh, I will admit that Mr. Collins was partially responsible.\n\n[_All laugh._]\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nCome, Lizzy, you have been talking to Mr. Wickham all the morning. Now,\nlet some of the rest of us have a chance. [_Turning to_ WICKHAM.] You\nmust stay to dinner, Mr. Wickham.\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\nI wish I might. That is indeed a temptation. But you know Miss Elizabeth\nhas just reminded me of my duty.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nOh, nobody ever minds Lizzy!\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\nTruly, I cannot to-day, Mrs. Bennet. It is too bad, but I am to meet\nColonel Forster [_Smiling at_ ELIZABETH] on important _business_ at the\nDrake Farm.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nWell, I am very sorry.\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\n[_Hesitatingly._] I might perhaps bring Colonel Forster in for a few\nmoments on the way back--that is, if we return this way.\n\n\nALL.\n\nOh, yes, do.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nYes, indeed. Tell Colonel Forster we should be delighted to see him.\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\nThank you, I will. But now I really must be gone. [_Bowing brightly to_\nJANE _and_ LYDIA.] Good morning.\n\n[_To_ CHARLOTTE LUCAS.] Good morning, Miss Lucas. You must let me hear\nmore about those clever plans of yours. I am vastly interested in them.\n[_To_ ELIZABETH.] Good morning, Miss Elizabeth. [_Laughing._] You must\ntry to temper your justice with mercy the next time I join you in a\nwalk. [_Pausing, he looks at_ MRS. BENNET, _who is standing between her\ndaughters._] Do you know, Mrs. Bennet, that you always remind me of one\nof my old schoolboy phrases. _Filiae pulchrae!--Mater pulchrior!_\nGood-bye.\n\n[_He runs off laughing. He has only gone a few steps when_ LYDIA, _who\nhas been standing close to the door, runs out and calls to him._]\n\n\nLYDIA.\n\nOh, Mr. Wickham!\n\n[WICKHAM _turns and_ LYDIA _runs up to him and whispers something in his\near._ WICKHAM _laughs, then shakes his finger at her, still laughing,\nand goes off._ LYDIA _stops outside and watches him._]\n\n\nJANE.\n\nReally, mamma, I think you should speak to Lydia. She is too forward.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nNonsense! You are jealous.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nJealous! Of Lydia?\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nWell, she is no more forward than any of you. All you girls are crazy\nabout Mr. Wickham. [_Indulgently._] But I can't wonder at it. He\ncertainly is a most engaging young man. What were those French words he\nsaid to me as he went out, Lizzy?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nThey were Latin, dear. He paid a very charming compliment to our pretty\nmamma. He said--The daughters are lovely, but the mother is lovelier.\nYou know papa always says that you are handsomer than any of us.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nMy dear Lizzy, I certainly have had my share of beauty, but I don't\npretend to be anything extraordinary now. [MR. COLLINS _enters._] Oh,\nMr. Collins, there you are.\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\n[_Bowing profoundly._] I do not find Mr. Bennet in the library, Madam.\nDo you know where he is?\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nWhy, really, Mr. Collins, I can't imagine. Did you enjoy your walk?\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nMost assuredly, Madam. The beauties of nature, not only in the\nlandscape, but also [_Bowing to_ ELIZABETH _and_ CHARLOTTE LUCAS.] in\nthe blooming countenances of my fair companions, made our expedition a\npeculiarly enjoyable one.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nWell, I am very glad of it, I am sure. [_To_ JANE _and_ LYDIA.] Girls,\nwe haven't told Lizzy and Charlotte the news.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nWhat news, mamma?\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Looking at_ CHARLOTTE _with an ill-concealed triumph_.] Oh, nothing of\nconsequence, Lizzy, only your father has just told us that we may expect\na visit at any time from our new neighbour, Mr. Bingley, and that friend\nof his who is stopping with him.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nOh, Mr. Bingley! That will be entertaining. [_Suddenly with mischief she\nturns to_ MR. COLLINS, _who all through this latter conversation has\nbeen staring at_ JANE _with solemn persistence_.] Do not you think so,\nMr. Collins?\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\n[_Starting from his absorption._] Eh? What? [_Pompously again._] Excuse\nme, Miss Elizabeth, on what subject did you ask my opinion?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nI asked you if you didn't think it was a very pleasant thing to meet new\nneighbours.\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nMost assuredly, Miss Elizabeth, if those neighbours are possessed of\nthose qualifications which redound to their own credit, and to the\nedification of their friends. Otherwise, as a clergyman, I must hesitate\nin my approval. [_To_ MRS. BENNET.] You realise, I am sure, Madam, the\ncaution which should ever be exercised where my amiable young cousins\nare concerned.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYes, mamma, you really should be cautious.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nNonsense! Why, my dear Mr. Collins, we have found out all about them.\nMr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy are connected with some of the most\nrespectable families in England.\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\n[_In amazement._] Mr. Darcy? Mr. Fitzgerald Darcy! My dear Madam, can it\nbe possible that you are to be honoured by a visit from him? Respectable\nindeed! Why, he is the nephew of my noble patroness, Lady Catherine de\nBourg. It is true that I have never yet had the honour of meeting\nhim--but he frequently visits his aunt, and she has promised to bring\nhim on some occasion to inspect my humble abode. I am surprised,\nindeed, by this civility on his part. [_Anxiously._] I only fear there\nmay be some mistake, for Mr. Darcy has the reputation of possessing a\nvery natural pride of birth; but if your information is indeed to be\nrelied upon, I think Lady Catherine would consent to my approval of this\nvisit, provided my fair cousins will keep in mind the proper attitude of\nrespectful humility which should be assumed toward a person of his\nsuperior station.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nWe will promise you, Mr. Collins, never for one instant to forget either\nMr. Darcy's exalted position or our own insignificance.\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\n[_Looking at her with admiration._] With that assurance, Miss Elizabeth,\nI think even Lady Catherine would be satisfied. So I need no longer\nwithhold my sanction.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Curtsying._] We thank you, sir.\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nThis is the very attitude of mind I could desire. [_To_ MRS. BENNET.] I\nthink, with your permission, I will now retire again to the library.\n[_Going over smilingly to_ JANE.] There was a volume of Fordyce's\nsermons that you may remember I was reading to you in this room\nyesterday. I do not find it in the library. Do you know where it is?\n[_Looking about him._]\n\n\nJANE.\n\nI haven't seen it, Mr. Collins. I will try to find it for you. [_She\nstarts as if to go out of the room._]\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Wishing to leave them together._] No--no, Lydia will find it. Lydia,\nmy love, go see if you can find the sermons for Mr. Collins.\n\n[LYDIA, _with a grimace, rises slowly from her chair_.]\n\n\nCHARLOTTE LUCAS.\n\nOh, Mrs. Bennet, I am quite sure that I saw the book in the hall. I will\ngo fetch it.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Sharply._] On no account, Charlotte. Lydia will find the book. Lizzy,\ngo and get the mud off your shoes.\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nOh, I will not trouble any of you ladies.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nIt is no trouble, Mr. Collins. Charlotte, if you will come with me, I\nhave a parcel I should like to send your mother.\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nBut I assure you, Madam----\n\n     [_As they go out_, MRS. BENNET--_looking daggers at_\n     CHARLOTTE--_tries to keep_ MR. COLLINS _with_ JANE.]\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nLydia will find your book, Mr. Collins.\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nOn no account, Madam----\n\n     [_With awkward gallantry_ MR. COLLINS _ushers out the\n     ladies_--LYDIA _rebellious_, CHARLOTTE _somewhat offended_.]\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_With an amused smile, having watched the party vanish, turns to_ JANE\n_and speaks to her in mock-heroic fashion_.] Miss Bennet! Do you realise\nthe honour which is so soon to fall upon our humble home, and our\ngratefully humble selves?\n\n\nJANE.\n\n[_Smiling._] Oh, Lizzy!\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nDo you really grasp in its full significance the fact that we may soon\nbe honoured by a visit from Mr. Bingley of Netherfield and Mr.\nFitzgerald Darcy, nephew of the Lady Catherine de Bourg?\n\n\nJANE.\n\nOh, Lizzy, Mr. Collins is a little pompous, but he seems a very\nwell-meaning young man--indeed, sometimes quite agreeable.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Looking quizzically, but affectionately, at her sister._] No one can\nbe anything but agreeable in the mind of our dear Jane. This time,\nhowever, I quite agree with you, I am as delighted as papa with Mr.\nCollins. I can see that his mixture of servility and importance promises\nwell.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nAnd I think Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy promise well. If the half of what\nour neighbours say is true, Mr. Bingley will give us all sorts of\ngaieties. [_Slyly._] Who knows? We may find him as entertaining as Mr.\nWickham.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nAs Mr. Wickham? Then, dear Jane, we shall be rich indeed. [_Counting on\nher fingers._] For hospitality--Mr. Bingley; for conversation--Mr.\nWickham; for grandeur--Mr. Darcy, and the agreeable Mr. Collins!\n\n\nJANE.\n\nOh, Lizzy! Can not you let the poor man alone?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nWith all my heart. I will gladly let him alone. You shall have him all\nto yourself. [_Mischievously._] If only Mr. Collins knew your good\nopinion of him! But he is too modest to find it out for himself.\n\n\nJANE.\n\n[_Playfully pulling_ ELIZABETH'S _ear_.] You are a tease!\n\n\nHARRIS.\n\n[_Entering._] The two gentlemen from Netherfield have just brought their\nhorses into the paddock, Madam.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nShow them in, Harris, and speak to Mrs. Bennet at once.\n\n[HARRIS _bows and goes out_.]\n\n\nJANE.\n\nThey have come soon, Lizzy. Really this is very civil in them.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nUncommonly civil. Come with me, Jane. I must make myself tidy. Mud and\ndirty petticoats for Mr. Darcy!--Oh, that would never do.\n\n     [_They run off, laughing. There is a short pause. Then_ MR. BINGLEY\n     _and_ MR. DARCY _enter. The latter is very quiet, with an air of\n     scornful hauteur_. BINGLEY, _on the contrary, has a gracious and\n     animated manner_. HARRIS _ushers them in, much impressed_.]\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_To_ HARRIS.] You will announce us to Mr. Bennet and the ladies.\n\n[HARRIS _goes out_.]\n\nDo you know, Darcy, I believe that was George Wickham we saw just now,\ngoing toward the Drake Farm.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Quietly._] I think there is no doubt of it.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nBut what is he doing here?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_With assumed indifference._] Probably it is his regiment which is\nstationed at Meryton.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_Excitedly._] No, Darcy! You don't mean it! Why, confound it, if I had\nhad any notion of that--I ... I....\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Contemptuously._] I don't think we need mind Wickham.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nBut I do mind! To think that I should bring you into the neighbourhood\nof that rascal----\n\nDARCY.\n\nHe must live somewhere, I suppose.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nYes, unfortunately. But, Darcy, you are a puzzle to me.--You are,\nindeed! How can you speak with any charity of a man who for years abused\nthe patience and generous kindness of your father, and who so lately has\nattempted against your family the most dastardly action that----\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Interrupting him with hauteur._] We have already said too much of\nGeorge Wickham. I prefer not to discuss him further.\n\n     [BINGLEY _turns away hurt and embarrassed_. DARCY _seeing the\n     effect of his words and manner, goes to him kindly, and speaks to\n     him in a changed voice_.]\n\nBingley, I entirely understand your indignation. Indeed, I share it so\nfully that I dare not trust myself to think of the man's villainy. It is\nbetter that I say nothing of him, even to you.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_Moved._] I am sure, I beg your pardon, Darcy.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nIt is rather for me to ask yours.\n\n     [_There follows an awkward pause, which BINGLEY at length breaks by\n     speaking in a tone of forced gaiety_.]\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nPretty place, this.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_With a shrug._] Very small.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nWhat has the size to do with it? I think we are in luck to have such\ncharming neighbours. You know we saw two of the young ladies going\nthrough the lane the other day. Why, Darcy, one of them is the most\nbeautiful creature I ever beheld--and the other--the one with the dark\neyes--she is uncommonly pretty. Don't you think so?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nShe is tolerable, but fine eyes cannot change family connections.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_Quickly._] What do you mean?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nI think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in\nMeryton.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_Shortly._] Yes.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nAnd that they have another in London who lives somewhere near Cheapside.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_With irritation._] If they had uncles enough to fill all Cheapside, it\nwouldn't make them one jot less handsome.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nBut it must materially lessen their chances of marrying men of any\nconsideration in the world.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nOf marrying? You go fast, Darcy.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nPerhaps. But I am in no humour to give consequence to young ladies. I am\nhere to please you, Bingley--and--[_He smiles meaningly._] knowing your\ndisposition, I think it is just as well that I came.\n\n     [BINGLEY _is about to reply when the door opens and_ MRS. BENNET\n     _enters, followed by_ JANE _and_ ELIZABETH. _The two young men\n     make ceremonious bows._ MRS. BENNET _curtsies and then advances\n     with delighted fussiness_.]\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nGood morning, gentlemen. I am so sorry that Mr. Bennet has gone for his\nwalk.\n\n     [_As she looks a little puzzled from one to the other_, BINGLEY\n     _advances_.]\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nGood morning, Mrs. Bennet. I am Mr. Bingley, your new neighbour at\nNetherfield. This is my friend, Mr. Darcy, of Pendleton, Derbyshire.\n[_All bow and curtsy._] Mr. Bennet has been so kind as to call upon us,\nand we are most happy to have the honour of waiting upon the ladies of\nhis family.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nWe are delighted to see you, I am sure! Mr. Bingley--Mr.\nDarcy--[_Indicating_ JANE]--my eldest daughter, Miss Bennet.\n[_Indicating_ ELIZABETH]--Miss Elizabeth Bennet.\n\n[_The girls make low curtsies--the gentlemen bow._]\n\nWill not you be seated, gentlemen? [_The guests and ladies seat\nthemselves._] I am sure you must like Netherfield, Mr. Bingley. I do not\nknow a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not\nthink of quitting it in a hurry, I hope, though you have but a short\nlease.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nWhatever I do is done in a hurry, Mrs. Bennet, and therefore if I should\nresolve to quit Netherfield I should probably be off in five minutes. At\npresent, however, [_looking intently at_ JANE] I consider myself as\nquite fixed here.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nIt is very pleasant to have Netherfield open once more, although you\nmust both miss London. There is so much gaiety in London.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nYes, in a country neighbourhood you move in a confined and unvarying\nsociety.\n\n[MRS. BENNET _looks vexed at this speech_.]\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nBut people themselves alter so much that there is something new to be\nobserved in them forever.\n\n[DARCY _turns and looks at_ ELIZABETH _with surprise and interest_.]\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nThen you are a student of character, Miss Elizabeth. It must be an\namusing study.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nYes, Lizzy always likes to watch people. [_Looking at_ DARCY.] And there\nare plenty of people about, even if you do live in the country. The\ncountry is a vast deal pleasanter than London, is not it, Mr. Bingley?\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nWhen I am in the country I never wish to leave it, and when I am in town\nit is pretty much the same. They have each their advantages and I am\nequally happy in either.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nAy--that is because _you_ have the right disposition. [_Looking at_\nDARCY.] But that gentleman seemed to think the country was nothing at\nall.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Quickly._] Indeed, mamma, you are mistaken. You quite mistook Mr.\nDarcy. He only meant that there is not such a variety of people to be\nmet with in the country as in town, which you must acknowledge to be\ntrue.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nCertainly, my dear, nobody said there was--but as to not meeting with\nmany people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few\nneighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four-and-twenty families.\n\n     [_As all become embarrassed at this speech_, BINGLEY _comes to the\n     rescue_.]\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nYes, there are many fine estates hereabout. Can you see Sir William\nLucas' place from the garden? I am not quite sure I have placed it.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nOh, yes, there is a fine view of the chimneys from the terrace. Sir\nWilliam is our nearest neighbour. Such an agreeable man--so genteel, and\nso easy---- [_Rising, she goes toward the glass doors._] Come, Jane, we\nmust show Mr. Bingley Sir William's chimneys.\n\n     [MRS. BENNET, BINGLEY, _and_ JANE _go out upon the terrace_.]\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Smiling mischievously._] Would not you also like to see the chimneys,\nMr. Darcy?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nThank you. Like yourself, I prefer people to places.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nDid I say that?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nNot precisely. But I have drawn that conclusion.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Gathering her sewing materials, begins to embroider._] Well, I can\nlaugh at people better than places, and I dearly love a laugh.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nIsn't that rather a dangerous trait, Miss Bennet? The wisest and the\nbest of men may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in\nlife is a joke.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nCertainly. But I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Whims and\ninconsistencies do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.\n[_Mischievously._] But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are\nwithout.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nPerhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has been the study of my\nlife to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding\nto ridicule.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nAnd in your list of weaknesses do you include such faults as vanity and\npride, for instance?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nYes, vanity is a weakness, indeed, but _pride_, where there is a real\nsuperiority of mind--pride will be always under good regulation.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nI am perfectly convinced, Mr. Darcy, that you have no defect.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nI have made no such pretension, Miss Bennet. I have faults enough. My\ntemper I dare not vouch for. I cannot forget the follies and vices of\nothers against myself. My good opinion once lost is lost forever.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nThat is a failing, indeed. Implacable resentment _is_ a shade in a\ncharacter. But you have chosen your fault well. I really cannot laugh at\nit. You are safe from me.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nThere is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular\nevil--a natural defect which not even the best education can overcome.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nAnd your defect is a propensity to hate everybody.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Smiling._] And yours to wilfully misunderstand them.\n\n     [_Voices are heard outside._ ELIZABETH _applies herself to her\n     embroidery_. BINGLEY, JANE, _and_ MRS. BENNET _return from the\n     terrace_.]\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nThe surrounding country is really charming, Mrs. Bennet.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n_We_ think so. But you must give us a ball at Netherfield, Mr. Bingley,\nand then you will see that some of the people who live here are worth\nknowing.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Distressed._] Oh, mamma!\n\n\nJANE.\n\nMamma!\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nCertainly, Mrs. Bennet. I had already decided upon it. I told Mr. Darcy\nonly yesterday that as soon as my sister, Miss Bingley, arrived, and\nNicholas could make white soup enough, I should send out my cards. Did\nnot I, Darcy?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Very stiffly._] I believe you did.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nWell, that is vastly good in you, Mr. Bingley; and then, perhaps, your\nfriend may change his mind about the country. [_To_ DARCY.] You didn't\ncome to admire Sir William's chimneys, Mr. Darcy.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nI was admiring your daughter's work, Madam.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nOh, you should see Jane's work. Lizzy is all for books, like her father.\nShe is a great reader and has no pleasure in anything else. Jane, show\nyour embroidered parrot to Mr. Bingley.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nI do not think Mr. Bingley would be interested, ma'am.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_Eagerly._] Oh, indeed, I should, Miss Bennet; I am very much\ninterested in parrots.--Pray show it to me.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nYes, and the new hand-screen. I will find it for you.\n\n     [_All three withdraw, leaving_ ELIZABETH _and_ DARCY _together_.]\n\nDARCY.\n\nAnd so you are a great reader and take no pleasure in anything else?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nMamma does not understand. I deserve neither such praise nor such\ncensure. I am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nSo I should have thought.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_Looking at the screen which he holds in his hand._]\n\nIt is amazing to me how young ladies can have patience to be so very\naccomplished as they are; to think how you all paint tables and cover\nscreens and net purses. It is quite wonderful.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nDo you agree with your friend, Mr. Darcy?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nHis list of the common extent of accomplishments has too much truth. But\nI cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen young ladies in the\nwhole range of my acquaintance that are really accomplished.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nThen you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished\nwoman.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nPerhaps. To deserve the word, a woman must have a thorough knowledge of\nmusic, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages. She must\nalso possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking--the\ntone of her voice--her address and expression, and to all this she must\nyet add something more substantial--[_With a little bow to_ ELIZABETH.]\nin the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Laughing._] I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six\naccomplished women! I rather wonder at your knowing any.\n\n\nHARRIS.\n\n[_Enters and announces._] Colonel Forster and Mr. Wickham.\n\n[_The gentlemen enter, smiling._]\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\nHere I am again, Mrs. Bennet. I found that Colonel Forster had a message\nfor the young ladies.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nI am delighted to see you. You are just in time to meet our new\nneighbours. [_Introducing the gentlemen._] Colonel Forster, Mr.\nWickham--Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy.\n\n     [_As the gentlemen enter_, MR. DARCY _has his back turned to them\n     in conversation with_ ELIZABETH. _At the sound of_ WICKHAM'S _voice\n     he starts and turns so that he faces the latter just in time for\n     the introduction. At sight of_ DARCY, WICKHAM _starts and is\n     greatly confused_. DARCY _stiffens and scarcely nods when_ WICKHAM\n     _is introduced. The whole situation is so marked that everyone\n     looks on with an astonishment to which_ MRS. BENNET _gives audible\n     expression_.]\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nWell, well! If ever there was a proud, stiff man----\n\nJANE.\n\n[_In a dismayed whisper._] Mamma!\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_Looking distressed, speaks hurriedly._] Oh, Mrs. Bennet, I'm sorry\nthat we cannot wait for Mr. Bennet. We--we--were on the way to meet my\nsteward--and we are already late for the appointment.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Effusively._] I am very sorry you must go, Mr. Bingley. But I hope you\nwill come again. We must engage you soon for dinner.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_In an absent and worried way._] It will be a pleasure.\n\n[_Then with bows, the party moves toward the door._]\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Bustling._] Your best way to the paddock is by the terrace.\n\n     [_The gentlemen have almost reached the glass doors when_ MR.\n     COLLINS _comes in excitedly, putting himself directly in the way\n     of_ BINGLEY _and_ DARCY.]\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nMy dear Miss Elizabeth, I have this moment found out by a singular\naccident that there is now in this room a near relation of my patroness\nLady Catherine de Bourg. Will you present me?\n\n     [_He looks enquiringly from one to the other of the young men._]\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nMr. Bingley, allow me to present my cousin, Mr. Collins--Mr. Darcy--Mr.\nCollins.\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\n[_Taking almost no notice of_ MR. BINGLEY, _he greets_ MR. DARCY _with\nservile effusion_.] My dear sir--I trust you will pardon me for not\nhaving paid my respects before. My total ignorance of your presence here\nmust plead my apology. [_Looking severely about him at the ladies._] I\nwas not informed of it. Is there any message, sir, which I could take\nfrom you to my honoured patroness--your aunt, or to your fair\ncousin--Miss de Bourg?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Stiffly._] Thank you, I will not trouble you so far.\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nIt would be no trouble--but an honour and a privilege.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Disgusted, turns from him to_ BINGLEY.] We are already very late,\nBingley.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nYes,--we have no time to lose.\n\n     [DARCY _and_ BINGLEY _give passing bows and go out by the glass\n     doors_. MR. COLLINS _keeps by_ DARCY'S _side and, as they pass out\n     of sight, is seen still talking to him, to his evident annoyance.\n     All the time that the party is bidding good-bye to_ BINGLEY _and_\n     DARCY, WICKHAM _has been moodily standing by the fireplace_.\n     ELIZABETH _has evidently been concerned about him, for throughout\n     the foregoing interview with_ MR. COLLINS, _she has looked at_\n     WICKHAM _from time to time_.]\n\nHILL.\n\n[_Enters at the door leading to the hall._] May I speak to you, Madam?\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nYes, Hill, yes. [_To the gentlemen._] Excuse me for a moment. I will\nreturn directly. [MRS. BENNET _and_ HILL _go out_.]\n\n\nCOLONEL FORSTER.\n\nOh, Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth! Your aunt, Mrs. Phillips, has sent word\nby me that her card-party is to be on Wednesday. She hopes you will\nsurely be there.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_In a pre-occupied way, looking towards_ WICKHAM.] Oh, yes, we shall\ngo.\n\n\nCOLONEL FORSTER.\n\n[_As he passes the piano, and looking at some music which is on the\nrack._] Ah! Here is the song you have promised to sing to me. Pray sing\nit now, Miss Elizabeth.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nReally, Colonel Forster, you must excuse me for to-day. Jane will play\nfor you, instead.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nIndeed, I cannot, Lizzy.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Looking meaningly at her._] _Please_, Jane.\n\n\nCOLONEL FORSTER.\n\nOh, do, I beg--Miss Bennet.\n\n     [_All through the following interview between_ ELIZABETH _and_\n     WICKHAM, _the tinkle of the instrument is heard. During their\n     conversation_ JANE'S _back is_ _turned--also_ COLONEL FORSTER'S _as\n     he looks over her music--so that_ ELIZABETH _and_ WICKHAM _are\n     practically alone_. ELIZABETH _returns to her embroidery. There is\n     an awkward pause for a moment._ WICKHAM _finally breaks it_.]\n\nWICKHAM.\n\nHow long has Mr. Darcy been in Hertfordshire, Miss Elizabeth?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nOnly for a very short time, I believe. He comes from Derbyshire, I\nunderstand, and has a very large property there.\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\nYes, his estate is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. I am\nwell informed on this head---- [_Hesitates._] I have been connected with\nMr. Darcy's family in a particular manner since my infancy.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Surprised._] Indeed?\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\nYou may well be surprised, Miss Elizabeth, at this assertion after\nseeing the very cold manner of our meeting just now. [_After a pause._]\nAre you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nNo. Though I have heard of him, I met him for the first time to-day, but\neven on this short acquaintance I should take him to be an ill-tempered\nman.\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\n[_As if he had come to a sudden decision._] Miss Elizabeth, you have\nbeen a witness of Mr. Darcy's treatment of me to-day, and therefore I\nfeel that I must, for my own justification, acquaint you with the facts\nof my past connection with him.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nI shall respect your confidence, Mr. Wickham.\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\nI am sure of it. [_After a short pause._] Mr. Darcy and I were born in\nthe same parish. My own father, who, to be frank, was steward of the\nDarcy estates, gave up everything to serve the interests of the Darcy\nfamily. Mr. Darcy's father was excessively attached to me:--indeed, I\nwas his godson. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had\ndone so. I was destined for the church and Mr. Darcy's father left to me\na most valuable living. But the present Mr. Darcy chose to ignore his\nfather's will and gave the living to another man. This closed for me the\ncareer for which I was most fitted and left me with almost no means of\nsupport.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nGood heavens! But how could that be? Why did not you seek legal redress?\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\nThere was an informality in the terms of the will which gave me no hope\nfrom the law. Mr. Darcy's father had relied implicitly upon the honour\nof his son.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nBut--this is quite shocking. Mr. Darcy deserves to be publicly\ndisgraced!\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\nSometime or other he will be, but not by me. Till I can forget his\nfather, I can never defy or expose him.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nThis feeling does you honour. But what can have induced Mr. Darcy to\nbehave so cruelly?\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\nI must attribute it in some measure to his jealousy. His father's\nuncommon attachment to me irritated him, but the fact is, Miss\nElizabeth, as you can see, we are very different men, and he hates me.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nHis disposition must be dreadful.\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\nI will not trust myself on that subject.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nTo treat in such a manner the godson--the friend--the favourite of his\nfather! How abominable!\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\nAnd yet, Miss Elizabeth, we must try to be just to him. Mr. Darcy has\nmany good qualities. He can be both liberal and generous. He has also a\nbrother's affection and pride which makes him a careful guardian of his\nsister.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nOh, he has a sister?\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\nYes. You will hear him cried up as the most attentive and best of\nbrothers. Oh, Mr. Darcy can please when he chooses. Among those who are\nhis equals he is a very different man from what he is to the less\nprosperous.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nContemptible!\n\n\nCOLONEL FORSTER.\n\n[_Interrupting._] Wickham!\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\n[_Starting._] Yes, Colonel Forster.\n\n\nCOLONEL FORSTER.\n\nI fear we must be going.\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\n[_Hurriedly to Elizabeth._] Thank you for listening to me. It is hard to\nbe misjudged.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nThank you for your confidence. It is well to know the truth.\n\n\nCOLONEL FORSTER.\n\nWell, Miss Elizabeth, I hope we shall see you all at your aunt's on\nWednesday. Good morning. [_To_ JANE.] Good morning, Miss Bennet. Thank\nyou for the music. Please present my respects to Mrs. Bennet. I am sorry\nthat we cannot wait longer.\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\n[_Effusively._] Yes, Miss Bennet, be sure to give your mother my best\nregards. Good morning--[_All bow and curtsy. As he is leaving he speaks\naside._] Oh, Miss Elizabeth, may I entreat----\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYou may depend upon my sympathy.\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\n[_Looking at her with an understanding smile._] I am most grateful.\n\n     [_The gentlemen go out of the door._ JANE _and_ ELIZABETH _go into\n     the recess and look from the window. There is a short pause._]\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Enters, flurried, and looks about her._] Well, have they gone?\n\n     [MR. COLLINS _enters through the glass doors at the center. He\n     sees_ MRS. BENNET.]\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nOh, Madam, I am just returned from attending on Mr. Darcy. Such a\nprivilege! He was most condescending. I was able to tell him that Lady\nCatherine was very well on Saturday sennight. He is very like Lady\nCatherine. I am sure you must have been impressed by his distinguished\nmanners.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nWell, really, Mr. Collins!\n\n     [_A titter is heard from the recess where the girls are seated, and\n     then_ JANE'S _voice_.]\n\nJANE.\n\nOh, Lizzy, hush!\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\n[_Hearing this, turns and discovers the two girls. Then he speaks to_\nMRS. BENNET _with lowered voice, as if an idea had just come to him_.]\nThis meeting is most opportune. Will you kindly step this way for a\nmoment? [_He draws_ MRS. BENNET _aside_.] May I hope, Madam, for your\ninterest with your fair daughter Jane, in the matter on which we were\nspeaking yesterday? I would solicit the honour of a private audience\nwith her this morning.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nCertainly, Mr. Collins. [_Hesitating._] But there have been some changes\nsince then. Some things have happened--I think it is right you should\nknow, that--that Jane is very likely to be soon engaged.\n[_Encouragingly._] But there is Elizabeth. I cannot take it upon myself\nto say--I cannot possibly answer--but I do not know of any prepossession\nin her case, and I am sure she can have no objection to listen to you.\n\n[MRS. BENNET _goes to the fire and stirs it_.]\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\n[_As soon as she has finished._] Then Miss Elizabeth let it be, Madam. I\nwas struck by her attitude of respectful awe when I mentioned the Lady\nCatherine de Bourg. Such modesty and humility of mind cannot but\nrecommend her to my patroness.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Looking rather astonished at this last speech, but recovering\nherself._] Yes, my daughter Elizabeth knows what is proper. She will be\nvery happy to listen to you. Shall I call her now?\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nI think, Madam, there should be no further loss of time, as my leave of\nabsence extends only to the coming Saturday.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nVery well--[_She goes to the recess where the two girls are talking\ntogether._] Jane, I want you upstairs. Lizzy, Mr. Collins has something\nhe wishes to say to you.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Suspicious and dismayed._] Dear ma'am, Mr. Collins must excuse me. I\nwas just going away myself.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nNow, no nonsense, Lizzy! I desire you will stay. Mr. Collins has\nsomething _very_ particular to say to you. [_As_ ELIZABETH _tries to\nescape_.] Lizzy, I insist upon your staying and hearing Mr. Collins.\nCome, Jane--[MRS. BENNET _and_ JANE _go out_.]\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\n[_Approaching_ ELIZABETH, _who does not move from the place where her\nmother left her_.] Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, your modesty so\nfar from doing you any disservice rather adds to your other perfections.\nBut allow me to assure you that I have your respected mother's\npermission for this address. [_He escorts_ ELIZABETH _with clumsy\ngallantry to the sofa, then brings a chair and seats himself opposite to\nher_. ELIZABETH _has recovered herself sufficiently to begin to enjoy\nthe humour of the situation_.] My fair cousin, you must have at least\nsurmised that I am about to ask you to become the companion of my life.\nAnd perhaps I had better begin by stating my reasons for this decision\nbefore I am run away with by my feelings on this subject. [ELIZABETH _is\nso overcome with laughter at this idea that she can hardly speak, or\nkeep a decent countenance_.]\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nOh, I beg, Mr. Collins----\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nOne moment. My reasons for marrying are, first,--that I think it a right\nthing for every clergyman to set the example of matrimony to his parish;\nsecond, I am convinced it will add very greatly to my happiness; third,\nit is the particular advice of that very noble lady whom I have the\nhonour of calling patroness.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_With more command of her voice._] Believe me, Mr. Collins----\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nExcuse me--one moment. It remains only to be told why my views were\ndirected to Longbourn instead of to my own neighbourhood. The fact is\nthat, being as I am to inherit this estate after the death of your\nfather (who, however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy\nmyself without resolving to choose a wife from among his daughters, that\nthe loss to them might be as little as possible, when the melancholy\nevent took place. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and I flatter\nmyself it will not sink me in your esteem.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nMr. Collins,--I----\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\n[_Rising and approaching nearer to_ ELIZABETH.] Still one moment more!\nAnd now nothing remains for me but to assure you, in the most animated\nlanguage, of the violence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly\nindifferent, and you may assure yourself that no ungenerous reproach on\nthat score shall ever pass my lips when we are married.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Rising in her turn._] You are too hasty, sir! You forget that I have\nmade no answer. Accept my thanks for the compliment you are paying me. I\nam very sensible of the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible\nfor me to do otherwise than decline them.\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\n[_With another formal wave of the hand._] I am not unmindful of the fact\nthat sometimes a young lady's refusal is repeated a second or even a\nthird time. I am, therefore, by no means discouraged by what you have\njust said, and I shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nUpon my word, sir, your hope is rather an extraordinary one after my\ndeclaration! You must pay me the compliment of believing what I say. I\nwish you very happy, and very rich, and, by refusing your hand, do all\nin my power to prevent your being otherwise. This matter may be\nconsidered, therefore, as definitely settled.\n\n     [_She is about to leave the room when_ MR. COLLINS _detains her_.]\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nOne moment. When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on this\nsubject, I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Becoming angry._] Really, Mr. Collins, you puzzle me exceedingly. I\nknow not how to express my refusal in such a way as may convince you of\nits being one.\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nYou must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your\nrefusals of my address are merely words, of course. I shall choose to\nattribute them to your wish of increasing my love by suspense, according\nto the usual practice of elegant females.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Very decidedly._] Please do not consider me now as an 'elegant\nfemale'; I would rather be paid the compliment of being believed\nsincere. To accept your proposal is absolutely impossible. Can I speak\nplainer?\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\n[_With awkward gallantry._] You are uniformly charming; but I am\npersuaded that when my proposals are sanctioned by both your parents\nthey will not fail of being acceptable. Meanwhile I may perhaps best\nserve my cause by leaving you to consider the matter by yourself for a\nwhile.\n\n     [_He bows and withdraws to the door._ ELIZABETH _with a gesture as\n     if she gave the whole matter up in despair, and yet half amused,\n     goes to the fireplace. Just as_ MR. COLLINS _reaches the door_ MRS.\n     BENNET _opens it_.]\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nWell, Mr. Collins, are we to congratulate each other? [_Looking\ndoubtfully at_ ELIZABETH.] Has all gone as you could wish?\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nI have every reason to be satisfied, Madam. My cousin has indeed\nsteadily refused this, my first offer, and with considerable warmth, but\nthis refusal would naturally flow from her bashful modesty. With your\ninfluence behind me, I have no doubt of my ultimate success.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nYes, you may depend upon me, Mr. Collins. I will speak to Lizzy myself\ndirectly. She is a very headstrong, foolish girl and does not know her\nown interest. But I will make her know it.\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\n[_Alarmed._] Pardon me, Madam, but if she is really headstrong and\nfoolish, I know not whether she would altogether be a very desirable\nwife to a man in my situation. If, therefore, Miss Elizabeth persists in\nrejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not to force her into\naccepting me.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Alarmed in her turn._] Sir, you quite misunderstand me. Lizzy is only\nheadstrong in such matters as these. In everything else she is as\ngood-natured a girl as ever lived. Let me see her alone for a moment.\nThat will be the best.\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nBut Madam--I----\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Almost forcing_ MR. COLLINS _out of the room_.] Oh, I shall very soon\nsettle it with her, I am sure. [MR. COLLINS _goes out_. MRS. BENNET\n_goes quickly to_ ELIZABETH.] Lizzy, what is the meaning of all this?\nHave you refused Mr. Collins?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYes, mamma, but please listen----\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Angrily._] No, I will not listen. I tell you what, Miss Lizzy, if you\ntake it into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this\nway, you will never get a husband at all. I am going at once to the\nlibrary and speak to your father. You will listen _to him_ perhaps.\n\n     [MRS. BENNET _starts to go when she sees_ MR. BENNET _outside\n     passing the glass doors. He is just returning from his walk and\n     carries a book under his arm_.]\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nOh, there he is now! [_She runs to the door, and opens it._] Oh, Mr.\nBennet--Mr. Bennet! [MR. BENNET _turns_. MRS. BENNET _runs out, takes\nhim by the arm, and tries to pull him into the room by main force_. MR.\nBENNET, _puzzled, submits_.]\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_While she draws_ MR. BENNET _into the room_.] Oh, Mr. Bennet, you are\nwanted immediately. We are all in an uproar. You must come and make\nLizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him, and, if you\ndo not make haste, Mr. Collins will change his mind and not have _her_.\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nI have not the pleasure of understanding you. Of what are you talking?\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nOf Mr. Collins and Lizzy! Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins,\nand Mr. Collins begins to say he will not have Lizzy.\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nLizzy? I thought it was Jane.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nNo--no--It's Lizzy now!\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nAh! And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems a hopeless business.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nSpeak to Lizzy. There she is. [_Pointing to_ ELIZABETH _at the\nfireplace_.] Tell her that you insist upon her marrying him.\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\n[_Turning to_ ELIZABETH.] Come here, child. [ELIZABETH _goes to her\nfather_.] This is an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins\nhas made you an offer of marriage. Is this true?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYes--papa--it--is.\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nVery well--and this offer of marriage you have refused.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nI have, sir.\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nWe now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your accepting him.\nIs it not so, Mrs. Bennet?\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nYes, or I will never see her again!\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nAn unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day, you must\nbe a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you\nagain, if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins; and _I_ will never see you\nagain if you _do_.\n\n\n\n\nACT II\n\n\n     _The Conservatory or Orangery at Netherfield. On one side, an\n     archway, approached by two or three steps and hung with curtains,\n     separates the Orangery from the ball-room. On the opposite side is\n     a smaller archway with curtains, which are looped back, giving a\n     glimpse of the drawing-room beyond. There is another door on the\n     right._ BINGLEY _is discovered directing two_ FOOTMEN, _who are\n     putting a bench in place_. DARCY _stands watching him_.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nA little more to the right, Martin. That will do. Push those lights\nfarther back--behind the trees. Yes, that is better. [_Looking about\nhim._] I think that is all. You may go. [_The men leave the room._]\nWell, Darcy, do you approve of the arrangements? Have you anything to\nsuggest? Any criticisms?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nI have no criticisms for the arrangements.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_Laughing._] But you have for the _ball_. Yes, I know--still I was\nreally obliged to keep my promise.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nI am glad to find that a promise is with you an obligation.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nOh, come, Darcy! I understand. Set your mind at rest. I am going to\nLondon with you, although I must say I do not see the necessity for it.\nI think you are exaggerating the effect of any small attentions of mine\ntoward Miss Bennet. However, we will cling together, and fly a common\ndanger.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Coldly._] Common danger?\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_Smiling._] Yes, common danger! I, too, have eyes. Where will you match\nthe wit and vivacity of Miss Elizabeth Bennet?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Quietly._] She is indeed charming, and I admit that were it not for\nthe inferiority of her connections, I might be in some danger. [_Very\ncoolly and confidently._] But they form, for me, an insurmountable\nbarrier against any possible peril.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nLove laughs at bars, Darcy! [DARCY _looks annoyed_.] No,--I won't! It\nreally is not fair, since it is my fault. You would never have been put\nto this test if you hadn't been so good as to stay on here with me after\nthat----\n\n[_Stopping suddenly, and with an entire change from his former bantering\ntone, he says in a hesitating manner._] Darcy, do you really think you\nshould be silent about Wickham?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Haughtily._] Decidedly! I do not choose to lay my private affairs\nbefore the world.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nBut the fellow is sailing under false colours. You do not know what the\nresult may be. I really must speak of this again, Darcy, even at the\nrisk of offending you. [DARCY _makes an impatient gesture_.] I am truly\nconcerned at the foothold this rascal has already gained in the Bennet\nfamily. What he has failed to accomplish once he may succeed in again.\nThese young ladies have no brother to defend them.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nNeither have they the wealth to excite Wickham's cupidity. At any rate I\ndo not wish to be the one to enlighten the neighbourhood. Besides, I\nunderstand that he has left Meryton.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nEven so--I---- [_He is interrupted by_ MISS BINGLEY, _who enters gaily\nfrom the drawing-room_.]\n\n\nMISS BINGLEY.\n\nAh! Here you are! [_To_ DARCY.] Will you be so kind? [_She holds out\nher arm for him to clasp her bracelet._] Your sister Georgiana should be\nhere, Mr. Darcy. [_To her brother._] Charles, you should have insisted\non her coming.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nI am not in the habit of insisting with Darcy.\n\n\nMISS BINGLEY.\n\n[_Laughingly._] Very true. [_To_ DARCY, _who has at length succeeded in\nfastening the bracelet_.] Thank you. [_Looking about her._] It is vastly\npretty, Charles, but I am much mistaken if there are not some among us\nto whom a ball will be rather a punishment than a pleasure.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_Laughing._] If you mean Darcy, he may go to bed, if he pleases, before\nit begins.\n\n\nMISS BINGLEY.\n\nBut, Charles, it would certainly be more rational if conversation\ninstead of dancing were made the order of the day.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nMuch more rational, my dear Caroline, but it would not be near so much\nlike a ball.\n\n\nMARTIN, THE FOOTMAN.\n\n[_Entering, to_ BINGLEY.] Several of the carriages have arrived, sir,\nand the guests will soon be entering the ball-room.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_To the_ FOOTMAN.] Very well. [_To_ MISS BINGLEY.] Come Caroline, we\nmust be at our post. We will leave Darcy to make up his mind whether he\nwill join us later.\n\n     [BINGLEY _and his sister disappear through the archway leading to\n     the ball-room_. DARCY _does not follow them, but walks thoughtfully\n     up and down the room. The sound of a voice is heard announcing_.]\n\nTHE VOICE.\n\nMrs. Long--the Miss Longs. [_A pause._] Colonel Forster and Mr. Denny.\n[_A pause._] Mr. and Mrs. Goulding. [_A pause._] Mrs. Bennet--the Miss\nBennets. [DARCY _stops in his walk and goes toward the ball-room\narchway--then he walks once more up and down_.] Mrs. King--Miss King.\n[DARCY _again moves toward the ball-room; he lifts the curtain,\nhesitates--looks in--then disappears_.] Sir William and Lady Lucas--Miss\nLucas--Mr. Robinson.\n\n     [_The music now begins, the stage is left empty. After a short\n     pause_, ELIZABETH _and_ CHARLOTTE _appear between the curtains of\n     the ball-room archway_.]\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\n[_Peeps in--then enters._] Isn't this pretty! Come in here for a moment,\nEliza. I want to tell you something.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Following her._] Why _did_ I promise to dance with Mr. Darcy just now!\nWhy did not I have more presence of mind!\n\n     [_They sit on the bench together while they talk; the guests, at\n     the back, pass to and from the drawing-room and ball-room, and the\n     sound of music is heard faintly._]\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nI dare say you will find him very agreeable.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nHeaven forbid! That would be the greatest misfortune of all. To find a\nman agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an\nevil.\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nI wouldn't be a simpleton, Eliza. You are angry because Wickham is not\nhere, but I wouldn't allow my fancy for him to make me unpleasant in the\neyes of a man of ten times his consequence.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nMy _fancy_ for Wickham, as you choose to call it, is simply my sympathy\nfor a most ill-used man: also the relief of meeting with good manners\nand a good understanding after the insufferable pride of Mr. Darcy, and\nthe stupid pomposity of that _dreadful_ Mr. Collins! [CHARLOTTE\n_starts_.] Oh, my dear Charlotte, I have never thanked you half enough\nfor helping us to endure that man. It was so good-natured in you to\nsacrifice yourself by listening to those interminable speeches of\nhis.--I am more obliged to you than I can express. But oh, what a relief\nit is to know that he is really gone!\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\n[_Who has listened to all this tirade in increasing embarrassment._] Oh,\ndon't! Don't, Eliza! You are making it so terribly hard for me.\nBut,--but I must tell you.--I am engaged to Mr. Collins!\n\n     [ELIZABETH _is stupefied with surprise and looks at_ CHARLOTTE _for\n     a moment in silent and incredulous amazement. Then with difficulty\n     she speaks._]\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nEngaged! Engaged to--to Mr. Collins! Oh, my dear\nCharlotte--_impossible_! [_Hopefully._] You are joking!\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\n[_With spirit._] No, indeed, Eliza, I am in most serious earnest. Why\nshould you be so surprised? Do you think it incredible that Mr. Collins\nshould be able to procure _any_ woman's good opinion, because he was not\nso happy as to succeed with you?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Confused._] Oh, no--no--of course not. And,--and you must forgive all\nI have just said. I couldn't possibly have imagined----\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\n[_More sweetly._] No, Eliza, indeed you could not. [_She puts her hand\non_ ELIZABETH'S _shoulder_.] And we shall be friends still?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nWhy, of course, of course, dear Charlotte. It was only the--the\nsurprise. You know how fond I am of you. You know I wish you all\nimaginable happiness.\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nYes, I am sure of it. You must be surprised--very much surprised, so\nlately as Mr. Collins was wishing to marry you. But, dear Eliza, when\nyou have had time to think it all over, I hope you will be satisfied\nwith what I have done. I am not romantic. I ask only a comfortable home,\nand, considering Mr. Collins' situation in life, I am convinced that my\nchance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on\nentering the marriage state.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_In an absent manner._] Undoubtedly.\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\n[_Looking at Elizabeth affectionately and wistfully._] And you will come\nto visit me sometimes? I could not bear to lose you, Eliza!\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Looking up, and patting_ CHARLOTTE'S _hand_.] Surely, Charlotte!\n[_Smiling._] We are to be cousins, you know.\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\n[_Cheerfully._] Why, so we are!\n\n[COLONEL FORSTER _comes from the ball-room_. LYDIA _and_ DENNY _enter\nfrom the drawing-room_.]\n\n\nCOLONEL FORSTER.\n\n[_Hurriedly going to_ CHARLOTTE.] I am to have the honour of this reel,\nI believe, Miss Lucas.\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nOh yes, Colonel Forster.\n\n     [_She goes out with_ FORSTER, _leaving_ ELIZABETH _alone, still\n     seated_. LYDIA _and_ DENNY _approach_ ELIZABETH.]\n\nLYDIA.\n\nI think we are being treated abominably ill, Lizzy! It seems that Mr.\nWickham has gone off on business somewhere, so he will not be here at\nall. [LYDIA _looks off toward the ball-room_.]\n\n\nDENNY.\n\n[_Aside to_ ELIZABETH _significantly_.] I do not imagine his business\nwould have called him away just now if he had not wished to avoid a\ncertain gentleman.\n\n\nLYDIA.\n\n[_Suddenly._] Why, Mr. Denny--I do believe the reel is half over--I\ndearly love a reel! We shall miss it, altogether. Come! [_She drags_\nDENNY _off_.]\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Alone._] Well! Well! The world is surely upside down. Charlotte\nand--Collins! _What_ a match!\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Approaching from the ball-room._] Do not you feel a great inclination,\nMiss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?\n\n[ELIZABETH _makes no answer_.]\n\nDo not you enjoy the reel, Miss Bennet?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Looking up._] Oh, I heard you before, but I could not immediately\ndetermine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say--\"Yes,\"\nthat you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always\ndelight in overthrowing that kind of scheme. I have therefore made up my\nmind to tell you that I do not want to dance a reel at all; and now\ndespise me, if you dare!\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Smiling._] I do not dare.\n\n     [MISS BINGLEY _enters from the ball-room with an officer. They talk\n     together._]\n\nCOLONEL FORSTER.\n\n[_Entering from the ball-room, and looking about him, sees_ ELIZABETH\n_and comes to her_.] May I have the honour, Miss Bennet?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nI do not dance the reel, Colonel Forster.\n\n\nCOLONEL FORSTER.\n\nOh, the reel is over. This is our dance.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nOh!\n\n     [_She goes off with_ COLONEL FORSTER. DARCY _remains where_\n     ELIZABETH _leaves him and watches her till she disappears into the\n     ball-room. The officer bows and leaves_ MISS BINGLEY.]\n\nMISS BINGLEY.\n\n[_Approaching_ DARCY.] I can guess the subject of your reverie.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nI should imagine not.\n\n\nMISS BINGLEY.\n\nYou are considering how insufferable it would be to pass many evenings\nin such society. Indeed, I am quite of your opinion. I was never more\nannoyed. The insipidity and yet the noise;--the nothingness and yet the\nself-importance of all these people! What would I give to hear your\nstrictures on them!\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nYour conjecture is totally wrong. I assure you, my mind was more\nagreeably engaged. I was meditating on the very great pleasure which a\npair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.\n\n\nMISS BINGLEY.\n\n[_Looking at him very meaningly and sweetly, speaks with coquetry._]\nIndeed! And will not you tell me what lady has the credit of inspiring\nsuch reflections?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_With great intrepidity._] Miss Elizabeth Bennet.\n\n\nMISS BINGLEY.\n\n[_Taken aback._] Miss Elizabeth Bennet! I am all astonishment! How long\nhas she been such a favourite? Pray when am I to wish you joy?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nThat is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's\nimagination is very rapid: it jumps from admiration to love, from love\nto matrimony in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy.\n\n\nMISS BINGLEY.\n\nNay, if you are so serious about it I shall consider the matter as\nabsolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law! Of course\nshe will always be at Pemberley with you. Perhaps you might give her a\nfew hints as to the advantage of holding her tongue.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nThank you. Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?\n\n\nMISS BINGLEY.\n\nOh, yes! Let the portrait of your uncle, the attorney, be placed next to\nyour great uncle, the Judge. They are in the same profession, you know,\nonly in different lines. As for your Elizabeth's picture, you must not\nattempt to have it taken, for what painter could do justice to those\nbeautiful eyes!\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nIt would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression; but their\ncolour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, might be\ncopied.\n\n\nMISS BINGLEY.\n\n[_Sarcastically._] Oh, I fear not--[ELIZABETH _and_ COLONEL FORSTER,\n_with others, enter from the ball-room_--MRS. BENNET _with_ LADY LUCAS\n_from the drawing-room_.] Here comes the fair one--[_Seeing_ MRS.\nBENNET.]--and mamma-in-law as well. I will not intrude on the family\nparty.\n\n     [_She goes off laughing and mingles with the guests._ COLONEL\n     FORSTER _bows and leaves_ ELIZABETH _with her mother_. BINGLEY\n     _enters with_ JANE _from the drawing-room_. _He sees_ DARCY, _who\n     is standing where_ MISS BINGLEY _left him, and comes to him_.\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nI thought this next dance was the one you liked so much, Darcy. Let me\nfind you a partner.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Starting, as if from a reverie._.] So it is. Thank you--I have a\npartner.\n\n     [_He goes to_ ELIZABETH, _bows, and they go into the ball-room\n     together_. MRS. BENNET _and_ MRS. LONG _follow them_.]\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_Looking after_ DARCY _with a smile, turns to_ JANE.] You must be\ntired, Miss Bennet. I propose that we sit quietly through this dance. Do\nyou agree?\n\n\nJANE.\n\nYes, indeed. [_She sits on the bench._] It will be very pleasant.\n[_Looking about her._] How very prettily you have arranged all the\nrooms, Mr. Bingley.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nI am so glad you think so. I feared they were rather inconvenient for so\nlarge a party.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nOh, I find them delightful!\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nYou are always charitable, Miss Bennet. It seems to me you always manage\nto see the best side of everything. I never knew you to say an ill word\nabout a person or a place.\n\n\nJANE.\n\n[_Smiling._] Oh, I fear that is not quite exact. I only try to see\nthings in their best light, perhaps.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nThat is just it. The rest of us rarely try to see things in that way. So\nyou see I have proved my case. You are too amiable.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nNot for to-night, Mr. Bingley. Everybody is of one mind to-night. There\nis but one point of view--you are giving nothing but pleasure.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_Soberly._] I wish it were so--but---- [_With impulsive earnestness._]\nDear Miss Bennet, I wish to tell you--I must tell you----\n\n     [_He is interrupted by the people coming in again from the dance._\n     DARCY _and_ ELIZABETH _enter with_ SIR WILLIAM LUCAS _and others_.\n     BINGLEY _and_ JANE _rise from their seats and walk slowly toward\n     the back of the room_. DARCY _escorts_ ELIZABETH _to a seat and\n     stands by her. They are both silent for a moment._]\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nIt is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked about the\ndance, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the\nrooms, or the number of couples.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Smiling._] I assure you I will say whatever you wish.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nVery well, that reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may\nobserve that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nDo you talk by rule then?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nSometimes. One must speak a little, you know,--and yet for the advantage\nof some, conversation ought to be so arranged that they may have the\ntrouble of saying as little as possible.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nAre you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you\nimagine that you are gratifying mine?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Archly._] Both, for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn\nof our minds; we are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition,\nunwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze\nthe whole room and be handed down to posterity with all the _eclat_ of a\nproverb.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nThis is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure.\nHow near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say. You think it a\nfaithful portrait, undoubtedly.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nI shall not decide on my own performance. [_There is a short silence;\nthen, as if with an effort_, ELIZABETH _speaks_.] I am surprised not to\nsee Mr. Wickham here to-night. I find that he is a great favourite with\nthe officers. He has made many friends among them.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_With great hauteur._] Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners\nas may insure his _making_ friends; whether he may be equally capable of\n_retaining_ them is less certain.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Excitedly._] He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship, and in\na manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life.\n\n[_They are both silent._]\n\n\nSIR WILLIAM LUCAS.\n\n[_Coming up to them all urbanity and smiles._] What a charming amusement\nfor young people this dancing is, Mr. Darcy! I consider it as one of the\nfirst refinements of polished societies.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nCertainly, sir, and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst\nthe less polished societies of the world: every savage can dance.\n\n\nSIR WILLIAM.\n\n[_Smiling._] Do you often dance at St. James?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nNever, sir.\n\n\nSIR WILLIAM.\n\nYou have a house in town, I conclude.\n\n[MR. DARCY _bows, but does not speak_.]\n\n\nSIR WILLIAM.\n\nI had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself: but I did not feel\nquite certain that the air of London would agree with Lady Lucas.\n\n     [MR. DARCY _bows in silence again_--ELIZABETH _is amused_.]\n\nSIR WILLIAM.\n\nBut I must not further interrupt you, sir! I only wish to tell you once\nmore how highly gratified I have been by your superior dancing; allow me\nalso to say that your fair partner does not disgrace you. It is a great\npleasure to see you together. I must hope to--to have this pleasure\noften repeated, especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Miss\nEliza, [_Glancing at_ BINGLEY _and_ JANE, _who are talking earnestly\ntogether at the back of the scene_.] shall take place. What\ncongratulations will then flow in: but let me not interrupt you--you\nwill not thank me, Mr. Darcy, for detaining you from the bewitching\nconverse of that young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me!\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Murmurs to himself._] So! [_Looking earnestly at_ BINGLEY _and_ JANE,\n_he seems much impressed by what_ SIR WILLIAM _has said_. ELIZABETH\n_notices this. Recovering himself_, DARCY _turns to her again_.] Sir\nWilliam's interruption has made me forget what we were talking of.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nI do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have\ninterrupted any two people who had less to say for themselves. We have\ntried two or three subjects already without success, and what we are to\ntalk of next, I cannot imagine.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Smiling._] What think you of books?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nBooks? Oh no: I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same\nfeelings.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nI am sorry you think so, but if that be the case, there can at least be\nno want of subject. We may compare our different opinions of them.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nNo, I cannot talk of books at a ball--my head is always full of\nsomething else.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nThe present always occupies you in such scenes, does it?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_In an absent manner._] Yes, always. [_Suddenly._] I remember hearing\nyou once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave; that your\nresentment once created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I\nsuppose, as to its being created?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Firmly._] I am.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nAnd never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nI hope not.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nIt is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to\nbe secure of judging properly at first.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nMay I ask to what these questions lead?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nMerely to the illustration of your character. I am trying to make it\nout.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nAnd what is your success?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Shaking her head._] I do not get on at all. I hear such different\naccounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Gravely._] I can readily believe that reports may vary greatly with\nrespect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to\nsketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear\nthat the performance would reflect no credit on either.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nBut if I do not take your likeness now I may never have another\nopportunity.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Very stiffly._] I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours.\n\n[MISS BINGLEY _enters from the ball-room. She comes directly to_ DARCY\n_and_ ELIZABETH.]\n\n\nMISS BINGLEY.\n\nOh, Mr. Darcy--would you be so good as to go to Charles? He wishes very\nmuch to consult with you about some of the table arrangements. You will\nfind him in the dining-parlour. [_With exaggerated politeness to_\nELIZABETH.] That is, if Miss Bennet will permit you.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Carelessly._] Oh, certainly.\n\n[DARCY _bows and goes out_.]\n\n\nMISS BINGLEY.\n\n[_To_ ELIZABETH, _after a moment's silence_.] So, Miss Bennet, I hear\nthat you are quite delighted with George Wickham. He must have told you\nall a pretty tale. As to Mr. Darcy's using him ill, it is perfectly\nfalse. I do not know the particulars, but I do know that George Wickham\nhas treated Mr. Darcy in a most infamous manner. His coming into the\ncounty at all is a most insolent thing. I feel very strongly on this\npoint, Miss Bennet, as Mr. Darcy's interests are so intimately\nassociated with our own. [_She watches_ ELIZABETH.] We hope Miss\nGeorgiana Darcy may some day be my sister. My brother admires her\ngreatly.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_With indifference._] Ah!\n\n\nMISS BINGLEY.\n\nYes, and therefore we resent these falsehoods and this presumption on\nthe part of George Wickham. But, really, considering his descent, we\ncould not expect much better. He has evidently forgotten to tell you\nthat he is the son of old Wickham, steward to the late Mr. Darcy.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Angrily._] His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be the\nsame. I have heard you accuse him of nothing worse than of being the son\nof Mr. Darcy's steward, and of _that_, I can assure you, he informed me\nhimself.\n\n\nMISS BINGLEY.\n\n[_With a sneer._] Oh! I beg your pardon. Excuse my interference; it was\nkindly meant.\n\n[_She goes out._]\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nInsolent girl! You are much mistaken if you expect to influence me by\nsuch a paltry attack at this. I see nothing in it but your own wilful\nignorance and the malice of Mr. Darcy.\n\n     [FOOTMEN _now come in with small tables, which they place about the\n     stage_. BINGLEY _comes in and directs them_. DARCY _follows him_.]\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[To ELIZABETH, JANE, _his sister, and others who have entered_.] I\nthought it would be pleasant to have some of the tables here. [_To_\nJANE.] We must have places together.\n\n     [_With some bustle, all seat themselves. At the table on one side\n     are seated_ DARCY, ELIZABETH, BINGLEY _and_ JANE: _A little behind\n     them are_ MISS BINGLEY _with_ COLONEL FORSTER, CHARLOTTE LUCAS\n     _with an officer. At the table on the opposite side is_ MRS. BENNET\n     _with_ SIR WILLIAM _and_ LADY LUCAS. _Behind them are more tables\n     at which other guests are seated._]\n\nLYDIA.\n\n[_Entering with_ DENNY, _much excited, goes to_ MRS. BENNET.] Mamma,\nhave you heard the news? Mr. Denny has just told me that the regiment is\nto leave Meryton, and go to Brighton! Good heavens! What is to become of\nus, mamma?\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Sympathetically._] Are they really going? Well, my love, it _is_ too\nbad! I know how you feel. I am sure I cried for two days together when\nColonel Millar's regiment went away, five-and-twenty years ago. I\nthought I should have broken my heart.\n\n\nLYDIA.\n\nI am sure I shall break mine. [_Coaxingly._] Mamma, might we not _all_\ngo to Brighton?\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nOh, if we only could! But I fear your father will not hear of it.\n\n\nLYDIA.\n\nOh, papa is so disagreeable! I am sure a little sea-bathing would set me\nup forever! Wouldn't it, Mr. Denny?\n\n\nDENNY.\n\nSurely, Miss Lydia. Oh, you must manage it in some way.\n\n     [_They move off and take their places at one of the tables._]\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Looking after them._] Well, Lady Lucas, it is hard for a lively young\ngirl like my Lydia to be cooped up in a place where there is so little\ngoing on. However, [_Looking at_ BINGLEY _and_ JANE.] we are not likely\nto have it so very dull in the future. [_In a loud whisper to_ LADY\nLUCAS.] You know what I mean--[_Nudging her and laughing._] Jane and\nBingley!\n\n\nLADY LUCAS.\n\nAh! Indeed!\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_With importance and in a still louder tone._] Oh, yes! It's quite\nsettled. Such a charming young man--and Netherfield only three miles\nfrom Longbourn! And Jane's marrying will be a fine thing for my other\ngirls. They will be sure to meet other rich men who will fall in love\nwith them.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Who has heard the beginning of this conversation, makes a pretext to\ngo to arrange her mother's scarf and says in low tones._] Oh, mamma! Be\ncareful, I beg. Mr. Darcy can hear you!\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nWhat is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am sure\nwe owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say nothing\n_he_ may not like to hear!\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_In distress._] For heaven's sake, Madam, speak lower! What advantage\ncan it be to you to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself\nto his friend by so doing.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nThat is enough, Lizzy! I think I can take care of myself. I never knew\nbefore that it was a crime to speak to one's friends about what\neverybody can see plainly enough, who has eyes in his head. [_Turning\nto_ SIR WILLIAM.] Did _you_, Sir William?\n\n\nSIR WILLIAM.\n\n[_Smiling._] Our friends usually have very sharp eyes for what is going\non, Mrs. Bennet! [_Significantly._] I have, indeed, sometimes expected\nthat _you_ would observe what has been going on in our own household of\nlate.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Sharply._] Going on? What _has_ been going on, Sir William?\n\n\nSIR WILLIAM.\n\n[_With an important air._] It is only this, Mrs. Bennet, that Lady Lucas\nand myself have to ask your congratulations on our very great\nsatisfaction in the recent engagement of our daughter, Charlotte.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nCharlotte! Engaged! Why, who in the world is going to marry _her_?\n\n     [SIR WILLIAM _draws himself up with offended dignity_; LADY LUCAS\n     _bridles_.]\n\nSIR WILLIAM.\n\nThe gentleman whom my daughter has honoured with her hand is your\nhusband's cousin--Mr. Collins!\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Rising in rage and amazement._] Mr. Collins! Marry your Charlotte?\nGood Lord, Sir William, how can you tell such a story! Do not you know\nthat Mr. Collins is going to marry my Lizzy--or--or one of my other\ngirls!\n\n\nLADY LUCAS.\n\nWell, really, Mrs. Bennet!\n\n\nSIR WILLIAM.\n\n[_Offended._] What I have told you is quite true, nevertheless, Mrs.\nBennet. The whole matter was settled before Mr. Collins returned to\nHunsford. I am sorry we are not to receive your good wishes.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Hastily._] Oh, but you _are_, Sir William! Charlotte has already told\nme all about her engagement, and we shall be most happy to welcome her\nas a cousin.\n\n\nSIR WILLIAM.\n\n[_Mollified and with gallantry._] Thank you, Miss Elizabeth! I am sure\nother congratulations will shortly be in order.\n\n     [_He glances significantly at_ DARCY; ELIZABETH _draws herself up_.\n     SIR WILLIAM, _smiling, makes a little bow and then turns to the\n     table, where he and_ LADY LUCAS _busy themselves with their\n     supper_.]\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_To_ ELIZABETH.] So Charlotte has told you, has she? I don't believe a\nword of it!\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nOh, mamma!\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nI am sure Mr. Collins has been taken in. Well, I trust they will never\nbe happy together, and I hope the match will be broken off.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Imploringly._] Mamma!\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Turning on_ ELIZABETH _in a rage_.] And _you_ are the cause of the\nwhole mischief, Lizzy! I think I have been barbarously used by you all!\n\n     [_While this conversation has been going on, the other guests have\n     been taking their supper._ COLONEL FORSTER _now rises with a glass\n     of wine in his hand_.]\n\nCOLONEL FORSTER.\n\nLadies and gentlemen---- [_The buzz of conversation ceases._] Ladies and\ngentlemen, I should like to propose the health of Mr. Bingley.\n\n\nALL.\n\nMr. Bingley!\n\n\nCOLONEL FORSTER.\n\n[_Raising his glass._] To Mr. Bingley--may the pleasure which he has\ngiven us all to-night be but a foretaste of the future happiness which\nhe will both _receive_ and _give_ in this community.\n\n\nALL.\n\nMr. Bingley--Colonel Forster!--Mr. Bingley!\n\n[_All drink as_ BINGLEY _bows_.]\n\n\nSIR WILLIAM.\n\n[_Rising._] And may _I_ be allowed to still farther express the\nsentiments of this community, by proposing another toast in which I am\nsure you will all join me with enthusiasm? [_Raising his glass._] To the\nMaster of Netherfield! May he retain that title from his present\nfortunate youth, to his future green and honoured old age!\n\n\nALL.\n\n[_Drinking._] Mr. Bingley! Sir William! Mr. Bingley!\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_Rising._] Ladies and gentlemen! Friends!\n\n\nALL.\n\nHear! Hear!\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\nI--I really cannot tell you how much I am touched by the very kind\nwords of Colonel Forster and Sir William! And--and I only wish that I\ndeserved them.\n\n\nALL.\n\nIndeed, you do!\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_Embarrassed and looking toward_ DARCY, _who with folded arms, is\nstaring at the ceiling_.] No, I do not. I--I did not like to speak of\nsuch a painful thing on an occasion like this, and so I have told no one\nof the fact that I am about to--to leave Netherfield.\n\n\nALL.\n\nLeave Netherfield! Oh! Oh!\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_Still more ill at ease._] Yes.--It is a very sudden decision, but--but\nimportant interests have made it necessary for me to--[_Lamely._] to\nleave Netherfield.\n\n\nSIR WILLIAM.\n\nBut only for a time, Mr. Bingley! Let us hope it will only be a--a\n_temporary_ separation.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nWhy, surely, Mr. Bingley, you will be back again very soon.\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_In a dogged manner._] No--no. I am afraid my returning at all is\nextremely uncertain. In fact, I--I expect to leave Netherfield\n_permanently_.\n\n     [_Great consternation._ JANE _looks down_. ELIZABETH _looks at_\n     DARCY. MISS BINGLEY _has a triumphant smile_.]\n\nCOLONEL FORSTER.\n\n[_Incredulously._] Oh, my dear Mr. Bingley!\n\n\nSIR WILLIAM.\n\n[_Solemnly._] This is, indeed, a calamity.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_To_ ELIZABETH.] Good Lord, Lizzy, poor Jane! What----\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nOh, hush, mamma!\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_Looks again at_ DARCY, _who remains perfectly calm through all this\ncommotion. This time the sight of him seems to make_ BINGLEY _somewhat\nangry, and he pulls himself together and speaks in a firmer tone and in\na more cheerful manner_.] But, my friends, nobody knows what may happen.\nWe shall undoubtedly all meet again sometime, and meanwhile, you must\nnot let what I have said spoil your pleasure. [_The music is now heard\nagain in the ball-room._] There is the music. We must have another dance\ntogether.\n\n     [_There is a general movement among the guests. Those at the back\n     of the room begin to go into the ball-room._]\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_To_ JANE, COLONEL FORSTER, _and others near him_.] Let us make up a\nset here; I think there will be room.\n\n\nCOLONEL FORSTER.\n\nCapital idea!\n\n[_The_ FOOTMEN _remove the tables_.]\n\n\nMISS BINGLEY.\n\nOh, yes, capital! [_With meaning, to_ DARCY.] Do not you think so, Mr.\nDarcy?\n\n[DARCY _bows stiffly, without speaking_.]\n\n\nCOLONEL FORSTER.\n\nMiss Bingley, may I have the pleasure?\n\n     [_She bows, looks daggers at_ DARCY, _and takes her place in the\n     dance_.]\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_To_ JANE.] Miss Bennet, will you grant me the happiness? [DARCY _gives\nhim a look which_ ELIZABETH _sees_.] The--the _final_ happiness of my\nstay at Netherfield.\n\n\nJANE.\n\n[_Curtsies, a tremor in her voice._] Thank you.\n\n     [_They begin to form a set with_ MISS BINGLEY _and_ COLONEL\n     FORSTER, LYDIA _and_ DENNY.]\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Crossing to_ ELIZABETH.] May I have the honour, Miss Elizabeth?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Looking at him with frank hauteur._] Thank you, Mr. Darcy, I am\nindisposed.\n\n     [DARCY _bows, reddens, and crosses to the other side of the room.\n     The music begins. Amid embarrassed astonishment_, SIR WILLIAM _and_\n     CHARLOTTE LUCAS _fill the quadrille set. As the dance commences_,\n     ELIZABETH _and_ DARCY, _standing at either side of the dancers,\n     exchange a glance of the keenest pride and prejudice_.]\n\n\n\n\nACT III\n\n\n     _The parlour of_ MR. COLLINS'S _parsonage at Hunsford. At the back\n     of the room is an open door. This door leads directly into the\n     garden, beyond which is seen, through an opening in the trees of\n     the park opposite, \"the prospect of Rosings\"--the residence of_\n     LADY CATHERINE DE BOURG--\"_a handsome, modern building on rising\n     ground.\" A wide cottage window, also at the back of the room, gives\n     a plain view of the passers-by. On either side of the parlour is a\n     door, leading to other parts of the house._ ELIZABETH _is\n     discovered standing at the open door and looking up at some one\n     outside who is evidently climbing the trellis_.\n\nA VOICE (_outside._)\n\nIs this the cluster you wish, Miss Bennet?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Mischievously._] No, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Those are buds; the ones\nhigher still. There--by the eaves.\n\n     [ELIZABETH _laughingly watches_ COLONEL FITZWILLIAM _until he\n     appears with a cluster of half opened roses, which he presents to\n     her with a gallant air_.]\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Taking the roses and putting them in her girdle._]\n\nThank you.\n\n\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM.\n\nMay not I have _one_, as my reward, Miss Bennet?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nIs not accomplishment its own reward?\n\n\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM.\n\nAnd is not the power to be generous the highest reward that can be given\nto any accomplishment?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nOh, surely! And so _you_ would have to be generous and get me some more\nroses: then we should each of us have to invent new speeches, and so we\nshould never be done till we were ready to print a phrase book. However,\nyou have certainly won your rose. [_She gives it to him._]\n\n\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM.\n\nThank you! That phrase-book is a capital idea, Miss Bennet. Nothing\ncould please me better than just such an occupation. It would really be\na charity, for Darcy is such a dull fellow these days that I really\ndon't know what to do with myself.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nBut we should hardly have the time for such a project. You say that you\nand Mr. Darcy are to leave Lady Catherine on Saturday.\n\n\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM.\n\nYes, if Darcy doesn't put it off again. He has already paid our aunt a\nmuch longer visit than ever before. I am at his disposal, you know. He\narranges the business just as he pleases.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nI do not know anybody who seems more to enjoy the power of doing what he\npleases than Mr. Darcy.\n\n\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM.\n\nHe likes to have his own way very well, but so do we all. It is only\nthat he has better means of having it than many others. [_Looking at his\nwatch._] I suppose I ought to go and look for him now. I expected to\nfind him here, [_With a meaning smile._] as not unfrequently happens.\nBut since he is not, he probably expects me to meet him at the\nCrossroads.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nI imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of\nhaving somebody at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry to secure a\nlasting convenience of that kind. But perhaps his sister does as well\nfor the present,--and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he\nlikes with her.\n\n\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM.\n\nNo--that is an advantage which he must share with me. I am joined with\nhim in the guardianship of Miss Darcy.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nAre you, indeed? And pray what sort of a guardian do you make? Does your\ncharge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes a\nlittle difficult to manage. And, if she has the true Darcy spirit, she\nmay like to have her own way.\n\n     [COLONEL FITZWILLIAM _looks at_ ELIZABETH _very suspiciously as she\n     makes this last remark_.]\n\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM.\n\nWhy--what?--Why do you suppose Miss Darcy is likely to give us any\nuneasiness, Miss Bennet?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Carelessly._] Oh, nothing at all! You need not be frightened! I never\nheard any harm of her; she is a great favourite with a lady of my\nacquaintance--Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you knew\nMiss Bingley.\n\n\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM.\n\nI know her a little. Her brother is a pleasant, gentlemanlike man. He is\na great friend of Darcy's.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nOh, yes. Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr. Bingley and takes a\nprodigious deal of care of him.\n\n\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM.\n\nCare of him? Yes, I really believe Darcy does take care of him. From\nsomething he has told me, I have reason to think Bingley very much\nindebted to him. [_Stopping._] But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have\nno right to suppose that Bingley was the person meant.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Curiously, and with ill-concealed anxiety._] What is it you mean?\n\n\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM.\n\nIt is a circumstance which, of course, Darcy could not wish to be\ngenerally known, because if it were to get round to the lady's family it\nwould be an unpleasant thing.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYou may depend upon my not mentioning it.\n\n\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM.\n\nAnd, remember, that I haven't much reason for supposing it to be\nBingley. What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated himself\non having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most\nimprudent marriage, but without names or any other particulars, and I\nonly suspected it to be Bingley from believing him to be the kind of\nyoung man to get into a scrape of that sort.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Trying to suppress her feeling._] Did Mr. Darcy give you his reasons\nfor this interference?\n\n\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM.\n\nI understood that there were some very strong objections against the\nlady.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nIndeed! [_Trying to speak calmly._] And what arts did he use to separate\nthem?\n\n\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM.\n\n[_Smiling._] He did not talk to me of his own arts. He only told _me_,\nwhat I have now told _you_.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nWhy was your cousin to be the judge?\n\n\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM.\n\nYou are rather disposed to call his interference officious?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Growing excited._] I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on\nthe propriety of his friend's inclination; why, upon his _own_ judgment\nalone, Mr. Darcy was to determine in what manner his friend was to be\nhappy. [_Recovering herself._] But as we know none of the particulars,\nit is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed that there was\nmuch affection in the case.\n\n\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM.\n\nThat is not an unnatural surmise, and I believe Darcy told me that he\ndid not think that the lady, at least, was very deeply concerned in the\nmatter. However, to lessen the affection on either side is to lessen the\nhonour of my cousin's triumph very sadly.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYour cousin's triumph----\n\n[_Greatly excited, she is about to continue, when_ CHARLOTTE'S _voice is\nheard outside_.]\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nYes, Mr. Darcy, I think I saw Colonel Fitzwilliam go up the garden path\na few moments ago. [_Protesting._] Oh, no, Mr. Darcy, you are too kind!\nReally----\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Outside._] Pray, allow me.\n\n     [CHARLOTTE _enters, accompanied by_ DARCY, _who is carrying a\n     basket of eggs. She wears a garden hat and gloves._]\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nAh, here he is. Good morning, Colonel Fitzwilliam. [_To_ DARCY.] Pray\nlet me have the basket now, Mr. Darcy. [DARCY _gives_ CHARLOTTE _the\nbasket, and then turns to_ ELIZABETH.]\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nGood morning, Miss Bennet. [ELIZABETH _returns_ DARCY'S _greeting with a\nself-consciousness which does not escape his notice, but the motive of\nwhich he mistakes_. DARCY _gives a quick glance from_ ELIZABETH _to_\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM, _as he turns to speak to the latter_.] Ah,\nFitzwilliam, I thought I might find you here.\n\n\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM.\n\n[_Lightly._] Yes, I have been so fortunate as to secure some of Mrs.\nCollins's early roses for Miss Bennet.\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\n[_In surprise._] Really! Have they already opened?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Who has by this time recovered her self-possession._] A very few of\nthem. But Colonel Fitzwilliam was obliged to climb very near to the sun\nto get me these. [_She looks admiringly upon the flowers as she\nspeaks._]\n\n\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM.\n\n[_Showing the rose which_ ELIZABETH _has given him_.]\n\nAnd you see I have my reward.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Smiling faintly._] Colonel Fitzwilliam might not have won his prize so\neasily, Miss Bennet, had there been others in the field.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nAh, no, Mr. Darcy, I cannot lessen Colonel Fitzwilliam's achievement by\nadmitting any such possibility.\n\n\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM.\n\n[_Gallantly._] Thank you, Miss Bennet!\n\n     [DARCY _turns away with an unconscious look of chagrin_.]\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nWell, surely, my roses will have to bloom their prettiest this season in\nreturn for all the attention they have received. [_To the young men._]\nWill not you be seated, gentlemen?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Tartly._] Thanks, no, Mrs. Collins; I merely stopped for Colonel\nFitzwilliam; but perhaps his rose-gathering has caused him to abandon\nour project of taking a walk together this morning.\n\n\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM.\n\nBy no means, Darcy, that pleasure has only been deferred.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nVery good then. We will go at once, if Mrs. Collins and Miss Bennet will\npardon me this hasty call.\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nCertainly, Mr. Darcy! [ELIZABETH _also, absent-mindedly, murmurs her\nassent, for which_ DARCY _lingers with vague uneasiness before departing\nwith_ FITZWILLIAM. CHARLOTTE _looks at_ ELIZABETH _curiously, then calls\nto the little maid, who enters_.]\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nMartha--take these eggs to the pantry. Do not disturb them.\n\n\nMARTHA.\n\nVery well, ma'am.\n\n[_She curtsies and goes out._]\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\n[_Taking off her hat and gloves._] Now, Eliza, we must get to our work\nand have a comfortable chat. You have been here nearly two weeks and we\nreally haven't had a good talk yet.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Getting out her embroidery._] Yes, you promised me a quiet visit,\nCharlotte. But I find you are more lively here than we are at Longbourn.\n\n[_The two ladies sit at the table with their embroidery._]\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nBut how could I have anticipated the arrival here of two very attentive\nyoung gentlemen? [_Smiling at_ ELIZABETH.] It is really quite a\nsurprising coincidence, or else Mr. Darcy has timed his visit to his\naunt very cleverly. As to these daily visits to the parsonage--you may\nbe sure I do not take to myself the credit of them. Neither of these\nyoung gentlemen would ever come so often to see me. I have to thank you,\nEliza, for this civility.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_With a little temper._] You may thank a lack of occupation on their\npart. You know very well my opinion of Mr. Darcy!\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nYes. You have often expressed it. I wish I were as well informed of Mr.\nDarcy's opinion of Eliza.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nWhen you know the one, you know the other. They are identical.\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nWell, perhaps under the circumstances, that is the most satisfactory\ncondition of things. And do we hold the same opinion of Colonel\nFitzwilliam?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Tossing her head._] Oh, Colonel Fitzwilliam!\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\n[_Looking at_ ELIZABETH _sharply, and after a short silence_.] And so\nJane is once more at home after her visit in London, and Lydia has gone\nto Brighton after all. How did she ever manage to persuade your father?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nOh, Lydia was so determined upon it that she and mamma gave my father no\npeace till they had teased him to consent. But I am very sorry. Lydia is\ntoo foolish, too ignorant and wilful to be trusted away from home. I\nonly hope that no harm will come of it.\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nAnd is Mr. Wickham still with the regiment?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYes, he went with it to Brighton.\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nI hear that he is thinking of marrying Miss King, since she has just\nreceived a legacy of ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think\nthat our friend was mercenary.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nA man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant\ndecorums which other people may observe. If Miss King does not object to\nit, why should we?\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\n_Her_ not objecting does not justify--him.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Emphatically._] Well, have it as you choose. _He_ shall be mercenary,\nand _she_ shall be foolish! Mr. Wickham's worst fault, after all, is his\npower of being agreeable. Thank heaven, we both of us know some men who\nhaven't one agreeable quality. Stupid men are the only ones worth\nknowing!\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\n[_Smiling._] Well, well, Eliza! That speech savours a little\nof--disappointment.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nOh, yes--anything you please!\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\n[_Changing the subject._] And you say that Jane is not in her usual\nspirits?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Shortly._] Yes.\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nAnd she is looking poorly?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Still more shortly._] Yes--very!\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nDid she see much of the Bingleys in London?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Bursting out hotly._] She saw nothing of them. Oh, Charlotte, I have\njust had all my suspicions verified.\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nYour suspicions?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYes, there has been an arrangement in all this. Mr. Bingley has been\nkept away from Jane by---- [_Stops suddenly._]\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\n[_Looks up curiously, then speaks quickly._] Don't imagine any such\nnonsense, Eliza. A young man like Mr. Bingley so easily falls in love\nwith a pretty girl for a few weeks--and, when accident separates them,\nso easily forgets her, that this sort of inconstancy is very frequent.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nWe do not suffer from accident, Charlotte. A young man of independent\nfortune does not suddenly decide of his own free will to think no more\nof a girl with whom he was violently in love.\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nBut were they so violently in love?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYes--I never saw a more promising inclination. Why, Mr. Bingley would\ntalk to no one else--would look at no one else. Is not general\nincivility the very essence of love?\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\n[_Smiling._] It is usually a good test. But if Jane did not return his\naffection---- It really did not seem to me that there was anything\n_violent_ in Jane's attitude. I could never see that she showed any\nextreme affection for Bingley.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Hotly._] Well, I know that Jane was very much in love with him, and\nthat she showed her affection as much as her nature would allow. If\nBingley didn't see it he must have been a simpleton. No--the real\ntrouble was that Jane didn't see him often enough, perhaps, to make her\nunderstand his character.\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nOh, if Jane were married to Bingley to-morrow, I should think she had as\ngood a chance of happiness as if she were studying him for a\ntwelve-month. It is far better to know as little as possible of the\nperson with whom you are to pass your life.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Demurely._] In some cases that is undoubtedly true.\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\n[_Appears at the garden door. He wears a wide-brimmed hat and carries a\nhoe--also a large basket. He looks in._] Ah! A very charming domestic\npicture! [_Taking a bunch of radishes from the basket, he speaks to_\nCHARLOTTE.] My dear, I have found some fine early radishes. I thought it\nwould be a graceful attention on your part to send some of these to Miss\nde Bourg. [_He sits upon the chair near the doorway._]\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nI fear the apothecary might object.\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nTrue--they might not be suitable, but [_Looking at them proudly._] they\nare very fine radishes. [_To_ ELIZABETH.] Miss Elizabeth, I am very\nsuccessful in my gardening. I consider the work I do in my garden to be\none of my most respectable pleasures. Lady Catherine is always ready to\nencourage me in it, and my dear Charlotte is ever willing that I should\nleave her side for the sake of this healthful exercise. [_Looking at the\nradishes again._] It is, indeed, a pity that Miss de Bourg is not well\nenough to enjoy them. My dear Charlotte has doubtless told you, Miss\nElizabeth, of the alliance which is in prospect between Miss de Bourg\nand Mr. Darcy. This extreme delicacy of constitution would seem to be\nthe only bar to their happiness.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYes, Charlotte has told me that Miss de Bourg is sickly. She will make\nMr. Darcy a very proper wife.\n\n     [CHARLOTTE _looks anxiously at_ MR. COLLINS _as_ ELIZABETH _says\n     this, but he is gazing out of the door and does not seem to notice\n     the remark_.]\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nI hope you are pleased with Kent, Miss Elizabeth.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nVery much, Mr. Collins.\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nI do not think the kingdom can boast a grander scene than the one now\nspread before our eyes: [_Pointing._] This garden--that park with\nRosings in the distance. Do not you think my dear Charlotte is most\nfortunately placed, Miss Elizabeth?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nMost fortunately, Mr. Collins.\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nAnd when you have seen Lady Catherine, you will be more deeply\nimpressed, I am sure. We can hardly expect her to call upon you. This\nillness of Miss de Bourg would prevent it, and in any case it would be\nan act of extreme condescension on her part; but I am quite confident\nthat you will receive an invitation to drink tea of a Sunday evening\nwith her, after Mr. Darcy and his cousin are gone, of course. And--we\nmay later have an invitation to dinner--although I would not for the\nworld arouse in you false hopes which may be shattered.\n\n\nMARTHA.\n\n[_Enters in great excitement._] Oh, Mrs. Collins! Lady Catherine's\ncarriage is turning into the lane and _she_ is in it!\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\n[_Rising in great excitement_.] Lady Catherine--at this hour! What\namazing condescension! [_He turns in a helpless manner to_ CHARLOTTE.]\nBut, my dear, I am quite unprepared. My habiliments--I would not be\nwanting in respect.--What shall I do?\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\n[_Hurriedly putting up her work and giving her hat and gloves to the\nmaid._] Go make yourself ready, Mr. Collins. We will do the same.\n[CHARLOTTE _pushes_ MR. COLLINS _gently toward the door_.]\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\n[_Protesting._] Yes--yes! But this implement----\n\n[_He holds out the hoe._]\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nGive it to Martha!\n\n     [MR. COLLINS _hastily gives the hoe to the maid and then goes out.\n     He instantly returns, however, and again appeals in distressed\n     tones to his wife_.]\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\n[_Holding out the basket._] And these radishes, my dear?\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nMartha, take the radishes from Mr. Collins.\n\n\nMARTHA.\n\nYes, ma'am.\n\n     [_The maid tries to hold at once--basket, hoe, hat, and gloves, as\n     she stands in a corner, open-mouthed._]\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\n[_Again emerging from the door._] Do not make yourself uneasy about your\nown apparel, Miss Elizabeth; Lady Catherine is far from requiring that\nelegance in us which becomes herself and daughter--I----\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\n[_Impatiently._] Oh, do go, Mr. Collins! Lady Catherine will be here in\nan instant!\n\n[_She shuts the door on_ MR. COLLINS.]\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Greatly amused at all this excitement._] Are you going to make any\nchange in your dress, Charlotte? Do you wish me to do so?\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nWell, Eliza, if you wouldn't mind, I should like you to put on your\nsprigged muslin. In spite of what Mr. Collins says, I know it would\nplease him. I have no time to change. Is my cap straight? Oh, here she\nis. [_To the maid, who stands staring, with her arms full._] Why,\nMartha! Are you still there? Go! Go! [_She bustles the maid out of one\ndoor, then runs to the other, calling her husband._] Mr. Collins! Mr.\nCollins!\n\n     [_She then rushes into the garden, followed immediately by_ MR.\n     COLLINS _in the same state of excitement_. ELIZABETH, _as she looks\n     after them, is convulsed with laughter_.]\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nSo, at last--her high and only mightiness! No tremors, Elizabeth! Now is\nthe time for all your courage. [_She runs laughing out of the room._]\n\n     [_Sounds of voices are heard, and_ LADY CATHERINE _appears escorted\n     up the path by_ CHARLOTTE _and_ COLLINS.]\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\n[_As she reaches the door._] You keep too many hens, Mrs. Collins. There\nis just a certain number which are profitable--beyond that there is\nwaste. [LADY CATHERINE _sits on the sofa_.] A clergyman's wife should\nset an example of thrift. You should have asked my advice.\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nMrs. Collins will in the future regulate her poultry-yard according to\nyour directions, Lady Catherine, if you will be so condescending as to\ngive them.\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nYes, thank you, Lady Catherine.\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nWill your Ladyship not take some refreshment?\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nOh, yes--let me fetch you a cup of tea?\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nNo, no--I wish nothing. [_To_ MR. COLLINS.] But you may go, Mr. Collins,\nand see if Jones is walking the horses up and down. I do not trust\nJones.\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nWith great pleasure, your Ladyship. [MR. COLLINS _goes out_.]\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\n[_To_ CHARLOTTE.] I thought you had a visitor, Mrs. Collins.\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nYes, your Ladyship--I have. It is my friend, Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She\nis a cousin of Mr. Collins and a neighbour of ours in Hertfordshire.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nI have heard about her. Fitzwilliam says she is a very genteel, pretty\nkind of girl.\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\n[_Pleased._] Indeed she is, Lady Catherine.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nWell, where is she?\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nShe has gone to make a little change in her dress, before presenting\nherself to your Ladyship.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nOh! very proper--very proper!\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nI am delighted to hear that Miss de Bourg is better, Lady Catherine.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nYes, thank you. She is very greatly improved. [_After a slight pause,\nwith impatience_.] Well, Miss Bennet takes her time!\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\n[_Anxiously._] I am sure she will be here in a moment. [ELIZABETH\n_enters_.] Oh, here she is. [_Presenting_ ELIZABETH.] Lady Catherine,\nMiss Elizabeth Bennet. [ELIZABETH _curtsies_.]\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\n[_Without leaving her seat, looks_ ELIZABETH _over from head to foot_.]\nOh, how do you do, Miss Bennet. You are younger than I thought!\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Smiling._] Indeed?\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nYou know my nephew, Mr. Darcy?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYes, I met him in Hertfordshire.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nHumph! And you know Colonel Fitzwilliam?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nI have only met Colonel Fitzwilliam since coming here.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nHumph! Has your governess left you?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Half laughs._] My sisters and I have never had a governess, Madam.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nNo governess! I never heard of such a thing! Your mother must have been\nquite a slave to your education.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Smiling._] I assure you she was not, Lady Catherine.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nThen who taught you? Without a governess you must have been neglected.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nSuch of us as wished to learn, never wanted the means, Madam.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nWell, if I had known your mother, I should have advised her most\nstrenuously to engage a governess. I should have seen to it myself.\n[_To_ CHARLOTTE.] Go on with your work, Mrs. Collins. A clergyman's wife\nshould set an example of industry. [_Looking at_ CHARLOTTE'S _embroidery\nwith disapproval_.] I will send you some more of the parish petticoats\nto hem, Mrs. Collins. [_To_ ELIZABETH.] Go on with your work, Miss\nBennet. Young ladies should never be idle. [_Both_ ELIZABETH _and_\nCHARLOTTE _go on with their embroidery. Looking hard at_ ELIZABETH.]\nPray what is your age, Miss Bennet?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nI am not one and twenty.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nYou have sisters, have not you?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYes, Madam.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nAre any of them out?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nAll, Madam.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nWhat! All out at once? Very odd! Out before the oldest is married!\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nReally, Madam, I think it would be very hard on the younger sisters not\nto have their share of society because the eldest one does not happen to\nbe married. That would hardly be likely to promote sisterly affection,\nor delicacy of mind.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nUpon my word, you give your opinion very decidedly for so young a\nperson! Your sisters may be married before you. You must not be too\nambitious. A good many young girls have lost their chances through being\ntoo ambitious. [_Looking at a large picture on the wall and then\npointing to it._] Mrs. Collins, I suppose you have shown Miss Bennet\nthis print of Pemberley--Mr. Darcy's place?\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nYes, Lady Catherine.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\n[_Complacently._] Pemberley is one of the finest places in England. My\ndaughter Anne is very fond of it, which is fortunate, since she will\nprobably spend the most of her life there.\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nMost fortunate, your Ladyship.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\n[_To_ ELIZABETH.] You see my nephews here often, Miss Bennet?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Mischievously._] Yes, _very_ often, Lady Catherine.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nHumph! Well, idle young gentlemen often make very foolish use of their\ntime. My daughter, Miss de Bourg, is unfortunately not able to accompany\nMr. Darcy in his walks as often as both of them could desire.\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\n[_Entering._] I think your Ladyship's mind may be quite at rest about\nthe horses. Jones seems to have them well in hand.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nOh, I am glad you have come back, Mr. Collins. I am going to ask you and\nMrs. Collins to go and see the new cottages with me. I shall take you in\nthe carriage. [_To_ CHARLOTTE.] You had better put on a plain bonnet,\nMrs. Collins.\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\nBy all means, your Ladyship. [_She goes out._]\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nAre you quite ready to go, Mr. Collins?\n\n\nMR. COLLINS.\n\nOh--assuredly, your Ladyship--quite!\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\n[_To_ ELIZABETH.] Miss Bennet, I should advise you to write to your\nfamily while we are gone. [CHARLOTTE _returns in her bonnet and mantle_.\nLADY CATHERINE _looks her over_.] Yes, that will do very well!\n\n\nCHARLOTTE.\n\n[_To_ ELIZABETH.] We shall not be gone very long, Eliza.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nI am not sure of that, Mrs. Collins, but I have provided an occupation\nfor Miss Bennet during our absence. Good morning, Miss Bennet. I may ask\nyou later for dinner.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Curtsying._] Good morning, Madam. [_All go out_, MR. COLLINS _showing\nservile attentions to_ LADY CATHERINE. ELIZABETH _watches them from the\ndoor_.] Really! I might have spared myself some of the mortifications I\nhave felt for the shortcomings of my own family. The contrast is not\nsuch a violent one after all. [_Looking at the writing desk._] However,\nLady Catherine can give good advice. I really ought to write to my poor,\ndear Jane.\n\n     [_She seats herself at the writing table--gets out her paper, etc.\n     and begins her letter when the door-bell sounds._ ELIZABETH _starts\n     and is putting away the writing materials, when the maid ushers in_\n     MR. DARCY, _who seems much excited_.]\n\nDARCY.\n\nI am here again, Miss Bennet. I saw Mr. and Mrs. Collins drive away\nwith my aunt. I have something which I _must_ say to you. [_He walks\nexcitedly up and down for a moment, while_ ELIZABETH _watches him in\namazed silence. Then he suddenly goes up to her and begins to speak in\nan agitated manner._] Miss Bennet--in vain have I struggled! It will not\ndo! My feelings will not be repressed! You must allow me to tell you how\nardently I admire and love you!\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Is perfectly astounded. She stares, colours, doubts, and is silent._]\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Taking her silence for encouragement._] Miss Bennet, I can well\nunderstand your own astonishment at this declaration, for I am amazed at\nmyself! My feeling for you has taken possession of me against my will,\nmy reason, and almost against my character!\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Starting in indignation._] Sir!\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nOh, understand me, I beg of you! For yourself alone my admiration is\nonly too natural. I share it with everyone who has the happiness of\nknowing you. But--pardon me--for it pains me to offend you--the defects\nof your nearest relations, the total lack of propriety so frequently\nbetrayed by your family, has so opposed my judgment to my inclination,\nthat it has required the utmost force of passion on my part to put them\naside. But, my dear Miss Bennet, your triumph is complete. Your own\nloveliness stands out the fairer in its contrast to your surroundings,\nand I now hope that the strength of my love may have its reward in your\nacceptance of my hand.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Who has gone through all sorts of emotions during this speech, speaks,\nin a constrained manner as if trying to control herself._] Mr. Darcy--in\nsuch cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a\nsense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they\nmay be returned. If I could feel gratitude I would now thank you. But I\ncannot. I have never desired your good opinion, and _you_ have certainly\nbestowed it most unwillingly.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Leaning against the mantel-piece, hears her words with no less\nresentment than surprise. After a little he speaks in a voice of forced\ncalmness._] And that is all the reply which I am to have the honour of\nexpecting? I might perhaps wish to be informed why, with so little\nendeavour at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small\nimportance.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nI might as well inquire why, with so evident a design of insulting me,\nyou chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, your reason,\nand even against your character! Was not this some excuse for\nincivility, if I was uncivil?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nI very clearly explained that the objections which appealed to my reason\napplied entirely to your _family_, and in no respect to yourself.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nI am a part of my family, Mr. Darcy; and allow me to say that, since I\nhave had the opportunity of comparing my relations with your own, the\ncontrast is not so marked as I had been led to suppose. [DARCY\n_starts_.] But--aside from all questions of either feeling or family--do\nyou think any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has\nbeen the means of ruining, perhaps forever, the happiness of a most\nbeloved sister, and involving her in misery of the acutest kind? [DARCY\n_looks at her with a smile of incredulity._.] Can you deny that you have\ndone this?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nI have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate\nmy friend from your sister. I did not, indeed, anticipate that I should\ninvolve either of them in \"misery\" of any kind. On your sister's side,\nat least, I was never able to discover any symptoms of peculiar regard\nfor Mr. Bingley. While, for every reason, I must rejoice in my success\nwith my friend; toward him I have been kinder than toward myself.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_With disdain._] Your arrogance in calmly deciding the extent of other\npeople's sentiments does not surprise me. It is of a piece with your\nwhole nature! But your interference in my sister's concerns is not all.\nLong before it had taken place, my opinion of you was decided. Your\ncharacter was unfolded in the recital which I received months ago from\nMr. Wickham. [DARCY _starts excitedly_.] What can you have to say on\nthis subject? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend\nyourself?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_In a tone of suppressed excitement, in marked contrast to his previous\nself-assured manner._] You take an eager interest in that gentleman.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nWho that knows what his misfortunes have been can help feeling an\ninterest in him?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Contemptuously._] His misfortunes! Yes, his misfortunes have been\ngreat indeed!\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_With energy._] And of your infliction! You have reduced him to his\npresent state of poverty--comparative poverty; you have withheld the\nadvantages which you must know to have been designed for him. You have\ndone all this, and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes\nwith contempt and ridicule!\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Walking up and down the room with quick steps._] And this is your\nopinion of me? This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you\nfor explaining it so fully. [_Stopping and looking at her._] Perhaps if\nI were to divulge the truth regarding Mr. Wickham, I might give _you_ as\ngreat a surprise as you have given _me_. [_After a slight pause._] I do\nnot care to go into particulars, but in justice to myself, I must tell\nyou that the man whom you consider a martyr is a profligate with the\nmost vicious propensities. A man who should never have entered your\nhome, for his presence there is a constant source of danger.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_In indignation._] Mr. Darcy!\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_With dignity._] I am ready to give you the full proofs of all I have\nsaid, Miss Bennet, whenever you may so desire, although I would gladly\nforget all the miserable circumstances myself, and no obligation less\nthan the present should induce me to unfold them to any human being.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Coldly._] Your judgment in the matter of my sister's happiness has\ngiven me a gauge by which I can measure your fairness to a man who has\nbeen so unfortunate as to offend you. My faith in Mr. Wickham is\nunshaken.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Looking at_ ELIZABETH _in indignation and by a great effort governing\nhimself_.] I shall take what you have said, Miss Bennet, as a reflection\non my _judgment_ alone; otherwise, my veracity would be at stake, and\nthis, I am sure, you did not intend. Indeed I understand your whole\nposition perfectly. I have erred in the manner of my declaration. Your\nbitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I concealed my\nstruggles. It is my own fault. I have wounded your pride. I should have\nflattered you into the belief that I was impelled by inclination, by\nreason, by reflection, by everything! But disguise of every sort is my\nabhorrence. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your\nconnections?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Angrily._] And do you expect _me_ to rejoice in your proposal that I\nally myself to the conceit and impertinence of _yours_? No, Mr. Darcy!\nThe manner of your declaration has affected me only in one way:--it has\nspared me the concern which I might otherwise have felt in refusing you,\nhad you behaved in a more _gentlemanlike_ way. [DARCY _starts_.] You\ncould not, however, have made me the offer of your hand in any possible\nway that would have tempted me to accept it. [DARCY _looks at her with\nan expression of mortified amazement_.] I had not known you a month,\nbefore I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever\nbe prevailed upon to marry.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nYou have said quite enough, Madam! I perfectly comprehend your feelings\nand have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for\nhaving taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your\nhealth and happiness. [DARCY _hastily leaves the room_.]\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Sinking into a chair, then getting up and walking excitedly about the\nroom._] To insult my family! To think I was ready to fall on my knees,\nin gratitude for his condescension! To calmly dispose of Jane's\nhappiness! [_Stopping in her walk and with a half-amused smile._] And\nyet really to be in love with me in spite of every obstacle. [_Throwing\nherself again into the chair, half laughing, half crying._] Oh, Jane,\nJane! I wish you were here!\n\n\nMARTHA.\n\n[_Enters with a letter._] Here is a letter, Miss. The express has just\nbrought it.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nA letter? For me?\n\n\nMAID.\n\nYes, Miss--[_She gives_ ELIZABETH _the letter; curtsies and goes out_.]\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Looking at the letter._] Why, it is from Jane! What can be the matter?\n[_She opens the letter hurriedly and reads._] \"Dearest Lizzy--I have bad\nnews for you, and it cannot be delayed. An express came to us last night\nfrom Colonel Forster. He told us that Lydia had run away from Brighton\nwith one of his officers:--to own the truth--with Wickham!\"\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nOh! Wickham! [_Going on with the letter._] \"He first thought they had\ngone to Scotland, but, oh, Lizzy, it is far worse than that! We now know\nthat Wickham never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all!\"\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nOh! [_Reading again._] \"Colonel Forster has been here to-day. He says\nWickham is not a man to be trusted! He has left Brighton terribly in\ndebt, and his record is bad in every way. Oh, Lizzy, our distress is\nvery great! My father is going to London with Colonel Forster instantly\nto try to discover the fugitives. It is hard to ask you to shorten your\nvisit, but we are in such distress that----\" [_Darting from her seat._]\nOh where--where is the express? I must write. No--I must go. Oh, Lydia\nand Wickham! I must go at once! I must send someone for a carriage.\n[_She rushes to the garden door calling._] Martha, Martha! The express!\n[_Suddenly she calls again._] Oh, Colonel Fitzwilliam, is that you?\n\n\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM.\n\n[_Appearing in the garden._] What is the matter, Miss Bennet?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Wildly._] Oh, Colonel Fitzwilliam--the express--or can you get me a\ncarriage? I have bad news from home. I must return at once and Mr.\nCollins is away. Will you be so kind? [_She falls, half-fainting, upon a\nchair near the door._]\n\n\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM.\n\n[_With concern._] Certainly, my dear Miss Bennet--of course--but----\n[_Calling off._] Darcy, don't wait for me. I can't join you now. Miss\nBennet is in distress.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Entering._] Miss Bennet? Good God! What is the matter?\n\n\nCOLONEL FITZWILLIAM.\n\nMiss Bennet has just had bad news from home. She wishes to return, and\ndesires a carriage.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_In a decided tone._] Do you go for the carriage, Fitzwilliam. Get one\nfrom the stables. [FITZWILLIAM _hesitates_.]\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nGo. I will remain with Miss Bennet.\n\n[FITZWILLIAM _goes out_.]\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_To_ ELIZABETH _very gently_.] Shall I call the maid, Miss Bennet? A\nglass of wine? Shall I get it for you? You are very ill.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Hardly able to speak._] No, I thank you: there is nothing the matter\nwith me. I am quite well. I am only distressed by some dreadful news\nwhich I have just received from Longbourn. [_She bursts into tears._]\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Helplessly._] I am sorry, very indeed!\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_After a short silence._] I have just had a letter from Jane with such\n_dreadful_ news! It cannot be concealed from anyone.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nI am grieved, Miss Bennet. Grieved indeed!\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nOh, Mr. Darcy, you were right. If I had only believed you! You, and\nothers! But I could not believe it. [_She sobs._]\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Greatly moved._] What is it, my dear Miss Bennet? What has happened?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Wildly._] Oh, I cannot tell it, and yet everyone must know! My sister\nLydia--has--has eloped--has thrown herself into the power of--of _Mr.\nWickham_! She has no money, nothing that can tempt him to--she is lost\nforever! [_She sobs again._]\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nGood God, Miss Bennet! Your sister and Wickham! Oh, this is _my_ fault.\nI should have realised this danger--I should have spoken. My own\nwretched experience with this man should have been told.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Wonderingly._] Your experience!\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nYes--I--you remember. I hinted it to you--to-day. But I should long ago\nhave spoken boldly.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nWhat do you mean?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nMr. Wickham attempted this same plan with my own sister--two years ago.\nShe was an ignorant, innocent, trusting girl of fifteen. Happily, his\nvillainy was discovered and prevented. But oh, I should have told you!\nHad his character been known, this could not have happened.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYou tried to tell me, Mr. Darcy. Everybody has tried to warn me. But I\ncould not believe it, and now--it is too late, too late!\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nLet us hope not. Is what you have told me certain--absolutely certain?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nOh, yes. They left Brighton together on Sunday night. They are certainly\nnot gone to Scotland.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nAnd what has been done, or attempted, to recover your sister?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nMy father has gone to London. He will beg my uncle Gardiner's\nassistance. But nothing can be done! I know very well that nothing _can_\nbe done. How is such a man to be worked on? How are they ever to be\ndiscovered? I have not the smallest hope. It is all horrible!\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nMiss Bennet, I have made a wretched mistake in all this. Would to Heaven\nthat anything could be said or done on my part that might make you\nreparation, or offer consolation to such distress!\n\n     [ELIZABETH _sinks sobbing into a chair while_ DARCY _walks up and\n     down in deep thought. In a moment a carriage is heard outside--then\n     voices._]\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Looking out._] Mr. and Mrs. Collins are returning. What would you wish\nme to do?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nOh, I do not know! I do not know!\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Returning to_ ELIZABETH, _speaks quickly and in deep concern_.] You\nreally wish to return home at once?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Rising from her chair._] Oh, yes, yes--at once. [_Reaching her hand to\nhim appealingly._] Take me home, Mr. Darcy! Take me home!\n\n     [_At this instant_ MR. AND MRS. COLLINS _appear at the garden door,\n     and, transfixed with astonishment, stand gazing at_ DARCY _and_\n     ELIZABETH.]\n\n\n\n\nACT IV\n\n\n     _The Lawn and Shrubbery at Longbourn._ MRS. BENNET _is seated in a\n     garden chair with pillows at her back. She has an umbrella over her\n     head. Near her stands a table on which are bottles, dishes, etc.\n     She wears a big cap, and is gowned in a widely-flowing, flowered\n     chamber-robe, over which is fastened a shawl; across her knees is a\n     lap-robe. Her entire get-up is grotesque and laughable. About her\n     hover the housekeeper_, HILL _and_ JANE.\n\nJANE.\n\nDear mamma, do try and take some of this nice gruel. You will be ill if\nyou do not eat something.\n\n\nHILL.\n\nYes, do, I beg of you, Madam. Now that you are once more in the air, if\nyou will only take some food you will feel much better.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Fretfully._] How can I feel better? I must be ill. It is all very well\nfor the rest of you, now that this disgrace has been brought upon\nme--but if I had been able to carry my point--if I could have gone to\nBrighton with all my family, this would never have happened. But poor\ndear Lydia had nobody to take care of her. Oh, that villainous Wickham!\nI am sure there was some great neglect or other somewhere, for Lydia is\nnot the kind of girl to run away with a man. But no one would listen to\nme. I was overruled, as I always am. Poor Lydia! Poor dear child!\n\n\nJANE.\n\n[_Soothingly._] Oh, mamma, try to be calm.\n\n\nHILL.\n\nYes, Madam, this excitement is so bad for you.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nHow can I help being excited? You have no feelings. Here is Mr. Bennet\ngone away, and I know he will fight that abominable Wickham and be\nkilled. And then what is to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us\nout before Mr. Bennet is cold in his grave.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nOh, mamma, do not have such terrific ideas.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Weeping._] If my brother Gardiner is not kind to me, I do not know\nwhat we shall do.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nYes, yes. My Uncle Gardiner is very kind. He is doing everything in his\npower for us. He is helping my father now in London, you know. I hope\nhe will find Lydia, and perhaps he may be able to arrange a marriage\nafter all. You must not give up so, dear mamma.\n\n\nHILL.\n\nNo indeed, Madam. You must not indeed.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Brightening._] Yes, Jane, that is true. My brother may be able to see\nthat they are married. Write to him at once, Jane. Tell him to find them\nout wherever they may be, and if they are not married already, make them\nmarry. Oh, I do think that Wickham is the wickedest young man in the\nworld to so deceive my poor innocent Lydia. But, Jane, go and write my\nbrother and tell him that Lydia need not wait for wedding clothes--don't\nlet her even give directions till she has seen me, for she doesn't know\nwhich are the best warehouses. And oh, Jane, tell my brother to keep\nyour father from fighting that hateful Wickham. Tell him what a dreadful\nstate I am in.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nYes, mamma. [_She is about to go._]\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nWhere are you going?\n\n\nJANE.\n\nWhy, to write the letter, mamma.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Fretfully._] Oh, not just this minute. Don't leave me alone. Where is\nLizzy?\n\n\nJANE.\n\nShe has gone down the road to meet the post. She hopes to bring you good\nnews.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Lamenting._] She had better stay here and be of some help. She has\nonly just got home and now she leaves me. But nobody thinks of me.\nNobody knows what I suffer. I am frightened out of my wits. I have such\ntremblings and flutterings all over me--such spasms in my side--and\npains in my head, and such beatings at my heart. Oh, I can get no rest\nby night or by day! [_To_ HILL.] You might try and do something, Hill.\nWhere is my soothing draught?\n\n\nHILL.\n\n[_Looking._] Here, Madam. No, I must have left it in your room. I will\nrun fetch it. [_She goes out quickly._]\n\n\nJANE.\n\n[_Who has been looking off toward the driveway during part of this\ntirade._] Oh, mamma--mamma! Lizzy's running up the drive. She is\nsmiling! She has some good news, I am sure.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nTake care, Jane. You are exciting me. Oh, my poor nerves.\n\n     [ELIZABETH _enters, breathless. She has a letter in her hand._]\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nOh, good news--good news, Jane!--mamma! They are married!\n\n\nJANE.\n\nOh, Lizzy--Lizzy!\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nYou are sure, Lizzy? Don't excite me. You are sure?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Half laughing and half crying._] Oh, yes, 'tis certain. My dear Aunt\nGardiner has written me all about it. They are really married! Oh, how\ngood my uncle is! [_She kisses the letter._]\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nOh, Jane--Oh, Lizzy! My dear, dear Lydia! She is really married! I shall\nsee her again! Oh, my good, kind brother! But how did it happen, Lizzy?\n\n\nJANE.\n\nYes, tell us all about it. Let me read it. [_She reaches for the\nletter._]\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Keeping the letter._] No, I will tell you. Well, my father and my\nuncle succeeded in finding Lydia. My aunt does not tell me just how it\nwas done.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Triumphantly._] And your father found that they were married after\nall. I told him----\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nNo, mamma. They were not married, and they had no idea of being--but my\nfather and uncle insisted upon it. They took Lydia away at once to my\naunt's house and from there, they were married only yesterday at St.\nClement's Church.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nSt. Clement's--fine!\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nMy dear good uncle has arranged to have all Mr. Wickham's debts paid and\nmy father is to settle an allowance on Lydia.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nBut where are they? What are they going to do?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nMy father is coming home at once. He may be here at any moment. At first\nhe would not consent to let Lydia and Wickham come to us, but my aunt\nand uncle urged it--and my father knew how anxious mamma would be--and\nso _they_ are coming here too.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nAt once?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYes, directly, to-day.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nOh, my dear Lydia! How I long to see her, and to see my dear Wickham\ntoo. But the clothes, the wedding clothes! I must write to my Sister\nGardiner about them directly.\n\n[_She tries to get out of the chair._]\n\n\nJANE.\n\nOh, mamma, there is plenty of time for that.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nWell, perhaps so. My dear, dear Lydia! How merry we shall all be\ntogether! I am so happy! Lydia married. She is Mrs. Wickham. How well it\nsounds. My dear Jane, I must see about the clothes. We will settle with\nyour father about the money later. Oh, I am in such a flutter! Here\ncomes Hill. [HILL _enters with the bottle_.] My dear Hill, have you\nheard the news? Miss Lydia is married and is coming home directly.\n\n\nHILL.\n\nIndeed!\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nYes, you shall all have a bowl of punch, to make merry for her wedding,\nand I am going into the house to write about the clothes. [_To_ JANE,\n_who is going with her_.] No, Jane, you stay where you are. I know what\nI am about. Come, Hill. Think of it--Mrs. Wickham!\n\n     [_She goes out leaning on_ HILL'S _arm, leaving_ JANE and ELIZABETH\n     together.]\n\nJANE.\n\nOh, Lizzy, how relieved and happy we should be. Is not it wonderful?\n[_Anxiously._] Are you sure it is true? Have you told us all?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYes, Jane, it is true. They are really married. And for this we are to\nbe thankful. In spite of Lydia's folly and Wickham's wretched character,\nwe are to rejoice. How strange it is! Heigh-ho!\n\n\nJANE.\n\n[_Putting out her hand for the letter which_ ELIZABETH _still carries_.]\nMay not I read the letter, Lizzy?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nNo, not now, dear. My aunt has some queer notions in her head. Later\nperhaps. [_After a pause._] I am very sorry now that in my agitation I\ntold Mr. Darcy about this wretched affair. Now that it has come out so\nwell, he need never have known anything about it, and it would have\nsaved me a great deal of mortification.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nBut how would you ever have explained things to Charlotte and Mr.\nCollins without his help? Mr. Darcy made everything so smooth and\nplausible for your sudden departure.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYes, that is true.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nReally, Lizzy, I think I shall have to take up the cudgels in Mr.\nDarcy's defence. His kindness to you has quite won my heart, and his\namazing proposal was certainly a most flattering compliment. Why can you\nsee no good in Mr. Darcy, Lizzy? You were always so full of excuses for\nWickham, though it is true his open and delightful manners deceived us\nall.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYes, there certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of\nthose two young men. One has all the goodness and the other all the\nappearance of it.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nI never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the appearance of it as you\ndid, and he certainly could hardly have had the friends he has if he did\nnot possess some good qualities. [_Shyly._] Lizzy, have you heard that\nMr. Bingley is back in Netherfield?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Astonished._] Oh, Jane, no. When did he come? Have you seen him?\n\n\nJANE.\n\nNo; I hardly expect to see him.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Brightly._] Yes, you will, if he has returned. [_Suddenly clapping her\nhands._] Oh, I understand. [_Kissing her._] My darling Jane, you are\ngoing to be very happy!\n\n\nJANE.\n\nLizzy dear--don't, don't. That is all over now, and besides I don't want\nto be happy unless you can be, too.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nOh, forty Mr. Bingleys wouldn't make me happy. Till I have your\ndisposition, I never can have happiness. No, no, let me shift for\nmyself. Perhaps if I have very good luck I may meet with another Mr.\nCollins in time.\n\n\nHARRIS.\n\n[_Entering._] Mr. Bennet has returned, Madam, and is looking for you.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nPapa returned!\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nWhere is he, Harris? [_Looking off._] There he comes! Papa!\n\n     [_They run to meet_ MR. BENNET, _and, bringing him in, seat him in\n     a garden chair, one on either side of him_.]\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nPapa, tell us all about it quickly--quickly.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nAre they really married, papa?\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nYes, that misfortune is well settled on them. They are married fast\nenough.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nAnd where are they? When will they be here?\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nI should say they would be here directly. I didn't care to travel with\nthem, but they are not far behind--only just far enough to keep out of\nthe dust of my post chaise.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nDear papa--how you must have suffered!\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nSay nothing of that--who should suffer but myself? It has been my own\ndoing, and I ought to feel it.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYou must not be too severe upon yourself.\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nYou may well warn me against such an evil. No, Lizzy, let me once in my\nlife feel how much I have been to blame. The impression will pass away\nsoon enough.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nBut, papa, how did you persuade them to marry?\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nI didn't persuade them; I haven't the means. It is all your uncle's\ndoing. He has managed to buy Wickham for us.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nOh, dear good uncle!\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\n[_Looks at_ JANE _quizzically_.] But there are two things that I want\nvery much to know--one is how much money your uncle has laid down to\nbring it about, and the other, how I am ever to pay him.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nBut my uncle did not do it all?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nNo, papa. My Aunt Gardiner has written me that you are to give Lydia an\nallowance.\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nYes, one hundred a year. Do you think that any man in his proper senses\nwould marry Lydia on so slight a temptation as one hundred a year?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nThat is very true, though it had not occurred to me before. Oh, it must\nbe my uncle's doings. Generous man! I am afraid he has distressed\nhimself. A small sum could not do all this.\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nNo, Wickham's a fool if he takes Lydia with a farthing less than ten\nthousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him in the very\nbeginning of our relationship.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nTen thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is one-half such a sum to be\nrepaid?\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nThat is what I should like to know.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nWell, my uncle's kindness can never be requited. If such goodness as his\ndoes not make Lydia miserable, then she will never deserve to be happy.\n\n[_Laughter and voices are heard outside._]\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nSurely I hear voices. [_Looking off._] Why, they have come. See\npapa--Jane--there are Lydia and Wickham.\n\n\nMR. BENNET.\n\nYes, here they are. I will go to the library. I can receive their\ncongratulations later. You know I am prodigiously fond of Wickham,\nLizzy. I defy even Sir William Lucas himself to produce a more valuable\nson-in-law.\n\n[_He goes out._]\n\n\nJANE.\n\nI must run and tell mamma.\n\n     [_She is just starting when_ WICKHAM _and_ LYDIA _enter. They are\n     in travelling dress and are followed by servants bringing all sorts\n     of bandboxes, wraps and parcels. They come in with the utmost\n     unconcern and no shadow of shame._]\n\nLYDIA.\n\nWell, Jane, well, Lizzy, here we are!\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\n[_Smiling and unabashed._] My sister, Jane--My sister Elizabeth.\n\n     [_He kisses their hands._ JANE _and_ ELIZABETH _are confused and\n     blushing. Neither_ WICKHAM _nor_ LYDIA _is in the least\n     discomposed_.]\n\nLYDIA.\n\n[_Looking about._] Good gracious! Here I am again! I am sure I had no\nidea of being married when I went away, though I thought it would be\nvery good fun if I was. Why don't you take the boxes in, Harris?\nWickham, have you seen my pink-flowered bandbox? [_Looking over the\nparcels._] No, it isn't here. Oh, my dear Wickham, do go fetch it--you\nknow 'tis the box with the white satin hat you bought me. I wouldn't\nlose it for the world. Go, go!\n\n\nWICKHAM.\n\nCertainly, my dear. [_To the girls._] You see how eagerly I embrace my\nnew opportunities!\n\n[_He runs out, laughing._]\n\n\nLYDIA.\n\n[_To_ ELIZABETH _and_ JANE.] Oh, girls, I am dying to give you an\naccount of my wedding.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nI think there cannot be too little said on that subject.\n\n\nLYDIA.\n\nLa, you are so strange. But Jane wants to hear, I know. Anyway, I want\nto tell you. Well, there was such a fuss! My aunt was preaching and\ntalking away to me all the time I was dressing, just as if she was\nreading a sermon. I didn't hear one word in ten of it all. I was\nthinking of my dear Wickham. I longed to know whether he would be\nmarried in his blue coat. Well, we got to church, and then my uncle gave\nme a fright after we got there, because he was so late, and he was going\nto give me away, you know. But then, if he hadn't come, Mr. Darcy might\nhave done as well.\n\n\nJANE AND ELIZABETH.\n\nMr. Darcy!\n\n\nLYDIA.\n\nOh, yes, Darcy was there. He came along with Wickham. [_Suddenly\nstopping._] But gracious me! I quite forgot. I ought not to have said a\nword about it. I promised them as faithfully--what will Wickham say? It\nwas to be such a secret.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nIf it was to be a secret, Lydia, say not another word on the subject. We\nshall ask you no questions.\n\n[ELIZABETH _looks most anxious, but says nothing_.]\n\n\nLYDIA.\n\nThank you--for if you did, I should certainly tell you all, and then\nWickham would be angry. [_She sees_ MRS. BENNET, _who enters in great\nexcitement from the house_.] Oh, there is mamma.\n\n     [_They rush into each other's arms._ WICKHAM _returns at about the\n     same time_.]\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nOh, my dear, dear Lydia! [_To_ WICKHAM _with affectionate warmth_.] My\ndear Wickham!\n\n[_They also embrace._]\n\n\nLYDIA.\n\nOh, mamma! Aren't you glad to see us? [WICKHAM _turns and talks to_ JANE\n_and_ ELIZABETH.] Do all the people hereabouts know that I am married? I\nwas afraid they might not, and so I let my hand just rest on the\nwindow-frame outside the carriage, so that everybody could see my\nwedding ring; and then I bowed and smiled like everything.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\nYou may be sure, my dear, that everybody will rejoice with us in our\ngood luck. [_Sighing._] Your marriage is a great compensation to me\nafter all my disappointment about Jane and Lizzy. I do not blame Jane,\nfor she would have got Mr. Bingley if she could. But Lizzy! Oh, Lydia,\nit is very hard to think she might now have been Mrs. Collins! But how\nabout your clothes?\n\n\nLYDIA.\n\nOh, I have a lot already. You may be sure I would not forget _them_.\n\n\nMRS. BENNET.\n\n[_Alarmed._] But you didn't know the best warehouses! Well, never mind,\nwe will see to that later. Now you must all come in and have dinner.\nYou must be famished. Come, girls. Come, my dear Wickham.\n\n     [_They all go toward the house. At the door_ LYDIA _pushes_ JANE\n     _back_.]\n\nLYDIA.\n\nAh, Jane, I take your place now. I go first because I am a married\nwoman.\n\n     [_They all go into the house. After a pause_, HARRIS'S _voice is\n     heard outside_.]\n\nHARRIS.\n\nWill not you come into the house, Madam?\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\n[_Entering, followed by_ HARRIS.] No, I prefer to remain here. Tell Miss\nElizabeth Bennet that a lady wishes to see her at once. Remember, I\ncannot be kept waiting.\n\n\nHARRIS.\n\nYes, Madam. [_He bows and goes out._]\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\n[_Looks about her with a sniff, then deliberately seats herself in the\nbig garden chair with the umbrella over it. She mutters to herself from\ntime to time and taps her foot impatiently._] Insufferable impudence!\nConceited little minx! She shall have a piece of my mind.\n\n[ELIZABETH _comes to her from the house_.]\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\n[_Without moving._] Miss Bennet, you can be at no loss to understand the\nreason of my journey hither. Your own heart--your own conscience must\ntell you why I come.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_In unaffected astonishment._] Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I am\nnot at all able to account for the honour of seeing you here.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nMiss Bennet, you ought to know that I am not to be trifled with. I have\njust been told that you--that Miss Elizabeth Bennet would in all\nlikelihood be soon married to my nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I know it to\nbe a scandalous falsehood, I instantly resolved on setting off for this\nplace that I might make my sentiments known to you.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_With astonishment and disdain._] If you believed it impossible to be\ntrue, I wonder you took the trouble of coming so far. What could your\nLadyship propose by it?\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nAt once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Coolly._] Your coming to Longbourn to see me and my family, will be\nrather a confirmation of it, if indeed such a report is in existence.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nIf! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Do you not know that such\na report is spread about?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nI never heard that it was.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nAnd can you likewise declare that there is no foundation for it?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYour Ladyship may ask questions which I shall not choose to answer.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nThis is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist upon being satisfied. Has\nhe--has my nephew made you an offer of marriage?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYour Ladyship has declared it to be impossible.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nIt ought to be so. But your arts and allurements may have made him\nforget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You may have drawn\nhim in.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nIf I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nMiss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such\nlanguage as this. I am Mr. Darcy's own aunt, and am entitled to know all\nhis dearest concerns.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nBut you are not entitled to know _mine_.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nLet me be rightly understood. This match can never take place. No,\nnever. Mr. Darcy is engaged to my daughter. Now what have you got to\nsay?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nOnly this--that if it is so, you can have no reason to suppose Mr. Darcy\nwill make an offer to me.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\n[_Hesitating._] The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. While\nin their cradles, my sister and I planned their union. Do you pay no\nregard to the wishes of his friends? Do not you see that honour,\ndecorum--nay, interest, forbid you marrying my nephew? Yes _interest_,\nMiss Bennet. For you will be slighted and despised by everyone connected\nwith him!\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nThese are heavy misfortunes. But the wife of Mr. Darcy must have such\nextraordinary sources of happiness that she could have no cause to\nrepine.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\n[_In a rage._] Obstinate, headstrong girl! Tell me once for all--are you\nengaged to my nephew?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Hesitates, then firmly._] I am not.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\n[_Relieved._] And will you promise me never to enter into such an\nengagement?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nI will make no promise of the kind.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nMiss Bennet, I am shocked and astonished. I shall not go away until you\nhave given me the assurance I require.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nAnd I certainly never shall give it. I must beg, therefore, to be\nimportuned no further on the subject.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\n[_In a fury, but trying to speak calmly._] Not so hasty, if you please.\nI had hoped to spare you this last humiliation--but your insolence\nforbids it. I am no stranger to the particulars of your sister's\ninfamous elopement. I know all! The young man's marrying her was a\npatched-up business at the expense of _my nephew_. [ELIZABETH _starts\nviolently_.] Oh, you needn't start, Miss! Nobody knows about the whole\naffair better than you. But I don't wonder you blush to find yourself\ndiscovered. You used your arts well. My nephew must have spent full five\nor six thousand pounds to save your family from disgrace. I should think\nthat such generosity might appeal a little to your gratitude and your\nsense of decency.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Amazed._] Oh, Madam,--I----\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nIt is quite useless to protest. I have my facts from the best authority.\nHeaven knows Darcy has reason enough to keep away from Wickham's\nflirtations and entanglements, but [_stopping herself._] that is a\nfamily affair. However, _you_ have managed to get him mixed up in them\nagain to the extent of five thousand pounds. But that is not\nenough,--you want to make this shameless girl my nephew's _sister_, and\nthe son of his father's steward his brother. Heaven and Earth! Are the\nshades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Speaking with great effort._] Madam, you have insulted me in every\npossible manner. I must beg to return to the house. This is beyond\nendurance.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\nSelfish girl! You are then resolved to have him?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nLady Catherine, I have nothing further to say.\n\n\nLADY CATHERINE.\n\n[_Rising from her chair._] Very well. I shall now know how to act. Do\nnot imagine your ambition will be gratified. Depend upon it, I shall\ncarry my point. [_Going._] I take no leave of you, Miss Bennet. You\ndeserve no such attention. You will see what it is to rouse my\ndispleasure.\n\n[LADY CATHERINE _goes out_.]\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Sinking upon the garden seat, overwhelmed._] Can it be possible? Do we\nowe all this to Darcy? Oh, it is intolerable! [_She puts her hands over\nher face in an abandonment of grief._]\n\n\nJANE.\n\n[_Is heard outside calling._] Lizzy! Lizzy! [_She enters, and on seeing\nher sister rushes to her._] Lizzy dear! What is it? Is there any new\ntrouble?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Throwing her arms about her sister._] Oh, Jane, Jane! Yes, there is\nno end of trouble. Lady Catherine has been here.\n\n\nJANE.\n\n[_Astounded._] Lady Catherine!\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYes, yes, and--she says--that--oh, Jane----\n\nJANE.\n\n[_Distressed._] _Tell_ me, Lizzy!\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nShe says it was Darcy who paid all the money to Wickham--it was Darcy\nsaved us--and--and she says I persuaded him. _I_ ensnared him, and--and\nshe has insulted me.\n\n\nJANE.\n\nMy dear, dear Lizzy. There _must_ be some mistake. It was my good uncle\nwho----\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_A little calmer._] No--no, Jane, it must be true. I can put things\ntogether now. My aunt's hints in the letter--you know I did not want to\nshow it you. Then what Lydia let fall, and her fear of Wickham's anger.\n\n\nJANE.\n\n[_Soothingly._] Well, dear, even so, Mr. Darcy's _motive_ is clear\nenough--and that should give you no pain.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYou are mistaken. I know his motive. He feels that he is responsible\nbecause he was silent about Wickham's true character. He told me that\nall this would never have happened, had he done his duty. And now, he\nwill despise us. He will never wish to see us again as long as he lives!\n\n[_She walks up and down in great excitement._]\n\n\nHARRIS.\n\n[_Entering; to_ JANE.] The young gentlemen from Netherfield, Madam. I\ntold them they would find you here.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nOh, Jane, I _cannot_ see them.\n\n     [_She tries to run away, but before she can escape_ BINGLEY\n     _enters, all smiles, followed by_ DARCY, _who looks very much\n     troubled and excited. They are both in riding dress_; DARCY\n     _carries a whip_.]\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_Shaking hands._] Miss Bennet, I am so happy to see you again. Miss\nElizabeth, it is good indeed to be back once more at Longbourn.\n\n[_He takes_ JANE _to a garden seat_.]\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Embarrassed._] Miss Bennet, believe me, I should not have followed my\nfriend. I only expected to ride with him to the Lodge, but--but I met\nmy aunt coming away from here, and from something she said, I feared,--I\nimagined she might have offended--distressed you.\n\n[ELIZABETH _does not reply_.]\n\n\nBINGLEY.\n\n[_Gaily._] Miss Bennet is going to show me the Hermitage. We shall be\nback directly.\n\n[JANE _and_ BINGLEY _go out_.]\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Looking anxiously at_ ELIZABETH, _who remains silent_.] Forgive my\nintrusion. I will go.\n\n[_He starts to go away._]\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Recovering herself._] No--stay, Mr. Darcy. Excuse my own incivility.\nYour aunt's visit has excited me. I shall be myself in a moment. [DARCY\n_stands by, miserable. At length she speaks in a calmer tone._] Mr.\nDarcy, your aunt has told me of our overwhelming obligation to you. You\nmust let me thank you for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Exploding and banging his whip against his knees._]\n\nDamn!--Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Bennet. I _beg_ your pardon. What\nright has my aunt to meddle in my affairs? How _dare_ she give you such\ndistress?\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nIt is far better that we know the truth, Mr. Darcy. For my part, I can\nnever express to you our obligation.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nOh, Miss Bennet--I beg of you! The obligation was entirely my own. I\nonly did what was my decent, plain duty. [_Faltering._] You remember--I\ntold you--if I had spoken, this would never have happened.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nYes, I remember. But you exaggerated your responsibility. I--we--of\ncourse my father will see you about your loan to us. I would not have\nLady Catherine think----\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Furious again._] Oh, I will settle matters with Lady Catherine! Have\nno fears on that score, Miss Bennet. _She_ shall be set right, I assure\nyou.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nThank you. And for all your trouble--your kindness--my family can never\nrepay you.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nYour family owes me nothing. If I had any thought beyond my duty, it was\na thought of--you. [ELIZABETH _turns away_.] Oh, pardon me. Perhaps, I\nought not to say all this--but I owe you a great deal, Miss\nBennet--more than you can know; and I want you to understand me better.\nI really am not the pretentious prig I must have seemed to you. I wish\nyou could forgive my abominable pride.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Looking at him with a half smile._] I will, on one condition.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nName it.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\nThat you forget my unwarrantable prejudice.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\nOh, Miss Bennet! [_He goes impetuously forward--then restraining\nhimself, smiles and looks down at her._] I really think, after all, I\nshall have to be grateful to my aunt. She has done us an enormous\nservice.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Smiling still more._] Well, Lady Catherine loves to be useful!\n\n     [_At the back of the scene_ BINGLEY _and_ JANE, _absorbed in each\n     other, pass by, hand in hand_. ELIZABETH _looks at them, then turns\n     to_ DARCY.]\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Archly._] Is _that_ by your permission?\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Ruefully._] Yes, I told you I had been kinder to my friend than to\nmyself.\n\n     [ELIZABETH, _silent, still looks after_ BINGLEY _and_ JANE.]\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Continues in a discouraged tone._] Well, I deserve it. It is my own\nfault. My selfish conceit has wounded you past help. Every sentiment of\nyour nature has felt it--seen it.\n\n\nELIZABETH.\n\n[_Demurely._] But _one_ sentiment they say is _blind_.\n\n\nDARCY.\n\n[_Stunned._] Miss Bennet! [ELIZABETH _looks up at him. He rushes toward\nher._] Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth!\n\n[_He holds her in his arms._]\n\n\nCURTAIN.\n\n\n\n\n","id":"37431"},{"text":"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n  Au lecteur\n\n  Madame de Montolieu a traduit «librement» «Sense and Sensibility».\n  Elle a notamment changé les prénoms de certains personnages du roman\n  de Jane Austen.\n\n  La ponctuation n'a pas été modifiée hormis quelques corrections\n  mineures.\n\n  L'orthographe a été conservée. Seuls quelques mots ont été modifiés.\n  La liste des modifications se trouve à la fin du texte.\n\n\n\n\n  RAISON\n\n  ET\n\n  SENSIBILITÉ.\n\n\n\n\n  RAISON\n\n  ET\n\n  SENSIBILITÉ,\n\n  OU\n  LES DEUX MANIÈRES D'AIMER.\n\n\n  PAR\n\n\n  JANE AUSTEN\n\n\n  TRADUIT LIBREMENT DE L'ANGLAIS,\n  PAR\n\n  MME ISABELLE DE MONTOLIEU.\n\n\n  TOME QUATRIÈME.\n\n\n  A PARIS,\n  CHEZ ARTHUS-BERTRAND, LIBRAIRE,\n  RUE HAUTEFEUILLE, Nº. 23.\n\n  1815.\n\n\n\n\nRAISON\n\nET\n\nSENSIBILITÉ.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XLIII.\n\n\nAu commencement d'avril, par un temps singulièrement beau pour la\nsaison, madame Jennings et ses deux jeunes amies partirent de\nBerkeley-Street et quittèrent Londres; elles devaient rencontrer, dans\nun endroit désigné, madame Charlotte Palmer, son enfant et ses gens, et\nse rendre à Cleveland tous ensemble. Comme on devait voyager lentement à\ncause de l'enfant, M. Palmer et le colonel Brandon préférèrent suivre à\ncheval et devaient les rejoindre le lendemain de leur arrivée.\n\nMaria, toujours vive, toujours exagérée dans tous ses sentimens, s'était\nréjouie de quitter cette ville où elle n'avait eu que des peines, et au\nmoment d'en partir, son coeur se serra en pensant au plaisir qu'elle\navait eu en y arrivant, à l'espoir qui embellissait les premiers momens\nde son séjour. Elle y laissait ce Willoughby qu'elle était venue\nrejoindre avec tant de joie et qu'elle ne pouvait oublier, perdu à\njamais pour elle, retenu dans de nouveaux liens, ne l'ayant peut-être\njamais aimée; et ces pensers déchirans, renouvelés au moment du départ,\nlui firent verser autant de larmes que si elle avait laissé derrière\nelle le bonheur.\n\nElinor les partageait, comme toutes les peines de sa soeur; mais ce\nredoublement de chagrin étant plus dans son imagination qu'en réalité,\nelle espérait que l'air de la campagne, la tranquillité de Barton, le\nplaisir de retrouver sa mère remettraient sa santé et rendraient dans\npeu de mois la paix à son coeur. De son côté Elinor ne laissait rien à\nLondres qui pût exciter en elle la moindre douleur; elle était bien aise\nd'être à l'abri des confidences de Lucy, et de sa persécutante et fausse\namitié; elle remerciait aussi le ciel de ce que le traître Willoughby ne\ns'était point offert à sa vue ni à celle de sa soeur; elle s'efforçait\nde ne plus penser à Edward que comme on pense à un ami marié, et\ntâchait, par une douce gaieté, de distraire un peu la pensive et triste\nMaria; elle y réussit assez bien. Sur la fin de la première journée, le\nmouvement du carrosse, une contrée nouvelle, les caresses de madame\nJennings et de sa soeur avaient fait une heureuse diversion; mais le\nlendemain, dès qu'on fut entré dans le Sommerset-Shire, dès que ce mot\neut été prononcé, cent mille nuages revinrent obscurcir sa physionomie,\net il ne fut plus possible d'en obtenir un mot. Penchée sur la portière,\nabsorbée dans ses souvenirs, dans ses réflexions, elle regardait chaque\narbre, chaque buisson avec intérêt, comptait combien de fois Willoughby\navait passé sur cette route, et se représentait avec quel délice elle\nl'aurait faite elle-même à côté de lui, pour aller habiter ensemble une\nterre qu'elle se figurait être comme le paradis, où elle avait placé le\nbonheur de sa vie, et dont une autre qu'elle était à présent la\npropriétaire.\n\nLe matin du troisième jour on quitta la grande route pour prendre celle\nqui conduisait à _Cleveland-House_, et on y arriva après avoir fait\nquelques milles. C'était une belle et spacieuse maison moderne, située\nsur une plaine en pente douce, bordée de bois; il n'y avait point de\nparc, mais des promenades très-étendues. Un sentier uni et sablé\nserpentait autour de différentes espèces de plantations; des groupes de\nsapins, de frênes, d'acacias, étaient répandus çà et là autour de la\nmaison; sur la plaine, des arbres plus épais étendaient leur belle\nverdure; des peupliers d'Italie élevaient leur feuillage en panache, se\nbalançaient au-dessus des autres arbres, et cachaient les bâtimens du\nservice. Entre les groupes d'arbres, des fabriques simples et élégantes\nornaient le paysage: c'étaient la laiterie, la basse-cour, les écuries,\nla maison du jardinier; plus loin, un temple grec avec ses colonnes en\nmarbre blanc était situé sur une colline, et dominait un beau point de\nvue.\n\nMaria était dans l'enchantement; elle aurait voulu tout voir à la fois,\nsavoir de quel côté étaient situés Barton et Haute-Combe. Soixante\nmilles au plus la séparaient de sa mère chérie, et seulement trente, de\nHaute-Combe. L'une de ces idées réveillait dans son coeur tous ses\nsentimens de tendresse, et l'autre, sa passion malheureuse. Comme elle\ndésirait se livrer en liberté à ses impressions, pendant que ses\ncompagnes parcouraient la maison avec Charlotte, et que cette dernière,\nfière de son fils, le montrait à l'intendant, à la gouvernante, et leur\nfaisait admirer sa beauté et sa force, elle s'échappa dans les bosquets.\nDéjà ils commençaient à se couvrir de leur nouveau feuillage, et les\narbres fruitiers, de leurs fleurs. Elle suivit le sentier et arriva sur\nl'éminence où était situé le petit temple. Ses regards erraient de tous\ncôtés sur le plus riant paysage jusqu'aux collines qui bordaient\nl'horizon. Elle s'imaginait que si elle pouvait aller jusque sur le\nsommet elle verrait Haute-Combe. Au lieu de combattre et d'écarter ses\nsouvenirs et ses regrets, elle semblait chercher à les nourrir, se faire\nune espèce de volupté de sa mélancolie, et un devoir de sa constance. Sa\nfaiblesse l'obligea de s'asseoir sur les marches du temple. Appuyée\ncontre une colonne, ses larmes coulèrent en abondance; mais elles\nn'avaient pas l'amertume de celles qu'elle versait à Londres; elles la\nsoulagèrent plutôt que de lui faire du mal. En revenant à la maison par\nun autre chemin, elle résolut, pendant son séjour à Cleveland, de\ns'accorder tous les jours la jouissance de ces promenades solitaires, de\nprofiter de la liberté d'une vie champêtre, et de se dédommager de sa\nlongue réclusion: voilà le seul moyen, pensait-elle, de retrouver des\nforces et de la santé, et de ne pas faire à ma pauvre bonne maman le\nchagrin de me revoir si pâle et si changée. En effet, l'air et le\nmouvement lui avaient redonné un peu de couleur, ce qui fit grand\nplaisir à Elinor. Au moment où Maria rentra, les autres allaient sortir.\nLa fatigue lui servit de prétexte pour ne pas les suivre; elle resta,\net continua de se livrer à ses rêveries sentimentales.\n\nL'excursion des autres dames fut moins romanesque. Charlotte les\nconduisit dans tous ses petits établissemens de campagne, à ses\nespaliers en fleurs, dans son potager, dans sa serre, dans son\npoulailler, etc. etc. Les lamentations du jardinier sur la perte de\nplusieurs belles plantes que le froid avait fait périr, excitèrent les\néclats de rire de Charlotte; dans la basse-cour, des poules mangées par\nle renard, des couvées abandonnées, les redoublèrent. Madame Jennings\ns'y joignit; Elinor y fut entraînée; et il y eut au moins autant de\ngaieté dans leur promenade qu'il y avait eu de tristesse dans celle de\nMaria.\n\nCette dernière, en formant son plan de courir toute la journée dans les\nenvirons, n'avait pas prévu les changemens de temps. La matinée avait\nété superbe; mais pendant le dîner une pluie très-forte et continuelle\ns'établit, et lui ôta tout espoir de sortir encore le soir, ainsi\nqu'elle l'avait résolu, ce dont elle fut très-contrariée. Il fallut\npasser son temps comme on put. Madame Palmer fit venir son poupon, et\ns'en amusa toute la soirée. Ses pleurs, ses grimaces, tout était\ncharmant, tout annonçait une intelligence, elle aurait presque dit un\nesprit très-remarquable. Grand-maman faisait chorus avec elle, tout en\nfaisant sa tapisserie; Elinor brodait, et prenait part aux discours\ninsignifians, mais touchans cependant par l'amour maternel qui les\ndictait; et Maria qui avait le talent de découvrir d'abord la\nbibliothèque dans chaque maison, alla chercher un livre, et prévint\nainsi l'ennui d'une soirée qui lui aurait paru bien longue.\n\nRien n'était oublié par madame Palmer pour la bonne réception de ses\nhôtes. Sa manière franche, amicale, sa constante bonne humeur faisaient\nfacilement passer sur son manque total d'instruction et d'idées. Elle\navait la politesse de la bonté, et non pas celle des complimens; elle\nétait d'ailleurs si jolie, si fraîche, si gracieuse, qu'on avait du\nplaisir à la regarder, si on n'en avait pas à l'entendre. Sa naïveté,\nqui allait jusqu'à la simplicité, était quelquefois assez plaisante, et\nlui donnait quelque chose d'enfantin qui seyait à sa petite figure.\nElinor n'aurait pas voulu passer sa vie avec elle; mais pour quelques\njours elle lui pardonnait même son rire éternel, qui était insupportable\nà Maria.\n\nLes cavaliers attendus arrivèrent le lendemain, et furent bien reçus;\nils apportaient un peu de variété dans la conversation. Une longue\nmatinée et une pluie continuelle rendaient ce renfort de société bien\nnécessaire. M. Palmer était très-bien chez lui, et faisait les honneurs\nde sa maison en vrai gentilhomme et avec un ton parfait; si quelquefois\nil était un peu rude avec sa femme et sa belle-mère, il pouvait être\ntrès-aimable avec les autres, et l'aurait toujours été sans cette nuance\ntrop prononcée d'amour propre qui se faisait sentir à chaque instant, et\nqui tenait à une vraie supériorité d'esprit et de connaissances, non\nseulement sur madame Jennings et sur Charlotte, mais sur plusieurs\nhommes de son âge. D'ailleurs, dans sa vie et ses habitudes, il\nressemblait à beaucoup d'autres, tenant bien sa place à la table et\nvoulant qu'elle fût servie avec recherche, n'étant jamais prêt aux\nheures fixées, quoiqu'il n'eût rien à faire, passionné de son enfant\nsans vouloir en avoir l'air, plus souvent à son billard que dans sa\nbibliothèque, et avec ses chevaux qu'avec les dames, mais beaucoup mieux\ncependant qu'Elinor ne l'aurait attendu. Et pourtant, tout en lui\nrendant justice, elle ne pouvait s'empêcher de le mettre au-dessous\nd'Edward, si instruit et si modeste, pouvant parler sur tout avec\nintérêt, et se taire quand il le fallait, écouter, et céder même dans\nl'occasion, quoiqu'il sût aussi soutenir son opinion avec noblesse et\nfermeté. Hélas! le seul tort d'Edward aux yeux d'Elinor était d'avoir\nune fois aimé Lucy Stéeles, et combien encore ce tort involontaire avait\ndéveloppé de vertus qu'elle ne pouvait s'empêcher d'admirer. Mais quand\nelle aurait pu l'oublier, le colonel Brandon le lui aurait rappelé. Il\nvenait de passer une semaine à Delafort, exprès pour donner des ordres\nrelatifs aux réparations du presbytère; il en parlait à Elinor comme à\nune amie du jeune pasteur; il lui faisait la description de cette\ndemeure, la conseillait sur ce qu'il y avait de mieux à faire pour\nl'établissement d'Edward et de sa femme, et sans s'en douter enfonçait\nainsi le poignard dans le coeur de celle qui avait fondé l'espoir du\nbonheur de sa vie sur l'union qu'elle espérait former avec Edward, et\nqui devait y renoncer. Mais elle n'en parlait pas avec moins d'intérêt\nde ce qui pouvait contribuer au bien-être d'un ami si cher, quoiqu'elle\nne dût plus le partager. Toute la conduite du colonel avec elle fut\ntelle que madame Jennings et même John Dashwood auraient pu le désirer\npour se confirmer dans leur opinion. Il témoigna ouvertement le plaisir\nqu'il avait à revoir Elinor après une absence de dix jours; il cherchait\ntoutes les occasions de s'entretenir avec elle, et déférait toujours à\nson opinion. Personne ne doutait qu'il ne lui fût profondément attaché,\nà l'exception d'Elinor elle-même, qui voyait très-bien que Maria, malgré\nsa tristesse et son changement, était l'objet de sa préférence et d'un\nsentiment que sa tendre pitié augmentait encore. Elle observait ses\nregards, tandis que les autres observaient sa conduite, et les voyait se\ndiriger sur Maria avec un intérêt si tendre, une sollicitude si vive,\nqu'elle n'avait pas là-dessus le moindre doute. Il aimait Elinor de\nl'amitié la plus vraie, et il adorait Maria avec une passion qui\ns'augmentait à chaque instant et qui fut bientôt mise à de cruelles\népreuves.\n\nLoin que la santé de Maria se trouvât bien de l'air de la campagne, elle\ns'altérait toujours davantage, ce qui l'affligeait elle-même. Dès que la\npluie eut cessé, elle recommença ses promenades sans s'embarrasser de\nl'humidité: le sentier sablé est tout-à-fait sec, disait-elle à sa soeur\nà qui elle échappait sans cesse; mais elle ne restait pas sur ce\nsentier. Elle s'enfonçait dans le bois; elle allait même plus loin\nchercher des sites plus romantiques, plus sauvages, des arbres plus\nvieux, plus épais; elle s'asseyait aux pieds sur la mousse humide,\nrentrait à la maison, glacée, mouillée, sans penser même à changer de\nchaussure. Il lui prit enfin une toux opiniâtre et un grand mal de\ngorge. Elle aurait caché et nié tout autre mal pour conserver sa\nliberté; mais celui-là était trop évident pour ne pas inquiéter tout le\nmonde, et surtout sa soeur et le colonel, qui lui demandèrent de se\nsoigner mieux au nom de l'amitié. Elle leur répondit, en souriant, que\nson mal était léger, et qu'une nuit de repos la guérirait complètement.\nOn lui prescrivit mille choses; elle ne voulut prendre qu'un peu de thé\nen se couchant, et protesta à Elinor que le lendemain elle serait à\nmerveille.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XLIV.\n\n\nAprès une nuit très-agitée, Maria se leva et descendit comme à\nl'ordinaire pour déjeuner. Une fièvre assez violente animait ses yeux et\nson teint d'une manière à tromper: aussi la crut-on parfaitement,\nlorsqu'elle assura qu'elle était beaucoup mieux. Elinor même, qui\ns'inquiétait facilement sur elle, fut rassurée. Elle ne mangea point\ncependant, mais but beaucoup de thé, et sortit pour sa promenade\naccoutumée, pendant qu'Elinor jouait au whist avec madame Jennings et\nles deux hommes, et que Charlotte était auprès de son enfant. Souffrante\net abattue, Maria marchait lentement en lisant un livre de poésie qui\nl'intéressait; c'étaient _les Saisons_ de Thompson. Souvent elle\narrêtait sa lecture pour regarder autour d'elle et admirer la réalité\ndes descriptions qu'elle venait de lire. Elle arriva ainsi au petit\ntemple, et avant d'y monter elle jette un coup d'oeil sur la contrée.\nDieu! qu'a-t-elle vu? Sur la route qui se dessine dans le paysage, et\nqui passe au bas de la plaine, à peu de distance de la colline, un\ncaricle roulait avec rapidité; c'était.... celui de Willoughby, où elle\navait été si heureuse à côté lui! Il le conduisait encore, mais ce\nn'était plus avec elle. Une autre femme, sans doute la sienne, dans le\nplus élégant costume de voyage, était à côté de lui. Ils passent sans\nl'avoir aperçue. Hélas! la pauvre Maria ne les voyait plus; faible et\nmalade comme elle l'était dans ce moment, il lui fut impossible de\nsupporter cette vue. Elle sent qu'elle est près de mourir; une sueur\nfroide la couvre; son coeur, qui battait avec violence, semble\ns'arrêter; un nuage obscurcit ses yeux; elle tombe étendue et sans\naucune connaissance à côté de la première marche du temple.\n\nCependant les trois robers de whist finissent. Madame Jennings, qui les\na perdus, demande sa revanche. Elinor, complaisante à l'ordinaire, la\nprie de l'en dispenser pour le moment; elle craint que la promenade de\nsa soeur ne se prolonge trop pour sa santé; elle veut aller la chercher,\nla ramener, et prend le bras du colonel qui partageait son inquiétude.\nIls suivirent lentement le sentier sablé, point de Maria. Elinor élève\nla voix et l'appelle, point de réponse. Le petit temple ouvert était en\nface; elle n'y était pas. Aurait-elle eu l'imprudence d'entrer dans le\nbois? dit Elinor; mais elle nous entendrait. Elle s'arrête et l'appelle\nencore. Un cri perçant du colonel lui répond; il vient d'apercevoir\ncelle qu'il cherchait, étendue sur l'herbe et comme privée de vie. Sa\nrobe blanche se confondait avec l'escalier de marbre, ce qui les avait\nempêchés de l'apercevoir d'abord. Mais le colonel voulut monter pour\nchercher au loin s'il la verrait, et il la découvre à ses pieds. Qu'on\njuge de son émotion et de celle d'Elinor, qui vient à son cri. Elle a\nbesoin de rassembler toutes ses forces pour ne pas être dans le même\nétat que sa soeur. Ils la relèvent à demi; Elinor s'assied sur la marche\npour la soutenir; mais tous leurs efforts pour la ranimer sont inutiles.\nLes larmes d'Elinor coulent sur ses joues glacées; elle ne les sent\npas. Le colonel cherche si le pouls bat encore; il croit l'avoir senti\nfaiblement, du moins il le dit et cherche à se le persuader à lui-même.\nIl faut l'ôter d'ici, dit-il à Elinor, je vais l'emporter; et la prenant\ndans ses bras, il veut reprendre le sentier, chargé de ce précieux\nfardeau. Mais Elinor voit que lui-même est tremblant et presque aussi\npâle que Maria; elle a d'ailleurs la crainte de ce qu'éprouverait sa\nsoeur si, revenant à elle-même pendant le trajet, elle se voyait portée\ndans les bras du colonel, comme elle le fut une fois dans ceux de\nWilloughby lors de sa malheureuse chute. Elle en frémit, et alléguant sa\npropre faiblesse qui l'empêche aussi de marcher, elle conjure le colonel\nde remettre la pauvre Maria couchée à demi sur ses genoux, et d'aller\nchercher des secours. Il y consent avec peine, et dans moins de temps\nqu'il n'était possible de l'imaginer, il est revenu avec des domestiques\net un grand fauteuil. Maria y est placée; Elinor et le colonel marchent\nà côté d'elle, soutiennent sa tête penchée; et le triste cortége revient\nainsi à la maison, où l'alarme fut grande, ainsi qu'on peut le penser.\nMais personne n'en soupçonna la cause; on l'attribua en entier au mal de\nla veille et au saisissement occasionné par l'air du matin en sortant de\ndéjeuner.\n\nLe mouvement commençait à la ranimer au moment où l'on arriva. Ses yeux\ns'entr'ouvrirent; elle regarda languissamment autour d'elle, tendit la\nmain à Elinor, et, se penchant sur elle, fondit en larmes: c'était\ntoujours par des pleurs que se terminaient ses attaques de nerfs.\nElinor fut bien aise de les voir couler en abondance. On la porte dans\nsa chambre, on la met au lit, et sa soeur espère que la chaleur et un\ndoux sommeil la remettront peu à peu. Elle s'endormit en effet, mais non\npas tranquillement; elle était agitée et commença à délirer; elle\nnommait souvent Willoughby. Elinor n'en était pas surprise; elle savait\ncombien sa soeur en était occupée, et ne se doutait guère qu'elle venait\nde le voir. Maria se réveilla et voulut raconter ce qui lui était\narrivé; mais ses idées étaient incohérentes; elle ne pouvait s'exprimer\nlibrement, et le peu de mots qu'elle prononça étaient si singuliers,\nqu'Elinor les attribua entièrement à la rêverie. Elle tâcha de calmer la\nmalade, mais ce fut en vain; la fièvre augmentait, sa tête\ns'embarrassait toujours de plus en plus, sa respiration devenait courte,\noppressée. Elinor alarmée fit demander madame Jennings, qui ne la\nrassura pas, mais elle lui dit qu'elle allait envoyer un exprès dans une\npetite ville voisine pour chercher M. Harris, apothicaire, et dans\nl'occasion médecin assez heureux.\n\nIl vint, examina la malade, secoua la tête, et après avoir dit à\nmademoiselle Dashwood qu'à force de soins il espérait la tirer de\ndanger, il déclara, d'après tous les symptômes, qu'elle avait une fièvre\nmaligne, putride et très-contagieuse. A peine cet arrêt eut-il été\nprononcé, que madame Palmer, qui était présente, sortit en faisant un\nsigne à sa mère qui la suivit, et à qui elle dit que, d'après la\ndécision du médecin, elle ne laisserait pas un moment son enfant et la\nnourrice exposés à la contagion, et qu'elle allait l'emmener. La bonne\ngrand'mère fut du même avis, et dit qu'elle avait d'abord jugé la\nmaladie de Maria plus sérieuse qu'Elinor ne voulait le croire; qu'elle\nla couvait depuis long-temps; qu'il était inoui qu'elle n'eût pas\nsuccombé plus tôt à son chagrin; mais que c'était cela qui à présent\nconduisait bien sûrement cette pauvre fille au tombeau, et que la\npremière chose à faire était que Charlotte partît avec son enfant. M.\nPalmer fut demandé; il affecta d'abord de tourner en ridicule les\ncraintes de ces dames, mais dans le fond il en était tellement saisi\nlui-même, qu'il alla aider au cocher pour qu'il eût plus tôt attelé,\ndéfendit qu'on sortît l'enfant de la chambre avant le moment de partir,\net le porta lui-même en courant, de peur qu'il ne respirât le mauvais\nair en passant devant la chambre de Maria. Dans moins d'une demi-heure,\ndepuis l'arrivée de M. Harris et le mot terrible de contagion sorti de\nsa bouche, la mère, l'enfant et la nourrice en étaient à l'abri; ils se\nrendaient chez une tante de M. Palmer, qui demeurait quelques milles\nen-deçà de Bath. Charlotte aurait bien voulu aussi emmener son mari et\nsa mère. Le premier lui promit de la rejoindre dans un jour ou deux;\nmais madame Jennings, avec une bonté de coeur qui redoubla l'amitié et\nla reconnaissance d'Elinor, déclara qu'elle ne quitterait pas Cleveland\npendant que Maria y serait malade, et qu'elle était décidée à remplacer\nauprès d'elle la mère à qui elle l'avait ôtée. Elinor trouva\nconstamment, dans cette excellente femme, une aide zélée, active,\ndésirant partager toutes ses fatigues; et lui étant souvent utile par sa\nlongue expérience des soins nécessaires aux malades.\n\nLa pauvre Maria avait vraiment grand besoin des tendres soins de sa\nsoeur et de son amie; La maladie eut son cours accoutumé. Elle se\nsentait elle-même assez généralement souffrante pour être docile aux\navis de ses gardes; elle ne pouvait plus dire, comme le premier jour, je\nserai mieux demain, ni espérer de se rétablir avant bien des jours, et\npeut-être des semaines, si même elle se rétablissait. Eh! dans quel\nmoment ce mal l'avait-il atteinte? lorsque tout était prêt pour aller\nrejoindre à Barton leur bonne mère: leur départ de Cleveland avait été\nfixé au lendemain. Madame Jennings voyant l'impatience de Maria, leur\navait offert sa voiture jusqu'à Barton, où elles comptaient arriver au\nplus tard le surlendemain, de bonne heure, et causer une surprise\nagréable à leur mère; et lorsqu'elle pouvait parler, c'était pour se\nlamenter du délai forcé que sa maladie apportait à ce trajet. Elinor\ntâchait de la consoler en lui disant ce qu'elle croyait elle-même,\nqu'elle serait bientôt rétablie.\n\nLes deux jours suivans ne produisirent aucun changement dans son état;\nelle n'était pas pis, mais elle n'était pas mieux, et la faiblesse\naugmentait. M. Palmer se laissa persuader malgré lui de joindre sa\nfemme. Son humanité et sa politesse lui ordonnaient de rester pour\nveiller à ce qu'il ne manquât rien. Il craignait aussi le ridicule de\nse donner l'air pusillanime en évitant un danger incertain; mais enfin\nsa promesse à Charlotte, le désir de revoir son enfant, l'ennui d'être\nseul avec madame Jennings et le colonel Brandon (Elinor ne quittait pas\nun instant sa soeur) l'engagèrent à partir. Le colonel voulait en faire\nautant par discrétion; mais madame Jennings, qui n'était pas fâchée,\ndans ses momens de liberté, d'avoir quelqu'un avec qui elle pût causer\net jouer au piquet, trouva qu'il devait à sa _bien-aimée Elinor_ de\npartager ses inquiétudes, et le pressa si fort de rester, qu'il y\nconsentit. Son coeur était bien de moitié dans ce désir: laisser celle\nqu'il adorait et l'amie qu'il chérissait, dans un état aussi cruel,\nc'était presque au-dessus de ses forces. M. Palmer aussi lui demanda\ncomme une grâce de le remplacer à Cleveland: si la maladie tournait\nmal, dit-il, ces dames auraient besoin d'un ami; et l'on juge combien\ncette seule supposition déchirait le coeur du colonel. Maria ignorait\ntout, et ne parut pas surprise de ne point voir madame Palmer. Il y a\nmême apparence qu'uniquement occupée de deux objets, sa mère et\nWilloughby, elle l'avait complètement oubliée.\n\nDeux autres jours s'écoulèrent depuis le départ de M. Palmer; et la\nsituation de la malade était toujours aussi critique. M. Harris qui\nvenait deux fois par jour, donnait des espérances qu'Elinor saisissait\navec avidité; mais madame Jennings et le colonel n'osaient pas s'y\nlivrer. La première faisait des songes, avait des pressentimens qui ne\nl'avaient jamais trompée; le colonel se rappelait plus que jamais la\nressemblance frappante entre Maria et son Elisa, et se croyait destiné à\nperdre encore cet objet de son second amour. Il appelait en vain à son\nsecours et la raison, et la jeunesse, et la bonne constitution de Maria,\net l'avis du médecin: rien ne pouvait le rassurer, et dans ses momens de\nsolitude, il s'abandonnait à la plus noire mélancolie et ne croyait pas\nrevoir jamais Maria. Cependant, dans la matinée du troisième jour, ils\nreprirent tous plus d'espérance. Quand M. Harris arriva, il déclara\nqu'il trouvait Maria beaucoup mieux. Le pouls était plus fort, plus\nréglé, et chaque symptôme plus favorable qu'à sa dernière visite. Elinor\nétait au ciel en l'entendant parler ainsi, et se félicita de ce que\ndans ses lettres à sa mère elle avait suivi son propre jugement plutôt\nque celui de ses amis, en lui parlant du mal de Maria comme d'une légère\nindisposition qui retardait leur départ de Cleveland, et en fixant\npresque le moment où Maria serait assez bien pour entreprendre le\nvoyage.\n\nMais la journée ne finit pas aussi heureusement qu'elle avait commencé.\nSur le soir, Maria parut plus malade qu'elle ne l'avait encore été; et\nla fièvre et l'insupportable douleur de tête et les frissons revinrent\navec plus de force. Elle avait voulu se lever une heure ou deux sur une\nchaise longue pour qu'on refît son lit; elle demanda elle-même à y\nrentrer, et n'y fut pas plus tranquille. Elinor voulait attribuer cet\nétat à la fatigue, et lui administra les cordiaux prescrits par le\nmédecin; elle eut enfin la satisfaction de la voir tomber dans un\nsommeil dont elle attendait les meilleurs effets; mais il ne fut pas\naussi bienfaisant qu'elle l'avait espéré. Quoiqu'elle eût déjà veillé la\nnuit précédente, Elinor ne voulut pas entendre parler de quitter sa\nsoeur avant son réveil, et s'assit à côté du lit pour observer tous ses\nmouvemens. Madame Jennings n'était pas très-bien elle-même, et se\ncoucha. Elinor voulut que Betty, qui était une excellente garde, ne\nquittât point sa maîtresse; elle resta donc seule avec Maria, dont le\nsommeil était toujours plus agité. On entendait des plaintes\ninarticulées sortir de ses lèvres brûlantes, elle changeait à tout\nmoment de posture. Elinor hésitait s'il ne valait pas mieux l'éveiller\nque de la laisser dans un sommeil aussi pénible, quand tout à coup un\nbruit accidentel dans la maison la réveilla en sursaut. Elle se leva sur\nson séant, et s'écria avec un son de voix très altéré et de l'égarement\ndans les yeux:\n\n--Est-ce maman? Ne vient-elle pas? O maman! maman!\n\n--Non, ma chère, pas tout-à-fait encore, lui dit doucement Elinor en\nl'aidant à se recoucher; soyez tranquille, mon cher amour, elle sera ici\navant qu'il soit long-temps.\n\n--Qu'elle vienne, qu'elle arrive, s'écria Maria en délire, ou bien elle\nne retrouvera plus son enfant. Elinor, dites-lui de venir ce soir même;\nmais qu'elle ne passe pas à Londres, il la tuerait aussi, car il veut\nque je meure! Il est venu avec sa femme, dans son caricle, tout exprès\npour me tuer; ils m'ont écrasée, brisée; si vous saviez ce que je\nsouffre! Maman me guérira; allez la chercher, Elinor; mais lui et cette\nfemme empêchez-les d'entrer. Je ne veux pas les voir; je ne veux voir\nque vous et maman.\n\nElinor vit avec douleur qu'elle n'était plus à elle-même; elle lui tâta\nle pouls, il était extrêmement agité, on ne pouvait pas compter les\nbattemens, et le délire augmenta avec une telle rapidité, qu'Elinor fut\nvivement alarmée. Maria ne la reconnaissait plus; tantôt elle la prenait\npour sa mère et l'embrassait avec ardeur en lui disant les choses les\nplus touchantes et les plus incohérentes; tantôt elle la repoussait avec\nhorreur en la prenant pour madame Willoughby, qu'elle ne nommait jamais.\nEnfin Elinor se décida à envoyer chercher sans retard M. Harris, et à\ndépêcher un exprès à Barton pour faire venir sa mère. Elle voulut\nconsulter à cet effet le colonel Brandon, et laissant un moment sa soeur\naux soins de Betty, elle se hâta de descendre au salon, où elle savait\nqu'il restait très-tard.\n\nElle le trouva en effet, et lui communiqua ses craintes, craintes qu'il\navait déjà depuis long-temps. Il l'écouta dans un sombre désespoir; ce\nqu'il aurait pu dire aurait été bien faible pour ce qu'il sentait; mais\nà peine eut-elle articulé le désir d'envoyer un messager à madame\nDashwood, qu'il prit vivement la parole pour lui offrir de se charger\nlui-même de cette commission. Elinor ne fit nulle résistance, nul\ncompliment, cette offre répondait trop bien à tous les voeux de son\ncoeur: et comment refuser un ami si bon, si sensible, qui apprendrait\navec précaution à sa mère le malheur qui les menaçait, qui la\nsoutiendrait, la consolerait dans cet affreux moment, et dans un voyage\nsi triste et si fatigant par sa promptitude? Excellent ami, lui dit-elle\nen pressant sa main, ma reconnaissance égale le service que vous nous\nrendez; je suis moins inquiète pour ma mère puisque vous serez avec\nelle. Qui sait l'effet que peut produire sa seule présence sur un coeur\ntel que celui de Maria? Oh! s'il était donné à l'amour maternel de la\nrendre à la vie, nous vous devrons peut-être aussi ce bonheur. Qui sait\nsi ma mère, attérée d'un tel coup, aurait été en état d'entreprendre\ncette course toute seule? Mais vous soutiendrez son courage; je vais lui\nécrire un mot pendant que vous ferez préparer les chevaux.\n\nPas un moment ne fut perdu: le colonel fit tous les arrangemens de ce\npetit voyage avec calme et promptitude. Il calcula exactement le temps\nqu'il y mettrait, et le moment de son retour. Il espérait, en partant\ntout de suite, pouvoir être revenu le lendemain à peu près à la même\nheure; il était environ onze heures du soir.\n\nLes chevaux furent prêts plus vite même qu'on ne l'aurait cru; le\ncolonel pressa la main d'Elinor avec le regard le plus expressif de\ndouleur et d'amitié, et se jeta dans sa voiture. Minuit sonna; elle se\nhâta de retourner auprès de sa soeur pour attendre le médecin, bien\ndécidée à veiller encore.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XLV.\n\n\nCette nuit fut également douloureuse pour les deux soeurs. Les heures\ns'écoulèrent les unes après les autres sans apporter de changement;\nMaria dans un délire toujours croissant, et Elinor dans la plus cruelle\nanxiété, attendant le médecin avec impatience, et redoutant d'entendre\nce qu'il allait prononcer. Une fois que ses craintes furent éveillées,\nelle paya bien cher sa première sécurité, et Betty, qui veillait avec\nelle, la torturait encore en lui parlant des tristes pressentimens de sa\nmaîtresse. Elinor n'était pas du tout superstitieuse; mais, qui n'a pas\néprouvé qu'on le devient dans un grand danger? Elle écoutait tout,\ncroyait tout, s'affligeait de tout, et n'avait presque plus conservé\nd'espérance. Les idées de Maria étaient encore fixées par intervalles\nsur sa mère, et lorsqu'elle prononçait son nom en l'appelant avec\nvivacité, c'était un nouveau coup de poignard pour Elinor, qui se\nreprochait amèrement d'avoir laissé passer plusieurs jours sans la faire\nvenir. Peut-être madame Dashwood, éclairée par sa tendresse maternelle,\naurait imaginé quelque remède salutaire, qui serait à présent inutile ou\ntrop tardif. Elle se représentait sans cesse cette tendre mère arrivant\net ne retrouvant plus son enfant chéri, ou la retrouvant en délire, et\nn'en étant pas même reconnue.\n\nElle était sur le point d'envoyer encore chez M. Harris quand il arriva\nenviron sur les cinq heures; son opinion fut cependant moins alarmante\nque son délai: tout en avouant qu'il trouvait un grand changement dans\nl'état de sa malade, il ne la crut pas dans un danger pressant, et donna\nl'espoir qu'un nouveau traitement aurait plus de succès; il en parla\navec une telle confiance qu'il la communiqua à Elinor. Il partit en\npromettant de revenir dans trois ou quatre heures, et la laissa un peu\nplus calme qu'au moment de son arrivée.\n\nMadame Jennings apprit en se levant, avec un grand chagrin, ce qui\ns'était passé pendant la nuit; elle entra grondant Betty et presque\nElinor de ne l'avoir pas demandée; s'attendrissant sur le départ du\ncolonel, sur l'émotion de madame Dashwood, sur les tourmens d'Elinor,\nsur les souffrances de Maria; disant qu'il ne fallait pas désespérer,\nmais que pour elle, elle avait toujours prévu que cela finirait mal. Son\nbon coeur était réellement très-affligé. Avoir vu se flétrir par degrés\ncette belle fleur sous le poids meurtrier du chagrin; la voir expirer si\njeune, si aimable, si pleine de vie jusqu'au moment fatal qui brisa son\ncoeur; c'était assez pour frapper et toucher même une personne moins\nintéressée dans cet événement. Maria avait plus de droits encore à la\ncompassion de madame Jennings; elle avait été pendant trois mois sa\ncompagne, elle était encore sous ses soins, et c'est pendant qu'elle y\nétait qu'on l'avait si cruellement blessée, injuriée, rendue si\nmalheureuse. Le malheur d'Elinor aussi, qui était sa favorite, lui\nfaisait une peine cruelle; et quand elle se représentait celle de leur\nmère, qui aimait Maria, comme elle-même aimait Charlotte, la part\nqu'elle prenait au triste événement qui se préparait, et dont elle ne\ndoutait pas, était aussi vive que sincère.\n\nM. Harris fut exact à sa seconde visite; mais il fut entièrement trompé\ndans son espoir sur ses derniers remèdes. Ils avaient tous manqué leur\neffet; la fièvre n'était point abattue, la poitrine point dégagée; la\nmalade était peut-être plus tranquille, mais cette tranquillité même,\nqui n'était qu'une pesante stupeur, augmentait ses alarmes. Elinor qui\ncherchait à lire dans son âme, s'en aperçut bientôt, et parut désirer\nd'autres avis; mais M. Harris jugea que ce serait inutile, et ne ferait\nque retarder le traitement qui pouvait encore la sauver: il le proposa.\nElinor accepta tout, demanda à Dieu instamment dans le fond de son coeur\nde bénir ces nouveaux remèdes, et conjura M. Harris de ne rien épargner.\nIl fit tout ce qu'il jugea nécessaire, et ressortit avec des promesses\nqui, cette fois, ne calmèrent pas le triste coeur d'Elinor. A force de\ndouleur elle était calme en apparence, mais n'avait presque plus\nd'espoir; et quand elle pensait à sa mère, à sa pauvre malheureuse mère,\nses forces étaient près de l'abandonner. Elle resta ainsi jusqu'à midi,\nsans s'éloigner un instant du chevet de sa soeur, ses pensées errant\ntristement d'un sujet de douleur à un autre, écoutant vaguement madame\nJennings, qui lui rappelait, heure par heure, tout ce que Maria avait\nsouffert à Londres, et s'étonnait qu'elle n'y eût pas succombé. Ici, du\nmoins, disait-elle, elle a été assez tranquille; elle a fait ce qu'elle\na voulu; nous ne l'avons point contrariée; elle s'est promenée seule, et\nn'a sûrement rien vu qui pût avoir renouvelé son chagrin. Willoughby est\npaisiblement à Londres avec sa femme, et ne songe pas plus à elle que si\nelle n'était pas au monde. Hélas! peut-être n'y sera-t-elle bientôt\nplus! Ah! mon dieu! quelle pitié de voir mourir cela à cet âge, et de\nchagrin d'amour encore, quand elle en devrait vivre. Si du moins c'était\nmoi, etc. etc. etc. etc.\n\nAprès midi, cependant, Elinor commença à se flatter qu'elle était mieux.\nA peine osait-elle se l'avouer à elle-même, de crainte de se livrer\nencore à de fausses espérances, mais il lui parut qu'il y avait quelque\nléger changement dans l'état de sa soeur. Penchée sur son lit, elle\nl'examinait sans cesse, elle écoutait chacune de ses respirations, lui\ntâtait à chaque instant le pouls. Il lui parut moins intermittent; son\nhaleine semblait être un peu plus libre; enfin, avec une agitation de\nbonheur plus difficile à cacher sous un extérieur calme que son angoisse\nprécédente, elle se hasarda de dire à son amie qu'elle ne pouvait\ns'empêcher de reprendre un peu d'espoir. Madame Jennings, avec l'air du\ndoute, alla examiner à son tour; et quoique forcée de convenir qu'il y\navait quelques légers changemens en bien, elle essaya d'empêcher Elinor\nde se livrer à une espérance qu'elle n'avait pas elle-même, et qui\nrendrait encore le coup plus affreux; mais ce fut en vain: Elinor ne\nvoulait plus rien entendre que la certitude de conserver sa Maria.\n\nUne demi-heure s'écoula, et les symptômes favorables continuèrent;\nd'autres même s'y joignirent et les confirmèrent. Voyez, voyez, chère\namie, disait-elle à madame Jennings, sa peau est moins sèche, sa\nrespiration moins gênée, ses lèvres moins serrées; oh, Maria! ma soeur,\nmon amie, tu nous seras rendue! maman ne sera pas plongée dans le\ndésespoir. O mon Dieu! confirmez cette lueur d'espérance, recevez mes\nactions de grâces. Elle était à genoux à côté du lit; sa bouche posa sur\nla main de Maria; elle crut sentir qu'une légère pression de cette main\ncontre ses lèvres répondait à son baiser. Oh, mon Dieu! dit-elle à\ndemi-voix, elle m'entend, elle me reconnaît! Au moment même, le regard\nde Maria, languissant, mais plein de tendresse et sans la moindre\nexpression d'égarement, s'attache sur elle; elle l'entendit même\nprononcer faiblement: _Chère Elinor!_ Alors elle eut peine à contenir sa\njoie; et quand M. Harris arriva, elle courut au-devant de lui, et le\nprenant par la main: Venez, monsieur, lui dit-elle, regardez ma soeur;\nje ne me trompe point, n'est-ce pas, elle est un peu mieux? et elle\nattendait en tremblant ce qu'il allait dire.\n\nNon seulement elle est mieux, dit-il avec assurance, mais si la nuit est\ntelle que je l'ose espérer, je réponds de sa vie. Oh, mon Dieu! dit\nElinor en joignant les mains et fondant en larmes, tandis que pendant\nles heures de tourmens qu'elle venait de passer, elle n'en avait pas\nversé une seule. Son coeur alors était serré trop douloureusement pour\nqu'elle pût pleurer; à présent elles coulent sans effort et lui font du\nbien. Maria rendue à la vie, à la santé, à ses amis, à sa tendre mère,\nétait une idée si douce, si consolante, qu'il lui semblait que jamais\nencore elle n'avait été si heureuse. Mais son bonheur n'était pas encore\nde la joie; c'était une reconnaissance profonde envers l'Etre suprême,\ntrop forte pour l'exprimer par des paroles; elle en avait aussi pour M.\nHarris, qui, sans être un médecin fameux, n'ayant pas même le bonnet de\ndocteur en titre, avait déployé, dans cette occasion, un zèle et une\nhabileté qui lui faisaient honneur. Il avait une fille de cinq à six ans\nqu'il aimait beaucoup et dont il parlait souvent. Elinor détacha une\nchaîne d'or de plusieurs tours, qui suspendait à son cou une très jolie\npetite montre entourée de brillans, qui était son bijou favori, et dit:\nM. Harris, j'ai encore une grâce à vous demander. Je crois à\nl'efficacité des voeux de l'innocence; dites à votre petite Jenny de\nprier pour le rétablissement de ma soeur à la même heure où vous m'avez\ndit qu'elle était hors de danger; et pour qu'elle ne l'oublie pas, je la\nprie de porter cette petite montre en souvenir de ce moment. M. Harris\nfut très-content de ce joli présent, et du plaisir qu'il ferait à son\nenfant; il recommanda ce qu'il y avait à faire, et c'était peu de chose,\nmais surtout d'éviter ce qui pourrait le moins du monde agiter\npéniblement la malade. J'attends ma mère cette nuit, dit Elinor,\npensez-vous que l'émotion de la voir puisse lui être nuisible?--Au\ncontraire, mademoiselle, elle en était sans cesse occupée dans ses\nrêveries, et en la préparant à voir madame Dashwood, elle n'en éprouvera\nqu'un bon effet. Mais ce sont les émotions bruyantes ou pénibles qu'il\nfaut éviter avec soin. Cela n'était pas difficile dans une maison où il\nn'y avait qu'elles et leur bonne mad. Jennings: celle-ci était aussi\nfort contente de penser que Maria se rétablirait; et il est juste de lui\nen savoir un peu gré, car elle tenait aussi beaucoup à ses pressentimens\net à ses prédictions, et il fallait les abandonner! Elle le fit sans\npeine, montra une véritable joie, et se promit de faire aussi un présent\nà ce bon M. Harris, qu'elle appela plusieurs fois: _mon cher docteur_,\nce qui était le plus grand plaisir qu'on pût lui faire.\n\nElinor passa l'après midi entière à côté du lit de sa soeur, lui parlant\nfort peu, mais de ce qui pouvait lui faire plaisir, veillant à ce\nqu'elle fût bien couchée, écoutant chaque respiration. La possibilité du\nretour de la fièvre dans la soirée l'alarmait encore; mais elle ne\nrevint pas, tous les bons symptômes continuèrent. A six heures du soir\nelle s'endormit du sommeil le plus doux et le plus tranquille.\nL'heureuse Elinor n'eut plus de doute qu'elle ne fût hors de danger; et\nl'arrivée de sa mère et du colonel, qu'elle avait si fort redoutée, ne\nfut pour elle qu'un nouveau bonheur. Elle comptait les heures et les\nminutes jusqu'au moment où elle pourrait leur dire: Elle nous est\nrendue! et les tirer de l'horrible incertitude avec laquelle ils\nvoyageaient. Elle plaignait le colonel peut-être plus que sa mère, qu'il\navait sûrement bien ménagée, tandis que lui savait tout. Sûre qu'il\naurait mis toute la diligence possible, elle les attendait au plus tard\nà dix heures.\n\nA sept, laissant Maria doucement endormie, elle joignit madame Jennings\ndans le salon pour prendre le thé avec elle; ses craintes l'avaient\nempêchée de déjeuner, et sa joie, de dîner. Elle avait donc grand besoin\nde prendre quelque rafraichîssement, et ce petit repas lui fut\ntrès-nécessaire. Comme elle ne s'était point couchée les deux dernières\nnuits, madame Jennings voulut lui persuader d'aller prendre un peu de\nrepos en attendant l'arrivée de sa mère, lui promettant de la remplacer\nauprès de Maria; mais Elinor n'avait aucun sentiment de fatigue, ni de\npossibilité de dormir, et ne pouvait être tranquille qu'auprès de sa\nsoeur; elle y remonta donc immédiatement après le thé. Madame Jennings\nla suivit pour s'assurer encore que le mieux se soutenait, puis elle les\nlaissa pour aller l'écrire à ses filles et se coucher de bonne heure.\n\nLa nuit était froide et orageuse; le vent se faisait entendre dans les\ncorridors; la pluie battait contre les fenêtres. Elinor pensait à ses\nchers voyageurs, et les plaignait d'être en chemin par ce mauvais temps;\nmais cela n'empêchait pas Maria de dormir paisiblement, et elle avait de\nquoi faire oublier à sa mère tous les petits inconvéniens du voyage.\n\nL'horloge sonna huit heures; si c'en eût été dix, Elinor aurait été bien\nheureuse, car en même temps il lui semblait entendre le roulement d'un\ncarrosse devant la maison. Mais sûrement c'était une erreur; il était\npresque impossible qu'ils fussent déjà là. Cependant elle était si sûre\nd'avoir entendu quelque chose, que, malgré la difficulté qu'elle avait à\nle croire, elle ne put s'empêcher de passer dans un cabinet à côté, et\nd'ouvrir la fenêtre pour s'en assurer. Elle vit au même instant que ses\noreilles ne l'avaient pas trompée. Les deux lanternes d'un coupé\nl'éclairèrent suffisamment pour voir qu'il était attelé de quatre\nchevaux, ce qui lui prouva l'excès des alarmes de sa mère, et lui\nexpliqua la rapidité du voyage.\n\nJamais encore Elinor, si accoutumée à se commander à elle-même, n'en\navait été moins capable qu'à ce moment. L'idée de revoir sa mère, celle\nde ses doutes, de ses craintes, peut-être de son désespoir; tout la\nbouleversait. Et comment lui dire..... La joie de savoir son enfant\nchéri hors de danger, lui serait peut-être aussi fatale; elle la\nconnaissait si vive, si sensible et si nerveuse. Mais il n'y avait pas\nde temps à perdre en réflexions, et disant à Betty de ne pas quitter sa\nsoeur, elle descendit promptement. Elle entendait aller et venir dans le\nvestibule, on ouvrait les portes; elle en conclut qu'ils étaient déjà\nentrés dans la maison. Aussi émue qu'on peut l'être quand on va revoir\nune mère chérie, après une longue absence, et dans une telle\ncirconstance, elle entre au salon pour se jeter dans ses bras, et se\ntrouve.... en présence de Willoughby.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XLVI.\n\n\nElinor recula avec un sentiment d'horreur à cette vue, et son premier\nmouvement fut de quitter à l'instant le salon. Sa main était déjà sur le\npêne, quand Willoughby s'avança vivement et la retint, en disant d'un\nton plus décidé que suppliant: Mademoiselle Dashwood, une demi-heure\nseulement, un quart d'heure, dix minutes; je vous conjure de\nrester.--Non, monsieur, lui répliqua-t-elle avec fermeté, je ne resterai\npas une minute; vous ne pouvez avoir aucune affaire avec moi. Les gens\nont, je suppose, oublié de vous dire que M. Palmer n'est pas chez lui.\n\n--Quand ils m'auraient dit, reprit-il avec véhémence, que tous les\nPalmer étaient au diable, je serais entré également; c'est à vous et à\nvous seule que j'ai à parler.\n\n--A moi! monsieur; vous me surprenez beaucoup, en vérité. Parlez donc,\nmais soyez bref, et si vous le pouvez, moins violent.\n\n--Asseyez-vous, et je vous promets tous les deux.\n\nElle hésita, et ne savait ce qu'elle devait faire. La possibilité de\nl'arrivée du colonel Brandon qui trouverait là M. Willoughby, et\nsûrement avec beaucoup de peine, traversa sa pensée; mais elle avait\nconsenti à l'entendre, et sa curiosité était excitée. Après un moment de\nréflexion, elle conclut qu'il valait mieux céder et lui accorder un\nmoment, que de prolonger le temps par des refus et des prières. Elle\nrevint donc en silence au bout de la table, et s'assit. Il prit une\nchaise vis-à-vis d'elle; et pendant une demi-minute, il n'y eut pas un\nmot de prononcé de part ni d'autre.\n\n--Je vous en prie encore, monsieur, soyez très-bref; je n'ai pas de\ntemps à perdre, dit enfin Elinor; parlez, ou je sors à l'instant.\n\nIl était dans une attitude de profonde méditation, appuyé de côté sur le\ndossier de sa chaise, et ne paraissait pas l'entendre. Elinor se leva;\nce mouvement parut le réveiller.--Votre soeur, dit-il vivement, est hors\nde danger; le domestique qui m'a introduit me l'a dit. Que le ciel en\nsoit béni! Mais est-ce vrai, bien réellement vrai? que je l'entende de\nvotre bouche.\n\nElinor le regardait avec étonnement; elle croyait voir et entendre le\nWilloughby de Barton-Park, et ne savait si elle ne faisait pas un rêve.\nIl répéta sa question avec un mouvement très-vif d'impatience. Pour\nl'amour de Dieu, dites-moi si elle est hors de danger ou si elle ne\nl'est pas?\n\n--J'espère qu'elle l'est.\n\nIl se leva et se promena vivement. Elinor voulut encore le quitter; mais\nl'intérêt qu'il venait de montrer pour Maria l'avait déjà un peu\nadoucie; elle céda à un geste suppliant et resta. Il revint à son siége,\ns'approcha un peu plus près d'elle, en disant avec une vivacité un peu\nforcée: Si j'avais été sûr, parfaitement sûr qu'elle était hors de\ndanger, peut-être ne serai-je pas entré, mais puisque je suis ici,\npuisque j'ai le bonheur de vous revoir, oh! bonne Elinor, vous qui\nm'aimiez autrefois comme un frère, parlez-moi encore avec amitié;\npeut-être sera-ce la dernière fois. Parlez-moi franchement, amicalement;\nme croyez-vous un scélérat? Et la rougeur la plus vive couvrit son\nvisage.\n\nElinor était toujours plus surprise; elle commença vraiment à croire\nqu'il était hors de sens et dans l'ivresse. La singularité de cette\nvisite, à une heure aussi tardive, et toute sa manière ne pouvait guère\ns'expliquer autrement. Dès que cette idée eut frappé son esprit, elle se\nleva et lui dit froidement: M. Willoughby, je vous conseille de\nretourner à Haute-Combe, que vous habitez sans doute; je suis\ngarde-malade, et je ne puis rester avec vous plus long-temps, quelque\naffaire que vous puissiez avoir à me communiquer; vous vous la\nrappellerez sûrement mieux demain.\n\n--Je vous entends, dit-il avec un sourire expressif et une voix\nparfaitement calme: peut-être ai-je en effet perdu la raison, mais non\npas comme vous le pensez. Depuis ce matin à huit heures que j'ai quitté\nLondres, je ne me suis arrêté que dix minutes au plus à Maulboroug pour\nfaire manger mes chevaux qui n'en pouvaient plus; j'ai pris moi-même un\nverre de porter et un morceau de boeuf froid: voilà tout ce que j'ai\npris dans la journée. Et son regard et le son de sa voix convainquirent\nElinor que, si quelque impardonnable folie l'avaient amené à Cleveland,\nce n'était pas du moins celle de l'ivresse. Sûre alors qu'il pourrait\nl'entendre, elle lui dit avec dignité: Excusez-moi, M. Willoughby,\ncette fois-ci je vous ai fait tort; je ne sais pas cependant si, après\ntout ce qui s'est passé, vous ne seriez pas plus excusable en attribuant\nvotre arrivée ici à une cause étrangère, qu'à votre propre volonté.\nCertainement si vous aviez l'ombre de délicatesse, vous auriez senti ce\nque votre seule présence me fait souffrir, et dans quel moment! Il m'est\nimpossible de comprendre le but de cette visite. Que prétendez vous? que\ndemandez-vous?\n\n--Je prétends, dit-il avec un sérieux énergique, me faire haïr de vous\nde quelques degrés de moins que vous ne me haïssez sûrement; je demande\nqu'il me soit permis d'alléguer quelque espèce d'excuse pour le passé,\nde vous ouvrir entièrement mon coeur, de vous prouver que si j'ai la\ntête mauvaise, ce coeur mérite quelque indulgence, d'obtenir enfin\nquelque chose qui ressemble à un pardon, de Mar...., de votre soeur.\n\n--Est-ce là, monsieur, la vraie raison de cette visite?\n\n--Sur mon ame! dit-il en posant la main sur la poitrine, avec ce geste\nnoble, cette physionomie franche, ouverte, ce regard animé et sensible,\nqui lui avaient gagné le coeur de toute la famille de la chaumière, et\nqui, en dépit d'elle-même, gagnèrent encore la confiance d'Elinor.\n\n--Si c'est là tout, monsieur, lui dit-elle, vous pouvez être satisfait,\ncar Maria vous a pardonné depuis long-temps.\n\n--Elle m'a pardonné! s'écria-t-il avec une extrême vivacité; elle ne\ndevait pas me pardonner, non jamais, avant de savoir ce qui peut-être\nest une excuse. Mais actuellement je demande d'elle et de vous un pardon\nmieux motivé. A présent voulez-vous m'entendre?\n\nElinor fit sonner sa montre; il n'était que huit heures et un quart; il\nétait impossible que sa mère et le colonel fussent là avant dix heures.\nElle dit à Willoughby qu'elle les attendait; qu'avant tout elle voulait\naller revoir sa soeur, et que si elle la trouvait tranquille elle\nreviendrait au salon pour un quart d'heure.\n\n--Vous reviendrez, mademoiselle Dashwood, s'écria-t-il avec impétuosité,\nvous reviendrez; ou, j'en fais le serment, j'irai vous chercher auprès\ndu lit de Maria, et c'est à elle que je demanderai de m'entendre.\n\n--M. Willoughby! dit Elinor d'un ton qui le fit rentrer en lui-même.\n\n--Pardon, dit-il en baissant les yeux, ne sais-je pas que mademoiselle\nDashwood est incapable de tromper? Je vous attendrai ici, je vous le\npromets; mais aussi je n'en sortirai pas que je ne vous aie revue. Si\nvous ne revenez pas, j'attendrai votre mère, et c'est à elle que\nj'ouvrirai mon coeur; elle m'écoutera, je le sais. Excellente femme!\ncombien elle m'aimait! Des larmes remplirent ses yeux; elles achevèrent\nde subjuguer Elinor. Je reviendrai bientôt, lui dit-elle en sortant.\n\nElle courut auprès de sa soeur; elle dormait tranquillement. Betty était\nassise à côté d'elle, et lui promit de la demander à l'instant où la\nmalade se réveillerait. En repos alors sur elle, elle se pressa de\nrejoindre Willoughby pour hâter le moment de son départ. Il se promenait\nvivement et les bras croisés quand elle rentra; Comment est-elle? dit-il\nà demi-voix.\n\n--Elle repose, et me voici prête à vous entendre; mais d'un instant à\nl'autre je puis être appelée auprès d'elle, ou ma mère peut arriver; je\nvous conjure encore d'être bref.\n\n--Bref! et j'ai tant de choses à dire..... Il s'arrêta.\n\n--Eh bien, commencez donc, dit Elinor impatientée.\n\n--Je ne sais, dit-il, quelle a été complétement votre opinion sur ma\nconduite avec votre soeur, et quel diabolique motif vous avez pu me\nsupposer. Peut-être allez-vous me juger plus mal encore; mais enfin\nvous devez tout entendre, et je veux être vrai. Quand je m'introduisis\nchez vous, et j'en cherchais l'occasion qui se présenta d'elle-même, je\nn'avais d'autre vue et d'autre intention que de passer mon temps en\nDevonshire d'une manière plus agréable que dans mes précédentes visites\nà ma vieille tante. L'aimable extérieur de votre soeur, la séduction de\nson esprit, ses talens enchanteurs attirèrent sans doute mon admiration\nparticulière; et dès les premiers jours sa conduite avec moi, si tendre,\nsi confiante..... Non, je ne conçois pas à présent comment mon coeur y\nfut insensible; mais il faut que je le confesse, ma vanité seule était\nflattée d'une conquête si brillante, si fort au-dessus, à tous égards,\nde celles dont je m'étais occupé jusqu'alors. Ne songeant point à son\nbonheur, ne pensant qu'à mon triomphe et à mes plaisirs du moment, animé\npar son entretien plein de feu, je lui parlai le langage dont j'avais\nl'habitude avec les femmes; je témoignai des sentimens que je n'éprouvai\npas; je tâchai par tous les moyens possibles de me faire aimer sans\navoir le dessein de lui rendre son affection.\n\nElinor, indignée, lui jeta un regard plein de mépris, et l'interrompit\nen lui disant: Il est inutile, M. Willoughby, que vous parliez plus\nlong-temps et que je vous écoute. Un tel commencement dit tout; il ne\npeut être suivi de rien que je veuille entendre; je vous prie de me\ndispenser d'un plus long entretien.\n\n--J'insiste sur ce que vous entendiez tout, répliqua-t-il; vous savez\nmon tort, écoutez ma punition. Ma fortune était réduite à moins que\nrien; elle n'avait jamais été considérable. J'ai toujours été\ntrès-dépensier, et j'étais lié avec des gens riches que je voulais\négaler. Chaque année avait ajouté à mes dettes, et je n'avais d'autre\nespoir de m'acquitter, que la mort de ma vieille cousine, dont le moment\nétait très-incertain, ou bien un mariage avec une femme riche. Dans\ncette intention, et poussé par les conseils de quelques amis, j'avais\ndéjà fait ma cour dans ce but, l'hiver précédent, à Mlle Grey, qui\ndevait posséder 50,000 livres sterling le jour de ses noces, et m'avait\nassez bien reçu pour me laisser croire que je pouvais me présenter avec\nsuccès. Je ne pouvais donc dans de telles circonstances penser à\nassocier à mon sort une jeune personne sans fortune; mais avec un\négoïsme, une cruauté, qui ne peut jamais m'être trop reprochée, je me\nconduisais de manière à engager ses affections, sans avoir seulement la\npensée de pouvoir jamais l'épouser. Oui, mademoiselle, oui, je mérite ce\nregard indigné; je mériterais tout au monde, si je n'avais pas deux\nchoses à dire en ma faveur, qui peuvent un peu, sinon excuser, mais\npallier au moins cette indigne conduite. L'une est que je ne savais pas\nencore ce que c'était que l'amour; des galanteries banales, des\nconquêtes faciles et bientôt oubliées avaient jusqu'alors rempli ma vie.\nL'autre est le serment que je puis vous faire, et dont Maria peut vous\nconfirmer la vérité, est de n'avoir pas eu un instant la coupable\npensée de profiter de son attachement, de son inexpérience, de sa\njeunesse pour la séduire. Quand elle aurait été entourée d'anges, elle\nn'aurait pas été plus en sûreté. Son extrême sensibilité, sa franchise\nsans bornes l'entraînaient quelquefois à des imprudences; mais son\nsentiment était en même temps si pur; elle avait sur la vertu des idées\nsi exaltées, tant de vraie dignité, tant de réelle innocence, qu'il\naurait fallu être un monstre pour ne pas la respecter. Ah! c'était\nl'être assez que de sacrifier à la vanité, à l'avarice, le bonheur d'une\ncréature si parfaite! Mais ce n'est pas elle seule que j'ai sacrifiée,\npour éviter une situation bornée qui me semblait être la pauvreté, et\nqui, avec elle, aurait été le bonheur parfait. J'ai trouvé avec la\nrichesse tous les malheurs que j'ai mérités sans doute, mais qui n'en\nsont pas moins cruels, et j'ai perdu, perdu pour jamais, tout espoir\nd'être heureux avec la seule femme que j'aie aimée.\n\n--Vous l'avez donc aimée? dit Elinor un peu radoucie; il y a donc eu un\ntemps où vous lui avez été attaché? Vous voulez m'ouvrir votre coeur,\ndites-vous; parlez donc: avez-vous aimé Maria?\n\n--Si je l'ai aimée? ah, dieu! Résister à tant d'attraits, repousser une\ntelle tendresse! existe-t-il un homme au monde à qui cela fût possible?\nOui, par degrés insensibles, je me trouvai passionné d'elle, et décidé\nalors à renoncer à tout pour elle, à lui offrir mon coeur et ma main. Je\nla connaissais trop bien pour craindre que la médiocrité de ma fortune\nfût un motif de refus, même pour madame Dashwood, qui ne voyait que par\nles yeux de Maria, et qui me témoignait une amitié de mère. Résolu de\nchanger de vie, de trouver le bonheur dans l'amour et la simplicité, je\nvoulais lui proposer de nous garder auprès d'elle à la chaumière,\njusqu'à ce que la mort et l'héritage de madame Smith me missent à même\nde conduire ma compagne à Altenham, dont Maria aimait la situation, et\nqui la laissait dans le voisinage de sa famille. Oh! combien j'étais\nheureux en formant ce plan, en pensant que mon existence entière serait\nce qu'elle était depuis deux mois, un enchantement continuel au milieu\ndes quatre femmes les plus aimables en différens genres que j'eusse\nrencontrées dans cette délicieuse habitation! Vous rappelez-vous, miss\nDashwood, la dernière soirée que j'ai passée à la chaumière, quand je\nconjurai votre mère, que je regardais déjà comme la mienne, de n'y rien\nchanger? Ah! le souvenir de cette seule journée suffirait pour\nempoisonner le reste de ma vie..... Et je croyais alors que toutes mes\njournées seraient semblables à celle-là! Madame Dashwood m'invita à\ndîner pour le lendemain, et je me décidai à lui ouvrir entièrement mon\ncoeur, à ne parler de rien à Maria; j'étais si sûr de son affection!\nC'est devant elle que je voulais dire à sa mère: _Unissez vos enfans_.\nJe vous quittai plein de cette ravissante idée; je voulais en parler le\nsoir même à madame Smith, et lui demander son aveu, que j'étais sûr\nd'obtenir. Cette digne femme vous estimait sans vous connaître, et\nattachait bien plus de prix aux moeurs, à une bonne éducation, qu'à une\nbrillante fortune. Souvent, lorsque je lui parlais de votre famille, son\nregard attendri m'avait dit: Voilà où vous devriez prendre une femme. Je\nrentrai donc chez elle résolu à lui en parler le soir même. Ah, bon\ndieu! quel entretien différent eus-je avec elle! Elle avait reçu des\nlettres sans doute de quelque parent éloigné qui voulait me priver de sa\nfaveur et des preuves qu'elle m'en destinait. On lui apprenait... une\naffaire...., une liaison.... que j'avais presque oubliée moi-même. Mais\nqu'est-il besoin de m'expliquer davantage? dit-il en s'interrompant et\nrougissant beaucoup; votre intime ami vous a sans doute depuis\nlong-temps raconté cette histoire?\n\nElinor rougit aussi et endurcit de nouveau son coeur contre le\nséducteur de la pauvre Caroline. Oui, monsieur, lui dit-elle avec\nfermeté, je sais tout. Mais comment pourrez-vous vous justifier dans une\ntelle circonstance? Cela me paraît impossible.\n\n--Me justifier! s'écria-t-il vivement, je n'y songe pas même. Je vous ai\ndit quels avaient été mes principes, mes habitudes, mes liaisons avant\nque j'eusse rencontré votre soeur, et cela dit tout; j'ajouterai\nseulement que celui de qui vous tenez cette histoire, ne pouvait être\nimpartial. J'ai sans doute eu beaucoup de torts avec Caroline; mais il\nn'est pas dit cependant que parce qu'elle a été offensée elle soit\nirréprochable, et que parce que j'étais un libertin elle soit une\nsainte. La violence de ses passions et la faiblesse de son jugement\nseraient peut-être une excuse.... Mais, non, non, je n'en ai point que\nje puisse alléguer; son amour pour moi méritait un meilleur traitement.\nJe me suis bien souvent reproché de lui avoir témoigné celui que je n'ai\njamais senti, ou du moins si peu de temps, que je ne puis appeler cela\n_de l'amour_, surtout après l'avoir éprouvé dans toute sa force pour une\nfemme qui lui est, à tout égard, si supérieure.\n\n--Votre indifférence pour cette fille infortunée, quelque étrange\nqu'elle me paraisse, est un tort involontaire, reprit Elinor; mais votre\nnégligence est bien plus impardonnable. Quoiqu'il me soit désagréable\nd'entrer dans une discussion sur cet objet, permettez-moi de vous dire\nque si je vois de la faiblesse et de la crédulité de son côté, je vois\ndu vôtre une cruauté, une inhumanité bien moins excusables. Pendant que\nvous étiez en Devonshire, poursuivant de nouveaux plans, de nouvelles\namours, toujours gai, toujours heureux, votre victime était réduite à la\nplus extrême indigence, à la honte, au désespoir, à l'abandon.\n\n--Sur mon ame! je l'ignorais. J'avais pourvu à tout en la quittant; je\nne lui avais point caché que je ne comptais pas la rejoindre; je lui\navais conseillé de recourir au pardon de son protecteur. Tout pouvait\nêtre caché ou réparé, si elle avait suivi mes avis. Je croyais qu'elle\nétait rentrée dans sa pension ou dans une autre, et je ne songeais plus\nà elle, quand elle fut tout à coup rappelée à mon souvenir d'une manière\naussi terrible! Je trouvai madame Smith au comble de l'indignation, et\nma confusion fut extrême. La pureté de sa vie, son ignorance complète du\nmonde, ses idées religieuses et morales très-exaltées, tout fut contre\nmoi. Elle m'accabla du poids de sa colère, mais cependant m'offrit son\npardon, si je voulais épouser Caroline. Cela ne se pouvait; je ne le\nvoulus pas, et je fus formellement rejeté de toute prétention sur\nl'amitié et la fortune de ma parente, et banni de sa maison que je\ndevais quitter le lendemain. Je rentrai dans ma chambre pour faire mon\npaquet, et je trouvai sur ma table une lettre du colonel Brandon qui me\nreprochait le déshonneur de sa pupille, et me donnait rendez-vous à\nLondres, pour lui rendre raison de ma conduite. Etais-je assez puni de\nce que les jeunes gens appelent _un passe-temps, une légèreté_? la\nperte de ma fortune et de toutes mes espérances de bonheur, et peut-être\ncelle de ma vie! Quelle nuit je passai!.... Mais à quoi servaient les\ncombats, les réflexions? tout était fini pour moi. Je ne pouvais plus\noffrir à madame Dashwood un fils, et à Maria un époux; je n'avais plus\nde ressources ni pour le présent, ni pour l'avenir, et j'étais rejeté\npour un genre de tort qui ne pouvait que les blesser vivement et me\nfaire repousser aussi d'elles. Ah! combien je désirais alors que la\nvengeance du colonel fût complète! avec quel plaisir, quel empressement\nj'allai au-devant de la mort, que j'espérais recevoir de sa main! Je\ncraignais bien davantage la scène qui m'attendait encore avant de\nquitter pour jamais le Devonshire en prenant congé de Maria. J'étais\nengagé à dîner chez vous; il fallait aller m'excuser; il fallait revoir\ncelle que j'allais quitter pour toujours et laisser si malheureuse!\n\n--Pourquoi la voir, M. Willoughby? Pourquoi ne pas écrire un mot\nd'excuse? Qu'était-il nécessaire de venir vous-même? s'écria Elinor.\n\n--C'était nécessaire à mon orgueil et à mon amour. Je ne voulais pas\nlaisser soupçonner à personne ce qui s'était passé entre madame Smith et\nmoi, et je voulais voir encore une fois, avant de mourir, celle que\nj'idolâtrais de toute la force de mon ame; je ne croyais pas d'ailleurs\nla trouver seule. Je voulais encore une fois être au milieu de cette\nfamille que la veille encore je regardais déjà comme la mienne. Oh!\nquand je me rappelais avec quelles délices j'étais revenu de la\nchaumière à Altenham, satisfait de moi-même, content de tout le monde,\nenchanté de Maria, ne songeant pas plus au passé que si jamais il n'eût\nexisté, ne vivant que dans l'avenir, me disant: Quelques heures encore,\net je vais être engagé pour la vie avec celle que j'aime si\nardemment!...... Ces heures étaient écoulées, et il fallait au contraire\nnous séparer pour jamais! Je rassemblai toute ma fermeté pour le cacher;\nmais quand je la trouvai seule, quand je vis son profond chagrin pour ce\nqu'elle croyait une courte absence, et ce chagrin uni à tant de\nconfiance en moi, ah! dieu! dieu! puis-je jamais l'oublier?\n\n--Lui promîtes-vous de revenir bientôt?--Je ne sais ce que je lui dis,\nje ne puis m'en rappeler un seul mot. Votre mère vint aussi ajouter à\nmon supplice par son amitié. Ah! combien j'étais malheureux! et j'en\nremerciais le ciel. Ma seule consolation était ma propre misère; mais\ncelle de Maria, elle m'était insupportable! Je m'en arrachai, je partis,\net.... Il s'arrêta.\n\n--Est-ce tout, monsieur? dit Elinor qui, tout en le plaignant,\ns'impatientait de ce qu'il ne partît pas.\n\n--Oui, tout, si vous voulez. Mais ne désirez-vous pas savoir comment\nj'ai pu devenir plus coupable et plus malheureux encore? En peu de mots:\nje rencontrai le colonel; je fus blessé, mais non pas mortellement.\nPendant que j'étais dans ma chambre, livré à mes tristes réflexions, ne\nvoyant devant moi que l'indigence la plus entière, un de mes amis me\nparla des bonnes dispositions de miss Sophie Grey pour moi; il m'assura\nque sa belle fortune de 50,000 liv. sterling serait à moi dès que je\nvoudrais dire un mot. Ma blessure m'avait un peu calmé. J'avais réfléchi\nsur ma situation; je ne pouvais la faire partager à Maria; je ne\nl'aurais pas même voulu, non plus que sa famille. Il fallait donc tâcher\nde l'oublier, et de m'en faire oublier. J'allais jusqu'à trouver de la\ngénérosité dans tout ce que je faisais pour y parvenir. Je laissai faire\nmon ami. Dès que je fus rétabli, il me mena chez miss Sophie Grey. Elle\nvoulait se marier, et avec un homme à la mode, avec un élégant; c'était\ntout ce qu'elle demandait. Moi, je ne voulais que son argent; et nous\nfûmes bientôt d'accord. Maria, pensais-je, n'entendra plus parler de\nmoi que pour apprendre que je suis marié; sa fierté s'indignera, elle me\ndétestera, puis elle m'oubliera, et je serai seul malheureux; mais au\nmoins j'aurai les distractions et les jouissances de la fortune...;\nlorsqu'une lettre de Maria, datée de Londres, m'apprend qu'elle y est,\nqu'elle m'aime encore avec la même tendresse, et n'a pas même l'ombre\nd'un doute. Non, tout ce que j'éprouvai ne peut être exprimé! Sans\naucune métaphore, chaque ligne, chaque mot de ce billet fut pour moi un\ncoup de poignard. Savoir Maria si près de moi; être sûr que j'en étais\naimé! ah! je n'avais pas non plus l'ombre d'un doute. Son coeur, ses\nopinions, son ame m'étaient trop bien connus et m'étaient encore trop\nchers. Mon amour, qui était à peine assoupi, se ranima avec plus de\nforce: et j'étais engagé avec une autre! et quelle autre, bon dieu! D'un\ncôté, frivolité, insensibilité, coquetterie, jalousie; de l'autre,\ngrandeur d'ame, tendresse inépuisable, sensibilité profonde, confiance\nillimitée, esprit supérieur. Dieu! qu'ai-je laissé échapper, et qu'ai-je\ntrouvé en échange! Mais Maria méritait mieux qu'un dissipateur, qu'un\nlibertin. Elle m'aurait corrigé de tout; je serais devenu digne d'elle.\nA présent, quel encouragement, quel exemple ai-je pour devenir vertueux?\nO rage! ô désespoir! Il se leva et se promena violemment le poing serré\nsur son front.\n\nLe coeur d'Elinor avait éprouvé plusieurs fluctuations pendant cet\nextraordinaire entretien. Elle était actuellement touchée, attendrie\nsur le sort de cet homme, que la nature avait créé pour le bonheur et\nqui l'avait rejeté loin de lui. Mais elle crut qu'elle devait lui cacher\nsa compassion.--Tout ce que vous venez de dire là est de trop, M.\nWilloughby; je n'ai pas de temps à perdre, vous le savez, lui dit-elle.\nJe vous prie donc de résumer ce que vous sentez en votre conscience,\nqu'il est nécessaire que j'apprenne, et rien de plus. (Il se rassit.)\n\n--J'ai fini dans deux minutes, reprit-il. Le billet de Maria me rendit\ndonc le plus infortuné des hommes, en me prouvant son amour et en\nréveillant tout le mien. Je m'étais persuadé qu'elle m'avait oublié;\nj'espérais même apprendre bientôt qu'elle était bien mariée. Je ne\nvoyais plus devant elle et moi que malheur et désespoir. Mais que\npouvais-je faire? Tout était arrangé pour mon mariage; le contrat passé,\nles dispenses obtenues, le jour fixé. La retraite était impossible. Tout\nce qui me restait à faire était de vous éviter toutes deux; d'essayer de\nréparer un peu mes torts en les augmentant, et de prendre plus de peine\npour me faire haïr que je n'en avais pris pour me faire aimer. Je ne\nrépondis point au billet de Maria; je ne parus point chez elle.\nCependant un jour où je vous avais vues sortir toutes les trois de la\nmaison, je me décidai d'y porter ma carte pour agir plus naturellement.\n\n--Vous nous aviez vues! où? comment?\n\n--Tous les jours, et, souvent plus d'une fois par jour, je voyais au\nmoins l'une de vous. Vous seriez surprise si je vous disais tous les\nmoyens que j'employais pour cela, et combien de fois j'ai failli être\ndécouvert par les beaux yeux de Maria, qui me cherchaient sans cesse:\nmon refuge était une boutique, une allée; mais me passer de voir Maria,\nnon, c'était impossible! Et cependant j'aurais fui au bout du monde pour\nqu'elle ne me vît pas; il ne fallait pas moins que mon étude continuelle\npour l'empêcher. Je n'eus garde de me trouver au bal de sir Georges, et\nle matin suivant je reçus un second billet de Maria. Non, vous ne pouvez\nvous faire une idée de sa bonté, de sa tendresse! si affectionnée, si\nfranche, si confiante! Ah! comme je me détestais moi-même, comme vous me\ndétesteriez plus encore si vous l'aviez lu!\n\n--Je l'ai lu, monsieur; Maria ne m'a rien caché.\n\n--Vous avez donc vu aussi cette infâme, cette détestable lettre qu'elle\nne doit jamais me pardonner, non jamais jusqu'à ce qu'elle sache.....\nJ'en reviens à la sienne; j'essayais d'y répondre, je ne le pus, mon\ncourage m'abandonna. Mademoiselle Dashwood, ne me refusez pas votre\npitié; avec la tête et le coeur pleins de votre soeur, à qui je pensais\nsans cesse, je devais faire ma cour à une autre femme, paraître\nempressé, paraître heureux! Ce ne fut pas tout encore. Vous vous\nrappelez cette maudite assemblée où nous nous rencontrâmes? non,\nl'agonie n'est rien auprès de ce que je souffrais. D'un côté, Maria,\nbelle comme tous les anges, appelant son Willoughby, me tendant la main,\nme demandant une explication avec son regard enchanteur attaché sur\nmoi; de l'autre côté, Sophie jalouse comme le diable, regardant tout\navec une audacieuse curiosité, m'appelant d'un ton impératif. J'étais en\nenfer et je m'échappai aussitôt qu'il me fût possible, mais non pas sans\navoir vu la pâleur de la mort sur le visage céleste de Maria. Ce fut le\ndernier regard que je jetai sur elle; je ne l'ai plus revue que dans ma\npensée, où toujours elle se présente ainsi. Non, Elinor, quand vous\nl'avez vue mourante, elle n'a pu vous faire plus d'impression; mais vous\nme jurez qu'elle est mieux, qu'elle est hors de danger.\n\n--Je l'espère.\n\n--Et votre pauvre mère qui l'idolâtre, elle ne lui aurait pas survécu\nnon plus. Adieu, je pars: dites-moi seulement que je vous suis moins\nodieux, que vous le direz à Maria.\n\n--Et cette lettre, monsieur, qui faillit aussi lui ôter la vie, cette\nlettre que vous eûtes la barbarie de lui envoyer en réponse à sa\ndernière, comment pouvez-vous la justifier?\n\n--Par un seul mot que je répugnais à dire...... Elle n'est pas de moi.\nQu'est-ce que vous pensez du style de ma femme? n'est-il pas délicat,\ntendre? n'est-il pas......?\n\n--De votre femme! C'était votre écriture.\n\n--Oui, j'eus l'indigne faiblesse de la copier. Il faut en finir, me\ndit-elle, avec Maria ou avec moi: choisissez. Le choix ne m'était plus\npermis; sa fortune était nécessaire à mon honneur, à mes engagemens; et\nvoilà où une indigne prodigalité m'avait conduit! Pour éviter une\nrupture il fallut en passer par où elle voulait; copier sous ses yeux\ncette lettre où je rougissais de mettre mon nom; me séparer des billets,\nde la boucle de cheveux de Maria. Le porte-feuille qui les renfermait\ndut être livré à Sophie, et mes trésors renvoyés comme vous l'avez vu,\nsans pouvoir seulement les couvrir de mes baisers et de mes larmes.\nMalheureusement la dernière lettre de Maria me fut remise chez miss\nGrey, pendant que je déjeunais avec elle; la forme, l'élégance du\npapier, l'écriture réveillèrent ses soupçons déjà excités par la scène\nde l'assemblée. C'est de votre beauté campagnarde, me dit-elle; voyons\nson style. Elle l'ouvrit, la lut, fit la réponse, m'obligea de la\ncopier, de lui livrer ce que j'avais de Maria; et j'obéis dans une\nespèce de désespoir qui me faisait trouver une sorte de plaisir à me\nruiner tout-à-fait dans l'opinion de cet ange, que rien n'avait pu\ndétacher de moi, et qui allait enfin me repousser entièrement de son\ncoeur et de sa pensée. Mon sort était décidé; tout le reste me parut\nindifférent. Je fus bien aise qu'on m'eût dicté ce que je n'aurais\njamais pu dire de moi-même, et d'avoir une raison de plus de mépriser,\nde haïr, celle.....\n\n--Arrêtez, M. Willoughby, dit Elinor, c'en est assez; je n'entendrai pas\nun mot de plus contre une femme qui est la vôtre, que vous avez choisie\nvolontairement, à qui vous devez votre bien-être, votre fortune, et qui\nau moins a droit, en échange, à vos égards, à votre respect. Sans doute\nelle vous est attachée, puisqu'elle vous a épousé; parler d'elle avec\ncette légèreté, vous rend très-blâmable et ne vous justifie de rien avec\nMaria.\n\n--Ne me parlez pas de madame Willoughby, reprit-il avec un profond\nsoupir; elle ne mérite pas votre compassion. Elle savait fort bien que\nje ne l'aimais pas; si elle a voulu m'épouser, c'est qu'elle savait\naussi que mes folies de jeunesse m'avaient mis dans l'affreuse\ndépendance de mes créanciers, et qu'elle voulait un mari qui fût dans la\nsienne, et qui cependant, à quelques égards, pût flatter sa vanité: elle\na cru trouver cela réuni chez moi, et me fait payer bien cher son maudit\nargent. A présent, me plaignez-vous, mademoiselle Dashwood? Suis-je\nd'un degré moins coupable à vos yeux que je ne l'étais avant cette\nexplication? Voilà, ce que je vous conjure de me dire.\n\n--Oui, monsieur, je l'avoue; vous avez certainement un peu changé mon\nopinion sur vous, et je vous trouve moins coupable que je ne le croyais,\nquoique vous le soyez beaucoup encore, mais plus par la tête que par le\ncoeur, le vôtre n'est pas méchant, et vous vous êtes rendu trop\nmalheureux vous-même pour qu'on puisse vous haïr.\n\n--Voulez-vous donc me promettre de répéter ce que vous venez de me dire\nà votre soeur, quand elle pourra vous entendre? Rétablissez-moi dans son\nopinion comme je le suis dans la vôtre. Vous dites qu'elle m'a déjà\npardonné; laissez-moi me flatter qu'une meilleure connaissance de mon\ncoeur, de mes sentimens actuels, me vaudra de sa part un pardon plus\nentier et mieux mérité. Dites-lui ma misère et ma pénitence; dites-lui\nque jamais je n'ai été inconstant pour elle; et si vous le voulez,\ndites-lui que, dans ce moment même, elle m'est plus chère que jamais.\n\n--Je lui dirai, monsieur, tout ce qui sera nécessaire pour calmer son\ncoeur et vous justifier sur quelques points. Puisse cette assurance\nadoucir vos peines! D'ailleurs je crois que cela dépend aussi de vous.\nAdieu, monsieur, la soirée s'avance, et cet entretien s'est trop\nprolongé. Un mot encore cependant avant de nous séparer: comment\navez-vous appris a maladie de ma soeur?\n\n--De sir Georges Middleton, que je rencontrai par hasard hier au soir\ndans le passage de Drury-lane. C'est la première fois que je le voyais\ndepuis deux mois; je mettais du soin à éviter tout ce qui pouvait me\nrappeler le nom de _Dashwood_; et lui, plein de ressentiment contre moi\ndepuis mon mariage, ne me cherchait pas non plus. Cette fois il ne put\nrésister à la tentation de m'aborder, pour me dire ce qu'il croyait\ndevoir me faire beaucoup de peine. Sa première parole fut de m'apprendre\nbrusquement que Maria Dashwood était mourante à Cleveland, d'une fièvre\nnerveuse et putride; qu'une lettre de madame Jennings, reçue ce même\nmatin, disait le danger imminent; que les Palmer avaient fui la\ncontagion. Grand Dieu! quelle accablante nouvelle! J'ignorais même\nvotre séjour à Cleveland, et je vous croyais à la Chaumière auprès de\nvotre mère. Madame Willoughby eut le caprice, il y a dix jours, je\ncrois, d'aller à Haute-Combe voir le printemps et les arbres en fleurs;\nil fallut l'emmener à l'instant. A peine y fut-elle, que sans regarder\nune feuille elle se rappela que le lendemain était le jour d'assemblée\nde lady Sauderson; et vite il fallut retourner à Londres. Qui m'aurait\ndit, grand Dieu! que je passais si près de Maria; de celle dont j'étais\ntellement occupé que mon imagination croyait la voir partout? En passant\ndans le chemin sous le temple, je crus voir de loin sa grâcieuse figure\nappuyée contre une des colonnes; mais cette illusion s'évanouit bientôt,\nelle disparut comme l'éclair; et ce n'était pas elle, puisque déjà elle\nétait bien malade. Elinor, très-étonnée, se fit dire le jour, l'heure,\net tout fut expliqué, et l'évanouissement trop réel de Maria, et ses\nlarmes, et ses propos incohérens; mais elle se garda bien de donner à\nWilloughby cette preuve de plus de la faiblesse de sa soeur.\n\n--Ce que je ressentis ne peut s'exprimer, continua-t-il avec feu. Maria\nmourante, et peut-être des peines déchirantes que je lui avais causées,\nme haïssant, me méprisant dans ses derniers momens; maudit par sa mère,\npar ses soeurs: ah! ma situation était horrible! Je ne pus la supporter;\nje me décidai à partir, et, à cinq heures du matin, j'étais dans mon\ncarrosse. A présent vous savez tout. Il prit son chapeau, et\ns'approchant d'elle: Ne voulez vous pas, dit-il, me donner votre main,\nmademoiselle Dashwood, en signe de paix et de non malveillance? Elle ne\nput y résister, et posa sa main sur la sienne; il la pressa avec\naffection.--Allez-vous à Londres? lui dit-elle.--Non, répondit-il, à\nHaute-Combe pour quelques jours, et il retomba dans une sombre rêverie,\net s'appuya contre la cheminée, semblant oublier qu'il devait\npartir.--Vous ne me haïssez plus, n'est-ce pas? dit-il enfin; vous ne me\nméprisez plus?......--Je vous plains du fond de mon coeur, M. Willoughby\net je vous pardonne; je m'intéresse à votre, bonheur, et je voudrais\napprendre que.....\n\n--Mon bonheur! interrompit-il, il ne peut plus y en avoir pour moi dans\nce monde! Je traînerai ma vie comme je le pourrai; la paix domestique\nest impossible avec ma femme. Si cependant je puis espérer que vous et\nles vôtres prendrez quelque intérêt à mes actions, ce sera du moins un\nmotif d'être sur mes gardes....... Maria est à jamais perdue pour moi,\nn'est-ce pas? même quand quelques heureuses chances de liberté......\n\nElinor lui lança un regard plein de reproches.--Je me tais, dit-il, et\nje pars moins malheureux que lorsque je suis arrivé; elle vivra du\nmoins! Mais un affreux événement m'attend encore.\n\n--Quel événement? que voulez-vous dire?\n\n--Le mariage de votre soeur.\n\n--Vous êtes dans l'erreur; elle ne peut pas être plus perdue pour vous\nqu'elle ne l'est actuellement.\n\n--Mais un autre la possédera, et je ne puis supporter cette pensée.\nAdieu, adieu, je ne veux pas vous arrêter plus long-temps, et diminuer\npeut-être l'intérêt que j'ai réveillé. Au nom du ciel! conservez-le moi!\nAdieu, adieu, puissiez-vous être heureuses!..... Il quitta rapidement la\nchambre, et l'instant d'après Elinor entendit le roulement de son\ncarrosse.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XLVII.\n\n\nElinor resta encore quelques momens au salon après que Willoughby l'eut\nquittée, oppressée par une foule d'idées différentes les unes des\nautres, qui se succédaient rapidement, mais dont le résultat général\nétait une profonde tristesse. Ce Willoughby qu'elle regardait, il n'y\navait pas une heure, comme le plus indigne des hommes, qu'elle\nabhorrait, qu'elle méprisait, excitait en elle, en dépit de tous ses\ntorts, un degré de commisération, d'intérêt même pour ses souffrances,\nqui allait dans ces premiers momens jusqu'à lui faire éprouver une\nespèce de tendre regret de ce qu'il était actuellement séparé pour\ntoujours de leur famille, et que sans doute elle ne le reverrait plus.\nSurprise elle-même de l'influence qu'il exerçait sur son esprit, elle\nvoulut l'analyser, et trouva que c'était un sentiment tout-à-fait\ninvolontaire, qui tenait à des circonstances indépendantes de son\nmérite, et qui se trouvaient avoir peu de poids au tribunal de la\nraison: c'étaient d'abord les attraits de son charmant extérieur, de\ncette physionomie agréable, aimable, de sa manière franche,\naffectionnée, animée; et il n'y avait nul mérite à lui d'être ainsi:\nc'était ensuite son ardent amour pour Maria; mais cet amour n'était plus\ninnocent et devenait un tort de plus. Elle se disait tout cela, sans que\nl'intérêt qu'il venait de lui inspirer fût diminué le moins du monde;\nelle réfléchissait douloureusement au tort irréparable que ce jeune\nhomme s'était fait à lui-même, par l'habitude de l'indépendance, de la\nparesse, de la dissipation. La nature avait tout fait pour lui; elle lui\navait donné tous les avantages personnels, tous les talens, une\ndisposition à la franchise, à l'honnêteté, un coeur sensible; et le\nmonde et les mauvais exemples avaient tout corrompu. Chaque faute, en\naugmentant le mal, avait reçu sa punition au moment même. La vanité qui\nlui avait fait rechercher un coupable triomphe aux dépens du bonheur de\nMaria, l'avait entraîné dans un attachement réel et profond, que ses\ntorts précédens l'avaient obligé de sacrifier; son libertinage avec\nCaroline l'avait privé de sa seule ressource de fortune; son mariage,\nqui avait déchiré si cruellement le coeur de Maria, était pour lui une\nsource de malheurs qui ne lui laissait plus d'espoir. Il résulta de ce\ntableau que son intérêt augmenta pour un coupable déjà trop puni, sans\nl'être encore par la haine de ceux qu'il aimait si tendrement: aussi son\ncoeur n'en éprouva plus pour lui.\n\nElle alla auprès de sa soeur. Celle-ci venait de se réveiller d'un doux\net long sommeil, qui confirma toutes ses espérances. Elinor s'assit à\ncôté d'elle, en silence. Son coeur était plein. Le passé, le présent,\nl'avenir, la visite de Willoughby, l'attente de sa mère, tout ensemble\nlui donnait une telle agitation, que son pouls était sûrement plus élevé\nque celui de la malade, et qu'elle craignait de se trahir si elle avait\ndit un seul mot. Heureusement que cette crainte ne fut pas longue. A\npeine une demi-heure s'était écoulée depuis le départ de Willoughby, que\nle roulement d'un autre carrosse lui annonça l'arrivée des voyageurs.\nElle vola au bas de l'escalier, heureuse de revoir sa mère et de pouvoir\nla rassurer. Elle arriva à la porte de la maison au moment où madame\nDashwood y entrait; elle la reçut dans ses bras, et sa première parole,\nen serrant cette bonne mère sur son coeur, fut celle-ci: Elle est\nsauvée! elle est bien, aussi bien qu'elle puisse être. Madame Dashwood\ns'était sentie si émue en approchant de la maison, qu'elle avait cru que\nc'était un pressentiment qu'elle ne retrouverait plus sa fille chérie.\nLe passage subit de cette affreuse crainte à l'heureuse nouvelle qu'elle\nétait hors de danger; fut trop rapide pour ses sens; elle tomba dans\nune demi-faiblesse sur l'épaule d'Elinor. Elle et leur ami la soutinrent\net la portèrent jusqu'au salon. Là, assise à côté de sa fille aînée,\nelle retrouva ses sens; mais incapable de parler, elle versa des torrens\nde larmes, embrassa plusieurs fois son Elinor, se tournait par\nintervalles vers le colonel Brandon, pressait sa main avec un regard qui\nlui disait son bonheur, sa reconnaissance, et sa certitude qu'il\npartageait tout ce qu'elle éprouvait. Ah! sans doute il le partageait!\nIl ne parlait pas non plus, il ne l'aurait pas pu; mais tout en lui\nexprimait la joie la plus vive.\n\nDès que madame Dashwood put se soutenir, son premier désir fut de revoir\nMaria. Elinor demanda seulement la permission de l'annoncer sans autre\npréparation. Maria était assez bien pour n'en avoir pas besoin; et, deux\nminutes après, la plus tendre des mères était assise sur le lit de son\nenfant bien-aimée, rendue plus chère encore par son absence, son malheur\net son danger. Elinor jouissait avec délices de leur bonheur mutuel;\nmais en bonne et sévère garde, elle conjura Maria de se calmer, et sa\nmère de ne pas trop exciter sa sensibilité. Madame Dashwood pouvait être\ncalme et prudente, quand il s'agissait de la vie de l'une de ses enfans,\net Maria, contente de savoir sa mère auprès d'elle, se sentant elle-même\ntrop faible pour parler, se soumit au silence prescrit par ses bonnes\ngardes. Madame Dashwood voulut absolument passer cette nuit à côté\nd'elle; et Elinor, qui ne s'était pas couchée les deux dernières nuits,\nconsentit à obéir à sa maman et à se mettre au lit. Elle s'y reposa\nphysiquement, mais ne dormit point; ses esprits étaient trop agités.\nWilloughby, le _pauvre Willoughby_! comme elle se permettait de\nl'appeler, était constamment présent à sa pensée; elle n'aurait pas\nvoulu, pour le monde, avoir refusé d'entendre sa demi-justification.\nTantôt elle se blâmait de l'avoir jugé trop sévèrement, et quelquefois\ns'accusait d'être à présent trop indulgente. Mais sa promesse de le\njustifier auprès de Maria, était invariablement pénible. Elle redoutait\nle moment où Maria apprendrait qu'il était moins coupable, et craignait\nque peut-être cet amour si passionné ne se ranimât avec plus de force.\nElle doutait du moins qu'après cette explication, sa soeur pût jamais\nêtre heureuse avec un autre homme, et se surprenait alors à désirer que\nWilloughby redevînt libre.... Mais elle se rappelait aussi le bon,\nl'excellent colonel Brandon, et sentait ses souffrances plus que celles\nde son rival. La main de Maria devait être sa récompense. Elle savait, à\nn'en pas douter, qu'il serait pour elle le meilleur et le plus tendre\ndes maris, et désirait alors tout autre chose que la mort de madame\nWilloughby.\n\nAu moment où le colonel était arrivé à Barton-Chaumière, il avait trouvé\nmadame Dashwood prête à partir. Elle ne pouvait supporter plus\nlong-temps son inquiétude, et s'était décidée d'aller à Cleveland avec\nsa femme de chambre. Elle n'attendait que l'arrivée de madame Carrey,\nune de ses connaissances d'Exceter, qui voulait bien se charger d'Emma\npendant son absence, sa mère n'osant pas la mener avec elle à cause de\nla contagion. Mais l'arrivée du colonel et la lettre d'Elinor, en\nredoublant ses alarmes, la déterminèrent à partir tout de suite. Elle\nlaissa Emma à sa femme de chambre de confiance, qui devait la remettre\nle lendemain à madame Carrey, et se mit en route avec le colonel. La\nbonne madame Jennings fut enchantée de la trouver là à son lever, et la\ncombla de soins et d'amitiés. Elle voulait lui conter tous les détails\nde la maladie de Maria, s'interrompait pour la conjurer d'aller se\ncoucher, pour recommander à Betty d'en avoir soin, etc. etc. etc.\n\nMaria continua de jour en jour à se trouver mieux, et avec sa santé\nrevint aussi graduellement la brillante gaieté de madame Dashwood, et\ntout le feu de son imagination. Elle disait et répétait souvent qu'elle\nétait à présent la plus heureuse femme qu'il y eût au monde. Elinor ne\nput s'empêcher d'être intérieurement un peu surprise que sa mère ne\nregrettât point Edward, et ne parût pas même se le rappeler. Elinor lui\navait écrit tout ce qui s'était passé, sans même lui cacher son chagrin\nde la perte de cet ami, dont elle se croyait si sûre; mais elle en\nparlait avec la raison et la mesure qu'elle mettait à tout, et madame\nDashwood la prit au pied de la lettre, et jugea qu'elle n'était pas très\naffligée d'un événement dont elle parlait avec autant de calme. La\nmaladie de sa fille favorite vint ensuite l'occuper exclusivement. Tout\nautre malheur ne lui parut rien auprès de celui de la perdre, et d'avoir\nà se reprocher d'en être la cause, en ayant encouragé son malheureux\nattachement pour Willoughby. Aussi le bonheur de son rétablissement\neffaçait toute autre pensée. Elle avait de plus un grand sujet de joie,\ndont Elinor ne se doutait pas, et qu'elle lui apprit au premier moment\noù elles se trouvèrent en tête à tête.\n\n--Enfin nous voilà seules, mon Elinor, et je puis vous parler de mon\nbonheur! Le colonel Brandon aime Maria, il me l'a dit lui-même.\n\nElinor garda le silence. Elle éprouvait à la fois plaisir et peine. Elle\nn'était pas surprise de la chose qu'elle savait depuis long-temps; mais\nelle l'était du moment que le colonel avait choisi pour cet aveu.\n\n--Si je ne savais pas, chère Elinor, que nous voyons rarement de même,\nje m'étonnerais du calme avec lequel vous m'écoutez. Quant à moi, cet\nattachement me transporte de joie! Le plus grand bonheur que j'aurais pu\ndésirer dans ma famille, c'eût été que le colonel Brandon épousât l'une\nde mes filles. Je crois par conséquent, qu'avec ce digne homme Maria\nsera la plus heureuse des femmes. Je désire votre bonheur autant que le\nsien, mon Elinor; mais le colonel lui convient beaucoup plus qu'à vous.\n\nElinor fut sur le point de demander raison à sa mère de cette singulière\nfaçon de penser. La différence d'âge était plus grande; leurs\ncaractères, leurs sentimens n'avaient aucun rapport. Mais elle-même\nétait charmée que madame Dashwood ne vît pas ces obstacles; elle savait\nque son imagination l'entraînait toujours à ne considérer que les beaux\ncôtés de ce qu'elle désirait. Elle se contenta donc de sourire. Madame\nDashwood n'y vit qu'une approbation et continua son intéressante\nconfidence.\n\nIl m'a ouvert entièrement, dit-elle, son coeur pendant notre voyage. Cet\naveu n'était ni prémédité, ni prévu d'avance; il échappa à un coeur trop\nplein de sa passion pour pouvoir la dissimuler. De mon côté, comme vous\npouvez le croire, je ne parlais toujours que de mon pauvre enfant que je\nvoyais sans espérance. Il ne pouvait me cacher son inquiétude qui, je le\nvis bien, égalait la mienne. Je le lui dis; et pensant que la simple\namitié ne pouvait pas faire naître une aussi vive sympathie, je\nprononçai le mot _amour_. Quand vous auriez, lui dis-je, l'amour le plus\npassionné pour ma pauvre fille, vous ne seriez pas plus affligé. Alors,\nElinor, il ne put se contenir, et me fit connaître en entier son\nsentiment pour Maria, si tendre, si vif, si constant. Il l'a aimée, mon\nElinor, dès le premier instant où il l'a vue. Oh! si vous l'aviez\nentendu me peindre la force de cette impression, vous en auriez aussi\nété touchée!\n\nElinor sourit encore en baisant la main de sa mère; elle ne\nreconnaissait dans cette description romanesque de l'amour du colonel,\nni son langage, ni sa manière, mais bien les embellissemens de l'active\nimagination de madame Dashwood, qui colorait tous les objets pour elle.\nSon attachement pour Maria, continua-t-elle, surpasse infiniment tout\nce que jamais Willoughby a senti ou feint de sentir: il est plus ardent,\nplus sincère, plus constant; il a subsisté dans toute sa force, malgré\nla malheureuse passion de Maria pour cet indigne jeune homme, sans le\nmoindre égoïsme, sans le moindre espoir. Tous les désirs du colonel se\nbornaient à la voir heureuse, même avec un autre. Que de noblesse! que\nde délicatesse! que de sincérité! Ah! non, lui n'est pas un trompeur:\nses paroles sont la vérité même.\n\n--Le caractère du colonel Brandon, dit Elinor, est généralement connu et\nestimé; c'est un excellent homme.\n\n--Je le sais, reprit madame Dashwood, très sérieusement, et cela\nm'aurait suffi pour encourager son affection, pour en être charmée.\nMais ce qu'il vient de faire, cet empressement de venir me chercher,\nl'amitié qu'il m'a témoignée, la confiance qu'il a eue en moi, sont\nassez pour me prouver qu'il est le meilleur des hommes.\n\n--Ce n'est pas seulement, chère maman, cet acte de bonté, où la simple\nhumanité et son attachement pour Maria devaient le porter naturellement,\nqui doit décider de son caractère; mais ses anciens amis, madame\nJennings, les Middleton, les Palmer l'aiment et le respectent également;\net moi-même, quoique je le connaisse depuis moins de temps, j'ai une si\nhaute opinion de lui, que si Maria peut être heureuse avec lui, je pense\ncomme vous que ce serait le plus grand des bonheurs pour nous. Quelle\nréponse avez-vous faite? Lui avez-vous donné quelque espoir?\n\n--Oh! ma chère enfant! Je ne pouvais pas alors prononcer ce mot; je\ncroyais Maria mourante. Lui-même n'osait demander ni espoir, ni\nencouragement. Ce n'était pas une demande de ma fille, mais une\nconfidence involontaire, une effusion de douleur et de sympathie. Nous\npleurâmes ensemble: je lui dis que son sentiment ajouterait à mon\nmalheur, si j'étais destinée à celui de perdre ma fille; que je la\nregretterais pour lui et pour moi. Je ne savais d'abord ce que je\ndisais; tant d'affliction! tant de surprise! J'étais tout-à-fait\ntroublée; mais après quelque temps je lui dis que si Maria vivait, ce\nque j'osais encore espérer, le plus grand bonheur de ma vie serait de\nla lui donner; et depuis notre arrivée, depuis que nous avons repris une\ndélicieuse sécurité, je l'ai répété plus clairement, et je lui ai donné\ntous les encouragemens qui étaient en mon pouvoir. Le temps, et il ne\nsera pas long, ai-je dit, amènera tout à bien. Le coeur de Maria ne peut\npas appartenir long-temps à un homme tel que Willoughby; et votre propre\nmérite doit vous rassurer.\n\n--Assurément il doit être tranquille sur vos intentions, dit Elinor;\nmais cependant il ne me paraît pas content comme il devrait l'être.\n\n--Non!..... Il est si modeste; il a tant de défiance de lui-même! reprit\nmadame Dashwood. Il croit que Maria est engagée trop profondément pour\nretrouver, de bien long-temps, la liberté de faire un autre choix, et\nmême, dans ce cas, il ne peut s'imaginer que ce serait lui. Il parle de\nla différence de leurs âges et de leurs dispositions. Mais il se trompe\ntout-à-fait. Son âge est précisément celui qui convient à un mari qui\ndoit être le guide et le protecteur de sa compagne. Son caractère, ses\nprincipes sont fixés; il n'y a aucun changement à craindre, et quant à\nses dispositions, elles sont précisément celles qui peuvent rendre votre\nsoeur heureuse. Il calmera son imagination, quelquefois trop ardente; il\nrétablira la paix dans son coeur. Ses manières, sa personne, tout est en\nsa faveur. Ma partialité pour lui ne m'aveugle point. Il n'est\ncertainement pas aussi beau que Willoughby; mais, à mon avis, il a\nquelque chose de plus agréable, de plus franc, de plus mâle. Ne vous\nrappelez-vous pas qu'il y avait quelque chose dans les yeux de\nWilloughby que je n'aimais point?\n\nElinor ne put se le rappeler. Mme Dashwood oubliait qu'elle avait dit\nsouvent devant Maria, que Willoughby avait dans le regard quelque chose\nd'irrésistible. Elle ne le dit pas à sa mère, qui continua: et, quant à\nses manières, vous ne me nierez pas, Elinor, qu'elles ne soient beaucoup\nplus faites pour attacher Maria. Cette simplicité naturelle, ce fonds de\nbonnes études, et même cette espèce de mélancolie dans ses propos, dans\nson attitude, s'accordent beaucoup mieux avec les dispositions réelles\nde votre soeur, que la vivacité, la gaieté souvent assez mal placée de\nWilloughby. Je suis persuadée à présent que si Willoughby avait été\nconstant et qu'il eût épousé Maria elle n'aurait jamais été aussi\nheureuse avec lui qu'avec le colonel Brandon. Elle s'arrêta. Elinor ne\nvoulut pas convenir avec elle de ce dernier point, pas du moins en\nentier; il lui semblait que le coeur de Maria avait besoin d'amour; mais\nmadame Dashwood s'abandonnait toujours à ses nouvelles espérances. Le\ncolonel était son héros du moment, et elle assura à sa fille que, feu\nson cher Henri excepté, elle n'avait jamais vu d'homme plus à son gré.\n\nDelafort, dit-elle, n'est pas à une très-grande distance de Barton,\nsupposé que nous y restions; mais vraisemblablement nous serons plus\nprès encore de notre Maria. On dit que c'est un grand village; il se\ntrouvera facilement quelque jolie petite maison près du château, qui\nconvienne tout aussi bien à notre situation.\n\nPauvre Elinor! voilà donc un nouveau plan pour la mener à Delafort, à\ncôté d'Edward et de Lucy. Elle soupira profondément et garda le silence.\n\n--Quant à la fortune aussi, continua Mme Dashwood, sans faire attention\nau soupir de sa fille aînée, et ne songeant qu'à son projet de mariage\npour sa favorite, à mon âge on y pense un peu; et quoique je ne\nconnaisse pas exactement celle du colonel, je crois qu'elle est\ntrès-honnête.\n\nIci elles furent interrompues par madame Jennings qui, de son côté,\npensait sans le dire, que le colonel ne tarderait pas à épouser Elinor.\nCette dernière se retira, alla rêver au bon succès de son ami auprès de\nsa mère, ne pouvant cependant s'empêcher de regretter et de plaindre\nWilloughby.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XLVIII.\n\n\nLa maladie de Maria, quoique très-violente, n'avait pas été assez longue\npour retarder sa convalescence. Sa jeunesse, sa force naturelle et la\nprésence de sa mère la rendirent bientôt capable d'être levée chaque\njour plus long-temps; et le cinquième, depuis l'arrivée de madame\nDashwood, elle se sentit la force de descendre au salon, appuyée sur sa\nbonne soeur. Il lui tardait, dit-elle, de revoir le colonel et de le\nremercier d'avoir été chercher sa mère. Dès qu'elle fut établie dans un\nbon fauteuil, on le fit demander. Le coeur de la maman nageait dans la\njoie.\n\nL'émotion du colonel lorsqu'il entra fut très-visible. Il s'approcha\nd'elle, et en la voyant pâle, abattue, les yeux languissans, sa\nphysionomie s'altéra au point qu'Elinor conjectura qu'il y avait quelque\nchose de plus que son affection pour Maria. Cette dernière lui présenta\nla main, en parlant de sa vive reconnaissance. Alors une si forte\nexpression de douleur se répandit sur tous les traits du colonel; un\nsoupir si profond s'échappa de son coeur, qu'Elinor comprit tout ce qui\ns'y passait, et que les scènes douloureuses de la maladie et de la mort\nd'Elisa se retraçaient à sa mémoire. La ressemblance dont il avait fait\nmention était sans doute augmentée par la langueur actuelle de Maria,\npar ses yeux battus, sa pâleur, son attitude de malade, et l'expression\nde sa tendre gratitude.\n\nMadame Dashwood le surveillait encore mieux que sa fille, et, ne sachant\npas les détails de l'histoire du colonel, attribua tout ce qui se\npassait sur sa figure, à l'excès de sa passion, et vit dans les propos\net les manières de sa fille quelque chose de plus que la simple\nreconnaissance. Deux ou trois jours après, Maria avait acquis assez de\nforce pour se promener devant la maison, appuyée sur le colonel, puis un\npeu plus loin sur le joli sentier gravelé; mais elle ne témoigna aucune\nenvie d'aller jusqu'au temple grec, et laissa même percer une sorte\nd'effroi. Elinor qui en savait seule la raison ne l'en pressa pas, et\ncomprit très-bien son impatience de quitter Cleveland, et de retourner à\nla chaumière. Ce désir devint si vif, que madame Dashwood, qui ne\npouvait rien lui refuser, y céda. D'ailleurs, elle souhaitait aussi dans\nle fond de retourner chez elle et de retrouver sa petite Emma. Mais ce\ndésir était combattu par celui qu'elle avait que sa fille s'attachât au\ncolonel en vivant journellement avec lui.\n\n--Les choses sont en bon train, disait-elle à Elinor; c'est toujours son\nbras qu'elle prend pour se promener.\n\n--Maman, il est ici le seul homme, répondait Elinor.\n\n--Et moi je vous dis que bientôt il sera en effet le seul pour Maria.\nMais enfin à présent elle veut retourner à sa chaumière, et c'est\ntrès-naturel. Il ne restera pas long-temps sans y venir.\n\nLe soir même la proposition de partir fut faite. Mme Jennings les\nchérissait; mais sa chère Charlotte et son petit-fils lui tenaient aussi\nau coeur, et il y avait long-temps qu'elle en était séparée. Elle ne fit\ndonc que quelques légères objections sur la santé de Maria, qui furent\nbientôt levées. Le colonel était attendu à Delafort pour les réparations\ndu presbytère; mais il s'était laissé persuader facilement que sa\nprésence était nécessaire à Cleveland tant que mesdames Dashwood y\nseraient. Tout fut donc arrangé pour leur départ, qui devait avoir lieu\nle surlendemain. Le colonel exigea qu'elles prissent son carrosse, qui\nétait plus grand et plus commode, et madame Dashwood y consentit, en\nespérant que ce serait bientôt celui de sa fille. Mais de son côté elle\nlui fit promettre que, dans quinze jours ou trois semaines au plus il\nviendrait les visiter à la chaumière.\n\nLe moment de la séparation arriva, et ne fut pas sans attendrissement de\ntous les côtés. Maria ne croyait pas pouvoir assez témoigner de regrets\net de reconnaissance à madame Jennings. Ses adieux furent si tendres, si\npleins de respect et d'amitié, qu'ils réparèrent bien des négligences\npassées, qu'elle se reprochait amèrement. Elle prit congé du colonel\nBrandon avec la cordialité d'une amie et d'une soeur. Ce fut lui qui la\nplaça dans la voiture; madame Dashwood et Elinor montèrent ensuite. Le\ntête à tête de madame Jennings et du colonel le reste de ce jour fut\ntrès-triste. Il était obligé d'attendre le retour de la voiture; et\nmadame Jennings ne voulut pas le laisser seul. Elle s'attendait presque\nà une confidence de ses sentimens pour Elinor. Il n'en fit point, mais\nparla de la mère et des filles avec enchantement.\n\nTrois jours après la voiture revint avec l'agréable nouvelle que ce\nvoyage s'était très bien passé, et que la convalescente n'était pas\ntrès-fatiguée. Le surlendemain madame Jennings et sa Betty partirent\npour Londres, où les Palmer étaient retourné; et le colonel, tout\nsolitaire et tout pensif, prit le chemin de Delafort.\n\nLa famille Dashwood avait été deux jours en route pour ne pas fatiguer\nla malade: elle ne s'en trouva pas incommodée. Tout ce que peut\nl'affection la plus tendre, la plus zélée, fut employé de la part de ses\ndeux sensibles compagnes; aussi trouvèrent-elles leur récompense dans\nles rapides progrès de sa santé, dans la chaleur de son coeur et le\ncalme de son esprit. Cette dernière observation surtout fit le plus\ngrand plaisir à Elinor: elle qui l'avait toujours vue souffrir si\ncruellement, oppressée par l'angoisse de son coeur, n'ayant ni le\ncourage de parler, ni la force de se taire, la voyait à présent avec une\njoie inexprimable, tranquille, résignée, contente par momens. Comme ce\nne pouvait être que le résultat de réflexions sérieuses et de sa ferme\nvolonté, il y avait lieu d'espérer que cela continuerait. En approchant\nnéanmoins de Barton, qui était si plein de souvenirs pour elle, où\nchaque place, chaque arbre, chaque route parlaient à sa mémoire et à son\ncoeur, elle devint silencieuse et pensive, et afin d'échapper à leur\nattention, elle se pencha sur la portière comme pour mieux voir le pays.\nElinor ne put ni s'en étonner ni la blâmer; et quand elle vit à ses\nyeux, en lui aidant à descendre de voiture, qu'elle avait pleuré, elle\ntrouva que c'était une émotion trop naturelle pour exciter autre chose\nqu'une tendre pitié. Elle la pressa contre son coeur, en lui disant à\ndemi-voix: Chère Maria! ici encore nous pourrons être heureuses par\nnotre amitié.--Ah! oui, répondit Maria; puis elle ajouta: Chère\nchaumière! je veux t'aimer encore, et tes collines, et tes ombrages, et\ntes beaux points de vue, je les admirerai avec mon Elinor. Elle semblait\nse réveiller d'un songe pénible qui laisse encore des traces dans\nl'esprit, mais qu'on cherche à effacer. Lorsqu'elles entrèrent dans le\npetit salon, Maria tourna ses yeux tout autour avec un regard de fermeté\ndécidée, comme si elle voulait s'accoutumer tout d'un coup à la vue de\nchaque objet avec lequel le souvenir de Willoughby était lié. Elle parla\npeu; mais ce qu'elle dit respirait une douce gaieté, et si quelquefois\nun soupir s'échappait, elle souriait en même temps pour l'expier. Après\ndîner, elle voulut essayer de toucher de son piano; elle s'y assit. Mais\nla première musique qu'elle ouvrit fut un opéra que Willoughby lui avait\nprocuré, où il se trouvait des duo qu'elle avait chantés avec lui; et\nsur la première feuille était écrit de sa main le nom de Maria. Elle\nsecoua la tête, mit ce cahier de côté, et après avoir promené au hasard\nses doigts sur les touches, elle se plaignit d'être encore trop faible;\nelle ferma l'instrument, mais en déclarant que dès qu'elle serait plus\nforte elle comptait s'exercer beaucoup et réparer le temps perdu.\n\nLe matin suivant, tous ces heureux symptômes continuèrent. Elle avait\npassé une bonne nuit, et le corps et l'esprit étaient encore plus\nfortifiés. Elle eut l'air de se retrouver avec grand plaisir dans leur\njolie demeure. Elle témoigna son impatience de revoir Emma, et parla de\nleur vie de famille à la campagne, entourées de quelques bons voisins,\ncomme du seul vrai bonheur. Quand le temps sera tout-à-fait beau,\ndit-elle, et mes forces bien revenues, nous ferons ensemble de longues\npromenades tous les jours; nous irons à la ferme, de l'autre côté de la\ncolline, où il y a de si jolis enfans; nous irons voir les nouvelles\nplantations de sir Georges; nous irons à Abeyland voir les ruines de\nl'ancien prieuré. Elle nomma ainsi une foule de sites qu'elle désirait\nde revoir; mais Altenham n'était pas du nombre, et celui-là ne fut pas\ncité. Nous serons heureuses, dit-elle avec gaieté, notre été se passera\ndoucement et utilement. Je ne veux pas me lever plus tard que six\nheures; et tout le temps jusqu'à dîner sera employé entre la promenade,\nla lecture et la musique. J'ai formé un plan d'études un peu sérieuses,\net je suis décidée de le suivre. Notre petite bibliothèque m'est déjà\nbien connue, et je la réserve pour l'amusement. Mais il y a de très-bons\nouvrages anciens dans celle de Barton Park; et quant aux modernes, je\nles emprunterai du colonel Brandon, qui achète tout ce qui paraît de bon\net d'intéressant. En lisant six heures par jour avec attention, je suis\nsûre d'acquérir dans une année un bon degré d'instruction, dont je\nreconnais que j'ai manqué jusqu'à présent, et qui sera pour moi une\nsource de plaisirs.\n\nElinor la loua beaucoup d'un projet aussi vaste et aussi utile, mais en\nmême temps elle souriait de voir cette imagination donner toujours dans\nles extrêmes, et sortir de l'excès de la langueur, de l'abattement, de\nl'oubli de soi-même, par l'_excès_ de l'occupation et de l'étude. Ce\nsourire se changea bientôt en soupir lorsqu'elle se rappela la promesse\nsolennelle qu'elle avait faite à Willoughby de dire à Maria ce qui\npouvait un peu le justifier. Elle craignait de troubler de nouveau\nl'esprit et le coeur de sa soeur, qui paraissaient commencer à se bien\nguérir, et que ce qu'elle avait à lui communiquer ne détruisît, pour un\ntemps du moins, ses projets de tranquillité. Elle résolut donc\nd'attendre quelque temps de plus pour que sa santé et sa raison eussent\nfait encore plus de progrès; mais cette résolution ne tarda pas à\ns'évanouir.\n\nMaria était restée trois ou quatre jours à la maison, le temps n'étant\npas assez beau pour une convalescente. Mais enfin, un matin, la\ntempérature était si douce, si agréable qu'elle fut tentée d'en\nprofiter, et que madame Dashwood consentit à la laisser se promener,\nappuyée sur le bras de sa soeur, dans la prairie devant la maison,\naussi long-temps qu'elle ne serait pas fatiguée. Les deux soeurs\nsortirent ensemble; marchant doucement, s'arrêtant quelquefois, et\ns'avancèrent assez loin pour voir en plein la colline qui dominait la\nchaumière de l'autre côté. Elles firent une pause. Maria regardait sa\nsoeur en silence; enfin elle dit, d'un ton assez calme, en étendant la\nmain: C'est là, exactement là; je reconnais la place. Voyez là où la\npente est plus rapide; c'est l'endroit où je tombai et où je vis\nWilloughby pour la première fois.--Sa voix faiblit un peu à cette\ndernière phrase; mais bientôt elle se remit, et elle ajouta: Je suis\ncharmée de sentir que je puis regarder cette place sans trop de\npeine.... Pouvons-nous causer tranquillement sur ce sujet, chère Elinor?\nou bien, dit-elle en hésitant, vaut-il mieux ne nous en point occuper?\nJ'espère cependant que je puis à présent en parler comme je le dois.\n\nElinor l'invita tendrement à lui ouvrir son coeur.\n\n--Je puis déjà vous assurer, dit-elle, que je n'ai plus nul regret pour\nce qui le concerne. Je ne veux pas vous parler de mes sentimens passés,\nmais de mes sentimens actuels. A présent je vous jure, Elinor, que si je\npouvais être satisfaite sur un seul point, je serais complétement\ntranquille. Ah! s'il pouvait m'être accordé de croire qu'il m'a aimée\nune fois, qu'il ne m'a pas toujours trompée! mais par-dessus tout, si je\npouvais être assurée qu'il n'est pas aussi vicieux que je l'ai imaginé\ndepuis l'histoire de cette infortunée jeune fille, et qu'il faudrait le\ncroire pour que je dusse penser que c'était le sort qu'il me destinait!\nAh! cette idée est cruelle, affreuse, et troublera toujours ma\ntranquillité.\n\nElinor recueillait toutes les paroles de sa soeur dans son coeur, et lui\nrépondit: Si vous étiez donc convaincue qu'il n'a jamais eu sur vous de\nprojets coupables et qu'il vous a vraiment aimée, vous seriez contente\net tout-à-fait à votre aise?\n\n--Oui, oui, je vous le jure, et j'en suis sûre. Ma paix y est doublement\nintéressée; car non seulement il est horrible de suspecter d'un tel\ndessein une personne qu'on a aussi passionnément aimée; mais ce dessein\nme fait honte à moi-même. Je lui ai montré mon attachement avec tant de\nconfiance et si peu de retenue, qu'il a pu peut-être en conclure qu'il\ntrouverait peu de difficultés; cependant je n'ai pas, à cet égard, à me\nplaindre de lui. Mais qui sait, où pouvait m'entraîner une affection si\nvive pour un homme sans principes, qui regarde comme un jeu la perte\nd'une jeune personne? Oh! si je pouvais croire qu'il m'a mieux jugée!\n\n--Et comment alors, dit Elinor, expliqueriez-vous sa conduite?\n\n--Je voudrais pouvoir supposer.... Oh! comme je serais heureuse si je\npouvais seulement le croire inconstant, très-inconstant et rien de plus!\n\nElinor ne répondit pas; elle débattait en elle-même s'il valait mieux\ncommencer tout de suite l'histoire de la visite de Willoughby, ou\ndifférer encore. Elles restèrent quelques minutes en silence.\n\n--Je crois me venger assez de lui, reprit Maria en soupirant, quand je\nsouhaite que ses réflexions secrètes soient aussi pénibles que les\nmiennes; il en souffrirait assez pour l'amener peut-être au repentir.\n\n--Comparez-vous votre conduite avec la sienne?\n\n--Non, je la compare à ce qu'elle aurait dû être, à la vôtre, Elinor.\n\n--A la mienne! vous avez tort; nos situations ont si peu de\nressemblance.\n\n--Elles en ont plus que notre conduite. Ne permettez pas à votre bonté,\nma chère Elinor, à votre indulgence pour moi, de défendre ce que votre\njugement doit blâmer. Ma maladie m'a fait beaucoup de bien, elle m'a\ndonné du loisir et du calme pour de sérieuses réflexions. Long-temps\navant que j'eusse la force de parler j'étais capable de réfléchir: j'ai\nconsidéré tout le passé; je n'ai vu dans ma propre conduite, depuis le\npremier instant de ma connaissance avec lui, l'automne dernière, rien\nautre chose qu'une suite d'imprudences envers moi-même, et de manques\nd'égards et de bonté envers les autres; j'ai vu que mes propres\nsentimens avaient préparé mes souffrances, et que mon peu de courage\npour les supporter m'avait conduite au bord du tombeau. Ma maladie, je\nle sais bien, a été entièrement causée par ma négligence sur ma santé,\nque je sentais s'altérer avec plaisir. Une légère circonstance,\nindépendante de moi, en a peut-être hâté le moment; mais j'étais déjà\ntrès-malade, et je faisais tout ce que je pouvais pour aggraver mon mal:\nsi j'étais morte, c'eût été par un véritable suicide. Je n'ai connu mon\ndanger que lorsqu'il a été passé. Mais avec les pénibles remords que mes\nréflexions m'ont donnés, je m'étonne de mon rétablissement, je m'étonne\nque la vivacité de mon désir de vivre pour expier mes torts envers Dieu\net envers vous toutes ne m'ait pas tuée. Si j'étais morte, dans quelle\ndouleur vous aurais-je laissée, vous ma soeur, mon amie, ma fidèle et\nbonne garde, qui étiez en quelque sorte responsable de ma vie à notre\nmère; vous qui aviez vu le chagrin, le désespoir des derniers temps de\nmon existence, et tous les coupables murmures de mon coeur, la détruire\npeu à peu! Comment aurais-je occupé votre souvenir! Quels sentimens\ncruels, amers, auriez-vous eus toute votre vie en vous rappelant votre\npauvre Maria! Et notre bonne maman que vous auriez eu la pénible tâche\nde consoler, sans pouvoir peut-être y réussir! Ah! combien j'avais été\ncoupable en désirant, en provoquant la fin de ma vie! Combien je\nm'abhorrais moi-même! Quand je regarde ma conduite passée, je n'y vois\nque des devoirs négligés, des faiblesses et des torts. Chacune de mes\nconnaissances était en droit de se plaindre de moi. La continuelle bonté\nde l'excellente madame Jennings, je l'ai payée d'un ingrat mépris, d'une\nnégligence impardonnable; avec les Middleton, les Palmer, même les\nStéeles, j'ai été insolente et souvent injuste; et ce digne colonel\nBrandon! Combien n'ai-je pas de reproches plus cruels encore à me faire?\nJe m'endurcissais le coeur contre toutes nos connaissances; je\nm'irritais moi-même de leurs attentions; je leur cherchais des défauts,\ndes ridicules. Avec John, avec Fanny même, quelle qu'ait été leur\nconduite, je n'ai pas été comme j'aurais dû l'être avec le fils de mon\npère; j'envenimais leurs torts au lieu de les pallier. Mais vous, mon\nElinor, mon incomparable amie, mais ma mère, la meilleure des mères!\ncombien vous ai-je tourmentées de mes peines! Moi qui connaissais votre\ncoeur, votre attachement sans borne pour moi, qui devait me consoler de\ntout; quelle influence a-t-il eue sur mes chagrins? Aucune; je m'y suis\nlivrée tout entière, sans penser combien je vous affligeais\ninutilement, et sans le moindre avantage pour vous ou pour moi-même. Je\nme croyais bien sensible, et je n'étais qu'une égoïste. Votre exemple,\nElinor, était devant moi; l'impression qu'il me fit ne fut que\nmomentanée; et je me replongeai bientôt dans ma mélancolie, sans penser\ncombien elle augmentait vos peines. Ai-je cherché à imiter votre\ncourage, à diminuer votre pénible contrainte, en partageant tout ce que\nla complaisance ou la reconnaissance vous obligeait à faire, et dont je\nvous ai laissée entièrement chargée sans vous aider en rien? Non, pas\nplus quand je vous ai sue aussi malheureuse que moi, que lorsque je vous\ncroyais heureuse. J'ai rejeté loin de moi tout ce que le devoir et\nl'amitié me prescrivaient, accordant à peine qu'il pût exister d'autres\nchagrins que les miens, regrettant seulement celui qui m'avait\nabandonnée et trompée, qui avait médité ma perte, et vous laissant\nsouffrir pour moi, sans m'en inquiéter, vous pour qui je professais une\namitié si tendre, et qui m'en montriez une si dévouée,.... Oh! mon\nElinor, votre coeur me pardonnera, je le sais; mais le mien me\nreprochera toute ma vie une conduite aussi condamnable.\n\nSes pleurs et ses sanglots l'empêchèrent de continuer. Elinor y mêlait\nles siens et les plus tendres caresses; et, sans trop la flatter, sans\nnier la vérité des reproches qu'elle se faisait à elle-même, elle se\nplaisait à les adoucir, à lui répéter combien sa franchise et son noble\nrepentir les effaçaient, à la relever à ses propres yeux. Maria serra\ntendrement sa main, en lui disant: Vous êtes trop bonne, chère Elinor.\nL'avenir seul peut tout réparer, et il le fera. J'ai formé un plan de\nvie, et je le suivrai. Tous mes sentimens seront gouvernés par la\nraison; et mon caractère naturel, qui n'est pas mauvais, quoique ma\nconduite l'ait été, s'améliorera encore; il ne sera plus un tourment\npour les autres et une torture pour moi-même. Je vivrai seulement pour\nma famille. Ma mère et mes soeurs seront le monde pour moi, et c'est\nbien assez pour m'y attacher et me faire aimer la vie, où j'ai une si\nbonne part de douces affections pour de chers objets qui ne me\ntromperont jamais. Vous les partagerez entre vous. Je n'aurai pas, j'en\nsuis bien sûre, le moindre désir de m'éloigner de la maison et de vous\nquitter; mais je vous suivrai dans la société de nos amis et de nos\nvoisins, pour y réparer mes torts, pour y être plus humble, plus douce,\nplus attentive, et prouver que mon coeur est changé, à cet égard du\nmoins; car je n'ose dire encore, je n'ose promettre qu'il oublie jamais\nentièrement..... Mais je ne ferai rien pour entretenir un sentiment qui\nserait coupable; au contraire, j'emploierai toutes mes forces à le\ncombattre, et j'espère y réussir. Si je ne puis parvenir à l'anéantir\ncomplétement, je puis au moins le régler, le tenir en bride par la\nreligion, par la raison, par une constante application, et par l'étude.\n\nElle s'arrêta, puis elle ajouta d'une voix basse: S'il m'était possible\nseulement de connaître son coeur, de savoir quels ont été ses projets,\nje serais tout-à-fait contente.\n\nElinor ne balança plus à lever ce voile, et y fut complétement\nentraînée, puisqu'elle le pouvait sans hasarder la paix de sa soeur, et\nau contraire avec l'espoir de la lui rendre en entier. Elle la fit\nasseoir à côté d'elle sur un gazon assez sec pour n'avoir rien à\ncraindre pour sa santé, et la pria de l'écouter.\n\nElle ménagea son récit avec adresse et précaution, à ce qu'elle croyait\ndu moins; mais dès qu'elle eut nommé Willoughby, le visage de Maria\ns'altéra visiblement. Grand dieu! c'était lui, s'écria-t-elle; vous\nl'avez vu à Cleveland, si près de moi?.... Elle ne put rien dire de\nplus, mais fit signe à sa soeur de continuer. Elle tremblait; ses yeux\nétaient fixés vers la terre; ses lèvres devinrent aussi pâles que le\njour qu'on désespérait de sa vie; des larmes coulaient sur ses joues\ndécolorées, et sa main pressait celle de sa soeur, qui lui racontait\ncette visite, mais non pas précisément comme on l'a lue. Elle se\ncontenta de lui dire exactement tout ce qui pouvait, à quelques égards,\njustifier Willoughby. Elle rendit justice à son repentir, et ne parla de\nses sentimens actuels que pour faire connaître son respect et sa\nparfaite estime. A mesure qu'elle avançait dans sa narration, la\nphysionomie de Maria reprenait un peu de sérénité. Elle releva ses yeux\net les porta d'abord sur sa soeur, puis vers le ciel: Mon dieu! dit-elle\nquand Elinor eut fini, combien je vous rends grâce! je ne désire rien\nde plus. Puissé-je être digne de l'excellente soeur que vous m'avez\ndonnée! Elles s'embrassèrent tendrement et reprirent le chemin de la\nmaison, d'abord en silence; ensuite Maria hasarda faiblement quelques\nquestions sur Willoughby. Elinor lui dit tout ce qu'elle désirait\nsavoir. Elles ne parlèrent que de lui jusqu'à la porte de la maison. Dès\nqu'elles y furent entrées, Maria jeta encore ses bras autour du cou de\nsa soeur, la remercia, et lui dit en la quittant: Chère Elinor, dites\ntout à maman; ensuite elle monta l'escalier et se retira dans sa\nchambre. Elinor trouva fort naturel qu'elle eût besoin de quelques\ninstans de solitude, et avec un mélange de sentimens doux et pénibles,\nelle entra auprès de sa mère pour remplir la commission de Maria.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE XLIX.\n\n\nMadame Dashwood n'entendit pas sans émotion l'apologie de son premier\nfavori; elle se réjouit de ce qu'il était justifié du plus grand de ses\ntorts, celui d'avoir eu le projet de séduire Maria. Elle était fâchée de\nson malheur; elle voudrait apprendre qu'il fût heureux. Mais.... mais le\npassé ne pouvait s'oublier. Rien ne pouvait faire qu'il n'eût pas été\nvain, égoïste, inconstant, intéressé; rien ne pouvait le rendre sans\ntache aux yeux de la mère de Maria; rien ne pouvait effacer le souvenir\ndes souffrances de cette fille chérie, du danger dont elle sortait à\npeine; rien ne pouvait le justifier de sa conduite coupable envers\nCaroline; rien ne pouvait lui rendre la première estime de madame\nDashwood, ni nuire aux intérêts du colonel. Si madame Dashwood avait,\ncomme Elinor, entendu l'histoire de Willoughby de sa propre bouche; si\nelle avait été témoin de son affliction, et sous le charme de ses\nmanières et de sa belle figure, il y a toute apparence que sa compassion\naurait été plus grande. Mais il n'était ni au pouvoir ni dans la volonté\nd'Elinor de rendre en entier à Willoughby la trop vive prévention de sa\nmère, de faire même éprouver à cette dernière l'espèce de pitié inutile,\ndouloureuse, presque accompagnée de regrets, qu'elle avait ressentie au\npremier moment, et que la réflexion avait déjà calmée. Elle se contenta\ndonc de déclarer la simple vérité, de rendre justice aux intentions de\nWilloughby, au fond de son caractère, mais sans le moindre de ces\nembellissemens romanesques qui excitent la sensibilité et qui montent et\négarent l'imagination.\n\nDans la soirée, quand elles furent réunies, Maria commença la première à\nparler de lui. Ce ne fut cependant pas sans efforts, quoiqu'elle fît\ntout ce qui dépendait d'elle pour se surmonter; mais sa rougeur, sa voix\ntremblante le disaient assez. Elle surprit même un regard inquiet de sa\nmère sur Elinor. Non, non, maman, lui dit elle, soyez tranquille; je\nvous assure à toutes les deux, que je vois les choses comme vous pouvez\nle désirer. Mme Dashwood voulait l'interrompre par quelques mots de\ntendresse; mais Elinor qui désirait connaître à fond l'opinion de sa\nsoeur, engagea par un léger signe sa mère au silence. Maria continua: Ce\nqu'Elinor m'a dit ce matin a été pour moi une grande consolation; j'ai\nentendu exactement ce que je désirais d'entendre........ Pour quelques\ninstans sa voix s'éteignit; mais se remettant, elle ajouta avec plus de\ncalme: Je suis actuellement parfaitement satisfaite, et je ne voudrais\nrien changer. Je n'aurais jamais été heureuse avec lui; quand tôt ou\ntard j'aurais su ce que je sais à présent, je n'aurais plus eu pour lui\nni estime ni confiance; il n'y aurait plus eu de sympathie avec mes\nsentimens.\n\n--Je le sais; j'en suis sûre, s'écria sa mère. Heureuse avec un homme\nsans principes; avec un libertin, un séducteur, avec celui qui a si\nfort injurié notre plus cher ami, le meilleur des humains! Non, non, ma\nchère Maria n'a pas le coeur fait pour être heureuse avec un tel homme!\nSa conscience si pure, si délicate, aurait senti tout ce que celle\nendurcie de son mari ne sentait plus.\n\nElle allait trop loin. Elinor vit le moment où Maria prendrait vivement\nle parti de Willoughby. Mais celle-ci soupira seulement profondément et\nrépéta: Je ne voudrais rien changer que.... Je ne voudrais pas qu'il fût\ntrop malheureux. Pauvre Willoughby! privé à jamais de tout bonheur\ndomestique! Des larmes remplirent ses yeux.\n\n--Je crains, je crains fort, dit Elinor, qu'il n'en eût été privé\nquelque femme qu'il eût épousée, et même avec vous, Maria; ou du moins\nbien sûrement vous n'auriez joui vous-même d'aucun bonheur. Votre\nmariage avec un jeune homme d'un tel caractère, vous aurait enveloppée\ndans un genre de troubles et de chagrins dont vous ne pouvez vous faire\naucune idée, et qu'une affection aussi incertaine que la sienne, vous\naurait faiblement aidée à supporter: c'est le tourment de la pauvreté.\nIl convient lui-même d'avoir toujours été un dissipateur; et toute sa\nconduite prouve que le mot de privation est à peine entendu de lui. Son\ngoût pour la dépense joint à votre inexpérience et à une générosité qui\nvous est naturelle, aurait consumé vos très-minces revenus, et vous\naurait jetés dans des inquiétudes et des angoisses d'un autre genre,\nmais non moins cruelles que celles que vous avez éprouvées. Votre bon\nsens, votre honneur, votre probité vous auraient engagée, je le sais\nbien, dès que votre situation vous aurait été connue, à toute l'économie\nqui peut dépendre d'une femme, et peut-être auriez-vous même joui des\nprivations et de la frugalité que vous vous seriez imposées à vous-même\ndans ce but; mais auriez-vous pu les faire partager à un mari qui n'en\navait pas l'habitude, et qui se serait éloigné, par cela même, de vous\net de votre maison? Auriez-vous pu, seule, empêcher une ruine commencée\navant votre mariage? La pauvreté, chère Maria, supportée avec quelqu'un\nqu'on aime, peut avoir ses douceurs, mais plus dans les romans que dans\nla réalité. Il est trop vrai qu'elle empoisonne tout, qu'elle flétrit\ntout, même le sentiment. Elle aigrit l'humeur; elle détruit la gaieté\net les agrémens de l'esprit. Êtes-vous sûre que l'amour de Willoughby,\nque le vôtre même auraient résisté à sa funeste influence, et que vous\nn'auriez pas fini par déplorer tous les deux une union si fatale, ou,\nsinon tous les deux, du moins lui seul qui est plus égoïste que\nsensible, et attache un grand prix aux jouissances de la vie? Elinor\ns'arrêta. La vérité du tableau qu'elle traçait l'avait entraînée. Elle\navait voulu détourner l'attendrissement de sa soeur sur le sort de\nWilloughby, parce qu'il l'aurait conduite à regretter encore de n'avoir\npas été chargée de son bonheur; elle désirait lui démontrer que ce\nbonheur était impossible.\n\nMaria l'avait écoutée attentivement. Ses lèvres tremblaient; son regard\nexprimait l'étonnement le plus profond; jamais encore elle n'avait\nenvisagé Willoughby sous ce point de vue. Sa conduite avec la fille\nadoptive du colonel lui prouvait son libertinage, son mariage, qu'il\nétait inconstant; mais l'entendre accuser d'égoïsme, ce Willoughby dont\nelle avait si souvent admiré la générosité, la grandeur d'ame tout ce\nqui était en sympathie avec elle!... Égoïste! répéta-t-elle, lui\négoïste! Est-ce que vous le pensez réellement?\n\n--Toute sa conduite, reprit Elinor, du commencement à la fin, a été\nbasée sur le plus parfait égoïsme. C'est l'égoïsme qui lui fit différer\nl'aveu de son attachement pour vous, lorsque son coeur l'éprouva, non\npas avec cet abandon, cette confiance qui caractérise le véritable\namour, mais balancé par son propre intérêt. Ses propres jouissances,\nson bien-être personnel me paraissent toujours avoir été sa règle et son\nprincipe.\n\n--Oui, dit Maria, rien n'est plus vrai; mon bonheur ne fut jamais son\nmotif; mais cependant vous me disiez....\n\n--A présent, continua Elinor, il regrette de ne s'être pas conduit\nautrement; mais pourquoi le regrette-t-il? parce qu'il trouve qu'il a\nmanqué son but et qu'il n'a pas rendu sa vie heureuse comme il\nl'espérait. Sa situation, quant à la fortune, est meilleure. De ce côté\nil n'est point en souffrance; il s'afflige seulement de ce que sa femme\nn'a pas un caractère aussi aimable que le vôtre. Mais suit-il de là que\ns'il vous avait épousée il aurait été plus heureux? Il se serait plaint\nalors de n'être pas plus riche, et sans doute il aurait trouvé qu'un bon\nrevenu, une bonne maison, de beaux chevaux, etc. etc., sont aussi\nnécessaires au bonheur domestique qu'une femme aimable.\n\n--Je n'en ai aucun doute, dit Maria, et je n'ai rien à regretter que ma\npropre folie.\n\n--Dites plutôt l'imprudence de votre mère, ma chère, enfant, dit madame\nDashwood; c'était à moi de vous guider, et j'étais sous le charme au\nmoins autant que vous-même.\n\nMaria voulait répondre; mais Elinor, contente de ce que chacune sentait\nses erreurs, voulut éviter des souvenirs du passé, qui pouvaient\naffaiblir les résolutions de sa soeur. Elle aima mieux continuer à\nparler des torts de Willoughby, que de son _charme séduisant_. Une\nobservation, dit-elle, qu'on peut tirer de toute cette histoire, c'est\nque bien rarement le crime, ou, si ce mot est trop dur, une faute grave\ncontre la vertu reste impunie. Tout le malheur de Willoughby vient de\nson indigne conduite avec Caroline Williams; c'est ce qui lui a fait\nperdre l'estime, l'amitié et la fortune de madame Smith. Sans cela il\naurait pu vous épouser et être riche. Maria en convint; et madame\nDashwood leur raconta à cette occasion, que non seulement cette dame\npersistait dans son indignation contre Willoughby, mais que son mariage,\ntout brillant qu'il était, l'avait beaucoup augmentée, et qu'elle n'y\nvoyait que de l'obstination dans le crime, un moyen de se soustraire\nentièrement à la réparation qu'elle en exigeait, et une profanation\npositive du saint sacrement du mariage, en épousant, par un sordide\nintérêt, une femme mondaine et qu'il n'aimait pas. Madame Smith était\nd'une famille de méthodistes ou puritains; elle avait été élevée dans\nl'idée que la séduction de l'innocence, et le mariage avec une autre que\ncelle qu'on a séduite, étaient les plus grands de tous les péchés.\nRésolue donc à punir le coupable déjà dans ce monde, sans pardon et sans\nrémission, elle avait fait venir chez elle une parente éloignée, nommée\n_madame Summers_, et son fils, et les avait déclarés ses héritiers. Son\ntestament était déjà fait et déposé chez un homme de loi. Madame\nDashwood savait ces détails du vicaire de la paroisse, digne et vieux\necclésiastique qui, à ce titre, était seul reçu à Altenham. Il avait\najouté de grands éloges de cette madame Summers, qui soignait sa\nbienfaitrice avec la plus active reconnaissance; et madame Smith,\ndisait-il, se trouvait bien heureuse, dans son état de maladie, d'avoir\néchangé les négligences d'un jeune homme frivole et libertin, contre les\nattentions d'une jeune femme reconnaissante et sensible.\n\nJe suis bien aise, dit Maria en souriant, que quelqu'un ait gagné\nquelque chose à mon malheur. M. Willoughby n'a plus besoin de la fortune\nde sa cousine. Elle sera mieux placée; et je ne suis pas fâchée qu'il\nn'ait plus l'occasion de revenir dans mon voisinage.\n\nEn effet, depuis cet entretien elle reprit, non pas de la gaieté, mais\nplus de sérénité. Emma revint, et ce fut un grand plaisir. La famille de\nla chaumière fut encore une fois réunie; et leur vie douce et paisible\nrecommença tout comme avant que leurs coeurs eussent été si vivement\nagités. Mais leur paix était plus apparente que réelle. Maria était\nencore faible et mélancolique par momens lorsqu'elle se laissait aller à\nses pensées. Pour s'en distraire elle exécuta avec courage le plan\nqu'elle s'était tracé d'études et de lectures suivies, où souvent elle\nassociait sa jeune soeur; elle fit aussi les longues promenades qu'elle\navait méditées, mais avec une de ses soeurs, et ne cherchant plus la\nsolitude. Elles rencontrèrent plusieurs fois, dans leurs excursions, la\nparente et future héritière de madame Smith, qui se promenait de son\ncôté en cherchant des fleurs pour un herbier. La botanique était une des\nétudes que Maria avait commencées, et à laquelle elle se livrait avec la\nvivacité qu'elle mettait à tout. Ce même but dans leurs courses les\nrapprocha; elles se parlèrent; et mesdemoiselles Dashwood trouvèrent\nqu'elle méritait tous les éloges que le vicaire en avait faits à leur\nmère; elle était jeune et jolie, ou plutôt très-agréable. Elle était\nsimple, modeste, timide, mais lorsqu'elle fut familiarisée avec ses\nnouvelles connaissances, elle parla bien et avec un son de voix\ntrès-doux. Elles auraient voulu l'engager à venir à la chaumière; mais\nelle ne quittait madame Smith que pour des quarts d'heures pendant son\nsommeil, et leurs rencontres même furent toujours assez courtes. Maria\nqui lui avait parlé avec un peu de peine la première fois, en était à\nprésent enchantée. Je n'aurais jamais cru, disait-elle à Elinor, me\nplaire autant avec quelqu'un qui me parle d'Altenham, et qui demeure\navec madame Smith. Mais du moins elle ne lui parlait pas de Willoughby,\net c'était assez naturel.\n\nElinor commençait à s'impatienter de ne rien savoir d'Edward. Elle n'en\navait pas entendu parler depuis qu'elle avait quitté Londres; elle\nignorait s'il était consacré, s'il était marié. Ni madame Jennings, ni\nson frère à qui elle écrivait quelquefois, ne lui en parlaient.\nSeulement, dans la première lettre qu'elle avait reçue de madame\nDashwood, il y avait cette phrase: «Nous ne savons rien de notre\ninfortuné Edward, et nous ne pouvons faire aucune enquête sur un sujet\nprohibé dans notre famille; mais de ce silence même nous concluons qu'il\nest encore à Oxford.» Voilà tout ce qu'elle en avait appris dans cette\ncorrespondance, rendue plus fréquente par la maladie de Maria. Dans les\nautres lettres, le nom même d'Edward ne se trouvait pas. Elle était donc\nà cet égard condamnée à une complète ignorance.\n\nThomas, leur domestique, fut envoyé un matin à Exceter pour des\ncommissions; il revint au moment du dîner, et tout en le servant il\nrendait compte à ses maîtresses des affaires dont il avait été chargé.\nQuand il eut fini il dit encore: Je suppose que vous savez, mesdames,\nque M. Ferrars est marié avec la plus jeune des demoiselles Stéeles,\nmademoiselle Lucy.\n\nMaria tressaillit et tourna les yeux sur Elinor qui pâlissait\nexcessivement. Dieu! ma soeur, s'écria Maria, et en disant cela, elle\ntomba elle-même sur le dossier de sa chaise, avec un violent tremblement\nnerveux. Mme Dashwood, dont le regard s'était aussi porté sur Elinor, et\nqui l'avait vue pâlir, eut encore l'effroi de l'état de Maria, et ne\nsavait à laquelle de ses filles aller. Maria cependant demandait des\nsecours plus pressans. La tremblante Elinor se leva pour les donner,\nmais elle fut obligée de se rasseoir. Thomas sonna la femme de chambre,\nqui, avec l'aide de madame Dashwood et d'Emma, conduisit Maria dans sa\nchambre. Elle fut bientôt mieux; et sa mère la laissant aux soins\nd'Emma, revint auprès d'Elinor. Quoique très-troublée encore, cette\ndernière avait repris un peu de son courage et commençait à questionner\nThomas. Sa mère s'en chargea pour elle; et elle en fut bien aise: sa\nvoix n'était pas encore très-rassurée.\n\n--Qui vous a dit que madame Ferrars était mariée, Thomas? demanda madame\nDashwood.\n\n--J'ai vu M. Ferrars moi-même, madame, ce matin à Exceter et sa dame\naussi; ils étaient ensemble dans une chaise de poste arrêtée devant la\nnouvelle auberge de Londres. J'étais allé là pour faire un message de\nSally à son frère, qui est un des postillons. Je regardai par hasard\ndans cette chaise et je reconnus à l'instant mademoiselle Lucy Stéeles.\nElle me regardait aussi: j'ôtai bien vite mon chapeau. Elle m'a reconnu\net m'a appelé, et s'est informée de vous, madame, et de vos jeunes\ndemoiselles, principalement de mademoiselle Maria. Elle m'a chargé de\nvous faire ses complimens à toutes les trois et ceux de M. Ferrars, et\nde vous dire combien ils étaient fâchés de n'avoir pas le temps de vous\nvoir, mais qu'ils étaient très-pressés d'aller plus loin..... je ne sais\noù...... qu'ils y resteraient quelque temps; mais qu'à leur retour ils\nviendraient bien sûrement vous visiter.\n\n--Mais vous a-t-elle dit qu'elle était mariée, Thomas?\n\n--Oui, madame; et comme je la nommais miss Stéeles, elle sourit et me\ndit qu'elle avait changé de nom depuis que je ne l'avais vue. Madame\nsait bien comme elle est toujours affable, cette jeune dame, comme elle\nparle à tout le monde, même aux domestiques! Elle n'est pas fière du\ntout, quoiqu'elle soit très-belle, et pas plus depuis qu'elle est madame\nFerrars que lorsqu'elle était miss Stéeles.\n\n--Et son mari était dans la chaise avec elle, dites-vous?\n\n--Oui, madame, je l'ai vu appuyé comme cela sur la portière; mais il ne\nm'a rien dit. Il n'est pas comme sa femme; il n'aime pas à causer, comme\nmadame sait.\n\nLe coeur d'Elinor pouvait aisément comprendre qu'Edward n'eût rien à\ndire à Thomas; et madame Dashwood donna la même explication à son\nsilence.\n\n--Est-ce qu'il n'y avait personne autre dans la chaise?\n\n--Non, madame; seulement eux deux.\n\n--Savez-vous d'où ils venaient?\n\n--Ils venaient de Londres, à ce que miss Lucy..., madame Ferrars,\nveux-je dire, m'a fait l'honneur de m'apprendre. Elle m'a dit aussi où\nils allaient; mais je ne puis me le rappeler.... à.... à....; ce nom\nm'est échappé. Mais ils n'y resteront pas long-temps. Elle m'a bien\npromis... m'a ordonné de vous promettre de sa part, et de celle de son\nmari, qu'ils vous verraient bientôt.\n\nMadame Dashwood regarda sa fille avec anxiété; elle l'a trouva plus\ncalme qu'elle ne l'espérait. Elinor souriait, mais avec un peu\nd'amertume; elle reconnut Lucy toute entière à ce message, car elle\nétait bien sûre qu'Edward ne pouvait désirer de la voir. Ils vont sans\ndoute chez leur oncle Pratt, près de Plymouth, dit-elle à voix basse à\nsa mère, et bien sûrement ils ne viendront point ici.\n\nThomas semblait avoir tout dit, et cependant Elinor avait l'air de\ndésirer encore quelque chose. Le coeur de madame Dashwood la devina.\n\n--Les avez-vous vus partir? demanda-t-elle encore.\n\n--Non, madame; j'ai seulement vu arriver les chevaux de poste; mais je\ncraignais d'arriver trop tard pour servir à table, et je ne me suis pas\narrêté plus long-temps.\n\n--M. Ferrars avait-il l'air bien portant?\n\n--Oui, madame, comme à l'ordinaire. Je ne l'ai pas, il est vrai,\nbeaucoup regardé; mais madame Ferrars est à merveille; c'est une\ntrès-jeune et très-belle dame! Elle avait un chapeau noir tout garni de\nplumes, et un bel habit de voyage qui lui allait très-bien. Ah! qu'elle\na l'air heureux et content d'être mariée celle-là!\n\nMadame Dashwood ne demanda plus rien. Thomas avait desservi la table.\nMaria avait fait dire qu'elle ne voulait plus rien. Elinor n'avait pas\nplus d'envie de manger; et le dîner retourna à l'office sans qu'on y eût\ntouché. Emma elle-même, malgré l'appétit de quatorze ans, était trop\ninquiète de ses soeurs pour s'occuper du dîner. Elle aimait tendrement\nMaria, et préféra rester auprès d'elle. Madame Dashwood leur envoya un\npeu de dessert et de vin, et resta seule avec Elinor. Elles furent assez\nlong-temps en silence, occupées des mêmes pensées. Madame Dashwood\ncraignait de hasarder une remarque, ou d'offrir une consolation. Malgré\nl'empire que sa fille aînée avait sur elle-même, et qu'elle tâchait\nd'exercer dans ce moment autant qu'il lui était possible, il était\nfacile à sa mère de s'apercevoir qu'elle souffrait beaucoup. Elle vit\nalors que cette intéressante jeune personne s'était efforcée, en parlant\nde son chagrin, d'en adoucir l'impression pour ne pas ajouter à celui de\nsa mère; elle vit que sa raison et son courage n'altéraient en rien sa\nsensibilité, et qu'elle avait été dans l'erreur, en pensant que sa fille\naînée n'avait pas regretté Edward autant pour le moins que Maria avait\nregretté Willoughby, et avec de plus justes motifs. Elle se reprochait\nde s'être laissé dominer entièrement par le malheur de l'une de ses\nfilles, et d'avoir été injuste, inattentive, et presque dure pour\nl'autre, qui cachait mieux son affliction. Elle aurait voulu réparer ses\ntorts, mais elle craignait de l'attendrir encore davantage. Enfin elles\nse regardèrent, tombèrent dans les bras l'une de l'autre, et leurs\nlarmes se confondirent.\n\n--Bonne maman! dit Elinor, dès qu'elle put parler, vos filles ne sont\npas heureuses par l'_amour_; mais on ne peut avoir tous les bonheurs; et\nl'_amour filial_, et l'_amour maternel_ ne sont-ils pas les plus grands\nde tous les bonheurs de la vie?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE L.\n\n\nElinor éprouva bientôt la différence qu'il y a entre l'attente d'un\nfâcheux événement, et la certitude; elle s'avoua qu'en dépit de sa\nraison elle avait toujours admis un léger espoir, tant qu'Edward ne\nserait pas marié, qu'il arriverait quelque chose qui romprait son\nmariage avec Lucy, soit des réflexions sur le caractère de cette jeune\npersonne, soit la médiation de quelques amis, soit quelque établissement\nplus avantageux pour Lucy..... Mais actuellement tout était fini; ils\nétaient mariés, et elle condamna son propre coeur de cette flatterie\ncachée qui augmentait encore sa peine. Jamais elle n'avait mieux senti\ncombien Edward lui était cher, qu'au moment où elle devait y renoncer\npour toujours. Dans les commencemens de son inclination pour lui, elle\ns'y abandonna sans crainte; il ne lui vint pas alors dans l'esprit qu'il\ny eût des obstacles à un mariage entre elle et le frère de sa\nbelle-soeur. Quand ensuite cette dernière le lui fit sentir, il était\ndéjà trop tard pour en revenir à l'indifférence pour un homme qui lui\nconvenait sous tous les rapports. D'ailleurs cet homme serait libre un\njour de se marier à son gré, et dans chaque occasion il déclarait\npositivement que c'était la seule chose sur laquelle il ne prendrait de\nconseil de personne que de son propre coeur. Elinor sentait dans sa\nconscience qu'elle ferait son bonheur, puisque toute sa conduite\nannonçait qu'il lui était tendrement attaché. Madame Dashwood le\ndésirait; et ni l'une ni l'autre n'imaginaient que madame Ferrars, qui\nparaissait aimer son gendre, voulût le blesser en refusant une de ses\nsoeurs pour belle-fille. Elle sentait à présent combien elle s'était\nbercée de chimères, et que son bonheur était évanoui sans retour!\n\nElle ne comprenait pas ce qui avait pu décider Edward à se marier aussi\nvite, vraisemblablement avant sa consécration, et ne pouvant encore\naller habiter son presbytère; mais elle savait combien Lucy était vive\net active quand son intérêt personnel était en jeu. Elle avait voulu\nsans doute s'assurer de lui et ne pas courir les risques d'un délai. Ils\ns'étaient mariés à Londres, et ils allaient sûrement passer quelque\ntemps chez leur oncle Pratt à Longstaple, en attendant qu'ils eussent\nune habitation à eux. Qu'est-ce qu'Edward devait avoir senti en étant à\nquatre milles de Barton, en voyant le domestique de la chaumière, en\nentendant le message de sa femme? Son silence complet l'exprimait bien;\nson coeur était trop oppressé pour qu'il pût dire un seul mot; et la\npauvre Elinor souffrait autant pour lui que pour elle-même. Du moins\nelle était libre! mais lui, avec qui était-il associé pour la vie? Elle\naurait bien pu dire aussi, comme Maria disait de Willoughby: _Pauvre\nEdward, privé pour toujours du bonheur domestique_! Elle supposait\nqu'ils seraient bientôt établis à Delafort, Delafort! cette place à\nlaquelle tout conspirait à l'intéresser, qui serait peut-être un jour\naussi la demeure de sa soeur, qu'elle désirait et craignait encore plus\nde connaître. Elle se les représentait dans leur joli presbytère, si\nbien arrangé par les soins de leur protecteur. Elle voyait Lucy active\net ménagère avec vanité; unissant une apparence d'élégance et de dépense\ndevant les étrangers, à la frugalité la plus parcimonieuse quand ils\nseraient en tête à tête; économisant sou sur sou pour briller quelques\nmois d'hiver à Londres, et laisser son mari seul à ses devoirs de\npasteur; causant familièrement avec tous les paysans, et exigeant d'eux\navec rigueur leurs redevances; ne donnant jamais rien et recevant tout;\npoursuivant sans cesse son intérêt personnel; ne songeant qu'à elle\nseule au monde, et trop contente d'elle-même, quand par quelque ruse\nelle avait obtenu quelque avantage; courtisant le colonel Brandon,\nmadame Jennings et tous les amis riches, etc. etc. Elle voyait Edward,\nle pauvre Edward! Hélas! elle ne savait pas elle-même comment elle\ndevait le voir, heureux ou malheureux. Rien ne lui plaisait: elle\ndétournait autant qu'elle pouvait ses pensées de lui; mais elles y\nrevenaient sans cesse.\n\nElle ne comprenait pas non plus qu'aucune de ses connaissances de\nLondres ne lui écrivît ce mariage, ne lui en dît les particularités. A\nquoi pensait madame Jennings, pour qui un mariage était toujours un\névénement intéressant dont elle aimait à causer? Et le colonel,\nn'avait-il donc rien à lui dire de son nouveau pasteur? Ils lui\nparaissaient tous coupables au moins de paresse et de négligence.\n\n--Ne voulez-vous pas écrire au colonel Brandon, chère mère, et lui\nrappeler la promesse de venir nous voir? dit-elle un matin à madame\nDashwood.\n\n--Je l'ai fait, mon ange! lui répondit-elle, la dernière semaine; et\ncomme il ne m'a pas répondu, et que je le pressais beaucoup d'arriver,\nje l'attends d'un jour à l'autre. Je ne serais pas surprise de le voir\nce soir ou demain. Faites préparer sa chambre, mon cher amour! Combien\nje me réjouis de le revoir! Il sera bien étonné de trouver Maria aussi\nbien. En revenant de la promenade elle avait des couleurs, elle était\npresque aussi jolie qu'avant ses chagrins; ne le trouvez-vous pas? Il\nme tarde que ce cher colonel la voie.\n\nIl tardait aussi à Elinor de le voir, d'apprendre de lui tout ce qu'il\nsaurait sans doute de M. et madame Ferrars. Elle alla faire arranger la\nchambre destinée aux visites, et fit bien, car en rentrant au salon elle\nvit de la fenêtre un homme à cheval s'avancer. Le voilà! s'écria-t-elle;\nc'est le colonel! Sa mère et ses soeurs regardent aussi. Il était dans\nla cour; il descendait de sa monture, et.... ce n'était pas le colonel\nBrandon, c'était.... Edward en personne. Est-ce possible? s'écrie\nElinor, c'est Edward! Edward! répétèrent-elles avec émotion et surprise.\nElinor est la plus calme; elle fait un effort inoui. Hé bien! c'est\nEdward, notre ancien ami, qui vient de chez son oncle pour nous voir.\nFaites entrer, dit-elle à Thomas qui l'annonçait. Je veux être calme, je\nveux être maîtresse de moi-même. Je vous en conjure, ma mère, mes\nsoeurs, recevez-le bien, sans froideur, sans gêne. On n'eut pas le temps\nde lui répondre. Il est à la porte, il entre.....\n\nCertes il n'avait pas la contenance d'un heureux époux; il était aussi\npâle, aussi ému que celles qui le recevaient. Son regard baissé semblait\nredouter leur réception et sentir qu'il n'en méritait pas une bonne.\nMadame Dashwood en fut touchée et, tant pour suivre la recommandation de\nsa fille que celle de son propre coeur, elle le salua avec une\nbienveillance un peu forcée, lui tendit la main, et lui souhaita joie et\nbonheur, mais avec un ton bien différent de sa manière ordinaire.\n\nIl rougit et bégaya une réponse inintelligible. Elinor voulut dire comme\nsa mère; elle ne put articuler un mot. Elle voulut aussi lui donner la\nmain; c'était trop tard, il s'était assis. Au bout d'une minute elle\nprit une contenance qu'elle crut très-naturelle, et avec un son de voix\naltéré, parla du beau temps qu'il avait eu pour sa course. Maria le\nsalua d'un mouvement de tête sans ouvrir la bouche, et s'assit, aussi\nloin de lui qu'il lui fût possible. Emma qui, sans savoir tout, savait\ncependant qu'il était marié, et qui trouvait très-mauvais que ce ne fût\npas avec sa soeur Elinor, garda aussi un digne silence, et alla\ns'asseoir à côté de Maria. Elles prirent leurs ouvrages, afin de n'être\npas tentées de le regarder. Pour le monde, Maria n'aurait pas adressé\nla parole au mari de Lucy Stéeles. Quand Elinor eut cessé de se réjouir\ndu beau temps, de la sécheresse, un silence général suivit. Edward était\nvisiblement dans le plus grand embarras. Sans savoir ce qu'il faisait,\nil prit les ciseaux d'Emma qui étaient sur la table, les sortit de leur\nétui de maroquin rouge, et se mit à le couper en petits morceaux. Emma\npoussa Maria du coude, et lui dit à l'oreille: C'est mon pauvre étui qui\nen porte la peine; mais j'aime mieux qu'il le coupe en entier que de lui\nparler. Maria leva les épaules et ne répondit rien.\n\nMadame Dashwood voulut enfin rompre ce ridicule silence, et, avec un\ndemi-sourire qu'elle croyait honnête, et qui n'était qu'amer, elle lui\ndit: J'espère, monsieur, que madame Ferrars est bien.\n\n--Très-bien, madame. Un autre silence suivit. Elinor qui voyait l'excès\nde son embarras, ne voulait pas y ajouter, en ayant l'air de s'en\napercevoir; elle voulut au contraire chercher à le remettre en lui\nparlant amicalement: elle fit donc un nouvel effort sur elle-même, et\nlui dit avec l'air de l'intérêt: Est ce que madame Ferrars est à\nLongstaple?\n\n--A Longstaple! reprit-il d'un air de surprise; non, ma mère est à\nLondres.\n\n--Je voulais parler; dit Elinor en prenant aussi son ouvrage, de.... non\npas de madame Ferrars la mère, mais de la jeune madame Ferrars. Elle ne\nleva pas les yeux, n'osant pas le regarder. Madame Dashwood et ses deux\ncadettes, au contraire, tournèrent les yeux sur lui. Il rougissait,\nétait en perplexité; enfin, après quelque hésitation, il dit: Peut-être\nvous entendez la femme de mon frère, madame Robert Ferrars?\n\n--Madame Robert Ferrars! Ce nom fut répété par madame Dashwood et par\nMaria avec l'accent de la surprise. Elinor ne pouvait dire un seul mot,\nne savait ce qu'elle entendait, et ses yeux attachés sur lui demandaient\nune explication.\n\n--Peut-être vous ne savez pas, dit-il d'une voix un peu plus ferme.....\nil me paraît à présent que vous ignorez que mon frère, s'est marié\ndernièrement avec la plus jeune des.... avec mademoiselle Lucy Stéeles?\n\nCes paroles furent répétées en écho; excepté par Elinor. Toute sa\nprésence d'esprit, toute sa fermeté l'avaient abandonnée. Elle sentit\nqu'elle allait ou se trouver mal, ou fondre en larmes, et n'eut que la\nforce de se lever et de passer dans la chambre à manger. Sa mère qui\nl'avait vue pâlir, la suivit immédiatement. Edward aurait bien voulu en\nfaire autant; il fut retenu non seulement par sa timidité naturelle,\nmais par Maria qui vint à lui au moment où sa mère et sa soeur furent\nsorties, et lui prit vivement les deux mains entre les siennes, en lui\ndisant: O Edward! ô mon ami! mon frère! dites, répétez encore que vous\nêtes libre, que Lucy est mariée, et que ce n'est pas avec vous!\n\n--Ah! non, non, grâce au ciel! pas avec moi..... Mais Elinor? dit-il en\nregardant vers la porte avec inquiétude; ah! Maria, s'il est vrai que\nje suis votre ami, votre frère, conduisez-moi aux pieds d'Elinor et de\nvotre mère.... Je me suis cru rejeté pour toujours quand j'ai vu votre\nréception; à présent je retrouve la vie et l'espoir du pardon.\n\n--Faut-il aussi vous pardonner d'avoir coupé mon étui? dit Emma en\nrelevant les petites pièces de maroquin et en les lui montrant dans sa\nmain.\n\n--Allons, dit Maria en passant son bras sous le sien, allons trouver ma\nmère et ma soeur. Vous avez mon aveu; mais tout dépend d'elles.\n\n--Et j'ose compter sur leur bonté, dit l'heureux Edward.\n\nIls passèrent dans la salle à manger, où la mère et la fille pleuraient\nde joie dans les bras l'une de l'autre.....\n\n--O ma mère! ô mon Elinor! dit Edward à genoux devant elles.\n\n--Mon fils! mon cher Edward! répondirent-elles toutes les deux en même\ntemps.... Ces mots lui suffirent. Il se releva pour embrasser Maria et\nEmma; il revint auprès de son Elinor. Pendant long-temps il n'y eut\nentre eux que des acclamations de bonheur et de joie. A quatre heures le\ndîner fut servi, et l'heureuse famille réunie autour de la table, mangea\npeu, mais but de bon coeur à l'engagement d'Edward et d'Elinor; l'on ne\nsavait lesquels étaient les plus contens. Maria semblait avoir oublié\ntoutes ses peines et ne plus exister que pour sa soeur. Cependant, sur\nla fin du dîner, quelques soupirs échappèrent de son coeur lorsqu'elle\npensa que le bonheur dont jouissait Elinor était fini pour elle. Elinor\ns'en aperçut, et reprenant plus de calme, elle pria Edward de leur\nraconter les détails d'un événement qu'à peine elles pouvaient croire;\npar quel miracle, Robert qui blâmait si fort son frère de son engagement\navec Lucy, qui le voyait pour cela rejeté de la famille, avait pu se\nmettre à sa place? Quelquefois Elinor craignait de faire un songe, et\ntremblait du moment du réveil. Edward, libre de son engagement, et sans\navoir aucun reproche à se faire! c'était un événement si inespéré, si\ninattendu, qu'elle ne pouvait le comprendre. Il ne peut s'expliquer,\ndit-il, que par le caractère de mon frère, celui de sa femme et le mien,\net je demande la permission d'entrer là-dessus dans quelques détails.\nChère Elinor, c'est le premier moment où j'ose vous offrir mon coeur;\nil faut qu'il vous soit connu en entier jusque dans ses moindres replis,\nainsi qu'à votre mère et à vos soeurs. Je dois expier un tort de\njeunesse dont j'ai été bien puni par les tourmens qu'il m'a donnés. Une\nfois j'ai craint d'avoir à m'en repentir toute ma vie. Le ciel m'a\npardonné sans doute; et je suis bien plus heureux que je n'aurais osé\nl'espérer.\n\nIl commença son récit, qui fut souvent interrompu.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE LI.\n\n\nMon frère n'a qu'une année de moins que moi. La nature en rapprochant\nainsi nos âges nous avait destinés à cette liaison, la plus intime des\namitiés, qui répand sa douce influence sur toute la vie, qui commence\navec l'enfance et dure jusqu'à la mort. A peine puis-je me rappeler le\ntemps où je l'ai éprouvée. J'aimais passionnément le petit compagnon des\njeux de mon enfance. Mais bientôt notre mère sembla prendre à tâche\nd'altérer ce sentiment par la différence extrême qu'elle mit entre nous\ndeux. Robert était un très-bel enfant; et moi, tout le contraire. Ce\nqu'il y a de certain, c'est qu'il était plus gentil et moins pleureur,\nparce qu'on ne le contrariait jamais et qu'on faisait toutes ses\nfantaisies. Il était non seulement le favori de ma mère, mais de tous\nceux qui avaient intérêt de lui plaire, et fut un _enfant gâté_ dans\ntoute l'étendue du terme; tandis que le pauvre fils aîné, toujours\ngrondé, toujours repoussé, devint de plus en plus triste et maussade, et\nfinit par mériter peut-être, à l'extérieur du moins, l'indifférence\nqu'il inspirait. Mais si j'en suis devenu moins aimable, si j'ai été\nplus malheureux dans mon enfance, j'ose croire aussi que j'ai dû\nquelques vertus à cette éducation sévère. C'était surtout ce titre\nd'_aîné_ que ma mère ne pouvait supporter. Mon père l'avait laissée\nmaîtresse, il est vrai, de disposer de sa fortune; mais l'usage, le\nrespect de l'opinion l'empêchaient de substituer mon frère à mes droits,\ntant que je ne donnerais pas, par ma mauvaise conduite, l'occasion de me\ndéshériter. Mais cent fois je l'ai entendue dire: Pourquoi n'est-ce pas\nRobert qui est venu le premier au monde? celui-là aurait fait honneur à\nsa fortune. Elle pouvait du moins m'éloigner d'elle, et n'y manqua pas.\nDès l'âge de quinze ans je fus remis aux soins de M. Pratt, dont on lui\nparlait comme d'un homme en état de diriger mon éducation, et qui\nconsentit à me prendre en pension chez lui près de Plymouth, où il\nfaisait valoir un petit domaine. C'était un homme simple et bon, assez\nsavant en effet pour m'enseigner ce qu'un jeune homme bien né doit\napprendre, mais sans le moindre usage du monde, où jamais il n'avait\nvécu, et tout-à-fait hors d'état de me former pour la société où je\ndevais vivre, et de corriger l'excessive timidité que ma première\néducation m'avait donnée. Sa femme était simple et commune. Ils\nn'avaient pas d'enfant. J'étais leur seul pensionnaire, et je me serais\nennuyé à périr, dans leur maison, si ses deux nièces, les jeunes\nStéeles, n'y avaient pas fait de fréquens séjours. Lucy, du même âge que\nmoi, était très-jolie, très-vive, très-agaçante, et du premier moment\ndécida dans sa petite tête, que le pensionnaire de son oncle devait être\nson amoureux et son mari, et fit tout ce qu'il fallait pour y réussir.\nCela n'était pas difficile; et elle n'eut pas besoin, pour me captiver,\nde toute l'adresse qu'elle y mit, ni de tous les soins qu'elle se\ndonna. J'étais dans l'âge où le coeur s'ouvre à toutes les impressions.\nLe mien, naturellement très-aimant, ne demandait qu'à se donner, et n'en\navait point encore trouvé l'occasion. Toujours repoussé, toujours\nhumilié chez ma mère, la première personne qui me témoigna un intérêt\nvif, qui parut me compter pour quelque chose, et qui ne m'épargnait pas\ndes flatteries de tout genre, dut me paraître un ange du ciel; et comme\nelle joignait à cela une figure très-jolie et très-animée, et la\nfraîcheur de 16 ans, il n'est pas étonnant qu'en très-peu de temps je\ncrusse être, ou que je fusse réellement peut-être passionnément\namoureux. C'était la première jeune personne que j'eusse vue\nfamilièrement; et le bon M. Pratt, content de mes progrès dans mes\nétudes, et plus encore de la bonne pension, ferma les yeux sur mon\nattachement pour sa nièce, car je le cachais si peu, qu'il était presque\nimpossible qu'il ne s'en aperçût pas. Naturellement honnête et timide,\nmon seul projet était de l'épouser dès que je serais en âge. Je lui en\ndonnai mille fois l'assurance, et de bouche, et par écrit; mais je\nn'allai pas plus loin, et j'aurais regardé comme un crime d'avoir une\nautre idée. Lucy m'aimait-elle alors comme je l'aimais, ou l'espoir de\npartager ma fortune et de briller à Londres, était-il son seul mobile?\nCe n'est que depuis peu que je me suis permis ce doute. Elle jouait si\nnaturellement l'amour passionné et désintéressé que, même depuis que\nj'ai été éclairé sur ses défauts, je n'eus jamais le moindre soupçon\nsur ses sentimens.\n\nJe passai trois ans chez M. Pratt. J'en avais dix-huit quand mes tuteurs\nexigèrent de ma mère que je fusse rappelé chez elle. Je partis de\nLongstaple, formant le projet d'une constance éternelle, la jurant à\nLucy, et pouvant à peine par mes sermens répétés apaiser un peu sa\ndouleur que je partageais de toute mon ame. Mais je n'avais que dix-huit\nans; et à cet âge les sermens d'un jeune homme ont peu de valeur. Je\nsuis convaincu que si ma mère m'avait alors voué à quelque état qui\ndemandât de l'activité ou de la réflexion, que si mon temps avait été\nemployé de manière à me tenir au moins quelques mois éloigné de Lucy,\nj'aurais fini, comme tous les jeunes gens de mon âge, par oublier cette\ninclination d'enfance, qui n'était rien moins que fondée sur la\nsympathie, et qui existait bien plus dans l'imagination que dans le\ncoeur. Mais au lieu de m'adonner à un état, ou de me permettre d'en\nchoisir un, je revins à la maison complétement désoeuvré. Ma mère ne me\ngrondait plus, mais ne faisait nulle attention à moi. La plus entière\nindifférence avait succédé à sa sévérité. Elle ne songea pas même à me\nprésenter dans le monde, et me laissa absolument livré à moi-même et à\nmon oisiveté. Robert au contraire était de toutes ses sociétés, et\ndonnait dans tous les travers et l'extravagance de la mode. L'excès de\nsa fatuité m'inspira naturellement une extrême aversion pour son genre\nde vie, et me rendit toujours plus sauvage et plus réservé. Peut-être à\ncette époque ai-je quelque obligation à l'amour que je croyais avoir\npour Lucy, et au goût de l'étude que j'avais pris chez son oncle. Ma\nmère, ne faisant rien pour me rendre la maison agréable, abandonné à\nmoi-même, ne trouvant dans mon frère ni un compagnon, ni un ami,\nj'aurais pu facilement chercher des distractions dangereuses. Mais la\nseule que je me permettais était de fréquens voyages à Longstaple, que\nje regardais comme ma demeure, et ceux qui l'habitaient, comme ma\nfamille; où j'étais toujours bien venu; où Lucy me paraissait toujours\nplus tendre et plus aimable! C'était encore la seule femme que j'eusse\nvue; je ne pouvais donc faire aucune comparaison, ni m'apercevoir\nd'aucun de ses défauts. Auprès de sa soeur Anna et de sa tante Pratt,\nje la trouvais un miracle d'esprit et de beauté, et chaque fois que je\nla voyais, je confirmais mes engagemens de l'épouser. Ainsi s'écoula\ntoute une année. Quand j'eus dix-neuf ans, on crut convenable de me\nfaire passer un ou deux ans à l'université d'Oxford. Mon frère était\nalors à Westminster. Ce fut pendant ce temps-là que notre soeur Fanny,\navec qui je m'étais cependant assez lié pendant les dernières années,\népousa votre frère, M. John Dashwood. Je ne fus pas à leur noce; mais\nlorsqu'à vingt-un ans je quittai Oxford, mon premier soin fut d'aller la\nvoir à Norland, dont ils venaient d'hériter.... Ah! chère Elinor, c'est\nlà où je devais apprendre à connaître un sentiment bien différent de\ncelui que je croyais avoir pour Lucy, et qui s'était déjà fort affaibli\npar l'absence; c'est-là que voyant continuellement la plus aimable des\nfemmes, je sentis que ce que j'avais pris jusqu'alors pour de l'amour,\nn'était qu'une effervescence de jeunesse, et que j'avais trouvé l'objet\nqui doit m'attacher pour la vie. Chacune des perfections d'Elinor me\ndécouvrait un défaut dans Lucy, dans celle avec qui j'étais engagé, et\nqui devait être ma compagne. Avant de venir à Norland, j'avais fait une\ncourse à Longstaple. Déjà, comme si c'eût été un pressentiment, Lucy\nm'avait paru moins aimable. Elle écrit mal; son style est commun,\ndépourvu d'idées; son orthographe est mauvaise, et notre correspondance\nsoutenue pendant que j'étais à Oxford avait plutôt affaibli qu'augmenté\nmon amour. Mais en la retrouvant plus tendre, plus empressée qu'elle ne\nl'avait encore été, je crus avoir un tort envers elle, et je voulus le\nréparer par un engagement positif de l'épouser lorsque je le pourrais.\n\nPouvais-je, chère Elinor, dans ces circonstances, vous offrir un coeur\nqui ne tarda pas à vous appartenir en entier? J'aurais dû vous fuir sans\ndoute; mais l'entraînement était trop fort, trop puissant. Je\nconnaissais trop mon peu de moyens de plaire, pour imaginer qu'il y eût\nquelque danger pour vous, et me condamnant au silence, je crus qu'il\nm'était permis de jouir dans votre société des derniers momens de\nbonheur de ma vie. Vous partîtes pour Barton, et le vide affreux, le\ndésespoir que j'éprouvai loin de vous, me suggéra une démarche qui\ndevait me rendre ma liberté; c'était de parler à Lucy avec franchise de\nl'état actuel de mon coeur. Je cédai à cette idée après quelques\ncombats, et préférant lui parler moi-même, que de lui faire savoir par\nune lettre qu'elle aurait pu feindre de n'avoir pas reçue, j'allai à\nLongstaple où elle était alors, et j'eus avec elle un entretien où rien\nne lui fut caché. Elle dut voir combien je vous adorais sans vous\nl'avoir jamais dit; elle dut voir combien je serais malheureux, séparé\nde vous, uni à une autre femme! Alors elle mit tout en jeu; larmes,\névanouissement, tendresse, reproches, prières, menaces, rien ne fut\nnégligé. Elle parla à ma conscience. Enfin le résultat de cette visite,\nd'où j'avais espéré mon bonheur, fut de renouveler mes engagemens avec\nelle, et de la quitter le plus infortuné des hommes. En partant elle me\nmit au doigt un anneau de ses cheveux, et me fit jurer de le porter.\nVous daignerez peut-être vous rappeler, mon Elinor, l'état où j'étais\nlorsque je vins à la chaumière. Nos relations de famille ne me\npermettaient pas de passer si près de vous sans vous voir, et je\ndésirais vous faire tacitement un dernier adieu. Je ne voulais rester\nqu'un jour, et j'y fus une semaine; ce fut pour y éprouver encore\nl'ascendant d'un sentiment vrai et profond. A côté de vous je ne pouvais\npenser qu'à vous-même, et j'étais heureux. Il fallut m'arracher à cet\nenchantement, il fallut vous quitter.... Vous savez le reste, comme Anna\ntrahit notre secret, et comme ma mère en voulant m'obliger à épouser\nmademoiselle Morton, me força à déclarer moi-même mes anciens engagemens\navec Lucy. Je savais par elle qu'ils étaient connus de vous. Elle\nm'avait assuré que vous y preniez intérêt, que vous les regardiez comme\nsacrés. Ah! cela seul m'aurait engagé à les tenir; mon seul\ndédommagement était de mériter votre estime. Qu'aurais-je d'ailleurs\ngagné à les rompre, puisque j'étais sûr qu'alors je n'aurais plus rien\nété pour vous? Je me résignai donc à mon sort, et je fis le sacrifice de\nma famille, de ma fortune et de toutes mes espérances de bonheur sur\ncette terre, à une personne que je n'aimais plus; et qui par ses\nprocédés avec vous m'avait dévoilé son caractère.\n\nVoilà mon histoire; celle de mon frère et de Lucy m'est moins connue.\nJe ne puis en juger que d'après leur caractère et les lettres qu'ils\nm'ont écrites, et que je vous montrerai. De tout temps Robert a affecté\nun grand mépris pour moi et pour ma tournure. La pensée que j'avais pu\nplaire à une jolie femme, a dû naturellement exciter sa vanité et lui\ndonner l'idée de l'emporter sur moi, et de me souffler cette conquête.\nQuand Lucy alla demeurer chez ma soeur, je la blâmai de l'avoir accepté,\net j'eus soin de m'y trouver très-peu; Robert au contraire y était sans\ncesse. Il ignorait notre liaison; mais certainement Lucy lui plaisait,\nparce qu'elle encensait sa vanité en le flattant avec excès. Sans doute\naussi son élégance et son jargon plaisaient davantage à Lucy que ma\ntimide simplicité. La grande découverte arriva. Je fus déshérité; ma\nmère donna tout de suite à Robert ce qu'elle me destinait, et dès-lors\nil plut encore davantage à une femme vaine, intéressée, et qui de ce\nmoment forma le projet de chercher à se l'attacher, mais en me ménageant\nencore dans le cas où elle n'y pourrait réussir. Mon absence lui donnait\nla facilité de suivre à merveille ce double plan. Je lui avais déclaré\nque notre mariage n'aurait lieu que lorsque je serais consacré et que\nj'aurais un presbytère. La générosité du colonel Brandon leva cet\nobstacle. Vous fûtes chargée de me l'apprendre, et vous dûtes voir que\nj'en fus plus peiné que satisfait; mais je n'avais pas encore les\nordres, et je partis pour Oxford. Lucy m'écrivait, et ses lettres\nn'étaient ni moins tendres, ni moins fréquentes qu'à l'ordinaire. Je\nn'avais donc pas le moindre soupçon du bonheur qui m'attendait et de ma\ndélivrance, lorsque tout à coup je reçus celles-ci, dit-il, en les\nsortant de son porte feuille et en les présentant à Elinor qui les\nouvrit et lut ce qui suit:\n\n  MON CHER EDWARD,\n\n  «Ayant su par vous-même que je n'étais plus depuis long-temps le\n  premier objet de vos affections, j'ai cru qu'il m'était permis de\n  donner les miennes à un autre qui en sent mieux le prix que vous et\n  veut bien m'assurer qu'aucune femme ne lui plaît autant que moi. De\n  mon côté je suis convaincue que lui seul peut me rendre heureuse.\n  Ainsi, en épousant le cadet au lieu de l'aîné, j'assure le bonheur de\n  trois personnes, le vôtre, le mien, et celui de mon cher Robert à qui\n  je viens de jurer à l'autel amour et fidélité. Il ne tiendra pas à moi\n  que nous ne soyons également bons amis sous notre nouvelle relation.\n  Si, comme il est possible, notre mariage vous raccommode avec ma\n  belle-mère, je suis sûre au moins que vous vous intéresserez à obtenir\n  notre pardon, dont, au reste, je ne suis plus inquiète. Robert\n  m'assure qu'elle ne lui a jamais rien refusé, qu'elle ne peut se\n  passer de le voir. J'ai donc bien plus de chance de la voir aussi et\n  de lui plaire, que je n'en aurais eu avec vous. D'ailleurs mon mari a\n  déjà une jolie fortune assurée, et nous pouvons mieux nous passer de\n  l'héritage de madame Ferrars. Nous partons à l'instant pour Daulish en\n  Devonshire, où nous passerons quelques semaines. J'ai brûlé toutes vos\n  lettres, et je vous prie d'en faire autant des miennes. Mais je pense\n  que mon beau-frère voudra bien me laisser son portrait, de même que je\n  le prie de garder l'anneau de mes cheveux, en souvenir de son ancienne\n  amie, et actuellement de sa belle-soeur.\n\n  »LUCY FERRARS.»\n\nCelle de Robert était plus courte.\n\n  «Vous ne m'en voudrez pas, Edward, si je vous ai enlevé votre belle\n  conquête. Ce n'est, d'honneur, pas ma faute si la nature et\n  l'éducation m'ont donné plus de moyens de plaire. Je crois d'ailleurs\n  que Lucy et moi nous avons été formés l'un pour l'autre; même âge,\n  mêmes goûts. Elle est vraiment charmante, ma petite Lucy, et formée\n  par moi, elle effacera l'hiver prochain toutes nos beautés à la mode.\n  C'eût été un meurtre de l'ensevelir dans un presbytère. Au reste à\n  présent vous pourrez renoncer à embrasser ce saint état, pour lequel\n  je vous crois cependant une vocation toute particulière. Adieu donc,\n  mon cher pasteur, vous m'avez donné l'exemple de la désobéissance à\n  nos parens, et je l'ai suivi. Vraiment je trouve très-doux, quand on\n  n'est plus enfant, de faire sa volonté plutôt que celle des autres; et\n  vous aviez bien raison. Ma mère m'en a donné les moyens; j'en\n  profite, et j'ai sans doute votre approbation.\n\n  »Votre heureux frère,\n\n  »ROBERT FERRARS.»\n\nElinor les rendit sans aucun commentaire.\n\nJe ne vous demande pas votre opinion, dit Edward, sur le style de ma\nbelle-soeur. Pour le monde, je n'aurais pas voulu que vous eussiez vu\nune lettre d'elle quand elle devait être ma femme. Combien de fois j'ai\nrougi en les lisant! Je crois en vérité que, passé les premiers six\nmois, cette lettre est la seule qui m'ait fait un plaisir sans mélange.\n\nIl m'est impossible, dit Maria, de ne pas observer comme votre mère a\nété punie par son propre tort. L'indépendance qu'elle a donnée à Robert\npar ressentiment contre vous, a entièrement tourné contre elle. Il est\nvraiment assez plaisant qu'elle ait donné mille pièces de revenu à l'un\nde ses fils, pour qu'il fît exactement la même faute pour laquelle elle\ndéshéritait l'autre. Car je suppose qu'elle sera aussi blessée du\nmariage de Robert, qu'elle l'avait été du vôtre.\n\n--Elle le sera bien davantage, dit Edward. Dans le fond de son ame elle\nn'était pas fâchée d'un prétexte de mettre mon frère à ma place; mais\naussi comme il a toujours été son favori, sa faute sera plus vite\npardonnée.\n\n--Peut-être, dit Elinor, trouvera-t-elle votre second choix aussi\nmauvais que le premier. Avez-vous communiqué vos intentions à quelqu'un\nde votre famille?\n\n--Non, pas encore, chère amie! Ma première pensée, après avoir reçu la\nlettre de Lucy, fut de me mettre en route pour Barton par le plus court\nchemin. J'ai quitté Oxford le lendemain. Je voulais avant tout, mon\nElinor, obtenir votre aveu et celui de votre mère. Hélas! je suis à\nprésent un bien pauvre parti! un ministre de village avec deux ou trois\ncents pièces de revenu. Voilà tout ce que je puis offrir à celle qui, à\nmon avis, mériterait le trône du monde.\n\n--Et votre coeur, dit Elinor avec son charmant sourire, ce coeur que le\nmien sait apprécier depuis long-temps, ne le comptez-vous pour rien? Moi\nje le compte pour tout; et il vaut mieux pour moi que tous les trônes.\n\nIl fallut lui expliquer ensuite comment on l'avait cru marié, et\ncomment Thomas avait rencontré Lucy et Robert. Ce récit excita de\nnouveau son indignation contre la première, qui s'était certainement\nfait un jeu de tromper un moment Elinor, en lui faisant croire qu'elle\navait épousé Edward. Depuis long-temps les yeux de celui-ci s'étaient\nouverts sur son ignorance complète, son mauvais ton, et ce genre de\nfinesse malicieuse, que ceux qui l'ont qualifient du nom d'_esprit_, et\nqui n'en est que le simulacre; car c'est presque toujours au contraire\nle signe d'un esprit étroit et d'un manque d'éducation. Edward\nattribuait à ce dernier travers tous les défauts de Lucy, et la croyait\nd'ailleurs une bonne fille, ayant assez d'esprit naturel et\nd'attachement pour lui, pour se former insensiblement. Sans cette idée\nrien ne l'aurait empêché de rompre un engagement qui était une source de\npeines et de regrets.--Je crus de mon devoir, poursuivit-il, lorsque je\nfus déshérité, de lui donner encore l'option d'annuler ou de continuer\nnos engagemens. J'étais alors dans une situation qui ne pouvait, ce me\nsemble, tenter ni la vanité, ni l'avarice de qui que ce soit. En\npersistant à vouloir m'épouser, elle semblait me prouver une affection\nvive et désintéressée, dont je fus entièrement dupe, et qui me donna des\nremords. Encore à présent je ne puis comprendre pourquoi elle\ns'obstinait à enchaîner un homme qu'elle n'aimait pas, dont elle savait\nn'être pas aimée, et qui n'avait plus ni fortune, ni amis, ni\nprotection. Elle ne pouvait pas deviner que le colonel Brandon me\ndonnerait un bénéfice.\n\n--Non, dit Maria; mais il pouvait arriver tel événement dans votre\nfamille qui vous remît à votre place. Elle ne risquait rien pour\nelle-même, puisqu'elle a prouvé qu'elle se croyait en pleine liberté.\nVotre nom seul lui donnait un grand relief parmi les siens, et si rien\nne se présentait de plus avantageux, elle vous aurait du moins préféré\nau célibat. Indigne fille! je l'ai toujours devinée, et je n'ai aucun\nrepentir de ma manière froide et repoussante avec elle.\n\nEdward apprit avec plaisir que le colonel Brandon était attendu à la\nchaumière. Il était charmé d'une prompte occasion de le remercier mieux\nqu'il ne l'avait fait encore. La mauvaise humeur que lui donnait ce don,\nlorsqu'il l'obligeait d'épouser Lucy, avait percé dans l'expression\ntrès-faible de sa reconnaissance. A présent, dit-il, en pourrai-je\njamais témoigner assez à celui qui assure mon bonheur? Sans asile, et\npresque sans revenu, aurais-je osé demander cette main chérie?\n\n--Sans asile? dit madame Dashwood, n'auriez-vous pas pu vivre ici avec\nnous? Le gendre qui rendra mon Elinor heureuse comme elle mérite de\nl'être, sera toujours assez riche pour moi, et je partagerai avec lui le\npeu que je possède.\n\nElinor vint embrasser son excellente mère. Un peu moins romanesque\nqu'elle, elle savait bien qu'on ne vit pas d'amour, et que trois cent\ncinquante pièces par an, qui étaient tout ce qu'ils pouvaient espérer,\nen réunissant leurs petites fortunes, demandaient beaucoup d'économie\npour nouer les deux bouts de l'année. Edward n'était pas sans espérance\nque sa mère ne fît à présent quelque chose pour lui; mais non pas\nElinor. Mademoiselle Morton et ses trente mille livres étant encore là,\nelle était sûre que madame Ferrars, qui la regardait seulement comme un\nparti moins déshonorant que Lucy, offrirait encore à son fils, non\nmarié, mademoiselle Morton, et sur son nouveau refus, dont elle ne\ndoutait pas, le déshériterait cette fois pour toujours, et que l'offense\nde Robert ne servirait qu'à enrichir Fanny. Mais Elinor et Edward\navaient tous les deux des goûts si simples, qu'ils étaient sûrs de\npouvoir trouver, malgré cela, le bonheur dans leur étroite médiocrité\nde fortune.\n\nEdward fut invité par madame Dashwood à passer huit jours à la\nchaumière, et l'on juge s'il accepta avec transport, et si Elinor fut\nheureuse. Mais leur caractère à tous les deux ne donnait pas beaucoup\nd'expansion à leur bonheur; ils en jouissaient en silence. Elinor\nd'ailleurs ménageait Maria, et ne voulait pas lui offrir le spectacle\nd'un amour heureux et passionné. Edward était avec toutes comme un frère\nchéri; et un étranger aurait eu peine à deviner à laquelle il était\nattaché par l'amour le plus tendre et le plus réciproque.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPITRE LII.\n\n\nQuatre jours après l'arrivée d'Edward, celle du colonel Brandon vint\ncompléter la satisfaction de madame Dashwood. Mais elle ne put avoir\ncelle de le loger: il n'y avait à la chaumière qu'une seule chambre à\ndonner. Edward garda son privilége de premier venu; il n'avait\nd'ailleurs pas de connaissance dans le voisinage. Alors le colonel\noffrit de retourner tous les soirs dans son ancien appartement au parc;\nil en revenait dès le matin pour déjeuner avec ses amies. Pendant trois\nsemaines de solitude à Delafort, il avait eu le temps de calculer la\ndisproportion entre trente-huit ans et dix-huit, et il revint à Barton\ndans une disposition d'esprit qui lui rendait bien nécessaires, et les\nprogrès de la santé de Maria, et l'amitié qu'elle lui témoignait, et\ntous les encouragemens de madame Dashwood. Au milieu de tels amis il eut\nbientôt retrouvé sa sérénité. Il ignorait complétement le nouveau choix\nde Lucy; il ne savait pas un mot du penchant d'Elinor, ensorte que les\npremières visites se passèrent à écouter et à s'étonner. Madame Dashwood\nse chargea de ce récit; il y prit le plus vif intérêt, et trouva de\nnouveaux motifs de se réjouir de ce qu'il avait fait pour Edward,\npuisque c'était actuellement aussi pour Elinor. Il est inutile de dire\nque ces deux hommes ayant autant de rapports dans les opinions, dans le\ncaractère, dans les manières, ne tardèrent pas à se lier intimement.\nCes rapports auraient suffi sans doute; mais leur attachement pour les\ndeux soeurs les attira l'un vers l'autre, par une douce et prompte\nsympathie, et produisit en peu de jours ce qui aurait été l'effet du\ntemps et de leur rapprochement.\n\nLes lettres de Londres arrivèrent enfin et furent très-volumineuses;\nelles racontèrent la surprenante histoire dans tous ses détails. Madame\nJennings témoignait son indignation contre cette _changeante_ fille, et\nsa compassion pour _le pauvre malheureux_ Edward, qui peut-être,\ndisait-elle, allait mourir à Oxford de ce chagrin, si cruel, si\ninattendu. Il n'y avait que deux jours d'écoulés depuis que Lucy était\nvenue passer deux heures avec elle, et elle ne lui en avait pas dit un\nmot. Seulement elle lui avait conté qu'elle voyait quelquefois M. Robert\nFerrars, et qu'elle cultivait une bienveillance qui pouvait un jour être\nutile à Edward, ce dont elle la loua fort. Voyez quelle indigne\ntrompeuse, s'écriait-elle dans sa lettre! La bonne Anna ne s'est non\nplus doutée de rien. Pauvre créature! ce fut elle qui vint me\nl'apprendre; elle en pleurait amèrement. Sa soeur, au lieu de l'emmener\navec elle, avait emporté tout leur argent; c'était elle qui le gardait;\net la malheureuse était sans un seul schelling. Je l'ai gardée avec moi\njusqu'à ce que j'aille au parc, d'où je la renverrai à sa famille. Sa\njoie de rester encore un peu à Londres et chez moi où le docteur Donavar\nvient quelquefois, l'a complétement consolée. Mais qui consolera le\npauvre délaissé Edward? Pour mon goût je l'aimerais cent fois mieux que\nce fat de Robert..... Il me vient une idée: il faut que vous l'invitiez\nà Barton, et que Maria ait pitié de lui, etc. etc. etc.\n\nIl y avait aussi une longue lettre de M. John Dashwood, qui racontait\ncet événement à Elinor avec de grandes lamentations. Sa belle-mère était\nla plus malheureuse des femmes. La _sensible_ Fanny avait eu des\nrechutes de maux de nerfs si violens, que c'était un miracle qu'elle eût\npu y résister. L'offense de Robert était impardonnable; mais Lucy était\nbeaucoup plus blâmable. On n'osait nommer ni l'un ni l'autre devant\nmadame Ferrars. Cependant elle aimait tellement ce fils, que peut-être\nun jour pourrait-elle consentir à le revoir; mais sa femme ne\nparaîtrait jamais en sa présence. La manière mystérieuse avec laquelle\ncette affaire s'était tramée ajoutait beaucoup à _leur crime_. Car si\nl'on avait eu le moindre soupçon, on aurait pu prendre des mesures pour\nl'empêcher. Il priait Elinor de se joindre à lui pour se plaindre de ce\nqu'Edward n'eût pas épousé plus tôt cette fille, qui prive tour à tour\nune bonne mère de ses deux fils. Madame Ferrars, à leur grande surprise,\nn'avait pas nommé Edward une seule fois dans cette occasion, et lui\nn'avait pas écrit une ligne; c'était cependant le moment de chercher à\nse réconcilier avec sa mère, en lui promettant de faire ce qu'elle\ndésire. Peut-être qu'il ne l'osait pas; mais il pourrait s'adresser à sa\nsoeur, y joindre une lettre de soumission pour sa mère, que Fanny lui\nremettrait, et qui peut-être aurait un bon effet.\n\nCe paragraphe était de quelque importance pour régler la conduite\nd'Edward. Il le détermina à tenter en effet une réconciliation, mais non\npas comme John Dashwood l'entendait.\n\n--_Une lettre de soumission!_ répétait Edward. Non certainement je n'ai\npoint de soumission à faire. Dois-je demander pardon à ma mère de\nl'ingratitude de Robert envers elle et de sa trahison envers moi? Il m'a\nrendu le plus heureux des hommes; voilà tout ce que je puis lui dire, et\nce qui l'intéressera fort peu.\n\n--Vous pouvez certainement, dit Elinor, demander pardon à votre mère, de\nce que vous l'avez offensée. Je pense même que vous pourriez à présent\nlui témoigner en conscience quelques regrets d'avoir formé cet\nengagement qui attire sur vous sa colère.\n\n--Oui, je le puis, dit Edward, et je le ferai.\n\n--Et, ajouta-t-elle en souriant, vous pourriez peut-être après cela\nconvenir en toute humilité, que vous avez formé un second engagement,\npresque aussi imprudent à ses yeux que le premier, avec la soeur de son\ngendre.\n\nEdward n'eut rien à opposer à ce plan; mais se défiant un peu dans cette\noccasion de l'intercession de son beau-frère et de sa soeur, il préféra\ntraiter personnellement et de bouche, plutôt que par écrit. Il fut donc\nrésolu qu'il irait à Londres, descendrait chez Fanny, et lui\ndemanderait de l'introduire auprès de leur mère.\n\n--Et si elle y consent, dit Maria avec vivacité, si elle amène une\nréconciliation entre vous et votre mère, je me réconcilie aussi avec\nelle, et je lui pardonne tout.\n\nLe lendemain Edward partit accompagné des voeux de tous ses amis pour le\nbon succès de son voyage; et le colonel consentit à rester quelques\njours encore pour les consoler un peu de son absence; mais il continua\nde loger au parc.\n\nLe troisième jour il ne vint pas au déjeuner. Elinor proposa à sa soeur\nune promenade du côté du parc, où peut-être elles le rencontreraient; et\nMaria y consentit. En effet, à peine eurent-elles tourné la colline,\nqu'elles le virent, à quelque distance, assis sur un banc de gazon;\nmais il n'y était pas seul. Une femme était assise à côté de lui, et\navait un enfant sur ses genoux; il caressait beaucoup l'enfant, et\nprenait aussi les mains de la dame entre les siennes. Je veux mourir,\ns'écria Maria, s'il n'est pas avec notre nouvelle connaissance\nd'Altenham, madame Summers, la parente de madame Smith, et sans doute\nc'est son fils. Mais d'où le colonel la connaît-il si intimement? Elinor\nne répondit rien; un soupçon traversait sa pensée. Avançons, dit Maria.\nAu moment même le groupe du banc de gazon les aperçut; ils se levèrent\net vinrent au devant d'elles, en sorte qu'on se rencontra bientôt. Le\ncolonel avait l'air assez embarrassé; mais au premier regard que Maria\neut jeté sur l'enfant, que sa mère avait repris, elle en comprit la\ncause. C'était le portrait en mignature de Willoughby; il était\nimpossible de s'y méprendre et de ne pas voir que c'était son fils. Tout\nfut dévoilé. Madame Summers était la fille adoptive du colonel,\nl'infortunée Caroline Williams, la victime des séductions de celui que\nMaria avait tant aimé. Elle eut peine à retenir un cri et à ne pas\nrepousser l'enfant, qui, attiré par les rubans roses de son chapeau, lui\ntendait ses petits bras. Elinor frappée aussi de la ressemblance, se\nhâta de se mettre entre lui et sa soeur, de parler à madame Summers, de\ncaresser le petit pour laisser à Maria le temps de se remettre. Mais ce\nmouvement avait effrayé l'enfant; il pleurait, et sa mère voulut\nabsolument l'emmener et rejoindre madame Smith. Une bonne attendait à\nquelque distance. La jeune maman salua les deux soeurs avec amitié, le\ncolonel avec un tendre respect, et s'éloigna avec son petit fardeau.\nMaria lui rendit son salut amical, et l'embrassa même. Rien ne prouva\nmieux à Elinor les progrès de sa raison; mais elle avait un tremblement\nd'émotion involontaire qui l'obligea à prendre le bras que le colonel\nlui offrait.\n\nIls firent quelques pas en silence; enfin le colonel le rompit.--Vous\nvenez, leur dit-il, de faire une découverte qui a dû vous surprendre.\nOui, cette jeune femme est celle à qui j'ai long-temps servi de père, et\nque je n'ai pu garantir du malheur. Mais il est réparé autant qu'il peut\nl'être. L'excellente madame Smith, en punissant sévèrement son jeune\nparent, a voulu que l'enfant et celle qui lui a donné la vie, rejetés\npar lui, le remplaçassent dans ses affections. Je ferai, m'écrivit-elle\nen me les demandant, ce qu'il aurait dû faire, ce qu'il m'a refusé;\nj'assurerai leur sort, et comme je ne puis désirer la damnation\néternelle d'un jeune homme que j'aimais comme un fils, avant ses\nerreurs, j'espère obtenir ainsi de Dieu le pardon de son péché, et qu'il\nne soit puni que dans cette vie. Vous comprenez avec quelle joie je\ncédai mon infortunée pupille à cette respectable femme. Caroline formée\npar le malheur, aimant passionnément son enfant, accepta avec transport\nune place qui ne la séparait pas de lui et la faisait vivre dans une\naustère retraite. Il fut convenu entre madame Smith et moi qu'elle\nchangerait de nom, et passerait pour une veuve. Jusqu'ici le secret\navait été bien gardé. Mais la ressemblance de l'enfant avec son père m'a\nsouvent fait trembler; c'est ce qui fait que Caroline ne l'avait point\nencore mené avec elle dans ses promenades. Depuis que je suis ici, je\nvais souvent la voir en allant à la chaumière. Cette fois, je suis resté\nplus long-temps qu'à l'ordinaire. Elle m'a accompagné avec le petit\nJames; et vous nous avez surpris. J'ai vu au premier instant que cet\nenfant vous disait tout et que notre secret était découvert. Mais ce\nn'est pas avec vous que je crains qu'il soit trahi et souvent j'aurais\nvoulu vous le confier moi-même, si je.... Il s'arrêta. Elinor le comprit\net le remercia par un regard de ne pas achever. Maria, les yeux baissés\net pleins de larmes, ne disait rien; mais il était facile de voir comme\nson coeur était oppressé, et celui du colonel n'était pas plus à son\naise. Il voyait, à n'en pas douter, combien ce sentiment qu'il avait cru\npresque éteint, avait encore de pouvoir sur elle. Quoiqu'il eût évité de\nnommer une seule fois Willoughby dans son récit, il se repentait de\nl'avoir fait devant elle: Mais ne rien dire aurait été plus pénible\nencore. Elinor se chargea de l'entretien, et sans prononcer non plus le\nnom fatal, elle témoigna au colonel un grand intérêt pour sa pupille, et\nlui dit combien elle leur avait plu. Maria prit sur elle de le confirmer\npar quelques mots obligeans; mais sa voix tremblante en détruisit\nl'effet. Ils arrivèrent à la maison. Maria dit que l'air du matin\nl'avait incommodée, et se sauva dans sa chambre. Le colonel était si\nsombre et si rêveur, que madame Dashwood le crut malade et s'en alarma.\nA dîner, Maria, qui avait réfléchi, reparut à peu près comme à\nl'ordinaire, fut amicale avec le colonel, et raconta elle-même à sa mère\nqu'elles avaient rencontré leur aimable voisine d'Altenham; mais il ne\nfut pas question de l'enfant. Cette manière remit un peu le colonel, et\nla soirée fut plus agréable que la matinée.\n\nOn reçut des lettres d'Edward. Après quelque résistance de la part de\nmadame Ferrars, il avait été admis en sa présence, et reconnu de nouveau\npour son fils _unique_, car c'était le tour de Robert de ne plus l'être.\nMais Edward n'avait point d'abord révélé son engagement actuel avec\nElinor, et il avait été loin de croire son sort assuré, et avait craint\nd'être repoussé avec plus de rigueur qu'auparavant. Il avait fait son\naveu après quelques préparations, et contre son attente, il fut écouté\navec beaucoup de calme. Madame Ferrars chercha cependant à le dissuader\nd'épouser la fille d'un simple gentilhomme, sans fortune et sans\nespérance, plutôt que la riche fille d'un lord. Il ne la contredit pas\ndu tout; mais il lui dit avec fermeté et respect, qu'il y était\nabsolument décidé. Alors, instruite par l'expérience du passé, elle\njugea plus sage d'accorder, avec toute la mauvaise grâce qu'elle put y\nmettre, ce qu'elle ne pouvait pas empêcher, et de consentir qu'Edward\népousât Elinor. Mais quoiqu'il fût à présent _son seul fils_,\ndisait-elle à chaque instant, elle ne le traita pas comme tel, et ne lui\nrendit pas son droit d'aînesse. Pendant que le coupable Robert jouissait\nde mille pièces de revenu, sans faire autre chose que des sottises, elle\ntrouva fort bon que le pauvre Edward devînt pasteur d'un village avec\ndeux cents pièces de rente; elle y ajouta cependant, tant pour le\nprésent que pour le futur, la même somme de dix mille pièces qu'elle\navait données à Fanny en la mariant.\n\nEdward ne s'en plaignit pas; c'était plus qu'il n'avait espéré, et assez\npour pouvoir rendre son Elinor heureuse. John Dashwood répéta sur tous\nles tons que madame Ferrars était la meilleure et la plus généreuse des\nmères. Elle-même, avec ses excuses de ne pouvoir faire plus, sembla\nêtre la seule personne qui fût surprise de ce qu'elle ne fît pas\ndavantage.\n\nIl ne manquait plus à Edward, pour compléter son bonheur, que d'être\nconsacré, et que le presbytère fût prêt à les recevoir. Le colonel, à\nprésent qu'il devait être habité par Elinor, trouvait toujours de\nnouveaux embellissemens à y faire, et finit par les inviter à passer les\npremiers mois chez lui, d'où ils pourraient présider eux-mêmes à leurs\nréparations. Ils y consentirent, et de bonne heure, en automne, la\ncérémonie eut lieu dans l'église de Barton. Cette fois les prophéties de\nmadame Jennings furent accomplies à sa grande joie; elle put visiter à\nla Saint-Michel le pasteur de Delafort, et ne fut pas fâchée d'y trouver\nElinor plutôt que Lucy; mais elle fut un peu surprise de s'être encore\ntrompée sur l'amour du colonel, qu'elle recommença de nouveau à destiner\nà Maria: et c'était le voeu général de la famille, la seule chose qui\nmanquât encore à la félicité d'Elinor. Ils eurent aussi la visite de\nmadame Ferrars la mère, presque honteuse d'avoir autorisé leur bonheur,\net celle de John et de Fanny, qui vinrent avec elle.\n\nJe ne veux pas dire que vous ayez mal fait d'épouser mon beau-frère, dit\nJohn à Elinor, en se promenant avec elle dans l'avenue du château de\nDelafort; je vois que vous êtes aussi heureuse qu'on peut l'être avec\npeu d'argent; mais j'avoue que j'aurais eu un grand plaisir à appeler le\ncolonel Brandon mon frère. Cette terre, cette maison, chaque chose ici\nest vraiment très-agréable et fait envie; et quels bois, quels beaux\narbres! Enfin Maria est encore là, et quoique ce ne soit point une\npersonne qui l'attire, et qu'il n'ait jamais eu de goût pour elle, je\ncrois que si elle voulait se donner un peu de peine, et vous, insinuer\nau colonel d'y penser, cela pourrait s'arranger une fois. Je rirais bien\nsi nous en venions à bout; car il ne l'aime pas du tout. Je ne me trompe\njamais, moi, sur ces sortes de choses; mais quand on se voit tous les\njours, le diable est bien fin. Vous ferez fort bien, ma soeur, d'inviter\nsouvent Maria, de faire remarquer au colonel comme sa santé et sa beauté\nreviennent: et qui sait ce qui peut arriver! Je le voudrais de tout mon\ncoeur, je vous assure.\n\nMadame Ferrars les vit quelquefois et se conduisit décemment avec eux;\nmais ils ne furent pas insultés par sa préférence, elle ne pouvait\nl'accorder au vrai mérite. La fatuité de Robert et les flatteries de sa\nfemme l'obtinrent encore. Les mêmes moyens que Lucy avait employés pour\nfaire tomber Robert dans le piége, furent pratiqués pour rentrer dans la\nfaveur de sa mère, dès qu'il lui fut possible d'en approcher, et elle\nmit beaucoup d'art pour l'obtenir; elle feignit d'être malade au point\nd'en mourir.\n\nMadame Ferrars qui déjà avait pardonné à Robert, et qui le recevait\nquelquefois, céda à ses sollicitations pour aller voir sa femme,\nespérant en être bientôt débarrassée. Dès-lors elle ne tarda pas à être\nguérie, et sa respectueuse humilité, ses attentions assidues pour la\nvieille dame et son petit chien, ses flatteries sans fin,\nréconcilièrent madame Ferrars sur le choix de son fils, et si\npromptement que Lucy devint aussi nécessaire que Robert à sa belle-mère\nqui l'aima même mieux que Fanny. Ils s'établirent à Londres, reçurent\nmille libéralités de madame Ferrars, furent dans les meilleurs termes\navec les Dashwood en apparence. Mais la jalousie de Fanny, la légèreté\nde Robert, le mauvais esprit de Lucy les rendirent malheureux malgré\nleurs richesses; tandis que dans le presbytère de Delafort tout était\nbonheur et jouissances. L'attachement de ses habitans s'augmentait tous\nles jours. Ils n'avaient aucun besoin factice. Rien ne les entraînait\nhors de chez eux, et loin de ne pas se croire assez riches, ils avaient\nencore de quoi aider les malheureux. Robert au contraire faisait des\ndettes, mangeait d'avance ce qu'il attendait encore de sa mère, et se\npréparait un avenir bien triste, associé à une femme à qui il ne\nresterait rien et dont la physionomie animée ne serait plus que\nl'expression de la méchanceté quand elle aurait perdu sa fraîcheur.\n\nLe mariage d'Elinor la sépara peu de sa famille. Sa mère et ses soeurs\npassaient avec elle plus de la moitié de leur vie. Madame Dashwood\nespérait toujours qu'en donnant au colonel et à Maria de fréquentes\noccasions de se rencontrer, celle-ci s'attacherait enfin à cet homme si\ndigne d'être aimé. Mais plus d'une année s'était écoulée, et rien\nn'avançait que l'amitié de Maria pour lui, qui s'augmentait\ngraduellement, ainsi que l'amour du colonel qui, persuadé qu'elle\naimait encore malgré elle Willoughby, ou que du moins elle n'en aimerait\njamais d'autre, n'osait s'expliquer et proposer sa main à celle qui\npossédait en entier son coeur. Heureux d'en être regardé comme un ami,\net déjà comme un fils et un frère par madame Dashwood et par Elinor, il\nredoutait de porter atteinte à ce bonheur par une démarche décisive et\ntrop précipitée. Il chérissait ses espérances et tremblait de les\nperdre. Ce n'était qu'à Elinor seulement qu'il osait ouvrir son coeur,\net tout était transmis avec soin par elle à Maria qui l'écoutait sans\npeine, et répondait en soupirant: Je ne serais pas digne lui, si je\npouvais aimer deux fois.\n\nUn matin, ils étaient tous rassemblés chez Elinor, un peu incommodée\nd'une grossesse pénible, lorsqu'on apporta les papiers et les lettres\nde la poste. Dans le nombre de celles adressées à madame Edward Ferrars,\nil y en avait une à grand cachet noir dont l'écriture ne lui était pas\ninconnue, quoiqu'elle n'eût pu la désigner. Maria, occupée à parcourir\nles papiers-nouvelles, ne la voyait pas. Tout à coup le papier tombe de\nsa main; elle jette un cri dont l'expression était plus l'étonnement que\nla peine ou l'émotion, et dit d'une voix assez ferme: Madame Willoughby\nest morte d'une chute de phaéton. Pauvre femme! elle paie cher son goût\neffréné pour le plaisir. Le colonel, plus ému qu'elle, prend ce fatal\npapier, et ne doute pas qu'il ne renferme l'arrêt de sa condamnation.\nJ'ai ici, dit Elinor, la confirmation de cette nouvelle par M.\nWilloughby lui-même, qui me la communique. Lisez, Maria. Celle-ci prit\nla lettre et lut bas ce qui suit:\n\n  «L'intérêt que madame Edward Ferrars m'a témoigné dans notre dernier\n  entretien, me fait espérer qu'elle me pardonnera d'oser lui apprendre\n  que ma fatale chaîne est rompue. Celle à qui j'avais donné mon nom en\n  échange de sa fortune, a péri victime d'un accident que je n'ai cessé\n  de lui prédire, en s'obstinant à conduire elle-même des chevaux trop\n  vifs. Mais depuis long-temps mes conseils lui étaient aussi odieux que\n  ma présence.\n\n  »Je sais que ce n'est pas encore le temps de parler du sentiment qui\n  domine dans mon coeur; mais celle qui me l'inspire est libre encore,\n  et je ne puis me défendre d'espérer. Bonne Elinor! vous qui sans doute\n  êtes la plus heureuse des femmes dans une union fondée sur un amour\n  réciproque, vous ne me refuserez pas un jour votre appui. Mon étude\n  sera de le mériter; recevez-en l'assurance de votre dévoué\n\n  »JAMES WILLOUGHBY.»\n\nMaria rougit beaucoup en lisant cette lettre, qu'elle passa à sa mère.\nLe colonel avait hésité de sortir; mais un sentiment involontaire le\nclouait à cette place. La tête appuyée sur sa main, tenant de l'autre\nles papiers, il avait l'air de les lire, et n'en distinguait pas un mot.\n\n--Répondrez-vous à M. Willoughby? dit Maria à sa soeur, après un moment\nde silence.\n\n--Oui, sans doute. Mais que dois-je lui dire?\n\n--Qu'il se trompe complétement, et que je ne suis plus libre, si....\n(elle se tourna vers le colonel), si le meilleur des hommes daigne\naccepter cette main et le don de mon coeur; et même, s'il les refusait,\nDieu aurait mon.........\n\n--Refuser! s'écria le colonel transporté de joie, en serrant contre son\nsein et pressant de ses lèvres cette main adorée. O Maria! chère Maria!\nl'ai-je bien entendu? et dans quel moment! Mais n'est-ce point une\nerreur de votre coeur généreux?\n\n--Non, non, dit-elle, avec une grâce enchanteresse; il est guéri de\ntoutes ses erreurs, il n'appartient qu'à celui qui m'a véritablement\naimée.--Et qui vous adorera toute sa vie....\n\n--On ne sollicite pas seulement mon consentement, dit en riant madame\nDashwood: si j'allais le refuser! Mais c'est le jour où les femmes font\nles avances, et je vous donne Maria, mon cher Brandon, avant que vous me\nl'ayez demandée. Ils se jetèrent dans ses bras, puis dans ceux d'Elinor\net d'Emma. Edward fut appelé de son cabinet pour prendre part à la joie\ngénérale, et la sienne fut bien grande en donnant le nom de frère à son\nintime ami.\n\nLa noce ne tarda pas à se célébrer en famille; elle fut bénie par\nEdward. Le colonel aurait voulu obtenir de sa belle-mère qu'elle se\nfixât tout-à-fait chez lui avec Emma; mais elle fut assez prudente pour\npréférer de conserver sa liberté et sa jolie chaumière, d'où elle\nsortait souvent pour visiter, à Delafort, tantôt le château, tantôt le\npresbytère, où elle trouvait autant de bonheur qu'on puisse en avoir ici\nbas. Celui de Maria augmenta tous les jours. Il était principalement\nfondé sur l'estime et sur une reconnaissance mutuelle. Le colonel\nsentait tous les jours davantage qu'il devait à sa charmante compagne\nles seuls momens heureux de sa vie. Elle le consola de toutes ses\naffections précédentes, rendit à son esprit toute sa gaieté, et il\nredevint le plus aimable de même qu'il était le meilleur des hommes.\nMaria fut heureuse du bonheur de cet homme excellent; et comme elle ne\nsavait pas aimer à demi, elle finit par aimer son mari au moins autant\nqu'elle avait aimé Willoughby.\n\nCe dernier fut d'abord furieux du mariage de Maria et de la réponse\nd'Elinor, qui lui prouva son intérêt en ne lui épargnant pas les\nconseils d'une raison saine et éclairée. Ils n'eurent pas d'abord grand\neffet sur un caractère aussi léger. Mais son coeur était bon, et en\nrelisant encore une fois, dans un moment de réflexion, la lettre de\nmadame Edward Ferrars, il en fut touché comme d'une vraie preuve\nd'amitié. Il désira de la voir et de la remercier; il en demanda la\npermission et l'obtint une année après son veuvage. C'est encore à vous,\nlui dit-il, sage Elinor, que je remets le soin du bonheur de ma vie, et\ncette fois j'espère d'être écouté. En renonçant à l'espoir insensé,\nj'en conviens, d'épouser Maria, en me rappelant tous mes torts passés,\nle plus grand de tous, la séduction de la jeune Caroline Williams, s'est\nprésenté à mon souvenir et m'a rempli de remords. Je sais qu'elle m'a\ndonné un fils que je n'ai jamais vu, mais à qui aussi je dois donner un\npère. J'ignore où vivent la mère et l'enfant; le colonel Brandon les a\nsi bien cachés que je n'ai pu les découvrir. A présent que mes\nintentions sont honorables, et que je suis libre de les remplir, je vous\nconjure d'obtenir de lui pour moi la main de sa pupille. Décidé à\nréparer mes torts avec elle et avec le colonel, tout le reste m'est\négal. Sa naissance est illégitime, je le sais; mais elle est la fille\nadoptive du colonel Brandon, et portera mon nom. Elle n'a point de\nfortune; la mienne nous suffira; et peut-être qu'après avoir rempli ce\ndevoir madame Smith me rendra son amitié. On dit cependant qu'elle a\nadopté des parens éloignés, et je n'ai pas grand espoir de ce côté; mais\nje vivrai en philosophe à Haute-Combe entre ma femme et mon enfant, et\nje rétablirai ma fortune, qui s'est déjà raccommodée par mon premier\nmariage.\n\nElinor sourit, l'approuva, et lui promit de s'intéresser pour lui auprès\ndu colonel. Le même jour elle en parla à lui et à Maria: cette dernière\ns'enflamma de cette idée, et conjura son mari d'y consentir. On alla en\nparler à Caroline, à madame Smith. Celle-ci, enchantée de sauver une ame\nde la damnation éternelle, ne se fit pas presser, et rendit son amitié\nà Willoughby en l'unissant à Caroline. Cette jeune femme, depuis\nqu'elle était mère d'un enfant charmant, qui était le portrait vivant de\nWilloughby, était devenue beaucoup plus jolie et beaucoup plus aimable\nqu'elle ne l'était autrefois. Elle le fixa autant qu'on pouvait le\nfixer. Ils restèrent à Altenham tant que madame Smith vécut, et furent\nensuite s'établir à Haute-Combe. Maria pouvait alors le voir sans danger\net sans émotion, et n'ayant point à rougir devant lui, leur relation\ndevint ce qu'elle devait être. Mais ils se virent rarement; madame\nBrandon était toute à ses devoirs d'épouse, de mère, de dame de\nparoisse, et s'acquittait de tout avec la chaleur de son ame et son\naimable vivacité. Son destin avait été singulier; elle semblait avoir\nété appelée à prouver elle-même la fausseté de son système favori, sur\nl'impossibilité d'aimer deux fois. Elle avait aimé passionnément à\ndix-sept ans, ce qui est assez rare: à cet âge on prend souvent pour une\npassion ce qui n'est qu'un goût léger, excité par l'attrait de la\nnouveauté, et l'effervescence de la jeunesse et de l'imagination. Ce\nn'est ordinairement que quelques années plus tard qu'on est capable\nd'avoir une passion vraie et profonde, et celle de Maria avait ces\ncaractères. Mais un sentiment d'un autre genre, et bien supérieur, une\nhaute estime, une vive amitié, une tendre reconnaissance, l'avaient\namenée à donner volontairement sa main à un homme qui n'était pas moins\nqu'elle victime d'un premier attachement, que deux années auparavant\nelle trouvait trop vieux pour se marier, et qui se donnait encore la\nbonne sauve-garde d'une veste de flanelle.\n\nIl n'est pas besoin de dire qu'elles eurent souvent la visite de la\nbonne Mme Jennings, et quelquefois celle de ses filles et de ses\ngendres, les Middleton et les Palmer. Sir Georges, toujours le plus gai\net le meilleur des voisins, se trouva réduit à la jeune Emma pour orner\nses bals de campagnes. Mais Emma grandit tous les jours; elle a quinze\nans, elle est jolie comme tous les amours, et déjà madame Jennings\ns'occupe beaucoup de deviner qui est-ce qui sera son amoureux.\n\nNous laissons à regret cette aimable famille, et nous devons compter au\nnombre des mérites, et des bonheurs d'Elinor et de Maria, qu'elles sont\njeunes, jolies, et qu'elles vivent à côté l'une de l'autre dans des\nsituations de fortune bien différentes, sans que leur liaison ait jamais\nété troublée par le moindre nuage, non plus que celle de leurs maris.\n\nFIN.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n  Liste des modifications:\n\n  Page  23: rajouté «de» (dans ceux de Willoughby)\n  Page  31: «colonnel»  remplacé par «colonel» (d'être seul avec madame\n              Jennings et le colonel Brandon)\n  Page  33: «Eliza» par «Elisa» (entre Maria et son Elisa)\n  Page  85: «était» par «s'était» (ce qui s'était passé entre)\n  Page  90: «échappé» par «échapper» (qu'ai-je laissé échapper)\n  Page  92: «voyai» par «voyais» (plus d'une fois par jour, je voyais)\n  Page 130: «d'Eward» par «d'Edward» (à côté d'Edward et de Lucy)\n  Page 153: «Myddleton» par «Middleton» (avec les Middleton,)\n  Page 172: «soufrance» par «souffrance» (il n'est point en souffrance)\n  Page 188: «Eward» par «Edward» (que sa fille aînée n'avait pas\n              regretté Edward)\n  Page 193: «le le» par «le» (en entendant le message de sa femme?)\n  Page 214: «demendât» par «demandât» (alors voué à quelque état\n              qui demandât)\n  Page 218: «Oxfort» par «Oxford» (pendant que j'étais à Oxford)\n  Page 233: «d'annuller» par «d'annuler» (l'option d'annuler)\n  Page 241: «sa sa» par «sa» (je la renverrai à sa famille)\n  Page 259: «l'acorder» par «l'accorder» (elle ne pouvait l'accorder\n              au vrai mérite)\n\n\n\n\n","id":"37634"},{"text":"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Transcriber's Note: letters that were superscripted in the original are\nsurrounded by brackets and preceded by a caret ^.]\n\n\n\n_JANE AUSTEN'S WORKS._\n\n\n    SENSE AND SENSIBILITY                    2 vols.\n    PRIDE AND PREJUDICE                      2 vols.\n    MANSFIELD PARK                           2 vols.\n    EMMA                                     2 vols.\n    NORTHANGER ABBEY                         1 vol.\n    PERSUASION                               1 vol.\n    LADY SUSAN--THE WATSONS WITH A MEMOIR    1 vol.\n    LETTERS                                  1 vol.\n\n[Illustration: J. Austen\n\n_From a Painting in the possession of the Rev. Morland Rice, of\nBramber._]\n\n\n\n\nTHE LETTERS\n\nOF\n\nJANE AUSTEN\n\n_Selected from the Compilation of her Great Nephew_\n\n_EDWARD, LORD BRADBOURNE_\n\nBY SARAH CHAUNCEY WOOLSEY\n\n\n    BOSTON\n    LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY\n    1908\n\n\n[Transcriber's Note: While the title page gives credit to Lord\nBradbourne, the actual title of Edward was Lord Brabourne.]\n\n\n\n\n    _Copyright, 1892_,\n    BY ROBERTS BROTHERS.\n\n\n    Printers\n    S. J. PARKHILL & CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nTHE recent cult for Miss Austen, which has resulted in no less than ten\nnew editions of her novels within a decade and three memoirs by\ndifferent hands within as many years, have made the facts of her life\nfamiliar to most readers. It was a short life, and an uneventful one as\nviewed from the standpoint of our modern times, when steam and\nelectricity have linked together the ends of the earth, and the very air\nseems teeming with news, agitations, discussions. We have barely time to\nrecover our breath between post and post; and the morning paper with its\nstatements of disaster and its hints of still greater evils to be, is\nscarcely out-lived, when, lo! in comes the evening issue, contradicting\nthe news of the morning, to be sure, but full of omens and auguries of\nits own to strew our pillows with the seed of wakefulness.\n\nTo us, publications come hot and hot from the press. Telegraphic wires\nlike the intricate and incalculable zigzags of the lightning ramify\nabove our heads; and who can tell at what moment their darts may\nstrike? In Miss Austen's day the tranquil, drowsy, decorous English day\nof a century since, all was different. News travelled then from hand to\nhand, carried in creaking post-wagons, or in cases of extreme urgency by\nmen on horseback. When a gentleman journeying in his own \"chaise\" took\nthree days in going from Exeter to London, a distance now covered in\nthree hours of railroad, there was little chance of frequent surprises.\nLove, sorrow, and death were in the world then as now, and worked their\nwill upon the sons of men; but people did not expect happenings every\nday or even every year. No doubt they lived the longer for this\nexemption from excitement, and kept their nerves in a state of wholesome\nrepair; but it goes without saying that the events of which they knew so\nlittle did not stir them deeply.\n\nMiss Austen's life coincided with two of the momentous epochs of\nhistory,--the American struggle for independence, and the French\nRevolution; but there is scarcely an allusion to either in her letters.\nShe was interested in the fleet and its victories because two of her\nbrothers were in the navy and had promotion and prize-money to look\nforward to. In this connection she mentions Trafalgar and the Egyptian\nexpedition, and generously remarks that she would read Southey's \"Life\nof Nelson\" if there was anything in it about her brother Frank! She\nhonors Sir John Moore by remarking after his death that his mother\nwould perhaps have preferred to have him less distinguished and still\nalive; further than that, the making of the gooseberry jam and a good\nrecipe for orange wine interests her more than all the marchings and\ncountermarchings, the manoeuvres and diplomacies, going on the world\nover. In the midst of the universal vortex of fear and hope, triumph and\ndefeat, while the fate of Britain and British liberty hung trembling in\nthe balance, she sits writing her letters, trimming her caps, and\ndiscussing small beer with her sister in a lively and unruffled fashion\nwonderful to contemplate. \"The society of rural England in those days,\"\nas Mr. Goldwin Smith happily puts it, \"enjoyed a calm of its own in the\nmidst of the European tempest like the windless centre of a circular\nstorm.\"\n\nThe point of view of a woman with such an environment must naturally be\ncircumscribed and narrow; and in this Miss Austen's charm consists.\nSeeing little, she painted what she saw with absolute fidelity and a\ndexterity and perfection unequalled. \"On her was bestowed, though in a\nhumble form, the gift which had been bestowed on Homer, Shakespeare,\nCervantes, Scott, and a few others,--the gift of creative power.\"\nEndowed with the keenest and most delicate insight and a vivid sense of\nhumor, she depicted with exactitude what she observed and what she\nunderstood, giving to each fact and emotion its precise shade and\nvalue. The things she did not see she did not attempt. Affectation was\nimpossible to her,--most of all, affectation of knowledge or feeling not\njustly her own. \"She held the mirror up to her time\" with an exquisite\nsincerity and fidelity; and the closeness of her study brought her\nintimately near to those hidden springs which underlie all human nature.\nThis is the reason why, for all their skimp skirts, leg-of-mutton\nsleeves, and bygone impossible bonnets, her characters do not seem to us\nold-fashioned. Minds and hearts are made pretty much after the same\npattern from century to century; and given a modern dress and speech,\nEmma or Elizabeth or dear Anne Eliot could enter a drawing-room to-day,\nand excite no surprise except by so closely resembling the people whom\nthey would find there.\n\n\"Miss Austen's novels are dateless things,\" Mr. Augustine Birrell tells\nus. \"Nobody in his senses would speak of them as 'old novels.' 'John\nInglesant' is an old novel, so is 'Ginx's Baby.' But Emma is quite new,\nand, like a wise woman, affords few clues to her age.\"\n\nWe allude with a special touch of affection to Anne Eliot. \"Persuasion,\"\nwhich was written during the last two years of Miss Austen's life, when\nthe refining touch of Eternity was already upon her, has always seemed\nto us the most perfect of her novels; and Anne, with her exquisite\nbreeding and unselfish straightforwardness, just touched with the tender\nreserve of memory and regret, one of her best portraitures. But this is\na matter of individual taste. Doubtless Elizabeth Bennet is \"better fun\"\nas the modern girl would say. Miss Austen herself preferred her. She had\na droll and pretty way of talking about her characters which showed how\nreal they were to her own mind, and made them equally real to other\npeople. In 1813 she had the good luck to light upon a portrait of Jane\nBennet at an exhibition.\n\n      \"I was very well pleased (pray tell Fanny) with a\n      small portrait of Mrs. Bingley, excessively like her.\n      I went in hopes of seeing one of her sister, but there\n      was no Mrs. Darcy. Perhaps I may find her in the great\n      exhibition, which we shall go to if we have time. Mrs.\n      Bingley's is exactly like herself,--size, shaped face,\n      features and sweetness; there never was a greater\n      likeness. She is dressed in a white gown, with green\n      ornaments, which convinces me of what I had always\n      supposed, that green was a favorite color with her. I\n      dare say Mrs. D. will be in yellow.\"\n\nAnd later:--\n\n      \"We have been both to the exhibition and Sir J.\n      Reynolds'; and I am disappointed, for there was\n      nothing like Mrs. D. at either. I can only imagine\n      that Mr. D. prizes any picture of her too much to like\n      it should be exposed to the public eye. I can imagine\n      he would have that sort of feeling,--that mixture of\n      love, pride, and delicacy.\"\n\nThe letters included in this series comprise about three quarters of the\ncollection in two volumes published in 1884 by her great-nephew Lord\nBrabourne. The lightness, almost friskiness, of their tone cannot fail\nto strike the reader. Modern letters written by women are filled more or\nless with hints and queries; questionings as to the why and the\nwherefore occur; allusions to the various \"fads\" of the day, literary or\nartistic,--Ibsen, Tolstoi, Browning, Esoteric Buddhism, Wagner's Music,\nthe Mind Cure, Social Science, Causes and Reforms. But Cowper and Crabbe\nwere the poetical sensations in Miss Austen's time, Scott and Byron its\nphenomenal novelties; it took months to get most books printed, and\nyears to persuade anybody to read them. Furthermore the letters, in all\nprobability, are carefully chosen to reveal only the more superficial\nside of their writer. There are wide gaps of omission, covering\nimportant events such as Mr. Austen's death, the long illness through\nwhich Jane nursed her brother Henry, and the anxieties and worries which\nhis failure in business caused to the whole family. What is vouchsafed\nus is a glimpse of the girlish and untroubled moments of Miss Austen's\nlife; and the glimpse is a sweet and friendly one. We are glad to have\nit, in spite of our suspicion that another and even more interesting\npart of her personality is withheld from us.\n\nA good daughter, a delightful sister, the most perfect of aunts, what\nbetter record could there be of a single woman? Her literary work never\nstood in the way of her home duties, any more than her \"quiet, limpid,\nunimpassioned style\" stood between her thought and her readers.\n\nHer fame may justly be said to be almost entirely posthumous. She was\nread and praised to a moderate degree during her lifetime, but all her\nnovels together brought her no more than seven hundred pounds; and her\nreputation, as it were, was in its close-sheathed bud when, at the early\nage of forty-one, she died. It would have excited in her an amused\nincredulity, no doubt, had any one predicted that two generations after\nher death the real recognition of her powers was to come. Time, which\nlike desert sands has effaced the footprints of so many promising\nauthors, has, with her, served as the desert wind, to blow aside those\ndusts of the commonplace which for a while concealed her true\nproportions. She is loved more than she ever hoped to be, and far more\nwidely known. Mrs. Ritchie tells somewhere an anecdote of a party of\nseven assembled at a dinner-table, where the question arose of the\nlocality of one of Miss Austen's places,--Maple Grove, the residence of\nMr. Suckling, if we are not mistaken,--and six of the persons present at\nonce recognized the allusion, and had a formed opinion on the subject.\nThe seventh was a Frenchman who did not read English!\n\nScott, Macaulay, Sir James Mackintosh, Miss Martineau, Mrs. Ritchie,\nMiss Mitford, and a host of others have vied in their generous tributes\nof admiration. But most striking of all, to our thinking, is that paid\nto Miss Austen by Lord Tennyson when, in some visit to Lyme not many\nyears since, those with him pointed out this and the other feature of\nthe place only to be interrupted with--\"Never mind all that. Show me the\nexact spot where Louisa Musgrove fell!\" Could non-historical\nverisimilitude go farther or mean more?\n\n                                                      S. C. W.\n\n  NEWPORT, June, 1892.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nLETTERS OF JANE AUSTEN.\n\n\n\n\nI.\n\n\n                             STEVENTON, Thursday (January 16, 1796).\n\nI HAVE just received yours and Mary's letter, and I thank you both,\nthough their contents might have been more agreeable. I do not at all\nexpect to see you on Tuesday, since matters have fallen out so\nunpleasantly; and if you are not able to return till after that day, it\nwill hardly be possible for us to send for you before Saturday, though\nfor my own part I care so little about the ball that it would be no\nsacrifice to me to give it up for the sake of seeing you two days\nearlier. We are extremely sorry for poor Eliza's illness. I trust,\nhowever, that she has continued to recover since you wrote, and that you\nwill none of you be the worse for your attendance on her. What a\ngood-for-nothing fellow Charles is to bespeak the stockings! I hope he\nwill be too hot all the rest of his life for it!\n\nI sent you a letter yesterday to Ibthorp, which I suppose you will not\nreceive at Kintbury. It was not very long or very witty, and therefore\nif you never receive it, it does not much signify. I wrote principally\nto tell you that the Coopers were arrived and in good health. The little\nboy is very like Dr. Cooper, and the little girl is to resemble Jane,\nthey say.\n\nOur party to Ashe to-morrow night will consist of Edward Cooper, James\n(for a ball is nothing without him), Buller, who is now staying with us,\nand I. I look forward with great impatience to it, as I rather expect to\nreceive an offer from my friend in the course of the evening. I shall\nrefuse him, however, unless he promises to give away his white coat.\n\nI am very much flattered by your commendation of my last letter, for I\nwrite only for fame, and without any view to pecuniary emolument.\n\nEdward is gone to spend the day with his friend, John Lyford, and does\nnot return till to-morrow. Anna is now here; she came up in her chaise\nto spend the day with her young cousins, but she does not much take to\nthem or to anything about them, except Caroline's spinning-wheel. I am\nvery glad to find from Mary that Mr. and Mrs. Fowle are pleased with\nyou. I hope you will continue to give satisfaction.\n\nHow impertinent you are to write to me about Tom, as if I had not\nopportunities of hearing from him myself! The last letter that I\nreceived from him was dated on Friday, 8th, and he told me that if the\nwind should be favorable on Sunday, which it proved to be, they were to\nsail from Falmouth on that day. By this time, therefore, they are at\nBarbadoes, I suppose. The Rivers are still at Manydown, and are to be at\nAshe to-morrow. I intended to call on the Miss Biggs yesterday had the\nweather been tolerable. Caroline, Anna, and I have just been devouring\nsome cold souse, and it would be difficult to say which enjoyed it most.\n\nTell Mary that I make over Mr. Heartley and all his estate to her for\nher sole use and benefit in future, and not only him, but all my other\nadmirers into the bargain wherever she can find them, even the kiss\nwhich C. Powlett wanted to give me, as I mean to confine myself in\nfuture to Mr. Tom Lefroy, for whom I don't care sixpence. Assure her\nalso, as a last and indubitable proof of Warren's indifference to me,\nthat he actually drew that gentleman's picture for me, and delivered it\nto me without a sigh.\n\n_Friday._--At length the day is come on which I am to flirt my last with\nTom Lefroy, and when you receive this it will be over. My tears flow as\nI write at the melancholy idea. Wm. Chute called here yesterday. I\nwonder what he means by being so civil. There is a report that Tom is\ngoing to be married to a Lichfield lass. John Lyford and his sister\nbring Edward home to-day, dine with us, and we shall all go together to\nAshe. I understand that we are to draw for partners. I shall be\nextremely impatient to hear from you again, that I may know how Eliza\nis, and when you are to return.\n\nWith best love, etc., I am affectionately yours,\n\n                                                  J. AUSTEN.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN,\n    The Rev. Mr. Fowle's, Kintbury, Newbury\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\n\n                             CORK STREET, Tuesday morn (August, 1796).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--Here I am once more in this scene of dissipation and\nvice, and I begin already to find my morals corrupted. We reached\nStaines yesterday, I do not (know) when, without suffering so much from\nthe heat as I had hoped to do. We set off again this morning at seven\no'clock, and had a very pleasant drive, as the morning was cloudy and\nperfectly cool. I came all the way in the chaise from Hertford Bridge.\n\nEdward[1] and Frank[2] are both gone out to seek their fortunes; the\nlatter is to return soon and help us seek ours. The former we shall\nnever see again. We are to be at Astley's to-night, which I am glad of.\nEdward has heard from Henry this morning. He has not been at the races\nat all, unless his driving Miss Pearson over to Rowling one day can be\nso called. We shall find him there on Thursday.\n\nI hope you are all alive after our melancholy parting yesterday, and\nthat you pursued your intended avocation with success. God bless you! I\nmust leave off, for we are going out.\n\n                             Yours very affectionately,\n                                                     J. AUSTEN.\n\nEverybody's love.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] Miss Austen's second brother.\n\n[2] Francis, afterward Sir Francis Austen, Senior Admiral of the Fleet,\nand K. C. B.\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\n\n                                      ROWLING, Monday (September 5).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--I shall be extremely anxious to hear the event of\nyour ball, and shall hope to receive so long and minute an account of\nevery particular that I shall be tired of reading it. Let me know how\nmany, besides their fourteen selves and Mr. and Mrs. Wright, Michael\nwill contrive to place about their coach, and how many of the gentlemen,\nmusicians, and waiters he will have persuaded to come in their\nshooting-jackets. I hope John Lovett's accident will not prevent his\nattending the ball, as you will otherwise be obliged to dance with Mr.\nTincton the whole evening. Let me know how J. Harwood deports himself\nwithout the Miss Biggs, and which of the Marys will carry the day with\nmy brother James.\n\n_We_ were at a ball on Saturday, I assure you. We dined at Goodnestone,\nand in the evening danced two country-dances and the Boulangeries. I\nopened the ball with Edward Bridges; the other couples were Lewis Cage\nand Harriet, Frank and Louisa, Fanny and George. Elizabeth played one\ncountry-dance, Lady Bridges the other, which she made Henry dance with\nher, and Miss Finch played the Boulangeries.\n\nIn reading over the last three or four lines, I am aware of my having\nexpressed myself in so doubtful a manner that if I did not tell you to\nthe contrary, you might imagine it was Lady Bridges who made Henry dance\nwith her at the same time that she was playing, which, if not\nimpossible, must appear a very improbable event to you. But it was\nElizabeth who danced. We supped there, and walked home at night under\nthe shade of two umbrellas.\n\nTo-day the Goodnestone party begins to disperse and spread itself\nabroad. Mr. and Mrs. Cage and George repair to Hythe. Lady Waltham, Miss\nBridges, and Miss Mary Finch to Dover, for the health of the two former.\nI have never seen Marianne at all. On Thursday Mr. and Mrs. Bridges\nreturn to Danbury; Miss Harriet Hales accompanies them to London on her\nway to Dorsetshire.\n\nFarmer Claringbould died this morning, and I fancy Edward means to get\nsome of his farm, if he can cheat Sir Brook enough in the agreement.\n\nWe have just got some venison from Godmersham, which the two Mr. Harveys\nare to dine on to-morrow, and on Friday or Saturday the Goodnestone\npeople are to finish their scraps. Henry went away on Friday, as he\npurposed, _without fayl_. You will hear from him soon, I imagine, as he\ntalked of writing to Steventon shortly. Mr. Richard Harvey is going to\nbe married; but as it is a great secret, and only known to half the\nneighborhood, you must not mention it. The lady's name is Musgrave.\n\nI am in great distress. I cannot determine whether I shall give Richis\nhalf a guinea or only five shillings when I go away. Counsel me, amiable\nMiss Austen, and tell me which will be the most.\n\nWe walked Frank last night to Crixhall Ruff, and he appeared much\nedified. Little Edward was breeched yesterday for good and all, and was\nwhipped into the bargain.\n\nPray remember me to everybody who does not inquire after me; those who\ndo, remember me without bidding. Give my love to Mary Harrison, and\ntell her I wish, whenever she is attached to a young man, some\nrespectable Dr. Marchmont may keep them apart for five volumes. . . .\n\n\n\n\nIV.\n\n\n                                    ROWLING, Thursday (September 15).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--We have been very gay since I wrote last; dining at\nNackington, returning by moonlight, and everything quite in style, not\nto mention Mr. Claringbould's funeral which we saw go by on Sunday. I\nbelieve I told you in a former letter that Edward had some idea of\ntaking the name of Claringbould; but that scheme is over, though it\nwould be a very eligible as well as a very pleasant plan, would any one\nadvance him money enough to begin on. We rather expected Mr. Milles to\nhave done so on Tuesday; but to our great surprise nothing was said on\nthe subject, and unless it is in your power to assist your brother with\nfive or six hundred pounds, he must entirely give up the idea.\n\nAt Nackington we met Lady Sondes' picture over the mantelpiece in the\ndining-room, and the pictures of her three children in an ante-room,\nbesides Mr. Scott, Miss Fletcher, Mr. Toke, Mr. J. Toke, and the\narchdeacon Lynch. Miss Fletcher and I were very thick, but I am the\nthinnest of the two. She wore her purple muslin, which is pretty\nenough, though it does not become her complexion. There are two traits\nin her character which are pleasing,--namely, she admires Camilla, and\ndrinks no cream in her tea. If you should ever see Lucy, you may tell\nher that I scolded Miss Fletcher for her negligence in writing, as she\ndesired me to do, but without being able to bring her to any proper\nsense of shame,--that Miss Fletcher says, in her defence, that as\neverybody whom Lucy knew when she was in Canterbury has now left it, she\nhas nothing at all to write to her about. By _everybody_, I suppose Miss\nFletcher means that a new set of officers have arrived there. But this\nis a note of my own.\n\nMrs. Milles, Mr. John Toke, and in short everybody of any sensibility\ninquired in tender strains after you, and I took an opportunity of\nassuring Mr. J. T. that neither he nor his father need longer keep\nthemselves single for you.\n\nWe went in our two carriages to Nackington; but how we divided I shall\nleave you to surmise, merely observing that as Elizabeth and I were\nwithout either hat or bonnet, it would not have been very convenient for\nus to go in the chaise. We went by Bifrons, and I contemplated with a\nmelancholy pleasure the abode of him on whom I once fondly doated. We\ndine to-day at Goodnestone, to meet my aunt Fielding from Margate and a\nMr. Clayton, her professed admirer--at least, so I imagine. Lady Bridges\nhas received very good accounts of Marianne, who is already certainly\nthe better for her bathing.\n\nSo His Royal Highness Sir Thomas Williams has at length sailed; the\npapers say \"on a cruise.\" But I hope they are gone to Cork, or I shall\nhave written in vain. Give my love to Jane, as she arrived at Steventon\nyesterday, I dare say.\n\nI sent a message to Mr. Digweed from Edward in a letter to Mary Lloyd\nwhich she ought to receive to-day; but as I know that the Harwoods are\nnot very exact as to their letters, I may as well repeat it to you. Mr.\nDigweed is to be informed that illness has prevented Seward's coming\nover to look at the repairs intended at the farm, but that he will come\nas soon as he can. Mr. Digweed may also be informed, if you think\nproper, that Mr. and Mrs. Milles are to dine here to-morrow, and that\nMrs. Joan Knatchbull is to be asked to meet them. Mr. Richard Harvey's\nmatch is put off till he has got a better Christian name, of which he\nhas great hopes.\n\nMr. Children's two sons are both going to be married, John and George.\nThey are to have one wife between them, a Miss Holwell, who belongs to\nthe Black Hole at Calcutta. I depend on hearing from James very soon; he\npromised me an account of the ball, and by this time he must have\ncollected his ideas enough after the fatigue of dancing to give me one.\n\nEdward and Fly went out yesterday very early in a couple of shooting\njackets, and came home like a couple of bad shots, for they killed\nnothing at all. They are out again to-day, and are not yet returned.\nDelightful sport! They are just come home, Edward with his two brace,\nFrank with his two and a half. What amiable young men!\n\n_Friday._--Your letter and one from Henry are just come, and the\ncontents of both accord with my scheme more than I had dared expect. In\none particular I could wish it otherwise, for Henry is very indifferent\nindeed. You must not expect us quite so early, however, as Wednesday,\nthe 20th,--on that day se'nnight, according to our present plan, we may\nbe with you. Frank had never any idea of going away before Monday, the\n26th. I shall write to Miss Mason immediately, and press her returning\nwith us, which Henry thinks very likely, and particularly eligible.\n\nBuy Mary Harrison's gown by all means. You shall have mine for ever so\nmuch money, though, if I am tolerably rich when I get home, I shall like\nit very much myself.\n\nAs to the mode of our travelling to town, _I_ want to go in a\nstage-coach, but Frank will not let me. As you are likely to have the\nWilliams and Lloyds with you next week, you would hardly find room for\nus then. If any one wants anything in town, they must send their\ncommissions to Frank, as _I_ shall merely pass through it. The\ntallow-chandler is Penlington, at the Crown and Beehive, Charles Street,\nCovent Garden.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, Steventon, Overton, Hants.\n\n\n\n\nV.\n\n\n                                        ROWLING, Sunday (September 18).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--This morning has been spent in doubt and\ndeliberation, in forming plans and removing difficulties, for it ushered\nin the day with an event which I had not intended should take place so\nsoon by a week. Frank has received his appointment on board the \"Captain\nJohn Gore,\" commanded by the \"Triton,\" and will therefore be obliged to\nbe in town on Wednesday; and though I have every disposition in the\nworld to accompany him on that day, I cannot go on the uncertainty of\nthe Pearsons being at home, as I should not have a place to go to in\ncase they were from home.\n\nI wrote to Miss P. on Friday, and hoped to receive an answer from her\nthis morning, which would have rendered everything smooth and easy, and\nwould have enabled us to leave this place to-morrow, as Frank, on first\nreceiving his appointment, intended to do. He remains till Wednesday\nmerely to accommodate me. I have written to her again to-day, and\ndesired her to answer it by return of post. On Tuesday, therefore, I\nshall positively know whether they can receive me on Wednesday. If they\ncannot, Edward has been so good as to promise to take me to Greenwich on\nthe Monday following, which was the day before fixed on, if that suits\nthem better. If I have no answer at all on Tuesday, I must suppose Mary\nis not at home, and must wait till I do hear, as after having invited\nher to go to Steventon with me, it will not quite do to go home and say\nno more about it.\n\nMy father will be so good as to fetch home his prodigal daughter from\ntown, I hope, unless he wishes me to walk the hospitals, enter at the\nTemple, or mount guard at St. James'. It will hardly be in Frank's power\nto take me home,--nay, it certainly will not. I shall write again as\nsoon as I get to Greenwich.\n\nWhat dreadful hot weather we have! It keeps one in a continual state of\ninelegance.\n\nIf Miss Pearson should return with me, pray be careful not to expect too\nmuch beauty. I will not pretend to say that on a first view she quite\nanswered the opinion I had formed of her. My mother, I am sure, will be\ndisappointed if she does not take great care. From what I remember of\nher picture, it is no great resemblance.\n\nI am very glad that the idea of returning with Frank occurred to me; for\nas to Henry's coming into Kent again, the time of its taking place is so\nvery uncertain that I should be waiting for dead men's shoes. I had once\ndetermined to go with Frank to-morrow and take my chance, etc., but they\ndissuaded me from so rash a step as I really think on consideration it\nwould have been; for if the Pearsons were not at home, I should\ninevitably fall a sacrifice to the arts of some fat woman who would make\nme drunk with small beer.\n\nMary is brought to bed of a boy,--both doing very well. I shall leave\nyou to guess what Mary I mean. Adieu, with best love to all your\nagreeable inmates. Don't let the Lloyds go on any account before I\nreturn, unless Miss P. is of the party. How ill I have written! I begin\nto hate myself.\n\n                                                 Yours ever,\n                                                          J. AUSTEN.\n\nThe \"Triton\" is a new 32 frigate just launched at Deptford. Frank is\nmuch pleased with the prospect of having Captain Gore under his command.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, Steventon, Overton, Hants.\n\n\n\n\nVI.\n\n\n                                    \"BULL AND GEORGE,\" DARTFORD,\n                                        Wednesday (October 24, 1798).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--You have already heard from Daniel, I conclude, in\nwhat excellent time we reached and quitted Sittingbourne, and how very\nwell my mother bore her journey thither. I am now able to send you a\ncontinuation of the same good account of her. She was very little\nfatigued on her arrival at this place, has been refreshed by a\ncomfortable dinner, and now seems quite stout. It wanted five minutes of\ntwelve when we left Sittingbourne, from whence we had a famous pair of\nhorses, which took us to Rochester in an hour and a quarter; the postboy\nseemed determined to show my mother that Kentish drivers were not always\ntedious, and really drove as fast as Cax.\n\nOur next stage was not quite so expeditiously performed; the road was\nheavy, and our horses very indifferent. However, we were in such good\ntime and my mother bore her journey so well, that expedition was of\nlittle importance to us; and as it was, we were very little more than\ntwo hours and a half coming hither, and it was scarcely past four when\nwe stopped at the inn. My mother took some of her bitters at Ospringe,\nand some more at Rochester, and she ate some bread several times.\n\nWe have got apartments up two pair of stairs, as we could not be\notherwise accommodated with a sitting-room and bed-chambers on the same\nfloor which we wished to be. We have one double-bedded and one\nsingle-bedded room; in the former my mother and I are to sleep. I shall\nleave you to guess who is to occupy the other. We sate down to dinner a\nlittle after five, and had some beef-steaks and a boiled fowl, but no\noyster sauce.\n\nI should have begun my letter soon after our arrival, but for a little\nadventure which prevented me. After we had been here a quarter of an\nhour it was discovered that my writing and dressing boxes had been by\naccident put into a chaise which was just packing off as we came in, and\nwere driven away toward Gravesend in their way to the West Indies. No\npart of my property could have been such a prize before, for in my\nwriting-box was all my worldly wealth, 7_l._, and my dear Harry's\ndeputation. Mr. Nottley immediately despatched a man and horse after the\nchaise, and in half an hour's time I had the pleasure of being as rich\nas ever; they were got about two or three miles off.\n\nMy day's journey has been pleasanter in every respect than I expected. I\nhave been very little crowded and by no means unhappy. Your\nwatchfulness with regard to the weather on our accounts was very kind\nand very effectual. We had one heavy shower on leaving Sittingbourne,\nbut afterwards the clouds cleared away, and we had a very bright\n_chrystal_ afternoon.\n\nMy father is now reading the \"Midnight Bell,\" which he has got from the\nlibrary, and mother sitting by the fire. Our route to-morrow is not\ndetermined. We have none of us much inclination for London, and if Mr.\nNottley will give us leave, I think we shall go to Staines through\nCroydon and Kingston, which will be much pleasanter than any other way;\nbut he is decidedly for Clapham and Battersea. God bless you all!\n\n                                         Yours affectionately, J. A.\n\nI flatter myself that _itty Dordy_ will not forget me at least under a\nweek. Kiss him for me.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham.\n\n\n\n\nVII.\n\n\n                                    STEVENTON, Saturday (October 27).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--Your letter was a most agreeable surprise to me\nto-day, and I have taken a long sheet of paper to show my gratitude.\n\nWe arrived here yesterday between four and five, but I cannot send you\nquite so triumphant an account of our last day's journey as of the\nfirst and second. Soon after I had finished my letter from Staines, my\nmother began to suffer from the exercise or fatigue of travelling, and\nshe was a good deal indisposed. She had not a very good night at\nStaines, but bore her journey better than I had expected, and at\nBasingstoke, where we stopped more than half an hour, received much\ncomfort from a mess of broth and the sight of Mr. Lyford, who\nrecommended her to take twelve drops of laudanum when she went to bed as\na composer, which she accordingly did.\n\nJames called on us just as we were going to tea, and my mother was well\nenough to talk very cheerfully to him before she went to bed. James\nseems to have taken to his old trick of coming to Steventon in spite of\nMary's reproaches, for he was here before breakfast and is now paying us\na second visit. They were to have dined here to-day, but the weather is\ntoo bad. I have had the pleasure of hearing that Martha is with them.\nJames fetched her from Ibthorp on Thursday, and she will stay with them\ntill she removes to Kintbury.\n\nWe met with no adventures at all in our journey yesterday, except that\nour trunk had once nearly slipped off, and we were obliged to stop at\nHartley to have our wheels greased.\n\nWhilst my mother and Mr. Lyford were together I went to Mrs. Ryder's and\nbought what I intended to buy, but not in much perfection. There were\nno narrow braces for children, and scarcely any notting silk; but Miss\nWood, as usual, is going to town very soon, and will lay in a fresh\nstock. I gave 2_s._ 3_d._ a yard for my flannel, and I fancy it is not\nvery good, but it is so disgraceful and contemptible an article in\nitself that its being comparatively good or bad is of little importance.\nI bought some Japan ink likewise, and next week shall begin my\noperations on my hat, on which you know my principal hopes of happiness\ndepend.\n\nI am very grand indeed; I had the dignity of dropping out my mother's\nlaudanum last night. I carry about the keys of the wine and closet, and\ntwice since I began this letter have had orders to give in the kitchen.\nOur dinner was very good yesterday, and the chicken boiled perfectly\ntender; therefore I shall not be obliged to dismiss Nanny on that\naccount.\n\nAlmost everything was unpacked and put away last night. Nanny chose to\ndo it, and I was not sorry to be busy. I have unpacked the gloves, and\nplaced yours in your drawer. Their color is light and pretty, and I\nbelieve exactly what we fixed on.\n\nYour letter was chaperoned here by one from Mrs. Cooke, in which she\nsays that \"Battleridge\" is not to come out before January, and she is so\nlittle satisfied with Cawthorn's dilatoriness that she never means to\nemploy him again.\n\nMrs. Hall, of Sherborne, was brought to bed yesterday of a dead child,\nsome weeks before she expected, owing to a fright. I suppose she\nhappened unawares to look at her husband.\n\nThere has been a great deal of rain here for this last fortnight, much\nmore than in Kent, and indeed we found the roads all the way from\nStaines most disgracefully dirty. Steventon lane has its full share of\nit, and I don't know when I shall be able to get to Deane.\n\nI hear that Martha is in better looks and spirits than she has enjoyed\nfor a long time, and I flatter myself she will now be able to jest\nopenly about Mr. W.\n\nThe spectacles which Molly found are my mother's, the scissors my\nfather's. We are very glad to hear such a good account of your patients,\nlittle and great. My dear itty Dordy's remembrance of me is very\npleasing to me,--foolishly pleasing, because I know it will be over so\nsoon. My attachment to him will be more durable. I shall think with\ntenderness and delight on his beautiful and smiling countenance and\ninteresting manner until a few years have turned him into an\nungovernable, ungracious fellow.\n\nThe books from Winton are all unpacked and put away; the binding has\ncompressed them most conveniently, and there is now very good room in\nthe bookcase for all that we wish to have there. I believe the servants\nwere very glad to see us Nanny was, I am sure. She confesses that it\nwas very dull, and yet she had her child with her till last Sunday. I\nunderstand that there are some grapes left, but I believe not many; they\nmust be gathered as soon as possible, or this rain will entirely rot\nthem.\n\nI am quite angry with myself for not writing closer; why is my alphabet\nso much more sprawly than yours? Dame Tilbury's daughter has lain in.\nShall I give her any of your baby clothes? The laceman was here only a\nfew days ago. How unfortunate for both of us that he came so soon! Dame\nBushell washes for us only one week more, as Sukey has got a place. John\nSteevens' wife undertakes our purification. She does not look as if\nanything she touched would ever be clean, but who knows? We do not seem\nlikely to have any other maidservant at present, but Dame Staples will\nsupply the place of one. Mary has hired a young girl from Ashe who has\nnever been out to service to be her scrub, but James fears her not being\nstrong enough for the place.\n\nEarle Harwood has been to Deane lately, as I think Mary wrote us word,\nand his family then told him that they would receive his wife, if she\ncontinued to behave well for another year. He was very grateful, as well\nhe might; their behavior throughout the whole affair has been\nparticularly kind. Earle and his wife live in the most private manner\nimaginable at Portsmouth, without keeping a servant of any kind. What a\nprodigious innate love of virtue she must have, to marry under such\ncircumstances!\n\nIt is now Saturday evening, but I wrote the chief of this in the\nmorning. My mother has not been down at all to-day; the laudanum made\nher sleep a good deal, and upon the whole I think she is better. My\nfather and I dined by ourselves. How strange! He and John Bond are now\nvery happy together, for I have just heard the heavy step of the latter\nalong the passage.\n\nJames Digweed called to-day, and I gave him his brother's deputation.\nCharles Harwood, too, has just called to ask how we are, in his way from\nDummer, whither he has been conveying Miss Garrett, who is going to\nreturn to her former residence in Kent. I will leave off, or I shall not\nhave room to add a word to-morrow.\n\n_Sunday._--My mother has had a very good night, and feels much better\nto-day.\n\nI have received my aunt's letter, and thank you for your scrap. I will\nwrite to Charles soon. Pray give Fanny and Edward a kiss from me, and\nask George if he has got a new song for me. 'Tis really very kind of my\naunt to ask us to Bath again; a kindness that deserves a better return\nthan to profit by it.\n\n                                                 Yours ever,      J. A.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\n\n\n\nVIII.\n\n\n                                                 STEVENTON, December 1.\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--I am so good as to write to you again thus speedily,\nto let you know that I have just heard from Frank. He was at Cadiz,\nalive and well, on October 19, and had then very lately received a\nletter from you, written as long ago as when the \"London\" was at St.\nHelen's. But his _raly_ latest intelligence of us was in one from me of\nSeptember 1, which I sent soon after we got to Godmersham. He had\nwritten a packet full for his dearest friends in England, early in\nOctober, to go by the \"Excellent;\" but the \"Excellent\" was not sailed,\nnor likely to sail, when he despatched this to me. It comprehended\nletters for both of us, for Lord Spencer, Mr. Daysh, and the East India\nDirectors. Lord St. Vincent had left the fleet when he wrote, and was\ngone to Gibraltar, it was said to superintend the fitting out of a\nprivate expedition from thence against some of the enemies' ports;\nMinorca or Malta were conjectured to be the objects.\n\nFrank writes in good spirits, but says that our correspondence cannot be\nso easily carried on in future as it has been, as the communication\nbetween Cadiz and Lisbon is less frequent than formerly. You and my\nmother, therefore, must not alarm yourselves at the long intervals that\nmay divide his letters. I address this advice to you two as being the\nmost tender-hearted of the family.\n\nMy mother made her _entree_ into the dressing-room through crowds of\nadmiring spectators yesterday afternoon, and we all drank tea together\nfor the first time these five weeks. She has had a tolerable night, and\nbids fair for a continuance in the same brilliant course of action\nto-day. . . .\n\nMr. Lyford was here yesterday; he came while we were at dinner, and\npartook of our elegant entertainment. I was not ashamed at asking him to\nsit down to table, for we had some pease-soup, a sparerib, and a\npudding. He wants my mother to look yellow and to throw out a rash, but\nshe will do neither.\n\nI was at Deane yesterday morning. Mary was very well, but does not gain\nbodily strength very fast. When I saw her so stout on the third and\nsixth days, I expected to have seen her as well as ever by the end of a\nfortnight.\n\nJames went to Ibthorp yesterday to see his mother and child. Letty is\nwith Mary[3] at present, of course exceedingly happy, and in raptures\nwith the child. Mary does not manage matters in such a way as to make me\nwant to lay in myself. She is not tidy enough in her appearance; she has\nno dressing-gown to sit up in; her curtains are all too thin, and\nthings are not in that comfort and style about her which are necessary\nto make such a situation an enviable one. Elizabeth was really a pretty\nobject with her nice clean cap put on so tidily and her dress so\nuniformly white and orderly. We live entirely in the dressing-room now,\nwhich I like very much; I always feel so much more elegant in it than in\nthe parlor.\n\nNo news from Kintbury yet. Eliza sports with our impatience. She was\nvery well last Thursday. Who is Miss Maria Montresor going to marry, and\nwhat is to become of Miss Mulcaster?\n\nI find great comfort in my stuff gown, but I hope you do not wear yours\ntoo often. I have made myself two or three caps to wear of evenings\nsince I came home, and they save me a world of torment as to\nhairdressing, which at present gives me no trouble beyond washing and\nbrushing, for my long hair is always plaited up out of sight, and my\nshort hair curls well enough to want no papering. I have had it cut\nlately by Mr. Butler.\n\nThere is no reason to suppose that Miss Morgan is dead after all. Mr.\nLyford gratified us very much yesterday by his praises of my father's\nmutton, which they all think the finest that was ever ate. John Bond\nbegins to find himself grow old, which John Bonds ought not to do, and\nunequal to much hard work; a man is therefore hired to supply his place\nas to labor, and John himself is to have the care of the sheep. There\nare not more people engaged than before, I believe; only men instead of\nboys. I fancy so at least, but you know my stupidity as to such matters.\nLizzie Bond is just apprenticed to Miss Small, so we may hope to see her\nable to spoil gowns in a few years.\n\nMy father has applied to Mr. May for an ale-house for Robert, at his\nrequest, and to Mr. Deane, of Winchester, likewise. This was my mother's\nidea, who thought he would be proud to oblige a relation of Edward in\nreturn for Edward's accepting his money. He sent a very civil answer\nindeed, but has no house vacant at present. May expects to have an empty\none soon at Farnham, so perhaps Nanny may have the honor of drawing ale\nfor the Bishop. I shall write to Frank to-morrow.\n\nCharles Powlett gave a dance on Thursday, to the great disturbance of\nall his neighbors, of course, who, you know, take a most lively interest\nin the state of his finances, and live in hopes of his being soon\nruined.\n\nWe are very much disposed to like our new maid; she knows nothing of a\ndairy, to be sure, which, in our family, is rather against her, but she\nis to be taught it all. In short, we have felt the inconvenience of\nbeing without a maid so long, that we are determined to like her, and\nshe will find it a hard matter to displease us. As yet, she seems to\ncook very well, is uncommonly stout, and says she can work well at her\nneedle.\n\n_Sunday._--My father is glad to hear so good an account of Edward's\npigs, and desires he may be told, as encouragement to his taste for\nthem, that Lord Bolton is particularly curious in _his_ pigs, has had\npigstyes of a most elegant construction built for them, and visits them\nevery morning as soon as he rises.\n\n                                             Affectionately yours,\n                                                                 J. A.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[3] Mrs. James Austen.\n\n\n\n\nIX.\n\n\n                                    STEVENTON, Tuesday (December 18).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--Your letter came quite as soon as I expected, and so\nyour letters will always do, because I have made it a rule not to expect\nthem till they come, in which I think I consult the ease of us both.\n\nIt is a great satisfaction to us to hear that your business is in a way\nto be settled, and so settled as to give you as little inconvenience as\npossible. You are very welcome to my father's name and to his services\nif they are ever required in it. I shall keep my ten pounds too, to wrap\nmyself up in next winter.\n\nI took the liberty a few days ago of asking your black velvet bonnet to\nlend me its cawl, which it very readily did, and by which I have been\nenabled to give a considerable improvement of dignity to cap, which was\nbefore too _nidgetty_ to please me. I shall wear it on Thursday, but I\nhope you will not be offended with me for following your advice as to\nits ornaments only in part. I still venture to retain the narrow silver\nround it, put twice round without any bow, and instead of the black\nmilitary feather shall put in the coquelicot one as being smarter, and\nbesides coquelicot is to be all the fashion this winter. After the ball\nI shall probably make it entirely black.\n\nI am sorry that our dear Charles begins to feel the dignity of\nill-usage. My father will write to Admiral Gambier. He must have already\nreceived so much satisfaction from his acquaintance and patronage of\nFrank, that he will be delighted, I dare say, to have another of the\nfamily introduced to him. I think it would be very right in Charles to\naddress Sir Thomas on the occasion, though I cannot approve of your\nscheme of writing to him (which you communicated to me a few nights ago)\nto request him to come home and convey you to Steventon. To do you\njustice, however, you had some doubts of the propriety of such a measure\nyourself.\n\nI am very much obliged to my dear little George for his message,--for\nhis love at least; his duty, I suppose, was only in consequence of some\nhint of my favorable intentions towards him from his father or mother. I\nam sincerely rejoiced, however, that I ever was born, since it has been\nthe means of procuring him a dish of tea. Give my best love to him. . . .\n\n_Wednesday._--I have changed my mind, and changed the trimmings of my\ncap this morning; they are now such as you suggested. I felt as if I\nshould not prosper if I strayed from your directions, and I think it\nmakes me look more like Lady Conyngham now than it did before, which is\nall that one lives for now. I believe I _shall_ make my new gown like my\nrobe, but the back of the latter is all in a piece with the tail, and\nwill seven yards enable me to copy it in that respect? . . .\n\nI have just heard from Martha and Frank: his letter was written on\nNovember 12. All well and nothing particular.\n\n                                                 J. A.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham.\n\n\n\n\nX.\n\n\n                                STEVENTON, Monday night (December 24).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--I have got some pleasant news for you which I am\neager to communicate, and therefore begin my letter sooner, though I\nshall not send it sooner than usual.\n\nAdmiral Gambier, in reply to my father's application, writes as follows:\n\"As it is usual to keep young officers in small vessels, it being most\nproper on account of their inexperience, and it being also a situation\nwhere they are more in the way of learning their duty, your son has been\ncontinued in the 'Scorpion;' but I have mentioned to the Board of\nAdmiralty his wish to be in a frigate, and when a proper opportunity\noffers and it is judged that he has taken his turn in a small ship, I\nhope he will be removed. With regard to your son now in the 'London' I\nam glad I can give you the assurance that his promotion is likely to\ntake place very soon, as Lord Spencer has been so good as to say he\nwould include him in an arrangement that he proposes making in a short\ntime relative to some promotions in that quarter.\"\n\nThere! I may now finish my letter and go and hang myself, for I am sure\nI can neither write nor do anything which will not appear insipid to you\nafter this. _Now_ I really think he will soon be made, and only wish we\ncould communicate our foreknowledge of the event to him whom it\nprincipally concerns. My father has written to Daysh to desire that he\nwill inform us, if he can, when the commission is sent. Your chief wish\nis now ready to be accomplished; and could Lord Spencer give happiness\nto Martha at the same time, what a joyful heart he would make of yours!\n\nI have sent the same extract of the sweets of Gambier to Charles, who,\npoor fellow, though he sinks into nothing but an humble attendant on the\nhero of the piece, will, I hope, be contented with the prospect held out\nto him. By what the Admiral says, it appears as if he had been\ndesignedly kept in the \"Scorpion.\" But I will not torment myself with\nconjectures and suppositions; facts shall satisfy me.\n\nFrank had not heard from any of us for ten weeks when he wrote to me on\nNovember 12 in consequence of Lord St. Vincent being removed to\nGibraltar. When his commission is sent, however, it will not be so long\non its road as our letters, because all the Government despatches are\nforwarded by land to his lordship from Lisbon with great regularity.\n\nI returned from Manydown this morning, and found my mother certainly in\nno respect worse than when I left her. She does not like the cold\nweather, but that we cannot help. I spent my time very quietly and very\npleasantly with Catherine. Miss Blackford is agreeable enough. I do not\nwant people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking\nthem a great deal. I found only Catherine and her when I got to Manydown\non Thursday. We dined together, and went together to Worting to seek the\nprotection of Mrs. Clarke, with whom were Lady Mildmay, her eldest son,\nand Mr. and Mrs. Hoare.\n\nOur ball was very thin, but by no means unpleasant. There were\nthirty-one people, and only eleven ladies out of the number, and but\nfive single women in the room. Of the gentlemen present you may have\nsome idea from the list of my partners,--Mr. Wood, G. Lefroy, Rice, a\nMr. Butcher (belonging to the Temples, a sailor and not of the 11th\nLight Dragoons), Mr. Temple (not the horrid one of all), Mr. Wm. Orde\n(cousin to the Kingsclere man), Mr. John Harwood, and Mr. Calland, who\nappeared as usual with his hat in his hand, and stood every now and then\nbehind Catherine and me to be talked to and abused for not dancing. We\nteased him, however, into it at last. I was very glad to see him again\nafter so long a separation, and he was altogether rather the genius and\nflirt of the evening. He inquired after you.\n\nThere were twenty dances, and I danced them all, and without any\nfatigue. I was glad to find myself capable of dancing so much, and with\nso much satisfaction as I did; from my slender enjoyment of the Ashford\nballs (as assemblies for dancing) I had not thought myself equal to it,\nbut in cold weather and with few couples I fancy I could just as well\ndance for a week together as for half an hour. My black cap was openly\nadmired by Mrs. Lefroy, and secretly I imagine by everybody else in the\nroom. . . .\n\nPoor Edward! It is very hard that he, who has everything else in the\nworld that he can wish for, should not have good health too. But I hope\nwith the assistance of stomach complaints, faintnesses, and sicknesses,\nhe will soon be restored to that blessing likewise. If his nervous\ncomplaint proceeded from a suppression of something that ought to be\nthrown out, which does not seem unlikely, the first of these disorders\nmay really be a remedy, and I sincerely wish it may, for I know no one\nmore deserving of happiness without alloy than Edward is. . . .\n\nThe Lords of the Admiralty will have enough of our applications at\npresent, for I hear from Charles that he has written to Lord Spencer\nhimself to be removed. I am afraid his Serene Highness will be in a\npassion, and order some of our heads to be cut off. . . .\n\nYou deserve a longer letter than this; but it is my unhappy fate seldom\nto treat people so well as they deserve. . . . God bless you!\n\n                                         Yours affectionately,\n                                                          JANE AUSTEN.\n\n_Wednesday._--The snow came to nothing yesterday, so I did go to Deane,\nand returned home at nine o'clock at night in the little carriage, and\nwithout being very cold.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\n\n\n\nXI.\n\n\n                                      STEVENTON, Friday (December 28).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--Frank is made. He was yesterday raised to the rank\nof Commander, and appointed to the \"Petterel\" sloop, now at Gibraltar. A\nletter from Daysh has just announced this, and as it is confirmed by a\nvery friendly one from Mr. Mathew to the same effect, transcribing one\nfrom Admiral Gambier to the General, we have no reason to suspect the\ntruth of it.\n\nAs soon as you have cried a little for joy, you may go on, and learn\nfurther that the India House have taken _Captain Austen's_ petition into\nconsideration,--this comes from Daysh,--and likewise that Lieutenant\nCharles John Austen is removed to the \"Tamar\" frigate,--this comes from\nthe Admiral. We cannot find out where the \"Tamar\" is, but I hope we\nshall now see Charles here at all events.\n\nThis letter is to be dedicated entirely to good news. If you will send\nmy father an account of your washing and letter expenses, etc., he will\nsend you a draft for the amount of it, as well as for your next quarter,\nand for Edward's rent. If you don't buy a muslin gown now on the\nstrength of this money and Frank's promotion, I shall never forgive\nyou.\n\nMrs. Lefroy has just sent me word that Lady Dorchester meant to invite\nme to her ball on January 8, which, though an humble blessing compared\nwith what the last page records, I do not consider as any calamity.\n\nI cannot write any more now, but I have written enough to make you very\nhappy, and therefore may safely conclude.\n\n                                     Yours affectionately,      JANE.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, Godmersham Park.\n\n\n\n\nXII.\n\n\n                              STEVENTON, Tuesday (January 8, 1799).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--You must read your letters over _five_ times in\nfuture before you send them, and then, perhaps, you may find them as\nentertaining as I do. I laughed at several parts of the one which I am\nnow answering.\n\nCharles is not come yet, but he must come this morning, or he shall\nnever know what I will do to him. The ball at Kempshott is this evening,\nand I have got him an invitation, though I have not been so considerate\nas to get him a partner. But the cases are different between him and\nEliza Bailey, for he is not in a dying way, and may therefore be equal\nto getting a partner for himself. I believe I told you that Monday was\nto be the ball night, for which, and for all other errors into which I\nmay ever have led you, I humbly ask your pardon.\n\nElizabeth is very cruel about my writing music, and, as a punishment for\nher, I should insist upon always writing out all hers for her in future,\nif I were not punishing myself at the same time.\n\nI am tolerably glad to hear that Edward's income is so good a one,--as\nglad as I can be at anybody's being rich except you and me,--and I am\nthoroughly rejoiced to hear of his present to you.\n\nI am not to wear my white satin cap to-night, after all; I am to wear a\nmamalone cap instead, which Charles Fowle sent to Mary, and which she\nlends me. It is all the fashion now; worn at the opera, and by Lady\nMildmays at Hackwood balls. I hate describing such things, and I dare\nsay you will be able to guess what it is like. I have got over the\ndreadful epocha of mantua-making much better than I expected. My gown is\nmade very much like my blue one, which you always told me sat very well,\nwith only these variations: the sleeves are short, the wrap fuller, the\napron comes over it, and a band of the same completes the whole.\n\nI assure you that I dread the idea of going to Brighton as much as you\ndo, but I am not without hopes that something may happen to prevent it.\n\nF---- has lost his election at B----, and perhaps they may not be able\nto see company for some time. They talk of going to Bath, too, in the\nspring, and perhaps they may be overturned in their way down, and all\nlaid up for the summer.\n\n_Wednesday._--I have had a cold and weakness in one of my eyes for some\ndays, which makes writing neither very pleasant nor very profitable, and\nwhich will probably prevent my finishing this letter myself. My mother\nhas undertaken to do it for me, and I shall leave the Kempshott ball for\nher.\n\nYou express so little anxiety about my being murdered under Ash Park\nCopse by Mrs. Hulbert's servant, that I have a great mind not to tell\nyou whether I was or not, and shall only say that I did not return home\nthat night or the next, as Martha kindly made room for me in her bed,\nwhich was the shut-up one in the new nursery. Nurse and the child slept\nupon the floor, and there we all were in some confusion and great\ncomfort. The bed did exceedingly well for us, both to lie awake in and\ntalk till two o'clock, and to sleep in the rest of the night. I love\nMartha better than ever, and I mean to go and see her, if I can, when\nshe gets home. We all dined at the Harwoods' on Thursday, and the party\nbroke up the next morning.\n\nThis complaint in my eye has been a sad bore to me, for I have not been\nable to read or work in any comfort since Friday; but one advantage\nwill be derived from it, for I shall be such a proficient in music by\nthe time I have got rid of my cold, that I shall be perfectly qualified\nin that science at least to take Mr. Roope's office at Eastwell next\nsummer; and I am sure of Elizabeth's recommendation, be it only on\nHarriet's account. Of my talent in drawing I have given specimens in my\nletters to you, and I have nothing to do but to invent a few hard names\nfor the stars.\n\nMary grows rather more reasonable about her child's beauty, and says\nthat she does not think him really handsome; but I suspect her\nmoderation to be something like that of W---- W----'s mamma. Perhaps\nMary has told you that they are going to enter more into dinner-parties;\nthe Biggs and Mr. Holder dine there to-morrow, and I am to meet them. I\nshall sleep there. Catherine has the honor of giving her name to a set,\nwhich will be composed of two Withers, two Heathcotes, a Blackford, and\nno Bigg except herself. She congratulated me last night on Frank's\npromotion, as if she really felt the joy she talked of.\n\nMy sweet little George! I am delighted to hear that he has such an\ninventive genius as to face-making. I admired his yellow wafer very\nmuch, and hope he will choose the wafer for your next letter. I wore my\ngreen shoes last night, and took my white fan with me; I am very glad he\nnever threw it into the river.\n\nMrs. Knight giving up the Godmersham estate to Edward was no such\nprodigious act of generosity after all, it seems, for she has reserved\nherself an income out of it still; this ought to be known, that her\nconduct may not be overrated. I rather think Edward shows the most\nmagnanimity of the two, in accepting her resignation with such\nincumbrances.\n\nThe more I write, the better my eye gets; so I shall at least keep on\ntill it is quite well, before I give up my pen to my mother.\n\nMrs. Bramston's little movable apartment was tolerably filled last night\nby herself, Mrs. H. Blackstone, her two daughters, and me. I do not like\nthe Miss Blackstones; indeed, I was always determined not to like them,\nso there is the less merit in it. Mrs. Bramston was very civil, kind,\nand noisy. I spent a very pleasant evening, chiefly among the Manydown\nparty. There was the same kind of supper as last year, and the same want\nof chairs. There were more dancers than the room could conveniently\nhold, which is enough to constitute a good ball at any time.\n\nI do not think I was very much in request. People were rather apt not to\nask me till they could not help it; one's consequence, you know, varies\nso much at times without any particular reason. There was one gentleman,\nan officer of the Cheshire, a very good-looking young man, who, I was\ntold, wanted very much to be introduced to me; but as he did not want\nit quite enough to take much trouble in effecting it, we never could\nbring it about.\n\nI danced with Mr. John Wood again, twice with a Mr. South, a lad from\nWinchester, who, I suppose, is as far from being related to the bishop\nof that diocese as it is possible to be, with G. Lefroy, and J. Harwood,\nwho, I think, takes to me rather more than he used to do. One of my\ngayest actions was sitting down two dances in preference to having Lord\nBolton's eldest son for my partner, who danced too ill to be endured.\nThe Miss Charterises were there, and played the parts of the Miss Edens\nwith great spirit. Charles never came. Naughty Charles! I suppose he\ncould not get superseded in time.\n\nMiss Debary has replaced your two sheets of drawing-paper with two of\nsuperior size and quality; so I do not grudge her having taken them at\nall now. Mr. Ludlow and Miss Pugh of Andover are lately married, and so\nis Mrs. Skeete of Basingstoke, and Mr. French, chemist, of Reading.\n\nI do not wonder at your wanting to read \"First Impressions\" again, so\nseldom as you have gone through it, and that so long ago. I am much\nobliged to you for meaning to leave my old petticoat behind you. I have\nlong secretly wished it might be done, but had not courage to make the\nrequest.\n\nPray mention the name of Maria Montresor's lover when you write next. My\nmother wants to know it, and I have not courage to look back into your\nletters to find it out.\n\nI shall not be able to send this till to-morrow, and you will be\ndisappointed on Friday; I am very sorry for it, but I cannot help it.\n\nThe partnership between Jeffereys, Toomer, and Legge is dissolved; the\ntwo latter are melted away into nothing, and it is to be hoped that\nJeffereys will soon break, for the sake of a few heroines whose money he\nmay have. I wish you joy of your birthday twenty times over.\n\nI shall be able to send this to the post to-day, which exalts me to the\nutmost pinnacle of human felicity, and makes me bask in the sunshine of\nprosperity or gives me any other sensation of pleasure in studied\nlanguage which you may prefer. Do not be angry with me for not filling\nmy sheet, and believe me yours affectionately,\n\n                                                 J. A.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham.\n\n\n\n\nXIII.\n\n\n                                    STEVENTON, Monday (January 21).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--I will endeavor to make this letter more worthy your\nacceptance than my last, which was so shabby a one that I think Mr.\nMarshall could never charge you with the postage. My eyes have been\nvery indifferent since it was written, but are now getting better once\nmore; keeping them so many hours open on Thursday night, as well as the\ndust of the ballroom, injured them a good deal. I use them as little as\nI can, but you know, and Elizabeth knows, and everybody who ever had\nweak eyes knows, how delightful it is to hurt them by employment,\nagainst the advice and entreaty of all one's friends.\n\nCharles leaves us to-night. The \"Tamar\" is in the Downs, and Mr. Daysh\nadvises him to join her there directly, as there is no chance of her\ngoing to the westward. Charles does not approve of this at all, and will\nnot be much grieved if he should be too late for her before she sails,\nas he may then hope to get into a better station. He attempted to go to\ntown last night, and got as far on his road thither as Dean Gate; but\nboth the coaches were full, and we had the pleasure of seeing him back\nagain. He will call on Daysh to-morrow to know whether the \"Tamar\" has\nsailed or not, and if she is still at the Downs he will proceed in one\nof the night coaches to Deal. I want to go with him, that I may explain\nthe country to him properly between Canterbury and Rowling, but the\nunpleasantness of returning by myself deters me. I should like to go as\nfar as Ospringe with him very much indeed, that I might surprise you at\nGodmersham.\n\nMartha writes me word that Charles was very much admired at Kintbury,\nand Mrs. Lefroy never saw any one so much improved in her life, and\nthinks him handsomer than Henry. He appears to far more advantage here\nthan he did at Godmersham, not surrounded by strangers and neither\noppressed by a pain in his face or powder in his hair.\n\nJames christened Elizabeth Caroline on Saturday morning, and then came\nhome. Mary, Anna, and Edward have left us of course; before the second\nwent I took down her answer to her cousin Fanny.\n\nYesterday came a letter to my mother from Edward Cooper to announce, not\nthe birth of a child, but of a living; for Mrs. Leigh has begged his\nacceptance of the Rectory of Hamstall-Ridware in Staffordshire, vacant\nby Mr. Johnson's death. We collect from his letter that he means to\nreside there, in which he shows his wisdom. Staffordshire is a good way\noff; so we shall see nothing more of them till, some fifteen years\nhence, the Miss Coopers are presented to us, fine, jolly, handsome,\nignorant girls. The living is valued at 140_l._ a year, but perhaps it\nmay be improvable. How will they be able to convey the furniture of the\ndressing-room so far in safety?\n\nOur first cousins seem all dropping off very fast. One is incorporated\ninto the family, another dies, and a third goes into Staffordshire. We\ncan learn nothing of the disposal of the other living. I have not the\nsmallest notion of Fulwar's having it. Lord Craven has probably other\nconnections and more intimate ones, in that line, than he now has with\nthe Kintbury family.\n\nOur ball on Thursday was a very poor one, only eight couple and but\ntwenty-three people in the room; but it was not the ball's fault, for we\nwere deprived of two or three families by the sudden illness of Mr.\nWither, who was seized that morning at Winchester with a return of his\nformer alarming complaint. An express was sent off from thence to the\nfamily; Catherine and Miss Blackford were dining with Mrs. Russell. Poor\nCatherine's distress must have been very great. She was prevailed on to\nwait till the Heathcotes could come from Wintney, and then with those\ntwo and Harris proceeded directly to Winchester. In such a disorder his\ndanger, I suppose, must always be great; but from this attack he is now\nrapidly recovering, and will be well enough to return to Manydown, I\nfancy, in a few days.\n\nIt was a fine thing for conversation at the ball. But it deprived us not\nonly of the Biggs, but of Mrs. Russell too, and of the Boltons and John\nHarwood, who were dining there likewise, and of Mr. Lane, who kept away\nas related to the family. Poor man!--I mean Mr. Wither--his life is so\nuseful, his character so respectable and worthy, that I really believe\nthere was a good deal of sincerity in the general concern expressed on\nhis account.\n\nOur ball was chiefly made up of Jervoises and Terrys, the former of whom\nwere apt to be vulgar, the latter to be noisy. I had an odd set of\npartners: Mr. Jenkins, Mr. Street, Colonel Jervoise, James Digweed, J.\nLyford, and Mr. Briggs, a friend of the latter. I had a very pleasant\nevening, however, though you will probably find out that there was no\nparticular reason for it; but I do not think it worth while to wait for\nenjoyment until there is some real opportunity for it. Mary behaved very\nwell, and was not at all fidgetty. For the history of her adventures at\nthe ball I refer you to Anna's letter.\n\nWhen you come home you will have some shirts to make up for Charles.\nMrs. Davies frightened him into buying a piece of Irish when we were in\nBasingstoke. Mr. Daysh supposes that Captain Austen's commission has\nreached him by this time.\n\n_Tuesday._--Your letter has pleased and amused me very much. Your essay\non happy fortnights is highly ingenious, and the talobert skin made me\nlaugh a good deal. Whenever I fall into misfortune, how many jokes it\nought to furnish to my acquaintance in general, or I shall die\ndreadfully in their debt for entertainment.\n\nIt began to occur to me before you mentioned it that I had been\nsomewhat silent as to my mother's health for some time, but I thought\nyou could have no difficulty in divining its exact state,--you, who have\nguessed so much stranger things. She is tolerably well,--better upon the\nwhole than she was some weeks ago. She would tell you herself that she\nhas a very dreadful cold in her head at present; but I have not much\ncompassion for colds in the head without fever or sore throat.\n\nOur own particular little brother got a place in the coach last night,\nand is now, I suppose, in town. I have no objection at all to your\nbuying our gowns there, as your imagination has pictured to you exactly\nsuch a one as is necessary to make me happy. You quite abash me by your\nprogress in notting, for I am still without silk. You must get me some\nin town or in Canterbury; it should be finer than yours.\n\nI thought Edward would not approve of Charles being a crop, and rather\nwished you to conceal it from him at present, lest it might fall on his\nspirits and retard his recovery. My father furnishes him with a pig from\nCheesedown; it is already killed and cut up, but it is not to weigh more\nthan nine stone; the season is too far advanced to get him a larger one.\nMy mother means to pay herself for the salt and the trouble of ordering\nit to be cured by the spareribs, the souse, and the lard. We have had\none dead lamb.\n\nI congratulate you on Mr. E. Hatton's good fortune. I suppose the\nmarriage will now follow out of hand. Give my compliments to Miss Finch.\n\nWhat time in March may we expect your return in? I begin to be very\ntired of answering people's questions on that subject, and independent\nof that, I shall be very glad to see you at home again, and then if we\ncan get Martha and shirk . . . who will be so happy as we?\n\nI think of going to Ibthorp in about a fortnight. My eyes are pretty\nwell, I thank you, if you please.\n\n_Wednesday, 23d._--I wish my dear Fanny many returns of this day, and\nthat she may on every return enjoy as much pleasure as she is now\nreceiving from her doll's-beds.\n\nI have just heard from Charles, who is by this time at Deal. He is to be\nsecond lieutenant, which pleases him very well. The \"Endymion\" is come\ninto the Downs, which pleases him likewise. He expects to be ordered to\nSheerness shortly, as the \"Tamar\" has never been refitted.\n\nMy father and mother made the same match for you last night, and are\nvery much pleased with it. _He_ is a beauty of my mother's.\n\n                                            Yours affectionately,\n                                                               JANE.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\n\n\n\nXIV.\n\n\n                                    13 QUEEN'S SQUARE, Friday (May 17).\n\nMY DEAREST CASSANDRA,--Our journey yesterday went off exceedingly well;\nnothing occurred to alarm or delay us. We found the roads in excellent\norder, had very good horses all the way, and reached Devizes with ease\nby four o'clock. I suppose John has told you in what manner we were\ndivided when we left Andover, and no alteration was afterwards made. At\nDevizes we had comfortable rooms and a good dinner, to which we sat down\nabout five; amongst other things we had asparagus and a lobster, which\nmade me wish for you, and some cheesecakes, on which the children made\nso delightful a supper as to endear the town of Devizes to them for a\nlong time.\n\nWell, here we are at Bath; we got here about one o'clock, and have been\narrived just long enough to go over the house, fix on our rooms, and be\nvery well pleased with the whole of it. Poor Elizabeth has had a dismal\nride of it from Devizes, for it has rained almost all the way, and our\nfirst view of Bath has been just as gloomy as it was last November\ntwelvemonth.\n\nI have got so many things to say, so many things equally important, that\nI know not on which to decide at present, and shall therefore go and eat\nwith the children.\n\nWe stopped in Paragon as we came along, but as it was too wet and dirty\nfor us to get out, we could only see Frank, who told us that his master\nwas very indifferent, but had had a better night last night than usual.\nIn Paragon we met Mrs. Foley and Mrs. Dowdeswell with her yellow shawl\nairing out, and at the bottom of Kingsdown Hill we met a gentleman in a\nbuggy, who, on minute examination, turned out to be Dr. Hall--and Dr.\nHall in such very deep mourning that either his mother, his wife, or\nhimself must be dead. These are all of our acquaintance who have yet met\nour eyes.\n\nI have some hopes of being plagued about my trunk; I had more a few\nhours ago, for it was too heavy to go by the coach which brought Thomas\nand Rebecca from Devizes; there was reason to suppose that it might be\ntoo heavy likewise for any other coach, and for a long time we could\nhear of no wagon to convey it. At last, however, we unluckily discovered\nthat one was just on the point of setting out for this place, but at any\nrate the trunk cannot be here till to-morrow; so far we are safe, and\nwho knows what may not happen to procure a further delay?\n\nI put Mary's letter into the post-office at Andover with my own hand.\n\nWe are exceedingly pleased with the house; the rooms are quite as large\nas we expected. Mrs. Bromley is a fat woman in mourning, and a little\nblack kitten runs about the staircase. Elizabeth has the apartment\nwithin the drawing-room; she wanted my mother to have it, but as there\nwas no bed in the inner one, and the stairs are so much easier of\nascent, or my mother so much stronger than in Paragon as not to regard\nthe double flight, it is settled for us to be above, where we have two\nvery nice-sized rooms, with dirty quilts and everything comfortable. I\nhave the outward and larger apartment, as I ought to have; which is\nquite as large as our bedroom at home, and my mother's is not materially\nless. The beds are both as large as any at Steventon, and I have a very\nnice chest of drawers and a closet full of shelves,--so full indeed that\nthere is nothing else in it, and it should therefore be called a\ncupboard rather than a closet, I suppose.\n\nTell Mary that there were some carpenters at work in the inn at Devizes\nthis morning, but as I could not be sure of their being Mrs. W. Fowle's\nrelations, I did not make myself known to them.\n\nI hope it will be a tolerable afternoon. When first we came, all the\numbrellas were up, but now the pavements are getting very white again.\n\nMy mother does not seem at all the worse for her journey, nor are any of\nus, I hope, though Edward seemed rather fagged last night, and not very\nbrisk this morning; but I trust the bustle of sending for tea, coffee,\nand sugar, etc., and going out to taste a cheese himself, will do him\ngood.\n\nThere was a very long list of arrivals here in the newspaper yesterday,\nso that we need not immediately dread absolute solitude; and there is a\npublic breakfast in Sydney Gardens every morning, so that we shall not\nbe wholly starved.\n\nElizabeth has just had a very good account of the three little boys. I\nhope you are very busy and very comfortable. I find no difficulty in\nclosing my eyes. I like our situation very much; it is far more cheerful\nthan Paragon, and the prospect from the drawing-room window, at which I\nnow write, is rather picturesque, as it commands a prospective view of\nthe left side of Brock Street, broken by three Lombardy poplars in the\ngarden of the last house in Queen's Parade.\n\nI am rather impatient to know the fate of my best gown, but I suppose it\nwill be some days before Frances can get through the trunk. In the mean\ntime I am, with many thanks for your trouble in making it, as well as\nmarking my silk stockings,\n\n                                    Yours very affectionately,\n                                                            JANE.\n\nA great deal of love from everybody.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, Steventon, Overton, Hants.\n\n\n\n\nXV.\n\n\n                                    13 QUEEN SQUARE, Sunday (June 2).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--I am obliged to you for two letters, one from\nyourself and the other from Mary, for of the latter I knew nothing till\non the receipt of yours yesterday, when the pigeon-basket was examined,\nand I received my due. As I have written to her since the time which\nought to have brought me hers, I suppose she will consider herself, as I\nchoose to consider her, still in my debt.\n\nI will lay out all the little judgment I have in endeavoring to get such\nstockings for Anna as she will approve; but I do not know that I shall\nexecute Martha's commission at all, for I am not fond of ordering shoes;\nand, at any rate, they shall all have flat heels.\n\nWhat must I tell you of Edward? Truth or falsehood? I will try the\nformer, and you may choose for yourself another time. He was better\nyesterday than he had been for two or three days before,--about as well\nas while he was at Steventon. He drinks at the Hetling Pump, is to bathe\nto-morrow, and try electricity on Tuesday. He proposed the latter\nhimself to Dr. Fellowes, who made no objection to it, but I fancy we are\nall unanimous in expecting no advantage from it. At present I have no\ngreat notion of our staying here beyond the month.\n\nI heard from Charles last week; they were to sail on Wednesday.\n\nMy mother seems remarkably well. My uncle overwalked himself at first,\nand can now only travel in a chair, but is otherwise very well.\n\nMy cloak is come home. I like it very much, and can now exclaim with\ndelight, like J. Bond at hay-harvest, \"This is what I have been looking\nfor these three years.\" I saw some gauzes in a shop in Bath Street\nyesterday at only 4_d._ a yard, but they were not so good or so pretty\nas mine. Flowers are very much worn, and fruit is still more the thing.\nElizabeth has a bunch of strawberries, and I have seen grapes, cherries,\nplums, and apricots. There are likewise almonds and raisins, French\nplums, and tamarinds at the grocers', but I have never seen any of them\nin hats. A plum or greengage would cost three shillings; cherries and\ngrapes about five, I believe, but this is at some of the dearest shops.\nMy aunt has told me of a very cheap one, near Walcot Church, to which I\nshall go in quest of something for you. I have never seen an old woman\nat the pump-room.\n\nElizabeth has given me a hat, and it is not only a pretty hat, but a\npretty style of hat too. It is something like Eliza's, only, instead of\nbeing all straw, half of it is narrow purple ribbon. I flatter myself,\nhowever, that you can understand very little of it from this\ndescription. Heaven forbid that I should ever offer such encouragement\nto explanations as to give a clear one on any occasion myself! But I\nmust write no more of this. . . .\n\nI spent Friday evening with the Mapletons, and was obliged to submit to\nbeing pleased in spite of my inclination. We took a very charming walk\nfrom six to eight up Beacon Hill, and across some fields, to the village\nof Charlecombe, which is sweetly situated in a little green valley, as a\nvillage with such a name ought to be. Marianne is sensible and\nintelligent; and even Jane, considering how fair she is, is not\nunpleasant. We had a Miss North and a Mr. Gould of our party; the latter\nwalked home with me after tea. He is a very young man, just entered\nOxford, wears spectacles, and has heard that \"Evelina\" was written by\nDr. Johnson.\n\nI am afraid I cannot undertake to carry Martha's shoes home, for, though\nwe had plenty of room in our trunks when we came, we shall have many\nmore things to take back, and I must allow besides for my packing.\n\nThere is to be a grand gala on Tuesday evening in Sydney Gardens, a\nconcert, with illuminations and fireworks. To the latter Elizabeth and I\nlook forward with pleasure, and even the concert will have more than\nits usual charm for me, as the gardens are large enough for me to get\npretty well beyond the reach of its sound. In the morning Lady\nWilloughby is to present the colors to some corps, or Yeomanry, or\nother, in the Crescent, and that such festivities may have a proper\ncommencement, we think of going to. . . .\n\nI am quite pleased with Martha and Mrs. Lefroy for wanting the pattern\nof our caps, but I am not so well pleased with your giving it to them.\nSome wish, some prevailing wish, is necessary to the animation of\neverybody's mind, and in gratifying this you leave them to form some\nother which will not probably be half so innocent. I shall not forget to\nwrite to Frank. Duty and love, etc.\n\n                                    Yours affectionately,      JANE.\n\nMy uncle is quite surprised at my hearing from you so often; but as long\nas we can keep the frequency of our correspondence from Martha's uncle,\nwe will not fear our own.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, Steventon.\n\n\n\n\nXVI.\n\n\n                                13 QUEEN SQUARE, Tuesday (June 11).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--Your letter yesterday made me very happy. I am\nheartily glad that you have escaped any share in the impurities of\nDeane, and not sorry, as it turns out, that our stay here has been\nlengthened. I feel tolerably secure of our getting away next week,\nthough it is certainly possible that we may remain till Thursday the\n27th. I wonder what we shall do with all our intended visits this\nsummer! I should like to make a compromise with Adlestrop, Harden, and\nBookham, that Martha's spending the summer at Steventon should be\nconsidered as our respective visits to them all.\n\nEdward has been pretty well for this last week, and as the waters have\nnever disagreed with him in any respect, we are inclined to hope that he\nwill derive advantage from them in the end. Everybody encourages us in\nthis expectation, for they all say that the effect of the waters cannot\nbe negative, and many are the instances in which their benefit is felt\nafterwards more than on the spot. He is more comfortable here than I\nthought he would be, and so is Elizabeth, though they will both, I\nbelieve, be very glad to get away--the latter especially, which one\ncan't wonder at somehow. So much for Mrs. Piozzi. I had some thoughts of\nwriting the whole of my letter in her style, but I believe I shall not.\n\nThough you have given me unlimited powers concerning your sprig, I\ncannot determine what to do about it, and shall therefore in this and in\nevery other future letter continue to ask your further directions. We\nhave been to the cheap shop, and very cheap we found it, but there are\nonly flowers made there, no fruit; and as I could get four or five very\npretty sprigs of the former for the same money which would procure only\none Orleans plum--in short, could get more for three or four shillings\nthan I could have means of bringing home--I cannot decide on the fruit\ntill I hear from you again. Besides, I cannot help thinking that it is\nmore natural to have flowers grow out of the head than fruit. What do\nyou think on that subject?\n\nI would not let Martha read \"First Impressions\"[4] again upon any\naccount, and am very glad that I did not leave it in your power. She is\nvery cunning, but I saw through her design; she means to publish it from\nmemory, and one more perusal must enable her to do it. As for\n\"Fitzalbini,\" when I get home she shall have it, as soon as ever she\nwill own that Mr. Elliott is handsomer than Mr. Lance, that fair men are\npreferable to black; for I mean to take every opportunity of rooting out\nher prejudices.\n\nBenjamin Portal is here. How charming that is! I do not exactly know\nwhy, but the phrase followed so naturally that I could not help putting\nit down. My mother saw him the other day, but without making herself\nknown to him.\n\nI am very glad you liked my lace, and so are you, and so is Martha, and\nwe are all glad together. I have got your cloak home, which is quite\ndelightful,--as delightful at least as half the circumstances which are\ncalled so.\n\nI do not know what is the matter with me to-day, but I cannot write\nquietly; I am always wandering away into some exclamation or other.\nFortunately I have nothing very particular to say.\n\nWe walked to Weston one evening last week, and liked it very much. Liked\nwhat very much? Weston? No, walking to Weston. I have not expressed\nmyself properly, but I hope you will understand me.\n\nWe have not been to any public place lately, nor performed anything out\nof the common daily routine of No. 13 Queen Square, Bath. But to-day we\nwere to have dashed away at a very extraordinary rate, by dining out,\nhad it not so happened that we did not go.\n\nEdward renewed his acquaintance lately with Mr. Evelyn, who lives in the\nQueen's Parade, and was invited to a family dinner, which I believe at\nfirst Elizabeth was rather sorry at his accepting; but yesterday Mrs.\nEvelyn called on us, and her manners were so pleasing that we liked the\nidea of going very much. The Biggs would call her a nice woman. But Mr.\nEvelyn, who was indisposed yesterday, is worse to-day, and we are put\noff.\n\nIt is rather impertinent to suggest any household care to a housekeeper,\nbut I just venture to say that the coffee-mill will be wanted every day\nwhile Edward is at Steventon, as he always drinks coffee for breakfast.\n\nFanny desires her love to you, her love to grandpapa, her love to Anna,\nand her love to Hannah; the latter is particularly to be remembered.\nEdward desires his love to you, to grandpapa, to Anna, to little Edward,\nto Aunt James and Uncle James, and he hopes all your turkeys and ducks\nand chicken and guinea fowls are very well; and he wishes you very much\nto send him a printed letter, and so does Fanny--and they both rather\nthink they shall answer it. . . .\n\nDr. Gardiner was married yesterday to Mrs. Percy and her three\ndaughters.\n\nNow I will give you the history of Mary's veil, in the purchase of which\nI have so considerably involved you that it is my duty to economize for\nyou in the flowers. I had no difficulty in getting a muslin veil for\nhalf a guinea, and not much more in discovering afterwards that the\nmuslin was thick, dirty, and ragged, and therefore would by no means do\nfor a united gift. I changed it consequently as soon as I could, and,\nconsidering what a state my imprudence had reduced me to, I thought\nmyself lucky in getting a black lace one for sixteen shillings. I hope\nthe half of that sum will not greatly exceed what you had intended to\noffer upon the altar of sister-in-law affection.\n\n                                      Yours affectionately,      JANE.\n\nThey do not seem to trouble you much from Manydown. I have long wanted\nto quarrel with them, and I believe I shall take this opportunity. There\nis no denying that they are very capricious--for they like to enjoy\ntheir elder sister's company when they can.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, Steventon, Overton, Hants.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[4] The title first chosen for \"Pride and Prejudice.\"\n\n\n\n\nXVII.\n\n\n                                 STEVENTON, Thursday (November 20, 1800).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--Your letter took me quite by surprise this morning;\nyou are very welcome, however, and I am very much obliged to you. I\nbelieve I drank too much wine last night at Hurstbourne; I know not how\nelse to account for the shaking of my hand to-day. You will kindly make\nallowance therefore for any indistinctness of writing, by attributing it\nto this venial error.\n\nNaughty Charles did not come on Tuesday, but good Charles came yesterday\nmorning. About two o'clock he walked in on a Gosport hack. His feeling\nequal to such a fatigue is a good sign, and his feeling no fatigue in it\na still better. He walked down to Deane to dinner; he danced the whole\nevening, and to-day is no more tired than a gentleman ought to be.\n\nYour desiring to hear from me on Sunday will, perhaps, bring you a more\nparticular account of the ball than you may care for, because one is\nprone to think much more of such things the morning after they happen,\nthan when time has entirely driven them out of one's recollection.\n\nIt was a pleasant evening; Charles found it remarkably so, but I cannot\ntell why, unless the absence of Miss Terry, towards whom his conscience\nreproaches him with being now perfectly indifferent, was a relief to\nhim. There were only twelve dances, of which I danced nine, and was\nmerely prevented from dancing the rest by the want of a partner. We\nbegan at ten, supped at one, and were at Deane before five. There were\nbut fifty people in the room; very few families indeed from our side of\nthe county, and not many more from the other. My partners were the two\nSt. Johns, Hooper, Holder, and a very prodigious Mr. Mathew, with whom I\ncalled the last, and whom I liked the best of my little stock.\n\nThere were very few beauties, and such as there were were not very\nhandsome. Miss Iremonger did not look well, and Mrs. Blount was the\nonly one much admired. She appeared exactly as she did in September,\nwith the same broad face, diamond bandeau, white shoes, pink husband,\nand fat neck. The two Miss Coxes were there; I traced in one the remains\nof the vulgar, broad-featured girl who danced at Enham eight years ago;\nthe other is refined into a nice, composed-looking girl, like Catherine\nBigg. I looked at Sir Thomas Champneys, and thought of poor Rosalie; I\nlooked at his daughter, and thought her a queer animal with a white\nneck. Mrs. Warren I was constrained to think a very fine young woman,\nwhich I much regret. She danced away with great activity. Her husband is\nugly enough, uglier even than his cousin John; but he does not look so\n_very_ old. The Miss Maitlands are both prettyish, very like Anne, with\nbrown skins, large dark eyes, and a good deal of nose. The General has\ngot the gout, and Mrs. Maitland the jaundice. Miss Debary, Susan, and\nSally, all in black, but without any statues, made their appearance, and\nI was as civil to them as circumstances would allow me. . . .\n\nMary said that I looked very well last night. I wore my aunt's gown and\nhandkerchief, and my hair was at least tidy, which was all my ambition.\nI will now have done with the ball, and I will moreover go and dress for\ndinner. . . .\n\nFarewell; Charles sends you his best love, and Edward his worst. If you\nthink the distinction improper, you may take the worst yourself. He\nwill write to you when he gets back to his ship, and in the mean time\ndesires that you will consider me as\n\n                                    Your affectionate sister,      J. A.\n\n_Friday._--I have determined to go on Thursday, but of course not before\nthe post comes in. Charles is in very good looks indeed. I had the\ncomfort of finding out the other evening who all the fat girls with long\nnoses were that disturbed me at the First H. ball. They all proved to be\nMiss Atkinsons of En--[_illegible_].\n\nI rejoice to say that we have just had another letter from our dear\nFrank. It is to you, very short, written from Larnica in Cyprus, and so\nlately as October 2. He came from Alexandria, and was to return there in\nthree or four days, knew nothing of his promotion, and does not write\nabove twenty lines, from a doubt of the letter's ever reaching you, and\nan idea of all letters being opened at Vienna. He wrote a few days\nbefore to you from Alexandria by the \"Mercury,\" sent with despatches to\nLord Keith. Another letter must be owing to us besides this, one if not\ntwo; because none of these are to me. Henry comes to-morrow, for one\nnight only.\n\nMy mother has heard from Mrs. E. Leigh. Lady Saye and Seale and her\ndaughter are going to remove to Bath. Mrs. Estwick is married again to\na Mr. Sloane, a young man under age, without the knowledge of either\nfamily. He bears a good character, however.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\n\n\n\nXVIII.\n\n\n                                 STEVENTON, Saturday (January 3, 1801).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--As you have by this time received my last letter, it\nis fit that I should begin another; and I begin with the hope, which is\nat present uppermost in my mind, that you often wore a white gown in the\nmorning at the time of all the gay parties being with you.\n\nOur visit at Ash Park, last Wednesday, went off in a _come-ca_ way. We\nmet Mr. Lefroy and Tom Chute, played at cards, and came home again.\nJames and Mary dined here on the following day, and at night Henry set\noff in the mail for London. He was as agreeable as ever during his\nvisit, and has not lost anything in Miss Lloyd's estimation.\n\nYesterday we were quite alone--only our four selves; but to-day the\nscene is agreeably varied by Mary's driving Martha to Basingstoke, and\nMartha's afterwards dining at Deane.\n\nMy mother looks forward with as much certainty as you can do to our\nkeeping two maids; my father is the only one not in the secret. We plan\nhaving a steady cook and a young giddy housemaid, with a sedate,\nmiddle-aged man, who is to undertake the double office of husband to the\nformer and sweetheart to the latter. No children of course to be allowed\non either side.\n\nYou feel more for John Bond than John Bond deserves. I am sorry to lower\nhis character, but he is not ashamed to own himself that he has no doubt\nat all of getting a good place, and that he had even an offer many years\nago from a Farmer Paine of taking him into his service whenever he might\nquit my father's.\n\nThere are three parts of Bath which we have thought of as likely to have\nhouses in them,--Westgate Buildings, Charles Street, and some of the\nshort streets leading from Laura Place or Pulteney Street.\n\nWestgate Buildings, though quite in the lower part of the town, are not\nbadly situated themselves. The street is broad, and has rather a good\nappearance. Charles Street, however, I think is preferable. The\nbuildings are new, and its nearness to Kingsmead Fields would be a\npleasant circumstance. Perhaps you may remember, or perhaps you may\nforget, that Charles Street leads from the Queen Square Chapel to the\ntwo Green Park Streets.\n\nThe houses in the streets near Laura Place I should expect to be above\nour price. Gay Street would be too high, except only the lower house on\nthe left-hand side as you ascend. Towards that my mother has no\ndisinclination; it used to be lower rented than any other house in the\nrow, from some inferiority in the apartments. But above all others her\nwishes are at present fixed on the corner house in Chapel Row, which\nopens into Prince's Street. Her knowledge of it, however, is confined\nonly to the outside, and therefore she is equally uncertain of its being\nreally desirable as of its being to be had. In the mean time she assures\nyou that she will do everything in her power to avoid Trim Street,\nalthough you have not expressed the fearful presentiment of it which was\nrather expected.\n\nWe know that Mrs. Perrot will want to get us into Oxford Buildings, but\nwe all unite in particular dislike of that part of the town, and\ntherefore hope to escape. Upon all these different situations you and\nEdward may confer together, and your opinion of each will be expected\nwith eagerness.\n\nAs to our pictures, the battle-piece, Mr. Nibbs, Sir William East, and\nall the old heterogeneous, miscellany, manuscript, Scriptural pieces\ndispersed over the house, are to be given to James. Your own drawings\nwill not cease to be your own, and the two paintings on tin will be at\nyour disposal. My mother says that the French agricultural prints in\nthe best bedroom were given by Edward to his two sisters. Do you or he\nknow anything about it?\n\nShe has written to my aunt, and we are all impatient for the answer. I\ndo not know how to give up the idea of our both going to Paragon in May.\nYour going I consider as indispensably necessary, and I shall not like\nbeing left behind; there is no place here or hereabouts that I shall\nwant to be staying at, and though, to be sure, the keep of two will be\nmore than of one, I will endeavor to make the difference less by\ndisordering my stomach with Bath buns; and as to the trouble of\naccommodating us, whether there are one or two, it is much the same.\n\nAccording to the first plan, my mother and our two selves are to travel\ndown together, and my father follow us afterwards in about a fortnight\nor three weeks. We have promised to spend a couple of days at Ibthorp in\nour way. We must all meet at Bath, you know, before we set out for the\nsea, and, everything considered, I think the first plan as good as any.\n\nMy father and mother, wisely aware of the difficulty of finding in all\nBath such a bed as their own, have resolved on taking it with them; all\nthe beds, indeed, that we shall want are to be removed,--namely, besides\ntheirs, our own two, the best for a spare one, and two for servants; and\nthese necessary articles will probably be the only material ones that\nit would answer to send down. I do not think it will be worth while to\nremove any of our chests of drawers; we shall be able to get some of a\nmuch more commodious sort, made of deal, and painted to look very neat;\nand I flatter myself that for little comforts of all kinds our apartment\nwill be one of the most complete things of the sort all over Bath,\nBristol included.\n\nWe have thought at times of removing the sideboard, or a Pembroke table,\nor some other piece of furniture, but, upon the whole, it has ended in\nthinking that the trouble and risk of the removal would be more than the\nadvantage of having them at a place where everything may be purchased.\nPray send your opinion.\n\nMartha has as good as promised to come to us again in March. Her spirits\nare better than they were. . . .\n\nMy mother bargains for having no trouble at all in furnishing our house\nin Bath, and I have engaged for your willingly undertaking to do it all.\nI get more and more reconciled to the idea of our removal. We have lived\nlong enough in this neighborhood: the Basingstoke balls are certainly on\nthe decline, there is something interesting in the bustle of going away,\nand the prospect of spending future summers by the sea or in Wales is\nvery delightful. For a time we shall now possess many of the advantages\nwhich I have often thought of with envy in the wives of sailors or\nsoldiers. It must not be generally known, however, that I am not\nsacrificing a great deal in quitting the country, or I can expect to\ninspire no tenderness, no interest, in those we leave behind. . . .\n\n                                  Yours affectionately,       J. A.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\n\n\n\nXIX.\n\n\n                                    STEVENTON, Thursday (January 8).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--The \"perhaps\" which concluded my last letter being\nonly a \"perhaps,\" will not occasion your being overpowered with\nsurprise, I dare say, if you should receive this before Tuesday, which,\nunless circumstances are very perverse, will be the case. I received\nyours with much general philanthropy, and still more peculiar good-will,\ntwo days ago; and I suppose I need not tell you that it was very long,\nbeing written on a foolscap sheet, and very entertaining, being written\nby you.\n\nMr. Payne has been dead long enough for Henry to be out of mourning for\nhim before his last visit, though we knew nothing of it till about that\ntime. Why he died, or of what complaint, or to what noblemen he\nbequeathed his four daughters in marriage, we have not heard.\n\nI am glad that the Wildmans are going to give a ball, and hope you will\nnot fail to benefit both yourself and me by laying out a few kisses in\nthe purchase of a frank. I believe you are right in proposing to delay\nthe cambric muslin, and I submit with a kind of voluntary reluctance.\n\nMr. Peter Debary has declined Deane curacy; he wishes to be settled near\nLondon. A foolish reason! as if Deane were not near London in comparison\nof Exeter or York. Take the whole world through, and he will find many\nmore places at a greater distance from London than Deane than he will at\na less. What does he think of Glencoe or Lake Katherine?\n\nI feel rather indignant that any possible objection should be raised\nagainst so valuable a piece of preferment, so delightful a\nsituation!--that Deane should not be universally allowed to be as near\nthe metropolis as any other country villages. As this is the case,\nhowever, as Mr. Peter Debary has shown himself a Peter in the blackest\nsense of the word, we are obliged to look elsewhere for an heir; and my\nfather has thought it a necessary compliment to James Digweed to offer\nthe curacy to him, though without considering it as either a desirable\nor an eligible situation for him. Unless he is in love with Miss Lyford,\nI think he had better not be settled exactly in this neighborhood; and\nunless he is very much in love with her indeed, he is not likely to\nthink a salary of 50_l._ equal in value or efficiency to one of 75_l._\n\nWere you indeed to be considered as one of the fixtures of the\nhouse!--but you were never actually erected in it either by Mr. Egerton\nBrydges or Mrs. Lloyd. . . .\n\nYou are very kind in planning presents for me to make, and my mother has\nshown me exactly the same attention; but as I do not choose to have\ngenerosity dictated to me, I shall not resolve on giving my cabinet to\nAnna till the first thought of it has been my own.\n\nSidmouth is now talked of as our summer abode. Get all the information,\ntherefore, about it that you can from Mrs. C. Cage.\n\nMy father's old ministers are already deserting him to pay their court\nto his son. The brown mare, which, as well as the black, was to devolve\non James at our removal, has not had patience to wait for that, and has\nsettled herself even now at Deane. The death of Hugh Capet, which, like\nthat of Mr. Skipsey, though undesired, was not wholly unexpected, being\npurposely effected, has made the immediate possession of the mare very\nconvenient, and everything else I suppose will be seized by degrees in\nthe same manner. Martha and I work at the books every day.\n\n                                    Yours affectionately,       J. A.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\n\n\n\nXX.\n\n\n                                    STEVENTON, Wednesday (January 14).\n\nPOOR Miss Austen! It appears to me that I have rather oppressed you of\nlate by the frequency of my letters. You had hoped not to hear from me\nagain before Tuesday, but Sunday showed you with what a merciless sister\nyou had to deal. I cannot recall the past, but you shall not hear from\nme quite so often in future.\n\nYour letter to Mary was duly received before she left Deane with Martha\nyesterday morning, and it gives us great pleasure to know that the\nChilham ball was so agreeable, and that you danced four dances with Mr.\nKemble. Desirable, however, as the latter circumstance was, I cannot\nhelp wondering at its taking place. Why did you dance four dances with\nso stupid a man? Why not rather dance two of them with some elegant\nbrother officer who was struck with your appearance as soon as you\nentered the room?\n\nMartha left you her best love. She will write to you herself in a short\ntime; but trusting to my memory rather than her own, she has\nnevertheless desired me to ask you to purchase for her two bottles of\nSteele's lavender water when you are in town, provided you should go to\nthe shop on your own account, otherwise you may be sure that she would\nnot have you recollect the request.\n\nJames dined with us yesterday, wrote to Edward in the evening, filled\nthree sides of paper, every line inclining too much towards the\nnortheast, and the very first line of all scratched out, and this\nmorning he joins his lady in the fields of Elysium and Ibthorp.\n\nLast Friday was a very busy day with us. We were visited by Miss Lyford\nand Mr. Bayle. The latter began his operations in the house, but had\nonly time to finish the four sitting-rooms; the rest is deferred till\nthe spring is more advanced and the days longer. He took his paper of\nappraisement away with him, and therefore we only know the estimate he\nhas made of one or two articles of furniture which my father\nparticularly inquired into. I understand, however, that he was of\nopinion that the whole would amount to more than two hundred pounds, and\nit is not imagined that this will comprehend the brewhouse and many\nother, etc., etc.\n\nMiss Lyford was very pleasant, and gave my mother such an account of the\nhouses in Westgate Buildings, where Mrs. Lyford lodged four years ago,\nas made her think of a situation there with great pleasure, but your\nopposition will be without difficulty decisive, and my father, in\nparticular, who was very well inclined towards the Row before, has now\nceased to think of it entirely. At present the environs of Laura Place\nseem to be his choice. His views on the subject are much advanced since\nI came home; he grows quite ambitious, and actually requires now a\ncomfortable and a creditable-looking house.\n\nOn Saturday Miss Lyford went to her long home,--that is to say, it was a\nlong way off,--and soon afterwards a party of fine ladies issuing from a\nwell-known commodious green vehicle, their heads full of Bantam cocks\nand Galinies, entered the house,--Mrs. Heathcote, Mrs. Harwood, Mrs.\nJames Austen, Miss Bigg, Miss Jane Blachford.\n\nHardly a day passes in which we do not have some visitor or other:\nyesterday came Mrs. Bramstone, who is very sorry that she is to lose us,\nand afterwards Mr. Holder, who was shut up for an hour with my father\nand James in a most awful manner. John Bond _est a lui_. . . .\n\n\n\n\nXXI.\n\n\n                                    STEVENTON, Wednesday (January 21).\n\nEXPECT a most agreeable letter, for not being overburdened with subject\n(having nothing at all to say), I shall have no check to my genius from\nbeginning to end.\n\nWell, and so Prank's letter has made you very happy, but you are afraid\nhe would not have patience to stay for the \"Haarlem,\" which you wish him\nto have done as being safer than the merchantman. Poor fellow! to wait\nfrom the middle of November to the end of December, and perhaps even\nlonger, it must be sad work; especially in a place where the ink is so\nabominably pale. What a surprise to him it must have been on October 20,\nto be visited, collared, and thrust out of the \"Petterel\" by Captain\nInglis. He kindly passes over the poignancy of his feelings in quitting\nhis ship, his officers, and his men.\n\nWhat a pity it is that he should not be in England at the time of this\npromotion, because he certainly would have had an appointment, so\neverybody says, and therefore it must be right for me to say it too. Had\nhe been really here, the certainty of the appointment, I dare say, would\nnot have been half so great, but as it could not be brought to the\nproof, his absence will be always a lucky source of regret.\n\nEliza talks of having read in a newspaper that all the first lieutenants\nof the frigates whose captains were to be sent into line-of-battle ships\nwere to be promoted to the rank of commanders. If it be true, Mr.\nValentine may afford himself a fine Valentine's knot, and Charles may\nperhaps become first of the \"Endymion,\" though I suppose Captain Durham\nis too likely to bring a villain with him under that denomination. . . .\n\nThe neighborhood have quite recovered the death of Mrs. Rider,--so much\nso, that I think they are rather rejoiced at it now; her things were so\nvery dear! and Mrs. Rogers is to be all that is desirable. Not even\ndeath itself can fix the friendship of the world. . . .\n\nThe Wylmots being robbed must be an amusing thing to their acquaintance,\nand I hope it is as much their pleasure as it seems their avocation to\nbe subjects of general entertainment.\n\nI have a great mind not to acknowledge the receipt of your letter, which\nI have just had the pleasure of reading, because I am so ashamed to\ncompare the sprawling lines of this with it. But if I say all that I\nhave to say, I hope I have no reason to hang myself. . . .\n\nWhy did not J. D. make his proposals to you? I suppose he went to see\nthe cathedral, that he might know how he should like to be married in\nit. . . .\n\n  Miss AUSTEN,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\n\n\n\nXXII.\n\n\n                               SOUTHAMPTON, Wednesday (January 7, 1807).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--You were mistaken in supposing I should expect your\nletter on Sunday; I had no idea of hearing from you before Tuesday, and\nmy pleasure yesterday was therefore unhurt by any previous\ndisappointment. I thank you for writing so much; you must really have\nsent me the value of two letters in one. We are extremely glad to hear\nthat Elizabeth is so much better, and hope you will be sensible of still\nfurther amendment in her when you return from Canterbury.\n\nOf your visit there I must now speak \"incessantly;\" it surprises, but\npleases me more, and I consider it as a very just and honorable\ndistinction of you, and not less to the credit of Mrs. Knight. I have no\ndoubt of your spending your time with her most pleasantly in quiet and\nrational conversation, and am so far from thinking her expectations of\nyou will be deceived, that my only fear is of your being so agreeable,\nso much to her taste, as to make her wish to keep you with her forever.\nIf that should be the case, we must remove to Canterbury, which I should\nnot like so well as Southampton.\n\nWhen you receive this, our guests will be all gone or going; and I shall\nbe left to the comfortable disposal of my time, to ease of mind from the\ntorments of rice puddings and apple dumplings, and probably to regret\nthat I did not take more pains to please them all.\n\nMrs. J. Austen has asked me to return with her to Steventon; I need not\ngive my answer; and she has invited my mother to spend there the time of\nMrs. F. A.'s confinement, which she seems half inclined to do.\n\nA few days ago I had a letter from Miss Irvine, and as I was in her\ndebt, you will guess it to be a remonstrance, not a very severe one,\nhowever; the first page is in her usual retrospective, jealous,\ninconsistent style, but the remainder is chatty and harmless. She\nsupposes my silence may have proceeded from resentment of her not having\nwritten to inquire particularly after my hooping-cough, etc. She is a\nfunny one.\n\nI have answered her letter, and have endeavored to give something like\nthe truth with as little incivility as I could, by placing my silence to\nthe want of subject in the very quiet way in which we live. Phebe has\nrepented, and stays. I have also written to Charles, and I answered Miss\nBuller's letter by return of post, as I intended to tell you in my last.\n\nTwo or three things I recollected when it was too late, that I might\nhave told you; one is that the Welbys have lost their eldest son by a\nputrid fever at Eton, and another that Tom Chute is going to settle in\nNorfolk.\n\nYou have scarcely ever mentioned Lizzy since your being at Godmersham. I\nhope it is not because she is altered for the worse.\n\nI cannot yet satisfy Fanny as to Mrs. Foote's baby's name, and I must\nnot encourage her to expect a good one, as Captain Foote is a professed\nadversary to all but the plainest; he likes only Mary, Elizabeth, Anne,\netc. Our best chance is of \"Caroline,\" which in compliment to a sister\nseems the only exception.\n\nHe dined with us on Friday, and I fear will not soon venture again, for\nthe strength of our dinner was a boiled leg of mutton, underdone even\nfor James; and Captain Foote has a particular dislike to underdone\nmutton; but he was so good-humored and pleasant that I did not much mind\nhis being starved. He gives us all the most cordial invitation to his\nhouse in the country, saying just what the Williams ought to say to make\nus welcome. Of them we have seen nothing since you left us, and we hear\nthat they are just gone to Bath again, to be out of the way of further\nalterations at Brooklands.\n\nMrs. F. A. has had a very agreeable letter from Mrs. Dickson, who was\ndelighted with the purse, and desires her not to provide herself with a\nchristening dress, which is exactly what her young correspondent wanted;\nand she means to defer making any of the caps as long as she can, in\nhope of having Mrs. D.'s present in time to be serviceable as a pattern.\nShe desires me to tell you that the gowns were cut out before your\nletter arrived, but that they are long enough for Caroline. The _Beds_,\nas I believe they are called, have fallen to Frank's share to continue,\nand of course are cut out to admiration.\n\n\"Alphonsine\" did not do. We were disgusted in twenty pages, as,\nindependent of a bad translation, it has indelicacies which disgrace a\npen hitherto so pure; and we changed it for the \"Female Quixote,\" which\nnow makes our evening amusement; to me a very high one, as I find the\nwork quite equal to what I remembered it. Mrs. F. A., to whom it is new,\nenjoys it as one could wish; the other Mary, I believe, has little\npleasure from that or any other book.\n\nMy mother does not seem at all more disappointed than ourselves at the\ntermination of the family treaty; she thinks less of that just now than\nof the comfortable state of her own finances, which she finds on closing\nher year's accounts beyond her expectation, as she begins the new year\nwith a balance of 30_l._ in her favor; and when she has written her\nanswer to my aunt, which you know always hangs a little upon her mind,\nshe will be above the world entirely. You will have a great deal of\nunreserved discourse with Mrs. K., I dare say, upon this subject, as\nwell as upon many other of our family matters. Abuse everybody but me.\n\n_Thursday._--We expected James yesterday, but he did not come; if he\ncomes at all now, his visit will be a very short one, as he must return\nto-morrow, that Ajax and the chair may be sent to Winchester on\nSaturday. Caroline's new pelisse depended upon her mother's being able\nor not to come so far in the chair; how the guinea that will be saved by\nthe same means of return is to be spent I know not. Mrs. J. A. does not\ntalk much of poverty now, though she has no hope of my brother's being\nable to buy another horse next summer.\n\nTheir scheme against Warwickshire continues, but I doubt the family's\nbeing at Stoneleigh so early as James says he must go, which is May.\n\nMy mother is afraid I have not been explicit enough on the subject of\nher wealth; she began 1806 with 68_l._ she begins 1807 with 99_l._, and\nthis after 32_l._ purchase of stock. Frank too has been settling his\naccounts and making calculations, and each party feels quite equal to\nour present expenses; but much increase of house-rent would not do for\neither. Frank limits himself, I believe, to four hundred a year.\n\nYou will be surprised to hear that Jenny is not yet come back; we have\nheard nothing of her since her reaching Itchingswell, and can only\nsuppose that she must be detained by illness in somebody or other, and\nthat she has been each day expecting to be able to come on the morrow. I\nam glad I did not know beforehand that she was to be absent during the\nwhole or almost the whole of our friends being with us, for though the\ninconvenience has not been nothing, I should have feared still more.\nOur dinners have certainly suffered not a little by having only Molly's\nhead and Molly's hands to conduct them; she fries better than she did,\nbut not like Jenny.\n\nWe did _not_ take our walk on Friday, it was too dirty, nor have we yet\ndone it; we may perhaps do something like it to-day, as after seeing\nFrank skate, which he hopes to do in the meadows by the beech, we are to\ntreat ourselves with a passage over the ferry. It is one of the\npleasantest frosts I ever knew, so very quiet. I hope it will last some\ntime longer for Frank's sake, who is quite anxious to get some skating;\nhe tried yesterday, but it would not do.\n\nOur acquaintance increase too fast. He was recognized lately by Admiral\nBertie, and a few days since arrived the Admiral and his daughter\nCatherine to wait upon us. There was nothing to like or dislike in\neither. To the Berties are to be added the Lances, with whose cards we\nhave been endowed, and whose visit Frank and I returned yesterday. They\nlive about a mile and three-quarters from S. to the right of the new\nroad to Portsmouth, and I believe their house is one of those which are\nto be seen almost anywhere among the woods on the other side of the\nItchen. It is a handsome building, stands high, and in a very beautiful\nsituation.\n\nWe found only Mrs. Lance at home, and whether she boasts any offspring\nbesides a grand pianoforte did not appear. She was civil and chatty\nenough, and offered to introduce us to some acquaintance in Southampton,\nwhich we gratefully declined.\n\nI suppose they must be acting by the orders of Mr. Lance of Netherton in\nthis civility, as there seems no other reason for their coming near us.\nThey will not come often, I dare say. They live in a handsome style and\nare rich, and she seemed to like to be rich, and we gave her to\nunderstand that we were far from being so; she will soon feel therefore\nthat we are not worth her acquaintance.\n\nYou must have heard from Martha by this time. We have had no accounts of\nKintbury since her letter to me.\n\nMrs. F. A. has had one fainting fit lately; it came on as usual after\neating a hearty dinner, but did not last long.\n\nI can recollect nothing more to say. When my letter is gone, I suppose I\nshall.\n\n                                    Yours affectionately,      J. A.\n\nI have just asked Caroline if I should send her love to her godmamma, to\nwhich she answered \"Yes.\"\n\n  Miss AUSTEN,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\n\n\n\nXXIII.\n\n\n                                              SOUTHAMPTON, February 8.\n\n. . . OUR garden is putting in order by a man who bears a remarkably\ngood character, has a very fine complexion, and asks something less than\nthe first. The shrubs which border the gravel walk, he says, are only\nsweetbrier and roses, and the latter of an indifferent sort; we mean to\nget a few of a better kind, therefore, and at my own particular desire\nhe procures us some syringas. I could not do without a syringa, for the\nsake of Cowper's line. We talk also of a laburnum. The border under the\nterrace wall is clearing away to receive currants and gooseberry bushes,\nand a spot is found very proper for raspberries.\n\nThe alterations and improvements within doors, too, advance very\nproperly, and the offices will be made very convenient indeed. Our\ndressing-table is constructing on the spot, out of a large kitchen table\nbelonging to the house, for doing which we have the permission of Mr.\nHusket, Lord Lansdown's painter,--domestic painter, I should call him,\nfor he lives in the castle. Domestic chaplains have given way to this\nmore necessary office, and I suppose whenever the walls want no touching\nup he is employed about my lady's face.\n\nThe morning was so wet that I was afraid we should not be able to see\nour little visitor; but Frank, who alone could go to church, called for\nher after service, and she is now talking away at my side and examining\nthe treasures of my writing-desk drawers,--very happy, I believe. Not at\nall shy, of course. Her name is Catherine, and her sister's Caroline.\nShe is something like her brother, and as short for her age, but not so\nwell-looking.\n\nWhat is become of all the shyness in the world? Moral as well as natural\ndiseases disappear in the progress of time, and new ones take their\nplace. Shyness and the sweating sickness have given way to confidence\nand paralytic complaints. . . .\n\n_Evening._--Our little visitor has just left us, and left us highly\npleased with her; she is a nice, natural, open-hearted, affectionate\ngirl, with all the ready civility which one sees in the best children in\nthe present day; so unlike anything that I was myself at her age, that I\nam often all astonishment and shame. Half her time was spent at\nspillikins, which I consider as a very valuable part of our household\nfurniture, and as not the least important benefaction from the family of\nKnight to that of Austen.\n\nBut I must tell you a story. Mary has for some time had notice from Mrs.\nDickson of the intended arrival of a certain Miss Fowler in this place.\nMiss F. is an intimate friend of Mrs. D., and a good deal known as such\nto Mary. On Thursday last she called here while we were out. Mary\nfound, on our return, her card with only her name on it, and she had\nleft word that she would call again. The particularity of this made us\ntalk, and, among other conjectures, Frank said in joke, \"I dare say she\nis staying with the Pearsons.\" The connection of the names struck Mary,\nand she immediately recollected Miss Fowler's having been very intimate\nwith persons so called, and, upon putting everything together, we have\nscarcely a doubt of her being actually staying with the only family in\nthe place whom we cannot visit.\n\nWhat a _contretemps_! in the language of France. What an unluckiness! in\nthat of Madame Duval. The black gentleman has certainly employed one of\nhis menial imps to bring about this complete, though trifling mischief.\nMiss F. has never called again, but we are in daily expectation of it.\nMiss P. has, of course, given her a proper understanding of the\nbusiness. It is evident that Miss F. did not expect or wish to have the\nvisit returned, and Frank is quite as much on his guard for his wife as\nwe could desire for her sake or our own.\n\nWe shall rejoice in being so near Winchester when Edward belongs to it,\nand can never have our spare bed filled more to our satisfaction than by\nhim. Does he leave Eltham at Easter?\n\nWe are reading \"Clarentine,\" and are surprised to find how foolish it\nis. I remember liking it much less on a second reading than at the\nfirst, and it does not bear a third at all. It is full of unnatural\nconduct and forced difficulties, without striking merit of any kind.\n\nMiss Harrison is going into Devonshire, to attend Mrs. Dusantoy, as\nusual. Miss J. is married to young Mr. G., and is to be very unhappy. He\nswears, drinks, is cross, jealous, selfish, and brutal. The match makes\nher family miserable, and has occasioned his being disinherited.\n\nThe Browns are added to our list of acquaintance. He commands the Sea\nFencibles here, under Sir Thomas, and was introduced at his own desire\nby the latter when we saw him last week. As yet the gentlemen only have\nvisited, as Mrs. B. is ill; but she is a nice-looking woman, and wears\none of the prettiest straw bonnets in the place.\n\n_Monday._--The garret beds are made, and ours will be finished to-day. I\nhad hoped it would be finished on Saturday, but neither Mrs. Hall nor\nJenny was able to give help enough for that, and I have as yet done very\nlittle, and Mary nothing at all. This week we shall do more, and I\nshould like to have all the five beds completed by the end of it. There\nwill then be the window-curtains, sofa-cover, and a carpet to be\naltered.\n\nI should not be surprised if we were to be visited by James again this\nweek; he gave us reason to expect him soon, and if they go to Eversley\nhe cannot come next week.\n\nThere, I flatter myself I have constructed you a smartish letter,\nconsidering my want of materials; but, like my dear Dr. Johnson, I\nbelieve I have dealt more in notions than facts.\n\nI hope your cough is gone, and that you are otherwise well, and remain,\nwith love,\n\n                                    Yours affectionately,      J. A.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\n\n\n\nXXIV.\n\n\n                             GODMERSHAM, Wednesday (June 15, 1808).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--Where shall I begin? Which of all my important\nnothings shall I tell you first? At half after seven yesterday morning\nHenry saw us into our own carriage, and we drove away from the Bath\nHotel; which, by the by, had been found most uncomfortable\nquarters,--very dirty, very noisy, and very ill-provided. James began\nhis journey by the coach at five. Our first eight miles were hot;\nDeptford Hill brought to my mind our hot journey into Kent fourteen\nyears ago; but after Blackheath we suffered nothing, and as the day\nadvanced it grew quite cool. At Dartford, which we reached within the\ntwo hours and three-quarters, we went to the Bull, the same inn at\nwhich we breakfasted in that said journey, and on the present occasion\nhad about the same bad butter.\n\nAt half-past ten we were again off, and, travelling on without any\nadventure reached Sittingbourne by three. Daniel was watching for us at\nthe door of the George, and I was acknowledged very kindly by Mr. and\nMrs. Marshall, to the latter of whom I devoted my conversation, while\nMary went out to buy some gloves. A few minutes, of course, did for\nSittingbourne; and so off we drove, drove, drove, and by six o'clock\nwere at Godmersham.\n\nOur two brothers were walking before the house as we approached, as\nnatural as life. Fanny and Lizzy met us in the Hall with a great deal of\npleasant joy; we went for a few minutes into the breakfast-parlor, and\nthen proceeded to our rooms. Mary has the Hall chamber. I am in the\nYellow room--very literally--for I am writing in it at this moment. It\nseems odd to me to have such a great place all to myself, and to be at\nGodmersham without you is also odd.\n\nYou are wished for, I assure you: Fanny, who came to me as soon as she\nhad seen her Aunt James to her room, and stayed while I dressed, was as\nenergetic as usual in her longings for you. She is grown both in height\nand size since last year, but not immoderately, looks very well, and\nseems as to conduct and manner just what she was and what one could wish\nher to continue.\n\nElizabeth,[5] who was dressing when we arrived, came to me for a minute\nattended by Marianne, Charles, and Louisa, and, you will not doubt, gave\nme a very affectionate welcome. That I had received such from Edward\nalso I need not mention; but I do, you see, because it is a pleasure. I\nnever saw him look in better health, and Fanny says he is perfectly\nwell. I cannot praise Elizabeth's looks, but they are probably affected\nby a cold. Her little namesake has gained in beauty in the last three\nyears, though not all that Marianne has lost. Charles is not quite so\nlovely as he was. Louisa is much as I expected, and Cassandra I find\nhandsomer than I expected, though at present disguised by such a violent\nbreaking-out that she does not come down after dinner. She has charming\neyes and a nice open countenance, and seems likely to be very lovable.\nHer size is magnificent.\n\nI was agreeably surprised to find Louisa Bridges still here. She looks\nremarkably well (legacies are very wholesome diet), and is just what she\nalways was. John is at Sandling. You may fancy our dinner-party\ntherefore; Fanny, of course, belonging to it, and little Edward, for\nthat day. He was almost too happy, his happiness at least made him too\ntalkative.\n\nIt has struck ten; I must go to breakfast.\n\nSince breakfast I have had a _tete-a-tete_ with Edward in his room; he\nwanted to know James's plans and mine, and from what his own now are I\nthink it already nearly certain that I shall return when they do, though\nnot with them. Edward will be going about the same time to Alton, where\nhe has business with Mr. Trimmer, and where he means his son should join\nhim; and I shall probably be his companion to that place, and get on\nafterwards somehow or other.\n\nI should have preferred a rather longer stay here certainly, but there\nis no prospect of any later conveyance for me, as he does not mean to\naccompany Edward on his return to Winchester, from a very natural\nunwillingness to leave Elizabeth at that time. I shall at any rate be\nglad not to be obliged to be an incumbrance on those who have brought me\nhere, for, as James has no horse, I must feel in their carriage that I\nam taking his place. We were rather crowded yesterday, though it does\nnot become me to say so, as I and my boa were of the party, and it is\nnot to be supposed but that a child of three years of age was fidgety.\n\nI need scarcely beg you to keep all this to yourself, lest it should get\nround by Anna's means. She is very kindly inquired after by her friends\nhere, who all regret her not coming with her father and mother.\n\nI left Henry, I hope, free from his tiresome complaint, in other\nrespects well, and thinking with great pleasure of Cheltenham and\nStoneleigh.\n\nThe brewery scheme is quite at an end: at a meeting of the subscribers\nlast week it was by general, and I believe very hearty, consent\ndissolved.\n\nThe country is very beautiful. I saw as much as ever to admire in my\nyesterday's journey. . . .\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[5] Mrs. Edward Austen.\n\n\n\n\nXXV.\n\n\n                                    CASTLE SQUARE, October 13.\n\nMY DEAREST CASSANDRA,--I have received your letter, and with most\nmelancholy anxiety was it expected, for the sad news[6] reached us last\nnight, but without any particulars. It came in a short letter to Martha\nfrom her sister, begun at Steventon and finished in Winchester.\n\nWe have felt, we do feel, for you all, as you will not need to be\ntold,--for you, for Fanny, for Henry, for Lady Bridges, and for dearest\nEdward, whose loss and whose sufferings seem to make those of every\nother person nothing. God be praised that you can say what you do of\nhim: that he has a religious mind to bear him up, and a disposition that\nwill gradually lead him to comfort.\n\nMy dear, dear Fanny, I am so thankful that she has you with her! You\nwill be everything to her; you will give her all the consolation that\nhuman aid can give. May the Almighty sustain you all, and keep you, my\ndearest Cassandra, well; but for the present I dare say you are equal to\neverything.\n\nYou will know that the poor boys are at Steventon. Perhaps it is best\nfor them, as they will have more means of exercise and amusement there\nthan they could have with us, but I own myself disappointed by the\narrangement. I should have loved to have them with me at such a time. I\nshall write to Edward by this post.\n\nWe shall, of course, hear from you again very soon, and as often as you\ncan write. We will write as you desire, and I shall add Bookham.\nHamstall, I suppose, you write to yourselves, as you do not mention it.\n\nWhat a comfort that Mrs. Deedes is saved from present misery and alarm!\nBut it will fall heavy upon poor Harriot; and as for Lady B., but that\nher fortitude does seem truly great, I should fear the effect of such a\nblow, and so unlooked for. I long to hear more of you all. Of Henry's\nanguish I think with grief and solicitude; but he will exert himself to\nbe of use and comfort.\n\nWith what true sympathy our feelings are shared by Martha you need not\nbe told; she is the friend and sister under every circumstance.\n\nWe need not enter into a panegyric on the departed, but it is sweet to\nthink of her great worth, of her solid principles, of her true devotion,\nher excellence in every relation of life. It is also consolatory to\nreflect on the shortness of the sufferings which led her from this world\nto a better.\n\nFarewell for the present, my dearest sister. Tell Edward that we feel\nfor him and pray for him.\n\n                                    Yours affectionately,\n                                                      J. AUSTEN.\n\nI will write to Catherine.\n\nPerhaps you can give me some directions about mourning.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, EDWARD AUSTEN'S, Esq.,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[6] The death of Mrs. Edward Austen.\n\n\n\n\nXXVI.\n\n\n                          CASTLE SQUARE, Saturday night (October 15).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--Your accounts make us as comfortable as we can\nexpect to be at such a time. Edward's loss is terrible, and must be felt\nas such, and these are too early days indeed to think of moderation in\ngrief, either in him or his afflicted daughter, but soon we may hope\nthat our dear Fanny's sense of duty to that beloved father will rouse\nher to exertion. For his sake, and as the most acceptable proof of love\nto the spirit of her departed mother, she will try to be tranquil and\nresigned. Does she feel you to be a comfort to her, or is she too much\noverpowered for anything but solitude?\n\nYour account of Lizzy is very interesting. Poor child! One must hope the\nimpression will be strong, and yet one's heart aches for a dejected mind\nof eight years old.\n\nI suppose you see the corpse? How does it appear? We are anxious to be\nassured that Edward will not attend the funeral, but when it comes to\nthe point I think he must feel it impossible.\n\nYour parcel shall set off on Monday, and I hope the shoes will fit;\nMartha and I both tried them on. I shall send you such of your mourning\nas I think most likely to be useful, reserving for myself your stockings\nand half the velvet, in which selfish arrangement I know I am doing what\nyou wish.\n\nI am to be in bombazeen and crape, according to what we are told is\nuniversal here, and which agrees with Martha's previous observation. My\nmourning, however, will not impoverish me, for by having my velvet\npelisse fresh lined and made up, I am sure I shall have no occasion this\nwinter for anything new of that sort. I take my cloak for the lining,\nand shall send yours on the chance of its doing something of the same\nfor you, though I believe your pelisse is in better repair than mine.\nOne Miss Baker makes my gown and the other my bonnet, which is to be\nsilk covered with crape.\n\nI have written to Edward Cooper, and hope he will not send one of his\nletters of cruel comfort to my poor brother: and yesterday I wrote to\nAlethea Bigg, in reply to a letter from her. She tells us in confidence\nthat Catherine is to be married on Tuesday se'nnight. Mr. Hill is\nexpected at Manydown in the course of the ensuing week.\n\nWe are desired by Mrs. Harrison and Miss Austen to say everything proper\nfor them to yourself and Edward on this sad occasion, especially that\nnothing but a wish of not giving additional trouble where so much is\ninevitable prevents their writing themselves to express their concern.\nThey seem truly to feel concern.\n\nI am glad you can say what you do of Mrs. Knight and of Goodnestone in\ngeneral. It is a great relief to me to know that the shock did not make\nany of them ill. But what a task was yours to announce it! Now I hope\nyou are not overpowered with letter-writing, as Henry and John can ease\nyou of many of your correspondents.\n\nWas Mr. Scudamore in the house at the time, was any application\nattempted, and is the seizure at all accounted for?\n\n_Sunday._--As Edward's letter to his son is not come here, we know that\nyou must have been informed as early as Friday of the boys being at\nSteventon, which I am glad of.\n\nUpon your letter to Dr. Goddard's being forwarded to them, Mary wrote to\nask whether my mother wished to have her grandsons sent to her. We\ndecided on their remaining where they were, which I hope my brother will\napprove of. I am sure he will do us the justice of believing that in\nsuch a decision we sacrificed inclination to what we thought best.\n\nI shall write by the coach to-morrow to Mrs. J. A., and to Edward, about\ntheir mourning, though this day's post will probably bring directions to\nthem on that subject from yourselves. I shall certainly make use of the\nopportunity of addressing our nephew on the most serious of all\nconcerns, as I naturally did in my letter to him before. The poor boys\nare, perhaps, more comfortable at Steventon than they could be here, but\nyou will understand my feelings with respect to it.\n\nTo-morrow will be a dreadful day for you all. Mr. Whitfield's will be a\nsevere duty.[7] Glad shall I be to hear that it is over.\n\nThat you are forever in our thoughts you will not doubt. I see your\nmournful party in my mind's eye under every varying circumstance of the\nday; and in the evening especially figure to myself its sad gloom: the\nefforts to talk, the frequent summons to melancholy orders and cares,\nand poor Edward, restless in misery, going from one room to another, and\nperhaps not seldom upstairs, to see all that remains of his Elizabeth.\nDearest Fanny must now look upon herself as his prime source of comfort,\nhis dearest friend; as the being who is gradually to supply to him, to\nthe extent that is possible, what he has lost. This consideration will\nelevate and cheer her.\n\nAdieu. You cannot write too often, as I said before. We are heartily\nrejoiced that the poor baby gives you no particular anxiety. Kiss dear\nLizzy for us. Tell Fanny that I shall write in a day or two to Miss\nSharpe.\n\nMy mother is not ill.\n\n                                    Yours most truly,      J. AUSTEN.\n\nTell Henry that a hamper of apples is gone to him from Kintbury, and\nthat Mr. Fowle intended writing on Friday (supposing him in London) to\nbeg that the charts, etc., may be consigned to the care of the Palmers.\nMrs. Fowle has also written to Miss Palmer to beg she will send for\nthem.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, EDWARD AUSTEN'S, Esq.,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[7] Mr. Whitfield was the Rector of Godmersham at this time, having come\nthere in 1778.\n\n\n\n\nXXVII.\n\n                                    CASTLE SQUARE, Monday (October 24).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--Edward and George came to us soon after seven on\nSaturday, very well, but very cold, having by choice travelled on the\noutside, and with no greatcoat but what Mr. Wise, the coachman,\ngood-naturedly spared them of his, as they sat by his side. They were so\nmuch chilled when they arrived, that I was afraid they must have taken\ncold; but it does not seem at all the case: I never saw them looking\nbetter.\n\nThey behave extremely well in every respect, showing quite as much\nfeeling as one wishes to see, and on every occasion speaking of their\nfather with the liveliest affection. His letter was read over by each of\nthem yesterday, and with many tears; George sobbed aloud, Edward's tears\ndo not flow so easily; but as far as I can judge they are both very\nproperly impressed by what has happened. Miss Lloyd, who is a more\nimpartial judge than I can be, is exceedingly pleased with them.\n\nGeorge is almost a new acquaintance to me, and I find him in a different\nway as engaging as Edward.\n\nWe do not want amusement: bilbocatch, at which George is indefatigable,\nspillikins, paper ships, riddles, conundrums, and cards, with watching\nthe flow and ebb of the river, and now and then a stroll out, keep us\nwell employed; and we mean to avail ourselves of our kind papa's\nconsideration, by not returning to Winchester till quite the evening of\nWednesday.\n\nMrs. J. A. had not time to get them more than one suit of clothes; their\nothers are making here, and though I do not believe Southampton is\nfamous for tailoring, I hope it will prove itself better than\nBasingstoke. Edward has an old black coat, which will save his having a\nsecond new one; but I find that black pantaloons are considered by them\nas necessary, and of course one would not have them made uncomfortable\nby the want of what is usual on such occasions.\n\nFanny's letter was received with great pleasure yesterday, and her\nbrother sends his thanks and will answer it soon. We all saw what she\nwrote, and were very much pleased with it.\n\nTo-morrow I hope to hear from you, and to-morrow we must think of poor\nCatherine. To-day Lady Bridges is the heroine of our thoughts, and glad\nshall we be when we can fancy the meeting over. There will then be\nnothing so very bad for Edward to undergo.\n\nThe \"St. Albans,\" I find, sailed on the very day of my letters reaching\nYarmouth, so that we must not expect an answer at present; we scarcely\nfeel, however, to be in suspense, or only enough to keep our plans to\nourselves. We have been obliged to explain them to our young visitors,\nin consequence of Fanny's letter, but we have not yet mentioned them to\nSteventon. We are all quite familiarized to the idea ourselves; my\nmother only wants Mrs. Seward to go out at midsummer.\n\nWhat sort of a kitchen garden is there? Mrs. J. A. expresses her fear of\nour settling in Kent, and, till this proposal was made, we began to look\nforward to it here; my mother was actually talking of a house at Wye. It\nwill be best, however, as it is.\n\nAnne has just given her mistress warning; she is going to be married; I\nwish she would stay her year.\n\nOn the subject of matrimony, I must notice a wedding in the Salisbury\npaper, which has amused me very much, Dr. Phillot to Lady Frances St.\nLawrence. She wanted to have a husband, I suppose, once in her life, and\nhe a Lady Frances.\n\nI hope your sorrowing party were at church yesterday, and have no longer\nthat to dread. Martha was kept at home by a cold, but I went with my two\nnephews, and I saw Edward was much affected by the sermon, which,\nindeed, I could have supposed purposely addressed to the afflicted, if\nthe text had not naturally come in the course of Dr. Mant's observations\non the Litany: 'All that are in danger, necessity, or tribulation,' was\nthe subject of it. The weather did not allow us afterwards to get\nfarther than the quay, where George was very happy as long as we could\nstay, flying about from one side to the other, and skipping on board a\ncollier immediately.\n\nIn the evening we had the Psalms and Lessons, and a sermon at home, to\nwhich they were very attentive; but you will not expect to hear that\nthey did not return to conundrums the moment it was over. Their aunt has\nwritten pleasantly of them, which was more than I hoped.\n\nWhile I write now, George is most industriously making and naming paper\nships, at which he afterwards shoots with horse-chestnuts, brought from\nSteventon on purpose; and Edward equally intent over the \"Lake of\nKillarney,\" twisting himself about in one of our great chairs.\n\n_Tuesday._--Your close-written letter makes me quite ashamed of my wide\nlines; you have sent me a great deal of matter, most of it very welcome.\nAs to your lengthened stay, it is no more than I expected, and what must\nbe, but you cannot suppose I like it.\n\nAll that you say of Edward is truly comfortable; I began to fear that\nwhen the bustle of the first week was over, his spirits might for a time\nbe more depressed; and perhaps one must still expect something of the\nkind. If you escape a bilious attack, I shall wonder almost as much as\nrejoice. I am glad you mentioned where Catherine goes to-day; it is a\ngood plan, but sensible people may generally be trusted to form such.\n\nThe day began cheerfully, but it is not likely to continue what it\nshould, for them or for us. We had a little water-party yesterday; I and\nmy two nephews went from the Itchen Ferry up to Northam, where we\nlanded, looked into the 74, and walked home, and it was so much enjoyed\nthat I had intended to take them to Netley to-day; the tide is just\nright for our going immediately after moonshine, but I am afraid there\nwill be rain; if we cannot get so far, however, we may perhaps go round\nfrom the ferry to the quay.\n\nI had not proposed doing more than cross the Itchen yesterday, but it\nproved so pleasant, and so much to the satisfaction of all, that when we\nreached the middle of the stream we agreed to be rowed up the river;\nboth the boys rowed great part of the way, and their questions and\nremarks, as well as their enjoyment, were very amusing; George's\ninquiries were endless, and his eagerness in everything reminds me often\nof his uncle Henry.\n\nOur evening was equally agreeable in its way: I introduced speculation,\nand it was so much approved that we hardly knew how to leave off.\n\nYour idea of an early dinner to-morrow is exactly what we propose, for,\nafter writing the first part of this letter, it came into my head that\nat this time of year we have not summer evenings. We shall watch the\nlight to-day, that we may not give them a dark drive to-morrow.\n\nThey send their best love to papa and everybody, with George's thanks\nfor the letter brought by this post. Martha begs my brother may be\nassured of her interest in everything relating to him and his family,\nand of her sincerely partaking our pleasure in the receipt of every good\naccount from Godmersham.\n\nOf Chawton I think I can have nothing more to say, but that everything\nyou say about it in the letter now before me will, I am sure, as soon as\nI am able to read it to her, make my mother consider the plan with more\nand more pleasure. We had formed the same views on H. Digweed's farm.\n\nA very kind and feeling letter is arrived to-day from Kintbury. Mrs.\nFowle's sympathy and solicitude on such an occasion you will be able to\ndo justice to, and to express it as she wishes to my brother. Concerning\nyou, she says: \"Cassandra will, I know, excuse my writing to her; it is\nnot to save myself but her that I omit so doing. Give my best, my\nkindest love to her, and tell her I feel for her as I know she would for\nme on the same occasion, and that I most sincerely hope her health will\nnot suffer.\"\n\nWe have just had two hampers of apples from Kintbury, and the floor of\nour little garret is almost covered. Love to all.\n\n                                Yours very affectionately,      J. A.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, EDWARD AUSTEN'S, Esq.,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\n\n\n\nXXVIII.\n\n\n                                    CASTLE SQUARE, Sunday (November 21).\n\nYOUR letter, my dear Cassandra, obliges me to write immediately, that\nyou may have the earliest notice of Frank's intending, if possible, to\ngo to Godmersham exactly at the time now fixed for your visit to\nGoodnestone.\n\nHe resolved, almost directly on the receipt of your former letter, to\ntry for an extension of his leave of absence, that he might be able to\ngo down to you for two days, but charged me not to give you any notice\nof it, on account of the uncertainty of success. Now, however, I must\ngive it, and now perhaps he may be giving it himself; for I am just in\nthe hateful predicament of being obliged to write what I know will\nsomehow or other be of no use.\n\nHe meant to ask for five days more, and if they were granted, to go down\nby Thursday night's mail, and spend Friday and Saturday with you; and he\nconsidered his chance of succeeding by no means bad. I hope it will take\nplace as he planned, and that your arrangements with Goodnestone may\nadmit of suitable alteration.\n\nYour news of Edward Bridges was quite news, for I have had no letter\nfrom Wrotham. I wish him happy with all my heart, and hope his choice\nmay turn out according to his own expectations, and beyond those of his\nfamily; and I dare say it will. Marriage is a great improver, and in a\nsimilar situation Harriet may be as amiable as Eleanor. As to money,\nthat will come, you may be sure, because they cannot do without it. When\nyou see him again, pray give him our congratulations and best wishes.\nThis match will certainly set John and Lucy going.\n\nThere are six bedchambers at Chawton; Henry wrote to my mother the other\nday, and luckily mentioned the number, which is just what we wanted to\nbe assured of. He speaks also of garrets for store-places, one of which\nshe immediately planned fitting up for Edward's man-servant; and now\nperhaps it must be for our own; for she is already quite reconciled to\nour keeping one. The difficulty of doing without one had been thought of\nbefore. His name shall be Robert, if you please.\n\nBefore I can tell you of it, you will have heard that Miss Sawbridge is\nmarried. It took place, I believe, on Thursday. Mrs. Fowle has for some\ntime been in the secret, but the neighborhood in general were quite\nunsuspicious. Mr. Maxwell was tutor to the young Gregorys,--consequently,\nthey must be one of the happiest couples in the world, and either of\nthem worthy of envy, for she must be excessively in love, and he mounts\nfrom nothing to a comfortable home. Martha has heard him very highly\nspoken of. They continue for the present at Speen Hill.\n\nI have a Southampton match to return for your Kentish one, Captain G.\nHeathcote and Miss A. Lyell. I have it from Alethea, and like it,\nbecause I had made it before.\n\nYes, the Stoneleigh business is concluded, but it was not till yesterday\nthat my mother was regularly informed of it, though the news had reached\nus on Monday evening by way of Steventon. My aunt says as little as may\nbe on the subject by way of information, and nothing at all by way of\nsatisfaction. She reflects on Mr. T. Leigh's dilatoriness, and looks\nabout with great diligence and success for inconvenience and evil, among\nwhich she ingeniously places the danger of her new housemaids catching\ncold on the outside of the coach, when she goes down to Bath, for a\ncarriage makes her sick.\n\nJohn Binns has been offered their place, but declines it; as she\nsupposes, because he will not wear a livery. Whatever be the cause, I\nlike the effect.\n\nIn spite of all my mother's long and intimate knowledge of the writer,\nshe was not up to the expectation of such a letter as this; the\ndiscontentedness of it shocked and surprised her--but I see nothing in\nit out of nature, though a sad nature.\n\nShe does not forget to wish for Chambers, you may be sure. No\nparticulars are given, not a word of arrears mentioned, though in her\nletter to James they were in a general way spoken of. The amount of them\nis a matter of conjecture, and to my mother a most interesting one; she\ncannot fix any time for their beginning with any satisfaction to herself\nbut Mrs. Leigh's death, and Henry's two thousand pounds neither agrees\nwith that period nor any other. I did not like to own our previous\ninformation of what was intended last July, and have therefore only said\nthat if we could see Henry we might hear many particulars, as I had\nunderstood that some confidential conversation had passed between him\nand Mr. T. L. at Stoneleigh.\n\nWe have been as quiet as usual since Frank and Mary left us; Mr.\nCriswick called on Martha that very morning on his way home again from\nPortsmouth, and we have had no visitor since.\n\nWe called on the Miss Lyells one day, and heard a good account of Mr.\nHeathcote's canvass, the success of which, of course, exceeds his\nexpectations. Alethea in her letter hopes for my interest, which I\nconclude means Edward's, and I take this opportunity, therefore, of\nrequesting that he will bring in Mr. Heathcote. Mr. Lane told us\nyesterday that Mr. H. had behaved very handsomely, and waited on Mr.\nThistlethwaite, to say that if he (Mr. T.) would stand, he (Mr. H.)\nwould not oppose him; but Mr. T. declined it, acknowledging himself\nstill smarting under the payment of late electioneering costs.\n\nThe Mrs. Hulberts, we learn from Kintbury, come to Steventon this week,\nand bring Mary Jane Fowle with them on her way to Mrs. Nune's; she\nreturns at Christmas with her brother.\n\nOur brother we may perhaps see in the course of a few days, and we mean\nto take the opportunity of his help to go one night to the play. Martha\nought to see the inside of the theatre once while she lives in\nSouthampton, and I think she will hardly wish to take a second view.\n\nThe furniture of Bellevue is to be sold to-morrow, and we shall take it\nin our usual walk, if the weather be favorable.\n\nHow could you have a wet day on Thursday? With us it was a prince of\ndays, the most delightful we have had for weeks; soft, bright, with a\nbrisk wind from the southwest; everybody was out and talking of spring,\nand Martha and I did not know how to turn back. On Friday evening we had\nsome very blowing weather,--from six to nine; I think we never heard it\nworse, even here. And one night we had so much rain that it forced its\nway again into the store-closet; and though the evil was comparatively\nslight and the mischief nothing, I had some employment the next day in\ndrying parcels, etc. I have now moved still more out of the way.\n\nMartha sends her best love, and thanks you for admitting her to the\nknowledge of the pros and cons about Harriet Foote; she has an interest\nin all such matters. I am also to say that she wants to see you. Mary\nJane missed her papa and mamma a good deal at first, but now does very\nwell without them. I am glad to hear of little John's being better, and\nhope your accounts of Mrs. Knight will also improve. Adieu! remember me\naffectionately to everybody, and believe me,\n\n                                                 Ever yours,      J. A.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, EDWARD AUSTEN'S, Esq.,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\n\n\n\nXXIX.\n\n\n                                    CASTLE SQUARE, Friday (December 9).\n\nMANY thanks, my dear Cassandra, to you and Mr. Deedes for your joint and\nagreeable composition, which took me by surprise this morning. He has\ncertainly great merit as a writer; he does ample justice to his subject,\nand without being diffuse is clear and correct; and though I do not\nmean to compare his epistolary powers with yours, or to give him the\nsame portion of my gratitude, he certainly has a very pleasing way of\nwinding up a whole, and speeding truth into the world.\n\n\"But all this,\" as my dear Mrs. Piozzi says, \"is flight and fancy and\nnonsense, for my master has his great casks to mind and I have my little\nchildren.\" It is you, however, in this instance, that have the little\nchildren, and I that have the great cask, for we are brewing spruce beer\nagain; but my meaning really is, that I am extremely foolish in writing\nall this unnecessary stuff when I have so many matters to write about\nthat my paper will hardly hold it all. Little matters they are, to be\nsure, but highly important.\n\nIn the first place, Miss Curling is actually at Portsmouth, which I was\nalways in hopes would not happen. I wish her no worse, however, than a\nlong and happy abode there. Here she would probably be dull, and I am\nsure she would be troublesome.\n\nThe bracelets are in my possession, and everything I could wish them to\nbe. They came with Martha's pelisse, which likewise gives great\nsatisfaction.\n\nSoon after I had closed my last letter to you we were visited by Mrs.\nDickens and her sister-in-law, Mrs. Bertie, the wife of a lately made\nAdmiral. Mrs. F. A.,[8] I believe, was their first object, but they put\nup with us very kindly, and Mrs. D., finding in Miss Lloyd a friend of\nMrs. Dundas, had another motive for the acquaintance. She seems a really\nagreeable woman,--that is, her manners are gentle, and she knows a great\nmany of our connections in West Kent. Mrs. Bertie lives in the Polygon,\nand was out when we returned her visit, which are her two virtues.\n\nA larger circle of acquaintance, and an increase of amusement, is quite\nin character with our approaching removal. Yes, I mean to go to as many\nballs as possible, that I may have a good bargain. Everybody is very\nmuch concerned at our going away, and everybody is acquainted with\nChawton, and speaks of it as a remarkably pretty village, and everybody\nknows the house we describe, but nobody fixes on the right.\n\nI am very much obliged to Mrs. Knight for such a proof of the interest\nshe takes in me, and she may depend upon it that I will marry Mr.\nPapillon, whatever may be his reluctance or my own. I owe her much more\nthan such a trifling sacrifice.\n\nOur ball was rather more amusing than I expected. Martha liked it very\nmuch, and I did not gape till the last quarter of an hour. It was past\nnine before we were sent for, and not twelve when we returned. The room\nwas tolerably full, and there were, perhaps, thirty couple of dancers.\nThe melancholy part was to see so many dozen young women standing by\nwithout partners, and each of them with two ugly naked shoulders.\n\nIt was the same room in which we danced fifteen years ago. I thought it\nall over, and in spite of the shame of being so much older, felt with\nthankfulness that I was quite as happy now as then. We paid an\nadditional shilling for our tea, which we took as we chose in an\nadjoining and very comfortable room.\n\nThere were only four dances, and it went to my heart that the Miss\nLances (one of them, too, named Emma) should have partners only for two.\nYou will not expect to hear that I was asked to dance, but I was--by the\ngentleman whom we met that Sunday with Captain D'Auvergne. We have\nalways kept up a bowing acquaintance since, and, being pleased with his\nblack eyes, I spoke to him at the ball, which brought on me this\ncivility; but I do not know his name, and he seems so little at home in\nthe English language that I believe his black eyes may be the best of\nhim. Captain D'Auvergne has got a ship.\n\nMartha and I made use of the very favorable state of yesterday for\nwalking, to pay our duty at Chiswell. We found Mrs. Lance at home and\nalone, and sat out three other ladies who soon came in. We went by the\nferry, and returned by the bridge, and were scarcely at all fatigued.\n\nEdward must have enjoyed the last two days. You, I presume, had a cool\ndrive to Canterbury. Kitty Foote came on Wednesday; and her evening\nvisit began early enough for the last part, the apple-pie, of our\ndinner, for we never dine now till five.\n\nYesterday I--or rather, you--had a letter from Nanny Hilliard, the\nobject of which is that she would be very much obliged to us if we would\nget Hannah a place. I am sorry that I cannot assist her; if you can, let\nme know, as I shall not answer the letter immediately. Mr. Sloper is\nmarried again, not much to Nanny's, or anybody's satisfaction. The lady\nwas governess to Sir Robert's natural children, and seems to have\nnothing to recommend her. I do not find, however, that Nanny is likely\nto lose her place in consequence. She says not a word of what service\nshe wishes for Hannah, or what Hannah can do; but a nursery, I suppose,\nor something of that kind, must be the thing.\n\nHaving now cleared away my smaller articles of news, I come to a\ncommunication of some weight; no less than that my uncle and aunt[9] are\ngoing to allow James 100_l._ a year. We hear of it through Steventon.\nMary sent us the other day an extract from my aunt's letter on the\nsubject, in which the donation is made with the greatest kindness, and\nintended as a compensation for his loss in the conscientious refusal of\nHampstead living; 100_l._ a year being all that he had at the time\ncalled its worth, as I find it was always intended at Steventon to\ndivide the real income with Kintbury.\n\nNothing can be more affectionate than my aunt's language in making the\npresent, and likewise in expressing her hope of their being much more\ntogether in future than, to her great regret, they have of late years\nbeen. My expectations for my mother do not rise with this event. We will\nallow a little more time, however, before we fly out.\n\nIf not prevented by parish business, James comes to us on Monday. The\nMrs. Hulberts and Miss Murden are their guests at present, and likely to\ncontinue such till Christmas. Anna comes home on the 19th. The hundred a\nyear begins next Lady-day.\n\nI am glad you are to have Henry with you again; with him and the boys\nyou cannot but have a cheerful, and at times even a merry, Christmas.\nMartha is so [_MSS. torn_]. . . . We want to be settled at Chawton in time\nfor Henry to come to us for some shooting in October, at least, or a\nlittle earlier, and Edward may visit us after taking his boys back to\nWinchester. Suppose we name the 4th of September. Will not that do?\n\nI have but one thing more to tell you. Mrs. Hill called on my mother\nyesterday while we were gone to Chiswell, and in the course of the\nvisit asked her whether she knew anything of a clergyman's family of the\nname of Alford, who had resided in our part of Hampshire. Mrs. Hill had\nbeen applied to as likely to give some information of them on account of\ntheir probable vicinity to Dr. Hill's living by a lady, or for a lady,\nwho had known Mrs. and the two Miss Alfords in Bath, whither they had\nremoved it seems from Hampshire, and who now wishes to convey to the\nMiss Alfords some work or trimming which she has been doing for them;\nbut the mother and daughters have left Bath, and the lady cannot learn\nwhere they are gone to. While my mother gave us the account, the\nprobability of its being ourselves occurred to us, and it had previously\nstruck herself . . . what makes it more likely, and even indispensably\nto be us, is that she mentioned Mr. Hammond as now having the living or\ncuracy which the father had had. I cannot think who our kind lady can\nbe, but I dare say we shall not like the work.\n\nDistribute the affectionate love of a heart not so tired as the right\nhand belonging to it.\n\n                              Yours ever sincerely,          J. A.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, EDWARD AUSTEN'S, Esq.,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[8] Frank Austen.\n\n[9] Mr. and Mrs. Leigh Perrot.\n\n\n\n\nXXX.\n\n\n                                CASTLE SQUARE, Tuesday (December 27).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--I can now write at leisure and make the most of my\nsubjects, which is lucky, as they are not numerous this week.\n\nOur house was cleared by half-past eleven on Saturday, and we had the\nsatisfaction of hearing yesterday that the party reached home in safety\nsoon after five.\n\nI was very glad of your letter this morning; for, my mother taking\nmedicine, Eliza keeping her bed with a cold, and Choles not coming, made\nus rather dull and dependent on the post. You tell me much that gives me\npleasure, but I think not much to answer. I wish I could help you in\nyour needlework. I have two hands and a new thimble that lead a very\neasy life.\n\nLady Sondes' match surprises, but does not offend me; had her first\nmarriage been of affection, or had there been a grown-up single\ndaughter, I should not have forgiven her; but I consider everybody as\nhaving a right to marry once in their lives for love, if they can, and\nprovided she will now leave off having bad headaches and being pathetic,\nI can allow her, I can wish her, to be happy.\n\nDo not imagine that your picture of your _tete-a-tete_ with Sir B. makes\nany change in our expectations here; he could not be really reading,\nthough he held the newspaper in his hand; he was making up his mind to\nthe deed, and the manner of it. I think you will have a letter from him\nsoon.\n\nI heard from Portsmouth yesterday, and as I am to send them more\nclothes, they cannot be expecting a very early return to us. Mary's face\nis pretty well, but she must have suffered a great deal with it; an\nabscess was formed and opened.\n\nOur evening party on Thursday produced nothing more remarkable than Miss\nMurden's coming too, though she had declined it absolutely in the\nmorning, and sitting very ungracious and very silent with us from seven\no'clock till half after eleven, for so late was it, owing to the\nchairmen, before we got rid of them.\n\nThe last hour, spent in yawning and shivering in a wide circle round the\nfire, was dull enough, but the tray had admirable success. The widgeon\nand the preserved ginger were as delicious as one could wish. But as to\nour black butter, do not decoy anybody to Southampton by such a lure,\nfor it is all gone. The first pot was opened when Frank and Mary were\nhere, and proved not at all what it ought to be; it was neither solid\nnor entirely sweet, and on seeing it, Eliza remembered that Miss Austen\nhad said she did not think it had been boiled enough. It was made, you\nknow, when we were absent. Such being the event of the first pot, I\nwould not save the second, and we therefore ate it in unpretending\nprivacy; and though not what it ought to be, part of it was very good.\n\nJames means to keep three horses on this increase of income; at present\nhe has but one. Mary wishes the other two to be fit to carry women, and\nin the purchase of one Edward will probably be called upon to fulfil his\npromise to his godson. We have now pretty well ascertained James's\nincome to be eleven hundred pounds, curate paid, which makes us very\nhappy,--the ascertainment as well as the income.\n\nMary does not talk of the garden; it may well be a disagreeable subject\nto her, but her husband is persuaded that nothing is wanting to make the\nfirst new one good but trenching, which is to be done by his own\nservants and John Bond, by degrees, not at the expense which trenching\nthe other amounted to.\n\nI was happy to hear, chiefly for Anna's sake, that a ball at Manydown\nwas once more in agitation; it is called a child's ball, and given by\nMrs. Heathcote to Wm. Such was its beginning at least, but it will\nprobably swell into something more. Edward was invited during his stay\nat Manydown, and it is to take place between this and Twelfth-day. Mrs.\nHulbert has taken Anna a pair of white shoes on the occasion.\n\nI forgot in my last to tell you that we hear, by way of Kintbury and the\nPalmers, that they were all well at Bermuda in the beginning of Nov.\n\n_Wednesday._--Yesterday must have been a day of sad remembrance at\nGm.[10] I am glad it is over. We spent Friday evening with our friends at\nthe boarding-house, and our curiosity was gratified by the sight of\ntheir fellow-inmates, Mrs. Drew and Miss Hook, Mr. Wynne and Mr.\nFitzhugh; the latter is brother to Mrs. Lance, and very much the\ngentleman. He has lived in that house more than twenty years, and, poor\nman! is so totally deaf that they say he could not hear a cannon, were\nit fired close to him; having no cannon at hand to make the experiment,\nI took it for granted, and talked to him a little with my fingers, which\nwas funny enough. I recommended him to read \"Corinna.\"\n\nMiss Hook is a well-behaved, genteelish woman; Mrs. Drew well behaved,\nwithout being at all genteel. Mr. Wynne seems a chatty and rather\nfamiliar young man. Miss Murden was quite a different creature this last\nevening from what she had been before, owing to her having with Martha's\nhelp found a situation in the morning, which bids very fair for comfort.\nWhen she leaves Steventon, she comes to board and lodge with Mrs.\nHookey, the chemist--for there is no Mr. Hookey. I cannot say that I am\nin any hurry for the conclusion of her present visit, but I was truly\nglad to see her comfortable in mind and spirits; at her age, perhaps,\none may be as friendless oneself, and in similar circumstances quite as\ncaptious.\n\nMy mother has been lately adding to her possessions in plate,--a whole\ntablespoon and a whole dessert-spoon, and six whole teaspoons,--which\nmakes our sideboard border on the magnificent. They were mostly the\nproduce of old or useless silver. I have turned the 11_s._ in the list\ninto 12_s._, and the card looks all the better; a silver tea-ladle is\nalso added, which will at least answer the purpose of making us\nsometimes think of John Warren.\n\nI have laid Lady Sondes' case before Martha, who does not make the least\nobjection to it, and is particularly pleased with the name of Montresor.\nI do not agree with her there, but I like his rank very much, and always\naffix the ideas of strong sense and highly elegant manners to a general.\n\nI must write to Charles next week. You may guess in what extravagant\nterms of praise Earle Harwood speaks of him. He is looked up to by\neverybody in all America.\n\nI shall not tell you anything more of Wm. Digweed's china, as your\nsilence on the subject makes you unworthy of it. Mrs. H. Digweed looks\nforward with great satisfaction to our being her neighbors. I would\nhave her enjoy the idea to the utmost, as I suspect there will not be\nmuch in the reality. With equal pleasure we anticipate an intimacy with\nher husband's bailiff and his wife, who live close by us, and are said\nto be remarkably good sort of people.\n\nYes, yes, we will have a pianoforte, as good a one as can be got for\nthirty guineas, and I will practise country dances, that we may have\nsome amusement for our nephews and nieces, when we have the pleasure of\ntheir company.\n\nMartha sends her love to Henry, and tells him that he will soon have a\nbill of Miss Chaplin's, about 14_l._, to pay on her account; but the\nbill shall not be sent in till his return to town. I hope he comes to\nyou in good health, and in spirits as good as a first return to\nGodmersham can allow. With his nephews he will force himself to be\ncheerful, till he really is so. Send me some intelligence of Eliza; it\nis a long while since I have heard of her.\n\nWe have had snow on the ground here almost a week; it is now going, but\nSouthampton must boast no longer. We all send our love to Edward junior\nand his brothers, and I hope Speculation is generally liked.\n\nFare you well.\n\n                                    Yours affectionately,\n                                                        J. AUSTEN.\n\nMy mother has not been out of doors this week, but she keeps pretty\nwell. We have received through Bookham an indifferent account of your\ngodmother.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, EDWARD AUSTEN'S, Esq.,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[10] Godmersham, Edward Austen's place.\n\n\n\n\nXXXI.\n\n\n                            CASTLE SQUARE, Tuesday (January 10, 1809).\n\nI AM not surprised, my dear Cassandra, that you did not find my last\nletter very full of matter, and I wish this may not have the same\ndeficiency; but we are doing nothing ourselves to write about, and I am\ntherefore quite dependent upon the communications of our friends, or my\nown wits.\n\nThis post brought me two interesting letters, yours and one from\nBookham, in answer to an inquiry of mine about your good godmother, of\nwhom we had lately received a very alarming account from Paragon. Miss\nArnold was the informant then, and she spoke of Mrs. E. L. having been\nvery dangerously ill, and attended by a physician from Oxford.\n\nYour letter to Adlestrop may perhaps bring you information from the\nspot, but in case it should not, I must tell you that she is better;\nthough Dr. Bourne cannot yet call her out of danger; such was the case\nlast Wednesday, and Mrs. Cooke's having had no later account is a\nfavorable sign. I am to hear again from the latter next week, but not\nthis, if everything goes on well.\n\nHer disorder is an inflammation on the lungs, arising from a severe\nchill taken in church last Sunday three weeks; her mind all pious\ncomposure, as may be supposed. George Cooke was there when her illness\nbegan; his brother has now taken his place. Her age and feebleness\nconsidered, one's fears cannot but preponderate, though her amendment\nhas already surpassed the expectation of the physician at the beginning.\nI am sorry to add that Becky is laid up with a complaint of the same\nkind.\n\nI am very glad to have the time of your return at all fixed; we all\nrejoice in it, and it will not be later than I had expected. I dare not\nhope that Mary and Miss Curling may be detained at Portsmouth so long or\nhalf so long; but it would be worth twopence to have it so.\n\nThe \"St. Albans\" perhaps may soon be off to help bring home what may\nremain by this time of our poor army, whose state seems dreadfully\ncritical. The \"Regency\" seems to have been heard of only here; my most\npolitical correspondents make no mention of it. Unlucky that I should\nhave wasted so much reflection on the subject.\n\nI can now answer your question to my mother more at large, and likewise\nmore at small--with equal perspicuity and minuteness; for the very day\nof our leaving Southampton is fixed; and if the knowledge is of no use\nto Edward, I am sure it will give him pleasure. Easter Monday, April 3,\nis the day; we are to sleep that night at Alton, and be with our friends\nat Bookham the next, if they are then at home; there we remain till the\nfollowing Monday, and on Tuesday, April 11, hope to be at Godmersham. If\nthe Cookes are absent, we shall finish our journey on the 5th. These\nplans depend of course upon the weather, but I hope there will be no\nsettled cold to delay us materially.\n\nTo make you amends for being at Bookham, it is in contemplation to spend\na few days at Baiton Lodge in our way out of Kent. The hint of such a\nvisit is most affectionately welcomed by Mrs. Birch, in one of her odd\npleasant letters lately, in which she speaks of us with the usual\ndistinguished kindness, declaring that she shall not be at all satisfied\nunless a very handsome present is made us immediately from one quarter.\n\nFanny's not coming with you is no more than we expected; and as we have\nnot the hope of a bed for her, and shall see her so soon afterwards at\nGodmersham, we cannot wish it otherwise.\n\nWilliam will be quite recovered, I trust, by the time you receive this.\nWhat a comfort his cross-stitch must have been! Pray tell him that I\nshould like to see his work very much. I hope our answers this morning\nhave given satisfaction; we had great pleasure in Uncle Deedes' packet;\nand pray let Marianne know, in private, that I think she is quite right\nto work a rug for Uncle John's coffee urn, and that I am sure it must\ngive great pleasure to herself now, and to him when he receives it.\n\nThe preference of Brag over Speculation does not greatly surprise me, I\nbelieve, because I feel the same myself; but it mortifies me deeply,\nbecause Speculation was under my patronage; and, after all, what is\nthere so delightful in a pair royal of Braggers? It is but three nines\nor three knaves, or a mixture of them. When one comes to reason upon it,\nit cannot stand its ground against Speculation,--of which I hope Edward\nis now convinced. Give my love to him if he is.\n\nThe letter from Paragon before mentioned was much like those which had\npreceded it, as to the felicity of its writer. They found their house so\ndirty and so damp that they were obliged to be a week at an inn. John\nBinns had behaved most unhandsomely, and engaged himself elsewhere. They\nhave a man, however, on the same footing, which my aunt does not like,\nand she finds both him and the new maid-servant very, very inferior to\nRobert and Martha. Whether they mean to have any other domestics does\nnot appear, nor whether they are to have a carriage while they are in\nBath.\n\nThe Holders are as usual, though I believe it is not very usual for them\nto be happy, which they now are at a great rate, in Hooper's marriage.\nThe Irvines are not mentioned. The American lady improved as we went on;\nbut still the same faults in part recurred.\n\nWe are now in Margiana, and like it very well indeed. We are just going\nto set off for Northumberland to be shut up in Widdrington Tower, where\nthere must be two or three sets of victims already immured under a very\nfine villain.\n\n_Wednesday._--Your report of Eliza's health gives me great pleasure, and\nthe progress of the bank is a constant source of satisfaction. With such\nincreasing profits, tell Henry that I hope he will not work poor\nHigh-Diddle so hard as he used to do.\n\nHas your newspaper given a sad story of a Mrs. Middleton, wife of a\nfarmer in Yorkshire, her sister, and servant, being almost frozen to\ndeath in the late weather, her little child quite so? I hope the sister\nis not our friend Miss Woodd, and I rather think her brother-in-law had\nmoved into Lincolnshire, but their name and station accord too well.\nMrs. M. and the maid are said to be tolerably recovered, but the sister\nis likely to lose the use of her limbs.\n\nCharles's rug will be finished to-day, and sent to-morrow to Frank, to\nbe consigned by him to Mr. Turner's care; and I am going to send Marmion\nout with it,--very generous in me, I think.\n\nAs we have no letter from Adlestrop, we may suppose the good woman was\nalive on Monday, but I cannot help expecting bad news from thence or\nBookham in a few days. Do you continue quite well?\n\nHave you nothing to say of your little namesake? We join in love and\nmany happy returns.\n\n                               Yours affectionately,       J. AUSTEN.\n\nThe Manydown ball was a smaller thing than I expected, but it seems to\nhave made Anna very happy. At her age it would not have done for me.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, EDWARD AUSTEN'S, Esq.,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\n\n\n\nXXXII.\n\n\n                                 CASTLE SQUARE, Tuesday (January 17).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--I am happy to say that we had no second letter from\nBookham last week. Yours has brought its usual measure of satisfaction\nand amusement, and I beg your acceptance of all the thanks due on the\noccasion. Your offer of cravats is very kind, and happens to be\nparticularly adapted to my wants, but it was an odd thing to occur to\nyou.\n\nYes, we have got another fall of snow, and are very dreadful; everything\nseems to turn to snow this winter.\n\nI hope you have had no more illness among you, and that William will be\nsoon as well as ever. His working a footstool for Chawton is a most\nagreeable surprise to me, and I am sure his grandmamma will value it\nvery much as a proof of his affection and industry, but we shall never\nhave the heart to put our feet upon it. I believe I must work a muslin\ncover in satin stitch to keep it from the dirt. I long to know what his\ncolors are. I guess greens and purples.\n\nEdward and Henry have started a difficulty respecting our journey,\nwhich, I must own with some confusion, had never been thought of by us;\nbut if the former expected by it to prevent our travelling into Kent\nentirely, he will be disappointed, for we have already determined to go\nthe Croydon road on leaving Bookham and sleep at Dartford. Will not that\ndo? There certainly does seem no convenient resting-place on the other\nroad.\n\nAnna went to Clanville last Friday, and I have hopes of her new aunt's\nbeing really worth her knowing. Perhaps you may never have heard that\nJames and Mary paid a morning visit there in form some weeks ago, and\nMary, though by no means disposed to like her, was very much pleased\nwith her indeed. Her praise, to be sure, proves nothing more than Mrs.\nM.'s being civil and attentive to them, but her being so is in favor of\nher having good sense. Mary writes of Anna as improved in person, but\ngives her no other commendation. I am afraid her absence now may deprive\nher of one pleasure, for that silly Mr. Hammond is actually to give his\nball on Friday.\n\nWe had some reason to expect a visit from Earle Harwood and James this\nweek, but they do not come. Miss Murden arrived last night at Mrs.\nHookey's, as a message and a basket announced to us. You will therefore\nreturn to an enlarged and, of course, improved society here, especially\nas the Miss Williamses are come back.\n\nWe were agreeably surprised the other day by a visit from your beauty\nand mine, each in a new cloth mantle and bonnet; and I dare say you will\nvalue yourself much on the modest propriety of Miss W.'s taste, hers\nbeing purple and Miss Grace's scarlet.\n\nI can easily suppose that your six weeks here will be fully occupied,\nwere it only in lengthening the waists of your gowns. I have pretty well\narranged my spring and summer plans of that kind, and mean to wear out\nmy spotted muslin before I go. You will exclaim at this, but mine really\nhas signs of feebleness, which with a little care may come to\nsomething.\n\nMartha and Dr. Mant are as bad as ever; he runs after her in the street\nto apologize for having spoken to a gentleman while she was near him the\nday before. Poor Mrs. Mant can stand it no longer; she is retired to one\nof her married daughters'.\n\nWhen William returns to Winchester Mary Jane is to go to Mrs. Nune's for\na month, and then to Steventon for a fortnight, and it seems likely that\nshe and her aunt Martha may travel into Berkshire together.\n\nWe shall not have a month of Martha after your return, and that month\nwill be a very interrupted and broken one, but we shall enjoy ourselves\nthe more when we can get a quiet half-hour together.\n\nTo set against your new novel, of which nobody ever heard before, and\nperhaps never may again, we have got \"Ida of Athens,\" by Miss Owenson,\nwhich must be very clever, because it was written, as the authoress\nsays, in three months. We have only read the preface yet, but her Irish\ngirl does not make me expect much. If the warmth of her language could\naffect the body, it might be worth reading in this weather.\n\nAdieu! I must leave off to stir the fire and call on Miss Murden.\n\n_Evening._--I have done them both, the first very often. We found our\nfriend as comfortable as she can ever allow herself to be in cold\nweather. There is a very neat parlor behind the shop for her to sit in,\nnot very light indeed, being _a la_ Southampton, the middle of three\ndeep, but very lively from the frequent sound of the pestle and mortar.\n\nWe afterwards called on the Miss Williamses, who lodge at Durantoy's.\nMiss Mary only was at home, and she is in very indifferent health. Dr.\nHacket came in while we were there, and said that he never remembered\nsuch a severe winter as this in Southampton before. It is bad, but we do\nnot suffer as we did last year, because the wind has been more N.E. than\nN.W.\n\nFor a day or two last week my mother was very poorly with a return of\none of her old complaints, but it did not last long, and seems to have\nleft nothing bad behind it. She began to talk of a serious illness, her\ntwo last having been preceded by the same symptoms, but, thank heaven!\nshe is now quite as well as one can expect her to be in weather which\ndeprives her of exercise.\n\nMiss M. conveys to us a third volume of sermons, from Hamstall, just\npublished, and which we are to like better than the two others; they are\nprofessedly practical, and for the use of country congregations. I have\njust received some verses in an unknown hand, and am desired to forward\nthem to my nephew Edward at Godmersham.\n\n    Alas! poor Brag, thou boastful game!\n    What now avails thine empty name?\n    Where now thy more distinguished fame?\n    My day is o'er, and thine the same,\n    For thou, like me, art thrown aside\n    At Godmersham, this Christmastide;\n    And now across the table wide\n    Each game save brag or spec. is tried.\n    Such is the mild ejaculation\n    Of tender-hearted speculation.\n\n_Wednesday._--I expected to have a letter from somebody to-day, but I\nhave not. Twice every day I think of a letter from Portsmouth.\n\nMiss Murden has been sitting with us this morning. As yet she seems very\nwell pleased with her situation. The worst part of her being in\nSouthampton will be the necessity of one walking with her now and then,\nfor she talks so loud that one is quite ashamed; but our dining hours\nare luckily very different, which we shall take all reasonable advantage\nof.\n\nThe Queen's birthday moves the assembly to this night instead of last,\nand as it is always fully attended, Martha and I expect an amusing show.\nWe were in hopes of being independent of other companions by having the\nattendance of Mr. Austen and Captain Harwood; but as they fail us, we\nare obliged to look out for other help, and have fixed on the Wallops as\nleast likely to be troublesome. I have called on them this morning and\nfound them very willing, and I am sorry that you must wait a whole week\nfor the particulars of the evening. I propose being asked to dance by\nour acquaintance Mr. Smith, now _Captain_ Smith, who has lately\nreappeared in Southampton, but I shall decline it. He saw Charles last\nAugust.\n\nWhat an alarming bride Mrs. ---- must have been; such a parade is one of\nthe most immodest pieces of modesty that one can imagine. To attract\nnotice could have been her only wish. It augurs ill for her family; it\nannounces not great sense, and therefore insures boundless influence.\n\nI hope Fanny's visit is now taking place. You have said scarcely\nanything of her lately, but I trust you are as good friends as ever.\n\nMartha sends her love, and hopes to have the pleasure of seeing you when\nyou return to Southampton. You are to understand this message as being\nmerely for the sake of a message to oblige me.\n\n                                    Yours affectionately,\n                                                      J. AUSTEN.\n\nHenry never sent his love to me in your last, but I send him mine.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, EDWARD AUSTEN'S, Esq.,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\n\n\n\nXXXIII.\n\n\n                                  CASTLE SQUARE, Tuesday (January 24).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--I will give you the indulgence of a letter on\nThursday this week, instead of Friday, but I do not require you to write\nagain before Sunday, provided I may believe you and your finger going on\nquite well. Take care of your precious self; do not work too hard.\nRemember that Aunt Cassandras are quite as scarce as Miss Beverleys.[11]\n\nI had the happiness yesterday of a letter from Charles, but I shall say\nas little about it as possible, because I know that excruciating Henry\nwill have had a letter likewise, to make all my intelligence valueless.\nIt was written at Bermuda on the 7th and 10th of December. All well, and\nFanny still only in expectation of being otherwise. He had taken a small\nprize in his late cruise,--a French schooner, laden with sugar; but bad\nweather parted them, and she had not yet been heard of. His cruise ended\nDecember 1st. My September letter was the latest he had received.\n\nThis day three weeks you are to be in London, and I wish you better\nweather; not but that you may have worse, for we have now nothing but\nceaseless snow or rain and insufferable dirt to complain of; no\ntempestuous winds nor severity of cold. Since I wrote last we have had\nsomething of each, but it is not genteel to rip up old grievances.\n\nYou used me scandalously by not mentioning Edward Cooper's sermons. I\ntell you everything, and it is unknown the mysteries you conceal from\nme; and, to add to the rest, you persevere in giving a final \"e\" to\n\"invalid,\" thereby putting it out of one's power to suppose Mrs. E.\nLeigh, even for a moment, a veteran soldier. She, good woman, is, I\nhope, destined for some further placid enjoyment of her own excellence\nin this world, for her recovery advances exceedingly well.\n\nI had this pleasant news in a letter from Bookham last Thursday; but as\nthe letter was from Mary instead of her mother, you will guess her\naccount was not equally good from home. Mrs. Cooke had been confined to\nher bed some days by illness, but was then better, and Mary wrote in\nconfidence of her continuing to mend. I have desired to hear again soon.\n\nYou rejoice me by what you say of Fanny.[12] I hope she will not turn\ngood-for-nothing this ever so long. We thought of and talked of her\nyesterday with sincere affection, and wished her a long enjoyment of all\nthe happiness to which she seems born. While she gives happiness to\nthose about her she is pretty sure of her own share.\n\nI am gratified by her having pleasure in what I write, but I wish the\nknowledge of my being exposed to her discerning criticism may not hurt\nmy style, by inducing too great a solicitude. I begin already to weigh\nmy words and sentences more than I did, and am looking about for a\nsentiment, an illustration, or a metaphor in every corner of the room.\nCould my ideas flow as fast as the rain in the store-closet, it would be\ncharming.\n\nWe have been in two or three dreadful states within the last week, from\nthe melting of the snow, etc., and the contest between us and the closet\nhas now ended in our defeat. I have been obliged to move almost\neverything out of it, and leave it to splash itself as it likes.\n\nYou have by no means raised my curiosity after Caleb. My disinclination\nfor it before was affected, but now it is real. I do not like the\nevangelicals. Of course I shall be delighted when I read it, like other\npeople; but till I do I dislike it.\n\nI am sorry my verses did not bring any return from Edward. I was in\nhopes they might, but I suppose he does not rate them high enough. It\nmight be partiality, but they seemed to me purely classical,--just like\nHomer and Virgil, Ovid and Propria que Maribus.\n\nI had a nice brotherly letter from Frank the other day, which, after an\ninterval of nearly three weeks, was very welcome. No orders were come on\nFriday, and none were come yesterday, or we should have heard to-day. I\nhad supposed Miss C. would share her cousin's room here, but a message\nin this letter proves the contrary. I will make the garret as\ncomfortable as I can, but the possibilities of that apartment are not\ngreat.\n\nMy mother has been talking to Eliza about our future home, and she,\nmaking no difficulty at all of the sweetheart, is perfectly disposed to\ncontinue with us, but till she has written home for mother's approbation\ncannot quite decide. Mother does not like to have her so far off. At\nChawton she will be nine or ten miles nearer, which I hope will have its\ndue influence.\n\nAs for Sally, she means to play John Binns with us, in her anxiety to\nbelong to our household again. Hitherto she appears a very good servant.\n\nYou depend upon finding all your plants dead, I hope. They look very\nill, I understand.\n\nYour silence on the subject of our ball makes me suppose your curiosity\ntoo great for words. We were very well entertained, and could have\nstayed longer but for the arrival of my list shoes to convey me home,\nand I did not like to keep them waiting in the cold. The room was\ntolerably full, and the ball opened by Miss Glyn. The Miss Lances had\npartners, Captain Dauvergne's friend appeared in regimentals, Caroline\nMaitland had an officer to flirt with, and Mr. John Harrison was deputed\nby Captain Smith, being himself absent, to ask me to dance. Everything\nwent well, you see, especially after we had tucked Mrs. Lance's\nneckerchief in behind and fastened it with a pin.\n\nWe had a very full and agreeable account of Mr. Hammond's ball from Anna\nlast night; the same fluent pen has sent similar information, I know,\ninto Kent. She seems to have been as happy as one could wish her, and\nthe complacency of her mamma in doing the honors of the evening must\nhave made her pleasure almost as great. The grandeur of the meeting was\nbeyond my hopes. I should like to have seen Anna's looks and\nperformance, but that sad cropped head must have injured the former.\n\nMartha pleases herself with believing that if I had kept her counsel you\nwould never have heard of Dr. M.'s late behavior, as if the very slight\nmanner in which I mentioned it could have been all on which you found\nyour judgment. I do not endeavor to undeceive her, because I wish her\nhappy, at all events, and know how highly she prizes happiness of any\nkind. She is, moreover, so full of kindness for us both, and sends you\nin particular so many good wishes about your finger, that I am willing\nto overlook a venial fault, and as Dr. M. is a clergyman, their\nattachment, however immoral, has a decorous air. Adieu, sweet You. This\nis grievous news from Spain. It is well that Dr. Moore was spared the\nknowledge of such a son's death.\n\n                                Yours affectionately,      J. AUSTEN.\n\nAnna's hand gets better and better; it begins to be too good for any\nconsequence.\n\nWe send best love to dear little Lizzy and Marianne in particular.\n\nThe Portsmouth paper gave a melancholy history of a poor mad woman,\nescaped from confinement, who said her husband and daughter, of the name\nof Payne, lived at Ashford, in Kent. Do you own them?\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, EDWARD AUSTEN'S, Esq.,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[11] \"Cecilia\" Beverley, the heroine of Miss Burney's novel.\n\n[12] Fanny Austen, afterward Lady Edward Knatchbull.\n\n\n\n\nXXXIV.\n\n\n                                  CASTLE SQUARE, Monday (January 30).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--I was not much surprised yesterday by the agreeable\nsurprise of your letter, and extremely glad to receive the assurance of\nyour finger being well again.\n\nHere is such a wet day as never was seen. I wish the poor little girls\nhad better weather for their journey; they must amuse themselves with\nwatching the raindrops down the windows. Sackree, I suppose, feels quite\nbroken-hearted. I cannot have done with the weather without observing\nhow delightfully mild it is; I am sure Fanny must enjoy it with us.\nYesterday was a very blowing day; we got to church, however, which we\nhad not been able to do for two Sundays before.\n\nI am not at all ashamed about the name of the novel, having been guilty\nof no insult toward your handwriting; the diphthong I always saw, but\nknowing how fond you were of adding a vowel wherever you could, I\nattributed it to that alone, and the knowledge of the truth does the\nbook no service; the only merit it could have was in the name of Caleb,\nwhich has an honest, unpretending sound, but in Coelebs there is\npedantry and affectation. Is it written only to classical scholars?\n\nI shall now try to say only what is necessary, I am weary of meandering;\nso expect a vast deal of small matter, concisely told, in the next two\npages.\n\nMrs. Cooke has been very dangerously ill, but is now, I hope, safe. I\nhad a letter last week from George, Mary being too busy to write, and at\nthat time the disorder was called of the typhus kind, and their alarm\nconsiderable, but yesterday brought me a much better account from Mary,\nthe origin of the complaint being now ascertained to be bilious, and the\nstrong medicines requisite promising to be effectual. Mrs. E. L. is so\nmuch recovered as to get into the dressing-room every day.\n\nA letter from Hamstall gives us the history of Sir Tho. Williams's\nreturn. The Admiral, whoever he might he, took a fancy to the \"Neptune,\"\nand having only a worn-out 74 to offer in lieu of it, Sir Tho. declined\nsuch a command, and is come home passenger. Lucky man! to have so fair\nan opportunity of escape. I hope his wife allows herself to be happy on\nthe occasion, and does not give all her thoughts to being nervous.\n\nA great event happens this week at Hamstall in young Edward's removal to\nschool. He is going to Rugby, and is very happy in the idea of it; I\nwish his happiness may last, but it will be a great change to become a\nraw school-boy from being a pompous sermon-writer and a domineering\nbrother. It will do him good, I dare say.\n\nCaroline has had a great escape from being burnt to death lately. As her\nhusband gives the account, we must believe it true. Miss Murden is\ngone,--called away by the critical state of Mrs. Pottinger who has had\nanother severe stroke, and is without sense or speech. Miss Murden\nwishes to return to Southampton if circumstances suit, but it must be\nvery doubtful.\n\nWe have been obliged to turn away Cholles, he grew so very drunken and\nnegligent, and we have a man in his place called Thomas.\n\nMartha desires me to communicate something concerning herself which she\nknows will give you pleasure, as affording her very particular\nsatisfaction,--it is that she is to be in town this spring with Mrs.\nDundas. I need not dilate on the subject. You understand enough of the\nwhys and wherefores to enter into her feelings, and to be conscious that\nof all possible arrangements it is the one most acceptable to her. She\ngoes to Barton on leaving us, and the family remove to town in April.\n\nWhat you tell me of Miss Sharpe is quite new, and surprises me a little;\nI feel, however, as you do. She is born, poor thing! to struggle with\nevil, and her continuing with Miss B. is, I hope, a proof that matters\nare not always so very bad between them as her letters sometimes\nrepresent.\n\nJenny's marriage I had heard of, and supposed you would do so too from\nSteventon, as I knew you were corresponding with Mary at the time. I\nhope she will not sully the respectable name she now bears.\n\nYour plan for Miss Curling is uncommonly considerate and friendly, and\nsuch as she must surely jump at. Edward's going round by Steventon, as I\nunderstand he promises to do, can be no reasonable objection; Mrs. J.\nAusten's hospitality is just of the kind to enjoy such a visitor.\n\nWe were very glad to know Aunt Fanny was in the country when we read of\nthe fire. Pray give my best compliments to the Mrs. Finches, if they are\nat Gm. I am sorry to find that Sir J. Moore has a mother living, but\nthough a very heroic son he might not be a very necessary one to her\nhappiness. Deacon Morrell may be more to Mrs. Morrell.\n\nI wish Sir John had united something of the Christian with the hero in\nhis death. Thank heaven! we have had no one to care for particularly\namong the troops,--no one, in fact, nearer to us than Sir John himself.\nCol. Maitland is safe and well; his mother and sisters were of course\nanxious about him, but there is no entering much into the solicitudes of\nthat family.\n\nMy mother is well, and gets out when she can with the same enjoyment,\nand apparently the same strength, as hitherto. She hopes you will not\nomit begging Mrs. Seward to get the garden cropped for us, supposing she\nleaves the house too early to make the garden any object to herself. We\nare very desirous of receiving your account of the house, for your\nobservations will have a motive which can leave nothing to conjecture\nand suffer nothing from want of memory. For one's own dear self, one\nascertains and remembers everything.\n\nLady Sondes is an impudent woman to come back into her old neighborhood\nagain; I suppose she pretends never to have married before, and wonders\nhow her father and mother came to have her christened Lady Sondes.\n\nThe store-closet, I hope, will never do so again, for much of the evil\nis proved to have proceeded from the gutter being choked up, and we have\nhad it cleared. We had reason to rejoice in the child's absence at the\ntime of the thaw, for the nursery was not habitable. We hear of similar\ndisasters from almost everybody.\n\nNo news from Portsmouth. We are very patient. Mrs. Charles Fowle desires\nto be kindly remembered to you. She is warmly interested in my brother\nand his family.\n\n                                  Yours very affectionately,\n                                                          J. AUSTEN.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, EDWARD AUSTEN'S, Esq.,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\n\n\n\nXXXV.\n\n\n                                  SLOANE ST., Thursday (April 18, 1811).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--I have so many little matters to tell you of, that I\ncannot wait any longer before I begin to put them down. I spent Tuesday\nin Bentinck Street. The Cookes called here and took me back, and it was\nquite a Cooke day, for the Miss Rolles paid a visit while I was there,\nand Sam Arnold dropped in to tea.\n\nThe badness of the weather disconcerted an excellent plan of mine,--that\nof calling on Miss Beckford again; but from the middle of the day it\nrained incessantly. Mary and I, after disposing of her father and\nmother, went to the Liverpool Museum and the British Gallery, and I had\nsome amusement at each, though my preference for men and women always\ninclines me to attend more to the company than the sight.\n\nMrs. Cooke regrets very much that she did not see you when you called;\nit was owing to a blunder among the servants, for she did not know of\nour visit till we were gone. She seems tolerably well, but the nervous\npart of her complaint, I fear, increases, and makes her more and more\nunwilling to part with Mary.\n\nI have proposed to the latter that she should go to Chawton with me, on\nthe supposition of my travelling the Guildford road, and she, I do\nbelieve, would be glad to do it, but perhaps it may be impossible;\nunless a brother can be at home at that time, it certainly must. George\ncomes to them to-day.\n\nI did not see Theo. till late on Tuesday; he was gone to Ilford, but he\ncame back in time to show his usual nothing-meaning, harmless, heartless\ncivility. Henry, who had been confined the whole day to the bank, took\nme in his way home, and, after putting life and wit into the party for a\nquarter of an hour, put himself and his sister into a hackney coach.\n\nI bless my stars that I have done with Tuesday. But, alas! Wednesday was\nlikewise a day of great doings, for Manon and I took our walk to Grafton\nHouse, and I have a good deal to say on that subject.\n\nI am sorry to tell you that I am getting very extravagant, and spending\nall my money, and, what is worse for you, I have been spending yours\ntoo; for in a linendraper's shop to which I went for checked muslin, and\nfor which I was obliged to give seven shillings a yard, I was tempted by\na pretty-colored muslin, and bought ten yards of it on the chance of\nyour liking it; but at the same time, if it should not suit you, you\nmust not think yourself at all obliged to take it; it is only 3_s._\n6_d._ per yard, and I should not in the least mind keeping the whole. In\ntexture it is just what we prefer, but its resemblance to green crewels,\nI must own, is not great, for the pattern is a small red spot. And now I\nbelieve I have done all my commissions except Wedgwood.\n\nI liked my walk very much; it was shorter than I had expected, and the\nweather was delightful. We set off immediately after breakfast, and must\nhave reached Grafton House by half-past eleven; but when we entered the\nshop the whole counter was thronged, and we waited full half an hour\nbefore we could be attended to. When we were served, however, I was\nvery well satisfied with my purchases,--my bugle trimming at 2_s._ 4_d._\nand three pair silk stockings for a little less than 12_s._ a pair.\n\nIn my way back who should I meet but Mr. Moore, just come from\nBeckenham. I believe he would have passed me if I had not made him stop,\nbut we were delighted to meet. I soon found, however, that he had\nnothing new to tell me, and then I let him go.\n\nMiss Burton has made me a very pretty little bonnet, and now nothing can\nsatisfy me but I must have a straw hat, of the riding-hat shape, like\nMrs. Tilson's; and a young woman in this neighborhood is actually making\nme one. I am really very shocking, but it will not be dear at a guinea.\nOur pelisses are 17_s._ each; she charges only 8_s._ for the making, but\nthe buttons seem expensive,--are expensive, I might have said, for the\nfact is plain enough.\n\nWe drank tea again yesterday with the Tilsons, and met the Smiths. I\nfind all these little parties very pleasant. I like Mrs. S.; Miss Beaty\nis good-humor itself, and does not seem much besides. We spend to-morrow\nevening with them, and are to meet the Coln. and Mrs. Cantelo Smith you\nhave been used to hear of, and, if she is in good humor, are likely to\nhave excellent singing.\n\nTo-night I might have been at the play; Henry had kindly planned our\ngoing together to the Lyceum, but I have a cold which I should not like\nto make worse before Saturday, so I stay within all this day.\n\nEliza is walking out by herself. She has plenty of business on her hands\njust now, for the day of the party is settled, and drawing near. Above\neighty people are invited for next Tuesday evening, and there is to be\nsome very good music,--five professionals, three of them glee singers,\nbesides amateurs. Fanny will listen to this. One of the hirelings is a\nCapital on the harp, from which I expect great pleasure. The foundation\nof the party was a dinner to Henry Egerton and Henry Walter, but the\nlatter leaves town the day before. I am sorry, as I wished her prejudice\nto be done away, but should have been more sorry if there had been no\ninvitation.\n\nI am a wretch, to be so occupied with all these things as to seem to\nhave no thoughts to give to people and circumstances which really supply\na far more lasting interest,--the society in which you are; but I do\nthink of you all, I assure you, and want to know all about everybody,\nand especially about your visit to the W. Friars; _mais le moyen_ not to\nbe occupied by one's own concerns?\n\n_Saturday._--Frank is superseded in the \"Caledonia.\" Henry brought us\nthis news yesterday from Mr. Daysh, and he heard at the same time that\nCharles may be in England in the course of a month. Sir Edward Pollen\nsucceeds Lord Gambier in his command, and some captain of his succeeds\nFrank; and I believe the order is already gone out. Henry means to\ninquire further to-day. He wrote to Mary on the occasion. This is\nsomething to think of. Henry is convinced that he will have the offer of\nsomething else, but does not think it will be at all incumbent on him to\naccept it; and then follows, what will he do? and where will he live?\n\nI hope to hear from you to-day. How are you as to health, strength,\nlooks, etc.? I had a very comfortable account from Chawton yesterday.\n\nIf the weather permits, Eliza and I walk into London this morning. She\nis in want of chimney lights for Tuesday, and I of an ounce of\ndarning-cotton. She has resolved not to venture to the play to-night.\nThe D'Entraigues and Comte Julien cannot come to the party, which was at\nfirst a grief, but she has since supplied herself so well with\nperformers that it is of no consequence; their not coming has produced\nour going to them to-morrow evening, which I like the idea of. It will\nbe amusing to see the ways of a French circle.\n\nI wrote to Mrs. Hill a few days ago, and have received a most kind and\nsatisfactory answer. Any time the first week in May exactly suits her,\nand therefore I consider my going as tolerably fixed. I shall leave\nSloane Street on the 1st or 2d, and be ready for James on the 9th, and,\nif his plan alters, I can take care of myself. I have explained my views\nhere, and everything is smooth and pleasant; and Eliza talks kindly of\nconveying me to Streatham.\n\nWe met the Tilsons yesterday evening, but the singing Smiths sent an\nexcuse, which put our Mrs. Smith out of humor.\n\nWe are come back, after a good dose of walking and coaching, and I have\nthe pleasure of your letter. I wish I had James's verses, but they were\nleft at Chawton. When I return thither, if Mrs. K. will give me leave, I\nwill send them to her.\n\nOur first object to-day was Henrietta St., to consult with Henry in\nconsequence of a very unlucky change of the play for this very\nnight,--\"Hamlet\" instead of \"King John,\"--and we are to go on Monday to\n\"Macbeth\" instead; but it is a disappointment to us both.\n\nLove to all.\n\n                                  Yours affectionately,\n                                                    JANE.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, EDWARD AUSTEN'S, Esq.,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\n\n\n\nXXXVI.\n\n\n                                  SLOANE ST., Thursday (April 25).\n\nMY DEAREST CASSANDRA,--I can return the compliment by thanking you for\nthe unexpected pleasure of your letter yesterday, and as I like\nunexpected pleasure, it made me very happy; and, indeed, you need not\napologize for your letter in any respect, for it is all very fine, but\nnot too fine, I hope, to be written again, or something like it.\n\nI think Edward will not suffer much longer from heat; by the look of\nthings this morning I suspect the weather is rising into the balsamic\nnorth-east. It has been hot here, as you may suppose, since it was so\nhot with you, but I have not suffered from it at all, nor felt it in\nsuch a degree as to make me imagine it would be anything in the country.\nEverybody has talked of the heat, but I set it all down to London.\n\nI give you joy of our new nephew, and hope if he ever comes to be hanged\nit will not be till we are too old to care about it. It is a great\ncomfort to have it so safely and speedily over. The Miss Curlings must\nbe hard worked in writing so many letters, but the novelty of it may\nrecommend it to them; mine was from Miss Eliza, and she says that my\nbrother may arrive to-day.\n\nNo, indeed, I am never too busy to think of S. and S.[13] I can no more\nforget it than a mother can forget her sucking child; and I am much\nobliged to you for your inquiries. I have had two sheets to correct, but\nthe last only brings us to Willoughby's first appearance. Mrs. K.\nregrets in the most flattering manner that she must wait till May, but I\nhave scarcely a hope of its being out in June. Henry does not neglect\nit; he has hurried the printer, and says he will see him again to-day.\nIt will not stand still during his absence, it will be sent to Eliza.\n\nThe Incomes remain as they were, but I will get them altered if I can. I\nam very much gratified by Mrs. K.'s interest in it; and whatever may be\nthe event of it as to my credit with her, sincerely wish her curiosity\ncould be satisfied sooner than is now probable. I think she will like my\nElinor, but cannot build on anything else.\n\nOur party went off extremely well. There were many solicitudes, alarms,\nand vexations beforehand, of course, but at last everything was quite\nright. The rooms were dressed up with flowers, etc., and looked very\npretty. A glass for the mantelpiece was lent by the man who is making\ntheir own. Mr. Egerton and Mr. Walter came at half-past five, and the\nfestivities began with a pair of very fine soles.\n\nYes, Mr. Walter--for he postponed his leaving London on purpose--which\ndid not give much pleasure at the time, any more than the circumstance\nfrom which it rose,--his calling on Sunday and being asked by Henry to\ntake the family dinner on that day, which he did; but it is all smoothed\nover now, and she likes him very well.\n\nAt half-past seven arrived the musicians in two hackney coaches, and by\neight the lordly company began to appear. Among the earliest were George\nand Mary Cooke, and I spent the greatest part of the evening very\npleasantly with them. The drawing-room being soon hotter than we liked,\nwe placed ourselves in the connecting passage, which was comparatively\ncool, and gave us all the advantage of the music at a pleasant distance,\nas well as that of the first view of every new-comer.\n\nI was quite surrounded by acquaintance, especially gentlemen; and what\nwith Mr. Hampson, Mr. Seymour, Mr. W. Knatchbull, Mr. Guillemarde, Mr.\nCure, a Captain Simpson, brother to _the_ Captain Simpson, besides Mr.\nWalter and Mr. Egerton, in addition to the Cookes, and Miss Beckford,\nand Miss Middleton, I had quite as much upon my hands as I could do.\n\nPoor Miss B. has been suffering again from her old complaint, and looks\nthinner than ever. She certainly goes to Cheltenham the beginning of\nJune. We were all delight and cordiality, of course. Miss M. seems very\nhappy, but has not beauty enough to figure in London.\n\nIncluding everybody we were sixty-six,--which was considerably more than\nEliza had expected, and quite enough to fill the back drawing-room and\nleave a few to be scattered about in the other and in the passage.\n\nThe music was extremely good. It opened (tell Fanny) with \"Poike de Parp\npirs praise pof Prapela;\" and of the other glees I remember, \"In peace\nlove tunes,\" \"Rosabelle,\" \"The Red Cross Knight,\" and \"Poor Insect.\"\nBetween the songs were lessons on the harp, or harp and pianoforte\ntogether; and the harp-player was Wiepart, whose name seems famous,\nthough new to me. There was one female singer, a short Miss Davis, all\nin blue, bringing up for the public line, whose voice was said to be\nvery fine indeed; and all the performers gave great satisfaction by\ndoing what they were paid for, and giving themselves no airs. No amateur\ncould be persuaded to do anything.\n\nThe house was not clear till after twelve. If you wish to hear more of\nit, you must put your questions, but I seem rather to have exhausted\nthan spared the subject.\n\nThis said Captain Simpson told us, on the authority of some other\nCaptain just arrived from Halifax, that Charles was bringing the\n\"Cleopatra\" home, and that she was probably by this time in the\nChannel; but as Captain S. was certainly in liquor, we must not quite\ndepend on it. It must give one a sort of expectation, however, and will\nprevent my writing to him any more. I would rather he should not reach\nEngland till I am at home, and the Steventon party gone.\n\nMy mother and Martha both write with great satisfaction of Anna's\nbehavior. She is quite an Anna with variations, but she cannot have\nreached her last, for that is always the most flourishing and showy; she\nis at about her third or fourth, which are generally simple and pretty.\n\nYour lilacs are in leaf, ours are in bloom. The horse-chestnuts are\nquite out, and the elms almost. I had a pleasant walk in Kensington\nGardens on Sunday with Henry, Mr. Smith, and Mr. Tilson; everything was\nfresh and beautiful.\n\nWe did go to the play, after all, on Saturday. We went to the Lyceum,\nand saw the \"Hypocrite,\" an old play taken from Moliere's \"Tartuffe,\"\nand were well entertained. Dowton and Mathews were the good actors; Mrs.\nEdwin was the heroine, and her performance is just what it used to be. I\nhave no chance of seeing Mrs. Siddons; she did act on Monday, but as\nHenry was told by the box-keeper that he did not think she would, the\nplans, and all thought of it, were given up. I should particularly have\nliked seeing her in \"Constance,\" and could swear at her with little\neffort for disappointing me.\n\nHenry has been to the Water-Color Exhibition, which opened on Monday,\nand is to meet us there again some morning. If Eliza cannot go (and she\nhas a cold at present), Miss Beaty will be invited to be my companion.\nHenry leaves town on Sunday afternoon, but he means to write soon\nhimself to Edward, and will tell his own plans.\n\nThe tea is this moment setting out.\n\nDo not have your colored muslin unless you really want it, because I am\nafraid I could not send it to the coach without giving trouble here.\n\nEliza caught her cold on Sunday in our way to the D'Entraigues. The\nhorses actually gibbed on this side of Hyde Park Gate: a load of fresh\ngravel made it a formidable hill to them, and they refused the collar; I\nbelieve there was a sore shoulder to irritate. Eliza was frightened, and\nwe got out, and were detained in the evening air several minutes. The\ncold is in her chest, but she takes care of herself, and I hope it may\nnot last long.\n\nThis engagement prevented Mr. Walter's staying late,--he had his coffee\nand went away. Eliza enjoyed her evening very much, and means to\ncultivate the acquaintance; and I see nothing to dislike in them but\ntheir taking quantities of snuff. Monsieur, the old Count, is a very\nfine-looking man, with quiet manners, good enough for an Englishman,\nand, I believe, is a man of great information and taste. He has some\nfine paintings, which delighted Henry as much as the son's music\ngratified Eliza; and among them a miniature of Philip V. of Spain, Louis\nXIV.'s grandson, which exactly suited my capacity. Count Julien's\nperformance is very wonderful.\n\nWe met only Mrs. Latouche and Miss East, and we are just now engaged to\nspend next Sunday evening at Mrs. L.'s, and to meet the D'Entraigues,\nbut M. le Comte must do without Henry. If he would but speak English, I\nwould take to him.\n\nHave you ever mentioned the leaving off tea to Mrs. K.? Eliza has just\nspoken of it again. The benefit she has found from it in sleeping has\nbeen very great.\n\nI shall write soon to Catherine to fix my day, which will be Thursday.\nWe have no engagement but for Sunday. Eliza's cold makes quiet\nadvisable. Her party is mentioned in this morning's paper. I am sorry to\nhear of poor Fanny's state. From that quarter, I suppose, is to be the\nalloy of her happiness. I will have no more to say.\n\n                                  Yours affectionately,\n                                                     J. A.\n\nGive my love particularly to my goddaughter.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, EDWARD AUSTEN'S, Esq.,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[13] \"Sense and Sensibility.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXXVII.\n\n\n                                                SLOANE ST., Tuesday.\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--I had sent off my letter yesterday before yours\ncame, which I was sorry for; but as Eliza has been so good as to get me\na frank, your questions shall be answered without much further expense\nto you.\n\nThe best direction to Henry at Oxford will be \"The Blue Boar,\nCornmarket.\"\n\nI do not mean to provide another trimming for my pelisse, for I am\ndetermined to spend no more money; so I shall wear it as it is, longer\nthan I ought, and then--I do not know.\n\nMy head-dress was a bugle-band like the border to my gown, and a flower\nof Mrs. Tilson's. I depended upon hearing something of the evening from\nMr. W. K., and am very well satisfied with his notice of me--\"A\npleasing-looking young woman\"--that must do; one cannot pretend to\nanything better now; thankful to have it continued a few years longer!\n\nIt gives me sincere pleasure to hear of Mrs. Knight's having had a\ntolerable night at last, but upon this occasion I wish she had another\nname, for the two _nights_ jingle very much.\n\nWe have tried to get \"Self-control,\" but in vain. I should like to know\nwhat her estimate is, but am always half afraid of finding a clever\nnovel too clever, and of finding my own story and my own people all\nforestalled.\n\nEliza has just received a few lines from Henry to assure her of the good\nconduct of his mare. He slept at Uxbridge on Sunday, and wrote from\nWheatfield.\n\nWe were not claimed by Hans Place yesterday, but are to dine there\nto-day. Mr. Tilson called in the evening, but otherwise we were quite\nalone all day; and after having been out a good deal, the change was\nvery pleasant.\n\nI like your opinion of Miss Atten much better than I expected, and have\nnow hopes of her staying a whole twelvemonth. By this time I suppose she\nis hard at it, governing away. Poor creature! I pity her, though they\nare my nieces.\n\nOh! yes, I remember Miss Emma Plumbtree's local consequence perfectly.\n\n    I am in a dilemma, for want of an Emma,\n    Escaped from the lips of Henry Gipps.\n\nBut, really, I was never much more put to it than in continuing an\nanswer to Fanny's former message. What is there to be said on the\nsubject? Pery pell, or pare pey? or po; or at the most, Pi, pope, pey,\npike, pit.\n\nI congratulate Edward on the Weald of Kent Canal Bill being put off till\nanother Session, as I have just had the pleasure of reading. There is\nalways something to be hoped from delay.\n\n    Between Session and Session\n    The first Prepossession\n    May rouse up the Nation,\n    And the villanous Bill\n    May be forced to lie still\n    Against wicked men's will.\n\nThere is poetry for Edward and his daughter. I am afraid I shall not\nhave any for you.\n\nI forgot to tell you in my last that our cousin Miss Payne called in on\nSaturday, and was persuaded to stay dinner. She told us a great deal\nabout her friend Lady Cath. Brecknell, who is most happily married, and\nMr. Brecknell is very religious, and has got black whiskers.\n\nI am glad to think that Edward has a tolerable day for his drive to\nGoodnestone, and very glad to hear of his kind promise of bringing you\nto town. I hope everything will arrange itself favorably. The 16th is\nnow to be Mrs. Dundas's day.\n\nI mean, if I can, to wait for your return before I have my new gown made\nup, from a notion of their making up to more advantage together; and as\nI find the muslin is not so wide as it used to be, some contrivance may\nbe necessary. I expect the skirt to require one-half breadth cut in\ngores, besides two whole breadths.\n\nEliza has not yet quite resolved on inviting Anna, but I think she will.\n\n                                        Yours very affectionately,\n                                                                JANE.\n\n\n\n\nXXXVIII.\n\n\n                                           CHAWTON, Wednesday (May 29).\n\nIT was a mistake of mine, my dear Cassandra, to talk of a tenth child at\nHamstall. I had forgot there were but eight already.\n\nYour inquiry after my uncle and aunt were most happily timed, for the\nvery same post brought an account of them. They are again at Gloucester\nHouse enjoying fresh air, which they seem to have felt the want of in\nBath, and are tolerably well, but not more than tolerable. My aunt does\nnot enter into particulars, but she does not write in spirits, and we\nimagine that she has never entirely got the better of her disorder in\nthe winter. Mrs. Welby takes her out airing in her barouche, which gives\nher a headache,--a comfortable proof, I suppose, of the uselessness of\nthe new carriage when they have got it.\n\nYou certainly must have heard before I can tell you that Col. Orde has\nmarried our cousin Margt. Beckford, the Marchess. of Douglas's sister.\nThe papers say that her father disinherits her, but I think too well of\nan Orde to suppose that she has not a handsome independence of her own.\n\n[Illustration: _Chawton Cottage, from the Garden_\n\nLETTERS, 172]\n\nThe chickens are all alive and fit for the table, but we save them for\nsomething grand. Some of the flower seeds are coming up very well, but\nyour mignonette makes a wretched appearance. Miss Benn has been\nequally unlucky as to hers. She had seed from four different people, and\nnone of it comes up. Our young piony at the foot of the fir-tree has\njust blown and looks very handsome, and the whole of the shrubbery\nborder will soon be very gay with pinks and sweet-williams, in addition\nto the columbines already in bloom. The syringas, too, are coming out.\nWe are likely to have a great crop of Orleans plums, but not many\ngreengages--on the standard scarcely any, three or four dozen, perhaps,\nagainst the wall. I believe I told you differently when I first came\nhome, but I can now judge better than I could then.\n\nI have had a medley and satisfactory letter this morning from the\nhusband and wife at Cowes; and in consequence of what is related of\ntheir plans, we have been talking over the possibility of inviting them\nhere in their way from Steventon, which is what one should wish to do,\nand is, I dare say, what they expect, but, supposing Martha to be at\nhome, it does not seem a very easy thing to accommodate so large a\nparty. My mother offers to give up her room to Frank and Mary, but there\nwill then be only the best for two maids and three children.\n\nThey go to Steventon about the 22d, and I guess--for it is quite a\nguess--will stay there from a fortnight to three weeks.\n\nI must not venture to press Miss Sharpe's coming at present; we may\nhardly be at liberty before August.\n\nPoor John Bridges! we are very sorry for his situation and for the\ndistress of the family. Lady B., is in one way severely tried. And our\nown dear brother suffers a great deal, I dare say, on the occasion.\n\nI have not much to say of ourselves. Anna is nursing a cold caught in\nthe arbor at Faringdon, that she may be able to keep her engagement to\nMaria M. this evening, when I suppose she will make it worse.\n\nShe did not return from Faringdon till Sunday, when H. B. walked home\nwith her, and drank tea here. She was with the Prowtings almost all\nMonday. She went to learn to make feather trimmings of Miss Anna, and\nthey kept her to dinner, which was rather lucky, as we were called upon\nto meet Mrs. and Miss Terry the same evening at the Digweeds; and though\nAnna was of course invited too, I think it always safest to keep her\naway from the family, lest she should be doing too little or too much.\n\nMrs. Terry, Mary, and Robert, with my aunt Harding and her daughter,\ncame from Dummer for a day and a night,--all very agreeable and very\nmuch delighted with the new house and with Chawton in general.\n\nWe sat upstairs, and had thunder and lightning as usual. I never knew\nsuch a spring for thunderstorms as it has been. Thank God! we have had\nno bad ones here. I thought myself in luck to have my uncomfortable\nfeelings shared by the mistress of the house, as that procured blinds\nand candles. It had been excessively hot the whole day. Mrs. Harding is\na good-looking woman, but not much like Mrs. Toke, inasmuch as she is\nvery brown and has scarcely any teeth; she seems to have some of Mrs.\nToke's civility. Miss H. is an elegant, pleasing, pretty-looking girl,\nabout nineteen, I suppose, or nineteen and a half, or nineteen and a\nquarter, with flowers in her head and music at her finger-ends. She\nplays very well indeed. I have seldom heard anybody with more pleasure.\nThey were at Godington four or five years ago. My cousin Flora Long was\nthere last year.\n\nMy name is Diana. How does Fanny like it? What a change in the weather!\nWe have a fire again now.\n\nHarriet Benn sleeps at the Great House to-night, and spends to-morrow\nwith us; and the plan is that we should all walk with her to drink tea\nat Faringdon, for her mother is now recovered; but the state of the\nweather is not very promising at present.\n\nMiss Benn has been returned to her cottage since the beginning of last\nweek, and has now just got another girl; she comes from Alton. For many\ndays Miss B. had nobody with her but her niece Elizabeth, who was\ndelighted to be her visitor and her maid. They both dined here on\nSaturday while Anna was at Faringdon; and last night an accidental\nmeeting and a sudden impulse produced Miss Benn and Maria Middleton at\nour tea-table.\n\nIf you have not heard it is very fit you should, that Mr. Harrison has\nhad the living of Fareham given him by the Bishop, and is going to\nreside there; and now it is said that Mr. Peach (beautiful wiseacre)\nwants to have the curacy of Overton, and if he does leave Wootton, James\nDigweed wishes to go there. Fare you well.\n\n                              Yours affectionately,      JANE AUSTEN.\n\nThe chimneys at the Great House are done. Mr. Prowting has opened a\ngravel-pit, very conveniently for my mother, just at the mouth of the\napproach to his house; but it looks a little as if he meant to catch all\nhis company. Tolerable gravel.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\n\n\n\nXXXIX.\n\n\n                                           CHAWTON, Thursday (June 6).\n\nBY this time, my dearest Cassandra, you know Martha's plans. I was\nrather disappointed, I confess, to find that she could not leave town\ntill after ye 24th, as I had hoped to see you here the week before. The\ndelay, however, is not great, and everything seems generally arranging\nitself for your return very comfortably.\n\nI found Henry perfectly predisposed to bring you to London if agreeable\nto yourself; he has not fixed his day for going into Kent, but he must\nbe back again before ye 20th. You may therefore think with something\nlike certainty of the close of your Godmersham visit, and will have, I\nsuppose, about a week for Sloane Street. He travels in his gig, and\nshould the weather be tolerable I think you must have a delightful\njourney.\n\nI have given up all idea of Miss Sharpe's travelling with you and\nMartha, for though you are both all compliance with my scheme, yet as\nyou knock off a week from the end of her visit, and Martha rather more\nfrom the beginning, the thing is out of the question.\n\nI have written to her to say that after the middle of July we shall be\nhappy to receive her, and I have added a welcome if she could make her\nway hither directly, but I do not expect that she will. I have also sent\nour invitation to Cowes.\n\nWe are very sorry for the disappointment you have all had in Lady B.'s\nillness; but a division of the proposed party is with you by this time,\nand I hope may have brought you a better account of the rest.\n\nGive my love and thanks to Harriot, who has written me charming things\nof your looks, and diverted me very much by poor Mrs. C. Milles's\ncontinued perplexity.\n\nI had a few lines from Henry on Tuesday to prepare us for himself and\nhis friend, and by the time that I had made the sumptuous provision of a\nneck of mutton on the occasion, they drove into the court; but lest you\nshould not immediately recollect in how many hours a neck of mutton may\nbe certainly procured, I add that they came a little after twelve,--both\ntall and well, and in their different degrees agreeable.\n\nIt was a visit of only twenty-four hours, but very pleasant while it\nlasted. Mr. Tilson took a sketch of the Great House before dinner, and\nafter dinner we all three walked to Chawton Park,[14] meaning to go into\nit, but it was too dirty, and we were obliged to keep on the outside.\nMr. Tilson admired the trees very much, but grieved that they should not\nbe turned into money.\n\nMy mother's cold is better, and I believe she only wants dry weather to\nbe very well. It was a great distress to her that Anna should be absent\nduring her uncle's visit, a distress which I could not share. She does\nnot return from Faringdon till this evening, and I doubt not has had\nplenty of the miscellaneous, unsettled sort of happiness which seems to\nsuit her best. We hear from Miss Benn, who was on the Common with the\nProwtings, that she was very much admired by the gentlemen in general.\n\nI like your new bonnets exceedingly; yours is a shape which always looks\nwell, and I think Fanny's particularly becoming to her.\n\nOn Monday I had the pleasure of receiving, unpacking, and approving our\nWedgwood ware. It all came very safely, and upon the whole is a good\nmatch, though I think they might have allowed us rather larger leaves,\nespecially in such a year of fine foliage as this. One is apt to suppose\nthat the woods about Birmingham must be blighted. There was no bill with\nthe goods, but that shall not screen them from being paid. I mean to ask\nMartha to settle the account. It will be quite in her way, for she is\njust now sending my mother a breakfast-set from the same place.\n\nI hope it will come by the wagon to-morrow; it is certainly what we\nwant, and I long to know what it is like, and as I am sure Martha has\ngreat pleasure in making the present, I will not have any regret. We\nhave considerable dealings with the wagons at present: a hamper of port\nand brandy from Southampton is now in the kitchen.\n\nYour answer about the Miss Plumbtrees proves you as fine a Daniel as\never Portia was; for I maintained Emma to be the eldest.\n\nWe began pease on Sunday, but our gatherings are very small, not at all\nlike the gathering in the \"Lady of the Lake.\" Yesterday I had the\nagreeable surprise of finding several scarlet strawberries quite ripe;\nhad you been at home, this would have been a pleasure lost. There are\nmore gooseberries and fewer currants than I thought at first. We must\nbuy currants for our wine.\n\nThe Digweeds are gone down to see the Stephen Terrys at Southampton, and\ncatch the King's birthday at Portsmouth. Miss Papillon called on us\nyesterday, looking handsomer than ever. Maria Middleton and Miss Benn\ndine here to-morrow.\n\nWe are not to enclose any more letters to Abingdon Street, as perhaps\nMartha has told you.\n\nI had just left off writing and put on my things for walking to Alton,\nwhen Anna and her friend Harriot called in their way thither; so we went\ntogether. Their business was to provide mourning against the King's\ndeath, and my mother has had a bombazine bought for her. I am not sorry\nto be back again, for the young ladies had a great deal to do, and\nwithout much method in doing it.\n\nAnna does not come home till to-morrow morning. She has written I find\nto Fanny, but there does not seem to be a great deal to relate of\nTuesday. I had hoped there might be dancing.\n\nMrs. Budd died on Sunday evening. I saw her two days before her death,\nand thought it must happen soon. She suffered much from weakness and\nrestlessness almost to the last. Poor little Harriot seems truly\ngrieved. You have never mentioned Harry; how is he?\n\nWith love to you all,\n\n                                  Yours affectionately,      J. A.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, EDWARD AUSTEN'S, Esq.,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[14] A large beech wood extending for a long distance upon a hill about\na mile from Chawton: the trees are magnificent.\n\n\n\n\nXL.\n\n\n                                  CHAWTON, Friday (January 29, 1813).\n\nI HOPE you received my little parcel by J. Bond on Wednesday evening, my\ndear Cassandra, and that you will be ready to hear from me again on\nSunday, for I feel that I must write to you to-day. I want to tell you\nthat I have got my own darling child[15] from London. On Wednesday I\nreceived one copy sent down by Falkener, with three lines from Henry to\nsay that he had given another to Charles and sent a third by the coach\nto Godmersham. . . . The advertisement is in our paper to-day for the first\ntime: 18_s._ He shall ask 1_l._ 1_s._ for my two next, and 1_l._ 8_s._\nfor my stupidest of all. Miss B. dined with us on the very day of the\nbook's coming, and in the evening we fairly set at it, and read half the\nfirst vol. to her, prefacing that, having intelligence from Henry that\nsuch a work would soon appear, we had desired him to send it whenever it\ncame out, and I believe it passed with her unsuspected. She was amused,\npoor soul! _That_ she could not help, you know, with two such people to\nlead the way; but she really does seem to admire Elizabeth. I must\nconfess that I think her as delightful a creature as ever appeared in\nprint, and how I shall be able to tolerate those who do not like _her_\nat least, I do not know. There are a few typical errors; and a \"said\nhe,\" or a \"said she,\" would sometimes make the dialogue more immediately\nclear; but \"I do not write for such dull elves\" as have not a great deal\nof ingenuity themselves. The second volume is shorter than I could wish,\nbut the difference is not so much in reality as in look, there being a\nlarger proportion of narrative in that part. I have lop't and crop't so\nsuccessfully, however, that I imagine it must be rather shorter than\n\"Sense and Sensibility\" altogether. Now I will try and write of\nsomething else.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[15] \"Pride and Prejudice.\"\n\n\n\n\nXLI.\n\n\n                                      CHAWTON, Thursday (February 4).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--Your letter was truly welcome, and I am much obliged\nto you for all your praise; it came at a right time, for I had had some\nfits of disgust. Our second evening's reading to Miss B. had not\npleased me so well, but I believe something must be attributed to my\nmother's too rapid way of getting on: though she perfectly understands\nthe characters herself, she cannot speak as they ought. Upon the whole,\nhowever, I am quite vain enough and well satisfied enough. The work is\nrather too light and bright and sparkling: it wants shade; it wants to\nbe stretched out here and there with a long chapter of sense, if it\ncould be had; if not, of solemn specious nonsense, about something\nunconnected with the story,--an essay on writing, a critique on Walter\nScott, or the history of Buonaparte, or something that would form a\ncontrast, and bring the reader with increased delight to the playfulness\nand epigrammatism of the general style. . . . The greatest blunder in\nthe printing that I have met with is in page 220, v. 3, where two\nspeeches are made into one. There might as well be no suppers at\nLongbourn; but I suppose it was the remains of Mrs. Bennet's old Meryton\nhabits.\n\n\n\n\nXLII.\n\n\n                                                            FEBRUARY.\n\nTHIS will be a quick return for yours, my dear Cassandra. I doubt its\nhaving much else to recommend it; but there is no saying: it may turn\nout to be a very long and delightful letter. I am exceedingly pleased\nthat you can say what you do, after having gone through the whole work,\nand Fanny's praise is very gratifying. My hopes were tolerably strong of\nher, but nothing like a certainty. Her liking Darcy and Elizabeth is\nenough. She might hate all the others, if she would. I have her opinion\nunder her own hand this morning; but your transcript of it, which I read\nfirst, was not, and is not, the less acceptable. To me it is of course\nall praise, but the more exact truth which she sends you is good\nenough. . . . Our party on Wednesday was not unagreeable, though we\nwanted a master of the house less anxious and fidgety, and more\nconversable. Upon Mrs. ----'s mentioning that she had sent the rejected\naddresses to Mrs. H., I began talking to her a little about them, and\nexpressed my hope of their having amused her. Her answer was, \"Oh dear,\nyes, very much, very droll indeed, the opening of the house, and the\nstriking up of the fiddles!\" What she meant, poor woman, who shall say?\nI sought no farther. As soon as a whist-party was formed, and a round\ntable threatened, I made my mother an excuse and came away, leaving just\nas many for their round table as there were at Mrs. Grant's.[16] I wish\nthey might be as agreeable a set. My mother is very well, and finds\ngreat amusement in glove-knitting, and at present wants no other work.\nWe quite run over with books. She has got Sir John Carr's \"Travels in\nSpain,\" and I am reading a Society octavo, an \"Essay on the Military\nPolice and Institutions of the British Empire,\" by Capt. Pasley of the\nEngineers,--a book which I protested against at first, but which upon\ntrial I find delightfully written and highly entertaining. I am as much\nin love with the author as I ever was with Clarkson or Buchanan, or even\nthe two Mr. Smiths of the city. The first soldier I ever sighed for; but\nhe does write with extraordinary force and spirit. Yesterday, moreover,\nbrought us \"Mrs. Grant's Letters,\" with Mr. White's compliments; but I\nhave disposed of them, compliments and all, to Miss P., and amongst so\nmany readers or retainers of books as we have in Chawton, I dare say\nthere will be no difficulty in getting rid of them for another\nfortnight, if necessary. I have disposed of Mrs. Grant for the second\nfortnight to Mrs. ----. It can make no difference to her which of the\ntwenty-six fortnights in the year the three vols. lie on her table. I\nhave been applied to for information as to the oath taken in former\ntimes of Bell, Book, and Candle, but have none to give. Perhaps you may\nbe able to learn something of its origin where you now are. Ladies who\nread those enormous great stupid thick quarto volumes which one always\nsees in the breakfast-parlor there must be acquainted with everything\nin the world. I detest a quarto. Captain Pasley's book is too good for\ntheir society. They will not understand a man who condenses his thoughts\ninto an octavo. I have learned from Sir J. Carr that there is no\nGovernment House at Gibraltar. I must alter it to the Commissioner's.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[16] At this time, February, 1813, \"Mansfield Park\" was nearly finished.\n\n\n\n\nXLIII.\n\n\n                                       SLOANE STREET, Thursday, May 20.\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--Before I say anything else, I claim a paper full of\nhalfpence on the drawing-room mantelpiece; I put them there myself, and\nforgot to bring them with me. I cannot say that I have yet been in any\ndistress for money, but I choose to have my due, as well as the Devil.\nHow lucky we were in our weather yesterday! This wet morning makes one\nmore sensible of it. We had no rain of any consequence. The head of the\ncurricle was put half up three or four times, but our share of the\nshowers was very trifling, though they seemed to be heavy all round us,\nwhen we were on the Hog's-back, and I fancied it might then be raining\nso hard at Chawton as to make you feel for us much more than we\ndeserved. Three hours and a quarter took us to Guildford, where we\nstayed barely two hours, and had only just time enough for all we had\nto do there; that is, eating a long and comfortable breakfast, watching\nthe carriages, paying Mr. Harrington, and taking a little stroll\nafterwards. From some views which that stroll gave us, I think most\nhighly of the situation of Guildford. We wanted all our brothers and\nsisters to be standing with us in the bowling-green, and looking towards\nHorsham. I was very lucky in my gloves,--got them at the first shop I\nwent to, though I went into it rather because it was near than because\nit looked at all like a glove-shop, and gave only four shillings for\nthem; after which everybody at Chawton will be hoping and predicting\nthat they cannot be good for anything, and their worth certainly remains\nto be proved; but I think they look very well. We left Guildford at\ntwenty minutes before twelve (I hope somebody cares for these minutiae),\nand were at Esher in about two hours more. I was very much pleased with\nthe country in general. Between Guildford and Ripley I thought it\nparticularly pretty, also about Painshill; and from a Mr. Spicer's\ngrounds at Esher, which we walked into before dinner, the views were\nbeautiful. I cannot say what we did _not_ see, but I should think there\ncould not be a wood, or a meadow, or palace, or remarkable spot in\nEngland that was not spread out before us on one side or other.\nClaremont is going to be sold: a Mr. Ellis has it now. It is a house\nthat seems never to have prospered. After dinner we walked forward to be\novertaken at the coachman's time, and before he did overtake us we were\nvery near Kingston. I fancy it was about half-past six when we reached\nthis house,--a twelve hours' business, and the horses did not appear\nmore than reasonably tired. I was very tired too, and glad to get to bed\nearly, but am quite well to-day. I am very snug in the front\ndrawing-room all to myself, and would not say \"thank you\" for any\ncompany but you. The quietness of it does me good. I have contrived to\npay my two visits, though the weather made me a great while about it,\nand left me only a few minutes to sit with Charlotte Craven.[17] She\nlooks very well, and her hair is done up with an elegance to do credit\nto any education. Her manners are as unaffected and pleasing as ever.\nShe had heard from her mother to-day. Mrs. Craven spends another\nfortnight at Chilton. I saw nobody but Charlotte, which pleased me best.\nI was shown upstairs into a drawing-room, where she came to me; and the\nappearance of the room, so totally unschoollike, amused me very much: it\nwas full of modern elegances.\n\n                                  Yours very affec^{tly},\n                                                      J. A.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[17] The present Lady Pollen, of Redenham, near Andover, then at a\nschool in London.\n\n\n\n\nXLIV.\n\n\n                                      SLOANE STREET, Monday (May 24).\n\nMY DEAREST CASSANDRA,--I am very much obliged to you for writing to me.\nYou must have hated it after a worrying morning. Your letter came just\nin time to save my going to Remnant's, and fit me for Christian's, where\nI bought Fanny's dimity.\n\nI went the day before (Friday) to Layton's as I proposed, and got my\nmother's gown,--seven yards at 6_s._ 6_d._ I then walked into No. 10,\nwhich is all dirt and confusion, but in a very promising way; and after\nbeing present at the opening of a new account, to my great amusement,\nHenry and I went to the exhibition in Spring Gardens. It is not thought\na good collection, but I was very well pleased, particularly (pray tell\nFanny) with a small portrait of Mrs. Bingley,[1] excessively like her.\n\nI went in hopes of seeing one of her sister, but there was no Mrs.\nDarcy.[18] Perhaps, however, I may find her in the great exhibition,\nwhich we shall go to if we have time. I have no chance of her in the\ncollection of Sir Joshua Reynolds's paintings, which is now showing in\nPall Mall, and which we are also to visit.\n\nMrs. Bingley's is exactly herself,--size, shaped face, features, and\nsweetness; there never was a greater likeness. She is dressed in a white\ngown, with green ornaments, which convinces me of what I had always\nsupposed, that green was a favorite color with her. I dare say Mrs. D.\nwill be in yellow.\n\nFriday was our worst day as to weather. We were out in a very long and\nvery heavy storm of hail, and there had been others before, but I heard\nno thunder. Saturday was a good deal better; dry and cold.\n\nI gave 2_s._ 6_d._ for the dimity. I do not boast of any bargains, but\nthink both the sarsenet and dimity good of their sort.\n\nI have bought your locket, but was obliged to give 18_s._ for it, which\nmust be rather more than you intended. It is neat and plain, set in\ngold.\n\nWe were to have gone to the Somerset House Exhibition on Saturday, but\nwhen I reached Henrietta Street Mr. Hampson was wanted there, and Mr.\nTilson and I were obliged to drive about town after him, and by the time\nwe had done it was too late for anything but home. We never found him\nafter all.\n\nI have been interrupted by Mrs. Tilson. Poor woman! She is in danger of\nnot being able to attend Lady Drummond Smith's party to-night. Miss\nBurdett was to have taken her, and now Miss Burdett has a cough and\nwill not go. My cousin Caroline is her sole dependence.\n\nThe events of yesterday were, our going to Belgrave Chapel in the\nmorning, our being prevented by the rain from going to evening service\nat St. James, Mr. Hampson's calling, Messrs. Barlow and Phillips dining\nhere, and Mr. and Mrs. Tilson's coming in the evening _a l'ordinaire_.\nShe drank tea with us both Thursday and Saturday; he dined out each day,\nand on Friday we were with them, and they wish us to go to them\nto-morrow evening, to meet Miss Burdett, but I do not know how it will\nend. Henry talks of a drive to Hampstead, which may interfere with it.\n\nI should like to see Miss Burdett very well, but that I am rather\nfrightened by hearing that she wishes to be introduced to me. If I am a\nwild beast, I cannot help it. It is not my own fault.\n\nThere is no change in our plan of leaving London, but we shall not be\nwith you before Tuesday. Henry thinks Monday would appear too early a\nday. There is no danger of our being induced to stay longer.\n\nI have not quite determined how I shall manage about my clothes; perhaps\nthere may be only my trunk to send by the coach, or there may be a\nband-box with it. I have taken your gentle hint, and written to Mrs.\nHill.\n\nThe Hoblyns want us to dine with them, but we have refused. When Henry\nreturns he will be dining out a great deal, I dare say; as he will then\nbe alone, it will be more desirable; he will be more welcome at every\ntable, and every invitation more welcome to him. He will not want either\nof us again till he is settled in Henrietta Street. This is my present\npersuasion. And he will not be settled there--really settled--till late\nin the autumn; \"he will not be come to bide\" till after September.\n\nThere is a gentleman in treaty for this house. Gentleman himself is in\nthe country, but gentleman's friend came to see it the other day, and\nseemed pleased on the whole. Gentleman would rather prefer an increased\nrent to parting with five hundred guineas at once, and if that is the\nonly difficulty it will not be minded. Henry is indifferent as to the\nwhich.\n\nGet us the best weather you can for Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. We\nare to go to Windsor in our way to Henley, which will be a great\ndelight. We shall be leaving Sloane Street about twelve, two or three\nhours after Charles's party have begun their journey. You will miss\nthem, but the comfort of getting back into your own room will be great.\nAnd then the tea and sugar!\n\nI fear Miss Clewes is not better, or you would have mentioned it. I\nshall not write again unless I have any unexpected communication or\nopportunity to tempt me. I enclose Mr. Herington's bill and receipt.\n\nI am very much obliged to Fanny for her letter; it made me laugh\nheartily, but I cannot pretend to answer it. Even had I more time, I\nshould not feel at all sure of the sort of letter that Miss D.[19] would\nwrite. I hope Miss Benn is got well again, and will have a comfortable\ndinner with you to-day.\n\n_Monday Evening._--We have been both to the exhibition and Sir J.\nReynolds's, and I am disappointed, for there was nothing like Mrs. D. at\neither. I can only imagine that Mr. D. prizes any picture of her too\nmuch to like it should be exposed to the public eye. I can imagine he\nwould have that sort of feeling,--that mixture of love, pride, and\ndelicacy.\n\nSetting aside this disappointment, I had great amusement among the\npictures; and the driving about, the carriage being open, was very\npleasant. I liked my solitary elegance very much, and was ready to laugh\nall the time at my being where I was. I could not but feel that I had\nnaturally small right to be parading about London in a barouche.\n\nHenry desires Edward may know that he has just bought three dozen of\nclaret for him (cheap), and ordered it to be sent down to Chawton.\n\nI should not wonder if we got no farther than Reading on Thursday\nevening, and so reach Steventon only to a reasonable dinner-hour the\nnext day; but whatever I may write or you may imagine, we know it will\nbe something different. I shall be quiet to-morrow morning; all my\nbusiness is done, and I shall only call again upon Mrs. Hoblyn, etc.\n\nLove to your much . . . party.\n\n                                  Yours affectionately,\n                                                     J. AUSTEN.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[18] _Vide_ \"Pride and Prejudice.\"\n\n[19] Miss Darcy.\n\n\n\n\nXLV.\n\n\n                         HENRIETTA ST., Wednesday (Sept. 15, 1/2 past 8).\n\nHERE I am, my dearest Cassandra, seated in the breakfast, dining,\nsitting room, beginning with all my might. Fanny will join me as soon as\nshe is dressed, and begin her letter.\n\nWe had a very good journey, weather and roads excellent; the three first\nstages for 1_s._ 6_d._, and our only misadventure the being delayed\nabout a quarter of an hour at Kingston for horses, and being obliged to\nput up with a pair belonging to a hackney coach and their coachman,\nwhich left no room on the barouche box for Lizzy, who was to have gone\nher last stage there as she did the first; consequently we were all\nfour within, which was a little crowded.\n\nWe arrived at a quarter-past four, and were kindly welcomed by the\ncoachman, and then by his master, and then by William, and then by Mrs.\nPengird, who all met us before we reached the foot of the stairs. Mde.\nBigion was below dressing us a most comfortable dinner of soup, fish,\nbouillee, partridges, and an apple tart, which we sat down to soon after\nfive, after cleaning and dressing ourselves, and feeling that we were\nmost commodiously disposed of. The little adjoining dressing-room to our\napartment makes Fanny and myself very well off indeed, and as we have\npoor Eliza's[20] bed our space is ample every way.\n\nSace arrived safely about half-past six. At seven we set off in a coach\nfor the Lyceum; were at home again in about four hours and a half; had\nsoup and wine and water, and then went to our holes.\n\nEdward finds his quarters very snug and quiet. I must get a softer pen.\nThis is harder. I am in agonies. I have not yet seen Mr. Crabbe.\nMartha's letter is gone to the post.\n\nI am going to write nothing but short sentences. There shall be two full\nstops in every line. Layton and Shear's is Bedford House. We mean to\nget there before breakfast if it's possible; for we feel more and more\nhow much we have to do and how little time. This house looks very nice.\nIt seems like Sloane Street moved here. I believe Henry is just rid of\nSloane Street. Fanny does not come, but I have Edward seated by me\nbeginning a letter, which looks natural.\n\nHenry has been suffering from the pain in the face which he has been\nsubject to before. He caught cold at Matlock, and since his return has\nbeen paying a little for past pleasure. It is nearly removed now, but he\nlooks thin in the face, either from the pain or the fatigues of his\ntour, which must have been great.\n\nLady Robert is delighted with P. and P.,[21] and really was so, as I\nunderstand, before she knew who wrote it, for of course she knows now.\nHe told her with as much satisfaction as if it were my wish. He did not\ntell me this, but he told Fanny. And Mr. Hastings! I am quite delighted\nwith what such a man writes about it. Henry sent him the books after his\nreturn from Daylesford, but you will hear the letter too.\n\nLet me be rational, and return to my two full stops.\n\nI talked to Henry at the play last night. We were in a private box,--Mr.\nSpencer's,--which made it much more pleasant. The box is directly on\nthe stage. One is infinitely less fatigued than in the common way. But\nHenry's plans are not what one could wish. He does not mean to be at\nChawton till the 29th. He must be in town again by Oct. 5. His plan is\nto get a couple of days of pheasant shooting and then return directly.\nHis wish was to bring you back with him. I have told him your scruples.\nHe wishes you to suit yourself as to time, and if you cannot come till\nlater, will send for you at any time as far as Bagshot. He presumed you\nwould not find difficulty in getting so far. I could not say you would.\nHe proposed your going with him into Oxfordshire. It was his own thought\nat first. I could not but catch at it for you.\n\nWe have talked of it again this morning (for now we have breakfasted),\nand I am convinced that if you can make it suit in other respects you\nneed not scruple on his account. If you cannot come back with him on the\n3rd or 4th, therefore, I do hope you will contrive to go to Adlestrop.\nBy not beginning your absence till about the middle of this month I\nthink you may manage it very well. But you will think all this over. One\ncould wish he had intended to come to you earlier, but it cannot be\nhelped.\n\nI said nothing to him of Mrs. H. and Miss B., that he might not suppose\ndifficulties. Shall not you put them into our own room? This seems to\nme the best plan, and the maid will be most conveniently near.\n\nOh, dear me! when I shall ever have done. We did go to Layton and\nShear's before breakfast. Very pretty English poplins at 4_s._ 3_d._;\nIrish, ditto at 6_s._; more pretty, certainly,--beautiful.\n\nFanny and the two little girls are gone to take places for to-night at\nCovent Garden; \"Clandestine Marriage\" and \"Midas.\" The latter will be a\nfine show for L. and M.[22] They revelled last night in \"Don Juan,\" whom\nwe left in hell at half-past eleven. We had scaramouch and a ghost, and\nwere delighted. I speak of them; my delight was very tranquil, and the\nrest of us were sober-minded. \"Don Juan\" was the last of three musical\nthings. \"Five Hours at Brighton,\" in three acts,--of which one was over\nbefore we arrived, none the worse,--and the \"Beehive,\" rather less flat\nand trumpery.\n\nI have this moment received 5_l._ from kind, beautiful Edward. Fanny has\na similar gift. I shall save what I can of it for your better leisure in\nthis place. My letter was from Miss Sharpe,--nothing particular. A\nletter from Fanny Cage this morning.\n\n_Four o'clock._--We are just come back from doing Mrs. Tickars, Miss\nHare, and Mr. Spence. Mr. Hall is here, and while Fanny is under his\nhands, I will try to write a little more.\n\nMiss Hare had some pretty caps, and is to make me one like one of them,\nonly white satin instead of blue. It will be white satin and lace, and a\nlittle white flower perking out of the left ear, like Harriot Byron's\nfeather. I have allowed her to go as far as 1_l._ 16_s._ My gown is to\nbe trimmed everywhere with white ribbon plaited on somehow or other. She\nsays it will look well. I am not sanguine. They trim with white very\nmuch.\n\nI learnt from Mrs. Tickars's young lady, to my high amusement, that the\nstays now are not made to force the bosom up at all; that was a very\nunbecoming, unnatural fashion. I was really glad to hear that they are\nnot to be so much off the shoulders as they were.\n\nGoing to Mr. Spence's was a sad business, and cost us many tears;\nunluckily we were obliged to go a second time before he could do more\nthan just look. We went first at half-past twelve and afterwards at\nthree; papa with us each time; and, alas! we are to go again to-morrow.\nLizzy is not finished yet. There have been no teeth taken out, however,\nnor will be, I believe; but he finds hers in a very bad state, and seems\nto think particularly ill of their durableness. They have been all\ncleaned, hers filed, and are to be filed again. There is a very sad hole\nbetween two of her front teeth.\n\n_Thursday Morning, half-past Seven._--Up and dressed and downstairs in\norder to finish my letter in time for the parcel. At eight I have an\nappointment with Madame B., who wants to show me something downstairs.\nAt nine we are to set off for Grafton House, and get that over before\nbreakfast. Edward is so kind as to walk there with us. We are to be at\nMr. Spence's again at 11.5: from that time shall be driving about I\nsuppose till four o'clock at least. We are, if possible, to call on Mrs.\nTilson.\n\nMr. Hall was very punctual yesterday, and curled me out at a great rate.\nI thought it looked hideous, and longed for a snug cap instead, but my\ncompanions silenced me by their admiration. I had only a bit of velvet\nround my head. I did not catch cold, however. The weather is all in my\nfavor. I have had no pain in my face since I left you.\n\nWe had very good places in the box next the stage-box, front and second\nrow; the three old ones behind, of course. I was particularly\ndisappointed at seeing nothing of Mr. Crabbe. I felt sure of him when I\nsaw that the boxes were fitted up with crimson velvet. The new Mr. Terry\nwas Lord Ogleby, and Henry thinks he may do; but there was no acting\nmore than moderate, and I was as much amused by the remembrances\nconnected with \"Midas\" as with any part of it. The girls were very much\ndelighted, but still prefer \"Don Juan;\" and I must say that I have seen\nnobody on the stage who has been a more interesting character than that\ncompound of cruelty and lust.\n\nIt was not possible for me to get the worsteds yesterday. I heard Edward\nlast night pressing Henry to come to you, and I think Henry engaged to\ngo there after his November collection. Nothing has been done as to S.\nand S.[23] The books came to hand too late for him to have time for it\nbefore he went. Mr. Hastings never hinted at Eliza in the smallest\ndegree. Henry knew nothing of Mr. Trimmer's death. I tell you these\nthings that you may not have to ask them over again.\n\nThere is a new clerk sent down to Alton, a Mr. Edmund Williams, a young\nman whom Henry thinks most highly of, and he turns out to be a son of\nthe luckless Williamses of Grosvenor Place.\n\nI long to have you hear Mr. H.'s opinion of P. and P. His admiring my\nElizabeth so much is particularly welcome to me.\n\nInstead of saving my superfluous wealth for you to spend, I am going to\ntreat myself with spending it myself. I hope, at least, that I shall\nfind some poplin at Layton and Shear's that will tempt me to buy it. If\nI do, it shall be sent to Chawton, as half will be for you; for I depend\nupon your being so kind as to accept it, being the main point. It will\nbe a great pleasure to me. Don't say a word. I only wish you could\nchoose too. I shall send twenty yards.\n\nNow for Bath. Poor F. Cage has suffered a good deal from her accident.\nThe noise of the White Hart was terrible to her. They will keep her\nquiet, I dare say. She is not so much delighted with the place as the\nrest of the party; probably, as she says herself, from having been less\nwell, but she thinks she should like it better in the season. The\nstreets are very empty now, and the shops not so gay as she expected.\nThey are at No. 1 Henrietta Street, the corner of Laura Place, and have\nno acquaintance at present but the Bramstons.\n\nLady Bridges drinks at the Cross Bath, her son at the Hot, and Louisa is\ngoing to bathe. Dr. Parry seems to be half starving Mr. Bridges, for he\nis restricted to much such a diet as James's, bread, water and meat, and\nis never to eat so much of that as he wishes, and he is to walk a great\ndeal,--walk till he drops, I believe,--gout or no gout. It really is to\nthat purpose. I have not exaggerated.\n\nCharming weather for you and us, and the travellers, and everybody. You\nwill take your walk this afternoon, and . . .\n\n  Henrietta Street, the autumn of 1813.\n    Miss AUSTEN, Chawton.\n      By favor of Mr. Gray.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[20] Eliza, Henry Austen's first wife, who had died in the earlier part\nof this year.\n\n[21] \"Pride and Prejudice.\"\n\n[22] Lizzy and Marianne.\n\n[23] \"Sense and Sensibility.\"\n\n\n\n\nXLVI.\n\n\n                                               HENRIETTA STREET,\n                                     Thursday (Sept. 16, after dinner),\n\nTHANK you, my dearest Cassandra, for the nice long letter I sent off\nthis morning. I hope you have had it by this time, and that it has found\nyou all well, and my mother no more in need of leeches. Whether this\nwill be delivered to you by Henry on Saturday evening, or by the postman\non Sunday morning, I know not, as he has lately recollected something of\nan engagement for Saturday, which perhaps may delay his visit. He seems\ndetermined to come to you soon, however.\n\nI hope you will receive the gown to-morrow, and may be able with\ntolerable honesty to say that you like the color. It was bought at\nGrafton House, where, by going very early, we got immediate attendance\nand went on very comfortably. I only forgot the one particular thing\nwhich I had always resolved to buy there,--a white silk\nhandkerchief,--and was therefore obliged to give six shillings for one\nat Crook and Besford's; which reminds me to say that the worsteds ought\nalso to be at Chawton to-morrow, and that I shall be very happy to hear\nthey are approved. I had not much time for deliberation.\n\nWe are now all four of us young ladies sitting round the circular table\nin the inner room writing our letters, while the two brothers are\nhaving a comfortable coze in the room adjoining. It is to be a quiet\nevening, much to the satisfaction of four of the six. My eyes are quite\ntired of dust and lamps.\n\nThe letter you forwarded from Edward, junr., has been duly received. He\nhas been shooting most prosperously at home, and dining at Chilham\nCastle and with Mr. Scudamore.\n\nMy cap is come home, and I like it very much. Fanny has one also; hers\nis white sarsenet and lace, of a different shape from mine, more fit for\nmorning carriage wear, which is what it is intended for, and is in shape\nexceedingly like our own satin and lace of last winter; shaped round the\nface exactly like it, with pipes and more fulness, and a round crown\ninserted behind. My cap has a peak in front. Large full bows of very\nnarrow ribbon (old twopenny) are the thing. One over the right temple,\nperhaps, and another at the left ear.\n\nHenry is not quite well. His stomach is rather deranged. You must keep\nhim in rhubarb, and give him plenty of port and water. He caught his\ncold farther back than I told you,--before he got to Matlock, somewhere\nin his journey from the North; but the ill effects of that I hope are\nnearly gone.\n\nWe returned from Grafton House only just in time for breakfast, and had\nscarcely finished breakfast when the carriage came to the door. From\neleven to half-past three we were hard at it; we did contrive to get to\nHans Place for ten minutes. Mrs. T. was as affectionate and pleasing as\never.\n\nAfter our return Mr. Tilson walked up from the Compting House and called\nupon us, and these have been all our visitings.\n\nI have rejoiced more than once that I bought my writing-paper in the\ncountry; we have not had a quarter of an hour to spare.\n\nI enclose the eighteen-pence due to my mother. The rose color was 6_s._\nand the other 4_s._ per yard. There was but two yards and a quarter of\nthe dark slate in the shop, but the man promised to match it and send it\noff correctly.\n\nFanny bought her Irish at Newton's in Leicester Square, and I took the\nopportunity of thinking about your Irish, and seeing one piece of the\nyard wide at 4_s._, and it seemed to me very good; good enough for your\npurpose. It might at least be worth your while to go there, if you have\nno other engagements. Fanny is very much pleased with the stockings she\nhas bought of Remmington, silk at 12_s._, cotton at 4_s._ 3_d._ She\nthinks them great bargains, but I have not seen them yet, as my hair was\ndressing when the man and the stockings came.\n\nThe poor girls and their teeth! I have not mentioned them yet, but we\nwere a whole hour at Spence's, and Lizzy's were filed and lamented over\nagain, and poor Marianne had two taken out after all, the two just\nbeyond the eye teeth, to make room for those in front. When her doom was\nfixed, Fanny, Lizzy, and I walked into the next room, where we heard\neach of the two sharp and hasty screams.\n\nThe little girls' teeth I can suppose in a critical state, but I think\nhe must be a lover of teeth and money and mischief, to parade about\nFanny's. I would not have had him look at mine for a shilling a tooth\nand double it. It was a disagreeable hour.\n\nWe then went to Wedgwood's, where my brother and Fanny chose a\ndinner-set. I believe the pattern is a small lozenge in purple, between\nlines of narrow gold, and it is to have the crest.\n\nWe must have been three-quarters of an hour at Grafton House, Edward\nsitting by all the time with wonderful patience. There Fanny bought the\nnet for Anna's gown, and a beautiful square veil for herself. The edging\nthere is very cheap. I was tempted by some, and I bought some very nice\nplaiting lace at 3_s._ 4_d._\n\nFanny desires me to tell Martha, with her kind love, that Birchall\nassured her there was no second set of Hook's Lessons for Beginners, and\nthat, by my advice, she has therefore chosen her a set by another\ncomposer. I thought she would rather have something than not. It costs\nsix shillings.\n\nWith love to you all, including Triggs, I remain,\n\n                            Yours very affectionately,       J. AUSTEN.\n\n  Henrietta St., autumn of 1813.\n    Miss AUSTEN, Chawton.\n      By favor of\n\n\n\n\nXLVII.\n\n\n                                  GODMERSHAM PARK, Thursday (Sept. 23).\n\nMY DEAREST CASSANDRA,--Thank you five hundred and forty times for the\nexquisite piece of workmanship which was brought into the room this\nmorning, while we were at breakfast, with some very inferior works of\nart in the same way, and which I read with high glee, much delighted\nwith everything it told, whether good or bad. It is so rich in striking\nintelligence that I hardly know what to reply to first. I believe finery\nmust have it.\n\nI am extremely glad that you like the poplin. I thought it would have my\nmother's approbation, but was not so confident of yours. Remember that\nit is a present. Do not refuse me. I am very rich.\n\nMrs. Clement is very welcome to her little boy, and to my\ncongratulations into the bargain, if ever you think of giving them. I\nhope she will do well. Her sister in Lucina, Mrs. H. Gipps, does too\nwell, we think. Mary P. wrote on Sunday that she had been three days on\nthe sofa. Sackree does not approve it.\n\nWell, there is some comfort in the Mrs. Hulbart's not coming to you, and\nI am happy to hear of the honey. I was thinking of it the other day. Let\nme know when you begin the new tea and the new white wine. My present\nelegances have not yet made me indifferent to such matters. I am still a\ncat if I see a mouse.\n\nI am glad you like our caps, but Fanny is out of conceit with hers\nalready; she finds that she has been buying a new cap without having a\nnew pattern, which is true enough. She is rather out of luck to like\nneither her gown nor her cap, but I do not much mind it, because besides\nthat I like them both myself, I consider it as a thing of course at her\ntime of life,--one of the sweet taxes of youth to choose in a hurry and\nmake bad bargains.\n\nI wrote to Charles yesterday, and Fanny has had a letter from him\nto-day, principally to make inquiries about the time of their visit\nhere, to which mine was an answer beforehand; so he will probably write\nagain soon to fix his week. I am best pleased that Cassy does not go to\nyou.\n\nNow, what have we been doing since I wrote last? The Mr. K.'s[24] came a\nlittle before dinner on Monday, and Edward went to the church with the\ntwo seniors, but there is no inscription yet drawn up. They are very\ngood-natured, you know, and civil, and all that, but are not\nparticularly superfine; however, they ate their dinner and drank their\ntea, and went away, leaving their lovely Wadham in our arms, and I wish\nyou had seen Fanny and me running backwards and forwards with his\nbreeches from the little chintz to the white room before we went to bed,\nin the greatest of frights lest he should come upon us before we had\ndone it all. There had been a mistake in the housemaid's preparation,\nand they were gone to bed.\n\nHe seems a very harmless sort of young man, nothing to like or dislike\nin him,--goes out shooting or hunting with the two others all the\nmorning, and plays at whist and makes queer faces in the evening. . . .\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[24] Knatchbulls.\n\n\n\n\nXLVIII.\n\n\n                                  GODMERSHAM PARK, Monday (Oct. 11).\n\n[MY DEAREST AUNT CASS.,--I have just asked Aunt Jane to let me write a\nlittle in her letter, but she does not like it, so I won't. Good-by!]\n\nYou will have Edward's letter to-morrow. He tells me that he did not\nsend you any news to interfere with mine, but I do not think there is\nmuch for anybody to send at present.\n\nWe had our dinner-party on Wednesday, with the addition of Mrs. and Miss\nMilles, who were under a promise of dining here in their return from\nEastwell, whenever they paid their visit of duty there, and it happened\nto be paid on that day. Both mother and daughter are much as I have\nalways found them. I like the mother--first, because she reminds me of\nMrs. Birch; and, secondly, because she is cheerful and grateful for what\nshe is at the age of ninety and upwards. The day was pleasant enough. I\nsat by Mr. Chisholme, and we talked away at a great rate about nothing\nworth hearing.\n\nIt was a mistake as to the day of the Sherers going being fixed; they\nare ready, but are waiting for Mr. Paget's answer.\n\nI inquired of Mrs. Milles after Jemima Brydges, and was quite grieved to\nhear that she was obliged to leave Canterbury some months ago on account\nof her debts, and is nobody knows where. What an unprosperous family!\n\nOn Saturday, soon after breakfast, Mr. J. P. left us for Norton Court. I\nlike him very much. He gives me the idea of a very amiable young man,\nonly too diffident to be so agreeable as he might be. He was out the\nchief of each morning with the other two, shooting and getting wet\nthrough. To-morrow we are to know whether he and a hundred young ladies\nwill come here for the ball. I do not much expect any.\n\nThe Deedes cannot meet us; they have engagements at home. I will finish\nthe Deedes by saying that they are not likely to come here till quite\nlate in my stay,--the very last week perhaps; and I do not expect to see\nthe Moores at all. They are not solicited till after Edward's return\nfrom Hampshire.\n\nMonday, November 15, is the day now fixed for our setting out.\n\nPoor Basingstoke races! There seem to have been two particularly\nwretched days on purpose for them; and Weyhill week does not begin much\nhappier.\n\nWe were quite surprised by a letter from Anna at Tollard Royal, last\nSaturday; but perfectly approve her going, and only regret they should\nall go so far to stay so few days.\n\nWe had thunder and lightning here on Thursday morning, between five and\nseven; no very bad thunder, but a great deal of lightning. It has given\nthe commencement of a season of wind and rain, and perhaps for the next\nsix weeks we shall not have two dry days together.\n\nLizzy is very much obliged to you for your letter and will answer it\nsoon, but has so many things to do that it may be four or five days\nbefore she can. This is quite her own message, spoken in rather a\ndesponding tone. Your letter gave pleasure to all of us; we had all the\nreading of it of course,--I three times, as I undertook, to the great\nrelief of Lizzy, to read it to Sackree, and afterwards to Louisa.\n\nSackree does not at all approve of Mary Doe and her nuts,--on the score\nof propriety rather than health. She saw some signs of going after her\nin George and Henry, and thinks if you could give the girl a check, by\nrather reproving her for taking anything seriously about nuts which they\nsaid to her, it might be of use. This, of course, is between our three\ndiscreet selves, a scene of triennial bliss.\n\nMrs. Breton called here on Saturday. I never saw her before. She is a\nlarge, ungenteel woman, with self-satisfied and would-be elegant\nmanners.\n\nWe are certain of some visitors to-morrow. Edward Bridges comes for two\nnights in his way from Lenham to Ramsgate, and brings a friend--name\nunknown--but supposed to be a Mr. Harpur, a neighboring clergyman; and\nMr. R. Mascall is to shoot with the young men, which it is to be\nsupposed will end in his staying dinner.\n\nOn Thursday, Mr. Lushington, M.P. for Canterbury, and manager of the\nLodge Hounds, dines here, and stays the night. He is chiefly young\nEdward's acquaintance. If I can I will get a frank from him, and write\nto you all the sooner. I suppose the Ashford ball will furnish\nsomething.\n\nAs I wrote of my nephews with a little bitterness in my last, I think\nit particularly incumbent on me to do them justice now, and I have great\npleasure in saying that they were both at the Sacrament yesterday. After\nhaving much praised or much blamed anybody, one is generally sensible of\nsomething just the reverse soon afterwards. Now these two boys who are\nout with the foxhounds will come home and disgust me again by some habit\nof luxury or some proof of sporting mania, unless I keep it off by this\nprediction. They amuse themselves very comfortably in the evening by\nnetting; they are each about a rabbit net, and sit as deedily to it,\nside by side, as any two Uncle Franks could do.\n\nI am looking over \"Self-Control\" again, and my opinion is confirmed of\nits being an excellently meant, elegantly written work, without anything\nof nature or probability in it. I declare I do not know whether Laura's\npassage down the American river is not the most natural, possible,\nevery-day thing she ever does.\n\n_Tuesday._--Dear me! what is to become of me? Such a long letter!\nTwo-and-forty lines in the second page. Like Harriot Byron, I ask, what\nam I to do with my gratitude? I can do nothing but thank you and go on.\nA few of your inquiries, I think, are replied to _en avance_.\n\nThe name of F. Cage's drawing-master is O'Neil. We are exceedingly\namused with your Shalden news, and your self-reproach on the subject of\nMrs. Stockwell made me laugh heartily. I rather wondered that\nJohncock,[25] the only person in the room, could help laughing too. I had\nnot heard before of her having the measles. Mrs. H. and Alethea's\nstaying till Friday was quite new to me; a good plan, however. I could\nnot have settled it better myself, and am glad they found so much in the\nhouse to approve, and I hope they will ask Martha to visit them. I\nadmire the sagacity and taste of Charlotte Williams. Those large dark\neyes always judge well. I will compliment her by naming a heroine after\nher.\n\nEdward has had all the particulars of the building, etc., read to him\ntwice over, and seems very well satisfied. A narrow door to the pantry\nis the only subject of solicitude; it is certainly just the door which\nshould not be narrow, on account of the trays; but if a case of\nnecessity, it must be borne.\n\nI knew there was sugar in the tin, but had no idea of there being enough\nto last through your company. All the better. You ought not to think\nthis new loaf better than the other, because that was the first of five\nwhich all came together. Something of fancy, perhaps, and something of\nimagination.\n\nDear Mrs. Digweed! I cannot bear that she should not be foolishly happy\nafter a ball. I hope Miss Yates and her companions were all well the day\nafter their arrival. I am thoroughly rejoiced that Miss Benn has placed\nherself in lodgings, though I hope they may not be long necessary.\n\nNo letter from Charles yet.\n\nSouthey's \"Life of Nelson.\" I am tired of \"Lives of Nelson,\" being that\nI never read any. I will read this, however, if Frank is mentioned in\nit.\n\nHere am I in Kent, with one brother in the same county and another\nbrother's wife, and see nothing of them, which seems unnatural. It will\nnot last so forever, I trust. I should like to have Mrs. F. A. and her\nchildren here for a week, but not a syllable of that nature is ever\nbreathed. I wish her last visit had not been so long a one.\n\nI wonder whether Mrs. Tilson has ever lain-in. Mention it if it ever\ncomes to your knowledge, and we shall hear of it by the same post from\nHenry.\n\nMr. Rob. Mascall breakfasted here; he eats a great deal of butter. I\ndined upon goose yesterday, which, I hope, will secure a good sale of my\nsecond edition. Have you any tomatas? Fanny and I regale on them every\nday.\n\nDisastrous letters from the Plumptres and Oxendens. Refusals\neverywhere--a blank _partout_--and it is not quite certain whether we go\nor not; something may depend upon the disposition of Uncle Edward when\nhe comes, and upon what we hear at Chilham Castle this morning, for we\nare going to pay visits. We are going to each house at Chilham and to\nMystole. I shall like seeing the Faggs. I shall like it all, except that\nwe are to set out so early that I have not time to write as I would\nwish.\n\nEdwd. Bridges's friend is a Mr. Hawker, I find, not Harpur. I would not\nhave you sleep in such an error for the world.\n\nMy brother desires his best love and thanks for all your information. He\nhopes the roots of the old beech have been dug away enough to allow a\nproper covering of mould and turf. He is sorry for the necessity of\nbuilding the new coin, but hopes they will contrive that the doorway\nshould be of the usual width,--if it must be contracted on one side, by\nwidening it on the other. The appearance need not signify. And he\ndesires me to say that your being at Chawton when he is will be quite\nnecessary. You cannot think it more indispensable than he does. He is\nvery much obliged to you for your attention to everything. Have you any\nidea of returning with him to Henrietta Street and finishing your visit\nthen? Tell me your sweet little innocent ideas.\n\nEverything of love and kindness, proper and improper, must now suffice.\n\n                             Yours very affectionately,      J. AUSTEN.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, Chawton, Alton, Hants.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[25] The butler at Godmersham.\n\n\n\n\nXLIX.\n\n\n                                  GODMERSHAM PARK, Thursday (Oct. 14).\n\nMY DEAREST CASSANDRA,--Now I will prepare for Mr. Lushington, and as it\nwill be wisest also to prepare for his not coming, or my not getting a\nfrank, I shall write very close from the first, and even leave room for\nthe seal in the proper place. When I have followed up my last with this\nI shall feel somewhat less unworthy of you than the state of our\ncorrespondence now requires.\n\nI left off in a great hurry to prepare for our morning visits. Of course\nwas ready a good deal the first, and need not have hurried so much.\nFanny wore her new gown and cap. I was surprised to find Mystole so\npretty.\n\nThe ladies were at home. I was in luck, and saw Lady Fagg and all her\nfive daughters, with an old Mrs. Hamilton, from Canterbury, and Mrs. and\nMiss Chapman, from Margate, into the bargain. I never saw so plain a\nfamily,--five sisters so very plain! They are as plain as the Foresters,\nor the Franfraddops, or the Seagraves, or the Rivers, excluding Sophy.\nMiss Sally Fagg has a pretty figure, and that comprises all the good\nlooks of the family.\n\nIt was stupidish; Fanny did her part very well, but there was a lack of\ntalk altogether, and the three friends in the house only sat by and\nlooked at us. However, Miss Chapman's name is Laura, and she had a\ndouble flounce to her gown. You really must get some flounces. Are not\nsome of your large stock of white morning gowns just in a happy state\nfor a flounce--too short? Nobody at home at either house in Chilham.\n\nEdward Bridges and his friend did not forget to arrive. The friend is a\nMr. Wigram, one of the three-and-twenty children of a great rich\nmercantile, Sir Robert Wigram, an old acquaintance of the Footes, but\nvery recently known to Edward B. The history of his coming here is,\nthat, intending to go from Ramsgate to Brighton, Edw. B. persuaded him\nto take Lenham on his way, which gave him the convenience of Mr. W.'s\ngig, and the comfort of not being alone there; but, probably thinking a\nfew days of Gm. would be the cheapest and pleasantest way of\nentertaining his friend and himself, offered a visit here, and here they\nstay till to-morrow.\n\nMr. W. is about five or six-and-twenty, not ill-looking, and not\nagreeable. He is certainly no addition. A sort of cool, gentlemanlike\nmanner, but very silent. They say his name is Henry, a proof how\nunequally the gifts of fortune are bestowed. I have seen many a John and\nThomas much more agreeable.\n\nWe have got rid of Mr. R. Mascall, however. I did not like him, either.\nHe talks too much, and is conceited, besides having a vulgarly shaped\nmouth. He slept here on Tuesday, so that yesterday Fanny and I sat down\nto breakfast with six gentlemen to admire us.\n\nWe did not go to the ball. It was left to her to decide, and at last she\ndetermined against it. She knew that it would be a sacrifice on the part\nof her father and brothers if they went, and I hope it will prove that\nshe has not sacrificed much. It is not likely that there should have\nbeen anybody there whom she would care for. I was very glad to be spared\nthe trouble of dressing and going, and being weary before it was half\nover; so my gown and my cap are still unworn. It will appear at last,\nperhaps, that I might have done without either. I produced my brown\nbombazine yesterday, and it was very much admired indeed, and I like it\nbetter than ever.\n\nYou have given many particulars of the state of Chawton House, but still\nwe want more. Edward wants to be expressly told that all the round\ntower, etc., is entirely down, and the door from the best room stopped\nup; he does not know enough of the appearance of things in that quarter.\n\nHe heard from Bath yesterday. Lady B. continues very well, and Dr.\nParry's opinion is, that while the water agrees with her she ought to\nremain there, which throws their coming away at a greater uncertainty\nthan we had supposed. It will end, perhaps, in a fit of the gout, which\nmay prevent her coming away. Louisa thinks her mother's being so well\nmay be quite as much owing to her being so much out of doors as to the\nwater. Lady B. is going to try the hot pump, the Cross bath being about\nto be painted. Louisa is particularly well herself, and thinks the water\nhas been of use to her. She mentioned our inquiries, etc., to Mr. and\nMrs. Alex. Evelyn, and had their best compliments and thanks to give in\nreturn. Dr. Parry does not expect Mr. E. to last much longer.\n\nOnly think of Mrs. Holder's being dead! Poor woman, she has done the\nonly thing in the world she could possibly do to make one cease to abuse\nher. Now, if you please, Hooper must have it in his power to do more by\nhis uncle. Lucky for the little girl. An Anne Ekins can hardly be so\nunfit for the care of a child as a Mrs. Holder.\n\nA letter from Wrotham yesterday offering an early visit here, and Mr.\nand Mrs. Moore and one child are to come on Monday for ten days. I hope\nCharles and Fanny may not fix the same time, but if they come at all in\nOctober they must. What is the use of hoping? The two parties of\nchildren is the chief evil.\n\nTo be sure, here we are; the very thing has happened, or rather\nworse,--a letter from Charles this very morning, which gives us reason\nto suppose they may come here to-day. It depends upon the weather, and\nthe weather now is very fine. No difficulties are made, however, and,\nindeed, there will be no want of room; but I wish there were no Wigrams\nand Lushingtons in the way to fill up the table and make us such a\nmotley set. I cannot spare Mr. Lushington either, because of his frank,\nbut Mr. Wigram does no good to anybody. I cannot imagine how a man can\nhave the impudence to come into a family party for three days, where he\nis quite a stranger, unless he knows himself to be agreeable on\nundoubted authority. He and Edw. B. are going to ride to Eastwell, and\nas the boys are hunting, and my brother is gone to Canty., Fanny and I\nhave a quiet morning before us.\n\nEdward has driven off poor Mrs. Salkeld. It was thought a good\nopportunity of doing something towards clearing the house. By her own\ndesire Mrs. Fanny[26] is to be put in the room next the nursery, her baby\nin a little bed by her; and as Cassy is to have the closet within, and\nBetsey William's little hole, they will be all very snug together. I\nshall be most happy to see dear Charles, and he will be as happy as he\ncan with a cross child, or some such care, pressing on him at the time.\nI should be very happy in the idea of seeing little Cassy again, too,\ndid not I fear she would disappoint me by some immediate\ndisagreeableness. . . .\n\nThe comfort of the billiard-table here is very great; it draws all the\ngentlemen to it whenever they are within, especially after dinner, so\nthat my brother, Fanny, and I have the library to ourselves in\ndelightful quiet. There is no truth in the report of G. Hatton being to\nmarry Miss Wemyss. He desires it may be contradicted.\n\nHave you done anything about our present to Miss Benn? I suppose she\nmust have a bed at my mother's whenever she dines there. How will they\nmanage as to inviting her when you are gone? and if they invite, how\nwill they continue to entertain her?\n\nLet me know as many of your parting arrangements as you can, as to wine,\netc. I wonder whether the ink-bottle has been filled. Does butcher's\nmeat keep up at the same price, and is not bread lower than 2_s._ 6_d._?\nMary's blue gown! My mother must be in agonies. I have a great mind to\nhave my blue gown dyed some time or other. I proposed it once to you,\nand you made some objection, I forget what. It is the fashion of\nflounces that gives it particular expediency.\n\nMrs. and Miss Wildman have just been here. Miss is very plain. I wish\nLady B. may be returned before we leave Gm., that Fanny may spend the\ntime of her father's absence at Goodnestone, which is what she would\nprefer.\n\n_Friday._--They came last night at about seven. We had given them up,\nbut I still expected them to come. Dessert was nearly over; a better\ntime for arriving than an hour and a half earlier. They were late\nbecause they did not set out earlier, and did not allow time enough.\nCharles did not aim at more than reaching Sittingbourne by three, which\ncould not have brought them here by dinner-time. They had a very rough\npassage; he would not have ventured if he had known how bad it would be.\n\nHowever, here they are, safe and well, just like their own nice selves,\nFanny looking as neat and white this morning as possible, and dear\nCharles all affectionate, placid, quiet, cheerful good-humor. They are\nboth looking very well, but poor little Cassy is grown extremely thin,\nand looks poorly. I hope a week's country air and exercise may do her\ngood. I am sorry to say it can be but a week. The baby does not appear\nso large in proportion as she was, nor quite so pretty, but I have seen\nvery little of her. Cassy was too tired and bewildered just at first to\nseem to know anybody. We met them in the hall--the women and girl part\nof us--but before we reached the library she kissed me very\naffectionately, and has since seemed to recollect me in the same way.\n\nIt was quite an evening of confusion, as you may suppose. At first we\nwere all walking about from one part of the house to the other; then\ncame a fresh dinner in the breakfast-room for Charles and his wife,\nwhich Fanny and I attended; then we moved into the library, were joined\nby the dining-room people, were introduced, and so forth; and then we\nhad tea and coffee, which was not over till past ten. Billiards again\ndrew all the odd ones away; and Edward, Charles, the two Fannies, and I\nsat snugly talking. I shall be glad to have our numbers a little\nreduced, and by the time you receive this we shall be only a family,\nthough a large family, party. Mr. Lushington goes to-morrow.\n\nNow I must speak of him, and I like him very much. I am sure he is\nclever, and a man of taste. He got a volume of Milton last night, and\nspoke of it with warmth. He is quite an M. P., very smiling, with an\nexceeding good address and readiness of language. I am rather in love\nwith him. I dare say he is ambitious and insincere. He puts me in mind\nof Mr. Dundas. He has a wide smiling mouth, and very good teeth, and\nsomething the same complexion and nose. He is a much shorter man, with\nMartha's leave. Does Martha never hear from Mrs. Craven? Is Mrs. Craven\nnever at home?\n\nWe breakfasted in the dining-room to-day, and are now all pretty well\ndispersed and quiet. Charles and George are gone out shooting together,\nto Winnigates and Seaton Wood. I asked on purpose to tell Henry. Mr.\nLushington and Edwd. are gone some other way. I wish Charles may kill\nsomething; but this high wind is against their sport.\n\nLady Williams is living at the Rose at Sittingbourne; they called upon\nher yesterday; she cannot live at Sheerness, and as soon as she gets to\nSittingbourne is quite well. In return for all your matches, I announce\nthat her brother William is going to marry a Miss Austen, of a Wiltshire\nfamily, who say they are related to us.\n\nI talk to Cassy about Chawton; she remembers much, but does not\nvolunteer on the subject. Poor little love! I wish she were not so very\nPalmery, but it seems stronger than ever. I never knew a wife's family\nfeatures have such undue influence.\n\nPapa and mamma have not yet made up their mind as to parting with her or\nnot; the chief, indeed the only, difficulty with mamma is a very\nreasonable one, the child's being very unwilling to leave them. When it\nwas mentioned to her she did not like the idea of it at all. At the same\ntime she has been suffering so much lately from sea-sickness that her\nmamma cannot bear to have her much on board this winter. Charles is\nless inclined to part with her. I do not know how it will end, or what\nis to determine it. He desires his best love to you, and has not written\nbecause he has not been able to decide. They are both very sensible of\nyour kindness on the occasion.\n\nI have made Charles furnish me with something to say about young\nKendall. He is going on very well. When he first joined the \"Namur,\" my\nbrother did not find him forward enough to be what they call put in the\noffice, and therefore placed him under the schoolmaster; but he is very\nmuch improved, and goes into the office now every afternoon, still\nattending school in the morning.\n\nThis cold weather comes very fortunately for Edward's nerves, with such\na house full; it suits him exactly; he is all alive and cheerful. Poor\nJames, on the contrary, must be running his toes into the fire. I find\nthat Mary Jane Fowle was very near returning with her brother and paying\nthem a visit on board. I forget exactly what hindered her; I believe the\nCheltenham scheme. I am glad something did. They are to go to Cheltenham\non Monday se'nnight. I don't vouch for their going, you know; it only\ncomes from one of the family.\n\nNow I think I have written you a good-sized letter, and may deserve\nwhatever I can get in reply. Infinities of love. I must distinguish\nthat of Fanny, senior, who particularly desires to be remembered to you\nall.\n\n                                  Yours very affectionately,\n                                                          J. AUSTEN.\n\n  FAVERSHAM, Oct. 15, 1813.\n    Miss AUSTEN, Chawton, Alton, Hants.\n      Per S. R. LUSHINGTON.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[26] Mrs. Charles Austen, _nee_ Fanny Palmer.\n\n\n\n\nL.\n\n\n                                           GODMERSHAM PARK, Oct. 18.\n\nMY DEAR AUNT CASSANDRA,--I am very much obliged to you for your long\nletter and for the nice account of Chawton. We are all very glad to hear\nthat the Adams are gone, and hope Dame Libscombe will be more happy now\nwith her deaffy child, as she calls it, but I am afraid there is not\nmuch chance of her remaining long sole mistress of her house.\n\nI am sorry you had not any better news to send us of our hare, poor\nlittle thing! I thought it would not live long in that _Pondy House_; I\ndon't wonder that Mary Doe is very sorry it is dead, because we promised\nher that if it was alive when we came back to Chawton, we would reward\nher for her trouble.\n\nPapa is much obliged to you for ordering the scrubby firs to be cut\ndown; I think he was rather frightened at first about the great oak.\nFanny quite believed it, for she exclaimed, \"Dear me, what a pity, how\ncould they be so stupid!\" I hope by this time they have put up some\nhurdles for the sheep, or turned out the cart-horses from the lawn.\n\nPray tell grandmamma that we have begun getting seeds for her; I hope we\nshall be able to get her a nice collection, but I am afraid this wet\nweather is very much against them. How glad I am to hear she has had\nsuch good success with her chickens, but I wish there had been more\nbantams amongst them. I am very sorry to hear of poor Lizzie's fate.\n\nI must now tell you something about our poor people. I believe you know\nold Mary Croucher; she gets _maderer_ and _maderer_ every day. Aunt Jane\nhas been to see her, but it was on one of her rational days. Poor Will\nAmos hopes your skewers are doing well; he has left his house in the\npoor Row, and lives in a barn at Builting. We asked him why he went\naway, and he said the fleas were so starved when he came back from\nChawton that they all flew upon him and _eenermost_ eat him up.\n\nHow unlucky it is that the weather is so wet! Poor Uncle Charles has\ncome home half drowned every day.\n\nI don't think little Fanny is quite so pretty as she was; one reason is\nbecause she wears short petticoats, I believe. I hope Cook is better;\nshe was very unwell the day we went away. Papa has given me\nhalf-a-dozen new pencils, which are very good ones indeed; I draw every\nother day. I hope you go and whip Lucy Chalcraft every night.\n\nMiss Clewes begs me to give her very best respects to you; she is very\nmuch obliged to you for your kind inquiries after her. Pray give my duty\nto grandmamma and love to Miss Floyd. I remain, my dear Aunt Cassandra,\nyour very affectionate niece,\n\n                                               ELIZTH. KNIGHT.\n\n_Thursday._--I think Lizzy's letter will entertain you. Thank you for\nyours just received. To-morrow shall be fine if possible. You will be at\nGuildford before our party set off. They only go to Key Street, as Mr.\nStreet the Purser lives there, and they have promised to dine and sleep\nwith him.\n\nCassy's looks are much mended. She agrees pretty well with her cousins,\nbut is not quite happy among them; they are too many and too boisterous\nfor her. I have given her your message, but she said nothing, and did\nnot look as if the idea of going to Chawton again was a pleasant one.\nThey have Edward's carriage to Ospringe.\n\nI think I have just done a good deed,--extracted Charles from his wife\nand children upstairs, and made him get ready to go out shooting, and\nnot keep Mr. Moore waiting any longer.\n\nMr. and Mrs. Sherer and Joseph dined here yesterday very prettily. Edw.\nand Geo. were absent,--gone for a night to Eastling. The two Fannies\nwent to Canty. in the morning, and took Lou. and Cass. to try on new\nstays. Harriet and I had a comfortable walk together. She desires her\nbest love to you and kind remembrance to Henry. Fanny's best love also.\nI fancy there is to be another party to Canty. to-morrow,--Mr. and Mrs.\nMoore and me.\n\nEdward thanks Henry for his letter. We are most happy to hear he is so\nmuch better. I depend upon you for letting me know what he wishes as to\nmy staying with him or not; you will be able to find out, I dare say. I\nhad intended to beg you would bring one of my nightcaps with you, in\ncase of my staying, but forgot it when I wrote on Tuesday. Edward is\nmuch concerned about his pond; he cannot now doubt the fact of its\nrunning out, which he was resolved to do as long as possible.\n\nI suppose my mother will like to have me write to her. I shall try at\nleast.\n\nNo; I have never seen the death of Mrs. Crabbe. I have only just been\nmaking out from one of his prefaces that he probably was married. It is\nalmost ridiculous. Poor woman! I will comfort him as well as I can, but\nI do not undertake to be good to her children. She had better not leave\nany.\n\nEdw. and Geo. set off this day week for Oxford. Our party will then be\nvery small, as the Moores will be going about the same time. To enliven\nus, Fanny proposes spending a few days soon afterwards at Fredville. It\nwill really be a good opportunity, as her father will have a companion.\nWe shall all three go to Wrotham, but Edwd. and I stay only a night\nperhaps. Love to Mr. Tilson.\n\n                                  Yours very affectionately,     J. A.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN,\n    10 Henrietta St., Covent Garden, London.\n\n\n\n\nLI.\n\n\n                                  GODMERSHAM PARK, Wednesday (Nov. 3).\n\nMY DEAREST CASSANDRA,--I will keep this celebrated birthday by writing\nto you; and as my pen seems inclined to write large, I will put my lines\nvery close together. I had but just time to enjoy your letter yesterday\nbefore Edward and I set off in the chair for Canty., and I allowed him\nto hear the chief of it as we went along.\n\nWe rejoice sincerely in Henry's gaining ground as he does, and hope\nthere will be weather for him to get out every day this week, as the\nlikeliest way of making him equal to what he plans for the next. If he\nis tolerably well, the going into Oxfordshire will make him better, by\nmaking him happier.\n\nCan it be that I have not given you the minutiae of Edward's plans? See,\nhere they are: To go to Wrotham on Saturday the 13th, spend Sunday\nthere, and be in town on Monday to dinner, and if agreeable to Henry,\nspend one whole day with him, which day is likely to be Tuesday, and so\ngo down to Chawton on Wednesday.\n\nBut now I cannot be quite easy without staying a little while with\nHenry, unless he wishes it otherwise; his illness and the dull time of\nyear together make me feel that it would be horrible of me not to offer\nto remain with him, and therefore unless you know of any objection, I\nwish you would tell him with my best love that I shall be most happy to\nspend ten days or a fortnight in Henrietta St., if he will accept me. I\ndo not offer more than a fortnight, because I shall then have been some\ntime from home; but it will be a great pleasure to be with him, as it\nalways is. I have the less regret and scruple on your account, because I\nshall see you for a day and a half, and because you will have Edward for\nat least a week. My scheme is to take Bookham in my way home for a few\ndays, and my hope that Henry will be so good as to send me some part of\nthe way thither. I have a most kind repetition of Mrs. Cooke's two or\nthree dozen invitations, with the offer of meeting me anywhere in one of\nher airings.\n\nFanny's cold is much better. By dosing and keeping her room on Sunday,\nshe got rid of the worst of it, but I am rather afraid of what this day\nmay do for her; she is gone to Canty. with Miss Clewes, Liz., and\nMa^{rnne}, and it is but roughish weather for any one in a tender state.\nMiss Clewes has been going to Canty. ever since her return, and it is\nnow just accomplishing.\n\nEdward and I had a delightful morning for our drive there, I enjoyed it\nthoroughly; but the day turned off before we were ready, and we came\nhome in some rain and the apprehension of a great deal. It has not done\nus any harm, however. He went to inspect the gaol, as a visiting\nmagistrate, and took me with him. I was gratified, and went through all\nthe feelings which people must go through, I think, in visiting such a\nbuilding. We paid no other visits, only walked about snugly together,\nand shopped. I bought a concert ticket and a sprig of flowers for my old\nage.\n\nTo vary the subject from gay to grave with inimitable address, I shall\nnow tell you something of the Bath party--and still a Bath party they\nare, for a fit of the gout came on last week. The accounts of Lady B.\nare as good as can be under such a circumstance; Dr. P. says it appears\na good sort of gout, and her spirits are better than usual, but as to\nher coming away, it is of course all uncertainty. I have very little\ndoubt of Edward's going down to Bath, if they have not left it when he\nis in Hampshire; if he does, he will go on from Steventon, and then\nreturn direct to London, without coming back to Chawton. This detention\ndoes not suit his feelings. It may be rather a good thing, however, that\nDr. P. should see Lady B. with the gout on her. Harriot was quite\nwishing for it.\n\nThe day seems to improve. I wish my pen would too.\n\nSweet Mr. Ogle! I dare say he sees all the panoramas for nothing, has\nfree admittance everywhere; he is so delightful! Now, you need not see\nanybody else.\n\nI am glad to hear of our being likely to have a peep at Charles and\nFanny at Christmas, but do not force poor Cass. to stay if she hates it.\nYou have done very right as to Mrs. F. A. Your tidings of S. and S. give\nme pleasure. I have never seen it advertised.\n\nHarriot, in a letter to Fanny to-day, inquires whether they sell cloths\nfor pelisses at Bedford House, and, if they do, will be very much\nobliged to you to desire them to send her down patterns, with the width\nand prices; they may go from Charing Cross almost any day in the week,\nbut if it is a ready-money house it will not do, for the _bru_ of _feu_\nthe Archbishop says she cannot pay for it immediately. Fanny and I\nsuspect they do not deal in the article.\n\nThe Sherers, I believe, are now really going to go; Joseph has had a bed\nhere the last two nights, and I do not know whether this is not the day\nof moving. Mrs. Sherer called yesterday to take leave. The weather looks\nworse again.\n\nWe dine at Chilham Castle to-morrow, and I expect to find some\namusement, but more from the concert the next day, as I am sure of\nseeing several that I want to see. We are to meet a party from\nGoodnestone, Lady B., Miss Hawley, and Lucy Foote, and I am to meet Mrs.\nHarrison, and we are to talk about Ben and Anna. \"My dear Mrs.\nHarrison,\" I shall say, \"I am afraid the young man has some of your\nfamily madness; and though there often appears to be something of\nmadness in Anna too, I think she inherits more of it from her mother's\nfamily than from ours.\" That is what I shall say, and I think she will\nfind it difficult to answer me.\n\nI took up your letter again to refresh me, being somewhat tired, and was\nstruck with the prettiness of the hand: it is really a very pretty hand\nnow and then,--so small and so neat! I wish I could get as much into a\nsheet of paper.[27] Another time I will take two days to make a letter\nin: it is fatiguing to write a whole long one at once. I hope to hear\nfrom you again on Sunday and again on Friday, the day before we move.\nOn Monday, I suppose, you will be going to Streatham, to see quiet Mr.\nHill and eat very bad baker's bread.\n\nA fall in bread by the by. I hope my mother's bill next week will show\nit. I have had a very comfortable letter from her, one of her foolscap\nsheets quite full of little home news. Anna was there the first of the\ntwo days. An Anna sent away and an Anna fetched are different things.\nThis will be an excellent time for Ben to pay his visit, now that we,\nthe formidables, are absent.\n\nI did not mean to eat, but Mr. Johncock has brought in the tray, so I\nmust. I am all alone. Edward is gone into his woods. At this present\ntime I have five tables, eight-and-twenty chairs, and two fires all to\nmyself.\n\nMiss Clewes is to be invited to go to the concert with us; there will be\nmy brother's place and ticket for her, as he cannot go. He and the other\nconnections of the Cages are to meet at Milgate that very day, to\nconsult about a proposed alteration of the Maidstone road, in which the\nCages are very much interested. Sir Brook comes here in the morning, and\nthey are to be joined by Mr. Deedes at Ashford. The loss of the concert\nwill be no great evil to the Squire. We shall be a party of three ladies\ntherefore, and to meet three ladies.\n\nWhat a convenient carriage Henry's is, to his friends in general! Who\nhas it next? I am glad William's going is voluntary, and on no worse\ngrounds. An inclination for the country is a venial fault. He has more\nof Cowper than of Johnson in him,--fonder of tame hares and blank verse\nthan of the full tide of human existence at Charing Cross.\n\nOh! I have more of such sweet flattery from Miss Sharp. She is an\nexcellent kind friend. I am read and admired in Ireland too. There is a\nMrs. Fletcher, the wife of a judge, an old lady, and very good and very\nclever, who is all curiosity to know about me,--what I am like, and so\nforth. I am not known to her by name, however. This comes through Mrs.\nCarrick, not through Mrs. Gore. You are quite out there.\n\nI do not despair of having my picture in the Exhibition at last,--all\nwhite and red, with my head on one side; or perhaps I may marry young\nMr. D'Arblay. I suppose in the mean time I shall owe dear Henry a great\ndeal of money for printing, etc.\n\nI hope Mrs. Fletcher will indulge herself with S. and S. If I am to stay\nin H. S., and if you should be writing home soon, I wish you would be so\ngood as to give a hint of it, for I am not likely to write there again\nthese ten days, having written yesterday.\n\nFanny has set her heart upon its being a Mr. Brett who is going to marry\na Miss Dora Best, of this country. I dare say Henry has no objection.\nPray, where did the boys sleep?\n\nThe Deedes come here on Monday to stay till Friday, so that we shall end\nwith a flourish the last canto. They bring Isabella and one of the\ngrown-ups, and will come in for a Canty. ball on Thursday. I shall be\nglad to see them. Mrs. Deedes and I must talk rationally together, I\nsuppose.\n\nEdward does not write to Henry, because of my writing so often. God\nbless you. I shall be so glad to see you again, and I wish you many\nhappy returns of this day. Poor Lord Howard! How he does cry about it!\n\n                                      Yours very truly,        J. A.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN,\n    10 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, London.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[27] I cannot pass this paragraph over without remarking that it is\nhardly possible to imagine anything neater or prettier than Jane's own\nhand. Most of her letters are beautifully written, and the MS. of her\n\"Lady Susan\" remarkably so.--_Note by Lord_ BRABOURNE.\n\n\n\n\nLII.\n\n\n                                  GODMERSHAM PARK, Saturday (Nov. 6).\n\nMY DEAREST CASSANDRA,--Having half an hour before breakfast (very snug,\nin my own room, lovely morning, excellent fire--fancy me!) I will give\nyou some account of the last two days. And yet, what is there to be\ntold? I shall get foolishly minute unless I cut the matter short.\n\nWe met only the Bretons at Chilham Castle, besides a Mr. and Mrs.\nOsborne and a Miss Lee staying in the house, and were only fourteen\naltogether. My brother and Fanny thought it the pleasantest party they\nhad ever known there, and I was very well entertained by bits and\nscraps. I had long wanted to see Dr. Breton, and his wife amuses me very\nmuch with her affected refinement and elegance. Miss Lee I found very\nconversable; she admires Crabbe as she ought. She is at an age of\nreason, ten years older than myself at least. She was at the famous ball\nat Chilham Castle, so of course you remember her.\n\nBy the by, as I must leave off being young, I find many _douceurs_ in\nbeing a sort of _chaperon_, for I am put on the sofa near the fire, and\ncan drink as much wine as I like. We had music in the evening: Fanny and\nMiss Wildman played, and Mr. James Wildman sat close by and listened, or\npretended to listen.\n\nYesterday was a day of dissipation all through: first came Sir Brook to\ndissipate us before breakfast; then there was a call from Mr. Sherer,\nthen a regular morning visit from Lady Honeywood in her way home from\nEastwell; then Sir Brook and Edward set off; then we dined (five in\nnumber) at half-past four; then we had coffee; and at six Miss Clewes,\nFanny, and I drove away. We had a beautiful night for our frisks. We\nwere earlier than we need have been, but after a time Lady B. and her\ntwo companions appeared,--we had kept places for them; and there we sat,\nall six in a row, under a side wall, I between Lucy Foote and Miss\nClewes.\n\nLady B. was much what I expected; I could not determine whether she was\nrather handsome or very plain. I liked her for being in a hurry to have\nthe concert over and get away, and for getting away at last with a great\ndeal of decision and promptness, not waiting to compliment and dawdle\nand fuss about seeing dear Fanny, who was half the evening in another\npart of the room with her friends the Plumptres. I am growing too\nminute, so I will go to breakfast.\n\nWhen the concert was over, Mrs. Harrison and I found each other out, and\nhad a very comfortable little complimentary friendly chat. She is a\nsweet woman,--still quite a sweet woman in herself, and so like her\nsister! I could almost have thought I was speaking to Mrs. Lefroy. She\nintroduced me to her daughter, whom I think pretty, but most dutifully\ninferior to _la Mere Beaute_. The Faggs and the Hammonds were\nthere,--Wm. Hammond the only young man of renown. Miss looked very\nhandsome, but I prefer her little smiling flirting sister Julia.\n\nI was just introduced at last to Mary Plumptre, but I should hardly know\nher again. She was delighted with me, however, good enthusiastic soul!\nAnd Lady B. found me handsomer than she expected, so you see I am not so\nvery bad as you might think for.\n\nIt was twelve before we reached home. We were all dog-tired, but pretty\nwell to-day: Miss Clewes says she has not caught cold, and Fanny's does\nnot seem worse. I was so tired that I began to wonder how I should get\nthrough the ball next Thursday; but there will be so much more variety\nthen in walking about, and probably so much less heat, that perhaps I\nmay not feel it more. My china crape is still kept for the ball. Enough\nof the concert.\n\nI had a letter from Mary yesterday. They travelled down to Cheltenham\nlast Monday very safely, and are certainly to be there a month. Bath is\nstill Bath. The H. Bridges must quit them early next week, and Louisa\nseems not quite to despair of their all moving together, but to those\nwho see at a distance there appears no chance of it. Dr. Parry does not\nwant to keep Lady B. at Bath when she can once move. That is lucky. You\nwill see poor Mr. Evelyn's death.\n\nSince I wrote last, my 2nd edit. has stared me in the face. Mary tells\nme that Eliza means to buy it. I wish she may. It can hardly depend upon\nany more Fyfield Estates. I cannot help hoping that many will feel\nthemselves obliged to buy it. I shall not mind imagining it a\ndisagreeable duty to them, so as they do it. Mary heard before she left\nhome that it was very much admired at Cheltenham, and that it was given\nto Miss Hamilton. It is pleasant to have such a respectable writer\nnamed. I cannot tire you, I am sure, on this subject, or I would\napologize.\n\nWhat weather, and what news! We have enough to do to admire them both. I\nhope you derive your full share of enjoyment from each.\n\nI have extended my lights and increased my acquaintance a good deal\nwithin these two days. Lady Honeywood you know; I did not sit near\nenough to be a perfect judge, but I thought her extremely pretty, and\nher manners have all the recommendations of ease and good-humor and\nunaffectedness; and going about with four horses and nicely dressed\nherself, she is altogether a perfect sort of woman.\n\nOh, and I saw Mr. Gipps last night,--the useful Mr. Gipps, whose\nattentions came in as acceptably to us in handing us to the carriage,\nfor want of a better man, as they did to Emma Plumptre. I thought him\nrather a good-looking little man.\n\nI long for your letter to-morrow, particularly that I may know my fate\nas to London. My first wish is that Henry should really choose what he\nlikes best; I shall certainly not be sorry if he does not want me.\nMorning church to-morrow; I shall come back with impatient feelings.\n\nThe Sherers are gone, but the Pagets are not come: we shall therefore\nhave Mr. S. again. Mr. Paget acts like an unsteady man. Dr. Hant,\nhowever, gives him a very good character; what is wrong is to be imputed\nto the lady. I dare say the house likes female government.\n\nI have a nice long black and red letter from Charles, but not\ncommunicating much that I did not know.\n\nThere is some chance of a good ball next week, as far as females go.\nLady Bridges may perhaps be there with some Knatchbulls. Mrs. Harrison\nperhaps, with Miss Oxenden and the Miss Papillons; and if Mrs. Harrison,\nthen Lady Fagg will come.\n\nThe shades of evening are descending, and I resume my interesting\nnarrative. Sir Brook and my brother came back about four, and Sir Brook\nalmost immediately set forward again to Goodnestone. We are to have\nEdwd. B. to-morrow, to pay us another Sunday's visit,--the last, for\nmore reasons than one; they all come home on the same day that we go.\nThe Deedes do not come till Tuesday; Sophia is to be the comer. She is a\ndisputable beauty that I want much to see. Lady Eliz. Hatton and\nAnnamaria called here this morning. Yes, they called; but I do not think\nI can say anything more about them. They came, and they sat, and they\nwent.\n\n_Sunday._--Dearest Henry! What a turn he has for being ill, and what a\nthing bile is! This attack has probably been brought on in part by his\nprevious confinement and anxiety; but, however it came, I hope it is\ngoing fast, and that you will be able to send a very good account of him\non Tuesday. As I hear on Wednesday, of course I shall not expect to hear\nagain on Friday. Perhaps a letter to Wrotham would not have an ill\neffect.\n\nWe are to be off on Saturday before the post comes in, as Edward takes\nhis own horses all the way. He talks of nine o'clock. We shall bait at\nLenham.\n\nExcellent sweetness of you to send me such a nice long letter; it made\nits appearance, with one from my mother, soon after I and my impatient\nfeelings walked in. How glad I am that I did what I did! I was only\nafraid that you might think the offer superfluous, but you have set my\nheart at ease. Tell Henry that I will stay with him, let it be ever so\ndisagreeable to him.\n\nOh, dear me! I have not time on paper for half that I want to say. There\nhave been two letters from Oxford,--one from George yesterday. They got\nthere very safely,--Edwd. two hours behind the coach, having lost his\nway in leaving London. George writes cheerfully and quietly; hopes to\nhave Utterson's rooms soon; went to lecture on Wednesday, states some of\nhis expenses, and concludes with saying, \"I am afraid I shall be poor.\"\nI am glad he thinks about it so soon. I believe there is no private\ntutor yet chosen, but my brother is to hear from Edwd. on the subject\nshortly.\n\nYou, and Mrs. H., and Catherine, and Alethea going about together in\nHenry's carriage seeing sights--I am not used to the idea of it yet. All\nthat you are to see of Streatham, seen already! Your Streatham and my\nBookham may go hang. The prospect of being taken down to Chawton by\nHenry perfects the plan to me. I was in hopes of your seeing some\nilluminations, and you have seen them. \"I thought you would come, and\nyou did come.\" I am sorry he is not to come from the Baltic sooner. Poor\nMary!\n\nMy brother has a letter from Louisa to-day of an unwelcome nature; they\nare to spend the winter at Bath. It was just decided on. Dr. Parry\nwished it, not from thinking the water necessary to Lady B., but that he\nmight be better able to judge how far his treatment of her, which is\ntotally different from anything she had been used to, is right; and I\nsuppose he will not mind having a few more of her Ladyship's guineas.\nHis system is a lowering one. He took twelve ounces of blood from her\nwhen the gout appeared, and forbids wine, etc. Hitherto the plan agrees\nwith her. She is very well satisfied to stay, but it is a sore\ndisappointment to Louisa and Fanny.\n\nThe H. Bridges leave them on Tuesday, and they mean to move into a\nsmaller house; you may guess how Edward feels. There can be no doubt of\nhis going to Bath now; I should not wonder if he brought Fanny Cage back\nwith him.\n\nYou shall hear from me once more, some day or other.\n\n                                  Yours very affectionately,      J. A.\n\nWe do not like Mr. Hampson's scheme.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN,\n    10 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, London.\n\n\n\n\nLIII.\n\n\n                            HENRIETTA ST., Wednesday (March 2, 1814).\n\nWe had altogether a very good journey, and everything at Cobham was\ncomfortable. I could not pay Mr. Harrington! That was the only alas! of\nthe business. I shall therefore return his bill, and my mother's 2_l._,\nthat you may try your luck. We did not begin reading till Bentley Green.\nHenry's approbation is hitherto even equal to my wishes. He says it is\ndifferent from the other two, but does not appear to think it at all\ninferior. He has only married Mrs. R.[28] I am afraid he has gone through\nthe most entertaining part. He took to Lady B. and Mrs. N.[29] most\nkindly, and gives great praise to the drawing of the characters. He\nunderstands them all, likes Fanny, and, I think, foresees how it will\nall be. I finished the \"Heroine\" last night, and was very much amused by\nit. I wonder James did not like it better. It diverted me exceedingly.\nWe went to bed at ten. I was very tired, but slept to a miracle, and am\nlovely to-day, and at present Henry seems to have no complaint. We left\nCobham at half-past eight, stopped to bait and breakfast at Kingston,\nand were in this house considerably before two. Nice smiling Mr. Barlowe\nmet us at the door, and, in reply to inquiries after news, said that\npeace was generally expected. I have taken possession of my bedroom,\nunpacked my bandbox, sent Miss P.'s two letters to the twopenny post,\nbeen visited by M^{d.} B., and am now writing by myself at the new table\nin the front room. It is snowing. We had some snowstorms yesterday, and\na smart frost at night, which gave us a hard road from Cobham to\nKingston; but as it was then getting dirty and heavy, Henry had a pair\nof leaders put on to the bottom of Sloane St. His own horses, therefore,\ncannot have had hard work. I watched for veils as we drove through the\nstreets, and had the pleasure of seeing several upon vulgar heads. And\nnow, how do you all do?--you in particular, after the worry of yesterday\nand the day before. I hope Martha had a pleasant visit again, and that\nyou and my mother could eat your beef-pudding. Depend upon my thinking\nof the chimney-sweeper as soon as I wake to-morrow. Places are secured\nat Drury Lane for Saturday, but so great is the rage for seeing Kean\nthat only a third and fourth row could be got; as it is in a front box,\nhowever, I hope we shall do pretty well--Shylock, a good play for\nFanny--she cannot be much affected, I think. Mrs. Perigord has just been\nhere. She tells me that we owe her master for the silk-dyeing. My poor\nold muslin has never been dyed yet. It has been promised to be done\nseveral times. What wicked people dyers are! They begin with dipping\ntheir own souls in scarlet sin. It is evening. We have drank tea, and I\nhave torn through the third vol. of the \"Heroine.\" I do not think it\nfalls off. It is a delightful burlesque, particularly on the Radcliffe\nstyle. Henry is going on with \"Mansfield Park.\" He admires H. Crawford:\nI mean properly, as a clever, pleasant man. I tell you all the good I\ncan, as I know how much you will enjoy it. We hear that Mr. Kean is more\nadmired than ever. There are no good places to be got in Drury Lane for\nthe next fortnight, but Henry means to secure some for Saturday\nfortnight, when you are reckoned upon. Give my love to little Cass. I\nhope she found my bed comfortable last night. I have seen nobody in\nLondon yet with such a long chin as Dr. Syntax, nor anybody quite so\nlarge as Gogmagolicus.\n\n                                    Yours aff^{ly},       J. AUSTEN.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[28] Mrs. Rushworth in \"Mansfield Park.\"\n\n[29] Lady Bertram and Mrs. Norris.\n\n\n\n\nLIV.\n\n\n                                  HENRIETTA ST., Wednesday (March 9).\n\nWELL, we went to the play again last night, and as we were out a great\npart of the morning too, shopping, and seeing the Indian jugglers, I am\nvery glad to be quiet now till dressing-time. We are to dine at the\nTilsons', and to-morrow at Mr. Spencer's.\n\nWe had not done breakfast yesterday when Mr. J. Plumptre appeared to say\nthat he had secured a box. Henry asked him to dine here, which I fancy\nhe was very happy to do, and so at five o'clock we four sat down to\ntable together, while the master of the house was preparing for going\nout himself. The \"Farmer's Wife\" is a musical thing in three acts, and\nas Edward was steady in not staying for anything more, we were at home\nbefore ten.\n\nFanny and Mr. J. P. are delighted with Miss S., and her merit in singing\nis, I dare say, very great; that she gave me no pleasure is no\nreflection upon her, nor, I hope, upon myself, being what Nature made me\non that article. All that I am sensible of in Miss S. is a pleasing\nperson and no skill in acting. We had Mathews, Liston, and Emery; of\ncourse, some amusement.\n\nOur friends were off before half-past eight this morning, and had the\nprospect of a heavy cold journey before them. I think they both liked\ntheir visit very much. I am sure Fanny did. Henry sees decided\nattachment between her and his new acquaintance.\n\nI have a cold, too, as well as my mother and Martha. Let it be a\ngenerous emulation between us which can get rid of it first.\n\nI wear my gauze gown to-day, long sleeves and all. I shall see how they\nsucceed, but as yet I have no reason to suppose long sleeves are\nallowable. I have lowered the bosom, especially at the corners, and\nplaited black satin ribbon round the top. Such will be my costume of\nvine-leaves and paste.\n\nPrepare for a play the very first evening, I rather think Covent Garden,\nto see Young in \"Richard.\" I have answered for your little companion's\nbeing conveyed to Keppel St. immediately. I have never yet been able to\nget there myself, but hope I shall soon.\n\nWhat cruel weather this is! and here is Lord Portsmouth married, too, to\nMiss Hanson.[30]\n\nHenry has finished \"Mansfield Park,\" and his approbation has not\nlessened. He found the last half of the last volume extremely\ninteresting.\n\nI suppose my mother recollects that she gave me no money for paying\nBrecknell and Twining, and my funds will not supply enough.\n\nWe are home in such good time that I can finish my letter to-night,\nwhich will be better than getting up to do it to-morrow, especially as,\non account of my cold, which has been very heavy in my head this\nevening, I rather think of lying in bed later than usual. I would not\nbut be well enough to go to Hertford St. on any account.\n\nWe met only Genl. Chowne to-day, who has not much to say for himself. I\nwas ready to laugh at the remembrance of Frederick, and such a different\nFrederick as we chose to fancy him to the real Christopher!\n\nMrs. Tilson had long sleeves, too, and she assured me that they are worn\nin the evening by many. I was glad to hear this. She dines here, I\nbelieve, next Tuesday.\n\nOn Friday we are to be snug with only Mr. Barlowe and an evening of\nbusiness. I am so pleased that the mead is brewed. Love to all. I have\nwritten to Mrs. Hill, and care for nobody.\n\n                            Yours affectionately,       J. AUSTEN.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, Chawton.\n    By favor of Mr. GRAY.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[30] His second wife. He died in 1853, and was succeeded by his brother,\nthe father of the present earl.\n\n\n\n\nLV.\n\n\n                                         CHAWTON, Tuesday (June 13).\n\nMY DEAREST CASSANDRA,--Fanny takes my mother to Alton this morning,\nwhich gives me an opportunity of sending you a few lines without any\nother trouble than that of writing them.\n\nThis is a delightful day in the country, and I hope not much too hot for\ntown. Well, you had a good journey, I trust, and all that, and not rain\nenough to spoil your bonnet. It appeared so likely to be a wet evening\nthat I went up to the Gt. House between three and four, and dawdled away\nan hour very comfortably, though Edwd. was not very brisk. The air was\nclearer in the evening, and he was better. We all five walked together\ninto the kitchen garden and along the Gosport road, and they drank tea\nwith us.\n\nYou will be glad to hear that G. Turner has another situation, something\nin the cow line, near Rumsey, and he wishes to move immediately, which\nis not likely to be inconvenient to anybody.\n\nThe new nurseryman at Alton comes this morning to value the crops in the\ngarden.\n\nThe only letter to-day is from Mrs. Cooke to me. They do not leave home\ntill July, and want me to come to them, according to my promise. And,\nafter considering everything, I have resolved on going. My companions\npromote it. I will not go, however, till after Edward is gone, that he\nmay feel he has a somebody to give memorandums to, to the last. I must\ngive up all help from his carriage, of course. And, at any rate, it must\nbe such an excess of expense that I have quite made up my mind to it,\nand do not mean to care.\n\nI have been thinking of Triggs and the chair, you may be sure, but I\nknow it will end in posting. They will meet me at Guildford.\n\nIn addition to their standing claims on me they admire \"Mansfield Park\"\nexceedingly. Mr. Cooke says \"it is the most sensible novel he ever\nread,\" and the manner in which I treat the clergy delights them very\nmuch. Altogether, I must go, and I want you to join me there when your\nvisit in Henrietta St. is over. Put this into your capacious head.\n\nTake care of yourself, and do not be trampled to death in running after\nthe Emperor. The report in Alton yesterday was that they would certainly\ntravel this road either to or from Portsmouth. I long to know what this\nbow of the Prince's will produce.\n\nI saw Mrs. Andrews yesterday. Mrs. Browning had seen her before. She is\nvery glad to send an Elizabeth.\n\nMiss Benn continues the same. Mr. Curtis, however, saw her yesterday,\nand said her hand was going on as well as possible. Accept our best\nlove.\n\n                                  Yours very affectionately,\n                                                          J. AUSTEN.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, 10 Henrietta Street,\n    By favor of Mr. GRAY.\n\n\n\n\nLVI.\n\n\n                                               THURSDAY (June 23).\n\nDEAREST CASSANDRA,--I received your pretty letter while the children\nwere drinking tea with us, as Mr. Louch was so obliging as to walk over\nwith it. Your good account of everybody made us very happy.\n\nI heard yesterday from Frank. When he began his letter he hoped to be\nhere on Monday, but before it was ended he had been told that the naval\nreview would not take place till Friday, which would probably occasion\nhim some delay, as he cannot get some necessary business of his own\nattended to while Portsmouth is in such a bustle. I hope Fanny has seen\nthe Emperor, and then I may fairly wish them all away. I go to-morrow,\nand hope for some delays and adventures.\n\nMy mother's wood is brought in, but, by some mistake, no bavins. She\nmust therefore buy some.\n\nHenry at White's! Oh, what a Henry! I do not know what to wish as to\nMiss B., so I will hold my tongue and my wishes.\n\nSackree and the children set off yesterday, and have not been returned\nback upon us. They were all very well the evening before. We had\nhandsome presents from the Gt. House yesterday,--a ham and the four\nleeches. Sackree has left some shirts of her master's at the school,\nwhich, finished or unfinished, she begs to have sent by Henry and Wm.\nMr. Hinton is expected home soon, which is a good thing for the shirts.\n\nWe have called upon Miss Dusantoy and Miss Papillon, and been very\npretty. Miss D. has a great idea of being Fanny Price,--she and her\nyoungest sister together, who is named Fanny.\n\nMiss Benn has drank tea with the Prowtings, and, I believe, comes to us\nthis evening. She has still a swelling about the forefinger and a little\ndischarge, and does not seem to be on the point of a perfect cure, but\nher spirits are good, and she will be most happy, I believe, to accept\nany invitation. The Clements are gone to Petersfield to look.\n\nOnly think of the Marquis of Granby being dead. I hope, if it please\nHeaven there should be another son, they will have better sponsors and\nless parade.\n\nI certainly do not wish that Henry should think again of getting me to\ntown. I would rather return straight from Bookham; but if he really does\npropose it, I cannot say No to what will be so kindly intended. It could\nbe but for a few days, however, as my mother would be quite disappointed\nby my exceeding the fortnight which I now talk of as the outside--at\nleast, we could not both remain longer away comfortably.\n\nThe middle of July is Martha's time, as far as she has any time. She has\nleft it to Mrs. Craven to fix the day. I wish she could get her money\npaid, for I fear her going at all depends upon that.\n\nInstead of Bath the Deans Dundases have taken a house at\nClifton--Richmond Terrace--and she is as glad of the change as even you\nand I should be, or almost. She will now be able to go on from Berks and\nvisit them without any fears from heat.\n\nThis post has brought me a letter from Miss Sharpe. Poor thing! she has\nbeen suffering indeed, but is now in a comparative state of comfort. She\nis at Sir W. P.'s, in Yorkshire, with the children, and there is no\nappearance of her quitting them. Of course we lose the pleasure of\nseeing her here. She writes highly of Sir Wm. I do so want him to marry\nher. There is a Dow. Lady P. presiding there to make it all right. The\nMan is the same; but she does not mention what he is by profession or\ntrade. She does not think Lady P. was privy to his scheme on her, but,\non being in his power, yielded. Oh, Sir Wm.! Sir Wm.! how I will love\nyou if you will love Miss Sharpe!\n\nMrs. Driver, etc., are off by Collier, but so near being too late that\nshe had not time to call and leave the keys herself. I have them,\nhowever. I suppose one is the key of the linen-press, but I do not know\nwhat to guess the other.\n\nThe coach was stopped at the blacksmith's, and they came running down\nwith Triggs and Browning, and trunks, and birdcages. Quite amusing.\n\nMy mother desires her love, and hopes to hear from you.\n\n                                  Yours very affectionately,\n                                                       J. AUSTEN.\n\nFrank and Mary are to have Mary Goodchild to help as _Under_ till they\ncan get a cook. She is delighted to go.\n\nBest love at Streatham.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, Henrietta St.\n    By favor of Mr. GRAY.\n\n\n\n\nLVII.\n\n\n                        23 HANS PLACE, Tuesday morning (August, 1814).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--I had a very good journey, not crowded, two of the\nthree taken up at Bentley being children, the others of a reasonable\nsize; and they were all very quiet and civil. We were late in London,\nfrom being a great load, and from changing coaches at Farnham; it was\nnearly four, I believe, when we reached Sloane Street. Henry himself met\nme, and as soon as my trunk and basket could be routed out from all the\nother trunks and baskets in the world, we were on our way to Hans Place\nin the luxury of a nice, large, cool, dirty hackney coach.\n\nThere were four in the kitchen part of Yalden, and I was told fifteen at\ntop, among them Percy Benn. We met in the same room at Egham, but poor\nPercy was not in his usual spirits. He would be more chatty, I dare say,\nin his way from Woolwich. We took up a young Gibson at Holybourn, and,\nin short, everybody either did come up by Yalden yesterday, or wanted to\ncome up. It put me in mind of my own coach between Edinburgh and\nStirling.\n\nHenry is very well, and has given me an account of the Canterbury races,\nwhich seem to have been as pleasant as one could wish. Everything went\nwell. Fanny had good partners, Mr. ---- was her second on Thursday, but\nhe did not dance with her any more.\n\nThis will content you for the present. I must just add, however, that\nthere were no Lady Charlottes, they were gone off to Kirby, and that\nMary Oxenden, instead of dying, is going to marry Wm. Hammond.\n\nNo James and Edward yet. Our evening yesterday was perfectly quiet; we\nonly talked a little to Mr. Tilson across the intermediate gardens; she\nwas gone out airing with Miss Burdett. It is a delightful place,--more\nthan answers my expectation. Having got rid of my unreasonable ideas, I\nfind more space and comfort in the rooms than I had supposed, and the\ngarden is quite a love. I am in the front attic, which is the bedchamber\nto be preferred.\n\nHenry wants you to see it all, and asked whether you would return with\nhim from Hampshire; I encouraged him to think you would. He breakfasts\nhere early, and then rides to Henrietta St. If it continues fine, John\nis to drive me there by and by, and we shall take an airing together;\nand I do not mean to take any other exercise, for I feel a little tired\nafter my long jumble. I live in his room downstairs; it is particularly\npleasant from opening upon the garden. I go and refresh myself every now\nand then, and then come back to solitary coolness. There is one\nmaidservant only, a very creditable, clean-looking young woman. Richard\nremains for the present.\n\n_Wednesday morning._--My brother and Edwd. arrived last night. They\ncould not get places the day before. Their business is about teeth and\nwigs, and they are going after breakfast to Scarman's and Tavistock St.,\nand they are to return to go with me afterwards in the barouche. I hope\nto do some of my errands to-day.\n\nI got the willow yesterday, as Henry was not quite ready when I reached\nHena. St. I saw Mr. Hampson there for a moment. He dines here to-morrow,\nand proposed bringing his son; so I must submit to seeing George\nHampson, though I had hoped to go through life without it. It was one of\nmy vanities, like your not reading \"Patronage.\"\n\nAfter leaving H. St. we drove to Mrs. Latouche's; they are always at\nhome, and they are to dine here on Friday. We could do no more, as it\nbegan to rain.\n\nWe dine at half-past four to-day, that our visitors may go to the play,\nand Henry and I are to spend the evening with the Tilsons, to meet Miss\nBurnett, who leaves town to-morrow. Mrs. T. called on me yesterday.\n\nIs not this all that can have happened or been arranged? Not quite.\nHenry wants me to see more of his Hanwell favorite, and has written to\ninvite her to spend a day or two here with me. His scheme is to fetch\nher on Saturday. I am more and more convinced that he will marry again\nsoon, and like the idea of her better than of anybody else at hand.\n\nNow I have breakfasted and have the room to myself again. It is likely\nto be a fine day. How do you all do?\n\nHenry talks of being at Chawton about the 1st of Sept. He has once\nmentioned a scheme which I should rather like,--calling on the Birches\nand the Crutchleys in our way. It may never come to anything, but I must\nprovide for the possibility by troubling you to send up my silk pelisse\nby Collier on Saturday. I feel it would be necessary on such an\noccasion; and be so good as to put up a clean dressing-gown which will\ncome from the wash on Friday. You need not direct it to be left\nanywhere. It may take its chance.\n\nWe are to call for Henry between three and four, and I must finish this\nand carry it with me, as he is not always there in the morning before\nthe parcel is made up. And before I set off, I must return Mrs. Tilson's\nvisit. I hear nothing of the Hoblyns, and abstain from all inquiry.\n\nI hope Mary Jane and Frank's gardens go on well. Give my love to them\nall--Nunna Hat's love to George. A great many people wanted to run up in\nthe Poach as well as me. The wheat looked very well all the way, and\nJames says the same of _his_ road.\n\nThe same good account of Mrs. C.'s health continues, and her\ncircumstances mend. She gets farther and farther from poverty. What a\ncomfort! Good-by to you.\n\n                      Yours very truly and affectionately,\n                                                        JANE.\n\nAll well at Steventon. I hear nothing particular of Ben, except that\nEdward is to get him some pencils.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, Chawton.\n    By favor of Mr. GRAY.\n\n\n\n\nLVIII.\n\n\nMY DEAR ANNA,[31]--I am very much obliged to you for sending your MS. It\nhas entertained me extremely; indeed all of us. I read it aloud to your\ngrandmamma and Aunt Cass, and we were all very much pleased. The spirit\ndoes not droop at all. Sir Thos., Lady Helen, and St. Julian are very\nwell done, and Cecilia continues to be interesting in spite of her being\nso amiable. It was very fit you should advance her age. I like the\nbeginning of Devereux Forester very much, a great deal better than if he\nhad been very good or very bad. A few verbal corrections are all that I\nfelt tempted to make; the principal of them is a speech of St. Julian to\nLady Helen, which you see I have presumed to alter. As Lady H. is\nCecilia's superior, it would not be correct to talk of her being\nintroduced. It is Cecilia who must be introduced. And I do not like a\nlover speaking in the 3rd person; it is too much like the part of Lord\nOvertley, and I think it not natural. If you think differently, however,\nyou need not mind me. I am impatient for more, and only wait for a safe\nconveyance to return this.\n\n                                      Yours affectionately,\n                                                         J. A.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[31] Miss Anna Austen, at this time engaged to Mr. Lefroy, was writing a\nnovel which she sent to her aunt for criticism.\n\n\n\n\nLIX.\n\n\n                                                   AUGUST 10, 1814.\n\nMY DEAR ANNA,--I am quite ashamed to find that I have never answered\nsome question of yours in a former note. I kept it on purpose to refer\nto it at a proper time, and then forgot it. I like the name \"Which is\nthe Heroine\" very well, and I dare say shall grow to like it very much\nin time; but \"Enthusiasm\" was something so very superior that my common\ntitle must appear to disadvantage. I am not sensible of any blunders\nabout Dawlish; the library was pitiful and wretched twelve years ago,\nand not likely to have anybody's publications. There is no such title as\nDesborough, either among dukes, marquises, earls, viscounts, or barons.\nThese were your inquiries. I will now thank you for your envelope\nreceived this morning. Your Aunt Cass is as well pleased with St. Julian\nas ever, and I am delighted with the idea of seeing Progillian again.\n\n_Wednesday_, 17.--We have now just finished the first of the three books\nI had the pleasure of receiving yesterday. I read it aloud, and we are\nall very much amused, and like the work quite as well as ever. I depend\non getting through another book before dinner, but there is really a\ngood deal of respectable reading in your forty-eight pages. I have no\ndoubt six would make a very good-sized volume. You must have been quite\npleased to have accomplished so much. I like Lord Portman and his\nbrother very much. I am only afraid that Lord P.'s good nature will make\nmost people like him better than he deserves. The whole family are very\ngood; and Lady Anne, who was your great dread, you have succeeded\nparticularly well with. Bell Griffin is just what she should be. My\ncorrections have not been more important than before; here and there we\nhave thought the sense could be expressed in fewer words, and I have\nscratched out Sir Thos. from walking with the others to the stables,\netc. the very day after breaking his arm; for though I find your papa\ndid walk out immediately after his arm was set, I think it can be so\nlittle usual as to appear unnatural in a book. Lynn will not do. Lynn is\ntowards forty miles from Dawlish and would not be talked of there. I\nhave put Starcross instead. If you prefer Easton, that must be always\nsafe.\n\nI have also scratched out the introduction between Lord Portman and his\nbrother and Mr. Griffin. A country surgeon (don't tell Mr. C. Lyford)\nwould not be introduced to men of their rank; and when Mr. P. is first\nbrought in, he would not be introduced as the Honorable. That\ndistinction is never mentioned at such times; at least, I believe not.\nNow we have finished the second book, or rather the fifth. I do think\nyou had better omit Lady Helena's postscript. To those that are\nacquainted with \"Pride and Prejudice\" it will seem an imitation. And\nyour Aunt C. and I both recommend your making a little alteration in the\nlast scene between Devereux F. and Lady Clanmurray and her daughter. We\nthink they press him too much, more than sensible or well-bred women\nwould do; Lady C., at least, should have discretion enough to be sooner\nsatisfied with his determination of not going with them. I am very much\npleased with Egerton as yet. I did not expect to like him, but I do, and\nSusan is a very nice little animated creature; but St. Julian is the\ndelight of our lives. He is quite interesting. The whole of his\nbreak-off with Lady Helena is very well done. Yes; Russell Square is a\nvery proper distance from Berkeley Square. We are reading the last book.\nThey must be two days going from Dawlish to Bath. They are nearly one\nhundred miles apart.\n\n_Thursday._--We finished it last night after our return from drinking\ntea at the Great House. The last chapter does not please us quite so\nwell; we do not thoroughly like the play, perhaps from having had too\nmuch of plays in that way lately (_vide_ \"Mansfield Park\"), and we think\nyou had better not leave England. Let the Portmans go to Ireland; but as\nyou know nothing of the manners there, you had better not go with them.\nYou will be in danger of giving false representations. Stick to Bath and\nthe Foresters. There you will be quite at home.\n\nYour Aunt C. does not like desultory novels, and is rather afraid yours\nwill be too much so, that there will be too frequently a change from one\nset of people to another, and that circumstances will be introduced of\napparent consequence which will lead to nothing. It will not be so great\nan objection to me if it does. I allow much more latitude than she does,\nand think Nature and spirit cover many sins of a wandering story, and\npeople in general do not care so much about it for your comfort.\n\nI should like to have had more of Devereux. I do not feel enough\nacquainted with him. You were afraid of meddling with him, I dare say. I\nlike your sketch of Lord Clanmurray, and your picture of the two young\ngirls' enjoyment is very good. I have not noticed St. Julian's serious\nconversation with Cecilia, but I like it exceedingly. What he says about\nthe madness of otherwise sensible women on the subject of their\ndaughters coming out is worth its weight in gold.\n\nI do not perceive that the language sinks. Pray go on.\n\n\n\n\nLX.\n\n\n                                                     CHAWTON, Sept. 9.\n\nMY DEAR ANNA,--We have been very much amused by your three books, but I\nhave a good many criticisms to make, more than you will like. We are not\nsatisfied with Mrs. Forester settling herself as tenant and near\nneighbor to such a man as Sir Thomas, without having some other\ninducement to go there. She ought to have some friend living thereabouts\nto tempt her. A woman going with two girls just growing up into a\nneighborhood where she knows nobody but one man of not very good\ncharacter, is an awkwardness which so prudent a woman as Mrs. F. would\nnot be likely to fall into. Remember she is very prudent. You must not\nlet her act inconsistently. Give her a friend, and let that friend be\ninvited by Sir Thomas H. to meet her, and we shall have no objection to\nher dining at the Priory as she does; but otherwise a woman in her\nsituation would hardly go there before she had been visited by other\nfamilies. I like the scene itself, the Miss Leslie, Lady Anne, and the\nmusic very much. Leslie is a noble name. Sir Thomas H. you always do\nvery well. I have only taken the liberty of expunging one phrase of his\nwhich would not be allowable,--\"Bless my heart!\" It is too familiar and\ninelegant. Your grandmother is more disturbed at Mrs. Forester's not\nreturning the Egertons' visit sooner than by anything else. They ought\nto have called at the Parsonage before Sunday. You describe a sweet\nplace, but your descriptions are often more minute than will be liked.\nYou give too many particulars of right hand and left. Mrs. Forester is\nnot careful enough of Susan's health. Susan ought not to be walking out\nso soon after heavy rains, taking long walks in the dirt. An anxious\nmother would not suffer it. I like your Susan very much; she is a sweet\ncreature, her playfulness of fancy is very delightful. I like her as she\nis now exceedingly, but I am not quite so well satisfied with her\nbehavior to George R. At first she seems all over attachment and\nfeeling, and afterwards to have none at all; she is so extremely\nconfused at the ball, and so well satisfied apparently with Mr. Morgan.\nShe seems to have changed her character.\n\nYou are now collecting your people delightfully, getting them exactly\ninto such a spot as is the delight of my life. Three or four families in\na country village is the very thing to work on, and I hope you will do a\ngreat deal more, and make full use of them while they are so very\nfavorably arranged.\n\nYou are but now coming to the heart and beauty of your story. Until the\nheroine grows up the fun must be imperfect, but I expect a great deal of\nentertainment from the next three or four books, and I hope you will not\nresent these remarks by sending me no more. We like the Egertons very\nwell. We see no blue pantaloons or cocks or hens. There is nothing to\nenchant one certainly in Mr. L. L., but we make no objection to him, and\nhis inclination to like Susan is pleasing. The sister is a good\ncontrast, but the name of Rachel is as much as I can bear. They are not\nso much like the Papillons as I expected. Your last chapter is very\nentertaining, the conversation on genius, etc.; Mr. St. Julian and Susan\nboth talk in character, and very well. In some former parts Cecilia is\nperhaps a little too solemn and good, but upon the whole her disposition\nis very well opposed to Susan's, her want of imagination is very\nnatural. I wish you could make Mrs. Forester talk more; but she must be\ndifficult to manage and make entertaining, because there is so much good\nsense and propriety about her that nothing can be made very broad. Her\neconomy and her ambition must not be staring. The papers left by Mrs.\nFisher are very good. Of course one guesses something. I hope when you\nhave written a great deal more, you will be equal to scratching out some\nof the past. The scene with Mrs. Mellish I should condemn; it is prosy\nand nothing to the purpose, and indeed the more you can find in your\nheart to curtail between Dawlish and Newton Priors, the better I think\nit will be,--one does not care for girls until they are grown up. Your\nAunt C. quite understands the exquisiteness of that name,--Newton Priors\nis really a nonpareil. Milton would have given his eyes to have thought\nof it. Is not the cottage taken from Tollard Royal?\n\n[Thus far the letter was written on the 9th, but before it was finished\nnews arrived at Chawton of the death of Mrs. Charles Austen. She died in\nher confinement, and the baby died also. She left three little\ngirls,--Cassie, Harriet, and Fanny. It was not until the 18th that Jane\nresumed her letter as follows:[32]]\n\n_Sunday._--I am very glad, dear Anna, that I wrote as I did before this\nsad event occurred. I have only to add that your grandmamma does not\nseem the worse now for the shock.\n\nI shall be very happy to receive more of your work if more is ready; and\nyou write so fast that I have great hopes Mr. Digweed will come back\nfreighted with such a cargo as not all his hops or his sheep could equal\nthe value of.\n\nYour grandmamma desires me to say that she will have finished your shoes\nto-morrow, and thinks they will look very well. And that she depends\nupon seeing you, as you promise, before you quit the country, and hopes\nyou will give her more than a day.\n\n                               Yours affectionately.       J. AUSTEN.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[32] Note by Lord Brabourne.\n\n\n\n\nLXI.\n\n\n                                  CHAWTON, Wednesday (Sept. 28).\n\nMY DEAR ANNA,--I hope you do not depend on having your book again\nimmediately. I kept it that your grandmamma may hear it, for it has not\nbeen possible yet to have any public reading. I have read it to your\nAunt Cassandra, however, in our own room at night, while we undressed,\nand with a great deal of pleasure. We like the first chapter extremely,\nwith only a little doubt whether Lady Helena is not almost too foolish.\nThe matrimonial dialogue is very good certainly. I like Susan as well as\never, and begin now not to care at all about Cecilia; she may stay at\nEaston Court as long as she likes. Henry Mellish will be, I am afraid,\ntoo much in the common novel style,--a handsome, amiable,\nunexceptionable young man (such as do not much abound in real life),\ndesperately in love and all in vain. But I have no business to judge him\nso early Jane Egerton is a very natural, comprehensible girl, and the\nwhole of her acquaintance with Susan and Susan's letter to Cecilia are\nvery pleasing and quite in character. But Miss Egerton does not entirely\nsatisfy us. She is too formal and solemn, we think, in her advice to her\nbrother not to fall in love; and it is hardly like a sensible woman,--it\nis putting it into his head. We should like a few hints from her better.\nWe feel really obliged to you for introducing a Lady Kenrick; it will\nremove the greatest fault in the work, and I give you credit for\nconsiderable forbearance as an author in adopting so much of our\nopinion. I expect high fun about Mrs. Fisher and Sir Thomas. You have\nbeen perfectly right in telling Ben. Lefroy of your work, and I am very\nglad to hear how much he likes it. His encouragement and approbation\nmust be \"quite beyond everything.\"[33] I do not at all wonder at his not\nexpecting to like anybody so well as Cecilia at first, but I shall be\nsurprised if he does not become a Susanite in time. Devereux Forester's\nbeing ruined by his vanity is extremely good, but I wish you would not\nlet him plunge into a \"vortex of dissipation.\" I do not object to the\nthing, but I cannot bear the expression; it is such thorough novel\nslang, and so old that I dare say Adam met with it in the first novel\nhe opened. Indeed, I did very much like to know Ben's opinion. I hope he\nwill continue to be pleased with it, and I think he must, but I cannot\nflatter him with there being much incident. We have no great right to\nwonder at his not valuing the name of Progillian. That is a source of\ndelight which even he can hardly be quite competent to.\n\nWalter Scott has no business to write novels, especially good ones. It\nis not fair. He has fame and profit enough as a poet, and should not be\ntaking the bread out of the mouths of other people.\n\nI do not like him, and do not mean to like \"Waverley\" if I can help it,\nbut fear I must.\n\nI am quite determined, however, not to be pleased with Mrs. West's\n\"Alicia De Lacy,\" should I ever meet with it, which I hope I shall not.\nI think I can be stout against anything written by Mrs. West. I have\nmade up my mind to like no novels really but Miss Edgeworth's, yours,\nand my own.\n\nWhat can you do with Egerton to increase the interest for him? I wish\nyou could contrive something, some family occurrence to bring out his\ngood qualities more. Some distress among brothers and sisters to relieve\nby the sale of his curacy! Something to carry him mysteriously away, and\nthen be heard of at York or Edinburgh in an old greatcoat. I would not\nseriously recommend anything improbable, but if you could invent\nsomething spirited for him, it would have a good effect. He might lend\nall his money to Captain Morris, but then he would be a great fool if he\ndid. Cannot the Morrises quarrel and he reconcile them? Excuse the\nliberty I take in these suggestions.\n\nYour Aunt Frank's nursemaid has just given her warning, but whether she\nis worth your having, or would take your place, I know not. She was Mrs.\nWebb's maid before she went to the Great House. She leaves your aunt\nbecause she cannot agree with the other servants. She is in love with\nthe man, and her head seems rather turned. He returns her affection, but\nshe fancies every one else is wanting him and envying her. Her previous\nservice must have fitted her for such a place as yours, and she is very\nactive and cleanly. The Webbs are really gone! When I saw the wagons at\nthe door, and thought of all the trouble they must have in moving, I\nbegan to reproach myself for not having liked them better; but since the\nwagons have disappeared my conscience has been closed again, and I am\nexcessively glad they are gone.\n\nI am very fond of Sherlock's sermons, and prefer them to almost any.\n\n                           Your affectionate aunt,        J. AUSTEN.\n\nIf you wish me to speak to the maid, let me know.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[33] A phrase always in the mouth of one of the Chawton neighbors, Mrs.\nH. Digweed.\n\n\n\n\nLXII.\n\n    _To Miss Frances Austen._\n\n\n                                  CHAWTON, Friday (Nov. 18, 1814).\n\nI FEEL quite as doubtful as you could be, my dearest Fanny, as to when\nmy letter may be finished, for I can command very little quiet time at\npresent; but yet I must begin, for I know you will be glad to hear as\nsoon as possible, and I really am impatient myself to be writing\nsomething on so very interesting a subject, though I have no hope of\nwriting anything to the purpose. I shall do very little more, I dare\nsay, than say over again what you have said before.\n\nI was certainly a good deal surprised at first, as I had no suspicion of\nany change in your feelings, and I have no scruple in saying that you\ncannot be in love. My dear Fanny, I am ready to laugh at the idea, and\nyet it is no laughing matter to have had you so mistaken as to your own\nfeelings. And with all my heart I wish I had cautioned you on that point\nwhen first you spoke to me; but though I did not think you then much in\nlove, I did consider you as being attached in a degree quite\nsufficiently for happiness, as I had no doubt it would increase with\nopportunity, and from the time of our being in London together I thought\nyou really very much in love. But you certainly are not at all--there is\nno concealing it.\n\nWhat strange creatures we are! It seems as if your being secure of him\nhad made you indifferent. There was a little disgust, I suspect, at the\nraces, and I do not wonder at it. His expressions then would not do for\none who had rather more acuteness, penetration, and taste, than love,\nwhich was your case. And yet, after all, I am surprised that the change\nin your feelings should be so great. He is just what he ever was, only\nmore evidently and uniformly devoted to you. This is all the difference.\nHow shall we account for it?\n\nMy dearest Fanny, I am writing what will not be of the smallest use to\nyou. I am feeling differently every moment, and shall not be able to\nsuggest a single thing that can assist your mind. I could lament in one\nsentence and laugh in the next, but as to opinion or counsel I am sure\nthat none will be extracted worth having from this letter.\n\nI read yours through the very evening I received it, getting away by\nmyself. I could not bear to leave off when I had once begun. I was full\nof curiosity and concern. Luckily your At. C. dined at the other house;\ntherefore I had not to manoeuvre away from her, and as to anybody else,\nI do not care.\n\nPoor dear Mr. A.! Oh, dear Fanny! your mistake has been one that\nthousands of women fall into. He was the first young man who attached\nhimself to you. That was the charm, and most powerful it is. Among the\nmultitudes, however, that make the same mistake with yourself, there can\nbe few indeed who have so little reason to regret it; his character and\nhis attachment leave you nothing to be ashamed of.\n\nUpon the whole, what is to be done? You have no inclination for any\nother person. His situation in life, family, friends, and, above all,\nhis character, his uncommonly amiable mind, strict principles, just\nnotions, good habits, all that you know so well how to value, all that\nis really of the first importance,--everything of this nature pleads his\ncause most strongly. You have no doubt of his having superior abilities,\nhe has proved it at the University; he is, I dare say, such a scholar as\nyour agreeable, idle brothers would ill bear a comparison with.\n\nOh, my dear Fanny! the more I write about him the warmer my feelings\nbecome,--the more strongly I feel the sterling worth of such a young\nman, and the desirableness of your growing in love with him again. I\nrecommend this most thoroughly. There are such beings in the world,\nperhaps one in a thousand, as the creature you and I should think\nperfection, where grace and spirit are united to worth, where the\nmanners are equal to the heart and understanding; but such a person may\nnot come in your way, or, if he does, he may not be the eldest son of a\nman of fortune, the near relation of your particular friend, and\nbelonging to your own county.\n\nThink of all this, Fanny. Mr. A. has advantages which we do not often\nmeet in one person. His only fault, indeed, seems modesty. If he were\nless modest, he would be more agreeable, speak louder, and look\nimpudenter; and is not it a fine character of which modesty is the only\ndefect? I have no doubt he will get more lively and more like yourselves\nas he is more with you; he will catch your ways if he belongs to you.\nAnd as to there being any objection from his goodness, from the danger\nof his becoming even evangelical, I cannot admit that. I am by no means\nconvinced that we ought not all to be evangelicals, and am at least\npersuaded that they who are so from reason and feeling must be happiest\nand safest. Do not be frightened from the connection by your brothers\nhaving most wit,--wisdom is better than wit, and in the long run will\ncertainly have the laugh on her side; and don't be frightened by the\nidea of his acting more strictly up to the precepts of the New Testament\nthan others.\n\nAnd now, my dear Fanny, having written so much on one side of the\nquestion, I shall turn round and entreat you not to commit yourself\nfarther, and not to think of accepting him unless you really do like\nhim. Anything is to be preferred or endured rather than marrying\nwithout affection; and if his deficiencies of manner, etc., etc.,\nstrike you more than all his good qualities, if you continue to think\nstrongly of them, give him up at once. Things are now in such a state\nthat you must resolve upon one or the other,--either to allow him to go\non as he has done, or whenever you are together behave with a coldness\nwhich may convince him that he has been deceiving himself. I have no\ndoubt of his suffering a good deal for a time,--a great deal when he\nfeels that he must give you up; but it is no creed of mine, as you must\nbe well aware, that such sort of disappointments kill anybody.\n\nYour sending the music was an admirable device, it made everything easy,\nand I do not know how I could have accounted for the parcel otherwise;\nfor though your dear papa most conscientiously hunted about till he\nfound me alone in the dining-parlor, your Aunt C. had seen that he had a\nparcel to deliver. As it was, however, I do not think anything was\nsuspected.\n\nWe have heard nothing fresh from Anna. I trust she is very comfortable\nin her new home. Her letters have been very sensible and satisfactory,\nwith no parade of happiness, which I liked them the better for. I have\noften known young married women write in a way I did not like in that\nrespect.\n\nYou will be glad to hear that the first edition of M. P.[34] is all\nsold. Your Uncle Henry is rather wanting me to come to town to settle\nabout a second edition; but as I could not very conveniently leave home\nnow, I have written him my will and pleasure and unless he still urges\nit, shall not go. I am very greedy and want to make the most of it; but\nas you are much above caring about money, I shall not plague you with\nany particulars. The pleasures of vanity are more within your\ncomprehension, and you will enter into mine at receiving the praise\nwhich every now and then comes to me through some channel or other.\n\n_Saturday._--Mr. Palmer spent yesterday with us, and is gone off with\nCassy this morning. We have been expecting Miss Lloyd the last two days,\nand feel sure of her to-day. Mr. Knight and Mr. Edwd. Knight are to dine\nwith us, and on Monday they are to dine with us again, accompanied by\ntheir respectable host and hostess.\n\n_Sunday._--Your papa had given me messages to you; but they are\nunnecessary, as he writes by this post to Aunt Louisa. We had a pleasant\nparty yesterday; at least we found it so. It is delightful to see him so\ncheerful and confident. Aunt Cass. and I dine at the Great House to-day.\nWe shall be a snug half-dozen. Miss Lloyd came, as we expected,\nyesterday, and desires her love. She is very happy to hear of your\nlearning the harp. I do not mean to send you what I owe Miss Hare,\nbecause I think you would rather not be paid beforehand.\n\n                          Yours very affectionately,\n                                               JANE AUSTEN.\n\n  Miss KNIGHT,\n    Goodnestone Farm, Wingham, Kent.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[34] \"Mansfield Park.\"\n\n\n\n\nLXIII.\n\n\n                                               CHAWTON, Nov. 21, 1814.\n\nMY DEAR ANNA,--I met Harriet Benn yesterday. She gave me her\ncongratulations, and desired they might be forwarded to you, and there\nthey are. The chief news from this country is the death of old Mrs.\nDormer. Mrs. Clement walks about in a new black velvet pelisse lined\nwith yellow, and a white bobbin net veil, and looks remarkably well in\nthem.\n\nI think I understand the country about Hendon from your description. It\nmust be very pretty in summer. Should you know from the atmosphere that\nyou were within a dozen miles of London? Make everybody at Hendon admire\n\"Mansfield Park.\"\n\n                                    Your affectionate aunt,       J. A.\n\n\n\n\nLXIV.\n\n\n                                            HANS PLACE, Nov. 28, 1814.\n\nMY DEAR ANNA,--I assure you we all came away very much pleased with our\nvisit. We talked of you for about a mile and a half with great\nsatisfaction; and I have been just sending a very good report of you to\nMiss Benn, with a full account of your dress for Susan and Maria.\n\nWe were all at the play last night to see Miss O'Neil in \"Isabella.\" I\ndo not think she was quite equal to my expectations. I fancy I want\nsomething more than can be. I took two pocket-handkerchiefs, but had\nvery little occasion for either. She is an elegant creature, however,\nand hugs Mr. Young delightfully. I am going this morning to see the\nlittle girls in Keppel Street. Cassy was excessively interested about\nyour marriage when she heard of it, which was not until she was to drink\nyour health on the wedding-day.\n\nShe asked a thousand questions in her usual manner, what he said to you\nand what you said to him. If your uncle were at home he would send his\nbest love, but I will not impose any base fictitious remembrances on\nyou; mine I can honestly give, and remain\n\n                                        Your affectionate aunt,\n                                                          J. AUSTEN.\n\n\n\n\nLXV.\n\n\n                                               HANS PLACE, Wednesday.\n\nMY DEAR ANNA,--I have been very far from finding your book an evil, I\nassure you. I read it immediately and with great pleasure. I think you\nare going on very well. The description of Dr. Griffin and Lady Helena's\nunhappiness is very good, and just what was likely to be. I am curious\nto know what the end of them will be. The name of Newton Priors is\nreally invaluable; I never met with anything superior to it. It is\ndelightful, and one could live on the name of Newton Priors for a\ntwelvemonth. Indeed, I think you get on very fast. I only wish other\npeople of my acquaintance could compose as rapidly. I am pleased with\nthe dog scene and with the whole of George and Susan's love, but am more\nparticularly struck with your serious conversations. They are very good\nthroughout. St. Julian's history was quite a surprise to me. You had not\nvery long known it yourself, I suspect; but I have no objection to make\nto the circumstance, and it is very well told. His having been in love\nwith the aunt gives Cecilia an additional interest with him. I like the\nidea,--a very proper compliment to an aunt! I rather imagine indeed that\nnieces are seldom chosen but out of compliment to some aunt or another.\nI dare say Ben was in love with me once, and would never have thought of\nyou if he had not supposed me dead of scarlet fever. Yes, I was in a\nmistake as to the number of books. I thought I had read three before the\nthree at Chawton, but fewer than six will not do. I want to see dear\nBell Griffin again; and had you not better give some hint of St.\nJulian's early history in the beginning of the story?\n\nWe shall see nothing of Streatham while we are in town, as Mrs. Hill is\nto lie in of a daughter. Mrs. Blackstone is to be with her. Mrs.\nHeathcote and Miss Bigg[35] are just leaving. The latter writes me word\nthat Miss Blackford is married, but I have never seen it in the papers,\nand one may as well be single if the wedding is not to be in print.\n\n                                  Your affectionate aunt,      J. A.\n\n\n\n\nLXVI.\n\n\n                            23 HANS PLACE, Wednesday (Nov. 30, 1814).\n\nI AM very much obliged to you, my dear Fanny, for your letter, and I\nhope you will write again soon, that I may know you to be all safe and\nhappy at home.\n\nOur visit to Hendon will interest you, I am sure; but I need not enter\ninto the particulars of it, as your papa will be able to answer almost\nevery question. I certainly could describe her bedroom and her drawers\nand her closet better than he can, but I do not feel that I can stop to\ndo it. I was rather sorry to hear that she is to have an instrument; it\nseems throwing money away. They will wish the twenty-four guineas in the\nshape of sheets and towels six months hence; and as to her playing, it\nnever can be anything.\n\nHer purple pelisse rather surprised me. I thought we had known all\nparaphernalia of that sort. I do not mean to blame her; it looked very\nwell, and I dare say she wanted it. I suspect nothing worse than its\nbeing got in secret, and not owned to anybody. I received a very kind\nnote from her yesterday, to ask me to come again and stay a night with\nthem. I cannot do it, but I was pleased to find that she had the power\nof doing so right a thing. My going was to give them both pleasure very\nproperly.\n\nI just saw Mr. Hayter at the play, and think his face would please me on\nacquaintance. I was sorry he did not dine here. It seemed rather odd to\nme to be in the theatre with nobody to watch for. I was quite composed\nmyself, at leisure for all the agitated Isabella could raise.\n\nNow, my dearest Fanny, I will begin a subject which comes in very\nnaturally. You frighten me out of my wits by your reference. Your\naffection gives me the highest pleasure, but indeed you must not let\nanything depend on my opinion; your own feelings, and none but your own,\nshould determine such an important point. So far, however, as answering\nyour question, I have no scruple. I am perfectly convinced that your\npresent feelings, supposing that you were to marry now, would be\nsufficient for his happiness; but when I think how very, very far it is\nfrom a \"now,\" and take everything that may be into consideration, I dare\nnot say, \"Determine to accept him;\" the risk is too great for you,\nunless your own sentiments prompt it.\n\nYou will think me perverse, perhaps; in my last letter I was urging\neverything in his favor, and now I am inclining the other way, but I\ncannot help it; I am at present more impressed with the possible evil\nthat may arise to you from engaging yourself to him--in word or\nmind--than with anything else. When I consider how few young men you\nhave yet seen much of, how capable you are (yes, I do still think you\nvery capable) of being really in love, and how full of temptation the\nnext six or seven years of your life will probably be (it is the very\nperiod of life for the strongest attachments to be formed),--I cannot\nwish you, with your present very cool feelings, to devote yourself in\nhonor to him. It is very true that you never may attach another man his\nequal altogether; but if that other man has the power of attaching you\nmore, he will be in your eyes the most perfect.\n\nI shall be glad if you can revive past feelings, and from your unbiassed\nself resolve to go on as you have done, but this I do not expect; and\nwithout it I cannot wish you to be fettered. I should not be afraid of\nyour marrying him; with all his worth you would soon love him enough for\nthe happiness of both; but I should dread the continuance of this sort\nof tacit engagement, with such an uncertainty as there is of when it may\nbe completed. Years may pass before he is independent; you like him well\nenough to marry, but not well enough to wait; the unpleasantness of\nappearing fickle is certainly great; but if you think you want\npunishment for past illusions, there it is, and nothing can be compared\nto the misery of being bound without love,--bound to one, and preferring\nanother; that is a punishment which you do not deserve.\n\nI know you did not meet, or rather will not meet, to-day, as he called\nhere yesterday; and I am glad of it. It does not seem very likely, at\nleast, that he should be in time for a dinner visit sixty miles off. We\ndid not see him, only found his card when we came home at four. Your\nUncle H. merely observed that he was a day after \"the fair.\" We asked\nyour brother on Monday (when Mr. Hayter was talked of) why he did not\ninvite him too; saying, \"I know he is in town, for I met him the other\nday in Bond St.\" Edward answered that he did not know where he was to be\nfound. \"Don't you know his chambers?\" \"No.\"\n\nI shall be most glad to hear from you again, my dearest Fanny, but it\nmust not be later than Saturday, as we shall be off on Monday long\nbefore the letters are delivered; and write something that may do to be\nread or told. I am to take the Miss Moores back on Saturday, and when I\nreturn I shall hope to find your pleasant little flowing scrawl on the\ntable. It will be a relief to me after playing at ma'ams, for though I\nlike Miss H. M. as much as one can at my time of life after a day's\nacquaintance, it is uphill work to be talking to those whom one knows so\nlittle.\n\nOnly one comes back with me to-morrow, probably Miss Eliza, and I rather\ndread it. We shall not have two ideas in common. She is young, pretty,\nchattering, and thinking chiefly, I presume, of dress, company, and\nadmiration. Mr. Sanford is to join us at dinner, which will be a\ncomfort, and in the evening, while your uncle and Miss Eliza play chess,\nhe shall tell me comical things and I will laugh at them, which will be\na pleasure to both.\n\nI called in Keppel Street and saw them all, including dear Uncle\nCharles, who is to come and dine with us quietly to-day. Little Harriot\nsat in my lap, and seemed as gentle and affectionate as ever, and as\npretty, except not being quite well. Fanny is a fine stout girl, talking\nincessantly, with an interesting degree of lisp and indistinctness, and\nvery likely may be the handsomest in time. Cassy did not show more\npleasure in seeing me than her sisters, but I expected no better. She\ndoes not shine in the tender feelings. She will never be a Miss O'Neil,\nmore in the Mrs. Siddons line.\n\nThank you, but it is not settled yet whether I do hazard a second\nedition. We are to see Egerton to-day, when it will probably be\ndetermined. People are more ready to borrow and praise than to buy,\nwhich I cannot wonder at; but though I like praise as well as anybody, I\nlike what Edward calls \"Pewter\" too. I hope he continues careful of his\neyes, and finds the good effect of it. I cannot suppose we differ in our\nideas of the Christian religion. You have given an excellent description\nof it. We only affix a different meaning to the word _evangelical_.\n\n                                  Yours most affectionately,\n                                                      J. AUSTEN.\n\n  Miss KNIGHT,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[35] Sisters to Mrs. Hall.\n\n\n\n\nLXVII.\n\n\n                                           CHAWTON, Friday (Sept. 29).\n\nMY DEAR ANNA,--We told Mr. B. Lefroy that if the weather did not prevent\nus we should certainly come and see you to-morrow and bring Cassy,\ntrusting to your being good enough to give her a dinner about one\no'clock, that we might be able to be with you the earlier and stay the\nlonger. But on giving Cassy her choice between the Fair at Alton or\nWyards, it must be confessed that she has preferred the former, which we\ntrust will not greatly affront you; if it does, you may hope that some\nlittle Anne hereafter may revenge the insult by a similar preference of\nan Alton Fair to her Cousin Cassy. In the mean while we have determined\nto put off our visit to you until Monday, which we hope will be not less\nconvenient. I wish the weather may not resolve on another put off. I\nmust come to you before Wednesday if it be possible, for on that day I\nam going to London for a week or two with your Uncle Henry, who is\nexpected here on Sunday. If Monday should appear too dirty for walking,\nand Mr. Lefroy would be so kind as to come and fetch me, I should be\nmuch obliged to him. Cassy might be of the party, and your Aunt\nCassandra will take another opportunity.\n\n                 Yours very affectionately, my dear Anna,\n                                                    J. AUSTEN.\n\n\n_Note by Lord Brabourne._\n\nBut before the week or two to which she had limited her visit in Hans\nPlace was at an end, her brother fell ill, and on October 22 he was in\nsuch danger that she wrote to Steventon to summon her father to town.\nThe letter was two days on the road, and reached him on Sunday the 24th.\nEven then he did not start immediately. In the evening he and his wife\nrode to Chawton, and it was not until the next day that he and Cassandra\narrived in Hans Place. The malady from which Henry Austen was suffering\nwas low fever, and he was for some days at death's door: but he rallied\nsoon after his brother and sisters arrived, and recovered so quickly\nthat the former was able to leave him at the end of the week. The great\nanxiety and fatigue which Jane underwent at this time was supposed by\nsome of her family to have broken down her health. She was in a very\nfeeble and exhausted condition when the bank in which her brother Henry\nwas a partner broke, and he not only lost all that he possessed, but\nmost of his relations suffered severely also. Jane was well enough to\npay several visits with her sister in the summer of 1816, including one\nto Steventon,--the last she ever paid to that home of her childhood. The\nlast note which Mrs. Lefroy had preserved is dated,--\n\n\n\n\nLXVIII.\n\n\n                                                        JUNE 23, 1816.\n\nMY DEAR ANNA,--Cassy desires her best thanks for the book. She was quite\ndelighted to see it. I do not know when I have seen her so much struck\nby anybody's kindness as on this occasion. Her sensibility seems to be\nopening to the perception of great actions. These gloves having appeared\non the pianoforte ever since you were here on Friday, we imagine they\nmust be yours. Mrs. Digweed returned yesterday through all the\nafternoon's rain, and was of course wet through; but in speaking of it\nshe never once said \"it was beyond everything,\" which I am sure it must\nhave been. Your mamma means to ride to Speen Hill to-morrow to see the\nMrs. Hulberts, who are both very indifferent. By all accounts they\nreally are breaking now,--not so stout as the old jackass.\n\n                                  Yours affectionately,       J. A.\n\n  CHAWTON, Sunday, June 23.\n\nUncle Charles's birthday.\n\n\n\n\nLXIX.\n\n\n                                  HANS PLACE, Friday (Nov. 24, 1815).\n\nMY DEAREST CASSANDRA,--I have the pleasure of sending you a much better\naccount of my affairs, which I know will be a great delight to you.\n\nI wrote to Mr. Murray yesterday myself, and Henry wrote at the same time\nto Roworth. Before the notes were out of the house, I received three\nsheets and an apology from R. We sent the notes, however, and I had a\nmost civil one in reply from Mr. M. He is so very polite, indeed, that\nit is quite overcoming. The printers have been waiting for paper,--the\nblame is thrown upon the stationer; but he gives his word that I shall\nhave no further cause for dissatisfaction. He has lent us Miss Williams\nand Scott, and says that any book of his will always be at my service.\nIn short, I am soothed and complimented into tolerable comfort.\n\nWe had a visit yesterday from Edwd. Knight, and Mr. Mascall joined him\nhere; and this morning has brought Mr. Mascall's compliments and two\npheasants. We have some hope of Edward's coming to dinner to-day; he\nwill, if he can, I believe. He is looking extremely well.\n\nTo-morrow Mr. Haden is to dine with us. There is happiness! We really\ngrow so fond of Mr. Haden that I do not know what to expect. He and Mr.\nTilson and Mr. Philips made up our circle of wits last night. Fanny\nplayed, and he sat and listened and suggested improvements, till Richard\ncame in to tell him that \"the doctor was waiting for him at Captn.\nBlake's;\" and then he was off with a speed that you can imagine. He\nnever does appear in the least above his profession or out of humor\nwith it, or I should think poor Captn. Blake, whoever he is, in a very\nbad way.\n\nI must have misunderstood Henry when I told you that you were to hear\nfrom him to-day. He read me what he wrote to Edward: part of it must\nhave amused him, I am sure one part, alas! cannot be very amusing to\nanybody. I wonder that with such business to worry him he can be getting\nbetter; but he certainly does gain strength, and if you and Edwd. were\nto see him now, I feel sure that you would think him improved since\nMonday.\n\nHe was out yesterday; it was a fine sunshiny day here (in the country\nperhaps you might have clouds and fogs. Dare I say so? I shall not\ndeceive you, if I do, as to my estimation of the climate of London), and\nhe ventured first on the balcony and then as far as the greenhouse. He\ncaught no cold, and therefore has done more to-day, with great delight\nand self-persuasion of improvement.\n\nHe has been to see Mrs. Tilson and the Malings. By the by, you may talk\nto Mr. T. of his wife's being better; I saw her yesterday, and was\nsensible of her having gained ground in the last two days.\n\n_Evening._--We have had no Edward. Our circle is formed,--only Mr.\nTilson and Mr. Haden. We are not so happy as we were. A message came\nthis afternoon from Mrs. Latouche and Miss East, offering themselves to\ndrink tea with us to-morrow, and, as it was accepted, here is an end of\nour extreme felicity in our dinner guest. I am heartily sorry they are\ncoming; it will be an evening spoilt to Fanny and me.\n\nAnother little disappointment: Mr. H. advises Henry's not venturing with\nus in the carriage to-morrow; if it were spring, he says, it would be a\ndifferent thing. One would rather this had not been. He seems to think\nhis going out to-day rather imprudent, though acknowledging at the same\ntime that he is better than he was in the morning.\n\nFanny has had a letter full of commissions from Goodnestone; we shall be\nbusy about them and her own matters, I dare say, from twelve to four.\nNothing, I trust, will keep us from Keppel Street.\n\nThis day has brought a most friendly letter from Mr. Fowle, with a brace\nof pheasants. I did not know before that Henry had written to him a few\ndays ago to ask for them. We shall live upon pheasants,--no bad life!\n\nI send you five one-pound notes, for fear you should be distressed for\nlittle money. Lizzy's work is charmingly done; shall you put it to your\nchintz? A sheet came in this moment; 1st and 3rd vols. are now at 144;\n2nd at 48. I am sure you will like particulars. We are not to have the\ntrouble of returning the sheets to Mr. Murray any longer; the printer's\nboys bring and carry.\n\nI hope Mary continues to get well fast, and I send my love to little\nHerbert. You will tell me more of Martha's plans, of course, when you\nwrite again. Remember me most kindly to everybody, and Miss Benn\nbesides.\n\n                            Yours very affectionately,\n                                                   J. AUSTEN.\n\nI have been listening to dreadful insanity. It is Mr. Haden's firm\nbelief that a person not musical is fit for every sort of wickedness. I\nventured to assert a little on the other side, but wished the cause in\nabler hands.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, Chawton.\n\n\n\n\nLXX.\n\n\n                                           HANS PLACE, Sunday (Nov. 26).\n\nMY DEAREST,--The parcel arrived safely, and I am much obliged to you for\nyour trouble. It cost 2_s._ 10_d._, but as there is a certain saving of\n2_s._ 41/2_d._ on the other side, I am sure it is well worth doing. I send\nfour pair of silk stockings, but I do not want them washed at present.\nIn the three neckhandkerchiefs I include the one sent down before. These\nthings, perhaps, Edwd. may be able to bring, but even if he is not, I am\nextremely pleased with his returning to you from Steventon. It is much\nbetter, far preferable.\n\nI did mention the P. R. in my note to Mr. Murray; it brought me a fine\ncompliment in return. Whether it has done any other good I do not know,\nbut Henry thought it worth trying.\n\nThe printers continue to supply me very well. I am advanced in Vol. III.\nto my _arra_-root, upon which peculiar style of spelling there is a\nmodest query in the margin. I will not forget Anna's arrowroot. I hope\nyou have told Martha of my first resolution of letting nobody know that\nI might dedicate, etc., for fear of being obliged to do it, and that she\nis thoroughly convinced of my being influenced now by nothing but the\nmost mercenary motives. I have paid nine shillings on her account to\nMiss Palmer; there was no more owing.\n\nWell, we were very busy all yesterday; from half-past eleven till four\nin the streets, working almost entirely for other people, driving from\nplace to place after a parcel for Sandling, which we could never find,\nand encountering the miseries of Grafton House to get a purple frock for\nEleanor Bridges. We got to Keppel St., however, which was all I cared\nfor; and though we could stay only a quarter of an hour, Fanny's calling\ngave great pleasure, and her sensibility still greater, for she was very\nmuch affected at the sight of the children. Poor little F. looked\nheavy. We saw the whole party.\n\nAunt Harriet hopes Cassy will not forget to make a pincushion for Mrs.\nKelly, as she has spoken of its being promised her several times. I hope\nwe shall see Aunt H. and the dear little girls here on Thursday.\n\nSo much for the morning. Then came the dinner and Mr. Haden, who brought\ngood manners and clever conversation. From seven to eight the harp; at\neight Mrs. L. and Miss E. arrived, and for the rest of the evening the\ndrawing-room was thus arranged: on the sofa side the two ladies, Henry,\nand myself making the best of it; on the opposite side Fanny and Mr.\nHaden, in two chairs (I believe, at least, they had two chairs), talking\ntogether uninterruptedly. Fancy the scene! And what is to be fancied\nnext? Why, that Mr. H. dines here again to-morrow. To-day we are to have\nMr. Barlow. Mr. H. is reading \"Mansfield Park\" for the first time, and\nprefers it to P. and P.\n\nA hare and four rabbits from Gm. yesterday, so that we are stocked for\nnearly a week. Poor Farmer Andrews! I am very sorry for him, and\nsincerely wish his recovery.\n\nA better account of the sugar than I could have expected. I should like\nto help you break some more. I am glad you cannot wake early; I am sure\nyou must have been under great arrears of rest.\n\nFanny and I have been to B. Chapel, and walked back with Maria Cuthbert.\nWe have been very little plagued with visitors this last week. I\nremember only Miss Herries, the aunt, but I am in terror for to-day, a\nfine bright Sunday; plenty of mortar, and nothing to do.\n\nHenry gets out in his garden every day, but at present his inclination\nfor doing more seems over, nor has he now any plan for leaving London\nbefore Dec. 18, when he thinks of going to Oxford for a few days;\nto-day, indeed, his feelings are for continuing where he is through the\nnext two months.\n\nOne knows the uncertainty of all this; but should it be so, we must\nthink the best, and hope the best, and do the best; and my idea in that\ncase is, that when he goes to Oxford I should go home, and have nearly a\nweek of you before you take my place. This is only a silent project, you\nknow, to be gladly given up if better things occur. Henry calls himself\nstronger every day, and Mr. H. keeps on approving his pulse, which seems\ngenerally better than ever, but still they will not let him be well.\nPerhaps when Fanny is gone he will be allowed to recover faster.\n\nI am not disappointed: I never thought the little girl at Wyards very\npretty, but she will have a fine complexion and curly hair, and pass for\na beauty. We are glad the mamma's cold has not been worse, and send her\nour love and good wishes by every convenient opportunity. Sweet, amiable\nFrank! why does he have a cold too? Like Captain Mirvan to Mr. Duval,[36]\n\"I wish it well over with him.\"\n\nFanny has heard all that I have said to you about herself and Mr. H.\nThank you very much for the sight of dearest Charles's letter to\nyourself. How pleasantly and how naturally he writes! and how perfect a\npicture of his disposition and feelings his style conveys! Poor dear\nfellow! Not a present!\n\nI have a great mind to send him all the twelve copies which were to have\nbeen dispersed among my near connections, beginning with the P. R.[2]\nand ending with Countess Morley. Adieu.\n\n                                  Yours affectionately,\n                                                   J. AUSTEN.\n\nGive my love to Cassy and Mary Jane. Caroline will be gone when this\nreaches you.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[36] Characters in Miss Burney's \"Evelina.\"\n\n[37] Prince Regent.\n\n\n\n\nLXXI.\n\n\n                                        HANS PLACE, Saturday (Dec. 2).\n\nMY DEAR CASSANDRA,--Henry came back yesterday, and might have returned\nthe day before if he had known as much in time. I had the pleasure of\nhearing from Mr. T. on Wednesday night that Mr. Seymour thought there\nwas not the least occasion for his absenting himself any longer.\n\nI had also the comfort of a few lines on Wednesday morning from Henry\nhimself, just after your letter was gone, giving so good an account of\nhis feelings as made me perfectly easy. He met with the utmost care and\nattention at Hanwell, spent his two days there very quietly and\npleasantly, and being certainly in no respect the worse for going, we\nmay believe that he must be better, as he is quite sure of being\nhimself. To make his return a complete gala, Mr. Haden was secured for\ndinner. I need not say that our evening was agreeable.\n\nBut you seem to be under a mistake as to Mr. H. You call him an\napothecary. He is no apothecary; he has never been an apothecary; there\nis not an apothecary in this neighborhood,--the only inconvenience of\nthe situation, perhaps,--but so it is; we have not a medical man within\nreach. He is a Haden, nothing but a Haden, a sort of wonderful\nnondescript creature on two legs, something between a man and an angel,\nbut without the least spice of an apothecary. He is, perhaps, the only\nperson not an apothecary hereabouts. He has never sung to us. He will\nnot sing without a pianoforte accompaniment.\n\nMr. Meyers gives his three lessons a week, altering his days and his\nhours, however, just as he chooses, never very punctual, and never\ngiving good measure. I have not Fanny's fondness for masters, and Mr.\nMeyers does not give me any longing after them. The truth is, I think,\nthat they are all, at least music-masters, made of too much consequence,\nand allowed to take too many liberties with their scholars' time.\n\nWe shall be delighted to see Edward on Monday, only sorry that you must\nbe losing him. A turkey will be equally welcome with himself. He must\nprepare for his own proper bedchamber here, as Henry moved down to the\none below last week; he found the other cold.\n\nI am sorry my mother has been suffering, and am afraid this exquisite\nweather is too good to agree with her. I enjoy it all over me, from top\nto toe, from right to left, longitudinally, perpendicularly, diagonally;\nand I cannot but selfishly hope we are to have it last till\nChristmas,--nice, unwholesome, unseasonable, relaxing, close, muggy\nweather.\n\nOh, thank you very much for your long letter; it did me a great deal of\ngood. Henry accepts your offer of making his nine gallon of mead\nthankfully. The mistake of the dogs rather vexed him for a moment, but\nhe has not thought of it since. To-day he makes a third attempt at his\nstrengthening plaister, and as I am sure he will now be getting out a\ngreat deal, it is to be wished that he may be able to keep it on. He\nsets off this morning by the Chelsea coach to sign bonds and visit\nHenrietta St., and I have no doubt will be going every day to Henrietta\nSt.\n\nFanny and I were very snug by ourselves as soon as we were satisfied\nabout our invalid's being safe at Hanwell. By manoeuvring and good luck\nwe foiled all the Malings' attempts upon us. Happily I caught a little\ncold on Wednesday, the morning we were in town, which we made very\nuseful, and we saw nobody but our precious[38] and Mr. Tilson.\n\nThis evening the Malings are allowed to drink tea with us. We are in\nhopes--that is, we wish--Miss Palmer and the little girls may come this\nmorning. You know, of course, that she could not come on Thursday, and\nshe will not attempt to name any other day.\n\nGod bless you. Excuse the shortness of this, but I must finish it now,\nthat I may save you 2_d._ Best love.\n\n                                  Yours affectionately,     J. A.\n\nIt strikes me that I have no business to give the P. R. a binding, but\nwe will take counsel upon the question.\n\nI am glad you have put the flounce on your chintz; I am sure it must\nlook particularly well, and it is what I had thought of.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN,\n    Chawton, Alton, Hants.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[38] Probably a playful allusion to Mr. Haden.\n\n\n\n\nLXXII.\n\n\n                                               CHAWTON (Feb. 20, 1816).\n\nMY DEAREST FANNY,--You are inimitable, irresistible. You are the delight\nof my life. Such letters, such entertaining letters, as you have lately\nsent! such a description of your queer little heart! such a lovely\ndisplay of what imagination does! You are worth your weight in gold, or\neven in the new silver coinage. I cannot express to you what I have felt\nin reading your history of yourself,--how full of pity and concern, and\nadmiration and amusement I have been! You are the paragon of all that is\nsilly and sensible, commonplace and eccentric, sad and lively, provoking\nand interesting. Who can keep pace with the fluctuations of your fancy,\nthe capprizios of your taste, the contradictions of your feelings? You\nare so odd, and all the time so perfectly natural!--so peculiar in\nyourself, and yet so like everybody else!\n\nIt is very, very gratifying to me to know you so intimately. You can\nhardly think what a pleasure it is to me to have such thorough pictures\nof your heart. Oh, what a loss it will be when you are married! You are\ntoo agreeable in your single state,--too agreeable as a niece. I shall\nhate you when your delicious play of mind is all settled down into\nconjugal and maternal affections.\n\nMr. B---- frightens me. He will have you. I see you at the altar. I have\nsome faith in Mrs. C. Cage's observation, and still more in Lizzy's; and\nbesides, I know it must be so. He must be wishing to attach you. It\nwould be too stupid and too shameful in him to be otherwise; and all the\nfamily are seeking your acquaintance.\n\nDo not imagine that I have any real objection; I have rather taken a\nfancy to him than not, and I like the house for you. I only do not like\nyou should marry anybody. And yet I do wish you to marry very much,\nbecause I know you will never be happy till you are; but the loss of a\nFanny Knight will be never made up to me. My \"affec. niece F. C. B----\"\nwill be but a poor substitute. I do not like your being nervous, and so\napt to cry,--it is a sign you are not quite well; but I hope Mr.\nScud--as you always write his name (your Mr. Scuds amuse me very\nmuch)--will do you good.\n\nWhat a comfort that Cassandra should be so recovered! It was more than\nwe had expected. I can easily believe she was very patient and very\ngood. I always loved Cassandra for her fine dark eyes and sweet temper.\nI am almost entirely cured of my rheumatism,--just a little pain in my\nknee now and then, to make me remember what it was, and keep on flannel.\nAunt Cassandra nursed me so beautifully.\n\nI enjoy your visit to Goodnestone, it must be a great pleasure to you;\nyou have not seen Fanny Cage in comfort so long. I hope she represents\nand remonstrates and reasons with you properly. Why should you be living\nin dread of his marrying somebody else? (Yet how natural!) You did not\nchoose to have him yourself, why not allow him to take comfort where he\ncan? In your conscience you know that he could not bear a companion with\na more animated character. You cannot forget how you felt under the idea\nof its having been possible that he might have dined in Hans Place.\n\nMy dearest Fanny, I cannot bear you should be unhappy about him. Think\nof his principles; think of his father's objection, of want of money,\netc., etc. But I am doing no good; no, all that I urge against him will\nrather make you take his part more,--sweet, perverse Fanny.\n\nAnd now I will tell you that we like your Henry to the utmost, to the\nvery top of the glass, quite brimful. He is a very pleasing young man. I\ndo not see how he could be mended. He does really bid fair to be\neverything his father and sister could wish; and William I love very\nmuch indeed, and so we do all; he is quite our own William. In short, we\nare very comfortable together; that is, we can answer for ourselves.\n\nMrs. Deedes is as welcome as May to all our benevolence to her son; we\nonly lamented that we could not do more, and that the 50_l._ note we\nslipped into his hand at parting was necessarily the limit of our\noffering. Good Mrs. Deedes! Scandal and gossip; yes, I dare say you are\nwell stocked, but I am very fond of Mrs. ---- for reasons good. Thank\nyou for mentioning her praise of \"Emma,\" etc.\n\nI have contributed the marking to Uncle H.'s shirts, and now they are a\ncomplete memorial of the tender regard of many.\n\n_Friday._--I had no idea when I began this yesterday of sending it\nbefore your brother went back, but I have written away my foolish\nthoughts at such a rate that I will not keep them many hours longer to\nstare me in the face.\n\nMuch obliged for the quadrilles, which I am grown to think pretty\nenough, though of course they are very inferior to the cotillons of my\nown day.\n\nBen and Anna walked here last Sunday to hear Uncle Henry, and she looked\nso pretty, it was quite a pleasure to see her, so young and so blooming\nand so innocent, as if she had never had a wicked thought in her life,\nwhich yet one has some reason to suppose she must have had, if we\nbelieve the doctrine of original sin. I hope Lizzy will have her play\nvery kindly arranged for her. Henry is generally thought very\ngood-looking, but not so handsome as Edward. I think I prefer his face.\nWm. is in excellent looks, has a fine appetite, and seems perfectly\nwell. You will have a great break up at Godmersham in the spring. You\nmust feel their all going. It is very right, however! Poor Miss C.! I\nshall pity her when she begins to understand herself.\n\nYour objection to the quadrilles delighted me exceedingly. Pretty well,\nfor a lady irrecoverably attached to one person! Sweet Fanny, believe no\nsuch thing of yourself, spread no such malicious slander upon your\nunderstanding within the precincts of your imagination. Do not speak ill\nof your sense merely for the gratification of your fancy; yours is sense\nwhich deserves more honorable treatment. You are not in love with him;\nyou never have been really in love with him.\n\n                                  Yours very affectionately,\n                                                       J. AUSTEN.\n\n  Miss KNIGHT,\n    Godmersham Park, Faversham, Kent.\n\n\n\n\nLXXIII.\n\n\n                                         CHAWTON, Thursday (March 13).\n\nAS to making any adequate return for such a letter as yours, my dearest\nFanny, it is absolutely impossible. If I were to labor at it all the\nrest of my life, and live to the age of Methuselah, I could never\naccomplish anything so long and so perfect; but I cannot let William go\nwithout a few lines of acknowledgment and reply.\n\nI have pretty well done with Mr. ----. By your description, he cannot be\nin love with you, however he may try at it; and I could not wish the\nmatch unless there were a great deal of love on his side. I do not know\nwhat to do about Jemima Branfill. What does her dancing away with so\nmuch spirit mean? That she does not care for him, or only wishes to\nappear not to care for him? Who can understand a young lady?\n\nPoor Mrs. C. Milles, that she should die on the wrong day at last, after\nbeing about it so long! It was unlucky that the Goodnestone party could\nnot meet you; and I hope her friendly, obliging, social spirit, which\ndelighted in drawing people together, was not conscious of the division\nand disappointment she was occasioning. I am sorry and surprised that\nyou speak of her as having little to leave, and must feel for Miss\nMilles, though she is Molly, if a material loss of income is to attend\nher other loss. Single women have a dreadful propensity for being poor,\nwhich is one very strong argument in favor of matrimony; but I need not\ndwell on such arguments with you, pretty dear.\n\nTo you I shall say, as I have often said before, Do not be in a hurry,\nthe right man will come at last; you will in the course of the next two\nor three years meet with somebody more generally unexceptionable than\nany one you have yet known, who will love you as warmly as possible, and\nwho will so completely attract you that you will feel you never really\nloved before.\n\nDo none of the A.'s ever come to balls now? You have never mentioned\nthem as being at any. And what do you hear of the Gripps, or of Fanny\nand her husband?\n\nAunt Cassandra walked to Wyards yesterday with Mrs. Digweed. Anna has\nhad a bad cold, and looks pale. She has just weaned Julia.\n\nI have also heard lately from your Aunt Harriot, and cannot understand\ntheir plans in parting with Miss S., whom she seems very much to value\nnow that Harriot and Eleanor are both of an age for a governess to be so\nuseful to, especially as, when Caroline was sent to school some years,\nMiss Bell was still retained, though the others even then were nursery\nchildren. They have some good reason, I dare say, though I cannot\npenetrate it; and till I know what it is I shall invent a bad one, and\namuse myself with accounting for the difference of measures by supposing\nMiss S. to be a superior sort of woman, who has never stooped to\nrecommend herself to the master of the family by flattery, as Miss Bell\ndid.\n\nI will answer your kind questions more than you expect. \"Miss Catherine\"\nis put upon the shelf for the present, and I do not know that she will\never come out; but I have a something ready for publication, which may,\nperhaps, appear about a twelvemonth hence. It is short,--about the\nlength of \"Catherine.\" This is for yourself alone. Neither Mr. Salusbury\nnor Mr. Wildman is to know of it.\n\nI am got tolerably well again, quite equal to walking about and enjoying\nthe air, and by sitting down and resting a good while between my walks I\nget exercise enough. I have a scheme, however, for accomplishing more,\nas the weather grows spring-like. I mean to take to riding the donkey;\nit will be more independent and less troublesome than the use of the\ncarriage, and I shall be able to go about with Aunt Cassandra in her\nwalks to Alton and Wyards.\n\nI hope you will think Wm. looking well; he was bilious the other day,\nand At. Cass. supplied him with a dose at his own request. I am sure you\nwould have approved it. Wm. and I are the best of friends. I love him\nvery much. Everything is so natural about him,--his affections, his\nmanners, and his drollery. He entertains and interests us extremely.\n\nMat. Hammond and A. M. Shaw are people whom I cannot care for in\nthemselves, but I enter into their situation, and am glad they are so\nhappy. If I were the Duchess of Richmond, I should be very miserable\nabout my son's choice.\n\nOur fears increase for poor little Harriot; the latest account is that\nSir Ev. Home is confirmed in his opinion of there being water on the\nbrain. I hope Heaven, in its mercy, will take her soon. Her poor father\nwill be quite worn out by his feelings for her; he cannot spare Cassy at\npresent, she is an occupation and a comfort to him.\n\n\n\n\nLXXIV.\n\n\n                                           CHAWTON, Sunday (March 23).\n\nI AM very much obliged to you, my dearest Fanny, for sending me Mr. W.'s\nconversation; I had great amusement in reading it, and I hope I am not\naffronted, and do not think the worse of him for having a brain so very\ndifferent from mine; but my strongest sensation of all is astonishment\nat your being able to press him on the subject so perseveringly; and I\nagree with your papa that it was not fair. When he knows the truth, he\nwill be uncomfortable.\n\nYou are the oddest creature! Nervous enough in some respects, but in\nothers perfectly without nerves! Quite unrepulsable, hardened, and\nimpudent. Do not oblige him to read any more. Have mercy on him, tell\nhim the truth, and make him an apology. He and I should not in the least\nagree, of course, in our ideas of novels and heroines. Pictures of\nperfection, as you know, make me sick and wicked; but there is some very\ngood sense in what he says, and I particularly respect him for wishing\nto think well of all young ladies; it shows an amiable and a delicate\nmind. And he deserves better treatment than to be obliged to read any\nmore of my works.\n\nDo not be surprised at finding Uncle Henry acquainted with my having\nanother ready for publication. I could not say No when he asked me, but\nhe knows nothing more of it. You will not like it, so you need not be\nimpatient. You may perhaps like the heroine, as she is almost too good\nfor me.\n\nMany thanks for your kind care for my health; I certainly have not been\nwell for many weeks, and about a week ago I was very poorly. I have had\na good deal of fever at times, and indifferent nights; but I am\nconsiderably better now, and am recovering my looks a little, which have\nbeen bad enough,--black and white, and every wrong color. I must not\ndepend upon being ever very blooming again. Sickness is a dangerous\nindulgence at my time of life. Thank you for everything you tell me. I\ndo not feel worthy of it by anything that I can say in return, but I\nassure you my pleasure in your letters is quite as great as ever, and I\nam interested and amused just as you could wish me. If there is a Miss\n_Marsden_, I perceive whom she will marry.\n\n_Evening._--I was languid and dull and very bad company when I wrote the\nabove; I am better now, to my own feelings at least, and wish I may be\nmore agreeable. We are going to have rain, and after that very pleasant\ngenial weather, which will exactly do for me, as my saddle will then be\ncompleted, and air and exercise is what I want. Indeed, I shall be very\nglad when the event at Scarlets is over, the expectation of it keeps us\nin a worry, your grandmamma especially; she sits brooding over evils\nwhich cannot be remedied, and conduct impossible to be understood.\n\nNow the reports from Keppel St. are rather better; little Harriot's\nheadaches are abated, and Sir Evd. is satisfied with the effect of the\nmercury, and does not despair of a cure. The complaint I find is not\nconsidered incurable nowadays, provided the patient be young enough not\nto have the head hardened. The water in that case may be drawn off by\nmercury. But though this is a new idea to us, perhaps it may have been\nlong familiar to you through your friend Mr. Scud. I hope his high\nrenown is sustained by driving away William's cough.\n\nTell Wm. that Triggs is as beautiful and condescending as ever, and was\nso good as to dine with us to-day, and tell him that I often play at\nnines and think of him.\n\nThe Papillons came back on Friday night, but I have not seen them yet,\nas I do not venture to church. I cannot hear, however, but that they are\nthe same Mr. P. and his sister they used to be. She has engaged a new\nmaidservant in Mrs. Calker's room, whom she means to make also\nhousekeeper under herself.\n\nOld Philmore was buried yesterday, and I, by way of saying something to\nTriggs, observed that it had been a very handsome funeral; but his\nmanner of reply made me suppose that it was not generally esteemed so. I\ncan only be sure of one part being very handsome,--Triggs himself,\nwalking behind in his green coat. Mrs. Philmore attended as chief\nmourner, in bombazine, made very short, and flounced with crape.\n\n_Tuesday._--I have had various plans as to this letter, but at last I\nhave determined that Uncle Henry shall forward it from London. I want to\nsee how Canterbury looks in the direction. When once Uncle H. has left\nus, I shall wish him with you. London has become a hateful place to him,\nand he is always depressed by the idea of it. I hope he will be in time\nfor your sick. I am sure he must do that part of his duty as excellently\nas all the rest. He returned yesterday from Steventon, and was with us\nby breakfast, bringing Edward with him, only that Edwd. stayed to\nbreakfast at Wyards. We had a pleasant family day, for the Altons dined\nwith us, the last visit of the kind probably which she will be able to\npay us for many a month.\n\nI hope your own Henry is in France, and that you have heard from him;\nthe passage once over, he will feel all happiness. I took my first ride\nyesterday, and liked it very much. I went up Mounter's Lane and round by\nwhere the new cottages are to be, and found the exercise and everything\nvery pleasant; and I had the advantage of agreeable companions, as At.\nCass. and Edward walked by my side. At. Cass. is such an excellent\nnurse, so assiduous and unwearied! But you know all that already.\n\n                                   Very affectionately yours,\n                                                          J. AUSTEN.\n\n  Miss KNIGHT,\n    Godmersham Park, Canterbury.\n\n\n\n\nLXXV.\n\n\n                                      CHAWTON, Sunday (Sept. 8, 1816).\n\nMY DEAREST CASSANDRA,--I have borne the arrival of your letter to-day\nextremely well; anybody might have thought it was giving me pleasure. I\nam very glad you find so much to be satisfied with at Cheltenham. While\nthe waters agree, everything else is trifling.\n\nA letter arrived for you from Charles last Thursday. They are all safe\nand pretty well in Keppel St., the children decidedly better for\nBroadstairs; and he writes principally to ask when it will be convenient\nto us to receive Miss P., the little girls, and himself. They would be\nready to set off in ten days from the time of his writing, to pay their\nvisits in Hampshire and Berkshire, and he would prefer coming to Chawton\nfirst.\n\nI have answered him, and said that we hoped it might suit them to wait\ntill the last week in Septr., as we could not ask them sooner, either on\nyour account or the want of room. I mentioned the 23rd as the probable\nday of your return. When you have once left Cheltenham, I shall grudge\nevery half-day wasted on the road. If there were but a coach from\nHungerford to Chawton! I have desired him to let me hear again soon.\n\nHe does not include a maid in the list to be accommodated; but if they\nbring one, as I suppose they will, we shall have no bed in the house\neven then for Charles himself,--let alone Henry. But what can we do?\n\nWe shall have the Gt. House quite at our command; it is to be cleared of\nthe Papillons' servants in a day or two. They themselves have been\nhurried off into Essex to take possession,--not of a large estate left\nthem by an uncle, but to scrape together all they can, I suppose, of the\neffects of a Mrs. Rawstorn, a rich old friend and cousin suddenly\ndeceased, to whom they are joint executors. So there is a happy end of\nthe Kentish Papillons coming here.\n\nNo morning service to-day, wherefore I am writing between twelve and one\no'clock. Mr. Benn in the afternoon, and likewise more rain again, by the\nlook and the sound of things. You left us in doubt of Mrs. Benn's\nsituation, but she has bespoke her nurse. . . . The F. A.'s dined with\nus yesterday, and had fine weather both for coming and going home, which\nhas hardly ever happened to them before. She is still unprovided with a\nhousemaid.\n\nOur day at Alton was very pleasant, venison quite right, children well\nbehaved, and Mr. and Mrs. Digweed taking kindly to our charades and\nother games. I must also observe, for his mother's satisfaction, that\nEdward at my suggestion devoted himself very properly to the\nentertainment of Miss S. Gibson. Nothing was wanting except Mr. Sweeney;\nbut he, alas! had been ordered away to London the day before. We had a\nbeautiful walk home by moonlight.\n\nThank you, my back has given me scarcely any pain for many days. I have\nan idea that agitation does it as much harm as fatigue, and that I was\nill at the time of your going from the very circumstance of your going.\nI am nursing myself up now into as beautiful a state as I can, because I\nhear that Dr. White means to call on me before he leaves the country.\n\n_Evening._--Frank and Mary and the children visited us this morning. Mr.\nand Mrs. Gibson are to come on the 23rd, and there is too much reason to\nfear they will stay above a week. Little George could tell me where you\nwere gone to, as well as what you were to bring him, when I asked him\nthe other day.\n\nSir Tho. Miller is dead. I treat you with a dead baronet in almost every\nletter.\n\nSo you have C. Craven among you, as well as the Duke of Orleans and Mr.\nPocock. But it mortifies me that you have not added one to the stock of\ncommon acquaintance. Do pray meet with somebody belonging to yourself. I\nam quite weary of your knowing nobody.\n\nMrs. Digweed parts with both Hannah and old cook: the former will not\ngive up her lover, who is a man of bad character; the latter is guilty\nonly of being unequal to anything.\n\nMiss Terry was to have spent this week with her sister, but as usual it\nis put off. My amiable friend knows the value of her company. I have not\nseen Anna since the day you left us; her father and brother visited her\nmost days. Edward and Ben called here on Thursday. Edward was in his way\nto Selborne. We found him very agreeable. He is come back from France,\nthinking of the French as one could wish,--disappointed in everything.\nHe did not go beyond Paris.\n\nI have a letter from Mrs. Perigord; she and her mother are in London\nagain. She speaks of France as a scene of general poverty and misery: no\nmoney, no trade, nothing to be got but by the innkeepers, and as to her\nown present prospects she is not much less melancholy than before.\n\nI have also a letter from Miss Sharp, quite one of her letters; she has\nbeen again obliged to exert herself more than ever, in a more\ndistressing, more harassed state, and has met with another excellent old\nphysician and his wife, with every virtue under heaven, who takes to her\nand cures her from pure love and benevolence. Dr. and Mrs. Storer are\ntheir Mrs. and Miss Palmer--for they are at Bridlington. I am happy to\nsay, however, that the sum of the account is better than usual. Sir\nWilliam is returned; from Bridlington they go to Chevet, and she is to\nhave a young governess under her.\n\nI enjoyed Edward's company very much, as I said before, and yet I was\nnot sorry when Friday came. It had been a busy week, and I wanted a few\ndays' quiet and exemption from the thought and contrivancy which any\nsort of company gives. I often wonder how you can find time for what you\ndo, in addition to the care of the house; and how good Mrs. West could\nhave written such books and collected so many hard words, with all her\nfamily cares, is still more a matter of astonishment. Composition seems\nto me impossible with a head full of joints of mutton and doses of\nrhubarb.\n\n_Monday._--Here is a sad morning. I fear you may not have been able to\nget to the Pump. The two last days were very pleasant. I enjoyed them\nthe more for your sake. But to-day it is really bad enough to make you\nall cross. I hope Mary will change her lodgings at the fortnight's end;\nI am sure, if you looked about well, you would find others in some odd\ncorner to suit you better. Mrs. Potter charges for the name of the High\nSt.\n\nSuccess to the pianoforte! I trust it will drive you away. We hear now\nthat there is to be no honey this year. Bad news for us. We must\nhusband our present stock of mead, and I am sorry to perceive that our\ntwenty gallons is very nearly out. I cannot comprehend how the fourteen\ngallons could last so long.\n\nWe do not much like Mr. Cooper's new sermons. They are fuller of\nregeneration and conversion than ever, with the addition of his zeal in\nthe cause of the Bible Society.\n\nMartha's love to Mary and Caroline, and she is extremely glad to find\nthey like the pelisse. The Debarys are indeed odious! We are to see my\nbrother to-morrow, but for only one night. I had no idea that he would\ncare for the races without Edward. Remember me to all.\n\n                                  Yours very affectionately,\n                                                        J. AUSTEN.\n\n  Miss AUSTEN, Post-Office, Cheltenham.\n\n\n\n\n_Note by Lord Brabourne._\n\nI insert here a letter of Jane Austen's written backwards, addressed to\nher niece \"Cassy,\" daughter of Captain Charles Austen (afterwards\nAdmiral) when a little girl.\n\n\n\n\nLXXVI.\n\n\nYM RAED YSSAC,--I hsiw uoy a yppah wen raey. Ruoy xis snisuoc emac ereh\nyadretsey, dna dah hcae a eceip fo ekac. Siht si elttil Yssac's\nyadhtrib, dna ehs si eerht sraey dlo. Knarf sah nugeb gninrael Nital ew\ndeef eht Nibor yreve gninrom. Yllas netfo seriuqne retfa uoy. Yllas\nMahneb sah tog a wen neerg nwog. Teirrah Thgink semoc yreve yad ot daer\not Tnua Ardnassac. Doog eyb ym raed Yssac.\n\nTnua Ardnassac sdnes reh tseb evol, dna os ew od lla.\n\n                                  Ruoy etanoitceffa tnua,\n                                                     ENAJ NETSUA.\n\n  NOTWAHC, Naj. 8.\n\n\n\n\n_Note by Lord Brabourne._\n\n\nIn January, 1817, she wrote of herself as better and able to walk into\nAlton, and hoped in the summer she should be able to walk back. In April\nher father in a note to Mrs. Lefroy says: \"I was happy to have a good\naccount of herself written by her own hand, in a letter from your Aunt\nJane; but all who love, and that is all who know her, must be anxious on\nher account.\" We all know how well grounded that anxiety was, and how\nsoon her relations had to lament over the loss of the dearest and\nbrightest member of their family.\n\nAnd now I come to the saddest letters of all, those which tell us of the\nend of that bright life, cut short just at the time when the world might\nhave hoped that unabated intellectual vigor, supplemented by the\nexperience brought by maturer years, would have produced works if\npossible even more fascinating than those with which she had already\nembellished the literature of her country. But it was not to be. The\nfiat had gone forth,--the ties which bound that sweet spirit to earth\nwere to be severed, and a blank left, never to be filled in the family\nwhich her loved and loving presence had blessed, and where she had been\nso well and fondly appreciated. In the early spring of 1817 the\nunfavorable symptoms increased, and the failure of her health was too\nvisible to be neglected. Still no apprehensions of immediate danger were\nentertained, and it is probable that when she left Chawton for\nWinchester in May, she did not recognize the fact that she was bidding a\nlast farewell to \"Home.\" Happy for her if it was so, for there are few\nthings more melancholy than to look upon any beloved place or person\nwith the knowledge that it is for \"the last time.\" In all probability\nthis grief was spared to Jane, for even after her arrival at Winchester\nshe spoke and wrote as if recovery was hopeful; and I fancy that her\nrelations were by no means aware that the end was so near.\n\n\n_Note by Lord Brabourne._\n\nCassandra's letters tell the tale of the event in words that require no\naddition from me. They are simple and affecting,--the words of one who\nhad been stricken by a great grief, but whose religion stood her in\ngood stead, and enabled her to bear it with fortitude. The firm and\nloving bond of union which had ever united the Austen family, naturally\nintensified their sorrow at the loss of one of their number, and that\nthe one of whom they had been so proud as well as so fond. They laid her\nwithin the walls of the old cathedral which she had loved so much, and\nwent sorrowfully back to their homes, with the feeling that nothing\ncould replace to them the treasure they had lost. And most heavily of\nall must the blow have fallen upon the only sister, the correspondent,\nthe companion, the other self of Jane, who had to return alone to the\ndesolate home, and to the mother to whose comforts the two had hitherto\nministered together, but who would henceforward have her alone on whom\nto rely. . . .\n\n\n\n\n      _Letters from Miss Cassandra Austen to her niece Miss\n      Knight, after the death of her sister Jane, July 18,\n      1817._\n\n\n\n\nLXXVII.\n\n\n                                               WINCHESTER, Sunday.\n\nMY DEAREST FANNY,--Doubly dear to me now for her dear sake whom we have\nlost. She did love you most sincerely, and never shall I forget the\nproofs of love you gave her during her illness in writing those kind,\namusing letters at a time when I know your feelings would have dictated\nso different a style. Take the only reward I can give you in the\nassurance that your benevolent purpose was answered; you did contribute\nto her enjoyment.\n\nEven your last letter afforded pleasure. I merely cut the seal and gave\nit to her; she opened it and read it herself, afterwards she gave it to\nme to read, and then talked to me a little and not uncheerfully of its\ncontents, but there was then a languor about her which prevented her\ntaking the same interest in anything she had been used to do.\n\nSince Tuesday evening, when her complaint returned, there was a visible\nchange, she slept more and much more comfortably; indeed, during the\nlast eight-and-forty hours she was more asleep than awake. Her looks\naltered and she fell away, but I perceived no material diminution of\nstrength, and though I was then hopeless of a recovery, I had no\nsuspicion how rapidly my loss was approaching.\n\nI have lost a treasure, such a sister, such a friend as never can have\nbeen surpassed. She was the sun of my life, the gilder of every\npleasure, the soother of every sorrow; I had not a thought concealed\nfrom her, and it is as if I had lost a part of myself. I loved her only\ntoo well,--not better than she deserved, but I am conscious that my\naffection for her made me sometimes unjust to and negligent of others;\nand I can acknowledge, more than as a general principle, the justice of\nthe Hand which has struck this blow.\n\nYou know me too well to be at all afraid that I should suffer materially\nfrom my feelings; I am perfectly conscious of the extent of my\nirreparable loss, but I am not at all overpowered and very little\nindisposed,--nothing but what a short time, with rest and change of air,\nwill remove. I thank God that I was enabled to attend her to the last,\nand amongst my many causes of self-reproach I have not to add any wilful\nneglect of her comfort.\n\nShe felt herself to be dying about half an hour before she became\ntranquil and apparently unconscious. During that half-hour was her\nstruggle, poor soul! She said she could not tell us what she suffered,\nthough she complained of little fixed pain. When I asked her if there\nwas anything she wanted, her answer was she wanted nothing but death,\nand some of her words were: \"God grant me patience, pray for me, oh,\npray for me!\" Her voice was affected, but as long as she spoke she was\nintelligible.\n\nI hope I do not break your heart, my dearest Fanny, by these\nparticulars; I mean to afford you gratification whilst I am relieving my\nown feelings. I could not write so to anybody else; indeed you are the\nonly person I have written to at all, excepting your grandmamma,--it\nwas to her, not your Uncle Charles, I wrote on Friday.\n\nImmediately after dinner on Thursday I went into the town to do an\nerrand which your dear aunt was anxious about. I returned about a\nquarter before six, and found her recovering from faintness and\noppression; she got so well as to be able to give me a minute account of\nher seizure, and when the clock struck six she was talking quietly to\nme.\n\nI cannot say how soon afterwards she was seized again with the same\nfaintness, which was followed by the sufferings she could not describe;\nbut Mr. Lyford had been sent for, had applied something to give her\nease, and she was in a state of quiet insensibility by seven o'clock at\nthe latest. From that time till half-past four, when she ceased to\nbreathe, she scarcely moved a limb, so that we have every reason to\nthink, with gratitude to the Almighty, that her sufferings were over. A\nslight motion of the head with every breath remained till almost the\nlast. I sat close to her with a pillow in my lap to assist in supporting\nher head, which was almost off the bed, for six hours; fatigue made me\nthen resign my place to Mrs. J. A. for two hours and a half, when I took\nit again, and in about an hour more she breathed her last.\n\nI was able to close her eyes myself, and it was a great gratification to\nme to render her those last services. There was nothing convulsed which\ngave the idea of pain in her look; on the contrary, but for the\ncontinual motion of the head she gave one the idea of a beautiful\nstatue, and even now, in her coffin, there is such a sweet, serene air\nover her countenance as is quite pleasant to contemplate.\n\nThis day, my dearest Fanny, you have had the melancholy intelligence,\nand I know you suffer severely, but I likewise know that you will apply\nto the fountain-head for consolation, and that our merciful God is never\ndeaf to such prayers as you will offer.\n\nThe last sad ceremony is to take place on Thursday morning; her dear\nremains are to be deposited in the cathedral. It is a satisfaction to me\nto think that they are to lie in a building she admired so much; her\nprecious soul, I presume to hope, reposes in a far superior mansion. May\nmine one day be reunited to it!\n\nYour dear papa, your Uncle Henry, and Frank and Edwd. Austen, instead of\nhis father, will attend. I hope they will none of them suffer lastingly\nfrom their pious exertions. The ceremony must be over before ten\no'clock, as the cathedral service begins at that hour, so that we shall\nbe at home early in the day, for there will be nothing to keep us here\nafterwards.\n\nYour Uncle James came to us yesterday, and is gone home to-day. Uncle\nH. goes to Chawton to-morrow morning; he has given every necessary\ndirection here, and I think his company there will do good. He returns\nto us again on Tuesday evening.\n\nI did not think to have written a long letter when I began, but I have\nfound the employment draw me on, and I hope I shall have been giving you\nmore pleasure than pain. Remember me kindly to Mrs. J. Bridges (I am so\nglad she is with you now), and give my best love to Lizzie and all the\nothers.\n\n           I am, my dearest Fanny,\n                         Most affectionately yours,\n                                                CASS. ELIZ. AUSTEN.\n\nI have said nothing about those at Chawton, because I am sure you hear\nfrom your papa.\n\n\n\n\nLXXVIII.\n\n\n                                    CHAWTON, Tuesday (July 29, 1817).\n\nMY DEAREST FANNY,--I have just read your letter for the third time, and\nthank you most sincerely for every kind expression to myself, and still\nmore warmly for your praises of her who I believe was better known to\nyou than to any human being besides myself. Nothing of the sort could\nhave been more gratifying to me than the manner in which you write of\nher; and if the dear angel is conscious of what passes here, and is not\nabove all earthly feelings, she may perhaps receive pleasure in being so\nmourned. Had she been the survivor, I can fancy her speaking of you in\nalmost the same terms. There are certainly many points of strong\nresemblance in your characters; in your intimate acquaintance with each\nother, and your mutual strong affection, you were counterparts.\n\nThursday was not so dreadful a day to me as you imagined. There was so\nmuch necessary to be done that there was no time for additional misery.\nEverything was conducted with the greatest tranquillity, and but that I\nwas determined I would see the last, and therefore was upon the listen,\nI should not have known when they left the house. I watched the little\nmournful procession the length of the street; and when it turned from my\nsight, and I had lost her forever, even then I was not overpowered, nor\nso much agitated as I am now in writing of it. Never was human being\nmore sincerely mourned by those who attended her remains than was this\ndear creature. May the sorrow with which she is parted with on earth be\na prognostic of the joy with which she is hailed in heaven!\n\nI continue very tolerably well,--much better than any one could have\nsupposed possible, because I certainly have had considerable fatigue of\nbody as well as anguish of mind for months back; but I really am well,\nand I hope I am properly grateful to the Almighty for having been so\nsupported. Your grandmamma, too, is much better than when I came home.\n\nI did not think your dear papa appeared unwell, and I understand that he\nseemed much more comfortable after his return from Winchester than he\nhad done before. I need not tell you that he was a great comfort to me;\nindeed, I can never say enough of the kindness I have received from him\nand from every other friend.\n\nI get out of doors a good deal, and am able to employ myself. Of course\nthose employments suit me best which leave me most at leisure to think\nof her I have lost, and I do think of her in every variety of\ncircumstance,--in our happy hours of confidential intercourse, in the\ncheerful family party which she so ornamented, in her sick-room, on her\ndeath-bed, and as (I hope) an inhabitant of heaven. Oh, if I may one day\nbe reunited to her there! I know the time must come when my mind will be\nless engrossed by her idea, but I do not like to think of it. If I think\nof her less as on earth, God grant that I may never cease to reflect on\nher as inhabiting heaven, and never cease my humble endeavors (when it\nshall please God) to join her there.\n\nIn looking at a few of the precious papers which are now my property I\nhave found some memorandums, amongst which she desires that one of her\ngold chains may be given to her god-daughter Louisa, and a lock of her\nhair be set for you. You can need no assurance, my dearest Fanny, that\nevery request of your beloved aunt will be sacred with me. Be so good as\nto say whether you prefer a brooch or ring. God bless you, my dearest\nFanny.\n\n             Believe me, most affectionately yours,\n                                             CASS. ELIZTH. AUSTEN.\n\n  Miss KNIGHT,\n    Godmersham Park, Canterbury.\n\n\nTHE END.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTranscriber's Notes:\n\nPage 38, \"I\" did not print in the text and has been added. The space was\nthere but the ink was not. (I dare say, to have another)\n\nPage 47, period added to end of sentence. As above, the space was in the\ntext but the character was not. (confusion and great comfort.)\n\nPage 107, another letter missing, \"r\" added to text for \"respect\"\n(feelings with respect to it)\n\nPage 127, footnote 9, period added to abbreviation (Mrs. Leigh Perrot)\n\nPage 137, \"leat\" changed to \"late\" (in the late weather)\n\nPage 145, period added to end of footnote 11 (heroine of Miss Burney's\nnovel.)\n\nPage 150, \"Miss\" at bottom of letter's address was originally in small\ncapitals. As the rest of the text does not use small capitals this was\nchanged to follow the rest of the text's format. (Miss Austen, Edward\nAusten's, Esq.)\n\nPage 166, repeated word \"not\" removed from text. Original read: (he did\nnot not think she would)\n\nPage 331, \"i\" did not print in \"acquaintance\" (acquaintaqnce with each\nother)\n\n\n\n\n\n","id":"42078"},{"text":"generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)\n\n\n\nNote: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this\n      file which includes the original illustrations.\n      See 42671-h.htm or 42671-h.zip:\n      (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/42671/42671-h/42671-h.htm)\n      or\n      (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/42671/42671-h.zip)\n\n\n      Images of the original pages are available through\n      Internet Archive. See\n      http://archive.org/stream/novelstextbasedo02austuoft#page/n23/mode/2up\n\n\nTranscriber's note:\n\n      Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).\n\n      A carat character is used to denote superscription. Multiple\n      superscripted characters are enclosed by curly brackets\n      (example: M^{rs}).\n\n\n\n\n\nPRIDE AND PREJUDICE:\n\nA Novel.\n\nIn Three Volumes.\n\nBy the Author of \"Sense and Sensibility.\"\n\nVOL. I.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLondon:\nPrinted for T. Egerton,\nMilitary Library, Whitehall.\n1813.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Morning Dress.\n\n_Invented by M^{rs} Bell 26 Charlotte Street Bedford Square._\n\n_Engraved for No. 72 of La Belle Assemblee 1^{st} July 1815_]\n\n\n\n\nPRIDE & PREJUDICE.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\nIt is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession\nof a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.\n\nHowever little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his\nfirst entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds\nof the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful\nproperty of some one or other of their daughters.\n\n\"My dear Mr. Bennet,\" said his lady to him one day, \"have you heard that\nNetherfield Park is let at last?\"\n\nMr. Bennet replied that he had not.\n\n\"But it is,\" returned she; \"for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she\ntold me all about it.\"\n\nMr. Bennet made no answer.\n\n\"Do not you want to know who has taken it?\" cried his wife impatiently.\n\n\"_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.\"\n\nThis was invitation enough.\n\n\"Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken\nby a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came\ndown on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much\ndelighted with it that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is\nto take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be\nin the house by the end of next week.\"\n\n\"What is his name?\"\n\n\"Bingley.\"\n\n\"Is he married or single?\"\n\n\"Oh! single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four\nor five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!\"\n\n\"How so? how can it affect them?\"\n\n\"My dear Mr. Bennet,\" replied his wife, \"how can you be so tiresome! You\nmust know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them.\"\n\n\"Is that his design in settling here?\"\n\n\"Design! nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he\n_may_ fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as\nsoon as he comes.\"\n\n\"I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send\nthem by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are\nas handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley might like you the best of the\nparty.\"\n\n\"My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of beauty, but\nI do not pretend to be any thing extraordinary now. When a woman has\nfive grown up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own\nbeauty.\"\n\n\"In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.\"\n\n\"But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into\nthe neighbourhood.\"\n\n\"It is more than I engage for, I assure you.\"\n\n\"But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would\nbe for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to go,\nmerely on that account, for in general you know they visit no new\ncomers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for _us_ to visit\nhim, if you do not.\"\n\n\"You are over scrupulous surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very\nglad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my\nhearty consent to his marrying which ever he chuses of the girls; though\nI must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy.\"\n\n\"I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the\nothers; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so\ngood humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving _her_ the\npreference.\"\n\n\"They have none of them much to recommend them,\" replied he; \"they are\nall silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of\nquickness than her sisters.\"\n\n\"Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take\ndelight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves.\"\n\n\"You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They\nare my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration\nthese twenty years at least.\"\n\n\"Ah! you do not know what I suffer.\"\n\n\"But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four\nthousand a year come into the neighbourhood.\"\n\n\"It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come since you will not\nvisit them.\"\n\n\"Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them\nall.\"\n\nMr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour,\nreserve, and caprice, that the experience of three and twenty years had\nbeen insufficient to make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind\nwas less difficult to develope. She was a woman of mean understanding,\nlittle information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented she\nfancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her\ndaughters married; its solace was visiting and news.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nMr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He\nhad always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his\nwife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was\npaid, she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following\nmanner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he\nsuddenly addressed her with,\n\n\"I hope Mr. Bingley will like it Lizzy.\"\n\n\"We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes,\" said her mother\nresentfully, \"since we are not to visit.\"\n\n\"But you forget, mama,\" said Elizabeth, \"that we shall meet him at the\nassemblies, and that Mrs. Long has promised to introduce him.\"\n\n\"I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces\nof her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion\nof her.\"\n\n\"No more have I,\" said Mr. Bennet; \"and I am glad to find that you do\nnot depend on her serving you.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply; but unable to contain\nherself, began scolding one of her daughters.\n\n\"Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for heaven's sake! Have a little\ncompassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.\"\n\n\"Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,\" said her father; \"she times\nthem ill.\"\n\n\"I do not cough for my own amusement,\" replied Kitty fretfully.\n\n\"When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?\"\n\n\"To-morrow fortnight.\"\n\n\"Aye, so it is,\" cried her mother, \"and Mrs. Long does not come back\ntill the day before; so, it will be impossible for her to introduce him,\nfor she will not know him herself.\"\n\n\"Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce\nMr. Bingley to _her_.\"\n\n\"Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him\nmyself; how can you be so teazing?\"\n\n\"I honour your circumspection. A fortnight's acquaintance is certainly\nvery little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a\nfortnight. But if _we_ do not venture, somebody else will; and after\nall, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their chance; and therefore, as\nshe will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I will\ntake it on myself.\"\n\nThe girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only, \"Nonsense,\nnonsense!\"\n\n\"What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?\" cried he. \"Do\nyou consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on\nthem, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you _there_. What say you,\nMary? for you are a young lady of deep reflection I know, and read great\nbooks, and make extracts.\"\n\nMary wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how.\n\n\"While Mary is adjusting her ideas,\" he continued, \"let us return to Mr.\nBingley.\"\n\n\"I am sick of Mr. Bingley,\" cried his wife.\n\n\"I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did not you tell me so before? If I\nhad known as much this morning, I certainly would not have called on\nhim. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we\ncannot escape the acquaintance now.\"\n\nThe astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of Mrs.\nBennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though when the first tumult of joy\nwas over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the\nwhile.\n\n\"How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should\npersuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to\nneglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! and it is such a\ngood joke, too, that you should have gone this morning, and never said\na word about it till now.\"\n\n\"Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you chuse,\" said Mr. Bennet; and,\nas he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife.\n\n\"What an excellent father you have, girls,\" said she, when the door was\nshut. \"I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness;\nor me either, for that matter. At our time of life, it is not so\npleasant I can tell you, to be making new acquaintance every day; but\nfor your sakes, we would do any thing. Lydia, my love, though you _are_\nthe youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next\nball.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Lydia stoutly, \"I am not afraid; for though I _am_ the\nyoungest, I'm the tallest.\"\n\nThe rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would\nreturn Mr. Bennet's visit, and determining when they should ask him to\ndinner.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nNot all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five\ndaughters, could ask on the subject was sufficient to draw from her\nhusband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him\nin various ways; with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and\ndistant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all; and they were at\nlast obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour\nLady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been\ndelighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely\nagreeable, and to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly\nwith a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of\ndancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively\nhopes of Mr. Bingley's heart were entertained.\n\n\"If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,\"\nsaid Mrs. Bennet to her husband, \"and all the others equally well\nmarried, I shall have nothing to wish for.\"\n\nIn a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet's visit, and sat about ten\nminutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being\nadmitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had heard\nmuch; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more\nfortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining from an upper\nwindow, that he wore a blue coat and rode a black horse.\n\nAn invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already had\nMrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her\nhousekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley\nwas obliged to be in town the following day, and consequently unable to\naccept the honour of their invitation, &c. Mrs. Bennet was quite\ndisconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town\nso soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that\nhe might be always flying about from one place to another, and never\nsettled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a\nlittle by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to get a\nlarge party for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley\nwas to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly.\nThe girls grieved over such a number of ladies; but were comforted the\nday before the ball by hearing, that instead of twelve, he had brought\nonly six with him from London, his five sisters and a cousin. And when\nthe party entered the assembly room, it consisted of only five\naltogether; Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and\nanother young man.\n\nMr. Bingley was good looking and gentleman-like; he had a pleasant\ncountenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women,\nwith an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely\nlooked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention\nof the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien; and\nthe report which was in general circulation within five minutes after\nhis entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen\npronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he was\nmuch handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great\nadmiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust\nwhich turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be\nproud, to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his\nlarge estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most\nforbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared\nwith his friend.\n\nMr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal\npeople in the room; he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance,\nwas angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving one\nhimself at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for\nthemselves. What a contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced\nonly once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being\nintroduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in\nwalking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party.\nHis character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man in\nthe world, and every body hoped that he would never come there again.\nAmongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of\nhis general behaviour, was sharpened into particular resentment, by his\nhaving slighted one of her daughters.\n\nElizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit\ndown for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been\nstanding near enough for her to overhear a conversation between him and\nMr. Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes, to press his\nfriend to join it.\n\n\"Come, Darcy,\" said he, \"I must have you dance. I hate to see you\nstanding about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better\ndance.\"\n\n\"I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am\nparticularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this, it\nwould be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not\nanother woman in the room, whom it would not be a punishment to me to\nstand up with.\"\n\n\"I would not be so fastidious as you are,\" cried Bingley, \"for a\nkingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my\nlife, as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see\nuncommonly pretty.\"\n\n\"_You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,\" said Mr.\nDarcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.\n\n\"Oh! she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one\nof her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I\ndare say, very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.\"\n\n\"Which do you mean?\" and turning round, he looked for a moment at\nElizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said,\n\"She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt _me_; and I am in no\nhumour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted\nby other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her\nsmiles, for you are wasting your time with me.\"\n\nMr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth\nremained with no very cordial feelings towards him. She told the story\nhowever with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively,\nplayful disposition, which delighted in any thing ridiculous.\n\nThe evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs.\nBennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield\nparty. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been\ndistinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this, as her\nmother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane's\npleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most\naccomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been\nfortunate enough to be never without partners, which was all that they\nhad yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned therefore in good\nspirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they\nwere the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up. With a\nbook he was regardless of time; and on the present occasion he had a\ngood deal of curiosity as to the event of an evening which had raised\nsuch splendid expectations. He had rather hoped that all his wife's\nviews on the stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found that he\nhad a very different story to hear.\n\n\"Oh! my dear Mr. Bennet,\" as she entered the room, \"we have had a most\ndelightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there.\nJane was so admired, nothing could be like it. Every body said how well\nshe looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her quite beautiful, and danced with\nher twice. Only think of _that_ my dear; he actually danced with her\ntwice; and she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second\ntime. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand\nup with her; but, however, he did not admire her at all: indeed, nobody\ncan, you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going\ndown the dance. So, he enquired who she was, and got introduced, and\nasked her for the two next. Then, the two third he danced with Miss\nKing, and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane\nagain, and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the Boulanger----\"\n\n\"If he had had any compassion for _me_,\" cried her husband impatiently,\n\"he would not have danced half so much! For God's sake, say no more of\nhis partners. Oh! that he had sprained his ancle in the first dance!\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear,\" continued Mrs. Bennet, \"I am quite delighted with him. He\nis so excessively handsome! and his sisters are charming women. I never\nin my life saw any thing more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the\nlace upon Mrs. Hurst's gown----\"\n\nHere she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any\ndescription of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch\nof the subject, and related, with much bitterness of spirit and some\nexaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.\n\n\"But I can assure you,\" she added, \"that Lizzy does not lose much by not\nsuiting _his_ fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at\nall worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that there was no enduring\nhim! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very\ngreat! Not handsome enough to dance with! I wish you had been there, my\ndear, to have given him one of your set downs. I quite detest the man.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\nWhen Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in\nher praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister how very much\nshe admired him.\n\n\"He is just what a young man ought to be,\" said she, \"sensible, good\nhumoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners!--so much ease,\nwith such perfect good breeding!\"\n\n\"He is also handsome,\" replied Elizabeth, \"which a young man ought\nlikewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete.\"\n\n\"I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I\ndid not expect such a compliment.\"\n\n\"Did not you? _I_ did for you. But that is one great difference between\nus. Compliments always take _you_ by surprise, and _me_ never. What\ncould be more natural than his asking you again? He could not help\nseeing that you were about five times as pretty as every other woman in\nthe room. No thanks to his gallantry for that. Well, he certainly is\nvery agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a\nstupider person.\"\n\n\"Dear Lizzy!\"\n\n\"Oh! you are a great deal too apt you know, to like people in general.\nYou never see a fault in any body. All the world are good and agreeable\nin your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in my life.\"\n\n\"I would wish not to be hasty in censuring any one; but I always speak\nwhat I think.\"\n\n\"I know you do; and it is _that_ which makes the wonder. With _your_\ngood sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of\nothers! Affectation of candour is common enough;--one meets it every\nwhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design--to take the good\nof every body's character and make it still better, and say nothing of\nthe bad--belongs to you alone. And so, you like this man's sisters too,\ndo you? Their manners are not equal to his.\"\n\n\"Certainly not; at first. But they are very pleasing women when you\nconverse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother and keep\nhis house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a very charming\nneighbour in her.\"\n\nElizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced; their behaviour at\nthe assembly had not been calculated to please in general; and with more\nquickness of observation and less pliancy of temper than her sister, and\nwith a judgment too unassailed by any attention to herself, she was very\nlittle disposed to approve them. They were in fact very fine ladies; not\ndeficient in good humour when they were pleased, nor in the power of\nbeing agreeable where they chose it; but proud and conceited. They were\nrather handsome, had been educated in one of the first private\nseminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand pounds, were in the\nhabit of spending more than they ought, and of associating with people\nof rank; and were therefore in every respect entitled to think well of\nthemselves, and meanly of others. They were of a respectable family in\nthe north of England; a circumstance more deeply impressed on their\nmemories than that their brother's fortune and their own had been\nacquired by trade.\n\nMr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly an hundred\nthousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an estate,\nbut did not live to do it.--Mr. Bingley intended it likewise, and\nsometimes made choice of his county; but as he was now provided with a\ngood house and the liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of those\nwho best knew the easiness of his temper, whether he might not spend the\nremainder of his days at Netherfield, and leave the next generation to\npurchase.\n\nHis sisters were very anxious for his having an estate of his own; but\nthough he was now established only as a tenant, Miss Bingley was by no\nmeans unwilling to preside at his table, nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had\nmarried a man of more fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider\nhis house as her home when it suited her. Mr. Bingley had not been of\nage two years, when he was tempted by an accidental recommendation to\nlook at Netherfield House. He did look at it and into it for half an\nhour, was pleased with the situation and the principal rooms, satisfied\nwith what the owner said in its praise, and took it immediately.\n\nBetween him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of a\ngreat opposition of character.--Bingley was endeared to Darcy by the\neasiness, openness, ductility of his temper, though no disposition could\noffer a greater contrast to his own, and though with his own he never\nappeared dissatisfied. On the strength of Darcy's regard Bingley had the\nfirmest reliance, and of his judgment the highest opinion. In\nunderstanding Darcy was the superior. Bingley was by no means deficient,\nbut Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and\nfastidious, and his manners, though well bred, were not inviting. In\nthat respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley was sure of\nbeing liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually giving offence.\n\nThe manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was sufficiently\ncharacteristic. Bingley had never met with pleasanter people or prettier\ngirls in his life; every body had been most kind and attentive to him,\nthere had been no formality, no stiffness, he had soon felt acquainted\nwith all the room; and as to Miss Bennet, he could not conceive an angel\nmore beautiful. Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a collection of people\nin whom there was little beauty and no fashion, for none of whom he had\nfelt the smallest interest, and from none received either attention or\npleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty, but she smiled too\nmuch.\n\nMrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so--but still they admired\nher and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl, and one whom\nthey should not object to know more of. Miss Bennet was therefore\nestablished as a sweet girl, and their brother felt authorised by such\ncommendation to think of her as he chose.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\nWithin a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets\nwere particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been formerly in trade\nin Meryton, where he had made a tolerable fortune and risen to the\nhonour of knighthood by an address to the King, during his mayoralty.\nThe distinction had perhaps been felt too strongly. It had given him a\ndisgust to his business and to his residence in a small market town; and\nquitting them both, he had removed with his family to a house about a\nmile from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge, where he\ncould think with pleasure of his own importance, and unshackled by\nbusiness, occupy himself solely in being civil to all the world. For\nthough elated by his rank, it did not render him supercilious; on the\ncontrary, he was all attention to every body. By nature inoffensive,\nfriendly and obliging, his presentation at St. James's had made him\ncourteous.\n\nLady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a\nvaluable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet.--They had several children. The\neldest of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven,\nwas Elizabeth's intimate friend.\n\nThat the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk over a\nball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the assembly\nbrought the former to Longbourn to hear and to communicate.\n\n\"_You_ began the evening well, Charlotte,\" said Mrs. Bennet with civil\nself-command to Miss Lucas. \"_You_ were Mr. Bingley's first choice.\"\n\n\"Yes;--but he seemed to like his second better.\"\n\n\"Oh!--you mean Jane, I suppose--because he danced with her twice. To be\nsure that _did_ seem as if he admired her--indeed I rather believe he\n_did_--I heard something about it--but I hardly know what--something\nabout Mr. Robinson.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson; did not\nI mention it to you? Mr. Robinson's asking him how he liked our Meryton\nassemblies, and whether he did not think there were a great many pretty\nwomen in the room, and _which_ he thought the prettiest? and his\nanswering immediately to the last question--Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet\nbeyond a doubt, there cannot be two opinions on that point.\"\n\n\"Upon my word!--Well, that was very decided indeed--that does seem as\nif----but however, it may all come to nothing you know.\"\n\n\"_My_ overhearings were more to the purpose than _yours_, Eliza,\" said\nCharlotte. \"Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend,\nis he?--Poor Eliza!--to be only just _tolerable_.\"\n\n\"I beg you would not put it into Lizzy's head to be vexed by his\nill-treatment; for he is such a disagreeable man that it would be quite\na misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night that he\nsat close to her for half an hour without once opening his lips.\"\n\n\"Are you quite sure, Ma'am?--is not there a little mistake?\" said\nJane.--\"I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her.\"\n\n\"Aye--because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he\ncould not help answering her;--but she said he seemed very angry at\nbeing spoke to.\"\n\n\"Miss Bingley told me,\" said Jane, \"that he never speaks much unless\namong his intimate acquaintance. With _them_ he is remarkably\nagreeable.\"\n\n\"I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very\nagreeable he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how it was;\nevery body says that he is ate up with pride, and I dare say he had\nheard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage, and had come to\nthe ball in a hack chaise.\"\n\n\"I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,\" said Miss Lucas, \"but I\nwish he had danced with Eliza.\"\n\n\"Another time, Lizzy,\" said her mother, \"I would not dance with _him_,\nif I were you.\"\n\n\"I believe, Ma'am, I may safely promise you _never_ to dance with him.\"\n\n\"His pride,\" said Miss Lucas, \"does not offend _me_ so much as pride\noften does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so\nvery fine a young man, with family, fortune, every thing in his favour,\nshould think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a _right_\nto be proud.\"\n\n\"That is very true,\" replied Elizabeth, \"and I could easily forgive\n_his_ pride, if he had not mortified _mine_.\"\n\n\"Pride,\" observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her\nreflections, \"is a very common failing I believe. By all that I have\never read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed, that human\nnature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us\nwho do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some\nquality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different\nthings, though the words are often used synonimously. A person may be\nproud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of\nourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.\"\n\n\"If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,\" cried a young Lucas who came with his\nsisters, \"I should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of\nfoxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine every day.\"\n\n\"Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,\" said Mrs.\nBennet; \"and if I were to see you at it I should take away your bottle\ndirectly.\"\n\nThe boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she\nwould, and the argument ended only with the visit.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\nThe ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit\nwas returned in due form. Miss Bennet's pleasing manners grew on the\ngood will of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was\nfound to be intolerable and the younger sisters not worth speaking to, a\nwish of being better acquainted with _them_, was expressed towards the\ntwo eldest. By Jane this attention was received with the greatest\npleasure; but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment of\nevery body, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them;\nthough their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value as arising in\nall probability from the influence of their brother's admiration. It was\ngenerally evident whenever they met, that he _did_ admire her; and to\n_her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference\nwhich she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a\nway to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it\nwas not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane\nunited with great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and a\nuniform cheerfulness of manner, which would guard her from the\nsuspicions of the impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss\nLucas.\n\n\"It may perhaps be pleasant,\" replied Charlotte, \"to be able to impose\non the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be\nso very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill\nfrom the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and\nit will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in the\ndark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every\nattachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all\n_begin_ freely--a slight preference is natural enough; but there are\nvery few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without\nencouragement. In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better shew _more_\naffection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he\nmay never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.\"\n\n\"But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If _I_ can\nperceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton indeed not to\ndiscover it too.\"\n\n\"Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane's disposition as you do.\"\n\n\"But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to conceal\nit, he must find it out.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But though Bingley and Jane\nmeet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and as they\nalways see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that\nevery moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should\ntherefore make the most of every half hour in which she can command his\nattention. When she is secure of him, there will be leisure for falling\nin love as much as she chuses.\"\n\n\"Your plan is a good one,\" replied Elizabeth, \"where nothing is in\nquestion but the desire of being well married; and if I were determined\nto get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I should adopt it. But\nthese are not Jane's feelings; she is not acting by design. As yet, she\ncannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard, nor of its\nreasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four\ndances with him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house,\nand has since dined in company with him four times. This is not quite\nenough to make her understand his character.\"\n\n\"Not as you represent it. Had she merely _dined_ with him, she might\nonly have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must\nremember that four evenings have been also spent together--and four\nevenings may do a great deal.\"\n\n\"Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they both\nlike Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect to any other\nleading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has been unfolded.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Charlotte, \"I wish Jane success with all my heart; and if\nshe were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a\nchance of happiness, as if she were to be studying his character for a\ntwelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If\nthe dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other, or\never so similar before-hand, it does not advance their felicity in the\nleast. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to\nhave their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as\npossible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your\nlife.\"\n\n\"You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it is not\nsound, and that you would never act in this way yourself.\"\n\nOccupied in observing Mr. Bingley's attentions to her sister, Elizabeth\nwas far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some\ninterest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely\nallowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the\nball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise. But no\nsooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she had\nhardly a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered\nuncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To\nthis discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had\ndetected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry\nin her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and\npleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those\nof the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of\nthis she was perfectly unaware;--to her he was only the man who made\nhimself agreeable no where, and who had not thought her handsome enough\nto dance with.\n\nHe began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards conversing\nwith her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so\ndrew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas's, where a large party were\nassembled.\n\n\"What does Mr. Darcy mean,\" said she to Charlotte, \"by listening to my\nconversation with Colonel Forster?\"\n\n\"That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.\"\n\n\"But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see\nwhat he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by\nbeing impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him.\"\n\nOn his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have\nany intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such\na subject to him, which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she\nturned to him and said,\n\n\"Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well\njust now, when I was teazing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at\nMeryton?\"\n\n\"With great energy;--but it is a subject which always makes a lady\nenergetic.\"\n\n\"You are severe on us.\"\n\n\"It will be _her_ turn soon to be teazed,\" said Miss Lucas. \"I am going\nto open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.\"\n\n\"You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me\nto play and sing before any body and every body!--If my vanity had taken\na musical turn, you would have been invaluable, but as it is, I would\nreally rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of\nhearing the very best performers.\" On Miss Lucas's persevering, however,\nshe added, \"Very well; if it must be so, it must.\" And gravely glancing\nat Mr. Darcy, \"There is a fine old saying, which every body here is of\ncourse familiar with--'Keep your breath to cool your porridge,'--and I\nshall keep mine to swell my song.\"\n\nHer performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song\nor two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she\nwould sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her\nsister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in\nthe family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always\nimpatient for display.\n\nMary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her\napplication, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited\nmanner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she\nhad reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with\nmuch more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the\nend of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by\nScotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who with\nsome of the Lucases and two or three officers joined eagerly in dancing\nat one end of the room.\n\nMr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of\npassing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too\nmuch engrossed by his own thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas\nwas his neighbour, till Sir William thus began.\n\n\"What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy!--There\nis nothing like dancing after all.--I consider it as one of the first\nrefinements of polished societies.\"\n\n\"Certainly, Sir;--and it has the advantage also of being in vogue\namongst the less polished societies of the world.--Every savage can\ndance.\"\n\nSir William only smiled. \"Your friend performs delightfully;\" he\ncontinued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group;--\"and I doubt\nnot that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy.\"\n\n\"You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, Sir.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do\nyou often dance at St. James's?\"\n\n\"Never, sir.\"\n\n\"Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?\"\n\n\"It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it.\"\n\n\"You have a house in town, I conclude?\"\n\nMr. Darcy bowed.\n\n\"I had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself--for I am fond of\nsuperior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of\nLondon would agree with Lady Lucas.\"\n\nHe paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not disposed to\nmake any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was\nstruck with the notion of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to\nher,\n\n\"My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you dancing?--Mr. Darcy, you must allow\nme to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner.--You\ncannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you.\"\nAnd taking her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy, who, though\nextremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly\ndrew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William,\n\n\"Indeed, Sir, I have not the least intention of dancing.--I entreat you\nnot to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.\"\n\nMr. Darcy with grave propriety requested to be allowed the honour of her\nhand; but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did Sir William at all\nshake her purpose by his attempt at persuasion.\n\n\"You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me\nthe happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the\namusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us\nfor one half hour.\"\n\n\"Mr. Darcy is all politeness,\" said Elizabeth, smiling.\n\n\"He is indeed--but considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza, we\ncannot wonder at his complaisance; for who would object to such a\npartner?\"\n\nElizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not\ninjured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with some\ncomplacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley,\n\n\"I can guess the subject of your reverie.\"\n\n\"I should imagine not.\"\n\n\"You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings\nin this manner--in such society; and indeed I am quite of your opinion.\nI was never more annoyed! The insipidity and yet the noise; the\nnothingness and yet the self-importance of all these people!--What would\nI give to hear your strictures on them!\"\n\n\"Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more\nagreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure\nwhich a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.\"\n\nMiss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he\nwould tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections.\nMr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity,\n\n\"Miss Elizabeth Bennet.\"\n\n\"Miss Elizabeth Bennet!\" repeated Miss Bingley. \"I am all astonishment.\nHow long has she been such a favourite?--and pray when am I to wish you\njoy?\"\n\n\"That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's\nimagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love\nto matrimony in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy.\"\n\n\"Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the matter as\nabsolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law, indeed, and\nof course she will be always at Pemberley with you.\"\n\nHe listened to her with perfect indifference, while she chose to\nentertain herself in this manner, and as his composure convinced her\nthat all was safe, her wit flowed long.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\nMr. Bennet's property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two\nthousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed in\ndefault of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother's\nfortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply\nthe deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and\nhad left her four thousand pounds.\n\nShe had a sister married to a Mr. Philips, who had been a clerk to their\nfather, and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in\nLondon in a respectable line of trade.\n\nThe village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most\nconvenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted\nthither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt and\nto a milliner's shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family,\nCatherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions;\ntheir minds were more vacant than their sisters', and when nothing\nbetter offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning\nhours and furnish conversation for the evening; and however bare of news\nthe country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some\nfrom their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with\nnews and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the\nneighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the\nhead quarters.\n\nTheir visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most interesting\nintelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge of the\nofficers' names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a secret,\nand at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr. Philips\nvisited them all, and this opened to his nieces a source of felicity\nunknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr.\nBingley's large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their\nmother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of\nan ensign.\n\nAfter listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr.\nBennet coolly observed,\n\n\"From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two\nof the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but\nI am now convinced.\"\n\nCatherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with perfect\nindifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter, and\nher hope of seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the\nnext morning to London.\n\n\"I am astonished, my dear,\" said Mrs. Bennet, \"that you should be so\nready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly\nof any body's children, it should not be of my own however.\"\n\n\"If my children are silly I must hope to be always sensible of it.\"\n\n\"Yes--but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.\"\n\n\"This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I\nhad hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must\nso far differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly\nfoolish.\"\n\n\"My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of\ntheir father and mother.--When they get to our age I dare say they will\nnot think about officers any more than we do. I remember the time when I\nliked a red coat myself very well--and indeed so I do still at my heart;\nand if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year, should\nwant one of my girls, I shall not say nay to him; and I thought Colonel\nForster looked very becoming the other night at Sir William's in his\nregimentals.\"\n\n\"Mama,\" cried Lydia, \"my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain\nCarter do not go so often to Miss Watson's as they did when they first\ncame; she sees them now very often standing in Clarke's library.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with a\nnote for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited\nfor an answer. Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was\neagerly calling out, while her daughter read,\n\n\"Well, Jane, who is it from? what is it about? what does he say? Well,\nJane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love.\"\n\n\"It is from Miss Bingley,\" said Jane, and then read it aloud.\n\n     \"My dear Friend,\n\n     \"If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and\n     me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our\n     lives, for a whole day's tete-a-tete between two women can never\n     end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on the receipt of\n     this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers.\n     Yours ever,\n\n     \"CAROLINE BINGLEY.\"\n\n\"With the officers!\" cried Lydia. \"I wonder my aunt did not tell us of\n_that_.\"\n\n\"Dining out,\" said Mrs. Bennet, \"that is very unlucky.\"\n\n\"Can I have the carriage?\" said Jane.\n\n\"No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to\nrain; and then you must stay all night.\"\n\n\"That would be a good scheme,\" said Elizabeth, \"if you were sure that\nthey would not offer to send her home.\"\n\n\"Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley's chaise to go to Meryton;\nand the Hursts have no horses to theirs.\"\n\n\"I had much rather go in the coach.\"\n\n\"But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are\nwanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are not they?\"\n\n\"They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them.\"\n\n\"But if you have got them to-day,\" said Elizabeth, \"my mother's purpose\nwill be answered.\"\n\nShe did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the horses\nwere engaged. Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her\nmother attended her to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a bad\nday. Her hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone long before it\nrained hard. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was\ndelighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission;\nJane certainly could not come back.\n\n\"This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!\" said Mrs. Bennet, more than\nonce, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the next\nmorning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her\ncontrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield\nbrought the following note for Elizabeth:\n\n     \"My dearest Lizzy,\n\n     \"I FIND myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be\n     imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will\n     not hear of my returning home till I am better. They insist also on\n     my seeing Mr. Jones--therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear\n     of his having been to me--and excepting a sore-throat and head-ache\n     there is not much the matter with me.\n\n     \"Yours, &c.\"\n\n\"Well, my dear,\" said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note\naloud, \"if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness, if she\nshould die, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of\nMr. Bingley, and under your orders.\"\n\n\"Oh! I am not at all afraid of her dying. People do not die of little\ntrifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays\nthere, it is all very well. I would go and see her, if I could have the\ncarriage.\"\n\nElizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her, though\nthe carriage was not to be had; and as she was no horse-woman, walking\nwas her only alternative. She declared her resolution.\n\n\"How can you be so silly,\" cried her mother, \"as to think of such a\nthing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get\nthere.\"\n\n\"I shall be very fit to see Jane--which is all I want.\"\n\n\"Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,\" said her father, \"to send for the\nhorses?\"\n\n\"No, indeed. I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is nothing,\nwhen one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back by dinner.\"\n\n\"I admire the activity of your benevolence,\" observed Mary, \"but every\nimpulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my opinion,\nexertion should always be in proportion to what is required.\"\n\n\"We will go as far as Meryton with you,\" said Catherine and\nLydia.--Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three young ladies set\noff together.\n\n\"If we make haste,\" said Lydia, as they walked along, \"perhaps we may\nsee something of Captain Carter before he goes.\"\n\nIn Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one\nof the officers' wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing\nfield after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing\nover puddles with impatient activity, and finding herself at last within\nview of the house, with weary ancles, dirty stockings, and a face\nglowing with the warmth of exercise.\n\nShe was shewn into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were\nassembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of\nsurprise.--That she should have walked three miles so early in the day,\nin such dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs.\nHurst and Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her\nin contempt for it. She was received, however, very politely by them;\nand in their brother's manners there was something better than\npoliteness; there was good humour and kindness.--Mr. Darcy said very\nlittle, and Mr. Hurst nothing at all. The former was divided between\nadmiration of the brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion,\nand doubt as to the occasion's justifying her coming so far alone. The\nlatter was thinking only of his breakfast.\n\nHer enquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered. Miss\nBennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish and not well\nenough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be taken to her\nimmediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the fear of giving\nalarm or inconvenience, from expressing in her note how much she longed\nfor such a visit, was delighted at her entrance. She was not equal,\nhowever, to much conversation, and when Miss Bingley left them together,\ncould attempt little beside expressions of gratitude for the\nextraordinary kindness she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended\nher.\n\nWhen breakfast was over, they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth\nbegan to like them herself, when she saw how much affection and\nsolicitude they shewed for Jane. The apothecary came, and having\nexamined his patient, said, as might be supposed, that she had caught a\nviolent cold, and that they must endeavour to get the better of it;\nadvised her to return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The advice\nwas followed readily, for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head\nached acutely. Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment, nor were\nthe other ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had in fact\nnothing to do elsewhere.\n\nWhen the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go; and very\nunwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage, and she only\nwanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane testified such concern\nin parting with her, that Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer\nof the chaise into an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the\npresent. Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was\ndispatched to Longbourn to acquaint the family with her stay, and bring\nback a supply of clothes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n\nAt five o'clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half past six\nElizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil enquiries which then\npoured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of distinguishing the\nmuch superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley's, she could not make a very\nfavourable answer. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing\nthis, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how\nshocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked\nbeing ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter: and their\nindifference towards Jane when not immediately before them, restored\nElizabeth to the enjoyment of all her original dislike.\n\nTheir brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she could\nregard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his\nattentions to herself most pleasing, and they prevented her feeling\nherself so much an intruder as she believed she was considered by the\nothers. She had very little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley was\nengrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so; and as for Mr.\nHurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he was an indolent man, who lived only to\neat, drink, and play at cards, who when he found her prefer a plain dish\nto a ragout, had nothing to say to her.\n\nWhen dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley\nbegan abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her manners were\npronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence;\nshe had no conversation, no style, no taste, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst\nthought the same, and added,\n\n\"She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent\nwalker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really\nlooked almost wild.\"\n\n\"She did indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very\nnonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering about the\ncountry, because her sister had a cold? Her hair so untidy, so blowsy!\"\n\n\"Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep\nin mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been let down to\nhide it, not doing its office.\"\n\n\"Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,\" said Bingley; \"but this was\nall lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably\nwell, when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat\nquite escaped my notice.\"\n\n\"_You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,\" said Miss Bingley; \"and I am\ninclined to think that you would not wish to see _your sister_ make such\nan exhibition.\"\n\n\"Certainly not.\"\n\n\"To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is,\nabove her ancles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! what could she mean by\nit? It seems to me to shew an abominable sort of conceited independence,\na most country town indifference to decorum.\"\n\n\"It shews an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,\" said\nBingley.\n\n\"I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,\" observed Miss Bingley, in a half whisper,\n\"that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine\neyes.\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" he replied; \"they were brightened by the exercise.\"--A\nshort pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again.\n\n\"I have an excessive regard for Jane Bennet, she is really a very sweet\ngirl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such\na father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no\nchance of it.\"\n\n\"I think I have heard you say, that their uncle is an attorney in\nMeryton.\"\n\n\"Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.\"\n\n\"That is capital,\" added her sister, and they both laughed heartily.\n\n\"If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside,\" cried Bingley, \"it\nwould not make them one jot less agreeable.\"\n\n\"But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any\nconsideration in the world,\" replied Darcy.\n\nTo this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their\nhearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of\ntheir dear friend's vulgar relations.\n\nWith a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to her room on\nleaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee.\nShe was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till\nlate in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her asleep, and\nwhen it appeared to her rather right than pleasant that she should go\ndown stairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole\nparty at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting\nthem to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the\nexcuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay\nbelow with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.\n\n\"Do you prefer reading to cards?\" said he; \"that is rather singular.\"\n\n\"Miss Eliza Bennet,\" said Miss Bingley, \"despises cards. She is a great\nreader and has no pleasure in anything else.\"\n\n\"I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,\" cried Elizabeth; \"I am\n_not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.\"\n\n\"In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,\" said Bingley; \"and\nI hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well.\"\n\nElizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table\nwhere a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her\nothers; all that his library afforded.\n\n\"And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own\ncredit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more\nthan I ever look into.\"\n\nElizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those\nin the room.\n\n\"I am astonished,\" said Miss Bingley, \"that my father should have left\nso small a collection of books.--What a delightful library you have at\nPemberley, Mr. Darcy!\"\n\n\"It ought to be good,\" he replied, \"it has been the work of many\ngenerations.\"\n\n\"And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying\nbooks.\"\n\n\"I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as\nthese.\"\n\n\"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of\nthat noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be\nhalf as delightful as Pemberley.\"\n\n\"I wish it may.\"\n\n\"But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that\nneighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a\nfiner county in England than Derbyshire.\"\n\n\"With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it.\"\n\n\"I am talking of possibilities, Charles.\"\n\n\"Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get\nPemberley by purchase than by imitation.\"\n\nElizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little\nattention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near\nthe card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest\nsister, to observe the game.\n\n\"Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?\" said Miss Bingley; \"will\nshe be as tall as I am?\"\n\n\"I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or\nrather taller.\"\n\n\"How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me\nso much. Such a countenance, such manners! and so extremely\naccomplished for her age! Her performance on the piano-forte is\nexquisite.\"\n\n\"It is amazing to me,\" said Bingley, \"how young ladies can have patience\nto be so very accomplished, as they all are.\"\n\n\"All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?\"\n\n\"Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover skreens and net\npurses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this, and I am sure I\nnever heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being\ninformed that she was very accomplished.\"\n\n\"Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,\" said Darcy, \"has\ntoo much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no\notherwise than by netting a purse, or covering a skreen. But I am very\nfar from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I\ncannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my\nacquaintance, that are really accomplished.\"\n\n\"Nor I, I am sure,\" said Miss Bingley.\n\n\"Then,\" observed Elizabeth, \"you must comprehend a great deal in your\nidea of an accomplished woman.\"\n\n\"Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it.\"\n\n\"Oh! certainly,\" cried his faithful assistant, \"no one can be really\nesteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met\nwith. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing,\ndancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all\nthis, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of\nwalking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word\nwill be but half deserved.\"\n\n\"All this she must possess,\" added Darcy, \"and to all this she must yet\nadd something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by\nextensive reading.\"\n\n\"I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women.\nI rather wonder now at your knowing _any_.\"\n\n\"Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the possibility of all\nthis?\"\n\n\"_I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity, and taste, and\napplication, and elegance, as you describe, united.\"\n\nMrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her\nimplied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who\nanswered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with\nbitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all\nconversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the\nroom.\n\n\"Eliza Bennet,\" said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, \"is\none of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other\nsex, by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it\nsucceeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art.\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly,\" replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed,\n\"there is meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend\nto employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is\ndespicable.\"\n\nMiss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to\ncontinue the subject.\n\nElizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and\nthat she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones's being sent for\nimmediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could\nbe of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most\neminent physicians. This, she would not hear of; but she was not so\nunwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled\nthat Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet\nwere not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters\ndeclared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness,\nhowever, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief to\nhis feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every\npossible attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n\nElizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister's room, and in the\nmorning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the\nenquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid,\nand some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his\nsisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a\nnote sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her\nown judgment of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and\nits contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her\ntwo youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast.\n\nHad she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been\nvery miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was\nnot alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her\nrestoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She\nwould not listen therefore to her daughter's proposal of being carried\nhome; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think\nit at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss\nBingley's appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all\nattended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes\nthat Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected.\n\n\"Indeed I have, Sir,\" was her answer. \"She is a great deal too ill to be\nmoved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass\na little longer on your kindness.\"\n\n\"Removed!\" cried Bingley. \"It must not be thought of. My sister, I am\nsure, will not hear of her removal.\"\n\n\"You may depend upon it, Madam,\" said Miss Bingley, with cold civility,\n\"that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she\nremains with us.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.\n\n\"I am sure,\" she added, \"if it was not for such good friends I do not\nknow what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a\nvast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is\nalways the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest\ntemper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to\n_her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect\nover that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is\nequal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry I\nhope, though you have but a short lease.\"\n\n\"Whatever I do is done in a hurry,\" replied he; \"and therefore if I\nshould resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five\nminutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here.\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,\" said Elizabeth.\n\n\"You begin to comprehend me, do you?\" cried he, turning towards her.\n\n\"Oh! yes--I understand you perfectly.\"\n\n\"I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen\nthrough I am afraid is pitiful.\"\n\n\"That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep,\nintricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours.\"\n\n\"Lizzy,\" cried her mother, \"remember where you are, and do not run on in\nthe wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.\"\n\n\"I did not know before,\" continued Bingley immediately, \"that you were a\nstudier of character. It must be an amusing study.\"\n\n\"Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at\nleast that advantage.\"\n\n\"The country,\" said Darcy, \"can in general supply but few subjects for\nsuch a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined\nand unvarying society.\"\n\n\"But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be\nobserved in them for ever.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a\ncountry neighbourhood. \"I assure you there is quite as much of _that_\ngoing on in the country as in town.\"\n\nEvery body was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment,\nturned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete\nvictory over him, continued her triumph.\n\n\"I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country for\nmy part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal\npleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?\"\n\n\"When I am in the country,\" he replied, \"I never wish to leave it; and\nwhen I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their\nadvantages, and I can be equally happy in either.\"\n\n\"Aye--that is because you have the right disposition. But that\ngentleman,\" looking at Darcy, \"seemed to think the country was nothing\nat all.\"\n\n\"Indeed, Mama, you are mistaken,\" said Elizabeth, blushing for her\nmother. \"You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there were not\nsuch a variety of people to be met with in the country as in town, which\nyou must acknowledge to be true.\"\n\n\"Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with\nmany people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few\nneighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four and twenty families.\"\n\nNothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his\ncountenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eye towards\nMr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of\nsaying something that might turn her mother's thoughts, now asked her if\nCharlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since _her_ coming away.\n\n\"Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir\nWilliam is, Mr. Bingley--is not he? so much the man of fashion! so\ngenteel and so easy!--He has always something to say to every\nbody.--_That_ is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy\nthemselves very important and never open their mouths, quite mistake the\nmatter.\"\n\n\"Did Charlotte dine with you?\"\n\n\"No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince pies. For\nmy part, Mr. Bingley, _I_ always keep servants that can do their own\nwork; _my_ daughters are brought up differently. But every body is to\njudge for themselves, and the Lucases are very good sort of girls, I\nassure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that _I_ think\nCharlotte so _very_ plain--but then she is our particular friend.\"\n\n\"She seems a very pleasant young woman,\" said Bingley.\n\n\"Oh! dear, yes;--but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself\nhas often said so, and envied me Jane's beauty. I do not like to boast\nof my own child, but to be sure, Jane--one does not often see any body\nbetter looking. It is what every body says. I do not trust my own\npartiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a gentleman at my\nbrother Gardiner's in town, so much in love with her, that my\nsister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away.\nBut however he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he\nwrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were.\"\n\n\"And so ended his affection,\" said Elizabeth impatiently. \"There has\nbeen many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first\ndiscovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!\"\n\n\"I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love,\" said Darcy.\n\n\"Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Every thing nourishes what is\nstrong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I\nam convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.\"\n\nDarcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth\ntremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to\nspeak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs.\nBennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to\nJane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was\nunaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be\ncivil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part\nindeed without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and\nsoon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of\nher daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to\neach other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the\nyoungest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming\ninto the country to give a ball at Netherfield.\n\nLydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion\nand good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose\naffection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high\nanimal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the\nattentions of the officers, to whom her uncle's good dinners and her own\neasy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very\nequal therefore to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and\nabruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most\nshameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this\nsudden attack was delightful to their mother's ear.\n\n\"I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when\nyour sister is recovered, you shall if you please name the very day of\nthe ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while she is ill.\"\n\nLydia declared herself satisfied. \"Oh! yes--it would be much better to\nwait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter\nwould be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball,\" she\nadded, \"I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel\nForster it will be quite a shame if he does not.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned\ninstantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the\nremarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however,\ncould not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of\nall Miss Bingley's witticisms on _fine eyes_.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n\nThe day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss\nBingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who\ncontinued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined\ntheir party in the drawing-room. The loo table, however, did not appear.\nMr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching\nthe progress of his letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by\nmessages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and\nMrs. Hurst was observing their game.\n\nElizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in\nattending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual\ncommendations of the lady either on his hand-writing, or on the evenness\nof his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern\nwith which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was\nexactly in unison with her opinion of each.\n\n\"How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!\"\n\nHe made no answer.\n\n\"You write uncommonly fast.\"\n\n\"You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.\"\n\n\"How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of the\nyear! Letters of business too! How odious I should think them!\"\n\n\"It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours.\"\n\n\"Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.\"\n\n\"I have already told her so once, by your desire.\"\n\n\"I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend\npens remarkably well.\"\n\n\"Thank you--but I always mend my own.\"\n\n\"How can you contrive to write so even?\"\n\nHe was silent.\n\n\"Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp,\nand pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful\nlittle design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss\nGrantley's.\"\n\n\"Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again?--At\npresent I have not room to do them justice.\"\n\n\"Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you\nalways write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?\"\n\n\"They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me\nto determine.\"\n\n\"It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter, with\nease, cannot write ill.\"\n\n\"That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,\" cried her\nbrother--\"because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much for\nwords of four syllables.--Do not you, Darcy?\"\n\n\"My style of writing is very different from yours.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" cried Miss Bingley, \"Charles writes in the most careless way\nimaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.\"\n\n\"My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them--by which\nmeans my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.\"\n\n\"Your humility, Mr. Bingley,\" said Elizabeth, \"must disarm reproof.\"\n\n\"Nothing is more deceitful,\" said Darcy, \"than the appearance of\nhumility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an\nindirect boast.\"\n\n\"And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?\"\n\n\"The indirect boast;--for you are really proud of your defects in\nwriting, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of\nthought and carelessness of execution, which if not estimable, you think\nat least highly interesting. The power of doing any thing with\nquickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any\nattention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs.\nBennet this morning that if you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield\nyou should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of\npanegyric, of compliment to yourself--and yet what is there so very\nlaudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business\nundone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or any one else?\"\n\n\"Nay,\" cried Bingley, \"this is too much, to remember at night all the\nfoolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I\nbelieved what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this\nmoment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless\nprecipitance merely to shew off before the ladies.\"\n\n\"I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you\nwould be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as\ndependant on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were\nmounting your horse, a friend were to say, 'Bingley, you had better stay\ntill next week,' you would probably do it, you would probably not\ngo--and, at another word, might stay a month.\"\n\n\"You have only proved by this,\" cried Elizabeth, \"that Mr. Bingley did\nnot do justice to his own disposition. You have shewn him off now much\nmore than he did himself.\"\n\n\"I am exceedingly gratified,\" said Bingley, \"by your converting what my\nfriend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am\nafraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means\nintend; for he would certainly think the better of me, if under such a\ncircumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I\ncould.\"\n\n\"Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intention\nas atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?\"\n\n\"Upon my word I cannot exactly explain the matter, Darcy must speak for\nhimself.\"\n\n\"You expect me to account for opinions which you chuse to call mine, but\nwhich I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to stand\naccording to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet, that\nthe friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and the\ndelay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering one\nargument in favour of its propriety.\"\n\n\"To yield readily--easily--to the _persuasion_ of a friend is no merit\nwith you.\"\n\n\"To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of\neither.\"\n\n\"You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of\nfriendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make\none readily yield to a request, without waiting for arguments to reason\none into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have\nsupposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the\ncircumstance occurs, before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour\nthereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend,\nwhere one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no\nvery great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying\nwith the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?\"\n\n\"Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange\nwith rather more precision the degree of importance which is to\nappertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting\nbetween the parties?\"\n\n\"By all means,\" cried Bingley; \"let us hear all the particulars, not\nforgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have more\nweight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure\nyou that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with\nmyself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not\nknow a more aweful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in\nparticular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening\nwhen he has nothing to do.\"\n\nMr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that he was\nrather offended; and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly\nresented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with her\nbrother for talking such nonsense.\n\n\"I see your design, Bingley,\" said his friend.--\"You dislike an\nargument, and want to silence this.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss\nBennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very\nthankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me.\"\n\n\"What you ask,\" said Elizabeth, \"is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr.\nDarcy had much better finish his letter.\"\n\nMr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.\n\nWhen that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth\nfor the indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with alacrity to\nthe piano-forte, and after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead\nthe way, which the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she\nseated herself.\n\nMrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus employed\nElizabeth could not help observing as she turned over some music books\nthat lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy's eyes were fixed\non her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of\nadmiration to so great a man; and yet that he should look at her because\nhe disliked her, was still more strange. She could only imagine however\nat last, that she drew his notice because there was a something about\nher more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than\nin any other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked\nhim too little to care for his approbation.\n\nAfter playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by a\nlively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near\nElizabeth, said to her--\n\n\"Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an\nopportunity of dancing a reel?\"\n\nShe smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some\nsurprise at her silence.\n\n\"Oh!\" said she, \"I heard you before; but I could not immediately\ndetermine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say 'Yes,'\nthat you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always\ndelight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of\ntheir premeditated contempt. I have therefore made up my mind to tell\nyou, that I do not want to dance a reel at all--and now despise me if\nyou dare.\"\n\n\"Indeed I do not dare.\"\n\nElizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his\ngallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her\nmanner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody; and Darcy had\nnever been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really\nbelieved, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he\nshould be in some danger.\n\nMiss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her great\nanxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane, received some\nassistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth.\n\nShe often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of\ntheir supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance.\n\n\"I hope,\" said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery the\nnext day, \"you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this\ndesirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue;\nand if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after\nthe officers.--And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to\ncheck that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence,\nwhich your lady possesses.\"\n\n\"Have you any thing else to propose for my domestic felicity?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes.--Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips be\nplaced in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great uncle\nthe judge. They are in the same profession, you know; only in different\nlines. As for your Elizabeth's picture, you must not attempt to have it\ntaken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?\"\n\n\"It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their\ncolour and shape, and the eye-lashes, so remarkably fine, might be\ncopied.\"\n\nAt that moment they were met from another walk, by Mrs. Hurst and\nElizabeth herself.\n\n\"I did not know that you intended to walk,\" said Miss Bingley, in some\nconfusion, lest they had been overheard.\n\n\"You used us abominably ill,\" answered Mrs. Hurst, \"in running away\nwithout telling us that you were coming out.\"\n\nThen taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk\nby herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness\nand immediately said,--\n\n\"This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the\navenue.\"\n\nBut Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them,\nlaughingly answered,\n\n\"No, no; stay where you are.--You are charmingly group'd, and appear to\nuncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a\nfourth. Good bye.\"\n\nShe then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the hope of\nbeing at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered\nas to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n\nWhen the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her sister,\nand seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the\ndrawing-room; where she was welcomed by her two friends with many\nprofessions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable\nas they were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared.\nTheir powers of conversation were considerable. They could describe an\nentertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh\nat their acquaintance with spirit.\n\nBut when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object.\nMiss Bingley's eyes were instantly turned towards Darcy, and she had\nsomething to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed\nhimself directly to Miss Bennet, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst\nalso made her a slight bow, and said he was \"very glad;\" but diffuseness\nand warmth remained for Bingley's salutation. He was full of joy and\nattention. The first half hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she\nshould suffer from the change of room; and she removed at his desire to\nthe other side of the fire-place, that she might be farther from the\ndoor. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to any one else.\nElizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great\ndelight.\n\nWhen tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the\ncard-table--but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr.\nDarcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open\npetition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and the\nsilence of the whole party on the subject, seemed to justify her. Mr.\nHurst had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch himself on one of the\nsophas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same;\nand Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and\nrings, joined now and then in her brother's conversation with Miss\nBennet.\n\nMiss Bingley's attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr.\nDarcy's progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own; and she was\nperpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She\ncould not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her\nquestion, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be\namused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the\nsecond volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, \"How pleasant it\nis to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no\nenjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a\nbook!--When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not\nan excellent library.\"\n\nNo one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and\ncast her eyes round the room in quest of some amusement; when hearing\nher brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly\ntowards him and said,\n\n\"By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at\nNetherfield?--I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult\nthe wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not\nsome among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a\npleasure.\"\n\n\"If you mean Darcy,\" cried her brother, \"he may go to bed, if he chuses,\nbefore it begins--but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and\nas soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send round my\ncards.\"\n\n\"I should like balls infinitely better,\" she replied, \"if they were\ncarried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably\ntedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much\nmore rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the\nday.\"\n\n\"Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be\nnear so much like a ball.\"\n\nMiss Bingley made no answer; and soon afterwards got up and walked about\nthe room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well;--but Darcy, at\nwhom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation\nof her feelings she resolved on one effort more; and, turning to\nElizabeth, said,\n\n\"Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a\nturn about the room.--I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting\nso long in one attitude.\"\n\nElizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley\nsucceeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked\nup. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as\nElizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was\ndirectly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing,\nthat he could imagine but two motives for their chusing to walk up and\ndown the room together, with either of which motives his joining them\nwould interfere. \"What could he mean? she was dying to know what could\nbe his meaning\"--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand\nhim?\n\n\"Not at all,\" was her answer; \"but depend upon it, he means to be severe\non us, and our surest way of disappointing him, will be to ask nothing\nabout it.\"\n\nMiss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in any\nthing, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his two\nmotives.\n\n\"I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,\" said he, as soon\nas she allowed him to speak. \"You either chuse this method of passing\nthe evening because you are in each other's confidence and have secret\naffairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures\nappear to the greatest advantage in walking;--if the first, I should be\ncompletely in your way;--and if the second, I can admire you much better\nas I sit by the fire.\"\n\n\"Oh! shocking!\" cried Miss Bingley. \"I never heard any thing so\nabominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?\"\n\n\"Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,\" said Elizabeth. \"We\ncan all plague and punish one another. Teaze him--laugh at\nhim.--Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done.\"\n\n\"But upon my honour I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not\nyet taught me _that_. Teaze calmness of temper and presence of mind! No,\nno--I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose\nourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr.\nDarcy may hug himself.\"\n\n\"Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!\" cried Elizabeth. \"That is an\nuncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would\nbe a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a\nlaugh.\"\n\n\"Miss Bingley,\" said he, \"has given me credit for more than can be. The\nwisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions,\nmay be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a\njoke.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" replied Elizabeth--\"there are such people, but I hope I am\nnot one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies\nand nonsense, whims and inconsistencies _do_ divert me, I own, and I\nlaugh at them whenever I can.--But these, I suppose, are precisely what\nyou are without.\"\n\n\"Perhaps that is not possible for any one. But it has been the study of\nmy life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong\nunderstanding to ridicule.\"\n\n\"Such as vanity and pride.\"\n\n\"Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real\nsuperiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.\"\n\nElizabeth turned away to hide a smile.\n\n\"Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,\" said Miss\nBingley;--\"and pray what is the result?\"\n\n\"I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it\nhimself without disguise.\"\n\n\"No\"--said Darcy, \"I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough,\nbut they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch\nfor.--It is I believe too little yielding--certainly too little for the\nconvenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of\nothers so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My\nfeelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper\nwould perhaps be called resentful.--My good opinion once lost is lost\nfor ever.\"\n\n\"_That_ is a failing indeed!\"--cried Elizabeth. \"Implacable resentment\n_is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well.--I\nreally cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me.\"\n\n\"There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular\nevil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.\"\n\n\"And _your_ defect is a propensity to hate every body.\"\n\n\"And yours,\" he replied with a smile, \"is wilfully to misunderstand\nthem.\"\n\n\"Do let us have a little music,\"--cried Miss Bingley, tired of a\nconversation in which she had no share.--\"Louisa, you will not mind my\nwaking Mr. Hurst.\"\n\nHer sister made not the smallest objection, and the piano-forte was\nopened, and Darcy, after a few moments recollection, was not sorry for\nit. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n\nIn consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the\nnext morning to her mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for\nthem in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on\nher daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which\nwould exactly finish Jane's week, could not bring herself to receive\nthem with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at\nleast not to Elizabeth's wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs.\nBennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage\nbefore Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley\nand his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them very\nwell.--Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively\nresolved--nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the\ncontrary, as being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long,\nshe urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley's carriage immediately, and at\nlength it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield\nthat morning should be mentioned, and the request made.\n\nThe communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was\nsaid of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work on\nJane; and till the morrow, their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was\nthen sorry that she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike\nof one sister much exceeded her affection for the other.\n\nThe master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so\nsoon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be\nsafe for her--that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where\nshe felt herself to be right.\n\nTo Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence--Elizabeth had been at\nNetherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked--and Miss\nBingley was uncivil to _her_, and more teazing than usual to himself.\nHe wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration\nshould _now_ escape him, nothing that could elevate her with the hope of\ninfluencing his felicity; sensible that if such an idea had been\nsuggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight\nin confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke\nten words to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were at\none time left by themselves for half an hour, he adhered most\nconscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her.\n\nOn Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost\nall, took place. Miss Bingley's civility to Elizabeth increased at last\nvery rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted,\nafter assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her to\nsee her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most\ntenderly, she even shook hands with the former.--Elizabeth took leave of\nthe whole party in the liveliest spirits.\n\nThey were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet\nwondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much\ntrouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again.--But their\nfather, though very laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really\nglad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The\nevening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of its\nanimation, and almost all its sense, by the absence of Jane and\nElizabeth.\n\nThey found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough bass and human\nnature; and had some new extracts to admire, and some new observations\nof thread-bare morality to listen to. Catherine and Lydia had\ninformation for them of a different sort. Much had been done, and much\nhad been said in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of\nthe officers had dined lately with their uncle, a private had been\nflogged, and it had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going\nto be married.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\n\n\"I hope, my dear,\" said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at\nbreakfast the next morning, \"that you have ordered a good dinner to-day,\nbecause I have reason to expect an addition to our family party.\"\n\n\"Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming I am sure,\nunless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in, and I hope _my_ dinners\nare good enough for her. I do not believe she often sees such at home.\"\n\n\"The person of whom I speak, is a gentleman and a stranger.\" Mrs.\nBennet's eyes sparkled.--\"A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr. Bingley\nI am sure. Why Jane--you never dropt a word of this; you sly thing!\nWell, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see Mr. Bingley.--But--good\nlord! how unlucky! there is not a bit of fish to be got to-day. Lydia,\nmy love, ring the bell. I must speak to Hill, this moment.\"\n\n\"It is _not_ Mr. Bingley,\" said her husband; \"it is a person whom I\nnever saw in the whole course of my life.\"\n\nThis roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of being\neagerly questioned by his wife and five daughters at once.\n\nAfter amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus explained.\n\"About a month ago I received this letter, and about a fortnight ago I\nanswered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and requiring\nearly attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead,\nmay turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases.\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear,\" cried his wife, \"I cannot bear to hear that mentioned.\nPray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing\nin the world, that your estate should be entailed away from your own\nchildren; and I am sure if I had been you, I should have tried long ago\nto do something or other about it.\"\n\nJane and Elizabeth attempted to explain to her the nature of an entail.\nThey had often attempted it before, but it was a subject on which Mrs.\nBennet was beyond the reach of reason; and she continued to rail\nbitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of\nfive daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.\n\n\"It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,\" said Mr. Bennet, \"and\nnothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn.\nBut if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps be a little\nsoftened by his manner of expressing himself.\"\n\n\"No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think it was very impertinent of\nhim to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false\nfriends. Why could not he keep on quarrelling with you, as his father\ndid before him?\"\n\n\"Why, indeed, he does seem to have had some filial scruples on that\nhead, as you will hear.\"\n\n     _Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent,\n\n     15th October._\n\n     DEAR SIR,\n\n     The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured\n     father, always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have had the\n     misfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal the\n     breach; but for some time I was kept back by my own doubts, fearing\n     lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be on good\n     terms with any one, with whom it had always pleased him to be at\n     variance.--\"There, Mrs. Bennet.\"--My mind however is now made up on\n     the subject, for having received ordination at Easter, I have been\n     so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage of the Right\n     Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh,\n     whose bounty and beneficence has preferred me to the valuable\n     rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest endeavour to\n     demean myself with grateful respect towards her Ladyship, and be\n     ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which are\n     instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman, moreover, I\n     feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of peace in\n     all families within the reach of my influence; and on these grounds\n     I flatter myself that my present overtures of good-will are highly\n     commendable, and that the circumstance of my being next in the\n     entail of Longbourn estate, will be kindly overlooked on your side,\n     and not lead you to reject the offered olive branch. I cannot be\n     otherwise than concerned at being the means of injuring your\n     amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for it, as well as to\n     assure you of my readiness to make them every possible amends,--but\n     of this hereafter. If you should have no objection to receive me\n     into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting on\n     you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o'clock, and\n     shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday\n     se'night following, which I can do without any inconvenience, as\n     Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a\n     Sunday, provided that some other clergyman is engaged to do the\n     duty of the day. I remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to\n     your lady and daughters, your well-wisher and friend,\n\n     WILLIAM COLLINS.\"\n\n\"At four o'clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman,\"\nsaid Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. \"He seems to be a most\nconscientious and polite young man, upon my word; and I doubt not will\nprove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so\nindulgent as to let him come to us again.\"\n\n\"There is some sense in what he says about the girls however; and if he\nis disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to\ndiscourage him.\"\n\n\"Though it is difficult,\" said Jane, \"to guess in what way he can mean\nto make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his\ncredit.\"\n\nElizabeth was chiefly struck with his extraordinary deference for Lady\nCatherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying\nhis parishioners whenever it were required.\n\n\"He must be an oddity, I think,\" said she. \"I cannot make him\nout.--There is something very pompous in his style.--And what can he\nmean by apologizing for being next in the entail?--We cannot suppose he\nwould help it, if he could.--Can he be a sensible man, sir?\"\n\n\"No, my dear; I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the\nreverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his\nletter, which promises well. I am impatient to see him.\"\n\n\"In point of composition,\" said Mary, \"his letter does not seem\ndefective. The idea of the olive branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I\nthink it is well expressed.\"\n\nTo Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were in any\ndegree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should\ncome in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had\nreceived pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for\ntheir mother, Mr. Collins's letter had done away much of her ill-will,\nand she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure, which\nastonished her husband and daughters.\n\nMr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great\npoliteness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the\nladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in need\nof encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a tall,\nheavy looking young man of five and twenty. His air was grave and\nstately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated\nbefore he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of\ndaughters, said he had heard much of their beauty, but that, in this\ninstance, fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did\nnot doubt her seeing them all in due time well disposed of in marriage.\nThis gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers, but\nMrs. Bennet, who quarrelled with no compliments, answered most readily,\n\n\"You are very kind, sir, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may\nprove so; for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so\noddly.\"\n\n\"You allude perhaps to the entail of this estate.\"\n\n\"Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you\nmust confess. Not that I mean to find fault with _you_, for such things\nI know are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates\nwill go when once they come to be entailed.\"\n\n\"I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins,--and\ncould say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing\nforward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies that I come\nprepared to admire them. At present I will not say more, but perhaps\nwhen we are better acquainted----\"\n\nHe was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each\nother. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins's admiration. The\nhall, the dining-room, and all its furniture were examined and praised;\nand his commendation of every thing would have touched Mrs. Bennet's\nheart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his\nown future property. The dinner too in its turn was highly admired; and\nhe begged to know to which of his fair cousins, the excellence of its\ncookery was owing. But here he was set right by Mrs. Bennet, who assured\nhim with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a good\ncook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He begged\npardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she declared\nherself not at all offended; but he continued to apologise for about a\nquarter of an hour.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\n\nDuring dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants\nwere withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his\nguest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to\nshine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady\nCatherine de Bourgh's attention to his wishes, and consideration for his\ncomfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen\nbetter. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him\nto more than usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect\nhe protested that he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in a\nperson of rank--such affability and condescension, as he had himself\nexperienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to\napprove of both the discourses, which he had already had the honour of\npreaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings,\nand had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of\nquadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many\npeople he knew, but _he_ had never seen any thing but affability in her.\nShe had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she\nmade not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the\nneighbourhood, nor to his leaving his parish occasionally for a week or\ntwo, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to\nmarry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had\nonce paid him a visit in his humble parsonage; where she had perfectly\napproved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed\nto suggest some herself,--some shelves in the closets up stairs.\n\n\"That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,\" said Mrs. Bennet, \"and I\ndare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies\nin general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?\"\n\n\"The garden in which stands my humble abode, is separated only by a lane\nfrom Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence.\"\n\n\"I think you said she was a widow, sir? has she any family?\"\n\n\"She has one only daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very\nextensive property.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" cried Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, \"then she is better off than\nmany girls. And what sort of young lady is she? is she handsome?\"\n\n\"She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says\nthat in point of true beauty, Miss De Bourgh is far superior to the\nhandsomest of her sex; because there is that in her features which marks\nthe young woman of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly\nconstitution, which has prevented her making that progress in many\naccomplishments, which she could not otherwise have failed of; as I am\ninformed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still\nresides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends\nto drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies.\"\n\n\"Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at\ncourt.\"\n\n\"Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town;\nand by that means, as I told Lady Catherine myself one day, has deprived\nthe British court of its brightest ornament. Her ladyship seemed pleased\nwith the idea, and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to\noffer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to\nladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her\ncharming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most\nelevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by\nher.--These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and\nit is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to\npay.\"\n\n\"You judge very properly,\" said Mr. Bennet, \"and it is happy for you\nthat you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask\nwhether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the\nmoment, or are the result of previous study?\"\n\n\"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I\nsometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant\ncompliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to\ngive them as unstudied an air as possible.\"\n\nMr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd\nas he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment,\nmaintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance,\nand except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in\nhis pleasure.\n\nBy tea-time however the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to\ntake his guest into the drawing-room again, and when tea was over, glad\nto invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented,\nand a book was produced; but on beholding it, (for every thing announced\nit to be from a circulating library,) he started back, and begging\npardon, protested that he never read novels.--Kitty stared at him, and\nLydia exclaimed.--Other books were produced, and after some deliberation\nhe chose Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and\nbefore he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she\ninterrupted him with,\n\n\"Do you know, mama, that my uncle Philips talks of turning away Richard,\nand if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me so\nherself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more\nabout it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town.\"\n\nLydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr.\nCollins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said,\n\n\"I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books\nof a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes\nme, I confess;--for certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to\nthem as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin.\"\n\nThen turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at\nbackgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted\nvery wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs.\nBennet and her daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia's\ninterruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would\nresume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his\nyoung cousin no ill will, and should never resent her behaviour as any\naffront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared\nfor backgammon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n\nMr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had\nbeen but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of\nhis life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and\nmiserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he\nhad merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it any useful\nacquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up, had\ngiven him originally great humility of manner, but it was now a good\ndeal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in\nretirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected\nprosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de\nBourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he\nfelt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness,\nmingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a\nclergyman, and his rights as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of\npride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility.\n\nHaving now a good house and very sufficient income, he intended to\nmarry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had\na wife in view, as he meant to chuse one of the daughters, if he found\nthem as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report.\nThis was his plan of amends--of atonement--for inheriting their father's\nestate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and\nsuitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own\npart.\n\nHis plan did not vary on seeing them.--Miss Bennet's lovely face\nconfirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of what\nwas due to seniority; and for the first evening _she_ was his settled\nchoice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a quarter\nof an hour's tete-a-tete with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a\nconversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally\nto the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress for it might be found at\nLongbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general\nencouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on.--\"As to\nher _younger_ daughters she could not take upon her to say--she could\nnot positively answer--but she did not _know_ of any prepossession;--her\n_eldest_ daughter, she must just mention--she felt it incumbent on her\nto hint, was likely to be very soon engaged.\"\n\nMr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth--and it was soon\ndone--done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. Elizabeth, equally\nnext to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course.\n\nMrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have\ntwo daughters married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of\nthe day before, was now high in her good graces.\n\nLydia's intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every sister\nexcept Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them,\nat the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him,\nand have his library to himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed\nhim after breakfast, and there he would continue, nominally engaged with\none of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr.\nBennet, with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such\ndoings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been\nalways sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told\nElizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other room in the\nhouse, he was used to be free from them there; his civility, therefore,\nwas most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their\nwalk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact much better fitted for a walker\nthan a reader, was extremely well pleased to close his large book, and\ngo.\n\nIn pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his\ncousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The attention of\nthe younger ones was then no longer to be gained by _him_. Their eyes\nwere immediately wandering up in the street in quest of the officers,\nand nothing less than a very smart bonnet indeed, or a really new muslin\nin a shop window, could recal them.\n\nBut the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom\nthey had never seen before, of most gentleman-like appearance, walking\nwith an officer on the other side of the way. The officer was the very\nMr. Denny, concerning whose return from London Lydia came to inquire,\nand he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the stranger's air,\nall wondered who he could be, and Kitty and Lydia, determined if\npossible to find out, led the way across the street, under pretence of\nwanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained\nthe pavement when the two gentlemen turning back had reached the same\nspot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated permission to\nintroduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with him the day\nbefore from town, and he was happy to say had accepted a commission in\ntheir corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the young man wanted\nonly regimentals to make him completely charming. His appearance was\ngreatly in his favour; he had all the best part of beauty, a fine\ncountenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction\nwas followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation--a\nreadiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the\nwhole party were still standing and talking together very agreeably,\nwhen the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley were\nseen riding down the street. On distinguishing the ladies of the group,\nthe two gentlemen came directly towards them, and began the usual\ncivilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and Miss Bennet the\nprincipal object. He was then, he said, on his way to Longbourn on\npurpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated it with a bow, and\nwas beginning to determine not to fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they\nwere suddenly arrested by the sight of the stranger, and Elizabeth\nhappening to see the countenance of both as they looked at each other,\nwas all astonishment at the effect of the meeting. Both changed colour,\none looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few moments,\ntouched his hat--a salutation which Mr. Darcy just deigned to return.\nWhat could be the meaning of it?--It was impossible to imagine; it was\nimpossible not to long to know.\n\nIn another minute Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have noticed what\npassed, took leave and rode on with his friend.\n\nMr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of\nMr. Philips's house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia's\npressing entreaties that they would come in, and even in spite of Mrs.\nPhilips' throwing up the parlour window, and loudly seconding the\ninvitation.\n\nMrs. Philips was always glad to see her nieces, and the two eldest, from\ntheir recent absence, were particularly welcome, and she was eagerly\nexpressing her surprise at their sudden return home, which, as their own\ncarriage had not fetched them, she should have known nothing about, if\nshe had not happened to see Mr. Jones's shop boy in the street, who had\ntold her that they were not to send any more draughts to Netherfield\nbecause the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility was claimed\ntowards Mr. Collins by Jane's introduction of him. She received him with\nher very best politeness, which he returned with as much more,\napologising for his intrusion, without any previous acquaintance with\nher, which he could not help flattering himself however might be\njustified by his relationship to the young ladies who introduced him to\nher notice. Mrs. Philips was quite awed by such an excess of good\nbreeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon put an end to\nby exclamations and inquiries about the other, of whom, however, she\ncould only tell her nieces what they already knew, that Mr. Denny had\nbrought him from London, and that he was to have a lieutenant's\ncommission in the ----shire. She had been watching him the last hour,\nshe said, as he walked up and down the street, and had Mr. Wickham\nappeared Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued the occupation,\nbut unluckily no one passed the windows now except a few of the\nofficers, who in comparison with the stranger, were become \"stupid,\ndisagreeable fellows.\" Some of them were to dine with the Philipses the\nnext day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr.\nWickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn\nwould come in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Philips\nprotested that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery\ntickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such\ndelights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr.\nCollins repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured\nwith unwearying civility that they were perfectly needless.\n\nAs they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass\nbetween the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either or\nboth, had they appeared to be wrong, she could no more explain such\nbehaviour than her sister.\n\nMr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by admiring Mrs.\nPhilips's manners and politeness. He protested that except Lady\nCatherine and her daughter, he had never seen a more elegant woman; for\nshe had not only received him with the utmost civility, but had even\npointedly included him in her invitation for the next evening, although\nutterly unknown to her before. Something he supposed might be attributed\nto his connection with them, but yet he had never met with so much\nattention in the whole course of his life.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\n\nAs no objection was made to the young people's engagement with their\naunt, and all Mr. Collins's scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for\na single evening during his visit were most steadily resisted, the coach\nconveyed him and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton; and the\ngirls had the pleasure of hearing, as they entered the drawing-room,\nthat Mr. Wickham had accepted their uncle's invitation, and was then in\nthe house.\n\nWhen this information was given, and they had all taken their seats, Mr.\nCollins was at leisure to look around him and admire, and he was so much\nstruck with the size and furniture of the apartment, that he declared he\nmight almost have supposed himself in the small summer breakfast parlour\nat Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey much\ngratification; but when Mrs. Philips understood from him what Rosings\nwas, and who was its proprietor, when she had listened to the\ndescription of only one of Lady Catherine's drawing-rooms, and found\nthat the chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all\nthe force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a comparison\nwith the housekeeper's room.\n\nIn describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her mansion,\nwith occasional digressions in praise of his own humble abode, and the\nimprovements it was receiving, he was happily employed until the\ngentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs. Philips a very attentive\nlistener, whose opinion of his consequence increased with what she\nheard, and who was resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as\nsoon as she could. To the girls, who could not listen to their cousin,\nand who had nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine\ntheir own indifferent imitations of china on the mantle-piece, the\ninterval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last however. The\ngentlemen did approach; and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room,\nElizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing him before, nor thinking\nof him since, with the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration. The\nofficers of the ----shire were in general a very creditable,\ngentleman-like set, and the best of them were of the present party; but\nMr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and\nwalk, as _they_ were superior to the broad-faced stuffy uncle Philips,\nbreathing port wine, who followed them into the room.\n\nMr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was\nturned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated\nhimself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into\nconversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, and on the\nprobability of a rainy season, made her feel that the commonest,\ndullest, most thread-bare topic might be rendered interesting by the\nskill of the speaker.\n\nWith such rivals for the notice of the fair, as Mr. Wickham and the\nofficers, Mr. Collins seemed likely to sink into insignificance; to the\nyoung ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a\nkind listener in Mrs. Philips, and was, by her watchfulness, most\nabundantly supplied with coffee and muffin.\n\nWhen the card tables were placed, he had an opportunity of obliging her\nin return, by sitting down to whist.\n\n\"I know little of the game, at present,\" said he, \"but I shall be glad\nto improve myself, for in my situation of life----\" Mrs. Philips was\nvery thankful for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason.\n\nMr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he\nreceived at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there\nseemed danger of Lydia's engrossing him entirely, for she was a most\ndetermined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets,\nshe soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets\nand exclaiming after prizes, to have attention for any one in\nparticular. Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was\ntherefore at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to\nhear him, though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to\nbe told, the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not\neven mention that gentleman. Her curiosity however was unexpectedly\nrelieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far\nNetherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in\nan hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there.\n\n\"About a month,\" said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject\ndrop, added, \"He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I\nunderstand.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Wickham;--\"his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten\nthousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of\ngiving you certain information on that head than myself--for I have been\nconnected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy.\"\n\nElizabeth could not but look surprised.\n\n\"You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after\nseeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting\nyesterday.--Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?\"\n\n\"As much as I ever wish to be,\" cried Elizabeth warmly,--\"I have spent\nfour days in the same house with him, and I think him very\ndisagreeable.\"\n\n\"I have no right to give _my_ opinion,\" said Wickham, \"as to his being\nagreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him\ntoo long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_ to\nbe impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general\nastonish--and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly\nanywhere else.--Here you are in your own family.\"\n\n\"Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in the\nneighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in\nHertfordshire. Every body is disgusted with his pride. You will not find\nhim more favourably spoken of by any one.\"\n\n\"I cannot pretend to be sorry,\" said Wickham, after a short\ninterruption, \"that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond\ntheir deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The\nworld is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his\nhigh and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen.\"\n\n\"I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an\nill-tempered man.\" Wickham only shook his head.\n\n\"I wonder,\" said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, \"whether he is\nlikely to be in this country much longer.\"\n\n\"I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I\nwas at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will\nnot be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.\"\n\n\"Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_\nwishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms,\nand it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for\navoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of\nvery great ill usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is.\nHis father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men\nthat ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be\nin company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a\nthousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been\nscandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every\nthing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory\nof his father.\"\n\nElizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with\nall her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented farther inquiry.\n\nMr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the\nneighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he\nhad yet seen, and speaking of the latter especially, with gentle but\nvery intelligible gallantry.\n\n\"It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,\" he added,\n\"which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I knew it to be a\nmost respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me\nfarther by his account of their present quarters, and the very great\nattentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton had procured them.\nSociety, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and\nmy spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society.\nA military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have\nnow made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I\nwas brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in\npossession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we\nwere speaking of just now.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\"\n\n\"Yes--the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best\nliving in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me.\nI cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply,\nand thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given\nelsewhere.\"\n\n\"Good heavens!\" cried Elizabeth; \"but how could _that_ be?--How could\nhis will be disregarded?--Why did not you seek legal redress?\"\n\n\"There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to\ngive me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the\nintention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it--or to treat it as a merely\nconditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim\nto it by extravagance, imprudence, in short any thing or nothing.\nCertain it is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I\nwas of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no\nless certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done\nany thing to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I\nmay perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too\nfreely. I can recal nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very\ndifferent sort of men, and that he hates me.\"\n\n\"This is quite shocking!--He deserves to be publicly disgraced.\"\n\n\"Some time or other he _will_ be--but it shall not be by _me_. Till I\ncan forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_.\"\n\nElizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than\never as he expressed them.\n\n\"But what,\" said she, after a pause, \"can have been his motive?--what\ncan have induced him to behave so cruelly?\"\n\n\"A thorough, determined dislike of me--a dislike which I cannot but\nattribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me\nless, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon\nattachment to me, irritated him I believe very early in life. He had not\na temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort of\npreference which was often given me.\"\n\n\"I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked\nhim, I had not thought so very ill of him--I had supposed him to be\ndespising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of\ndescending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as\nthis!\"\n\nAfter a few minutes reflection, however, she continued, \"I _do_ remember\nhis boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his\nresentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition must\nbe dreadful.\"\n\n\"I will not trust myself on the subject,\" replied Wickham, \"_I_ can\nhardly be just to him.\"\n\nElizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, \"To\ntreat in such a manner, the god-son, the friend, the favourite of his\nfather!\"--She could have added, \"A young man too, like _you_, whose very\ncountenance may vouch for your being amiable\"--but she contented\nherself with \"And one, too, who had probably been his own companion from\nchildhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest\nmanner!\"\n\n\"We were born in the same parish, within the same park, the greatest\npart of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house,\nsharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _My_\nfather began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Philips,\nappears to do so much credit to--but he gave up every thing to be of use\nto the late Mr. Darcy, and devoted all his time to the care of the\nPemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most\nintimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to\nbe under the greatest obligations to my father's active superintendance,\nand when immediately before my father's death, Mr. Darcy gave him a\nvoluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to\nbe as much a debt of gratitude to _him_, as of affection to myself.\"\n\n\"How strange!\" cried Elizabeth. \"How abominable!--I wonder that the very\npride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you!--If from no better\nmotive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest,--for\ndishonesty I must call it.\"\n\n\"It _is_ wonderful,\"--replied Wickham,--\"for almost all his actions may\nbe traced to pride;--and pride has often been his best friend. It has\nconnected him nearer with virtue than any other feeling. But we are none\nof us consistent; and in his behaviour to me, there were stronger\nimpulses even than pride.\"\n\n\"Can such abominable pride as his, have ever done him good?\"\n\n\"Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous,--to give his\nmoney freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve\nthe poor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride, for he is very proud of what\nhis father was, have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to\ndegenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the\nPemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride,\nwhich with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful\nguardian of his sister; and you will hear him generally cried up as the\nmost attentive and best of brothers.\"\n\n\"What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?\"\n\nHe shook his head.--\"I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain\nto speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother,--very,\nvery proud.--As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and\nextremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her\namusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about\nfifteen or sixteen, and I understand highly accomplished. Since her\nfather's death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her,\nand superintends her education.\"\n\nAfter many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not\nhelp reverting once more to the first, and saying,\n\n\"I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley,\nwho seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable,\nbe in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other?--Do you\nknow Mr. Bingley?\"\n\n\"Not at all.\"\n\n\"He is a sweet tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr.\nDarcy is.\"\n\n\"Probably not;--but Mr. Darcy can please where he chuses. He does not\nwant abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth\nhis while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a\nvery different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride\nnever deserts him; but with the rich, he is liberal-minded, just,\nsincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable,--allowing\nsomething for fortune and figure.\"\n\nThe whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round\nthe other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin\nElizabeth and Mrs. Philips.--The usual inquiries as to his success were\nmade by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point;\nbut when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured\nher with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance,\nthat he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not\nmake herself uneasy.\n\n\"I know very well, madam,\" said he, \"that when persons sit down to a\ncard table, they must take their chance of these things,--and happily I\nam not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There\nare undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady\nCatherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding\nlittle matters.\"\n\nMr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for\na few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation\nwere very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh.\n\n\"Lady Catherine de Bourgh,\" she replied, \"has very lately given him a\nliving. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her\nnotice, but he certainly has not known her long.\"\n\n\"You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy\nwere sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I did not.--I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's\nconnections. I never heard of her existence till the day before\nyesterday.\"\n\n\"Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is\nbelieved that she and her cousin will unite the two estates.\"\n\nThis information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss\nBingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her\naffection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already\nself-destined to another.\n\n\"Mr. Collins,\" said she, \"speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her\ndaughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship,\nI suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his\npatroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman.\"\n\n\"I believe her to be both in a great degree,\" replied Wickham; \"I have\nnot seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked\nher, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the\nreputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe\nshe derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from\nher authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who\nchuses that every one connected with him should have an understanding of\nthe first class.\"\n\nElizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and\nthey continued talking together with mutual satisfaction till supper put\nan end to cards; and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr.\nWickham's attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise of\nMrs. Philips's supper party, but his manners recommended him to every\nbody. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done\ngracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could\nthink of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all\nthe way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name as\nthey went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia\ntalked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the\nfish she had won, and Mr. Collins, in describing the civility of Mr. and\nMrs. Philips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses\nat whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing\nthat he crouded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage\nbefore the carriage stopped at Longbourn House.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\n\nElizabeth related to Jane the next day, what had passed between Mr.\nWickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern;--she\nknew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr.\nBingley's regard; and yet, it was not in her nature to question the\nveracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham.--The\npossibility of his having really endured such unkindness, was enough to\ninterest all her tender feelings; and nothing therefore remained to be\ndone, but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each, and\nthrow into the account of accident or mistake, whatever could not be\notherwise explained.\n\n\"They have both,\" said she, \"been deceived, I dare say, in some way or\nother, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps\nmisrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to\nconjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them,\nwithout actual blame on either side.\"\n\n\"Very true, indeed;--and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say in\nbehalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the\nbusiness?--Do clear _them_ too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of\nsomebody.\"\n\n\"Laugh as much as you chuse, but you will not laugh me out of my\nopinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light\nit places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father's favourite in such a\nmanner,--one, whom his father had promised to provide for.--It is\nimpossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his\ncharacter, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so\nexcessively deceived in him? oh! no.\"\n\n\"I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley's being imposed on, than\nthat Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me\nlast night; names, facts, every thing mentioned without ceremony.--If it\nbe not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his\nlooks.\"\n\n\"It is difficult indeed--it is distressing.--One does not know what to\nthink.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon;--one knows exactly what to think.\"\n\nBut Jane could think with certainty on only one point,--that Mr.\nBingley, if he _had been_ imposed on, would have much to suffer when the\naffair became public.\n\nThe two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery where this\nconversation passed, by the arrival of some of the very persons of whom\nthey had been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their\npersonal invitation for the long expected ball at Netherfield, which was\nfixed for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see\ntheir dear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and\nrepeatedly asked what she had been doing with herself since their\nseparation. To the rest of the family they paid little attention;\navoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth,\nand nothing at all to the others. They were soon gone again, rising from\ntheir seats with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and\nhurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet's civilities.\n\nThe prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every\nfemale of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in\ncompliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered by\nreceiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a\nceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the\nsociety of her two friends, and the attentions of their brother; and\nElizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr.\nWickham, and of seeing a confirmation of every thing in Mr. Darcy's\nlooks and behaviour. The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia,\ndepended less on any single event, or any particular person, for though\nthey each, like Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr.\nWickham, he was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and\na ball was at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her family\nthat she had no disinclination for it.\n\n\"While I can have my mornings to myself,\" said she, \"it is enough.--I\nthink it no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements.\nSociety has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those who\nconsider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for every\nbody.\"\n\nElizabeth's spirits were so high on the occasion, that though she did\nnot often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not help asking\nhim whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley's invitation, and if he\ndid, whether he would think it proper to join in the evening's\namusement; and she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no\nscruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke\neither from the Archbishop, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to\ndance.\n\n\"I am by no means of opinion, I assure you,\" said he, \"that a ball of\nthis kind, given by a young man of character, to respectable people, can\nhave any evil tendency; and I am so far from objecting to dancing myself\nthat I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins\nin the course of the evening, and I take this opportunity of soliciting\nyours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially,--a\npreference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right\ncause, and not to any disrespect for her.\"\n\nElizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed being\nengaged by Wickham for those very dances:--and to have Mr. Collins\ninstead! her liveliness had been never worse timed. There was no help\nfor it however. Mr. Wickham's happiness and her own was per force\ndelayed a little longer, and Mr. Collins's proposal accepted with as\ngood a grace as she could. She was not the better pleased with his\ngallantry, from the idea it suggested of something more.--It now first\nstruck her, that _she_ was selected from among her sisters as worthy of\nbeing the mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a\nquadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible visitors.\nThe idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed his increasing\ncivilities toward herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a\ncompliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more astonished than\ngratified herself, by this effect of her charms, it was not long before\nher mother gave her to understand that the probability of their marriage\nwas exceedingly agreeable to _her_. Elizabeth however did not chuse to\ntake the hint, being well aware that a serious dispute must be the\nconsequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and\ntill he did, it was useless to quarrel about him.\n\nIf there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the\nyounger Miss Bennets would have been in a pitiable state at this time,\nfor from the day of the invitation, to the day of the ball, there was\nsuch a succession of rain as prevented their walking to Meryton once. No\naunt, no officers, no news could be sought after;--the very shoe-roses\nfor Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have found some\ntrial of her patience in weather, which totally suspended the\nimprovement of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than\na dance on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday and\nMonday, endurable to Kitty and Lydia.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\n\nTill Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield and looked in\nvain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a\ndoubt of his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty of\nmeeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that\nmight not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than\nusual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all\nthat remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than\nmight be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose the\ndreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy's\npleasure in the Bingleys' invitation to the officers; and though this\nwas not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was\npronounced by his friend Mr. Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and\nwho told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business\nthe day before, and was not yet returned; adding, with a significant\nsmile,\n\n\"I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if\nhe had not wished to avoid a certain gentleman here.\"\n\nThis part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by\nElizabeth, and as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for\nWickham's absence than if her first surmise had been just, every feeling\nof displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate\ndisappointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to\nthe polite inquiries which he directly afterwards approached to\nmake.--Attention, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to\nWickham. She was resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and\nturned away with a degree of ill humour, which she could not wholly\nsurmount even in speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality\nprovoked her.\n\nBut Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect\nof her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her\nspirits; and having told all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she had\nnot seen for a week, she was soon able to make a voluntary transition to\nthe oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her particular\nnotice. The two first dances, however, brought a return of distress;\nthey were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn,\napologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without being\naware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a disagreeable\npartner for a couple of dances can give. The moment of her release from\nhim was ecstacy.\n\nShe danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of talking of\nWickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked. When those dances\nwere over she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with\nher, when she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy, who took\nher so much by surprise in his application for her hand, that, without\nknowing what she did, she accepted him. He walked away again\nimmediately, and she was left to fret over her own want of presence of\nmind; Charlotte tried to console her.\n\n\"I dare say you will find him very agreeable.\"\n\n\"Heaven forbid!--_That_ would be the greatest misfortune of all!--To\nfind a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate!--Do not wish me\nsuch an evil.\"\n\nWhen the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her\nhand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her in a whisper not to be a\nsimpleton and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant\nin the eyes of a man of ten times his consequence. Elizabeth made no\nanswer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which\nshe was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and\nreading in her neighbours' looks their equal amazement in beholding it.\nThey stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to\nimagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at\nfirst was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would\nbe the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made\nsome slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again silent.\nAfter a pause of some minutes she addressed him a second time with\n\n\"It is _your_ turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy.--_I_ talked about\nthe dance, and _you_ ought to make some kind of remark on the size of\nthe room, or the number of couples.\"\n\nHe smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be\nsaid.\n\n\"Very well.--That reply will do for the present.--Perhaps by and bye I\nmay observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public\nones.--But _now_ we may be silent.\"\n\n\"Do you talk by rule then, while you are dancing?\"\n\n\"Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be\nentirely silent for half an hour together, and yet for the advantage of\n_some_, conversation ought to be so arranged as that they may have the\ntrouble of saying as little as possible.\"\n\n\"Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you\nimagine that you are gratifying mine?\"\n\n\"Both,\" replied Elizabeth archly; \"for I have always seen a great\nsimilarity in the turn of our minds.--We are each of an unsocial,\ntaciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say\nsomething that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to\nposterity with all the eclat of a proverb.\"\n\n\"This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,\"\nsaid he. \"How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot pretend to say.--_You_\nthink it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.\"\n\n\"I must not decide on my own performance.\"\n\nHe made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone down\nthe dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often\nwalk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and, unable to resist\nthe temptation, added, \"When you met us there the other day, we had just\nbeen forming a new acquaintance.\"\n\nThe effect was immediate. A deeper shade of hauteur overspread his\nfeatures, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though blaming herself\nfor her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a\nconstrained manner said,\n\n\"Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his\n_making_ friends--whether he may be equally capable of _retaining_ them,\nis less certain.\"\n\n\"He has been so unlucky as to lose _your_ friendship,\" replied Elizabeth\nwith emphasis, \"and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all\nhis life.\"\n\nDarcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the subject. At\nthat moment Sir William Lucas appeared close to them, meaning to pass\nthrough the set to the other side of the room; but on perceiving Mr.\nDarcy he stopt with a bow of superior courtesy to compliment him on his\ndancing and his partner.\n\n\"I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear Sir. Such very\nsuperior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong to the\nfirst circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not\ndisgrace you, and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated,\nespecially when a certain desirable event, my dear Miss Eliza, (glancing\nat her sister and Bingley,) shall take place. What congratulations will\nthen flow in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy:--but let me not interrupt you,\nSir.--You will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching\nconverse of that young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.\"\n\nThe latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but Sir\nWilliam's allusion to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his\neyes were directed with a very serious expression towards Bingley and\nJane, who were dancing together. Recovering himself, however, shortly,\nhe turned to his partner, and said,\n\n\"Sir William's interruption has made me forget what we were talking of.\"\n\n\"I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have\ninterrupted any two people in the room who had less to say for\nthemselves.--We have tried two or three subjects already without\nsuccess, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.\"\n\n\"What think you of books?\" said he, smiling.\n\n\"Books--Oh! no.--I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same\nfeelings.\"\n\n\"I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be\nno want of subject.--We may compare our different opinions.\"\n\n\"No--I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of\nsomething else.\"\n\n\"The _present_ always occupies you in such scenes--does it?\" said he,\nwith a look of doubt.\n\n\"Yes, always,\" she replied, without knowing what she said, for her\nthoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared\nby her suddenly exclaiming, \"I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy,\nthat you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was\nunappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its _being\ncreated_.\"\n\n\"I am,\" said he, with a firm voice.\n\n\"And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?\"\n\n\"I hope not.\"\n\n\"It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion,\nto be secure of judging properly at first.\"\n\n\"May I ask to what these questions tend?\"\n\n\"Merely to the illustration of _your_ character,\" said she, endeavouring\nto shake off her gravity. \"I am trying to make it out.\"\n\n\"And what is your success?\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"I do not get on at all. I hear such different\naccounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.\"\n\n\"I can readily believe,\" answered he gravely, \"that report may vary\ngreatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were\nnot to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to\nfear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.\"\n\n\"But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another\nopportunity.\"\n\n\"I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,\" he coldly replied.\nShe said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in\nsilence; on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree, for\nin Darcy's breast there was a tolerable powerful feeling towards her,\nwhich soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against\nanother.\n\nThey had not long separated when Miss Bingley came towards her, and with\nan expression of civil disdain thus accosted her,\n\n\"So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George\nWickham!--Your sister has been talking to me about him, and asking me a\nthousand questions; and I find that the young man forgot to tell you,\namong his other communications, that he was the son of old Wickham, the\nlate Mr. Darcy's steward. Let me recommend you, however, as a friend,\nnot to give implicit confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr.\nDarcy's using him ill, it is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he\nhas been always remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has\ntreated Mr. Darcy in a most infamous manner. I do not know the\nparticulars, but I know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the least to\nblame, that he cannot bear to hear George Wickham mentioned, and that\nthough my brother thought he could not well avoid including him in his\ninvitation to the officers, he was excessively glad to find that he had\ntaken himself out of the way. His coming into the country at all, is a\nmost insolent thing indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it.\nI pity you, Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite's guilt;\nbut really considering his descent, one could not expect much better.\"\n\n\"His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be the same,\" said\nElizabeth angrily; \"for I have heard you accuse him of nothing worse\nthan of being the son of Mr. Darcy's steward, and of _that_, I can\nassure you, he informed me himself.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a sneer.\n\"Excuse my interference.--It was kindly meant.\"\n\n\"Insolent girl!\" said Elizabeth to herself.--\"You are much mistaken if\nyou expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as this. I see\nnothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the malice of Mr.\nDarcy.\" She then sought her eldest sister, who had undertaken to make\ninquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane met her with a smile of\nsuch sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently\nmarked how well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the\nevening.--Elizabeth instantly read her feelings, and at that moment\nsolicitude for Wickham, resentment against his enemies, and every thing\nelse gave way before the hope of Jane's being in the fairest way for\nhappiness.\n\n\"I want to know,\" said she, with a countenance no less smiling than her\nsister's, \"what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But perhaps you have\nbeen too pleasantly engaged to think of any third person; in which case\nyou may be sure of my pardon.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Jane, \"I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing\nsatisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of his\nhistory, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which have\nprincipally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the good conduct,\nthe probity and honour of his friend, and is perfectly convinced that\nMr. Wickham has deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he has\nreceived; and I am sorry to say that by his account as well as his\nsister's, Mr. Wickham is by no means a respectable young man. I am\nafraid he has been very imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy's\nregard.\"\n\n\"Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?\"\n\n\"No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.\"\n\n\"This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am\nperfectly satisfied. But what does he say of the living?\"\n\n\"He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has heard\nthem from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it was left to\nhim _conditionally_ only.\"\n\n\"I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley's sincerity,\" said Elizabeth warmly;\n\"but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances only. Mr.\nBingley's defence of his friend was a very able one I dare say, but\nsince he is unacquainted with several parts of the story, and has learnt\nthe rest from that friend himself, I shall venture still to think of\nboth gentlemen as I did before.\"\n\nShe then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each, and on\nwhich there could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth listened with\ndelight to the happy, though modest hopes which Jane entertained of\nBingley's regard, and said all in her power to heighten her confidence\nin it. On their being joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew\nto Miss Lucas; to whose inquiry after the pleasantness of her last\npartner she had scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them and\ntold her with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as to\nmake a most important discovery.\n\n\"I have found out,\" said he, \"by a singular accident, that there is now\nin the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to overhear the\ngentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who does the honours of\nthis house the names of his cousin Miss de Bourgh, and of her mother\nLady Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would\nhave thought of my meeting with--perhaps--a nephew of Lady Catherine de\nBourgh in this assembly!--I am most thankful that the discovery is made\nin time for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to do,\nand trust he will excuse my not having done it before. My total\nignorance of the connection must plead my apology.\"\n\n\"You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy?\"\n\n\"Indeed I am. I shall intreat his pardon for not having done it earlier.\nI believe him to be Lady Catherine's _nephew_. It will be in my power to\nassure him that her ladyship was quite well yesterday se'night.\"\n\nElizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme; assuring him\nthat Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without introduction as\nan impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment to his aunt; that it\nwas not in the least necessary there should be any notice on either\nside, and that if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in\nconsequence, to begin the acquaintance.--Mr. Collins listened to her\nwith the determined air of following his own inclination, and when she\nceased speaking, replied thus,\n\n\"My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world of your\nexcellent judgment in all matters within the scope of your\nunderstanding, but permit me to say that there must be a wide difference\nbetween the established forms of ceremony amongst the laity, and those\nwhich regulate the clergy; for give me leave to observe that I consider\nthe clerical office as equal in point of dignity with the highest rank\nin the kingdom--provided that a proper humility of behaviour is at the\nsame time maintained. You must therefore allow me to follow the dictates\nof my conscience on this occasion, which leads me to perform what I look\non as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to profit by your\nadvice, which on every other subject shall be my constant guide, though\nin the case before us I consider myself more fitted by education and\nhabitual study to decide on what is right than a young lady like\nyourself.\" And with a low bow he left her to attack Mr. Darcy, whose\nreception of his advances she eagerly watched, and whose astonishment at\nbeing so addressed was very evident. Her cousin prefaced his speech with\na solemn bow, and though she could not hear a word of it, she felt as if\nhearing it all, and saw in the motion of his lips the words \"apology,\"\n\"Hunsford,\" and \"Lady Catherine de Bourgh.\"--It vexed her to see him\nexpose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him with unrestrained\nwonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him time to speak, replied\nwith an air of distant civility. Mr. Collins, however, was not\ndiscouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy's contempt seemed\nabundantly increasing with the length of his second speech, and at the\nend of it he only made him a slight bow, and moved another way. Mr.\nCollins then returned to Elizabeth.\n\n\"I have no reason, I assure you,\" said he, \"to be dissatisfied with my\nreception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the attention. He answered\nme with the utmost civility, and even paid me the compliment of saying,\nthat he was so well convinced of Lady Catherine's discernment as to be\ncertain she could never bestow a favour unworthily. It was really a very\nhandsome thought. Upon the whole, I am much pleased with him.\"\n\nAs Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she turned\nher attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley, and the\ntrain of agreeable reflections which her observations gave birth to,\nmade her perhaps almost as happy as Jane. She saw her in idea settled in\nthat very house in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection\ncould bestow; and she felt capable under such circumstances, of\nendeavouring even to like Bingley's two sisters. Her mother's thoughts\nshe plainly saw were bent the same way, and she determined not to\nventure near her, lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to\nsupper, therefore, she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which\nplaced them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to find\nthat her mother was talking to that one person (Lady Lucas) freely,\nopenly, and of nothing else but of her expectation that Jane would be\nsoon married to Mr. Bingley.--It was an animating subject, and Mrs.\nBennet seemed incapable of fatigue while enumerating the advantages of\nthe match. His being such a charming young man, and so rich, and living\nbut three miles from them, were the first points of self-gratulation;\nand then it was such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of\nJane, and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as\nshe could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her younger\ndaughters, as Jane's marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of\nother rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at her time of life to be\nable to consign her single daughters to the care of their sister, that\nshe might not be obliged to go into company more than she liked. It was\nnecessary to make this circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on\nsuch occasions it is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs.\nBennet to find comfort in staying at home at any period of her life. She\nconcluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be equally\nfortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing there was no\nchance of it.\n\nIn vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her mother's\nwords, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible\nwhisper; for to her inexpressible vexation, she could perceive that the\nchief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to them. Her\nmother only scolded her for being nonsensical.\n\n\"What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am\nsure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say\nnothing _he_ may not like to hear.\"\n\n\"For heaven's sake, madam, speak lower.--What advantage can it be to you\nto offend Mr. Darcy?--You will never recommend yourself to his friend by\nso doing.\"\n\nNothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her mother\nwould talk of her views in the same intelligible tone. Elizabeth blushed\nand blushed again with shame and vexation. She could not help frequently\nglancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though every glance convinced her of what\nshe dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her mother, she was\nconvinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression\nof his face changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and\nsteady gravity.\n\nAt length however Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady Lucas, who\nhad been long yawning at the repetition of delights which she saw no\nlikelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts of cold ham and chicken.\nElizabeth now began to revive. But not long was the interval of\ntranquillity; for when supper was over, singing was talked of, and she\nhad the mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty,\npreparing to oblige the company. By many significant looks and silent\nentreaties, did she endeavour to prevent such a proof of\ncomplaisance,--but in vain; Mary would not understand them; such an\nopportunity of exhibiting was delightful to her, and she began her song.\nElizabeth's eyes were fixed on her with most painful sensations; and she\nwatched her progress through the several stanzas with an impatience\nwhich was very ill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving\namongst the thanks of the table, the hint of a hope that she might be\nprevailed on to favour them again, after the pause of half a minute\nbegan another. Mary's powers were by no means fitted for such a display;\nher voice was weak, and her manner affected.--Elizabeth was in agonies.\nShe looked at Jane, to see how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly\ntalking to Bingley. She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making\nsigns of derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued however\nimpenetrably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his\ninterference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the hint,\nand when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud,\n\n\"That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough.\nLet the other young ladies have time to exhibit.\"\n\nMary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted; and\nElizabeth sorry for her, and sorry for her father's speech, was afraid\nher anxiety had done no good.--Others of the party were now applied to.\n\n\"If I,\" said Mr. Collins, \"were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I\nshould have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an\nair; for I consider music as a very innocent diversion, and perfectly\ncompatible with the profession of a clergyman.--I do not mean however to\nassert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time to\nmusic, for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The\nrector of a parish has much to do.--In the first place, he must make\nsuch an agreement for tythes as may be beneficial to himself and not\noffensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time\nthat remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care\nand improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making\nas comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light importance\nthat he should have attentive and conciliatory manners towards every\nbody, especially towards those to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot\nacquit him of that duty; nor could I think well of the man who should\nomit an occasion of testifying his respect towards any body connected\nwith the family.\" And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech,\nwhich had been spoken so loud as to be heard by half the room.--Many\nstared.--Many smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr. Bennet\nhimself, while his wife seriously commended Mr. Collins for having\nspoken so sensibly, and observed in a half-whisper to Lady Lucas, that\nhe was a remarkably clever, good kind of young man.\n\nTo Elizabeth it appeared, that had her family made an agreement to\nexpose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it would\nhave been impossible for them to play their parts with more spirit, or\nfiner success; and happy did she think it for Bingley and her sister\nthat some of the exhibition had escaped his notice, and that his\nfeelings were not of a sort to be much distressed by the folly which he\nmust have witnessed. That his two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should\nhave such an opportunity of ridiculing her relations was bad enough, and\nshe could not determine whether the silent contempt of the gentleman, or\nthe insolent smiles of the ladies, were more intolerable.\n\nThe rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was teazed by\nMr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her side, and though he\ncould not prevail with her to dance with him again, put it out of her\npower to dance with others. In vain did she entreat him to stand up with\nsomebody else, and offer to introduce him to any young lady in the room.\nHe assured her that as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to it;\nthat his chief object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to\nher, and that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her\nthe whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. She owed\nher greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often joined them, and\ngood-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins's conversation to herself.\n\nShe was at least free from the offence of Mr. Darcy's farther notice;\nthough often standing within a very short distance of her, quite\ndisengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She felt it to be the\nprobable consequence of her allusions to Mr. Wickham, and rejoiced in\nit.\n\nThe Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart; and by a\nmanoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet had to wait for their carriages a quarter of\nan hour after every body else was gone, which gave them time to see how\nheartily they were wished away by some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her\nsister scarcely opened their mouths except to complain of fatigue, and\nwere evidently impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed\nevery attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by so doing, threw a\nlanguor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by the\nlong speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr. Bingley and his\nsisters on the elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and\npoliteness which had marked their behaviour to their guests. Darcy said\nnothing at all. Mr. Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene.\nMr. Bingley and Jane were standing together, a little detached from the\nrest, and talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a\nsilence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was too\nmuch fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of \"Lord,\nhow tired I am!\" accompanied by a violent yawn.\n\nWhen at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly\ncivil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn; and\naddressed herself particularly to Mr. Bingley, to assure him how happy\nhe would make them, by eating a family dinner with them at any time,\nwithout the ceremony of a formal invitation. Bingley was all grateful\npleasure, and he readily engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of\nwaiting on her, after his return from London, whither he was obliged to\ngo the next day for a short time.\n\nMrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied; and quitted the house under the\ndelightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary preparations of\nsettlements, new carriages and wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly\nsee her daughter settled at Netherfield, in the course of three or four\nmonths. Of having another daughter married to Mr. Collins, she thought\nwith equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal, pleasure.\nElizabeth was the least dear to her of all her children; and though the\nman and the match were quite good enough for _her_, the worth of each\nwas eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\n\nThe next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his\ndeclaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of time, as\nhis leave of absence extended only to the following Saturday, and having\nno feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at the\nmoment, he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all the\nobservances which he supposed a regular part of the business. On finding\nMrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together, soon\nafter breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words,\n\n\"May I hope, Madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth,\nwhen I solicit for the honour of a private audience with her in the\ncourse of this morning?\"\n\nBefore Elizabeth had time for any thing but a blush of surprise, Mrs.\nBennet instantly answered,\n\n\"Oh dear!--Yes--certainly.--I am sure Lizzy will be very happy--I am\nsure she can have no objection.--Come, Kitty, I want you up stairs.\" And\ngathering her work together, she was hastening away, when Elizabeth\ncalled out,\n\n\"Dear Ma'am, do not go.--I beg you will not go.--Mr. Collins must excuse\nme.--He can have nothing to say to me that any body need not hear. I am\ngoing away myself.\"\n\n\"No, no, nonsense, Lizzy.--I desire you will stay where you are.\"--And\nupon Elizabeth's seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about\nto escape, she added, \"Lizzy, I _insist_ upon your staying and hearing\nMr. Collins.\"\n\nElizabeth would not oppose such an injunction--and a moment's\nconsideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to get it\nover as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down again, and tried\nto conceal by incessant employment the feelings which were divided\nbetween distress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as\nsoon as they were gone Mr. Collins began.\n\n\"Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from\ndoing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You\nwould have been less amiable in my eyes had there _not_ been this little\nunwillingness; but allow me to assure you that I have your respected\nmother's permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the purport\nof my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to\ndissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as\nsoon as I entered the house I singled you out as the companion of my\nfuture life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this\nsubject, perhaps it will be advisable for me to state my reasons for\nmarrying--and moreover for coming into Hertfordshire with the design of\nselecting a wife, as I certainly did.\"\n\nThe idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run away\nwith by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing that she could not\nuse the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him farther, and\nhe continued:\n\n\"My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for\nevery clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example\nof matrimony in his parish. Secondly, that I am convinced it will add\nvery greatly to my happiness; and thirdly--which perhaps I ought to have\nmentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and recommendation\nof the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness.\nTwice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked too!) on this\nsubject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I left\nHunsford--between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was\narranging Miss de Bourgh's foot-stool, that she said, 'Mr. Collins, you\nmust marry. A clergyman like you must marry.--Chuse properly, chuse a\ngentlewoman for _my_ sake; and for your _own_, let her be an active,\nuseful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small\nincome go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as\nyou can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.' Allow me, by the\nway, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice and\nkindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the\nadvantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond any\nthing I can describe; and your wit and vivacity I think must be\nacceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and respect\nwhich her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general\nintention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my views\nwere directed to Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I\nassure you there are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that\nbeing, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honoured\nfather, (who, however, may live many years longer,) I could not satisfy\nmyself without resolving to chuse a wife from among his daughters, that\nthe loss to them might be as little as possible, when the melancholy\nevent takes place--which, however, as I have already said, may not be\nfor several years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and I\nflatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And now nothing\nremains for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the\nviolence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and\nshall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well\naware that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds\nin the 4 per cents. which will not be yours till after your mother's\ndecease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head,\ntherefore, I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure yourself that\nno ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married.\"\n\nIt was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.\n\n\"You are too hasty, Sir,\" she cried. \"You forget that I have made no\nanswer. Let me do it without farther loss of time. Accept my thanks for\nthe compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour of\nyour proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than decline\nthem.\"\n\n\"I am not now to learn,\" replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the\nhand, \"that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the\nman whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their\nfavour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second or even a\nthird time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just\nsaid, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.\"\n\n\"Upon my word, Sir,\" cried Elizabeth, \"your hope is rather an\nextraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not\none of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so\ndaring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second\ntime. I am perfectly serious in my refusal.--You could not make _me_\nhappy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who\nwould make _you_ so.--Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I\nam persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the\nsituation.\"\n\n\"Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,\" said Mr. Collins\nvery gravely--\"but I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all\ndisapprove of you. And you may be certain that when I have the honour of\nseeing her again I shall speak in the highest terms of your modesty,\neconomy, and other amiable qualifications.\"\n\n\"Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You must\ngive me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment of\nbelieving what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by\nrefusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise.\nIn making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your\nfeelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn\nestate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach. This matter may be\nconsidered, therefore, as finally settled.\" And rising as she thus\nspoke, she would have quitted the room, had not Mr. Collins thus\naddressed her,\n\n\"When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on this subject I\nshall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given\nme; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present, because I\nknow it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on the\nfirst application, and perhaps you have even now said as much to\nencourage my suit as would be consistent with the true delicacy of the\nfemale character.\"\n\n\"Really, Mr. Collins,\" cried Elizabeth with some warmth, \"you puzzle me\nexceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form\nof encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as\nmay convince you of its being one.\"\n\n\"You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your\nrefusal of my addresses is merely words of course. My reasons for\nbelieving it are briefly these:--It does not appear to me that my hand\nis unworthy your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer would\nbe any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections\nwith the family of De Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are\ncircumstances highly in my favour; and you should take it into farther\nconsideration that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no\nmeans certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you. Your\nportion is unhappily so small that it will in all likelihood undo the\neffects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must\ntherefore conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me, I\nshall chuse to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by\nsuspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females.\"\n\n\"I do assure you, Sir, that I have no pretension whatever to that kind\nof elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I would\nrather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere. I thank you\nagain and again for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but\nto accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect\nforbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant\nfemale intending to plague you, but as a rational creature speaking the\ntruth from her heart.\"\n\n\"You are uniformly charming!\" cried he, with an air of awkward\ngallantry; \"and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the express\nauthority of both your excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of\nbeing acceptable.\"\n\nTo such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would make no\nreply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, if he\npersisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering\nencouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered\nin such a manner as must be decisive, and whose behaviour at least could\nnot be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\n\nMr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his\nsuccessful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule\nto watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open the\ndoor and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she\nentered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and herself in\nwarm terms on the happy prospect of their nearer connection. Mr. Collins\nreceived and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then\nproceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result\nof which he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the\nrefusal which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow\nfrom her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her character.\n\nThis information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet;--she would have been\nglad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage\nhim by protesting against his proposals, but she dared not to believe\nit, and could not help saying so.\n\n\"But depend upon it, Mr. Collins,\" she added, \"that Lizzy shall be\nbrought to reason. I will speak to her about it myself directly. She is\na very headstrong foolish girl, and does not know her own interest; but\nI will _make_ her know it.\"\n\n\"Pardon me for interrupting you, Madam,\" cried Mr. Collins; \"but if she\nis really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would\naltogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who\nnaturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If therefore she\nactually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not to\nforce her into accepting me, because if liable to such defects of\ntemper, she could not contribute much to my felicity.\"\n\n\"Sir, you quite misunderstand me,\" said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. \"Lizzy is\nonly headstrong in such matters as these. In every thing else she is as\ngood natured a girl as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and\nwe shall very soon settle it with her, I am sure.\"\n\nShe would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her\nhusband, called out as she entered the library,\n\n\"Oh! Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar.\nYou must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will\nnot have him, and if you do not make haste he will change his mind and\nnot have _her_.\"\n\nMr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them\non her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the least altered by\nher communication.\n\n\"I have not the pleasure of understanding you,\" said he, when she had\nfinished her speech. \"Of what are you talking?\"\n\n\"Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins,\nand Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy.\"\n\n\"And what am I to do on the occasion?--It seems an hopeless business.\"\n\n\"Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her\nmarrying him.\"\n\n\"Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the\nlibrary.\n\n\"Come here, child,\" cried her father as she appeared. \"I have sent for\nyou on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made\nyou an offer of marriage. Is it true?\" Elizabeth replied that it was.\n\"Very well--and this offer of marriage you have refused?\"\n\n\"I have, Sir.\"\n\n\"Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your\naccepting it. Is not it so, Mrs. Bennet?\"\n\n\"Yes, or I will never see her again.\"\n\n\"An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must\nbe a stranger to one of your parents.--Your mother will never see you\nagain if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again\nif you _do_.\"\n\nElizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning;\nbut Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the\naffair as she wished, was excessively disappointed.\n\n\"What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, by talking in this way? You promised me\nto _insist_ upon her marrying him.\"\n\n\"My dear,\" replied her husband, \"I have two small favours to request.\nFirst, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the\npresent occasion; and secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the\nlibrary to myself as soon as may be.\"\n\nNot yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did\nMrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again;\ncoaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane in\nher interest, but Jane with all possible mildness declined\ninterfering;--and Elizabeth sometimes with real earnestness and\nsometimes with playful gaiety replied to her attacks. Though her manner\nvaried however, her determination never did.\n\nMr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed.\nHe thought too well of himself to comprehend on what motive his cousin\ncould refuse him; and though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other\nway. His regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her\ndeserving her mother's reproach prevented his feeling any regret.\n\nWhile the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend\nthe day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to\nher, cried in a half whisper, \"I am glad you are come, for there is such\nfun here!--What do you think has happened this morning?--Mr. Collins has\nmade an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him.\"\n\nCharlotte had hardly time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty,\nwho came to tell the same news, and no sooner had they entered the\nbreakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on\nthe subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating\nher to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her\nfamily. \"Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,\" she added in a melancholy tone,\n\"for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me, I am cruelly used,\nnobody feels for my poor nerves.\"\n\nCharlotte's reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth.\n\n\"Aye, there she comes,\" continued Mrs. Bennet, \"looking as unconcerned\nas may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided\nshe can have her own way.--But I tell you what, Miss Lizzy, if you take\nit into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way,\nyou will never get a husband at all--and I am sure I do not know who is\nto maintain you when your father is dead.--_I_ shall not be able to keep\nyou--and so I warn you.--I have done with you from this very day.--I\ntold you in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you\nagain, and you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in\ntalking to undutiful children.--Not that I have much pleasure indeed in\ntalking to any body. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints\ncan have no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I\nsuffer!--But it is always so. Those who do not complain are never\npitied.\"\n\nHer daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that any\nattempt to reason with or sooth her would only increase the irritation.\nShe talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of them till\nthey were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered with an air more stately\nthan usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to the girls,\n\n\"Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and\nlet Mr. Collins and me have a little conversation together.\"\n\nElizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but\nLydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte,\ndetained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after\nherself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little\ncuriosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending\nnot to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet thus began the projected\nconversation.--\"Oh! Mr. Collins!\"--\n\n\"My dear Madam,\" replied he, \"let us be for ever silent on this point.\nFar be it from me,\" he presently continued in a voice that marked his\ndispleasure, \"to resent the behaviour of your daughter. Resignation to\ninevitable evils is the duty of us all; the peculiar duty of a young man\nwho has been so fortunate as I have been in early preferment; and I\ntrust I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt of my\npositive happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with her hand; for I\nhave often observed that resignation is never so perfect as when the\nblessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our estimation.\nYou will not, I hope, consider me as shewing any disrespect to your\nfamily, my dear Madam, by thus withdrawing my pretensions to your\ndaughter's favour, without having paid yourself and Mr. Bennet the\ncompliment of requesting you to interpose your authority in my behalf.\nMy conduct may I fear be objectionable in having accepted my dismission\nfrom your daughter's lips instead of your own. But we are all liable to\nerror. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair. My object\nhas been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with due\nconsideration for the advantage of all your family, and if my _manner_\nhas been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to apologise.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\n\nThe discussion of Mr. Collins's offer was now nearly at an end, and\nElizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings necessarily\nattending it, and occasionally from some peevish allusion of her mother.\nAs for the gentleman himself, _his_ feelings were chiefly expressed, not\nby embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid her, but by\nstiffness of manner and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke to\nher, and the assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of\nhimself, were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose\ncivility in listening to him, was a seasonable relief to them all, and\nespecially to her friend.\n\nThe morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet's ill humour or ill\nhealth. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth\nhad hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did\nnot appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on\nSaturday, and to Saturday he still meant to stay.\n\nAfter breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to inquire if Mr. Wickham\nwere returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball.\nHe joined them on their entering the town and attended them to their\naunt's, where his regret and vexation, and the concern of every body was\nwell talked over.--To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged\nthat the necessity of his absence _had_ been self imposed.\n\n\"I found,\" said he, \"as the time drew near, that I had better not meet\nMr. Darcy;--that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so\nmany hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes\nmight arise unpleasant to more than myself.\"\n\nShe highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a full\ndiscussion of it, and for all the commendation which they civilly\nbestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with\nthem to Longbourn, and during the walk, he particularly attended to her.\nHis accompanying them was a double advantage; she felt all the\ncompliment it offered to herself, and it was most acceptable as an\noccasion of introducing him to her father and mother.\n\nSoon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came\nfrom Netherfield, and was opened immediately. The envelope contained a\nsheet of elegant, little, hot pressed paper, well covered with a lady's\nfair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister's countenance change as\nshe read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some particular passages.\nJane recollected herself soon, and putting the letter away, tried to\njoin with her usual cheerfulness in the general conversation; but\nElizabeth felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention\neven from Wickham; and no sooner had he and his companion taken leave,\nthan a glance from Jane invited her to follow her up stairs. When they\nhad gained their own room, Jane taking out the letter, said,\n\n\"This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains, has surprised me a\ngood deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are\non their way to town; and without any intention of coming back again.\nYou shall hear what she says.\"\n\nShe then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information\nof their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly,\nand of their meaning to dine that day in Grosvenor street, where Mr.\nHurst had a house. The next was in these words. \"I do not pretend to\nregret any thing I shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my\ndearest friend; but we will hope at some future period, to enjoy many\nreturns of the delightful intercourse we have known, and in the mean\nwhile may lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most\nunreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that.\" To these high\nflown expressions, Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of\ndistrust; and though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she\nsaw nothing in it really to lament; it was not to be supposed that their\nabsence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bingley's being there; and as\nto the loss of their society, she was persuaded that Jane must soon\ncease to regard it, in the enjoyment of his.\n\n\"It is unlucky,\" said she, after a short pause, \"that you should not be\nable to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not\nhope that the period of future happiness to which Miss Bingley looks\nforward, may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful\nintercourse you have known as friends, will be renewed with yet greater\nsatisfaction as sisters?--Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by\nthem.\"\n\n\"Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into\nHertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you--\n\n\"When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which\ntook him to London, might be concluded in three or four days, but as we\nare certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when\nCharles gets to town, he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have\ndetermined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend\nhis vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintance are\nalready there for the winter; I wish I could hear that you, my dearest\nfriend, had any intention of making one in the croud, but of that I\ndespair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in\nthe gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your beaux\nwill be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the three, of\nwhom we shall deprive you.\"\n\n\"It is evident by this,\" added Jane, \"that he comes back no more this\nwinter.\"\n\n\"It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean he _should_.\"\n\n\"Why will you think so? It must be his own doing.--He is his own master.\nBut you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage which\nparticularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_.\" \"Mr. Darcy\nis impatient to see his sister, and to confess the truth, _we_ are\nscarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think Georgiana\nDarcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments; and the\naffection she inspires in Louisa and myself, is heightened into\nsomething still more interesting, from the hope we dare to entertain of\nher being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before\nmentioned to you my feelings on this subject, but I will not leave the\ncountry without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them\nunreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already, he will have\nfrequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing, her\nrelations all wish the connection as much as his own, and a sister's\npartiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most\ncapable of engaging any woman's heart. With all these circumstances to\nfavour an attachment and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest\nJane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness\nof so many?\"\n\n\"What think you of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?\"--said Jane as she\nfinished it. \"Is it not clear enough?--Does it not expressly declare\nthat Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she\nis perfectly convinced of her brother's indifference, and that if she\nsuspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to\nput me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?\"\n\n\"Yes, there can; for mine is totally different.--Will you hear it?\"\n\n\"Most willingly.\"\n\n\"You shall have it in few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is\nin love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him to\ntown in the hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he\ndoes not care about you.\"\n\nJane shook her head.\n\n\"Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me.--No one who has ever seen you\ntogether, can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley I am sure cannot. She is\nnot such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr. Darcy\nfor herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the case is\nthis. We are not rich enough, or grand enough for them; and she is the\nmore anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion that\nwhen there has been _one_ intermarriage, she may have less trouble in\nachieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I\ndare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But,\nmy dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley\ntells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest\ndegree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on\nTuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that instead of\nbeing in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend.\"\n\n\"If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,\" replied Jane, \"your\nrepresentation of all this, might make me quite easy. But I know the\nfoundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving any\none; and all that I can hope in this case is, that she is deceived\nherself.\"\n\n\"That is right.--You could not have started a more happy idea, since you\nwill not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived by all means.\nYou have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer.\"\n\n\"But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in\naccepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry\nelsewhere?\"\n\n\"You must decide for yourself,\" said Elizabeth, \"and if upon mature\ndeliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is\nmore than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by\nall means to refuse him.\"\n\n\"How can you talk so?\"--said Jane faintly smiling,--\"You must know that\nthough I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could\nnot hesitate.\"\n\n\"I did not think you would;--and that being the case, I cannot consider\nyour situation with much compassion.\"\n\n\"But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be\nrequired. A thousand things may arise in six months!\"\n\nThe idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost\ncontempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's\ninterested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those\nwishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man\nso totally independent of every one.\n\nShe represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt on\nthe subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect.\nJane's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope,\nthough the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that\nBingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart.\n\nThey agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the\nfamily, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct;\nbut even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern,\nand she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen\nto go away, just as they were all getting so intimate together. After\nlamenting it however at some length, she had the consolation of thinking\nthat Mr. Bingley would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn,\nand the conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration that, though\nhe had been invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have\ntwo full courses.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\n\nThe Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases, and again during the\nchief of the day, was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins.\nElizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. \"It keeps him in good\nhumour,\" said she, \"and I am more obliged to you than I can express.\"\nCharlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and\nthat it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was\nvery amiable, but Charlotte's kindness extended farther than Elizabeth\nhad any conception of;--its object was nothing less, than to secure her\nfrom any return of Mr. Collins's addresses, by engaging them towards\nherself. Such was Miss Lucas's scheme; and appearances were so\nfavourable that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost\nsure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon.\nBut here, she did injustice to the fire and independence of his\ncharacter, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next\nmorning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw\nhimself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins,\nfrom a conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to\nconjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known\ntill its success could be known likewise; for though feeling almost\nsecure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging,\nhe was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday. His\nreception however was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas perceived\nhim from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and instantly\nset out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had she dared\nto hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there.\n\nIn as short a time as Mr. Collins's long speeches would allow, every\nthing was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as they\nentered the house, he earnestly entreated her to name the day that was\nto make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must be\nwaved for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with his\nhappiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature, must\nguard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its\ncontinuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and\ndisinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that\nestablishment were gained.\n\nSir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent;\nand it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins's present\ncircumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom\nthey could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were\nexceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate with more\ninterest than the matter had ever excited before, how many years longer\nMr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided\nopinion, that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the\nLongbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife\nshould make their appearance at St. James's. The whole family in short\nwere properly overjoyed on the occasion. The younger girls formed hopes\nof _coming out_ a year or two sooner than they might otherwise have\ndone; and the boys were relieved from their apprehension of Charlotte's\ndying an old maid. Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had\ngained her point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were\nin general satisfactory. Mr. Collins to be sure was neither sensible nor\nagreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must be\nimaginary. But still he would be her husband.--Without thinking highly\neither of men or of matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it\nwas the only honourable provision for well-educated young women of small\nfortune, and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their\npleasantest preservative from want. This preservative she had now\nobtained; and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been\nhandsome, she felt all the good luck of it. The least agreeable\ncircumstance in the business, was the surprise it must occasion to\nElizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she valued beyond that of any other\nperson. Elizabeth would wonder, and probably would blame her; and though\nher resolution was not to be shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such\ndisapprobation. She resolved to give her the information herself, and\ntherefore charged Mr. Collins when he returned to Longbourn to dinner,\nto drop no hint of what had passed before any of the family. A promise\nof secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept\nwithout difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence, burst\nforth in such very direct questions on his return, as required some\ningenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising great\nself-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous love.\n\nAs he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the\nfamily, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved\nfor the night; and Mrs. Bennet with great politeness and cordiality said\nhow happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his\nother engagements might allow him to visit them.\n\n\"My dear Madam,\" he replied, \"this invitation is particularly\ngratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you\nmay be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as\npossible.\"\n\nThey were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for\nso speedy a return, immediately said,\n\n\"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my\ngood sir?--You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of\noffending your patroness.\"\n\n\"My dear sir,\" replied Mr. Collins, \"I am particularly obliged to you\nfor this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so\nmaterial a step without her ladyship's concurrence.\"\n\n\"You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk any thing rather than her\ndispleasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us\nagain, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home,\nand be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence.\"\n\n\"Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such\naffectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive\nfrom me a letter of thanks for this, as well as for every other mark of\nyour regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins,\nthough my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall\nnow take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting\nmy cousin Elizabeth.\"\n\nWith proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally\nsurprised to find that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished\nto understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of\nher younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him.\nShe rated his abilities much higher than any of the others; there was a\nsolidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though by no\nmeans so clever as herself, she thought that if encouraged to read and\nimprove himself by such an example as her's, he might become a very\nagreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of this\nkind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a\nprivate conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before.\n\nThe possibility of Mr. Collins's fancying himself in love with her\nfriend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two; but\nthat Charlotte could encourage him, seemed almost as far from\npossibility as that she could encourage him herself, and her\nastonishment was consequently so great as to overcome at first the\nbounds of decorum, and she could not help crying out,\n\n\"Engaged to Mr. Collins! my dear Charlotte,--impossible!\"\n\nThe steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her\nstory, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a\nreproach; though, as it was no more than she expected, she soon\nregained her composure, and calmly replied,\n\n\"Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza?--Do you think it incredible\nthat Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman's good opinion,\nbecause he was not so happy as to succeed with you?\"\n\nBut Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong effort\nfor it, was able to assure her with tolerable firmness that the prospect\nof their relationship was highly grateful to her, and that she wished\nher all imaginable happiness.\n\n\"I see what you are feeling,\" replied Charlotte,--\"you must be\nsurprised, very much surprised,--so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to\nmarry you. But when you have had time to think it all over, I hope you\nwill be satisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic you know. I\nnever was. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins's\ncharacter, connections, and situation in life, I am convinced that my\nchance of happiness with him is as fair, as most people can boast on\nentering the marriage state.\"\n\nElizabeth quietly answered \"Undoubtedly;\"--and after an awkward pause,\nthey returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not stay much\nlonger, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard. It\nwas a long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so\nunsuitable a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins's making two offers\nof marriage within three days, was nothing in comparison of his being\nnow accepted. She had always felt that Charlotte's opinion of matrimony\nwas not exactly like her own, but she could not have supposed it\npossible that when called into action, she would have sacrificed every\nbetter feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins,\nwas a most humiliating picture!--And to the pang of a friend disgracing\nherself and sunk in her esteem, was added the distressing conviction\nthat it was impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot\nshe had chosen.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\n\n\nElizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what\nshe had heard, and doubting whether she were authorised to mention it,\nwhen Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter to\nannounce her engagement to the family. With many compliments to them,\nand much self-gratulation on the prospect of a connection between the\nhouses, he unfolded the matter,--to an audience not merely wondering,\nbut incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than\npoliteness, protested he must be entirely mistaken, and Lydia, always\nunguarded and often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed,\n\n\"Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story?--Do not you know\nthat Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?\"\n\nNothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne\nwithout anger such treatment; but Sir William's good breeding carried\nhim through it all; and though he begged leave to be positive as to the\ntruth of his information, he listened to all their impertinence with the\nmost forbearing courtesy.\n\nElizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so unpleasant\na situation, now put herself forward to confirm his account, by\nmentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte herself; and\nendeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her mother and sisters,\nby the earnestness of her congratulations to Sir William, in which she\nwas readily joined by Jane, and by making a variety of remarks on the\nhappiness that might be expected from the match, the excellent character\nof Mr. Collins, and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London.\n\nMrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a great deal while\nSir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than her feelings\nfound a rapid vent. In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving\nthe whole of the matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins\nhad been taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be happy\ntogether; and fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two\ninferences, however, were plainly deduced from the whole; one, that\nElizabeth was the real cause of all the mischief; and the other, that\nshe herself had been barbarously used by them all; and on these two\npoints she principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could\nconsole and nothing appease her.--Nor did that day wear out her\nresentment. A week elapsed before she could see Elizabeth without\nscolding her, a month passed away before she could speak to Sir William\nor Lady Lucas without being rude, and many months were gone before she\ncould at all forgive their daughter.\n\nMr. Bennet's emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion, and such\nas he did experience he pronounced to be of a most agreeable sort; for\nit gratified him, he said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had\nbeen used to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and\nmore foolish than his daughter!\n\nJane confessed herself a little surprised at the match; but she said\nless of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for their happiness;\nnor could Elizabeth persuade her to consider it as improbable. Kitty and\nLydia were far from envying Miss Lucas, for Mr. Collins was only a\nclergyman; and it affected them in no other way than as a piece of news\nto spread at Meryton.\n\nLady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to retort on\nMrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well married; and she\ncalled at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to say how happy she was,\nthough Mrs. Bennet's sour looks and ill-natured remarks might have been\nenough to drive happiness away.\n\nBetween Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept them\nmutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded that no\nreal confidence could ever subsist between them again. Her\ndisappointment in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her\nsister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her opinion could\nnever be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious, as\nBingley had now been gone a week, and nothing was heard of his return.\n\nJane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting\nthe days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised\nletter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to their\nfather, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a\ntwelvemonth's abode in the family might have prompted. After discharging\nhis conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them, with many\nrapturous expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection\nof their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was\nmerely with the view of enjoying her society that he had been so ready\nto close with their kind wish of seeing him again at Longbourn, whither\nhe hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; for Lady Catherine,\nhe added, so heartily approved his marriage, that she wished it to take\nplace as soon as possible, which he trusted would be an unanswerable\nargument with his amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him\nthe happiest of men.\n\nMr. Collins's return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of\npleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary she was as much disposed to\ncomplain of it as her husband.--It was very strange that he should come\nto Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient\nand exceedingly troublesome.--She hated having visitors in the house\nwhile her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the\nmost disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and they\ngave way only to the greater distress of Mr. Bingley's continued\nabsence.\n\nNeither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day after\nday passed away without bringing any other tidings of him than the\nreport which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming no more to\nNetherfield the whole winter; a report which highly incensed Mrs.\nBennet, and which she never failed to contradict as a most scandalous\nfalsehood.\n\nEven Elizabeth began to fear--not that Bingley was indifferent--but that\nhis sisters would be successful in keeping him away. Unwilling as she\nwas to admit an idea so destructive of Jane's happiness, and so\ndishonourable to the stability of her lover, she could not prevent its\nfrequently recurring. The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters\nand of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss\nDarcy and the amusements of London, might be too much, she feared, for\nthe strength of his attachment.\n\nAs for Jane, _her_ anxiety under this suspence was, of course, more\npainful than Elizabeth's; but whatever she felt she was desirous of\nconcealing, and between herself and Elizabeth, therefore, the subject\nwas never alluded to. But as no such delicacy restrained her mother, an\nhour seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her\nimpatience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he\ndid not come back, she should think herself very ill used. It needed all\nJane's steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable\ntranquillity.\n\nMr. Collins returned most punctually on the Monday fortnight, but his\nreception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his\nfirst introduction. He was too happy, however, to need much attention;\nand luckily for the others, the business of love-making relieved them\nfrom a great deal of his company. The chief of every day was spent by\nhim at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time\nto make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed.\n\nMrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of any\nthing concerning the match threw her into an agony of ill humour, and\nwherever she went she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight of\nMiss Lucas was odious to her. As her successor in that house, she\nregarded her with jealous abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see\nthem she concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and\nwhenever she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that\nthey were talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself\nand her daughters out of the house, as soon as Mr. Bennet were dead. She\ncomplained bitterly of all this to her husband.\n\n\"Indeed, Mr. Bennet,\" said she, \"it is very hard to think that Charlotte\nLucas should ever be mistress of this house, that I should be forced to\nmake way for _her_, and live to see her take my place in it!\"\n\n\"My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for\nbetter things. Let us flatter ourselves that _I_ may be the survivor.\"\n\nThis was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and, therefore, instead of\nmaking any answer, she went on as before,\n\n\"I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If it was\nnot for the entail I should not mind it.\"\n\n\"What should not you mind?\"\n\n\"I should not mind any thing at all.\"\n\n\"Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such\ninsensibility.\"\n\n\"I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for any thing about the entail.\nHow any one could have the conscience to entail away an estate from\none's own daughters I cannot understand; and all for the sake of Mr.\nCollins too!--Why should _he_ have it more than anybody else?\"\n\n\"I leave it to yourself to determine,\" said Mr. Bennet.\n\n\nEND OF VOL. I.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: A VICARAGE HOUSE.]\n\n\n\n\nPRIDE AND PREJUDICE:\n\nA Novel.\n\nIn Three Volumes.\n\nBy the Author of \"Sense and Sensibility.\"\n\nVOL. II.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLondon:\nPrinted for T. Egerton,\nMilitary Library, Whitehall.\n1813.\n\n\n\n\nPRIDE & PREJUDICE.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\nMiss Bingley's letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first\nsentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for\nthe winter, and concluded with her brother's regret at not having had\ntime to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left\nthe country.\n\nHope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest of\nthe letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the\nwriter, that could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy's praise occupied\nthe chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on, and Caroline\nboasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict\nthe accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former\nletter. She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother's being an\ninmate of Mr. Darcy's house, and mentioned with raptures, some plans of\nthe latter with regard to new furniture.\n\nElizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this,\nheard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern\nfor her sister, and resentment against all the others. To Caroline's\nassertion of her brother's being partial to Miss Darcy she paid no\ncredit. That he was really fond of Jane, she doubted no more than she\nhad ever done; and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she\ncould not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness\nof temper, that want of proper resolution which now made him the slave\nof his designing friends, and led him to sacrifice his own happiness to\nthe caprice of their inclinations. Had his own happiness, however, been\nthe only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in what\never manner he thought best; but her sister's was involved in it, as she\nthought he must be sensible himself. It was a subject, in short, on\nwhich reflection would be long indulged, and must be unavailing. She\ncould think of nothing else, and yet whether Bingley's regard had really\ndied away, or were suppressed by his friends' interference; whether he\nhad been aware of Jane's attachment, or whether it had escaped his\nobservation; whichever were the case, though her opinion of him must be\nmaterially affected by the difference, her sister's situation remained\nthe same, her peace equally wounded.\n\nA day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her feelings to\nElizabeth; but at last on Mrs. Bennet's leaving them together, after a\nlonger irritation than usual about Netherfield and its master, she could\nnot help saying,\n\n\"Oh! that my dear mother had more command over herself; she can have no\nidea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But I\nwill not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall\nall be as we were before.\"\n\nElizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said\nnothing.\n\n\"You doubt me,\" cried Jane, slightly colouring; \"indeed you have no\nreason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my\nacquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear,\nand nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not _that_ pain. A\nlittle time therefore.--I shall certainly try to get the better.\"\n\nWith a stronger voice she soon added, \"I have this comfort immediately,\nthat it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it\nhas done no harm to any one but myself.\"\n\n\"My dear Jane!\" exclaimed Elizabeth, \"you are too good. Your sweetness\nand disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say to\nyou. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you\ndeserve.\"\n\nMiss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back\nthe praise on her sister's warm affection.\n\n\"Nay,\" said Elizabeth, \"this is not fair. _You_ wish to think all the\nworld respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of any body. _I_ only\nwant to think _you_ perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not be\nafraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your\nprivilege of universal good will. You need not. There are few people\nwhom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see\nof the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms\nmy belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the\nlittle dependence that can be placed on the appearance of either merit\nor sense. I have met with two instances lately; one I will not mention;\nthe other is Charlotte's marriage. It is unaccountable! in every view it\nis unaccountable!\"\n\n\"My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will\nruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference of\nsituation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins's respectability, and\nCharlotte's prudent, steady character. Remember that she is one of a\nlarge family; that as to fortune, it is a most eligible match; and be\nready to believe, for every body's sake, that she may feel something\nlike regard and esteem for our cousin.\"\n\n\"To oblige you, I would try to believe almost any thing, but no one else\ncould be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I persuaded that\nCharlotte had any regard for him, I should only think worse of her\nunderstanding, than I now do of her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is\na conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man; you know he is, as well\nas I do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the woman who marries\nhim, cannot have a proper way of thinking. You shall not defend her,\nthough it is Charlotte Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one\nindividual, change the meaning of principle and integrity, nor\nendeavour to persuade yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and\ninsensibility of danger, security for happiness.\"\n\n\"I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,\" replied\nJane, \"and I hope you will be convinced of it, by seeing them happy\ntogether. But enough of this. You alluded to something else. You\nmentioned _two_ instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but I intreat\nyou, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking _that person_ to blame, and\nsaying your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy\nourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively young man\nto be always so guarded and circumspect. It is very often nothing but\nour own vanity that deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than\nit does.\"\n\n\"And men take care that they should.\"\n\n\"If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea\nof there being so much design in the world as some persons imagine.\"\n\n\"I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley's conduct to design,\"\nsaid Elizabeth; \"but without scheming to do wrong, or to make others\nunhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness,\nwant of attention to other people's feelings, and want of resolution,\nwill do the business.\"\n\n\"And do you impute it to either of those?\"\n\n\"Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by saying what\nI think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you can.\"\n\n\"You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him.\"\n\n\"Yes, in conjunction with his friend.\"\n\n\"I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can\nonly wish his happiness, and if he is attached to me, no other woman can\nsecure it.\"\n\n\"Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his\nhappiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they\nmay wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great\nconnections, and pride.\"\n\n\"Beyond a doubt, they _do_ wish him to chuse Miss Darcy,\" replied Jane;\n\"but this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have\nknown her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love\nher better. But, whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely\nthey should have opposed their brother's. What sister would think\nherself at liberty to do it, unless there were something very\nobjectionable? If they believed him attached to me, they would not try\nto part us; if he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an\naffection, you make every body acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most\nunhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been\nmistaken--or, at least, it is slight, it is nothing in comparison of\nwhat I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it\nin the best light, in the light in which it may be understood.\"\n\nElizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley's\nname was scarcely ever mentioned between them.\n\nMrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no\nmore, and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account\nfor it clearly, there seemed little chance of her ever considering it\nwith less perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to convince her of what\nshe did not believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely\nthe effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw\nher no more; but though the probability of the statement was admitted at\nthe time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet's best\ncomfort was, that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.\n\nMr. Bennet treated the matter differently. \"So, Lizzy,\" said he one day,\n\"your sister is crossed in love I find. I congratulate her. Next to\nbeing married, a girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and then.\nIt is something to think of, and gives her a sort of distinction among\nher companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to be\nlong outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough at\nMeryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham\nbe _your_ man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not\nall expect Jane's good fortune.\"\n\n\"True,\" said Mr. Bennet, \"but it is a comfort to think that, whatever of\nthat kind may befal you, you have an affectionate mother who will always\nmake the most of it.\"\n\nMr. Wickham's society was of material service in dispelling the gloom,\nwhich the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn\nfamily. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now\nadded that of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had already\nheard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him,\nwas now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and every body was\npleased to think how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they\nhad known any thing of the matter.\n\nMiss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be any\nextenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the society of\nHertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always pleaded for\nallowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes--but by everybody else\nMr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nAfter a week spent in professions of love and schemes of felicity, Mr.\nCollins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of\nSaturday. The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his\nside, by preparations for the reception of his bride, as he had reason\nto hope, that shortly after his next return into Hertfordshire, the day\nwould be fixed that was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave\nof his relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished\nhis fair cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father\nanother letter of thanks.\n\nOn the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving her\nbrother and his wife, who came as usual to spend the Christmas at\nLongbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentleman-like man, greatly\nsuperior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield\nladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived by\ntrade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so well\nbred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger than\nMrs. Bennet and Mrs. Philips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant\nwoman, and a great favourite with all her Longbourn nieces. Between the\ntwo eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a very particular\nregard. They had frequently been staying with her in town.\n\nThe first part of Mrs. Gardiner's business on her arrival, was to\ndistribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When this was\ndone, she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen.\nMrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They\nhad all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her\ngirls had been on the point of marriage, and after all there was nothing\nin it.\n\n\"I do not blame Jane,\" she continued, \"for Jane would have got Mr.\nBingley, if she could. But, Lizzy! Oh, sister! it is very hard to think\nthat she might have been Mr. Collins's wife by this time, had not it\nbeen for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very room,\nand she refused him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have\na daughter married before I have, and that Longbourn estate is just as\nmuch entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful people indeed,\nsister. They are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of\nthem, but so it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted\nso in my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves\nbefore anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is the\ngreatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us, of\nlong sleeves.\"\n\nMrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before, in\nthe course of Jane and Elizabeth's correspondence with her, made her\nsister a slight answer, and in compassion to her nieces turned the\nconversation.\n\nWhen alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. \"It\nseems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane,\" said she. \"I am\nsorry it went off. But these things happen so often! A young man, such\nas you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl\nfor a few weeks, and when accident separates them, so easily forgets\nher, that these sort of inconstancies are very frequent.\"\n\n\"An excellent consolation in its way,\" said Elizabeth, \"but it will not\ndo for _us_. We do not suffer by _accident_. It does not often happen\nthat the interference of friends will persuade a young man of\nindependent fortune to think no more of a girl, whom he was violently in\nlove with only a few days before.\"\n\n\"But that expression of 'violently in love' is so hackneyed, so\ndoubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is as\noften applied to feelings which arise from an half-hour's acquaintance,\nas to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how _violent was_ Mr. Bingley's\nlove?\"\n\n\"I never saw a more promising inclination. He was growing quite\ninattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every time\nthey met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball he\noffended two or three young ladies, by not asking them to dance, and I\nspoke to him twice myself, without receiving an answer. Could there be\nfiner symptoms? Is not general incivility the very essence of love?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes!--of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt. Poor\nJane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get\nover it immediately. It had better have happened to _you_, Lizzy; you\nwould have laughed yourself out of it sooner. But do you think she\nwould be prevailed on to go back with us? Change of scene might be of\nservice--and perhaps a little relief from home, may be as useful as\nanything.\"\n\nElizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded\nof her sister's ready acquiescence.\n\n\"I hope,\" added Mrs. Gardiner, \"that no consideration with regard to\nthis young man will influence her. We live in so different a part of\ntown, all our connections are so different, and, as you well know, we go\nout so little, that it is very improbable they should meet at all,\nunless he really comes to see her.\"\n\n\"And _that_ is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his\nfriend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in such a\npart of London! My dear aunt, how could you think of it? Mr. Darcy may\nperhaps have _heard_ of such a place as Gracechurch Street, but he would\nhardly think a month's ablution enough to cleanse him from its\nimpurities, were he once to enter it; and depend upon it, Mr. Bingley\nnever stirs without him.\"\n\n\"So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does not Jane\ncorrespond with the sister? _She_ will not be able to help calling.\"\n\n\"She will drop the acquaintance entirely.\"\n\nBut in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to place this\npoint, as well as the still more interesting one of Bingley's being\nwithheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude on the subject which\nconvinced her, on examination, that she did not consider it entirely\nhopeless. It was possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that\nhis affection might be re-animated, and the influence of his friends\nsuccessfully combated by the more natural influence of Jane's\nattractions.\n\nMiss Bennet accepted her aunt's invitation with pleasure; and the\nBingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the time, than as she\nhoped that, by Caroline's not living in the same house with her brother,\nshe might occasionally spend a morning with her, without any danger of\nseeing him.\n\nThe Gardiners staid a week at Longbourn; and what with the Philipses,\nthe Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its\nengagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment\nof her brother and sister, that they did not once sit down to a family\ndinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always\nmade part of it, of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and\non these occasions, Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth's\nwarm commendation of him, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing\nthem, from what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their preference\nof each other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy; and she\nresolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before she left\nHertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of encouraging such\nan attachment.\n\nTo Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure,\nunconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago,\nbefore her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very part\nof Derbyshire, to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many\nacquaintance in common; and, though Wickham had been little there since\nthe death of Darcy's father, five years before, it was yet in his power\nto give her fresher intelligence of her former friends, than she had\nbeen in the way of procuring.\n\nMrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by\ncharacter perfectly well. Here consequently was an inexhaustible subject\nof discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberley, with the\nminute description which Wickham could give, and in bestowing her\ntribute of praise on the character of its late possessor, she was\ndelighting both him and herself. On being made acquainted with the\npresent Mr. Darcy's treatment of him, she tried to remember something of\nthat gentleman's reputed disposition when quite a lad, which might agree\nwith it, and was confident at last, that she recollected having heard\nMr. Fitzwilliam Darcy formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured\nboy.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nMrs. Gardiner's caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given on\nthe first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone; after\nhonestly telling her what she thought, she thus went on:\n\n\"You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because you\nare warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking\nopenly. Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve\nyourself, or endeavour to involve him in an affection which the want of\nfortune would make so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against\n_him_; he is a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune he\nought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is--you\nmust not let your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all\nexpect you to use it. Your father would depend on _your_ resolution and\ngood conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father.\"\n\n\"My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.\"\n\n\"Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.\"\n\n\"Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of\nmyself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I\ncan prevent it.\"\n\n\"Elizabeth, you are not serious now.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon. I will try again. At present I am not in love with\nMr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison,\nthe most agreeable man I ever saw--and if he becomes really attached to\nme--I believe it will be better that he should not. I see the imprudence\nof it.--Oh! _that_ abominable Mr. Darcy!--My father's opinion of me does\nme the greatest honour; and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My\nfather, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I\nshould be very sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy; but\nsince we see every day that where there is affection, young people are\nseldom withheld by immediate want of fortune, from entering into\nengagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many\nof my fellow creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that it\nwould be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not\nto be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first\nobject. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short,\nI will do my best.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it will be as well, if you discourage his coming here so very\noften. At least, you should not _remind_ your Mother of inviting him.\"\n\n\"As I did the other day,\" said Elizabeth, with a conscious smile; \"very\ntrue, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do not imagine\nthat he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been\nso frequently invited this week. You know my mother's ideas as to the\nnecessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my\nhonour, I will try to do what I think to be wisest; and now, I hope you\nare satisfied.\"\n\nHer aunt assured her that she was; and Elizabeth having thanked her for\nthe kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice\nbeing given on such a point, without being resented.\n\nMr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted\nby the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode with the Lucases,\nhis arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was\nnow fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think\nit inevitable, and even repeatedly to say in an ill-natured tone that\nshe \"_wished_ they might be happy.\" Thursday was to be the wedding day,\nand on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she rose\nto take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother's ungracious and\nreluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her\nout of the room. As they went down stairs together, Charlotte said,\n\n\"I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.\"\n\n\"_That_ you certainly shall.\"\n\n\"And I have another favour to ask. Will you come and see me?\"\n\n\"We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.\"\n\n\"I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to\ncome to Hunsford.\"\n\nElizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the\nvisit.\n\n\"My father and Maria are to come to me in March,\" added Charlotte, \"and\nI hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be\nas welcome to me as either of them.\"\n\nThe wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from\nthe church door, and every body had as much to say or to hear on the\nsubject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their\ncorrespondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that it\nshould be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never\naddress her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over,\nand, though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the\nsake of what had been, rather than what was. Charlotte's first letters\nwere received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be\ncuriosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would\nlike Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce herself to\nbe; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte\nexpressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She\nwrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing\nwhich she could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and\nroads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine's behaviour was most\nfriendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins's picture of Hunsford and\nRosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait\nfor her own visit there, to know the rest.\n\nJane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce their\nsafe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped it\nwould be in her power to say something of the Bingleys.\n\nHer impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience\ngenerally is. Jane had been a week in town, without either seeing or\nhearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that\nher last letter to her friend from Longbourn, had by some accident been\nlost.\n\n\"My aunt,\" she continued, \"is going to-morrow into that part of the\ntown, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor-street.\"\n\nShe wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley.\n\"I did not think Caroline in spirits,\" were her words, \"but she was very\nglad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming\nto London. I was right, therefore; my last letter had never reached her.\nI enquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much\nengaged with Mr. Darcy, that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that\nMiss Darcy was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was\nnot long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall\nsoon see them here.\"\n\nElizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her, that\naccident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister's being in town.\n\nFour weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to\npersuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be\nblind to Miss Bingley's inattention. After waiting at home every morning\nfor a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the\nvisitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet more,\nthe alteration of her manner, would allow Jane to deceive herself no\nlonger. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister, will\nprove what she felt.\n\n     \"My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in\n     her better judgment, at my expence, when I confess myself to have\n     been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley's regard for me. But, my\n     dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not think me\n     obstinate if I still assert, that, considering what her behaviour\n     was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. I do not at\n     all comprehend her reason for wishing to be intimate with me, but\n     if the same circumstances were to happen again, I am sure I should\n     be deceived again. Caroline did not return my visit till yesterday;\n     and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the mean time. When\n     she did come, it was very evident that she had no pleasure in it;\n     she made a slight, formal, apology, for not calling before, said\n     not a word of wishing to see me again, and was in every respect so\n     altered a creature, that when she went away, I was perfectly\n     resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity, though I\n     cannot help blaming her. She was very wrong in singling me out as\n     she did; I can safely say, that every advance to intimacy began on\n     her side. But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been\n     acting wrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for her\n     brother is the cause of it. I need not explain myself farther; and\n     though _we_ know this anxiety to be quite needless, yet if she\n     feels it, it will easily account for her behaviour to me; and so\n     deservedly dear as he is to his sister, whatever anxiety she may\n     feel on his behalf, is natural and amiable. I cannot but wonder,\n     however, at her having any such fears now, because, if he had at\n     all cared about me, we must have met long, long ago. He knows of my\n     being in town, I am certain, from something she said herself; and\n     yet it should seem by her manner of talking, as if she wanted to\n     persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Darcy. I cannot\n     understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should\n     be almost tempted to say, that there is a strong appearance of\n     duplicity in all this. But I will endeavour to banish every painful\n     thought, and think only of what will make me happy, your affection,\n     and the invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear\n     from you very soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never\n     returning to Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not\n     with any certainty. We had better not mention it. I am extremely\n     glad that you have such pleasant accounts from our friends at\n     Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir William and Maria. I am\n     sure you will be very comfortable there.\n\n     \"Your's, &c.\"\n\nThis letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned as she\nconsidered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister at least.\nAll expectation from the brother was now absolutely over. She would not\neven wish for any renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on every\nreview of it; and as a punishment for him, as well as a possible\nadvantage to Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr.\nDarcy's sister, as, by Wickham's account, she would make him abundantly\nregret what he had thrown away.\n\nMrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise\nconcerning that gentleman, and required information; and Elizabeth had\nsuch to send as might rather give contentment to her aunt than to\nherself. His apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over,\nhe was the admirer of some one else. Elizabeth was watchful enough to\nsee it all, but she could see it and write of it without material pain.\nHer heart had been but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied\nwith believing that _she_ would have been his only choice, had fortune\npermitted it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most\nremarkable charm of the young lady, to whom he was now rendering himself\nagreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in his case than\nin Charlotte's, did not quarrel with him for his wish of independence.\nNothing, on the contrary, could be more natural; and while able to\nsuppose that it cost him a few struggles to relinquish her, she was\nready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very\nsincerely wish him happy.\n\nAll this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating the\ncircumstances, she thus went on:--\"I am now convinced, my dear aunt,\nthat I have never been much in love; for had I really experienced that\npure and elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name,\nand wish him all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only cordial\ntowards _him_; they are even impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find\nout that I hate her at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to think\nher a very good sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My\nwatchfulness has been effectual; and though I should certainly be a more\ninteresting object to all my acquaintance, were I distractedly in love\nwith him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance.\nImportance may sometimes be purchased too dearly. Kitty and Lydia take\nhis defection much more to heart than I do. They are young in the ways\nof the world, and not yet open to the mortifying conviction that\nhandsome young men must have something to live on, as well as the\nplain.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\nWith no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise\ndiversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and\nsometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take\nElizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of\ngoing thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on the plan,\nand she gradually learned to consider it herself with greater pleasure\nas well as greater certainty. Absence had increased her desire of seeing\nCharlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There was\nnovelty in the scheme, and as, with such a mother and such\nuncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change\nwas not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would moreover give her\na peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have\nbeen very sorry for any delay. Every thing, however, went on smoothly,\nand was finally settled according to Charlotte's first sketch. She was\nto accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement of\nspending a night in London was added in time, and the plan became\nperfect as plan could be.\n\nThe only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss her,\nand who, when it came to the point, so little liked her going, that he\ntold her to write to him, and almost promised to answer her letter.\n\nThe farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on\nhis side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that\nElizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the\nfirst to listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner\nof bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of what\nshe was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their\nopinion of her--their opinion of every body--would always coincide,\nthere was a solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her\nto him with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced,\nthat whether married or single, he must always be her model of the\namiable and pleasing.\n\nHer fellow-travellers the next day, were not of a kind to make her think\nhim less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a good\nhumoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say that\ncould be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much delight\nas the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but she had\nknown Sir William's too long. He could tell her nothing new of the\nwonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were worn\nout like his information.\n\nIt was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early\nas to be in Gracechurch-street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner's\ndoor, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival; when\nthey entered the passage she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth,\nlooking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and\nlovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls,\nwhose eagerness for their cousin's appearance would not allow them to\nwait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her\nfor a twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and\nkindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and\nshopping, and the evening at one of the theatres.\n\nElizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first subject was her\nsister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to\nher minute enquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her\nspirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however, to\nhope, that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the\nparticulars also of Miss Bingley's visit in Gracechurch-street, and\nrepeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and\nherself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the\nacquaintance.\n\nMrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham's desertion, and\ncomplimented her on bearing it so well.\n\n\"But, my dear Elizabeth,\" she added, \"what sort of girl is Miss King? I\nshould be sorry to think our friend mercenary.\"\n\n\"Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs,\nbetween the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end,\nand avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me,\nbecause it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a\ngirl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is\nmercenary.\"\n\n\"If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know\nwhat to think.\"\n\n\"She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her.\"\n\n\"But he paid her not the smallest attention, till her grandfather's\ndeath made her mistress of this fortune.\"\n\n\"No--why should he? If it was not allowable for him to gain _my_\naffections, because I had no money, what occasion could there be for\nmaking love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally\npoor?\"\n\n\"But there seems indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her, so\nsoon after this event.\"\n\n\"A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant\ndecorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does not object to it,\nwhy should _we_?\"\n\n\"_Her_ not objecting, does not justify _him_. It only shews her being\ndeficient in something herself--sense or feeling.\"\n\n\"Well,\" cried Elizabeth, \"have it as you choose. _He_ shall be\nmercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish.\"\n\n\"No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry, you know,\nto think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire.\"\n\n\"Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in\nDerbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not\nmuch better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow\nwhere I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has\nneither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones\nworth knowing, after all.\"\n\n\"Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment.\"\n\nBefore they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the\nunexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in\na tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.\n\n\"We have not quite determined how far it shall carry us,\" said Mrs.\nGardiner, \"but perhaps to the Lakes.\"\n\nNo scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her\nacceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. \"My dear, dear\naunt,\" she rapturously cried, \"what delight! what felicity! You give me\nfresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are men\nto rocks and mountains? Oh! what hours of transport we shall spend! And\nwhen we _do_ return, it shall not be like other travellers, without\nbeing able to give one accurate idea of any thing. We _will_ know where\nwe have gone--we _will_ recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains,\nand rivers, shall not be jumbled together in our imaginations; nor, when\nwe attempt to describe any particular scene, will we begin quarrelling\nabout its relative situation. Let _our_ first effusions be less\ninsupportable than those of the generality of travellers.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\nEvery object in the next day's journey was new and interesting to\nElizabeth; and her spirits were in a state for enjoyment; for she had\nseen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health,\nand the prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight.\n\nWhen they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was in\nsearch of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view.\nThe paling of Rosings Park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth\nsmiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants.\n\nAt length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the road,\nthe house standing in it, the green pales and the laurel hedge, every\nthing declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte appeared at\nthe door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate, which led by a\nshort gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of the whole\nparty. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing at the\nsight of each other. Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the liveliest\npleasure, and Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with coming, when\nshe found herself so affectionately received. She saw instantly that her\ncousin's manners were not altered by his marriage; his formal civility\nwas just what it had been, and he detained her some minutes at the gate\nto hear and satisfy his enquiries after all her family. They were then,\nwith no other delay than his pointing out the neatness of the entrance,\ntaken into the house; and as soon as they were in the parlour, he\nwelcomed them a second time with ostentatious formality to his humble\nabode, and punctually repeated all his wife's offers of refreshment.\n\nElizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help\nfancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its aspect\nand its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her, as if\nwishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But though\nevery thing seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to gratify him\nby any sigh of repentance; and rather looked with wonder at her friend\nthat she could have so cheerful an air, with such a companion. When Mr.\nCollins said any thing of which his wife might reasonably be ashamed,\nwhich certainly was not unseldom, she involuntarily turned her eye on\nCharlotte. Once or twice she could discern a faint blush; but in general\nCharlotte wisely did not hear. After sitting long enough to admire every\narticle of furniture in the room, from the sideboard to the fender, to\ngive an account of their journey and of all that had happened in London,\nMr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the garden, which was large\nand well laid out, and to the cultivation of which he attended himself.\nTo work in his garden was one of his most respectable pleasures; and\nElizabeth admired the command of countenance with which Charlotte talked\nof the healthfulness of the exercise, and owned she encouraged it as\nmuch as possible. Here, leading the way through every walk and cross\nwalk, and scarcely allowing them an interval to utter the praises he\nasked for, every view was pointed out with a minuteness which left\nbeauty entirely behind. He could number the fields in every direction,\nand could tell how many trees there were in the most distant clump. But\nof all the views which his garden, or which the country, or the kingdom\ncould boast, none were to be compared with the prospect of Rosings,\nafforded by an opening in the trees that bordered the park nearly\nopposite the front of his house. It was a handsome modern building, well\nsituated on rising ground.\n\nFrom his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two meadows,\nbut the ladies not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white\nfrost, turned back; and while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte\ntook her sister and friend over the house, extremely well pleased,\nprobably, to have the opportunity of shewing it without her husband's\nhelp. It was rather small, but well built and convenient; and every\nthing was fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency of\nwhich Elizabeth gave Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be\nforgotten, there was really a great air of comfort throughout, and by\nCharlotte's evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must be often\nforgotten.\n\nShe had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It\nwas spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining\nin, observed,\n\n\"Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine\nde Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will\nbe delighted with her. She is all affability and condescension, and I\ndoubt not but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice when\nservice is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying that she will\ninclude you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she\nhonours us during your stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is\ncharming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to\nwalk home. Her ladyship's carriage is regularly ordered for us. I\n_should_ say, one of her ladyship's carriages, for she has several.\"\n\n\"Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed,\" added\nCharlotte, \"and a most attentive neighbour.\"\n\n\"Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of\nwoman whom one cannot regard with too much deference.\"\n\nThe evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news, and\ntelling again what had been already written; and when it closed,\nElizabeth in the solitude of her chamber had to meditate upon\nCharlotte's degree of contentment, to understand her address in guiding,\nand composure in bearing with her husband, and to acknowledge that it\nwas all done very well. She had also to anticipate how her visit would\npass, the quiet tenor of their usual employments, the vexatious\ninterruptions of Mr. Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse with\nRosings. A lively imagination soon settled it all.\n\nAbout the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready\nfor a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in\nconfusion; and after listening a moment, she heard somebody running up\nstairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after her. She opened the\ndoor, and met Maria in the landing place, who, breathless with\nagitation, cried out,\n\n\"Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the dining-room, for\nthere is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make\nhaste, and come down this moment.\"\n\nElizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing more,\nand down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the lane, in quest\nof this wonder; it was two ladies stopping in a low phaeton at the\ngarden gate.\n\n\"And is this all?\" cried Elizabeth. \"I expected at least that the pigs\nwere got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her\ndaughter!\"\n\n\"La! my dear,\" said Maria quite shocked at the mistake, \"it is not Lady\nCatherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them. The\nother is Miss De Bourgh. Only look at her. She is quite a little\ncreature. Who would have thought she could be so thin and small!\"\n\n\"She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all this wind.\nWhy does she not come in?\"\n\n\"Oh! Charlotte says, she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours\nwhen Miss De Bourgh comes in.\"\n\n\"I like her appearance,\" said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas. \"She\nlooks sickly and cross.--Yes, she will do for him very well. She will\nmake him a very proper wife.\"\n\nMr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in\nconversation with the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth's high\ndiversion, was stationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the\ngreatness before him, and constantly bowing whenever Miss De Bourgh\nlooked that way.\n\nAt length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on, and\nthe others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw the two\ngirls than he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, which\nCharlotte explained by letting them know that the whole party was asked\nto dine at Rosings the next day.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\nMr. Collins's triumph in consequence of this invitation was complete.\nThe power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to his wondering\nvisitors, and of letting them see her civility towards himself and his\nwife, was exactly what he had wished for; and that an opportunity of\ndoing it should be given so soon, was such an instance of Lady\nCatherine's condescension as he knew not how to admire enough.\n\n\"I confess,\" said he, \"that I should not have been at all surprised by\nher Ladyship's asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening at\nRosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that it\nwould happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this? Who\ncould have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine there\n(an invitation moreover including the whole party) so immediately after\nyour arrival!\"\n\n\"I am the less surprised at what has happened,\" replied Sir William,\n\"from that knowledge of what the manners of the great really are, which\nmy situation in life has allowed me to acquire. About the Court, such\ninstances of elegant breeding are not uncommon.\"\n\nScarcely any thing was talked of the whole day or next morning, but\ntheir visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in\nwhat they were to expect, that the sight of such rooms, so many\nservants, and so splendid a dinner might not wholly overpower them.\n\nWhen the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to Elizabeth,\n\n\"Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady\nCatherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us, which\nbecomes herself and daughter. I would advise you merely to put on\nwhatever of your clothes is superior to the rest, there is no occasion\nfor any thing more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you for\nbeing simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank\npreserved.\"\n\nWhile they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different\ndoors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much\nobjected to be kept waiting for her dinner.--Such formidable accounts of\nher Ladyship, and her manner of living, quite frightened Maria Lucas,\nwho had been little used to company, and she looked forward to her\nintroduction at Rosings, with as much apprehension, as her father had\ndone to his presentation at St. James's.\n\nAs the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a mile\nacross the park.--Every park has its beauty and its prospects; and\nElizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she could not be in such\nraptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene to inspire, and was but\nslightly affected by his enumeration of the windows in front of the\nhouse, and his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally\ncost Sir Lewis De Bourgh.\n\nWhen they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria's alarm was every\nmoment increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly\ncalm.--Elizabeth's courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing of\nLady Catherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary talents or\nmiraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money and rank, she\nthought she could witness without trepidation.\n\nFrom the entrance hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a\nrapturous air, the fine proportion and finished ornaments, they followed\nthe servants through an anti-chamber, to the room where Lady Catherine,\nher daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting.--Her Ladyship, with great\ncondescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins had settled it\nwith her husband that the office of introduction should be her's, it was\nperformed in a proper manner, without any of those apologies and thanks\nwhich he would have thought necessary.\n\nIn spite of having been at St. James's, Sir William was so completely\nawed, by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage\nenough to make a very low bow, and take his seat without saying a word;\nand his daughter, frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge\nof her chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth found herself\nquite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her\ncomposedly.--Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with\nstrongly-marked features, which might once have been handsome. Her air\nwas not conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them, such as to\nmake her visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered\nformidable by silence; but whatever she said, was spoken in so\nauthoritative a tone, as marked her self-importance, and brought Mr.\nWickham immediately to Elizabeth's mind; and from the observation of the\nday altogether, she believed Lady Catherine to be exactly what he had\nrepresented.\n\nWhen, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment\nshe soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the\ndaughter, she could almost have joined in Maria's astonishment, at her\nbeing so thin, and so small. There was neither in figure nor face, any\nlikeness between the ladies. Miss De Bourgh was pale and sickly; her\nfeatures, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very\nlittle, except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance\nthere was nothing remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening\nto what she said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before\nher eyes.\n\nAfter sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows,\nto admire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point out its\nbeauties, and Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much\nbetter worth looking at in the summer.\n\nThe dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants,\nand all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised; and, as he\nhad likewise foretold, he took his seat at the bottom of the table, by\nher ladyship's desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish\nnothing greater.--He carved, and ate, and praised with delighted\nalacrity; and every dish was commended, first by him, and then by Sir\nWilliam, who was now enough recovered to echo whatever his son in law\nsaid, in a manner which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear.\nBut Lady Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and\ngave most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the table proved\na novelty to them. The party did not supply much conversation. Elizabeth\nwas ready to speak whenever there was an opening, but she was seated\nbetween Charlotte and Miss De Bourgh--the former of whom was engaged in\nlistening to Lady Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all\ndinner time. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little\nMiss De Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish, and fearing she\nwere indisposed. Maria thought speaking out of the question, and the\ngentlemen did nothing but eat and admire.\n\nWhen the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to be\ndone but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any\nintermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every\nsubject in so decisive a manner as proved that she was not used to have\nher judgment controverted. She enquired into Charlotte's domestic\nconcerns familiarly and minutely, and gave her a great deal of advice,\nas to the management of them all; told her how every thing ought to be\nregulated in so small a family as her's, and instructed her as to the\ncare of her cows and her poultry. Elizabeth found that nothing was\nbeneath this great Lady's attention, which could furnish her with an\noccasion of dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse with\nMrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and\nElizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew\nthe least, and who she observed to Mrs. Collins, was a very genteel,\npretty kind of girl. She asked her at different times, how many sisters\nshe had, whether they were older or younger than herself, whether any of\nthem were likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where they\nhad been educated, what carriage her father kept, and what had been her\nmother's maiden name?--Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of her\nquestions, but answered them very composedly.--Lady Catherine then\nobserved,\n\n\"Your father's estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think. For your\nsake,\" turning to Charlotte, \"I am glad of it; but otherwise I see no\noccasion for entailing estates from the female line.--It was not thought\nnecessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh's family.--Do you play and sing, Miss\nBennet?\"\n\n\"A little.\"\n\n\"Oh! then--some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our\ninstrument is a capital one, probably superior to----You shall try it\nsome day.--Do your sisters play and sing?\"\n\n\"One of them does.\"\n\n\"Why did not you all learn?--You ought all to have learned. The Miss\nWebbs all play, and their father has not so good an income as\nyour's.--Do you draw?\"\n\n\"No, not at all.\"\n\n\"What, none of you?\"\n\n\"Not one.\"\n\n\"That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother\nshould have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters.\"\n\n\"My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates London.\"\n\n\"Has your governess left you?\"\n\n\"We never had any governess.\"\n\n\"No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home\nwithout a governess!--I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must\nhave been quite a slave to your education.\"\n\nElizabeth could hardly help smiling, as she assured her that had not\nbeen the case.\n\n\"Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess you must\nhave been neglected.\"\n\n\"Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as\nwished to learn, never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to\nread, and had all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be\nidle, certainly might.\"\n\n\"Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent, and if I had\nknown your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage\none. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady\nand regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is\nwonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that\nway. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces\nof Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and\nit was but the other day, that I recommended another young person, who\nwas merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite\ndelighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalfe's\ncalling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. 'Lady\nCatherine,' said she, 'you have given me a treasure.' Are any of your\nyounger sisters out, Miss Bennet?\"\n\n\"Yes, Ma'am, all.\"\n\n\"All!--What, all five out at once? Very odd!--And you only the\nsecond.--The younger ones out before the elder are married!--Your\nyounger sisters must be very young?\"\n\n\"Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps _she_ is full young to be much\nin company. But really, Ma'am, I think it would be very hard upon\nyounger sisters, that they should not have their share of society and\namusement because the elder may not have the means or inclination to\nmarry early.--The last born has as good a right to the pleasures of\nyouth, as the first. And to be kept back on _such_ a motive!--I think it\nwould not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of\nmind.\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" said her Ladyship, \"you give your opinion very\ndecidedly for so young a person.--Pray, what is your age?\"\n\n\"With three younger sisters grown up,\" replied Elizabeth smiling, \"your\nLadyship can hardly expect me to own it.\"\n\nLady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer;\nand Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever\ndared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.\n\n\"You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure,--therefore you need not\nconceal your age.\"\n\n\"I am not one and twenty.\"\n\nWhen the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the card tables\nwere placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat\ndown to quadrille; and as Miss De Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the\ntwo girls had the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her\nparty. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was\nuttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson\nexpressed her fears of Miss De Bourgh's being too hot or too cold, or\nhaving too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the\nother table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking--stating the mistakes\nof the three others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins\nwas employed in agreeing to every thing her Ladyship said, thanking her\nfor every fish he won, and apologising if he thought he won too many.\nSir William did not say much. He was storing his memory with anecdotes\nand noble names.\n\nWhen Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they chose,\nthe tables were broke up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins,\ngratefully accepted, and immediately ordered. The party then gathered\nround the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they were\nto have on the morrow. From these instructions they were summoned by the\narrival of the coach, and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr.\nCollins's side, and as many bows on Sir William's, they departed. As\nsoon as they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her\ncousin, to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which,\nfor Charlotte's sake, she made more favourable than it really was. But\nher commendation, though costing her some trouble, could by no means\nsatisfy Mr. Collins, and he was very soon obliged to take her Ladyship's\npraise into his own hands.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\nSir William staid only a week at Hunsford; but his visit was long enough\nto convince him of his daughter's being most comfortably settled, and of\nher possessing such a husband and such a neighbour as were not often met\nwith. While Sir William was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his mornings\nto driving him out in his gig, and shewing him the country; but when he\nwent away, the whole family returned to their usual employments, and\nElizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her cousin\nby the alteration, for the chief of the time between breakfast and\ndinner was now passed by him either at work in the garden, or in reading\nand writing, and looking out of window in his own book room, which\nfronted the road. The room in which the ladies sat was backwards.\nElizabeth at first had rather wondered that Charlotte should not prefer\nthe dining-parlour for common use; it was a better sized room, and had a\npleasanter aspect; but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent\nreason for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been\nmuch less in his own apartment, had they sat in one equally lively; and\nshe gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement.\n\nFrom the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and\nwere indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what carriages went\nalong, and how often especially Miss De Bourgh drove by in her phaeton,\nwhich he never failed coming to inform them of, though it happened\nalmost every day. She not unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and had\na few minutes' conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever\nprevailed on to get out.\n\nVery few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to Rosings, and\nnot many in which his wife did not think it necessary to go likewise;\nand till Elizabeth recollected that there might be other family livings\nto be disposed of, she could not understand the sacrifice of so many\nhours. Now and then, they were honoured with a call from her Ladyship,\nand nothing escaped her observation that was passing in the room during\nthese visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work,\nand advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement\nof the furniture, or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she\naccepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding\nout that Mrs. Collins's joints of meat were too large for her family.\n\nElizabeth soon perceived that though this great lady was not in the\ncommission of the peace for the county, she was a most active magistrate\nin her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were carried to her by\nMr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to be\nquarrelsome, discontented or too poor, she sallied forth into the\nvillage to settle their differences, silence their complaints, and scold\nthem into harmony and plenty.\n\nThe entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week;\nand, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being only one card\ntable in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart of\nthe first. Their other engagements were few; as the style of living of\nthe neighbourhood in general, was beyond the Collinses' reach. This\nhowever was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the whole she spent her time\ncomfortably enough; there were half hours of pleasant conversation with\nCharlotte, and the weather was so fine for the time of year, that she\nhad often great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where\nshe frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine, was\nalong the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was\na nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but herself, and\nwhere she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine's curiosity.\n\nIn this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away.\nEaster was approaching, and the week preceding it, was to bring an\naddition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be\nimportant. Elizabeth had heard soon after her arrival, that Mr. Darcy\nwas expected there in the course of a few weeks, and though there were\nnot many of her acquaintance whom she did not prefer, his coming would\nfurnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and\nshe might be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley's designs on him\nwere, by his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined\nby Lady Catherine; who talked of his coming with the greatest\nsatisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration, and\nseemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen by\nMiss Lucas and herself.\n\nHis arrival was soon known at the Parsonage, for Mr. Collins was walking\nthe whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane,\nin order to have the earliest assurance of it; and after making his bow\nas the carriage turned into the Park, hurried home with the great\nintelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his\nrespects. There were two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for\nMr. Darcy had brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of\nhis uncle, Lord ---- and to the great surprise of all the party, when\nMr. Collins returned the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte had seen\nthem from her husband's room, crossing the road, and immediately running\ninto the other, told the girls what an honour they might expect, adding,\n\n\"I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy would\nnever have come so soon to wait upon me.\"\n\nElizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment,\nbefore their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly\nafterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam,\nwho led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and\naddress most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been\nused to look in Hertfordshire, paid his compliments, with his usual\nreserve, to Mrs. Collins; and whatever might be his feelings towards her\nfriend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely\ncurtseyed to him, without saying a word.\n\nColonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the\nreadiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but\nhis cousin, after having addressed a slight observation on the house and\ngarden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without speaking to any body.\nAt length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to enquire of\nElizabeth after the health of her family. She answered him in the usual\nway, and after a moment's pause, added,\n\n\"My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never\nhappened to see her there?\"\n\nShe was perfectly sensible that he never had; but she wished to see\nwhether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed between the\nBingleys and Jane; and she thought he looked a little confused as he\nanswered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The\nsubject was pursued no farther, and the gentlemen soon afterwards went\naway.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n\nColonel Fitzwilliam's manners were very much admired at the parsonage,\nand the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasure of\ntheir engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they\nreceived any invitation thither, for while there were visitors in the\nhouse, they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day,\nalmost a week after the gentlemen's arrival, that they were honoured by\nsuch an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to\ncome there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very little\nof either Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had called\nat the parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr. Darcy they had\nonly seen at church.\n\nThe invitation was accepted of course, and at a proper hour they joined\nthe party in Lady Catherine's drawing-room. Her ladyship received them\ncivilly, but it was plain that their company was by no means so\nacceptable as when she could get nobody else; and she was, in fact,\nalmost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them, especially to Darcy,\nmuch more than to any other person in the room.\n\nColonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them; any thing was a\nwelcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins's pretty friend had\nmoreover caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by her, and\ntalked so agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying\nat home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so\nwell entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much\nspirit and flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself, as\nwell as of Mr. Darcy. _His_ eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned\ntowards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship after a\nwhile shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not\nscruple to call out,\n\n\"What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking\nof? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.\"\n\n\"We are speaking of music, Madam,\" said he, when no longer able to avoid\na reply.\n\n\"Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I\nmust have my share in the conversation, if you are speaking of music.\nThere are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment\nof music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I\nshould have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her health\nhad allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have performed\ndelightfully. How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?\"\n\nMr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister's proficiency.\n\n\"I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,\" said Lady\nCatherine; \"and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel,\nif she does not practise a great deal.\"\n\n\"I assure you, Madam,\" he replied, \"that she does not need such advice.\nShe practises very constantly.\"\n\n\"So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write\nto her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often\ntell young ladies, that no excellence in music is to be acquired,\nwithout constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that\nshe will never play really well, unless she practises more; and though\nMrs. Collins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often\ntold her, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the piano-forte in\nMrs. Jenkinson's room. She would be in nobody's way, you know, in that\npart of the house.\"\n\nMr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt's ill breeding, and made\nno answer.\n\nWhen coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having\npromised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the instrument. He\ndrew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then\ntalked, as before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away from\nher, and moving with his usual deliberation towards the piano-forte,\nstationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer's\ncountenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first\nconvenient pause, turned to him with an arch smile, and said,\n\n\"You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear\nme? But I will not be alarmed though your sister _does_ play so well.\nThere is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at\nthe will of others. My courage always rises with every attempt to\nintimidate me.\"\n\n\"I shall not say that you are mistaken,\" he replied, \"because you could\nnot really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I\nhave had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know, that you\nfind great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact\nare not your own.\"\n\nElizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to\nColonel Fitzwilliam, \"Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of\nme, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky\nin meeting with a person so well able to expose my real character, in a\npart of the world, where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree\nof credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention\nall that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire--and, give me\nleave to say, very impolitic too--for it is provoking me to retaliate,\nand such things may come out, as will shock your relations to hear.\"\n\n\"I am not afraid of you,\" said he, smilingly.\n\n\"Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,\" cried Colonel\nFitzwilliam. \"I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.\"\n\n\"You shall hear then--but prepare yourself for something very dreadful.\nThe first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know,\nwas at a ball--and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced\nonly four dances! I am sorry to pain you--but so it was. He danced only\nfour dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge,\nmore than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr.\nDarcy, you cannot deny the fact.\"\n\n\"I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly\nbeyond my own party.\"\n\n\"True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball room. Well, Colonel\nFitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Darcy, \"I should have judged better, had I sought an\nintroduction, but I am ill qualified to recommend myself to strangers.\"\n\n\"Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?\" said Elizabeth, still\naddressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. \"Shall we ask him why a man of sense and\neducation, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend\nhimself to strangers?\"\n\n\"I can answer your question,\" said Fitzwilliam, \"without applying to\nhim. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.\"\n\n\"I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,\" said Darcy,\n\"of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot\ncatch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their\nconcerns, as I often see done.\"\n\n\"My fingers,\" said Elizabeth, \"do not move over this instrument in the\nmasterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same\nforce or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I\nhave always supposed it to be my own fault--because I would not take the\ntrouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe _my_ fingers as\ncapable as any other woman's of superior execution.\"\n\nDarcy smiled and said, \"You are perfectly right. You have employed your\ntime much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you, can\nthink any thing wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.\"\n\nHere they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know\nwhat they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began playing again.\nLady Catherine approached, and, after listening for a few minutes, said\nto Darcy,\n\n\"Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss, if she practised more, and\ncould have the advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion\nof fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne's. Anne would have\nbeen a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn.\"\n\nElizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he assented to his\ncousin's praise; but neither at that moment nor at any other could she\ndiscern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his behaviour to Miss\nDe Bourgh she derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he might have\nbeen just as likely to marry _her_, had she been his relation.\n\nLady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth's performance, mixing\nwith them many instructions on execution and taste. Elizabeth received\nthem with all the forbearance of civility; and at the request of the\ngentlemen remained at the instrument till her Ladyship's carriage was\nready to take them all home.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n\nElizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to Jane,\nwhile Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village,\nwhen she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain signal of a\nvisitor. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to be\nLady Catherine, and under that apprehension was putting away her\nhalf-finished letter that she might escape all impertinent questions,\nwhen the door opened, and to her very great surprise, Mr. Darcy, and Mr.\nDarcy only, entered the room.\n\nHe seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for his\nintrusion, by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies to\nbe within.\n\nThey then sat down, and when her enquiries after Rosings were made,\nseemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely\nnecessary, therefore, to think of something, and in this emergence\nrecollecting _when_ she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and feeling\ncurious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty\ndeparture, she observed,\n\n\"How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy!\nIt must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you\nall after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day\nbefore. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London.\"\n\n\"Perfectly so--I thank you.\"\n\nShe found that she was to receive no other answer--and, after a short\npause, added,\n\n\"I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever\nreturning to Netherfield again?\"\n\n\"I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend\nvery little of his time there in future. He has many friends, and he is\nat a time of life when friends and engagements are continually\nincreasing.\"\n\n\"If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the\nneighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we\nmight possibly get a settled family there. But perhaps Mr. Bingley did\nnot take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as\nfor his own, and we must expect him to keep or quit it on the same\nprinciple.\"\n\n\"I should not be surprised,\" said Darcy, \"if he were to give it up, as\nsoon as any eligible purchase offers.\"\n\nElizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his\nfriend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the\ntrouble of finding a subject to him.\n\nHe took the hint, and soon began with, \"This seems a very comfortable\nhouse. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr.\nCollins first came to Hunsford.\"\n\n\"I believe she did--and I am sure she could not have bestowed her\nkindness on a more grateful object.\"\n\n\"Mr. Collins appears very fortunate in his choice of a wife.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed; his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one of\nthe very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made\nhim happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding--though\nI am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest\nthing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and in a\nprudential light, it is certainly a very good match for her.\"\n\n\"It must be very agreeable to her to be settled within so easy a\ndistance of her own family and friends.\"\n\n\"An easy distance do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.\"\n\n\"And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day's\njourney. Yes, I call it a _very_ easy distance.\"\n\n\"I should never have considered the distance as one of the _advantages_\nof the match,\" cried Elizabeth. \"I should never have said Mrs. Collins\nwas settled _near_ her family.\"\n\n\"It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Any thing beyond\nthe very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far.\"\n\nAs he spoke there was a sort of smile, which Elizabeth fancied she\nunderstood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and\nNetherfield, and she blushed as she answered,\n\n\"I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her\nfamily. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many\nvarying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expence of\ntravelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the\ncase _here_. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not\nsuch a one as will allow of frequent journeys--and I am persuaded my\nfriend would not call herself _near_ her family under less than _half_\nthe present distance.\"\n\nMr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, \"_You_ cannot\nhave a right to such very strong local attachment. _You_ cannot have\nbeen always at Longbourn.\"\n\nElizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of\nfeeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and,\nglancing over it, said, in a colder voice,\n\n\"Are you pleased with Kent?\"\n\nA short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either side\ncalm and concise--and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte\nand her sister, just returned from their walk. The tete-a-tete surprised\nthem. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which had occasioned his intruding\non Miss Bennet, and after sitting a few minutes longer without saying\nmuch to any body, went away.\n\n\"What can be the meaning of this!\" said Charlotte, as soon as he was\ngone. \"My dear Eliza he must be in love with you, or he would never have\ncalled on us in this familiar way.\"\n\nBut when Elizabeth told of his silence, it did not seem very likely,\neven to Charlotte's wishes, to be the case; and after various\nconjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from\nthe difficulty of finding any thing to do, which was the more probable\nfrom the time of year. All field sports were over. Within doors there\nwas Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard table, but gentlemen cannot be\nalways within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the\npleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the\ntwo cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither\nalmost every day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes\nseparately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their\naunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he\nhad pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course recommended\nhim still more; and Elizabeth was reminded by her own satisfaction in\nbeing with him, as well as by his evident admiration of her, of her\nformer favourite George Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw\nthere was less captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners,\nshe believed he might have the best informed mind.\n\nBut why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage, it was more difficult\nto understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there\nten minutes together without opening his lips; and when he did speak, it\nseemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice--a sacrifice to\npropriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really\nanimated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel\nFitzwilliam's occasionally laughing at his stupidity, proved that he was\ngenerally different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told\nher; and as she would have liked to believe this change the effect of\nlove, and the object of that love, her friend Eliza, she sat herself\nseriously to work to find it out.--She watched him whenever they were at\nRosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success. He\ncertainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that\nlook was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often\ndoubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it\nseemed nothing but absence of mind.\n\nShe had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his\nbeing partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs.\nCollins did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of\nraising expectations which might only end in disappointment; for in her\nopinion it admitted not of a doubt, that all her friend's dislike would\nvanish, if she could suppose him to be in her power.\n\nIn her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying\nColonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison the pleasantest man; he\ncertainly admired her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but,\nto counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had considerable patronage\nin the church, and his cousin could have none at all.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n\nMore than once did Elizabeth in her ramble within the Park, unexpectedly\nmeet Mr. Darcy.--She felt all the perverseness of the mischance that\nshould bring him where no one else was brought; and to prevent its ever\nhappening again, took care to inform him at first, that it was a\nfavourite haunt of hers.--How it could occur a second time therefore was\nvery odd!--Yet it did, and even a third. It seemed like wilful\nill-nature, or a voluntary penance, for on these occasions it was not\nmerely a few formal enquiries and an awkward pause and then away, but he\nactually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He never\nsaid a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking or of\nlistening much; but it struck her in the course of their third rencontre\nthat he was asking some odd unconnected questions--about her pleasure in\nbeing at Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her opinion of Mr.\nand Mrs. Collins's happiness; and that in speaking of Rosings and her\nnot perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to expect that whenever\nshe came into Kent again she would be staying _there_ too. His words\nseemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel Fitzwilliam in his thoughts?\nShe supposed, if he meant any thing, he must mean an allusion to what\nmight arise in that quarter. It distressed her a little, and she was\nquite glad to find herself at the gate in the pales opposite the\nParsonage.\n\nShe was engaged one day as she walked, in re-perusing Jane's last\nletter, and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not\nwritten in spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy,\nshe saw on looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her. Putting\naway the letter immediately and forcing a smile, she said,\n\n\"I did not know before that you ever walked this way.\"\n\n\"I have been making the tour of the Park,\" he replied, \"as I generally\ndo every year, and intend to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are\nyou going much farther?\"\n\n\"No, I should have turned in a moment.\"\n\nAnd accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage\ntogether.\n\n\"Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?\" said she.\n\n\"Yes--if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He\narranges the business just as he pleases.\"\n\n\"And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least\ngreat pleasure in the power of choice. I do not know any body who seems\nmore to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy.\"\n\n\"He likes to have his own way very well,\" replied Colonel Fitzwilliam.\n\"But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it than\nmany others, because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak\nfeelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and\ndependence.\"\n\n\"In my opinion, the younger son of an Earl can know very little of\neither. Now, seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and\ndependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going\nwherever you chose, or procuring any thing you had a fancy for?\"\n\n\"These are home questions--and perhaps I cannot say that I have\nexperienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater\nweight, I may suffer from the want of money. Younger sons cannot marry\nwhere they like.\"\n\n\"Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often\ndo.\"\n\n\"Our habits of expence make us too dependant, and there are not many in\nmy rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to\nmoney.\"\n\n\"Is this,\" thought Elizabeth, \"meant for me?\" and she coloured at the\nidea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, \"And pray, what is\nthe usual price of an Earl's younger son? Unless the elder brother is\nvery sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds.\"\n\nHe answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt\na silence which might make him fancy her affected with what had passed,\nshe soon afterwards said,\n\n\"I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of\nhaving somebody at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a\nlasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps his sister does as well\nfor the present, and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he\nlikes with her.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Colonel Fitzwilliam, \"that is an advantage which he must\ndivide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy.\"\n\n\"Are you, indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make? Does your\ncharge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age, are sometimes a\nlittle difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she\nmay like to have her own way.\"\n\nAs she spoke, she observed him looking at her earnestly, and the manner\nin which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to\ngive them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other\ngot pretty near the truth. She directly replied,\n\n\"You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare\nsay she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a\nvery great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and\nMiss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them.\"\n\n\"I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentleman-like\nman--he is a great friend of Darcy's.\"\n\n\"Oh! yes,\" said Elizabeth drily--\"Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr.\nBingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.\"\n\n\"Care of him!--Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ take care of him in\nthose points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in\nour journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to\nhim. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that\nBingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture.\"\n\n\"What is it you mean?\"\n\n\"It is a circumstance which Darcy of course would not wish to be\ngenerally known, because if it were to get round to the lady's family,\nit would be an unpleasant thing.\"\n\n\"You may depend upon my not mentioning it.\"\n\n\"And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be\nBingley. What he told me was merely this; that he congratulated himself\non having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most\nimprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other\nparticulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him\nthe kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from\nknowing them to have been together the whole of last summer.\"\n\n\"Did Mr. Darcy give you his reasons for this interference?\"\n\n\"I understood that there were some very strong objections against the\nlady.\"\n\n\"And what arts did he use to separate them?\"\n\n\"He did not talk to me of his own arts,\" said Fitzwilliam smiling. \"He\nonly told me, what I have now told you.\"\n\nElizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with\nindignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she\nwas so thoughtful.\n\n\"I am thinking of what you have been telling me,\" said she. \"Your\ncousin's conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?\"\n\n\"You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?\"\n\n\"I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of\nhis friend's inclination, or why, upon his own judgment alone, he was to\ndetermine and direct in what manner that friend was to be happy.\" \"But,\"\nshe continued, recollecting herself, \"as we know none of the\nparticulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed\nthat there was much affection in the case.\"\n\n\"That is not an unnatural surmise,\" said Fitzwilliam, \"but it is\nlessening the honour of my cousin's triumph very sadly.\"\n\nThis was spoken jestingly, but it appeared to her so just a picture of\nMr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an answer; and,\ntherefore, abruptly changing the conversation, talked on indifferent\nmatters till they reached the parsonage. There, shut into her own room,\nas soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption\nof all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other\npeople could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There\ncould not exist in the world _two_ men, over whom Mr. Darcy could have\nsuch boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures\ntaken to separate Mr. Bingley and Jane, she had never doubted; but she\nhad always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and\narrangement of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him,\n_he_ was the cause, his pride and caprice were the cause of all that\nJane had suffered, and still continued to suffer. He had ruined for a\nwhile every hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart\nin the world; and no one could say how lasting an evil he might have\ninflicted.\n\n\"There were some very strong objections against the lady,\" were Colonel\nFitzwilliam's words, and these strong objections probably were, her\nhaving one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in\nbusiness in London.\n\n\"To Jane herself,\" she exclaimed, \"there could be no possibility of\nobjection. All loveliness and goodness as she is! Her understanding\nexcellent, her mind improved, and her manners captivating. Neither could\nany thing be urged against my father, who, though with some\npeculiarities, has abilities which Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain,\nand respectability which he will probably never reach.\" When she thought\nof her mother indeed, her confidence gave way a little, but she would\nnot allow that any objections _there_ had material weight with Mr.\nDarcy, whose pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from\nthe want of importance in his friend's connections, than from their want\nof sense; and she was quite decided at last, that he had been partly\ngoverned by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of\nretaining Mr. Bingley for his sister.\n\nThe agitation and tears which the subject occasioned, brought on a\nheadache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening that, added to\nher unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her\ncousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins,\nseeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go, and as much\nas possible prevented her husband from pressing her, but Mr. Collins\ncould not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine's being rather\ndispleased by her staying at home.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n\nWhen they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as\nmuch as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the\nexamination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her\nbeing in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any\nrevival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering.\nBut in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that\ncheerfulness which had been used to characterize her style, and which,\nproceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself, and kindly\ndisposed towards every one, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth\nnoticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an\nattention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's\nshameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict, gave her a\nkeener sense of her sister's sufferings. It was some consolation to\nthink that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next,\nand a still greater, that in less than a fortnight she should herself be\nwith Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her\nspirits, by all that affection could do.\n\nShe could not think of Darcy's leaving Kent, without remembering that\nhis cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear\nthat he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not\nmean to be unhappy about him.\n\nWhile settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the\ndoor bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its\nbeing Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in\nthe evening, and might now come to enquire particularly after her. But\nthis idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently\naffected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the\nroom. In an hurried manner he immediately began an enquiry after her\nhealth, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better.\nShe answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and\nthen getting up walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but said\nnot a word. After a silence of several minutes he came towards her in an\nagitated manner, and thus began,\n\n\"In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be\nrepressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love\nyou.\"\n\nElizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured,\ndoubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement,\nand the avowal of all that he felt and had long felt for her,\nimmediately followed. He spoke well, but there were feelings besides\nthose of the heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the\nsubject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority--of\nits being a degradation--of the family obstacles which judgment had\nalways opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed\ndue to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to\nrecommend his suit.\n\nIn spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to\nthe compliment of such a man's affection, and though her intentions did\nnot vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to\nreceive; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost\nall compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to\nanswer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with\nrepresenting to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite of\nall his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with\nexpressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of\nhis hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt of\na favourable answer. He _spoke_ of apprehension and anxiety, but his\ncountenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only\nexasperate farther, and when he ceased, the colour rose into her\ncheeks, and she said,\n\n\"In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to\nexpress a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however\nunequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be\nfelt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude, I would now thank you. But I\ncannot--I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly\nbestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to any\none. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of\nshort duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the\nacknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming\nit after this explanation.\"\n\nMr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantle-piece with his eyes fixed\non her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than\nsurprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of\nhis mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the\nappearance of composure, and would not open his lips, till he believed\nhimself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's feelings\ndreadful. At length, in a voice of forced calmness, he said,\n\n\"And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I\nmight, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little _endeavour_ at\ncivility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.\"\n\n\"I might as well enquire,\" replied she, \"why with so evident a design of\noffending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me\nagainst your will, against your reason, and even against your character?\nWas not this some excuse for incivility, if I _was_ uncivil? But I have\nother provocations. You know I have. Had not my own feelings decided\nagainst you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been\nfavourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept\nthe man, who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the\nhappiness of a most beloved sister?\"\n\nAs she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion\nwas short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she\ncontinued.\n\n\"I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can\nexcuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You dare not,\nyou cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not the only means\nof dividing them from each other, of exposing one to the censure of the\nworld for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for\ndisappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest\nkind.\"\n\nShe paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening\nwith an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse.\nHe even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.\n\n\"Can you deny that you have done it?\" she repeated.\n\nWith assumed tranquillity he then replied, \"I have no wish of denying\nthat I did every thing in my power to separate my friend from your\nsister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_ I have been\nkinder than towards myself.\"\n\nElizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection,\nbut its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her.\n\n\"But it is not merely this affair,\" she continued, \"on which my dislike\nis founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was\ndecided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received\nmany months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to\nsay? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself?\nor under what misrepresentation, can you here impose upon others?\"\n\n\"You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns,\" said Darcy in\na less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.\n\n\"Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an\ninterest in him?\"\n\n\"His misfortunes!\" repeated Darcy contemptuously; \"yes, his misfortunes\nhave been great indeed.\"\n\n\"And of your infliction,\" cried Elizabeth with energy. \"You have reduced\nhim to his present state of poverty, comparative poverty. You have\nwithheld the advantages, which you must know to have been designed for\nhim. You have deprived the best years of his life, of that independence\nwhich was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! and\nyet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with contempt and\nridicule.\"\n\n\"And this,\" cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room,\n\"is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I\nthank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this\ncalculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps,\" added he, stopping in his\nwalk, and turning towards her, \"these offences might have been\noverlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the\nscruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These\nbitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I with greater policy\nconcealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being\nimpelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by\nreflection, by every thing. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.\nNor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just.\nCould you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections?\nTo congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life\nis so decidedly beneath my own?\"\n\nElizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to\nthe utmost to speak with composure when she said,\n\n\"You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your\ndeclaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the\nconcern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a\nmore gentleman-like manner.\"\n\nShe saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued,\n\n\"You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way\nthat would have tempted me to accept it.\"\n\nAgain his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an\nexpression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on.\n\n\"From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my\nacquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest\nbelief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the\nfeelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of\ndisapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a\ndislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the\nlast man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.\"\n\n\"You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your\nfeelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been.\nForgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best\nwishes for your health and happiness.\"\n\nAnd with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him\nthe next moment open the front door and quit the house.\n\nThe tumult of her mind was now painfully great. She knew not how to\nsupport herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for half an\nhour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was\nincreased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of\nmarriage from Mr. Darcy! that he should have been in love with her for\nso many months! so much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all\nthe objections which had made him prevent his friend's marrying her\nsister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his own case,\nwas almost incredible! it was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously\nso strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride, his\nshameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane, his\nunpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not justify it,\nand the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his\ncruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon overcame the\npity which the consideration of his attachment had for a moment excited.\n\nShe continued in very agitating reflections till the sound of Lady\nCatherine's carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter\nCharlotte's observation, and hurried her away to her room.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n\nElizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations\nwhich had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the\nsurprise of what had happened; it was impossible to think of any thing\nelse, and totally indisposed for employment, she resolved soon after\nbreakfast to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding\ndirectly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy's\nsometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park,\nshe turned up the lane, which led her farther from the turnpike road.\nThe park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed\none of the gates into the ground.\n\nAfter walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was\ntempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and\nlook into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent, had\nmade a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the\nverdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk,\nwhen she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which\nedged the park; he was moving that way; and fearful of its being Mr.\nDarcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced, was now\nnear enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced\nher name. She had turned away, but on hearing herself called, though in\na voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the\ngate. He had by that time reached it also, and holding out a letter,\nwhich she instinctively took, said with a look of haughty composure, \"I\nhave been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you.\nWill you do me the honour of reading that letter?\"--And then, with a\nslight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of\nsight.\n\nWith no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity,\nElizabeth opened the letter, and to her still increasing wonder,\nperceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter paper, written\nquite through, in a very close hand.--The envelope itself was likewise\nfull.--Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated\nfrom Rosings, at eight o'clock in the morning, and was as follows:--\n\n     \"Be not alarmed, Madam, on receiving this letter, by the\n     apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments,\n     or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to\n     you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling\n     myself, by dwelling on wishes, which, for the happiness of both,\n     cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation,\n     and the perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been\n     spared, had not my character required it to be written and read.\n     You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your\n     attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I\n     demand it of your justice.\n\n     \"Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal\n     magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned\n     was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached\n     Mr. Bingley from your sister,--and the other, that I had, in\n     defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity,\n     ruined the immediate prosperity, and blasted the prospects of Mr.\n     Wickham.--Wilfully and wantonly to have thrown off the companion of\n     my youth, the acknowledged favourite of my father, a young man who\n     had scarcely any other dependence than on our patronage, and who\n     had been brought up to expect its exertion, would be a depravity,\n     to which the separation of two young persons, whose affection could\n     be the growth of only a few weeks, could bear no comparison.--But\n     from the severity of that blame which was last night so liberally\n     bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in\n     future secured, when the following account of my actions and their\n     motives has been read.--If, in the explanation of them which is\n     due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which\n     may be offensive to your's, I can only say that I am sorry.--The\n     necessity must be obeyed--and farther apology would be absurd.--I\n     had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with\n     others, that Bingley preferred your eldest sister, to any other\n     young woman in the country.--But it was not till the evening of the\n     dance at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a\n     serious attachment.--I had often seen him in love before.--At that\n     ball, while I had the honour of dancing with you, I was first made\n     acquainted, by Sir William Lucas's accidental information, that\n     Bingley's attentions to your sister had given rise to a general\n     expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it as a certain event,\n     of which the time alone could be undecided. From that moment I\n     observed my friend's behaviour attentively; and I could then\n     perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had\n     ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also watched.--Her look and\n     manners were open, cheerful and engaging as ever, but without any\n     symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced from the\n     evening's scrutiny, that though she received his attentions with\n     pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of\n     sentiment.--If _you_ have not been mistaken here, _I_ must have\n     been in an error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make\n     the latter probable.--If it be so, if I have been misled by such\n     error, to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been\n     unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert, that the serenity\n     of your sister's countenance and air was such, as might have given\n     the most acute observer, a conviction that, however amiable her\n     temper, her heart was not likely to be easily touched.--That I was\n     desirous of believing her indifferent is certain,--but I will\n     venture to say that my investigations and decisions are not usually\n     influenced by my hopes or fears.--I did not believe her to be\n     indifferent because I wished it;--I believed it on impartial\n     conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason.--My objections to\n     the marriage were not merely those, which I last night acknowledged\n     to have required the utmost force of passion to put aside, in my\n     own case; the want of connection could not be so great an evil to\n     my friend as to me.--But there were other causes of\n     repugnance;--causes which, though still existing, and existing to\n     an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeavoured to\n     forget, because they were not immediately before me.--These causes\n     must be stated, though briefly.--The situation of your mother's\n     family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison of that\n     total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed\n     by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by\n     your father.--Pardon me.--It pains me to offend you. But amidst\n     your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, and your\n     displeasure at this representation of them, let it give you\n     consolation to consider that, to have conducted yourselves so as to\n     avoid any share of the like censure, is praise no less generally\n     bestowed on you and your eldest sister, than it is honourable to\n     the sense and disposition of both.--I will only say farther, that\n     from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties was\n     confirmed, and every inducement heightened, which could have led me\n     before, to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy\n     connection.--He left Netherfield for London, on the day following,\n     as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon\n     returning.--The part which I acted, is now to be explained.--His\n     sisters' uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our\n     coincidence of feeling was soon discovered; and, alike sensible\n     that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly\n     resolved on joining him directly in London.--We accordingly\n     went--and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to\n     my friend, the certain evils of such a choice.--I described, and\n     enforced them earnestly.--But, however this remonstrance might have\n     staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it\n     would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been\n     seconded by the assurance which I hesitated not in giving, of your\n     sister's indifference. He had before believed her to return his\n     affection with sincere, if not with equal regard.--But Bingley has\n     great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgment\n     than on his own.--To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived\n     himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against\n     returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given,\n     was scarcely the work of a moment.--I cannot blame myself for\n     having done thus much. There is but one part of my conduct in the\n     whole affair, on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is\n     that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to\n     conceal from him your sister's being in town. I knew it myself, as\n     it was known to Miss Bingley, but her brother is even yet ignorant\n     of it.--That they might have met without ill consequence, is\n     perhaps probable;--but his regard did not appear to me enough\n     extinguished for him to see her without some danger.--Perhaps this\n     concealment, this disguise, was beneath me.--It is done, however,\n     and it was done for the best.--On this subject I have nothing more\n     to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister's\n     feelings, it was unknowingly done; and though the motives which\n     governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have\n     not yet learnt to condemn them.--With respect to that other, more\n     weighty accusation, of having injured Mr. Wickham, I can only\n     refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my\n     family. Of what he has _particularly_ accused me I am ignorant; but\n     of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one\n     witness of undoubted veracity. Mr. Wickham is the son of a very\n     respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the\n     Pemberley estates; and whose good conduct in the discharge of his\n     trust, naturally inclined my father to be of service to him, and on\n     George Wickham, who was his god-son, his kindness was therefore\n     liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and\n     afterwards at Cambridge;--most important assistance, as his own\n     father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have\n     been unable to give him a gentleman's education. My father was not\n     only fond of this young man's society, whose manners were always\n     engaging; he had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the\n     church would be his profession, intended to provide for him in it.\n     As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think\n     of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities--the\n     want of principle which he was careful to guard from the knowledge\n     of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man\n     of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of\n     seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have.\n     Here again I shall give you pain--to what degree you only can tell.\n     But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a\n     suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his\n     real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father\n     died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to\n     the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it\n     to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his\n     profession might allow, and if he took orders, desired that a\n     valuable family living might be his as soon as soon as it became\n     vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own\n     father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these\n     events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally\n     resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it\n     unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary\n     advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be\n     benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law,\n     and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would\n     be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than\n     believed him to be sincere; but at any rate, was perfectly ready to\n     accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a\n     clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all\n     claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could\n     ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three\n     thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I\n     thought too ill of him, to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his\n     society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his\n     studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all\n     restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For\n     about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the\n     incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied\n     to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he\n     assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were\n     exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study,\n     and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would\n     present him to the living in question--of which he trusted there\n     could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other\n     person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered\n     father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to\n     comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it.\n     His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his\n     circumstances--and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me\n     to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every\n     appearance of acquaintance was dropt. How he lived I know not. But\n     last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I\n     must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget\n     myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce\n     me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no\n     doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my\n     junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel\n     Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from\n     school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last\n     summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate;\n     and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there\n     proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs.\n     Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by\n     her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,\n     whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his\n     kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe\n     herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but\n     fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her\n     imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to\n     herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the\n     intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea\n     of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as\n     a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt\n     and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings\n     prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left\n     the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from\n     her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my\n     sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot\n     help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me, was a\n     strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.\n     This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we\n     have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject\n     it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty\n     towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of\n     falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to\n     be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of every thing\n     concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and\n     suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly\n     wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then\n     master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed.\n     For the truth of every thing here related, I can appeal more\n     particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our\n     near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of\n     the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted\n     with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of\n     _me_ should make _my_ assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented\n     by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may\n     be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find\n     some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course\n     of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.\n\n     \"FITZWILLIAM DARCY.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\n\nIf Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to\ncontain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of\nits contents. But such as they were, it may be well supposed how eagerly\nshe went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited.\nHer feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did\nshe first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power;\nand steadfastly was she persuaded that he could have no explanation to\ngive, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong\nprejudice against every thing he might say, she began his account of\nwhat had happened at Netherfield. She read, with an eagerness which\nhardly left her power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing\nwhat the next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the\nsense of the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister's\ninsensibility, she instantly resolved to be false, and his account of\nthe real, the worst objections to the match, made her too angry to have\nany wish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had\ndone which satisfied her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It\nwas all pride and insolence.\n\nBut when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham, when\nshe read with somewhat clearer attention, a relation of events, which,\nif true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which\nbore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself, her feelings\nwere yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition.\nAstonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished\nto discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, \"This must be false!\nThis cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!\"--and when she had\ngone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing any thing of the\nlast page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not\nregard it, that she would never look in it again.\n\nIn this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on\nnothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the letter\nwas unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she\nagain began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and\ncommanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence.\nThe account of his connection with the Pemberley family, was exactly\nwhat he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy,\nthough she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his\nown words. So far each recital confirmed the other: but when she came to\nthe will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living\nwas fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was\nimpossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the\nother; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did\nnot err. But when she read, and re-read with the closest attention, the\nparticulars immediately following of Wickham's resigning all pretensions\nto the living, of his receiving in lieu, so considerable a sum as three\nthousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down the\nletter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be\nimpartiality--deliberated on the probability of each statement--but with\nlittle success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read on.\nBut every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had\nbelieved it impossible that any contrivance could so represent, as to\nrender Mr. Darcy's conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a\nturn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole.\n\nThe extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay to\nMr. Wickham's charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could\nbring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his\nentrance into the ----shire Militia, in which he had engaged at the\npersuasion of the young man, who, on meeting him accidentally in town,\nhad there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life,\nnothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As to\nhis real character, had information been in her power, she had never\nfelt a wish of enquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner, had\nestablished him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to\nrecollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of\nintegrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr.\nDarcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those\ncasual errors, under which she would endeavour to class, what Mr. Darcy\nhad described as the idleness and vice of many years continuance. But no\nsuch recollection befriended her. She could see him instantly before\nher, in every charm of air and address; but she could remember no more\nsubstantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and\nthe regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After\npausing on this point a considerable while, she once more continued to\nread. But, alas! the story which followed of his designs on Miss Darcy,\nreceived some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel\nFitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she was\nreferred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam\nhimself--from whom she had previously received the information of his\nnear concern in all his cousin's affairs, and whose character she had no\nreason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to\nhim, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and\nat length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never\nhave hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his\ncousin's corroboration.\n\nShe perfectly remembered every thing that had passed in conversation\nbetween Wickham and herself, in their first evening at Mr. Philips's.\nMany of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was _now_\nstruck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and\nwondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting\nhimself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions\nwith his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear\nof seeing Mr. Darcy--that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that\n_he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball\nthe very next week. She remembered also, that till the Netherfield\nfamily had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but\nherself; but that after their removal, it had been every where\ndiscussed; that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr.\nDarcy's character, though he had assured her that respect for the\nfather, would always prevent his exposing the son.\n\nHow differently did every thing now appear in which he was concerned!\nHis attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and\nhatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer\nthe moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at any thing.\nHis behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had\neither been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying\nhis vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most\nincautiously shewn. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter\nand fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not\nbut allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago\nasserted his blamelessness in the affair; that proud and repulsive as\nwere his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their\nacquaintance, an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much\ntogether, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways, seen any thing\nthat betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust--any thing that spoke him\nof irreligious or immoral habits. That among his own connections he was\nesteemed and valued--that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a\nbrother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of\nhis sister as to prove him capable of _some_ amiable feeling. That had\nhis actions been what Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of\nevery thing right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and\nthat friendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man\nas Mr. Bingley, was incomprehensible.\n\nShe grew absolutely ashamed of herself.--Of neither Darcy nor Wickham\ncould she think, without feeling that she had been blind, partial,\nprejudiced, absurd.\n\n\"How despicably have I acted!\" she cried.--\"I, who have prided myself on\nmy discernment!--I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have\noften disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my\nvanity, in useless or blameable distrust.--How humiliating is this\ndiscovery!--Yet, how just a humiliation!--Had I been in love, I could\nnot have been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has been my\nfolly.--Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect\nof the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted\nprepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were\nconcerned. Till this moment, I never knew myself.\"\n\nFrom herself to Jane--from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line\nwhich soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy's explanation\n_there_, had appeared very insufficient; and she read it again. Widely\ndifferent was the effect of a second perusal.--How could she deny that\ncredit to his assertions, in one instance, which she had been obliged to\ngive in the other?--He declared himself to have been totally\nunsuspicious of her sister's attachment;--and she could not help\nremembering what Charlotte's opinion had always been.--Neither could she\ndeny the justice of his description of Jane.--She felt that Jane's\nfeelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a\nconstant complacency in her air and manner, not often united with great\nsensibility.\n\nWhen she came to that part of the letter in which her family were\nmentioned, in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her sense\nof shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly\nfor denial, and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded, as\nhaving passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first\ndisapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind\nthan on hers.\n\nThe compliment to herself and her sister, was not unfelt. It soothed,\nbut it could not console her for the contempt which had been thus\nself-attracted by the rest of her family;--and as she considered that\nJane's disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest\nrelations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt\nby such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond any thing she\nhad ever known before.\n\nAfter wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every\nvariety of thought; re-considering events, determining probabilities,\nand reconciling herself as well as she could, to a change so sudden and\nso important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made her\nat length return home; and she entered the house with the wish of\nappearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such\nreflections as must make her unfit for conversation.\n\nShe was immediately told, that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each\ncalled during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes to take\nleave, but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least\nan hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her\ntill she could be found.--Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern in\nmissing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no\nlonger an object. She could think only of her letter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\n\nThe two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning; and Mr. Collins having\nbeen in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting obeisance, was\nable to bring home the pleasing intelligence, of their appearing in very\ngood health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the\nmelancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings. To Rosings he then\nhastened to console Lady Catherine, and her daughter; and on his return,\nbrought back, with great satisfaction, a message from her Ladyship,\nimporting that she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of\nhaving them all to dine with her.\n\nElizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting, that had\nshe chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to her, as her\nfuture niece; nor could she think, without a smile, of what her\nladyship's indignation would have been. \"What would she have said?--how\nwould she have behaved?\" were questions with which she amused herself.\n\nTheir first subject was the diminution of the Rosings party.--\"I assure\nyou, I feel it exceedingly,\" said Lady Catherine; \"I believe nobody\nfeels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I am particularly\nattached to these young men; and know them to be so much attached to\nme!--They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The dear\ncolonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy\nseemed to feel it most acutely, more I think than last year. His\nattachment to Rosings, certainly increases.\"\n\nMr. Collins had a compliment, and an allusion to throw in here, which\nwere kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter.\n\nLady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed out of\nspirits, and immediately accounting for it herself, by supposing that\nshe did not like to go home again so soon, she added,\n\n\"But if that is the case, you must write to your mother to beg that you\nmay stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your\ncompany, I am sure.\"\n\n\"I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation,\" replied\nElizabeth, \"but it is not in my power to accept it.--I must be in town\nnext Saturday.\"\n\n\"Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I expected\nyou to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There\ncan be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly\nspare you for another fortnight.\"\n\n\"But my father cannot.--He wrote last week to hurry my return.\"\n\n\"Oh! your father of course may spare you, if your mother can.--Daughters\nare never of so much consequence to a father. And if you will stay\nanother _month_ complete, it will be in my power to take one of you as\nfar as London, for I am going there early in June, for a week; and as\nDawson does not object to the Barouche box, there will be very good room\nfor one of you--and indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I\nshould not object to taking you both, as you are neither of you large.\"\n\n\"You are all kindness, Madam; but I believe we must abide by our\noriginal plan.\"\n\nLady Catherine seemed resigned.\n\n\"Mrs. Collins, you must send a servant with them. You know I always\nspeak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea of two young women travelling\npost by themselves. It is highly improper. You must contrive to send\nsomebody. I have the greatest dislike in the world to that sort of\nthing.--Young women should always be properly guarded and attended,\naccording to their situation in life. When my niece Georgiana went to\nRamsgate last summer, I made a point of her having two men servants go\nwith her.--Miss Darcy, the daughter of Mr. Darcy, of Pemberley, and Lady\nAnne, could not have appeared with propriety in a different manner.--I\nam excessively attentive to all those things. You must send John with\nthe young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I am glad it occurred to me to mention\nit; for it would really be discreditable to _you_ to let them go alone.\"\n\n\"My uncle is to send a servant for us.\"\n\n\"Oh!--Your uncle!--He keeps a man-servant, does he?--I am very glad you\nhave somebody who thinks of those things. Where shall you change\nhorses?--Oh! Bromley, of course.--If you mention my name at the Bell,\nyou will be attended to.\"\n\nLady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their journey,\nand as she did not answer them all herself, attention was necessary,\nwhich Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or, with a mind so\noccupied, she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection must be\nreserved for solitary hours; whenever she was alone, she gave way to it\nas the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a solitary walk,\nin which she might indulge in all the delight of unpleasant\nrecollections.\n\nMr. Darcy's letter, she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She\nstudied every sentence: and her feelings towards its writer were at\ntimes widely different. When she remembered the style of his address,\nshe was still full of indignation; but when she considered how unjustly\nshe had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned against\nherself; and his disappointed feelings became the object of compassion.\nHis attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect; but she\ncould not approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal, or\nfeel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past\nbehaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and regret; and in\nthe unhappy defects of her family a subject of yet heavier chagrin.\nThey were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at\nthem, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his\nyoungest daughters; and her mother, with manners so far from right\nherself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently\nunited with Jane in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine\nand Lydia; but while they were supported by their mother's indulgence,\nwhat chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited,\nirritable, and completely under Lydia's guidance, had been always\naffronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless, would\nscarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While\nthere was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt with him; and while\nMeryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they would be going there for\never.\n\nAnxiety on Jane's behalf, was another prevailing concern, and Mr.\nDarcy's explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good\nopinion, heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was\nproved to have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame,\nunless any could attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his\nfriend. How grievous then was the thought that, of a situation so\ndesirable in every respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for\nhappiness, Jane had been deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own\nfamily!\n\nWhen to these recollections was added the developement of Wickham's\ncharacter, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had\nseldom been depressed before, were now so much affected as to make it\nalmost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful.\n\nTheir engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of\nher stay, as they had been at first. The very last evening was spent\nthere; and her Ladyship again enquired minutely into the particulars of\ntheir journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing,\nand was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right\nway, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the\nwork of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh.\n\nWhen they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, wished them\na good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford again next year;\nand Miss De Bourgh exerted herself so far as to curtsey and hold out her\nhand to both.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n\nOn Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few\nminutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of\npaying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary.\n\n\"I know not, Miss Elizabeth,\" said he, \"whether Mrs. Collins has yet\nexpressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us, but I am very\ncertain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for\nit. The favour of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We know\nhow little there is to tempt any one to our humble abode. Our plain\nmanner of living, our small rooms, and few domestics, and the little we\nsee of the world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like\nyourself; but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension,\nand that we have done every thing in our power to prevent your spending\nyour time unpleasantly.\"\n\nElizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She had\nspent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of being with\nCharlotte, and the kind attentions she had received, must make _her_\nfeel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified; and with a more smiling\nsolemnity replied,\n\n\"It gives me the greatest pleasure to hear that you have passed your\ntime not disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most\nfortunately having it in our power to introduce you to very superior\nsociety, and from our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of\nvarying the humble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that\nyour Hunsford visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation\nwith regard to Lady Catherine's family is indeed the sort of\nextraordinary advantage and blessing which few can boast. You see on\nwhat a footing we are. You see how continually we are engaged there. In\ntruth I must acknowledge that, with all the disadvantages of this humble\nparsonage, I should not think any one abiding in it an object of\ncompassion, while they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings.\"\n\nWords were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he was\nobliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility\nand truth in a few short sentences.\n\n\"You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into\nHertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself at least that you will\nbe able to do so. Lady Catherine's great attentions to Mrs. Collins you\nhave been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust it does not appear\nthat your friend has drawn an unfortunate--but on this point it will be\nas well to be silent. Only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth,\nthat I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in\nmarriage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one mind and one way of\nthinking. There is in every thing a most remarkable resemblance of\ncharacter and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each\nother.\"\n\nElizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where that was\nthe case, and with equal sincerity could add that she firmly believed\nand rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was not sorry, however, to\nhave the recital of them interrupted by the entrance of the lady from\nwhom they sprung. Poor Charlotte!--it was melancholy to leave her to\nsuch society!--But she had chosen it with her eyes open; and though\nevidently regretting that her visitors were to go, she did not seem to\nask for compassion. Her home and her housekeeping, her parish and her\npoultry, and all their dependent concerns, had not yet lost their\ncharms.\n\nAt length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels\nplaced within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate\nparting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by\nMr. Collins, and as they walked down the garden, he was commissioning\nher with his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his thanks\nfor the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his\ncompliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her\nin, Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed, when\nhe suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had\nhitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies of Rosings.\n\n\"But,\" he added, \"you will of course wish to have your humble respects\ndelivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you\nwhile you have been here.\"\n\nElizabeth made no objection;--the door was then allowed to be shut, and\nthe carriage drove off.\n\n\"Good gracious!\" cried Maria, after a few minutes silence, \"it seems but\na day or two since we first came!--and yet how many things have\nhappened!\"\n\n\"A great many indeed,\" said her companion with a sigh.\n\n\"We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there\ntwice!--How much I shall have to tell!\"\n\nElizabeth privately added, \"And how much I shall have to conceal.\"\n\nTheir journey was performed without much conversation, or any alarm; and\nwithin four hours of their leaving Hunsford, they reached Mr. Gardiner's\nhouse, where they were to remain a few days.\n\nJane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her\nspirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her aunt\nhad reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at\nLongbourn there would be leisure enough for observation.\n\nIt was not without an effort meanwhile that she could wait even for\nLongbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy's proposals. To know\nthat she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish\nJane, and must, at the same time, so highly gratify whatever of her own\nvanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such a temptation\nto openness as nothing could have conquered, but the state of indecision\nin which she remained, as to the extent of what she should communicate;\nand her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried into\nrepeating something of Bingley, which might only grieve her sister\nfarther.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\n\nIt was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies set out\ntogether from Gracechurch-street, for the town of ---- in Hertfordshire;\nand, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet's carriage was\nto meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman's\npunctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room up\nstairs. These two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily\nemployed in visiting an opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on\nguard, and dressing a sallad and cucumber.\n\nAfter welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set\nout with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming,\n\"Is not this nice? is not this an agreeable surprise?\"\n\n\"And we mean to treat you all,\" added Lydia; \"but you must lend us the\nmoney, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there.\" Then shewing\nher purchases: \"Look here, I have bought this bonnet. I do not think it\nis very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall\npull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any\nbetter.\"\n\nAnd when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect\nunconcern, \"Oh! but there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and\nwhen I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I\nthink it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what\none wears this summer, after the ----shire have left Meryton, and they\nare going in a fortnight.\"\n\n\"Are they indeed?\" cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction.\n\n\"They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to\ntake us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme,\nand I dare say would hardly cost any thing at all. Mamma would like to\ngo too of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall\nhave!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" thought Elizabeth, \"_that_ would be a delightful scheme, indeed,\nand completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton, and a whole\ncampful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset already by one poor\nregiment of militia, and the monthly balls of Meryton.\"\n\n\"Now I have got some news for you,\" said Lydia, as they sat down to\ntable. \"What do you think? It is excellent news, capital news, and about\na certain person that we all like.\"\n\nJane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told that he\nneed not stay. Lydia laughed, and said,\n\n\"Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the\nwaiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse\nthings said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I am glad\nhe is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for\nmy news: it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is not it?\nThere is no danger of Wickham's marrying Mary King. There's for you! She\nis gone down to her uncle at Liverpool; gone to stay. Wickham is safe.\"\n\n\"And Mary King is safe!\" added Elizabeth; \"safe from a connection\nimprudent as to fortune.\"\n\n\"She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.\"\n\n\"But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,\" said Jane.\n\n\"I am sure there is not on _his_. I will answer for it he never cared\nthree straws about her. Who _could_ about such a nasty little freckled\nthing?\"\n\nElizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such\ncoarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the _sentiment_\nwas little other than her own breast had formerly harboured and fancied\nliberal!\n\nAs soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was\nordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their\nboxes, workbags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty's and\nLydia's purchases, were seated in it.\n\n\"How nicely we are crammed in!\" cried Lydia. \"I am glad I bought my\nbonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another bandbox! Well, now\nlet us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way\nhome. And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all,\nsince you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any\nflirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband\nbefore you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare.\nShe is almost three and twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not\nbeing married before three and twenty! My aunt Philips wants you so to\nget husbands, you can't think. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr.\nCollins; but _I_ do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord!\nhow I should like to be married before any of you; and then I would\nchaperon you about to all the balls. Dear me! we had such a good piece\nof fun the other day at Colonel Forster's. Kitty and me were to spend\nthe day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the\nevening; (by the bye, Mrs. Forster and me are _such_ friends!) and so\nshe asked the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen\nwas forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We\ndressed up Chamberlayne in woman's clothes, on purpose to pass for a\nlady,--only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Col. and Mrs.\nForster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were forced to borrow\none of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny,\nand Wickham, and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in, they\ndid not know him in the least. Lord! how I laughed! and so did Mrs.\nForster. I thought I should have died. And _that_ made the men suspect\nsomething, and then they soon found out what was the matter.\"\n\nWith such kind of histories of their parties and good jokes, did Lydia,\nassisted by Kitty's hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her\ncompanions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she\ncould, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham's name.\n\nTheir reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane\nin undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet\nsay voluntarily to Elizabeth,\n\n\"I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.\"\n\nTheir party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases\ncame to meet Maria and hear the news: and various were the subjects\nwhich occupied them; lady Lucas was enquiring of Maria across the table,\nafter the welfare and poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet was\ndoubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of the present\nfashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and on the other,\nretailing them all to the younger Miss Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice\nrather louder than any other person's, was enumerating the various\npleasures of the morning to any body who would hear her.\n\n\"Oh! Mary,\" said she, \"I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun!\nas we went along, Kitty and me drew up all the blinds, and pretended\nthere was nobody in the coach; and I should have gone so all the way, if\nKitty had not been sick; and when we got to the George, I do think we\nbehaved very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest\ncold luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have\ntreated you too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought\nwe never should have got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter.\nAnd then we were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so\nloud, that any body might have heard us ten miles off!\"\n\nTo this, Mary very gravely replied, \"Far be it from me, my dear sister,\nto depreciate such pleasures. They would doubtless be congenial with\nthe generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms\nfor _me_. I should infinitely prefer a book.\"\n\nBut of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to any\nbody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all.\n\nIn the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk to\nMeryton and see how every body went on; but Elizabeth steadily opposed\nthe scheme. It should not be said, that the Miss Bennets could not be at\nhome half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was\nanother reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Wickham again,\nand was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The comfort to _her_,\nof the regiment's approaching removal, was indeed beyond expression. In\na fortnight they were to go, and once gone, she hoped there could be\nnothing more to plague her on his account.\n\nShe had not been many hours at home, before she found that the Brighton\nscheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under\nfrequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her\nfather had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were\nat the same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though often\ndisheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at last.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\n\nElizabeth's impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could no\nlonger be overcome; and at length resolving to suppress every particular\nin which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be surprised,\nshe related to her the next morning the chief of the scene between Mr.\nDarcy and herself.\n\nMiss Bennet's astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly\npartiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly\nnatural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was\nsorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so\nlittle suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved for the\nunhappiness which her sister's refusal must have given him.\n\n\"His being so sure of succeeding, was wrong,\" said she; \"and certainly\nought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his\ndisappointment.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" replied Elizabeth, \"I am heartily sorry for him; but he has\nother feelings which will probably soon drive away his regard for me.\nYou do not blame me, however, for refusing him?\"\n\n\"Blame you! Oh, no.\"\n\n\"But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham.\"\n\n\"No--I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.\"\n\n\"But you _will_ know it, when I have told you what happened the very\nnext day.\"\n\nShe then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far\nas they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this for poor Jane!\nwho would willingly have gone through the world without believing that\nso much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind, as was here\ncollected in one individual. Nor was Darcy's vindication, though\ngrateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery.\nMost earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and\nseek to clear one, without involving the other.\n\n\"This will not do,\" said Elizabeth. \"You never will be able to make both\nof them good for any thing. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied\nwith only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just\nenough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting\nabout pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Mr.\nDarcy's, but you shall do as you chuse.\"\n\nIt was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane.\n\n\"I do not know when I have been more shocked,\" said she. \"Wickham so\nvery bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! dear Lizzy, only\nconsider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and with the\nknowledge of your ill opinion too! and having to relate such a thing of\nhis sister! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it\nso.\"\n\n\"Oh! no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so\nfull of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am\ngrowing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion\nmakes me saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will\nbe as light as a feather.\"\n\n\"Poor Wickham; there is such an expression of goodness in his\ncountenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner.\"\n\n\"There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those\ntwo young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the\nappearance of it.\"\n\n\"I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it as you\nused to do.\"\n\n\"And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike\nto him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one's genius, such an\nopening for wit to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually\nabusive without saying any thing just; but one cannot be always laughing\nat a man without now and then stumbling on something witty.\"\n\n\"Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat\nthe matter as you do now.\"\n\n\"Indeed I could not. I was uncomfortable enough. I was very\nuncomfortable, I may say unhappy. And with no one to speak to, of what I\nfelt, no Jane to comfort me and say that I had not been so very weak and\nvain and nonsensical as I knew I had! Oh! how I wanted you!\"\n\n\"How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions\nin speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they _do_ appear wholly\nundeserved.\"\n\n\"Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness, is a most\nnatural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There is\none point, on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I\nought, or ought not to make our acquaintance in general understand\nWickham's character.\"\n\nMiss Bennet paused a little and then replied, \"Surely there can be no\noccasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your own opinion?\"\n\n\"That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised me to\nmake his communication public. On the contrary every particular relative\nto his sister, was meant to be kept as much as possible to myself; and\nif I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his conduct, who\nwill believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent,\nthat it would be the death of half the good people in Meryton, to\nattempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Wickham\nwill soon be gone; and therefore it will not signify to anybody here,\nwhat he really is. Sometime hence it will be all found out, and then we\nmay laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At present I will\nsay nothing about it.\"\n\n\"You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for\never. He is now perhaps sorry for what he has done, and anxious to\nre-establish a character. We must not make him desperate.\"\n\nThe tumult of Elizabeth's mind was allayed by this conversation. She had\ngot rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight,\nand was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she might wish\nto talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind,\nof which prudence forbad the disclosure. She dared not relate the other\nhalf of Mr. Darcy's letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she\nhad been valued by his friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could\npartake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect\nunderstanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off this\nlast incumbrance of mystery. \"And then,\" said she, \"if that very\nimprobable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to tell\nwhat Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The\nliberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!\"\n\nShe was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real\nstate of her sister's spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a\nvery tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself in\nlove before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and from\nher age and disposition, greater steadiness than first attachments often\nboast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to\nevery other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the\nfeelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those\nregrets, which must have been injurious to her own health and their\ntranquillity.\n\n\"Well, Lizzy,\" said Mrs. Bennet one day, \"what is your opinion _now_ of\nthis sad business of Jane's? For my part, I am determined never to speak\nof it again to anybody. I told my sister Philips so the other day. But I\ncannot find out that Jane saw any thing of him in London. Well, he is a\nvery undeserving young man--and I do not suppose there is the least\nchance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his\ncoming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have enquired of every\nbody too, who is likely to know.\"\n\n\"I do not believe that he will ever live at Netherfield any more.\"\n\n\"Oh, well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. Though I\nshall always say that he used my daughter extremely ill; and if I was\nher, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure\nJane will die of a broken heart, and then he will be sorry for what he\nhas done.\"\n\nBut as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation,\nshe made no answer.\n\n\"Well, Lizzy,\" continued her mother soon afterwards, \"and so the\nCollinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it\nwill last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an\nexcellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her mother,\nshe is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in _their_\nhousekeeping, I dare say.\"\n\n\"No, nothing at all.\"\n\n\"A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes. _They_ will\ntake care not to outrun their income. _They_ will never be distressed\nfor money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often\ntalk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it\nquite as their own, I dare say, whenever that happens.\"\n\n\"It was a subject which they could not mention before me.\"\n\n\"No. It would have been strange if they had. But I make no doubt, they\noften talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an\nestate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. _I_ should be\nashamed of having one that was only entailed on me.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\n\nThe first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was\nthe last of the regiment's stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies in\nthe neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost\nuniversal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink,\nand sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very\nfrequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and\nLydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such\nhard-heartedness in any of the family.\n\n\"Good Heaven! What is to become of us! What are we to do!\" would they\noften exclaim in the bitterness of woe. \"How can you be smiling so,\nLizzy?\"\n\nTheir affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what\nshe had herself endured on a similar occasion, five and twenty years\nago.\n\n\"I am sure,\" said she, \"I cried for two days together when Colonel\nMillar's regiment went away. I thought I should have broke my heart.\"\n\n\"I am sure I shall break _mine_,\" said Lydia.\n\n\"If one could but go to Brighton!\" observed Mrs. Bennet.\n\n\"Oh, yes!--if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so\ndisagreeable.\"\n\n\"A little sea-bathing would set me up for ever.\"\n\n\"And my aunt Philips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of good,\"\nadded Kitty.\n\nSuch were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through\nLongbourn-house. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense\nof pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy's\nobjections; and never had she before been so much disposed to pardon his\ninterference in the views of his friend.\n\nBut the gloom of Lydia's prospect was shortly cleared away; for she\nreceived an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the Colonel of the\nregiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a\nvery young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour\nand good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of\ntheir _three_ months' acquaintance they had been intimate _two_.\n\nThe rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster,\nthe delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely\nto be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister's feelings, Lydia flew\nabout the house in restless ecstacy, calling for every one's\ncongratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever;\nwhilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repining at her fate\nin terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish.\n\n\"I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as Lydia,\"\nsaid she, \"though I am _not_ her particular friend. I have just as much\nright to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am two years older.\"\n\nIn vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make\nher resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from\nexciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she\nconsidered it as the death-warrant of all possibility of common sense\nfor the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her were it\nknown, she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her\ngo. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia's general\nbehaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of\nsuch a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more\nimprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must\nbe greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said,\n\n\"Lydia will never be easy till she has exposed herself in some public\nplace or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so little\nexpense or inconvenience to her family as under the present\ncircumstances.\"\n\n\"If you were aware,\" said Elizabeth, \"of the very great disadvantage to\nus all, which must arise from the public notice of Lydia's unguarded and\nimprudent manner; nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you\nwould judge differently in the affair.\"\n\n\"Already arisen!\" repeated Mr. Bennet. \"What, has she frightened away\nsome of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such\nsqueamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity,\nare not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of the pitiful fellows\nwho have been kept aloof by Lydia's folly.\"\n\n\"Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not\nof peculiar, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our\nimportance, our respectability in the world, must be affected by the\nwild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark\nLydia's character. Excuse me--for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear\nfather, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and\nof teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of\nher life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character\nwill be fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt\nthat ever made herself and her family ridiculous. A flirt too, in the\nworst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond\nyouth and a tolerable person; and from the ignorance and emptiness of\nher mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion of that universal\ncontempt which her rage for admiration will excite. In this danger Kitty\nis also comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain,\nignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrouled! Oh! my dear father, can you\nsuppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever\nthey are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the\ndisgrace?\"\n\nMr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject; and\naffectionately taking her hand, said in reply,\n\n\"Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known,\nyou must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less\nadvantage for having a couple of--or I may say, three very silly\nsisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to\nBrighton. Let her go then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will\nkeep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an\nobject of prey to any body. At Brighton she will be of less importance\neven as a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find\nwomen better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being\nthere may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow\nmany degrees worse, without authorizing us to lock her up for the rest\nof her life.\"\n\nWith this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion\ncontinued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not\nin her nature, however, to increase her vexations, by dwelling on them.\nShe was confident of having performed her duty, and to fret over\nunavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her\ndisposition.\n\nHad Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her\nfather, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their\nunited volubility. In Lydia's imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised\nevery possibility of earthly happiness. She saw with the creative eye of\nfancy, the streets of that gay bathing place covered with officers. She\nsaw herself the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them at\npresent unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp; its tents\nstretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young\nand the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and to complete the view, she\nsaw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six\nofficers at once.\n\nHad she known that her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and\nsuch realities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could\nhave been understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly the\nsame. Lydia's going to Brighton was all that consoled her for the\nmelancholy conviction of her husband's never intending to go there\nhimself.\n\nBut they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures\ncontinued with little intermission to the very day of Lydia's leaving\nhome.\n\nElizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been\nfrequently in company with him since her return, agitation was pretty\nwell over; the agitations of former partiality entirely so. She had even\nlearnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted her,\nan affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present\nbehaviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure,\nfor the inclination he soon testified of renewing those attentions which\nhad marked the early part of their acquaintance, could only serve, after\nwhat had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern for him in\nfinding herself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous\ngallantry; and while she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the\nreproof contained in his believing, that however long, and for whatever\ncause, his attentions had been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified\nand her preference secured at any time by their renewal.\n\nOn the very last day of the regiment's remaining in Meryton, he dined\nwith others of the officers at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth\ndisposed to part from him in good humour, that on his making some\nenquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she\nmentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam's and Mr. Darcy's having both spent three\nweeks at Rosings, and asked him if he were acquainted with the former.\n\nHe looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment's\nrecollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen\nhim often; and after observing that he was a very gentleman-like man,\nasked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour.\nWith an air of indifference he soon afterwards added, \"How long did you\nsay that he was at Rosings?\"\n\n\"Nearly three weeks.\"\n\n\"And you saw him frequently?\"\n\n\"Yes, almost every day.\"\n\n\"His manners are very different from his cousin's.\"\n\n\"Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves on acquaintance.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" cried Wickham with a look which did not escape her. \"And pray\nmay I ask?\" but checking himself, he added in a gayer tone, \"Is it in\naddress that he improves? Has he deigned to add ought of civility to his\nordinary style? for I dare not hope,\" he continued in a lower and more\nserious tone, \"that he is improved in essentials.\"\n\n\"Oh, no!\" said Elizabeth. \"In essentials, I believe, he is very much\nwhat he ever was.\"\n\nWhile she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to\nrejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a\nsomething in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive\nand anxious attention, while she added,\n\n\"When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that\neither his mind or manners were in a state of improvement, but that from\nknowing him better, his disposition was better understood.\"\n\nWickham's alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated\nlook; for a few minutes he was silent; till, shaking off his\nembarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of\naccents,\n\n\"You, who so well know my feelings towards Mr. Darcy, will readily\ncomprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume\neven the _appearance_ of what is right. His pride, in that direction,\nmay be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must deter\nhim from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only fear that\nthe sort of cautiousness, to which you, I imagine, have been alluding,\nis merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and\njudgment he stands much in awe. His fear of her, has always operated, I\nknow, when they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his\nwish of forwarding the match with Miss De Bourgh, which I am certain he\nhas very much at heart.\"\n\nElizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a\nslight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on\nthe old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge\nhim. The rest of the evening passed with the _appearance_, on his side,\nof usual cheerfulness, but with no farther attempt to distinguish\nElizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a\nmutual desire of never meeting again.\n\nWhen the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton,\nfrom whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation\nbetween her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the\nonly one who shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs.\nBennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter,\nand impressive in her injunctions that she would not miss the\nopportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible; advice, which there\nwas every reason to believe would be attended to; and in the clamorous\nhappiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle adieus\nof her sisters were uttered without being heard.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\n\nHad Elizabeth's opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could\nnot have formed a very pleasing picture of conjugal felicity or domestic\ncomfort. Her father captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance\nof good humour, which youth and beauty generally give, had married a\nwoman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind, had very early in\ntheir marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect,\nesteem, and confidence, had vanished for ever; and all his views of\ndomestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a\ndisposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own\nimprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often\nconsole the unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of\nthe country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his principal\nenjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted, than as\nher ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not\nthe sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his\nwife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true\nphilosopher will derive benefit from such as are given.\n\nElizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her\nfather's behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but\nrespecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of\nherself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to\nbanish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation\nand decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own\nchildren, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so\nstrongly as now, the disadvantages which must attend the children of so\nunsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils\narising from so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents which rightly\nused, might at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters,\neven if incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife.\n\nWhen Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham's departure, she found little\nother cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties\nabroad were less varied than before; and at home she had a mother and\nsister whose constant repinings at the dulness of every thing around\nthem, threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty\nmight in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbers\nof her brain were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition\ngreater evil might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all her\nfolly and assurance, by a situation of such double danger as a watering\nplace and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what has been\nsometimes found before, that an event to which she had looked forward\nwith impatient desire, did not in taking place, bring all the\nsatisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to\nname some other period for the commencement of actual felicity; to have\nsome other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by\nagain enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the\npresent, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes\nwas now the object of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation\nfor all the uncomfortable hours, which the discontentedness of her\nmother and Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included Jane in\nthe scheme, every part of it would have been perfect.\n\n\"But it is fortunate,\" thought she, \"that I have something to wish for.\nWere the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain.\nBut here, by carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret in my\nsister's absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of\npleasure realized. A scheme of which every part promises delight, can\nnever be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by\nthe defence of some little peculiar vexation.\"\n\nWhen Lydia went away, she promised to write very often and very minutely\nto her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and\nalways very short. Those to her mother, contained little else, than that\nthey were just returned from the library, where such and such officers\nhad attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as\nmade her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which\nshe would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a\nviolent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going to the\ncamp;--and from her correspondence with her sister, there was still less\nto be learnt--for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were much\ntoo full of lines under the words to be made public.\n\nAfter the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, good\nhumour and cheerfulness began to re-appear at Longbourn. Everything wore\na happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter came\nback again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet\nwas restored to her usual querulous serenity, and by the middle of June\nKitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without\ntears; an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope, that by\nthe following Christmas, she might be so tolerably reasonable as not to\nmention an officer above once a day, unless by some cruel and malicious\narrangement at the war-office, another regiment should be quartered in\nMeryton.\n\nThe time fixed for the beginning of their Northern tour was now fast\napproaching; and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter\narrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and\ncurtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from\nsetting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again\nwithin a month; and as that left too short a period for them to go so\nfar, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with\nthe leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up\nthe Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour; and, according to the\npresent plan, were to go no farther northward than Derbyshire. In that\ncounty, there was enough to be seen, to occupy the chief of their three\nweeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The\ntown where she had formerly passed some years of her life, and where\nthey were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of\nher curiosity, as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth,\nDovedale, or the Peak.\n\nElizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on seeing\nthe Lakes; and still thought there might have been time enough. But it\nwas her business to be satisfied--and certainly her temper to be happy;\nand all was soon right again.\n\nWith the mention of Derbyshire, there were many ideas connected. It was\nimpossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its\nowner. \"But surely,\" said she, \"I may enter his county with impunity,\nand rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me.\"\n\nThe period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away\nbefore her uncle and aunt's arrival. But they did pass away, and Mr. and\nMrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at\nLongbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two\nyounger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their cousin\nJane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and\nsweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every\nway--teaching them, playing with them, and loving them.\n\nThe Gardiners staid only one night at Longbourn, and set off the next\nmorning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement. One\nenjoyment was certain--that of suitableness as companions; a\nsuitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear\ninconveniences--cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure--and affection\nand intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were\ndisappointments abroad.\n\nIt is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire,\nnor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither\nlay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenelworth, Birmingham, &c. are\nsufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present\nconcern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner's\nformer residence, and where she had lately learned that some\nacquaintance still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen\nall the principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of\nLambton, Elizabeth found from her aunt, that Pemberley was situated. It\nwas not in their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In\ntalking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an\ninclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his\nwillingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.\n\n\"My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so\nmuch?\" said her aunt. \"A place too, with which so many of your\nacquaintance are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you\nknow.\"\n\nElizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at\nPemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She\nmust own that she was tired of great houses; after going over so many,\nshe really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.\n\nMrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. \"If it were merely a fine house\nrichly furnished,\" said she, \"I should not care about it myself; but the\ngrounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the\ncountry.\"\n\nElizabeth said no more--but her mind could not acquiesce. The\npossibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly\noccurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea; and\nthought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt, than to run\nsuch a risk. But against this, there were objections; and she finally\nresolved that it could be the last resource, if her private enquiries as\nto the absence of the family, were unfavourably answered.\n\nAccordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid\nwhether Pemberley were not a very fine place, what was the name of its\nproprietor, and with no little alarm, whether the family were down for\nthe summer. A most welcome negative followed the last question--and her\nalarms being now removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of\ncuriosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the\nnext morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and\nwith a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike\nto the scheme.\n\nTo Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.\n\n\nEND OF THE SECOND VOLUME.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: MATLOCK]\n\n\n\n\nPRIDE AND PREJUDICE:\n\nA Novel.\n\nIn Three Volumes.\n\nBy the Author of \"Sense and Sensibility.\"\n\nVOL. III.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLondon:\nPrinted for T. Egerton,\nMilitary Library, Whitehall.\n1813.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: DOVE-DALE]\n\n\n\n\nPRIDE & PREJUDICE.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\nElizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of\nPemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned\nin at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.\n\nThe park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They\nentered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through\na beautiful wood, stretching over a wide extent.\n\nElizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired\nevery remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for\nhalf a mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable\neminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by\nPemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which\nthe road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome, stone\nbuilding, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high\nwoody hills;--and in front, a stream of some natural importance was\nswelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks\nwere neither formal, nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She\nhad never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural\nbeauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were\nall of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt, that\nto be mistress of Pemberley might be something!\n\nThey descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and,\nwhile examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehensions of\nmeeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been\nmistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the\nhall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to\nwonder at her being where she was.\n\nThe housekeeper came; a respectable-looking, elderly woman, much less\nfine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They\nfollowed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well-proportioned\nroom, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went\nto a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, from\nwhich they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the\ndistance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was\ngood; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered\non its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace\nit, with delight. As they passed into other rooms, these objects were\ntaking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to\nbe seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable\nto the fortune of their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration\nof his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of\nsplendor, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.\n\n\"And of this place,\" thought she, \"I might have been mistress! With\nthese rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of\nviewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and\nwelcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt.--But no,\"--recollecting\nherself,--\"that could never be: my uncle and aunt would have been lost\nto me: I should not have been allowed to invite them.\"\n\nThis was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret.\n\nShe longed to enquire of the housekeeper, whether her master were really\nabsent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was\nasked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds\nreplied, that he was, adding, \"but we expect him to-morrow, with a\nlarge party of friends.\" How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own\njourney had not by any circumstance been delayed a day!\n\nHer aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw\nthe likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures,\nover the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it.\nThe housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a\nyoung gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been\nbrought up by him at his own expence.--\"He is now gone into the army,\"\nshe added, \"but I am afraid he has turned out very wild.\"\n\nMrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not\nreturn it.\n\n\"And that,\" said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures,\n\"is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the\nother--about eight years ago.\"\n\n\"I have heard much of your master's fine person,\" said Mrs. Gardiner,\nlooking at the picture; \"it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell\nus whether it is like or not.\"\n\nMrs. Reynolds's respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this\nintimation of her knowing her master.\n\n\"Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?\"\n\nElizabeth coloured, and said--\"A little.\"\n\n\"And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, Ma'am?\"\n\n\"Yes, very handsome.\"\n\n\"I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you\nwill see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late\nmaster's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to\nbe then. He was very fond of them.\"\n\nThis accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them.\n\nMrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn\nwhen she was only eight years old.\n\n\"And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?\" said Mr. Gardiner.\n\n\"Oh! yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so\naccomplished!--She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a\nnew instrument just come down for her--a present from my master; she\ncomes here to-morrow with him.\"\n\nMr. Gardiner, whose manners were easy and pleasant, encouraged her\ncommunicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either\nfrom pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her\nmaster and his sister.\n\n\"Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?\"\n\n\"Not so much as I could wish, Sir; but I dare say he may spend half his\ntime here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months.\"\n\n\"Except,\" thought Elizabeth, \"when she goes to Ramsgate.\"\n\n\"If your master would marry, you might see more of him.\"\n\n\"Yes, Sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is\ngood enough for him.\"\n\nMr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, \"It is\nvery much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so.\"\n\n\"I say no more than the truth, and what every body will say that knows\nhim,\" replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far;\nand she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added,\n\"I have never had a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him\never since he was four years old.\"\n\nThis was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her\nideas. That he was not a good-tempered man, had been her firmest\nopinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more,\nand was grateful to her uncle for saying,\n\n\"There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in\nhaving such a master.\"\n\n\"Yes, Sir, I know I am. If I was to go through the world, I could not\nmeet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are\ngood-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and he\nwas always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted, boy in the\nworld.\"\n\nElizabeth almost stared at her.--\"Can this be Mr. Darcy!\" thought she.\n\n\"His father was an excellent man,\" said Mrs. Gardiner.\n\n\"Yes, Ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him--just\nas affable to the poor.\"\n\nElizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs.\nReynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subject\nof the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the\nfurniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family\nprejudice, to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her\nmaster, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his\nmany merits, as they proceeded together up the great staircase.\n\n\"He is the best landlord, and the best master,\" said she, \"that ever\nlived. Not like the wild young men now-a-days, who think of nothing but\nthemselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but what will\ngive him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never\nsaw any thing of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle\naway like other young men.\"\n\n\"In what an amiable light does this place him!\" thought Elizabeth.\n\n\"This fine account of him,\" whispered her aunt, as they walked, \"is not\nquite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend.\"\n\n\"Perhaps we might be deceived.\"\n\n\"That is not very likely; our authority was too good.\"\n\nOn reaching the spacious lobby above, they were shewn into a very\npretty sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and\nlightness than the apartments below; and were informed that it was but\njust done, to give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the\nroom, when last at Pemberley.\n\n\"He is certainly a good brother,\" said Elizabeth, as she walked towards\none of the windows.\n\nMrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy's delight, when she should enter\nthe room. \"And this is always the way with him,\" she added.--\"Whatever\ncan give his sister any pleasure, is sure to be done in a moment. There\nis nothing he would not do for her.\"\n\nThe picture gallery, and two or three of the principal bed-rooms, were\nall that remained to be shewn. In the former were many good paintings;\nbut Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such as had been already\nvisible below, she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss\nDarcy's, in crayons, whose subjects were usually more interesting, and\nalso more intelligible.\n\nIn the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have\nlittle to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked on in quest\nof the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it\narrested her--and she beheld a striking resemblance of Mr. Darcy, with\nsuch a smile over the face, as she remembered to have sometimes seen,\nwhen he looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture in\nearnest contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the\ngallery. Mrs. Reynolds informed them, that it had been taken in his\nfather's life time.\n\nThere was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth's mind, a more gentle\nsensation towards the original, than she had ever felt in the height of\ntheir acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds\nwas of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise\nof an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she\nconsidered how many people's happiness were in his guardianship!--How\nmuch of pleasure or pain it was in his power to bestow!--How much of\ngood or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought\nforward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she\nstood before the canvas, on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes\nupon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of\ngratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its warmth, and\nsoftened its impropriety of expression.\n\nWhen all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen,\nthey returned down stairs, and taking leave of the housekeeper, were\nconsigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall door.\n\nAs they walked across the lawn towards the river, Elizabeth turned back\nto look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while the former was\nconjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself\nsuddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.\n\nThey were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his\nappearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes\ninstantly met, and the cheeks of each were overspread with the deepest\nblush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immoveable from\nsurprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party,\nand spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least\nof perfect civility.\n\nShe had instinctively turned away; but, stopping on his approach,\nreceived his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be\novercome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture\nthey had just been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two\nthat they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener's expression of surprise, on\nbeholding his master, must immediately have told it. They stood a little\naloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused,\nscarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she\nreturned to his civil enquiries after her family. Amazed at the\nalteration in his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he\nuttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the\nimpropriety of her being found there, recurring to her mind, the few\nminutes in which they continued together, were some of the most\nuncomfortable of her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he\nspoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his\nenquiries as to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her stay\nin Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the\ndistraction of his thoughts.\n\nAt length, every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few\nmoments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took\nleave.\n\nThe others then joined her, and expressed their admiration of his\nfigure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and, wholly engrossed by her own\nfeelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and\nvexation. Her coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged\nthing in the world! How strange must it appear to him! In what a\ndisgraceful light might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if\nshe had purposely thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she come?\nor, why did he thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been\nonly ten minutes sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his\ndiscrimination, for it was plain that he was that moment arrived, that\nmoment alighted from his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and\nagain over the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so\nstrikingly altered,--what could it mean? That he should even speak to\nher was amazing!--but to speak with such civility, to enquire after her\nfamily! Never in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified,\nnever had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting.\nWhat a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosing's Park, when\nhe put his letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, nor how to\naccount for it.\n\nThey had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and\nevery step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer\nreach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it was some time\nbefore Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered\nmechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and seemed\nto direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she\ndistinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that\none spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then\nwas. She longed to know what at that moment was passing in his mind; in\nwhat manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of every thing,\nshe was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil, only because he\nfelt himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice, which was\nnot like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in seeing\nher, she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with\ncomposure.\n\nAt length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind\nroused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself.\n\nThey entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a while,\nascended some of the higher grounds; whence, in spots where the opening\nof the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of\nthe valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods\noverspreading many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner\nexpressed a wish of going round the whole Park, but feared it might be\nbeyond a walk. With a triumphant smile, they were told, that it was ten\nmiles round. It settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed\ncircuit; which brought them again, after some time, in a descent among\nhanging woods, to the edge of the water, in one of its narrowest parts.\nThey crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of\nthe scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and\nthe valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the\nstream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered\nit. Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed\nthe bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner,\nwho was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only of\nreturning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was,\ntherefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house\non the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their\nprogress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the\ntaste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the\noccasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man\nabout them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this\nslow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment was\nquite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy\napproaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here less\nsheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they\nmet. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an\ninterview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with\ncalmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed,\nshe felt that he would probably strike into some other path. This idea\nlasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the\nturning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance she saw,\nthat he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his\npoliteness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place;\nbut she had not got beyond the words \"delightful,\" and \"charming,\" when\nsome unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of\nPemberley from her, might be mischievously construed. Her colour\nchanged, and she said no more.\n\nMrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked\nher, if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends.\nThis was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and\nshe could hardly suppress a smile, at his being now seeking the\nacquaintance of some of those very people, against whom his pride had\nrevolted, in his offer to herself. \"What will be his surprise,\" thought\nshe, \"when he knows who they are! He takes them now for people of\nfashion.\"\n\nThe introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their\nrelationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore\nit; and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he\ncould from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the\nconnexion was evident; he sustained it however with fortitude, and so\nfar from going away, turned back with them, and entered into\nconversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased,\ncould not but triumph. It was consoling, that he should know she had\nsome relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most\nattentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every\nexpression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence,\nhis taste, or his good manners.\n\nThe conversation soon turned upon fishing, and she heard Mr. Darcy\ninvite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he\nchose, while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same\ntime to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of\nthe stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was\nwalking arm in arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of her\nwonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the\ncompliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was\nextreme; and continually was she repeating, \"Why is he so altered? From\nwhat can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_, it cannot be for _my_ sake\nthat his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not\nwork such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love\nme.\"\n\nAfter walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two\ngentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the\nbrink of the river for the better inspection of some curious\nwater-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in\nMrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found\nElizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred\nher husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on\ntogether. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to\nknow that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the\nplace, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been\nvery unexpected--\"for your housekeeper,\" she added, \"informed us that\nyou would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we\nleft Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in\nthe country.\" He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that\nbusiness with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours\nbefore the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. \"They\nwill join me early to-morrow,\" he continued, \"and among them are some\nwho will claim an acquaintance with you,--Mr. Bingley and his sisters.\"\n\nElizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly\ndriven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been last mentioned\nbetween them; and if she might judge from his complexion, _his_ mind was\nnot very differently engaged.\n\n\"There is also one other person in the party,\" he continued after a\npause, \"who more particularly wishes to be known to you,--Will you allow\nme, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance\nduring your stay at Lambton?\"\n\nThe surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great\nfor her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt\nthat whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her,\nmust be the work of her brother, and without looking farther, it was\nsatisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made\nhim think really ill of her.\n\nThey now walked on in silence; each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth\nwas not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and\npleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her, was a compliment of\nthe highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had\nreached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a\nmile behind.\n\nHe then asked her to walk into the house--but she declared herself not\ntired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time, much might\nhave been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but\nthere seemed an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected that\nshe had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale with\ngreat perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly--and her patience\nand her ideas were nearly worn out before the tete-a-tete was over. On\nMr. and Mrs. Gardiner's coming up, they were all pressed to go into the\nhouse and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they parted\non each side with the utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the ladies\ninto the carriage, and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking\nslowly towards the house.\n\nThe observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them\npronounced him to be infinitely superior to any thing they had expected.\n\"He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming,\" said her uncle.\n\n\"There _is_ something a little stately in him to be sure,\" replied her\naunt, \"but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now\nsay with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud,\n_I_ have seen nothing of it.\"\n\n\"I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more\nthan civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such\nattention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling.\"\n\n\"To be sure, Lizzy,\" said her aunt, \"he is not so handsome as Wickham;\nor rather he has not Wickham's countenance, for his features are\nperfectly good. But how came you to tell us that he was so\ndisagreeable?\"\n\nElizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had liked\nhim better when they met in Kent than before, and that she had never\nseen him so pleasant as this morning.\n\n\"But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,\" replied\nher uncle. \"Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him\nat his word about fishing, as he might change his mind another day, and\nwarn me off his grounds.\"\n\nElizabeth felt that they had entirely mistaken his character, but said\nnothing.\n\n\"From what we have seen of him,\" continued Mrs. Gardiner, \"I really\nshould not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by\nany body, as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured\nlook. On the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when\nhe speaks. And there is something of dignity in his countenance, that\nwould not give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But to be sure,\nthe good lady who shewed us the house, did give him a most flaming\ncharacter! I could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a\nliberal master, I suppose, and _that_ in the eye of a servant\ncomprehends every virtue.\"\n\nElizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of\nhis behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them to understand, in as\nguarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from his\nrelations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different\nconstruction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor\nWickham's so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In\nconfirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary\ntransactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming\nher authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on.\n\nMrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now\napproaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to\nthe charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out\nto her husband all the interesting spots in its environs, to think of\nany thing else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning's walk, they had\nno sooner dined than she set off again in quest of her former\nacquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of an\nintercourse renewed after many years discontinuance.\n\nThe occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth\nmuch attention for any of these new friends; and she could do nothing\nbut think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy's civility, and above\nall, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nElizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit\nher, the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was consequently\nresolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning.\nBut her conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their own\narrival at Lambton, these visitors came. They had been walking about the\nplace with some of their new friends, and were just returned to the inn\nto dress themselves for dining with the same family, when the sound of a\ncarriage drew them to a window, and they saw a gentleman and lady in a\ncurricle, driving up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognising the\nlivery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of surprise\nto her relations, by acquainting them with the honour which she\nexpected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and the embarrassment\nof her manner as she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many\nof the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a new idea on\nthe business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they now felt\nthat there was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such\na quarter, than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these\nnewly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of\nElizabeth's feelings was every moment increasing. She was quite amazed\nat her own discomposure; but amongst other causes of disquiet, she\ndreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much in\nher favour; and more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally\nsuspected that every power of pleasing would fail her.\n\nShe retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she walked\nup and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw such looks\nof enquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt, as made every thing worse.\n\nMiss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction\ntook place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see, that her new\nacquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself. Since her\nbeing at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud;\nbut the observation of a very few minutes convinced her, that she was\nonly exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain even a word from\nher beyond a monosyllable.\n\nMiss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and, though\nlittle more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance\nwomanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother, but there\nwas sense and good humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly\nunassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her as\nacute and unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much\nrelieved by discerning such different feelings.\n\nThey had not been long together, before Darcy told her that Bingley was\nalso coming to wait on her; and she had barely time to express her\nsatisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when Bingley's quick step\nwas heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the room. All\nElizabeth's anger against him had been long done away; but, had she\nstill felt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the\nunaffected cordiality with which he expressed himself, on seeing her\nagain. He enquired in a friendly, though general way, after her family,\nand looked and spoke with the same good-humoured ease that he had ever\ndone.\n\nTo Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting personage\nthan to herself. They had long wished to see him. The whole party before\nthem, indeed, excited a lively attention. The suspicions which had just\narisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece, directed their observation towards\neach with an earnest, though guarded, enquiry; and they soon drew from\nthose enquiries the full conviction that one of them at least knew what\nit was to love. Of the lady's sensations they remained a little in\ndoubt; but that the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was\nevident enough.\n\nElizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain the\nfeelings of each of her visitors, she wanted to compose her own, and to\nmake herself agreeable to all; and in the latter object, where she\nfeared most to fail, she was most sure of success, for those to whom she\nendeavoured to give pleasure were prepossessed in her favour. Bingley\nwas ready, Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined, to be pleased.\n\nIn seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister; and oh!\nhow ardently did she long to know, whether any of his were directed in a\nlike manner. Sometimes she could fancy, that he talked less than on\nformer occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with the notion that\nas he looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But, though\nthis might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his behaviour\nto Miss Darcy, who had been set up as a rival of Jane. No look appeared\non either side that spoke particular regard. Nothing occurred between\nthem that could justify the hopes of his sister. On this point she was\nsoon satisfied; and two or three little circumstances occurred ere they\nparted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted a recollection of\nJane, not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of saying more that\nmight lead to the mention of her, had he dared. He observed to her, at a\nmoment when the others were talking together, and in a tone which had\nsomething of real regret, that it \"was a very long time since he had had\nthe pleasure of seeing her;\" and, before she could reply, he added, \"It\nis above eight months. We have not met since the 26th of November, when\nwe were all dancing together at Netherfield.\"\n\nElizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he afterwards\ntook occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of the rest,\nwhether _all_ her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the\nquestion, nor in the preceding remark, but there was a look and a manner\nwhich gave them meaning.\n\nIt was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself; but,\nwhenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an expression of general\ncomplaisance, and in all that he said, she heard an accent so far\nremoved from hauteur or disdain of his companions, as convinced her that\nthe improvement of manners which she had yesterday witnessed, however\ntemporary its existence might prove, had at least outlived one day. When\nshe saw him thus seeking the acquaintance, and courting the good opinion\nof people, with whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a\ndisgrace; when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to the\nvery relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected their last\nlively scene in Hunsford Parsonage, the difference, the change was so\ngreat, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she could hardly\nrestrain her astonishment from being visible. Never, even in the company\nof his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations at\nRosings, had she seen him so desirous to please, so free from\nself-consequence, or unbending reserve as now, when no importance could\nresult from the success of his endeavours, and when even the\nacquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed, would draw\ndown the ridicule and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and\nRosings.\n\nTheir visitors staid with them above half an hour, and when they arose\nto depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing\ntheir wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner\nat Pemberley, before they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a\ndiffidence which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations,\nreadily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing\nhow _she_, whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its\nacceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming, however,\nthat this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment, than\nany dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of\nsociety, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for\nher attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on.\n\nBingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Elizabeth\nagain, having still a great deal to say to her, and many enquiries to\nmake after all their Hertfordshire friends. Elizabeth, construing all\nthis into a wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was pleased; and on\nthis account, as well as some others, found herself, when their visitors\nleft them, capable of considering the last half hour with some\nsatisfaction, though while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been\nlittle. Eager to be alone, and fearful of enquiries or hints from her\nuncle and aunt, she staid with them only long enough to hear their\nfavourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress.\n\nBut she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's curiosity; it was\nnot their wish to force her communication. It was evident that she was\nmuch better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had before any idea of;\nit was evident that he was very much in love with her. They saw much to\ninterest, but nothing to justify enquiry.\n\nOf Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far\nas their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They could\nnot be untouched by his politeness, and had they drawn his character\nfrom their own feelings, and his servant's report, without any reference\nto any other account, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known,\nwould not have recognised it for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest,\nhowever, in believing the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible,\nthat the authority of a servant who had known him since he was four\nyears old, and whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be\nhastily rejected. Neither had any thing occurred in the intelligence of\ntheir Lambton friends, that could materially lessen its weight. They\nhad nothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably had, and if\nnot, it would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants of a small\nmarket-town, where the family did not visit. It was acknowledged,\nhowever, that he was a liberal man, and did much good among the poor.\n\nWith respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was not held\nthere in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns, with the\nson of his patron, were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well known\nfact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind\nhim, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged.\n\nAs for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening more than\nthe last; and the evening, though as it passed it seemed long, was not\nlong enough to determine her feelings towards _one_ in that mansion; and\nshe lay awake two whole hours, endeavouring to make them out. She\ncertainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she\nhad almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him,\nthat could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his\nvaluable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some\ntime ceased to be repugnant to her feelings; and it was now heightened\ninto somewhat of a friendlier nature, by the testimony so highly in his\nfavour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light,\nwhich yesterday had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem,\nthere was a motive within her of good will which could not be\noverlooked. It was gratitude.--Gratitude, not merely for having once\nloved her, but for loving her still well enough, to forgive all the\npetulance and acrimony of her manner in rejecting him, and all the\nunjust accusations accompanying her rejection. He who, she had been\npersuaded, would avoid her as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this\naccidental meeting, most eager to preserve the acquaintance, and without\nany indelicate display of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where\ntheir two selves only were concerned, was soliciting the good opinion\nof her friends, and bent on making her known to his sister. Such a\nchange in a man of so much pride, excited not only astonishment but\ngratitude--for to love, ardent love, it must be attributed; and as such\nits impression on her was of a sort to be encouraged, as by no means\nunpleasing, though it could not be exactly defined. She respected, she\nesteemed, she was grateful to him, she felt a real interest in his\nwelfare; and she only wanted to know how far she wished that welfare to\ndepend upon herself, and how far it would be for the happiness of both\nthat she should employ the power, which her fancy told her she still\npossessed, of bringing on the renewal of his addresses.\n\nIt had been settled in the evening, between the aunt and niece, that\nsuch a striking civility as Miss Darcy's, in coming to them on the very\nday of her arrival at Pemberley, for she had reached it only to a late\nbreakfast, ought to be imitated, though it could not be equalled, by\nsome exertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that it\nwould be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following\nmorning. They were, therefore, to go.--Elizabeth was pleased, though,\nwhen she asked herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply.\n\nMr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme had been\nrenewed the day before, and a positive engagement made of his meeting\nsome of the gentlemen at Pemberley by noon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nConvinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley's dislike of her had\noriginated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how very unwelcome\nher appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know with\nhow much civility on that lady's side, the acquaintance would now be\nrenewed.\n\nOn reaching the house, they were shewn through the hall into the saloon,\nwhose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows\nopening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody\nhills behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chesnuts\nwhich were scattered over the intermediate lawn.\n\nIn this room they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting there\nwith Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived in\nLondon. Georgiana's reception of them was very civil; but attended with\nall that embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the\nfear of doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves\ninferior, the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and\nher niece, however, did her justice, and pitied her.\n\nBy Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, they were noticed only by a curtsey; and\non their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be,\nsucceeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a\ngenteel, agreeable-looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind\nof discourse, proved her to be more truly well bred than either of the\nothers; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from\nElizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she\nwished for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a\nshort sentence, when there was least danger of its being heard.\n\nElizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss Bingley,\nand that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without\ncalling her attention. This observation would not have prevented her\nfrom trying to talk to the latter, had they not been seated at an\ninconvenient distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity\nof saying much. Her own thoughts were employing her. She expected every\nmoment that some of the gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she\nfeared that the master of the house might be amongst them; and whether\nshe wished or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After\nsitting in this manner a quarter of an hour, without hearing Miss\nBingley's voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold\nenquiry after the health of her family. She answered with equal\nindifference and brevity, and the other said no more.\n\nThe next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the\nentrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the\nfinest fruits in season; but this did not take place till after many a\nsignificant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been\ngiven, to remind her of her post. There was now employment for the whole\nparty; for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the\nbeautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches, soon collected\nthem round the table.\n\nWhile thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding whether\nshe most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by the\nfeelings which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but\na moment before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to\nregret that he came.\n\nHe had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three other\ngentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had left him\nonly on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to\nGeorgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear, than Elizabeth wisely\nresolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed;--a resolution the more\nnecessary to be made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she\nsaw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them,\nand that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour\nwhen he first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive\ncuriosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley's, in spite of the\nsmiles which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its\nobjects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attentions\nto Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother's\nentrance, exerted herself much more to talk; and Elizabeth saw that he\nwas anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded,\nas much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss\nBingley saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the\nfirst opportunity of saying, with sneering civility,\n\n\"Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ----shire militia removed from Meryton?\nThey must be a great loss to _your_ family.\"\n\nIn Darcy's presence she dared not mention Wickham's name; but Elizabeth\ninstantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and the\nvarious recollections connected with him gave her a moment's distress;\nbut, exerting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she\npresently answered the question in a tolerably disengaged tone. While\nshe spoke, an involuntary glance shewed her Darcy with an heightened\ncomplexion, earnestly looking at her, and his sister overcome with\nconfusion, and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what\npain she was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would have\nrefrained from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose\nElizabeth, by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she believed\nher partial, to make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in\nDarcy's opinion, and perhaps to remind the latter of all the follies and\nabsurdities, by which some part of her family were connected with that\ncorps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss Darcy's meditated\nelopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where secresy was\npossible, except to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley's connections her\nbrother was particularly anxious to conceal it, from that very wish\nwhich Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming\nhereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and without\nmeaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate him from Miss\nBennet, it is probable that it might add something to his lively concern\nfor the welfare of his friend.\n\nElizabeth's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion; and\nas Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to\nWickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able\nto speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely\nrecollected her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which\nhad been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth, seemed to have\nfixed them on her more, and more cheerfully.\n\nTheir visit did not continue long after the question and answer\nabove-mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their\ncarriage, Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on\nElizabeth's person, behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join\nher. Her brother's recommendation was enough to ensure her favour: his\njudgment could not err, and he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth, as\nto leave Georgiana without the power of finding her otherwise than\nlovely and amiable. When Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley\ncould not help repeating to him some part of what she had been saying to\nhis sister.\n\n\"How very ill Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy,\" she cried; \"I\nnever in my life saw any one so much altered as she is since the winter.\nShe is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing that we\nshould not have known her again.\"\n\nHowever little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented\nhimself with coolly replying, that he perceived no other alteration than\nher being rather tanned,--no miraculous consequence of travelling in the\nsummer.\n\n\"For my own part,\" she rejoined, \"I must confess that I never could see\nany beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no\nbrilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose wants\ncharacter; there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are\ntolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes, which\nhave sometimes been called so fine, I never could perceive any thing\nextraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do not\nlike at all; and in her air altogether, there is a self-sufficiency\nwithout fashion, which is intolerable.\"\n\nPersuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not\nthe best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always\nwise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the\nsuccess she expected. He was resolutely silent however; and, from a\ndetermination of making him speak, she continued,\n\n\"I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all\nwere to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect\nyour saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, '_She_\na beauty!--I should as soon call her mother a wit.' But afterwards she\nseemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at\none time.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, \"but _that_\nwas only when I first knew her, for it is many months since I have\nconsidered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.\"\n\nHe then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of\nhaving forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself.\n\nMrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred, during\ntheir visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested\nthem both. The looks and behaviour of every body they had seen were\ndiscussed, except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention.\nThey talked of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit, of every\nthing but himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner\nthought of him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by\nher niece's beginning the subject.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\nElizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from\nJane, on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had\nbeen renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but\non the third, her repining was over, and her sister justified by the\nreceipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that\nit had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as\nJane had written the direction remarkably ill.\n\nThey had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and her\nuncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by\nthemselves. The one missent must be first attended to; it had been\nwritten five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their\nlittle parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded;\nbut the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident\nagitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect:\n\n     \"Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of\n     a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming\n     you--be assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to\n     poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just as we were\n     all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was\n     gone off to Scotland with one of his officers; to own the truth,\n     with Wickham!--Imagine our surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not\n     seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry. So imprudent a\n     match on both sides!--But I am willing to hope the best, and that\n     his character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet I\n     can easily believe him, but this step (and let us rejoice over it)\n     marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least,\n     for he must know my father can give her nothing. Our poor mother\n     is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How thankful am I,\n     that we never let them know what has been said against him; we must\n     forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about twelve, as\n     is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at\n     eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must\n     have passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason\n     to expect him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife,\n     informing her of their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be\n     long from my poor mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make\n     it out, but I hardly know what I have written.\"\n\nWithout allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing\nwhat she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter, instantly seized the\nother, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it\nhad been written a day later than the conclusion of the first.\n\n     \"By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried\n     letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not\n     confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer\n     for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would\n     write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed.\n     Imprudent as a marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia\n     would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken place, for\n     there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to Scotland.\n     Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day\n     before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia's short\n     letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to\n     Gretna Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief\n     that W. never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which\n     was repeated to Colonel F. who instantly taking the alarm, set off\n     from B. intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to\n     Clapham, but no farther; for on entering that place they removed\n     into a hackney-coach and dismissed the chaise that brought them\n     from Epsom. All that is known after this is, that they were seen\n     to continue the London road. I know not what to think. After making\n     every possible enquiry on that side London, Colonel F. came on into\n     Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at\n     the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but without any success, no such\n     people had been seen to pass through. With the kindest concern he\n     came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner\n     most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and\n     Mrs. F. but no one can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my\n     dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the worst,\n     but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make it\n     more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to\n     pursue their first plan; and even if _he_ could form such a design\n     against a young woman of Lydia's connections, which is not likely,\n     can I suppose her so lost to every thing?--Impossible. I grieve to\n     find, however, that Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their\n     marriage; he shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he\n     feared W. was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother is really ill\n     and keeps her room. Could she exert herself it would be better, but\n     this is not to be expected; and as to my father, I never in my life\n     saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having concealed\n     their attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence one cannot\n     wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have been spared\n     something of these distressing scenes; but now as the first shock\n     is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not so\n     selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu. I\n     take up my pen again to do, what I have just told you I would not,\n     but circumstances are such, that I cannot help earnestly begging\n     you all to come here, as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and\n     aunt so well, that I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have\n     still something more to ask of the former. My father is going to\n     London with Colonel Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What\n     he means to do, I am sure I know not; but his excessive distress\n     will not allow him to pursue any measure in the best and safest\n     way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again\n     to-morrow evening. In such an exigence my uncle's advice and\n     assistance would be every thing in the world; he will immediately\n     comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.\"\n\n\"Oh! where, where is my uncle?\" cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat\nas she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing a\nmoment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door, it was\nopened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous\nmanner made him start, and before he could recover himself enough to\nspeak, she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia's\nsituation, hastily exclaimed, \"I beg your pardon, but I must leave you.\nI must find Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be\ndelayed; I have not an instant to lose.\"\n\n\"Good God! what is the matter?\" cried he, with more feeling than\npoliteness; then recollecting himself, \"I will not detain you a minute,\nbut let me, or let the servant, go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are\nnot well enough;--you cannot go yourself.\"\n\nElizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her, and she felt how\nlittle would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back\nthe servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an\naccent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and\nmistress home, instantly.\n\nOn his quitting the room, she sat down, unable to support herself, and\nlooking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her,\nor to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration,\n\"Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take, to give you\npresent relief?--A glass of wine;--shall I get you one?--You are very\nill.\"\n\n\"No, I thank you;\" she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. \"There\nis nothing the matter with me. I am quite well. I am only distressed by\nsome dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn.\"\n\nShe burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could\nnot speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say\nsomething indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate\nsilence. At length, she spoke again. \"I have just had a letter from\nJane, with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from any one. My\nyoungest sister has left all her friends--has eloped;--has thrown\nherself into the power of--of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together\nfrom Brighton. _You_ know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no\nmoney, no connections, nothing that can tempt him to--she is lost for\never.\"\n\nDarcy was fixed in astonishment. \"When I consider,\" she added, in a yet\nmore agitated voice, \"that _I_ might have prevented it!--_I_ who knew\nwhat he was. Had I but explained some part of it only--some part of what\nI learnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not\nhave happened. But it is all, all too late now.\"\n\n\"I am grieved, indeed,\" cried Darcy; \"grieved--shocked. But is it\ncertain, absolutely certain?\"\n\n\"Oh yes!--They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced\nalmost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to\nScotland.\"\n\n\"And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?\"\n\n\"My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle's\nimmediate assistance, and we shall be off, I hope, in half an hour. But\nnothing can be done; I know very well that nothing can be done. How is\nsuch a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have\nnot the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!\"\n\nDarcy shook his head in silent acquiesence.\n\n\"When _my_ eyes were opened to his real character.--Oh! had I known what\nI ought, what I dared, to do! But I knew not--I was afraid of doing too\nmuch. Wretched, wretched, mistake!\"\n\nDarcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking up\nand down the room in earnest meditation; his brow contracted, his air\ngloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. Her power\nwas sinking; every thing _must_ sink under such a proof of family\nweakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither\nwonder nor condemn, but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing\nconsolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It\nwas, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own\nwishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved\nhim, as now, when all love must be vain.\n\nBut self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia--the\nhumiliation, the misery, she was bringing on them all, soon swallowed up\nevery private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief,\nElizabeth was soon lost to every thing else; and, after a pause of\nseveral minutes, was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the\nvoice of her companion, who, in a manner, which though it spoke\ncompassion, spoke likewise restraint, said, \"I am afraid you have been\nlong desiring my absence, nor have I any thing to plead in excuse of my\nstay, but real, though unavailing, concern. Would to heaven that any\nthing could be either said or done on my part, that might offer\nconsolation to such distress.--But I will not torment you with vain\nwishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This\nunfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister's having the pleasure\nof seeing you at Pemberley to-day.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologize for us to Miss Darcy. Say that\nurgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as\nlong as it is possible.--I know it cannot be long.\"\n\nHe readily assured her of his secrecy--again expressed his sorrow for\nher distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present\nreason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her relations, with only\none serious, parting, look, went away.\n\nAs he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they\nshould ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as had\nmarked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a\nretrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of\ncontradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those\nfeelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would\nformerly have rejoiced in its termination.\n\nIf gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth's\nchange of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if\notherwise, if the regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or\nunnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on a\nfirst interview with its object, and even before two words have been\nexchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she had given\nsomewhat of a trial to the latter method, in her partiality for Wickham,\nand that its ill-success might perhaps authorise her to seek the other\nless interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go\nwith regret; and in this early example of what Lydia's infamy must\nproduce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched\nbusiness. Never, since reading Jane's second letter, had she entertained\na hope of Wickham's meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought,\ncould flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least\nof her feelings on this developement. While the contents of the first\nletter remained on her mind, she was all surprise--all astonishment that\nWickham should marry a girl, whom it was impossible he could marry for\nmoney; and how Lydia could ever have attached him, had appeared\nincomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment\nas this, she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not\nsuppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement, without the\nintention of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither\nher virtue nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy\nprey.\n\nShe had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that\nLydia had any partiality for him, but she was convinced that Lydia had\nwanted only encouragement to attach herself to any body. Sometimes one\nofficer, sometimes another had been her favourite, as their attentions\nraised them in her opinion. Her affections had been continually\nfluctuating, but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and\nmistaken indulgence towards such a girl.--Oh! how acutely did she now\nfeel it.\n\nShe was wild to be at home--to hear, to see, to be upon the spot, to\nshare with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a\nfamily so deranged; a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and\nrequiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing\ncould be done for Lydia, her uncle's interference seemed of the utmost\nimportance, and till he entered the room, the misery of her impatience\nwas severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing,\nby the servant's account, that their niece was taken suddenly ill;--but\nsatisfying them instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the\ncause of their summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on\nthe postscript of the last, with trembling energy.--Though Lydia had\nnever been a favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be\ndeeply affected. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after\nthe first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner readily\npromised every assistance in his power.--Elizabeth, though expecting no\nless, thanked him with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated\nby one spirit, every thing relating to their journey was speedily\nsettled. They were to be off as soon as possible. \"But what is to be\ndone about Pemberley?\" cried Mrs. Gardiner. \"John told us Mr. Darcy was\nhere when you sent for us;--was it so?\"\n\n\"Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement.\n_That_ is all settled.\"\n\n\"That is all settled;\" repeated the other, as she ran into her room to\nprepare. \"And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real\ntruth! Oh, that I knew how it was!\"\n\nBut wishes were vain; or at best could serve only to amuse her in the\nhurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure\nto be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was\nimpossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of\nbusiness as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to\nbe written to all their friends in Lambton, with false excuses for their\nsudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr.\nGardiner meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing\nremained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of\nthe morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could\nhave supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\n\"I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth,\" said her uncle, as they\ndrove from the town; \"and really, upon serious consideration, I am much\nmore inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does of the\nmatter. It appears to me so very unlikely, that any young man should\nform such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or\nfriendless, and who was actually staying in his colonel's family, that I\nam strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends\nwould not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the\nregiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is\nnot adequate to the risk.\"\n\n\"Do you really think so?\" cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment.\n\n\"Upon my word,\" said Mrs. Gardiner, \"I begin to be of your uncle's\nopinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and\ninterest, for him to be guilty of it. I cannot think so very ill of\nWickham. Can you, yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him up, as to believe\nhim capable of it?\"\n\n\"Not perhaps of neglecting his own interest. But of every other neglect\nI can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I dare not\nhope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland, if that had been the\ncase?\"\n\n\"In the first place,\" replied Mr. Gardiner, \"there is no absolute proof\nthat they are not gone to Scotland.\"\n\n\"Oh! but their removing from the chaise into an hackney coach is such a\npresumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be found on the\nBarnet road.\"\n\n\"Well, then--supposing them to be in London. They may be there, though\nfor the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptionable purpose. It is\nnot likely that money should be very abundant on either side; and it\nmight strike them that they could be more economically, though less\nexpeditiously, married in London, than in Scotland.\"\n\n\"But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their\nmarriage be private? Oh! no, no, this is not likely. His most particular\nfriend, you see by Jane's account, was persuaded of his never intending\nto marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some money. He\ncannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia, what attractions has she\nbeyond youth, health, and good humour, that could make him for her sake,\nforego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what\nrestraint the apprehension of disgrace in the corps might throw on a\ndishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I know\nnothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But as to your\nother objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Lydia has no\nbrothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from my father's\nbehaviour, from his indolence and the little attention he has ever\nseemed to give to what was going forward in his family, that _he_ would\ndo as little, and think as little about it, as any father could do, in\nsuch a matter.\"\n\n\"But can you think that Lydia is so lost to every thing but love of him,\nas to consent to live with him on any other terms than marriage?\"\n\n\"It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed,\" replied Elizabeth, with\ntears in her eyes, \"that a sister's sense of decency and virtue in such\na point should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say.\nPerhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young; she has never\nbeen taught to think on serious subjects; and for the last half year,\nnay, for a twelvemonth, she has been given up to nothing but amusement\nand vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle\nand frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in her way.\nSince the ----shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love,\nflirtation, and officers, have been in her head. She has been doing\nevery thing in her power by thinking and talking on the subject, to give\ngreater--what shall I call it? susceptibility to her feelings; which are\nnaturally lively enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of\nperson and address that can captivate a woman.\"\n\n\"But you see that Jane,\" said her aunt, \"does not think so ill of\nWickham, as to believe him capable of the attempt.\"\n\n\"Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be\ntheir former conduct, that she would believe capable of such an attempt,\ntill it were proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what\nWickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every\nsense of the word. That he has neither integrity nor honour. That he is\nas false and deceitful, as he is insinuating.\"\n\n\"And do you really know all this?\" cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity\nas to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.\n\n\"I do, indeed,\" replied Elizabeth, colouring. \"I told you the other day,\nof his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you, yourself, when last at\nLongbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man, who had behaved\nwith such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other\ncircumstances which I am not at liberty--which it is not worth while to\nrelate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From\nwhat he said of Miss Darcy, I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud,\nreserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He\nmust know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found\nher.\"\n\n\"But does Lydia know nothing of this? Can she be ignorant of what you\nand Jane seem so well to understand?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes!--that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw\nso much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation, Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was\nignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home, the ----shire\nwas to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight's time. As that was the\ncase, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it\nnecessary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could it\napparently be to any one, that the good opinion which all the\nneighbourhood had of him, should then be overthrown? And even when it\nwas settled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of\nopening her eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could\nbe in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such a\nconsequence as _this_ should ensue, you may easily believe was far\nenough from my thoughts.\"\n\n\"When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I\nsuppose, to believe them fond of each other.\"\n\n\"Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either\nside; and had any thing of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware\nthat ours is not a family, on which it could be thrown away. When first\nhe entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all\nwere. Every girl in, or near Meryton, was out of her senses about him\nfor the first two months; but he never distinguished _her_ by any\nparticular attention, and, consequently, after a moderate period of\nextravagant and wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others\nof the regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her\nfavourites.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added\nto their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by\nits repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during\nthe whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent.\nFixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self reproach, she could find\nno interval of ease or forgetfulness.\n\nThey travelled as expeditiously as possible; and sleeping one night on\nthe road, reached Longbourn by dinner-time the next day. It was a\ncomfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied\nby long expectations.\n\nThe little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing\non the steps of the house, as they entered the paddock; and when the\ncarriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their\nfaces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of\ncapers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome.\n\nElizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them an hasty kiss,\nhurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down stairs\nfrom her mother's apartment, immediately met her.\n\nElizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the\neyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether any thing had been\nheard of the fugitives.\n\n\"Not yet,\" replied Jane. \"But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope\nevery thing will be well.\"\n\n\"Is my father in town?\"\n\n\"Yes, he went on Tuesday as I wrote you word.\"\n\n\"And have you heard from him often?\"\n\n\"We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday, to say\nthat he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I\nparticularly begged him to do. He merely added, that he should not write\nagain, till he had something of importance to mention.\"\n\n\"And my mother--How is she? How are you all?\"\n\n\"My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly\nshaken. She is up stairs, and will have great satisfaction in seeing you\nall. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank\nHeaven! are quite well.\"\n\n\"But you--How are you?\" cried Elizabeth. \"You look pale. How much you\nmust have gone through!\"\n\nHer sister, however, assured her, of her being perfectly well; and their\nconversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were\nengaged with their children, was now put an end to, by the approach of\nthe whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and\nthanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears.\n\nWhen they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth\nhad already asked, were of course repeated by the others, and they soon\nfound that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good,\nhowever, which the benevolence of her heart suggested, had not yet\ndeserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that\nevery morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father,\nto explain their proceedings, and perhaps announce the marriage.\n\nMrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes\nconversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with\ntears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villanous\nconduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill usage;\nblaming every body but the person to whose ill judging indulgence the\nerrors of her daughter must be principally owing.\n\n\"If I had been able,\" said she, \"to carry my point of going to Brighton,\nwith all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but poor dear Lydia\nhad nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out\nof their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their\nside, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing, if she had\nbeen well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have\nthe charge of her; but I was over-ruled, as I always am. Poor dear\nchild! And now here's Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight\nWickham, wherever he meets him, and then he will be killed, and what is\nto become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out, before he is cold\nin his grave; and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what\nwe shall do.\"\n\nThey all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after\ngeneral assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told\nher that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist\nMr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia.\n\n\"Do not give way to useless alarm,\" added he, \"though it is right to be\nprepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain.\nIt is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more, we\nmay gain some news of them, and till we know that they are not married,\nand have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as\nlost. As soon as I get to town, I shall go to my brother, and make him\ncome home with me to Gracechurch Street, and then we may consult\ntogether as to what is to be done.\"\n\n\"Oh! my dear brother,\" replied Mrs. Bennet, \"that is exactly what I\ncould most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out,\nwherever they may be; and if they are not married already, _make_ them\nmarry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but\ntell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chuses, to buy them,\nafter they are married. And, above all things, keep Mr. Bennet from\nfighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in,--that I am frightened\nout of my wits; and have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me,\nsuch spasms in my side, and pains in my head, and such beatings at\nheart, that I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear\nLydia, not to give any directions about her clothes, till she has seen\nme, for she does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother,\nhow kind you are! I know you will contrive it all.\"\n\nBut Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavours\nin the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well in\nher hopes as her fears; and, after talking with her in this manner till\ndinner was on table, they left her to vent all her feelings on the\nhousekeeper, who attended, in the absence of her daughters.\n\nThough her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real\noccasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to\noppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her\ntongue before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged it\nbetter that _one_ only of the household, and the one whom they could\nmost trust, should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the\nsubject.\n\nIn the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been\ntoo busily engaged in their separate apartments, to make their\nappearance before. One came from her books, and the other from her\ntoilette. The faces of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change\nwas visible in either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or\nthe anger which she had herself incurred in the business, had given\nsomething more of fretfulness than usual, to the accents of Kitty. As\nfor Mary, she was mistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth\nwith a countenance of grave reflection, soon after they were seated at\ntable,\n\n\"This is a most unfortunate affair; and will probably be much talked of.\nBut we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of\neach other, the balm of sisterly consolation.\"\n\nThen, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added,\n\"Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful\nlesson; that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable--that one false\nstep involves her in endless ruin--that her reputation is no less\nbrittle than it is beautiful,--and that she cannot be too much guarded\nin her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex.\"\n\nElizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed to\nmake any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such\nkind of moral extractions from the evil before them.\n\nIn the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for half an\nhour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of the\nopportunity of making many enquiries, which Jane was equally eager to\nsatisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel\nof this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss\nBennet could not assert to be wholly impossible; the former continued\nthe subject, by saying, \"But tell me all and every thing about it, which\nI have not already heard. Give me farther particulars. What did Colonel\nForster say? Had they no apprehension of any thing before the elopement\ntook place? They must have seen them together for ever.\"\n\n\"Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality,\nespecially on Lydia's side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so\ngrieved for him. His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He\n_was_ coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had\nany idea of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension\nfirst got abroad, it hastened his journey.\"\n\n\"And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of\ntheir intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?\"\n\n\"Yes; but when questioned by _him_ Denny denied knowing any thing of\ntheir plan, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not\nrepeat his persuasion of their not marrying--and from _that_, I am\ninclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before.\"\n\n\"And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a\ndoubt, I suppose, of their being really married?\"\n\n\"How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains! I felt a\nlittle uneasy--a little fearful of my sister's happiness with him in\nmarriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite\nright. My father and mother knew nothing of that, they only felt how\nimprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural\ntriumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia's last\nletter, she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems,\nof their being in love with each other, many weeks.\"\n\n\"But not before they went to Brighton?\"\n\n\"No, I believe not.\"\n\n\"And did Colonel Forster appear to think ill of Wickham himself? Does he\nknow his real character?\"\n\n\"I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly\ndid. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad\naffair has taken place, it is said, that he left Meryton greatly in\ndebt; but I hope this may be false.\"\n\n\"Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him,\nthis could not have happened!\"\n\n\"Perhaps it would have been better;\" replied her sister. \"But to expose\nthe former faults of any person, without knowing what their present\nfeelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions.\"\n\n\"Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to his\nwife?\"\n\n\"He brought it with him for us to see.\"\n\nJane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These\nwere the contents:\n\n     \"MY DEAR HARRIET,\n\n     \"You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help\n     laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am\n     missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with\n     who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the\n     world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without\n     him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at\n     Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it will make the\n     surprise the greater, when I write to them, and sign my name Lydia\n     Wickham. What a good joke it will be! I can hardly write for\n     laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt, for not keeping my\n     engagement, and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I hope he will\n     excuse me when he knows all, and tell him I will dance with him at\n     the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I shall send for my\n     clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell Sally\n     to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown, before they are\n     packed up. Good bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster, I hope you\n     will drink to our good journey.\n\n     \"Your affectionate friend,\n\n     \"LYDIA BENNET.\"\n\n\"Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!\" cried Elizabeth when she had\nfinished it. \"What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment. But\nat least it shews, that _she_ was serious in the object of her journey.\nWhatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her side a\n_scheme_ of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it!\"\n\n\"I never saw any one so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten\nminutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in\nsuch confusion!\"\n\n\"Oh! Jane,\" cried Elizabeth, \"was there a servant belonging to it, who\ndid not know the whole story before the end of the day?\"\n\n\"I do not know.--I hope there was.--But to be guarded at such a time, is\nvery difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I endeavoured to\ngive her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so much\nas I might have done! But the horror of what might possibly happen,\nalmost took from me my faculties.\"\n\n\"Your attendance upon her, has been too much for you. You do not look\nwell. Oh! that I had been with you, you have had every care and anxiety\nupon yourself alone.\"\n\n\"Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every\nfatigue, I am sure, but I did not think it right for either of them.\nKitty is slight and delicate, and Mary studies so much, that her hours\nof repose should not be broken in on. My aunt Philips came to Longbourn\non Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till\nThursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all, and lady\nLucas has been very kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to\ncondole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters, if\nthey could be of use to us.\"\n\n\"She had better have stayed at home,\" cried Elizabeth; \"perhaps she\n_meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see too\nlittle of one's neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence,\ninsufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied.\"\n\nShe then proceeded to enquire into the measures which her father had\nintended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter.\n\n\"He meant, I believe,\" replied Jane, \"to go to Epsom, the place where\nthey last changed horses, see the postilions, and try if any thing could\nbe made out from them. His principal object must be, to discover the\nnumber of the hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come\nwith a fare from London; and as he thought the circumstance of a\ngentleman and lady's removing from one carriage into another, might be\nremarked, he meant to make enquiries at Clapham. If he could any how\ndiscover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he\ndetermined to make enquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible\nto find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any\nother designs that he had formed: but he was in such a hurry to be gone,\nand his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had difficulty in finding\nout even so much as this.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\nThe whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next\nmorning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him.\nHis family knew him to be on all common occasions, a most negligent and\ndilatory correspondent, but at such a time, they had hoped for exertion.\nThey were forced to conclude, that he had no pleasing intelligence to\nsend, but even of _that_ they would have been glad to be certain. Mr.\nGardiner had waited only for the letters before he set off.\n\nWhen he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving constant\ninformation of what was going on, and their uncle promised, at parting,\nto prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to Longbourn, as soon as he could, to\nthe great consolation of his sister, who considered it as the only\nsecurity for her husband's not being killed in a duel.\n\nMrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few\ndays longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable to\nher nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a\ngreat comfort to them, in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also\nvisited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of\ncheering and heartening them up, though as she never came without\nreporting some fresh instance of Wickham's extravagance or irregularity,\nshe seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found\nthem.\n\nAll Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man, who, but three months\nbefore, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be in debt\nto every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with\nthe title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family.\nEvery body declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world;\nand every body began to find out, that they had always distrusted the\nappearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above\nhalf of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of\nher sister's ruin still more certain; and even Jane, who believed still\nless of it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now\ncome, when if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before\nentirely despaired of, they must in all probability have gained some\nnews of them.\n\nMr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday, his wife received a\nletter from him; it told them, that on his arrival, he had immediately\nfound out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch street.\nThat Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival, but\nwithout gaining any satisfactory information; and that he was now\ndetermined to enquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet\nthought it possible they might have gone to one of them, on their first\ncoming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself\ndid not expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was\neager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added, that Mr.\nBennet seemed wholly disinclined at present, to leave London, and\npromised to write again very soon. There was also a postscript to this\neffect.\n\n\"I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if\npossible, from some of the young man's intimates in the regiment,\nwhether Wickham has any relations or connections, who would be likely to\nknow in what part of the town he has now concealed himself. If there\nwere any one, that one could apply to, with a probability of gaining\nsuch a clue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we\nhave nothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do every\nthing in his power to satisfy us on this head. But, on second thoughts,\nperhaps Lizzy could tell us, what relations he has now living, better\nthan any other person.\"\n\nElizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference for\nher authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give any\ninformation of so satisfactory a nature, as the compliment deserved.\n\nShe had never heard of his having had any relations, except a father and\nmother, both of whom had been dead many years. It was possible, however,\nthat some of his companions in the ----shire, might be able to give more\ninformation; and, though she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the\napplication was a something to look forward to.\n\nEvery day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious\npart of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters was\nthe first grand object of every morning's impatience. Through letters,\nwhatever of good or bad was to be told, would be communicated, and every\nsucceeding day was expected to bring some news of importance.\n\nBut before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived for\ntheir father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins; which, as Jane\nhad received directions to open all that came for him in his absence,\nshe accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his\nletters always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as\nfollows:\n\n     \"MY DEAR SIR,\n\n     \"I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation\n     in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now\n     suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter\n     from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear Sir, that Mrs. Collins and\n     myself sincerely sympathise with you, and all your respectable\n     family, in your present distress, which must be of the bitterest\n     kind, because proceeding from a cause which no time can remove. No\n     arguments shall be wanting on my part, that can alleviate so severe\n     a misfortune; or that may comfort you, under a circumstance that\n     must be of all others most afflicting to a parent's mind. The death\n     of your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison of this.\n     And it is the more to be lamented, because there is reason to\n     suppose, as my dear Charlotte informs me, that this licentiousness\n     of behaviour in your daughter, has proceeded from a faulty degree\n     of indulgence, though, at the same time, for the consolation of\n     yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think that her own\n     disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be guilty of\n     such an enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever that may be, you\n     are grievously to be pitied, in which opinion I am not only joined\n     by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by lady Catherine and her daughter,\n     to whom I have related the affair. They agree with me in\n     apprehending that this false step in one daughter, will be\n     injurious to the fortunes of all the others, for who, as lady\n     Catherine herself condescendingly says, will connect themselves\n     with such a family. And this consideration leads me moreover to\n     reflect with augmented satisfaction on a certain event of last\n     November, for had it been otherwise, I must have been involved in\n     all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me advise you then, my dear Sir,\n     to console yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy\n     child from your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the\n     fruits of her own heinous offence.\n\n     \"I am, dear Sir, &c. &c.\"\n\nMr. Gardiner did not write again, till he had received an answer from\nColonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send.\nIt was not known that Wickham had a single relation, with whom he kept\nup any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one living.\nHis former acquaintance had been numerous; but since he had been in the\nmilitia, it did not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship\nwith any of them. There was no one therefore who could be pointed out,\nas likely to give any news of him. And in the wretched state of his own\nfinances, there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in addition to\nhis fear of discovery by Lydia's relations, for it had just transpired\nthat he had left gaming debts behind him, to a very considerable\namount. Colonel Forster believed that more than a thousand pounds would\nbe necessary to clear his expences at Brighton. He owed a good deal in\nthe town, but his debts of honour were still more formidable. Mr.\nGardiner did not attempt to conceal these particulars from the Longbourn\nfamily; Jane heard them with horror. \"A gamester!\" she cried. \"This is\nwholly unexpected. I had not an idea of it.\"\n\nMr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see their\nfather at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered\nspiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours, he had yielded to\nhis brother-in-law's intreaty that he would return to his family, and\nleave it to him to do, whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable\nfor continuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did\nnot express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering\nwhat her anxiety for his life had been before.\n\n\"What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia!\" she cried. \"Sure he\nwill not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Wickham,\nand make him marry her, if he comes away?\"\n\nAs Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that she\nand her children should go to London, at the same time that Mr. Bennet\ncame from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their\njourney, and brought its master back to Longbourn.\n\nMrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and her\nDerbyshire friend, that had attended her from that part of the world.\nHis name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece;\nand the kind of half-expectation which Mrs. Gardiner had formed, of\ntheir being followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing.\nElizabeth had received none since her return, that could come from\nPemberley.\n\nThe present unhappy state of the family, rendered any other excuse for\nthe lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore, could be\nfairly conjectured from _that_, though Elizabeth, who was by this time\ntolerably well acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware,\nthat, had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of\nLydia's infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought,\none sleepless night out of two.\n\nWhen Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual\nphilosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the\nhabit of saying; made no mention of the business that had taken him\naway, and it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of\nit.\n\nIt was not till the afternoon, when he joined them at tea, that\nElizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly\nexpressing her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, \"Say\nnothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing,\nand I ought to feel it.\"\n\n\"You must not be too severe upon yourself,\" replied Elizabeth.\n\n\"You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone to\nfall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have\nbeen to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression.\nIt will pass away soon enough.\"\n\n\"Do you suppose them to be in London?\"\n\n\"Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?\"\n\n\"And Lydia used to want to go to London,\" added Kitty.\n\n\"She is happy, then,\" said her father, drily; \"and her residence there\nwill probably be of some duration.\"\n\nThen, after a short silence, he continued, \"Lizzy, I bear you no\nill-will for being justified in your advice to me last May, which,\nconsidering the event, shews some greatness of mind.\"\n\nThey were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her mother's\ntea.\n\n\"This is a parade,\" cried he, \"which does one good; it gives such an\nelegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit in\nmy library, in my night cap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble\nas I can,--or, perhaps, I may defer it, till Kitty runs away.\"\n\n\"I am not going to run away, Papa,\" said Kitty, fretfully; \"if _I_\nshould ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia.\"\n\n\"_You_ go to Brighton!--I would not trust you so near it as East Bourne\nfor fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and\nyou will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter my house\nagain, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be absolutely\nprohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters. And you are\nnever to stir out of doors, till you can prove, that you have spent ten\nminutes of every day in a rational manner.\"\n\nKitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry.\n\n\"Well, well,\" said he, \"do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good\ngirl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of\nthem.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\nTwo days after Mr. Bennet's return, as Jane and Elizabeth were walking\ntogether in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper\ncoming towards them, and, concluding that she came to call them to their\nmother, went forward to meet her; but, instead of the expected summons,\nwhen they approached her, she said to Miss Bennet, \"I beg your pardon,\nmadam, for interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some\ngood news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask.\"\n\n\"What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town.\"\n\n\"Dear madam,\" cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, \"don't you know\nthere is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He has been here\nthis half hour, and master has had a letter.\"\n\nAway ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech. They\nran through the vestibule into the breakfast room; from thence to the\nlibrary;--their father was in neither; and they were on the point of\nseeking him up stairs with their mother, when they were met by the\nbutler, who said,\n\n\"If you are looking for my master, ma'am, he is walking towards the\nlittle copse.\"\n\nUpon this information, they instantly passed through the hall once more,\nand ran across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately\npursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of the paddock.\n\nJane, who was not so light, nor so much in the habit of running as\nElizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for breath,\ncame up with him, and eagerly cried out,\n\n\"Oh, Papa, what news? what news? have you heard from my uncle?\"\n\n\"Yes, I have had a letter from him by express.\"\n\n\"Well, and what news does it bring? good or bad?\"\n\n\"What is there of good to be expected?\" said he, taking the letter from\nhis pocket; \"but perhaps you would like to read it.\"\n\nElizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up.\n\n\"Read it aloud,\" said their father, \"for I hardly know myself what it is\nabout.\"\n\n     \"Gracechurch-street, Monday,\n\n     August 2.\n\n     \"MY DEAR BROTHER,\n\n     \"At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such\n     as, upon the whole, I hope will give you satisfaction. Soon after\n     you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what\n     part of London they were. The particulars, I reserve till we meet.\n     It is enough to know they are discovered, I have seen them\n     both----\"\n\n\"Then it is, as I always hoped,\" cried Jane; \"they are married!\"\n\n     Elizabeth read on; \"I have seen them both. They are not married,\n     nor can I find there was any intention of being so; but if you are\n     willing to perform the engagements which I have ventured to make on\n     your side, I hope it will not be long before they are. All that is\n     required of you is, to assure to your daughter, by settlement, her\n     equal share of the five thousand pounds, secured among your\n     children after the decease of yourself and my sister; and,\n     moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her, during your\n     life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions, which,\n     considering every thing, I had no hesitation in complying with, as\n     far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by\n     express, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You\n     will easily comprehend, from these particulars, that Mr. Wickham's\n     circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to\n     be. The world has been deceived in that respect; and I am happy to\n     say, there will be some little money, even when all his debts are\n     discharged, to settle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune.\n     If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers to act\n     in your name, throughout the whole of this business, I will\n     immediately give directions to Haggerston for preparing a proper\n     settlement. There will not be the smallest occasion for your coming\n     to town again; therefore, stay quietly at Longbourn, and depend on\n     my diligence and care. Send back your answer as soon as you can,\n     and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it best, that my\n     niece should be married from this house, of which I hope you will\n     approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as any\n     thing more is determined on. Your's, &c.\n\n     \"EDW. GARDINER.\"\n\n\"Is it possible!\" cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. \"Can it be\npossible that he will marry her?\"\n\n\"Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we have thought him;\" said her\nsister. \"My dear father, I congratulate you.\"\n\n\"And have you answered the letter?\" said Elizabeth.\n\n\"No; but it must be done soon.\"\n\nMost earnestly did she then intreat him to lose no more time before he\nwrote.\n\n\"Oh! my dear father,\" she cried, \"come back, and write immediately.\nConsider how important every moment is, in such a case.\"\n\n\"Let me write for you,\" said Jane, \"if you dislike the trouble\nyourself.\"\n\n\"I dislike it very much,\" he replied; \"but it must be done.\"\n\nAnd so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house.\n\n\"And may I ask?\" said Elizabeth, \"but the terms, I suppose, must be\ncomplied with.\"\n\n\"Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little.\"\n\n\"And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man!\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there\nare two things that I want very much to know:--one is, how much money\nyour uncle has laid down, to bring it about; and the other, how I am\never to pay him.\"\n\n\"Money! my uncle!\" cried Jane, \"what do you mean, Sir?\"\n\n\"I mean, that no man in his senses, would marry Lydia on so slight a\ntemptation as one hundred a-year during my life, and fifty after I am\ngone.\"\n\n\"That is very true,\" said Elizabeth; \"though it had not occurred to me\nbefore. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh!\nit must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has\ndistressed himself. A small sum could not do all this.\"\n\n\"No,\" said her father, \"Wickham's a fool, if he takes her with a\nfarthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so\nill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship.\"\n\n\"Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be\nrepaid?\"\n\nMr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued\nsilent till they reached the house. Their father then went to the\nlibrary to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room.\n\n\"And they are really to be married!\" cried Elizabeth, as soon as they\nwere by themselves. \"How strange this is! And for _this_ we are to be\nthankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness,\nand wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice! Oh, Lydia!\"\n\n\"I comfort myself with thinking,\" replied Jane, \"that he certainly would\nnot marry Lydia, if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind\nuncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten\nthousand pounds, or any thing like it, has been advanced. He has\nchildren of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten\nthousand pounds?\"\n\n\"If we are ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been,\" said\nElizabeth, \"and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall\nexactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has\nnot sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be\nrequited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal\nprotection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage, as\nyears of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is\nactually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now,\nshe will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she\nfirst sees my aunt!\"\n\n\"We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,\" said\nJane: \"I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to marry\nher is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of\nthinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself\nthey will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in\ntime make their past imprudence forgotten.\"\n\n\"Their conduct has been such,\" replied Elizabeth, \"as neither you, nor\nI, nor any body, can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it.\"\n\nIt now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood\nperfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library,\ntherefore, and asked their father, whether he would not wish them to\nmake it known to her. He was writing, and, without raising his head,\ncoolly replied,\n\n\"Just as you please.\"\n\n\"May we take my uncle's letter to read to her?\"\n\n\"Take whatever you like, and get away.\"\n\nElizabeth took the letter from his writing table, and they went up\nstairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one\ncommunication would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation\nfor good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly\ncontain herself. As soon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner's hope of Lydia's\nbeing soon married, her joy burst forth, and every following sentence\nadded to its exuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from\ndelight, as she had ever been fidgetty from alarm and vexation. To know\nthat her daughter would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no\nfear for her felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct.\n\n\"My dear, dear Lydia!\" she cried: \"This is delightful indeed!--She will\nbe married!--I shall see her again!--She will be married at sixteen!--My\ngood, kind brother!--I knew how it would be--I knew he would manage\nevery thing. How I long to see her! and to see dear Wickham too! But the\nclothes, the wedding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardiner about\nthem directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him how\nmuch he will give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell,\nKitty, for Hill. I will put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear\nLydia!--How merry we shall be together when we meet!\"\n\nHer eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the violence of\nthese transports, by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr.\nGardiner's behaviour laid them all under.\n\n\"For we must attribute this happy conclusion,\" she added, \"in a great\nmeasure, to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has pledged himself\nto assist Mr. Wickham with money.\"\n\n\"Well,\" cried her mother, \"it is all very right; who should do it but\nher own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my children\nmust have had all his money you know, and it is the first time we have\never had any thing from him, except a few presents. Well! I am so happy.\nIn a short time, I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well\nit sounds. And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in\nsuch a flutter, that I am sure I can't write; so I will dictate, and you\nwrite for me. We will settle with your father about the money\nafterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately.\"\n\nShe was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and\ncambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had\nnot Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait, till her\nfather was at leisure to be consulted. One day's delay she observed,\nwould be of small importance; and her mother was too happy, to be quite\nso obstinate as usual. Other schemes too came into her head.\n\n\"I will go to Meryton,\" said she, \"as soon as I am dressed, and tell the\ngood, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come back, I can call on\nLady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and order the carriage. An\nairing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do any\nthing for you in Meryton? Oh! here comes Hill. My dear Hill, have you\nheard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be married; and you shall\nall have a bowl of punch, to make merry at her wedding.\"\n\nMrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received her\ncongratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this folly, took\nrefuge in her own room, that she might think with freedom.\n\nPoor Lydia's situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it was no\nworse, she had need to be thankful. She felt it so; and though, in\nlooking forward, neither rational happiness nor worldly prosperity,\ncould be justly expected for her sister; in looking back to what they\nhad feared, only two hours ago, she felt all the advantages of what they\nhad gained.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n\nMr. Bennet had very often wished, before this period of his life, that,\ninstead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an annual sum, for\nthe better provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived\nhim. He now wished it more than ever. Had he done his duty in that\nrespect, Lydia need not have been indebted to her uncle, for whatever of\nhonour or credit could now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of\nprevailing on one of the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be\nher husband, might then have rested in its proper place.\n\nHe was seriously concerned, that a cause of so little advantage to any\none, should be forwarded at the sole expence of his brother-in-law, and\nhe was determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his\nassistance, and to discharge the obligation as soon as he could.\n\nWhen first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly\nuseless; for, of course, they were to have a son. This son was to join\nin cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age, and the widow\nand younger children would by that means be provided for. Five daughters\nsuccessively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs.\nBennet, for many years after Lydia's birth, had been certain that he\nwould. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then too\nlate to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy, and her\nhusband's love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their\nincome.\n\nFive thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs. Bennet and\nthe children. But in what proportions it should be divided amongst the\nlatter, depended on the will of the parents. This was one point, with\nregard to Lydia at least, which was now to be settled, and Mr. Bennet\ncould have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him. In\nterms of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother, though\nexpressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect\napprobation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil the\nengagements that had been made for him. He had never before supposed\nthat, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would be\ndone with so little inconvenience to himself, as by the present\narrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds a-year the loser, by the\nhundred that was to be paid them; for, what with her board and pocket\nallowance, and the continual presents in money, which passed to her,\nthrough her mother's hands, Lydia's expences had been very little within\nthat sum.\n\nThat it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was\nanother very welcome surprise; for his chief wish at present, was to\nhave as little trouble in the business as possible. When the first\ntransports of rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were\nover, he naturally returned to all his former indolence. His letter was\nsoon dispatched; for though dilatory in undertaking business, he was\nquick in its execution. He begged to know farther particulars of what he\nwas indebted to his brother; but was too angry with Lydia, to send any\nmessage to her.\n\nThe good news quickly spread through the house; and with proportionate\nspeed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter with decent\nphilosophy. To be sure it would have been more for the advantage of\nconversation, had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the\nhappiest alternative, been secluded from the world, in some distant farm\nhouse. But there was much to be talked of, in marrying her; and the\ngood-natured wishes for her well-doing, which had proceeded before, from\nall the spiteful old ladies in Meryton, lost but little of their spirit\nin this change of circumstances, because with such an husband, her\nmisery was considered certain.\n\nIt was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been down stairs, but on this\nhappy day, she again took her seat at the head of her table, and in\nspirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her\ntriumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object of\nher wishes, since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of\naccomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on those\nattendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new carriages, and\nservants. She was busily searching through the neighbourhood for a\nproper situation for her daughter, and, without knowing or considering\nwhat their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and\nimportance.\n\n\"Haye-Park might do,\" said she, \"if the Gouldings would quit it, or the\ngreat house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but Ashworth is\ntoo far off! I could not bear to have her ten miles from me; and as for\nPurvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful.\"\n\nHer husband allowed her to talk on without interruption, while the\nservants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her, \"Mrs.\nBennet, before you take any, or all of these houses, for your son and\ndaughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into _one_ house in this\nneighbourhood, they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage\nthe impudence of either, by receiving them at Longbourn.\"\n\nA long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was firm: it\nsoon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with amazement and horror,\nthat her husband would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his\ndaughter. He protested that she should receive from him no mark of\naffection whatever, on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend\nit. That his anger could be carried to such a point of inconceivable\nresentment, as to refuse his daughter a privilege, without which her\nmarriage would scarcely seem valid, exceeded all that she could believe\npossible. She was more alive to the disgrace, which the want of new\nclothes must reflect on her daughter's nuptials, than to any sense of\nshame at her eloping and living with Wickham, a fortnight before they\ntook place.\n\nElizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the distress of\nthe moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted with their fears for\nher sister; for since her marriage would so shortly give the proper\ntermination to the elopement, they might hope to conceal its\nunfavourable beginning, from all those who were not immediately on the\nspot.\n\nShe had no fear of its spreading farther, through his means. There were\nfew people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently depended;\nbut at the same time, there was no one, whose knowledge of a sister's\nfrailty would have mortified her so much. Not, however, from any fear of\ndisadvantage from it, individually to herself; for at any rate, there\nseemed a gulf impassable between them. Had Lydia's marriage been\nconcluded on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that\nMr. Darcy would connect himself with a family, where to every other\nobjection would now be added, an alliance and relationship of the\nnearest kind with the man whom he so justly scorned.\n\nFrom such a connection she could not wonder that he should shrink. The\nwish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself of his\nfeeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation survive such a\nblow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she\nhardly knew of what. She became jealous of his esteem, when she could no\nlonger hope to be benefited by it. She wanted to hear of him, when there\nseemed the least chance of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that\nshe could have been happy with him; when it was no longer likely they\nshould meet.\n\nWhat a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that the\nproposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago, would now\nhave been gladly and gratefully received! He was as generous, she\ndoubted not, as the most generous of his sex. But while he was mortal,\nthere must be a triumph.\n\nShe began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man, who, in\ndisposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and\ntemper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It\nwas an union that must have been to the advantage of both; by her ease\nand liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved,\nand from his judgment, information, and knowledge of the world, she must\nhave received benefit of greater importance.\n\nBut no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what\nconnubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and\nprecluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their\nfamily.\n\nHow Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence,\nshe could not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could\nbelong to a couple who were only brought together because their passions\nwere stronger than their virtue, she could easily conjecture.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet's\nacknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurances of his eagerness to\npromote the welfare of any of his family; and concluded with intreaties\nthat the subject might never be mentioned to him again. The principal\npurport of his letter was to inform them, that Mr. Wickham had resolved\non quitting the Militia.\n\n     \"It was greatly my wish that he should do so,\" he added, \"as soon\n     as his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me,\n     in considering a removal from that corps as highly advisable, both\n     on his account and my niece's. It is Mr. Wickham's intention to go\n     into the regulars; and, among his former friends, there are still\n     some who are able and willing to assist him in the army. He has the\n     promise of an ensigncy in General ----'s regiment, now quartered in\n     the North. It is an advantage to have it so far from this part of\n     the kingdom. He promises fairly, and I hope among different people,\n     where they may each have a character to preserve, they will both be\n     more prudent. I have written to Colonel Forster, to inform him of\n     our present arrangements, and to request that he will satisfy the\n     various creditors of Mr. Wickham in and near Brighton, with\n     assurances of speedy payment, for which I have pledged myself. And\n     will you give yourself the trouble of carrying similar assurances\n     to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin a list,\n     according to his information. He has given in all his debts; I hope\n     at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions, and\n     all will be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment,\n     unless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from\n     Mrs. Gardiner, that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all,\n     before she leaves the South. She is well, and begs to be dutifully\n     remembered to you and her mother.--Your's, &c.\n\n     \"E. GARDINER.\"\n\nMr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham's removal\nfrom the ----shire, as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But Mrs.\nBennet, was not so well pleased with it. Lydia's being settled in the\nNorth, just when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her\ncompany, for she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in\nHertfordshire, was a severe disappointment; and besides, it was such a\npity that Lydia should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted\nwith every body, and had so many favourites.\n\n\"She is so fond of Mrs. Forster,\" said she, \"it will be quite shocking\nto send her away! And there are several of the young men, too, that she\nlikes very much. The officers may not be so pleasant in General ----'s\nregiment.\"\n\nHis daughter's request, for such it might be considered, of being\nadmitted into her family again, before she set off for the North,\nreceived at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth, who\nagreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister's feelings and\nconsequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by her parents,\nurged him so earnestly, yet so rationally and so mildly, to receive her\nand her husband at Longbourn, as soon as they were married, that he was\nprevailed on to think as they thought, and act as they wished. And their\nmother had the satisfaction of knowing, that she should be able to shew\nher married daughter in the neighbourhood, before she was banished to\nthe North. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore, he\nsent his permission for them to come; and it was settled, that as soon\nas the ceremony was over, they should proceed to Longbourn. Elizabeth\nwas surprised, however, that Wickham should consent to such a scheme,\nand, had she consulted only her own inclination, any meeting with him\nwould have been the last object of her wishes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n\nTheir sister's wedding day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt for her\nprobably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to meet\nthem at ----, and they were to return in it, by dinner-time. Their\narrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets; and Jane more especially,\nwho gave Lydia the feelings which would have attended herself, had _she_\nbeen the culprit, was wretched in the thought of what her sister must\nendure.\n\nThey came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room, to receive\nthem. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet, as the carriage drove up to\nthe door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed,\nanxious, uneasy.\n\nLydia's voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown open, and\nshe ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and\nwelcomed her with rapture; gave her hand with an affectionate smile to\nWickham, who followed his lady, and wished them both joy, with an\nalacrity which shewed no doubt of their happiness.\n\nTheir reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite\nso cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely\nopened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was\nenough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was\nshocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and\nfearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their\ncongratulations, and when at length they all sat down, looked eagerly\nround the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and\nobserved, with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been\nthere.\n\nWickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his manners\nwere always so pleasing, that had his character and his marriage been\nexactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he\nclaimed their relationship, would have delighted them all. Elizabeth had\nnot before believed him quite equal to such assurance; but she sat down,\nresolving within herself, to draw no limits in future to the impudence\nof an impudent man. _She_ blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of\nthe two who caused their confusion, suffered no variation of colour.\n\nThere was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither\nof them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to sit near\nElizabeth, began enquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood,\nwith a good humoured ease, which she felt very unable to equal in her\nreplies. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the\nworld. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led\nvoluntarily to subjects, which her sisters would not have alluded to for\nthe world.\n\n\"Only think of its being three months,\" she cried, \"since I went away;\nit seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been things\nenough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away, I am sure\nI had no more idea of being married till I came back again! though I\nthought it would be very good fun if I was.\"\n\nHer father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked\nexpressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw any thing of\nwhich she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, \"Oh! mamma, do the\npeople here abouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might\nnot; and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was\ndetermined he should know it, and so I let down the side glass next to\nhim, and took off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window\nframe, so that he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like\nany thing.\"\n\nElizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room;\nand returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to\nthe dining-parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with\nanxious parade, walk up to her mother's right hand, and hear her say to\nher eldest sister, \"Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go\nlower, because I am a married woman.\"\n\nIt was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment,\nfrom which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good\nspirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Philips, the Lucases, and all\ntheir other neighbours, and to hear herself called \"Mrs. Wickham,\" by\neach of them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to shew her\nring and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.\n\n\"Well, mamma,\" said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast\nroom, \"and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I\nam sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half my\ngood luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get\nhusbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go.\"\n\n\"Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don't\nat all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?\"\n\n\"Oh, lord! yes;--there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all\nthings. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We\nshall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some\nballs, and I will take care to get good partners for them all.\"\n\n\"I should like it beyond any thing!\" said her mother.\n\n\"And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters\nbehind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the\nwinter is over.\"\n\n\"I thank you for my share of the favour,\" said Elizabeth; \"but I do not\nparticularly like your way of getting husbands.\"\n\nTheir visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham\nhad received his commission before he left London, and he was to join\nhis regiment at the end of a fortnight.\n\nNo one but Mrs. Bennet, regretted that their stay would be so short; and\nshe made the most of the time, by visiting about with her daughter, and\nhaving very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to\nall; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did\nthink, than such as did not.\n\nWickham's affection for Lydia, was just what Elizabeth had expected to\nfind it; not equal to Lydia's for him. She had scarcely needed her\npresent observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that\ntheir elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather\nthan by his; and she would have wondered why, without violently caring\nfor her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain\nthat his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and\nif that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity\nof having a companion.\n\nLydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every\noccasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did every\nthing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds on\nthe first of September, than any body else in the country.\n\nOne morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two\nelder sisters, she said to Elizabeth,\n\n\"Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe. You were\nnot by, when I told mamma, and the others, all about it. Are not you\ncurious to hear how it was managed?\"\n\n\"No really,\" replied Elizabeth; \"I think there cannot be too little said\non the subject.\"\n\n\"La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were\nmarried, you know, at St. Clement's, because Wickham's lodgings were in\nthat parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven\no'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others\nwere to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in\nsuch a fuss! I was so afraid you know that something would happen to put\nit off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And there was my\naunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if\nshe was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten,\nfor I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to\nknow whether he would be married in his blue coat.\n\n\"Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never\nbe over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt\nwere horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you'll believe\nme, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a\nfortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or any thing. To be sure London was\nrather thin, but however the little Theatre was open. Well, and so just\nas the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon business\nto that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get\ntogether, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did not\nknow what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we were beyond\nthe hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he came back\nagain in ten minutes time, and then we all set out. However, I\nrecollected afterwards, that if he _had_ been prevented going, the\nwedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well.\"\n\n\"Mr. Darcy!\" repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.\n\n\"Oh, yes!--he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious me!\nI quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised\nthem so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!\"\n\n\"If it was to be secret,\" said Jane, \"say not another word on the\nsubject. You may depend upon my seeking no further.\"\n\n\"Oh! certainly,\" said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; \"we will\nask you no questions.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Lydia, \"for if you did, I should certainly tell you\nall, and then Wickham would be angry.\"\n\nOn such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her\npower, by running away.\n\nBut to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least it\nwas impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at her\nsister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people,\nwhere he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go.\nConjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her\nbrain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as\nplacing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She\ncould not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper,\nwrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what\nLydia had dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been\nintended.\n\n\"You may readily comprehend,\" she added, \"what my curiosity must be to\nknow how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively\nspeaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such\na time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it--unless it is,\nfor very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to\nthink necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with\nignorance.\"\n\n\"Not that I _shall_ though,\" she added to herself, as she finished the\nletter; \"and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable\nmanner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it\nout.\"\n\nJane's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to\nElizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad of\nit;--till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any\nsatisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n\nElizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter, as\nsoon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it, than\nhurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to be\ninterrupted, she sat down on one of the benches, and prepared to be\nhappy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not\ncontain a denial.\n\n     \"Gracechurch-street, Sept. 6.\n\n     \"MY DEAR NIECE,\n\n     \"I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole\n     morning to answering it, as I foresee that a _little_ writing will\n     not comprise what I have to tell you. I must confess myself\n     surprised by your application; I did not expect it from _you_.\n     Don't think me angry, however, for I only mean to let you know,\n     that I had not imagined such enquiries to be necessary on _your_\n     side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my\n     impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am--and nothing\n     but the belief of your being a party concerned, would have allowed\n     him to act as he has done. But if you are really innocent and\n     ignorant, I must be more explicit. On the very day of my coming\n     home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr.\n     Darcy called, and was shut up with him several hours. It was all\n     over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so dreadfully racked\n     as _your's_ seems to have been. He came to tell Mr. Gardiner that\n     he had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were, and that\n     he had seen and talked with them both, Wickham repeatedly, Lydia\n     once. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day\n     after ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting\n     for them. The motive professed, was his conviction of its being\n     owing to himself that Wickham's worthlessness had not been so well\n     known, as to make it impossible for any young woman of character,\n     to love or confide in him. He generously imputed the whole to his\n     mistaken pride, and confessed that he had before thought it beneath\n     him, to lay his private actions open to the world. His character\n     was to speak for itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to step\n     forward, and endeavour to remedy an evil, which had been brought on\n     by himself. If he _had another_ motive, I am sure it would never\n     disgrace him. He had been some days in town, before he was able to\n     discover them; but he had something to direct his search, which was\n     more than _we_ had; and the consciousness of this, was another\n     reason for his resolving to follow us. There is a lady, it seems, a\n     Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago governess to Miss Darcy, and was\n     dismissed from her charge on some cause of disapprobation, though\n     he did not say what. She then took a large house in Edward-street,\n     and has since maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs.\n     Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham; and he\n     went to her for intelligence of him, as soon as he got to town. But\n     it was two or three days before he could get from her what he\n     wanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery\n     and corruption, for she really did know where her friend was to be\n     found. Wickham indeed had gone to her, on their first arrival in\n     London, and had she been able to receive them into her house, they\n     would have taken up their abode with her. At length, however, our\n     kind friend procured the wished-for direction. They were in ----\n     street. He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia.\n     His first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade\n     her to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her\n     friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her,\n     offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But he found Lydia\n     absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared for none\n     of her friends, she wanted no help of his, she would not hear of\n     leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some time or\n     other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were her\n     feelings, it only remained, he thought, to secure and expedite a\n     marriage, which, in his very first conversation with Wickham, he\n     easily learnt, had never been _his_ design. He confessed himself\n     obliged to leave the regiment, on account of some debts of honour,\n     which were very pressing; and scrupled not to lay all the\n     ill-consequences of Lydia's flight, on her own folly alone. He\n     meant to resign his commission immediately; and as to his future\n     situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He must go\n     somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew he should have\n     nothing to live on. Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your\n     sister at once. Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich,\n     he would have been able to do something for him, and his situation\n     must have been benefited by marriage. But he found, in reply to\n     this question, that Wickham still cherished the hope of more\n     effectually making his fortune by marriage, in some other country.\n     Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely to be proof\n     against the temptation of immediate relief. They met several times,\n     for there was much to be discussed. Wickham of course wanted more\n     than he could get; but at length was reduced to be reasonable.\n     Every thing being settled between _them_, Mr. Darcy's next step was\n     to make your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in\n     Gracechurch-street the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardiner\n     could not be seen, and Mr. Darcy found, on further enquiry, that\n     your father was still with him, but would quit town the next\n     morning. He did not judge your father to be a person whom he could\n     so properly consult as your uncle, and therefore readily postponed\n     seeing him, till after the departure of the former. He did not\n     leave his name, and till the next day, it was only known that a\n     gentleman had called on business. On Saturday he came again. Your\n     father was gone, your uncle at home, and, as I said before, they\n     had a great deal of talk together. They met again on Sunday, and\n     then _I_ saw him too. It was not all settled before Monday: as soon\n     as it was, the express was sent off to Longbourn. But our visitor\n     was very obstinate. I fancy, Lizzy, that obstinacy is the real\n     defect of his character after all. He has been accused of many\n     faults at different times; but _this_ is the true one. Nothing was\n     to be done that he did not do himself; though I am sure (and I do\n     not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it,) your\n     uncle would most readily have settled the whole. They battled it\n     together for a long time, which was more than either the gentleman\n     or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your uncle was forced\n     to yield, and instead of being allowed to be of use to his niece,\n     was forced to put up with only having the probable credit of it,\n     which went sorely against the grain; and I really believe your\n     letter this morning gave him great pleasure, because it required an\n     explanation that would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give\n     the praise where it was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no farther\n     than yourself, or Jane at most. You know pretty well, I suppose,\n     what has been done for the young people. His debts are to be paid,\n     amounting, I believe, to considerably more than a thousand pounds,\n     another thousand in addition to her own settled upon _her_, and his\n     commission purchased. The reason why all this was to be done by him\n     alone, was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his\n     reserve, and want of proper consideration, that Wickham's character\n     had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he had been\n     received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth in\n     _this_; though I doubt whether _his_ reserve, or _anybody's_\n     reserve, can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all this\n     fine talking, my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured, that\n     your uncle would never have yielded, if we had not given him credit\n     for _another interest_ in the affair. When all this was resolved\n     on, he returned again to his friends, who were still staying at\n     Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be in London once more\n     when the wedding took place, and all money matters were then to\n     receive the last finish. I believe I have now told you every thing.\n     It is a relation which you tell me is to give you great surprise; I\n     hope at least it will not afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to\n     us; and Wickham had constant admission to the house. _He_ was\n     exactly what he had been, when I knew him in Hertfordshire; but I\n     would not tell you how little I was satisfied with _her_ behaviour\n     while she staid with us, if I had not perceived, by Jane's letter\n     last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home was exactly of a\n     piece with it, and therefore what I now tell you, can give you no\n     fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most serious manner,\n     representing to her all the wickedness of what she had done, and\n     all the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If she heard me,\n     it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not listen. I was\n     sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my dear Elizabeth\n     and Jane, and for their sakes had patience with her. Mr. Darcy was\n     punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you, attended the\n     wedding. He dined with us the next day, and was to leave town again\n     on Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my dear\n     Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying (what I was never bold\n     enough to say before) how much I like him. His behaviour to us has,\n     in every respect, been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire.\n     His understanding and opinions all please me; he wants nothing but\n     a little more liveliness, and _that_, if he marry _prudently_, his\n     wife may teach him. I thought him very sly;--he hardly ever\n     mentioned your name. But slyness seems the fashion. Pray forgive\n     me, if I have been very presuming, or at least do not punish me so\n     far, as to exclude me from P. I shall never be quite happy till I\n     have been all round the park. A low phaeton, with a nice little\n     pair of ponies, would be the very thing. But I must write no more.\n     The children have been wanting me this half hour. Your's, very\n     sincerely,\n\n     \"M. GARDINER.\"\n\nThe contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits,\nin which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the\ngreatest share. The vague and unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had\nproduced of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister's\nmatch, which she had feared to encourage, as an exertion of goodness too\ngreat to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the\npain of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true!\nHe had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on himself all the\ntrouble and mortification attendant on such a research; in which\nsupplication had been necessary to a woman whom he must abominate and\ndespise, and where he was reduced to meet, frequently meet, reason with,\npersuade, and finally bribe, the man whom he always most wished to\navoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had\ndone all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her\nheart did whisper, that he had done it for her. But it was a hope\nshortly checked by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her\nvanity was insufficient, when required to depend on his affection for\nher, for a woman who had already refused him, as able to overcome a\nsentiment so natural as abhorrence against relationship with Wickham.\nBrother-in-law of Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from the\nconnection. He had to be sure done much. She was ashamed to think how\nmuch. But he had given a reason for his interference, which asked no\nextraordinary stretch of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel\nhe had been wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising\nit; and though she would not place herself as his principal inducement,\nshe could, perhaps, believe, that remaining partiality for her, might\nassist his endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be\nmaterially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that\nthey were under obligations to a person who could never receive a\nreturn. They owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, every thing\nto him. Oh! how heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation\nshe had ever encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed\ntowards him. For herself she was humbled; but she was proud of him.\nProud that in a cause of compassion and honour, he had been able to get\nthe better of himself. She read over her aunt's commendation of him\nagain and again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even\nsensible of some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how\nsteadfastly both she and her uncle had been persuaded that affection and\nconfidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself.\n\nShe was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one's\napproach; and before she could strike into another path, she was\novertaken by Wickham.\n\n\"I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?\" said he,\nas he joined her.\n\n\"You certainly do,\" she replied with a smile; \"but it does not follow\nthat the interruption must be unwelcome.\"\n\n\"I should be sorry indeed, if it were. _We_ were always good friends;\nand now we are better.\"\n\n\"True. Are the others coming out?\"\n\n\"I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to\nMeryton. And so, my dear sister, I find from our uncle and aunt, that\nyou have actually seen Pemberley.\"\n\nShe replied in the affirmative.\n\n\"I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much\nfor me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the\nold housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of\nme. But of course she did not mention my name to you.\"\n\n\"Yes, she did.\"\n\n\"And what did she say?\"\n\n\"That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had--not turned\nout well. At such a distance as _that_, you know, things are strangely\nmisrepresented.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had\nsilenced him; but he soon afterwards said,\n\n\"I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other\nseveral times. I wonder what he can be doing there.\"\n\n\"Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh,\" said\nElizabeth. \"It must be something particular, to take him there at this\ntime of year.\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I\nunderstood from the Gardiners that you had.\"\n\n\"Yes; he introduced us to his sister.\"\n\n\"And do you like her?\"\n\n\"Very much.\"\n\n\"I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year\nor two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad\nyou liked her. I hope she will turn out well.\"\n\n\"I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age.\"\n\n\"Did you go by the village of Kympton?\"\n\n\"I do not recollect that we did.\"\n\n\"I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have had. A\nmost delightful place!--Excellent Parsonage House! It would have suited\nme in every respect.\"\n\n\"How should you have liked making sermons?\"\n\n\"Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty, and\nthe exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to\nrepine;--but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The\nquiet, the retirement of such a life, would have answered all my ideas\nof happiness! But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the\ncircumstance, when you were in Kent?\"\n\n\"I _have_ heard from authority, which I thought _as good_, that it was\nleft you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron.\"\n\n\"You have. Yes, there was something in _that_; I told you so from the\nfirst, you may remember.\"\n\n\"I _did_ hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making was not so\npalatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you actually\ndeclared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business\nhad been compromised accordingly.\"\n\n\"You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember\nwhat I told you on that point, when first we talked of it.\"\n\nThey were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked fast\nto get rid of him; and unwilling for her sister's sake, to provoke him,\nshe only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile,\n\n\"Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let us\nquarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of one\nmind.\"\n\nShe held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry, though\nhe hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n\nMr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation, that he\nnever again distressed himself, or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth,\nby introducing the subject of it; and she was pleased to find that she\nhad said enough to keep him quiet.\n\nThe day of his and Lydia's departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet was\nforced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means\nentered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle, was likely to\ncontinue at least a twelvemonth.\n\n\"Oh! my dear Lydia,\" she cried, \"when shall we meet again?\"\n\n\"Oh, lord! I don't know. Not these two or three years perhaps.\"\n\n\"Write to me very often, my dear.\"\n\n\"As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for\nwriting. My sisters may write to _me_. They will have nothing else to\ndo.\"\n\nMr. Wickham's adieus were much more affectionate than his wife's. He\nsmiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.\n\n\"He is as fine a fellow,\" said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of\nthe house, \"as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to us\nall. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas\nhimself, to produce a more valuable son-in-law.\"\n\nThe loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days.\n\n\"I often think,\" said she, \"that there is nothing so bad as parting with\none's friends. One seems so forlorn without them.\"\n\n\"This is the consequence you see, Madam, of marrying a daughter,\" said\nElizabeth. \"It must make you better satisfied that your other four are\nsingle.\"\n\n\"It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is married;\nbut only because her husband's regiment happens to be so far off. If\nthat had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon.\"\n\nBut the spiritless condition which this event threw her into, was\nshortly relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope, by\nan article of news, which then began to be in circulation. The\nhousekeeper at Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the\narrival of her master, who was coming down in a day or two, to shoot\nthere for several weeks. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She\nlooked at Jane, and smiled, and shook her head by turns.\n\n\"Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister,\" (for Mrs.\nPhilips first brought her the news.) \"Well, so much the better. Not that\nI care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am sure\n_I_ never want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome to\ncome to Netherfield, if he likes it. And who knows what _may_ happen?\nBut that is nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to\nmention a word about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?\"\n\n\"You may depend on it,\" replied the other, \"for Mrs. Nicholls was in\nMeryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose\nto know the truth of it; and she told me that it was certain true. He\ncomes down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was\ngoing to the butcher's, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat on\nWednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks, just fit to be\nkilled.\"\n\nMiss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming, without changing\ncolour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to\nElizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said,\n\n\"I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the present\nreport; and I know I appeared distressed. But don't imagine it was from\nany silly cause. I was only confused for the moment, because I felt\nthat I _should_ be looked at. I do assure you, that the news does not\naffect me either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he\ncomes alone; because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid\nof _myself_, but I dread other people's remarks.\"\n\nElizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him in\nDerbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming there, with no\nother view than what was acknowledged; but she still thought him partial\nto Jane, and she wavered as to the greater probability of his coming\nthere _with_ his friend's permission, or being bold enough to come\nwithout it.\n\n\"Yet it is hard,\" she sometimes thought, \"that this poor man cannot come\nto a house, which he has legally hired, without raising all this\nspeculation! I _will_ leave him to himself.\"\n\nIn spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be her\nfeelings, in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily\nperceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed,\nmore unequal, than she had often seen them.\n\nThe subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their parents,\nabout a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.\n\n\"As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear,\" said Mrs. Bennet, \"you\nwill wait on him of course.\"\n\n\"No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised if I\nwent to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it ended in\nnothing, and I will not be sent on a fool's errand again.\"\n\nHis wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention\nwould be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his returning to\nNetherfield.\n\n\"'Tis an etiquette I despise,\" said he. \"If he wants our society, let\nhim seek it. He knows where we live. I will not spend _my_ hours in\nrunning after my neighbours every time they go away, and come back\nagain.\"\n\n\"Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do not\nwait on him. But, however, that shan't prevent my asking him to dine\nhere, I am determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon.\nThat will make thirteen with ourselves, so there will be just room at\ntable for him.\"\n\nConsoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her\nhusband's incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that her\nneighbours might all see Mr. Bingley in consequence of it, before _they_\ndid. As the day of his arrival drew near,\n\n\"I begin to be sorry that he comes at all,\" said Jane to her sister. \"It\nwould be nothing; I could see him with perfect indifference, but I can\nhardly bear to hear it thus perpetually talked of. My mother means well;\nbut she does not know, no one can know how much I suffer from what she\nsays. Happy shall I be, when his stay at Netherfield is over!\"\n\n\"I wish I could say any thing to comfort you,\" replied Elizabeth; \"but\nit is wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the usual\nsatisfaction of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied me, because\nyou have always so much.\"\n\nMr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of servants,\ncontrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the period of anxiety\nand fretfulness on her side, might be as long as it could. She counted\nthe days that must intervene before their invitation could be sent;\nhopeless of seeing him before. But on the third morning after his\narrival in Hertfordshire, she saw him from her dressing-room window,\nenter the paddock, and ride towards the house.\n\nHer daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane resolutely\nkept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother, went\nto the window--she looked,--she saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat down\nagain by her sister.\n\n\"There is a gentleman with him, mamma,\" said Kitty; \"who can it be?\"\n\n\"Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do not\nknow.\"\n\n\"La!\" replied Kitty, \"it looks just like that man that used to be with\nhim before. Mr. what's his name. That tall, proud man.\"\n\n\"Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!--and so it does I vow. Well, any friend of\nMr. Bingley's will always be welcome here to be sure; but else I must\nsay that I hate the very sight of him.\"\n\nJane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little\nof their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness\nwhich must attend her sister, in seeing him almost for the first time\nafter receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable\nenough. Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and their\nmother talked on, of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be\ncivil to him only as Mr. Bingley's friend, without being heard by either\nof them. But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be\nsuspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew Mrs.\nGardiner's letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him.\nTo Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she had refused, and\nwhose merit she had undervalued; but to her own more extensive\ninformation, he was the person, to whom the whole family were indebted\nfor the first of benefits, and whom she regarded herself with an\ninterest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and just, as\nwhat Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his coming--at his\ncoming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again,\nwas almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing his altered\nbehaviour in Derbyshire.\n\nThe colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half a\nminute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to\nher eyes, as she thought for that space of time, that his affection and\nwishes must still be unshaken. But she would not be secure.\n\n\"Let me first see how he behaves,\" said she; \"it will then be early\nenough for expectation.\"\n\nShe sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without daring to\nlift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of her\nsister, as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little\npaler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the\ngentlemen's appearing, her colour increased; yet she received them with\ntolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any\nsymptom of resentment, or any unnecessary complaisance.\n\nElizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down\nagain to her work, with an eagerness which it did not often command. She\nhad ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious as usual; and\nshe thought, more as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, than as\nshe had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother's\npresence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but\nnot an improbable, conjecture.\n\nBingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period\nsaw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs.\nBennet with a degree of civility, which made her two daughters ashamed,\nespecially when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of\nher curtsey and address to his friend.\n\nElizabeth particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the latter the\npreservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy, was\nhurt and distressed to a most painful degree by a distinction so ill\napplied.\n\nDarcy, after enquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a question\nwhich she could not answer without confusion, said scarcely any thing.\nHe was not seated by her; perhaps that was the reason of his silence;\nbut it had not been so in Derbyshire. There he had talked to her\nfriends, when he could not to herself. But now several minutes elapsed,\nwithout bringing the sound of his voice; and when occasionally, unable\nto resist the impulse of curiosity, she raised her eyes to his face, she\nas often found him looking at Jane, as at herself, and frequently on no\nobject but the ground. More thoughtfulness, and less anxiety to please\nthan when they last met, were plainly expressed. She was disappointed,\nand angry with herself for being so.\n\n\"Could I expect it to be otherwise!\" said she. \"Yet why did he come?\"\n\nShe was in no humour for conversation with any one but himself; and to\nhim she had hardly courage to speak.\n\nShe enquired after his sister, but could do no more.\n\n\"It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away,\" said Mrs. Bennet.\n\nHe readily agreed to it.\n\n\"I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People _did_ say,\nyou meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas; but, however, I hope\nit is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood,\nsince you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled. And one of my\nown daughters. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you must have\nseen it in the papers. It was in the Times and the Courier, I know;\nthough it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, 'Lately,\nGeorge Wickham, Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,' without there being a\nsyllable said of her father, or the place where she lived, or any thing.\nIt was my brother Gardiner's drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to\nmake such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?\"\n\nBingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth\ndared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could\nnot tell.\n\n\"It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married,\"\ncontinued her mother, \"but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very\nhard to have her taken such a way from me. They are gone down to\nNewcastle, a place quite northward, it seems, and there they are to\nstay, I do not know how long. His regiment is there; for I suppose you\nhave heard of his leaving the ----shire, and of his being gone into the\nregulars. Thank Heaven! he has _some_ friends, though perhaps not so\nmany as he deserves.\"\n\nElizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such misery\nof shame, that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew from her,\nhowever, the exertion of speaking, which nothing else had so effectually\ndone before; and she asked Bingley, whether he meant to make any stay in\nthe country at present. A few weeks, he believed.\n\n\"When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley,\" said her mother,\n\"I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you please, on Mr.\nBennet's manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you, and\nwill save all the best of the covies for you.\"\n\nElizabeth's misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious\nattention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present, as had\nflattered them a year ago, every thing, she was persuaded, would be\nhastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant she felt,\nthat years of happiness could not make Jane or herself amends, for\nmoments of such painful confusion.\n\n\"The first wish of my heart,\" said she to herself, \"is never more to be\nin company with either of them. Their society can afford no pleasure,\nthat will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me never see either\none or the other again!\"\n\nYet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no\ncompensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from observing\nhow much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the admiration of her\nformer lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little;\nbut every five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He\nfound her as handsome as she had been last year; as good natured, and as\nunaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no\ndifference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded\nthat she talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged,\nthat she did not always know when she was silent.\n\nWhen the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her\nintended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at\nLongbourn in a few days time.\n\n\"You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley,\" she added, \"for when\nyou went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with\nus, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure\nyou, I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep\nyour engagement.\"\n\nBingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of\nhis concern, at having been prevented by business. They then went away.\n\nMrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine\nthere, that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did\nnot think any thing less than two courses, could be good enough for a\nman, on whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and\npride of one who had ten thousand a-year.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n\nAs soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits;\nor in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that\nmust deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her.\n\n\"Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,\" said she,\n\"did he come at all?\"\n\nShe could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.\n\n\"He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when\nhe was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If\nhe no longer cares for me, why silent? Teazing, teazing, man! I will\nthink no more about him.\"\n\nHer resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach\nof her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look, which shewed her\nbetter satisfied with their visitors, than Elizabeth.\n\n\"Now,\" said she, \"that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly\neasy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by\nhis coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly\nseen, that on both sides, we meet only as common and indifferent\nacquaintance.\"\n\n\"Yes, very indifferent indeed,\" said Elizabeth, laughingly. \"Oh, Jane,\ntake care.\"\n\n\"My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger now.\"\n\n\"I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with\nyou as ever.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThey did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs. Bennet, in\nthe meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes, which the good\nhumour, and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour's visit, had\nrevived.\n\nOn Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two,\nwho were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their punctuality as\nsportsmen, were in very good time. When they repaired to the\ndining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take\nthe place, which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by\nher sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore to\ninvite him to sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to\nhesitate; but Jane happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was\ndecided. He placed himself by her.\n\nElizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend. He\nbore it with noble indifference, and she would have imagined that\nBingley had received his sanction to be happy, had she not seen his eyes\nlikewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing\nalarm.\n\nHis behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as shewed an\nadmiration of her, which, though more guarded than formerly, persuaded\nElizabeth, that if left wholly to himself, Jane's happiness, and his\nown, would be speedily secured. Though she dared not depend upon the\nconsequence, she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It\ngave her all the animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in\nno cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her, as the table\ncould divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little\nsuch a situation would give pleasure to either, or make either appear to\nadvantage. She was not near enough to hear any of their discourse, but\nshe could see how seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and\ncold was their manner, whenever they did. Her mother's ungraciousness,\nmade the sense of what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth's mind;\nand she would, at times, have given any thing to be privileged to tell\nhim, that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of\nthe family.\n\nShe was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity of\nbringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not pass away\nwithout enabling them to enter into something more of conversation, than\nthe mere ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious and\nuneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room, before the\ngentlemen came, was wearisome and dull to a degree, that almost made her\nuncivil. She looked forward to their entrance, as the point on which all\nher chance of pleasure for the evening must depend.\n\n\"If he does not come to me, _then_,\" said she, \"I shall give him up for\never.\"\n\nThe gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have\nanswered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the table,\nwhere Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee,\nin so close a confederacy, that there was not a single vacancy near her,\nwhich would admit of a chair. And on the gentlemen's approaching, one of\nthe girls moved closer to her than ever, and said, in a whisper,\n\n\"The men shan't come and part us, I am determined. We want none of them;\ndo we?\"\n\nDarcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed him with\nher eyes, envied every one to whom he spoke, had scarcely patience\nenough to help anybody to coffee; and then was enraged against herself\nfor being so silly!\n\n\"A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish enough to\nexpect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex, who would not\nprotest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman?\nThere is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings!\"\n\nShe was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his coffee cup\nhimself; and she seized the opportunity of saying,\n\n\"Is your sister at Pemberley still?\"\n\n\"Yes, she will remain there till Christmas.\"\n\n\"And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to Scarborough,\nthese three weeks.\"\n\nShe could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to converse\nwith her, he might have better success. He stood by her, however, for\nsome minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young lady's whispering\nto Elizabeth again, he walked away.\n\nWhen the tea-things were removed, and the card tables placed, the ladies\nall rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined by him, when\nall her views were overthrown, by seeing him fall a victim to her\nmother's rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated\nwith the rest of the party. She now lost every expectation of pleasure.\nThey were confined for the evening at different tables, and she had\nnothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side\nof the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.\n\nMrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to\nsupper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of the\nothers, and she had no opportunity of detaining them.\n\n\"Well girls,\" said she, as soon as they were left to themselves, \"What\nsay you to the day? I think every thing has passed off uncommonly well,\nI assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The\nvenison was roasted to a turn--and everybody said, they never saw so fat\na haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the\nLucas's last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges\nwere remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French\ncooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater\nbeauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And\nwhat do you think she said besides? 'Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her\nat Netherfield at last.' She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good\na creature as ever lived--and her nieces are very pretty behaved girls,\nand not at all handsome: I like them prodigiously.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen enough of\nBingley's behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she would get him at\nlast; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy\nhumour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at\nnot seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals.\n\n\"It has been a very agreeable day,\" said Miss Bennet to Elizabeth. \"The\nparty seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we\nmay often meet again.\"\n\nElizabeth smiled.\n\n\"Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me. I\nassure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an\nagreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am\nperfectly satisfied from what his manners now are, that he never had any\ndesign of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with\ngreater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally\npleasing than any other man.\"\n\n\"You are very cruel,\" said her sister, \"you will not let me smile, and\nare provoking me to it every moment.\"\n\n\"How hard it is in some cases to be believed!\"\n\n\"And how impossible in others!\"\n\n\"But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I\nacknowledge?\"\n\n\"That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to\ninstruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive\nme; and if you persist in indifference, do not make _me_ your\nconfidante.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\n\nA few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His\nfriend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in\nten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably\ngood spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many\nexpressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere.\n\n\"Next time you call,\" said she, \"I hope we shall be more lucky.\"\n\nHe should be particularly happy at any time, &c. &c.; and if she would\ngive him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them.\n\n\"Can you come to-morrow?\"\n\nYes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was\naccepted with alacrity.\n\nHe came, and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them\ndressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing\ngown, and with her hair half finished, crying out,\n\n\"My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is\ncome.--He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss\nBennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss\nLizzy's hair.\"\n\n\"We will be down as soon as we can,\" said Jane; \"but I dare say Kitty is\nforwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago.\"\n\n\"Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick!\nwhere is your sash my dear?\"\n\nBut when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down\nwithout one of her sisters.\n\nThe same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the\nevening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his\ncustom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the\nfive being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at\nElizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any\nimpression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last\nKitty did, she very innocently said, \"What is the matter mamma? What do\nyou keep winking at me for? What am I to do?\"\n\n\"Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you.\" She then sat still five\nminutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she\nsuddenly got up, and saying to Kitty,\n\n\"Come here, my love, I want to speak to you,\" took her out of the room.\nJane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth, which spoke her distress at\nsuch premeditation, and her intreaty that _she_ would not give into it.\nIn a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door and called out,\n\n\"Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you.\"\n\nElizabeth was forced to go.\n\n\"We may as well leave them by themselves you know;\" said her mother as\nsoon as she was in the hall. \"Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in\nmy dressing-room.\"\n\nElizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained\nquietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned\ninto the drawing-room.\n\nMrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every\nthing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His\nease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their\nevening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the\nmother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command\nof countenance, particularly grateful to the daughter.\n\nHe scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went\naway, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs.\nBennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband.\n\nAfter this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed\nbetween the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in\nthe happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy\nreturned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably\npersuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's\nconcurrence.\n\nBingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the\nmorning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more\nagreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption\nor folly in Bingley, that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him\ninto silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric than the\nother had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner;\nand in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get\nevery body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter\nto write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea;\nfor as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be\nwanted to counteract her mother's schemes.\n\nBut on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she\nsaw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother\nhad been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her\nsister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in\nearnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of\nboth as they hastily turned round, and moved away from each other, would\nhave told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but _her's_ she\nthought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and\nElizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as\nwell as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few\nwords to her sister, ran out of the room.\n\nJane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give\npleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest\nemotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.\n\n\"'Tis too much!\" she added, \"by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh!\nwhy is not every body as happy?\"\n\nElizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a\ndelight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of\nkindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not\nallow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be\nsaid, for the present.\n\n\"I must go instantly to my mother;\" she cried. \"I would not on any\naccount trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it\nfrom any one but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to\nknow that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear\nfamily! how shall I bear so much happiness!\"\n\nShe then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the\ncard party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty.\n\nElizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease\nwith which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many\nprevious months of suspense and vexation.\n\n\"And this,\" said she, \"is the end of all his friend's anxious\ncircumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the\nhappiest, wisest, most reasonable end!\"\n\nIn a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her\nfather had been short and to the purpose.\n\n\"Where is your sister?\" said he hastily, as he opened the door.\n\n\"With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment I dare say.\"\n\nHe then shut the door, and coming up to her, claimed the good wishes and\naffection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her\ndelight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with\ngreat cordiality; and then till her sister came down, she had to listen\nto all he had to say, of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections;\nand in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his\nexpectations of felicity, to be rationally founded, because they had for\nbasis the excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of\nJane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and\nhimself.\n\nIt was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of\nMiss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as\nmade her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped\nher turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent, or\nspeak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings,\nthough she talked to Bingley of nothing else, for half an hour; and when\nMr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly shewed\nhow really happy he was.\n\nNot a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their\nvisitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he\nturned to his daughter and said,\n\n\"Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman.\"\n\nJane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his\ngoodness.\n\n\"You are a good girl;\" he replied, \"and I have great pleasure in\nthinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your\ndoing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are\neach of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so\neasy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will\nalways exceed your income.\"\n\n\"I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters, would be\nunpardonable in _me_.\"\n\n\"Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet,\" cried his wife, \"what are you\ntalking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a-year, and very likely\nmore.\" Then addressing her daughter, \"Oh! my dear, dear Jane, I am so\nhappy! I am sure I sha'nt get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it\nwould be. I always said it must be so, at last. I was sure you could not\nbe so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when\nhe first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was\nthat you should come together. Oh! he is the handsomest young man that\never was seen!\"\n\nWickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition her\nfavourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her younger\nsisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness\nwhich she might in future be able to dispense.\n\nMary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and Kitty\nbegged very hard for a few balls there every winter.\n\nBingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at Longbourn;\ncoming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after\nsupper; unless when some barbarous neighbour, who could not be enough\ndetested, had given him an invitation to dinner, which he thought\nhimself obliged to accept.\n\nElizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister; for\nwhile he was present, Jane had no attention to bestow on any one else;\nbut she found herself considerably useful to both of them, in those\nhours of separation that must sometimes occur. In the absence of Jane,\nhe always attached himself to Elizabeth, for the pleasure of talking of\nher; and when Bingley was gone, Jane constantly sought the same means of\nrelief.\n\n\"He has made me so happy,\" said she, one evening, \"by telling me, that\nhe was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I had not\nbelieved it possible.\"\n\n\"I suspected as much,\" replied Elizabeth. \"But how did he account for\nit?\"\n\n\"It must have been his sister's doing. They were certainly no friends to\nhis acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he might have\nchosen so much more advantageously in many respects. But when they see,\nas I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will\nlearn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though we\ncan never be what we once were to each other.\"\n\n\"That is the most unforgiving speech,\" said Elizabeth, \"that I ever\nheard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again\nthe dupe of Miss Bingley's pretended regard.\"\n\n\"Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last November,\nhe really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of _my_ being\nindifferent, would have prevented his coming down again!\"\n\n\"He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of his\nmodesty.\"\n\nThis naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his diffidence, and\nthe little value he put on his own good qualities.\n\nElizabeth was pleased to find, that he had not betrayed the interference\nof his friend, for, though Jane had the most generous and forgiving\nheart in the world, she knew it was a circumstance which must prejudice\nher against him.\n\n\"I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!\" cried\nJane. \"Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed\nabove them all! If I could but see _you_ as happy! If there _were_ but\nsuch another man for you!\"\n\n\"If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy as\nyou. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your\nhappiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and, perhaps, if I have very\ngood luck, I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time.\"\n\nThe situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be long a\nsecret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Philips, and\n_she_ ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all her\nneighbours in Meryton.\n\nThe Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the\nworld, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run away,\nthey had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\n\nOne morning, about a week after Bingley's engagement with Jane had been\nformed, as he and the females of the family were sitting together in the\ndining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window, by the\nsound of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and four driving up the\nlawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors, and besides, the\nequipage did not answer to that of any of their neighbours. The horses\nwere post; and neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who\npreceded it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that\nsomebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet to avoid\nthe confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the\nshrubbery. They both set off, and the conjectures of the remaining three\ncontinued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown\nopen, and their visitor entered. It was lady Catherine de Bourgh.\n\nThey were of course all intending to be surprised; but their\nastonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the part of Mrs.\nBennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly unknown to them, even\ninferior to what Elizabeth felt.\n\nShe entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious, made no\nother reply to Elizabeth's salutation, than a slight inclination of the\nhead, and sat down without saying a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her\nname to her mother, on her ladyship's entrance, though no request of\nintroduction had been made.\n\nMrs. Bennet all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such\nhigh importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After sitting\nfor a moment in silence, she said very stiffly to Elizabeth,\n\n\"I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady I suppose is your mother.\"\n\nElizabeth replied very concisely that she was.\n\n\"And _that_ I suppose is one of your sisters.\"\n\n\"Yes, madam,\" said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to a lady Catherine.\n\"She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all, is lately married,\nand my eldest is somewhere about the grounds, walking with a young man,\nwho I believe will soon become a part of the family.\"\n\n\"You have a very small park here,\" returned Lady Catherine after a short\nsilence.\n\n\"It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say; but I\nassure you it is much larger than Sir William Lucas's.\"\n\n\"This must be a most inconvenient sitting room for the evening, in\nsummer; the windows are full west.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner; and then\nadded,\n\n\"May I take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left Mr. and\nMrs. Collins well.\"\n\n\"Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last.\"\n\nElizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her from\nCharlotte, as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But no\nletter appeared, and she was completely puzzled.\n\nMrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take some\nrefreshment; but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not very politely,\ndeclined eating any thing; and then rising up, said to Elizabeth,\n\n\"Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness\non one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you\nwill favour me with your company.\"\n\n\"Go, my dear,\" cried her mother, \"and shew her ladyship about the\ndifferent walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage.\"\n\nElizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her parasol,\nattended her noble guest down stairs. As they passed through the hall,\nLady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and\ndrawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be decent\nlooking rooms, walked on.\n\nHer carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her\nwaiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk\nthat led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for\nconversation with a woman, who was now more than usually insolent and\ndisagreeable.\n\n\"How could I ever think her like her nephew?\" said she, as she looked in\nher face.\n\nAs soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the following\nmanner:--\n\n\"You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my\njourney hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I\ncome.\"\n\nElizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.\n\n\"Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able to account\nfor the honour of seeing you here.\"\n\n\"Miss Bennet,\" replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, \"you ought to\nknow, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere _you_ may\nchoose to be, you shall not find _me_ so. My character has ever been\ncelebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such\nmoment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most\nalarming nature, reached me two days ago. I was told, that not only your\nsister was on the point of being most advantageously married, but that\n_you_, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would, in all likelihood, be soon\nafterwards united to my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I\n_know_ it must be a scandalous falsehood; though I would not injure him\nso much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on\nsetting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to\nyou.\"\n\n\"If you believed it impossible to be true,\" said Elizabeth, colouring\nwith astonishment and disdain, \"I wonder you took the trouble of coming\nso far. What could your ladyship propose by it?\"\n\n\"At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted.\"\n\n\"Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family,\" said Elizabeth,\ncoolly, \"will be rather a confirmation of it; if, indeed, such a report\nis in existence.\"\n\n\"If! do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been\nindustriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a\nreport is spread abroad?\"\n\n\"I never heard that it was.\"\n\n\"And can you likewise declare, that there is no _foundation_ for it?\"\n\n\"I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. _You_\nmay ask questions, which _I_ shall not choose to answer.\"\n\n\"This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied. Has\nhe, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?\"\n\n\"Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible.\"\n\n\"It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of his\nreason. But _your_ arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation,\nhave made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You\nmay have drawn him in.\"\n\n\"If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.\"\n\n\"Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such\nlanguage as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world,\nand am entitled to know all his dearest concerns.\"\n\n\"But you are not entitled to know _mine_; nor will such behaviour as\nthis, ever induce me to be explicit.\"\n\n\"Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the\npresumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy is\nengaged to _my daughter_. Now what have you to say?\"\n\n\"Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will\nmake an offer to me.\"\n\nLady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied,\n\n\"The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy,\nthey have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of\n_his_ mother, as well as of her's. While in their cradles, we planned\nthe union: and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would\nbe accomplished, in their marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of\ninferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to\nthe family! Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends? To his\ntacit engagement with Miss De Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of\npropriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say, that from his\nearliest hours he was destined for his cousin?\"\n\n\"Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is no\nother objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not be\nkept from it, by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to marry\nMiss De Bourgh. You both did as much as you could, in planning the\nmarriage. Its completion depended on others. If Mr. Darcy is neither by\nhonour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make\nanother choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?\"\n\n\"Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it. Yes, Miss\nBennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or\nfriends, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will\nbe censured, slighted, and despised, by every one connected with him.\nYour alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned\nby any of us.\"\n\n\"These are heavy misfortunes,\" replied Elizabeth. \"But the wife of Mr.\nDarcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily\nattached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause\nto repine.\"\n\n\"Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude\nfor my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that\nscore?\n\n\"Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came here\nwith the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will I be\ndissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person's whims.\nI have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment.\"\n\n\"_That_ will make your ladyship's situation at present more pitiable;\nbut it will have no effect on _me_.\"\n\n\"I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and my\nnephew are formed for each other. They are descended on the maternal\nside, from the same noble line; and, on the father's, from respectable,\nhonourable, and ancient, though untitled families. Their fortune on both\nsides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of\nevery member of their respective houses; and what is to divide them? The\nupstart pretensions of a young woman without family, connections, or\nfortune. Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If you\nwere sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere,\nin which you have been brought up.\"\n\n\"In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that\nsphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman's daughter; so far we are\nequal.\"\n\n\"True. You _are_ a gentleman's daughter. But who was your mother? Who\nare your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their\ncondition.\"\n\n\"Whatever my connections may be,\" said Elizabeth, \"if your nephew does\nnot object to them, they can be nothing to _you_.\"\n\n\"Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?\"\n\nThough Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady\nCatherine, have answered this question; she could not but say, after a\nmoment's deliberation,\n\n\"I am not.\"\n\nLady Catherine seemed pleased.\n\n\"And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?\"\n\n\"I will make no promise of the kind.\"\n\n\"Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more\nreasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that I\nwill ever recede. I shall not go away, till you have given me the\nassurance I require.\"\n\n\"And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into\nanything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry\nyour daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise, make\n_their_ marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to\nme, would _my_ refusing to accept his hand, make him wish to bestow it\non his cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with\nwhich you have supported this extraordinary application, have been as\nfrivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my\ncharacter, if you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these.\nHow far your nephew might approve of your interference in _his_ affairs,\nI cannot tell; but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in\nmine. I must beg, therefore, to be importuned no farther on the\nsubject.\"\n\n\"Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the\nobjections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I am no\nstranger to the particulars of your youngest sister's infamous\nelopement. I know it all; that the young man's marrying her, was a\npatched-up business, at the expence of your father and uncles. And is\n_such_ a girl to be my nephew's sister? Is _her_ husband, is the son of\nhis late father's steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth!--of what\nare you thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?\"\n\n\"You can _now_ have nothing farther to say,\" she resentfully answered.\n\"You have insulted me, in every possible method. I must beg to return to\nthe house.\"\n\nAnd she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they turned\nback. Her ladyship was highly incensed.\n\n\"You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew!\nUnfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you,\nmust disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?\"\n\n\"Lady Catherine, I have nothing farther to say. You know my sentiments.\"\n\n\"You are then resolved to have him?\"\n\n\"I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner,\nwhich will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without\nreference to _you_, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me.\"\n\n\"It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the\nclaims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in\nthe opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world.\"\n\n\"Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude,\" replied Elizabeth, \"have any\npossible claim on me, in the present instance. No principle of either,\nwould be violated by my marriage with Mr. Darcy. And with regard to the\nresentment of his family, or the indignation of the world, if the former\n_were_ excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment's\nconcern--and the world in general would have too much sense to join in\nthe scorn.\"\n\n\"And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very well. I\nshall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet, that your\nambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped to find you\nreasonable; but depend upon it I will carry my point.\"\n\nIn this manner Lady Catherine talked on, till they were at the door of\nthe carriage, when turning hastily round, she added,\n\n\"I take no leave of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your\nmother. You deserve no such attention. I am most seriously displeased.\"\n\nElizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade her\nladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it herself. She\nheard the carriage drive away as she proceeded up stairs. Her mother\nimpatiently met her at the door of the dressing-room, to ask why Lady\nCatherine would not come in again and rest herself.\n\n\"She did not choose it,\" said her daughter, \"she would go.\"\n\n\"She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was prodigiously\ncivil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the Collinses were well.\nShe is on her road somewhere, I dare say, and so passing through\nMeryton, thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had\nnothing particular to say to you, Lizzy?\"\n\nElizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for to\nacknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n\nThe discomposure of spirits, which this extraordinary visit threw\nElizabeth into, could not be easily overcome; nor could she for many\nhours, learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine it\nappeared, had actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings,\nfor the sole purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr.\nDarcy. It was a rational scheme to be sure! but from what the report of\ntheir engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine;\ntill she recollected that _his_ being the intimate friend of Bingley,\nand _her_ being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the\nexpectation of one wedding, made every body eager for another, to supply\nthe idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her\nsister must bring them more frequently together. And her neighbours at\nLucas lodge, therefore, (for through their communication with the\nCollinses, the report she concluded had reached lady Catherine) had only\nset _that_ down, as almost certain and immediate, which _she_ had looked\nforward to as possible, at some future time.\n\nIn revolving lady Catherine's expressions, however, she could not help\nfeeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her persisting\nin this interference. From what she had said of her resolution to\nprevent their marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she must meditate\nan application to her nephew; and how _he_ might take a similar\nrepresentation of the evils attached to a connection with her, she dared\nnot pronounce. She knew not the exact degree of his affection for his\naunt, or his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose\nthat he thought much higher of her ladyship than _she_ could do; and it\nwas certain, that in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with _one_,\nwhose immediate connections were so unequal to his own, his aunt would\naddress him on his weakest side. With his notions of dignity, he would\nprobably feel that the arguments, which to Elizabeth had appeared weak\nand ridiculous, contained much good sense and solid reasoning.\n\nIf he had been wavering before, as to what he should do, which had often\nseemed likely, the advice and intreaty of so near a relation might\nsettle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy, as dignity\nunblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady\nCatherine might see him in her way through town; and his engagement to\nBingley of coming again to Netherfield must give way.\n\n\"If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise, should come to\nhis friend within a few days,\" she added, \"I shall know how to\nunderstand it. I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of\nhis constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting me, when he might\nhave obtained my affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him\nat all.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their visitor had\nbeen, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied it, with the same\nkind of supposition, which had appeased Mrs. Bennet's curiosity; and\nElizabeth was spared from much teazing on the subject.\n\nThe next morning, as she was going down stairs, she was met by her\nfather, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.\n\n\"Lizzy,\" said he, \"I was going to look for you; come into my room.\"\n\nShe followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had to tell\nher, was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner\nconnected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it might\nbe from lady Catherine; and she anticipated with dismay all the\nconsequent explanations.\n\nShe followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat down. He\nthen said,\n\n\"I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me\nexceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its\ncontents. I did not know before, that I had _two_ daughters on the brink\nof matrimony. Let me congratulate you, on a very important conquest.\"\n\nThe colour now rushed into Elizabeth's cheeks in the instantaneous\nconviction of its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the aunt;\nand she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained\nhimself at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to\nherself; when her father continued,\n\n\"You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such matters\nas these; but I think I may defy even _your_ sagacity, to discover the\nname of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins.\"\n\n\"From Mr. Collins! and what can _he_ have to say?\"\n\n\"Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with\ncongratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of\nwhich it seems he has been told, by some of the good-natured, gossiping\nLucases. I shall not sport with your impatience, by reading what he says\non that point. What relates to yourself, is as follows. \"Having thus\noffered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on\nthis happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another:\nof which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter\nElizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after\nher elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate,\nmay be reasonably looked up to, as one of the most illustrious\npersonages in this land.\"\n\n\"Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this?\" \"This young\ngentleman is blessed in a peculiar way, with every thing the heart of\nmortal can most desire,--splendid property, noble kindred, and extensive\npatronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin\nElizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur, by a precipitate\nclosure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be\ninclined to take immediate advantage of.\"\n\n\"Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out.\"\n\n\"My motive for cautioning you, is as follows. We have reason to imagine\nthat his aunt, lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with\na friendly eye.\"\n\n\"_Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_\nsurprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man, within\nthe circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie more\neffectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any\nwoman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at _you_ in\nhis life! It is admirable!\"\n\nElizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could only force\none most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so\nlittle agreeable to her.\n\n\"Are you not diverted?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes. Pray read on.\"\n\n\"After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last\nnight, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she\nfelt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that on the score of some\nfamily objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give her\nconsent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty\nto give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and\nher noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run\nhastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned.\" \"Mr.\nCollins moreover adds,\" \"I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia's sad\nbusiness has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their\nliving together before the marriage took place, should be so generally\nknown. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain\nfrom declaring my amazement, at hearing that you received the young\ncouple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an\nencouragement of vice; and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should\nvery strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them as\na christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their names\nto be mentioned in your hearing.\" \"_That_ is his notion of christian\nforgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his dear Charlotte's\nsituation, and his expectation of a young olive-branch. But, Lizzy, you\nlook as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be _Missish_, I\nhope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For what do we\nlive, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our\nturn?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" cried Elizabeth, \"I am excessively diverted. But it is so\nstrange!\"\n\n\"Yes--_that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man\nit would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference, and _your_\npointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate\nwriting, I would not give up Mr. Collins's correspondence for any\nconsideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving\nhim the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and\nhypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine\nabout this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?\"\n\nTo this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as it had\nbeen asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by his\nrepeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her\nfeelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when she\nwould rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her, by\nwhat he said of Mr. Darcy's indifference, and she could do nothing but\nwonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of\nhis seeing too _little_, she might have fancied too _much_.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\n\nInstead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, as\nElizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy\nwith him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine's\nvisit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time to\ntell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in\nmomentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed\ntheir all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the\nhabit of walking, Mary could never spare time, but the remaining five\nset off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to\noutstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy,\nwere to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty was\ntoo much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a\ndesperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same.\n\nThey walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon\nMaria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern,\nwhen Kitty left them, she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the\nmoment for her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was\nhigh, she immediately said,\n\n\"Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving\nrelief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding your's. I\ncan no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor\nsister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to\nacknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest\nof my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.\"\n\n\"I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,\" replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise\nand emotion, \"that you have ever been informed of what may, in a\nmistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs.\nGardiner was so little to be trusted.\"\n\n\"You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to\nme that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could\nnot rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again,\nin the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced\nyou to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the\nsake of discovering them.\"\n\n\"If you _will_ thank me,\" he replied, \"let it be for yourself alone.\nThat the wish of giving happiness to you, might add force to the other\ninducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your\n_family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe, I thought\nonly of _you_.\"\n\nElizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause,\nher companion added, \"You are too generous to trifle with me. If your\nfeelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. _My_\naffections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence\nme on this subject for ever.\"\n\nElizabeth feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of\nhis situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not\nvery fluently, gave him to understand, that her sentiments had undergone\nso material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make\nher receive with gratitude and pleasure, his present assurances. The\nhappiness which this reply produced, was such as he had probably never\nfelt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as\nwarmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth\nbeen able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the\nexpression of heart-felt delight, diffused over his face, became him;\nbut, though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of\nfeelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his\naffection every moment more valuable.\n\nThey walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to\nbe thought; and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She\nsoon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding\nto the efforts of his aunt, who _did_ call on him in her return through\nLondon, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the\nsubstance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on\nevery expression of the latter, which, in her ladyship's apprehension,\npeculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance, in the belief that\nsuch a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise from\nher nephew, which _she_ had refused to give. But, unluckily for her\nladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.\n\n\"It taught me to hope,\" said he, \"as I had scarcely ever allowed myself\nto hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain, that,\nhad you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have\nacknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly.\"\n\nElizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, \"Yes, you know enough of\nmy _frankness_ to believe me capable of _that_. After abusing you so\nabominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all\nyour relations.\"\n\n\"What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your\naccusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour\nto you at the time, had merited the severest reproof. It was\nunpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.\"\n\n\"We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that\nevening,\" said Elizabeth. \"The conduct of neither, if strictly examined,\nwill be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved\nin civility.\"\n\n\"I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I\nthen said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of\nit, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your\nreproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: 'had you behaved in a\nmore gentleman-like manner.' Those were your words. You know not, you\ncan scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;--though it was some\ntime, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.\"\n\n\"I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an\nimpression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such\na way.\"\n\n\"I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper\nfeeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never\nforget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible\nway, that would induce you to accept me.\"\n\n\"Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at\nall. I assure you, that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it.\"\n\nDarcy mentioned his letter. \"Did it,\" said he, \"did it _soon_ make you\nthink better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its\ncontents?\"\n\nShe explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her\nformer prejudices had been removed.\n\n\"I knew,\" said he, \"that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was\nnecessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part\nespecially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the\npower of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might\njustly make you hate me.\"\n\n\"The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the\npreservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my\nopinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily\nchanged as that implies.\"\n\n\"When I wrote that letter,\" replied Darcy, \"I believed myself perfectly\ncalm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a\ndreadful bitterness of spirit.\"\n\n\"The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The\nadieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings\nof the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now so\nwidely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant\ncircumstance attending it, ought to be forgotten. You must learn some\nof my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you\npleasure.\"\n\n\"I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. _Your_\nretrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment\narising from them, is not of philosophy, but what is much better, of\nignorance. But with _me_, it is not so. Painful recollections will\nintrude, which cannot, which ought not to be repelled. I have been a\nselfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a\nchild I was taught what was _right_, but I was not taught to correct my\ntemper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride\nand conceit. Unfortunately an only son, (for many years an only _child_)\nI was spoilt by my parents, who though good themselves, (my father\nparticularly, all that was benevolent and amiable,) allowed, encouraged,\nalmost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyond\nmy own family circle, to think meanly of all the rest of the world, to\n_wish_ at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with\nmy own. Such I was, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I might\nstill have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not\nowe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most\nadvantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a\ndoubt of my reception. You shewed me how insufficient were all my\npretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.\"\n\n\"Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?\"\n\n\"Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be\nwishing, expecting my addresses.\"\n\n\"My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally I assure you.\nI never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead me wrong.\nHow you must have hated me after _that_ evening?\"\n\n\"Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began to take\na proper direction.\"\n\n\"I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me; when we met at\nPemberley. You blamed me for coming?\"\n\n\"No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise.\"\n\n\"Your surprise could not be greater than _mine_ in being noticed by you.\nMy conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I\nconfess that I did not expect to receive _more_ than my due.\"\n\n\"My object _then_,\" replied Darcy, \"was to shew you, by every civility\nin my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped\nto obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you\nsee that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes\nintroduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an\nhour after I had seen you.\"\n\nHe then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance, and of her\ndisappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally leading to\nthe cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution of\nfollowing her from Derbyshire in quest of her sister, had been formed\nbefore he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness\nthere, had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must\ncomprehend.\n\nShe expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject to\neach, to be dwelt on farther.\n\nAfter walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know\nany thing about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that\nit was time to be at home.\n\n\"What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!\" was a wonder which\nintroduced the discussion of _their_ affairs. Darcy was delighted with\ntheir engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information of\nit.\n\n\"I must ask whether you were surprised?\" said Elizabeth.\n\n\"Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.\"\n\n\"That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much.\" And\nthough he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much\nthe case.\n\n\"On the evening before my going to London,\" said he \"I made a confession\nto him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I told him of\nall that had occurred to make my former interference in his affairs,\nabsurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had the\nslightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself\nmistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent\nto him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was\nunabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together.\"\n\nElizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his\nfriend.\n\n\"Did you speak from your own observation,\" said she, \"when you told him\nthat my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?\"\n\n\"From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visits\nwhich I had lately made her here; and I was convinced of her affection.\"\n\n\"And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to\nhim.\"\n\n\"It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had\nprevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but\nhis reliance on mine, made every thing easy. I was obliged to confess\none thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not\nallow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months\nlast winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was\nangry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained\nin any doubt of your sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me\nnow.\"\n\nElizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful\nfriend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but she checked\nherself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laught at, and it\nwas rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley,\nwhich of course was to be inferior only to his own, he continued the\nconversation till they reached the house. In the hall they parted.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\n\n\"My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?\" was a question\nwhich Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she entered the room, and\nfrom all the others when they sat down to table. She had only to say in\nreply, that they had wandered about, till she was beyond her own\nknowledge. She coloured as she spoke; but neither that, nor any thing\nelse, awakened a suspicion of the truth.\n\nThe evening passed quietly, unmarked by any thing extraordinary. The\nacknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged were silent.\nDarcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth;\nand Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather _knew_ that she was happy,\nthan _felt_ herself to be so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment,\nthere were other evils before her. She anticipated what would be felt in\nthe family when her situation became known; she was aware that no one\nliked him but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a\n_dislike_ which not all his fortune and consequence might do away.\n\nAt night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far\nfrom Miss Bennet's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here.\n\n\"You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be!--engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no,\nyou shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible.\"\n\n\"This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on you; and\nI am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I am\nin earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we are\nengaged.\"\n\nJane looked at her doubtingly. \"Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much\nyou dislike him.\"\n\n\"You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot. Perhaps I\ndid not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases as these,\na good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever\nremember it myself.\"\n\nMiss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more\nseriously assured her of its truth.\n\n\"Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you,\" cried\nJane. \"My dear, dear Lizzy, I would--I do congratulate you--but are you\ncertain? forgive the question--are you quite certain that you can be\nhappy with him?\"\n\n\"There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already, that\nwe are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased,\nJane? Shall you like to have such a brother?\"\n\n\"Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more\ndelight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you\nreally love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do any thing rather than\nmarry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought\nto do?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do, when I\ntell you all.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Why, I must confess, that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am\nafraid you will be angry.\"\n\n\"My dearest sister, now _be_ be serious. I want to talk very seriously.\nLet me know every thing that I am to know, without delay. Will you tell\nme how long you have loved him?\"\n\n\"It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began.\nBut I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds\nat Pemberley.\"\n\nAnother intreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the\ndesired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances of\nattachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Bennet had nothing\nfarther to wish.\n\n\"Now I am quite happy,\" said she, \"for you will be as happy as myself. I\nalways had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you, I\nmust always have esteemed him; but now, as Bingley's friend and your\nhusband, there can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But\nLizzy, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you\ntell me of what passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know\nof it, to another, not to you.\"\n\nElizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling to\nmention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made\nher equally avoid the name of his friend. But now she would no longer\nconceal from her, his share in Lydia's marriage. All was acknowledged,\nand half the night spent in conversation.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Good gracious!\" cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the next\nmorning, \"if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here again with\nour dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always\ncoming here? I had no notion but he would go a shooting, or something or\nother, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him?\nLizzy, you must walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley's\nway.\"\n\nElizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal; yet\nwas really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an\nepithet.\n\nAs soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively, and\nshook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information;\nand he soon afterwards said aloud, \"Mr. Bennet, have you no more lanes\nhereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?\"\n\n\"I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty,\" said Mrs. Bennet, \"to walk\nto Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has\nnever seen the view.\"\n\n\"It may do very well for the others,\" replied Mr. Bingley; \"but I am\nsure it will be too much for Kitty. Wont it, Kitty?\"\n\nKitty owned that she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great\ncuriosity to see the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently\nconsented. As she went up stairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her,\nsaying,\n\n\"I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that\ndisagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind it: it is\nall for Jane's sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking to\nhim, except just now and then. So, do not put yourself to\ninconvenience.\"\n\nDuring their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet's consent should be\nasked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved to herself the\napplication for her mother's. She could not determine how her mother\nwould take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur\nwould be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man. But whether she\nwere violently set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it\nwas certain that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit to\nher sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear the\nfirst raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her\ndisapprobation.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library, she saw\nMr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on seeing it was\nextreme. She did not fear her father's opposition, but he was going to\nbe made unhappy, and that it should be through her means, that _she_,\nhis favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be\nfilling him with fears and regrets in disposing of her, was a wretched\nreflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when,\nlooking at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes\nhe approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while\npretending to admire her work, said in a whisper, \"Go to your father, he\nwants you in the library.\" She was gone directly.\n\nHer father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious.\n\"Lizzy,\" said he, \"what are you doing? Are you out of your senses, to be\naccepting this man? Have not you always hated him?\"\n\nHow earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been more\nreasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have spared her from\nexplanations and professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give;\nbut they were now necessary, and she assured him with some confusion, of\nher attachment to Mr. Darcy.\n\n\"Or in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich, to be\nsure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than Jane.\nBut will they make you happy?\"\n\n\"Have you any other objection,\" said Elizabeth, \"than your belief of my\nindifference?\"\n\n\"None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but\nthis would be nothing if you really liked him.\"\n\n\"I do, I do like him,\" she replied, with tears in her eyes, \"I love him.\nIndeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not\nknow what he really is; then pray do not pain me by speaking of him in\nsuch terms.\"\n\n\"Lizzy,\" said her father, \"I have given him my consent. He is the kind\nof man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse any thing, which he\ncondescended to ask. I now give it to _you_, if you are resolved on\nhaving him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know your\ndisposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor\nrespectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband; unless you looked\nup to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the\ngreatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape\ndiscredit and misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing\n_you_ unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are\nabout.\"\n\nElizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply;\nand at length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was really the\nobject of her choice, by explaining the gradual change which her\nestimation of him had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that\nhis affection was not the work of a day, but had stood the test of many\nmonths suspense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities, she\ndid conquer her father's incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.\n\n\"Well, my dear,\" said he, when she ceased speaking, \"I have no more to\nsay. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have parted with\nyou, my Lizzy, to any one less worthy.\"\n\nTo complete the favourable impression, she then told him what Mr. Darcy\nhad voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with astonishment.\n\n\"This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did every thing;\nmade up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow's debts, and got him\nhis commission! So much the better. It will save me a world of trouble\nand economy. Had it been your uncle's doing, I must and _would_ have\npaid him; but these violent young lovers carry every thing their own\nway. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow; he will rant and storm about\nhis love for you, and there will be an end of the matter.\"\n\nHe then recollected her embarrassment a few days before, on his reading\nMr. Collins's letter; and after laughing at her some time, allowed her\nat last to go--saying, as she quitted the room, \"If any young men come\nfor Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am quite at leisure.\"\n\nElizabeth's mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and, after\nhalf an hour's quiet reflection in her own room, she was able to join\nthe others with tolerable composure. Every thing was too recent for\ngaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away; there was no longer any\nthing material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity\nwould come in time.\n\nWhen her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she followed her,\nand made the important communication. Its effect was most\nextraordinary; for on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and\nunable to utter a syllable. Nor was it under many, many minutes, that\nshe could comprehend what she heard; though not in general backward to\ncredit what was for the advantage of her family, or that came in the\nshape of a lover to any of them. She began at length to recover, to\nfidget about in her chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless\nherself.\n\n\"Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy! Who would\nhave thought it! And is it really true? Oh! my sweetest Lizzy! how rich\nand how great you will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages\nyou will have! Jane's is nothing to it--nothing at all. I am so\npleased--so happy. Such a charming man!--so handsome! so tall!--Oh, my\ndear Lizzy! pray apologise for my having disliked him so much before. I\nhope he will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Every thing\nthat is charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh,\nLord! What will become of me. I shall go distracted.\"\n\nThis was enough to prove that her approbation need not be doubted: and\nElizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard only by herself,\nsoon went away. But before she had been three minutes in her own room,\nher mother followed her.\n\n\"My dearest child,\" she cried, \"I can think of nothing else! Ten\nthousand a year, and very likely more! 'Tis as good as a Lord! And a\nspecial licence. You must and shall be married by a special licence. But\nmy dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond of,\nthat I may have it to-morrow.\"\n\nThis was a sad omen of what her mother's behaviour to the gentleman\nhimself might be; and Elizabeth found, that though in the certain\npossession of his warmest affection, and secure of her relations'\nconsent, there was still something to be wished for. But the morrow\npassed off much better than she expected; for Mrs. Bennet luckily stood\nin such awe of her intended son-in-law, that she ventured not to speak\nto him, unless it was in her power to offer him any attention, or mark\nher deference for his opinion.\n\nElizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains to get\nacquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that he was rising\nevery hour in his esteem.\n\n\"I admire all my three sons-in-law highly,\" said he. \"Wickham, perhaps,\nis my favourite; but I think I shall like _your_ husband quite as well\nas Jane's.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\n\nElizabeth's spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr.\nDarcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. \"How could\nyou begin?\" said she. \"I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when\nyou had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first\nplace?\"\n\n\"I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which\nlaid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I\nknew that I _had_ begun.\"\n\n\"My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners--my behaviour\nto _you_ was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke\nto you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now be sincere;\ndid you admire me for my impertinence?\"\n\n\"For the liveliness of your mind, I did.\"\n\n\"You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little less.\nThe fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious\nattention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking\nand looking, and thinking for _your_ approbation alone. I roused, and\ninterested you, because I was so unlike _them_. Had you not been really\namiable you would have hated me for it; but in spite of the pains you\ntook to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and\nin your heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously\ncourted you. There--I have saved you the trouble of accounting for it;\nand really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly\nreasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of me--but nobody thinks\nof _that_ when they fall in love.\"\n\n\"Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane, while she was\nill at Netherfield?\"\n\n\"Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it\nby all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are\nto exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me\nto find occasions for teazing and quarrelling with you as often as may\nbe; and I shall begin directly by asking you what made you so unwilling\nto come to the point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first\ncalled, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you called, did\nyou look as if you did not care about me?\"\n\n\"Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement.\"\n\n\"But I was embarrassed.\"\n\n\"And so was I.\"\n\n\"You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner.\"\n\n\"A man who had felt less, might.\"\n\n\"How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that\nI should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how long you\n_would_ have gone on, if you had been left to yourself. I wonder when\nyou _would_ have spoken, if I had not asked you! My resolution of\nthanking you for your kindness to Lydia had certainly great effect. _Too\nmuch_, I am afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if our comfort\nsprings from a breach of promise, for I ought not to have mentioned the\nsubject? This will never do.\"\n\n\"You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly fair. Lady\nCatherine's unjustifiable endeavours to separate us, were the means of\nremoving all my doubts. I am not indebted for my present happiness to\nyour eager desire of expressing your gratitude. I was not in a humour to\nwait for any opening of your's. My aunt's intelligence had given me\nhope, and I was determined at once to know every thing.\"\n\n\"Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy,\nfor she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down to\nNetherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed?\nor had you intended any more serious consequence?\"\n\n\"My real purpose was to see _you_, and to judge, if I could, whether I\nmight ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or what I avowed to\nmyself, was to see whether your sister were still partial to Bingley,\nand if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since made.\"\n\n\"Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine, what is to\nbefall her?\"\n\n\"I am more likely to want time than courage, Elizabeth. But it ought to\nbe done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it shall be done\ndirectly.\"\n\n\"And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you, and\nadmire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady once did. But\nI have an aunt, too, who must not be longer neglected.\"\n\nFrom an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr. Darcy\nhad been over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs. Gardiner's\nlong letter, but now, having _that_ to communicate which she knew would\nbe most welcome, she was almost ashamed to find, that her uncle and aunt\nhad already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as\nfollows:\n\n     \"I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have\n     done, for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of particulars; but\n     to say the truth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than\n     really existed. But _now_ suppose as much as you chuse; give a\n     loose to your fancy, indulge your imagination in every possible\n     flight which the subject will afford, and unless you believe me\n     actually married, you cannot greatly err. You must write again very\n     soon, and praise him a great deal more than you did in your last. I\n     thank you, again and again, for not going to the Lakes. How could I\n     be so silly as to wish it! Your idea of the ponies is delightful.\n     We will go round the Park every day. I am the happiest creature in\n     the world. Perhaps other people have said so before, but not one\n     with such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she only smiles, I\n     laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world, that he can\n     spare from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas.\n\n     Your's, &c.\"\n\nMr. Darcy's letter to Lady Catherine, was in a different style; and\nstill different from either, was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr. Collins, in\nreply to his last.\n\n     \"DEAR SIR,\n\n     \"I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will\n     soon be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as\n     you can. But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has\n     more to give.\n\n     \"Your's sincerely, &c.\"\n\nMiss Bingley's congratulations to her brother, on his approaching\nmarriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote even\nto Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and repeat all her\nformer professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but she was\naffected; and though feeling no reliance on her, could not help writing\nher a much kinder answer than she knew was deserved.\n\nThe joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar information, was\nas sincere as her brother's in sending it. Four sides of paper were\ninsufficient to contain all her delight, and all her earnest desire of\nbeing loved by her sister.\n\nBefore any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any congratulations\nto Elizabeth, from his wife, the Longbourn family heard that the\nCollinses were come themselves to Lucas lodge. The reason of this sudden\nremoval was soon evident. Lady Catherine had been rendered so\nexceedingly angry by the contents of her nephew's letter, that\nCharlotte, really rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get away till\nthe storm was blown over. At such a moment, the arrival of her friend\nwas a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth, though in the course of their\nmeetings she must sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when she\nsaw Mr. Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of her\nhusband. He bore it however with admirable calmness. He could even\nlisten to Sir William Lucas, when he complimented him on carrying away\nthe brightest jewel of the country, and expressed his hopes of their all\nmeeting frequently at St. James's, with very decent composure. If he did\nshrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir William was out of sight.\n\nMrs. Philips's vulgarity was another, and perhaps a greater tax on his\nforbearance; and though Mrs. Philips, as well as her sister, stood in\ntoo much awe of him to speak with the familiarity which Bingley's good\nhumour encouraged, yet, whenever she _did_ speak, she must be vulgar.\nNor was her respect for him, though it made her more quiet, at all\nlikely to make her more elegant. Elizabeth did all she could, to shield\nhim from the frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep him\nto herself, and to those of her family with whom he might converse\nwithout mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings arising\nfrom all this took from the season of courtship much of its pleasure, it\nadded to the hope of the future; and she looked forward with delight to\nthe time when they should be removed from society so little pleasing to\neither, to all the comfort and elegance of their family party at\nPemberley.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\n\nHappy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got\nrid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride she\nafterwards visited Mrs. Bingley and talked of Mrs. Darcy may be guessed.\nI wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the accomplishment\nof her earnest desire in the establishment of so many of her children,\nproduced so happy an effect as to make her a sensible, amiable,\nwell-informed woman for the rest of her life; though perhaps it was\nlucky for her husband, who might not have relished domestic felicity in\nso unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous and\ninvariably silly.\n\nMr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection for her\ndrew him oftener from home than any thing else could do. He delighted in\ngoing to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected.\n\nMr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. So near\na vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not desirable even to\n_his_ easy temper, or _her_ affectionate heart. The darling wish of his\nsisters was then gratified; he bought an estate in a neighbouring county\nto Derbyshire, and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source\nof happiness, were within thirty miles of each other.\n\nKitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with\nher two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had generally\nknown, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable a\ntemper as Lydia, and, removed from the influence of Lydia's example, she\nbecame, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less\nignorant, and less insipid. From the farther disadvantage of Lydia's\nsociety she was of course carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham\nfrequently invited her to come and stay with her, with the promise of\nballs and young men, her father would never consent to her going.\n\nMary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was necessarily\ndrawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Bennet's being quite\nunable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix more with the world, but\nshe could still moralize over every morning visit; and as she was no\nlonger mortified by comparisons between her sisters' beauty and her own,\nit was suspected by her father that she submitted to the change without\nmuch reluctance.\n\nAs for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution from\nthe marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the conviction that\nElizabeth must now become acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude\nand falsehood had before been unknown to her; and in spite of every\nthing, was not wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be prevailed on\nto make his fortune. The congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received\nfrom Lydia on her marriage, explained to her that, by his wife at least,\nif not by himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this\neffect:\n\n     \"MY DEAR LIZZY,\n\n     \"I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my dear\n     Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you\n     so rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will\n     think of us. I am sure Wickham would like a place at court very\n     much, and I do not think we shall have quite money enough to live\n     upon without some help. Any place would do, of about three or four\n     hundred a year; but, however, do not speak to Mr. Darcy about it,\n     if you had rather not.\n\n     \"Yours, &c.\"\n\nAs it happened that Elizabeth had _much_ rather not, she endeavoured in\nher answer to put an end to every intreaty and expectation of the kind.\nSuch relief, however, as it was in her power to afford, by the practice\nof what might be called economy in her own private expences, she\nfrequently sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an\nincome as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in\ntheir wants, and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to\ntheir support; and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or\nherself were sure of being applied to, for some little assistance\ntowards discharging their bills. Their manner of living, even when the\nrestoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the\nextreme. They were always moving from place to place in quest of a cheap\nsituation, and always spending more than they ought. His affection for\nher soon sunk into indifference; her's lasted a little longer; and in\nspite of her youth and her manners, she retained all the claims to\nreputation which her marriage had given her.\n\nThough Darcy could never receive _him_ at Pemberley, yet, for\nElizabeth's sake, he assisted him farther in his profession. Lydia was\noccasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone to enjoy himself\nin London or Bath; and with the Bingleys they both of them frequently\nstaid so long, that even Bingley's good humour was overcome, and he\nproceeded so far as to _talk_ of giving them a hint to be gone.\n\nMiss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy's marriage; but as she\nthought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she\ndropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as\nattentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility\nto Elizabeth.\n\nPemberley was now Georgiana's home; and the attachment of the sisters\nwas exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each\nother, even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion\nin the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with an\nastonishment bordering on alarm, at her lively, sportive, manner of\ntalking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect\nwhich almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open\npleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen in\nher way. By Elizabeth's instructions she began to comprehend that a\nwoman may take liberties with her husband, which a brother will not\nalways allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself.\n\nLady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew;\nand as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character, in\nher reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him\nlanguage so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time\nall intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion,\nhe was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation;\nand, after a little farther resistance on the part of his aunt, her\nresentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity\nto see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait on\nthem at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had\nreceived, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the\nvisits of her uncle and aunt from the city.\n\nWith the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy,\nas well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever\nsensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing\nher into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.\n\n\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's note:\n\nSpelling and hyphen changes have been made so that there is consistency\nwithin the book. Any other inconsistencies with modern spellings have\nbeen left as printed.\n\n\n","id":"42671"},{"text":"\n\n\n\n\n\nYLPEYS JA ENNAKKOLUULO\n\nKirj.\n\nJane Austen\n\n\nSuom. [\"Pride and Prejudice\"] O. A. Joutsen\n\n\nWSOY, Porvoo, 1922.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nJANE AUSTEN (1775-1817)\n\n\nJane Austen on suomalaiselle lukijalle aivan outo kirjailijatar.\nSellaisena hän pysyi kotimaassaankin pitkän aikaa -- pientä mutta hyvin\nmerkitsevää ihailijapiiriä lukuunottamatta -- vaikka hänet nykyään\nluetaankin Englannin klassikoihin ja mainitaan omalla rajoitetulla\nalallaan saavuttamattomaksi.\n\nHänen elämänsä vaiheet ovat tuiki yksinkertaiset ja vähävaiheiset. Hän\noli \"papin tytär\" niinkuin Juhani Ahon Elli, mutta hänestä ei tullut\n\"papin rouvaa\", sillä hän kuoli naimattomana 42-vuotiaana. Tuo elämä\nkului ensin pienessä maalaispappilassa -- isällä oli hoidettavanaan\nkaksikin seurakuntaa, mutta niiden jäsenluku ei noussut 300\nsuuremmaksi; sitten isän erottua virasta yhden poikansa hyväksi Bathin\nvilkasliikkeisessä kylpyläkaupungissa ja vihdoin isän kuoltua, Janen\nollessa 30-vuotias, äidin ja nuorimpain siskojen kera jälleen pienessä\nmaalaiskodissa. Kirjallinen suoni lienee ollut perintöä äidin puolelta;\nainakin oli tämän setä, Theophilus Leigh, jonkin verran tunnettu\nkuivana humoristina ja yli puolen vuosisataa erään Oxfordin yliopiston\n\"Collegen\" rehtorina. Veljistä kohosi kaksi Englannin laivastossa\namiraalin arvoon.\n\nJo pienenä tyttönä sanotaan Jane Austenin kyhänneen leikillisiä\nkertomuksia kotipiirinsä hauskutukseksi. Kaksikolmatta vuotiaana hän\nrupesi kirjoittamaan ensimmäistä teostaan \"Pride and Prejudice\", joka\ntässä tarjotaan suomalaiselle yleisölle. Sen nimenä oli alkuaan \"First\nImpressions\" (Ensi vaikutelmia) ja se valmistui seuraavana vuonna.\nKustantaja, jolle isä tarjosi käsikirjoituksen luettavaksi, kieltäytyi\nkatsomastakaan siihen; ja kesti kokonaista 16 vuotta, ennenkuin teos\ntuli julkaistuksi, sittenkuin tekijätär oli muilla teoksillaan\n(\"Mansfield Park\" ja \"Emma\", jotka kypsyneisyydessä on toisinaan\nasetettu esikoisteoksen edelle, ynnä \"Sense and Sensibility\") oli\nsaavuttanut jonkin verran tunnustusta. Vielä nöyryyttävämmän kohtalon\nsai osakseen v. 1803 valmistunut romaani \"Northanger Abbey\". Kustantaja\nmaksoi siitä mahtavan palkkion 10 puntaa (250 kultamarkkaa), mutta\narveli sillä tehneensä jo tarpeeksi ja lukitsi käsikirjoituksen\nkaappiinsa, josta tekijättären veli vasta tämän kuoltua lunasti sen\ntakaisin ja toimitti julkisuuteen -- siis sama kohtalo mikä oli\naikaisemmin tullut Goldsmithin kuuluisalle \"Wakefieldin kappalaiselle\".\nToinen vasta tekijättären kuoleman jälkeen julaistu teos on\n\"Persuasion\".\n\nHiljaisessa, vaikka silti ei ilottomassa kotielämässään Jane ei\nkirjallisten harrastustensa ohella suinkaan laiminlyönyt naisellisia\ntaloustoimia; hän huolehti pikku perheen taloudesta, hoiteli äitiään ja\nsisaruksiaan näiden ahkeraan sairastellessa, neuloi ja kutoi (hänen\nkutomiaan kankaita suuresti ihailtiin), luki toisille ääneen joka ilta\nja ylläpiti laajaa kirjeenvaihtoa. Tuo entisaikain kirjeenvaihto olikin\naivan toista kuin mitä se nykyään on. Sanomalehtiä ja aikakauskirjoja\nilmestyi tuiki vähän ja hyvin harvoin; junia ei vielä ollut olemassa;\ntuttavista elettiin paljon enemmän erillään kuin nykyisin; mutta\nahkeralla ja intiimillä kirjeenvaihdolla korvattiin yhdessäolon ja\nsuullisen ajatustenvaihdon puutetta. Sanomattakin on selvää, että\nahkera kirjeenvaihto etevien henkilöiden kanssa oli omiaan kypsyttämään\nälyä ja henkevyyttä. Jane Austen tarkkasikin terävin silmin\nympäristöään, Englannin maaseudun silloista keskiluokkaa sen\njokapäiväisessä elämässä, ja löysi siitä hyvän pohjan draamalliselle ja\nsamalla humoristiselle kuvaamistaidolleen. Hänen terävä ja sympaattinen\nkatseensa keksi tuhansia mielenkiintoisia ja kernaasti leikillisesti\ntajuttuja piirteitä tuossa näköjään sileässä ja tuiki jokapäiväisessä\nympäristössä; ja huomionsa hän piirteli niin elävästi ja vaikuttavasti,\nettei Englannin myöhemmässäkään kaunokirjallisuudessa ole tällä alalla\nollut hänen vertaistaan. Halveksien käyttäen romaaniensa kiihoittimena\nsilloin (ja jälkeenpäinkin) tavallisia intohimo- ja rikosjuonia hän\nkävi hienon ivallisesti selvittämään maaseudun perhe- ja seuraelämän\njokapäiväisiä pieniä huvinäytelmiä, yhdistäen kuvauksensa\niroonillisuuteen ja todenperäisyyteen sattuvan draamallisen\nkehitystaidon sekä ihmeen sujuvan, jopa sädehtivän proosatyylin, joka\ntekee hänen kertomuksistaan mitä hauskinta ja mielenkiintoisinta\nluettavaa.\n\nJulkinen tunnustus tuli Jane Austenille vasta kauan hänen kuolemansa\njälkeen. Pienoinen piiri uskollisia ihailijoita muodostui aluksi hänen\nharvalukuisten teostensa ympärille; mutta nepä olivatkin miehiä, joiden\nnimi ja arvostelu painoi paljon -- Coleridge, Tennyson, Macaulay,\nWalter Scott, Sidney Smith, Disraeli. Hänen varsinaisena \"keksijänään\"\nmainitaan mahtava kirkonmies, Dublinin arkkipiispa tri Whately. --\n_Disraeli_ (lordi Beaconsfield) sanoi lukeneensa romaanin \"Ylpeys ja\nennakkoluulo\" 17 kertaan ja joka kerta nauttineensa siitä yhä enemmän.\n_Walter Scott_ kirjoitti 10 vuotta kirjailijattaren kuoleman jälkeen\n\"Päiväkirjaansa\" hänestä seuraavan lausunnon: \"Hänen kirjoitelmissaan\non totuudenmukaista kuvaamistaitoa, joka aina ihastuttaa minua -- hänen\nkykynsä kehittää jokapäiväisen elämän sekavia vyyhtiä ja tunteita on\nverraton ja käy paljon yli minun oman taitoni\". _Macaulayn_ muistopuhe\nv:lta 1858 kuuluu: \"Jos minulla olisi tarpeeksi aineksia, niin\nkirjoittaisin mielelläni pienen elämäkerrallisen kuvauksen tuosta\nihmeellisestä naisesta ja kokoisin siten varoja pystyttääkseni hänelle\nmuistomerkin Winchesterin tuomiokirkkoon\" (jonne kirjailijatar on\nhaudattu). Sellainen muistomerkki -- koruakkuna -- sinne myöhemmin\nsaatiinkin.\n\nNykypäiväin lukija huomaa käsissään olevan yli satavuotisen\nlemmentarinan hämmästyttävän \"uudenaikaiseksi\". Sankarin alummainen\n\"ylpeys\" ja sankarittaren \"ennakkoluulo\" häntä kohtaan sulavat\nelämysten hehkussa viimein olemattomiin. Kertomuksen keskushenkilö,\nElizabeth, ei ole ainoastaan persoonallisesti viehättävä kaikessa\ntyttömäisessä viehkeydessään; hän on myöskin älyllisesti hurmaava.\nHänen sukkela henkensä, hänen horjumaton hyvätuulisuutensa, hänen\nsattuvat sutkauksensa ja nasevat vastauksensa ja ennen kaikkea hänen\nihailtava itsehillintänsä takaavat hänelle alituisesti uusia\nihailijoita lukijain joukosta. Persoonallisten tuttavain todistuksesta\npäättäen tekijätär löysi sankarittarensa alkutyypin -- omasta\nkuvastimestaan; Eliza Bennet kävi kuin hansikas oman luojansa ylle. --\nMuutkin henkilöt ovat varsin mielenkiintoisia. Kääntynyt ja\nuudestasyntynyt Darcy, jäykän englantilaisen \"gentlemanin\" perikuva,\nosoittautuu lopulta olevansa saavuttamansa onnen arvoinen. Verrattomia\ntyyppejä ovat edelleen viisas ja vetelä kirjatoukka hra Bennet,\nahdasjärkinen hurskastelija hra Collins, säätykopeudesta pakahtuva Lady\nCatherine de Bourgh; samoin alemmassa tasossa hullunkurisen typerä rva\nBennet, hyvänahkainen nousukas Sir William Lucas ja tämän älykäs tytär\nCharlotte. Toinen lempivä pari, hra Bingley ja Jane Bennet, ovat\nkaikessa harmittomuudessaan peräti rakastettavia ihmisiä. Teoksen\nliukas \"konna\", kapteeni Wickham, on ainoa myönnytys, jonka\nkirjailijatar on tehnyt aikansa juoniromaania suosivalle maulle.\nBennetin tyttöparvesta nuorimmat soisi lukija kenties näkevänsä\npoisjätetyiksi.\n\n\"Minä toivon, etten koskaan tee naurunalaiseksi sitä, mikä elämässä on\nviisasta ja hyvää. Mutta hullutukset ja höperyys, oikullisuus ja\nepäjohdonmukaisuus minua _todella_ huvittavat, ja minä nauran niille,\nmissä niitä vain näen\", antaa tekijätär Elizabethin kerran sanoa. --\nNiissä sanoissa on tervettä järkeä. Toivomme, että meikäläinenkin\nyleisö mielellään tutustuu tähän viisaaseen, vaatimattomaan ja\nherttaiseen kirjailijattareen, joka eläessään ei ollut mikään kylmästi\njärkeilevä \"sinisukka\", vaan todellinen nainen hienoja sormenpäitään\nmyöten.\n\n\n\n\n1 LUKU.\n\n\nYleisesti on myönnetty todeksi, että hyvissä varoissa oleva naimaton\nmies tarvitsee välttämättömästi rinnalleen vaimon.\n\nKuinka vähän sellaisen miehen omia tunteita ja mielipiteitä\ntunnetaankin hänen ensi kertaa saapuessaan uuteen ympäristöön, niin on\nedellä mainittu tosiasia niin kiinteästi juurtunut kaikkien kyseeseen\ntulevain perheenäitien mieliin, että häntä pidetään oikeudenmukaisena\nsaaliina jollekin näiden tyttäristä.\n\n\"Rakas Bennet\", sanoi tämän arvon herran puoliso miehelleen eräänä\npäivänä, \"oletko kuullut, että Netherfield Parkin kartano on vihdoinkin\nsaanut vuokraajan?\"\n\nHra Bennet vastasi, ettei hän ollut kuullut.\n\n\"Mutta totta se sittenkin on\", jatkoi hänen parempi puoliskonsa, \"sillä\nrouva Long oli vast'ikään täällä ja kertoi minulle koko jutun.\"\n\nHra Bennetillä ei ollut siihen mitään sanottavana.\n\n\"Etkö tahdo kuulla, kuka sen on vuokrannut?\" huudahti hänen vaimonsa\nkärsimättömänä.\n\n\"_Sinun_ tekee mielesi kertoa se minulle, enkä minä pane vastaan vaikka\nkerrotkin.\"\n\nSekin niukka rohkaisu riitti avaamaan sanamyllyn.\n\n\"Niin, tiedäppäs, rakkaani, rouva Long sanoi, että Netherfieldiin\nasettuu jokin hyvin varakas nuori mies, joka on kotoisin jostakin\nPohjois-Englannin puolelta; että tämä tuli maanantaina oikein\nnelivaljakolla katsastamaan paikkaa ja ihastui siihen niin, että sopi\noitis asiat valmiiksi herra Morrisin kanssa; että hän muuttaa sinne\nennen Mikonpäivää, ja että joitakin hänen palvelijoitaan saapuu taloon\njo ensi viikon lopulla.\"\n\n\"Mikä hänen nimensä on?\"\n\n\"Bingley.\"\n\n\"Naimisissa vai naimaton?\"\n\n\"Oh, _naimaton_ toki, rakkaani, se vasta jotakin on! Naimaton nuori\nmies, jolla on suuri omaisuus -- ainakin neljä tai viisituhatta\npuntaa.[1] Siinäpä on meidän tytöille miettimistä!\"\n\n\"Kuinka niin? Mitä se heitä liikuttaa?\"\n\n\"Rakas Bennet\", vastasi hänen vaimonsa, \"kuinka sinä _saatatkaan_ olla\nniin tylsä? Pitäisihän sinun arvata, että minä ajattelen naittaa niistä\njonkun hänelle.\"\n\n\"Siinäkö mielessä hän tänne asettuu?\"\n\n\"Siinäkö mielessä? Hörönlöröä, kuinka sinä viitsitkään tuollaista\nlörpötellä! Mutta onhan hyvin todennäköistä, että hän _saattaa_\nrakastua johonkin heistä, ja senvuoksi pitää sinun käydä tervehtimässä\nhäntä kohta kun hän tulee tänne.\"\n\n\"En luule, että minulla on siihen tilaisuutta. Lähde itse tyttöjen\nkanssa, tai voithan lähettää heidät yksinkin, mikä ehkä onkin parempi;\nsillä kun sinä olet yhtä kaunis kuin kuka hyvänsä koko parvesta, voi\nherra Bingley kenties iskeä silmänsä sinuun.\"\n\n\"Nyt sinä imartelet liiaksi minua, rakkaani. _Onhan_ minullakin\nvarmasti ollut kauniit päiväni, mutta nyt en kuvittele enää olevani\nmitään erinomaista. Kun naisella on viisi täysikasvuista tytärtä, on\nhänen jo aika heretä ajattelemasta omaa kauneuttaan.\"\n\n\"Siinä tapauksessa ei naiselle jää paljonkaan kauneutta, jota\nkannattaisi ajatella.\"\n\n\"Mutta rakkaani, minähän puhunkin nyt siitä, että sinun täytyy todella\nmennä tervehtimään herra Bingleytä, kun hän on muuttanut\nnaapuriksemme.\"\n\n\"Se on enemmän kuin mitä uskallan luvata, sen vakuutan.\"\n\n\"Mutta rakkaani, ajattelehan toki tyttäriäsi! Ajattelehan,\nminkälaisille tuloille joku heistä voisi päästä. Sir William ja Lady\nLucas ovat päättäneet mennä sinne, mukamas vain sattumoilta; sillä\ntiedäthän, etteivät he yleensä käy uusien tulokkaiden luona. Totta\ntosiaan sinun täytyy mennä, sillä mahdotontahan on meidän naisten käydä\nhäntä tervehtimässä, jollet sinä käy ensiksi.\"\n\n\"Nyt saivartelet varmasti aivan liikoja. Olen vakuutettu, että herra\nBingley tulee hyvin iloiseksi vierailustasi; ja minä lähetän sinun\nmyötäsi kirjallisen vakuutuksen, että minun puolestani hän saa herran\nnimessä naida kenen vain tahtoo meidän tyttäristämme; vaikka arvelenpa,\nettä minun on silloin lausuttava hyvä sana eritoten Lizzyn puolesta.\"\n\n\"Toivon, ettet tee mitään semmoista. Lizzy ei ole rahtuistakaan toisia\nparempi; ja minä olen varma, ettei hän ole puoleksikaan niin kaunis\nkuin Jane eikä puoleksikaan niin lahjakas kuin Mary eikä puoleksikaan\nniin hyväluontoinen kuin Lydia. Mutta sinun pitää aina antaa _hänelle_\netusija toisten rinnalla.\"\n\n\"Toisissa ei olekaan paljon kehumisen arvoista\", vastasi perheenisä;\n\"he ovat yhtä typeriä ja tietämättömiä kuin kaikki muutkin tytöt; mutta\nLizzyllä on sentään vähän terävämpi äly kuin sisarillaan.\"\n\n\"Bennet, kuinka sinä _saatatkaan_ herjata omia lapsiasi tuolla tavalla?\nSinulle on oikein iloa ärsyttää minua. Sinä et sääli yhtään minun\nhermoparkojani.\"\n\n\"Nyt isket kiveen, rakkaani. Minä pidän sinun hermojasi suuressa\nkunniassa. Ne ovat minun vanhoja tuttujani. Olen kuullut sinun vetoavan\nniihin näiden kahdenkymmenen vuoden kuluessa ainakin kerran päivässä.\"\n\n\"Ah, sinä et tiedä, kuinka minä niistä kärsin.\"\n\n\"Mutta minä toivon, että sinä jaksat sen kestää ja elät vielä\nnähdäksesi naapureinamme paljon muitakin nuoria miehiä, joilla on\nneljäntuhannen punnan tulot vuodessa.\"\n\n\"Mitäpä hyötyä meille siitä on, vaikka niitä tulisi kaksikinkymmentä,\nkun sinä et kuitenkaan tahdo käydä niitä tervehtimässä.\"\n\n\"Luota siihen, rakkaani, että jos niitä tulee kaksikymmentä, niin käyn\njok'ikisen luona.\"\n\nHra Bennetin luonnonlaatu oli siksi merkillinen sekoitus kärkevyyttä,\nivallisuutta, itsehillintää ja oikullisuutta, ettei kolmenkolmatta\nvuodenkaan aviollinen kokemus riittänyt auttamaan hänen vaimoaan\nluotaamaan sen pohjaa. Hänen _omasta_ luonteestaan oli paljon helpompi\npäästä selville. Hän oli ymmärrykseltään sangen keskinkertainen,\njokseenkin oppimaton ja mielenpuuskiltaan hyvin epävakainen nainen. Kun\nei kaikki käynyt hänen päänsä jälkeen, valitteli hän hermojaan. Hänen\nelämäntehtävänsä oli saada tyttärensä naimisiin; hänen elämänsä\nsisältönä ja lohdutuksena vierailut ja juorut.\n\n\n\n\nII LUKU.\n\n\nHra Bennet oli sittenkin kaikkein ensimmäisiä vierailijoita hra\nBingleyn luona. Hän oli koko ajan aikonut käydä siellä, vaikka olikin\nviimeiseen saakka vakuuttanut vaimolleen päinvastaista; ja vasta\nvierailupäivän illalla sai hänen vaimonsa aivan sattumoilta tietää\nhänen käynnistään. Se sattui seuraavasti. Nähdessään toisen tyttärensä\nkoristelevan uutta hattua hän virkkoi tälle aivan äkkiä:\n\n\"Toivon herra Bingleyn pitävän siitä, Lizzy.\"\n\n\"Emmehän me tule tietämään, _mistä_ herra Bingley oikein pitää\", sanoi\näiti moittivasti, \"kun emme pääse vierailemaan hänen luonaan.\"\n\n\"Mutta sinähän unohdat, äiti\", sanoi Elizabeth, \"että me tapaamme hänet\nvierasseuroissa, ja että rouva Long on luvannut esitellä hänet meille.\"\n\n\"En usko rouva Longin tekevän mitään sellaista. Hänellä on itsellään\nkaksi sisarentytärtään huolehdittavana. Hän on itsekäs teeskentelijä\nkoko ihminen, enkä minä pane häneen suurtakaan arvoa.\"\n\n\"En minäkään\", vakuutti hra Bennet; \"ja minua ilahduttaa, ettet sinä\nenää ollenkaan välitä hänen palveluksistaan.\"\n\nRva Bennetin mielestä ei kannattanut vastata moiseen puheeseen; mutta\nkykenemättä hillitsemään harmiaan hän rupesi torumaan neljättä\ntytärtään.\n\n\"Älä herran nimessä yskiä kakistele tuolla tapaa, Kitty! Sääli edes\nvähäsen minun hermojani. Sinähän raastat ne ihan palasiksi.\"\n\n\"Kitty ei hoida oikein hienotunteisesti hänelle annettua yskimisen\nlahjaa\", huomautti hänen isänsä. \"Hän voi ruveta yskimään aivan\nsopimattomissakin tilaisuuksissa.\"\n\n\"En minä omaksi huvikseni yski\", sanoi Kitty ärtyneesti. \"Milloin sinä\nmenet ensi tanssiaisiisi, Lizzy?\"\n\n\"Huomenna kahden viikon päästä.\"\n\n\"Ah, herrantähden, niinhän se onkin\", huudahti hänen äitinsä, \"eikä\nrouva Long palaa kotia ennenkuin vasta tanssiaisten aattona; ja silloin\nhänen käy mahdottomaksi esittää herra Bingley meille, kun ei vielä\nitsekään tunne häntä.\"\n\n\"Silloin, rakkaani, voi sinulla olla etusija ystävättäresi rinnalla --\nsinä voit esittää herra Bingleyn _hänelle_.\"\n\n\"Mahdotonta, rakas Bennet, aivan mahdotonta, kun en itsekään tunne koko\nmiestä. Kuinka sinä saatatkaan niin härnäillä minua?\"\n\n\"Minä kunnioitan sinun varovaisuuttasi. Kaksiviikkoinen tuttavuus ei\ntottakaan merkitse paljoa. Ketäpä miestä oppisi perinpohjin tuntemaan\ntoisen viikon loppuun mennessä? Mutta jos _me_ emme uskalla viljellä\nhänen tuttavuuttaan, niin voi joku toinen uskaltaa, ja täytyyhän kaiken\nkohtuuden nimessä myöntää rouva Longillekin tilaisuutta huolehtia\nsisarentyttäristään. Ja siksipä, vaikka hän sydämellisyydessään\ntarjoutuisikin esittelemään teidät, jonka tarjouksen sinä tietysti\nhylkäät, tahdon minä itse ottaa sen huolen niskoilleni.\"\n\nTytöt tuijottivat suurin silmin isäänsä. Rva Bennet sanoi vain:\n\"Hörönlöröä!\"\n\n\"Mitähän oikein tarkoitat tuolla voimakkaalla huudahduksellasi?\" kysyi\nhänen miehensä. \"Onko sinusta nuoren herrasmiehen esitteleminen ja\nkaikki siihen liittyvä mielen jännitys pelkkää hörönlöröä? _Siinä_\nasiassa en voi olla oikein yhtä mieltä sinun kanssasi, rakkaani. Vai\nmitä sinä sanot, Mary? -- sinä, jonka tunnen perin syvämietteiseksi\nneitoseksi, joka luet isoja kirjoja ja teet niistä otteita.\"\n\nMary olisi tahtonut sanoa jotain hyvin viisasta, mutta ei tiennyt\nkuinka sen sanoisi.\n\n\"Jättäkäämme siis Mary selvittämään ajatustensa juoksua\", jatkoi hänen\nisänsä, \"ja palatkaamme jälleen herra Bingleyhin.\"\n\n\"Minä tulen kipeäksi koko herra Bingleystä!\" huudahti hänen vaimonsa.\n\n\"_Tuopas_ pahoittaa mieltäni; mutta miksi et sanonut sitä minulle jo\nennen, rakkaani? Jospa olisin tuon jo aamulla tiennyt, niin en\ntottakaan olisi käynyt tervehtimässä häntä. Tämähän nyt sattui\nohraisesti -- mutta kun onnettomuus kerran on tapahtunut ja minä olen\ntodellakin käynyt tutustumassa häneen, niin en luule enää mahdolliseksi\nvältellä hänen tuttavuuttaan.\"\n\nNaisten hämmästys oli aivan niin suuri kuin hän oli toivonutkin; rva\nBennetin ällistys kenties voitti tyttärienkin mielenliikutuksen --\nvaikka hän sitten kun oli tointunut ensimmäisestä tunnemyrskystään,\nrupesi selittämään, että tätä juuri hän oli koko ajan odottanutkin.\n\n\"Kuinka kiltisti siinä teitkään, rakas Bennet! Mutta tiesinhän minä,\nettä saisin sinut lopulta suostutetuksi. Olin varma, että rakastit\ntyttäriäsi niin paljon, ettet laiminlöisi tehdä sellaista tuttavuutta.\nAh sentään, kuinka olenkaan mielissäni! Ja sellainen sukkela\npäähänpisto sinulta, että menit sinne tänä aamuna hiiskumatta minulle\nsanaakaan koko asiasta!\"\n\n\"No niin, Kitty, nyt saat yskiä niin paljon kuin sinua haluttaa\", sanoi\nhra Bennet; ja sen sanottuaan hän lähti omalle puolelleen, väsyneenä\nvaimonsa ylivuotavasta ihastelusta.\n\n\"Kuinka kelpo isä teillä onkaan, tytöt\", jatkoi äiti aviollista\nsuitsutustaan oven sulkeuduttua. \"En tiedä, kuinka oikein voisitte\npalkita hänen hellyyttään -- ja minunkin huolenpitoani teistä, jos\nsiksi tulee. Meidän iällemme tultua ei ole niinkään hupaista, sen sanon\nteille, saada uusia tuttavia jok'ikinen päivä; mutta teidän tähtenne me\nkannamme vaikka mitä uhreja hyvänsä. Lydia, rakkaani, vaikka sinä\n_oletkin_ nuorin kaikista, niin ennustanpa, että herra Bingley tanssii\nsinun kanssasi ensi tanssiaisissa.\"\n\n\"Oh, en minä sitä pelkää\", sanoi Lydia isotellen; \"sillä vaikka\n_olenkin_ nuorin, olen kaikista isoin.\"\n\nLoppu-ilta kului pohtiessa kysymystä, milloin hra Bennetin uusi tuttava\nmahdollisesti saapuisi vastavierailulle, ja päätellessä, milloin hänet\nkäskettäisiin päivällisille.\n\n\n\n\nIII LUKU.\n\n\nSittenkään eivät kaikki rva Bennetin ja hänen viiden tyttärensä kyselyt\nsaaneet puserretuksi hra Bennetiltä tyydyttävää kuvausta hänen uudesta\ntuttavastaan. He ahdistelivat perheenisää monella tapaa; avoimilla\nkysymyksillä, älykkäillä otaksumilla ja kavalilla epäilyillä;\nmutta hän vältti liukkaasti kuin ankerias heidän taidokkaimmatkin\nansansa; ja vihdoin heidän oli pakko tyytyä toisen käden tiedonantoon\nnaapurinsa Lady Lucasin taholta, joka tunsi asian miehensä\nvälityksellä. Tämän arvon rouvan tiedoitus oli erittäin suotuisa. Sir\nWilliam oli hyvin mielistynyt uuteen naapuriin. Tämä oli aivan nuori,\nihmeen sievän näköinen, perin miellyttävä ja -- mikä oli kaikkein\nparhainta -- hän aikoi saapua suuren seurueen kera ensi tanssiaisiin.\nVoiko sen hauskempaa enää kuvitellakaan! Kun kerran mies piti\npaljon tanssimisesta, voi hänen otaksua luiskahtavan helposti\nrakastamiseenkin; ja sangen vilkkaita toiveita virisi monella taholla\nhra Bingleyn sydämen valtaamiseen nähden.\n\n\"Jos minun on vain sallittu nähdä jokin tyttäristäni onnellisena\nemäntänä Netherfieldissä\", sanoi rva Bennet miehelleen, \"ja kaikki\nmuutkin yhtä hyvissä naimisissa, niin enpä osaisi enää toivoa mitään\nmuuta.\"\n\nMuutaman päivän perästä hra Bingley saapui vastaamaan hra Bennetin\nvierailuun ja istui kymmenisen minuuttia tämän kanssa kirjastossa. Hän\noli toivonut saavansa nähdä vilauksen talon nuorista neitosistakin,\njoiden kauneutta hän oli kuullut kehuttavan; mutta hänen sallittiin\nnähdä ainoastaan heidän isänsä. Nuorilla neitosilla oli vähän enemmän\nonnea, sillä he voivat yläkerran akkunasta todeta vieraan olevan puetun\nsiniseen takkiin ja ratsastavan mustalla hevosella.\n\nPäivälliskutsu lähetettiin kohta perästä; ja rva Bennet suunnitteli jo\ntoimenpiteitä, jotka näyttäisivät hänen emännyyskykynsä sen parhailta\npuolilta, kun tuli vastaus, joka murskasi kaikki toiveet. Hra Bingleyn\npiti lähteä seuraavaksi päiväksi Lontooseen, joten hänen oli surukseen\npakko vastata kieltävästi imartelevaan kutsuun j.n.e. Rva Bennet oli\nkerrassaan tyytymätön siihen käänteeseen. Hän ei voinut kuvitella, mikä\nkumman kiire tuon miehen ajoi taas pääkaupunkiin, kohta kun hän oli\nennättänyt saapua Hertfordshireen; ja hän rupesi miltei pelkäämään,\nettä uuden tulokkaan tapana olikin vain lennellä paikasta toiseen eikä\naikomuksena lainkaan asettua pysyvästi Netherfieldiin, niinkuin\nsiveellinen maailmanjärjestys olisi vaatinut. Lady Lucas tyynnytti\nhiukan hänen pelkoaan keksimällä aatteen, että vieras ehkä olikin\nmennyt Lontooseen kerätäkseen sieltä paljon väkeä odotettuihin\ntanssiaisiin, ja kohtapa kävikin huhu, että hra Bingley aikoi tuoda\nmukanaan kaksitoista naista ja seitsemän herraa. Tyttöjä suretti\nvierasten naisten suuri luku; mutta tanssiaisten aattona he\nrauhoittuivat kuullessaan, että naisia oli tullut koko tusinan asemasta\nainoastaan puoli tusinaa, niistä viisi hra Bingleyn sisaria ja yksi\nserkku. Ja kun vieras seurue sitten astui tanssisalin ovesta sisään, ei\nsiinä kaiken kaikkiaan ollutkaan viittä enempää: hra Bingley itse,\nkaksi hänen sisartaan, niistä vanhemman mies ja eräs nuori herra.\n\nHra Bingley oli sangen hyvän ja arvokkaan näköinen; hänellä oli\nmiellyttävät kasvot ja maailmanmiehen sulava, teeskentelemätön\nesiintymistapa. Hänen sisarensa olivat uljasryhtisiä kaunottaria. Hänen\nlangostaan, hra Hurstista, voi vain sanoa, että hän näytti hienolta\nmieheltä; mutta hänen ystävänsä, hra Darcy, kiinnitti oitis koko salin\nhuomion uljaaseen ja kookkaaseen vartaloonsa, kauniihin kasvoihinsa,\nylhäiseen ryhtiinsä ja ennen kaikkea siihen salin kaikissa nurkissa\nkohta kiertävään huhuun, että hänellä oli vuosituloja kymmenentuhatta\npuntaa. Herrat sanoivat, että hän oli oikea loistonäyte miehisestä\nmiehestä; naisten supatteluista päättäen hän oli paljon kauniimpi itse\nhra Bingleytäkin, ja puolen iltaa seurasi koko salin ihailu häntä,\nkunnes hänen käytöksensä sitten yht'äkkiä riisti häneltä kerrassaan\nyleisen suosion. Hänen keksittiin olevan aivan liiaksi ylpeä, mukamas\nyläpuolella koko seurapiiriä ja sen tarjoamaa huvitusta; ja silloin ei\nedes hänen suuri maakartanonsa jossain Derbyshiressä voinut pelastaa\nhäntä joutumasta arvostelluksi mitä vastenmielisimmäksi ja\nepämiellyttävimmäksi veitikaksi, jota ei käynyt vertaaminenkaan hänen\nystäväänsä.\n\nHra Bingley oli oitis tehnyt saapuvilla olevien huomattavien\nhenkilöiden tuttavuutta; hän oli vilkas ja vapaa, oli mukana joka\ntanssissa, harmitteli juhlan liian varhaista päättymistä ja puhelipa\npanevansa itsekin toimeen tanssiaiset Netherfieldissä. Sellaiset\nmiellyttävät ominaisuudet puhuivat itse tarpeeksi puolestaan. Mikä\nvastakohta hänen ja hänen ystävänsä välillä! Hra Darcy tanssi\nainoastaan kerran rva Hurstin ja kerran nti Bingleyn kanssa, kieltäytyi\ntulemasta esitellyksi kellekään muulle naiselle ja vietti lopun iltaa\nkävellen ympäri salia ja vaihtaen sanan tai pari jonkun oman seurueensa\njäsenen kanssa. Hänen luonteenominaisuutensa luettiin salissa kuin\navoimesta kirjasta. Hän oli tosiaankin kaikkein koppavin, kaikkein\nepämiellyttävin mies koko maailmassa, ja jok'ikinen toivoi, ettei häntä\ntarvitsisi täällä enää koskaan nähdä. Kaikkein tuimin oli rva Bennetin\näkeys, sillä tämän arvon rouvan ylimalkaista harmia vielä terästi tuon\nkelvottoman miehen kehno käyttäytyminen hänen omaa tytärtään kohtaan.\n\nElizabeth Bennetin oli täytynyt kavaljeerien käsittämättömän hupsuuden\ntakia \"koristaa seinää\" kahden tanssin ajan; ja tällöin oli hra Darcy\nsattunut seisomaan niin lähellä neitoa, että tämä voi kuulla hänen ja\nhra Bingleyn välisen keskustelun, viimemainitun tultua vaatimaan\nystäväänsä mukaan tanssimaan.\n\n\"Tulehan nyt sinäkin, Darcy, minun täytyy saada nähdä sinunkin pyörivän\nlattialla. Minua harmittaa nähdä sinun jurottelevan tuolla tavoin\nitseksesi kuin mikäkin pölkky. Sinä viihdyt paljon paremmin kun itsekin\ntanssit.\"\n\n\"En totisesti viihdykään. Tiedäthän kuinka inhoon tanssimista, jollei\ntoverinani ole jokin aivan läheinen tuttava. Mutta tällaisessa oudossa\nkarjassa pyörähteleminen on aivan vastoin luontoani. Sisaresi ovat jo\nlattialla, eikä koko salissa ole ainuttakaan muuta naista, jonka kanssa\nvoisin seurustella tuntematta kidutuspenkin tuskia.\"\n\n\"Minä en vain tahtoisi olla tuollainen jöröpää kuin sinä\", huudahti\nBingley, \"en vaikka perisin siitä kuningaskunnan! Kautta kunniani, enpä\nluule koskaan eläissäni tavanneeni niin paljon hauskoja tyttöjä yhdessä\nkuin täällä tänä iltana; ja monet heistä ovat, kuten itsekin voit nähdä,\nerinomaisen sieviä.\"\n\n\"_Sinä_ tanssit äsken ainoan kauniin tytön kanssa mitä täällä on\",\nsanoi hra Darcy, katsellen vanhinta Bennetin neideistä.\n\n\"Ah -- hän on todellakin ihanin tyttö, jota koskaan olen pidellyt\nkäsivarrellani! Mutta tuolla aivan sinun takanasi istuu yksi hänen\nsisaristaan, joka on myöskin hyvin sievä ja varmasti sangen\nmiellyttäväkin. Annahan kun pyydän tanssitoverini esittelemään sinut\nhänelle.\"\n\n\"Ketä sinä tarkoitat?\" ja kääntyen ympäri katsahti ylpeä nuori mies\nvälinpitämättömästi Elizabethiin, mutta tokaisi sitten hartioitaan\nkohauttaen. \"Mukiinmenevä, mutta ei tarpeeksi sievä _minua_\nhoukutellakseen; enkä minä ole muuten tällä kertaa sillä päällä, että\nkävisin lohduttelemaan neitosia, joita toiset miehet hyljeksivät. Teet\nparemmin kun palaat tanssitoverisi pariin nauttimaan hänen hymyistään,\nsillä minun kanssani haaskaat aikaasi aivan hukkaan.\"\n\nHra Bingley noudatti hänen neuvoaan. Hra Darcy jatkoi kävelyään, ja\nElizabeth katseli hänen jälkeensä silmin, jotka eivät kuvastaneet\nkovinkaan ystävällisiä tunteita. Hän kertoi kuitenkin koko jutun\nilkamoiden ystävättärilleen; sillä hänellä oli vilkas, leikkisä\nmielenlaatu, joka helposti keksi hullunkurisia piirteitä\nharmillisissakin tilanteissa.\n\nIlta kului muuten koko perheeltä sangen rattoisasti. Rva Bennet oli\nnähnyt vanhimman tyttärensä saavan suurta ihailua Netherfieldin\nvierasseurueen taholta. Hra Bingley oli tanssinut Janen kanssa\nkahdesti, ja hänen sisarensa olivat lausuneet tälle kohteliaisuuksia.\nJane riemuitsi voitostaan yhtä paljon kuin äitinsäkin, vaikka\nlevollisemmalla mielellä. Elizabeth nautti sisarensa mielihyvästä. Mary\noli kuullut nti Bingleyn kiittävän häntä koko seudun somimmaksi\ntytöksi; ja Catherinen ja Lydian ei ollut tarvinnut kertaakaan kaivata\ntanssikavaljeereja, mikä heille vielä oli tanssi-illan pääilo. Kaikki\npalasivat siis tyytyväisin mielin kotia Longbourniin ja tapasivat hra\nBennetin vielä ylhäällä. Saatuaan kirjan käteensä ei perheenpää\nvälittänyt ajan menosta; ja tällä kertaa hän oli koko lailla utelias\nkuulemaan juhla-illasta, jota hänen perheensä jäsenet olivat odotelleet\nniin sykähdyttävin toivein. Hän oli oikeastaan toivonut, että hänen\nvaimonsa uuteen naapuriin kiinnittämät toiveet olisivat osoittautuneet\npettäviksi harhakuviksi, mutta pianpa hän huomasi saavansa kuulla aivan\ntoiseen suuntaan käyvän selostuksen.\n\n\"Ah sentään, rakas Bennet\", puuskahti hänen arvoisa puolisonsa\nastuessaan huohottaen sisään, \"et arvaakaan kuinka hauska ilta meillä\non ollut! Toivoisin, että sinäkin olisit ollut siellä mukana. Janea\nihailtiin niin, ettei paremmasta apua. _Jok'ikinen_ ihmetteli, kuinka\nsuloiselta hän näytti; ja hra Bingleystä hän oli kerrassaan\nihastuttava, ja hänpä tanssikin kahdesti tyttäremme kanssa. Aattelehan\n_sitä_, rakkaani -- hän tanssi kahdesti hänen kanssaan! Jane olikin\nainoa tyttö koko salissa, jota hän tanssitti kahteen kertaan. Kaikkein\nensiksi hän pyysi neiti Lucasia. Minua niin harmitti nähdä hänen\ntanssivan tuon tytön kanssa; mutta keksinpä kohta, ettei hän ihaillut\ntätä ollenkaan -- eihän häntä kukaan voikaan ihailla, se on tietty; ja\nsitten hän tuntui tulevan aivan haltioihinsa nähdessään meidän Janemme\npyörivän lattialla. Heti hän tiedustelemaan, kuka se tyttö oli, ja\nesityttämään itsensä hänelle, kerran hän tanssi neiti Kingin kanssa, ja\nneljännen kerran Maria Lucasin kanssa, ja viidennen jälleen meidän\nJanen kanssa, ja kuudennen meidän Lizzyn kanssa, ja katriljin...\"\n\n\"Jos hänellä olisi ollut hituistakaan sääliä _minun_ hermojani\nkohtaan\", huudahti hänen miehensä kärsimättömästi, \"niin hän ei olisi\ntanssinut puoleksikaan niin paljon! Älä Herran nimessä luettele minulle\nenää hänen tanssitettaviaan. Oh, oh -- kunpa siltä keikarilta olisi\nnilkka nyrjähtänyt jo ensi tanssissa!\"\n\n\"Ah, mitä nyt, rakkaani? Minä puolestani oikein mielistyin häneen\",\njatkoi hänen aviosiippansa ylistysvirttään. \"Hän on niin ihmeen hyvän\nnäköinen nuori mies! Ja hänen sisarensa olivat ihastuttavia. Enpä vielä\neläissäni ole nähnyt mitään niin hienoa kuin heidän tanssipukunsa. Olen\nvarma, että pitsi rouva Hurstin hameessa...\"\n\nJälleen hänen täytyi keskeyttää. Hra Bennet kieltäytyi kivenkovaan\nkuulemasta enää sanaakaan koko hienoudesta. Siksipä hänen vaimonsa oli\npakko vaihtaa puheenaihetta, ja hän kuvasi sangen katkerasti ja jonkin\nverran liioitellen hra Darcyn tyrmistyttävää töykeyttä.\n\n\"Mutta sen voin vakuuttaa sinulle\", hän lisäsi, \"ettei Lizzy kärsinyt\nsuurtakaan tappiota joutuessaan _tuon_ miehen ylenkatseen alaiseksi;\nsillä totta tosiaan hän on mitä inhoittavin ja karkeatapaisin junkkari,\njoka ei miellyttänyt sitten niin ketään. Niin ylpeä ja nokka pystyssä\nmukamas, ettei häntä kehdannut edes katsellakaan! Käveli ja tepasteli,\ntepasteli ja käveli vain ympärinsä, luulotellen jotakin olevansa! Ei\nedes sen näköinen, että olisi viitsinyt tanssia hänen kanssaan! Kunpa\nsinä olisit ollut siellä antamassa hänelle pisteleviä sukkeluuksiasi.\nMinä sitä miestä oikein inhoan!\"\n\n\n\n\nIV LUKU.\n\n\nKun Jane ja Elizabeth olivat jääneet kahdenkesken, niin edellinen, joka\nsiihen asti oli ollut vaitelias hra Bingleyn suhteen, rupesi\ntunnustamaan sisarelleen, kuinka suuresti hän ihaili tätä nuorta\nmiestä.\n\n\"Hän on aivan sellainen kuin nuoren miehen pitääkin olla: järkevä,\nhyväluontoinen ja vilkas, enkä ole koskaan nähnyt kenenkään osaavan\nkäyttäytyä niin hyvin! Hän on niin luonnollinen ja saanut ilmeisesti\nerinomaisen kasvatuksen.\"\n\n\"Hän on myöskin kauniin näköinen\", sanoi Elizabeth, \"jota nuoren miehen\nmyöskin pitäisi olla, mikäli mahdollista. Hän on siis joka suhteessa\ntäydellinen.\"\n\n\"Minä tulin niin hirveästi mieliini, kun hän pyysi minut toisen kerran\nkanssaan tanssimaan. Niin suurta kohteliaisuutta en olisi osannut\nodottaakaan.\"\n\n\"Etköhän vain? _Minä_ ainakin odotin sitä. Mutta siinä suhteessa me\nolemmekin niin erilaiset. _Sinä_ joudut kohteliaisuuksista aina\nymmälle, mutta _minä_ en milloinkaan. Mikä olisi voinut ollakaan sen\nluonnollisempaa, kuin että hän pyysi sinua uudelleen? Eihän hän voinut\nolla huomaamatta, että sinä olit ainakin viisi kertaa kauniimpi kuin\nkukaan muu nainen koko salissa. Ei siis kannata liiaksi kiitellä hänen\nkohteliaisuuttaan. No niin, hän on varmastikin sangen miellyttävä, ja\nminun puolestani sinä saat pitää hänestä. Olethan ennen pitänyt paljon\nkömpelömmistäkin ihmisistä.\"\n\n\"Mutta, rakas Lizzy!\"\n\n\"No, tiedäthän itsekin, että sinulla on taipumus pitää ihmisistä\nyleensä. Sinä et koskaan näe vikoja kenessäkään. Koko maailma on sinun\nsilmissäsi niin hyvä ja miellyttävä. En ole koskaan kuullut sinun\nsanovan pahaa sanaa yhdestäkään ihmisolennosta.\"\n\n\"En tahtoisi mielelläni arvostella ketään liian hätiköivästi; mutta\nyleensähän minä aina puhun mitä ajattelenkin.\"\n\n\"Sen tiedän, rakkaani; ja _sehän_ se juuri ihmetyttääkin minua. Niin\njärkevä kuin _sinä olet_, ja kuitenkin niin vilpittömän sokea toisten\nhullutuksien ja typeryyksien suhteen! Vilpittömyyden hyve on kyllä\nsangen yleinen; kenpä kieltäisi tahtovansa kernaasti olla kaikessa\nvilpitön! Mutta ollapa vilpitön aivan luonnollisesti ja ilman vastaavan\nhyödyn toivoa -- suodattaa joka ihmisen luonteesta kaikki mahdollinen\nhyvä näkyviin ja kirkastaa se vieläkin paremmaksi ja ummistaa silmänsä\npahoille puolille -- kas, siihen vain sinä yksin pystyt! Ja\nsittenhän sinä pidät tuon miehen sisaristakin, eikö totta? Heidän\nkäyttäytymisensä ei kuitenkaan ollut yhtä sulavan luonnollista kuin\nhänen.\"\n\n\"Ei ollutkaan, ainakaan ensi alussa, mutta kun antautuu heidän kanssaan\npuheisiin, niin ovat he koko miellyttäviä ihmisiä. Neiti Bingley tulee\nasumaan veljensä luona ja hoitamaan hänen talouttaan; ja erehtyisinpä\nsuuresti, jollemme saa hänestä hyvin hauskaa naapuria.\"\n\nElizabeth kuunteli vaieten, mutta ei lainkaan vakuutettuna. Vierasten\nnaisten käytös tanssi-iltana ei suinkaan ollut tarkoitettukaan\nvoittamaan ympäristön mieliä heidän puolelleen; ja ollen sukkelampi\ntekemään havaintoja ja vähemmän mukautuvainen kuin sisarensa sekä\nvarustettu terävällä arvostelukyvyllä, jota älykäs liehittelykään ei\nkyennyt samentamaan, oli hänellä sangen vähän halua hyväksyä heidät\nilman muuta. Totta kyllä, että he olivat hienoja naisia, eivät suinkaan\nsäästeliäitä osoittamaan hyväluontoisuutta, milloin he sitä todella\ntunsivat ja suvaitsivat näyttää; mutta sittenkin ylpeitä ja\nitseluuloisia. He olivat sangen sievän näköisiä; olivat saaneet\nkasvatuksensa eräässä Lontoon parhaassa yksityisessä naisopistossa;\nolivat kumpikin perineet vanhemmiltaan kaksikymmentä tuhatta puntaa,\nmutta tottuneet kuluttamaan vuodessa enemmän kuin korkonsa\nseurustellessaan ylhäisissä seurapiireissä; ja kaiken tuon nojalla he\nluulivat olevansa joka suhteessa oikeutetut ajattelemaan itsestään\npelkkää hyvää ja katselemaan toisia yli olkainsa. He kuuluivat erääseen\nPohjois-Englannin vanhaan mahtisukuun, mikä seikka heillä pysyi\nparemmin muistissa kuin se tosiasia, että heidän isänsä oli koonnut\nvarallisuutensa kauppakeinotteluilla.\n\nHra Bingley oli perinyt isältään lähes satatuhatta puntaa, ja isä oli\nollut aikeissa ostaa maatilan ja muodostaa siitä sukukartanon, mutta\noli kuollut ennen aikeensa toteutumista. Hra Bingleyllä oli myöskin\nsama aikomus, ja joskus hän oli jo suunnitellut, mihin kreivikuntaan[2]\nasettuisi; mutta kun hänen nyt oli onnistunut vuokrata itselleen kelpo\ntalo ja siihen kuuluva tila ja maatalous, niin arvelivat monetkin,\njotka parhaiten tunsivat hänen keveän ja mukavuutta rakastavan\nluonteensa, että hän hyvinkin pesiytyisi koko loppuiäkseen\nNetherfieldiin ja jättäisi oman tilan ostohommat seuraavan sukupolven\nasiaksi.\n\nHänen sisarensa hoputtivat ahkerasti häntä hankkimaan itselleen oman\nkartanon ja asettumaan vakituisesti maalaisherraksi; mutta vaikka hän\nnyt ainakin toistaiseksi oli vain vuokrannut sellaisen, ei nti Bingley\nollut suinkaan haluton emännöimään siinä, eikä myöskään rva Hurst,\njonka aviomiehellä oli enemmän rakkautta hienoon elämään kuin varoja\nsen ylläpitämiseen, ollut sen haluttomampi pitämään veljensä taloa\nomana kotinaan, milloin asianhaarat tekivät sen suotavaksi. Hra Bingley\noli vasta kaksi vuotta ollut aikamiesten kirjoissa,[3] kun häntä\nkehoitettiin katsastamaan Netherfield Housea. Hän katsastikin sitä\npuolituntisen ulkoa ja sisältä; talon asema ja loistohuoneet\nmiellyttivät häntä, omistajan ylistelyt tyydyttivät häntä, ja\nvuokrasopimus kirjoitettiin oitis.\n\nHänen ja Darcyn välillä vallitsi vankka ystävyys, vaikka heidän\nluonteensa olivatkin hyvin erilaiset. Darcya miellytti Bingleyn\navomielisyys, hilpeys ja mukautuvaisuus, vaikka nuo ominaisuudet\nolivatkin mitä suurimpia vastakohtia hänen omilleen, joihin hän ei\nsuinkaan tuntunut olevan tyytymätön. Bingley puolestaan luotti mitä\nlujimmin ystävänsä teräväsilmäisyyteen ja varmaan arvostelukykyyn.\nTietysti syrjäinenkin huomasi, että Darcy oli johtava luonne tässä\nystävyyssuhteessa. Bingley ei suinkaan ollut typerä; mutta Darcy oli\nhäntä älykkäämpi. Hän oli yhdellä haavaa ylpeä, hillitty ja oikullinen;\nja vaikka hän esiintyikin sujuvatapaisena maailmanmiehenä, ei hänen\nsävynsä ollut omiaan taivuttamaan toisten mieliä hänen puoleensa. Siinä\nsuhteessa oli ystävä häntä paljon edellä. Missä hyvänsä Bingley\nnäyttäytyikin, tiesi hän sydänten kohta avautuvan hänelle; Darcy\nsitävastoin oli alituisena loukkauskivenä ja pahennuksen kalliona\nlähiympäristölleen.\n\nSe erilainen sävy, jolla ystävykset perästäpäin puhelivat Merytonin\ntanssiaisista, oli hyvin kuvaava heidän luonteilleen. Bingley ei ollut\nvielä ikänään tavannut niin hauskoja ihmisiä ja niin kauniita tyttöjä\nkuin siellä; jokainen oli ollut mitä herttaisin ja huomaavaisin häntä\nkohtaan; muodollisuudesta ja jäykkyydestä ei ollut näkynyt merkkiäkään;\nhän oli oitis tuntenut olevansa salissa kuin kotonaan; ja mitä\nnimenomaan nti Bennetiin tulee, niin ei hän voinut kuvitella taivaan\nenkeliäkään sen hurmaavammaksi kuin tämä tyttö oli. Darcy sitävastoin\noli nähnyt vain rykelmän ihmisiä, joiden kauneutta ja hienotapaisuutta\nei juuri kannattanut kehua; ei yksikään niistä ollut herättänyt\nhänessä niin vähäisintäkään mielenkiintoa; ja huomaavaisuutta ja\nmiellyttäväisyyttä hän ei ollut kokenut kenenkään taholta. Nti Bennetin\nhän myönsi sieväksi, mutta väitti tämän hymyilevän liikaa.\n\nRva Hurst ja hänen sisarensa myönsivät tuon seikan todeksi; mutta siitä\nhuolimatta he ihailivat Janea ja pitivät hänestä, sanoen hänen olevan\nkerrassaan suloinen tyttö, johon kannatti enemmänkin tutustua. Nti\nBennet oli siis perheneuvostossa tunnustettu suloiseksi tytöksi; ja\nsellaisen tunnustuksen turvin oli velimies oikeutettu ajattelemaan\nhänestä mitä parhaaksi näki.\n\n\n\n\nV LUKU.\n\n\nLyhyen kävelymatkan päässä Longbournista asui muuan perhe, jonka kanssa\nBennetin väki oli läheisessä ystävyyssuhteessa. Sir William Lucas oli\nvarhaisemmin pitänyt kauppaa Merytonissa ja hankkinut melkoisen\nvarallisuuden sekä saavuttanut ritariarvon pitämällä kaupungin mayorina\nollessaan puheen kuninkaalle.[4] Tuo arvo oli kenties noussut\nasianomaiselle vähän päähän. Häntä oli ruvennut inhoittamaan\nkauppapuotinsa ja talonsa pienessä kauppalassa; ja hyljäten molemmat\nhän oli muuttanut perheineen erääseen Merytonista mailin[5] päässä\nolevaan maataloon, joka siitä lähtien sai nimekseen Lucas Lodge. Siellä\nhän sai täysin määrin nauttia uudesta arvostaan ja liiketointen enää\nhäiritsemättä omistautua yksinomaan osoittamaan suopeaa kohteliaisuutta\nkoko maailmalle. Sillä vaikka arvonsa paisuttikin hänen rintaansa, ei\nse silti tehnyt häntä turhan pöyhkeäksi, päinvastoin hän oli pelkkää\nhuomaavaisuutta kaikkia ihmisiä kohtaan. Ollen luonnostaankin suopea,\nystävällinen ja palvelevainen, oli hän, käytyään hovissa esittäytymässä\nhallitsijalleen, muuttunut kerrassaan kohteliaaksi maailmanmieheksi.\n\nLady Lucas oli hyväluontoinen nainen eikä liialla älyllä pilattu, joten\nhän oli täysin omiaan löytämään armon rva Bennetin silmissä. Heillä oli\nuseita lapsia. Vanhin niistä, järkevä ja sukkela seitsenkolmattavuotias\nCharlotte, oli Elizabethin paras ystävä.\n\nPäivän selvää oli, että Lucasin ja Bennetin neitosten täytyi päästä\nyhdessä vaihtamaan mielipiteitä tanssiaisillan johdosta; ja varahin\nseuraavana aamuna ilmestyi ensinmainittu Longbourniin kuulemaan ja\nkertomaan.\n\n\"_Te_ aloitte illan hyvin, Charlotte\", sanoi rva Bennet, voittaen\nkohteliaana emäntänä katkeruutensa, \"_Teidät_ hra Bingley kaikkein\nensiksi pyysi tanssiin.\"\n\n\"Niin kyllä; mutta hän näytti pitävän toista tanssitettavaansa\nparempana.\"\n\n\"Oo, te tarkoitatte Janea, arvaan mä, koska herra Bingley tanssi hänen\nkanssaan kahdesti. Varmastikin hän _näytti_ tavallaan ihailevan Janea\n-- totta tosiaan luulen hänen _todella_ ihailleenkin -- kuulin jotain\nsemmoista -- mutta en tiedä mitään tarkkaan -- jotakin mitä herra\nRobinson lienee maininnut.\"\n\n\"Ehkä te tarkoitatte sitä, mitä satuin kuulemaan herra Bingleyn ja\nherra Robinsonin puhelevan keskenään; enkö jo eilen illalla\nmaininnutkin teille siitä? Herra Robinson kysyi häneltä, mitä hän piti\nmeidän seurastamme Merytonissa, ja eikö hänestäkin siellä ollut koolla\noikein paljon kauniita naisia, ja _ketä_ niistä hän puolestaan arveli\nkaikkein kauneimmaksi. Ja hän vastasi suoraa päätä viimeiseen\nkysymykseen: ah, neiti Bennet tietenkin, siitä ei voi olla eri mieltä.\"\n\n\"Voi minun päiviäni! Hm, olihan tuo tosiaankin suoraa puhetta -- tuntuu\nmelkein siltä kuin -- mutta kukapa sen tietää, saattaa hyvästikin\nkaikki käydä ihan tyhjäänkin.\"\n\n\"_Minun_ kuulemani kannatti paremminkin panna mieleensä kuin _sinun_,\nEliza\", jatkoi Charlotte Lucas. \"Herra Darcya ei ole niin hauska\nkuunnella kuin hänen ystävätään, vai mitä? Eliza parka -- ollappa vain\njuuri _mukiin_ menevä!\"\n\n\"Pyydän, ettette enää pane Lizzyä harmittelemaan tuon miehen\nsopimattoman käyttäytymisen takia, sillä hän se sitten vasta on\nkerrassaan epämiellyttävä mies, ja onneton se tyttö, josta hän rupeisi\npitämään. Rva Long kertoi istuneensa eilen illalla puoli tuntia aivan\nhänen vieressään, ilman että tuo pölkky avasi edes kertaakaan\nsuutansa.\"\n\n\"Oletko varma siitä, äiti? Etköhän vähän erehtyne?\" sanoi Jane. \"Minä\nnäin omin silmin herra Darcyn puhuvan hänelle.\"\n\n\"Niin, siksi että rouva Long kysyi häneltä, mitä hän piti\nNetherfieldistä, ja silloin hän ei tietenkään voinut olla vastaamatta;\nmutta hän näytti samalla kovin ärtyneeltä, kun hänelle oli rohjettu\nlainkaan puhua.\"\n\n\"Neiti Bingley kertoi minulle\", jatkoi Jane, \"ettei hän muulloinkaan\npuhu paljon, paitsi kaikkein läheisinten ystäväinsä parissa; ja\n_silloin_ hän saattaa olla oikein rakastettava.\"\n\n\"Sitä en hevillä usko, rakkaani. Jos hän tosiaan voi olla niin\nrakastettava, niin miksi hän ei puhellut rouva Longinkin kanssa? Mutta\narvaanpa hyvin, mistä se johtui; jokainen sanoo, että hän on niin\nhirveän ylpeä; ja minä arvaan hänen kuulleen, ettei rouva Longin\nkannata pitää omia vaunuja, ja että hän oli tullut tanssiaisiinkin\nvuokrahevosella.\"\n\n\"En minä sitä sure, ettei hän puhellutkaan rouva Longin kanssa\", sanoi\nnti Lucas; \"mutta kernaasti olisin suonut hänen tanssivan Elizan\nkanssa.\"\n\n\"Toisen kerran, Lizzy\", sanoi äiti, \"en sinun sijastasi lähtisi\ntanssimaan _hänen_ kanssaan, vaikka hän pyytäisikin.\"\n\n\"Sen kyllä uskon, äiti, ja olen aivan varma, ettet _sinä_ koskaan\njoudukaan kiusaukseen tanssia hänen kanssaan.\"\n\n\"Hänen ylpeytensä\", sanoi nti Lucas, \"ei loukkaa _minua_ niin paljon\nkuin monien toisten ylpeys, koska siihen on puolustavia asianhaaroja.\nEihän ole ihmettä, että niin kaunis nuori mies, sukuisin arvokkaasta\nvanhasta perheestä, rikas ja omistava kaikki elämän edut, ajattelee\nitsestään suurta. Jos minun sallitaan niin sanoa, väittäisin, että\nhänellä on _syytä_ olla ylpeä.\"\n\n\"Tuo on hyvin totta\", virkkoi Elizabeth, \"ja minä voisin helposti antaa\nanteeksi_ hänen _ylpeytensä, jollei hän olisi loukannut _minun_\nylpeyttäni.\"\n\n\"Ylpeys\", huomautti Mary, joka kernaasti mahtaili syvällisillä\nmielipiteillään, \"on luullakseni sangen yleinen heikkous. Ainakin\npäättäen kaikesta siitä, mitä olen lukenut, arvelen sen olevan sangen\nyleisen; ihmisluonto on erityisen herkkä kallistumaan siihen, ja suurin\nosa meistä on taipuvainen hellittelemään erikoisesti omahyväisyyden\ntunnetta kymmenien muiden, todellisten tai kuviteltujen luulojen\nrinnalla. Turhamaisuus ja ylpeys ovat eri asioita, vaikka noita sanoja\nusein käytetään samankäsitteisinä. Ihminen voi olla ylpeä olematta\nsilti turhamainen. Itse ylpeys kohdistuu enemmänkin siihen, mitä me\nitse ajattelemme itsestämme; turhamaisuus jälleen siihen, mitä soisimme\ntoisten ajattelevan meistä.\"\n\n\"Jos minä olisin niin rikas kuin herra Darcy\", huudahti nuori\nLucas-vesa, joka oli tullut sisariensa kanssa, \"niin en välittäisi\nviittä penniä koko ylpeydestäni. Pitäisin silloin kokonaisen lauman\nkettukoiria ja joisin pullon viiniä joka päivä.\"\n\n\"Silloin sinä joisit paljon enemmän kuin sinulle on terveellistä\",\nsanoi rva Bennet, \"ja jos olisit minun silmäini alla, niin minä\npitäisin pullot kauniisti poissa näkyvistäsi.\"\n\nPoika kinasi vastaan, ettei se vain niinkään kävisi päinsä; rouva\nBennet vakuutti, että kävisipä hyvinkin; ja siihen väittelyyn päättyi\nnaapurien vierailu.\n\n\n\n\nVI LUKU.\n\n\nLongbournin naiset kävivät kohta tervehtimässä Netherfieldin naisväkeä.\nVierailuun vastattiin heti kuten tulikin. Nti Bennetin sulava käytös\nsaavutti yhä enemmän rva Hurstin ja nti Bingleyn suosiota; ja vaikka\näiti huomattiin oitis mahdottomaksi ja nuoremmat sisaret kerrassaan\nmitättömiksi, niin pidettiin kahden vanhimman suhteen mahdollisena,\nettä _heidän_ kanssaan ehkä kannatti jatkaa tuttavuutta. Janessa tämä\nhuomaavaisuus tietenkin herätti mitä suurinta mielihyvää, mutta\nElizabethin mielestä vierasten käytös oli edelleenkin ylen pöyhkeä,\nyksinpä sisartakin kohtaan, eikä hän voinut ruveta pitämään heistä; ja\narvatenkin oli heidän alentuvaiseen sävyynsä Janea kohtaan aiheena\nheidän veljensä ilmeinen ja jatkuva ihailu. Sillä se oli jokaiselle\nselvää, että hra Bingley _todella_ ihaili Janea, missä he vain\ntapasivat toisensa. Ja yhtä ilmeistä oli, että Jane puolestaan antautui\nalttiisti tämän ihailun esineeksi ja olipa todenteossa rakastuakin\nihailijaansa; mutta sisarta rauhoitti ajatus, ettei maailma ehkä ollut\nyhtä kerkeä keksimään tuon tunnevyyhdin selviämistä, koska Janella oli\nväkevän tunneherkkyyden ohella hillitty mielenmalttikin ja alati yhtä\nsulava ja siloinen esiintymistapa, jotka ominaisuudet voivat varjella\nhäntä uteliaiden epäluuloilta. Tästä seikasta Elizabeth mainitsi\nystävättärelleen nti Lucasille.\n\n\"Ehkä hänen täytyykin, jos hän vain saa tarpeeksi nähdä mielitiettyään.\nMutta vaikka Bingley ja Jane tapaavatkin toisensa jotenkin usein, ei\nheidän ole sallittu olla montakaan hetkeä toistensa seurassa; ja kun he\naina tapaavat toisensa suuressa seurassa, jossa on miehiä ja naisia\nsekaisin, on heidän mahdoton päästä joka kerta toistensa kanssa\npuheisiin. Janen pitäisi senvuoksi koettaa käyttää hyväkseen jokaista\npuolituntista, jolloin hänen onnistuu kääntää Bingleyn huomio\npuoleensa. Jos hän on aivan varma tästä, niin on hänen sitten helppo\nrakastua häneen niin monesti kuin vain tahtoo.\"\n\n\"Sinun suunnitelmasi on sangen hyvä\", vastasi Elizabeth, \"jos ei olisi\nmuusta kysymys kuin joutumisesta hyviin naimisiin; ja jos minä olisin\npäättänyt hankkia itselleni rikkaan miehen -- tai millaisen miehen\nhyvänsä -- niin varmastikin menettelisin sen mukaan. Mutta Jane ei\ntunne sillä tapaa; hänellä ei ole mitään järkeilevää tarkoitusperää.\nNyt hän ei voi vielä olla varma edes oman kiintymyksensä kiihkeydestä\neikä sen mahdollisuudesta. Hänhän on tuntenut herra Bingleyn vasta\nparin viikon ajan. Hän tanssi tämän kanssa kahdesti Merytonissa; kerran\nhän näki hänet hänen omassa kodissaan lyhyenä aamuhetkenä; ja sitten he\novat istuneet neljästi samassa päivällispöydässä. Eihän tuo toki vielä\nriitä, jotta hän senkautta olisi päässyt täyteen selvyyteen miehen\nluonteesta.\"\n\n\"Ei, niinkuin sinä sen esität. Jos he olisivat vain _syöneet_ yhdessä,\nniin olisi Jane oppinut tietämään ainoastaan sen, onko tuolla miehellä\nhyvä ruokahalu vai ei; mutta sinunhan pitää muistaa, että he ovat\nviettäneet yhdessä neljä iltaa -- ja neljänä iltana näkee ja oppii jo\nkoko paljon.\"\n\n\"Niin kyllä; noina neljänä iltana he ovat oppineet tietämään, mikä\nkorttipeli toiselta käy sujuvammin; mutta mitä tulee luonteiden\nluotaamiseen, niin en usko paljonkaan paljastuneen asianomaisille.\"\n\n\"No niin\", päätti Charlotte viisastelun; \"minä toivon Janelle onnea\nkaikesta sydämestäni; ja jospa he jo huomispäivänä menisivät naimisiin,\nniin luulisin, että hänellä olisi yhtä hyvät takeet onnellisuudestaan\nkuin tutkittuaan tulevan miehensä luonnetta kokonaisen vuosikauden.\nOnnellisuus avioliitossa on kokonaan sattuman kauppaa. Vaikka kumpikin\npuoliso tuntisi edeltäpäin toistensa mielenlaadun ja taipumukset yhtä\nhyvin kuin viisi sormeaan, tahi vaikkapa he olisivat alussa jokseenkin\ntoistensa kaltaiset, niin se ei takaa niin rahduistakaan heidän\nonnellisuuttansa. Kumpikin kehittyy sitten perästäpäin eri tavalla ja\neri määrässä; ja parempi on aina, että tuntee niin vähän kuin suinkin\nsen ihmisen vikoja, jonka kanssa saa viettää koko elämänsä yhdessä.\"\n\n\"Sinä koetat saada minut nauramaan, Charlotte, mutta tiedäthän, ettei\ntuo ole tervettä ajattelua, ja ettet itse ikinä menettelisi sillä\ntapaa.\"\n\nTarkatessaan hra Bingleyn käyttäytymistä sisartaan kohtaan Elizabeth ei\nosannut aavistaakaan, että hänestä itsestään oli tulemassa jonkin\nverran mielenkiintoisen tarkkaamisen esine Bingleyn ystävän silmissä.\nHra Darcy oli ensi katseella tuskin tunnustanut häntä edes\nsieväksikään; tanssiaisissa hän oli ilman vähintäkään ihailua\nsilmäillyt hänen puoleensa, ja kun he seuraavan kerran tapasivat\ntoisensa, katseli mies neitoa kylmästi kuin ottaakseen hänestä mittaa.\nMutta annappa olla -- kohta kun hän oli selittänyt itselleen ja\nystävälleen, että tytöllä oli tuskin ainuttakaan kaunista piirrettä\nkasvoissaan, oli hän huomaavinaan tavatonta älykkäisyyttä noiden\ntummien silmäin lämpimässä hohteessa. Tuohon keksintöön liittyi kohta\ntoisiakin yhtä masentavia. Vaikka hänen arvosteleva silmänsä oli\näkännyt useamman kuin yhden hairahduksen täydellisestä kauneusviivasta\ntytön vartalossa, oli hänen pakko myöntää itselleen, että vartalo\nkokonaisuudessaan oli sittenkin aika sorja ja soma. Ja vaikka hän\ntotesi, ettei tyttö osannut noudattaa suuren maailman tapoja, kiehtoi\ntämän leikkisän ketterä käytös hänen mieltään vasten hänen tahtoaankin.\nKaikesta tuosta ei Elizabethilla ollut aavistustakaan; hänelle tuo mies\nvain oli kaikkien inhoama olio, jonka suurin synti kuitenkin oli, että\noli kieltäytynyt tanssimasta hänen kanssaan hänen rumien kasvojensa\nvuoksi.\n\nDarcy yllätti itsensä toivomasta, että pääsisi paremmin tuntemaan tuota\ntyttöä; ja odotellessaan pääsevänsä itse puheisiin hänen kanssaan\nrupesi hän tarkkaamaan hänen seurusteluaan toisten kanssa. Mutta tuopa\nei jäänyt Elizabethin terävältä silmältä huomaamatta. Tämä sattui\nsuuressa illanvietossa Sir William Lucasin luona.\n\n\"Mitähän herra Darcy tarkoittanee\", sanoi Elizabeth Charlottelle, \"kun\näsken seisoi vieressäni ja kuunteli haasteluani eversti Forsterin\nkanssa?\"\n\n\"Siihen kysymykseen herra Darcy yksin voi vastata.\"\n\n\"Mutta jos hän tekee sillä tapaa vielä kerran, niin minä annan hänen\ntietää, mitä siitä ajattelen. Hänellä on aina niin ivallinen katse; ja\njollen ala itsekin käydä julkeaksi, niin luulenpa, että rupean\npelkäämään häntä.\"\n\nKun hra Darcy kohta sen jälkeen lähestyi heitä, kuitenkaan näyttämättä\naikovan antautua puhelemaan heidän kanssaan, kielsi nti Lucas jyrkästi\nystävätärtään toteuttamasta aiettaan. Varoituksesta oli oitis\nseurauksena, että Elizabeth kääntyi tulijaan päin ja sanoi:\n\n\"Enkö minä teistäkin, herra Darcy, äsken puhunut oikein mainiosti, kun\nkiusasin eversti Forsteria panemaan toimeen tanssiaiset Merytonissa?\"\n\n\"Tosiaankin sangen ponnekkaasti -- mutta sepä olikin aihe, joka aina\npanee pontta naisiin.\"\n\n\"Te olette kovin ankara meitä kohtaan.\"\n\n\"Nyt on _sinun_ vuorosi tulla kiusatuksi\", sanoi nti Lucas. \"Nyt minä\nmenen avaamaan pianon, Eliza, ja sinä tiedät mitä siitä seuraa.\"\n\n\"Sinä olet todellakin merkillinen ystävä! -- Aina kiusaamassa minua\nsoittamaan ja laulamaan jos jonkinlaisten ihmisten korville! Jos minun\nturhamaisuuteni kallistuisi musiikkiin, niin en todellakaan istuisi\npianon ääreen tietäessäni kuulijaini joukossa olevan sellaisia, jotka\novat tietysti tottuneet kaikkein parhainten soittajain esityksiin.\" Nti\nLucasin yhä kiusatessa hän kuitenkin myöntyi: \"No, olkoon menneeksi --\njos täytyy, niin täytyy.\" Ja katsahtaen merkitsevästi hra Darcyyn hän\nlisäsi: \"Tunnette kai vanhan hyvän sananlaskun: Pidätä henkeäsi, jotta\njaksat puhaltaa puuroosi -- siksipä minunkin täytyy nyt lakata\npuhelemasta jaksaakseni laulaa.\"\n\nHän soitti ja lauloi miellyttävästi, vaikkei suinkaan mestarillisesti.\nParin laulun perästä, ja ennenkuin hän ennätti edes vastata monien\npyytelyihin toisteluista, lykkäsi hänet kiivaasti soittokoneen äärestä\nsisarensa Mary, joka luonnollisesti -- ollen joka suhteessa perheen\nainoa täydellinen vesa -- oli innokas näyttämään hänkin taitoaan ja\nniittämään kunniaa.\n\nMarylla ei ollut kykyä eikä taitoa -- ja vaikka turhamaisuus oli\nantanut hänelle tarmoa ahkeraan harjoittelemiseen, oli se myöskin\nantanut hänelle perin vaateliaan ja itseluuloisen esitystavan, joka\nolisi ollut haitaksi etevämmällekin kyvylle. Elizabethin korutonta\nesitystä oli kuultu paljon suuremmalla nautinnolla, vaikka hän ei ollut\nsoittanut puoleksikaan niin taidokkaasti; ja taottuaan loppuun pitkän\npianokonsertin voi Mary olla tyytyväinen, kun voi ostaa itselleen\nkiitollisia kättentaputuksia irlantilaisilla ja skottilaisilla\nkansantanssisävelmillä, joiden mukaan hänen nuoremmat sisarensa,\nLucasin lapset ja pari kolme nuorta upseeria kävivät kohta pyörimään.\n\nHra Darcy seisoi syrjässä hyvin tyytymättömänä sellaiseen\nillanviettotapaan, joka teki kaiken puhelun mahdottomaksi -- eikä hänen\nmielialansa suinkaan parantunut, kun hänen vieressään seisova Sir\nWilliam nykäisi häntä kylkeen ja huomautti leveästi hymyillen:\n\n\"Tämäpä vasta somaa huvia nuorille, eikö totta, herra Darcy? Ei tanssin\nvoittanutta! Minun mielestäni sen pitäisi olla hienojen seurapiirien\nkaikkein parhaita huvituksia, vai mitä arvelette?\"\n\n\"Varmastikin, herrani; ja samalla on sillä sekin etu, että se on\nmaailman kaikkein vähimmänkin hienostuneiden seurapiirien huvitus --\njokainen villi raakalainenkin kykenee heittelemään sääriään.\"\n\nSir William vain hymyili. \"Teidän ystävänne tanssii mainiosti\", hän\njatkoi hetken äänettömyyden perästä, nähdessään Bingleyn hilpeästi\npyörivän tanssijain piirissä; \"ja arvaanpa, että itsekin olette siinä\ntaidossa mestari, herra Darcy.\"\n\n\"Näitte kai sitten minun tanssivan Merytonissa, herrani?\"\n\n\"Näin tosiaankin, ja sitäkös oli nautinto katsella. Taidatte usein\ntanssia St. James'issa?\"[6]\n\n\"En koskaan herrani.\"\n\n\"Ettekö ajattele, että se olisi sopiva kunnianosoitus sille pyhälle\npaikalle?\"\n\n\"Sitä kunniaa en kernaasti osoita millekään paikalle, mikäli vain voin\nvälttää.\"\n\n\"Teillä on kai oma talo Lontoossa, arvaan mä?\" jatkoi hyväntahtoinen\nisäntä kammahtamatta toisen töykeydestä.\n\nHra Darcy kumarsi.\n\n\"Minäkin olen vähin ajatellut asettua pääkaupunkiin, sillä liikun\nmielihyvin ylhäisessä maailmassa, mutta en ole oikein varma, sopiiko\nLontoon ilma hyvin Lady Lucasille.\"\n\nHän vaikeni odottaen vastausta, jota hänen vieraansa ei kuitenkaan\nnäyttänyt olevan halukas antamaan. Nähdessään Elizabethin silloin\nlähestyvän heitä kohti sai isäntä ylivoimaisen kohteliaisuuden puuskan\nja luikkasi huoneen poikki häntä kohti:\n\n\"Kiltti Eliza neiti, miksi ette ole mukana tanssimassa? Herra Darcy,\nsallikaa minun esittää teille tämä nuori neiti erittäin miellyttävänä\ntanssitoverina. Olen varma, ettette voi kieltäytyä tanssimasta, kun\ntällainen sulotar odottaa teitä.\" Ja tarttuen Elizabethin käteen hän\nyritti kurottaa sen hra Darcylle, joka -- vaikka ylen ällistyneenä, --\nei näyttänyt lainkaan haluttomalta tarttumaan siihen, jollei neitonen\nolisi äkkiä nykäissyt kätensä pois ja sanonut hiukan harmistuneena:\n\n\"Minua ei laisinkaan haluta tanssia, Sir William. Ettehän vain luule\nminun tulleen tännepäin kerjätäkseni itselleni tanssittajaa?\"\n\nVakavan kohteliaasti aneli hra Darcy kunniaa saada viedä hänet\nlattialle, mutta turhaan. Elizabeth pysyi jyrkkänä kiellossaan, eikä\nSir Williaminkaan onnistunut houkuttelullaan kääntää hänen mieltänsä.\n\n\"Te liihoittelette niin suloisesti tanssin pyörteissä, neiti Eliza,\nettä on oikein julmaa kun kiellätte minulta huvin nähdä teitä. Ja\nvaikka tanssi ei yleensä ole tälle herralle mieleen, niin uskon hänen\nkernaasti uhrautuvan meidän hyväksemme puolituntiseksi.\"\n\n\"Herra Darcy onkin aina ylen kohtelias\", virkkoi Elizabeth hymyillen.\n\n\"Niin onkin, kuinkas muuten; mutta, rakas neiti Eliza, kukapa ei\njoutuisikaan kiusaukseen olla kohtelias saadessaan sellaisen\ntanssitoverin?\"\n\nElizabeth hymähti katkerasti ja kääntyi poispäin. Hänen vastarintansa\nei näyttänyt kovinkaan pahoittaneen tanssiin pyytelijää, ja tämä\najatteli jonkin verran suosiollisemmin itsepäisestä neitosesta, kun nti\nBingley havahdutti hänet aatoksistaan:\n\nHra Darcy kuunteli aivan välinpitämättömästi toisen lepertelyä; ja\nnähdessään hänen välinpitämättömyytensä arvasi nti Bingley aseman\npelastetuksi ja jatkoi yhä rohkeammin naljailuaan.\n\n\n\n\nVII LUKU.\n\n\nHra Bennetin omaisuutena oli miltei yksinomaan maatila, josta hän sai\nkahdentuhannen punnan vuositulot. Kovaksi onneksi hänen tyttärilleen\ntuli tila miesperillisten puutteessa sukumääräysten mukaan siirtymään\neräälle etäiselle sukulaiselle; ja heidän äitinsä omaisuus ei,\nvaikkakin se hänelle itselleen oli ollut koko suurenmoinen, paljoakaan\nmerkinnyt hänen miehensä taloudenpidossa. Hänen isänsä oli ollut\nasianajaja Merytonissa ja jättänyt tyttärelleen perinnöksi neljätuhatta\npuntaa.\n\nHänen sisarensa oli joutunut naimisiin isän entiselle kirjurille hra\nPhilipsille, joka jatkoi isän asianajoliikettä, ja toisen sisaren\nmiehellä oli sievänlainen kauppatoimi Lontoossa.\n\nLongbournin kylä oli vain mailin päässä Merytonista -- siis sangen\nmukava jalkamatka talon nuorille neitosille, joita houkutteli siellä\nkäymään kolmesti tai neljästi viikossa halu tervehtiä tätiä ja\nsamalla poiketa kadun toisella puolella olevaan muotikauppaan.\nPerheen nuorimmat, Catherine ja Lydia, olivat erikoisen ahkeria\nkaupunkivieraita. Ollen sisariaan paljon lapsellisemmat he paremman\nhuvin puutteessa lähtivät kävelemään Merytoniin ja hankkimaan sieltä\nterveellistä puheenaihetta ikäviksi iltahetkiksi. Ja niin vähän\njännittäviä kuin tavalliset maalaiskaupppala-uutiset olivatkin, saivat\nhe tädiltään sentään kuulla yhtä ja toista. Tähän aikaan he varsinkin\ntulivat ladatuiksi täyteen iloisia uutisia erään miliisirykmentin[7]\nsaapumisesta naapuristoon; sen piti jäädä tänne koko talveksi, ja\npäämaja tuli olemaan Merytonissa.\n\nEipä siis ihmettä, että Bennetin neidit olivat nykyään ahkeria vieraita\nrva Philipsin luona. Joka päivä he saivat kuulla jotain uutta upseerien\nnimistä ja perhesuhteista. Näiden majoituspaikatkaan eivät pysyneet\nenää valtiosalaisuutena, ja ennenpitkää neitoset pääsivät tekemään\nupseerien tuttavuuttakin. Hra Philips kävi kaikkien upseerien luona\npikku liikeasiain vuoksi, ja siitäkös aukeni hänen vaimonsa\nsisarentyttärille arvaamaton auvon lähde. He eivät enää puhelleetkaan\nmistään muusta kuin upseereista; ja yksinpä hra Bingleynkin suuri\nrikkaus, jonka mainitseminen oli yhä edelleenkin salvata hengen heidän\näidiltään, oli tyttärien silmissä aivan mitätön seikka verrattuna\nupseerikunnan loistoon ja kunniaan.\n\nKuunneltuaan kerran aamiaispöydässä nuorimpien tyttäriensä loppumatonta\nlavertelua tästä päivänkysymyksestä huomautti hra Bennet hyvin\nkylmästi:\n\n\"Tuosta suunpieksämisestä voin päätellä, että te molemmat olette\nhupsuimmat tytöt koko maassa. Jotain sellaista olen jo vähin\nepäillytkin, mutta nyt olen siitä täysin varma.\"\n\nCatherine mykistyi harmistuneena sanattomaksi; mutta aivan\nhäiriytymättä jatkoi Lydia kuvailuaan kapteeni Carterin miehekkäästä\nmallikelpoisuudesta ja sanoi toivovansa vielä tänään tavata hänet,\nennenkuin arvon kapteeni huomisaamulla lähti Lontooseen.\n\n\"Sinä todella hämmästytät minua, rakkaani\", torui rva Bennet miestään,\n\"kun olet niin kerkeä päättelemään omia tyttöjäsi typeriksi. Jos minä\ntuollaista ajattelisin kenenkä hyvänsä lapsista, niin säästäisin toki\nomia lapsiani.\"\n\n\"Jos lapseni ovat typeriä, niin täytyy minun silti säilyttää oma\njärkevyyteni.\"\n\n\"Niin kai -- mutta nepä sattuvatkin olemaan kaikkityyni varsin\nälykkäitä.\"\n\n\"Ainoastaan tässä asiassa meidän mielipiteemme eivät valitettavasti käy\nyhteen. Olin toivonut, että niin olisi käynyt missä pikku seikassa\nhyvänsä, mutta nyt minun täytyy jyrkästi pysyä kiini kannassani, että\nmolemmat nuorimmat tyttäremme ovat erinomaisen hupsuja.\"\n\n\"Mutta rakas Bennet, ethän voi odottaakaan, että tuollaiset nuoret\ntytöt olisivat vielä yhtä järkeviä kuin heidän isänsä ja äitinsä. Kun\nhe ovat kerran tulleet meidän iällemme, niin olen varma, etteivät he\npiittaa upseereista sen enempää kuin mekään. Muistanpa vielä hyvin sen\najan, jolloin itsekin panin paljon arvoa punatakeille[8] -- ja\ntottakin, yhä vieläkin hellin sydämessäni sellaista. Ja jos mikä nuori\nja pulska eversti, jolla on viiden- tai kuudentuhannen punnan\nvuositulot, tulisi kosimaan jotain tytärtäni, niin enpä tosiaankaan\npanisi vastaan -- ja kuulehan, minusta näytti eversti Forster\nunivormussaan kovin sievältä toissailtana Sir Williamin illanvietossa.\"\n\n\"Äiti\", huudahti Lydia, \"täti sanoi, etteivät eversti Forster ja\nkapteeni Carter enää käykään niin ahkeraan neiti Watsonin luona kuin\nensi alussa tänne tultuaan; täti näkee heidän nykyään hyvin usein\nseisoskelevan Clarken kirjastossa.\"\n\nEnnenkuin rva Bennet ennätti vastata, astui perheen arkihuoneeseen\nliveripukuinen lakeija tuoden Netherfieldistä nti Bennetille[9]\nosoitetun kirjeen, jääden odottamaan vastausta. Rva Bennetin silmät\nsäihkyivät iloisesta odotuksesta, ja tyttärensä lukiessa hän ei\nmalttanut hillitä kärsimättömyyttään.\n\n\"Kerrohan, Jane, keltä se on? Mistä siinä puhutaan? Mitä herra\nBingleyllä on sinulle sanottavana? Oi voi, Jane, jouduhan toki\nkertomaan meille, pidä kiirettä, rakkaani!\"\n\n\"Se on neiti Bingleyltä\", sanoi Jane ja luki sitten kirjeen ääneen.\n\n    \"_Rakas ystävä_. -- Jollette te armahda Louisaa ja minua tulemalla\n    tänään syömään päivällistä meidän kanssamme, niin pelkään meidän\n    molempain tulevan toistemme ikivihollisiksi; sillä eihän kaksi\n    naista voi istua jöröttää koko päivää kahdenkesken joutumatta\n    lopulta ilmiriitaan keskenään. Tulkaa oitis kun saatte tämän lapun\n    käsiinne. Veljeni ja toiset herrat syövät ulkona upseerien\n    seurassa. -- Ikuisesti teidän harras Caroline Bingley.\"\n\n\"Upseerien kanssa!\" huudahti Lydia. \"Kuinka ihmeellä ei täti meille\n_tuosta_ maininnut?\"\n\n\"Syövät ulkona!\" toisti rva Bennet, \"sepä sattui onnettomasti.\"\n\n\"Saanko lähteä vaunuilla?\" kysyi Jane.\n\n\"Ei, rakkaani, parempi on että lähdet ratsain, sillä kohta näyttää\ntulevan sade, ja silloin on sinun jäätävä sinne yöksi.\"\n\n\"Tuo olisi tosiaankin hyvä suunnitelma\", huomautti Elizabeth, \"jos vain\nolet varma, etteivät ne tarjoudu tuomaan häntä kotia omilla\nvaunuillaan.\"\n\n\"Ei siitä pelkoa, sillä herrat lähtevät tietysti herra Bingleyn\nvaunuilla Merytoniin, eikä Hursteilla ole hevosia omiin vaunuihinsa.\"\n\n\"Minä lähtisin sittenkin paljon mieluummin vaunuilla.\"\n\n\"Mutta rakkaani, eihän isäsi voi antaa hevosiaan, siitä olen varma.\nNiitä tarvitaan pellolla, eikö totta, Bennet?\"\n\n\"Niitä tarvittaisiin pellolla paljon enemmän kuin teidän ajeluiltanne\nyleensä riittää.\"\n\nIsä pysyi jäykkänä kiellossaan, joten Janen oli lähdettävä ratsain; ja\näiti katseli ulko-ovelta hänen lähtöään, sydän täynnä iloisia\naavistuksia lähestyvän rajuilman johdosta. Hän ei pettynytkään\ntoivossaan; sillä Jane ei ollut ennättänyt vielä pitkällekään, kun\nalkoi sataa kuin saavista kaataen. Hänen sisarensa hätäilivät hänen\ntähtensä, mutta äiti oli ihastuksissaan. Sadetta jatkui taukoamatta\nkoko illan. Varmastikaan ei Jane palaisi yöksi kotiin.\n\n\"Sepä oli kerrassaan oiva ajatus minulta!\" ihasteli rva Bennet moneen\nkertaan, aivan kuin olisi sade tullut hänen tilauksestaan. Mutta\nseuraavana aamuna hänen ihastuksensa kuitenkin kylmeni melkoisesti, kun\nkohta aamiaispöydästä noustua Netherfieldin lakeija ilmestyi jälleen\ntaloon tuoden Elizabethille seuraavan kirjelapun:\n\n    \"_Rakkahin Lizzy_. -- Olen tänä aamuna hyvin huonovointinen ja\n    arvaan vilustuneeni kastuessani eilen läpimäräksi. Hellät\n    ystävättäreni täällä eivät tahdo kuulla puhuttavankaan, että\n    palaisin kotia ennenkuin tunnen itseni paremmaksi. He vaativat\n    myöskin herra Jonesia kutsuttavaksi tänne -- -- älä siis säikähdä,\n    jos saat kuulla hänen käyneen minua katsomassa -- ja eikähän minua\n    muu juuri vaivaakaan kuin päänsärky ja käheys. -- Sinun j.n.e.\"\n\n\"No niin, rakkaani\", virkkoi hra Bennet, Elizabethin luettua kirjeen\nääneen, \"jos siis tyttäresi sattuisi sairastumaan pahastikin --\nvaikkapa hän kuolisikin -- niin onhan toki lohdutuksenasi, että tuo\nkaikki tapahtui sinun toimestasi ja herra Bingleytä pyydystääksesi.\"\n\n\"Oh -- en minä ollenkaan pelkää hänen kuolevan. Eivät ihmiset kohta\nkuolla kuukahda pienestä kylmettymisestä. Ja kyllä siellä hänestä\npidetään hyvää huolta. Niin kauan kuin hän viipyy siellä, on kaikki\noikein hyvin. Minä lähtisin itse katsomaan häntä, jos vain saisin\nhevoset vaunujen eteen.\"\n\nElizabeth, joka oli hyvin hädissään sisarensa tilasta, päätti lähteä\nilman vaunujakin; ja kun hän ei ollut mikään ratsastajatar, täytyi\nhänen lähteä jalkaisin. Mutta hänen aikeensa kohtasi vastustusta.\n\n\"Kuinka sinä saatatkaan olla niin typerä\", huudahti hänen äitinsä --\n\"ettäs ajatteletkaan kävellä tällaisella kurasäällä! Sinua ei hirviäisi\nkukaan katsellakaan perille päästyäsi.\"\n\n\"Jane kyllä hirviäisi nähdä minut -- muuta en pyydäkään.\"\n\n\"Onko se hieno viittaus minulle, Lizzy\", sanoi hänen isänsä, \"että\nlähettäisin hakemaan hevoset?\"\n\n\"Ei, ei lainkaan. Minua ei kävely peloita ollenkaan. Matka ei merkitse\nmitään, kun on asiata mennä; eikähän sinne ole pitemmältä kuin kolme\nmailia. Minä kerkiän kyllä päivälliseksi takaisin.\"\n\n\"Minä ihailen sinun tarmokasta hyväntahtoisuuttasi\", huomautti perheen\n\"valo\" Mary, \"mutta jokaisen tunteen ailahduksen pitäisi minun\nmielestäni sopeutua yhteen teon järkevyyden kanssa, ja kaiken\nvoimanponnistuksen vastata tarkoitettua tulosta.\"\n\n\"Me lähdemme Merytoniin asti sinua saattamaan\", sanoivat Catherine ja\nLydia, jotka olivat supatelleet ahkerasti keskenään. Elizabeth suostui\nheidän tarjoukseensa, ja sisarukset lähtivät kohta matkaan.\n\n\"Jos pidämme joutua\", sanoi Lydia heidän astuessaan, \"niin ehkä\nennätämme nähdä kapteeni Carterin, ennenkuin hän lähtee.\"\n\nMerytoniin tultua pieni seurue jakautui; nuorimmat sisarukset\npoikkesivat erään upseerin rouvan luo, ja Elizabeth lähti yksinään\njatkamaan matkaa, astellen rivakasti sänkipeltojen poikki, kiiveten\nkiviaitojen ja hypähtäen lätäköiden yli kärsimättömässä innossaan,\nsaapuen vihdoin talon edustalle nilkat hyvin väsyneinä, kengät ja sukat\nkuraisina ja kasvot punoittavina tiukasta kulusta.\n\nHänet johdettiin sisään ruokasaliin, missä koko seura, Janea\nlukuunottamatta, oli koolla aamiaispöydässä ja missä hänen lokainen\nulkoasunsa herätti suurta ällistystä. Rva Hurstista ja nti Bingleystä\ntuntui miltei uskomattomalta, että hän oli aivan yksin kulkenut kolme\nmailia sellaisella kelillä ja ainoastaan sisartaan nähdäkseen. Ja\nElizabeth voi olla varma, että hän sen kautta oli joutunut noiden arvon\nnaisten ylenkatseen alaiseksi. He ottivat kuitenkin hänet hyvin\nkohteliaasti vastaan ja heidän veljensä sävyssä oli enemmänkin kuin\npelkkää kohteliaisuutta -- siinä oli mielihyvää ja hellyyttä. Hra Darcy\nsanoi hyvin vähän, ja hra Hurst istui tuppisuuna. Edellisen mielessä\nkamppaili ihastus neitosen terveestä ihonväristä ja epäilys, oikeuttiko\nsisaren satunnainen pahoinvointi tätä yksin uskaltamaan niin\nseikkailurikkaalle matkalle. Jälkimmäinen ajatteli yksinomaan\naamiaistaan.\n\nHätäisiin kysymyksiinsä Janen tilasta Elizabeth ei saanut oikein\nmieluisia vastauksia. Nti Bennet oli nukkunut huonosti, ja vaikka hän\nnyt olikin ylhäällä, oli hänessä siksi paljon kuumetta, ettei hän\nsaanut lähteä huoneestaan. Elizabeth oli iloinen, kun hän sentään pääsi\noitis häntä katsomaan; sillä Jane, jota vain pelko omaistensa\nsäikäyttämisestä oli estänyt kirjeessään toivomasta sellaista\nvierailua, oli hyvin ihastunut hänen tulostaan. Hän ei kuitenkaan\njaksanut paljon puhella; ja kun nti Bingley jätti heidät kahdenkesken,\nvoi hän ainoastaan tulkita ihastustaan ja kiitollisuuttaan nauttimansa\nhellän kohtelun johdosta. Elizabeth autteli häntä äänettömästi.\n\nAamiaispöydästä noustuaan talon naiset palasivat heidän luokseen; ja\nsilloin rupesi Elizabethkin pitämään heistä, nähdessään kuinka hellästi\nja huolellisesti he hoitelivat Janea. Apteekkarikin saapui; tutkittuaan\npotilaan hän sanoi hänen kovasti kylmettyneen, niinkuin oli\narvellutkin, ja kehoitti häntä käymään uudestaan vuoteeseen, luvaten\nlähettää joitakin lääkkeitä. Neuvoa noudatettiinkin oitis, sillä\nkuumeoireet lisääntyivät ja sairaan päätä pakotti kovasti. Elizabeth ei\npoistunut hetkeksikään sisarensa vierestä, eivätkä talon naisetkaan\nolleet sieltä usein poissa; herrat vuorostaan lähtivät ulos, kun eivät\nvoineet olla miksikään avuksi.\n\nKun kello löi kolme, tunsi Elizabeth, että hänen täytyi lähteä,\nja hän sanoi sen sangen vastenmielisesti. Nti Bingley tarjoutui\nlähettämään hänet kotia vaunuilla, mutta silloin hätäytyi Jane niin\nkiihkeästi heidän eroamisestaan, että nti Bingleyn täytyi vaihtaa\nvaunutarjouksensa pyynnöksi, että hän jäisi vielä toistaiseksi\nNetherfieldiin. Elizabeth suostui mitä kiitollisimmin ja palvelija\nlähetettiin oitis Longbourniin ilmoittamaan kotolaisille hänen\njäämisestään ja noutamaan hänelle vaatteita.\n\n\n\n\nVIII LUKU.\n\n\nKello viideltä talon naiset vetäytyivät omalle puolelleen pukeutumaan,\nja puoli seitsemältä tultiin Elizabethia kutsumaan päivälliselle.\nKohteliaisiin tiedusteluihin sisarensa tilasta -- ja tällöin\nElizabethia nimenomaan ilahdutti havaita, että hra Bingley oli kaikkein\nhuolestunein kyselijä -- hänellä ei ollut paljon hyvää vastattavana.\nJane ei ainakaan ollut yhtään parempi. Sen kuultuaan talon naiset\nvakuuttivat kolmeen tai neljään kertaan, kuinka tuo uutinen heitä\nsuretti, kuinka ikävää heistä oli vilustua ja kuinka suuresti heitä\ninhoitti ajatellakaan joutuvansa kipeiksi -- ja siihen heidän surunsa\nJanesta sitten loppuikin. Tuo merkillinen käytös -- että he Janen\nedessä näyttäytyivät helliksi ystäviksi ja selän takana jokseenkin\nvälinpitämättömiksi -- palautti Elizabethille hänen aikaisemman nurjan\nkäsityksensä heistä.\n\nHeidän veljensä sen sijaan oli ainoa perheenjäsen, jota kohtaan\nhän tunsi jonkinmoista mieltymystä. Nuoren miehen hätä Janen\nsairastumisesta oli ilmeinen ja vilpitön, ja Janen sisarelle hän\nosoitti imartelevaa huomaavaisuutta, joka esti tätä tuntemasta olevansa\ntalossa vieras tungeksija, jollaisena toisten kylmä välinpitämättömyys\noli alussa saattanut häntä pitämään itseänsä. Naiset olivat syventyneet\nkeskustelemaan hra Darcyn kanssa, ja hra Hurst, joka istui Elizabethin\npöytätoverina, tuntui elävän ainoastaan syödäkseen, juodakseen ja\nkorttia lyödäkseen; ja huomattuaan vierustoverinsa pitävän\nyksinkertaista keittoa parempana kuin herkullista ranskalaista\nmuhennosta, vaikeni hän kokonaan puhumattomaksi.\n\nPöydästä noustua palasi Elizabeth heti Janen tykö, ja kohta kun hän oli\nselkänsä kääntänyt, rupesi nti Bingley arvostelemaan häntä; hänen\nkäytöstapaansa ei kannattanut kehua, se oli samalla haavaa jäykkä ja\nkursailematon; hänellä ei ollut seurustelutaitoa, ei esiintymistyyliä,\nei makua -- ulkonaisista suloista puhumattakaan. Rva Hurst oli samaa\nmieltä kuin sisarensa ja kävi jatkamaan luonnepiirrelmää.\n\n\"Hänellä ei sanalla sanoen ole vähimmässäkään määrin ominaisuuksia,\njotka puhuisivat hänen puolestaan, lukuunottamatta sitä että hän on\nmainio kävelijä. En unohda milloinkaan, miltä hän näytti aamulla tänne\ntullessaan. Häntä olisi voinut luulla mustalaistytöksi.\"\n\n\"Niin tosiaankin, Louisa. Minun oli vaikea pidättää nauruani. Mitä\nhänen tarvitsi ollenkaan tulla tänne? Ravata nyt pitkin peltoja ja\nhakoja mukamas sentakia, että sisarensa oli vähän kylmettynyt! Hapset\nhajallaan ja kengät kurassa -- uh!\"\n\n\"Niin, ja näitkös hänen alushameensa? Ainakin kuusi tuumaa paksulta oli\nkuraa helmassa, siitä olen varma, vaikka hän koettelikin peitellä sitä\npäällyshameellaan.\"\n\n\"Sinun kuvauksesi saattaa olla yhtä tarkka kuin silmäsikin, Louisa\",\nsanoi Bingley, \"mutta minulta tuo kaikki jäi aivan huomaamatta. Minusta\nneiti Elizabeth oli mainion raittiin näköinen, kun hän aamulla\nodottamatta ilmestyi seuraamme. Hänen tahraantunutta alushamettaan en\ntullut lainkaan panneeksi merkille.\"\n\n\"_Te_ sen varmastikin huomasitte, herra Darcy\", sanoi nti Bingley. \"Ja\narvaanpa, ettette haluaisi nähdä _omaa sisartanne_ siinä tilassa.\"\n\n\"En varmastikaan.\"\n\n\"Harppailla kolme mailia, vai neljä tai viisikö niitä oli, nilkkojaan\nmyöten liejussa, ja yksin -- aivan yksin! Mikähän hänen päähänsä oikein\nolikaan pälkähtänyt? Minusta tuollainen käytös on moukkamaista\nhomssuttelua, kerrassaan surkeata välinpitämättömyyttä kaikista\nihmistavoista.\"\n\n\"Minusta on sellainen sisarellinen hellyys ja huolenpito sangen\nilahduttavaa nähdä\", sanoi Bingley.\n\n\"Minä pelkään, herra Darcy\", huomautti nti Bingley puolittain\nkuiskaten, \"että tämä seikkailu on ollut omiaan heikontamaan sitä\nihailua, jota te tunnette hänen kauniita silmiään kohtaan.\"\n\n\"Eipä suinkaan, päinvastoin oli reipas liikunto tehnyt ne paljon\nkirkkaammiksikin.\"\n\nLyhyt äänettömyys seurasi tätä lausuntoa ja sitten aloitti rva Hurst\nuudestaan:\n\n\"Minä pidän paljon Jane Bennetistä; hän on todellakin suloinen tyttö;\nja toivoisin kaikesta sydämestäni hänen pääsevän hyviin naimisiin.\nMutta kun tyttöparka on siunattu sellaisella isällä ja sellaisella\näidillä ja niin halpa-arvoisilla sukulaisilla, niin pelkäänpä ettei\nhänellä ole suuriakaan toiveita siihen.\"\n\n\"Muistanpa kuulleeni sinun sanovan, että hänen setänsä on asianajajana\nMerytonissa?\"\n\n\"Niin, ja toinen setä pitää rihkamapuotia jossain Cheapsiden[10]\npuolella.\"\n\n\"Sehän on suurenmoista\", sanoi sisar, ja molemmat nauroivat sydämensä\npohjasta.\n\n\"Vaikka heillä olisi setiä koko Cheapside täynnänsä\", huudahti Bingley\närtyneenä, \"niin se ei vähentäisi hiukkastakaan heidän miellyttäviä\nominaisuuksiaan.\"\n\n\"Mutta sangen paljon se vähentäisi heidän mahdollisuuksiaan päästä\nhyviin naimisiin\", huomautti Darcy.\n\nSiihen väitteeseen Bingley ei vastannut mitään; mutta hänen sisarensa\nyhtyivät siihen täydestä sydämestään ja pitivät vielä jonkin aikaa iloa\n\"rakkaan Janen\" halpa-arvoisten sukulaisten kustannuksella.\n\nHeidän hellyytensä kuitenkin palasi, kun he päivällispöydästä\nsiirtyivät sairaan luo ja istuivat siellä, kunnes heidät kutsuttiin\nalas kahville. Jane oli edelleen hyvin huonona eikä Elizabeth luopunut\nhänen viereltään, ennenkuin myöhään illalla nähdessään hänen nukkuvan\nrauhallisesti, jolloin hän arveli pikemminkin velvollisuutensa kuin\noman hauskuutensa vaativan häntä lähtemään alakertaan toisten seuraan.\nHän tapasi toiset salissa lyömässä korttia, ja häntäkin kehoitettiin\nliittymään mukaan; mutta epäillen heidän pelaavan korkeista panoksista\nhän kieltäytyi ja sanoi kernaammin huvittelevansa lukemalla jotain\nkirjaa sen vähän aikaa, minkä hän voi olla poissa sisarensa luota. Hra\nHurst katsahti häneen silmät suurina rehellisestä ällistyksestä.\n\n\"Pidättekö te tosiaankin enemmän lukemisesta kuin kortinpeluusta?\" hän\nsanoi. \"Sepä on kerrassaan merkillinen maku.\"\n\n\"Neiti Eliza Bennet\", sanoi nti Bingley, \"halveksii kortteja. Hän on\nahkera kirjatoukka eikä löydä huvia mistään muusta.\"\n\n\"En ansaitse sellaista kehumista enkä sellaista arvostelua\", huudahti\nElizabeth, \"minä _en_ ole mikään ahkera kirjatoukka, ja minä saan huvia\npaljosta muustakin.\"\n\n\"Sisarenne hoitamisesta teillä ainakin on paljon hankaluutta\", sanoi\nBingley, \"ja minä toivon, että hän pian toipuu palkitakseen teidän\nvaivannäkönne.\"\n\nElizabeth kiitti häntä sydämestään ja meni erään pöydän luo, jolla oli\nmoniaita kirjoja. Bingley tarjoutui kohta noutamaan hänelle lisää,\nvakuuttaen että koko kirjasto oli hänen käytettävänään.\n\n\"Ja minä toivoisin, että kirjakokoelmani olisi paljon suurempi sekä\nteidän tyydytykseksenne että omaksi kiitoksekseni; mutta minä olen\nvetelä veitikka; ja vaikka minulla onkin vain vähän kirjoja, on niitä\nsentään enemmän kuin mitä olen koskaan avannut lukeakseni.\"\n\nElizabeth vakuutti, että salissa oli aivan riittävästi hänen\nvalitakseen.\n\n\"Minua ihmetyttää\", sanoi nti Bingley, \"että isäni jätti jälkeensä niin\nvähäisen kirjakokoelman. Kuinka ihmeen kaunis kirjasto teillä onkaan\nPemberleyssä, herra Darcy!\"\n\n\"Hyvä sen pitäisi olla\", vastasi tämä, \"sillä monet sukupolvet ovat\nkasvattaneet sitä.\"\n\n\"Entä kuinka paljon te itse olette sinne hankkinut? -- Tehän ostelette\nalinomaan uusia kirjoja.\"\n\n\"En voi ymmärtää, mitä syytä olisi sitä laiminlyödä tällaisena aikana.\"\n\n\"Laiminlyödä! Olen varma, että te ette laiminlyö mitään, mikä vain voi\nlisätä tuon ylhäisen kartanon kauneutta. Charles, kun sinä kerran\nrakennat _oman_ talosi, niin toivoisin, että siitä tulisi edes\npuoleksikin niin kaunis paikka kuin Pemberley on.\"\n\n\"Toivoisinpa sitä itsekin.\"\n\n\"Minä neuvoisin sinua todellakin valitsemaan itsellesi jonkin paikan\nsen läheisyydestä ja ottamaan Pemberleyn malliksi. Koko Englannissa ei\nole kauniimpaa seutua kuin Derbyshire.\"\n\n\"Kaikesta sydämestäni -- minä ostaisin vaikka Pemberleyn itsensä, jos\nDarcy suostuisi myymään sen.\"\n\n\"Charles, minä puhun vain mahdollisista asioista.\"\n\n\"Kautta kunniani, Caroline, minusta on mahdollisempaa hankkia itselleen\nPemberley ostamalla kuin jäljittelemällä.\"\n\nKeskustelu kiinnitti Elizabethin mieltä paljon enemmän kuin hänen\nkirjansa; ja kohta hän laski sen tykkänään kädestään ja saapui\nkorttipöytään, asettuen hra Bingleyn ja tämän vanhemman sisaren väliin\nkatselemaan peliä.\n\n\"Onko neiti Darcy kasvanut vielä viime keväästä lähtien?\" jatkoi nti\nBingley kyselyään. \"Tuleeko hänestä minun pituiseni?\"\n\n\"Luulisin tulevan. Hän on nyt jokseenkin neiti Elizabeth Bennetin\npituinen, ehkä hiukan pitempikin.\"\n\n\"Kuinka minä ikävöinkään nähdä häntä! En ole koskaan tavannut ketään,\njohon olisin oitis niin ihastunut kuin häneen. Niin kaunis kuin hän on,\nja niin hienotapainen, ja niin ihmeesti kehittynyt ikäisekseen! Pianoa\nhän soittaa oikein hurmaavasti.\"\n\n\"Minua ihmetyttää\", virkkoi hänen veljensä, \"kuinka nuorilla neitosilla\nvoi olla kärsivällisyyttä kehittyä niin täydellisiksi kuin he\njok'ikinen ovat.\"\n\n\"_Jok'ikinenkö_ täydellinen! Mutta rakas Charles, mitä sinä oikein\ntarkoitat?\"\n\n\"Niin juuri, jok'ikinen heistä, sitä tarkoitan. Kaikki he maalaavat\nkuvia pöydänlevyihin, näpertelevät pahvirasioita ja kutovat kukkaroita.\nTuskin tunnen ainoatakaan, joka ei osaisi tuota kaikkea -- ja olen\nvarma, etten ole kuullut mainittavan ainuttakaan nuorta neitosta, jota\nei jo heti ensi sanoiksi vakuutettaisi aivan täydelliseksi.\"\n\n\"Sinun määritelmäsi täydellisyyden yleisyydestä on valitettavasti\nliiankin tosi\", sanoi Darcy. \"Sitä sanaa sovitetaan moneenkin naiseen,\njoka ei osaa mitään muuta kuin kutoa kukkaroita tai näperrellä\npahvirasioita; mutta muuten en ole samaa mieltä sinun kanssasi\npuhuttaessa ylempien seurapiirien naisista ylimalkaan. Minä en voi\nkerskua tuntevani puolta tusinaa enempää koko tuttavapiiristäni, joita\nvoi todella sanoa täydellisiksi.\"\n\n\"Enkä minäkään, siitä olen varma\", vakuutti nti Bingley.\n\n\"Sitten teidän täytyy sisällyttää sangen paljon hyviä ominaisuuksia\ntäydellisen naisen käsitteeseen\", huomautti Elizabeth.\n\n\"Niin kyllä -- minä sisällytänkin niitä siihen hyvin paljon\", vastasi\nDarcy.\n\n\"Se on varmaa\", huudahti hänen uskollinen avustajansa, \"ei ketään voi\nsanoa täydelliseksi, joka ei olisi monin kerroin ylempänä tavallista\nnaistasoa. Naisen pitää osata soittaa mallikelpoisesti, laulaa,\npiirustaa, tanssia ja puhua vieraita kieliä. Ja kaiken sen\nlisäksi hänellä täytyy olla jotain aivan erikoista käytöksessään,\nliikkumistavassaan, puheensa sävyssä ja tunteittensa ilmaisemisessa,\nmuuten hän ei vielä vastaa kuin puoleksi tuon määritelmän sisällystä.\"\n\n\"Kaikkea tuota hänellä pitää olla\", jatkoi Darcy hyvien avujen\nluetteloa. \"Ja kaiken sen lisäksi hänen pitää olla saavuttanut\nsisällistä itsenäisyyttä ja vakavuutta perusteellisen lukemisen\navulla.\"\n\n\"Eipä sitten ihmekään, että te tunnette _ainoastaan_ kuusi täydellistä\nnaista. Pikemminkin käy kummakseni, että tunnette edes _ainuttakaan_.\"\n\n\"Oletteko sitten niin varma oman sukupuolenne vajavaisuudesta, että\nvoitte epäillä noita kaikkia avuja siihen nähden mahdottomiksi?\"\n\n\"_Minä_ ainakaan en ole tavannut yhtään sellaista naista. Minä en vain\nole missään nähnyt sellaista syväoppisuutta ja hyväaistisuutta ja\nuutteruutta ja siroutta ja taitojen monipuolisuutta yhdistettyinä\nyhteen ainoaan naiseen.\"\n\nRva Hurst ja nti Bingley nousivat kiivaasti vastustamaan hänen\nepäoikeutettua epäilyään, ja molemmat vakuuttivat tuntevansa paljonkin\nsellaisia ihmeolioita, kunnes hra Hurst viimein manasi heitä malttamaan\nmielensä valittaen katkerasti, että moinen viisastelu vei kauniin pelin\nhunningolle. Keskustelun saatua täten äkkilopun Elizabeth lähti kohta\nsisarensa luo.\n\n\"Eliza Bennet\", julisti nti Bingley, kun ovi oli sulkeutunut\npoismenijän perästä, \"näkyy olevan niitä nuoria naisia, jotka koettavat\npäästä vastakkaisen sukupuolen suosioon halventamalla oman sukupuolensa\nansioita. Moniin miehiin nähden se kai onnistuukin, mutta minusta se on\nviheliäinen viehätyskeino, kerrassaan halpamainen miellytystapa.\"\n\n\"Epäilemättä\", vastasi Darcy, jolle tuo huomautus tuntui etupäässä\nolleen kohdistettu, \"on paljon halpamaista _kaikissa_ keinoissa,\njoihin naiset näyttävät toisinaan turvautuvan miehiä miellyttääkseen.\nKaikki, mikä tässä suhteessa vähänkin vivahtaa kylmästi laskevaan\ntarkoitusperäisyyteen, on minusta vastenmielistä ja inhoittavaa.\"\n\nNti Bingleytä ei tuo vastaus tuntunut täysin tyydyttävän, sillä hän ei\nenää jatkanut puheenaihetta.\n\nElizabeth palasi toisten luo vain sanoakseen, että hänen sisarensa voi\nhuonommin ja ettei hän voinut jättää tätä yksin yöksi. Bingley ehdotti\nhra Jonesia noudettavaksi sairasta katsomaan; hänen sisarensa sen\nsijaan halveksivat kaikkea maalaisapua ja ehdottivat käännyttäväksi\njonkin Lontoon etevimmän erikoislääkärin puoleen. Siitä Elizabeth ei\ntietysti tahtonut kuulla puhuttavan, vaan kallistui heidän veljensä\nesitykseen; ja päätökseksi tuli; että hra Jones haettaisiin varhain\nhuomisaamuna, jollei nti Bennet silloin ollut käynyt paremmaksi.\nBingley oli hyvin huolissaan; hänen sisarensa olivat aivan lohduttomia.\nHe koettivat kuitenkin haihduttaa suruaan laulamalla duettoja kaiken\niltaa; veli sen sijaan ei voinut pukea tunteitaan sen parempaan muotoon\nkuin että kehoitti emännöitsijää antamaan kaikkea mahdollista apua\nsairaalle neidille ja tämän sisarelle.\n\n\n\n\nIX LUKU.\n\n\nElizabeth oli viettänyt melkein koko yön sisarensa huoneessa ja\naamulla hän voi ilokseen antaa rauhoittavan tiedon hra Bingleyn\nlähettämälle sisäkölle ja hänen sisartensa mahtaville kamarineidoille.\nSairaan verrattaisesta hyvinvoinnista huolimatta hän halusi lähettää\nkirjeen Longbourniin pyytääkseen äitiään tulemaan katsomaan Janea ja\npäättämään tilanteesta. Kirje toimitettiin oitis perille, ja kohta\naamiaisen jälkeen saapuikin rva Bennet kahden nuorimman tyttärensä\nkera.\n\nJos äiti olisi tavannut Janen hyvin huonona, niin olisi hän tietysti\nsäikähtänyt, mutta nähdessään tyttärensä hymyilevän rauhallisesti\npielukseltaan ei hänellä ollut lainkaan kiirettä toimittaa häntä\nkotiin. Hän ei senvuoksi tahtonut kuullakaan tyttärensä pyyntöä päästä\npalaamaan, eikä apteekkarikaan arvellut muuttoa vielä hyväksi.\nIstuttuaan hetkisen Janen luona äiti ja hänen kolme tervettä tytärtään\nnoudattivat nti Bingleyn kutsua ja lähtivät alas ruokasaliin. Hra\nBingley tuli heitä tervehtimään ja lausui toivovansa, ettei rva Bennet\nollut tavannut nti Bennetiä huonompana kuin oli odottanut.\n\n\"Olen tosiaankin, hyvä herra\", vastasi huolekas äiti. \"Hänestä ei\nmillään muotoa ole vielä muutettavaksi. Herra Joneskin siitä varoitti.\nMeidän täytyy vielä vähän aikaa turvautua teidän pitkämielisyyteenne.\"\n\n\"Muutettavaksiko!\" huudahti Bingley. \"Sellaista ei saa ajatellakaan.\nSisarenikaan ei tahdo kuulla mitään muuttamisesta, siitä olen varma.\"\n\n\"Voitte luottaa siihen\", sanoi nti Bingley jäätävän kohteliaasti, \"että\nneiti Bennet saa mahdollisimman parasta hoitoa meidän luonamme\nollessaan.\"\n\nRva Bennet tulkitsi kiitollisuuttaan sangen laajasanaisesti.\n\n\"Olen varma\", hän lisäsi, \"että jollei hänellä täällä olisi niin hyviä\nystäviä, niin en tiedä kuinka hänen kävisikään, sillä hän on tosiaankin\nhyvin kipeä ja kärsii armottomasti, vaikka hän kestää sen enkelin\nkärsivällisyydellä, sillä hänellä on tosiaan laupiain ja lempein luonne\nmitä koskaan olen nähnyt. Olen monesti sanonut toisille tytöilleni,\netteivät he ole mitään _hänen_ rinnallaan. Teillä on todellakin kaunis\ntalo täällä, herra Bingley, ja entä mikä ihana näköala soratien yli. En\ntiedä koko kreivikunnassa toista paikkaa, joka olisi niin viehättävä\nkuin Netherfield. Toivon, ettette kovin pian ajattele muuttaa täältä,\nvaikka tiedän teidän vuokranneen talon vain lyhyeksi ajaksi.\"\n\n\"Kaikki, mitä minä teen, tapahtuu aivan äkkiä\", vastasi Bingley, \"niin\nettä jos saisin päähäni muuttaa pois Netherfieldistä, kävisi se\nviidessä minuutissa. Tätä nykyä en kuitenkaan ajattele mitään\nsellaista.\"\n\n\"Sitä minä odotinkin teiltä\", sanoi Elizabeth.\n\n\"Mitä -- oletteko vaivannut itseänne ajattelemalla minua?\" huudahti\nBingley ja kääntyi tyttöön päin.\n\n\"Olen kylläkin -- minä ymmärrän teidät täydellisesti.\"\n\n\"Tahtoisin kernaasti käsittää tuon puheenne imarteluksi, mutta on\nsamalla peloittavaa tuntea olevansa läpinäkyvä kuin lasi.\"\n\n\"Se riippuu luonteesta. Eihän ole sanottu, että syvällinen ja\nmonimutkainen luonne olisi enemmän tai vähemmän arvokas kuin teidän\nläpinäkyvä luonteenne.\"\n\n\"Lizzy\", hätäili hänen äitinsä, \"muista toki missä olet, äläkä Herran\ntähden ole täällä samanlainen raivopää kuin kotona saat olla.\"\n\n\"Enpä ennen tiennyt, että te olette sellainen luonteiden tutkija\",\njatkoi Bingley kevyeen sävyyn. \"Se mahtanee olla varsin huvittava\ntutkimusala.\"\n\n\"On kylläkin, mutta _enimmin_ huvittavat minua tuollaiset monimutkaiset\nluonteet. Se etu niillä ainakin on toisiin verraten.\"\n\n\"Mutta maaseudulla\", puuttui Darcy puheeseen, \"teillä lienee sangen\nvähän tutkimisen arvoisia ihmisiä. Maallahan te liikutte hyvin\nrajoitetuissa ja alati muuttumattomissa seurapiireissä.\"\n\n\"Mutta ihmiset muuttuvat sen sijaan itse niin paljon, että heissä\nhuomaa alituisesti uusia piirteitä.\"\n\n\"Niin tosiaankin\", kivahti rouva Bennet, jota maaseudun halveksiminen\nsyvästi loukkasi. \"Kyllä meillä täällä _sen puolesta_ on kaikki yhtä\nhyvää kuin kaupungissakin.\"\n\nKaikki ällistyivät tästä sangen hämärästi tulkittavasta väitteestä.\nDarcy katseli puhujaa pitkään ja pyörähti sitten ääneti ympäri. Uskoen\ntäydellisesti nolanneensa kaupunkilaiskeikarin jatkoi rouva Bennet\nvoitonriemuisesti:\n\n\"En minä vain jaksa käsittää, missä suhteessa Lontoossa elettäisiin\nmeitä maaseutulaisia edellä, jollei oteta lukuun puoteja ja teatteria.\nOnhan maalla sentään paljon hauskempi elää, eikö totta, herra Bingley?\"\n\n\"Kun minä asun maalla\", vastasi tämä, \"niin ei minua koskaan haluta\nmuuttaa sieltä pois, ja kun olen Lontoossa, niin on juttu aivan sama.\nKummallakin taholla on omat etunsa, ja minä viihdyn mainiosti\nkummassakin.\"\n\n\"Niin kai -- se riippuu siitä, että teillä on suora ja siloinen\nluonnonlaatu. Mutta tuo toinen herra\", hän katseli Darcyyn, \"tuntuu\nmielessään panevan maaseudun pataluhaksi.\"\n\n\"Äiti, nyt sinä aivan erehdyt\", huudahti Elizabeth, punastuen äitinsä\ntakia. \"Sinä käsität herra Darcyn väärin. Hän tarkoitti vain, ettei\ntäällä maalla tapaa niin monenlaisia ihmisluonteita kuin\nsuurkaupungissa, ja sehän täytyy sinunkin myöntää todeksi.\"\n\n\"Tietysti, rakkaani, kukapas muuta voi väittääkään. Mutta mitä siihen\ntulee, ettei täällä naapuristossamme tapaisi paljon arvokasta väkeä,\nniin siinä väitteessä ei ole totta eikä perää. Kuuluuhan meidänkin\nseurustelupiiriimme ainakin pari tusinaa kelpo perhettä.\"\n\nAinoastaan sääli ja hellyys Elizabethia kohtaan pidätti Bingleytä\npurskahtamasta nauruun. Hänen sisarensa ei ollut yhtä hienotunteinen,\nja katsellessaan Darcyyn hänen huulillaan väreili hyvin merkitsevä\nhymy. Koettaen kaikin mokomin kääntää äitinsä ajatukset toiselle\ntolalle Elizabeth tiedusti häneltä, oliko Charlotte Lucas käynyt\nLongbournissa hänen sieltä lähdettyään.\n\n\"Kyllä, kävihän hän eilen isänsä kanssa meillä. Siinä vasta kerrassaan\nmiellyttävä mies, tuo Sir William -- eikö tottakin, herra Bingley?\nSellainen hieno suuren maailman käytös, ja aina niin herttainen ja\npuhelias! Aina on hänellä jotain sanottavaa jokaiselle. Kas _siinä_ on\nminun ihanteeni hienosta kunnianmiehestä -- kerrassaan toista maata\nkuin sellaiset, jotka luulottelevat mukamas olevansa jotain suurta\neivätkä saa pelkästä ylpeydestä suutansa auki ollessaan ihmisten\nparissa.\"\n\n\"Kuule -- jäikö Charlotte meille päivällisille?\"\n\n\"Ei, hänellä oli kiire kotia. Arvaan, että häntä tarvittiin siellä\nlaittamaan lihapasteijaa. Siinä se taas nähdään, herra Bingley --\n_minä_ pidän aina sellaisia palvelijoita, jotka osaavat tehdä\ntehtävänsä; _minun_ tyttärieni ei tarvitse keittiössä heiskua. Mutta\njokainenhan voi itse paraiten arvostaa omat lapsensa, ja Lucasin tytöt\novat kyllä kelpo tyttöjä, sen vakuutan, vaikka askaroivatkin\nkeittiöhommissa. Sääli vain, etteivät he ole sen sievempiä! En minä\n_sitä_ tarkoita, että Charlotte olisi mikään naurisnaama; onhan hän\nmeidän tyttöjen paraita ystäviä.\"\n\n\"Hän tuntuu todellakin hyvin miellyttävältä neitoselta\", sanoi Bingley.\n\n\"Niin kyllä -- mutta muistakaa, ettei hän ole paljon minkään näköinen.\nLady Lucas on itse sen sanonut minulle monesti ja kadehtinut Janen\nkauneutta. En tahdo ollenkaan kerskua omasta lapsestani, mutta Jane --\nhänen veroistaan tyttöä ei totisesti näekään monesti! Kaikki sen\nsanovat. Kun hän oli vasta viidentoistavuotias heilakka, niin muuan\nnuori herra veljeni Gardinerin puodissa Lontoossa rakastui häneen niin\nsilmittömästi, että kälyni pelkäsi hänen kosivan tyttöämme, ennenkuin\npääsimme lähtemään kotia. Sitä hän ei kuitenkaan tullut tehneeksi.\nEhkäpä hän piti Janea vielä liian nuorena. Joka tapauksessa hän rustasi\nrunoja hänelle, ja aika sieviä ne olivatkin.\"\n\n\"Ja siihen päättyi koko hänen lemmenhehkunsa\", sanoi Elizabeth\nkärsimättömästi. \"Luulen monelle toisellekin käyneen samalla tapaa.\nTahtoisinpa tietää, kukahan se ensin keksi runot parhaaksi\nvastamyrkyksi hupsulle lemmen kiihkolle.\"\n\n\"Minä olen tottunut pitämään runoutta rakkauden ylläpitäjänä\", sanoi\nDarcy.\n\n\"Niin -- terveen, vakavan ja todellisen rakkauden kenties. Kaikkihan\nkehittyy ja vaurastuu, mikä itsessään on vankkaa ja väkevää. Mutta\ntuollaisen tuulentuoman, huikentelevaisen mieltymyksen pystyy hyvä\nsonetti tappamaan nälkään, siitä olen vakuutettu.\"\n\nDarcy tyytyi vain hymyilemään ja kaikkien jäädessä äänettömiksi pelkäsi\nElizabeth sydämessään äitinsä taas laskevan uusia kömpelyyksiä. Hän\ntahtoi kiihkeästi puhua itse jotakin, mutta ei hädissään keksinyt\nmitään aihetta.\n\nVihdoin rva Bennet katkaisi äänettömyyden toistellen kiitoksensa talon\nisännälle hänen Janelle osoittamastaan hellästä huolenpidosta ja\npyydellen anteeksi Lizzyn taloon jäämistä. Hra Bingley vastasi\nvääjäämättömän kohteliaasti ja pakotti sisarensakin olemaan kohteliaat.\nRva Bennet oli tyytyväinen ja pyysi ajamaan vaununsa portille. Hänen\nnuorimmat tyttärensä olivat supatelleet keskenään koko keskustelun\najan, ja supatuksen tuloksena oli, että Lydian piti muistuttaa hra\nBingleylle hänen aikaisempaa lupaustaan, että hän heti maalle\npalattuaan panisi toimeen tanssiaiset Netherfieldissä.\n\nLydia oli kookas, varhain kehittynyt viisitoistavuotias. Hänellä oli\nhyvin terve ihonväri ja reipas, ujostelematon käytös. Hän oli äitinsä\nlemmikki, ja sitä seikkaa hän sai kiittää siitä, että oli päässyt liian\nvarhain mukaan seuraelämään. Hänen luontainen itsetuntonsa oli saanut\nhyvää virikettä miliisiupseerien huomaavaisuudesta, joita hänen enonsa\nhyvät päivälliset ja hänen oma suorasukainen käytöksensä oli\nhoukutellut hänen ympärilleen. Hän kävi nytkin ujostelematta\nmuistuttamaan hra Bingleylle hänen lupaustaan, sanoen että sen\nunohtaminen olisi anteeksiantamatonta. Isännän vastaus tähän\näkkinäiseen hyökkäykseen oli kuin hunajaa huolekkaan äidin korviin.\n\n\"Olkaa varma, että aion mitä tarkimmin täyttää lupaukseni ja kohta kun\nsisarenne on täysin terve, pyydän teidän itsenne määräämään\ntanssiaispäivän. Ettehän toki tahdo tanssia hänen vielä kipeänä\nollessaan?\"\n\nLydia oli tyytyväinen. \"Niin kai -- parempi lienee odottaa, kunnes Jane\npääsee jalkeille; ja siihen aikaan arvaan kapteeni Carterinkin jo\npalanneen Merytoniin. Ja tiedättekös mitä -- kun teidän tanssiaisenne\novat ohi, niin vaadin upseerejakin pitämään samanlaiset. Minäpä käyn\nkohta eversti Forsterin kimppuun.\"\n\nRva Bennetin ja hänen tyttäriensä lähdettyä Elizabeth. palasi oitis\nJanen luo jättäen talon naiset ja hra Darcyn vaihtamaan mielipiteitä\nhänen ja hänen omaistensa käyttäytymisestä. Viimemainitulla\nherrasmiehellä ei kuitenkaan tuntunut olevan halua arvostella _hänen_\nkäytöstään, huolimatta kaikista nti Bingleyn herttaisista sutkauksista\n_kauniista silmistä_.\n\n\n\n\nX LUKU.\n\n\nSeuraava päivä kului jokseenkin samaan tapaan kuin edellinenkin. Rva\nHurst ja nti Bingley istuivat aamupäivällä jonkun aikaa potilaan luona,\njonka paraneminen jatkui hitaasti; ja illalla Elizabeth liittyi toisten\nseuraan salissa. Pelipöytää ei tänään kuitenkaan ilmestynyt näkyviin.\nHra Darcy kirjoitteli kirjeitä ja nti Bingley istui hänen vieressään\nhäiriten häntä alituisesti lähettämällä terveisiä hänen sisarelleen.\nHrat Hurst ja Bingley panivat kahdenmiehen pikettipeliä ja rva Hurst\nseurasi pelin menoa.\n\nElizabeth istui syrjässä neulomuksineen ja vaarinotti huvitettuna hra\nDarcyn ja tämän naapurin välejä. Neidin alinomaiset huomautukset\nkirjoittajan sirosta käsialasta, tasaisista riveistä, kirjeen\npituudesta j.n.e. sekä kirjoittajan kylmäkiskoiset vastaukset olivat\ntodella mielenkiintoista kaksinpuhelua ja vahvistivat yhä enemmän\nElizabethin aikaisempaa käsitystä kummankin luonteenlaadusta.\n\n\"Kuinka mieliinsä neiti Darcy tuleekaan, kun saa tuollaisen kirjeen!\"\n\nEi vastausta.\n\n\"Te kirjoitatte tavattoman nopeasti.\"\n\n\"Siinä erehdytte. Kirjoitan päinvastoin hyvin hitaasti.\"\n\n\"Kuinkahan paljon kirjeitä te saattekaan vuoden kuluessa panna kokoon!\nJa asiakirjeitä niiden joukossa -- huu! Minua ihan puistattaa\najatellessani asiakirjeitä.\"\n\n\"Sittenpä on onneksi, että niiden kirjoittaminen lankee minun osakseni\neikä teidän.\"\n\n\"Mainitkaapa sisarellenne, kuinka kovasti minä ikävöin saada tavata\nhäntä.\"\n\n\"Siitä pyynnöstänne jo kerran mainitsin.\"\n\n\"Pelkään, että te ette pidä kynästänne. Antakaas kun minä teroitan sen.\nMinä olen mainion näppärä teroittamaan kyniä.\"[11]\n\n\"Kiitos vain -- minä aina teroitan itse kynäni.\"\n\n\"Kuinka te osaattekaan kirjoittaa noin tasaisia rivejä?\"\n\nEi vastausta.\n\n\"Kirjoittakaa sisarellenne, että olin kovin iloinen kuullessani, että\nharppu oli hänen mieleensä, ja kertokaa hänelle, että ihastuin\nikihyväksi hänen verrattomasta pöytäliinanmallistaan, joka on minusta\näärettömän paljon kauniimpi kuin neiti Grantleyn piirtämä.\"\n\n\"Sallitteko ehkä minun säästää teidän ihastuksenne ensi kirjeeseeni?\nTässä ei ole enää tarpeeksi tilaa sen tulkitsemiseen.\"\n\n\"Oh, samantekevä! Tapaanhan hänet itsensä tammikuussa. Mutta\nkirjoitatteko te aina hänelle noin ihastuttavan pitkiä kirjeitä?\"\n\n\"Pitkiä ne tavallisesti ovat, mutta niiden ihastuttavuudesta ei ole\nminun asiani päätellä.\"\n\n\"Minä olen aina ajatellut, että sen, joka kirjoittaa niin helposti\npitkiä kirjeitä, täytyy kirjoittaa aina kauniisti.\"\n\n\"Tuo ei ollut ollenkaan imartelevaa Darcylle, Caroline\", huudahti hänen\nveljensä, \"sillä häneltä ei kirjoittaminen käy helposti. Hän miettii\nliian perusteellisesti pitkiä sanojaan. Eikö totta, Darcy?\"\n\n\"Ainakin kirjoitan eri tavalla kuin sinä.\"\n\n\"Oo -- Charles kirjoittaa niin huolimattomasti, ettette voi uskoakaan\",\nhuudahti nti Bingley. \"Hän jättää pois puolet sanoista ja tuhraa\nloputkin aivan lukemattomiksi.\"\n\n\"Ajatukset kulkevat päässäni niin nopeasti, etten ennätä panna niitä\npaperille; ja siksipä eivät vastaanottajat välistä pääse ollenkaan\nselville minun ajatuksistani.\"\n\n\"Teidän alistuvaisuutenne, herra Bingley, vääntää moittijalta aseet\nkädestä\", huomautti Elizabeth.\n\n\"Mikään ei ole niin pettäväistä kuin näennäinen alistuvaisuus\", sanoi\nDarcy. \"Useinkaan se ei ole muuta kuin pelkkää välinpitämättömyyttä\ntoisten mielipiteestä ja välistä epäsuoraa kerskumistakin.\"\n\n\"Kummalla tavalla sinä tulkitset minun tämänkertaisen\nvaatimattomuuteni?\"\n\n\"Mitä se on muuta kuin kerskumista, sillä sinä todella ylpeilet\nkirjoitusvirheistäsi, koskapa selität niiden muka johtuvan ajatustesi\nkerkeydestä. Jollet tuota suorastaan pidä jonain ansiona, niin ainakin\nkuvittelet herättäväsi sillä toisten mielenkiintoa persoonaasi.\nJoutuisuutta ja kerkeäkätisyyttä pidetään suurena ansiona, useinkaan\nmuistamatta, että joutuin tehty työ on enimmäkseen hutiloitua. Kun\naamulla sanoit rouva Bennetille, että jos päättäisit luopua\nNetherfieldistä, niin toteutuisi päätöksesi viidessä minuutissa, ja\nsitä luulottelit mukamas mainioksikin urotyöksi puoleltasi -- mutta\nmitäpä kiitettävää itse asiassa onkaan moisessa hätäilemisessä, jolloin\npaljon tärkeitä asioita jää vaarinottamatta ja tekemättä ja josta ei\nole tosi hyötyä itselle eikä muille?\"\n\n\"Oh, oh\", huudahti Bingley, \"jopa sinä menet liian pitkälle kun\nmuistuttelet kaikkia aamullisia hassutuksia! Ja kuitenkin, kunniani\nkautta, silloin minä uskoin todella niin kuin sanoin ja uskon sen\nvieläkin. Ainakaan en ehdoin tahdoin tahtonut esiintyä joutavana\nhätikkönä naisten edessä.\"\n\n\"Olen kyllä vakuutettu, että uskoit sanasi todeksi, mutta enpä\nsittenkään luule, että lähtisit täältä sellaisella silmittömällä\nhopulla. Sinun menettelysi olisi silloin aivan sattuman varassa, ja\nvaikka jo istuisit hevosen selässä ja joku ystävä sanoisi sinulle:\nBingley, tekisit kai paremmin kun lykkäisit lähtösi ensi viikkoon --\nniin epäilemättä tekisit niin, epäilemättä lykkäisit lähtösi vielä\nkuukauden päähän.\"\n\n\"Tuolla kaikella te olette ainoastaan todistanut\", huudahti Elizabeth,\n\"ettei hra Bingley tehnyt oikeutta omalle sopuisalle luonnonlaadulleen.\nTe olette nyt kuvannut hänet paremmin kuin hän itsekään osasi sen\ntehdä.\"\n\n\"Tunnen itseni perin imarrelluksi\", sanoi Bingley nauraen, \"kun\nkannatatte ystävääni hänen kuvatessaan minut lauhkeaksi lampaaksi.\nMutta pelkäänpä, että te sen kautta annoitte asialle käänteen, jota hän\nei mitenkään tarkoittanut, sillä arvaan hänen varmastikin panevan\nminuun suurempaa arvoa, jos vastaisin hänen taivutukseensa jyrkästi\nkieltäen ja laskettaisin tieheni täyttä laukkaa.\"\n\n\"Sovittaisiko siis teidän myöhempi itsepäisyytenne herra Darcyn\nmielestä aikaisemman hätiköimisenne?\"\n\n\"Tuota, totta vie, en kykene oikein selittämään -- vastatkoon Darcy\nitse siihen kysymykseen!\"\n\n\"Sinä nähtävästi odotat minun rupeavan selittämään mielipiteitä, joita\nsuvaitset sanoa minun omikseni, vaikken ikinä ole tunnustanut niitä\nomikseni. Pysyäksemme kuitenkin kosketellussa tapauksessa, neiti\nBennet, tulee teidän muistaa, että tuo ystävä, jonka otaksuimme\ntoivovan hänen vielä viipyvän täällä, lausui pelkän toivomuksensa\nperustelematta sitä millään tavoin.\"\n\n\"Ettekö siis pidä minään ansiona, että mies taipuu ystävänsä\nsuostutukseen -- alttiisti ja perusteluja pyytämättä?\"\n\n\"Sokea taipuminen ilman omaa vakaumusta ei ole kunniaksi kummallekaan.\"\n\n\"Minusta tuntuu, että te, herra Darcy, ette myönnä ystävyydelle ja\nhellyydelle minkäänlaista vaikutusvaltaa. Katsekin pyytäjään riittää\nusein pyydetylle, jotta hän taipuu pyyntöön, vaatimatta ollenkaan\nvakuuttavia todisteluja. En tässä tarkoita erityisesti tuota herra\nBingleyn suhteen oletettua tapausta. Hänen menettelystään sellaisessa\ntapauksessa voinemme keskustella, kun todellinen tilaisuus tarjoutuu.\nMutta ylipäänsä ja aivan jokapäiväisissä tapauksissa, kun ystävysten\nkesken toinen pyytää toista muuttamaan päätöksensä jonkin tärkeän asian\nsuhteen -- ajatteletteko te silloin hänestä halveksien, jos hän täyttää\npyynnön ilman muuta?\"\n\n\"Eiköhän olisi viisasta, että ennenkuin käymme pitemmältä kehittämään\ntätä mielenkiintoista kiista-aihetta, ensin määrittelisimme tarkemmin\nkyseenä olevasta pyynnöstä aiheutuvan ratkaisun tärkeyden sekä noiden\nmiesten välillä vallitsevan ystävyyssuhteen syvällisyyden?\"\n\n\"Tottahan toki\", huudahti Bingley, \"älkäämme toki unohtako tärkeitä\nyksityisseikkoja, kuten miesparkojen pituutta ja painoa, sillä niillä\nsaattaa olla enemmänkin merkitystä asian ratkaisussa kuin mitä te,\nneiti Bennet, osaatte arvatakaan. Sillä minä vakuutan, että jollei\nDarcy olisi noin pitkä hongankolistaja minuun verraten, en osoittaisi\nhänelle puoltakaan sitä arvonantoa, jota hän nyt nauttii minun\npuoleltani. Ja minä väitän, että vaikea on ajatellakaan sen\nkunnianarvoisempaa patriarkkaa kuin Darcy saattaa olla erinäisinä\nhetkinä ja erinäisissä tilanteissa. Omassa kodissaan esimerkiksi ja\nnimenomaan sunnuntai-illoin, kun hänellä ei ole mitään tekemistä.\"\n\nHra Darcy hymyili, mutta Elizabethista tuntui, kuin olisi hän hiukan\nloukkaantunut, ja sen vuoksi hän tukahdutti naurunsa. Nti Bingley\nkiiruhti kiihkeästi hillitsemään veljensä kevytmielistä pilantekoa.\n\n\"Huomaanpa mihin sinä pyrit, Bingley\", sanoi hänen ystävänsä. \"Sinä\ntahdot välttää väittelyä ja panna meidät tuppisuiksi.\"\n\n\"Ehkä olet oikeassa. Väittelyt minusta liiaksi muistuttavat sanakopua.\nJos sinä ja neiti Bennet säästätte loppuottelunne siksi kunnes pääsen\nkarkuun kuulemasta sitä, niin olen hyvin kiitollinen -- sitten saatte\nminun puolestani otella mielenne hyviksi.\"\n\n\"Teidän pyyntönne\", sanoi Elizabeth, \"ei vaadi minulta mitään uhrausta;\nja herra Darcyn olisi kenties parempi lopettaa kirjeensä.\"\n\nSen tehtyään Darcy pyysi naisilta vähän soittoa ja laulua. Nti Bingley\nhypähti oitis pianon ääreen, ja pyydettyään Elizabethia kohteliaasti\naloittamaan, jonka pyynnön tämä yhtä kohteliaasti torjui, istahti hän\nitse soittamaan.\n\nRva Hurst lauloi sisarensa säestämänä; ja selaillessaan sillä aikaa\npianon kannella olevia nuottilehtiä ei Elizabeth voinut olla\nhuomaamatta, että hra Darcy katseli usein ja tutkivasti häntä. Hänen\noli vaikea arvata, minkä vuoksi tuo mainio mies valitsi juuri hänet\nihailevan tarkastuksensa esineeksi, ja tietäessään olevansa Darcylle\nperin vastenmielinen joutui hän yhä enemmän ihmeisiinsä. Muuta syytä\nhän ei lopulta voinut keksiä, kuin että hänen mielipiteensä ja\nlausuntonsa olivat Darcysta ehkä paljon nurinkurisemmat ja\nmoitittavammat kuin tämä oli olettanutkaan. Mutta tuo ajatus ei\nElizabethia paljonkaan surettanut. Hän välitti liian vähän tuosta\nylpeästä herrasta kaivatakseen hänen suosiollista hyväksymistään.\n\nEsitettyään joitakuita italialaisia lauluja rupesi nti Bingley\nmuutteeksi soittamaan vilkasta skottilaista kansansävelmää, jonka\njohdosta hra Darcy sai aihetta lähestyä Elizabethia ja kysyä tältä:\n\n\"Eikö tuo sävel houkuttele teitä, neiti Bennet käyttämään tilaisuutta\nja esittämään meille reelin?\"[12]\n\nElizabeth hymyili, mutta ei vastannut. Darcy uudisti kysymyksensä,\nhiukan oudostellen tytön äänettömyyttä.\n\n\"Ah, kuulin kyllä kysymyksenne jo ensi kerralla\", sanoi tämä, \"mutta en\nvoinut heti päättää, mitä siihen oikein vastaisin. Te toivoitte\ntietystikin minun vastaavan myöntävästi, jotta saisitte mielihyviksenne\nmoittia huonoa makuani, mutta minusta on aina hauskaa torjua sellaiset\nyritykset ja vetää moittijoitani nenästä. Olen senvuoksi päättänyt\nvastata teille, ettei minua lainkaan haluta tanssia reeliä -- ja\nmoittikaapas nyt minua jos rohkenette.\"\n\n\"En todellakaan rohkene.\"\n\nElizabeth, joka oikeastaan oli tahtonut vastauksellaan ärsyttää häntä,\noli hiukan ihmeissään hänen suopeasta mukautumisestaan; mutta hänen\nomassa sävyssään oli ilkamoisuus aina niin viehkeän herttaista, että\nhänen oli vaikea ärsyttää ketäkään -- ja Darcy puolestaan tiesi, ettei\nvielä kukaan nainen ollut vaikuttanut häneen niin kiehtovasti kuin tuo\npieni maalaistyttö. Jollei tämä olisi ollut niin halpaa sukua, niin\nolisi Darcy saattanut uskoa olevansa vaarassa ihastua häneen\nvakavastikin.\n\nNti Bingley näki tai epäili nähneensä kylliksi tunteakseen\nmustasukkaisuuden kalvavaa matoa. Hänen suureen huoleensa \"rakkaan\nJanen\" pikaisesta parantumisesta liittyi palava halu päästä pian eroon\ntämän epämieluisesta sisaresta.\n\nHän koetti usein herättää Darcyssa vastenmielisyyttä Elizabethia\nkohtaan jatkamalla vanhaa naljailuaan heidän otaksutusta naimisestaan\nja hänen tulevasta avio-onnestaan.\n\n\"Minä toivon\", hän sanoi, kun he seuraavana päivänä kävelivät yhdessä\npuistossa, \"että opetatte tämän mieluisan tapauksen jälkeen tulevan\nanoppinne hiukan suistamaan kerkeätä kieltään ja, mikäli mahdollista,\nnuorempia sisaruksia juoksentelemaan vähemmin upseerien parissa. Ja --\njos sallitte minun kosketella niin arkaluontoista asiaa -- koettakaa\nmyöskin hillitä lemmittynne hieman liiaksi silmäänpistävää\nitserakkautta.\"\n\n\"Eikö teillä satu olemaan vielä joitakin muita toivomuksia minun\ntulevan kotionneni suhteen?\"\n\n\"Tottahan toki. Tietysti te asetatte tulevan enonne Philipsin ja tämän\narvoisan puolison kuvat Pemberleyn taulukokoelmaan. Ne sopivat hyvin\noman kuuluisan tuomari-enonne viereen -- toimivathan molemmat miehet\nsamalla alalla, vaikka vähän eri haaroilla. Mutta Elizabethinne kuvaa\nte ette valitettavasti sinne saa, sillä mikä maalari voisikaan\nuskottavasti esittää tuota ihanaa silmäparia?\"\n\n\"Ei todellakaan kävisi helpoksi kuvata niiden vaihtelevaa ilmettä,\nmutta niiden värin ja muodon ja kauniit ripset voi kyllä hyvästi\nesittää.\"\n\nSamassa tuli heitä toisella käytävällä vastaan rva Hurst ja puheenaihe\nitse.\n\n\"En arvannut, että tekin aioitte lähteä kävelemään\", sanoi nti Bingley\nhiukan hämillään, peläten että tulijat kenties olivat kuulleet heidän\nviime sanansa.\n\n\"Teitte molemmat kerrassaan kelvottomasti karatessanne tänne yksin,\npuhumatta meille minne lähditte\", huudahti rva Hurst harmissaan ja\ntarrautui Darcyn toiseen käsivarteen, jättäen Elizabethin kävelemään\nyksin heidän perässään.\n\nPolulle mahtui vain kolme henkeä rinnakkain. Harmitellen naistensa\nepäystävällisyyttä sanoi Darcy oitis:\n\n\"Me emme kaikki mahdu tässä kävelemään. Lähtekäämme tuonne\nkeskitielle.\"\n\nMutta Elizabethilla ei ollut lainkaan halua jäädä heidän pariinsa, ja\nhän huudahti nauraen:\n\n\"Ei, ei, pysykää vain siinä missä olette. Te muodostatte ihmeen soman\nryhmän. Neljäs henkilö pilaisi kauniin kokonaisvaikutuksen. Hyvästi!\"\n\nHän juoksi iloisesti tiehensä ja nautti ajatuksesta, että hän pääsi jo\npäivän tai parin päästä palaamaan kotia. Jane oli jo siksi virkeä, että\nhän voi illalla tulla pariksi tunniksi toisten seuraan.\n\n\n\n\nXI LUKU.\n\n\nNaisten noustua päivällispöydästä juoksi Elizabeth joutuin sisarensa\nluo ja käärittyään tämän ylle lämpimiä huiveja talutti hänet alas\nsaliin, jossa talon naiset lausuivat riemuiten potilaan tervetulleeksi\njoukkoonsa. Ennen herrojen tuloa he olivat niin hyvällä päällä, ettei\nElizabeth muistanut nähneensä heitä vielä koskaan niin miellyttävinä.\nHe osasivat tarinoida erinomaisen rattoisasti, kertoilla hauskoja\nkaskuja, luoda sattuvia luonnekuvia tuttavistaan ja saada kuulijansa\nalinomaa nauramaan.\n\nMutta kun herrat ilmestyivät naisten pariin, lakkasi Jane oitis\nolemasta seuran keskushenkilö. Nti Bingleyn silmät etsivät kiinteästi\nhra Darcya ja hänellä näytti olevan jotakin tärkeää sanottavaa tälle.\nDarcy kävi kuitenkin suoraan Janen luo ja lausui hänelle kohteliaan\nonnittelunsa hänen toipumisestaan; hra Hurstkin kumarsi hänelle ja\nmutisi \"olevansa hyvin iloinen\", mutta Bingleyn tervehdys varsinkin\noli iloinen ja lämmin. Hän ei tiennyt kuinka oikein osoittaa\nhuomaavaisuuttaan herttaiselle vieraalleen. Hän rakensi oitis ison\nvalkean salin uuniin toipilaan lämpimiksi ja vaati hänen istumaan sen\ntoiselle puolelle, jotta ei tuntuisi ovivetoa, istahti sitten itse\nhänen viereensä ja puheli tuskin ollenkaan toisten kanssa. Elizabeth,\njoka istui käsitöineen vastakkaisessa uuninsopessa, iloitsi sisarensa\nonnellisesta mielentilasta.\n\nTeen juotua hra Hurst huomautti kälylleen pelipöydän esiinkantamisesta\n-- mutta turhaan. Nti Bingley oli saanut vihiä, että hra Darcylla ei\nollut halua kortinlyöntiin, ja hänen lankonsa sai kelmeän kiellon,\njoten hänellä ei ollut muuta neuvoa kuin viskautua sohvalle ja koettaa\nnarrata nukkumattia. Darcy otti käteensä kirjan, nti Bingley teki oitis\nsamoin ja rva Hurst, joka etupäässä kulutti iltaansa leikkimällä\nsormuksillaan ja rannerenkaillaan, otti jolloinkin osaa veljensä ja nti\nBennetin keskusteluun.\n\nNti Bingleyn huomio kohdistui ainakin yhtä paljon hra Darcyn kirjaan\nkuin omaansa, ja alinomaa hän häiritsi tätä joko kyselyillään tai\nvilkumalla hänen kirjansa lehdille. Hänen ei kuitenkaan onnistunut\ntaivuttaa kavaljeeriaan puheenpitoon, tämä vastaili yksikantaan hänen\nkysymyksiinsä ja luki edelleen. Vihdoin hän ikävystyi kirjaansa, jonka\nhän oli valinnut vain senvuoksi, että se oli toinen nide Darcyn käsissä\nolevaa teosta, haukotteli hartaasti ja julisti muulle seuralle: \"Voiko\ntämän rattoisammin viettääkään iltaansa! Kaikkeen muuhun väsyy ennemmin\nkuin lukemiseen. Kun minä kerran saan oman talon, niin tuntisin oloni\nkurjaksi ilman hyvää kirjastoa.\"\n\nKellään ei ollut siihen vastattavaa. Hän haukotteli uudelleen, viskasi\nkirjansa syrjään ja rupesi katselemaan ympäri salia löytääkseen muuta\nrattoa. Kuullessaan veljensä mainitsevan nti Bennetille jotain\ntanssiaisista hän yhtyi kohta puheluun ja sanoi:\n\n\"Kesken puhein, Charles, aiotko sinä oikein tosissasi toimeenpanna nuo\nlupaamasi tanssiaiset täällä Netherfieldissä? Minä neuvoisin sinua,\nennenkuin ratkaiset asian, tiedustelemaan ensin nykyisen seuramme\nmieltä. Jollen erehdy, on täällä joukossamme joku, jolle sellainen huvi\nolisi pikemminkin rasitukseksi kuin ratoksi.\"\n\n\"Jos tarkoitat Darcya\", vastasi hänen veljensä, \"niin käyköön hän maata\nennen sen alkua, jos mielii, mutta tanssiaiset ovat päätetty asia, ja\nkohtapuoleen lähetän kutsukortit ympäri seutua.\"\n\n\"Omasta puolestani pitäisin tanssiaishuveista äärettömän paljon\nenemmän\", vastasi sisar, \"jos niissä huviteltaisiin toisella tapaa.\nVarmastikin olisi paljon järkevämpää viettää ilta seurustellen kuin\ntanssimalla.\"\n\n\"Paljon järkevämpää kyllä, Caroline, mutta mitkä tanssiaiset ne\nsellaiset huvit sitten olisivatkaan!\"\n\nNti Bingley ei vastannut, ja pian hän nousi pystyyn ja lähti kävelemään\nympäri huonetta. Hänellä oli korkea, notkea vartalo ja hän astui\nsirosti; mutta Darcy, jonka huomiota hänen tarkoituksenaan oli\nkiinnittää itseensä, ei tuntunut kerkiävän irroittamaan katsettaan\nkirjasta. Harmissaan ja loukattuna hän teki vielä epätoivoisen\nyrityksen; hän pysähtyi Elizabethin eteen ja sanoi:\n\n\"Neiti Eliza Bennet, tehkääpä niinkuin minä ja lähtekää kävelemään\nkanssani. Ette usko kuinka se virkistää, kun on istunut niin kauan\nsamassa asennossa.\"\n\nElizabeth hämmästyi hiukan tästä kehoituksesta, mutta noudatti sitä\noitis. Nti Bingleyn kohteliaisuus kantoi hedelmää, hra Darcy\nsilmäsi ylös kirjastaan. Hän näytti yhtä hämmästyneeltä tuosta\nkohteliaisuudesta kuin Elizabeth ja painoi huomaamattaan kirjansa\nkiinni. Hän sai kehoituksen liittyä mukaan, mutta kieltäytyi sanoen,\nettä naisten kävelyyn hän voi huomata vain kaksi aihetta, jotka\nauttamattomasti häiriytyisivät, jos hän tulisi mukaan. Mitähän hän\ntuolla tarkoittikaan? Nti Bingley oli aivan tuskissaan uteliaisuudesta\n-- ja kysyi Elizabethilta, käsittikö tämä hra Darcyn mieltä.\n\n\"En vähääkään, mutta olkaa varma siitä, että hänen tarkoituksenaan on\nvain tehota mahtipontisesti meihin. Ja paras keino saada hänet\npettymään on se, ettemme lainkaan kysele hänen mieltään.\"\n\nNti Bingley ei kuitenkaan voinut sallia hra Darcyn pettyvän missään\nasiassa, vaan rohkaisihe vaatimaan häneltä itseltään selitystä.\n\n\"En minä mitenkään tahdokaan pitää ajatustani salassa\", vastasi Darcy,\nkohta kun toinen antoi hänelle suunvuoroa. \"Te näitte parhaaksi viettää\niltaa kävelemällä joko sen vuoksi, että teillä oli kahdenkeskisiä\nsalaisuuksia kuiskailtavana toisillenne, tahi koska tiesitte sirojen\nvartaloidenne esiintyvän parhaiten edukseen kävellessänne. Edellisessä\ntapauksessa olisin ollut tiellä, ja jälkimmäisessä tapauksessa voin\nparhaiten ihailla teitä täältä istualtani.\"\n\n\"Oh, kuinka hirveä mies!\" huudahti nti Bingley. \"Onko moista röyhkeyttä\nkoskaan kuultu! Kuinka me oikein rankaisemme häntä julkeudestaan?\"\n\n\"Mikään ei ole sen helpompaa\", sanoi Elizabeth, \"jos teillä vain\ntodella on halua siihen. Kaikkihan me osaamme kiusata ja rangaista\ntoisiamme. Härnätkää häntä -- naurakaa hänelle. Niin läheisiä ystäviä\nkuin te olette, pitäisi teidän hyvin tietää, miten se parhaiten käy\npäinsä.\"\n\n\"Mutta ihan totta, sitä minä _en_ tiedä. Vakuutan teille kunniani\nkautta, ettei läheinen ystävyytemme ole vielä opettanut minulle _tuota_\nasiaa. Kuinka noin kylmäveristä ja itsensähillitsevää luonnetta\nvoisikaan härnätä! Ei, ei, minä tunnen, että hän nujertaisi kohta\nmeidät. Ja mitä nauramiseen tulee, niin kuinka _hänelle_ voisi nauraa?\nEi, me olemme aivan avuttomat.\"\n\n\"Eikö herra Darcylle voisi nauraa?\" huudahti Elizabeth. \"Sehän on\nkerrassaan tavaton etuoikeus, ja tavattomana toivon sen pysyvänkin,\nsillä minua surettaisi, jos minulla olisi paljon sellaisia tuttavia.\nMinun suurin iloni on saada nauraa.\"\n\n\"Neiti Bingley on puhunut hiukan liikaa minun puolestani\", sanoi hra\nDarcy. \"Viisaimmat ja parhaatkin ihmisistä -- ei, vaan ihmisten\nviisaimmat ja parhaat teot saattavat joutua naurettaviksi, kun niitä\npääsee ivailemaan henkilö, jonka suurimpana mielihaluna on toisten\nnaurattaminen.\"\n\n\"Varmastikin _on_ sellaisia henkilöitä\", vastasi Elizabeth, \"mutta minä\ntoivon, etten kuulu niihin. Minä toivon, etten koskaan tee\nnaurunalaiseksi sitä, mikä elämässä on viisasta ja hyvää. Mutta\nhullutukset ja höperyys, oikullisuus ja epäjohdonmukaisuus todella\nhuvittavat minua ja niille nauran, missä vain niitä näen. Mutta näiden\nominaisuuksien arvaan olevan aivan vieraita teille.\"\n\n\"Ehkäpä ne eivät ole vieraita yhdellekään ihmiselle. Mutta koko elämäni\najan olen pyrkinyt välttämään sellaisia heikkouksia, jotka usein\ntekevät ihmisen naurunalaiseksi tuntemattomien silmissä.\"\n\n\"Sellaisia kuin esimerkiksi turhamaisuus ja ylpeys?\"\n\n\"Niin -- turhamaisuus on todella heikkous. Mutta ylpeys -- missä ylpeys\non ylvään mielenlaadun ilmaus, siellä se aina pysyy sopivien rajojen\nsisällä eikä joudu vaaraan tulla naurettavaksi.\"\n\nElizabeth kääntyi syrjään salatakseen hymynsä.\n\n\"Joko te olette kylliksenne tarkastellut herra Darcyn ominaisuuksia?\"\nkysyi nti Bingley. \"Ja saako tietää tuloksen?\"\n\n\"Olen varmasti vakuutettu, ettei hra Darcyssa ole vähintäkään vikaa ja\nheikkoutta. Hän myönsi itsekin suoraan sen tosiasian.\"\n\n\"Eihän\", vastusti Darcy, \"niin julkea en toki ole. Minulla on kylläkin\nvikani, mutta toivon, että ne eivät ole naurettavia. Kiivasta\nluonteenlaatuani en rohkene käydä puolustamaan. Se lienee tosin paha\nvika -- paha varsinkin maailman sovinnaisten käsitteiden mukaan. Minä\nen voi hevillä unohtaa toisten hupsutuksia ja puheita niin pian kuin\nminun ehkä tulisi, enkä myöskään kärsimiäni loukkauksia. Minun tunteeni\neivät myöskään kuohahda jokaisesta yrityksestä vaikuttaa niihin.\nArvaan, että luonteenlaatuani voidaan ehkä sanoa pitkävihaiseksi. Mutta\nmikä on kerran kadottanut arvonsa minun silmissäni, se on kadottanut\nsen tyyten ja ikipäiviksi.\"\n\n\"_Se_ on tosiaankin vika!\" huudahti Elizabeth. \"Leppymätön,\npitkävihainen ärtymys _on_ luonteenvika. Mutta te olette valinnut\nvikanne hyvin. Minä en todellakaan voi nauraa teille. Te olette hyvässä\nturvassa minulta.\"\n\n\"Minä uskon, että joka ihmisen luonteessa on taipumusta johonkin\npahaan. Se on luontainen vika, jota ei paraskaan kasvatus kykene\npoistamaan.\"\n\n\"Ja teidän vikanne on taipumus vihaamaan kaikkia ja kaikkea, niinkö?\"\n\n\"Ja teidän vikanne\", vastasi Darcy hymyillen, \"on taipumus tahallanne\nkäsittää väärin toisia.\"\n\n\"Ei, nyt me tarvitsemme jo vähän musiikkia\", huudahti nti Bingley\nikävystyneenä sananvaihdosta, johon hän ei voinut itse ottaa osaa.\n\"Louisa, ethän pane pahaksesi, jos satun herättämään miehesi.\"\n\nRva Hurst ei pannut ollenkaan pahakseen. Piano avattiin jälleen, eikä\nDarcykaan surrut sitä. Hän rupesi huomaamaan itselleen vaaralliseksi\nomistaa Elizabeth Bennetille liiaksi huomiotaan.\n\n\n\n\nXII LUKU.\n\n\nSovittuaan asiasta sisarensa kanssa kirjoitti Elizabeth seuraavana\naamuna äidilleen, että vaunut lähetettäisiin päivän kuluessa\nnoutamaan heidät kotia. Mutta rva Bennet oli toivonut heidän pysyvän\nNetherfieldissä ainakin viikon päivät ja hän vastasi senvuoksi,\nettä vaunut joutuivat vapaaksi vasta tulevaksi tiistaiksi.\nJälkikirjoituksessa hän lisäsi, että jos hra Bingley ja tämän sisaret\nvaativat heitä vielä viipymään, niin hän puolestaan tuli kotiaskareissa\naivan hyvin toimeen ilman heitä. Mutta Elizabethia ei lainkaan\nhaluttanut jäädä kauemmaksi vieraisiin, eikä hän odottanut\nisäntäväenkään sitä vaativan. Ja peljäten, että pitempi viipyminen\ntuntuisi tunkeilevaisuudelta, hän yllytti Janea pyytämään hra\nBingleyltä vaunuja lainaksi, jotta he pääsisivät lähtemään vielä\ntänään, niinkuin oli sovittukin.\n\nTämä pyyntö kohtasi hellyttävää vastarintaa, ja lähtö siirrettiin\nhuomiseksi. Nti Bingley sai kuitenkin syytä katua lykkäämistä, sillä\nhänen kademielensä ja inhonsa toista sisarta kohtaan oli paljon\nkiivaampi kuin suopeus Janea kohtaan.\n\nHra Bingley sen sijaan tunsi todellista surua lähdön johdosta ja\nkoetteli kaikella tapaa taivuttaa heitä vielä viipymään -- Jane ei\nollut vielä kyllin voimissaan, ja vaunuissa täryyttäminen olisi\nvarmasti hänelle vahingoksi; mutta Jane vakuutti varmasti olevansa jo\ntäysissä voimissa.\n\nHra Darcylle sen sijaan oli tieto sisarusten lähdöstä tervetullut.\nElizabeth oli ollut jo liiaksikin kauan Netherfieldissä. Tuo pieni\nmaalaistyttö viehätti häntä enemmän kuin hyvä oli, ja nti Bingley oli\nElizabethille epäkohteliaampi ja häntä itseään kohtaan härnäävämpi kuin\noli mieluista. Hän päätti olla hyvin varovainen, ettei enää sanalla\neikä katseellakaan paljastaisi hänelle ihailuaan ja mielenkiintoaan. Ja\npäätökselleen uskollisena hän koko päivän mittaan vaihtoi tuskin\nkymmentä sanaa hänen kanssaan.\n\nSeuraavana päivänä jumalanpalveluksen jälkeen -- se oli sunnuntai --\nlöi viimeinkin eronhetki, ja totta puhuen se oli mieluista useimmille.\nNti Bingley kävi yht'äkkiä ainakin yhtä herttaiseksi Elizabethia kuin\nhelläksi Janea kohtaan; ja syleiltyään jälkimmäistä, toivotellen\nsydämensä halusta näkevänsä hänet jälleen pian joko Longbournissa tahi\nNetherfieldissä, hän tarjosi kättä edellisellekin.\n\nKotona heitä ei odottanut kovinkaan lämmin vastaanotto äidin puolelta.\nRva Bennet paheksui heidän hätiköimistään, arveli heidän suotta\nvaivanneen isäntäväkeään vaunujen lähettämisellä ja sanoi olevansa\nvarma, että Jane kävisi jälleen kipeäksi. Mutta heidän isänsä oli\noikein iloinen heidän tulostaan, vaikka hän tapansa mukaan sangen\nsäästeliäästi iloaan ilmaisi. Kotipiirin ilma oli käynyt hänelle sangen\npainostavaksi molempain järkeväin ja hilpeitten vanhimpain tytärten\npoissaollessa.\n\nMaryn he tapasivat syventyneenä pianon bassonuottien ja ihmisluonnon\nominaisuuksien tutkisteluun. Catherinen ja Lydian kuulumiset olivat\nhiukan toista laatua. Paljon oli tapahtunut rykmentissä sitten viime\nkeskiviikon. Enolla oli eilen ollut useita upseereja päivällisvieraina,\nerästä sotamiestä oli rangaistu ruoskimalla ja huhuiltiinpa, että\neversti Forster kohta aikoi mennä naimisiin.\n\n\n\n\nXIII LUKU.\n\n\n\"Minä toivon, rakkaani\", sanoi hra Bennet seuraavana aamuna\naamiaispöydässä vaimolleen, \"että toimitat tänään hyvän päivällisen,\nsillä on syytä odottaa erästä vierasta perhepöytäämme.\"\n\n\"Mitä sinä tarkoitatkaan, rakas Bennet? Enhän minä tiedä ketään tänään\ntulevaksi, jollei Charlotte Lucas satu pistäytymään, ja _hänelle_\ntoivon meidän päivällisemme toki aina kelpaavan. En usko hänen kotonaan\nuseinkaan saavan niin hyviä päivällisiä kuin täällä.\"\n\n\"Vieras, josta puhun, on herra ja meille outo.\"\n\nRva Bennetin silmät alkoivat loistaa. \"Mitä -- herrako ja meille outo!\nSitten se on herra Bingley, siitä olen varma, vaikkei hänkään enää niin\nouto ole -- kas vain, Jane, tästä sinä et ole hiiskunut sanallakaan,\nsinä viekastelija! No, voi minun päiviäni, tottahan minua riemastuttaa\nsaada herra Bingley vieraaksemme. Mutta -- hyvä isä sittenkin! Tämäpä\nsattui onnettomasti -- meillä ei ole tänään kalan häntääkään panna\npäivällispöytään. Lydia, sydänkäpyseni, soitappas kelloa. Minun täytyy\nsaada puhua taloudenhoitajattaren kanssa heti paikalla.\"\n\n\"Se _ei_ ole herra Bingley\", sanoi hänen miehensä; \"se on mies, jota en\nole vielä eläissäni nähnyt.\"\n\nTietysti syntyi yleinen hälinä, ja perheenisällä oli nautintoa saada\nkiihkeitä kyselyjä vaimoltaan ja viideltä tyttäreltään yht'aikaa.\n\nHauskuteltuaan hetken heidän uteliaisuudellaan hän kävi selittämään\nasiata. \"Kuukauden päivät sitten sain hänen kirjeensä ja vastasin\nsiihen jo kahden viikon perästä, koska asia oli mielestäni hiukan\narkaluontoinen ja vaati joutuisaa vastausta. Kirje oli eräältä herra\nCollinsilta, serkultani, jolla on valta minun kuolemani jälkeen ajaa\nteidät tiehenne tästä talosta jos hän tahtoo.\"\n\n\"Oh, oh, rakkaani\", parahti hänen vaimonsa, \"älä mainitsekaan tuota\nhirmuista miestä! Eikö ole kamalata, että sinun tilasi pitää tulla\nryöstetyksi omilta lapsiltasi! Sinun sijassasi minä olisin jo aikoja\nsitten yrittänyt tavalla tai toisella korjata asian.\"[13]\n\nJane ja Elizabeth koettivat selvitellä hänelle sukuperimyksen\nmääräyksiä. He olivat tehneet sitä monesti ennenkin, mutta se oppi ei\npystynyt koskaan rva Bennetin päähän. Hän vaikeroi edelleen katkerasti\nsäälimätöntä kohtaloa, joka riisti tilan viideltä tyttäreltä vennon\nvieraan hyväksi, josta ei kukaan välittänyt viiden pennin vertaa.\n\n\"Se on todellakin mitä kohtuuttominta\", sanoi hra Bennet, \"eikä mikään\nlieventävä asianhaara voi pestä herra Collinsia puhtaaksi perijän\nviasta. Mutta jos tahdot kuulla, mitä hän kirjoittaa, niin kenties\nhänen ilmaisutapansa on omiaan hieman lieventämään sinun katkeruuttasi\nhäntä kohtaan.\"\n\n\"Ei, sitä en voi uskoa -- ja minusta on sangen röyhkeätä hänen\npuoleltaan, että hän lainkaan rohkenee kirjoittaa sinulle. Minä inhoon\nkerrassaan sellaisia tekopyhiä ja vääriä ystäviä. Miksi hän ei voi\njatkaa riitaa ja käräjöimistä sinun kanssasi, niinkuin hänen isänsä\nteki ennen häntä?\"\n\n\"Hm -- hänellä näyttää tosiaan olevan vähän tunnonvaivoja isänsä\nkäytöksen johdosta; kuulehan nyt kun luen.\"\n\n    \"Hunsfordissa, lähellä Westerhamia, Kentissä, lokakuun 15 päivänä.\n\n    \"_Hyvä herra_. -- Teidän ja kunnioitetun isävainajani välillä\n    vallinnut erimielisyys on aina murehduttanut suuresti mieltäni;\n    ja sitten kun minulla oli suru kadottaa hänet, olen monesti\n    toivonut tilaisuutta saadakseni perheittemme välit korjatuksi.\n    Ensi alussa minua kuitenkin pidätti siitä epäilys, oliko oikein\n    ja pojallisen rakkauden mukaista hänen muistoaan kohtaan elää\n    sovinnossa miehen kanssa, jota kohtaan häntä oli aina miellyttänyt\n    tuntea vastenmielisyyttä.\" (\"Siinä sen kuulet, rakkaani!\") \"Nyt\n    olen kuitenkin määrännyt kantani asiassa, sillä suoritettuani\n    pappistutkintoni viime pääsiäisen aikaan on minulla ollut sanomaton\n    onni päästä korkeasti kunnianarvoisan[14] Lady Catherine De\n    Bourghin, Sir Lewis de Bourghin lesken suosioon, jonka erinomainen\n    suopeus ja hyväntahtoisuus on nähnyt minut otolliseksi\n    astumaan sangen hyvätuloiseen kirkkoherran toimeen hänen\n    patronaattipiirissään[15] -- mikä mielisuosio kiihoittaa minua\n    mitä vakavimmin palkitsemaan hänen armonsa hyvyyttä ahkeroitsemalla\n    toimittaa kaikkia kirkollisia menoja ja toimituksia Englannin\n    valtiokirkon lakien ja tapojen mukaisesti. Pappismiehenä nimenomaan\n    tunnen velvollisuudekseni palauttaa rauhaa ja levittää siunausta\n    kaikkiin piireihin ja perheisiin, joihin vaikutukseni ulottuu; ja\n    sillä perusteella rohkenen toivoa, että nykyinen edesottamiseni\n    sovinnon palauttamiseksi meidän välillemme on kaikin puolin\n    kiitosta ansaitseva, ja että se seikka, että olen Longbournin tilan\n    lähin perillinen, ei estäisi teitä kohdaltanne tarttumasta minun\n    nyt kurottamaani öljypuun oksaan. En voi muuta kuin olla hyvin\n    pahoillani siitä, että olen valittu välikappaleeksi vahingoittamaan\n    teidän rakastettavain tytärtenne etua, josta kaikesta tahdon\n    anteeksi pyydellä sekä luvata heistä vastaisuudessa kaikkea\n    mahdollista murhetta pitää, mikä minun vallassani vain on; mutta\n    siitä vast'edes lähemmin. Jollei teille ole vastenmielistä\n    vastaanottaa minua huoneeseenne, niin rohkenen ehdottaa, että\n    saavun tervehtimään teitä ja arvoisaa perhettänne maanantaina\n    marraskuun 18 päivänä kello 4 iltapäivällä, ja toivon saavani\n    nauttia vierasvaraisuudestanne seuraavan viikon lauantai-iltaan\n    saakka; minkä voin haitatta itselleni ja pyhälle toimelleni\n    tehdä, sillä Lady Catherine on hyvyydessään luvannut hankkia\n    toisen pappismiehen saarnaamaan välillä olevana sunnuntaina.\n    Lähettäen kunnioittavat terveiseni arvoisalle puolisollenne ja\n    tyttärillenne, pysyn teidän aina hyvää toivovana ystävänänne.\n\n                                            \"_William Collins_.\"\n\n\"Kello neljäksi saamme siis vartoa tuota rauhanrakentajaa\", sanoi hra\nBennet, käärien kirjeen kokoon. \"Hän tuntuu minusta todellakin olevan\nsangen tunnollinen ja kohtelias nuori mies, enkä epäile, että meistä\nvoi tulla hyvätkin ystävät, edellyttäen, että tuo kunnianarvoisa Lady\nCatherine päästää hänet vastakin matkustamaan tänne.\"\n\n\"Siinä ainakin on jonkin verran järkeä, mitä hän tytöistä puhuu\",\nhuomautti hänen vaimonsa. \"Ja jos hän todella rupeaa heistä murhetta\npitämään, niinkuin lupaa, niin en niinäkään asetu poikkiteloin häntä\nvastaan.\"\n\n\"Vaikkakin on vaikea ymmärtää\", sanoi Jane, \"millä tavalla hän aikoo\nkorvata meille tappiomme, niin ainakin hänen hyvä tahtonsa on\nkiitettävä.\"\n\nElizabethin huomiota oli etupäässä kiinnittänyt kirjoittajan syvä\nkunnioitus Lady Catherinea kohtaan ja hänen vakaa päätöksensä ahkeroida\nseurakuntalaistensa kastamisessa, vihkimisessä ja hautaamisessa --\nkaikki valtiokirkon lakien ja tapojen mukaisesti.\n\n\"Hänen täytyy olla hyvin omituinen mies\", hän sanoi. \"En minä voi\noikein käsittää hänen ajatustaan. Hänen kirjoitustapansa on\nniin mahtipontinen. Ja mitä hänen tarvitsee pyydellä anteeksi\nperimisoikeuttaan? Ei suinkaan hän tahtoisi korjata asiaa, jos se\nkävisi päinsä. Mahtaako hän olla oikein viisas, isä?\"\n\n\"Ei suinkaan, rakkaani, sitä en luule. Minulla on hyvä syy toivoa, että\nhän on kaikkea muuta kuin viisas. Hänen kirjeessään on sellainen\nsekoitus nöyristeleväisyyttä ja mahtailua, joka lupaa sangen hyvää.\nOlen oikein kärsimätön näkemään hänet luonamme.\"\n\n\"Kokoonpanoltaan hänen kirjettään ei voi sanoa puutteelliseksi\",\nhuomautti viisas Mary. \"Lausetapa öljypuun oksasta ei tosin ole aivan\nuusi, mutta se ilmaisee hyvin hänen ajatuksiaan.\"\n\nCatherinessa ja Lydiassa ei kirje eikä sen kirjoittaja herättäneet\nvähintäkään mielenkiintoa. Mahdotonta oli ajatella, että heidän\nserkkunsa saapuisi punaisessa takissa, ja monien viikkojen kuluessa oli\nheillä ollut iloa pelkkien punatakkien seurasta. Heidän äidiltään sen\nsijaan oli hra Collinsin kohtelias kirje sulattanut hyvän määrän\nsappea, ja hän valmistautui ottamaan vierasta vastaan niin tavattomalla\ntouhukkaisuudella, että hänen miehensä ja tyttärensä joutuivat vähän\nihmeisiinsä.\n\nHra Collins saapui täsmälleen lupaamaansa aikaan, ja koko perhe\ntervehti häntä hyvin kohteliaasti. Hra Bennet tosin puheli hyvin vähän,\nmutta naiset olivat sangen halukkaita juttelemaan, eikä hra Collins\nnäyttänyt tarvitsevan erikoista rohkaisua. Hän oli pitkä ja luiseva\nnuori mies, iältään ehkä viisikolmattavuotias. Hänen sävynsä oli ylen\njuhlallinen ja käytöksensä mahtipontinen. Tuskin vielä viittäkään\nminuuttia istuttuaan hän onnitteli rva Bennetiä hänen kukoistavista\ntyttäristään ja sanoi kuulleensa paljonkin näiden suloudesta, mutta\nettä tässä tapauksessa huhu ei ollut tiennyt puoliakaan. Ja hän lausui\nvarmana vakaumuksenaan, ettei kai kestäisi kauankaan, ennenkuin kaikki\nolisivat onnellisissa naimisissa. Tällainen imartelu ei tosin ollut\nkaikkien kuulijain mieleen, mutta rva Bennet, jonka tapana ei ollut\nseuloa kohteliaisuuksia, vastasi sulavin sydämin:\n\n\"Te olette kovin mairitteleva, herraseni, ja kaikesta sielustani\ntoivoisin teidän ennustaneen oikein, sillä muuten on heidän kohtalonsa\nkovin tukala. Asiat ovat nyt kerta niin hullusti järjestetyt!\"\n\n\"Te ehkä tarkoitatte tuota perimyssääntöä?\"\n\n\"Niin, mitäpäs muuta! Se on surkea kohta minun tyttöparoilleni, se\nteidänkin täytyy myöntää. Ei sen puolesta, että pitäisin _teitä_\nsyyllisenä, sillä sellainenhan on maailman meno yleensä, mikäli tunnen\nniitä asioita. Ei koskaan tiedä, kenenkä haltuun maatilat joutuvat\nperinnönjaossa.\"\n\n\"Minä käsitän ja tunnen sangen hyvin, hyvä rouva, kauniiden serkkujeni\nkovan aseman, ja voisin asiasta puhella paljonkin, mutta pelkään, että\nehkä näyttäisin liiaksi suorasukaiselta ja hätiköivältä. Sen voin\nkuitenkin vakuuttaa näille armaille nuorille neitosille, että sydämeni\naivoituksena jo tänne tullessani oli tunnustaa heille julki totinen\nihailuni. Tällä erää en tahdo sanoa sen enempää, mutta kukaties, kun\nolemme tutustuneet toisiimme paremmin...\"\n\nPäivälliskutsu keskeytti hänen, \"aivoituksensa\"; ja tytöt hymyilivät\nsalaa toisilleen. He eivät kuitenkaan yksistään herättäneet hra\nCollinsin ihailua. Eteishalli, ruokasali ja niiden sisustus sai\nosakseen seikkaperäistä tarkastelua ja ylistystä, mikä jonkun toisen\nsuusta kuultuna olisi sulattanut rva Bennetin sydämen vahaksi. Mutta\ntuo mieshän tarkasteli taloa tulevaisena perintöosanaan. Myöskin\npäivällistä vieras kunnioitti ihailullaan; ja hän halusi tietää, ken\nhänen kauneista serkuistaan ansaitsi kiitoksen sen laittamisesta. Mutta\ntässä suhteessa oikaisi emäntä hänen nurjan käsityksensä vakuuttaen\nhänelle hiukan kärkevästi, että heillä oli varaa pitää kelpo\nkeittäjätärtä ja ettei hänen tytärtensä tarvinnut heiskua keittiössä.\n\n\n\n\nXIV LUKU.\n\n\nPäivällispöydässäkin oli hra Bennet hyvin harvapuheinen, mutta kohta\npalvelijain poistuttua ruokasalista hän arveli ajan otolliseksi\naloittaa tuttavallinen keskustelu vieraansa kanssa. Lähtökohdaksi hän\njärkevästi valitsi puheenaiheen, jonka arvasi olevan serkulleen\nmieluisen ja joka salli tämän loistaa kaunopuheisuudellaan -- hän näet\nhuomautti, että hra Collins tuntui olevan sangen hyvissä väleissä\ntilanhaltijattarensa kanssa. Parempaa aihetta hän ei olisi voinut\nkeksiäkään. Hra Collins kävi oikein kultasuuksi. Hänen muutenkin\njuhlallinen olemuksensa tuntui kuin kirkastetulta kun hän vakuutti,\nettei ikimaailmassa oltu nähty niin alavaa käytöstä niin ylhäisen\nhenkilön puolelta. Lady Catherine oli itse armollisesti suvainnut\nvalita niiden kahden saarnan aiheet, jotka hänellä jo oli ollut kunnia\npitää hänen kuultensa. Lady Catherine oli myöskin kahdesti käskenyt\nhänet päivällisille hoviinsa Rosingsissa, ja vielä viime lauantaina hän\noli kutsuttanut hänet neljänneksi pelaajaksi korttipöytään. Monet\nihmiset väittivät Lady Catherinen olevan ylpeän, mutta _hän_ oli\nkohdaltaan kokenut pelkkää alavuutta hänen armonsa puolelta. Tämä oli\naina puhutellut häntä kuten herrasmiestä ainakin. Hänellä ei ollut\nmitään vastaan, että hän otti osaa seudun seuraelämään tai että hän\njätti seurakuntansa viikoksi tai pariksi lähteäkseen tervehtimään\nsukulaisiaan. Hänen armonsa oli suvainnut kehoittaa häntä jouduttamaan\nnaimistaan, edellyttäen että hän valitsi sopivan vaimon. Olipa hän\nalentunut käymään kerran hänen halvassa pappilassaankin, kierrellyt\nympäri huoneita ja hyväksynyt kaikki hänen tekemänsä muutokset, jopa\nehdottanut itsekin uusia muutoksia -- joitakin lisähyllyjä makuuhuoneen\nvaatesäiliöihin.\n\n\"Tuo kaikki on tosiaan sangen kohteliasta ja säädyllistä\", myönsi rva\nBennet, \"vahinko, etteivät kaikkikin ylhäiset naiset ole hänen\nkaltaisiaan. Asutteko te lähelläkin häntä?\"\n\n\"Minun halvan puutarhani erottaa vain nurmikenttä Rosings Parkista,\nmikä on hänen armonsa hovin nimi.\"\n\n\"Muistaakseni sanoitte hänen olevan lesken; onko hänellä lapsia?\"\n\n\"Hänellä on ainoastaan yksi tytär, Rosingsin tuleva perijätär -- sangen\nrikas perijätär, jos minun sallitaan niin sanoa.\"\n\n\"Ah, ah\", huokasi rva Bennet, huojutellen päätänsä, \"hänenpä kelpaakin\nsitten paremmin kuin monien muiden tyttöjen. Ja minkälainen neitonen\nhän on? Onko hän kaunis?\"\n\n\"Hän on todellakin mitä viehättävin nuori neito, hyvä rouva. Lady\nCatherine on itsekin sanonut, että kauneuden puolesta on neiti de\nBourgh sukupuolensa ensimmäisiä, sillä hänen piirteistään voi lukea\nhänen ylhäisen syntyperänsä. Valitettavasti hänen heikko terveytensä on\nestänyt häntä kehittymästä täydelliseksi kaikissa naistaidoissa; sen on\nminulle kertonut se kunnianarvoinen rouvasihminen, jolla on ollut onni\njohtaa hänen kasvatustaan. Mutta hän on joka suhteessa hyvin herttainen\nja on usein suvainnut ajaa ponyvaljakoillaan minun halvan asuntoni\nohitse.\"\n\n\"Joko hänet on esitelty hovissa?[16] En muista nähneeni lehdissä hänen\nnimeään esiteltyjen naisten joukossa.\"\n\n\"Hänen hento terveydentilansa estää valitettavasti häntä oleskelemasta\nLontoossa ja on sen kautta, kuten minulla oli kerran onni mainita Lady\nCatherinelle itselleen, riistänyt Englannin hovilta sen kaunoisimman\nhohtokiven. Hänen armonsa tuntui hyvin mielistyvän kohteliaisuuteeni;\nja te voitte arvata, kuinka onnelliseksi minä tunnen itseni, kun\ntuolloin tällöin saan alamaisesti esiinkantaa tällaisia pikku\nimarteluja, joista kauniimpi sukupuoli niin paljon pitää. Olen useammin\nkuin kerran huomauttanut Lady Catherinelle, että hänen viehättävä\ntyttärensä on syntynyt kantamaan herttuattaren kruunua. Tuollaiset\npikku mairittelut tuntuvat hyvin miellyttävän hänen armoaan; ja omasta\npuolestani tunnen olevani velvollinen kohteliaisuudellani palkitsemaan\nhänen minulle osoittamaansa suopeutta.\"\n\n\"Te näytte olevan hyvä ihmistuntija\", sanoi hra Bennet, \"ja voitte\npitää itseänne onnellisena omistaessanne niin sujuvan imartelun lahjan.\nSallikaa minun kysyä, syntyvätkö nuo kohteliaisuutenne hetken\ninnoituksesta, vai ovatko ne pitkältä harkitun sepittelyn tuotteita?\"\n\n\"Tavallisesti ne pulpahtavat kielelleni valmistelematta\nseurustellessani ylhäisen emäntäni kanssa; mutta vaikka niitä joskus\nhuvikseni sorvailen ja veistelen etukäteenkin, niin koetan antaa niille\nniin satunnaisen sävyn kuin mahdollista.\"\n\nHra Bennet oli täysin tyytyväinen vieraansa tarkasteluun. Hänen\nserkkunsa oli aivan sellainen hölmö kuin hän oli odottanutkin; ja hän\nkuunteli tämän mahtipontista lavertelua mitä vilpittömimmällä\nnautinnolla, jonka hän osasi tarkoin salata ympäristöltään. Ainoastaan\nElizabethin kanssa hän välistä vaihtoi huvitetun silmäyksen.\n\nTeen juotua hra Bennet arveli saaneensa tarpeeksi tästä huvista ja oli\niloinen kun pääsi vieraastaan eroon, kehoitettuaan häntä lukemaan\nääneen jotakin talon naisille. Hra Collins oli siihen oitis valmis, ja\nkirja tuotiin esiin, mutta katsahtaessaan sen kansilehteen hän kimmahti\nkauhistuneena taapäin ja selitti juhlallisesti, että hän ei koskaan\nlukenut romaaneja. Talon kirjastoa kaiveltiin läpikotaisin, ja vihdoin\nkeksittiin jokin saarnakokoelma. Lydia haukotteli jo kun hän avasi\nkirjan; ja ennenkuin hän oli vielä kerinnyt paukuttamaan kolmeakaan\nsivua, keskeytti tytön hepsakka hänen lukunsa huudahtaen:\n\n\"Tiedätkös mitä, äiti, eno Philips sanoi aikovansa antaa potkut\nrengilleen Richardille. Jos hän sen tekee, niin eversti Forster ottaa\nRichardin palvelukseensa. Minä lähden huomenna Merytoniin ottamaan\nselvää onko siinä perää, ja samalla saan kuulla, milloin herra Denny\npalaa takaisin Lontoosta.\"\n\nLydia sai ankaran varoituksen hillitä paremmin kieltänsä, mutta hra\nCollins pani ilmeisesti hyvin loukkaantuneensa kirjan kiinni ja lausui\nrankaisevalla sävyllä:\n\n\"Olen usein pannut merkille, kuinka vähällä mielenkiinnolla nuoret\nneitoset lukevat ja kuuntelevat vakavia kirjoja, vaikka ne ovat\nkirjoitetut yksinomaan heidän sielunsa parhaaksi. Se ihmetyttää minua\nsuuresti, sen tunnustan, sillä varmastikaan ei mikään ole heille niin\nsuureksi ajalliseksi ja iankaikkiseksi hyödyksi kuin hengellinen\nopetus. Mutta en tahdo enää tämän pitemmältä rasittaa nuorta\nserkkuani.\"\n\nKääntyen sitten talon isäntään hän tarjoutui tälle toveriksi\nlautapeliin. Hra Bennet suostui siihen mielellään, huomaten parhaaksi\njättää tyttärensä kihertelemään keskenään syrjässä. Rva Bennet ja hänen\nvanhemmat tyttärensä pyytelivät anteeksi Lydian ajattelematonta\nkeskeytystä ja lupasivat, ettei sellaista enää sattuisi, jos hän tahtoi\njatkaa lukuaan; mutta hra Collins vakuutti, ettei hän suinkaan kantanut\npitkävihaisuutta lapsellista serkkuaan kohtaan, ja istahti hra Bennetiä\nvastapäätä lautapelin ääreen.\n\n\n\n\nXV LUKU.\n\n\nHra Collins ei todellakaan ollut mikään erityisen viisas mies, siinä\noli hra Bennet oikeassa, ja hänen luontaisia vajavaisuuksiaan oli\nkasvatus ja seuraelämä varsin vähän korjannut. Suurimman osan elämäänsä\nhän oli viettänyt oppimattoman ja ahneen isänsä silmien alla; ja\nyliopistossakaan hän ei tutkintolukujensa ohella ollut paljonkaan\nseurustellut tovereitten kanssa. Isä oli kasvattanut häntä nöyryyteen,\nmutta oma heikko päänsä oli hänessä vahvistanut luontaista\nitsetuntoisuutta, jota sitten odottamaton onnenpotkaus oli mahtavasti\npaisuttanut. Hyvä sallima oli johtanut hänet silloin avoimeksi\njoutuneeseen Hunsfordin kirkkoherrantoimeen, ja hänen ylenmääräinen\nkunnioituksensa mahtavan emäntänsä ylhäistä säätyä kohtaan ynnä hänen\nkorkea käsityksensä omasta hengellisestä asemastaan ja oivallisista\nsielunpaimenlahjoistaan oli kehittänyt hänen sielussaan merkillisen\nsekoituksen itsetuntoa, mahtipontisuutta ja nöyristelevää alamaisuutta.\n\nPäästyään nyt hyville tuloille ja sievän pappilan isännäksi oli\nhänen aikomuksensa astua pyhään aviosäätyyn. Ja itse asiassa oli\nLongbournin-matkan tarkoituksena katsella, oliko täkäläisessä\ntytärparvessa hänelle sopivata vaimoa, joka vastaisi hänen ja hänen\nsuojelijattarensa korkeita vaatimuksia. Tällä tapaa hän aikoi heistä\n\"murhetta pitää\" riistäessään heiltä heidän isänperintönsä; ja hänestä\nse oli kerrassaan oivallinen suunnitelma, älykäs ja jalomielinen hänen\npuoleltaan ja kehumisen arvoinen maailman silmissä.\n\nHänen suunnitelmansa ei suinkaan horjunut, kun hän pääsi tyttöjä\nnäkemään. Vanhimman neiti Bennetin viehättävät kasvot saivat hänet\noitis tekemään valintansa. Hänen perinpohjaisuutensa mukautui mieluusti\nnoudattamaan vanhaa ohjesääntöä: \"Päästä on pino alettava\". Huomenissa\nhänellä oli kuitenkin aihetta vaihtaa valintansa esinettä; sillä hänen\njouduttuaan emäntänsä kanssa ennen aamiaista rattoisaan kaksinpuheluun\nja hänen kehitettyään tälle lähemmin suunnitelmaansa oli rva Bennet\nystävällisin hymyin ja silmäniskuin torjunut _vanhinta_ tytärtään\nuhkaavan hyökkäyksen. Mitä hänen nuorempiin tyttöihinsä tuli, niin\nolivat näiden sydämet vielä vapaat, sikäli kuin hän tiesi; mutta Janen\nsuhteen hänen oli mainittava -- ainakin näin kahdenkesken viitaten --\nettä tämä oli jo miltei kihlattu toiselle.\n\nHra Collins sai ajatuksissaan vaihtaa Janen Elizabethiin -- ja se\nvaihdos oli pian tehty -- sillä aikaa kuin rva Bennet kohenteli tulta\nuunissa. Elizabeth oli vanhimman jälkeinen ja miltei yhtä sievä kuin\ntämä, ja kelpasi siis hyvin hra Collinsille Janen puutteessa.\n\nRva Bennet käsitti ja osasi oivallisesti arvostaa hänen viittauksensa\nja riemuitsi mielessään, että hän kohta voi naittaa kaksi tytärtään\nyht'aikaa. Ja sulhaskokelas, jota hän vielä edellisenä aamuna ei ollut\ntahtonut nähdäkään, löysi kaikin puolin armon hänen silmissään.\n\nLydia ei ollut unohtanut aikomustaan kävellä Merytoniin, ja kaikki\nsisaret, Marya lukuunottamatta, suostuivat lähtemään hänen kanssansa;\nja heidän isänsä tyrkytti heille hra Collinsin ritariksi, tahtoessaan\nkaikin mokomin päästä eroon vieraastaan ja hautautua kirjastonsa\nyksinäiseen rauhaan.\n\nMatkalla serkku haasteli mahtipontisesti Hunsfordin pappilan\nihanuudesta ja sen tulevan emännän onnesta, tyttöjen kohteliaasti\nvastaillessa hänelle ja salaa hihittäessä toisilleen. Kauppalaan tultua\nnuorempien sisarusten huomio kuitenkin kääntyi hänestä vilkuilemaan\nkaduilla kulkevia upseereja tahi tarkkailemaan uusia päähinemalleja ja\nmusliinikankaita puotien näyteakkunoissa.\n\nMutta kaikkien neitosten huomio kääntyi yht'äkkiä mitä ylväimmän\nnäköiseen nuoreen herraan, jota he eivät olleet vielä koskaan täällä\nnähneet ja joka lähestyi toisella katuvierellä erään upseerin rinnalla.\nUpseeri oli sama hra Denny, jonka paluuta Lontoosta Lydia oli juuri\ntullut tiedustelemaan, ja hän kumarsi naisille ohimennessään.\nTuntemattoman herran kauniit kasvot ja komea ryhti herättivät kaikkien\nhuomiota. Kitty ja Lydia päättivät ottaa siitä selon, ja tehden asiaa\nkadun toisella puolella olevaan puodinakkunaan he ennättivät parahiksi\njalkakäytävälle, kun molemmat herrat ympäri pyörrettyään joutuivat\nsamaan kohtaan. Hra Denny kävi oitis puhuttelemaan heitä ja pyysi lupaa\nesittää ystävänsä hra Wickhamin, joka oli edellisenä päivänä saapunut\nhänen kanssaan Lontoosta ja aikoi liittyä upseerina samaan rykmenttiin.\nSe näyttikin olevan aivan kohdallaan, sillä univormu yllään tuo\nnuoriherra varmasti tekisi kerrassaan komean vaikutuksen. Yleinen\nesittely tapahtui ja koko seura pysähtyi juttelemaan vilkkaasti, kun\nhevoskavioiden kapse sai kaikki katsahtamaan kadunpäähän, mistä Darcy\nja Bingley tulivat ratsastaen.\n\nNaiset nähdessään ratsastajat ohjasivat hevosensa heitä kohti ja\nalkoivat lausua tavallisia kohteliaisuuksia. Bingley sanoi olevansa\nmatkalla Longbourniin tiedustamaan nti Bennetin terveydentilaa. Darcy\nyhtyi jutteluun, vahvasti päättäen välttää Elizabethia; mutta\nvilkaistessaan vasten tahtoaan tämän puoleen hän äkkäsi vieraan herran\ntämän rinnalla; ja Elizabeth joutui ihmeisiinsä nähdessään kummankin\nhahmon merkillisesti muuttuvan. Toinen kävi aivan kalpeaksi, toinen\ntumman punaiseksi. Hetken epäröityään hra Wickham kosketti hattuaan.\nTervehdykseen suvaitsi hra Darcy nipin näpin vastata. Mitähän tuo\nkaikki tarkoittikaan?\n\nSeuraavassa tuokiossa hra Bingley, joka ei näyttänyt huomanneen tuota\npientä välikohtausta, kumarsi naisille ja ratsasti ystävänsä kanssa\npois.\n\nHrat Denny ja Wickham seurasivat neitosia hra Philipsin portille ja\npoistuivat sitten tervehtien, vaikka Lydia tahtoi heitäkin kaikin\nmokomin käymään sisään ja vaikka rva Philipskin heittäytyi puoliväliin\nulos akkunasta ja toisti kovaäänisesti kehoituksen.\n\nRva Philips oli aina mielissään saadessaan sisarentyttärensä\nvieraikseen. Hra Collinsin hän vastaanotti erittäin kohteliaasti, minkä\ntämä arvon herra maksoi takaisin ylivuotavaisesti. Kotia palattuakin\nhän kiitteli rva Bennetille rva Philipsin hienoa käytöstä, jonka\nveroista hän ei ollut vielä saanut osakseen kenenkään toisen naisen\npuolelta, Lady Catherinea ja tämän tytärtä tietenkin lukuunottamatta.\n\nKittyn ja Lydian saattoi täti ilon hurmioon kertoessaan, että eräitä\nupseereita tuli huomenna heille päivälliselle ja luvatessaan pyytää\nmiehensä toimittamaan kutsun myöskin hra Wickhamille, jonka komea\nolemus oli akkunasta kiinnittänyt tädinkin huomiota. Sovittiin, että\nkoko Longbournin nuoriso, hra Collins mukaan luettuna, silloin saapuisi\nvierailemaan herrasväki Philipsin luo.\n\nKotimatkalla Elizabeth kertoi Janelle huomionsa hrain Darcyn ja\nWickhamin suhteen; ja vaikka oikeamielinen Jane olisi moittinut näistä\ntoista tai kumpaakin, jos olisi arvannut heidän menetelleen väärin, ei\nhänkään voinut selittää tuota outoa tapahtumaa.\n\n\n\n\nXVI LUKU.\n\n\nVanhemmilla ei ollut mitään lastensa vierailua vastaan. Hra Collinsin\narvelut jättää isäntäväkensä yksin koko illaksi torjuttiin\nvoitokkaasti; ja perhevaunut kuljettivat hänet ja hänen viisi sievää\nserkkuansa sopivaan aikaan Merytoniin, missä tyttöjä jo kynnyksellä\nodotti ilosanoma, että hra Wickham oli alttiisti noudattanut kutsua ja\nettä hän oli jo saapunut taloon.\n\nUpseerien istuessa ruokasalissa päivällisellä isännän kera vei täti\nvastasaapuneet vieraat istumaan saliin, jonka sisustusta hra Collins\nkävi ihailemaan, väittäen sen joka suhteessa suuresti muistuttavan\nRosingsin hovin pientä kesäruokalaa. Tämä kehuminen ei aluksi\nsaavuttanut suurtakaan huomiota emännän puolelta, mutta kuultuaan, mikä\npaikka Rosings oikeastaan oli, ja kuka sen omistaja oli, ja minkälaisia\nloistohuoneita se sisälsi, ja että eräskin salinuuni oli yksistään\ntullut maksamaan kahdeksansataa puntaa, tajusi hän oitis suurenmoisen\nkohteliaisuuden. Ja hän kuunteli alttiilla korvalla vieraansa laveita\nkuvauksia hovin loistosta, oman halvan pappilansa mukavuudesta ja\nemännäntarpeesta j.n.e. Tytöt istuivat kärsimättömästi tuoleillaan,\nmalttamatta kuunnella serkkunsa pitkäpiimäisiä selittelyjä, ja odotus\nrupesi heistä tuntumaan sietämättömän pitkältä. Vihdoin se toki loppui.\nHerrat astuivat saliin ja kun hra Wickham saapui toisten mukana, tuntui\nElizabethista, ettei hän ollut vielä koskaan nähnyt niin hurmaavaa\nmiestä. Rykmentin upseerit olivat yleensä komearyhtisiä ja\nhienokäytöksisiä miehiä; mutta hra Wickham tuntui olevan ulkonäössä,\nkäytöksen siroudessa ja puheensävyssä yhtä paljon heidän yläpuolellaan\nkuin he olivat leveäkasvoisen, punoittavan ja portviiniltä lemuavan eno\nPhilipsin yläpuolella, joka saapasteli vieraiden jäljessä saliin.\n\nHra Wickham oli se onnellinen mies, johon kaikkien naisten silmät oitis\niskivät, ja Elizabeth oli se onnellinen nainen, jonka viereen hän oitis\nsuvaitsi istuutua; ja hänen sulava puhetapansa -- vaikka aiheena olikin\nvain sateinen ilta ja todennäköisesti odotettava kolkko talvikausi --\nsai Elizabethin tuntemaan, että mitä joutavin ja tyhjänpäiväisinkin\npuheenaihe voi niin taitavan kertojan käsittelemänä antaa aihetta\nviehättävään keskusteluun.\n\nSellaisten kilpailijain rinnalla hra Collins parka vaipui\nmitättömyyteen; kukaan nuorista neitosista ei joutunut enää välittämään\nhänestä; ainoastaan rva Philips kuunteli pikapäästä hänen\ntarinoimistaan sekä piti huolta, että hänellä oli taukoamatta kahvia ja\nleivoksia edessään.\n\nKun kahvi oli juotu, kannettiin pelipöydät esiin. Hra Wickham ei\nsanonut välittävänsä kortinlyönnistä, vaan istuutui toiseen pöytään,\njossa pelattiin arpajaispeliä ja jossa Elizabeth ja Lydia valmistivat\nhänelle tilan välissään. Aluksi oli Lydia miltein yksistään äänessä,\nsillä hän oli väsymätön juttelija; mutta vähitellen kiinnitti peli ja\nsen voitonmahdollisuudet yhä enemmän hänen huomiotansa. Vaikka ottikin\nosaa peliin, oli hra Wickhamilla kuitenkin tilaisuutta puhella\nElizabethin kanssa, joka mielellään kuunteli häntä, vaikka ei voinut\ntoivoakaan, että puheeksi tulisi se aihe, josta hän olisi halunnut\nkaikkein mieluimmin kuulla -- eilispäiväisestä välikohtauksesta. Hän ei\nrohjennut edes mainita hra Darcyn nimeä. Mutta aivan odottamatta tuli\nhänen uteliaisuutensa tyydytetyksi. Hra Wickham otti itse asian\npuheeksi. Hän tiedusti, kuinka kaukana Netherfield oli Merytonista; ja\nsaatuaan sen selville hän kysyi hiukan epäröiden, kuinka kauan hra\nDarcy oli oleskellut siellä.\n\n\"Lähes kuukauden päivät\", vastasi Elizabeth; ja sitten hän haluten\njatkaa puheenaihetta lisäsi: \"Olen kuullut, että hän on suuri\ntilanomistaja Derbyshiren puolella.\"\n\n\"Niin on\", sanoi Wickham, \"hänellä on tosiaankin komea tila.\nVuosituloja ainakin kymmenentuhatta puntaa. Ette olisi voinutkaan\ntavata parempaa asiantuntijaa tässä kysymyksessä -- sillä minä olen\ntavallani kuulunut hänen perheeseensä aina lapsuudestani lähtien.\"\n\nElizabeth ei voinut salata hämmästystään.\n\n\"En ihmettele teidän hämmästystänne, neiti Bennet, kuultuanne tämän\ntiedon ja nähtyänne, millä tapaa eilen kohtasimme toisemme. Oletteko\nhyväkin tuttu herra Darcyn kanssa?\"\n\n\"Niin hyvä, etten paremmaksi halua tulla\", huudahti Elizabeth\nkiivaasti. \"Olen viettänyt neljä päivää tuossa talossa hänen kanssaan\nja tullut huomaamaan, että hän on hyvin epämiellyttävä ihminen.\"\n\n\"Minä en ole oikeutettu lausumaan hänestä _omaa_ mielipidettäni\", sanoi\nWickham. \"Olen tuntenut hänet liian kauan ja liian hyvin voidakseni\nolla puolueeton arvostelija. Mutta minä uskon, että teidän\nmielipiteenne hänestä herättäisi yleistä ällistystä -- ja ehkäpä te\nette lausuisikaan sitä niin jyrkästi missään muualla. Täällähän te\nolette omaistenne keskuudessa.\"\n\n\"Uskokaa minua kun sanon, että samat sanat sanoisin hänestä missä\ntalossa hyvänsä täälläpäin, Netherfieldiä tietysti lukuunottamatta.\nHänestä ei pidetä ollenkaan täällä Hertfordshiressä. Jokainen on\nloukkaantunut hänen ylpeästä käytöksestään. Sen suosiollisempaa\narvostelua ette kuule hänestä missään.\"\n\n\"En lainkaan ihmettele\", virkkoi Wickham hetken vaiti oltuaan, \"ettei\nhän tai kuka ihminen hyvänsä tapaisi kotipiirinsä ulkopuolella samaa\narvonantoa kuin siellä, missä hänet läpeensä tunnetaan; mutta mitä\nnimenomaan _häneen_ tulee, niin luulisin, ettei näin hänelle\ntapahtuisi. Maailma on niin suuresti hänen rikkautensa ja arvoasemansa\nsokaisema tahi hänen mahtavan käyttäytymistapansa lumoissa, että se\nnäkee hänet ainoastaan siinä valossa, missä hän itse suvaitsee\nnäyttäytyä.\"\n\n\"Mutta minä, vaikka tunnenkin häntä niin vähän, olen valmis pitämään\nhäntä tuittupäisenä ja pitkävihaisena ärripurrina!\" huudahti Elizabeth.\nWickham pudisteli vain päätään.\n\nKun pelinmeno soi jälleen puheenvuoroa, sanoi hän: \"Ihmettelen, onko\nhänen aikomuksensa viipyä tällä seudulla kauemminkin.\"\n\n\"Sitä en tiedä lainkaan, mutta Netherfieldissä ollessani en kuullut\nsanaakaan hänen pois lähdöstään. Toivon, ettei teidän rykmenttiin\nliittymisenne kohtaa vaikeuksia hänen täälläolostaan.\"\n\n\"Ah, ei -- _minun_ asiani ei ole väistyä herra Darcyn tieltä. Jos hän\nhaluaa vältellä minua, täytyy _hänen_ väistyä täältä. Me emme elä\nhyvissä väleissä toistemme kanssa, ja minua tuskastuttaa tavata häntä,\nmutta minulla ei ole mitään syytä vältellä häntä. Minkä vuoksi hän on\nminulle vastenmielinen, sen voin kyllä suoraan julistaa vaikka koko\nmaailmalle -- olen kärsinyt paljon vääryyttä hänen puoleltaan ja\nvalitan avoimesti hänen sietämätöntä luonnettaan. Hänen isänsä, neiti\nBennet, oli oivallisimpia ihmisiä, mitä koskaan on elänyt maan päällä,\nja minun totisin ystäväni; ja kohdatessani hänen poikansa repivät\ntuhannet hellät muistot isästä minun sydäntäni. Hänen käyttäytymisensä\nminua kohtaan on ollut julkean häpeämätöntä, mutta uskon, että voisin\nunhottaa ja antaa hänelle anteeksi kaikki muut viat paitsi sen, että\nhän on rikkonut isänsä tahtoa vastaan ja solvaissut tämän muistoa.\"\n\nElizabeth kuunteli polttavin poskin ja sykyttävin sydämin ja olisi\ntahtonut kuulla pitemmältäkin tuosta mielenkiintoisesta puheenaiheesta,\nmutta hienotunteisuus esti häntä kyselemästä enempää.\n\nHra Wickham siirtyi puhelemaan yleisemmistä aiheista, Merytonista, sen\nympäristöstä ja seurapiireistä, ja tuntui olevan hyvin tyytyväinen\nkaikkeen näkemäänsä ja nimenomaan kohteluun, joka oli tullut hänen\nosakseen täkäläisten seurapiirien puolelta.\n\n\"Pääsyynä liittymiseeni täkäläiseen rykmenttiin\", lisäsi hän, \"oli\npäästä elämään kunnon ihmisten ja hyvien ystävien parissa. Tiesin\nennestään, että rykmentin upseeristo oli perin hauskaa ja\narvossapidettyä väkeä; ja ystäväni Denny houkutteli minua nimenomaan\nkutomalla kaunokuvauksia heidän nykyisestä majoituspaikastaan ja\nMerytonin kelpo ihmisistä. Seuraelämä on minulle välttämätön elinehto,\nsen tunnustan. Nuoruudessani olen kärsinyt pahoja pettymyksiä, ja\nhenkeni ei sietäisi erakkomaista yksinoloa. Minulla _täytyy_ olla\ntointa ja seuraa. Sotilasura ei tosin alkuaan ollut se ala, jolle minun\noli määrä antautua, mutta olosuhteet viskasivat minut sille.\nPappisurasta piti tulla minun elämäntehtäväni -- minut kasvatettiin\nalusta pitäen kirkon mieheksi ja nykyisin olisin jo kelpo seurakunnan\nhyvinvoiva kirkkoherra, jos se olisi ollut sen herrasmiehen mieleen,\njosta äsken puhelimme.\"\n\n\"Niinkö todellakin?\"\n\n\"Niin -- vanhempi herra Darcy-vainaja määräsi minulle\njälkisäädöksessään parhaan kirkkoherranpaikan koko\npatronaattipiirissään. Hän oli minun risti-isäni ja oli erinomaisesti\nkiintynyt minuun. Hänen minulle osoittamaa hyvyyttä en voi kyllin\nkiitellä. Hän tahtoi mitä runsaskätisimmin turvata koko tulevaisuuteni,\nja hän luuli sen todella tehneensäkin; mutta kun kyseenäoleva virka\njoutui avoimeksi, nimitettiin siihen toinen mies.\"\n\n\"Hyvä isä taivaassa!\" huudahti Elizabeth intoutuen, \"mutta kuinka tuo\nsaattoi olla mahdollista? Kuinka voitiin toimia vastoin hänen\ntestamenttimääräystään? Miksi te ette turvautunut lain apuun?\"\n\n\"Testamenttimääräyksessä oli jokin pieni muodollinen virhe, joka\nkaikessa vähäpätöisyydessään kuitenkin teki lakiin turvautumisen\ntoivottomaksi. Kunnianmies ei olisi missään tapauksessa käynyt\nepäilemäänkään testamentintekijän selvää aikomusta, mutta nuorempi\nherra Darcy suvaitsi epäillä -- tahi ainakin hän suvaitsi selittää\nkyseenä olevan kohdan ainoastaan ehdolliseksi toivomukseksi sekä\nväittää, että minä typeryydelläni, epävakaisuudellani ja kaikella\nmuulla mahdollisella ja mahdottomalla kehnoudellani muka olin\nmenettänyt kaiken oikeuteni. Varma tosiasia vain on, että puheenaoleva\nvirka joutui avoimeksi kaksi vuotta sitten, juuri kun minä olin tullut\nlailliseen ikään ja siten olisin ollut kelvollinen ottamaan sen\nvastaan, ja että se annettiin toiselle miehelle. Yhtä varmaa on, etten\nminä omasta kohdastani voi syyttää itseäni mistään kehnosta teosta,\njolla olisin tehnyt itseni arvottomaksi toimeen. Minulla on tosin\ntulinen ja suora luonne, joka kenties on saanut minut avoimesti\nlausumaan julki mielipiteeni hänestä ja hänelle itselleenkin. Sen\npahempaa en tiedä tehneeni. Mutta tosiasia on, että meidän luonteemme\novat hyvin vastakkaiset, ja että hän vihaa minua.\"\n\n\"Tuohan on kerrassaan kauheaa! Hän ansaitsisi tulla julkisen inhon ja\nhäväistyksen alaiseksi.\"\n\n\"Aikanaan hän kai varmasti tuleekin -- mutta ei suinkaan _minun_\ntoimestani. Siksi, että en voi unohtaa hänen kelpo isäänsä, en voi\nmyöskään käydä paljastamaan tämän pojan inhuutta.\"\n\nElizabeth kunnioitti puhetoveriaan mielessään entistä enemmän, eikä\ntämä ollut vielä koskaan näyttänyt hänestä niin kauniilta kuin nuo\nylevät sanat lausuessaan.\n\n\"Mutta mikähän\", kysyi hän hetken vaiti oltuaan, -- \"mikä ihmeessä\nolikaan hänellä aiheena moiseen menettelyyn? Mikä seikka voikaan\nsaattaa hänet käyttäytymään noin väärin ja julmasti teitä kohtaan?\"\n\n\"Perinpohjainen, jyrkkä vastenmielisyys minua kohtaan -- parhaiten\nvoisin sitä ehkä sanoa mustasukkaisuudeksi. Jos hänen isävainajansa\nolisi pitänyt minusta vähemmän, niin sietäisi poika ehkä minua\nparemmin; mutta hänen isänsä tavaton kiintymys minuun harmitti häntä\nluullakseni jo lapsuudesta pitäen. Hän ei voinut kärsiä, että vainaja\nusein antoi minulle etusijan hänen rinnallaan.\"\n\n\"En minä vain olisi osannut ajatella herra Darcysta sentään noin kehnoa\n-- vaikka minä en ole koskaan pitänytkään hänestä, niin en ole myöskään\najatellut hänestä mitään pahaa. Olin luullut, että hän halveksi kaikkia\nmuita ihmisiä ylimalkaan, mutta en voinut epäilläkään, että hän\nalentuisi moiseen kehnoon kostoon ja halpamaiseen vääryyteen saakka!\"\n\nHetken mietittyään hän kuitenkin jatkoi: \"Muistan tosiaan hänen kerran\nNetherfieldissä sentään kerskuneen pitkävihaisuudellaan ja\nleppymättömällä luonteellaan. Todella täytyykin hänellä olla hirveä\nluonne!\"\n\n\"_Minä_ en uskalla käydä sitä päättelemään\", virkkoi Wickham, \"sillä\ntuskinpa voisin olla oikeamielinen häntä kohtaan.\"\n\nElizabeth vaipui uudelleen mietteisiinsä ja huudahti sitten jälleen\nkiihtyneenä: \"Kohdella tuolla tavoin oman isänsä kummipoikaa, ystävää\nja lemmikkiä!\" Hän olisi voinut lisätä: \"Ja _sellaista_ hyvännäköistä\nnuorta miestä kuin te, jonka pelkkä ulkomuoto voittaa jokaisen\nmieltymyksen.\" Mutta hän tyytyi sanomaan: \"Ja lisäksi vielä miestä,\njoka on ollut hänen lapsuudentoverinsa ja kasvatettu yhdessä hänen\nkanssaan, niinhän te sanoitte?\"\n\n\"Me synnyimme samassa pitäjässä, samalla tilalla. Suurimman osan\nnuoruuttamme vietimme yhdessä, saman talon asukkaina, yhteiset olivat\nmeillä lapsuuden huvit, yhteinen isällinen huolenpito. _Minun_ isäni\nalkoi uransa samassa ammatissa, jolle enonne, herra Philips, näyttää\ntuottavan niin suurta kunniaa; mutta hän luopui kaikesta antautuakseen\nherra Darcy-vainajan käytettäväksi ja pyhitti koko elämänsä Pemberleyn\ntilojen hoitoon. Herra Darcy pitikin häntä mitä suurimmassa arvossa --\nläheisenä, luotettuna ystävänään. Hän lausui usein mitä lämpimimmän\ntunnustuksensa isäni kelvollisesta asiainhoidosta; ja isäni\nkuolinvuoteen ääressä hän vapaaehtoisesti lupasi huolehtia minun\ntulevaisuudestani. Olen vakuutettu, että hän tarkoitti lupauksellaan\nyhtä paljon palkita isääni hänen uskollisesta palveluksestaan kuin\nosoittaakseen mieltymystään minuun.\"\n\n\"Kuinka merkillistä!\" huudahti Elizabeth. \"Ja kuinka kehnosti nykyisen\nherra Darcyn puolelta. Minä ihmettelen, ettei hänen oma ylpeytensä ole\ntaivuttanut häntä menettelemään oikeudenmukaisesti teitä kohtaan.\nJollei hänellä ollut parempaa vaikutinta, niin olisihan luullut juuri\ntuon suurenmoisen ylpeyden varjelevan häntä epärehellisyydestä -- sillä\nmitäpä hänen käytöksensä muuta olikaan kuin epärehellisyyttä!\"\n\n\"Merkillistä se todellakin on\", myönsi Wickham, \"sillä totta on, että\nylpeys on ollut koko hänen elämänsä johtolankana, ja usein se on ollut\nhänen paras ystävänsä ja auttajansa. Se on todella eräissä suhteissa\nvienyt häntä lähemmäksi tosi hyvettäkin kuin mikään muu inhimillinen\ntunne. Mutta eihän meistä kukaan voi olla johdonmukainen kaikissa\ntoimissaan; ja käytöksessään minua kohtaan häntä johdattivat paljon\nväkevämmät vaistot kuin ylpeys.\"\n\n\"Voiko moinen inhoittava ylpeys sitten todellakin olla johtanut häntä\nhyviinkin tekoihin?\"\n\n\"Kyllä. Usein on hän ylpeytensä vaikutuksesta osoittautunut anteliaaksi\nja jalomieliseksi sirottelemaan runsain käsin rahoja, harjoittamaan\nsuurenmoista vieraanvaraisuutta, auttamaan alustalaisiaan ja elättämään\nköyhiä. Kaikki tuo on perheylpeyttä ja _pojan ylpeyttä_, sillä hän on\nhyvin ylpeä mainiosta isästään ja tahtoo astua tämän jälkiä. Hänellä on\nmyöskin _veljen_ ylpeyttä, joka saa hänet _jossain_ määrin hellien ja\nhuolehtien valvomaan sisarensa parasta, jonka holhooja hän on; ja hänen\nkotiseudullaan kuulisitte häntä ylistettävän mitä parhaaksi ja\nhellimmäksi veljeksi.\"\n\n\"Minkälainen tyttö neiti Darcy on?\"\n\nWickham pudisti päätään. \"Kernaasti sanoisin häntä herttaiseksi -- jos\nvoisin. Minua surettaa puhua pahaa kenestäkään Darcyn nimellisestä;\nmutta sisarkin on aivan veljensä kaltainen -- hyvin, hyvin ylpeä. Pikku\nlapsena hän tosin oli erittäin miellyttävä ja helläluonteinen, ja\nminuun hän oli erinomaisesti kiintynyt. Lukemattomat ovat ne tunnit,\njotka uhrasin huvittaakseni häntä. Mutta nyt ei hänkään ole minulle\nmitään. Hän on hyvin kaunis tyttö, viiden- tai kuudentoistavuotias, ja,\nkuten olen kuullut, sangen hyvin kasvatettu. Isänsä kuoleman jälkeen\nhän on asunut Lontoossa erään leskirouvan hoidossa, joka valvoo hänen\nkasvatustaan.\"\n\nMonien vaitiolojen ja monien yritysten jälkeen puhella muista asioista\ntäytyi Elizabethin pakostakin vielä kerta palata ensimmäiseen\npuheenaiheeseen.\n\n\"Minua ihmetyttää hänen läheinen tuttavuutensa herra Bingleyn kanssa.\nKuinka voikaan herra Bingley, joka tuntuu olevan personoitu\nhyväluontoisuus ja joka todella on erittäin herttainen luonne, olla\nsellaisen miehen ystävä? Kuinka he voivat sopia yhteen ja tulla toimeen\ntoistensa kanssa? Tunnetteko te herra Bingleytä?\"\n\n\"En lainkaan.\"\n\n\"Hän on perin ystävällinen, avomielinen ja kerrassaan viehättävä mies.\nSyynä täytyy olla sen, että hän ei lainkaan ole perillä herra Darcyn\nominaisuuksista.\"\n\n\"Ehkäpä ei; mutta Darcy kykenee miellyttämään ketä hän vain tahtoo\nsuostuttaa itseensä. Häneltä ei puutu kykyjä. Hän voi olla mainio\nseuratoveri, kun arvelee sen maksavan vaivaa. Vertaistensa parissa hän\non aivan toinen mies kuin vähempiosaisia kohtaan. Ylpeytensä ei hänestä\nkoskaan luovu; mutta rikkautensa sallii hänen olla antelias,\noikeudenmukainen, vilpitön, järkevä, rehellinen ja kenties\nherttainenkin -- kun vain hänellä on vastassaan ylhäistä asemaa,\nrikkautta tai kauniita kasvoja.\"\n\nWhistipeli päättyi tähän aikaan ja pelaajat siirtyivät toisen pöydän\nympäri katselemaan arpajaispelin menoa. Rva Philips tiedusteli hra\nCollinsin onnea korttipöydässä. Sitä ei voinut kehua; hän oli\nmenettänyt joka pelissä. Mutta kun rva Philips rupesi säälittelemään\nhäntä, keskeytti hra Collins hänet selittämällä hyvin arvokkaasti, että\nasiasta ei kannattanut virkkaa sanaakaan.\n\n\"Tiedän kyllä, hyvä rouva\", hän sanoi, \"että korttipöytään istuessa\ntäytyy alistua kärsimään tappioitakin; mutta onneksi -- he he! -- minä\nen ole sellaisessa asemassa, että kantaisin murhetta muutamista\nkolikoista. Epäilemättä monetkaan ihmiset eivät voi olla yhtä\nhuolettomia, mutta hänen armonsa Lady Catherine de Bourghin hyvyys on\nminua edesauttanut siihen määrään, että olen turvattu tuollaisilta\nsuruilta.\"\n\nHra Wickham heristi korviaan; ja tarkasteltuaan hra Collinsia\ntutkivasti moniaan minuutin ajan kääntyi hän Elizabethin puoleen ja\nkysyi tältä hiljaa, oliko hänen sukulaisensa hyväkin tuttava De\nBourghin perheen kanssa.\n\n\"Lady Catherine de Bourgh\", vastasi Elizabeth, \"antoi hänelle aivan\näskettäin kirkkoherranpaikan. Minä en tiedä lainkaan, millä tapaa herra\nCollins alkuaan joutui herättämään hänen huomiotaan, mutta varmastikaan\nhän ei ole tuntenut tätä vielä kauankaan.\"\n\n\"Te tiedätte luonnollisesti, että Lady Catherine de Bourgh ja Lady Anne\nDarcy vainaja olivat sisarukset, joten siis edellinen on nykyisen herra\nDarcyn täti.\"\n\n\"Vai niin, sitä en todellakaan tiennyt. Enkä muutenkaan tunne lainkaan\nLady Catherinen perhesuhteita. Vasta eilen sain ensi kertaa kuulla\nhänestä puhuttavankin.\"\n\n\"Hänen tyttärensä, neiti de Bourgh, tulee aikanaan olemaan hyvin rikas\nperijätär, ja puhutaan, että molemmat serkukset tulevat avioliiton\nkautta liittämään molemmat kartanot yhdeksi.\"\n\nTämä ilmoitus sai Elizabethin hymyilemään, sillä hän tuli ajatelleeksi\npoloisen neiti Bingleyn toivottomia ponnistuksia.\n\n\"Herra Collins\", sanoi hän sitten, \"puhuu erittäin ylistävästi sekä\nLady Catherinesta että tämän tyttärestä. Mutta päättäen erinäisistä\npiirteistä, joita hän on maininnut hänen armostaan, minä epäilen hänen\nkiitollisuutensa johtavan hänet vähän harhaan, ja että tuo arvon rouva\nitse asiassa on jokseenkin pöyhkeä ja typerä nainen.\"\n\n\"Minä uskon hänen olevan kumpaakin mitä suurimmassa määrässä\", myönsi\nhra Wickham sydämellisesti. \"En ole tosin nähnyt häntä moneen vuoteen,\nmutta muistan aivan hyvin, etten koskaan pitänyt hänestä, ja että hänen\nkäytöstapansa oli aina hyvin suvaitsematon ja komentava. Häntä pidetään\nyleisesti erittäin viisaana ja älykkäänä; mutta minä luulen tuon\nmaineen pikemminkin johtuneen osaksi hänen rikkaudestaan ja ylhäisestä\nasemastaan, osaksi hänen kopeasta luonteestaan; sillä ylpeydessä hän ei\nanna lainkaan perään sisarenpojalleen.\"\n\nElizabeth myönsi saaneensa saman käsityksen sekä tädistä että\nsisarenpojasta; ja he juttelivat rattoisasti ja toisiaan ymmärtäen\nkeskenään aina illalliseen asti, jolloin hän luovutti kavaljeerinsa\ntoisillekin naisille. Mistään keskustelusta ei voinut tulla\nkysymystäkään rva Philipsin meluisessa illallispöydässä, mutta hra\nWickhamin käytös miellytti jokaista, joka joutui hänen kanssaan\npuheisiin. Hän puhui hyvin ja käyttäytyi erinomaisen sirosti.\nElizabethin pää oli täynnä hra Wickhamia, kun he viimein lähtivät\nkotimatkalle. Mutta vaikka hän tätä ajattelikin koko matkan, ei hänellä\nollut tilaisuutta mainita toisille edes hänen nimeäänkään, sillä Lydia\nja Collins pitivät sellaista hälinää, että muut eivät saaneet lainkaan\nsuunvuoroa. Lydialla oli niin ihmeen paljon kertomista upseereista ja\narpajaispelin voitoista. Ja hra Collins oli ylen ihastunut herrasväki\nPhilipsin ylitsevuotavaisesta vieraanvaraisuudesta, hän luetteli\nnimeltä kaikki tarjotut ruokalajit ja vakuutteli vakuuttamistaan, ettei\nhän kantanut ollenkaan murhetta pelitappioistaan.\n\n\n\n\nXVII LUKU.\n\n\nElizabeth kertoi seuraavana päivänä Janelle, mitä hänen ja hra\nWickhamin välillä oli tapahtunut. Jane kuunteli hämmästyneenä ja\nhuolestuneena. Hänen oli vaikea uskoa, että hra Darcy olisi niin\narvoton nauttimaan hra Bingleyn ystävyyttä; ja yhtä vaikea hänen oli\nepäillä niin miellyttävän nuoren miehen kuin hra Wickhamin puheen\ntodenperäisyyttä. Ajatus, että tämä kuitenkin oli saattanut joutua niin\ntylyn ja tunnottoman menettelyn uhriksi, riitti hellyttämään hänen\ntunteitaan poloista kärsijää kohtaan; ja ollen luonteeltaan\nhyväntahtoinen kaikkia ihmisiä kohtaan ja ajatellen kaikista vain\nparasta, hän sanoi:\n\n\"He ovat erehtyneet molemmat, minä uskon, jollain tavalla, jota me emme\nsaata käsittää. Epäilen, että syrjäiset ihmiset ovat sotkeneet heidän\nvälinsä ja kertoneet kummastakin pahaa toiselle.\"\n\n\"Siinä sinä varmasti osasit naulan kantaan, ja nyt, rakas Jane, mitä\nhyvää sinulla on sanottavaa noista pahaa suovista syrjäisistä? Tahdotko\nsinä ehkä puhdistaa heidätkin kaikesta viasta, niin ettei meidän\ntarvitse ajatella pahaa kenestäkään ihmisestä?\"\n\n\"Naura sinä vain mitä naurat, mutta minun mielipidettäni et saa\nnaurullasi horjutetuksi. Ajattele toki, Lizzy kultaseni, kuinka ilkeään\nvaloon herra Darcy joutuisi, jos hän on todellakin syyttä suotta tehnyt\nsellaista vääryyttä isänsä lemmikille, jonka tulevaisuuden hänen isänsä\noli luvannut turvata. Se on aivan mahdotonta! Ei kukaan mies, jolla on\nvähänkin inhimillisiä tunteita ja oman arvon tuntoa, kykenisi\nmenettelemään sillä tapaa. Voisivatko hänen parhaat ystävänsä siihen\nmäärään erehtyä hänen luonteestaan? Eihän toki!\"\n\n\"Minun on paljon helpompi uskoa, että herra Bingley on antanut\nystävänsä johtaa hänet harhaan, kuin että herra Wickham olisi keksinyt\nsellaisen jutun itsestään eilen illalla; kaikki nimet ja tosiasiat hän\nmainitsi aivan etsimättä. Jollei se ole totta, niin annetaan herra\nDarcyn kieltää sen totuus. Muuten voi jo hänen silmistäänkin lukea\ntotuuden.\"\n\n\"On niin vaikeata päätellä mitään -- ja niin tuskastuttavaa. Eihän\ntiedä, mitä oikein ajatella.\"\n\n\"Anteeksi, sisko rakas; minusta tietää varsin hyvin, mitä ajatella.\"\n\nMutta Jane voi ajatella varmasti ainoastaan yhtä asiaa -- että hra\nBingley, jos hän tosiaankin oli antanut ystävänsä johtaa hänet harhaan,\ntulisi kärsimään paljon asian tultua tunnetuksi.\n\nNeitosten oli kiiruhdettava puutarhasta, jossa ylläoleva keskustelu\ntapahtui, kun vieraiksi tuli eräitä juuri niistä henkilöistä, joista\nhe olivat puhelleet keskenään. Hra Bingley saapui sisarineen\nmieskohtaisesti kutsumaan talon väkeä kauan odotettuihin Netherfieldin\ntanssiaisiin, jotka oli määrä pitää seuraavana tiistaina. Molemmat\nvieraat naiset olivat ihastunut nähdessään rakkaan Janensa jälleen niin\nhyvissä voimissa, vakuuttivat, että heidän viime tapaamisestaan oli\nkulunut jo määrätön aika, ja tiedustelivat moneen kertaan, mitä hän oli\npuuhaillut tuona aikana. Perheen muista jäsenistä he eivät paljoakaan\nvälittäneet, välttäen rva Bennetiä kuin tarttuvatautista, virkkaen vain\nmuutaman sanan Elizabethille ja muille ei ainuttakaan. Pian he sitten\nottivat äkkilähdön välttyäkseen rva Bennetin ylivuotavasta\nkiitollisuudenmyrskystä ja vetivät ällistyneen ja vastaanhangoittelevan\nveljensä mukanaan.\n\nNetherfieldin tanssiaisten odotus pani perheen jokaisen naispuolisen\njäsenen miellyttävään jännitykseen. Rva Bennet piti koko\njuhlatilaisuutta erikoisena kunnianosoituksena hänen vanhimmalle\ntyttärelleen, jota uskoa hra Bingleyn mieskohtainen kutsu hänessä\nvahvisti. Jane kuvaili mielessään, kuinka hauskaa hänellä tuli olemaan\nNetherfieldin rakastettavien naisten ja kohteliaan isännän parissa. Ja\nElizabeth nautti etukäteen siitä ilosta, mikä hänellä tuli olemaan\ntanssiessaan hra Wickhamin kanssa ja rangaistessaan hra Darcya\njäätävällä kylmyydellä. Catherinen ja Lydian ajatukset eivät viipyneet\nyksityisseikoissa ja yksityisissä henkilöissä; tanssiaistilaisuus\nsellaisenaan oli heille riemullisen odotuksen aihe. Yksinpä Marykin\nvakuutti omaisilleen, ettei hänen ollut vastenmielistä lähteä mukaan.\n\n\"Minä olen tyytyväinen\", sanoi hän, \"kun saan käyttää aamupäivät\nopintoihini. En luule, että on mikään uhraus itseään kohtaan omistaa\njoskus illat seurallisiin huvituksiin. Seuraelämälläkin on\nvaatimuksensa meidän suhteemme.\"\n\nElizabeth oli niin hyvällä tuulella iloisesta odotuksesta, että hän\ntiedusti hra Collinsilta, aikoiko tämäkin lähteä mukaan ja pitikö hän\nosanottoa sellaiseen maailmalliseen huvitukseen sopivana vakavalle\nhengenmiehelle. Ihmeekseen hän kuuli, ettei hengenmiehellä ollut\nlaisinkaan mitään vastaan, ja että hän aikoi itse ottaa osaa\ntanssiinkin pelkäämättä pannajulistusta arkkipiispan tai Lady Catherine\nde Bourghin taholta.\n\n\"Minä rohkenen voivani uskoa\", vakuutti hra Collins serkulleen, \"ettei\ntuollainen juhlatilaisuus, jonka yleisesti arvossapidetty nuori\ntilanhaltija toimeenpanee arvossapidetyille säätyläisille, voi olla\nkellekään pahennukseksi ja loukkauskiveksi. Ja lainkaan pelkäämättä\nkäydä itsekin tanssimaan minä päin vastoin toivon mitä hartaimmin,\nettä kaikki viehättävät serkkuni tulevat kunnioittamaan minua\ntanssitoveruudellaan illan kuluessa. Ja kun kaitselmus on lahjoittanut\ntämän kahdenkeskisen yhdessäolon tilaisuuden minulle, niin uskallan\nkäyttää sitä hyväkseni ja pyytää teiltä, arvoisa neiti Elizabeth, kaksi\nensimmäistä tanssia jo etukäteen, luottaen turvallisesti siihen, että\nkaunoinen Jane serkkuni ymmärtää oikein asianlaidan eikä pidä\nkäytöstäni puuttuvan kunnioituksen osoituksena häntä kohtaan.\"\n\nElizabeth oli kuin pilvistä pudonnut. Hän oli edeltäkäsin iloinnut\najatellessaan saavansa omistaa ensimmäiset tanssit hra Wickhamille, ja\nnyt tuli tuo kauhea hra Collins niitä vaatimaan! Mutta mikäpäs tässä\nmuukaan auttoi. Hra Wickhamin ja hänen oma onnellisuutensa sai\nlykkäytyä puolta tuntia kauemmaksi, hra Collins sai pyyntöönsä niin\nsuosiollisen vastauksen kuin raivosta vapiseva tyttö saattoi antaa.\nHänen mielentilansa ei lainkaan parantunut siitä, että hän oli arvannut\nhra Collinsin kohteliaisuudella häntä kohtaan olevan erityisen\nmääräperäisen tarkoituksen; ja jos hän vielä olisi jäänyt siitä\nepätietoisuuteen, hälvensivät äidin selvät viittailut kaiken\nhämäryyden. Hra Collinsin vierailu oli todellakin kosiomatka, ja _hän_\nse kaikista sisaruksista oli löytänyt armon hra Collinsin silmissä\ntulla korotetuksi Hunsfordin pappilan emännän loistoon ja arvoon; ja\nomasta kohdastaan oli äiti antanut ymmärtää, että tämä naimiskauppa oli\nhänelle erityisesti mieluinen. Tanssiaiskuumeessaan ei Elizabeth\nantanut tuon tulevaisuuden näköalan kuitenkaan pahoin hämmentää\nmieltään; tähän saakka ei hra Collins ollut vielä kosinut, ja jos hän\nsen vasta aikoi tehdä, oli sen ajan murhe aiheuttaa perhekapina.\n\n\n\n\nXVIII LUKU.\n\n\nAina siihen saakka kuin Elizabeth oli omaistensa parissa astunut sisään\nNetherfieldin saliin ja turhaan etsinyt katseillaan hra Wickhamia\npunatakkisten upseerien parvesta, ei hän ollut osannut ajatellakaan,\nettei tämä olisi mukana. Varmana, että tapaisi tuon viehättävän nuoren\nmiehen, hän oli pukeutunut tavallista suuremmalla huolella ja\nterästänyt tahtonsa kukistamaan hänessä viimeisetkin vastarinnan\nrippeet, jotka vielä ehkä estivät kaunista kavaljeeria antautumasta\nsieluineen ruumiineen hänen kuuliaiseksi orjakseen. Mutta tuo\nkohtalokas keksintö sai hänet paikalla epäilemään, että hra Wickham oli\ntahallaan jätetty kutsumatta, yksin koko upseerijoukosta ja yksinomaan\nhra Darcyn mieltä noutaen. Aivan niin ei tosin sentään ollut\nasianlaita; täysin luotettavan selityksen hra Wickhamin poissaolosta\nantoi hänen ystävänsä hra Denny, vastatessaan Lydian kiihkeään\nkysymykseen, että Wickhamin oli edellisenä päivänä ollut pakko\nyksityisasiainsa vuoksi lähteä Lontooseen, josta ei ollut vielä\npalannut. Kuitenkin hän lisäsi merkitsevästi hymyillen:\n\n\"En kuitenkaan luulisi hänen asioillaan olleen juuri nyt niin kovaa\nkiirettä, jollei hän olisi tahtonut välttää kohtaamasta erästä täällä\nolevaa herrasmiestä.\"\n\nTuo viittaus selitti Elizabethille kaiken. Hra Darcy oli syypää\nsiihenkin, että hänen ja hra Wickhamin ilosta oli tehty loppu jo ennen\nalkuaankin. Hänen katkera pettymyksensä ei suinkaan ollut omiaan\ntekemään häntä ystävälliseksi syntisäkkiä itseään kohtaan, joka heti\nsen jälkeen tuli tervehtimään häntä. Ei -- kaikki vähäkin Darcylle\nosoitettu kohteliaisuus ja kärsivällisyys oli väärin poloista Wickhamia\nkohtaan! Hän kieltäytyi jyrkästi antautumasta puheisiin Darcyn kanssa\nja käänsi tälle oitis selkänsä, ja pahantuulisuuttaan hän ei kyennyt\npeittelemään edes puhellessaan hra Bingleynkään kanssa, jonka sokea\npuolueellisuus harmitti häntä.\n\nMutta Elizabethin luonto ei kyennyt kauan pysymään pahantuulisena; ja\nvaikka kaikki hänen iltansa ilo olikin tylysti tuhottu, antautui hänen\nvirkeä henkensä piankin tanssiaistunnelmaan. Uskottuaan kaikki surunsa\nja pettymyksensä Charlotte Lucasille, jota hän ei ollut nähnyt viikon\npäiviin ja jonka ymmärtäväiseen osanottoon hän tiesi voivansa vedota,\nalistui hän kuuliaisesti juhlallisen serkkunsa tanssitettavaksi. Mutta\nnuo kaksi onnetonta ensimmäistä tanssia eivät suinkaan olleet omiaan\nhälventämään hänen harmiaan, vaan päinvastoin lisäämään sitä. Hra\nCollins oli kankea ja kömpelö, lausui koko ajan anteeksipyyntöjä eikä\nkohteliaisuuksia, sekaantui tuontuostakin tahdista ja kiidätti häntä\naivan hulluun suuntaan. Elizabeth tunsi aivan koko ajan sen häpeän ja\nkurjuuden katkeruutta, jonka taitamaton tanssittaja tuottaa naiselleen.\nPäästyään irti hra Collinsin käsivarsista hän tunsi sanomatonta\nhuojennusta.\n\nSeuraavan vuoron hän tanssi erään upseerin kanssa, joka lohdutti hänen\nhaavoitettua sydäntään puhelemalla hra Wickhamista ja mainitsemalla,\nettä tämä oli upseeripiireissä yleisesti suosittu. Sitten hän palasi\nCharlotte Lucasin viereen jatkamaan keskeytynyttä kärsimystarinaansa;\nmutta tällöin -- oi kauhua -- ilmestyi aivan odottamatta hra Darcy\nhänen eteensä pyytämään häntä seuraavaan tanssiin; ja tietämättä\ntyrmistyneenä mitä tekikään Elizabeth nyökkäsi myöntävästi. Hirviön\npoistuttua matkoihinsa hän jäi harmittelemaan typeryyttään ystävälleen,\nja Charlotte koetti lohdutella häntä.\n\n\"Arvaanpa, että mielistyt häneen hyvinkin.\"\n\n\"Siitä taivas varjelkoon! _Sepä_ vasta pahin onnettomuus olisikin!\nMieltyä mieheen, jota on luotu inhoamaan! Älä toivottelekaan minulle\nsellaista kurjuutta.\"\n\nKun tanssi alkoi ja Darcy läheni noutamaan häntä, ennätti Charlotte\nkuitenkin kuiskaten varoittaa häntä, ettei hän saanut olla tyhmyri\nja antaa luulotellun mieltymyksensä Wickhamiin tehdä häntä\nepämiellyttäväksi miehen silmissä, joka oli tätä kymmenen kertaa\nrikkaampi ja ylhäisempi. Elizabeth ei ennättänyt vastata ja antoi\nDarcyn taluttaa hänet riviin, ihmetellen itsekin mielessään tätä suurta\nkunniaa joutuessaan seuran arvokkaimman kavaljeerin tanssitoveriksi;\nsamaa ihmetystä hän voi lukea kaikkien läsnäolijainkin silmistä. He\ntanssivat katriljin ensi vuorot vaihtamatta sanaakaan keskenään, ja\nsiihen oli Elizabeth aluksi tyytyväinen. Mutta sitten hän rupesi\narvelemaan, että hän ehkä vielä paremmin voi rangaista hirviötä\npakottamalla hänet puhumaan, ja virkkoi itse jonkin mitättömän\nhuomautuksen tanssista. Hänen kavaljeerinsa vastasi, mutta jäykistyi\njälleen vaitonaisuuteensa. Moniaan minuutin tuota kestettyään Elizabeth\nteki uuden yrityksen sanoen:\n\n\"Luulisin, että nyt on _teidän_ vuoronne puhella, herra Darcy. Minä\npuhuin äsken tanssista, ja teidän pitäisi vuorostanne virkkaa jotain\nhuoneiden koosta tai tanssivien parien luvusta.\"\n\nDarcy hymyili ja vakuutti sanovansa kaiken, mitä toinen vain halusi\nhänen sanovan.\n\n\"No niin, tuo vastaus riittänee ehkä tällä kertaa. Olisittehan kenties\nvoinut lisätä, että yksityiset tanssiaiset ovat hauskemmat kuin\nyleiset; mutta _nyt_ meidän todella täytyy jo vaieta.\"\n\n\"Puheletteko te sitten aina tanssiessanne?\"\n\n\"Miten sattuu. Täytyyhän aina jolloinkin vaihtaa sana tai pari\nkeskenään, sillä hullultahan toki näyttäisi hypellä puolituntinen\nvastakkain lausumatta sanaakaan. Mutta sittenkin olisi tanssipuhelu\njärjestettävä niin kevyeksi ja vaivattomaksi kuin suinkin, jottei se\n_jollekin_ kävisi raskauttavaksi.\"\n\n\"Puhutteko te tässä tapauksessa omasta kohdastanne vai tarkoitatteko\nkeventää minun raskasta taakkaani?\"\n\n\"Molempia\", vastasi Elizabeth vetäen suunsa hymyyn, \"sillä olen\nhuomannut, että meidän mielentilamme ja luonteenlaatumme ovat hyvin\nsamanlaiset. Molemmat me mielellämme jörötämme tuppisuina, jollei\nmeillä ole sanottavana jotain nerokasta päähänpistoa, joka ällistyttää\nkoko salin ja korjataan talteen kuolemattomana sukkeluutena.\"\n\n\"Tuo luonnepiirros ei juuri muistuta teitä, siitä olen varma\", sanoi\nDarcy. \"Missä määrin se on minun näköiseni, sitä en rohkene käydä\npäättelemään. _Teidän_ mielestänne se epäilemättä on uskollinen\nmuotokuva minusta.\"\n\n\"Enhän toki voi arvostella omaa taideteostani.\"\n\nDarcy ei vastannut, ja he istuivat äänettöminä kunnes tuli jälleen\nvuoro lähteä lattialle tanssimaan, jolloin hän kysyi Elizabethilta,\noliko tällä ja hänen sisarillaan tapana usein kävellä Merytoniin.\nElizabeth vastasi myöntävästi, ja voimatta vastustaa kiusausta hän\nlisäsi: \"Kun viime viikolla tapasitte meidät siellä, saimme juuri uuden\ntuttavan.\"\n\nHänen iskunsa osui kipeään paikkaan, Darcy aivan kuin jähmettyi\nylhäisen jäykäksi, mutta ei vastannut sanaakaan; eikä Elizabethkään\nkyennyt jatkamaan, vaikka hän salaa morkkasikin omaa saamattomuuttaan.\nVihdoin Darcy sanoi omituisen väkinäisesti:\n\n\"Herra Wickhamin on luonto varustanut sellaisilla ominaisuuksilla, että\nhänen on helppo _hankkia_ itselleen ystäviä; mutta kuinka kauan hänen\nonnistuu _säilyttää_ niitä, se lienee vähemmän varmaa.\"\n\n\"Hänellä on ollut kova onni kadottaa _teidän_ ystävyytenne\", vastasi\nElizabeth terävästi, \"ja tavalla sellaisella, josta hän saa kärsiä koko\nelämänsä ajan.\"\n\nDarcy ei vastannut hyökkäykseen ja näytti haluavan vaihtaa\npuheenaihetta. Tällöin sattui Sir William Lucas kulkemaan heidän\nohitseen yrittäessään päästä tanssivain lomitse salin toiselle\npuolelle; mutta Darcyn älytessään hän pysähtyi ja kumartaen\nhovimiehen siroudella, onnitteli häntä sekä tanssitaidostaan että\ntanssitoveristaan.\n\n\"Paljon kaunista tanssimista olen nähnyt, rakas herrani, mutta teidän\nveroistanne tanssijaa ani harvoin. On ilmeistä, että te olette\nensiluokkainen mestari tässä kauniissa taidossa. Sallikaa minun samalla\nsanoa, ettei kaunis parinnekaan tee teille häpeää; ja että minä mitä\nhartaimmin toivon saavani usein vastakin nähdä tätä viehättävää\nnäytelmää, nimenomaan erään varsin iloisen perhetapauksen sattuessa,\nkallis Eliza neitini\" -- tällöin hän vilkutti silmää Janeen ja\nBingleyhin päin. \"Silloinpa onnitteluja oikein satelee! Minä vetoan\nherra Darcyyn; -- mutta älkää antako minun häiritä huvianne, rakas\nherrani. Te ette varmaankaan kiitä minua, kun tulin keskeyttämään\nhurmaavan keskustelunne tämän viehättävän nuoren neidin kanssa, jonka\nkirkkaat silmät ovat lumota minutkin, vanhan miehen.\"\n\nHänen viime kohteliaisuutensa tuskin enää kosketti Darcyn korvia; mutta\nSir Williamin viittaus hänen ystäväänsä tuntui koskevan häneen\nkipeästi, sillä hänen katseensa kääntyi jännitettynä ja hyvin vakavana\nBingleyhin ja Janeen, jotka tanssivat yhdessä. Hän hillitsi kuitenkin\npian ilmeisen mielenliikutuksensa ja sanoi naiselleen kohauttaen\nhartioitaan:\n\n\"Sir Williamin keskeytys sai minut unohtamaan, mistä me viimeksi\npuhelimme.\"\n\n\"En luule, että me puhelimme ollenkaan. Sir William ei olisi voinut\ntässä salissa häiritä tanssivaa paria, joilla olisi sen vähemmän\ntoisilleen sanottavana kuin meillä kahdella. Me olemme jo onnistumatta\nyrittäneet paria kolmea puheenaihetta, ja en tiedä kuolemaksenikaan,\nmitä me vielä osaisimme keksiä.\"\n\n\"Mitä te ajattelette esimerkiksi -- lukemisesta?\"\n\n\"Lukemisesta -- oh, en yhtään mitään! Olen varma, että me kaksi emme\nkoskaan lue samoja kirjoja, emme ainakaan samoin tuntein.\"\n\n\"Mieltäni pahoittaa, että niin ajattelette; mutta jos näinkin on laita,\nniin ei meillä ole puutetta puheenaiheista. Voimmehan vaikka vertailla\nerilaista makuamme ja käsitystämme kirjoista.\"\n\n\"Ei -- minä en osaa puhua kirjoista tanssisalissa; minun pääni on\nsilloin aina täynnä kaikkea muuta.\"\n\n\"Se, mitä siis kulloinkin näette ympärillänne, askarruttaa yksinomaan\najatuksianne -- niinkö?\" kysyi Darcy hiukan epäillen.\n\n\"Niin kaiketi\", vastasi Elizabeth hajamielisesti, tietämättä oikein\nmitä sanoi ja mistä oli kysymys; sillä hänen ajatuksensa harhailivat\ntoisaalla, kuten kohta näkyi hänen äkillisestä huudahduksestaan: \"Minä\nmuistan teidän, herra Darcy, kerran sanoneen, että te tuskin koskaan\nkykenette unohtamaan ja anteeksiantamaan; -- että kun teissä kerran on\nsynnytetty vastenmielisyys johonkin asiaan tai jotakin henkilöä\nkohtaan, se pysyy teissä lähtemättömästi. Muistelen teidän erityisesti\npainostaneen sitä seikkaa, että tuo vastenmielisyys on teissä\nsynnytetty, siis siirtynyt teihin ulkoa käsin.\"\n\n\"Sitä kaiketi tarkoitin\", vastasi Darcy vakavasti.\n\n\"Ettekö siis koskaan luule sen syntyvän teissä itsestään, sokean\nennakkoluulon vaikutuksesta?\"\n\n\"Toivon, ettei niin koskaan tapahdu.\"\n\n\"Minusta on niiden ihmisten, jotka eivät koskaan muuttele\nmielipiteitään asioista ja henkilöistä, ehdoton velvollisuus tahtoa ja\nosata oikein arvostella jo mielipidettään muodostaessaan.\"\n\n\"Saanko tiedustaa, mihin te näillä viittauksillanne oikeastaan\ntähtäätte?\"\n\n\"Ainoastaan luodakseni itselleni kuvaa _teidän_ luonteestanne\", sanoi\nElizabeth, koettaen saada vakavan sävyn olentoonsa ja sanoihinsa. \"Minä\nkoettelen selittää sitä itselleni.\"\n\n\"Entä mihin tulokseen olette tullut?\"\n\nTyttö pudisti päätään. \"En pääse siitä edes vähintäkään perille. Minä\nkuulen kuulemistani teistä niin monenlaisia vastakkaisia piirteitä,\nettä joudun aivan ymmälle.\"\n\n\"Voin helposti uskoa\", sanoi Darcy vakavasti, \"että minusta saadut\nkäsitykset vaihtelevat melkoisesti; ja minä melkein toivoisin, neiti\nBennet, ettette te loisi minusta luonnekuvaa juuri nykyhetkenä, koska\non syytä peljätä, ettei tulos olisi kunniaksi meille kummallekaan.\"\n\n\"Mutta jollen piirrä teistä kuvaa nyt, niin ehkä minulle ei enää\nkoskaan tulekaan siihen tilaisuutta.\"\n\n\"En tahdo millään muotoa panna estettä millekään, mikä vain huvittaa\nteitä\", virkkoi Darcy kylmästi. Siihen ei Elizabeth enää vastannut, ja\nhe jatkoivat vaieten tanssivuoronsa loppuun ja erosivat toisistaan yhä\nvaieten. Kumpikin tunsi itsensä tyytymättömäksi, vaikka eri määrässä;\nsillä Darcyn rinnassa paloi jo jokseenkin voimakas tunne Elizabeth\nBennetiä kohtaan, mikä saattoi hänen antamaan mieluusti anteeksi tämän\nkaikki pistokset ja suuntasi hänen närkästyksensä sitä väkevämmin\nerääseen toiseen, poissaolevaan henkilöön.\n\nElizabeth ei ollut vielä kauankaan istunut yksin, kun nti Bingley tuli\nhänen luokseen ja lausui hänelle kohteliaan paheksuvasti:\n\n\"Mitä minä kuulenkaan, neiti Eliza -- tehän kuulutte olevan aivan\nihastunut George Wickhamiin? Sisarenne puheli hänestä minulle ja teki\ntuhansia kysymyksiä hänen suhteensa; ja minä sain kuulla, että tuo\nnuori mies oli muun muassa unohtanut kertoa olevansa vanhemman herra\nDarcy vainajan vanhan pehtorin poika. Sallikaa minun ystävänänne\nkuitenkin varoittaa teitä ottamasta täysikelpoisena rahana vastaan\nkaikkea, mitä hän puhelee teille itsestään ja toisista; sillä mitä\ntulee esimerkiksi hänen väitteeseensä, että herra Darcy olisi\nmenetellyt kehnosti häntä kohtaan, niin on se suoraa valhetta;\npäinvastoin on herra Darcy aina ollut erinomaisen sääliväinen häntä\nkohtaan, vaikka George Wickham on käyttäytynyt mitä häpeämättömimmin\nhäntä ja hänen sukuaan kohtaan. Minä en tosin tunne tuon jutun\nyksityiskohtia, mutta tiedän aivan hyvin, ettei herra Darcya voi\nmoittia mistään. Luonnollistahan on, ettei hän voi kärsiä kuulla\nmainittavankaan George Wickhamin nimeä, ja että hän oli hyvin iloinen,\nkun tämä itsestään jättäysi pois tämän illan tanssiaisista, joihin\nveljeni olisi ollut vaikea jättää häntä kutsumatta toisten upseerien\nmukana. Mutta sitä minä ihmettelen, että hän kehtasi lainkaan tulla\nkoko tälle seudulle, se oli kerrassaan häpeämättömän julkeata hänen\npuoleltaan. Minä surkuttelen teitä, neiti Eliza, kun täten tulette\nhuomaamaan vikoja suosikissanne, mutta eihän mieheltä, joka on niin\nhalpaa syntyperää, olisi parempaa voinut odottaakaan.\"\n\n\"Hänen vikansa ja syntyperänsä näyttävät teistä olevan aivan sama\nasia\", kivahti Elizabeth ärtyneesti; \"sillä en ole kuullut teidän\nvoivan syyttää häntä sen pahemmasta kuin että hän on herra Darcyn isä\nvainajan pehtorin poika, ja _sen_ seikan hän ilmoitti itsekin minulle,\nsen vakuutan teille.\"\n\n\"Anteeksi sitten\", sanoi nti Bingley ja nakkasi mahtavasti niskojaan.\n\"Suokaa kaikin mokomin anteeksi, että lainkaan sekaannuin asiaan; en\nsillä tarkoittanut mitään pahaa.\"\n\n\"Kerrassaan röyhkeä ihminen!\" harmitteli Elizabeth itsekseen. \"Etkä\nsinä vain noin viheliäisillä keinoilla pysty vaikuttamaan minuun ja\nminun arvostelukykyyni ihmisistä. Kaikesta näkee, että itse koetat\ntahallasi peittää silmäsi tosiasioilta ja nimenomaan tuon ihanteesi\nDarcyn ilkeydeltä.\" Sitten hän lähti etsimään vanhempaa sisartaan, joka\noli ottanut asiakseen tiedustella samaa aihetta koskevia seikkoja hra\nBingleyltä. Janella oli niin suloinen hymy huulillaan ja sellainen\nonnen punoitus kauniilla kasvoillaan, että kysymättäkin näki hänen\nolevan iltaan täysin tyytyväinen. Elizabethin mielestä haihtui hetkeksi\nkaikki muut ajatukset, sekä sääli Wickhamia että närkästys tämän\nvihamiehiä kohtaan, hänen ottaessa täydestä sydämestään osaa Janen\niloon.\n\n\"Aioin tiedustaa sinulta\", sanoi hän, hymyillen ainakin yhtä\nsäteilevästi kuin sisarensa, \"mitä olet kuullut herra Wickhamin\nsuhteen. Mutta ehkäpä sinun ajatuksesi ovat olleet tykkänään\nkohdistetut erääseen kolmanteen henkilöön, ja siinä tapauksessa saat\nolla varma minun anteeksiannostani.\"\n\n\"Ei\", vastasi Jane, \"en ole unohtanut häntäkään; mutta mitään sinun\nmieleistäsi en kuullut hänestä. Herra Bingley ei tunne paljonkaan koko\njuttua eikä varsinkaan tiedä, mitkä seikat ovat saattaneet loukata\nherra Darcya; mutta hän sanoi menevänsä täyteen takuuseen ystävänsä\nkelpo käytöksestä, kunniasta ja uskottavuudesta ja olevansa täysin\nvakuutettu siitä, että herra Wickham on ansainnut herra Darcyn puolelta\npaljon vähemmän arvonantoa kuin hän on saanut osakseen; ja minua\nsurettaa sanoa sinulle, että hänen ja hänen sisarensa mielestä herra\nWickham ei missään suhteessa ole kunnon nuorukainen. Minä pelkään, että\nhän on ollut hyvin häpeämätön ja sen kautta ansainnut kadottaa herra\nDarcyn kunnioituksen.\"\n\n\"Herra Bingley ei siis tunne itse lainkaan herra Wickhamia?\"\n\n\"Ei; vasta viime viikolla hän näki hänet Merytonissa ensi kertaa.\"\n\n\"Siis hän on muodostanut käsityksensä pelkästään herra Darcyn puheiden\nperusteella. Kiitos, minä olen täysin tyytyväinen. Mutta mitä hän sanoi\ntuosta kirkkoherranpaikasta ja testamenttimääräyksestä.\"\n\n\"Hän ei tarkalleen muistanut niitä seikkoja, vaikka on kuullut herra\nDarcyn mainitsevan niistä jolloinkin. Mutta hänen luulonsa mukaan se\npaikka oli luvattu herra Darcylle ainoastaan _ehdollisesti_.\"\n\n\"En ollenkaan epäile herra Bingleyn vilpittömyyttä\", sanoi Elizabeth\nharmistuneena, \"mutta saat antaa anteeksi, jollen tule vakuutetuksi\nhänen pelkistä luuloistaan. Herra Bingley puolusti ystäväänsä hyvin\nlämpimästi, sen uskon; mutta koska hän on melkein tietämätön koko\nasiasta ja senkin vähän, minkä tietää, on kuullut ystävältään, niin\nsallittakoon minun käsitykseni noista molemmista herroista pysyä\nsamanlaisena kuin tähänkin asti.\"\n\nHän vaihtoi sitten kerkeästi puheenaihetta heille molemmille\nmieluisempaan suuntaan ja kuunteli ihastuneena, mitä Janella oli\nkerrottavana onnellisista vaikka ujoista toiveistaan hra Bingleyhin\nnähden. Kun herra Bingley itse sattui tällöin liittymään heidän\nseuraansa, vetäytyi Elizabeth viisaasti syrjään ja kävi nti Lucasin\npariin. Tuskin oli tämä ennättänyt vielä ruveta kyselemään, oliko hänen\näskeinen tanssitoverinsa ollut hänen mieleensä, kun hra Collins törmäsi\nsuurella touhulla heidän luokseen ja kertoi hengästyneenä ja\nliikutuksesta värisevin äänin tehneensä vast'ikään sangen tärkeän\nkeksinnön.\n\n\"Tiedättekös mitä\", hän huudahti, \"vallan erinomaisen onnekas sattuma\ntoi juuri tietooni, että täällä joukossamme on eräs kalliin\ntilanhaltijattareni läheinen sukulainen. Kuulin hänen itsensä\nmainitsevan sille kaunoiselle nuorelle neidille, jolla on kunnia hoitaa\nemännyyttä tässä talossa, serkkunsa neiti de Bourghin ja tämän äidin\nLady Catherine de Bourghin nimet. Kuinka ihmeelliset ovatkaan\nkaitselmuksen tiet! Kukapa olisi osannut arvatakaan, että tässä\nseurassa tapaisin Lady Catherine de Bourghin läheisen sukulaisen --\nehkäpä aivan hänen sisarensa pojan! Olen ylen kiitollinen hyvälle\nonnelleni, kun onnistuin pääsemään tästä perille ajoissa, jotta voin\nkäydä lausumassa hänelle syvän kunnioitukseni; sillä sen aion oitis\ntehdä, luottaen vahvasti siihen, että hän hyväntahtoisesti suo minulle\nanteeksi, etten ole sitä jo aikaisemmin tehnyt. Tottahan minun\ntäydellinen tietämättömyyteni asianlaidasta on minulle pätevä\npuolustus, vai mitä arvelette, kaunoinen serkkuni?\"\n\n\"Ettehän toki aio itse käydä esittäytymään herra Darcylle?\"[17]\n\n\"Sen totisesti aion tehdä. Minun on saatava häneltä anteeksi, etten ole\nsitä jo ennen tehnyt. Luulen hänen tosiaankin olevan Lady Catherinen\nsisarenpojan. Olen onnellinen voidessani vakuuttaa hänelle, että hänen\narmonsa oli vielä pari viikkoa sitten erinomaisessa voinnissa.\"\n\nElizabeth koetti parhaansa mukaan vieroittaa häntä sellaisesta\najatuksesta, vakuuttaen hänelle, että hra Darcy pikemminkin pitäisi\nhänen puhutteluaan ilman ennen käynyttä esittelyä julkeana\ntyrkyttäytymisenä kuin minään kunnianosoituksena; että tuttavuuden\ntekemiseen ei ollut vähintäkään aihetta ja että, jos sen\nvälttämättömästi täytyi tapahtua, tuli hra Darcyn, arvoltaan\nylhäisempänä, astua ensi askel. Hra Collins kuunteli hänen vastasyitään\npäättäväisen miehen ilmeellä ja ylevämmyyden suopea hymy huulillaan ja\nsaatuaan viimein suunvuoron lausui mahtipontisesti:\n\n\"Rakkahin neiti Elizabeth, minä panen mitä suurinta arvoa teidän\nerinomaiselle arvostelukyvyllenne kaiken sen suhteen, jota te itse\npystytte ymmärtämään; mutta sallikaa minun huomauttaa, että on suuri,\nvoinpa sanoa kerrassaan ääretön ero seurustelutavoissa, mitä erikseen\nmaallikkosäätyyn ja erikseen hengelliseen säätyyn tulee. Sallikaa minun\nedelleen huomauttaa, että minun halvan ajatukseni mukaan pappisvirka\nantaa kantajalleen saman arvoaseman, mikä valtakunnan kaikkein\nkorkeimmalla arvoluokalla on -- edellyttäen, että hän samalla visusti\nvaarinottaa tosikristillistä nöyryyttä. Teidän täytyy senvuoksi sallia\nminun menetellä, niinkuin omatuntoni tässä asiassa käskee, ja tehdä\nsen, minkä katson olevan sulan velvollisuuteni sekä itseäni että toisia\nasianosaisia kohtaan. Suokaa anteeksi, etten voi noudattaa teidän\nneuvoanne, joka muuten on nyt ja aina oleva minun korkein osviittani ja\nohjenuorani, mitä kaikkiin muihin asioihin tulee; mutta nimenomaan\ntässä kysymyksessä arvelen oman kasvatukseni ja seuraelämäntottumukseni\nparemmin oikeuttavan minun itseni päättämään teoistani kuin teidän\nkaltaisen kokemattoman nuoren neidon.\"\n\nSyvään kumartaen serkulleen hän sonnustautui hyökkäämään hra Darcyn\nkimppuun. Elizabeth seurasi tapausta jännitettynä; hän voi huomata\nDarcyn joutuvan perin ihmeisiinsä, kun hänen serkkunsa pönäkän\njuhlallisesti kumartaen kävi puhuttelemaan häntä; ja vaikka hän ei\nkuullut sanaakaan hänen puheestaan, voi hän hänen huultensa liikkeestä\narvata hänen toistelevan: \"nöyrin anteeksipyyntöni\", \"syvin\nkunnioitukseni\", \"Hunsford\" ja \"Lady Catherine de Bourgh.\" Catherinea\nharmitti nähdä serkkunsa niin nöyristelevän moisen kehnon ihmisen\nedessä. Hra Darcy tirkisteli puhuttelijaansa yhä hämmästyneempänä; ja\nkun hra Collins viimeinkin antoi hänelle suunvuoron, vastasi hän\nylhäisen kohteliaasti. Mutta pappismiehen kaunopuheliaisuus ei vielä\nollut tyrehtynyt, ja hänen halveksiva harminsa tuntui yhä kasvavan\ntoisen puheen pitkittyessä; vihdoin hän notkisti hiukan päätänsä ja\nkäänsi puhujalle selkänsä, ja hra Collins palasi riemuiten Elizabethin\nluo.\n\n\"Minä olen joka suhteessa tyytyväinen saamaani vastaanottoon\", vakuutti\nhän tälle. \"Herra Darcy tuntui olevan hyvin mielissään minun\nhuomaavaisuudestani. Hän vastasi minulle mitä kohteliaimmin, jopa\nimartelikin minua lausumalla luottavansa siihen määrään Lady Catherinen\ntarkkanäköisyyteen, jotta tämä ei koskaan kohdistanut suosiotaan\narvottomiin ihmisiin. Totta tosiaan, tuo oli kerrassaan kauniisti\nsanottu. Minulla on täysi syy olla mielistynyt häneen.\"\n\nKaikesta harmistaan Elizabeth sai runsaan korvauksen katsellessaan\nsisarensa ja hra Bingleyn rattoisata ja onnellista yhdessäoloa. Hän\nkuvitteli jo näkevänsä Janen liikkuvan viehättävänä nuorikkona tässä\nsamassa talossa, nauttien kaikkea onnea, jota totiseen rakkauteen\nperustuva avioliitto voi ihmiselle antaa. Elizabeth tunsi itsensä\najatuksissaan miltei yhtä onnelliseksi kuin Janekin ja arveli voivansa\nruveta pitämään hra Bingleyn sisaristakin. Hänen äitinsä ajatukset\nnäyttivät kulkevan samoilla teillä, jonka vuoksi Elizabeth päätti\nvälttää hänen läheisyyttään, jotta hänen ei tarvitsisi kuulla liian\nsuorasukaisia viittailuja suorasukaisen emonsa taholta. Mutta kova onni\nsatutti heidät illallispöydässä aivan lähekkäin, ja hänen oli\nharmikseen pakko kuulla, kuinka äiti lörpötteli koko ajan naapurilleen\n(se oli Lady Lucas) tyttärensä toiveista päästä piankin Netherfieldin\nemännäksi. Se oli todella puheenaihe, josta arvon rouva ei tahtonut\nkoko iltana saada kyllikseen. Ajatelkaas, niin kaunis ja miellyttävä\nnuori mies, ja niin rikas, ja niin lähellä heidän omaa kotiaan; ja\nmitkä lupaavat tulevaisuuden näköalat avautuivatkaan hänen nuoremmille\ntyttärilleen! Janen kodissa seurustellen he joutuisivat paljon yhteen\ntoisten viehättävien ja rikkaiden nuorten miesten kanssa, niin että\nonnekas äiti voi näiden joukosta valita itselleen mieluisensa vävyt.\nHän lopetti haltioituneen yksinpuhelunsa toivottamalla Lady Lucasille\nyhtä suurta onnenpotkausta, vaikka hänen sävystään ja ilmeestään voi\nhyvin arvata, ettei hän uskonut sellaista mahdolliseksi.\n\nTurhaan yritti Elizabeth hillitä äitinsä kaunopuheisuutta ja taivuttaa\nhäntä edes puhumaan hiljempaa, jotteivät syrjäiset kuulisi. Hänellä\nitsellään oli koko ajan se kiusallinen aavistus, että heitä vastapäätä\nistuva Darcy kuuli joka sanan. Mutta äiti torjui närkästyneenä kaikki\nsellaiset viittailut.\n\n\"Mitä minun tarvitsisi peljätä herra Darcya? Minä en välitä siitä\nmiehestä yhtään rahtua. Miksi minun siis pitäisi olla häntä kohtaan\nniin varuillani? Kuulkoon hän vain minun puolestani mitä tahtoo.\"\n\n\"Herran tähden, rakas äiti, puhukaa hiljempaa. Mitä hyötyä teillä olisi\nsiitä, että loukkaisitte herra Darcya, joka on talon isännän paras\nystävä?\"\n\nMikään ei pystynyt hillitsemään äidin puheintoa, joka pyöri yhä samassa\nasiassa ja kuului kaikkien lähinaapurien korviin. Häpeän ja harmin puna\nei eronnut hetkeksikään Elizabethin polttavilta poskilta. Hän ei voinut\nolla välistä varkain silmäämättä hra Darcyyn, ja jokainen silmäys\nosoitti todeksi hänen pelkonsa; sillä vaikka mainittu herra ilmeisesti\nvälttelikin katsahtaa hänen äitiinsä, voi juuri siitä huomata hänen\ntarkkaavan paheksuvasti ja ylenkatseellisesti tämän lavertelua.\nHalveksiva ilme hänen kasvoillaan muuttui vähitellen hillityksi mutta\nvakavaksi päättäväisyydeksi.\n\nVihdoin viimeinkin tyhjeni rva Bennetin sanainen arkku. Lady Lucas,\njoka oli saanut haukotellen kuunnella toisteluja perheonnesta, johon\nhänellä itsellään ei ollut vähintäkään osaa, sai lopultakin omistaa\nhuomionsa jäähtyneeseen lammaspaistiin lautasellaan. Elizabethin\nelämänhalu alkoi vähitellen jälleen virota. Mutta oh -- ei kauaksi!\nIllallispöydästä noustua kääntyi puhe musiikkiin, ja joku ehdotti, että\nsaataisiin kuulla laulua. Elizabethin ihoa karmi hänen huomatessaan,\nettä Mary -- sangen vähän suostuttelun jälkeen -- varustautui\nnoudattamaan seuran mieltä. Sisaren tuikeat katseet ja merkitsevät\nyskähdykset eivät estäneet onnettomuutta tapahtumasta; Mary oli kuuro\nkaikelle -- tilaisuus oli mitä houkuttelevin hänen näyttää ahkeralla\ntyöllä hankittua taitoaan -- ja hän aloitti laulunsa. Elizabeth\ntuijotti pelosta jäykistyneenä häneen; hänen kärsimättömyytensä kasvoi\nvallan sietämättömäksi; eikä vapahdusta tullut edes laulun\nloputtuakaan. Saatuaan, nuorten herrain taholta rohkaisevia\nkättentaputuksia suvaitsi Mary palkita ihailijoitaan aloittamalla\nuuden laulun. Maryn kyky ei riittänyt sellaiseen jatkuvaan\nvoimanponnistukseen; hänen äänensä oli heikko ja laulamistapansa sangen\nteeskennelty. Elizabeth istui kuin kuumilla kivillä. Hän silmäsi Janeen\nnähdäkseen, kuinka tämä kesti kidutuksen; mutta sisar näytti tuskin\njoutuvan laulua kuulemaankaan tarinoidessaan innokkaasti Bingleyn\nkanssa. Hän katsahti tämän sisariin ja näki näiden tekevän salaperäisiä\nmerkkejä keskenään; hän katsahti Darcyyn -- tämän kasvoilla oli\nedelleenkin läpitunkemattoman, mutta tuiman päättäväisyyden ilme.\nEpätoivoissaan hän vihdoin katsahti rukoilevasti isäänsä, anoen\nkatseellaan tätä käymään väliin; muutenhan Mary pitkittäisi koko illan.\nHra Bennet käsitti hänen ajatuksensa, ja kun Mary oli päässyt laulunsa\npäähän, hän sanoi tälle käskevään sävyyn:\n\n\"Nyt riittää, lapseni. Sinä olet jo tarpeeksi ilahduttanut korviamme.\nSalli nyt toistenkin neitosten näyttää taitoaan.\"\n\nMary ei tuntunut tahtovan kuulla koko käskyä ja näytti hyvin\nhermostuneelta. Elizabethia rupesi pelottamaan, että hänen\nsekaantumisensa ehkä vain pahentaisi asiaa -- yllyttäisi Maryn joko\njatkamaan tahi osoittamaan julkisesti närkästymistään. Onneksi kävivät\ntoisetkin puhelemaan laulusta -- hra Collins kaikkein äänekkäimmin.\n\n\"Jos kaitselmus olisi siunannut minua lauluäänellä\", aloitti tämä\nkunnon mies, \"niin en epäröisi käydä ilahduttamaan arvoisaa seuraa\nlaulullani; sillä minusta on laulu sangen viaton huvitus ja täysin\nsopusoinnussa kirkonmiehen korkean kutsumuksen kanssa. En kuitenkaan\ntahdo sanoa, että olisimme oikeutetut uhraamaan liiaksi aikaa\nveisaamiseen, sillä meikäläisillä on muita vielä tärkeämpiä\nedesottamuksia. Seurakunnan hengellisellä paimenella on niin paljon\najateltavaa ja vaarinotettavaa. Ensi sijassa on hänen huolehdittava\nkymmenyksistään, jotta ei joudu itse kärsimään ajallista puutetta eikä\nliian riippuvaiseksi kunnianarvoisasta patronaattiherrastaan. Sitten\nhänen tulee itse kirjoittaa saarnansa; ja loppu ajasta kuluu tyystin\nhänen sielunhoitotoimeensa sekä pappilansa kunnossapitoon, mikä onkin\nylen tähdellinen asia. Hänen on ahkeroitava saamaan ajallinen olonsa\nmahdollisimman mukavaksi, sillä sen on hän velkapää korkealle\nkutsumukselleen; samoin tulee hänen esiintyä kohteliaasti ja\nhuomaavaisesti kaikkia ihmisiä kohtaan, joiden hengellisestä hyvästä\nhänen on murhetta pidettävä, nimenomaan ylempiään kohtaan, joiden\nmielisuosiosta hänen ajallinen menestyksensä on riippuvainen. Tätä\nseikkaa ei mitenkään saa jättää huomioonottamatta; ja itse kohdastani\nvoin tunnustaa olevani ylpeä siitä, että alati ja joka tilaisuudessa\nolen kärkäs osoittamaan syvää kunnioitusta kaikille palkanmaksajani\nsukulaisillekin.\" Kumartaen syvään hra Darcyn taholle hän päätti\npuheensa, jonka hän oli pitänyt niin korkealla äänellä, että se kaikui\nhalki koko salin.\n\nMonet tuijottivat häneen ällistyneinä -- monet hymyilivät; mutta\nenimmän huvitetulta näytti hra Bennet, varsinkin kuullessaan vaimonsa\nkuuluvasti kehuvan Lady Lucasille tuon nuoren miehen harvinaista\nviisautta ja hyvää esiintymistaitoa.\n\nElizabethista tuntui siltä, että sen pahemmin eivät hänen omaisensa\nenää olisikaan voineet saattaa itseään naurunalaisiksi. Loppuiltakaan\nei tuonut hänelle yhtään huojennusta. Hra Collins ei luopunut hänen\nviereltään; tämä ei tosin enää vaatinut häntä tanssimaan kanssaan,\nmutta esti häntä tanssimasta toisten kanssa ja selitti suoraan, että\nhänen vakaa aivoituksensa oli esiintyä serkkunsa edessä paraimmassa\nvalossa osoittamalla tälle kaikkea sitä ritarillista kohteliaisuutta ja\nhuomaavaisuutta, joka suinkin kävi yhteen hänen hengellisen säätynsä\nkanssa. Vihdoin vapahti Lady Lucas tyttöparan ahdistuksesta käyden\nsuopeasti kyselemään hra Collinsilta lähemmin hänen viihtymistään\nHunsfordissa.\n\nLongbournin väki pääsi vasta aivan viimeiseksi lähtemään matkaan, sillä\nalati kekseliäs rva Bennet oli saanut heidän kuskinsa viivästymään\nrunsaan neljännestunnin. Elizabethilla oli ilo nähdä, kuinka hartaasti\nainakin osa isäntäväestä halusi päästä heistä eroon. Rva Hurst ja hänen\nsisarensa eivät avanneet suutansa muuta kuin haukotellakseen; hra\nCollins sai pitää hehkuvat kiitospuheensa talon vierasvaraisuudesta\nkuuroille korville; hra Darcy pysyi aivan tuppisuuna; ainoastaan hra\nBingleyllä ja Janella oli kahdenkeskistä supateltavaa syrjässä\ntoisista.\n\nKun he viimeinkin pääsivät lähtemään, oli rva Bennet sulaa\nkohteliaisuudesta pyytäessään kunniaa nähdä koko Netherfieldin perheen\nyleensä ja hra Bingleyn erikseen piankin luonaan päivällisellä\nLongbournissa. Bingley kiitti kutsusta ja lupasi kernaasti tulla oitis\nLontoosta palattuaan, jonne hänen oli huomenna lähdettävä joiksikin\npäiviksi.\n\nKotimatkalla rva Bennet piti yksinään puhetta, rupatellen iloisesti\nhääpukujen tilaamisesta ja häävarustusten jouduttamisesta, sillä hän\nnäki hengessään Janen jo Netherfieldin valtiattarena. Hra Collinsin\naivoitus Elizabethin suhteen oli hänelle myöskin mieluinen, vaikka ei\nsamassa määrässä. Elizabeth oli hänelle vähimmin rakas kaikista\nlapsistaan; ja vaikka hra Collins ja Hunsfordin pappila olivat kyllin\nhyvät Elizabethille, ei niitä käynyt vertaaminenkaan Janea odottavaan\nonneen.\n\n\n\n\nXIX LUKU.\n\n\nSeuraava päivä oli hyvin vaiherikas Longbournissa. Hra Collins esitti\nkosintansa muodollisesti. Hänellä ei enää ollut aikaa hukattavana,\nsillä hänen lomansa loppui seuraavana lauantaina, eikä hänellä ollut\npäätöstä tehdessään mitään sieluntuskiakaan voitettavana. Tavatessaan\nkohta aamiaisen jälkeen rva Bennetin, Elizabethin ja erään nuorimmista\ntytöistä ruokasalissa hän kävi puhuttelemaan äitiä seuraavasti:\n\n\"Saanko toivoa, arvon rouva, että huolenpitonne kaunokaisesta\ntyttärestänne Elizabethista sallii minulle yksityisen keskustelun hänen\nkanssaan tämän aamupäivän kuluessa?\"\n\nEnnenkuin Elizabeth ennätti vastata muuten kuin yllätyksestä punastuen,\nehätti äiti väliin:\n\n\"Oh, minun päiviäni! Kyllä toki, tietystikin. Olen varma, että Lizzy\ntulee hyvin onnelliseksi -- tarkoitan, ettei hänellä tietenkään ole\nmitään sitä vastaan. Tulehan, Kitty, minä tarvitsen sinua yläkerrassa.\"\nJa haamaisten käsityön mukaansa hän kiirehti jouduttautumaan pois, kun\nElizabeth parahti:\n\n\"Äiti rakas, älä mene! Minä pyydän, ettet lähde pois. Herra Collinsin\ntäytyy antaa minulle anteeksi. Hänellä ei voi olla minulle mitään\nsellaista sanottavana, jota eivät toisetkin saisi kuulla. Minä lähden\nitse pois.\"\n\n\"Ei, ei, älä hupsuttele, Lizzy. Pyydän, että jäät siihen, missä nyt\nistut.\" Ja nähdessään, että Elizabeth sittenkin, hätäytyneenä ja\nhuolissaan, näkyi täydellä todella tekevän lähtöä, huudahti hellä äiti:\n\"Lizzy, _minä vaadin_, että jäät kuulemaan, mitä herra Collinsilla on\nsinulle puhuttavana.\"\n\nElizabeth ei voinut vastustaa niin väkevää vetoomusta; ja mietittyään\nhetkisen nopeasti pulmaansa hän älysi, että järkevintä taisi sittenkin\nolla saada koko ikävä juttu loppuun niin pian ja levollisesti kuin\nsuinkin; jonka vuoksi hän istuutui jälleen ja koetti väkisin salata\nharmiaan ja vastenmielisyyttään. Kohta kun rva Bennet ja Kitty olivat\nhävinneet oven taa, aloitti hra Collins juhlallisesti:\n\n\"Uskokaa minua, rakkahin neiti Elizabeth, kun sanon että teidän\nujoutenne, sen sijaan että se millään tavalla alentaisi viehätystänne,\npäinvastoin korottaa kaikkia muita avujanne. Te olisitte minun\nsilmissäni näyttänyt vähemmän armaalta _ilman_ tuota pientä\nvastahakoisuutta; mutta sallikaa minun vakuuttaa, että olen saanut jo\nedeltäkäsin arvoisalta äidiltänne luvan tähän kahdenkeskiseen\nhaasteluun. Te voitte tuskin enää olla epätietoinen minun oikeasta\naivoituksestani, miten suuresti luontainen kainoutenne pyrkiikin\nmieltänne hämmentämään; minun huomaavaisuuteni teitä kohtaan on ollut\nsiksi ilmeinen, ettei siitä liene voinut erehtyä. Melkein oitis kun\nastuin tähän taloon, valitsin teidät tulevaiseksi elämänkumppanikseni.\nMutta ennenkuin päästän tunteeni pillastumaan pitemmälle tässä asiassa,\nlienee minun viisainta selvitellä syitäni, miksi aion astua pyhään\naviosäätyyn -- ja nimenomaan, miksi tulin juuri tänne Hertfordshireen\nvalitsemaan itselleni vaimoa.\"\n\nAjatus, että jykevä ja mahtipontinen hra Collins tosiaankin voisi\npäästää tunteensa pillastumaan, oli niin hullunkurinen, että Elizabeth\nhillitessään naurunhaluaan menetti hänelle suodun lyhyen armonajan\nennättämättä tehdä mitään ratkaisevaa huomautusta. Kosija jatkoi:\n\n\"Syynä naimisiin menooni on ensikseenkin se, että minusta on oikein ja\nkohtuullista, että jokainen hyvissä olosuhteissa elävä pappismies --\nkuten minä -- esimerkillään pyhittää aviosäädyn seurakunnassaan;\ntoiseksi, että olen vahvasti vakuutettu, että tämä askel tulee suuressa\nmäärässä lisäämään minun ajallista autuuttani; ja kolmanneksi -- jonka\nsyyn ehkä olisin saanut mainita kaikkein ensimmäisenä.-- on sen\njalosukuisen rouvan neuvo ja osviitta, jota minulla sananpalvelijana on\nonni ja kunnia mainita emännäkseni. Kahdesti hän on alentunut --\npyytämättä! -- lausumaan minulle ajatuksensa tässä asiassa; ja vielä\nsamana lauantaina, jolloin lähdin tänne Hunsfordista -- kahden\npelivuoron välillä hänen korttipöydässään, jolloin minulla oli kunnia\npelata häntä vastapäätä, ja juuri kun rouva Jenkinson laittoi pallia\nneiti de Bourghin jalkain alle -- hän sanoi: 'Herra Collins, teidän\npitää mennä naimisiin. Teidänlaisenne pappismiehen täytyy naida. Tehkää\nvalintanne säädyllisesti, valitkaa vaimonne tilanomistajasäädystä\n_minun_ vuokseni ja _itsenne_ vuoksi; sellainen toimellinen ja\nhyödyllinen ihminen, joka ei ole liiaksi oppinut, mutta kykenee\nhoitamaan hyvin taloutta pienilläkin vuosituloilla. Se on minun\nneuvoni. Etsikää itsellenne sellainen vaimo niin pian kuin suinkin, ja\nkohta kun tuotte hänet tänne Hunsfordiin, käyn minä häntä\ntervehtimässä.' Sallikaa minun huomauttaa, suloinen serkkuni, etten\nsuinkaan lue Lady Catherine de Bourghin huomaavaisuutta ja\nhyvänsuopeutta kaikkein vähäisimmäksi niistä eduista, joita minun\nvallassani on tarjota tulevalle vaimolleni. Te tulette huomaamaan, että\nhänen esiintymisensä ja käytöksensä on paljon yläpuolella kaiken minun\nkuvaustaitoni; ja teidän älynne ja eloisuutenne luulen varmastikin\nolevan hänelle mieluisat, varsinkin kun niitä hillitsee ja suistaa se\nsyvä kunnioitus, jota ette voi olla tuntematta hänen korkeaa arvoaan ja\nasemaansa kohtaan. -- Kas siinä minun yleiset mielennouteeni aviosäätyä\najatellessani. Jää vielä kerrottavakseni, miksi aivoitukseni kääntyi\ntänne Longbourniin eikä omaan naapuristooni, missä kyllä on tarjona\npaljon rakastettavia nuoria neitosia, sen vakuutan teille. Mutta juttu\non se, että tietäessäni tulevani perimään tämän tilan arvoisan isänne\nkuoleman jälkeen, -- jolle taivas suokoon vielä monta elinvuotta! -- en\nkatsonut voivani olla valitsematta vaimoani hänen tyttäriensä joukosta,\njotta he tuntisivat tappionsa niin vähäiseksi kuin suinkin, kun se\nmurheellinen tapaus kerran on heitä kohtaava; vaikka, kuten jo sanoin,\ntaivas varjelkoon sitä sattumasta vielä moniin vuosiin. Tämä on ollut\nminun osviittani ja aivoitukseni tänne tullessani, kaunoinen serkkuni,\nja luulen voivani imarrella itseäni, ettei arvoni sentakia suinkaan\nvähenne teidän silmissänne. Ja nyt ei minulla ole enää muuta\nlisättävänä kuin vakuuttaa teille mitä kaunopuheisimmin palavata\nkiintymystäni teihin. Varallisuutta minä en kysy, enkä aio isältänne\nvaatia mitään myötäjäisiä, koska hyvin tiedän, ettei niitä kannata\nodottaakaan, ja että ne tuhannen puntaa, jotka teidän osaksenne\nlankeavat vasta äitinne kuoleman jälkeen ja jotka nyt ovat kiinnitetyt\nkasvamaan korkoa neljä sadalta, ovat ainoa perintöosa, jonka te voitte\nodottaa vanhemmiltanne. Siitä asiasta tulen kumminkin aina pitämään\nsuuni kiinni; ja voitte olla vakuutettu, ettette koskaan tule kuulemaan\nminun huuliltani moitteen sanaa varattomuutenne vuoksi.\"\n\nNyt oli Elizabethin jo välttämätöntä keskeyttää kosijan vuolas\nsanatulva.\n\n\"Te olette liian hätäinen, hyvä herra\", hän huudahti. \"Tehän unhotatte,\netten minä ole teille antanut vielä mitään vastausta. Sallikaa minun\ntehdä se oitis, hukkaamatta enää yhtään aikaa. Minä olen hyvin\nkiitollinen minulle osoittamastanne huomaavaisuudesta. Tunnen todella\nitseni hyvin kunnioitetuksi kosinnastanne, mutta minun on mahdoton\nvastata siihen muuten kuin kieltäytymällä.\"\n\n\"Eihän minulle nyt vasta tarvitse opettaa\", vastasi hra Collins ja\nhuiskautti anteeksiantavasti kättänsä, \"että nuorten neitosten tapana\non ujoudessaan ensi kerralla vastata hylkäävästi sen miehen kosintaan,\njonka he sydämensä salaisuudessa ovat hyväksyneet valitukseen; ja että\nvälistä tuo hylkääminen uudistetaan toisella, jopa kolmannellakin\nkerralla. Minä en niinmuodoin ole vähimmälläkään tavalla masentunut\nsiitä, mitä juuri sanoitte, vaan toivon, että piankin teette minut\nonnellisimmaksi kaikista aviomiehistä.\"\n\n\"Kaikkea minun pitääkin kuulla, herraseni\", kivahti Elizabeth; \"teidän\ntoivonne on todellakin hyvin eriskummallinen kaiken sen jälkeen, mitä\nniin selvästi sanoin. Minä vakuutan teille, etten suinkaan kuulu noihin\nnuoriin neitosiin (jos sellaisia neitosia yleensä onkaan), jotka\nuskaltavat panna onnensa vaaraan uutta kosintaa odotellessaan. Minun\nhylkäämiseni on tarkoitettu täydellä todella. Te ette voisi tehdä\n_minua_ onnelliseksi, ja minä olen varma, että olisin viimeinen nainen\nmaailmassa, joka voisi ja tahtoisi tehdä _teidät_ onnelliseksi. Ei --\njos arvoisa ystävättärenne Lady Catherine tuntisi minut, niin olen\nvakuutettu, että hän huomaisi minut joka suhteessa kykenemättömäksi\nsiihen tehtävään.\"\n\n\"Jos olisi varma, että Lady Catherine tosiaankin ajattelisi niin...\"\naloitti hra Collins hyvin vakavasti; -- \"mutta ei, minä en voi\nkuvitellakaan mielessäni, että hänen jalosukuisuutensa suinkaan\nvähäksyisi teitä ja teidän hyviä ominaisuuksianne. Voitte olla\nrauhallinen ja luottaa siihen, että kun minulla on jälleen kunnia\ntavata hänet, niin puhun hänelle mitä ylistävimmin sanoin teidän\nkainoudestanne, säästäväisyydestänne, taloudellisuudestanne ja muista\nrakastettavista puolistanne.\"\n\n\"Mutta uskokaahan toki minua, herra Collins, kaikki kehumisenne on\naivan hyödytöntä. Teidän täytyy antaa minulle itselleni päätösvalta\ntässä asiassa ja ottaa todeksi mitä sanon. Minä toivon teille kaikkea\nonnea ja rikkautta, ja hylkäämällä tarjouksenne voin paraiten torjua\nteiltä päinvastaista elämänosaa. Kun jo kerta olette kosinut minua,\nniin olette varmastikin sen kautta tyydyttänyt sydämenne hienotunteiset\nvaatimukset minun perhettäni kohtaan ja voitte siis hyvällä\nomallatunnolla ottaa vastaan Longbournin, milloin se teidän\nperinnöksenne lankeaa. Tämän asian voimme siis pitää täydellisesti ja\nlopullisesti selvitettynä.\" Nousten näin sanoessaan pystyyn Elizabeth\naikoi kiireesti lähteä huoneesta, mutta itsepäinen kosija asettui hänen\ntielleen ja lausui:\n\n\"Kun minulla on kunnia seuraavalla kerralla jälleen palata tähän\npuheenaiheeseen, niin toivon varmasti saavani suosiollisemman\nvastauksen kuin minkä nyt olette antanut. Olkoon minusta kaukana, että\nnytkään syyttäisin teitä mistään tahallisesta julmuudesta, sillä\ntiedänhän sukupuolenne tapana olevan hyljätä kosija tämän ensi kertaa\ntulkitessa tunteensa; ja ehkäpä kaikkikin, mitä nyt olette sanonut,\nonkin vain tarkoitettu kannustamaan minun intoani niin paljon kuin\nsopii naisluonteen luontaiselle kainoudelle.\"\n\n\"Toden totta, herra Collins\", kivahti Elizabeth jokseenkin\ntuittuisesti, \"te saatatte minut aivan ymmälle. Jos kaikki se, mitä\ntähän asti olen teille sanonut, on teistä vain salattua rohkaisua, niin\nenpä oikein tiedä, mihin muotoon pukisin kieltoni, jotta todella\nkäsittäisitte sen kielloksi.\"\n\n\"Sallikaa, armas serkkuni, minun imarrella itseäni sillä käsityksellä,\nettä hylkäävä vastauksenne kosintaani on pelkästään vain muodon vuoksi\nja sotii sydämenne todellista aivoitusta vastaan. Minun perusteeni\ntähän käsitykseen ovat lyhyesti sanoen seuraavat: -- Minä en voi saada\npäähäni, että minun käteni ja nimeni olisivat arvottomat saavuttamaan\nteidän hyväksymistänne, tahi että teille tarjoamani asema voisi\nolla teille muuta kuin mitä houkuttelevin. Minun virka- ja\nvarallisuusasemani, läheiset suhteeni De Bourghin perheeseen ja\nsukulaisuuteni teidän oman perheenne kanssa ovat kaikki seikkoja, jotka\nkorkealla äänellä puhuvat minun puolestani; ja lisäksi pitäisi teidän\nvielä ottaa huomioon, että kaikesta teidän viehättäväisyydestänne\nhuolimatta ei suinkaan ole taattua, että teille enää koskaan tehdään\nyhtä imartelevaa naimatarjousta. Teidän myötäjäisenne ovat\nvalitettavasti niin surkean pienet, että jo tämä seikka yksistänsä\ntekee todennäköisesti tehottomiksi kaikki teidän ulkonaiset\nviehätyksenne ja sisälliset hyvät avunne. Kaiken tämän perusteella\nminun täytyy uskoa, ettette suinkaan ole täysissä tosissanne hyljännyt\ntarjoustani, ja olla vakuutettu siitä, että kun molemmat erinomaiset\nvanhempanne ovat sen vahvistaneet arvovaltaisella hyväksymisellään,\nmyöskin tulette mielihyvällä antamaan minulle haluamani vastauksen.\"\n\nNoin paatuneeseen ja tahalliseen itsepetokseen ei Elizabeth enää\nkeksinyt mitään vakuuttavaa vastausta; ja hän sujahti äänettömästi ulos\nhuoneesta päättäen vahvasti mielessään vedota isäänsä, jos itsepäinen\nkosija yhä edelleen käsittäisi kaikki hänen kieltelynsä vain\nimartelevaksi rohkaisuksi.\n\n\n\n\nXX LUKU.\n\n\nHra Collinsin ei oltu suotu kauankaan harkita mielessään aivoituksensa\nonnistumista; sillä rva Bennet oli kavunnut yläkerrasta eteiseen\nkuulustelemaan kahdenkeskisen keskustelun tuloksia, ja tuskin hän oli\nnähnyt Elizabethin avaavan oven ja joutuisin askelin juoksevan portaita\nylös, kun hän jo itse työntäytyi ruokasaliin ja onnitteli lämpimin\nsanoin sekä kosijaa että omaa perhettään heidän nyt perustetun\nläheisemmän sukulaisuutensa johdosta.\n\nHra Collins otti onnittelut vastaan häiriytymättömän tyvenesti ja\nmaksoi takaisin ne runsaan koron kanssa, selostaen sitten tulevalle\nanopilleen äskeistä keskustelua, joka oli jättänyt hänelle niin\nlupaavat onnen toiveet, koska kaunoisen serkun kaikki kieltely oli\nhänestä vain ollut naisellisen ujouden luonnollista terhentelyä.\n\nTuo selostus kuitenkin hyvin säikähdytti rva Bennetiä. Hän olisi ollut\niloinen, jos hän olisi yhtä helposti voinut käsittää tyttärensä jyrkän\nkiellon vain salatuksi kosijan rohkaisemiseksi, mutta sitä hän ei\nuskaltanut uskoa todeksi, sillä hän tunsi tyttärensä luonteen paremmin,\neikä hän voinut peitellä ajatuksiaan tässä suhteessa.\n\n\"Mutta luottakaa minun sanaani, herra Collins\", hän lisäsi, \"että\nLizzyn me saamme toki järkiinsä. Minä puhun hänelle itselleen suoraan\najatukseni. Hän on hyvin itsepäinen ja hupsu tyttö eikä arvaa omaa\netuaan; mutta minä totisesti _panen_ hänet arvaamaan sen.\"\n\n\"Mutta kuulkaapas, rouvaseni -- suokaa anteeksi, että keskeytän\nteidät\", huudahti hra Collins hiukan hätäytyneenä -- \"mutta jos hän\ntodella on niin itsepäinen ja hupsu kuin te sanotte, niin enpä tiedä,\nonko hänestä sitten ollenkaan vaimoksi minun asemassani olevalle\nmiehelle, joka luonnollisesti odottaa tulevansa aviossaan onnelliseksi.\nJos hän siis tosiaankin täysissä tosissaan ja jatkuvasti hylkää minun\nkosintani, niin ehkä on parempi olla pakottamatta häntä siihen, sillä\nmoisilla luonteenvioilla raskautettuna hän ei varmastikaan tule\nenentämään kotionnea minun talossani.\"\n\n\"Hyvä herra, nyt te käsitätte minut aivan väärin\", sanoi rva Bennet\ntäydellä todella säikähtyneenä. \"Lizzy on itsepäinen ainoastaan\ntällaisissa asioissa. Kaikessa muussa hän on niin hyväluontoinen ja\nmukautuvainen kuin tyttö ikinä saattaa olla. Minä lähden nyt\nsuoraapäätä herra Bennetin puheille, ja te saatte olla varma, että me\nyhdessä piankin käännämme tytön pään suoraan.\"\n\nAntamatta kosijalle aikaa vastata hän kiiruhti miehensä luo kirjastoon\nja huusi tälle jo kynnykseltä:\n\n\"Oh, rakas Bennet, sinua tarvitaan kiireen kaupalla; me olemme kaikki\nkuin puulla päähän lyödyt. Sinun pitää oitis tulla naittamaan Lizzy\nherra Collinsille, sillä ajattelehan, tyttö resu vannoo, ettei hän\nikinä mene tälle vaimoksi. Ja jollet pidä joutua, niin kosijakin voi\nmuuttaa mielensä eikä enää huoli koko tyttöä.\"\n\nHra Bennet oli kohottanut katseensa kirjasta, kun vaimonsa törmäsi\nsisään sellaisella kiireellä, ja kiinnittänyt ne rva Bennetin\nkasvoihin. Mutta hänen tavallinen kylmä ja hajamielinen ilmeensä ei\nnäyttänyt vähääkään häiriytyvän hänen kuulemastaan kummasta sanomasta.\n\n\"En voi laisinkaan käsittää sinua\", hän sanoi, kun hänen vaimonsa oli\nläähättäen esittänyt ilmoituksensa. \"Mistä ihmeestä sinä oikein\npuhelet?\"\n\n\"Oh, -- herra Collinsista ja Lizzystä tietenkin. Lizzy sanoo, ettei hän\nhuoli herra Collinsia, ja herra Collins piankin sanoo, ettei hän huoli\nLizzyä.\"\n\n\"No, mikä osa minulla tässä sitten pitäisi olla? Tämähän näyttää aivan\ntoivottomalta jutulta.\"\n\n\"Sinun pitää itsesi puhua siitä Lizzylle. Sano hänelle, että vaadit\nhäntä oitis menemään herra Collinsille vaimoksi.\"\n\n\"Kutsu hänet tänne alas. Hän saa kuulla minun ajatukseni.\"\n\nRva Bennet soitti kelloa, ja paikalle rientävä sisäkkö käskettiin\nkutsumaan nti Elizabeth kirjastoon.\n\n\"Tulehan tänne, lapseni\", huudahti isä, kun tytär arkaillen astui\nsisään. \"Olen lähettänyt noutamaan sinua tänne hyvin tärkeän asian\nvuoksi. Mikäli ymmärrän äitisi puheesta, on herra Collins tehnyt\nsinulle naimatarjouksen. Onko se totta?\" -- Elizabeth myönsi sen\ntodeksi. -- \"No niin -- ja tuon tarjouksen sinä olet hyljännyt?\"\n\n\"Niin olen, isä.\"\n\n\"No hyvä. Nyt tulemme pääkysymykseen. Äitisi tahtoo, että sinä suostut\nsiihen. Eikö se ole tahtosi, rouva Bennet?\"\n\n\"On niinkin, taikka en tahdo enää nähdä koko tyttöä silmäini alla.\"\n\n\"Siinä sangen surullinen tulevaisuuden näköala sinulle, Elizabeth.\nTästä päivästä alkaen joudut olemaan vento vieras jommallekummalle\nvanhemmistasi. Äiti ei tahdo nähdä sinua silmäinsä alla, jos _et_ mene\nnaimisiin herra Collinsin kanssa. Ja minä en tahdo nähdä sinua\nedessäni, jos _menet_ naimisiin hänen kanssaan.\"\n\nElizabeth voi vain naurahtaa moiselle loppupäätökselle sellaisista\nalkuperusteista. Mutta rva Bennet, joka oli koettanut uskotella\nitselleen, että hänen miehensä näkisi asian hänen silmillään, oli\nilmeisesti pettynyt.\n\n\"Mitä ihmettä sinä oikein tarkoitatkaan tuollaisella lörpötyksellä,\nBennet? Sinähän lupasit minulle, että vaatisit tyttö hupakkoa\ntaipumaan.\"\n\n\"Rakkahani\", vastasi hänen puolisonsa, \"minulla on pari pientä\nmielisuosiota sinulta pyydettävänä. Ensiksikin, että sallit minun\nvapaasti käyttää omaa arvostelukykyäni tässä tapauksessa, ja toiseksi,\nettä sallit minun vapaasti käyttää omaa huonettani tällä hetkellä. Olen\niloinen, kun saan kirjaston jälleen omiin hoteisiini niin pian kuin\nsuinkin.\"\n\nMutta sittenkään ei rouva Bennet heittänyt asiaa sikseen, vaikka hänen\nmiehensä olikin niin pahoin pettänyt hänen toiveensa. Hän jauhoi juttua\nElizabethille jauhamistaan, vuoroin liehitellen ja vuoroin uhkaillen\nhäntä. Hän koetti saada Janenkin avukseen, mutta aina lempeä ja\nmukautuvainen Jane kieltäytyi mahdollisimman lempeällä tavalla\npuuttumasta asiaan. Elizabeth puolestaan torjui äitinsä hyökkäykset\nväliin todellisella vakavuudella, väliin lyöden ne kokonaan leikiksi.\nMutta millainen hänen torjumistapansa kulloinkin olikin, pysyi hän\njärkähtämättä päätöksessään.\n\nTällävälin mietiskeli hra Collins orvossa yksinäisyydessä kovaa\nonneaan. Hänellä oli siksi hyvät ajatukset itsestään, ettei hän millään\ntavalla voinut käsittää syytä serkkunsa merkilliseen itsepäisyyteen; ja\nvaikka hänen ylpeyttänsä olikin loukattu, eivät saadut rukkaset\naiheuttaneet hänelle erityistä sydämentuskaa. Tietäen Elizabethin hyvin\nansainneen äitinsä nuhteet hän tyytyi omalta puolestaan näyttämään\njokseenkin välinpitämätöntä naamaa.\n\nPerheen täten -- kuvaannollisesti puhuen -- seistessä päälaellaan\nsattui Charlotte Lucas saapumaan vieraaksi. Ensimmäisenä hänet\neteisessä vastaanotti Lydia, joka karkasi hänen kimppuunsa ja kietoen\nkätensä hänen kaulaansa suhisi kiihkeästi hänen korvaansa: \"Olipa\nhauska että tulit, sillä täällä ovat asiat kaikki niin hullusti! Mitä\nsinä luuletkaan meillä tänä aamuna tapahtuneen? Herra Collins on\nkosinut Lizzyä, mutta Lizzy ei tahdo huolia hänestä.\"\n\nCharlotte ei ennättänyt vastata, sillä Kitty juoksi kertomaan samat\nuutiset; ja tuskin he olivat käyneet ruokasaliin, missä rva Bennet\nistui yksin ja hyljättynä, kun tämäkin vetosi hänen sääliinsä ja\nmyötätuntoonsa ja rukoili häntä tekemään parhaansa taivuttaakseen\nilkikurista Lizzyä alistumaan perheen yksimieliseen toivomukseen.\n\"Olkaa kiltti ja tehkää niin, rakas neiti Lucas\", lisäsi huolestunut\näiti alakuloisesti, \"sillä kukaan muu ei ole minun puolellani, kukaan\nei kannata eikä sääli minua; minua kohdellaan hirmuisen julmasti eikä\nsäästetä hermojani lainkaan.\"\n\nCharlottelta säästyi tukala vastaamisen velvollisuus, kun Jane ja\nElizabeth saapuivat yhdessä sisään.\n\n\"Kas, siinä hän nyt tulee\", huudahti rva Bennet, \"ja näyttää niin\nvälinpitämättömältä kuin me toiset olisimme vain pelkkää ilmaa, kunhan\nhän itse saa vain tahtonsa perille. Mutta sen minä sanon sinulle, neiti\nhärkäpää, että jos sinä tällä tapaa hylkäät kaikki naimatarjoukset,\nniin et ikinä saa miestä; ja mikä sinut sitten periikään, kun isääsi ei\nenää ole? _Minä_ en vain kykene sinusta huolehtimaan, muista se. Minä\nen sinusta välitä tästä päivästä alkaen niin hituistakaan, ettäs sen\ntiedät. Minä sanoin sinulle jo kirjastossa, sen hyvin muistat, etten\ntahdo vaihtaa enää sanaakaan sinun kanssasi, ja sen lupaukseni aion\npitää. Mitäpä iloa minulla olisikaan puhella kiittämättömille lapsille?\nEikä minulle muuten tuota iloa puhella kenenkään kanssa. Kun kärsii\nhermoistaan niin paljon kuin minä, niin eipä juuri tee mielikään\npuhella kellekään. Kukaan ei arvaakaan, kuinka minä oikein kärsin!\nMutta niinhän sitä maailmassa aina käykin. Joka ei valittele kellekään\nvaivojaan, häntä ei kukaan sääli.\"\n\nHänen tyttärensä kuuntelivat vaitonaisina tätä sydämenpurkausta,\ntietäen että kaikki järkisyyt ja suostuttelut vain lisäisivät\nrouvaparan ärtymystä. Ja siten hän sai hellittämättä jatkaa kenenkään\nkeskeyttämättä, kunnes seuraan viimein yhtyi hra Collins, jykevämpänä\nja juhlallisempana kuin tavallisesti; ja nähdessään tulijan lopetti\näiti valitusvirtensä tiuskaisten tyttärilleen:\n\n\"Nyt minä vaadin teitä viimeinkin tukkeamaan suunne ja sallimaan herra\nCollinsin ja minun vähän jutella keskenämme.\"\n\nElizabeth sujahti äänettömästi ulos huoneesta, Jane ja Kitty seurasivat\nhäntä, mutta Lydia seisoi paikallaan päättäen lujasti kuulla kaiken\nminkä voi; Charlottea taas ensin pidätti hra Collinsin kohteliaisuus,\njoka tiedusteli hajamielisesti hänen ja hänen omaistensa vointia, ja\nsitten hän uteliaisuuden voittamana kävi akkunaan ja oli näköjään\nvaipunut tarkastelemaan puutarhaa. Murheellisella äänellä rva Bennet\naloitti keskustelun:\n\n\"Ah, herra Collins!...\"\n\n\"Rakas arvoisa rouvani\", keskeytti hyljätty kosija hänet, \"pyydän, että\nvaikenemme iäksi tästä ikävästä asiasta. Olkoon minusta kaukana\", hän\njatkoi äänellä, jossa värähteli peittelemätöntä harmia, \"että kävisin\nmoittimaan tyttärenne käytöstä. Onhan meidän jokaisen velvollisuus\nalistua kristillisellä nöyryydellä kärsimään ikävyyksiä, joita emme voi\nvälttää; erittäinkin on se runsaalla maallisella hyvyydellä siunatun\nnuoren miehen velvollisuus, jollainen minä voin pöyhkeilemättä sanoa\nolevani; -- lyhyesti sanoen, minä olen päättänyt luopua alkuperäisestä\naivoituksestani. Ehkäpä tämä johtuu jossain määrin myöskin siitä, että\nolen ruvennut epäilemään, olisiko kaunis serkkuni suostumuksellaan\ntodellakin voinut taata minulle ajallista onnea ja siunausta; ja minä\nolen usein huomannut, että kristillinen alistuminen kohtaloonsa vasta\nsilloin on oikein täydellinen, kun onni, jota olemme tavoitelleet,\nmutta joka on meiltä kielletty, on alkanut kadottaa arvoaan meidän\nsilmissämme. Toivon kuitenkin, rakas arvoisa rouvani, ettette millään\nmuotoa pidä minun puoleltani kunnioituksen puutteena perhettänne\nkohtaan, kun kieltäydyn käyttämästä hyväkseni teidän ja herra Bennetin\nharjoittamaa kotikuria tytärtänne kohtaan. Ehkä olen saattanut\nkäyttäytyä väärin, kun olen vastaanottanut hylkäävän ratkaisun\ntyttärenne huulilta enkä teidän omiltanne, joka olette hänen äitinsä ja\nkasvattajansa. Mutta kaikkihan olemme erhettyväisiä. Minä olen\nvarmastikin tarkoittanut ainoastaan pelkkää hyvää meille kaikille.\nItselleni halusin hankkia mieluisen elämäntoverin ja samalla pitää\nsilmällä arvoisan perheenne etua; ja jos _minun_ käyttäytymisessäni on\nollut jotain moitittavaa, niin pyydän täten kaikkia suomaan sen minulle\nanteeksi.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXI LUKU.\n\n\nJupakka hra Collinsin kosinnan johdosta oli täten jokseenkin lopussa,\nja Elizabeth sai siitä enää kärsiä vain äitinsä hellittämättömien\npistelyjen kautta. Mitä kosijaan itseensä tulee, niin _hän_ ei\nilmaissut tunteitaan paremmin tai huonommin salatulla harmilla eikä\nedes välttelemällä Elizabethia, vaan erinomaisen kankealla\nkäytössävyllä ja juhlallisella vaikenemisella. Kaiken huomaavaisuutensa\nhän tämän kohtalokkaan päivän iltapuolella omisti perheen vieraalle nti\nLucasille, jonka kärsivällinen kohteliaisuus häntä kuunnellessaan oli\nkuin palsamia hänen haavoitetulle sydämelleen ja kenties yhtä\nhyväntekevää myöskin Elizabethille itselleen, joka täten säästyi\nkaikelta huomiolta.\n\nSeuraavakaan päivä ei tuonut lääkitystä rva Bennetin pahantuulisuuteen\neikä heikoille hermoille. Hra Collins oli jatkuvasti loukatun ylpeä.\nElizabeth oli toivonut, että kosija rukkaset saatuaan katkaisisi\nvierailunsa, mutta se ei näyttänyt kuuluvan hra Collinsin\nsuunnitelmiin. Hän oli alun pitäen päättänyt lähteä vasta lauantaina,\nja lauantaina hän aikoi lähteäkin.\n\nAamiaisen jälkeen tytöt lähtivät kävelemään Merytoniin\ntiedustellakseen, joko hra Wickham oli palannut, ja myönteisessä\ntapauksessa säälitelläkseen hänen poissaoloaan Netherfieldin\ntanssiaisista. Hra Wickham _oli_ palannut, itse asiassa hän sattui\nyhdyttämään heidät tulliportilla ja saattoi heitä heidän tätinsä luo,\nmissä hän jatkuvasti vastaanotti surkutteluja ja ilmaisi oman\nmielihaikeutensa tapauksen johdosta. Elizabethille hän kuitenkin\nyksityisesti tunnusti, että hänen poisjäämisensä oli ollut\nvapaaehtoinen.\n\n\"Mitä lähemmäksi juhla joutui\", hän sanoi, \"sitä selkeämmin rupesin\ntuntemaan, että minun oli parempi olla tapaamatta herra Darcya.\nOleskelu samassa huoneessa ja samassa seurassa tuntikausia yhtäpäätä\nolisi käynyt yli voimieni ja olisi kenties aiheuttanut kohtauksia,\njotka olisivat olleet tukalia muillekin kuin minulle itselleni.\"\n\nElizabeth antoi hyväksyvän tunnustuksensa hänen pidättyväisyydestään;\nja heillä oli hyvä tilaisuus keskustella asiasta ja lausua toisilleen\nkohteliaisuuksia, kun Wickham ja eräs toinen upseeri saattoivat\nneitoset kotiin Longbourniin, jolloin ensinmainittu käveli Elizabethin\nrinnalla ja puheli miltei yksinomaan hänen kanssaan. Tästä\nkohteliaisuudesta oli Elizabethille mielestään kahdenkinlaista etua; se\ntyydytti hänen omaa mielihaluaan, ja häntä ilahdutti saadessaan\nesitellä uljaan kavaljeerinsa vanhemmilleenkin.\n\nKohta heidän kotia tultuaan toi lähetti kirjeen nti Bennetille; se oli\nNetherfieldistä ja avattiin tietysti oitis. Kuoresta tuli esiin pieni\nja siro, tiiviisti kokoontaitettu kirjelappu täynnä naisen hienoa,\njoustavaa käsialaa. Elizabeth näki sisarensa ilmeen omituisesti\nmuuttuvan hänen sitä lukiessaan ja että hän erityisen kauan viipyi\njoidenkin lauseiden kohdalla. Jane tointui kuitenkin pian entiselleen\nja työntäen kirjeen poveensa koetti tavallisella hilpeydellään ottaa\nosaa yleiseen puheenpitoon; mutta Elizabeth tunsi huolestumista\nsisarensa takia eikä enää malttanut kuin toisella korvalla kuunnella\nhra Wickhamin kohteliaisuuksia. Kohta kun vieraat olivat poistuneet,\nsai Janen katse hänen seuraamaan tätä yläkertaan. Heidän tultua\nyhteiseen makuuhuoneeseensa otti Jane kirjeen jälleen esiin ja sanoi:\n\n\"Tämä on Caroline Bingleyltä; mitä hän siinä kertoo, on hämmästyttänyt\nminua hyvin suuresti. Koko perhe on kai juuri tähän aikaan lähtenyt\nNetherfieldistä Lontooseen aikomatta enää lainkaan palata tänne\ntakaisin. Kuulehan mitä hän sanoo.\"\n\nHän luki ääneen ensimmäisen lauseen, jossa ilmoitettiin perheen juuri\npäättäneen seurata hra Bingleytä pääkaupunkiin, minne he toivoivat\nennättävänsä syömään päivällistä hra Hurstin omistamassa talossa\nGrosvenor-kadun varrella. Seuraava lause oli näin kuuluva: \"Enpä voi\nväittää, että minulla olisi ikävä kääntää selkäni Hertfordshirelle\nmuuten kuin että sen kautta on erottava sinusta, rakkahin ystäväni;\nmutta toivokaamme, että jolloinkin tulevaisuudessa pääsemme jälleen\nyhteen nauttimaan toistemme seurasta; ja sillävälin koettakaamme\nlievittää suruamme ja kaipaustamme ahkeralla kirjeenvaihdolla. Minä\nluotan siihen, ettet sinä tässä suhteessa tule laiminlyömään\ntoivomustani.\" Noita pöyhkeileviä sanoja Elizabeth kuunteli\nepäilevästi, sillä hänestä ne eivät tuntuneet suoralta puheelta. Mutta\nvaikka seurueen lähtö olikin näin äkillinen, ei hänen mielestään ollut\naihetta siitä hätäytyä; sisarten poissaolo oli hänelle itselleen\npikemminkin mieleen, eikähän mikään estänyt hra Bingleytä itseään\npalaamasta pian takaisin ja tekemästä tosiksi ilmeiset aikeensa Janeen\nnähden.\n\nMutta tämä toivo sammui äkisti, kun Jane jatkoi lukemistaan.\n\n\"Kun veljeni lähti eilen matkaan, luuli hän ennättävänsä toimittaa\nasiansa Lontoossa kolmessa tai neljässä päivässä; mutta me olemme\nvarmat, ettei niin käy, ja että kun Charles kerran on päässyt mukaan\nLontoon humuun, ei hän tule siitä niinkään helposti irtautumaan, jonka\nvuoksi olemme päättäneet mekin seurata häntä sinne, jotta hänen ei\ntarvitse viettää joutilaita hetkiään yksin ikävässä hotellissa. Monet\ntuttavistani ovat jo palanneet maalta pääkaupunkiin; ja minä toivoisin\nhalusta, että sinäkin, rakkahin ystävä, olisit siellä joukossamme,\nmutta sehän ei toki käyne päinsä, vai kuinka? Toivotan sinulle iloista\njoulunaikaa Hertfordshiressa, ja etteivät täkäläiset keikarinne\nsuinkaan antaisi sinun tuntea mielihaikeutta niiden kolmen kavaljeerin\nkadottamisesta, jotka me nyt ryöstämme sinulta.\"\n\n\"Käyhän tästä selvästi ilmi\", lisäsi Jane suruissaan, \"että herra\nBingley ei aiokaan palata tänne enää koko talvena.\"\n\n\"Ainoastaan se käy selvästi ilmi, että hänen sisarensa ei toivoisi\nsitä.\"\n\n\"Kuinka sinä sellaista päättelet? Senhän täytyy olla hänen oma\npäätöksensä -- onhan hän tekojensa herra. Mutta sinä et vielä tiedä\n_kaikkea_. Minä tahdon lukea sinulle erään lauseen, joka erityisesti\ntekee minulle kipeätä. En tahdo salata sinulta mitään.\" Ja hän luki\nedelleen väräjävin äänin:\n\n\"Herra Darcy on hyvin kärsimätön tapaamaan jälleen sisartansa; ja totta\npuhuakseni, me _kaikkikin_ olemme miltei yhtä kärsimättömät siinä\nsuhteessa. En voi tosiaankaan uskoakaan, että Georgiana Darcylla olisi\nvertaansa kauneudessa, sirossa käytöksessä ja kaikissa hienoissa\nnaistaidoissa; ja Louisan ja minun kiintymystä häneen lujittaa salainen\ntoivo, että kenties piankin tulemme yhdistetyksi häneen vielä\nläheisimmillä siteillä. En muista, olenko ennen virkkanut sinulle\nmitään ajatuksistani tästä asiasta, mutta tunnen, etten voi lähteä\ntäältä uskoutumatta kokonaan sinulle, armahin ystäväni. Veljeni on jo\nennenkin suuresti ihaillut neiti Darcya; nyt hänelle tulee tilaisuutta\nseurustella hänen kanssaan entistä enemmän ja tuttavallisessa\nkotipiirissä; Georgianan omaiset toivovat heidän avioliittoansa yhtä\nhartaasti kuin mekin; enkä usko, että sisarellinen puolueellisuus\njohtaa minut harhaan väittäessäni, että Charles kykenee valloittamaan\nminkä naisen sydämen hän vain tahtoo. Kaikki asianhaarat siis\npuolustavat tätä liittoa eivätkä mitkään seikat vastusta sitä; olenko\nsiis väärässä, rakkahin Jane, kun lausun toivovani tuon tapauksen\ntoteutumista, joka lupaa onnea niin monelle?\"\n\n\"Mitä sinä _tästä_ sanot, rakas Lizzy?\" kysyi Jane. \"Eikö kaikki ole\nsanottu kyllin suoraan? Eikö siitä käy päivän selvästi ilmi, ettei\nCaroline odota eikä toivo minua kälykseen; että hän on aivan vakuutettu\nveljensä välinpitämättömyydestä minun suhteeni; ja että jos hän on\naavistanut minun tunteitani hänen veljeään kohtaan, niin hän tahtoo\ntässä mitä hienotunteisimmin varoittaa minua toivomasta turhia? Voiko\nmitään muuta päätelläkään?\"\n\n\"Miksi ei voisi; minä ainakin ajattelen aivan toisin. Tahdotko kuulla?\"\n\n\"Mitä hartaimmin!\"\n\n\"Sanon sen sinulle lyhyesti. Neiti Bingley on huomannut veljensä\nrakastuneen sinuun, mutta hän toivoo neiti Darcya kälykseen. Siinä\nmielessä hän seuraa häntä Lontooseen, jossa hän tahtoo pidättää häntä\nniin kauan kuin suinkin ja toimia koko ajan sinua vastaan, kunnes saa\nveljensä mielen käännetyksi pois sinusta.\"\n\nJane pudisti päätään.\n\n\"Ihan totta, Jane, sinun pitää uskoa minua. Ei kukaan, joka on nähnyt\nteidät yhdessä, voi epäilläkään herra Bingleyn tunteita sinua kohtaan;\nei ainakaan hänen sisarensa, siitä olen varma, sillä mikään pölkkypää\nhän ei ole. Jos hän olisi itse puoleksikin niin suuresti rakastunut\nherra Darcyyn, niin hän olisi jo tilannut hääpukunsa valmiiksi. Mutta\njuttu on tämä: me emme ole kyllin ylhäiset emmekä varakkaat\nkelvataksemme heidän rinnalleen; ja neiti Bingley on sitä halukkaampi\nnaittamaan veljensä neiti Darcyn kanssa, koska hän toivoo, että yhden\nsisarusparin avioliitto raivaa tietä toisellekin ja että hän itse\npääsee lyömään neiti Bourghin laudalta. Mutta ethän sinä, rakkahin\nJane, voi vakavissasi kuvitella, että herra Bingley sen takia pitäisi\nsinusta vähemmän, että hänen sisarensa ihailee neiti Darcya;\nnähtiinhän, minkälaiset jäähyväiset hän sinulta otti viime tiistaina.\"\n\n\"Jos kumpikin ajattelisimme samalla tapaa neiti Bingleystä\", vastasi\nJane, \"niin yhtyisin täydestä sydämestäni sinun mielipiteeseesi, ja\nminun olisi paljon helpompi olla. Mutta minä tiedän, että sinun\nperustelusi on väärä. Carolinen on mahdoton pettää tahallaan ketään; ja\nminun ainoa toivoni on, että hän on itse pettynyt huomioissaan.\"\n\n\"Se on oikein. Onnellisempaa ajatusta et olisi voinut saadakaan, koska\net kerta ota lohtua minun ajatuksestani; usko vain kaikin mokomin, että\nhän itse on pettynyt ja arvostelee asioita sen vuoksi väärin. Sinä olet\nsiten osoittanut hänelle kaikkea oikeutta ja kohtuutta, eikä sinun\ntarvitse enää hätäillä ja harmitella yhtään.\"\n\n\"Mutta, rakas sisko, voinko minä olla onnellinen, vaikka minua\nrakastaisikin mies, jonka kaikki omaiset ja ystävät toivovat hänen\nkiinnittävän mieltymyksensä toiselle taholle?\"\n\n\"Se sinun on itsesi ratkaistava\", sanoi Elizabeth. \"Jos sinä kypsästi\nasiaa harkittuasi todella tulet siihen päätökseen, että sinun on\nparempi osoittaa kuuliaisuutta hänen sisarilleen kuin tulla\nonnelliseksi hänen itsensä kanssa, niin neuvon sinua kaikin mokomin\nantamaan hänelle rukkaset.\"\n\n\"Kuinka sinä saatatkaan lörpötellä tuollaista?\" sanoi Jane ja hymyili\nheikosti. \"Pitäisihän sinun tietää, etten minä ollenkaan epäröisi,\nvaikka sisarten vastarinta kovasti pahoittaisikin mieltäni.\"\n\n\"Tiesinhän, ettet epäröisikään, ja senvuoksi en aiokaan suuresti\nsäälitellä sinua.\"\n\n\"Mutta entäpä, jollei hän enää palaakaan tänne tänä talvena --\nsilloinhan on samantekevää, mitä minä ajattelen ja päätän. Asiat voivat\nmuuttua tuhannella tavalla puolen vuoden kuluessa.\"\n\nMutta tuohon ajatukseen Elizabeth ei mitenkään tahtonut yhtyä. Hänestä\nse tuntui vain Carolinen mieluiselta toivomukselta; eikä hän voinut\nhetkeksikään taipua uskomaan, että niin itsenäinen nuori mies kuin hra\nBingley olisi riippuvainen kenenkään tahdosta tai toivomuksista.\n\nHän lausui sisarelleen mielipiteensä tässä asiassa niin pontevassa\nmuodossa kuin suinkin voi, ja piankin hänellä oli ilo nähdä suotuisa\ntulos taivuttelustaan. Janen tasainen luonnonlaatu ei kernaasti\nkärsinyt pohjatonta epätoivoisuutta; ja hän antoi kernaasti suostutella\nitsensä uskomaan, että kävi miten kävi, Bingley palaisi kohtakin\nNetherfieldiin täyttämään hänen sydämensä halun.\n\nSisarukset sopivat keskenään siitä, että rva Bennetille kerrottaisiin\nainoastaan Netherfieldin perheen poislähdöstä, saattamatta häntä\nlainkaan hätäännyksiin vävypojaksi toivotun nuoren miehen menettelyn\njohdosta; mutta tämäkin niukka ilmoitus antoi arvon rouvalle aihetta\nsiunailla nykyaikaisen nuorison kummaa käytöstä ja erittäinkin\npäivitellä Netherfieldin naisten poislähtöä, juuri kun heistä oli\ntulemassa niin hyvät ystävät hänen omien tytärtensä kanssa. Aikansa\ntätä haikailtuaan hän kuitenkin lohduttautui sillä varmalla toivolla,\nettä hra Bingley kohta Netherfieldiin palattuaan tulisi päivälliselle\nLongbourniin ja silloin hän varustaisi pöytään ylimääräiset ruokalajit.\n\n\n\n\nXXII LUKU.\n\n\nBennetin perhe oli kutsuttu Lucasten luo päivälliselle; ja taasen oli\nCharlotte kyllin kiltti kuuntelemaan miltei koko illan hra Collinsin\nhaastelua, ansaiten sen kautta Elizabethilta lämpimät kiitokset. \"Sinä\npidät häntä hyvällä tuulella hänen poislähtöönsä saakka\", sanoi hän,\n\"ja siitä olen sinulle kiitollisempi kuin osaan sanoakaan\".\nCharlotte vakuutti ystävättärelleen, että hän kernaasti oli toisille\nhyödyksi miten vain taisi, ja että ilo ja tyydytys sellaisesta\nystävänpalveluksesta korvasi runsaasti hänelle vähän vaivannäön.\nHerttaiseltahan tuo kaikki kuulosti; mutta Charlotte ulotti\nystävällisyytensä pitemmälle kuin Elizabeth osasi arvatakaan -- hän\nnäet tahtoi suojella tätä hra Collinsin kiintymykseltä koettamalla\nkohdistaa sen omaan lylleröiseen persoonaansa. Sellainen oli suoraan\npuhuen nti Lucasin suunnitelma; ja se luonnistui niin mainiosti, että\nhän vieraitten myöhään poistuessa oli miltei varma siitä, että kaikki\nolisi ollut kohtakin selvillä, jollei hra Collinsin olisi tarvinnut\nlähteä Hertfordshirestä niin pian. Mutta tällöinpä neitonen erehtyi\nritarinsa voimakkaasta luonteesta ja tulisista tunteista, jotka saivat\ntämän jo seuraavana aamuna karkaamaan salakähmää Longbournista ja\nkiirehtimään Lucas Lodgeen heittäytyäkseen Charlotten jalkain juureen.\nHra Collinsin arkailu oli hyvin käsitettävä; keskiviikkona saamansa\nrukkaset olivat pahasti järkyttäneet hänen itseluottamustaan, eikä hän\ntahtonut antaa serkkujensa arvailla hänen asiaansa, ennenkuin hän itse\noli siitä täysin varma. Häntä kuitenkin odotti perillä mitä vakuuttavin\nvastaanotto. Neiti Lucas oli itse älynnyt hänet akkunasta, kun hän\nasteli puistokujannetta taloa kohti, ja rientänyt oitis alas tapaamaan\ntulijaa ruohokentällä. Mutta vähänpä oli Charlotte osannut arvata, mikä\nrakkauden ja kaunopuheisuuden yltäkylläisyys häntä siellä odotti.\n\nNiin lyhyessä ajassa kuin hra Collinsin pitkäveteinen saarnanuotti\nsuinkin salli, oli tärkeä kysymys ratkaistu molemminpuoliseksi\ntyytyväisyydeksi; ja kun he yhdessä kävivät sisälle, vannotti\nonnellinen sulhanen lemmittyään vakavasti nimeämään sen päivän ja\nhetken, jolloin hänen aivoituksensa kruunattaisiin alttarin edessä ja\nhänestä tulisi onnellisin kaikista aviomiehistä; ja vaikka tätä\nkysymystä ei käynyt käden käänteessä ratkaiseminen, ei neitosella silti\nollut halua pitää nuoren miehen totisia tunteita pilanaan.\n\nSir William ja Lady Lucas olivat kerkeät antamaan siunauksensa\nsolmitulle liitolle. Hra Collinsin nykyiset olosuhteet tekivät hänestä\nmieluisan puolison heidän tyttärelleen, jolle he suuren lapsiparvensa\nvuoksi voivat antaa jokseenkin pienet myötäjäiset. Lady Lucas rupesi\nmielessään punnitsemaan suuremmalla mielenkiinnolla kuin koskaan ennen\nhra Bennetille suotujen elinvuosien pituutta; ja Sir William lausui\nhyvin päättäväisesti mielipiteenään, että peripä hra Collins\nLongbournin tai oli perimättä, niin joka tapauksessa oli suotava, että\nhän nuorikkoineen kävisi kohta häiden jälkeen esittäytymässä\nkuningashovissa.\n\nKoko perhe oli hyvin iloissaan onnellisesta tapahtumasta. Nuoremmat\ntyttäret toivoivat tämän johdosta pääsevänsä mukaan seuraelämään vuotta\ntai paria aikaisemmin kuin muuten olisivat päässeet; ja pojat tunsivat\nhuojennusta, kun ei enää ollut pelkoa, että Charlotte jäisi vanhaksi\npiiaksi. Charlotte itse oli levollinen ja tyytyväinen. Hän oli\nsaavuttanut päämääränsä, ja hänellä oli hyvää aikaa miettiä sitä. Hra\nCollins ei tosin ollut mikään erittäin älykäs eikä miellyttävä mies;\nhänen seuranpitonsa oli väsyttävä, ja hänen kiintymyksensä morsiameensa\ntäytyi olla itseluulottelua. Mutta sittenkin oli Charlotte saanut\nitselleen sulhasen, mikä oli pääasia. Panematta erityisen suurta\narvoa miehiin ylipäänsä hän oli aina pitänyt avioliittoa elämänsä\npäämääränä; mitäpä muuta turvaa hyvin kasvatetulla, mutta\nvähävaraisella nuorella naisella olikaan säästyäkseen näkemästä pahoja\npäiviä? Tähän turvasatamaan hän nyt oli pääsemäisillään, ja\nseitsemänkolmattavuotiaaksi ennättänyt tyttö, joka ei ole erityisen\nkaunis, voi tällöin kiitellä hyvää onneaan. Ikävintä muuten mieluisessa\njutussa oli kertoa siitä Elizabeth Bennetille, jonka ystävyyteen hän\npani enemmän arvoa kuin yhdenkään toisen ihmisen. Elizabeth tietysti\nihmettelisi asiainkäännettä, ehkäpä moittisikin häntä; ja vaikka\nCharlotten päätös olikin järkähtämätön, koskisi toisen paheksuminen\nkipeästi hänen tunteisiinsa. Hän päätti ilmoittaa asiasta itse,\nennenkuin kukaan pääsisi kääntelemään sitä, ja vannotti senvuoksi hra\nCollinsia vaikenemaan siitä visusti Longbourniin palattuaan. Sulhanen\nantoikin tietysti vaitiololupauksen, vaikka tiesi sen pitämisen käyvän\nhänelle vaikeaksi; sillä hänen pitkä poissaolonsa aiheuttaisi\nluonnollisesti kyselyjä, joihin hänen oli tukala vastata ilmaisematta\nasianlaitaa; samalla se vaati häneltä suurta itsekieltäytymystä, sillä\nhänen teki mieli pöyhkeillä hyvällä onnellaan sen perheen keskuudessa,\njossa hän oli vastikään saanut rukkaset.\n\nKoska hänen oli lähdettävä matkalle varhain seuraavana aamuna, lausui\nhän talonväelle jäähyväiset jo illalla, kun naiset nousivat pöydästä\npoistuakseen makuusuojiinsa. Rva Bennet toivotti hänet erittäin\nsydämellisin sanoin uudelleen tervetulleeksi Longbourniin, milloin hän\nmuilta toimiltaan suinkin pääsi tulemaan.\n\n\"Rakas arvoisa rouvani\", vastasi vieras, \"tämä kutsunne on minulle\nerittäin mieluinen, sillä suoraan sanoen odotinkin sitä; ja olkaa\nvarma, että tulen käyttämään sitä hyväkseni niin pian kuin minulle vain\non mahdollista.\"\n\nKaikki olivat ällistyksissään; ja hra Bennet, joka ei lainkaan toivonut\nvierastaan niin pian palaavaksi, huomautti:\n\n\"Mutta luuletteko Lady Catherinen siihen suostuvan, hyvä herra? Teidän\nolisi mielestäni parempi laiminlyödä sukulaisianne kuin pahoittaa\npalkanmaksajanne mieltä.\"\n\n\"Rakas arvoisa isäntäni\", vastasi hra Collins, \"olen hyvin\nkiitollinen teidän huolenpidostanne minun hyvistä suhteistani hänen\njalosukuisuuteensa; mutta saatte olla varma, etten aiokaan ottaa niin\npainokasta askelta ilman hänen nimenomaista suostumustaan.\"\n\n\"Ette voi mitenkään olla liiaksi varovainen. Olkaa kernaammin\nvälittämättä kaikesta muusta kuin hänen epäsuosiostaan; ja jos vain\nhuomaatte herättävänne sitä palaamalla tänne takaisin, niin pysykää\nkaikin mokomin kotona ja rauhoittakaa mieltänne sillä tiedolla, että me\nainakaan emme loukkaannu poisjäämisestänne.\"\n\n\"Rakas serkkuni, olen erinomaisen kiitollinen niin liikuttavasta\nhuolenpidostanne minun asioistani; ja olkaa varma, että pian saatte\nminulta kirjeen, jossa seikkaperäisemmin kiitän sekä tästä että\nkaikesta muusta vierasvaraisuudestanne, jota olen saanut nauttia täällä\nHertfordshiressä. Mitä kaunoisiin serkkuihini tulee, niin -- vaikka\npoissaoloni täältä ei tulekaan pitkäaikaiseksi -- pyydän nyt toivottaa\nheille terveyttä ja onnea, suinkaan sulkematta toivotuksestani\nElizabeth serkkuakaan.\"\n\nSamanlaisten kohteliaisuuksien jatkuessa naiset vetäytyivät omalle\npuolelleen, kaikki yhtä ihmeissään vieraan odottamattomasta\npalaamisesta. Rva Bennet halusi mieluusti käsittää asian siten, että\nhra Collins aikoi kohdistaa huomaavaisuutensa johonkin hänen\nnuoremmista tyttäristään, jolloin Maryn tuli astua vuoroon. Tämä\nneitonen muutenkin arvosteli kosijan persoonallisia ominaisuuksia\nparemmin kuin muut sisarensa; hänen vakavat mielipiteensä ja jyrkkä\nkatsantokantansa miellyttivät oppinutta impeä, ja vaikka hän ei\nsuinkaan ollut sellainen älypää kuin Mary itse, arveli tämä, että hra\nCollinsista voisi hänen vertaisensa elämäntoverin rinnalla tulla\nmieluinenkin aviomies. Mutta seuraavana aamuna surkastutti kylmä halla\nkaikki nämä hennot toivon oraat. Nti Lucas saapui näet kohta aamiaisen\njälkeen Longbourniin ja uskoi yksityisessä keskustelussa Elizabethille\neilisiltaisen onnensa.\n\nElizabethin päähän oli tosin viime päivinä kerran tai pari pälkähtänyt,\nettä hra Collins oli saattanut kuvitella rakastuneensa hänen\nystävättäreensä; mutta että Charlotte itse olisi käynyt rohkaisemaan\ntuota kömpelöä kosijaa, sitä hän ei ollut osannut uskoakaan; ja hänen\nyllätyksensä kuulemastaan uutisesta oli senvuoksi niin suuri, ettei hän\nvoinut pidättyä huudahtamasta:\n\n\"Sinäkö kihloissa herra Collinsin kanssa, Charlotte? Se on mahdotonta.\nÄlä uskottele minulle päättömiä.\"\n\nNeiti Lucasin tasainen maltti, millä hän oli kertonut uutisensa,\njärkähti vähän sellaisesta moitteesta; mutta naisellinen itsetunto\nterästi hänet kohta, niin että hän kykeni vastaamaan kylmäverisesti:\n\n\"Miksi sinä siitä niin suuresti hämmästyt, rakas Eliza? Onko sinusta\nsitten niin uskomaton asia, että herra Collins pystyy saavuttamaan\njonkun toisen naisen arvonantoa, vaikka hänellä ei ole ollutkaan onnea\nsinun silmissäsi?\"\n\nElizabeth oli jo ennättänyt tointua ensi hämmästyksestään, niin että\nhän kykeni tahtoaan terästäen toivottamaan morsiamelle parahinta onnea\nja sanoi iloitsevansa, että he täten tulivat tavallaan sukuun\nkeskenään.\n\n\"Minä ymmärrän kyllä hyvin sinun tunteesi\", sanoi Charlotte. \"Sinun\ntäytyy olla suuresti ihmeissäsi siitä, että herra Collins joutui jo\nniin pian sinulta rukkaset saatuaan kosimaan minua. Mutta kun olet\nennättänyt tarkemmin ajatella asiaa, niin toivon, että tulet olemaan\ntyytyväinen tällaiseen asiainmenoon. Tiedäthän, etten minä ole\nvähimmässäkään määrässä romanttinen ihminen, enkä ole sitä koskaan\nollutkaan. Minä haluan ainoastaan saada mukavan olon ja hauskan kodin;\nja ottaen lukuun herra Collinsin luonteenlaadun, elämänaseman ja hyvät\ntuttavuussuhteet luulen voivani olla varma, että tulen hänen kanssaan\nolemaan ainakin yhtä onnellinen kuin useimmat muut naiset voivat\nitsestään vakuuttaa naimisiin mennessään.\"\n\nElizabeth vastasi levollisesti \"epäilemättä\", ja lyhyen piinallisen\näänettömyyden jälkeen he palasivat muun perheen pariin. Charlotte ei\nenää viipynyt kauan, ja Elizabeth jäi mietiskelemään äsken kuulemaansa\nja kokemaansa. Kesti kauan, ennenkuin hän kykeni levollisesti\nsulattamaan tuon merkillisen kihlausjutun. Se seikka, että hra Collins\nkykeni kosimaan kahta tyttöä kolmen päivän kuluessa, ei merkinnyt\nmitään sen tosiasian rinnalla, että hänet lopultakin oli hyväksytty\nsulhaseksi. Elizabeth oli kyllä aina tiennyt, että Charlotte katseli\nelämää ja nimenomaan avioliittoa vähän toiselta kannalta kuin hän;\nmutta hän ei olisi arvannut pitää mahdollisena, että ystävätär täyden\ntoden eteen tullessa mieluummin uhrasi kaikki paremmat persoonalliset\ntunteensa aineellisten seikkojen vuoksi. Charlotte Lucas hra Collinsin\nvaimona -- se oli mitä nöyryyttävin kuva!\n\n\n\n\nXXIII LUKU.\n\n\nElizabeth istui äitinsä ja sisarustensa parissa yhäti mietiskellen\näsken kuulemaansa ja arvaillen, oliko hänellä oikeutta kertoa siitä\ntoisille, kun Sir William itse saapui vieraisiin, ilmeisesti tyttärensä\nlähettämänä ilmoittamaan kihlauksesta. Monin onnitteluin naapureille ja\nomalle perheelleen alkavasta sukulaissuhteesta hän purki kuuluviin\nuutisensa hyvin ällistyneelle ja epäuskoiselle kuulijapiirille.\nSuuremmalla suoravaisuudella kuin kohteliaisuudella rva Bennet väitti\noitis, että hän oli tykkänään erehtynyt; ja aina ajattelematon ja\nmonesti kerkeäpuheinen Lydia huudahti meluavasti:\n\n\"Herra isä sentään! Kuinka te saatatte tuollaista palturia meille\nsyöttää, Sir William? Ettekö tiedä, että herra Collins kosi meidän\nLizzyä?\"\n\nTarvittiin todellakin hovilaisen järkkymätön mielenmaltti ja levollinen\nkohteliaisuus, jotta Sir William kykeni ylevästi hymyillen sulattamaan\nnaisten kiivaat vastaväitteet ja yhä vakuuttamaan tuomansa uutisen\ntodenperäisyyttä.\n\nElizabeth tunsi tarvetta vapauttaa vieras tästä tukalasta tilanteesta\nja kävi sen vuoksi vahvistamaan hänen kertomustaan, mainiten jo\nkuulleensa asiasta Charlottelta itseltään; ja hänen onnistui vaimentaa\näitinsä ja nuorempain sisartensa soraäänet lausumalla Sir Williamille\ntotiset onnittelunsa (joihin Janekin yhtyi) kihlauksen johdosta,\nperustellen niitä vetoamalla hra Collinsin mainioon luonnonlaatuun ja\nHunsfordin läheisyyteen Lontoosta ja sen hovista.\n\nRva Bennet oli kuulemastaan uutisesta liiaksi hämmentynyt kyetäkseen\npaljonkaan puhumaan Sir Williamin vierailun aikana; mutta kohta kun ovi\noli sulkeutunut tämän takana, purkautuivat hänen tunteensa rajusti\nilmoille. Ensiksikin hän väitti, että koko juttu oli perätöntä\nhölynpölyä; toiseksi hän vakuutti olevansa vallan varma siitä, että hra\nCollinsille oli viritetty kavala ansa; kolmanneksi, että nuoresta\nparista ei ikinä tulisi onnellisia; ja neljänneksi, että kihlauksen\ntäytyi välttämättömästi pian purkautua. Kaksi selvää johtopäätöstä hän\njoka tapauksessa kykeni tekemään näistä jokseenkin sotkuisista\nasianhaaroista: että Elizabethin uppiniskaisuus oli syynä kaikkeen; ja\nettä kaikki ihmiset olivat ylen julmasti kohdelleet häntä ja hänen\nhermojaan. Näistä kahdesta asiasta hän sitten piti puhetta koko päivän\nmittaan. Mikään ei pystynyt lohduttamaan ja lepyttämään häntä. Eikä\nhänen kaunansa pehminnyt vielä senkään päivän kuluttua. Kesti\nkokonaisen viikon, ennenkuin hän kykeni näkemään Elizabethia käymättä\noitis hänen silmilleen; kokonaisen kuukauden, ennenkuin hän voi puhua\nSir Williamin tai Lady Lucasin kanssa töykeyttä osoittamatta, ja kesti\nmonia kuukausia, ennenkuin hän antoi anteeksi heidän tyttärelleen.\n\nHra Bennet pysyi paljon levollisempana tapahtuman johdosta; tämä\nkokenut ihmistuntija selitti tyydytyksellä havainneensa, että Charlotte\nLucas, jota hän oli pitänyt jokseenkin järkevänä tyttönä, oli yhtä\nhupsu kuin hänen vaimonsa ja vielä hupsumpi kuin hänen omat tyttärensä.\n\nLady Lucas ei voinut salata riemuaan sen johdosta, että hänen\ntyttärensä oli päässyt onnellisesti kihloihin ennen naapurin rouvan\ntyttöjä ja että tämä seikka oli omiaan harmittamaan naapurin rouvaa\nsydämen pohjasta; ja ilmaistakseen näitä ihmisystävällisiä tunteitaan\nhän rupesi käymään Longbournissa entistä ahkerampaan, vaikka rva\nBennetin happamien ilmeiden ja pisteliäiden huomautusten olisi luullut\nvoivan katkeroittaa hänen onnensa maljan pohjaan saakka.\n\nElizabethin ja Charlotten välillä vallitsi vielä edelleenkin jännitys,\njoka pidätti heitä puuttumasta tuohon arkaan puheenaiheeseen; ja\nElizabethista tuntui siltä, ettei vanha luottamuksellinen suhde voisi\nenää koskaan palata heidän välilleen. Charlotten lemmenhistoriasta\npettyneenä hän kääntyi sitä hellemmällä kiintymyksellä Jane sisareensa,\njonka sydämen onnesta hän kävi päivä päivältä yhä hätäytyneemmäksi, kun\nBingleyn palaamisesta ei vieläkään kuulunut yhtään mitään.\n\nJane oli oitis vastannut Carolinen kirjeeseen ja laski nyt päiviä ja\nhetkiä, milloin hän voisi odottaa jotain toivon aihetta. Hra Collinsin\nlupaama kiitoskirje saapui jo tiistaina ja ilmaisi niin mahtipontista\nkiitollisuutta, kuin olisi arvoisa lähettäjä vieraillut perheessä\nvähintäänkin vuoden päivät. Selvitettyään täten kiitollisuudenvelkansa\nhän ilmoitti monin tuntehikkain kääntein heille onnellisesta\nkihlauksestaan heidän ihastuttavan naapurinsa nti Lucasin kanssa sekä\nlupasi jälleen saapua Longbourniin maanantaista kahden viikon päästä.\nLady Catherine oli näet ollut niin ihastunut hänen sopivasta\nvalinnastaan, että vaati häät pidettäväksi niin pian kuin mahdollista;\nja tämä hänen jalosukuisuutensa toivomus oli kirjoittajan mielestä\nparahin valtti, jolla hänen jumaloitu Charlottensa saataisiin pian\nnimeämään se päivä ja hetki, jolloin hänestä tulisi aviomiehistä\nonnellisin.\n\nHra Collinsin palaus Hertfordshireen ei enää lainkaan ilahduttanut rva\nBennetiä. Päinvastoin hän oli valmis nureksimaan sitä yhtä paljon kuin\npuolisonsakin. Hänestä oli hyvin merkillistä, että sulhanen majoittuisi\nLongbourniin eikä Lucas Lodgeen -- se oli sekä sopimatonta että\nhäiritsevää. Hän ei mitenkään suvainnut talossa vieraita, niin kauan\nkuin hänen terveydentilansa oli niin säälittävä, ja kaikista vieraista\nolivat rakastuneet ihmiset hänestä kaikkein sietämättömimmät. Eipä\nihme, ettei rva Bennetin pahantuulisuus ottanut lauhtuakseen, eikä sitä\nsuinkaan lievittänyt hra Bingleyn jatkuva ja käsittämätön poissaolo.\n\nSama seikka ei antanut rauhaa myöskään Janelle eikä Elizabethille.\nPäivä kului toisensa jälkeen, ilman että hänestä kuului muuta kuin koko\nMerytonissa kiertelevä huhu, ettei hän aikonut palata Netherfieldiin\nenää koko talvena; mikä huhu oli omiaan panemaan rva Bennetin hermot\nkovalle koetukselle. Hän ei koskaan laiminlyönyt leimata sitä mitä\ntyperimmäksi ja ilkeämielisimmäksi valheeksi.\n\nYksinpä Elizabethkin rupesi jo pelkäämään -- ei Bingleyn\nvälinpitämättömyyttä Janesta, vaan että hänen sisartensa onnistuisi\npidättää hänet poissa Janen lähettyviltä. Nuo tunteettomat naiset ja\nhänen voimakastahtoinen ystävänsä, yhdessä nti Darcyn persoonallisten\nsulojen ja Lontoon tarjoamain huvitusten kanssa, saisivat ajan\npitkittyessä kukaties rakastuneen nuoren miehen tunteet viilenemään.\n\nMitä Janeen itseensä tuli, niin _hänen_ tuskansa tänä jännityksen\naikana oli luonnollisesti vielä suurempi kuin Elizabethin; mutta hän\nkätki surunsa sydämeensä, eikä hänen ja Elizabethin kesken kosketeltu\nsanallakaan tätä asiaa. Se ei kuitenkaan estänyt hänen äitiään sen\nkymmenen kertaa päivässä palaamasta siihen ja tulkitsemasta\nkärsimätöntä ihmetystään Bingleyn äänettömyydestä tai vaatimasta Janea\njulkisesti tunnustamaan, että hän tunsi itsensä hyvin huonosti\nkohdelluksi. Tarvittiin todella Janen koko tasainen lempeys, jotta hän\njaksoi näköjään tyynin mielin kohdata näitä alituisia hyökkäyksiä.\n\nHra Collins saapui mitä säntillisimmin lupaamaansa aikaan, mutta hänen\nvastaanottonsa Longbournissa ei tällä kertaa ollut yhtä sydämellinen\nkuin hänen ensi käynnillään. Hän oli kuitenkin niin suuresti onnensa\nlumoissa, ettei hän kaivannutkaan suurta huomaavaisuutta; ja totta\npuhuen hänen väsymätön lemmenkuhertelunsa tuntui toisista\nhuojennukselta, sillä se vapautti heidät pitämästä hänelle seuraa.\nSuurimman osan joka päivästä hän vietti Lucas Lodgessa, palaten monesti\nvasta iltahämärissä Longbourniin, niin että hän ennätti lausua\nvalittelunsa myöhästymisestään talonväelle, kun nämä olivat jo levolle\nkäymässä.\n\nRva Bennet oli tulimmaisessa tuskassa. Jo pelkkä kihlauksen\nmainitseminen ja kaikki, mikä vain oli jossain yhteydessä sen kanssa,\nsaattoi hänet vihan vimmoihin; ja kuitenkin hän voi olla varma, että\nkuuli siitä mainittavan alituisesti sekä kotona että kylässä. Pelkkä\nnti Lucasin näkeminen oli hänelle ylen ärsyttävää; kun Charlotte saapui\nkyläilemään Longbourniin, epäili emäntä vieraansa tulleen vain\ntarkastelemaan tulevaista rukinsijaa; ja milloin tämä puheli hiljaa hra\nCollinsin kanssa, oli hän täysin vakuutettu, että he puhelivat vain\nsiitä, milloin saisivat tilan haltuunsa ja viskaisivat hänet\ntyttärineen maantielle. Rva Bennet valitti katkerasti kaikkea tätä\nvääryyttä puolisolleen.\n\n\"On tosiaan katkeraa ajatella, rakas Bennet\", hän sanoi, \"että\nCharlotte Lucas pääsee kerran emännöimään tässä talossa, että _minun_\npitää tehdä tilaa _hänelle_ ja vielä elävin silmin nähdä hänet\nsijassani!\"\n\n\"Rakkaani, älä anna tuollaisille synkille ajatuksille valtaa itsessäsi.\nToivokaamme, että asiat tulevat kääntymään paremmin päin. Otaksukaamme,\nettä minä saan vielä haudata herra Collinsinkin.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXIV LUKU.\n\n\nNeiti Bingleyn kirje saapui viimein ja teki lopun kaikesta\nepätietoisuudesta. Jo aivan ensi lauseessa siinä vakuutettiin, että\nperhe aikoi koko talveksi jäädä Lontooseen ja valitettiin veljen\npahoittelevan, ettei hän ollut joutunut käymään ottamassa jäähyväisiä\nHertfordshiressa olevilta ystäviltä ennen poislähtöään.\n\nVähinkin toivo oli siis sammunut; eikä kirjeen loppuosakaan sisältänyt\nmitään lohdutusta Janelle, lukuunottamatta kirjoittajan vakuuttelua\nainaisesta ystävyydestään. Pääosana siinä oli nti Darcylle suitsutettu\nylistys. Kaikki tämän persoonalliset viehättäväisyydet jauhettiin\njälleen läpi; ja Caroline kerskaili heidän läheisen ystävyytensä\nlujittumisesta ja rohkeni lausua toivonsa sen lopulliseen kukkaan\npuhkeamisesta paljon varmemmassa sävyssä kuin edellisessä kirjeessään.\nHän ilmoitti myöskin veljensä viihtyvän mainiosti hra Darcyn talossa ja\nmainitsi jälkimmäisen aikovan tehdä joitakin hyvää lupaavia muutoksia\nsen sisustuksessa.\n\nElizabeth, jolle Jane oitis uskoi kirjeen sisällyksen, kuunteli sitä\nnärkästyksestä mykistyneenä. Hänen sydämessään taisteli hellä sääli\nsisarta kohtaan ja tuima viha kaikkia muita asianosaisia vastaan.\nCarolinen viittauksia veljensä mieltymyksestä nti Darcyyn hän ei\nottanut lainkaan uskoakseen. Hän oli yhtä varma kuin ennenkin siitä,\nettä hra Bingley oli täydellä todella rakastunut Janeen ja rakasti\nhäntä edelleenkin; mutta vaikka hän itsekin oli aina pitänyt suuresti\ntästä miellyttävästä nuoresta miehestä, ei hän nyt voinut ilman\nvihastusta, jopa ylenkatsettakin, nähdä, kuinka helposti hän antoi\nomaistensa ja ystävänsä johtaa häntä ja alistui alttiisti uhraamaan\nomansa ja rakastamansa tytön elämänonnen näiden oikkujen ja vallanhimon\nvuoksi.\n\nKului päivä tai parikin, ennenkuin Jane rohkeni ilmaista tunteensa\nElizabethille; vihdoin, kun rva Bennet oli tavallista itsepäisemmin\ninnoitellut Netherfieldin tyhjyyttä ja sen isännän merkillistä\nkäyttäytymistä, ei Jane voinut pidättyä sanomasta sisarelleen:\n\n\"Ah, kunpa äiti rakas kykenisi paremmin hillitsemään itseään! Hän ei\nvoi aavistaakaan, mitä tuskaa hän tuottaa minulle puhelemalla\nalituisesti herra Bingleystä. Mutta minä en tahdo nureksia. Tätä ei\nsaata kestää kauan. Hän unhottuu meidät ajatuksistamme piankin, ja\nkaikki on meidän keskuudessamme jälleen niinkuin ennenkin.\"\n\nElizabeth katsahti sisareensa ihmetellen ja epäuskoisesti eikä\nvastannut mitään.\n\n\"Etkö usko minua?\" huudahti Jane kevyesti punastuen. \"Sinulla ei ole\nyhtään syytä epäillä minun vilpittömyyttäni. Minä voin säilyttää hänet\nmuistissani edelleenkin rakastettavimpana miehenä, jonka koskaan olen\ntuntenut; mutta siinä onkin kaikki. Minulla ei ole enää aihetta toivoa\neikä peljätä mitään, eikä myöskään moittia häntä mistään. Kiitos\nJumalan, että ainakin _se_ tuska on minulta säästetty! Vähän ajan\nkuluttua ... minä varmastikin tunnen oloni jälleen helpommaksi...\"\n\nVäkisin hilliten tunteitaan hän jatkoi lujemmalla äänellä: \"Se lohdutus\nminulla ainakin on nyt ja alati, ettei kysymyksessä ole alun pitäen\nollutkaan muuta kuin pelkkä harhaluulo minun puoleltani, ja ettei se\nole tehnyt kipeätä keillekään muille kuin minulle itselleni.\"\n\n\"Rakas Janeni\", huudahti Elizabeth, \"sinä olet liian hyvä. Sinun\nlempeytesi ja epäitsekkäisyytesi ovat kerrassaan enkelimäiset; en\noikein tiedä, mitä sinulle sanoisinkaan. Minusta tuntuu, etten koskaan\nole tehnyt sinulle kylliksi oikeutta enkä rakastanut sinua niin paljon\nkuin sinä ansaitset.\"\n\nNti Bennet torjui kiihkeästi kaikki sisarensa ylistelyt; hänellä ei\nollut mitään erinomaisia ominaisuuksia eikä hän ansainnut niin suurta\nrakkautta.\n\n\"Ei\", sanoi Elizabeth, \"tämä ei ole oikein eikä kohtuullista. _Sinun_\nmielestäsi koko maailma on kiitoksen arvoinen, ja sinä loukkaudut\noitis, jos minä puhun pahaa kenestäkään. _Minä_ pidän ainoastaan_\nsinua_ täydellisenä olentona, ja sinä panet kohta vastaan. Älä pelkää\nminun yhtään liioittelevan, tai että minä pukeutuisin sinun tavallasi\nyleismaailmallisen hyväntahtoisuuden vaippaan. Minä rakastan perin\nharvoja ihmisiä, ja vielä harvemmista ajattelen jotain hyvää. Mitä\nenemmän tulen tuntemaan maailmaa, sitä vähemmän se minun mieltäni\ntyydyttää, ja joka päivä saan uusia todisteita ihmisluonteiden\nristiriitaisuudesta ja kaiken näennäisen ansiokkaisuuden ja järkevyyden\nturhuudesta. Kaksi hyvää esimerkkiä olen siitä äskettäin nähnyt --\ntoista en huoli mainita, toinen on Charlotten kihlaus. Se on minusta\nkäsittämätön, joka suhteessa aivan käsittämätön!\"\n\n\"Rakas Lizzy, älä päästä tuollaisia tunteita valloilleen sielussasi. Ne\nturmelevat sinun oman onnellisuutesi. Ajattelehan toki herra Collinsin\narvossapidettyä asemaa ja Charlotten viisasta ja vakavaa luonnetta.\nMuista myöskin, että hän on kunnioitettavasta perheestä; että\nvarallisuuteen nähden hänen valintansa on mitä edullisin, ja usko toki\nkaiken hyvän nimessä, että hänen täytynee tuntea jonkin verran\nkunnioitusta ja arvonantoa serkkuamme kohtaan.\"\n\n\"Sinun mieliksesi tahtoisin koettaa uskoa melkein mitä hyvänsä, mutta\nkellekään ei totta puhuen ole hyötyä tällaisesta uskosta. Jos\nrohkenisin otaksua, että Charlotte jollain tapaa kunnioittaa herra\nCollinsia, niin täytyisi minun arvostella hänen järkevyyttään vielä\nkehnommaksi kuin nyt arvostelen hänen sydäntään. Rakas Janeni, hra\nCollins on itseluuloinen, pöyhkeä, ahdasmielinen ja höperö mies, sen\ntiedät aivan yhtä hyvin kuin minäkin; ja sinun täytyy sydämessäsi\ntajuta, niinkuin minä teen, että siltä naiselta, joka menee hänelle\nvaimoksi, puuttuu joko arvostelukykyä tahi omanarvontuntoa. Sinä et saa\npuolustaa häntä, vaikka hän onkin Charlotte Lucas. Sinä et saa yksilön\nvuoksi uhrata uskoasi pettämättömiin periaatteisiin etkä uskotella\nitsellesi etkä minulle, että itsekäs omanvoitonpyynti olisi viisautta\nja vaaran tajuamattomuus mikään onnellisuuden takaus.\"\n\n\"Minusta sinä käytät liian ankarata kieltä puhuessasi heistä\nkummastakin\", vastasi Jane; \"ja minä toivon, että tulet itsekin siitä\nvakuutetuksi, kun saat nähdä heidän elävän yhdessä onnellisina. Mutta\njo riittää puhe heistä. Sinä viittasit johonkin toiseenkin asiaan. Sinä\nmainitsit _kahdesta_ tapauksesta. Minä ymmärrän aivan hyvin, mitä\ntarkoitat, mutta minä pyydän sinua, rakas Lizzy, ettet sureta minua\najattelemalla _hänestä_ mitään pahaa ja sanomalla, että hänen arvonsa\non vähentynyt sinun silmissäsi. Me emme saa olla niin nopsat\nkuvittelemaan mielessämme, että meitä pahoitetaan ja loukataan\ntahallisella tarkoituksella. Emmehän voi odottaa, että vilkasluontoinen\nnuori mies voi aina olla niin kovin varuillaan. Useinhan meidän oma\nhupsu turhamaisuutemme pettää meidät ja aiheuttaa meille hyödytöntä\nmurhetta. Me naiset mielellämme panemme pintapuoliseen ihailuun enemmän\nmerkitystä kuin se ansaitseekaan.\"\n\n\"Ja miehet tahtovat mielellään antaa sille enemmän merkitystä kuin se\nansaitsee!\"\n\n\"Jos he sen tekevät tahallaan, niin heitä ei voi puolustaa; mutta minä\nen saa päähäni, että maailmassa olisi niin paljon tahallista\nharhaanjohtamista kuin jotkut ihmiset luulevat.\"\n\n\"En minä suinkaan tahdo väittää herra Bingleyn käyttäytymistä tahallaan\nharhaanjohtavaksi\", sanoi Elizabeth; \"mutta tarkoittamattakaan tehdä\ntoisille vääryyttä tai tehdä heitä onnettomiksi tekevät ihmiset monesti\nturmiollisia erehdyksiä ja aiheuttavat kurjuutta. Ajattelemattomuus,\nvälinpitämättömyys toisten tunteista ja horjuvaisuus päätöksissään --\nkas siinä niiden surujen syy, joita ihmiset niin usein tahtomattaan\ntuottavat toisille.\"\n\n\"Ja minkä näistä sinä sovitat tähän tapaukseen?\"\n\n\"Viimeksimainitun! Mutta jos jatkan puhetta pitemmälle, niin pahoitan\nmieltäsi tuomitsemalla henkilöitä, joita sinä kunnioitat. Pysähdytä\nminut ajoissa, niin kauan kuin vielä voit.\"\n\n\"Sinä siis väität, että hänen sisarensa johtavat häntä ja johtavat\nharhaan?\"\n\n\"Niin, liitossa hänen ystävänsä kanssa.\"\n\n\"Sitä minä en voi uskoa. Miksi he pyrkisivät vaikuttamaan häneen? Hehän\nvoivat vain toivoa hänen onneaan; ja jos hän on mieltynyt minuun, ei\nkukaan muu nainen pysty kääntämään hänen mieltänsä minusta.\"\n\n\"Ensimmäinen otaksumasi on väärä. He voivat toivoa paljon muutakin kuin\npelkästään hänen onnellisuuttaan; he saattavat toivoa hänelle suurempaa\nrikkautta ja vaikutusvaltaa; he saattavat toivoa hänen naimaan tytön,\njolla on kaikki varallisuuden, ylhäisen suvun ja sääty-ylpeyden suomat\nedut.\"\n\n\"Epäilemättä he toivovatkin, että hän valitsisi neiti Darcyn\", vastasi\nJane; \"mutta se voi johtua paremmista vaikuttimista kuin sinä otaksut.\nHehän ovat tunteneet hänet paljon kauemmin kuin minut; onko siis ihme,\nettä he pitävät hänestä enemmän kuin minusta? Mutta mikäpä heidän\ntoivomuksensa onkin, niin en voi uskoa, että he asettuisivat\nvastustamaan veljensä taipumusta. Mikä sisar sellaista rohkenisi tehdä,\npaitsi jos taipumuksen esineenä on aivan arvoton olento? Jos heillä on\nsyytä luulla, että hän on mieltynyt minuun, niin varmastikaan he eivät\npyrkisi erottamaan meitä; ja jos hän on todella mieltynyt minuun, eivät\nhe siinä onnistuisi vaikka tahtoisivatkin. Mutta otaksumalla sellaista\nmieltymystä hänen puoleltaan sinä panet jokaisen toimimaan\nluonnottomasti ja väärin ja saat minut tuntemaan itseni hyvin\nonnettomaksi. Älä enää sekaannuta minun tunteitani sellaisella\najatuksella. Minä en häpeä lainkaan, vaikka olenkin erehtynyt -- tahi\nainakaan ei se häpeä ole mitään sen surun rinnalla, jota tuntisin, jos\nminun olisin pakko ajatella pahaa hänestä ja hänen sisaristaan. Salli\nminun nähdä kaikki parhaassa valossa -- siinä valossa, jossa kaiken voi\nparhaiten käsittää.\"\n\nSellaista vetoomusta Elizabeth ei voinut torjua; ja siitä lähtien hra\nBingleyn nimeä tuskin mainittiin enää heidän keskensä.\n\nRva Bennet puolestaan yhä ihmetteli ja tuskitteli hänen poissaolonsa\nvuoksi; ja vaikka Elizabeth harva se päivä selitti hänelle asian\nperusteellisesti, ei siitä ollut paljonkaan apua. Eikä ihmettäkään,\nsillä Elizabeth koetti uskotella sellaista, jota hän ei itsekään\nuskonut, vakuuttaessaan näet että hra Bingleyn mielenkiinto oli ollut\naivan tavallista ja satunnaista mieltymystä, joka lakkasi heti, kun hän\nei enää nähnyt Janea silmäinsä edessä; mutta vaikka äiti saattoi tämän\njoka kerta myöntääkin todeksi, oli juttu taas huomenna kerrattava aivan\nalusta. Rva Bennetin parhaana lohdutuksena oli ajatus, että kesäksi\nainakin hra Bingleyn täytyi saapua jälleen maatilalleen.\n\nHra Bennet sen sijaan käsitteli asiaa eri tavalla. \"Katsoppas vain,\nLizzy\", sanoi hän eräänä päivänä toiselle tyttärelleen, \"huomaanpa,\nettä sisarellasi on lemmensuruja. Minulla on syytä onnitella häntä.\nLähinnä naimisiin joutumista nauttii jokainen tyttö enimmän särkyneestä\nsydämestä. Siitä on hänelle alituista ajattelun aihetta, ja se korottaa\nhänet tavallaan korkeammalle tasolle ystäväpiirinsä silmissä. Milloin\nsinun vuorosi tulee? Tuskin sinä maltat kauankaan antaa Janelle\netusijaa. Pidä nyt vain varasi. Merytonissa on tätänykyä upseereja\nkylliksi pettämään vaikka koko kreivikunnan neitoset. Ota sinä niistä\nWickham valituksesi. Hän on aika hauska veitikka ja osaisi petkuttaa\nsinua tarpeeksi asti.\"\n\n\"Kiitos vain, isä, mutta luulen että tyytyisin vähemmänkin\nmiellyttävään mieheen. Emmehän me kaikki saa odottaa itsellemme Janen\nonnea.\"\n\n\"Totta kyllä\", sanoi hra Bennet, \"mutta lohdullista on joka tapauksessa\najatella, että mikä sinun osasi tulee olemaankin, on sinulla hellä\näiti, joka tulee tekemään parhaansa siitä.\"\n\nHra Wickhamin ahkera seuranpito oli tosi hyödyksi Longbournin\nasukkaille, se kun auttoi hiukan hälventämään siellä vallitsevaa\nraskasta ja uupunutta mielialaa. Hän kävi usein vieraisilla tai\ntavattiin hänet tätilässä, ja hänen muiden hyvien ominaisuuksiensa\nlisäksi laskettiin hänen ansiopuolekseen nyt myöskin suoravainen\navomielisyys ja rehellisyys. Kaikki, mitä Elizabeth oli tähän asti\nhäneltä kuullut itsestään, ne vaatimukset, joita hänellä oli ollut hra\nDarcyyn nähden, ja se tyly vääryys, jolla tämä oli häntä kohdellut,\ntunnustettiin nyt yleisesti todeksi ja niitä jauhettiin ja seulottiin\nloppumattomiin lähiseudun kaikissa teekekkereissä; ja jokaisen oli\nmieluista muistella, kuinka hän oli aina paheksunut hra Darcyn kopeata\nkäytöstä jo ennenkuin oli vielä kuullutkaan tästä kaikkein pahimmasta\nasiasta.\n\nNti Bennet oli ainoa ihminen, joka rohkeni olettaa, että saattoi olla\nolemassa lieventäviäkin asianhaaroja, joita Hertfordshiressä ei vielä\ntunnettu; hänen lempeä ja tasainen mielenlaatunsa otti aina lukuun\nsellaisia seikkoja ja otaksui erehdyksiä mahdolliseksi, se oli tietty,\nmutta muuten oli jokainen valmis tuomitsemaan hra Darcyn miehenpuolista\nkaikkein kehnoimmaksi.\n\n\n\n\nXXV LUKU.\n\n\nVietettyään viikon päivät lemmen kuhertelussa ja vastaisen avio-onnen\nhaaveilussa oli hra Collinsin pakko lauantain lähestyessä tempaista\nitsensä irti rakastettavan Charlottensa viereltä. Eron tuskaa ehkä\nkuitenkin lievittivät varustelut morsiamen vastaanottamiseksi, koskapa\nhänellä oli aihetta toivoa, että kohta hänen seuraavan palauksensa\njälkeen Hertfordshireen hänen luvalliset aivoituksensa lopullisesti\nkruunattaisiin alttarin edessä ja hänestä tulisi aviomiehistä\nonnellisin. Hän lausui Longbournissa tavallista juhlallisemmat\njäähyväiset, toivotti jälleen serkuilleen onnea ja terveyttä ja lupasi\nsiunata heidän isäänsä uudella kiitoskirjeellä.\n\nSeuraavana päivänä oli rva Bennetillä ilo saada vieraaksi sisarensa ja\nlankonsa, joiden oli tapana viettää joulunsa Longbournissa. Hra\nGardiner oli älykäs ja joka suhteessa herrasmainen mies. Netherfieldin\nnaisten olisi ollut vaikea uskoa häntä kauppiaaksi, joka oli\npuodissansa saattanut säilyttää niin hienon olemuksen ja herttaisen\nkäytöstavan. Myöskin rva Gardiner, joka oli useita vuosia nuorempi kuin\nrvat Bennet ja Philips, oli järkevä, miellyttävä ja sirotapainen\nnainen, jota hänen sisarentyttärensä pitivät suuressa arvossa.\nNimenomaan näistä molemmat vanhimmat olivat häneen erityisesti\nkiintyneet, sillä he olivat usein oleskelleet hänen kotonaan Lontoossa.\n\nRva Gardinerin ensi työnä perille saavuttuaan oli jakaa\nkaupunkituomisensa ja kertoilla uusimmista Lontoon muodeista. Sen\nurakan suoritettua hänelle jäi passiivisempi tehtävä -- kuunnella\ntalonväen tarinoita. Rva Bennetillä oli tällä kertaa paljon\nvalittamisen aihetta. Koko maailma oli kohdellut julmasti heitä kaikkia\nja nimenomaan häntä erikseen sitten sisaren viime käynnin. Kaksi hänen\ntyttäristään oli ollut juuri pääsemäisillään hyviin naimisiin, mutta\nsitten oli juttu kääntynyt kerrassaan kieroon.\n\n\"En minä Janea silti moiti\", jatkoi hän, \"sillä Jane olisi kyllä\npitänyt kiinni herra Bingleystä, jos vain olisi voinut. Mutta tuo\nLizzy! Ah sentään, rakas sisareni! On niin katkerata ajatella, että hän\nsaattaisi jo olla herra Collinsin vaimo, jollei hän olisi ollut niin\nhirveän oikullinen ja itsepäinen. Se kelpo pappismies kosi häntä juuri\ntässä huoneessa, ja tyttö riepu rohkeni vastata kieltävästi.\nSeurauksena tulee nyt olemaan, että Lady Lucas saa tyttärensä naimisiin\nennenkuin minä, ja että Longbournin tilaa uhkaa sama vaara\nperinnönjaossa kuin ennenkin. Lucasin väki on kerrassaan niin\njuonikasta, ettet arvaakaan. He koettavat haamia käsiinsä kaiken, minkä\nsuinkin saavat. Minua surettaa sanoa heistä tällaista, mutta niin vain\non asianlaita. Minun hermoni repeytyvät ihan rikki, kun näen, kuinka\nvähän arvoa oma perheenikin panee minuun tahtooni ja kuinka naapurit\najattelevat ainoastaan omaa etuaan. Ettäs juuri nyt satuit tulemaan,\nrakas sisar, on minulle kuitenkin suureksi lohdutukseksi, ja ennen\nkaikkea haluan tietää, käytetäänkö Lontoossa nykyään pitkiä hihoja.\"\n\nRva Gardiner, jolle Jane ja Elizabeth jo olivat kirjoittaneet päivän\nkohtalokkaista kysymyksistä, oli jokseenkin perillä asioista; hän\ntyytyi senvuoksi vastaamaan kevyesti sisarensa kysymykseen ja säälien\ntämän tyttäriä suuntasi puhelun toisille aloille.\n\nJäätyään sitten Elizabethin kanssa kahdenkesken hän jatkoi juttua\npitemmältä. \"Se näytti todellakin hyvältä naimiskaupalta Janelle\", hän\nsanoi. \"Minua surettaa, että siitä ei tullut mitään. Mutta sellaistahan\nsattuu niin usein! Sellainen nuori mies, joksi olet herra Bingleytä\nkuvaillut, rakastuu niin helposti sievään tyttöön muutaman viikon\najaksi, ja sitten kun sattuma jälleen erottaa heidät toisistaan, hän\nunohtaa tämän aivan yhtä helposti. Se on tavallinen maailmanmeno.\"\n\n\"Tuo on tavallansa erinomainen lohdutus\", vastasi Elizabeth, \"mutta\n_meille_ se ei kelpaa. Emme me pelkän sattuman kautta ole joutuneet\nkärsimään. Enkäpä luule niin useasti tapahtuvankaan, että omaisten ja\nystäväin vaikutus saa itsenäisessä asemassa olevan nuoren miehen aivan\näkisti unohtamaan tytön, johon hän on vast'ikään ollut tulisesti\nrakastunut.\"\n\n\"Mutta tuo sanontatapa 'tulisesti rakastunut' on minusta niin\nepämääräinen ja epäilyttävä, ettei se paljonkaan valaise asiaa. Sitä\nkäytetään yhtä usein puolituntisen tuttavuuden herättämistä tunteista\nkuin todellisesta, vakavasta kiintymyksestä. Sanoppas, _kuinka_ tulinen\nherra Bingleyn rakkaus oikeastaan oli?\"\n\n\"Minä en vain ole koskaan nähnyt toista niin lupaavaa molemminpuolista\nmieltymystä. Se syntyi aivan ensi näkemältä, ja joka kerta kun he\nuudestaan tapasivat toisensa, voi sen huomata yhä selvemmin. Omassa\nkodissaan toimeenpanemissaan tanssiaisissa hän julkisesti loukkasi\neräitä neitosia, kun jätti heidät tyyten tanssittamatta; ja itsekin\npuhuttelin häntä kahdesti saamatta vastausta, sillä hänen huomionsa oli\ntykkänään kiintynyt Janeen. Voiko sen selvempiä merkkejä toivoakaan?\nEikö epäkohteliaisuus kaikkia muita kohtaan ole epäämättömin merkki\nsiitä, että on rakastunut johonkin erikoisesti?\"\n\n\"Miksikäs ei -- sellaisena olen taipuvainen pitämäänkin hänen\nrakkauttaan. Mutta Jane parkamme! Minun käy kovasti säälikseni häntä,\nsillä arvaan että hänen luonteelleen on vaikea ykskaks selviytyä\nkaikesta tuosta. Paljon parempi olisi ollut, jos tämä olisi sattunut\n_sinulle_, Lizzy; sinä olisit piankin kyennyt nauramaan kaikille\nsuruillesi. Mutta etkö luule sen haihduttavan hänen suruaan, jos hän\nseuraa meitä kaupunkiin? Näyttämönvaihdos on usein terveellinen -- ja\nehkäpä myöskin lyhytaikainen poissaolo kodista ja omaisista voi olla\njoksikin hyödyksi.\"\n\nElizabeth oli hyvin mieltynyt tähän ehdotukseen ja arveli sisarensakin\nmielellään suostuvan siihen.\n\n\"Minä toivon\", lisäsi rva Gardiner, \"ettei tuon nuoren miehen olo\nkaupungissa peloita eikä myöskään houkuttele häntä. Mehän asumme niin\neri puolella Lontoota ja seurustelemme siksi erilaisissa piireissä,\nettei ole lainkaan luultavaa, että he koskaan sattuisivat joutumaan\nyhteen, jollei tuo nuori mies varta vasten tule tapaamaan häntä.\"\n\n\"Ja _se_ taas on aivan mahdotonta, sillä hän on nyt ystävänsä\nholhottavana, eikä voi olettaakaan, että herra Darcy sallisi\nhänen lähteä etsiskelemään Janea aatelittomasta kaupunginosasta!\nKuinka voitte sellaista kuvitellakaan, rakas täti? Herra Darcy\non ehkä saattanut joskus _kuulla_ sellaisesta seudusta kuin\nGracechurch-kadusta, mutta enpä uskoisi hänen luulevan, että edes\nkuukautinenkaan pesu voisi puhdistaa häntä sen rihkamalöyhkistä, jos\nhänen päähänsä pälkähtäisi astua sinne kerran jalallaankaan. Ja siitä\nolen varma, ettei herra Bingley hairahdu minnekään, ilman että tuo\nystävä on hänen kintereillään.\"\n\n\"Sen parempi! Minä toivon, etteivät he enää koskaan tapaisi toisiansa.\nMutta eikö Jane ole kirjeenvaihdossa hänen sisarensa kanssa? _Tämä_ ei\nsaata olla käymättä häntä tervehtimässä.\"\n\n\"Olen varma, että hänkin varsin pian ja mielellään unohtaa koko\ntuttavuuden.\"\n\nMutta huolimatta tästä varmasta vakuutuksestaan sekä lausumastaan\ntoivomuksesta, että Bingleytä voitaisiin pysyttää erillään Janesta, ei\nElizabeth ollut kuitenkaan vielä menettänyt kaikkea toivoa. Saattoihan\nolla mahdollista -- joskus se hänestä tuntui luultavaltakin -- että\nnuoren miehen rakkaus viriäisi uuteen eloon, ja että hän menestyksellä\nkirvoittuen ystäväinsä vaikutusvallasta pyrkisi jälleen tapaamaan\nrakkautensa esinettä.\n\nNti Bennet suostui mielellään tätinsä ehdotukseen; eikä Bingleyn perhe\nollut tähän aikaan muuten hänen ajatuksissaan kuin että hän toivoi\nCarolinen, joka asui erillään veljestään, jolloinkin viettävän\naamuhetken hänen kanssaan, ilman että hänen tarvitsi peljätä veljen\ntapaamista.\n\nGardinerit viipyivät viikon päivät Longbournissa; ja rva Bennet oli\nhuolehtinut heille niin paljon yhtymätilaisuuksia Philipsin ja Lucasin\nperheiden ynnä nuorien upseerien kanssa, ettei lähempi perhepiiri\njoutunut edes kertaakaan istumaan yksin päivällispöydässä. Kun kylästä\npalattiin kotiin, oli perheellä aina joitakin upseereja saattelijoina,\nja näistä oli hra Wickham varmasti yksi; tällöin oli rva Gardinerilla,\njonka epäluuloa Elizabethin lämmin ylistely oli herättänyt, tilaisuutta\ntarkoin vaarinottaa molempia nuoria. Epäilemättä lainkaan heidän olevan\nvakavasti rakastuneet toisiinsa hän kuitenkin arveli siitä innosta,\njolla molemmat etsivät toistensa seuraa, jotakin olevan tekeillä; minkä\nvuoksi hän päätti ottaa asian Elizabethin kanssa puheeksi ennen\npoislähtöään ja varoittaa häntä antautumasta täydellä todella\nsellaiseen epäviisaaseen suhteeseen.\n\nLukuunottamatta muita Wickhamin viehätyslahjoja oli muuan erityinen\nseikka, joka kiinnitti rva Gardinerin mieluista mielenkiintoa\nkauniiseen nuoreen upseeriin.\n\nNoin kymmenen tai kaksitoista vuotta takaperin, ennen naimisiin\nmenoaan, hän oli viettänyt pitkän ajan Wickhamin kotiseudulla\nDerbyshiressä. Senvuoksi heillä oli paljon yhteisiä tuttuja; ja vaikka\nWickham oli sangen vähän oleskellut siellä isänsä viisi vuotta sitten\ntapahtuneen kuoleman jälkeen, voi hän kuitenkin kertoilla rouvalle\npaljon tämän entisistä ystävistä.\n\nRva Gardiner oli myöskin käynyt Pemberleyssä ja tunsi hra Darcy\nvainajan maineen erittäin hyvin. Siinä toinen tyhjentymätön puheenaihe.\nKuullessaan, kuinka nykyinen hra Darcy oli kohdellut lapsuutensa\ntoveria, rouva rupesi palauttamaan mieleensä, mitä hän oli ennen\nkuullut tästä herrasta hänen poikavuosiltaan, ja se maine ei ollut\nvarsin hyvä. Hän muisteli varmasti kuulleensa, että hra Fitzwilliam\nDarcya oli aina mainittu ylpeäksi ja äkkipikaiseksi veitikaksi.\n\n\n\n\nXXVI LUKU.\n\n\nRva Gardiner lausui ensimmäisessä sopivassa tilaisuudessa varoituksensa\nElizabethille täsmällisessä mutta sydämellisessä muodossa. Kerrottuaan\nrehellisesti, mitä hän luuli huomanneensa tytön ja nuoren upseerin\nväleistä, hän jatkoi:\n\n\"Sinä olet siksi järkevä tyttö, Lizzy, ettei syrjäisten varoittelu pane\nsinua äkäpäissäsi hurjasti rakastumaan, ja senvuoksi voinkin\npelkäämättä puhua suuni puhtaaksi. Minä aivan tosissani kehoitan sinua\npitämään varasi. Älä antaudu äläkä koetakaan antautua hänen kanssaan\nsuhteeseen, jonka toteutuminen olisi kaikkea muuta kuin järkevää teidän\nmolempien täydellisen varattomuuden vuoksi. Minulla ei ole yhtään\nmuistuttamista _häntä_ vastaan, sillä hän on todella mitä\nviehättävin nuori mies, ja jos hänellä olisi varoja tahi sellainen\nyhteiskunnallinen asema, joka hänen kaiken kohtuuden mukaan piti saada,\nniin et mielestäni voisi parempaa valintaa tehdäkään. Mutta\nnykyisellään kehoitan sinua pitämään todellisuutta silmällä -- älä\npäästä tunteitasi liiaksi vauhkoutumaan. Isäsi luottaa täydellisesti\n_sinun_ terveeseen arvostelukykyysi ja viisaaseen käytökseesi, siitä\nolen varma. Älä petä hänen luottamustaan.\"\n\n\"Mutta, täti rakas, sinähän näytät olevan aivan täysissä tosissasi!\"\n\n\"Niin olenkin, ja pyydän sinuakin olemaan yhtä tosissasi.\"\n\n\"No niin, olkoon menneeksi! Sinun ei tarvitse hätäillä ollenkaan. Minä\npidän vaarin itsestäni ja hra Wickhamista myöskin. Hän ei pääse\nrakastumaan minuun, mikäli minä voin sen estää.\"\n\n\"Elizabeth, nyt et ainakaan puhu vakavissasi.\"\n\n\"Anteeksi, täti. Minä yritän uudelleen. Tätä nykyä en ole rakastunut\nherra Wickhamiin; älä pudista päätäsi, aivan varmastikaan en ole. Mutta\nhän on verrattomasti kaikkein miellyttävin mies mihin milloinkaan olen\ntutustunut -- ja jos hän todella saa päähänsä mieltyä minuun ... ei,\nluulen olevan paremmaksi, ettei hän yritäkään. Minä käsitän itsekin,\nettei siitä seuraisi mitään hyvää. Oh, tuo hirvittävä ja kelvoton herra\nDarcy! Isäni hyvä mielipide minusta on minulle mitä suurimmaksi\nkunniaksi, ja minä koetan kaikin mokomin välttää heikontamasta sitä.\nMutta isänikin pitää paljon herra Wickhamista. Lyhyesti sanoen,\nrakkahin täti, minua suuresti surettaisi, jos pahoittaisin teidän\nkenenkään mieltä; mutta näemmehän harva se päivä ympäristössämme,\nkuinka vähän nuoret ihmiset antavat epävarman tulevaisuuden,\nvarattomuuden ja sen sellaisten seikkain estää heitä kihlautumasta --\nkuinka minäkään sitten voisin luvata olla toisia viisaampi, jos\nsattuisin joutumaan kiusaukseen, tahi kuinka edes tietäisin, että olisi\nviisastakaan vastustaa kiusausta? Siksipä en uskalla luvata sinulle\nmitään muuta, kuin että en pidä kiirettä. En pidä kiirettä\nkuvitellakseni, että olen hänen lähin silmämääränsä. Ollessani yhdessä\nhänen kanssaan koetan välttää kaikkia turhia mielikuvitteluja. Sanalla\nsanoen, koetan tehdä parastani.\"\n\n\"Ehkäpä on hyväksi, ettet kiihota häntä käymään täällä niin kovin\nusein. Ainakaan ei sinun pitäisi hoputtaa äitiäsi kutsumaan häntä\ntänne.\"\n\n\"Niinkuin tein toispäivänä\", tunnusti Elizabeth, hymyillen\nsyyllisyydestään tietoisen hymyä. \"Totta kyllä, että minun olisi\njärkevintä pidättyä _siitä_. Mutta älä uskokaan, täti, että hän aina\nkäy täällä näin ahkerasti. Sinun takiasi häntä on tällä viikolla niin\nusein kutsuttu. Tiedäthän muutenkin, että äidin on vaikea tulla toimeen\nilman alituista vierasseuraa ympärillään. Mutta täydellä todella annan\nkunniasanani, että koetan tehdä niinkuin näen viisaimmaksi; ja toivon,\nettä nyt olet täysin tyytyväinen minuun.\"\n\nHänen tätinsä vakuutti olevansa tyytyväinen, ja Elizabethin kiitettyä\nhänen hyvää tarkoittavista viittauksistaan he erosivat toisistaan.\n\nHra Collins palasi Hertfordshireen kohta Gardinerin väen ja Janen\nlähdettyä; mutta kun hän tällä kertaa majoittui Lucas Lodgeen, ei rva\nBennetillä ollut hänestä entistä harmia. Häät olivat jo aivan lähellä,\nja kunnon rouva oli jo pakottautunut käsittämään tämän kohtaloniskun\nvälttämättömäksi pahaksi, niin että hän kykeni pahantuulisesi\ntoivottamaan -- aivan kuin päinvastaista odotellen -- että heistä\n_kaikesta huolimatta_ tulisi onnellinen pari. Vihkimisen piti tapahtua\ntorstaina, ja keskiviikkona kävi Charlotte lausumassa Longbournin\nväelle jäähyväiset. Kun hän nousi lähteäkseen, seurasi Elizabeth häntä\nulos, hyvin pahoillaan ja häpeissään äitinsä peittelemättömästä\nilkeydestä ja itse vilpittömästi liikutettuna eron johdosta. Heidän\npihalle laskeutuessaan sanoi Charlotte:\n\n\"Minä luotan siihen, Eliza, että kirjoittelet minulle ahkerasti.\"\n\n\"Siitä saat olla varma.\"\n\n\"Sitten on minulla vielä toinenkin pyyntö. Tahdothan tulla tervehtimään\nminua?\"\n\n\"Toivon, että usein tapaamme toisemme täällä Hertfordshiressä.\"\n\n\"Minä en arvatenkaan pääse vähään aikaan lähtemään Kentistä. Lupaa\nsenvuoksi tulla meidän luoksemme Hunsfordiin.\"\n\nElizabeth ei voinut kieltää, vaikka hän ei voinut odottaa itselleen\nsiitä vierailusta suurtakaan huvia.\n\n\"Isäni ja Maria sisareni tulevat luokseni maaliskuussa\", jatkoi\nCharlotte, \"ja minä toivon, että sinä lähdet heidän mukaansa. Aivan\ntäydellä todella, Eliza, sinä olet minulle yhtä tervetullut kuin\nkumpikin heistä.\"\n\nHääpäivä tuli ja meni; nuori pari lähti kirkon ovelta oitis matkalle\nuuteen kotiin, ja kaikki sanoivat sanottavansa siinä tilaisuudessa.\nElizabeth sai piankin tietoja ystävältään, ja heidän kirjeenvaihtonsa\njatkui yhtä säännöllisesti kuin tähänkin asti; mutta yhtä vapaana ja\ntutunomaisena se ei tietenkään voinut pysyä. Elizabeth ei voinut\nkoskaan istua kirjoittamaan Charlottelle tuntematta, että entinen\nhauska ja tuttavallinen tyttöajan suhde oli loppunut; ja vaikka hän\npäättikin pitää kirjeenvaihtoa yhtä virkeänä kuin ennen, tapahtui se\npikemminkin entisten muistojen kuin nykyisyyden vuoksi. Charlotten ensi\nkirjeet olivat hyvin innokkaat kiittelemään hänen uutta kotiaan,\nylistämään Lady Catherinen suurenmoista jalotyylisyyttä ja\nkuvittelemaan kaikkea kaunista alkavasta avioelämästään. Sanalla sanoen\nkaikki oli kaikua hra Collinsin mahtipontisesta kehumisesta Hunsfordin\nja Rosingsin verrattomuudesta, vaikkakin kohtuullisesti lievennettynä;\nja Elizabeth arvasi, että hänen itsensä tuli täydentää kuva, kun hän\nensi vierailullaan pääsi omin silmin tutustumaan oloihin.\n\nJane oli jo lähettänyt muutamia rivejä ilmoittaakseen heidän\nonnellisesta tulostaan Lontooseen, ja kun hänen toinen kirjeensä\nsaapui, toivoi Elizabeth mitä hartaimmin, että siinä olisi joitakin\ntietoja Bingleyn perheen jäsenistä.\n\nHänen kärsimättömyytensä sai sellaisen palkinnon kuin kärsimättömyys\nyleensä saa. Jane oli ollut viikon päivät pääkaupungissa näkemättä tai\nkuulematta vähintäkään Carolinesta. Hän luotti kuitenkin tähän\nmahdollisuuteen, otaksuen että hänen Longbournista ystävättärelleen\nviimeksi lähettämänsä kirje oli jollain tapaa hukkunut.\n\n\"Täti lähtee huomenna sinnepäin kaupunkia\", hän jatkoi, \"ja minä käytän\ntilaisuutta hyväkseni käydäkseni Grosvenor-kadun varrella.\"\n\nTämän vierailun jälkeen Jane kirjoitti uudestaan, mainiten tavanneensa\nnti Bingleyn. \"En luule, että Caroline silloin oli oikein hyvissä\nvoimissaan; mutta hän oli kuitenkin hyvin iloinen nähdessään minut ja\nmoitti minua, etten ollut aikaisemmin ilmoittanut hänelle tulostani\nLontooseen. Siinä näet, että olin oikeassa; hän ei ole saanutkaan minun\nviime kirjettäni. Minä tiedustin luonnollisesti hänen veljensä vointia.\nTämä voi erittäin hyvin, mutta on niin paljon yksissä herra Darcyn\nkanssa, etteivät sisaret häntä paljon näekään. Minä huomasin, että\nneiti Darcya odotettiin päivälliselle; hänet tahtoisin niin kernaasti\nnähdä. Vierailuni oli aivan lyhyt, kun Caroline ja rouva Hurst olivat\nlähdössä ulos. Arvaanpa heidän piankin käyvän täällä meidän luonamme.\"\n\nElizabeth pudisti päätään kirjeen luettuaan. Se vain vahvisti hänen\nuskoaan, että ainoastaan pelkkä sattuma saattaisi hra Bingleyn tietoon,\nettä Jane oleskeli samassa kaupungissa.\n\nKului vielä neljä viikkoa, ilman että Jane näki vilaustakaan hra\nBingleystä. Hän koetti uskotella itselleen ja sisarelleen, ettei se\nlainkaan pahoittanut hänen mieltään; mutta hän ei voinut enää olla\npanematta merkille nti Bingleyn ilmeistä välinpitämättömyyttä.\nSittenkun hän oli parin viikon ajan odotellut tätä joka aamupäivä\nluokseen, oli vieras viimeinkin suvainnut saapua; mutta hänen\nvierailunsa hätäisyys ja vielä enemmän hänen muuttunut sävynsä\nosoittivat Janelle, että hänen oli turha enää pettää itseään. Tästä\ntapauksesta hän kirjoitti sisarelleen seuraavin sanoin:\n\n    \"Rakkahin Lizzy, sinä et varmastikaan riemuitse saadessasi\n    kuulla, että olit minua viisaampi, kun nyt tunnustan pettyneeni\n    täydellisesti neiti Bingleyn minulle osoittamasta mielenkiinnosta.\n    Mutta, sisko rakas, vaikka nyt huomaankin sinun olleen aivan\n    oikeassa, niin älä pidä minua itsepäisenä kun edelleenkin väitän,\n    että hänen edellisen käytöksensä vaikutuksesta minun luottamukseni\n    häneen oli yhtä luonnollinen kuin sinun epäluulosi. Minä en pysty\n    mitenkään käsittämään, miksi hän silloin pyrki niin läheiseen\n    tuttavuussuhteeseen minun kanssani; mutta jos sama juttu uudistuisi\n    vielä kerran, niin uskon, että pettäisin itseäni jälleen yhtä\n    helposti. Caroline vastasi vierailuuni vasta eilen; enkä saanut\n    ainoatakaan kirjelappua, en yhtään riviä häneltä väliajalla. Kun\n    hän sitten vihdoin tuli, voin selvästi nähdä, ettei käynti ollut\n    hänelle lainkaan mieluinen; hän pyysi muutamin kylmin sanoin\n    anteeksi, ettei ollut päässyt ennen tulemaan; hän ei ilmaissut\n    sanallakaan haluavansa minua käymään luonaan ja oli muutenkin joka\n    suhteessa niin peräti toisenlainen ihminen kuin ennen, että hänen\n    lähdettyään olin varmasti päättänyt, etten enää jatkaisi koko\n    tuttavuutta.\n\n    \"Minä säälin häntä, vaikken voikaan olla moittimatta häntä. Hän teki\n    hyvin väärin, kun ensin valitsi minut niin läheiseksi ystäväkseen;\n    sillä voin varmasti sanoa, että kaikki läheisempi tuttavuus meidän\n    keskemme alkoi hänen puoleltaan. Mutta minä säälin häntä, koska\n    tiedän, että hänen täytyy itsensäkin tuntea tehneensä väärin minua\n    kohtaan, ja koska arvaan hyvin, että huolenpito veljestä on\n    kaiken tämän syynä. Minun ei tarvitse selittää asiata sinulle tämän\n    pitemmältä; ja vaikka _me_ molemmat tiedämmekin hyvin, että tuo\n    hänen pelkonsa on aivan turha, niin selittää se kuitenkin hänen\n    käytöksensä muuttumisen. En voi kuitenkaan olla ihmettelemättä,\n    että hänen enää tarvitsee ollenkaan tuntea tuollaista pelkoa, sillä\n    jos hänen veljensä olisi välittänyt yhtään vähää minusta, niin\n    olisimme jo kauan, kauan sitten tavanneet toisemme. Olen varma,\n    että hän tietää minun olevan pääkaupungissa, hänen sisarensakin\n    siitä viittaili; mutta Carolinen puheesta päättäen tämä näyttää\n    vahvasti toivovan, että hänen veljensä täydellä todella rakastuisi\n    neiti Darcyyn. Tätä minä en voi ymmärtää. Jollen pelkäisi\n    arvostelevani asioita tylysti, niin tekisi melkein mieleni sanoa,\n    että kaikki tämä näyttää minusta merkillisen kaksimieliseltä.\n    Mutta minä pyrin karkoittamaan kaikki katkerat ajatukset mielestäni\n    ja ajatella vain sitä, mikä tekee minut onnelliseksi -- sinun\n    muuttumatonta rakkauttasi ja enon ja tädin alituista hyvyyttä.\n\n    \"Anna minun hyvin pian kuulla sinusta. Neiti Bingley salli\n    minun ymmärtää, ettei hänen veljensä enää koskaan aio palata\n    Netherfieldiin ja että hän aikoo luopua vuokraoikeudestaan siihen,\n    mutta aivan varmaa se ei vielä ollut. Parempi on, ettemme puhu\n    siitä mitään. Minä olen kovin iloinen, että olet saanut niin\n    hyviä uutisia Hunsfordin ystävistämme. Pyydän että lähtisit heitä\n    katsomaan Sir Williamin ja Marian keralla. Olen varma, että tulisit\n    hyvin viihtymään siellä. Sinun j.n.e.\"\n\nTämä kirje murehdutti Elizabethia jonkun verran; mutta häntä lohdutti\nse varma tieto, ettei Jane enää antanut pettää itseään, ei ainakaan nti\nBingleyn kaksimielisen käytöksen kautta. Kaikki toivo tämän veljen\nlähenemisestä oli nyt auttamattomasti mennyttä. Elizabeth ei enää edes\ntoivonutkaan sitä. Hra Bingleyn arvo madaltui hänen silmissään maan\ntasalle; ja hyvin ansaituksi rangaistukseksi tuolle huikentelevaiselle\nnuorelle herralle hän toivoi, että tämä todellakin menisi naimisiin nti\nDarcyn kanssa, koska hänellä silloin -- Wickhamin kuvauksesta päättäen\n-- tulisi olemaan runsaasti aihetta katua, että oli hyljännyt paljon\nansiokkaamman tytön.\n\nRva Gardiner muistutti tähän aikaan Elizabethia hänen lupauksestaan hra\nWickhamin suhteen ja vaati lähempiä tietoja; ja Elizabethin oli\nlähetettävä sellaisia, jotka samalla kertaa tyydyttivät tätiä ja häntä\nitseään. Tuon herran ilmeinen kiintymys häneen oli jo haihtunut;\nhänellä oli näet jo uusi ihailun esine. Elizabeth oli kylliksi\ntarkkasilmäinen huomatakseen tämän, mutta hän voi kirjoittaa siitä\ntuntematta erikoista tuskaa. Hänen sydämensä ei ollut mainittavasti\nkärsinyt tästä leikistä, ja hänen turhamaisuuttaan tyydytti tietoisuus,\nettä tuo miellyttävä kavaljeeri olisi varmasti valinnut _hänet_, jos\nmolempien varallisuus olisi vain sen sallinut. Sen nuoren neitosen\npääviehätyksenä, johon hra Wickhamin huomio nyt oli kääntynyt, oli\nodottamaton kymmenen tuhannen punnan perintö; mutta Elizabeth oli tässä\nsuhteessa merkillistä kyllä vähemmän selväjärkinen kuin Charlotten\nnaimiseen nähden, eikä hän ollenkaan paheksunut Wickhamin halua\nsaavuttaa edullisen naimiskaupan avulla riippumaton taloudellinen\nasema.\n\nSelostettuaan tämän kaiken rva Gardinerille hän jatkoi kirjeessään:\n\n    \"Olen nyt aivan varma, rakas täti, ettei rakkaudesta ollut minun\n    puoleltani paljonkaan puhetta; sillä jos olisin todella tuntenut\n    tuota puhdasta ja ylentävää tunnetta, niin tällä hetkellä\n    halveksisin ja vihaisin hänen pelkkää nimeäänkin ja toivottaisin\n    hänelle kaikkea mahdollista pahaa. Mutta nyt minä päinvastoin\n    ajattelen ystävällisesti ei ainoastaan hänestä itsestään, vaan\n    myöskin hänen uudesta valitustaan, neiti Kingistä. Ei siis voi\n    puhua, että olisin ollut rakastunut häneen. Minä olen koko ajan\n    pitänyt silmäni valppaasti auki, ja se luultavasti on säästänyt\n    minua lankeemasta tuohon onnettomuuteen; ja vaikka epäilemättä\n    olisin paljon suuremman mielenkiinnon esine kaikille tuttavilleni,\n    jos sydämeni olisi todella hurjasti ja epätoivoisesti syttynyt\n    häneen, niin enpä voi sanoa harmittelevani senvuoksi, etten ole\n    löytänyt armoa hänen silmissään. Sellaisen armon saa joskus maksaa\n    liian kalliisti. Kitty ja Lydia ovat paljon enemmän harmissaan\n    hänen 'uskottomuudestaan'. He ovat vielä liian nuoria käsittämään\n    maailmanmenoa ja erityisesti sitä murheellista seikkaa, että\n    kaunistenkin nuorten miesten on pakko saada jokapäiväinen leipänsä\n    aivan yhtä hyvin kuin rumienkin.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXVII LUKU.\n\n\nTammikuu ja helmikuu kuluivat, ilman että tämän merkillisempiä\ntapauksia sattui Longbournissa, jossa ainoina vaihteluina olivat\nkävelymatkat Merytoniin ja tavanmukaiset sade- ja pakkassäät.\nMaaliskuussa oli Elizabethin määrä lähteä Hunsfordiin. Aluksi hän ei\nitsekään ollut ottanut koko matkaa vakavalta kannalta; mutta nähdessään\nCharlotten pitävän siitä lujasti kiinni, rupesi hän odottamaan siitä\nitselleen mieluista vaihtelua. Erossaolo oli saattanut hänet jälleen\najattelemaan hellemmin tuntein Charlottea ja vähemmän vastenmielisesti\nhra Collinsia. Hänen oli määrä seurata Sir Williamia ja tämän toista\ntytärtä; matkalla poikettaisiin yönseuduksi Lontooseen, jolloin hän\nsaisi tavata Janenkin; ja ajan lähetessä hän olisi joutunut hyvin\npahoilleen, jos matka olisi mennyt myttyyn.\n\nAinoana suruna oli ero isästä, jonka hän tiesi suuresti kaipaavan häntä\nja joka jo nyt oli niin huolestunut matkan johdosta, että vaati\ntytärtään ahkerasti kirjoittelemaan hänelle ja melkeinpä lupasi\nvastatakin hänen kirjeisiinsä.\n\nJäähyväistenotto Elizabethin ja hra Wickhamin välillä tapahtui kaikessa\nystävyydessä -- jälkimmäisen puolelta ystävällisyys oli kenties\nsuurempikin. Hänen nykyinen lemmenliekkinsä ei ollut saanut häntä\nunohtamaan, että Elizabeth oli ollut ensimmäinen näillä mailla\nsuitsemaan sitä liekkiin, ensimmäinen kuuntelemaan ja säälimään ja\nihailemaan häntä; ja lausuessaan hänelle jäähyväisensä, toivottaen\nsamalla hänelle kaikkea mahdollista hauskuutta matkalla ja muistuttaen,\nmitä hänellä oli odotettavissa Lady Catherine de Bourghin taholta, ja\nluottaen siihen, että heidän mielipiteensä -- heidän yhteinen\nmielipiteensä -- tästä jalosta rouvasta tulisi tikulleen käymään\ntoteen, oli hänen sävynsä yhdellä haavaa niin vakava ja niin\nsydämellinen, että Elizabeth tunsi mikäli mahdollista entistä suurempaa\nmieltymystä häneen ja oli erotessaan vakuutettu siitä, että menipä tuo\nherttainen nuori mies naimisiin tai oli menemättä, hän aina pysyisi\nhänelle miellyttävän ja suoravaisen miehen ihanteena.\n\nMatkaa oli ainoastaan neljäkolmatta mailia, ja he lähtivät niin\nvarahin, että päätyivät hra Gardinerin portille jo puolipäivän aikaan.\nJane oli salin akkunassa odottelemassa heitä, ja kun hän syöksähti\nportaita alas vastaan, oli Elizabethille ilo nähdä hänet terveenä ja\nsuloisena kuten ennenkin. Portaissa odotteli kokonainen parvi tädin\npienokaisia, jotka eivät olleet nähneet serkkuaan kokonaiseen vuoteen\nja jotka sen vuoksi oitis voittivat alkuperäisen ujoutensa. Kaikki\nolivat iloisia ja sydämellisiä. Päivä kului mitä mieluisimmalla tavalla\n-- päivännäöllä puodeissa juosten ja illalla istuen teatterissa.\n\nNäytelmän väliajoilla onnistui Elizabethin päästä kahdenkeskiseen\nkeskusteluun tädin kanssa. Puheenaiheena heillä tietystikin oli Jane;\nja Elizabethia enemmän suretti kuin ihmetytti kuullessaan, että\nvaikka sisar ponnistelikin urheasti säilyttääkseen luontaisen\nhyvätuulisuutensa, oli hän ajoittain hyvin masentuneella päällä. Rva\nGardiner kertoi erikoisesti nti Bingleyn käynnistä heidän luonaan sekä\nhänen itsensä ja Janen välillä olleista puheluista, joista voi\npäätellä, että sisar oli täydestä sydämestään alistunut luopumaan tämän\ntuttavuuden jatkamisesta.\n\nTäti kiusoitteli sitten sisarentytärtään hra Wickhamin takia ja\nonnitteli häntä sen johdosta, että hän kykeni niin kevyesti kantamaan\ntältä saamansa rukkaset.\n\n\"Mutta sanoppas, rakas Elizabeth\", hän lisäsi, \"millainen tyttö se\nneiti King sitten on? Minua surettaisi, jos yhteinen ystävämme\nosoittautuisi rahanahneeksi.\"\n\n\"Sanoppas itse, täti rakas, mikä erotus avioliittokysymyksissä on\nrahanahneuden ja järkevien vaikuttimien välillä? Missä on viisauden ja\nvoitonpyynnön raja? Joulun aikaan sinä pelkäsit minun rakastuvan\nhäneen, koska se olisi sinun mielestäsi ollut hyvin epäviisas teko; ja\nnyt olet valmis näkemään hänet persoksi rahoille, kun hän kosiskelee\nkymmenen tuhannen punnan tyttöä.\"\n\n\"Jos vain kerrot minulle, millainen tyttö se neiti King on, niin\ntiedän, mitä sitten ajattelen asiasta.\"\n\n\"Luulisin häntä hyvin hyväluontoiseksi tytöksi. En ainakaan ole kuullut\nhänestä mitään pahaa.\"\n\n\"Mutta tokko tuo sinun entinen ihailijasi häntä edes huomasikaan,\nennenkuin hän isoisänsä kuoltua peri tämän omaisuuden?\"\n\n\"Ei -- mitäpäs aihetta hänellä olisi ollutkaan? Jollei hänen kerta\nollut sallittu saavuttaa minun rakkauttani, senvuoksi että minä olin\nvaraton, niin mitä syytä hänellä olisi ollut osoittaa huomaavaisuuttaan\ntytölle, josta hän ei ollut aikaisemmin välittänyt ja joka oli yhtä\nköyhä kuin minäkin?\"\n\n\"Mutta minustapa tuntuu jokseenkin epähienolta, että hän sitten oitis\nkäänsi huomionsa tuohon tyttöön kohta kun tämä oli saanut periä.\"\n\n\"Ahtaissa oloissa elävän nuoren miehen ei aina sovi noudattaa niitä\nmoitteettomia seuraelämän muotoja, joista onnellisemmassa asemassa\nolevat ihmiset pitävät kiinni. Jos hänen nykyinen valittunsa ei siitä\nvalita, niin mitäpä syytä _meilläkään_ olisi?\"\n\n\"Se ei lainkaan puolusta herra Wickhamin käytöstä. Se vain osoittaa\nneiti Kingin itsensä olevan jossakin suhteessa vajavainen -- joko\njärjen tai tunteen puolesta.\"\n\n\"No hyvä, täti\", huudahti Elizabeth, \"olkoon siis niinkuin sinä vain\ntahdot. Herra Wickham saakoon minun puolestani olla rahanahne ja neiti\nKing höperö.\"\n\n\"Ei, Lizzy, sitä en kernaasti näkisi. Minua surettaisi ajatella\nsellaista tuosta hauskasta nuoresta miehestä, joka on samoja\nDerbyshiren kasvatteja kuin minäkin.\"\n\n\"Oh, jos se on hänen ainoa puolustuksensa, niin minulla ei todellakaan\nole korkeaa käsitystä Derbyshiren nuorista miehistä; eivätkä heidän\nhelmaystävänsä Hertfordshiressäkään ole paljon paremmat. Minä olen\noikein väsynyt heihin kaikkiin. Luojan kiitos! Huomenna lähden\ntapaamaan miestä, jolla ei ole ainuttakaan heidän miellyttävistä\nominaisuuksistaan, ei siroa käytössävyä eikä sukkelia älynlahjoja.\nTyperät pölkkypäät ovatkin miehistä ainoat, joita kannattaa tuntea.\"\n\n\"Oleppas varovainen sanoissasi, Lizzy; tuo huudahdus kuulosti vähän\nliian paljon pettymyksen huokaukselta.\"\n\nEnnenkuin uuden näytöksen alku teki lopun heidän haastelustaan, sai\nElizabeth suureksi ilokseen kutsun seurata setäänsä ja tätiään\nhuvimatkalle, jonka nämä aikoivat kesällä tehdä.\n\n\"Emme ole vielä varmasti päättäneet minne lähdemme\", sanoi rva\nGardiner, \"mutta arvatenkin järville.\"[18]\n\nMikään kutsu ei olisi Elizabethille voinut olla sen mieluisempi. \"Ah,\nsinä rakkahin, armahin täti\", hän huudahti ihastuneena, \"mikä onni,\nmikä ilo! Sinähän luot minuun aivan uutta elämää ja virkeyttä. Hyvästi\nnyt kaikki pettymykset ja elämänkaiho! Mitäpä ovatkaan mieskurjat\njylhien kallioiden ja kukkulain rinnalla? Ah, mikä ihana matka siitä\ntuleekaan! Ja kun me palajamme, niin emme palaja tavallisten\nmatkustajain tavoin, jotka eivät ole nähneet nenänvarttansa pitemmälle\neivätkä osaa selittää näkemiään. _Mepäs_ silloin tiedämme, missä olemme\nkuljeksineet, ja muistamme kaiken, minkä olemme panneet merkille.\nJärvet, vuoret ja virrat eivät sotkeudu sekaisin hämäräksi kaaokseksi\nmeidän mielikuvituksessamme; emmekä me, yrittäessämme kuvata jotain\nerityistä nähtävyyttä, käy kohta alussa kiistelemään sen asemapaikasta.\nEi, kyllä meidän ensimmäiset mielenpurkauksemme tulevat olemaan\nmieluisampaa kuunneltavaa kuin matkailijoiden ylipäänsä.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXVIII LUKU.\n\n\nSeuraavana päivänä jatkettiin matkaa, ja entistä virkeämmin mielin\nElizabeth vaarinotti kaikkia uusia ja huvittavia nähtävyyksiä tien\nvarrella. Kaikki raskaus oli haihtunut hänen sydämestään; sisar oli\nerotessa näyttänyt niin terveeltä ja virkeältä, että hänen suhteensa\nei tarvinnut mitään peljätä; ja ajatus kesällisestä huvimatkasta\npohjois-Englantiin antoi jatkuvata rattoisata askarrusta hänen\najatuksilleen.\n\nKun matkalaiset kääntyivät valtatieltä Hunsfordin ruohoniityille,\netsivät kaikkien silmät kiihkeästi pappilaa, ja jokainen tienkäänne oli\ntuovinaan sen näkyviin. Rosingsin laajan puiston lauta-aita paarsi koko\nmatkan tien toista vartta. Elizabethia hymyilytti muistellessaan, mitä\nkaikkea hän oli kuullut hovin asukkaista.\n\nVihdoin pilkoitti pappilakin silmiin. Sen pieni puisto vietti\nkylätielle päin, asuinrakennus oli puiston laidalla; vihreäksi maalattu\nlauta-aita ja sen takana oleva laakeripensas-aita ilmaisivat talon\npappilaksi. Hra Collins ja Charlotte ilmestyivät kuistille, ja vaunut\npysähtyivät pienelle veräjälle, jolta sorapolku vei rakennuksen\nportaille. Kaikkien silmät ja suut hymyilivät, päät nyökkyivät ja\niloisia huudahduksia helähteli. Rva Collins otti mitä iloisimmin\nvastaan ystävättärensä, ja Elizabeth tunsi yhä kasvavaa mielihyvää\ntulostaan, nähdessään olevansa niin ikävöiden varrottu ja mielihyvin\nvastaanotettu. Serkkunsa ryhdin ja sävyn hän huomasi yhtä pönäkän\nkankeaksi kuin ennenkin; hra Collins pidätti häntä hyvän hetken\nveräjällä tiedustellakseen seikkaperäisesti hänen omaistensa vointia.\nSitten tulijat saatettiin sisään, missä isäntä uudelleen juhlallisesti\njulisti vieraat tervetulleiksi hänen halpaan majaansa ja matalan\nkattonsa alle.\n\nElizabeth oli valmistunut näkemään hänet täydessä loistossaan; eikä hän\nsaattanut olla huomaamatta, kuinka isäntä näytellessään pöyhkeän\nkainostelevasti vieraille huoneitaan ja niiden sisustusta tuntui\nkohdistavan huomautuksensa erikoisesti hänelle, aivan kuin saattaakseen\nhänet katuen tuntemaan, minkä surkean erhetyksen hän oli tehnyt\nkieltäytyessään tulemasta niin mainion talon emännäksi. Mutta vaikka\nkaikki todella olikin sievää ja kodikasta, ei Elizabeth voinut\ntyydyttää isäntänsä mieltä millään katumuksen ilmeellä eikä raskaalla\nhuokaisulla; pikemminkin hän tähysti ihmetellen ystävättäreensä, joka\nkykeni näyttämään niin hilpeältä ja huolettomalta sellaisen\nelämäntoverin vierellä. Kun hra Collins sattui laskemaan tavallista\npaksumpia kömpelyyksiä -- mikä ei sattunut niinkään harvoin -- vilkaisi\nElizabeth oitis Charlotteen nähdäkseen, punastuiko tämä; mutta yleensä\nCharlotte näytti viisaasti päättäneen olla kuulematta niitä ollenkaan.\n\nSitten kun oli huoneita ja kaikkea niiden sisustusta kylliksi ihailtu\nja tutkittu säiliötkin läpikotaisin vinniltä kellariin saakka, kutsui\nhra Collins vieraitaan tekemään kierroksen puutarhassa, joka olikin\navara ja hyvinhoidettu ja jossa työskenteleminen oli hänen suurimpia\nhuvejaan. Isäntä käytteli vieraitaan jokaisella taimilavalla ja\nkukkapenkereellä, selitellen perusteellisesti vaivannäköjään ja\nodotellen ylistelyjä, antamatta toisten rauhassa nauttia näkemästään.\nMutta mitäpä olikaan hänen puutarhapahaisensa ja ylimalkaan mikään\npaikka koko yhdistetyssä kuningaskunnassa Rosingsin ihanuuden rinnalla,\njonka päärakennus pilkoitti puiston tuuheiden puiden läpi pappilaa\nvastapäätä. Se olikin todella kaunis uudenaikuinen maahovi ja sijaitsi\ntasaisesti viettävän rinteen yläreunalla.\n\nPuutarhasta hra Collins olisi vienyt heidät kahdelle niitylleen; mutta\nkun naisilla ei ollut yllään sopivia jalkineita astuakseen\nlumisohjussa, oli palattava sisään; ja Sir Williamin jäädessä isännän\npariin vei Charlotte sisarensa ja ystävättärensä uudelle kierrokselle\ntalon läpi, ilmeisesti iloisena kun sai näytellä kotiaan ilman miehensä\npönäkkää esittelyä. Kaikki oli tosin pientä, mutta erinomaisen hyvässä\nkunnossa ja kodikasta sekä siistitty ja järjestetty sellaisella\nhuolella, että Elizabeth voi täydestä sydämestään antaa tunnustuksensa\nnuorikon emännyyskyvylle.\n\nHän oli jo saanut kuulla, että Lady Catherine yhä vielä oleskeli\nmaalla. Asia tuli uudelleen puheeksi päivällispöydässä, jolloin hra\nCollins rupesi purkamaan sydäntään: \"Niin, neiti Elizabeth, totisesti\nteillä on kunnia nähdä Lady Catherine de Bourgh tulevana sunnuntaina\nkirkossa kuuntelemassa minun tekstintutkisteluani, eikä minun tarvitse\nsanoakaan, että te tulette mainiosti mielistymään häneen. Hän on ylen\nystävällinen ja alentuvainen kaikkia ihmisiä kohtaan, enkä luule\nsanovani liikoja kun arvelen, että hän kunnioittaa teitäkin huomaamalla\nläsnäolonne jumalanpalveluksessa. Ja tuskinpa arvaan väärin\nolettaessani, että myöskin te ja Maria kälyni olette tervetulleet\nliittymään mukaamme joka kerta, kuin meidät teidän täällä ollessanne\nkutsutaan nauttimaan hovin vieraanvaraisuutta. Hänen käyttäytymisensä\nrakasta Charlotteani kohtaan on kerrassaan ihastuttava. Meidät on\npyydetty aina kahdesti viikossa hoviin päivälliselle, eikä meidän\nsallita koskaan palata kotia jalkaisin. Hänen jalosukuisuutensa vaunut\nja hevoset ovat aina valmiina portilla meidän varallemme. _Yhdet_ hänen\njalosukuisuutensa vaunuista, piti sanomani, sillä hänellä on niitä\nuseampia.\"\n\n\"Lady Catherine on todellakin sangen kunnianarvoinen ja viisas nainen\",\nvahvisti Charlotte, \"ja erittäin kohtelias naapuri.\"\n\n\"Aivan totta, rakkaani, sitähän minä juuri sanonkin. Hän on tosiaankin\nnainen, jota ei koskaan voi tarpeeksi paljon kunnioittaa.\"\n\nLoppuilta kului haastellessa Hertfordshiren uutisia ja kertoillessa\nuudestaan sitä, mistä jo oli aikaisemmin kirjeissä mainittu; ja\npäästyään viimein levolle makuusuojaansa oli Elizabethilla aikaa\najatella Charlottea, tämän kotionnea, hänen pitkämielisyyttään kömpelön\nmiehensä rinnalla ja hänen reipasta emännöimiskykyään; ja hänen täytyi\nvilpittömästi myöntää itselleen, että ystävätär oli odottamattoman\nhyvin suoriutunut uudesta osastaan.\n\nKun hän huomenissa puolipäivän aikaan huoneessaan varusteli itseään\nlähtemään kävelymatkalle, kuului alakerrasta äkkiä melua ja humua,\naivan kuin koko talo olisi joutunut kuohuksiin; sitten kuului portailta\njoutuisia askeleita ja joku huuteli häntä hätäisesti alas. Hän avasi\novensa ja näki portaiden käänteessä Marian, joka toimitti hänelle\nmiltei hengettömänä mielenkiihkosta:\n\n\"Ah, Eliza rakas! Joudu pian ruokasaliin -- et arvaakaan, mitä siellä\nsaat akkunasta nähdä! En tahdo sanoa sitä sinulle etukäteen. Tule\noitis!\"\n\nIhmeissään seurasi Elizabeth häntä ruokasaliin. Sen akkunoista näki\nveräjälle ja maantielle, jolla näkyi keveät avovaunut ja niissä kaksi\nsäätyläisnaista.\n\n\"Tässäkö sitten koko kumma onkin?\" huudahti Elizabeth. \"Minä kun jo\nodotin näkeväni porsaat tonkimassa puutarhaa -- eikä muuta olekaan\nnäkyvissä kuin Lady Catherine tyttärineen!\"\n\n\"Oh, nyt erehdyt, rakkaani\", sanoi Maria aivan typertyneenä toisen\nvälinpitämättömyydestä; \"eihän tuo toki ole Lady Catherine. Vanhempi\nnainen on hänen seuralaisensa rouva Jenkinson, mutta nuorempi on neiti\nDe Bourgh. Katsoppas vain häntä. Kuka olisi uskonut, että hän on niin\npikkunen ja laiha!\"\n\n\"Mutta onhan aivan julmaa, että hän pidättää Charlottea avopäin ulkona\nkylmässä tuulessa. Miksi hän ei käy sisälle?\"\n\n\"Oh, Charlotte sanoi, ettei hän juuri koskaan tee niin. Niin suurta\nkunniaa neiti De Bourgh harvoin osoittaa kyläläisille.\"\n\n\"Minä pidän hänen ulkonäöstään\", sanoi Elizabeth äkkiä, aivan uuden\najatuksen työntyessä hänen mieleensä. \"Hän näyttää kivuloiselta ja\nnyrpeältä. Hän on aivan omiaan herra Darcyn vaimoksi. Jopas löysi vakka\nkantensa!\"\n\nHra Collins ja Charlotte seisoivat avopäin veräjällä, puhellen\nvieraiden kanssa; ja Elizabethin suureksi hauskutukseksi oli Sir\nWilliam asettunut kaikkein siroimpaan hovilaisasentoonsa kynnykselle,\ntutkistellen mitä vakavimmalla tarkkuudella edessään olevia\ninhimillisen loiston ja mahdin edustajia ja kumarrellen ja noikaten\nsyvään joka kerta kun nti De Bourgh sattui katsahtamaan sinne päin.\n\nVihdoin loppuivat haastelun aiheet; vieraat naiset ajoivat tiehensä ja\ntoiset palasivat sisälle. Kohta kun hra Collins äkkäsi molemmat tytöt\nakkunan ääressä, hän rupesi onnittelemaan heitä odottamattomasta\nonnenpotkauksesta, minkä Charlotte selitti lähemmin siten, että koko\nperhe oli seuraavaksi päiväksi kutsuttu Rosingsiin päivälliselle.\n\n\n\n\nXXIX LUKU.\n\n\nHra Collinsin riemu tämän kutsun johdosta oli ylenpalttinen. Hänpä\nolikin mitä hartaimmin halunnut tilaisuutta saada levittää\nällistyneiden vieraittensa eteen mahtavan suojelijattarensa koko\nmaallisen loiston ja kunnian ja lyödä heidät hämmästyksiin näyttämällä,\nkuinka alentuvaa kohteliaisuutta hän ja hänen vaimonsa saivat nauttia\nmahtavan hovinväen puolelta.\n\n\"Minun täytyy tunnustaa\", hän lausui juhlallisesti, \"että minua ei\nlaisinkaan ihmetyttänyt hänen jalosukuisuutensa armollinen kutsu saapua\npyhänä saarnan jälkeen juomaan teetä ja viettämään iltaa Rosingsissa.\nTuntien hänen erinomaisen alavuutensa olisin voinut sellaista kutsua\npikemmin odottaakin. Mutta kukapa olisikaan osannut arvata tällaista\nhienoa huomaavaisuutta? Kukapa olisi voinut kuvitellakaan, että meidät\nkohta teidän tulonne jälkeen kutsuttaisiin sinne päivälliselle -- ja\najatelkaas, koko joukolla!\"\n\n\"Minua se ei lainkaan ihmetytä\", virkkoi Sir William ja kohotti\nleukaansa, \"kun tunnen hyvin isoisten ihmisten tavat, joihin\nyhteiskunnallinen asemani on sallinut minun tutustua. Minä tiedän, että\nhovin loiston varjossa eläessä sellaiset hienot tavat syöpyvät vereen\njo syntymästä saakka.\"\n\nKoko päivänä ja seuraavana aamuna tuskin puheltiinkaan muusta kuin\nkohta koittavasta mahdikkaasta vierailusta. Hra Collins teki parhaansa\nopastaakseen vieraitaan edeltäkäsin, jotta niin muhkeitten huoneiden\nloiston, niin monien palvelijoiden ja niin ylellisen päivällispöydän\nnäkeminen ei panisi näitä vallan pyörälle päästä.\n\nKun naiset vetäytyivät yläkertaan pukeutumaan lähtöä varten, huomautti\nhän erikoisesti Elizabethille:\n\n\"Pyydän, ettette, rakas serkku, ollenkaan hätäile ulkoasunne takia.\nLady Catherine ei suinkaan vaadi meidän puoleltamme sellaista ylellistä\nsiroutta, joka kuuluu hänen omaan ja hänen tyttärensä esiintymiseen.\nNeuvoisin teitä valitsemaan puvuistanne parhaan ja olemaan sitten aivan\nrauhallinen, sillä Lady Catherine ei suinkaan pane pahakseen, vaikka\nolettekin yksinkertaisesti puettu. Hän näet haluaa kotioloissaankin\nsäilyttää rajan korkeampain säätyhenkilöiden ja muiden ihmisten\nvälillä.\"\n\nNaisten pukeutuessa hän tuli vielä kahdesti tai kolmesti koputtamaan\nheidän ovilleen kehoittaakseen heitä kiirehtimään, koska Lady Catherine\nei kernaasti nähnyt vieraittensa viipyvän. Sellaiset hirvittävät\nennakkotiedot hänen jalosukuisuutensa mahdista ja ärtyisyydestä panivat\naran pikku Maria Lucasin pahoin säikähtymään, hän kun ei ollut vielä\ntottunut isoisten elämään; ja hän odotteli esiintymistään Rosingsissa\nyhtä pamppailevin sydämin kuin hänen isänsä aikanaan Lontoon\nkuningashovissa.\n\nIlma oli kaunis, joten heillä oli hauska puolen mailin kävelymatka\npuiston läpi. Jokaisella puistolla on oma viehätyksensä, ja Elizabeth\nnautti täysin siemauksin raittiista talvi-ilmasta korkeitten puiden\nkeskellä, antamatta hra Collinsin paljonkaan häiritä häntä\narviolaskelmillaan, mitä summia kaikki tämä ihanuus oli tullut Sir\nLewis De Bourgh vainajalle maksamaan.\n\nKun he nousivat eteishalliin vieviä valtaportaita ylös, vapisi pikku\nMaria parka hermostuksestaan, eikä Sir Williamkaan kyennyt täysin\nsäilyttämään kylmäverisyyttään. Elizabeth sen sijaan ei antanut\nrohkeutensa masentua. Hän ei ollut kuullut yhtään mitään hirvittävää\nLady Catherinen erinomaisista luonteen- ja hengenominaisuuksista, ja\npelkän rikkauden ja korkean säädyn kohtaaminen ei pannut hänen\nhermojaan lainkaan väräjämään.\n\nEteishallista, jonka kauniita mittasuhteita ja hienoa koristelua hra\nCollins hurmautuneena ylisteli, palvelijat veivät heidät välihuoneen\nläpi saliin, jossa Lady Catherine, hänen tyttärensä ja rva Jenkinson\nistuivat. Hänen jalosukuisuutensa nousi todella sangen alentuvaisesti\ntervehtimään vieraitaan; ja kun rva Collins oli ennakolta sopinut\nmiehensä kanssa, että hän itse saisi esittää ensikertalaiset, kävi tämä\ntärkeä toimitus niinkuin pitikin ja ilman niitä monia kursailuja ja\nanteeksipyyntöjä, joilla arvoisa kirkkoherra olisi ehdottomasti\nkoristellut puheensa.\n\nMutta vaikka Sir William olikin käynyt kuninkaan hovissa, oli hän\nantanut vävynsä ylistyspuheiden siihen määrään vaikuttaa hermoihinsa,\nettei hän pystynyt muuhun kuin tekemään juhlallisen kumarruksen ja\nsitten istahtamaan aivan tuppisuuna; ja hänen tyttärensä hermojännitys\noli korkeimmillaan, kun hän arkaillen istuutui tuolinreunalle,\ntietämättä minne rohjeta kääntää silmänsä. Elizabeth sitävastoin tunsi\nitsensä hyvin rauhalliseksi ja vaarinotti levollisesti emäntäväkeä.\nLady Catherine oli kookas ja lihava nainen, ja hänellä oli voimakkaat\nkasvonpiirteet, joissa vielä näkyi muinaisen kauneuden jälkiä. Hänen\nsävynsä ei ollut omiaan saamaan vieraita unohtamaan alemman\nsäätyarvonsa. Hän ei tosin suinkaan istunut tuppisuuna, mutta mitä hän\nsanoikin, se lausuttiin erinomaisen itsetietoiseen sävyyn, mikä oitis\npalautti Elizabethin mieleen hra Wickhamin sattuvan kuvauksen tästä\njalosta vallasnaisesta.\n\nÄidistä, jonka pöyhkeä ilme ja käyttäytyminen tästä teräväsilmäisestä\ntarkastelijasta jonkin verran muistutti hra Darcya, hän käänsi\nhuomionsa tyttäreen ja voi mielessään aivan yhtyä Marian eiliseen\nihmettelyyn tämän tavattomasta hentoudesta ja laihuudesta. Nti De\nBourghin ulkomuodossa ja kasvonpiirteissä ei ollut vähintäkään yhteistä\näidin mahtavasti tehoavien muotojen kanssa; hän oli hyvin kalpea ja\nkivuloisen näköinen, eikä hän ottanut muuta osaa seurusteluun kuin\nvaihtaen matalalla äänellä muutamia sanoja rva Jenkinsonin kanssa.\n\nMuutamia minuutteja istuttua Lady Catherine lähetti heidät akkunaan\nkatselemaan näköalaa, jonka hän sanoi olevan kesäiseen aikaan paljon\nkauniimman, mutta jossa hra Collins nytkin huomasi paljon ylistelyn\naiheita.\n\nPäivällinen oli erittäin upea ja levitti nähtäväksi hra Collinsin\nennakolta lupaamat korulautaset ja pönäkät palvelijat; samoin kävi\ntoteen hänen ennustuksensa, että hänen täytyi korkea-arvoisen emännän\nvaatimuksesta istuutua pöydän toiseen päähän tätä vastapäätä, (isännän\npaikalle), missä hän punoitti onnesta ja ylpeydestä ylen autuaana. Hän\nleikkeli paistia ja syödä maiskutteli ja kiitteli ihastuneena miltei\njoka suupalaa; ja tällöin olivat Sir Williaminkin hengenvoimat jälleen\nsiksi paljon vironneet, että hän kykeni kaikuna toistelemaan vävynsä\nvakuutteluja niin nöyristelevään sävyyn, että Elizabethia ihmetytti,\nkuinka Lady Catherine sitä oikein voi sietää. Mutta Lady Catherine\nkuunteli ilmeisesti mielissään vieraiden kiitosta, varsinkin kun\npöytään tuli jokin ruokalaji, joka näytti näille olevan ennestään\ntuntematon. Muuten ei pöydässä paljon puhuttu. Elizabeth olisi kyllä\nollut valmis puhumaan kenen kanssa hyvänsä, mutta hänet oli asetettu\nCharlotten ja nti De Bourghin väliin, joista edellinen kuunteli\nhartaasti Lady Catherinen haastelua, ja jälkimmäinen ei virkkanut\nhalkaistua sanaa koko aterian aikana. Rva Jenkinsonin huomio oli\ntykkänään kääntynyt nti de Bourghiin, jolle hän tyrkytteli ja\nsuositteli milloin mitäkin ruokalajia ja lausui tavantakaa pelkäävänsä,\nettä neiti ei voinut tänään oikein hyvin. Maria Lucas ei olisi suurin\nsurminkaan tohtinut avata suutansa, ja herrat tyytyivät syömään ja\nihailemaan.\n\nNaisten palattua saliin kuului puheenvuoro miltei yksinomaan emännälle,\njoka tiedusteli läpikotaisin Charlotten taloudellisia oloja ja ahtoi\npaljon hyvää tarkoittavia neuvoja hänen kotinsa, lehmäinsä ja\nkanatarhansa hoitamisessa ja hallitsemisessa, vakuuttaen että pienikin\nja alhaisarvoinen talous vaatii emännältä mitä tarkinta silmää.\nPuheensa lomassa hän teki ahkerasti kysymyksiä myöskin Marialle ja\nElizabethille, nimenomaan jälkimmäiselle, jonka kotioloja hän vähimmin\ntunsi ja joka hänestä oli sangen sievän ja kiltin näköinen tyttö, kuten\nhän suvaitsi mainita rva Collinsille. Hän tiedusti tavantakaa, montako\nsisarta hänellä oli, olivatko ne häntä vanhemmat vai nuoremmat,\nnaimisissako vai naimattomia, olivatko nekin sieviä, minkälaisen\nkasvatuksen kaikki sisarukset olivat saaneet ja mikä heidän äitinsä\ntyttönimi oli ollut. Elizabethista tuo kyseleminen tuntui aika\ntunkeilevaiselta, mutta hän vastasi kuitenkin sävyisästi kaikkeen.\nSitten Lady Catherine jatkoi huomautuksiaan:\n\n\"Teidän isänne tilahan siirtyy hänen kuoltuaan perintönä herra\nCollinsille, kuten olen kuullut? Teidän takianne\", sanoi hän\nCharlotteen kääntyen, \"olen siitä iloinen; mutta muuten en lainkaan\nhuomaa tarpeelliseksi, että sukutiloja siirretään pois naispuolisten\nperheenjäsenten hallittavista. Ainakaan ei Sir Lewis De Bourghin\nsuvussa ole sitä pidetty välttämättömänä. -- Osaatteko te soittaa ja\nlaulaa, neiti Bennet?\"\n\n\"Vähäsen.\"\n\n\"Ahaa -- jolloinkin ehkä saamme huvin kuulla teitä. Meillä onkin niin\nmainio piano, ettei sen vertaista ole mailla ja halmeilla -- saatte\nkoetella itse sitä jonakin päivänä. Entä osaavatko sisarenne soittaa ja\nlaulaa?\"\n\n\"Ainoastaan yksi heistä.\"\n\n\"Miksi ette kaikki ole opetelleet? Olisihan se kuulunut kasvatukseenne.\nWebbsinkin tyttäret täällä naapuristossa osaavat kaikki soittaa, vaikka\nheidän isällään ei ole edes sellaisiakaan vuosituloja kuin teidän\nisällänne. Entä piirustatteko te?\"\n\n\"Emme, ei yksikään meistä.\"\n\n\"Mitä -- eikö yksikään?\"\n\n\"Ei, valitettavasti.\"\n\n\"Sehän on merkillistä. Mutta arvaanpa, ettei teillä ole ollut\ntilaisuutta oppia sitä taitoa. Teidän äitinne olisi pitänyt viedä\nteidät joka kevät Lontooseen hyvien oppimestarien luo.\"\n\n\"Äidilläni ei kai olisi ollut mitään sitä vastaan, mutta isäni inhoo\nLontoota.\"\n\n\"Sepä merkillistä. Teillä ei kai enää ole kotiopettajatarta?\"\n\n\"Sellaista meillä ei ole koskaan ollutkaan.\"\n\n\"Eikö lainkaan kotiopettajatarta! Onko se mahdollista? Viisi tytärtä\nkasvatettavana kotona ilman kotiopettajatarta! Voi minun päiviäni! Enpä\nole kummempaa kuullut. Teidän äitinne on sitten täytynyt orjailla\nnäännyksiin saakka teitä opettaessaan.\"\n\nElizabethin oli vaikea pidättyä hymyilemästä, kun hän kielsi tuon\npöyristyttävän mahdollisuuden.\n\n\"Kuka teitä sitten kasvatti ja opetti? Olettehan lapsirukat jääneet\naivan takapajulle ilman kotiopettajatarta.\"\n\n\"Verrattuna vallasperheisiin luulen meidän todella jääneenkin; mutta\nken meistä todella halusi oppia, häneltä ei suinkaan keinoja puuttunut.\nMeitä kehoitettiin alati lukemaan ahkerasti, eikä meillä ollut\nopettajistakaan koskaan puutetta. Mutta joka halusi laiskotella, hän\nsai siihenkin vapaan vallan.\"\n\n\"Ah, epäilemättä; mutta juuri sitä estämään olisi kotiopettajatar ollut\ntarpeen; ja jos vain olisin tuntenut äitinne, olisin varmasti lukenut\nhänelle lakia. Minä olen aina sanonut, ettei kasvatuksesta ole\nmihinkään ilman ankaran säännöllistä ja hyvin järjestettyä opetusta,\njollaista ainoastaan kotiopettajatar pystyy antamaan. Käy oikein\nihmeekseni kun ajattelen, kuinka monet perheet olen tässä asiassa\nohjannut oikealle tolalle. Minua aina ilahduttaa, kun saan nuoret\nihmiset hyvin varustetuksi elämän taipaleelle. Ajatelkaas -- neljä\nrouva Jenkinsonin veljentytärtä on minun avullani saanut mainiot\npaikat; ja vasta eilen kuulin erään perheen olevan erinomaisen\nmielistynyt erääseen nuoreen tyttöön, jota olin edellisenä päivänä\nsuositellut heille, tuntematta häntä itsekään muuten kuin\nkuulopuheelta. Kuulkaas, rouva Collins, joko minä kerroin teille, että\nLady Metcalf kävi eilen kiittämässä minua turvatistani? Hänestä neiti\nPope on oikea aarre. 'Lady Catherine', hän sanoi, 'te hankitte minulle\noikean aarteen'. Kuulkaahan, neiti Bennet, joko jotkin nuoremmista\nsisaristanne ottavat osaa seuraelämään?\"\n\n\"Kyllä, rouvani, kaikkikin.\"\n\n\"Kaikkiko? Mitä -- kaikki viisikö yhdellä kertaa? Sepä vasta\neriskummallista! Ja te olette vasta toinen järjestyksessä. Nuoremmat\ntyttäret mukana seuraelämässä, ennenkuin vanhemmat ovat päässeet\nnaimisiin! Teidän nuorempain sisartenne täytyy vielä olla aivan\nnuoret?\"\n\n\"Niin ovatkin, nuorin ei ole vielä täyttänyt kuuttatoistakaan. Ehkäpä\nhän todella _onkin_ vielä liian nuori olemaan paljon mukana toisten\nkanssa. Mutta minusta nähden on jokseenkin kovaa kieltää nuoremmilta\nsisarilta kaikki elämänhupi ja seuranpito senvuoksi, ettei vanhemmilla\nole ollut tilaisuutta tai ehken ei haluakaan mennä naimisiin. Viimeksi\nsyntyneellä pitäisi olla yhtä suuri oikeus nuoruuden iloihin kuin\nensiksi syntyneelläkin. Ja joutuappa sitten toisten iloitessa\nteljetyksi makuusuojaan _mokomasta_ syystä! En luule, että sellainen\npakkotila olisi omiaan synnyttämään rakkautta sisarusten kesken ja\nvapaasti kehittämään itsekunkin yksilöllisiä taipumuksia.\"\n\n\"Kaikkea minun pitää kuuleman\", huudahti hänen jalosukuisuutensa perin\nällistyneenä; \"te lausutte todellakin niin nuoreksi ihmiseksi sangen\njyrkästi mielipiteenne. Saanko tietää, kuinka vanha te olette?\"\n\n\"Koska minulla on kolme nuorempaa sisarta jo mukana seuraelämässä, niin\ntuskinpa teidän jalosukuisuutenne voi odottaa, että minä ilmaisen oman\nikäni\", vastasi Elizabeth hymyillen.\n\nLady Catherine ällistyi yhä enemmän, kun häneltä evättiin suora\nvastaus; ja Elizabeth arveli olevansa kenties ensimmäinen ihminen,\njoka rohkeni lyödä leikiksi niin arvossapidetyn vallasnaisen\nhäikäilemättömyyden.\n\n\"Kaikkea -- kaikkea pitää kuulemanikin\", virkahti emäntä toinnuttuaan.\n\"Olen varma, ettette ole vielä paljon yli kahdenkymmenen -- voitte siis\nhuoleti ilmaista ikänne.\"\n\n\"En ole vielä yhtäkolmatta.\"\n\nHerrojen saavuttua naisten seuraan sijoituttiin korttipöytien ääreen.\nLady Catherine, Sir William ja Collinsin aviopari kävivät pelaamaan\nwhistiä, ja kun nti De Bourgh suvaitsi panna pasianssia, täytyi\nmolempain tyttöjen avustaa rva Jenkinsonia kolmen miehen nakkipelissä.\nHeidän pelinsä muodostui mitä ikävimmäksi; vaihdettiin tuskin\nsanaakaan, paitsi milloin rva Jenkinson puoliääneen valitti\nhoidokillaan olevan liika kuumaa tai liika kylmää, liiaksi valoista tai\nliiaksi pimeää. Toisessa pöydässä oli pelinmeno paljon virkumpaa.\nLady Catherine tietysti johti puhetta -- milloin soimaten\nkanssapelaajiaan heidän erehdyksistään, milloin kertoillen kaskuja\nomasta mahdikkaisuudestaan. Hra Collins yhtyi riemuiten kaikkeen, mitä\nhänen jalosukuisuutensa suvaitsi virkkaa, kiittäen nöyrimmästi joka\nvoitosta, jonka tämä salli hänen saada, ja pyydellen hartaasti\nanteeksi, jos sattui voittamaan liian usein. Sir Williamilla ei ollut\npaljon sanomista. Hän kokosi vain muistinsa kellareihin pelipöydässä\nkuulemiaan ylhäisiä nimiä ynnä kaskuja niiden kantajista.\n\nKun Lady Catherine ja hänen tyttärensä olivat saaneet pelaamisesta\ntarpeekseen, noustiin pöydästä ja rouva Collinsille tarjottiin vaunut\n(kuten hra Collins oli aivan oikein ennustanutkin), jonka tarjouksen\nhän kiitollisesti otti vastaan. Vaunuja odotellessa istuttiin tulen\nääreen kuulemaan, mitä toimia Lady Catherine määräsi itsekullekin\nhuomispäiväksi. Sitten ilmoitettiin vaunujen odottavan valtaportaiden\nedessä, ja monin hartain kiitospuhein hra Collinsin puolelta ja monin\npönäköin kumarruksin Sir Williamin puolelta seurue lähti kotimatkalle.\nKohta vaunuihin noustua hra Collins kävi kyselemään serkkunsa\nmielipidettä kaikesta Rosingsissa näkemästään ja kuulemastaan, ja\nElizabeth lausui Charlotten vuoksi mielipiteensä edullisemmassa\nmuodossa kuin mielensä teki. Mutta sekään ei tyydyttänyt hra Collinsia,\njonka oli pian pakko ottaa Lady Catherinen ylistely omiin\nharjautuneihin käsiinsä.\n\n\n\n\nXXX LUKU.\n\n\nSir William joutui viipymään Hunsfordissa vain viikon päivät; mutta\nsekin lyhyt aika riitti tekemään hänet vakuutetuksi siitä, että hänen\ntyttärensä olo ja elämä oli kaiken ylistyksen yläpuolella ja että\nhänelle oli siunattu sellainen aviomies ja sellainen naapuri, joita\nvain aniharvoille ihmisille oli suotu. Sir Williamin vielä viipyessä\nhra Collins omisti aina aamupäivänsä apelleen ja vei hänet rattaillaan\nkatselemaan seutua; mutta hänen lähdettyään perhe palasi arkielämään,\nja Elizabeth oli sydämessään kiitollinen, kun heidän ei enää kovinkaan\nusein tarvinnut nähdä hänen serkkuaan, joka vietti suuruksen ja\npäivällisen väliajan joko askaroiden puutarhassa tai omassa huoneessaan\nlukien ja kirjoitellen ja katsellen akkunasta ulos maantielle.\n\nNaiset istuivat salissa, joka antoi pihalle päin, joten he olivat\nkiitollisia hra Collinsille saadessaan tietää, mitä ajopelejä\nmilloinkin ajoi tietä pitkin ja milloin varsinkin neiti De Bourghin\npienet avovaunut vierivät ohi. Tämä pysähdytti usein hevosensa pappilan\neteen jutellakseen Charlotten kanssa, mutta ei koskaan alentunut\npistäytymään sisään.\n\nHarva päivä meni ilman ettei hra Collins kävellyt Rosingsiin, jonne\nhänen vaimonsakin teki hänelle usein seuraa; ja silloin tällöin\nkunnioitti hänen jalosukuisuutensakin perhettä vastavierailulla --\ntosin lyhyellä, mutta sittenkin tarpeeksi pitkällä, jotta hän ennätti\ntarkoin nuuskia joka nurkan heidän pienessä taloudessaan. Mikään seikka\nei välttynyt hänen terävältä silmältään: hän jakeli heille neuvoja,\nlöysi vikoja huonekalujen asettelussa tai keksi palvelijattaren\nlaiskottelemassa; harvoin hän ennätti ottaa osaa perheen murkinaan,\nmutta havaitsi silloin yhtä ja toista huomautettavaa leikkelyn ja\ntarjoilun suhteen.\n\nElizabeth tuli piankin ymmärtämään, että vaikka tämä mahtava rouva ei\ntosin ollut kreivikunnan rauhantuomari, oli hän silti oman\nseurakuntansa todellinen hallitushenkilö ja hra Collins hänen\nkäskyjensä ja toivomustensa uuras toimeenpanija ja perilleviejä. Missä\nhyvänsä kyläläiset olivat joutuneet keskinäiseen epäsopuun,\ntyytymättömyyteen tai köyhyyteen, sinne riensi hovinrouva rakentamaan\nrauhaa, vaimentamaan mahtikeinoin valitukset ja torumaan ihmisiä\nyleiseen sopusointuun ja tyytyväisyyteen.\n\nRosingsiin kutsuttiin pappilan väki edelleenkin päivälliselle kahdesti\nviikossa; ja paitsi että korttia (Sir Williamin poistumisen vuoksi)\npelattiin vain yhdessä pöydässä, kuluivat illat aivan samaan tapaan\nkuin ensimmäisellä kerralla. Muualla ei käytykään juuri missään, sillä\nse ei kuulunut Collinsin perheen tapoihin; mutta se ei Elizabethia\nsurettanut, sillä hänen aikansa kului yleensä viihtyisästi ja\nrauhallisesti. Silloin tällöin oli puolituntinen rattoisaa rupattelua\nCharlotten kanssa, ja ilmakin pysyi tähän vuodenaikaan enimmäkseen niin\nihanana, että hän pääsi ahkeraan jaloittelemaan. Toisten lähtiessä\nhoviin hän kääntyi syrjäiselle metsäpolulle, jonka päässä hän oli\nkeksinyt sievän laaksonnotkelman; ja sinne päästyään hän tunsi olevansa\nturvassa Lady Catherinen tungettelevalta uteliaisuudelta.\n\nTähän rauhalliseen tapaan kuluivat molemmat ensi viikot. Pääsiäinen\nlähestyi, ja sen edellisellä viikolla odotettiin Rosingsiin huomattavia\nvieraita. Elizabeth oli jo kohta pappilaan tultuaan kuullut, että hra\nDarcyn oli määrä saapua jonakin lähiviikkona; ja vaikka hänellä ei\nollutkaan erikoista (ei ainakaan mitään ystävällistä) mielenkiintoa\ntätä herraa kohtaan, tuotti ajatus pienen ja ikävän seurueen\nlisäytymisestä hänelle jonkin verran vaihtelua; ja erityisesti huvitti\nhäntä saada nähdä, kuinka toivottomia nti Bingleyn unelmat tulivat\nolemaan tämän herran suhteen, jonka Lady Catherine oli määrännyt\ntyttärensä puolisoksi. Lady Catherine puhelikin hänestä alituiseen mitä\nihailevimmassa äänilajissa ja näytti ärtyvän kuullessaan, että\nElizabeth ja nti Lucas olivat jo vanhoja tuttuja hänen kanssaan.\n\nHänen saapumisensa tuli oitis tiedoksi pappilassa; sillä määräpäivänä\noli hra Collins varuilta koko aamun kävellyt edestakaisin maantiellä\ntalonsa edustalla ja ennätettyään tehdä ohikiitäville vaunuille syvän\nkumarruksen rientänyt kohta sisään sanaa viemään. Seuraavana aamuna hän\nriensi jo varhain Rosingsiin tervehtimään tulijaa -- tahi oikeastaan\ntulijoita, sillä niitä oli kaksikin, molemmat Lady Catherinen\nsisarenpoikia. Hra Darcy oli näet tuonut mukanaan eversti\nFitzwilliamin, enonsa lordi ----n nuoremman pojan. Sekä hovin että\npappilan perheitten suureksi kummastukseksi olivat molemmat herrat\nlyöttäytyneet hra Collinsin mukaan, kun tämä lähti paluumatkalle.\nCharlotte oli miehensä kamarin akkunasta nähnyt heidän tulevan\nruohokentän yli ja rientänyt heti perähuoneeseen kertomaan tytöille\ntuon suuren uutisen.\n\n\"Tiedätkö mitä, Eliza\", lisäsi hän, \"sinun läsnäoloasi saan varmastikin\nkiittää tästä tavattomasta kohteliaisuudesta. Muuten ei hra Darcy olisi\nsuinkaan jouduttautunut näin pian tervehtimään minua.\"\n\nElizabethilla ei ollut aikaa kieltäytyä tästä hänen niskoilleen\nsälytetystä kunniasta, sillä ovikello helähti samassa ja kohta sen\njälkeen astuivat kaikki kolme herraa sisään. Eversti Fitzwilliam,\njoka tuli ensimmäisenä, oli noin kolmikymmenvuotias mies, ei lainkaan\nniin kaunis kuin uljas serkkunsa, mutta sekä luonteeltaan että\nkäytökseltään kunnianmies. Hra Darcy näytti aivan yhtä kankealta kuin\nHertfordshiressä ja tervehti emäntää ylhäiseen tapaansa; ja mitä\najatuksia ja tunteita tämän ystävättären näkeminen hänessä lienee\nherättänytkin, niin hän säilytti joka tapauksessa täydellisesti\nmielenmalttinsa. Elizabeth tyytyi niiaamaan hänelle sanomatta\nsanaakaan.\n\nEversti Fitzwilliam aloitti oitis puhelun tottuneen ja sivistyneen\nmaailmanmiehen sävyyn ja tarinoi aika hauskasti naisten kanssa; hänen\nserkkunsa sen sijaan istui hyvän aikaa aivan tuppisuuna, lausuttuaan\naluksi rva Collinsille hajamielisen huomautuksen hänen kodistaan ja\npuutarhastaan. Vihdoin tuntui hänen kohteliaisuutensa kohenevan sen\nverran, että hän suvaitsi tiedustaa Elizabethilta hänen omaistensa\nvointia. Tyttö vastasi tavalliseen sävyyn ja lisäsi, hetken vaitiolon\njälkeen:\n\n\"Vanhempi sisareni on ollut Lontoossa jo kolmisen kuukautta. Oletteko\nsattunut näkemään hänet siellä?\"\n\nHänellä oli aivan selvillä, että hra Darcy ei ollut nähnyt Janea; mutta\nhän halusi nähdä, kuvastaisiko toisen ulkomuoto ja vastaus jotain\nrikollista osallisuutta Janen ja Bingleyn välien särkymiseen; ja\ntodellakin hän oli huomaavinaan jonkin verran hämillistä epäröimistä\nDarcyn vastatessa, ettei hänelle ollut sattunut onnea tavata kertaakaan\nnti Bennetiä. Vähän aikaa vielä juteltuaan herrat lähtivät\npaluumatkalle hoviin.\n\n\n\n\nXXXI LUKU.\n\n\nEversti Fitzwilliamin rattoisata luonnetta ihailivat kaikki\npappilalaiset, ja nimenomaan naisten mielestä hän oli mitä tervetullein\nlisä hovin muuten niin jäykkään seuraan. Pappilan perhettä ei sinne\nkuitenkaan nyt kutsuttu moneen päivään, sillä hovilaisilla oli\nvieraistaan tarpeeksi seuraa. Vasta pääsiäispäiväksi, viikon päivät\nnuorten herrojen tulosta, heidät kirkosta palatessa kutsuttiin\nviettämään iltaa hovissa. Koko viikon aikana he eivät olleet nähneet\nLady Catherinea eikä tämän tytärtä; eversti Fitzwilliam oli sen sijaan\nahkerasti käynyt pappilassa -- mutta yksin, sillä hra Darcy oli\nedelleenkin suvainnut sulkeutua kuoreensa.\n\nKutsua tietysti noudatettiin, ja määrähetkenä pappilan väki saapui Lady\nCatherinen saliin. Emäntä otti heidät tosin kohteliaasti vastaan, mutta\nkaikesta näkyi, ettei heidän seuransa nyt ollut hänelle yhtä mieluinen\nkuin ennen yksin ollessaan; ja koko illan hän puheli melkein yksinomaan\nsisarenpoikainsa, nimenomaan Darcyn kanssa, aivan kuin ei huoneessa\nolisi muita ollutkaan.\n\nEversti Fitzwilliam tuli ilmeisesti iloiseksi heidät nähdessään; mikä\nhyvänsä vaihtelu oli hänelle mieleen Rosingsissa ollessa; ja kenties\nsattui rva Collinsin sievä ja hilpeä ystävätär herättämään tavallista\nenemmän hänen mielenkiintoaan. Hän istahti oitis Elizabethin\nviereen ja pakinoi Kentistä ja Hertfordshirestä, matkoista ja\nkotiviihdykkäisyydestä, uusista kirjoista ja musiikista niin hauskasti,\nettä tytöstä ei vielä mikään hänen Rosingsissa viettämänsä ilta ollut\nkulunut näin rattoisasti. He innostuivat puhelemaan niin eloisasti,\nettä se kiinnitti yksin Lady Catherinenkin huomiota samoin kuin hra\nDarcynkin. _Tämän_ silmät olivat jo monesti pälyilleet ilmeisen\nuteliaasti puhelevaan pariin; Lady Catherine puolestaan ei enää\nmalttanut hillitä uteliaisuuttaan, vaan huusi huoneen poikki\nsukoilematta sisarensapojalle:\n\n\"Mitä te siellä juttelette päät yhdessä, Fitzwilliam? Mitä sinä kerrot\nneiti Bennetille? Puhu kovaa, että minäkin kuulen.\"\n\n\"Me puhelemme vain musiikista, täti rakas\", sanoi eversti, kun näki\nmahdottomaksi vältellä vastaamista.\n\n\"Musiikista! Puhukaa sitten kernaasti lujempaa. Siitä puheenaiheesta\nminä haluankin kaikkein enimmän kuulla. Minun täytyy saada ottaa osaa\nkeskusteluun, kun kerran musiikista puhutaan. Luulenpa, että\nEnglannissa on harvoja ihmisiä, jotka minua vilpittömämmin nauttisivat\nmusiikista tai joilla olisi parempi luontainen musiikkiaisti. Jos\nolisin oppinut edes vähäsenkään soittamaan, niin luulisinpä olevani\nsuurikin taiteilija. Samaa voisi sanoa Annestakin, jos hänen heikko\nterveytensä olisi sallinut hänen harjoitella. Kuinka Georgianan\nmusiikkiopinnot menestyvät, Darcy?\"\n\nHra Darcy kiitteli innostuneesti sisarensa soittokykyä ja sanoi hänen\nharjoittelevan ahkerasti.\n\n\"Sen parempi. Harjoittelemista ei voikaan koskaan harrastaa liiaksi, ja\nkun ensi kerran kirjoitan hänelle, varoitan häntä millään muotoa\ntaukoamasta siitä. Olen tälle neiti Bennetillekin sanonut jo monesti,\nettä hän ei ikinä opi hyvin soittamaan, jollei harjoittele joka päivä;\nja vaikka rouva Collinsin piano onkin aika rämä, niin on hän\ntervetullut tänne soittamaan. Rouva Jenkinsonin puolella hän saa olla\naivan rauhassa, eikä hänen soittonsa siellä häiritse ketään.\"\n\nHra Darcy näytti olevan hiukan häpeissään tätinsä tahdittomuudesta eikä\nvirkkanut sanaakaan.\n\nKun kahvi oli juotu, eversti Fitzwilliam muistutti Elizabethille, että\ntämä oli luvannut soittaa heille; ja kuuliaisesti istahti tyttö oitis\npianon ääreen. Lady Catherine kuunteli laulua puoliväliin saakka ja\nrupesi sitten jatkamaan puhettaan sisarenpoikansa kanssa, kunnes tämä\nlähti hänen luotaan ja astellen huolettomasti lattian poikki asettui\nsoittokoneen viereen siten, että näki vapaasti kauniin soittajattaren\nvaihtelevat kasvojenilmeet edessään. Elizabeth pani merkille hänen\ntarkastelunsa; ja ensimmäisen sopivan lepohetken aikana hän käännähti\nsuoraan häntä kohti, veti suunsa hymyyn ja sanoi:\n\n\"Te kai aiotte säikyttää minua, herra Darcy, asettumalla noin\nmahtavasti kuuntelemaan minua. Mutta minä en aio säikähtää, vaikka\ntiedänkin sisarenne soittavan paremmin kuin minä. Minun luonteeni on\nniin uppiniskainen, etten mielelläni anna toisten masentaa itseäni.\nPäinvastoin ylpeyteni kohottaa aina harjaansa, kun näen sellaista\nyritettävän.\"\n\n\"En tahdo sanoa, että erehdytte, vaikka tiedänkin teidän\ntodellisuudessa uskovan, ettei minulla ole lainkaan tuollaista ajatusta\nteidän suhteenne. Sellaisesta varjelee minua pitkäaikaisen\ntuttavuutemme aikana saamani kokemus, että teitä nimittäin toisinaan\nerikoisesti huvittaa lausua mielipiteitä, joita itse asiassa ette\nmyönnä itsekään tosiksi.\"\n\nElizabeth nauroi sydämellisesti kuullessaan tällaisen kuvauksen\nitsestään ja sanoi eversti Fitzwilliamille: \"Teidän serkkunne tahtoo\nantaa teille hyvin kauniin käsityksen minusta ja saada teidät uskomaan,\nettei minun puheisiini ole luottamista. Minulla on kerrassaan kova onni\njoutuessani täten sattumoilta yhteen henkilön kanssa, joka osaa niin\nhyvin paljastaa todellisen olemukseni, ja vieläpä sellaisessa\nmaailmankolkassa, jossa tuntemattomana piillen toivoin tulevani edes\nvähänkin uskotuksi. Totta tosiaan, herra Darcy, ei ollut teidän\npuoleltanne lainkaan jalomielistä vetää täällä päivänvaloon kaikkia\nminun Hertfordshiressä tekemiäni tihutöitä -- eikä se ollut edes varsin\nvaltioviisastakaan, jos sallitte minun niin sanoa -- sillä sen kautta\nyllytätte minua kostamaan ja kukaties juttelemaan teistä itsestänne\nsellaisia asioita, jotka saavat hiukset nousemaan pystyyn kaikkien\ntäällä olevain sukulaistenne päässä.\"\n\n\"Ei minua peloita lainkaan\"; sanoi Darcy hymyillen.\n\n\"Antakaas kuulla, mistä kaikesta te häntä oikein syytätte\", huudahti\neversti Fitzwilliam. \"Tahtoisin mielelläni tietää, kuinka hän\nkäyttäytyy vennon vierasten parissa.\"\n\n\"Kuulkaahan sitten -- mutta olkaa valmis kuulemaan jotakin kauheaa.\nTietäkää, että ensi kerran näin hänet Hertfordshiressä eräissä\ntanssiaisissa -- ja arvaattekos, mitä tämä herra silloin teki? Hän\ntanssi ainoastaan neljästi! Minua surettaa sanoa näin, mutta niin oli\ntodella asianlaita. Hän tanssi vain neljä kertaa, vaikka kavaljeereista\noli puute, ja minä tiedän varmasti, että monet neitoset saivat koristaa\nseinäviertä, kun heillä ei ollut tanssittajia. Herra Darcy, te ette voi\nkieltää tätä tosiasiaa.\"\n\n\"Minulla ei silloin ollut kunnia tuntea ainuttakaan saapuvilla ollutta\nnaista, lukuunottamatta omaan seuraani kuuluvia.\"\n\n\"Totta kyllä, ja vaikeatahan on käydä tanssisalissa esittelemään\nitseään. No niin, eversti Fitzwilliam, mitä minun nyt on soitettava\nteille? Sormeni odottavat käskyänne.\"\n\n\"Ehkäpä\", sanoi Darcy, \"olisin voinut käyttäytyä oikeamielisemmin, jos\nolisin toimittanut itseni esitellyksi, mutta minun on aina hyvin vaikea\nseurustella umpi outojen kanssa.\"\n\n\"Kysymmekö serkkunne mielipidettä siitä?\" sanoi Elizabeth, yhä\nFitzwilliamille puhellen. \"Pyydämmekö hänen selittämään sen ihmeellisen\nongelman, miksi älykkään ja hienosti sivistyneen miehen, joka on ikänsä\nelänyt mukana suuressa maailmassa, on vaikea seurustella umpi outojen\nihmisten kanssa?\"\n\n\"Minä voin vastata kysymykseenne pyytämättä lupaa häneltä itseltään\",\nsanoi eversti. \"Syy on se, että hän ei viitsi nähdä sitä vaivaa.\"\n\n\"Minulla ei todellakaan ole sitä kykyä kuin eräillä toisilla\", sanoi\nDarcy, \"että osaisin keskustella sujuvasti ihmisten kanssa, joita en\nole koskaan ennen nähnyt. Minä en voi sulautua heidän puheensävyynsä\nenkä _näyttää_ olevani huvitettu heitä huvittavista asioista, niinkuin\nusein näen toisten tekevän.\"\n\n\"Minun sormeni\", sanoi Elizabeth, \"eivät juokse koskettimilla niin\nliukkaasti kuin olen nähnyt monien muiden naisten sormien tekevän.\nNiillä ei ole samaa voimaa eikä nopeutta, eivätkä ne kykene yhtä\nmestarillisesti ilmaisemaan tunteita. Mutta tätä olen aina arvellut\nomaksi viakseni -- etten ole huolinut harjoitella tarpeeksi. Päähäni ei\nole pälkähtänytkään uskoa, etteivät sormeni olisi yhtä hyvät kuin kenen\nhyvänsä paljon suurempaa oppia saaneen naisen sormet.\"\n\nDarcy vastasi hymyillen: \"Te olette aivan oikeassa. Te olette käyttänyt\naikanne paljon paremmin. Ei kukaan, jonka on suotu kuulla soittoanne,\nvoi väittää teiltä kykyä puuttuvan. Kukaan meistä toisista ei pystyisi\nniin luontevasti esiintymään vierasten kuullen.\"\n\nTällöin heidän puheensa keskeytti Lady Catherine, joka huusi\näänekkäästi salin poikki tahtoen tietää, mistä he väittelivät.\nElizabeth rupesi oitis soittamaan, Lady Catherinekin tuli pianon luo ja\nkuunneltuaan vähän aikaa virkkoi Darcylle:\n\n\"Neiti Bennet ei soittaisi lainkaan hullummin, jos hän olisi\nharjoitellut enemmän ja saanut jonkun Lontoon soittomestarin opetusta.\nHänen sormitaitonsa on todella varsin hyvä, vaikkei hänen\nmusiikkikorvaansa voi verratakaan Annen korvaan. Anne olisikin\nihanteellinen soittaja, jos hänen heikko terveytensä olisi sallinut\nhänen opiskella.\"\n\nElizabeth vilkaisi varkain Darcyyn nähdäkseen, kuinka tulisesti tämä\nyhtyi serkkunsa ylistelyyn; mutta ei tällöin eikä muissakaan\ntilaisuuksissa hän kyennyt keksimään vähintäkään rakastumisen merkkiä\ntuon jäykän miehen ilmeessä. Kaikesta hänen käyttäytymisestään nti De\nBourghia kohtaan voi Elizabeth tehdä sen nti Bingleylle lohdullisen\nhavainnon, että Darcy voisi aivan yhtä hyvin naida viimeksimainitun,\njos tämä vain olisi ollut hänen serkkunsa.\n\nLady Catherine jatkoi huomautuksiaan Elizabethin soittotaidosta;\nElizabeth kuunteli niitä kärsivällisen kohteliaasti ja pysyi herrojen\npyynnöstä pianon ääressä siksi kunnes ilmoitettiin, että hovin vaunut\nolivat portaiden edessä valmiina viemään vieraat kotia.\n\n\n\n\nXXXII LUKU.\n\n\nElizabeth istui seuraavana aamuna yksikseen kirjoittaen Janelle --\nrva Collins ja Maria olivat lähteneet asialle kylään -- kun häntä\nsäpsähdytti ovelta kuuluva soitto, varma merkki varhaisen\nvieraan tulosta. Arvellen tulijaa Lady Catherineksi hän työnsi\njoutuin puolivalmiin kirjeensä piiloon, jotta säästyisi kaikista\ntungettelevista kysymyksistä; mutta oven auetessa hän suureksi\nyllätyksekseen näki hra Darcyn aivan yksinään.\n\nTulijakin tuntui hämmästyvän nähdessään hänet yksin kotona ja pyysi\nanteeksi sisääntunkeutumistaan, selittäen luulleensa kaikkien naisten\nolevan kotosalla.\n\nSitten he kävivät istumaan, ja Elizabethin saatua hajamieliset\nvastaukset kyselyihinsä hovilaisten voinnista puhelu tuntui uhkaavan\ntykkänään tyrehtyä. Oli senvuoksi tuiki tarpeen keksiä jotain\nkeskustelunaihetta; ja tässä pulassaan muistellen, milloin hän viimeksi\noli nähnyt vieraansa Hertfordshiressä ja uteliaana saamaan kuulla, mikä\nsyy oli saanut Netherfieldin asukkaat niin äkkiarvaamatta poistumaan\npaikkakunnalta, Elizabeth huomautti:\n\n\"Mikä äkkilähtö teille tulikaan viime marraskuulla Netherfieldistä, hra\nDarcy! Herra Bingley tuli varmaankin hyvin mieliinsä tavatessaan teidät\nkaikki jälleen niin pian; sillä muistaakseni hän oli lähtenyt vasta\nedellisenä päivänä Lontooseen. Toivon, että hän ja sisarensa voivat\nhyvin, kun erositte viimeksi heistä?\"\n\n\"Mainiosti, kiitän kysymyksestänne.\"\n\nElizabeth huomasi, että puhelu uhkasi taasen tauota; ja lyhyen vaitiolon\njälkeen hän lisäsi:\n\n\"Luulen ymmärtäneeni, että herra Bingley ei enää aio lainkaan palata\nNetherfieldiin?\"\n\n\"Sitä en ole kuullut hänen koskaan sanovan; mutta hyvin luultavaa on,\nettä hän tulee vast'edes viettämään siellä hyvin vähän ajastaan.\nHänellä on paljon ystäviä, ja hän on siinä iässä, jolloin ystävien ja\nvieraskutsujen luku yhä karttuu.\"\n\n\"Jos hän aikoo oleskella vain niin vähän aikaa Netherfieldissä, niin\nminusta olisi naapuristolle edullisempi, että hän kokonaan luopuisi\ntuosta paikasta, jotta sinne asettuisi jokin miellyttävä perhe\npysyväisesti. Mutta ehkä herra Bingley vuokrasikin tilan enemmän omaa\nkuin naapuriensa hauskuutta silmälläpitäen, ja meidän on jäätävä\nodottamaan, että hän vastakin menettelee saman näkökannan mukaisesti.\"\n\n\"En yhtään ihmettelisi\", sanoi Darcy, \"vaikka hän luopuisi siitä kohta\nkun saa hyväksyttävän tarjouksen.\"\n\nSiihen ei Elizabeth vastannut mitään. Hän ei rohjennut sen pitemmältä\nudella Darcyn ystävän oloa; ja kun hänellä ei ollut muutakaan\nsanomista, päätti hän jättää keskustelun jatkamisen vieraansa vaivaksi.\n\nTämä ymmärsi äänettömän viittauksen ja aloitti oitis tuskapäin: \"Tämä\nnäyttää hyvin kodikkaalta talolta. Luulen, että Lady Catherine\nkorjautti sitä melkoisesti, kun herra Collins muutti tänne\nHunsfordiin.\"\n\n\"Niin hän kai teki -- ja olen varma, ettei hän olisi voinut osoittaa\nystävyyttään kiitollisemmalle vastaanottajalle.\"\n\n\"Herra Collins tuntuu olleen hyvin onnellinen vaimonsa valinnassa.\"\n\n\"Siinä olette aivan oikeassa; hänen ystävänsä voivat onnitella häntä,\nettä hän sattui tapaamaan yhden niistä harvoista järkevistä naisista,\njotka olisivat suostuneet hänen kosintaansa. Minun ystävättärelläni on\nerinomainen ymmärrys -- vaikka en ole varma, oliko naimisiinmeno herra\nCollinsin kanssa kovinkaan viisas teko hänen puoleltaan. Hän tuntuu\nkuitenkin olevan täysin onnellinen; ja aineellisessa suhteessa on hänen\nvalintansa hänelle hyvin edullinen.\"\n\n\"Hänelle on varmastikin sangen mieluista asua niin lähellä omaisiaan ja\nentisiä ystäviään.\"\n\n\"Onko Hunsford mielestänne niin lähellä? Onhan tänne matkaa hänen\nisänkodistaan liki viisikymmentä mailia.\"\n\n\"Mitä ovat viisikymmentä mailia hyvää maantietä? Vähän päälle puoli\npäivämatkaa. Minusta etäisyys on naurettavan lyhyt.\"\n\n\"Minä en koskaan pitäisi etäisyyttä isänkodista minään avioliiton\nvoittopuolena\", huudahti Elizabeth; \"enkä suinkaan sanoisi, että rouva\nCollins on joutunut lähelle omaisiaan.\"\n\n\"Tuo todistaa vain teidän omaa kiintymystänne Hertfordshireen. Jokainen\npaikka, joka on vähänkin Longbournin lähinaapuriston ulkopuolella,\nolisi teidän mielestänne kai hirvittävän kaukana.\"\n\nHänen huulillaan väreili hymy, jonka Elizabeth luuli ymmärtävänsä;\nDarcy luuli kaiketi hänen ajattelevan Janea ja Netherfieldiä, ja\npunastuen hän kiirehti vastaamaan:\n\n\"En suinkaan tarkoita, että naisen pitäisi naimisiin jouduttuaankin\nolla kytketty kiinni isänkotiinsa. Ovathan läheisyys ja etäisyys sangen\nvenyviä käsitteitä ja riippuvat niin monista vaihtelevista\nasianhaaroista. Jos varat sallivat tehdä matkoja milloin hyvänsä ja\nmiten pitkälle tahansa, niin ei etäisyyskään ole haitaksi. Mutta niin\nei ole laita _tässä_ tapauksessa. Herra ja rouva Collinsilla on hyvät\nvuositulot, mutta ei sentään siksi suuret, että ne sallisivat ahkerasti\nmatkusteltavan -- ja arvaan, ettei ystävättäreni voisi sanoa asuvansa\nlähellä omaisiaan vähemmän kuin puolen nykyisen välimatkan päässä.\"\n\nHra Darcy veti tuoliansa lähemmäksi häntä ja sanoi:\n\n\"_Teillä_ ei varmastikaan ole oikeutta tuntea noin väkevää kotipaikan\nrakkautta. Ettehän te voi olla elänyt ikäänne kaikkea Longbournin\nperukoilla.\"\n\nElizabeth katsahti ylös hämmästyneenä. Puhujan tunneasteikossa näytti\njälleen tapahtuvan vaihdos; hän siirsi tuolinsa taapäin, otti pöydältä\nsanomalehden, silmäili sitä hajamielisesti ja sanoi sitten kylmempään\nsävyyn:\n\n\"Miten Kent teitä miellyttää?\"\n\nLyhyt keskustelu seurasi tämän seudun valo- ja varjopuolista, molemmin\npuolin kylmän asiallisesti, kunnes sen keskeytti kävelyretkeltään\npalaavien Charlotten ja hänen sisarensa saapuminen. Toisten\nkahdenkeskinen yhdessäolo tuntui vähän hämmästyttävän näitä. Hra Darcy\nselitti sen samalla tapaa kuin ensin sisään tullessaankin, ja poistui\nsitten istuttuaan vielä muutaman minuutin ajan.\n\n\"Mitähän tämä oikein tarkoittaa?\" uteli Charlotte kohta hänen mentyään.\n\"Rakas Eliza, hänen täytyy varmastikin olla rakastunut sinuun, muuten\nhän ei koskaan olisi tullut tänne näin tuttavalliselle käynnille.\"\n\nMutta kun Elizabeth oli kertonut hänen juroudestaan koko vierailun\naikana, ei tuo otaksuminen ruvennut näyttämään oikein uskottavalta,\nvaikka Charlotte olisi sitä kuinka hartaasti toivonut; ja monien\nvaihtelevien arvelujen jälkeen perusteltiin harvinainen vierailu\nviimein siihen mahdollisuuteen, että Darcylla ei kai ollut mitään\nmuutakaan tehtävänä, mikä tähän vuodenaikaan katsoen tuntui\ntodennäköisemmältä. Kaikki ulkoilmaurheilu oli tällöin mahdoton.\nSisällä hovikartanossa oli hauskutuksena seuranpito Lady Catherinelle,\nlueskelu ja biljaardinpeluu, mutta eiväthän reippaat nuoret herrat voi\nalituisesti istuskella sisälläkään; ja pappila kun oli niin lähellä ja\nsinne oli hauska kävelymatka ja perillä hauskoja nuoria naisia,\ntunsivat molemmat serkukset houkutusta kävellä sinne harva se päivä. He\ntulivat eri aikoihin aamupäivisin, milloin yhdessä, milloin kumpikin\nerikseen, joskus tätinsäkin seuraamana. Kaikille pappilalaisille oli\nilmeistä, että eversti Fitzwilliam yhtyi hyvin heidän seurassaan, ja\nse huomio teki hänet sitä suositummaksi.\n\nMutta mikä seikka Darcya viehätti käymään niin ahkerasti pappilassa,\nsitä oli vaikeampi arvata. Varmastikaan hän ei tullut seuraa pitämään;\nusein hän saattoi istua kymmenisen minuuttia toisten parissa avaamatta\nkertaakaan suutansa; ja jos hän joskus puheli, tapahtui se ilmeisesti\nenemmän välttämättömyyden pakosta kuin omasta sisäisestä halusta. Hän\nei koskaan näyttänyt oikein hyväntuuliselta. Rva Collins ei tiennyt,\nmitä koko miehestä ja hänen käynneistään oikein päätellä. Hän oli vielä\nkerran tai kahdesti vihjaillut Elizabethille, että tuo salamyhkäinen\nvieras kukaties oli rakastunut häneen, mutta toinen oli aina makeasti\nnauranut koko arvelulle; eikä rva Collins sitten enää rohjennut\nkehittää tätä puheen aihetta sen pitemmälle, peljäten että sen kautta\nystävättäressä herätettäisiin toiveita, jotka päättyisivät syvään\npettymykseen.\n\nHellässä huolenpidossaan Elizabethista hän joskus suunnitteli naittaa\nhänet eversti Fitzwilliamille. Tämä oli ehdottomasti hauskempi noista\nkahdesta serkuksesta; hän ihaili ilmeisesti Elizabethia, ja hänen\nvarallisuutensa ja yhteiskunnallinen asemansa oli hyvä; mutta näiden\netujen vastapainona kiikkui toisella vaakalaudalla se kieltämätön\ntosiasia, että hra Darcy suurena tilanomistajana voi määrätä\nlihavatuloisen kirkkoherranviran täyttämisestä, mutta hänen serkkunsa\nei edes laihasta kappalaispaikastakaan.\n\n\n\n\nXXXIII LUKU.\n\n\nUseammin kuin kerran joutui Elizabeth puistokävelyillään odottamatta\nkohtaamaan hra Darcyn. Ensimmäisellä kerralla se häntä niin harmitti,\nettä hän rohkeni huomauttaa valinneensa tämän yksinäisen notkotien\nmielikävelypaikakseen, koska hän tiesi sillä saavansa olla aivan\nyksikseen. Sangen merkillistä oli, että tästä kouraantuntuvasta\nviittauksesta huolimatta uusi kohtaus tapahtui jo seuraavana päivänä --\neikä ainoastaan silloin, mutta vielä kolmantenakin päivänä! Tämä tuntui\njoko tahalliselta ilkikurisuudelta tahi sitten vapaaehtoiselta\nitsekuritukselta; sillä kummallakaan kerralla tuo itsepintainen\ntungeksija ei tyytynyt vain lausumaan joitakin vastahakoisia\nhuomautuksia, sitten tapansa mukaan nyreästi vaikenemaan ja viimein\nkääntämään seuralleen selkänsä -- kaikkea vielä, hän päinvastoin näki\ntarpeelliseksi lyöttäytyä Elizabethin mukaan ja saattaa hänet kotia.\nMillään haastelutuulella hän ei tietysti tällöinkään ollut, eikä\nmyöskään Elizabeth viitsinyt paljon puhella eikä edes kuunnellakaan\nhäntä; mutta kolmannella kerralla tyttöä jonkin verran ihmetyttivät\nhänen seuralaisensa omituiset umpimähkäiset kysymykset -- hänen\nviihtymisestään Hunsfordissa, hänen rakkaudestaan yksinäisiin\nkävelyihin, Collinsin parin avio-onnesta; ja Rosingsista puheltaessa,\njota Elizabeth ei sanonut vielä oikein tuntevansa, hänen kavaljeerinsa\nnäytti pitävän varmana, että milloin hyvänsä hän vast'edes saapuisi\nKentiin, hän vierailisi myöskin _siellä_. Aivan totta -- sellaista\njärjetöntä kummaa hän tuntui aivan tosissaan odottavan. Tähtäsiköhän\nhän eversti Fitzwilliamiin ja tämän mahdolliseen kosintaan? Muuta ei\nElizabeth osannut otaksua, ja sekin riitti pahasti hämmentämään hänen\najatuksensa, niin että hän oli hyvin iloinen kun huomasi heidän jo\nsaapuneen pappilan veräjälle.\n\nEräänä lähipäivänä, kun hän jälleen oli kävelemässä ja lueskeli\ntoistamiseen Janen kirjettä, joka oli ilmeisesti kirjoitettu hyvin\nmasentuneessa mielentilassa, hän kohtasi taasen häiritsijän\nyksinäisellä metsätiellä; mutta tällä kertaa se ei ollutkaan hra Darcy,\nvaan eversti Fitzwilliam. Työntäen kirjeen joutuin poveensa hän hymyili\ntulijalle väkinäisesti ja sanoi:\n\n\"En tiennyt teidän koskaan kävelevän tällä taholla.\"\n\n\"Lähdin kiertelemään ympäri koko puiston\", vastasi toinen, \"kuten\ntavallisesti teen joka vuosi tähän aikaan, ja ajattelin yksin tein\npistäytyä pappilassa. Aiotteko kävellä vielä kauemmaksikin?\"\n\n\"En, olin juuri kääntymäisilläni takaisin.\"\n\nMolemmat palasivat yhdessä pappilaa kohti.\n\n\"Aiotteko varmasti lähteä Kentistä ensi lauantaina?\" kysyi Elizabeth.\n\n\"Kyllä -- jollei Darcy saa taas muuta päähänsä. Olen tätä nykyä hänen\nkäytettävänään, ja hän saa järjestää kaikki asiat oman päänsä jälkeen.\"\n\n\"Ja jollei asiain käytännöllinen järjestäminen ehkä aina olekaan hänen\nmieleensä, niin nauttii hän ainakin suuresti määräämisvallastaan. En\nole tavannut yhtään ihmistä, joka tuntuu niin suuresti nauttivan\nrajattomasta määräämisvallastaan omien ja kaikkien ystäväinsä tekojen\nsuhteen kuin herra Darcy.\"\n\n\"Hän tekee niinkuin häntä paraiten miellyttää\", vastasi eversti. \"Ja\nniinhän me kaikkikin teemme, mikäli mahdollista. Erotus on vain siinä,\nettä se on hänelle useammin mahdollista kuin monille muille, koska hän\non hyvin rikas ja toiset ovat häneen verraten köyhiä. Minä puhun omasta\nkohdastani. Tiedättehän, että perheen nuoremman pojan on pakko oppia\nitsekieltäymykseen ja riippuvaisuuteen.\"\n\n\"Minusta kreivin nuoremman pojan sentään harvoin tarvitsee oppia\nkumpaankaan pakkoon. Aivan totta -- mitäpä te itse asiassa tiedättekään\nitsekieltäytymyksestä ja riippuvaisuudesta? Milloinka on rahanpuute\nestänyt teitä menemästä jonnekin tai tekemästä jotakin, minne ja mitä\nmielenne on tehnyt?\"\n\n\"Nämä ovat kotoisia pikku kysymyksiä -- ja ehkäpä minun täytyy\ntunnustaakin, ettei minulla ole tähän asti ollut erinäisen kovia\nkokemuksia näissä asioissa. Mutta elämän tärkeämmissä kysymyksissä\nsaatan kyllä johtua kärsimään varattomuuteni vuoksi. Perinnöstä osaton\nnuorempi poika ei esimerkiksi pääse aina naimaan mielensä mukaisesti.\"\n\n\"Jollei hän satu mieltymään rikkaaseen tyttöön, niinkuin hyvin useasti\nkäy.\"\n\n\"Meikäläinen joutuu pakostakin riippuvaiseksi totutusta\nelämäntavastaan. Minun asemassani oleva mies harvoin saa naidessaan\nolla kiinnittämättä huomiota valittunsa varallisuuteen.\"\n\n\"Minuakohan hän nyt tarkoittaa?\" kysyi Elizabeth itseltään ja punastui\nkorviaan myöten tuosta ajatuksesta; mutta hilliten itsensä nopeasti hän\nkysyi leikkisään sävyyn: \"Sanokaappas, mikä on kreivin nuoremman pojan\ntavallinen hinta? Jollei vanhempi veli satu olemaan kivuloinen, niin\narvaisin teidän tyytyvän viiteenkymmeneen tuhanteen puntaan.\"\n\nEversti vastasi samaan sävyyn, ja sitten puhelu hetkiseksi taukosi.\nKatkaistakseen vaitiolon, jonka Elizabeth pelkäsi saattavan\nseuralaisensa arvelemaan hänestä herra ties mitä, hän kiiruhti jälleen\npuhelemaan:\n\n\"Minä kuvittelen serkkunne tuoneen teidät mukanaan tänne etupäässä\nsenvuoksi, että hänellä olisi joku taattu henkilö käskynalaisenaan.\nIhmettelen, kun hän ei mene naimisiin hankkiakseen itselleen oikein\nvakinaista käskettävää. Mutta ehkäpä hänen sisarensa toistaiseksi\npelastaa hänet tästä pulasta; ja kun sisar on yksinomaan veljensä\nholhottavana, niin tämä voi menetellä hänen suhteensa miten vain itse\nhaluaa.\"\n\n\"Ei niin sentään ole asianlaita\", sanoi eversti Fitzwilliam, \"siitä\nedusta minäkin olen osallinen. Me olemme näet molemmat neiti Darcyn\nholhoojia.\"\n\n\"Oletteko todellakin? Entä millainen holhoojasetä te oikein olette?\nAntaako holhokkinne teille paljonkin huolta? Sen ikäisiä nuoria\nneitosia lienee toisinaan hiukan vaikea kaitsea; ja jos hänellä on aito\ndarcylainen mielenlaatu, niin ehkä hän mielellään tahtoo elää oman\npäänsä jälkeen.\"\n\nNäin sanoessaan hän huomasi seuralaisensa silmäävän häneen totisesti;\nja everstin oitis tiedustaessa, mikä seikka pani hänet arvelemaan, että\nneiti Darcysta olisi holhoojilleen paljon huolta, hän voi kysyjän\nhuolestuneesta äänensävystä ja kasvojenilmeestä arvata osanneensa\njokseenkin lähelle todellista asianlaitaa. Hän kiirehti senvuoksi\nvastaamaan.\n\n\"Teidän ei tarvitse lainkaan säikähtyä. Minä en ole kuullut hänestä\nmitään ikävää; päinvastoin voin kaikesta kuulemastani päätellä, että\nhän on mitä helpoimmin ohjattava olento. Eräät tuntemani naiset, rouva\nHurst ja hänen sisarensa neiti Bingley, ovat suuresti ylistelleet hänen\ntaipuvaisuuttaan ja muita hyviä ominaisuuksiaan. Muistan kuulleeni\nteidän maininneen, että tekin tunnette heidät.\"\n\n\"Tunnen jonkin verran. Heidän veljensä on hyvin hauska ja kelpo nuori\nmies -- hän on Darcyn ylimpiä ystäviä.\"\n\n\"Ah, varmastikin\", vastasi Elizabeth kuivasti. \"Herra Darcy on\ntavattoman ystävällinen herra Bingleytä kohtaan ja pitää hänestä mitä\nparahinta huolta.\"\n\n\"Pitää hänestä huolta! Niin kyllä -- uskonpa todellakin Darcyn pitävän\nhyvää huolta Bingleystä, silloin kun tämä kaipaa tosi ystävän apua. Hän\npuheli tulomatkallamme jostakin sellaisesta tapauksesta, ja\nhänen sanoistaan voin päätellä Bingleyn olevan hänelle suuressa\nkiitollisuudenvelassa. Mutta ehkäpä teen nyt väärin Bingleytä kohtaan,\nsillä nimeä ei mainittu ja minä kenties väärin otaksuin hänet toiseksi\nasianosalliseksi.\"\n\n\"Mistä te nyt oikein puhuttekaan?\"\n\n\"Olipahan vain muuan juttu, jota Darcy ei tietenkään haluaisi ihmisten\ntietoon, koska siitä voisi tulla hänelle ikävyyksiä, jos se tulisi\ntunnetuksi asianomaisen neitosen perheessä.\"\n\n\"Saatte olla varma, etten minä ainakaan mainitse kuulemastani\nkellekään.\"\n\n\"Ja minä huomautan, ettei minulla ole mitään pätevää syytä uskoa, että\nBingleystä oli lainkaan kysymys. Mikäli juttua muistan, onnitteli Darcy\nitseään sen johdosta, että hänen oli tuonaan onnistunut pelastaa eräs\npahoin pihkautunut ystävänsä sotkeutumasta sangen mielettömään\nnaimiskauppaan; mutta mitään nimiä tai yksityisseikkoja hän ei\nmaininnut. Bingleyksi arvelin tuota ystävää vain sen perusteella, että\narvelin tämän voivan helposti sotkeutua tuollaiseen suhteeseen, ja\nkoska tiesin heidän molempien olleen yksissä koko viime talven.\"\n\n\"Mainitsiko herra Darcy syytä, joka pakotti hänet astumaan lempiväin\nväliin?\"\n\n\"Mikäli ymmärsin, oli hänellä hyvin vakavia huomautuksia asianomaisen\nnaisen suhteen.\"\n\n\"Entä millä tavalla hänen onnistui erottaa heidät toisistaan?\"\n\n\"Menettelytavastaan hän ei minulle kertonut\", vastasi Fitzwilliam\nhymyillen. \"Muuta hän ei maininnut koko asiasta minulle kuin mitä nyt\nolen teille jutellut.\"\n\nElizabeth ei virkkanut mitään, vaan joudutti kulkuaan -- mutta koko\nhänen sydämensä kuohui närkästyksestä. Katseltuaan häntä syrjästä\nhetken aikaa Fitzwilliam kysyi, minkä vuoksi hän oli niin mietteissään.\n\n\"Ajattelin sitä, mistä te juuri kerroitte\", vastasi Elizabeth.\n\"Serkkunne käytös ei ollut lainkaan minun mieleeni. Mitä oikeutta\nhänellä oli asettua tuomariksi tuossa asiassa?\"\n\n\"Teistä hänen puuttumisensa asiaan taisi olla moitittavaa?\"\n\n\"Minä en vain saata ymmärtää, mitä aihetta ja oikeutta herra Darcylla\noli sekaantua ystävänsä lemmensuhteeseen tahi pelkästään omaan\narvostelukykyynsä luottaen käydä määräilemään, millä tapaa hänen\nystävänsä saa tulla onnelliseksi. Mutta\", hän kiirehti lisäämään,\nhilliten väkisin mielenkuohuansa, \"ehkäpä teen väärin tuomitessani\nhänen käytöstään, kun emme lähemmin tunne yksityisseikkoja. Ja\nkaiketipa ei kyseessä ollutkaan mikään erityisen vahva kiintymys.\"\n\n\"Tuo otaksuma ei tunnu luonnottomalta\", virkkoi Fitzwilliam hymyillen,\n\"vaikka se todenperäisenä surkeasti vähentäisikin serkkuni ansiota.\"\n\nTämä leikkipuhe tuntui Elizabethista sattuvan niin kohdalleen hra\nDarcyyn, että hän ei rohjennut vastata siihen, peljäten muuten\nilmaisevansa todelliset tunteensa tuota hirveää miestä kohtaan. Kotia\ntultuaan hän. juoksi kiireisesti makuusuojaansa, lukitsi oven perästään\nja antautui miettimään vasta kuulemaansa surullista tarinaa.\n\nTähän asti hän oli kyllä aina epäillyt, ettei Darcy ollut suinkaan\nsuosiollisin silmin katsellut ystävänsä kiintymystä Janeen; mutta\npääsyyllisenä näiden välien katkeamiseen hän oli koko ajan pitänyt\nBingleyn sisarta. Mutta nytpä olikin juuri Darcyn ylpeys ja oikullisuus\nilmeisesti särkenyt Janen elämänonnen. Hän oli hävittänyt hennoimmat\ntoivon oraat maailman hellimmästä, ylevämielisimmästä sydämestä -- hän\noli Janen onnen surmaaja.\n\n\"Hänellä oli hyvin vakavia huomautuksia asianomaisen naisen suhteen\",\noli eversti Fitzwilliam sanonut. Nuo huomautukset kohdistuivat\narvatenkin siihen valitettavaan tosiasiaan, että Janen sedistä oli\ntoinen vähäpätöinen maaseudun lakimies, toinen lontoolainen kauppias.\n\n\"Sillä Janea itseänsä vastaan ei kellään ihmisellä olisi ollut\nmuistutettavaa\", hän huudahti, \"hänhän on pelkkää hyvyyttä ja\nrakastettavaisuutta! Hänellä on mainio ymmärrys, puhdas ja hellä sydän\nja viehättävät tavat. Eikä isääkään vastaan kukaan voi mitään sanoa,\nsillä vaikka hänellä onkin eriskummallisuutensa, ei hänen korkeata\nsivistystään tarvitse edes herra Darcynkaan halveksia, ja hänen\nkunnianarvoisen luonteensa tasalle tämä tuskin koskaan pystyy itsekään\nkohoamaan.\" Ainoastaan äitiään ajatellessaan Elizabethin itseluottamus\nhiukan horjahti; mutta hän ei sittenkään taipunut uskomaan, että edes\ntämäkään seikka olisi ollut riittävä syy hra Darcyn moitittavaan\nmenettelyyn, vaan ainoastaan itsekäs halu säilyttää ystävänsä vapaana\nhänen omaa sisartansa varten.\n\nKyyneleet ja mielenliikutus tuottivat hänelle kovan päänsäryn; mutta\nsiitä hän oli vain kiitollinen, sillä se pelasti hänet iltapuolella\nlähtemästä toisten mukana Rosingsiin, jonne perhe oli kutsuttu teetä\njuomaan. Huomaten hänen pahoinvointinsa Charlotte ei hoputellutkaan\nhäntä mukaan; mutta hra Collins ei voinut salata pelkoaan, että Lady\nCatherine arvatenkin tulisi ottamaan hänen poisjäämisensä hyvin\npahaksi.\n\n\n\n\nXXXIV LUKU.\n\n\nHeidän lähdettyään Elizabeth otti oitis katsellakseen vielä kerran\nläpi kaikki Janen kirjeet, jotka hän oli saanut täällä Kentissä\noleskellessaan, aivan kuin tahtoen sytyttää niiden sisällöllä mieltään\nvihaan hra Darcya vastaan. Niissä lempeä kirjoittajatar ei tosin\nsyytellyt ketään eikä valitellut nykyisiä kärsimyksiään, eipä edes\nmuistellut murhemielin menneitä tapahtumia. Mutta kaikista niistä -- ja\nmiltei joka riviltä sen voi huomata -- puuttui tuota entistä leppoista\niloisuutta, joka oli aina ollut yhtä ominaista Janen kirjetyylille kuin\nhänen persoonalliselle olemukselleenkin ja jonka lähteenä oli ollut\nsurujen sotkematon mielenrauha ja hilpeä tasaluontoisuus. Elizabeth\nvainusi joka lauseesta raskasmielisyyttä, joka nykyään sumensi sisaren\nsielun ja jota hän ensi kerran lukiessaan ei ollut tullut paljonkaan\npanneeksi merkille. Hra Darcyn äskeinen röyhkeä ylpeily hänen\naikaansaamastaan kurjuudesta avasi Elizabethin silmät nyt vasta oikein\nkäsittämään sisarensa kärsimykset. Hän tunsi mielenhuojennusta\najatellessaan, että tuo öykkäri jo ylihuomenna lähtisi matkoihinsa\nRosingsista, ja vielä suurempaa huojennusta tietäessään, että vajaan\nparin viikon päästä hän itse jälleen pääsisi Janen pariin, lohduttamaan\ntätä ja kohottamaan hänen elämän virkeyttään sisarellisen hellyytensä\nja kiintymyksensä koko voimalla.\n\nDarcyn lähtöä ajatellessaan hän muisti, että myöskin tämän serkku\nlähtisi samalla; mutta eversti Fitzwilliam oli selvästi antanut\nymmärtää, ettei hänellä suinkaan ollut kosima-aikeita; ja Elizabeth\ntiesi, ettei tämän miellyttävän seuramiehen lähtö tulisi särkemään\nhänen sydäntään.\n\nAjatustensa päästyä tähän kohtaan hän äkkiä säpsähti kuullessaan\novikellon soivan; ja häntä hiukan ilahdutti arvailla, että\nmahdollisesti eversti Fitzwilliam saapui vielä toistamiseen tänä iltana\npyrkiäkseen erityisesti hänen puheilleen. Mutta tuollaiset arvailut\näkisti katosivat ja hänen mielialansa sumentui kerrassaan, kun hän\nsanomattomaksi hämmästyksekseen näki hra Darcyn astuvan huoneeseen.\nHätäisesti ja aivan kuin suunniltaan ollen tämä alkoi kohta kysellä\nhänen terveyttään. Elizabeth vastasi hänelle kylmän kohteliaasti ja\nvoimatta oikein salata oudoksumistaan. Vieras istahti hetkiseksi, mutta\nnousi äkisti ja alkoi kävellä edestakaisin huoneessa. Elizabeth joutui\nyhä enemmän ihmeisiinsä, mutta ei virkkanut mitään. Muutamien\nminuuttien äänettömyyden jälkeen Darcy astui hyvin kiihtyneenä tyttöä\nkohti ja aloitti melkein ryöpsähtäen:\n\n\"Turhaan olen koettanut ponnistella vastaan. Se ei käy. En kykene\ntukahduttamaan tunteitani. Teidän täytyy sallia minun sanoa teille,\nkuinka tulisesti minä ihailen ja rakastan teitä.\"\n\nElizabeth oli kuin puusta pudonnut. Hän tuijotti merkilliseen\nkosijaansa, punastui, epäröi eikä kyennyt saamaan sanaa suustansa. Tätä\nDarcy piti riittävänä rohkaisuna ja rupesi kiihkeästi kuvailemaan, mitä\nkaikkea hän nyt tunsi ja oli kauan ennenkin tuntenut häntä kohtaan. Hän\npuhui hyvin, mutta hänen puheenaiheenaan oli muitakin kuin sydämen\ntunteita; ja hän oli yhtä kaunopuheinen tulkitessaan korskeaa\nylpeyttään kuin hellää kiintymystään. Kuinka hän tajusi Elizabethin\nalemmuuden hänen itsensä rinnalla; kuinka nöyryyttävä tämä kiintymys\nitse asiassa hänelle oli; kuinka jyrkästi hänen perhesuhteensa\nasettuivat tällaista yhtymystä vastaan -- kaikesta tästä hän puheli\nvakuuttavasti ja lämpimästi, mutta se ei suinkaan ollut omiaan\nedistämään hänen kosintaansa.\n\nVaikka Elizabethilla olikin syvään juurtunut vastenmielisyys kosijaansa\nkohtaan, ei hän voinut olla tuntematta salaista mielihyvää niin\narvokkaan miehen rehellisestä kiintymyksestä, ja vaikka hän alunpitäen\ntiesi mitä vastaisi, suretti häntä aluksi ajatella sitä tuskaa, jonka\nhän tulisi kosijalle tuottamaan; mutta vihdoin hän närkästyi siihen\nmäärään tämän puheen myöhemmästä jaksosta, että kaikki sääli vaihtui\nsilmittömäksi suuttumukseksi. Kuitenkin hän koetti vielä hillitä\nitseään kyetäkseen vastaamaan kärsivällisesti, kunnes toinen oli\nlopettanut. Darcy päätti kosintansa vakuuttamalla uudestaan\nkiintymyksensä totista syvyyttä, josta parhaana todistuksena oli hänen\nturha kamppailunsa sitä vastaan; ja lausui toivovansa, että hänen\ntaistelunsa ja antautumisensa nyt palkittaisiin suotuisalla\nmyöntymyksellä. Elizabeth voi selvästi huomata hänen ilmeestään, ettei\nhän itse lainkaan epäillyt saavansa mieluista vastausta. Hän _puhui_\nhuolestaan ja hätääntymisestään, mutta hänen sävynsä ja koko\nolemuksensa ilmaisi täyttä varmuutta. Se oli omiaan jälleen\nkiihoittamaan Elizabethin ärtymystä, ja kun hän viimein sai\npuheenvuoron, vastasi hän punoittavin poskin:\n\n\"Tällaisissa tilaisuuksissa lienee tapana, mikäli tiedän, lausua\nkiitollisuutensa tunteista, joita on esiintuotu, siitä huolimatta millä\ntapaa niihin vastataan. Taitaahan ollakin luonnollista, että tarjouksen\njohdosta tunnetaan kiitollisuutta, ja jos minä sitä tällä hetkellä\ntodella tuntisin, niin kiittäisin nyt tietystikin teitä. Mutta sitä en\nvoi -- minä en ole koskaan halunnut teissä herättää tuollaisia\ntunteita; ja jos te niitä tunnette, niin on se vastoin minun tahtoani.\nMinä en tahtoisi tieteni pahoittaa kenenkään mieltä, ja minä toivon,\nettä teidän mielipahanne tulee olemaan hyvin lyhytaikainen. Olettehan\nitse myöntänyt kauan salanneenne minulta kiintymyksenne, joten arvaan\nteidän nyt helposti voittavankin sen.\"\n\nHra Darcyssa, joka nojautui uuninrintaa vastaan, katse jäykästi\nkiinnitettynä tytön kasvoihin, tämä vastaus tuntui herättävän ainakin\nyhtä paljon närkästystä kuin hämmästystä. Hänen kasvonsa kalpenivat\nsuuttumuksesta, ja jokainen piirre niissä puhui väkevästä\nmielenkuohusta. Hän kamppaili väkinäisesti saavuttaakseen jälleen\nmielenmalttinsa, eikä avannut suutansa ennenkuin luuli saavuttaneensa\nsen. Tämä jännittynyt äänettömyys tuntui Elizabethista kaamealta.\nVihdoin puhui uuniin nojautuva mies äänellä, joka ilmaisi väkinäistä\nrauhallisuutta:\n\n\"Ja tämäkö on koko se vastaus, jota minulla on kunnia teiltä odottaa?\nEhkäpä minun kumminkin tekisi mieleni saada kuulla -- suvaitkaa vastata\nniin vähällä kohteliaisuuden _varjolla_ kuin vain haluatte -- mistä\nsyystä te olette hyljännyt käteni? Mutta sekin lienee liiaksi\nvaadittua!\"\n\n\"Voisinpa minäkin puolestani kysyä\", vastasi Elizabeth, \"miksi te, niin\nilmeisesti _tarkoittaen loukata minua_, olette suvainnut kertoa\nminulle, että olette pitänyt minusta vastoin omaa haluanne ja\ntahtoanne, vastoin kaikkia järkisyitä ja luonteenne ja sukuperänne\nvaatimuksia? Jos minä todella olin epäkohtelias, niin ehkä tämä kaikki\njonkin verran selittää epäkohteliaisuuteni vaikuttimet. Mutta minulla\noli muutakin aihetta. Te tiedätte itse hyvin, mitä aihetta. Vaikken\nolisikaan alunpitäen tuntenut nurjuutta teitä kohtaan, jos olisin ollut\npelkästään välinpitämätön tahi vaikkapa suosiollinenkin, niin\nluuletteko, että mitkään syyt olisivat saaneet minut myöntymään sen\nmiehen kosintaan, joka tieten tahtoen on särkenyt -- kenties iäksi --\nmitä hellimmästi rakastamani sisaren elämänonnen?\"\n\nViime sanat kuullessaan Darcy karahti punaiseksi; mutta hänen\nmielenliikutuksensa oli lyhytaikainen, ja hän kuunteli tytön jatkuvaa\nsyytöstulvaa yrittämättäkään katkaista sitä.\n\n\"Kaikki mahdolliset syyt oikeuttavat minut ajattelemaan teistä\nnurjasti. Ei mikään seikka voi selittää ja antaa anteeksi teidän tylyä\nja julmaa menettelyänne _tuossa_ asiassa. Te ette rohkene, te ette\n_voi_ kieltää olevanne etupäässä, kenties yksistään, syypää siihen,\nettä heidän tiensä erkanivat -- toisen te saitte käyttäytymään\noikullisesti ja kevytmielisesti ja alistitte hänet sen kautta alttiiksi\nihmisten nurjalle arvostelulle; toisen onnentoiveet te sydämettömästi\nmurskasitte ja saatoitte hänet siten maailman ivannaurun esineeksi; ja\nkummallekin heistä te aiheutitte mitä kipeintä pettymystä ja\nsydämensurua.\"\n\nElizabeth pysähtyi hengähtääkseen ja huomasi melkoiseksi harmikseen,\nettä toinen kuunteli häntä näköjään aivan jäykkänä ja osoittamatta edes\nmerkkiäkään mistään tunnonvaivoista. Jopa näytti Darcy katselevan häntä\nkasvoillaan hienoinen epäuskon hymy.\n\n\"Voitteko kieltää, ettette ole kaikkea tuota tehnyt?\" hän kivahti.\n\nTeeskennellyn rauhallisesti Darcy vastasi: \"En halua ollenkaan kieltää,\nettä tein kaiken voitavani erottaakseni ystäväni sisarestanne ja että\nolen hyvin tyytyväinen menestykseeni. _Ystävääni_ kohtaan olen ollut\npaljon lempeämpi kuin omaa itseäni kohtaan.\"\n\nElizabethia suututti huomata toisen vastauksen väkinäisen kohtelias\nmuoto, eikä sen sisällys ollut suinkaan omiaan lepyttämään häntä.\n\n\"Mutta epäsuotuinen käsitykseni teistä ei perustu yksistään tuohon\njuttuun\", hän jatkoi kiihtyneenä. \"Jo kauan ennen kuin se sattuikaan\ntunsin syvää katkeruutta teitä kohtaan. Teidän todellinen luonteenne\npaljastui hyvin siitä kuvauksesta, jonka jo moniaita kuukausia sitten\nsain teistä herra Wickhamilta. Mitä teillä on sanottavana _siitä_\nasiasta? Minkälaisen tekoystävyyden vaippaan voittekaan verhota\nmenettelynne häntä kohtaan? Tahi minkälaisten etsittyjen syiden\nperusteella voitte omasta viastanne syyttää toisia?\"\n\n\"Te näytte suurella mielenkiinnolla puuttuvan tuon herrasmiehen\nasioihin\", huomautti Darcy, ja hänen sävynsä oli tällä kertaa vähemmän\nlevollinen ja hänen poskilleen nousi ärtymyksen punoitus.\n\n\"Kukapa ei voisi olla tuntematta myötätuntoista mielenkiintoa hänen\nasioihinsa, joka vain tuntee hänen kovan onnensa?\"\n\n\"Hänen kovan onnensa!\" toisti Darcy ylenkatseellisesti, \"-- no niin,\nkovaa onneapa hänellä on tottakin ollut kyllältä.\"\n\n\"Ja yksistään teidän alkuunpanostanne!\" huudahti Elizabeth närkästyen.\n\"Te hänet olette syössyt hänen nykyiseen kurjuuteensa -- tarkoitan,\nvarattomuuteensa ja riippuvaiseen asemaansa. Te olette pidättänyt\nhäneltä aineellisia etuja, jotka teidän täytyi tietää hänelle\nmäärätyiksi. Te olette riistänyt hänen elämänsä parhailta\nvuosilta, hänen nuoruudeltaan ja miesiältään, sen taloudellisen\nriippumattomuuden, joka oikeuden mukaan oli hänelle tuleva. Tämän\nkaiken te olette tehnyt -- ja kuitenkin kehtaatte puhua ylenkatseen ja\nnaurun sävyllä hänen kovasta onnestaan!\"\n\n\"Vai tällainen mielipide teillä minusta on!\" huudahti Darcy, astellen\nnopeasti edestakaisin. \"Tämän verran arvoa te siis sydämessänne suotte\nminulle! Minä kiitän teitä erinomaisesta suoruudestanne. Totta tosiaan\nminulla onkin syntisyytä tarpeeksi asti tällaisen arviointinne mukaan!\nMutta ehkäpä\", hän lisäsi, pysähtyen seisomaan Elizabethin eteen ja\nkatsellen häntä kiinteästi silmiin, \"ehkäpä nämä katkerat syytökset\nolisivat jääneet teiltä tekemättä, jollen olisi rehellisesti\ntunnustanut sitä pitkää sielullista kamppausta, jonka minun\nkiintymykseni teihin on saanut kestää -- jos olisin viisaasti osannut\nsalata tuon kamppailuni ja kuvaillut olevani arvoton ja mitätön saamaan\nmyöntymyksenne. Mutta kaikenlainen viekastelu, järkeily ja salaaminen\non minulle tyyten vastenmielinen. Enkä minä ollenkaan häpeä niitä\ntunteita, joita teille äsken kuvasin. Ne ovat luonnolliset ja oikeat.\nVoitteko odottaa, että saattaisin olla iloinen teidän lähimpäin\nomaistenne halpa-arvoisesta asemasta? Että onnittelisin itseäni\ntietäessäni saavani sukulaisia, jotka joka suhteessa ovat oman säätyni\nalapuolella?\"\n\nElizabeth tunsi yhä enemmän ärtyvänsä jokaisesta kuulemastaan sanasta;\nmutta hän koetti väkisinkin hillitä mieltään vastatessaan:\n\n\"Te erehdytte, herra Darcy, jos luulette että kosintanne muoto olisi\nmillään tavalla vaikuttanut vastaukseeni, paitsi ehkä siten, etten\nolisi vastannut niin suorasukaisesti, jos olisitte osannut käyttäytyä\nkunnianmiehen tavoin minua kohtaan.\"\n\nHän näki Darcyn säpsähtävän; mutta kun tämä ei virkkanut mitään, hän\njatkoi:\n\n\"Te ette olisi voinut esittää kosintaanne minkäänlaisessa muodossa,\njoka olisi taivuttanut minua suostumaan siihen.\"\n\nJälleen oli Darcyn hämmästys ilmeinen; hän katseli puhujaan ilmeellä,\njosta kuvastui epäuskoisuus ja syvä nöyryytys ja närkästys. Elizabeth\njatkoi säälimättä:\n\n\"Alusta alkaen -- tuttavuutemme ensi hetkestä lähtien, voisin\nsanoa -- teidän ylpeä käytöstapanne, teidän itsekäs ja halveksiva\nvälinpitämättömyytenne toisten tunteista ja mielipiteistä laskivat\nperustan minun vastenmielisyydelleni ja inholleni teitä kohtaan, joita\nseuraavat tapahtumat yhä vain lujensivat; eikä ollut kulunut\nkuukauttakaan kun jo tunsin, että te olisitte viimeinen mies, jolle\nvoisin ojentaa käteni.\"\n\n\"Te olette sanonut jo kylliksi, arvoisa neiti. Minä käsitän\ntäydellisesti teidän tunteenne ja saan vain hävetä omia tunteitani\nteitä kohtaan. Suokaa anteeksi, että olen kuluttanut näin kauan\naikaanne, ja sallikaa minun toivottaa teille parahinta terveyttä ja\nonnea.\"\n\nNäin sanottuaan hän poistui nopeasti huoneesta, ja Elizabeth kuuli\nseuraavassa tuokiossa hänen avaavan ulko-oven ja lähtevän talosta.\nHänen oma mielenkuohunsa oli sanomattoman kiusallinen. Hän ei tiennyt\nmiten lujittaa mieltään, ja heikkoutensa tuntien hän istahti itkemään\nhyvän puolituntisen. Hänen ihmetyksensä kaikesta äsken kokemastaan ja\nelämästään kasvoi yhä suuremmaksi. Että hänen piti saada naimatarjous\nhra Darcylta! Että tämä oli häneen rakastunut jo niin monen kuukauden\nmittaan! Ja niin syvästi rakastunut, että hän oli valmis alistumaan\nepäsuhtaiseen avioliittoon, jollaiseen sortumasta hän tuonaan oli\nkaikista voimistaan varjellut ystäväänsä! -- Se oli miltei uskomatonta,\nkerrassaan tarumaista! Elizabeth tunsi imartelevaa mielihyvää sen\njohdosta, että hän tietämättään ja tahtomattaan oli tuollaisessa\nmiehessä kyennyt herättämään niin väkevää rakkautta. Mutta entäpä\nDarcyn hirveä, anteeksiantamaton öykkärimäisyys, hänen häpeämätön\ntunnustuksensa ja tyytyväisyytensä siitä tuskasta, jota hän oli\ntuottanut Janelle, ja hänen julmuutensa hra Wickhamia kohtaan, jota hän\nei yritellyt kieltääkään -- kaikki nuo hirveät muistelot pyyhkäisivät\nElizabethin mielestä oitis sen vähäisen säälintunteen, jota toisen\nvastaamaton kiintymys oli hänessä aluksi herättänyt.\n\nNämä kuohuttavat ajatukset askarruttivat hänen mieltään siihen saakka,\nkunnes kotia palaavain pappilalaisten vaunujen kolina sai hänet\nmuistamaan, että hänen olisi ollut vaikea salata mielenkuohuaan\nCharlotten tarkalta silmältä, jonka vuoksi hän juoksi kiiruusti\nyläkertaan omaan huoneeseensa.\n\n\n\n\nXXXV LUKU.\n\n\nElizabeth heräsi aamulla samoihin ajatuksiin ja mietelmiin, jotka\nillalla viimeksi olivat ummistaneet hänen silmänsä. Hänen oli yhä vielä\nmahdoton täydelleen selviytyä eilisestä hämmästyksestään; ja\nkykenemättä ryhtymään mihinkään jokapäiväiseen askareeseen hän päätti\nkohta aamiaisen jälkeen lähteä pitkälle kävelymatkalle. Hän oli aikonut\nlähteä jokapäiväiselle mieluiselle metsätielle, kun hän äkkiä pysähtyi\nmuistaessaan, että hra Darcynkin tapana oli toisinaan kävellä siellä;\nja Rosingsin puiston asemesta hän kääntyikin ruohokentälle, joka alkoi\npuomiveräjän toiselta puolen.\n\nHänen käveltyä pariin kolmeen kertaan tuon ruohokentän laitaa pitkin\nhoukutteli kaunis aamu häntä seisahtumaan puiston veräjälle ja\nsilmäämään sisälle lumottuun maahan. Hänen täällä Kentissä nyt\nviettämänsä viisi viikkoa olivat aikaansaaneet suuren muutoksen\nympäröivässä maisemassa; jokainen kulunut päivä oli kohentanut puiden\nkeväistä vehmautta. Hän aikoi juuri jatkaa matkaansa, kun hän näki\nvilahduksen eräästä herrasta, joka käveli puiston sisäpuolella\nsorapolkua pitkin juuri tätä veräjää kohti; ja peljäten tulijan\nkukaties olevan hra Darcyn hän vetäytyi nopeasti poispäin. Mutta\nherrasmies oli jo ennättänyt nähdä hänet ja alkaen astua vinhasti\nveräjälle päin huusi häntä nimeltä. Elizabeth oli jo kääntänyt\nselkänsä, mutta kuullessaan hra Darcyn huutavan kyllin kovaa hänen\nnimeään hänen oli pakko palata jälleen veräjälle.\n\nDarcykin oli jo päässyt sinne asti; ja kurottaen kädessään kirjettä,\njonka tyttö vaistomaisesti otti vastaan, hän sanoi pidättyvään sävyyn:\n\"Olen kävellyt täällä puistossa jo jonkin aikaa toivoen tapaavani\nteidät. Tahdotteko tehdä minulle mielihyvän lupaamalla lukea tämän\nkirjeen?\" Keveästi kumartaen hän kääntyi jälleen puistoon päin ja oli\npian häipynyt näkyvistä.\n\nIlman vähintäkään mielihyvää, mutta mitä kiihkeimmän uteliaisuuden\nvaltaamana Elizabeth avasi kirjeen ja keksi yhä suuremmaksi kummakseen\nkuoren sisältä kaksi tiheään kirjoitettua paperiarkkia. Jatkaen\nkävelyään ruohikon laitaa pitkin hän rupesi lukemaan niitä. Kirje oli\npäivätty Rosingsissa kello 8 aamulla ja kuului seuraavasti:\n\n    \"Älkää säikähtykö, arvoisa neiti, tätä kirjettä avatessanne\n    luulemaan, että se sisältäisi mitään niiden tunteiden ja\n    tarjousten toistamista, jotka eilen illalla olivat teille niin\n    vastenmieliset. En aio lainkaan tuskastuttaa teitä enkä nöyryyttää\n    itseäni viipymällä sen pitemmältä noissa toivomuksissani, jotka\n    meidän kummankin onnellisuus vaatii unohtamaan niin pian kuin\n    mahdollista; ja koko vaiva tämän kirjeen kirjoittamisesta ja\n    lukemisesta olisi voinut säästyä, jollen tuntisi pakottavaa\n    tarvetta saada edes jossain määrin puhdistaa luonnettani teidän\n    silmissänne. Teidän täytyy senvuoksi antaa minulle anteeksi, että\n    täten vielä kerran vaadin huomaavaisuuttanne osakseni; tunteenne,\n    sen arvaan, eivät mieluusti suo rohkeuttani anteeksi, mutta minä\n    vetoan teidän oikeamielisyyteenne.\n\n    \"Te teitte eilen illalla minua vastaan kaksi syytöstä, jotka ovat\n    sekä laadultaan että painavuudeltaan sangen erilaiset. Toisena\n    syytöksenä oli, että minä -- kummankaan asianomaisen tunteista\n    vähääkään välittämättä -- olin erottanut hra Bingleyn teidän\n    sisarestanne; toisena, että olin, vastoin kunnian ja ihmisyyden\n    vaatimuksia, tuhonnut hra Wickhamin nykyisen onnellisuuden ja hänen\n    tulevaisuudentoiveensa. Että minä tahallani ja ilkivaltaisesti\n    olisin syössyt satulasta nuoruudentoverini, isävainajani\n    tunnustetun suosikin -- nuoren miehen, jolla tuskin oli mitään\n    muuta elämisen turvaa kuin meidän kirkkoherranpaikkamme ja joka\n    oli varttunut mieheksi sen saamisen toivossa -- se olisikin\n    tosiaan ollut ilkiteko, johon ei voi verratakaan kahden nuoren\n    sydämen toisistaan erottamista, jotka olivat vasta muutaman\n    viikon tunteneet toisensa. Mutta jos seuraava esitys toimistani\n    ja niiden vaikuttimista joutuu silmienne eteen ja tulee luetuksi,\n    niin uskallan vastaisuuden varalta toivoa säästyväni näiltä sangen\n    painavilta syytöksiltä. Jos niitä selittäessäni -- minkä pidän\n    välttämättömänä itseäni kohtaan -- pakostakin joudun ilmaisemaan\n    tunteita, jotka mahdollisesti teitä loukkaavat, niin voin vain\n    etukäteen lausua pahoitteluni. Välttämättömyyttä on minun\n    noudatettava, ja jatkuva anteeksipyytely olisi typerää.\n\n    \"En ollut vielä kauankaan ollut Hertfordshiressä kun näin --\n    kuten monet muutkin -- että ystäväni Bingley osoitti vanhemmalle\n    sisarellenne paljon suurempaa huomaavaisuutta kuin kellekään\n    toiselle naiselle sielläpäin. Mutta vasta tuona Netherfieldin\n    tanssiaisiltana minä keksin, että hänen huomaavaisuutensa oli\n    kehittynyt vakavaksi kiintymykseksi. Olin monesti ennenkin nähnyt\n    hänen rakastuvan. Tuona iltana kuitenkin, saadessani juuri kunnian\n    viedä teidät tanssiin, Sir William Lucasin satunnainen huomautus\n    paljasti minulle ensi kerran, että Bingleyn sisarellenne omistama\n    huomaavaisuus oli antanut syrjäisille aihetta uskoa heidän\n    piankin menevän naimisiin. Siitä hetkestä alkaen pidin tarkoin\n    silmällä ystäväni käytöstä ja tulin hyvin pian huomaamaan, että\n    hänen kiintymyksensä neiti Bennetiin oli paljon syvempi kuin\n    kaikki hänen aikaisemmat lemmenpuuskansa. Pidin silmällä myöskin\n    sisartanne. Hänen käytöstapansa ja puheensävynsä oli avointa,\n    iloista ja viehättävää kuten ennenkin, mutta mitään syvempää\n    sydämentaipumusta en voinut hänen puoleltaan keksiä; joten minä\n    jäin siihen käsitykseen, että vaikka hän ilmeisellä mielihyvällä\n    ottikin ystäväni huomaavaisuuden vastaan, hän ei kuitenkaan\n    odottanut hänen taholtaan mitään vakavampia aikeita. Jollette\n    _te_ tässä suhteessa ollut erehtynyt, niin erehdyksen täytyi olla\n    _minun_ puolellani. Koska te tietysti tunnette sisarenne paljon\n    paremmin, niin jälkimmäisen mahdollisuuden täytyy olla oikeampi.\n    Jos niin on laita -- jos tuo erehdykseni johti minut aiheuttamaan\n    tuskaa ja huolta sisarellenne, niin teillä on tosiaankin syytä\n    olla minulle nurjamielinen. Mutta minä en voi olla toistamatta\n    vakuutustani, että sisarenne sävy ja käytöstapa olisi johtanut mitä\n    teräväsilmäisimmänkin tarkastelijan uskomaan, että olipa hänen\n    luonteenlaatunsa miten avoin ja herttainen hyvänsä, hänen sydämensä\n    ei kuitenkaan olisi herkästi kosketettavissa. Totta on, että minä\n    halusta oletinkin hänet tositeossa välinpitämättömäksi ystävästäni;\n    mutta samalla rohkenen sanoa, etten yleensä anna toivojeni ja\n    pelkojeni vaikuttaa päätöksiini ja ratkaisuihini. Minä en uskonut\n    häntä välinpitämättömäksi Bingleystä siksi, että sitä toivoin, vaan\n    siksi, että olin siitä varmasti vakuutettu. Vastenmielisyyteni\n    heidän mahdollista avioliittoaan kohtaan ei muuten perustunut\n    samoihin seikkoihin, joiden eilen illalla tunnustin vaikuttaneen\n    kamppailuuni omaa kiintymystäni vastaan; ystävääni nähden hänen\n    mielitiettynsä halpa yhteiskunnallinen asema ei ollut niin\n    tärkeäarvoinen kuin minuun itseeni nähden.\n\n    \"Mutta oli muita syitä, jotka panivat minut arvelemaan; syitä\n    sellaisia, joita -- vaikka ne kummassakin tapauksessa ovat samat --\n    omasta kohdastani pyrin kaikin voimin unohtamaan, koska ne eivät\n    yhtä välittömästi uhanneet minua. Nämä syyt minun täytyy mainita,\n    vaikka vain lyhyeltä. Teidän äitinne sukulaisten yhteiskunnallinen\n    asema, vaikka sekin oli pahennukseksi, ei kuitenkaan merkinnyt\n    mitään sen muodollisen säädyllisyyden puutteen rinnalla, jota\n    äitinne ja nuoremmat sisarenne ja välistä isännekin aivan avoimesti\n    osoittivat -- pyydän anteeksi suorapuheisuuteni; mieltäni pahoittaa\n    suuresti, että olen pakotettu loukkaamaan teitä. Mutta vaikka\n    täten herätänkin närkästystänne kuvailemalla lähimpien omaistenne\n    puutteita ja luonteenvikoja, niin sallikaa minun vakuuttaa, että\n    niinhyvin te itse kuin vanhempi sisarenne olette niistä täysin\n    vapaat ja että te molemmat olisitte arvolliset pääsemään mihinkä\n    seurapiiriin hyvänsä.\n\n    \"Tahdon enää vain lisätä, että kaikesta mitä tuona iltana ja sen\n    jälkeen voin panna merkille, mielipiteeni kaikista asianomaisista\n    vahvistui vahvistumistaan ja samoin päätökseni estää kaikin keinoin\n    ystävääni suistumasta perhesiteeseen, jota minun täytyi pitää\n    hänelle onnettomuutta tuottavana. Hän lähti seuraavana päivänä\n    Netherfieldistä Lontooseen siinä mielessä, kuten luulen teidän\n    muistavan, että hän sieltä piankin palaisi jälleen maalle. Nyt\n    alkoi minun toimiosani asioiden kehityksessä, ja sen aion teille\n    lyhyesti selittää. Hänen sisarensa olivat yhtä huolissaan hänen\n    kiintymyksestään kuin minäkin, ja se tuli meidän keskemme piankin\n    ilmi; ja tajuten, ettei yhtään aikaa ollut hukattavana, jos\n    mieli pelastaa heidän veljensä, me päätimme oitis seurata häntä\n    Lontooseen. Siellä minulla oli kohta tilaisuus käydä selvästi\n    osoittamaan ystävälleni moisesta avioliitosta johtuvat vaarat.\n    Mutta miten suuressa tai vähässä määrässä nämä varoitteluni\n    lienevätkään vaikuttaneet hänen päätökseensä, en luule että ne\n    kuitenkaan olisivat voineet estää häntä noudattamasta mieltään,\n    jollei niitä olisi tukenut minun epäröimättä antamani vakuutus\n    sisarenne täydellisestä välinpitämättömyydestä. Ystäväni oli siihen\n    saakka uskonut, että sisarenne vastasi hänen mieltymykseensä yhtä\n    vilpittömänä, jollei ehkä yhtä ilmeisellä tunteella. Mutta Bingley\n    on luonteeltaan hyvin vaatimaton, sanoisinko, epäitsenäinen; hän\n    panee minun arvostelukykyyni paljon enemmän arvoa kuin omaansa.\n    Häntä ei ollut siis vaikea saada vakuutetuksi, että hän oli\n    kokonaan pettynyt sisarenne suhteen; ja kun tuo vakaumus kerran\n    oli hänessä syntynyt, oli helppo saada hänet taivutetuksi olemaan\n    enää palaamatta Hertfordshireen. Se ei kysynyt minulta paljonkaan\n    vaivaa. Yhtä ainoata seikkaa menettelyssäni en voi muistella\n    mielihyvällä -- sitä näet, että alennuin kaikin tavoin salaamaan\n    häneltä sisarenne oleskelun Lontoossa. Tiesin siitä itse nti\n    Bingleyn kautta, mutta hänen veljensä oli siitä aivan tietämätön.\n    Saattoihan olla mahdollista, että he olisivat voineet tavata\n    toisensa, ilman että siitä olisi ollut mitään pahempia seurauksia;\n    mutta ystäväni ryhti ei mielestäni vielä ollut tarpeeksi vakava,\n    jotta olisin voinut sallia hänen antautuvan tuohon vaaraan. Ehkäpä\n    tämä salaaminen, tämä teeskentely oli minulta kehnosti tehty.\n    Olipa miten oli, parhaassa tarkoituksessa minä ainakin menettelin.\n    Tästä aiheesta minulla ei ole enää mitään sanottavana eikä muuta\n    anteeksipyyntöä esitettävänä. Jos tulin sen kautta loukanneeksi\n    sisarenne tunteita, niin tein sen tietämättäni; ja vaikka minun\n    vaikuttimeni saattanevat teistä tuntua moitittavilta, niin en itse\n    yhä vieläkään voi tuomita niitä.\n\n    \"Mitä teidän toiseen moitteeseenne tulee, teidän pääsyytökseenne\n    minua vastaan -- että olisin tehnyt vääryyttä hra Wickhamille --\n    niin voin sen paraiten kumota esittämällä teille kokonaisuudessaan\n    hänen suhteensa meidän perheeseemme. Mistä synnistä hän minua\n    _erityisesti_ syytti, on minulle tähän saakka ollut tietymätöntä;\n    mutta nyt teille antamani esityksen todenperäisyydestä voin vedota\n    useampaan kuin yhteen luotettavaan todistajaan. Hra Wickhamin isä\n    oli hyvin kunnianarvoinen mies, joka monet vuodet hoiti kaikkia\n    Pemberleyn tiluksia ja jonka kunnollisuus luonnollisesti taivutti\n    isävainajani tekemään hänelle mitä palvelusta hän vain halusi ja\n    tarvitsi; ja nimenomaan kohdistui isäni suosio George Wickhamiin,\n    joka oli hänen kummipoikansa. Isäni avusti hänet oivalliseen\n    oppikouluun ja myöhemmin Cambridgen yliopistoon; ja tämä apu oli\n    sitä suuriarvoisempi, kun ei hra Wickham itse, jonka hänen vaimonsa\n    tuhlailemishalu piti alati varattomana, muuten olisi kyennyt\n    hankkimaan pojalleen herrasmiehen kasvatusta. Isäni ei ollut\n    ainoastaan mieltynyt tuon nuoren miehen seuraan, jonka käytöstapa\n    kieltämättä aina oli hyvin viehättävä, vaan hänellä oli mitä\n    parhain käsitys hänen luonteestaan ja lahjoistaan; ja arvioiden\n    niiden parhaiten tulevan käytetyksi kirkon palveluksessa hän tahtoi\n    varata hänelle tilaisuuden päästä papin uralle. Mitä minuun itseeni\n    tulee, niin minä sain jo varhain aivan toisenlaisen käsityksen\n    tästä nuoresta miehestä. Hänen ala-arvoiset taipumuksensa, hänen\n    horjuvat periaatteensa eivät voineet välttyä miltei samanikäisen\n    nuorukaisen katseelta, joka voi pitää häntä silmällä sellaisinakin\n    hetkinä, jolloin hän ei osannut pitää varaansa. Nyt tulen jälleen\n    pahoittamaan teidän mieltänne -- mihin määrään, sen itse parhaiten\n    voitte tietää. Mutta minkälaisia tunteita herra Wickhamin onkin\n    teissä onnistunut herättää, niin ne eivät saa pidättää minua\n    paljastamasta teille hänen todellista luonnettaan.\n\n    \"Erinomainen isäni kuoli noin viisi vuotta takaperin; ja hänen\n    luottamuksensa George Wickhamiin pysyi viimeiseen asti niin\n    horjumattomana, että hän jälkisäädöksessään kehoitti minua pitämään\n    mitä parhainta huolta hänen tulevaisuudestaan ja nimenomaan --\n    jos hänen aikomuksensa oli valmistautua papiksi -- varaamaan\n    hänelle meidän perheemme määrättävissä olevan hyvätuloisen\n    kirkkoherranpaikan, kohta kun se joutui avoimeksi. Sen lisäksi oli\n    hänelle maksettava tuhannen punnan suuruinen testamenttilahjoitus.\n    Hänen oma isänsä kuoli kohta sen perästä; ja puolen vuoden kuluttua\n    näistä tapahtumista herra Wickham kirjoitti minulle kirjeen,\n    jossa hän ilmoitti, että koska hänen vakaumuksensa ei sallinut\n    hänen omistautua papilliselle uralle, niin minä en voisi pitää\n    kohtuuttomana hänen toivomustaan, että hän täten menettämänsä hyvän\n    virkapaikan asemesta saisi jommoisenkin rahallisen korvauksen.\n    Hänen aikomuksensa oli ruveta lukemaan lakitiedettä, ja hän\n    toivoi minunkin ymmärtävän, että tuhannen punnan vuotuiset korot\n    eivät tällä alalla pitkällekään riittäisi. Minä pikemminkin\n    toivoin kuin uskoin hänen tarkoittavan täyttä totta; mutta joka\n    tapauksessa olin valmis suostumaan hänen ehdotukseensa. Minä\n    tiesin, että Wickhamista ei koskaan olisi tullutkaan kunnollista\n    pappismiestä. Asia oli sitä myöten selvitetty; ja korvaukseksi\n    kirkkoherranpaikasta hän suostui ottamaan minulta vastaan\n    kolmetuhatta puntaa.\n\n    \"Välimme näyttivät tämän kautta käyneen selviksi ja kaikki suhteemme\n    päättyneen. Minun huono käsitykseni hänestä esti minua kutsumasta\n    häntä Pemberleyhin, ja Lontoossakin vältin hänen seuraansa.\n    Siellä luulen hänen tähän aikaan enimmäkseen elelleenkin, mutta\n    lakitieteen opiskelu lienee ollut vain tekosyynä;[19] ollen tyyten\n    vapaa kaikista rajoituksista hän tuhlasi aikansa joutilaisuuteen\n    ja hurvitteluun. Kolmen vuoden mittaan kuulin hänestä vain hyvin\n    vähän; mutta kun hänelle myöntämäni apuraha alkoi loppua, lähetti\n    hän minulle jälleen avunpyyntökirjeen. Hänen olosuhteensa olivat\n    kiristyneet äärimmilleen, vakuutti hän minulle, ja sen minä\n    voin hyvin uskoa. Hän oli huomannut, ettei lakitieteen opiskelu\n    löisi leiville, ja hän oli vakavasti päättänyt jälleen kääntyä\n    hengelliselle uralle, jos minä tarjoisin hänelle puheena olleen\n    kirkkoherranpaikan -- ja siitä hänen mielestään ei voinut olla\n    epäilystäkään, koska hän oli varmasti vakuutettu, ettei minulla\n    ollut ketään muutakaan kokelasta silmälläpidettävänä, ja etten minä\n    suinkaan saattanut unhottaa kunnianarvoisen isäni alkuperäistä\n    aikomusta. Tuskin voinette moittia minua siitä, että kokonaan\n    kieltäysin mukautumasta hänen toivomukseensa -- siihen yhtä vähän\n    kuin moniin seuraaviinkin. Hän tietysti otti kieltoni pahakseen,\n    ja sitä enemmän mitä ahtaammiksi hänen olosuhteensa kävivät -- ja\n    hän oli epäilemättä yhtä kärkäs solvaamaan minua toisille kuin\n    moittimaan minua itseäni.\n\n    \"Tämän jälkeen meidän tuttavuutemme tyrehtyi tykkänään. Hänen\n    elämästään minulla ei ollut yhtään tietoa. Mutta viime kesänä\n    hän jälleen tunkeutui hyvin tuskallisella tavalla minun\n    havaintopiiriini. Minun täytyy nyt kertoa teille eräästä asiasta,\n    jonka itsekin tahtoisin kaikkein mieluimmin tyyten unohtaa ja jota\n    ei mikään muu seikka kuin nykyinen pulmani teidän suhteenne saisi\n    minua paljastamaan yhdellekään ihmiselle. Näin paljon sanottuani\n    olen varma, että te pidätte asian omana tietonanne.\n\n    \"Sisareni, joka on enemmän kuin kymmentä vuotta minua nuorempi,\n    jäi isäni kuoltua äitini sisarenpojan, eversti Fitzwilliamin, ja\n    minun holhottavaksi. Vuosi takaperin me otimme hänet koulusta ja\n    hankimme hänelle sopivan asunnon Lontoossa, ja viime kesänä hän\n    lähti emäntänsä keralla Ramsgaten kylpylään. Sinne lähti myöskin\n    herra Wickham, jolla ilmeisesti oli valmiiksi suunniteltu juoni\n    mielessään; sillä selville kävi, että hän ja sisareni emäntä,\n    rouva Younge, jonka luonteesta olimme valitettavasti saaneet aivan\n    väärän käsityksen, olivat keskenään vanhat tuttavat; ja tämän\n    naisen suostumuksella ja avustuksella hänen onnistui siihen määrään\n    kietoa sisareni, joka vielä muisti häneltä lapsena kokemansa\n    ystävällisyyden, että hän luulotteli olevansa rakastunut tuohon\n    mieheen ja oli suostuvainen karkaamaan hänen kanssaan. Hänen\n    puolustuksenaan olivat hänen lapselliset viisitoista ikävuottansa,\n    ja mainittuani hänen hupsuutensa on minulle iloista voida mainita,\n    että tuosta juonesta sain tiedon häneltä itseltään. Minä satuin\n    odottamatta saapumaan paikalle paria päivää ennen heidän aiottua\n    karkaamistaan; ja silloin Georgiana, joka ei kyennyt murehduttamaan\n    ja loukkaamaan veljeään, jota hän siihen asti oli rakastanut miltei\n    kuin toista isäänsä, kertoi minulle koko jutun. Voitte arvata, mitä\n    minä silloin tunsin ja miten toimin. Sisareni maine ja sydämenrauha\n    estivät minua saattamasta asiaa julkisuuteen; mutta minä kirjoitin\n    herra Wickhamille, joka oitis lähti tiehensä, ja rouva Younge\n    sai luonnollisesti myöskin heti eron toimestaan. Wickhamin\n    tarkoituksena epäilemättä oli päästä käsiksi sisareni perintöosaan,\n    joka nousee kolmeenkymmeneen tuhanteen puntaan; mutta en voi olla\n    uskomatta, että hän samalla yritti suunnata kostoniskun minuunkin.\n\n    \"Tämä, arvoisa neiti, on rehellinen esitys Wickhamin ja minun\n    tähänastisista suhteista; ja jollette ole alunpitäen taipuvainen\n    pitämään sitä valheellisena, niin toivon, että tästälähin muutatte\n    käsityksenne minun luulotellusta julmuudestani herra Wickhamia\n    kohtaan. Minä en tiedä millä tavoin, minkä valheellisen kertomuksen\n    varjossa hänen on onnistunut vaikuttaa teidän tunteisiinne; mutta\n    hänen menestystään en lainkaan ihmettele, koska te olette tyyten\n    tietämätön meidän entisistä väleistämme. Ehkä ihmettelette, miksi\n    en tätä kaikkea kertonut teille jo eilen illalla. Mutta minä en\n    silloin ollut kylliksi itseni herra kyetäkseni punnitsemaan, mitä\n    minun oli tehtävä. Tullaksenne täysin vakuutetuksi ylläolevan\n    todenperäisyydestä voitte kääntyä eversti Fitzwilliamin puoleen,\n    joka läheisenä sukulaisenani ja ystävänäni sekä nimenomaan sisareni\n    toisena holhoojana tuntee jutun kaikki yksityiskohdat. Jos teidän\n    vastenmielisyytenne minua kohtaan tekee _minun_ todistukseni\n    silmissänne arvottomaksi, niin sama syy ei estä teitä vetoamasta\n    serkkuuni ja uskomasta hänen sanojaan; ja jotta teillä olisi aikaa\n    ja tilaisuutta kääntyä hänen puoleensa, koetan tavalla tai toisella\n    saada tämän kirjeen käsiinne vielä tämän aamun kuluessa. Tahdon\n    vain lisätä: Jumala siunatkoon teitä elämänne teillä!\n\n                                              \"Fitzwilliam Darcy.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXXVI LUKU.\n\n\nJollei Elizabeth ottaessaan vastaan hra Darcyn kirjeen ollut odottanut\nsiinä eilisen kosinnan uudistamista, niin ei hän ollut voinut kuvitella\nmitään muutakaan sen sisällöstä. Joka tapauksessa voi arvata, että hän\nhämmästyen ja oudoksuen luki sen läpi, ja että tuloksena oli\nsanomattoman ristiriitainen tunnekuohu. Aluksi häntä ihmetytti,\nettä tuo mies voi luulla voivansa millään tavoin puolustella\nkäyttäytymistään; ja väkevän ennakkoluulon vallassa hän aloitti lukea\nhänen esitystään Netherfieldin tapahtumista. Darcyn uskoa Janen\nvälinpitämättömyydestä Bingleytä kohtaan hän ei voinut ottaa todeksi;\nja tuon miehen esitys hänen todellisista syistään näiden avioliittoa\nvastaan oli omiaan suututtamaan Elizabethia yhä enemmän. Darcy ei\nilmaissut lainkaan katuvansa menettelyään, päinvastoin hän\nosoittihe yhä paatuneemmaksi pöyhkeässä suvaitsemattomuudessaan ja\nsääty-ylpeydessään.\n\nMutta kun sitten seurasi kuvaus hänen suhteestaan hra Wickhamiin;\nkun Elizabeth tarkkaavaisesti tutustui asianhaaroihin, joiden --\njos ne vain oli todenperäisesti esitetty -- täytyi kerrassaan kumota\nhänen mielihalulla hellityn käsityksensä tuon perin miellyttävän\nnuoren miehen luonteesta -- kävi juttu paljon sekavammaksi ja\ntuskallisemmaksi. Hämmästys, huolestuminen, jopa kauhukin täyttivät\nhänen mielensä. Hän toivoi kaikesta sydämestään, että hän voisi\njulistaa kaiken valheeksi, tahalliseksi vääristelyksi, ja huudahtaa:\n\"Se ei ole totta! Se ei voi olla totta!\" -- ja kun hän oli käynyt koko\nkirjeen läpi, tuskin kyeten enää kunnolla käsittämään viime sivun\nsisällystä, työnsi hän sen nopeasti syrjään, päättäen ettei koskaan\nedes katsahtaisikaan enää siihen.\n\nTässä hämmentyneessä mielentilassa hän asteli edestakaisin, kykenemättä\nlepuuttamaan ajatuksiaan ja löytämättä niille lujaa kiinnekohtaa; mutta\nkauan hän ei kestänyt sitäkään -- kohta oli kirje jälleen esillä\nkuorestaan; ja hilliten itseään minkä kykeni hän rupesi uudestaan\nlukemaan tuota hirveää syytöstä hra Wickhamia vastaan ja pakottautui\nmahdollisimman kylmäverisesti käsittämään jok'ikisen lauseen sisällön.\nEsitys Wickhamin suhteissa Pemberleyn isäntäväkeen oli joka suhteessa\naivan samanlainen kuin tämän itsensä antama; ja edesmenneen hra Darcyn\nleppeä ystävällisyys, josta Elizabeth ei ollut tähän saakka ollut\noikein perillä, kävi aivan yhteen hänen omien sanojensa kanssa. Sitä\nmyöten molemmat kertomukset kattoivat toisensa; mutta testamenttiin\ntultua niiden välillä aukeni syvä juopa. Elizabethilla oli vielä\nvereksessä muistissa, mitä Wickham oli kertonut toiveistaan tuohon\nkirkkoherranpaikkaan; ja sitä muistellen hänen oli mahdotonta uskoa\nmuuta, kuin että jompikumpi kertojista oli tahallaan erehtynyt; ja\naluksi hän luuli olevansa varma, kumpi heistä oli puhunut väärin. Mutta\nlukiessaan edelleen, kuinka Wickham oli vapaaehtoisesti luopunut\nkaikista toiveista mainittuun paikkaan ja saanut korvaukseksi melkoisen\nrahasumman, hänen oli jälleen pakko epäröidä. Hän laski kirjeen\nkädestään ja punnitsi mielessään jok'ainutta seikkaa mahdollisimman\npuolueettomasti, koettaen tulla hänelle itselleen mieluiseen tulokseen\n-- mutta onnistumatta. Molemmilla puolillahan häntä kohtasivat vain\nasianomaisten omat mieskohtaiset vakuuttelut. Jälleen hän rupesi\nlukemaan. Mutta joka rivi osoitti yhä selvemmin, että tämä juttu, jonka\nhän oli uskonut yksinomaan todistavan hra Darcyn menettelyn halpaa\nhalvemmaksi, näyttikin saavein käänteen, joka kerrassaan puhdisti hänet\nkaikesta syystä.\n\nJo se kevytmielinen tuhlailunhalu ja periaatteeton kunnottomuus, josta\nkirjoittaja ei vähääkään epäröinyt syyttää hra Wickhamia, järkytti\nlukijaa suuresti. Hän ei ollut kuullut tuosta nuoresta miehestä\nsanaakaan ennen hänen liittymistään Hertfordshiren miliisirykmenttiin,\njohon hän oli tullut erään tuttavan upseerin suosituksesta. Hänen\naikaisemmasta elämästään ei Hertfordshiressä tiedetty muuta kuin mitä\nhän itse oli kertonut. Hänen todellisen luonteensa perille ei Elizabeth\nollut tähän asti pyrkinytkään päästä. Wickhamin kasvonpiirteet, hänen\näänensä, ryhtinsä ja käytöstapansa olivat taanneet hänet joka suhteessa\ntäysin kunnioitettavaksi mieheksi. Elizabeth koetti etsiä muististaan\njotakin erityistä hyvyyden, puhtauden ja jaloluontoisuuden piirrettä\nWickhamin luonteesta, joka suojelisi tätä Darcyn hyökkäyksiltä tahi\nainakin selittäisi hänen luonteenvikansa pelkiksi paljon hemmotellun\nnuoren miehen tilapäisiksi hairahduksiksi, eikä suinkaan vuosikausien\njoutilaisuuden ja hurjistelun hedelmiksi, kuten Darcy esitti. Mutta\nmitään sellaista piirrettä ei lainkaan johtunut hänen mieleensä. Hän\nvoi nähdä Wickhamin edessänsä ilmi elävänä, ulkomuodoltaan, sanoiltaan\nja sävyltään lumoavana; mutta hän ei kyennyt kasaamaan hänen\nansiopuolikseen muuta hyvää kuin mitä lähiympäristössä ja\ntoveripiirissä hänestä yleensä ajateltiin.\n\nPunnittuaan tätä kohtaa hyvän aikaa Elizabeth jatkoi jälleen\nlukemistaan. Mutta, oh! -- sitä onnetonta kertomusta, mikä sitten\nseurasi -- Wickhamin häpeällisistä aikomuksista nti Darcyn suhteen --\nsille antoi jonkin verran vahvistusta hänen ja eversti Fitzwilliamin\neilisaamuinen puhelu; ja joka tapauksessa häntä oli kehoitettu\nhankkimaan lisätodisteita kertomuksen todenperäisyydestä everstiltä\nitseltään, jonka kunnioitettavaa luonnetta hänellä ei ollut syytä\nvähintäkään epäillä. Aluksi Elizabeth miltei päättikin kääntyä everstin\npuoleen, mutta tukalaahan oli syrjäisen henkilön tehdä tuollainen\nvetoominen; ja eikähän hra Darcy olisi varmastikaan uskaltanut\nsellaista kehoitusta antaa, jollei hän jo edeltäkäsin olisi ollut varma\nserkkunsa lausunnosta.\n\nElizabeth muisti aivan hyvin ensi keskustelunsa Wickhamin kanssa tuona\nensimmäisenä illanviettona hra Philipsin perheessä. Monet tuon miehen\nlauseista olivat aivan sellaisinaan painuneet hänen muistiinsa. _Nyt_\nhäntä ihmetytti, kuinka Wickham oli oikeastaan voinutkaan puhella\nsellaista vennon vieraalle, ja kuinka hän itse ei ollut aikaisemmin\ntullut sitä oudostelleeksi. Edelleen hän muisti Wickhamin kerskailleen,\nettei hän suinkaan peljännyt tavata hra Darcya -- että hra Darcyn\nasiana oli puittia tiehensä, hänen jäädessä paikoilleen, ja kuitenkin\nhän oli jo seuraavalla viikolla vältellyt saapua Netherfieldin\ntanssiaisiin. Hän muisti myöskin, että aina siihen saakka kuin\nNetherfieldin perhe oli poistunut seudulta, Wickham oli kertonut\ntarinansa ainoastaan hänelle, mutta että se kohta tuon muuton jälkeen\noli ollut yleisenä puheenaiheena; ja ettei Wickham silloin enää\naristellut alentaa hra Darcyn mainetta toisten ihmisten silmissä,\nvaikka hän oli vakuuttanut Elizabethille, että hän kunnioituksesta isää\nkohtaan tahtoi säästää poikaa.\n\nKuinka toisenlaisessa valossa tuo mies nyt näyttäytyikään! Hänen nti\nKingille osoittama huomaavaisuutensa oli Elizabethista nyt pelkästään\ninhoittavan rahanhimon aiheuttamaa; yksinpä sekin seikka, että kyseenä\noleva perintö itsessään oli verraten vähäpätöinen, ei enää todistanut\nkosijan vaatimattomuutta, vaan hänen silmitöntä intoaan pyyhkäistä\ntaskuunsa kaiken, mihin hän vain voi päästä käsiksi. Entä hänen\nkäytöksensä Elizabethia itseään kohtaan? Siihenkään ei enää voinut\nkeksiä mitään siedettävää aihetta. Joko hän oli alussa joutunut harhaan\nElizabethia muka odottavan perintöosan suuruudesta, tahi oli hänen\nturhamaisuuttaan kutkutellut se ilmeinen suosio, jota tämä tiesi\nhänelle peittelemättä osoittaneensa. Tytön mielessä heikkeni\nheikkenemistään jokainen vitkaileva ponnistelu tuon miehen\npuolustukseksi; ja hra Darcyn hyväksi hänelle muistui moniakin\nseikkoja, joita hän ennen ei ollut tullut ottaneeksi varteen. Niinpä\nesim. oli hra Bingley Janen sitä kysyessä todistanut Darcyn menetelleen\ntäysin moitteettomasti tässä asiassa; edelleen, että kuinka pöyhkeä ja\nluotaantorjuva Darcyn esiintyminen yleensä olikin, hän itse ei ollut\nkoko heidän tuttavuutensa aikana -- tuon tuttavuuden, joka myöhemmin\noli johtanut heidät paljon yhteen ja jonka kestäessä hän oli tullut\njokseenkin läheltä tuntemaan tuon miehen luonteensävyn -- keksinyt\nhänen luonteessaan ainuttakaan kehnoa ja periaatetta puuttuvaa\npiirrettä; ettei kukaan tiennyt puhua hänestä mitään pahaa tai julki\njumalatonta; että päinvastoin hänen lähempi tuttavapiirinsä piti häntä\nerinomaisessa arvossa; että yksinpä Wickhamkin oli myöntänyt hänen\nolevan hyvän veljen, ja että hän itsekin oli kuullut hänen puhuvan\nsisarestaan tavalla, josta soinnahti hellää ja ylevää tunnetta; että\njos hänen tekonsa tosiaankin olisivat olleet sellaiset, joina Wickham\nne kuvasi, ne vaivoin olisivat välttyneet maailman silmiltä; ja että\ntosi ystävyys hra Bingleyn tapaisen herttaisen miehen ja niin kehnon\nluonteen välillä olisi ollut kerrassaan käsittämätön ja mahdoton.\n\nElizabeth aivan häpesi itseään. Hän ei voinut ajatella Darcya eikä\nWickhamia tuntematta olleensa kovin sokea, puolueellinen, typerän\nennakkoluuloinen.\n\n\"Mikä houkka minä olen ollutkaan!\" hän huudahti. \"Minä, joka olen ollut\nniin ylpeä tarkkanäköisyydestäni! Joka olen moittinut sisareni ylevää\nherkkäuskoisuutta ja avomielisyyttä ja tyydytellyt turhamaisuuttani\nepäilemällä toisia ja keksimällä vikoja, missä niitä ei ole ollutkaan.\nMikä nöyryyttävä keksintö tämä onkaan minulle! Ja kuitenkin niin hyvin\nansaittu nöyryytys! Vaikka rakkauskin olisi sokaissut silmäni, niin en\nolisi sen kehnommin osannut arvostella ja tuomita. Mutta ei rakkaus,\nvaan turhamaisuus se minut sokaisi. Mieltyneenä toisen mairitteluun ja\nloukkautuneena toisen välinpitämättömyydestä olen tuttavuutemme ensi\nalusta alkaen kallistunut ehdoin tahdoin ennakkoluuloisuuteen ja\ntyperään tietämättömyyteen ja välittänyt vähät terveestä järjestä.\nTähän hetkeen saakka en ole tuntenut omaa itseäni!\"\n\nHänestä itsestään Janeen ja Janesta Bingleyhin hänen ajatuksensa sitten\nkulkivat sellaista uraa, että hän johtui muistelemaan, kuinka perin\nepätyydyttävältä hänestä oli tuntunut Darcyn selitys menettelystään\n_tässä_ asiassa. Hän luki sen uudelleen. Ja nyt oli tulos aivan toinen.\nKuinka hän voi kieltäytyä uskomasta Darcyn vakuutteluja tässä asiassa,\nannettuaan jo perään toisessakin? Darcy selitti olleensa aivan\ntietämätön Janen kiintymyksestä hänen ystäväänsä; eikä Elizabeth voinut\ntällöin olla muistamatta, mitä Charlotte aina oli arvellut tästä\nasiasta. Eikä hän myöskään voinut väittää vääräksi Darcyn kuvausta\nJanen luonteensävystä. Hän muisti, kuinka taitavasti Jane osasi\nrakastuneenakin hillitä itsensä ja salata tunteensa, kuinka hän alati\nkäyttäytyi maltillisesti ja ja järkevästi, niin että syrjäisen silmä\nvoi helposti erehtyä hänen tunteittensa todellisesta laadusta.\n\nKun hän sitten tuli siihen kohtaan kirjeessä, jossa hänen\nlähiomaisistaan puhuttiin niin julmasti mutta hyvällä syyllä moittien,\nkasvoi hänen häpeäntuntonsa kukkuroilleen. Hän muisti äitinsä ja\nnuorempain sisartensa käyttäytymisen eri tilaisuuksissa ja nimenomaan\nNetherfieldin tanssiaisissa; ja hän voi nyt hyvin käsittää, ettei Darcy\nvoinut moittia sitä pahemmin kuin hän itsekin olisi tehnyt.\n\nHänelle itselleen ja Janelle myönnetty kohtelias tunnustus ei jäänyt\nvaikuttamatta. Se lohdutti häntä, mutta ei voinut lievittää sitä\nylenkatseellista arvostelua, minkä perheen muut jäsenet olivat ansiosta\nsaaneet osakseen; ja miettiessään nyt, kuinka Janen pettymys ja\nsydämensuru itse asiassa oli ollut hänen lähimpäin omaistensa käytöksen\naiheuttama ja kuinka syvästi he molemmat olivat joutuneet kärsimään sen\ntakia, hän tunsi viiltävää tuskaa ja kiduttavampaa nöyryytystä kuin\nkoskaan ennen.\n\nKierrettyään nurmikentän laiteilla lähes kaksi tuntia, antaen\najatustensa kirmailla joka taholle -- muistellen menneitä ja punniten\nennakolta tulevia tapahtumia -- kärsien uudestaan kaiken tuskan ja\nnöyryytyksen ja kokien lohduttautua parhaansa mukaan -- hän vihdoin\npalasi sisälle, koettaen näyttää yhtä huolettomalta ja hilpeältä kuin\nennenkin ja päättäen tukahduttaa mielessään kaikki sellaiset ajatukset,\njotka estäisivät häntä puuttumasta tarinanpitoon toisten kanssa.\n\nKotia tultua hän sai kuulla, että Rosingsin herrat olivat käyneet\ntalossa hänen poissa ollessaan; hra Darcy vain siunaaman ajan\nottaakseen jäähyväiset, mutta eversti Fitzwilliam oli istunut lähes\ntuntikauden odottaen häntä palaavaksi ja miltei päättäen lähteä\netsiskelemään häntä ulkoa. Elizabethin mieleen oli, etteivät he olleet\ntavanneet toisiaan. Eversti Fitzwilliam ei merkinnyt hänelle enää\nyhtään mitään. Hän voi ajatella ainoastaan saamaansa kirjettä.\n\n\n\n\nXXXVII LUKU.\n\n\nMolemmat herrat lähtivät Rosingista seuraavana aamuna; ja hra Collins,\njoka oli odotellut valtaveräjällä lausuakseen heille viimeiset\njäähyväiset, tunsi kotia palatessaan itsensä onnelliseksi voidessaan\nkertoa lähtijäin olleen niin hyvässä voinnissa ja hilpeällä mielellä\nkuin suinkin saattoi odottaa kartanossa tapahtuneen murheellisen\njäähyväiskohtauksen jälkeen. Rosingsiin hän sitten oitis riensikin\nlohduttamaan Lady Catherinea ja tämän tytärtä; ja palatessaan hän voi\nsuureksi tyydytyksekseen tuoda hänen jalosukuisuudeltaan sellaiset\nterveiset, että tämä haikeutensa haihduttimeksi halusi koko pappilan\nperheen luokseen päivällisille.\n\nElizabeth ei voinut Lady Catherinea nähdessään olla ajattelematta, että\njos hän vain olisi tahtonut, olisi hän nyt voinut esittäytyä myladyn\ntulevana sukulaisena; eikä hän voinut olla hymyilemättä ajatellessaan,\nminkälaisen vastaanoton jalo rouva silloin olisi hänelle valmistanut.\n\"Mitähän hän olisi oikein sanonutkaan? Kuinkahan hapanta naamaa hän\nolisi näyttänytkään?\" -- näillä kysymyksillä hän huvitti raskautettua\nmieltään.\n\nEnsimmäisenä puheenaiheena päivällispöydässä tietystikin oli Rosingsin\nväen väheneminen. \"Tottakin se koskee minuun syvästi\", vakuutti Lady\nCatherine vakuuttamasta päästyään; \"enpä usko, että kukaan ihminen maan\npäällä suree niin paljon ystäviensä menettämistä kuin minä. Mutta minä\nolenkin aivan erikoisesti kiintynyt noihin molempiin nuoriin miehiin --\nja kuinka he sitten ovatkaan kiintyneet minuun! Ette usko, kuinka\nvaikeata heidän oli lähteä täältä! Mutta niinhän on laita joka kerta.\nKunnon eversti koetti ylläpitää hilpeyttään viimeiseen saakka; mutta\nDarcyyn lähtö tuntui koskevan kovin kipeästi -- paljon enemmän tällä\nkertaa, minä arvelen, kuin viime vuonna. Se rakas poika näyttää\nkiintyneen yhä lujemmin sitein Rosingsiin.\"\n\nHra Collinsilla oli älyä lausua tämän johdosta imarteleva huomautus,\njonka äiti ja tytär palkitsivat suopealla hymyllä.\n\nLady Catherine huomautti pöydästä noustua, että nti Bennetkin näytti\nolevan allapäin; ja arvaten syyksi, että tytönkään ei tehnyt mieli niin\npian menettää hänen mieluista seuraansa, hän lisäsi:\n\n\"Mutta jos niin on laita, niin kirjoittakaa kaikin mokomin äidillenne,\nettä saatte viipyä täällä vähän kauemmin. Minä arvaan, että rouva\nCollins on hyvin iloinen saadessaan pitää teidät luonansa.\"\n\n\"Olen hyvin kiitollinen teidän jalosukuisuutenne ystävällisestä\ntarjouksesta\", vastasi Elizabeth; \"mutta minun vallassani ei ole\nnoudattaa sitä. Minun täytyy olla Lontoossa jo ensi lauantaina.\"\n\n\"Miksi niin pian; ettehän ole vielä ollut täällä enempää kuin kuusi\nviikkoa? Minä odotin teidän jäävän ainakin kahdeksi kuukaudeksi.\nTäisinhän siitä jo mainita rouva Collinsillekin ennen teidän tuloanne.\nEikähän teillä ole mitään syytä lähteä täältä niin pian. Äitinne voi\nvarmastikin tulla toimeen ilman teidän apuanne vielä pari viikkoa\neteenpäin.\"\n\n\"Mutta isäni ei voi. Hän kirjoitti minulle viime viikolla ja kiirehti\npalaamistani.\"\n\n\"Oh, isänne tulee hyvin toimeen ilman teitä, jos kerta äitinnekin voi\ntulla. Isät eivät paljonkaan perusta tyttäriinsä. Ja jos viitsitte\nvielä viipyä täällä toisenkin kuukauden, niin kukaties otan itse teidät\nmukaani kun lähden Lontooseen, sillä aikomukseni on matkustaa sinne\nkesäkuun alussa viikon päiviksi. Ja kun voin aivan hyvin sijoittaa\nkamarineitoni tavararattaille, on vaunuissani hyvin tilaa toiselle\nteistä -- ja annappa olla, jos sattuu hyvä ilma, niin voisinpa ottaa\nteidät molemmatkin vaunuihini, sillä ettehän te kumpikaan ole\nisokokoisia.\"\n\n\"Te olette kovin ystävällinen, Lady Catherine; mutta minä luulen, että\nminun täytyy sittenkin pysyä alkuperäisessä aikeessani.\"\n\nLady Catherine huokasi alistuvasti. \"Sitten on teidän, rouva Collins,\npantava miespalvelija heitä saattamaan. Tiedättehän, että minä aina\npuhun suuni puhtaaksi, enkä minä voi sietää ajatusta, että kaksi nuorta\nneitosta matkustaisi yksin postikyydillä. Se ei ole ollenkaan sopivaa.\nNuorten neitosten pitäisi aina olla säädyllisesti varjeltuina ja\npalveltuina, se kuuluu heidän elämänasemaansa. Muistan hyvin kun\nsisarentyttäreni Georgiana lähti viime kesänä Ramsgateen, niin en\nhelpottanut, ennenkuin hänelle pantiin kaksi miespalvelijaa mukaan.\nMinä olen niin hirveän tarkka kaikissa tällaisissa asioissa. Teidän\ntäytyy lähettää joku renkinne näiden nuorten neitosten matkaan. Olenpa\noikein iloinen, että satuin mainitsemaan tämän asian; olisi\nanteeksiantamatonta, jos päästäisitte heidät matkustamaan yksin.\"\n\n\"Enoni lähettää palvelijan vastaamme.\"\n\n\"Hoo -- teidän enonne! Onko hänellä varaa pitää miespalvelijaa? Sepä\nhauskaa, että joku omaisistanne ajattelee tällaisia asioita. Missä te\nvaihdatte myötyrihevosia? Vai niin -- Brombyssä tietystikin. Jos\nmainitsette 'Kellon' majatalossa tuntevanne minut, niin tulette\nsäädyllisesti palvelluiksi.\"\n\nLady Catherinella oli vielä paljon kyseltävää heidän matkansa johdosta;\nmutta kun hän enimmäkseen itse vastaili kysymyksiinsä, pääsi Elizabeth\njokseenkin rauhaan -- muihin ajatuksiinsa hautautuneena hän olisi\nsaattanutkin vastailla pelkkää puuta ja heinää. Hän siunasi hetkeä,\njolloin he pääsivät lähtemään kotia; ja yksin jäätyään hän antautui\nhuojentunein mielin niihin ajatuksiin, jotka nyt yksinomaan\naskarruttivat hänen mieltään ja joita hän mietiskeli jokapäiväisillä\nyksinäisillä kävelyillään.\n\nHra Darcyn kirjeen hän pian osasi jo ulkoa -- niin oli sen jok'ainoa\nsana painunut hänen sydämeensä. Hän punnitsi tarkasti sen jokaista\nlausetta; ja kirjoittajasta itsestään hänellä oli nykyään aivan\ntoisenlaiset mielipiteet kuin ensi lukemallaan. Hänen kosintaansa\nmuistellessaan hänen mielensä vieläkin kuohahti katkeruuteen; mutta\najatellessaan sitten, kuinka perin väärin ja nurjasti hän oli\narvostellut ja tuominnut tuota miestä, hänen suuttumuksensa kohdistui\nomaan itseensä, ja Darcyn syvä pettymys herätti hänessä sääliä. Hänen\nharras kiintymyksensä synnytti kiitollisuutta, hänen suoravainen\nluonteensa vilpitöntä kunnioitusta; mutta sittenkään hän ei voinut\nmielessään taipua hänen kosintaansa, eikä hän hetkeksikään katunut sen\nhylkäämistä tai halunnut saada tavata Darcya uudestaan. Hänen omassa\nentisessä käytöksessään oli yllinkyllin surtavaa, ja lähiomaistensa\nonnettomat luonteenominaisuudet olivat hänelle ainaisen harmin ja\nhaikeuden lähteenä. Ja kaikkein pahinta oli, ettei parannusta voinut\ntoivoakaan. Hänen isänsä tyytyi vain nauramaan nuorempien tyttäriensä\ntyperälle huimuudelle, mutta ei vaivautunut koskaan ojentamaan heitä;\nja hänen äitinsä oli aivan kykenemätön edes käsittämään, mitkä asiat\nkaipasivat korjaamista. Elizabeth oli usein yhdessä Janen kanssa\nyrittänyt hillitä Catherinen ja Lydian hupakkomieltä; mutta mitä toivoa\nolikaan näiden parantumisesta, kun äiti aina kannatti heitä ja sieti\nheidän houkkamaisuuttaan. Niin kauan kuin upseereja oli Merytonissa,\nnuo tytöt eivät lakkaisi kuhertelemasta heidän kanssaan; niin kauan\nkuin Meryton oli lyhyen kävelymatkan päässä Longbournista, he\nlentäisivät sinne kuin päättömät kanat.\n\nVierailut Rosingsissa jatkuivat viimeisenäkin viikkona yhtä tiheään\nkuin kaikkein ensimmäisenä. Viimeinen ilta vietettiin siellä; Lady\nCatherine jakeli heille auliisti neuvoja matkan varalle; ja kun he\nviimein lähtivät, lausui hän alentuvasti heidät tervetulleiksi\nHunsfordiin seuraavaksikin kesäksi; ja nti De Bourgh unohti tavallisen\nhitaan pidättyväisyytensä siihen määrään, että tarjosi kummallekin\ntytölle kätensä.\n\n\n\n\nXXXVIII LUKU.\n\n\nLauantaiaamuna Elizabeth ja hra Collins sattuivat tulemaan\naamiaispöytään vähän ennen toisten tuloa; ja jälkimmäinen käytti\ntilaisuutta lausuakseen lähtevälle vieraalleen kohteliaat kiitoksensa.\n\n\"En tiedä, rakas neiti Elizabeth\", hän sanoi, \"onko rouva Collins jo\nilmaissut teille kiitollisuutensa ystävällisen vierailunne johdosta;\nmutta minä olen varma, että te ette voi lähteä talostamme saamatta tuta\nmeidän tunteitamme. Teidän seurastanne on meille ollut paljon hupia ja\netua, siitä pyydän teidän olemaan vakuutettu. Tiedämmehän kyllä, kuinka\nvähän matalassa majassamme on sellaista, mikä voi viehättää vierasta.\nMeidän yksinkertaiset elämäntapamme, pienet huoneemme, harvalukuiset\npalvelijamme ja eristyneisyytemme suuresta maailmasta saattavat\ntehdä Hunsfordista perin yksitoikkoisen sopen teidän tapaisellenne\nvilkkaalle nuorelle neidille; mutta minä toivon teidän uskovan meidän\nkiitollisuuteemme ja olevan vakuutettu, että olemme tehneet kaiken\nvoitavamme estääksemme teitä liiaksi ikävystymästä täällä ollessanne.\"\n\nElizabeth ilmaisi innokkain sanoin tyytyväisyytensä ja\nkiitollisuutensa. Hän oli viettänyt nämä kuusi viikkoa varsin\nrattoisasti, ja seurustelu Charlotten kanssa ja kaikki hänelle\nosoitettu kohteliaisuus oli mitä suurimmasti ilahduttanut häntä. Hra\nCollins oli tyytyväinen tähän vakuutukseen ja jatkoi juhlallisesti\nhymyillen:\n\n\"Kovin olen iloinen kuullessani, että aika ei ole käynyt täällä\nteille pitkäksi. Me olemme varmastikin tehneet parhaamme teitä\nhauskuttaaksemme; ja kun meillä on ollut onni tutustuttaa teidät mitä\njaloimpaan seurapiiriin, niin luulenpa voivani imarrella itseäni\nvarmuudella, ettei vierailunne Hunsfordissa ole ollut erin masentava.\nSuhteemme Lady Catherinen perheeseen on todella erinomainen etu ja\nsiunaus, jollaisesta vain harvain on suotu kerskailla. Te olette\nnähnyt, kuinka kiinteä tuo suhde on ja kuinka ahkerasti meidän on\nsallittu seurustella Rosingsissa. Totta puhuen minun täytyy tunnustaa,\nettä -- mitkä tukaluudet halpaan pappilaamme muuten liittyvätkin --\nkukaan ei voisi kieltäytyä siinä asumasta saadessaan meidän tavallamme\nolla läheisessä tuttavuudessa seudun valtaperheen kanssa.\"\n\nSanat olivat aivan riittämättömät tulkitsemaan hänen liikutettuja\ntunteitaan; ja hänen oli pakko lähteä astelemaan ympäri huonetta,\nennenkuin kykeni jatkamaan puhettaan:\n\n\"Te voitte todellakin, rakas serkku, viedä meistä Hertfordshireen mitä\nsuotuisimpia viestejä. Ainakin imartelee mieltäni vakaumus, että teillä\non täysi syy siihen. Olettehan saanut joka päivä itse havaita Lady\nCatherinen erinomaista huomaavaisuutta vaimoani kohtaan; ja kaiken\nkaikkiaan uskallan luottaa siihen, ettei ystävättärenne ole tehnyt\navioliitossaan huonoa valintaa -- mutta minun sallittanee vaieta tämän\nasian suhteen. Sallikaa minun vain toivoa, rakas neiti Elizabeth, että\nkaikesta sydämestäni toivoisin teidänkin joutuvan yhtä onnekkaaseen\navioliittoon. Kallis Charlotteni ja minä ajattelemme aivan samalla\ntapaa kaikista asioista. Meidän luonteissamme ja käsitystavoissamme\nvallitsee vallan merkillinen yhdenmukaisuus. Kohtalo näkyy todella\nluoneenkin meidät toisiamme varten.\"\n\nElizabeth voi ainoastaan vakuuttaa, että sellainen yhdenmukaisuus\nvarmastikin takasi asianomaisille mitä suurinta onnea. Mutta hän ei\nkuitenkaan murhettunut siitä, että ystävättären tulo lopetti enemmän\nkuvauksen tästä sopusointuisasta avioelämästä. Charlotte parka!\nRaskasta oli jättää hänet yksin noin typerän ja itserakkaan miehen\nkanssa. Mutta hänhän oli valinnut osansa avoimin silmin, ja vaikka hän\nsurikin vieraittensa lähtöä, ei hän pyytänyt heidän sääliään. Hänen\nkotinsa ja taloutensa, seurakuntalaisensa ja kanatarhansa eivät vielä\nolleet kadottaneet ensimmäistä viehätystään hänen silmissään.\n\nVihdoin saapuivat vaunut, matkatavarat köytettiin niiden perään ja\neväskääröt työnnettiin sisään. Ystävättärien otettua toisiltaan hellät\njäähyväiset saattoi hra Collins Elizabethin tielle. Autettuaan hänet ja\nMarian vaunuihin hän äkkiä tyrmistyi muistaessaan, että lähtijät olivat\nkokonaan unohtaneet lähettää terveisiä Rosingsin vallasväelle.\n\n\"Mutta\", hän lisäsi, \"tietystikin te haluatte lähettää meidän kauttamme\nalamaiset kiitoksenne kaikesta heidän puoleltaan saamastanne\nystävällisyydestä.\"\n\nElizabethilla ei ollut mitään sitä vastaan; vaunujen ovi lyötiin kiinni\nja hevoset lähtivät patistamaan.\n\n\"Hyvä isä sentään!\" huudahti Maria lyhyen äänettömyyden perästä,\n\"minusta tuntuu, että olemme olleet täällä vain pari päivää; ja kuinka\npaljon kuitenkin on tällä aikaa tapahtunut!\"\n\n\"Paljonpa tosiaankin!\" huudahti hänen matkatoverinsa sydämessään.\n\n\"Mehän olemme syöneet päivällistä Rosingsissa yhdeksän kertaa, ja sen\nlisäksi juoneet siellä kahdesti teetä. Kuinka paljon minulla onkaan\nkotona kerrottavana!\"\n\n\"Ja kuinka paljon minulla onkaan salattavana!\" lisäsi Elizabeth\nitsekseen.\n\nMatka sujui mainittavitta tapahtumitta; ja muutaman tunnin kuluttua\nHunsfordista lähdettyä he saapuivat hra Gardinerin asuntoon, missä\nheidän oli määrä viipyä muutamia päiviä.\n\nJane näytti voivan hyvin, mutta Elizabeth ei päässyt paljoakaan\ntutkistelemaan hänen mielentilaansa tädin heille hankkimilta monilta\nhuvituksilta. Mutta Janehan seuraisi mukana Longbourniin, ja siellä\nheillä olisi kylliksi aikaa purkaa toisilleen sydämensä.\n\nHänen oli kuitenkin työläs odottaa kotiinpaluuta kertomatta sisarelleen\nhra Darcyn kosinnasta. Sellaisen tiedonannon valmistama yllätys ja oma\nmuuttunut käsityksensä tuon miehen luonteesta olivat todellakin\nkylliksi väkevät houkuttelemaan avomielisyyteen; mutta siitä esti häntä\nkuitenkin epätietoisuus, kuinka paljon hän asiasta oikein ilmoittaisi\nJanelle, sekä pelko, että tämä kuulemansa johdosta johtuisi\najattelemaan Bingleytä ja senvuoksi murehduttamaan mieltänsä.\n\n\n\n\nXXXIX LUKU.\n\n\nToukokuun toisella viikolla nuo kolme nuorta neitiä lähtivät Lontoosta\nHertfordshireen; ja sovitussa majatalossa olivat hra Bennetin\nlähettämät ajopelit vastassa ja sekä Kittyn että Lydian kasvot\nkatselemassa ulos ruokasalin akkunasta. Nämä neitoset olivat tehneet\nasiaa pikku kaupungin muotikauppaan ja viettivät paraillaan aikaansa\nkatselemassa kadun toisella puolella astelevaa vahtisotamiestä ja\nvalmistamalla kurkkusalaattia.\n\nTervehdittyään sisariaan he veivät heidät riemuiten ruokapöydän ääreen,\njolle oli katettu majatalon tavallisia kylmiä herkkuja, ja huudahtivat:\n\"Eikös kelpaa? Eikös tämä ole teille mieluisa yllätys?\"\n\n\"Ja meidän aikomuksenamme on kestitä teitä kaikkia\", lisäsi Lydia;\n\"mutta teidän täytyy antaa meille rahaa maksaaksemme kestityksen, sillä\nme olemme tyhjentäneet kukkaromme ostoksilla.\" Sitten, näyttäen\nostoksiaan: \"Katsokaas tänne, minä olen ostanut tämän hatun. Ei se\nminusta ole vallan häävi, mutta muotikaupassa ei ollut parempaakaan\nvalittavana. Kotia tultua puran sen palasiksi ja koetan sommitella\njotain laatuun käypää.\"\n\nJa kun hänen sisarensa tuomitsivat hatun hirvittäväksi, sanoi hän aivan\nvälinpitämättömästi: \"Niin, mutta olisittepa nähneet, kuinka hirveitä\nmuut hatut puodissa olivat; ja kun olen ostanut jotain sievännäköistä\nsatiinia vuoriksi, niin arvaanpa tästä jotain tulevan. Eikäpä muuten\nole väliäkään, mitä tänä kesänä päässään pitää, sillä miliisirykmentti\non määrätty lähtemään Merytonista muuanne kahden viikon päästä.\"\n\n\"Onko todellakin?\" huudahti Elizabeth hyvin tyytyväisenä kuulemaansa.\n\n\"Sen on määrä leiriytyä Brightonin luo; ja minä tahtoisin niin kovasti,\nettä isä veisi meidät kaikki sinne kylpemään täksi kesäksi! Se on\ntodellakin mainio ajatus, ja arvaanpa ettei se tulisi maksamaan paljon\nmitään. Äitikin tahtoisi niin mielellään lähteä. Ajatelkaas, kuinka\nsurkean kuiva kesä tästä muuten tulee!\"\n\n\"Tottakin\", ajatteli Elizabeth itsekseen, \"se on mainio ajatus ja\ntekisi kädenkäänteessä lopun vähistä varoistamme. Armias taivas\nsentään! Brightonin hieno kylpylä ja kokonainen sotilasleiri meille,\njoita on jo katseltu yli olkain Merytonin kuukaustanssiaisissa ja yhden\nainoan vaivaisen miliisirykmentin taholta!\"\n\n\"Mutta nyt minulla on teille suuria uutisia\", jatkoi Lydia, kun he\nolivat käyneet pöytään. \"Mitähän te niistä ajattelettekaan? Kerrassaan\noivia uutisia, jotka lisäksi koskevat erästä henkilöä, josta me kaikki\npidämme.\"\n\nJane ja Elizabeth katsahtivat toisiinsa, ja tarjoilijalle ilmoitettiin,\nettei hänen tarvinnut jäädä huoneeseen. Lydia nauroi pakahtuakseen ja\nsanoi:\n\n\"Ah, tuo on oikein teidän tapaistanne! Niinkuin tarjoilija muka ei\nolisi kuullut paljon pahemmistakin asioista kuin mitä minulla nyt on\nkerrottavana. Mutta menköön hän vain tiehensä, hän olikin niin hirveän\nruman näköinen veitikka. En ole kellään ihmisellä nähnyt niin isoa\nleukaa kuin sillä miehellä. No niin -- mutta nyt uutisiini! Ne koskevat\nrakasta Wickhamia; ja ne ovat liian hyviä tarjoilijan kuulla, vai mitä?\nNyt ei ole enää vaaraa, että Wickham naisi Mary Kingin -- kas siinä\nkuulette! Tyttöriepu on mennyt setänsä luo Liverpooliin ja jää sinne.\nWickham on häneltä turvassa.\"\n\n\"Ja Mary King on myöskin turvassa\", lisäsi Elizabeth, \"turvassa\njoutumasta naimisiin pelkästään myötäjäistensä takia.\"\n\n\"Hupsu hän ainakin oli lähtiessään pois, jos hän todella piti\nmiehestä.\"\n\n\"Mutta minä toivon, ettei kummallakaan puolella ollutkaan mitään\nvakavaa kiintymystä.\"\n\n\"Se on ainakin varmaa, ettei sitä ollut Wickhamin puolella. Minä voin\ntaata, ettei hän välittänyt tytöstä enemmän kuin oljenkorresta. Kukahan\n_voisikaan_ välittää tuollaisesta pienestä pisamaisesta liehakosta?\"\n\nElizabethia tyrmistytti ajatella, että -- olipa tuo lauselma kuinka\ntyly tahansa -- hän oli aikaisemmin hautonut sydämessään yhtä tylyä\ntunnetta tyttöä kohtaan.\n\nKohta kun kaikki olivat syöneet ja vanhemmat sisaret maksaneet laskun,\nsälytettiin koko sisarparvi kaikkine kimssuineen ja kamssuineen\nvaunuihin ja lähdettiin kotimatkalle.\n\n\"Nythän me istumme ahtaalla kuin sillit tynnörissä\", jatkoi Lydia\nlepertelyään. \"Olinpa iloinen, että ostin uuden hattuni, jollei\nmuunkaan vuoksi, niin ainakin vaunujen täytteeksi. No, olkaamme nyt\noikein mukavasti ja omissa oloissamme ja pitäkäämme hauskaa koko\nmatkan. Ja ennen kaikkea kertokaappa, mitä kaikkea teille onkaan\ntapahtunut matkallanne. Oletteko tavanneet hauskoja herroja? Ja onko\nteitä kuherreltu kovinkin? Minä toivoin, että ainakin toinen teistä\ntoisi sulhasen mukanaan. Janesta pian tuleekin vanha piika, sen minä\nsanon. Hänhän jo kohta täyttää kolmekolmatta -- ajatelkaas! Hyvä isä\nsentään kuinka minua hävettäisikään, jollen siinä iässä olisi jo\nnaimisissa! Täti Philipskin toivoo teille sulhasia, niin ettette\nuskokaan. Hänen mielestään Lizzyn olisi pitänyt ottaa herra Collins;\nmutta enpä käsitä, mitä huvia olisi olla sidottu sellaiseen tölskään\naidanseipääseen. Ah armias taivas, ajatelkaas, kuinka minun olisi\nmieleeni, jos pääsisin naimisiin ennen teitä kaikkia ja sitten saisin\nolla teille 'esiliinana' kaikissa tanssiaisissa. Ettepäs usko, kuinka\nhauskaa meillä oli toissapäivänä eversti Forsterilla! Kitty ja minä\nolimme kutsutut sinne koko päiväksi, ja rouva Forster lupasi meille\npikkuruiset tanssit illaksi -- sivumennen sanoen hänestä ja minusta on\ntullut ihmeen herttaiset ystävät. Ja sitten hän pyysi molempia\nHarringtonin tyttöjä myös tulemaan, mutta Harriet oli kipeä, niin että\nPenelopen täytyi tulla yksin; ja arvaattekos, mitä me sitten teimme? Me\npuetimme Chamberlaynen naisvaatteisiin, sillä hänen piti olla yhtenä\ntanssitettavana -- ah, hyvä isä, kuinka se vasta oli hassua! Ei niin\nristinsielukaan tiennyt meidän kepposestamme, paitsi eversti ja rouva\nForster ja Kitty ja minä ja täti Philips, jolta meidän täytyi lainata\nsopivia vaatteita; ja ette arvaakaan, kuinka mainiolta hän niissä\nnäytti! Kun Denny ja Wickham ja Pratt ja pari kolme muuta herraa sitten\ntulivat illalla, eivät he osanneet arvatakaan häntä muuksi kuin\nnaiseksi. Ah herra, kuinka minua oikein naurattikaan! Ja rouva\nForsteria myöskin. Olin nauraa itseni ihan kuoliaaksi! Ja _se_ se vasta\nsai miehet viimein epäilemään jotakin, ja sitten koko juoni\nkeksittiin.\"\n\nTällaisilla tarinoilla Lydia ja Kitty huvittivat sisariaan koko\nkotimatkan. Elizabeth koetti seurata niitä niin vähän kuin suinkin,\nmutta pakostakin tuli Wickhamin nimi tavantakaa mainituksi.\n\nKotona oli vastaanotto mitä ystävällisin. Rva Bennet oli kovin\nmielissään nähdessään Janen pysyneen yhtä kauniina kuin ennenkin; ja\nuseammin kuin kerran sanoi hra Bennet päivällispöydässä omasta\nehdostaan Elizabethille:\n\n\"Olenpa iloinen, että olet jälleen kotona, Lizzy!\"\n\nPäivällisillä istui lukuisa seura, sillä melkein koko Lucasin väki oli\ntullut noutamaan Mariata ja kuulemaan uutisia. Haastelu kävi ristiin\nrastiin ruokapöydän yli; Lady Lucas kyseli nuoremmalta tyttäreltään\nCharlotten terveyttä ja kanatarhaa; rva Bennet kuulusteli toisella\nkorvalla Janelta pääkaupungin muotiuutisia ja tulkitsi niitä toisella\npuolellaan istuville nuorimmille Lucasin tytöille; ja Lydia, joka piti\nisompaa ääntä kuin kukaan muu koko pöytäseurasta, kertoili hakumatkan\nhauskuuksista jokaiselle, ken vain viitsi kuunnella.\n\n\"Ah, Mary\", hän huusi, \"olisitpa sinäkin ollut matkassa, niin olisit\nsaanut pitää hauskaa! Kun me Kittyn kanssa mentiin, niin vedimme\nvaununverhot alas, aivan kuin ei sisässä olisi muka keitään istunut, ja\nniin olisimme istuneet koko matkan, jollei Kitty olisi ruvennut voimaan\npahoin. Ja kun tulimme majataloon, niin sielläkös me elettiin hienosti\n-- tilasimme pöytään parhaan kylmän murkinan mitä talosta löytyi ja\nkestitsimme noita tulijoita ihan ruhtinaallisesti; ja sinäkin olisit\nsaanut osasi, jos vain olisit tullut. Ja kotimatkallakos vasta hauskaa\npidettiin! En olisi uskonut, että vaunut olisivat meitä kestäneetkään.\nOlin ihan kuolla nauruun. Ja me huusimme ja nauroimme niin kovaa, että\nse kuului varmasti kymmenen mailin päähän.\"\n\nSiihen Mary sisar vastasi kylmän arvokkaasti: \"Olkoon kaukana minusta,\nettä kadehtisin sinulta huvejasi, rakas sisko. Arvaan, että ne hyvinkin\nsaattavat miellyttää tavallisia naisia, mutta minun täytyy tunnustaa,\nettä _minua_ ne eivät vain viehättäisi. Hyvä kirja on minulle\nrajattomasti rakkaampi.\"\n\nMutta siitä vastauksesta ei Lydia kuullut sanaakaan. Hän harvoin\nkuunteli kenenkään puhetta puolta minuuttia kauempaa, ja erityisesti\nMaryn syväoppisuutta ei nimeksikään.\n\nIltapäivällä Lydia koetti kiihkeästi taivuttaa toisia tyttöjä lähtemään\nkävelylle Merytoniin ja katsomaan, kuinka ihmiset siellä jaksoivat;\nmutta Elizabeth vastusti sitkeästi aietta. Eihän ihmisten pitänyt\nsaaman aihetta sanoa, etteivät Bennetin neidit kyenneet pysymään kotona\nedes puolta päivää lähtemättä juoksemaan upseerien perässä. Hänellä oli\ntoinenkin syy vastarintaansa. Hän pelkäsi kohdata Wickhamia ja tahtoi\nvälttää häntä niin kauan kuin mahdollista. Parin viikon perästähän\nrykmentti jo lähtisi matkoihinsa, ja sen lähdettyä hän toivoi\npääsevänsä kokonaan näkemästä tuota miestä.\n\nHän ei ollut vielä ollut montakaan tuntia kotona, kun hän jo huomasi,\nettä kysymys Brightoniin menosta, josta Lydia oli vihjaillut, oli\njatkuvan keskustelun aiheena vanhempien kesken. Elizabeth voi tosin\nhavaita isän olevan siihen aivan haluttoman; mutta hänen kieltelynsä\nolivat joka kerralla niin horjuvia, että hänen närkästyneellä\npuolisollaan oli syytä toivoa, että hän se lopultakin hitaasti mutta\nväsymättä jauhamalla perisi voiton.\n\n\n\n\nXL LUKU.\n\n\nElizabeth odotteli niin kärsimättömästi saadakseen ilmaista Janelle\nsuuret uutisensa, ettei hän kauankaan jaksanut pidättää itseään.\nValmisteltuaan sisartansa kokemaan suurta yllätystä ja päätettyään\nvaieta kaikesta tämän omaa kohtaloa koskevista asianhaaroista hän\nseuraavana aamuna kertoi Janelle, mitä hänen ja hra Darcyn välillä oli\ntapahtunut.\n\nVanhemman neiti Bennetin hämmästys oli tietenkin tavaton, mutta vielä\nsuurempi oli hänen ihastuksensa Elizabethin luontaisten etujen\nsaavuttamasta riemuvoitosta. Hänkin pahoitteli, että hra Darcy oli\nesittänyt kosintansa niin töykeällä tavalla, mutta vielä enemmän häntä\nsuretti se kova isku, jonka sisaren antama kieltävä vastaus\nluonnollisesti oli antanut kosijalle.\n\n\"Väärinhän häneltä tietysti oli, että hän oli niin varma\nmenestyksestään\", hän sanoi; \"mutta ajattelehan myöskin, kuinka\nsuuresti sen täytyi enentää hänen pettymystään.\"\n\n\"Minäkin olen todella hyvin pahoillani hänelle tuottamastani\npettymyksestä\", vastasi Elizabeth; \"mutta hänellä on paljon muitakin\nelämänharrastuksia, jotka luultavasti piankin tekevät lopun hänen\nkiintymyksestään minuun. Ethän sinä kuitenkaan voi moittia minua, rakas\nJane että hylkäsin hänen tarjouksensa?\"\n\n\"Moittia sinua? Ah, enhän toki!\"\n\n\"Mutta sinä ehkä moitit minua siksi, että puhuin hänelle niin\nlämpimästi Wickhamin puolesta?\"\n\n\"En -- tottahan sinä olit oikeassa kaikessa siinä, mitä hänestä\nsanoit.\"\n\n\"Sen saat nähdä, kun olen kertonut sinulle, mitä seuraavana päivänä\nsitten tapahtui.\"\n\nHän kertoi saamastaan kirjeestä ja toisti sen sisällöstä kaiken, mikä\nkoski George Wickhamia. Mikä isku se olikaan Jane paralle, joka ei\nikipäivinä olisi voinut uskoakaan, että niin paljon pahuutta voi\nkeskittyä yhteen ainoaan ihmiseen. Ei edes Darcyn siveellinen\nvoittopuoli, vaikka se lepyttikin häntä tätä kohtaan, kyennyt\nlohduttamaan häntä tuosta julmasta pettymyksestä. Mitä hartaimmin hän\nkoki etsiä mahdollisia erehdyksiä ja puolustaa toista, loukkaamatta\nsilti toista puoltakaan.\n\n\"Ei se käy\", intti Elizabeth vastaan, \"et sinä saa heitä molempia\nsamalla kertaa puhdistetuksi. Valitse heistä kumman tahdot\nihanteeksesi, mutta ainoastaan yhteen saat tyytyä. Omasta puolestani\nminä olen taipuvainen pitämään herra Darcya parempana miehenä, mutta\ntee sinä miten itse haluat.\"\n\nTälläkään väitteellä hän ei saanut puserretuksi hymyä Janen huulille.\n\n\"En tiedä, olenko vielä koskaan eläessäni niin hirveästi kauhistunut ja\npettynyt\", hän huokasi. \"Että Wickham voikaan olla niin kehno! Sitä on\nvaikea uskoakaan. Entä tuo poloinen herra Darcy! Rakas Lizzy,\najattelehan, mitä hänen on oikein täytynytkään kärsiä. Sellainen\npettymys sinuun nähden -- ja saada sitten tietää, kuinka pahaa sinä\nolit hänestä ajatellut -- ja olla lisäksi pakotettu kertomaan sellaisia\njuttuja omasta sisarestaan! Ihanhan siitä hirmustuu.\"\n\n\"Ah, minä en ainakaan enää sitä sure! Sinun säälisi ja kauhistuksesi on\nminulta haihduttanut kumpaisenkin tunteen. Kun näen sinun tekevän\nhänelle niin suurenmoista oikeutta, käyn itse joka hetki hänestä yhä\nvälinpitämättömämmäksi. Sinun surkuttelusi on minun pelastukseni; ja\njos jatkat vielä, niin on sydämeni kohta kevyt kuin höyhen.\"\n\n\"Niin -- mutta entä tuo Wickham poloinen sitten! Hänhän tekee niin\nhyvän vaikutuksen -- hän näyttää aina niin avomieliseltä ja\nhienotunteiselta ihmiseltä.\"\n\n\"Molempain miesten luomisessa näyttää menetellyn kovin epäsuhtaisesti.\nToinen on saanut osakseen kaiken hyvyyden, ja toinen vain hyvyyden\nulkokuoren.\"\n\n\"En minä koskaan pitänytkään herra Darcya niin pahasti kaiken hyvyyden\nvastakohtana kuin sinä teit.\"\n\n\"Ja kuitenkin minä luulin olevani niin ihmeen älykäs ja terävänäköinen\ntuomitessani hänen vikojaan ja inhotessani häntä. Tuollainen\nlähimmäisen inho ja hänen puutteittensa havaitseminen kannustaa niin\nihmeesti ihmisen henkevyyttä ja avartaa hänen älyään. Voihan jatkuvasti\ntuntea vastenmielisyyttä lähimmäistään kohtaan sanomatta hänelle ja\nhänestä mitään moitetta; mutta iänkaiken ei jaksa nauraa jollekin\nihmiselle sanomatta hänelle jotakin tai laskettamatta hänestä sukkelata\nhenkevyyttä.\"\n\n\"Lizzy, kun sinä ensi kertaa luit tuon kirjeen, niin ethän toki voinut\ntehdä asioista niin pahaa pilaa kuin nyt!\"\n\n\"En tottakaan. Olin sangen nolo -- voisinpa sanoa, että tunsin itseni\noikein onnettomaksikin. Eikä vierelläni ollut ketään, jolle olisin\nvoinut sanoa mitä tunsin, ei ollut mitään Janea lohduttamassa minua ja\nsanomassa, etten minä suinkaan ollut niin surkean heikko ja hupsu ja\nturhamainen kuin tiesin olleeni! Ah, kuinka minä silloin kaipasin\nsinua!\"\n\n\"Miten onnetonta olikaan, että sinä Wickhamista puhuessasi lausuit\nherra Darcylle niin kovia sanoja, jotka nyt näyttävät todellakin olevan\naivan ansaitsemattomat.\"\n\n\"Niin kyllä! Mutta katkerat sanat ovat mitä luonnollisin seuraus niistä\nonnettomista ennakkoluuloista, joita olen niin mielihalusta hautonut\nrinnassani. Minä tahtoisin kysyä sinun neuvoasi erään seikan\njohdosta. Tahtoisin tietää, olenko vai enkö velvollinen ilmaisemaan\nseurapiirillemme Wickhamin todellisen luonteen?\"\n\nJane mietti vähän aikaa, ennenkuin vastasi: \"Varmastikaan sinulla ei\nole enää tilaisuutta tehdä sellaista hirveää paljastusta. Mitä sinä\nitse ajattelet?\"\n\n\"Ettei sitä ole yrittämistäkään. Herra Darcy ei ole suinkaan\nvaltuuttanut minua julkisesti kuuluttamaan hänen ilmiantoaan.\nPäinvastoin ovat kaikki hänen sisarensa lähimmät tuttavat velvoitetut\npitämään asian niin salassa kuin suinkin; ja jos minä yritän ilmaista\nihmisille herra Darcyn todellisen luonteen, niin kukapa minua uskoisi?\nOnhan yleinen mielipide täälläpäin asettunut niin jyrkästi häntä\nvastaan, että ainakin puolet Merytonin kelpo ihmisistä saisi\nhalvauksen, jos heidän olisi pakko asettaa hänet vähän parempaan\nvaloon. En minä ainakaan pysty siihen toimeen. Wickham muuten kohta\nlähteekin matkoihinsa; ja siksi lienee samantekevää, tietävätkö ihmiset\nmillainen hän todella on. Jonkin ajan perästä asia arvatenkin tulee\ntunnetuksi, ja silloin me saamme nauraa heidän typeryydelleen. Mutta\ntätänykyä en aio hiiskua siitä sanaakaan.\"\n\n\"Siinä oletkin aivan oikeassa. Jos hänen hairahduksensa\npaljastettaisiin, niin hän olisi iäksi hukassa. Häntä ne ehkä nyt\nitseäänkin surettavat, ja hän koettaa parhaansa mukaan korjata itseään.\nMe emme saa syöstä häntä aivan epätoivoon.\"\n\nElizabethin rauhattomuus asettui tuntuvasti tämän keskustelun jälkeen,\nja hänellä oli tilaisuutta tarkastaa sisarensa mielentilaa. Jane ei\nnäyttänyt onnelliselta. Hän hautoi yhä edelleenkin sydämensä pohjassa\nhellää tunnetta Bingleytä kohtaan. Hänelle tämä kiintymys oli\nensimmäinen todellinen hänen elämässään, ja siksi oli sillä ensi lemmen\nraikas lämpö ja tuoreus; ja hänen kypsyneen ikänsä ja tasaisen\nluonteensa vaikutuksesta oli sillä paljon suurempi vakavuus ja alttius\nkuin nuorten tyttöjen tavallisella ensimmäisellä rakastumisella, ja\nsitä tulisemmin hän rinnassaan palvoi lemmityn muistoa ja piti häntä\netevämpänä ja parempana kaikkia muita miehiä.\n\n\"No niin, Lizzy\", sanoi rouva Bennet eräänä päivänä, \"mitä sinä\najattelet tästä Janen nolosta rakkausjutusta? Minä puolestani olen\nkivenkovaan päättänyt, etten puhu siitä sanaakaan kenenkään kanssa. Sen\nvakuutin sisarelleni Philipsillekin toissapäivänä. Mutta minä en vain\nsaa päähäni, kuinka Jane ei nähnyt tuosta miehestä vilaustakaan\nLontoossa ollessaan. No niin, Bingley onkin kerrassaan kunnoton nuori\nmies -- panee ensin tyttörukan pään pyörälle ja jättää hänet sitten\nlehdellä soittamaan; enkä minä usko, että Janella on ikimaailmassa enää\ntilaisuutta saada häntä onkeensa. Ei ole puhettakaan siitä, että hän\npalaisi Netherfieldiin täksi kesäksi; ja se minun pitäisi tietää, koska\nolen kuulustellut asiaa jok'ainoalta, jolla voisi olla siitä vihiä.\"\n\n\"En minäkään usko, että hän tulee enää koskaan asumaan\nNetherfieldissä.\"\n\n\"Se on hänen asiansa. Eikä häntä kukaan enää haluakaan tulemaan; vaikka\nse minun täytyy sanoakseni -- ja sen sanonkin aina jok'ikiselle -- että\nhän on menetellyt hyvin kunnottomasti minun tytärtäni kohtaan; ja jos\nminä olisin ollut Janen sijassa, niin en iki maailmassa olisi pannut\nhyppysiäni siihen puuroon. Ainoa lohdutukseni on, että Jane varmastikin\nkuolee särkynein sydämin, ja silloin tuo mies saa katua mitä on\ntehnyt.\"\n\nElizabeth, jota sellainen ajatus ei voinut lohduttaa, jätti\nvastaamatta.\n\n\"Kuulehan, Lizzy\", jatkoi äiti kohta perästäpäin, \"nuo Collinsit\ntaitavat tulla toimeen varsin hyvin, vai kuinka? No, hyvä, hyvä --\ntoivon vain, että sitä jatkuisi pitemmältäkin. Entä millaista pöytää he\npitävät? Arvaan, että Charlotte on mainio emäntä. Jos hän on\npuoleksikaan yhtä tarkka kuin äitinsä, niin hän saa säästymäänkin. He\neivät suinkaan hurvittele taloudessaan, arvaan mä?\"\n\n\"Ei sinnepäinkään.\"\n\n\"Kaikki riippuu hyvästä emännöimisestä, sen saat uskoa. Hohoi -- niin\nniin! _He_ eivät ainakaan elä tulojensa yli. _Heitä_ ei tyhjä kukkaro\nkoskaan huoleta. No hyvä, onneksi vain olkoon! Ja arvaanpa heidän\nuseinkin puhelevan siitä, että asettuvat tänne Longbourniin kohta isäsi\nkuoleman jälkeen. He pitävät tätä taloa kaiketikin jo ihan omanaan, vai\nmitä?\"\n\n\"Siitä asiasta ei minun kuulteni hiiskuttu sanaakaan.\"\n\n\"Ei tietenkään -- varsin merkillistähän se olisi ollutkin. Mutta älä\nepäilekään, etteivätkö he siitä monestikin puhele kahdenkesken. No\nniin, jos he voivat kevein sydämin ottaa vastaan maatilan, joka ei lain\nmukaan heille kuulu, niin sitä parempi heille itselleen. _Minä_\npuolestani häpeisin silmäni sokeiksi, jos iskisin kynteni omaisuuteen,\njoka vain perintökaaren mukaan minulle lankeisi.\"\n\n\n\n\nXLI LUKU.\n\n\nViikko oli kulunut Bennetin perheen vanhimpain tytärten kotiatulosta.\nSeuraavan viikon lopulla piti Merytoniin sijoitetun rykmentin siirtyä\nmuuanne ja sentakia koko ympäristön nuori naismaailma oli sortua\nsuruun. Ainoastaan Bennetin molemmat vanhimmat neidit kykenivät\nedelleen syömään ja juomaan, nukkumaan ja hoitamaan muita\narkiaskareitaan. Monesti moittivat heitä tällaisesta tunteettomuudesta\nKitty ja Lydia, jotka itse olivat äärimmäisen onnettomat.\n\n\"Hyvä isä sentään! Mikä meidät nyt periikään? Mitä meidän on nyt\ntehtävä?\" he huudahtelivat usein katkerin mielin. \"Kuinka sinä\nsaatatkaan näyttää noin tyytyväiseltä oloosi, Lizzy?\"\n\nHeidän helläsydäminen äitinsä otti täydesti osaa nuorimpain tytärtensä\nsuruun; hän muisti kuin eilisen päivän itsellään samanlaisen surun\najassa viisikolmatta vuotta takaperin.\n\n\"Varmastikin minä itkin ja ulvoin kaksi vuorokautta läpeensä\", hän\nsanoi, \"kun eversti Millarin rykmentti lähti pois meidän seudulta.\nLuulin sydämeni ihan särkyvän.\"\n\n\"Ja _minun_ sydämeni varmasti särkyy!\" nyyhkytti Lydia.\n\n\"Entäpä kun pääsisi mukaan Brightoniin\", huomautti rva Bennet\nvaltioviisaasti.\n\n\"Aivan niin -- kun vain pääsisi lähtemään Brightoniin! Mutta isä on\nniin perin merkillinen.\"\n\n\"Merikylpy parantaisi minut entiselleen.\"\n\n\"Ja täti Philips on varma, että _minulle_ se tekisi ihmeen paljon\nhyvää\", lisäsi Kitty.\n\nSellaisia ruikutuksia kuului pitkät päivät Longbourn Housessa.\nElizabeth koetti lyödä ne leikiksi, mutta salaa hän oli menehtyä\nhäpeään. Hän tunsi hra Darcyn arvostelun hänen omaisistaan täydesti\noikeaksi; eikä hän koskaan ennen ollut niin taipuvainen kuin nyt\nantamaan tuolle miehelle anteeksi hänen sekaantumisensa ystävänsä\nlemmenjuttuun.\n\nMutta Lydian mieltä kiusannut ongelma sai äkkiratkaisun, kun rva\nForster, rykmentin komentajan puoliso, pyysi häntä vähäksi aikaa\nvieraakseen Brightoniin. Tämä verraton ystävätär oli itsekin vielä\naivan nuori ja vasta äskettäin joutunut naimisiin. Yhtäläinen hilpeä ja\nhuimapäinen luonteenlaatu oli lähentänyt häntä ja Lydiaa toisiinsa, ja\nkolmen kuukauden tuttavuus oli tehnyt heistä helmaystävät.\n\nEi kannata ruveta kuvaamaankaan Lydian riemastusta, rva Bennetin iloa\nja Kitty poloisen kateutta tämän kutsun tultua. Vähääkään välittämättä\nsisarensa pettymyksestä Lydia lenteli ympäri taloa aivan haltioissaan,\nvaatien jokaisen onnitteluja osakseen ja lörpötellen, nauraen ja\nkirkuen äänekkäämmin kuin koskaan ennen, sillä aikaa kuin kovaosainen\nKitty purki salissa katkerata vaikerrustaan.\n\n\"En iki maailmassa saa päähäni, miksi ei rouva Forster voinut pyytää\n_minua_ yhtä hyvin kuin Lydiaakin\", hän valitti, \"vaikka en olekaan\ntuppautunut hänen erikoisystäväkseen. Pitäisihän minulla olla yhtä\nsuuri oikeus kuin Lydiallakin -- ja suurempikin, koska olen häntä kahta\nvuotta vanhempi.\"\n\nTurhaan koetti Elizabeth saarnata hänelle järkeä ja Jane\nalistuvaisuutta. Itse puolestaan ei Elizabeth ollut lainkaan niin\nmielissään kutsusta kuin hänen äitinsä ja Lydia itse, sillä hän pelkäsi\njälkimmäisen menettävän vähänkin järkihitusensa jouduttuaan pois\nomaisten silmäin alta; ja kun hän ei ymmärtänyt, millä keinolla muuten\nsaisi asian korjautumaan, hän vetosi salakähmää isäänsä, jotta tämä\nkieltäisi Lydiaa lähtemästä. Hän huomautti hra Bennetille Lydian\nyleisistä heikkouksista ja luonteenvioista -- kuinka vähän todellista\napua tämä voi odottaa niin kokemattomalta ja huimapäältä nuorelta\nnaiselta kuin rva Forster oli -- ja kuinka paljon suuremmat kiusaukset\nBrightonissa oli tarjona tällaisen kykenemättömän suojelijattaren\nvalvonnan alla. Isä kuunteli häntä hyvin tarkkaavaisesti, mutta tyytyi\nvastaamaan:\n\n\"Lydia ei tule koskaan järkiinsä, jollei hän saa kerran häväistä\nitseään julkisesti täällä tai muualla; ja minä arvelen, että nykyisen\ntilaisuuden tarjoutuessa hänen perheellään on siitä kaikkein vähimmän\nkuluja ja hankaluutta.\"\n\n\"Jos tietäisitte, isä\", valitti Elizabeth, \"kuinka suurta harmia ja\nhäpeää koko perheellä on Lydian ajattelemattoman ja hupsun käytöksen\ntakia -- ja on jo ollutkin -- niin varmasti päättäisitte toisin tässä\nasiassa.\"\n\n\"Onko jo ollutkin?\" tiedusti hra Bennet ihmeissään. \"Mitä, onko hän\nkarkoittanut matkoihinsa joitakin teidän sulhasianne? Pikku Lizzy\nparka! Mutta älä huoli siitä masentua. Ei kannata surra sellaisia\npoikahoukkioita, jotka eivät jaksa sulattaa pikkuruista höperyyttä\ntulevan kälynsä puolelta. Laitahan minulle luettelo niistä\nsäälittävistä nulikoista, jotka Lydian hupsuus on säikyttänyt täältä\nkarkuun.\"\n\n\"Isä, nyt sinä aivan erehdyt. Minulla ei ole vähintäkään aihetta\nvalittaa mistään sellaisesta. En minä nyt puhukaan mistään\nyksityistapauksesta, vaan vaarasta ylimalkaan. Lydian huima ja\najattelematon käytös vahingoittaa ehdottomasti perheemme mainetta ja\narvoa maailman silmissä. Antakaa anteeksi, minun täytyy puhua aivan\nsuoraan. Jollette te, rakas isä, vaivaudu hillitsemään hänen\nhuimapäisyyttään ja opettamaan hänelle, että se voi turmella koko hänen\nelämänsä, niin hän ei kohta ole enää autettavissa. Hänen luonteensa\nalkaa saada määrätyn suunnan; ja nyt jo, vasta kuusitoistavuotiaana,\nhän on koko seudun hurjin keimailija ja tekee sekä itsensä että\nomaisensa naurunalaisiksi ihmisten silmissä. Ja hänen keimailuhalunsa\non kaikkein alhaisinta ja moitittavinta laatua; se ei kohdistu\nkehenkään yksityiseen, vaan miehiin yleensä; eikä sen puolustuksena ole\nedes mikään erinomainen viehätys, lukuunottamatta hänen nuoruuttaan ja\nsiloisia kasvojaan, joiden vastapainona on säälittävä tietämättömyys ja\nhöperö mieli; aina himoitessaan herättää nuorten miesten huomiota hän\nei kykene huomaamaan eikä välitä vähääkään siitä yleisestä\nylenkatseesta, jonka hän niittää palkakseen. Sama vaara uhkaa myöskin\nKittyä. Hän seuraa sokeasti häntä nuoremman mutta huimemman Lydian\njohtoa. Turhamaisia, tyhjiä, tietämättömiä, laiskoja ja hillittömiä\ntyttöjä ovat kumpainenkin! Ah, rakas isäni, etkö voi todellakaan\nhuomata, että he tulevat nurjasti arvostelluiksi ja ylenkatsotuiksi\nkaikkialla, missä heidät tunnetaan, ja että myöskin heidän sisarensa\nsotkeutuvat omatta syyttään samaan kohtaloon?\"\n\nHra Bennet tajusi, että tytär oli vuodattanut hänelle sydämensä koko\nraskaan haikeuden; silitellen hellästi hänen kättään hän vastasi:\n\n\"Älä huoli turhan takia murehduttaa itseäsi, kultaseni. Sinä ja Jane\ntulette kaikkialla, missä _teidät_ tunnetaan, saamaan osaksenne pelkkää\nkunnioittavaa arvonantoa, jota ei suinkaan vähennä se seikka, että\nteillä sattuu olemaan pari -- tai sanoisinko kolmekin -- höperöä\nsisarta. Mutta usko minua, meillä ei tule olemaan ainoatakaan rauhan\npäivää täällä Longbournissa, jollei Lydia saa noudattaa mielitekoaan ja\npääse lähtemään Brightoniin. Annetaan hänen siis lähteä. Eversti\nForsterin minä tunnen järkeväksi mieheksi, joka kyllä varjelee häntä\nlankeemasta vakaviin hairahduksiin; ja omaksi onnekseen Lydia on liian\nköyhä joutuakseen jonkun myötäjäistentavoittelijan saaliiksi.\nBrightonissa hänen keimailuhalullaan on paljon vähemmän merkitystä kuin\ntäällä. Siellä upseerit löytävät kosolta naisia, jotka ovat paljon\nenemmän heidän huomaavaisuutensa arvoisia. Toivokaamme siis, että hän\nsiellä oppii itsekin tuntemaan oman mitättömyytensä. Missään\ntapauksessa hänestä ei voi tulla paljon pahempaa hurjastelijaa kuin\nmikä hän nyt jo on, jollei meidän ole pakko teljetä häntä lasikaappiin\nkoko loppuiäkseen.\"\n\nTähän vastaukseen Elizabethin oli pakko tyytyä; mutta hänen\nmielipiteensä pysyi entisenään, ja hän poistui isänsä puheilta\npettyneenä ja murheissaan. Hänen tapanaan ei kuitenkaan ollut lisätä\nsurujaan hautomalla niitä iänkaiken. Hän tiesi tehneensä\nvelvollisuutensa; eikä hänen luontonsa mukaista ollut pahoitella\npahoittelemasta päästyä välttämätöntä pahaa. Ennen Lydian lähtöä sattui\npieni välitapaus, joka oli omiaan johtamaan hänen ajatuksensa\ntoisaalle.\n\nSen päivän aattona, jolloin rykmentin oli määrä lähteä Merytonista,\nsaapui Wickham eräiden toisten upseerien kanssa viimeisen kerran\npäivällisille Longbourniin. Niin suuresti oli Elizabethin mielentila\ntätä nuorta miestä kohtaan jo ennättänyt tasautua, että hän -- tämän\ntiedustellessa hänen vierailuaan Hunsfordissa -- kykeni aivan tyynesti\nja hymyillen mainitsemaan tavanneensa siellä eversti Fitzwilliamin ja\nhra Darcyn sekä kysyi, tunsiko hänen pöytätoverinsa ensinmainitun\nherran.\n\nWickham näytti ällistyneeltä, harmistuneelta jopa säikähtyneeltäkin;\nmutta hän kykeni kohtakin hillitsemään itsensä ja vastasi hymyillen,\nettä hän ennen aikaan oli sattunut useastikin yhteen everstin kanssa;\nja huomautettuaan, että tämä oli joka suhteessa kunnianmies, hän\ntiedusti, mitä Elizabeth piti hänestä. Elizabethin vastaus oli hyvin\nlämmin. Väkinäisen välinpitämättömästi Wickham sitten jatkoi:\n\n\"Kuinka kauan sanoittekaan heidän oleskelleen Rosingsissa?\"\n\n\"Lähes kolme viikkoa.\"\n\n\"Tapasitteko hänet useinkin?\"\n\n\"Melkein joka päivä.\"\n\n\"Hän onkin aivan toisentapainen mies kuin hänen serkkunsa.\"\n\n\"Niin onkin; mutta minusta herra Darcy voittaa paljon, kun häneen\ntutustuu lähemmin.\"\n\n\"Tosiaankin?\" huudahti Wickham, ja hänen hätääntynyt ilmeensä ei\nsuinkaan välttynyt tytöltä. \"Entä saanko kysyä...\" -- hän katkaisi\nlauseensa ja lisäsi hilpeämpään sävyyn: \"Puhesävyssäänkö hän sitten\nvoittaa? Onko hän alentunut osoittamaan jonkin verran tavallista\nkohteliaisuutta puhetovereilleen? Sillä enhän toki rohkene toivoa\", hän\njatkoi matalampaan ääneen ja vakavampaan sävyyn, \"että hänen\n_luonteensa_ olisi muuttunut toisenlaiseksi?\"\n\n\"Ah, ei!\" sanoi Elizabeth. \"Hänen luonteensa on luullakseni hyvin\nsamanlainen kuin ennenkin.\"\n\nHänen puhuessaan Wickham katsella tiirotti häneen tietämättä oikein,\npitikö hänen iloita tytön sanoista vaiko epäillä niiden takana olevan\njotain salattua tarkoitusta. Elizabethin ilmeessä oli todella jotakin,\njoka pani hänet vähän hätäilemään, varsinkin kun tyttö jatkoi:\n\n\"Kun sanoin, että hän voitti häneen lähemmin tutustuessa, en\ntarkoittanut sitä, että hänen mielenlaatunsa tai esiintymistapansa\nolisivat entistä suostuttavampia, vaan että tullessa häntä paremmin\ntuntemaan käsittää paremmin myöskin hänen luonteensa.\"\n\nWickhamin hämmennys ilmeni selvästi hänen poskiensa punoituksesta ja\nvilkuilevista katseistaan. Moniaan minuutin ajan hän istui aivan\nääneti, kunnes jaksoi jälleen saavuttaa mielenmalttinsa ja lausua\nnaapurilleen kaikkein pehmeimmällä äänellään:\n\n\"Te, joka olette niin hyvin perillä minun tunteistani herra Darcya\nkohtaan, käsitätte varmastikin minun rehellisen iloni sen johdosta,\nettä hän on tarpeeksi järkevä koettamaan edes _näyttää_ oikeamieliseltä\nihmisten silmissä. Hänen luontainen ylpeytensä on tässä tapauksessa\nkenties hyödyksi, jollei hänelle itselleen, niin ainakin monille\nmuille, sillä se estänee häntä käyttäytymästä toisia kohtaan yhtä\ntylysti ja tunnottomasti kuin minua kohtaan. Minä vain pelkään, että\ntuo viisas käytöstapa on omaksuttu ainoastaan hänen vieraillessaan\ntätinsä luona, jonka arvosteluun hän panee erityistä arvoa; ja\nmahdollisesti hän sen avulla myöskin toivoo säilyttävänsä neiti de\nBourghin hyvän käsityksen hänestä, sillä tietänettehän hänellä olevan\nvakavat aikeet serkkunsa suhteen.\"\n\nElizabeth ei voinut pidättää hymyään ja tyytyi vastaamaan vain keveällä\npäännyökkäyksellä. Hän ymmärsi, että Wickham yritti jälleen käydä\npurkamaan vanhoja valitusvirsiään häntä kohdanneesta vääryydestä; mutta\nhäntä ei enää lainkaan haluttanut ruveta häntä lohduttamaan ja\nrohkaisemaan. Lopun iltaa Wickham esiintyi näennäisesti yhtä hilpeänä\nkuin tavallisesti eikä käynyt sen enempää utelemaan Elizabethilta tämän\ntietoja; ja he erosivat toisistaan kohteliaasti kuten ennenkin, ja\nmahdollisesti kumpikin toivoi, ettei jälleennäkemistä tapahtuisi enää\nkoskaan.\n\nVieraiden lähtiessä Lydia seurasi rva Forsteria Merytoniin, josta\nheidän oli määrä lähteä matkaan varhain seuraavana aamuna. Hänen eronsa\nomaisista oli pikemminkin meluava kuin tunteellinen. Kitty oli ainoa,\njoka puhkesi kyyneliin; mutta hän itki pelkästä kiukusta ja kateudesta.\nRva Bennet oli laajasanainen toivottaessaan tyttärelleen hauskaa matkaa\nja kehoittaessaan häntä huvittelemaan perillä parhaansa mukaan -- minkä\njokainen uskoi kehoituksittakin hyvin mahdolliseksi ja varsin\nluultavaksi.\n\n\n\n\nXLII LUKU.\n\n\nJos Elizabeth olisi perustanut mielipiteensä yksistään kotoiseen\nympäristöönsä, niin hän ei olisi saanut kovinkaan miellyttävää\nkäsitystä avio-onnesta ja kotielämän suloista. Hänen isänsä oli antanut\nnuoruuden viehkeyden ja näennäisen hyvätuulisuuden houkutella hänet\nnaimaan naisen, jonka lyhytjärkisyys ja suvaitsematon mieli tekivät\npiankin lopun hänen todellisesta kiintymyksestään. Mutta hra Bennet ei\nkuitenkaan ollut senluontoinen mies, että hän kotionnensa haihduttua\nolisi etsinyt lohdutusta toisaalta. Hän oli nuoruudesta pitäen\nrakastanut maalaiselämää ja hyviä kirjoja, ja näihin hän nyt vähitellen\nkiintyi aivan intohimoisesti. Vaimostaan hänellä ei ollut muuta iloa\nkuin jolloinkin itsekästä huvia tämän typeryydestä ja hullutuksista.\nSellaista iloa aviomies ei yleensä mielellään hae vaimonsa luota; mutta\nmissä muita huvinaiheita puuttuu, siellä oikea filosoofi etsii hyötyä\nsiitäkin vähästä, mitä hänelle suinkin tarjoutuu.\n\nElizabeth ei ollut koskaan ollut sokea isänsä vajavaisille perheenisän\nja aviomiehen ominaisuuksille. Aina olivat huomionsa häneen\nvaikuttaneet kiusallisesti; mutta kunnioittaen isänsä henkisiä kykyjä\nja kiitollisena tämän hänelle osoittamasta hellyydestä hän oli\nkoettanut unhottaa hänen vikansa ja kaiken aviollisen ja isällisen\nvelvollisuuden ja säädyllisyyden puutteen, joka niin säälittä saattoi\nhänen oman vaimonsa ja lapsensa naurunalaisiksi. Mutta koskaan ennen ei\nhän ollut niin selkeästi ja kipeästi kuin juuri nykyisin tullut\nhuomanneeksi, mitä arveluttavia seurauksia epäsuhtaisista avioliitoista\nsyntyneillä lapsilla on kannettavana; ja kuinka jommankumman vanhemman\nyksipuoliseen ja nurjaan suuntaan kohdistetut kyvyt -- sen sijaan että\nne edistäisivät lasten tervettä kehittymistä ja ohjaisivat toistakin\naviopuolisoa oikeaan suuntaan -- päinvastoin vaikuttavat turmelevasti\nsekä puolisoon että lapsiin.\n\nVaikka Elizabeth olikin mielissään Wickhamin lähdöstä, oli hänellä\nmuuten varsin vähän aihetta iloita rykmentin poistumisesta. Seudun\nseuraelämä tyrehtyi melkein tykkänään; ja kotona hänellä oli äiti ja\nsisar, joiden lakkaamaton nurkuminen teki kotielämän happameksi ja\nikäväksi. Lähtiessään oli Lydia luvannut kirjoittaa äidilleen ja\nKittylle hyvin ahkeraan ja seikkaperäisesti; mutta hänen kirjeitään sai\nkauan odotella ja aina ne olivat tuiki lyhyet. Paljonpa niissä ei muuta\nselostettukaan kuin hänen hurjaa iloaan jostakin uudesta puvusta tai\npäivänvarjosta; mitä upseereja milloinkin oli tavattu kadulla,\nkirjastossa tahi Forstereilla päivällisillä, ja mitä huvimatkoja\nmilloinkin oli tehty.\n\nElizabethin ainoana lohdutuksena oli ajatus Järville piakkoin\ntehtävästä kesäretkestä. \"Onhan onnellista\", hän ajatteli, \"että\nminulla on jotakin toivon aihetta. Jos kaikki tulisi valmiina vastaan,\nniin varmasti tuntisin pettymystä. Suunnitelma, jonka jok'ainut\nerityisseikka lupaa iloa, ei ota koskaan oikein luonnistuakseen.\"\n\nVähitellen alkoi terveys, rauha ja hilpeys jälleen palata Longbourniin\nja sen ympäristöön. Perheet, jotka olivat viettäneet talven ja kevään\nLontoossa, saapuivat takaisin maalle; kesäpuvut ja kesälliset ilonpidot\nantoivat paljon askaretta ja ajattelun aihetta kaikille. Rva Bennetin\nmielentila kohosi taas tavalliseen ryöpsähtelevään ja ärtyisään\nvirkeyteensä; ja kesäkuun puolimaissa oli Kittykin jo siksi paljon\nkostunut ankeudestaan, että kykeni näkemään Merytonin kadut kyyneliin\npuhkeamatta.\n\nPari viikkoa ennen lopullista lähtömäärää, kun Elizabeth jo alkoi\nvarustella itseään matkalle, saapui rva Gardinerilta kirje, joka sekä\nlykkäsi matkaanlähdön että lyhensi matkan määräaikaa. Hra Gardineria\npidättivät hänen liikeasiansa Lontoossa heinäkuun puoliväliin saakka,\neikä hän joutuisi olemaan matkalla kuukautta kauempaa; ja kun tämä aika\noli liian lyhyt suunniteltua retkeä varten, arvelivat enolaiset\nparhaaksi ulottaa sen ainoastaan Derbyshireen saakka. Mutta siinäkin\nmaakunnassa oli yllinkyllin katseltavaa kolmen viikon ajaksi, ja rva\nGardinerille se oli erikoisen rakas, hän kun oli siellä viettänyt\nuseita nuoruusvuosiaan.\n\nElizabeth tunsi itsensä ensin hyvin pettyneeksi. Hän oli koko\nsydämellään kiintynyt ajatukseen päästä näkemään Cumberlandin ihania\njärviä; ja hänen mielestään olisi noina kolmenakin viikkona hyvin\nennättänyt tehdä retken. Mutta hänen osanansa oli aina olla\ntyytyväinen, ja hänen hilpeä luontonsa auttoi hänet piankin tuntemaan\nonnellista odotusta.\n\nGardinerit saapuivat Longbourniin neljän pienen lapsensa kera, joiden\noli määrä jäädä Jane serkun hoitoon. Jane olikin lasten erityinen\nlemmikki, ja hänen alati tasainen luonteensa ja hellä sydämensä tekivät\nhänestä erinomaisen lasten toverin -- hän opetti heitä, leikki heidän\nkanssaan ja rakasti heitä. Hra ja rva Gardiner viipyivät Longbournissa\nvain yhden yön ja lähtivät seuraavana aamuna Elizabethin kera etsimään\nkesämatkan kauan odoteltua iloa ja huvia.\n\nEmme rupea tarkemmin seuraamaan matkalaisten reittiä Derbyshiren monien\nmainioiden paikkain halki -- sattuihan tien varteen sellaisia\nnähtävyyksiä kuin Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, Birmingham\nj.n.e.[20] Ainoastaan vähäinen nurkka Derbyshirestä tulee tässä\npuheeksi. Lambtonin pikkukaupunkiin liittyivät rva Gardinerin\nnuoruudenmuistot, jonka vuoksi sinne poikettiin pitemmäksi aikaa; ja\nmoniaan mailin päässä Lambtonista oli Pemberley, hra Darcyn hovi.\nPemberley ei tosin sijainnut aivan matkatien varrella, mutta rva\nGardinerin teki mieli käydä katsomassa sitäkin.\n\n\"Rakkaani, tottahan sinäkin tahtonet mielelläsi nähdä tuon\npaikan, josta olet kuullut puhuttavan niin paljon?\" hän sanoi\nsisarentyttärelleen. \"Siellähän Wickham vietti koko lapsuutensa ja\nnuoruutensa, kuten tiedät.\"\n\nElizabethia epäilytti lähteä -- kukaties sattui Pemberleyn isäntä\nolemaan kotosalla. Hän valitti nähneensä jo väsymykseen saakka isoja\nmaakartanoita, eikä sanonut tuntevansa vähintäkään ihastusta hienoihin\nmattoihin ja silkkiuutimiin.\n\nRva Gardiner moitti häntä typeräksi. \"Jos olisi kysymys ainoastaan\nkomeasta herraskartanosta, niin minäkään en välittäisi suuresti sinne\nlähteä. Mutta maatila itsessään on näkemisen arvoinen. Siellä on\nEnglannin kaikkein kauneimpia metsämaisemia.\"\n\nElizabeth ei enää voinut vastustella, vaikka hän ei suinkaan\ntuntenut itseään rauhalliseksi. Entäpä jos paikkoja katsellessa\nyhdytettäisiinkin odottamatta isäntä itse -- se olisi hirveätä!\nTuo ajatus pani hänet pahasti punoittamaan. Mutta majatalon\npalvelijattarelta hän kysellessään sai sen lohduttavan tiedon, että\nPemberleyn vallasväki oleskeli kesän aikaan muualla. Yönseutuna hän\nalkoi itsekin tuntea hiljaista halua saada nähdä tuon talon ja kun asia\notettiin aamiaispöydässä jälleen puheeksi, voi hän näköjään\nvälinpitämättömästi suostua toisten tuumaan.\n\nPemberleyhin siis lähdettiin.\n\n\n\n\nXLIII LUKU\n\n\nEnsimmäinen vaikutelma Pemberleyn metsistä oli Elizabethille yllättävä;\nja kun he kartanon ulkoveräjältä viimein kääntyivät ajamaan puistotietä\npitkin, oli hän kerrassaan ihastuksissaan.[21]\n\nPuisto oli sangen avara ja sen maaperä hyvin vaihteleva. He saapuivat\nsiihen eräästä sen alavimmista kohdista ja ajoivat hyvän matkaa tiheän\nmetsikön halki.\n\nElizabethin mieli oli niin täynnä näkemästään, ettei hänellä ollut\nhalua puhella toisten kanssa; äänettömänä ja hurmautuneena hän vain\nkatseli ympärilleen. Tie kohosi loivasti puolisen mailin matkalla; ja\nvihdoin heidän vaununsa kiipesivät ylävän kunnaan harjalle,\nmissä metsämaa loppui ja he näkivät edessään Pemberley Housen\nlaaksonnotkelman toisella laidalla, tien kiemurrellessa sinne\nlaaksonpohjaa pitkin. Se oli sangen kookas, kaunis kivitalo ja sijaitsi\ntasaisesti nousevalla rinteellä, taustanaan korkea metsäharjanne;\netupuolella pienoinen joki leveni jokseenkin leveäksi suvannoksi.\nIhmiskäsi ei ollut käynyt vääristellen koristamaan ja jäykistämään sen\nluonnollisia rantoja. Elizabeth oli hurmautunut. Hän ei ollut missään\nnähnyt paikkaa, jolle luonto oli niin runsain käsin jaellut antimiaan\nja missä kiero ihmismaku niin vähän oli puuttunut pilaamaan luonnon\nkauneutta. Kaikki matkalaiset tulkitsivat lämpimästi ihastustaan; ja\nsinä hetkenä Elizabeth tuli ajatelleeksi, että Pemberleyn emäntänä\nolisi kannattanut olla!\n\nHe laskeutuivat rinnettä alas, ajoivat joen poikki vievän sillan yli ja\npysähtyivät viimein valtarakennuksen pääoven eteen. Heidän\ntarkastellessa taloa lähimatkan päästä Elizabethin mieleen palasi\nuudestaan pelko: entäpä jos isäntä sittenkin oli kotona! Entäpä jos\nmajatalon palvelijatar olikin erehtynyt! Talon tavan mukaan vieraat\npäästettiin sisään eteishalliin; ja taloudenhoitajatarta odoteltaessa\nElizabethilla oli aikaa arkaillen ihmetellä rohkeuttaan työntyä suoraa\npäätä jalopeuran pesään.\n\nTaloudenhoitajatar tuli -- arvokkaan näköinen vanhanpuoleinen nainen,\npaljon vähemmän pönäkkä ja paljon kohteliaampi kuin Elizabeth oli\nodottanut. He seurasivat häntä ensin ruokasaliin. Pikaisesti\nsilmäiltyään sen sisustusta Elizabeth kävi akkunan ääreen katselemaan\nsiitä avautuvaa näköalaa. Metsäharjanne, jolta he äsken olivat\nlaskeutuneet alas laaksoon, näytti näin etäältäkin katsellen hyvin\nkauniilta. Vaihtelevat maisemat tekivät erinomaisen viehättävän\nvaikutuksen, ja hän katseli hurmautuneena edessään leviävää avaraa\nnäyttämöä -- vilvakkaiden puiden reunustamaa joenuomaa ja kauas\netäisyyteen mutkittelevaa laaksonnotkelmaa tuuheametsäisine\nmäenrinteineen. Heidän käytyä toisiin huoneisiin tuntuivat maiseman\nyksityiskohdat siirtyneen uusiin asemiin; mutta kaikista akkunoista\navautui silmälle yhä uutta ihanuutta. Huoneet olivat korkeat ja\nkauniit; ja Elizabeth pani ihastuneena merkille, että niiden\nsisustuksessa ilmeni vähemmän koreilevaa komeutta, mutta enemmän\ntaiteellista aistia kuin Rosingsissa.\n\n\"Ja tässä talossa\", hän ajatteli itsekseen, \"minä nyt saattaisin\nheiskua emäntänä! Näissä huoneissa voisin nyt tuntea itseni jo aivan\nkotiutuneeksi ja lausua enon ja tädin tervetulleiksi omaan\nvaltakuntaani! Mutta ei\", hän keskeytti ajatuksensa juoksun, \"se ei\nolisi käynyt ikinä päinsä. Eno ja täti olisivat pakostakin tulleet\nminulle vieraiksi; sillä minun ei kai olisi koskaan sallittu kutsua\nheitä täällä käymään.\"\n\nSe oli onnellinen muistuma -- se vapahti hänet tuntemasta vähintäkään\nkatumusta.\n\nHäntä halutti kysyä taloudenhoitajattarelta, oliko talon isäntä\ntodellakin poissa kotoa, mutta hän ei kuitenkaan rohjennut. Vihdoin tuo\nkysymys kuitenkin sattui luiskahtamaan hänen enoltaan, ja rva Reynolds\nkuului vastaavan: \"Ei, mutta me odotamme häntä huomenna kotiin ison\nseuran kera.\" Elizabeth oli sanomattoman iloinen, ettei heidän\nkäyntinsä ollut sattunut päivää myöhemmin.\n\nHänen tätinsä kutsui häntä katselemaan erästä muotokuvaa.\nLähestyessään hän tunsi sen hra Wickhamin kuvaksi, joka monien muiden\npienoismaalausten keralla riippui uuninreunalla. Täti kysyi hymyillen,\nmitä hän piti siitä. Taloudenhoitajatarkin tuli katsomaan ja sanoi\nkuvan esittävän tilan entisen pehtorin poikaa, jonka isäntävainaja oli\nkouluttanut mieheksi. \"Hän on nyt liittynyt armeijaan\", hän lisäsi,\n\"mutta minä pelkään hänen käyneen hyvin hurjatapaiseksi.\"\n\nRva Gardiner katseli hymyillen sisarentyttäreensä, mutta tämä ei\nkyennyt hymyilemään vastaan.\n\n\"Ja tässä\", sanoi rva Reynolds, osoittaen erästä toista\npienoismuotokuvaa, \"on meidän nykyinen isäntämme; se on hyvin hänen\nnäköisensä. Se maalattiin samaan aikaan kuin tuo toinenkin -- noin\nkahdeksan vuotta sitten.\"\n\n\"Minä olen kuullut paljon kiitettävän teidän isäntänne komeata\nulkomuotoa\", sanoi rva Gardiner katsellen kuvaa; \"hänellä on todellakin\nkauniit kasvot. Mutta sinähän, Lizzy, voit sanoa, onko tämä kuva hänen\nnäköisensä.\"\n\nRva Reynolds katseli suurin silmin Elizabethiin.\n\n\"Tunteeko tämä nuori neiti herra Darcyn?\" kysyi hän kunnioittavasti.\n\nElizabeth punastui vastatessaan: \"Vähän.\"\n\n\"Eikö hän teistäkin ole hyvin kaunis mies, neitini?\"\n\n\"On kyllä -- hyvin kaunis.\"\n\n\"Minä ainakin olen varma, etten tiedä ketään häntä kauniimpaa. Mutta\nyläkerran käytävässä on hänestä toinen paljon isompi ja kauniimpi kuva.\nTämä huone oli isäntä vainajan mielihuone, ja kaikki nämä pienoiskuvat\novat täällä hänen jäleltään. Hän piti niistä hyvin paljon.\"\n\nSiitä sai Elizabeth selityksen, miksi hra Wickhamin kuvaa oli edelleen\nsäilytetty toisten joukossa.\n\nRva Reynolds kiinnitti heidän huomiotaan nti Darcyn muotokuvaan, joka\noli maalattu tämän ollessa vasta kahdeksanvuotias.\n\n\"Onko neiti Darcy yhtä kaunis kuin hänen veljensä?\" kysyi hra Gardiner.\n\n\"Ah, on toki -- kaunein nuori neiti mitä on koskaan nähty, ja niin\nkehittynyt kaikissa hienoissa taidoissa! Hän soittaa ja laulaa päivät\npäästänsä. Viereisessä huoneessa on suuri piano, joka vast'ikään on\ntuotu tänne -- se on isännän lahja. Hän saapuu tänne huomenna veljensä\nseurassa.\"\n\nHra Gardiner, joka osasi puhella taitavasti ja sievästi outojenkin\nihmisten kanssa, yllytti kysymyksillään ja huomautuksillaan kelpo\ntaloudenhoitajatarta kertoilemaan yhä enemmän isännästään ja tämän\nsisaresta; ja sen vanhus tekikin kernaasti, joko ylpeillen\nisäntäväestään tahi tosi kiintymyksestä heihin.\n\n\"Oleskeleeko isäntänne Pemberleyssä paljonkin vuoden mittaan?\"\n\n\"Ei niin paljon kuin minä toivoisin, hyvä herra; mutta uskallanpa\nsanoa, että hän viettää ainakin puolet ajastaan täällä, ja neiti Darcy\non kaikki kesäkuukaudet täällä.\"\n\n\"Paitsi milloin\", ajatteli Elizabeth itsekseen, \"hän ei käy\nseikkailemassa Ramsgatessa.\"\n\n\"Jos isäntänne menisi naimisiin, niin näkisitte häntä varmastikin\nenemmän täällä.\"\n\n\"Niin kyllä, herrani; mutta sitä ajankohtaa ei käy arvaileminenkaan.\nMinä en tiedä ketään, joka olisi hänelle kyllin hyvä.\"\n\nHra ja rva Gardiner hymyilivät. Elizabeth ei voinut pidättyä sanomasta:\n\"Teidän lausuntonne on mitä parhain suositus hänelle.\"\n\n\"Minä en sano enempää kuin on totta, ja jokainen, joka hänet tuntee, on\nvalmis sanomaan samaa\", vastasi vanhus. \"Minä en ole ikinäni saanut\nhäneltä ärtyisää sanaa, ja kuitenkin olen tuntenut hänet nelivuotisesta\npoikaressusta lähtien.\"\n\nTällainen kiitos oli Elizabethille odottamaton. Hän oli tottunut\najattelemaan, että hra Darcy oli kaikkea muuta kuin tasaluontoinen ja\nsävyisä mies. Hänen mielenkiintonsa oli herännyt; hän halusi kuulla\nenemmänkin ja oli hyvin kiitollinen enolleen, kun tämä jatkoi:\n\n\"Harvasta ihmisestä voikaan sellaista sanoa. Te olette todellakin\nonnellinen, kun teillä on semmoinen isäntä.\"\n\n\"Niin olenkin, hyvä herra. Vaikka etsisin lyhty kädessä halki koko\nmaailman, niin tiedän etten parempata löytäisi. Mutta minä olen aina\npannut merkille, että ne ihmiset, jotka jo lapsina ovat hyväluontoisia,\novat isoiksi kasvettuaankin hyväluontoisia; ja hän oli aina mitä\nhelläluontoisin ja jalosydämisin poika koko maailmassa.\"\n\nElizabeth tuijotti ihmeissään vanhukseen. \"Herra Darcystako hän\ntosiaankin puhuu?\"\n\n\"Hänen isänsä oli erinomainen mies\", huomautti rva Gardiner.\n\n\"Niin oli, rouvani, se hän todellakin oli; ja hänen pojastaan tulee\naivan hänen kaltaisensa -- aivan yhtä sävyisä ja hyvä köyhiä kohtaan.\"\n\nElizabeth kuunteli, kummeksi, epäili ja halusi kärsimättömästi kuulla\nvielä paljon enemmänkin. Rva Reynoldsin muut tarinat eivät huvittaneet\nhäntä rahtuistakaan. Tämä näytteli tauluja, selosti huoneiden suuruutta\nja huonekalujen hintoja -- mutta kaikkea turhaan. Hra Gardiner, jota\nhyvin huvitti vanhan emännöitsijän ylpeys isäntäväestään, johti\nuudestaan puheen tähän: ja taloudenhoitajatar jatkoi innokkaasti\nylistelyään, kun he nousivat valtaportaita yläkertaan.\n\n\"Hän on paras isäntä kotiväelleen ja alustalaisilleen mitä koskaan on\nelänyt\", hän sanoi. \"Ei lainkaan muiden nykypäiväin hurjain nuorten\nmiesten kaltainen, jotka eivät ajattele mitään muuta kuin omaa\nitseänsä. Jok'ainut hänen palvelijoistaan ja vuokramiehistään on valmis\npuhumaan hänestä pelkkää hyvää. Jotkut ihmiset saattavat pitää häntä\nylpeänä; mutta minä en ainakaan ole nähnyt sellaisesta jälkeäkään.\nMinun luullakseni se on johtunut vain siitä, ettei hän hurvittele\nmaailman turulla niinkuin muut samanikäiset ylhäiset herrat.\"\n\n\"Kuinka rakastettavaan valoon hän asettaakaan isäntänsä!\" ajatteli\nElizabeth.\n\n\"Tämä ylenpalttinen ylistys ei käy oikein yhteen hänen ystäväparkaamme\nkohtaan osoittamansa tylyn käytöksen kanssa\", kuiskasi täti hänen\nkorvaansa heidän portaita noustessaan.\n\n\"Ehkäpä me olemme saaneet asiasta väärän käsityksen.\"\n\n\"Eihän se voi olla mahdollista; mehän saimme kuulla siitä toiselta\nasianomaiselta itseltään.\"\n\nYläkerran avarasta etehisestä heidät johdettiin hyvin kauniiseen\nvierassaliin, joka näytti aivan äskettäin sisustetun paljon upeampaan\nja keveämpään tyyliin kuin alakerran huoneet; ja he saivat kuulla, että\ntämä uudistus oli juuri tehty nti Darcyn mieliksi, joka oli viime\nkäynnillään suuresti ihastunut tähän huoneeseen.\n\n\"Hän on varmastikin hyvin hyvä veli\", sanoi Elizabeth, käydessään\nakkunan luo.\n\nRva Reynolds kuvaili nti Darcyn iloa, kun tämä ensi kertaa tuli\nastumaan tähän kauniiseen huoneeseen. \"Ja se on aina isännän tapaista\",\nhän lisäsi. \"Millä hyvänsä asialla hän tietää tekevänsä sisarelleen\niloa, se on tehtävä hetipaikalla. Hän ei laiminlyö yhtään tilaisuutta\nollakseen hänelle mieliksi.\"\n\nKuvagalleria ja pari kolme parasta makuusuojaa oli vielä näytettävänä.\nEdellisessä oli useita hyviä tauluja, mutta Elizabeth ei pystynyt\narvioimaan niiden taiteellista arvoa; ja öljymaalauksista hän pian\nkäänsi huomionsa muutamiin nti Darcyn tekemiin väriliitupiirustuksiin,\njoiden aiheet olivat mielenkiintoisia ja joita hän kykeni paremmin\nkäsittämään.\n\nGalleriassa oli myöskin Darcy-suvun muotokuvakokoelma, joka ei paljon\nvoinut viehättää vierasta katselijaa. Elizabeth asteli niiden riviä\npitkin, etsien joukosta nähdäkseen ainoat hänelle tutut kasvot.\nVihdoinkin hän ne keksi -- ja hän seisahtui miltei säpsähtäen, kun\nkuvasta katseli häntä vastaan hra Darcy ilmi elävänä ja huulillaan\nsamanlainen hymy kuin joskus aikaisemmin tämän herran itsensä\nkatsellessa häneen. Hän seisoi hyvän aikaa kuvan edessä vakaviin\nmietteisiin vaipuneena, ja hän kääntyi vielä kerran sitä katsomaan,\nennenkuin he lähtivät galleriasta. Rva Reynolds kertoi, että kuva oli\nmaalattu hra Darcyn isän vielä eläessä.\n\nTällä hetkellä Elizabeth ajatteli kuvan esittämää henkilöä varmastikin\nleppoisemmin kuin koskaan ennen heidän tuttavuutensa aikana. Rva\nReynoldsin isännälleen suitsuttama ylistys ei arvatenkaan ollut\nliioiteltu. Milläpä kiitoksella onkaan suurempi arvo kuin älykkään\npalvelijan antamalla? Veljenä, tilanomistajana, isäntänä hän piti hyvää\nhuolta monien ihmisten onnellisuudesta. Kuinka paljon surua ja iloa\nhänen vallassaan olikaan valmistaa toisille! Kuinka paljon hyvää tai\npahaa hän pakostakin joutui tekemään! Jok'ikinen taloudenhoitajattaren\nmainitsema luonteenpiirre oli ollut hänelle edullinen; ja kun Elizabeth\nvaarinotti noita kankaalle maalattuja kasvoja, joiden silmät katselivat\nsuoraan hänen silmiinsä, hän muisteli elävätä katsetta kiitollisemmin\nmielin kuin koskaan ennen -- hän muisti siinä huomanneensa lämpöä, joka\nlievensi ja pehmitti ilmeen ankaruutta.\n\nKun koko talo oli katseltu läpikotaisin, palattiin alakertaan; ja\nsanottua hyvästit taloudenhoitajattarelle heidät uskottiin valtaovella\nodottelevan puutarhurin edelleen saateltaviksi.\n\nHeidän kävellessään ruohokentän poikki alas joenrantaan Elizabeth\nkääntyi vielä kerran katsomaan taaksensa; hänen enonsa ja tätinsä\npysähtyivät myöskin; ja kun ensinmainittu paraillaan arvaili\nrakennuksen ikää, ilmestyi sen omistaja itse yhtäkkiä näkyviin tallin\ntaitse tulevalta tieltä.\n\nHänen esiintymisensä oli niin odottamaton -- ja välimatkaa oli vain\nparikymmentä askelta -- että oli mahdoton välttyä hänen huomioltaan.\nSekä tulijan että tytön katseet kohtasivat toisensa, ja molempain\nposket karahtivat hehkuvan punaisiksi. Hra Darcy säpsähti ehdottomasti\nja seisoi tuokion verran aivan kivettyneenä hämmästyksestä; mutta\ntullen pian jälleen tolkuilleen hän lähestyi vierasseuruetta ja\npuhutteli Elizabethia -- jollei täysin vapaasti ja huolettomasti, niin\nainakin moitteettoman kohteliaasti.\n\nElizabeth oli vaistomaisesti kääntynyt kulkemaan poispäin; mutta Darcyn\nlähestyessä hän pysähtyi ja vastaanotti tervehdyksen ylen hämillään,\njota hänen oli mahdoton salata. Hänen enonsa ja tätinsä voivat arvata\ntulijan tämän yhdennäköisyydestä heidän juuri tarkastamansa muotokuvan\nkanssa; ja jollei sekään vielä olisi auttanut heitä oikeille jäljille,\nilmaisi sen puutarhurin hämmästynyt ja kunnioitusta ilmaiseva naama. He\nseisoivat vähän syrjässä, katsellen kuinka talon isäntä puheli heidän\nsisarentyttärensä kanssa, joka hämillään ja aivan kuin suunniltaan\nollen tuskin rohkeni kohottaa silmiään puhuttelijan kasvoihin eikä\ntiennyt mitä vastata tämän kohteliaaseen tiedusteluun hänen omaistensa\nvoinnista. Ei myöskään Darcy näyttänyt olevan aivan tasapainossa; hänen\näänestään ei kajahtanut entinen tyyni rauhallisuus, ja hän toisteli\nkyselyitään heidän matkastaan kiireisesti ja vastausta odottamatta,\nniin että hänen huomasi ajattelevan aivan toista kuin mitä puhui.\n\nVihdoin tuntuivat häneltä sanat uupuvan tykkänään; ja seisottuaan\nsiunaaman aikaa aivan äänettömänä hän äkkiä hillitsi itsensä väkisin ja\nlausui hyvästit.\n\nHänen poistuttuaan hra ja rva Gardiner tulivat Elizabethin luo ja\nlausuivat ihastelevia huomautuksia talon isännän uljaasta ulkomuodosta;\nmutta Elizabeth ei kuullut heidän puheestaan sanaakaan ja seurasi heitä\nvallan vaitonaisena ja omiin ajatuksiinsa vaipuneena. Hän oli hyvin\nkiusaantunut ja häpeän täyttämä. Mikä onneton sattuma olikaan tuonut\nheidät juuri tänään tänne! Mitähän tuo mies mahtoi siitä arvellakaan?\nKuinka epäsuotuisassa valossa hänen itsensä täytyikään nyt näyttäytyä\ntuon itserakkaan miehen silmissä! Aivanhan näytti siltä, kuin hän olisi\nehdoin tahdoin heittäytynyt jälleen hänen tielleen! Ah, laupias taivas,\nmiksi hänen piti tullakin tänne -- tai miksi Darcy saapui päivää ennen\nkuin häntä oli odotettu tulevaksi? Jospa he olisivat ennättäneet\npoistua edes kymmenenkään minuuttia aikaisemmin, niin turma olisi\nvältetty. Elizabeth punastui uudestaan hiusrajaa myöten ajatellessaan\ntätä kovanonnen kohtausta. Entä Darcyn käytös sitten -- niin kokonaan\ntoisenlainen kuin aikaisemmin -- mitähän sekään merkitsi? Oli jo\nihmeellistä, että hän ollenkaan otti puhellakseen hänen kanssaan --\nmutta entäpä vielä niin kohteliaasti ja tiedustellen hänen\nomaisiaankin! Koskaan ei Darcyn käytös ollut tuntunut hänestä niin\nvähän mahtipontiselta kuin tänään; koskaan hän ei ollut puhellut niin\nhellällä ja sydämellisellä sävyllä kuin tässä odottamattomassa\nyhtymisessä. Kuinka vastakkaista se olikaan hänen sävylleen heidän\nviimeksi kohdatessaan toisensa Rosingsin puiston veräjällä, kun hän oli\ntyöntänyt tuon ihmeellisen kirjeen hänen käteensä. Elizabeth ei tiennyt\nmitä ajatella -- miten arvioida tätä tapausta.\n\nHe olivat nyt poikenneet kauniille jalkapolulle, joka kulki pitkin\njoenvartta ja perällä vei metsän siimekseen; mutta kesti kauan,\nennenkuin Elizabeth malttoi katsella ihania paikkoja tai kuunnella\nsukulaistensa huomautuksia niistä. Hänen ajatuksensa kiertelivät siinä\nkohdassa Pemberley Housea -- missä se sitten lienee ollutkin! -- jossa\nhra Darcy juuri tällöin mahtoi olla. Hän ikävöi tietää, mitä tänä\nhetkenä liikkui tämän miehen aivoissa; millä tapaa hän ajatteli\nhänestä, ystävällisestikö vaiko katkerasti; ja voiko hän itse vielä --\nkaikesta huolimatta -- olla hänelle kallis ja rakas. Ehkäpä Darcy oli\nollutkin kohtelias vain senvuoksi, että hänen itsensä oli helppo olla;\nmutta _olihan_ hänen äänessään ja sävyssään ollut väkinäinen värähdys,\njoka ei ilmaissut helppouden tunnetta.\n\nMetsää jonkin aikaa kierreltyä polku toi heidät taasen joelle, jonka\npoikki vei yksinkertainen ristikkosilta; laakso itse kapeni tällä\nkohtaa kaitaiseksi solaksi, jonka pohjaan mahtui vain joki ja sen\nvartta kulkeva vähäinen kävelypolku, ja reunoilla kasvoi tiheä\nlehtikuusimetsikkö. Elizabethin teki mieli sukeltaa sen salaperäisiin\npimentoihin; mutta rva Gardiner ei jaksanut enää kävellä, joten heidän\noli piammiten jouduttava kartanon sisäveräjällä odottaviin\najoneuvoihinsa. Matkanteko oli kuitenkin tädin väsymyksen takia\nhidasta; ja hra Gardiner, joka oli innokas kalamies, piti\ntarkoin silmällä lohenmullojen pyöriskelyä joessa ja tiedusteli\nkalastusmahdollisuuksia heitä saattelevalta puutarhurilta. Heidän täten\nverkalleen astellessa kohtasi heitä uusi yllätys, sillä vähän matkan\npäässä pyörähti tienmutkasta jälleen näkyviin hra Darcy. Tällä kertaa\nElizabeth, vaikka olikin hyvin ihmeissään, kuitenkin oli paremmin\nvarustautunut kohtaamaan tulijan ja päätti näyttää rauhallisemmalta ja\npuhella tyynemmin, jos Darcyn aikomuksena todellakin oli tavoittaa\nheidät, vaikka hänen totta puhuen ensi hätkähdyksessä tekikin mieli\npaeta metsän turvaan. Jo ensi silmäyksellä hän huomasi, että\nDarcy ei ollut kadottanut vähääkään äskeisestä sydämellisestä\nkohteliaisuudestaan; ja vastatakseen siihen yhtä kohteliaasti ja\nsalatakseen samalla oman hämmennyksensä Elizabeth rupesi tulijalle\nkohta ihastelemaan puiston ihanuutta. Mutta tuskin hän oli ennättänyt\nsaada suustaan sanat \"suurenmoista\" ja \"hurmaavaa\", kun hänen päähänsä\niski onneton ajatus, joka pani hänet punastumaan ja jäämään kerrassaan\ntuppisuuksi; mitähän Darcy saattoi arvellakaan, kun hän niin omasta\naloitteestaan rupesi kehumaan hänen kotikartanoaan!\n\nGardinerit olivat jääneet vähän taemmaksi; ja kun Elizabethilta puhe\njuuttui, pyysi Darcy tulla esitetyksi hänen ystävilleen. Sellaista\nkohteliaisuutta Elizabeth ei ollut arvannut odottaakaan; ja hänen oli\nvaikea pidättää hymyään ajatellessaan, että Darcy nyt omasta halustaan\npyrki tuttavuuteen hänen omaistensa kanssa, joiden halvemman\nsäätyaseman hän itse oli myöntänyt olleen pahimpana esteenä hänen\nkosinnalleen. \"Kuinkahan hän hämmästyykään saadessaan tietää, keitä he\novat! Hän pitää nyt heitä varmastikin joinakin ylimyksinä.\"\n\nEsittely kävi kuitenkin pian päinsä; ja mainitessaan matkatovereittensa\nsukulaisuudesta hän vilkaisi syrjäkarin Darcyyn nähdäkseen hänen\nhämmästyksensä. Ja hämmästynyt Darcy todella _olikin_; mutta hän\nselvisi siitä nopeasti ja kääntyen ympäri hän lähti astelemaan heidän\nrinnallaan, puhellen hra Gardinerin kanssa. Elizabeth voi vain olla\nmielissään ja riemuita. Oli lohdullista, että hänellä oli sellaisiakin\nsukulaisia, joiden puolesta hänen ei tarvinnut punastua. Hän kuunteli\ntarkkaavaisesti miesten keskustelua ja iloitsi sydämessään joka\nlauseesta, jokaisesta taitavasta käänteestä, jossa ilmeni enon\nmaailmantottumus, terävä äly ja hieno aisti.\n\nPuhelu suuntautui pian kalastukseen, ja Elizabeth voi kuulla hra Darcyn\nmitä kohteliaimmin kehoittavan enoa koettamaan kalaonneaan hänen\njoessaan milloin häntä vain halutti, samalla kuin hän lupasi lainata\nhänelle kalastusvehkeitä ja osoitti eräitä kohtia joessa, joista hän\ntiesi varmimmin saatavan lohenmulloja. Rva Gardiner, joka käveli käsi\nElizabethin kainalossa, silmäili häneen ihmeissään. Elizabeth ei\nvirkkanut mitään, mutta tädin ihmetys oli hyvin hänen mieleensä. Mutta\nvielä suurempi oli hänen oma ihmetyksensä; lakkaamatta hänen täytyi\nkysellä itseltään: \"Kuinka hän onkaan muuttunut entisestään! Ja minkä\nvuoksi hän on noin muuttunut? Mistä se oikein johtuukaan? Ei suinkaan\n_minun_ takiani! Eivät suinkaan minun Hunsfordissa antamani moitteet\nole saaneet häntä _tuohon_ määrään lieventämään käytöstapaansa. Ja\nmahdotontahan on, että hän enää piittaisi minusta edes vähääkään.\"\n\nJonkun matkaa täten käveltyä -- molemmat naiset edellä, herrat\njälempänä -- sattui marssijärjestyksessä pieni muutos. Siihen oli syynä\nrva Gardiner, joka tunsi itsensä väsyneeksi pitkästä kävelystä ja\nhuomasi Elizabethin käsivarren antaman tuen liian heikoksi, jonka\nvuoksi hän pysähtyi odottamaan miestänsä ja työnsi kätensä hänen\nkainaloonsa. Hra Darcy otti hänen paikkansa sisarentyttären rinnalla ja\nmatkaa jatkettiin. Tällöin vasta Elizabeth sai rohkeutta puhua. Hän\ntahtoi kaikin mokomin saada kavaljeerinsa vakuutetuksi siitä, että he\nolivat käyneet katsastamassa Pemberleytä siinä lujassa uskossa, että\nisäntä itse oli poissa kotoa -- \"teidän taloudenhoitajattarennekin\nilmoitti meille\", hän lisäsi, \"että saapuisitte vasta huomenna.\"\n\nDarcy myönsi, että häntä oli vasta huomiseksi odotettu; mutta eräät\ntalonhoitoa koskevat asiat olivat pakottaneet hänet kiiruhtamaan hiukan\nedellä muuta seuraa, joka sekin kohta saapuisi. \"He tulevat varhain\nhuomenaamuna\", hän jatkoi, \"ja heidän joukossaan on eräitä jotka\ntahtovat uudistaa vanhaa tuttavuutta teidän kanssanne -- tarkoitan\nherra Bingleytä ja hänen sisariaan.\"\n\nElizabeth vastasi vain keveästi kumartaen. Hänen ajatuksensa palasivat\nehdottomasti siihen aikaan, jolloin Bingleyn nimeä oli viimeksi\nmainittu heidän keskensä; ja puhetoverin ilmeestä voi hän päättää,\nettei _hänen_ mielipiteensä ollut tässä asiassa paljonkaan muuttunut.\n\n\"Seurueessani on vielä eräs henkilö\", jatkoi Darcy hetkisen vaitiolon\njälkeen, \"joka erityisesti haluaa tulla teidän tuttavaksenne.\nSallitteko minun esittää teille sisareni ja tuoda hänet teidän\nseuraanne, niin kauan kuin viivytte Lambtonissa, vai pyydänkö nyt\nliikoja?\"\n\nElizabeth oli niin ällistynyt tästä tarjouksesta, että hänen oli vaikea\nalussa vastata siihen. Sen hän kuitenkin oitis tajusi, että nti Darcyn\ntoivomus oli hänen veljensä sanelema, ja sitä myöten kaikki oli hyvin.\nElizabethin oli mieluista huomata, etteivät rukkasetkaan olleet saaneet\nhra Darcya ajattelemaan hänestä pahaa.\n\nMatkaa jatkettiin sitten äänettömästi; kumpikin oli vajonnut omiin\najatuksiinsa. Elizabeth tunsi olonsa väkinäiseksi -- sehän oli vain\nluonnollista; mutta samalla hänen oli mahdotonta olla tuntematta\nsalaista imarretta ja mielihyvää. Darcyn sisarensa puolesta lausuma\ntoivomus oli todella mitä hienoin kohteliaisuus.\n\nHra ja rva Gardinerin vihdoin tavoitettua heidät pyysi isäntä koko\nseuruetta uudestaan poikkeamaan sisälle ja nauttimaan virvokkeita;\nmutta tarjoukseen vastattiin kieltävästi; ja vihdoin erottiin\ntoisistaan lausuen mitä sievistelevimmät jäähyväiset. Hra Darcy auttoi\nnaiset vaunuihin, ja heidän ajaessa pois Elizabeth näki isännän\nkävelevän verkalleen taloa kohti.\n\nNyt alkoivat eno ja täti tehdä kärsimättömästi pidättämiään\nhuomautuksia; kumpikin sanoi Darcyn tehneen verrattomasti paremman\nvaikutuksen kuin he olivat osanneet arvatakaan. \"Hänhän on kerrassaan\nhienokäytöksinen mies, perin kohtelias ja teeskentelemätön\", sanoi hra\nGardiner.\n\n\"Hänessä on tosin jonkin verran juhlallista jäykkyyttä\", huomautti\ntäti; \"mutta se sopii hyvin hänen arvokkaaseen ja hienoon ryhtiinsä.\nMinä voin nyt aivan yhtyä taloudenhoitajattaren lausuntoon, että vaikka\nihmiset voivat sanoa häntä ylpeäksi, niin _minä_ en ainakaan ole\nhuomannut siitä merkkiäkään.\"\n\n\"En ole koskaan tullut niin ymmälleni kuin hänen äskeisestä\nkäyttäytymisestään. Se oli enemmän kuin kohteliasta; se oli\nvilpittömästi huomaavaista; ja kuitenkaan ei hänen olisi ollut lainkaan\ntarpeen osoittaa meille sellaista huomaavaisuutta. Onhan hänen\ntuttavuutensa Elizabethin kanssa vallan pintapuolinen.\"\n\n\"Totta puhuen, Lizzy\", sanoi täti, \"hän ei ole niin kaunis kuin\nWickham; tai oikeammin sanoen, hänellä ei ole Wickhamin hienoja\npiirteitä, vaikka hän muuten on sangen hyvännäköinen. Mutta kuinka sinä\nsaitkaan päähäsi kertoa meille, että hän oli sinusta niin\nvastenmielinen?\",\n\nElizabeth puolusteli itseään minkä taisi -- sanoi, että hän piti\nDarcysta nykyisin paljon enemmän kuin ennen, ja että tämä ei ollut\nvielä koskaan esiintynyt niin herttaisesti kuin tänä aamuna.\n\n\"Mutta ehkäpä hän laskettelee kohteliaisuuksiaan, tarkoittamatta niillä\nmitään sen enempää\", arveli eno. \"Ylhäisten henkilöiden tapa on olla\noikullinen päähänpistoissaan; enkä minä senvuoksi ota hänen\nkalastustarjoustaankaan täydeksi todeksi, sillä voihan hän huomenna jo\nmuuttaa mielensä ja karkoittaa minut mailta halmeilta.\"\n\nElizabeth tunsi, että hänen omaisensa olivat kokonaan erehtyneet hra\nDarcyn luonteesta, mutta hän ei virkkanut mitään.\n\n\"Sen perusteella, mitä olen hänestä nähnyt\", jatkoi rva Gardiner,\n\"minun on vaikea uskoa, että hän olisi todella voinut menetellä niin\njulmasti Wickham parkaa kohtaan. Eihän hän näytä ollenkaan tylyltä ja\nsydämettömältä. Päinvastoin hänen suunsa ympärillä on hyvyyttä\nilmaiseva piirre, kun hän puhuu. Ja koko hänen ulkomuotonsa kuvastaa\nsisällistä arvokkaisuutta, josta voisi päätellä, että hänellä on\njalomielinen sydän. Mutta kuinka loistavan arvosanan hänestä antoikaan\nse vanha rouva, joka näytteli meille hänen taloaan. Minun oli välistä\nvaikea pidättää nauruani. Mutta arvaan, että hän on antelias isäntä, ja\n_se_ hyvä avu vastaa palvelijain silmissä kaikkia ihmishyveitä.\"\n\nElizabethin oli nyt vihdoinkin pakko oikaista sukulaistensa käsitystä\nWickhamista; sen hän teki varovaisin sanoin ja mainitsematta\nlähdettään, jonka hän kuitenkin sanoi olevan aivan luotettavan.\n\nRva Gardiner joutui ymmälleen ja huolestuneeksi; mutta kun he nyt\nlähenivät hänen nuoruudenaikaisia leikkitanhuitaan, unohtuivat kaikki\nmuut ajatukset hänen mielestään.\n\n\n\n\nXLIV LUKU.\n\n\nElizabeth oli arvellut, että hra Darcy toisi sisarensa\ntervehdyskäynnille vasta tämän saapumisen jälkeisenä päivänä; mutta\nvieraat saapuivatkin jo tuloaamuna. Gardinerit ja Elizabeth olivat\nkierrelleet Lambtonissa eräiden uusien tuttavien kanssa ja palanneet\nmajataloon pukeutuakseen syömään päivällistä samojen tuttavain kanssa,\nkun lähestyvien vaunujen kolina lennätti heidät akkunaan ja he näkivät\nnuoren herran ja nuoren neidin ajavan katua pitkin. Elizabeth tunsi\noitis tulijat kuskin liveripuvusta ja herätti tiedonannollaan\naikamoista ihmetystä omaisissaan. Näiden päivitellessä heitä odottavaa\noma mielensä oli kuohuksissa, arkaillen hän odotti tulevaa kunniaa\nvetäytyi Elizabeth kiireesti akkunasta; hänen kohtausta, jonka aikana\nhän tahtoi esiintyä mahdollisimman paljon edukseen, mutta samalla hän\nluonnollisesti epäili, ettei osaisi lainkaan käyttäytyä toisten\nmieliksi. Hän käveli hermostuneesti edestakaisin koettaen hillitä\nliikutustaan, mutta toisten kysyvät katseet sotkivat hänen\nmielenrauhaansa yhä pahemmaksi.\n\nNti Darcy ja hänen veljensä saapuivat sisään, ja peljätty esittely\ntapahtui. Mutta ihmeekseen Elizabeth huomasi, että hänen uusi\ntuttavansa oli ainakin yhtä paljon hämillään kuin hän itse. Lambtonin\ntuttavilta kuulemistaan puheista Elizabeth oli päätellyt, että nti\nDarcy oli tavattoman ylpeäluontoinen; mutta jo ensi silmäyksellä hän\nvoi havaita, että tuo nuori neitonen oli vain äärimmäisen ujo. Häneltä\noli vaikea saada muuta kuin yksitavuisia vastauksia.\n\nNti Darcy oli isokasvuinen; ja vaikka hänellä oli ikää vasta vähän\npäälle kuusitoista vuotta, oli hän ruumiinmuodoiltaan täysin kehittynyt\nja erittäin uhkea. Kasvoiltaan hän ei ollut niin kaunis kuin veljensä,\nmutta niissä voi huomata hyvyyttä ja älykkäisyyttä, ja hänen\nkäytöstapansa oli teeskentelemättömän ystävällinen.\n\nHeidän vähän aikaa juteltua kertoi Darcy Elizabethille, että myöskin\nhra Bingley oli tulossa tervehtimään häntä; ja tuskin oli Elizabeth\nennättänyt lausua sitä toivovansa ja varustautua vastaan ottamaan uutta\ntulijaa, kun Bingleyn nopeat askeleet kuultiin portailta ja seuraavassa\ntuokiossa hän astui sisään. Kaikki Elizabethin entinen kauna häntä\nkohtaan oli jo aikoja sitten haihtunut; mutta hän tajusi, että jos hän\nolisi sitä vieläkin tuntenut, niin olisi se kädenkäänteessä sulanut\nolemattomiin Bingleyn reippaan ja teeskentelemättömän sydämellisyyden\nlämmössä. Tämä tiedusti ystävällisin vaikka ylimalkaisin sanoin hänen\nomaistensa vointia ja puheli ja laski leikkiä samaan hilpeän\nhuolettomaan sävyyn, joka hänessä ennenkin oli Elizabethia erityisesti\nviehättänyt.\n\nHra ja rva Gardinerille Bingley oli miltei yhtä mielenkiintoinen\nhenkilö kuin Elizabethille itselleen. He olivat tietenkin kuulleet\nhänestä paljon ja halunneet nähdä häntä. Ja nyt heillä oli hyvä\ntilaisuus tarkata kaikkia edessään olevia nuoria, jotka kaikki olivat\nilmeisesti vilkkaan mielenliikutuksen vallassa. He voivat panna\nmerkille, että ainakin yksi seurasta oli vakavasti rakastunut.\nRakkauden esineen suhteen heille jäi vielä vähän epäilyksen aihetta;\nmutta rakastajan tulista ihailua oli mahdoton väärinkäsittää.\n\nVieraat viipyivät heidän luonaan puolisen tuntia; ja kun he lähtivät,\npyysi hra Darcy sisartaan kannattamaan hänen toivomustaan, että hra ja\nrva Gardiner ynnä nti Bennet saapuisivat päivällisille Pemberleyhin,\nennenkuin he lähtisivät paikkakunnalta. Rva Gardiner katsahti\nsisarentyttäreensä nähdäkseen mitä tämä, jolle kutsu tuntui\npääasiallisesti tarkoitetun, siitä päättäisi, mutta Elizabeth oli\nkääntänyt päänsä poispäin. Arvaten tämän tahallisen vältteleväisyyden\npikemminkin ilmaisevan hetkellistä hämmennystä kuin torjumishalua ja\nnähdessään miehensä mielihalulla suostuvan, hän kiittäen suostui\nkutsuun, jota päätettiin noudattaa ylihuomispäivänä.\n\nBingley ilmaisi vielä kerran ilonsa saadessaan tavata Elizabethia ja\nkyseli paljon yhteisistä Hertfordshiren tuttavista; jopa hän kysyi,\nolivatko _kaikki_ hänen sisarensa kotona Longbournissa. Arvaten hänen\nhalunsa ennen kaikkea kohdistuvan toivoon saada kuulla Janesta\nElizabeth vastaili mielellään; ja vieraiden poistuttua hän kykeni\ntyydytyksentuntein muistelemaan äsken vietettyä puolituntista, vaikka\ntotta puhuen hän sen kestäessä ei ollut voinut mielenkuohultaan\npaljonkaan nauttia siitä.\n\nEnon ja tädin hyvä käsitys hra Darcysta lujeni yhä hänen erinomaisen\nkohteliaisuutensa ja rakastettavaisuutensa vaikutuksesta;\ntaloudenhoitajattaren hänestä antamaa ylistystä tukivat Lambtonissa\nkuullut kertomukset hänen suoruudestaan ja oikeudentunnostaan, hänen\nylevämielisyydestään ja avuliaisuudestaan köyhiä kohtaan. Ainoastaan\nhänen ylpeyttään moitittiin; mutta senkin moitteen voi hyvin käsittää\ntuon pienen kauppalan taholta, jonka perheiden luona rikas hoviherra\nkai aniharvoin alentui vierailemaan.\n\nWickhamista matkailijamme sen sijaan saivat paljon ikävämpiä\nkuulumisia. Hänen maineensa täällä hänen kotiseudullaan ei ollut\nlainkaan hyvä, sillä poistuessaan sieltä maailmalle hän oli jättänyt\njälkeensä suuren joukon velkoja, jotka hra Darcy oli saanut perästäpäin\nsuorittaa.\n\nElizabethin ajatukset pyörivät tänä iltana Pemberleyssä enemmän kuin\nkoskaan ennen; ja vaikka ilta tuntuikin pitkältä, ei se kuitenkaan\nollut hänelle kylliksi pitkä, jotta hän olisi sen kuluessa voinut\nmääritellä yhden _ainoankaan_ Pemberleyn asukkaan herättämää\nmielenkiintoa; ja hän makasi yölläkin vielä monet tunnit valveilla\nkoettaen päästä siitä täyteen selvyyteen. Varmastikaan hän ei enää\nvihannut tuota miestä. Ei -- viha oli sammunut ja haihtunut jo kauan\nsitten, ja melkein yhtä kauan häntä oli hävettänyt tuntea edes\nvastenmielisyyttäkään häntä kohtaan. Darcyn arvokkaiden ominaisuuksien\n-- jotka hänen alussa oli ollut niin väkinäisesti tunnustettava --\nherättämä kunnioitus oli jo jonkin aikaa lakannut vaivaamasta hänen\ntunteitaan; ja nyt tuota kunnioitusta koroitti joka taholta Darcyn\nosaksi tulevat hyvät arvostelut, jotka asettivat hänen vakavat\nluonteenominaisuutensa entistä mieluisempaan valoon. Ja kaiken lisäksi\ntulivat eilisen ja tämän päivän hellyttävät ja järkyttävät kokemukset.\nMutta yläpuolella kaikkea muuta, yläpuolella kunnioitusta ja ehdotonta\narvonantoa, tunsi hän omalta puoleltaan vapaaehtoisesti syntynyttä\nkiitollisuutta -- syvää kiitollisuutta sekä siitä, että tuo mies kerran\noli niin palavasti tunnustanut rakastavansa häntä, että myöskin siitä,\nettä hän yhä edelleenkin rakasti häntä siksi hartaasti, että voi antaa\nhänelle anteeksi hänen töykeän kieltonsa ja kaikki siihen liittyvät\nväärät syytökset. Sen sijaan että hän olisi, kuten Elizabeth oli\nkoettanut uskotella itselleen, vältellyt häntä kuin pahinta\nvihamiestään, hän tuntui olevan mitä innokkain säilyttämään ja\njatkamaan heidän ystävyyttään; ja sen merkiksi hän pyrki hänen\nomaistensakin suosioon ja taivutti sisarensa tekemään hänen\ntuttavuuttaan. Sellainen muutos niin ylpeäluontoisessa miehessä ei\nainoastaan ihmetyttänyt, vaan velvoitti myöskin kiitollisuuteen.\nElizabeth kunnioitti häntä ja oli hänelle syvästi kiitollinen -- hänen\nrakkaudestaan, hänen tulisesta rakkaudestaan, se hänen täytyi lisätä;\nhän tunsi totista osanottoa ja harrastusta hänen persoonalliseen\nonneensa; ja hän halusi vain tietää, missä määrin hän itse toivoi, että\nDarcyn onni olisi hänestä riippuvainen; ja olisiko heidän molempien\nonneksi, jos hän käyttäisi vaikutusvaltaansa -- jota hän yhä vielä\nkuvitteli omaavansa Darcyyn nähden -- saadakseen tämän uudistamaan\nkosintansa.\n\nTäti ja sisarentytär olivat illalla sopineet keskenänsä, että niin\nsuureen kohteliaisuuteen nti Darcyn puolelta -- hänhän oli saapunut\nvieraisille oitis kotiatulonsa jälkeen -- oli vastattava yhtä\nkohteliaasti, ja että heidän oli siis mentävä Pemberleyhin jo\nseuraavana aamuna. Elizabeth tunsi mielihyvää tästä päätöksestä, vaikka\nhänen olisi ollut vaikea selittää itselleen miksi.\n\nHra Gardiner erosi heistä kohta aamiaisen jälkeen. Darcy oli edellisenä\npäivänä uudistanut kalastuskutsunsa, ja hänen oli määrä saada joku\nPemberleyn herroista kumppanikseen.\n\n\n\n\nXIV LUKU.\n\n\nOllen jokseenkin vakuutettu siitä, että nti Bingleyn hänelle osoittama\nnurjamielisyys perustui mustasukkaisuuteen, ei Elizabeth voinut olla\narvailematta, kuinka epämieluinen yllätys hänen saapumisensa\nPemberleyhin tuli olemaan tälle neidille, ja hän oli utelias näkemään,\nkuinka halukkaasti tämä tulisi uudistamaan Hertfordshiren aikaisen\ntuttavuuden hänen kanssaan.\n\nTaloon tultua vieraat ohjattiin eteishallista pohjoisen puolella\nolevaan saliin, joka kesällä pysyi mieluisen vilvakkana. Sen lattiaan\nsaakka ulottuvista akkunoista avautui mitä raikkain näköala kartanon\ntakana kohoaville korkeille metsäharjuille, ja edessä olevalle\nruohokentälle loivat komeat vanhat tammet ja kastanjat suloista\nsiimestä.\n\nTässä huoneessa heidät otti vastaan nti Bingley, joka istui siellä rva\nHurstin ja nti Darcyn ynnä jälkimmäisen lontoolaisen seuranaisen\nkanssa. Georgiana tervehti heitä hyvin kohteliaasti, vaikka hänen\nujoutensa ja harvasanaisuutensa olisi nytkin saattanut oudon\narvailemaan häntä ylpeäluontoiseksi ja kylmäkiskoiseksi; hän näkyi\ntuskallisen tarkasti arkailevan, ettei vain sanoisi eikä tekisi mitään\nväärin. Rva Gardinerin ja hänen sisarentyttärensä, jotka olivat jo\noppineet hänet paremmin tuntemaan, kävi häntä sääliksi.\n\nRva Hurst ja nti Bingley kunnioittivat tulijoita vain väkinäisellä\nniiauksella; ja istumaan käytyä syntyi pitkällinen äänettömyys, niin\npainostava kuin sellainen pakotettu äänettömyys yleensä on. Siitä\nseuran vihdoin pelasti nti Darcyn seuranainen, rva Annesley,\nystävällinen ja miellyttävän näköinen nainen, joka sai vireille puhelun\nrva Gardinerin kanssa, Elizabethinkin ottaessa siihen toisinaan osaa.\nNti Darcy näytti toivovan itselleen kylliksi rohkeutta liittyäkseen\nhänkin puheluun osalliseksi; jopa hän rohkeni jolloinkin virkkaa\nsanasen, mutta niin hiljaa, ettei juuri kukaan sitä kuullut.\n\nElizabeth voi kohta panna merkille, että nti Bingley piti häntä\ntarkasti silmällä ja ettei hän voinut lausua sanaakaan -- nimenomaan\nnti Darcylle -- ilman että toinen heti heristi korviaan. Se ei olisi\nkuitenkaan estänyt häntä puhelemasta paljonkin ujolle uudelle\nystävättärelleen, jos välimatka olisi ollut lyhyempi; mutta tätäkään\nhän ei surrut, sillä hänellä oli itsellään paljon ajateltavaa. Hän\nodotti joka hetki herrain astuvan huoneeseen; hän toivoi ja hän\npelkäsi, että talon isäntä olisi heidän joukossaan; ja itsekään hän ei\nollut selvillä, toivoiko vai pelkäsikö hän enemmän. Istuttuaan täten\nneljännestunnin ajan Elizabeth havahtui mietteistään kuullessaan\nnti Bingleyn viimeinkin puhuttelevan häntä ja tiedustavan\nkylmäkiskoisesti hänen omaistensa vointia. Hän vastasi yhtä lyhyesti\nja välinpitämättömästi, ja siihen heidän keskustelunsa turtui.\n\nEnsi vaihtelun tuohon kankeaan seuranpitoon toi palvelijain saapuminen,\njotka kantoivat sisään kylmää ruokaa, kakkuja ja vuodenajan hienoimpia\nhedelmiä; mutta näidenkään jakeleminen ei tahtonut päästä alkuun,\nennenkuin rva Annesley oli monin silmäniskuin ja päännyökkäyksin saanut\nnti Darcyn punastuen muistamaan emännäntehtävät. Siitä sai koko seura\naskaretta; sillä vaikka kaikki eivät välittäneet tai rohjenneet\npuhella, saattoivat kaikki toki syödä; ja komeat rypäle-, persikka- ja\npäärynäpyramiidit kokosivat kohta kaikki yhteen pöydän ympärille.\n\nVirvokkeiden ääressä askarrellessa oli Elizabethilla edelleen hyvää\naikaa aprikoida, toivoiko vai pelkäsikö hän hra Darcyn saapumista;\nmutta kun tämä viimein yksinään astui ovesta sisään, hän jo rupesi\ntoivomaan, että tulija ei olisi tullutkaan, vaikka hän juuri\nsilmänräpäystä aikaisemmin oli toivotellut häntä tulevaksi.\n\nDarcy oli ollut jonkin aikaa hra Gardinerin kanssa, joka parin kolmen\nkartanon vieraan seurassa oli joella onkimassa; mutta hän oli jättänyt\nhänet oitis kun oli saanut tietää, että Gardinerin naiset aikoivat\ntulla aamupäivällä Georgianaa tervehtimään. Kohta hänen saavuttua\nseuraan päätti Elizabeth olla viisaasti varuillaan ja koettaa näyttää\naivan häiriytymättömältä -- välttämätön ja viisas päätös todellakin,\nmutta sitä työläämpi noudattaa, kun hän huomasi koko pöytäseuran\nepäluuloisen tarkkaavaisuuden kohdistuneen heihin molempiin, ja että\ntuskin ainutkaan silmäpari jätti seuraamatta Darcyn katseita, liikkeitä\nja tekoja siitä lähtien kuin hän oli tullut huoneeseen. Kaikkein\nselvimmin kuvastui tuo tarkkaavainen uteliaisuus nti Bingleyn\nkasvoilta; sillä mustasukkaisuus ei ollut vielä tehnyt tätä neitoa\nsokeaksi, ja hän koetti yhä edelleenkin voittaa hra Darcyn suosiollista\nhuomaavaisuutta osakseen. Nti Darcy kävi oitis veljensä tultua paljon\npuheliaammaksi; ja Elizabeth voi hyvin huomata, kuinka halusta veli\ntahtoi valmistaa hänelle ja sisarelleen tilaisuutta tutustua toisiinsa\nyhä paremmin ja koetti parhaansa mukaan vetää molempia yhteiseen\nkeskusteluun. Mutta myöskin nti Bingley pani sen merkille; ja\närtymyksensä puuskassa hän käytti ensi tilaisuutta hyväkseen\nsähähtääkseen hänelle ivallisen kohteliaasti:\n\n\"Kuulkaas, neiti Eliza, eikö ----n miliisirykmentti ole jo poistunut\nMerytonista? Siitä tuli arvatenkin hyvin suuri tappio _teidän_\nperheellenne.\"\n\nDarcyn läsnäollessa hän ei rohjennut mainita Wickhamin nimeä; mutta\nElizabeth ymmärsi oitis vaistomaisesti, että kysymys oli yhtä paljon\ntarkoitettu vetämään edellisen huomiota tähän kiusalliseen\npuheenaiheeseen. Hilliten väkisin närkästyksensä tuosta ilkeämielisestä\nhyökkäyksestä hän vastasi siihen niin laupiaaseen sävyyn kuin taisi.\nPuhuessaan hän vilkaisi varkain sisaruksiin ja näki Darcyn tuijottavan\njäykästi eteensä ja hänen sisarensa olevan perin onnettomana ja aivan\nkuin tietämättä, minne oikein loisi katseensa. Jos nti Bingley olisi\narvannut, mitä tuskaa hän tuotti rakkaalle ystävättärelleen, olisi hän\nepäilemättä pidättänyt ilkeän viittauksensa, jolla hän oli tahtonut\nvain kiusoitella Elizabethia ja alentaa hänen ja hänen perheensä arvoa\nDarcyn silmissä; mutta hän ei ollut koskaan kuullut hiiskaustakaan nti\nDarcyn karkausyrityksestä. Elizabethia lukuunottamatta oli asia näet\npidetty mahdollisimman salassa syrjäisiltä; ja nimenomaan oli Darcy\nkoettanut salata sitä kaikilta Bingleyn omaisilta ja tuttavilta --\njuuri siitä syystä, jonka Elizabeth oli jo kauan sitten arvannut,\nnimittäin halusta naittaa sisarensa ystävälleen.\n\nElizabethin tyyni maltti auttoi kuitenkin Darcya rauhoittumaan; ja kun\nhämilleen joutunut ja pettynyt nti Bingley ei enää sen enempää\nrohjennut viittailla Wickhamiin, sai Georgianakin jälleen rohkeutta,\nvaikka hän edelleenkin pelkäsi kohdata veljensä katsetta. Kiitollisena\nElizabethin hyvästä ryhdistä Darcy katseli häneen entistä hellemmin; ja\nsiten oli tuo loukkauskiveksi ja pahennuksenkallioksi aiottu syrjäisku\npäinvastoin laskenut uuden ankkuripaikan hänen toiveilleen.\n\nVieraat eivät tämän jälkeen viipyneet enää kauan; ja sillä aikaa kuin\nhra Darcy saattoi heitä vaunuihin, kevensi nti Bingley ärtynyttä\nmieltään arvostelemalla Elizabethin ulkonäköä, käytöstä ja pukua. Mutta\nGeorgiana ei yhtynyt hänen arvosteluunsa. Hänen veljensä suositus oli\nkerta kaikkiaan määrännyt hänen kantansa; ja veli ei voinut erehtyä.\nKun Darcy palasi saliin, ei nti Bingley malttanut olla toistamatta\nhänellekin samaa, mitä hän oli juuri puhunut sisarelle.\n\n\"Kuinka mitättömältä Eliza Bennet näyttikään tänään, hra Darcy\", hän\nhuudahti; \"en iki maailmassa ole nähnyt kenenkään siihen määrään\nmuuttuneen kuin hänen viime talvesta lähtien. Hänen ihonsakin on käynyt\nniin ruskeaksi ja karkeaksi! Louisa ja minä emme olleet enää tunteakaan\nhäntä.\"\n\nKuinka vastenmielinen tuollainen pistely lie Darcylle ollutkin, tyytyi\nhän vastaamaan levollisesti, että hän ei ainakaan ollut huomannut\näskeisen vieraansa ulkonäössä muuta muutosta kuin hitusen päivettymistä\n-- mikä kesähelteellä ei ollutkaan ihmeellistä.\n\n\"Omasta puolestani minun täytyy tunnustaa\", jatkoi Elizabethin\nväsymätön vainoojatar, \"etten koskaan ole pitänyt häntä erikoisen\nkauniina. Hänen kasvonsa ovat aivan liian laihat, ihonväri\nepämääräinen, ja piirteitä ei voi suinkaan sanoa sieviksi. Hänen\nnenältään puuttuu jaloutta, hampaat ovat mukiinmenevät, mutta aivan\ntavalliset; ja mitä hänen silmiinsä tulee, joita olen jonkun kuullut\nkehuvan, niin minä en voi huomata niissä mitään erinomaista. Niissä on\nterävä ja luihu katse, joka minusta on kerrassaan vastenmielinen; ja\nmuutenkin on hänen ilmeessään ja sävyssään aivan sietämätöntä\nitsekylläisyyttä.\"\n\nKoska nti Bingley kerta kaikkiaan oli vakuutettu siitä, että Darcy\ntodella ihaili Elizabethia, niin ei tällainen taistelutapa ollut\nkovinkaan valtioviisasta hänen oman etunsa kannalta; mutta ärtyneet\nihmiset eivät aina malta olla viisaita, ja nähdessään Darcyn katseen\nsumentuvan hän riemuiten luuli saavuttaneensa voiton. Kun tämä\nkuitenkin pysyi äänettömättä, päätti rohkea taistelija pakottaa hänet\npuhumaan ja jatkoi ahdisteluaan:\n\n\"Muistanpa, että kun tulimme tuntemaan hänet Hertfordshiressa,\njouduimme aivan ihmeisiimme kuullessamme hänen olevan niillä seuduilla\nkehuttu kaunotar; ja erityisesti muistan teidän sanoneen eräänä iltana,\njolloin hänen perheensä oli ollut päivällisillä Netherfieldissä:\n'_Hänkö_ kaunotar! Yhtä hyvin sanoisin hänen äitiään älypääksi.' Mutta\njälkeenpäin hän näytti tehonneen teihinkin, ja luulenpa teidänkin\nyhteen aikaan pitäneen häntä jokseenkin sievänä.\"\n\n\"Niin kyllä\", vastasi Darcy, joka ei jaksanut enää pidättää itseään,\n\"mutta _tuota_ mieltä olin ainoastaan silloin, kun ensin tulin hänet\ntuntemaan; jo kauan aikaa olen pitänyt häntä yhtenä kauneimmista\nnaisista mitä ylipäänsä tunnen.\"\n\nHän käänsi selkänsä ja lähti tiehensä, jättäen nti Bingleyn\naprikoimaan, olisiko ehkä sittenkin ollut parasta olla pakottamatta\ntuota miestä puhumaan suunsa puhtaaksi.\n\n\n\n\nXLVI LUKU.\n\n\nElizabeth oli ollut hyvin pahoillaan, kun päivä kului toisensa jälkeen\nLambtonissa ollessa, ilman että Janelta tuli kirjettä; mutta sittenpä\ntulla tupsahti kaksikin kirjettä yht'aikaa, joista toisen kuoreen\npostissa oli merkitty, että se oli erehdyksestä ensin lähetetty\nmuuanne. Elizabeth ei sitä ihmetellytkään, sillä osoitekirjoitus oli\ntodella kirjoitettu kehnolla, aivan kuin hätäytyneellä käsialalla.\n\nHe olivat juuri lähdössä kävelemään kun kirjeet tulivat, jonka vuoksi\neno ja täti lähtivät kahden, jättäen hänet nauttimaan saaliistaan.\nEnsin oli avattava väärään paikkaan lähetetty, koska se oli leimattu jo\nviisi päivää takaperin. Alkupuolella kerrottiin kevyesti huvimatkoista\nja muista Longbournin pikku kuulumisista, mutta jälkiosa, joka oli\nkirjoitettu päivää jälkeenpäin ja ilmeisesti suuren mielenliikutuksen\nvallassa, sisälsi aivan toisenlaisia asioita.\n\n    \"Sen jälkeen kuin kirjoitin ylläolevan, rakkahin Lizzy, on\n    tapahtunut jotakin vallan odottamatonta ja uskomatonta; mutta\n    pelkään, että säikähdytän sinut -- ole varma, että me kaikki\n    jaksamme hyvin. Uutiseni koskevat Lydia parkaamme. Viime yönä kello\n    kahdentoista aikaan, kun olimme jo kaikki käyneet levolle, tuli\n    eversti Forsterilta pikalähetti ilmoittamaan, että Lydia oli\n    karannut Skotlantiin[22] erään hänen upseerinsa kanssa; ja suoraan\n    puhuen -- Wickhamin kanssa! Kuvittelehan meidän hämmästystämme.\n    Kittylle se ei kuitenkaan näytä olleen vallan odottamatonta. Minä\n    olen niin hirveästi suruissani. Mutta minä toivon mielelläni kaiken\n    kääntyvän vielä parhaaksi, ja ajattelen, että Wickhamin luonteesta\n    ja tarkoituksesta on erehdytty. Ajattelematon hurjapää hän saattaa\n    olla, mutta eihän tämäkään teko todista mitään pahaa hänen\n    sydämestään (ja se on meille lohdutus). Ainakin hän on käyttäytynyt\n    epäitsekkäästi; sillä hänen täytyy hyvin tietää, ettei isämme voi\n    antaa Lydialle mitään myötäjäisiä. Äitiparka on vallan masentunut.\n    Isä kantaa kohtaloniskun paremmin. Kuinka olenkaan kiitollinen,\n    ettemme ole heille maininneet yhtään mitään siitä, mitä Wickhamista\n    on pahaa puhuttu; meidän täytyy itsemmekin unohtaa kaikki se\n    kokonaan. He lähtivät salaa matkaan lauantaina puoliyön aikaan,\n    kuten perästäpäin on käynyt selville; mutta heitä ei tiedetty\n    kaivata ennenkuin vasta eilen aamulla. Pikalähetti pantiin oitis\n    tuomaan meille tietoa. Eversti Forster arvelee voivansa odottaa\n    Wickhamia piankin palaavaksi. Lydia jätti jälelle hänen vaimolleen\n    osoitetun kirjelapun, jossa hän ilmoitti aikeestaan. Minun täytyy\n    nyt lopettaa, sillä en voi olla kauan poissa äitiraukan luota. Minä\n    pelkään, ettet saa ehkä ollenkaan selkoa tästä, mutta olen niin\n    liikutettu, että tuskin tiedän mitä olen kirjoittanut.\"\n\nJoutamatta ollenkaan miettimään lukemaansa ja tuskin osaten edes\najatellakaan mitään saamansa oudon uutisen johdosta, Elizabeth\nensimmäisen kirjeen lopetettuaan avasi kärsimättömästi toisen, joka oli\nkirjoitettu päivää myöhemmin kuin edellisen kirjeen loppuosa. Se kuului\nseuraavasti:\n\n    \"Tähän aikaan, rakkahin sisko, olet saanut edellisen hätäisesti\n    kyhäämääni kirjeen. Toivon, että tänään kykenen kirjoittamaan\n    ymmärrettävämmin, vaikka en voi taata sitä nytkään, sillä pääni on\n    aivan sekaisin.\n\n    \"Rakkahin Lizzy, tuskin tiedän mitä sinulle kirjoitan, mutta\n    minulla on sinulle pahoja uutisia, ja niitä ei käy yhtään\n    viivyttäminen. Vaikka avioliitto herra Wickhamin ja Lydia poloisen\n    välillä olisikin ollut ajattelematon teko, toivoimme kuitenkin\n    mitä hartaimmin, että se olisi tapahtunut; mutta nyt on syytä\n    pahoin pelätä, etteivät he ole lähteneetkään Skotlantiin.\n    Eversti Forster tuli tänne eilen muutamia tunteja pikalähettinsä\n    perästä. Vaikka Lydia olikin lyhyessä kirjelapussaan antanut rouva\n    Forsterin ymmärtää, että heidän aikomuksensa oli lähteä Gretna\n    Greeniin, oli Dennyllä jotain syytä epäillä, ettei W. ollut aikonut\n    lainkaan lähteä Skotlantiin eikä edes ollenkaan naida Lydiaa;\n    tästä tiedon saatuaan eversti F. lähti heti Brightonista pyrkien\n    heidän jäljilleen. Mutta pitemmälle kuin Claphamiin hän ei voinut\n    niitä seurata; siellä he olivat luopuneet vaunuista, joilla olivat\n    tulleet Epsomista saakka, ja jatkaneet matkaa myötyrirattailla.\n    Sen verran vain siellä tiedettiin, että heidän oli nähty ajavan\n    Lontooseen päin. En tiedä, mitä oikein ajatella. Mitä tarkimmin\n    tiedusteltuaan koko tien varret Lontooseen saakka eversti F. tuli\n    Hertfordshireen ja tiedusteli perusteellisesti matkustajiamme\n    kaikissa tienristeyksissä ja majataloissa, mutta turhaan. Meistä\n    hellää huolta pitäen hän sitten tuli Longbourniin ja kertoi\n    kuulumisensa meille mitä hienotunteisimmalla tavalla. Olen kovin\n    pahoillani hänen ja hänen rouvansa puolesta, sillä heitä ei käy\n    syyttäminen mistään.\n\n    \"Meidän hätämme ja ahdistuksemme on kovin suuri, kuten voit hyvin\n    ymmärtää, rakas Lizzy. Isä ja äiti uskovat kaikkein pahinta,\n    mutta minä en voi ajatella W:sta niin pahaa. Monet seikat voivat\n    olla aikaansaaneet, että he mieluummin menivät salaa naimisiin\n    Lontoossa kuin noudattivat alkuperäistä suunnitelmaansa; ja vaikka\n    hän _voikin_ menetellä niin kunnottomasti hyvän perheen tytärtä\n    kohtaan, niin voinko otaksua Lydia paran sen kautta joutuneen\n    perikatoon? Mahdotonta! Kuitenkin huomasin surukseni, ettei F.\n    ollut taipuvainen uskomaan heidän todella menneen naimisiin; hän\n    pudisti päätään, kun puhuin hänelle toiveistani, ja sanoi, ettei W.\n    ole sellainen mies, jonka kunnollisuuteen voi luottaa. Äitiraukka\n    on sairaana ja vuoteenomana, ja isää en ole milloinkaan nähnyt\n    niin liikutettuna. Kitty parka on saanut kovia toruja siksi,\n    että hän oli salannut heidän välinsä; mutta sehän oli uskottu\n    hänelle luottamuksessa, joten häntä ei käy moittiminen. Olen\n    todella iloinen, rakkahin Lizzy. että sinä olet säästynyt näiltä\n    surullisilta kohtauksilta; mutta nyt, kun ensimmäinen huumaava\n    isku on kestetty, uskallanko sanoa, että kaipaan sinua kotiin? En\n    ole kuitenkaan niin itsekäs, että ahdistaisin sinua tulemaan, jos\n    sinulle ei sovi. Hyvästi!\n\n    \"Tartun jälleen kynään tehdäkseni sen, josta juuri kieltäysin;\n    mutta olosuhteet ovat nyt sellaiset, etten voi olla pyytämättä\n    teitä kaikkia palaamaan tänne niin pian kuin suinkin mahdollista.\n    Minä tunnen niin hyvin enon ja tädin, etten arkaile pyytää heiltä\n    tätä, vaikka minulla on ensinmainitulta pyydettävänä jotain\n    enempääkin. Isä lähtee tuossatuokiossa Lontooseen eversti F:n\n    kanssa koettaakseen keksiä karkulaiset mikäli mahdollista. En\n    varmasti tiedä, mihin toimiin hän aikoo perillä ryhtyä; mutta hän\n    on niin tuskainen ja pyörällä päästään, etten arvele hänen saavan\n    paljonkaan aikaan, ja eversti F:n on pakko palata Brightoniin jo\n    huomisillaksi. Näin ollen olisivat enon apu ja neuvot arvaamattoman\n    kallisarvoiset. Hän ymmärtää kyllä heti ja täydellisesti, mitä\n    minä tällä hetkellä tunnen ja ajattelen, ja minä luotan hänen\n    hyvyyteensä.\"\n\n\"Ah, missä, missä onkaan enoni?\" huudahti Elizabeth, kavahtaen kirjeen\nluettuaan pystyyn ja aikoen suoraapäätä lähteä sokeasti etsiskelemään\narvoisaa sukulaistaan, jotta ei kuluisi hetkeäkään hukkaan kalliista\najasta. Mutta hänen ulko-ovelle ennätettyään avasi sen majatalon\npalvelijatar, ja sisään astui hra Darcy. Tytön kalpeat, itkettyneet\nkasvot ja hätääntynyt käytös sai tulijan säpsähtämään; ja ennenkuin hän\nkykeni puhumaan, huudahti Elizabeth, jonka kaikki ajatukset pyörivät\nLydian pelastamisessa, hätäisesti: \"Suokaa anteeksi, mutta minun täytyy\njättää teidät heti. Minun täytyy löytää herra Gardiner tässä tuokiossa,\nsillä asiani ei siedä hetkenkään viivytystä -- minä en saa menettää\nsilmänräpäystäkään.\"\n\n\"Hyvä Jumala, mikä nyt onkaan hätänä?\" huudahti Darcy, osoittaen\nenemmän vilpitöntä myötätuntoa kuin muodollista kohteliaisuutta. \"Minä\nen tahdo viivyttää teitä vähääkään; mutta sallikaa minun tai palvelijan\nlähteä hakemaan herra ja rouva Gardineria. Tehän ette voi lainkaan\nhyvin; te ette voi itse lähteä heitä etsimään.\"\n\nElizabeth epäröi, mutta polvet horjuivat hänen aliansa, ja hän tunsi\nitsekin, ettei hän jaksaisi lähteä etsiskelemään omaisiaan. Kutsuen\nsenvuoksi enon palvelijan paikalle hän käski tämän -- vaikka hän olikin\nniin kiihoittunut, että tuskin sai ymmärrettävää sanaa suustaan --\noitis lähteä noutamaan isäntäväkensä kotia.\n\nPalvelijan lähdettyä hän istahti tuolille, kun hänen jalkansa eivät\nenää kannattaneet, ja näytti niin sanomattoman kurjalta, että Darcyn\noli mahdoton jättää häntä yksin. Sydän täynnä hellyyttä ja sääliä hän\nehdotti: \"Sallikaa minun noutaa palvelijatar avuksenne. Voinko tehdä\njotakin, joka helpottaisi oloanne? Noudanko teille lasin viiniä? Te\nvoitte todellakin pahoin.\"\n\n\"Ei, minä kiitän\", vastasi Elizabeth, koettaen kaikin voimin kohentaa\nitseään. \"Ei minua mikään vaivaa. Minä olen aivan terve, mutta olen\nhädissäni eräiden hirveiden uutisten johdosta, jotka juuri sain\nLongbournista.\"\n\nHän purskahti itkemään uutisiinsa viitattuaan, ja kotvaan aikaan hän ei\nkyennyt virkkamaan sanaakaan.\n\nKipeästi jännitettynä Darcy voi vain vakuuttaa osanottoaan ja katsella\nsitten ääneti ja säälien itkusta hytisevää tyttöä.\n\nVihdoin tämä jälleen kykeni puhumaan. \"Olen juuri saanut Janelta\nkirjeen, jossa on kovin järkyttäviä uutisia. Ne eivät voi enää pysyä\nsalassa. Nuorin sisareni on salaa jättänyt kaikki ystävänsä -- on\nkarannut -- antautunut tuon -- tuon kurjan herra Wickhamin valtoihin.\nHe ovat yhdessä salaa poistuneet Brightonista. _Te_ tunnette tuon\nmiehen siksi hyvin, että osaatte arvata lopun. Sisareni on vailla\nvaroja, vailla vaikutusvaltaisia sukulaisia; hänellä ei ole mitään,\nmikä voisi houkutella viekoittelijaa -- hän on kokonaan hukassa.\"\n\nDarcy oli kuin kivettynyt hämmästyksestä. \"Kun ajattelen\", jatkoi\nElizabeth värisevällä äänellä, \"että _minä_ olisin voinut estää\ntämän... Minähän _tiesin_, millainen mies hän on. Jospa olisin\nilmaissut vain osankin siitä -- osankin kaikesta, mitä olin kuullut,\nomalle perheelleni! Jos hänen luonteensa olisi ollut yleisesti\ntunnettu, niin tätä ei olisi tapahtunut. Mutta nyt on kaikki, kaikki\nliian myöhäistä.\"\n\n\"Minä olen kovin suruissani\", huudahti Darcy; \"todella suruissani ja\npahoillani. Mutta onko se varmaa, ehdottomasti varmaa?\"\n\n\"Ah, varmaa se on! He lähtivät yhdessä Brightonista sunnuntain\nvastaisena yönä, ja heidän jäljilleen päästiin miltei Lontooseen\nsaakka, mutta ei sen kauemmaksi; se ainakin on varmaa, etteivät he ole\nmenneet Skotlantiin.\"\n\n\"Entä mitä on tehty, mitä on yritetty heidän tavoittamisekseen?\"\n\n\"Isäni on lähtenyt Lontooseen, ja Jane on kirjoittanut, että pyytäisin\nenolta pikaista apua; ja minä toivon, että pääsemme lähtemään täältä jo\npuolen tunnin kuluttua. Mutta mitään ei voida enää tehdä; minä tiedän\nhyvin, ettei mistään enää ole apua. Kuinka heidät edes voitaisiin\nkeksiäkään? Minulla ei ole vähintäkään toivoa. Kaikki keinot ovat yhtä\nturhat!\".\n\nDarcy pudisti päätään sanattoman myöntymyksen merkiksi.\n\n\"Ja _minun_ silmäni kun olivat avatut näkemään hänen todellinen\nluonteensa! Ah, kunpa olisin tiennyt, mitä minun olisi pitänyt tehdä,\nmitä minun olisi täytynyt uskaltaa tehdä! Mutta sitä en silloin tiennyt\n-- minä pelkäsin tekeväni liian paljon. Hirmuinen, hirmuinen erehdys!\"\n\nDarcy ei nytkään vastannut. Hän tuntui tuskin kuulevan tytön huokailuja\nja huudahteluja, ja hän käveli vakavissa mietteissä edestakaisin\nlattialla, pää kumarassa, otsa rypyssä. Elizabeth älysi sen ja ymmärsi\noitis hänen ajatuksensa. Hän oli menehtyä surusta ja häpeästä;\ntäytyihän nyt _kaiken_ järkkyä, kaiken kunnioituksen ja arvonannon\nhävitä sellaista perhettä kohtaan, joka oli osoittanut niin\nanteeksiantamatonta heikkoutta ja häväissyt itsensä auttamattomasti\nmaailman silmissä. Hän ei voinut ihmetellä eikä tuomita Darcyn tuntemaa\njärkytystä ja sisällistä taistelua; mutta sen näkeminen ei suinkaan\nollut omiaan lohduttamaan ja lujentamaan häntä itseään. Päinvastoin se\nsai hänen selvästi tajuamaan oman asemansa toivottomuuden; ja koskaan\nennen ei hän ollut tuntenut niin rehellisesti kuin tällä hetkellä, että\nhän olisi voinut rakastaa tuota miestä, mutta että kaiken rakkauden\ntäytyi nyt sammua tyhjiin.\n\nMutta omaa suruaan, oman sydämensä orpoutta hän ei nyt joutanut\nsuremaan. Lydian kohtalo täytti yksinomaan hänen ajatuksensa; jokainen\nkuluva silmänräpäys syöksi siskoparan yhä syvemmälle perikatoon ja\nhänen omaisensa julkiseen häväistykseen. Peittäen kasvonsa\nnenäliinallaan Elizabeth ei enää ajatellut mitään muuta; ja hyvän aikaa\nvallitsi huoneessa sanomattoman raskas hiljaisuus, kunnes Darcy kuului\nviimein sanovan omituisen pakotetulla ja sortuneella äänellä:\n\n\"Pelkään, että te olette jo kauan toivonut minun poistuvan, ja ettei\nminulla ole muuta syytä puolustella viipymistäni kuin todellinen vaikka\naivan hyödytön myötätuntoni. Taivas suokoon, että minä voisin sanoa tai\ntehdä jotakin, joka olisi teille lohdutukseksi tällaisessa murheessa!\nMutta minä en tahdo vaivata teitä turhilla toivotuksilla, joilla\nsaattaisin näyttää vain ansiotta pyytelevän kiitostanne. Minä pelkään,\nettä tämä onneton juttu riistää sisareltani ilon nähdä teidät tänään\nluonansa Pemberleyssä.\"\n\n\"Ah, niin tietysti! Olkaa kiltti ja pyytäkää puolestamme anteeksi neiti\nDarcylta. Sanokaa, että kiireinen asia kutsuu meidät heti kotia.\nKoettakaa salata onnetonta totuutta niin kauan kuin mahdollista. Minä\ntiedän, ettei se voi enää pitkältäkään pysyä salassa.\"\n\nDarcy lupasi tehdä sen, lausui vielä kerran surkuttelunsa häntä\nkohdanneesta murheesta ja toivotti jutulle parempaa päätöstä kuin sille\nnykyisin voi arvata, sekä lausuen terveisensä hänen omaisilleen jätti\nhänet yksin, katsahdettuaan kynnykseltä vielä kerran pitkään ja\nvakavasti taakseen.\n\nHänen lähdettyään Elizabeth tajusi selvästi, että heidän oli mahdoton\nenää koskaan kohdata toisiansa niin hyvinä tuttavina kuin täällä\nDerbyshiressä ollessa; ja hänellä oli hyvää aikaa miettiä perheensä\nnykyistä onnetonta asemaa ja niitä epälukuisia vielä arvaamattomia ja\nkukaties vielä onnettomampia selkkauksia, joihin se tämän ikävän jutun\njohdosta sotkeutuisi. Hänellä ei ollut vähintäkään toivoa, että\nWickham todella naisi Lydian, ainoastaan Jane oli herkkä- ja\nhyväuskoisuudessaan voinut sellaista kuvitella. Hänestä oli\ntuntunut käsittämättömältä, kuinka Lydian tapainen typö tyhjä\nliehakko oikeastaan oli voinut miellyttääkään Wickhamin tapaista\nrahantavoittelijaa. Mutta nyt se selvisi hänelle liiankin hyvin.\nSellaista kevytmielistä mieltymystä herättääkseen oli Lydialla kylläksi\nviehätystä; ja vaikka Elizabeth ei voinut uskoakaan, että Lydia olisi\nsuostunut karkaamaan ilman kohta perästä seuraavan avioliiton\naikomusta, ei hän voinut edes luulotellakaan, että tyttöparalla olisi\ntarpeeksi ymmärrystä ja siveyttä välttyäkseen sortumasta viettelijän\nhelpoksi saaliiksi.\n\nElizabeth oli aivan hurjana pääsemään kotia lähtemään -- kuulemaan,\nnäkemään ja olemaan läsnä jakaakseen Janen kanssa sen askarten,\nhuolenpidon ja edesvastuun kuorman, joka tällä nyt oli kannettavanaan\nsekasortoon joutuneessa perheessä. Vihdoin saapuivat hra ja rva\nGardinerkin hänen luokseen hätäytyneinä palvelijan sekavasta puheesta\nja luullen sisarentyttären äkkiä sairastuneen. Elizabeth luki heille\nkiireisesti saamansa kirjeet ja viipyi väräjävin äänin varsinkin Janen\nlopputoivomuksessa, vaikka hän tiesikin, ettei Lydia ollut koskaan\nollut enon ja tädin erityisessä suosiossa. Eno ja täti tulivat syvästi\njärkytetyiksi. Ei ainoastaan Lydian, vaan koko suvun kunnia ja hyvä\nmaine oli vaaranalaisena; ja ensimmäisestä hämmennyksestä selvittyään\nhra Gardiner lupasi alttiisti kaikkea apua, mitä hän suinkin voi antaa.\nVaikka Elizabeth ei muuta voinut odottaakaan, kiitti hän enoaan\nkiitollisuuden kyynelin; ja kaikki kolme päättivät joutua matkaan niin\npian kuin suinkin.\n\n\"Mitä meidän on tehtävä Pemberleyn kutsun suhteen?\" huudahti täti.\n\"Joku kertoi herra Darcyn olleen täällä, kun sinä lähetit hänet meitä\nhakemaan -- oliko hän todellakin?\"\n\n\"Oli; ja minä sanoin hänelle, ettemme voi noudattaa kutsua. _Se_ asia\non täydellisesti selvitetty.\"\n\n\"Kuinkahan täydellisesti?\" arveli täti itsekseen, juostessaan\nhuoneeseensa säälimään tavaroita kokoon. \"Ovatko he keskenään niin\nläheisissä väleissä, että tyttö voi kertoa tuolle miehelle kaikki\nasianhaarat? Ah, kunpa tietäisin, minkälaiset heidän välinsä oikeastaan\novat!\"\n\nMutta toivot olivat turhat, tai voi hän niillä korkeintaan huvittaa\nmieltänsä jouduttaessaan itseänsä matkaan. Jos Elizabethilla olisi\nollut paremmin aikaa, olisi hän kertonut tädilleen, että kaikki\nseuraelämän kutsut olivat hyödyttömät ja mahdottomat niin kovaonnisen\nperheen jäsenelle kuin hän oli; mutta hänellä oli yhtä kiirettä kuin\ntädilläkin; ja matkakiireiden lomassa hänen täytyi vielä kirjoitella\nkirjelappuja Lambtonissa hankituille uusille tuttaville ja pyydellä\nkaikenlaisin tekosyin anteeksi äkkilähtöä. Tunnin kuluttua oli matkaan\nvarustautumisesta sentään suoriuduttu; hra Gardiner maksoi majatalon\nlaskun, ja kaikki istuivat vaunuihin ja lähtivät ajaa hyristämään\nLongbournia kohti.\n\n\n\n\nXLVII LUKU.\n\n\n\"Minä olen miettinyt tätä asiaa miettimästä päästyäni, Elizabeth\",\nsanoi hänen enonsa heidän ajaessaan; \"ja vakavan pohtimisen perusteella\nolen todellakin taipuvainen kallistumaan vanhemman sisaresi\nmielipiteeseen. Minusta tuntuu vaikealta uskoa, että kukaan nuori mies\nrohkenisi ryhtyä sellaiseen katalaan tekoon nuorta tyttöä kohtaan, joka\nei suinkaan ole vailla luonnollisia suojelijoita ja vaikutusvaltaisia\nystäviä ja joka päällepäätteeksi oleskeli hänen oman everstinsä\nperheensä, niin että vakavasti toivon asian vielä kääntyvän parhain\npäin. Voiko tuo mies todella luulotellakaan, etteivät tytön sukulaiset\nja ystävät aio astua väliin? Voiko hän edes palata takaisin\nrykmenttiinsä tehtyään sellaisen häväistyksen eversti Forsterille?\nKiusaus ei tässä asiassa ole vaaran arvoinen.\"\n\n\"Ajatteletko todellakin niin, eno?\" huudahti Elizabeth, kirkastuen\nhetkiseksi.\n\n\"Totta puhuen alan minäkin ajatella enosi tavalla\", sanoi rva Gardiner.\n\"Minustakin hän todella tekisi liian suuren loukkauksen hyviä tapoja,\nsotilaskunniaa ja yksinpä omia etujaankin vastaan. Enkä minä muutenkaan\nvoi ajatella Wickhamista niin pahaa. Voitko sinäkään, Lizzy, uskoa\nhänet niin perin kunnottomaksi?\"\n\n\"Ehkäpä en, jos hänen omat etunsa ovat kysymyksessä. Mutta mihinkä\nmuuhun kurjaan tekoon ja hyvien tapojen ja kaiken kunnian polkemiseen\ntahansa arvelen hänen pystyvän. Jospa tosiaankin olisi laita, niinkuin\neno sanoo! Mutta sitä tuskin uskallan toivoa. Miksi he sitten eivät\nolisi lähteneet suoraa päätä Skotlantiin, jos asia on niinkuin eno\narvelee?\"\n\n\"No, ensinnäkään ei meillä\", vastasi hänen enonsa, \"ole ehdotonta\ntodistetta, ettei heidän tiensä olisi käynyt Skotlantiin.\"\n\n\"Niin -- mutta onhan jo sekin paha merkki, että he siirtyivät\nmatkavaunuista myötyrirattaille! Ja eihän heistä ole keksitty jälkiä\nenää Barnetia etempänä.\"\n\n\"No niin -- otaksukaamme siis, että he ovat Lontoossa. Siellä he voivat\noleskella ainoastaan piileskelläkseen Lydian sukulaisilta; mitään muuta\nsyytä ei voi keksiä. Eikö ole luultavaa, että kummallakin on jokseenkin\nniukasti rahoja matkassaan, ja että naimisiinmeno käy Lontoossa päinsä\nhuokeammin, vaikkei vallan niin romantillisesti kuin Skotlannissa?\"\n\n\"Mutta mihin tähtää kaikki tämä salaperäisyys? Miksi peljätä ilmi\njoutumista? Ah, ei, ei, se ei tunnu todennäköiseltä! Wickhamin läheisin\nystävä -- sen näitte Janen kirjeestä -- arveli, ettei hän edes\naikonutkaan naida Lydiaa. Wickham ei ikinä naikaan tyhjäkätistä tyttöä.\nHänen oma varallisuutensa ei salli sitä. Ja mitä vaatimuksia voisi\nLydia täyttääkään, mitäpä viehätystä hänellä olisi -- nuoruutta,\nterveyttä ja hilpeyttä lukuunottamatta -- joiden takia Wickham uhraisi\nhänen vuokseen kaikki hänelle edullisemmat avioliittomahdollisuudet?\nMitä tulee hänen väliensä rikkoutumiseen rykmenttitoverien kanssa tämän\nhäpeällisen viekoittelujutun vuoksi, niin en osaa sitä ruveta\narvailemaan, koska en tunne lähemmin niitä asioita. Mutta toinen\nvastaväitteenne tuskin pätee. Lydialla ei ole veljiä, jotka astuisivat\nhäntä puolustamaan; ja isäni entisestä välinpitämättömyydestä perheensä\njäsenistä hän voi päätellä, ettei isä paljonkaan välitä tyttärensä\nkohtalosta.\"\n\n\"Mutta luuletko sinä sitten Lydian niin sokeasti rakastuneen häneen ja\nantautuneen hänen valtoihinsa, että hän suostuisi elämään tuon miehen\nkanssa ulkopuolella avioliittoa?\"\n\n\"Saattaa näyttää hirveältä, ja hirveätä se onkin\", vastasi\nElizabeth, itkuun purskahtaen, \"että oma sisar voi epäillä sisarensa\nhyveellisyyttä ja kainoutta siihen määrään. Mutta minä en todellakaan\ntiedä, mitä oikein sanoa. Ehkäpä teen hänelle vääryyttä. Mutta Lydia on\nniin kovin nuori; häntä ei ole koskaan opetettu ajattelemaan asioita\nvakavasti; ja koko viime puolivuoden -- ei, kuin koko viime vuoden --\nhän ei ole ajatellut mitään muuta kuin turhamaisia huveja. Hänen on\nsallittu kuluttaa aikansa pelkkään joutilaisuuteen ja kevytmielisyyteen\nja noudattaa kaikkia hupsuja päähänpistojaan. Siitä lähtien kuin tuo\nmiliisirykmentti majoitettiin Merytoniin, hänellä ei ole ollut muuta\nmielessään kuin lempiseikkailuja, upseereja ja kuhertelua. Hän on\ntehnyt kaiken voitavansa ilmaistakseen tunteitansa julki ja\nkuuluttaakseen yleisön tietoon satunnaisia mieltymyksiään. Ja me kaikki\ntiedämme, että Wickhamilla on yllinkyllin viehätysvoimaa, jolla hän voi\nlumota minkä ajattelemattoman tytön hyvänsä.\"\n\n\"Mutta näethän, että Jane\", keskeytti hänen tätinsä, \"ainakaan ei\najattele Wickhamista niin pahaa, että tämä pystyisi mihinkään\nkonnamaiseen tekoon.\"\n\n\"Ah, kenestäpä Jane on koskaan ajatellut mitään pahaa? Ja ketäpä hän\nvoisikaan epäillä taipuvaiseksi moiseen konnantekoon, ennenkuin teko on\njo tapahtunut ja tekijä todistettu syylliseksi? Mutta Jane tietää,\naivan yhtä hyvin kuin minäkin, minkälainen mies Wickham todellisuudessa\non. Hänessä ei ole vilpittömyyttä eikä kunniantuntoa niin\nhiukkastakaan. Hän on yhtä kavala ja valheellinen kuin taitava\nteeskentelemäänkin.\"\n\n\"Ja tiedätkö sinä sitten itse varmasti tämän kaiken?\" huudahti rva\nGardiner, jonka uteliaisuus oli kohonnut kukkuroilleen.\n\n\"Tiedän todellakin\", vastasi Elizabeth punastuen.\n\n\"Minä kerroin teille toispäivänä hänen häpeämättömästä\nkäyttäytymisestään herra Darcya kohtaan; ja kuulittehan te omin korvin,\nviimeksi Longbournissa ollessanne, millä tapaa hän puhui miehestä, joka\noli osoittanut niin verratonta pitkämielisyyttä ja anteliaisuutta\nhänelle. Ja on muitakin asioita, joista minun ei ole lupa ... joista\ntässä yhteydessä ei kannata puhua; mutta hänen valhejuttunsa Pemberleyn\nperheestä ovat ihan loputtomat. Kaikesta siitä päättäen, mitä hän oli\nkertonut neiti Darcysta, luulin tapaavani hyvin ylpeän, kylmäkiskoisen\nja epämiellyttävän tytön. Ja kuitenkin hän tiesi, että asianlaita on\naivan päinvastainen. Täytyihän hänen pitkän tuttavuutensa perusteella\ntietää, että neiti Darcy on hyvin rakastettava ja perin vaatimaton\ntyttö, jollaiseksi me tulimme hänet tuntemaan.\"\n\nMatkaa jatkettiin niin nopeaan kuin voitiin; ja vietettyä yö maantien\nvarrella olevassa majatalossa jouduttiin Longbourniin seuraavana\npäivänä päivällisajaksi. Elizabeth oli tyytyväinen, ettei Janen ollut\ntarvinnut väsyttää itseään sen pitemmällä odottelulla.\n\nGardinerin pikkulapset seisoivat kaikki vastassa portailla; suudeltuaan\nheitä kiireisesti Elizabeth juoksi sisään eteissuojaan, jossa tapasi\nyläkerrasta alas syöksyvän Janen.\n\nSisarusten itkien syleiltyä toisiaan kysyi nuorempi, oliko\nkarkulaisista kuultu mitään.\n\n\"Ei vielä\", sanoi Jane. \"Mutta kun hyvä enomme nyt on tullut, niin\ntoivon, että kaikki tulee päättymään hyvin.\"\n\n\"Onko isä vielä Lontoossa?\"\n\n\"On; hän lähti tiistaina, niinkuin kirjeessäni mainitsin.\"\n\n\"Oletko saanut häneltä mitään tietoja?\"\n\n\"Vain yhden kerran. Hän kirjoitti minulle muutamia rivejä keskiviikkona\nilmoittaen saapuneensa perille onnellisesti ja antoi minulle ohjeita,\njoita olin häneltä erityisesti pyytänyt. Hän lisäsi, ettei hän\nkirjoittaisi uudelleen, ennenkuin hänellä olisi jotakin kertomisen\narvoista.\"\n\n\"Entä äiti -- kuinka hän voi? Ja kuinka te kaikki jaksatte?\"\n\n\"Äiti voi luullakseni jokseenkin hyvin, vaikka hän hermonsa ovatkin\nhyvin järkyttyneet. Hän on yläkerrassa ja tulee varmastikin hyvin\nmieliinsä sinut nähdessään. Mary ja Kittykin ovat entisellään, Luojan\nkiitos.\"\n\n\"Mutta entä sinä -- kuinka sinä itse voit?\" huudahti Elizabeth.\n\"Sinähän näytät niin kalpealta. Mitä kaikkea sinun on täytynytkään\nkokea!\"\n\nJane vakuutti kuitenkin jaksavansa hyvin; ja enon ja tädin tulo\neteiseen kihertävän lapsiparvensa keskellä katkaisi sisarusten\nkeskustelun. Jane juoksi heitä vastaan ja kiitti itkien ja nauraen\nheitä tulostaan.\n\nKaikkien kokoonnuttua saliin toistuivat Janelle samat kysymykset, jotka\nElizabeth oli jo tehnyt, mutta Janella ei ollut nytkään mitään tietoja\nannettavana. Hän ei ollut kuitenkaan vielä luopunut -- ylevämielinen ja\nkaikista hyvää ajatteleva kun oli -- toivomasta mieluista päätöstä\nkaikille huolille, ja hän odotteli joka aamu vapauttavaa kirjettä joko\nisältään tai Lydialta ja kukaties vieläpä ilmoitusta viimeksimainitun\nonnellisesta avioliitosta.\n\nSalista siirryttiin rva Bennetin makuuhuoneeseen, jossa tämä arvon\nrouva vastaanotti tulijat kyynelin ja ruikutuksin, vuoroin soimaten\nkehnoa Wickhamia, vuoroin valitellen omia kärsimyksiään.\n\n\"Jos minun olisi sallittu saada tahtoni perille\", hän jatkoi, \"ja\nannettu lähteä Brightoniin koko perheeni keralla, niin ei _tätä_ totta\nmaar olisi tapahtunut; mutta Lydia poloisella ei ollut siellä ketään,\njoka olisi huolehtinut hänestä. Miksikä ne Forsteritkin päästivät häntä\nkoskaan silmiensä alta? Olen varma, että he ovat vikapäät törkeään\nlaiminlyöntiin, sillä Lydia ei ole semmoinen tyttö, joka ehdoin tahdoin\ntekee tyhmyyksiä, jos häntä vain pidetään hyvin silmällä. Minä aina\najattelinkin, että he eivät kykenisi kaitsemaan häntä, mutta\nkuullaankos minun sanaani koskaan! Se rakas lapsiparka! Ja nyt on\nBennetkin matkoilla, ja minä tiedän, että hän haastaa Wickhamin\nkaksintaisteluun kohta kun tavoittaa hänet; ja silloin hän saa itse\nsurmansa, ja mikäs meidät sitten perii? Collinsit häätävät meidät\ntäältä maantielle, ennenkuin isä on edes ennättänyt kylmetä haudassaan;\nja jollet sinä ole hyvä meille, rakas lanko, niin enpä tiedä mikä\nmeidän eteemme tuleekaan!\"\n\nKaikki torjuivat jyrkästi sellaiset hirvittävät mahdollisuudet; ja hra\nGardiner vakuutti pitävänsä hyvää huolta hänestä ja hänen perheestään\nsekä ilmoitti lähtevänsä Lontooseen vielä samana päivänä ja auttavansa\nkaikin keinoin hra Bennetiä Lydian etsiskelyssä.\n\n\"Älä toki tyhjän takia säikyttele itseäsi\", hän lisäsi; \"vaikka onkin\noikein, että aina varustautuu vastaanottamaan pahinta, niin tässä\ntapauksessa siihen ei vielä ole pätevää aihetta. Siitä ei ole vielä\ntäyttä viikkoakaan, kun he lähtivät Brightonista. Jonkun päivän perästä\nsaamme heistä varmasti tietoja; ja siihen mennessä, kunnes saamme\nkuulla, etteivät he ole vihittäneet itseään eivätkä aio vihittääkään,\nei ole syytä pitää asiaa menetettynä. Kohta kun saavun Lontooseen,\netsin lankomieheni käsiini ja vien hänet omaan kotiini, ja siellä me\nyhdessä neuvottelemme kaikesta mitä on tehtävä.\"\n\n\"Ah, niin, rakas lanko\", vastasi rva Bennet, \"juuri sitä minä aioinkin\nesittää. Ja sittenkun olet tullut Lontooseen, niin etsi heidät oitis\nkäsiisi, ja jolleivät he ole vielä menneet naimisiin, niin ole kiltti\nja _naita_ heidät hetipaikalla. Ja mitä hääpukuihin tulee, niin älä\nhuoli antaa sen pidättää vihkimistä, vaan sano Lydialle, että hän saa\nrahaa niin paljon kuin tahtoo ostaakseen itselleen uusia pukuja, kunhan\nvain ensin on vihittänyt itsensä. Ja ennen kaikkea koeta pidättää\nBennetiä, ettei hän vain antaudu kaksintaisteluun. Kerro hänelle, missä\nhirvittävässä tilassa sinä minut tapasit -- että olen surusta ja\nkauhistuksesta ihan pyörällä; että minä vapisen ja tärisen koko\nruumiissani; ja että minulla on sellaisia hirmuisia pistoksia\nkyljessäni ja särkyä päässäni ja sydämentykytystä ja kaikkea muuta\nkauheata, niin etten saa lepoa öillä enkä päivillä. Ja sano rakkaalle\nLydialle, ettei hän vain rupea tilaamaan itselleen pukuja, ennenkuin\nhän on minut tavannut, sillä hän ei itsestään osaa mennä parhaisiin\nmuotikauppoihin. Ah, rakas lanko, kuinka kiltti sinä oletkaan! Minä\nolen varma, että sinä saat kaikki asiat ajetuksi onnellisesti perille!\"\n\nRuokasalissa heihin yhtyivät myöskin nuorimmat tyttäret, jotka\ntällävälin olivat makuuhuoneissaan ahkerasti varustautuneet liittymään\nmuiden seuraan. Toinen saapui kirjojensa, toinen toalettipöytänsä\näärestä. Molemmat näyttivät jokseenkin levollisilta -- lukuunottamatta\nehkä sitä, että närkästys ja vahingonilo sisaren typerästä seikkailusta\noli tehnyt Kittyn puheet entistä pisteliäämmiksi; kun taas Maryn oli\nonnistunut säilyttää siihen määrään malttinsa, että hän pöytään\nistuttua kuiskutti syvämietteisesti Elizabethin korvaan:\n\n\"Kovin onneton juttuhan tämä on, ja se antaa ihmisille arvatenkin\npaljon puheenaihetta. Mutta vaikka se Lydialle itselleen onkin perin\nikävä, niin on siitä meille toisille hyvää oppia.\" Kohdatessaan\nElizabethin ihmettelevän katseen hän selitti tarkemmin ajatustaan: \"Me\nnäet opimme tästä, että naiselle hyveellisyytensä menettäminen on\nainaisesti korvaamaton tappio; että yksi ainutkin harha-askel johtaa\nauttamattomaan perikatoon; että naisen hyvä maine on yhtä hauras kuin\nse on kaunis ja sädehtivä; ja että nainen ei voi koskaan olla kyllin\nvaruillaan suhtautuessaan toisen sukupuolen arvottomiin jäseniin. Tästä\nterveellisestä opetuksesta me kaikki saamme lohdullista palsamia\nhaavoitettuihin sydämiimme.\"\n\nElizabeth levitti silmänsä suuriksi, mutta oli liiaksi masennuksissa\nvoidakseen antaa sopivan vastauksen tuohon merkilliseen filosoofiseen\nlohdutukseen.\n\nIltapäivällä saivat Bennetin molemmat vanhemmat neidit olla\nkahdenkesken puolituntisen, ja Elizabeth voi kysellä sisareltaan\ntarkemmin tapauksen kaikkia yksityiskohtia. \"Kerro minulle kaikesta,\nmitä en vielä ole saanut kuulla. Mitä eversti Forster sanoi? Eikö\nheillä ollut aavistustakaan mistään, ennenkuin karkaaminen keksittiin?\nTottahan molemmat oli jo sitä ennen nähty paljon yhdessä?\"\n\n\"Eversti Forster myönsi, että hän oli tosin usein epäillyt jonkinlaista\nkiintymystä heidän keskensä, varsinkin Lydian taholta; mutta hän ei\nollut kuitenkaan huomannut mitään, josta olisi hänen mielestään\nkannattanut tehdä asiaa. Minä olen niin suruissani hänen takiaan. Hän\noli niin kovin hellätuntoinen ja ystävällinen meitä kohtaan. Hän oli jo\naikeissa lähteä tulemaan tänne vakuuttaakseen meille pahoitteluaan,\nennenkuin hän sai syytä epäillä, että he eivät olleetkaan lähteneet\nSkotlantiin; tämä arvelu sai hänet sitten kahta kiiruummin jouduttamaan\nmatkaansa.\"\n\n\"Entä oliko Denny vakuutettu siitä, ettei Wickhamilla ollut\nnaimakauppaa mielessä? Tiesikö hän mitään heidän karkaamisaikeestaan?\nOliko eversti Forster itse puhutellut Dennyä?\"\n\n\"Oli; mutta kun hän vaati Dennyltä selitystä, kielsi tämä jyrkästi\ntietäneensä koko heidän aikeestaan eikä tahtonut lausua todellista\nmielipidettään siitä. Hän ei enää toistanut arveluaan, ettei heillä\nolisi ollut avioliittoaikomusta mielessään; ja _siitä_ minä sitten sain\naihetta toivoa, että hän kenties ensiksi oli voinut käsittää heidät\nväärin.\"\n\n\"Osasikos teistä kukaan ennen eversti Forsterin saapumista epäillä,\netteivät he olisi aikoneetkaan vihittää itseään!\"\n\n\"Kuinka meidän olisi ollutkaan mahdollista epäillä, mitään sellaista?\nMinä tunsin itseni hiukan alakuloiseksi -- minä epäilin, että Lydia\ntuskin tulisi onnelliseksi avioliitossaan Wickhamin kanssa, koska\ntiesin, ettei tämä ollut aikaisemmin aina käyttäytynyt hyvin. Isä ja\näiti eivät tienneet siitä mitään; heidän mielestään vain tuollainen\nhoppunaiminen ei olisi hyväksi. Kitty sitten ilmaisi -- iloisena siitä,\nettä hänellä oli asioista enemmän vihiä kuin kellään meistä -- että\nLydia oli viimeisessä kirjeessään vihjaillut jotakin tämänkaltaista.\nKitty näkyy tienneen, että he olivat jo monta viikkoa sitten olleet\nrakastuneet toisiinsa.\"\n\n\"Mutta ei suinkaan ennen heidän Brightoniin menoaan?\"\n\n\"Ei, sitä en luule.\"\n\n\"Entä ajatteliko eversti Forster itse mitään pahaa Wickhamista?\nTunteeko hän tämän todellisen luonteen?\".\n\n\"Minun täytyy tunnustaa, että hän ei puhellut Wickhamista yhtä\nystävällisesti kuin aikaisemmin. Hän luuli tämän olevan tuhlailevaisen\nja hyvin ajattelemattoman; ja sen jälkeen kuin tämä surullinen juttu\ntapahtui, olen kuullut kerrottavan, että Wickham jätti Merytonissa\npaljon velkoja jälkeensä; mutta minä toivon, ettei siinä puheessa\nsentään ole perää.\"\n\n\"Ah, Jane, kunpa me molemmat olisimme olleet vähemmän salamyhkäisiä,\nkunpa vain olisimme kertoneet vanhemmillemme kaiken, mitä hänestä\ntiesimme, niin tätä kaikkea ei olisi tapahtunutkaan! Kuule, kertoiko\neversti Forster teille mitään siitä kirjeestä, jonka Lydia oli jättänyt\nhänen vaimolleen?\"\n\n\"Hän toi sen mukanaan meidän nähtäväksemme. Tässä se on.\"\n\nJane otti kirjeen esiin taskukirjastaan ja antoi sen Elizabethin\nluettavaksi. Se kuului seuraavasti:\n\n    \"_Rakas Harriet_! -- Sinä saat ison naurun, kun kuulet minun\n    karanneen; enkä voi olla itsekään nauramatta, kun kuvittelen\n    sinun ällistystäsi huomenaamuna keksiessäsi minut kadonneeksi\n    pesästä. Minä olen matkalla Gretna Greeniin; ja jollet sinä\n    osaa arvata kenen kanssa, niin olet aika pölkkypää, sillä koko\n    maailmassa on ainoastaan yksi mies, jota minä rakastan, ja hän\n    on oikea enkeli. Minä en tulisi ikinä onnelliseksi ilman häntä,\n    niin että älä huoli harmitella minun takiani. Sinun ei tarvitse\n    lähettää Longbourniin sanaa minun lähdöstäni jollet tahdo,\n    sillä he ällistyvät sitä enemmän, kun itse kirjoitan heille ja\n    merkitsen nimekseni Lydia Wickham. Mikä mainio kepponen siitä\n    tuleekaan! Enpä tahdo kyetä edes kirjoittamaan naurultani.\n    Ole kiltti ja pyydä puolestani anteeksi Prattilta, etten voi\n    noudattaa lupaustani ja tanssia hänen kanssaan tänä iltana.\n    Sano hänelle, että hän kyllä antaa minulle anteeksi kun saa\n    tietää kaiken, ja että minä sitä mieluummin tanssin hänen\n    kanssaan seuraavissa iltahuveissa. Minä lähetän noutamaan\n    pukujani, kun matkustan Longbourniin; mutta minä tahtoisin, että\n    käskisit Sallyn paikkaamaan sen ison repeämän musliinihameessani,\n    ennenkuin se säälitään matkaan. Hyvästi nyt vain! Sano terveisiä\n    eversti Forsterille. Toivon, että tyhjennät lasin viiniä meidän\n    matkaonneksemme. -- Hellä ystävättäresi\n\n                                             \"_Lydia Bennet_.\"\n\n\n\"Ah, tuo ajattelematon, huikentelevainen Lydia parka!\" huudahti\nElizabeth luettuaan kirjeen. \"Tuollainen kirje sellaisena hetkenä!\nMutta ainakin näkyy siitä, että _hän_ toki ajatteli vakavasti matkansa\ntarkoitusta. Vaikka Wickham perästäpäin olisi uskotellut hänelle mitä\nhyvänsä, niin hän ei ainakaan _aikonut_ tehdä mitään jumalatonta. Voi\nisäparkaamme, mitä hänen täytyikään kärsiä saadessaan käsiinsä moisen\nkirjeen!\"\n\n\"En ole ikinä nähnyt kenenkään olevan niin hirveästi järkytetty.\nKymmeneen minuuttiin hän ei voinut saada sanaakaan suustansa. Äiti sai\nheti hermokohtauksen, ja koko talo joutui aivan hämmennyksiin!\"\n\n\"Sinä olet itsekin saanut kärsiä aivan liiaksi. Sinä et näytä lainkaan\nterveeltä. Ah, olisinpa minä ollut täällä sinun apunasi! Sinä sait\nkestää kaiken hädän ja huolen aivan yksin.\"\n\n\"Mary ja Kitty ovat olleet hyvin kilttejä ja olisivat varmaankin\njakaneet minun vaivannäköni, mutta minusta ei ollut oikein vaivata\nheitä sellaisella. Kitty on itsekin hento ja kivuloinen, ja Mary\nlueskelee niin ahkerasti, ettei hänelle olisi jäänyt lepohetkeä\nollenkaan. Täti Philips tuli tänne tiistaina kohta isän lähdettyä: ja\nhän oli niin ystävällinen, että jäi torstaihin saakka minun\nseuraukseni. Hänestä oli meille kaikille suurta apua ja lohdutusta,\nja Lady Lucaskin on ollut hyvin herttainen. Hän käveli tänne\nkeskiviikko-aamuna ottamaan osaa suruuni ja tarjoomaan minulle omaa ja\ntyttäriensä apua, jos vain olisin sitä tarvinnut.\"\n\n\"Hänen olisi ollut parempi pysyä kotonaan\", huudahti Elizabeth. \"Ehkäpä\nhän _tarkoitti_ hyvää; mutta tällaisen onnettomuuden kohdatessa on\nparasta nähdä naapurejaan niin vähän kuin suinkin. Apua heidän on\nmahdoton antaa, ja heidän lohduttelunsa käy sietämättömäksi.\nRiemuitkoot he vain loitolla meidän kurjuudestamme ja tyytykööt siihen.\"\n\n\n\n\nXLVIII LUKU.\n\n\nKoko perhe odotti seuraavana aamuna hra Bennetiltä kirjettä, mutta\nposti tuli tuomatta häneltä riviäkään. He tosin tiesivät hänen olevan\nperin haluttoman ja leväperäisen kirjeenkirjoittajan, mutta he olivat\ntoivoneet, että hän edes tällaisena ajankohtana olisi tehnyt\npoikkeuksen tavoistaan. Heidän oli pakko tästä päätellä, että hänellä\nei ollut mitään mieluisia tietoja lähetettävänä; mutta sittenkin he\nolisivat halunneet kuulla jotakin varmaa. Hra Gardiner oli odotellut\nvain postin tuloa; sitten hän lähti oitis matkaan, luvaten lähettää\nvarmoja tietoja ja taivuttaa hra Bennetin palaamaan kotia niin pian\nkuin mahdollista -- suureksi huojennukseksi kälylleen, joka ainoana\nlohdullisena varmuutena toivoi tietoa, ettei hänen miehensä ollut\nkaatunut kaksintaistelussa.\n\nRva Gardinerin piti jäädä lapsineen Longbourniin vielä muutamiksi\npäiviksi, jotta hänen läsnäolonsa olisi huojennukseksi hänen\nsisarentyttärilleen. Heidän toinenkin tätinsä kävi ahkerasti heidän\nluonaan, ja kun hänellä aina oli kerrottavana uusia piirteitä Wickhamin\nkehnoudesta ja huikentelevaisuudesta -- muka heidän hauskutuksekseen ja\nvirkistämisekseen, niinkuin hän sanoi -- jätti hän heidät joka kerta\nyhä alakuloisempaan ja lohduttomampaan mielentilaan.\n\nKoko Meryton tuntuikin muuten käyvän yksimielisesti mustaamaan miestä,\njota vielä kolme kuukautta sitten oli pidetty valkeuden enkelinä. Hänen\nväitettiin jääneen velkaa jok'ikiselle paikkakunnan kauppiaalle, ja\nhänen juonensa -- joita kunnioitettiin viekoitteluyritysten nimellä --\nolivat ulottuneet jok'ikisen kauppiaan perheeseen. Jokaisen mielestä\nhän nyt oli maailman pahin syntisäkki; ja jokainen keksi perästäpäin,\nettä oli jo alunpitäen epäillyt hänen tekopyhää olemustaan. Vaikka\nElizabeth ei voinut uskoa puoliakaan siitä, mitä hänestä puhuttiin,\nluuli hän kuitenkin tietävänsä tarpeeksi ollakseen vakuutettu sisarensa\ntäydellisestä perikadosta; ja yksinpä Janekin, joka vielä vähemmän\nuskoi juoruihin, kävi vallan lohduttomaksi, varsinkin kun käsissä oli\njo aika, jolloin karkulaiset hyvästikin olisivat ennättäneet\nSkotlantiin (minne hän yhä vielä luuli heidän lähteneen), ilman että\nheiltä kuitenkaan tuli mitään tietoa.\n\nHra Gardiner oli lähtenyt Longbournista sunnuntaina; tiistaina hänen\nvaimonsa sai häneltä kirjeen, jossa hän ilmoitti heti etsineensä\nlankonsa käsiinsä ja suostuttaneensa hänet tulemaan kotiinsa\nGracechurch-kadun varrelle. Edelleen, että hra Bennet oli ennen hänen\ntuloaan turhin toimin tiedustellut pakolaisia Lontooseen pohjoisesta\npäin tulevien teiden varsilta, ja että hän nyt oli päättänyt etsiskellä\nläpikotaisin kaikki Lontoon huomattavimmat hotellit, koska hän arveli\nkarkulaisten kaupunkiin tultuaan majoittuneen johonkin niistä,\nennenkuin olivat saaneet hankituksi vuokra-asunnon. Hra Gardiner ei\nomasta puolestaan odottanut suurtakaan tulosta moisesta etsiskelystä;\nmutta kun lanko oli saanut sen lujasti päähänsä, tahtoi hän auttaa\nhäntä. Hän lisäsi, että hra Bennet oli lujasti päättänyt olla vielä\nnykyisin lähtemättä Lontoosta, ja lupasi kirjoittaa kohta uudelleen.\nKirjeessä oli seuraava loppulisäys:\n\n    \"Olen kirjoittanut eversti Forsterille ja pyytänyt häntä\n    tiedustelemaan Wickhamin upseeritovereilta, onko tällä mitään\n    läheisiä sukulaisia tai tuttavia, jotka voisivat arvailla, mihin\n    osaan kaupunkia hän on saattanut kätkeytyä. Tätänykyä meillä ei ole\n    siihen vähintäkään viitettä. Arvaan eversti F:n tekevän kaiken,\n    minkä hän suinkin voi. Mutta nyt tulin ajatelleeksi, että ehkäpä\n    Lizzy voi paremmin kuin kukaan muu kertoa meille, onko hänellä\n    sellaisia sukulaisia, joiden luona hän nyt voisi asua.\"\n\nElizabeth ymmärsi oitis, mistä syystä häneen oli vedottu; mutta hänen\nei ollut mitenkään mahdollista hankkia haluttuja tietoja.\n\nJokainen kuluva päivä oli Longbournin perheelle murheen ja ahdistuksen\npäivä; ja kaikkein suurimmaksi kohosi jännitys aina postin saapuessa.\nMutta ennenkuin he taasen kuulivat uutisia hra Gardinerilta, tuli hra\nCollinsilta heidän isälleen osoitettu kirje. Kun Jane oli saanut\nvaltuuden avata kaikki isälle tämän poissaollessa saapuvat kirjeet,\nluettiin tämä oitis. Elizabeth, joka tiesi, kuinka eriskummallisia tuon\narvoisan hengenmiehen kirjeet aina olivat, kuunteli sitä ensin miltei\nhuvitettuna, mutta sitten hyvin katkeroituneena. Se kuului seuraavasti:\n\n    \"_Parahin herra Bennet_. -- Sukulaisuutemme ja korkea\n    kutsumukseni velvoittavat minua ottamaan hartaasti osaa siihen\n    Sallimuksen kipeään iskuun, jonka alla te nykyisin kärsitte ja\n    josta Hertfordshirestä saamamme kirje on meille ilmoittanut. Olkaa\n    vakuutettu, hyvä herra, että rouva Collins ja minä tunnemme\n    vilpitöntä myötätuntoa teitä ja koko teidän arvoisaa perhettänne\n    kohtaan nykyisessä surkeudessanne, jonka täytyy olla mitä katkerin,\n    koska sen on aiheuttanut asia, jota ei edes aikakaan pysty\n    korjaamaan. Vastaanottakaa minun puoleltani kaikki mahdolliset\n    vakuuttelut, jotka voivat huojentaa niin raskasta onnettomuutta\n    sekä huojentaa surua, jonka täytyy olla mitä rasittavin vanhempain\n    sydämelle. Tyttärenne äkillinen kuolema olisi ollut teille\n    pelkkää siunausta tähän verrattuna. Ja tätä surkeutta täytyy\n    valittaa sitäkin enemmän, koska on syytä otaksua -- kuten rakas\n    Charlotteni on antanut minun ymmärtää -- että tyttärenne syntinen\n    ja kevytmielinen käytös on hedelmä vanhempien rikoksellisesta\n    välinpitämättömyydestä lastensa kasvattamisessa; vaikka minä\n    samalla olen taipuvainen -- teidän ja rouva Bennetin lohdutukseksi\n    -- otaksumaan, että tyttärenne sydän on jo luonnostansakin paha,\n    koska hän ei muuten olisi niin nuorella iällä voinut tehdä itseään\n    vikapääksi näin hirveään syntiin.\n\n    \"Mutta kuinka asianlaita lieneekin, on teitä sydämestä säälittävä;\n    ja tätä mielipidettä ei minun kanssani ole ainoastaan rouva\n    Collins, vaan myöskin Lady Catherine ja hänen tyttärensä, joille\n    olen kertonut asiasta. He ovat myöskin siinä yhtä mieltä minun\n    kanssani, että tämä yhden tyttärenne harha-askel ehdottomasti\n    turmelee kaikkien toistenkin lastenne elämänonnen: sillä kuka,\n    niinkuin Lady Catherine itse alentui huomauttamaan, tahtoo enää\n    perhesitein liittyä sellaiseen perheeseen? Ja tämä näkökohta\n    saa minun tyytyväisin mielin muistelemaan erästä teille tiettyä\n    tapausta viime marraskuun ajalta; sillä jos siiloin olisi käynyt\n    toisin, olisin minäkin nyt pakosta sotkeutunut kaikkeen teidän\n    suruunne ja häpeäänne. Sallikaa minun neuvoa teitä, rakas herrani,\n    etsimään lohtua sieltä, mistä sitä parhaiten löydätte, hylkäämään\n    ainaiseksi kelvottoman tyttärenne isällisestä rakkaudestanne ja\n    antamaan hänen korjata viimeiseen saakka törkeän syntinsä katkerat\n    hedelmät. -- Teidän j.n.e.\"\n\nHra Gardiner ei kirjoittanut, ennenkuin oli saanut eversti Forsterilta\nvastauksen; ja sittenkään hänellä ei ollut mitään lohdullista\nilmoitettavana. Ei oltu näet saatu selville, että Wickhamilla olisi\nelossa ainuttakaan sukulaista, jonka kanssa hän ylläpitäisi suhteita.\nTuttavia hänellä oli ennen ollut paljonkin; mutta sotaväkeen\nliityttyään hän tuntui rikkoneen kaikki välinsä heidän kanssaan. Ja\nyhtä paljon kuin pelko, että Lydian sukulaiset pääsisivät hänen\njäljilleen, aiheuttivat arvatenkin perin kehnot raha-asiat häntä\npysymään piiloutuneena; oli käynyt selville, että hän oli\nhuikentelevalla elämällään hankkinut niskoilleen melkoisen velkataakan.\nEversti Forster arveli, että enemmän kuin tuhat puntaa tarvittiin\nselvittämään yksin hänen Brightonissakin tekemiään sitoumuksia. Hänellä\noli koko joukko velkoja ympäri kaupunkia, mutta hänen kunniavelkansa\nupseeritovereille olivat vielä suuremmat. Hra Gardiner ei yrittänytkään\nsalata näitä seikkoja Longbournin perheeltä. Jane kauhistui niistä\nkuullessaan. \"Peluri!\" hän huudahti säikähtyneenä. \"Se oli kokonaan\nodottamatonta; en olisi voinut mitään sellaista aavistaakaan!\"\n\nHra Gardiner lisäsi, että he voivat odottaa isäänsä kotiin seuraavana\npäivänä, joka oli lauantai. Masentuneena etsiskelynsä hyödyttömyydestä\nhän oli suostunut lankonsa taivutteluun, että palaisi perheensä luo ja\nantaisi hänen yksinään parhaansa mukaan jatkaa tutkimuksia. Saatuaan\nkuulla miehensä palaavan rva Bennet ei ilmaissutkaan niin suurta\ntyytyväisyyttä kuin tyttärensä olivat odottaneet, muistellen hänen\nsiihenastista hätäänsä miehensä hengestä.\n\n\"Mitä! Tuleeko hän kotia, ja ilman Lydiaa?\" hän parkaisi. \"Varmastikaan\nhän ei voi lähteä Lontoosta, ennenkuin on saanut heidät käsiinsä. Kuka\nsitten taistelee Wickhamin kanssa ja pakottaa hänet naimaan Lydian, jos\nhän tahtoo livistää pakoon?\"\n\nKun rva Gardinerilla oli jo ikävä Lontooseen, sovittiin että hän\nlähtisi lapsineen heti hra Bennetin palattua. Hän oli hyvin utelias\ntietämään jotain enempää Elizabethin ja hra Darcyn suhteista ja oli\nodotellut viimeksimainitulta kirjettä tulevaksi kohta heidän peräänsä.\nMutta tämä toivo oli rauennut turhiin, eikä Darcyn nimeä oltu mainittu\nkertaakaan heidän keskensä.\n\nKun hra Bennet saapui kotia, oli hän näennäisesti sama filosoofinen\nelämäntarkastelija kuin ennenkin. Hän puheli yleensä hyvin vähän eikä\nvirkkanut sanaakaan Lontoon-matkastaan; ja kesti kotvan aikaa,\nennenkuin hänen tyttärensäkään rohkenivat ottaa sen puheeksi.\n\nVasta tulopäivän illalla, kun hän oli istunut perheensä kanssa\nteepöytään, uskalsi Elizabeth kosketella kaikkien mielissä\ntuskallisesti pyörivää kysymystä. Tyttären lausuttua surkuttelunsa\nkaikesta siitä, mitä isä matkallaan oli saanut kestää, vastasi tämä\nvain: \"Älä puhu siitä! Kenenkäpä tästä pitäisi kärsiä, jollei minun?\nKoko juttuhan on johtunut minun syystäni, ja minun pitäisi itseni hyvin\ntietää se.\"\n\n\"Te ette saa tuomita itseänne liian ankarasti, isä\", sanoi Elizabeth.\n\n\"Hyvä on, että varoitat minua sellaisesta pahennuksesta. Ihmisluonto\nonkin aina niin hätäinen lankeemaan juuri tuohon syntiin! Ei, Lizzy,\nanna sinä vain minun edes kerran eläissäni tuntea, kuinka suuri\nsyntikuorma on oikein niskoillani. En minä muuten pelkääkään, että\nnujerrun sen alle. Syyllisyyden tunto haihtuu taas liiankin pian\nmielestäni.\"\n\n\"Luuletteko heidän siis olevan Lontoossa?\"\n\n\"Tietysti; missäpä muualla he voisivatkaan piileskellä niin hyvin kuin\nsiellä?\"\n\n\"Ja Lydia ikävöikin aina päästäkseen Lontooseen\", ehätti Kitty väliin.\n\n\"No, nyt hän varmaankin tuntenee itsensä onnelliseksi\", sanoi isä\nkuivasti; \"ja hänen oleskelunsa siellä kestänee arvatenkin pitemmän\naikaa.\"\n\nLyhyen äänettömyyden jälkeen hän jatkoi:\n\n\"Lizzy, minä en kanna sinulle yhtään kaunaa, vaikka osuitkin oikeaan\nvaroittaessasi minua tämän jutun suhteen jo viime toukokuussa. Jo tämän\nseikan pitäisi todistaa jommoistakin määrää ylevämielisyyttä minun\npuoleltani, kun ottaa huomioon kaiken harmini ja vaivannäköni.\"\n\nHänet keskeytti Jane, joka tuli noutamaan äidilleen teetä.\n\n\"Kas tällainen sairasparaatihan on oikein mieltä ylentävä\", hän\nhuudahti; \"se antaa onnettomuudellekin jonkinlaisen kirkkauden\nsädekehän. Huomisesta lähtien minä rupeen tekemään samalla tavalla:\nistua kökötän kaiken päivää kirjastossani, yömyssy päässä ja\npuuterivaippa hartioilla, ja annan toisille jalkajuonta minkä ennätän\n-- vai odottaisinko ehkä siksi, kunnes Kitty vuorostaan lähtee\nkarkuun.\"\n\n\"Minä en vain karkaakaan, isä\", tuiskahti Kitty närkästyneenä. \"Jos\n_minä_ koskaan pääsen Brightoniin, niin silloin olenkin toisenlaista\ntyttöä kuin Lydia.\"\n\n\"_Sinäkö_ pääsisit Brightoniin! Sinua en uskaltaisi päästää Merytonia\nkauemmaksi -- en, vaikka minulle maksettaisiin viisikymmentä puntaa! Ei,\nKitty, nyt olen ainakin oppinut varovaiseksi, ja sinä saat tuta sen\nseurauksia. Ei ainutkaan upseerinkuvatus saa enää tulla minun talooni\n-- ei edes kulkea kylämme läpi. Tanssiaisiin menosta ei ole\npuhettakaan, jollei joku sisaristasi lupaa seisoa vierelläsi kaiken\niltaa. Etkä sinä saa edes liikahtaa ulos ovestakaan, ennenkuin olet\nvoinut osoittaa, että kykenet istumaan säädyllisesti sisässä kymmenen\nminuuttia päivässä.\"\n\nKitty, joka otti nämä uhkaukset vakavalta kannalta, pillahti itkemään.\n\n\"No no, malta nyt mielesi\", sanoi isä, \"äläkä turhan takia tee itseäsi\nonnettomaksi. Kun olet jaksanut pysyä kilttinä tyttönä kymmenenkin\nvuotta peräkkäin, vien sinut niiden päätyttyä katselemaan\nsotaväenparaatia.\"\n\n\n\n\nXLIX LUKU.\n\n\nKaksi päivää oli kulunut hra Bennetin palaamisesta, kun Jane ja\nElizabeth talon takaisessa puutarhassa kävellessään näkivät\ntaloudenhoitajattaren etsiskelevän heitä. Arvellen hänen tuovan heidän\näidiltään kutsun tämän luo he kiiruhtivat häntä vastaan; mutta kutsun\nsijasta hän rupesikin toimittamaan Janelle:\n\n\"Suokaa anteeksi, neiti, että häiritsen teitä kävelyllänne; mutta kun\ntoivoin teidän ehkä voivan kertoa hyviä uutisia Lontoosta, rohkenin\ntulla kysymään.\"\n\n\"Mitä te tarkoitatte, rouva Hill? Emmehän me ole saaneet mitään uutisia\nLontoosta.\"\n\n\"Hyvä isä sentään!\" huudahti rva Hill ihmeissään; \"ettekö sitten tiedä,\nettä herra Gardinerilta on tullut isännän luo pikalähetti? Hän oli\ntäällä puoli tuntia, ja isäntä sai hänen myötään kirjeen.\"\n\nTytöt karkasivat kyselemään, kerkeämättä edes puhelemaan keskenään. He\njuoksivat eteisen läpi ruokasaliin, sieltä kirjastoon -- isää ei\nnäkynyt kummassakaan; ja he olivat aikeissa kiivetä yläkertaan etsimään\nhäntä äidin luota, kun pöydänkattaja sattui heitä vastaan ja huomautti:\n\"Jos etsitte isäntää, hyvät neidit, niin hän käyskelee paraikaa ulkona\ntuota pikku viidakkoa kohti.\"\n\nSen tiedon saatuaan tytöt suihkasivat eteisen läpi ulos nurmikentälle\nisänsä perään, joka rivakoin askelin käveli aitauksen takana olevaa\nvähäistä metsäsaareketta kohti.\n\nJane, joka ei ollut niin ketterä juoksemaan kuin Elizabeth, jäi\njälemmäksi; sen sijaan tavoitti hänen sisarensa aivan hengästyneenä\nisän ja huusi hänelle kiihkeästi:\n\n\"Ah, isä -- mitä uutisia, mitä uutisia? Oletteko saanut enolta mitään\ntietoja?\"\n\n\"Tulihan niitä; sain häneltä tuonaan kirjeen pikalähetin myötä.\"\n\n\"Niin -- ja minkälaisia uutisia tuli -- hyviäkö vai huonoja?\"\n\n\"Mitäpä hyvää sitten oli odotettavanakaan?\" ärähti isä, ottaen kirjeen\ntaskustaan. \"Mutta ehkäpä sinua haluttaa lukea se itse.\"\n\nElizabeth sieppasi kärsimättömästi kirjeen hänen kädestään. Janekin\nennätti parahiksi paikalle.\n\n\"Lue se ääneen\", sanoi isä, \"sillä minä tuskin pääsin oikein selville\nsen sisällöstä.\"\n\n    \"_Rakas lankoni_. -- Vihdoin viimeinkin kykenen lähettämään\n    sinulle joitakin kuulumisia tyttärestäsi, vieläpä sellaisia,\n    joiden toivon tyydyttävän sinua. Kohta sinun lähdettyäsi täältä\n    viime lauantaina onnistui minun saada tietooni, missä Lontoon\n    osassa he asuivat. Yksityisseikkain kertomisen jätän siksi,\n    kunnes tapaamme jälleen toisemme. On kylliksi, että tiedät, että\n    heidät on löydetty; minä olen tavannut heidät kumpaisenkin...\"\n\n\"Sitten on käynyt, niinkuin aina toivoinkin\", huudahti Jane\nilahtuneena; \"he ovat siis todellakin naimisissa!\"\n\nElizabeth jatkoi lukemistaan:\n\n    \"Minä olen tavannut heidät kumpaisenkin. He eivät ole naimisissa,\n    enkä voinut heidän huomata aikoneenkaan mennä naimisiin; mutta\n    jos suostut hyväksymään eräät myönnytykset, jotka olen omin päin\n    tehnyt sinun nimessäsi, niin toivon ettei vihkimystä enää kauankaan\n    tarvitse viivyttää. Kaikki mitä sinulta vaaditaan on, että vakuutat\n    myötäjäiskirjalla tyttärellesi Lydialle hänen osuutensa siitä\n    viidentuhannen punnan pääomasta, joka on taattu lastesi perinnöksi\n    sinun ja vaimosi kuoleman jälkeen; ja että sen lisäksi suostut\n    maksamaan Wickhamille sata puntaa vuodessa niin kauan kuin\n    elät. Tällaiset ne ehdot ovat, joihin -- kaikki asianhaarat\n    huomioonottaen -- en ole epäröinyt sinun puolestasi suostua.\n    Lähetän tämän kirjeen tulemaan pikalähetin myötä, jotta\n    vastauksesi saantiin ei kulu liiaksi aikaa.\n\n    \"Näistä seikoista helposti käsittänet, etteivät herra Wickhamin\n    raha-asiat ole vallan niin toivottomat kuin niiden on yleisesti\n    luultu olevan. Maailma on pettynyt siinä suhteessa; ja minä olen\n    onnellinen voidessani lisätä, että sittenkun kaikki hänen\n    velkansa ovat maksetut, jää jäljelle vielä vähän rahoja\n    asetettavaksi sisarentyttäreni nimiin. Jos sinä siis -- kuten\n    oletan sinun tekevän -- lähetät minulle valtakirjan toimittaa\n    kaikki nämä asiat sinun nimessäsi, niin annan oitis lakimiehemme\n    Haggerstonin toimeksi valmistaa lainmukaisen myötäjäiskirjan. Ei\n    mikään seikka vaadi sinun tuloasi tänne; pysy siis vain kaikessa\n    rauhassa Longbournissa ja luota minun huolellisuuteeni ja\n    joutuisuuteeni. Lähetä vastauksesi ensi tilassa ja koeta kirjoittaa\n    niin selkeästi kuin taidat. Me olemme päättäneet paraimmaksi, että\n    sisarentyttäreni naitetaan meidän talostamme, ja toivon sinunkin\n    suostuvan siihen. Hän tulee meille tänään. Minä kirjoitan taas\n    uudestaan, kohta kun jotain on tullut päätökseen. Sinun j.n.e.\n\n                                        \"_Edw. Gardiner_.\"\n\n\"Onko se mahdollista?\" huudahti Elizabeth, lopetettuaan kirjeen\nlukemisen. \"Voiko todellakin olla mahdollista, että hän suostuu naimaan\nLydian?\"\n\n\"Wickham ei siis olekaan niin arvoton kuin olemme olettaneet\", sanoi\nhänen sisarensa. \"Rakas isä, minä onnittelen sinua vävypojastasi.\"\n\n\"Oletteko jo vastannut enon kirjeeseen?\" kysyi Elizabeth.\n\n\"En; mutta se on heti tehtävä.\"\n\nMitä hartaimmin Elizabeth pyysi häntä jouduttamaan vastauskirjettä.\n\n\"Ah, rakas isä\", hän huudahti, \"lähtekää nyt oitis kirjoittamaan\nhänelle. Arvaattehan itsekin, kuinka kallis jokainen silmänräpäys on\ntällaisessa asiassa.\"\n\n\"Antakaa minun kirjoittaa teidän puolestanne\", pyysi Jane, \"jos se on\nteille itsellenne vastenmielistä.\"\n\n\"Se on minulle todellakin sangen vastenmielistä\", vastasi hra Bennet;\n\"mutta mihinkäpä siitä pääsee.\"\n\nNäin sanoen hän kääntyi heidän kanssaan kotia kohti. \"Saanko kysyä,\nisä\", sanoi Elizabeth, \"aiotko suostua hänen ehtoihinsa?\"\n\n\"Suostuako niihin -- tietysti! Minua vain hävettää, että hän pyytää\nniin vähän.\"\n\n\"Ja heidän on _pakko_ mennä naimisiin! Ja kuitenkin hän on _sellainen_\nmies!\"\n\n\"Niin, niin kyllä, naimisiinhan heidän täytyy mennä. Siitä ei pääse\nmihinkään. Mutta kaksi asiata tahtoisin hyvin mielelläni tietää --\nkuinka paljon rahoja enosi on saanut uhrata taskustaan saadakseen asiat\ntälle kannalle; ja kuinka minä koskaan kykenen maksamaan ne hänelle\ntakaisin?\"\n\n\"Rahoja -- enoko?\" huudahti Jane. \"Mitä sinä oikein tarkoitat, isä?\"\n\n\"Tarkoitan vain, ettei kukaan järjissään oleva mies olisi halukas\nsieppaamaan Lydiaa niin kehnolla syötillä -- ajatteles, vain sata\npuntaa vuodessa minun eläissäni ja viisikymmentä sitten kun olen\nhaudassa.\"\n\n\"Se on hyvin totta\", sanoi Elizabeth, \"vaikka minä en tullut sitä\nollenkaan ajatelleeksi. Hänen velkansa ovat maksetut viimeiseen saakka,\nja sittenkin jää vähän jäännöstä! Ah, sen täytyy olla enon uhrausta!\nMinä pelkään, että tuo hyvä ja jalomielinen mies on saattanut itsensä\nvaikeuksiin sen kautta. Mikään vähäinen summa ei siihen ole riittänyt.\"\n\n\"Ei olekaan\", myönsi hänen isänsä. \"Wickham olisi pähkähullu, jos hän\nolisi tyytynyt penniäkään vähempään kuin kymmeneentuhanteen puntaan.\nMinua surettaisi ajatella hänestä niin paljon pahaa jo näin\nsukulaisuutemme alkuasteella.\"\n\n\"Kymmenentuhatta puntaa! Herra varjelkoon! Millä kyetään sellaisesta\nsummasta suorittamaan edes puoletkaan takaisin?\"\n\nHra Bennet ei vastannut mitään; ja syviin ajatuksiin vaipuneina\nastelivat isä ja tyttäret vaitonaisina kotiin. Isä meni suoraapäätä\nkirjastoonsa laittamaan vastauskirjettä valmiiksi, ja tytöt lähtivät\nruokasaliin. Nyt vasta he muistivat, että heidän äitinsä arvatenkaan ei\nvielä tiennyt mitään koko tapahtumasta. He menivät senvuoksi kirjastoon\nja kysyivät isältään, eikö hänenkin mielestään asiasta olisi\nilmoitettava äidille. Hän oli kirjoitushommassa, ja päätään\nkohottamatta hän vastasi kylmästi: \"Tehkää miten tahdotte.\"\n\n\"Saammeko ottaa enon kirjeen mukaamme ja lukea sen hänelle?\"\n\n\"Ottakaa mitä haluatte ja puittikaa tiehenne.\"\n\nElizabeth otti kirjeen pöydältä, ja he lähtivät yhdessä yläkertaan.\nMary ja Kitty olivat paraikaa rva Bennetin luona, joten asian voi\nyhdellä kertaa ilmoittaa koko perheelle. Rva Bennetin oli vaikea\npidättää riemuaan. Kohta kun Jane oli lukenut hra Gardinerin toiveesta,\nettä Lydian vihkiminen voi olla jo hyvinkin lähellä, hän puhkesi\nhuutamaan ihastuksesta, ja jokainen seuraava lause lisäsi yhä hänen\niloaan. Hänelle riitti tieto, että hänen tyttärensä joutui naimisiin.\nHäntä ei häirinnyt pelko Lydian tulevaisesta onnesta, ei suru hänen\nkevytmielisestä käytöksestään eikä huoli langon rahallisista\nuhrauksista.\n\n\"Voi, se rakas kullannuppu Lydia!\" hän ihasteli. \"Nämäpä vasta olivat\nhyviä sanomia! Hän menee naimisiin! Minä saan nähdä hänet naituna\nrouvana! Naimisissa jo kuudentoista vuoden ikäisenä, ajatelkaas sitä!\nSe hyvä, kelpo lankoni! Tiesinhän minä, että hän saisi asian\njärjestetyksi. Kuinka minä ikävöinkään nähdä Lydiaa! Ja sitä kelpo\nvävypoikaani myöskin! Mutta entäs vaatteet, hääpuvut! Minä kirjoitan\nniistä oitis sisarelleni. Lizzy, rakkaani, juokse alas isäsi tykö ja\nkysy, paljonko rahaa hän tahtoo antaa Lydialle hääpukuihin. Tai\nodotahan, minä lähdenkin itse. Soita kelloa, Kitty, jotta rouva Hill\nsaapuu tänne. Minun täytyy päästä pukeisiini. Voi, se rakas\nsydänkäpyseni Lydia! Kuinka iloisiksi me tulemmekaan, kun saamme\njälleen nähdä toisemme!\"\n\nHänen vanhin tyttärensä koetti hillitä äitinsä rajua iloa\nhuomauttamalla, että he olivat suuressa kiitollisuudenvelassa hra\nGardinerille tämän jalomielisestä uhrautuvaisuudesta.\n\n\"Meidän täytyy lukea tämä onnellinen päätös yksinomaan hänen\nansiokseen\", hän sanoi. \"Me olemme aivan vakuutetut siitä, että hän,\nvaikka hänellä itselläänkin on lapsia, joiden tulevaisuudesta hänen on\nhuolehdittava, on sitoutunut suorittamaan Wickhamille tämän vaatiman\nrahasumman.\"\n\n\"Mitäpä siitä\", huudahti hänen äitinsä, \"voisiko muuten ollakaan? Onhan\nhän Lydian tädin mies, ja jollei heillä itsellään olisi lapsia, perisin\nminä ja minun lapseni kaikki heidän rahansa; ja ensi kertaa hän nyt\nvasta tekeekin jotain meidän hyväksemme, joistakin pikku lahjoista\npuhumatta. Ei siitä siis sen pitemmältä! Voi minun päiviäni, kuinka\nminä tunnen itseni onnelliseksi! Kohta saan yhden tyttäristäni\nnaimisiin! Rouva Wickham -- kas se kuulostaa joltakin! Ja hän täytti\nvasta kuusitoista vuotta viime kesäkuussa. Jane rakas, minä olen niin\nriemastunut, että ihan vapisen; enkä luule, että kykenen kirjoittamaan\nriviäkään. Ota sinä kynä käteesi, minä sanelen sinulle mitä kirjoitat.\nMe puhumme isäsi kanssa raha-asioista sitten myöhemmin; mutta Lydian\npuvut on oitis saatava tilatuiksi.\"\n\nMutta hänen päänsä oli niin sekaisin musliini-, silkki- ja\npitsihuolista, että Janen oli helppo taivuttaa hänet lykkäämään\npukutilaukset siksi, kunnes niistä ennätettäisiin isän kanssa sopia.\nÄidille tulikin kohta toisia ajatuksia mieleen.\n\n\"Ehkä minä lähdenkin tästä heti Merytoniin\", hän sanoi, \"kohta kun saan\nvaatteet ylleni, viemään iloisia sanomia sisarelleni Philipsille. Ja\ntakaisin tullessa voin poiketa Lady Lucasin ja rouva Longin puheille.\nKitty, juokse alas ja toimita vaunut portaiden eteen. Arvaan, että\najelu ulkoilmassa palauttaa terveyteni. Tytöt, voinko minä suorittaa\nteille mitään asioita Merytonissa? Ah, tuollahan rouva Hill tulee!\nRakas Hill, oletteko jo kuullut hyviä uutisia? Lydia neiti menee kohta\nnaimisiin, ja te saatte valmistaa maljallisen punssia, jotta iloitsemme\nyhdessä heidän hääpäivänään.\"\n\nRva Hill alkoi purkaa onnittelujaan ja aivan sairaana ympäristönsä\nhupsutuksista pakeni Elizabeth huoneeseensa saadakseen ajatella\nrauhassa. Lydia paran tilanne oli tosin niin paha kuin suinkin; mutta\nomaiset saivat olla kiitollisia, ettei se ollut käynyt vielä\npahemmaksi.\n\n\n\n\nL LUKU.\n\n\nHra Bennet oli toivonut jo hyvin monesti ennen nykyisen pulman\nsattumista, että hän olisi pystynyt -- sen sijaan, että oli\nsäännöllisesti kuluttanut jokavuotiset tulonsa viimeistä penniä myöten\n-- säästämään vuosittain edes vähäisenkin summan tyttäriensä\ntulevaisuutta varten ja vaimonsa elinkoroksi, jos tämä eläisi häntä\nkauemmin. Nyt hän toivoi sitä hartaammin kuin koskaan ennen. Jos hän\nolisi tehnyt velvollisuutensa tässä suhteessa, niin ei Lydiata\nnaimisiin toimitettaessa olisi tarvinnut turvautua tämän enoon\nkunnia- ja rahasitoumusten vuoksi; ja yksinomaan hänelle itselleen\nolisi jäänyt tyydytys ostaa tyttärensä mieheksi Suur-Britannian\nkukaties kaikkein kunnottomin nuori mies.\n\nKun hra Bennet oli mennyt naimisiin, oli nuori pari pitänyt aivan\ntarpeettomana säästää mitään tulevaisuuden varalle; sillä aviostahan\narveltiin syntyvän pojan, joka perisi sukutilan ja kykenisi\nhuolehtimaan leskiäidistään ja nuoremmista sisaruksistaan. Viisi\ntytärtä peräkkäin ilmestyi maailmaan, ilman että pojasta oli mitään\ntietoa; mutta rva Bennet toivoi sellaista vielä monet vuodet\nLydian syntymisen jälkeenkin. Se toivo kuitenkin lopulta osoittihe\nturhaksi, mutta silloin oli jo liian myöhäistä ajatella säästämistä.\nRva Bennetillä ei ollut vähintäkään taipumusta säästäväiseen\ntaloudenpitoon; ja ainoastaan hänen miehensä rakkaus riippumattomaan\ntaloudelliseen asemaan oli varjellut heitä elämästä varojensa yli.\n\nViisituhatta puntaa oli avioliittosopimuksessa sijoitettu rva Bennetin\nleskiosaksi ja lasten perinnöksi; mutta miten summa oli jaettava\nviimeksimainittujen kesken, se oli jätetty riippuvaiseksi vanhempain\njälkisäädöksestä. Lydian avioliitto kiiruhti kuitenkin asiata nyt heti\nratkaisemaan, eikä hra Bennet epäröinyt lainkaan suostuessaan hänelle\nasetettuihin naimaehtoihin. Kiitollisesti tunnustaen lankonsa hyvyyden\nhän ilmoitti alttiisti hyväksyvänsä kaikki sitoumukset, joita tämä oli\ntehnyt hänen nimessään. Hän pyysi edelleen langoltaan seikkaperäistä\ntietoa, paljonko hän oli joutunut tälle velkaan Wickhamin raha-asiain\njärjestämisen kautta; mutta Lydiata kohtaan hän oli yhä vielä siihen\nmäärään äreissään, ettei hän lähettänyt tälle riviäkään onnitteluksi.\n\nHyvät uutiset levisivät Longbournista pian naapuristoonkin ja\naiheuttivat tietysti enemmän tai vähemmän vilpittömiä onnitteluja;\nvaikkapa moniaat vanhat rouvat Merytonissa pudistelivat pahaenteisesti\nharmaita riippukiharoitaan arvellen, että sellaisen miehen rinnalla\nnuorikon avioliitto varmastikin päättyisi kurjuuteen.\n\nRva Bennet ei antanut kuitenkaan näiden kovaonnenkorppien raakunnallaan\nhäiritä hänen ylpeätä iloaan; ei edes häpeäntunne tyttärensä\nkuulumattoman käytöksen vuoksi riistänyt häneltä iloa suunnitella\nloistavia tulevaisuudenkuvia Lydian varalle. Hän puhua pälpätti\nlakkaamatta hienojen häävaatteiden, uusien vaunujen ja monipäisen\npalvelijakunnan hankkimisesta nuorelle parille. Ympäristöstä hänen oli\nvaikea löytää kyllin arvokasta maatilaa heidän tulevaksi kodikseen; ja\nkuitenkin sen piti sijaita lähellä lapsuudenkotia, jotta äiti voisi\njoka päivä käydä katsomassa tyttärensä avio-onnea.\n\nHänen miehensä kuunteli vaieten näitä sydämenpurkauksia, niin kauan\nkuin palvelijoita oli saapuvilla. Mutta jäätyään kahdenkesken hän\nsanoi: \"Kuulehan nyt, hyvä rouvaseni, ennenkuin käyt hankkimaan jonkin\nnoista kartanoista tahi vaikkapa yksin tein ne kaikkikin vävypojallesi\nja tyttärellesi, on meidän ensin sovittava eräästä asiasta. _Yhteen_\ntaloon tällä seudulla he eivät ainakaan saa koskaan tulla. Minä en aio\nsuvaita sellaista röyhkeyttä heidän puoleltaan, että he kertaakaan\nastuisivat jalallaan Longbournin veräjän sisäpuolelle.\"\n\nPitkä kiihkeä väittely seurasi tätä tahdonilmausta, mutta hra Bennet\npysyi lujana; ja rva Bennet huomasi kauhukseen, ettei hänen miehensä\naikonut uhrata puntaakaan edes tyttärensä häätarpeiden varustamiseen.\nTätä oli kunnon rouvan mahdoton käsittää. Hän oli paljon enemmän\nhirmustunut ja masentunut siitä häpeästä, että hänen tyttärensä täytyi\nastua vihkipallille ilman uutta hääpukua, kuin pari viikkoa aikaisemmin\nsurressaan Lydian karkausta ja luvatonta yhdyselämää Wickhamin kanssa.\n\nElizabethia hävetti ja harmitti, että hän oli ensi iskun masennuksessa\nilmaissut hra Darcylle pelkonsa sisaren kohtalosta. Vaikka vihkiminen\nnyt muodollisesti saattoikin koko karkaamisjutun suotuisaan päätökseen,\nluuli hän kuitenkin tuntevansa siksi hyvin tuon ylpeän miehen, ettei\ntällä enää ollut vähintäkään halua liittää omaa kohtaloansa sellaiseen\nseikkailevaan perheeseen. Elizabeth oli nöyryytetty ja suruissaan; hän\ntunsi katumusta, itsekään oikein tietämättä, minkä vuoksi. Nyt hän\nolisi halunnut säilyttää Darcyn kunnioituksen ja arvonannon hinnalla\nmillä hyvänsä, vaikkakin tiesi, ettei sillä enää ollut tähdellistä\nmerkitystä hänen omalle elämälleen. Hän isosi ja janosi kuulla tietoja\nhänestä, missä niitä suinkin oli saatavissa. Hän tunsi olevansa varma\nsiitä, että hän olisi tullut hyvin onnelliseksi Darcyn rinnalla -- nyt,\nkun ei enää ollut toivoa, että he koskaan näkisivät toisiaan.\n\nNyt hän vasta alkoi täysin käsittää, että Darcy oli juuri se mies, joka\nluonteenlaatunsa ja hengenlahjojensa puolesta paraiten olisi sopinut\nhänelle puolisoksi. Vaikka he luonteensävyltään ja elämänkäsitykseltään\nolivatkin niin erilaiset, olisivat he täydentäneet toisiaan\nmolemminpuoliseksi eduksi -- hänen oma vilkkautensa ja sukkela järkensä\nolisi lieventänyt rakastetun mielen raskautta ja jyrkkyyttä; ja tämän\nterve arvostelukyky ja kypsynyt maailmantuntemus ynnä horjumattoman\npuhdaspiirteinen olemus olisivat olleet hänelle itselleen mitä\nsuurimmaksi siunaukseksi.\n\nMikä riemuvoitto Darcylle olisikaan ollut tietää -- näin hän yllätti\nitsensä usein ajattelemasta -- että hänen kosintansa, joka monias\nkuukausi sitten oli niin ylimielisesti ja haavoittavin sanoin hylätty,\nnyt olisi ilomielin ja kiitollisesti vastaanotettu! Hän ei tosin\nepäillytkään, etteikö Darcy ollut ylevämielinen ja hienotunteinen --\nylevämielisimpiä koko sukupuolestaan. Mutta ihminenhän hänkin vain oli,\nja senvuoksi hänen olisi täytynyt tuntea tyydytystä ja voitonriemua.\n\nHra Bennet sai pian langoltaan kirjeen, jonka pääsisältönä oli\ntiedonanto, että hra Wickham oli päättänyt erota miliisirykmentistä ja\nsiirtyä vakinaiseen sotaväkeen, jossa hänellä oli jo paikka tiedossa\neräässä maan pohjoisosaan sijoitetussa rykmentissä. Eversti Forsteria\noli pyydetty tyydyttämään hänen Brightonissa olevat velkojansa, ja\nsamanlaisen lupauksen kirjoittaja pyysi lankonsa toimittamaan\nMerytonissa asuville saamamiehille, jotka kirjeessä lueteltiin. Hra\nGardiner mainitsi lopuksi, että nuori pari aikoi viikon perästä lähteä\nLontoosta liittyäkseen Wickhamin rykmenttiin, mutta että nuorikko\nhalusi hartaasti tavata omaisiansa, jonka vuoksi he toivoivat kutsua\nLongbourniin.\n\nHra Bennet ja hänen vanhemmat tyttärensä olivat hyvin mielissään, että\nWickham siirtyi niin kauaksi entiseltä näyttämöltään. Mutta rva Bennet\nei ollut lainkaan tyytyväinen. Hän oli kovin pettynyt kuullessaan, että\nLydia, jonka seurasta ja läheisyydestä hän juuri oli niin suuresti\niloinnut ja ylpeillyt, joutui asumaan kauas maan pohjoisperukoille. Ja\nolihan perin onnetonta, että Lydia täten tuli riistetyksi pois oman\npaikkakunnan rykmentin keskuudesta, jossa hän tunsi jok'ainoan\nupseeriperheen ja jossa häntä oli niin suuresti suosittu.\n\n\"Hänhän on niin kiintynyt rouva Forsteriin ja tämä myöskin häneen\",\nvalitti poloinen äiti, \"että kauheata on lähettää hänet tuonne\nsydänmaihin! Ja upseerien joukossa oli useita niin miellyttäviä nuoria\nmiehiä, joista hän piti paljon. Kukapa tietää, minkälaisia miehiä ne\nuuden rykmentin upseerit ovatkaan!\"\n\nHra Bennet puolestaan ensin antoi ehdottoman kiellon Lydian\ntoivomukseen; hänellä ei ollut vähintäkään halua tavata epäkelpoa\ntytärtään ja tämän kunnotonta puolisoa. Mutta Jane ja Elizabeth, jotka\ntahtoivat säästää sisarensa tunteita ja hankkia hänen avioliitolleen\nvanhempain muodollisen siunauksen, taivuttelivat isäänsä niin vakavasti\nja samalla lempeästi, että tämä viimein lankonsa välityksellä kutsui\nnuoren parin Longbourniin kohta vihkimyksen jälkeen. Elizabeth\nihmetteli kuitenkin itsekseen, kuinka Wickham oli saattanut suostua\ntähän tuumaan; ja omasta puolestaan hän kernaimmin olisi tahtonut\nvälttää näkemästä uutta lankomiestään.\n\n\n\n\nLI LUKU.\n\n\nLydian hääpäivä oli ollut ja mennyt; ja Jane ja Elizabeth olivat\nsilloin olleet luultavasti enemmän liikutetut kuin morsian itse. Kohta\nvihkimyksen jälkeen nuoren parin oli määrä saapua Longbourniin, ja\nvaunut lähetettiin heitä vastaan ----n majataloon, josta heidän piti\njoutua perille päivällisen ajaksi. Molemmat vanhemmat sisaret miltei\npelkäsivät heidän tuloaan; Jane varsinkin tunsi olonsa sellaiseksi,\nkuin olisi hän itse ollut perheen kadonnut lammas, ja hän kuvitteli\nmielessään, kuinka hirveää ahdistusta ja jännitystä hänen sisarensa\ntäytyikään tuntea palatessaan lapsuudenkotiinsa.\n\nJo kuului vaununkolinaa maantieltä. Perhe oli kokoontunut ruokasaliin\nvastaanottamaan nuorta paria. Rva Bennetin kasvot säteilivät autuaasta\nodotuksesta; hänen miehensä näytti tavallistakin kylmemmältä, tyttäret\nhätääntyneiltä ja tuskaisilta.\n\nLydian ääni kuului eteisestä; ovi paiskattiin auki, ja hän juoksi\nsisään. Hänen äitinsä lyllersi häntä vastaan ja syleili ja tervehti\nhäntä ihastuneena; hän kätteli herttaisesti hymyillen myöskin\nWickhamia, joka seurasi vaimonsa kintereillä, ja toivotti molemmille\nonnea ja tervetuloa.\n\nHra Bennetin tervehdys ei ollut varsin yhtä sydämellinen. Hänen\nkasvonsa pysyivät jäykkinä, ja hän avasi tuskin suutansakaan. Nuoren\nparin huoleton varmuus olikin omiaan häntä ärsyttämään. Elizabethia se\nmyös harmitti, ja yksinpä lempeä Janekin näytti pahastuneelta. Lydia\noli edelleen aivan entisensä; kesytön, hillitön, raju ja meluava. Hän\nkääntyi sisaresta toiseen vaatien heidän onnittelujaan; ja kun kaikki\nviimein kävivät istumaan, vilkuili hän ympäri huonetta, huomasi\nvähäisiä muutoksia siellä täällä ja sanoi nauruun purskahtaen, että\nhyvä aika olikin kulunut siitä, kun hän oli viimeksi istunut tämän\nkaton alla.\n\nMyöskään Wickham ei näyttänyt olevan sen pahemmin hämillään kuin\nvaimonsakaan; mutta hänen käytöstapansa oli aina ollut niin sulava ja\nsiloinen, että jos hänen avioliittonsa olisi käynyt niinkuin sen olisi\npitänyt käydä, olisi hänen kevyt hymynsä ja sirot puheenkäänteensä\nilahduttaneet kaikkia, kun hän nyt esitti lähempää sukulaisuutta\ntalonväen kanssa. Elizabeth ei olisi uskonut hänen voivan kaiken eletyn\njälkeen esiintyä noin varmasti; istuessaan itse aivan hämillään hän\npäätteli itsekseen, että julkean miehen julkeudella _ei_ ole rajoja.\nHän punastui ja Janekin punastui; mutta niiden poskilla, jotka tuon\npunastuksen olivat aiheuttaneet, ei näkynyt hämin ja syyllisyyden\nmerkkiäkään.\n\nPuheenaiheista ei ollut puutetta. Nuorikko ja hänen äitinsä purkivat\ntoisilleen sydämensä pohjaa myöten; ja Wickham, joka oli joutunut\nistumaan Elizabethin viereen, rupesi kyselemään niin rattoisasti\nympäristön oloista ja ihmisistä, että tytön oli vaikea vastata samaan\nsävyyn. Tahallaan Lydia johti puheen aloille, joista hänen sisarensa\nmieluimmin olisivat vaienneet.\n\n\"Ajatelkaas vain\", hän huusi, \"siitä on jo kolmisen kuukautta kun\nläksin täältä, mutta minusta ne tuntuvat vain kolmelta viikolta; ja\nmitä kaikkea sillä aikaa kuitenkin on tapahtunut! Herra isä sentään,\nkuka olisi silloin arvannut, että minä palaan tänne takaisin naituna\nrouvana, vaikka minusta se kyllä olisi ollut aika veikeä ajatus.\"\n\nHänen isänsä kohotti kulmakarvojaan, Jane näytti vaivautuneelta, ja\nElizabeth katseli moittivasti Lydiaan; mutta tämä leperteli iloisesti\nedelleen: \"Ah, äitikulta, tietävätköhän edes kaikki ihmiset täälläpäin,\nettä minä todella olen naimisissa? Minä pelkäsin, ettei sitä tiedetä;\nja niinpä kun William Goulding ajoi ohitsemme kaksipyöräisillä\nrattaillaan, vedin sukkelaan hansikkaan vasemmasta kädestäni ja\nriiputin kättäni vaununakkunan reunalta, jotta hän näkisi kiiltelevän\nsormukseni; ja sitten kumarsin ja nauroin hänelle koko naamallani.\"\n\nElizabeth ei jaksanut enää kuulla moista puhetta. Hän hypähti ylös ja\njuoksi huoneesta eteiseen eikä palannut toisten luo, ennenkuin nämä\nsiirtyivät eteisen halki saliin. Hän näki Lydian pöyhkeillen marssivan\netumaisena äitinsä rinnalla ja kuuli hänen sanovan vanhimmalle\nsisarelleen: \"Hei, Jane, minä otan nyt sinun paikkasi, sinä saat\nsiirtyä alemmaksi, koska olet vielä naimattomain kirjoissa.\" Hänen\nhilpeytensä ja vallattomuutensa tuntui yhä vain lisäytyvän. Hän ikävöi\npäästä tapaamaan täti Philipsiä, Lady Lucasia ja kaikkia muita\nnaapureja ja kuulla heidän nimittävän häntä \"rouva Wickhamiksi\"; ja\npäivällisiltä nousten hän juoksi keittiöön näyttelemään sormustaan\nja kerskumaan uudesta arvostaan rva Hillille ja molemmille\npalvelustytöille.\n\n\"No niin, äiti\", hän sanoi, kun kaikki olivat jälleen koolla\nruokasalissa, \"mitäs te sanotte minun miehestäni? Eikö hän ole\nkerrassaan viehättävä olento? Olen varma, että kaikki sisareni\nkadehtivat häntä minulta. Minä toivon, että heillä olisi edes puoletkin\nminun hyvästä onnestani. Heidän pitää kaikkien päästä lähtemään\nBrightoniin. Siellä sitä vasta pääsee miehelään. Eikös ollutkin\nsurkeata, äiti, ettemme päässeet sinne joukolla?\"\n\n\"Aivan totta; ja jos minä saisin tahtoni perille, niin lähtisimme sinne\noitis. Mutta, Lydia kulta, siitä minä en ollenkaan pidä, että sinä\nsillä tapaa karkasit. Täytyikö sen todella tapahtua?\"\n\n\"Hui hai, äiti -- mitäs pahaa siinä oli! Minusta se olikin kaikkein\nveikeintä! Kuulkaas, sinun ja isän ja kaikkien siskojen pitää tulla\npian tervehtimään meitä. Me asumme Newcastlessa koko talven ajan, ja\narvaanpa ettei siellä tule tanssiaisista puutetta, ja minä hommaan\ntytöille hyvät tanssittajat.\"\n\n\"Ah, hyvä isä sentään, se vasta olisikin minun mieleeni!\"\n\n\"Ja kun sitten palaatte kotia, niin teidän on jätettävä joku sisarista\ntai parikin jälelle, ja minä lupaan toimittaa heidät miehelään jo ennen\nkevään tuloa.\"\n\n\"Minä kiitän omasta puolestani hyväntahtoisuudestasi\", sanoi Elizabeth;\n\"mutta minä en pidä erityisesti sinun naimatavoistasi.\"\n\nVieraiden oli määrä viipyä vain kymmenen päivää Longbournissa. Hra\nWickham oli saanut upseerinpaikan ennen Lontoosta lähtöään, ja hänen\npiti liittyä rykmenttiinsä kahden viikon perästä.\n\nWickhamin kiintymys Lydiaan oli aivan sellainen -- niin kevyt ja niin\npinnallinen -- kuin Elizabeth oli odottanutkin. Lydia sen sijaan oli\nsokeasti, silmittömästi ihastunut mieheensä. Joka tilaisuudessa tämä\noli hänen \"rakas Wickhaminsa\"; hänen rinnalleen ei voinut asettaa\nketään muuta miestä koko maailmassa.\n\nEräänä ensimmäisistä päivistä tulonsa jälkeen Lydia istui yhdessä\nmolempain vanhimpain sisartensa kanssa ja sanoi kesken muuta\npuheenpitoa Elizabethille:\n\n\"Kuulehan, Lizzy, en liene vielä kertonut _sinulle_ mitään häistäni.\nSinä et ollut saapuvilla, kun juttusin siitä äidille ja kaikille\ntoisille. Etkö ole utelias kuulemaan, miten kaikki oikein kävi päinsä?\"\n\n\"En erityisesti\", vastasi Elizabeth; \"minusta on viisainta puhua niin\nvähän kuin mahdollista koko asiasta.\"\n\n\"Hui hai, sinäpä vasta merkillinen olet! Mutta enpä malta sittenkään\nolla kertomatta sinulle. Meidät vihittiin St. Clementin kirkossa, koska\nWickham asui siinä seurakunnassa. Kaikkien piti kokoontua sinne kello\nyhdeksitoista aamulla. Enon, tädin ja minun piti lähteä yhdessä ja\ntoisten kohdata meidät kirkonportilla. No niin, maanantaiaamu tuli\nsitten viimeinkin, ja minä olin ihan päästäni pyörällä. Pelkäsin\nnäetsen, että jotain sattuisi tapahtumaan, mikä tekisi äkkilopun koko\nhauskuudesta, ja minä olisin perinyt pelkkää häpeätä. Ja täti se vielä\npuhui ja saarnasi minulle koko ajan kun minua puettiin; mutta minä en\nsiitä paljonkaan kuullut, sillä ajattelin koko ajan rakasta\nWickhamiani. Olin niin utelias tietämään, tuliko hän vihille sinisessä\nhännystakissaan vaiko punaisessa vormutakissaan.\n\n\"No niin, me söimme aamiaista kello kymmeneltä kuten tavallista, ja\nminä istuin kuin tulisilla neuloilla. Ja parahiksi, kun vaunut olivat\njuuri ajaneet ulko-oven eteen, tuli se hirveä herra Stone -- enon\nliiketoveri -- ja kutsui enon puhelemaan kauppa-asioista. Ja kun ne\nkaksi kerran pääsevät suusta yhteen, niin heidän tarinoimisestaan ei\ntahdo tulla loppuakaan. Minä olin niin hirveästi hädissäni, sillä enon\npiti kirkossa olla minun naittajani ja antaa minut aviomiehelleni; ja\njollemme ennättäneet sinne ajoissa, niin ei vihkimisestä olisi tullut\nmitään koko päivänä. Onneksi hän kuitenkin palasi joukkoomme kymmenen\nminuutin perästä, niin että pääsimme toki lähtemään. Perästäpäin tulin\najatelleeksi, ettei olisi ollut hätää vaikka eno olisi pysynytkin\npoissa, sillä herra Darcy olisi voinut aivan yhtä hyvin olla\nnaittajani.\"\n\n\"Kuka -- herra Darcyko!\" huudahti Elizabeth ihmeissään.\n\n\"Hänpä juuri! Hänen oli määrä saapua kirkkoon Wickhamin nuodemiehenä.\nMutta hyvä Jumala kuitenkin! Aivanhan minä unohdin koko asian! Minä en\nolisi saanut hiiskua siitä sanaakaan. Olenpas minä koko pöllö! Ja sen\nlupasin heille niin lujasti! Mitä Wickham nyt sanookaan? Sen piti pysyä\naivan salassa toisilta!\"\n\n\"Jos sen piti pysyä salassa\", sanoi Jane, \"niin älä virka enää\nsanaakaan enempää. Saat olla varma, etten minä ainakaan käy utelemaan\nkoko asiata.\"\n\n\"Ah, emme tietenkään\", vakuutti Elizabeth punoittavin poskin, vaikka\nhän aivan paloi uteliaisuudesta.\n\n\"Kiitos vain\", sanoi Lydia; \"sillä jos utelisitte enempää, niin en\nmalttaisi olla kertomatta teille; ja silloin Wickham suuttuisi\nhirveästi.\"\n\nMutta Elizabethin oli aivan mahdoton jäädä tietämättömäksi tästä perin\nmielenkiintoisesta asiasta -- tahi ainakin hänen oli mahdoton olla\nhankkimatta tietoja toiselta taholta. Hra Darcy oli siis ollut mukana\nhänen sisarensa vihkiäisissä. Sehän vasta oli merkillinen uutinen! Ja\nvieläpä sellaisessa seurassa, johon hänellä ilmeisesti oli ollut\nkaikkein vähimmän halua liittyä. Ajatukset pyörivät tytön aivoissa kuin\nvillit virvatulet. Hän arvaili sen kymmeneen suuntaan syytä Darcyn\nläsnäoloon, mutta mikään niistä ei häntä tyydyttänyt. Mikä häntä\nparhaiten olisi miellyttänyt ja asettanut Darcyn menettelyn ylevimpään\nvaloon, se tuntui hänestä mahdottomalta uskoa. Hän ei jaksanut sen\nkauempaa kestää tätä jännitystä, juosten joutuun omaan huoneeseensa hän\nistahti pöydän ääreen, sieppasi paperiarkin ja kirjoitti lyhyen kirjeen\ntädilleen pyytäen häneltä selitystä Lydian ajattelemattomaan\nvihjaukseen, jollei sen ilmaiseminen rikkonut tädiltäkin ehkä vaadittua\nvaitiolonlupausta.\n\n\"Voittehan helposti käsittää minun uteliaisuuteni\", hän lopetti\nkirjeensä, \"kuullessani että henkilö, joka ei ole lainkaan sukulainen\nja joka muutenkin ollen melkein vennon vieras perheellemme, on ollut\nteidän joukossanne sellaisessa tilaisuudessa. Olkaa kiltti ja vastatkaa\nminulle oitis ja selittäkää minulle tämä ongelma -- jollei sen jostakin\nsyystä pidä pysyä syrjäisiltä salassa, kuten Lydia antoi ymmärtää;\nsilloin minun täytyy koettaa tyytyä olemaan edelleenkin pimeässä.\"\n\n\"Niinkuin minä muka siihen tyytyisin\", hän lisäsi uhkamielisesti\nitsekseen sulkiessaan kirjeen. \"Ja jollet sinä, rakas täti, kerro\nminulle sitä kunniallisella tavalla, niin keksin sen varmasti\nsalateitä!\"\n\n\n\n\nLII LUKU.\n\n\nElizabeth saikin tyydytyksekseen tädiltä vastauksen mahdollisimman\npian. Kohta kun hän oli siepannut kirjeen postilaukusta, hän juoksi\nkiireimmän kautta aidantakaiseen pikku metsikköön, missä oli vähimmän\nvaaraa tulla häirityksi; ja siellä hän onnesta huoahtaen istahti\nmatalalle turvepenkille ja varustautui olemaan tyytyväinen, sillä\nkirjeen pituudesta päättäen vastaus ei varmastikaan ollut kielteinen.\n\n    \"Gracechurch-katu n:o --, syyskuun 6 p:nä.\n\n    \"_Rakas sisarentyttäreni_. -- Olen juuri saanut sinun kirjeesi ja\n    aion omistaa koko tämän aamun vastatakseni siihen, sillä arvaan,\n    että _lyhyt_ vastaus ei _riitä_ tyydyttämään sinua. Minun täytyy\n    tunnustaa, että pyyntösi hämmästytti minua; en näet osannut odottaa\n    sellaista _sinun_ puoleltasi. Älä tästä kuitenkaan pahastu, sillä\n    tahdon ainoastaan sanoa, etten kuvitellut moisia tiedusteluja\n    tarpeellisiksi _sinun_ taholtasi. Jollet sittenkään tahdo\n    ymmärtää minua, niin anna anteeksi härnäykseni. Enosi ällistyi\n    kysymyksestäsi yhtä suuresti kuin minäkin; ja ainoastaan luja usko,\n    että sinä kohdaltasi olit osallinen jutussa, oli saanut hänen\n    menettelemään niinkuin hän teki. Mutta jos todella olet aivan\n    viaton ja tietämätön kaikesta, niin täytynee minun selittää juttu\n    juurta jaksain.\n\n    \"Samana päivänä, jolloin minä kotiuduin Longbournista, oli enosi\n    saanut vallan odottamattoman vieraan. Herra Darcy näet saapui hänen\n    puheilleen ja viipyi hänen kanssaan kahdenkesken useita tunteja.\n    Keskustelu oli kuitenkin jo päättynyt minun saapuessani; niin että\n    _minun_ uteliaisuuteni ei tarvinnut patoutua niin hirvittävästi\n    kuin _sinun_ näkyy tehneen. Hän tuli kertomaan enollesi, että hän\n    oli keksinyt, missä sisaresi ja herra Wickham asuivat, ja että\n    hän oli sekä nähnyt heidät että puhellutkin heidän kanssaan --\n    Wickhamin kanssa moneen kertaan, Lydian kanssa vain yhden kerran.\n    Mikäli sain selville, oli hän matkustanut Derbyshirestä jo meidän\n    lähtömme jälkeisenä päivänä, lujasti päättäen etsiä karkulaiset\n    täältä Lontoosta käsiinsä. Syyksi hän mainitsi, että hän piti\n    itseään tavallaan vastuunalaisena siitä, ettei Wickhamin kehno\n    luonne ollut tullut siksi yleisesti tunnetuksi, että tieto siitä\n    olisi voinut estää hyvään perheeseen kuuluvaa nuorta neitosta\n    rakastumasta ja luottamasta moiseen mieheen. Ylevämielisesti hän\n    pani koko ikävän tapahtuman oman erhettyväisen ylpeytensä syyksi,\n    hän kun näet oli pitänyt arvoaan alentavana kuuluttaa omia ja\n    perheensä yksityisasioita maailman tietoon. Senvuoksi hän tahtoi\n    nyt käydä väliin ja jos suinkin mahdollista korjata pahan, jonka\n    hän välillisesti oli aiheuttanut. Jos hänellä olisi ollut jotakin\n    _muutakin_ aihetta, niin olen varma, ettei sekään olisi ollut\n    hänelle häpeäksi.\n\n    \"Hän oli saanut etsiä karkulaisia muutamia päiviä turhaan; mutta\n    hänellä oli apunaan johtonuora, jollaista meillä ei ollut, ja jonka\n    avulla hän viimein pääsi heidän perilleen. Täällä asuu nim. muuan\n    rouva nimeltä Yonge, joka oli aikaisemmin ollut hänen sisarensa\n    kasvattajatar, mutta joka näyttää jonkin perhesyyn takia erotetun\n    siitä toimesta. Tämä nainen oli sitten vuokrannut ison talon\n    Edward-kadun varrelta ja elättänyt itseään vuokraamalla siitä\n    huoneita ja pitämällä täyshoitolaisia. Rouva Yonge oli, kuten hän\n    tiesi, Wickhamin läheinen tuttava; ja hänen luokseen herra Darcy\n    meni oitis kaupunkiin tultuaan hankkimaan haluamiaan tietoja.\n    Kesti kuitenkin pari kolme päivää, ennenkuin hän niitä sai; sillä\n    tuo rouva, joka hyvin tiesi missä Wickham asui, ei tahtonut\n    pettää tämän luottamusta ilman isoja lahjuksia. Wickham oli näet\n    heti tullut hänen luokseen, ja jos hänellä olisi silloin ollut\n    vapaita huoneita, olisi hän ottanut vanhan tuttavansa ja tämän\n    seuralaisen luokseen asumaan. Vihdoin viimein yhteisen ystävämme\n    onnistui tavoittaa etsityt henkilöt. Nämä asuivat ----n kadun\n    varrella. Hän tapasi Wickhamin ja vaati kivenkovaan saada puhutella\n    myöskin Lydiaa. Ensi sanoikseen hän oli koettanut taivuttaa\n    tyttöraiskaa luopumaan silloisesta häpeällisestä asemastaan ja\n    palaamaan ystäväinsä luo, tarjoten tässä suhteessa hänelle kaikkea\n    tarvittavaa apua. Mutta Lydia oli ollut taipumaton ja päättänyt\n    pysyä Wickhamin luona. Hän ei välittänyt hiukkaakaan ystävistään\n    ja omaisistaan; hän ei tarvinnut kenenkään apua; hän ei tahtonut\n    kuulla puhuttavankaan siitä, että luopuisi Wickhamista. Hän oli\n    varma, että he aikanansa menisivät naimisiin -- samantekevää\n    milloin.\n\n    \"Herra Darcylle ei näin ollen jäänyt muu neuvoksi kuin koettaa\n    varmentaa ja jouduttaa tuota naimista, jonka hän jo ensi\n    keskustelussaan Wickhamin kanssa keksi olevan aivan yksipuolisen\n    unelman; sillä Wickhamilla ei näytä olleen lainkaan aikomusta\n    alistua avioliittoon. Hän tunnusti olleensa pakotettu karkaamaan\n    rykmentistään joidenkin kiireellisten kunniavelkojen takia; eikä\n    hän ollenkaan arkaillut lykätä Lydian ajattelematonta karkausta ja\n    sen ikäviä seurauksia tytön oman hupsuuden hedelmiksi. Hän aikoi\n    aivan pian luopua sotilasalalta; mutta lähimmästä tulevaisuudestaan\n    hänellä ei ollut itselläänkään vähintäkään varmuutta. Hänen täytyi\n    lähteä jonnekin -- tietämättä minne -- eikä hänellä ollut mitään\n    toimeentulon mahdollisuuksia. Herra Darcy kysyi, miksi hän ei\n    hetipaikalla nainut sisartasi. Vaikka tiedettiinkin, ettei isänne\n    ole suinkaan rikas, olisi hän varmastikin voinut tehdä jotain\n    tyttärensä ja vävynsä hyväksi. Tähän Wickham vastasi, että hän\n    aikoi edelleenkin parantaa asemansa naimalla jonkin rikkaan tytön\n    vaikkapa ulkomailta.\n\n    \"Arvaat hyvin, ettei asia näin ollen ottanut helposti oietakseen.\n    Herra Darcy tapasi Wickhamin vielä useita kertoja, ja Wickham\n    tietystikin vaati aina paljon enemmän kuin tiesi olevan mahdollista\n    saada; mutta vihdoin viimein hänen kuitenkin oli pakko mukautua\n    järkeväksi. Vasta sitten kun oli selvittänyt asiat suoriksi heidän\n    kahden kesken, saapui herra Darcy kertomaan enollesi toimistaan sen\n    päivän edellisenä iltana, jolloin minä lasten kera tulin kotia.\n    Gardiner ei ollut tällöin ollut kotosalla; ja kun herra Darcy\n    arveli voivansa paremmin järjestää asiat yhdessä enosi kuin isäsi\n    kanssa jonka hän oli saanut kuulla oleskelevan Lontoossa, jäi hän\n    vielä odottamaan, kunnes tapaisi edellisen. Hän ei ollut käydessään\n    maininnut nimeään, ja enosi sai vain kuulla, että jokin herrasmies\n    oli liikeasiain vuoksi käynyt häntä tavoittamassa. Lauantaina\n    hän sitten tuli uudelleen. Isäsi oli jo lähtenyt Lontoosta\n    kotiaan, mutta enosi oli saapuvilla; ja, kuten jo sanoin, heillä\n    oli varsin pitkältä puhuttavaa keskenään. He tapasivat toisensa\n    jälleen sunnuntaina, ja silloin _minäkin_ näin hänet. Asiat\n    saatiin järjestykseen vasta maanantaina, ja silloin lähetettiin\n    oitis pikalähetti viemään kirjettä Longbourniin. Vieraamme oli\n    hyvin itsepäinen. Minä luulen, rakas Lizzy, että itsepäisyys on\n    hänen varsinainen luonteenvikansa. Häntä on eri aikoina syytetty\n    monistakin vioista, mutta _tämä_ on hänellä ainoa todellinen.\n    Mitään ei saatu tehdä ilman että hän oli tekemässä, vaikka\n    luulenkin, että enosi olisi kyennyt aivan helposti järjestämään\n    koko asian. Yhdessä he kinastelivat tästä pitkät ajat, mikä oli\n    enemmän kuin kumpikaan karkulaisista olisi ansainnut. Vihdoin oli\n    enosi pakko antaa perään, ja sen sijaan että hän olisi saanut\n    auttaa sisarentytärtään, hänen suotiin saada siitä vain tyhjä\n    ulkonainen kunnia, joka ei ollut lainkaan hänen mieleensä. Ja\n    luulenpa todella sinun tänä aamuna tulleen kirjeesi, jossa vaadit\n    täyttä selitystä asiainmenosta, ilahduttaneen häntä suuresti, koska\n    häneltä sen kautta viimein riistettiin lainahöyhenet ja kunnia\n    annettiin sille, jolle kunnia tulee. Mutta tästä sinä, Lizzy, et\n    saa hiiskahtaa kellekään -- korkeintain vain Janelle.\n\n    \"Arvaan sinun jo hyvin tietävän, mitä tuon nuoren parin hyväksi on\n    ollut tehtävä. Wickhamin velat on maksettava, ja nousee niiden\n    kokonaismäärä melkoisesti yli tuhannen punnan; toiset tuhat puntaa\n    asetetaan Lydian nimiin hänen myötäjäisikseen, ja sitten oli vielä\n    ostettava Wickhamille upseerin paikka.[23] Syyn, minkä vuoksi herra\n    Darcy yksin piti huolen kaikesta tästä, olen maininnut sinulle\n    jo kirjeeni alussa. Hän pitää omana vikanaan, että Wickhamin\n    luonteesta oltiin niin suuresti erehdytty ja hänet kaikkialla\n    vastaanotettu avoimin sylin. Ehkäpä tässä on jotain perää;\n    vaikka minä epäilen suuresti, olisiko hänen tahi kenenkä hyvänsä\n    vaiteliaisuus voinut estää tätä ikävää tapausta. Mutta kaikista\n    hänen kauniista puheistaan huolimatta, rakas Lizzy, saat olla aivan\n    varma, ettei enosi olisi koskaan antanut perään, jollemme olisi\n    otaksuneet hänellä olleen _jotain muutakin_ aihetta sekaantua\n    asiaan. Sittenkun kaikesta oli saatu sovituksi, hän palasi takaisin\n    ystäväinsä luo, jotka yhä vielä oleskelevat Pemberleyssä; mutta\n    hän lupasi tulla jälleen Lontooseen hääpäiväksi ja tekemään loput\n    rahalliset suoritukset.\n\n    \"Luulen nyt kertoneeni sinulle kaiken. Varmastikin tulet kaikesta\n    kuulemastasi aika tavalla ihmeisiisi; mutta toivon, ettet ainakaan\n    tule pahoillesi. Lydia siirtyi meille asumaan, ja Wickhamilla\n    oli vapaa pääsy taloomme. Hän puolestaan oli aivan samanlainen,\n    jollaisena olin tullut hänet tuntemaan Hertfordshiressä; mutta\n    Lydian käytöksestä hänen meillä ollessaan en olisi tahtonut\n    kertoa sinulle sanallakaan, jollen viime keskiviikkona olisi\n    saanut Janen kirjettä, josta näin että tyttö oli käyttäytynyt\n    aivan samalla tapaa kotonaankin; joten se, minkä nyt sinulle\n    mainitsen, ei antane sinulle mitään uutta harmin aihetta. Minä\n    puhelin vakavasti hänen kanssaan monestikin ja koetin osoittaa\n    hänen menettelynsä synnillisyyttä ja hänen perheelleen tuottamaa\n    surua ja onnettomuutta. Jos hän kuuli lainkaan sanojani, niin kävi\n    se aivan onnenkaupalla, sillä ainakaan hän ei huolinut kuunnella\n    minua ollenkaan. Minä tuosta joskus harmistuin; mutta muistaen\n    rakkaan Elizabethini ja Janeni herttaisuuden koetin kuitenkin olla\n    kärsivällinen hänen kanssaan.\n\n    \"Herra Darcy saapui sitten jälleen tänne lupauksensa mukaan ja oli\n    mukana vihkimystilaisuudessa, niinkuin Lydia teille jo kertoi.\n    Seuraavana päivänä hän söi meillä päivällistä ja aikoi lähteä\n    Lontoosta keskiviikkona tai torstaina. Suututkohan sinä kovastikin\n    minuun, rakkahin Lizzy, jos käytän tätä tilaisuutta sanoakseni\n    (mitä en koskaan aikaisemmin ole rohjennut sanoa), että minä pidän\n    siitä miehestä oikein paljon? Meitä kohtaan hän on käyttäytynyt\n    joka suhteessa yhtä hienosti ja herttaisesti kuin Derbyshiressä\n    ollessamme. Hänen mielipiteensä ja käsityksensä ihmisistä ja\n    asioista miellyttävät minua suuresti; häneltä puuttuu ainoastaan\n    hiukkasen vilkkautta; mutta jos hän ymmärtää naida _viisaasti_,\n    niin hänen tuleva vaimonsa voi opettaa _sitäkin_ hänelle. Minusta\n    hän oli eräässä suhteessa kovin viekas -- hän tuskin kertaakaan\n    mainitsi keskusteluissamme sinun nimeäsi. Mutta viekkaus näyttää\n    nykyään olevan muodissa. Suo anteeksi, jos olen puhunut liian\n    rohkeasti, tahi älä ainakaan rankaise minua sulkemalla minulta\n    vastaisuudessa P:n ovet. Minä en tunne itseäni koskaan oikein\n    tyytyväiseksi, ennenkuin olen saanut kierrellä sen ihanan puiston\n    läpikotaisin. Sievän pienen ponyvaljakon vetämät matalat avovaunut\n    olisivat siihen ajoon oikein omiaan. Mutta nyt minun täytyy\n    jo vihdoinkin lopettaa. Lapset ovat huudelleet minua jo viime\n    puolituntisen. -- Uskollinen tätisi\n\n                                           \"_M. Gardiner_.\"\n\n\nTämän kirjeen sisällys kuohutti Elizabethin mieltä kovasti; vaikka oli\nvaikea määritellä, iloko vai tuska, joita kumpiakin se hänessä\nsynnytti, oli hänessä voimakkaampi. Totta siis oli, mitä hän oli jo\nhämärästi ja peljäten epäillyt, että hra Darcy oli ylenpalttisessa\nhyvyydessään käynyt auttamaan ja pelastamaan hänen huikentelevaista\nsisarparkaansa! Hän oli varta vasten lähtenyt seuraamaan karkulaisten\njälkiä Lontooseen, nähnyt omalle ylpeälle ja hienolle luonteelleen\ntuskallista vaivaa etsiskellessään heitä suurkaupungin uumenista;\nryhtynyt neuvotteluihin kunnottoman parittajanaisen kanssa, jota hänen\ntäytyi inhota sydämensä pohjasta; ja lopulta hän oli lahjonut tämän\npäästäkseen sen miehen perille, jota hän kaikkein mieluimmin oli\ntahtonut vältellä ja jonka pelkän nimenkin lausuminen oli hänelle\nkiusaksi. Kaiken tämän hän oli tehnyt tytön hyväksi, jota hän ei voinut\nsääliä eikä edes kunnioittaa. Elizabethin sydän kuiskasi hänelle, että\ntuo mies oli tehnyt sen hänen tähtensä. Mutta ilon ja sen herättämän\ntoivon sammutti hänessä pian tarkempi ajattelu. Kuinka olisi Darcy\nvoinutkaan kantaa sellaisia uhreja tytölle, joka oli tylysti\nhyljännyt hänen sydämensä ja kätensä; ja kuinka hän voisikaan pyrkiä\nsukulaisuuteen sellaisen miehen kuin Wickhamin kanssa? Wickhamin\nlangoksi! Tottahan jo pelkän tuollaisen mahdollisuuden ajattelemisenkin\ntäytyi kammahduttaa hänen ylevää ja oikeudentuntoista mieltään.\n\nDarcy oli tehnyt paljon, se oli totta. Elizabethia hävetti ajatella,\nkuinka paljon hän oikein oli tehnyt. Mutta hän oli maininnut syyn tähän\nvälitystoimeensa, ja sitä syytä oli helppo uskoa todeksi. Eihän ollut\nlainkaan mahdotonta, että hän todella piti itseänsä perimmältä\nvastuunalaisena koko tästä ikävästä tapahtumasta; hän tahtoi korjata\nsen, ja hänellä oli varoja millä korjata; ja vaikka Elizabeth ei enää\nvoinutkaan pitää omaa vähäpätöistä persoonaansa tämän harvinaisen\njalomielisyyden varsinaisena aiheena, niin hän saattoi ehkä silti\nuskoa, että Darcya oli menettelyssään kiihoittanut ajatus, että hän sen\nkautta voi palauttaa Elizabethin mielenrauhan. Mutta tuskallista,\nsanomattoman tuskallista oli tietää, että heidän perheensä oli täten\njoutunut kiitollisuudenvelkaan henkilölle, jolle he eivät kyenneet sitä\nkoskaan eikä missään muodossa palkitsemaan. Häntä he saivat kiittää\nLydian pelastamisesta, hänen maineensa puhdistamisesta, perheen oman\nonnen palauttamisesta --, kaikesta, kaikesta. Ah, kuinka Elizabeth\nkatuikaan katkerasti entistä äkkipikaista ja suvaitsematonta käytöstään\ntuota jaloa miestä kohtaan -- jokaista ilkeätä ja tylyä sanaa, jolla\nhän oli haavoittanut hänen mieltään! Omasta kohdastaan hän oli syvästi\nnöyryytetty; mutta Darcysta hän oli ylpeä -- ylpeä siitä, että tämä oli\nlähimmäisensäälin ja oman kunniantunnon välisessä kamppauksessa antanut\nparemman minuutensa päästä voitolle. Hän luki yhä uudelleen tätinsä\nDarcylle virittämät ylistelyt. Ne olivat niukkasanaiset ja ja\nmahdollisimman lievät; mutta sittekin ne olivat hänen mieleensä.\nJopa häntä miellytti -- joskin harmittikin -- havaita, kuinka\nitsepintaisesti hänen enonsa ja tätinsä luulottelivat, että hänen ja\nDarcyn välillä muka vallitsi salaista kiintymystä ja yhdysymmärrystä.\n\nHän oli havahtanut mietteistään ja noussut istuimeltaan kuullessaan\njonkun etempää lähestyvän; mutta ennenkuin hän oli ennättänyt poiketa\njollekin syrjäpolulle, tavoitti hänet Wickham.\n\n\"Pelkäänpä, että häiritsen sinun yksinäisiä haaveilujasi, rakas käly\",\nsanoi tulija, ruveten astelemaan hänen rinnallaan.\n\n\"Niinhän tosin teit\", vastasi Elizabeth hymyillen; \"mutta eihän siitä\nseuraa, ettei häiritseminen olisi tervetullut.\"\n\n\"Olisin todellakin pahoillani, jos niin olisi laita. _Mehän_ olimme\nennen aina hyvät ystävät, ja nyt olemme vielä läheisemmät.\"\n\n\"Totta kyllä. Ovatko toisetkin tulossa ulos?\"\n\n\"Sitä en tiedä. Anoppirouva ja Lydia lähtivät vaunuilla Merytoniin.\nMutta mitä minä kuulinkaan enoltasi ja tädiltäsi -- tehän olitte\näskettäin yhdessä käyneet Pemberleyssä?\"\n\nElizabeth nyökkäsi myöntävästi.\n\n\"Minä miltei kadehdin sinulta sitä iloa; ja kuitenkin luulen, että se\nkävisi minulle ylivoimaiseksi, sillä voisinhan muuten poiketa siellä\nmatkallamme Newcastleen. Ja arvaan, että te tapasitte siellä vanhan\ntaloudenhoitajattarenkin? Rouva Reynolds parka, hän piti aina paljon\nminusta. Mutta tietenkään hän ei teille maininnut minun nimeäni?\"\n\n\"Kyllä, sen hän teki.\"\n\n\"Entä mitä hän minusta sanoi?\"\n\n\"Että sinä olit liittynyt armeijaan, ja että hän pelkäsi sinun ...\nettet siellä ottanut oikein menestyäksesi. Niin kaukana asiat tietysti\nusein käsitetään merkillisen väärin.\"\n\n\"Niin tietystikin\", Wickham vastasi ja puri huultaan. Elizabeth toivoi\njo vaientaneensa hänet; mutta hetken perästä hän jatkoi puhetta:\n\n\"Minä ällistyin nähdessäni Darcyn Lontoossa viime kuussa. Me sivuutimme\ntoisemme kadulla monestikin. Ihmettelenpä, mitä asioita hänellä siellä\nmahtoi olla.\"\n\n\"Ehkäpä hän varusteli häitään neiti De Bourghin kanssa\", sanoi\nElizabeth. \"Jokin erinomainen asia hänet tietystikin on vienyt tänä\nvuodenaikana pääkaupunkiin.\"\n\n\"Epäilemättä. Tapasitko sinä hänet Lambtonissa ollessanne? Muistelen\nkuulleeni Gardinereilta, että he olivat olleet puheissa hänen\nkanssaan.\"\n\n\"Tapasin kyllä. Hän esitti meidät sisarelleen.\"\n\n\"Todellako? Ja piditkö sinä neiti Darcysta?\"\n\n\"Pidin oikein paljon.\"\n\n\"Olenkin todella kuullut, että hän parina viime vuotena on varttunut\ntavattomasti edukseen. Kun hänet viimeksi näin, hän ei ollut paljonkaan\nlupaava. Olen iloinen, että sinä pidit hänestä. Toivon, että hänestä\nkehittyy hyvä ihminen\".\n\n\"Siitä saat olla varma; hän on jo kehittynyt ohi vaarallisimman\nikäkauden.\"\n\n\"Satuitteko te käymään Kymptonin kylässä?\"\n\n\"En muista, että olisimme käyneet.\"\n\n\"Mainitsen sen vain siksi, että siellä on se pappila, joka minun oli\nmäärä saada. Mitä viehättävin paikka! Ja kerrassaan erinomainen\npappila! Se olisi joka suhteessa soveltunut minulle.\"\n\n\"Mitä sinä olisit pitänyt saarnojen valmistamisesta?\"\n\n\"Se olisi minulle ollut mieluista työtä. Minä olisin tietysti pitänyt\nsitä yhtenä virkani velvollisuuksista, ja helposti olisi se minulta\nluistanut. Eihän ihmisen pitäisi harmitella; mutta varmastikin se\npaikka olisi ollut kuin luotu minulle! Sellainen rauhallinen,\nmietiskeleväinen elämä olisi vasta oikein vastannut minun onnellisuuden\nihannettani. Mutta niin ei pitänyt käymän. Kuulitko Darcyn koskaan\nmainitsevan tätä asiaa Kentissä ollessasi?\"\n\n\"Olen kuullut lähteestä, jota pidän luotettavana, että tuo paikka oli\nmäärätty sinulle ainoastaan ehdollisesti ja nykyisen tilanomistajan\ntahdosta riippuen.\"\n\n\"Oletko todellakin? Niin tosiaan, jotain sellaistahan se taisi olla.\nMuistanet kai, että minäkin mainitsin siitä sinulle jo heti\ntuttavuutemme alussa?\"\n\n\"Kuulin myöskin, että oli aika, jolloin saarnainvalmistus ei ollut\nsinulle yhtä mieluinen kuin se nyt perästäpäin näyttää olevan; että\nsinä itse omasta ehdostasi luovuit papinuralta, ja että sait\njonkinlaisen korvauksen tuosta luvatusta paikasta.\"\n\n\"Senkin sinä kuulit! Eikähän se vallan perätöntä puhetta olekaan.\nMuistat varmastikin, että siitäkin jo kerroin sinulle, kun tästä\nasiasta ensi kerran oli meidän keskemme puhetta.\"\n\nHe olivat tulleet jo talon kohdalle, sillä Elizabeth oli kävellyt\nrivakasti päästäkseen pian eroon kiusallisesta seuralaisestaan; ja\nsisarensa vuoksi tahtomatta enää härnätä lankoaan hän tyytyi vastaamaan\nhyväntuulisesti hymyillen:\n\n\"Kuulehan nyt, Wickham, mehän olemme nykyään melkein kuin veli ja\nsisar; älkäämme siis huoliko riidellä olleista ja menneistä. Toivon,\nettä me vast'edes olemme aina sanaa mieltä.\"\n\nHän tarjosi toiselle kätensä; Wickham suuteli sitä mitä kohteliaimmin,\nvaikkei oikein tiennyt minne katselisi, ja he kävivät yhdessä sisään.\n\n\n\n\nLIII LUKU.\n\n\nHra Wickham tuntui olevan niin tyytyväinen viime keskusteluunsa\nElizabethin kanssa, ettei hän enää sen perästä häirinnyt itseään eikä\nrakasta kälyään ottamalla samoja asioita uudelleen puheeksi; ja\nElizabeth oli puolestaan tyytyväinen, että oli sanonut kylliksi\nsaadakseen toisen jättämään hänet rauhaan.\n\nNuoren parin lähtöpäivä tuli pian, ja rva Bennetin oli pakko särkyvin\nsydämin alistua eroon, jota kaikesta päättäen tuli kestämään ainakin\nkaksitoista kuukautta, koska hänen vävynsä ei viittaillutkaan aikovansa\nkutsua vaimonsa omaisia heidän luokseen Newcastleen.\n\n\"Oh, rakas Lydia kulta\", huudahti murheellinen äiti, \"milloinka me taas\nnäemmekään uudestaan toisemme?\"\n\n\"Herra ties, en minä vain tiedä! Ei ainakaan pariin kolmeen ensi\nvuoteen.\"\n\n\"Kirjoitathan sinä minulle hyvin ahkerasti, kullan nuppuseni?\"\n\n\"Niin usein kuin kerkiän. Mutta tiedättehän, ettei naimisissa ollen ole\npaljonkaan aikaa kirjeiden kirjoittelemiseen. Sisareni saavat\nkirjoittaa _minulle_. -- Heillähän ei ole mitään muutakaan tehtävää.\"\n\nHra Wickhamin jäähyväiset olivat paljon sydämellisemmät kuin hänen\nvaimonsa. Hän hymyili yhtämittaa, näytti hyvin kauniilta kuten aina ja\nlasketteli siroja kohteliaisuuksia.\n\n\"Hän on verraton veikkonen\", sanoi hra Bennet matkamiesten lähdettyä.\n\"Hän virnailee ja irvistelee ja makostelee meitä kaikkia. Minä olen\nhänestä mainion ylpeä. Lyönpä vetoa, ettei edes Sir William Lucaskaan\npysty hankkimaan itselleen niin oivallista vävypoikaa.\"\n\nÄiti oli hyvin masennuksissaan lemmikkityttärensä menettämisestä; mutta\npian hänen mielensä yhtäkkiä kirkastui, kun hänen sisarensa toi hänelle\nsuuria uutisia. Netherfieldin taloudenhoitajatar oli saanut laittaa\ntalon kuntoon, sillä isäntää odotettiin tulevaksi parin päivän perästä,\nja tämän piti viipyä useita viikkoja linnunammunnassa. Rva Bennet aivan\nsäteili riemua. Hän vilkuili veitikkamaisesti Janeen ja hymyili ja\npudisteli päätään ja hymyili uudelleen.\n\n\"No, tämähän vasta on hauskaa, että saamme jälleen nähdä herra Bingleyn\ntäällä maalla\", hän toimitti sisarelleen. \"Ei senvuoksi, että _minä_\nsiitä paljonkaan välittäisin. Eihän hän meille merkitse yhtään mitään,\nenkä minä sure, vaikkemme häntä täällä meillä näkisikään, tiedän mä.\nMutta sittenkin hän on tervetullut Netherfieldiin, jos siitä on hänellä\nhupia. Ja kenpä tietää, _mitä_ vielä oikein voi sattuakaan! Mutta meitä\nse ei vain liikuta niin vähääkään. Tiedäthän, rakas sisar, että jo\nkauan sitten sovimme, ettemme hiiskahda koko asiasta enää sanaakaan. Ja\nonkohan tuo sitten edes varmaa, että hän todellakin tulee?\"\n\n\"Saat sen uskoa\", vastasi rva Philips, \"sillä taloudenhoitajatar oli\neilen illalla Merytonissa; minä näin hänen kulkevan ohitse ja juoksin\nulos kadulle ottamaan asiasta selvää, ja hän vakuutti minulle, että\nkaikki on totista totta. Hänen isäntänsä saapuu viimeistään torstaina,\njollei jo keskiviikkona. Rouva Reynolds sanoi menevänsä lihapuotiin\nostamaan jotain paistia keskiviikoksi, ja hän sai kolme paria sorsia,\njotka oli juuri ammuttu.\"\n\nJane ei voinut pidättää punastumistaan kuullessaan entisen\nrakastajansa palaamisesta. Hän ei ollut moneen kuukauteen maininnut\nedes tämän nimeä sisarelleen; mutta nyt hän sanoi, kohta kun he olivat\njoutuneet kahdenkesken:\n\n\"Minä näin sinun katselevan minuun tänään, Lizzy, kun täti kertoi\npöydässä uutisiaan; ja minä tiedän itsekin, että jouduin hämilleni;\nmutta älä vain kuvittelekaan, että se olisi ollut jostain typerästä\nsyystä. Minä jouduin hämilleni vain siksi, että tiesin kaikkien\nkatselevan minuun. Saat olla varma, etteivät nuo uutiset minua\nilahduttaneet eikä murehduttaneet. Siitä vain olen iloinen, että hän\ntulee yksin, sillä silloin saamme nähdä häntä sitä vähemmin. Ei siksi,\nettä pelkäisin _itseäni_; mutta minä pelkään toisten merkitseviä\nkatseita ja huomautuksia.\"\n\nElizabeth puolestaan ei tiennyt, mitä oikein ajatella. Jollei hän olisi\ntavannut Bingleytä Derbyshiressä, olisi hän mielellään otaksunut hänen\ntulevan vain metsästämään; mutta nytpä hänellä oli syytä luulla, että\nBingley yhä vielä piti hänen sisarestaan; ja hänestä tuntui hyvinkin\nuskottavalta, että hän saapui osaksi myöskin Janen takia -- joko\nmahdikkaan ystävänsä suostumuksella tahi tätä uhitellen omasta\nehdostaan.\n\n\"Miesparka\", hän ajatteli itsekseen, \"joka ei voi tulla taloon, jonka\nhän on laillisesti vuokrannut asuttavakseen, herättämättä kaiken\nmaailman huomiota ja arveluja! Olkoon hän minun puolestani aivan\nrauhassa.\"\n\nMutta vaikka Jane oli väittänyt olevansa aivan välinpitämätön Bingleyn\ntulosta -- ja kukaties itsekin uskoi sen rehellisesti -- voi Elizabeth\nhelposti huomata sisarensa mielentilan siitä suuresti järkkyneen. Hän\noli hajamielisempi ja hermostuneempi kuin milloinkaan ennen.\n\nVanhempain kesken uutinen aiheutti aivan samanlaisen väittelyn kuin\nsamanlainen sanoma oli aiheuttanut vuosi takaperin.\n\n\"Kohta kun herra Bingley on saapunut, rakkaani\", sanoi rva Bennet\nmiehelleen, \"sinä käyt luonnollisesti toivottamassa hänet\ntervetulleeksi.\"\n\n\"Kaikkea vielä! Sinä pakotit minut viime vuonna käymään häntä\ntervehtimässä ja lupasit, että jos noudatin mieltäsi, hän varmasti\nnaisi yhden tyttäristämme. Mutta kaikki meni hukkaan kuin tina tuhkaan,\nja siihen katsoen en aio enää ruveta hulluttelemaan.\"\n\nHänen vaimonsa koetti todistella, kuinka tärkeätä ja välttämätöntä oli,\nettä kaikki ympäristön herrat osoittaisivat kohteliaisuutta\nNetherfieldin isännälle tämän palatessa jälleen maatilalleen.\n\n\"Tuo on vallan hupsumaista kohteliaisuutta ja tapojen palvelemista\",\närähti hänen miehensä. \"Jos hän haluaa nauttia meidän seurastamme, niin\ntulkoon itse tänne. Hänhän tietää, missä asumme. Minä en vain rupea\ntuhlaamaan päiviäni ja hetkiäni juoksemalla naapurieni luona joka kerta\nkuin he suvaitsevat tulla ja lähteä.\"\n\n\"Sinulla on aina oma pääsi, ja kuitenkin sinun pitäisi tietää, kuinka\npaheksuttavan tylyä meidän puoleltamme on, jollet käy hänen puheillaan.\nMutta saatpa nähdä, ettei sekään estä minua pyytämästä häntä meille\npäivällisille. Kohta saamme Longit ja Gouldingit päivällisvieraiksemme;\nja silloin tulee meitä kolmetoista pöytään. Silloin on hänelle\nparahiksi tilaa joukossamme.\"\n\nTämä päätös lohdutti häntä, niin että hän jaksoi paremmin kestää\nmiehensä käsittämätöntä omapäisyyttä; vaikka häntä suuresti\npeloittikin, että kaikki naapurit kukaties tulisivat näkemään tulijan\nennenkuin he. Tulopäivän lähetessä Jane, jonka levottomuus ilmeisesti\nalkoi lähetä aallonharjaa, sanoi sisarelleen:\n\n\"Minä alan olla pahoillani, että hän tulee tänne lainkaan. Eihän se\nitsessään merkitse mitään; minä voisin kohdata hänet täysin\nvälinpitämättömänä; mutta minun on vaikea jaksaa kuulla lakkaamatta\ntoitotettavan siitä. Äiti tarkoittaa tietysti vain pelkkää hyvää; mutta\nhän ei arvaa -- eikä kukaan arvaa -- kuinka minä kärsin näistä puheista\nja viittailuista. Olen oikein onnellinen, kun hänen vierailunsa\nNetherfieldissä viimein on ohitse.\"\n\n\"Minä toivon, että osaisin sanoa jotakin sinun lohdutukseksesi\",\nvastasi hänen sisarensa; \"mutta sitä en suurin surminkaan pysty\ntekemään. Sinun täytyy vain tuntea minun hellä osanottoni ja syvä\nmyötätuntoni; ja turhaapa olisikin minun saarnata sinulle\nkärsivällisyyttä, sillä sitä on sinulla muillekin jakaa.\"\n\nHra Bingley saapui paikkakunnalle. Rva Bennet voi palvelijain\nvälityksellä alusta pitäen seurata kaikkia hänen liikkeitään ja\ntoimiaan, ja hän odotti joka päivä tulijaa vieraakseen. Kolmantena\npäivänä jo varhain aamupäivällä hänen oli sallittu makuuhuoneensa\nakkunasta nähdä odotetun vieraan avaavan Longbournin veräjän ja\nratsastavan verkalleen taloa kohti.\n\nHän huusi kiihkeästi tyttärensä kokoon jakamaan hänen riemuaan. Jane\npysyi itsepäisesti työnsä ääressä; mutta Elizabeth meni äitinsä\nmieliksi akkunaan -- katsahti ulos kujalle -- näki hra Darcyn\nratsastavan tulijan rinnalla -- ja palasi äänettömänä sisarensa luo.\n\n\"Hänen kanssaan on jokin vieras herra, äiti\", sanoi Kitty. \"Kukahan se\nvoi olla?\"\n\n\"Joku hänen tuttavansa arvatenkin, lapseni. Olen varma, ettemme häntä\ntunne.\"\n\n\"Ahaa!\" huudahti Kitty; \"sehän näyttää olevan sama mies, joka ennenkin\noli aina hänen myötänsä. Herra -- mikä hänen nimensä nyt olikaan --\nsellainen pitkä, ylpeä mies.\"\n\n\"Hyvä isä sentään! Herra Darcy -- ja sehän tuo onkin, näen mä. No niin,\nkaikki herra Bingleyn ystävät ovat tänne tervetulleita; vaikka muuten\ntäytyykin sanoakseni, että pelkkä tuon miehen näkeminenkin panee minut\npahalle tuulelle.\"\n\nJane katsahti Elizabethiin hämillään ja osanottavaisesti. Hän tiesi\nhyvin vähän näiden viime kohtauksista Derbyshiressä; ja hänen kävi\nsääliksi sisarensa, jonka tietysti täytyi tuntea itsensä hyvin noloksi\ntavatessaan hyljätyn ihailijansa ensi kerran tämän pitkän kirjeen\nsaamisen jälkeen. Molemmat sisaret tunsivat itsensä hyvin\nrauhattomiksi. Kumpikin oli hermostunut toistensa takia ja tietysti\nomastakin kohdastaan; ja koko ajan heidän täytyi kuunnella äitinsä\nlepertelyä, että hän aikoi ottaa hra Darcyn vastaan vain hra Bingleyn\nystävänä eikä suinkaan salata vastenmielisyyttään häntä kohtaan.\nElizabethia harmitti nyt, kun hän ei ollut voinut pakottaa itseään\nnäyttämään Janelle rva Gardinerin kirjettä. Janelle hra Darcy voi täten\nolla vain mies, jolle hänen sisarensa oli antanut kertakaikkiset\nrukkaset ja jonka arvoa ei silloin ollut lainkaan tajunnut; mutta\nhänelle itselleen, joka tiesi enemmän, tuo mies oli heidän\nperheensä auttaja ja pelastaja, jolle he olivat mitä suurimmassa\nkiitollisuudenvelassa ja jota kohtaan hän itse tunsi kiintymystä,\njollei yhtä hellää niin ainakin yhtä totista ja luonnollista kuin Jane\ntunsi Bingleytä kohtaan. Hänen hämmästyksensä nähdessään Darcyn nyt\ntulevan Netherfieldiin ja Longbourniin -- tulevan omasta ehdostaan\njälleen tapaamaan häntä -- oli miltei yhtä suuri kuin hänen\nDerbyshiressä havaitessaan Darcyn aivan muuttuneen käytöksen häntä\nkohtaan.\n\nPuna, joka ensi hetkellä oli karannut hänen poskiltaan, palasi niille\nkahta vertaa voimakkaampana, ja hänen silmänsä loistivat sykähdyttävän\nriemullisesta odotuksesta, kun hän ajatteli, että Darcyn mieltymyksen\ntäytyi kaikesta huolimatta olla muuttumaton; mutta hänen oli sittenkin\nvaikea uskoa sitä todeksi.\n\n\"Odotetaanpa ensiksi, miten hän käyttäytyy\", hän puheli rajusti\nsykyttävälle sydämelleen; \"liian aikaista on vielä odottaa mitään\nhyvää.\"\n\nHän kumartui innokkaasti käsityönsä yli koettaen väkisin voittaa\nmielenkuohunsa ja uskaltamatta luoda silmiään ylös, kunnes hätäinen\nuteliaisuus pakotti hänet katsahtamaan sisarensa kasvoihin, kun\npalvelustyttö astui lattian poikki avaamaan ovea. Jane oli vähän\nkalpeampi kuin tavallisesti, mutta rauhallisempi kuin Elizabeth osasi\nodottaakaan. Herrain käydessä sisään hän punastui, mutta kykeni\ntervehtimään heitä jokseenkin tolkuissaan.\n\nElizabeth puheli vieraille niin vähän kuin kohteliaisuus suinkin salli,\nja hän kumartui jälleen työnsä yli syventyen siihen harvinaisella\ninnolla ja uutteruudella. Hän oli uskaltanut vain kerran vilkaista\nDarcyyn. Tämä näytti vakavalta kuten aina -- tytön mielestä hän näytti\npaljon enemmän saman näköiseltä kuin vuosi takaperin täällä\nHertfordshiressä ollessaan, kuin heidän viimeksi Pemberleyssä\ntavatessaan. Mutta ehkäpä Darcy ei voinutkaan hänen äitinsä\nläsnäollessa olla ja näyttää samanlaiselta kuin enon ja tädin luona. Se\noli hyvin käsitettävä, vaikkakin tuskallinen arvelu.\n\nBingleytäkin hän oli joutanut vain pikimältään katselemaan ja havainnut\ntuona haihtuvana hetkisenä, että tämä näytti olevan sekä hämillään\nettä mielissään. Rva Bennet tervehti häntä niin nöyristelevän\nsydämellisesti, että hänen tyttärensä punastuivat häpeästä, varsinkin\nverratessaan sitä äidin kylmyyteen ja jäykkyyteen toista vierasta\nkohtaan.\n\nKysyttyään Elizabethilta lyhyesti Gardinerin väen vointia -- mihin tämä\nvoi vain hyvin hämmentyneenä vastata -- taukosi Darcy miltei\ntuppisuuksi. Hän ei käynyt edes istumaan tytön viereen; ehkäpä tämä\nseikka selitti hänen äänettömyytensä, mutta samoin ei ollut laita ollut\nDerbyshiressä. Siellä hän oli puhellut hänen ystäväinsä kanssa, jos ei\nollut päässyt hänen itsensä kanssa puheisiin. Useita minuutteja kului,\nilman että Elizabeth kuuli hänen ääntänsä; kun hän välistä varkain\nuskalsi uteliaisuutensa pakottamana silmätä hänen puoleensa, näki hän\nhänen katselevan yhtä paljon Janeen kuin häneen itseensä, mutta usein\nmyöskin vain eteensä lattiaan. Elizabeth oli pettynyt, mutta samalla\nmyöskin harmistunut itseensä siitä, että ollenkaan tunsi pettymystä.\n\n\"Voinko minä muuta enää odottaakaan hänen puoleltaan!\" hän torui salaa\nitseänsä. \"Mutta minkä vuoksi hän sitten tulikaan tänne?\"\n\nHänellä ei ollut lainkaan halua puhella kenenkään muun kuin Darcyn\nkanssa; ja tälle hänen taas oli vaikea rohjeta puhua.\n\nVihdoin hän uskalsi tiedustaa hänen sisarensa vointia, mutta siihenpä\npuhelu tyrehtyikin.\n\n\"Siitä onkin jo pitkä aika, herra Bingley, kun te viimeksi olitte\nnäillä mailla\", huomautti rva Bennet säteillen.\n\nBingley myönsi sen hymyillen todeksi.\n\n\"Minä rupesin jo pelkäämään, ettette lainkaan enää palaisi. Ihmiset\nolivat todella tietävinään, että te Mikkelin päivän tienoissa\nluopuisitte koko vuokraoikeudesta Netherfieldiin; mutta minä toivon\nheidän toki erehtyneen. Paljon muutoksia on muuten näillä seuduin\ntapahtunut teidän poissaollessanne. Neiti Lucas on joutunut naimisiin\nja muuttanut muualle, ja samoin yksi minun omista tyttäristäni.\nArvaan, että tekin olette kuullut siitä; onhan teidän täytynyt\nnähdä se sanomalehdistä. Muistan, että siitä oli mainittu 'Timesin'\nja 'Courierin' perheuutisissa, vaikkakin perin kierolla ja\neriskummallisella tavalla. Sanottiin vain: 'Äskettäin vihityt: hra\nGeorge Wickham ja nti Lydia Bennet', ilman että oli sanallakaan\nmainittu morsiamen isästä ja hänen asuinpaikastaan ja muusta\nsellaisesta. Arvaan, että lankoni Gardiner oli pannut uutisen lehtiin;\nmutta minä ihmettelen, kuinka hän saattoi antaa sen niin kömpelössä\nmuodossa. Tottahan tekin tulitte sen huomanneeksi?\"\n\nBingley ilmoitti huomanneensa ja lausui myöhäiset onnittelunsa.\nElizabethin poskia poltti; eikä hän uskaltanut katsahtaa ylös ja nähdä,\nmiltä Darcy tällöin näytti.\n\n\"Iloista on tietää, että yksikin tyttäristäni on joutunut hyviin\nnaimisiin\", jatkoi hänen äitinsä; \"mutta samalla tuntuu sangen kovalta,\nettä hänet on tempaistu niin kauaksi minun luotani. He ovat\nmatkustaneet Newcastleen, joka kuuluu olevan ihan pohjoisrajalla, ja\nsinne he jäävät asumaan herra ties kuinka pitkäksi aikaa. Vävyni\nrykmentti on sijoitettu sinne; arvaan, että olette kuullut hänen\neronneen ----n milisiväestä ja siirtyneen vakinaiseen väkeen. Luojan\nkiitos, että hänellä on sentään _joitakin_ ystäviä, jotka huolehtivat\nhänestä, vaikkakaan ei niin monta kuin hän ansaitsisi omistaa.\"\n\nElizabeth, joka tiesi tämän iskun olevan suunnatun hra Darcylle, häpesi\nniin surkeasti, että hänen oli vaikea pysyä huoneessa. Haihduttaakseen\nnolouttaan hän rupesi kiireesti puhelemaan Bingleyn kanssa ja tiedusti,\nkauanko tämä aikoi viipyä maalla.\n\n\"Moniaita viikkoja, luullakseni.\"\n\n\"Ja kun olette ampunut kaikki linnut omilta mailtanne\", ehätti rva\nBennet väliin, \"niin pyydän teitä tulemaan tänne ja metsästämään niin\npaljon kuin haluatte meidän tilallamme. Olen varma, että mieheni tulee\nsiitä hyvin mieliinsä ja että hän säästää kaikki parhaat pesuudet teitä\nvarten.\"\n\nElizabethin hätä ja häpeä moisen joutavan hännystelemisen vuoksi kasvoi\naivan sietämättömäksi.\n\n\"En toivo mitään niin hartaasti\", hän päivitteli sydämessään, \"kuin\nettä minun ei tarvitsisi enää nähdä kumpaakaan heistä täällä! Heidän\nseuransa ei iki maailmassa kykene pyyhkimään tätä surkeutta minun\nmuististani. Voi, kunpa minun ei tarvitsisi enää koskaan heitä tavata!\"\n\nMutta hänen harminsa ja surunsa lieveni kohta, kun hän pani merkille,\nkuinka hänen sisarensa kauneus ja hellä herttaisuus sytytti jälleen\nhänen entisen rakastajansa ihailun ja mieltymyksen uuteen hehkuun. Tämä\noli alussa puhellut vain hyvin vähän Janen kanssa; mutta hänen silmänsä\npitivät koko ajan tarkkaa vaaria lemmitystä. Hän näki hänen olevan yhtä\nviehättävän, lempeäluonteisen ja teeskentelemättömän tytön kuin\nennenkin, vaikkei enää aivan yhtä puheliaan. Jane koetti tosin kaikella\nmuotoa pysyä niin järkkymättömänä kuin suinkin ja luuli itse\npuhelevansa yhtä hartaasti ja hilpeästi kuin tavallisesti, jotta eivät\ntoiset huomaisi hänen ahdistustaan; mutta hänen tunteensa aaltoilivat\nniin väkevästi, ettei hän aina itsekään tiennyt omaa oloaan.\n\nKun herrat nousivat lähteäkseen, muisti rva Bennet sotajuonensa ja\npyysi heitä tulemaan muutaman päivän perästä päivällisille\nLongbourniin.\n\n\"Muistattehan toki, herra Bingley, että olette minulle vierailun\nvelkaa\", hän sanoi. \"Kun viime talvena lähditte niin suinpäin\npääkaupunkiin, lupasitte kohta palattuanne tulla meille\nperhepäivällisille. Näette, etten ainakaan minä ole sitä unohtanut; ja\nminä vakuutan teille pettyneeni julmasti, kun ette palannutkaan\ntäyttämään lupaustanne.\"\n\nBingley näytti joutuvan hyvin hämilleen ja mutisi jotain sellaista,\nettä arvaamattomat asiat olivat pidättäneet häntä Lontoossa koko\ntalven. Sitten molemmat vieraat lähtivät.\n\nRva Bennetillä oli ollut hyvä halu pyytää heitä jäämään jo tänäänkin\npäivällisille; mutta vaikka hän aina pitikin hyvää pöytää, ei hänen\nmielestään kaksi ruokalajia riittänyt tyydyttämään miestä, jota hän\ntoivoi vävypojakseen, ja vielä vähemmän tämän mahtavaa ystävää, jolla\nsanottiin olevan kymmenentuhannen punnan vuositulot.\n\n\n\n\nLIV LUKU.\n\n\nKohta vieraiden lähdettyä Elizabeth kiiruhti ulos kävelemään\nselvittääkseen sekavia ajatuksiaan ja tyynnyttääkseen kuohuisia\ntunteitaan. Hra Darcyn äskeinen käytös häntä ihmetytti ja harmitti.\n\n\"Mitä hänen tarvitsi ollenkaan tulla tänne\", hän ajatteli, \"jos hänen\naikomuksensa oli pysyä tuppisuuna, totisena ja välinpitämättömänä?\"\n\nHänen oli mahdoton selittää tuota ongelmaa tavalla, josta hänelle olisi\nollut mielihyvää ja tyydytystä.\n\n\"Osasihan hän olla rakastettava ja miellyttävä enoa ja tätiä kohtaan\nLontoossa ollessaan; miksi hän ei nyt ole samanlainen minuakin kohtaan?\nJa jos hän pelkää ja aristelee minua, niin miksi hän ollenkaan\ntulikaan? Ja jollei hän enää yhtään välitä minusta, niin miksei hän\npuhellut edes toisten kanssa? Voi, kuinka kiusallinen mies! Minä en\ntahdo enää ollenkaan ajatella häntä.\"\n\nHän saattoikin pysyä vähän aikaa päätöksessään, kun sisarensa yhtyi\nhäneen; ja Janen säteilevän iloisesta katseesta voi huomata hänen\nnauttineen vierasten seurasta paljon enemmän kuin hänen onnettoman\nnuoremman sisarensa.\n\n\"Nyt, kun tämä ensimmäinen kohtaaminen on kestetty\", hän sanoi, \"tunnen\noloni oikein keveäksi. Minä tiedän, kuinka pitkälle voimani kestävät,\nenkä salli itseni enää koskaan joutua hämilleni hänet nähdessäni. Olen\nhyvin iloinen siitä, että hän syö meillä päivällistä ensi tiistaina.\nSilloinhan vieraatkin saavat nähdä, että me tapaamme toisemme vain\ntavallisina ja välinpitämättöminä tuttavina.\"\n\n\"Välinpitämättöminä tosiaan!\" nauroi Elizabeth. \"Oi Jane, ole\nvaruillasi!\"\n\n\"Rakas Lizzy, ethän sinä toki pidä minua niin heikkona ja hupsuna, että\nenää antautuisin ehdoin tahdoin mihinkään vaaraan?\"\n\n\"Minusta sinä antaudut hyvin halusta siihen sangen suureen vaaraan,\nettä teet hänet paljon rakastuneemmaksi itseesi kuin koskaan ennen.\"\n\nTorstaina kokoontui Longbourniin hyvä joukko vieraita; ja päivän\nmolemmat päävieraat, joita kaikkein hartaimmin oli odotettu, saapuivat\nhyvissä ajoin. Seuran siirtyessä ruokasaliin seurasi Elizabeth tarkalla\nhuomiolla, istuisiko Bingley hänen sisarensa viereen, missä hänen\npaikkansa aina ennen oli ollut. Hänen viisas äitinsä oli samaa tulosta\nodottaen laiminlyönyt kutsua illan etevimmän vieraan omalle kupeelleen.\nBingley näytti epäröivän; mutta Jane sattui silloin katsahtamaan hänen\npuoleensa, sattuipa hymyilemäänkin; ja silloin oli arpa heitetty. Hän\nistui lemmityn viereen.\n\nSydän täynnä voitonriemua Elizabeth vilkaisi varkain Bingleyn ystävään.\nTämä näytti kestävän kohtaloniskun ylevän välinpitämättömästi; ja\nElizabeth melkein jo luuli Bingleyn toimineen ystävänsä suostumuksella,\njollei hän sattumalta olisi huomannut tämänkin vilkaisevan Darcyyn,\nsilmissä puolittain naurava, puolittain hätäytynyt ilme.\n\nBingleyn käytös Janea kohtaan oli koko päivällisajan niin ilmeisesti\nihaileva, että Elizabethin mielestä molempien vastainen onni oli\ntaattu, jos Bingley sai vain toimia oman päänsä mukaan. Hän ei voinut\nolla tavantakaa vilkuilematta Darcyyn nähdäkseen, millä silmällä tämä\nseurasi ystävänsä nopeata antautumista vanhan viehätyksensä lumoihin.\nDarcy istui hänen äitinsä vierellä, miltei koko pöydän mitan päässä\nhänestä itsestään. Hän voi hyvin arvata, ettei naapuruus ollut\nkummallekaan mieluinen; aniharvoin he vaihtoivat sanoja keskenään, ja\nsilloinkin kylmästi ja jäykän näköisinä. Tämä äidin epäkohteliaisuus\nsuretti Elizabethia suuresti; ja hän tunsi toisinaan, että hän olisi\nantanut vaikka mitä hyvänsä, jos olisi voinut jollain tapaa osoittaa\nDarcylle, ettei koko perhe ollut yhtä kiittämätön tämän jaloudesta.\n\nHän toivoi, että ilta vielä jollain tapaa veisi heidät yhteen tai\ntoistensa lähelle; ja pöydästä noustua hän odotti sykkivin sydämin,\nettä Darcy saapuisi häntä puhuttelemaan.\n\n\"Jollei hän nyt tule minun luokseni\", hän ajatteli, \"niin saan luopua\nhänestä iäksi.\"\n\nHänestä näyttikin siltä, että hänen toiveensa oli toteutumaisillaan;\nmutta -- voi surkeaa! -- kaikki naiset kokoontuivat sen pöydän\nympärille, jonka ääressä Jane valmisti teetä ja hän itse kahvia, niin\ntiiviiksi ryhmäksi, ettei kukaan herroista päässyt lähellekään. Ja\nkaiken harmin kukkuroiksi muuan tytöistä vielä likistyi aivan kiinni\nhäneen ja kuiskutti:\n\n\"Mepäs emme päästäkään miehiä lähelle, eikö niin? Emmehän me heitä\ntäällä tarvitse.\"\n\nDarcy oli kulkenut salin toiseen päähän. Elizabeth seurasi häntä\nsilmillään, kadehtien jokaista, jonka kanssa hän antautui puheisiin, ja\ntuskin malttaen tarjota kahvia kellekään; ja sitten hän oli ärtyinen\nomasta höperyydestään.\n\n\"Koko hupsupa minä olenkin, kun odotan että hän, jonka olen kerran\nhyljännyt, enää uudestaan osoittaisi minulle rakkauttaan! Eikö ole\nkerrassaan sulaa hulluutta odottaa miehen kahdesti kosivan samaa\nnaista? Silloinhan ei miehillä olisi itserakkautta eikä omanarvon\ntuntoa niin vähääkään.\"\n\nHän tunsi mielensä kuitenkin suuresti keventyneeksi, kun näki Darcyn\nitsensä tuovan kahvipöytään takaisin tyhjän kuppinsa; ja silloin hän\nkäytti tilaisuutta hyväkseen:\n\n\"Onko sisarenne yhä vielä Pemberleyssä?\"\n\n\"On, hän viipyy siellä aina joulun yli.\"\n\n\"Aivan yksinäänkö? Eivätkö kaikki hänen ystävänsä ole jo lähteneet\nsieltä?\"\n\n\"Rouva Annesley on hänen luonaan. Toiset lähtivät Scarboroughiin näiksi\nkolmeksi viikoksi.\"\n\nElizabeth ei tiennyt, mistä hän enää pitäisi puhetta. Jos toinen halusi\npuhella hänen kanssaan, niin ehkäpä hänellä oli enemmän puheenaihetta.\nDarcy jäi kuitenkin äänettömänä seisomaan hänen viereensä muutaman\nminuutin ajaksi; ja kun tuo kiusallinen tyttö alkoi jälleen kuiskutella\nElizabethin korvaan, poistui hän syrjempään.\n\nKun kahvi- ja teevehkeet korjattiin pois ja korttipöydät kannettiin\nesiin, nousivat naiset tuoleiltaan, ja Elizabethilla oli taasen vähän\ntoivoa saada haluamansa kavaljeeri lähelleen; mutta mielikarvaudekseen\nhän näkikin tämän joutuvan hänen äitinsä whistipelikiihkon uhriksi ja\nliittyvän neljänneksi hänen pelipöytäänsä. Nyt ei hänellä enää ollut\nvähintäkään toivoa. He viettivät lopun iltaa kukin eri pöydässään; ja\nhän voi vain huomata Darcyn vilkuilevan siksi ahkeraan hänen\nhaaralleen, että sotkeutui pelissään yhtä pahasti kuin Elizabeth itse.\n\nRva Bennet oli aikonut pidättää Netherfieldin herrat vielä\nillallisellekin; mutta kovaksi onneksi näiden vaunut oli tilattu heitä\nhakemaan jo ennen toisten lähtöä.\n\n\"No niin, tytöt\", hän lausui tyytyväisenä vieraiden lähdettyä, \"mitäs\nsanotte tästä päivästä? Minusta ainakin kaikki luisti erinomaisesti.\nPäivällinen oli kerrassaan onnistunut. Paisti oli käristynyt\nkullanruskeaksi, ja kaikki sanoivat, etteivät olleet koskaan nähneet\nniin lihavaa reisipalaa. Liemi oli ainakin viisikymmentä kertaa\nparempaa kuin se vesivelli, jota Lucasten luona tarjottiin viime\nviikolla; ja yksinpä herra Darcynkin täytyi myöntää, että pyyt olivat\nmainion meheviä; ja hänen se pitäisi tietää, sillä arvaan hänellä\nolevan kotonaan ainakin pari kolme ranskalaista mestarikokkia. Ja --\nah, rakas Jane, sinua minä en ole vielä koskaan nähnyt niin kauniina\nkuin tänä iltana. Rouva Longkin sen myönsi, kun kysyin häneltä. Ja mitä\nluuletkaan hänen vielä sanoneen? 'Ah, rouva Bennet,' hän sanoi, 'kyllä\nme näemme hänet vielä keikkuvan emäntänä Netherfieldissä.' Niin hän\ntodellakin sanoi. Minusta rouva Long onkin paras ihminen maailmassa --\nja hänen sisarentyttärensä ovat oikein kilttejä tyttöjä eivätkä\nlainkaan kauniita. Minä pidän heistä hirveän paljon.\"\n\n\"Minustakin päivä oli hyvin onnistunut\", sanoi Jane sisarelleen heidän\njäätyään kahdenkesken. \"Seuramme tuntui erittäin hyvin valitulta, ja\nkaikki viihtyivät erinomaisesti toistensa parissa. Minä toivon, että\ntapaamme vastakin toisemme.\"\n\nElizabeth vain hymyili.\n\n\"Lizzy, sinä et saa virnailla etkä epäillä minua. Minä tulen siitä niin\npahoilleni. Minä vakuutan sinulle, että olen nyt oppinut nauttimaan\nhänen seurastaan niinkuin minkä hyvänsä miellyttävän ja järkevän nuoren\nmiehen seurasta, hautomatta lainkaan mitään hupsuja haaveita. Nyt olen\naivan varma, ettei hän ole koskaan tarkoittanutkaan saada minulta\nmitään enempää kuin hauskaa seuranpitoa. Se erotus on vain hänen ja\ntoisten herrain välillä, että hänellä on sulavampi esiintymistapa ja\nsuurempi viehätyskyky kuin kellään toisella tuntemallani miehellä.\"\n\n\"Oletpa sinä kovin julma!\" huudahti hänen sisarensa. \"Sinä et tahdo\nsallia minun hymyilevän sinulle, ja kuitenkin ärsytät joka sanallasi\nminua nauramaan.\"\n\n\"Kuinka vaikeaa toisinaan onkaan saada sanansa oikein uskotuksi!\nVälistä se näyttää olevan ihan mahdotonta! Minkä vuoksi tahdot\nluulotella, että minä muka tuntisin jotain enempää kuin tahdon myöntää\ntodeksi?\"\n\n\"Kas siihen kysymykseen minun on hyvin vaikea vastata. Me\nkaikki halajamme opettaa toisia, vaikka itse kykenemme oppimaan\nainoastaan sellaista, jota ei kannattaisi tietääkään. Suo minulle\nanteeksi epäuskoisuuteni; ja jos aiot yhä edelleenkin käyttää\nvälinpitämättömyyden naamaria kasvoillasi, niin ole kiltti äläkä tee\n_minua_ uskotuksesi.\"\n\n\n\n\nLV LUKU.\n\n\nMuutamia päiviä tämän vierailun jälkeen hra Bingley saapui uudelleen ja\ntällä kertaa yksin. Hänen ystävänsä oli samana aamuna lähtenyt\nLontooseen, mutta luvannut palata kymmenen päivän perästä. Hän\nistui perheen parissa tuntikauden ja oli ilmeisesti sangen hyvällä\ntuulella. Rva Bennet pyysi häntä jäämään päivällisille, mutta monin\nanteeksipyytelyin hän tunnusti olevansa jo kutsuttu muuanne.\n\n\"Voitteko sitten tulla huomenna?\"\n\nHuomenna hänellä ei ollut minnekään menoa, ja hän otti kiitollisesti\nkutsun vastaan.\n\nHän saapui huomenissa siksi hyvään aikaan, ettei kukaan naisista ollut\nvielä pukeissaan. Rva Bennet juoksi yönutussaan ja hapset hajallaan\nvanhimman tyttärensä huoneeseen ja huusi hengästyneenä:\n\n\"Jane rakas, pidä kiirettä ja joudu heti alas! Hän on jo tullut --\nherra Bingley on täällä! On kuin onkin, sanon mä! Tee joutua, tee\njoutua, rakkaani! Hoi Sarah, tulkaa paikalla tänne auttamaan pukua Jane\nneidin päälle. Vähät nyt Lizzy neidin tukasta!\"\n\n\"Me koetamme joutua minkä ehdimme\", sanoi Jane; \"mutta minä arvaan,\nettä Kitty ennättää valmiiksi aikaisemmin kuin kukaan meistä, sillä hän\ntuli huoneeseensa jo puoli tuntia sitten.\"\n\n\"Viisi me Kittystä! Mitä hänellä on alhaalla tekemistä? Jouduhan nyt\nsukkelaan, rakkaani! Missä sinun vyöhyesi onkaan?\"\n\nMutta äidin palattua omalle puolelleen Jane ei suostunut millään\nilveellä menemään alas ilman jonkun sisarensa seuraa.\n\nSama hätäinen halu jättää molemmat rakastavat kahdenkesken ilmeni\nmyöhemminkin illalla. Teen juotua hra Bennet vetäytyi tapansa mukaan\nkirjastoon, ja Mary lähti yläkertaan soittelemaan. Täten oli Hymenin\nrattaiden viidestä liikapyörästä jo kaksi saatu syrjäytetyksi; ja rva\nBennet istui ja vilkuili ja iski silmää ja nyökkäili hetken aikaa\nElizabethille ja Kittylle, saamatta näitä kuitenkaan ymmärtämään hänen\nmerkkikieltään. Elizabeth ei _tahtonut_ sitä ymmärtää; ja kun Kitty sen\nviimein ymmärsi, kysyi hän hyvin viattomasti: \"Mikä nyt on hätänä,\näiti? Mitä sinä tarkoitat, kun nyökyttelet minulle? Mitä minun pitäisi\ntehdä?\"\n\n\"Ei mitään, lapseni, ei mitään. Enhän minä sinulle nyökkäillyt.\" Hän\nistui aivan hiljaa vielä viitisen minuuttia; mutta sitten hän ei\nkyennyt enää pidättymään ja päästämään hukkaan niin tähdellistä\ntilaisuutta. Hän kavahti pystyyn ja suihkaten Kittylle: \"Tulehan\nmukanani, lapseni, minulla on sinulle jotain sanottavaa\", vei hänet\nulos salista.\n\nJane loi oitis Elizabethiin niin hätääntyneen katseen, että tämä\npäätti, ettei _häntä_ ainakaan saataisi karkoitetuksi. Mutta hetken\nperästä rva Bennet raotti ovea ja huusi sisään: \"Lizzy rakas, minulla\non sinulle puhumista.\"\n\nSilloin oli hänenkin pakko poistua.\n\n\"Meidän pitää jättää heidät kahdenkesken, ymmärräthän\", supatti äiti\nhänen korvaansa, kun he seisoivat yhdessä keskellä eteissuojaa. \"Kitty\nja minä lähdemme yläkertaan minun makuuhuoneeseeni.\"\n\nElizabeth ei katsonut maksavan vaivaa ruveta väittelemään äitinsä\nkanssa, mutta hän jäi tyynesti eteiseen siksi kunnes tämä ja Kitty\nolivat poistuneet, ja sitten hän palasi saliin.\n\nMutta silloin hän sai rajattomaksi hämmästyksekseen huomata, että hänen\näitinsä oli ollut häntä viisaampi. Avatessaan hiljaa oven hän näki\nsisarensa ja Bingleyn seisovan vastakkain uunin edessä, nähtävästi\nsyventyneinä varsin vakavaan keskusteluun; ja jollei tämäkään vielä\nolisi pannut häntä epäilemään, olivat molempain kasvot, kun he äkkiä\nkääntyivät katsomaan häneen, hyvin kaunopuheiset. _Heidän_ tilanteensa\noli kylläkin tukala; mutta _hänen_ oli vielä pahempi. Kukaan heistä\nkolmesta ei virkkanut sanaakaan; ja Elizabeth aikoi juuri pyörähtää\ntakaisin ovelta, kun Bingley kuiskasi pari sanaa hänen sisarensa\nkorvaan ja juoksi kiireesti ulos salista.\n\nJane ei voinut pitää asiata salassa rakkaimmalta sisareltaan; hänen\nintohimoinen syleilynsä ja loistavat silmänsä antoivat tälle oitis\ntiedoksi, että hänen edessään oli maailman onnellisin tyttö.\n\n\"Tämä on liian paljon minulle!\" Jane huokasi; \"aivan liian paljon. Minä\nen ansaitse tällaista onnea! Ah, miksi eivät kaikki ihmiset ole yhtä\nonnellisia?\"\n\nElizabethin onnittelut olivat niin vilpittömät, lämpimät ja iloiset,\nettä sanat voivat vain köyhästi niitä ilmaista. Ja sittenkin oli\njokainen hänen sanansa uusi onnenpisara Janen autuuden maljaan. Mutta\nhän ei malttanut kauan nauttia onnestaan vain sisarensa kanssa.\n\n\"Minun täytyy heti lähteä äidin tykö\", hän huudahti. \"Minä en voi\nsalata tätä häneltä, sillä tiedänhän hänen aina tahtoneen minun\nonneani; enkä minä tahdo, että hän saa kuulla tästä kenenkään toisen\nsuusta kuin minun omastani. Hän -- Bingley (punastuen) -- on jo mennyt\nisän puheille. Ah, Lizzy, että minä voinkaan tuottaa sellaista iloa\nkoko perheelle! Kuinka jaksankaan kestää näin suurta onnea?\"\n\nHän riensi keveästi kuin siivin yläkertaan äitinsä luo, joka yhdessä\nKittyn kanssa odotteli jännitettynä tietoa sotajuonensa onnistumisesta.\n\nYksin jäätyään Elizabeth ei voinut olla hymyilemättä ajatellessaan,\nkuinka helposti ja vaivatta tämä tukala juttu oli tullut päätökseen,\naiheutettuaan koko perheelle niin monet kuukaudet pulmaa ja huolta.\n\n\"Ja tällainen on lopputulos\", hän ajatteli, \"kaikesta hänen ystävänsä\nvaltioviisaudesta ja varovaisuudesta ja hänen sisartensa kavalista\njuonista! Onnellisin ja järjellisin ja yksinkertaisin ratkaisu, mitä\najatella saattaa!\"\n\nMuutaman minuutin perästä säntäsi saliin Bingley, jonka keskustelu\nhänen isänsä kanssa näytti oitis johtaneen tarkoitettuun tulokseen.\n\n\"Missä sisarenne on?\" kysyi hän kiireesti kohta oven avattuaan.\n\n\"Yläkerrassa äitimme luona. Mutta arvaan, että hän joutuu aivan pian\nalas.\"\n\nBingley sulki silloin oven perästään ja tuli hymyillen hänen luokseen,\npyytäen sisarellisia onnitteluja ja kälyn rakkautta, jotka Elizabeth\niloissaan ja vilpittömästi hänelle lupasi.\n\nKoko perhe tunsi harvinaisen iloista liikutusta istuessaan\nillallispöytään. Janen kasvoilta säteili niin autuas kirkkaus, että se\nlämmitti kaikkien sydämiä, eikä hän ollut vielä koskaan näyttänyt niin\nihanalta. Elizabeth oli varma sisarensa onnesta, sillä hän tiesi\nmolempain kihlattujen olevan luonteeltaan samanlaiset, yhtä hilpeät,\nvilpittömät ja vaatimattomat. Kitty hymyili ja hihitteli ja toivoi\nsalaa sydämessään, että hänenkin vuoronsa pian tulisi. Rva Bennet ei\ntahtonut löytää kylliksi lämpimiä sanoja ilmaistakseen ihastustaan,\nvaikka hän ei mistään muusta puhunutkaan Bingleylle koko illallisen\nkestäessä; ja yksinpä hra Bennetinkin ryhti ja äänen sävy ilmaisivat\nhänen olevan mielissään.\n\nHän ei siitä kuitenkaan sanoilla virkkanut, niin kauan kuin sulhanen\noli joukossa; mutta heti tämän lähdettyä hän otti tyttärensä kädet\nomiensa väliin ja sanoi hänelle:\n\n\"Jane, minä toivotan sinulle onnea. Sinusta tulee hyvin onnellinen\naviovaimo.\"\n\nJane kietoi kätensä hänen kaulaansa, suuteli häntä ja kiitti hänen\nhyvyydestään.\n\n\"Sinä olet hyvä tyttö\", jatkoi isä, \"ja minä olen erittäin iloinen, kun\nsaan sinut niin hyvin naitetuksi. En ollenkaan epäile, ettette te\nmolemmat sopisi mainiosti yhteen. Teidän luonteenlaatunne ovat hyvin\nsamanlaiset. Molemmat te olette niin mukautuvaiset, ettette tule\nkoskaan kahnaamaan omaa tahtoanne toistenne tahtoa vastaan; molemmat\nolette niin pehmeäluontoiset, että kaikki palvelijanne saavat\nturvallisesti varastaa teiltä; ja molemmat niin anteliaat ja\nhyväsydämiset, etteivät vuositulonne tule teille koskaan riittämään.\"\n\n\"Eihän toki, isä. Järjetön ja ajattelematon raha-asiainhoito on minusta\nanteeksiantamaton synti.\"\n\n\"Mitä sinä puhutkaan -- etteivät heidän vuositulonsa muka riittäisi!\"\nhuudahti rva Bennet. \"Onhan Bingleyllä vuodessa tuloja kolme- tai\nneljätuhatta puntaa ja kukaties vielä enemmänkin.\" Sitten hän\ntyttärensä puoleen kääntyen jatkoi: \"Ah, rakas Jane, kunpa tietäisit,\nkuinka onnellinen minä olen! Olen varma, etten saa unenhiventäkään koko\nyönä. Arvasinhan minä, että näin tulisikin käymään. Minä aina\nsanoinkin, että te olette luodut toisillenne. Ethän sinä turhan takia\nolekaan niin kaunis! Muistanpa yhtä selvästi kuin eilisen päivän, että\nkun hän ensi kerran viime vuonna tuli tänne Hertfordshireen, minä häntä\njo silloin tunnustelin vävykseni. Ah, hän onkin kaunein ja hienoin\nnuori mies, mitä koskaan olen nähnyt!\"\n\nUnohtuneet olivat tällä haavaa Wickham ja Lydia äitikullan mielestä.\nJane oli nyt hänen lempityttärensä -- muusta ei puhettakaan. Tällä\nhetkellä hän ei joutunut ajattelemaankaan toisia lapsiaan.\n\nJanen nuorimmat sisaret rupesivat jakamaan morsiamen onnea ja etuja\nkeskenään. Mary toivoi saavansa vapaasti käyttää Netherfieldin\nkirjastoa, ja Kitty kerjäsi hartaasti, että Jane kaikin mokomin panisi\ntoimeen tanssiaisiltoja talven kuluessa.\n\nTästä lähtien Bingley oli luonnollisesti jokapäiväinen vieras\nLongbournissa; usein hän tuli jo ennen aamiaista ja lähti aina myöhään\npäivällisen jälkeen, jollei joku raakamainen naapuri, jonka\ntahdittomuutta ei voitu kylläksi moittia, toimittanut hänelle kavalata\npäivälliskutsua, jota hänen oli pakko noudattaa.\n\nElizabethilla oli tähän aikaan hyvin harvoin tilaisuutta vanhaan\nkahdenkeskiseen jutteluun Janen kanssa; sillä aina kun Bingley oli\nsaapuvilla, ei Jane tietenkään voinut omistaa huomiotaan kellekään\ntoiselle. Mutta eronhetkinä, joita ei tyyten voitu välttää, sisaresta\noli suurta hyötyä kummallekin rakastavalle. Janen poissa ollessa\nBingley etsi aina Elizabethin seuraa saadakseen puhella hänelle\nJanesta; ja Bingleyn poistuttua Jane luonnollisesti etsi samaa lohtua\nsisarensa luota.\n\n\"Hän on tehnyt minut niin ihmeen onnelliseksi\", sanoi hän eräänä\niltana, \"kertomalla minulle, ettei hänellä ollut edes aavistustakaan,\nettä minä olin viime keväänä ollut Lontoossa. Sitä en tahtonut uskoa\nmahdolliseksi.\"\n\n\"Sitä minä epäilinkin\", vastasi hänen sisarensa. \"Mutta kuinka hän sen\nselitti?\"\n\n\"Sen täytyy olla hänen sisartensa juonta. He eivät nähneet ollenkaan\nsuosiollisin mielin hänen ja minun ystävyyttä, jota en voi\nihmetelläkään, sillä olihan hän osoittanut minulle vallan erikoista\nhuomiota. Mutta kun he nyt tulevat näkemään -- kuten lujasti uskon --\nettä heidän veljensä on onnellinen minun kanssani, niin arvaan että he\noppivat tyytymään asiainmenoon ja että meidän välimme palautuvat\njälleen hyviksi; vaikka _yhtä_ hyviksi kuin ennen ne eivät voi enää\nkoskaan tulla.\"\n\n\"Tuopa oli tylyin puhe, mitä olen koskaan kuullut sinun suustasi\",\nhuudahti Elizabeth. \"Voi taivas sentään, kuinka hyvä tyttö sinä olet!\nMinua todella harmittaisikin, jos vielä kerran antaisit neiti Bingleyn\nteeskennellyn suosion lumota silmäsi.\"\n\n\"Voitko uskoa, Lizzy, että kun hän -- Bingley (punastuen) lähti täältä\nviime marraskuussa Lontooseen, niin hän todella rakasti minua; ja että\nainoastaan hupsu luulo muka minun välinpitämättömyydestäni esti häntä\npalaamasta tänne takaisin?\"\n\n\"Hän teki siinä pienen erehdyksen; mutta onhan sekin vain todistus\nhänen vaatimattomuudestaan.\"\n\nTämä tietysti aiheutti uuden ylistyslaulun Janen puolelta.\n\nElizabeth oli mielissään, ettei Bingley ollut ilmaissut Janelle\nystävänsä osuutta tähän \"pieneen erehdykseen\"; sillä vaikka Janella\nolikin mitä lempein ja anteeksiantavaisin sydän, olisi hän noussut\npuolustamaan rakkauttaan kuten leijona pentujaan ja kantanut kauan\nsalaista kaunaa sen loukkaajaa vastaan.\n\n\"Ah, minä olen varmastikin onnellisin ihminen, mitä koskaan on elänyt\nmaan päällä!\" huudahti kaunis morsian hurmioissaan. \"Voi sentään,\nLizzy, minkä vuoksi juuri minut on valittu meidän perheestä ja minulle\nyksin kasattu sellainen siunauksen ylenpalttisuus? Jospa saisin nähdä\nsinutkin yhtä onnellisena! Mistä me löytäisimmekään toisen yhtä mainion\nmiehen sinulle?\"\n\n\"Vaikka hankkisit minulle viisikinkymmentä yhtä mainiota miestä, niin\nen kuitenkaan tulisi yhtä onnelliseksi kuin sinä. Vasta sitten kun\nsaisin sinun leppeän ja tyytyväisen mielenlaatusi, sinun pohjattoman\nhyvyytesi, voisin tulla yhtä onnelliseksi. Ei, ei -- anna minun hoitaa\nomat asiani; ehkäpä onni joskus potkaisee minulle aikanaan jonkin uuden\nherra Collinsin.\"\n\nLongbournin perheen keskuudessa sattunutta onnellista tapahtumaa ei\nvoitu kauankaan pitää salassa. Rva Bennetin oli sallittu suihkaista\nsiitä sisarelleen rva Philipsille; ja tämä levitti ilman vähintäkään\nvaltuutusta siitä tiedon kaikille naapurinrouville Merytonissa.\n\nBennetin perhe julistettiin tuotapikaa onnen siunaamaksi, vaikka sitä\nvasta jokunen viikko sitten, ensimmäisen huhun tultua Lydian\nkarkaamisesta, oli katseltu yli olkain.\n\n\n\n\nLVI LUKU.\n\n\nEräänä aamuna, viikon päivät Janen kihlauksen jälkeen, kun Bingley\nistui perheen kera ruokasalissa, lennätti maantieltä kuuluva vaunujen\nkolina heidät kaikki akkunaan. Ulos tähystäessään he näkivät\nnelivaljakon vetämien upeiden vaunujen lähenevän ruohokentän yli. Aamu\noli vielä liian varhainen, jotta vieraita olisi voinut odottaa, mutta\nkenenkään naapurinkaan omiksi he eivät vaunuja tunteneet. Kun tulijat\nkuitenkin nähtävästi aikoivat Bennetin luo, antoi Bingley morsiamelleen\nmerkin, ja molemmat pujahtivat puutarhaan vierailua pakoon. Kolme\njäljelle jäänyttä koetti ylläpitää näköjään huoletonta keskustelua,\nkunnes heidän huojennuksekseen ovi viimein avautui ja vieras astui\nsisään. Se oli Lady Catherine De Bourgh.\n\nSisällä olijat olivat tietysti aikoneet hämmästyä; mutta heidän\nhämmästyksensä kävikin yli kaiken odotuksen. Rva Bennet ja Kitty eivät\ntosin tunteneet tulijaa, mutta Elizabethkin, joka hyvin tunsi hänet,\nsäpsähti ja tunsi ihoansa karmivan.\n\nVieras astui huoneeseen tavallista mahdikkaamman ja tylymmän näköisenä,\nvastasi Elizabethin kohteliaaseen niiaukseen vain kuivalla\npäännyökkäyksellä ja kävi istumaan sanomatta sanaakaan. Elizabeth oli\nkuiskannut tulijan nimen äitinsä korvaan, mutta sen enempää esittelyä\nei tapahtunut.\n\nRva Bennet, joka oli sekä ällistynyt että mielissään niin ylhäisen\nvieraan saapumisesta, niiaili niiailemistaan; mutta vieras istui\njäykkänä ja tuppisuuna hyvän aikaa, ennenkuin viimein virkkoi\nElizabethille yhteenpuristettujen huultensa välistä:\n\n\"Toivon, että voitte hyvin, neiti Bennet. Tämä rouva on kaiketi\näitinne?\"\n\nElizabeth myönsi olettamuksen oikeaksi. \"Ja _tuo_ kai on joku\nsisarenne?\"\n\n\"Niin on, arvoisa rouva\", puuttui rva Bennet muhoillen puheeseen. \"Hän\non minun lähinnä nuorin tyttäreni. Kaikkein nuorin meni äskettäin\nnaimisiin, ja vanhin on kaiketi jossain ulkona erään nuoren herran\nkanssa, jonka arvaan piankin tulevan perheemme uudeksi jäseneksi.\"\n\n\"Teillä on sangen vähäinen puisto täällä\", huomautti Lady Catherine\nhetken vaitiolon jälkeen.\n\n\"Eihän sitä tietysti käy vertaaminenkaan Rosingsin puistoon, mylady;\nmutta minä vakuutan teille, että se on isompi kuin Sir William Lucasin\npuisto.\"\n\n\"Tämän täytyy olla hyvin tukala oleskeluhuone kesäilloin -- akkunathan\novat kaikki länttä kohti.\"\n\nRva Bennet vakuutti, etteivät he koskaan istuneet täällä päivällisen\njälkeen, ja lisäsi:\n\n\"Rohkenenko kysyä teidän jalosukuisuudeltanne, mitenkä herra ja rouva\nCollins voivat?\"\n\n\"Oo -- sangen hyvin. Näin heidät viimeksi toissa iltana.\"\n\nElizabeth odotti, että vieraalla oli tuotavana hänelle kirje\nCharlottelta, sillä muuta syytä hänen tuloonsa hän ei kyennyt\narvaamaan. Mutta mitään kirjettä ei kuulunut; ja hän kävi yhä enemmän\nymmälleen.\n\nRva Bennet tarjoutui kohteliaasti hankkimaan vieraalle virvokkeita;\nmutta Lady Catherine kieltäytyi hyvin päättäväisesti ja jokseenkin\nepäkohteliaasti nauttimasta mitään. Sitten hän nousi majesteetillisesti\npystyyn ja sanoi Elizabethiin kääntyen:\n\n\"Neiti Bennet, tuolla ruohokentän laidalla näkyy olevan sievänlainen\npikku metsikkö. Minä kävisin mielelläni sitä katsomassa, jos te\nsuvaitsette saattaa minut sinne.\"\n\n\"Lähde toki, rakkaani\", huudahti rva Bennet, \"ja näytä hänen\njalosukuisuudelleen kaikki käytävät. Minä arvaan, että erakkomaja tulee\nhäntä suuresti miellyttämään.\"\n\nElizabeth totteli, ja juostuaan yläkerrasta noutamaan päivänvarjonsa\nhän lähti opastamaan mahdikasta vierasta.\n\nEteishallissa Lady Catherine pysähtyi hetkeksi, availi kaikkien siihen\navautuvain huoneiden ovet ja huomautti silmämääräisen tarkastuksen\njälkeen, että ne näyttivät olevan jokseenkin siistissä kunnossa.\n\nHänen vaununsa odottelivat ulko-oven edustalla, ja Elizabeth voi nähdä\nhänen seuranaisensa kurkistelevan niiden akkunasta. He astelivat\nvaitonaisina metsikköön vievää sorapolkua pitkin; Elizabeth oli lujasti\npäättänyt, ettei hän ainakaan aloita keskustelua tuon naisen kanssa,\njoka tänään tuntui olevan tavallista röyhkeämpi ja tahallaan\nepämiellyttävä.\n\n\"Kuinka voisikaan häntä uskoa Darcyn tädiksi?\" hän ihmetteli itsekseen,\nkatsellen vierastaan suoraan kasvoihin.\n\nPerille tultua Lady Catherine alkoi purkaa sydäntään seuraavaan tapaan:\n\n\"Ette voine olla epätietoinen, neiti Bennet, tänne tuloni\ntarkoituksesta. Teidän sydämenne, teidän omantuntonne pitäisi sanoa\nteille se.\"\n\nElizabeth tuijotti häneen suurin silmin.\n\n\"Nyt erehdytte varmasti, rouvani. Minun on aivan mahdoton arvata teidän\ntänne tulonne syytä.\"\n\n\"Neiti Bennet\", vastasi jalosukuinen rouva vihaisella äänellä, \"teidän\npitäisi jo tietää, että minä en salli vehkeiltävän kanssani.\nMutta miten epärehellinen _te_ aiotte ollakin, aion _minä_ puhua\nsuuni puhtaaksi. Minun luonteeni on kuuluisa suoruudestaan ja\nteeskentelemättömyydestään, enkä minä aio nytkään pettää mainettani.\nKaksi päivää takaperin tuli korviini kerrassaan yllättävä ja harmittava\nhuhu. Minulle näet kerrottiin, ettei ainoastaan teidän vanhempi\nsisarenne aikonut keinotella itseänsä mitä edullisimpaan avioliittoon,\nvaan että te itsekin, neiti Elizabeth Bennet, olette uskaltanut\nkohottaa silmänne minun sisarenpoikaani, minun omaan sisarenpoikaani,\nherra Darcyyn, ja että teistä todennäköisesti kohta sisarenne häiden\nperästä tulisi hänen vaimonsa. Vaikka minä oitis tiesin, että\ntuollaisen puheen _täytyi_ olla häpeällistä valhetta ja panettelua,\nvaikka en tahtonut loukata sisarenpoikaani edes epäilemällä sitä\nmahdolliseksi, niin päätin kuitenkin heti lähteä tänne tekemään teille\nselväksi _minun_ käsitykseni asiasta.\"\n\n\"Jos te todella uskoitte huhun valheeksi\", sanoi Elizabeth, punastuen\nhämmästyksestä ja närkästyksestä, \"niin minä ihmettelen, että ollenkaan\nvaivaannuitte niin pitkälle matkalle. Mikä teidän jalosukuisuutenne\ntarkoituksena oikeastaan oli?\"\n\n\"Minä vaadin, että te hetipaikalla kiellätte mokoman jutun\ntodenperäisyyden ja saatatte peruutuksen yleisesti tunnetuksi.\"\n\n\"Teidän saapumisenne Longbourniin ja vierailunne perheemme luona\nminusta tuntuu paremminkin vahvistavan kuin kieltävän huhun\ntodenperäisyyttä\", sanoi Elizabeth kylmästi; \"-- jos nimittäin\nsellainen huhu todella on liikkeellä.\"\n\n\"Jos --! Teeskentelettekö te todella olevanne tietämätön siitä? Ettekö\nte itse ja arvottomat omaisenne ole juuri sitä ahkerasti levitelleet?\nVäitättekö olevanne muka tietämätön, että sellainen huhu on\nliikkeellä?\"\n\n\"Minä en ole sellaisesta koskaan kuullut.\"\n\n\"Ja voitteko yhtä varmasti selittää, ettei sellaiseen huhuun ole\nvähintäkään _aihettakaan_?\"\n\n\"Minä en vaadi itselleni samanlaista suorasukaisuuden mainetta kuin\nteidän jalosukuisuudellanne on. _Te_ voitte tehdä kysymyksiä, joihin\n_minä_ ehkä en halua vastata.\"\n\n\"Tämä on sietämätöntä. Neiti Bennet, minä _vaadin_ teiltä suoraa\nvastausta. Onko sisarenpoikani tehnyt teille naimatarjousta?\"\n\n\"Teidän jalosukuisuutenne on itse selittänyt sen olevan mahdotonta.\"\n\n\"Niin sen pitäisi ollakin; sen täytyy olla, niin kauan kuin hän on\ntäydessä järjessään. Mutta _teidän_ kehnot keinonne ja viekoituksenne\novat saaneet ehkä hänet jossain hulluuden puuskassa unohtamaan, mitä\nhän on velkaa itselleen ja suvulleen. Te olette voinut vetää hänet\nsiinä määrässä alas lokaan asti.\"\n\n\"Jos olen sen tehnyt, niin tottahan olen viimeinen henkilö tunnustamaan\nsen.\"\n\n\"Neiti Bennet, tiedättekö kuka minä olen? Minä en ole tottunut\nkuulemaan tuollaista julkeaa puhetta. Minä olen miltei ainoa\nsukulainen, mitä hänellä on jäljellä ja, minä olen oikeutettu tietämään\nkaikki hänen asiansa.\"\n\n\"Mutta te ette ole oikeutettu tietämään _minun_ asioitani; eikä\ntuollainen käytös kuin teidän nyt osoittamanne koskaan taivuta minua\npuhumaan niistä.\"\n\n\"Antakaahan minun tehdä asia teille täysin selväksi. Tuosta\nnaimiskaupasta, johon te näytte tähtäävän, ei iki maailmassa tule sen\nvalmiimpaa. Ei, ei ikinä. Herra Darcy on kihloissa _minun tyttäreni_\nkanssa. No, mitäs nyt sanotte?\"\n\n\"Vain tämän -- jos hän on, niinkuin sanotte, kihloissa tyttärenne\nkanssa, niin ei hänellä ole vähintäkään aihetta kosia minua.\"\n\nLady Catherine epäröi tovin, ennenkuin vastasi:\n\n\"Heidän kihlauksensa on aivan erikoista laatua. Jo pienestä pitäen he\novat määrätyt toisillensa. Se oli hänen äitinsä hartain toivomus,\nniinkuin se on minunkin. Jo heidän kätkyessä maatessaan me\nsuunnittelimme heidän vastaisen liittonsa; ja nyt, kun molempain\nsisarusten toivomuksen pitäisi toteutua, käy väliin halpasäätyinen\nnuori naikkonen, jolla ei ole varallisuutta eikä arvoa niin vähintäkään\n-- vennon vieras ihminen! Ettekö te välitä ollenkaan sisarenpoikani\nsukulaisten ja ystäväin toiveista? Hänen toistaiseksi vielä\njulistamattomasta kihlauksestaan neiti De Bourghin kanssa? Oletteko\nihan vailla kaikkea säädyllisyyttä ja hienotunteisuutta? Ettekö kuullut\nminun sanovan, että hän on vähäisestä lapsuudestaan lähtien määrätty\nnaimaan serkkunsa?\"\n\n\"Kyllä, ja sen olen kuullut jo ennenkin. Mutta mitä se minuun koskee?\nJollei mikään muu syy ole estämässä minua menemästä naimisiin\nsisarenpoikanne kanssa, niin varmastikaan ei esteenä ole tieto siitä,\nettä hänen äitinsä ja tätinsä toivovat hänen naivan neiti De Bourghin.\nTe molemmat olette tehneet kaiken voitavanne suunnitellessanne tuota\nnaimiskauppaa. Sen toteutuminen riippuu toisista. Jollei herra Darcy\ntunne kunnian eikä kiintymyksen sitovan häntä serkkuunsa, niin miksi\nhänellä ei olisi vapautta tehdä valintansa toisaalta? Ja jos hänen\nvalintansa kohdistuu minuun, niin miksi täytyisi minun kieltäytyä?\"\n\n\"Siksi, että kunnia, säädyllisyys, järkevyys niinkuin oma etunnekin\nkieltävät sen. Niin juuri, neiti Bennet, teidän oma etunne. Sillä ette\nkai odota, että hänen sukulaisensa ja ystävänsä sulkevat teidät\nsyliinsä, jos tahallanne ja ilkeämielisesti toimitte heidän tahtoaan\nvastaan. Ehei -- kaikki hänen tuttavansa tulevat halveksimaan, tylysti\narvostelemaan ja vihaamaan teitä, siitä saatte olla varma. Teidän\navioliitostanne tulee teille ikuinen häpeän lähde; eikä teidän\nnimeänne tulla edes mainitsemaankaan meidän keskuudessamme.\"\n\n\"Ne ovat todellakin raskaita kohtaloniskuja\", vastasi Elizabeth. \"Mutta\nhra Darcyn vaimon täytyy asemastaan löytää vallan erikoisia tyydytyksen\nja onnellisuuden lähteitä, niin että hänen ei kai yleensä tarvitse\nkatua rohkeuttaan.\"\n\n\"Itsepäinen, tylsäjärkinen tyttö! Minä häpeän teidän takianne! Tälläkö\ntapaa te osoitatte kiitollisuuttanne kaikesta minun viimekeväisestä\nhuomaavaisuudestani? Ettekö tunne velvollisuudeksenne ottaa minua ja\nminun toivomuksiani ollenkaan lukuun? Istukaamme. Teidän on\nymmärrettävä, neiti Bennet, että minä tulin tänne lujasti päättäen\nviedä tahtoni perille; ja siitä päätöksestäni ei mikään voi minua\nhorjuttaa. Minä en ole tottunut alistumaan kenenkään oikkuihin. Minun\nei ole tapana pettyä toiveissani.\"\n\n\"_Se_ tekee teidän jalosukuisuutenne nykyisen tilanteen sitä\nsäälittävämmäksi; mutta _minuun_ se ei tehoo vähääkään.\"\n\n\"Älkää keskeyttäkö minua! Kuunnelkaa ääneti, mitä minä sanon. Minun\ntyttäreni ja sisarenpoikani ovat luodut ja kasvatetut toisiansa varten.\nHe polveutuvat äitiensä puolelta samasta jalosyntyisestä suvusta; isien\npuolelta kunnianarvoisista, arvossapidetyistä ja ikivanhoista, vaikka\nei yhtä korkea-aatelisista perheistä. Kummallakin on suurenmoinen\nomaisuus. Kummankin suvut ovat yhteen ääneen julistaneet heidät\ntoisilleen kuuluviksi; ja mikä nyt käykään erottamaan heitä?\nAlhaisarvoisen, rutiköyhän ja vaikutusvaltaisia sukulaisia\nvailla olevan nuoren tyttöheilakan röyhkeät ja kunnianhimoiset\nnousukaspyrkimykset! Voiko tällaista kärsiä? Sitä ei saa kärsiä, eikä\nsitä tulla kärsimään! Jos te vähänkään ymmärrätte omaa etuanne, niin\nette varmastikaan pyri ylös siitä tasosta, jossa olette kasvanut.\"\n\n\"Jos minusta tulisi sisarenpoikanne vaimo, niin en todellakaan luulisi\nluopuvani omasta tasostani. Hän on arvosäätyinen herrasmies; minä olen\narvosäätyisen herrasmiehen tytär. Luulisin, että olemme toistemme\nvertaiset.\"\n\n\"Totta kyllä. Isänne on arvosäätyinen herrasmies. Mutta mitä säätyä on\näitinne? Mitä väkeä ovat enonne ja tätinne? Älkää luulkokaan, etten\ntietäisi heidän olevan halpoja ammattilaisia.\"\n\n\"Olivatpa sukulaiseni mitä säätyä ja ammattia hyvänsä\", sanoi\nElizabeth, \"niin jollei sisarenpojallanne ole mitään heitä vastaan, ei\n_teillä_ ainakaan voi olla mitään sanomista asiassa.\"\n\n\"Sanokaa minulle hetipaikalla ja kerta kaikkiaan, oletteko kihloissa\nhänen kanssaan?\"\n\nVaikka Elizabethin mieli ei tehnyt vastata tähän kysymykseen Lady\nCatherinen röyhkeästä vaatimuksesta, ei hän kuitenkaan voinut olla\nsanomatta, hetken mietittyään:\n\n\"En ole.\"\n\nLady Catherine näytti tulevan mieliinsä.\n\n\"Ja lupaatteko nyt minulle, ettette koskaan aiokaan suostua sellaiseen\nkihlaukseen?\"\n\n\"Mitään sellaista en tahdo luvata.\"\n\n\"Neiti Bennet, minä olen kovin hämmästynyt ja loukkaantunut. Minä\ntoivoin teissä tapaavani järkevän nuoren naisen. Mutta älkää pettykö\nluulemaan, että minä antaisin koskaan perään. Minä en lähde täältä,\nennenkuin olette antanut minulle sen vakuutuksen, jota teiltä vaadin.\"\n\n\"Ja sellaista en varmastikaan _koskaan_ anna teille. Minua ei saa\nmikään taivutetuksi niin tuiki järjettömään lupaukseen. Teidän\njalosukuisuutenne tahtoo naittaa tyttärensä herra Darcylle;\nmutta tekisikö minulta vaatimanne lupaus millään tavoin _heidän_\nnaimisensa sen mahdollisemmaksi? Olettakaamme, että herra Darcy on\nrakastunut minuun; voiko ajatellakaan, että jos minä hylkään hänen\nnaimatarjouksensa, hän siitä käy sen taipuvaisemmaksi kohdistamaan\nkiintymyksensä teidän tyttäreenne? Sallikaa minun sanoa teille, Lady\nCatherine, että ne todistelut, joilla olette tukenut tätä merkillistä\nvaatimustanne, ovat olleet yhtä herjaavat laadultaan kuin vaatimuksenne\non järjetön. Te olette pahasti erehtynyt minun luonteestani, jos\nluulette voivanne minuun vaikuttaa sellaisilla keinoilla. Missä määrin\nsisarenpoikanne hyväksyy teidän sekaantumisenne _hänen_ asioihinsa,\nsitä en voi sanoa; mutta _minun_ asioihini teillä ei varmastikaan ole\noikeutta sekaantua. Minun täytyy senvuoksi pyytää, että vapautatte\nminut tämän kiusallisen keskustelun jatkamisesta.\"\n\n\"Älkäämme hätäilkö, pyydän. En ole vielä likimaillekaan lopettanut.\nKaikkiin jo tekemiini muistutuksiin on minulla vielä yksi lisättävänä.\nEn ole suinkaan tietämätön nuorimman sisarenne häpeällisestä\nkarkausjutusta. Minä tunnen sen kaikki yksityisseikat; minä tiedän,\nettä hänen väkinäinen naittamisensa oli osto- ja myymiskauppa, johon\nisänne ja enonne saivat suorittaa rahat. Ja _sellaisestako_ tytöstä\npitäisi tulla minun sisarenpoikani käly? Ja hänen miehestään, joka on\nherra Darcyn isävainajan entisen pehtorin poika, tulla hänen lankonsa?\nTaivasten tekijät -- mitä te oikein ajattelettekaan? Pitäisikö\nPemberleyn metsäin ylväiden siimesten tulla sillä tapaa häväistyiksi?\"\n\n\"_Nyt_ ei teillä ole enää tämän enempää sanomista\", vastasi Elizabeth\nvihastuneena. \"Te olette herjannut minua kaikella mahdollisella\ntavalla. Pyydän päästä palaamaan kotiini.\"\n\nHän nousi seisomaan. Lady Catherine myöskin nousi, ja molemmat lähtivät\nastelemaan taloa kohti. Hänen jalosukuisuutensa leuka tärähteli\nharmista.\n\n\"Te ette siis sääli vähääkään sisarenpoikani kunniaa ja hyvää nimeä!\nTunnoton, itsekäs tyttö! Ettekö käsitä, että teidän naimisenne häpäisee\nhänet jokaisen kunnon ihmisen silmissä?\"\n\n\"Lady Catherine, minulla ei ole teille enää mitään sanottavana. Te\ntiedätte hyvin minun ajatukseni.\"\n\n\"Oletteko sitten päättänyt väenväkisin siepata hänet itsellenne?\"\n\n\"Mitään sellaista en ole sanonut. Olen ainoastaan päättänyt menetellä\ntavalla, joka oman ajatukseni mukaan luo minun elämänonneni, yhtään\nvälittämättä siitä, mitä te tai kuka hyvänsä minulle vieras muukalainen\najattelee.\"\n\n\"Hyvä on! Te siis kieltäydytte tottelemasta minua. Te kieltäydytte\nnoudattamasta velvollisuuden, kunnian ja kiitollisuuden vaatimuksia. Te\nolette päättänyt riistää häneltä hänen kaikkien ystäväinsä\nkunnioituksen ja saattaa hänet maailman ylenkatseen alaiseksi.\"\n\n\"Ei velvollisuudella eikä kunnialla eikä kiitollisuudella ole tässä\nsuhteessa minulta mitään vaadittavana\", Elizabeth vastasi. \"Ei mikään\nniistä tulisi loukatuksi, jos menisin naimisiin herra Darcyn kanssa. Ja\nmitä hänen sukulaistensa paheksumiseen ja maailman arvosteluun tulee,\nniin edellinen ei huolettaisi minua niin hiukkaistakaan -- ja maailman\nluulen yleensä olevan toki siksi järkevän, ettei se yhdy sukulaisten\ntuomioon.\"\n\n\"Ja tämäkö on todellinen ajatuksenne? Tämäkö on lopullinen päätöksenne!\nNo hyvä! Nyt tiedän miten toimin. Älkää kuvitelkokaan itsellenne, neiti\nBennet, että teidän kunnianhimoinen pyrkimyksenne ikinä vie perille.\nMinä tulin tänne koettelemaan teitä. Toivoin tapaavani teidät edes\nvähänkin järkevänä; mutta nyt saatte luottaa siihen, että minun tahtoni\nlopultakin voittaa.\"\n\nTähän tapaan Lady Catherine jatkoi, kunnes he tulivat vaunujen\nkohdalle; silloin hän vielä kerran kääntyi vastustajansa puoleen ja\nsanoi:\n\n\"Minä en lausu teille jäähyväisiä, neiti Bennet. Enkä lähetä terveisiä\näidillenne. Ette kumpikaan ansaitse sellaista kohteliaisuutta minun\npuoleltani. Minä olen hyvin pahastunut teihin.\"\n\nElizabeth ei vastannut mitään, vaan palasi verkalleen sisään. Hänen\näitinsä syöksähti häntä vastaan makuuhuoneensa ovelta ja kysyi\nhätäytyneenä, minkä vuoksi Lady Catherine ei tahtonut tulla sisään\nlepäämään.\n\n\"Häntä ei haluttanut\", sanoi hänen tyttärensä; \"hän tahtoi jatkaa vain\nmatkaansa.\"\n\n\"Hänpä on oikein hienon näköinen vallasnainen! Ja ajatellapa, kuinka\nhirveän kohteliaasti häneltä, että hän tuli tervehtimään meitä! Minä\narvaan, että hänellä oli vain tuotavana terveisiä Collinseilta. Hän on\nkai matkalla jonnekin pitemmälle, ja Merytonin läpi tullessaan hän\npäätti käydä katsomassa sinua. Otaksun, ettei hänellä ollut mitään\nerikoista asiaa sinulle, Lizzy?\"\n\nElizabethin oli pakko valehdella hiukan äidilleen; sillä mahdotontahan\nhänen oli tehdä tälle selkoa heidän keskustelunsa aiheesta ja\nsisällyksestä.\n\n\n\n\nLVII LUKU.\n\n\nElizabethin ei ollut helppo virkoutua siitä masennuksesta, jonka tuo\ntavaton vierailu oli hänelle aiheuttanut; ja vielä pahempi oli, että\nhänen täytyi väkistenkin lakkaamatta ajatella sitä. Lady Catherine\ntuntui tehneen tuon pitkän matkan vartavasten tehdäkseen lopun hänen\noletetusta kihlauksestaan hra Darcyn kanssa. Mutta Elizabethin oli\nvaikea saada päähänsä, mistä tuo huhu oikein oli alkunsa saanut; kunnes\nhän tuli ajatelleeksi, että kun Darcy oli Bingleyn läheisin ystävä ja\nhän itse oli Janen sisar, niin voi ihmisille hyvästikin syntyä ajatus,\nettä yksiä häitä pian seuraisi toisetkin. Ja mikä läheltä näytti\nmahdolliselta ja todennäköiseltä, se kauempana (Lucas Lodgesta\nHunsfordin pappilaan ja sieltä Rosingsin kartanoon menneenä) tiedettiin\njo varmana tosiasiana.\n\nEnemmän huolta kuin suru Lady Catherinen loukkaamisesta tuotti\nElizabethille ajatus, miltä kannalta sisarenpoika käsittäisi tätinsä\nesityksen heidän yhteentörmäyksestään. Tosin hänellä ei ollut tarkkaa\nselkoa noiden kahden välillä vallitsevasta kiintymyksestä; mutta olihan\nkuitenkin luonnollista, että Darcy piti tätiään suuremmassa arvossa\nkuin _hän_; ja kenties tämän todistelut, jotka hänestä olivat tuntuneet\nniin heikoilta ja naurettavilta, tehoaisivat paljon syvemmin nepaimeen.\n\n\"Jollei hän siis noudata ystävälleen antamaansa lupausta ja palaa tänne\nmuutaman päivän päästä\", virkkoi Elizabeth itselleen, \"niin tiedän,\nmitä hän ajattelee asiasta. Silloin saan lopultakin luopua\nodottelemasta ja toivomasta turhia. Jos hän tyytyy ainoastaan suremaan\nminun menettämistäni, kun sydämeni ja käteni olisivat olleet hänelle\nalttiina, niin en minä vain tule häntä kauankaan suremaan!\"\n\nKun hän seuraavana aamuna laskeutui portaita alas muun perheen luo,\nyhdytti hänet eteissuojassa isänsä, joka avoin kirje kädessä astui ulos\nkirjastonsa ovesta.\n\n\"Huomenta, Lizzy, olin juuri tulossa sinun luoksesi; käyhän mukanani\nkirjastoon.\"\n\nHän seurasi isäänsä, ihmetellen mistä oikein oli kysymys. Kirjeen\nnähdessään hän sai äkkiä päähänsä, että se kukaties oli Lady\nCatherinelta; ja kauhistuen hän odotteli välttämättömien selitysten\nantoa.\n\nMolemmat istahtivat uunin eteen, ja isä alkoi sitten: \"Sain tänä aamuna\nkirjeen, joka suuresti hämmästytti minua. Koska se etupäässä koskee\nsinua, niin saat kuulla sen sisällyksen. Enpä tiennyt tähän mennessä,\nettä minulla on _kaksikin_ tytärtä miehelään mielimässä. Salli minun\nonnitella sinua loistavan valloituksesi johdosta.\"\n\nVeri karahti Elizabethin poskille hänen ajatellessaan, että kirje ehkä\nolikin sisarenpojalta eikä tädiltä; ja hän oli kahden vaiheilla,\nihastuako kosinnasta vai loukkaantuako siitä, ettei kirje ollut\nosoitettu hänelle itselleen, kun hänen isänsä jatkoi:\n\n\"Sinä näytät aavistavan asian. Nuoret neitoset taitavat ollakin\ntavattoman tarkkanäköisiä lemmenasioissa; mutta panenpa vetoa vaikka\nmitä, etteivät edes sinunkaan silmäsi ole vielä keksineet ihailijasi\nnimeä tämän kirjeen kuoren läpi. Se on herra Collinsilta.\"\n\n\"Herra Collinsilta! Ja mitä kummaa _hänellä_ voi olla sanottavana?\"\n\n\"Tietysti jotakin suoraan asian ytimeen käyvää -- tunnethan hänet! Hän\naloittaa onnittelemalla minua vanhimman tyttäreni lähestyvien häiden\njohdosta, joista hän näyttää saaneen viestin noilta lörppösuilta\nLucaseilta. En huoli rasittaa sinun kärsimättömyyttäsi toistamalla\nhänen pitkäpiimäisiä jaarituksiaan _siitä_ asiasta. Mutta sinuun\nitseesi kohdistuu seuraava verraton palanen:\n\n    \"'Esiinkannettuani rva Collinsin ja minun omasta sydämestä\n    lähteneet hartaat onnittelut tämän iloisen perhetapauksen\n    johdosta rohkenen lyhyesti viitata toiseenkin samanlaiseen\n    kohta lähestyvään aivoitukseen, josta olemme kuulleet hiiskauksen\n    samasta lähteestä. Teidän toisenkin tyttärenne Elizabethin\n    väitetään luopuvan Bennetin nimestä kohta vanhimman sisarensa\n    otettua itselleen uuden nimen; ja hänen valitsemaansa\n    elämäntoveria voi hyvällä syyllä pitää yhtenä maamme\n    mainioimmista avioliittokokelaista.'\"\n\n\"Voitko sinä, Lizzy, mahdollisesti arvata, kehen se veitikka tällä\ntähtää?\"\n\n    'Tämän nuoren herrasmiehen on laupias Kaitselmus siunannut\n    ylenpalttisesti kaikella, mitä kuolevaisen sydän parhaiten voi\n    itselleen toivoa -- suurella rikkaudella, jalolla syntyperällä\n    ja erinomaisilla sukulaisilla. Mutta kaikista näistä kiusauksista\n    huolimatta sallittakoon minun varoittaa serkkuani Elizabethia\n    sekä teitä itseännekin niistä tuiki arveluttavista seurauksista,\n    joita tuon herrasmiehen kosinta (johon te tietystikin olette\n    halukkaat oitis suostumaan) saattaa mukanansa tuoda.'\n\n\"Osaatko sinä sanoa, Lizzy, ketä herrasmiestä tässä tarkoitetaan? Mutta\ntässäpä se heti nähdäänkin.\"\n\n    'Minun varoitukseni aiheuttaa seuraava huomio: Meillä on syytä\n    kuvitella, että hänen arvoisa tätinsä, Lady Catherine De Bourgh,\n    ei katsele asiaa vallan ystävällisellä silmällä.'\n\n\"_Herra Darcy_ -- kas siinä sinun sulhasesi! No niin, Lizzy pikkuiseni,\nluulenpa _todella_ vähän ällistyttäneeni sinua. Eikö tuo epäkelpo pappi\ntahi nuo Lucasin kielikellot olisi voineet poimia tuttavapiiristämme\njotakin toista miestä, joka olisi paremmin ollut avionuottamme\nkäsitettävissä? Herra Darcy tosiaankin, joka ei koskaan katsele naisten\npuoleen muuten kuin löytääkseen heistä vikoja ja joka luultavasti ei\nole katsellut _sinua_ edes kertaakaan eläessään! Tämähän on\nsuurenmoista!\"\n\nElizabeth koetti yhtyä isänsä leikilliseen sävyyn, mutta voi vain\npakottaa suunsa väkinäiseen hymyyn. Koskaan eivät isän kokkapuheet\nolleet herättäneet hänessä niin heikkoa vastakaikua kuin nyt.\n\n\"Etkö ole suuresti huvitettu tästä?\"\n\n\"Olen kyllä. Ole kiltti ja lue edelleen.\"\n\n    'Mainittuani hänen jalosukuisuudelleen eilen illalla tämän\n    avioliiton todennäköisyydestä, ilmaisi hän oitis hänelle\n    ominaisella suorapuheisuudella mielipiteensä sen johdosta. Hänen\n    puheestaan sain selvästi sen käsityksen, että moniaat serkkuni\n    perhettä ja sukulaisia koskevat asianhaarat estävät häntä\n    milloinkaan antamasta suostumustaan tällaiseen -- hänen sanojansa\n    käyttääkseni -- häpeälliseen naimisliittoon. Minä pidin\n    velvollisuutenani antaa tästä mitä joutuisinta tietoa armaalle\n    serkulleni, jotta hän ja hänen ylhäinen ihailijansa voivat huomata\n    edessään olevan vaaran eivätkä käy liian hätäisesti solmimaan\n    liittoa, joka ei tule koskaan saamaan korkeasti asianomaista\n    siunausta.'\n\n\"Tämän oivallisen tiedonantonsa kukkuroiksi herra Collins lisää:\"\n\n    'Olen vilpittömästi iloinen, että Lydia serkun surullinen juttu\n    on saatu niin hyvin vaiennetuksi, ja minua pahoittaa vain, että\n    heidän yhdyselämänsä ennen vihkimystä ennätti tulla niin yleisesti\n    tunnetuksi. Minä en saa laiminlyödä hengellisen asemani pyhiä\n    velvoituksia ja olla lausumatta syvää ihmetystäni kuullessani,\n    että te otitte tuon nuoren parin vastaan kattonne alle kohta kun\n    he olivat tulleet vihityiksi. Sehän oli suorastaan paheen\n    kiihoittamista; ja jos minä olisin ollut Longbournin kirkkoherra,\n    niin olisin mitä pontevimmin pannut vastaan. Luonnollisesti olisi\n    teidän kristittynä täytynyt antaa heille anteeksi, mutta ei\n    koskaan päästää heitä silmienne eteen eikä sallia kuultenne\n    mainittavan heidän nimeään.'\n\n\"Ja _tällainen_ on sen hengenmiehen käsitys kristillisestä\nanteeksiantavaisuudesta! -- Kirjeen lopussa kerrotaan vain hänen\nkalliin Charlottensa arkaluontoisesta terveydentilasta ja hänen\nautuaasta odotuksestaan, että veres öljypuunoksa pian putkahtaa\nilmoille. Mutta sinähän, Lizzy, et näytä paljonkaan iloitsevan\nkuulemastasi. Et kai toivoakseni rupea vanhainpiikain tapaan turhia\nkainostelemaan ja kohottamaan niskatukkaasi joutavien juorujen takia?\nSillä mitäpäs varten me muuten eläisimmekään, jollei antaaksemme\npuheenaihetta hyville lähimmäisillemme ja saadaksemme vuorostamme\nnauraa heidän höperyydelleen?\"\n\n\"Oh, minä olen hyvinkin huvitettu!\" huudahti Elizabeth hyvin\nhämmentyneenä. \"Mutta tuo kaikki on niin eriskummallista!\"\n\n\"Niin, _sepä_ se tekeekin asian niin huvittavaksi. Jos he olisivat\niskeneet silmänsä mihinkä muuhun mieheen hyvänsä, niin se ei merkitsisi\nmitään; mutta Darcyn täydellinen välinpitämättömyys naisista yleensä ja\nsinusta erittäin sekä sinun tunnettu vastenmielisyytesi häntä kohtaan\ntekevät jutun niin ihastuttavan hassunkuriseksi! Vaikka minä yleensä\ninhoonkin kirjeitä, niin en luopuisi herra Collinsin verrattomista\nsydämenpurkauksista hinnalla millään. Ei -- aina kun luen hänen\npaimenkirjeitään, en saata olla asettamatta häntä yksinpä Wickhaminkin\nyläpuolelle, vaikka tämä onkin julkeutensa ja tekopyhyytensä takia\nminulle kallis. Ja kuulehan, Lizzy, mitä se Lady Catherine sanoikaan\nsinulle tämän huhun johdosta? Tuliko hän kieltämään sinulta\nsiunauksensa?\"\n\nTähän kysymykseen hänen tyttärensä vastasi ainoastaan nauruun\npurskahtamalla; ja kun isä oli kysynyt sitä häneltä vain pilanpäiten ja\nvähintäkään epäilemättä asianlaitaa, ei hänen tarvinnut pelätä\nkysymyksen toistamista. Elizabeth ei tiennyt koskaan olleensa niin\nonnettomasti hämillään kuin tämän keskustelun aikana. Hänen oli pakko\nnauraa, kun hän kaikkein mieluimmin olisi itkenyt. Hänen isänsä\nvakaumus hra Darcyn täydellisestä välinpitämättömyydestä oli loukannut\nhäntä mitä syvimmin; ja hän ei osannut kyllikseen ihmetellä sellaista\nsokeutta isänsä puolelta -- tahi ehkäpä hän pelkäsi, että hän itse oli\nluulotellut _liikoja_, sen sijaan että hänen isänsä oli nähnyt _liian\nvähän_.\n\n\n\n\nLVIII LUKU.\n\n\nSen sijaan, että Bingley olisi saanut ystävältään välttelevän kirjeen,\nkuten Elizabeth oli puolittain peljännyt, toi hän tämän mukanaan\nLongbourniin muutamia päiviä Lady Catherinen käynnin jälkeen. Herrat\nsaapuivat varhain; ja ennenkuin rva Bennet oli kerinnyt kertoa hra\nDarcylle tämän tädin vierailusta (josta hänen tyttärensä oli vapisten\nodottanut kuulevansa), ehdotti Bingley, joka halusi päästä kahdenkesken\nJanen kanssa, että koko seura lähtisi ulos kävelemään. Siihen\nsuostuttiin. Rva Bennet ei rakastanut kävelyä, eikä Marylla ollut aikaa\nkirjallisilta askareiltaan, mutta muut viisi lähtivät. Bingley ja Jane\npäästivät kuitenkin pian toiset edelleen. Nämä pysyivät jokseenkin\nvaitonaisina -- Kitty pelkäsi liiaksi Darcya rohjetakseen puhella;\nElizabeth muovaili mielessään epätoivoista selitystä; ja kenties\naskartelivat kavaljeerinkin ajatukset samassa urakassa.\n\nHe suuntasivat kulkunsa Lucas Lodgea kohti, koska Kitty halusi mennä\ntapaamaan Maria Lucasta; eikä Elizabeth pannut vastaan, kun hänen\nsisarensa jätti hänet kahdenkesken Darcyn kanssa. Nyt oli ratkaiseva\nhetki käsissä; ja kooten kaiken rohkeutensa hän aloitti:\n\n\"Herra Darcy, minä olen hyvin itsekäs olento; ja tuntien tarvetta\nkeventää omaa mieltäni en välitä ollenkaan siitä, tulenko ehkä\nloukkaamaan teidän tunteitanne. Minä en enää voi olla kiittämättä teitä\nharvinaisesta hyvyydestänne sisarparkaani kohtaan. Aina siitä lähtien\nkuin sain kuulla siitä, olen mitä hartaimmin halunnut lausua teille\nkiitollisuuteni. Jos muutkin perheemme jäsenet siitä tietäisivät, niin\nvoisin nyt kiittää teitä meidän kaikkien puolesta.\"\n\n\"Minä olen pahoillani, hyvin pahoillani\", vastasi Darcy hämmästyneenä\nja liikutettuna, \"että olette lainkaan saanut vihiä asiasta, joka\nmahdollisesti väärinkäsitettynä vain suotta raskauttaa mieltänne. En\nvoinut ajatella, että rouva Gardinerin vaiteliaisuuteen oli niin vähän\nluottamista.\"\n\n\"Te ette saa moittia tätiäni. Lydian ajattelemattomuus pani ensinnä\nminut arvailemaan, että teilläkin oli osaa tuossa asiassa; ja silloin\nminä en tietystikään voinut levätä, ennenkuin sain tietää kaikki\nyksityisseikat. Sallikaa minun kiittää vielä ja yhä uudelleen teitä\nkoko perheemme nimessä jalomielisestä säälistänne, joka sai teidät\nvapaaehtoisesti näkemään niin paljon vaivaa ja kestämään niin monia\ntukalia tilanteita etsiessänne nuo poloiset karkulaiset käsiinne.\"\n\n\"Jos _te_ tahdotte kiittää minua, niin tehkää se yksinomaan omasta\npuolestanne. Minä en yritäkään kieltää, että minua johti toivo\nhuojentaa mieltänne ja lisätä onneanne. Mutta _perheenne_ ei tarvitse\nkiittää minua mistään. Niin suuresti kuin kunnioitankin sitä, tein tuon\nvähäisen palveluksen yksistään _teitä_ ajatellen.\"\n\nElizabeth oli liiaksi hämmentynyt voidakseen vastata mitään. Lyhyen\näänettömyyden jälkeen hänen toverinsa jatkoi:\n\n\"Te olette liiaksi ylevämielinen voidaksenne tehdä pilaa minusta. Jos\nteidän tunteenne minua kohtaan ovat yhä samat kuin viime huhtikuussa,\nniin minä pyydän teitä heti sanomaan sen. _Minun_ tunteeni ja\ntoivomukseni ovat muuttumattomat; mutta sananenkin teiltä vaientaa\nminut iäksi tästä asiasta.\"\n\nVaikka Elizabeth tunsikin yhä kasvavaa hämminkiä ja ahdistusta,\npakottautui hän puhumaan ja antoi oitis, vaikkei varsin sujuvasti,\ntoisen ymmärtää, että hänen tunteensa olivat niin täydellisesti\nmuuttuneet viitatusta ajankohdasta lähtien, että hän iloiten ja\nkiitollisesti otti vastaan rakastajansa vakuutuksen. Darcyn ilo ja\nonnellisuus tästä odottamattomasta vastauksesta oli sykähdyttävän\nsuuri; mutta hän kykeni kuitenkin tulkitsemaan niitä niin järkevästi ja\nlämpimästi kuin kiihkeästi rakastuneen miehen ylimalkaan voi olettaa\nkykenevän. Jos Elizabeth olisi rohjennut kohottaa katseensa maasta,\nolisi hän voinut panna merkille, kuinka ihmeellisesti tuo autuas\nonnentunne kirkasti hänen rakastajansa kasvot; mutta vaikkakaan hän ei\nvoinut sitä nähdä, voi hän ainakin kuunnella; ja hänen oma sydämensä\noli ratketa hiuduttavasta hurmiosta.\n\nHe kävelivät eteenpäin tietämättä itsekään, mihin suuntaan menivät.\nOlihan niin paljon muuta tärkeämpää ajateltavaa, sanottavaa ja\nvaarinotettavaa. Elizabeth sai tietää, että heidän oli onnestaan\noikeastaan kiittäminen Lady Catherinen ponnistuksia; tämä oli näet\ntodellakin paluumatkallaan poikennut Lontooseen sisarenpoikansa luo ja\nkertonut Longbournin matkastaan, sen tarkoituksesta ja Elizabethin\npöyristyttävästä uppiniskaisuudesta. Jalosukuinen täti toivoi, että hän\nesittämällä tuon röyhkeän tytön niin nurjassa valossa kuin suinkin\nsaisi nepaimeltaan houkutelluksi sen lupauksen, jota Elizabeth ei ollut\ntahtonut antaa. Mutta onnettomuudeksi vaikutus olikin aivan\npäinvastainen.\n\n\"Hän vuodatti minun sydämeeni uutta toivoa\", kertoi Darcy, \"kun tuskin\nuskalsin enää toivoa mitään. Minä tunsin siksi hyvin sinun luonteesi,\nettä jos olisit todella järkkymättömästi päättänyt hyljätä minut, niin\nolisit sen suoraan sanonut Lady Catherinelle.\"\n\nElizabeth punastui ja nauroi vastatessaan: \"Niin, kyllä kai sinä\ntodellakin tunsit tarpeeksi minun suorasukaisuuteni, jotta voit _tuon_\nuskoa. Kun kerran olin solvannut sinua itseäsi niin hirvittävästi\nvasten silmiä, niin en tietystikään surkeillut vähääkään loukatessani\nsukulaistasi.\"\n\n\"Mitä sinä minusta sanoitkin, sen kaiken minä hyvin ansaitsin.\nVaikkakin sinun syytöksesi onnahtelivat, koska ne perustuivat suurelta\nosalta väärinkäsitykseen, niin oli minun käyttäytymiseni sinua kohtaan\nsiihen aikaan sellainen, että se ansaitsi mitä vakavimpia moitteita. En\nitsekään voi muistella sitä hirmustumatta.\"\n\n\"Älkäämme huoliko kiistellä, kumpi meistä tuona iltana enemmän ansaitsi\nmoitetta\", sanoi Elizabeth. \"Emmehän tainneet kumpikaan silloin\nkäyttäytyä vallan laittamattomasti; mutta sen jälkeen olemme\ntoivoakseni molemmat oppineet enemmän kohteliaisuutta.\"\n\n\"Minun ei ole niinkään helppo lohduttautua. Kun jäljestäpäin muistelen\nkaikkea mitä silloin sanoin, käytöstäni ja sävyäni koko tuon onnettoman\nkeskustelun aikana, niin tunnen nyt ja olen jo tuntenut monet kuukaudet\nmitä sietämättömintä tuskaa. En koskaan unhota sinun moitettasi, jonka\nniin hyvin ansaitsin: 'Jos olisitte käyttäytynyt kunnianmiehen tavoin'.\nJuuri niin sinä sanoit! Sinä et tiedä, tuskin kykenet kuvittelemaan,\nkuinka se silloin ja jälkeenpäin on kiusannut minua; ja kesti hyvän\naikaa, sen tunnustan, ennenkuin pystyin myöntämään sen oikeutetuksi.\"\n\n\"En minä osannut arvatakaan, että sanani tekivät sinuun niin syvän\nvaikutuksen. En voinut aavistaakaan, että voisit tuntea ne niin\nkipeästi.\"\n\n\"Sen kyllä kernaasti uskon. Sinä luulit minun olevan vailla\nvähintäkin säädyllisyyden tunnetta, sitä varmastikin luulit. Sinun\nkasvojenilmettäsi en ikinä unohda, kun sanoit, etten olisi kyennyt sen\nparemmin saamaan sinua hylkäämään kosintaani.\"\n\n\"Ah, älä huoli enää toistaa, mitä kaikkea silloin sanoin. Sen\nmuisteleminen ei hyödytä mitään. Minä vakuutan sinulle pyhästi, että jo\nkauan olen syvästi hävennyt silloisia sanojani.\"\n\nDarcy mainitsi kirjeestään. \"Paniko se\", hän kysyi, -- \"paniko se sinut\najattelemaan minusta vähän paremmin? Oliko sinun mahdollista sitä\nlukiessasi uskoa todeksi sen sisällys?\"\n\nElizabeth selitti, minkä vaikutuksen kirje oli häneen tehnyt ja miten\nhänen kaikki entiset ennakkoluulonsa olivat sen johdosta alkaneet\nvähitellen haihtua.\n\n\"Minä tiesin\", sanoi Darcy, \"että kirjeeni täytyi tuottaa sinulle\ntuskaa, mutta se oli välttämätöntä. Minä toivon, että olet hävittänyt\nkirjeen. Siinä oli kohtia, varsinkin alkupuolella, joita pelkäisin\nantaa sinun lukea uudelleen. Muistanpa eräitä lauseita, joiden takia\nsinulla olisi hyvä oikeus vihata minua.\"\n\n\"Kirjeen minä varmastikin poltan, jos luulet sen välttämättömäksi,\njotta edelleen voisin kunnioittaa sinua; mutta vaikka meillä molemmilla\nonkin syytä uskoa, ettei ajatukseni sinusta ole pysynyt aivan\nmuuttumattomana, niin toivon kumminkin, ettei se ole aivan niin\nhelposti muuttuva kuin tämä lupaus edellyttää.\"\n\n\"Kun kirjoitin tuon kirjeen\", sanoi Darcy, \"luulin olevani aivan tyyni\nja kylmäverinen; mutta perästäpäin ajatellessani minun täytyy uskoa,\nettä olin silloin hirvittävän katkeralla päällä.\"\n\n\"Kirjeesi ehkä alkoi katkerasti, mutta ei suinkaan päättynyt samaan\nsävyyn. Jäähyväissanasi olivat niin lempeät! Mutta älä ajattele enää\nkoko kirjettä. Sen kirjoittajan ja vastaanottajan nykyiset tunteet\ntoisiaan kohtaan ovat niin kokonaan erilaiset kuin siihen aikaan, että\nkaikki epämieluisat muistelmat täytyy unohtaa tai kuvitella\nolemattomiksi. Sinun täytyy oppia hiukkasen minun elämänviisauttani.\nMuistele menneitä asioita ainoastaan silloin, kun niistä saat\nmielihyvää.\"\n\n\"Minusta ei sinulla ole ollenkaan aihetta sellaiseen elämänviisauteen.\n_Sinun_ menneisyydenmuistelmaisi täytyy olla niin peräti vailla kaikkea\npahaa ja moitittavaa, ettei niistä saamasi tyydytys johdu lainkaan\nmistään filosofiasta, vaan omasta viattomasta tietämättömyydestäsi,\njoka on arvokkaampi kaikkea elämänviisautta. Mutta _minun_ laitani on\ntoinen. Tuskallisia muistelmia nousee pakostakin mieleeni, joita en voi\nenkä saa tukahduttaa. Minä olen koko elinikäni ollut itsekäs ihminen,\njoskaan en periaatteessa, niin kuitenkin käytännössä. Lapsena minulle\nopetettiin, mikä oli _oikein_, mutta minua ei opetettu hillitsemään\nrajua luonnettani. Minulle annettiin hyviä periaatteita elämänohjeiksi,\nmutta minun sallittiin noudattaa niitä ylpeyden ja itsepetoksen\nlumoissa. Onnettomuudeksi olin ainoa poika (pitkän aikaa ainoa\nlapsikin), ja sellaisena vanhempani minua hemmoittelivat; vaikka he\nitse olivatkin hyvät (isäni varsinkin oli pelkkää hyväntahtoisuutta ja\nihmisrakkautta), sallivat he minun kehittyä, jopa he kehoittivat ja\nmiltei opettivatkin minua itsekkäisyyteen ja ylimielisyyteen, olemaan\nvälittämättä mistään muusta kuin omasta ahtaasta perhepiiristämme,\najattelemaan halveksivasti kaikista muista ihmisistä -- ainakin\nasettamaan heidän arvonsa ja viisautensa alemmaksi minun omaani.\nSellaiseksi mieheksi minä kehityin kahdeksannesta kahdeksanteenkolmatta\nikävuoteeni asti; ja sellaiseksi yhä enemmän vielä paatuisin ilman\nsinua, oma rakkahin Lizzyni! Mistä kaikesta saankaan sinua kiittää!\nSinä annoit minulle hyvän läksyn, kovan ehkä ensi alussa, mutta tuiki\nterveellisen. Sinä nöyryytit minua syvästi, mutta aivan ansioni mukaan.\nMinä tulin pyytämään sinua omakseni, epäilemättä vähintäkään voittoani.\nSinä osoitit minulle, kuinka surkean tyhjät ja riittämättömät minun\nansioni olivat kelvatakseen naiselle, joka ansaitsi kunnon miehen\nrakkautta.\"\n\n\"Olitko sinä sitten niin varma siitä, että minä vastaisin myöntävästi?\"\n\n\"Olin kuin olinkin! Mitä sinä nyt ajatteletkaan minun hupsusta\nturhamaisuudestani? Minä todella uskoin sinun toivovan ja odottelevan\nminun kosintaani.\"\n\n\"Minun käytökseni täytyi sitten olla harhaanjohtava, vaikkakaan ei\ntarkoituksella, siitä ole varma. Minä en koskaan ajatellutkaan eksyttää\nsinua, mutta vilkas luonteeni johti minut kyllä monestikin harhaan.\nKuinkahan sinä oikein vihasitkaan minua _tuon_ illan jälkeen!\"\n\n\"Vihasin sinua! Ei -- vihainen saatoin ehkä kyllä aluksi olla, mutta\nvihastukseni kääntyi piankin oikeaan suuntaan -- omaan itseeni.\"\n\n\"Minua melkein peloittaa kysyä, mitähän sinä oikein ajattelitkaan\nminusta, silloin kun tapasimme toisemme Pemberleyssä? Sinä kai\nloukkauduit kovasti minun tulostani?\"\n\n\"En suinkaan. Olin vain hyvin hämmästynyt.\"\n\n\"Sinun hämmästyksesi ei voinut olla suurempi kuin _minun_, joutuessani\nniin äkkiarvaamatta sinun eteesi. Omatuntoni sanoi minulle, etten\nansainnut vähintäkään kohteliaisuutta sinun puoleltasi, enkä minä\ntodella odottanutkaan muuta kuin saada maksun ansioni mukaan.\"\n\n\"Minun tarkoitukseni _silloin_\", sanoi Darcy, \"oli näyttää sinulle,\nniin kohteliaasti ja hellävaroen kuin taisin, etten suinkaan ollut niin\nhalpamainen, että olisin kantanut sinulle kaunaa saamistani rukkasista;\nja minä toivoin osakseni sinun anteeksiantamustasi, toivoin\nlievittäväni sinun huonoa ajatustasi minusta, antamalla sinun nähdä,\nettä olin vaarinottanut sinun naulan päähän sattuneet huomautuksesi.\nKuinka pian minussa sitten virisi uusia ja valoisampia toiveita, sitä\nen osaa sanoa, mutta luulenpa että ne nousivat jo puolituntisen perästä\nmeidän ensi näkemästämme.\"\n\nTällaisissa puheissa he olivat kävelleet useita maileja aivan\numpimähkään, kunnes he viimein kelloa katsottuaan keksivät, että oli jo\naika pyörtää kotia.\n\n\"Minnekähän herra Bingley ja Jane ovat joutuneetkaan?\" huudahti\nElizabeth. Heistä oli suloista siirtyä keskustelemaan toisen lempivän\nparin asioista. Darcy oli hyvin iloissaan ystävänsä kihlauksesta --\nhänpä olikin siitä saanut kaikkein ensinnä tiedon.\n\n\"Minun täytyy kysyä, olitko kovastikin hämmästynyt kuullessasi siitä?\"\nsanoi Elizabeth.\n\n\"En vähintäkään. Kun täältä viimeksi lähdin, arvasin että se piankin\ntapahtuisi.\"\n\n\"Toisin sanoen, sinä olit antanut siihen suostumuksesi. Sen verran\nminäkin voin arvata.\" Ja vaikka Darcy vastustikin tuon sanan\nkäyttämistä, sai Elizabeth tietää, että se sangen hyvin ilmaisi asiaa.\n\n\"Lontooseen lähtöni edellisenä iltana\", kertoi Darcy, \"tunnustin\nystävälleni erään asian, joka minun olisi kai pitänyt tunnustaa jo\naikoja ennen. Minä kerroin hänelle, että kaikki edelliset huomioni,\njotka olivat saaneet minun sekaantumaan hänen lemmenjuttuunsa, olivat\nolleet aivan perusteettomat ja järjettömät. Hän ällistyi suuresti.\nSanoin edelleen, että uskoin erehtyneeni otaksuessani, että sisaresi\noli hänestä välinpitämätön; ja kun voin hyvin huomata, että hänen oma\nkiintymyksensä sisareesi oli aivan muuttumaton, en epäillytkään, että\nhe kohtakin löytäisivät onnensa.\"\n\nElizabeth ei voinut olla hymyilemättä huomatessaan, kuinka helposti\nhänen sulhasensa johti ystävänsä sydämenasioita.\n\n\"Puhuitko sinä omien vaarinottojesi perusteella\", hän kysyi,\n\"kertoessasi ystävällesi, että sisareni rakasti häntä, vaiko vain sen\njohdolla, mitä ilmaisin sinulle viime keväänä?\"\n\n\"Ainoastaan omain huomioitteni perusteella. Minä olin pitänyt sisartasi\ntarkasti silmällä molemmilla viime käynneilläni teidän luonanne ja\ntullut vakuutetuksi hänen kiintymyksestään.\"\n\n\"Ja sinun vakuutuksesi siitä riitti avaamaan ystäväsikin silmät, arvaan\nmä?\"\n\n\"Riittipä niinkin. Bingley on mitä vaatimattomin ja itseluulottomin\nveikkonen. Hänen suuri kainoutensa oli estänyt häntä luottamasta omaan\narvostelukykyynsä hänelle näin kalliissa asiassa, mutta hänen\nluottamuksensa minun arvostelukykyyni teki hänelle kaiken toiminnan\nhyvin helpoksi. Minun täytyi tunnustaa hänelle vielä muuan asia, josta\nhän joksikin aikaa hyvin pahastui minuun, eikä suinkaan syyttä. Minä en\nvoinut enää salata häneltä, että sisaresi oli ollut Lontoossa viime\ntalvena kolmen kuukauden ajan, ja että minä olin tiennyt siitä, mutta\ntahallani pitänyt sen häneltä salassa. Hän tietysti suuttui kovasti.\nMutta arvaan, että hänen suuttumuksensa suli oitis, kun hän sai tietää\nsisaresi todellisista tunteista häntä kohtaan. Ja silloin hän antoi\nminulle täydestä sydämestään anteeksi.\"\n\nElizabethin teki mieli huomauttaa, että hra Bingley oli aivan verraton\nystävä, koska häntä kävi tanssittaminen kuin paperinukkea nauhasta,\nmutta hän malttoi ajoissa mielensä. Hän muisti, että Darcyn täytyi\nvielä oppia joutumaan harmistumatta naurunalaiseksi, ja että tätä\nopetusta oli vielä liian aikaista hänelle antaa.\n\n\n\n\nLIX LUKU.\n\n\n\"Lizzy rakas, mihin ihmeeseen te molemmat meistä oikein eksyittekään?\"\nkuului ensimmäisenä tervehdyksenä Janen suusta ja kohta toisintona\nkaikilta toisiltakin, kun Elizabeth saapui heidän luokseen ja istahti\nillallispöytään. Hän voi vain vastata, että he olivat kävelleet niin\nkauas, etteivät enää tunteneet paikkoja. Hän tunsi punastuvansa tätä\nsanoessaan; mutta onneksi ei kukaan siitä johtunut arvailemaan\ntotuutta.\n\nIlta kului levollisesti, ilman mitään yllättäviä keksintöjä.\nJulkikihlattu pari puheli ja nauroi, salakihlattu pysyi hyvin\nvaitonaisena. Darcyn luonteenlaatu ei ollut sellainen, että sisällinen\nonni olisi pannut sen iloisesti ryöpsähtelemään; ja hämillään oleva ja\nkiihoittunut Elizabeth pikemminkin _tiesi_ kuin _tunsi_ olevansa\nonnellinen; sillä paitsi toisten välttämätöntä ällistystä kohta\ntapahtuvan paljastuksen johdosta oli hänellä odotettavissa ikävämpiäkin\nkokemuksia. Hän tiesi, ettei perheestä kukaan muu kuin Jane pitänyt\nDarcysta; ja hän pelkäsi, että toiset -- uuden sulhasen ylhäisestä\nasemasta ja suuresta rikkaudesta huolimatta -- kukaties tahtomattaan\ntulisivat liiankin selvästi ilmaisemaan vastenmielisyyttään häntä\nkohtaan.\n\nVasta myöhään illalla hän avasi sydämensä Janelle. Tämän oli mahdoton\nuskoa kuulemaansa.\n\n\"Nyt sinä lasket pilojasi, Lizzy. _Tuo_ ei voi olla mahdollista!\nKihloissa herra Darcyn kanssa! Ei, ei, sinä et saa peijata minua. Sehän\non kerrassaan uskomatonta!\"\n\n\"Onpas tämä todellakin kaunis alku! Sinuun yksistään minä luotin; ja\njollet sinä usko, niin toisista ei sitten puhettakaan. Mutta niin on\nkuitenkin tapahtunut; minä puhun aivan vakavissani. Minä puhun pelkkää\ntotta. Hän rakastaa minua yhä, ja me olemme kihloissa.\"\n\nJane katseli häneen epäillen. \"Ah, Lizzy, kuinka se voisi olla\nmahdollista? Tiedänhän minä hyvin, kuin vastenmielinen hän sinulle on.\"\n\n\"Sinä et tiedä mitään koko asiasta. Kaiken _tuon_ saat unohtaa. Ehkäpä\nminä en aina ole rakastanut häntä niin hartaasti kuin nyt; mutta\ntällaisissa tapauksissa hyvämuistoisuus on anteeksiantamaton vika. Tämä\non viimeinen kerta, jolloin itsekin sen muistan.\"\n\nJane katseli yhäti häneen hämillään ja suurin silmin.\n\n\"Hyvä isä sentään, _voiko_ se olla totta? Mutta täytyyhän minun uskoa\nsinua!\" hän viimein huudahti. \"Rakas, rakas Lizzy, minä tahtoisin --\nminä todella onnittelen sinua kaikesta sydämestäni; mutta oletko sinä\nvarma -- anna anteeksi, että sitä kysyn -- oletko ihan varma, että\ntulet onnelliseksi hänen kanssaan?\"\n\n\"Sitä en voi epäilläkään. Me olemme jo sopineet keskenämme, että meistä\ntulee maailman onnellisin pari. Mutta etkö sinä tule siitä paremmin\nmieliisi, Jane? Etkö tahtoisi häntä langoksesi?\"\n\n\"Tahtoisin toki, hyvinkin halusta. Mikään ei olisi sen suurempi ilo\nBingleylle ja minulle. Mutta me olemme puhelleet siitä keskenämme ja\narvanneet sen aivan mahdottomaksi. Entä rakastatko sinä todella häntä\ntarpeeksi asti? Ah, rakas Lizzy, tee ennemmin mitä hyvänsä, kuin että\nmenet naimisiin ilman todellista kiintymystä! Oletko vallan varma, että\ntunteesi häntä kohtaan ovat sellaiset kuin niiden pitäisi olla?\"\n\n\"Olen tottakin! Sinä ehkä ajattelet, että minä tunnen häntä kohtaan\n_suurempaakin_ rakkautta kuin minun pitäisi.\"\n\n\"Mitä sinä sillä tarkoitat?\"\n\n\"No niin -- minun täytyy myöntää, että minä rakastan häntä enemmän kuin\nBingleytä. Nyt sinä kai suutut minuun?\"\n\n\"Voi rakkahin sisko, ole toki vakava. Minä haluan puhua aivan\nvakavasti. Anna minun viivyttelemättä saada tietää kaikki, mitä minun\ntulee tietää. Sanoppas ensiksikin, kuinka kauan sinä olet häntä\nrakastanut?\"\n\n\"Se on tullut niin vähitellen, että tuskin itsekään tiedän, milloin se\noikein alkoi; mutta luulenpa, että päivämäärä oli sama, jolloin ensi\nkertaa näin hänen kauniit tiluksensa Pemberleyssä.\"\n\nUusi harras toivomus, että hän toki pysyisi vakavana, tuotti kuitenkin\nhalutun tuloksen; ja hänen onnistui viimein saada Jane vakuutetuksi\ntunteensa totisuudesta. Sen enempää ei vanhempi nti Bennet\npyytänytkään.\n\n\"Nyt minä olen täydellisesti onnellinen\", hän sanoi, \"kun tiedän, että\nsinusta tulee yhtä onnellinen kuin minusta itsestänikin. Jo pelkästään\nsiksi, että hän rakastaa sinua, olisin aina pitänyt häntä suuressa\narvossa; mutta nyt, kun hän on Bingleyn ystävä ja sinun tuleva miehesi,\nolette vain sinä ja Bingley minulle häntä rakkaammat. Mutta, Lizzy,\nsinä olet ollut kovin kavala, liiaksi pidättyväinen minuun nähden.\nKuinka vähän sinä kerroitkaan minulle kaikesta, mitä oli tapahtunut ja\nmitä tunsit Pemberleyssä ja Lambtonissa ollessasi! Kaiken, mitä siitä\nolen kuullut, olen saanut tietää toisilta enkä sinulta itseltäsi.\"\n\nElizabeth selitti hänelle salamyhkäisyytensä vaikuttimet. Hänen oli\nollut vaikeata kertoa mitään siitä, mitä hän oli kuullut Bingleyn\nrakkaudentarinasta; ja omain tunteittensa sekasorto ja epämääräisyys\noli saanut hänen yhtä visusti välttämään Darcyn nimen mainitsemista;\nmutta nyt hän ei voinut enää salata tämän tärkeätä osuutta Lydian\nsurullisessa avioliittojutussa. Kaikki selvitettiin aivan selväksi\nsisarten kesken, ja puoli yötä kului onnellisessa tarinanpidossa.\n\n\"Herra siunatkoon!\" huudahti rva Bennet seuraavana aamuna seisoessaan\nakkunan ääressä, \"eikös tuo hirveä herra Darcy taaskin tule tänne\nrakkaan Bingleymme keralla! Mitähän se väsyttävä mies oikein\najatteleekaan, kun juoksee niin ahkeraan täällä? Enhän minä kutsunut\nhäntä muuta kuin metsästämään tai muuten maleksimaan maillamme, mutta\nen suinkaan häiritsemään meitä ikävällä seuranpidollaan. Mitä me nyt\nhänen kanssaan oikein teemmekään? Lizzy, sinun pitää jälleen lähteä\nkävelemään hänen kanssaan, jottei hän ole Bingleyn vastuksina.\"\n\nElizabethin oli vaikea pidättää hymyään saadessaan niin mieluisen\ntehtävän; mutta samalla häntä suuresti loukkasi äitinsä hänen\nsulhasestaan käyttämät laatusanat.\n\nKohta herrain sisään käytyä katseli Bingley häneen niin kumman\nmerkitsevästi ja puristeli hänen käsiään niin lämpimästi, ettei voinut\nepäilläkään, että hänellä oli jo asiasta tieto; ja täten salaisesti\nonniteltuaan uutta morsianta hän sanoi ääneen: \"Kuulkaas, rouva Bennet,\neikö teillä ole täällä vielä muita metsäpolkuja, joilla Lizzy voisi\ntänään jälleen joutua eksyksiin?\"\n\n\"Minä neuvoisin herra Darcya ja Lizzyä ja Kittyä\", sanoi neuvokas äiti,\n\"lähtemään tänä aamuna Tammistomäelle. Sinne on oikein kaunis tie, eikä\nherra Darcy ole vielä koskaan nähnyt siltä avautuvaa näköalaa.\"\n\n\"Voihan se olla hyväksi molemmille toisille\", huomautti Bingley, \"mutta\nKittylle se varmastikin on liian pitkä kävelymatka. Eikö olekin,\nKitty?\"\n\nKitty myönsi, että hän pysyi mieluummin kotona. Darcy sanoi olevansa\nhyvin utelias näkemään Tammistomäen näköalat, ja Elizabeth suostui\nääneti häntä sinne luotsaamaan. Hänen noustessaan yläkertaan noutamaan\nhattunsa ja päivänvarjonsa kiirehti rva Bennet hänen jälkeensä ja\nkuiskutti:\n\n\"Minä olen hyvin pahoillani, että sinun täytyy aina uhrautua tuon\nikävän miehen seuraksi, mutta mikäpä tässä muukaan auttaa. Se on vain\nJanen vuoksi, ymmärräthän; eikähän sinun tarvitse paljonkaan puhella\nhänen kanssaan, sen verran vain, ettet tunne oloasi noloksi.\"\n\nIllalla, kohta kun hra Bennet vetäytyi kirjastoonsa, näki Elizabeth hra\nDarcyn nousevan pystyyn ja seuraavan häntä sinne; ja silloin hänen\nmielenliikutuksensa kohosi korkeimmilleen. Hän ei tosin pelännyt isänsä\npanevan vastaan, mutta hän tiesi hänen tulevan hyvin onnettomaksi ja\njuuri hänen kauttansa; että _hän_, isän lemmikkitytär, kohta jättäisi\nhänet yksinäisyyteen ja ikävään -- se ajatus täytti Elizabethin mielen\nsanomattomalla surulla. Hän tunsi itsensä hyvin kurjaksi, kunnes hra\nDarcy tuli jälleen näkyviin ja lohdutti häntä lemmekkäällä hymyllään.\nTehden asiaa pöydän luo, jonka ääressä Elizabeth istui Kittyn kanssa,\nhän kumartui ihailemaan hänen käsityötään ja kuiskasi samalla hänen\nkorvaansa: \"Mene isäsi tykö, kultaseni; hän odottaa sinua kirjastossa.\"\nHän nousi ja lähti oitis.\n\nHänen isänsä käveli kiivaasti edestakaisin ja näytti hyvin vakavalta ja\ntuskastuneelta. \"Lizzy\", hän sanoi tyttärensä nähtyään, \"mitä sinä\noikein ajattelet? Oletko ihan järjiltäsi, kun suostut tuon miehen\nkosintaan? Etkö sinä ole aina inhonnut ja vihannut häntä?\"\n\nKuinka hartaasti tytär nyt toivoikaan, että hänen aikaisemmat\nmielipiteensä sulhasestaan olisivat olleet järkevämmät ja hänen\nlausuntonsa tästä vähemmän jyrkät! Se olisi tänä hetkenä säästänyt\nhäneltä monia tukalia selittelyjä ja tunnustuksia; mutta selitykset ja\ntunnustukset olivat nyt välttämättömät, ja hyvin hämillään hän myönsi\nrakastavansa hra Darcya.\n\n\"Tai toisin sanoen, sinä olet päättänyt saada hänet mieheksesi! Hänhän\non rikas, siitä ei puhetta, ja hän kykenee ostamaan sinulle enemmän\nkauniita pukuja ja uljaita vaunuja kuin mitä Janekaan koskaan tulee\nsaamaan. Mutta tekevätkö ne sinut myöskin onnelliseksi?\"\n\n\"Onko teillä mitään muuta muistuttamista\", sanoi Elizabeth, \"kuin että\nluulette minun olevan hänestä välinpitämätön?\"\n\n\"Ei muuta. Tunnemmehan kaikki hänet ylpeäksi ja epämiellyttäväksi\nmieheksi; mutta sekään ei merkitsisi mitään, jos sinä todella\nrakastaisit häntä.\"\n\n\"Mutta minä rakastan, minä todellakin rakastan häntä\", vakuutti tytär\nkyyneleet silmissä; \"hän on minulle hyvin rakas ja kallis. Eikä hänen\nylpeytensäkään ole ollenkaan liiallinen. Hän voi olla mitä herttaisin\nihminen. Te ette tiedä, mitä hän todella on; älkää siis kiduttako minua\nkäyttämällä hänestä noin tylyjä sanoja.\"\n\n\"Lizzy\", sanoi hänen isänsä, \"minä olen antanut hänelle suostumukseni.\nHän on sellainen mies, jolta en rohkenisi kieltää mitään, mitä hyvänsä\nhänelle pistäisi päähän pyytää minulta. Minä annan nyt suostumukseni\n_sinullekin_, jos olet todella päättänyt mennä hänelle. Mutta salli\nminun neuvoa sinua tarkoin miettimään asiaa. Minä tunnen hyvin sinun\nluonteesi, Lizzy. Minä tiedän, ettet ikinä voisi tulla onnelliseksi ja\nkunnioittaa itseäsi, jollet totisesti rakasta ja kunnioita\naviomiestäsi, jollet pidä häntä itseäsi ylevämpänä ja etevämpänä. Sinun\nvilkas luonnonlaatusi johtaisi sinut tuhansiin vaaroihin lemmettömässä\nja epäsuhtaisessa avioliitossa. Sinä tuskin voisit välttyä sortumasta\nkurjuuteen ja katumukseen. Rakas lapseni, älä tee minulle sitä surua,\nettä näkisin _sinun_ olevan kykenemättömän kunnioittamaan\nelämäntoveriasi. Sinä et tiedä, kuinka paljon päätöksestäsi oikein\nriippuu.\"\n\nElizabeth tuli vielä enemmän liikutetuksi isänsä totisesta ja\njuhlallisesta äänensävystä; mutta hänen onnistui hillitä\ntunteenkuohunsa ja vakuuttaa, että hra Darcy todellakin oli hänen\nsydämensä valittu, ja selittää tunteittensa suurta, vähitellen\ntapahtunutta muuttumista; hän sanoi olevansa vallan varma, ettei hänen\nkiintymyksensä ollut yhden päivän hedelmä, vaan kasvanut ja kypsynyt\nmonien kuukausien yhtämittaisessa jännityksessä ja sisällisessä\nkamppauksessa.\n\n\"No niin, rakkaani\", sanoi hra Bennet hänen viimein lopetettuaan,\n\"mitäpä minulla sitten enää on sanomista? Jos niin on todella laita\nkuin kerroit, niin hän ansaitsee saada sinut. Enkä minä olisi voinut\nluovuttaakaan sinua kellekään vähempiarvoiselle miehelle.\"\n\nParantaakseen isänsä suotuista arvostelua hra Darcysta Elizabeth kertoi\nhänelle, mitä tämä oli omasta ehdostaan tehnyt Lydian hyväksi. Hra\nBennet tuli kovin ihmeisiinsä.\n\n\"Tämähän on oikein ihmeitten ilta! Darcy siis sai tuon kaiken aikaan --\nrakensi avioliiton, antoi rahat, maksoi sen veitikan velat ja hankki\nhänelle vielä virankin! Kaikkea sitä kuuleman pitää! No, aina parempi.\nSe säästää minulta arvaamattomasti huolia ja varoja. Jos tuo kaikki\nolisi ollut enosi ansiota, niin minun olisi täytynyt ja minä olisin\ntahtonutkin maksaa joka pennin hänelle takaisin. Minä tarjoon nyt\nhuomenna maksua sulhasellesi, hän tietysti raivoo ja hulluttelee\nrakkaudestaan sinuun, ja siihen sitten koko juttu päättyykin.\"\n\nHän muisteli sitten hra Collinsin kirjeen johdosta jokunen päivä\naikaisemmin kokemaansa ällistystä; ja naureskeltuaan sille hetken aikaa\nhän päästi tyttärensä lähtemään, huutaen ovelta hänen peräänsä: \"Jos\nvielä joitakin nuoria miehiä tulee tänne Maryn ja Kittyn vuoksi, niin\nlähetä heidät oitis puheilleni; minä satun nyt olemaan oikein\nnaittamispäällä.\"\n\nMutta äidin ällistystä, kun tytär illalla seurasi häntä hänen\nmakuuhuoneeseensa ja ilmaisi hänelle suloisen salaisuutensa, on perin\ntyöläs kuvata. Hän lysähti ensin aivan kokoon ja kävi puhumattomaksi.\nKesti kotvasen aikaa, ennenkuin hän kykeni tointumaan sen verran, että\nkerrotti tyttärellään uudelleen ja yhä uudelleen tuon perin\nuskomattoman asian. Vihdoin viimein hän jaksoi oikaista selkänsä,\nhuitoi käsillään ilmaa, vajosi jälleen istumaan ja rupesi ihmettelemään\nja siunailemaan sanomatonta onneaan.\n\n\"Herra hyvästi siunatkoon! Auta armias sentään! Ajatteleppa tätä! Voi,\nrakas kultaseni! Herra Darcynko kanssa? Kukapa sitä olisi osannut\nuskoa! Ja onko se ihan totta? Voi, minun kulta Lizzyni! Kuinka rikas ja\nmahtava sinusta tuleekaan! Kuinka paljon neularahoja ja jalokiviä ja\nhienoja pukuja sinä tuletkaan saamaan! Jane ei ole mitään sen rinnalla\n-- häntä ei voi sinuun verratakaan. Ah, kuinka minä olen mielissäni --\nkuinka olen onnellinen! Ja sellainen viehättävä mies! Niin kaunis ja\npitkä ja komea! Oh, oh, oma kulta Lizzyni, ethän ole pahoillasi, että\nhän ennen oli aina minulle niin vastenmielinen? Minä toivon, että\nhänkin antaa sen anteeksi. Rakas, rakas Lizzy! Oma talo Lontoossa!\nKuinka ihanaa! Kolme tytärtäni jo miehellä! Ja kymmenen tuhatta puntaa\ntuloja vuodessa! Ah, hyvä isä sentään -- mitä minusta tuleekaan? Minä\nmenen vallan sekaisin!\"\n\nÄidin suostumusta ei siis tarvinnut epäilläkään; ja iloisena siitä,\nettä hän vain yksin oli kuulemassa hänen hurmaustaan, lähti Elizabeth\nomaan huoneeseensa. Mutta hän oli tuskin ennättänyt istahtaakaan, kun\näiti jo säntäsi sisään.\n\n\"Kuule, rakas lapsi\", hän huusi, \"minä en kykene muuta\najattelemaankaan. Kymmenen tuhatta puntaa vuodessa, ja kukaties vielä\nenemmänkin! Sehän on ihan kuin menisit jollekin lordille! Ja kuule,\nteidän on hankittava piispan lupakirja -- teidän on pidettävä joutua,\njotta ei mitään ennätä tulla väliin, ja vihitettävä itsenne piispan\nlupakirjalla.[24] Ja kuulehan, rakas lapseni, sanoppas minulle, mistä\nruokalajista herra Darcy erityisesti pitää, jotta tiedän laittaa sitä\nhuomiseksi päivällispöytään?\"\n\nTämä oli synkeä enne siitä, miten rva Bennet tulisi käyttäytymään\nuusinta vävypoikaansa kohtaan; ja vaikka Elizabeth olikin varma\nsulhasensa lämpimästä rakkaudesta ja omaistensa suosiollisesta\nsuhtautumisesta tähän, oli hänellä aihetta pelätä vielä monia tukalia\ntilanteita. Mutta onneksi kului jo huominenkin päivä jokseenkin\nvaarattomasti; nimenomaan hänen äitinsä tunsi niin pelokasta\nkunnioitusta ylhäistä vävyään kohtaan, että hän tyytyi vain silmin\nseuraamaan hänen syöntiään. Erityisesti ilahdutti Elizabethia nähdä\nisänsä pyrkivän kaikella hartaudella hänen sulhasensa lähempään\ntuttavuuteen; ja perästäpäin hra Bennet vakuuttikin hänelle, että uusi\nvävypoika kohosi kohoamistaan hänen silmissään.\n\n\"Minä ihailen kaikkia kolmea vävyäni\", hän sanoi. \"Wickham on kukaties\nminun erityinen suosikkini; mutta luulenpa, että pidän sinun\nsulhasestasi aivan yhtä paljon kuin Bingleystäkin.\"\n\n\n\n\nLX LUKU.\n\n\nElizabethin eloisuus oli jo palannut siihen määrään, että hän vaati\nsulhastaan tilille siitä, että tämä oli pystynyt milloinkaan\nrakastumaan häneen.\n\n\"Kuinka se sinussa oikein alkoikaan?\" hän kysyi. \"Minä voin hyvin\nkäsittää, että kerran alkuun päästyäsi kykenet jatkamaan aivan\nihastuttavasti; mutta sanoppas, mikä sinut ensi hetkellä oikeastaan\nsytytti?\"\n\n\"Enhän minä voi määritellä hetkeä enkä paikkaa enkä katsetta enkä\nsanoja, jotka laskivat perustuksen minun 'syttymiselleni', niinkuin\nsuvaitset sanoa. Ja siitä on jo niin pitkä aika, etten voi oikein\nmuistaakaan. Sen vain tiedän, että olin jo täydessä menossa, ennenkuin\nkykenin tajuamaan, että todella olin alkanutkaan.\"\n\n\"Minun kauneuttani sinä ainakin kykenit alussa vastustamaan; ja mitä\nminun tapoihini tulee, niin ainakin käyttäytymiseni _sinua_ kohtaan\nlähenteli aivan röyhkeyden rajoja, enkä minä koskaan puhellut sinulle\nmuuten kuin pistelläkseni sinua tuhansilla tulikärkisillä neuloilla ja\nsaattaakseni sinulle tuskaa. Ei, olehan nyt rehellinen; ihailitko sinä\nminua erityisesti minun nenäkkäisyyteni takia?\"\n\n\"Sinun vilkkautesi takia sinua ihailin.\"\n\n\"Voit yhtä hyvin sanoa sitä ominaisuutta nenäkkäisyydeksi. Eikä se\npaljon muuta ollutkaan. Kas, juttu oli sellainen, että sinä olit ihan\nsairas toisten ylenpalttisesta kohteliaisuudesta, nöyristelevästä\nkunnioituksesta, virallisesta huomaavaisuudesta. Sinä inhosit kaikkia\nnoita naisia, jotka alati lörpöttelivät ja keikailivat yksinomaan\nsiksi, että kiinnittäisivät _sinun_ huomiotasi itseensä. Heidän\njoukostaan minä pistin silmääsi senvuoksi, etten ollut ollenkaan\n_heidän_ kaltaisensa. Jollet sinä olisi todella niin herttainen mies,\nniin olisit ruvennut iäti vihaamaan minua siitä hyvästä; mutta vaikka\nväkinäinen välinpitämättömyytesi minusta vaivasikin sinua, olivat\ntunteesi alati jalot ja oikeamieliset, ja sydämessäsi sinä inhosit\nnoita edessäsi hännysteleviä ihmisiä. Kas siinä -- nyt säästin sinulta\nkaiken muistelemisen ja luettelemisen vaivat; ja totta puhuen, tämä ei\nminusta olekaan hullummasti ajateltua. Tosin et sinä edes vieläkään\ntiedä minusta mitään hyvää -- mutta kukapa sellaista joutaa\najattelemaankaan rakkautensa kirmassa!\"\n\n\"Eikö sitten ollut mitään hyvää sinun hellyydessäsi Janea kohtaan, kun\ntämä makasi sairaana Netherfieldissä?\"\n\n\"Rakkahin Jane -- kukapa häntä kohtaan olisi voinut muuta ollakaan?\nMutta rakenna siitä vain kaikin mokomin kunniapatsas minun hyveilleni.\nKaikki minun hyvät ominaisuuteni ovat vapaasti käytettävissäsi, ja sinä\nsaat puhaltaa ne niin mahtaviksi kuin suinkin haluat; mutta\nvastalahjaksi minä vaadin vapautta saada kiusoitella sinua ja riidellä\nkanssasi milloin vain tilaisuutta sattuu; ja nytpä minä alankin oitis\nja vaadin sinua tilille siitä, miksi olit niin vastahakoinen\nnotkistamaan pääsi ikeen alle? Mikä sinut sai niin aristelemaan minua,\nkun ensin kävit meillä ja perästäpäin kun olit täällä päivällisillä?\nMinkä vuoksi näytit niin välinpitämätöntä naamaa, aivan kuin et olisi\nvälittänyt minusta yhtään vähääkään?\"\n\n\"Siksi että sinä olit niin vakava ja vaitelias etkä käynyt ollenkaan\nrohkaisemaan minua.\"\n\n\"Mutta minähän olin itse niin ällistyksissäni.\"\n\n\"Niin olin minäkin.\"\n\n\"Sinun olisi pitänyt puhella minulle enemmän, kun olit päivällisillä.\"\n\n\"Mies, joka olisi ollut vähemmän liikutettu kuin minä, olisi kenties\nvoinut.\"\n\n\"Kuinka onnetonta, että sinulla pitää olla aina järkevä vastaus\njokaiseen pistelyyni, ja että minä olen kyllin järkevä myöntämään\nsen. Mutta ihmettelenpä, kuinka pitkälle olisit voinut mennä\nitsepäisyydessäsi, jos olisit saanut jäädä omaan johtoosi. Ihmettelen,\nmilloin olisit tahtonut puhua ja olisitko edes ollenkaan, jollen minä\nolisi pyytänyt sinua puhumaan! Minun päättäväinen esiintymiseni, kun\nkiitin sinua hyvyydestäsi Lydiaa kohtaan, tehosi varmaankin mahtavasti\nsinuun. Ehkä _liiankin_ mahtavasti, pelkään; sillä mitä tulee kaikesta\nsiveysopista, jos meidän onnemme johtuu lupausten rikkomisesta; sillä\nenhän minä olisi saanut hiiskuakaan sinulle tästä asiasta. Lupaan,\netten sitä enää koskaan tee.\"\n\n\"Sinun ei ole tarvis hätäillä. Siveysoppi pysyy muutenkin vakavasti\npystyssä. Lady Catherinen anteeksiantamaton hyökkäys sinun kimppuusi ja\nhänen ponnistuksensa sinun mustaamiseksesi poistivat lopulta kaikki\nepäilykseni. Nykyisestä onnestani en ole lainkaan velkaa sinun\nkiittelyillesi sisaresi puolesta. Minä en ollut siinä mielentilassa,\nettä olisin jaksanut odottaa sinun aloitettasi. Tätini tuomat tiedot\nantoivat minulle jälleen toivoa, ja minä olin lujasti päättänyt saada\nheti selvän tunteistasi.\"\n\n\"Lady Catherine on tehnyt meille arvaamatonta hyötyä, ja sen tiedon\npitäisi tehdä hänet onnelliseksi, sillä hän tekee niin halusta hyötyä.\nMutta sanoppa, mikä sinut toi niin odottamatta Netherfieldiin? Tulitko\nvain saadaksesi ratsastaa sieltä tänne Longbourniin ja perillä tulla\nällistyneeksi? Vai oliko sinulla jotain vakavampaa mielessä?\"\n\n\"Minun todellinen tarkoitukseni oli tulla näkemään _sinua_ ja arvioida,\noliko minulla vielä vähäisintäkään toivoa saada sinut rakastamaan\nminua. Tekosyyni -- tai oikeastaan se syy, jonka silloin myönsin\nitselleni -- oli saada nähdä, vieläkö sisaresi piti Bingleystä; jos\ntämän huomaisin, aioin tehdä ystävälleni sen tunnustuksen, jonka sitten\nteinkin.\"\n\n\"Rohkenetko koskaan ilmoittaa Lady Catherinelle, mitä täällä on\ntapahtunut?\"\n\n\"Minä tarvitsen siihen pikemminkin aikaa kuin rohkeutta, Elizabeth.\nMutta parempi takoa rauta kuumana; jos annat minulle paperiarkin, niin\nteen sen oitis.\"\n\n\"Ja jollei minulla itsellänikin olisi kirjettä kirjoitettavana, niin\ntahtoisin istua vierelläsi ja ihailla tasaista käsialaasi, niinkuin\neräs toinen nuori neiti teki kauan sitten. Mutta minullakin on täti,\njota en saa laiminlyödä.\"\n\nElizabeth ei ollut vielä tullut vastanneeksi rva Gardinerin pitkään\nkirjeeseen, koska hänen oli ollut tukala tunnustaa, kuinka suuresti\ntämä oli liioitellut hänen ja Darcyn välillä _silloin_ vallinnutta\nsuhdetta; mutta _nyt_, kun hänellä oli niin iloisia sanomia\nilmoitettavana, häntä oikein hävetti, että hän oli pitänyt enoaan ja\ntätiään kokonaista kolme päivää tietämättöminä onnestaan. Siksipä hän\noitis kirjoitti seuraavaa:\n\n    \"Minä olisin tahtonut jo aikaisemmin kiittää sinua, rakas täti,\n    pitkästä, sydämellisestä, tyydyttävästä, yksityiskohtaisesta\n    selostuksestasi; mutta totta puhuen arkailin kirjoittaa. Sinä\n    arvailit paljon enemmän kuin silloin todellisuudessa oli olemassa.\n    Mutta _nyt_ saat arvailla niin paljon kuin sinua vain haluttaa;\n    anna vapaat ohjakset mielikuvituksellesi, kuvittele mielessäsi\n    mitä ikinä tahdot, ja jollet vain luule minua jo vihityksi\n    rouvaksi, niin kaikessa muussa pahoin et pettyne. Sinun pitää\n    kirjoittaa minulle hyvin pian uudelleen ja ylistellä _häntä_\n    vielä paljon enemmän kuin viime kirjeessäsi teit. Minä kiitän ja\n    ylistän sinua tuhannesti siitä hyvästä, ettemme lähteneetkään\n    Järville. Kuinka saatoinkaan olla niin hupsu ja toivoa sinne?\n    -- Sinun ehdotuksesi ponyvaljakosta oli hyvin mieleeni. Me\n    ajelemme sillä joka päivä ympäri puistoa. Minä olen tätänykyä\n    maailman onnellisin tyttölapsi. Ehkäpä jotkut muutkin ovat\n    väittäneet samaa ennen, mutta ei kukaan niin hyvällä syyllä\n    kuin minä. Minä olen Janeakin onnellisempi; hän vain hymyilee,\n    mutta minä nauran. Herra Darcy lähettää sinulle niin paljon\n    rakkautta, kuin minulta vain liikenee. Te olette koko joukolla\n    terve tulleet Pemberleyhin ensi jouluksi.\"\n\nHra Darcyn kirje Lady Catherinelle kävi aivan toiseen sävyyn; ja\nmolemmista erosi suuresti se, jonka hra Bennet lähetti hra Collinsille\nvastaukseksi tämän viime kirjeeseen.\n\n    \"_Hyvä orpanani_. -- Minun täytyy vaivata teitä pyytämällä yhä\n    lisää onnitteluja. Elizabethista tulee piakkoin rouva Darcy.\n    Lohduttakaa Lady Catherinea miten paraiten voitte. Mutta teidän\n    sijassanne minä siirtyisin hänen sisarenpoikansa puolelle. Tämä\n    on näet rikkaampi. -- Teidän harras j.n.e.\"\n\nNti Bingleyn onnittelukirje hänen veljelleen tämän lähenevien häiden\njohdosta oli ylen hellä ja teeskennelty.\n\nKirjoittipa hän samalla Janellekin, ilmaisten ilonsa ja toistaen kaikki\naikaisemmat rakkautensa vakuuttelut. Jane ei antanut niiden lumota\nsilmiään, mutta hän tuli kuitenkin niin liikutetuksi, että lähetti\nsydämellisen vastineen.\n\nNti Darcyn ilo hänen saamastaan sanomasta oli yhtä totinen ja harras\nkuin hänen veljensä ilo lähettäessään sen hänelle. Kaikki neljä\npaperiarkin sivua tarvittiin tulkitsemaan hänen ihastustaan ja hänen\nujoa toivomustaan, että uusi sisar sulkisi hänet rakkauteensa.\n\nEnnenkuin hra Collinsilta ennätti tulla vastaus ja hänen vaimoltaan\nonnittelukirje Elizabethille, sai Longbournin perhe kuulla, että tämä\narvoisa pari oli tullut Lucas Lodgeen. Syy tähän äkilliseen matkaan\nkävi pian selville. Lady Catherine oli sisarenpoikansa ilmoituksesta\nottanut niin pahakseen, että Charlotten, joka sydämessään iloitsi\nystävättärensä onnesta, tuli kiire päästä pakosalle siksi, kunnes\nmyrskynpuuska ennätti vaimentua. Lapsuudentuttavan tapaaminen oli\nsuuresti Elizabethin mieleen, vaikka hänen täytyi joskus ajatella, että\ntämä onni oli kalliisti ostettu, kun hän näki sulhasensa olevan armotta\nalistettu hra Collinsin liehakoivan kohteliaisuuden uhriksi. Mutta hra\nDarcy jaksoi sentään kantaa kovan osansa ihmeteltävän levollisesti.\nKykenipä hän jokseenkin malttavaisesti kuuntelemaan Sir William\nLucasinkin karhumaisia mairitteluja, kun tämä onnitteli häntä sen\njohdosta, että hänen osakseen oli langennut kreivikunnan kaunein helmi\nja kirkkain jalokivi, ja toivotteli, että he useasti kohtaisivat\ntoisensa kuninkaanhovissa. Jos hän kohauttikin olkapäitään, sattui se\nvasta sitten kun Sir William oli poissa näkyvistä.\n\n\n\n\nLXI LUKU.\n\n\nRiemullinen oli rva Bennetin äidinsydämelle se päivä, jolloin hän pääsi\neroon molemmista ansiokkaimmista tyttäristään. Voi arvata, miten\nihastuneena hän sen jälkeen vieraili rva Bingleyn luona ja puheli rva\nDarcyn mahtavuudesta.\n\nHra Bennet kaipasi kipeästi toista tytärtään; ja tämä ikävä karkoitti\nhänet kotoaan matkoille paljon useammin kuin hänen tapanaan oli ennen\nollut. Hänen suurimpana ilonaan oli tulla tupsahtaa Pemberleyhin, kun\nsiellä vähimmin tiedettiin häntä odottaa.\n\nHra Bingley ja Jane asuivat Netherfieldissä vain vuosikauden. _Niin_\nläheinen naapuruus Longbournin ja Merytonin kanssa ei ollut oikein\nmieluisa edellisen säveälle luonteenlaadulle eikä jälkimmäisen hellälle\nsydämelle. Bingleyn sisarten entinen rakkain mielitoive tuli\ntoteutetuksi -- hän osti erään tilan Derbyshirestä, niin että Janella\nja Elizabethilla oli vain kolmisenkymmenen mailin matka ajettavana\npäästäkseen lisäämään toistensa onnea.\n\nWickhamin parilta Elizabeth sai vastaanottaa seuraavan Lydian\nkirjoittaman onnittelukirjeen:\n\n    \"_Rakas Lizzy_. -- Toivotan sinulle onnea. Jos rakastat herra\n    Darcya puoleksikaan niin paljon kuin minä rakastan herttaista\n    Wickhamiani, niin sinun täytyy todellakin olla hyvin onnellinen.\n    Hyvin hauskaa oli kuulla, että sinusta on tullut niin rikas;\n    jollei sinulla ole rahoillesi muita reikiä, niin voithan muistaa\n    meitä. Minä olen varma, että Wickhamia suuresti miellyttäisi\n    tuomarinvirka; enkä luule muutenkaan, että me jaksamme tulla\n    toimeen ilman vierasta apua. Kuulustele, ole kiltti, jostakin\n    paikkaa, josta olisi tuloja pari-kolmesataa puntaa vuodessa;\n    mutta älä kuitenkaan mainitse tästä herra Darcylle, jollei se\n    ole sinulle mieluista. -- Sinun j.n.e.\"\n\nSattui käymään niin, ettei esitys ollut Elizabethille lainkaan\nmieluinen; ja vastineessaan hän koetti mahdollisimman lievässä muodossa\ntehdä ainaiseksi lopun tämänlaisista toiveista. Mutta mitä muuta apua\nhänen vallassaan oli antaa, lähemmin sanoen säästämällä omista\nkäyttövaroistaan, sitä hän ahkerasti lähetteli sisarelleen. Hänelle oli\naina ollut selvää, että Wickhamin tulot eivät mitenkään riittäisi\nylläpitämään kahden niin tuhlaavaisen ihmisen elämää; ja että aina kun\nhe muuttivat majapaikkaa, sai joko hän tai Jane varmasti odottaa heidän\nmaksamattomia laskujaan suoritettavikseen.\n\nVaikka Darcy ei koskaan suostunut vastaanottamaan lankoaan vieraaksi\nPemberleyhin, auttoi hän kuitenkin Elizabethin mieliksi häntä eteenpäin\nammatissaan. Lydia sen sijaan toisinaan vieraili heillä, sillä aikaa\nkuin hänen miehensä hoiteli terveyttään Lontoossa tai Bathin\nkylpylässä; ja Bingleyn perheessä molemmatkin puolisot olivat niin\nahkeria ja pitkäaikaisia vieraita, että yksin Bingleynkin rajaton\nsuopeus joutui lähelle räjähtämiskohtaa ja hän rohkaisihe\n_mainitsemaan_ vaimolleen, että pian hän antaisi vierailleen\nviittauksen matkaan laittautumisesta.\n\nPemberley oli nyt vakituisesti Georgianan koti; ja kälyjen välille\nmuodostui sellainen sisaruussuhde, jota Darcy oli toivonutkin. Nuoresta\nujosta tytöstä Elizabeth oli maailman ihmeellisin nainen, vaikka hän\nalussa säikähtyi siitä vilkkaasta, hänen mielestään miltei uhittelevan\nleikillisestä sävystä, millä tämä kohteli hänen veljeään, jota kohtaan\nhän itse tunsi miltei pelokasta kunnioitusta. Hänen nuori sielunsa sai\nnyt herätteitä, jotka muuten tuskin koskaan olisivat langenneet hänen\ntielleen. Elizabethin esimerkistä ja opetuksista hän tuli käsittämään,\nettä vaimolla on mieheensä nähden paljon suurempia vapauksia kuin mitä\nveli sallii kymmentä vuotta nuoremman sisarensa milloinkaan osoittaa\nhäntä kohtaan.\n\nLady Catherine sydäntyi tietysti suuresti sisarenpoikansa hänen\nmielestään tuiki järjettömästä naimiskaupasta; ja vastatessaan Darcyn\nkirjeeseen hän luontaisella suorasukaisuudellaan ilmaisi mielipahansa\nniin jyrkässä muodossa, että kaikki kanssakäyminen molempien perheiden\nvälillä tyrehtyi joksikin aikaa. Mutta aikaa myöten Darcy vaimonsa\nkehoituksesta suostui unohtamaan tätinsä sotaisan sävyn ja pyrki\nrakentamaan jälleen sovintoa hänen kanssaan; ja jonkun aikaa\nvikuroituaan täti antoikin perään, joko todellisesta kiintymyksestä\nsisarenpoikaansa tahi pelkästä uteliaisuudesta päästä näkemään, kuinka\ntämän halpasäätyinen vaimo kykeni käyttäytymään ison herraskartanon\nemäntänä. Hän suostui todella käymään tervehtimässä heitä, välittämättä\nyhtään Pemberleyn ylväitä metsiä kohdanneesta häväistyksestä.\n\n\n\n\nViiteselitykset:\n\n\n[1] Punta = 25 Suomen kultamarkkaa vuodessa.\n\n[2] Hallinnollinen piirikunta (_county, shire_) Englannissa, vastaava\njokseenkin Suomen maakuntaa, jonka ylimpänä hallitusmiehenä on\ntilanomistajain valitsema lordiluutnantti.\n\n[3] Englannissa mies vasta viisikolmatta vuotta täytettyään tulee\nlailliseen ikään ja hallitsee itse omaisuuttaan.\n\n[4] Ritari, _Knight_, on alin Suur-Britannian aatelisarvoista, ei\nperinnöllinen. Se ilmaistaan Sir-sanalla ristimänimen edessä, ja\nritarin vaimoa sanotaan Ladyksi. -- _Mayor_ = pormestari. Englannin\nkaupungeissa vuodeksi kerrallaan valittu porvariston luottamusmies.\n\n[5] _Mile_ engl. peninkulma = 1,61 km.\n\n[6] St. James Palace, Lontoon vanhin kuninkaanlinna. Nykyisin kuningas\nLontoossa oleskellessaan pitää hoviaan Buckingham Palacessa.\n\n[7] Englannin armeijan muodostivat ennen maailmansotaa säännölliset\n(värvätyt) joukot ja apujoukot. Jälkimmäisiä oli kahta lajia: miliisi,\njohon miehiä otettiin jonkinlaisella asevelvollisuudella, ja\n\"yeomanry\", jossa pikkutilalliset ja maanvuokraajat suorittivat\nvapaaehtoista ratsupalvelusta.\n\n[8] Aikaisemmin oli Englannin armeijalla punaiset takit.\n\n[9] Englannissa mainitaan siskoparvesta ainoastaan vanhinta \"neiti\nN:ksi\"; nuoremmista käytetään samalla ristimänimeä, esim. \"neiti\nKatie N.\".\n\n[10] Lontoon juutalaiskortteli, josta Helsingin vanha 'narinkka'\naikoinaan antoi heikon käsityksen.\n\n[11] Ennen vanhaan kirjoitettiin sulkakynillä.\n\n[12] Vanha skottilainen ja irlantilainen kansantanssi, rytmiltään hyvin\nvilkas.\n\n[13] Englannissa ovat omistus- ja perimyssuhteet koko lailla erilaiset\nkuin muualla maailmassa -- jätteinä normannilaisajalta ja Vilhelm\nValloittajan \"Domesdaybookin\" määräyksistä. Peritty kiinteä omaisuus\nsiirtyy vanhimman sukuhaaran miespuolisille jälkeläisille; aatelisarvo\nja sitä seuraava maatila samoin vanhimmalle pojalle tai poikien\npuutteessa suvun seuraavaan vanhimpaan sivuhaaraan. Nuoremmat pojat\nsekä tyttäret pääsevät perimään ainoastaan isän itsensä hankkimaa (ei\nperittyä) varallisuutta.\n\n[14] \"_Honourable_\" ja \"_right honourable_\" ovat engl. arvonimiä, joita\njuhlallisemmassa kielessä käytetään paroonien ja sitä korkeampien\naatelismiehien poikain ja tyttärien nimen edellä. -- Tässä se osoittaa\nlesken olevan lordin tyttären, koska miesvainajansa baronetinarvo ei\nhäntä siihen oikeuttaisi.\n\n[15] Englannin suurilla tilanomistajilla on papinnimittämisoikeus\ntiluksiinsa kuuluvissa seurakunnissa; he myöskin suorittavat pääosan\npapin palkasta.\n\n[16] Englannin ylhäisön nuoret naiset saavat \"viimeisen voitelunsa\"\nseuraelämään astuessaan, kun heidät esitellään kuninkaallisessa hovissa\nhallitsijalleen.\n\n[17] Englannin kankeassa seuraelämässä on tällainen teko mukamas törkeä\nrikos hyviä tapoja vastaan. Esittelemisen tulee aina tapahtua jonkin\nyhteisen tuttavan toimesta. Muuten voivat toisilleen tuntemattomat\nhenkilöt tavata toisensa vaikka kuinka monissa seuroissa joutumatta\nkoskaan vaihtamaan sanaakaan keskenään.\n\n[18] _The Lakes_, runollisen kaunis järvialue luoteis-Englannissa,\nCumberlandin, Westmorelandin ja Lancashiren vuoristojen välillä.\n\n[19] Aikaisemmin Englannissa lainoppia ei paljonkaan opiskeltu\nyliopistossa, vaan seuraamalla käytännöllisesti lakimiesten toimia\nlakivirastoissa ja heidän yksityiskonttoreissaan Lontoon kuuluisassa\nTemplessä eli lakimiesten korttelissa.\n\n[20] Oxford, Englannin vanha kuuluisa yliopistokaupunki; Blenheim,\nMarlboroughin herttuain komea maahovi; Warwick ja Kenilworth,\nkauniita historiallisia linnanraunioita; Birmingham, suuri\nmetalliteollisuuskaupunki.\n\n[21] Englannissa maa kuuluu enimmästä päästä suurille tilanomistajille,\njotka kartanoidensa ympärille aitaavat huvi- ja metsästyspuistoiksi\nlaajat alat hyvin hoidettua metsämaata. Varsinainen maanviljelijäsääty\non enimmäkseen tilanomistajain vuokramiehinä.\n\n[22] Kun Englannin avioliittolakeja oli kiristetty entistä ankarammiksi\n17-sataluvun puolivälissä, tuli siellä tavaksi, että naimahaluiset,\njoilta puuttui vanhempain tai holhoojain lupa, karkasivat rajan yli\nSkotlantiin, missä naimatemput olivat yksinkertaisemmat --\nrauhantuomari voi parin paikalle haalitun todistajan läsnäollessa\njulistaa avioliittoehdokkaat yhteenliitetyiksi. Tällainen avioliitto\noli pätevä myöskin Englannissa. Varsinkin tuli tuollaisena\n\"avioliittotoimistona\" kuuluisaksi Gretna Greenin pikku kauppala aivan\nrajan takana, missä kuuluisa \"Gretna Greenin seppä\" (oikeastaan\ntupakkikauppias) vuosittain \"takoi yhteen\" parisataa tällaista\npiileskelevää paria. Tätä menoa kesti kokonaisen vuosisadan, kunnes\nerikoisella parlamentinpäätöksellä siitä viimein tehtiin loppu 1856.\n\n[23] Englannin armeijassa olivat upseeripaikat aikaisemmin\nkauppatavaraa, sillä upseerinvaltakirjasta oli maksettava arvon mukaan\nvaihtelevia summia.\n\n[24] Vaikka Englannissa \"Gretna Greenin retket\" lopulta kiellettiinkin,\noli siellä naimisiinmeno edelleenkin helpompi kuin missään muualla. Kun\ntahdottiin pitää kiirettä ja välttää kuulutusten ottoa, tarvitsi\nainoastaan mennä Lontoon \"Doctor's Commons\" nimiseen lakivirastoon ja\nlunastaa pienestä maksusta Lontoon piispan valmiiksi allekirjoittama\nnaimalupakirja. Onkin sanottu, että jokainen \"housuja kantava\nenglantilainen\" pääsi tätä tietä naimisiin. Selvää on, että tätä keinoa\non paljon väärinkäytetty: kaksinnaimisia, alaikäisten avioliittoja ja\nmuita luvattomia vihkimyksiä on \"piispan lupakirjan\" nojalla\ntoimitettu.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n","id":"45186"}]